It was the figure of a woman, with her head bowed on her hands, as if she deeply felt—what we have been endeavoring to convey into our feeble description—the benign1 and awe-inspiring influence which the pontiff’s statue exercises upon a sensitive spectator. No matter though it were modelled for a Catholic chief priest, the desolate2 heart, whatever be its religion, recognizes in that image the likeness3 of a father.
“It is I,” she replied; “I am faithful to my engagement, though with many fears.” She lifted her head, and revealed to Kenyon—revealed to Donatello likewise—the well-remembered features of Miriam. They were pale and worn, but distinguished6 even now, though less gorgeously, by a beauty that might be imagined bright enough to glimmer7 with its own light in a dim cathedral aisle8, and had no need to shrink from the severer test of the mid-day sun. But she seemed tremulous, and hardly able to go through with a scene which at a distance she had found courage to undertake.
“You are most welcome, Miriam!” said the sculptor, seeking to afford her the encouragement which he saw she so greatly required. “I have a hopeful trust that the result of this interview will be propitious9. Come; let me lead you to Donatello.”
“No, Kenyon, no!” whispered Miriam, shrinking back; “unless of his own accord he speaks my name,—unless he bids me stay,—no word shall ever pass between him and me. It is not that I take upon me to be proud at this late hour. Among other feminine qualities, I threw away my pride when Hilda cast me off.”
“If not pride, what else restrains you?” Kenyon asked, a little angry at her unseasonable scruples10, and also at this half-complaining reference to Hilda’s just severity. “After daring so much, it is no time for fear! If we let him part from you without a word, your opportunity of doing him inestimable good is lost forever.”
“True; it will be lost forever!” repeated Miriam sadly. “But, dear friend, will it be my fault? I willingly fling my woman’s pride at his feet. But—do you not see?—his heart must be left freely to its own decision whether to recognize me, because on his voluntary choice depends the whole question whether my devotion will do him good or harm. Except he feel an infinite need of me, I am a burden and fatal obstruction11 to him!”
“Take your own course, then, Miriam,” said Kenyon; “and, doubtless, the crisis being what it is, your spirit is better instructed for its emergencies than mine.”
While the foregoing words passed between them they had withdrawn12 a little from the immediate13 vicinity of the statue, so as to be out of Donatello’s hearing. Still, however, they were beneath the pontiff’s outstretched hand; and Miriam, with her beauty and her sorrow, looked up into his benignant face, as if she had come thither14 for his pardon and paternal15 affection, and despaired of so vast a boon16.
Meanwhile, she had not stood thus long in the public square of Perugia, without attracting the observation of many eyes. With their quick sense of beauty, these Italians had recognized her loveliness, and spared not to take their fill of gazing at it; though their native gentleness and courtesy made their homage17 far less obtrusive18 than that of Germans, French, or Anglo-Saxons might have been. It is not improbable that Miriam had planned this momentous19 interview, on so public a spot and at high noon, with an eye to the sort of protection that would be thrown over it by a multitude of eye-witnesses. In circumstances of profound feeling and passion, there is often a sense that too great a seclusion20 cannot be endured; there is an indefinite dread21 of being quite alone with the object of our deepest interest. The species of solitude22 that a crowd harbors within itself is felt to be preferable, in certain conditions of the heart, to the remoteness of a desert or the depths of an untrodden wood. Hatred23, love, or whatever kind of too intense emotion, or even indifference24, where emotion has once been, instinctively25 seeks to interpose some barrier between itself and the corresponding passion in another breast. This, we suspect, was what Miriam had thought of, in coming to the thronged27 piazza28; partly this, and partly, as she said, her superstition29 that the benign statue held good influences in store.
But Donatello remained leaning against the balustrade. She dared not glance towards him, to see whether he were pale and agitated30, or calm as ice. Only, she knew that the moments were fleetly lapsing31 away, and that his heart must call her soon, or the voice would never reach her. She turned quite away from him and spoke32 again to the sculptor.
“I have wished to meet you,” said she, “for more than one reason. News has come to me respecting a dear friend of ours. Nay33, not of mine! I dare not call her a friend of mine, though once the dearest.”
“Do you speak of Hilda?” exclaimed Kenyon, with quick alarm. “Has anything befallen her? When I last heard of her, she was still in Rome, and well.”
