“God and the devil,” suggested Francesca, simply.
“Body and soul would do, I suppose. The one is always in slavery to the other. The result is a sinner or a saint, as the case may be. One never can tell,” he added more carelessly. “I am not sure that it matters. But one can see it. The battle is fought in the face.”
“I do not understand. What battle?”
“The battle between body and soul. The face tells which way the fight is going.”
She looked at his own, and she felt that she could not tell. But to a certain extent she understood him.
“Griggs is full of theories,” observed Dalrymple. “Gloria, come down!” he cried in English, suddenly.
Gloria, intent upon understanding how fresco-painting was done, was boldly mounting the steps of the ladder towards the top of the little scaffolding, which might have been fourteen feet high. For the vault had long been finished, and Reanda was painting the walls.
“Nonsense, papa!” answered the young girl, also in English. “There’s no danger at all.”
“Well — don’t break your neck,” said Dalrymple. “I wish you would come down, though.”
Francesca was surprised at his indifference, and at his daughter’s calm disregard of his authority. Timid, too, as most Italian women of higher rank, she watched the girl nervously. Griggs raised his eyes without lifting his head.
“Gloria is rather wild,” said Dalrymple, in a sort of apology. “I hope you will forgive her — she is so much interested.”
“Oh — if she wishes to see, let her go, of course,” answered Francesca, concealing a little nervous irritation she felt.
A moment later Gloria and Reanda were on the small platform, on one side of which only there was a hand rail. It had been made for him, and his head was steady even at a much greater elevation. He was pointing out to her the way in which the colours slowly changed as the stucco dried from day to day, and explaining how it was impossible to see the effect of what was done until all was completely dry. The others continued to talk below, but Griggs glanced up from time to time, and Francesca’s eyes followed his. Dalrymple had become indifferent, allowing his daughter to do what she pleased, as usual.
When Gloria had seen all she wished to see, she turned with a quick movement to come down again, and on turning, she found herself much nearer to the edge than she had expected. She was bending forwards a little, and Griggs saw at once that she must lose her balance, unless Reanda caught her from behind. But she made no sound, and turned very white as she swayed a little, trying to throw herself back.
With a swift movement that was gentle but irresistible, Griggs pushed Francesca back, keeping his eyes on the girl above. It all happened in an instant.
“Jump!” he cried, in a voice of command.
She had felt that she must spring or fall, and her body was already overbalanced as she threw herself off, instinctively gathering her skirt with her hands. Dalrymple turned as pale as she. If she struck the bare brick floor, she could scarcely escape serious injury. But she did not reach it, for Paul Griggs caught her in his arms, swayed with her weight, then stood as steady as a rock, and set her gently upon her feet, beside her father.
“Maria Santissima!” cried Francesca, terrified, though instantly relieved, and dimly understanding the stupendous feat of bodily strength which had just been done before her eyes.
Above, Reanda leaned upon the single rail of the scaffolding with wide-staring eyes. Gloria was faint with the shock of fear, and grasped her father’s arm.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” he said roughly, in English, but in a low voice. “You probably owe your life to Mr. Griggs,” he added, immediately regaining his self-possession.
Griggs alone seemed wholly unmoved by what had happened. Gloria had held one of her gloves loosely in her hand, and it had fallen to the ground as she sprang. He picked it up and handed it to her with a curious gentleness.
“It must be yours, Miss Dalrymple,” he said.
CHAPTER XX.
IT WAS LATE before Reanda and Donna Francesca were alone together on that afternoon. When the first surprise and shock of Gloria’s accident had passed, Francesca would not allow Dalrymple to take her away at once, as he seemed anxious to do. The girl was not in the least hurt, but she was still dazed and frightened. Francesca took them all back to the drawing-room and insisted upon giving them tea, because they were foreigners, and Gloria, she said, must naturally need something to restore her nerves. Roman tea, thirty years ago, was a strange and uncertain beverage, as both Gloria and her father knew, but they drank what Francesca gave them, and at last went away with many apologies for the disturbance they had made. To tell the truth, Francesca was glad when they were gone and she was at liberty to return to the hall where Reanda was still at work. She found him nervous and irritated. He came down from the scaffolding as soon as he heard her open the door. Neither spoke until she had seated herself in her accustomed chair, with a very frank sigh of relief.
