CHAPTER XVI
A MOONLIGHT RAMBLE
The proposal for a moonlight ramble was received with acclamation byall the younger portion of the company. They immediately set forth anddescended from story to story, dimly lighting their way by waxen tapers,which are a necessary equipment to those whose thoroughfare, in thenight-time, lies up and down a Roman staircase. Emerging from thecourtyard of the edifice, they looked upward and saw the sky full oflight, which seemed to have a delicate purple or crimson lustre, or, atleast some richer tinge than the cold, white moonshine of otherskies. It gleamed over the front of the opposite palace, showing thearchitectural ornaments of its cornice and pillared portal, as well asthe iron-barred basement windows, that gave such a prison-like aspect tothe structure, and the shabbiness and Squalor that lay along its base.A cobbler was just shutting up his little shop, in the basement of thepalace; a cigar vender's lantern flared in the blast that came throughthe archway; a French sentinel paced to and fro before the portal; ahomeless dog, that haunted thereabouts, barked as obstreperously at theparty as if he were the domestic guardian of the precincts.
The air was quietly full of the noise of falling water, the causeof which was nowhere visible, though apparently near at hand. Thispleasant, natural sound, not unlike that of a distant cascade in theforest, may be heard in many of the Roman streets and piazzas, whenthe tumult of the city is hushed; for consuls, emperors, and popes, thegreat men of every age, have found no better way of immortalizing theirmemories than by the shifting, indestructible, ever new, yet unchanging,upgush and downfall of water. They have written their names in thatunstable element, and proved it a more durable record than brass ormarble.
"Donatello, you had better take one of those gay, boyish artists foryour companion," said Miriam, when she found the Italian youth ather side. "I am not now in a merry mood, as when we set all the worlda-dancing the other afternoon, in the Borghese grounds."
"I never wish to dance any more," answered Donatello.
"What a melancholy was in that tone!" exclaimed Miriam. "You are gettingspoilt in this dreary Rome, and will be as wise and as wretched as allthe rest of mankind, unless you go back soon to your Tuscan vineyards.Well; give me your arm, then! But take care that no friskiness comesover you. We must walk evenly and heavily to-night!"
The party arranged itself according to its natural affinities or casuallikings; a sculptor generally choosing a painter, and a painter asculp--tor, for his companion, in preference to brethren of their ownart. Kenyon would gladly have taken Hilda to himself, and have drawnher a little aside from the throng of merry wayfarers. But she kept nearMiriam, and seemed, in her gentle and quiet way, to decline a separatealliance either with him or any other of her acquaintances.
So they set forth, and had gone but a little way, when the narrow streetemerged into a piazza, on one side of which, glistening and dimpling inthe moonlight, was the most famous fountain in Rome. Its murmur--notto say its uproar--had been in the ears of the company, ever since theycame into the open air. It was the Fountain of Trevi, which draws itsprecious water from a source far beyond the walls, whence it flowshitherward through old subterranean aqueducts, and sparkles forth aspure as the virgin who first led Agrippa to its well-spring, by herfather's door.
"I shall sip as much of this water as the hollow of my hand will hold,"said Miriam.
"I am leaving Rome in a few days; and the tradition goes, that aparting draught at the Fountain of Trevi insures the traveller's return,whatever obstacles and improbabilities may seem to beset him. Will youdrink, Donatello?"
"Signorina, what you drink, I drink," said the youth.
They and the rest of the party descended some steps to the water'sbrim, and, after a sip or two, stood gazing at the absurd design of thefountain, where some sculptor of Bernini's school had gone absolutelymad in marble. It was a great palace front, with niches and manybas-reliefs, out of which looked Agrippa's legendary virgin, and severalof the allegoric sisterhood; while, at the base, appeared Neptune, withhis floundering steeds, and Tritons blowing their horns about him, andtwenty other artificial fantasies, which the calm moonlight soothed intobetter taste than was native to them.
