“Pray pardon me for helping2 Time to crumble3 away your ancestral walls,” said he. “But I am one of those persons who have a natural tendency to climb heights, and to stand on the verge4 of them, measuring the depth below. If I were to do just as I like, at this moment, I should fling myself down after that bit of lime. It is a very singular temptation, and all but irresistible5; partly, I believe, because it might be so easily done, and partly because such momentous6 consequences would ensue, without my being compelled to wait a moment for them. Have you never felt this strange impulse of an evil spirit at your back, shoving you towards a precipice7?”
“Ah, no!” cried. Donatello, shrinking from the battlemented wall with a face of horror. “I cling to life in a way which you cannot conceive; it has been so rich, so warm, so sunny!—and beyond its verge, nothing but the chilly8 dark! And then a fall from a precipice is such an awful death!”
“Nay9; if it be a great height,” said Kenyon, “a man would leave his life in the air, and never feel the hard shock at the bottom.”
“That is not the way with this kind of death!” exclaimed Donatello, in a low, horror-stricken voice, which grew higher and more full of emotion as he proceeded. “Imagine a fellow creature,—breathing now, and looking you in the face,—and now tumbling down, down, down, with a long shriek10 wavering after him, all the way! He does not leave his life in the air! No; but it keeps in him till he thumps11 against the stones, a horribly long while; then he lies there frightfully quiet, a dead heap of bruised12 flesh and broken bones! A quiver runs through the crushed mass; and no more movement after that! No; not if you would give your soul to make him stir a finger! Ah, terrible! Yes, yes; I would fain fling myself down for the very dread13 of it, that I might endure it once for all, and dream of it no more!”
“How forcibly, how frightfully you conceive this!” said the sculptor, aghast at the passionate14 horror which was betrayed in the Count’s words, and still more in his wild gestures and ghastly look. “Nay, if the height of your tower affects your imagination thus, you do wrong to trust yourself here in solitude15, and in the night-time, and at all unguarded hours. You are not safe in your chamber16. It is but a step or two; and what if a vivid dream should lead you up hither at midnight, and act itself out as a reality!”
Donatello had hidden his face in his hands, and was leaning against the parapet.
“No fear of that!” said he. “Whatever the dream may be, I am too genuine a coward to act out my own death in it.”
The paroxysm passed away, and the two friends continued their desultory17 talk, very much as if no such interruption had occurred. Nevertheless, it affected18 the sculptor with infinite pity to see this young man, who had been born to gladness as an assured heritage, now involved in a misty19 bewilderment of grievous thoughts, amid which he seemed to go staggering blindfold20. Kenyon, not without an unshaped suspicion of the definite fact, knew that his condition must have resulted from the weight and gloom of life, now first, through the agency of a secret trouble, making themselves felt on a character that had heretofore breathed only an atmosphere of joy. The effect of this hard lesson, upon Donatello’s intellect and disposition21, was very striking. It was perceptible that he had already had glimpses of strange and subtle matters in those dark caverns22, into which all men must descend23, if they would know anything beneath the surface and illusive24 pleasures of existence. And when they emerge, though dazzled and blinded by the first glare of daylight, they take truer and sadder views of life forever afterwards.
From some mysterious source, as the sculptor felt assured, a soul had been inspired into the young Count’s simplicity25, since their intercourse26 in Rome. He now showed a far deeper sense, and an intelligence that began to deal with high subjects, though in a feeble and childish way. He evinced, too, a more definite and nobler individuality, but developed out of grief and pain, and fearfully conscious of the pangs27 that had given it birth. Every human life, if it ascends28 to truth or delves29 down to reality, must undergo a similar change; but sometimes, perhaps, the instruction comes without the sorrow; and oftener the sorrow teaches no lesson that abides30 with us. In Donatello’s case, it was pitiful, and almost ludicrous, to observe the confused struggle that he made; how completely he was taken by surprise; how ill-prepared he stood, on this old battlefield of the world, to fight with such an inevitable31 foe32 as mortal calamity33, and sin for its stronger ally.
“And yet,” thought Kenyon, “the poor fellow bears himself like a hero, too! If he would only tell me his trouble, or give me an opening to speak frankly34 about it, I might help him; but he finds it too horrible to be uttered, and fancies himself the only mortal that ever felt the anguish35 of remorse36. Yes; he believes that nobody ever endured his agony before; so that—sharp enough in itself—it has all the additional zest37 of a torture just invented to plague him individually.”
