“Two hearts might be enough for warmth,” observed the sculptor4, “even in so large a house as this. One solitary5 heart, it is true, may be apt to shiver a little. But, I trust, my friend, that the genial6 blood of your race still flows in many veins7 besides your own?”
“I am the last,” said Donatello gloomily. “They have all vanished from me, since my childhood. Old Tomaso will tell you that the air of Monte Beni is not so favorable to length of days as it used to be. But that is not the secret of the quick extinction9 of my kindred.”
“Then you are aware of a more satisfactory reason?” suggested Kenyon.
“I thought of one, the other night, while I was gazing at the stars,” answered Donatello; “but, pardon me, I do not mean to tell it. One cause, however, of the longer and healthier life of my forefathers10 was, that they had many pleasant customs, and means of making themselves glad, and their guests and friends along with them. Nowadays we have but one!”
“And what is that?” asked the sculptor.
“You shall see!” said his young host.
By this time, he had ushered11 the sculptor into one of the numberless saloons; and, calling for refreshment12, old Stella placed a cold fowl13 upon the table, and quickly followed it with a savory14 omelet, which Girolamo had lost no time in preparing. She also brought some cherries, plums, and apricots, and a plate full of particularly delicate figs15, of last year’s growth. The butler showing his white head at the door, his master beckoned16 to him. “Tomaso, bring some Sunshine!” said he. The readiest method of obeying this order, one might suppose, would have been to fling wide the green window-blinds, and let the glow of the summer noon into the carefully shaded room. But, at Monte Beni, with provident17 caution against the wintry days, when there is little sunshine, and the rainy ones, when there is none, it was the hereditary18 custom to keep their Sunshine stored away in the cellar. Old Tomaso quickly produced some of it in a small, straw-covered flask19, out of which he extracted the cork20, and inserted a little cotton wool, to absorb the olive oil that kept the precious liquid from the air.
“This is a wine,” observed the Count, “the secret of making which has been kept in our family for centuries upon centuries; nor would it avail any man to steal the secret, unless he could also steal the vineyard, in which alone the Monte Beni grape can be produced. There is little else left me, save that patch of vines. Taste some of their juice, and tell me whether it is worthy21 to be called Sunshine! for that is its name.” “A glorious name, too!” cried the sculptor. “Taste it,” said Donatello, filling his friend’s glass, and pouring likewise a little into his own. “But first smell its fragrance22; for the wine is very lavish23 of it, and will scatter24 it all abroad.”
“Ah, how exquisite25!” said Kenyon. “No other wine has a bouquet26 like this. The flavor must be rare, indeed, if it fulfill27 the promise of this fragrance, which is like the airy sweetness of youthful hopes, that no realities will ever satisfy!”
This invaluable28 liquor was of a pale golden hue29, like other of the rarest Italian wines, and, if carelessly and irreligiously quaffed30, might have been mistaken for a very fine sort of champagne31. It was not, however, an effervescing32 wine, although its delicate piquancy33 produced a somewhat similar effect upon the palate. Sipping34, the guest longed to sip35 again; but the wine demanded so deliberate a pause, in order to detect the hidden peculiarities36 and subtile exquisiteness37 of its flavor, that to drink it was really more a moral than a physical enjoyment38. There was a deliciousness in it that eluded39 analysis, and—like whatever else is superlatively good—was perhaps better appreciated in the memory than by present consciousness.
One of its most ethereal charms lay in the transitory life of the wine’s richest qualities; for, while it required a certain leisure and delay, yet, if you lingered too long upon the draught40, it became disenchanted both of its fragrance and its flavor.
The lustre41 should not be forgotten, among the other admirable endowments of the Monte Beni wine; for, as it stood in Kenyon’s glass, a little circle of light glowed on the table round about it, as if it were really so much golden sunshine.
“I feel myself a better man for that ethereal potation,” observed the sculptor. “The finest Orvieto, or that famous wine, the Est Est Est of Montefiascone, is vulgar in comparison. This is surely the wine of the Golden Age, such as Bacchus himself first taught mankind to press from the choicest of his grapes. My dear Count, why is it not illustrious? The pale, liquid gold, in every such flask as that, might be solidified42 into golden scudi, and would quickly make you a millionaire!”
