Yet how tame and wearisome is the impression of all ordinary things in the contrast with such a fact! How sick and tremulous, the next morning, is the spirit that has dared so much only the night before! How icy cold is the heart, when the fervor6, the wild ecstasy7 of passion has faded away, and sunk down among the dead ashes of the fire that blazed so fiercely, and was fed by the very substance of its life! How faintly does the criminal stagger onward8, lacking the impulse of that strong madness that hurried him into guilt9, and treacherously10 deserts him in the midst of it!
When Miriam and Donatello drew near the church, they found only Kenyon awaiting them on the steps. Hilda had likewise promised to be of the party, but had not yet appeared. Meeting the sculptor11, Miriam put a force upon herself and succeeded in creating an artificial flow of spirits, which, to any but the nicest observation, was quite as effective as a natural one. She spoke12 sympathizingly to the sculptor on the subject of Hilda’s absence, and somewhat annoyed him by alluding13 in Donatello’s hearing to an attachment14 which had never been openly avowed15, though perhaps plainly enough betrayed. He fancied that Miriam did not quite recognize the limits of the strictest delicacy16; he even went so far as to generalize, and conclude within himself, that this deficiency is a more general failing in woman than in man, the highest refinement17 being a masculine attribute.
But the idea was unjust to the sex at large, and especially so to this poor Miriam, who was hardly responsible for her frantic18 efforts to be gay. Possibly, moreover, the nice action of the mind is set ajar by any violent shock, as of great misfortune or great crime, so that the finer perceptions may be blurred19 thenceforth, and the effect be traceable in all the minutest conduct of life.
“Did you see anything of the dear child after you left us?” asked Miriam, still keeping Hilda as her topic of conversation. “I missed her sadly on my way homeward; for nothing insures me such delightful20 and innocent dreams (I have experienced it twenty times) as a talk late in the evening with Hilda.”
“So I should imagine,” said the sculptor gravely; “but it is an advantage that I have little or no opportunity of enjoying. I know not what became of Hilda after my parting from you. She was not especially my companion in any part of our walk. The last I saw of her she was hastening back to rejoin you in the courtyard of the Palazzo Caffarelli.”
“Impossible!” cried Miriam, starting.
“Then did you not see her again?” inquired Kenyon, in some alarm.
“Not there,” answered Miriam quietly; “indeed, I followed pretty closely on the heels of the rest of the party. But do not be alarmed on Hilda’s account; the Virgin21 is bound to watch over the good child, for the sake of the piety22 with which she keeps the lamp alight at her shrine23. And besides, I have always felt that Hilda is just as safe in these evil streets of Rome as her white doves when they fly downwards24 from the tower top, and run to and fro among the horses’ feet. There is certainly a providence25 on purpose for Hilda, if for no other human creature.”
“I religiously believe it,” rejoined the sculptor; “and yet my mind would be the easier, if I knew that she had returned safely to her tower.”
“Then make yourself quite easy,” answered Miriam. “I saw her (and it is the last sweet sight that I remember) leaning from her window midway between earth and sky!”
Kenyon now looked at Donatello.
“You seem out of spirits, my dear friend,” he observed. “This languid Roman atmosphere is not the airy wine that you were accustomed to breathe at home. I have not forgotten your hospitable26 invitation to meet you this summer at your castle among the Apennines. It is my fixed27 purpose to come, I assure you. We shall both be the better for some deep draughts28 of the mountain breezes.”
“It may he,” said Donatello, with unwonted sombreness; “the old house seemed joyous29 when I was a child. But as I remember it now it was a grim place, too.”
The sculptor looked more attentively30 at the young man, and was surprised and alarmed to observe how entirely31 the fine, fresh glow of animal spirits had departed out of his face. Hitherto, moreover, even while he was standing32 perfectly33 still, there had been a kind of possible gambol34 indicated in his aspect. It was quite gone now. All his youthful gayety, and with it his simplicity35 of manner, was eclipsed, if not utterly36 extinct.
“You are surely ill, my dear fellow,” exclaimed Kenyon.
“Am I? Perhaps so,” said Donatello indifferently; “I never have been ill, and know not what it may be.”
