May in London, five years later. The weather was bad, and everyone said
the season was a dull one. To Minna Hastings it did not much matter
whether it was dull or bright. She had come to spend a fortnight in
town with some friends; she had never been very fond of London. She had
quitted her home with regret, and though not exactly longing to be back
there, she was yet quite ready to return to it when the time should
come for her to do so. This was, perhaps, ungrateful on her part, for
there was no doubt that this year Minna had one morning wakened to find
herself, in a small way, and amongst a certain set, famous.
The figure of the workman, which for three years had been standing
finished in her studio at home, had been sent to one of the London
galleries, accepted, well placed, and seen of all who visited that
gallery. To Minna’s own surprise, it had proved an immense ‘take.’
Critics, alike with those who were not critics, had been fascinated
with it. It had been reviewed, admired, talked about, till Minna was
rather sorry she had sent it. It represented so much more to her
than it ever could to those who saw it. Its strength and grace were
praised--its originality, its boldness, its daring simplicity, and so
forth. The most curious things were said about it. The artist, when she
met with these lucubrations, rubbed her eyes, sometimes in vexation,
sometimes in amusement, at the intentions which were attributed to her.
‘Mrs. Hastings has evidently,’ said one oracle, ‘made a profound study
of the finest models of modern French sculpture, and the intention she
seeks to convey in this masterly work is obvious.’
So obvious that, as obvious things often do, it escaped the knowledge
of its author, who only said to herself, ‘Thank heaven they do not know
the history of all that I put into it!’
Then came applications from sundry would-be buyers, known and unknown.
Many hundreds of pounds might have been Minna’s had she been disposed
to part with her work. But she could not do so. Feeling forbade it,
and, luckily for her, circumstances allowed her to keep it.
She never had forgotten, never could forget, what had passed between
her and Signor Giuseppe that evening when she had shown it to him, and
had heard what he had to say about it--and about some other things.
She was persuaded with difficulty by her friends to go and look at
it one morning. She knew not what shock came over her as her eyes
encountered the figure of her own handiwork, to the finishing of which
had gone so many thoughts, wishes, and aspirations. There he stood,
confronting her as she placed herself before him, seeming to live and
stand out from all the surrounding things. She met his patient, steady
eyes, which asked her, ‘Do you know me in all this foreign crowd,
so alien to me and to you? Do you not remember those still hours of
solitude and striving in which you lived with me and made me what I
am? When will you take me back to be with you again, since neither
of us can be where we would--at home in Rome?’ A choking came in her
throat as she thought of the shabby old studio--the hours of intense
life, both of joy and of sorrow, and she turned abruptly away, while
her friends walked round the figure, and exclaimed, and admired, and
put the wonted questions to her, ‘Minna, how did you come to think of
it? What put it into your head?’ ‘I could never have thought of such a
thing if I had been crowned for it,’ and so on.
When the slight mist which covered her eyes had cleared from them, and
she could see clearly again, she took time to look round, and found
herself in a kind of little _tribuna_, round which, in an inner circle,
as it were, were disposed statues and busts, while on the walls hung
pictures. She glanced round, and began to examine the latter; she found
herself almost in front of one which soon arrested her attention. It
represented a corner of the great church of Santa Maria-sopra-Minerva
at Rome, and one of the little episodes which one constantly sees
occurring in Roman churches--one half of the episode, at least, is
common enough. A young girl, accompanied by a servant, drops an alms
into the hand of a beggar. The beggar is an old woman, whose withered
countenance lights up as she glances into the face of the girl. Just
behind the old woman is the figure of a young man, whose eyes are fixed
with a passion of admiration and entreaty upon the girl’s face, which,
sweet and calm and cold, smiles upon the old woman, and does not even
see him. No possibility of mistaking the meaning in those eyes, nor the
prayer for notice and love in the entire attitude and look. There was
an emotional quality in this picture which went far to triumph over a
good many faults of colour and execution.
As Minna looked at it, a strange feeling stole over her. The faces of
the young man and the girl were not portraits, but there was in them
a haunting likeness to two faces she had known, which likeness sent a
thrill through her. Hastily turning over the leaves of her catalogue,
she found the number and title of the picture, and a scarcely
suppressed ‘Ah!’ broke from her lips.
