THE ARTIST FAILS TO SECURE A MODEL
On our return from the cathedral I spent the early portion of the
morning in writing letters to some college friends at Heidelberg, not
forgetting at the same time to send to my uncle's butler telling him
to procure another copy of the _Standard_ of the date July 2nd, and to
forward it to Rivoli.
My uncle, occupying himself with the files of the newspaper in
question, was deep in the mazes of politics, and favoured Daphne now
and then with extracts from the oratory of statesmen out of office, to
the effect that the country was on the eve of ruin, and that nothing
but a speedy return of the Opposition to power would ever set matters
right--statements which my uncle, who favoured the Opposition, regarded
as profoundly true.
Daphne yawned at the impending fall of her country without seeming
to be much impressed thereby; and finally, putting on her hat, she
exclaimed it was a beautiful morning for a stroll, and sauntered
leisurely out, expressing a wish that I would follow her as soon as my
letters were finished.
This I did, and walked down the mountain path in quest of her. Not
having seen her by the time I had reached the haunted well, and not
knowing in what direction to look for her, I flung myself down on a
grassy bank behind the fountain, beneath the shadows of the overhanging
foliage, determined to devote five minutes to a cigar before proceeding
further.
The day was sunny, the breeze soft and warm, the waters of the
fountain rippled pleasantly, and the shadows danced to and fro on the
greensward. Repose in the shade was much more agreeable than walking in
the sunlight, and I found my five minutes extending to ten, and, while
dreamily thinking that it was time to resume my quest, I dropped off to
sleep.
How long I continued in a state of repose I cannot tell. I was aroused
by the sound of voices; and, glancing out from my covert, I saw Daphne
and Angelo standing beside the fountain. The artist was labouring under
some deep emotion: his dark hair hung negligently over his brow and
eyes; his attire was in a frayed and disarranged state; for disorder
and melancholy he looked a very Hamlet.
Evidently neither he nor Daphne was aware of my proximity. I hesitated
to play the spy, but by doing so I might obtain a clue to Angelo's
expulsion from the Communion--a clue that probably could be obtained
in no other way, since his affection for Daphne might induce him to
impart to her what he would withhold from my uncle and myself. This
thought acted as a salve to my conscience, and, drawing my head within
the foliage, I resolved to remain a silent and hidden spectator of
the interview, in direct contravention of my promise to Daphne not to
leave her alone with the artist. It was not a very honourable position
I candidly admit. But I paid the penalty for it, by overhearing that
which made me most miserable.
"I am afraid, Miss Leslie," the artist was saying--and his voice
sounded so strange and hoarse that I scarcely recognised it to be
his--"that the incident that happened this morning in the cathedral has
tended to prejudice me in your esteem."
Daphne's silence seemed to imply assent to this.
"If it be this that causes you to look on me with a different face, it
admits of an easy explanation. Father Ignatius recognised in you the
original of my Madonna. He considers me guilty of sacrilege. My refusal
to atone for it at the confessional excludes me from the communion of
the Church. You know what these priests are, Miss Leslie," he continued
with a sneer. "Meat in Lent, absence from confessional, a thousand
similar trifles, are deadly sins in their eyes."
Daphne still maintained silence. He took from his bosom a crucifix and
kissed it.
"On this crucifix, image of our God in agony, holiest symbol of the
Catholic faith, I swear by my hope of salvation that I speak truth when
I say that my exclusion from the Mass rests on no other ground than the
one I have stated."
I did not believe him; and if he had repeated his statement twenty
times, and sworn it on his crucifix twenty times, I would not have
believed him. A subtle stroke on his part, this: to represent to Daphne
that his tribute to her beauty had cost him nothing less than--'the
communion of the saints!' It might move her to pity, and we all know to
what pity is akin.
"I am sorry," said Daphne, "that I am the cause--the innocent cause,"
with a stress on the adjective, "of your suffering the Church's
censure."
And then came a long pause, during which both stood looking at each
other: he with undisguised love and admiration, she with evident
distrust and fear. Each seemed afraid to break the silence.