Tomaso, the old butler, who was standing43 by the table, and enjoying the praises of the wine quite as much as if bestowed44 upon himself, made answer,—“We have a tradition, Signore,” said he, “that this rare wine of our vineyard would lose all its wonderful qualities, if any of it were sent to market. The Counts of Monte Beni have never parted with a single flask of it for gold. At their banquets, in the olden time, they have entertained princes, cardinals45, and once an emperor and once a pope, with this delicious wine, and always, even to this day, it has been their custom to let it flow freely, when those whom they love and honor sit at the board. But the grand duke himself could not drink that wine, except it were under this very roof!”
“What you tell me, my good friend,” replied Kenyon, “makes me venerate46 the Sunshine of Monte Beni even more abundantly than before. As I understand you, it is a sort of consecrated47 juice, and symbolizes48 the holy virtues49 of hospitality and social kindness?”
“Why, partly so, Signore,” said the old butler, with a shrewd twinkle in his eye; “but, to speak out all the truth, there is another excellent reason why neither a cask nor a flask of our precious vintage should ever be sent to market. The wine, Signore, is so fond of its native home, that a transportation of even a few miles turns it quite sour. And yet it is a wine that keeps well in the cellar, underneath50 this floor, and gathers fragrance, flavor, and brightness, in its dark dungeon51. That very flask of Sunshine, now, has kept itself for you, sir guest (as a maid reserves her sweetness till her lover comes for it), ever since a merry vintage-time, when the Signore Count here was a boy!”
“You must not wait for Tomaso to end his discourse52 about the wine, before drinking off your glass,” observed Donatello. “When once the flask is uncorked, its finest qualities lose little time in making their escape. I doubt whether your last sip will be quite so delicious as you found the first.”
And, in truth, the sculptor fancied that the Sunshine became almost imperceptibly clouded, as he approached the bottom of the flask. The effect of the wine, however, was a gentle exhilaration, which did not so speedily pass away.
Being thus refreshed, Kenyon looked around him at the antique saloon in which they sat. It was constructed in a most ponderous53 style, with a stone floor, on which heavy pilasters were planted against the wall, supporting arches that crossed one another in the vaulted54 ceiling. The upright walls, as well as the compartments55 of the roof, were completely Covered with frescos, which doubtless had been brilliant when first executed, and perhaps for generations afterwards. The designs were of a festive56 and joyous57 character, representing Arcadian scenes, where nymphs, fauns, and satyrs disported58 themselves among mortal youths and maidens59; and Pan, and the god of wine, and he of sunshine and music, disdained60 not to brighten some sylvan61 merry-making with the scarcely veiled glory of their presence. A wreath of dancing figures, in admirable variety of shape and motion, was festooned quite round the cornice of the room.
In its first splendor62, the saloon must have presented an aspect both gorgeous and enlivening; for it invested some of the cheerfullest ideas and emotions of which the human mind is susceptible63 with the external reality of beautiful form, and rich, harmonious64 glow and variety of color. But the frescos were now very ancient. They had been rubbed and scrubbed by old Stein and many a predecessor65, and had been defaced in one spot, and retouched in another, and had peeled from the wall in patches, and had hidden some of their brightest portions under dreary66 dust, till the joyousness67 had quite vanished out of them all. It was often difficult to puzzle out the design; and even where it was more readily intelligible68, the figures showed like the ghosts of dead and buried joys,—the closer their resemblance to the happy past, the gloomier now. For it is thus, that with only an inconsiderable change, the gladdest objects and existences become the saddest; hope fading into disappointment; joy darkening into grief, and festal splendor into funereal69 duskiness; and all evolving, as their moral, a grim identity between gay things and sorrowful ones. Only give them a little time, and they turn out to be just alike!