“I am very grateful to you, Donna Francesca,” said Reanda, twisting his beard round his long, thin fingers, as he glanced at her and then surveyed his work.
“It was your fault,” she answered, tapping the worm-eaten arms of the old chair with both her white hands, for she herself was still annoyed and irritated. “Do not make me responsible for the girl’s folly.”
“Responsibility! May that never be!” exclaimed the artist, in the common Italian phrase, but with a little irony. “But as for the responsibility, I do not know whose it was. It was certainly not I who invited the young lady to go up the ladder.”
“Well, it was her fault. Besides, the absent are always wrong. But she is handsome, is she not?”
Reanda shrugged his thin shoulders, and looked critically at his hands, which were smeared with paint.
“Very handsome,” he said indifferently. “But it is a beauty that says nothing to me. One must be young to like that kind of beauty. She is a beautiful storm, that young lady. For one who seeks peace—” He shrugged his shoulders again. “And then, her manners! I do not understand English, but I know that her father was telling her to come down, and yet she went up. I do not know what education these foreigners have. Instruction, yes, as much as you please; but education, no. They have no more than barbarians. The father says, ‘You must not do that.’ And the daughter does it. What education is that? Of course, if they were friends of yours, I should not say it.”
“Nevertheless that girl is very handsome,” insisted Francesca. “She has the Venetian colouring. Titian would have painted her just as she is, without changing anything.”
“Beauty, beauty!” exclaimed Reanda, impatiently. “Of course, it is beauty! Food for the brush, that says nothing to the heart. The devil can also take the shape of a beautiful woman. That is it. There is something in that young lady’s face — how shall I say? It pleases me — little! You must forgive me, princess. My nerves are shaken. Divine goodness! To see a young girl flying through the air like Simon Magus! It was enough!”
Francesca laughed gently. Reanda shook his head with slow disapprobation, and frowned.
“I say the truth,” he said. “There is something — I cannot explain. But I can show you,” he added quickly.
He took up his palette and brushes from the chair on which they lay, and reached the white plastered wall in two steps.
“Paint her,” said Francesca, to encourage him.
“Yes, I will show her to you — as I think she is,” he answered.
He closed his eyes for a moment, calling up the image before him, then went back to the chair and took a quantity of colour from a tube which lay, with half-a-dozen others, in the hollow of the rush seat. They were not the colours he used for fresco-painting, but had been left there when he had made a sketch of a head two or three days previously. In a moment he was before the wall again. It was roughly plastered from the floor to the lower line of the frescoes. With a long, coarse brush he began to sketch a g
igantic head of a woman. The oil paint lay well on the rough, dry surface. He worked in great strokes at the full length of his arm.
“Make her beautiful, at least,” said Francesca, watching him.
“Oh, yes — very beautiful,” he answered.
He worked rapidly for a few minutes, smiling, as his hand moved, but not pleasantly. Francesca thought there was an evil look in his face which she had never seen there before, and that his smile was wicked and spiteful.
“But you are painting a sunset!” she cried suddenly.
“A sunset? That is her hair. It is red, and she has much of it. Wait a little.”
And he went on. It was certainly something like a sunset, the bright, waving streamers of the clouds flying far to right and left, and blending away to the neutral tint of the dry plaster as though to a grey sky.
“Yes, but it is still a sunset,” said Francesca. “I have seen it like that from the Campagna in winter.”
“She is not ‘Gloria’ for nothing,” answered Reanda. “I am making her glorious. You shall see.”
Suddenly, with another tone, he brought out the main features of the striking face, by throwing in strong shadows from the flaming hair. Francesca became more interested. The head was colossal, extraordinary, almost unearthly; the expression was strange.
