THE ARTIST PAINTS A NOTABLE PICTURE
Night was just fading from the Alpine heights that girdle the quaint
old town of Rivoli in the canton of Ticino. Two men, issuing from the
entrance of a châlet perched like an eagle's nest on the jutting crag
of a mountain far above the valley, paused to admire the grandeur of
the scene. These persons were my uncle and myself, and we had risen at
this early hour in order to witness that most beautiful of sights in
Switzerland, sunrise. From the terrace of the châlet we watched the
dim Alpine panorama gradually emerge from the shadowy reign of night.
Silent and majestic from out the dark "sea of pines" the mountains
arose to view, their icy peaks glittering with rosy-tinted hues in the
soft, beautiful light that was now suffusing the sky.
"By Jove, what a glorious sight!" I exclaimed enthusiastically.
"Yes, for a poet or painter," replied my uncle, who, amid the loveliest
scenery of Switzerland, sighed for the shady side of Pall Mall.
"That's a pretty little town down there," I continued, gazing at the
spires of Rivoli. It lay at our feet in the valley beneath, so far down
that it seemed like a toy city. "How the mountains seem to isolate it
from the rest of the world! Rivoli? Rivoli?" I muttered. "I have never
heard of the place before," unconsciously telling a falsehood. "I
suppose it's quite out of the track of the ordinary tourist?"
"Quite. We shall not see many specimens of that genus in the
everlasting suit of grey tweed."
"What's that rough stone building to the right of us?" I said. "There!
just by the cascade. A hermit's grotto?"
"Looks like it. A rather damp quarter for his saint-ship, eh? I suppose
in this secluded part of Europe many hermits must have lived out their
lonely days, and----"
He paused, stopped by the curious look on my face. "What is the matter,
Frank?"
"Do you know that your last remark is singularly like an expression in
George's letter of last Christmas?" and I repeated the passage, for
every word of that epistle was engraved on my mind.
"Hum! so it is. A singular coincidence of language. 'Some secluded part
of Europe,'" he added, quoting George's words. "It would be difficult
to find a more secluded spot than Rivoli."
It was now August, and the object for which our tour had been
undertaken--the removal of Daphne's grief--seemed to be accomplished.
We had visited France, Spain and Italy. In the early days of our tour
nothing could move her from the dull lethargy which had been her normal
state since that ill-starred Christmas morning; but gradually, as week
after week glided by, she began to take an interest, faint and languid
enough at first, in the historic places through which we were passing,
till at length she seemed to have become her old bright self once more.
The colour had returned to her cheek and the smile to her lip. Whether
this happier condition arose from a determination to forget her trouble
and adapt herself to changed circumstances, or whether it was due
to the secret hope that George might yet return to her with his name
cleared from the dark shadow resting on it, I could not decide; she
never alluded to him, and on our part, my uncle and myself made it a
point not to mention his name in her presence. She treated me with the
same sweet familiar freedom as of old, so that I found it difficult to
believe that for three years I had been exiled from her at Heidelberg.
During our tour I had never betrayed by word or by act the state
of my feelings toward Daphne. Satisfied with the pleasure of daily
companionship with her, I was quite content to bide my time patiently,
and wait for some clear indication that George had passed--not from her
memory, for that could never happen, but from her affections, before
venturing to express for the second time the love I had never ceased to
bear.
We had arrived at Rivoli only the preceding evening, and were staying
at a châlet belonging to a Swiss gentleman who had let it to us for a
month. He had left behind one member of his household to supplement our
own servants--an agreeable, talkative old woman, who had received us
with an effusive hospitality.
A light step now sounded on the terrace and Daphne's sweet voice
greeted us.
"I shall not say good-morning, for you don't deserve it. Why didn't you
call me earlier, papa, that I too might have seen the sun rise?"
Her father kissed her hands as though she were some princess.
"Because I knew you would be tired after the jolting of that horrible
diligence yesterday," he said; "and so I let you rest. But you have no
hat, and the mornings here are chilly."
I ran indoors, and returned with a heavy wrap which I drew round her
head and neck.
"Well, Daphne," my uncle said, waving his hand towards the châlet,
"what do you think of our home for the next month?"
"It is lovely," she said, moving backward from the house to survey it
better. "Just the place to dream away a summer holiday in."
It was indeed as picturesque a structure as could be found on a day's
march through Switzerland. It was composed of fir-wood painted red, and
the pretty low gallery which ran completely round it, together with the
projecting roof, was adorned with the richest carvings.
