Throughout all the jovial19 prosperity of Monte Beni, this one spot within the domestic walls had kept itself silent, stern, and sad. When the individual or the family retired20 from song and mirth, they here sought those realities which men do not invite their festive21 associates to share. And here, on the occasion above referred to, the sculptor22 had discovered—accidentally, so far as he was concerned, though with a purpose on her part—that there was a guest under Donatello’s roof, whose presence the Count did not suspect. An interview had since taken place, and he was now summoned to another.
He crossed the chapel, in compliance23 with Tomaso’s instructions, and, passing through the side entrance, found himself in a saloon, of no great size, but more magnificent than he had supposed the villa to contain. As it was vacant, Kenyon had leisure to pace it once or twice, and examine it with a careless sort of scrutiny24, before any person appeared.
This beautiful hall was floored with rich marbles, in artistically25 arranged figures and compartments26. The walls, likewise, were almost entirely27 cased in marble of various kinds, the prevalent, variety being giallo antico, intermixed with verd-antique, and others equally precious. The splendor28 of the giallo antico, however, was what gave character to the saloon; and the large and deep niches, apparently intended for full length statues, along the walls, were lined with the same costly29 material. Without visiting Italy, one can have no idea of the beauty and magnificence that are produced by these fittings-up of polished marble. Without such experience, indeed, we do not even know what marble means, in any sense, save as the white limestone30 of which we carve our mantelpieces. This rich hall of Monte Beni, moreover, was adorned31, at its upper end, with two pillars that seemed to consist of Oriental alabaster32; and wherever there was a space vacant of precious and variegated33 marble, it was frescoed34 with ornaments35 in arabesque36. Above, there was a coved37 and vaulted ceiling, glowing with pictured scenes, which affected38 Kenyon with a vague sense of splendor, without his twisting his neck to gaze at them.
It is one of the special excellences39 of such a saloon of polished and richly colored marble, that decay can never tarnish40 it. Until the house crumbles41 down upon it, it shines indestructibly, and, with a little dusting, looks just as brilliant in its three hundredth year as the day after the final slab42 of giallo antico was fitted into the wall. To the sculptor, at this first View of it, it seemed a hall where the sun was magically imprisoned43, and must always shine. He anticipated Miriam’s entrance, arrayed in queenly robes, and beaming with even more than the singular beauty that had heretofore distinguished44 her.
While this thought was passing through his mind, the pillared door, at the upper end of the saloon, was partly opened, and Miriam appeared. She was very pale, and dressed in deep mourning. As she advanced towards the sculptor, the feebleness of her step was so apparent that he made haste to meet her, apprehending45 that she might sink down on the marble floor, without the instant support of his arm.
But, with a gleam of her natural self-reliance, she declined his aid, and, after touching46 her cold hand to his, went and sat down on one of the cushioned divans47 that were ranged against the wall.
“You are very ill, Miriam!” said Kenyon, much shocked at her appearance. “I had not thought of this.”
“No; not so ill as I seem to you,” she answered; adding despondently48, “yet I am ill enough, I believe, to die, unless some change speedily occurs.”
“The disorder!” repeated Miriam. “There is none that I know of save too much life and strength, without a purpose for one or the other. It is my too redundant50 energy that is slowly—or perhaps rapidly—wearing me away, because I can apply it to no use. The object, which I am bound to consider my only one on earth, fails me utterly51. The sacrifice which I yearn52 to make of myself, my hopes, my everything, is coldly put aside. Nothing is left for me but to brood, brood, brood, all day, all night, in unprofitable longings53 and repinings.”
“This is very sad, Miriam,” said Kenyon.
“With all your activity of mind,” resumed he, “so fertile in plans as I have known you, can you imagine no method of bringing your resources into play?”
“My mind is not active any longer,” answered Miriam, in a cold, indifferent tone. “It deals with one thought and no more. One recollection paralyzes it. It is not remorse55; do not think it! I put myself out of the question, and feel neither regret nor penitence56 on my own behalf. But what benumbs me, what robs me of all power,-it is no secret for a woman to tell a man, yet I care not though you know it, —is the certainty that I am, and must ever be, an object of horror in Donatello’s sight.”
