CHAPTER XXIX
ON THE BATTLEMENTS
The sculptor now looked through art embrasure, and threw down a bit oflime, watching its fall, till it struck upon a stone bench at the rockyfoundation of the tower, and flew into many fragments.
"Pray pardon me for helping Time to crumble away your ancestral walls,"said he. "But I am one of those persons who have a natural tendency toclimb heights, and to stand on the verge of them, measuring the depthbelow. If I were to do just as I like, at this moment, I should flingmyself down after that bit of lime. It is a very singular temptation,and all but irresistible; partly, I believe, because it might be soeasily done, and partly because such momentous consequences would ensue,without my being compelled to wait a moment for them. Have you neverfelt this strange impulse of an evil spirit at your back, shoving youtowards a precipice?"
"Ah, no!" cried. Donatello, shrinking from the battlemented wall with aface of horror. "I cling to life in a way which you cannot conceive; ithas been so rich, so warm, so sunny!--and beyond its verge, nothingbut the chilly dark! And then a fall from a precipice is such an awfuldeath!"
"Nay; if it be a great height," said Kenyon, "a man would leave his lifein the air, and never feel the hard shock at the bottom."
"That is not the way with this kind of death!" exclaimed Donatello, in alow, horror-stricken voice, which grew higher and more full of emotionas he proceeded. "Imagine a fellow creature,--breathing now, and lookingyou in the face,--and now tumbling down, down, down, with a long shriekwavering after him, all the way! He does not leave his life in the air!No; but it keeps in him till he thumps against the stones, a horriblylong while; then he lies there frightfully quiet, a dead heap of bruisedflesh and broken bones! A quiver runs through the crushed mass; and nomore movement after that! No; not if you would give your soul to makehim stir a finger! Ah, terrible! Yes, yes; I would fain fling myselfdown for the very dread of it, that I might endure it once for all, anddream of it no more!"
"How forcibly, how frightfully you conceive this!" said the sculptor,aghast at the passionate horror which was betrayed in the Count's words,and still more in his wild gestures and ghastly look. "Nay, if theheight of your tower affects your imagination thus, you do wrong totrust yourself here in solitude, and in the night-time, and at allunguarded hours. You are not safe in your chamber. It is but a step ortwo; and what if a vivid dream should lead you up hither at midnight,and act itself out as a reality!"
Donatello had hidden his face in his hands, and was leaning against theparapet.
"No fear of that!" said he. "Whatever the dream may be, I am too genuinea coward to act out my own death in it."
The paroxysm passed away, and the two friends continued their desultorytalk, very much as if no such interruption had occurred. Nevertheless,it affected the sculptor with infinite pity to see this young man, whohad been born to gladness as an assured heritage, now involved in amisty bewilderment of grievous thoughts, amid which he seemed to gostaggering blindfold. Kenyon, not without an unshaped suspicion ofthe definite fact, knew that his condition must have resulted from theweight and gloom of life, now first, through the agency of a secrettrouble, making themselves felt on a character that had heretoforebreathed only an atmosphere of joy. The effect of this hard lesson,upon Donatello's intellect and disposition, was very striking. It wasperceptible that he had already had glimpses of strange and subtlematters in those dark caverns, into which all men must descend, ifthey would know anything beneath the surface and illusive pleasures ofexistence. And when they emerge, though dazzled and blinded by the firstglare of daylight, they take truer and sadder views of life foreverafterwards.
From some mysterious source, as the sculptor felt assured, a soul hadbeen inspired into the young Count's simplicity, since their intercoursein Rome. He now showed a far deeper sense, and an intelligence thatbegan to deal with high subjects, though in a feeble and childish way.He evinced, too, a more definite and nobler individuality, but developedout of grief and pain, and fearfully conscious of the pangs that hadgiven it birth. Every human life, if it ascends to truth or delves downto reality, must undergo a similar change; but sometimes, perhaps, theinstruction comes without the sorrow; and oftener the sorrow teachesno lesson that abides with us. In Donatello's case, it was pitiful, andalmost ludicrous, to observe the confused struggle that he made; howcompletely he was taken by surprise; how ill-prepared he stood, on thisold battlefield of the world, to fight with such an inevitable foe asmortal calamity, and sin for its stronger ally.
