Puslapio vaizdai
PDF
„ePub“

upon her. She wondered what silent toast they could be drinking; for this, assuredly, was a kind of ceremonial. But she had grown too old for such indulgences. The wine made her strangely drowsy. Was there mischief in it? Why had she taken so much? Why had she touched it at all? She went to her room, repenting of this childish folly; and slept profoundly the sleep of childhood, throughout the night, far on into the morning hours.

The flood of sunshine to which she woke gave its own startling evidence of time unduly wasted; but even this reproachful glare had failed to act upon her sluggish senses. That worthless insect, Gentile, clamored at her door; and his voice rang with delight at the detection of her grievous lapse in duty.

"Modesta! Monna Modesta! Wake, and find your wits! My master's wife has come from Venice, and no one stirs a finger to receive her. Do you sleep all night, and all day, too?"

"Beast!" she cried, in a passion. "Have done with bellowing, and mend your manners. When I sleep at all, it is with my eyes open. Go back, and tell them I'll come presently." Below, in the state apartment long ago made ready for this festal day, the old servant found Maestro Ambrogio in his brightest colors, but formal and solemn as a sentinel; and there, too, on a low couch lay the noble lady, sleeping.

How young, how fair she was! As sweet, as simple in her beauty as the Virgin of the Annunziata's shrine! Yet these soft features were aglow with life, these full, red lips were not divine, but exquisitely human. About her head she had bound a veil, through which her heavy coils of hair showed gleams of reddish gold; and she had put on the rich, brocaded garment brought from Venice, worth a fortune in quattrini. It seemed, in truth, not fine enough; it should have been sown with jewels. But her only ornament was a slender golden thread of curious design, clasping one wrist.

She moved a little, smiling in her sleep. And the smile was mysterious, unaccountable, perplexing as the smile of archaic sculpture; with something of

VOL. IV.-6

malice in it, as though the thought behind, concealed rather than expressed, were not unmixed with evil. So the sirens must have smiled when the bark foundered, and the poor mariner went unresisting to his death, happy in that inexplicable joy-perhaps, exultant even, with the look upon his face that Maestro Ambrogio's now wore. "Was not

"See!" he murmured. this worth years of loneliness? Could one have better fortune, even in his dreams?"

But Modesta trembled with a vague distrust, as if some disaster were impending. The smile was hateful to her. "Ah, signor," she sighed, "is that my mistress?

Her master had already turned away, rapt in his dream, and sheltered by it from outward influences.

"Iovina!" he called, softly. "Iovina!" Then the sleeper woke. He caught her hands and kissed them, drawing her toward him from the couch, folding in his arms the lovely presence that had the smile of absence in it still.

The light in her clear gray eyes, however, was reassuring. Her voice, too, was a pleasant one, though it uttered strange words which Modesta could not understand; but her master answered them in the same tongue. The new mistress looked wonderingly yet not unkindly upon the faithful servant. It appeared from what was said that she had come alone, with no train of attendants to be taught their duties. Modesta would have her own way to all intents and purposes; would still reign supreme in the market-place, be Monna Modesta, padrona della casa, to them all. This cheering reflection did away with presentiments for the time being. The household affairs went on that day as usual; only that sometimes in the pauses of work Modesta shook her head, and whispered to herself, doubtfully:

"Iovina! I do not like it; it is a pagan name."

She shook her head in the same discontented fashion over many things that happened in the following days. As might have been expected, her master led, at first, a life of complete infatuation. Then he resumed his studies, but with half a heart, interrupting them un

der the smallest pretext to dance attendance on the languid lady whose slave he had become. To show his wife a flower in the garden, to read her a line of Tuscan verse, that should give her in one breath a better knowledge of his love and of his language, were tasks of more importance than any prescribed to him in those ponderous books of his. This, of course, was commendable and proper; one pardons, nay exacts some such parade of weakness in the manners of a bridegroom. It was in the attitude of her mistress that Modesta found the first cause for complaint. Clearly, Maestro Ambrogio's devotion was wholly wasted; day by day, he squandered it, like the money woven into the embroidered garments worn by his foreign princess, who either had no heart to give him in return, or had chosen to withhold her gift. Her thoughts seemed always on the wing. The dragon-fly, darting to and fro among the leaves, could win her smile as easily as the poor man's fondest word. She was no happier for his approach; her steel-gray eyes never looked upon him tenderly. At what, then, was she always smiling? At him, perhaps; not with him, surely. For all his kindness must have failed to touch her, since she took it so impassively sometimes, indeed, as if she hardly knew that he was at her side.

