University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE MARBLE SALOON.

In an old Tuscan villa, a chapel ordinarily makes one
among the numerous apartments; though it often happens
that the door is permanently closed, the key lost, and the
place left to itself, in dusty sanctity, like that chamber in
man's heart where he hides his religious awe. This was
very much the case with the chapel of Monte Beni. One
rainy day, however, in his wanderings through the great,
intricate house, Kenyon had unexpectedly found his way
into it, and been impressed by its solemn aspect. The
arched windows, high upward in the wall, and darkened
with dust and cobweb, threw down a dim light that showed
the altar, with a picture of a martyrdom above, and some
tall tapers ranged before it. They had apparently been
lighted, and burned an hour or two, and been extinguished
perhaps half a century before. The marble vase at the
entrance held some hardened mud at the bottom, accruing
from the dust that had settled in it during the gradual
evaporation of the holy water; and a spider (being an
insect that delights in pointing the moral of desolation
and neglect) had taken pains to weave a prodigiously

thick tissue across the circular brim. An old family
banner, tattered by the moths, drooped from the vaulted
roof. In niches, there were some mediæval busts of
Donatello's forgotten ancestry; and among them, it might
be, the forlorn visage of that hapless knight between
whom and the fountain-nymph had occurred such tender
love passages.

Throughout all the jovial prosperity of Monte Beni, this
one spot within the domestic walls had kept itself silent,
stern and sad. When the individual or the family retired
from song and mirth, they here sought those realities
which men do not invite their festive associates to share.
And here, on the occasion above referred to, the sculptor
had discovered — accidentally, so far as he was concerned,
though with a purpose on her part — that there was a
guest under Donatello's roof, whose presence the Count
did not suspect. An interview had since taken place, and
he was now summoned to another.

He crossed the chapel, in compliance with Tomaso's
instructions, and passing through the side entrance, found
himself in a saloon, of no great size, but more magnificent
than he had supposed the villa to contain. As it was
vacant, Kenyon had leisure to pace it once or twice, and
examine it with a careless sort of scrutiny, before any
person appeared.

This beautiful hall was floored with rich marbles, in
artistically arranged figures and compartments. The
walls, likewise, were almost entirely cased in marble of
various kinds, the prevalent variety being giallo antico,
intermixed with verd-antique, and others equally precious.

The splendor of the giallo antico, however, was
what gave character to the saloon; and the large and
deep niches, apparently intended for full-length statues,
along the walls, were lined with the same costly material.
Without visiting Italy, one can have no idea of the beauty
and magnificence that are produced by these fittings-up
of polished marble. Without such experience, indeed,
we do not even know what marble means, in any sense,
save as the white limestone of which we carve our mantel-pieces.
This rich hall of Monte Beni, moreover, was
adorned, at its upper end, with two pillars that seemed to
consist of oriental alabaster; and wherever there was a
space vacant of precious and variegated marble, it was
frescoed with ornaments in arabesque. Above, there was
a coved and vaulted ceiling, glowing with pictured scenes,
which affected Kenyon with a vague sense of splendor,
without his twisting his neck to gaze at them.

It is one of the special excellences of such a saloon of
polished and richly-colored marble, that decay can never
tarnish it. Until the house crumbles down upon it, it
shines indestructibly, and with a little dusting looks just
as brilliant in its three hundredth year as the day after
the final slab of giallo antico was fitted into the wall. To
the sculptor, at this first view of it, it seemed a hall where
the sun was magically imprisoned, and must always shine.
He anticipated Miriam's entrance, arrayed in queenly
robes, and beaming with even more than the singular
beauty that had heretofore distinguished her.

While this thought was passing through his mind, the
pillared door, at the upper end of the saloon, was partly

opened, and Miriam appeared. She was very pale, and
dressed in deep mourning. As she advanced towards the
sculptor, the feebleness of her step was so apparent that
he made haste to meet her, apprehending that she might
sink down on the marble floor, without the instant support
of his arm.

But, with a gleam of her natural self-reliance, she declined
his aid, and, after touching her cold hand to his,
went and sat down on one of the cushioned divans that
were ranged against the wall.

“You are very ill, Miriam!” said Kenyon, much
shocked at her appearance. “I had not thought of this.”

