 | CHAPTER XIII. Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
It was mid-forenoon; and (with a very unusual irregularity—for
he made a religion of his Art, and ordinarily
suffered no engagement of pleasure or ceremony to interrupt
his habitual industry)—Paul was not at his studio.
He paced up and down the little parlor of his lodgings,
awaiting the carriage of the Princess C—, but with very
conflicting feelings for his thought-company, meanwhile.
His own heart had called him to account. In his
pocket was a letter from his mother—unopened. It had
been brought him as he waited to fulfil the engagement of
the morning; and, making the excuse to himself that
probably there would not be time to read it before he
should be called away, he had thus deferred what he never
had deferred before.
But that letter had arrived just as he was summoned to
the same bar of self-examination by another twinge of conscience.
The princess had several times alluded to a
young sculptor, Signor Valerio, in whom she was interested,
within that of the old sculptor Secchi, under whom he was
studying—she wished some day to introduce him. And
the note of this morning was to request Paul to stay at
home till she should call and take him there. But what
meant the uneasiness with which he waited to comply with
this invitation? Why could he not go, with such a lover
of Art as the princess, to give his admiration, with hers, to
the genius of a youthful sculptor, without a jealous unwillingness
so foreign to his usual generous appreciation?
As the rattle of wheels announced the stop of a rapidly
driven carriage at the door, Paul stood self-convicted of
two charges from which he was very glad to escape—first,
a jealousy which betrayed a deeper interest in that lady
than he had been willing to confess, and, second, a consciousness
that to the nature of this jealous interest the
mere presence of his mother's letter was a reproof. He
dreaded that the reading of it might break the charm,
even of the doubtful pleasure of that morning.
To get rid of an oppressive solitude, as well as to prevent
the princess from waiting, Paul made haste below;
but the well-appointed equipage was at the door without
her. The footman's message was to say that her highness
had been passing the morning at Signor Valerio's, and the
carriage would bring Mr. Fane to her highness at the
Galeria Secchi.
Away dashed those proud blood horses, and discontentedly
alone upon the cushions of the luxurious britzka rode
Paul. He was struggling to disbelieve and make light of
his fascination by the princess; but that did not prevent
his feeling something exceedingly like resentment, that she
should have anticipated an engagement with himself in
her eagerness to get earlier to his rival. His preparation
to seem unconcerned, and the endeavoring to smother all
that should interfere with a proper estimate of the sculptor's
work and a liberal commendation of it, occupied
quite all the time which it took the gay equipage to
thread the narrow streets to its destination.
Signor Secchi, “the sculptor,” was a venerable mediocrity,
early in life mislabelled as a genius, and ever since
proudly wearing the label, and executing occasionally an
original work to keep up his theoretic belief in it—but
showing what was his practical misgiving on the subject,
by relying for subsistence on the making of copies. His
large establishment for this mechanical production of statuary
for the foreign markets was, of course, a great deal
visited by strangers wishing to purchase; and, in this
atmosphere of tangible celebrity, the oft-named and much-sought
Secchi felt blissfully renowned.
It struck Paul that her highness's “tiger” seemed very
much at home, as, on arriving, he led the way into the
galeria of Signor Secchi; and, without asking for the
and through passages and side-doors, to the hidden
haunt of his pupil. The mysterious Signor Valerio must
be very often visited, Fane thought, when the confidential
servant knew the way so trippingly!
But, to what a luxurious studio was Paul suddenly introduced!
The exquisitely softened light from above fell
upon walls hung with draperies of green, while a large
couch of green velvet, and a round table and fauteuils,
covered with the same costly stuff, made a half boudoir
under the window. There was no one in the room when
he entered; and, as the door closed behind and left him in
silence, he looked around with an increased tumult of wonder
and jealousy. What a luxuriast must be this favorite
Valerio!
