And, moreover, Kenyon had counted so much upon Hilda’s delicate perceptions in enabling him to look at two or three of the statues, about which they had talked together, that the entire purpose of his visit was defeated by her absence. It is a delicious sort of mutual9 aid, when the united power of two sympathetic, yet dissimilar, intelligences is brought to bear upon a poem by reading it aloud, or upon a picture or statue by viewing it in each other’s company. Even if not a word of criticism be uttered, the insight of either party is wonderfully deepened, and the comprehension broadened; so that the inner mystery of a work of genius, hidden from one, will often reveal itself to two. Missing such help, Kenyon saw nothing at the Vatican which he had not seen a thousand times before, and more perfectly than now.
In the chili10 of his disappointment, he suspected that it was a very cold art to which he had devoted11 himself. He questioned, at that moment, whether sculpture really ever softens13 and warms the material which it handles; whether carved marble is anything but limestone14, after all; and whether the Apollo Belvedere itself possesses any merit above its physical beauty, or is beyond criticism even in that generally acknowledged excellence15. In flitting glances, heretofore, he had seemed to behold16 this statue, as something ethereal and godlike, but not now.
Nothing pleased him, unless it were the group of the Laocoon, which, in its immortal17 agony, impressed Kenyon as a type of the long, fierce struggle of man, involved in the knotted entanglements18 of Error and Evil, those two snakes, which, if no divine help intervene, will be sure to strangle him and his children in the end. What he most admired was the strange calmness diffused19 through this bitter strife20; so that it resembled the rage of the sea made calm by its immensity,’ or the tumult21 of Niagara which ceases to be tumult because it lasts forever. Thus, in the Laocoon, the horror of a moment grew to be the fate of interminable ages. Kenyon looked upon the group as the one triumph of sculpture, creating the repose22, which is essential to it, in the very acme23 of turbulent effort; but, in truth, it was his mood of unwonted despondency that made him so sensitive to the terrible magnificence, as well as to the sad moral, of this work. Hilda herself could not have helped him to see it with nearly such intelligence.
A good deal more depressed24 than the nature of the disappointment warranted, Kenyon went to his studio, and took in hand a great lump of clay. He soon found, however, that his plastic cunning had departed from him for the time. So he wandered forth25 again into the uneasy streets of Rome, and walked up and down the Corso, where, at that period of the day, a throng26 of passers-by and loiterers choked up the narrow sidewalk. A penitent27 was thus brought in contact with the sculptor.
It was a figure in a white robe, with a kind of featureless mask over the face, through the apertures28 of which the eyes threw an unintelligible29 light. Such odd, questionable30 shapes are often seen gliding31 through the streets of Italian cities, and are understood to be usually persons of rank, who quit their palaces, their gayeties, their pomp and pride, and assume the penitential garb32 for a season, with a view of thus expiating33 some crime, or atoning34 for the aggregate35 of petty sins that make up a worldly life. It is their custom to ask alms, and perhaps to measure the duration of their penance36 by the time requisite37 to accumulate a sum of money out of the little droppings of individual charity. The avails are devoted to some beneficent or religious purpose; so that the benefit accruing38 to their own souls is, in a manner, linked with a good done, or intended, to their fellow-men. These figures have a ghastly and startling effect, not so much from any very impressive peculiarity40 in the garb, as from the mystery which they bear about with them, and the sense that there is an acknowledged sinfulness as the nucleus41 of it.
In the present instance, however, the penitent asked no alms of Kenyon; although, for the space of a minute or two, they stood face to face, the hollow eyes of the mask encountering the sculptor’s gaze. But, just as the crowd was about to separate them, the former spoke42, in a voice not unfamiliar43 to Kenyon, though rendered remote and strange by the guilty veil through which it penetrated44.
“Is all well with you, Signore?” inquired the penitent, out of the cloud in which he walked.
“All is well,” answered Kenyon. “And with you?”
But the masked penitent returned no answer, being borne away by the pressure of the throng.
The sculptor stood watching the figure, and was almost of a mind to hurry after him and follow up the conversation that had been begun; but it occurred to him that there is a sanctity (or, as we might rather term it, an inviolable etiquette) which prohibits the recognition of persons who choose to walk under the veil of penitence45.
“How strange!” thought Kenyon to himself. “It was surely Donatello! What can bring him to Rome, where his recollections must be so painful, and his presence not without peril46? And Miriam! Can she have accompanied him?”
