CHAPTER III
The Picture's tale. It was so well painted--that was why itcould hear four hundred years ago. How its painterhungered and thirsted for its original, and _vice versa_. Howold January hid in a spy-hole, to watch May, and saw itall. Of Pope Innocent's penetration. Of certain bells,unwelcome ones. How two _innamorati_ tried to partwithout a kiss, and failed. Nevertheless assassins stopped itwhen it had only just begun. But Giacinto got at January'sthroat. How the picture was framed, and hung where Maycould only see it by twisting. Of the dungeon below her,where Giacinto might be. How January dug at May witha walking-staff. How the picture was in abeyance, butloved a firefly; then was interred in furniture, and threecenturies slipped by. How it sold for six fifty, and wassent to London, to a picture-restorer, which is how it comesinto the tale. How Mr. Pelly woke up.
You ask me to tell you what is earliest in myrecollection. I will do so, and will also endeavourto narrate as much as I can remember of the life ofthe lady I was painted from; whose memory, wereshe now living, would be identical with my own.
The very first image I can recall is that of myartist, at work. He is the first human being I eversaw, as well as the first visible object I can call tomind. He is at work--as I am guided to understandby what I have learned since--upon my righteye. It is a very dim image indeed at the outset,but as he works it becomes clearer, and at last I seehim quite plainly.
He is a dark young man, with hair of one thicknessall over, like a black door-mat, and a beautifulolive skin. As he turns round I think to myselfhow beautiful his neck is at the back under the hair,and that I should like to kiss it. But that isimpossible. I can recall my pleasure at his fixedgaze, and constant resolute endeavour. NaturallyI want him to paint my other eye. Then I shall seehim still better.
I am not surprised at his saying nothing--forremember!--I did not know what speech was then.He had painted my mouth, only, of course, I didnot know what to do with it. Needless also to saythat I had not heard a word, for I had no ear at all.I have only one now, but it has heard all that hasbeen spoken near it for four hundred years. Iheard nothing then--nothing at all! I only gazedfixedly at the fascinating creature before me whowas trying his best to make me beautiful too--tomake me as beautiful as something that I could notsee--something his eyes turned round to at intervals,something to my right and his left. What I recallmost vividly now is my curiosity to know what thisthing or person was that took his eyes off me atodd moments; to which he made, now and again,slight deprecatory signs and corrective movementswith his left hand; from which he received someresponse I could not guess at, which he acknowledgedby a full-spread smile of grateful recognition.But always in perfect silence, though I saw, whenhis brush was not in front of my incomplete eye,that his lips moved, showing his beautiful whiteteeth; and that he paused and listened--a thingI have learned about since--with a certain air ofdeference, as towards a social superior. Oh, how Ilonged to see this unseen being, or thing! But Iwas not to do so, yet awhile.
My recollection goes no farther than the fact ofthis young artist, working on in a strange, systematicway, quite unlike what I have since understood tobe the correct method for persons of genius, until atthe end of some period I cannot measure, he paintsmy other eye, and I rejoice in a clearer image ofhimself; of the huge bare room he works in; ofthe small window, high up, with its cage of gratingagainst the sky; of the recess below it, in which,at the top of two steps, an old woman sits plaitingstraws, and beside her a black dog, close shaved,except his head, all over. But I get no light uponthe strange attraction that takes my creator'sattention off me, until after a second experience,as strange as my first new-found phenomenon ofsight--to wit, my hearing of sound. As he paintedmy ear, it came.
At first, a musical, broken murmur--then another,that mixes with it. As one rises, the other falls;then both together, or as the threads of a cascadecross and intersect in mid-air. Then a third sound,a sound with a musical ring that makes my heartleap with joy--a sound that comes back to me now,when in the early mornings of summer, I hear,through the window of this room opened outwardsto let in the morning air, the voice of the little brownbird that springs high into the blue heaven, andunpacks its tiny heart in a flood of song. Andthen I think to myself that _that_ is the language inwhich I too should have laughed, had laughter beenpossible to me.
For what I heard then from behind the easel Istood on as the young artist painted me was thelaughter of Maddalena Raimondi, from whom hewas working; whom I may describe myself as being.For ought not the name written on the frame belowme to be hers also, with the date of her birth anddeath? Are not my eyes that I see with now hers?Is not the nostril with the lambent curve--that iswhat a celebrated Art-Critic has called it--hers,and the little sea-shell ear hers that heard you say,but now, that my original cannot have been morethan twenty?...
More than twenty! No, indeed!--for in thosedays a girl of twenty was a woman. And the girlthat one day a little later came round at a signalfrom behind the panel, to see the portrait that I nowknew had received its last touch from its maker,was one who at eighteen had been threatened,driven, goaded into harness with an old Devil ofhigh rank, to whom she had been affianced in herbabyhood; and who is now, we may hope, in hisproper Hell, as God has appointed. Yet it maywell be he is among the Saints; for his wealth wasgreat, and he gave freely to Holy Church. But toMaddalena, that was myself--for was I notshe?--he was a Devil incarnate.
For mark you this: that all she had known I tooknew, in my degree, so soon as ever I was completed.Else had I been a bad portrait. It all came to mymemory at once. I remembered my happy girlhood,the strange indifference of my utter innocencewhen I was first told I was destined to marry thegreat Duke, whose vassal my father was, and howmy marriage would somehow--I am, maybe, lessclear about details than my original would havebeen--release my father from some debt orobligation to the Raimondi which otherwise would haveinvolved the forfeiture of our old home. Soignorant was I that I rejoiced to think that I shouldbe the means of preserving for my family the longstretches of vine-clad hills and the old Castello in theApennines that had borne our name since the firststone was laid, centuries ago. So ignorant, innocent,indifferent--call it what you will!--that the momentI was told my destiny I went straight to Giacinto,the page, with whom I had grown from infancy, totell him the good news, that he might rejoice too.But he would not rejoice at my bidding, and hewas moody and reserved, and I wondered. I wasbut twelve and he thirteen. Although a girl maybe older than a boy, even at those years, her eyes arenot so wide open to see some things, and it may behe saw plainer than I. I know not.
This, then, was what had happened to the beautifulcreature that came round into my sight on that daywhen I first saw and heard and knew her for myself,and hoped I was well done, and very like. Andthus, also, it all came back to me, so soon as I wasfinished and was really Maddalena Raimondi, howthe great Venetian artist, Angelo Allori, whomthey called _Il Bronzino_, came to the Castello topaint my mother, and how he took a fancy toGiacinto, and would have him away to his studio,and taught him how to use brushes and colours, andhow to grind and prepare these last, and to makecanvas ready for the painter. And it ended by histaking him as an apprentice, at his own wish andGiacinto's. And they went away together toVenice, and I could recall now that Maddalena hadnot seen Giacinto after that for six years.
That is to say: she had not seen him till he cameto the Villa Raimondi in the first year of herunhappy marriage, an unhappy bride with all thedeadly revelation of the realities of life that anaccursed wedlock must needs bring. The girl wasno longer a girl; she knew what she had lost. AndI knew it too, and all that she had known up to themoment of that last brush-touch, when Giacintosaid, "Now, _carissima Signora_, you may come roundand see!"
And the ringing laugh came round, and _she_ cameround, that had been me. Then I too saw what Ihad been--what I was still. And after that, I willtell you what I saw and heard--but presently!