“No; not so ill as I seem to you,” she answered,
adding despondently, “yet I am ill enough, I believe, to
die, unless some change speedily occurs.”

“What, then, is your disorder?” asked the sculptor;
“and what the remedy?”

“The disorder!” repeated Miriam. “There is none
that I know of, save too much life and strength, without a
purpose for one or the other. It is my too redundant
energy that is slowly — or perhaps rapidly — wearing
me away, because I can apply it to no use. The object,
which I am bound to consider my only one on earth, fails
me utterly. The sacrifice which I yearn to make of
myself, my hopes, my everything, is coldly put aside.
Nothing is left for me but to brood, brood, brood, all day,
all night in unprofitable longings and repinings.”

“This is very sad, Miriam,” said Kenyon.

“Ay, indeed; I fancy so,” she replied, with a short,
unnatural laugh.

“With all your activity of mind,” resumed he, “so
fertile in plans as I have known you — can you imagine
no method of bringing your resources into play?”

“My mind is not active any longer,” answered Miriam,
in a cold, indifferent tone. “It deals with one thought
and no more. One recollection paralyzes it. It is not
remorse; do not think it! I put myself out of the question,
and feel neither regret nor penitence on my own
behalf. But what benumbs me — what robs me of all
power — it is no secret for a woman to tell a man, yet I
care not though you know it — is the certainty that I am,
and must ever be, an object of horror in Donatello's
sight.”

The sculptor — a young man, and cherishing a love
which insulated him from the wild experiences which
some men gather — was startled to perceive how Miriam's
rich, ill-regulated nature impelled her to fling herself,
conscience and all, on one passion, the object of which
intellectually seemed far beneath her.

“How have you obtained the certainty of which you
speak?” asked he, after a pause.

“Oh, by a sure token,” said Miriam; “a gesture,
merely; a shudder, a cold shiver that ran through him
one sunny morning when his hand happened to touch
mine! But it was enough.”

“I firmly believe, Miriam,” said the sculptor, “that he
loves you still.”

She started, and a flush of color came tremulously over
the paleness of her cheek.

“Yes,” repeated Kenyon, “if my interest in Donatello

— and in yourself, Miriam — endows me with any true
insight, he not only loves you still, but with a force and
depth proportioned to the stronger grasp of his faculties,
in their new development.”

“Do not deceive me,” said Miriam, growing pale again.

“Not for the world!” replied Kenyon. “Here is what
I take to be the truth. There was an interval, no doubt,
when the horror of some calamity, which I need not shape
out in my conjectures, threw Donatello into a stupor of
mystery. Connected with the first shock there was an
intolerable pain and shuddering repugnance attaching
themselves to all the circumstances and surroundings of
the event that so terribly affected him. Was his dearest
friend involved within the horror of that moment? He
would shrink from her as he shrank most of all from himself.
But as his mind roused itself, — as it rose to a higher
life than he had hitherto experienced, — whatever had
been true and permanent within him revived by the selfsame
impulse. So has it been with his love.”

“But, surely,” said Miriam, “he knows that I am here!
Why, then, except that I am odious to him, does he not
bid me welcome?”

“He is, I believe, aware of your presence here,” answered
the sculptor. “Your song, a night or two ago,
must have revealed it to him, and, in truth, I had fancied
that there was already a consciousness of it in his mind.
But, the more passionately he longs for your society, the
more religiously he deems himself bound to avoid it. The
idea of a life-long penance has taken strong possession of
Donatello. He gropes blindly about him for some method

of sharp self-torture, and finds, of course, no other so efficacious
as this.”

“But, he loves me,” repeated Miriam, in a low voice,
to herself. “Yes; he loves me!”

It was strange to observe the womanly softness that
came over her, as she admitted that comfort into her
bosom. The cold, unnatural indifference of her manner,
a kind of frozen passionateness, which had shocked and
chilled the sculptor, disappeared. She blushed, and
turned away her eyes, knowing that there was more surprise
and joy in their dewy glances, than any man save
one ought to detect there.

“In other respects,” she inquired at length, “is he
much changed?”

“A wonderful process is going forward in Donatello's
mind,” answered the sculptor. “The germs of faculties
that have heretofore slept are fast springing into activity.
The world of thought is disclosing itself to his inward
sight. He startles me, at times, with his perception of
deep truths; and, quite as often, it must be owned he
compels me to smile by the intermixture of his former
simplicity with a new intelligence. But, he is bewildered
with the revelations that each day brings. Out of his
bitter agony, a soul and intellect, I could almost say, have
been inspired into him.”

