Madonna Bianca: The Story of a Portrait

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVI, Issue 8, 24 February 1906, Page 23

Madonna Bianca: The Story of a Portrait

By

ANNA McLURE SHOLL

rOU have lived in this villa many year.*. Guiseppe?” The old man bowed as he put down the wine-glass before Bernard. “All my life, signor. I was born here.” ‘•'Who are the present owners’” “Who but the Segaloni, signor —- a minor branch. The main line of the family has been extinct for over a hundred years.” Bernard glanced ■; cross the table at Prescott, who seemed entirely preoccupied with the view of Florence in the distance. The city, bathed in the light of sunset, its domes and campaniles like pure gold, had an ethereal and unearthly look; heightened by the faint mists already rising from the intervening fields and gardens. “And do the Segaloni never come to this beautiful villa?” Guiseppe hesitated. A look of embarrass men t crossed his wrinkled features. “They live in Rome, signor. The head of the house is in poor health. For a man in poor health the villa is not. accounted wholesome. I should warn the signor against walking in the gardens after sundown.” “Malarial?" said Prescott, between two puffs of his cigar. “Yes, signor.” Bernard laughed. “1 intend to see them under every aspect. Imagine the moonlight, Prescott. on this broad terrace, or stealing along that path between the ilex hedges. How uncanny those prinning satyr terms must look when the shadows are closing in. You may leave us now. Guiseppe. We intend to explore the garden at once.”

The old man bowed and withdrew. A look of consternation was in his face, but he said nothing. When he was.gone, Bernard rose and sauntered toward the marble balustrade of the terrace. Just beneath, a garden of fantastic, and at this hour, of mysterious beauty stretched downward to the remote walls of the villa. Two hundred years before it had been a marvel of that art of landscape gardening which attained its height nowhere but in Italy. Now Nature had smothered art. In the faint green light it seemed as if » wealth of decay had, in very extremity. flowered again. The pleached evergreens had taken on stranger shapes than ever gardener dreamed of. The mossy marble benches were buried in too luxurious grass. A multitude of rank, strangely coloured blossoms choked the stone fauns and nymphs gleaming white through the gliiofii. All the malady of spring’s rarer and more voluptuous moods yas in the heavy perfumed air that drifted over the terrace in a languid wave. “What beauty!” Bernard exclaimed. “Prescott., if we don’t do some, good work in the picture galleries this summer. it will not be for lack of inspiration."

Prescott smiled. “To me there is something almost malignant in this loveliness. Remember Guiseppe’-- warning.”

"Well, I’m seasoned. I lived for three years on the edge of a New Jersey marsh.”

' Tie led the way down into the garden, *nd Prescott followed with a slow, reluctant. step. He had not beep as enthusiastic over the discovery of tike Vill»

