Kitabı oku: «The Tiger Lily», sayfa 5
Chapter Twelve.
The New Model
Two days passed, and Dale was standing, brush in hand, before his canvas, thinking. He had made up his mind to trust to his imagination to a great extent for the finishing of Juno’s figure: this, with the many classic sketches he had made in Greece and Rome, would, he believed, enable him to be pretty well independent. He was in better spirits, for he had heard nothing from Portland Place, and flattered himself that the impression which had troubled him was growing fainter.
“Come in,” he cried, as there was a tap at the door, and Keren-Happuch appeared, evidently fresh from a study in black-lead, and holding a card between a finger and thumb, guarded by her apron.
“Here’s a model, sir, and she give me this.”
Dale took a very dirty card, which looked as if it had been for some time in an old waistcoat pocket. Printed thereon were the words – “D. Jaggs. Head and face. Roman fathers, etc,” and written on the back in pencil, in Jaggs’ cramped hand —
“Signora Azatchy Figgers.”
“Where is she, Miranda?”
“On the front door mat, sir. And please, Mr Dale, sir, mayn’t I bring you some beef-tea?”
“No, thank you, Miranda. Bring up the visitor instead.”
“Oh, dear! he do worry me,” muttered Keren-Happuch. “I do hope he ain’t going into a decline.”
Dale smiled at the dirty card, and waited for the entrance of the new model, who was shown in directly by the grimy maid, and immediately, in a quick, jerky, excited way, looked sharply round the room before turning her face to the artist as the girl closed the door.
On his side he gazed with cold indifference at his visitor, who, after taking a couple of steps forward, stopped short, and he saw that she was rather tall, wore a closely fitting bonnet, over which a thick dark Shetland wool veil was drawn, and was draped from head to foot in a long black cloak, which had evidently seen a good deal of service.
“Signora Azacci?” said Dale, glancing at the card again, and making a good shot at her name.
It was evidently correct, for the woman said, in a husky voice, as if suffering from intense nervousness —
“Si, si.”
“You are willing to stand for me – for this picture?” said Dale, scanning her closely, but learning nothing respecting her figure on account of the cloak; and he spoke very coldly, for the woman’s actions on entering struck him as being angular and awkward; now they were jerky, as she raised her hands to her temples.
“No Inglese, signore,” she said then, excitedly; and again, after an embarrassed pause, “Parlate Italiano? – No?”
“No,” said Dale, shaking his head.
Her hands again came from beneath her cloak in a despairing gesture. Then, placing one to her forehead, she looked round at the lumber of paintings and properties, as if seeking for a way to express herself, till her eyes lit upon the great uncovered canvas. Bending forward in a quick, alert way, she uttered a low, peculiar cry, and almost ran to it, leaned forward again, as if examining, and then, with extreme rapidity, pointed to the blank place in the picture where Lady Dellatoria’s face stood out weirdly. She then took a few quick steps aside from where Dale stood, frowning and annoyed at what seemed to be a hopeless waste of time. Then, with a rapid movement, she unclasped the cloak, swept it from her shoulders, and holding it only with her left hand, let it fall in many folds to the floor, while as she stood before him now in a plainly made, tightly fitting black cloth princess dress, she instinctively fell into almost the very attitude Dale had in his mind’s eye, and he saw at once that her figure must be all that he wished.
“Bravo!” he cried involuntarily, and with an artist’s pleasure in an intelligence that grasps his ideas.
At the word “Bravo!” the woman turned her head quickly.
“Excellent,” he continued; “that promises well.”
Her face was hidden, but as she shrugged up her shoulders nearly to her ears, and raised her hands with the fingers contracted and toward him, he felt that she must be wrinkling up her forehead and making a grimace expressive of her vexation.
“Yes, it is tiresome,” he said; “but we don’t want to talk. I dare say I can make you understand. But I’ve forgotten every word I picked up in Rome.”
“Ah!” cried the woman, with quick pantomimic action, as she changed her attitude again, and leant toward him – “Roma – Roma?”
“Si, si.”
“My lord has been in Rome?” she cried in Italian.
“I think I understand that,” muttered Dale, “and if your form proves to be equal to your quick intelligence, my picture will be painted. Now then, signora, this is a language I dare say you can understand. Here are two half-crowns. For two hours – ‘due ore.’”
