CHAPTER XXXII. THE PAVILION IN THE GARDEN
Charles Massy, dressed in the blouse of his daily labor, and with the tools of his craft in his hand, set out early in search of the garden indicated by Billy Traynor. A sense of hope that it was for the last time he was to exercise his art, that a new and more stirring existence was now about to open before him, made his step lighter and his spirits higher as he went. “Once amid the deep woods, and on the wide plains of the New World, I shall dream no more of what judgment men may pass upon my efforts. There, if I suffice to myself, I have no other ordeal to meet. Perils may try me, but not the whims and tastes of other men.”
Thus, fancying an existence of unbounded freedom and unfettered action, he speedily traversed the olive wood, and almost ere he knew it found himself within the garden. The gorgeous profusion of beautiful flowers, the graceful grouping of shrubs, the richly perfumed air, laden with a thousand odors, first awoke him from his day dream, and he stood amazed in the midst of a scene surpassing all that he had ever conceived of loveliness. From the terrace, where under a vine trellis he was standing, he could perceive others above him rising on the mountain side, while some beneath descended towards the sea, which, blue as a turquoise, lay basking and glittering below. A stray white sail or so was to be seen, but there was barely wind to shake the olive leaves, and waft the odors of the orange and the oleander. It was yet too early for the hum of insect life, and the tricklings of the tiny fountains that sprinkled the flower-beds were the only sounds in the stillness. It was in color, outline, effect, and shadow, a scene such as only Italy can present, and Massy drank in all its influences with an eager delight.
“Were I a rich man,” said he, “I would buy this paradise. What in all the splendor of man's invention can compare with the gorgeous glory of this flowery carpet? What frescoed ceiling could vie with these wide-leaved palms, interlaced with these twining acacias, glimpses of the blue sky breaking through? And for a mirror, there lies Nature's own,—the great blue ocean! What a life were it, to linger days and hours here, amid such objects of beauty, having one's thoughts ever upwards, and making in imagination a world of which these should be the types. The faintest fancies that could float across the mind in such an existence would be pleasures more real, more tangible, than ever were felt in the tamer life of the actual world.”
Loitering along, he at length came upon the little temple which served as a studio, on entering which, he found his own statue enshrined in the place of honor. Whether it was the frame of mind in which he chanced to be, or that place and light had some share in the result, for the first time the figure struck him as good, and he stood long gazing at his own work with the calm eye of a critic. At length, detecting, as he deemed, some defects in design, he drew nigh, and began to correct them. There are moments in which the mind attains the highest and clearest perception,—seasons in which, whatever the nature of the mental operation, the faculties address themselves readily to the task, and labor becomes less a toil than an actual pleasure. This was such. Massy worked on for hours; his conceptions grew rapidly under his hand into bold realities, and he saw that he was succeeding. It was not alone that he had imparted a more graceful and lighter beauty to his statue, but he felt within himself the promptings of a spirit that grew with each new suggestion of its own. Efforts that before had seemed above him he now essayed boldly; difficulties that once had appeared insurmountable he now encountered with courageous daring. Thus striving, he lost all sense of fatigue. Hunger and exhaustion were alike unremembered, and it was already late in the afternoon, as, overcome by continued toil, he threw himself heavily down, and sank off into a deep sleep.
It was nigh sunset as he awoke. The distant bell of a monastery was ringing the hour of evening prayer, the solemn chime of the “Venti quattro,” as he leaned on his arm and gazed in astonishment around him. The whole seemed like a dream. On every side were objects new and strange to, his eyes,—casts and models he had never seen before busts and statues and studies all unknown to him. At last his eyes rested on the Faun, and he remembered at once where he was. The languor of excessive fatigue, however, still oppressed him, and he was about to lie back again in sleep, when, bending gently over him, a young girl, with a low, soft accent, asked if he felt ill, or only tired.
Massy gazed, without speaking, at features regular as the most classic model, and whose paleness almost gave them the calm beauty of the marble. His steady stare slightly colored her cheek, and made her voice falter a little as she repeated her question.
“I scarcely know,” said he, sighing heavily. “I feel as though this were a dream, and I am afraid to awaken from it.”
“Let me give you some wine,” said she, bending down to hand him the glass; “you have over-fatigued yourself. The Faun is by your hand, is it not?”
He nodded a slow assent.
“Whence did you derive that knowledge of ancient art?” said she, eagerly. “Your figure has the light elasticity of the classic models, and yet nothing strained or exaggerated in attitude. Have you studied at Rome?”
“I could do better now,” said the youth, as, rising on his elbow, he strained his eyes to examine her. “I could achieve a real success.”
A deep flush covered her face at these words, so palpably alluding to herself, and she tried to repeat her question.
“No,” said he, “I cannot say I have ever studied: all that I have done is full of faults; but I feel the spring of better things within me. Tell me, is this your home?”
