It would be easy, from conversations which we have held with the sculptor8, to suggest a clew to the mystery of Hilda’s disappearance9; although, as long as she remained in Italy, there was a remarkable10 reserve in her communications upon this subject, even to her most intimate friends. Either a pledge of secrecy11 had been exacted, or a prudential motive12 warned her not to reveal the stratagems13 of a religious body, or the secret acts of a despotic government—whichever might be responsible in the present instance—while still within the scope of their jurisdiction16. Possibly, she might not herself be fully17 aware what power had laid its grasp upon her person. What has chiefly perplexed18 us, however, among Hilda’s adventures, is the mode of her release, in which some inscrutable tyranny or other seemed to take part in the frolic of the Carnival19. We can only account for it, by supposing that the fitful and fantastic imagination of a woman—sportive, because she must otherwise be desperate—had arranged this incident, and made it the condition of a step which her conscience, or the conscience of another, required her to take.
A few days after Hilda’s reappearance, she and the sculptor were straying together through the streets of Rome. Being deep in talk, it so happened that they found themselves near the majestic20, pillared portico21, and huge, black rotundity of the Pantheon. It stands almost at the central point of the labyrinthine22 intricacies of the modern city, and often presents itself before the bewildered stranger, when he is in search of other objects. Hilda, looking up, proposed that they should enter.
“Nor I,” said Kenyon, “without stopping to admire the noblest edifice24 which the barbarism of the early ages, and the more barbarous pontiffs and princes of later ones, have spared to us.”
They went in accordingly, and stood in the free space of that great circle, around which are ranged the arched recesses25 and stately altars, formerly26 dedicated27 to heathen gods, but Christianized through twelve centuries gone by. The world has nothing else like the Pantheon. So grand it is, that the pasteboard statues over the lofty cornice do not disturb the effect, any more than the tin crowns and hearts, the dusty artificial flowers, and all manner of trumpery28 gew-gaws, hanging at the saintly shrines30. The rust1 and dinginess31 that have dimmed the precious marble on the walls; the pavement, with its great squares and rounds of porphyry and granite32, cracked crosswise and in a hundred directions, showing how roughly the troublesome ages have trampled33 here; the gray dome34 above, with its opening to the sky, as if heaven were looking down into the interior of this place of worship, left unimpeded for prayers to ascend35 the more freely; all these things make an impression of solemnity, which St. Peter’s itself fails to produce.
“I think,” said the sculptor, “it is to the aperture36 in the dome—that great Eye, gazing heavenward that the Pantheon owes the peculiarity37 of its effect. It is so heathenish, as it were,—so unlike all the snugness38 of our modern civilization! Look, too, at the pavement, directly beneath the open space! So much rain has fallen there, in the last two thousand years, that it is green with small, fine moss39, such as grows over tombstones in a damp English churchyard.”
“I like better,” replied Hilda, “to look at the bright, blue sky, roofing the edifice where the builders left it open. It is very delightful40, in a breezy day, to see the masses of white cloud float over the opening, and then the sunshine fall through it again, fitfully, as it does now. Would it be any wonder if we were to see angels hovering41 there, partly in and partly out, with genial42, heavenly faces, not intercepting43 the light, but only transmuting44 it into beautiful colors? Look at that broad, golden beam—a sloping cataract45 of sunlight—which comes down from the aperture and rests upon the shrine29, at the right hand of the entrance!”
“There is a dusky picture over that altar,” observed the sculptor. “Let us go and see if this strong illumination brings out any merit in it.”
Approaching the shrine, they found the picture little worth looking at, but could not forbear smiling, to see that a very plump and comfortable tabby-cat—whom we ourselves have often observed haunting the Pantheon—had established herself on the altar, in the genial sunbeam, and was fast asleep among the holy tapers46. Their footsteps disturbing her, she awoke, raised herself, and sat blinking in the sun, yet with a certain dignity and self-possession, as if conscious of representing a saint.
“I presume,” remarked Kenyon, “that this is the first of the feline47 race that has ever set herself up as an object of worship, in the Pantheon or elsewhere, since the days of ancient Egypt. See; there is a peasant from the neighboring market, actually kneeling to her! She seems a gracious and benignant saint enough.”
“Do not make me laugh,” said Hilda reproachfully, “but help me to drive the creature away. It distresses48 me to see that poor man, or any human being, directing his prayers so much amiss.”
“Then, Hilda,” answered the sculptor more seriously, “the only Place in the Pantheon for you and me to kneel is on the pavement beneath the central aperture. If we pray at a saint’s shrine, we shall give utterance49 to earthly wishes; but if we pray face to face with the Deity50, we shall feel it impious to petition for aught that is narrow and selfish. Methinks it is this that makes the Catholics so delight in the worship of saints; they can bring up all their little worldly wants and whims51, their individualities and human weaknesses, not as things to be repented52 of, but to be humored by the canonized humanity to which they pray. Indeed, it is very tempting53!”
What Hilda might have answered must be left to conjecture54; for as she turned from the shrine, her eyes were attracted to the figure of a female penitent55, kneeling on the pavement just beneath the great central eye, in the very spot which Kenyon had designated as the only one whence prayers should ascend. The upturned face was invisible, behind a veil or mask, which formed a part of the garb56.
“It cannot be!” whispered Hilda, with emotion. “No; it cannot be!”
“What disturbs you?” asked Kenyon. “Why do you tremble so?”
“If it were possible,” she replied, “I should fancy that kneeling figure to be Miriam!”
“As you say, it is impossible,” rejoined the sculptor; “We know too well what has befallen both her and Donatello.” “Yes; it is impossible!” repeated Hilda. Her voice was still tremulous, however, and she seemed unable to withdraw her attention from the kneeling figure. Suddenly, and as if the idea of Miriam had opened the whole volume of Hilda’s reminiscences, she put this question to the sculptor: “Was Donatello really a Faun?”