And, after all, it was as magnificent a piece of work as ever humanskill contrived. At the foot of the palatial facade was strewn, withcareful art and ordered irregularity, a broad and broken heap of massiverock, looking is if it might have lain there since the deluge. Over acentral precipice fell the water, in a semicircular cascade; and froma hundred crevices, on all sides, snowy jets gushed up, and streamsspouted out of the mouths and nostrils of stone monsters, and fell inglistening drops; while other rivulets, that had run wild, came leapingfrom one rude step to another, over stones that were mossy, slimy, andgreen with sedge, because, in a Century of their wild play, Nature hadadopted the Fountain of Trevi, with all its elaborate devices, for herown. Finally, the water, tumbling, sparkling, and dashing, withjoyous haste and never-ceasing murmur, poured itself into a greatmarble-brimmed reservoir, and filled it with a quivering tide; on whichwas seen, continually, a snowy semicircle of momentary foam from theprincipal cascade, as well as a multitude of snow points from smallerjets. The basin occupied the whole breadth of the piazza, whence flightsof steps descended to its border. A boat might float, and make voyagesfrom one shore to another in this mimic lake.
In the daytime, there is hardly a livelier scene in Rome than theneighborhood of the Fountain of Trevi; for the piazza is then filledwith the stalls of vegetable and fruit dealers, chestnut roasters,cigar venders, and other people, whose petty and wandering trafficis transacted in the open air. It is likewise thronged with idlers,lounging over the iron railing, and with Forestieri, who came hither tosee the famous fountain. Here, also, are seen men with buckets, urchinswith cans, and maidens (a picture as old as the patriarchal times)bearing their pitchers upon their heads. For the water of Trevi is inrequest, far and wide, as the most refreshing draught for feverish lips,the pleasantest to mingle with wine, and the wholesomest to drink,in its native purity, that can anywhere be found. But now, at earlymidnight, the piazza was a solitude; and it was a delight to behold thisuntamable water, sporting by itself in the moonshine, and compellingall the elaborate trivialities of art to assume a natural aspect, inaccordance with its own powerful simplicity.
"What would be done with this water power," suggested an artist, "if wehad it in one of our American cities? Would they employ it to turn themachinery of a cotton mill, I wonder?"
"The good people would pull down those rampant marble deities," saidKenyon, "and, possibly, they would give me a commission to carve theone-and-thirty (is that the number?) sister States, each pouring asilver stream from a separate can into one vast basin, which shouldrepresent the grand reservoir of national prosperity."
"Or, if they wanted a bit of satire," remarked an English artist, "youcould set those same one-and-thirty States to cleansing the nationalflag of any stains that it may have incurred. The Roman washerwomen atthe lavatory yonder, plying their labor in the open air, would serveadmirably as models."
"I have often intended to visit this fountain by moonlight,", saidMiriam, "because it was here that the interview took place betweenCorinne and Lord Neville, after their separation and temporaryestrangement. Pray come behind me, one of you, and let me try whetherthe face can be recognized in the water."
Leaning over the stone brim of the basin, she heard footsteps stealingbehind her, and knew that somebody was looking over her shoulder. Themoonshine fell directly behind Miriam, illuminating the palace front andthe whole scene of statues and rocks, and filling the basin, as it were,with tremulous and palpable light. Corinne, it will be remembered, knewLord Neville by the reflection of his face in the water. In Miriam'scase, however (owing to the agitation of the water, its transparency,and the angle at which she was compelled to lean over), no reflectedimage appeared; nor, from the same causes, would it have been possiblefor the recognition between Corinne and her lover to take place. Themo
on, indeed, flung Miriam's shadow at the bottom of the basin, as wellas two more shadows of persons who had followed her, on either side.
"Three shadows!" exclaimed Miriam--"three separate shadows, all so blackand heavy that they sink in the water! There they lie on the bottom,as if all three were drowned together. This shadow on my right isDonatello; I know him by his curls, and the turn of his head. Myleft-hand companion puzzles me; a shapeless mass, as indistinct as thepremonition of calamity! Which of you can it be? Ah!"
She had turned round, while speaking, and saw beside her the strangecreature whose attendance on her was already familiar, as a marvel anda jest; to the whole company of artists. A general burst of laughterfollowed the recognition while the model leaned towards Miriam, as sheshrank from him, and muttered something that was inaudible to those whowitnessed the scene. By his gestures, however, they concluded that hewas inviting her to bathe her hands.
"He cannot be an Italian; at least not a Roman," observed an artist. "Inever knew one of them to care about ablution. See him now! It is asif he were trying to wash off' the time-stains and earthly soil of athousand years!"
