Two days passed, and Dale was standing, brush in hand, before his
canvas, thinking. He had made up his mind to trust to his imagination
to a great extent for the finishing of Juno's figure: this, with the
many classic sketches he had made in Greece and Rome, would, he
believed, enable him to be pretty well independent. He was in better
spirits, for he had heard nothing from Portland Place, and flattered
himself that the impression which had troubled him was growing fainter.
"Come in," he cried, as there was a tap at the door, and Keren-Happuch
appeared, evidently fresh from a study in black-lead, and holding a card
between a finger and thumb, guarded by her apron.
"Here's a model, sir, and she give me this."
Dale took a very dirty card, which looked as if it had been for some
time in an old waistcoat pocket. Printed thereon were the words--"Dú
Jaggs. Head and face. Roman fathers, etc," and written on the back in
pencil, in Jaggs' cramped hand--
"Signora Azatchy Figgers."
"Where is she, Miranda?"
"On the front door mat, sir. And please, Mr. Dale, sir, mayn't I bring
you some beef-tea?"
"No, thank you, Miranda. Bring up the visitor instead."
"Oh, dear! he do worry me," muttered Keren-Happuch. "I do hope he ain't
going into a decline."
Dale smiled at the dirty card, and waited for the entrance of the new
model, who was shown in directly by the grimy maid, and immediately, in
a quick, jerky, excited way, looked sharply round the room before
turning her face to the artist as the girl closed the door.
On his side he gazed with cold indifference at his visitor, who, after
taking a couple of steps forward, stopped short, and he saw that she was
rather tall, wore a closely fitting bonnet, over which a thick dark
Shetland wool veil was drawn, and was draped from head to foot in a long
black cloak, which had evidently seen a good deal of service.
"Signora Azacci?" said Dale, glancing at the card again, and making a
good shot at her name.
It was evidently correct, for the woman said, in a husky voice, as if
suffering from intense nervousness--
"Si, si."
"You are willing to stand for me--for this picture?" said Dale, scanning
her closely, but learning nothing respecting her figure on account of
the cloak; and he spoke very coldly, for the woman's actions on entering
struck him as being angular and awkward; now they were jerky, as she
raised her hands to her temples.
"No Inglese, signore," she said then, excitedly; and again, after an
embarrassed pause, "Parlate Italiano?--No?"
"No," said Dale, shaking his head.
Her hands again came from beneath her cloak in a despairing gesture.
Then, placing one to her forehead, she looked round at the lumber of
paintings and properties, as if seeking for a way to express herself,
till her eyes lit upon the great uncovered canvas. Bending forward in a
quick, alert way, she uttered a low, peculiar cry, and almost ran to it,
leaned forward again, as if examining, and then, with extreme rapidity,
pointed to the blank place in the picture where Lady Dellatoria's face
stood out weirdly. She then took a few quick steps aside from where
Dale stood, frowning and annoyed at what seemed to be a hopeless waste
of time. Then, with a rapid movement, she unclasped the cloak, swept it
from her shoulders, and holding it only with her left hand, let it fall
in many folds to the floor, while as she stood before him now in a
plainly made, tightly fitting black cloth princess dress, she
instinctively fell into almost the very attitude Dale had in his mind's
eye, and he saw at once that her figure must be all that he wished.
"Bravo!" he cried involuntarily, and with an artist's pleasure in an
intelligence that grasps his ideas.
At the word "Bravo!" the woman turned her head quickly.
"Excellent," he continued; "that promises well."
Her face was hidden, but as she shrugged up her shoulders nearly to her
ears, and raised her hands with the fingers contracted and toward him,
he felt that she must be wrinkling up her forehead and making a grimace
expressive of her vexation.
"Yes, it is tiresome," he said; "but we don't want to talk. I dare say
I can make you understand. But I've forgotten every word I picked up in
Rome."
"Ah!" cried the woman, with quick pantomimic action, as she changed her
attitude again, and leant toward him--"Roma--Roma?"
"Si, si."
"My lord has been in Rome?" she cried in Italian.
