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Full Online Book HomeLong StoriesThe Marble Faun - Volume II - Chapter XXX - DONATELLO'S BUST
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The Marble Faun - Volume II - Chapter XXX - DONATELLO'S BUST Post by :Pallieter Category :Long Stories Author :Nathaniel Hawthorne Date :April 2011 Read :3087

Click below to download : The Marble Faun - Volume II - Chapter XXX - DONATELLO'S BUST (Format : PDF)

The Marble Faun - Volume II - Chapter XXX - DONATELLO'S BUST

Kenyon, it will be remembered, had asked Donatello's permission to
model his bust. The work had now made considerable progress, and
necessarily kept the sculptor's thoughts brooding much and often upon
his host's personal characteristics. These it was his difficult
office to bring out from their depths, and interpret them to all men,
showing them what they could not discern for themselves, yet must be
compelled to recognize at a glance, on the surface of a block of
marble.

He had never undertaken a portrait-bust which gave him so much trouble
as Donatello's; not that there was any special difficulty in hitting
the likeness, though even in this respect the grace and harmony of the
features seemed inconsistent with a prominent expression of
individuality; but he was chiefly perplexed how to make this genial
and kind type of countenance the index of the mind within. His
acuteness and his sympathies, indeed, were both somewhat at fault in
their efforts to enlighten him as to the moral phase through which the
Count was now passing. If at one sitting he caught a glimpse of what
appeared to be a genuine and permanent trait, it would probably be
less perceptible on a second occasion, and perhaps have vanished
entirely at a third. So evanescent a show of character threw the
sculptor into despair; not marble or clay, but cloud and vapor, was
the material in which it ought to be represented. Even the ponderous
depression which constantly weighed upon Donatello's heart could not
compel him into the kind of repose which the plastic art requires.

Hopeless of a good result, Kenyon gave up all preconceptions about the
character of his subject, and let his hands work uncontrolled with the
clay, somewhat as a spiritual medium, while holding a pen, yields it
to an unseen guidance other than that of her own will. Now and then
he fancied that this plan was destined to be the successful one. A
skill and insight beyond his consciousness seemed occasionally to take
up the task. The mystery, the miracle, of imbuing an inanimate
substance with thought, feeling, and all the intangible attributes of
the soul, appeared on the verge of being wrought. And now, as he
flattered himself, the true image of his friend was about to emerge
from the facile material, bringing with it more of Donatello's
character than the keenest observer could detect at any one moment in
the face of the original Vain expectation!--some touch, whereby the
artist thought to improve or hasten the result, interfered with the
design of his unseen spiritual assistant, and spoilt the whole. There
was still the moist, brown clay, indeed, and the features of Donatello,
but without any semblance of intelligent and sympathetic life.

"The difficulty will drive me mad, I verily believe!" cried the
sculptor nervously. "Look at the wretched piece of work yourself, my
dear friend, and tell me whether you recognize any manner of likeness
to your inner man?"

"None," replied Donatello, speaking the simple truth. "It is like
looking 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 what might happen to it thenceforward. Wielding that wonderful
power which sculptors possess over moist clay, however refractory it
may show itself in certain respects, he compressed, elongated, widened,
and otherwise altered the features of the bust in mere recklessness,
and at every change inquired of the Count whether the expression
became anywise more satisfactory.

"Stop!" cried Donatello at last, catching the sculptor's hand. "Let
it remain so!" By some accidental handling of the clay, entirely
independent of his own will, Kenyon had given the countenance a
distorted and violent look, combining animal fierceness with
intelligent hatred. Had Hilda, or had Miriam, seen the bust, with the
expression which it had now assumed, they might have recognized
Donatello's face as they beheld it at that terrible moment when he
held his victim over the edge of the precipice.

"What have I done?" said the sculptor, shocked at his own casual
production. "It were a sin to let the clay which bears your features
harden into a look like that. Cain never wore an uglier one."

"For that very reason, let it remain!" answered the Count, who had
grown pale as ashes at the aspect of his crime, thus strangely
presented to him in another of the many guises under which guilt
stares the criminal in 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, the
sculptor again applied his artful fingers to the clay, and compelled
the bust to dismiss the expression that had so startled them both.

"Believe me," said he, turning his eyes upon his friend, full of grave
and tender sympathy, "you know not what is requisite for your
spiritual growth, seeking, as you do, to keep your soul perpetually in
the unwholesome region of remorse. It was needful for you to pass
through that dark valley, but it is infinitely dangerous to linger
there too long; there is poison in the atmosphere, when we sit down
and brood in it, instead of girding up our loins to press onward. Not
despondency, not slothful anguish, is what you now require,--but
effort! Has there been an unalterable evil in your young life? Then
crowd it out with good, or it will lie corrupting there forever, and
cause your capacity for better things to partake its noisome
corruption!"

"You stir up many thoughts," said Donatello, pressing his hand upon
his brow, "but the multitude and the whirl of them make me dizzy."