“What a monster!” exclaimed Francesca at last, as he stood aside, still touching the enormous sketch here and there with his long brush, at arm’s length. “It is terrible,” she added, in a lower tone.
“Truth is always terrible,” answered Reanda. “But you cannot say that it is not like her.”
“Horribly like. It is diabolical!”
“And yet it is a beautiful head,” said the artist. “Perhaps you are too near.” He himself crossed the hall, and then turned round to look at his work. “It is better from here,” he said. “Will you come?”
She went to his side. The huge face and wildly streaming hair stood out as though in three dimensions from the wall. The great, strong mouth smiled at her with a smile that was at once evil and sad and fatal. The strange eyes looked her through and through from beneath the vast brow.
“It is diabolical, satanical!” she responded, under her breath.
Reanda still smiled wickedly and watched her. The face seemed to grow and grow till it filled the whole range of vision. The dark eyes flashed; the lips trembled; the flaming hair quivered and waved and curled up like snakes that darted hither and thither. Yet it was horribly like Gloria, and the fresh, rich oil colours gave it her startling and vivid brilliancy.
It was the sudden and enormous expression of a man of genius, strung and stung, till irritation had to find its explosion through the one art of which he was absolute master — in a fearful caricature exaggerating beauty itself to the bounds of the devilish.
“I cannot bear it!” cried Francesca.
She snatched the big brush from his hand, and, running lightly across the room, dashed the colour left in it across the face in all directions, over the eyes and the mouth, and through the long red hair. In ten seconds nothing remained but confused daubs and splashes of brilliant paint.
“There!” cried Francesca. “And I wish I had never seen it!”
Still holding the brush in her hand, she turned her back to the obliterated sketch and faced Reanda, with a look of girlish defiance and satisfaction. His face was grave now, but he seemed pleased with what he had done.
“It makes no difference,” he said. “You will never forget it.”
He felt that he was revenged for the smile she had bestowed upon his apparent surprise at Gloria’s beauty, when she had followed the girl into the hall, and had seen him start. He could not conceal his triumph.
“That is the young lady whom you thought I might wish to marry,” he said. “You know me little after so many years, Donna Francesca. You have bestowed much kindness upon a man whom you do not know.”
“My dear Reanda, who can understand you? But as for kindness, do not let me hear the word between you and me. It has no meaning. We are always good friends, as we were when I was a little girl and used to play with your paints. You have given me far more than I can ever repay you for, in your works. I do not flatter you, my friend. Cupid and Psyche, there in your frescoes, will outlive me and be famous when I am forgotten — yet they are mine, are they not? And you gave them to me.”
The sweet young face turned to him with an unaffected, grateful smile. His sad features softened all at once.
“Ah, Donna Francesca,” he said gently, “you have given me something better than Cupid and Psyche, for your gift will live forever in heaven.”
She looked thoughtfully into his eyes, but with a sort of question in her own.
“Your dear friendship,” he added, bending his head a little. Then he laughed suddenly. “Do not give me a wife,” he concluded.
“And you, Reanda — do not make wicked caricatures of women you have only seen once! Besides, I go back to it again. I saw you start when she passed you at the door. You were surprised at her beauty. You must admit that. And then, because you are irritated with her, you take a brush and daub that monstrous thing upon the wall! It is a shame!”
“I started, yes. It was not because she struck me as beautiful. It was something much more strange. Do you know? She is the very portrait of Donna Maria, who was in the Carmelite convent at Subiaco, and who was burned to death. I have often told you that I remembered having seen her when I was a boy, both at Gerano and at the Palazzo Braccio, before she took the veil. There is a little difference in the colouring, I think, and much in the expression. But the rest — it is the image!”
Francesca, who could not remember her ill-fated kinswoman, was not much impressed by Reanda’s statement.
“It makes your caricature all the worse,” she answered, “since it was also a caricature of that holy woman. As for the resemblance, after all these years, it is a mere impression. Who knows? It may be. There is no portrait of Sister Maria Addolorata.”
