University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
THE BRONZE PONTIFE'S BENEDICTION.

When the last of the twelve strokes had fallen from
the cathedral clock, Kenyon threw his eyes over the
busy scene of the market-place, expecting to discern
Miriam somewhere in the crowd. He looked next towards
the cathedral itself, where it was reasonable to imagine
that she might have taken shelter, while awaiting
her appointed time. Seeing no trace of her in either
direction, his eyes came back from their quest somewhat
disappointed, and rested on a figure which was leaning,
like Donatello and himself, on the iron balustrade that
surrounded the statue. Only a moment before, they two
had been alone.

It was the figure of a woman, with her head bowed on
her hands, as if she deeply felt — what we have been
endeavoring to convey into our feeble description — the
benign and awe-inspiring influence which the pontiff's
statue exercises upon a sensitive spectator. No matter
though it were modelled for a Catholic chief priest, the
desolate heart, whatever be its religion, recognizes in that
image the likeness of a father.

Miriam,” said the sculptor, with a tremor in his voice,
“is it yourself?”

“It is I,” she replied; “I am faithful to my engagement,
though with many fears.”

She lifted her head, and revealed to Kenyon — revealed
to Donatello likewise — the well-remembered features of
Miriam. They were pale and worn, but distinguished
even now, though less gorgeously, by a beauty that might
be imagined bright enough to glimmer with its own light
in a dim cathedral aisle, and had no need to shrink from
the severer test of the mid-day sun. But she seemed
tremulous, and hardly able to go through with a scene
which at a distance she had found courage to undertake.

“You are most welcome, Miriam!” said the sculptor,
seeking to afford her the encouragement which he saw
she so greatly required. “I have a hopeful trust that the
result of this interview will be propitious. Come; let
me lead you to Donatello.”

“No, Kenyon, no!” whispered Miriam, shrinking back;
“unless of his own accord he speaks my name — unless
he bids me stay — no word shall ever pass between him
and me. It is not that I take upon me to be proud at this
late hour. Among other feminine qualities, I threw away
my pride when Hilda cast me off.”

“If not pride, what else restrains you?” Kenyon asked,
a little angry at her unseasonable scruples, and also
at this half-complaining reference to Hilda's just severity.
“After daring so much, it is no time for fear! If we let
him part from you without a word, your opportunity of
doing him inestimable good is lost forever.”

“True; it will be lost forever!” repeated Miriam,
sadly. “But, dear friend, will it be my fault? I willingly
fling my woman's pride at his feet. But — do you
not see? — his heart must be left freely to its own decision
whether to recognize me, because on his voluntary
choice depends the whole question whether my devotion
will do him good or harm. Except he feel an infinite
need of me, I am a burden and fatal obstruction to him!”

“Take your own course, then, Miriam,” said Kenyon;
“and doubtless, the crisis being what it is, your spirit is
better instructed for its emergencies than mine.”

While the foregoing words passed between them they
had withdrawn a little from the immediate vicinity of the
statue, so as to be out of Donatello's hearing. Still, however,
they were beneath the pontiff's outstretched hand;
and Miriam, with her beauty and her sorrow, looked up
into his benignant face, as if she had come thither for
his pardon and paternal affection, and despaired of so vast
a boon.

Meanwhile, she had not stood thus long in the public
square of Perugia, without attracting the observation of
many eyes. With their quick sense of beauty, these Italians
had recognized her loveliness, and spared not to take
their fill of gazing at it; though their native gentleness
and courtesy made their homage far less obtrusive than
that of Germans, French, or Anglo-Saxons might have
been. It is not improbable that Miriam had planned this
momentous interview, on so public a spot and at high
noon, with an eye to the sort of protection that would be
thrown over it by a multitude of eye-witnesses. In circumstances

of profound feeling and passion, there is often
a sense that too great a seclusion cannot be endured;
there is an indefinite dread of being quite alone with the
object of our deepest interest. The species of solitude
that a crowd harbors within itself, is felt to be preferable,
in certain conditions of the heart, to the remoteness of a
desert or the depths of an untrodden wood. Hatred, love,
or whatever kind of too intense emotion, or even indifference,
where emotion has once been, instinctively seeks to
interpose some barrier between itself and the corresponding
passion in another breast. This, we suspect, was what
Miriam had thought of, in coming to the thronged piazza;
partly this, and partly, as she said, her superstition that
the benign statue held good influences in store.