“Si, si,” she cried eagerly, and she almost snatched the coins and held them to her veiled lips.
“Silver keys to your understanding, madam,” he muttered, taking a mahlstick from where it stood against a chair. “Humph! I begin to be hopeful. Yes, more than hopeful,” he continued, as the model was rapidly drawing off her shabby, carefully mended gloves, before taking a little common portemonnaie from her pocket and dropping the coins in one by one. Then aloud, as he pointed with the mahlstick, “La bella mano.”
“Aha!” she cried quickly. But she gave her shoulders another shrug, and shook the purse, saying sadly – “Pel povero padre.”
”‘Padre.’ For her father,” muttered Dale. “Not so sordid as I thought, poor thing. Will you remove your veil?”
She leaned toward him.
“I said, Will you remove your veil? – Hang it, what is veil in Italian? ‘Velum’ in Latin.”
She was evidently trying hard to grasp his meaning, and at the Latin “velum” she clapped her beautifully formed hands to her veil.
“No, no!” she cried haughtily; and then volubly, in Italian – “I am compelled to do this for bread. I do not know you, neither need you know me. My face is not beautiful, and we are strangers. You wish to paint my figure. I will retain my veil.”
“I do not understand you, signora, and yet I have a glimmering of what you wish to express,” said Dale, as gravely as if his visitor could grasp every word. “There, you seem to be a lady, and – hang it all, this is very absurd, my preaching to you, and you to me. I wish Pacey were here. He speaks Italian like a native. No, poor lass, I suppose they must be starving nearly, or she would not stoop to this. I don’t wish Joe Pacey were here.”
Then quietly bowing as if acceding to her wishes, he made a sign to his visitor to take her attention, and as she watched him from behind her thick veil, he walked to the entrance and turned the key.
Crossing the studio to the farther door, he threw it open, and then drew forward from the end of the great room a large folding-screen, which he placed at the back of the dais and opened wide.
“There, signora,” he said, “I am at your service;” and he pointed to the inner room, turned from her, and walked to the canvas.
The model stood motionless for a moment or two, and then caught up the great cloak from where it lay upon the floor.
“Grazie, Signore,” she said then, with quiet dignity, and she was hurrying across to the inner room, but he arrested her.
“One moment,” he said, with grave respect, and the chivalrous manner of a true gentleman toward one whose tones seemed to suggest that she trusted him. “Let us arrange the pose first. Look at the picture: study it well. You see the subject.”
Dale continued speaking, but kept on pointing to the scene he had depicted, and, to his intense gratification, she threw the cloak across a chair back, gazed intently at the picture for a few moments, letting her eyes rest longest upon the beautiful, scornful face, and then went quickly to the dais, stepped up, turned, and with rare intelligence fell once more into the very position he desired, bettering in fact that which she had sketched at first.
“Eccellentissimo!” he cried; and then she stepped down quickly, and glided into the inner room, while Dale gazed at his painting with a feeling of triumph sweeping away the morbid thoughts which had troubled him so long.
“Art is my mistress after all,” he said to himself, as he glanced upward to see that the skylight was properly blinded, and then, going to a box, rapidly prepared his palette, armed himself with a sheaf of brushes, and altered the position of his easel a little.
He was hardly ready when he heard the slight rattle of the handle, a faint rustling sound, and the swinging of the door again.
But he did not turn as a light step passed behind him, and a faint creaking sound announced that the model had mounted upon the dais.
He raised his eyes, and she was standing there apparently as he had seen her first, closely veiled, and still draped in the long, heavy, black cloak.
Then, with a quick movement, the long garment was thrown aside, and the model stood before him in the very attitude, and the perfection of her womanly beauty – a beauty made hideous in the ghastly effect produced by the black face and head swathed in the thick veil.
But this passed unnoticed by the artist, who, with a triumphant ejaculation, began to sketch rapidly, as he muttered to himself without vanity —
“Pacey is right: my canvas must be a success.”
Chapter Thirteen.
A Strange Sitting
“Yes,” said Dale to himself again, “Art is my mistress. I have betrayed one, fought clear of the web of another, and now I am free to keep true to the only one I love.”