“Hilda remains34 in Rome,” replied Miriam, “nor is she ill as regards physical health, though much depressed35 in spirits. She lives quite alone in her dove-cote; not a friend near her, not one in Rome, which, you know, is deserted36 by all but its native inhabitants. I fear for her health, if she continue long in such solitude, with despondency preying37 on her mind. I tell you this, knowing the interest which the rare beauty of her character has awakened38 in you.”
“I will go to Rome!” said the sculptor, in great emotion. “Hilda has never allowed me to manifest more than a friendly regard; but, at least, she cannot prevent my watching over her at a humble39 distance. I will set out this very hour.”
“Do not leave us now!” whispered Miriam imploringly40, and laying her hand on his arm. “One moment more! Ah; he has no word for me!”
“Miriam!” said Donatello.
Though but a single word, and the first that he had spoken, its tone was a warrant of the sad and tender depth from which it came. It told Miriam things of infinite importance, and, first of all, that he still loved her. The sense of their mutual41 crime had stunned42, but not destroyed, the vitality43 of his affection; it was therefore indestructible. That tone, too, bespoke44 an altered and deepened character; it told of a vivified intellect, and of spiritual instruction that had come through sorrow and remorse45; so that instead of the wild boy, the thing of sportive, animal nature, the sylvan46 Faun, here was now the man of feeling and intelligence.
She turned towards him, while his voice still reverberated47 in the depths of her soul.
“You have called me!” said she.
“Because my deepest heart has need of you!” he replied. “Forgive, Miriam, the coldness, the hardness with which I parted from you! I was bewildered with strange horror and gloom.”
“Alas! and it was I that brought it on you,” said she. “What repentance48, what self-sacrifice, can atone49 for that infinite wrong? There was something so sacred in the innocent and joyous50 life which you were leading! A happy person is such an unaccustomed and holy creature in this sad world! And, encountering so rare a being, and gifted with the power of sympathy with his sunny life, it was my doom51, mine, to bring him within the limits of sinful, sorrowful mortality! Bid me depart, Donatello! Fling me off! No good, through my agency, can follow upon such a mighty52 evil!”
“Miriam,” said he, “our lot lies together. Is it not so? Tell me, in Heaven’s name, if it be otherwise.”
Donatello’s conscience was evidently perplexed53 with doubt, whether the communion of a crime, such as they two were jointly54 stained with, ought not to stifle55 all the instinctive26 motions of their hearts, impelling56 them one towards the other. Miriam, on the other hand, remorsefully57 questioned with herself whether the misery58, already accruing59 from her influence, should not warn her to withdraw from his path. In this momentous interview, therefore, two souls were groping for each other in the darkness of guilt60 and sorrow, and hardly were bold enough to grasp the cold hands that they found.
The sculptor stood watching the scene with earnest sympathy.
“It seems irreverent,” said he, at length; “intrusive, if not irreverent, for a third person to thrust himself between the two solely61 concerned in a crisis like the present. Yet, possibly as a bystander, though a deeply interested one, I may discern somewhat of truth that is hidden from you both; nay, at least interpret or suggest some ideas which you might not so readily convey to each other.”
“I well know,” rejoined Kenyon, “that I shall not succeed in uttering the few, deep words which, in this matter, as in all others, include the absolute truth. But here, Miriam, is one whom a terrible misfortune has begun to educate; it has taken him, and through your agency, out of a wild and happy state, which, within circumscribed63 limits, gave him joys that he cannot elsewhere find on earth. On his behalf, you have incurred64 a responsibility which you cannot fling aside. And here, Donatello, is one whom Providence65 marks out as intimately connected with your destiny. The mysterious process, by which our earthly life instructs us for another state of being, was begun for you by her. She has rich gifts of heart and mind, a suggestive power, a magnetic influence, a sympathetic knowledge, which, wisely and religiously exercised, are what your condition needs. She possesses what you require, and, with utter self devotion, will use it for your good. The bond betwixt you, therefore, is a true one, and never—except by Heaven’s own act—should be rent asunder66.”
“Ah; he has spoken the truth!” cried Donatello, grasping Miriam’s hand.
“The very truth, dear friend,” cried Miriam.