The sculptor—a young man, and cherishing a love which insulated him from the wild experiences which some men gather—was startled to perceive how Miriam’s rich, ill-regulated nature impelled57 her to fling herself, conscience and all, on one passion, the object of which intellectually seemed far beneath her.
“How have you obtained the certainty of which you speak?” asked he, after a pause.
“O, by a sure token,” said Miriam; “a gesture, merely; a shudder58, a cold shiver, that ran through him one sunny morning when his hand happened to touch mine! But it was enough.”
“I firmly believe, Miriam,” said the sculptor, “that he loves you still.”
She started, and a flush of color came tremulously over the paleness of her cheek.
“Yes,” repeated Kenyon, “if my interest in Donatello—and in yourself, Miriam—endows me with any true insight, he not only loves you still, but with a force and depth proportioned to the stronger grasp of his faculties59, in their new development.”
“Do not deceive me,” said Miriam, growing pale again.
“Not for the world!” replied Kenyon. “Here is what I take to be the truth. There was an interval60, no doubt, when the horror of some calamity61, which I need not shape out in my conjectures62, threw Donatello into a stupor63 of misery64. Connected with the first shock there was an intolerable pain and shuddering65 repugnance66 attaching themselves to all the circumstances and surroundings of the event that so terribly affected him. Was his dearest friend involved within the horror of that moment? He would shrink from her as he shrank most of all from himself. But as his mind roused itself,—as it rose to a higher life than he had hitherto experienced,—whatever had been true and permanent within him revived by the selfsame impulse. So has it been with his love.”
“But, surely,” said Miriam, “he knows that I am here! Why, then, except that I am odious67 to him, does he not bid me welcome?”
“He is, I believe, aware of your presence here,” answered the sculptor. “Your song, a night or two ago, must have revealed it to him, and, in truth, I had fancied that there was already a consciousness of it in his mind. But, the more passionately68 he longs for your society, the more religiously he deems himself bound to avoid it. The idea of a lifelong penance70 has taken strong possession of Donatello. He gropes blindly about him for some method of sharp self-torture, and finds, of course, no other so efficacious as this.”
“But he loves me,” repeated Miriam, in a low voice, to herself. “Yes; he loves me!”
It was strange to observe the womanly softness that came over her, as she admitted that comfort into her bosom71. The cold, unnatural indifference72 of her manner, a kind of frozen passionateness73 which had shocked and chilled the sculptor, disappeared. She blushed, and turned away her eyes, knowing that there was more surprise and joy in their dewy glances than any man save one ought to detect there.
“In other respects,” she inquired at length, “is he much changed?”
“A wonderful process is going forward in Donatello’s mind,” answered the sculptor. “The germs of faculties that have heretofore slept are fast springing into activity. The world of thought is disclosing itself to his inward sight. He startles me, at times, with his perception of deep truths; and, quite as often, it must be owned, he compels me to smile by the intermixture of his former simplicity74 with a new intelligence. But he is bewildered with the revelations that each day brings. Out of his bitter agony, a soul and intellect, I could almost say, have been inspired into him.”
“Ah, I could help him here!” cried Miriam, clasping her hands. “And how sweet a toil75 to bend and adapt my whole nature to do him good! To instruct, to elevate, to enrich his mind with the wealth that would flow in upon me, had I such a motive76 for acquiring it! Who else can perform the task? Who else has the tender sympathy which he requires? Who else, save only me,—a woman, a sharer in the same dread77 secret, a partaker in one identical guilt,—could meet him on such terms of intimate equality as the case demands? With this object before me, I might feel a right to live! Without it, it is a shame for me to have lived so long.”
“Surely it is,” replied Miriam. “If Donatello is entitled to aught on earth, it is to my complete self-sacrifice for his sake. It does not weaken his claim, methinks, that my only prospect79 of happiness a fearful word, however lies in the good that may accrue80 to him from our intercourse81. But he rejects me! He will not listen to the whisper of his heart, telling him that she, most wretched, who beguiled82 him into evil, might guide him to a higher innocence83 than that from which he fell. How is this first great difficulty to be obviated84?”
“It lies at your own option, Miriam, to do away the obstacle, at any moment,” remarked the sculptor. “It is but to ascend85 Donatello’s tower, and you will meet him there, under the eye of God.”
