Chapter 5

I am lying in a great chamber of the castle. The house is still. The guests have creaked to their rooms. The last hoarse voice is hushed. When I played for them below, my fingers twitched and my heart ached with the numbness. I could have cried with weariness and pain. The faithful Daniel lifted me like a child. He has undressed me and laid me here among the swelling pillows. The light burns fitfully. It dances among the shadows. Outside the bleak Scotch mist draws near. It peers into my window. It is Jane's soul--soft and floating wool--and clammy. My heart is ice--ingratitude and ice. She sits beside me all the day. We talk of music! Strange, disjointed talk--with gaps of common sense--hero-worship--and always the flame that burns for me--slow and still. She has one thought, one wish--to guard my days with sweet content. And in my soul the quenchless fire burns. It eats its way to the last citadel. I have not long to wait. I shall not cry out with the pain. Its touch is sweet--like death. "I'll beat you yet," brave Heine writes. His soul is emptied. But the lips laugh. Jane's slow Scotch eyes keep guard at death. My lightest wish grows law. The treasures of my _salon_--shall they be hawked about the town? "Chopin's wash-basin--going!--for ten sous--going!" My pictures, caskets, tapestries, each rug and chair that I have loved, and the great piano with its voice and soul of love. She will guard them. Faithful lady! Cruel one--my soul curses thee, crushes thee forever--false dawn that could not stand the sun's deep kiss--Aurora. Unrest--unrest--will it never cease? Shall I lie quiet? There will be Polish earth upon me. The silver goblet holds it. It is here beside me now. I reach and touch it with my hand. Dear land of music and the soul! The silver cupful from thy teeming fields is always near. It shall spill upon my breast--upon this racked and breathless burden! But the heart within that beats and burns--it shall be severed, chord by chord--it shall return to the land that gave it. Dear Poland! I see thee in the mists--with my mother's brow and mouth and chin. Poland that sings and weeps--sad land. My heart is thine! Cleanse it in sweet-smelling earth! In thy bosom it shall rest--at last--rest!

THE MAN WITH THE GLOVE

I

"Ho, _Tiziano_! Ala-ala-_ho_! _Tizi-ah-no_!"

The group in the gondola raised a merry call. The gondola rocked at the foot of a narrow flight of steps leading to a tall, sombre dwelling. The moonlight that flooded the gondola and steps revealed no sign of life in the dark front.

The young man sitting with his back to the gondolier raised the call again: "What, ho!--Tiziano!" The clear, tenor voice carried far, and occupants of passing gondolas turned to look and smile at the dark, handsome youth as they drifted past.

The door at the top of the steps opened and Titian ran lightly down. He carried in his hand a small lute with trailing purple ribbons, and the cap that rested on his thick curls was of purple velvet. He lifted it with gentle grace as he stepped into the gondola and took the vacant seat beside a young woman facing the bow of the boat.

Her smiling face was turned to him mockingly. "Late again, Signor Cevelli, and yet again!" She plucked at the strings of a small instrument lying on her lap, and the notes tinkled the music of her words.

"Pardon, Signora, a thousand pardons to you and to your gracious lord!" He bowed to the man opposite him.

"Giorgio? Oh--Giorgio doesn't mind." Her soft lips smiled. "He's too big and lazy. He never minds." Her laugh rose light and sweet. The three men joined in.

The boat shot into midstream. It threaded its way among the brilliant craft that floated in the moonlight, or shot by them under vigorous strokes. Many glances were turned toward the boat as it passed. The face of Titian was well known and that of the woman beside him was the face of many pictures; while the big man opposite--her husband--the famous Giorgione, was the favorite of art-loving Venice. It was a group to attract attention at any time. But it was the fourth member of the group that drew the eyes and held them to-night.

He was a stranger to Venice, newly come from Rome--known in Venice years ago, it was whispered--a mere stripling. Now the face and figure had the beauty and the strength of manhood.... A famous courtesan touched her red-gold locks and laughed sweetly as she drifted by. But the sombre, dark face with the inscrutable eyes and the look of power did not turn. He sat, for the most part, a little turned away, looking at the waves dancing with leaden lights under the moon and running in ripples from the boat. Now and then his lips curved in a smile at some jest of his companions, or his eyes rested on the face of the woman opposite--and filled with gentle, wondering light.

