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_ Donatello," said Miriam anxiously, as they came through the Piazza
Barberini, "what can I do for you, my beloved friend? You are shaking as
with the cold fit of the Roman fever." "Yes," said Donatello; "my heart
shivers." As soon as she could collect her thoughts, Miriam led the young
man to the gardens of the Villa Medici, hoping that the quiet shade and
sunshine of that delightful retreat would a little revive his spirits.
The grounds are there laid out in the old fashion of straight paths, with
borders of box, which form hedges of great height and density, and are
shorn and trimmed to the evenness of a wall of stone, at the top and sides.
There are green alleys, with long vistas overshadowed by ilex-trees; and
at each intersection of the paths, the visitor finds seats of
lichen-covered stone to repose upon, and marble statues that look
forlornly at him, regretful of their lost noses. In the more open
portions of the garden, before the sculptured front of the villa, you see
fountains and flower-beds, and in their season a profusion of roses, from
which the genial sun of Italy distils a fragrance, to be scattered abroad
by the no less genial breeze.
But Donatello drew no delight from these things. He walked onward in
silent apathy, and looked at Miriam with strangely half-awakened and
bewildered eyes, when she sought to bring his mind into sympathy with hers,
and so relieve his heart of the burden that lay lumpishly upon it.
She made him sit down on a stone bench, where two embowered alleys crossed
each other; so that they could discern the approach of any casual intruder
a long way down the path.
"My sweet friend," she said, taking one of his passive hands in both of
hers, "what can I say to comfort you?"
"Nothing!" replied Donatello, with sombre reserve. "Nothing will ever
comfort me."
"I accept my own misery," continued Miriam, "my own guilt, if guilt it be;
and, whether guilt or misery, I shall know how to deal with it. But you,
dearest friend, that were the rarest creature in all this world, and
seemed a being to whom sorrow could not cling,--you, whom I half fancied
to belong to a race that had vanished forever, you only surviving, to show
mankind how genial and how joyous life used to be, in some long-gone age,
--what had you to do with grief or crime?"
"They came to me as to other men," said Donatello broodingly. "Doubtless
I was born to them."
"No, no; they came with me," replied Miriam. "Mine is the responsibility!
Alas! wherefore was I born? Why did we ever meet? Why did I not drive
you from me, knowing for my heart foreboded it--that the cloud in which I
walked would likewise envelop you!"
Donatello stirred uneasily, with the irritable impatience that is often
combined With a mood of leaden despondency. A brown lizard with two
tails--a monster often engendered by the Roman sunshine--ran across his
foot, and made him start. Then he sat silent awhile, and so did Miriam,
trying to dissolve her whole heart into sympathy, and lavish it all upon
him, were it only for a moment's cordial.
The young man lifted his hand to his breast, and, unintentionally, as
Miriam's hand was within his, he lifted that along with it. "I have a
great weight here!" said he. The fancy struck Miriam (but she drove it
resolutely down) that Donatello almost imperceptibly shuddered, while, in
pressing his own hand against his heart, he pressed hers there too.
"Rest your heart on me, dearest one!" she resumed. "Let me bear all its
weight; I am well able to bear it; for I am a woman, and I love you! I
love you, Donatello! Is there no comfort for you in this avowal? Look at
me! Heretofore you have found me pleasant to your sight. Gaze into my
eyes! Gaze into my soul! Search as deeply as you may, you can never see
half the tenderness and devotion that I henceforth cherish for you. All
that I ask is your acceptance of the utter self-sacrifice (but it shall be
no sacrifice, to my great love) with which I seek to remedy the evil you
have incurred for my sake!"
All this fervor on Miriam's part; on Donatello's, a heavy silence.
"O, speak to me!" she exclaimed. "Only promise me to be, by and by, a
little happy!"
"Happy?" murmured Donatello. "Ah, never again! never again!"
"Never? Ah, that is a terrible word to say to me!" answered Miriam. "A
terrible word to let fall upon a woman's heart, when she loves you, and is
conscious of having caused your misery! If you love me, Donatello, speak
it not again. And surely you did love me?"
"I did," replied Donatello gloomily and absently.
Miriam released the young man's hand, but suffered one of her own to lie
close to his, and waited a moment to see whether he would make any effort
to retain it. There was much depending upon that simple experiment.
