Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson

by Robert Louis Stevenson

  The next morning, before the sun rose, he was at his window; and again the beautiful nun walked for an hour or two about the convent garden, not reading this time, but stooping here and there among the borders to pluck flowers, following butterflies to and fro with a sort of grave curiosity, standing to listen for long times together to a bird on one of the cypresses, and looking out, with gladness in her eyes, on the long peep of woodland and falling vale that opened through the mountains towards the south. This decided him for good and all; he would have the painting of that nun, he told himself, if it cost him his finger-nails. So he desired an audience of the Lady Abbess, and told her roundly enough that he could do no more without a proper model for the angel in the right-hand comer. The poor Superior was in consternation, and wondered if he could by no means find what he needed in the neighbourhood.

  ‘We have the very thing here under our own eyes,’ said Sanazarro, with a little sigh. ‘But I suppose it may not be — she is a nun.’ The Abbess was properly scandalised, and informed him that, in accordance with their strict rule, he had never — no, not so much as for one moment — seen the face of any of the religious of that house.

  ‘Nun or no nun,’ he returned, ‘my model walks up and down the garden every morning in a nun’s habit.’

  ‘Ah, Signor, that is no nun,’ said the Abbess; ‘that is the Duchess of Orsino, a very great lady, and so piously given that she lives here with us, by permission of her husband, the Duke. But our end is none the better served. We cannot ask a great princess that she should hold up her face to you while you paint.’

  ‘And yet the end is God’s Glory,’ said Sanazarro, as though he were thinking to himself.

  ‘It is not as if it were a mythological subject, or a mere portrait.’

  ‘By no means,’ said the Abbess.

  ‘And so, if she be piously given — you said she was given piously?’

  ‘A perfect angel!’ said the Abbess, casting up her eyes.

  ‘In short,’ concluded Sanazarro, in a tone that did not admit of question, ‘if she will not so far discompose herself for God’s service and the zeal of this house, there is no other help for it, nothing else is here that would serve my end, and I must go for some weeks’ study to the town.’ And he made as if he was going out.

  Now, the Abbess, as he knew very well, desired to have the new altar-piece against a certain festival, and would go a long way to bring about her fancy. ‘I will speak at once with the Duchess,’ she said. And as this was all the young sculptor could expect, he bowed and went back to his work in so fine a flutter of expectation that he could scarce hold his pencils. He had not been many minutes over his canvas, ere he was bidden by the old gardener to speak with her Grace. She was lodged in a small pavilion, decorated with her own hand and stored with books and materials for embroidery, and instruments of music. You may be quite sure her heart beat as hard as Sanazarro’s at the thought of this interview, for it was some years since she had spoken with any besides the good quiet women of the convent, women whose time was measured out to them by the bell for offices, the mulberry harvest, and the Archbishop’s annual visit. He made her a very handsome salutation, which she returned to him with dignity; and after a few moments of talk, she addressed the Abbess, who stood by, and told her she would love so much to see the progress of the picture that she was willing to let herself be painted, as a sort of price. ‘You will see that you make me fair enough, Signor,’ she added with a little laugh.

  The Abbess was usually present at their sittings, and while she was there, there was much talk between the sculptor and the Duchess. When they were left alone, they spoke less and with less freedom; Sanazarro grew shamefast, and bent over his painting, and often, when he raised his eyes with intent to speak, there was something in her face that discouraged him and made the words die on his lips: they were never the right words somehow. It was a pleasant time for both. There was the great shadowed room, with a flicker of vine leaves at the stanchioned window; the canvas dyed in gold and amethyst and peopled with many speaking countenances of saints and angels; and these two beautiful young folk, thinking silently of each other with downcast eyes, or courting, unconsciously to themselves, in the grave presence of the nun. And when from time to time a puff of wind would bring in to them the odour of the limes, or a bell would ring for some office, and they could hear the organ and chanting from the chapel, these things would fall so exactly into the vein of their sweet talk that they seemed to be a part of it; and the two were grateful, each to the other, for the pleasure of them. Ippolita grew to be all in all to Sanazarro; and he, in his turn, was all in all to her. When there came a messenger from the city, telling her that there were some signs of a good change in her husband’s disposition, she was glad indeed, in a saintly, sisterly sort of way, for the sake of the man who had so much injured her; but all the gladness and the gratitude went down somehow to the account of Sanazarro and she loved him the better for the good news.

