Monsieur Gouache's studio was on the second floor. The narrow flight of
steps ended abruptly against a green door, perforated by a slit for the
insertion of letters, by a shabby green cord which, being pulled, rang a
feeble bell, and adorned by a visiting-card, whereon with many
superfluous flourishes and ornaments of caligraphy was inscribed the name
of the artist--ANASTASE GOUACHE.
The door being opened by a string, Donna Tullia and Del Ferice entered,
and mounting half-a-dozen more steps, found themselves in the studio, a
spacious room with a window high above the floor, half shaded by a
curtain of grey cotton. In one corner an iron stove gave out loud
cracking sounds, pleasant to hear on the damp winter's morning, and the
flame shone red through chinks of the rusty door. A dark-green carpet in
passably good condition covered the floor; three or four broad divans,
spread with oriental rugs, and two very much dilapidated carved chairs
with leathern seats, constituted the furniture; the walls were hung with
sketches of heads and figures; half-finished portraits stood upon two
easels, and others were leaning together in a corner; a couple of small
tables were covered with colour-tubes, brushes, and palette-knives;
mingled odours of paint, varnish, and cigarette-smoke pervaded the air;
and, lastly, upon a high stool before one of the easels, his sleeves
turned up to the elbow, and his feet tucked in upon a rail beneath him,
sat Anastase Gouache himself.
He was a man of not more than seven-and-twenty years, with delicate pale
features, and an abundance of glossy black hair. A small and very much
pointed moustache shaded his upper lip, and the extremities thereof rose
short and perpendicular from the corners of his well-shaped mouth. His
eyes were dark and singularly expressive, his forehead low and very
broad; his hands were sufficiently nervous and well knit, but white as a
woman's, and the fingers tapered delicately to the tips. He wore a brown
velvet coat more or less daubed with paint, and his collar was low at the
throat.
He sprang from his high stool as Donna Tullia and Del Ferice entered, his
palette and mahl-stick in his hand, and made a most ceremonious bow;
whereat Donna Tullia laughed gaily.
"Well, Gouache," she said familiarly, "what have you been doing?"
Anastase motioned to her to come before his canvas and contemplate the
portrait of herself upon which he was working. It was undeniably good--a
striking figure in full-length, life-size, and breathing with Donna
Tullia's vitality, if also with something of her coarseness.
"Ah, my friend," remarked Del Ferice, "you will never be successful until
you take my advice."
"I think it is very like," said Donna Tullia, thoughtfully.
"You are too modest," answered Del Ferice. "There is the foundation of
likeness, but it lacks yet the soul."
"Oh, but that will come," returned Madame Mayer. Then turning to the
artist, she added in a more doubtful voice, "Perhaps, as Del Ferice says,
you might give it a little more expression--what shall I say?--more
poetry."
Anastase Gouache smiled a fine smile. He was a man of immense talent;
since he had won the Prix de Rome he had made great progress, and was
already half famous with that young celebrity which young men easily
mistake for fame itself. A new comet visible only through a good glass
causes a deal of talk and speculation in the world; but unless it comes
near enough to brush the earth with its tail, it is very soon forgotten.
But Gouache seemed to understand this, and worked steadily on. When
Madame Mayer expressed a wish for a little more poetry in her portrait,
he smiled, well knowing that poetry was as far removed from her nature as
dry champagne is different in quality from small beer.
"Yes," he said; "I know--I am only too conscious of that defect." As
indeed he was--conscious of the defect of it in herself. But he had many
reasons for not wishing to quarrel with Donna Tullia, and he swallowed
his artistic convictions in a rash resolve to make her look like an
inspired prophetess rather than displease her.
"If you will sit down, I will work upon the head," he said; and moving
one of the old carved chairs into position for her, he adjusted the light
and began to work without any further words. Del Ferice installed himself
upon a divan whence he could see Donna Tullia and her portrait, and the
sitting began. It might have continued for some time in a profound
silence as far as the two men were concerned, but silence was not
bearable for long to Donna Tullia.
"What were you and Saracinesca talking about yesterday?" she asked
suddenly, looking towards Del Ferice.
