“He does not lack spirit, your young friend,” she observed.
“No member of that family ever did, I think,” Gouache answered. “They are a remarkable race.”
“And he is the only son?”
“Oh no! He has three younger brothers.”
“Poor fellow! I suppose the fortune is not very large.”
“I have no means of knowing,” replied Gouache indifferently. “Their palace is historic. Their equipages are magnificent. That is all that foreigners see of Roman families.”
“But you know them intimately?”
“Intimately — that is saying too much. I have painted their portraits.”
Madame d’Aragona wondered why he was so reticent, for she knew that he had himself married the daughter of a Roman prince, and she concluded that he must know much of the Romans.
“Do you think he will bring the tiger?” she asked presently.
“He is quite capable of bringing a whole menagerie of tigers for you to choose from.”
“How interesting. I like men who stop at nothing. It was really unpardonable of you to suggest the idea and then to tell me calmly that you had no model for it.”
In the meantime Orsino had descended the stairs and was hailing a passing cab. He debated for a moment what he should do. It chanced that at that time there was actually a collection of wild beasts to be seen in the Prati di Castello, and Orsino supposed that the owner might be induced, for a large consideration, to part with one of his tigers. He even imagined that he might shoot the beast and bring it back in the cab. But, in the first place, he was not provided with an adequate sum of money nor did he know exactly how to lay his hand on so large a sum as might be necessary, at a moment’s notice. He was still under age, and his allowance had not been calculated with a view to his buying menageries. Moreover he considered that even if his pockets had been full of bank notes, the idea was ridiculous, and he was rather ashamed of his youthful impulse. It occurred to him that what was necessary for the picture was not the carcase of the tiger but the skin, and he remembered that such a skin lay on the floor in his father’s private room — the spoil of the animal Giovanni Saracinesca had shot in his youth. It had been well cared for and was a fine specimen.
“Palazzo Saracinesca,” he said to the cabman.
Now it chanced, as such things will chance in the inscrutable ways of fate, that Sant’ Ilario was just then in that very room and busy with his correspondence. Orsino had hoped to carry off what he wanted, without being questioned, in order to save time, but he now found himself obliged to explain his errand.
Sant’ Ilario looked, up in some surprise as his son entered.
“Well, Orsino? Is anything the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing serious, father. I want to borrow your tiger’s skin for Gouache. Will you lend it to me?”
“Of course. But what in the world does Gouache want of it? Is he painting you in skins — the primeval youth of the forest?”
“No — not exactly. The fact is, there is a lady there. Gouache talks of painting her as a modern Omphale, with a tiger’s skin and a cast of Hercules in the background—”
“Hercules wore a lion’s skin — not a tiger’s. He killed the Nemean lion.”
“Did he?” inquired Orsino indifferently. “It is all the same — they do not know it, and they want a tiger. When I left they were debating whether they wanted it alive or dead. I thought of buying one at the Prati di Castello, but it seemed cheaper to borrow the skin of you. May I take it?”
Sant’ Ilario laughed. Orsino rolled up the great hide and carried it to the door.
“Who is the lady, my boy?”
“I never saw her before — a certain Donna Maria d’Aranjuez d’Aragona. I fancy she must be a kind of cousin. Do you know anything about her?”
“I never heard of such a person. Is that her own name?”
“No — she seems to be somebody’s widow.”
“That is definite. What is she like?”
“Passably handsome — yellow eyes, reddish hair, one eye wanders.”
“What an awful picture! Do not fall in love with her, Orsino.”
“No fear of that — but she is amusing, and she wants the tiger.”
“You seem to be in a hurry,” observed Sant’ Ilario, considerably amused.
“Naturally. They are waiting for me.”
“Well, go as fast as you can — never keep a woman waiting. By the way, bring the skin back. I would rather you bought twenty live tigers at the Prati than lose that old thing.”
Orsino promised and was soon in his cab on the way to Gouache’s studio, having the skin rolled up on his knees, the head hanging out on one side and the tail on the other, to the infinite interest of the people in the street. He was just congratulating himself on having wasted so little time in conversation with his father, when the figure of a tall woman walking towards him on the pavement, arrested his attention. His cab must pass close by her, and there was no mistaking his mother at a hundred yards’ distance. She saw him too and made a sign with her parasol for him to stop.
“Good-morning, Orsino,” said the sweet deep voice.
“Good-morning, mother,” he answered, as he descended hat in hand, and kissed the gloved fingers she extended to him.
He could not help thinking, as he looked at her, that she was infinitely more beautiful even now than Madame d’Aragona. As for Corona, it seemed to her that there was no man on earth to compare with her eldest son, except Giovanni himself, and there all comparison ceased. Their eyes met affectionately and it would have been, hard to say which was the more proud of the other, the son of his mother, or the mother of her son. Nevertheless Orsino was in a hurry. Anticipating all questions he told her in as few words as possible the nature of his errand, the object of the tiger’s skin, and the name of the lady who was sitting to Gouache.
“It is strange,” said Corona. “I have never heard your father speak of her.”
“He has never heard of her either. He just told me so.”