"I see," remarked my uncle, "that the piety of the architect has
decorated the facade with Scriptural texts--a common custom about
here, I have observed. All in Latin--from the Vulgate, I suppose. Now,
Daphne, show us your scholarship by translating them. What does the
word over the entrance mean?"
"Over the entrance?" said Daphne, turning her eyes upon the carved
porch. "'Reveniet;' that means 'He shall return.'"
Only one Latin word, and yet it had the power to make me tremble!
During our Continental tour I had been continually haunted by the idea
that in the next city or castle, or cathedral or palace, or ruin or
theatre visited by us we should come face to face with George--an issue
fraught with peril to my love enterprise. Though I was unable to assign
any definite reason for it, this opinion had gained strength since our
arrival at Rivoli.
_He shall return!_
Yes; there in letters of gold, that gleamed like fire in the rays of
the morning sun, was the startling answer to the one question forever
haunting my mind. A white cloud floating upwards from the valley
at this juncture cast a cold shadow over us, and gave me an eerie
sensation, as if George himself in ghostly form were passing by.
"He shall return!" repeated my uncle, in a vein of pleasantry that
jarred on Daphne's feelings. "And who is it that shall return?"
"O papa! how can you? You know it refers to the millennium. I declare
you and Frank are quite like two pagans! I don't believe you have
entered a church for the purpose of worship since we first set foot on
the Continent."
"Frank and I never go to church in Catholic countries. It's our way of
showing our Protestantism."
Daphne turned from her irreverent parent, and became absorbed in the
contemplation of the scenery.
"What peak is that to the left, Frank?"
"That," I replied, "is the Silver Horn of the Jungfrau."
And I proceeded to deliver a topographical lecture, interwoven with
graceful legends and poetic quotations, specially prepared for this
occasion on the previous night, in order that I might shine in Daphne's
eyes as a hero of knowledge. A sudden exclamation from her, however,
put a period to my eloquence.
"Who is this coming up the mountain-path? I have been watching him for
a long time."
Whoever the person was, he ascended the mountain with the freedom
of one to whom the path was perfectly familiar, selecting his way
among the mossy boulders and grass-hidden pools without a moment's
hesitation, and springing from crag to crag with the agility of a
chamois-hunter.
"'_Excelsior_' evidently is his motto," said I. "Longfellow's young
man, perhaps, 'mid snow and ice.'"
"Minus the 'banner with the strange device,'" returned my uncle.
"Hanged if it isn't Il Divino! How comes he to be here?"
It was indeed the divine one, looking in the picturesque costume he was
wearing more handsome and romantic than ever. A sombrero was slouched
with easy negligence over his broad white brow, and a long cloak
dropped gracefully from his shoulders. He had all the air of a man who,
conscious of his personal charms, is determined to make the best use of
them.
The look of pleasure that mantled Daphne's face had so disturbing an
effect on my spirits that it was as much as I could do to treat the
artist with ordinary civility.
"Angelo," cried my uncle after the first greetings were over, "I'm
delighted to see you! But tell us how you came to be here, for I
thought that outside of Switzerland few beside myself knew of the
existence of this secluded valley."
"Rivoli the Beautiful is my native place," replied Angelo. Why had not
Fate fixed his nativity at the sixth cataract of the Nile?
"I thought you were an Italian," I remarked frigidly.
"My parents were both Italians," replied the artist, "but I was born
in that cottage;" and he pointed far down the valley to a tenement
on which Daphne gazed with interest, while I, staring in a different
direction, tried to catch a glimpse of a steel-blue lake through a veil
of floating mist. "I have no parents nor any relations left. My old
nurse still lives; and I make a point of visiting Rivoli each year to
breathe the mountain air, and to see that the old dame does not want."
"A very pious and proper proceeding on your part," I remarked.
This was meant for sarcasm, but it did not seem to disturb the artist
in the least. The look of disapproval on Daphne's face did not tend to
tranquillise my mind.
"I arrived here only last night," Angelo continued, "and, hearing
that a lady and two Englishmen had taken up their residence at the
Châlet Varina, I guessed at once from the description who they were.
I determined to call in the morning to present my compliments to Miss
Leslie and her father"--he omitted me from his congratulations--"and to
ask her to accept these flowers."
And with a graceful bow he presented to her a beautiful bouquet. I
thought Daphne quite ridiculous in her admiration of it.
"O, how pretty!" she cried. "Thank you very much, Mr. Vasari. I am so
fond of flowers. Smell how sweet they are, Frank." And she actually
held the odious gift close to my nostrils for my appreciation. "Aren't
they sweet?"
"Very," I said drily.
"Aren't these violets lovely, papa?" she said, appealing to her father
for the appreciation she had failed to elicit from me.
