“You were going to tell me some anecdote,” Laura observed as Leicester
quitted the studio.
The Cicerone, who was a venerable-looking old man with grey hair and a
thoroughly Italian cast of features, placed a chair for the lady before
a view in Venice, at which she had not yet looked, and then resumed--
“_Favorisca di sedersi la prego Signora_. I was going to relate how the
Signore whom I serve generously rescued me from ruin; but to do so I
must trouble the Eccellenza with a few particulars of my own history.
I was originally educated as a painter, but although I was a correct
copyist, and possessed some skill in mixing colours, I had not the
_afflatus_, the inexplicable, the divine gift of genius, which cannot be
acquired. Look at these pictures,” he continued, warming into enthusiasm
as lie pointed to the paintings from the “Giaour”; “in my prime I could
execute better than that, my colouring was richer and smoother, my
shades less hard and abrupt, though to acquire that skill had cost me
fifteen years’ constant study; but alas! the mind was wanting. I could
execute but I could not conceive--my pictures would never have entranced
any one as you were entranced before those great soul-creations!” He
paused, sighed deeply, then resumed: “So I grew poor, I had a wife and
children to support, and I bent my pride to become a scene-painter at
the Fenice Theatre. I worked there twenty long years, and then from over
use my eyesight grew dim, and they discarded me. After that I was
employed by the great painter of the day, Signore B--elli, to prepare
canvas and mix colours for the young artists whom he instructed. A year
and a half ago a pupil came to study with him--he was a stranger----”
“Of what country?” inquired Laura eagerly.
“I cannot inform the Signora. He speaks French, German, Italian,
and very rarely English, equally well, but I do not think he is a
fellow-countryman of mine. The other young artists who frequented
B--elli’s studio would often tease me for sport, but the Signore was
always kind, and would not permit them to do so when he was present. One
day a pupil, who was finishing the drapery of a Madonna and Child, of
which picture all the more important parts had been painted by B--elli
himself, called to me to bring him some particular colour which he
required--in my haste I stumbled and overthrew a flask of oil, which
fell upon the not yet dry painting, entirely obliterating the features
of the Madonna. Irritated at the difficulty into which I had plunged
both him and myself, the student sprang up and seized me by the throat;
in a moment the Signore Luigi interfered, and compressing the youth’s
arm in his powerful grasp, forced him to release me.
“‘Remember, Carlo,’ he said gently, ‘Antonelli is an old man.’
“‘He has ruined himself and me!’ exclaimed the other, clasping his hands
in despair; ‘B--elli will discharge him without doubt, and me he will
refuse to instruct any longer.’
“‘Perhaps there is yet an alternative,’ urged the Signore Luigi;
‘B--elli will not return till to-morrow morning; much may be done in
eighteen hours; I will strive to restore the face.’
“He immediately set to work; fortunately he paints with as much
quickness as skill. When night drew near he dismissed us; through the
long hours of darkness he laboured incessantly, pausing neither for
sleep nor refreshment. With the earliest ray of dawn I was again at the
studio: he was painting still, calm, earnest, grave, as is his wont,
only appearing a little paler than usual; but such a work of art had
grown beneath his hand, such a marvellous creation! the Madonna herself
could not have appeared more lovely than was that heavenly face. It was
completed ere B--elli arrived; when he beheld it he was amazed.
“What inspired hand has traced those features?” he demanded. The
history was related to him. He once more examined the picture, then
turning to the Signore, who stood near with folded arms, gazing on the
other’s excitement with an air of cold indifference, he exclaimed in a
tone of mingled admiration and rage, “Go, I can teach thee no longer; it
is thou shouldst be the master.”
“The Signore took him at his word. He engaged these painting rooms,
arranged with B--elli that I should accompany him, and is now the first
painter in Italy as to talent, and when his execution is a little more
perfected--ah! _se ne saprà qualche cosa_, we shall see how men will
talk of him!”
“And the head was very lovely, was it? what style of face was it?”
inquired Laura.
“How can I tell you? it was perfection, _vi bisognava vederla_,” was the
enthusiastic reply. “Stay,” he continued, glancing at the clock, which
now only wanted ten minutes to five; “I have an idea; there is yet time,
but you must never relate that you have beheld it. Here, follow me;” and
drawing out a key, he unlocked a door leading into a small apartment,
comfortably though simply furnished, and fitted up with bookshelves
somewhat after the fashion of an English study. “_Ecco!_” resumed
Antonelli, “he has again sketched the head, but the subject is
different. He will not allow me to place this picture in the studio,
though it is such a gem I could sell it for a large price.”
As he spoke he drew back a curtain, and the light fell upon a small
picture painted with greater care, and more elaborately finished than
any which Laura had yet seen. It represented a girl of exquisite beauty
in a kneeling attitude, with her arms flung sportively around the neck
of a magnificent dog, her golden tresses falling over and mingling with
the waves of his shaggy coat.
