It was in June that the sculptor, Kenyon, arrived on horseback at the
gate of an ancient country house (which, from some of its features,
might almost be called a castle) situated in a part of Tuscany somewhat
remote from the ordinary track of tourists. Thither we must now
accompany him, and endeavor to make our story flow onward, like a
streamlet, past a gray tower that rises on the hillside, overlooking a
spacious valley, which is set in the grand framework of the Apennines.
The sculptor had left Rome with the retreating tide of foreign
residents. For, as summer approaches, the Niobe of Nations is made to
bewail anew, and doubtless with sincerity, the loss of that large
part of her population which she derives from other lands, and on whom
depends much of whatever remnant of prosperity she still enjoys. Rome,
at this season, is pervaded and overhung with atmospheric terrors, and
insulated within a charmed and deadly circle. The crowd of wandering
tourists betake themselves to Switzerland, to the Rhine, or, from this
central home of the world, to their native homes in England or America,
which they are apt thenceforward to look upon as provincial, after
once having yielded to the spell of the Eternal City. The artist, who
contemplates an indefinite succession of winters in this home of art
(though his first thought was merely to improve himself by a brief
visit), goes forth, in the summer time, to sketch scenery and costume
among the Tuscan hills, and pour, if he can, the purple air of Italy
over his canvas. He studies the old schools of art in the mountain towns
where they were born, and where they are still to be seen in the faded
frescos of Giotto and Cimabue, on the walls of many a church, or in
the dark chapels, in which the sacristan draws aside the veil from a
treasured picture of Perugino.
Thence, the happy painter goes to walk
the long, bright galleries of Florence, or to steal glowing colors from
the miraculous works, which he finds in a score of Venetian palaces.
Such summers as these, spent amid whatever is exquisite in art, or wild
and picturesque in nature, may not inadequately repay him for the chill
neglect and disappointment through which he has probably languished, in
his Roman winter. This sunny, shadowy, breezy, wandering life, in which
he seeks for beauty as his treasure, and gathers for his winter's honey
what is but a passing fragrance to all other men, is worth living for,
come afterwards what may. Even if he die unrecognized, the artist has
had his share of enjoyment and success.
Kenyon had seen, at a distance of many miles, the old villa or castle
towards which his journey lay, looking from its height over a broad
expanse of valley. As he drew nearer, however, it had been hidden among
the inequalities of the hillside, until the winding road brought him
almost to the iron gateway. The sculptor found this substantial barrier
fastened with lock and bolt. There was no bell, nor other instrument
of sound; and, after summoning the invisible garrison with his voice,
instead of a trumpet, he had leisure to take a glance at the exterior of
the fortress.