He began to look closer at the artistic belongings of the
place. In the centre stood a sculptor's easel, on which
was a clay figure, covered with the wet cloth of suspended
labor. On the side opposite the door, however, were two
finished statues, of the size of life—one, a fugitive Daphne,
with her face turned to the wall; and the other a prostrate
Antinoüs, lying asleep at a fountain's lip. He was approaching
these for a closer look, when the door opened
behind him.
“Signor Valerio, at your service!” said a familiar voice;
but as he turned, and, at the first glance, saw only a person
smile of the princess, the next moment, however, beaming
out from under the rim of the slouched hat, and an incredulous
glimpse of the whole mystification flashed upon
him!
“And your friend, the sculptor?” he exclaimed, as he
eagerly sprang forward to take the offered hand of the
princess.
“C'est moi!” she deliberately pronounced—commencing
with much gravity to make a courtesy, but suddenly
remembering her present costume and the now visible
machinery of that feminine performance, and with a
slide to the right, performing a gentleman's ceremonious
bow.
Paul felt—he did not dare, for the moment, to ask himself
why—boundlessly relieved. He looked around him
with fresh eyes, and admiration inexpressibly more willing,
as she described to him the secret culture of her artistic
tastes in this chamber of enchantment.
“I did not confess this to you, when you first recognized
the spirit that breathes here,” said the princess;
“I let you misname me the improvisatrice—content with
that, indeed, as it is the same inspired thought, whether it
is breathed through words or marble. But I was not
quite ready, at the time, to admit you to this inner sanctuary.”
“You doubted my capability of appreciating it,” said
Paul.
“No—for I saw, as I told you, that you were born with
the soul of an artist; but every sacred temple has its vestibule,
and a secret like this, you will allow, should have
its vestibule of time.”
“But there must be few of your friends, who, even by
waiting, have gained the privilege of entrance here,” he
said, “for I am surprised never to have heard a hint of
such a delicious mystery.”
“My visits here have been constant, of course,” said
the princess; “yet, under the management of good old
Secchi, the secret has been well kept. With the inquisitive
underlings of his workshops, the inner studio passes
for his own impenetrable sanctuary; and the works, which
you see here, are cast and rough-hewn as his own—
`Signor Valerio' being known but as the one confidential
student admitted to his choicest instruction in the Art.
As to my friends and acquaintances now in Florence,
scarce one has ever entered here.”
The princess, meantime, was unwinding the wet cloth
from the figure on the easel; and (deferring for the
moment his closer look at the statues) Paul went on with
his inquiries into the intellectual portion of the mystery.
“With so exquisite a piece of work as this which you
are unveiling,” said he (for the admirable lines of a most
are you content with secresy? Can there be genius without
fame? Would a star be a star, without the atmosphere
by which to shine?”
“It is the contrary that seems wonderful to me,” said
the princess, as she took the slender moulding-pencils into
her hands, and balanced one after another with the dextrous
manipulation of habit—“how genius, particularly
artistic genius, can consent to promiscuous publicity! It
seems to me that the higher the conception of beauty, the
more exclusive should be the admiration of it—the gaze
of a vulgar or unappreciative eye being a profanation from
which it shrinks, as if by simply a natural modesty.”
“The higher beauties among birds and flowers have no
such exclusiveness,” said Paul, smiling.
“Human instincts are better authority than birds and
flowers,” she replied. “How instinctively does a beautiful
woman veil herself from the vulgar eye! And genius,
which is very feminine in its instincts, just so instinctively,
I think (if it acted upon first impulse), would reserve its
beauties for the few.”
“But, to return to my simile,” said Paul; “the light of
the star is lost, unless the few and the many are shone
upon together; and the influences of genius are as varied
as the uses of starlight—the boor and his sweetheart
promising to remember each other by the same star that
vile eyes, too, that look on the stars—as there are vile eyes
that look on the works of genius—without profaning
them.”
