The Hound of Florence

by Felix Salten

  “What can you do?” Bandini enquired gently as his expression became serious.

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you want to learn?”

  “Everything.”

  “Giuseppe!” cried Bandini in his sing-song voice.

  The boy with the cherub’s head hurried forward.

  “Bring a drawing-board and some charcoal for Lucas,” said the Maestro, “and go and fetch the head of Vulcan too. . . . Take a seat where you like and do the best you can,” he added, turning to Lucas.

  So saying he turned back to his picture.

  Lucas followed little Giuseppe. Behind a forest of easels a young monk was sitting. He had been hidden from Lucas, and as the latter found himself suddenly just in front of him, he stammered the usual greeting, “Praised be the Lord.”—“Forever and ever, Amen. . . .” murmured the young monk, without looking up.

  Giuseppe pointed to a place close beside him, pushed a small wooden drum forward and hurrying away again, returned with a drawing-board and some charcoal together with a bronze head of Vulcan wearing a cap. This he placed on the drum. Then he jumped up onto a little platform in front of the monk’s easel, planted himself upon it and stood motionless. With astonishment Lucas noticed the boy’s graceful and solemn pose, the enraptured look of his up-turned eyes; cautiously turning round, he saw that the monk at his side was painting a young John the Baptist, with Giuseppe as model.

  Lifting the drawing-board onto his knee, Lucas gazed steadily at the head of Vulcan, and immediately became absorbed in the ardent anxiety, joy, fear and hope of work.

  He hardly heard the snatches of conversation which his entry had interrupted, and the exclamation “He’s coming!” which someone shouted a moment later as he flung open the door, fell on deaf ears as far as he was concerned.

  Even when, a moment later, the Archduke and his suite entered the studio, he scarcely noticed them. The glittering figure of the Prince as he wandered round with Count Waltersburg, fat old Pointner and the rest of his little retinue, fell on his eye as a picture in the dim distance. They were nothing to him now. They did not concern him.

  • • •

  As the days slipped by Lucas gradually became aware that a change was coming over the spell under which he had reached Florence. When the moment of transformation came he was no longer hurled back into the Prince’s stables.

  As long as the journey had lasted, he had been able, on the days when he was allowed to be himself, to go wherever he pleased; he might remain lying down in the road, or run back along the way he had come, or wander about as he chose. But the traveling party to which he was attached as a dog took possession of him night after night, the moment the hour of his bondage struck, and either dragged him along with it or flung him in the straw at the horses’ feet.

  But here in Florence when the transformation occurred it left him on the spot where he happened to be standing or walking at the time.

  Lucas had not paid overmuch attention to this during his first night in the city. On the following day also the change occurred without his being conscious of it. He had spent the day in Bandini’s studio, engaged on the wretched probationary task of drawing the head of Vulcan, and what with this and the Maestro’s promise that he might count on remaining his pupil, he had left the place aflame with dreams and hopes. Thus he had wandered about until the hour of midnight rang out and he was struck by the lightning that shattered all his lofty visions. Whereupon, leaving the place where he had been standing, and guided by his unerring sense of smell, he ran in the shape of a tired dog direct to the Palace, found his way to the stable, and, after discovering a crack through which he could steal in, dropped into the straw and fell fast asleep.

  On another day, however, as he was leaving Bandini’s house at about twilight with the intention of strolling down to the banks of the Arno to get a breath of fresh air, he happened to hear the agonized howls of a dog close at hand. His heart constricted so violently that he was afraid he must have burst a blood vessel. He ran forward breathless. The howling grew louder and louder and sounded as though it came from a neighboring alley. He hastened on and, as he turned a corner, saw a youth thrashing a skinny black dog with a chain. The dog was writhing in agony on the ground. Every time it tried to get up a fresh blow made it fall back exhausted. Lucas could hear the harrowing appeal in the howl of the wretched animal as its heart-rending wails died down into a bitter whine. He was beside himself with fury. With one jerk of his arm he seized the youth, lifted him off his feet and turning him about so as to see his face, proceeded to punch him heavily in the jaw. Dazed and staggered, the fellow flung out at him with the chain. He was a powerful man but Lucas hurled him like a rag against the wall, and making a dash for his throat, held it in such a tight grip that he went blue in the face. He might have throttled him had not a couple of watchmen hurried up and separated the pair.

