The Marble Faun; Or, The Romance of Monte Beni - Volume 2 by Nathaniel Hawthorne
CHAPTER XXVI
THE PEDIGREE OF MONTE BENI
From the old butler, whom he found to be a very gracious and affablepersonage, Kenyon soon learned many curious particulars about the familyhistory and hereditary peculiarities of the Counts of Monte Beni. Therewas a pedigree, the later portion of which--that is to say, for a littlemore than a thousand years--a genealogist would have found delight intracing out, link by link, and authenticating by records and documentaryevidences. It would have been as difficult, however, to follow up thestream of Donatello's ancestry to its dim source, as travellers havefound it to reach the mysterious fountains of the Nile. And, far beyondthe region of definite and demonstrable fact, a romancer might havestrayed into a region of old poetry, where the rich soil, so longuncultivated and untrodden, had lapsed into nearly its primeval stateof wilderness. Among those antique paths, now overgrown with tangled andriotous vegetation, the wanderer must needs follow his own guidance, andarrive nowhither at last.
The race of Monte Beni, beyond a doubt, was one of the oldest in Italy,where families appear to survive at least, if not to flourish, on theirhalf-decayed roots, oftener than in England or France. It came down ina broad track from the Middle Ages; but, at epochs anterior to those,it was distinctly visible in the gloom of the period before chivalry putforth its flower; and further still, we are almost afraid to say, it wasseen, though with a fainter and wavering course, in the early morn ofChristendom, when the Roman Empire had hardly begun to show symptoms ofdecline. At that venerable distance, the heralds gave up the lineage indespair.
But where written record left the genealogy of Monte Beni, traditiontook it up, and carried it without dread or shame beyond the Imperialages into the times of the Roman republic; beyond those, again, into theepoch of kingly rule. Nor even so remotely among the mossy centuries didit pause, but strayed onward into that gray antiquity of which thereis no token left, save its cavernous tombs, and a few bronzes, and somequaintly wrought ornaments of gold, and gems with mystic figures andinscriptions. There, or thereabouts, the line was supposed to have hadits origin in the sylvan life of Etruria, while Italy was yet guiltlessof Rome.
Of course, as we regret to say, the earlier and very much the largerportion of this respectable descent--and the same is true of manybriefer pedigrees--must be looked upon as altogether mythical. Still,it threw a romantic interest around the unquestionable antiquity of theMonte Beni family, and over that tract of their own vines and fig-treesbeneath the shade of which they had unquestionably dwelt for immemorialages. And there they had laid the foundations of their tower, so longago that one half of its height was said to be sunken under the surfaceand to hide subterranean chambers which once were cheerful with theolden sunshine.
One story, or myth, that had mixed itself up with their mouldygenealogy, interested the sculptor by its wild, and perhaps grotesque,yet not unfascinating peculiarity. He caught at it the more eagerly,as it afforded a shadowy and whimsical semblance of explanation for thelikeness which he, with Miriam and Hilda, had seen or fancied betweenDonatello and the Faun of Praxiteles.
The Monte Beni family, as this legend averred, drew their originfrom the Pelasgic race, who peopled Italy in times that may be calledprehistoric. It was the same noble breed of men, of Asiatic birth,that settled in Greece; the same happy and poetic kindred who dwelt inArcadia, and--whether they ever lived such life or not--enriched theworld with dreams, at least, and fables, lovely, if unsubstantial, of aGolden Age. In those delicious times, when deities and demigods appearedfamiliarly on earth, mingling with its inhabitants as friend withfriend,--when nymphs, satyrs, and the whole train of classic faith orfable hardly took pains to hide themselves in the primeval woods,--atthat auspicious period the lineage of Monte Beni had its rise. Itsprogenitor was a being not altogether human, yet partaking so largely ofthe gentlest human qualities, as to be neither awful nor shocking tothe imagination. A sylvan creature, native among the woods, had loveda mortal maiden, and--perhaps by kindness, and the subtile courtesieswhich love might teach to his simplicity, or possibly by a ruderwooing--had won her to his haunts. In due time he gained her womanlyaffection; and, making their bridal bower, for aught we know, in thehollow of a great tree, the pair spent a happy wedded life in thatancient neighborhood where now stood Donatello's tower.