Titian, watching him from beside the young woman, marvelled at the look of mystery and the strength. He leaned forward, about to speak--but Giorgione stayed him with a gesture.

"The Fondaco," he said, raising his hand to the gondolier. "Ho, there! Halt for the Fondaco!"

The boat came slowly to rest at the foot of the great building that rose white and gray and new in the half light. Giorgione's eye ran lovingly along the front. "To-morrow," he said, "we begin the last frescos. You, Titian, on the big façade to the south, and Zarato and I--" He laid his hand affectionately on the arm of the young man at his side, "Zarato and I on the inner court."

The youth started and looked up. His eyes studied the massive walls, with the low, arching porticos and long unbroken lines. "A noble piece of work," he said.

Giorgione nodded. "German and Venetian mixed." He laughed softly. "With three Venetians at the frescos--we shall see, ah--we shall see!" He laughed again good-humoredly.

The boat shot under the Rialto and came out again in the clear moonlight.

"To-morrow," said Giorgione, looking back, "to-morrow we begin."

"To-morrow Zarato comes to me--for his portrait." Titian spoke quickly, almost harshly. His eyes were on the young man's face.

The gondola stirred slightly. Every one looked at the young man. He sat staring at Titian, a look half amused and half perplexed in his dark eyes. The look broke and ran. "Is it so!" he said almost gayly.

Titian nodded grimly. "You come to me."

Giorgione leaned forward. "But I can't spare him," he pleaded. "I can't spare you. The work is late, and the Council hammer at a man! You must wait."

"Just one day," said Titian briefly. "I block in the outlines. It can wait then--a year, six months--I care not."

Giorgione's face regained its look of good-humor. "But you are foolish, Titian, foolish! Paint doges, if you will, paint popes and dukes--paint gold. But never paint an artist--an artist and a gentleman!"

They laughed merrily and the boat glided on--out into the lagoon and the broad, flooding moonlight.

"Sing something," said Giorgione. He raised the flute to his lips, breathing into it a gay, gentle air. The lute and cithara, from the opposite side, took it up. Presently the tenor voice joined in, carrying the air with sweet, high notes. They fell softly on the ear.

The slender fingers plucking at the cithara faltered. The bosom beneath its white tunic, where a single pansy glowed, trembled with swift breathing, and the red lips parted in a quick sigh.

Titian looked up, smiling reproachfully: "Violante! ah, Violante!" he murmured softly.

She shook her head smilingly. A tear rested on her cheek. "I cannot help it," she said; "it is the music."

"Yes, it is the music," said Titian. His tone was dry--half cynical.

Her husband looked over with faithful eyes and smiled at her.

Only Zarato had not looked up. His eyes followed the dancing leaden water. A flush had come into his sallow cheek. But the moonlight did not reveal it.

Violante glanced at him timidly.

"Come, we will try again," she said. She swept her cithara, and the tenor voice took up the notes. "Faster!" she said. The time quickened. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone.

"_Chi boit et ne reboit, ne cais qua boir soit_," rang out the voice.

"_Qua boir soit--qua boir soit_," repeated Violante softly.

The duet rose, full and sweet and clear, with passionate undertones. Slowly it died away, calling to itself across the lighted water.

The two men applauded eagerly. "Bella!" murmured Giorgione. "Once more!--Bella!" He clapped his hands.

Again the music rose. Once the eyes of the singers met--a long, slow look. The time quickened a little, and the music deepened.

Titian sat watching them, his head in its velvet cap, thrown back against the cushions, his lips smiling dreamily. His eye strayed over the voluptuous figure at his side--the snowy tunic and the ruby-red bodice and skirt. He knew the figure well, the red-gold hair and wondrous eyes. But a new look had come into them--something tender, almost sweet.

He leaned forward as the music ceased. "You shall pose for me," he said under his breath. "I want you for the Duke's picture."

She nodded slightly, her bosom rising and falling.

Giorgione leaned forward, smiling.

"What is that?" he asked. His eyes rested tenderly on the flushed face and the full lips of his wife. "What is it you say?"

"I want her for Bacchante," said Titian, "for the Duke's picture." He had not removed his eyes from her face.

