_ It being still considerably earlier than the period at which artists
and tourists are accustomed to assemble in Rome, the sculptor and
Hilda found themselves comparatively alone there. The dense mass of
native Roman life, in the midst of which they were, served to press
them near one another. It was as if they had been thrown together on
a desert island. Or they seemed to have wandered, by some strange
chance, out of the common world, and encountered each other in a
depopulated city, where there were streets of lonely palaces, and
unreckonable treasures of beautiful and admirable things, of which
they two became the sole inheritors.
In such circumstances, Hilda's gentle reserve must have been stronger
than her kindly disposition permitted, if the friendship between
Kenyon and herself had not grown as warm as a maiden's friendship can
ever be, without absolutely and avowedly blooming into love. On the
sculptor's side, the amaranthine flower was already in full blow. But
it is very beautiful, though the lover's heart may grow chill at the
perception, to see how the snow will sometimes linger in a virgin's
breast, even after the spring is well advanced. In such alpine soils,
the summer will not be anticipated; we seek vainly for passionate
flowers, and blossoms of fervid hue and spicy fragrance, finding only
snowdrops and sunless violets, when it is almost the full season for
the crimson rose.
With so much tenderness as Hilda had in her nature, it was strange
that she so reluctantly admitted the idea of love; especially as, in
the sculptor, she found both congeniality and variety of taste, and
likenesses and differences of character; these being as essential as
those to any poignancy of mutual emotion.
So Hilda, as far as Kenyon could discern, still did not love him,
though she admitted him within the quiet circle of her affections as a
dear friend and trusty counsellor. If we knew what is best for us, or
could be content with what is reasonably good, the sculptor might well
have been satisfied, for a season, with this calm intimacy, which so
sweetly kept him a stranger in her heart, and a ceremonious guest; and
yet allowed him the free enjoyment of all but its deeper recesses.
The flowers that grow outside of those minor sanctities have a wild,
hasty charm, which it is well to prove; there may be sweeter ones
within the sacred precinct, but none that will die while you are
handling them, and bequeath you a delicious legacy, as these do, in
the perception of their evanescence and unreality.
And this may be the reason, after all, why Hilda, like so many other
maidens, lingered on the hither side of passion; her finer instinct
and keener sensibility made her enjoy those pale delights in a degree
of which men are incapable. She hesitated to grasp a richer happiness,
as possessing already such measure of it as her heart could hold, and
of a quality most agreeable to her virgin tastes.
Certainly, they both were very happy. Kenyon's genius, unconsciously
wrought upon by Hilda's influence, took a more delicate character than
heretofore. He modelled, among other things, a beautiful little
statue of maidenhood gathering a snowdrop. It was never put into
marble, however, because the sculptor soon recognized it as one of
those fragile creations which are true only to the moment that
produces them, and are wronged if we try to imprison their airy
excellence in a permanent material.
On her part, Hilda returned to her customary Occupations with a fresh
love for them, and yet with a deeper look into the heart of things;
such as those necessarily acquire who have passed from picture
galleries into dungeon gloom, and thence come back to the picture
gallery again. It is questionable whether she was ever so perfect a
copyist thenceforth. She could not yield herself up to the painter so
unreservedly as in times past; her character had developed a sturdier
quality, which made her less pliable to the influence of other minds.
She saw into the picture as profoundly as ever, and perhaps more so,
but not with the devout sympathy that had formerly given her entire
possession of the old master's idea. She had known such a reality,
that it taught her to distinguish inevitably the large portion that is
unreal, in every work of art. Instructed by sorrow, she felt that
there is something beyond almost all which pictorial genius has
produced; and she never forgot those sad wanderings from gallery to
gallery, and from church to church, where she had vainly sought a type
of the Virgin Mother, or the Saviour, or saint, or martyr, which a
soul in extreme need might recognize as the adequate one.
How, indeed, should she have found such? How could holiness be
revealed to the artist of an age when the greatest of them put genius
and imagination in the place of spiritual insight, and when, from the
pope downward, all Christendom was corrupt?
Meanwhile, months wore away, and Rome received back that large portion
of its life-blood which runs in the veins of its foreign and temporary
population. English visitors established themselves in the hotels,
and in all the sunny suites of apartments, in the streets convenient
to the Piazza di Spagna; the English tongue was heard familiarly along
the Corso, and English children sported in the Pincian Gardens.
