The painter glanced up quickly. He could see nothing in the face of the
other, and he devoted himself anew to the child's head. "It does not
matter," he said. "I can work on the background--if I feel like working
at all," he added, after a moment's pause.
The older man stared moodily at the floor. He flicked a pair of long
riding-gloves lightly through his fingers. He glanced toward the easel
standing in front of the painter, a little to the left. "It is barbarous
that you have had to waste so much time!" he broke out. "How long is
it? Two--no, three years last Christmas time since you began. And there
it stands." The figure on the easel, erect, tranquil, in the old chair,
seemed to half shrug its shapely shoulders in defense of the unfinished
face. He looked at it severely. The severity changed to something else.
"And it is so perfect--damnably perfect," he said irritably.
The artist raised his eyebrows the least trifle. A movement so slight
might have indicated scrutiny of his own work. "You are off for the
day?" he asked, glancing at the riding-whip and hat on a table by the
door.
"Yes; I shall run up, perhaps, as far as Pistoia. Going to see the new
altarpiece." He took up the hat and whip. He waited, fingering them
indecisively. "She seems to me more fickle than ever, this last month or
two."
"I see that she is restless." The painter spoke in a low tone, half
hesitating. "I have wondered whether--I had hoped that the Bambino"--he
touched the figure lightly with his foot--"might not be needed."
The other started. He stared at him a full minute. His eyes fell. "No,
no such good luck," he said brusquely. "It is only caprice."
The draperies near him parted. A boyish figure appeared in the opening.
"Castino wishes me to say that the musicians wait," said the youth.
The painter rose and came toward him, a smile of pleasure on his face.
"Tell them that there will be no sitting to-day, Salai," he said, laying
his hand, half in greeting, half in caress, on the youth's shoulder.
"Yes, Signor." Salai saluted and withdrew.
The painter turned again to the older man. "It was a happy thought of
yours, Zano--the music. She delights in it. I almost caught, one day
last week, while they were playing, that curve about the lips."
They stood for a moment in silence, looking toward the portrait. The
memory of a haunting smile seemed to flicker across the shaded light.
"Well, I am off." The man held out his hand.
The artist hesitated a second. Then he raised the hand in his supple
fingers and placed it to his lips. "A safe journey to you, Signor," he
said, in playful formality.
"And a safe return, to find our Lady Lisa in better temper," laughed the
other. The laugh passed behind the draperies.
The artist remained standing, his eyes resting absently on the rich
colors of the Venetian tapestry through which his friend had
disappeared. His face was clouded with thought. He had the look of a man
absorbed in a problem, who has come upon an unexpected complication.
When the chess-board is a Florentine palace, and the pieces are
fifteenth-century human beings, such complications are likely to occur.
The Lady Lisa had more than once given evidence that she was not carved
of wood or ivory. But for three years the situation had remained the
same--the husband unobservant, the lady capricious and wilful. She had
shown the artist more kindness than he cared to recall. That was months
ago. Of late he had found scant favor in her sight.... It was better so.
He crossed to the easel, and stood looking down at it. The quiet figure
on the canvas sent back a thrill of pride and dissatisfaction. He gazed
at it bitterly. Three years--but an eternal woman. Some day he should
catch the secret of her smile and fix it there. The world would not
forget her--or him. He should not go down to posterity as the builder of
a canal! The great picture at the Dominicans already showed signs of
fading. The equestrian statue of the Duke was crumbling in its clay--no
one to pay for the casting. But this picture----For months--with its
rippling light of under sea, its soft dreamy background, and in the
foreground the mysterious figure.... All was finished but the Child upon
her arm, the smile of light in her eyes.
The lady had flouted the idea. It was a fancy of her husband's, to paint
her as Madonna. She had refused to touch the Bambino--sometimes
petulantly, sometimes in silent scorn. The tiny figure lay always on the
studio floor, dusty and disarranged. The artist picked it up. It was an
absurd little wooden face in the lace cap. He straightened the velvet
mantle and smoothed the crumpled dress. He stepped to the model-stand
and placed the tiny figure in the draped chair. It rested stiffly
against the arm.
A light laugh caused him to turn his head. He was kneeling in front of
the Bambino.
"I see that you have supplied my place, Sir Painter," said a mocking
voice.
He turned quickly and faced the little doorway. She stood there,
smiling, scornful, her hands full of some delicate flimsy stuff, a gold
thimble-cap on her finger. "It would not make a bad picture," she said
tranquilly, "you and the Bambino."
