Part 5 (1/2)

When I chid her for such savage behaviour Margherita burst into tears and cried out pa.s.sionately that Raphael was her friend, and that the strange lady had no business to try to steal him from her. Seeing her so unreasoningly jealous at such a tender age I was mightily amused, having no premonition that these two would one day be rivals in good earnest for Raphael's love.

But Margherita's jealousy woke in me a curiosity as to how far it was well-founded, and bantering Raphael thereon I came to the conclusion that he loved Maria Dovizio, but that he had so modest an estimate of his own talent and prospects that he would never tell her of his affection. The knowledge that I had a rival enlivened mightily my own pa.s.sion, and determined me to lay the matter plainly before the lady and demand that she should choose between us.

Finding my opportunity I argued my friend's cause, as it seemed to me with great magnanimity, but at the same time I neglected not to set forth how superior were my own advantages. To my immense surprise she refused me in such terms as to leave me with no ground for hope,--persisting at the same time that I was mistaken in regard to Raphael's feelings.

In sheer contrariety and because her refusal had temporarily taken away my senses, I maintained that I knew whereof I spoke.

”Would that I had known this before,” she said turning from me.

”You would not then have disclaimed sending the message implied by the flowers which I attached to his mahl stick?” I persisted rudely.

”Nay, nay,” she cried all of a tremble, ”it is best as it is,” and she made me swear that I would tell nothing of all this. The oath sat lightly on my conscience, and when my pride had somewhat recovered from the wound which it had received, my better nature a.s.serted itself for I reflected that here were two young creatures whom nature intended for one another and I determined to give these bashful lovers another opportunity in which to understand each other.

Though I prided myself not a little on the rare n.o.bility of soul which I manifested by such unusual procedure, it was not so disinterested as might at first appear. For, I reasoned in my heart, when all comes to be known Maria Dovizio will give me credit for great self-sacrifice and delicacy of feeling, while Raphael cannot fail to be touched by my magnanimity. Back of all this self-laudation there was an ulterior motive hardly confessed to myself. By springing the mine prematurely I would either cement their union or drive them permanently apart, thus clearing my path of a dangerous rival while removing any imputation of underhand dealing upon my part. I dared the risk for I was nearing that point of desperation where uncertainty is worse than the knowledge of absolute defeat.

While I sought for some promising way in which to execute my scheme, Raphael read the translations of the pagan writers which Dovizio had lent him, and this plunge into a bath of the old literature, so new to him, had a tremendous effect upon his susceptible mind. He regretted deeply that Pico della Mirandola, who strove to harmonise Greek mythology with the Christian religion, had been s.n.a.t.c.hed away by death before he could have had the opportunity to converse with him. He read his writings with avidity and listened to what Dovizio remembered of his arguments that the religion of the Greeks was as truly a revelation from G.o.d as our own, and he could readily believe the a.s.sertion of certain of the humanist's friends that at Pico's death-bed the Virgin and Venus had met, and comforting his dying gaze with their presence, had together borne away his soul to the regions of the blest.

Without being any less Christian, Raphael's soul expanded in the suns.h.i.+ne of these influences, absorbing all that was joyous and beautiful in pagan ideas. Chigi lent him his favourite ma.n.u.script, the Myth of Psyche, translated from Apuleius, which he declared Raphael must one day paint for him. But of all the G.o.ds of antiquity the one which roused our young enthusiast to deepest admiration was Apollo, whose avatar was the sun, but whose spiritual significance was infinitely more, the light of the soul, the G.o.d of music, art, and poetry and all that elevates the spirit of man.

”Listen Giovanni,” he said to me one day, ”I could pray to such a deity.

Think you that it would be sin to utter a prayer like this of Socrates: 'Beloved Pan, and all ye G.o.ds who haunt this place, give me beauty of the inward soul, and may the outward and the inward man be at one'?”

Seeing sport in the idea I a.s.sured him that such adoration was commendable and would doubtless meet with a response. I had my own idea of what form that response should take. Chigi held revel that night to celebrate a visit from the improvisatrice Imperia, who was on her way to Rome. Raphael could not be induced to join the company, preferring to spend the night devouring some books lately come from Venice. He had striven to tell me of a mysterious experience. A stone bearing the image of Apollo had fallen before him as he read, and he had accepted it as a propitious omen. I laughed rudely and he shrank from me offended.

”I would have shown it to you,” he said, ”but now you shall not see it.”

I repeated this hallucination to Chigi and Imperia, and they also found it amusing.

”He is as drunk with poesy,” I insisted, ”as ever I have been with wine.

If the Signorina would graciously sing some old Greek chant yonder in the garden he would believe that he heard the voice of the G.o.ds.”

Imperia's eyes sparkled with mischief. ”Let us humour this young enthusiast to his bent,” she said. ”I will hide in the laurel copse at the foot of the garden if Bazzi here will bring him out upon the terrace.”

”He could never be content to hear your divine voice,” Chigi objected, ”without seeking you out, and then--”

”And then, my friend, you would imply that the disillusion would be too cruel. No, I am too evidently a part of this solid earth to pa.s.s as a nymph of Apollo.”

I remained silent but I looked meaningly at Maria Dovizio, who stood near the window, her slight figure outlined against its darkness.

Imperia followed my glance.

”Ah! there is a girl, graceful and ethereal enough to satisfy an artist's ideal.”

”What a pity,” Chigi said, ”that she has not your voice.”

”Nay, if the Signora will but deign to sing as she suggested,” I persisted, ”we will robe the Signorina Dovizio in Greek draperies and pose her in the little pillared temple in front of the laurel thicket and Raphael will not doubt that the voice is hers.”

Thus, at last, my scheme was carried out, though we had much difficulty in persuading Maria Dovizio to lend herself to it. Only when Chigi explained that it was an ovation to Raphael, in which she was to crown him with a wreath of laurel and foretell him a glorious future, did she consent. Even then she had no suspicion that I had any ulterior motive in suggesting the little tableau.

It was late at night, or rather early in the morning, when all our arrangements were completed and, returning to the studio, I dragged Raphael from his books on pretence that we both had need to cool our brains.