The Hound of Florence

by Felix Salten

  Staggering slightly, Pointner also dashed out into the courtyard, blustering and shouting orders. But the dog only gamboled the more wildly over the warm, dazzling white gravel, circling round Pointner at a respectful distance, and barking so lustily that he drowned every other sound. Pointner roared and raved; the two might almost have been carrying on an argument. The dog’s bark sounded now like a note of jubilation, now like a cry of hatred, and yet again as though he were heaping reproaches on the head of the infuriated man. The young groom was holding his sides with laughter.

  Everything seemed to be in festive mood. Spacious flowering gardens enclosed the bright courtyard on every side, the sky, a deep azure, shimmered in the flaming rays of the sun, while at the windows of the Palace heads could be seen popping in and out, calling, laughing and chattering. The broad marble steps, which were so shallow that to ascend them felt more like floating through air than climbing, were thronged with gaily dressed people. The dog swept joyously up and down the steps, now stopping and waiting for Pointner, as though asking him “Whither?” then running back as much as to say, “Faster please!” or “What are you waiting for?” Whereupon in a couple of mighty bounds he would leap the stairs gracefully again. Seeing the crowds about, Pointner suspended hostilities, and as the dog sprang past, more than one hand was stretched out to pat the lively creature.

  He dashed gaily into the great hall, the door of which Pointner had opened. It was a stately apartment; huge, brightly colored pictures adorned its walls, while through many a lofty window the sun poured in at a sharp angle, gilding the floor with broad golden beams of light. Here a throng of people stood solemnly congregated, and the dog, pushing his way unceremoniously through them, was obliged to turn and look about him to find his master. The latter, in a pale blue, gold-­embroidered uniform, was standing by a stately personage in purple velvet, surrounded by a circle of ladies. Some of the company drew aside as the dog made his way between them; there was a rustle of silk dresses and a little girl standing near the Archduke shrieked with fright. But as soon as the dog saw the child, he dropped to the floor and lay motionless.

  “That’s Cambyses, my traveling companion,” said the Archduke with a laugh. “See, Elizabeth, he’s quite tame.”

  The little girl began to smile timidly at the dog who still lay stretched on the ground, wagging his tail furiously. The whole company laughed.

  “Well, Elizabeth,” continued the Archduke, bending over the child and the dog, “shall we stroke him a little? He certainly does not deserve it, do you, Cambyses? He’s constantly running away, or disappearing, and no one can find him anywhere. But he always comes back.”

  And he patted the dog’s sides, while the little girl bent down timidly and stroked his back with the tips of her fingers. Cambyses kept quite still until the child had recovered from her fright. Then he got up gently, gazed long and intently at the pretty little fair-haired girl, and a moment later the two began to play together and were still doing so when the company went in to dinner. The guests had long ceased to pay any attention to them.

  Throughout the banquet strains of music mingled with the clinking of vessels and the buzz of voices. At last the Grand Duke and His Imperial Highness rose from the table, followed by the rest of the company, and the day’s festivities continued. The procession descended the stairs in regular order, like a bright-­colored gleaming wave rolling downward in a shimmer of gold and sparkling jewels. In the courtyard state coaches were standing in readiness, and each one, as it slowly bowled away with its occupants, was escorted by a troop of magnificent bodyguards. As usual the dog ran by the side of the Archduke’s carriage.

  As they left the dark narrow streets, in which the clatter of the horses’ hooves and the rattle of the wheels had been deafening, and suddenly emerged into a blaze of light, air and sunshine, amid gleaming white houses, the air was full of the murmur of voices. Crowds of people were massed beyond the trotting fence of bodyguards. A thousand waving arms formed a tangled lattice-work of limbs, while a thousand throats roared forth a torrent of cheers. It was like a living hedge, swayed hither and thither by a storm, laughing and roaring its greeting. Ever and anon the cheering would die down for a moment and a shrill, lonely voice be heard shouting alone, to be drowned immediately in the general tumult that quickly broke out afresh. The procession advanced slowly downhill, and on reaching the Arno, which gleamed like an emerald between its silvery banks, pressed on laboriously across the wonderful Ponte Vecchio and through the narrow alleys between the houses, until, on passing down a short street, it entered the square where stood the Town Hall with its tower, its battlements and traverses. Above the faces of the swarming crowd the marble head of the David gleamed white and majestic.

