John R. Carling

“ Art is my god."
And the maniac lifted his clenched hand aloft as if defying Heaven.
"My rival was lying at my feet, dead. I wanted his clothing for my purpose, so I stripped him. Gods! what a figure for an artist! But he had received only one wound as yet—Cæsar had many—so I dealt him some six strokes or more. How the red blood spouted up! Oh, those wounds! 'Poor dumb mouths!' How eloquently they will speak from the canvas! What a divine picture I shall produce! 'Il Divino' will deserve his name at last. Already I hear the voice of the public saying, 'What a genius this Vasari is!' Ah! ”

“ Tenderly he laid the figure of my cousin on an ottoman. The ladies of the assembly crowded round, and applied such remedies as were at hand to restore her from her swoon. Angelo stood by the couch with folded arms, gazing at the prostrate form with a wistful look.
"Beautiful! What a model for an artist!" he murmured.
He must have had a strange taste in the selection of his subjects if he could have found pleasure in painting Daphne as she was just then. Her face had parted with its bright, fresh beauty, and had assumed the sharp and careworn look of age. ”

“ Imagination could not picture a form more lovely than that of Daphne Leslie, and I resolved to make her the handmaid of art. But there was an obstacle in the way. That obstacle was Captain Willard. No matter. He must die; art demanded it, and I took an oath that the eve of his wedding should be the last day of his life. But how was I to set about it? I knew what suspicions would arise—what a hue and cry would be raised by society—if a distinguished officer, who had come all the way from India to wed a rich and lovely bride, should vanish mysteriously on the very eve of his intended marriage. ”

“ I flung myself back in the cab in a fever-heat. "The affair is growing exciting," I muttered. "Was it a man or a woman? If a woman—who? If a man—was it George? if not—who? Did George travel by the other line, I wonder, and will he come this morning to claim his bride, or will he not? Will the veiled lady turn up in my uncle's drawing-room or at the altar-rails, and create some melodramatic scene? Patience—patience! we shall see. Daphne, you may yet be mine." ”

“ Was the rejection of Angelo the result of the recital made to Father Ignatius by the silver-haired penitent? Of the nature of that confession I had only an inkling, but that it was the key to this priest's conduct I felt certain.
The first line of communicants retired to their seats. The artist did not move but remained kneeling solitary and silent, his lips pressing the cold marble chancel-rails, his hands clasped nervously above his dark hair, as if he were supplicating the Church, his mother, to receive and forgive an erring child. ”

“ I could see my uncle and the Baronet exchanging curious glances, and I knew that both were connecting the cause of Daphne's fright with the apparition supposed to haunt the picture-gallery. It was the opinion of every one else that she had been dreaming.
"Oh, you silly girl!" cried Florrie, coming to the bedside. "To fancy you saw a ghost, and frighten us all out of our beds!"
Daphne shivered visibly. The search into every corner of the apartment had done very little to remove her terror.
"Oh, Florrie," she cried, "do stay with me for the rest of the night! I dare not sleep alone. ”

“ The artist was the picture of despair.
"I have done wrong in your eyes—English Protestants perhaps regard it as a sin, but believe me, the practice is not unknown among us Italian artists. Let the example set by others exculpate me to some extent."
The melancholy of his face and the humility of his manner softened Daphne's displeasure, and, resuming her wonted air, she said quickly:
"Let us say no more. What is done cannot be undone. You have my forgiveness, and as a proof you shall show me round the cathedral, if you will." ”

“ And now across the oblong patch of moonlight that lay on the stone floor between me and the maniac appeared some dark shadows, and, turning towards the casement to ascertain the cause, the artist beheld human faces peering in through the diamond-shaped panes. A moment more and there came a great shivering and shattering of glass. The cold night air swept with a rush through the broken panes, bringing with it the wild crash of the Christmas bells, a tumult of voices, and Daphne's thrilling scream.
Peril makes some men mad. It made Angelo sane. ”