Ah! All men were alike, and all were fools! It needed no spark of feeling to bewitch them; not even a pretence of it. Here was Gentile, now, openly worshipping this same idol with eager eyes. A stray glance from her would upset him for a whole day. And Messer Leonardo, too! At the first sight of her face his admiration burst forth in a torrent of superlatives. She smiled upon him; he laughed, and talked of other things; but his eyes never left her. He came again, and asked that she might sit to him. And when permission was refused, almost on his knees, he begged, implored Maestro Ambrogio to grant it. The smile haunted him, he said, impelling him to paint it from memory if not from life; its perfect beauty existed for no day, no generation, but must be fixed and made imperishable for all to know until the end of time. Without this attempt, he

should hold himself false to the divine art he served; and with all the success he had achieved, with laurels heaped on laurels in the future, hereafter ages would hold him forever miserable, if this duty to the world went unfulfilled, if, for want of means or want of inspiration, he had failed on earth to perpetuate that faultless smile.

These entreaties in the end prevailed. The painter began upon his first sketch -a drawing in red chalk, at which he worked for days, but only to destroy it. The pose was wrong, he explained; he must try another; and this, too, came to nothing. He lamented bitterly his own incompetence. Never had subject thwarted him like this; always the look he wanted was not there. That elusive smile played tricks with him; its lovely lines would not be caught, but changed their places before he could reproduce them. How to do her justice? How to accomplish what he already feared would prove impossible? To control that look a while, he must control the sitter's mind; he must have music, some sweet, delightful strain to charm her into subjection to his will. So Gentile brought his lute only too readily, and played to them; while a new drawing was begun, and all went well with it.

But all went far from well with Maestro Ambrogio. Of late, he had grown moody and despondent; most unlike himself. And now, to-day, he left his furnace, to pace aimlessly back and forth in one of the garden-paths-that farthest away from the great hall of the house, where the painter had set up his easel near an open window, through which Gentile's music and even Messer Leonardo's progress could be followed. For, now and then, the master spoke a word of satisfaction, in his own encouragement; he had found the way at last; here was success indeed. But the master of the house only sighed when he heard this, and his step grew heavier and more uncertain, as though a leaden clog were dragging at his heels.

What weight of sorrow thus depressed him? Old Modesta knew him too well, had watched him too closely not to have divined it. All was plain enough. The scales had fallen from his eyes; he had come to doubt the wisdom of his choice;

to distrust the smile of the enchantress, and with reason. In one fatal cast, rashly made, he had flung away his life; and now he repented his rashness. The poor serving-woman, who loved him better than she loved herself, looked at him and longed to help him, but could not find the way. What comfort had she to offer? If she spoke, what good would her words do? This: that he would be forced to answer them; and if he did not speak, his heart would surely break. So, praying Heaven to guide her, she went out and stopped him in his walk.

"My master," she began; "never have I seen you so unhappy. What is it now that troubles you?"

He stared at her with shining eyes, dry and tearless.

"Nothing," he answered. "Nothing." The tears were in her eyes. "Oh, my poor master!" she sighed, mournfully. But he brushed by her, and was gone again, muttering to himself.

"My wife!" she heard him say. Then there came a shout of triumph, and the painter dashed out upon them with the drawing in his hand.

"See!" he cried. "I have surpassed myself. Who will dare to tell me this is not worthy of her?"

In that glowing moment of success he had no thought beyond his work. The doctor took the paper, while Leonardo, passing behind him and leaning upon his shoulder, failed to note with what trouble he regarded it.

Modesta looked on, silently. They made a picture in themselves against a background of the vine-leaves, as if they had been posed for embodiments of light and darkness. Light gleamed in the painter's rose-hued silken mantle, in his flushed cheek, his joyous eyes. He was all aflame. In the other all was clouded, cold.