“Ah, I could help him here!” cried Miriam, clasping
her hands. “And how sweet a toil to bend and adapt
my whole nature to do him good! To instruct, to elevate,
to enrich his mind with the wealth that would flow
in upon me, had I such a motive for acquiring it! who

else can perform the task? Who else has the tender
sympathy which he requires? Who else, save only
me, — a woman, a sharer in the same dread secret, a
partaker in one identical guilt, — could meet him on
such terms of intimate equality as the case demands?
With this object before me, I might feel a right to live!
Without it, it is a shame for me to have lived so long.”

“I fully agree with you,” said Kenyon, “that your true
place is by his side.”

“Surely it is,” replied Miriam. “If Donatello is entitled
to aught on earth, it is to my complete self-sacrifice
for his sake. It does not weaken his claim, methinks,
that my only prospect of happiness — a fearful word,
however — lies in the good that may accrue to him from
our intercourse. But he rejects me! He will not listen
to the whisper of his heart, telling him that she, most
wretched, who beguiled him into evil, might guide him to
a higher innocence than that from which he fell. How is
this first, great difficulty to be obviated?”

“It lies at your own option, Miriam, to do away the
obstacle, at any moment,” remarked the sculptor. “It is
but to ascend Donatello's tower, and you will meet him
there, under the eye of God.”

“I dare not,” answered Miriam. “No; I dare not!”

“Do you fear,” asked the sculptor, “the dread eye-witness
whom I have named?”

“No; for, as far as I can see into that cloudy and inscrutable
thing, my heart, it has none but pure motives,”
replied Miriam. “But, my friend, you little know what
a weak or what a strong creature, a woman is! I fear not

Heaven, in this case, at least, but — shall I confess it? I
am greatly in dread of Donatello. Once, he shuddered at
my touch. If he shudder once again, or frown, I die!”

Kenyon could not but marvel at the subjection into
which this proud and self-dependent woman had wilfully
flung herself, hanging her life upon the chance of an angry
or favorable regard from a person who, a little while
before, had seemed the plaything of a moment. But, in
Miriam's eyes, Donatello was always, thenceforth, invested
with the tragic dignity of their hour of crime; and, furthermore,
the keen and deep insight, with which her love
endowed her, enabled her to know him far better than he
could be known by ordinary observation. Beyond all
question, since she loved him so, there was a force in
Donatello worthy of her respect and love.

“You see my weakness,” said Miriam, flinging out her
hands, as a person does when a defect is acknowledged,
and beyond remedy. “What I need, now, is an opportunity
to show my strength.”

“It has occurred to me,” Kenyon remarked, “that the
time is come, when it may be desirable to remove Donatello
from the complete seclusion in which he buries himself.
He has struggled long enough with one idea. He
now needs a variety of thought, which cannot be otherwise
so readily supplied to him, as through the medium
of a variety of scenes. His mind is awakened, now; his
heart, though full of pain, is no longer benumbed. They
should have food and solace. If he linger here much
longer, I fear that he may sink back into a lethargy.
The extreme excitability, which circumstances have imparted

to his moral system, has its dangers and its advantages;
it being one of the dangers, that an obdurate scar
may supervene upon its very tenderness. Solitude has
done what it could for him; now, for a while, let him be
enticed into the outer world.”

“What is your plan, then?” asked Miriam.

“Simply,” replied Kenyon, “to persuade Donatello to
be my companion in a ramble among these hills and valleys.
The little adventures and vicissitudes of travel will
do him infinite good. After his recent profound experience,
he will re-create the world by the new eyes with
which he will regard it. He will escape, I hope, out of a
morbid life, and find his way into a healthy one.”

“And what is to be my part in this process?” inquired
Miriam sadly, and not without jealousy. “You are taking
him from me, and putting yourself, and all manner
of living interests, into the place which I ought to
fill!”

