The sculptor had left Rome with the retreating tide of foreign residents. For, as summer approaches, the Niobe of Nations is made to bewail anew, and doubtless with sincerity6, the loss of that large part of her population which she derives7 from other lands, and on whom depends much of whatever remnant of prosperity she still enjoys. Rome, at this season, is pervaded8 and overhung with atmospheric9 terrors, and insulated within a charmed and deadly circle. The crowd of wandering tourists betake themselves to Switzerland, to the Rhine, or, from this central home of the world, to their native homes in England or America, which they are apt thenceforward to look upon as provincial10, after once having yielded to the spell of the Eternal City. The artist, who contemplates11 an indefinite succession of winters in this home of art (though his first thought was merely to improve himself by a brief visit), goes forth12, in the summer time, to sketch13 scenery and costume among the Tuscan hills, and pour, if he can, the purple air of Italy over his canvas. He studies the old schools of art in the mountain towns where they were born, and where they are still to be seen in the faded frescos of Giotto and Cimabue, on the walls of many a church, or in the dark chapels14, in which the sacristan draws aside the veil from a treasured picture of Perugino. Thence, the happy painter goes to walk the long, bright galleries of Florence, or to steal glowing colors from the miraculous16 works, which he finds in a score of Venetian palaces. Such summers as these, spent amid whatever is exquisite17 in art, or wild and picturesque18 in nature, may not inadequately19 repay him for the chill neglect and disappointment through which he has probably languished20, in his Roman winter. This sunny, shadowy, breezy, wandering life, in which he seeks for beauty as his treasure, and gathers for his winter’s honey what is but a passing fragrance21 to all other men, is worth living for, come afterwards what may. Even if he die unrecognized, the artist has had his share of enjoyment22 and success.
Kenyon had seen, at a distance of many miles, the old villa23 or castle towards which his journey lay, looking from its height over a broad expanse of valley. As he drew nearer, however, it had been hidden among the inequalities of the hillside, until the winding24 road brought him almost to the iron gateway25. The sculptor found this substantial barrier fastened with lock and bolt. There was no bell, nor other instrument of sound; and, after summoning the invisible garrison26 with his voice, instead of a trumpet27, he had leisure to take a glance at the exterior28 of the fortress29.
About thirty yards within the gateway rose a square tower, lofty enough to be a very prominent object in the landscape, and more than sufficiently30 massive in proportion to its height. Its antiquity31 was evidently such that, in a climate of more abundant moisture, the ivy32 would have mantled33 it from head to foot in a garment that might, by this time, have been centuries old, though ever new. In the dry Italian air, however, Nature had only so far adopted this old pile of stonework as to cover almost every hand’s-breadth of it with close-clinging lichens34 and yellow moss35; and the immemorial growth of these kindly36 productions rendered the general hue37 of the tower soft and venerable, and took away the aspect of nakedness which would have made its age drearier38 than now.
Up and down the height of the tower were scattered39 three or four windows, the lower ones grated with iron bars, the upper ones vacant both of window frames and glass. Besides these larger openings, there were several loopholes and little square apertures40, which might be supposed to light the staircase, that doubtless climbed the interior towards the battlemented and machicolated summit. With this last-mentioned warlike garniture upon its stern old head and brow, the tower seemed evidently a stronghold of times long past. Many a crossbowman had shot his shafts41 from those windows and loop-holes, and from the vantage height of those gray battlements; many a flight of arrows, too, had hit all round about the embrasures above, or the apertures below, where the helmet of a defender42 had momentarily glimmered43. On festal nights, moreover, a hundred lamps had often gleamed afar over the valley, suspended from the iron hooks that were ranged for the purpose beneath the battlements and every window.
Connected with the tower, and extending behind it, there seemed to be a very spacious residence, chiefly of more modern date. It perhaps owed much of its fresher appearance, however, to a coat of stucco and yellow wash, which is a sort of renovation44 very much in vogue45 with the Italians. Kenyon noticed over a doorway46, in the portion of the edifice47 immediately adjacent to the tower, a cross, which, with a bell suspended above the roof, indicated that this was a consecrated48 precinct, and the chapel15 of the mansion49.
Meanwhile, the hot sun so incommoded the unsheltered traveller, that he shouted forth another impatient summons. Happening, at the same moment, to look upward, he saw a figure leaning from an embrasure of the battlements, and gazing down at him.
“Ho, Signore Count!” cried the sculptor, waving his straw hat, for he recognized the face, after a moment’s doubt. “This is a warm reception, truly! Pray bid your porter let me in, before the sun shrivels me quite into a cinder50.”
“I will come myself,” responded Donatello, flinging down his voice out of the clouds, as it were; “old Tomaso and old Stella are both asleep, no doubt, and the rest of the people are in the vineyard. But I have expected you, and you are welcome!”
The young Count—as perhaps we had better designate him in his ancestral tower—vanished from the battlements; and Kenyon saw his figure appear successively at each of the windows, as he descended51. On every reappearance, he turned his face towards the sculptor and gave a nod and smile; for a kindly impulse prompted him thus to assure his visitor of a welcome, after keeping him so long at an inhospitable threshold.
Kenyon, however (naturally and professionally expert at reading the expression of the human countenance), had a vague sense that this was not the young friend whom he had known so familiarly in Rome; not the sylvan52 and untutored youth, whom Miriam, Hilda, and himself had liked, laughed at, and sported with; not the Donatello whose identity they had so playfully mixed up with that of the Faun of Praxiteles.
Finally, when his host had emerged from a side portal of the mansion, and approached the gateway, the traveller still felt that there was something lost, or something gained (he hardly knew which), that set the Donatello of to-day irreconcilably53 at odds54 with him of yesterday. His very gait showed it, in a certain gravity, a weight and measure of step, that had nothing in common with the irregular buoyancy which used to distinguish him. His face was paler and thinner, and the lips less full and less apart.
