“You are both,” said Angela fondly, with a little sigh of rest and pleasure as she nestled in his arms— “You will be the greatest artist of your time when you paint large subjects instead of small ones.”
His tender hold of her relaxed a little.
“You think ‘Phillida et les Roses’ a small subject?” he asked, with a touch of petulance in his tone, “Surely if a small study is perfect, it is better than a large one which is imperfect?”
“Of course it is!” replied the girl quickly— “By smallness I did not mean the size of the canvas, — I meant the character of the subject.”
“There is nothing small in the beauty of woman!” declared Varillo, with an enthusiastic air— “Her form is divine! Her delicious flesh tints — her delicate curves — her amorous dimples — her exquisite seductiveness — combined with her touching weakness — these qualities make of woman the one, — the only subject for a painter’s brush, when the painter is a man!”
Involuntarily Angela thought of “Pon-Pon,” who had posed for the “Phillida,” and a little shiver ran over her nerves like a sudden wind playing on the chords of an AEolian harp. Gently she withdrew herself from her lover’s embrace.
“And when the painter is a woman, should the only subject for her brush be the physical beauty of man?” she asked.
Varillo gave an airy gesture of remonstrance.
“Carissima mia! You shock me! How can you suggest such a thing! The two sexes differ in tastes and aspirations as absolutely as in form. Man is an unfettered creature, — he must have his liberty, even if it reaches license; woman is his dependent. That is Nature’s law. Man is the conqueror — woman is his conquest! We cannot alter these things. That is one reason for the prejudice existing against woman’s work — if it excels that of man, we consider it a kind of morbid growth — an unnatural protuberance on the face of the universe. In fact, it is a wrong balance of the intellectual forces, which in their action, should always remain on the side of man.”
“But if man abuses his power, may it not be taken from him altogether?” suggested Angela tranquilly, “If man, knowing that a life of self-indulgence destroys his intellectual capacity, still persists in that career, and woman, studying patiently to perfect herself, refuses to follow his example of vice, may it not happen that the intellectual forces may range themselves on the side of right rather than wrong, and invest woman with a certain supremacy in the end? It is a problem worth thinking of!”
Varillo looked sharply at her. Had she heard anything of his private life in Rome? — a life he kept carefully concealed from everyone who might be likely to report his little amusements at the Palazzo Sovrani? A slight, very slight touch of shame pricked him, as he noted the grace of her figure, the dainty poise of her head on her slim white throat — the almost royal air of dignity and sweetness which seemed to surround her, — there was no doubt whatever of her superiority to the women he generally consorted with, and for a moment he felt remorseful, — but he soon dismissed his brief compunction with a laugh.
“No, sweet Angela,” he said gaily, “it is not worth thinking of! Believe me! I will not enter into any such profound discussions with you. My present time is too short, and your attractions too many! Why did you slip out of my arms so unkindly just now? Surely you were not offended? Comeback! Come, and we will go up to the great picture as lovers should, together — entwined in each other’s arms! — and you shall then draw the mysterious curtain, — or shall I?”
She still hesitated. Then after a pause, she came towards him once more, the soft colour alternately flushing and paling her cheeks, as she laid her hand on his arm.
“You did not answer me,” she said, “when I asked you just now if you believed that a woman’s work could be as purposeful as a man’s — sometimes indeed more so. You evaded the question. Why?”
“Did I evade it?” and Varillo took her hand in his own and kissed it,— “Dolcesza mia, I would not pain you for the world!”
A slight shadow clouded her face.
“You will not pain me,” she answered, “except by not being true to yourself and to me. You know how I have worked, — you know how high I have set my ambition for your sake — to make myself more worthy of you; but if you do honestly think that a woman’s work in art must always be inferior to a man’s, no matter how ardently she studies — no matter even if she has so perfected herself in drawing, anatomy, and colouring as to be admitted the equal of men in these studies — if the result must, in your mind, be nevertheless beneath that of the masculine attainment, why say so, — because then — then—”
“Then what, my sweet philosopher?” asked Florian lightly, again kissing the hand he held.
She fixed her eyes fully on him. “Then,” she replied slowly, “I should know you better — I should understand you more!”
An unpleasant twinge affected his nerves, and his eyelids quivered and blinked as though struck by a sudden shaft of the sun. This was the only facial sign he ever gave of the difficulty he at times experienced in meeting the straight, clear glance of his betrothed.
“You would know me more, and love me less? Is that it?” he said carelessly. “My dear girl, why do you press the point? If you will have it, I tell you frankly, I think women are growing very clever, much too clever in fact, — and that the encouragement and impetus given to them in the Arts is a very great mistake. Because they are not all geniuses like my Angela! You are one in a thousand — or rather one in a million, — and for one Angela Sovrani we shall have a world of female daubers calling themselves artists and entering into competition with us, as if we had not already quite enough competition among our own sex! I honestly believe that with very rare exceptions woman’s work is decidedly inferior and mediocre as compared to man’s.”
Quickly Angela disengaged herself from his hold, her lips trembling — her eyes were full of a strange fire and brilliancy, — her slight figure seemed to grow taller as she stood for a moment like a queen, regarding him steadfastly from under her fair, level brows.