For I want you
first to know what Maddalenawas when her old owner told her that he hadcommanded a young Venetian artist, of rising fame, tocome at once, under penalty of his displeasure, topaint her portrait in a dress of yellow satin brocadewell broidered in gold thread, and a _gorgiera_ of finelinen turned back over it, that had belonged to hisfirst wife, Vittoria Fanfani, who was much of thesize and shape of la Maddalena, as who couldtell better than he? And for this portrait she wasto sit or stand, as the painter should arrange, infront of the tapestry showing Solomon's Judgmentin the _Stanza delle Quattro Corone_; which is, as youwould say, The Room of the Four Crowns, so calledbecause it was said four Kings had met there in olddays, three of whom had slain the fourth, whichwas accounted of great fame to the CastelloRaimondi. And the time for this painting was to beeach day after the sun had passed the meridian;for the room looked south-east, and one must studythe sun. And Marta Zan would always be inattendance, as a serious person who would keep acheck on any pranks such young people mightchoose to play. For as I too now knew and couldwell remember, it was a wicked touch of this old_birbante's_ character that he was never tired of awearisome pretence that this young Maddalena,whose heart was truly broken if ever girl's heartwas, was still full of joyousness and youth andkittenish tricks. And he would rally her waggishlybefore his retinue for pranks she had never played,and pretended youthful escapades she could havehad no heart for. For in truth she was filled upwith sorrow, and shame of herself and her kind, andintense loathing of the old man her master; butshe was forced to reply to his unwelcome _badinage_by such pretence as might be of gaiety in return.And this, although she knew well all the while thatthere was not a scullion among them all but couldsay how little she loved this eighty-year-old lordof hers; though none could guess, not even thewomen, what good cause she had to hate him.
But the sly old fox knew well enough; and whenhe made his edict that Marta Zan--an old crone,who had been, some said, his mistress in hisyouth--should keep watch and ward over his young wife'sdemeanour with this new painting fellow, he knewtoo that in the thick wall of the _Stanza delle QuattroCorone_ was a little, narrow entry, where one mightlie hid at any time, approaching from without, andsee all that passed in the chamber below. And sohe would see and know for himself; for he knewMarta Zan too well to place much faith in her.
You may guess, then, that Maddalena, when _ilDuca_ first informed her of his gracious pleasureabout the portrait, was little inclined to take aninterest in that, or any other scheme of hisHighness; but to avoid incurring his resentment, shewas bound to affect an interest she did not feel, andin this she succeeded, so far as was necessary. Butmy lord Duke was growing suspicious of her; onlyhe was far too wily an old fox to show his mistrustopenly. Be sure that when, after Maddalena'sfirst sitting with my young artist, he noticed thatthe roses had returned to her cheeks, and that herstep was light again upon the ground, he said nevera word to show his thought, and only resolved inhis wicked old heart to spy upon the two youngpeople from his eyrie in the wall.
It was little to be wondered at that Maddalenashould show pleasure when she saw who after allwas the young Venetian painter; who, still almosta boy, had climbed so high in fame that it wasalready held an honour to be painted by him. Forhe was her old friend Giacinto, and she in her languidlack of interest in all about her, had never askedwhat was the actual name of _lo Spazzolone_. Forby this nickname only had he been spoken of in herpresence, and it may easily be he was known by noother to the old _Duca_ himself, so universal is thepractice of nicknaming among the artists of Italy.But he was Giacinto himself, sure enough!--onlygrown so tall and handsome. And you may fancyhow gladly the poor Maddalena would have flungher arms round the boy she had known from hercradle, and kissed her welcome into his soul--onlythere! was she not a wife, and the wife too of thething men called the Duke? What manner ofthing was he, that God should have made him, therein the light of day?
But if it was difficult for Maddalena to keep herembrace of welcome in check, you may fancy howstrong a constraint my young painter had to puton himself when he saw who the great lady waswhom he was come to paint. For none had toldhim, and till she came suddenly upon him in all thebeauty of her full and perfect womanhood, he had noidea that she would be la Maddalena--_la sua sorellaccia_(that is, his ugly sister), as he would call her injest in those early days--because there was no doubtof her beauty, and the joke was a safe one. Onlymind you!--this would be when they were alone,as might be, in the court of the old Castello, lookingdown into the deep well and dropping stones tohear them splash long after, or gathering the greenfigs in the _poderi_ when the great heat was gone fromAugust, and they could ramble out in the earlymornings. When her sisters or brothers were there,she was _la Signorina_ Maddalena. _I_ can rememberit all now! One does not lightly forget thesehours--the hours before the ugly dawn of the real World.Nor the little joys one takes as a right, without arapture or a thought of gratitude; nor the littlepangs one thinks so hard to bear, and so soonforgets.
If you should ask me how it came about that thetwo of them should have so completely partedduring all those six years, that La Maddalena shouldnot even have known the nickname of the youngpainter, nor his fame, I must beg that you willremember that these were not the days of dailyposts, of telegraphs, and railways; nor of any ofthe strange new things I hear of now, and find sohard to understand. Moreover, my own opinion isthat the parents of Maddalena judged shrewdly thatthis young stripling was no friend to be encouragedfor a little daughter that was to be the salvation oftheir property. The less risk, the less danger!The fewer boys about, the fewer fancies of a chit.They managed it all, be sure of that! It was forthe girl's own best interest.
But--dear me![#]--if you know anything of lifein youth, and of the golden thread of Love that isshot though it in the weft, and starts outsomewhere always, here or there, whatever light youhold it in--if you know this, there is no more tobe said of why, when they met again, in the _Stanzadelle Quattro Corone_, each heart should leap out tomeet the other, and then shrink back chilled, atthe thought of what they were now that they werenot once, and of what perforce they had to behereafter. But the moment was their own, andnone pauses in the middle of a draught of nectarbecause, forsooth, the cup will soon be empty. LaMaddalena became, in one magic instant, a Maddalenawhose laugh rang out like the song of the littlebrown bird I told you of but now, and filled thewicked old room with its music. And as for ourpoor Giacinto--well!--are you a man, and wereyou ever young? He could promise the witheredold _Duca_ that he would make a merry picture of _laDuchessa_; none of your sinister death's-headportraits, but with the smile of _sua Altezza_. Forall Maddalena's heart was in her face, and that facewore again the smile of the old, old days, the dayslong before her bridal. And you see that face beforeyou now.
[#] Probably the words Mr. Pelly heard were "_Dio mio!_" whichsome consider the original of the English "Dear me!" Manyof the expressions are evidently literal translations.--EDITOR.
Now, if only this old shrunken mummy willbegone! If he will only go away to count over hisgold, to rack his tenantry for more than his shareof the oil-crop, to get absolution for his sins, or,better still, to go to expiate them in the properplace! If he will only take his venerable presenceand his cold firm eye away--if it be but for anhour!...
He went--sooner than we had hoped. And thenwhen he was quite, quite gone, and the coast wasclear, then the laughter broke out. And MartaZan wondered was this really the new _Duchessa_?--shewho had brought from her bridal no smilebut a sad one, no glance unhaunted by the memoryor the forecast of a tear, no word of speech but hadits own resonance of a broken heart. The beldamchuckled to herself, and saw money to come of it,if she winked skilfully enough, and at the right time.But in this she was wrong, for she judged theseyoung people by her bad old self; and indeed theythought no harm, of her sort. Neither could shesee their souls, nor they hers. But the laughterand the voices filled the place, and each felt achild again, and back in the old Castello in thehills.
 
; "And was it really you, Giacinto? You, yourvery self--the little Giacintino grown so great aman! _Dio mio_, how great a man you have grown!"
"And was the _Duchessa_ then _la nostra Maddalena_,grown to be a great Signora! Was it all true?"
And then old Marta scowled from the steps belowthe window, for was not this saucy young painterbold enough to kiss the little hand her mistress lethim hold so long; and most likely she was readyenough to guess that the poor boy had much adoto be off kissing the lips that smiled on him as well.But then, when the Maddalena saw through hisheart, and saw all this as plain as I tell it you now,she flinched off with a little sigh, and a chill came.For now, she said, they were grown-up people,responsible and serious, and must behave! AndMarta Zan would not be cross; for look you, Marta_cara_, was not this Giacinto, her foster-brother, andhad they not been rocked to sleep in the samecradle? And had they not eaten the grapes of adozen vintages at her father's little castle in thehills, and heard the dogs bark all across the plainbelow in the summer nights?
