Part 53 (1/2)
An unpleasant twinge affected his nerves, and his eyelids quivered and blinked as though struck by a sudden shaft of the sun. This was the only facial sign he ever gave of the difficulty he at times experienced in meeting the straight, clear glance of his betrothed.
”You would know me more, and love me less? Is that it?” he said carelessly. ”My dear girl, why do you press the point? If you will have it, I tell you frankly, I think women are growing very clever, much too clever in fact,--and that the encouragement and impetus given to them in the Arts is a very great mistake. Because they are not all geniuses like my Angela! You are one in a thousand--or rather one in a million,--and for one Angela Sovrani we shall have a world of female daubers calling themselves artists and entering into compet.i.tion with us, as if we had not already quite enough compet.i.tion among our own s.e.x! I honestly believe that with very rare exceptions woman's work is decidedly inferior and mediocre as compared to man's.”
Quickly Angela disengaged herself from his hold, her lips trembling--her eyes were full of a strange fire and brilliancy,--her slight figure seemed to grow taller as she stood for a moment like a queen, regarding him steadfastly from under her fair, level brows.
”Then come and see!” she said, ”I am not proud--I make no boast at all of what I have done--and no one perceives or deplores the faults of my work more than I do--but I know I have not altogether failed!”
She moved away from him and stood opposite her veiled canvas,--then as Florian followed and joined her, with a swift action which had something of defiance as well as grace in it, she swept aside the concealing curtain. Florian recoiled with an involuntary cry,--and then remained motionless and silent,--stricken dumb and stupid by the magnificent creation which confronted him. This Angela's masterpiece! A woman's work! This stupendous conception! This perfect drawing! This wondrous colouring! Fully facing him, the central glory of the whole picture, was a figure of Christ--unlike any other Christ ever imagined by poet or painter--an etherealised Form through which the very light of Heaven itself seemed to s.h.i.+ne,--supreme, majestic, and austerely G.o.d-like;--the face was more beautiful than any ever dreamed of by the hewers of the cla.s.sic marbles--it was the face of a great Archangel,--beardless and youthful, yet kingly and commanding. Round the broad brows a Crown of Thorns shone like a diadem, every p.r.i.c.kly point tipped with pale fire,--and from the light floating folds of intense white which, cloud-like, clung about the divine Form, faint flashes of the lightning gleamed. Above this grand Christ, the heavens were opened, pouring out a rain of such translucent purity of colour and radiance as never had been seen in any painted canvas before--but beneath, the clouds were black as midnight--confused, chaotic, and drifting darkly on a strong wind as it seemed into weird and witch-like shapes, wherein there were seen the sun and moon revolving pallidly, like globes of fire lost from their orbits and about to become extinct.
And among those s.h.i.+fting black films were a crowd of human creatures, floating and falling into unknown depths of darkness, and striking out wild arms of appeal and entreaty and despair,--the faces of these were all familiar, and were the life-like portraits of many of those pre-eminent in the history of the time. Chief among them was the Sovereign Pontiff, waxen and wan and dark-eyed,--he was depicted as fastening fetters of iron round the body of a beautiful youth, laurel-crowned, the leaves of the laurel bearing faint gold letters which spelt the word ”Science.” Huddled beside him was a well-known leader of the Jesuits, busily counting up heaps of gold,--another remarkable figure was that of a well-known magnate of the Church of England, who, leaning forward eagerly, sought to grasp and hold the garment of the Pope, but was dragged back by the hand of a woman crowned with an Imperial diadem. After these and other princ.i.p.al personages came a confusion of faces--all recognisable, yet needing study to discern;--creatures drifting downwardly into the darkness,--one was the vivisectionist whose name was celebrated through France, clutching at his bleeding victim and borne relentlessly onwards by the whirlwind,--and forms and faces belong to men of every description of Church-doctrine were seen trampling underneath them other human creatures scarcely discernible. And over all this blackness and chaos the supernal figure of the Christ was aerially poised,--one hand was extended and to this a woman clung--a woman with a beautiful face made piteous in its beauty by long grief and patient endurance. In her other arm she held a sleeping child--and mother and child were linked together by a garland of flowers partially broken and faded. Her entreating att.i.tude,--the sleeping child's helplessness--her worn face,--the peris.h.i.+ng roses of earth's hope and joy,--all expressed their meaning simply yet tragically, and as the Divine Hand supported and drew her up out of the universal chaos below, the hope of a new world, a better world, a wiser world, a holier world, seemed to be distantly conveyed. But the eyes of the Christ were full of reproach, and were bent on the Representative of St. Peter binding the laurel-crowned youth, and dragging him into darkness,--and the words written across the golden mount of the picture, in clear black letters, seemed to be actually spoken aloud from the vivid color and movement of the painting. ”Many in that day will call upon Me and say, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in Thy name, and in Thy name cast out devils, and done many wonderful works?”