‘The Two Mendicants--Hans Riemann.’
Fastened to the spot, she examined the picture with eager attention.
Never had she imagined her cousin Hans to be possessed of such subtlety
in expressing a graceful thought. It was he--it was Fulvia; not boldly
and openly portrayed, but hinted at, indicated, shadowed forth, as it
were. Patent to her, who was familiar with them both, and with their
stories--a veiled mystery, not even a mystery--merely a delicate
attractive picture to any outsider who knew nothing of the drama which
underlay it all.
‘I knew it--I was certain of it!’ Minna said to herself, but quite
beneath her breath. ‘I taxed him with it, and he turned it off. Why
did he not speak out at the time? Oh, I would have helped him through
everything. I would have become poor that he might have succeeded. If
Fulvia had had a lover--one whom she loved, at that time--she might
have been saved. She would have had a strength to resist which would
have carried her through everything.... Hans, you fool! And how he has
improved! I used to think his things rather finikin, I didn’t care for
them--but this shows a perfectly enormous advance.’
‘What are you looking at?’ asked the loud, cheerful voice of one her
friends, just at her elbow. ‘That! Oh, isn’t it odd that Mr. Riemann’s
picture should have got put close to your piece of sculpture? It’s a
pretty thing, very. Do you know, I said the other day that, according
to the accepted rule in such things, and judging from the outside only,
the picture ought to have been by the woman, and the statue by the man.
The picture is so delicate, you know, and refined and emotional, and
all that. (I hear he has sold it very well.) And the statue--well, you
know, Minna, it has been praised for its brutality: in the French sense
of the word, not the English.’
To all of which Minna made little rejoinder, except a faint smile. She
did manage to murmur that the picture was very charming, and that Hans
had made great progress during the last few years.
Then they moved on, laughing at Minna for not being more interested
in the public view of her own work. They made the weary round of the
gallery, and looked at all the most talked-of pictures, and at last
went away to get lunch somewhere, and then to go and see some other
show. All day long there dwelt in Minna’s mind the tender grace of that
painting. She wondered who had bought it. She was longing to possess
it herself. She felt unreasonably annoyed and vexed with the happy
owner, whoever he or she might be. And when at night, wearied in brain
and body with the empty whirl of the day, she placed her head upon her
pillow, the scene again rose before her eyes: ‘The Two Mendicants’--the
gracious figure, whose hand was relieving the one, and passing by the
other, not even seeing him. Minna said within herself, ‘I’ll go again.
I shall go and look at it as often as I can escape from them and get
there alone.’
Her last thought was, ‘Shall I tell Beppo? I think not. He never speaks
about it now, but I am sure the pain of that time has never been less
in his soul than it was just when it happened. It would hurt him. No;
I won’t say anything.’
She carried out her intention, and, under one pretext or another,
managed several times to escape from her companions, slip alone into
the gallery, thread her way through its rooms, and finally, with a sigh
of pleasure and pain combined, seat herself before the picture, with
her back to the statue, while she looked, wondered, and speculated.
Where was Fulvia? What had become of her? What had she grown into?
Not one word had been heard of her since her marriage. She had never
written to anyone at home--neither to her mother, nor to Giuseppe, nor
to Minna herself. At the time of the marriage it had been Marchmont’s
intention to take his bride first to London and Paris, and sooner or
later to Australia, to ‘show’ her, in his own characteristic language,
to his ‘people’ there, who were understood to be very rich, and given
to admire sumptuous and beautiful things--such things as Fulvia would
have every chance of becoming.
Whether he had carried out this programme Minna had never heard. She
thought it probable; she thought it even possible that he might have
settled in Australia, having discovered that he was a bigger man in
Sydney or Melbourne than he would be in London or Paris. Of one thing
only she was certain--that they had never revisited Rome.
On this particular morning Minna was at her post before the picture,
and passing through her mind was the wonder where Hans could now be.