"Politics," he answered, and was silent.
"Well?" inquired Madame Mayer, rather anxiously.
"I am sure you know his views as well as I," returned Del Ferice, rather
gloomily. "He is stupid and prejudiced."
"Really?" ejaculated Gouache, with innocent surprise. "A little more
towards me, Madame. Thank you--so." And he continued painting.
"You are absurd, Del Ferice!" exclaimed Donna Tullia, colouring a little.
"You think every one prejudiced and stupid who does not agree with you."
"With me? With you, with us, you should say. Giovanni is a specimen of
the furious Conservative, who hates change and has a cold chill at the
word 'republic' Do you call that intelligent?"
"Giovanni is intelligent for all that," answered Madame Mayer. "I am not
sure that he is not more intelligent than you--in some ways," she added,
after allowing her rebuke to take effect.
Del Ferice smiled blandly. It was not his business to show that he was
hurt.
"In one thing he is stupid compared with me," he replied. "He is very far
from doing justice to your charms. It must be a singular lack of
intelligence which prevents him from seeing that you are as beautiful as
you are charming. Is it not so, Gouache?"
"Does any one deny it?" asked the Frenchman, with an air of devotion.
Madame Mayer blushed with annoyance; both because she coveted Giovanni's
admiration more than that of other men, and knew that she had not won it,
and because she hated to feel that Del Ferice was able to wound her so
easily. To cover her discomfiture she returned to the subject of
politics.
"We talk a great deal of our convictions," she said; "but in the
meanwhile we must acknowledge that we have accomplished nothing at all.
What is the good of our meeting here two or three times a-week, meeting
in society, whispering together, corresponding in cipher, and doing all
manner of things, when everything goes on just the same as before?"
"Better give it up and join Don Giovanni and his party," returned Del
Ferice, with a sneer. "He says if a change comes he will make the best of
it. Of course, we could not do better."
"With us it is so easy," said Gouache, thoughtfully. "A handful of
students, a few paving-stones, 'Vive la République!' and we have a tumult
in no time."
That was not the kind of revolution in which Del Ferice proposed to have
a hand. He meditated playing a very small part in some great movement;
and when the fighting should be over, he meant to exaggerate the part he
had played, and claim a substantial reward. For a good title and twenty
thousand francs a-year he would have become as stanch for the temporal
power as any canon of St. Peter's. When he had begun talking of
revolutions to Madame Mayer and to half-a-dozen harebrained youths, of
whom Gouache the painter was one, he had not really the slightest idea of
accomplishing anything. He took advantage of the prevailing excitement
in order to draw Donna Tullia into a closer confidence than he could
otherwise have aspired to obtain. He wanted to marry her, and every new
power he could obtain over her was a step towards his goal. Neither she
nor her friends were of the stuff required for revolutionary work; but
Del Ferice had hopes that, by means of the knot of malcontents he was
gradually drawing together, he might ruin Giovanni Saracinesca, and get
the hand of Donna Tullia in marriage. He himself was indeed deeply
implicated in the plots of the Italian party; but he was only employed as
a spy, and in reality knew no more of the real intentions of those he
served than did Donna Tullia herself. But the position was sufficiently
lucrative; so much so that he had been obliged to account for his
accession of fortune by saying that an uncle of his had died and left him
money.
"If you expected Don Giovanni to join a mob of students in tearing up
paving-stones and screaming 'Vive la République!' I am not surprised that
you are disappointed in your expectations," said Donna Tullia, rather
scornfully.
"That is only Gouache's idea of a popular movement," answered Del Ferice.
"And yours," returned Anastase, lowering his mahl-stick and brushes, and
turning sharply upon the Italian--"yours would be to begin by stabbing
Cardinal Antonelli in the back."
"You mistake me, my friend," returned Del Ferice, blandly. "If you
volunteered to perform that service to Italy, I would certainly not
dissuade you. But I would certainly not offer you my assistance."
"Fie! How can you talk like that of murder!" exclaimed Donna Tullia. "Go
on with your painting, Gouache, and do not be ridiculous."