“There has been much festivity in this saloon, if I may judge by the character of its frescos,” remarked Kenyon, whose spirits were still upheld by the mild potency70 of the Monte Beni wine. “Your forefathers, my dear Count, must have been joyous fellows, keeping up the vintage merriment throughout the year. It does me good to think of them gladdening the hearts of men and women, with their wine of Sunshine, even in the Iron Age, as Pan and Bacchus, whom we see yonder, did in the Golden one!”
“Yes; there have been merry times in the banquet hall of Monte Beni, even within my own remembrance,” replied Donatello, looking gravely at the painted walls. “It was meant for mirth, as you see; and when I brought my own cheerfulness into the saloon, these frescos looked cheerful too. But, methinks, they have all faded since I saw them last.”
“It would be a good idea,” said the sculptor, falling into his companion’s vein8, and helping71 him out with an illustration which Donatello himself could not have put into shape, “to convert this saloon into a chapel72; and when the priest tells his hearers of the instability of earthly joys, and would show how drearily73 they vanish, he may point to these pictures, that were so joyous and are so dismal. He could not illustrate74 his theme so aptly in any other way.”
“True, indeed,” answered the Count, his former simplicity75 strangely mixing itself up with ah experience that had changed him; “and yonder, where the minstrels used to stand, the altar shall be placed. A sinful man might do all the more effective penance76 in this old banquet hall.”
“But I should regret to have suggested so ungenial a transformation77 in your hospitable78 saloon,” continued Kenyon, duly noting the change in Donatello’s characteristics. “You startle me, my friend, by so ascetic79 a design! It would hardly have entered your head, when we first met. Pray do not,—if I may take the freedom of a somewhat elder man to advise you,” added he, smiling,—“pray do not, under a notion of improvement, take upon yourself to be sombre, thoughtful, and penitential, like all the rest of us.”
Donatello made no answer, but sat awhile, appearing to follow with his eyes one of the figures, which was repeated many times over in the groups upon the walls and ceiling. It formed the principal link of an allegory, by which (as is often the case in such pictorial80 designs) the whole series of frescos were bound together, but which it would be impossible, or, at least, very wearisome, to unravel81. The sculptor’s eyes took a similar direction, and soon began to trace through the vicissitudes,—once gay, now sombre,—in which the old artist had involved it, the same individual figure. He fancied a resemblance in it to Donatello himself; and it put him in mind of one of the purposes with which he had come to Monte Beni.
“My dear Count,” said he, “I have a proposal to make. You must let me employ a little of my leisure in modelling your bust82. You remember what a striking resemblance we all of us—Hilda, Miriam, and I—found between your features and those of the Faun of Praxiteles. Then, it seemed an identity; but now that I know your face better, the likeness83 is far less apparent. Your head in marble would be a treasure to me. Shall I have it?”
“I have a weakness which I fear I cannot overcome,” replied the Count, turning away his face. “It troubles me to be looked at steadfastly84.”
“I have observed it since we have been sitting here, though never before,” rejoined the sculptor. “It is a kind of nervousness, I apprehend85, which, you caught in the Roman air, and which grows upon you, in your solitary life. It need be no hindrance86 to my taking your bust; for I will catch the likeness and expression by side glimpses, which (if portrait painters and bust makers87 did but know it) always bring home richer results than a broad stare.”
“You may take me if you have the power,” said Donatello; but, even as he spoke88, he turned away his face; “and if you can see what makes me shrink from you, you are welcome to put it in the bust. It is not my will, but my necessity, to avoid men’s eyes. Only,” he added, with a smile which made Kenyon doubt whether he might not as well copy the Faun as model a new bust,—“only, you know, you must not insist on my uncovering these ears of mine!”
“Nay; I never should dream of such a thing,” answered the sculptor, laughing, as the young Count shook his clustering curls. “I could not hope to persuade you, remembering how Miriam once failed!”
Nothing is more unaccountable than the spell that often lurks89 in a spoken word. A thought may be present to the mind, so distinctly that no utterance90 could make it more so; and two minds may be conscious of the same thought, in which one or both take the profoundest interest; but as long as it remains91 unspoken, their familiar talk flows quietly over the hidden idea, as a rivulet92 may sparkle and dimple over something sunken in its bed. But speak the word, and it is like bringing up a drowned body out of the deepest pool of the rivulet, which has been aware of the horrible secret all along, in spite of its smiling surface.
