Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Another dead pause ensued. Not a sound, not a breath disturbed the heavy silence which seemed to have grown deeper than before. And Manuel, looking eagerly again and closely into the Pope’s face, went on with increasing ardour and passion.

  “Come out with me!” he said, “Or if you will not come, — then beware of the evil days which are at hand! The people are wandering to and fro, crossing all lands, struggling one against the other, hoarding up useless gold, and fighting for supremacy! — but ‘the day of the Lord shall come like a thief in the night, and blessed is he who shall be found watching!’ Watch! The hour is growing dark and full of menace! — the nations are as frightened children, losing faith, losing hope, losing strength! Put away, — put away from you the toys of time! — quench in your soul the thirst for gold, for of this shall come nothing but corruption! Why trifle with the Spirit of holy things? Why let your servants use the Name of the Most High to cover hypocrisy? Why crave for the power of temporal things which passes away in the dust of destroyed kingdoms? For the Power of the Spirit is greater than all! And so it shall be proved! The Spirit shall work in ways where it has never been found before! — it shall depart from the Churches which are unworthy of its Divine inspiration! — it shall invest the oaths of Science! — it shall open the doors of the locked stars! It shall display the worlds invisible; — the secrets of men’s hearts, and of closed graves! — there will be terror and loss and confusion and shame to mankind, — and this world shall keep nothing of all its treasures but the Cross of Christ! Rome, like Babylon, shall fall! — and the Powers of the Church shall be judged as the Powers of Darkness rather than of Light, because they have rejected the Word of their Master, and ‘teach for doctrine the commandments of men!’ Disaster shall follow swift upon disaster, and the cup of trembling shall be drained again to its last dregs, as in the olden days, unless, — unless perchance — you will come out with me!”

  With the last words a sort of galvanic shock seemed to be imparted to the rigid figure in the chair. Springing upright suddenly, his voice rang out like a clarion, discordantly yet clearly.

  “In the name of God,” he cried, “Who and what is this boy! How came he with Cardinal Bonpre? And you, Domenico! — do you stand by and permit this affront to me! — the living Head of the Church! From a child! — a tramp of the streets! — who dares to speak to me! — who dares to reproach, to prophesy — aye, to blaspheme! and teach Me,—”

  “As One having authority, — and not as the Scribes!” said Manuel, with one swift flashing glance, which like a shaft of lightning seemed to pierce through flesh and bone, — for, as he met that radiant and commanding look, the jewel-like eyes of the Pope lost their lustre and became fixed and glassy, — he put his hand to his throat with a choking gasp for breath, — and like a dead body which had only been kept in place by some secret mechanical action, he fell back in his chair senseless, his limbs stretching themselves out with a convulsive shudder into stark immovability.

  Gherardi started from his stupor, and rushed to his assistance, ringing the bell violently which summoned the valet from the antechamber, — and Moretti, with a fierce oath, pushing Manuel aside, rushed to the chair in which the Pope’s fainting figure lay, — all was confusion; — and in the excitement and terror which had overwhelmed Cardinal Bonpre at the unprecedented scene, Manuel suddenly touched him on the arm.

  “Follow me!” he said, “We are no longer needed here! Come! — let us go hence!”

  Hardly knowing what he did the old man obeyed, trembling in every limb as Manuel, grasping him firmly by the hand, led him from the apartment, and on through the winding corridors of the huge building, out into the open air. No one questioned them, — no one interfered with their progress. Benediction was being sung in one of the many chapels of St. Peter’s, and the solemn sound of the organ reached them, softened and mellowed by distance, as they stood on the steps of the Vatican, where the Cardinal, pausing to recover breath and equanimity, gazed at his strange foundling in alarm and bewilderment.

  “Manuel!” he murmured feebly, “Child! — what have you done!”

  “Only what I am bound to do!” replied Manuel simply, “I have said no more than it is right to say, if Christ’s words are true! Dear friend, be at peace! You will not suffer misjudgment long!”