“I have almost enough curiosity to get into your cab and go with you.”
“Do, mother.” There was not much enthusiasm in the answer.
Corona looked at him, smiled, and shook her head.
“Foolish boy! Did you think I was in earnest? I should only spoil your amusement in the studio, and the lady would see that I had come to inspect her. Two good reasons — but the first is the better, dear. Go — do not keep them waiting.”
“Will you not take my cab? I can get another.”
“No. I am in no hurry. Good-bye.”
And nodding to him with an affectionate smile, Corona passed on, leaving Orsino free at last to carry the skin to its destination.
When he entered the studio he found Madame d’Aragona absorbed in the contemplation of a piece of old tapestry which hung opposite to her, while Gouache was drawing in a tiny Hercules, high up in the right hand corner of the picture, as he had proposed. The conversation seemed to have languished, and Orsino was immediately conscious that the atmosphere had changed since he had left. He unrolled the skin as he entered, and Madame d’Aragona looked at it critically. She saw that the tawny colours would become her in the portrait and her expression grew more animated.
“It is really very good of you,” she said, with a grateful glance.
“I have a disappointment in store for you,” answered Orsino. “My father says that Hercules wore a lion’s skin. He is quite right, I remember all about it.”
“Of course,” said Gouache. “How could we make such a mistake!”
He dropped the bit of chalk he held and looked at Madame d’Aragona.
“What difference does it make?” asked the latter. “A lion — a tiger! I am sure they are very much alike.”
“After all, it is a tiresome idea,” said the painter. “You will be much better in the damask cloak. Besides, with the lion’s skin you should have the club — imagine a club in your hands! And Hercules sh
ould be spinning at your feet — a man in a black coat and a high collar, with a distaff! It is an absurd idea.”
“You should not call my ideas absurd and tiresome. It is not civil.”
“I thought it had been mine,” observed Gouache.
“Not at all. I thought of it — it was quite original.”
Gouache laughed a little and looked at Orsino as though asking his opinion.
“Madame is right,” said the latter. “She suggested the whole idea — by having yellow eyes.”
“You see, Gouache. I told you so. The Prince takes my view. What will you do?”
“Whatever you command—”
“But I do not want to be ridiculous—”
“I do not see—”
“And yet I must have the tiger.”
“I am ready.”
“Doubtless — but you must think of another subject, with a tiger in it.”
“Nothing easier. Noble Roman damsel — Colosseum — tiger about to spring — rose—”
“Just heaven! What an old story! Besides, I have not the type.”
“The ‘Mysteries of Dionysus,’” suggested Gouache. “Thyrsus, leopard’s skin—”
“A Bacchante! Fie, Monsieur — and then, the leopard, when we only have a tiger.”
“Indian princess interviewed by a man-eater — jungle — new moon — tropical vegetation—”
“You can think of nothing but subjects for a dark type,” said Madame d’Aragona impatiently.
“The fact is, in countries where the tiger walks abroad, the women are generally brunettes.”
“I hate facts. You who are enthusiastic, can you not help us?” She turned to Orsino.
“Am I enthusiastic?”
“Yes, I am sure of it. Think of something.”
Orsino was not pleased. He would have preferred to be thought cold and impassive.
“What can I say? The first idea was the best. Get a lion instead of a tiger — nothing is simpler.”
“For my part I prefer the damask cloak and the original picture,” said Gouache with decision. “All this mythology is too complicated — too Pompeian — how shall I say? Besides there is no distinct allusion. A Hercules on a bracket — anybody may have that. If you were the Marchessa di San Giacinto, for instance — oh, then everyone would laugh.”
“Why? What is that?”
“She married my cousin,” said Orsino. “He is an enormous giant, and they say that she has tamed him.”
“Ah no! That would not do. Something else, please.”
Orsino involuntarily thought of a sphynx as he looked at the massive brow, the yellow, sleepy eyes, and the heavy mouth. He wondered how the late Aranjuez had lived and what death he had died.
He offered the suggestion.
“It would be appropriate,” replied Madame d’Aragona. “The Sphynx in the Desert. Rome is a desert to me.”
“It only depends on you—” Orsino began.
“Oh, of course! To make acquaintances, to show myself a little everywhere — it is simple enough. But it wearies me — until one is caught up in the machinery, a toothed wheel going round with the rest, one only bores oneself, and I may leave so soon. Decidedly it is not worth the trouble. Is it?”
She turned her eyes to Orsino as though asking his advice. Orsino laughed.
“How can you ask that question!” he exclaimed. “Only let the trouble be ours.”
“Ah! I said you were enthusiastic.” She shook her head, and rose from her seat. “It is time for me to go. We have done nothing this morning, and it is all your fault, Prince.”
“I am distressed — I will not intrude upon your next sitting.”
“Oh — as far as that is concerned—” She did not finish the sentence, but took up the neglected tiger’s skin from the chair on which it lay.
She threw it over her shoulders, bringing the grinning head over her hair and holding the forepaws in her pointed white fingers. She came very near to Gouache and looked into his eyes, her closed lips smiling.
“Admirable!” exclaimed Gouache. “It is impossible to tell where the woman ends and the tiger begins. Let me draw you like that.”
