Several weeks before Muzio's return Fabio had begun a portrait of his
wife, depicting her with the attributes of Saint Cecilia.--He had made
noteworthy progress in his art; the famous Luini, the pupil of Leonardo
da Vinci, had come to him in Ferrara, and aiding him with his own
advice, had also imparted to him the precepts of his great master. The
portrait was almost finished; it only remained for him to complete the
face by a few strokes of the brush, and then Fabio might feel justly
proud of his work.
When Muzio departed to Ferrara, Fabio betook himself to his studio,
where Valeria was generally awaiting him; but he did not find her there;
he called to her--she did not respond. A secret uneasiness took
possession of Fabio; he set out in quest of her. She was not in the
house; Fabio ran into the garden--and there, in one of the most remote
alleys, he descried Valeria. With head bowed upon her breast, and hands
clasped on her knees, she was sitting on a bench, and behind her,
standing out against the dark green of a cypress, a marble satyr, with
face distorted in a malicious smile, was applying his pointed lips to
his reed-pipes. Valeria was visibly delighted at her husband's
appearance, and in reply to his anxious queries she said that she had a
slight headache, but that it was of no consequence, and that she was
ready for the sitting. Fabio conducted her to his studio, posed her, and
took up his brush; but, to his great vexation, he could not possibly
finish the face as he would have liked. And that not because it was
somewhat pale and seemed fatigued ... no; but he did not find in it
that day the pure, holy expression which he so greatly loved in it, and
which had suggested to him the idea of representing Valeria in the form
of Saint Cecilia. At last he flung aside his brush, told his wife that
he was not in the mood, that ft would do her good to lie down for a
while, as she was not feeling quite well, to judge by her looks,--and
turned his easel so that the portrait faced the wall. Valeria agreed
with him that she ought to rest, and repeating her complaint of
headache, she retired to her chamber.
Fabio remained in the studio. He felt a strange agitation which was
incomprehensible even to himself. Muzio's sojourn under his roof, a
sojourn which he, Fabio, had himself invited, embarrassed him. And it
was not that he was jealous ... was it possible to be jealous of
Valeria?--but in his friend he did not recognise his former comrade. All
that foreign, strange, new element which Muzio had brought with him from
those distant lands--and which, apparently, had entered into his very
flesh and blood,---all those magical processes, songs, strange
beverages, that dumb Malay, even the spicy odour which emanated from
Muzio's garments, from his hair, his breath,--all this inspired in Fabio
a feeling akin to distrust, nay, even to timidity. And why did that
Malay, when serving at table, gaze upon him, Fabio, with such
disagreeable intentness? Really, one might suppose that he understood
Italian. Muzio had said concerning him, that that Malay, in paying the
penalty with his tongue, had made a great sacrifice, and in compensation
now possessed great power.--What power? And how could he have acquired
it at the cost of his tongue? All this was very strange! Very
incomprehensible!
Fabio went to his wife in her chamber; she was lying on the bed fully
dressed, but was not asleep.--On hearing his footsteps she started, then
rejoiced again to see him, as she had done in the garden. Fabio sat down
by the bed, took Valeria's hand, and after a brief pause, he asked her,
"What was that remarkable dream which had frightened her during the past
night? And had it been in the nature of that dream which Muzio had
related?"
Valeria blushed and said hastily--"Oh, no! no! I saw ... some sort of a
monster, which tried to rend me."
"A monster? In the form of a man?" inquired Fabio.
"No, a wild beast ... a wild beast!"--And Valeria turned away and hid
her flaming face in the pillows. Fabio held his wife's hand for a while
longer; silently he raised it to his lips, and withdrew.
The husband and wife passed a dreary day. It seemed as though something
dark were hanging over their heads ... but what it was, they could not
tell. They wanted to be together, as though some danger were menacing
them;--but what to say to each other, they did not know. Fabio made an
effort to work at the portrait, to read Ariosto, whose poem, which had
recently made its appearance in Ferrara, was already famous throughout
Italy; but he could do nothing.... Late in the evening, just in time for
supper, Muzio returned.