"Miss Leslie," he continued, speaking slowly, as if it were difficult
to find words, and his breathing came thick and heavy, "you can guess
why in painting that picture I was enabled, in the absence of the
original, to reproduce your features with such fidelity?"
"I cannot tell."
This was a falsehood on her part--a pardonable one, perhaps. She knew
the reason as well as he did, and dreaded what was coming. At last,
after another long pause, came the momentous declaration:
"It was _love_ that aided my memory."
With his hands tremulously clasped, he bent forward, his dark eyes
fixed on Daphne's face. Hers were bent on the ground. I had never seen
her looking more beautiful.
"Yes," repeated Angelo, speaking with more ease now, as if his avowal
of love had removed the restraint from his speech, "it was love that
aided my memory. It was love, if classic story speak truth, that drew
the first portrait."
It was characteristic of him that even in his lovemaking he could not
wholly avoid reverting to his adored art.
"Yes," he continued, "it was love that inspired the production of my
Madonna. Madonna!" he exclaimed in scornful tones, as if in contempt
of his religion. "I know of no Madonna save you--your worship excludes
all other. The saints are forgotten when I gaze on your face. You alone
are my divinity. Visit my studio, and see how many pictures there are
of that face which troubles me by day and haunts my dreams by night.
Look in my desk, and see how many letters there are addressed to Miss
Leslie--written, but never sent. Miss Leslie, you must know how much I
love you! O, do not say that you do not return the feeling!"
His cloak dropped back from his shoulders as he extended his arms in a
pleading manner toward my cousin, his bronzed, handsome face glowing
as I have seen the face of a Greek statue glow in the quivering
sunset. He was not ignorant of his own personal charms, and his
present attitude, acquired perhaps in the _atelier_ of the artist, was
purposely adapted to display the statuesque grace of his figure.
Daphne did not speak a word. I knew what her answer would be, and I
knew that her reticence arose from her dread of the effect which that
answer might have on the passionate nature of the artist. She had seen
something of his nature that morning in the cathedral, and divined but
too well that his love was of the character that turns by a leap to
hatred.
"I love you," he repeated--"how deeply no words of mine can tell! The
months that have separated us have been to me a torture. I cannot rest
apart from you. I have come from England expressly to see you. I am
here now to ask you to be mine. I had intended to stay long with, or
near you, and seek to win my way gradually into your heart, but I can
be silent no longer. Who can forge chains for love, and say, 'To-day
thou shalt be dumb; to-morrow thou shalt speak?' Forgive me if my
language seems wild. We Italians do not love so coldly as your English
youth; we are all passion and flame. If I am precipitate, if I am rash,
if I am mad, blame not me, but blame the beauty that has made me so."
He checked the flow of his words; they seem poor and commonplace enough
on paper. It must have been the tone in which they were uttered, and
the aid they received from his sparkling eyes and dramatic gestures,
that made them sound like eloquence at the time.
Daphne, her drooping eyes fixed on the ground, stood beside the tree
overhanging the fountain, still and silent as a statue. To say "No" to
any request, however trifling, was always a source of pain to her; how
much more now when it would give despair to the one it was addressed
to!
"Ah, Heaven! how beautiful you are! What a picture you would make!"
One might have thought from the manner in which he dwelt on the word
"picture" that he wanted her for no other purpose than to minister to
his art. "Will you not speak, Daphne?"
She sought refuge in evasion.
"Give me time--a day--to reflect. I will reply to you by--by letter."
"No, no--a thousand times, no! Not for worlds will I endure another
such night as last in an agony of suspense and doubt. Let me have
your answer here and now. This avowal cannot be a surprise to you.
What woman was ever loved without knowing it? Did you not understand
my action yesterday when I knelt before your picture? Could you not
interpret the look in my eyes the first time they saw your face? That
day marked an era in my art. For years I had been seeking to paint a
face that should be the very ideal of beauty, and my hand had failed
to delineate the shadowy conceptions of my mind; but at last the ideal
face shone upon me. My dream of beauty was realised in a living form.