"And yet," thought Kenyon, "the poor fellow bears himself like a hero,too! If he would only tell me his trouble, or give me an opening tospeak frankly about it, I might help him; but he finds it too horribleto be uttered, and fancies himself the only mortal that ever felt theanguish of remorse. Yes; he believes that nobody ever endured his agonybefore; so that--sharp enough in itself--it has all the additional zestof a torture just invented to plague him individually."
The sculptor endeavored to dismiss the painful subject from his mind;and, leaning against the battlements, he turned his face southward andwestward, and gazed across the breadth of the valley. His thoughtsflew far beyond even those wide boundaries, taking an air-line fromDonatello's tower to another turret that ascended into the sky of thesummer afternoon, invisibly to him, above the roofs of distant Rome.Then rose tumultuously into his consciousness that strong love forHilda, which it was his habit to confine in one of the heart's innerchambers, because he had found no encouragement to bring it forward. Butnow he felt a strange pull at his heart-strings. It could not have beenmore perceptible, if all the way between these battlements and Hilda'sdove-cote had stretched an exquisitely sensitive cord, which, at thehither end, was knotted with his aforesaid heart-strings, and, at theremoter one, was grasped by a gentle hand. His breath grew tremulous. Heput his hand to his breast; so distinctly did he seem to feel that corddrawn once, and again, and again, as if--though still it was bashfullyintimated there were an importunate demand for his presence. O for thewhite wings of Hilda's doves, that he might, have flown thither, andalighted at the Virgin's shrine!
But lovers, and Kenyon knew it well, project so lifelike a copy oftheir mistresses out of their own imaginations, that it can pull atthe heartstrings almost as perceptibly as the genuine original. No airyintimations are to be trusted; no evidences of responsive affection lesspositive than whispered and broken words, or tender pressures of thehand, allowed and half returned; or glances, that distil many passionateavowals into one gleam of richly colored light. Even these shouldbe weighed rigorously, at the instant; for, in another instant, theimagination seizes on them as its property, and stamps them with itsown arbitrary value. But Hilda's maidenly reserve had given her lover nosuch tokens, to be interpreted either by his hopes or fears.
"Yonder, over mountain and valley, lies Rome," said the sculptor; "shallyou return thither in the autumn?"
"Never! I hate Rome," answered Donatello; "and have good cause."
"And yet it was a pleasant winter that we spent there," observedKenyon, "and with pleasant friends about us. You would meet them againthere--all of them."
"All?" asked Donatello.
"All, to the best of my belief," said the sculptor: "but you need not goto Rome to seek them. If there were one of those friends whose lifetimewas twisted with your own, I am enough of a fatalist to feel assuredthat you will meet that one again, wander whither you may. Neither canwe escape the companions whom Providence assigns for us, by climbing anold tower like this."
"Yet the stairs are steep and dark," rejoined the Count; "none butyourself would seek me here, or find me, if they sought."
As Donatello did not take advantage of this opening which his friend hadkindly afforded him to pour out his hidden troubles, the latter againthrew aside the subject, and returned to the enjoyment of the scenebefore him. The thunder-storm, which he had beheld striding across thevalley, had passed to the left of Monte Beni, and was continuing itsmarch towards the hills that formed
the boundary on the eastward.Above the whole valley, indeed, the sky was heavy with tumbling vapors,interspersed with which were tracts of blue, vividly brightened by thesun; but, in the east, where the tempest was yet trailing its raggedskirts, lay a dusky region of cloud and sullen mist, in which some ofthe hills appeared of a dark purple hue. Others became so indistinct,that the spectator could not tell rocky height from impalpable cloud.Far into this misty cloud region, however,--within the domain of chaos,as it were,--hilltops were seen brightening in the sunshine; they lookedlike fragments of the world, broken adrift and based on nothingness,or like portions of a sphere destined to exist, but not yet finallycompacted.
