“Do not drink that,” he said; “you must not! You dare not! I forbid you!”
I looked up at him in mute astonishment14. His face was very pale, and his large dark eyes shone with suppressed excitement. Slowly my self-possession returned to me, and I said calmly:
“YOU forbid me, signor? Surely you forget yourself. What harm have I done in helping15 myself to a simple glass of water in your studio? You are not usually so inhospitable.”
While I spoke16 his manner changed, the colour returned to his face, and his eyes softened17 — he smiled.
“Forgive me, mademoiselle, for my brusquerie. It is true I forgot myself for a moment. But you were in danger, and ——”
“In danger!” I exclaimed incredulously.
“Yes, mademoiselle. This,” and he held up the Venetian decanter to the light, “is not water simply. If you will observe it now with the sunshine beating full against it, I think you will perceive peculiarities18 in it that will assure you of my veracity19.”
I looked as he bade me, and saw, to my surprise, that the fluid was never actually still for a second. A sort of internal bubbling seemed to work in its centre, and curious specks20 and lines of crimson21 and gold flashed through it from time to time.
“What is it?” I asked; adding with a half-smile, “Are you the possessor of a specimen22 of the far-famed Aqua Tofana?”
Cellini placed the decanter carefully on a shelf, and I noticed that he chose a particular spot for it, where the rays of the sun could fall perpendicularly23 upon the vessel24 containing it. Then turning to me, he replied:
“Aqua Tofana, mademoiselle, is a deadly poison, known to the ancients and also to many learned chemists of our day. It is a clear and colourless liquid, but it is absolutely still — as still as a stagnant25 pool. What I have just shown you is not poison, but quite the reverse. I will prove this to you at once.” And taking a tiny liqueur glass from a side table, he filled it with the strange fluid and drank it off, carefully replacing the stopper in the decanter.
“But, Signor Cellini,” I urged, “if it is so harmless, why did you forbid my tasting it? Why did you say there was danger for me when I was about to drink it?”
“Because, mademoiselle, for YOU it would be dangerous. Your health is weak, your nerves unstrung. That elixir26 is a powerful vivifying tonic27, acting28 with great rapidity on the entire system, and rushing through the veins29 with the swiftness of ELECTRICITY. I am accustomed to it; it is my daily medicine. But I was brought to it by slow, and almost imperceptible degrees. A single teaspoonful30 of that fluid, mademoiselle, administered to anyone not prepared to receive it, would be instant death, though its actual use is to vivify and strengthen human life. You understand now why I said you were in danger?”
“I understand,” I replied, though in sober truth I was mystified and puzzled.
“And you forgive my seeming rudeness?”
“Oh, certainly! But you have aroused my curiosity. I should like to know more about this strange medicine of yours.”
“You shall know more if you wish,” said Cellini, his usual equable humour and good spirits now quite restored. “You shall know everything; but not to-day. We have too little time. I have not yet commenced your picture. And I forgot — you were thirsty, and I was, as you said, inhospitable. You must permit me to repair my fault.”
And with a courteous31 salute32 he left the room, to return almost immediately with a tumbler full of some fragrant33, golden-coloured liquid, in which lumps of ice glittered refreshingly34. A few loose rose-leaves were scattered35 on the top of this dainty-looking beverage36.
“You may enjoy this without fear,” said he, smiling; “it will do you good. It is an Eastern wine, unknown to trade, and therefore untampered with. I see you are looking at the rose-leaves on the surface. That is a Persian custom, and I think a pretty one. They float away from your lips in the action of drinking, and therefore they are no obstacle.”
I tasted the wine and found it delicious, soft and mellow37 as summer moonlight. While I sipped38 it the big Newfoundland, who had stretched himself in a couchant posture39 on the hearth-rug ever since Cellini had first entered the room, rose and walked majestically40 to my side and rubbed his head caressingly42 against the folds of my dress.
“Leo has made friends with you, I see,” said Cellini. “You should take that as a great compliment, for he is most particular in his choice of acquaintance, and most steadfast43 when he has once made up his mind. He has more decision of character than many a statesman.”
“How is it we have never seen him before?” I inquired. “You never told us you had such a splendid companion.”