But Donatello remained leaning against the balustrade.
She dared not glance towards him, to see whether he were
pale and agitated, or calm as ice. Only, she knew that
the moments were fleetly lapsing away, and that his heart
must call her soon, or the voice would never reach her.
She turned quite away from him and spoke again to the
sculptor.

“I have wished to meet you,” said she, “for more than
one reason. News have come to me respecting a dear
friend of ours. Nay, not of mine! I dare not call her a
friend of mine, though once the dearest.”

“Do you speak of Hilda?” exclaimed Kenyon, with
quick alarm. “Has anything befallen her? When I
last heard of her, she was still in Rome, and well.”

“Hilda remains in Rome,” replied Miriam, “nor is
she ill as regards physical health, though much depressed

in spirits. She lives quite alone in her dove-cote; not a
friend near her, not one in Rome, which, you know, is
deserted by all but its native inhabitants. I fear for her
health, if she continue long in such solitude, with despondency
preying on her mind. I tell you this, knowing
the interest which the rare beauty of her character has
awakened in you.”

“I will go to Rome!” said the sculptor, in great emotion.
“Hilda has never allowed me to manifest more
than a friendly regard; but, at least, she cannot prevent
my watching over her at a humble distance. I will set
out this very hour.”

“Do not leave us now!” whispered Miriam, imploringly,
and laying her hand on his arm. “One moment
more! Ah; he has no word for me!”

“Miriam!” said Donatello.

Though but a single word, and the first that he had
spoken, its tone was a warrant of the sad and tender depth
from which it came. It told Miriam things of infinite importance,
and, first of all, that he still loved her. The
sense of their mutual crime had stunned, but not destroyed
the vitality of his affection; it was therefore indestructible.
That tone, too, bespoke an altered and deepened
character; it told of a vivified intellect, and of spiritual
instruction that had come through sorrow and remorse; so
that instead of the wild boy, the thing of sportive, animal
nature, the sylvan Faun — here was now the man of feeling
and intelligence.

She turned towards him, while his voice still reverberated
in the depths of her soul.

“You have called me!” said she.

“Because my deepest heart has need of you!” he replied.
“Forgive, Miriam, the coldness, the hardness
with which I parted from you! I was bewildered with
strange horror and gloom.”

“Alas! and it was I that brought it on you,” said she.
“What repentance, what self-sacrifice, can atone for that
infinite wrong? There was something so sacred in the
innocent and joyous life which you were leading! A
happy person is such an unaccustomed and holy creature,
in this sad world! And, encountering so rare a being,
and gifted with the power of sympathy with his sunny
life, it was my doom, mine, to bring him within the limits
of sinful, sorrowful mortality! Bid me depart, Donatello!
Fling me off! No good, through my agency, can
follow upon such a mighty evil!”

“Miriam,” said he, “our lot lies together. Is it not
so? Tell me, in Heaven's name, if it be otherwise?”

Donatello's conscience was evidently perplexed with
doubt, whether the communion of a crime, such as they
two were jointly stained with, ought not to stifle all the
instinctive motions of their hearts, impelling them one
towards the other. Miriam, on the other hand, remorsefully
questioned with herself, whether the misery, already
accruing from her influence, should not warn her to withdraw
from his path. In this momentous interview therefore,
two souls were groping for each other in the darkness
of guilt and sorrow, and hardly were bold enough to grasp
the cold hands that they found.

The sculptor stood watching the scene with earnest
sympathy.

“It seems irreverent,” said he, at length; “intrusive,
if not irreverent, for a third person to thrust himself
between the two solely concerned in a crisis like the
present. Yet, possibly as a bystander, though a deeply
interested one, I may discern somewhat of truth that is
hidden from you both; nay, at least interpret or suggest
some ideas which you might not so readily convey to
each other.”

“Speak!” said Miriam; “we confide in you.”

“Speak!” said Donatello. “You are true and upright.”

