As she drew near, there were tokens to which her disturbed mind gave a sinister8 interpretation9. Some of her friend’s airy family, the doves, with their heads imbedded disconsolately10 in their bosoms11, were huddled12 in a corner of the piazza13; others had alighted on the heads, wings, shoulders, and trumpets14 of the marble angels which adorned15 the facade16 of the neighboring church; two or three had betaken themselves to the Virgin’s shrine17; and as many as could find room were sitting on Hilda’s window-sill. But all of them, so Miriam fancied, had a look of weary expectation and disappointment, no flights, no flutterings, no cooing murmur18; something that ought to have made their day glad and bright was evidently left out of this day’s history. And, furthermore, Hilda’s white window-curtain was closely drawn19, with only that one little aperture20 at the side, which Miriam remembered noticing the night before.
“Be quiet,” said Miriam to her own heart, pressing her hand hard upon it. “Why shouldst thou throb21 now? Hast thou not endured more terrible things than this?”
Whatever were her apprehensions22, she would not turn back. It might be—and the solace23 would be worth a world—that Hilda, knowing nothing of the past night’s calamity24, would greet her friend with a sunny smile, and so restore a portion of the vital warmth, for lack of which her soul was frozen. But could Miriam, guilty as she was, permit Hilda to kiss her cheek, to clasp her hand, and thus be no longer so unspotted from the world as heretofore.
“I will never permit her sweet touch again,” said Miriam, toiling27 up the staircase, “if I can find strength of heart to forbid it. But, O! it would be so soothing28 in this wintry fever-fit of my heart. There can be no harm to my white Hilda in one parting kiss. That shall be all!”
But, on reaching the upper landing-place, Miriam paused, and stirred not again till she had brought herself to an immovable resolve.
“My lips, my hand, shall never meet Hilda’s more,” said she.
Meanwhile, Hilda sat listlessly in her painting-room. Had you looked into the little adjoining chamber29, you might have seen the slight imprint30 of her figure on the bed, but would also have detected at once that the white counterpane had not been turned down. The pillow was more disturbed; she had turned her face upon it, the poor child, and bedewed it with some of those tears (among the most chill and forlorn that gush31 from human sorrow) which the innocent heart pours forth32 at its first actual discovery that sin is in the world. The young and pure are not apt to find out that miserable33 truth until it is brought home to them by the guiltiness of some trusted friend. They may have heard much of the evil of the world, and seem to know it, but only as an impalpable theory. In due time, some mortal, whom they reverence34 too highly, is commissioned by Providence35 to teach them this direful lesson; he perpetrates a sin; and Adam falls anew, and Paradise, heretofore in unfaded bloom, is lost again, and dosed forever, with the fiery36 swords gleaming at its gates.
The chair in which Hilda sat was near the portrait of Beatrice Cenci, which had not yet been taken from the easel. It is a peculiarity37 of this picture, that its profoundest expression eludes38 a straightforward39 glance, and can only be caught by side glimpses, or when the eye falls casually40 upon it; even as if the painted face had a life and consciousness of its own, and, resolving not to betray its secret of grief or guilt25, permitted the true tokens to come forth only when it imagined itself unseen. No other such magical effect has ever been wrought41 by pencil.
Now, opposite the easel hung a looking-glass, in which Beatrice’s face and Hilda’s were both reflected. In one of her weary, nerveless changes of position, Hilda happened to throw her eyes on the glass, and took in both these images at one unpremeditated glance. She fancied—nor was it without horror—that Beatrice’s expression, seen aside and vanishing in a moment, had been depicted42 in her own face likewise, and flitted from it as timorously43.
“Am I, too, stained with guilt?” thought the poor girl, hiding her face in her hands.