“Do not make the poor lad fancy-sink,” whispered Miriam, pulling the sculptor’s sleeve. “He is of a nature to lie down and die at once, if he finds himself drawing such melancholy37 breaths as we ordinary people are enforced to burden our lungs withal. But we must get him away from this old, dreamy and dreary38 Rome, where nobody but himself ever thought of being gay. Its influences are too heavy to sustain the life of such a creature.”
The above conversation had passed chiefly on the steps of the Cappuccini; and, having said so much, Miriam lifted the leathern curtain that hangs before all church-doors in italy. “Hilda has forgotten her appointment,” she observed, “or else her maiden39 slumbers40 are very sound this morning. We will wait for her no longer.”
They entered the nave41. The interior of the church was of moderate compass, but of good architecture, with a vaulted42 roof over the nave, and a row of dusky chapels44 on either side of it instead of the customary side-aisles. Each chapel43 had its saintly shrine, hung round with offerings; its picture above the altar, although closely veiled, if by any painter of renown45; and its hallowed tapers46, burning continually, to set alight the devotion of the worshippers. The pavement of the nave was chiefly of marble, and looked old and broken, and was shabbily patched here and there with tiles of brick; it was inlaid, moreover, with tombstones of the mediaeval taste, on which were quaintly47 sculptured borders, figures, and portraits in bas-relief, and Latin epitaphs, now grown illegible48 by the tread of footsteps over them. The church appertains to a convent of Capuchin monks49; and, as usually happens when a reverend brotherhood51 have such an edifice52 in charge, the floor seemed never to have been scrubbed or swept, and had as little the aspect of sanctity as a kennel53; whereas, in all churches of nunneries, the maiden sisterhood invariably show the purity of their own hearts by the virgin cleanliness and visible consecration54 of the walls and pavement.
As our friends entered the church, their eyes rested at once on a remarkable55 object in the centre of the nave. It was either the actual body, or, as might rather have been supposed at first glance, the cunningly wrought56 waxen face and suitably draped figure of a dead monk50. This image of wax or clay-cold reality, whichever it might be, lay on a slightly elevated bier, with three tall candles burning on each side, another tall candle at the head, and another at the foot. There was music, too; in harmony with so funereal57 a spectacle. From beneath the pavement of the church came the deep, lugubrious58 strain of a De Profundis, which sounded like an utterance59 of the tomb itself; so dismally60 did it rumble61 through the burial vaults62, and ooze63 up among the flat gravestones and sad epitaphs, filling the church as with a gloomy mist.
“I must look more closely at that dead monk before we leave the church,” remarked the sculptor. “In the study of my art, I have gained many a hint from the dead which the living could never have given me.”
“I can well imagine it,” answered Miriam. “One clay image is readily copied from another. But let us first see Guido’s picture. The light is favorable now.”
Accordingly, they turned into the first chapel on the right hand, as you enter the nave; and there they beheld,—not the picture, indeed,—but a closely drawn64 curtain. The churchmen of Italy make no scruple65 of sacrificing the very purpose for which a work of sacred art has been created; that of opening the way; for religious sentiment through the quick medium of sight, by bringing angels, saints, and martyrs66 down visibly upon earth; of sacrificing this high purpose, and, for aught they know, the welfare of many souls along with it, to the hope of a paltry67 fee. Every work by an artist of celebrity68 is hidden behind a veil, and seldom revealed, except to Protestants, who scorn it as an object of devotion, and value it only for its artistic69 merit.
The sacristan was quickly found, however, and lost no time in disclosing the youthful Archangel, setting his divine foot on the head of his fallen adversary70. It was an image of that greatest of future events, which we hope for so ardently71, at least, while we are young,—but find so very long in coming, the triumph of goodness over the evil principle.
“Where can Hilda be?” exclaimed Kenyon. “It is not her custom ever to fail in an engagement; and the present one was made entirely on her account. Except herself, you know, we were all agreed in our recollection of the picture.”
“But we were wrong, and Hilda right, as you perceive,” said Miriam, directing his attention to the point on which their dispute of the night before had arisen. “It is not easy to detect her astray as regards any picture on which those clear, soft eyes of hers have ever rested.”
“And she has studied and admired few pictures so much as this,” observed the sculptor. “No wonder; for there is hardly another so beautiful in the world. What an expression of heavenly severity in the Archangel’s face! There is a degree of pain, trouble, and disgust at being brought in contact with sin, even for the purpose of quelling72 and punishing it; and yet a celestial73 tranquillity74 pervades75 his whole being.”