“I am not his master,” replied the artist. “He only favours me with a visit occasionally. He arrived from Paris last night, and came straight here, sure of his welcome. He does not confide44 his plans to me, but I suppose he will return to his home when he thinks it advisable. He knows his own business best.”
I laughed.
“What a clever dog! Does he journey on foot, or does he take the train?”
“I believe he generally patronizes the railway. All the officials know him, and he gets into the guard’s van as a matter of course. Sometimes he will alight at a station en route, and walk the rest of the way. But if he is lazily inclined, he does not stir till the train reaches its destination. At the end of every six months or so, the railway authorities send the bill of Leo’s journeyings in to his master, when it is always settled without difficulty.”
“And who IS his master?” I ventured to ask.
Cellini’s face grew serious and absorbed, and his eyes were full of grave contemplation as he answered:
“His master, mademoiselle, is MY master — one who among men, is supremely46 intelligent; among teachers, absolutely unselfish; among thinkers, purely47 impersonal48; among friends, inflexibly49 faithful. To him I owe everything — even life itself. For him no sacrifice, no extreme devotion would be too great, could I hope thereby50 to show my gratitude51. But he is as far above human thanks or human rewards as the sun is above the sea. Not here, not now, dare I say to him, MY FRIEND, BEHOLD52 HOW MUCH I LOVE THEE! such language would be all too poor and unmeaning; but hereafter — who knows? ——” and he broke off abruptly53 with a half-sigh. Then, as if forcing himself to change the tenor54 of his thoughts, he continued in a kind tone: “But, mademoiselle, I am wasting your time, and am taking no advantage of the favour you have shown me by your presence to-day. Will you seat yourself here?” and he placed an elaborately carved oaken settee in one corner of the studio, opposite his own easel. “I should be sorry to fatigue55 you at all,” he went on; “do you care for reading?”
I answered eagerly in the affirmative, and he handed me a volume bound in curiously56 embossed leather, and ornamented57 with silver clasps. It was entitled “Letters of a Dead Musician.”
“You will find clear gems58 of thought, passion, and feeling in this book,” said Cellini; “and being a musician yourself, you will know how to appreciate them. The writer was one of those geniuses whose work the world repays with ridicule59 and contempt. There is no fate more enviable!”
I looked at the artist with some surprise as I took the volume he recommended, and seated myself in the position he indicated; and while he busied himself in arranging the velvet60 curtains behind me as a background, I said:
“Do you really consider it enviable, Signor Cellini, to receive the world’s ridicule and contempt?”
“I do indeed,” he replied, “since it is a certain proof that the world does not understand you. To achieve something that is above human comprehension, THAT is greatness. To have the serene61 sublimity62 of the God-man Christ, and consent to be crucified by a gibing63 world that was fated to be afterwards civilized64 and dominated by His teachings, what can be more glorious? To have the magnificent versatility65 of a Shakespeare, who was scarcely recognized in his own day, but whose gifts were so vast and various that the silly multitudes wrangle66 over his very identity and the authenticity67 of his plays to this hour — what can be more triumphant68? To know that one’s own soul can, if strengthened and encouraged by the force of will, rise to a supreme45 altitude of power — is not that sufficient to compensate69 for the little whining70 cries of the common herd71 of men and women who have forgotten whether they ever had a spiritual spark in them, and who, straining up to see the light of genius that burns too fiercely for their earth-dimmed eyes, exclaim: ‘WE see nothing, therefore there CAN be nothing.’ Ah, mademoiselle, the knowledge of one’s own inner Self-Existence is a knowledge surpassing all the marvels72 of art and science!”
Cellini spoke with enthusiasm, and his countenance73 seemed illumined by the eloquence74 that warmed his speech. I listened with a sort of dreamy satisfaction; the visual sensation of utter rest that I always experienced in this man’s presence was upon me, and I watched him with interest as he drew with quick and facile touch the outline of my features on his canvas.
Gradually he became more and more absorbed in his work; he glanced at me from time to time, but did not speak, and his pencil worked rapidly. I turned over the “Letters of a Dead Musician” with some curiosity. Several passages struck me as being remarkable75 for their originality76 and depth of thought; but what particularly impressed me as I read on, was the tone of absolute joy and contentment that seemed to light up every page. There were no wailings over disappointed ambition, no regrets for the past, no complaints, no criticism, no word for or against the brothers of his art; everything was treated from a lofty standpoint of splendid equality, save when the writer spoke of himself, and then he became the humblest of the humble77, yet never abject78, and always happy.
