But Donatello drew no delight from these things. He walked onward14 in silent apathy15, and looked at Miriam with strangely half-awakened and bewildered eyes, when she sought to bring his mind into sympathy with hers, and so relieve his heart of the burden that lay lumpishly upon it.
She made him sit down on a stone bench, where two embowered alleys crossed each other; so that they could discern the approach of any casual intruder a long way down the path.
“My sweet friend,” she said, taking one of his passive hands in both of hers, “what can I say to comfort you?”
“Nothing!” replied Donatello, with sombre reserve. “Nothing will ever comfort me.”
“I accept my own misery16,” continued Miriam, “my own guilt17, if guilt it be; and, whether guilt or misery, I shall know how to deal with it. But you, dearest friend, that were the rarest creature in all this world, and seemed a being to whom sorrow could not cling,—you, whom I half fancied to belong to a race that had vanished forever, you only surviving, to show mankind how genial and how joyous18 life used to be, in some long-gone age,—what had you to do with grief or crime?”
“They came to me as to other men,” said Donatello broodingly. “Doubtless I was born to them.”
“No, no; they came with me,” replied Miriam. “Mine is the responsibility! Alas19! wherefore was I born? Why did we ever meet? Why did I not drive you from me, knowing for my heart foreboded it—that the cloud in which I walked would likewise envelop20 you!”
Donatello stirred uneasily, with the irritable21 impatience22 that is often combined With a mood of leaden despondency. A brown lizard23 with two tails—a monster often engendered24 by the Roman sunshine—ran across his foot, and made him start. Then he sat silent awhile, and so did Miriam, trying to dissolve her whole heart into sympathy, and lavish25 it all upon him, were it only for a moment’s cordial.
The young man lifted his hand to his breast, and, unintentionally, as Miriam’s hand was within his, he lifted that along with it. “I have a great weight here!” said he. The fancy struck Miriam (but she drove it resolutely26 down) that Donatello almost imperceptibly shuddered27, while, in pressing his own hand against his heart, he pressed hers there too.
“Rest your heart on me, dearest one!” she resumed. “Let me bear all its weight; I am well able to bear it; for I am a woman, and I love you! I love you, Donatello! Is there no comfort for you in this avowal28? Look at me! Heretofore you have found me pleasant to your sight. Gaze into my eyes! Gaze into my soul! Search as deeply as you may, you can never see half the tenderness and devotion that I henceforth cherish for you. All that I ask is your acceptance of the utter self-sacrifice (but it shall be no sacrifice, to my great love) with which I seek to remedy the evil you have incurred29 for my sake!”
“O, speak to me!” she exclaimed. “Only promise me to be, by and by, a little happy!”
“Happy?” murmured Donatello. “Ah, never again! never again!”
“Never? Ah, that is a terrible word to say to me!” answered Miriam. “A terrible word to let fall upon a woman’s heart, when she loves you, and is conscious of having caused your misery! If you love me, Donatello, speak it not again. And surely you did love me?”
“I did,” replied Donatello gloomily and absently.
Miriam released the young man’s hand, but suffered one of her own to lie close to his, and waited a moment to see whether he would make any effort to retain it. There was much depending upon that simple experiment.
With a deep sigh—as when, sometimes, a slumberer32 turns over in a troubled dream Donatello changed his position, and clasped both his hands over his forehead. The genial warmth of a Roman April kindling33 into May was in the atmosphere around them; but when Miriam saw that involuntary movement and heard that sigh of relief (for so she interpreted it), a shiver ran through her frame, as if the iciest wind of the Apennines were blowing over her.
“He has done himself a greater wrong than I dreamed of,” thought she, with unutterable compassion34. “Alas! it was a sad mistake! He might have had a kind of bliss35 in the consequences of this deed, had he been impelled36 to it by a love vital enough to survive the frenzy37 of that terrible moment, mighty38 enough to make its own law, and justify39 itself against the natural remorse40. But to have perpetrated a dreadful murder (and such was his crime, unless love, annihilating41 moral distinctions, made it otherwise) on no better warrant than a boy’s idle fantasy! I pity him from the very depths of my soul! As for myself, I am past my own or other’s pity.”