"The question of tyrannicide is marvellously interesting," answered
Anastase in a meditative tone, as he resumed his work, and glanced
critically from Madame Mayer to his canvas and back again.
"It belongs to a class of actions at which Del Ferice rejoices, but in
which he desires no part," said Donna Tullia.
"It seems to me wiser to contemplate accomplishing the good result
without any unnecessary and treacherous bloodshed," answered Del Ferice,
sententiously. Again Gouache smiled in his delicate satirical fashion,
and glanced at Madame Mayer, who burst into a laugh.
"Moral reflections never sound so especially and ridiculously moral as in
your mouth, Ugo," she said.
"Why?" he asked, in an injured tone.
"I am sure I do not know. Of course, we all would like to see Victor
Emmanuel in the Quirinal, and Rome the capital of a free Italy. Of course
we would all like to see it accomplished without murder or bloodshed; but
somehow, when you put it into words, it sounds very absurd."
In her brutal fashion Madame Mayer had hit upon a great truth, and Del
Ferice was very much annoyed. He knew himself to be a scoundrel; he knew
Madame Mayer to be a woman of very commonplace intellect; he wondered
why he was not able to deceive her more effectually. He was often able to
direct her, he sometimes elicited from her some expression of admiration
at his astuteness; but in spite of his best efforts, she saw through him
and understood him better than he liked.
"I am sorry," he said, "that what is honourable should sound ridiculous
when it comes from me. I like to think sometimes that you believe in me."
"Oh, I do," protested Donna Tullia, with a sudden change of manner. "I
was only laughing. I think you are really in earnest. Only, you know,
nowadays, it is not the fashion to utter moralities in a severe tone,
with an air of conviction. A little dash of cynicism--you know, a sort of
half sneer--is so much more _chic_; it gives a much higher idea of the
morality, because it conveys the impression that it is utterly beyond
you. Ask Gouache--"
"By all means," said the artist, squeezing a little more red from the
tube upon his palette, "one should always sneer at what one cannot reach.
The fox, you remember, called the grapes sour. He was probably right, for
he is the most intelligent of animals."
"I would like to hear what Giovanni had to say about those grapes,"
remarked Donna Tullia.
"Oh, he sneered in the most fashionable way," answered Del Ferice. "He
would have pleased you immensely. He said that he would be ruined by a
change of government, and that he thought it his duty to fight against
it. He talked a great deal about the level of the Tiber, and landed
property, and the duties of gentlemen. And he ended by saying he would
make the best of any change that happened to come about, like a
thoroughgoing egotist, as he is!"
"I would like to hear what you think of Don Giovanni Saracinesca," said
Gouache; "and then I would like to hear what he thinks of you."
"I can tell you both," answered Del Fence. "I think of him that he is a
thorough aristocrat, full of prejudices and money, unwilling to sacrifice
his convictions to his wealth or his wealth to his convictions,
intelligent in regard to his own interests and blind to those of others,
imbued with a thousand and one curious feudal notions, and overcome with
a sense of his own importance."
"And what does he think of you?" asked Anastase, working busily.
"Oh, it is very simple," returned Del Ferice, with a laugh. "He thinks I
am a great scoundrel."
"Really! How strange! I should not have said that."
"What? That Del Fence is a scoundrel?" asked Donna Tullia, laughing.
"No; I should not have said it," repeated Anastase, thoughtfully. "I
should say that our friend Del Ferice is a man of the most profound
philanthropic convictions, nobly devoting his life to the pursuit of
liberty, fraternity, and equality."
"Do you really think so?" asked Donna Tullia, with a half-comic glance at
Ugo, who looked uncommonly grave.
"Madame," returned Gouache, "I never permit myself to think otherwise of
any of my friends."
"Upon my word," remarked Del Fence, "I am delighted at the compliment, my
dear fellow; but I must infer that your judgment of your friends is
singularly limited."
"Perhaps," answered Gouache. "But the number of my friends is not large,
and I myself am very enthusiastic. I look forward to the day when
'liberty, equality, and fraternity' shall be inscribed in letters of
flame, in the most expensive Bengal lights if you please, over the _porte
cochère_ of every palace in Rome, not to mention the churches. I look
forward to that day, but I have not the slightest expectation of ever
seeing it. Moreover, if it ever comes, I will pack up my palette and
brushes and go somewhere else by the nearest route."
