"I think not. I require something more than any one can give me, unless I am to leave her for the sake of some other."
"Who spoke of that?"--"Both of us, I think."
"Not I," said Bianchi. "I never could dream that you know your own advantages so little--with your face and your years."
He said no more, seemingly out of humour. "Let it be as it may." said Theodore, earnestly, "and let each one care for himself, and be glad that the other can be happy after his own fashion."
They never touched upon this subject again. Bianchi seemed to have entirely forgotten it, and Theodore did not agitate it. The old bitterness and fierceness of the sick man returned more and more as his wounds healed, and those rare touches of gentleness which he had shown to his friend disappeared for ever. He avoided giving him his hand; he never spoke of himself nor his feelings, never asked Theodore about his plans nor his past life, and hardly ever called him by his name; yet he never avoided Theodore's frequent visits, nor refused the little comforts which he brought him. Only once, when he saw some fruit in a basket, arranged beneath a layer of the earliest violets, with that delicate taste which belongs to a woman's hand alone, he placed the present coldly, and without saying a word, upon the mantelpiece. Theodore was silent; when he went he took the basket with him as he had brought it.
Still he continued to read to him--old poets, extracts from Dante and Tasso, and, at last, Machiavelli. The old deities, whose statues, scattered about Rome, had hitherto been to him merely fine carvings, semi-vivified by indistinct ideas, now became clear and living. It seemed as if he now for the first time saw with his waking eyes the world in which he had so long wandered in dreams. And the desire to go abroad awoke in him, and he longed to visit, personally, all that his imagination had clearly, and for the first time, thoroughly grasped.
The almond-trees blossomed crimson in the gardens of Monte Pincio, when he first stood on the parapet and looked over broad Rome towards the hills. Below him lay the town, noisy and sunny; the river glimmered brightly. On St. Angelo fluttered the broad folds of the standard in the wind that breathed softly from the sea, and overhead stretched the soft, delicate blue of the Roman March sky. Bianchi supported himself upon his staff, and looked darkly from under his eyebrows, as was his wont when he struggled against the promptings of his own heart. Theodore also stood buried in thought; at last he turned his gaze from the distance, looked seriously at Bianchi, and said, "You are recovered; in a few days more you will be below there in your new studio and I think that we shall still find a little time to spend together, even though I, too, shall be obliged to keep closer to my work, and must somewhat curtail the pleasure of being with you. It so happens that I shall have a reason for visiting you much oftener than you might otherwise permit--that is, if you will consecrate the new studio by undertaking a work in which I am personally much interested. The matter is this: a family with whom I am intimate has settled here, perhaps permanently. The man, a German, formerly lived in England, and married an Englishwoman, who brought him two children, a son and a daughter. The son, who was attacked by consumption, tried the climate of Rome as his last chance of recovery, and so the whole family emigrated with him. I loved him well, as did every one who knew him, and can hardly believe that I saw so much worth and nobleness sink into the earth--there, by the Pyramid of Cestus. That was last winter. His parents wish to erect a monument to him, with a relief which may shadow forth his character and honour his memory. I know no one to whom I would so willingly intrust this work as yourself."
"You may depend upon me, Theodore," said the sculptor; "I will do what within me lies."
"Would you not like to know his parents, and learn from them the idea which they wish to be carried out on the monument?"
The other was silent for a while. "No," he said, quietly: "I wish for no acquaintances, and love not tears. You loved him--that is enough: I will do it for you. You must not misunderstand me," he continued, after a pause. "I should be of no use there. Whoever wants me must attack me like a bear in his den. If I cannot escape, I can manage to get upon my hind legs almost politely, and growl my word with them. But even that is tiresome. I will say nothing and show nothing until the model is so far advanced that even the laity may see what it means--then they may come."