So Marta, though she looked mighty glum overit, kept her thoughts for her own use, with dueconsideration how she might get most profit fromwhat she foresaw, and yet keep her footing firmwith her great Duke. She was a cunning old blackspot, was Marta, and quick to scheme her ownadvantage, for all she was near seventy. But shesaw no reason for meddling to check her young_Duchessa's_ free flow of spirits, and she invented agood apology for letting her alone. _She_ was notgoing to mar the portrait by making the sitter cryand look sulky: red eyes and swelled cheeks wereno man's joy. So she told her employer. Andshe thought to herself, see how content the old manis, and how clever am I to hoodwink him so!
Be sure, though, that she did not know how hewas passing his time, more and more, in that littlechapel of knavery in the wall, but a few yards fromthe two happy young folk, as they laughed andtalked over their old days. Only, in this you maybelieve me, that never a word passed betweenthem--for all that so many came to the lips of both andwere disallowed--that might not have been spoken,almost, in the presence of the gracious Dukehimself--nay, quite!--if he had not been so corruptand tainted an old curmudgeon that he would havefound a scutch on the leaf of a lily new-blown, andread dishonour into innocence itself. So there hesits in his evil eyrie, day by day, hatching falseinterpretation of every word and movement, butall silence and caution, for come what may he willnot spoil the portrait. It will be time enoughwhen it is quite done. Time enough for what?We shall see. Meanwhile, as well to keep his eyeon them! Small trust to be placed in Marta Zan!
So, all this while, I grew and grew. And thelaugh that you see on my lips is Maddalena's as shesat looking down on her young painter, and the joyand content of my eyes are her joy and content;and the loose lock of hair that ripples, a stream ofgolden red, over the red-gold of the brocadedgilliflower on the bosom of my bodice, is the lock ofhair Maddalena had almost told Giacinto he mightcut away and take, to keep for her sake. But shedared not, because of that dried old fig, old Marta,and the grim eye of her owner. Yet she mightnever see Giacinto again! She suspected, in herheart, that he would be schemed away from her oncemore, as before.
But I grew and grew. And now the hour is nearwhen no pretence can prolong the sittings that havebeen the happiness--the more than happiness--ofsix whole Autumn weeks. How quick they hadrun away! Could it be six weeks? Yes, it was.And there was an ugly, threatening look in theDuke's old eye; but he said little enough. Nodoubt _Messer il Pittore_ knew best how long wasneeded to paint a portrait; but he had said threeweeks, at the outset. So it must needs be. Andthis, to-day, was the last sitting; and thepicture--that was I--would be complete, and have aframe, and hang on the wall in the great room ofstate, where already were hanging the two portraitsof the former wives of his Excellency; whereof thelast one died three years before, and left the oldmiscreant free to affiance himself to the littleMaddalena, who was then too young to marry, being butfourteen years old. So at least said her mother,and his Excellency was gracious enough to deferhis nuptials, in spite of his years. And our mostHoly Father Pope Alexander was truly convincedby this that the charge of the Duke's enemies madeagainst him of having poisoned his second wife wasgroundless. For with so young a bride in view,would not any man have deferred poisoning a ladywho was still young and comely, at least until theobject of his new passion was old enough to takeher place? So said his Holiness, and for my partI think he showed in this his penetration and hiswide insight and understanding of his fellow-men.For Man is, as saith Scripture, created in the Imageof God, and it is but seemly and reasonable thatHis Vicar on Earth should know the inner secretsof the human heart; albeit he may have smallexperience himself of Love, as is the manner ofEcclesiastics.
I will now tell you all I saw on that day of thelast sitting, being now as it were full-grown and ableto see and note all; besides being, as I have triedto show, able to feel all the lady Maddalena hadfelt and to follow her inmost thought.
When they were come to the end of the work Icould see that both were heavy at heart for theparting that was to come; and I knew of myselfthat Maddalena had slept little, and I knew, too, thatthis was not because _sua Eccellenza_ the Duke snoredheavily all night, for had that been so, poorMaddalena would have been ill off for sleep at thebest of times. No!--she had lain awake thinkingof Giacinto; and he of her, it may be. But whatdo I know? I could see he was not happy: couldyou expect it? And his hand shook, and he didno good to me. And he would not touch myface and hands with the colour, and I well knew why.
Therefore, when he had tried for a little and couldnot work to any purpose, my lady _la Duchessa_ says,as one who takes courage--for neither had yetspoken of how they must part--"Come, my Giacinto,let us be of better cheer, and not be so downcast.For who knows but the good God may letus meet again one happy day when His will is?Let us be grateful for the little hour of our felicity,and make no complaint now that it was not longer.But you cannot work, my Giacinto, and are doingno good to the beautiful picture. Leave it and comeand sit here by me, and we will talk of the old days,the dear old time. And as for the old Marta, she issound asleep and snoring; only not so loud as myold pig of a husband all last night!" Indeed, it wastrue of old Marta, but for my own part I think shewas only pretending to be asleep, for my Maddalenahad talked to her of how this would be the last time,and softened her, and given her ten Venetian ducatsand a cap of lace. But, for the snoring of the oldDuke, it had done some service; for the little jokeabout it had made Maddalena speak more cheerfully,and Giacinto could find a laugh for it, though hehad little heart to laugh out roundly at anything.La Maddalena went near to make him, though!For she talked of how thirteen little puppies allcame at once of three mothers, and she christenedthem all after the Blessed Apostles and JudasIscariot, and every one was drowned or given awayexcept Judas Iscariot; and how she would holdup Judas for Giacinto to kiss, saying he was a safeJudas this time, as how could he be else with thatlittle fat stomach, and not a month old.
So I was finished, and Giacinto would have puthis signature in one corner had he not thought itbest to wait until _sua Eccellenza_ the Duke had seenit, for who could say he would not have it altered?Messer Angelo Allori had finished a portrait of _laPrincipessa_ Gonzaga, and just as he was thinkingto sign it, what does her ladyship do but say shewould rather have been painted in her _camorra diseta verde_; and thereat he had to paint out the olddress and paint in the new, for none might say nayto _la Principessa_. So that is how it comes thatthis picture--that I am--is unsigned; and thatthe Art Critics, for once, are not unanimous aboutwho was the author.
But _I_ know who that author was, and I can seehim still as he sits at the feet of his lady, _la Duchessa_Maddalena, and his thick, black hair that had gothim the nickname of _Spazzolone_; which is, orwould be as speech goes now, the scrubbing-brush.And I can see his beautiful olive-tinted throat,more fair than tawny, like ivory, and his great blackeyes, like an antelope's. I can see her, la Maddalena,seated above him--for he is on the ground--hertwo
white hands encircling her knees, with manyrings on them, one a great opal, the one you see onmy finger now; and her face, with the red-gold hair,you see on my head, but somewhat fallen about it,for it had shaken down; and the face it hedged inwas white--so white! It was not as you see menow; rather, indeed, the face of the sad Maddalenabefore ever she saw _lo Spazzolone_, than mine as Ihave it before you. Look awhile upon my face,and then figure it to yourself as it would be if thelips wanted to tremble, and the eyes to weep,but neither would do so, from sheer courage andstrength of heart against an evil cloud. Then youwill see la Maddalena as she sat there with eyesfixed on Giacinto, knowing each minute nearer theend; but all the more taking each minute at themost, as one condemned to die delays over his lastmeal on earth. The gaoler will come, and theprison-guard, and he knows it.
