THE MYSTERIOUS POTION.
The next day, punctually at noon, according to my promise, I entered
the studio. I was alone, for Amy, after some qualms of conscience
respecting chaperonage, propriety, and Mrs. Grundy, had yielded to my
entreaties and gone for a drive with some friends. In spite of the
fears she began to entertain concerning the Mephistophelian character
of Raffaello Cellini, there was one thing of which both she and I felt
morally certain: namely, that no truer or more honourable gentleman
than he ever walked on the earth. Under his protection the loveliest
and loneliest woman that ever lived would have been perfectly safe--as
safe as though she were shut up, like the princess in the fairy-tale,
in a brazen tower, of which only an undiscoverable serpent possessed
the key. When I arrived, the rooms were deserted, save for the presence
of a magnificent Newfoundland dog, who, as I entered, rose, and shaking
his shaggy body, sat down before me and offered me his huge paw,
wagging his tail in the most friendly manner all the while, I at once
responded to his cordial greeting, and as I stroked his noble head, I
wondered where the animal had come from; for though--we had visited
Signor Cellini's studio every day, there had been no sign or mention of
this stately, brown-eyed, four-footed companion. I seated myself, and
the dog immediately lay down at my feet, every now and then looking up
at me with an affectionate glance and a renewed wagging of his tail.
Glancing round the well-known room, I noticed that the picture I
admired so much was veiled by a curtain of Oriental stuff, in which
were embroidered threads of gold mingled with silks of various
brilliant hues. On the working easel was a large square canvas, already
prepared, as I supposed, for my features to be traced thereon. It was
an exceedingly warm morning, and though the windows as well as the
glass doors of the conservatory were wide open, I found the air of the
studio very oppressive. I perceived on the table a finely-wrought
decanter of Venetian glass, in which clear water sparkled temptingly.
Rising from my chair, I took an antique silver goblet from the
mantelpiece, filled it with the cool fluid, and was about to drink,
when the cup was suddenly snatched from my hands, and the voice of
Cellini, changed from its usual softness to a tone both imperious and
commanding, startled me.
"Do not drink that," he said; "you must not! You dare not! I forbid
you!"
I looked up at him in mute astonishment. His face was very pale, and
his large dark eyes shone with suppressed excitement. Slowly my
self-possession returned to me, and I said calmly:
"YOU forbid me, signor? Surely you forget yourself. What harm have I
done in helping myself to a simple glass of water in your studio? You
are not usually so inhospitable."
While I spoke his manner changed, the colour returned to his face, and
his eyes softened--he smiled.
"Forgive me, mademoiselle, for my brusquerie. It is true I forgot
myself for a moment. But you were in danger, and----"
"In danger!" I exclaimed incredulously.
"Yes, mademoiselle. This," and he held up the Venetian decanter to the
light, "is not water simply. If you will observe it now with the
sunshine beating full against it, I think you will perceive
peculiarities in it that will assure you of my veracity."
I looked as he bade me, and saw, to my surprise, that the fluid was
never actually still for a second. A sort of internal bubbling seemed
to work in its centre, and curious specks and lines of crimson and gold
flashed through it from time to time.
"What is it?" I asked; adding with a half-smile, "Are you the possessor
of a specimen of the far-famed Aqua Tofana?"
Cellini placed the decanter carefully on a shelf, and I noticed that he
chose a particular spot for it, where the rays of the sun could fall
perpendicularly upon the vessel containing it. Then turning to me, he
replied:
"Aqua Tofana, mademoiselle, is a deadly poison, known to the ancients
and also to many learned chemists of our day. It is a clear and
colourless liquid, but it is absolutely still--as still as a stagnant
pool. What I have just shown you is not poison, but quite the reverse.
I will prove this to you at once." And taking a tiny liqueur glass from
a side table, he filled it with the strange fluid and drank it off,
carefully replacing the stopper in the decanter.
"But, Signor Cellini," I urged, "if it is so harmless, why did you
forbid my tasting it? Why did you say there was danger for me when I
was about to drink it?"
"Because, mademoiselle, for YOU it would be dangerous. Your health is
weak, your nerves unstrung. That elixir is a powerful vivifying tonic,
acting with great rapidity on the entire system, and rushing through
the veins with the swiftness of ELECTRICITY. I am accustomed to it; it
is my daily medicine. But I was brought to it by slow, and almost
imperceptible degrees. A single teaspoonful of that fluid,
mademoiselle, administered to anyone not prepared to receive it, would
be instant death, though its actual use is to vivify and strengthen
human life. You understand now why I said you were in danger?"