The sculptor endeavored to dismiss the painful subject from his mind; and, leaning against the battlements, he turned his face southward and westward38, and gazed across the breadth of the valley. His thoughts flew far beyond even those wide boundaries, taking an air-line from Donatello’s tower to another turret39 that ascended40 into the sky of the summer afternoon, invisibly to him, above the roofs of distant Rome. Then rose tumultuously into his consciousness that strong love for Hilda, which it was his habit to confine in one of the heart’s inner chambers41, because he had found no encouragement to bring it forward. But now he felt a strange pull at his heart-strings. It could not have been more perceptible, if all the way between these battlements and Hilda’s dove-cote had stretched an exquisitely42 sensitive cord, which, at the hither end, was knotted with his aforesaid heart-strings, and, at the remoter one, was grasped by a gentle hand. His breath grew tremulous. He put his hand to his breast; so distinctly did he seem to feel that cord drawn43 once, and again, and again, as if—though still it was bashfully intimated there were an importunate44 demand for his presence. O for the white wings of Hilda’s doves, that he might, have flown thither45, and alighted at the Virgin’s shrine46!
But lovers, and Kenyon knew it well, project so lifelike a copy of their mistresses out of their own imaginations, that it can pull at the heartstrings almost as perceptibly as the genuine original. No airy intimations are to be trusted; no evidences of responsive affection less positive than whispered and broken words, or tender pressures of the hand, allowed and half returned; or glances, that distil47 many passionate avowals into one gleam of richly colored light. Even these should be weighed rigorously, at the instant; for, in another instant, the imagination seizes on them as its property, and stamps them with its own arbitrary value. But Hilda’s maidenly48 reserve had given her lover no such tokens, to be interpreted either by his hopes or fears.
“Yonder, over mountain and valley, lies Rome,” said the sculptor; “shall you return thither in the autumn?”
“Never! I hate Rome,” answered Donatello; “and have good cause.”
“And yet it was a pleasant winter that we spent there,” observed Kenyon, “and with pleasant friends about us. You would meet them again there—all of them.”
“All?” asked Donatello.
“All, to the best of my belief,” said the sculptor: “but you need not go to Rome to seek them. If there were one of those friends whose lifetime was twisted with your own, I am enough of a fatalist to feel assured that you will meet that one again, wander whither you may. Neither can we escape the companions whom Providence49 assigns for us, by climbing an old tower like this.”
“Yet the stairs are steep and dark,” rejoined the Count; “none but yourself would seek me here, or find me, if they sought.”
As Donatello did not take advantage of this opening which his friend had kindly50 afforded him to pour out his hidden troubles, the latter again threw aside the subject, and returned to the enjoyment51 of the scene before him. The thunder-storm, which he had beheld52 striding across the valley, had passed to the left of Monte Beni, and was continuing its march towards the hills that formed the boundary on the eastward53. Above the whole valley, indeed, the sky was heavy with tumbling vapors54, interspersed56 with which were tracts57 of blue, vividly58 brightened by the sun; but, in the east, where the tempest was yet trailing its ragged59 skirts, lay a dusky region of cloud and sullen60 mist, in which some of the hills appeared of a dark purple hue61. Others became so indistinct, that the spectator could not tell rocky height from impalpable cloud. Far into this misty cloud region, however,—within the domain62 of chaos63, as it were,—hilltops were seen brightening in the sunshine; they looked like fragments of the world, broken adrift and based on nothingness, or like portions of a sphere destined64 to exist, but not yet finally compacted.
The sculptor, habitually65 drawing many of the images and illustrations of his thoughts from the plastic art, fancied that the scene represented the process of the Creator, when he held the new, imperfect earth in his hand, and modelled it.
“What a magic is in mist and vapor55 among the mountains!” he exclaimed. “With their help, one single scene becomes a thousand. The cloud scenery gives such variety to a hilly landscape that it would be worth while to journalize its aspect from hour to hour. A cloud, however,—as I have myself experienced,—is apt to grow solid and as heavy as a stone the instant that you take in hand to describe it, But, in my own heart, I have found great use in clouds. Such silvery ones as those to the northward66, for example, have often suggested sculpturesque groups, figures, and attitudes; they are especially rich in attitudes of living repose67, which a sculptor only hits upon by the rarest good fortune. When I go back to my dear native land, the clouds along the horizon will be my only gallery of art!”
