The countenance6, as we have already said, was fully7 displayed. It had a purplish hue8 upon it, unlike the paleness of an ordinary corpse9, but as little resembling the flush of natural life. The eyelids10 were but partially11 drawn down, and showed the eyeballs beneath; as if the deceased friar were stealing a glimpse at the bystanders, to watch whether they were duly impressed with the solemnity of his obsequies. The shaggy eyebrows12 gave sternness to the look. Miriam passed between two of the lighted candles, and stood close beside the bier.
“My God!” murmured she. “What is this?”
She grasped Donatello’s hand, and, at the same instant, felt him give a convulsive shudder13, which she knew to have been caused by a sudden and terrible throb14 of the heart. His hand, by an instantaneous change, became like ice within hers, which likewise grew so icy that their insensible fingers might have rattled15, one against the other. No wonder that their blood curdled16; no wonder that their hearts leaped and paused! The dead face of the monk, gazing at them beneath its half-closed eyelids, was the same visage that had glared upon their naked souls, the past midnight, as Donatello flung him over the precipice17.
“Those naked feet!” said he. “I know not why, but they affect me strangely. They have walked to and fro over the hard pavements of Rome, and through a hundred other rough ways of this life, where the monk went begging for his brotherhood20; along the cloisters21 and dreary22 corridors of his convent, too, from his youth upward! It is a suggestive idea, to track those worn feet backward through all the paths they have trodden, ever since they were the tender and rosy23 little feet of a baby, and (cold as they now are) were kept warm in his mother’s hand.”
As his companions, whom the sculptor supposed to be close by him, made no response to his fanciful musing24, he looked up, and saw them at the head of the bier. He advanced thither25 himself.
“Ha!” exclaimed he.
He cast a horror-stricken and bewildered glance at Miriam, but withdrew it immediately. Not that he had any definite suspicion, or, it may be, even a remote idea, that she could be held responsible in the least degree for this man’s sudden death. In truth, it seemed too wild a thought to connect, in reality, Miriam’s persecutor26 of many past months and the vagabond of the preceding night, with the dead Capuchin of to-day. It resembled one of those unaccountable changes and interminglings of identity, which so often occur among the personages of a dream. But Kenyon, as befitted the professor of an imaginative art, was endowed with an exceedingly quick sensibility, which was apt to give him intimations of the true state of matters that lay beyond his actual vision. There was a whisper in his ear; it said, “Hush!” Without asking himself wherefore, he resolved to be silent as regarded the mysterious discovery which he had made, and to leave any remark or exclamation27 to be voluntarily offered by Miriam. If she never spoke28, then let the riddle29 be unsolved.
And now occurred a circumstance that would seem too fantastic to be told, if it had not actually happened, precisely30 as we set it down. As the three friends stood by the bier, they saw that a little stream of blood had begun to ooze31 from the dead monk’s nostrils32; it crept slowly towards the thicket33 of his beard, where, in the course of a moment or two, it hid itself.
“How strange!” ejaculated Kenyon. “The monk died of apoplexy, I suppose, or by some sudden accident, and the blood has not yet congealed34.”
“Do you consider that a sufficient explanation?” asked Miriam, with a smile from which the sculptor involuntarily turned away his eyes. “Does it satisfy you?”
“And why not?” he inquired.
“Of course, you know the old superstition35 about this phenomenon of blood flowing from a dead body,” she rejoined. “How can we tell but that the murderer of this monk (or, possibly, it may be only that privileged murderer, his physician) may have just entered the church?”
“I cannot jest about it,” said Kenyon. “It is an ugly sight!”
“True, true; horrible to see, or dream of!” she replied, with one of those long, tremulous sighs, which so often betray a sick heart by escaping unexpectedly. “We will not look at it any more. Come away, Donatello. Let us escape from this dismal36 church. The sunshine will do you good.”
When had ever a woman such a trial to sustain as this! By no possible supposition could Miriam explain the identity of the dead Capuchin, quietly and decorously laid out in the nave37 of his convent church, with that of her murdered persecutor, flung heedlessly at the foot of the precipice. The effect upon her imagination was as if a strange and unknown corpse had miraculously38, while she was gazing at it, assumed the likeness39 of that face, so terrible henceforth in her remembrance. It was a symbol, perhaps, of the deadly iteration with which she was doomed40 to behold41 the image of her crime reflected back upon her in a thousand ways, and converting the great, calm face of Nature, in the whole, and in its innumerable details, into a manifold reminiscence of that one dead visage.