  The music stealing out from the distant chapel, floated round them in large circles of solemn melody, — and the glow of sunset lit the clear sky with a warm red radiance, flecked with golden clouds of glory.

  “He would not come with me!” said Manuel, with a slight gesture backward to the sombre portals they had just passed, “And he will never come! But YOU will!”

  And smiling, — with his fair face turned to the radiant sky, — he rested his hand lightly on the Cardinal’s arm as they descended the broad marble steps, and left the great Palace of the Popes together.

  XXIX.

  While the foregoing scene was taking place at the Vatican, Angela Sovrani, left to herself for some hours, took the opportunity to set her great picture “on view” for the coming morrow. Locking both doors of her studio, she began to arrange the room; her huge canvas was already on a movable easel supplied with wheels, which ran lightly and easily over the polished floor without making any sound. At its summit a brass rod was attached, and on this a curtain of golden-coloured silk was hung, the folds of which at present concealed the painting from view. The top-light of the studio was particularly good on this special afternoon, as the weather was clear, and the Roman sky translucent and bright as an opal, and Angela, as she wheeled her “great work” into position, sang for pure lightness of heart and thankfulness that all was done. In her soul she had the consciousness that what she had produced from her brain and hand was not altogether unworthy. For, though to the true artist, no actual result can ever attain to the beauty of the first thought or ideal of the thing to be performed, there is always the consolation that if one’s best and truest feeling has been earnestly put into the work, some touch, however slight, of that ideal beauty must remain. The poet’s poem is never so fine as the poet’s thought. The thought is from the immortal and invincible soul, — the poem has to be conveyed through the grosser body, clothed in language which must always be narrow and inadequate. Hence the artist’s many and grievous limitations. To the eyes of the spirit all things appear transfigured, because lifted out of the sphere of material vision. But when we try to put these “beautiful things made new, for the delight of the sky-children” on paper or canvas, in motionless marble or flexible rhyme, — we are weighted by grosser air and the density of bodily feeling. So it was with Angela Sovrani, iwhose compact little head were folded the splendid dreams of genius like sleeping fairies in a magic cave; — and thoughtful and brilliant though she was, she could not, in her great tenderness for her affianced lover Florian Varillo, foresee that daily contact with his weaker and smaller nature, would kill those dreams as surely as a frost-wind kills the buds of the rose, — and that gradually, very gradually, the coarser fibre of his intelligence mingling with hers, would make a paltry and rough weaving of the web of life, instead of a free and gracious pattern. She never thought of such possibilities — she would have rejected the very idea of them with scorn and indignation. She would have declared that her love for Florian was the very root and source of her art, — that for him she worked — for him she lived. So indeed she believed, in her finely-fervent self-delusion, — but it was not ordained that this glamour should last, — for hers was a nature too rare and valuable to be sacrificed, and the Higher destinies had begun to approve her as precious. Therefore, as is the case with all precious things, the furnace was preparing for the shaping of the gold, — the appointed Angel of her Fate was already hovering near, holding ready the cup of bitterness which all must drain to the dregs, before knowing what it is to drink of “the new wine in the Kingdom of God.”

  “I wonder,” thought the girl now, as she stepped lightly from one corner of her studio to the other, rearrang
ing a vase here — a bust there — and imparting to the whole room that indefinable air of grace and luxury which can only be bestowed by the trained hand of a practised artist,— “I wonder if Florian will be proud? People will certainly talk of my picture, — some will praise and some will condemn; and this mixture of praise and condemnation is what is called Fame. But will my beloved love me more? Will he be glad that I am found worthy in the world’s sight? — or will he think I am usurping his place? Ah!” and she paused in her work, looking vaguely before her with thoughtful, wondering eyes, “That is where we women workers have to suffer! Men grudge us the laurel, but they forget that we are trying to win it only that we may wear the rose more fittingly! A woman tries to do a great and a noble thing, not that she may vex of humiliate a man by superiority, — but that she may be more worthy to be his mate and helper in the world, — and also, that her children may reverence her for something more than the mere animal duties of nursing and tenderness. How proud to-day would be any man or woman who could point to Rosa Bonheur and say, ‘She was my mother!’ And yet perhaps this idea of mine is too fantastic, — the Brownings left a son — and he has nothing of their genius or their enthusiasm.”

