The Marble Faun Volume 1 - Page 76/130

A marvellous repose--that rare merit in statuary, except it be the

lumpish repose native to the block of stone--was diffused throughout the

figure. The spectator felt that Cleopatra had sunk down out of the fever

and turmoil of her life, and for one instant--as it were, between two

pulse throbs--had relinquished all activity, and was resting throughout

every vein and muscle. It was the repose of despair, indeed; for

Octavius had seen her, and remained insensible to her enchantments. But

still there was a great smouldering furnace deep down in the woman's

heart. The repose, no doubt, was as complete as if she were never to

stir hand or foot again; and yet, such was the creature's latent energy

and fierceness, she might spring upon you like a tigress, and stop the

very breath that you were now drawing midway in your throat.

The face was a miraculous success. The sculptor had not shunned to

give the full Nubian lips, and other characteristics of the Egyptian

physiognomy. His courage and integrity had been abundantly rewarded; for

Cleopatra's beauty shone out richer, warmer, more triumphantly beyond

comparison, than if, shrinking timidly from the truth, he had chosen

the tame Grecian type. The expression was of profound, gloomy, heavily

revolving thought; a glance into her past life and present emergencies,

while her spirit gathered itself up for some new struggle, or was

getting sternly reconciled to impending doom. In one view, there was a

certain softness and tenderness,--how breathed into the statue, among so

many strong and passionate elements, it is impossible to say. Catching

another glimpse, you beheld her as implacable as a stone and cruel as

fire.

In a word, all Cleopatra--fierce, voluptuous, passionate, tender,

wicked, terrible, and full of poisonous and rapturous enchantment--was

kneaded into what, only a week or two before, had been a lump of wet

clay from the Tiber. Soon, apotheosized in an indestructible material,

she would be one of the images that men keep forever, finding a heat in

them which does not cool down, throughout the centuries?

"What a woman is this!" exclaimed Miriam, after a long pause. "Tell me,

did she ever try, even while you were creating her, to overcome you with

her fury or her love? Were you not afraid to touch her, as she grew more

and more towards hot life beneath your hand? My dear friend, it is a

great work! How have you learned to do it?"

"It is the concretion of a good deal of thought, emotion, and toil of

brain and hand," said Kenyon, not without a perception that his work was

good; "but I know not how it came about at last. I kindled a great fire

within my mind, and threw in the material,--as Aaron threw the gold

of the Israelites into the furnace,--and in the midmost heat uprose

Cleopatra, as you see her."