No sooner had Miriam turned away from the bier, and gone a few steps, than she fancied the likeness altogether an illusion, which would vanish at a closer and colder view. She must look at it again, therefore, and at once; or else the grave would close over the face, and leave the awful fantasy that had connected itself therewith fixed42 ineffaceably in her brain.
“Wait for me, one moment!” she said to her companions. “Only a moment!”
So she went back, and gazed once more at the corpse. Yes; these were the features that Miriam had known so well; this was the visage that she remembered from a far longer date than the most intimate of her friends suspected; this form of clay had held the evil spirit which blasted her sweet youth, and compelled her, as it were, to stain her womanhood with crime. But, whether it were the majesty43 of death, or something originally noble and lofty in the character of the dead, which the soul had stamped upon the features, as it left them; so it was that Miriam now quailed44 and shook, not for the vulgar horror of the spectacle, but for the severe, reproachful glance that seemed to come from between those half-closed lids. True, there had been nothing, in his lifetime, viler45 than this man. She knew it; there was no other fact within her consciousness that she felt to be so certain; and yet, because her persecutor found himself safe and irrefutable in death, he frowned upon his victim, and threw back the blame on her!
“Is it thou, indeed?” she murmured, under her breath. “Then thou hast no right to scowl46 upon me so! But art thou real, or a vision?” She bent47 down over the dead monk, till one of her rich curls brushed against his forehead. She touched one of his folded hands with her finger.
“It is he,” said Miriam. “There is the scar, that I know so well, on his brow. And it is no vision; he is palpable to my touch! I will question the fact no longer, but deal with it as I best can.”
It was wonderful to see how the crisis developed in Miriam its own proper strength, and the faculty48 of sustaining the demands which it made upon her fortitude49. She ceased to tremble; the beautiful woman gazed sternly at her dead enemy, endeavoring to meet and quell50 the look of accusation51 that he threw from between his half-closed eyelids.
“No; thou shalt not scowl me down!” said she. “Neither now, nor when we stand together at the judgment-seat. I fear not to meet thee there. Farewell, till that next encounter!”
Haughtily52 waving her hand, Miriam rejoined her friends, who were awaiting her at the door of the church. As they went out, the sacristan stopped them, and proposed to show the cemetery53 of the convent, where the deceased members of the fraternity are laid to rest in sacred earth, brought long ago from Jerusalem.
“And will yonder monk be buried there?” she asked.
“Brother Antonio?” exclaimed the sacristan.
“Surely, our good brother will be put to bed there! His grave is already dug, and the last occupant has made room for him. Will you look at it, signorina?”
“I will!” said Miriam.
“Then excuse me,” observed Kenyon; “for I shall leave you. One dead monk has more than sufficed me; and I am not bold enough to face the whole mortality of the convent.”
It was easy to see, by Donatello’s looks, that he, as well as the sculptor, would gladly have escaped a visit to the famous cemetery of the Cappuccini. But Miriam’s nerves were strained to such a pitch, that she anticipated a certain solace54 and absolute relief in passing from one ghastly spectacle to another of long-accumulated ugliness; and there was, besides, a singular sense of duty which impelled55 her to look at the final resting-place of the being whose fate had been so disastrously56 involved with her own. She therefore followed the sacristan’s guidance, and drew her companion along with her, whispering encouragement as they went.
The cemetery is beneath the church, but entirely57 above ground, and lighted by a row of iron-grated windows without glass. A corridor runs along beside these windows, and gives access to three or four vaulted58 recesses59, or chapels61, of considerable breadth and height, the floor of which consists of the consecrated62 earth of Jerusalem. It is smoothed decorously over the deceased brethren of the convent, and is kept quite free from grass or weeds, such as would grow even in these gloomy recesses, if pains were not bestowed63 to root them up. But, as the cemetery is small, and it is a precious privilege to sleep in holy ground, the brotherhood are immemorially accustomed, when one of their number dies, to take the longest buried skeleton out of the oldest grave, and lay the new slumberer64 there instead. Thus, each of the good friars, in his turn, enjoys the luxury of a consecrated bed, attended with the slight drawback of being forced to get up long before daybreak, as it were, and make room for another lodger65.