As Laura gazed her colour went and came quickly, and her eyes seemed to
grow to the canvas: both girl and dog were portraits done to the life,
and she recognised each of them immediately--her wild conjecture was
then the truth!--her determination was instantly taken. Seating herself
as if to examine the picture more nearly, she contrived by one or
two artful questions to set the garrulous old man talking again, and
forgetful of the flight of moments, drew him on to relate to her how the
Signore had discovered that his youngest born, the son of his old age,
possessed a talent for painting, and how the Signore was giving him
lessons, and the talent was daily developing under such favourable
circumstances, until the old man had begun to hope that the boy might
succeed better than his father had done, and retrieve the shipwrecked
fortunes of the Antonellis.
While he was yet in the midst of his recital the clock struck five, and
almost at the same moment a quick, active footstep was heard bounding up
the staircase, and the deep tones of a man’s voice exclaimed--
“_Antonelli, Antonelli, dove sei buon amico?_”
With a horror-stricken glance at his companion, the old man was about to
rush precipitately out of the room, when Laura, quietly laying her hand
upon his arm, said--
“There is nothing to be alarmed about! _bisogna ch’io gli parli_--tell
the Signore that an old friend is waiting to see him.”
As she spoke a tall, graceful figure appeared at the door of the study,
and stopped in amazement on perceiving how it was tenanted. In no way
embarrassed by the situation in which she found herself, Laura rose from
her seat with the same degree of quiet, courteous, self-possession with
which she would have received a guest in her own drawing-room, and
advancing towards the new-comer, said, holding out her hand--
“Your kindness will pardon the little stratagem by which I have sought
to verify my conjecture, that in Signore Luigi I should have the
pleasure of recognising an old friend.”
“Leave us, Antonelli,” exclaimed his employer sternly; then carefully
closing the door, he turned towards his guest, and bowing coldly,
inquired, “To what am I indebted for the honour of a visit from Mrs.
Leicester?”
“To the fact that I was vain enough to fancy the pleasure I feel in
meeting an old friend might be mutual; and that Mr. Arundel would not
resent the liberty I have taken in disregarding the regulations of the
famous Signore Luigi: if I am so unfortunate as to have committed a
mistake, it is soon remedied,” she continued quickly, finding
that Lewis--(as we have not intended any but the most transparent
mystification in regard to the identity of the painter and our hero, we
may as well call him by his proper name)--remained silent; as she spoke
she rose and advanced towards the door. Her look and words recalled
Lewis’s wandering thoughts; he took her hand, reconducted her to her
seat, and then in a tone of deep feeling said--
“Forgive me! but you do not, cannot know the train of overpowering
memories your sudden appearance called up; indeed I am glad again to
look upon the face of an old friend, since you accord me the privilege
of so considering you--glad as a two years’ exile from all who ever knew
or cared for him can make a man.”
“Is it so long since you quitted England?” inquired Laura.
“It is,” was the reply. Lewis paused, and then continued: “I
left England under circumstances which caused me great mental
suffering--suffering which time and a complete change of scene could
alone render less bitter. I travelled for five months, passing through
Greece and visiting Constantinople; at the expiration of that period I
wandered hither, my vigour of mind and body in great measure restored.
The wonders of this country revived my enthusiasm for art; this, and the
necessity of following some profession, led me to the idea of adopting
the career of a painter. For a year I worked ten hours daily in the
studio of Signore B--elli, at the end of that period I quitted him and
commenced painting on my own account; hitherto my success has surpassed
my most sanguine expectations, so that I trust I have at last hit upon
my true vocation.”
“I am so delighted to hear it!” exclaimed Laura warmly; “but how is it
we have seen nothing of you before--did you not hear of our arrival? we
have been here more than a month!”
Lewis coloured, bit his lip, and then replied, “My recollections of
England were so painful that I resolved, partly for that reason, partly
that I might keep my mind free from any anxieties which could interfere
with my devoting my faculties fully and entirely to my new profession,
to avoid the society of the few English who were likely to come in my
way; indeed, my only associates have been the young artists with whom I
became acquainted in the studio of B--elli, and the family of the worthy
old man who acts as my assistant.”
“But you will make us exceptions to the rule?” pleaded Laura; “Charles
will be really hurt if you refuse to come to us.” Lewis paused, his
impulse was to refuse, but there was a genuine kindness in Laura’s
manner which vouched for her sincerity; had she been a man he would have
adhered to his resolution, but it was not easy to say no to Laura.
“Forgive my apparent churlishness,” he began, “but may I ask whether you
have any of--of your English friends staying with you?”
“Not at present; Charles and I are leading a quiet, humdrum Darby and
Joan life, which need not alarm even your hermit-like habits. You must
promise to dine with us to-morrow at six.”
“You are most good-natured to humour what must appear to you my absurd
caprices,” replied Lewis, touched by her thoughtful kindness.
“But you will come?” she said, holding out her hand to him.
Lewis took it in his own, and pressed it warmly as he replied, “Nobody
could resist such gentle pleading.”
At this moment the door was flung open, and Charles Leicester burst in,
looking more puzzled, excited, and angry than he had ever been known
to do in the previous course of his existence; while Antonelli,
vociferating eagerly in Italian and broken English, was vainly
endeavouring to detain him.