CHAPTER I.

AN ARTIST S STUDia
In the winter of i88 — , I was afflicted by a series of nervous ailments, brought on by overwork and overworry. Chief among these was a protracted and terrible insomnia accompanied by the utmost depression of spirits and anx- iety of mind. I became filled with the gloomiest antici- pations of evil ; and my system was strung up by slow de- grees to such a high tension of physical and mental excite- ment, that the quietest and most soothing of friendly voices had no other effect upon me than to jar and irritate. Work was impossible ; music, my one passion, intolerable, books became wearisome to my sight; and even a short walk in the open air brought with it such lassitude and exhaus- tion, that I soon grew to dislike the very thought of moving out of doors. In such a condition of health, medical aid became necessary ; and a skilful and amiable physi- cian. Dr. R , of great repute in nervous ailments,
attended me for many weeks, with but slight success. He was not to blame, poor man, for his failure to effect a cure. He had only one way of treatment, and he applied it to all his patients with more or less happy results. Some died, some recovered ; it was a lottery
A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS. t)
on which my medical friend staked his reputation, and won. The patients who died were never heard of more — those who recovered sang the praises of their physician everywhere, and sent him gifts of silver plate and ham- pers of wine, to testify their gratitude. His popularity was very great ; his skill considered marvelous , and his inability to do me any good arose, I must perforce im- agine, out of some defect or hidden obstinacy in my constitution, which was to him a new experience, and for
which he was unprepared. Poor Dr. R ! How
many bottles of your tastily prepared and expensive medicines have I not swallowed, in blind confidence and blinder ignorance of the offences I thus committed against all the principles of that Nature within me, which if left to itself, always heroically struggles to recover its own proper balance and effect its own cure ; but which, if subjected to the experimental tests of various poisons or drugs, often loses strength in the unnatural contest and sinks exhausted, perhaps never to rise with actual vigour again. Baffled in his attempts to remedy my ailments,
Dr. R at last resorted to the usual plan adopted by all
physicians when their medicines have no power. He recommended change of air and scene, and urged my leaving London, then dark with the fogs of a dreary winter, for the gaiety and sunshine and roses of the Riviera. The idea was not unpleasant to me, and I de- termined to take the advice proffered. Hearing of my intention, some American friends of mine. Colonel Everard and his charming young wife, decided to accom- pany me, sharing with me the expenses of the journey and hotel accommodation. We left London all together on a damp foggy evening, when the cold was so intense that it seemed to bite the flesh like the sharp teeth of an animal, and after two days' rapid journey, during which I felt my spirits gradually rising, and my gloomy fore- bodings vanishing slowly one by one, we arrived at
^O A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS.
Cannec, and put up at the H6tel de L . It was a
lovely place, and most beautifully situated ; the garden was a perfect wilderness of roses in full bloom, and an avenue of orange-trees beginning to flower cast a delicate fragrance on the warm delicious air.
Mrs. Everard was delighted.
" If you do not recover your health here," she said half laughingly to me on the second mornmg, after our arrival, " I am afraid your case is hopeless. What sun- shine ! What a balmy wind ! It is enough to make a cripple cast away his crutches and forget he was ever lame. Don't you think so ?"
I smiled in answer, but inwardly I sighed. Beautiful as the scenery, the air, and the general surroundings were, I could not disguise from myself that the temporary exhilaration of my feelings, caused by the novelty and excitement of my journey to Cannes., was slowly but surely passing away. The terrible apathy, against which I had fought for so many months, was again creeping over me with its cruel and resistless force. I did my best to struggle against it ; I walked, I rode, I laughed and chatted with Mrs. Everard and her hus- band, and forced myself into sociability with some of the visitors at the hotel, who were disposed to show us friendly attention. I summoned all my stock of will- power to beat back the insidious physical and mental misery that threatened to sap the very spring of my life; and in some of these efforts I partially succeeded. But it was at night that the terrors of my condition mani- fested themselves. Then sleep forsook my eyes ; a dull throbbing weight of pain encircled my head like a crown of thorns ; nervous terrors shook me from head to foot ; fragments of my own musical compositions hummed in my ears with wearying persistence — fragments that always left me in a state of distressed conjecture ; for I never could remember how they ended, and I puzzled myseU
A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS. 21
vainly over crotchets and quavers that never would con- sent to arrange themselves in any sort of JinaU. So the days went on ; for Colonel Everard and his wife, those days were full of merriment, sight-seeing, and enjoyment. For me, though outwardly I appeared to share in the uni- versal gaiety, they were laden with increasing despair and wretchedness , for I began to lose hope of ever recover- ing my once buoyant health and strength, and, what was even worse, I seemed to have utterly parted with all work- ing ability. I was young, and up to within a few months life had stretched brightly before me, with the prospect of a brilliant career. And now what was I ? A wretched in- valid— a burden to myself and to others — a broken spar flung with other fragments of shipwrecked lives on the great ocean of Time, there to be whirled away and for- gotten. But a rescue was approaching ; a rescue sudden and marvellous, of which, in my wildest fancies, I had never dreamed.