And all through that visit of the Italian, he worked on with a strange eagerness, till, at what seemed to be the end of an hour at most, his model made a sudden movement.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “I ought to have told you to rest more often. Stanca?” For he recalled a word meaning fatigued or wearied.
“Si – si,” she said quickly, and pointed to the clock on the mantelpiece, when, to Dale’s astonishment, he saw that the two hours had elapsed, and that his model had quickly resumed her cloak. Then, without a word, she crossed to the door of the inner room, and about a quarter of an hour later emerged, to find him standing back studying his morning’s work.
“Grazie,” he cried, and then pointed to the roughly sketched in figure. “Bravo!” he added, smiling.
She bent her head in a quiet, dignified manner, and raking up another Italian word or two, Armstrong said —
“A rivederia – au revoir.”
“Ah, monsieur speaks French!” she cried in that tongue, but with a very peculiar accent.
“Yes, badly,” he replied, also in French. “That is good; now we can get on better. Can you come to-morrow at the same time?”
“I am at monsieur’s service.”
“Then I shall expect you. Thank you for your patient attention. Another time, pray rest when you are fatigued.”
She bowed in a stately manner, and pointed to the door which he had locked, and as soon as it was unfastened, passed out without turning her head.
Dale stood working at his sketch for another hour, and then turned it to the wall, to light his pipe and begin thinking about his model now that he had ceased work.
It was quite mysterious her insisting upon keeping her face covered. Why was it? Had she some terrible disfigurement, or was it from modesty? Possibly. Her manner was perfect. She was evidently miserably poor, and seemed eager to gain money to support her father – he had quite grasped that – and the poor creature being compelled to stoop to this way of earning a livelihood, she naturally desired to remain incognito. Well, it was creditable, he thought; but the first idea came back. She was evidently a woman gifted by nature with an exquisite form, and at the same time, by accident or disease, her countenance was so marked that she was afraid of her clients being repelled, and declining to engage her.
“Ah, well, signora, the mysterious Italienne, I will respect your desire to remain incog. It is nothing to me,” said Dale, half aloud, as he sent a cloud of blue vapour upward. “I may congratulate myself, though, on my good fortune in finding such a model.”
He sat back in his chair, dwelling upon the figure, and then went twice over to his canvas, to compare his work with the figure in his imagination, and returned to his seat more than satisfied.
Then he put work aside, and began thinking of home, and the sweet sad face he could always picture, with its eyes gazing reproachfully at him.
“Yes,” he said, with a sigh; “poor darling! It was fate. I was not worthy of her. When the misery and disappointment have died away – Heaven bless her! – she will love and be the wife of a better man, unless – unless some day she forgives me – some day when I have told her all.”
The next morning he was all in readiness and expectant. The light was good for painting, and his mind was more at rest, for there was no letter from the Contessa. But for a few moments he was angry with himself on finding that he felt a kind of pique at the readiness with which she had given up writing her reproaches. But that passed off, and as the time was near for the coming of the model, he drew the easel forward to see whether, after the night’s rest, he felt as satisfied with his work as he did the previous day. But he hardly glanced at the figure, for the eyes were gazing at him in a terribly life-like way, full of scorn and reproach; and as he met them, literally fascinated by the work to which his imagination lent so much reality, he shuddered and asked himself whether he had after all been able to free himself from the glamour – dragged himself loose from the spell of the Circe who had so suddenly altered the even course of his life.
He was still contemplating the face, and wondering whether others would look upon it with the fascination it exercised upon him, when Keren-Happuch came up to announce the arrival of his model, who entered directly after, to look at him sharply through her thick veil.
He uttered a low sigh full of satisfaction, for her coming was most welcome. It would force his attention to his work.
“Good morning,” he said gravely and distinctly, in French. “You are very punctual.”
She bowed distantly, and then her attention seemed to be caught by the face upon the canvas, and she drew near to stand gazing at it attentively.
She turned to him sharply. “The lady who sat for that: why did she not stay for you to finish the portrait?”
Dale started, half wondering, half annoyed by his model’s imperious manner.
“It is great!” she said. Then in a quick, eager tone: “The lady you love?”