The sculptor, habitually drawing many of the images and illustrationsof his thoughts from the plastic art, fancied that the scene representedthe process of the Creator, when he held the new, imperfect earth in hishand, and modelled it.
"What a magic is in mist and vapor among the mountains!" he exclaimed."With their help, one single scene becomes a thousand. The cloud scenerygives such variety to a hilly landscape that it would be worth while tojournalize its aspect from hour to hour. A cloud, however,--as I havemyself experienced,--is apt to grow solid and as heavy as a stone theinstant that you take in hand to describe it, But, in my own heart,I have found great use in clouds. Such silvery ones as those to thenorthward, for example, have often suggested sculpturesque groups,figures, and attitudes; they are especially rich in attitudes of livingrepose, which a sculptor only hits upon by the rarest good fortune. WhenI go back to my dear native land, the clouds along the horizon will bemy only gallery of art!"
"I can see cloud shapes, too," said Donatello; "yonder is one thatshifts strangely; it has been like people whom I knew. And now, if Iwatch it a little longer, it will take the figure of a monk reclining,with his cowl about his head and drawn partly over his face, and--well!did I not tell you so?"
"I think," remarked Kenyon, "we can hardly be gazing at the same cloud.What I behold is a reclining figure, to be sure, but feminine, and witha despondent air, wonderfully well expressed in the wavering outlinefrom head to foot. It moves my very heart by something indefinable thatit suggests."
"I see the figure, and almost the face," said the Count; adding, in alower voice, "It is Miriam's!"
"No, not Miriam's," answered the sculptor. While the two gazers thusfound their own reminiscences and presentiments floating among theclouds, the day drew to its close, and now showed them the fairspectacle of an Italian sunset. The sky was soft and bright, but not sogorgeous as Kenyon had seen it, a thousand times, in America; for therethe western sky is wont to be set aflame with breadths and depths ofcolor with which poets seek in vain to dye their verses, and whichpainters never dare to copy. As beheld from the tower of Monte Beni, thescene was tenderly magnificent, with mild gradations of hue and a lavishoutpouring of gold, but rather such gold as we see on the leaf of abright flower than the burnished glow of metal from the mine. Or, ifmetallic, it looked airy and unsubstantial, like the glorified dreamsof an alchemist. And speedily--more speedily than in our own clime--camethe twilight, and, brightening through its gray transparency, the stars.
A swarm of minute insects that had been hovering all day round thebattlements were now swept away by the freshness of a rising breeze.The two owls in the chamber beneath Donatello's uttered their softmelancholy cry,--which, with national avoidance of harsh sounds, Italianowls substitute for the hoot of their kindred in other countries,--andflew darkling forth among the shrubbery. A convent bell rang out near athand, and was not only echoed among the hills, but answered by anotherbell, and still another, which doubtless had farther and fartherresponses, at various distances along the valley; for, like the Englishdrumbeat around the globe, there is a chain of convent bells from endto end, and crosswise, and in all possible directions over priest-riddenItaly.
"Come," said the sculptor, "the evening air grows cool. It is time todescend."
"Time for you, my friend," replied the Count; and he hesitated a littlebefore adding, "I must keep a vigil here for some hours longer. It is myfrequent custom to keep vigils,--and sometimes the thought occurs to mewhether it were not better to keep them in yonder convent, the bell ofwhich just now seemed to summon me. Should I do wisely, do you think, toexchange this old tower for a cell?"
"What! Turn monk?" exclaimed his friend. "A horrible idea!"
"True," said Donatello, sighing. "Therefore, if at all, I purpose doingit."
