I
It was getting too dark to work, and the artist, a cigarette between
his lips, was sitting restfully at the open window, lazily scanning
through his half-closed lids the languid life of the old Italian city
below. As the objects in his studio retired farther and farther into
the shadows, he arose, and taking his hat from a peg, passed slowly
down the long staircase into the street. The air, which had been almost
stifling during the day was now freshening, and he passed from street
to street with the aimless enjoyment of the man to whom the mere
exercise of his cramped limbs is a luxury.
Standing idly at a lighted corner preparatory to turning back, his gaze
fell upon a middle-aged woman of poor appearance who was passing. He
started violently, and in an undecided fashion stood gazing after her
retreating figure until it disappeared down a small by-street. Then, on
a sudden impulse, he threw away his cigarette and started in pursuit.
At first he gained but little on her, and once or twice nearly lost
her in the rapidly increasing darkness, but in the end his youth and
strength told, and the woman, who had been conscious for some time that
her steps were dogged, slackened her pace and walked with her hand
pressed to her side, breathing distressfully. In the centre of the old
stone bridge which leads from the narrow streets of the town to the
open country beyond, he overtook her.
“Pardon, signora,” he said softly.
The woman halted, her hand on the low stone parapet, and confronted him.
“You walk fast,” he continued, smiling.
She murmured an indistinct something, and made as though to go.
“No, I have followed you some distance,” said the artist, “I can’t
afford to lose you. Will you let me see your face? I have a reason for
the request.”
With a startled gesture, and not without looking right and left as
though for assistance, should it be needed, she threw her head back,
her pale features showing clearly in the light of an adjoining lamp.
“Beautiful!” said the artist joyfully, “beautiful!”
[Illustration: “BEAUTIFUL,” SAID THE ARTIST JOYFULLY, “BEAUTIFUL!”]
“Signor,” said the woman with dignity, conscious of forty years and
sundry wrinkles, “you mock me.”
“By no means,” he said anxiously; “you have the face I have sought for
years. You will sit for me, will you not?”
“The signor is an artist then,” said the woman, breathing more freely.
He nodded, and for the first time perceived that he had frightened her.
“I was too abrupt,” he said regretfully. “I saw your face and forgot
all else.”
The woman smiled faintly, a slight glow tinged her face and her eyes
brightened. “I shall be pleased to sit, if I am any use.”
“Can you come to-morrow?” asked the enthusiast.
“Yes.”
“At eleven then, to this address. You will not fail me.”
Smiling at his earnestness, she gave the desired assurance, and with a
soft good-night left him, and passed swiftly over the bridge into the
darkness beyond.
For a moment the artist glanced after her as though desirous of
obtaining further pledges of fidelity, and then abandoning the idea,
seated himself on the parapet, and, lighting another cigarette, fell
into a smoker’s reverie. The river went by with a soft swish against
the piles of the old bridge, the air was cool and the ghostly outlines
of the old buildings on either bank, indistinct in the darkness,
appeared to be nodding in sleep. All these drowsy influences combined
were beginning to have a soporific effect upon the smoker, the
buildings nodded more violently than ever, the river murmured more
sweetly.
“He who sleeps on the parapet awakes in the stream,” said a voice at
his elbow in feigned solemnity.
“Ah! Rossa,” said the artist, slipping to his feet, and smiling as he
recognised the speaker, “I was just wishing for company home. I have
news for you; at last I have been successful in my search, and my
picture can be finished.”
“It is time,” remarked the other as he walked by his side; “and where
is she who has succeeded in satisfying your exacting fancy?”
“I parted from her on the bridge,” replied his friend. “Such a face,
such an expression, the perfect type of bereaved maternity.”
“Charming!” said Rossa drily. “It must have been a pleasant task, the
acquiring of that self-same expression.”
The artist, somewhat nettled at his tone, made no reply, and they
traversed the narrow ill-lighted streets almost in silence until they
reached his dwelling. Then with a hearty handshake Rossa took his
leave, and the other climbed the steep stairs which led to his bed to
lie awake half the night, thinking of his great work and the face of
his model.