The Hound of Florence (7 page)

The recollection of the previous day, when he had run about Verona as a dog, flashed through his mind. “I arrived here only this morning—before dawn,” he replied.

“Have you seen the Can Grande yet?”

Lucas had never even heard of the Can Grande.

Throwing down his modelling tools, Agostino swathed the little figure in wet cloths and wiped his hands on his smock. “Come along!” he cried, as though in a great hurry.

They elbowed their way together through the surging crowd on the market-place, hearing and seeing nothing about them, so absorbed were they in their own conversation. They did not even notice that they had to shout to make themselves heard.

Lucas was describing all the dreams and desires he had cherished in solitude. He was aching to build, to carve statues, to paint pictures, and to chase vessels of gold and silver. Agostino laughed encouragingly as he confided all his plans to him, and was full of understanding and delight. It was all perfectly possible and must certainly be accomplished, and it could be accomplished by force of will. Why not? Agostino discussed the hewn stone and columns of the Palaces, the secret of their proportions, their color, the smoothness of the distempered walls, the durability of stretched canvas, of marble and gold, and all the tricks of the trade that happened to occur to him, as well as the peculiarities of the materials used, which were learned only by years of work on them. But as far as he himself was concerned, his one ambition was to be a sculptor. He wanted to carve statues of saints for the churches, and silver groups for the tables of grand nobles. He had commissions, and fresh orders came in every day. He was beginning to be well known. The little shop was not the only place he worked in. Later on, he said, he would have a large workshop with assistants and pupils.

Going down a narrow passage, they came to a standstill on a little square in front of a small church. On the side wall there was a sarcophagus of a man, flanked by pillars supporting a tall tapering roof, on the top of which stood an equestrian statue outlined against the blue of the sky.

Agostino pointed up. “The Can Grande,” he said, and gazed expectantly at Lucas.

Above their heads the stone rider on the draped horse kept vigil. The tourney-helmet hanging over his back made him look as though he had wings, the sword in his hand was pointing upward, straight and solemn, ready for any emergency.

“Very old,” whispered Agostino.

Lucas gazed up in silent reverence. The statue, soaring above the shadow of the wall, bathed in sunlight, with the cool spring breeze playing about it, set Lucas aflame with enthusiasm. The sudden violent emotion threw wide the portals of his soul, drew it up to the heights, and flung it far away from its former plane into infinity.

“It is small,” said Agostino, “but one does not notice that. As one goes away one remembers it as a big thing, a fine monument.”

But Lucas did not hear what he was saying.

“Wandering about the animated streets, they talked and laughed as though they had known each other all their lives.

“How long are you staying in Verona?” Agostino enquired, as they took leave of one another.

“I don't know,” stammered Lucas, turning pale.

“Which way do you want to go?” asked Agostino. “Did you come through Vicenza?”

Lucas did not reply.

Agostino became pressing. “You must go through Vicenza,” he exclaimed, in tones of entreaty. “It is a little bit out of your way from here, but not much. Take my advice and go through Vicenza, and just have a look at the Rotunda there—you know the one I mean?—by Palladio . . . and then go to Padua. Donatello's wooden horse is there . . . then on to Ferrara. . . .”

Lucas knew that he would have to be a dog on the journey across country toward his goal. He knew that it would not depend upon himself how long he remained in Verona, nor would he be able to choose the road. And he was overcome with shame and fear.

“Come to me tomorrow,” Agostino continued eagerly. “Then I shall be able to tell you exactly how to plan your journey. . . .”

“All right . . . tomorrow . . .” replied Lucas.

• • •

The Archduke entered Bologna in grand state.

As the procession drove along the sunlit road toward the walls of the city, the chimes of a hundred bells rang out to greet them. Cannon were fired from the ramparts, short sharp bursts of thunder breaking the stillness of the spring morning, while the cheers from the vast crowd above their heads were wafted down to them like the rustling of tall trees.

