Sections: General Index Present Section: Index Present Work: Index Previous: XIII - Tristan le Rodeur Next: XV - The Sword of Damocles
(p. 124)
CHAPTER XIV
She looked at him as one who awakes,
The past was a sleep, and her life began.
IN a small studio upon the terzo piano of a house overlooking the quaint Piazza Navona, the mellow afternoon sunlight rested upon the face of the young man who is destined to be the hero of this romance. It is well that the reader, on the occasion of his first introduction to Tristan Le Rodeur, should find him thus solitary, not only because the young artist deserves the particular scrutiny of an individual cynosure, but because, also, the opportunity of observing a man when he believes himself to be alone, is worth much more for purposes of physiological study, than the privilege of beholding him a dozen times in society.
Here, in the object of our present attention, was the very antithesis of Vane Vaurien. Here was a young untamed wood-pigeon, a “maiden knight,” whose soul was as clean as his chin and as soft as his cheeks, a stripling inapt in the world’s horn-book, who wore his heart on his sleeve and had not yet learnt that the gift of speech is granted to man in order that he may conceal his thoughts.
As the sunshine fell upon the ripples of his soft plentiful hair with that fullness and radiance that gives to most black tresses an unfavourable tinge of rusty brown, it served only to bring out in the high lights of Tristan’s curls a peculiar indigo shade, such as one may see in the wing of a black-plumaged bird; indisputable attestation to the intensity of their ebony darkness.
Handsomest of mankind in face and figure, Tristan’s beauty was yet his least attraction, for although his features were as perfectly proportioned as those of a Phidian statue, and the colouring of the clear olive skin absolutely faultless, the real charm of his countenance was its rare and unearthly expression.
(p. 125)
The face itself was young, the mouth almost a child’s, if lines and curves determine youth and childhood, but the meaning, the spirit of the features was strangely old.
As I sit here, endeavouring (O how vainly!) to give this portraiture of Tristan some semblance of a dead beauty and grace I once worshipped, I am fain to turn from the counterfeit to the original image in my own heart – the image of a beloved face lost to me now more than ten years – the face of another “Le Rodeur,” with deep electric eyes, the like of which I have never seen elsewhere, eyes in whose dark caverns lay the mysteries of the old magicians, the Wonder and the Melancholy that are the heritage of humanity; the strange old age of a soul that, while the youth of the body yet remained, had outlived and outdone it by some hundred years, had wearied itself with futile searches and flights after satisfaction, had laid a triumphant finger upon the zenith of Dogma, and beheld the whole crazy framework of its unstable welkin come tumbling down at the touch, like a vast and spiritual Humpty-Dumpty, to be put together again no more for ever.
Lady Cairnsmuir had well said that to the perceptions of a stranger, Tristan’s age would be probably an unknown quantity; for, although at the first blush one might indeed take him for a mere boy in his teens, a closer and longer observation would discover that old, unsatisfied expression which we have noticed pervading his face like a haunting meteoric light, whose source and issues were in the deeps of his fathomless and dangerous eyes. Beneath its strange influence the beautiful features assumed precisely that weird anomalous appearance of unnatural preservation which one may imagine to have characterized the faces of those mediæval wizards who, by means of magic elixirs and arts of necromancy, prolonged indefinitely the days of their youth.
As Le Rodeur stood before his easel handling his palette and maulstick with the easy sway and skill of an “Admirable Critchton,” his tall, lissome figure, clad in that fantastic undress which men of poetical tastes and sunny climates are wont to affect, appeared to singular advantage. Somewhat too loose of limb perhaps, with hands and feet a trifle too small
(p. 126)
and delicate for a man’s, but such faults as these might readily be pardoned in a person which seemed to combine the flexile charms of feminine grace with the proper form and contour of virility. Feminine too was the burning glow of nervous excitation that flushed the cheeks of the boy-artist, when by-and-by the polished pine-boards of the winding staircase ascending to his retreat, echoed beneath the light tapping of women’s footsteps and the sweeping of their silken draperies; a new and softer light like the light of a dawn gleamed in the wells of those strange, magical eyes, the breath came quicker between Tristan’s curved parted lips, and the quivering woman-like hands faltered and paused in their work. Then, from without, the amber-coloured portière was pushed aside, two ladies entered the atelier, and Le Rodeur’s patroness presented him to her daughter, Lady Ella Cairnsmuir.