  One morning, as Ippolita was walking as usual in the sloping garden, she raised her eyes by chance and met those of Sanazarro intently following her as she went. Both started. The sculptor withdrew his head; and when again he ventured to peep forth, the Duchess had recovered her composure and was walking to and fro among the borders as before, with just a little touch of added dignity in her carriage. She left the garden half an hour sooner than was her custom. That day the sitting was rather nervous work; and when the Abbess left them alone together for a while, although the embarrassment of the silence grew almost unendurable, they did not exchange one word till she returned. The next morning, Sanazarro waited and waited at the window; the bees and butterflies came and went among the blossoms, the sunlit garden was flickered over with the swift shadows of flying swallows, the doves crooned on the gutter overhead, the gardener came and dug a while under the window and sang to his work in a cracked voice; — but there was no Ippolita. You may fancy if the painting went heavily all that day; the two young folk were so tongue-tied that the Abbess had the talk all her own way, and taught them recipes for possets and cordials and dressings to lay upon fresh wounds, and told them tales of her sainted predecessor, Monna Francesca, until it was time to separate. But on the third morning, Ippolita appeared again, with heightened colour and a sweet consciousness of gait. For some time she avoided that part of the garden which was looked upon by Sanazarro’s lodging, but at last (as though she thought there was a sort of confession in too much diffidence) she began to draw near to it with eyes fixed upon the walk. Nay, she stood a long while immediately underneath, pulling a rose in pieces in an absent, doubtful manner; once, even, she raised her head a little, as though she would fain be certain whether or not she was observed, and then thinking better of it, changed colour and walked off again with all imaginable dignity and gait. Never were two people met in such adorable spirits as these two that afternoon; and the Abbess had sometimes to dry her eyes and sometimes to hold her sides for laughing — they talked with such gaiety and passion on all manner of things, sad and merry and beautiful. The next day, as Ippolita drew near, there fluttered down in the sunshine, out of Sanazarro’s window, a little open leaf of white paper with some writing on it. Looking up covertly, while yet she was some distance off, she saw the sculptor’s face was there no longer; and so, telling herself all manner of good, wise reasons for the folly, she came forward hurriedly and snatched up the treasure and put it in the bosom of her dress. It was a sonnet written as Sanazarro knew how, clear and strong in form, and of a dainty turn, in which he addressed some unknown goddess who had made the world a new world for him, and given him a new acquaintance with his soul.

  All this time, you will ask me, where were the Abbess’s eyes? She was a simple creature, indeed, but I do think the good soul had her own suspicions, and I believe the whole business cost her many a God-forgive-me, and that she atoned by secret penances for the little indulgences, the little opportunities of private talk that she was wont to make for the two lovers. Y
ou may join the strictest order on the face of the earth; but if you are a good-hearted, sentimental old maid, you will be a good-hearted, sentimental old maid to the end. And all this time, there passed no word of love between the pair. Something about Ippolita imposed upon Sanazarro, and withheld him, and had so much changed him, indeed, that he scarcely recognised himself. Only a strange familiarity and confidence grew up, and, when they were alone, they told each other all the secret troubles of their past lives, and Ippolita would lean upon his chair to see him paint. At last one day, as summer drew near to its meridian, and the picture, in spite of all dallying, grew and grew hourly towards accomplishment, Ippolita came, and leant after this fashion on Sanazarro’s chair. He could feel her touch upon his shoulder, and her breath stirred his hair as it came and went. A film stood before his eyes, he could paint no longer; and thus they remained for some troubled seconds in silence. Then Sanazarro laid down his palette and brushes, and stood up and turned round to her and took both her hands in his. The sight of her face, white and frightened and expectant, with mild eyes, and a tremulous underlip — the sight of her face was to him as if he had seen the thoughts of his own heart in a mirror. Their mouths joined, with a shudder, in one long kiss. This was the time when Sanazarro should have died. A man should die, when he has saved a life, or finished a great work, or set the first kiss upon his lady’s lips; at one of those short seasons when he feels as if he had attained to the summit of attainment, and had no more to live for. It was Ippolita who came soonest to herself; she plucked her lips away from his, and laid her hand confidently on his shoulder: ‘Now, dear,’ she said, ‘you must go away — You must not see me more — Work, and think sometimes of me; and I shall pray and think of you.’

  After that, the Duchess gave Sanazarro no more sittings. He finished his picture in a week, working at it without rest or intermission, and took leave of the good Abbess, and went forth again into the world with great happiness and sorrow in his heart. As he went down that beautiful reach of valley that was visible from the convent garden, he stopped often to look back. He could see its congregated roofs and the chapel belfry shine in the sunlight among the black pines, under the glaring dusty shoulder of the hill. He looked back into that narrow crevice, and then forth and on where the widening valley showed him many fruitful counties and famous cities and the far-off brightness of the Adriatic beyond all; and he thought how he left his soul behind him in that cleft of the big hills, and how all these kingdoms of the earth that lay outspread below, could offer him nothing that he loved or coveted. It was no wonder if his horse went slowly.