“ My room was a large old-fashioned chamber, whose oaken panels were draped with figured tapestry. An oriel casement with lancet-shaped panes of stained-glass gave me a fine view of the moonlit park, with the Nuns' Tower—Angelo's studio—rising grey and solitary above a dark clump of cedars.
There was a fire in the grate and its dancing caused strange shadows to quiver upon the walls and ceiling, seeming to invest the grim figures on the tapestry with life and motion—an illusion heightened by their rustling with the draught from the open door. ”

“ My confused mind heard as in some weird dream fragments of his mad ravings mingling fantastically with the words of the carol:
Christ was born on Christmas Day,
Wreathe the holly, twine the bay,
Christus natus hodie.
The Babe, the Son, the Holy One of Mary,
He is born to set us free—
Laus Deo! the band that connected my two wrists gave way. I was free! And at the same moment the first stroke of midnight chimed from the village steeple.
At that sound the artist snatched up the dagger from the table, and turned towards me.
"The hour is come! Art demands her victim." ”

“ The artist rose to his feet, and flung himself back in his chair again, apparently exhausted by his emotion.
"Cruel?" he gasped, staring at me, and striving to palliate the deed by the example of others. "Cruel? If Giotto stabs his living model on the cross that he may paint a crucified Christ, if Parrhasius damns his slave to torture that he may produce the agony of Prometheus in all its realism, may I, too, not have my victim? Cruel? It was a sacrifice to art. Churchmen have burned each other for the glory of God. ”

“ My bedroom—as you know, Sir Hugh—is over one end of the gallery, and ever since that picture of Mr. Vasari's was put into it I have heard at night sounds as if some one were walking to and fro there, and faint cries now and then. Before going to bed I always lock the doors at both ends of the gallery, and take the keys with me, so that how any one can get in at night is a puzzle. ”

“ Some dark shadows dancing suddenly across the greensward between her and Angelo, accompanied by a rustling sound as of a footstep, gave me a start as great as if the ghost of George had suddenly risen up before me.
"Your faith is womanly, sublime, but—misplaced. He will never return. He has left you forever. Think no more of him. There is one who loves you a thousand times more deeply than Captain Willard ever did; compared with mine, his love was but as ice. Ah, Daphne! ”

“ Vasari," and she inclined her dainty head, "I thank your for the honour you do me in selecting me as your model——"
"Ah, you are cruel," the artist stammered. "It is not for art alone I love you."
"But, believe me, it can never be as you wish."
"Ah, why, Daphne? Say not that you hate me."
"You forget that I am to be Captain Willard's wife."
Angelo started. So did I, for these words were a complete revelation to me. I had thought that she had all but forgotten George, and that I was gradually replacing his image. Her utterance completely dispelled this illusion. ”

“ As we turned to quit the road for the mountain-path, the cathedral bell chimed the first stroke of midnight.
"Twelve o'clock!" exclaimed my uncle in a deep, tragic voice. "Now is the time when elves and fairies trip it on the greensward, and spirits rise from yon haunted well. Come, let us sit by it for a time and enjoy the ghostly revels. It is an affront to Nature to sleep on such a night as this."
Slowly the silver tongue from the belfry continued to toll forth the chimes with a solemn little interval between each. ”

“ I will never believe that old man guilty of crime; his face is too noble."
"Face is no index to character," he returned; and then he added reflectively: "and no sooner does this priest quit the confessional than he orders Angelo's picture to be destroyed. Frank, what are we to make of this?" he added, a curious expression passing over his face as he glanced at the distant figure of the artist.
"Oh, that's easily explained," I rejoined. "The priest, as he sat in the confessional-box, saw Daphne and Angelo, and no doubt he considers that Madonna a sacrilegious piece of work." ”

“ He is too much of a genius to please me. He is a man with only one idea in his head, and that is Art. On any topic outside that circle he is mute. You think he admires your beauty, whereas he is thinking only what a good model you would make. He stands enraptured at the sunshine, and you cry, 'What a lover of nature!' whereas he is only thinking of the effect it would make on a canvas. ”