Not so, thank Heaven! But, as regards Beatrice’s picture, the incident suggests a theory which may account for its unutterable grief and mysterious shadow of guilt, without detracting from the purity which we love to attribute to that ill-fated girl. Who, indeed, can look at that mouth,—with its lips half apart, as innocent as a babe’s that has been crying, and not pronounce Beatrice sinless? It was the intimate consciousness of her father’s sin that threw its shadow over her, and frightened her into a remote and inaccessible45 region, where no sympathy could come. It was the knowledge of Miriam’s guilt that lent the same expression to Hilda’s face.
But Hilda nervously46 moved her chair, so that the images in the glass should be no longer Visible. She now watched a speck47 of sunshine that came through a shuttered window, and crept from object to object, indicating each with a touch of its bright finger, and then letting them all vanish successively. In like manner her mind, so like sunlight in its natural cheerfulness, went from thought to thought, but found nothing that it could dwell upon for comfort. Never before had this young, energetic, active spirit known what it is to be despondent48. It was the unreality of the world that made her so. Her dearest friend, whose heart seemed the most solid and richest of Hilda’s possessions, had no existence for her any more; and in that dreary49 void, out of which Miriam had disappeared, the substance, the truth, the integrity of life, the motives50 of effort, the joy of success, had departed along with her.
It was long past noon, when a step came up the staircase. It had passed beyond the limits where there was communication with the lower regions of the palace, and was mounting the successive flights which led only to Hilda’s precincts. Faint as the tread was, she heard and recognized it. It startled her into sudden life. Her first impulse was to spring to the door of the studio, and fasten it with lock and bolt. But a second thought made her feel that this would be an unworthy cowardice51, on her own part, and also that Miriam—only yesterday her closest friend had a right to be told, face to face, that thenceforth they must be forever strangers.
She heard Miriam pause, outside of the door. We have already seen what was the latter’s resolve with respect to any kiss or pressure of the hand between Hilda and herself. We know not what became of the resolution. As Miriam was of a highly impulsive52 character, it may have vanished at the first sight of Hilda; but, at all events, she appeared to have dressed herself up in a garb53 of sunshine, and was disclosed, as the door swung open, in all the glow of her remarkable54 beauty. The truth was, her heart leaped conclusively55 towards the only refuge that it had, or hoped. She forgot, just one instant, all cause for holding herself aloof56. Ordinarily there was a certain reserve in Miriam’s demonstrations57 of affection, in consonance with the delicacy58 of her friend. To-day, she opened her arms to take Hilda in.
“Dearest, darling Hilda!” she exclaimed. “It gives me new life to see you!”
Hilda was standing59 in the middle of the room. When her friend made a step or two from the door, she put forth her hands with an involuntary repellent gesture, so expressive60 that Miriam at once felt a great chasm61 opening itself between them two. They might gaze at one another from the opposite side, but without the possibility of ever meeting more; or, at least, since the chasm could never be bridged over, they must tread the whole round of Eternity62 to meet on the other side. There was even a terror in the thought of their meeting again. It was as if Hilda or Miriam were dead, and could no longer hold intercourse63 without violating a spiritual law.
Yet, in the wantonness of her despair, Miriam made one more step towards the friend whom she had lost. “Do not come nearer, Miriam!” said Hilda. Her look and tone were those of sorrowful entreaty64, and yet they expressed a kind of confidence, as if the girl were conscious of a safeguard that could not be violated.
“What has happened between us, Hilda?” asked Miriam. “Are we not friends?”
“No, no!” said Hilda, shuddering65.
“At least we have been friends,” continued Miriam. “I loved you dearly! I love you still! You were to me as a younger sister; yes, dearer than sisters of the same blood; for you and I were so lonely, Hilda, that the whole world pressed us together by its solitude66 and strangeness. Then, will you not touch my hand? Am I not the same as yesterday?”
“Alas! no, Miriam!” said Hilda.
“Yes, the same, the same for you, Hilda,” rejoined her lost friend. “Were you to touch my hand, you would find it as warm to your grasp as ever. If you were sick or suffering, I would watch night and day for you. It is in such simple offices that true affection shows itself; and so I speak of them. Yet now, Hilda, your very look seems to put me beyond the limits of human kind!”