"Good heavens, Gouache!" exclaimed Donna Tullia; "how can you talk like
that? It is really dreadfully irreverent to jest about our most sacred
convictions, or to say that we desire to see those words written over the
doors of our churches!"
"I am not jesting. I worship Victor Hugo. I love to dream of the
universal republic--it has immense artistic attractions--the fierce
yelling crowd, the savage faces, the red caps, the terrible mænad women
urging the brawny ruffians on to shed more blood, the lurid light of
burning churches, the pale and trembling victims dragged beneath the
poised knife,--ah, it is superb, it has stupendous artistic capabilities!
But for myself--bah! I am a good Catholic--I wish nobody any harm, for
life is very gay after all."
At this remarkable exposition of Anastase Gouache's views in regard to
the utility of revolutions, Del Ferice laughed loudly; but Anastase
remained perfectly grave, for he was perfectly sincere. Del Ferice, to
whom the daily whispered talk of revolution in Donna Tullia's circle was
mere child's play, was utterly indifferent, and suffered himself to be
amused by the young artist's vagaries. But Donna Tullia, who longed to
see herself the centre of a real plot, thought that she was being
laughed at, and pouted her red lips and frowned her displeasure.
"I believe you have no convictions!" she said angrily. "While we are
risking our lives and fortunes for the good cause, you sit here in your
studio dreaming of barricades and guillotines, merely as subjects for
pictures--you even acknowledge that in case we produce a revolution
you would go away."
"Not without finishing this portrait," returned Anastase, quite unmoved.
"It is an exceedingly good likeness; and in case you should ever
disappear--you know people sometimes do in revolutions--or if by any
unlucky accident your beautiful neck should chance beneath that
guillotine you just mentioned,--why, then, this canvas would be the most
delightful souvenir of many pleasant mornings, would it not?"
"You are incorrigible," said Donna Tullia, with a slight laugh. "You
cannot be serious for a moment."
"It is very hard to paint you when your expression changes so often,"
replied Anastase, calmly.
"I am not in a good humour for sitting to you this morning. I wish you
would amuse me, Del Ferice. You generally can."
"I thought politics amused you--"
"They interest me. But Gouache's ideas are detestable."
"Will you not give us some of your own, Madame?" inquired the painter,
stepping back from his canvas to get a better view of his work.
"Oh, mine are very simple," answered Donna Tullia. "Victor Emmanuel,
Garibaldi, and a free press."
"A combination of monarchy, republicanism, and popular education--not
very interesting," remarked Gouache, still eyeing his picture.
"No; there would be nothing for you to paint, except portraits of the
liberators--"
"There is a great deal of that done. I have seen them in every café in
the north of Italy," interrupted the artist. "I would like to paint
Garibaldi. He has a fine head."
"I will ask him to sit to you when he comes here."
"When he comes I shall be here no longer," answered Gouache. "They will
whitewash the Corso, they will make a restaurant of the Colosseum, and
they will hoist the Italian flag on the cross of St. Peter's. Then I will
go to Constantinople; there will still be some years before Turkey is
modernised."
"Artists are hopeless people," said Del Ferice. "They are utterly
illogical, and it is impossible to deal with them. If you like old
cities, why do you not like old women? Why would you not rather paint
Donna Tullia's old Countess than Donna Tullia herself?"
"That is precisely the opposite case," replied Anastase, quietly. "The
works of man are never so beautiful as when they are falling to decay;
the works of God are most beautiful when they are young. You might as
well say that because wine improves with age, therefore horses do
likewise. The faculty of comparison is lacking in your mind, my dear Del
Ferice, as it is generally lacking in the minds of true patriots. Great
reforms and great revolutions are generally brought about by people of
fierce and desperate convictions, like yours, who go to extreme lengths,
and never know when to stop. The quintessence of an artist's talent is
precisely that faculty of comparison, that gift of knowing when the thing
he is doing corresponds as nearly as he can make it with the thing he has
imagined."