“O Music!” he wrote, “Music, thou Sweetest Spirit of all that serve God, what have I done that thou shouldst so often visit me? It is not well, O thou Lofty and Divine One, that thou shouldst stoop so low as to console him who is the unworthiest of all thy servants. For I am too feeble to tell the world how soft is the sound of thy rustling79 pinions80, how tender is the sighing breath of thy lips, how beyond all things glorious is the vibration81 of thy lightest whisper! Remain aloft, thou Choicest Essence of the Creator’s Voice, remain in that pure and cloudless ether, where alone thou art fitted to dwell. My touch must desecrate82 thee, my voice affright thee. Suffice it to thy servant, O Beloved, to dream of thee and die!”
Meeting Cellini’s glance as I finished reading these lines, I asked:
“Did you know the author of this book, signor?”
“I knew him well,” he replied; “he was one of the gentlest souls that ever dwelt in human clay. As ethereal in his music as John Keats in his poetry, he was one of those creatures born of dreams and rapture83 that rarely visit this planet. Happy fellow! What a death was his!”
“How did he die?” I inquired.
“He was playing the organ in one of the great churches of Rome on the day of the Feast of the Virgin84. A choir85 of finely trained voices sang to his accompaniment his own glorious setting of the “Regina Coeli.” The music was wonderful, startling, triumphant — ever rising in power and majesty86 to a magnificent finale, when suddenly a slight crash was heard; the organ ceased abruptly, the singers broke off. The musician was dead. He had fallen forward on the keys of the instrument, and when they raised him, his face was fairer than the face of any sculptured angel, so serene was its expression, so rapt was its smile. No one could tell exactly the cause of his death — he had always been remarkably87 strong and healthy. Everyone said it was heart-disease — it is the usual reason assigned by medical savants for these sudden departures out of the world. His loss was regretted by all, save myself and one other who loved him. We rejoiced, and still do rejoice, at his release.”
I speculated vaguely88 on the meaning of these last words, but I felt disinclined to ask any more questions, and Cellini, probably seeing this, worked on at his sketch89 without further converse90. My eyes were growing heavy, and the printed words in the “Dead Musician’s Letters” danced before my sight like active little black demons91 with thin waving arms and legs. A curious yet not unpleasant drowsiness92 stole over me, in which I heard the humming of the bees at the open window, the singing of the birds, and the voices of people in the hotel gardens, all united in one continuous murmur93 that seemed a long way off. I saw the sunshine and the shadow — I saw the majestic41 Leo stretched full length near the easel, and the slight supple94 form of Raffaello Cellini standing95 out in bold outline against the light; yet all seemed shifting and mingling96 strangely into a sort of wide radiance in which there was nothing but varying tints97 of colour. And could it have been my fancy, or did I actually SEE the curtain fall gradually away from my favourite picture, just enough for the face of the “Angel of Life” to be seen smiling down upon me? I rubbed my eyes violently, and started to my feet at the sound of the artist’s voice.
“I have tried your patience enough for to-day,” he said, and his words sounded muffled98, as though they were being spoken through, a thick wall. “You can leave me now if you like.”
I stood before him mechanically, still holding the book he had lent me clasped in my hand. Irresolutely99 I raised my eyes towards the “Lords of our Life and Death.” It was closely veiled. I had then experienced an optical illusion. I forced myself to speak — to smile — to put back the novel sensations that were overwhelming me.
“I think,” I said, and I heard myself speak as though I were somebody else at a great distance off —“I think, Signor Cellini, your Eastern wine has been too potent100 for me. My head is quite heavy, and I feel dazed.”
“It is mere101 fatigue and the heat of the day,” he replied quietly. “I am sure you are not too DAZED, as you call it, to see your favourite picture, are you?”
