The Marble Faun; Or, The Romance of Monte Beni - Volume 2
Page 7
CHAPTER XXX
DONATELLO'S BUST
Kenyon, it will be remembered, had asked Donatello's permission to modelhis bust. The work had now made considerable progress, and necessarilykept the sculptor's thoughts brooding much and often upon his host'spersonal characteristics. These it was his difficult office to bring outfrom their depths, and interpret them to all men, showing them what theycould not discern for themselves, yet must be compelled to recognize ata glance, on the surface of a block of marble.
He had never undertaken a portrait-bust which gave him so much troubleas Donatello's; not that there was any special difficulty in hittingthe likeness, though even in this respect the grace and harmony ofthe features seemed inconsistent with a prominent expression ofindividuality; but he was chiefly perplexed how to make this genial andkind type of countenance the index of the mind within. His acuteness andhis sympathies, indeed, were both somewhat at fault in their effortsto enlighten him as to the moral phase through which the Count was nowpassing. If at one sitting he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be agenuine and permanent trait, it would probably be less perceptible ona second occasion, and perhaps have vanished entirely at a third. Soevanescent a show of character threw the sculptor into despair; notmarble or clay, but cloud and vapor, was the material in which itought to be represented. Even the ponderous depression which constantlyweighed upon Donatello's heart could not compel him into the kind ofrepose which the plastic art requires.
Hopeless of a good result, Kenyon gave up all preconceptions about thecharacter of his subject, and let his hands work uncontrolled with theclay, somewhat as a spiritual medium, while holding a pen, yields itto an unseen guidance other than that of her own will. Now and then hefancied that this plan was destined to be the successful one. A skilland insight beyond his consciousness seemed occasionally to take up thetask. The mystery, the miracle, of imbuing an inanimate substancewith thought, feeling, and all the intangible attributes of the soul,appeared on the verge of being wrought. And now, as he flatteredhimself, the true image of his friend was about to emerge from thefacile material, bringing with it more of Donatello's character thanthe keenest observer could detect at any one moment in the face of theoriginal Vain expectation!--some touch, whereby the artist thought toimprove or hasten the result, interfered with the design of his unseenspiritual assistant, and spoilt the whole. There was still the moist,brown clay, indeed, and the features of Donatello, but without anysemblance of intelligent and sympathetic life.
"The difficulty will drive me mad, I verily believe!" cried the sculptornervously. "Look at the wretched piece of work yourself, my dear friend,and tell me whether you recognize any manner of likeness to your innerman?"
"None," replied Donatello, speaking the simple truth. "It is likelooking a stranger in the face."
This frankly unfavorable testimony so wrought with the sensitive artist,that he fell into a passion with the stubborn image, and cared not whatmight happen to it thenceforward. Wielding that wonderful power whichsculptors possess over moist clay, however refractory it may show itselfin certain respects, he compressed, elongated, widened, and otherwisealtered the features of the bust in mere recklessness, and at everychange inquired of the Count whether the expression became anywise moresatisfactory.
"Stop!" cried Donatello at last, catching the sculptor's hand. "Letit remain so!" By some accidental handling of the clay, entirelyindependent of his own will, Kenyon had given the countenance adistorted and violent look, combining animal fierceness with intelligenthatred. Had Hilda, or had Miriam, seen the bust, with the expressionwhich it had now assumed, they might have recognized Donatello's face asthey beheld it at that terrible moment when he held his victim over theedge of the precipice.
"What have I done?" said the sculptor, shocked at his own casualproduction. "It were a sin to let the clay which bears your featuresharden into a look like that. Cain never wore an uglier one."
"For that very reason, let it remain!" answered the Count, who had grownpale as ashes at the aspect of his crime, thus strangely presented tohim in another of the many guises under which guilt stares the criminalin the face. "Do not alter it! Chisel it, rather, in eternal marble!I will set it up in my oratory and keep it continually before my eyes.Sadder and more horrible is a face like this, alive with my own crime,than the dead skull which my forefathers handed down to me!"
But, without in the least heeding Donatello's remonstrances, thesculptor again applied his artful fingers to the clay, and compelled thebust to dismiss the expression that had so startled them both.
"Believe me," said he, turning his eyes upon his friend, full of graveand tender sympathy, "you know not what is requisite for your spiritualgrowth, seeking, as you do, to keep your soul perpetually in theunwholesome region of remorse. It was needful for you to pass throughthat dark valley, but it is infinitely dangerous to linger there toolong; there is poison in the atmosphere, when we sit down and brood init, instead of girding up our loins to press onward. Not despondency,not slothful anguish, is what you now require,--but effort! Has therebeen an unalterable evil in your young life? Then crowd it out withgood, or it will lie corrupting there forever, and cause your capacityfor better things to partake its noisome corruption!"
"You stir up many thoughts," said Donatello, pressing his hand upon hisbrow, "but the multitude and the whirl of them make me dizzy."