Segaloni as had Bernar*’ —but then Bernard was by nature a dreainer and an enthusiast. He pursued the beautiful with as much avidity as Shelley. After a whilr?, however, even Prescott came under the spell of this garden, when the greenish twilight was replaced by the full white glory of the moon. Up and down the paths the two friends strolled, smoking and chatting and making plans for the long, brilliant summer which stretched before them. Occasionally they glanced toward the broad, blank front of the villa, like a dead face in the moonlight. “There's something mysterious about this place,” Prescott said. ‘’Why should such a paradise be left to caretakers for generations!” “It can’t be. haunted,” Bernard answered; “it wasn’t offered to us ‘for a mere song.’ ” “No, the rent's high enough in alt conscience! We’ll start Guiseppe talking some day, or his wife Pica'rda.” "She’s a good cook. Well, here we are. the four of us, in a. villa that could lodge a hundred.” Just then a turn in the path brought them to a circular grass-plot in,the centre of which was a broad marble basin filled with black stagnant water. A Cupid embracing a Psyche rose front the water. Near this ancient fountain was a marble bench. Suddenly Bernard paused and clutched his companion’s arm. "Look,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “what’s that woman doing there?” "Where? 1 see no woman.” “tin the bench there—why, no —why. Prescott, ti'iose Italian wines have gone to my head!” Prescott turned sharply. Bernard was as white as death for .an instant, then a slow flush of mortification crept up his face. , “This brilliant moonlight plays tricks,” he said, “I could swear, Prescott. that a woman was sitting on that, bench when we emerged from the walk-’ Prescott ’s smile was incredulous. “Italian wines are heady. How did she -look, - “She was brilliantly fair —a very lovely, very cruel fa<je—a high round forehead. a pointed chin. She wore pearls in her lu-address.” "The devil! you're too circumstantial, Bernard. You’re guying me.” "1 wish 1 were." Bernard said heartily :. "I do not like—such tricks of vision.’--. Their first fortnight at the villa, aside from this incident, which seemed to have left an unpleasant impression upon Bernard, was one of unalloyed pleasure. They spent their days in the picture-galleries, their evenings on the marble terrace above the garden. The house itself, with its treasures of old pictures and furniture, they were exploring at their leisure. I hie night Bernard seemed restless; and because there was a chill in the llir he proposed that they should go indoors. and providing themselves with candles, go over some yet unvisited portions (if the villa. They found that Guiseppe had lit a fire for them on the hearth of the only room on t tie ground floor that had an reappearance of comfort. Prescott suggested that I hey take possession of the two armchairs’drawn tip-before it. "What ean we see by candle-light in rooms with ceilings twenty.feet high!” he protested. “Look at- that fresco

above us. Can you tell whether it’s allegorical or religious in this dimness?”

“Allegorical.” I should say. The Segaloni seemed to have had frankly papan tastes. Come along, Preseott.” Taking his candle he led the way through the central hall. Their footsteps on the stone floor made hollow echoes which seemed to die away in far-off rooms and corridors. Through a si'iW.ssion of apartments they went—ghostly places from whose walls classic or saintly figures looked out dimly. From behind pictures, black with age, fat spiders ran out: nameless insects emerged from the thick shadows. .

Opening.a door at the end of a long wide hall, a draught of cold air met them, and they found themselves in a room, with windows open to the terrace. It was empty save for a great lied with tattered, hangings, a crucifix, life-size, and a picture over a prie-dieu, the portrait of a woman. They saw at once that the painting, though old, was dear, and in a good state of preservation. As Bernard drew near it, he gave an exclamation of surprise. A gray pallor overspread his face. "What is it?” Preseott cried, a note of alarm in his voice. Bernard hesitated.

“If you'll not. think I’m crazy. I'll tell you it's the portrait of the woman I thought I saw by the fountain.”

Prescott held his candle close. Tn the soft light the portrait, glowed with a vitality over which years could have no power. It showed the full face of a young and beautiful woman, whose beauty was not without a sinister element. The curves of the lips were thin and cruel. The pointed chin imparted a certain harshness to the countenance. The light brown eyes were irresponsive. Yet the face fascinated and held by its very mystery. “Do you see the head-dress?” Bernard asked in a low voice. “She wears pearls.” “tSo did the woman ip the garden,” Bernard said, with an uneasy laugh. He gazed long at the picture. Suddenly the leaned forward and pressed his lips for an instant to the lips of the. portrait. “I have fallen in love at last," he said gaily. “1 am. glad she is not alive." Prescott answered. with a grim smile. “She has an evil face." “That’s just, the beauty of it," Bernard said. “She has no soul. You can go to the devil with her without conipunylion. She is as soulless as'the gorgeous flowers in yonder garden." "Let- us ask Guiseppe who she was. One of the Segaloni, I suppose.” "No. let us keep her a mystery. We might find her the virtuous wife of a Florentine grandee. 1 prefer to think her some beautiful enchantress —ti I.uci’Czia Borgia.” ‘ • -r. ‘'That golden hair should be Luerwdirt*.’ Let’s'go" back to the lire.' This room is as damp as a crypt/’ i ■Bernard announced his intention of copying the portrait, which, i aside from the interest of its subject, had a distinct value of its own. The longdead painter, whoever ho was, bad produced at- least one work of power.