  Lucas was raving like a maniac, and the youth, gasping for breath and wiping the blood from his swollen nose, swore that he had been assaulted without the slightest provocation. Seeing that Lucas was a stranger to the city, the watchman, like the youth, took him to be a robber, and dragged him away to prison, where he was thrust into a dark cell. The youth, who said he was Tommaso the bricklayer, was instructed to appear in court on the following morning to charge the prisoner. But early the next day, when the jailer opened the cell to fetch Lucas, the dog, which everybody knew to be the Archduke’s, sprang out. Utterly taken aback by the mystery, and terrified in case an enquiry were made into the matter and he were punished, the man quickly let the dog go. Evidently it must have slipped into the cell in some unaccountable way without his noticing it, and all he reported to the authorities was that the young stranger who had been arrested had vanished as if by magic.

  At about this time it struck Lucas that the spell that lay on him was indeed beginning to weaken a ­little. On waking up soon after midnight to find that he was himself again, he got up and made for the Poggio pine woods on the hills. The darkness was slowly lifting though Lucas hardly noticed the fact. He was used to such excursions and was brooding over his fate. The constant humiliation of being repeatedly banished from the society of his fellows made him intolerably wretched, though at the same time he could not forget that it was precisely this humiliation that had brought him where he was and had made it possible for him to be in Florence working under Cesare Bandini.

  It did seem, however, as if certain changes were taking place. Now, even when debased and humiliated he went about as a dog, he was free, and was no longer forced to be with his princely master or in his house or stable. Whatever the form he wore, whether his own or that of his doglike poverty, the decision as to his whereabouts seemed to lie with himself. He had reached his goal; the noose about his neck had begun to slacken—how he did not know.

  Suddenly an idea occurred to him—what if he were to run away from Florence and go to Rome! In Rome too he would be able to find masters to teach him to paint and carve. And another thought surged madly in his brain—if the spell were not removed so that he could be a free man, he might throw himself at the feet of the Pope. The Pope might have the power to release him from the spell!

  He halted. He was quivering with breathless excitement, so violently did his spirit rebel against his fate. But sadly he remembered that this would mean parting from Cesare Bandini which he was loath to do. His passionate boyish love of Bandini lifted its voice and, tearing to shreds the web of plans he had just woven, immediately suggested all kinds of doubts and objections. Why go away? Had he not everything he had coveted here? And though the spell still kept fast hold on him, the Pope would be unable to liberate him from it for he would never be able to reach Rome or see the Pope. The same thing would happen as had happened on the journey from Vienna. He would find himself a day’s march from Florence only to be hurled back again at midnight and returned to wherever the Archduke was staying. Again and aga
in he would try to do that day’s march only to find himself again and again at midnight back at the place from which he had set out. So why go away?

  But what would happen on the day the Archduke left Florence? The thought struck him like a thunderbolt. It acted like an elixir, making the blood run hot in his veins, and rose light as a falcon beating the air with its wings. On the day when the Archduke began his homeward journey would he be dragged along with him and forced to return to Vienna? No—that would be absurd, impossible! As a man buried alive sees in the distance from the depths of his premature grave the first ray of light breaking through beneath the spades of his rescuers, so Lucas now looked forward to the Archduke’s departure as the only possible means of release from his terrible predicament. He laughed. No! No! When the Archduke went home, he would be free, free as air, and his nightmare would end.

  He looked about him. The day had grown brighter. The tree tops were rustling in the morning breeze. He began to run, leaping and dancing as he left the confines of the wood. At last he reached the walls of the monastery of Fiesole and looked down on Florence at his feet, lying bathed in the glory of the morning sun.

  • • •

  “Have you made friends with him yet?”

