Set square and dark against the pale blue of the Italian sky the
Palazzo Sovrani, seen for the first time, suggests a prison rather than
a dwelling house,--a forbidding structure, which though of unsentient
marble, seems visibly to frown into the light, and exhale from itself a
cloud on the clearest day. Its lowest windows, raised several feet from
the ground, and barred across with huge iron clamps, altogether deprive
the would-be inquisitive stranger from the possibility of peering
within,--the monstrous iron gate, richly wrought with fantastic
scroll-work and heraldic emblems raised in brass, presents so cold and
forbidding a front that some of the youthful ladies who were Angela's
friends, were wont to declare that it gave them a palpitation of the
heart to summon up the necessary courage required to ring the great
bell. Within the house there was much of a similar gloom, save in
Angela's own studio, which she had herself made beautiful with a
brightness and lightness found in no other corner of the vast and
stately abode. Her father, Prince Pietro Sovrani, was of a reserved and
taciturn nature,--poor but intensely proud--and he would suffer no
interference by so much as a word or a suggestion respecting the manner
in which he chose to arrange or to order his household. His wife Gita
Bonpre, the only sister of the good Cardinal, had been the one love of
his life,--and when she died all his happiness had died with her,--his
heart was broken, but he showed nothing of his grief to the outside
world, save that in manner he was more silent and reserved than
ever,--more difficult to deal with,--more dangerous to approach. People
knew well enough that he was poor, but they never dared to mention
it,--though once an English acquaintance, moved by the best intentions
in the world, had suggested that he could make a good deal of money by
having a portion of the Palazzo Sovrani redecorated, and modernized, to
suit the comfort and convenience of travelling millionaires who might
probably be disposed to pay a high rent for it during the Roman
"season." But the proposal was disastrous in its results. Sovrani had
turned upon his adviser like an embodied thunder-cloud.
"When a prince of the House of Sovrani lets out apartments," he said,
"you may ask your English Queen to take in washing!"
And a saturnine smile, accompanied by the frowning bend of his white
fuzzy eyebrows over his flashing black eyes, had produced such a
withering, blistering effect on the soul of the unfortunate Englishman,
whose practical ideas of utility had exceeded his prudence, that he had
scarcely ever dared to look the irate Italian noble in the face again.
Just now, the Prince was in his library, seated in dignified
uprightness like a king enthroned to give audience, in a huge
high-backed chair, shadowed over by an ancient gilded baldacchino,
listening with a certain amount of grim patience to his daughter's
softly murmured narrative of her stay in Paris. He had received the
Cardinal an hour ago on his arrival, with first, a humble genuflexion
as became a son of the Church, and secondly with a kiss on both cheeks
as became a brother-in-law. The Cardinal's youthful companion Manual,
he had scarcely remarked, even while giving him welcome. These two had
gone to the suite of rooms prepared for the reception of His
Eminence,--but Angela, after hastily changing her travelling dress, had
come down to her father, anxious not only to give, but to hear
news--especially news of Florian Varillo. Prince Sovrani, however, was
not a man given to much social observation,--nor did he ever break
through his half cynical, half gloomy humour, to detail the gossip of
Rome, and he therefore sat more or less unmoved, while Angela told him
all she could think of that would interest him. At last with a little
delicate hesitation, she related the strange story of Abbe Vergniaud,
and added,
"And by this time, I suppose, the Holy Father has been told all!"
"Naturally," said the Prince, with a stern smile moving the hard
muscles of his mouth, "Moretti's love of scandal is as deep as that of
any old woman!--and the joy of excommunicating a soul from the
salvation of the Church must be too exquisite to admit of any delay! I
am sorry for Vergniaud, but I do not think he will suffer much. These
things are scarcely ever noticed in the press nowadays, and it will
only be a very limited circle that even learns of his excommunication.
Nevertheless, I am sorry--one is always sorry for brave men, even if
they are reckless. And the son is Gys Grandit! Corpo di Bacco! What a
denouement!"
He considered it a moment, looking straight before him at the rows of
ancient and musty books that adorned his walls,--then he gave a sudden
exclamation.
"Pesta! I had nearly forgotten! I knew there was a curious thing I had
to tell you, Angela,--but in the hurry of your arrival it had for the
moment escaped my mind . . ."
"About Florian?" asked Angela anxiously.
The Prince bent his brows upon her quizzically.
"Florian! What should I know about Florian? He has not been near me
since you left Rome. I fancy he will not be too attentive a son-in-law!
No, it is not about Florian. It is about your uncle Felix. Have you
heard of this miracle he has performed?"
Angela's eyes opened wide.
"A miracle! What do you mean by a miracle?"
"Santissima Madonna! A miracle is always a miracle," retorted her
father testily, "A something out of the common, and an upsetting of the
ordinary laws of nature. Did your uncle tell you nothing of his visit
to Rouen?"
"Nothing," replied Angela, "Nothing but the story of Manuel."
"Manuel? Who is he?"
"The boy he has with him now. Uncle Felix found him lost at night near
the Cathedral of Rouen, and has taken him under his protection ever
since."