I trembled. Was not that picture veiled? I looked — there was no curtain at all, and the faces of the two Angels shone out of the canvas with intense brilliancy! Strange to say, I felt no surprise at this circumstance, which, had it occurred a moment previously102, would have unquestionably astonished and perhaps alarmed me. The mistiness103 of my brain suddenly cleared; I saw everything plainly; I heard distinctly; and when I spoke, the tone of my voice sounded as full and ringing as it had previously seemed low and muffled. I gazed steadfastly104 at the painting, and replied, half smiling:
“I should be indeed ‘far gone,’ as the saying is, if I could not see that, signor! It is truly your masterpiece. Why have you never exhibited it?”
“Can YOU ask that?” he said with impressive emphasis, at the same time drawing nearer and fixing upon me the penetrating105 glance of his dark fathomless106 eyes. It then seemed to me that some great inner force compelled me to answer this half-inquiry, in words of which I had taken no previous thought, and which, as I uttered them, conveyed no special meaning to my own ears.
“Of course,” I said slowly, as if I were repeating a lesson, “you would not so betray the high trust committed to your charge.”
“Well said!” replied Cellini; “you are fatigued107, mademoiselle. Au revoir! Till to-morrow!” And, throwing open the door of his studio, he stood aside for me to pass out. I looked at him inquiringly.
“Must I come at the same time to-morrow?” I asked.
“If you please.”
I passed my hand across my forehead perplexedly, I felt I had something else to say before I left him. He waited patiently, holding back with one hand the curtains of the portiere.
“I think I had a parting word to give you,” I said at last, meeting his gaze frankly108; “but I seem to have forgotten what it was.” Cellini smiled gravely.
“Do not trouble to think about it, mademoiselle. I am unworthy the effort on your part.”
A flash of vivid light crossed my eyes for a second, and I exclaimed eagerly:
“I remember now! It was ‘Dieu vous garde’ signor!”
He bent109 his head reverentially.
“Merci mille fois, mademoiselle! Dieu vous garde — vous aussi. Au revoir.”
And clasping my hand with a light yet friendly pressure, he closed the door of his room behind me. Once alone in the passage, the sense of high elation110 and contentment that had just possessed me began gradually to decrease. I had not become actually dispirited, but a languid feeling of weariness oppressed me, and my limbs ached as though I had walked incessantly111 for many miles. I went straight to my own room. I consulted my watch; it was half-past one, the hour at which the hotel luncheon112 was usually served. Mrs. Everard had evidently not returned from her drive. I did not care to attend the table d’hote alone; besides, I had no inclination113 to eat. I drew down the window-blinds to shut out the brilliancy of the beautiful Southern sunlight, and throwing myself on my bed I determined114 to rest quietly till Amy came back. I had brought the “Letters of a Dead Musician” away with me from Cellini’s studio, and I began to read, intending to keep myself awake by this means. But I found I could not fix my attention on the page, nor could I think at all connectedly. Little by little my eyelids115 closed; the book dropped from my nerveless hand; and in a few minutes I was in a deep and tranquil116 slumber117.
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1
qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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9
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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11
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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17
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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perpendicularly
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| adv. 垂直地, 笔直地, 纵向地 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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teaspoonful
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| n.一茶匙的量；一茶匙容量 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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32
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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refreshingly
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| adv.清爽地，有精神地 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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43
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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44
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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45
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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46
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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47
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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48
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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49
inflexibly
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| adv.不屈曲地，不屈地 | |
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50
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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51
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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52
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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53
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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54
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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55
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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56
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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57
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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59
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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60
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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61
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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62
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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63
gibing
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| adj.讥刺的，嘲弄的v.嘲笑，嘲弄( gibe的现在分词 ) | |
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64
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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65
versatility
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| n.多才多艺，多样性，多功能 | |
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66
wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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67
authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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68
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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69
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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70
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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71
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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72
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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73
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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74
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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75
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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76
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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77
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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78
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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79
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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80
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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81
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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82
desecrate
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| v.供俗用，亵渎，污辱 | |
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83
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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84
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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85
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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86
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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88
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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89
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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90
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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91
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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93
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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95
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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97
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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98
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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99
irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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100
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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101
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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102
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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103
mistiness
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| n.雾，模糊，不清楚 | |
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104
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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105
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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106
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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107
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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108
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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109
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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110
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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111
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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112
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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113
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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114
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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115
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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116
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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117
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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