There was no tinge of sarcasm in Gouache's voice as he imputed to Del
Ferice the savage enthusiasm of a revolutionist. But when Gouache, who
was by no means calm by nature, said anything in a particularly gentle
tone, there was generally a sting in it, and Del Ferice reflected upon
the mean traffic in stolen information by which he got his livelihood,
and was ashamed. Somehow, too, Donna Tullia felt that the part she
fancied herself playing was contemptible enough when compared with the
hard work, the earnest purpose, and the remarkable talent of the young
artist. But though she felt her inferiority, she would have died rather
than own it, even to Del Ferice. She knew that for months she had talked
with Del Ferice, with Valdarno, with Casalverde, even with the melancholy
and ironical Spicca, concerning conspiracies and deeds of darkness of all
kinds, and she knew that she and they might go on talking for ever in the
same strain without producing the smallest effect on events; but she
never to the very end relinquished the illusion she cherished so dearly,
that she was really and truly a conspirator, and that if any one of her
light-headed acquaintance betrayed the rest, they might all be ordered
out of Rome in four-and-twenty hours, or might even disappear into that
long range of dark buildings to the left of the colonnade of St. Peter's,
martyrs to the cause of their own self-importance and semi-theatrical
vanity. There were many knots of such self-fancied conspirators in those
days, whose wildest deed of daring was to whisper across a glass of
champagne in a ball-room, or over a tumbler of Velletri wine in a
Trasteverine cellar, the magic and awe-inspiring words, "Viva Garibaldi!
Viva Vittorio!" They accomplished nothing. The same men and women are now
grumbling and regretting the flesh-pots of the old Government, or
whispering in impotent discontent "Viva la Repubblica!" and they and
their descendants will go on whispering something to each other to the
end of time, while mightier hands than theirs are tearing down empires
and building up irresistible coalitions, and drawing red pencil-marks
through the geography of Europe.
The conspirators of those days accomplished nothing after Pius IX.
returned from Gaeta; the only men who were of any use at all were those
who, like Del Ferice, had sources of secret information, and basely sold
their scraps of news. But even they were of small importance. The moment
had not come, and all the talking and whispering and tale-bearing in the
world could not hasten events, nor change their course. But Donna Tullia
was puffed up with a sense of her importance, and Del Ferice managed to
attract just as much attention to his harmless chatter about progress as
would permit him undisturbed to carry on his lucrative traffic in secret
information.
Donna Tullia, who was not in the least artistic, and who by no means
appreciated the merits of the portrait Gouache was painting, was very far
from comprehending his definition of artistic comparison; but Del Ferice
understood it very well. Donna Tullia had much foreign blood in her
veins, like most of her class; but Del Ferice's obscure descent was in
all probability purely Italian, and he had inherited the common instinct
in matters of art which is a part of the Italian birthright. He had
recognised Gouache's wonderful talent, and had first brought Donna Tullia
to his studio--a matter of little difficulty when she had learned that
the young artist had already a reputation. It pleased her to fancy that
by telling him to paint her portrait she might pose as his patroness, and
hereafter reap the reputation of having influenced his career. For
fashion, and the desire to be the representative of fashion, led Donna
Tullia hither and thither as a lapdog is led by a string; and there
is nothing more in the fashion than to patronise a fashionable
portrait-painter.
But after Anastase Gouache had thus delivered himself of his views upon
Del Ferice and the faculty of artistic comparison, the conversation
languished, and Donna Tullia grew restless. "She had sat enough," she
said; and as her expression was not favourable to the portrait, Anastase
did not contradict her, but presently suffered her to depart in peace
with her devoted adorer at her heels. And when they were gone, Anastase
lighted a cigarette, and took a piece of charcoal and sketched a
caricature of Donna Tullia in a liberty cap, in a fine theatrical
attitude, invoking the aid of Del Ferice, who appeared as the Angel of
Death, with the guillotine in the background. Having put the finishing
touches to this work of art, Anastase locked his studio and went to
breakfast, humming an air from the "Belle Hélène."