He was so startled by the suddenness of the question, that he replied as quickly —
“No, no. It is not from a model. It is imagination.”
“Ah!” she said, and she looked at the picture more closely. “You thought of her and painted. You are very able, monsieur, but I like it not. It makes me to shiver, I know not why. It makes me afraid to look.”
“Then don’t look,” said Dale, in an annoyed tone. “You will cover it, please, monsieur. The face is so angry; it gives me dread.”
“Pish!” ejaculated Dale. “Very well, though. Get ready, please. I want to do a long morning’s work.”
“Monsieur will pay me,” she said, holding out her hand in its well-mended glove.
He took out a couple of half-crowns, which she almost snatched, and then, without a word, pointed to the door almost imperiously.
He nodded shortly, and went to fasten it, while she glided into the inner room, and in a wonderfully short space of time returned ready, took her place upon the dais, dropped the cloak, and he began to paint.
“Monsieur has not covered the dreadful head,” she said hoarsely.
Without a word he took a square of brown paper, gummed it, and covered the face; then in perfect silence he went on painting, deeply interested in his work as his sketch took softer form and grew rapidly beneath his brush.
But the work did not progress so fast as on the previous day: he was painting well, but the black head, so incongruous and weird of aspect, posed upon the beautiful female form he was transferring to canvas, irritated him, and as he looked at his model from time to time, he could see that a pair of piercing eyes were watching him.
Half-an-hour had passed, when there was a low, weary sigh.
“We will rest a little,” he said quietly, and pointing to a chair and the screen, he devoted himself to an unimportant part of the work for some ten minutes, but to be brought back to his model by her words —
“I am waiting, monsieur.”
He started and resumed his work, remembering to pause for his patient model to rest twice over, and then to continue, and grow so excited over his efforts – painting so rapidly – that when he heard another weary sigh he glanced at the clock, and found that he had kept his model quite a quarter of an hour over her time.
“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle,” he said. “You must be very weary.”
“Yes, very weary,” she said sadly, as she moved towards the door, glancing over her right shoulder at the picture. “It is better now. I can look at your work; the dreadful face makes me too much alarmed.”
“A strange sitting,” he said. “Two veiled faces.” There was a quick look through the thick veil, but she walked on into the room, and in due time passed him on her way, bowed distantly, and went out, leaving Dale motionless by his canvas, gazing after her at the door, and conjuring up in his mind the figure he had so lately had before him.
He recovered himself with a start, and raised one hand to his forehead.
Chapter Fourteen.
Life’s Fever
It was with a novel feeling of anxiety that Dale waited for the coming of his model. A peculiar feverish desire to know more of her position had come over him, and he made up his mind to question her about her father and the cause of his exile. Jaggs had said that he had had to flee for life and liberty, and if he questioned her about these she would, foreigner-like, become communicative.
It was nothing to him, of course. This woman – lady perhaps, for her words bespoke refinement – would answer his purpose till the picture was finished. She was paid for her services, and when she was no longer required, there was an end of the visits to his studio.
He told himself all this as he sat before his great canvas, working patiently, filling up portions, and preparing for his model’s coming. And as he worked on, with the figure as strongly marked as the model, the softly rounded contour of the graceful form began to glow in imagination with life, and at last Dale sprang from his seat, threw down palette and brushes, and shook his head as if to clear it from some strange confusion of intellect.
“How absurd!” he said aloud, and trying to turn the current of his thoughts, they drifted back at once to his model, and he gazed at his work, wondering which of his ideas was correct about her persistently keeping her face covered.
“She cannot be disfigured,” he muttered. “It must be for reasons of her own. – She is, as I thought, forced to undertake a task that must be hateful to her. – I wonder whether her face is beautiful too?”
“Bah! what is it to me?” he muttered angrily. “I do not want to paint her face, and yet she must be very beautiful.”
He sat down again before his canvas, thoughtful and dreamy, picturing to himself what her face might be, and the next minute he had seized a drawing-board upon which grey paper was already stretched, picked up a crayon, and with great rapidity sketched in memories of dark aquiline faces that he had studied in Home and Paris, with one of later time – one of the women of the Italian colony which lives by the patronage of artists.
These soon covered the paper, and he sat gazing at them, wondering which would be suited to the figure he was painting.
