Part 76 (1/2)
”A copy of the celebrated 'Pensiero' of Michel Angelo--in other words, the famous sitting statue of Lorenzo de Medici, in the Medicean chapel in Florence. I had it executed for me on the spot by Bazzanti.”
”A n.o.ble figure!”
”Indeed it is--a n.o.ble figure, instinct with life, and strength, and meditation. My first thought on seeing the original was that I would not for worlds be condemned to pa.s.s a night alone with it. I should every moment expect the musing hand to drop away from the stern mouth, and the eyes to turn upon me!”
”These,” said I, pausing at the chimney-piece, ”are _souvenirs_ of Switzerland. How delicately those chamois are carved out of the hard wood! They almost seem to snuff the mountain air! But here is a rapier with a hilt of ornamented steel--where did this come from?”
I had purposely led up the conversation to this point. I had patiently questioned and examined for the sake of this one inquiry, and I waited her reply as if my life hung on it.
Her whole countenance changed. She took it down, and her eyes filled with tears.
”It was my father's,” she said, tenderly.
”Your father's!” I exclaimed, joyfully. ”Heaven be thanked! Did you say your father's?”
She looked up surprised, then smiled, and faintly blushed.
”I did,” she replied.
”And was your father a soldier?” I asked; for the sword looked more like a sword of ceremony than a sword for service.
But to this question she gave no direct reply.
”It was his sword,” she said, ”and he had the best of all rights to wear it.”
With this she kissed the weapon reverently, and restored it to its place.
I kissed her hand quite as reverently that day at parting, and she did not withdraw it.
CHAPTER XLVII.
ALL ABOUT ART.
Art's a service.
AURORA LEIGH.
”G.o.d sent art, and the devil sent critics,” said Muller, dismally paraphrasing a popular proverb. ”My picture is rejected!”
”Rejected!” I echoed, surprised to find him sitting on the floor, like a tailor, in front of an acre of canvas. ”By whom?”
”By the Hanging Committee.”
”Hang the Hanging Committee!”
”A pious prayer, my friend. Would that it could be carried into execution!”
”What cause do they a.s.sign?”
”Cause! Do you suppose they trouble themselves to find one? Not a bit of it. They simply scrawl a great R in chalk on the back of it, and send you a printed notice to carry it home again. What is it to them, if a poor devil has been painting his very heart and hopes out, day after day, for a whole year, upon that piece of canvas? Nothing, and less than nothing--confound them!”