“I can see cloud shapes, too,” said Donatello; “yonder is one that shifts strangely; it has been like people whom I knew. And now, if I watch it a little longer, it will take the figure of a monk68 reclining, with his cowl about his head and drawn partly over his face, and—well! did I not tell you so?”
“I think,” remarked Kenyon, “we can hardly be gazing at the same cloud. What I behold69 is a reclining figure, to be sure, but feminine, and with a despondent70 air, wonderfully well expressed in the wavering outline from head to foot. It moves my very heart by something indefinable that it suggests.”
“I see the figure, and almost the face,” said the Count; adding, in a lower voice, “It is Miriam’s!”
“No, not Miriam’s,” answered the sculptor. While the two gazers thus found their own reminiscences and presentiments71 floating among the clouds, the day drew to its close, and now showed them the fair spectacle of an Italian sunset. The sky was soft and bright, but not so gorgeous as Kenyon had seen it, a thousand times, in America; for there the western sky is wont72 to be set aflame with breadths and depths of color with which poets seek in vain to dye their verses, and which painters never dare to copy. As beheld from the tower of Monte Beni, the scene was tenderly magnificent, with mild gradations of hue and a lavish73 outpouring of gold, but rather such gold as we see on the leaf of a bright flower than the burnished74 glow of metal from the mine. Or, if metallic75, it looked airy and unsubstantial, like the glorified76 dreams of an alchemist. And speedily—more speedily than in our own clime—came the twilight77, and, brightening through its gray transparency, the stars.
A swarm78 of minute insects that had been hovering79 all day round the battlements were now swept away by the freshness of a rising breeze. The two owls80 in the chamber beneath Donatello’s uttered their soft melancholy81 cry,—which, with national avoidance of harsh sounds, Italian owls substitute for the hoot82 of their kindred in other countries,—and flew darkling forth83 among the shrubbery. A convent bell rang out near at hand, and was not only echoed among the hills, but answered by another bell, and still another, which doubtless had farther and farther responses, at various distances along the valley; for, like the English drumbeat around the globe, there is a chain of convent bells from end to end, and crosswise, and in all possible directions over priest-ridden Italy.
“Come,” said the sculptor, “the evening air grows cool. It is time to descend.”
“Time for you, my friend,” replied the Count; and he hesitated a little before adding, “I must keep a vigil here for some hours longer. It is my frequent custom to keep vigils,—and sometimes the thought occurs to me whether it were not better to keep them in yonder convent, the bell of which just now seemed to summon me. Should I do wisely, do you think, to exchange this old tower for a cell?”
“What! Turn monk?” exclaimed his friend. “A horrible idea!”
“True,” said Donatello, sighing. “Therefore, if at all, I purpose doing it.”
“Then think of it no more, for Heaven’s sake!” cried the sculptor. “There are a thousand better and more poignant84 methods of being miserable85 than that, if to be miserable is what you wish. Nay; I question whether a monk keeps himself up to the intellectual and spiritual height which misery86 implies. A monk I judge from their sensual physiognomies, which meet me at every turn—is inevitably87 a beast! Their souls, if they have any to begin with, perish out of them, before their sluggish88, swinish existence is half done. Better, a million times, to stand star-gazing on these airy battlements, than to smother89 your new germ of a higher life in a monkish90 cell!”
“You make me tremble,” said Donatello, “by your bold aspersion91 of men who have devoted92 themselves to God’s service!”
“They serve neither God nor man, and themselves least of all, though their motives93 be utterly94 selfish,” replied Kenyon. “Avoid the convent, my dear friend, as you would shun95 the death of the soul! But, for my own part, if I had an insupportable burden,—if, for any cause, I were bent96 upon sacrificing every earthly hope as a peace-offering towards Heaven,—I would make the wide world my cell, and good deeds to mankind my prayer. Many penitent97 men have done this, and found peace in it.”
“Ah, but you are a heretic!” said the Count.