  She moved to the grand piano and set it open; as she did so a thought of Sylvie came across her mind, and she smiled.

  “Dear little rose-bud of a woman!” she mused, “How glad I am that she is happy! And how delightful it is to see the pride she takes in Aubrey Leigh! — how she studies his books, and pores over his statistics and theories! I really believe she knows them all by heart! And what wonderful schemes she is building up in her mind for the people in whom he is so interested! What a sensation she will make if she intends to work with her husband as thoroughly and devotedly as her ideas imply! Her marriage will be an immense disappointment to certain persons I could name!” and she smiled, “Dear Sylvie! With all her goodness, and grace and beauty, her name will sound more obnoxious at the Vatican than even the name of Gys Grandit!”

  She had lifted a cluster of lilies from a vase to regroup them, and as her thoughts turned in this direction she bent her eyes upon their large white blooms meditatively, and a faint rose flush warmed her cheeks.

  “Ce sont des fleurs etranges, Et traitresses, avec leurs airs de sceptres d’anges, De thyrses lumineux pour doigts de seraphins, Leurs parfums sont trop forts, tout ensemble, et trop fins.”

  “It is strange,” she thought, “that I should have corresponded so many months with ‘Gys Grandit’ through my admiration for his books — and that he should turn out to be the son of poor Abbe Vergniaud! Cyrillon! It is a pretty name! And since we met — since that terrible scene in the church in Paris, — since he knew who I was, he has not written. And, and for his poor father’s death . . . I suppose he thought it was sufficient to telegraph the news of the death to my uncle. But I am sorry he does not write to me any more! — I valued his letters — they were such brilliant essays on all the movements and politics of the time. It was just a little secret of mine; — it was pleasant to think I was in correspondence with such a genius. However, he has had so much to think of since then . . .” She set the lilies in their vase again, inhaling their delicious odour as she did so.

  “The flowers of the saints and martyrs!” she said, “I do not wonder that the artists chose them for that purpose; they are so white-and pure-and passionless . . .”

  A slight crash disturbed her self-communion, and she hastened to see what had fallen. It was a small clay figure of “Eros”, — a copy of a statuette found in the ruins of Pompeii. The nail supporting its bracket had given way. Angela had been rather fond of this little work of art, and as she knelt to pick up the fragments she was more vexed at the accident than she cared to own. She looked wistfully at the pretty moulded broken limbs of the little god as she put them all in a heap together.

  “What a pity!” she murmured, “I am not at all superstitious, yet I wish anything in the room had come to grief rather than this! It is not a good omen!”

  She moved across the floor again and stood for a moment inert, one hand resting lightly on the amber silk draperies which veiled her picture.

  “There was no truth at all in that rumour about Florian’s ‘Phillida’;— ‘Pon-Pon,’ as they call her,” she thought, “She serves as a model to half the artists in Rome. Unfortunate creature. She is one of the most depraved and reckless of her class, so I hear — and Florian is far too refined and fastidious to even recognise such a woman, outside his studio. The Marquis Fontenelle only wished to defend himself by trying to include another man in the charge of libertinage, when he himself was meditating the most perfidious designs on Sylvie. Poor Fontenelle! One must try and think as kindly as possible of him now — he is dead. But I cannot think it was right of him to accuse my Florian!”

  Just then she heard a soft knocking. It came from the door at the furthest end of the studio, one which communicated with a small stone courtyard, which in its turn opened out to a narrow street leading down to the Tiber. It was the entrance at which models presented themselves whenever Angela needed them.