From this union sprang a vigorous progeny that took its placeunquestioned among human families. In that age, however, and longafterwards, it showed the ineffaceable lineaments of its wild paternity:it was a pleasant and kindly race of men, but capable of savagefierceness, and never quite restrainable within the trammels of sociallaw. They were strong, active, genial, cheerful as the sunshine,passionate as the tornado. Their lives were rendered blissful by artunsought harmony with nature.
But, as centuries passed away, the Faun's wild blood had necessarilybeen attempered with constant intermixtures from the more ordinarystreams of human life. It lost many of its original qualities, andserved for the most part only to bestow an unconquerable vigor, whichkept the family from extinction, and enabled them to make their own partgood throughout the perils and rude emergencies of their interminabledescent. In the constant wars with which Italy was plagued, by thedissensions of her petty states and republics, there was a demand fornative hardihood.
The successive members of the Monte Beni family showed valor and policyenough' at all events, to keep their hereditary possessions out of theclutch of grasping neighbors, and probably differed very little from theother feudal barons with whom they fought and feasted. Such a degreeof conformity with the manners of the generations through which itsurvived, must have been essential to the prolonged continuance of therace.
It is well known, however, that any hereditary peculiarity--as asupernumerary finger, or an anomalous shape of feature, like theAustrian lip--is wont to show itself in a family after a very waywardfashion. It skips at its own pleasure along the line, and, latent forhalf a century or so, crops out again in a great-grandson. And thus, itwas said, from a period beyond memory or record, there had ever andanon been a descendant of the Monte Benis bearing nearly all thecharacteristics that were attributed to the original founder of therace. Some traditions even went so far as to enumerate the ears, coveredwith a delicate fur, and shaped like a pointed leaf, among the proofsof authentic descent which were seen in these favored individuals. Weappreciate the beauty of such tokens of a nearer kindred to the greatfamily of nature than other mortals bear; but it would be idle to askcredit for a statement which might be deemed to partake so largely ofthe grotesque.
But it was indisputable that, once in a century or oftener, a son ofMonte Beni gathered into himself the scattered qualities of hisrace, and reproduced the character that had been assigned to it fromimmemorial times. Beautiful, strong, brave, kindly, sincere, ofhonest impulses, and endowed with simple tastes and the love of homelypleasures, he was believed to possess gifts by which he could associatehimself with the wild things of the forests, and with the fowls of theair, and could feel a sympathy even with the trees; among which it washis joy to dwell. On the other hand, there were deficiencies both ofintellect and heart, and especially, as it seemed, in the development ofthe higher portion of man's nature. These defects were less perceptiblein early youth, but showed themselves more strongly with advancingage, when, as the animal spirits settled down upon a lower level, therepresentative of the Monte Benis was apt to become sensual, addicted togross pleasures, heavy, unsympathizing, and insulated within the narrowlimits of a surly selfishness.
A similar change, indeed, is no more than what we constantly observe totake place in persons who are not careful to substitute other graces forthose which they inevitably lose along with the quick sensibility andjoyous vivacity of youth. At worst, the reigning Count of Monte Beni,as his hair grew white, was still a jolly old fellow over his flask ofwine, the wine that Bacchus himself was fabled to have taught his sylvanancestor how to express, and from what choicest grapes, which wouldripen only in a certain divinely favored po
The family, be it observed, were both proud and ashamed of theselegends; but whatever part of them they might consent to incorporateinto their ancestral history, they steadily repudiated all that referredto their one distinctive feature, the pointed and furry ears. In a greatmany years past, no sober credence had been yielded to the mythicalportion of the pedigree. It might, however, be considered as typifyingsome such assemblage of qualities--in this case, chiefly remarkable fortheir simplicity and naturalness--as, when they reappear in successivegenerations, constitute what we call family character. The sculptorfound, moreover, on the evidence of some old portraits, that thephysical features of the race had long been similar to what he now sawthem in Donatello. With accumulating years, it is true, the MonteBeni face had a tendency to look grim and savage; and, in two or threeinstances, the family pictures glared at the spectator in the eyes likesome surly animal, that had lost its good humor when it outlived itsplayfulness.