The easy-going young fellow whom she had known in Rome at Casa Dietrich
had made some way in the world as an artist, but chiefly as a painter
of what seemed to Minna ‘prettiness.’ Even in this case she would have
mistrusted her own judgment and thought her delight in the picture to
be more the result of the associations it had for her mind than its own
inherent merit, but the verdict on all sides was to the same effect as
her own.
In a half-dream she sat, leaning back in the comfortable settee, and
vaguely hearing the voices and footsteps of those who passed, but not
heeding them, unless they stood before her and actually interrupted her
view of the picture.
Voices behind her of two women--probably young women.
‘Oh, Ethel, this must be the statue that Tom was talking about. He said
it was splendid. What is it called?’
Leaves of a catalogue were fluttered quickly over--then, in dulcet
tones:
‘“In the sweat of thy brow. Roma, 18----” What on earth does it mean?’
‘A horrid, common working man, and nothing else. Well, I cannot
understand what anyone can see to admire in that, I must say. Let’s
see--artist’s name, Minna Hastings. A woman! Just fancy any lady
deliberately setting to work and carving out the figure of a dirty
half-naked man like that! What a queer creature she must be!’
Minna was interested, charmed. She did not move, but gazed steadily
before her at the picture. Now the two speakers were immediately behind
her. There was no crowd, and they could quite well see over her head.
‘Now just look what different things strike different people!’ said
the more decided voice of the two. ‘Look at that picture--“The Two
Mendicants.” I call it lovely. Isn’t that girl sweet? And the old
woman--splendid! And the young man. Ethel’--in an excited whisper--‘he
really has a look of--don’t you know? Those long eyes and that intense
look--what Fräulein would call _schwärmerisch_. I do like it. Well, you
see, that’s Rome, too. “In the church of Santa Maria-sopra-Minerva,
Roma.” And the painter is a man--Hans Riemann, you see. Well, all one
can say is that some men have much nicer tastes than some women....
Hadn’t we better go on to the next room, or we shall not get it all
done before lunch?’
‘Oh yes! Come!’
They walked away. Minna, half turning her head, stole a look after
them. A couple of fresh-looking, ‘nicely’-dressed, rather meaningless
English girls. There are hundreds and thousands of them, gaily passing
their opinions on everything that comes under their notice in the
heavens above or in the earth beneath. Minna smiled to herself, and
again became lost in contemplation of the picture.
The door into the small room in which she sat was behind her. For
some time she was left in undisturbed solitude. Then there were
footsteps behind her, of two persons. She paid no heed to them. They
stopped--evidently in front of her work. There was a prolonged silence,
till at last a man’s voice said, earnestly and softly:
‘Well, is it not what I told you? Did I do right to bring you?’
A woman’s voice in reply, which yet sounded almost as if the speaker
spoke to herself, in a half-dream.
‘Yes; it is the same--Roma. Oh, I am very glad you brought me!’
She spoke Italian. For one moment Minna’s heart sprang with such a wild
throb to her throat that she could neither move nor speak. Then it
seemed to stop altogether; then went beating on again at five times its
usual pace. It all took but a couple of seconds. She had recovered her
power of speech and motion. She rose swiftly from her place, and turned
towards the speakers, her face in a pale blaze of emotion.
It was true. There was no deception. That was Hans, older, handsomer,
with his boyish tendency to lounge developed into the supple ease of a
man of the world, but with--the words of the young lady who had been
so pleased with his picture came into Minna’s mind almost grotesquely:
‘Those long eyes and that intense look’--the eyes and the look which
are so difficult to read aright in man or woman--experience only can
prove whether they mean a character weak, selfish, and sensuous, or
earnest and passionately clinging in its loves and hates, hopes and
fears. Whatsoever the look might betoken, the man was Hans; and that
woman beside him, in the full splendour of youth and beauty, in the
full pomp of the costliest simplicity of dress, with the bearing
of a queen, and the utterly calm and self-possessed, rather cool
aspect--that was Fulvia.
For a moment the three stood looking at each other, while their
expressions changed half a dozen times. It was Minna who spoke first,
in a voice which she could not force to be steady, tried she never so
hard.