“I have embodied something of this feeling,” said the
princess, without directly meeting Paul's argument, “in my
modelling of Daphne, here. The nymph” (she continued,
crossing the room to where the beautiful statue stood, with
its face turned to the wail) “is, according to mythology,
flying from the god of day—Beauty shunning the world's
universal eye. Yet see how Nature has ordained that she
shall thus appear no less beautiful! The limbs are seen
to much better advantage, as she flies—the two arches
with which the knotted hair joins to the neck, certainly
intended to be admired, are thus brought into view—the
fall of the shoulders from the wealth of shadow on the
after part of the head, and the shaping of the waist, with
those two exquisite dimples where the hips turn into the
small of the back—these are perfections intended to give
grace to beauty in its flight—are they not?”
“Why,” said Paul, laughing at the artistic earnestness
with which the fair sculptress maintained her theory,
“they are certainly perfections that might pass unobserved
in a Venus who did not turn her back upon us!”
“You are a republican,” said the princess, “and mock
at my argument for exclusiveness, of course—but I insist,
fashion”—
“And from the Daphne motive, too—indifference to
love?” asked Paul, with a smile.
“Yes—or it is just as well, at least, for the mythology
of gossip to put that construction upon it—but still, though
a Daphne is very likely to have a secret lover at the other
end of her flight, Indifference is one of my ideals. In my
Antinoüs, here, I have tried to express it,” added the
princess, pointing to the couchant statue on the left.
Paul approached nearer, and looked upon what he
thought one of the most exquisite creations he had ever
seen in marble. It was the figure of a youth who had
fallen asleep after slaking his thirst at the fountain flowing
past his lip—his arm thrown neglectfully over his head,
the proportions of his form ethereally delicate, and an
expression, both in the unalarmed abandonment of posture
and in the delicately intellectual features, telling of a never-troubled
spirituality of repose.
“But this divine model of Indifference—you have made
it of our sex,” said Paul, after gazing on it for some time
in silent admiration.
“One of your sex, with the beauty of ours,” said the
princess, smiling; “for, spite of our self-love, it is a law of
nature to love our opposites. Antinoüs was the type of
loved no woman. But that was but a portion of what I
thought of, in first conceiving it. My intention was to
mould a being to whom both sexes had contributed their
best—man his intellectuality and woman her grace and
delicacy—but who, from this very perfection of equipoise
between them, was passionless.”
“But, in the excessive beauty of this creation, you have
made Indifference more attractive than it is in real life,”
said Paul.
“I think not,” said the princess. “It is loved no less for
not loving. We are not told what passion was inspired by
the masculine attractions of Antinoüs—mythology stopping
only to chronicle the passion inspired by his feminine
attractions. The Emperor Hadrian built temples to deify
this half of the perfect nature of Antinoüs. Indifference
aside, however, we yearn to find all qualities in our ideals.
It is for what genius borrows of woman, for instance, that
I love it most.”
“Why,” said Paul, “I think our sex borrows more safely
of yours than you of us. A man is beloved for being
femininely tender of heart and delicate in his tastes and
perceptions, but on a woman all masculinities sit ungracefully.”
The princess held up the skirt of her artistic tunic
male attire, he could not but confess that the inference to
be drawn from his remark would be but true.
“In the intoxicating presence of these triumphs of your
genius,” said he, slightly coloring, “it is of little importance
how your outward person is attired; but I must still
own that I have seen your highness dressed more becomingly.”
“You shall drive home with me, by-and-by, then,” she
said, “and dine with my turban, to remove the impression;
but come first and give me a criticism on my work in
hand.”
“I had already found the features to be very like your
own,” he said, as they turned to the nearly finished clay
figure on the easel.
“The likeness to myself in feature, if any there be, is
unintentional,” said the princess, “though the feeling
embodied in it is, I will venture to tell you, a memory of
my own. I call it Hermione—more to give it a name
than to represent strictly the history of the Trojan princess—though
that suggested the name, and it might be
true of her, perhaps, at the period, when, loving Orestes,
she is compelled to marry Pyrrhus. But I have endeavored
to express in it the sudden death in the heart from
the abandonment of hope—death even to blank unconsciousness
unchanged in their outer presence of youth.”