The young Count accorded his guest full liberty to investigate thepersonal annals of these pictured worthies, as well as all the restof his progenitors; and ample materials were at hand in many chests ofworm-eaten papers and yellow parchments, that had been gathering intolarger and dustier piles ever since the dark ages. But, to confess thetruth, the information afforded by these musty documents was so muchmore prosaic than what Kenyon acquired from Tomaso's legends, that eventhe superior authenticity of the former could not reconcile him to itsdullness. What especially delighted the sculptor was the analogy betweenDonatello's character, as he himself knew it, and those peculiar traitswhich the old butler's narrative assumed to have been long hereditaryin the race. He was amused at finding, too, that not only Tomaso but thepeasantry of the estate and neighboring village recognized his friendas a genuine Monte Beni, of the original type. They seemed to cherish agreat affection for the young Count, and were full of stories about hissportive childhood; how he had played among the little rustics, and beenat once the wildest and the sweetest of them all; and how, in his veryinfancy, he had plunged into the deep pools of the streamlets and neverbeen drowned, and had clambered to the topmost branches of tall treeswithout ever breaking his neck. No such mischance could happen to thesylvan child because, handling all the elements of nature so fearlesslyand freely, nothing had either the power or the will to do him harm.
He grew up, said these humble friends, the playmate not only of allmortal kind, but of creatures of the woods; although, when Kenyonpressed them for some particulars of this latter mode of companionship,they could remember little more than a few anecdotes of a pet fox, whichused to growl and snap at everybody save Donatello himself.
But they enlarged--and never were weary of the theme--upon theblithesome effects of Donatello's presence in his rosy childhood andbudding youth. Their hovels had always glowed like sunshine when heentered them; so that, as the peasants expressed it, their young masterhad never darkened a doorway in his life. He was the soul of vintagefestivals. While he was a mere infant, scarcely able to run alone, ithad been the custom to make him tread the winepress with his tenderlittle feet, if it were only to crush one cluster of the grapes. And thegrape-juice that gushed beneath his childish tread, be it ever so smallin quantity, sufficed to impart a pleasant flavor to a whole cask ofwine. The race of Monte Beni--so these rustic chroniclers assuredthe sculptor--had possessed the gift from the oldest of old times ofexpressing good wine from ordinary grapes, and a ravishing liquor fromthe choice growth of their vineyard.
In a word, as he listened to such tales as these, Kenyon could haveimagined that the valleys and hillsides about him were a veritableArcadia; and that Donatello was not merely a sylvan faun, but the genialwine god in his very person. Making many allowances for the poeticfancies of Italian peasants, he set it down for fact that his friend, ina simple way and among rustic folks, had been an exceedingly delightfulfellow in his younger days.
But the contadini sometimes added, shaking their heads and sighing, thatthe young Count was sadly changed since he went to Rome. The villagegirls now missed the merry smile with which he used to greet them.
The sculptor inquired of his good friend Tomaso, whether he, too,had noticed the shadow which was said to have recently fallen overDonatello's life.
"Ah, yes, Signore!" answered the old butler, "it is even so, sincehe came back from that wicked and miserable city. The world has growneither too evil, or else too wise and sad, for such men as the oldCounts of Monte Beni used to be. His very first taste of it, as you see,has changed and spoilt my poor young lord. There had not been a singlecount in the family these hundred years or more, who was so true a MonteBeni, of the antique stamp, as this poor signorino; and now it bringsthe tears into my eyes to hear him sighing over a cup of Sunshine! Ah,it is a sad world now!"
"Then you think there was a merrier world once?" asked Kenyon.
"Surely, Signore," said Tomaso; "a merrier world, and merrier Counts ofMonte Beni to live in it! Such tales of them as I have heard, when I wasa child on my grandfather's knee! The good old man remembered a lord ofMonte Beni--at least, he had heard of such a one, though I will not makeoath upon the holy crucifix that my grandsire lived in his time who usedto go into the woods and call pretty damsels out of the fountains, andout of the trunks of the old trees. That merry lord was known to dancewith them a whole long summer afternoon! When shall we see such frolicsin our days?"
"Not soon, I am afraid," acquiesced the sculptor. "You are right,excellent Tomaso; the world is sadder now!"
And, in truth, while our friend smiled at these wild fables, he sighedin the same breath to think how the once genial earth produces, in everysuccessive generation, fewer flowers than used to gladden the precedingones. Not that the modes and seeming possibilities of human enjoymentare rarer in our refined and softened era,--on the contrary, they neverbefore were nearly so abundant,--but that mankind are getting so farbeyond the childhood of their race that they scorn to be happy anylonger. A simple and joyous character can find no place for itselfamong the sage and sombre figures that would put his unsophisticatedcheerfulness to shame. The entire system of man's affairs, as at presentestablished, is built up purposely to exclude the careless and happysoul. The very children would upbraid the wretched individual who shouldendeavor to take life and the world as w what we might naturally supposethem meant for--a place and opportunity for enjoyment.