  Duke Orsino had been long ailing; it was months since he had withdrawn from war and gallantry; these months had each brought with them some new token of failing strength, and he had been confined first to the garden, and next to the studio and the great gallery, and then to his own room. For three weeks now he had been bedridden. And just as the splendour and vigour of the life of the Palazzo had declined at first, step by step with his declining health, there began now a sort of contrary movement; and as he grew ever worse, the steps of the religious were more common on the marble staircase, a haunting odour of incense hung about the house, and the work of the new chapel was pushed on with the more energy day by day. A young statuary had come recently from Florence for the greater decoration of the tomb in the south aisle; and the sound of himself and his workmen singing gaily over the clay or the marble, stole through the house and fell often upon my lord’s ear, as he lay, propped upon pillows, thumbing and muttering over his Book of Hours. Among other signs that the Duke’s sands were running low, the Duchess had been recalled from the nunnery where she had lived so many years sequestrated, and the brilliant Isotta had gone forth reluctantly from the Palazzo, followed by a train of dissolute attendants and many brawny porters bearing chests. Orsino was going to make a very reputable end, it appeared, to a not very reputable life. Large sums were given daily to the poor. He was to be reconciled before he died (so went the rumour) to his old enemy Bartolomeo della Scala, whom he had driven out of the town in old years, and who had since crossed him in love and war, and outrivalled him in splendour of living and ostentatious patronage of art.

  Towards the end of January, as Sanazarro (for he was the sculptor) was passing through the vestibule after his day’s work, he was aware of an unusual bustle in the palace, and saw many shaven heads coming and going between the door and the quarter of the house where the Duke’s sick-room was situated. Priests and monks kept passing out and in, by pairs or little companies, talking away to each other with much eagerness and a great show of secrecy. Sanazarro was not used to see so many visitors in this sad house, and stood aside between two pillars to see if there was any end to the thoroughfare. ‘Death must be drawing near,’ he thought to himself, ‘when so many crows are gathered together.’ And yet they all looked merry enough and hopeful; and what he could catch of their talk was not what would be looked for in the mouths of persons leaving a perilous sick bed. Two words occurred so often that he ended by putting them together. If he did not hear ‘miracle,’ he heard ‘tomorrow’; if no one said ‘tomorrow’, some one would say ‘miracle’. It looked as if they expected some wonderful event on the next day; perhaps the restoration of Orsino’s health. And yet he had touched a sight of relics, since first he fell sick, without much benefit; and seen so many doctors, that you would have thought there were no more left in Italy for him to consult.

  At last, there was an end of priests and monks; the palace seemed to have disgorged itself of ecclesiastics; and as no more came from without to take their places, Sanazarro quitted his post of watch and went down the street with that something of a swagger that befitted his beautiful person, his fine clothes, and his growing repute as an artist. ‘A miracle tomorrow!’ he thought to himself, with a little smile. ‘And a very good time for it — unless it were the day after!’

  It was sunset when he got out of the city gate. The day was drawing to a close in a sort of sober splendour, without much colour, but with a wonderful parade of light. The western sky was all one space of clear gold; the eastern sky was tinged with a faint green behind certain purple hills; overhead, a star or two had come forth and were already large and bright. The undulating olive grounds lay about him in blue shadow, and grew darker moment by moment. He sat down by a wayside crucifix, and fell to thinking of many things, and, I dare say, among others, of the nunnery in the hills, and the sloping garden where Ippolita used to walk. He had seen her, that day, and saluted her in silence as usual; for many days these two had lived under the same roof, without the exchange of a word or so much as a look of intelligence. As he thus sat brooding, there was a faint sound far away upon the road, that grew rapidly louder, until Bartolomeo della Scala came up between the olive woods, with many horsemen about him. He stopped as he came alongside of Sanazarro; for the fantastic dress of the sculptor made him easily known even at dusk; and, taking off his hat with ironical courtesy, demanded how it went with his present patron.

  ‘Why, my lord,’ answered Sanazarro, ‘it goes with him even as I would have it go with you, and all other my good friends and patrons. He is like to outstrip us. He will have the choice of rooms before us, my lord, in Paradise.’

  ‘Ay, ay,’ said Bartolomeo, ‘I am overjoyed to hear it, Master Sanazarro. See that he does not outstrip you in yet another way. See that you have the tomb ready for the good man. I would not have him begin the new life in an ill-aired bed. I pray God’ — and here he crossed himself with much appearance of devotion— ‘I pray God, although the time be short, I may yet have a chance of sending some one of his house before him to warm the sheets somewhat.’

  ‘You had best not be over-confident,’ returned Sanazarro; for he was growing irritated. Little as he loved Orsino, he was a better patron than La Scala; and this he knew well, for he had done work for both in his time. ‘You had best not be over-confident. There is a talk of miracles in the palace.’

  ‘Truly,’ returned Bar
tolomeo, ‘I am not afraid of miracles. If God is willing to interfere, so am I. Miracles, Master Sanazarro, are packed nowadays in the holds of ships for Venice, and come over the hills at a horseman’s girdle. Storms may wreck the ship, and then God help the poor miracle at the bottom of the sea. Ay — and strong men can stop the post.’