“ This was the first time his facial muscles had relaxed. The transition from rigidity to mobility was not an agreeable one.
A terrible metamorphosis was coming over the artist. It seemed as if some part of his nature, that he had long kept hidden, was rising up to the surface. It did arise—fast. It revealed itself in his unearthly laugh, in the distortion of his mouth, in the wild light of his eyes, in the goblin attitude he had suddenly assumed with his head sunk forward on his breast and his crooked fingers clawing at the air.
Angelo was mad! ”

“ I looked inquiringly at my uncle who introduced this mortal to me by the name of Angelo Vasari.
"A gentleman," he remarked, "to whom you owe some thanks."
"Indeed?" I said with some surprise, for I had never heard of him before. "Well, that is a debt I am always ready to pay. But why am I in Mr. Vasari's debt?"
"Daphne sent you a portrait of George the other day."
"She did."
"It was Mr. Vasari who painted it."
"Really?" I said, grasping his hand. "Then you must accept my congratulations as well as my thanks. The picture is a gem of art. Are you an artist?" ”

“ The artist, having gone through the beads of his rosary, rose to his feet and addressed Daphne.
"I trust, Miss Leslie," he said with a smile, "that you will forgive me for having canonised you without either papal sanction or your own."
Like a good Catholic, he put the papal sanction first and Daphne's next.
"Last autumn," continued Angelo, "I was requested by a priest of this cathedral, Father Ignatius by name, to paint a Madonna. Not thinking that you, Miss Leslie, would ever visit this place, I took your face as my model, for, pardon my boldness, I could not find a more beautiful one." ”

“ For a brief moment I had entertained the idea that Ignatius, in passing Angelo by, had perhaps committed an oversight. It was impossible now for him not to perceive the artist; but with a face cold and impenetrable as marble he stood erect within the chancel, openly ignoring the other's mute appeal to be noticed. It was clear that his refusal to give the Communion to him was a deliberate act. The most exquisite penalty that can fall on the soul of a devout Catholic had fallen on Angelo. ”

“ We Italians do not love so coldly as your English youth; we are all passion and flame. If I am precipitate, if I am rash, if I am mad, blame not me, but blame the beauty that has made me so."
He checked the flow of his words; they seem poor and commonplace enough on paper. It must have been the tone in which they were uttered, and the aid they received from his sparkling eyes and dramatic gestures, that made them sound like eloquence at the time.
Daphne, her drooping eyes fixed on the ground, stood beside the tree overhanging the fountain, still and silent as a statue. ”

“ I said eagerly, too eagerly I suppose, for she shook her head as if she took a pleasure in withholding the information she was about to give.
"I will tell you nothing," she said. "He can live without your pity. Go! After all, she is a Protestant, and all Protestants go to hell. Father Ignatius says so."
"That is our ultimate destination, I believe," said my uncle with a sigh, due rather to vexation at finding himself unable to get the information he wanted than to proper regret at his future doom. "We are a wicked lot."
"Can you tell us why Father Ignatius refused Angelo the Mass?" ”

“ How dare you?" exclaimed Angelo so fiercely that the poor little maid shrank behind the others in dismay. "Your dislike of it exposes you to suspicion. You, or some of your fellow servants here, from an absurd fear, have destroyed it. Produce the picture, you gaping pack of menials! My picture! my picture!"
And he sank down again on the seat, the very image of despair.
"What Mr. Vasari says is perfectly correct," said the Baronet. "Suspicion rests on you all till the picture be produced. There is a silly story going the round among you that a ghost is seen in this hall at night. ”

“ The wedding had not taken place yet; weddings have been broken off at the very altar: why should not hers be? Foolish though it may seem, I began to nurse the pleasing idea that Fate might yet transfer Daphne to my arms. As if my wish had become a certainty, I trod the deck of the Channel steamer with exultant step, refusing to go below, although the wintry flakes were falling now in steady earnest. Such is the power of hope over the human mind ”

“ He had all the air of a man who, conscious of his personal charms, is determined to make the best use of them.
The look of pleasure that mantled Daphne's face had so disturbing an effect on my spirits that it was as much as I could do to treat the artist with ordinary civility.
"Angelo," cried my uncle after the first greetings were over, "I'm delighted to see you! But tell us how you came to be here, for I thought that outside of Switzerland few beside myself knew of the existence of this secluded valley."
"Rivoli the Beautiful is my native place," replied Angelo. ”