The native Romans, on the other hand, like the butterflies and
grasshoppers, resigned themselves to the short, sharp misery which
winter brings to a people whose arrangements are made almost
exclusively with a view to summer. Keeping no fire within-doors,
except possibly a spark or two in the kitchen, they crept out of their
cheerless houses into the narrow, sunless, sepulchral streets,
bringing their firesides along with them, in the shape of little
earthen pots, vases, or pipkins, full of lighted charcoal and warm
ashes, over which they held their tingling finger-ends. Even in this
half-torpid wretchedness, they still seemed to dread a pestilence in
the sunshine, and kept on the shady side of the piazzas, as
scrupulously as in summer. Through the open doorways w no need to
shut them when the weather within was bleaker than without--a glimpse
into the interior of their dwellings showed the uncarpeted brick
floors, as dismal as the pavement of a tomb.
They drew their old cloaks about them, nevertheless, and threw the
corners over their shoulders, with the dignity of attitude and action
that have come down to these modern citizens, as their sole
inheritance from the togated nation. Somehow or other, they managed
to keep up their poor, frost-bitten hearts against the pitiless
atmosphere with a quiet and uncomplaining endurance that really seems
the most respectable point in the present Roman character. For in New
England, or in Russia, or scarcely in a hut of the Esquimaux, there is
no such discomfort to be borne as by Romans in wintry weather, when
the orange-trees bear icy fruit in the gardens; and when the rims of
all the fountains are shaggy with icicles, and the Fountain of Trevi
skimmed almost across with a glassy surface; and when there is a slide
in the piazza of St. Peter's, and a fringe of brown, frozen foam along
the eastern shore of the Tiber, and sometimes a fall of great
snowflakes into the dreary lanes and alleys of the miserable city.
Cold blasts, that bring death with them, now blow upon the shivering
invalids, who came hither in the hope of breathing balmy airs.
Wherever we pass our summers, may all our inclement months, from
November to April, henceforth be spent in some country that recognizes
winter as an integral portion of its year!
Now, too, there was especial discomfort in the stately picture
galleries, where nobody, indeed,--not the princely or priestly
founders, nor any who have inherited their cheerless magnificence,
--ever dreamed of such an impossibility as fireside warmth, since
those great palaces were built. Hilda, therefore, finding her fingers
so much benumbed that the spiritual influence could not be transmitted
to them, was persuaded to leave her easel before a picture, on one of
these wintry days, and pay a visit to Kenyon's studio. But neither
was the studio anything better than a dismal den, with its marble
shapes shivering around the walls, cold as the snow images which the
sculptor used to model in his boyhood, and sadly behold them weep
themselves away at the first thaw.
Kenyon's Roman artisans, all this while, had been at work on the
Cleopatra. The fierce Egyptian queen had now struggled almost out of
the imprisoning stone; or, rather, the workmen had found her within
the mass of marble, imprisoned there by magic, but still fervid to the
touch with fiery life, the fossil woman of an age that produced
statelier, stronger, and more passionate creatures than our own. You
already felt her compressed heat, and were aware of a tiger-like
character even in her repose. If Octavius should make his appearance,
though the marble still held her within its embrace, it was evident
that she would tear herself forth in a twinkling, either to spring
enraged at his throat, or, sinking into his arms, to make one more
proof of her rich blandishments, or, falling lowly at his feet, to try
the efficacy of a woman's tears.
"I am ashamed to tell you how much I admire this statue," said Hilda.
"No other sculptor could have done it."
"This is very sweet for me to hear," replied Kenyon; "and since your
reserve keeps you from saying more, I shall imagine you expressing
everything that an artist would wish to hear said about his work."
"You will not easily go beyond my genuine opinion," answered Hilda,
with a smile.
"Ah, your kind word makes me very happy," said the sculptor, "and I
need it, just now, on behalf of my Cleopatra. That inevitable period
has come,--for I have found it inevitable, in regard to all my works,
--when I look at what I fancied to be a statue, lacking only breath to
make it live, and find it a mere lump of senseless stone, into which I
have not really succeeded in moulding the spiritual part of my idea.
I should like, now,--only it would be such shameful treatment for a
discrowned queen, and my own offspring too,--I should like to hit poor
Cleopatra a bitter blow on her Egyptian nose with this mallet."