“Oh no! Not for anything in the world.”
She turned away quickly and dropped the skin from her shoulders.
“You will not stay a little longer? You will not let me try?” Gouache seemed disappointed.
“Impossible,” she answered, putting on her hat and beginning to arrange her veil before a mirror.
Orsino watched her as she stood, her arms uplifted, in an attitude which is almost always graceful, even for an otherwise ungraceful woman. Madame d’Aragona was perhaps a little too short, but she was justly proportioned and appeared to be rather slight, though the tight-fitting sleeves of her frock betrayed a remarkably well turned arm. Not seeing her face, one might not have singled her out of many as a very striking woman, for she had neither the stateliness of Orsino’s mother, nor the enchanting grace which distinguished Gouache’s wife. But no one could look into her eyes without feeling that she was very far from being an ordinary woman.
“Quite impossible,” she repeated, as she tucked in the ends of her veil and then turned upon the two men. “The next sitting? Whenever you like — to-morrow — the day after — name the time.”
“When to-morrow is possible, there is no choice,” said Gouache, “unless you will come again to-day.”
“To-morrow, then, good-bye.” She held out her hand.
“There are sketches on each of my fingers, Madame — principally, of tigers.”
“Good-bye then — consider your hand shaken. Are you going, Prince?”
Orsino had taken his hat and was standing beside her.
“You will allow me to put you into your carriage.”
“I shall walk.”
“So much the better. Good-bye, Monsieur Gouache.”
“Why say, Monsieur?”
“As you like — you are older than I.”
“I? Who has told you that legend? It is only a myth. When you are sixty years old, I shall still be five-and-twenty.”
“And I?” enquired Madame d’Aragona, who was still young enough to laugh at age.
“As old as you were yesterday, not a day older.”
“Why not say to-day?”
“Because to-day has a to-morrow — yesterday has none.”
“You are delicious, my dear Gouache. Good-bye.”
Madame d’Aragona went out with Orsino, and they descended the broad staircase together. Orsino was not sure whether he might not be showing too much anxiety to remain in the company of his new acquaintance, and as he realised how unpleasant it would be to sacrifice the walk with her, he endeavoured to excuse to himself his derogation from his self-imposed character of cool superiority and indifference. She was very amusing, he said to himself, and he had nothing in the world to do. He never had anything to do, since his education had been completed. Why should he not walk with Madame d’Aragona and talk to her? It would be better than hanging about the club or reading a novel at home. The hounds did not meet on that day, or he would not have been at Gouache’s at all. But they were to meet to-morrow, and he would therefore not see Madame d’Aragona.
“Gouache is an old friend of yours, I suppose,” observed the lady.
“He was a friend of my father’s. He is almost a Roman. He married a distant connection of mine, Donna Faustina Montevarchi.”
“Ah yes — I have heard. He is a man of immense genius.”
“He is a man I envy with all my heart,” said Orsino.
“You envy Gouache? I should not have thought—”
“No? Ah, Madame, to me a man who has a career, a profession, an interest, is a god.”
“I like that,” answered Madame d’Aragona. “But it seems to me you have your choice. You have the world before you. Write your name upon it. You do not lack enthusiasm. Is it the inspiration that you need?”
“Perhaps,” said Orsino glancing m
eaningly at her as she looked at him.
“That is not new,” thought she, “but he is charming, all the same. They say,” she added aloud, “that genius finds inspiration everywhere.”
“Alas, I am not a genius. What I ask is an occupation, and permanent interest. The thing is impossible, but I am not resigned.”
“Before thirty everything is possible,” said Madame d’Aragona. She knew that the mere mention of so mature an age would be flattering to such a boy.
“The objections are insurmountable,” replied Orsino.
“What objections? Remember that I do not know Rome, nor the Romans.”
“We are petrified in traditions. Spicca said the other day that there was but one hope for us. The Americans may yet discover Italy, as we once discovered America.”
Madame d’Aragona smiled.
“Who is Spicca?” she enquired, with a lazy glance at her companion’s face.
“Spicca? Surely you have heard of him. He used to be a famous duellist. He is our great wit. My father likes him very much — he is an odd character.”
“There will be all the more credit in succeeding, if you have to break through a barrier of tradition and prejudice,” said Madame d’Aragona, reverting rather abruptly to the first subject.
“You do not know what that means.” Orsino shook his head incredulously. “You have never tried it.”
“No. How could a woman be placed in such a position?”
“That is just it. You cannot understand me.”
“That does not follow. Women often understand men — men they love or detest — better than men themselves.”
“Do you love me, Madame?” asked Orsino with a smile.
“I have just made your acquaintance,” laughed Madame d’Aragona. “It is a little too soon.”
“But then, according to you, if you understand me, you detest me.”
“Well? If I do?” She was still laughing.
“Then I ought to disappear, I suppose.”
“You do not understand women. Anything is better than indifference. When you see that you are disliked, then refuse to go away. It is the very moment to remain. Do not submit to dislike. Revenge yourself.”
“I will try,” said Orsino, considerably amused.
“Upon me?”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 535