"I understand," I replied, though in sober truth I was mystified and
puzzled.
"And you forgive my seeming rudeness?"
"Oh, certainly! But you have aroused my curiosity. I should like to
know more about this strange medicine of yours."
"You shall know more if you wish," said Cellini, his usual equable
humour and good spirits now quite restored. "You shall know everything;
but not to-day. We have too little time. I have not yet commenced your
picture. And I forgot--you were thirsty, and I was, as you said,
inhospitable. You must permit me to repair my fault."
And with a courteous salute he left the room, to return almost
immediately with a tumbler full of some fragrant, golden-coloured
liquid, in which lumps of ice glittered refreshingly. A few loose
rose-leaves were scattered on the top of this dainty-looking beverage.
"You may enjoy this without fear," said he, smiling; "it will do you
good. It is an Eastern wine, unknown to trade, and therefore untampered
with. I see you are looking at the rose-leaves on the surface. That is
a Persian custom, and I think a pretty one. They float away from your
lips in the action of drinking, and therefore they are no obstacle."
I tasted the wine and found it delicious, soft and mellow as summer
moonlight. While I sipped it the big Newfoundland, who had stretched
himself in a couchant posture on the hearth-rug ever since Cellini had
first entered the room, rose and walked majestically to my side and
rubbed his head caressingly against the folds of my dress.
"Leo has made friends with you, I see," said Cellini. "You should take
that as a great compliment, for he is most particular in his choice of
acquaintance, and most steadfast when he has once made up his mind. He
has more decision of character than many a statesman."
"How is it we have never seen him before?" I inquired. "You never told
us you had such a splendid companion."
"I am not his master," replied the artist. "He only favours me with a
visit occasionally. He arrived from Paris last night, and came straight
here, sure of his welcome. He does not confide his plans to me, but I
suppose he will return to his home when he thinks it advisable. He
knows his own business best."
I laughed.
"What a clever dog! Does he journey on foot, or does he take the train?"
"I believe he generally patronizes the railway. All the officials know
him, and he gets into the guard's van as a matter of course. Sometimes
he will alight at a station en route, and walk the rest of the way. But
if he is lazily inclined, he does not stir till the train reaches its
destination. At the end of every six months or so, the railway
authorities send the bill of Leo's journeyings in to his master, when
it is always settled without difficulty."
"And who IS his master?" I ventured to ask.
Cellini's face grew serious and absorbed, and his eyes were full of
grave contemplation as he answered:
"His master, mademoiselle, is MY master--one who among men, is
supremely intelligent; among teachers, absolutely unselfish; among
thinkers, purely impersonal; among friends, inflexibly faithful. To him
I owe everything--even life itself. For him no sacrifice, no extreme
devotion would be too great, could I hope thereby to show my gratitude.
But he is as far above human thanks or human rewards as the sun is
above the sea. Not here, not now, dare I say to him, MY FRIEND, BEHOLD
HOW MUCH I LOVE THEE! such language would be all too poor and
unmeaning; but hereafter--who knows?----" and he broke off abruptly
with a half-sigh. Then, as if forcing himself to change the tenor of
his thoughts, he continued in a kind tone: "But, mademoiselle, I am
wasting your time, and am taking no advantage of the favour you have
shown me by your presence to-day. Will you seat yourself here?" and he
placed an elaborately carved oaken settee in one corner of the studio,
opposite his own easel. "I should be sorry to fatigue you at all," he
went on; "do you care for reading?"
I answered eagerly in the affirmative, and he handed me a volume bound
in curiously embossed leather, and ornamented with silver clasps. It
was entitled "Letters of a Dead Musician."
"You will find clear gems of thought, passion, and feeling in this
book," said Cellini; "and being a musician yourself, you will know how
to appreciate them. The writer was one of those geniuses whose work the
world repays with ridicule and contempt. There is no fate more
enviable!"
I looked at the artist with some surprise as I took the volume he
recommended, and seated myself in the position he indicated; and while
he busied himself in arranging the velvet curtains behind me as a
background, I said:
"Do you really consider it enviable, Signor Cellini, to receive the
world's ridicule and contempt?"