"Purple," replied her republican parent, who was accustomed to spell
king with a small _k_, and people with a capital _p_, "is my aversion,
being the colour and emblem of tyrants and kings."
"How absurd you are, papa!" returned she. "What is your favorite
colour, Mr. Vasari?"
"That which sparkles on the cheek of Beauty," replied the idiot, with
his eyes fixed on my cousin's face. And certainly no colour could
be more beautiful than Daphne's sweet blush at that moment, and my
jealousy redoubled toward the person who had called it forth. "Do you
understand the language of flowers, Miss Leslie?"
"Only a very little; do you, Frank?"
"Not I," I answered curtly. "I consider it an absurd study, if you wish
for my opinion."
"You must permit me to teach you," said Angelo to Daphne, completely
ignoring my remark.
"I shall be very glad to learn," was the reply.
I gasped for breath. The fellow was actually making love to her before
my very eyes! The cool assurance with which he spoke and the graceful
serenity with which he ignored my presence were quite maddening. Here
was I, who had been Daphne's sole companion for five months, completely
thrown into the shade by a foreigner who had been in her presence only
as many minutes.
"And so Rivoli is your native place," said Daphne. "Why, of course, I
have heard you say so many a time. How stupid of me to have forgotten!
I remember now to have seen a sketch of it in your portfolio. How
lucky, papa, that you hit on this spot! You must be familiar, Mr.
Vasari, with every stream and crag and cascade about here--with every
turn and wind of this valley; you must serve us now and then in the
capacity of guide."
"I shall esteem it an honour to do so," he returned.
Matters were growing worse. The lamp that had so long illumined
Daphne's path was now under a bushel.
"Look at those wreaths of silvery mist floating across the valley!"
said she.
"'As if some angels in their upward flight
Had left their mantles floating in mid-air,'"
said I. I quoted this to show that there were other poetic souls in
existence besides Angelo; but my quotation was lost on Daphne.
"And what a lovely violet hue those distant mountains have!" she
continued. "I wonder, Mr. Vasari, you never tried to transfer this
scene to canvas."
"Canvas? Ah, that reminds me," said my uncle. "I have been very remiss
in not complimenting you upon the success of your picture. We shall yet
have the Pope requesting your aid in adorning the Vatican with painted
frescoes. I understand that your 'Fall of Cæsar' is _the_ picture of
Paris this season."
This allusion did not seem pleasing to the artist, for a peculiar
expression darkened his face for a moment, like the transient sweeping
of a shadow over a sunny landscape.
"It is true," he murmured, with real or simulant modesty, "that my
picture has been very much admired. It was exhibited one day; the next,
my name was in all the newspapers. Like Byron I woke up one morning
to find myself famous. I have realized a considerable sum of money by
exhibiting the picture, and as a consequence have become courted by
people who discover virtues in me now they never perceived before."
"'Give me gold, and by that rule
Who will say I am a fool?'"
murmured my uncle. "Just so. Gold is a lamp that lights up virtues that
without it are unseen."
I regret to say that I did not view Angelo with any more favour for his
rising reputation as an artist, and Daphne's evident delight at his
success added fresh fuel to my smouldering jealousy.
"What, Mr. Vasari! Have you painted a picture that is creating a
sensation at Paris? Why did you not tell of this before, papa? This is
the first that Frank and I have heard of it."
It was, but it was far from being the last we were to hear of the
artist's memorable masterpiece.
"Well, you see," my uncle replied apologetically, "I did not know it
myself till last night, when I saw it in the _Standard_. You were
asleep at the time, and I take it you didn't want me to call you out of
bed to tell you of it."
At the mention of the word _Standard_, there appeared on the artist's
face the same peculiar expression that I had previously noticed.
"_Standard, Standard!_" he muttered reflectively. "Why, that's the--"
He stopped, and added abruptly, "Do you have the _Standard_ sent to
you?"
"It _has_ been sent to me. Why?"
"O, nothing, nothing," replied Angelo; "nothing at all. It's a--a
Conservative journal, and I know--at least, I believe--you're a
Radical."
"A Radical. Noble profession!" responded my uncle.
"Yes; that's all it is--profession!" laughed Daphne, whose political
ideals differed from those of her father.
"The _Standard_ is not my paper, as you very well know," said my uncle,
grandly ignoring his daughter's remark. "It's the butler's fault
that it is here. I wrote telling him to forward to Rivoli a file of
newspapers for June and July. As I forgot to specify what paper, the
rascal has sent me the _Standard_."
"For, being a good old Tory," said Daphne, "he thought it well to
administer an antidote to your Radicalism. I think his act deserves
commendation."