“Then come and see!” she said, “I am not proud — I make no boast at all of what I have done — and no one perceives or deplores the faults of my work more than I do — but I know I have not altogether failed!”
She moved away from him and stood opposite her veiled canvas, — then as Florian followed and joined her, with a swift action which had something of defiance as well as grace in it, she swept aside the concealing curtain. Florian recoiled with an involuntary cry, — and then remained motionless and silent, — stricken dumb and stupid by the magnificent creation which confronted him. This Angela’s masterpiece! A woman’s work! This stupendous conception! This perfect drawing! This wondrous colouring! Fully facing him, the central glory of the whole picture, was a figure of Christ — unlike any other Christ ever imagined by poet or painter — an etherealised Form through which the very light of Heaven itself seemed to shine, — supreme, majestic, and austerely God-like; — the face was more beautiful than any ever dreamed of by the hewers of the classic marbles — it was the face of a great Archangel, — beardless and youthful, yet kingly and commanding. Round the broad brows a Crown of Thorns shone like a diadem, every prickly point tipped with pale fire, — and from the light floating folds of intense white which, cloud-like, clung about the divine Form, faint flashes of the lightning gleamed. Above this grand Christ, the heavens were opened, pouring out a rain of such translucent purity of colour and radiance as never had been seen in any painted canvas before — but beneath, the clouds were black as midnight — confused, chaotic, and drifting darkly on a strong wind as it seemed into weird and witch-like shapes, wherein there were seen the sun and moon revolving pallidly, like globes of fire lost from their orbits and about to become extinct. And among those shifting black films were a crowd of human creatures, floating and falling into unknown depths of darkness, and striking out wild arms of appeal and entreaty and despair, — the faces of these were all familiar, and were the life-
like portraits of many of those pre-eminent in the history of the time. Chief among them was the Sovereign Pontiff, waxen and wan and dark-eyed, — he was depicted as fastening fetters of iron round the body of a beautiful youth, laurel-crowned, the leaves of the laurel bearing faint gold letters which spelt the word “Science.” Huddled beside him was a well-known leader of the Jesuits, busily counting up heaps of gold, — another remarkable figure was that of a well-known magnate of the Church of England, who, leaning forward eagerly, sought to grasp and hold the garment of the Pope, but was dragged back by the hand of a woman crowned with an Imperial diadem. After these and other principal personages came a confusion of faces — all recognisable, yet needing study to discern; — creatures drifting downwardly into the darkness, — one was the vivisectionist whose name was celebrated through France, clutching at his bleeding victim and borne relentlessly onwards by the whirlwind, — and forms and faces belong to men of every description of Church-doctrine were seen trampling underneath them other human creatures scarcely discernible. And over all this blackness and chaos the supernal figure of the Christ was aerially poised, — one hand was extended and to this a woman clung — a woman with a beautiful face made piteous in its beauty by long grief and patient endurance. In her other arm she held a sleeping child — and mother and child were linked together by a garland of flowers partially broken and faded. Her entreating attitude, — the sleeping child’s helplessness — her worn face, — the perishing roses of earth’s hope and joy, — all expressed their meaning simply yet tragically, and as the Divine Hand supported and drew her up out of the universal chaos below, the hope of a new world, a better world, a wiser world, a holier world, seemed to be distantly conveyed. But the eyes of the Christ were full of reproach, and were bent on the Representative of St. Peter binding the laurel-crowned youth, and dragging him into darkness, — and the words written across the golden mount of the picture, in clear black letters, seemed to be actually spoken aloud from the vivid color and movement of the painting. “Many in that day will call upon Me and say, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in Thy name, and in Thy name cast out devils, and done many wonderful works?”
“Then will I say to them, I never knew you! Depart from me all ye that work iniquity!”
As an Allegory the picture was a daring yet sublime reproach to the hypocrisy of the religious world, — as a picture it was consummate in every detail, and would have been freely admitted as a masterpiece of Raffaelle had Raffaelle been fortunate enough to paint it. Still Varillo kept silence. Angela’s heart beat so loudly that she could almost hear it in the deep silence of the room. Every fine little nerve in her body was strained — to the utmost height of suspense, — she was afraid to look at her lover, or disturb the poise of his mental judgment by the lightest movement. And he? Thoughts, black as the chaos of cloud she had so powerfully portrayed, were stirring in his soul, — thoughts, base and mean and cowardly, which, gradually gathering force as he dwelt upon them, began to grow and spring up to a devilish height worked into life and being by a burning spark of jealousy, which, long smouldering in his nature, now leaped into a flame. No trace of the wicked inner workings of his mind, however, darkened the equanimity of his features, or clouded the serene, soft candour of his eyes, as he at last turned towards the loving, shrinking woman, who stood waiting for his approval, as simply and sweetly as a rose might wait for the touch of the morning sun. Slowly, and like little pellets of ice, his first words fell from his lips,
“Did you do it all yourself?”