"I do indeed," he replied, "since it is a certain proof that the world
does not understand you. To achieve something that is above human
comprehension, THAT is greatness. To have the serene sublimity of the
God-man Christ, and consent to be crucified by a gibing world that was
fated to be afterwards civilized and dominated by His teachings, what
can be more glorious? To have the magnificent versatility of a
Shakespeare, who was scarcely recognized in his own day, but whose
gifts were so vast and various that the silly multitudes wrangle over
his very identity and the authenticity of his plays to this hour--what
can be more triumphant? To know that one's own soul can, if
strengthened and encouraged by the force of will, rise to a supreme
altitude of power--is not that sufficient to compensate for the little
whining cries of the common herd of men and women who have forgotten
whether they ever had a spiritual spark in them, and who, straining up
to see the light of genius that burns too fiercely for their
earth-dimmed eyes, exclaim: 'WE see nothing, therefore there CAN be
nothing.' Ah, mademoiselle, the knowledge of one's own inner
Self-Existence is a knowledge surpassing all the marvels of art and
science!"
Cellini spoke with enthusiasm, and his countenance seemed illumined by
the eloquence that warmed his speech. I listened with a sort of dreamy
satisfaction; the visual sensation of utter rest that I always
experienced in this man's presence was upon me, and I watched him with
interest as he drew with quick and facile touch the outline of my
features on his canvas.
Gradually he became more and more absorbed in his work; he glanced at
me from time to time, but did not speak, and his pencil worked rapidly.
I turned over the "Letters of a Dead Musician" with some curiosity.
Several passages struck me as being remarkable for their originality
and depth of thought; but what particularly impressed me as I read on,
was the tone of absolute joy and contentment that seemed to light up
every page. There were no wailings over disappointed ambition, no
regrets for the past, no complaints, no criticism, no word for or
against the brothers of his art; everything was treated from a lofty
standpoint of splendid equality, save when the writer spoke of himself,
and then he became the humblest of the humble, yet never abject, and
always happy.
"O Music!" he wrote, "Music, thou Sweetest Spirit of all that serve
God, what have I done that thou shouldst so often visit me? It is not
well, O thou Lofty and Divine One, that thou shouldst stoop so low as
to console him who is the unworthiest of all thy servants. For I am too
feeble to tell the world how soft is the sound of thy rustling pinions,
how tender is the sighing breath of thy lips, how beyond all things
glorious is the vibration of thy lightest whisper! Remain aloft, thou
Choicest Essence of the Creator's Voice, remain in that pure and
cloudless ether, where alone thou art fitted to dwell. My touch must
desecrate thee, my voice affright thee. Suffice it to thy servant, O
Beloved, to dream of thee and die!"
Meeting Cellini's glance as I finished reading these lines, I asked:
"Did you know the author of this book, signor?"
"I knew him well," he replied; "he was one of the gentlest souls that
ever dwelt in human clay. As ethereal in his music as John Keats in his
poetry, he was one of those creatures born of dreams and rapture that
rarely visit this planet. Happy fellow! What a death was his!"
"How did he die?" I inquired.
"He was playing the organ in one of the great churches of Rome on the
day of the Feast of the Virgin. A choir of finely trained voices sang
to his accompaniment his own glorious setting of the "Regina Coeli."
The music was wonderful, startling, triumphant--ever rising in power
and majesty to a magnificent finale, when suddenly a slight crash was
heard; the organ ceased abruptly, the singers broke off. The musician
was dead. He had fallen forward on the keys of the instrument, and when
they raised him, his face was fairer than the face of any sculptured
angel, so serene was its expression, so rapt was its smile. No one
could tell exactly the cause of his death--he had always been
remarkably strong and healthy. Everyone said it was heart-disease--it
is the usual reason assigned by medical savants for these sudden
departures out of the world. His loss was regretted by all, save myself
and one other who loved him. We rejoiced, and still do rejoice, at his
release."