Staying in the same hotel with us was a young Italian artist, Raffaello Cellini by name. His pictures were be- ginning to attract a great deal of notice, both in Paris and Rome : not only for their faultless drawing, but for their wonderfully exquisite colouring. So deep and warm and rich were the hues he transferred to his canvases, that others of his art, less fortunate in the management of the palette, declared he must have invented some foreign com- pound whereby he was enabled to deepen and brighten his colours for the time being ; but that the effect was only temporary, and that his pictures, exposed to the air for some eight or ten years, would fade away rapidly, leaving only the traces of an indistinct blur. Others more generous, congratulated him on having discovered the se- crets of the old masters. In short, he was admired, con- demned, envied, and flattered, all in a breath ; while he himself, being of a singularly serene and unruffled dispo-
22 A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS.
sition, worked away incessantly, caring little or nothing for the world's praise or blame.
Cellini had a pretty suite of rooms in the H6tel de L ,
and my friends Colonel and Mrs. Everard fraternized with him very warmly. He was by no means slow to respond to their overtures of friendship, and so it happened that his studio became a sort of lounge for us, where we would meet to have tea, to chat, to look at the pictures, or to dis- cuss our plans for future enjoyment. These visits to Cellini's studio, strange to say, had a remarkably soothing and calming effect upon my suffering nerves. The lofty and elegant room, furnished with that " admired disorder ** and mixed luxuriousness peculiar to artists, with its heavily drooping curtains, its glimpses of white marble busts and broken columns, its flash and fragrance of flowers that bloomed in a tiny conservatory opening out from the studio and leading to the garden, where a fountain bub- bled melodiously — all this pleased me and gave me a curi- ous, yet most welcome, sense of absolute rest. Cellini him- self had a fascination for me, for exactly the same reason. As an example of this, I remember escaping from Mrs. Everard on one occasion, and hurrying to the most seclud- ed part of the garden, in order to walk up and down alone in an endeavour to calm an attack of nervous agitation which had suddenly seized me. While thus pacing about in feverish restlessness, I saw Cellini approaching, his head bent as if in thought, and his hands clasped behind his back. As he drew near me, he raised his eyes — they were clear and darkly brilliant — he regarded me steadfastly with a kindly smile. Then lifting his hat with the grace- ful reverence peculiar to an Italian, he passed on, saying no word. But the effect of his momentary presence upon me was remarkable — it was electric. I was no longer agi- tated. Calmed, soothed, and almost happy, I returned to Mrs. Everard, and entered into her plans for the day with so much alacrity that she was surprised and delighted.
A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS. ^3
" If you go on like this," she said, " you will be perfectly well in a month."
I was utterly unable to account for the remedial influ- ence Raffaello Cellini's presence had upon me ; but such as it was I could not but be grateful for the respite it gave me from nervous suffering, and my now daily visits to the artist's studio were a pleasure and a privilege not to be foregone. Moreover, I was never tired of looking at his pictures. His subjects were all original, and some of them were very weird and fantastic. One large picture particularly attracted me. It was entitled " Lords of our Life and Death." Surrounded by rolling masses of clouds, some silver-crested, some shot through with red flame, was depicted the World, as a globe half in light, half in shade. Poised above it was a great Angel, upon whose calm and noble face rested a mingled expression of deep sorrow, yearning pity, and infinite regret. Tears seemed to glitter on the drooping lashes of this sweet yet stern Spirit; and in bis strong right hand he held a drawn sword — the sword of destruction — pointed for ever downwards to the fated globe at bis feet. Beneath this Angel and the world he dominated was utter darkness — utter illimit- able darkness. But above him the clouds were torn asun- der, and through a transparent veil of light golden mist, a face of surpassing beauty was seen — a face on which youth, health, hope, love, and ecstatic joy all shone with ineffable radiance. It was the personification of Life — not life as we know it, brief and full of care — but Life Immortal and Love Triumphant. Often and often I found myself stand- ing before this masterpiece of Cellini's genius, gazing at it, not only with admiration, but with a sense of actual com- fort. One afternoon, while resting in my favourite low chair opposite the picture, I roused myself from a reverie, and turning to the artist, who was showing some water-colour sketches to Mrs, Everard, I said abruptly ;
94 A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS.
" Did you imagine that face of the Angel of Life, Signer Cellini, or had you a model to copy from ? "
He looked at me and smiled.
" It is a moderately good portrait of an existing origi- nal," he said.
"A woman's face then, I suppose ? How very beautiful she must be ! "
" Actual beauty is sexless," he replied, and was silent. The expression of his face had become abstracted and dreamy, and he turned over the sketches for Mrs. Everard with an air which showed his thoughts to be far away from his occupation.