And even so, when Kenyon chanced to make a distinct reference to Donatello’s relations with Miriam (though the subject was already in both their minds), a ghastly emotion rose up out of the depths of the young Count’s heart. He trembled either with anger or terror, and glared at the sculptor with wild eyes, like a wolf that meets you in the forest, and hesitates whether to flee or turn to bay. But, as Kenyon still looked calmly at him, his aspect gradually became less disturbed, though far from resuming its former quietude.
“You have spoken her name,” said he, at last, in an altered and tremulous tone; “tell me, now, all that you know of her.”
“I scarcely think that I have any later intelligence than yourself,” answered Kenyon; “Miriam left Rome at about the time of your own departure. Within a day or two after our last meeting at the Church of the Capuchins, I called at her studio and found it vacant. Whither she has gone, I cannot tell.”
Donatello asked no further questions.
They rose from table, and strolled together about the premises93, whiling away the afternoon with brief intervals94 of unsatisfactory conversation, and many shadowy silences. The sculptor had a perception of change in his companion,—possibly of growth and development, but certainly of change,—which saddened him, because it took away much of the simple grace that was the best of Donatello’s peculiarities.
Kenyon betook himself to repose95 that night in a grim, old, vaulted apartment, which, in the lapse96 of five or six centuries, had probably been the birth, bridal, and death chamber97 of a great many generations of the Monte Beni family. He was aroused, soon after daylight, by the clamor of a tribe of beggars who had taken their stand in a little rustic98 lane that crept beside that portion of the villa99, and were addressing their petitions to the open windows. By and by they appeared to have received alms, and took their departure.
“Some charitable Christian100 has sent those vagabonds away,” thought the sculptor, as he resumed his interrupted nap; “who could it be? Donatello has his own rooms in the tower; Stella, Tomaso, and the cook are a world’s width off; and I fancied myself the only inhabitant in this part of the house.”
In the breadth and space which so delightfully101 characterize an Italian villa, a dozen guests might have had each his suite102 of apartments without infringing103 upon one another’s ample precincts. But, so far as Kenyon knew, he was the only visitor beneath Donatello’s widely extended roof.
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1
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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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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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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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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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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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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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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13
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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savory
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| adj.风味极佳的，可口的，味香的 | |
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figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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provident
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| adj.为将来做准备的，有先见之明的 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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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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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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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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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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quaffed
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| v.痛饮( quaff的过去式和过去分词 )；畅饮；大口大口将…喝干；一饮而尽 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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effervescing
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| v.冒气泡，起泡沫( effervesce的现在分词 ) | |
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piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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exquisiteness
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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40
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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41
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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42
solidified
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| （使）成为固体，（使）变硬，（使）变得坚固( solidify的过去式和过去分词 )； 使团结一致； 充实，巩固； 具体化 | |
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43
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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44
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
cardinals
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| 红衣主教( cardinal的名词复数 )； 红衣凤头鸟（见于北美，雄鸟为鲜红色）； 基数 | |
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46
venerate
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| v.尊敬，崇敬，崇拜 | |
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47
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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48
symbolizes
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的第三人称单数 ) | |
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49
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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50
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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51
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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52
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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53
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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54
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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55
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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56
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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57
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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58
disported
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| v.嬉戏，玩乐，自娱( disport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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60
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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61
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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62
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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63
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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64
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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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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joyousness
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| 快乐，使人喜悦 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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69
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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70
potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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71
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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72
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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73
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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74
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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75
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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76
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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77
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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78
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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80
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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81
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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82
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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83
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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84
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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85
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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87
makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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88
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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89
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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90
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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91
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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92
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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93
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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95
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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96
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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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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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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99
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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100
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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101
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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102
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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103
infringing
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| v.违反（规章等）( infringe的现在分词 )；侵犯（某人的权利）；侵害（某人的自由、权益等） | |
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