  Cesare Bandini was sitting on the fat officer’s armchair as he asked the question. He spoke quietly, glancing over at Lucas, who was sitting some distance away by the side of the monk, absorbed in his work.

  Captain Ercole da Moreno, the fat officer, was standing behind Bandini, as excited and modest as a young pupil, watching the Maestro with fevered brow and his mop of white hair almost standing up on end as his teacher criticised and corrected the little Madonna picture. Short, bull-necked Pietro Rossellino also left his turn-table and joined them. Cesare Bandini inclined his head this way and that, screwed up his eyes, and touched the picture here and there with his fine pointed brush, humming softly to himself. The two pupils stood behind his chair, watching in intent silence. Captain Ercole was breathing heavily. Now and again Bandini said a word or two. “Yes . . . that’s all right. . . .” or “What about this fold here . . . you meant it to look like that, didn’t you?” And Ercole da Moreno would give a loud snort. “The expression should be a little more serene, Ercole,” Bandini continued. “It’s all in the eyes . . . and here in the cheeks. You’ll get it right in time.”

  “Oof!” gasped the Captain.

  Presently Bandini leaned back in the arm-chair, and glancing across at Lucas again, whispered: “Have you made friends with him yet?”

  “He’s been once or twice to the osteria with us, yes,” replied Pietro Rossellino.

  “And what do you make of him?” asked Bandini, leaning back in the chair and glancing up enquiringly at the Captain.

  “A good fellow!” replied Ercole.

  “Yes, I like him,” Bandini observed with a smile. “He works like one possessed. He plays with his task like a child, grapples with it like a man, and thinks of nothing else. At least, when he’s at his easel, he has the strength to forget everything else.”

  “But has he genius?” Rossellino exclaimed peevishly.

  Bandini smiled. “Just look at him, Pietro, and tell me how he could possibly fail to have genius. I want to paint him—or rather I want to teach him to paint himself. It will be a picture worthy of taking its place by the side of the best great masters’ portraits of themselves as young men. At all events I for one can never look at him without thinking—the portrait of a great master as a young man. . . .”

  “It sounds all right, Bandini,” said Ercole, shaking his great mane of hair. “You may be right . . . I don’t understand enough about it.”

  “Why, the man has his calling written all over his drawn features,” exclaimed Bandini. “He’s all will, one single thought breathes from every pore. Have you ever looked into his eyes? What a powerful soul, what a potent spirit lies hid in them! But it is impossible to read them. They reveal nothing, those eyes of his—nothing either about his soul or his spirit. All they do is to absorb, devour the whole world about them; they pilfer everything they rest on.”

  “Thief!” snorted Ercole.

  “Ye-es,” chanted Bandini, with a contented little laugh. “Every man who conquers the world is a thief. But he pays her back two or three times over at compound interest, so that after all he is a prince. That fellow is only just beginning, and that’s why today he is still a beggar. Later on he too will be a prince. He does not know it. Yet he is half aware of it. He is burning with the desire to become what he will be in time. Just you watch him. He looks poor and weak and wretched, doesn’t he? But he has the iron thinness of the man fighting with Fate, the man who will do or die! What a brave, proud nose he has! Do you notice how slender it is at the root and thin between the eyes? The height of the bridge is exactly right, and it stands out with noble determination. What do you think, Pietro? I don’t know, but I almost feel as if the feature I like best about him is his mouth.”

  “Too small,” whispered Pietro.

  “Possibly,” replied Bandini, describing figures in the air with his finely shaped hand, as though his attention were focussed on some picture. “Possibly. All the same . . . his mouth . . . his mouth . . . what does its expression signify? Those fine lips do not breathe, they imbibe. They are silent and yet seem always as if they must speak. They are insatiable. God in Heaven! how frantically eager that mouth is for life!”

  “What one would like to know,” snorted Ercole, “what one would like to know is whether he has ever kissed a woman.”