" And the Death Angel ? " I went on. " Had you a model for that also ? "
This time a look of relief, almost of gladness passed over his features.
" No, indeed," he answered with ready frankness; **that is entirely my own creation."
I was about to compliment him on the grandeur and force of his poetical fancy, when he stopped me by a slight gesture of his hand.
" If you really admire the picture," he said, " pray do not say so. If it is in truth a work of art, let it speak to you as art only, and spare the poor workman who has called it into existence the shame of having to con- fess that it is not above human praise. The only true criticism of high art is silence — silence as grand as heaven itself."
He spoke with energy, and his dark eyes flashed. Amy (Mrs. Everard) looking at him curiously.
" Say now !" she exclaimed, with a ringing laugh. *• Aren't you a little bit eccentric, signor ? You talk like a long-haired prophet ! I never met an artist before who couldn't stand praise ; it is generally a matter of wonder to me to notice how much of that intoxicating sweet they
A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS. 25
can swallow without reeling. But you're an exception, 1 must admit. I congratulate you !"
Cellini bowed gaily in response to the half-friendly, half-mocking curtsey she gave him, and, turning to me again, said :
" I have a favour to ask of you, mademoiselle. Will you sit to me for your portrait ?"
" I " I exclaimed, with astonishment. " Signor Cel- lini, I cannot imagine why you should wish so to waste your valuable time. There is nothing in my poor physi- ognomy worthy of your briefest attention."
" You must pardon me, mademoiselle," he replied gravely, " if I presume to differ from you. I am ex- ceedingly anxious to transfer your features to my canvas. I am aware that you are not in strong health, and that four face has not that roughness and colour formerly habitual to it. But I am not an admirer of the milk-maid type of beauty. Everywhere I seek for intelligence, for thought, for inward refinement — in short, mademoiselle, jl^ou have the face of one whom the inner soui consumes, and, as such, may I plead again with you to give me a little of your spare time ? Vou will not regret it, I assure you."
These last words were uttered in a lower tone and with singular impressiveness. 1 rose from my seat and looked at him steadily ; he returned me glance for glance. A strange thrill ran through me, followed by that inex- plicable sensation of absolute calm that I had before experienced. I smiled — I could not help smiling.
" I will come to-morrow," I said,
" A thousand thanks, mademoiselle ! Can you be here At noon .?"
I looked inquiringly at Amy, who clapped her hands with delighted enthusiasm.
"Of course! Any time you like, signor. We will arrange our excursions so that they shall not interfere
26 A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS.
with the sittings. It will be most interesting to watch the picture growing day by day. What will you call it, signer ? By some fancy title ?"
" It will depend on its appearance when completed," he replied, as he threw open the doors of the studio and bowed us out with his usual ceremonious politeness.
" Au revoir, madame ! A demain, mademoiselle !" and the violet-velvet curtains of the portiere fell softly behind us as we made our exit.
" Is there not something strange about that young man ?" said Mrs. Everard, as we walked through the long
gallery of the H6tel de L back to our own rooms.
" Something fiendish or angelic, or a little of both quali- ties mixed up ?"
** I think he is what people term peculiar^ when they fail to understand the poetical vagaries of genius," I replied ** He is certainly very uncommon."
" Well !" continued my friend meditatively, as she con- templated her pretty mignonne face and graceful figure in a long mirror placed attractively in a corner of the hall through which we were passing ; "■ All I can say is that I wouldn't let him paint my portrait if he were to ask ever so much ! I should be scared to death. I wonder you, being so nervous, were not afraid of him.*
" I thought you liked him," I said.
*' So I do. So does my husband. He's awfully hand- some and clever, and all that — but his conversation ! There now, my dear, you must own he is slightly queer. Why, who but a lunatic would say that the only criticism of art is silence ? Isn't that utter rub- bish?"
" The only true criticism," I corrected her gently.
"Well, it's all the same. How can there be any criti- cism at all in silence ? According to his idea, when we admire anything very much we ought to go round with long faces and gags on our mouths. That would be
A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS. 27
entirely ridiculous ! And what was that dreadful thing he said to you ? "
" I don't quite understand you," I answered; " I cannot remember his saying anything dreadful."
'* Oh, I have it now,'' continued Amy with rapidity; "it was awful ! He said you had \,\\^face of one who?}! the soul consumes. You know that was most horribly mystical ! And when he said it he looked — ghastly ! What did he mean by it, I wonder ? '*
I made no answer ; but I thought I knew. I changed the conversation as soon as possible, and my volatile American friend was soon absorbed in a discussion on dress and jewellery. That night was a blessed one for me ; I was free from all suffering, and slept as calmly as a child, while in my dreams the face of Cellini's " Angel of Life " smiled at me, and seemed to suggest peace.