  The Archduke’s carriage pulled up immediately in front of the statue which marked the entrance to the Town Hall. The bodyguards who were keeping the crowd back and the gentlemen in gorgeous uniforms who advanced toward the carriage to welcome the Archduke had now neither the time nor the inclination to take any notice of Cambyses. Had they been able to watch him, they might have had cause to feel surprised or possibly amused. The dog was struggling to raise his eyes to the statue, though some invisible power was drawing his nose to the ground. Twice, thrice he tried to gaze up at the marble monument, but each time the irresistible force exercised by all manner of scents drew his nose down to the plinth. Obliged at last to yield to the impulse, he sniffed quickly and uneasily round the sides of the base, turned in anguish this way and that, but could not tear himself away. At last, cocking his leg up against the statue, he gazed in front of him with bowed head and clouded eyes, full of dumb agony.

  • • •

  Lucas paused on the threshold of Bandini’s house.

  The artist’s studios were on the ramparts close to the city gates from which the road to Fiesole led out. Lucas had had no difficulty in finding the place, for everybody knew Cesare Bandini. As soon as he pronounced the name a smile suffused the faces of those he questioned, and their eyes shone more brightly as they showed him the way. Thither he had gone in a spirit of the deepest reverence, lofty expectation and excitement which his joy and bashfulness made all the greater.

  As he wandered through the city, hesitating and then hurrying on again, the very houses and Palaces seemed to be speaking to him, the statues, churches, gleaming marble towers and even the heavens addressed him, as did also the kindly sun and the people in the streets, cheerful, proud and graceful, guileless in their merry laughter and song. They all gave him the impression of being glad to be alive, glad to be at work; their very faces filled him with courage. His heart glowed every time he asked one of them the way to Cesare Bandini’s house. The cheerful readiness with which they replied, the easy dignity of their bearing, the proud carriage of their heads, and the noble sincerity and courtesy of their smiling faces inspired him with a sense of power. And now as he stood at the entrance to Bandini’s house, feeling both strong and brave, it seemed to him that he was on the threshold of a new and better life.

  And lo! what was the first sight to catch his eye, but a group of three children on the grass, with arms uplifted holding a large shell above their heads. They were three boys between eight and ten years of age, with sturdy little brown bodies, on the pulsating flesh of which the verdant shadows of the trees kept up a constant play of light and shade. Ever and anon they would lower the shell; but only for a moment, and then they would raise it again in a slightly different pose, dancing, standing still, dancing again. A small gathering of young men were sitting on low stools on the grass round the lively group, drawing and modelling, or calling to the little boys and joking with them. One of them, catching sight of Lucas standing in the hall, sprang to his feet and hastened over to him.

  “What is it you want?” he asked.

  “I want to see Maestro Cesare Bandini,” replied Lucas. He had uttered the words many times that morning but this time they had an anxious, re
solute ring which implied that he refused to be turned away.

  The young man smiled. He was a handsome youth with slender shoulders and thin, hollow cheeks; his pale brow rose in a noble curve to the black waves of hair, his eyes looked gentle and thoughtful, and the smile on his fresh lips was kindly. His smile was provoked by the anxious, defiant tone in Lucas’s reply, and was intended to reassure him. He did not answer at once, and so Lucas began again. “I should like to. . . .”

  “Important?” interrupted the young man. Lucas merely closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows.

  “Over there!” The young man pointed to a long straggling shed, built along one side of the garden. It had several large windows looking out on to the lawn.

