Part 16 (1/2)

”It's in the Church of Santa Maria Formosa in Venice,” said Paul quickly.

He had pa.s.sed through a period of wild enthusiasm for Italian painting, and had haunted the National Gallery, and knew by heart Sir Charles Eastlake's edition of Kugler's unique textbook.

”Ah, you know it?” said Ursula.

”I've never been to Venice,” replied Paul, with a sigh. ”It's the dream of my life to go there.”

She straightened herself on her chair. ”How do you know the name of the church?”

Paul smiled and looked round the walls, and reflected for a moment.

”Yes,” said he in answer to his own questioning, ”I think I can tell you where all these pictures are, though I've never seen them, except one. The two angels by Melozzo da Forli are in St. Peter's at Rome. The Sposalia of Raphael is in the Breza, Milan. The Andrea del Sarto is in the Louvre. That's the one I've seen. That little child of Heaven, playing the lute, is in the predella of an altar-piece by Vittore Carpaccio in the--in the--please don't tell me--in the Academia of Venice. Am I right?”

”Absolutely right,” said Miss Winwood.

He laughed, delighted. At three and twenty, one--thank goodness!--is very young. One hungers for recognition of the wonder-inspiring self that lies hidden beneath the commonplace mask of clay. ”And that,” said he--”the Madonna being crowned--the Botticelli--is in the Uffizi at Florence. Walter Pater talks about it--you know--in his 'Renaissance'--the pen dropping from her hand--'the high, cold words that have no meaning for her--the intolerable honour'! Oh, it's enormous, isn't it?”

”I'm afraid I've not read my Pater as I ought,” said Miss Winwood.

”But, you must!” cried Paul, with the gloriously audacious faith of youth which has just discovered a true apostle. ”Pater puts you on to the inner meaning of everything--in art, I mean. He doesn't wander about in the air like Ruskin, though, of course, if you get your mental winnowing machine in proper working order you can get the good grain out of Ruskin. 'The Stones of Venice' and 'The Seven Lamps' have taught me a lot. But you always have to be saying to yourself, 'Is this gorgeous nonsense or isn't it?' whereas in Pater there's no nonsense at all. You're simply carried along on a full stream of Beauty straight into the open Sea of Truth.”

And Ursula Winwood, to whom Archbishops had been deferential and Cabinet Ministers had come for, guidance, meekly promised to send at once for Pater's 'Renaissance' and so fill in a most lamentable gap in her education.

”My uncle, the Archdeacon,” she said, after a while, ”reminded me that the great Savelli was a Venetian general--of Roman family; and, strangely enough, his name, too, was Paul. Perhaps that's how you got the name.”

”That must be how,” said Paul dreamily. He had not heard of the great general. He had seen the name of Savelli somewhere--also that of Torelli--and had hesitated between the two. Thinking it no great harm, he wove into words the clamour of his cherished romance. ”My parents died when I was quite young--a baby--and then I was brought to England.

So you see”--he smiled in his winning way--”I'm absolutely English.”

”But you've kept your Italian love of beauty.”

”I hope so,” said Paul.

”Then I suppose you were brought up by guardians,” said Ursula.

”A guardian,” said Paul, anxious to cut down to a minimum the mythical personages that might be connected with his career. ”But I seldom saw him. He lived in Paris chiefly. He's dead now.”

”What a poor little uncared-for waif you must have been.”

Paul laughed. ”Oh, don't pity me. I've had to think for myself a good deal, it is true. But it has done me good. Don't you find it's the things one learns for oneself--whether they are about life or old china--that are the most valuable?”

”Of course,” said Miss Winwood. But she sighed, womanlike, at the thought of the little Paul--(how beautiful he must have been as a child!)--being brought up by servants and hirelings in a lonely house, his very guardian taking no concern in his welfare.

Thus it came about that, from the exiguous material supplied by Paul, Miss Winwood, not doubting his gentle birth and breeding, constructed for him a wholly fict.i.tious set of antecedents. Paul invented as little as possible and gratefully accepted her suggestions. They worked together unconsciously. Paul had to give some account of himself. He had blotted Bludston and his modeldom out of his existence. The pa.s.sionate belief in his high and romantic birth was part of his being, and Miss Winwood's recognition was a splendid confirmation of his faith. It was rather the suppressio veri of which he was guilty than the propositio falsi. So between them his childhood was invested with a vague semblance of reality in which the fact of his isolation stood out most prominent.

They had many talks together, not only on books and art, but on the social subjects in which Ursula was so deeply interested. She found him well informed, with a curiously detailed knowledge of the everyday lives of the poor. It did not occur to her that this knowledge came from his personal experience. She attributed it to the many-sided genius of her paragon.

”When you get well you must help us. There's an infinite amount to be done.”

”I shall be delighted,” said Paul politely.

”You'll find I'm a terrible person to deal with when once I've laid my hands on anybody,” she said with a smile. ”I drag in all kinds of people, and they can't escape. I sent young Harry Gostling--Lord Ruthmere's son, you know--to look into a working girls' club in the Isle of Dogs that was going wrong. He hated it at first, but now he's as keen as possible. And you'll be keen too.”