“Yes,” said she, smiling faintly. “I live in the villa here with my aunt. She has purchased your statue, and wishes you to repair it, and then to engage in some other work for her. Let me assist you to rise; you seem very weak.”
“I am weak, and weary too,” said he, staggering to a seat. “I have overworked myself, perhaps,—I scarcely know. Do not take away your hand.”
“And you are, then, the Sebastian Greppi of whom Carrara is so proud?”
“They call me Sebastian Greppi; but I never heard that my name was spoken of with any honor.”
“You are unjust to your own fame. We have often heard of you. See, here are two models taken from your works. They have been my studies for many a day. I have often wished to see you, and ask if my attempt were rightly begun. Then here is a hand.”
“Let me model yours,” said the youth, gazing steadfastly at the beautifully shaped one which rested on the chair beside him.
“Come with me to the villa, and I will present you to my aunt; she will be pleased to know you. There, lean on my arm, for I see you are very weak.”
“Why are you so kind, so good to me?” said he, faintly, while a tear rose slowly to his eye.
He arose totteringly, and, taking her arm, walked slowly along at her side. As they went, she spoke kindly and encouragingly to him, praised what she had seen of his works, and said how frequently she had wished to know him, and enjoy the benefit of his counsels in art. “For I, too,” said she, laughing, “would be a sculptor.”
The youth stopped to gaze at her with a rapture he could not control. That one of such a station, surrounded by all the appliances of a luxurious existence, could devote herself to the toil and labor of art, implied an amount of devotion and energy that at once elevated her in his esteem. She blushed deeply at his continued stare, and turned at last away.
“Oh, do not feel offended with me,” cried he, passionately. “If you but knew how your words have relighted within me the dying-out embers of an almost exhausted ambition,—if you but knew how my heart has gained courage and hope,—how light and brightness have shone in upon me after hours and days of gloom! It was but yesterday I had resolved to abandon this career forever. I was bent on a new life, in a new world beyond the seas. These few things that a faithful companion of mine had charged himself to dispose of, were to supply the means of the journey; and now I think of it no more. I shall remain here to work hard and study, and try to achieve what may one day be called good. You will sometimes deign to see what I am doing, to tell me if my efforts are on the road to success, to give me hope when I am weak-hearted, and courage when I am faint. I know and feel,” said he, proudly, “that I am not devoid of what accomplishes success, for I can toil and toil, and throw my whole soul into my work; but for this I need, at least, one who shall watch me with an eye of interest, glorying when I win, sorrowing when I am defeated.—Where are we? What palace is this?” cried he, as they crossed a spacious hall paved with porphyry and Sienna marble.
“This is my home,” said the girl, “and this is its mistress.”
Just as she spoke, she presented the youth to a lady, who, reclining on a sofa beside a window, gazed out towards the sea. She turned suddenly, and fixed her eyes on the stranger. With a wild start, she sprang up, and, staring eagerly at him, cried, “Who is this? Where does he come from?”
The young girl told his name and what he was; but the words did not fall on listening ears, and the lady sat like one spell-bound, with eyes riveted on the youth's face.
“Am I like any one you have known, signora?” asked he, as he read the effect his presence had produced on her. “Do I recall some other features?”
“You do,” said she, reddening painfully.
“And the memory is not of pleasure?” added the youth.
“Far, far from it; it is the saddest and cruelest of all my life,” muttered she, half to herself. “What part of Italy are you from? Your accent is Southern.”
“It is the accent of Naples, signora,” said he, evading her question.
“And your mother, was she Neapolitan?”
“I know little of my birth, signora. It is a theme I would not be questioned on.”
“And you are a sculptor?”
“The artist of the Faun, dearest aunt,” broke in the girl, who watched with intense anxiety the changing expressions of the youth's features.
“Your voice even more than your features brings up the past,” said the lady, as a deadly pallor spread over her own face, and her lips trembled as she spoke. “Will you not tell me something of your history?”
“When you have told me the reason for which you ask it, perhaps I may,” said the youth, half sternly.
“There, there!” cried she, wildly, “in every tone, in every gesture, I trace this resemblance. Come nearer to me; let me see your hands.”
“They are seamed and hardened with toil, lady,” said the youth, as he showed them.
“And yet they look as if there was a time when they did not know labor,” said she, eagerly.
An impatient gesture, as if he would not endure a continuance of this questioning, stopped her, and she said in a faint tone,—
“I ask your pardon for all this. My excuse and my apology are that your features have recalled a time of sorrow more vividly than any words could. Your voice, too, strengthens the illusion. It may be a mere passing impression; I hope and pray it is. Come, Ida, come with me. Do not leave this, sir, till we speak with you again.” So saying, she took her niece's arm and left the room.