He walked on, thinking of the vast change in Donatello, since those days of gayety and innocence47, when the young Italian was new in Rome, and was just beginning to be sensible of a more poignant48 felicity than he had yet experienced, in the sunny warmth of Miriam’s smile. The growth of a soul, which the sculptor half imagined that he had witnessed in his friend, seemed hardly worth the heavy price that it had cost, in the sacrifice of those simple enjoyments49 that were gone forever. A creature of antique healthfulness had vanished from the earth; and, in his stead, there was only one other morbid50 and remorseful51 man, among millions that were cast in the same indistinguishable mould.
The accident of thus meeting Donatello the glad Faun of his imagination and memory, now transformed into a gloomy penitent—contributed to deepen the cloud that had fallen over Kenyon’s spirits. It caused him to fancy, as we generally do, in the petty troubles which extend not a hand’s-breadth beyond our own sphere, that the whole world was saddening around him. It took the sinister52 aspect of an omen12, although he could not distinctly see what trouble it might forebode.
If it had not been for a peculiar39 sort of pique53, with which lovers are much conversant54, a preposterous55 kind of resentment56 which endeavors to wreak57 itself on the beloved object, and on one’s own heart, in requital58 of mishaps59 for which neither are in fault, Kenyon might at once have betaken himself to Hilda’s studio, and asked why the appointment was not kept. But the interview of to-day was to have been so rich in present joy, and its results so important to his future life, that the bleak60 failure was too much for his equanimity61. He was angry with poor Hilda, and censured62 her without a hearing; angry with himself, too, and therefore inflicted63 on this latter criminal the severest penalty in his power; angry with the day that was passing over him, and would not permit its latter hours to redeem64 the disappointment of the morning.
To confess the truth, it had been the sculptor’s purpose to stake all his hopes on that interview in the galleries of the Vatican. Straying with Hilda through those long vistas65 of ideal beauty, he meant, at last, to utter himself upon that theme which lovers are fain to discuss in village lanes, in wood paths, on seaside sands, in crowded streets; it little matters where, indeed, since roses are sure to blush along the way, and daisies and violets to spring beneath the feet, if the spoken word be graciously received. He was resolved to make proof whether the kindness that Hilda evinced for him was the precious token of an individual preference, or merely the sweet fragrance66 of her disposition67, which other friends might share as largely as himself. He would try if it were possible to take this shy, yet frank, and innocently fearless creature captive, and imprison68 her in his heart, and make her sensible of a wider freedom there, than in all the world besides.
It was hard, we must allow, to see the shadow of a wintry sunset falling upon a day that was to have been so bright, and to find himself just where yesterday had left him, only with a sense of being drearily69 balked70, and defeated without an opportunity for struggle. So much had been anticipated from these now vanished hours, that it seemed as if no other day could bring back the same golden hopes.
In a case like this, it is doubtful whether Kenyon could have done a much better thing than he actually did, by going to dine at the Cafe Nuovo, and drinking a flask71 of Montefiascone; longing72, the while, for a beaker or two of Donatello’s Sunshine. It would have been just the wine to cure a lover’s melancholy73, by illuminating74 his heart with tender light and warmth, and suggestions of undefined hopes, too ethereal for his morbid humor to examine and reject them.
No decided75 improvement resulting from the draught76 of Montefiascone, he went to the Teatro Argentino, and sat gloomily to see an Italian comedy, which ought to have cheered him somewhat, being full of glancing merriment, and effective over everybody’s disabilities except his own. The sculptor came out, however, before the close of the performance, as disconsolate77 as he went in.
As he made his way through the complication of narrow streets, which perplex that portion of the city, a carriage passed him. It was driven rapidly, but not too fast for the light of a gas-lamp to flare78 upon a face within—especially as it was bent79 forward, appearing to recognize him, while a beckoning80 hand was protruded81 from the window. On his part, Kenyon at once knew the face, and hastened to the carriage, which had now stopped.
“Miriam! you in Rome?” he exclaimed “And your friends know nothing of it?”
“Is all well with you?” she asked.
This inquiry82, in the identical words which Donatello had so recently addressed to him from beneath the penitent’s mask, startled the sculptor. Either the previous disquietude of his mind, or some tone in Miriam’s voice, or the unaccountableness of beholding83 her there at all, made it seem ominous84.
“All is well, I believe,” answered he doubtfully. “I am aware of no misfortune. Have you any to announce’?”
He looked still more earnestly at Miriam, and felt a dreamy uncertainty85 whether it was really herself to whom he spoke. True; there were those beautiful features, the contour of which he had studied too often, and with a sculptor’s accuracy of perception, to be in any doubt that it was Miriam’s identical face. But he was conscious of a change, the nature of which he could not satisfactorily define; it might be merely her dress, which, imperfect as the light was, he saw to be richer than the simple garb that she had usually worn. The effect, he fancied, was partly owing to a gem86 which she had on her bosom87; not a diamond, but something that glimmered88 with a clear, red lustre89, like the stars in a southern sky. Somehow or other, this colored light seemed an emanation of herself, as if all that was passionate90 and glowing in her native disposition had crystallized upon her breast, and were just now scintillating91 more brilliantly than ever, in sympathy with some emotion of her heart.