“But take heed67,” resumed the sculptor, anxious not to violate the integrity of his own conscience, “take heed; for you love one another, and yet your bond is twined with such black threads that you must never look upon it as identical with the ties that unite other loving souls. It is for mutual support; it is for one another’s final good; it is for effort, for sacrifice, but not for earthly happiness. If such be your motive68, believe me, friends, it were better to relinquish69 each other’s hands at this sad moment. There would be no holy sanction on your wedded70 life.”
“None,” said Donatello, shuddering71. “We know it well.”
“None,” repeated Miriam, also shuddering. “United—miserably entangled72 with me, rather—by a bond of guilt, our union might be for eternity73, indeed, and most intimate;—but, through all that endless duration, I should be conscious of his horror.”
“Not for earthly bliss74, therefore,” said Kenyon, “but for mutual elevation75, and encouragement towards a severe and painful life, you take each other’s hands. And if, out of toil76, sacrifice, prayer, penitence77, and earnest effort towards right things, there comes at length a sombre and thoughtful, happiness, taste it, and thank Heaven! So that you live not for it,—so that it be a wayside flower, springing along a path that leads to higher ends,—it will be Heaven’s gracious gift, and a token that it recognizes your union here below.”
“Have you no more to say?” asked Miriam earnestly. “There is matter of sorrow and lofty consolation78 strangely mingled79 in your words.”
“Only this, dear Miriam,” said the sculptor; “if ever in your lives the highest duty should require from either of you the sacrifice of the other, meet the occasion without shrinking. This is all.”
While Kenyon spoke, Donatello had evidently taken in the ideas which he propounded80, and had ennobled them by the sincerity81 of his reception. His aspect unconsciously assumed a dignity, which, elevating his former beauty, accorded with the change that had long been taking place in his interior self. He was a man, revolving82 grave and deep thoughts in his breast. He still held Miriam’s hand; and there they stood, the beautiful man, the beautiful woman, united forever, as they felt, in the presence of these thousand eye-witnesses, who gazed so curiously83 at the unintelligible84 scene. Doubtless the crowd recognized them as lovers, and fancied this a betrothal85 that was destined86 to result in lifelong happiness. And possibly it might be so. Who can tell where happiness may come; or where, though an expected guest, it may never show its face? Perhaps—shy, subtle thing—it had crept into this sad marriage bond, when the partners would have trembled at its presence as a crime.
“Farewell!” said Kenyon; “I go to Rome.”
“Farewell, true friend!” said Miriam.
“Farewell!” said Donatello too. “May you be happy. You have no guilt to make you shrink from happiness.”
At this moment it so chanced that all the three friends by one impulse glanced upward at the statue of Pope Julius; and there was the majestic87 figure stretching out the hand of benediction88 over them, and bending down upon this guilty and repentant89 pair its visage of grand benignity90. There is a singular effect oftentimes when, out of the midst of engrossing91 thought and deep absorption, we suddenly look up, and catch a glimpse of external objects. We seem at such moments to look farther and deeper into them, than by any premeditated observation; it is as if they met our eyes alive, and with all their hidden meaning on the surface, but grew again inanimate and inscrutable the instant that they became aware of our glances. So now, at that unexpected glimpse, Miriam, Donatello, and the sculptor, all three imagined that they beheld92 the bronze pontiff endowed with spiritual life. A blessing93 was felt descending94 upon them from his outstretched hand; he approved by look and gesture the pledge of a deep union that had passed under his auspices95.
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1
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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6
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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8
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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11
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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12
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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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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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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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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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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lapsing
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| v.退步( lapse的现在分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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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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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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preying
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| v.掠食( prey的现在分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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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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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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42
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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44
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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45
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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46
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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47
reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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48
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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49
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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50
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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51
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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52
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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53
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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54
jointly
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| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
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55
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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56
impelling
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| adj.迫使性的，强有力的v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的现在分词 ) | |
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57
remorsefully
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| adv.极为懊悔地 | |
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58
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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59
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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60
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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63
circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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64
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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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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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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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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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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70
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
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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72
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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74
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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75
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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77
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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78
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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82
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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83
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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84
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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85
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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86
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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87
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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88
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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89
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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90
benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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91
engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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92
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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93
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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94
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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95
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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