The spell was disturbed — the charm broken. Angela turned very white — she drew a deep breath — and the tension on her nerves relaxed, — her heart gave one indignant bound — and then resumed its usual quiet beating, as with a strong effort she gathered all her dignity and force together, and replied simply,
“Can you ask?”
He looked at her. What an embodied insult to the arrogance of man she was! She! — a mere woman! — and the painter of the finest picture ever seen since Raffaelle and Michael Angelo left the world to work elsewhere. “Chaste as ice, pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny!” In his imagination he saw the world crowning her with imperishable bays — he heard the denunciation of the Vatican and the condemnation of the Churches, thunder uselessly against the grand lesson of her work, while crowds gathered adoringly before the most perfect Christ ever painted! — and he saw her name written up in letters of gold on the scroll of those whom history numbers as immortal! It should not be! It should never be! And again he spoke, enunciating his words with difficulty, for his lips were dry.
“It is very fine! Quite marvellous, in fact! — almost unprecedented! That is why I ask, ‘did you do it all yourself?’ You must not be offended, Angela! I mean so well! You see the conception — the breadth of treatment — the gradation and tone of colour — are all absolutely masculine. Who first suggested the idea to you?”
Still very pale, breathing quickly yet lightly, and maintaining an air of calm which was almost matter of fact, she answered, —
“No one! Though perhaps, if it is traced to its source, it arose in my mind from seeing the universal dissatisfaction which most intelligent people feel with religion, as administered to them by the Churches. That, and a constant close study of the New Testament, set the thought in my brain, — a thought which gradually expressed itself in this form. So far as any work belongs to the worker, it is entirely my own creation. I am sorry you should have implied any doubt of it!”
Here her voice trembled a little, but she quickly steadied it. He smiled — a little difficult smile — and slipping his right hand between his coat and vest, felt for something he always carried there. It should never be!
“My dear Angela!” he said, with a gracious tranquillity that was almost dignity, “I do not doubt you in the least! — I merely SUGGEST what all the world will SAY! There is not an art-critic alive who will accept this — this extraordinary production — as the work of a woman! It is the kind of thing which might have been produced hundreds of years ago by a great master setting his pupils to work at different sections of the canvas, — but that one woman, painting all alone for three years, should have designed and executed such a masterpiece — yes! — I will admit it is a masterpiece! — is an unheard of and altogether an extraordinary thing, and you must not wonder if competent judges reject the statement with incredulity!”
“It does not matter to me,” said Angela, “what they reject or accept. You admit it is a masterpiece — that is enough for me. It is my own work, and you know it is!”
“Dear little one!” he said, laughing forcedly, “How do I know? You have never admitted me into the studio once while you were at work!”
“Florian!”
The exclamation broke from her lips like a cry of physical pain.
“That was a mistake of yours!” he went on recklessly, his eyes beginning to glitter with the fever raging in his mind, “You should not have shut the doors against your lover, my beloved! Nor would you admit your father either! That looks very strange!”
White as a snowflake, yet with blazing eyes, Angela turned upon him.
“Florian!” she said, “Do you — you of all people in the world — you to whom I have given all my love and confidence — mean to suggest that my work is not my own?”
He looked at her, smiling easily.
“Sweet Angela, not I! I know your genius — I worship it! See!” and with a light grace he dropped on one knee, and snatching her hand, kissed it — then springing up again, he said, “You are a great creature, my Angela! — the greatest artist in the world, — IF WE CAN ONLY MAKE THE WORLD BELIEVE IT!”
Something in his voice, his manner, moved her to a vague touch of dread. Earnestly she looked at him, — wonderingly, and with a passionate reproach in her pure, true eyes. And still he smiled, while the fiends of envy and malice made havoc in his soul.
“My glorious Angela!” he said, “My bride, my beautiful one! A veritable queen,
to whom nations shall pay homage!” He threw one arm round her waist and drew her somewhat roughly to him. “You must not be vexed with me, sweetheart! — the world is a cruel world, and always doubts great ability in woman! I only prepare you for what most people will say. But I do not doubt! — I know your power, and triumph in it!” He paused a moment, breathing quickly, — his eyes were fixed on the picture, — then he said, “If I may venture to criticise — there is a shadow — there, at the left hand side of the canvas — do you not see?”
She disengaged herself from his clasp.
“Where?” she asked, in a voice from which all spirit and hopefulness had fled.
“You are sad? My Angela, have I discouraged you? Forgive me! I do not find fault, — this is a mere nothing, — you may not agree with me, — but does not that dark cloud make somewhat too deep a line near the faded roses? It may be only an effect of this waning light, — but I do think that line is heavy and might be improved. Be patient with me! — I only criticise to make perfection still more perfect!”
Listlessly she moved closer to the picture, turning away from him as she did so.
“Just the slightest softening of the tone — the finishing touch!” he murmured in caressing accents; while to himself he muttered— “It shall not be! It shall never be!” Then with a swift movement his hand snatched at the thing he always carried concealed near his breast — a flash of pointed steel glittered in the light, — and with one stealthy spring and pitiless blow, he stabbed her full and furiously in the back as she stood looking at the fault he had pretended to discover in her picture! One choking cry escaped her lips —
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 503