"Then think of it no more, for Heaven's sake!" cried the sculptor."There are a thousand better and more poignant methods of beingmiserable than that, if to be miserable is what you wish. Nay; Iquestion whether a monk keeps himself up to the intellectual andspiritual height which misery implies. A monk I judge from their sensualphysiognomies, which meet me at every turn--is inevitably a beast! Theirsouls, if they have any to begin with, perish out of them, before theirsluggish, swinish existence is half done. Better, a million times, tostand star-gazing on these airy battlements, than to smother your newgerm of a higher life in a monkish cell!"
"You make me tremble," said Donatello, "by your bold aspersion of menwho have devoted themselves to God's service!"
"They serve neither God nor man, and themselves least of all, thoughtheir motives be utterly selfish," replied Kenyon. "Avoid the convent,my dear friend, as you would shun the death of the soul! But, for my ownpart, if I had an insupportable burden,--if, for any cause, I werebent upon sacrificing every earthly hope as a peace-offering towardsHeaven,--I would make the wide world my cell, and good deeds to mankindmy prayer. Many penitent men have done this, and found peace in it."
"Ah, but you are a heretic!" said the Count.
Yet his face brightened beneath the stars; and, looking at it throughthe twilight, the sculptor's remembrance went back to that scene in theCapitol, where, both in features and expression, Donatello had seemedidentical with the Faun. And still there was a resemblance; for now,when first the idea was suggested of living for the welfare of hisfellow-creatures, the original beauty, which sorrow had partly effaced,came back elevated and spiritualized. In the black depths the Faun hadfound a soul, and was struggling with it towards the light of heaven.
The illumination, it is true, soon faded out of Donatello's face. Theidea of lifelong and unselfish effort was too high to be received byhim with more than a momentary comprehension. An Italian, indeed,seldom dreams of being philanthropic, except in bestowing alms among thepaupers, who appeal to his beneficence at every step; nor does itoccur to him that there are fitter modes of propitiating Heaven thanby penances, pilgrimages, and offerings at shrines. Perhaps, too, theirsystem has its share of moral advantages; they, at all events, cannotwell pride themselves, as our own more energetic benevolence is apt todo, upon sharing in the counsels of Providence and kindly helping outits otherwise impracticable designs.
And now the broad valley twinkled with lights, that glimmered throughits duskiness like the fireflies in the garden of a Florentine palace. Agleam of lightning from the rear of the tempest showed the circumferenceof hills and the great space between, as the last cannon-flash of aretreating army reddens across the field where it has fought. Thesculptor was on the point of descending the turret stair, when,somewhere in the darkness that lay beneath them, a woman's voice washeard, singing a low, sad strain.
"Hark!" said he, laying his hand on Donatello's arm.
And Donatello had said "Hark!" at the same instant.
The song, if song it could be called, that had only a wild rhythm, andflowed forth in the fitful measure of a wind-harp, did not clothe itselfin the sharp brilliancy of the Italian tongue. The words, so far as theycould be distinguished, were German, and therefore unintelligible to theCount, and hardly less so to the sculptor; being softened and molten,as it were, into the melancholy richness of the voice that sung them. Itwas as the murmur of a soul bewildered amid the sinful gloom of earth,and retaining only enough memory of a better state to make sad musicof the wail, which would else have been a despairing
shriek. Never wasthere profounder pathos than breathed through that mysterious voice;it brought the tears into the sculptor's eyes, with remembrances andforebodings of whatever sorrow he had felt or apprehended; it madeDonatello sob, as chiming in with the anguish that he found unutterable,and giving it the expression which he vaguely sought.
But, when the emotion was at its profoundest depth, the voice rose outof it, yet so gradually that a gloom seemed to pervade it, far upwardfrom the abyss, and not entirely to fall away as it ascended into ahigher and purer region. At last, the auditors would have fancied thatthe melody, with its rich sweetness all there, and much of its sorrowgone, was floating around the very summit of the tower.
"Donatello," said the sculptor, when there was silence again, "had thatvoice no message for your ear?"
"I dare not receive it," said Donatello; "the anguish of which it spokeabides with me: the hope dies away with the breath that brought ithither. It is not good for me to hear that voice."
The sculptor sighed, and left the poor penitent keeping his vigil on thetower.