The Archduke alighted from his coach and went forward to meet the bright little group awaiting him at the city gates. There was the Cardinal, his scarlet robes conspicuous against the more somber garb of the figures about him. Surrounded by his priests, knights and councillors, he waited until the Archduke came up, receiving the Prince's kiss on his hand with regal majesty, after which he bowed respectfully to his guest. He was a handsome young man, tall, narrow-­shouldered, and his face pale with the warm, mellow pallor of ivory. His eyes, like his hair and arched brows, were a deep, shining black, while his careless, genial manner was as attractive as it was dignified and balanced. The Archduke, who felt bashful in his presence, quickly turned to the others, and for a while the little group outside the walls laughed and chatted together. The bells were still ringing and the people cheering, as the cannon continued to boom above their heads.

When at last the procession trotted through the gates amid the ring of horses' hooves, the clank of arms and the rattle of wheels, the din and clatter were unspeakable. The streets inside the town now lay open to view, lined with curious townsfolk, waving handkerchiefs and caps and cheering lustily. Slowly the procession advanced; the Archduke and the Cardinal, sitting side by side with nothing to say to each other, bowed right and left.

“What a beautiful dog you have,” observed the Cardinal, as they alighted from the coach at the Palace. “What is his name?”

“Cambyses.”

“I see, I see—the great names of the ancient world,” observed the Cardinal, smiling. “Nowadays we have no other use for them so we call our dogs by the names of heathen kings and deities. . . .”

The Archduke was at a loss for a reply.

“What say you,” the Cardinal continued, and there was a tinge of mockery in his voice, “do you think that one day our world will have sunk so low that people will call their dogs after our great kings and popes?” He saw that the Archduke looked puzzled, and apparently anxious to put him at his ease, he stopped short. “Just look at your dog,” he added presently, “how devoutly he is looking up at the statue of Pope Julius. Isn't it strange? He saw the statue high up above the gate even before I could point it out to you myself. He looks as though he might even be admiring it.”

The Archduke glanced up from his dog to the great statue, which throned it above the gate in solemn majesty.

“Who can tell what he sees up there?” he replied.

“You are right,” said the Cardinal, smiling again. “Who knows why an animal like that looks up at the sky, and who can tell what he sees up there? But at all events he does not see a magnificent work of art—showing that after all he has something in common with certain bipeds!”

And with a haughty shrug of his shoulders, he entered the Palace with the Archduke.

• • •

As soon as he was himself again, Lucas roamed about the streets of Bologna. Standing in front of the Palace, he contemplated the statue of Julius II, reveling in the way this great and masterful monument lent gravity, character and eloquence to the facade with which it was so boldly blended. He examined the facade of the Palace, delighted with the wealth of mysterious science that was daily being revealed to him, and the number of artistic secrets that had been unveiled before his eyes since he had been in this country. He stood before the Palaces of the Bentivoglio and the Maffei; he visited the churches when they were empty, and paid his tributes of devotion to the altar-pieces, the statues and the carvings. This country offered him all those things for which his soul had been starving; it surrounded him with an atmosphere so familiar and awakened so many hidden instincts that he was constantly stirred to the depths. It was only with the utmost difficulty that he succeeded in suppressing a word that was continually rising to his lips: Home. No, he must not pronounce that word yet! He was still a long way from his goal. For the time being he was nothing but a miserable dog. His master could kill him if he chose; any low brute of a stable-boy could beat him to death. He might lie by the roadside, or perish in the gutter, before they reached Florence. No, that word must not pass his lips until they had arrived, until the terrible fate that held him in its toils had been fulfilled, and left him a free man once more.

One evening, as he was making his way with the crowd along the narrow street in front of the leaning Torre Asinelli, his foot struck against a small object which gave a faint ring. Bending over he picked up a purse, the worn leather folds of which he quickly unfastened. It contained only a few silver pieces and one gold coin, but to him it was the fulfilment of his heart's desire. Until that day he had been a beggar on the roads, wandering through strange cities and along unfamiliar paths, unable to buy so much as a crust of bread. He had eaten his fill only when the dog Cambyses had been fed, and had found somewhere to lay his head only when Cambyses was allowed to occupy a place in the straw. But now his fingers clutched the key to a little manly freedom. The anxiety that had so long oppressed him with regard to what he would do to earn a livelihood when he reached Florence, fell like a load from his heart.

