A Romance of Two Worlds | Page 7

pleased me and gave me
a curious, yet most welcome, sense of absolute rest. Cellini himself had
a fascination for me, for exactly the same reason. As an example of this,
I remember escaping from Mrs. Everard on one occasion, and hurrying
to the most secluded part of the garden, in order to walk up and down
alone in an endeavour to calm an attack of nervous agitation which had
suddenly seized me. While thus pacing about in feverish restlessness, I
saw Cellini approaching, his head bent as if in thought, and his hands
clasped behind his back. As he drew near me, he raised his eyes--they
were clear and darkly brilliant--he regarded me steadfastly with a
kindly smile. Then lifting his hat with the graceful reverence peculiar to
an Italian, he passed on, saying no word. But the effect of his
momentary presence upon me was remarkable--it was ELECTRIC. I
was no longer agitated. Calmed, soothed and almost happy, I returned
to Mrs. Everard, and entered into her plans for the day with so much
alacrity that she was surprised and delighted.
"If you go on like this," she said, "you will be perfectly well in a
month."
I was utterly unable to account for the remedial influence Raffaello
Cellini's presence had upon me; but such as it was I could not but be

grateful for the respite it gave me from nervous suffering, and my now
daily visits to the artist's studio were a pleasure and a privilege not to be
foregone. Moreover, I was never tired of looking at his pictures. His
subjects were all original, and some of them were very weird and
fantastic. One large picture particularly attracted me. It was entitled
"Lords of our Life and Death." Surrounded by rolling masses of cloud,
some silver-crested, some shot through with red flame, was depicted
the World, as a globe half in light, half in shade. Poised above it was a
great Angel, upon whose calm and noble face rested a mingled
expression of deep sorrow, yearning pity, and infinite regret. Tears
seemed to glitter on the drooping lashes of this sweet yet stern Spirit;
and in his strong right hand he held a drawn sword--the sword of
destruction-- pointed forever downwards to the fated globe at his feet.
Beneath this Angel and the world he dominated was darkness--utter
illimitable darkness. But above him the clouds were torn asunder, and
through a transparent veil of light golden mist, a face of surpassing
beauty was seen--a face on which youth, health, hope, love, and ecstatic
joy all shone with ineffable radiance. It was the personification of
Life--not life as we know it, brief and full of care--but Life Immortal
and Love Triumphant. Often and often I found myself standing before
this masterpiece of Cellini's genius, gazing at it, not only with
admiration, but with a sense of actual comfort. One afternoon, while
resting in my favourite low chair opposite the picture, I roused myself
from a reverie, and turning to the artist, who was showing some
water-colour sketches to Mrs. Everard, I said abruptly:
"Did you imagine that face of the Angel of Life, Signor Cellini, or had
you a model to copy from?"
He looked at me and smiled.
"It is a moderately good portrait of an existing original," he said.
"A woman's face then, I suppose? How very beautiful she must be!"
"Actual beauty is sexless," he replied, and was silent. The expression of
his face had become abstracted and dreamy, and he turned over the
sketches for Mrs. Everard with an air which showed his thoughts to be

far away from his occupation.
"And the Death Angel?" I went on. "Had you a model for that also?"
This time a look of relief, almost of gladness, passed over his features.
"No indeed," he answered with ready frankness; "that is entirely my
own creation."
I was about to compliment him on the grandeur and force of his
poetical fancy, when he stopped me by a slight gesture of his hand.
"If you really admire the picture," he said, "pray do not say so. If it is in
truth a work of art, let it speak to you as art only, and spare the poor
workman who has called it into existence the shame of having to
confess that it is not above human praise. The only true criticism of
high art is silence--silence as grand as heaven itself."
He spoke with energy, and his dark eyes flashed. Amy (Mrs. Everard)
looked at him curiously.
"Say now!" she exclaimed, with a ringing laugh, "aren't you a little bit
eccentric, signor? You talk like a long-haired prophet! I never met an
artist before who couldn't stand praise; it is generally a matter of
wonder to me to notice how