Giorgione smiled. Then his face darkened. "My frescos! Oh, my frescos!" he murmured tragically. "But _you_ will help, Zarato. You will not go paint for dukes and popes?" The tone was half laughing and half querulous.

The young man roused himself and looked at him questioningly. He drew his hand across his eyes. "What is it?" he said dreamily. "What is it?" His face flushed. "Help you? Yes, I will help you--if--I can."

II

"A little more to the right, please."

Titian's eyes studied the figure before him thoughtfully. His voice murmured half-articulate words, and his glance ran swiftly from the sitter to his canvas.

"That is good." He gave a sigh of satisfaction. "Can you hold that--ten minutes, say!" He had taken up his brush and was painting with swift strokes.

The young man before him smiled a little. The dark, handsome face lighted under it and glowed. "I will do my best." The quiet irony in the tone laughed gently.

Titian smiled back. "I forget that you are of the craft. You have too much of the grand air, Zarato, to belong to us."

"I am indebted to you!" said the young man politely. He lifted his hand with a courtly gesture, half mocking and half sincere. It dropped easily to the console beside him.

With rapid touches Titian sketched it as it lay. His face glowed with satisfaction, and he worked with eager haste. "Good!--Good!" he murmured under his breath. "It will be great. You will see.... You will see." He hummed softly to himself, his glance flashing up and down the tall figure before him, inserting a touch here and a line there, with swift decision.

The warm air of the studio was very quiet. Voices drifted up from the Grand Canal, and now and then the sound of bells.

The young man's eyes looked dreamily before him. He had forgotten the studio and its occupant. He might have been listening to pleasant words--to the sound of a voice.

"There!" Titian dropped the brush and stepped back. "We have done for to-day." He surveyed the canvas critically.

The young man stepped to his side. He looked earnestly at the daubs and lines of paint that streaked it. A smile crept over his dark face. "You paint like no other," he said quietly.

Titian nodded. "Like no other," he repeated the words with satisfaction. "They will not call it like Palma, this time--nor like Giorgione, nor Signor Somebody Else." He spoke with mild irritation. His eyes travelled over the lines of glowing canvas that covered the walls.

The young man's glance followed them. "No," he assented, "you have outstepped them all.... You used them but to climb on." He moved toward a canvas across the room.

"But this--" he laid his hand lightly on the frame--"this was after Palma?" He turned his eyes with a look of inquiry.

Titian nodded curtly.

"It was the model--partly," he said half grudgingly.

"I know--Violante." Zarato spoke the name softly. He hesitated a moment. "Would she pose for any one--for me, do you think?"

Titian laughed harshly. "Better not, my boy--Better not! When she gets into a brush, it is a lost brush, Zarato--bewitched forever! Look there--and there--and there!" His rapid hand flashed at the canvases.

The young man's eyes followed the gesture. "The result is not so bad," he said gravely.

Titian laughed back. "Not so bad!..." He studied them a minute. "You've no idea how I had to fight to keep her out--And, oh, that hair!" He groaned thoughtfully, looking at the canvases--"Palma's worse!" he chuckled.

The young man started. A thought crossed his face and he looked up. "And Giorgione?" he asked doubtingly.

Titian shook his head grimly. "He married her."

The young man moved a little away. He picked up a small book and mechanically turned the leaves.

The older man eyed him keenly.

"Don't mind me, Zarato." He said it kindly, and laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. "I have no right to say anything against her--except that she's a somewhat fickle woman," he added dryly.

The young man's eyes were fixed on the page before him. He held it out, pointing to a name scrawled on the margin.

Titian took it in his hands, holding it gently, and turning it so that the light fell on the rich binding. "A treasure!" he said enthusiastically.

The young man nodded. "An Aldine--I saw that. What does the marking mean?" He asked the question almost rudely.

His companion turned the leaves. "It's a bacchanal for the Duke," he said slowly.... "I've been looking up Violante's pose.--Here it is." He read the lines in a musical voice.

A heavy frown had come between the handsome eyes watching him. "You'll not paint her like that?"

"I rather think I shall," responded Titian slowly. "She has promised."

"And Giorgione?"

