The Hound of Florence (6 page)

“Not yet . . . !” she whispered.

So they went on together again. The sun's rays poured fiercely down upon them, and the whole countryside was aflame in the life-giving light. “Now I no longer fear a dog's life!” cried Lucas, suddenly throwing up his arms with a sigh of relief.

“We all lead dogs' lives,” she replied calmly. “So why be afraid of it? It is often hard, but sometimes it can be very fine. . . .”

In the evening, as the shadows fell about them, they sat together under the eaves of a deserted hut.

“I am alone too, quite alone,” said Angelica in reply to the little that Lucas had told her about himself. “It is true I often have somebody with me. . . . How can I tell who it is? . . . But I am very lonely all the same. Sometimes I am glad when he leaves me again and I am really alone. Often I have taken to my heels and run away . . . but once . . . no, it was not good . . . I had someone with me, and then he left me alone . . . that was not good. . . .”

And shaking herself, she gave a soft low laugh. “So you have come all that way? I have come a long way too,” she proceeded without waiting for a reply, “a very long way. . . . I was in Lugano . . . and then over there . . . somewhere quite different . . . Venice. . . . I have been everywhere. . . .”

And she leaned against his shoulder. “But you will stay with me now, won't you?”

“Always,” replied Lucas.

“Tomorrow too?”

“Tomorrow . . . ?” His voice faltered. “Tomorrow I must go down there . . . into the . . . there's a town down there in the valley. . . .”

“I'll go with you.”

“Impossible. . . .” He could hardly speak. “You mustn't come with me. . . . But the day after tomorrow I shall be free . . . and then we can meet again and keep together.”

“Where?” she asked, in eager, incredulous tones, looking sadly at him.

“Just you say where,” he entreated, “just tell me the exact spot and I'll be there, Angelica—I swear to you I'll be there. . . .”

“Well . . . in Rovereto . . . in front of the church.”

“Very good, in Rovereto; but you must wait until I come.”

“And you swear . . . ?”

“I swear. . . . But you swear too that you will wait.”

She drew him to her and kissed him, and Lucas took her in his arms. He forgot the spell under which he was living, he forgot the time, the hours sped by, and he took no count of them.

Somewhere in the distance a church clock struck the hour of midnight. But Lucas did not hear it. All he knew was that a violent shock snatched him from Angelica's arms. He was utterly dazed and it was only later that he remembered the girl's horror when she suddenly found she was clasping nothing.

• • •

A few days later, Lucas, all aglow in the rays of the early morning sun, was standing on the last slope of the mountains. In the invisible depths of the valley at his feet the Adige went roaring on its way. He knew the river well, for had he not been following its winding course through wild gorges southward for the last week? Hidden by a mountain peak, it was close at hand, imprisoned in a rocky defile. He could hear it roaring and foaming, although from where he was standing, he could not see its final fight for freedom. But far away below, the spot where it entered the plain was visible. Still rushing and turbulent it spread in a broad stream over the land, but far away in the distance its waters became blue as the infinite heavens spreading above it.

Lucas stood on his hill, as though he were at the top of a tower. The valley lay peacefully spread out at his feet. He scanned it, drunk with joy—the soft pale-green fields, slashed here and there by white streaks of road, the gleaming silver inlay of the rushing streams, the whole shimmering and smiling brightly amid straggling homesteads and towns.

Immediately below, at no very great distance from the hills, and on the fringe of the plain which stretched as far as eye could see, gleamed the walls, roofs and towers of the city of Verona. Lucas felt as though he had but to spread his wings to float down to it. Never, during the whole of his journey, had he been filled with such impatience as he felt now. Down below there must surely be painters, sculptors and goldsmiths—men who would know all about Florence, about the masters who worked there and taught their craft, or about other places on Italian soil where such men could be found.

Close at hand, a little below the turf-clad hill on which he was sitting, he caught sight of a short stretch of road that looked like a piece of ribbon. Lower down it appeared again, winding down the incline, and unrolling across the green plain in a straight line.