“Oh, but I remember well!” insisted Reanda.
“Well, it concludes nothing, after all,” returned Francesca, with much logic. “It does not make a fiend of the poor nun, who is an angel by this time, and it does not make Miss Dalrymple less beautiful. And now, Signor Painter,” she added, with another girlish laugh, “if we have quarrelled enough to restore your nerves, I am going out. It is almost dark, and I have to go to the Austrian Embassy before dinner, and the carriage has been waiting for an hour.”
“You, princess!” exclaimed Reanda, in surprise; for she had not begun to go into the world yet since her husband’s death.
“It is not a reception. We are to meet there about arranging another of those charity concerts for the deaf and dumb.”
“I might have known,” answered the painter. “As for me, I shall go to the theatre to-night. There is the Trovatore.”
“That is a new thing for you, too. But I am glad. Amuse yourself, and tell me about the singing to-morrow. Remember to lock the door and take the key. I do not trust the masons in the morning.”
“Do I ever forget?” asked Reanda. “But I will lock it now, as you go out; for it is late, and I shall go upstairs.”
“Good night,” said Francesca, as she turned to leave the room.
“And you forgive the caricature?” asked Reanda, holding the door open for her to pass.
“I would forgive you many things,” she answered, smiling as she went by.
CHAPTER XXI.
IN THOSE DAYS the Trovatore was not an old-fashioned opera. It was not ‘threshed-out,’ to borrow the vigorous German phrase. Wagner had not eclipsed melody with ‘tone-poetry,’ nor made men feel more than they could hear. Many of the great things of this century-ending had not been done then, nor even dreamed of, and even musicians listened to the Trovatore with pleasure, not dreaming of the untried strength that lay waiting in Verdi’s vast reserve. It was then the music of youth. To us it seems but the music of childhood. Many of us can
not listen to Manrico’s death-song from the tower without hearing the grind-organ upon which its passion has grown so pathetically poor. But one could understand that music. The mere statement that it was comprehensible raises a smile to-day. It appealed to simple feelings. We are no longer satisfied with such simplicity, and even long for powers that do not appeal, but twist us with something stronger than our hardened selves, until we ourselves appeal to the unknown, in a sort of despairing ecstasy of unsatisfied delight, asking of possibility to stretch itself out to the impossible. We are in a strange phase of development. We see the elaborately artificial world-scape painted by Science on the curtain close before our eyes, but our restless hands are thrust through it and beyond, opening eagerly and shutting on nothing, though we know that something is there.
Angelo Reanda was passionately fond of what was called music in Italy more than thirty years ago. He had the true ear and the facile memory for melody common to Italians, who are a singing people, if not a musical race, and which constituted a talent for music when music was considered to be a succession of sounds rather than a series of sensuous impressions. He could listen to an opera, understand it without thought, enjoy it simply, and remember it without difficulty, like thousands of other Romans. Most of us would willingly go back to such childlike amusements if we could. A few possess the power even now, and are looked upon with friendly contempt by their more cultured, and therefore more tortured, musical acquaintances, whose dream it is to be torn to very rags in the delirium of orchestral passion.
Reanda went to the Apollo Theatre in search of merely pleasurable sensations, and he got exactly what he wanted. The old house was brilliant even in those days, less with light than with jewels, it is true, but perhaps that illumination was as good as any other. The Roman ladies and the ladies of the great embassies used then to sit through the whole evening in their boxes, and it was the privilege, as it is still in Rome, of the men in the stalls and pit to stand up between the acts and admire them and their diamonds as much as they pleased. The light was dim enough, compared with what we have nowadays; for gas was but just introduced in a few of the principal streets, and the lamps in the huge chandelier at the Apollo, and in the brackets around the house, were filled with the olive oil which to-day dresses the world’s salad. But it was a soft warm light, with rich yellow in it, which penetrated the shadows and beautified all it touched.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 774