She arose from the young man’s side, and stood before him with a sad, commiserating42 aspect; it was the look of a ruined soul, bewailing, in him, a grief less than what her profounder sympathies imposed upon herself.
“Donatello, we must part,” she said, with melancholy43 firmness. “Yes; leave me! Go back to your old tower, which overlooks the green valley you have told me of among the Apennines. Then, all that has passed will be recognized as but an ugly dream. For in dreams the conscience sleeps, and we often stain ourselves with guilt of which we should be incapable44 in our waking moments. The deed you seemed to do, last night, was no more than such a dream; there was as little substance in what you fancied yourself doing. Go; and forget it all!”
“Ah, that terrible face!” said Donatello, pressing his hands over his eyes. “Do you call that unreal?”
“Yes; for you beheld45 it with dreaming eyes,” replied Miriam. “It was unreal; and, that you may feel it so, it is requisite46 that you see this face of mine no more. Once, you may have thought it beautiful; now, it has lost its charm. Yet it would still retain a miserable47 potency’ to bring back the past illusion, and, in its train, the remorse and anguish48 that would darken all your life. Leave me, therefore, and forget me.”
“Forget you, Miriam!” said Donatello, roused somewhat from his apathy of despair.
“If I could remember you, and behold49 you, apart from that frightful50 visage which stares at me over your shoulder, that were a consolation51, at least, if not a joy.”
“But since that visage haunts you along with mine,” rejoined Miriam, glancing behind her, “we needs must part. Farewell, then! But if ever—in distress52, peril53, shame, poverty, or whatever anguish is most poignant54, whatever burden heaviest—you should require a life to be given wholly, only to make your own a little easier, then summon me! As the case now stands between us, you have bought me dear, and find me of little worth. Fling me away, therefore! May you never need me more! But, if otherwise, a wish—almost an unuttered wish will bring me to you!”
She stood a moment, expecting a reply. But Donatello’s eyes had again fallen on the ground, and he had not, in his bewildered mind and overburdened heart, a word to respond.
“That hour I speak of may never come,” said Miriam. “So farewell—farewell forever.”
“Farewell,” said Donatello.
His voice hardly made its way through the environment of unaccustomed thoughts and emotions which had settled over him like a dense55 and dark cloud. Not improbably, he beheld Miriam through so dim a medium that she looked visionary; heard her speak only in a thin, faint echo.
She turned from the young man, and, much as her heart yearned56 towards him, she would not profane57 that heavy parting by an embrace, or even a pressure of the hand. So soon after the semblance58 of such mighty love, and after it had been the impulse to so terrible a deed, they parted, in all outward show, as coldly as people part whose whole mutual59 intercourse60 has been encircled within a single hour.
And Donatello, when Miriam had departed, stretched himself at full length on the stone bench, and drew his hat over his eyes, as the idle and light-hearted youths of dreamy Italy are accustomed to do, when they lie down in the first convenient shade, and snatch a noonday slumber31. A stupor61 was upon him, which he mistook for such drowsiness62 as he had known in his innocent past life. But, by and by, he raised himself slowly and left the garden. Sometimes poor Donatello started, as if he heard a shriek63; sometimes he shrank back, as if a face, fearful to behold, were thrust close to his own. In this dismal64 mood, bewildered with the novelty of sin and grief, he had little left of that singular resemblance, on account of which, and for their sport, his three friends had fantastically recognized him as the veritable Faun of Praxiteles.
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1
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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8
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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distils
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| v.蒸馏( distil的第三人称单数 )；从…提取精华 | |
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12
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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13
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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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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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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16
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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17
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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20
envelop
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| vt.包，封，遮盖；包围 | |
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21
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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23
lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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24
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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26
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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28
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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29
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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32
slumberer
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| 睡眠者，微睡者 | |
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33
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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35
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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36
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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37
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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38
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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39
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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40
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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41
annihilating
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的现在分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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42
commiserating
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| v.怜悯，同情( commiserate的现在分词 ) | |
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43
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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44
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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45
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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46
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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47
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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48
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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49
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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50
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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51
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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52
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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53
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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54
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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55
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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56
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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58
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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59
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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60
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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61
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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62
drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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63
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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64
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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