Full of joy, he now took up his stand before the Palace, watching the constant animation and bustle at its gates. And every other day he became part of that bustle. He was a member of the throng within its gates, familiar with every corner of the stables, the stairs, the corridors, rooms, apartments and halls of the building. The day following he would stand outside it, apparently completely isolated, invisible and free. Hitherto, on his human days, filled with qualms that made him tremble, and a sense of shame that depressed him strangely, he had always avoided the proximity of the Archduke's train. On this particular day, however, he took up his stand before the Palace gates, overcoming both his qualms and his sense of shame, which constantly threatened to get the upper hand, and watched the familiar figures of the grooms, Count Waltersburg, fat Master Pointner and the others. All unsuspecting, they passed close by him. He knew all about them, every line in their faces, every movement of their shoulders, every detail of their ways was known to him, their voices, their desires, and the kindness and hardness of their hearts. But, suspecting nothing, they scarcely vouchsafed him a glance; had they gazed into his eyes for hours, still they would have suspected nothing. They knew only Cambyses, the dog; of Lucas, the man, they knew nothing.

The one person with whom he did not come face to face on these days was the Archduke himself, catching only a fleeting glimpse of him one morning in his coach, as he had done in Vienna on that first dismal November day. As he leaned back in the cushions the Archduke's thin face wore a haughty, disdainful expression and his blue eyes swept the rows of spectators with an expression of contemptuous indifference. But Lucas was anxious to see him at close quarters, as he had seen Count Waltersburg and Pointner, the Groom-of-the-Chamber. Without quite knowing why, he felt impeled to do this. An irresistible impulse, prompted neither by affection nor hostility, urged him to meet the Archduke face to face if he possibly could.

And he succeeded. One quiet afternoon he chanced to enter the church of San Petronio, and was wandering, a lonely figure, from altar to altar, and statue to statue, when suddenly the Archduke, accompanied by the Cardinal and a magnificent retinue of courtiers, entered the silent precincts. They were all talking loudly and the lofty vaulted arches echoed their voices. Lucas crept behind a column.

“It was here that your Grace's great ancestor, Charles V, was crowned,” Lucas heard the Cardinal say as the group came to a standstill close beside him.

The Archduke took a short step forward, and was about to reply when he found himself face to face with Lucas. He drew back, turned his head in confusion, coughed, tried to pull himself together; but Lucas gazed at him with a calm, curious, almost imploring look. Everything he had thought and experienced during the last few weeks unconsciously shone out of his eyes, as he stood for the first time erect in human form before his master; and for a few seconds he held the Archduke's eyes beneath the spell of his own, allowing him no escape.

Embarrassed and indignant at his own discomfiture, the Archduke raised his hand.

“What does that ragged lout over there want?” he whispered, turning to the Cardinal.

At a sign from the latter, two gentlemen went up to Lucas, motioning him to go and threatening and upbraiding him.

“Get out!” they hissed. “Be off at once!”

Slowly Lucas left the church.

The Archduke was breathing heavily. He thrust out his lower lip.

“How rudely the fellow stared!”

“Yes, he certainly had strange eyes,” was the Cardinal's calm rejoinder.

“So you noticed them too?” observed the Archduke, shaking his head thoughtfully. “Those eyes . . . I can't think what they reminded me of. . . .”

On the following evening it happened that a farewell banquet was being given in honor of the Archduke, who was leaving for Florence the next day. It was a merry crowd that assembled round the board, eating and drinking their fill of the good fare spread before them. The dog tried to find a place to lie down, squeezing between the chairs and sitting down in front of the sideboard. But he could not find a suitable spot. At last he stretched himself on the floor at the far end of the table where the young Italian noblemen were seated.