"Giorgione lets her do as she likes. He trusts her--as I do." He laid his hand again on the shoulder near him. "I tell you, man, you're wrong. Believe in her and--leave her," he said significantly.

The shoulder shrugged itself slightly away. The young man picked up his hat from the table near by. He raised it courteously before he dropped it with a little laugh on the dark curls.

"I go to an appointment," he said.

III

A face looked over the balcony railing as the gondola halted at the foot of the steps. It smiled with a look of satisfaction, and the owner, reaching for a rose at her belt, dropped it with a quick touch over the balcony edge.

It fell at the feet of the young man stepping from the gondola, and caused him to bend with a deep flush. It touched his lips lightly as he raised himself and lifted his velvet cap to the face above.

She smiled mockingly. "You are late," she said--"two minutes late!"

"I come!" he replied, springing up the steps. In another minute he was beside her, smiling and flushed, looking down at her with deep, intent gaze.

She made a place for him on the divan. "Sit down," she said.

He seated himself humbly, his eyes studying hers.

She smiled lazily and unfurled her fan, covering her face except the eyes. They regarded him over the fringe of feathers.

"Where have you been?" she demanded.

"With Titian."

"Giorgione wanted you. He did scold so--!" She laughed musically.

Zarato nodded. "I go to him to-morrow."

"Has Titian finished?"

"For the present--He will lay it away."

"I know," she laughed, "--to mellow!... How did you like it?"

He hesitated a second. "It was a little rough," he confessed.

"Always!" The laugh rippled sweetly. "Like a log of wood--or a heap of stones--or a large loaf of bread."

He stirred uneasily. "Do you sit to him often?" he asked.

Her eyes dwelt for a moment on his face. "Not now," she replied.

He returned the look searchingly. "You are going to?"

"Yes," she assented.

He still held her eyes. "I don't like it," he said slowly.

The ghost of a smile came into her face. Her eyes danced in the shadow of it. "No?" she said quietly.

"No!"

She waited, looking down and plucking at the silken fringe of her bodice. "Why?" she asked after a time.

He made no reply.

She glanced up at him. He was looking away from her, across the gay canal. His face had a gentle, preoccupied look, and his lip trembled.

Her glance fell. "Why not?" she repeated softly.

He looked down at her and his face flushed. "I don't know," he said. He bent toward her and took the fan from her fingers.

She yielded it with half reluctance, her eyes mocking him and her lips alluring.

He smiled back at her, shaking his head slightly and unfurling the fan. He had regained his self-possession. He moved the fan gently, stirring the red-gold hair and fluttering the silken fringe on her bodice. It rose and fell swiftly, moved in the soft current of air. His eyes studied her face. "Will you sit for me some day?" he said.

She nodded without speaking. The breath came swiftly between the red lips and the eyes were turned away. They rested on the façade of a tall building opposite, where a flock of doves, billing and cooing in the warm air, strutted and preened themselves. Their plump and iridescent breasts shone in the sun.

Her hand reached for the cithara at her side. "Shall I sing you their song?" she said, "The Birds of Venus."

He smiled indulgently. Her voice crooned the words.

"Sing!" she said imperiously. He joined in, following her mood with ready ease.

There was silence between them when the song was done. She sat with her eyes half closed, looking down at the white hands in her lap.

He lifted one of them gently, his eyes on her face. She did not stir or look up. He raised it slowly to his lips.

The warm breath stirred a smile on her face. She glanced at him from under falling lids.

He dropped the hand and stood up with a half cry.

"I must go--Violante--I must--go!" He groped to where the doorway opened, cool and dark, behind them, "I must go," he repeated vaguely.

She rose and came to him slowly. "You must go," she said softly.

They passed into the dark, open doorway.

Below, in the hot sun, the gondola rocked at the foot of the stairs.

IV

The noon-bell in the southern turret of the Fondaco chimed softly. A painter at work on the façade near by looked up inquiringly at the sun. He smiled absently to himself and, dropping his brushes, descended lightly from the scaffolding to the ground. He walked away a few steps--as far as the ground permitted--and turned to look at the work above.

"Not so bad," he murmured softly, "--not so bad ... and better from the water." He glanced at the canal below. A white hand from a passing gondola waved to him and motioned approvingly toward the colors of the great wall.