They now left the sculptor's temporary studio, without observing that
his last accidental touches, with which he hurriedly effaced the look
of deadly rage, had given the bust a higher and sweeter expression
than it had hitherto worn. It is to be regretted that Kenyon had not
seen it; for only an artist, perhaps, can conceive the irksomeness,
the irritation of brain, the depression of spirits, that resulted from
his failure to satisfy himself, after so much toil and thought as he
had bestowed on Donatello's bust. In case of success, indeed, all
this thoughtful toil would have been reckoned, not only as well
bestowed, but as among the happiest hours of his life; whereas,
deeming himself to have failed, it was just so much of life that had
better never have been lived; for thus does the good or ill result of
his labor throw back sunshine or gloom upon the artist's mind. The
sculptor, therefore, would have done well to glance again at his work;
for here were still the features 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
strolling about the pleasant precincts of Monte Beni, where the summer
was now so far advanced that it began, indeed, to partake of the ripe
wealth of autumn. Apricots had long been abundant, and had passed
away, and plums and cherries along with them. But now came great,
juicy pears, melting and delicious, and peaches of goodly size and
tempting aspect, though cold and watery to the palate, compared with
the sculptor's rich reminiscences of that fruit in America. The
purple figs had already enjoyed their day, and the white ones were
luscious now. The contadini (who, by this time, knew Kenyon well)
found many clusters of ripe grapes for him, in every little globe of
which was included a fragrant draught of the sunny Monte Beni wine.

Unexpectedly, in a nook close by the farmhouse, he happened upon a
spot where the vintage had actually commenced. A great heap of early
ripened grapes had been gathered, and thrown into a mighty tub. In
the middle of it stood a lusty and jolly contadino, nor stood, merely,
but stamped with all his might, and danced amain; while the red juice
bathed his feet, and threw its foam midway up his brown and shaggy
legs. Here, then, was the very process that shows so picturesquely in
Scripture and in poetry, of treading out the wine-press and dyeing the
feet and garments with the crimson effusion as with the blood of a
battlefield. The memory of the process does not make the Tuscan wine
taste more deliciously. The contadini hospitably offered Kenyon a
sample of the new liquor, that had already stood fermenting for a day
or two. He had tried a similar draught, however, in years past, and
was little inclined to make proof of it again; for he knew that it
would be a sour and bitter juice, a wine of woe and tribulation, and
that the more a man drinks of such liquor, the sorrier he is likely to
be.

The scene reminded the sculptor of our New England vintages, where the
big piles of golden and rosy apples lie under the orchard trees, in
the mild, autumnal sunshine; and the creaking cider-mill, set in
motion by a circumgyratory horse, is all a-gush with the luscious
juice. To speak frankly, 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 thousands upon thousands of small, flat barrels, and,
still growing thinner and sharper, loses the little life it had, as
wine, and becomes apotheosized as a more praiseworthy vinegar.

Yet all these vineyard scenes, and the processes connected with the
culture of the grape, had a flavor of poetry about them. The toil
that produces those kindly gifts of nature which are not the substance
of life, but its luxury, is unlike other toil. We are inclined to
fancy that it does not bend the sturdy frame and stiffen the
overwrought muscles, like the labor that is devoted in sad, hard
earnest to raise grain for sour bread. Certainly, the sunburnt young
men and dark-cheeked, laughing girls, who weeded the rich acres of
Monte Beni, might well enough have passed for inhabitants of an
unsophisticated Arcadia. 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 a dream that Bacchus himself might revisit the haunts
which he loved of old. But, alas! where now would he find the Faun
with whom we see him consorting in so many an antique group?

Donatello's remorseful anguish saddened this primitive and delightful
life. 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, even in his visions; so that he almost reproached himself when
sometimes his imagination pictured in detail the sweet years that they
might spend together, in a retreat like this. It had just that rarest
quality of remoteness from the actual and ordinary world B a
remoteness through which all delights might visit them freely, sifted
from all troubles--which lovers so reasonably insist upon, in their
ideal arrangements for a happy union. It is possible, indeed, that
even Donatello's grief and Kenyon's pale, sunless affection lent a
charm to Monte Beni, which it would not have retained amid a more
abundant joyousness. The sculptor strayed amid its vineyards and
orchards, its dells and tangled shrubberies, with somewhat the
sensations of an adventurer who should find his way to the site of
ancient Eden, and behold its loveliness through the transparency of
that gloom which has been brooding over those haunts of innocence ever
since the fall. Adam saw it in a brighter sunshine, but never knew
the shade of Pensive beauty which Eden won from his expulsion.

It was in the decline of the afternoon that Kenyon returned from his
long, musing ramble, Old Tomaso--between whom and himself for some
time past there had been a mysterious understanding,--met him in the
entrance hall, 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 you
once saw the signorina appear through it is near the altar, hidden
behind the tapestry."

Kenyon lost no time in obeying the summons.

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