The Marble Faun Volume 2 - Page 40/157

"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.