How long, do you ask me, did the pair sit thus,the eyes of each devouring the face of the other;the lips of each replying to the other in a murmuredundertone I could not have heard from where Istood on my easel, had it not been that I too, myself,was la Maddalena, and spoke her words and heardhis voice? I can only tell you the time seemed tooshort--though it was none so short a time, neither!But I do not know. I do know this, though--andI wish you too to know it, that you may think nothought of blame of my Maddalena--that never aword passed her lips that any young wife might notfairly and honestly speak to her husband's friend.And scarce a word of his in return that might nothave been fairly and honestly spoken back; andfor such a slight forgetfulness, as it seemed to me,of what was safe for both--will you not forgive thepoor boy? Remember, he was but a boy at best,for all his marvellous skill. And was not his skillmarvellous? For look at my lips, and see howthey are drawn! Look at my eyes and say, havethey moved or not--or will they not move, in aninstant? Look at the little bright threads of goldin my cloud of hair! And then say, was he not awondrous boy?
But a boy for all that! And to my thinking itwas _because_ he was a boy, or was only just a manhaving his manhood forced painfully upon him bysorrow, that he gave the rein for one moment to histongue. And it was such a little moment, after all!Listen, and I will tell you, if you will not blamehim. Promise me!
They had talked, the two of them--or of us, asyou choose to have it--over and over of the olddays at the Castello, of the old Cappellano whowinked at all their misdeeds, and stood betweenthem and the anger of her parents, many a time.How they had frightened him half to death bymaking believe they had the Venetian plague uponthem, by dropping melted wax on their skins withlittle strawberries in the middle. And how Giacintoundeceived him by eating the strawberries. Andwhat nasty little monkeys they were in those days,to be sure! That made them laugh, and they werequite merry for a while. But then they got sadagain when la Maddalena told how Fra Poco--thatwas what they called _il padre_ Buti the Cappellano,for he was a little man--was the only one ofthem all that had had a word to say against hermarriage, and how he had denounced her father oneday as for a crime, and invoked the vengeance ofGod upon the old Duke's head for using his powerto defraud a young virgin of her life, and saying lethim have the lands and enjoy them as he would,and rather go out and beg on the highways for almsthan sacrifice his own flesh and blood. And howshe had overheard all this speech of Fra Poco, andhad said to herself that, come what might, she wouldsave the old domain for her father and her brother.And how that very day her brother, who was butyoung, had beaten her with her own fan, and thenrun away with it; and little he knew what she wasto suffer for him! But in truth _she_ knew littleenough herself, for what does a girl-chit know!
And it may have been _her_ fault, too, or mine, fortalking thus of her marriage, and none of the boy'sown, that my Giacinto should have, as I say, halfforgotten himself. For it was but just after shehad spoken thus, and they had sat sad and silentfor a space, that the big bells of San Felice hard bymust needs clang out suddenly in the evening air,and then they knew their parting had come, toosoon, and that then they might never meet again.And on that my Giacinto cried out as one whoseheaviness of heart is too sore to be borne, "_Osorellaccia mia_! _Mia carina--mio tesoro_! Oh if itmight but be all a dream, and we might wake andfind it so, at the old Castello in the hills, and hearthe croaking of the frogs and the singing of thenightingales when the sun had gone to bed, and bepunished for staying out too late to listen to them!Oh, Maddalena _mia_!--the happy days when therewere no old Dukes!..." But la Maddalena stoppedhim in his speech, saying, but as one says wordsthat choke in his throat, "Enough--enough, SignoreGiacinto! Remember what we are now--rememberwhat I am!--what you are!" For this, said she,was not how _sua Eccellenza_ the Duke should bespoken of in his own house. And then the greatbells, that were so near they went nigh to deafenyou, stopped jangling; but the biggest hadsomething to say still, a loud word at a time, and farapart. And what he said was, that now the hourhad come, and they should meet no more. Andthen he paused, and they thought he was silent.But he came back suddenly once again, to cry out"Never!" and was still.
Then comes the old Marta from her corner, rubbingher eyes, for she had been very sound asleep. Andher mistress, as one who will not be contradicted,points her on in front, and she passes out, and herblack dog. Then says my Maddalena to the painter,"And now, farewell, my friend," and holds out herhand for him to kiss, for is she not the Duchess?And he kisses it without speech, but with a sort ofsob, and she gathers up her train, and turns to go.But as she reaches the door, she hears behind herthe voice that tries to speak, but cannot.
Then she turns, and her despair is white in herface. And Giacinto's eyes are in his hands--hedares not look up. But she goes back and he hearsher, and his name as she speaks it. And then helooks up, and see!--they are locked in each other'sarms, as though never to part. And then Maddalenaknows, and I know with her, what Love is, andwhat Life might have been. To think now, at sucha moment, of the abhorred caresses that must beendured, later! no, my Maddalena, nothing to bethought of now, nothing said, nothing seen norheard, just for those few moments that will nevercome again!
That was so, and therefore neither of theseimprudent young people heard the gasp or snarl ofanger that came through the little slot in the wallabove. Down comes my Lord, unheard; reachesthe room, unheard. But not alone! For there arebehind him two of his retinue, rough troopers,buff-jerkined and morion-capped with steel, ready forany crime at their master's noble bidding. Sosilently have they come that the first sound thatrouses the young artist and his _sorellaccia_ from theirlittle moment of rapture--for which I for one seelittle reason to blame them--and brings them backto conscious life and the knowledge of their lot, isthe slight ring of the short sword-dagger one ofthem draws from the scabbard. Their eyes areopened now, and _lo Spazzolone_ sees his executioners;while Maddalena and I see a cold, hard oldface to which all pleading for mercy--if there hadbeen a crime--would have been vain; and whichwould make a crime, inexorably, of what was none,from inborn cruelty and jealous rage. It is all over!
All over! Yes, for any chance of life for Giacinto,for any chance of happiness for la Maddalena forthe rest of her term of life. But it may give pleasureto you to know--as it gives me pleasure--howeverlittle!--that our young painter, who was strong andactive as a wild cat, got at the old man's wickedthroat and wellnigh choked him before his assassinscould cover the three or four steps between them;and before the one whom Maddalena did not stop--forshe flung herself bodily on the man with thesword--could strike with a mace he had. And theblow fell on the olive-tinted neck I had loved sowell, and the poor Giacinto fell with a thud andlay, killed or senseless. But the old Devil had felthis grip with a vengeance, and the two men-at-armslooked pleased, and lifted up and bore away theseeming dead Giacinto with admiration. The oldman choked awhile, and la Maddalena remainedmarble-white as a new cut block at Massa Carrara,and as motionless, until her old owner had drunksome wine and done his choking; and then hepinched her tender white wrist savagely--I couldshow you where he made his mark, but I cannotmove--and drew her away, saying, "You comewith me, young mi
stress!" But first he goes andstands opposite the picture, still gripping her wrist.Then says he, "_Non c'e male_"--not bad--and leadsher away, dumb. And they leave me alone in the_Stanza delle Quattro Corone_, and I hear the doorlocked from the outside. And the night comes, andI hear the voices of the frogs in the flat land, andthink of the boy and girl that heard them togetherin that other old Castello I remember so well, buthave never seen. And the sun comes again andshines upon some blood upon the floor. It is notGiacinto's--it is Maddalena's, where she cut herselfon the man with the sword.