But the hand of genius has a strength that cannot be resisted; and it held her master now. Slowly, the light illumined him. His face brightened, until it reflected the painter's look of exultation.

"It is wonderful!" he whispered. "Caro mio!" said that other master there behind him. "This is a fortunate hour for us both-we must not let it slip. I will go home, and get my colors;

then make the portrait-finish it, while the light lasts. Think, amico: this day's work will hang upon some wall in Florence, ages hence when we are only memories. And all the painters of the world will bow before it. They will say: 'See how one brushmark, tracing out a woman's smile, gave poor Da Vinci his undying fame! Look at Leonardo's masterpiece-Iovina, Maestro Ambrogio's wife!""

"Yes," returned the doctor, eagerly. "The colors-bring the colors, noble Leonardo."

The painter hurried off, catching as he went a note of laughing music, and singing his own song to it. For in the house Gentile's lute played on.

Then, as the doctor listened, his face grew dull and grave again. The old dark thought possessed him wholly. The lovely drawing slipped from his hand, falling face downward in the earth. He let it lie there, and, turning away, he flung himself upon one of the gardenbenches, hiding his own face.

The silent witness, whom he had forgotten, now forgot herself. Overcome with his despair, she knew neither what she said nor what she did; but, rushing forward, knelt beside him, and poured out her inmost soul in a flood of unconsidered words.

"Master, why did you marry her? She has brought ruin upon the house; she cares for nothing that is good; she never goes to church, never says a prayer; she is a pagan, a demon. How has she ensnared you?"

"Modesta, Modesta! What words are these?"

"I cannot help it-I cannot bear it longer. Why did you go so far to bring her home? She is not like other women. Maestro mio, she has no heart, no tenderness. She is like the flower that sprung out of the ashes, beautiful, without its fragrance."

She had risen nearly to her feet in her excitement, but Maestro Ambrogio now caught her by the wrist, and forced her back upon her knees.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "Forgive me, master; I forgot" "Speak!" he continued, sharply. "What flower do you mean?"

"The rose," replied Modesta. "The

dead rose that seemed to live again. Signor, it was not life, for life has sweetness in it. And she has none-she has no feeling, no kindness in her. She is like the rose."

As though the woman had stabbed him to the heart, he released her with a moan of anguish.

"Oh, had I known!" he cried, in a broken voice. "Of all men that ever breathed I am the most pitiable. It is true-it is true. She is like the rose.'

A light breeze caught the fallen paper, which fluttered to his feet. He stooped for the master's handiwork, considered it one moment, then tore it up, and gave it to the winds again; not angrily, but deliberately, with a look and gesture of the deepest sorrow.

Modesta nodded approvingly. Then her eyes flashed. He should do more than this; such calm submission was intolerable.

"Listen!" she cried. "My lady must have music. What cares she for your unhappiness? The boy amuses her, and she smiles upon him. Ay! Go on with it; play and sing to her, do!"

The words were hardly spoken, when the music stopped. The doctor rose and moved slowly toward the house without an answer to Modesta, who, accepting the silent rebuke, followed him meekly, but only to the window.

The lute lay upon the floor. There was the painter's seat, there his empty easel; and beyond, where he had posed her, half reclined the lovely figure he longed to make immortal. But now Gentile knelt beside her, drew her face down to his, and kissed it; and she permitted this; she did not draw away; the golden ornament at her wrist shone through his dark curls, while she smoothed the hair upon his temples, idly but gently. In truth, the boy amused her, and she smiled upon him.

A shadow came between them and the sunlight. With a cry of terror Gentile fled, unregarded. For Maestro Ambrogio went directly to his wife, and took her hand.

"Come!" he said, gravely, in a tone of pity rather than of remonstrance. "Come with me!"

She made no effort to resist him; and with a firm step he led her out into the

garden. While they crossed it, all the sunshine seemed to come from her. She caught its glory like a mirror, and gave it back in playful gleams; then took it all away in one last, radiant smile, when they passed into the laboratory and the door shut behind them. She had outdone the flowers; they looked cold and colorless. The perfect moment of the day had passed. The hours now could only droop and die.