There are certain incidents in the lives of most of us men and women which impress themselves as indelibly upon our minds as though by some mental process akin to photography they were pictorially retained upon the brain, with all their accidental accessories of colour, sound, and motion. There is thus preserved in my own mind to this day, the perfect recollection of a scene which certainly occupied but a minute in transaction, and which was in itself an affair of very slight importance, although it subsequently proved to have been the beginning of a tragedy. It was an introduction – much like this between Le Rodeur and Ella Cairnsmuir – in which the part of the lady was enacted by myself, and that of the pilgrim artist by his prototype in real life. The place was a garden of rare beauty, the time was towards sunset in May, and the sky was dappled with rosy flecks of broken cloud. Years have passed since that day, the garden I speak of is now a heap of dust and mortar, its owner then has long since shifted his property into other hands and changed his very name, and the hero of my romaunt, the central figure of my mental tableau is no longer a “pilgrim” beneath the sun of this work-a-day world. But I retain with all the vividness of present sight and sense the meanest circumstances of that introduction. I recall to a nicety the words spoken on the occasion, the various expressions on the faces about me at the
(p. 127)
moment, the exact aspect of the scenic entourage, with its details of shrubbery, grotto, and rosery, the pattern and style of the dresses wore by myself and my companions, and the actual title of a volume which was in my “Tristan’s” hand, and of which I chanced to catch a glimpse as he bowed. What power can have impressed so ordinary an occurrence on my brain with such exceptional force and accuracy, that in a review of my past history I find this tiny particular eclipsing in prominence all the real events of my life? True it was the initial letter of a “sensation” chapter, but I did not know its significance then, nor guess what was to follow it. Have we within us some prophetic faculty of which we have no knowledge, that seizes upon such apparently trivial episodes, and fixes them in our remembrance for future reference or data when our Fate shall have further disburdened herself? Since that May-day I have had my part in thousands of introductions, have wandered in many rose gardens, and seen the setting of many spring suns, and none of these has left any track of distinctive retrospect behind it; but the perfect memory of that one scene I shall carry with me to my grave.
And so with Ella Cairnsmuir. She needs not now to be reminded of the streak of yellow sunlight that streamed in through the opened casement of Le Rodeur’s studio, winding its lazy way like a golden serpent over the oaken cill, across the adjusted window-curtain, and round a comer of the canvass on the easel, till it slid down to the polished wooden floor. Nor of the floor itself, with its glazed reflective triangles and diamonds and circles of different coloured woods, intersected and repeated after the artistic foreign fashion which does these things so much better than we; nor of the oil-colour tubes and brushes lying scattered round a bottle of turpentine on a low four-legged stool by the window, nor even of a little crimson paint daub visible upon the left breast of Tristan’s loose picturesque Garibaldi shirt. She will never forget the sound of her mother’s voice in pronouncing Le Rodeur’s name, nor the rustle of her own silk dress as she bent towards him, nor the words of courteous common-place with which she acknowledged the introduction. Yet, very probably she fails to remember now the particulars of
(p. 128)
her presentation at her Majesty’s Drawing-room, the attire of her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales, who acted as the Queen’s deputy on that occasion, the jewels and coiffure in which she herself appeared, and the demeanour of her mother during the momentous ceremony. For to her the event of that day has proved itself a mere incident in comparison with the incident which has proved itself an event.
But no responsive magnetism of sympathy met the thrill at Ella Cairnsmuir’s heart. There was but one woman in the world to Tristan Le Rodeur, and she was – my Lady herself.