"Bravo, Tiziano!" called some one from another craft. The canal took up the cry. "Bravo, bravo! Bravo,--Tiziano!"

Titian raised his painter's cap and returned the salute. He stood with one foot on the parapet, looking down and smiling with easy grace, at the pleasure-loving crowd below. A man came in sight around the corner of the Fondaco, walking slowly and looking up at the picture as he came.

"Well?" Titian glanced at him keenly.

"Great!" responded Giorgione heartily. "The Judith bears the light well, and when the scaffolding is down it will be better yet.... Venice will be proud!" He laid his hand affectionately on the other's shoulder and motioned toward the throng of boats that had halted below, gazing at the glowing wall.

"To-day Titian--to-morrow another!" said Titian a little bitterly.

"Why care?" responded Giorgione. "Some one to-day told me that my Judith, on the south wall here, surpasses all my other work together." He laughed cordially.

Titian looked at him keenly. His face had flushed a little under the compliment. "It is like you not to care," he said affectionately.

"Care! Why should I care--so that the work is done?" His eyes rested lovingly on the façade. "It is marvellous--that trick of light," he said wonderingly.... "You must teach it to me."

Titian laughed under his breath. "I learned it from you."

Giorgione shook his head. "Not from me...." he replied doubtingly. "If you learned it from me, others would learn from me." He stood, looking up, lost in thought.

"Where is Zarato?" asked Titian abruptly.

Giorgione started vaguely. A flush came into his face. "He stopped work--an hour ago," he said.

Titian's eyes were on his face.

The open friendliness had vanished. It was turned to him with a look of trouble. "Had you thought, Cevelli--" His speech hesitated and broke off. He was looking down at the dark water.

Titian answered the unspoken question. "Yes, I had thought," he said. His voice was very quiet.

His companion looked up quickly. "He is with her now, it may be.... I told them that I should not go home at the noon-bell." He looked about him slowly--at the clear sky and at the moving throng of boats below--

"I am going home." He spoke the words with dull emphasis.

Titian turned and held out his hand. "The gods be with you, friend!"

Giorgione gripped it for a moment. Tears waited behind the eyes and clouded the look of trust. "I could bear it if--if Zarato was not my friend," he said as he turned away.

"Keep faith while you may," said Titian, following him a step. "He who distrusts a friend lends thunderbolts to the gods," he quoted softly.

"Remind him that he is to sit for me this afternoon," he called more lightly, as the other moved away.

"I will remember," said Giorgione soberly. The next moment he had disappeared in the maze of buildings.

Titian, looking after him, shook his head slowly. He turned and gathered up some tools from a bench near by.... The look in his friend's eyes haunted him.

V

It still haunted him as he laid out brushes and colors in his studio for the appointed sitting with Zarato.

He brought the canvas from the wall and placed it on the easel and stood back, examining it critically. His face lighted and he hummed softly, gazing at the rough outline.... Slowly, in the smudge of the vague face, gleaming eyes formed themselves--Giorgione's eyes! They looked out at him, pathetic and fierce.

With an exclamation of disgust he threw down the brush. He looked about him for his cap, and found it at last--on the back of his head. He settled it more firmly in place. "There will be time," he muttered. "I shall be back in time." With a swift glance about him he was gone from the room, and on the way to Giorgione's studio.

As he opened the door he saw Giorgione's great figure huddled together against the eastern window. Bars of light fell across it and danced on the floor. Titian crossed the studio quickly and touched the bent shoulder.

The eyes that looked up were those that had called him. Giorgione's eyes--a fierce, pathetic light in their depths. They gazed at him stupidly. "What is it?" asked the man. He spoke thickly and half rose, gazing curiously about the room. He ran a hand across his forehead and looked at Titian vaguely. "What is it?" he repeated.

Titian fell back a step. "That's what I came to find out," he said frankly. He was more startled than he cared to show.

"What has happened, Giorgione?" His tone was gentle, as if speaking to a child, and he took him by the shoulder to lead him to a seat.

For a moment the man resisted. Then he let himself be led, passively, and sank back in the chair with a hoarse sigh. He looked about the studio as if seeking something--and afraid of it. "She's gone!" he whispered.

Titian started. "No!"