With a deep sigh--as when, sometimes, a slumberer turns over in a troubled
dream Donatello changed his position, and clasped both his hands over his
forehead. The genial warmth of a Roman April kindling into May was in the
atmosphere around them; but when Miriam saw that involuntary movement and
heard that sigh of relief (for so she interpreted it), a shiver ran
through her frame, as if the iciest wind of the Apennines were blowing
over her.
"He has done himself a greater wrong than I dreamed of," thought she, with
unutterable compassion. "Alas! it was a sad mistake! He might have had
a kind of bliss in the consequences of this deed, had he been impelled to
it by a love vital enough to survive the frenzy of that terrible moment,
mighty enough to make its own law, and justify itself against the natural
remorse. But to have perpetrated a dreadful murder (and such was his
crime, unless love, annihilating moral distinctions, made it otherwise) on
no better warrant than a boy's idle fantasy! I pity him from the very
depths of my soul! As for myself, I am past my own or other's pity."
She arose from the young man's side, and stood before him with a sad,
commiserating aspect; it was the look of a ruined soul, bewailing, in him,
a grief less than what her profounder sympathies imposed upon herself.
"Donatello, we must part," she said, with melancholy firmness. "Yes;
leave me! Go back to your old tower, which overlooks the green valley you
have told me of among the Apennines. Then, all that has passed will be
recognized as but an ugly dream. For in dreams the conscience sleeps, and
we often stain ourselves with guilt of which we should be incapable in our
waking moments. The deed you seemed to do, last night, was no more than
such a dream; there was as little substance in what you fancied yourself
doing. Go; and forget it all!"
"Ah, that terrible face!" said Donatello, pressing his hands over his
eyes. "Do you call that unreal?"
"Yes; for you beheld it with dreaming eyes," replied Miriam. "It was
unreal; and, that you may feel it so, it is requisite that you see this
face of mine no more. Once, you may have thought it beautiful; now, it
has lost its charm. Yet it would still retain a miserable potency' to
bring back the past illusion, and, in its train, the remorse and anguish
that would darken all your life. Leave me, therefore, and forget me."
"Forget you, Miriam!" said Donatello, roused somewhat from his apathy of
despair.
"If I could remember you, and behold you, apart from that frightful visage
which stares at me over your shoulder, that were a consolation, at least,
if not a joy."
"But since that visage haunts you along with mine," rejoined Miriam,
glancing behind her, "we needs must part. Farewell, then! But if
ever--in distress, peril, shame, poverty, or whatever anguish is most
poignant, whatever burden heaviest--you should require a life to be given
wholly, only to make your own a little easier, then summon me! As the
case now stands between us, you have bought me dear, and find me of little
worth. Fling me away, therefore! May you never need me more! But, if
otherwise, a wish--almost an unuttered wish will bring me to you!"
She stood a moment, expecting a reply. But Donatello's eyes had again
fallen on the ground, and he had not, in his bewildered mind and
overburdened heart, a word to respond.
"That hour I speak of may never come," said Miriam. "So
farewell--farewell forever."
"Farewell," said Donatello.
His voice hardly made its way through the environment of unaccustomed
thoughts and emotions which had settled over him like a dense and dark
cloud. Not improbably, he beheld Miriam through so dim a medium that she
looked visionary; heard her speak only in a thin, faint echo.
She turned from the young man, and, much as her heart yearned towards him,
she would not profane that heavy parting by an embrace, or even a pressure
of the hand. So soon after the semblance of such mighty love, and after
it had been the impulse to so terrible a deed, they parted, in all outward
show, as coldly as people part whose whole mutual intercourse has been
encircled within a single hour.
And Donatello, when Miriam had departed, stretched himself at full length
on the stone bench, and drew his hat over his eyes, as the idle and
light-hearted youths of dreamy Italy are accustomed to do, when they lie
down in the first convenient shade, and snatch a noonday slumber. A
stupor was upon him, which he mistook for such drowsiness as he had known
in his innocent past life. But, by and by, he raised himself slowly and
left the garden. Sometimes poor Donatello started, as if he heard a
shriek; sometimes he shrank back, as if a face, fearful to behold, were
thrust close to his own. In this dismal mood, bewildered with the
novelty of sin and grief, he had little left of that singular resemblance,
on account of which, and for their sport, his three friends had
fantastically recognized him as the veritable Faun of Praxiteles. _
Read next: VOLUME I: CHAPTER XXIII - MIRIAM AND HILDA
Read previous: VOLUME I: CHAPTER XXI - THE DEAD CAPUCHIN
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