After that I remember no more till two men cameto measure for the frame I now have on. Theycame next day, accompanied by the old Marta, whounlocked the door. But her little dog came withthem, too, and no sooner had he run once all roundthe room, to see for cats or what might be else, thanhe goes straightway to the blood-mark on the floor.And so shrewd is he to guess what it is--remember,he had gone away with Marta when all the riot cameabout--that he looks round from one to the otherfor explanation, and tries hard to speak, as a dogdoes. Whereat each of the three also looks to theother two, and makes believe the dog is gone mad,to be making little compassionate whines and cries,and then, going to each one in turn to tell of it,touching them with his fore-paws, and then backagain to the blood. But none would give him agood word, and as for la Marta, she must needsslap him, to the best of her withered power, on hisclean-shaved body; which very like hurt but little,but the poor dog cried out upon the injustice! Forhe knew well this that he smelt was blood. As Ibelieve, so did the three of them; however, in thathousehold each knew that blood, anywhere, was bestnot seen by whoever wished to keep his own in hisveins. So they took the measure for my frame,and went their way. And presently, when theyhave gone back, comes the old woman, but no dog,and brings with her burnt wood-ash, such as thefire leaves in the open grate, quite white and dry.And she makes a heap on the blood-stain with it,and water added, and goes away again and locksthe door without, as before. After which the sungoes many times across the brick floor, stoppingalways to look well upon the blood-spot; and thenight comes back, and I see a little sharp edge ofsilver in the sky, beyond the window-grating, and Iremember that it was the new moon, in the days ofthe old Castello; and I say to myself, now I shallsee it grow again, as it grew in those old days whenGiacinto watched it with me. And it grows tobe a half-moon before la Marta comes again andgathers up the ashes, and leaves the floor clean.But then I know they will soon come with theframe. So it happens; and then I am in my frameand am carried away to the great old Castle in theApennines, and hanged upon the wall in the Statebanqueting-room; and after a while, I know nothow long, the old Duke comes to see, and is pleasedto approve. And my Maddalena comes, or ratherhe leads her, stark dumb, and white as the ashesthat dried up the drops of her blood upon the floor.
And then day follows day, and each day my lordleads a thinner and a whiter Maddalena to the headof his board, and each day she answers him lesswhen he speaks to her, which he does with an evildiscourtesy when none other is there to check it;and a courtesy, even worse to bear, when they arein the presence of the household, or of noble guestson a visit. He sees, as I see, that her eyes arealways fixed on me, as I hang behind his chair, forwell he knows she would not be giving him hereyes--not she! So he tells the _primo maggiordomo_, whois subservient, but dropsical, and goes on a stick,to see that I am moved to a place in a bay to theleft of his mistress; the old Devil having indeedchosen this place cleverly so that la Maddalenamight not easily see me by turning her eyes only;but when she gives a little side turn to her head aswell, then she may see me plainly. And, of course,it fell out as the cunning fox had foreseen, and thepoor Maddalena's eyes wandered more and more toher picture, and then, as they came back, theywould be caught in the cold gaze that came at herfrom the other table-end, and would fall down tolook on the food she was fain to send awayuntasted. This goes on awhile, and then my Dukespeaks out when they are alone. _He_ knows, hesays, what all these sly glances mean--all thisfurtive peeping round the corner--we are hankeringafter that old lover of ours, are we not? And thereare things it is not easy to forget--ho, ho! Andhe laughs out at the poor girl and her sorrow. Butshe is outspoken, as one in despair may well be, andsays to her old tormentor that if he means by theword "lover" that she has in any way whatevermade light of her wifely duty to his lordship, it isfalse, and he knows it; for the boy was no moreto her than any foster-brother might have been,brought up with her from the cradle. Only, let himnot suppose, for all that, that she held him, husbandas he was, and all his lands and hoarded wealth,and titles from his Holiness the Pope, one tithe asdear as the shoelace or the button on the coat ofthe boy he had murdered. On that his _Eccellenza_sniggered and was amused. "I should have thoughtso much," says he, "from the good round buss yougave him at parting. But who has told you yourso precious treasure is dead? None has said so tome, so far. When last I heard of him, he was downbelow, beneath your feet, '_con rispetto parlando_,'"which is a phrase folk use in Tuscany, not to betoo plain-spoken for delicacy about feet and the like.
But now I must tell you something the oldmiscreant meant when he said this, and pointed downbelow the great table, which else might be hard tounderstand. For this great table stood over a trapor well-hole in the floor, and this well-hole wentstraight down to the dungeons under the Castle,where, if all tales told were true, there was stillliving a very old man who was first incarceratedforty years since, and had lived on, God knows how!And others as well, though little was known of themby those above in the daylight. But this old manhad made some talk, seeing that he was firstconfined there in the days of the old Duke, our Duke'sfather, a just man and well-beloved, for a crimecommitted near by, on the evidence of his wife andhis brother. Of whom, having lived some while _paramours_, the brother having died by poison, and thewoman having died in sanctity as Mother Superiorof the nuns of Monte Druscolo in Umbria, it wasknown that the latter made confession on herdeath-bed that her paramour was truly, but unknown toher, the author of the crime for which his brotherwas condemned. Now, this came to her knowledgeby a chance, later. On which she, learning withresentment the concealment of this from herself; andseeing that the victim of this crime had been ayoung girl under her care and charge, had compassedthe death of the real culprit for justice' sake,but had not thought it well to proclaim the truthabout her husband's innocence, for she might havefound it hard to look him in the face. So he wasleft where he was, the more that it was thought hemight die if brought out into the sun; and, indeed,he was very old, and the Holy Abbess in extremeold age when she made her confession. But he isnot in my tale, nor she, and I speak of him onlybecause of the chance by which he made known tome the existence of this same well-hole beneath mylord's dining-table. For it was the telling of thisstory at the banquet that caused it to be spoken of,and also how in old days its use was to be openedafter the meal, that the guests might of their_gentilezza_ throw what they had not cared to eatthemselves to the prisoners below. And the PrinceCosmo dei Medici, who was graciously present, waspleased to say it would have been a pretty tale forBoccaccio--or perhaps even the great LodovicoAriosto might not scorn to try his hand upon it?
But now you may see, plain enough, what thewicked old man meant when he pointed down inthat way. He thought to make his young wifebelieve that her lover--as he would call him;though he knew the word, as he used it, was a lie--wasstill living, and that, too, underground, where aray of light might hardly penetrate, at high-noon;and almost surely, too, the victim of starvation andtortures she shuddered to think of; even forwitches or Jews--aye, even for heretics! Shecould see the whole tale in the cruelty of her princelyhusband's eyes; except, indeed, his victim wasreally dead, slain by the cruel blow she herself hadseen; and seeing it, what wonder was it that shelonged only to know that he was dead; for thenshe could die too? But to slip away and leaveGiacinto still alive!--in a damp vault with the oldbones of those who had died and been buried there,so that none should know of them; and neitherday nor th
e coming of night, but only one longdarkness, and not one word from her, and ignoranceof whether she herself still lived or died. Surely,if she were to die and leave him thus in ignorance,her ghost would rise from the grave to be besidehim in the darkness of his dungeon; and then howher heart would break to speak with him, and be--asmight chance--half-heard, and serve only toadd a new terror to his loneliness.
Such things I could guess she felt in her heart. Icould not feel them now myself, not being la Maddalenaas she was at this moment. I am still, as I wasthen, the Maddalena as she laughed back, from thedais she sat on, her delight in response to thepleasure in her young painter's eye; and all shebecame after is--to me--like a tale she might haveheard, or some sad pretty ballad one gives a tearto and forgets. But I can fancy, and maybe youcan too, how her whole young soul was wrenchedas she flung herself at her old tormentor's feet, andbesought him in words that I would myself havewept for gladly--had God not made me as I am--totell her truly, only to tell her, was he living ordead? She would ask no more than just that muchof his clemency. What wrong had she donehim?--what had Giacinto?--that he should make herthink the sun itself a nightmare; for it would shineon her, but never reach the black pit below them,where, for all she knew, Giacinto might be now, atthis very moment? Oh, would he not tell her?It was so little to ask!