With that bright form by my side to inspire my pencil----"
The artist paused, stopped by the expression on Daphne's face. Surely
in the presence of the bird the net is spread in vain? Angelo's desire
for Daphne was prompted quite as much by art as by love. She would
be a priceless acquisition to his studio, would serve as a beautiful
model for his princesses, his nymphs, and his angels. So absorbed was
he in his passion for art that he could see nothing objectionable or
ludicrous in his avowal. Do all artists make love in this fashion,
I wonder? The thought of my own beautiful Daphne posing in various
attitudes, and in various stages of dressing, before this demon of an
artist, in order that he might produce some exquisite masterpiece for
the delectation of a gaping public, so set my nerves a-quivering that I
all but rushed from my hiding-place for the purpose of hurling him into
the fountain. Great was my joy to hear Daphne's reply, given in a voice
that was tinged slightly with sarcasm:
"Mr. Vasari," and she inclined her dainty head, "I thank your for the
honour you do me in selecting me as your model----"
"Ah, you are cruel," the artist stammered. "It is not for art alone I
love you."
"But, believe me, it can never be as you wish."
"Ah, why, Daphne? Say not that you hate me."
"You forget that I am to be Captain Willard's wife."
Angelo started. So did I, for these words were a complete revelation to
me. I had thought that she had all but forgotten George, and that I was
gradually replacing his image. Her utterance completely dispelled this
illusion.
With a strange heaviness of heart that increased each moment, I
continued to listen to the dialogue. Angelo's pleading expression had
changed to one of surprise and contempt.
"Captain Willard?" he exclaimed. "Surely you do not think of him
now--he who deserted you on your bridal morning! He is not worthy of
you."
"Deserted me?" repeated Daphne. "Yes--but not forever, I feel sure. He
has left me only for a time. Whatever the crime was in which he became
involved--for crime I suppose it must have been--I am certain that it
was none of _his_ causing. If there be any truth in my dreams he will
yet return to explain the mystery of his absence, to vindicate his
character, and to take me for his wife."
She spoke with such a look shining from her eyes, with so proud a trust
in the faith of her absent hero, in such a tone of conviction, that I
(thinking only of my own faint--very faint--prospect of winning her)
trembled, lest her words should be the heralds of a stern reality. Some
dark shadows dancing suddenly across the greensward between her and
Angelo, accompanied by a rustling sound as of a footstep, gave me a
start as great as if the ghost of George had suddenly risen up before
me.
"Your faith is womanly, sublime, but--misplaced. He will never return.
He has left you forever. Think no more of him. There is one who loves
you a thousand times more deeply than Captain Willard ever did;
compared with mine, his love was but as ice. Ah, Daphne! say that you
will be mine. I will gladly wait years for you, content to hold a
second place in your affections, if in the event of Captain Willard's
non-return you will offer me a little hope."
"Mr. Vasari, it cannot be, even if George were never to return. Be he
living or dead, I will remain faithful to his memory."
My mental gloom increased as I listened to these firmly spoken words.
Daphne little thought she was wounding two hearts by her remarks.
"Daphne, I would not hurt your feelings, but have you never considered
that Captain Willard may have left you for another? If I could show you
that this is the case, would you still remain faithful to his memory?
Will you not rather show your scorn of him by listening to another
lover--me?"
There was little in Angelo's remarks to suggest the reminiscence, and
yet by some inexplicable mental process I found my mind reverting to
the episode of the veiled lady. Daphne's cheek grew white and her lip
quivered at the idea suggested by the Italian, but she replied proudly:
"I will never believe that he was faithless."
"If I could prove that he left you for another--" began the artist.
It was now Daphne's turn to become the suppliant.
"Oh, why do you say this? You talk as if you knew something of him. If
you have any knowledge of him, tell me, for pity's sake! Do you know
where he is?"
"First, my question requires an answer. If I could prove that he left
you for another, what would be your answer to me then?"
