The Master-Christian. Marie Corelli

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 'Tis something better not to be.'"

      "I cannot think that is either true or good philosophy," said the Cardinal, "It is merely the utterance of a disappointed man in a misanthropic mood. There is no 'not to be' in creation. Each morning that lights the world is an expression of 'to be'! And however much we may regret the fact, my dear Vergniaud, we find ourselves in a state of BEING and we must make the best of it,—not the worst. Is that not so?"

      His look was gentle and commanding,—his voice soft yet firm,—and the worldly Abbe felt somewhat like a chidden child as he met the gaze of those clear true eyes that were undarkened by any furtive hypocrisies or specious meanings.

      "I suppose it is, but unfortunately I have made the worst of it," he answered, "and having made the worst I see no best. Who is that singing?"

      He lifted his hand with a gesture of attention as a rich mezzo-soprano rang out towards them,—

      "Per carita

       Mostrami il cielo;

       Tulto e un velo,

       E non si sa

       Dove e il cielo.

       Se si sta

       Cosi cola,

       Non si sa

       Se non si va

       Ahi me lontano!

       Tulto e in vano!

       Prendimi in mano

       Per carita!"

      "It is Angela," said the Cardinal, "She has a wonderfully sweet voice."

      "Prendimi in mano,

       Per carita!"

      murmured Abbe Vergniaud, still listening, "It is like the cry of a lost soul!"

      "Or a strayed one," interposed the Cardinal gently, and rising, he took Vergniaud's arm, and leaned upon it with a kindly and familiar grace, an action which implied much more than the mere outward expression of confidence,—"Nothing is utterly lost, my dear friend. 'The very hairs of our head are numbered,'—not a drop of dew escapes to waste,—how much more precious than a drop of dew is the spirit of a man!"

      "It is not so unsullied," declared Vergniaud, who loved controversy,—"Personally, I think the dew is more valuable than the soul, because so absolutely clean!"

      "You must not bring every line of discussion to a pin's point," said Bonpre smiling, as he walked slowly across the room still leaning on the Abbe's arm. "We can reduce our very selves to the bodiless condition of a dream if we take sufficient pains first to advance a theory, and then to wear it threadbare. Nothing is so deceptive as human reasoning,—nothing so slippery and reversible as what we have decided to call 'logic.' The truest compass of life is spiritual instinct."

      "And what of those who have no spiritual instinct?" demanded Vergniaud.

      "I do not think there are any such. To us it certainly often seems as if there were masses of human beings whose sole idea of living is to gratify their bodily needs,—but I fancy it is only because we do not know them sufficiently that we judge them thus. Few, if any, are so utterly materialistic as never to have had some fleeting intuition of the Higher existence. They may lack the force to comprehend it, or to follow its teaching,—but in my opinion, the Divine is revealed to all men once at least in their lives."

      They had by this time passed out of the drawing-room, and now, ascending three steps, they went through a curtained recess into Angela Sovrani's studio,—a large and lofty apartment made beautiful by the picturesque disorder and charm common to a great artist's surroundings. Here, at a grand piano sat Angela herself, her song finished, her white hands straying idly over the keys,—and near her stood the gentleman whom the Abbe Vergniaud had called "a terrible reformer and Socialist" and who was generally admitted to be something of a remarkable character in Europe. Tall and fair, with very bright flashing eyes, and a wonderfully high bred air of concentrated pride and resolution, united to a grace and courtesy which exhaled from him, so to speak, with his every movement and gesture, he was not a man to pass by without comment, even in a crowd. A peculiar distinctiveness marked him,—out of a marching regiment one would have naturally selected him as the commanding officer, and in any crisis of particular social importance or interest his very appearance would have distinguished him as the leading spirit of the whole. On perceiving the Cardinal he advanced at once to be presented, and as Angela performed the ceremony of introduction he slightly bent one knee, and bowed over the venerable prelate's extended hand with a reverence which had in it something of tenderness. His greeting of Abbe Vergniaud was, while perfectly courteous, not quite so marked by the grace of a strong man's submission.

      "Ah, Mr. Leigh! So you have not left Paris as soon as you determined?" queried the Abbe with a smile, "I thought you were bound for Florence in haste?"

      "I go to Florence to-morrow," answered Leigh briefly.

      "So soon! I am indeed glad not to have missed you," said Cardinal Bonpre cordially. "Angela, my child, let me see what you have been doing. All your canvases are covered, or turned with their faces to the wall;—are we not permitted to look at any of them?"

      Angela immediately rose from the piano, and wheeled a large oaken chair with a carved and gilded canopy, into the centre of the studio.

      "Well, if you want to see my sketches—and they are only sketches," she said,—"you must come and sit here. Now," as her uncle obeyed her, "you look enthroned in state,—that canopy is just fitted for you, and you are a picture in yourself!—Yes, you are, dearest uncle! And not all the artists in the world could ever do you justice I Monsieur l'Abbe, will you sit just where you please?—And Mr. Leigh, you have seen everything, so it does not matter."

      "It matters very much," said Leigh with a smile, "For I want to see everything again. If I may, I will stand here."

      And he took up his position close to the Cardinal's chair.

      "But where is the boy?" asked Vergniaud, "Where is the foundling of the

       Cathedral?"

      "He left us some minutes ago," said Angela, "He went to your room, uncle."

      "Was he pleased with the music?" asked the Cardinal.

      "I think he enjoyed every note of it," said Leigh, "A thoughtful lad! He was very silent while I played,—but silence is often the most eloquent appreciation."

      "Are we to be silent then over the work of Donna Sovrani?" enquired the

       Abbe gaily. "Must we not express our admiration?"

      "If you have any admiration to express," said Angela carelessly, setting, as she spoke, an easel facing the Cardinal; "but I am afraid you will greatly disapprove of me and condemn all my work this year. I should explain to you first that I am composing a very large picture,—I began it in Rome some three years ago, and it is in my studio there,—but I require a few French types of countenance in order to quite complete it. The sketches I have made here are French types only. They will all be reproduced in the larger canvas—but they are roughly done just now. This is the first of them. I call it 'A Servant of Christ, at the Madeleine, Paris.'"

      And she placed the canvas she СКАЧАТЬ