"I think I understand that," muttered Dale, "and if your form proves to
be equal to your quick intelligence, my picture will be painted. Now
then, signora, this is a language I dare say you can understand. Here
are two half-crowns. For two hours--`due ore.'"
"Si, si," she cried eagerly, and she almost snatched the coins and held
them to her veiled lips.
"Silver keys to your understanding, madam," he muttered, taking a
mahlstick from where it stood against a chair. "Humph! I begin to be
hopeful. Yes, more than hopeful," he continued, as the model was
rapidly drawing off her shabby, carefully mended gloves, before taking a
little common portemonnaie from her pocket and dropping the coins in one
by one. Then aloud, as he pointed with the mahlstick, "La bella mano."
"Aha!" she cried quickly. But she gave her shoulders another shrug, and
shook the purse, saying sadly--"Pel povero padre."
"`Padre.' For her father," muttered Dale. "Not so sordid as I thought,
poor thing. Will you remove your veil?"
She leaned toward him.
"I said, Will you remove your veil?--Hang it, what is veil in Italian?
`Velum' in Latin."
She was evidently trying hard to grasp his meaning, and at the Latin
"velum" she clapped her beautifully formed hands to her veil.
"No, no!" she cried haughtily; and then volubly, in Italian--"I am
compelled to do this for bread. I do not know you, neither need you
know me. My face is not beautiful, and we are strangers. You wish to
paint my figure. I will retain my veil."
"I do not understand you, signora, and yet I have a glimmering of what
you wish to express," said Dale, as gravely as if his visitor could
grasp every word. "There, you seem to be a lady, and--hang it all, this
is very absurd, my preaching to you, and you to me. I wish Pacey were
here. He speaks Italian like a native. No, poor lass, I suppose they
must be starving nearly, or she would not stoop to this. I don't wish
Joe Pacey were here."
Then quietly bowing as if acceding to her wishes, he made a sign to his
visitor to take her attention, and as she watched him from behind her
thick veil, he walked to the entrance and turned the key.
Crossing the studio to the farther door, he threw it open, and then drew
forward from the end of the great room a large folding-screen, which he
placed at the back of the dais and opened wide.
"There, signora," he said, "I am at your service;" and he pointed to the
inner room, turned from her, and walked to the canvas.
The model stood motionless for a moment or two, and then caught up the
great cloak from where it lay upon the floor.
"Grazie, Signore," she said then, with quiet dignity, and she was
hurrying across to the inner room, but he arrested her.
"One moment," he said, with grave respect, and the chivalrous manner of
a true gentleman toward one whose tones seemed to suggest that she
trusted him. "Let us arrange the pose first. Look at the picture:
study it well. You see the subject."
Dale continued speaking, but kept on pointing to the scene he had
depicted, and, to his intense gratification, she threw the cloak across
a chair back, gazed intently at the picture for a few moments, letting
her eyes rest longest upon the beautiful, scornful face, and then went
quickly to the dais, stepped up, turned, and with rare intelligence fell
once more into the very position he desired, bettering in fact that
which she had sketched at first.
"Eccellentissimo!" he cried; and then she stepped down quickly, and
glided into the inner room, while Dale gazed at his painting with a
feeling of triumph sweeping away the morbid thoughts which had troubled
him so long.
"Art is my mistress after all," he said to himself, as he glanced upward
to see that the skylight was properly blinded, and then, going to a box,
rapidly prepared his palette, armed himself with a sheaf of brushes, and
altered the position of his easel a little.
He was hardly ready when he heard the slight rattle of the handle, a
faint rustling sound, and the swinging of the door again.
But he did not turn as a light step passed behind him, and a faint
creaking sound announced that the model had mounted upon the dais.
He raised his eyes, and she was standing there apparently as he had seen
her first, closely veiled, and still draped in the long, heavy, black
cloak.
Then, with a quick movement, the long garment was thrown aside, and the
model stood before him in the very attitude, and the perfection of her
womanly beauty--a beauty made hideous in the ghastly effect produced by
the black face and head swathed in the thick veil.
But this passed unnoticed by the artist, who, with a triumphant
ejaculation, began to sketch rapidly, as he muttered to himself without
vanity--
"Pacey is right: my canvas must be a success."