His face lighted up. "You have come!" He hastened toward her with
outstretched hand.
With a pretty gesture of the fragile sewing she ignored the hand. "Yes,
I dared not trust you. You might paint in the Bambino face instead of
mine, by mistake."
She approached the chair and seated herself carelessly. The Bambino
slipped meekly through the arm to the floor.
"Zano told me"--he began.
"Yes, I know. He was very tiresome. I thought he would never go. I
really feared that we might quarrel. It is too warm." She glanced about
the shaded room. "You manage it well," she said approvingly. "It is by
far the coolest place in the palace."
"You will be going to the mountains soon?" He saw that she was talking
lightly to cover herself, and fell in with her mood. He watched her as
he arranged the easel and prepared his colors. Once he stopped and
sketched rapidly for a minute on the small drawing-board.
She looked inquiry.
"Only an eyebrow," he explained.
She smiled serenely. "You should make a collection of those eyebrows.
They must mount into the hundreds by this time. You could label them
'Characters of the Lady Lisa.'"
"The Souls of Lady Lisa."
The lady turned her head aside. "Your distinctions are too subtle," she
said. Her eye fell on the Bambino, resting disgracefully on its wooden
head. "Poor little figurine," she murmured, reaching a slender hand to
draw it up. She straightened the tumbled finery absently. It slipped to
her lap, and lay there. Her hands were idle, her eyes looking far into
space.
The painter worked rapidly. She stirred slightly. "Sit still," he said,
almost harshly.
She gave a quick, startled look. She glanced at the rigid little figure.
She raised it for a minute. Her face grew inscrutable. Would she laugh
or cry? He worked with hasty, snatched glances. Such a moment would not
come again. A flitting crash startled him from the canvas. He looked up.
The Bambino lay in a pathetic heap on the floor, scattered with
fragments of a rare Venetian glass. She sat erect and imperious, looking
with scorn at the wreck. Two great tears welled. They overflowed. The
floods pressed behind them. She dropped her face in her hands. Before he
could reach her she had darted from the chair. The mask of scorn was
gone. She fled from him, from herself, blindly, stopping only when the
wall of the studio intervened. She stood with her face buried in the
drapery, her shoulders wrenched with sobs.
He approached her. He waited. The Bambino lay with its wooden face
staring at the ceiling. It was a crisis for them all. The next move
would determine everything. He must not risk too much, again. The
picture--art--hung on her sobs. Lover--artist? He paused a second too
long.
She turned toward him slowly, serenely. Her glance fell across him,
level and tranquil. The traces of ignored tears lay in smiling drops on
her face. The softened scorn played across it. "Shall we finish the
sitting?" she asked, in a conventional voice.
He took up his brush uncertainly. She seated herself, gathering up the
scattered work. For a few moments she sewed rapidly. Then the soft
fabric fell to her lap. She sat looking before her, unconscious, except
that her glance seemed to rest now and then on the fallen figure in its
fragments of glass.
For two hours he worked feverishly, painting with swiftest skill and
power. At times he caught his breath at the revelation in the face. He
was too alert to be human. The artist forgot the woman. Faithfully, line
by line, he laid bare her heart. She sat unmoved. When at last, from
sheer weariness, the brush dropped from his hand, she stepped from the
model-stand, and stood at his side. She looked at the canvas
attentively. The inscrutable look of the painted face seemed but a faint
reflex of the living one.
"You have succeeded well," she said at last. "We will omit the Bambino."
She moved slowly, graciously, toward the door, gathering the fragile
sewing as she went. He started toward her--suddenly conscious of her
power--a man again. A parting of the draperies arrested them. It was
Salai, his face agitated, looking from the lady to the painter,
inarticulate.
"The Signor"--he gasped--"his horse--they bring him--dead."
She stirred slightly where she stood. Her eyelids fell. "Go, Salai.
Await your master's commands in the hall below."
She turned to the painter as the draperies closed. "I trust that you
will make all use of our service, Signor Leonardo, in removing from the
palace. The apartments will, I fear, be needed for relatives. They will
come to honor the dead."
He stood for a moment stupefied, aghast at her control of practical,
feminine detail; then moved toward her. "Lisa----"
She motioned toward the easel. "Payment for the picture will be sent you
soon."
"The picture goes with me. It is not finished."
"It is well." She bowed mockingly. The little door swung noiselessly
behind her. He was left alone with the portrait. It was looking sideways
at the fallen Bambino amid the shattered fragments on the floor.