“It is not I, Miriam,” said Hilda; “not I that have done this.”
“You, and you only, Hilda,” replied Miriam, stirred up to make her own cause good by the repellent force which her friend opposed to her. “I am a woman, as I was yesterday; endowed with the same truth of nature, the same warmth of heart, the same genuine and earnest love, which you have always known in me. In any regard that concerns yourself, I am not changed. And believe me, Hilda, when a human being has chosen a friend out of all the world, it is only some faithlessness between themselves, rendering67 true intercourse impossible, that can justify68 either friend in severing69 the bond. Have I deceived you? Then cast me off! Have I wronged you personally? Then forgive me, if you can. But, have I sinned against God and man, and deeply sinned? Then be more my friend than ever, for I need you more.”
“Do not bewilder me thus, Miriam!” exclaimed Hilda, who had not forborne to express, by look and gesture, the anguish70 which this interview inflicted71 on her. “If I were one of God’s angels, with a nature incapable72 of stain, and garments that never could be spotted26, I would keep ever at your side, and try to lead you upward. But I am a poor, lonely girl, whom God has set here in an evil world, and given her only a white robe, and bid her wear it back to Him, as white as when she put it on. Your powerful magnetism73 would be too much for me. The pure, white atmosphere, in which I try to discern what things are good and true, would be discolored. And therefore, Miriam, before it is too late, I mean to put faith in this awful heartquake which warns me henceforth to avoid you.”
“Ah, this is hard! Ah, this is terrible!” murmured Miriam, dropping her forehead in her hands. In a moment or two she looked up again, as pale as death, but with a composed countenance74: “I always said, Hilda, that you were merciless; for I had a perception of it, even while you loved me best. You have no sin, nor any conception of what it is; and therefore you are so terribly severe! As an angel, you are not amiss; but, as a human creature, and a woman among earthly men and women, you need a sin to soften75 you.”
“God forgive me,” said Hilda, “if I have said a needlessly cruel word!”
“Let it pass,” answered Miriam; “I, whose heart it has smitten76 upon, forgive you. And tell me, before we part forever, what have you seen or known of me, since we last met?”
“A terrible thing, Miriam,” said Hilda, growing paler than before.
“Do you see it written in my face, or painted in my eyes?” inquired Miriam, her trouble seeking relief in a half-frenzied raillery. “I would fain know how it is that Providence, or fate, brings eye-witnesses to watch us, when we fancy ourselves acting44 in the remotest privacy. Did all Rome see it, then? Or, at least, our merry company of artists? Or is it some blood-stain on me, or death-scent in my garments? They say that monstrous77 deformities sprout78 out of fiends, who once were lovely angels. Do you perceive such in me already? Tell me, by our past friendship, Hilda, all you know.”
Thus adjured79, and frightened by the wild emotion which Miriam could not suppress, Hilda strove to tell what she had witnessed.
“After the rest of the party had passed on, I went back to speak to you,” she said; “for there seemed to be a trouble on your mind, and I wished to share it with you, if you could permit me. The door of the little courtyard was partly shut; but I pushed it open, and saw you within, and Donatello, and a third person, whom I had before noticed in the shadow of a niche80. He approached you, Miriam. You knelt to him! I saw Donatello spring upon him! I would have shrieked81, but my throat was dry. I would have rushed forward, but my limbs seemed rooted to the earth. It was like a flash of lightning. A look passed from your eyes to Donatello’s—a look.”—“Yes, Hilda, yes!” exclaimed Miriam, with intense eagerness. “Do not pause now! That look?”
“It revealed all your heart, Miriam,” continued Hilda, covering her eyes as if to shut out the recollection; “a look of hatred82, triumph, vengeance83, and, as it were, joy at some unhoped-for relief.”
“Ah! Donatello was right, then,” murmured Miriam, who shook throughout all her frame. “My eyes bade him do it! Go on, Hilda.”
“It all passed so quickly, all like a glare of lightning,” said Hilda, “and yet it seemed to me that Donatello had paused, while one might draw a breath. But that look! Ah, Miriam, spare me. Need I tell more?”
