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Miriam was glad to find the Dove in her turret-home;
for being endowed with an infinite activity, and taking exquisite
delight in the sweet labor of which her life was
full, it was Hilda's practice to flee abroad betimes and
haunt the galleries till dusk. Happy were those (but
they were very few) whom she ever chose to be the companions
of her day; they saw the art-treasures of Rome,
under her guidance, as they had never seen them before.
Not that Hilda could dissertate, or talk learnedly about
pictures; she would probably have been puzzled by the
technical terms of her own art. Not that she had much
to say about what she most profoundly admired; but
even her silent sympathy was so powerful that it drew
your own along with it, endowing you with a second-sight
that enabled you to see excellences with almost the depth
and delicacy of her own perceptions.

All the Anglo-Saxon denizens of Rome, by this time,
knew Hilda by sight. Unconsciously, the poor child had
become one of the spectacles of the Eternal City, and
was often pointed out to strangers, sitting at her easel

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among the wild-bearded young men, the white-haired old
ones, and the shabbily dressed, painfully plain women,
who make up the throng of copyists. The old custodes
knew her well, and watched over her as their own child.
Sometimes, a young artist, instead of going on with a
copy of the picture before which he had placed his easel,
would enrich his canvas with an original portrait of Hilda
at her work. A lovelier subject could not have been
selected, nor one which required nicer skill and insight in
doing it anything like justice. She was pretty at all
times, in our native New England style, with her light-brown
ringlets, her delicately tinged, but healthful cheek,
her sensitive, intelligent, yet most feminine and kindly
face. But, every few moments, this pretty and girlish
face grew beautiful and striking, as some inward thought
and feeling brightened, rose to the surface, and then,
as it were, passed out of sight again; so that, taking
into view this constantly recurring change, it really
seemed as if Hilda were only visible by the sunshine of
her soul.

In other respects, she was a good subject for a portrait,
being distinguished by a gentle picturesqueness, which
was perhaps unconsciously bestowed by some minute peculiarity
of dress, such as artists seldom fail to assume.
The effect was to make her appear like an inhabitant of
picture-land, a partly ideal creature, not to be handled,
nor even approached too closely. In her feminine self,
Hilda was natural, and of pleasant deportment, endowed
with a mild cheerfulness of temper, not overflowing with
animal spirits, but never long despondent. There was a

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certain simplicity that made every one her friend, but it
was combined with a subtle attribute of reserve, that insensibly
kept those at a distance who were not suited to
her sphere.

Miriam was the dearest friend whom she had ever
known. Being a year or two the elder, of longer acquaintance
with Italy, and better fitted to deal with its
crafty and selfish inhabitants, she had helped Hilda to arrange
her way of life, and had encouraged her through
those first weeks, when Rome is so dreary to every newcomer.

“But how lucky that you are at home to-day,” said
Miriam, continuing the conversation which was begun,
many pages back. “I hardly hoped to find you, though
I had a favor to ask — a commission to put into your
charge. But what picture is this?”

“See!” said Hilda, taking her friend's hand and leading
her in front of the easel. “I wanted your opinion
of it.”

“If you have really succeeded,” observed Miriam, recognizing
the picture at the first glance, “it will be the
greatest miracle you have yet achieved.”

The picture represented simply a female head; a very
youthful, girlish, perfectly beautiful face, enveloped in
white drapery, from beneath which strayed a lock or two
of what seemed a rich, though hidden luxuriance of auburn
hair. The eyes were large and brown, and met
those of the spectator, but evidently with a strange, ineffectual
effort to escape. There was a little redness about
the eyes, very slightly indicated, so that you would

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question whether or no the girl had been weeping. The
whole face was quiet; there was no distortion or disturbance
of any single feature; nor was it easy to see why
the expression was not cheerful, or why a single touch of
the artist's pencil should not brighten it into joyousness.
But, in fact, it was the very saddest picture ever painted
or conceived; it involved an unfathomable depth of
sorrow, the sense of which came to the observer by
a sort of intuition. It was a sorrow that removed this
beautiful girl out of the sphere of humanity, and set
her in a far-off region, the remoteness of which — while
yet her face is so close before us — makes us shiver as
at a spectre.

