A few weeks before Muzzio’s return, Fabio had begun a portrait of his
wife, depicting her with the attributes of Saint Cecilia. He had made
considerable advance in his art; the renowned Luini, a pupil of Leonardo da
Vinci, used to come to him at Ferrara, and while aiding him with his own
counsels, pass on also the precepts of his great master. The portrait was
almost completely finished; all that was left was to add a few strokes
to the face, and Fabio might well be proud of his creation. After seeing
Muzzio off on his way to Ferrara, he turned into his studio, where Valeria
was usually waiting for him; but he did not find her there; he called her,
she did not respond. Fabio was overcome by a secret uneasiness; he began
looking for her. She was nowhere in the house; Fabio ran into the garden,
and there in one of the more secluded walks he caught sight of Valeria.
She was sitting on a seat, her head drooping on to her bosom and her hands
folded upon her knees; while behind her, peeping out of the dark green of a
cypress, a marble satyr, with a distorted malignant grin on his face, was
putting his pouting lips to a Pan’s pipe. Valeria was visibly relieved at
her husband’s appearance, and to his agitated questions she replied that
she had a slight headache, but that it was of no consequence, and she was
ready to come to sit to him. Fabio led her to the studio, posed her, and
took up his brush; but to his great vexation, he could not finish the face
as he would have liked to. And not because it was somewhat pale and looked
exhausted ... no; but the pure, saintly expression, which he liked so
much in it, and which had given him the idea of painting Valeria as Saint
Cecilia, he could not find in it that day. He flung down the brush at
last, told his wife he was not in the mood for work, and that he would not
prevent her from lying down, as she did not look at all well, and put the
canvas with its face to the wall. Valeria agreed with him that she ought
to rest, and repeating her complaints of a headache, withdrew into her
bedroom. Fabio remained in the studio. He felt a strange confused sensation
incomprehensible to himself. Muzzio’s stay under his roof, to which he,
Fabio, had himself urgently invited him, was irksome to him. And not that
he was jealous--could any one have been jealous of Valeria!--but he did not
recognise his former comrade in his friend. All that was strange, unknown
and new that Muzzio had brought with him from those distant lands--and
which seemed to have entered into his very flesh and blood--all these
magical feats, songs, strange drinks, this dumb Malay, even the spicy
fragrance diffused by Muzzio’s garments, his hair, his breath--all this
inspired in Fabio a sensation akin to distrust, possibly even to timidity.
And why did that Malay waiting at table stare with such disagreeable
intentness at him, Fabio? Really any one might suppose that he understood
Italian. Muzzio had said of him that in losing his tongue, this Malay had
made a great sacrifice, and in return he was now possessed of great power.
What sort of power? and how could he have obtained it at the price of his
tongue? All this was very strange! very incomprehensible! Fabio went into
his wife’s room; she was lying on the bed, dressed, but was not asleep.
Hearing his steps, she started, then again seemed delighted to see him just
as in the garden. Fabio sat down beside the bed, took Valeria by the hand,
and after a short silence, asked her, ‘What was the extraordinary dream
that had frightened her so the previous night? And was it the same sort
at all as the dream Muzzio had described?’ Valeria crimsoned and said
hurriedly: ‘O! no! no! I saw ... a sort of monster which was trying to tear
me to pieces.’ ‘A monster? in the shape of a man?’ asked Fabio. ‘No, a
beast ... a beast!’ Valeria turned away and hid her burning face in the
pillows. Fabio held his wife’s hand some time longer; silently he raised it
to his lips, and withdrew.
Both the young people passed that day with heavy hearts. Something dark
seemed hanging over their heads ... but what it was, they could not tell.
They wanted to be together, as though some danger threatened them; but what
to say to one another they did not know. Fabio made an effort to take up
the portrait, and to read Ariosto, whose poem had appeared not long before
in Ferrara, and was now making a noise all over Italy; but nothing was of
any use.... Late in the evening, just at supper-time, Muzzio returned.