"That is a blow which all statues seem doomed to receive, sooner or
later, though seldom from the hand that sculptured them," said Hilda,
laughing. "But you must not let yourself be too much disheartened by
the decay of your faith in what you produce. I have heard a poet
express similar distaste for his own most exquisite poem, and I am
afraid that this final despair, and sense of short-coming, must always
be the reward and punishment of those who try to grapple with a great
or beautiful idea. It only proves that you have been able to imagine
things too high for mortal faculties to execute. The idea leaves you
an imperfect image of itself, which you at first mistake for the
ethereal reality, but soon find that the latter has escaped out of
your closest embrace."
"And the only consolation is," remarked Kenyon, "that the blurred and
imperfect image may still make a very respectable appearance in the
eyes of those who have not seen the original."
"More than that," rejoined Hilda; "for there is a class of spectators
whose sympathy will help them to see the perfect through a mist of
imperfection. Nobody, I think, ought to read poetry, or look at
pictures or statues, who cannot find a great deal more in them than
the poet or artist has actually expressed. Their highest merit is
suggestiveness."
"You, Hilda, are yourself the only critic in whom I have much faith,"
said Kenyon. "Had you condemned Cleopatra, nothing should have saved
her."
"You invest me with such an awful responsibility," she replied, "that
I shall not dare to say a single word about your other works."
"At least," said the sculptor, "tell me whether you recognize this
bust?"
He pointed to a bust of Donatello. It was not the one which Kenyon
had begun to model at Monte Beni, but a reminiscence of the Count's
face, wrought under the influence of all the sculptor's knowledge of
his history, and of his personal and hereditary character. It stood
on a wooden pedestal, not nearly finished, but with fine white dust
and small chips of marble scattered about it, and itself incrusted all
round with the white, shapeless substance of the block. In the midst
appeared the features, lacking sharpness, and very much resembling a
fossil countenance,--but we have already used this simile, in
reference to Cleopatra, with the accumulations of long-past ages
clinging to it.
And yet, strange to say, the face had an expression, and a more
recognizable one than Kenyon had succeeded in putting into the clay
model at Monte Beni. The reader is probably acquainted with
Thorwaldsen's three-fold analogy,--the clay model, the Life; the
plaster cast, the Death; and the sculptured marble, the Resurrection,
--and it seemed to be made good by the spirit that was kindling up
these imperfect features, like a lambent flame.
"I was not quite sure, at first glance, that I knew the face,"
observed Hilda; "the likeness surely is not a striking one. There is
a good deal of external resemblance, still, to the features of the
Faun of Praxiteles, between whom and Donatello, you know, we once
insisted that there was a perfect twin-brotherhood. But the
expression is now so very different!"
"What do you take it to be?" asked the sculptor.
"I hardly know how to define it," she answered. "But it has an effect
as if I could see this countenance gradually brightening while I look
at it. It gives the impression of a growing intellectual power and
moral sense. Donatello's face used to evince little more than a
genial, pleasurable sort of vivacity, and capability of enjoyment.
But here, a soul is being breathed into him; it is the Faun, but
advancing towards a state of higher development."
"Hilda, do you see all this?" exclaimed Kenyon, in considerable
surprise. "I may have had such an idea in my mind, but was quite
unaware that I had succeeded in conveying it into the marble."
"Forgive me," said Hilda, "but I question whether this striking effect
has been brought about by any skill or purpose on the sculptor's part.
Is it not, perhaps, the chance result of the bust being just so far
shaped out, in the marble, as the process of moral growth had advanced
in the original? A few more strokes of the chisel might change the
whole expression, and so spoil it for what it is now worth."
"I believe you are right," answered Kenyon, thoughtfully examining his
work; "and, strangely enough, it was the very expression that I tried
unsuccessfully to produce in the clay model. Well; not another chip
shall be struck from the marble."
And, accordingly, Donatello's bust (like that rude, rough mass of the
head of Brutus, by Michael Angelo, at Florence) has ever since
remained in an unfinished state. Most spectators mistake it for an
unsuccessful attempt towards copying the features of the Faun of
Praxiteles. One observer in a thousand is conscious of something more,
and lingers long over this mysterious face, departing from it
reluctantly, and with many a glance thrown backward. What perplexes
him is the riddle that he sees propounded there; the riddle of the
soul's growth, taking its first impulse amid remorse and pain, and
struggling through the incrustations of the senses. It was the
contemplation of this imperfect portrait of Donatello that originally
interested us in his history, and impelled us to elicit from Kenyon
what he knew of his friend's adventures. _