The arrangement of the unearthed66 skeletons is what makes the special interest of the cemetery. The arched and vaulted walls of the burial recesses are supported by massive pillars and pilasters made of thigh-bones and skulls67; the whole material of the structure appears to be of a similar kind; and the knobs and embossed ornaments68 of this strange architecture are represented by the joints69 of the spine70, and the more delicate tracery by the Smaller bones of the human frame. The summits of the arches are adorned71 with entire skeletons, looking as if they were wrought72 most skilfully73 in bas-relief. There is no possibility of describing how ugly and grotesque74 is the effect, combined with a certain artistic75 merit, nor how much perverted76 ingenuity77 has been shown in this queer way, nor what a multitude of dead monks78, through how many hundred years, must have contributed their bony framework to build up these great arches of mortality. On some of the skulls there are inscriptions79, purporting80 that such a monk, who formerly81 made use of that particular headpiece, died on such a day and year; but vastly the greater number are piled up indistinguishably into the architectural design, like the many deaths that make up the one glory of a victory.
In the side walls of the vaults82 are niches83 where skeleton monks sit or stand, clad in the brown habits that they wore in life, and labelled with their names and the dates of their decease. Their skulls (some quite bare, and others still covered with yellow skin, and hair that has known the earth-damps) look out from beneath their hoods85, grinning hideously86 repulsive87. One reverend father has his mouth wide open, as if he had died in the midst of a howl of terror and remorse88, which perhaps is even now screeching89 through eternity90. As a general thing, however, these frocked and hooded91 skeletons seem to take a more cheerful view of their position, and try with ghastly smiles to turn it into a jest. But the cemetery of the Capuchins is no place to nourish celestial92 hopes: the soul sinks forlorn and wretched under all this burden of dusty death; the holy earth from Jerusalem, so imbued93 is it with mortality, has grown as barren of the flowers of Paradise as it is of earthly weeds and grass. Thank Heaven for its blue sky; it needs a long, upward gaze to give us back our faith. Not here can we feel ourselves immortal94, where the very altars in these chapels of horrible consecration95 are heaps of human bones.
Yet let us give the cemetery the praise that it deserves. There is no disagreeable scent96, such as might have been expected from the decay of so many holy persons, in whatever odor of sanctity they may have taken their departure. The same number of living monks would not smell half so unexceptionably.
Miriam went gloomily along the corridor, from one vaulted Golgotha to another, until in the farthest recess60 she beheld97 an open grave.
“Is that for him who lies yonder in the nave?” she asked.
“Yes, signorina, this is to be the resting-place of Brother Antonio, who came to his death last night,” answered the sacristan; “and in yonder niche84, you see, sits a brother who was buried thirty years ago, and has risen to give him place.”
“It is not a satisfactory idea,” observed Miriam, “that you poor friars cannot call even your graves permanently98 your own. You must lie down in them, methinks, with a nervous anticipation99 of being disturbed, like weary men who know that they shall be summoned out of bed at midnight. Is it not possible (if money were to be paid for the privilege) to leave Brother Antonio—if that be his name—in the occupancy of that narrow grave till the last trumpet100 sounds?”
“By no means, signorina; neither is it needful or desirable,” answered the sacristan. “A quarter of a century’s sleep in the sweet earth of Jerusalem is better than a thousand years in any other soil. Our brethren find good rest there. No ghost was ever known to steal out of this blessed cemetery.”
“That is well,” responded Miriam; “may he whom you now lay to sleep prove no exception to the rule!”
As they left the cemetery she put money into the sacristan’s hand to an amount that made his eyes open wide and glisten101, and requested that it might be expended102 in masses for the repose103 of Father Antonio’s soul.
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1
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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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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protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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8
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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10
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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14
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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15
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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curdled
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| v.（使）凝结( curdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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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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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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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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persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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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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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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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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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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congealed
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| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的过去式和过去分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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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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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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44
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
viler
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的比较级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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46
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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47
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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48
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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50
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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51
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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52
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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53
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disastrously
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| ad.灾难性地 | |
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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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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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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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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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slumberer
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| 睡眠者，微睡者 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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unearthed
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| 出土的（考古） | |
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skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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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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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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74
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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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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76
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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77
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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78
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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80
purporting
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| v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的现在分词 ) | |
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81
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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82
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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83
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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84
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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85
hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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86
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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87
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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88
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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89
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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90
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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91
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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96
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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97
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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98
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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99
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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100
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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101
glisten
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| vi.（光洁或湿润表面等）闪闪发光，闪闪发亮 | |
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102
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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103
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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