They now left the sculptor's temporary studio, without observing thathis last accidental touches, with which he hurriedly effaced the look ofdeadly rage, had given the bust a higher and sweeter expression than ithad hitherto worn. It is to be regretted that Kenyon had not seenit; for only an artist, perhaps, can conceive the irksomeness, theirritation of brain, the depression of spirits, that resulted from hisfailure to satisfy himself, after so much toil and thought as he hadbestowed on Donatello's bust. In case of success, indeed, all thisthoughtful toil would have been reckoned, not only as well bestowed,but as among the happiest hours of his life; whereas, deeming himself tohave failed, it was just so much of life that had better never havebeen lived; for thus does the good or ill result of his labor throw backsunshine or gloom upon the artist's mind. The sculptor, therefore, wouldhave done well to glance again at his work; for here were still thefeatures of the antique Faun, but now illuminated with a higher meaning,such as the old marble never bore.
Donatello having quitted him, Kenyon spent the rest of the day strollingabout the pleasant precincts of Monte Beni, where the summer was nowso far advanced that it began, indeed, to partake of the ripe wealth ofautumn. Apricots had long been abundant, and had passed away, and plumsand cherries along with them. But now came great, juicy pears, meltingand delicious, and peaches of goodly size and tempting aspect, thoughcold and watery to the palate, compared with the sculptor's richreminiscences of that fruit in America. The purple figs had alreadyenjoyed their day, and the white ones were luscious now. The contadini(who, by this time, knew Kenyon well) found many clusters of ripe grapesfor him, in every little globe of which was included a fragrant draughtof the sunny Monte Beni wine.
Unexpectedly, in a nook close by the farmhouse, he happened upon a spotwhere the vintage had actually commenced. A great heap of early ripenedgrapes had been gathered, and thrown into a mighty tub. In the middleof it stood a lusty and jolly contadino, nor stood, merely, but stampedwith all his might, and danced amain; while the red juice bathed hisfeet, and threw its foam midway up his brown and shaggy legs. Here,then, was the very process that shows so picturesquely in Scriptureand in poetry, of treading out the wine-press and dyeing the feet andgarments with the crimson effusion as with the blood of a battlefield.The memory of the process does not make the Tuscan wine taste moredeliciously. The contadini hospitably offered Kenyon a sample of the newliquor, that had already stood fermenting for a day or two. He had trieda similar draught, however, in years past, and was little inclined tomake proof of it again; for he knew that it would be a sour and bitterjuice, a wine of woe and tribulation, and that the more a
man drinks ofsuch liquor, the sorrier he is likely to be.
The scene reminded the sculptor of our New England vintages, where thebig piles of golden and rosy apples lie under the orchard trees, in themild, autumnal sunshine; and the creaking cider-mill, set in motion bya circumgyratory horse, is all a-gush with the luscious juice. To speakfrankly, the cider-making is the more picturesque sight of the two,and the new, sweet cider an infinitely better drink than the ordinary,unripe Tuscan wine. Such as it is, however, the latter fills thousandsupon thousands of small, flat barrels, and, still growing thinner andsharper, loses the little life it had, as wine, and becomes apotheosizedas a more praiseworthy vinegar.
Yet all these vineyard scenes, and the processes connected with theculture of the grape, had a flavor of poetry about them. The toil thatproduces those kindly gifts of nature which are not the substance oflife, but its luxury, is unlike other toil. We are inclined to fancythat it does not bend the sturdy frame and stiffen the overwroughtmuscles, like the labor that is devoted in sad, hard earnest toraise grain for sour bread. Certainly, the sunburnt young men anddark-cheeked, laughing girls, who weeded the rich acres of Monte Beni,might well enough have passed for inhabitants of an unsophisticatedArcadia. Later in the season, when the true vintage time should come,and the wine of Sunshine gush into the vats, it was hardly too wild adream that Bacchus himself might revisit the haunts which he loved ofold. But, alas! where now would he find the Faun with whom we see himconsorting in so many an antique group?
Donatello's remorseful anguish saddened this primitive and delightfullife. Kenyon had a pain of his own, moreover, although not all a pain,in the never quiet, never satisfied yearning of his heart towards Hilda.He was authorized to use little freedom towards that shy maiden, evenin his visions; so that he almost reproached himself when sometimes hisimagination pictured in detail the sweet years that they might spendtogether, in a retreat like this. It had just that rarest quality ofremoteness from the actual and ordinary world B a remotenessthrough which all delights might visit them freely, sifted from alltroubles--which lovers so reasonably insist upon, in their idealarrangements for a happy union. It is possible, indeed, that evenDonatello's grief and Kenyon's pale, sunless affection lent a charmto Monte Beni, which it would not have retained amid a more abundantjoyousness. The sculptor strayed amid its vineyards and orchards,its dells and tangled shrubberies, with somewhat the sensations of anadventurer who should find his way to the site of ancient Eden, andbehold its loveliness through the transparency of that gloom which hasbeen brooding over those haunts of innocence ever since the fall. Adamsaw it in a brighter sunshine, but never knew the shade of Pensivebeauty which Eden won from his expulsion.
It was in the decline of the afternoon that Kenyon returned from hislong, musing ramble, Old Tomaso--between whom and himself for some timepast there had been a mysterious understanding,--met him in the entrancehall, and drew him a little aside.
"The signorina would speak with you," he whispered.
"In the chapel?" asked the sculptor.
"No; in the saloon beyond it," answered the butler: "the entrance youonce saw the signorina appear through it is near the altar, hiddenbehind the tapestry."
Kenyon lost no time in obeying the summons.