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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 lichencovered
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

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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,

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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, intentionally,
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!”

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All this fervor on Miriam's part; on Donatello's, a
heavy silence.

“Oh, 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

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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

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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 over-burdened 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

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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.

p576-253

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