It reminded him of his father who had traveled along that road in a northerly direction. It seemed to him incomprehensible that his father should have left this smiling garden, incredible that anyone who had been born and bred there could have forsaken such a glorious country.

All his hopes, desires and thoughts darted—nay, flew along that white ribbon unfolding far away in the distance across the green fields. He banished the memory of the day before yesterday, which stirred faintly in his breast. Afraid of meeting Angelica in front of the church of Rovereto, he had kept to sidetracks on the outskirts of the town and thus slipped by the little place unnoticed. Again and again he had felt tempted to go through the center of it straight to the church, to find out whether she were really waiting for him. But he did not think she was, for he felt sure she must be much too frightened to wish to find him; nevertheless, he longed for her beauty and her love, and he felt tormented by remorse for having so light-heartedly whiled away his time with her. He was certain that he had not only distressed her, but given her a terrible fright into the bargain. At last he had shaken himself free of all these thoughts—his longing, his remorse, his hesitation—and had gone on his way, thinking of nothing but his distant goal. And behold, he was now sitting on the edge of the plain, with no desire to think of anything else!

The sound of trotting horses, the rumble of carriage-­wheels and the murmur of human voices drew ever nearer and nearer. On the strip of road that encircled the hill on which he was sitting, there appeared a troop of horsemen; a string of coaches followed, brought up in the rear by another troop of horsemen. Lucas recognized the Archduke's cavalcade. It burst upon his vision, with its horses and wagons, like actors appearing on the stage, or mechanical figures within a clock, only to disappear again, where a spur of the hill seemed to swallow up the roadway. But the snorting of the horses, the rattling of the chains, the screeching and groaning of the wheels, and the confused murmur of voices filled the air with life and animation.

Lucas sprang to his feet and breathlessly waited until the procession once more came into view below. And lo, down in the depths he could see it again, rattling downhill. Enveloped in clouds of dust, it glided along as though borne on the bosom of the clouds.

“There! . . .” cried Lucas, throwing out his arms to it. “There I am traveling to Verona! To-night I shall be in Verona!”

• • •

The market-place of Verona was thronged with people. On the cobblestones with which the square was paved, all kinds of vegetables lay piled up in green mounds, tangled masses of chickens tied by the feet cackled and squawked, the bleeding carcasses of bullocks, opened and cut up, gaped to view, while towering above it all a flaming mass of flowers and fruit rose in tier upon tier of gorgeous color.

The bright rays of the morning sun poured down on this medley of humanity, animals and vegetables. Everything was radiant, bright and warm. The air was full of the scent of flowers, raw meat, oranges and blood, clothes, stagnant water, wet metal, onions and melons. It vibrated with the shrill voices of the crowd, snatches of song, the shouting and crying of children as they played about, harsh discordant whistles, the braying of donkeys under the whip, and the cackling of tied-up chickens. The plashing of the fountain, the marble columns and statues, the lion of St. Mark, soaring above the tumult, the houses, the countless balconies, the flapping of blinds, and the fluttering of clothes hung out to dry at the windows—everything seemed to take a hand in the general commotion. The whole market-place was palpitating with life.

Lucas sauntered about, full of wonder and delight. All the turmoil seemed strange to him, but, at the same time, in the deepest recesses of his memory it was also familiar. He stopped by every group to try to hear what they were saying, and laughed happily when somebody caught him by the arm, offering him flowers, meat or whatnot for sale, asking him what he wanted, trying to discover his needs and his tastes, and using every ­possible artifice to inveigle him into buying and bargaining. He felt that everything that was taking place around him was a game, which he either knew, or thought he knew, because he grasped its meaning immediately—a childish, passionately eager game full of cunning and art, a game of looking into each other's hearts and guessing what was inside them, a game full of excitement, anger and bright good cheer, eternally alluring and gloriously entertaining.

