Donatello had hidden his face in his hands, and was leaning against the
parapet.
"No fear of that!" said he. "Whatever the dream may be, I am too genuine
a coward to act out my own death in it."
The paroxysm passed away, and the two friends continued their desultory
talk, very much as if no such interruption had occurred. Nevertheless,
it affected the sculptor with infinite pity to see this young man, who
had been born to gladness as an assured heritage, now involved in a
misty bewilderment of grievous thoughts, amid which he seemed to go
staggering blindfold. Kenyon, not without an unshaped suspicion of
the definite fact, knew that his condition must have resulted from the
weight and gloom of life, now first, through the agency of a secret
trouble, making themselves felt on a character that had heretofore
breathed only an atmosphere of joy. The effect of this hard lesson,
upon Donatello's intellect and disposition, was very striking. It was
perceptible that he had already had glimpses of strange and subtle
matters in those dark caverns, into which all men must descend, if
they would know anything beneath the surface and illusive pleasures of
existence. And when they emerge, though dazzled and blinded by the first
glare of daylight, they take truer and sadder views of life forever
afterwards.
From some mysterious source, as the sculptor felt assured, a soul had
been inspired into the young Count's simplicity, since their intercourse
in Rome. He now showed a far deeper sense, and an intelligence that
began to deal with high subjects, though in a feeble and childish way.
He evinced, too, a more definite and nobler individuality, but developed
out of grief and pain, and fearfully conscious of the pangs that had
given it birth. Every human life, if it ascends to truth or delves down
to reality, must undergo a similar change; but sometimes, perhaps, the
instruction comes without the sorrow; and oftener the sorrow teaches
no lesson that abides with us. In Donatello's case, it was pitiful, and
almost ludicrous, to observe the confused struggle that he made; how
completely he was taken by surprise; how ill-prepared he stood, on this
old battlefield of the world, to fight with such an inevitable foe as
mortal calamity, and sin for its stronger ally.
"And yet," thought Kenyon, "the poor fellow bears himself like a hero,
too! If he would only tell me his trouble, or give me an opening to
speak frankly about it, I might help him; but he finds it too horrible
to be uttered, and fancies himself the only mortal that ever felt the
anguish of remorse. Yes; he believes that nobody ever endured his agony
before; so that--sharp enough in itself--it has all the additional zest
of a torture just invented to plague him individually."