Edith Wharton: Complete Works. Edith Wharton

she felt that, like Cinderella, after one of those brief triumphs, she was going back to the ashes & rags of reality.

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VI.

      At Rome.

      “I & he, Brothers in art.”

      Tennyson.

      A large studio on the third floor of a Roman palazzo; a room littered & crowded & picturesque in its disorderliness, as only a studio can be. A white cast of Aphrodite relieved by a dull tapestry background representing a wan Susannah dipping her foot in the water, while two muddy-coloured elders glare through a time-eaten bough; an Italian stove surmounted by a coloured sporting print, a Toledo blade & a smashed Tyrolean hat; in one corner a lay-figure with the costumes of a nun, a brigand, a sultana & a Greek girl piled on indiscriminately; in another an easel holding a large canvas on which was roughly sketched the head of a handsome contadina. Such was the first mixed impression which the odd furnishing of the room gave to a newcomer; although a thousand lesser oddities, hung up, artist-fashion, everywhere, made a background of bright colours for these larger objects. It was a soft February day, & the window by which Guy Hastings sat (he was lounging on its broad, uncushioned sill) was opened; so that the draught blew the puffs from his cigarette hither & thither before his face. Jack Egerton, who shared the studio with him, was painting before a small easel, adding the last crimson touches to a wild Campagna sunset, & of course they kept the ball flying between them pretty steadily, as the one worked & the other watched. “That will be a success,” observed Guy, critically. “For whom did you say it was painted?” “A fellow named Graham, an English merchant, with about as much knowledge of art as you & I have of roadmaking. But it is such a delightful rarity to sell a picture, that I don’t care who gets it.” “How did he happen to be trapped?” Jack laughed. “Why, I met him at your handsome Marchese’s the other day, & she made a little speech about my superhuman genius, which led him to take some gracious notice of me. I hinted that he might have seen one of my pictures (that confounded thing that Vianelli’s had for a month) in a shop-window on the Corso, & he remembered it, & enquired the price. ‘Very sorry’ said I, ‘but the thing is sold. To an English Earl, an amateur, whose name I am not at liberty to mention.’ He gobbled the bait at once, ordered this at a splendid price, & I ran down to Vianelli’s, let him into my little game, told him to send the picture home at once, & then sent some flowers to the Marchese!” Guy laughed heartily at his friend’s ruse, & then observed, “I wish you had mentioned that I had some pictures which I would part with as a favour.” “By degrees, my boy, by degrees. He will come to the studio, to see this chef-d’oeuvre, & then you shall be introduced as a painter of whose fame he has of course etc., etc. By the way, I shouldn’t wonder if he came today.” Guy knocked the ashes off his cigarette & got up from his seat. “I thought Teresina would have come this morning,” he said, “but I hope she won’t. She gets so confoundedly frightened when anybody comes in, & one feels like such a fool.” “Guy!” said Egerton, suddenly, laying down his brush. “Well, old fellow?” “Are you going to make an ass of yourself?” “Not that I know of. How do you mean?” Guy stood opposite his friend, & looked him frankly in the face. “I mean,” said Jack, resuming his work, “Are you going to fancy yourself in love with this pretty little peasant, & get into no end of a scrape?” “I don’t know.” “Well, then, be warned. What is the saying? Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle.” “Very likely not. But … Ah, here she is. I know that tremulous little knock.” Guy opened the door as he spoke, to admit a contadina, in holyday dress, with a gold chain about her soft olive throat & a clean white head-dress above her lustrous braids pinned with a silver dagger. She could not have been more than 16 years old, & was of that purest type of the Roman peasant which is so seldom met with nowadays. Her large, languid blue-black eyes were so heavily fringed that when she looked downward (as she almost always did, from an instinct of fawn-like timidity) they scarcely gleamed through their veil; & there was not a tinge of colour in the transparent olive cheek which made her full, sensitive mouth look all the redder as it parted on a row of pearl-white teeth, when Guy greeted her