He watched the craftsmen squatting before their open shops. They sat either in their doorways or on the pavement, surrounded by their wares, talking, shouting, laughing and chastising or fondling their children. Whenever the refrain of a song was wafted toward them, they would join in, as though, being lovers of order, they must perforce mend and patch up the snatches of melody torn from the general uproar, or felt it incumbent upon them to use the conductor's baton. But this did not prevent them from working both fast and skillfully. Lucas smiled back when they smiled up at him, and answered them when they addressed him eagerly as though they were picking up the threads of a conversation that had just been interrupted.

At one shop-door he caught sight of a gleaming array of figures. Closely packed, one above another, were numbers of small statues, goblets, dishes, busts, miniature columns, and all kinds of splendid vessels, in dazzling white plaster, shining tin, dark gold bronze, or ruddy copper. There were also a few pieces in veined marble that looked quite lifelike. Shining through the darkness of the shop and standing outlined in the twilight of the room, a dim, eloquent array of forms and figures, they loomed through the narrow opening of the door like riches bursting out of a cornucopia and falling at Lucas's feet. He halted, filled with such surprise and delight that at first his eyes could only stray in helpless bewilderment over the mass of forms, heads and ornaments. It took some time before he could really see and distinguish individual objects.

There stood a graceful Pallas, not more than seventeen inches high, but the majestic pose of the figure had an impelling grace that charmed him. Close by, on a copper basin, a beautifully chased lion's head thrust its muzzle toward him. Further on a slender silver goblet rose to view, flaunting its luxurious arms and bearing its molded cover like a crown. Figures of women stood delicately sinuous, with arms gracefully uplifted supporting a marble shell. There was also a bronze Perseus, holding the Gorgon's head in his outstretched hand.

Lucas was lost in admiration as he examined it. He noticed how an expression of faint physical revulsion and one of triumphant pride struggled for mastery in the noble, boyish features of the Perseus. Lucas ­trembled with delight to think that such marvels of art existed, that at last he was in the country where they were created, and that he could understand them with the consummate ease with which a man understands his mother tongue. So that was Perseus! And that was the right way to fashion him, with that conflict of feeling expressed in his face that made him seem so real! Lucas felt that an important secret had been revealed to him.

Some force, of which he suddenly became conscious, compelled him to turn away from the Perseus. In the narrow doorway stood a man, looking intently at him. He was a young fellow with curly black hair, and before him on a high turn-table stood a little gray figure in clay, on which he was working. Questioningly Lucas and the young man gazed into each other's eyes as though they had known each other for years.

The young man was the first to smile. “A fine piece!” he observed courteously, indicating the Perseus by a nod of the head.

“Did you do it?” whispered Lucas in awed tones.

The young man laughed. “I do it? How could I do anything like that? It comes from Florence. Do you know Florence?”

Lucas blushed. “No . . . but I am on my way there.”

“Where from?”

“From Vienna.”

The young man scanned his features intently.

“Vienna. That's a long way.” Lured as by a spell, Lucas had unconsciously drawn closer to the little clay figure on the turn-table.

“I was in Florence for three years,” observed the young man. “I was taught there.”

“What is your name?” interrupted Lucas. “My name is Lucas Grassi. What is yours?”

“Agostino Cassana.”

“How splendid that I should have met you!” cried Lucas, “and that you should have studied in Florence. I am going there for the same purpose as you did, you see. I want to learn. My father was an artist before me; he came from Tuscany and went to Vienna because they are building Palaces there. But I was only a child then. And now I want to go to Florence.”

“Go to Cesare Bandini,” said Agostino with a smile. “You won't find a better master in all Italy.”

“Was he yours?”

Agostino nodded. “Just tell him you come from me. He was very fond of me; he did not want to let me go.”

“Why didn't you stay with him?”

“I am a native of Verona. Besides, why should I have stayed there? I had been there three years! It isn't as if I could have become a Cesare Bandini. Agostino Cassana I am, and Agostino Cassana I must remain!”

They both laughed heartily.

Presently Agostino asked Lucas how long he had been in Verona.