Dipping his hands into the capacious washbowl before him, the modelrubbed them together with the utmost vehemence. Ever and anon, too,he peeped into the water, as if expecting to see the whole Fountain ofTrevi turbid with the results of his ablution. Miriam looked at him,some little time, with an aspect of real terror, and even imitated himby leaning over to peep into the basin. Recovering herself, she took upsome of the water in the hollow of her hand, and practised an old formof exorcism by flinging it in her persecutor's face.
"In the name of all the Saints," cried she, "vanish, Demon, and let mebe free of you now and forever!"
"It will not suffice," said some of the mirthful party, "unless theFountain of Trevi gushes with holy water."
In fact, the exorcism was quite ineffectual upon the pertinacious demon,or whatever the apparition might be. Still he washed his brown, bonytalons; still he peered into the vast basin, as if all the water of thatgreat drinking-cup of Rome must needs be stained black or sanguine; andstill he gesticulated to Miriam to follow his example. The spectatorslaughed loudly, but yet with a kind of constraint; for the creature'saspect was strangely repulsive and hideous.
Miriam felt her arm seized violently by Donatello. She looked at him,and beheld a tigerlike fury gleaming from his wild eyes.
"Bid me drown him!" whispered he, shuddering between rage and horribledisgust. "You shall hear his death gurgle in another instant!"
"Peace, peace, Donatello!" said Miriam soothingly, for this naturallygentle and sportive being seemed all aflame with animal rage. "Do him nomischief! He is mad; and we are as mad as he, if we suffer ourselves tobe disquieted by his antics. Let us leave him to bathe his hands tillthe fountain run dry, if he find solace and pastime in it. What is it toyou or me, Donatello? There, there! Be quiet, foolish boy!"
Her tone and gesture were such as she might have used in taming down thewrath of a faithful hound, that had taken upon himself to avenge somesupposed affront to his mistress. She smoothed the young man's curls(for his fierce and sudden fury seemed to bristle among his hair), andtouched his cheek with her soft palm, till his angry mood was a littleassuaged.
"Signorina, do I look as when you first knew me?" asked he, with aheavy, tremulous sigh, as they went onward, somewhat apart from theircompanions. "Methinks there has been a change upon me, these manymonths; and more and more, these last few days. The joy is gone out ofmy life; all gone! all gone! Feel my hand! Is it not very hot? Ah; andmy heart burns hotter still!"
"My poor Donatello, you are ill!" said Miriam, with deep sympathy andpity. "This melancholy and sickly Rome is stealing away the rich, joyouslife that belongs to you. Go back, my dear friend, to your home amongthe hills, where (as I gather from what you have told me) your days werefilled with simple and blameless delights. Have you found aught in theworld that is worth' what you there enjoyed? Tell me truly, Donatello!"
"Yes!" replied the young man.
"And what, in Heaven's name?" asked she.
"This burning pain in my heart," said Donatello; "for you are in themidst of it."
By this time, they had left the Fountain of Trevi considerably behindthem. Little further allusion was made to the scene at its margin; forthe party regarded Miriam's persecutor as diseased in his wits, and werehardly to be surprised by any eccentricity in his deportment.
Threading several narrow streets, they passed through the Piazza of theHoly Apostles, and soon came to Trajan's Forum. All over the surfaceof what once was Rome, it seems to be the effort of Time to bury up theancient city, as if it were a corpse, and he the sexton so that, ineighteen centuries, the soil over its grave has grown very deep, by theslow scattering of dust, and the accumulation of more modern decay uponolder ruin.
This was the fate, also, of Trajan's Forum, until some papal antiquary,a few hundred years ago, began to hollow it out again, and disclosed thefull height of the gigantic column wreathed round with bas-reliefs ofthe old emperor's warlike deeds. In the area before it stands a grove ofstone, consisting of the broken and unequal shafts of a vanished temple,still keeping a majestic order, and apparently incapable of furtherdemolition. The modern edifices of the piazza (wholly built, no doubt,out of the spoil of its old magnificence) look down into the hollowspace whence these pillars rise.
One of the immense gray granite shafts lay in the piazza, on the vergeof the area. It was a great, solid fact of the Past, making old Romeactually sensible to the touch and eye; and no study of history, norforce of thought, nor magic of song, could so vitally assure us thatRome once existed, as this sturdy specimen of what its rulers and peoplewrought.