"June and July," muttered Angelo. "What did you think of the critique
on my picture?"
"Didn't know there was a critique on it. In fact, I haven't read the
papers yet. I was simply untying the parcel last night, when my eye was
caught by a paragraph to the effect that 'Intending visitors to Paris
should not fail to visit the Vasari Art Gallery, and view Vasari's
magnificent production, "The Fall of Cæsar," the great picture of the
year, already visited by--' I forget how many thousand persons."
Angelo smiled.
"That is my agent's advertisement. Yes, the number of persons to see it
has been enormous. You haven't read, then, the criticism on it in the
issue of July 2nd?"
"That's a pleasure I have in store."
"Nor Mr. Willard?" he added, turning to me.
"Not yet. I may read it," I replied, as if the act would be one of
magnificent condescension on my part, whereas, if the truth must be
told, I was inwardly burning to peruse the article in question.
"A--ah!"
And the prolonging of this little syllable was marked by a decided tone
of satisfaction.
"And have you really made a great name?" said Daphne, looking
admiringly at the artist. "I am so glad! I always knew your efforts
would meet with success. But tell me all about your picture. What is
the subject?"
"The 'Fall of Cæsar.' It represents the hero, as we may suppose him to
have been a few minutes after his death, lying at the base of Pompey's
statue. There are no other figures in the picture besides the two
I have mentioned, Cæsar and Pompey. Some columns in the background
complete the scene. It is a very simple tableau, and no one has been
more surprised than myself at the encomiums that have been lavished
upon it."
"Did the work take you long?"
"The actual canvas-work--no; the elaboration of the idea which led to
the work--yes; for it has been the outcome of a lifetime of thought."
He spoke with all the air of an octogenarian. "I began the work about a
year ago, a year this autumn, and finished it last--last Christmas," he
hesitated at the word, as if reluctant to renew Daphne's sad memories,
"and exhibited it at Paris in the beginning of spring."
"At Paris? We were at Paris in the beginning of spring. It is strange
we should have missed you."
"When did you leave Paris?"
"March 31st--wasn't it, Frank?"
"Ah! _we_--" he stopped to change the plural pronoun to the singular,
but, rapid as the correction was, it did not escape my notice--"I did
not arrive in Paris till April 1st."
"The very day after we left. How odd! But why did you exhibit your
picture in Paris, and not in London?"
"A prophet hath no honour in his own country," replied Angelo. "I think
I may speak of England as my country, from the length of time I have
lived in it. London has disappointed me so often that I resolved to
try Paris this year. So I hired a gallery, and exhibited 'The Fall of
Cæsar,' with some other pictorial compositions of mine. The people of
Paris seem more appreciative of my talent--if I may be pardoned for
using the word--than the Londoners."
"I have always considered the French a superficial people," I
interjected.
"Oh no, they are not," returned the artist quietly.
"Of course they are not? How can you say so?" said Daphne, defending
the artist with more warmth than was pleasant to me. "We must see your
picture, Mr. Vasari, when we come to Paris."
"I am afraid it is impossible for you to see it, Miss Leslie," he
replied, "unless you are acquainted with the Baron de Argandarez, an
old hidalgo of Aragon. He purchased it from me for a sum far surpassing
my wildest expectations. It now adorns the walls of his ancestral
castle, and I have no more to do with it."
"Oh, what a pity!" cried Daphne, in a tone of sincere regret. "I _am_
disappointed. Why, it seems as if, after achieving a brilliant success,
you are determined that your best friends shall not share in your
triumph!"
"Yes," chimed in my uncle, "you are not very patriotic towards
your adopted country, Angelo, in letting Spain carry off the great
masterpiece. Now if you had let me see it, I might have exceeded the
Baron's price."
"O papa, cannot you write to the Baron What's-his-name and offer him
double the price he paid for it? Perhaps he might be induced to part
with it."
"We'll see, little woman. It's your birthday in a month's time. How
would you like it as a birthday gift?"
Daphne expressed her delight at the idea, and, turning to the artist,
said:
"Haven't you any photograph or engraving of your picture to give us
some notion of what it's like?"
Angelo shook his head.
"I would not permit any one to make an engraving. The engraver would
but misrepresent my art. What engraving can ever realise the beauty,
the finish, the colouring of an original oil painting?"
"I prefer engravings to oils," said I.
"Probably; but then you're not a judge of art, you see," replied Angelo
coolly.
"I suppose your success has brought you many orders for pictures?"
said my uncle, interposing quickly in the interests of harmony.
"Very many. An English baronet has employed me to paint him a picture
on any subject I choose, paying me half the price in advance."