“No more; there needs no more, Hilda,” replied Miriam, bowing her head, as if listening to a sentence of condemnation84 from a supreme85 tribunal. “It is enough! You have satisfied my mind on a point where it was greatly disturbed. Henceforward I shall be quiet. Thank you, Hilda.”
She was on the point of departing, but turned back again from the threshold.
“This is a terrible secret to be kept in a young girl’s bosom,” she observed; “what will you do with it, my poor child?”
“Heaven help and guide me,” answered Hilda, bursting into tears; “for the burden of it crushes me to the earth! It seems a crime to know of such a thing, and to keep it to myself. It knocks within my heart continually, threatening, imploring86, insisting to be let out! O my mother!—my mother! Were she yet living, I would travel over land and sea to tell her this dark secret, as I told all the little troubles of my infancy87. But I am alone—alone! Miriam, you were my dearest, only friend. Advise me what to do.”
This was a singular appeal, no doubt, from the stainless88 maiden89 to the guilty woman, whom she had just banished90 from her heart forever. But it bore striking testimony91 to the impression which Miriam’s natural uprightness and impulsive generosity92 had made on the friend who knew her best; and it deeply comforted the poor criminal, by proving to her that the bond between Hilda and herself was vital yet.
As far as she was able, Miriam at once responded to the girl’s cry for help.
“If I deemed it good for your peace of mind,” she said, “to bear testimony against me for this deed in the face of all the world, no consideration of myself should weigh with me an instant. But I believe that you would find no relief in such a course. What men call justice lies chiefly in outward formalities, and has never the close application and fitness that would be satisfactory to a soul like yours. I cannot be fairly tried and judged before an earthly tribunal; and of this, Hilda, you would perhaps become fatally conscious when it was too late. Roman justice, above all things, is a byword. What have you to do with it? Leave all such thoughts aside! Yet, Hilda, I would not have you keep my secret imprisoned93 in your heart if it tries to leap out, and stings you, like a wild, venomous thing, when you thrust it back again. Have you no other friend, now that you have been forced to give me up?”
“No other,” answered Hilda sadly.
“Yes; Kenyon!” rejoined Miriam.
“He cannot be my friend,” said Hilda, “because—because—I have fancied that he sought to be something more.”
“Fear nothing!” replied Miriam, shaking her head, with a strange smile. “This story will frighten his new-born love out of its little life, if that be what you wish. Tell him the secret, then, and take his wise and honorable counsel as to what should next be done. I know not what else to say.”
“I never dreamed,” said Hilda,—“how could you think it?—of betraying you to justice. But I see how it is, Miriam. I must keep your secret, and die of it, unless God sends me some relief by methods which are now beyond my power to imagine. It is very dreadful. Ah! now I understand how the sins of generations past have created an atmosphere of sin for those that follow. While there is a single guilty person in the universe, each innocent one must feel his innocence94 tortured by that guilt. Your deed, Miriam, has darkened the whole sky!”
Poor Hilda turned from her unhappy friend, and, sinking on her knees in a corner of the chamber, could not be prevailed upon to utter another word. And Miriam, with a long regard from the threshold, bade farewell to this doves’ nest, this one little nook of pure thoughts and innocent enthusiasms, into which she had brought such trouble. Every crime destroys more Edens than our own!
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1
crookedness
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| [医]弯曲 | |
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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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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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8
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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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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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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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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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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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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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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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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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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eludes
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的第三人称单数 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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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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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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timorously
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| adv.胆怯地，羞怯地 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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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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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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52
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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54
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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conclusively
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| adv.令人信服地，确凿地 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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57
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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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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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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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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66
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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68
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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severing
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的现在分词 )；断，裂 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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73
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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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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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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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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sprout
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| n.芽，萌芽；vt.使发芽，摘去芽；vi.长芽，抽条 | |
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adjured
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的过去式和过去分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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89
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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90
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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92
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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