“Yes, Hilda,” said her friend, after closely examining
the picture, “you have done nothing else so wonderful as
this. But by what unheard-of solicitations or secret interest
have you obtained leave to copy Guido's Beatrice
Cenci? It is an unexampled favor; and the impossibility
of getting a genuine copy has filled the Roman pictureshops
with Beatrices, gay, grievous, or coquettish, but
never a true one among them.”

“There has been one exquisite copy, I have heard,”
said Hilda, “by an artist capable of appreciating the
spirit of the picture. It was Thompson, who brought it
away piecemeal, being forbidden (like the rest of us) to
set up his easel before it. As for me, I knew the Prince
Barberini would be deaf to all entreaties; so I had no resource
but to sit down before the picture, day after day,
and let it sink into my heart. I do believe it is now photographed
there. It is a sad face to keep so close to one's

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heart; only, what is so very beautiful can never be quite
a pain. Well; after studying it in this way, I know not
how many times, I came home, and have done my best
to transfer the image to canvas.”

“Here it is then,” said Miriam, contemplating Hilda's
work with great interest and delight, mixed with the painful
sympathy that the picture excited. “Everywhere we
see oil-paintings, crayon sketches, cameos, engravings,
lithographs, pretending to be Beatrice, and representing
the poor girl with blubbered eyes, a leer of coquetry, a
merry look as if she were dancing, a piteous look as if
she were beaten, and twenty other modes of fantastic
mistake. But here is Guido's very Beatrice; she that
slept in the dungeon, and awoke betimes, to ascend the
scaffold. And now that you have done it, Hilda, can you
interpret what the feeling is, that gives this picture such a
mysterious force? For my part, though deeply sensible
of its influence, I cannot seize it.”

“Nor can I, in words,” replied her friend. “But while
I was painting her, I felt all the time as if she were trying
to escape from my gaze. She knows that her sorrow
is so strange and so immense, that she ought to be solitary
forever, both for the world's sake and her own; and this
is the reason we feel such a distance between Beatrice
and ourselves, even when our eyes meet hers. It is infinitely
heart-breaking to meet her glance, and to feel that
nothing can be done to help or comfort her; neither does
she ask help or comfort, knowing the hopelessness of her
case better than we do. She is a fallen angel — fallen,
and yet sinless; and it is only this depth of sorrow, with

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its weight and darkness, that keeps her down upon earth,
and brings her within our view even while it sets her beyond
our reach.”

“You deem her sinless?” asked Miriam; “that is not
so plain to me. If I can pretend to see at all into that
dim region, whence she gazes so strangely and sadly at
us, Beatrice's own conscience does not acquit her of something
evil, and never to be forgiven!”

“Sorrow so black as hers oppresses her very nearly as
sin would,” said Hilda.

“Then,” inquired Miriam, “do you think that there
was no sin in the deed for which she suffered?”

“Ah!” replied Hilda, shuddering, “I really had quite
forgotten Beatrice's history, and was thinking of her only
as the picture seems to reveal her character. Yes, yes;
it was terrible guilt, an inexpiable crime, and she feels it
to be so. Therefore it is that the forlorn creature so longs
to elude our eyes, and forever vanish away into nothingness!
Her doom is just!”

“Oh! Hilda, your innocence is like a sharp steel
sword,” exclaimed her friend. “Your judgments are
often terribly severe, though you seem all made up of
gentleness and mercy. Beatrice's sin may not have been
so great: perhaps it was no sin at all, but the best virtue
possible in the circumstances. If she viewed it as a sin,
it may have been because her nature was too feeble for
the fate imposed upon her. Ah!” continued Miriam,
passionately, “if I could only get within her consciousness! —
if I could but clasp Beatrice Cenci's ghost, and
draw it into myself! I would give my life to know

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whether she thought herself innocent, or the one great
criminal since time began.”

As Miriam gave utterance to these words, Hilda looked
from the picture into her face, and was startled to observe
that her friend's expression had become almost exactly
that of the portrait; as if her passionate wish and struggle
to penetrate poor Beatrice's mystery had been successful.