Yet his face brightened beneath the stars; and, looking at it through the twilight, the sculptor’s remembrance went back to that scene in the Capitol, where, both in features and expression, Donatello had seemed identical with the Faun. And still there was a resemblance; for now, when first the idea was suggested of living for the welfare of his fellow-creatures, the original beauty, which sorrow had partly effaced98, came back elevated and spiritualized. In the black depths the Faun had found a soul, and was struggling with it towards the light of heaven.
The illumination, it is true, soon faded out of Donatello’s face. The idea of lifelong and unselfish effort was too high to be received by him with more than a momentary99 comprehension. An Italian, indeed, seldom dreams of being philanthropic, except in bestowing100 alms among the paupers101, who appeal to his beneficence at every step; nor does it occur to him that there are fitter modes of propitiating102 Heaven than by penances103, pilgrimages, and offerings at shrines104. Perhaps, too, their system has its share of moral advantages; they, at all events, cannot well pride themselves, as our own more energetic benevolence105 is apt to do, upon sharing in the counsels of Providence and kindly helping out its otherwise impracticable designs.
And now the broad valley twinkled with lights, that glimmered106 through its duskiness like the fireflies in the garden of a Florentine palace. A gleam of lightning from the rear of the tempest showed the circumference107 of hills and the great space between, as the last cannon-flash of a retreating army reddens across the field where it has fought. The sculptor was on the point of descending108 the turret stair, when, somewhere in the darkness that lay beneath them, a woman’s voice was heard, singing a low, sad strain.
“Hark!” said he, laying his hand on Donatello’s arm.
And Donatello had said “Hark!” at the same instant.
The song, if song it could be called, that had only a wild rhythm, and flowed forth in the fitful measure of a wind-harp, did not clothe itself in the sharp brilliancy of the Italian tongue. The words, so far as they could be distinguished109, were German, and therefore unintelligible110 to the Count, and hardly less so to the sculptor; being softened111 and molten, as it were, into the melancholy richness of the voice that sung them. It was as the murmur112 of a soul bewildered amid the sinful gloom of earth, and retaining only enough memory of a better state to make sad music of the wail113, which would else have been a despairing shriek. Never was there profounder pathos114 than breathed through that mysterious voice; it brought the tears into the sculptor’s eyes, with remembrances and forebodings of whatever sorrow he had felt or apprehended115; it made Donatello sob116, as chiming in with the anguish that he found unutterable, and giving it the expression which he vaguely117 sought.
But, when the emotion was at its profoundest depth, the voice rose out of it, yet so gradually that a gloom seemed to pervade118 it, far upward from the abyss, and not entirely119 to fall away as it ascended into a higher and purer region. At last, the auditors120 would have fancied that the melody, with its rich sweetness all there, and much of its sorrow gone, was floating around the very summit of the tower.
“Donatello,” said the sculptor, when there was silence again, “had that voice no message for your ear?”
“I dare not receive it,” said Donatello; “the anguish of which it spoke121 abides with me: the hope dies away with the breath that brought it hither. It is not good for me to hear that voice.”
The sculptor sighed, and left the poor penitent keeping his vigil on the tower.
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1
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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10
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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11
thumps
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| n.猪肺病；砰的重击声( thump的名词复数 )v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的第三人称单数 ) | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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14
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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15
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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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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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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ascends
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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delves
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的第三人称单数 ) | |
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abides
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| 容忍( abide的第三人称单数 )； 等候； 逗留； 停留 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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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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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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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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importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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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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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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distil
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| vt.蒸馏；提取…的精华，精选出 | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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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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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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51
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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52
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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53
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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54
vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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56
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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59
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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60
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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61
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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62
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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63
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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64
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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65
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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66
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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67
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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68
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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69
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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70
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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71
presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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72
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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73
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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74
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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75
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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78
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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79
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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80
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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81
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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82
hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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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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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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88
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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89
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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aspersion
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| n.诽谤，中伤 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...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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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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98
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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100
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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101
paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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102
propitiating
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| v.劝解，抚慰，使息怒( propitiate的现在分词 ) | |
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103
penances
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| n.（赎罪的）苦行，苦修( penance的名词复数 ) | |
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104
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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105
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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106
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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107
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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108
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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109
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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110
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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111
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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112
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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113
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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114
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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115
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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116
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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117
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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118
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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119
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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120
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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121
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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