The afternoon wore away delightfully. Lady Cairnsmuir insisted on an exhibition of her protégé's pictures, and made him place them one after another upon the easel for Ella’s delectation, criticising and suggesting and approving by turns, with an unembarrassed flow of language, and an authoritative ease of manner that rendered the secret of the previous day’s emotion utterly impenetrable.
Ella had anticipated that her mother would be discomposed or silent, or at least passive in the presence of a man whose very name she had not been able to utter with calmness twenty-four hours before, but behold instead, her ladyship in the best of spirits and the most loquacious and imperative of moods, a little paler than her wont perhaps, but that might be the effect of the day’s temperature, which was unusually warm, and she was never remarkable for brilliant colour.
There were a great many canvasses produced, but not one of them displayed more than a half completed painting, drawn with strange vigour and earnestness, and remarkable for the masterful contrast of light and shadow which it promised to contain when it should have arrived at a more advanced condition. What little colouring these sketches had received, was low and neutral like Turner’s, but in each the idea was intense, a poem drawn with the brush instead of being written by the pen; a real thought drafted into visible shape, a giant, wreathed in mist, through which, the outline of his nervous colossal limbs was always distinct, and full of significant power. Yet only an idea, – only a promise, – only an outline! For whenever a fancy flashed upon Tristan’s mind he
(p. 129)
loved to fix it, immediately with his pencil, to be worked up into a complete picture at some future time, but his genius was as roving and erratic in its tastes as his name implied, and while the particular tone of mind in which each sketch was conceived and executed, passed away never to return, canvasses accumulated and multiplied, but no finished painting went forth from his atelier to astonish the world. In fine, Le Rodeur was literally surrounded and haunted by the ghosts of departed whims and forlorn hopes, and his studio a very Limbo for the shades of unfortunate ideas which had perished in their infancy, nameless and undistinguished, possessed indeed of immortal souls, but having not the beauties of grace and development.
Alas, alas! – these unfinished pictures – so full of high prognostication for riper years – so pregnant with passion, nerve, thought and aspiration – were they not strangely significant of the life their creator was to lead – mute presages of the Future, omens of the fateful and premature Death which is so often the heritage of beauty and genius!
Had my Lady only divined it then!
“Have you never completed a picture, Le Rodeur?” she asked archly but with a touch of something like disappointment, too, lurking behind, the raillery of her smile.
“Once or twice, Countess, when Baldassare helped me.”
The reply was given a little carelessly, and accompanied by a slight heave of the shoulders, and an easy French gesture of deprecation, indescribably captivating to the eyes of Lady Ella, accustomed as she was to the severe immobility and drill of English deportment. Her watchful persistent gaze well-nigh transgressed her good breeding, but Tristan’s uncommon attractions and novelty of style might surely have excused a greater fault in so youthful a stranger to his charms. To her the painter himself was a far more fascinating picture than his paintings.
My Lady, sitting before the easel, turned towards her daughter, who stood beside her with her eyes rivetted upon Tristan.
“Signor Baldassare,” she explained, “is Le Rodeur’s tutor and guardian; an artist of great talent and judgment. He entertains, I believe.
(p. 130)
a very high opinion of his pupil’s abilities. But genius, Le Rodeur,” she added, again addressing herself to the young painter, “will accomplish nothing without perseverance and ambition. Have you exhibited any pictures in Rome yet?”
“I never completed any, myself, Madame; Baldassare touched up a couple for me some time ago, and they were sold at his studio in the Ripetta, but I felt that the honour was not mine and I would not take the pistoles, so they were given to the dear Frau Gretel. It was just before her death.”
Lady Cairnsmuir interposed, rather hurriedly. “Well, Le Rodeur, would you like to exhibit some picture which you would feel entitled to claim as your own work, in Paris or London?”