“I have never been able,” said Miriam, “to admire this picture nearly so much as Hilda does, in its moral and intellectual aspect. If it cost her more trouble to be good, if her soul were less white and pure, she would be a more competent critic of this picture, and would estimate it not half so high. I see its defects today more clearly than ever before.”
“What are some of them?” asked Kenyon.
“That Archangel, now,” Miriam continued; “how fair he looks, with his unruffled wings, with his unhacked sword, and clad in his bright armor, and that exquisitely77 fitting sky-blue tunic78, cut in the latest Paradisiacal mode! What a dainty air of the first celestial society! With what half-scornful delicacy he sets his prettily79 sandalled foot on the head of his prostrate80 foe81! But, is it thus that virtue82 looks the moment after its death struggle with evil? No, no; I could have told Guido better. A full third of the Archangel’s feathers should have been torn from his wings; the rest all ruffled76, till they looked like Satan’s own! His sword should be streaming with blood, and perhaps broken halfway83 to the hilt; his armor crushed, his robes rent, his breast gory84; a bleeding gash85 on his brow, cutting right across the stern scowl86 of battle! He should press his foot hard down upon the old serpent, as if his very soul depended upon it, feeling him squirm mightily87, and doubting whether the fight were half over yet, and how the victory might turn! And, with all this fierceness, this grimness, this unutterable horror, there should still be something high, tender, and holy in Michael’s eyes, and around his mouth. But the battle never was such a child’s play as Guido’s dapper Archangel seems to have found it.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Miriam,” cried Kenyon, astonished at the wild energy of her talk; “paint the picture of man’s struggle against sin according to your own idea! I think it will be a masterpiece.”
“The picture would have its share of truth, I assure you,” she answered; “but I am sadly afraid the victory would fail on the wrong side. Just fancy a smoke-blackened, fiery-eyed demon88 bestriding that nice young angel, clutching his white throat with one of his hinder claws; and giving a triumphant89 whisk of his scaly90 tail, with a poisonous dart91 at the end of it! That is what they risk, poor souls, who do battle with Michael’s enemy.”
It now, perhaps, struck Miriam that her mental disquietude was impelling92 her to an undue93 vivacity94; for she paused, and turned away from the picture, without saying a word more about it. All this while, moreover, Donatello had been very ill at ease, casting awe-stricken and inquiring glances at the dead monk; as if he could look nowhere but at that ghastly object, merely because it shocked him. Death has probably a peculiar95 horror and ugliness, when forced upon the contemplation of a person so naturally joyous as Donatello, who lived with completeness in the present moment, and was able to form but vague images of the future.
“What is the matter, Donatello?” whispered Miriam soothingly96. “You are quite in a tremble, my poor friend! What is it?”
“This awful chant from beneath the church,” answered Donatello; “it oppresses me; the air is so heavy with it that I can scarcely draw my breath. And yonder dead monk! I feel as if he were lying right across my heart.”
“Take courage!” whispered she again “come, we will approach close to the dead monk. The only way, in such cases, is to stare the ugly horror right in the face; never a sidelong glance, nor half-look, for those are what show a frightfull thing in its frightfullest aspect. Lean on me, dearest friend! My heart is very strong for both of us. Be brave; and all is well.”
Donatello hung back for a moment, but then pressed close to Miriam’s side, and suffered her to lead him up to the bier. The sculptor followed. A number of persons, chiefly women, with several children among them, were standing about the corpse97; and as our three friends drew nigh, a mother knelt down, and caused her little boy to kneel, both kissing the beads98 and crucifix that hung from the monk’s girdle. Possibly he had died in the odor of sanctity; or, at all events, death and his brown frock and cowl made a sacred image of this reverend father.
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1
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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gambol
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| v.欢呼，雀跃 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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45
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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49
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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51
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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52
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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53
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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57
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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63
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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66
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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72
quelling
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的现在分词 ) | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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75
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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78
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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79
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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80
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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81
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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82
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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83
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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84
gory
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| adj.流血的；残酷的 | |
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85
gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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86
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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87
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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88
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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89
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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90
scaly
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| adj.鱼鳞状的；干燥粗糙的 | |
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91
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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92
impelling
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| adj.迫使性的，强有力的v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的现在分词 ) | |
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93
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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95
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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96
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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97
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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98
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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