In the interval that elapsed between the question and the reply I could
have counted sixty. The deep silence was broken only by the ripple of
the fountain. I almost thought I could hear her heart beating against
her breast. But the question must be answered, and drawing her dress
around her with a grace which charmed while it maddened the artist, and
raising her head with the proud dignity of a queen, she replied:
"Since you force me to speak out, and are determined to have an answer
from me, listen to it. I do not love you, and--forgive me if my
words seem harsh; better a cold truth than a sweet falsehood--it is
better that you should know now, once and for all, I could never love
you--never, _never_, NEVER!"
There could be no mistaking the meaning of those cold, deliberate
words. It pained her to say them, and I believe she would have burst
into a flood of tears; but she repressed her emotion, lest it should
encourage Angelo to a more earnest persistency of his suit.
The effect of her refusal on the artist was singular in the extreme.
At first he trembled, in every limb, and I could distinctly see drops
of perspiration glistening on his brow. Then, as he realised all the
bitterness of his position, and that the lovely woman before him was
lost to him forever and ever, and that if they were to live a thousand
years on the earth she would still be as cold to him as she was at that
moment, he lifted his arms with a slow motion and extended them towards
her, and for some moments he maintained this position, petrified to
rigidity, staring at her with ghastly look and glassy eye. His attitude
was the very apotheosis of despair.
I marvelled at his emotion. My own sense of disappointment on hearing
Daphne express her determination to remain faithful to George was
exquisitely bitter, but, bitter as it was, it was apparently but a
tithe of the pain felt by the artist.
Several times he tried to speak, but no words came from his dry lips.
It was painful to see him going through the mockery of speaking, yet
unable to produce a sound. It was as if the dead, touched by some
galvanic apparatus, were trying to assume the mechanism of life, and
when at last he did speak his strange hollow voice aided the illusion.
"Miss Leslie, you surely cannot--cannot mean _that_!"
"Indeed I do," was the cold reply.
Scarcely able to keep his feet, the artist moved backward till he
touched the trunk of a tree, where he leaned for support. The sight of
his misery touched Daphne to the quick, and she cried impulsively:
"O Mr. Vasari, I am sorry for you; but I cannot love you. I cannot
forget George. Believe me, it pains me to have to say this. Try to
think it is for the best."
She placed her hand timidly on his arm; but he swung it off with so
dark an expression on his face that I had almost thrown myself between
them.
"I want not your pity," he exclaimed scornfully, turning the fire of
his eyes on her, "if I cannot have your love!"
And, ignoble at heart, he began now to sneer at the prize he found
beyond his reach.
"And so," he continued in a bitter tone, "rather than accept the love
of one who can immortalise you by his pencil you prefer to be a living
cenotaph whose sad aspect testifies the esteem set upon her by her
first lover!"
Dropping his sneering tone for one of fierce anger, he added:
"You must have some less fanciful reason for rejecting me than this
absurd attachment to--to a shadow. Tell me, do you not love another?"
"Mr. Vasari, you have no right to question me thus. You have received
your answer, and this meeting may as well end, since it seems now that
insult is to be my portion."
And she turned proudly to go.
"Stay!" cried Angelo, barring her passage. "You evade my question. You
love another. Nay, do not deny it. I will not accept your denial. I
know who my rival is. Let him beware. You may listen to his whispered
words, smile at his kisses, receive his gifts; but never shall you go
with him to the altar! Rather will I see you dead by my own hand first!"
"Oh, why do you talk so wildly? Leave me and think no more of me. There
are many women whose love is more worth winning than mine. Try to
forget me."
"Forget you?" and he laughed bitterly. "There are many artists, but
only one Raphael; there are many women, but only one Daphne. O Daphne!
dear, dear Daphne!"--his manner changed at once from the fierceness of
scorn to the softness of love, as, dropping on one knee, he held her
struggling hands in his and covered them with kisses, "do not refuse
me! You----"
"Mr. Vasari, it is not right to detain me against my wish. Let go my
hands."
He obeyed her, sprang to his feet, but continued his pleading tones:
"Daphne, I beseech you to recall your decision. You asked for a day to
consider. Let me meet you here in twenty-four hours. I have been too
precipitate. I surprise, frighten you. You were not prepared for this.