“I dare not,” answered Miriam. “No; I dare not!”
“Do you fear,” asked the sculptor, “the dread eye-witness whom I have named?”
“No; for, as far as I can see into that cloudy and inscrutable thing, my heart, it has none but pure motives,” replied Miriam. “But, my friend, you little know what a weak or what a strong creature a woman is! I fear not Heaven, in this case, at least, but—shall I confess it? I am greatly in dread of Donatello. Once he shuddered86 at my touch. If he shudder once again, or frown, I die!”
Kenyon could not but marvel87 at the subjection into which this proud and self-dependent woman had willfully flung herself, hanging her life upon the chance of an angry or favorable regard from a person who, a little while before, had seemed the plaything of a moment. But, in Miriam’s eyes, Donatello was always, thenceforth, invested with the tragic88 dignity of their hour of crime; and, furthermore, the keen and deep insight, with which her love endowed her, enabled her to know him far better than he could be known by ordinary observation. Beyond all question, since she loved him so, there was a force in Donatello worthy89 of her respect and love.
“You see my weakness,” said Miriam, flinging out her hands, as a person does when a defect is acknowledged, and beyond remedy. “What I need, now, is an opportunity to show my strength.”
“It has occurred to me,” Kenyon remarked, “that the time is come when it may be desirable to remove Donatello from the complete seclusion90 in which he buries himself. He has struggled long enough with one idea. He now needs a variety of thought, which cannot be otherwise so readily supplied to him, as through the medium of a variety of scenes. His mind is awakened91, now; his heart, though full of pain, is no longer benumbed. They should have food and solace92. If he linger here much longer, I fear that he may sink back into a lethargy. The extreme excitability, which circumstances have imparted to his moral system, has its dangers and its advantages; it being one of the dangers, that an obdurate93 scar may supervene upon its very tenderness. Solitude94 has done what it could for him; now, for a while, let him be enticed95 into the outer world.”
“What is your plan, then?” asked Miriam.
“Simply,” replied Kenyon, “to persuade Donatello to be my companion in a ramble96 among these hills and valleys. The little adventures and vicissitudes97 of travel will do him infinite good. After his recent profound experience, he will re-create the world by the new eyes with which he will regard it. He will escape, I hope, out of a morbid98 life, and find his way into a healthy one.”
“And what is to be my part in this process?” inquired Miriam sadly, and not without jealousy99. “You are taking him from me, and putting yourself, and all manner of living interests, into the place which I ought to fill!”
“It would rejoice me, Miriam, to yield the entire responsibility of this office to yourself,” answered the sculptor. “I do not pretend to be the guide and counsellor whom Donatello needs; for, to mention no other obstacle, I am a man, and between man and man there is always an insuperable gulf100. They can never quite grasp each other’s hands; and therefore man never derives101 any intimate help, any heart sustenance102, from his brother man, but from woman—his mother, his sister, or his wife. Be Donatello’s friend at need, therefore, and most gladly will I resign him!”
“It is not kind to taunt103 me thus,” said Miriam. “I have told you that I cannot do what you suggest, because I dare not.”
“Well, then,” rejoined the sculptor, “see if there is any possibility of adapting yourself to my scheme. The incidents of a journey often fling people together in the oddest and therefore the most natural way. Supposing you were to find yourself on the same route, a reunion with Donatello might ensue, and Providence104 have a larger hand in it than either of us.”
“It is not a hopeful plan,” said Miriam, shaking her head, after a moment’s thought; “yet I will not reject it without a trial. Only in case it fail, here is a resolution to which I bind105 myself, come what come may! You know the bronze statue of Pope Julius in the great square of Perugia? I remember standing106 in the shadow of that statue one sunny noontime, and being impressed by its paternal107 aspect, and fancying that a blessing108 fell upon me from its outstretched hand. Ever since, I have had a superstition109, you will call it foolish, but sad and ill-fated persons always dream such things,—that, if I waited long enough in that same spot, some good event would come to pass. Well, my friend, precisely110 a fortnight after you begin your tour,—unless we sooner meet,—bring Donatello, at noon, to the base of the statue. You will find me there!”