But the old miscreant had not paid her yet forthat kiss, and he would have his account dischargedin full. So he takes her face in his two old hands,and pats her on the cheek, and tells her, smiling, tobe of good cheer, for she will never know any moreof the young _maestro_, nor whether he be alive or dead.But if she wishes to throw down some daintytitbits from the dinner-leavings, on the chance theyshall reach the lips she kissed, why it is but tellingRaouf and Stefano to lift the trap. It may be abit rusty, but if it were oiled on the hinges this time,the less trouble the next! At this _la Duchessa_ gavea long shriek, holding her head tight on, on eitherside, and then fell backward on the floor, and lay so,stark motionless. And then my great Duke seatshimself on the nearest chair; and he has in hishand his crutched stick, to lean on against the goutin his foot. He takes it in his left hand, and justdigs with it at the girl's body on the ground, eitherto rouse her or see if she be dead. But she does notmove, and he has her carried away to bed; and hisface is contented, as is that of a man who hasworked well and deserved his fee.
I wish I could remember more of this old tale offour hundred years ago, but I had no chance to doso; for, after the scene I have just described, thenoble Duke, hobbling a short space about the hall,brings up short just facing the bay where I havebeen hanged by his orders to spite la Maddalena;and then, after choking a little--as indeed he oftendid since that fierce grip of my young _maestro, loSpazzolone_--he calls out to his fat _maggiordomo_,and bids him to see that I am removed to his ownprivate room and hanged under the picture ofGanymede. But now he must only take it downand remove it to the old stone chamber, where thefigs are put to dry on trays; and so leave it, to behanged in his room when he is away at Rome, aswill be shortly. So he hobbles away and I hearhim getting slowly up the little stair that goes tohis private room, and his attendants following him.The dropsical _maggiordomo_ stays to see that anotherman should come, with a ladder and a boy, to help,and they get me down from my hooks, and carryme off; and I can smell the dried figs, and the _stoia_that is rolled up in a stack, and the emptywine-flasks. But I can see nothing, for they place mewith my face against the wall, and cover me overwith a sacking; and I can hear little more; andthen the great door clangs to and is locked, and Iam alone in the dark, without feeling or measurementof time, and only catching faint sounds fromfar-off.
I could guess, rather than hear, the sound of afootstep when one came, rarely enough, in the longcorridor without. I could feel its rhythm in theshaken floor, but I could be scarcely said to hear it.I was aware of a kind of scratching close to me, thatmay have been some kind of beetle or scorpion, butof course it was quite invisible. There was one sortof _scaraflaggio_ that would come, even between meand the wall one time, and make a noise like athousand whirlwinds, and beat against me with hiswings, and I should have liked to be able to ask himto come often. But he seemed not to care aboutme; and I could just hear him boom away in thedarkness, joyous at heart and happy in his freedom.Oh, if he could have known how different was mylot! I thought of how he would float out into thesunlight, whirring all the while like the wheels of thegreat _orologio_ at the old Castello when Fra Poco letit run down at noon so that he might reset it fairfrom the sundial on the wall in the Cortile wherethe well was--_our_ well!
It may have been days, or it may have beenweeks or months, before a change came, and Iagain heard human voices. But it would not belonger than two or three months at most; seeingthat it was immediately, as far as I could judge, onthe top of a little chance that is dear to my memorynow, after--so I gather--some four hundred years.For a sweet firefly came, by the blessing of God,between me and the dry wall, and paused and hunga moment in the air that I might get a sight of hisbeauty. You have seen them in the corn, how theystop to think, and then shoot on ahead, each to seekhis love, or hers: so it is taught by those who saythey know, and may be truly. This one also mustneeds go on, though I would have prayed him tostay, that _I_ might be his love. Yet this could notbe, for neither did I know his tongue, nor was aughtelse fitting. So he went away and left mesad-hearted. He was a spot of light between a gloombehind and a gloom before, even as the Star ofBethlehem.
But about this that I was telling of. I had asense of half-heard turmoil without. Then the lockin the door, and the imprecations of a man thatcould not turn the key. He swore roundly at himwho made it, and at all locksmiths soever, as personswho from malevolence scheme to exclude all folkfrom everywhere; and I wished to rebuke him forhis injustice, for how can a locksmith do less thanmake a key? And it was for him to choose the rightkey, not to keep on twisting at the wrong one, andswearing, which is what he was doing. But he wasa noisy, blustering person, for when he did get in,being helped to the right key by a clever young boywho saw his error, he was much enraged with thatboy for telling him; and he was ill-satisfied withsuch a place as this to stow away the furniture, buthe supposed they must make it do.
Then came much moving in of goods. And Icould gather this, but no more, from the conversationof those who brought it in--that it was thefurniture of someone who was little loved, and onlyspoken of as "he" or "_il Vecchiostro_"--that hewas gone on a journey, and much they cared howsoon he arrived at the end of it. The boy, who wasyoung and inquisitive, then asking whither this wasthat he had gone, they told him with a laugh thatit was to his oldest friend, another like himself; towhom he had given his whole soul, and who wouldnot care to part with him in a hurry. They hopedhe would have a cool bed to sleep in. And when theboy hoped this too, they were very merry. But theyworked hard, and brought in a great mass offurniture, which they stacked against the wall where Iwas, so that I was quite hidden away. Therewould be new fittings all through the castle now,they said. But one said no--no! it would only bein the _Vecchiostro's_ own private rooms. "'Tis donethat he should be soonest forgotten," said one ofthem. But it was only just when they had broughtin the last of it that this same one said that if everhe--this _Vecchiostro_--came back from Hell therewould be all his gear ready for him. And then Isaw this was some dead man's property that hissuccessor would have put out of his sight.
Then says my young boy to his father, who wasthe man who had sworn at the key, why did theynot take the Signora's portrait down instead ofleaving it there, because everyone loved her; andfor his part, she kissed him once, and said he was_carino_. Then says his father, what portrait?And he answers, "In there--behind." For he hadpeeped in round my frame thinking he knew meagain; being in fact the same that had helped toget me down in the banqueting-hall, how long sinceI could not say. But his father calls him a youngfool not to say so before it was too late; and as forhim, it was time for his supper and bed, and whoeverelse liked the job might mo
ve all the chairs andtables again to fish her ladyship out. And as allwere of one mind they laughed over this and wentnoisily away. And the door was locked and Iheard no more. And the darkness was darker stilland the silence deeper. And I longed for the_scaraffaggio_ to come and whirr once more, and forthe sweet light of the _lucciola_. But there was nonesuch for me. And my Maddalena must be surelydead, I thought, else that young boy would tell herI was here, and she would come to find thepicture Giacinto painted of her in that merry time.But I waited for her voice in vain, and had nothingfor myself but the darkness and the silence.
Just as the diver holds his breath and longs forthe sudden air that he must surely meet--in amoment--in another moment!--so I held as itwere the breath of expectation, and believed in thecoming of those who could not but seek me; for atfirst I felt certain they would come. They wouldnever leave me here, to decay! But there came novoice, no glimmer of light, and I fell into a stuporin which all memory grew dim, even that of myMaddalena.
What I suffered through that long period ofsilence and darkness I cannot tell, nor could youunderstand. The prisoner in his solitude is gratefulfor each thing that enables him to note the flight oftime; and the fewer such things are the drearier isthe sameness of his lot. Can you imagine it if theywere all removed--a condition of simple existencein black space, with no means of marking time atall? Would you become, on that account,unconscious altogether of weariness from the longunalleviated hours? No, indeed! Take my wordfor it. Rather, you would find it, as I found it, astate of bondage such as one would long and praymight be the lot of such as had been, in this life,devils against the harmless; but going on throughall eternity, no nearer the end now than when itstarted countless ages ago, an absolute monotoneof dulled sense without insensibility--even painitself almost an alleviation.
