The woman was tired and hot when she reached his studio, for the sun
was nearly at its height, and its heat, imprisoned in the narrow
street, was stifling to those wayfarers who could not move at leisure
and take advantage of such shade as offered. She greeted the artist
timidly, and gazed, not without curiosity, at the littered floor and
the sketches upon the walls.
“That is what I want you for,” said the artist, indicating with a nod a
large unfinished canvas which stood upon an easel in the full light of
the window.
His visitor crossed over, and stood looking at the roughly outlined
figure of a woman upon her knees, bending over the calm, awful face of
the dead Christ. She stood for some time in silence, and then as she
understood what her part was to be, turned to the artist to receive his
instructions.
And never had man a more devoted model.
True to time, cheerful and willing, she appeared day by day, and it
required but little discernment on the part of the artist to see that
her heart was in the work. Quiet and undemonstrative in manner, it
was yet easy to see her devout joy at the fact that her face should
have been chosen to represent that of the Virgin. Slowly but surely
the work grew in strength and clearness, bit by bit the shadowy figure
of the woman took life, and a weary earth-worn face now bent over the
crucified Saviour.
It was while sitting at the window one morning, waiting for the
appearance of his model, that the artist was surprised by a visit from
his friend Rossa.
“Are you amiable to visitors this morning?” inquired the latter.
“It depends upon their criticisms,” replied the artist smiling.
“I feel at peace with all mankind at present,” said Rossa.
“In that case you are welcome,” said the other, “but you are the only
man I allow to see it in its unfinished state.”
“Always hungry for my suggestions,” murmured Rossa complacently, as he
advanced to the easel.
“Well?” asked the artist impatiently, after allowing plenty of time for
his friend’s praises.
“It is the best you have done, as good as you will ever do,” said Rossa
with gratifying energy. “Ah! when will you cease wasting your strength
on these old-world superstitions, and use your brush on nobler themes?”
“There is none nobler,” said the other gravely.
Rossa shrugged his shoulders and smiled scornfully. “Bah! you spend
your strength in painting advertisements for the priests, and what
do the smug-faced black-gowns do for you in return? Give you their
blessing, or recommend you to wealthy patrons? Are there no noble
deeds of to-day to bring the blood to a man’s cheek and the water to
his eyes, that you must go back to that hackneyed theme of eighteen
centuries ago?”
“You are speaking too freely,” said the artist sternly.
“Freely!” repeated Rossa. “You paint pictures to foster and encourage
ideas which are against all reason, and one may not even speak of it.
And the materials, bah! Do you ask for certificates of character from
the women you paint as Madonnas, or do you take the first that suits?”
“To tell the truth, I have never thought of it,” said the other, “but
in this case the woman’s face is her best certificate.”
“It certainly supported her for many years,” said Rossa drily.
“What, do you know her? She told me she had never sat before,” said the
artist in surprise.
“Years ago I knew her well,” said his friend, “but not as a model.
It was in Naples. She had a large circle of acquaintances, and was
commonly known as ‘The Doll.’ Even to an atheist there seems to be an
incongruity somewhere in painting her in this character.”
“Is this a jest?” asked the artist, struggling between amazement and
anger.
“Ask her,” said Rossa quietly. “Poor devil; I’m sorry I spoke though.
She certainly has got a sad face, and I suppose it doesn’t matter to
you how she got it.”
The artist shook his head.
“Come,” said the repentant Rossa, “don’t spoil your picture and rake up
this poor thing’s past for nothing; perhaps I am mistaken.”
His friend smiled faintly, and bidding his visitor “good-bye” sat
himself down in the window-seat in a brown study. A devout man, his
heart was troubled. Art and religion strove within him for the mastery.
He sat in perplexity until a light tap at the door announced the
arrival of the model.
“It is hot, signor,” said she, smiling--“scarce a breath of air in the
streets, but it is cool here.”
True to the minute, interested in his work, she had toiled through the
heat. He looked at her coarse, work-stained hands and gentle face, and
faltered.
“I told you that the picture is intended for a gift to the cathedral,
did I not?” he inquired after a pause.
“Surely, signor.” She smiled again. Already she saw her face and that
other looking down from the cathedral wall on to the hushed crowd
beneath.
“I chose your face,” continued the artist, “because it seemed to me to
contain all that I required for my subject; but there is one little
matter of which I should have spoken before. The face that I have
chosen for the Holy Mother, which is to remind the people of her divine
goodness and great sorrow, must be that of a good woman. I dare not
portray any other.”
There was no smile on the woman’s lips now, and in her face, pale one
moment and flushed with shame the next, he saw that she guessed the
extent of his knowledge.
“I did not think it mattered,” she said at length in a low voice. “I
never thought of it. There--there were two Marys, signor, and He loved
both.”
She looked at him humbly, with blurred eyes, but he had averted his
face. He raised it at length at the sound of a door closing, and found
that he was alone.
For a long time he sat motionless. At last, with the air of a man who
has an unpleasant task before him, he arose and looked long and close
at the nearly finished picture. Then he took it from the easel, and
placing it on the floor with its face to the wall, he too went out.