”Then will I say to them, I never knew you! Depart from me all ye that work iniquity!”
As an Allegory the picture was a daring yet sublime reproach to the hypocrisy of the religious world,--as a picture it was consummate in every detail, and would have been freely admitted as a masterpiece of Raffaelle had Raffaelle been fortunate enough to paint it. Still Varillo kept silence. Angela's heart beat so loudly that she could almost hear it in the deep silence of the room. Every fine little nerve in her body was strained--to the utmost height of suspense,--she was afraid to look at her lover, or disturb the poise of his mental judgment by the lightest movement. And he? Thoughts, black as the chaos of cloud she had so powerfully portrayed, were stirring in his soul,--thoughts, base and mean and cowardly, which, gradually gathering force as he dwelt upon them, began to grow and spring up to a devilish height worked into life and being by a burning spark of jealousy, which, long smouldering in his nature, now leaped into a flame. No trace of the wicked inner workings of his mind, however, darkened the equanimity of his features, or clouded the serene, soft candour of his eyes, as he at last turned towards the loving, shrinking woman, who stood waiting for his approval, as simply and sweetly as a rose might wait for the touch of the morning sun. Slowly, and like little pellets of ice, his first words fell from his lips,
”Did you do it all yourself?”
The spell was disturbed--the charm broken. Angela turned very white--she drew a deep breath--and the tension on her nerves relaxed,--her heart gave one indignant bound--and then resumed its usual quiet beating, as with a strong effort she gathered all her dignity and force together, and replied simply,
”Can you ask?”
He looked at her. What an embodied insult to the arrogance of man she was! She!--a mere woman!--and the painter of the finest picture ever seen since Raffaelle and Michael Angelo left the world to work elsewhere. ”Chaste as ice, pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny!” In his imagination he saw the world crowning her with imperishable bays--he heard the denunciation of the Vatican and the condemnation of the Churches, thunder uselessly against the grand lesson of her work, while crowds gathered adoringly before the most perfect Christ ever painted!--and he saw her name written up in letters of gold on the scroll of those whom history numbers as immortal! It should not be! It should never be! And again he spoke, enunciating his words with difficulty, for his lips were dry.
”It is very fine! Quite marvellous, in fact!--almost unprecedented!
That is why I ask, 'did you do it all yourself?' You must not be offended, Angela! I mean so well! You see the conception--the breadth of treatment--the gradation and tone of colour--are all absolutely masculine. Who first suggested the idea to you?”
Still very pale, breathing quickly yet lightly, and maintaining an air of calm which was almost matter of fact, she answered,--
”No one! Though perhaps, if it is traced to its source, it arose in my mind from seeing the universal dissatisfaction which most intelligent people feel with religion, as administered to them by the Churches.
That, and a constant close study of the New Testament, set the thought in my brain,--a thought which gradually expressed itself in this form.
So far as any work belongs to the worker, it is entirely my own creation. I am sorry you should have implied any doubt of it!”
Here her voice trembled a little, but she quickly steadied it. He smiled--a little difficult smile--and slipping his right hand between his coat and vest, felt for something he always carried there. It should never be!
”My dear Angela!” he said, with a gracious tranquillity that was almost dignity, ”I do not doubt you in the least!--I merely SUGGEST what all the world will SAY! There is not an art-critic alive who will accept this--this extraordinary production--as the work of a woman! It is the kind of thing which might have been produced hundreds of years ago by a great master setting his pupils to work at different sections of the canvas,--but that one woman, painting all alone for three years, should have designed and executed such a masterpiece--yes!--I will admit it is a masterpiece!--is an unheard of and altogether an extraordinary thing, and you must not wonder if competent judges reject the statement with incredulity!”
”It does not matter to me,” said Angela, ”what they reject or accept.
You admit it is a masterpiece--that is enough for me. It is my own work, and you know it is!”
”Dear little one!” he said, laughing forcedly, ”How do I know? You have never admitted me into the studio once while you were at work!”
”Florian!”
The exclamation broke from her lips like a cry of physical pain.
”That was a mistake of yours!” he went on recklessly, his eyes beginning to glitter with the fever raging in his mind, ”You should not have shut the doors against your lover, my beloved! Nor would you admit your father either! That looks very strange!”
White as a snowflake, yet with blazing eyes, Angela turned upon him.