The magnetic eyes flashed flame for an instant, but the flame sank into darkness as swiftly as it had kindled, and the strange old age in his face came out instead, so vividly that Ella whose eyes were still fixed upon him, perceived it instantly, and shrank from it as though she had been a spectre. “Madame,” said he, “what good would it do me if I followed your suggestion? I have out-grown ambition. It is the folly of children.”
Her Ladyship looked at him in surprise, and would perhaps have laughed, but for the expression she saw upon his countenance. ”Then," she answered, ”you are not enthusiastic? I believed enthusiasm to be a necessary element in the heart of the artist.”
“Yes, when the artist is young,” said he. “But enthusiasm does not usually abide long. Indeed, the Devil is the only artist I ever heard of who has arrived at a mature age, and yet retains his early enthusiasm for his art.”
Whether he spoke in bitterness, in earnestness or in scorn, my Lady could not determine. She leaned back in her chair and looked at him.
“You are a strange young man,” she said, slowly, “and if any one else than you had said that I should have taken it in jest. May I ask if you really consider yourself past your youth already?”
(p. 131)
“Age is not measured by years,” answered Tristan, with melancholy, “I am old.”
He dropped himself gloomily on the wooden seat by the open window as he spoke, and pushed aside the shadowing curtain from the casement. The yellow zig-zag line of sunshine broadened to a sheet of gold upon wall and drapery and floor, and as the bright light smote full upon Tristan’s face the old age in it passed out and faded – as a shadow dies out of clear waters – and he added, with sudden earnestness,
“Are you going to Paris, Countess?”
“Certainly,” replied Lady Dolores, “we shall spend the winter there, I hope.”
“Ah – h!” responded Tristan, meeting her eyes, and breathing out the long luscious interjection of the south with extatic fervour, “then indeed, I should like to go also! But I should be a stranger there.”
“No one, who has wit and genius can be a stranger in Paris,” answered my Lady. “If you are Roman by birth, you are Parisian by name and paternity, and you speak French better than Italian. It is odd to hear you confess to me in French, which has no touch of patois in it, that you have never been to Paris! But there is plenty of time before us, Le Rodeur, and Baldassare must be consulted first, you know. I assure you," she glanced swiftly at Ella, “that it would be no slight pleasure to me to be enabled to continue the enjoyment of your society in Paris.”
She inclined her head towards him as she uttered the compliment, and he would have replied, but she, as though conscious of haying said too much, hastened to amend her indiscretion with advice. ”For I believe, Le Rodeur, that the associations into which you would enter in Paris, and the connexions which I might be able probably to form for you there, would benefit you greatly in more ways than one. You are dreamy, speculative, theoristic, unpractical. Baldassare talks to you of Art and Nature, and your mind and manners are saturated with the influences of such talk. Not,” cried my Lady, with sudden energy, “not that I disparage your guardian – God forbid! But I should like to show you a new world, a world – not of ideals and abstracts, but of men and women – a
(p. 132)
world, Le Rodeur, in which you may possibly discover yourself to be exceedingly – and dangerously – young.”
Her lips seemed to glitter with the brilliance of her smile as she paused over the last two words, and the emphasis with which they were pronounced, though it appeared to pass unnoticed by Tristan, vibrated every pulse of Ella’s heart, with a sharp tingling fear, as strange to her as unaccountable. She longed to say something to her mother’s protégé, which should draw his attention towards herself, but in vain; she disdained ordinary remarks, and nothing epigrammatical suggested itself to her mind. What embarrassed her? Not the French in which the conversation was carried on, for that language was as familiar to her as English, and yet she feared that Tristan must suppose her either deficient of skill to express herself in it, or else terribly absent and uninterested. Ella concluded that never before had she felt so stupid, so awkward, so miserably happy, so restlessly content. It did not occur to her – for how should she know it – that all this was the “very tune of love,” and that she – the highborn crescented Phœbe, unversed in the lore of erotic mysteries – had that evening found her Endymion!
Sections: General Index Present Section: Index Present Work: Index Previous: XIII - Tristan le Rodeur Next: XV - The Sword of Damocles