“I well know,” rejoined Kenyon, “that I shall not succeed
in uttering the few, deep words which, in this matter,
as in all others, include the absolute truth. But, here,
Miriam, is one whom a terrible misfortune has begun to
educate; it has taken him, and through your agency, out
of a wild and happy state, which, within circumscribed
limits, gave him joys that he cannot elsewhere find on
earth. On his behalf, you have incurred a responsibility
which you cannot fling aside. And here, Donatello, is one
whom Providence marks out as intimately connected with
your destiny. The mysterious process, by which our
earthly life instructs us for another state of being, was
begun for you by her. She has rich gifts of heart and
mind, a suggestive power, a magnetic influence, a sympathetic
knowledge, which, wisely and religiously exercised,
are what your condition needs. She possesses what you
require, and, with utter self-devotion, will use it for your
good. The bond betwixt you, therefore, is a true one,
and never — except by Heaven's own act — should be
rent asunder.”

“Ah; he has spoken the truth!” cried Donatello,
grasping Miriam's hand.

“The very truth, dear friend,” cried Miriam.

“But take heed,” resumed the sculptor, anxious not to
violate the integrity of his own conscience. “Take heed;
for you love one another, and yet your bond is twined
with such black threads, that you must never look upon it
as identical with the ties that unite other loving souls. It
is for mutual support; it is for one another's final good;
it is for effort, for sacrifice, but not for earthly happiness.
If such be your motive, believe me, friends, it were better
to relinquish each other's hands at this sad moment.
There would be no holy sanction on your wedded life.”

“None,” said Donatello, shuddering. “We know it
well.”

“None,” repeated Miriam, also shuddering. “United
— miserably entangled with me, rather — by a bond of
guilt, our union might be for eternity, indeed, and most
intimate; but, through all that endless duration, I should
be conscious of his horror.”

“Not for earthly bliss, therefore,” said Kenyon, “but
for mutual elevation, and encouragement towards a severe
and painful life, you take each other's hands. And if,
out of toil, sacrifice, prayer, penitence, and earnest effort
towards right things, there comes, at length, a sombre and
thoughtful happiness, taste it, and thank Heaven! So
that you live not for it — so that it be a wayside flower,
springing along a path that leads to higher ends — it will
be Heaven's gracious gift, and a token that it recognizes
your union here below.”

“Have you no more to say?” asked Miriam, earnestly.
“There is matter of sorrow and lofty consolation strangely
mingled in your words.”

“Only this, dear Miriam,” said the sculptor; “If ever,
in your lives, the highest duty should require from either
of you the sacrifice of the other, meet the occasion without
shrinking. This is all.”

While Kenyon spoke, Donatello had evidently taken in
the ideas which he propounded, and had ennobled them
by the sincerity of his reception. His aspect unconsciously
assumed a dignity, which, elevating his former
beauty, accorded with the change that had long been
taking place in his interior self. He was a man, revolving
grave and deep thoughts in his breast. He still held
Miriam's hand; and there they stood, the beautiful man,
the beautiful woman, united forever, as they felt, in the
presence of these thousand eye-witnesses, who gazed so
curiously at the unintelligible scene. Doubtless, the
crowd recognized them as lovers, and fancied this a betrothal
that was destined to result in life-long happiness.
And, possibly, it might be so. Who can tell where happiness
may come; or where, though an expected guest,
it may never show its face? Perhaps — shy, subtle
thing — it had crept into this sad marriage-bond, when the
partners would have trembled at its presence as a crime.

“Farewell!” said Kenyon, “I go to Rome.”

“Farewell, true friend!” said Miriam.

“Farewell!” said Donatello too. “May you be
happy. You have no guilt to make you shrink from
happiness.”

At this moment it so chanced that all the three friends
by one impulse glanced upward at the statue of Pope Julius;
and there was the majestic figure stretching out the
hand of benediction over them, and bending down upon
this guilty and repentant pair its visage of grand benignity.
There is a singular effect oftentimes when, out of the
midst of engrossing thought and deep absorption, we suddenly
look up, and catch a glimpse of external objects.
We seem at such moments to look farther and deeper
into them, than by any premeditated observation; it is as
if they met our eyes alive, and with all their hidden
meaning on the surface, but grew again inanimate and
inscrutable the instant that they became aware of our
glances. So now at that unexpected glimpse, Miriam,
Donatello, and the sculptor, all three imagined that they
beheld the bronze pontiff endowed with spiritual life. A
blessing was felt descending upon them from his outstretched
hand; he approved by look and gesture the
pledge of a deep union that had passed under his auspices.