“If you had ever studied the pedigree of the far-descended heir of Monte Beni, as I did,” answered Kenyon, with an irrepressible smile, “you would have retained few doubts on that point. Faun or not, he had a genial nature, which, had the rest of mankind been in accordance with it, would have made earth a paradise to our poor friend. It seems the moral of his story, that human beings of Donatello’s character, compounded especially for happiness, have no longer any business on earth, or elsewhere. Life has grown so sadly serious, that such men must change their nature, or else perish, like the antediluvian57 creatures that required, as the condition of their existence, a more summer-like atmosphere than ours.”
“I will not accept your moral!” replied the hopeful and happy-natured Hilda.
“Then here is another; take your choice!” said the sculptor, remembering what Miriam had recently suggested, in reference to the same point. “He perpetrated a great crime; and his remorse58, gnawing59 into his soul, has awakened60 it; developing a thousand high capabilities61, moral and intellectual, which we never should have dreamed of asking for, within the scanty62 compass of the Donatello whom we knew.”
“I know not whether this is so,” said Hilda. “But what then?”
“Here comes my perplexity,” continued Kenyon. “Sin has educated Donatello, and elevated him. Is sin, then,—which we deem such a dreadful blackness in the universe,—is it, like sorrow, merely an element of human education, through which we struggle to a higher and purer state than we could otherwise have attained63? Did Adam fall, that we might ultimately rise to a far loftier paradise than his?” “O hush64!” cried Hilda, shrinking from him with an expression of horror which wounded the poor, speculative65 sculptor to the soul. “This is terrible; and I could weep for you, if you indeed believe it. Do not you perceive what a mockery your creed66 makes, not only of all religious sentiments, but of moral law? And how it annuls67 and obliterates68 whatever precepts69 of Heaven are written deepest within us? You have shocked me beyond words!”
“Forgive me, Hilda!” exclaimed the sculptor, startled by her agitation70; “I never did believe it! But the mind wanders wild and wide; and, so lonely as I live and work, I have neither pole-star above nor light of cottage windows here below, to bring me home. Were you my guide, my counsellor, my inmost friend, with that white wisdom which clothes you as a celestial71 garment, all would go well. O Hilda, guide me home!”
“We are both lonely; both far from home!” said Hilda, her eyes filling with tears. “I am a poor, weak girl, and have no such wisdom as you fancy in me.”
What further may have passed between these lovers, while standing72 before the pillared shrine, and the marble Madonna that marks Raphael’s tomb; whither they had now wandered, we are unable to record. But when the kneeling figure beneath the open eye of the Pantheon arose, she looked towards the pair and extended her hands with a gesture of benediction73. Then they knew that it was Miriam. They suffered her to glide74 out of the portal, however, without a greeting; for those extended hands, even while they blessed, seemed to repel75, as if Miriam stood on the other side of a fathomless76 abyss, and warned them from its verge77.
So Kenyon won the gentle Hilda’s shy affection, and her consent to be his bride. Another hand must henceforth trim the lamp before the Virgin’s shrine; for Hilda was coming down from her old tower, to be herself enshrined and worshipped as a household saint, in the light of her husband’s fireside. And, now that life had so much human promise in it, they resolved to go back to their own land; because the years, after all, have a kind of emptiness, when we spend too many of them on a foreign shore. We defer78 the reality of life, in such cases, until a future moment, when we shall again breathe our native air; but, by and by, there are no future moments; or, if we do return, we find that the native air has lost its invigorating quality, and that life has shifted its reality to the spot where we have deemed ourselves only temporary residents. Thus, between two countries, we have none at all, or only that little space of either in which we finally lay down our discontented bones. It is wise, therefore, to come back betimes, or never.
Before they quitted Rome, a bridal gift was laid on Hilda’s table. It was a bracelet79, evidently of great cost, being composed of seven ancient Etruscan gems15, dug out of seven sepulchres, and each one of them the signet of some princely personage, who had lived an immemorial time ago. Hilda remembered this precious ornament80. It had been Miriam’s; and once, with the exuberance81 of fancy that distinguished her, she had amused herself with telling a mythical82 and magic legend for each gem14, comprising the imaginary adventures and catastrophe83 of its former wearer. Thus the Etruscan bracelet became the connecting bond of a series of seven wondrous84 tales, all of which, as they were dug out of seven sepulchres, were characterized by a sevenfold sepulchral85 gloom; such as Miriam’s imagination, shadowed by her own misfortunes, was wont86 to fling over its most sportive flights.
And now, happy as Hilda was, the bracelet brought the tears into her eyes, as being, in its entire circle, the symbol of as sad a mystery as any that Miriam had attached to the separate gems. For, what was Miriam’s life to be? And where was Donatello? But Hilda had a hopeful soul, and saw sunlight on the mountain-tops.
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1
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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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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stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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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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15
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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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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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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labyrinthine
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| adj.如迷宫的；复杂的 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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dinginess
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| n.暗淡，肮脏 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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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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snugness
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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41
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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intercepting
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| 截取（技术），截接 | |
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transmuting
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的现在分词 ) | |
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cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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46
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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feline
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| adj.猫科的 | |
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distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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50
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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52
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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54
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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55
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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antediluvian
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| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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60
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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capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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64
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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66
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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67
annuls
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| v.宣告无效( annul的第三人称单数 )；取消；使消失；抹去 | |
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obliterates
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| v.除去( obliterate的第三人称单数 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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70
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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71
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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72
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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benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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74
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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75
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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80
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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81
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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82
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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84
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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85
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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