“It would rejoice me, Miriam, to yield the entire
responsibility of this office to yourself,” answered the
sculptor. “I do not pretend to be the guide and counsellor
whom Donatello needs; for, to mention no other
obstacle, I am a man, and between man and man there is
always an insuperable gulf. They can never quite grasp
each other's hands; and therefore man never derives any
intimate help, any heart, sustenance, from his brother man,
but from woman, — his mother, his sister, or his wife.
Be Donatello's friend at need, therefore, and most gladly
will I resign him!”

“It is not kind to taunt me thus,” said Miriam. “I

have told you that I cannot do what you suggest, because
I dare not.”

“Well, then,” rejoined the sculptor, “see if there is
any possibility of adapting yourself to my scheme. The
incidents of a journey often fling people together in the
oddest, and therefore the most natural way. Supposing
you were to find yourself on the same route, a reunion
with Donatello might ensue, and Providence have a
larger hand in it than either of us.”

“It is not a hopeful plan,” said Miriam, shaking her
head, after a moment's thought; “yet I will not reject it
without a trial. Only, in case it fail, here is a resolution
to which I bind myself, come what come may! You know
the bronze statue of Pope Julius in the great square of Perugia?
I remember standing in the shadow of that statue
one sunny noontime and being impressed by its paternal
aspect, and fancying that a blessing fell upon me from its
outstretched hand. Ever since, I have had a superstition,
— you will call it foolish, but sad and ill-fated persons
always dream such things, — that, if I waited long
enough in that same spot, some good event would come
to pass. Well, my friend, precisely a fortnight after you
begin your tour, — unless we sooner meet, — bring Donatello,
at noon, to the base of the statue. You will find
me there!”

Kenyon assented to the proposed arrangement, and,
after some conversation respecting his contemplated line
of travel, prepared to take his leave. As he met Miriam's
eyes, in bidding farewell, he was surprised at the
new, tender gladness that beamed out of them, and at the

appearance of health and bloom, which, in this little
while, had overspread her face.

“May I tell you, Miriam,” said he, smiling, “that you
are still as beautiful as ever?”

“You have a right to notice it,” she replied, “for, if it
be so, my faded bloom has been revived by the hopes you
give me. Do you, then, think me beautiful? I rejoice,
most truly. Beauty — if I possess it — shall be one of
the instruments by which I will try to educate and elevate
him, to whose good I solely dedicate myself.”

The sculptor had nearly reached the door, when, hearing
her call him, he turned back, and beheld Miriam still
standing where he had left her, in the magnificent hall
which seemed only a fit setting for her beauty. She
beckoned him to return.

“You are a man of refined taste,” said she; “more
than that, — a man of delicate sensibility. Now tell me
frankly, and on your honor! Have I not shocked you
many times during this interview by my betrayal of
woman's cause, my lack of feminine modesty, my reckless,
passionate, most indecorous avowal, that I live only in the
life of one who perhaps scorns and shudders at me?”

Thus adjured, however difficult the point to which she
brought him, the sculptor was not a man to swerve aside
from the simple truth.

“Miriam,” replied he, “you exaggerate the impression
made upon my mind; but it has been painful, and somewhat
of the character which you suppose.”

“I knew it,” said Miriam, mournfully, and with no
resentment. “What remains of my finer nature would

have told me so, even if it had not been perceptible in all
your manner. Well, my dear friend, when you go back
to Rome, tell Hilda what her severity has done! She
was all womanhood to me; and when she cast me off, I
had no longer any terms to keep with the reserves and
decorums of my sex. Hilda has set me free! Pray tell
her so, from Miriam, and thank her!”

“I shall tell Hilda nothing that will give her pain,”
answered Kenyon. “But, Miriam, — though I know not
what passed between her and yourself, — I feel — and let
the noble frankness of your disposition forgive me, if I
say so — I feel that she was right. You have a thousand
admirable qualities. Whatever mass of evil may have
fallen into your life, — pardon me, but your own words
suggest it, — you are still as capable as ever of many
high and heroic virtues. But the white shining purity of
Hilda's nature is a thing apart; and she is bound by the
undefiled material of which God moulded her, to keep
that severity which I, as well as you, have recognized.”

“Oh, you are right!” said Miriam; “I never questioned
it; though, as I told you, when she cast me off, it
severed some few remaining bonds between me and decorous
womanhood. But were there anything to forgive, I
do forgive her. May you win her virgin heart; for methinks
there can be few men in this evil world who are
not more unworthy of her than yourself.”