Paul looked in silence on the clay figure while the
thoughtful artist, now interested again in her work,
touched, with the imperceptible elaboration of her moulding
pencil, the round of the forward thrown shoulder. It
was a nude form, more slight than is common in statuary,
though in the fullness of completed development as a
woman. The posture was one of suddenly relaxed impulse,
the clasped hands fallen, with the fingers half loosening
their hold, the head dropped upon the bosom, and the
partially dishevelled hair dividing upon the shoulders.
The poetic meaning of the conception—beauty unchanged
except by the utter withdrawal of all expression of what
it had lived for—the lamp unbroken but unlit—was carried
out, Paul thought, with a fineness of discrimination
possible only to inspired genius. But there was an expression
in the statue to which his mind kept returning; and
of which he tried in vain to understand the secret. In
that nude figure, abandoned forgetfully to the support of
muscles unsustained but by instinct—the character of every
line and nerve made completely natural by a pervading
palsy of grief—there was still a look of high birth unmistakable.
With the features half hidden by the droop of
the head, the limbs undraped, the hair dishevelled, and a
there breathed through it all, unchanged, the something
which told of a king's daughter. The distinction was as
marked, between this and the models by other hands, as
between the air and manner of the princess-artist herself,
and the other sculptors of Florence. Now wherein lay this
rank which nothing could unclothe? In what subtle difference
of line or mould was hid this escutcheon of presence?
Paul found words, after a while, to express what was his
embarrassment in the study of the sad Hermione; and the
princess, to whom the remark seemed new, entered with
him upon an analysis of the proportions of the figure—
without success, however, as to the solution of the problem
in his mind.
“Even without the likeness to your own features,” he
said, “it would have seemed to me that your own undeniable
presence breathes through the complete whole—as
recognisable as a spirit-portrait might be to spirit-eyes.”
“It is natural, of course,” she musingly said, as she retouched
the figure, here and there, while under criticism,
“that one's own nature, whatever it be, should impress
itself on the model as one works. It is the escape, indeed,
of a fermenting identity, which might else, I should think,
become an agony. The air I breathe scarce seems to me
more necessary, in that respect, than the Art on which I
perhaps family cares or charity—may be the escape-valve
for other women. I have tried these, each in its turn—
but they were not enough Without the something more
—deeper and stronger even than love—which this impassioned
study of Art gives to me, I have a prisoner within
my inmost soul, who would madden with solitary confinement.
It is not wonderful, therefore, that you trace a
likeness to me in what is thus born of the breath of my
soul's heart—though that scarce explains to you, after all,
by what lines of the pencil is given the expression of blood
and birth.”
The discussion reverted again to the other statues, and
from a critical analysis of the Antinoüs, Paul picked out,
in that creation also, proofs of the fascinating artist's
unconscious reproduction of herself. And so, with but the
interruption of a lunch of sherbet and fruits, passed that noon
and afternoon like a dream away! The two minds were
at home together in that luxurious studio and its enchantments.
Paul ceased to find fault with the male costume of
the gifted woman, when he found how thoroughly and
enthusiastically she became an artist with that convenient
outward transformation—how magically complete was the
sculptress, with those firmly held pencils of boxwood, and
the light shaded from those earnest eyes with the slouched
made Paul forget, the woman and the princess.
With the beginning of gold in the lessening light of
the afternoon, the slight fingers threw down their pencils,
and the pleasures to be found outside that little world of
Art were reluctantly remembered. The princess retired to
her dressing room to reappear in her costume better
known; and as the sun set over Florence, the two artists
—Paul irresistibly happy with the spells thus magically
wove around him—were driven rapidly out of the gate
toward Fiesolé, on their way to their tête-à-tête dinner at
the Villa G——.
| CHAPTER XIII. Paul Fane, or, Parts of a life else untold | |