I speculated vaguely on the meaning of these last words, but I felt
disinclined to ask any more questions, and Cellini, probably seeing
this, worked on at his sketch without further converse. My eyes were
growing heavy, and the printed words in the "Dead Musician's Letters"
danced before my sight like active little black demons with thin waving
arms and legs. A curious yet not unpleasant drowsiness stole over me,
in which I heard the humming of the bees at the open window, the
singing of the birds, and the voices of people in the hotel gardens,
all united in one continuous murmur that seemed a long way off. I saw
the sunshine and the shadow--I saw the majestic Leo stretched full
length near the easel, and the slight supple form of Raffaello Cellini
standing out in bold outline against the light; yet all seemed shifting
and mingling strangely into a sort of wide radiance in which there was
nothing but varying tints of colour. And could it have been my fancy,
or did I actually SEE the curtain fall gradually away from my favourite
picture, just enough for the face of the "Angel of Life" to be seen
smiling down upon me? I rubbed my eyes violently, and started to my
feet at the sound of the artist's voice.
"I have tried your patience enough for to-day," he said, and his words
sounded muffled, as though they were being spoken through, a thick
wall. "You can leave me now if you like."
I stood before him mechanically, still holding the book he had lent me
clasped in my hand. Irresolutely I raised my eyes towards the "Lords of
our Life and Death." It was closely veiled. I had then experienced an
optical illusion. I forced myself to speak--to smile--to put back the
novel sensations that were overwhelming me.
"I think," I said, and I heard myself speak as though I were somebody
else at a great distance off--"I think, Signor Cellini, your Eastern
wine has been too potent for me. My head is quite heavy, and I feel
dazed."
"It is mere fatigue and the heat of the day," he replied quietly. "I am
sure you are not too DAZED, as you call it, to see your favourite
picture, are you?"
I trembled. Was not that picture veiled? I looked--there was no curtain
at all, and the faces of the two Angels shone out of the canvas with
intense brilliancy! Strange to say, I felt no surprise at this
circumstance, which, had it occurred a moment previously, would have
unquestionably astonished and perhaps alarmed me. The mistiness of my
brain suddenly cleared; I saw everything plainly; I heard distinctly;
and when I spoke, the tone of my voice sounded as full and ringing as
it had previously seemed low and muffled. I gazed steadfastly at the
painting, and replied, half smiling:
"I should be indeed 'far gone,' as the saying is, if I could not see
that, signor! It is truly your masterpiece. Why have you never
exhibited it?"
"Can YOU ask that?" he said with impressive emphasis, at the same time
drawing nearer and fixing upon me the penetrating glance of his dark
fathomless eyes. It then seemed to me that some great inner force
compelled me to answer this half-inquiry, in words of which I had taken
no previous thought, and which, as I uttered them, conveyed no special
meaning to my own ears.
"Of course," I said slowly, as if I were repeating a lesson, "you would
not so betray the high trust committed to your charge."
"Well said!" replied Cellini; "you are fatigued, mademoiselle. Au
revoir! Till to-morrow!" And, throwing open the door of his studio, he
stood aside for me to pass out. I looked at him inquiringly.
"Must I come at the same time to-morrow?" I asked.
"If you please."
I passed my hand across my forehead perplexedly, I felt I had something
else to say before I left him. He waited patiently, holding back with
one hand the curtains of the portiere.
"I think I had a parting word to give you," I said at last, meeting his
gaze frankly; "but I seem to have forgotten what it was." Cellini
smiled gravely.
"Do not trouble to think about it, mademoiselle. I am unworthy the
effort on your part."
A flash of vivid light crossed my eyes for a second, and I exclaimed
eagerly:
"I remember now! It was 'Dieu vous garde' signor!"
He bent his head reverentially.
"Merci mille fois, mademoiselle! Dieu vous garde--vous aussi. Au
revoir."
And clasping my hand with a light yet friendly pressure, he closed the
door of his room behind me. Once alone in the passage, the sense of
high elation and contentment that had just possessed me began gradually
to decrease. I had not become actually dispirited, but a languid
feeling of weariness oppressed me, and my limbs ached as though I had
walked incessantly for many miles. I went straight to my own room. I
consulted my watch; it was half-past one, the hour at which the hotel
luncheon was usually served. Mrs. Everard had evidently not returned
from her drive. I did not care to attend the table d'hote alone;
besides, I had no inclination to eat. I drew down the window-blinds to
shut out the brilliancy of the beautiful Southern sunlight, and
throwing myself on my bed I determined to rest quietly till Amy came
back. I had brought the "Letters of a Dead Musician" away with me from
Cellini's studio, and I began to read, intending to keep myself awake
by this means. But I found I could not fix my attention on the page,
nor could I think at all connectedly. Little by little my eyelids
closed; the book dropped from my nerveless hand; and in a few minutes I
was in a deep and tranquil slumber.