That is what my life, if you can call it life, wasto me through all that term; but, as thought isdumb, though I know the time goes on, how longit goes on I know not. When I next hear humanspeech, the voices are new and the words strangeand barbarous. Also, when I am taken from thewall and turned round to the light, I can seenothing, and I know not why. Perhaps it is alldark here at all times, and they have brought nolight. I shall see, though, well enough when I amhanged up under Ganymede, and see my bad oldDuke again, and even my other self, my Maddalena.I have a longing on me to see her once more, and tosee her more like me, if it may be. It seems solong! So much longer than the time when I wasleft alone in the _Stanza delle Quattro Corone_. Butwhat you may find hard to understand is this, thatthough I could not know how long this dreadfulwaking sleep had been, neither could I be sure ithad not been a few hours only. I now know, for Ihave learned since, that it was over three hundredyears. Yet when the end came it found me notwithout a hope of Maddalena; or if not Maddalena,at least the Duke.
But I do not see them, either of them. Nor oldMarta Zan and her little dog. Nor the dropsicalold _maggiordomo_. That there is no Giacinto is littlewonder to me. For I believe him dead, killed bythat fell blow on the olive neck I loved so well,just behind the ear. I wonder, though, thatI see none of the others. But indeed I havemuch ado to see anything. All is in a mist ofdarkness.
Also, I am presently stunned by the clash of manyvoices. I can catch from the words of those whospeak Maddalena's language, the tongue that I canfollow, that there is a great wranglement over meand my sale price. For I am to be sold, and theforeigners who wish to buy me are loud in theirdispraise of me; so much so that I do notunderstand why they should wish to possess me at all.In fact, they do actually go away after much heateddiscussion, speaking most scornfully of pictures asthings no man in his senses would ever buy, and ofpictures with frames like mine as the most valuelessexamples. I gather all this from repetitions madeby others, in Maddalena's tongue, nearly but notexactly.
Presently back comes one of them to say he willgo to six hundred pounds, but not a penny more.Then says a woman's voice, "Ah, Signore! Sixhundred and fifty!" Then he, six hundred andtwenty-five. And then some price between thetwo. And so we are agreed at last. And I am tobe put in a box and sent to a place whose name Ihave never heard, that sounds like L'Ombra, aname that frightens me, for it sounds like theInferno of the great poet, Dante.
But I should tell you that, before this riot, andnoise, and disputation over me and my price, I hadheard the unpacking and removal of the great stackof furniture that hid me. Only, as the persons whoremoved it have no interest for us, and did not seemfrom their conversation to be especially cultivatedor intelligent, but rather the reverse, I have notsaid anything of them, nor of their valuations in_lire_ of each article as it was brought to light. Theirvoices were the very first that I heard; but thoughtheir words sounded strange to me, they only mademe think that maybe they were from Milan orGenoa or some other place in Italy. I should nothave guessed them Tuscans; that is all. Indeed,I hardly distinguished much of what they said untilthey had removed the last of the furniture and Iwas turned round to the light. Then I saw thingsin a cloud, and heard indistinctly. I made out,however, that I was thick with dust, and must bebrought out and cleaned before anyone could seewhat I was like. Then I was carried away downsome stairs, and in the end I was aware, but dimly,as in a dream, that I was again in the great chamberwhere I last saw la Maddalena lying on the groundinsensible, while the old Duke prodded at her witha stick. I could see there were many people in theroom, talking volubly. But I could not catch theirwords well until a Signora, who seemed to take thelead, wiped my face over with a wet sponge; andthen I heard more. Her voice was clearest, andwhat she said was "_Ecco, Signori_! Now you cansee the ear quite plain. _Ma com'e bella_! _Bellabella_!"--And then it was I came to hear all theclamour of voices of a sudden.
Then follows all the bargaining I told you of.The Signora's husband would not sell an oldpicture--not he!--for a thousand pounds in gold; not tillall the dirt was off and he could see it fairly. Allapplauded this, and said in chorus neither wouldthey! Who could tell what might not be, underthe dirt? However, they knew so little about itthat they would not mind buying this one, on thechance. But for a decently reasonable price--sayfive thousand Italian lire. On which the ownersaid, "_Come mai_! _E pochissimo_!" Then the_Signori Inglesi_ took another tone, and would havenone of the picture, nor any picture, at any price!They would not know where to hang it. They didnot like pictures on their walls. All the walls werecovered with pictures already, all favourites, thatmust not be moved. But why need I tell you allthis? You have heard folk make bargains, and thelies they tell.
The English Signori departed, having bought mefor near six hundred and fifty English pounds. Andthen my lady and gentleman are mightily delighted,and dance about the room with joy. Now they willgo to Monte Carlo and win back all they lost lastyear. Then I hear them talking in an undertone,thus:--
(He) "I hope they never suspected it was noneof ours----"
(She) "Ah, _Dio mio_! And I had told them wewere only _inquilini_"--that is, tenants.
(He) "_Non ti confondi_? Don't fret about that.They don't know what _inquilini_ means. They canonly say '_mangia bene, quanto costa_!'"
(She) "_Speriamo_! But what a fine lot of oldfurniture! Couldn't we sell some of it, too?" Andthis young Signora, who was very pretty andimpudent, and what I have since heard calledsvelte, danced about the room in high glee. Butthe good gentleman stopped her.
(He) "_Troppo pericolo_! The fat old Marchesawould find out. No, no! The picture is quiteanother thing----"
(She) "_Perche?_"
(He) "Can't you see, thickhead? If the old_strega_"--the old witch, that is--"had known thepicture was there, do you suppose she wouldn't havehad it out, long ago? And that other picture infront of it, with the eagle.... Don't dance, butlisten!"
(She) "... Picture in front of it, with the eagle... yes, go on!" But she won't quite stop dancing,and makes little quick tiptoe movements, not toseem over-subservient and docile.
(He) "I would have sold that, too, only
it's too bigfor safety. This one will go in a small case. The_famiglia_ will have to be well paid. What was itla Filomena told you first of all about the room andthe furniture? Do stop that dancing!"
(She) "There, see now, I've stopped! But you_have_ been told, once!"
(He) "Then tell again!"
(She) "It wasn't la Filomena. It was that old,old Prisca who knows all about the Castello--morethan the Marchesa herself. She told me there wasan old room in the great tower that had not beenopen for hundreds of years, as no one dared to gonear it for fear of the wicked old Duke's ghost. Itold her we were _liberi pensatori_"--that is to say,free-thinkers--"and he would not hurt us, andwhere was the key? We would not touchanything--only look in!"
(He) "Won't she tell about it all?"
(She) "Not till we go! Besides, she doesn'tknow. La Filomena won't tell her; she knows Iknow all about her and Ugo Pistrucci. And she'sthe only person that goes near the old Prisca, whohasn't been off her bed for months. Oh no!_She's_ all right. As for the man, I told themla Prisca said the _mobiglia_ was to be taken outand dusted and placed in the passage. _Stiatranquillo, mio caro_!"
(He) "What a happy chance these pig-headedrich milords happened to come in just as we got it.They might have gone before we found it! Onlyto think of it! _Seicento e cinquante lire_...!"
And so they went on rejoicing, and thinking ofnew schemes, and how they would get me packedoff the very next day, and not a soul in the Castlewould ever know I had ever been there. They werecertainly very bad, unprincipled adventurers. Youshould have heard them talk of what fun they wouldhave telling the old Marchesa about the greatdiscovery of treasures they had made, and the carethey had taken nothing should be lost. And thenwho knows but she might trust them to get a salefor all her old rubbish in England, and what a lotof money they might make, with a little discretion.If I had remained there I should have been longingalways for a chance of telling the old _strega_, as theycalled her, what a nice couple she had let her Castleto for the summer months. For I am convinced,not only that they were thieves, but that they werenot even lawfully married. However it may havebeen, I saw no more of them. For next day thesame man that had done the removal of thefurniture came with a box, and I was carefully packed,and saw nothing more, and distinguished littlesound, for weeks it may have been, even months.As the solidity of the box absorbed all sight andhearing, and I knew nothing till I found myself onan easel in a sort of Studio in a town that I at onceperceived to be L'Ombra. For what else could ithave been?