  Lucas and his companion crossed the courtyard, passing through a medley of broken statues, busts, blocks of stone, heaps of scrap iron, old vases and paint pots. He would have liked to run but did not dare. They entered the garden where the naked children were now running about as they pleased. The other students only cast a fleeting glance at Lucas as he passed, and went on with their work. One or two of them were singing or whistling softly to themselves.

  Lucas screwed up all his courage.

  “Are you one of Bandini’s pupils?” he enquired of his guide.

  “I am Filippo Volta, the painter,” the young man replied with a friendly smile.

  By this time they had reached a glass door. “Just go in and keep quiet,” said Filippo. “Don’t attempt to say good-day or anything else. He doesn’t like that sort of thing when he’s at work. Just wait and say nothing. He’ll speak to you all in good time.”

  Hardly daring to breathe, Lucas gave a silent nod. With a smile Filippo Volta left him and returned to his place.

  Almost blind with excitement, Lucas entered. He stood still close to the door, gasping for breath and casting a quick nervous glance round the long whitewashed room with its black rafters overhead. It took him some time to distinguish what was before him. Along the walls he saw picture after picture, framed and unframed, depicting in luminous colors every aspect of the human form. Female figures stood out in dazzling beauty, posing majestically, with upraised arms, sinuous hips, voluptuous shoulders, haughtily arched necks and firmly rounded breasts. There too were men and youths full of health and strength, in crested helmets and gleaming golden armor; while landscapes with verdant trees, rocky hills, green stretches of water, and deep blue skies invited the eye. Between them, hanging by themselves in their frames, were the portraits of grave and haughty nobles in their velvet court dresses with orders on their breasts, queenly women resplendent in pearls and brocade, gazing out on the spectator with expressions stern or gentle. Lucas noticed that one of the walls was hung with a woven Flemish tapestry representing figures on a background of thick foliage, while scattered between the screens and easels that stood about were bronze statues, white marble busts, carved wooden figures painted in rich colors with gilt cloaks and crowns, such as had recently begun to appear in the churches. His eye also fell on wonderful cabinets, carved chairs upholstered in Genoese velvet, helmets and armor.

  As he stood silently at the door, Lucas’s serenity and courage began to ebb. But he gradually recovered sufficient composure to examine the inmates of the room. He heard them talking to one another in short, broken sentences, without looking up from their work. But he was still too frightened to understand the sense of the words that fell in a confused jumble on his ear.

  His attention was first attracted by a man close by him working at a turn-table. He was a short, bull-necked fellow with a ferocious expression, was modelling a group with wild infuriated movements of his hands. Nor far from him, seated in a luxurious armchair, was a man who appeared to be quite old, calmly working on a small picture. Lucas was surprised to see that he was wearing the tunic of an officer, with a captain’s sash about his portly waist. His eager face was framed in a wealth of snow-white hair like flames of silver, while his bright red cheeks gave him an appearance of youthful exuberance. Beneath his large, aquiline nose was a thick white mustache; his full, voluptuous, red lips met in a pronounced pout. Lucas could see that the old man was working on a smooth, highly finished picture of a Madonna and that he was painting with calm but passionate absorption. His white mop of hair seemed to stand ever more and more on end with the efforts he was making, while his flushed brow burned like a furnace. He breathed loudly and heavily and from time to time would lean straight back, sit perfectly still, and give vent to a deep, almost inaudible groan. Occasionally, as he bent forward again to put another touch on the picture with his finely pointed brushes, he would sing under his breath in a pleasant, melodious voice; then he would stop and bury himself once more in his work, his breath coming short and fast like a swimmer struggling against the waves.

  At last Lucas allowed his eyes to wander further into the room to catch a glimpse of Cesare Bandini. He knew at once that he was the Maestro. He was working at a picture which Lucas could not see, as it stood at too wide an angle. To see it, he would have had to step aside, and this he did not venture to do. Besides, for the moment it was sufficient to see Cesare Bandini before his very eyes. He stood there gazing at him, admiring him, already ardently drawn to him. He was painting without taking his eyes off his picture.

