IX
MILA
The mental disturbance which our young painter experienced at that moment was due to two causes, one an absurd sort of jealousy, which had taken possession of him like an attack of fever, with respect to Princess Agatha; the other, a feeling of disquiet, because he had failed to obtain that noble person's approval of his paintings. Of course it was not mere love of gain, the desire to be paid more or less handsomely, which worked upon him thus. So long as he had been engrossed by the fever of production, he had given very little thought to the subject of the signora's personal opinion; he had thought only of succeeding, of satisfying himself; then, having almost succeeded in his own eyes, and having not as yet seen his mysterious patroness, he had wondered, with more hope than alarm, whether he should find enough enlightened judges in that province to establish his reputation upon an undertaking of that sort. In short, he had had so much to do up to the last moment that he had not had time to analyze his anxiety.
When he was quite alone, he found that he was strangely disturbed by the knowledge that people were passing judgment on his work, and that he could not be there. What prevented him? No orders related to his humble position in society, but a poignant false shame, which he did not feel the strength to overcome.
And yet Michel was not cowardly, either as a man or as an artist. Despite his youth he had already reflected deeply concerning his future prospects, and he had already reviewed concisely enough the list of successes and reverses connected with his destiny. Feeling that he was seized with faint-heartedness at the outset, he was surprised, and tried to fight against himself. But the more he questioned himself, the more fully he recognized his weakness, but would not avow its cause. Therefore we will give the reader that information.
At the bottom of this depression and alarm there lay a feeling of uncertainty as to the opinion the princess had formed concerning him. Pier-Angelo had told him that morning that during Sunday her highness had inspected the ball-room; but that, as he was not present, he did not know what she had said. Master Barbagallo, being in ill-humor because of the numerous vexations attendant upon the fête, had spoken very coldly to him on the subject, but had not said that the princess seemed dissatisfied or that she criticised anything. Whereupon honest Pier-Angelo had added, with his usual confidence: "Never fear, she knows what is what. It is impossible that she should not be satisfied beyond what she expected." Michel had surrendered to that confidence without paying much heed to the question whether it was justified. He had said to himself that, even if the princess were not a connoisseur, there would soon be enough connoisseurs about her to guide her judgment.
Moreover, he was afraid of everybody now because he was afraid of the princess. She had looked at him in a way that had completely upset him; but she had said nothing to him; not a word of praise or encouragement had accompanied that glance, which was more than kind, it is true, but for that very reason incomprehensible. And suppose he had been mistaken touching the expression of her face! suppose that, when she thus fixed her lovely, joy-laden eyes upon him, she was thinking of some entirely different person—her lover, perhaps, for she must have a lover, whatever Magnani might say!
At the bare idea Michel felt faint and sick; he fancied that he saw the princess leaning on the arm of the fortunate mortal for whose sake she pretended to entertain no thought of marriage. They were glancing absently at the young painter's work, and smiling as they looked into each other's eyes, as if to say:
"What does it matter to us? nothing is beautiful, nothing exists for us, except ourselves."
Weary of suffering so entirely without reason, Michel thought to conquer and tranquillize himself by adopting a superb resolution.
"I will go to bed," he said to himself, "and sleep like a prince, like a hero, while people are criticising me, disputing and perhaps getting excited about me in yonder palace. To-morrow morning, father will come and wake me, and tell me whether I have won the laurel wreath or have been hissed. What does it matter to me, after all?"