In a rich, tense voice Armstrong read from the sheets which he gathered together in proper sequence:
“‘Michelangelo himself has given us in his marbles the truest interpretation of the times in which he lived. After analyzing his correspondence and deducing from this the customs of the people, we turn to a consideration of the principles which lay beneath. The sculptor was a poet, and the soul of the poet found expression not through his words but through his hands. In the sacristy of San Lorenzo there are the tombs of the Medici, designed by Michelangelo. They are unfinished, as is typical of the period in which they were designed. At the entrance to these tombs rest allegorical figures, which to the casual observer indicate phases of darkness and of light, of death and of life. They are two women and two men, and tradition names them ‘Night’ and ‘Day,’ ‘Twilight’ and ‘Dawning.’ To one who analyzes them, however, after a profound study of the times in which they were produced, comes a realization that they typify the character and the religious belief of the people themselves. These statues and their attendant genii are a series of abstractions, symbolizing the sleep and waking of existence, action, and thought, the gloom of death, the lustre of life, and the intermediate states of sadness and of hope that form the borderland of both. Life is a dream between two slumbers; sleep is death’s twin-brother; night is the shadow of death, and death is the gate of life.
“‘In each of these statues there is a palpitating thought, torn from the artist’s soul and crystallized in marble. It has been said that architecture is petrified music; each of these statues becomes for us a passion, fit for musical expression, but turned, like Niobe, to stone. They have the intellectual vagueness, the emotional certainty that belong to the motives of a symphony. In their allegories, left without a key, sculpture has passed beyond her old domain of placid concrete form. The anguish of intolerable emotion, the quickening of the consciousness to a sense of suffering, the acceptance of the inevitable, the strife of the soul with destiny, the burden and the passion of mankind—this is the symbolism of the period as expressed by their cold, chisel-tortured marble.’”
“Splendid, my son!” spoke Cerini’s proud voice as the librarian advanced toward them out of the dim recess in which he had been standing; “that is a fitting ending to a magnificent work. Your use of the statues as symbolisms of their period is masterly. I myself have felt it often, but with me the feeling has never found expression.”
“What a period that was!” exclaimed Armstrong. “How it seizes one, even now, after four hundred years! Padre,” he said to Cerini, after a moment’s pause, “you say that this work of mine is good?”
“If that is so,” continued Armstrong, impressively, “it is no more to my credit than if Machiavelli or Leonardo or the Buonarroti himself had written it. It is they who have held my hand and guided my pen.”
“Ah, my son,” cried Cerini, with delight, “you are indeed a true humanist—a man in whom the ancients take delight! Too bad that you must drop it all, after your brief experience among this galaxy of greatness, to return to the humdrum of commonplace existence—too bad, too bad!”
“I shall never give it up, padre,” Armstrong replied, firmly; “I could not if I tried.” He paused as he recalled Helen’s wan face and spiritless step. “I have been too intense. I owe it to my wife to share with her interests which lie along other lines, but my life-work has already been plotted out for me. I met these gods years ago, and I did not know them; I felt them calling me back to them, and I obeyed. They have let me sip their cup of wisdom, and he who once tastes that delectable draught runs the risk of becoming no longer his own master. I must leave them for a breathing-spell; I can never wholly give myself to them again; but never fear, I shall ever come back to them. I could not help it if I tried.”
The librarian watched the enthusiasm of the younger man with rapture.