At this point Mr. Pelly, who had been listeningintently, interrupted the speaker. "I think youhave got the name of the place wrong," he said. "Iimagine it must have been London--_Londra_--theEnglish Metropolis--not L'Ombra. The soundsare very similar, and easy to mistake."
"Possibly I was misled by the darkness. It madethe name seem so appropriate. But it was notexactly night. There was a window near me, andI could see there was a kind of yellow smoke overeverything. But there was music in the street,and children appeared to be running and shouting.Other things gave me the impression the time hadbeen intended for morning, but that something hadcome in the way. It was a terrible place, muchlike to that dark third circle in Hell, where Danteand Virgilio saw the uncouth monster Cerberus.
"But let us forget it! Why should such a placebe remembered or spoken of? I was there for nogreat length of time: long enough only for thepicture-cleaner, in whose workshop I was, to removethe obscurations of four hundred years, and safeguardme with a glass from new deposits. For I understoodhim to say that I should be just as bad asever in a very short space of time, in this beastlysooty hole, but for such protection.
"And yet this place was not entirely bad, nor indarkness at all times, for at intervals a phenomenonwould occur which I supposed to be a peculiarity ofthe climate, causing the lady of the house to say,'There--the sun's coming out. I shall get myThings on. Are you going to stay for ever in thehouse, and get fustier and fustier, or are you goingto have a turn on the Embankment? You mightanswer me, instead of smoking, Reginald!' But Inoticed that this phenomenon, whatever its cause,never seemed to attain fruition, the lady alwayssaying she knew how it would be--they had lostall the daylight. I only repeat her words. Iobserved another thing worthy of remark, that itvery seldom held up. I am again repeating aphrase that was to me only a sound. I have noidea what 'it' was, nor what it held up, nor why.I am only certain that the performance was a rareone, however frequently it was promised. But thegentleman who restored me seemed to have confidencein its occurrence, conditionally on his takinghis umbrella. Otherwise, he said, it was cocksureto come down cats and dogs, and they would be infor a cab, and he only had half a crown.
"These persons were of no interest in themselves,and I should never remember or think of them at allbut for having been the unwilling witness of aconjugal misunderstanding, which may quitepossibly have led to a permanent breach between them.It is painful to think that the whole difference mighthave been made in the lady's jealous misinterpretationof her husband's behaviour towards a maidennamed _La Sera_--who, as I understood, came inby the week at nine shillings, and always had herSunday afternoons, whatever those phrases mean;no doubt you will know--if I had been able to addmy testimony to her husband's disclaimer of amorousintent. For it was most clear that the whole thingwas but an innocent joke throughout, howeverill-judged and stupid. I saw the whole from my placeon the easel, and heard all that passed. I cannottell you how I longed to say a word on his behalf,when, some days later, two friends paid him a visit,who had evidently been taken into his confidence,but who seemed to think that he had withheldsomething from them, not treating them so franklyas old friends deserved. Whereupon he warmlyprotested that his wife had no solid ground ofcomplaint against him, having gone off, unreasonably,in what he called "a huff"; but that he had justpaid _La Sera_ her wages and sent her packing, sothat now he had to make his own bed and blackhis own shoes.
"I am sorry to say that these two friends showedonly an equivocal sympathy, winking at each other,and each digging the other in the ribs with strangehumorous sounds, as of a sort of fowl. Also, theyshook their heads at their friend, though not, asI think, reproaching him seriously, yet implyingthus, as by other things said, that he was of a gayand sportive disposition that might easily be misledby the fascinations of beauty, which they werepleased to ascribe to _La Sera_. This was, however,scarcely spoken with an earnest intent, since thismaiden, despite the beauty of her name--for onemight conceive it to ascribe to her the tenderradiance and sad loveliness of the sunset--waswanting in charm of form and colour, and had notsuccessfully cultivated such other fascinations assometimes make good their deficiency; as sweetnessand fluency of speech, or a quick wit, or even theartificial seductions of well-ordered dress. I derived,too, a most unfavourable impression from a commentof her employer--to the effect that if, when shecleaned herself of a Sunday morning, she couldn'tdo it without making the whole place smell of yellowsoap, she might as well chuck it and stop dirty.
"But I should grieve to think that this Signore'swife should have left him permanently for so foolisha quarrel. For, though their lives seemed filledwith a silly sort of bickering, I believed from whatI saw that there was really no lack of love betweenthem, and I cannot conceive that they will be anyhappier apart. Indeed, had she been indifferent toher husband, could she have felt a trivialinconstancy, implying no grievous wrong, of suchimportance? But, indeed, it is absurd to use theword _inconstancy_ at all in such a case, though wemay condemn the ill-taste of all vulgar trifling withthe solemn obligations of conjugal duty. I wish Imight have spoken, to laugh in their faces and makea jest of the whole affair. But silence was my lot.
"I have hung here, as I suppose, for six monthspast, and have often striven to speak, but none hasheard me till now. Think, dear Signore, how Ihave suffered! Think how I have longed to speakand be heard, when my Madeline, my darling--wholoves me, and says she loves me--has talked to hergreat dog of her lover that w
as killed in the war...."
Mr. Pelly interrupted. "Are you referring toyoung Captain Calverley?" he said. "Because, ifso, it is not certain that he _is_ dead. Besides, Isuppose you know that Miss Upwell and the Captainwere not engaged?" And then the old gentlemanfancied he heard a musical laugh come from thepicture.
"How funny and cold you English are!" said thevoice. "Was _I_ engaged to my darling, my love,that only time he pressed me to his bosom; that onlytime I felt his lips on mine? Was I not the bond-slavefor life to the evil heart and evil will of thatold monument of Sin, soaked deep in every stain ofHell? Was I not called his _wife_? Yet my heartand my soul went out to my love in that kiss, andlaughed in their freedom in mockery of the lawsthat could put the casket that held them in bond,and yet must perforce leave them free. And whenthat young soldier tore himself away from myMadeline--I saw them here myself; there by theshiny fish, in the glass case--was their parting kissless real than ours was, that hour when I saw himlast, my own love of those years gone by?"
"A--it isn't a subject I profess to understandmuch about," said Mr. Pelly. He blew his nose andwiped his spectacles, and was silent a moment. Thenhe said, "But whatever the sentiment of the younglady herself may be, there can be no doubt abouther mother's. In fact, she has herself told me thatshe is most anxious that it should not be supposedthat there was any engagement. So I trust--ifyou ever do have the opportunity of speaking toanyone on the subject--that you will be careful notto give the impression that such was the case. I donot, perhaps, fully realise the motives that influenceLady Upwell--a--and Sir Stopleigh,--of course it'sthe same thing...."
Mr. Pelly stopped with a jerk. He found himselftalking uncomfortably and inexplicably to space,beside the embers of a dying fire, and in the distancehe could hear the carriage bringing the absenteesback through the wintry night, and the ringingtread of the horses on the hard ground.
"Poor Uncle Christopher all by himself, and thefire out!" said the first comer into the Library. Itwas the young lady who came to see the Italianpicture at the restorer's Studio in Chelsea, a littleover six months past. She had changed for the oldersince then, out of measure with the lapse of time.But her face was beautiful--none the less that itwas sad and pale--in the glow as she brought theembers together to make life worth living to one ortwo more faggots, just for a little blaze before wewent to bed.
"I was asleep and dreaming," said the old gentleman."Such a queer dream!"
"You must tell it us to-morrow, Uncle Christopher.I like queer dreams." This young lady,Madeline Upwell, always made use of this mode ofaddress, although the old gentleman was no uncle ofhers, but only a very old friend of the family whoknew her father before she was born, and called himGeorge, which was his Christian Christian-name, soto speak, "Stopleigh" being outside familyrecognitions--a mere Bartitude!
But the picture, which might reasonably haveprotested against Mr. Pelly's statement, remainedsilent. So, when his waking judgment set the wholedown as a dream, it was probably right.