‘Fulvia!’ she said. ‘Hans!’
‘Minna, by Jove!’ ejaculated Hans, recovering from his astonishment. ‘I
never was more floored in my life, though why I should have been I’m
sure I don’t know. It’s the most natural thing in the world for you
to be here--just as it is for us. I have brought Mrs. Marchmont, you
see, to show her an old acquaintance.’ He smiled and looked at Minna’s
statue.
A great change had come over Fulvia’s face. She had grown very pale;
her steady eyes wavered--one could almost have sworn that, for one
moment, they were dim. While Hans was talking, she and Minna had
clasped hands and were looking at one another. Minna was far past
speaking. It was as if her own beloved child, long lost, had returned
to her. Fulvia also seemed not to be possessed of much eloquence. A
grave, sweet smile dawned upon her lips; in a low voice and with an
accent of indescribable tenderness she said:
‘Signora carissima!’
It was the exact tone in which she had often spoken to Minna, when she
had sat with her five years ago, in her little salon at Casa Dietrich,
discussing the woeful future. As she spoke, with a swift, graceful
gesture she lifted Minna’s hands to her lips, and kissed them, one
after the other.
The elder woman was shaken to her innermost being. She felt that, if
she spoke, tears would rush from her eyes and choke her voice. After
a long time, ‘At last!’ she stammered out, and, unable to bear it any
longer, she sat down hastily on the bench, and, still holding Fulvia’s
hand, drew her to the space beside her.
‘Sometimes,’ she said, recovering breath, ‘the gods are good. Sometimes
they send us what we want. They have been good to me to-day.’
‘Whether they have been good to me, I can hardly yet decide,’ said Hans
in a melancholy voice. He was practically left out in the cold while
this interview was going on. ‘Anyhow,’ he continued, ‘they have blessed
me with sense enough to see that I had better retire while I can do
so with self-respect, and leave you two to your conversation. But you
will perhaps favour me with the merest indication as to what I am to
do for you later. Shall I disappear altogether, and return no more?
Shall I come back for you, Mrs. Marchmont, and take you home? Or, in
short, I am at your orders, ladies, when once I know what those orders
are.’
‘Poor Hans!’ said Minna, smiling, and looking at him more attentively.
She was struck again with his altered appearance. She had not seen him
now for more than three years, and had heard very little about him. He
was, as she knew, about eight-and-twenty, but he looked considerably
older. In some aspects he looked like eight-and-thirty. He had a dark,
bronzed, richly-coloured face, grave, soft, dark-brown eyes, and a
brown, pointed beard and moustache. The general aspect of his face was
one of gravity--gravity, dignity, and poetical, artistic beauty. There
was nothing left of his old, boyish manner, except its simplicity, for
he had the great charm of simplicity.
All this Minna realized and saw, as, with one of her hands laid upon
one of Fulvia’s, she looked up at him, and listened to what he said.
She turned to Fulvia.
‘What do you wish, Fulvia? What can you do for me? I mean, how long can
we be together? And is this the best place? I can take you to my room
at my friends’ if you like, where we can be alone.’
‘I think this is as good a place as any,’ said Fulvia, who now spoke
English, with but little foreign intonation. ‘We can then arrange how
to meet again. You are very kind, Mr. Riemann. I don’t think there is
anything you can do for me. I ordered my carriage to be here at one.
It can come, and wait, or Mrs. Hastings and I can leave whenever we
like. I shall see you again to-night, I suppose? Good-morning.’
With a gracious bow of her head she dismissed him. Minna called after
him.
‘Hans, you will come and see me. I’m staying at the Montons’, where you
have been many a time. I shall be there about a week longer. Send me a
line, and I will be at home when you come.’
‘Very well,’ said he, without the faintest trace of
ungraciousness--definable, at any rate. For all the suavity of his
manner, Minna knew that he was annoyed at the meeting. She, however,
cared nothing for that. She smiled upon him. He lifted his hat, and
saying ‘A rivederci’ went slowly out of the room.
‘Now, Fulvia, tell me something about yourself,’ said Minna, looking at
her companion and stroking her hand.