"And what subject have you chosen?" asked Daphne.
"'Modesta, the Christian Martyr,' is the title of my new work, but I am
delayed somewhat by the want of a suitable model."
"'Fall of Cæsar,' 'Christian Martyr,'" murmured my uncle. "You seem
fond of death-scenes."
"Yes, I have discovered wherein my talent lies. My pencil is better
adapted to illustrate repose than motion. Hitherto I have attempted to
portray action, and failed. Now, still-life is my study."
"Well, I hope your next picture will become as famous as the last,"
said Daphne, "and that you will let us have a glimpse of it before
parting with it."
"If you care to view a minor performance of mine," said Angelo, "visit
the cathedral at Rivoli. It contains a Madonna painted by me while on
a visit last year. It has given great satisfaction to the people here,
if I may be permitted to sing my own praises. They have even said I was
inspired by the saint. Perhaps I was," he added with a curious smile.
"I should like you to view it, Miss Leslie, before you leave Rivoli,
for a reason that will at once become apparent when you see it."
"A reason? What reason? Tell me now," said Daphne, turning her eyes
upon him with a look of wonder.
"Not now. The Madonna will speak for me."
"You are talking in riddles. I shall visit the cathedral this very day,
and discover your meaning for myself."
"You do me too much honour. You will receive a surprise--a pleasant
one, let me trust."
Daphne's curiosity was raised to the highest point and she cried:
"You hear, papa? We must visit the cathedral this very morning, and
solve Mr. Vasari's enigma."
"Very well," replied her father, rising. "I think I have solved it
already, and, as I begin to feel hungry qualms 'neath the fourth button
of my waistcoat, suppose you run indoors and see what progress is being
made with breakfast. Angelo, you will join us, of course?"
Of course he would!
Our breakfast-room was a small prettily furnished apartment, whose
latticed windows commanded a fine view of the mountains.
The fresh morning air had imparted a keen edge to my appetite, and
nothing but the sense of Angelo's rivalry prevented me from doing full
justice to the substantial fare that old Dame Ursula, the housekeeper,
had spread before us. The look of admiration in the artist's dark
eyes, his tender, respectful homage, spoke of a feeling for Daphne far
stronger than friendship. He completely ignored me, and, for my part, I
did not address any remark to him during the course of the breakfast.
Intuitively we felt that we were rivals, between whom interchange of
ideas was impossible. When, in reply to some question of my uncle's,
I held forth at great length on German theology, he listened without
saying a word. When he grew eloquent over the Old Masters and their
works, I treated his tinsel verbiage with freezing silence. He exerted
all his arts to please Daphne, and the colour of her cheek and the
sparkle of her eye showed that if such attentions did not inspire the
sweet sentiments he desired, they were, on the other hand, not at all
distasteful to her.
On the seat of one of the latticed windows lay a brown paper parcel,
partly opened, containing the files of the _Standard_ to which my uncle
had alluded. Angelo cast frequent glances in this direction. I supposed
he was burning to read to Daphne the eulogium on his picture, but as
she seemed to have forgotten it, his vanity was not gratified.
After breakfast was over Daphne repeated her wish to visit the
cathedral without delay, and ran off to change her dress for the
journey. My uncle withdrew for a similar purpose, leaving me to
entertain the artist. The entertainment I offered him was certainly not
marked by variety, for it consisted simply of an unbroken silence--a
silence that did not seem to disconcert him in the least. He occupied
himself with the files of the _Standard_, turning them over with deft
fingers, as if selecting a certain one from among the number.
"Looking for the critique, I suppose, in order to read what a great man
he is," I thought. "What conceited asses these geniuses always are!"
And I mentally congratulated myself that I was not a genius, a fact
that I doubt not the reader has discovered long ere this.
Daphne and my uncle now reappeared.
"We are bound for the cathedral, I presume," said Angelo, assuming
his sombrero and cloak with a graceful air. "Will Miss Leslie mind
if I smoke a cigar? No? Thank you. And as I see no matches here, Mr.
Leslie will perhaps not object if I tear off a small piece of this
newspaper"--he did not wait for leave, however, but suited the action
to the word--"to light it with."
"No matches?" repeated Daphne. "Here is a box on the mantelshelf."
"So there is. Hem! Curious I didn't see it! I have been looking
everywhere for a match." I had not seen him so occupied. "No matter.
This will serve my purpose equally well--or better," and with a
peculiar smile he ignited the twisted piece of paper at the fire.
There was in his lighting of that cigar a curious air of triumph that
puzzled me very much, and set me wondering as to its cause.