  “Water!” cried the short, bull-necked man at the turn-table. It was the first word that Lucas not merely heard but also understood. A handsome little boy dashed forward, with fair, curly locks and cheeks as fat as a cherub’s, dressed in a dirty smock bespattered with grease spots and blobs of paint. Creeping behind Cesare Bandini, he moved one or two paint-pots out of the way, removed a dripping sponge from the pail he carried and carefully moistened the clay.

  “Is your Archduke a handsome fellow?” asked the short, bull-necked man meanwhile, addressing nobody in particular.

  “I don’t know,” replied Bandini after a moment’s silence, his voice ringing out like a bright melody.

  “Is he coming soon?” growled the other.

  “I don’t know,” chanted Bandini once more.

  The thick-set man was working at his clay again with the same ferocity as before. “Is he really coming here today?” he asked almost angrily.

  Bandini went on painting. “Ye-es!” he replied in his deep sing-song voice.

  “Ye-es!” echoed the fair, curly-headed boy, two octaves higher, as he busied himself with some task at the back of the studio.

  The fat officer leaned back in his armchair. “Haven’t you seen him, Pietro?” he asked the bull-necked man in a firm, youthful voice.

  “Whom?”

  “Why, the Archduke you were just enquiring about?”

  “No!”

  “I saw him at the Palace.”

  “Is he good-looking?”

  “Why should he be good-looking?” said the fat officer, breathing heavily.

  “Why—he’s an Imperial Prince—and young—” replied Pietro, in broken snatches, absorbed in his modelling.

  Not a muscle of the fat officer’s face moved. “He looks like all the others,” he said.

  “What others?”

  “The other princes of his House, of course.”

  “I don’t know them,” exclaimed Pietro peevishly.

  “I know them all,” was the calm rejoinder.

  And breathing heavily, he leaned forward to paint.

  The silence that ensued was broken by Cesare Bandini suddenly exclaiming, “And what do you want?”

  But as he did not look up from his work, Lucas did not know that the words were addressed to him. All he noticed was that the fat officer stared at him and nodded twice. He stood there not knowing what to do until the officer raised his hand and pointed his brush at Bandini.

  Pulling himself together Lucas stepped closer to the Maestro, picking his way carefully on tip-toe through the narrow openings between the easels, turn-tables, furniture an
d stools. When he was within a couple of paces of Bandini, he stopped. The Maestro did not turn round but went on painting.

  “What do you want?” he asked after a while.

  “I want to learn,” murmured Lucas at the black brocade of the painter’s back.

  “What’s your name?” enquired Bandini after another pause.

  “Lucas Grassi.”

  “Was the stone-carver, Lucas Grassi, your father then?” asked Bandini immediately. He spoke slowly, but his speech sounded hesitating only because he was intent on his work.

  “Yes,” Lucas replied to the back.

  “Dead?” enquired Bandini in lower tones.

  “Yes,” said Lucas even more softly.

  “What made you come to me?”

  “Agostino Cassano told me that I ought to come to you.”

  At the mention of Agostino’s name Bandini gave a merry laugh and turned round. He was a tall man with a powerful, refined face, the ivory skin of his handsome features standing out from the sharp edge of his dark beard. Lucas noticed his rich black locks, streaked here and there with gray, surmounting a finely curved, eloquent brow. He saw two brown eyes alight with vital energy, kindness and genius gazing at him, and heard the generous lips asking him with a smile of amusement: “Oh, Agostino Cassano—the dear old fool—how is he getting on?”

  “He was your pupil—he is hard at work—he’s getting on all right,” replied Lucas eagerly.

  He no longer felt embarrassed. He was carried away. The love, the first spark of which had been kindled a moment ago, now flared up into a flame of passion for the man who stood calm and majestic before him, friendly yet full of dignity, radiating the power of a great will.