“I have looked for you a long while,” said Donatello; and, though his voice sounded differently, and cut out its words more sharply than had been its wont55, still there was a smile shining on his face, that, for the moment, quite brought back the Faun. “I shall be more cheerful, perhaps, now that you have come. It is very solitary56 here.”
“I have come slowly along, often lingering, often turning aside,” replied Kenyon; “for I found a great deal to interest me in the mediaeval sculpture hidden away in the churches hereabouts. An artist, whether painter or sculptor, may be pardoned for loitering through such a region. But what a fine old tower! Its tall front is like a page of black letter, taken from the history of the Italian republics.”
“I know little or nothing of its history,” said the Count, glancing upward at the battlements, where he had just been standing57. “But I thank my forefathers58 for building it so high. I like the windy summit better than the world below, and spend much of my time there, nowadays.”
“It is a pity you are not a star-gazer,” observed Kenyon, also looking up. “It is higher than Galileo’s tower, which I saw, a week or two ago, outside of the walls of Florence.”
“A star-gazer? I am one,” replied Donatello. “I sleep in the tower, and often watch very late on the battlements. There is a dismal59 old staircase to climb, however, before reaching the top, and a succession of dismal chambers60, from story to story. Some of them were prison chambers in times past, as old Tomaso will tell you.”
The repugnance62 intimated in his tone at the idea of this gloomy staircase and these ghostly, dimly lighted rooms, reminded Kenyon of the original Donatello, much more than his present custom of midnight vigils on the battlements.
“I shall be glad to share your watch,” said the guest; “especially by moonlight. The prospect63 of this broad valley must be very fine. But I was not aware, my friend, that these were your country habits. I have fancied you in a sort of Arcadian life, tasting rich figs64, and squeezing the juice out of the sunniest grapes, and sleeping soundly all night, after a day of simple pleasures.”
“I may have known such a life, when I was younger,” answered the Count gravely. “I am not a boy now. Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.”
The sculptor could not but smile at the triteness65 of the remark, which, nevertheless, had a kind of originality66 as coming from Donatello. He had thought it out from his own experience, and perhaps considered himself as communicating a new truth to mankind.
They were now advancing up the courtyard; and the long extent of the villa, with its iron-barred lower windows and balconied upper ones, became visible, stretching back towards a grove67 of trees.
“At some period of your family history,” observed Kenyon, “the Counts of Monte Beni must have led a patriarchal life in this vast house. A great-grandsire and all his descendants might find ample verge68 here, and with space, too, for each separate brood of little ones to play within its own precincts. Is your present household a large one?”
“Only myself,” answered Donatello, “and Tomaso, who has been butler since my grandfather’s time, and old Stella, who goes sweeping69 and dusting about the chambers, and Girolamo, the cook, who has but an idle life of it. He shall send you up a chicken forthwith. But, first of all, I must summon one of the contadini from the farmhouse70 yonder, to take your horse to the stable.”
Accordingly, the young Count shouted again, and with such effect that, after several repetitions of the outcry, an old gray woman protruded71 her head and a broom-handle from a chamber61 window; the venerable butler emerged from a recess72 in the side of the house, where was a well, or reservoir, in which he had been cleansing73 a small wine cask; and a sunburnt contadino, in his shirt-sleeves, showed himself on the outskirts74 of the vineyard, with some kind of a farming tool in his hand. Donatello found employment for all these retainers in providing accommodation for his guest and steed, and then ushered75 the sculptor into the vestibule of the house.
It was a square and lofty entrance-room, which, by the solidity of its construction, might have been an Etruscan tomb, being paved and walled with heavy blocks of stone, and vaulted76 almost as massively overhead. On two sides there were doors, opening into long suites77 of anterooms and saloons; on the third side, a stone staircase of spacious breadth, ascending78, by dignified79 degrees and with wide resting-places, to another floor of similar extent. Through one of the doors, which was ajar, Kenyon beheld80 an almost interminable vista81 of apartments, opening one beyond the other, and reminding him of the hundred rooms in Blue Beard’s castle, or the countless82 halls in some palace of the Arabian Nights.
It must have been a numerous family, indeed, that could ever have sufficed to people with human life so large an abode83 as this, and impart social warmth to such a wide world within doors. The sculptor confessed to himself, that Donatello could allege84 reason enough for growing melancholy85, having only his own personality to vivify it all.
“How a woman’s face would brighten it up!” he ejaculated, not intending to be overheard.
But, glancing at Donatello, he saw a stern and sorrowful look in his eyes, which altered his youthful face as if it had seen thirty years of trouble; and, at the same moment, old Stella showed herself through one of the doorways86, as the only representative of her sex at Monte Beni.
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1
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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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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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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14
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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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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inadequately
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| ad.不够地；不够好地 | |
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languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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21
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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24
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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drearier
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的比较级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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39
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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apertures
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| n.孔( aperture的名词复数 )；隙缝；（照相机的）光圈；孔径 | |
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41
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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42
defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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43
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
renovation
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| n.革新，整修 | |
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Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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47
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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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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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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50
cinder
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| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
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51
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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52
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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53
irreconcilably
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| （观点、目标或争议）不可调和的，不相容的 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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56
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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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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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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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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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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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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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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triteness
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| n.平凡，陈腐 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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71
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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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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cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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suites
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| n.套( suite的名词复数 )；一套房间；一套家具；一套公寓 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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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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81
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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82
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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83
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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84
allege
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| vt.宣称，申述，主张，断言 | |
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85
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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86
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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