Give me your final answer to-morrow."
"I have given you my answer."
He looked at her beautiful face, so cold in its firmness to resist all
entreaties, and then, turning as if to address an imaginary audience,
said:
"Can this cold statue really be the same maiden who but yesterday
smiled at my gifts and blushed at my words? How quick a change has
passed over her! Yes," he continued, observing the colour that mounted
to Daphne's brow at these last words, "yes, blush at your actions of
yesterday. You cannot deny that by your words and your smiles you have
encouraged me to this confession."
"Mr. Vasari," she returned, speaking very humbly, with her eyes fixed
on one pretty little foot that was shifting uneasily to and fro on the
greensward, "I cannot deny that your attentions gave me pleasure. I am
fond of admiration--perhaps too fond. I am only too sorry now that my
vanity had led you to put a false interpretation on what was intended
for friendship only, and must ask you to forgive me."
He looked with a wistful gaze at her fair face, but read no
encouragement there. A long silence ensued during which he seemed to
grow calmer and more resigned to his position.
"Enough of this supplication," he muttered, folding his cloak around
him with a moody, half-scornful air.
Art had apparently humiliated itself too long in the presence of Beauty.
"Let us part friends," said Daphne.
But he turned from the little hand offered to him in friendship.
Magnanimity did not form part of his character.
"Will you not come and see us to-morrow?" said Daphne, affecting not to
notice the repulse.
"I leave Rivoli to-day--this hour. You will see me no more."
"Will you not say good-bye to my father and Frank?"
A scornful gesture of refusal was his only reply, and, with a dark
glance, he was preparing to depart when a motion from Daphne stopped
him.
"Angelo," she said in a plaintive, supplicating voice, and using the
Christian name of the artist--she was loth to ask the question of him,
and yet felt that she must--"Angelo, answer me truly. If you know
anything of Captain Willard--and your words just now seemed to imply
that you do--tell me, I implore you, and I will be--your--your best
friend," she added, as if sorry she could not offer him the highest
place in her regard. "Do you know where he is?"
"Do I know where he is?" repeated the Italian with a peculiar laugh. He
turned back, took a step nearer to Daphne, and said:
"You are nearer to him now than you have been for months."
He seemed on the point of saying more, but, suddenly turning on his
heel, he left her.
"O Angelo, what do you mean?" she called out after him.
But the artist was now plunging down the mountain side, and if he heard
her words, did not at any rate reply to them. Daphne watched him sadly
for a few moments, and then, turning away, began to ascend the zigzag
path which led to the châlet. Not wishing to let her know that I had
been a spectator of the interview, I remained where I was, and gazed
after the retreating figure of Angelo, who was springing down from crag
to crag in a manner that augured very little care for his own safety,
his dark locks and long cloak swaying on the breeze.
I, Frank Willard, sitting there on that calm summer day amid the
loveliest scenery of Switzerland, rich in youth and health, endowed by
my uncle with a competent fortune, and with nothing much to trouble my
conscience, will seem to many an object of envy; and yet there I was,
bewailing what I called my sad destiny, and sentimentally thinking
myself the most unhappy of mankind.
Daphne's avowal of her continued love for George had cast a gloom over
me. Was I again to tread the Via Dolorosa of hopeless love, and, as the
melancholy student of Heidelberg, to outwatch the stars once more on
the solitary crags of the Odenwald?
"Living or dead, I will remain faithful to his memory."
"You are nearer to him now than you have been for months."
These two sentences continued to haunt my mind all the way to the
châlet. The artist's parting words seemed to imply that George was
living at Rivoli--an idea that had previously occurred to me. What
would become of my love-dream if, on hearing that Daphne was at
Rivoli, George should emerge from his seclusion with some strange but
justifiable reason for his past conduct? Would he do this, I wondered,
or would he remain hidden in obscurity? A shadow fell across my path.
I looked up, and the porch of the châlet fronted me with its legend,
ominous, so it seemed to me, of some coming tragedy:
"_He shall return!_"