On the appointed afternoon, Kenyon failed not to make his appearance in
the Corso, and at an hour much earlier than Miriam had named.
It was carnival time. The merriment of this famous festival was in full
progress; and the stately avenue of the Corso was peopled with hundreds
of fantastic shapes, some of which probably represented the mirth of
ancient times, surviving through all manner of calamity, ever since the
days of the Roman Empire. For a few afternoons of early spring, this
mouldy gayety strays into the sunshine; all the remainder of the
year, it seems to be shut up in the catacombs or some other sepulchral
storehouse of the past.
Besides these hereditary forms, at which a hundred generations have
laughed, there were others of modern date, the humorous effluence of the
day that was now passing. It is a day, however, and an age, that appears
to be remarkably barren, when compared with the prolific originality
of former times, in productions of a scenic and ceremonial character,
whether grave or gay. To own the truth, the Carnival is alive, this
present year, only because it has existed through centuries gone by. It
is traditionary, not actual. If decrepit and melancholy Rome smiles,
and laughs broadly, indeed, at carnival time, it is not in the old
simplicity of real mirth, but with a half-conscious effort, like our
self-deceptive pretence of jollity at a threadbare joke. Whatever it may
once have been, it is now but a narrow stream of merriment, noisy of set
purpose, running along the middle of the Corso, through the solemn heart
of the decayed city, without extending its shallow influence on either
side. Nor, even within its own limits, does it affect the mass of
spectators, but only a comparatively few, in street and balcony, who
carry on the warfare of nosegays and counterfeit sugar plums. The
populace look on with staid composure; the nobility and priesthood take
little or no part in the matter; and, but for the hordes of Anglo-Saxons
who annually take up the flagging mirth, the Carnival might long ago
have been swept away, with the snowdrifts of confetti that whiten all
the pavement.
No doubt, however, the worn-out festival is still new to the youthful
and light hearted, who make the worn-out world itself as fresh as Adam
found it on his first forenoon in Paradise. It may be only age and
care that chill the life out of its grotesque and airy riot, with the
impertinence of their cold criticism.
Kenyon, though young, had care enough within his breast to render the
Carnival the emptiest of mockeries. Contrasting the stern anxiety of his
present mood with the frolic spirit of the preceding year, he fancied
that so much trouble had, at all events, brought wisdom in its train.
But there is a wisdom that looks grave, and sneers at merriment; and
again a deeper wisdom, that stoops to be gay as often as occasion
serves, and oftenest avails itself of shallow and trifling grounds of
mirth; because, if we wait for more substantial ones, we seldom can be
gay at all. Therefore, had it been possible, Kenyon would have done well
to mask himself in some wild, hairy visage, and plunge into the throng
of other maskers, as at the Carnival before. Then Donatello had danced
along the Corso in all the equipment of a Faun, doing the part with
wonderful felicity of execution, and revealing furry ears, which looked
absolutely real; and Miriam had been alternately a lady of the antique
regime, in powder and brocade, and the prettiest peasant girl of the
Campagna, in the gayest of costumes; while Hilda, sitting demurely in a
balcony, had hit the sculptor with a single rosebud,--so sweet and fresh
a bud that he knew at once whose hand had flung it.