Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “It is very serious, on the contrary,” answered Gouache who had listened to the detached Jeremiah with more curiosity and interest than he often shewed.

  “I see nothing for it, but for you to fall in love without losing a single moment.”

  Orsino laughed a little harshly.

  “I am in the humour, I assure you,” he answered.

  “Well, then — what are you waiting for?” enquired Gouache, looking at him.

  “What for? For an object for my affections, of course. That is rather necessary under the circumstances.”

  “You may not wait long, if you will consent to stay here another quarter of an hour,” said Anastase with a laugh. “A lady is coming, whose portrait I am painting — an interesting woman — tolerably beautiful — rather mysterious — here she is, you can have a good look at her, before you make up your mind.”

  Anastase took the half-finished portrait of Orsino from the easel and put another in its place, considerably further advanced in execution. Orsino lit a cigarette in order to quicken his judgment, and looked at the canvas.

  The picture was decidedly striking and one felt at once that it must be a good likeness. Gouache was evidently proud of it. It represented a woman, who was certainly not yet thirty years of age, in full dress, seated in a high, carved chair against a warm, dark background. A mantle of some sort of heavy, claret-coloured brocade, lined with fur, was draped across one of the beautiful shoulders, leaving the other bare, the scant dress of the period scarcely breaking the graceful lines from the throat to the soft white hand, of which the pointed fingers hung carelessly over the carved extremity of the arm of the chair. The lady’s hair was auburn, her eyes distinctly yellow. The face was an unusual one and not without attraction, very pale, with a full red mouth too wide for perfect beauty, but well modelled — almost too well, Gouache thought. The nose was of no distinct type, and was the least significant feature in the face, but the forehead was broad and massive, the chin soft, prominent and round, the brows much arched and divided by a vertical shadow which, in the original, might be the first indication of a tiny wrinkle. Orsino fancied that one eye or the other wandered a very little, but he could not tell which — the slight defect made the glance disquieting and yet attractive. Altogether it was one of those faces which to one man say too little, and to another too much.

  Orsino affected to gaze upon the portrait with unconcern, but in reality he was oddly fascinated by it, and Gouache did not fail to see the truth.

  “You had better go away, my friend,” he said, with a smile. “She will be here in a few minutes and you will certainly lose your heart if you see her.”

  “What is her name?” asked Orsino, paying no attention to the remark.

  “Donna Maria Consuelo — something or other — a string of names ending in Aragona. I call her Madame d’Aragona for shortness, and she does not seem to object.”

  “Married? And Spanish?”

  “I suppose so,” answered Gouache. “A widow I believe. She is not Italian and not French, so she must be Spanish.”

  “The name does not say much. Many people put ‘d’Aragona’ after their names — some cousins of ours, among others — they are Aranjuez d’Aragona — my father’s mother was of that family.”

  “I think that is the name — Aranjuez. Indeed I am sure of it, for Faustina remarked that she might be related to you.”

  “It is odd. We have not heard of her being in Rome — and I am not sure who she is. Has she been here long?”

  “I have known her a month — since she first came to my studio. She lives in a hotel, and she comes alone, except when I need the dress and then she brings her maid, an odd creature who never speaks and seems to understand no known language.”

  “It is an interesting face. Do you mind if I stay till she comes? We may really be cousins, you know.”

  “By all means — you can ask her. The relationship would be with her husband, I suppose.”

  “True. I had not thought of that; and he is dead, you say?”

  Gouache did not answer, for at that moment the lady’s footfall was heard upon the marble floor, soft, quick and decided. She paused a moment in the middle of the room when she saw that the artist was not alone. He went forward to meet her and asked leave to present Orsino, with that polite indistinctness which leaves to the persons introduced the task of discovering one another’s names.

  Orsino looked into the lady’s eyes and saw that the slight peculiarity of the glance was real and not due to any error of Gouache’s drawing. He recognised each feature in turn in the one look he gave at the face before he bowed, and he saw that the portrait was indeed very good. He was not subject to shyness.