"And see!" said Kenyon, laying his hand upon it, "there is still apolish remaining on the hard substance of the pillar; and even now, lateas it is, I can feel very sensibly the warmth of the noonday sun, whichdid its best to heat it through. This shaft will endure forever. Thepolish of eighteen centuries ago, as yet but half rubbed off, and theheat of to-day's sunshine, lingering into the night, seem almost equallyephemeral in relation to it."
"There is comfort to be found in the pillar," remarked Miriam, "hardand heavy as it is. Lying here forever, as it will, it makes all humantrouble appear but a momentary annoyance."
"And human happiness as evanescent too," observed Hilda, sighing; "andbeautiful art hardly less so! I do not love to think that this dullstone, merely by its massiveness, will last infinitely longer thanany picture, in spite of the spiritual life that ought to give itimmortality!"
"My poor little Hilda," said Miriam, kissing her compassionately, "wouldyou sacrifice this greatest mortal consolation, which we derive fromthe transitoriness of all things, from the right of saying, in everyconjecture, 'This, too, will pass away,' would you give up thisunspeakable boon, for the sake of making a picture eternal?"
Their moralizing strain was interrupted by a demonstration from the restof the party, who, after talking and laughing together, suddenly joinedtheir voices, and shouted at full pitch,
"Trajan! Trajan!"
"Why do you deafen us with such an uproar?" inquired Miriam.
In truth, the whole piazza had been filled with their idle vociferationthe echoes from the surrounding houses reverberating the cry of"Trajan," on all sides; as if there was a great search for that imperialpersonage, and not so much as a handful of his ashes to be found.
"Why, it was a good opportunity to air our voices in this resoundingpiazza," replied one of the artists. "Besides, we had really some hopesof summoning Trajan to look at his column, which, you know, he neversaw in his lifetime. Here is your model (who, they say, lived and sinnedbefore Trajan's death) still wandering about Rome; and why not theEmperor Trajan?"
"Dead emperors have very little delight in their columns, I am afraid,"observed Kenyon. "All that rich sculpture of Trajan's bloody warfare,twining from the base of the pillar to its capital, may be but an uglyspectacle for his ghostly ey
es, if he considers that this huge, storiedshaft must be laid before the judgment-seat, as a piece of the evidenceof what he did in the flesh. If ever I am employed to sculpture a hero'smonument, I shall think of this, as I put in the bas-reliefs of thepedestal!"
"There are sermons in stones," said Hilda thoughtfully, smiling atKenyon's morality; "and especially in the stones of Rome."
The party moved on, but deviated a little from the straight way, inorder to glance at the ponderous remains of the temple of Mars Ultot,within which a convent of nuns is now established,--a dove-cote, in thewar-god's mansion. At only a little distance, they passed the porticoof a Temple of Minerva, most rich and beautiful in architecture, butwoefully gnawed by time and shattered by violence, besides being buriedmidway in the accumulation of soil, that rises over dead Rome like aflood tide. Within this edifice of antique sanctity, a baker's shopwas now established, with an entrance on one side; for, everywhere, theremnants of old grandeur and divinity have been made available for themeanest necessities of today.
"The baker is just drawing his loaves out of the oven," remarked Kenyon."Do you smell how sour they are? I should fancy that Minerva (in revengefor the desecration of her temple) had slyly poured vinegar into thebatch, if I did not know that the modern Romans prefer their bread inthe acetous fermentation."
They turned into the Via Alessandria, and thus gained the rear of theTemple of Peace, and, passing beneath its great arches, pursued theirway along a hedge-bordered lane. In all probability, a stately Romanstreet lay buried beneath that rustic-looking pathway; for they had nowemerged from the close and narrow avenues of the modern city, and weretreading on a soil where the seeds of antique grandeur had not yetproduced the squalid crop that elsewhere sprouts from them. Grassy asthe lane was, it skirted along heaps of shapeless ruin, and the baresite of the vast temple that Hadrian planned and built. It terminatedon the edge of a somewhat abrupt descent, at the foot of which, with amuddy ditch between, rose, in the bright moonlight, the great curvingwall and multitudinous arches of the Coliseum.