with his usual gentle gayety. It was no wonder that Jack had his fears. Little Teresina, with her trembling shyness & her faint smiles, & her low, sweet Italian, was a more dangerous siren than many an accomplished woman of the world. “I expected you” said Guy, smiling, as she stepped timidly into the room; & speaking in Italian, which Jack, as he bent quietly over his work, wished more than ever to understand. “Look here,” Guy continued, pointing to the sketched head in the corner, “I have not touched it since because I knew I could not catch those eyes or that sweet, frightened smile without looking at you again.” As he spoke, he moved the easel out into its place, & began to collect his brushes, while Teresina went quietly to place herself in a large, carved armchair raised on a narrow dais. When Guy had finished his preparations, & arranged the light to his complete satisfaction, he sprang up on the dais, with an old red cloth on his arm & stretched it at Teresina’s feet. “Now, piccola,” he said, standing at a critical distance, “let us see if you are properly posed. Wait a minute. So.” He came close to her, adjusted a fold in her dress & moved her soft, frightened hand a little. “Are you so much afraid of me, cara?” he asked, smiling, as he felt it tremble. “I am not very hard to please, am I?” Teresina shook her head. “There,” said Guy, “that is right, now. Only lift up those wonderful lashes. I do not want to paint the picture of a blind contadina, do I?” All this, spoken in a soft tone which was natural to Guy when addressing any woman, made poor Jack groan inwardly at his own stupidity in not understanding that sweet pernicious language that sounded like perpetual love-making! Having perfected Teresina’s attitude, Guy sat down before his canvas, & began to paint; every now & then saying something to provoke the soft, monosyllables that he liked so well. “Where did you get that fine gold necklace, piccola?” he asked, beginning to paint it in with a few preparatory touches. “It is not mine. It belongs to la madre,” said Teresina. “She wore it at her wedding.” “Ah, & perhaps you will wear it at yours. Should you like to get married, Teresina?” “I don’t know,” said Teresina, slowly. “La madre wants me to marry Pietro (the carpenter, you know) but I would rather kill myself!” There was a flash in the soft velvet eyes, that made Guy pause in undisguised admiration; but it died in an instant, & no art of his brush or palette could hope to reflect it. “Is there anyone else you would like to marry, Teresina?” She was silent; & he repeated his question. “Why do you ask me, Signore?” said the girl, dropping her lids. “I wish you would go on painting.” Guy was not a little astonished at this outburst; & went on with his work quietly, to Jack’s intense relief. After about an hour of silence (Jack was obstinately dumb during Teresina’s presence in the studio, believing that those infernal models could understand anything a fellow said) a round knock at the door made Guy breathe a low “confound it!” Egerton called “Come in,” & the next moment a portly gentleman, unmistakably English from top to toe, stood on the threshold. “Mr. Graham!” said Jack, rising. “You find me at work on the last touches of your little thing. Let me present my friend, Mr. Hastings, whose fame of course … I need not say…. Mr. Graham bowed, & was very much honoured by an introduction to Mr. Hastings. Mr. Graham spoke in a satisfied, important voice. Mr. Graham had the uneasy, patronizing air of a man who stands higher than his level, & is not quite sure of his footing. “You see,” Jack continued, lightly, moving a chair forward for his august visitor, “that we painters are not quite such idle fellows as the world makes us out to be. Hastings & I take advantage of this fine light for our work.” “So I observe,” said Mr. Graham, with a bow. “I see you’ve nearly done my order—a very nice little bit (as you artists would say) a very nice little bit.” As Mr. Graham spoke, his eye wandered about the motley room, & in its course rested on Teresina. As Guy had said, she got “so confoundedly frightened” when any stranger was present; it was the first year she had been hired as a model, & the miserable life had not yet rubbed off her girlish bloom. When she met Mr. Graham’s scrutinizing eyes, her lashes drooped & a soft crimson stole over her neck & face, making her lovelier than ever; “let me go, Signore,” she whispered to Guy, who had approached her to rearrange some detail in her dress. Then, without a word,