  “We should be cousins, Madame,” he said. “My father’s mother was an Aranjuez d’Aragona.”

  “Indeed?” said the lady with calm indifference, looking critically at the picture of herself.

  “I am Orsino Saracinesca,” said the young man, watching her with some admiration.

  “Indeed?” she repeated, a shade less coldly. “I think I have heard my poor husband say that he was connected with your family. What do you think of my portrait? Every one has tried to paint me and failed, but my friend Monsieur Gouache is succeeding. He has reproduced my hideous nose and my dreadful mouth with a masterly exactness. No — my dear Monsieur Gouache — it is a compliment I pay you. I am in earnest. I do not want a portrait of the Venus of Milo with red hair, nor of the Minerva Medica with yellow eyes, nor of an imaginary Medea in a fur cloak. I want myself, just as I am. That is exactly what you are doing for me. Myself and I have lived so long together that I desire a little memento of the acquaintance.”

  “You can afford to speak lightly of what is so precious to others,” said Gouache, gallantly. Madame d’Aranjuez sank into the carved chair Orsino had occupied.

  “This dear Gouache — he is charming, is he not?” she said with a little laugh. Orsino looked at her.

  “Gouache is right,” he thought, with the assurance of his years. “It would be amusing to fall in love with her.”

  CHAPTER III.

  GOUACHE WAS FAR more interested in his work than in the opinions which his two visitors might entertain of each other. He looked at the lady fixedly, moved his easel, raised the picture a few inches higher from the ground and looked again. Orsino watched the proceedings from a little distance, debating whether he should go away or remain. Much depended upon Madame d’Aragona’s character, he thought, and of this he knew nothing. Some women are attracted by indifference, and to go away would be to show a disinclination to press the acquaintance. Others, he reflected, prefer the assurance of the man who always stays, even without an invitation, rather than lose his chance. On the other hand a sitting in a studio is not exactly like a meeting in a drawing-room. The painter has a sort of traditional, exclusive right to his sitter’s sole attention. The sitter, too, if a woman, enjoys the privilege of sacrificing one-half her good looks in a bad light, to favour the other side which is presented to the artist’s view, and the third person, if there be one, has a provoking habit of so placing himself as to receive the least flattering impression. Hence the great unpopularity of the third person — or “the third inconvenience,” as the Romans call him.

  Orsino stood still for a few moments, wondering whether either of the two would ask him to sit down. As they did not, he was annoyed with them and determined to stay, if only for five minutes. He took up his position, in a deep seat under the high window, and watched Madame d’Aragona’s profile. Neither she nor Gouache made any remark. Gouache began to brush over the face of his picture. Orsino felt that the silence was becoming awkward. He began to regret that he had remained, for he discovered from his present position that the lady’s nose was indeed her defective feature.

  “You do not mind my staying a few minutes?” he said, with a vague interrogation.

  “Ask Madame, rather,” answered Gouache, brushing away in a lively manner. Madame said nothing, and see
med not to have heard.

  “Am I indiscreet?” asked Orsino.

  “How? No. Why should you not remain? Only, if you please, sit where I can see you. Thanks. I do not like to feel that some one is looking at me and that I cannot look at him, if I please — and as for me, I am nailed in my position. How can I turn my head? Gouache is very severe.”

  “You may have heard, Madame, that a beautiful woman is most beautiful in repose,” said Gouache.

  Orsino was annoyed, for he had of course wished to make exactly the same remark. But they were talking in French, and the Frenchman had the advantage of speed.

  “And how about an ugly woman?” asked Madame d’Aragona.

  “Motion is most becoming to her — rapid motion — the door,” answered the artist.

  Orsino had changed his position and was standing behind Gouache.

  “I wish you would sit down,” said the latter, after a short pause. “I do not like to feel that any one is standing behind me when I am at work. It is a weakness, but I cannot help it. Do you believe in mental suggestion, Madame?”

  “What is that?” asked Madame d’Aragona vaguely.