It is the iron rule in our day to require an object and a purpose inlife. It makes us all parts of a complicated scheme of progress, whichcan only result in our arrival at a colder and drearier region thanwe were born in. It insists upon everybody's adding somewhat--a mite,perhaps, but earned by incessant effort--to an accumulated pile ofusefulness, of which the only use will be, to burden our posterity witheven heavier thoughts and more inordinate labor than our own. No lifenow wanders like an unfettered stream; there is a mill-wheel for thetiniest rivulet to turn. We go all wrong, by too strenuous a resolutionto go all right.
Therefore it was--so, at least, the sculptor thought, although partlysuspicious of Donatello's darker misfortune--that the young Count foundit impossible nowadays to be what his forefathers had been. He couldnot live their healthy life of animal spirits, in their sympathy withnature, and brotherhood with all that breathed around them. Nature, inbeast, fowl, and tree, and earth, flood, and sky, is what it was of old;but sin, care, and self-consciousness have set the human portion of theworld askew; and thus the simplest character is ever the soonest to goastray.
"At any rate, Tomaso," said Kenyon, doing his best to comfort the oldman, "let us hope that your young lord will still enjoy himself atvintage time. By the aspect of the vineyard, I judge that this will bea famous year for the golden wine of Monte Beni. As long as your grapesproduce that admirable liquor, sad as you think the world, neither theCount nor his guests will quite forget to smile."
"Ah, Signore," rejoined the butler with a sigh, "but he scarcely wetshis lips with the sunny juice."
"There is yet a
"Maybe not, Signore," said the sage butler, looking earnestly at him;"and, maybe, not a worse!"
The sculptor fancied that the good old man had it partly in his mind tomake some remark, or communicate some fact, which, on second thoughts,he resolved to keep concealed in his own breast. He now took hisdeparture cellarward, shaking his white head and muttering to himself,and did not reappear till dinner-time, when he favored Kenyon, whom hehad taken far into his good graces, with a choicer flask of Sunshinethan had yet blessed his palate.
To say the truth, this golden wine was no unnecessary ingredient towardsmaking the life of Monte Beni palatable. It seemed a pity that Donatellodid not drink a little more of it, and go jollily to bed at least,even if he should awake with an accession of darker melancholy the nextmorning.
Nevertheless, there was no lack of outward means for leading anagreeable life in the old villa. Wandering musicians haunted theprecincts of Monte Beni, where they seemed to claim a prescriptiveright; they made the lawn and shrubbery tuneful with the sound offiddle, harp, and flute, and now and then with the tangled squeaking ofa bagpipe. Improvisatori likewise came and told tales or recited versesto the contadini--among whom Kenyon was often an auditor--after theirday's work in the vineyard. Jugglers, too, obtained permission to dofeats of magic in the hall, where they set even the sage Tomaso, andStella, Girolamo, and the peasant girls from the farmhouse, all of abroad grin, between merriment and wonder. These good people got food andlodging for their pleasant pains, and some of the small wine of Tuscany,and a reasonable handful of the Grand Duke's copper coin, to keep upthe hospitable renown of Monte Beni. But very seldom had they the youngCount as a listener or a spectator.
There were sometimes dances by moonlight on the lawn, but never since hecame from Rome did Donatello's presence deepen the blushes of thepretty contadinas, or his footstep weary out the most agile partner orcompetitor, as once it was sure to do.
Paupers--for this kind of vermin infested the house of Monte Beni worsethan any other spot in beggar-haunted Italy--stood beneath all thewindows, making loud supplication, or even establishing themselves onthe marble steps of the grand entrance. They ate and drank, and filledtheir bags, and pocketed the little money that was given them, and wentforth on their devious ways, showering blessings innumerable on themansion and its lord, and on the souls of his deceased forefathers, whohad always been just such simpletons as to be compassionate tobeggary. But, in spite of their favorable prayers, by which Italianphilanthropists set great store, a cloud seemed to hang over these onceArcadian precincts, and to be darkest around the summit of the towerwhere Donatello was wont to sit and brood.