Of course there could be no real doubt that it was Miriam, his artist friend, with whom and Hilda he had spent so many pleasant and familiar hours, and whom he had last seen at Perugia, bending with Donatello beneath the bronze pope’s benediction92. It must be that selfsame Miriam; but the sensitive sculptor felt a difference of manner, which impressed him more than he conceived it possible to be affected93 by so external a thing. He remembered the gossip so prevalent in Rome on Miriam’s first appearance; how that she was no real artist, but the daughter of an illustrious or golden lineage, who was merely playing at necessity; mingling94 with human struggle for her pastime; stepping out of her native sphere only for an interlude, just as a princess might alight from her gilded95 equipage to go on foot through a rustic96 lane. And now, after a mask in which love and death had performed their several parts, she had resumed her proper character.
“Have you anything to tell me?” cried he impatiently; for nothing causes a more disagreeable vibration97 of the nerves than this perception of ambiguousness in familiar persons or affairs. “Speak; for my spirits and patience have been much tried to-day.”
Miriam put her finger on her lips, and seemed desirous that Kenyon should know of the presence of a third person. He now saw, indeed, that, there was some one beside her in the carriage, hitherto concealed98 by her attitude; a man, it appeared, with a sallow Italian face, which the sculptor distinguished99 but imperfectly, and did not recognize.
“I can tell you nothing,” she replied; and leaning towards him, she whispered,—appearing then more like the Miriam whom he knew than in what had before passed,—“Only, when the lamp goes out do not despair.”
The carriage drove on, leaving Kenyon to muse100 over this unsatisfactory interview, which seemed to have served no better purpose than to fill his mind with more ominous forebodings than before. Why were Donatello and Miriam in Rome, where both, in all likelihood, might have much to dread101? And why had one and the other addressed him with a question that seemed prompted by a knowledge of some calamity102, either already fallen on his unconscious head, or impending103 closely over him?
“I am sluggish,” muttered Kenyon, to himself; “a weak, nerveless fool, devoid104 of energy and promptitude; or neither Donatello nor Miriam could have escaped me thus! They are aware of some misfortune that concerns me deeply. How soon am I to know it too?”
There seemed but a single calamity possible to happen within so narrow a sphere as that with which the sculptor was connected; and even to that one mode of evil he could assign no definite shape, but only felt that it must have some reference to Hilda.
Flinging aside the morbid hesitation105, and the dallyings with his own wishes, which he had permitted to influence his mind throughout the day, he now hastened to the Via Portoghese. Soon the old palace stood before him, with its massive tower rising into the clouded night; obscured from view at its midmost elevation106, but revealed again, higher upward, by the Virgin’s lamp that twinkled on the summit. Feeble as it was, in the broad, surrounding gloom, that little ray made no inconsiderable illumination among Kenyon’s sombre thoughts; for; remembering Miriam’s last words, a fantasy had seized him that he should find the sacred lamp extinguished.
And even while he stood gazing, as a mariner107 at the star in which he put his trust, the light quivered, sank, gleamed up again, and finally went out, leaving the battlements of Hilda’s tower in utter darkness. For the first time in centuries, the consecrated108 and legendary109 flame before the loftiest shrine110 in Rome had ceased to burn.
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1
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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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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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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deriving
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| v.得到( derive的现在分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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7
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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8
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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9
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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10
chili
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| n.辣椒 | |
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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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12
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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13
softens
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| （使）变软( soften的第三人称单数 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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14
limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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15
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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16
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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entanglements
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| n.瓜葛( entanglement的名词复数 )；牵连；纠缠；缠住 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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acme
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| n.顶点，极点 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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28
apertures
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| n.孔( aperture的名词复数 )；隙缝；（照相机的）光圈；孔径 | |
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29
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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expiating
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| v.为（所犯罪过）接受惩罚，赎（罪）( expiate的现在分词 ) | |
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atoning
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的现在分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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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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43
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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44
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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45
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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46
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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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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49
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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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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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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52
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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53
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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wreak
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| v.发泄；报复 | |
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requital
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| n.酬劳；报复 | |
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mishaps
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| n.轻微的事故，小的意外( mishap的名词复数 ) | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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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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imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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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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illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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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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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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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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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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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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scintillating
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| adj．才气横溢的,闪闪发光的; 闪烁的 | |
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benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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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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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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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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