  “I always imagine that a person standing behind me when I am at work is making me see everything as he sees,” answered Gouache, not attempting to answer the question.

  Orsino, driven from pillar to post, had again moved away.

  “And do you believe in such absurd superstitions?” enquired Madame d’Aragona with a contemptuous curl of her heavy lips. “Monsieur de Saracinesca, will you not sit down? You make me a little nervous.”

  Gouache raised his finely marked eyebrows almost imperceptibly at the odd form of address, which betrayed ignorance either of worldly usage or else of Orsino’s individuality. He stepped back from the canvas and moved a chair forward.

  “Sit here, Prince,” he said. “Madame can see you, and you will not be behind me.”

  Orsino took the proffered seat without any remark. Madame d’Aragona’s expression did not change, though she was perfectly well aware that Gouache had intended to correct her manner of addressing the young man. The latter was slightly annoyed. What difference could it make? It was tactless of Gouache, he thought, for the lady might be angry.

  “Are you spending the winter in Rome, Madame?” he asked. He was conscious that the question lacked originality, but no other presented itself to him.

  “The winter?” repeated Madame d’Aragona dreamily. “Who knows? I am here at present, at the mercy of the great painter. That is all I know. Shall I be here next month, next week? I cannot tell. I know no one. I have never been here before. It is dull. This was my object,” she added, after a short pause. “When it is accomplished I will consider other matters. I may be obliged to accompany their Royal Highnesses to Egypt in January. That is next month, is it not?”

  It was so very far from clear who the royal highnesses in question might be, that Orsino glanced at Gouache, to see whether he understood. But Gouache was imperturbable.

  “January, Madame, follows December,” he answered. “The fact is confirmed by the observations of many centuries. Even in my own experience it has occurred forty-seven times in succession.”

  Orsino laughed a little, and as Madame d’Aragona’s eyes met his, the red lips smiled, without parting.

  “He is always laughing at me,” she said pleasantly.

  Gouache was painting with great alacrity. The smile was becoming to her and he caught it as it passed. It must be allowed that she permitted it to linger, as though she understood his wish, but as she was looking at Orsino, he was pleased.

  “If you will permit me to say it, Madame,” he observed, “I have never seen eyes like yours.”

  He endeavoured to lose himself in their depths as he spoke. Madame d’Aragona was not in the least annoyed by the remark, nor by the look.

  “What is there so very unusual about my eyes?” she enquired. The smile grew a little more faint and thoughtful but did not disappear.

  “In the first place, I have never seen eyes of a golden-yellow colour.”

  “Tigers have yellow eyes,” observed Madame d’Aragona.

  “My acquaintance with that animal is at second hand — slight, to say the least.”

  “You have never shot one?”

  “Never, Madame. They do not abound in Rome — nor even, I believe, in Albano. My father killed one when he was a young man.”

  “Prince Saracinesca?”

  “Sant’ Ilario. My grandfather is still alive.”

  “How splendid! I adore strong races.”

  “It is very interesting,” observed Gouache, poking the stick of a brush into the eye of his picture. “I have painted three generations of the family, I who speak to you, and I hope to paint the fourth if Don Orsino here can be cured of his cynicism and induced to marry Donna — what is her name?” He turned to the young man.

  “She has none — and she is likely to remain nameless,” answered Orsino gloomily.

  “We will call her Donna Ignota,” suggested Madame d’Aragona.

  “And build altars to the unknown love,” added Gouache.

  Madame d’Aragona smiled faintly, but Orsino persisted in looking grave.

  “It seems to be an unpleasant subject, Prince.”

  “Very unpleasant, Madame,” answered Orsino shortly.

  Thereupon Madame d’Aragona looked at Gouache and raised her brows a little as though to ask a question, knowing perfectly well that Orsino was watching her. The young man could not see the painter’s eyes, and the latter did not betray by any gesture that he was answering the silent interrogation.

  “Then I have eyes like a tiger, you say. You frighten me. How disagreeable — to look like a wild beast!”