Kenyon assented111 to the proposed arrangement, and, after some conversation respecting his contemplated112 line of travel, prepared to take his leave. As he met Miriam’s eyes, in bidding farewell, he was surprised at the new, tender gladness that beamed out of them, and at the appearance of health and bloom, which, in this little while, had overspread her face.’
“May I tell you, Miriam,” said he, smiling, “that you are still as beautiful as ever?”
“You have a right to notice it,” she replied, “for, if it be so, my faded bloom has been revived by the hopes you give me. Do you, then, think me beautiful? I rejoice, most truly. Beauty—if I possess it—shall be one of the instruments by which I will try to educate and elevate him, to whose good I solely113 dedicate myself.”
The sculptor had nearly reached the door, when, hearing her call him, he turned back, and beheld114 Miriam still standing where he had left her, in the magnificent hall which seemed only a fit setting for her beauty. She beckoned115 him to return.
“You are a man of refined taste,” said she; “more than that,—a man of delicate sensibility. Now tell me frankly116, and on your honor! Have I not shocked you many times during this interview by my betrayal of woman’s cause, my lack of feminine modesty117, my reckless, passionate69, most indecorous avowal118, that I live only in the life of one who, perhaps, scorns and shudders119 at me?”
Thus adjured120, however difficult the point to which she brought him, the sculptor was not a man to swerve121 aside from the simple truth.
“Miriam,” replied he, “you exaggerate the impression made upon my mind; but it has been painful, and somewhat of the character which you suppose.”
“I knew it,” said Miriam, mournfully, and with no resentment122. “What remains123 of my finer nature would have told me so, even if it had not been perceptible in all your manner. Well, my dear friend, when you go back to Rome, tell Hilda what her severity has done! She was all womanhood to me; and when she cast me off, I had no longer any terms to keep with the reserves and decorums of my sex. Hilda has set me free! Pray tell her so, from Miriam, and thank her!”
“I shall tell Hilda nothing that will give her pain,” answered Kenyon. “But, Miriam, though I know not what passed between her and yourself, I feel,—and let the noble frankness of your disposition124 forgive me if I say so,—I feel that she was right. You have a thousand admirable qualities. Whatever mass of evil may have fallen into your life, —pardon me, but your own words suggest it,—you are still as capable as ever of many high and heroic virtues125. But the white shining purity of Hilda’s nature is a thing apart; and she is bound, by the undefiled material of which God moulded her, to keep that severity which I, as well as you, have recognized.”
“O, you are right!” said Miriam; “I never questioned it; though, as I told you, when she cast me off, it severed126 some few remaining bonds between me and decorous womanhood. But were there anything to forgive, I do forgive her. May you win her virgin127 heart; for methinks there can be few men in this evil world who are not more unworthy of her than yourself.”
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1
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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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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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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accruing
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| v.增加( accrue的现在分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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evaporation
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| n.蒸发，消失 | |
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prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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artistically
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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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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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frescoed
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| 壁画( fresco的名词复数 )； 温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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arabesque
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰；adj.阿拉伯式图案的 | |
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coved
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| v.小海湾( cove的过去分词 )；家伙 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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tarnish
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| n.晦暗，污点；vt.使失去光泽；玷污 | |
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crumbles
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| 酥皮水果甜点( crumble的名词复数 ) | |
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slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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apprehending
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的现在分词 )； 理解 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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divans
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| n.（可作床用的）矮沙发( divan的名词复数 )；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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redundant
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| adj.多余的，过剩的；(食物)丰富的；被解雇的 | |
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51
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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52
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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53
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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54
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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56
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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57
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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59
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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60
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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61
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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62
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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63
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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64
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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66
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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67
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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68
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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69
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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70
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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71
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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72
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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73
passionateness
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74
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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75
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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77
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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78
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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79
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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80
accrue
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| v.(利息等)增大，增多 | |
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81
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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82
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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83
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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84
obviated
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| v.避免，消除（贫困、不方便等）( obviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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86
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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87
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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88
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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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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90
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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99
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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100
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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101
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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102
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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103
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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104
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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105
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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106
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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107
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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108
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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109
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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110
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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111
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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113
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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114
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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115
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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116
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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117
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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118
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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119
shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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120
adjured
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的过去式和过去分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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121
swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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122
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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123
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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124
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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125
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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126
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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127
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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