"Altro! That is nothing!" said her father, "That is only one of Felix's
quixotic ideas. There is no miracle in that. But when a child is a
cripple from babyhood, and our Felix cures him by one simple prayer,
and makes him strong and well again--Gran Dio!--it is not remarkable
that such news creates a stir at the Vatican."
"But it cannot be true!" said Angela surprised, "Uncle Felix never said
a word about it. I am sure he knows nothing whatever of such a report!"
"Ebben! We will ask him presently,"--and the Prince raised himself
stiffly and slowly out of his throne-like chair, "Personally I have
considered Felix above any sort of priestly trickery; but after all, if
he has an ambition for the Papacy, I do not see why he should not play
for it. Others do!"
"Oh, father!" cried Angela, "How can you think such a thing of Uncle
Felix! He is as nearly a saint as any mortal man can be!"
"So I always thought, child--so I always thought!" replied the Prince,
with a vexed air, "But to perform such a miracle of healing as to cure
a child with a twisted spine and bent legs, by the mere utterance of a
prayer!--that is impossible!--impossible! It sounds like
charlatanism--not like Felix!"
As he spoke he straightened himself and stood upright, a tall, spare,
elegant figure of a man,--his dark complexioned face very much
resembling a fine bronze cast of the Emperor Aurelius. Angela rose too
and stood beside him, and his always more or less defiant eyes slowly
softened as he looked at her.
"You grow very like your mother," he said, with just the faintest
tremor in his voice--"Ah, la mia Gita!"
A sigh that was like a groan broke from his lips, and Angela laid her
head caressingly against his breast in silence. He touched her soft
hair tenderly.
"Very like your mother," he repeated, "Very like! But you will leave me
soon, as she has left me,--not for Heaven, no!--but for that doubtful
new life called marriage. It is not doubtful when there is love--love
in both hearts;--and if there is any difference at all, the love should
be greater on the man's side than on the woman's! Remember that, Angela
mia, remember that! The true lover is always spiritually on his knees
before the woman he loves; not only in passion, but in worship--in
reverence!"
"And is not Florian so?" murmured Angela timidly.
"I do not know, child; he may be! Sometimes I think that he loves
himself too much to love YOU as well as you deserve. But we shall see."
As he spoke a servant entered, carrying an exquisite basket of flowers,
and brought it to Angela who blushed and smiled divinely as she took it
and opened the envelope fastened to its handle and addressed to her,
which contained merely these words,--
"A la mia dolcezza! Con voto d'eterno amore!
"FLORIAN."
"Are they not lovely?" she said, bending over the blossoms tenderly as
though she would have taken them all into her embrace, "Such a sweet
welcome home!"
Her father nodded, but gave no verbal response to her enthusiasm.
Presently he said,
"How about your picture? When will it be finished?"
"A month's work will be enough now," she replied, looking up
quickly--"And then--"
"Then it will remain in one of the galleries unsold!" said Sovrani,
with a touch of bitterness in his tone which he could not quell, "You
have chosen too large a canvas. From mere size it is unsaleable,--for
unless it were a marvel of the world no nation would ever purchase a
woman's picture."
Angela's delicate head drooped,--she turned away to hide the tears that
rushed to her eyes. Her father's words were harsh, yet eminently
practical; she knew he did not mean them unkindly, but that the
continual pinch of poverty was sometimes greater than he could endure
with patience. Angela had earned considerable sums of money by the
smaller pictures which had established her name; and the Prince had
bitterly grudged the time she had given to the enormous canvas which
had now remained so long in her studio covered up, even from his
eyes--for he had made up his mind that it was one of those fantastic
dreams of genius, which when they become realised into the substance of
a book or a picture, terrify the timid conventions of the world so
completely as to cause general avoidance.
"If Raffaelle were alive he would not paint a 'Transfiguration' now,"
he was wont to say, "The Church no longer employs great artists. It
keeps its money for speculation purposes. If a Michael Angelo were in
Rome he would find nothing to do."
Which statement was true enough. For the modern Italian loves money
next to his own precious skin, and everything beautiful or sacred is
sacrificed to this insatiable craze. There is no love, no honour, no
patriotism in Italy without careful calculation as to the cost of
indulging in these sentiments,--and what wreck of religion is left
merely panders to the low melodramatic temper of an ignorant populace.