  “It is a prejudice,” returned Orsino. “One hears people say of a woman that she is beautiful as a tigress.”

  “An idea!” exclaimed Gouache, interrupting. “Shall I change the damask cloak to a tiger’s skin? One claw just hanging over the white shoulder — Omphale, you know — in a modern drawing-room — a small cast of the Farnese Hercules upon a bracket, there, on the right. Decidedly, here is an idea. Do you permit, Madame!”

  “Anything you like — only do not spoil the likeness,” answered Madame d’Aragona, leaning back in her chair, and looking sleepily at Orsino from beneath her heavy, half-closed lids.

  “You will spoil the whole picture,” said Orsino, rather anxiously.

  Gouache laughed.

  “What harm if I do? I can restore it in five minutes—”

  “Five minutes!”

  “An hour, if you insist upon accuracy of statement,” replied Gouache with a shade of annoyance.

  He had an idea, and like most people whom fate occasionally favours with that rare commodity he did not like to be disturbed in the realisation of it. He was already squeezing out quantities of tawny colours upon his palette.

  “I am a passive instrument,” said Madame d’Aragona. “He does what he pleases. These men of genius — what would you have? Yesterday a gown from Worth — to-day a tiger’s skin — indeed, I tremble for to-morrow.”

  She laughed a little and turned her head away.

  “You need not fear,” answered Gouache, daubing in his new idea with an enormous brush. “Fashions change. Woman endures. Beauty is eternal. There is nothing which may not be made becoming to a beautiful woman.”

  “My dear Gouache, you are insufferable. You are always telling me that I am beautiful. Look at my nose.”

  “Yes. I am looking at it.”

  “And my mouth.”

  “I look. I see. I admire. Have you any other personal observations to make? How many claws has a tiger, Don Orsino? Quick! I am painting the thing.”

  “One less than a woman.”

  Madame d’Aragona looked at the young man a moment, and broke into a laugh.

  “There is a charming speech. I like that better than Gouache’s flattery.”

  “And yet you admit that the portrait is
like you,” said Gouache.

  “Perhaps I flatter you, too.”

  “Ah! I had not thought of that.”

  “You should be more modest.”

  “I lose myself—”

  “Where?”

  “In your eyes, Madame. One, two, three, four — are you sure a tiger has only four claws? Where is the creature’s thumb — what do you call it? It looks awkward.”

  “The dew-claw?” asked Orsino. “It is higher up, behind the paw. You would hardly see it in the skin.”

  “But a cat has five claws,” said Madame d’Aragona. “Is not a tiger a cat? We must have the thing right, you know, if it is to be done at all.”

  “Has a cat five claws?” asked Anastase, appealing anxiously to Orsino.

  “Of course, but you would only see four on the skin.”

  “I insist upon knowing,” said Madame d’Aragona. “This is dreadful! Has no one got a tiger? What sort of studio is this — with no tiger!”

  “I am not Sarah Bernhardt, nor the emperor of Siam,” observed Gouache, with a laugh.

  But Madame d’Aragona was not satisfied.

  “I am sure you could procure me one, Prince,” she said, turning to Orsino. “I am sure you could, if you would! I shall cry if I do not have one, and it will be your fault.”

  “Would you like the animal alive or dead?” inquired Orsino gravely, and he rose from his seat.

  “Ah, I knew you could procure the thing!” she exclaimed with grateful enthusiasm. “Alive or dead, Gouache? Quick — decide!”

  “As you please, Madame. If you decide to have him alive, I will ask permission to exchange a few words with my wife and children, while some one goes for a priest.”

  “You are sublime, to-day. Dead, then, if you please, Prince. Quite dead — but do not say that I was afraid—”

  “Afraid? With, a Saracinesca and a Gouache to defend your life, Madame? You are not serious.”

  Orsino took his hat.

  “I shall be back in a quarter of an hour,” he said, as he bowed and went out.

  Madame d’Aragona watched his tall young figure till he disappeared.