When it came to the point of quitting the reposeful life of Monte Beni,
the sculptor was not without regrets, and would willingly have dreamed a
little longer of the sweet paradise on earth that Hilda's presence
there might make. Nevertheless, amid all its repose, he had begun to be
sensible of a restless melancholy, to which the cultivators of the ideal
arts are more liable than sturdier men. On his own part, therefore, and
leaving Donatello out of the case, he would have judged it well to go.
He made parting visits to the legendary dell, and to other delightful
spots with which he had grown familiar; he climbed the tower again, and
saw a sunset and a moonrise over the great valley; he drank, on the
eve of his departure, one flask, and then another, of the Monte Beni
Sunshine, and stored up its flavor in his memory as the standard of what
is exquisite in wine. These things accomplished, Kenyon was ready for
the journey.
Donatello had not very easily been stirred out of the peculiar
sluggishness, which enthralls and bewitches melancholy people. He had
offered merely a passive resistance, however, not an active one, to his
friend's schemes; and when the appointed hour came, he yielded to the
impulse which Kenyon failed not to apply; and was started upon the
journey before he had made up his mind to undertake it. They wandered
forth at large, like two knights-errant, among the valleys, and the
mountains, and the old mountain towns of that picturesque and
lovely region. Save to keep the appointment with Miriam, a fortnight
thereafter, in the great square of Perugia, there was nothing more
definite in the sculptor's plan than that they should let themselves
be blown hither and thither like Winged seeds, that mount upon each
wandering breeze. Yet there was an idea of fatality implied in the
simile of the winged seeds which did not altogether suit Kenyon's fancy;
for, if you look closely into the matter, it will be seen that whatever
appears most vagrant, and utterly purposeless, turns out, in the end,
to have been impelled the most surely on a preordained and unswerving
track. Chance and change love to deal with men's settled plans, not with
their idle vagaries. If we desire unexpected and unimaginable events,
we should contrive an iron framework, such as we fancy may compel the
future to take one inevitable shape; then comes in the unexpected, and
shatters our design in fragments.
The travellers set forth on horseback, and purposed to perform much of
their aimless journeyings under the moon, and in the cool of the morning
or evening twilight; the midday sun, while summer had hardly begun to
trail its departing skirts over Tuscany, being still too fervid to allow
of noontide exposure.
For a while, they wandered in that same broad valley which Kenyon had
viewed with such delight from the Monte Beni tower. The sculptor soon
began to enjoy the idle activity of their new life, which the lapse of
a day or two sufficed to establish as a kind of system; it is so natural
for mankind to be nomadic, that a very little taste of that primitive
mode of existence subverts the settled habits of many preceding years.
Kenyon's cares, and whatever gloomy ideas before possessed him, seemed
to be left at Monte Beni, and were scarcely remembered by the time
that its gray tower grew undistinguishable on the brown hillside. His
perceptive faculties, which had found little exercise of late, amid so
thoughtful a way of life, became keen, and kept his eyes busy with a
hundred agreeable scenes.