Art is at its lowest ebb, it cannot live without encouragement and
support--and it is difficult for even the most enthusiastic creator in
marble or colour to carry out glorious conceptions for an inglorious
country. But Angela Sovrani--ambitious Angela,--was not painting for
Italy. She was painting for the whole world. She had dreams of seeing
her great picture borne away out of Rome to Paris, and London, to be
gazed upon by thousands who would take its lesson home to their hearts
and lives. Italy was merely a village in the area of her aspiring mind;
but she built her "castles in the air" alone; and never by so much as
the smallest hint allowed anyone to guess the far reaching scope of her
intentions. Truth to tell, she had obtained very little encouragement
during her long days and months of work, though in the sweetness of her
nature she pleased herself by imagining that Florian Varillo gave her a
complete and perfect sympathy. Yet even with Florian, one or two casual
remarks he had let fall lightly and unthinkingly, had vaguely startled
her, and set her wondering, "Perhaps he does not think much of my
abilities after all"--and had caused her for once to be closely
reserved upon the subject and treatment of her work, and to refuse a
glimpse of it even to him who was her elect Beloved. She had thought he
would perhaps have been pained at this inviolate secrecy on her
part,--she had feared he might take offence at finding the doors of her
studio always locked,--but on the contrary he appeared quite amused at
her uncommunicative humour, and jested about it as if she were a little
child playing in a dark corner at some forbidden game. She was somewhat
surprised at this,--the more so as he frequently spoke of the
importance of his own pictures for the Roman "Art Season,"--pictures to
which he really gave the attentive discussion and consideration a man
always bestows on matters of his personal business--but often when
Angela's work was spoken of, he smiled with a kindly tolerance, as one
who should say, "Dear girl! How sweetly she embroiders her simple
sampler!" And yet again, he never failed, when asked about it in
Angela's presence, to say that he was "sure Donna Sovrani would
astonish the world by what she was doing!" So that one never quite knew
where to have him, his nature being that curious compound of obsequious
servility and intense self-love which so often distinguishes the
Italian temperament. Angela however put every shadow of either wonder
or doubt as to his views, entirely aside,--and worked on with an
earnest hand and trusting heart, faithfully and with a grand patience
and self-control seldom found either in masculine or feminine heroes.
Sometimes her spirit sank a little, as now, when her father told her
that her picture would remain unsold in one of the galleries--but all
the same, some force within her urged her to go on with her intention
steadily, and leave all results to God. And the tears that had sprung
to her eyes at the smart of old Sovrani's rough speech, soon returned
to their source; and she was quite her composed sweet self again when
her uncle the Cardinal, accompanied by Manuel, entered the room,
holding an open letter in his hand, and looking strangely agitated.
"Brother, here is a matter which I cannot possibly understand," he
said, "Monsignor Gherardi writes here to congratulate me upon a miracle
I have worked in Rouen!--and summons me at once to the presence of His
Holiness! What can it mean? I have performed no miracle! Surely some
jest is being played with me,--and one most unbecoming to a man of
Gherardi's position and influence!"
Prince Sovrani took the letter from Bonpre's hand and read it in
silence.
"Yes--I have heard about it already," he said, "And if you indeed know
nothing, it is strange! But can you not remember--is there no clue to
such a report? Were there no sick children brought to you . . . ?"
"Oh, for that," answered the Cardinal quickly, "a little boy named
Fabien Doucet, was brought to me by the children of an inn-keeper of
the Hotel Poitiers where I stayed two nights, and to grant their
wishes, (and also because it is my duty to do what I can for the
suffering and the afflicted), I laid my hands upon him and prayed to
our Lord that he might be healed."
"Ebbene! Our Lord has then healed him," said Sovrani drily, "It is
remarkable!--but if the cure is truly accomplished, we shall have to
admit that the Deity does sometimes pay attention to our many prayers,
though for the most part they appear to fall upon a deaf, dumb, and
irresponsive Silence."
The Cardinal sat down, wearily resting his head on his hand.
"I do not like it!" he said, "It is altogether amazing to me; it seems
like a snare set to catch my soul! For I have no power to perform
miracles . . . I can only pray."
"And why should not your prayer be answered?" asked Manuel suddenly.
They had all forgotten the boy's presence in the room, and his voice
startled them. His young face was pale, yet tranquil--and the deep
tenderness that always dwelt in his eyes seemed deeper and softer at
this moment than ever.
"Truly I do not see why," said Prince Sovrani, bending his fierce
regard full on the lad as he spoke, and beginning to wonder like the
rest at his fairness and beauty, "Only as a rule, fanciuollo
mio--prayer is mere waste of breath--a demand without supply."
"Is that not perhaps the fault of the person who prays?" said Manuel,
"May that person not lack faith and pure intention? May he not even be
too self-absorbed to lift his soul high enough for an approach to God?
When the disciples were vexed that they could not cure a child that was
afflicted, and saw that their Master healed that child at once, they
asked why they were unable to do what He did. And He told them plainly,
'Because of your unbelief. For verily I say unto you, if ye have faith
as a grain of mustard seed ye shall say unto this mountain, remove from
yonder place, and it shall remove, and nothing shall be impossible to
you.' And I am sure that my lord the Cardinal's faith is greater than a
grain of mustard seed!"
They were all silent. Cardinal Bonpre turned his eyes thoughtfully on
the young speaker
"You were with me, child, when the little cripple sat on my knee and
held my crucifix," he said in a low tone, "You saw--you heard all. What
did I do?--what did I say?"
"You held him in your arms, even as Christ took little children in His
arms and blessed them," replied Manuel, "And you prayed--and in your
prayer you said--'King and Master of all such children, even as Thou
wert a child Thyself, be pleased to heal him of his sad infirmity. For
if Thou wilt, Thou canst make this bent body straight, and these
withered muscles strong,--from death itself Thou canst ordain life, and
nothing is impossible unto Thee!'"