What stillness in the house! The mute, unbidden guest, misfortune, had chosen it for his abode. Modesta barred the great door, and when the painter came she met him at the wicket, to put him off until the morrow with poor excuses. He entreated, threatened her ineffectually. He begged at least to have his drawing, but she denied him even that; she dared not tell him it had been destroyed. One word answered everything. To-morrow he should see her master; all would explain itself, all come right to-morrow. And while he protested, she closed the loophole in his face. He went away and did not come again. There was no further disturbance from without; even the distant rumors of the city sunk to rest. The great blue silence overhead deepened and faded sombrely into the chilling pallor of the stars. Below, in the garden, the fireflies glanced about, the crickets droned; no other sound broke in upon the quiet of the night; no sign of life, no movement from the workshop; there, too, all was black and still.

Bolt upright in her chair, hour by hour, Modesta sat and told her beads. From intervals of uneasy slumber in which she heard her master's voice calling her, she started up to listen breathlessly, to drop back and pray herself to sleep again. At last she felt sure that she had not been dreaming. "Modesta! Modesta!" the cry of distress came sharply and clearly, bringing her to her feet with an answering cry. But now the cool, gray tint of morning met her eyes. The drowsy notes of night were hushed. She could hear the twitter of the waking swallows; but nothing else.

[ocr errors][merged small]

The place was like some dream of a disordered mind. Piles of mouldy books, loose parchment leaves, yellow and illegible; flasks of metal, incrusted and corroded into fantastic shapes and colors; swollen monsters of glass with slender necks, emitting dull phosphoric light, or bearing old stains of substances long since distilled; mortars, and heaps of pounded drugs; fossils, and charts, and livid specimens in bottles; these things and more were huddled together in motley groups, or flung aside neglected. And in the midst of all, by the door of the furnace, which was choked with dying embers, crouched Maestro Ambrogio.

He seemed to have dropped asleep with his hand upon the bellows; they had fallen close beside him. The air of the room was full of dust, through which Modesta made her way with timid steps, hesitating to disturb her master, shrinking from the surrounding objects, yet eager to examine them. She stopped half stifled, drew back for freer breath, returned, went on. She could see more clearly now. Maestro Ambrogio was alone. Where then was her mistress? What had he done with her? At the form into which the question shaped itself Modesta stood still, trembling.

Here, close by, was the carved chest which had aroused her curiosity, long ago. At that moment, through the little window to which she had climbed in former days, the first sunbeams slanted down. She saw at her feet a stone tablet, rudely inscribed with records of a dead people-she remembered others like it, unearthed among her own mountains; and on the lid of the coffer at her side, she saw a sculptured figure, in high relief, perfect in form and feature-the graven image of the stranger who had brought ill luck upon the house, the woman with the pagan name.

There she lay asleep, as Modesta had first seen her, with the clinging garment, the veil about her head, the orna

ment at her wrist. And her lips had the same enchanting smile upon them; it was hard to believe that they were cut in alabaster. This seemed to be a living statue of one who in life had only seemed to live.

What did the chest hold? Modesta must know that; now was the very time. She tugged at the lid with all her might, but could not raise it. Slowly, without noise, she pushed and pushed again, sliding it aside. Ashes there-and nothing else; ashes, fine as dust; stay, something more, on which the sun's rays glittered. It was the twisted thread of gold that Maestro Ambrogio's wife had worn.

The

With a cry Modesta staggered back; then, to save herself, caught at the alabaster cover which toppled and fell, dashing itself into a thousand pieces. Dust and ashes mingled in a thicker cloud. The room woke to life. Mice scampered across it, squeaking; spiders fled to hide themselves; a bat flew wildly in and out of the dark corners. embers of the furnace rattled down, and flickered into flame; while poor Modesta waited with downcast eyes for her master's angry word. It did not come, and she looked up. The firelight flashed upon his face. It was a death-mask. The days of his reproof were over. All the vexations of the world were done for him.

Modesta returned to her native hills of the Mugello, and for many winters more her master's dead face haunted her, as the look he could never catch haunted the great painter all his life. It was a life of wandering, and he died in France years afterward. The picture he longed to make was never finished. But between him and every woman's face he painted came that mysterious remembrance, which, in spite of himself, his brush recorded. The world saw it, named it, handed down the name; and, to this day, we know it as the smile of Leonardo.

« AnkstesnisTęsti »