  “Why don’t you ask him if you want to know so badly?” laughed Bandini, unexpectedly rising from his seat. And a sudden shadow passed across his face as he once more glanced over at Lucas. “Well, we’ll see how he turns out,” he remarked in a changed voice as he returned to his own easel.

  Presently the garden door was flung open, and Filippo Volta, the man who had introduced Lucas on his first visit to the studio, appeared on the threshold.

  “Claudia is here!” he cried gleefully. “She wants to know whether she may come in.”

  “Ye-es,” replied a sing-song voice from behind Bandini’s easel.

  Filippo Volta hesitated. “I only ask because she happens to have Count Peretti with her. . . .”

  Bandini did not reply and after a moment Filippo Volta vanished. Outside the sound of a woman laughing could be heard, together with a confused murmur of voices and the rustle of skirts.

  A little knot of people pressed through the garden door and scattered, allowing a tall young woman to step proudly forward.

  Deeply moved by her appearance, Lucas turned quickly to the monk who was sitting beside him. “Reverend brother—who is that?” he stammered in low tones.

  But the monk, who had already sprung to his feet, left the place without vouchsafing a reply.

  A rude and blustering man’s voice could suddenly be heard asserting itself. “Just look at Claudia, Bandini! Yesterday I bought the pearls she has in her hair and only an hour ago I bought the cloak she is wearing. We want to know what you think of them.”

  “Silence, you idiot!” exclaimed Claudia sharply. “Can’t you wait until you’re asked?”

  Everybody laughed, even Count Peretti joining in. He stood there fat and conceited, his brutal face with its massive chin thrust forward, and his sharp little eyes screwed up. Utterly at a loss to know what to say or do, he merely looked knowing and laughed.

  “Bandini,” observed Claudia, “I have not come about the pearls or the stupid cloak. . . . I wanted to see you and enjoy the pleasure of your company again.” Her voice sounded gentle, almost tender, with a proud golden ring in it, vibrating with joy and expectation.

  Bandini went on painting.

  Lucas gazed in utter bewilderment at the young woman. Her blue velvet cloak, embroidered with silver lilies, hung in heavy, luxurious folds from her slender shoulders, enveloping
her frame like solemn music, while the broad sweep of its ermine border was held up behind by the hands of a little Moorish servant, who stood stiff and motionless behind her, allowing only the whites of his eyes to move. Lucas gazed spellbound at the gold brocade and white lace which hardly hid her breast; he noticed the edging of soft downy fur tenderly encircling her dazzling white neck, and on the latter he saw the tiny curls which seemed almost to breathe. He saw her hair shimmering with the pearls entwined in its meshes and crowning her lovely face like a helmet of gold, and he caught the proud and happy glance in her sparkling blue eyes.

  “May I look at what you are painting, Bandini?” she asked. “I haven’t been here for such a long time.”

  Bandini made some reply in his sing-song voice and went on painting. Claudia came closer. But suddenly drawing herself up, she turned to Peretti, who was pressing after her. “What do you want?” she asked sternly.

  Peretti gave a loud guffaw. “Just listen, Bandini, she is asking what I want! Just as if I didn’t want to see your picture, too!”

  “Don’t make such a noise in here, you idiot!” snapped Claudia. “It’s quite impossible to bring you into decent company. . . . Hold your tongue, I tell you!” And she repeated her orders even more sharply, when Peretti tried to laugh. “Bandini never gave you permission to look at his picture,” she added.

  Peretti had retreated a step or two. “Bandini,” he cried, “what do you say to that? She says you haven’t given me permission!”

  Bandini did not reply at once. But presently, without interrupting his work, he said calmly, “Perhaps you will have an opportunity of seeing the picture when it is finished.” His tone was cheerful and courteous but his words seemed to fix a great gulf between himself and Peretti.

  For a moment the studio was plunged in silence, the only sound that could be heard being the puffing and blowing of Captain Ercole behind his little Madonna picture.

  “Bandini, I’ll buy your picture!” cried Peretti. “I’ll buy it as it stands, and give it to Claudia. How much do you want for it? I’ll buy it on the spot. . . . I don’t even wish to see it.”