“ To be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain.
His wild air and the red stain on his breast might well be testimony to some tragedy; in a fit of insane jealousy he had killed Daphne! Paralyzed by the idea I leaned, as he had leaned before me, against the lamp-post, with the words, "Daphne dead!" ”

“ I never go into an art-gallery and become enraptured with some sweet interesting painting without being told by some frowning critic that it is a very mediocre performance, worth nothing at all. But if I come to some ugly daub, whose perspective is all at fault and whose figures are so comically drawn that I feel tempted to laugh, I am told that I must reverence and adore because it is a Cimabue or a Fra Angelico. I am deficient in taste, I suppose. What is the title of your picture, Mr. Vasari? ”

“ Being her cousin, you can talk to her with a freedom and an ease that in any other young man would be familiarity. And for heaven's sake try to make her forget her grief. Her sad face and thin wasted figure cut me to the heart. You do not mind giving up Heidelberg for a time?"
It would require no great sacrifice on the part of any young man to leave the cloisters of a university in order to escort a beautiful girl through Europe, so I gladly assented to my uncle's proposition, resolving, for my own sake, to try to make Daphne forget her grief. ”

“ It was evident that the Italian was in deadly earnest, and that his whole soul was absorbed by one passion—devotion to his art. In the interests of that fetish, crime even was excusable. This is the age of realism—of a realism that too often dispenses with morality. Angelo's æsthetics of death was but the logical outcome of the realistic school.
The artist had imparted the necessary edge to his weapon, and reclined once more in an easy attitude, fingering the blade with a delicate touch, and surveying my form with a critical eye.
"I cannot say that you are quite the beau-ideal for an artist. ”

“ I salute you Lady Willard, in futuro," I added with a low bow.
"Frank, don't be ridiculous! Mr. Vasari is watching you."
"Never mind Mr. Vasari! who's he! Let him watch. We are doing nothing wrong. Hang the fellow! How he stares! Vasari," I said, repeating the artist's patronymic—"an Italian evidently: and as an artist a dead failure, if I may judge by his own remarks."
"A dead failure?" returned Daphne, resenting the expression. "Well there's one of his pictures in the next room, and you can judge for yourself whether he's a failure or not. ”

“ Silence fell over us all, and soon nothing was to be heard but the sound of the embers glowing and crackling in the grate, and the painful ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf. The waxen tapers in the [Pg 48] chandeliers twinkled gaily to their reflections in the mirrors, as if they enjoyed the victory they were gaining over the daylight without. And still the bridegroom came not.
Presently there was another furious ring of the bell at the hall door, and again there was a rush of feet and a score of voices exclaiming "Here they are!"
"Who is it?" said Daphne, trembling like a leaf. ”

“ It is impossible to describe my thoughts as I held her close to me. Once before, on the very morn of her intended wedding, she had been snatched away; and now on a second occasion, when another rival seemed on the point of winning her, and of triumphing over me, events had conspired to destroy all his hopes. Was there not a fatality in this? Was not Destiny reserving Daphne for me alone?
"No one shall ever have you but myself," I murmured, as I gazed on her beautiful face. ”

“ Ho! ho! it was a master-stroke of craft. Was Borgia or Macchiavelli ever more cunning? I glory in the deed. I love to dwell on it. I act it every night. In the secrecy of my chamber, in the quietness of the picture-gallery, I rehearse the whole tableau of that glorious time. They would not permit me to do this in the day-time, you know," he said, exchanging his excited manner for one that was quite grave and confidential. "They would call me mad: they would take me away—far away from my studio and my easel, and they would put me in a padded room, and I should paint no more. ”

“ If he had said that he was going to take vengeance on a rival whom he hated I should have understood him, but this speech of his was unintelligible.
"What are you going to do, I ask?"
"I have told you: make a sacrifice on the altar of art."
"What on earth do you mean?" I cried, tugging at my bonds.
"That picture," replied the artist, pausing in his occupation to point with his dagger at the canvas on the easel; "that picture is at a standstill for want of an appropriate model. I have found my model." ”