The Marble Faun Volume 1 - Page 31/130

"O, pray don't try it!" said Miriam, laughing; "If it should turn out

that you are less than an angel, you would find the stones of the Roman

pavement very hard; and if an angel, indeed, I am afraid you would never

come down among us again."

This young American girl was an example of the freedom of life which

it is possible for a female artist to enjoy at Rome. She dwelt in her

tower, as free to descend into the corrupted atmosphere of the city

beneath, as one of her companion doves to fly downward into the

street;--all alone, perfectly independent, under her own sole

guardianship, unless watched over by the Virgin, whose shrine she

tended; doing what she liked without a suspicion or a shadow upon the

snowy whiteness of her fame. The customs of artist life bestow such

liberty upon the sex, which is elsewhere restricted within so much

narrower limits; and it is perhaps an indication that, whenever we admit

women to a wider scope of pursuits and professions, we must also remove

the shackles of our present conventional rules, which would then become

an insufferable restraint on either maid or wife. The system seems to

work unexceptionably in Rome; and in many other cases, as in Hilda's,

purity of heart and life are allowed to assert themselves, and to be

their own proof and security, to a degree unknown in the society of

other cities.

Hilda, in her native land, had early shown what was pronounced by

connoisseurs a decided genius for the pictorial art. Even in her

schooldays--still not so very distant--she had produced sketches that

were seized upon by men of taste, and hoarded as among the choicest

treasures of their portfolios; scenes delicately imagined, lacking,

perhaps, the reality which comes only from a close acquaintance with

life, but so softly touched with feeling and fancy that you seemed to

be looking at humanity with angels' eyes. With years and experience

she might be expected to attain a darker and more forcible touch, which

would impart to her designs the relief they needed. Had Hilda remained

in her own country, it is not improbable that she might have produced

original works worthy to hang in that gallery of native art which,

we hope, is destined to extend its rich length through many future

centuries. An orphan, however, without near relatives, and possessed of

a little property, she had found it within her possibilities to come

to Italy; that central clime, whither the eyes and the heart of every

artist turn, as if pictures could not be made to glow in any other

atmosphere, as if statues could not assume grace and expression, save in

that land of whitest marble.

Hilda's gentle courage had brought her safely over land and sea; her

mild, unflagging perseverance had made a place for her in the famous

city, even like a flower that finds a chink for itself, and a little

earth to grow in, on whatever ancient wall its slender roots may fasten.

Here she dwelt, in her tower, possessing a friend or two in Rome, but

no home companion except the flock of doves, whose cote was in a ruinous

chamber contiguous to her own. They soon became as familiar with the

fair-haired Saxon girl as if she were a born sister of their brood; and

her customary white robe bore such an analogy to their snowy plumage

that the confraternity of artists called Hilda the Dove, and recognized

her aerial apartment as the Dovecote. And while the other doves flew far

and wide in quest of what was good for them, Hilda likewise spread

her wings, and sought such ethereal and imaginative sustenance as God

ordains for creatures of her kind.