Then, throwing the board aside, he began to pace the studio impatiently.
“What nonsense!” he muttered. “What craze is this! Her face is nothing to me. I’m overwrought. Worry and work are having their effect. I have had no exercise either lately. Yes: that’s it: I’m overdone.”
He stood hesitating for a few moments, and then thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out five shillings.
“I’ll rout out Pacey and Leronde, and we’ll go up the river for a row.”
He rang the bell and waited, giving one more glance at his picture, and then turning it face to the wall, with the curtain drawn.
He had hardly finished when Keren-Happuch’s step was heard at the door, and she knocked and entered.
“You ring, please, sir?”
“Yes. Take this money. No – no – stop a moment. She would be hurt,” he muttered, and, hastily wrapping it in a sheet of note-paper at the side table, he thrust the packet into an envelope, fastened it down, and directed it to La Signora Azacci.
“There, Keren-Happuch,” he said.
“Don’t call me that now, please, Mr Dale, sir. I likes the other best, ’cause you don’t do it to tease me, like Mr Pacey.”
“Well then, Miranda, my little child of toil,” he said merrily, “I have wrapped up this money because the young lady might not like it given to her loose. It isn’t that I don’t trust you.”
The girl laughed.
“Zif I didn’t know that, sir. Why, you give me a fi’ pun’ note to get changed once.”
“So I did, Miranda, and will again.”
“And sovrins lots o’ times. I don’t mind.”
“Give this to the Italian lady.”
“Is she a lady, sir? I think she is sometimes, and sometimes I don’t, ’cause she’s so shabby. Why, some o’ them models as comes could buy her up out and out.”
“Yes, Miranda; but don’t be so loquacious.”
“No, sir, I won’t,” said Keren-Happuch, wondering the while what the word meant.
“Tell her that I’m not well this morning, and have gone into the country for a day, but I hope to see her at the same time to-morrow morning.”
“There, I knowed you wasn’t well, sir,” cried the girl eagerly.
“Pooh! only a little seedy.”
“But was she to come at the reg’lar time this morning, sir?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then she ain’t comin’, sir, for it’s nearly an hour behind by the kitchen clock.”
Dale glanced at his watch in astonishment, then at the clock on the mantelpiece.
Keren-Happuch was quite correct in every respect, for the model did not come, and Dale felt so startled by this that he did not leave the studio all day, but spent it with a growing feeling of trouble.
That night, to get rid of the anxiety which kept his brain working, he sought out his two friends and dined with them at one of the cafés, eating little, drinking a good deal, and sitting at last smoking, morose and silent, listening to Leronde’s excited disquisitions on art, and Pacey’s bantering of the Frenchman, till it was time to return to his studio, which he entered with a shudder, to cross to his room.
Keren-Happuch had been up and lit the gas, leaving one jet burning with a ghastly blue flame, and when this was turned up, the place seemed to be full of shadows, out of which the various casts and busts looked at him weirdly.
“Phew! how hot and stuffy the place is,” he muttered. “Am I going to be ill – sickening for a fever? Bah! Rubbish! I drank too much of that Chianti.”
The Italian name of the wine of which he had freely partaken suggested the Conte, but only for a moment, and then he was brooding again over the failure of the model to keep her appointment.
“Surely she is not ill,” he said excitedly; then, with an angry gesticulation, “well, if she is, what is it to me? Poor woman! she will get better, and I must wait.”
He hurried into his room, and turned up the gas there, but he could not rest without going back into the studio and turning the gas on full before dragging round the great easel, and throwing back the curtains to unveil the picture, with its graceful white figure standing right out from the group like sunlit ivory. But a shadow was cast upon the upper part by a portion of the curtain whose rings had caught upon the rod, and a strange shudder ran through him, for the paper he had used to hide the face looked dark, and, to his excited vision, took the form of the close black veil, through which a pair of brilliant eyes appeared to flash.
Snatching back the curtain, he wheeled the easel into its place, with its face to the wall, turned down the gas after fastening the door, and threw himself upon his bed to lie tossing hour after hour, never once going right off to sleep, but thinking incessantly of the beautiful model, and the masked face whose eyes burned into his brain.