  “Angela!” called a melodious voice, which she recognised at once as the dearest to her in the world. “Angela!”

  She hurried to the door but did not open it.

  “Florian!” she said softly, putting her lips close to the panel, “Florian, caro mio! Why are you here?”

  “I want to come in,” said Florian, “I have news, Angela! I must see you!”

  She hesitated a moment longer, and then she undid the bolt, and admitted him. He entered with a smiling and victorious air.

  “I am all alone here,” she said at once, before he could speak, “Father is at Frascati on some business — and my uncle the Cardinal is at the Vatican. Will you not come back later?”

  For all answer, Florian took her in his arms with quite a reverent tenderness, and kissed her softly on brow and lips.

  “No, I will stay!” he said, “I want to have you all to myself for a few minutes. I came to tell you, sweetest, that if I am to be the first to see your picture and pass judgment on it, I had better see it now, for I am going away to-morrow!”

  “Going away!” echoed Angela, “Where?”

  “To Naples,” he answered, “Only for a little while. They have purchased my picture ‘Phillida et les Roses’ for one of the museums there, and they want me to see if I approve of the position in which it is to be placed. They also wish to honour me by a banquet or something of the kind — an absurdly unnecessary affair, but still I think it is perhaps advisable that I should go.”

  He spoke with an affectation of indifference, but any observer of him whose eyes were not blinded by affection, could have seen that he exhaled from himself an atmosphere of self-congratulation at the banquet proposition. Little honours impress little minds; — and a faint thrill of pain moved Angela as she saw him thus delighted with so poor and ordinary a compliment. In any other man it would have moved her to contempt, but in Florian — well! — she was only just a little sorry.

  “Yes, perhaps it might look churlish of you not to accept,” she said, putting away from her the insidious suggestion that perhaps if Florian loved her as much as he professed, an invitation to a banquet at Naples would have had no attraction for him as compared with being present at the first view of her picture on the morning she had herself appointed— “I think under the circumstances you had better not see the picture till you come back!”

  “Now, Angela!” he exclaimed vexedly, “You know I will not consent to that! You have promised me that I shall be the first to see it — and here I am!”

  “It should be seen by the morning light,” said Angela, a touch of nervousness beginning to affect her equanimity,— “This light is pale and waning, though the afternoon is so clear. You cannot see the coloring to the best advantage!”

  “Am I not a painter also?” asked Varillo playfully, putting his arm round her waist,— “And can I not guess the effect in the morning light as well a
s if I saw it? Come, Angela mia! Unveil the great prodigy!” and he laughed,— “You began it before we were affianced; — think what patience I have had for nearly two years!”

  Angela did not reply at once. Somehow, his light laugh jarred upon her.

  “Florian,” she said at last, raising her truthful, beautiful eyes fully to his, “I do not think you quite understand! This picture has absorbed a great deal of my heart and soul — I have as it were, painted my own life blood into it — for I mean it to declare a truth and convey a lesson. It will either cover me with obloquy, or crown me with lasting fame. You speak jestingly, as if it were some toy with which I had amused myself these three years. Do you not believe that a woman’s work may be as serious, as earnest, and strongly purposeful as a man’s?”

  Still clasping her round the waist, Florian drew her closer, and pressing her head against his breast, he looked down on her smiling.

  “What sweet eyes you have!” he said, “The sweetest, the most trusting, the most childlike eyes I have ever seen! It would be impossible to paint such eyes, unless one’s brushes were Raffaelle’s, dipped in holy water. Not that I believe very much in holy water as a painter’s medium! “He laughed, — he had a well-shaped mouth and was fond of smiling, in order that he might show his even pearly teeth, which contrasted becomingly with his dark moustache. “Yes, my Angela has beautiful eyes, — and such soft, pretty hair!” and he caressed it gently, “like little golden tendrils with a beam of the sunlight caught in it! Is not that a pretty compliment? I think I ought to have been a poet instead of a painter!”