A Romance of Two Worlds | Page 7

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 much of that intoxicating sweet they can swallow without reeling. But you're an exception, I must admit. I congratulate you!"
Cellini bowed gaily in response to the half-friendly, half-mocking curtsey she gave him, and, turning to me again, said:
"I have a favour to ask of you, mademoiselle. Will you sit to me for your portrait?"
"I!" I exclaimed, with astonishment. "Signor Cellini, I cannot imagine why you should wish so to waste your valuable time. There is nothing in my poor physiognomy worthy of your briefest attention."
"You must pardon me, mademoiselle," he replied gravely, "if I presume to differ from you. I am exceedingly anxious to transfer your features