“Oh! for Heaven's sake, Miriam, do not look so!”
she cried. “What an actress you are! And I never
guessed it before. Ah! now you are yourself again!”
she added, kissing her. “Leave Beatrice to me in future.”

“Cover up your magical picture, then,” replied her
friend, “else I never can look away from it. It is strange,
dear Hilda, how an innocent, delicate, white soul like
yours has been able to seize the subtle mystery of this
portrait; as you surely must, in order to reproduce it so
perfectly. Well; we will not talk of it any more. Do
you know, I have come to you this morning on a small
matter of business. Will you undertake it for me?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Hilda, laughing; “if you choose
to trust me with business.”

“Nay, it is not a matter of any difficulty,” answered
Miriam; “merely to take charge of this packet, and
keep it for me awhile.”

“But why not keep it yourself?” asked Hilda.

“Partly because it will be safer in your charge,” said
her friend. “I am a careless sort of person in ordinary
things; while you, for all you dwell so high above the

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world, have certain good little housewifely ways of accuracy
and order. The packet is of some slight importance;
and yet, it may be, I shall not ask you for it again.
In a week or two, you know, I am leaving Rome. You,
setting at defiance the malaria fever, mean to stay here
and haunt your beloved galleries through the summer.
Now, four months hence, unless you hear more from me,
I would have you deliver the packet according to its
address.”

Hilda read the direction: it was to Signore Luca Barboni,
at the Palazzo Cenci, third piano.

“I will deliver it with my own hand,” said she, “precisely
four months from to-day, unless you bid me to the
contrary. Perhaps I shall meet the ghost of Beatrice in
that grim old palace of her forefathers.”

“In that case,” rejoined Miriam, “do not fail to speak
to her, and try to win her confidence. Poor thing! she
would be all the better for pouring her heart out freely,
and would be glad to do it, if she were sure of sympathy.
It irks my brain and heart to think of her, all shut up
within herself.” She withdrew the cloth that Hilda had
drawn over the picture, and took another long look at it,—
“Poor sister Beatrice! for she was still a woman,
Hilda, still a sister, be her sin or sorrow what they might.
How well you have done it, Hilda! I know not whether
Guido will thank you, or be jealous of your rivalship.”

“Jealous, indeed!” exclaimed Hilda. “If Guido had
not wrought through me, my pains would have been
thrown away.”

“After all,” resumed Miriam, “if a woman had painted

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the original picture, there might have been something in
it which we miss now. I have a great mind to undertake
a copy myself, and try to give it what it lacks.
Well; good bye. But, stay! I am going for a little airing
to the grounds of the Villa Borghese this afternoon.
You will think it very foolish, but I always feel the safer
in your company, Hilda, slender little maiden as you are.
Will you come?”

“Ah, not to-day, dearest Miriam,” she replied, “I have
set my heart on giving another touch or two to this picture,
and shall not stir abroad till nearly sunset.”

“Farewell, then,” said her visitor. “I leave you in
your dove-cote. What a sweet, strange life you lead here;
conversing with the souls of the old masters, feeding and
fondling your sister-doves, and trimming the Virgin's
lamp! Hilda, do you ever pray to the Virgin while you
tend her shrine?”

“Sometimes I have been moved to do so,” replied the
Dove, blushing and lowering her eyes; “she was a woman
once. Do you think it would be wrong?”

“Nay, that is for you to judge,” said Miriam; “but
when you pray next, dear friend, remember me!”

She went down the long descent of the lower staircase,
and just as she reached the street the flock of doves
again took their hurried flight from the pavement to the
topmost window. She threw her eyes upward and beheld
them hovering about Hilda's head; for after her friend's
departure the girl had been more impressed than before
by something very sad and troubled in her manner.
She was, therefore, leaning forth from her airy abode,

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and flinging down a kind, maidenly kiss, and a gesture
of farewell, in the hope that these might alight upon
Miriam's heart and comfort its unknown sorrow a little.
Kenyon the sculptor, who chanced to be passing the head
of the street, took note of that ethereal kiss, and wished
that he could have caught it in the air and got Hilda's
leave to keep it.

p576-097

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