So, while Preseott continued to haunt the galleries, Bernard remained at the villa spending hours before the

picture, whose peculiar grace and dark charm again and again eluded his brush. But after a time he came into more intimate relations with the portrait, so that the lady seemed to him his actual sitter —a marvellously still and obedient model. He never left her without a kiss, bestowed gaily and with a kind of triumph that she could not turn her lips away. She was his, al! his! “You do not think it is the malaria. Guiseppe?” Prescott asked uneasily of the old man. "I think it something worse, si .nor. The Signor Bernardo looks already like a dead man. lie's as gray as a dead St. Lawneuce, and his bones show like tho saints. His eyes arc sunken." Preseott shivered. “He will not admit that he is ill Tie works every day on that damnable portrait. I wish to God it were finished.” Guiseppe shook his head. “It never will be, signor.” ' “What do you mean?" said Pfbscott sharply.' “Piccaida was weeping like a Magdalen this niorning. She says ’the signed’ is bewitched.'’ “Nonsense! It is more likely that this villa is unhealthy. Von said as much when we first came here.” He turned away abruptly and rejoined Bernard, who was seated in a reclining chair at the farther end of the terrace. His appearance horribly confirmed Guiseppe's description—-as if be had spent the past three months in the subterranean vaults of the villa. His lips, dry and purplish, parted in a smile as Preeott eame up to him. "I suppose you and Guiseppe were croaking oyer me as usual. I assure you Prescott, there's nothing the matter with me. but this infernal heat.” “And you’re talking infernal rot.” Preseott burst out angrily. “A man who has fever night and morning, and who looks as'yoii do. is a sick man. I shall send for a physician this very night, if you don't consent to have the villa." "Why. should I!" Bernard said dreamily “it is paradise.” “An unhealthy paradise.” “Well, here 1 stay!" Bernard an wer cd stubbornly. “Give me a lielit. will you? The mosquitoes are getting bad.” “Everything’s bad here,” Prescott muttered, “big, find bad,' and blunted. I never saw siieh monstrous spiders'. T picked a lily in the garden yesterday, and a great hairy one dropped on my hand.” Bernard made no answer. He was gazing dreamily up at facade. of the villa. “How often she must have looked from those windows!” he said, in a low voice, as if to himself. After a time he-rose and-walked way from Prescott, who called .after him; "Wher.' are you going?” - i “To take a look at-my pii‘L.;e It seems to me, now , as if a few strokes ol the brush would complete it.’’ “Don’t stay long.” ' Bernard made no answer. Prescott smoked and pend -red, going over stage by stage: the trifling events of their uneventful summer. Its sharpest impression was Bernard's, curious and complete absorption in the portrait of an unknown woman. His strange, wastt ing illness seemed to Preseott inexpliuably joined to this absorption. 'Hie silence, the heavy warmth of ths

night air, sent him to sleep at last in his chair; a sleep from which he was awakened by a sharp cry in which joy and anguish seemed mingled, lie sprang to his feet to find Guiseppe and Piccards running across the terrace, terror in their wrinkled faces. “Mother of God! Did you hear that!” Guiseppe said, his jaws chattering. “Where is he? Where is Bernard!” Prescott cried. “The scream eanie from the wing of the villa, signor,” Piecarda said. “May the saints protect us!” Prescott seized the candle that Guiseppe carried and strode across the terrace to the first door he saw open. The two servants did not follow him. At the threshold of the room in which the portrait hung lie paused a moment, overcome with a horror as of death. A single candle burne& before the picture, on which all its light seemed coneeiitrated, leaving the remainder of .the vast room in semi-darkness. Through this gloom a great bat was sailing with short, eccentric flights. The place was as still as the tomb. “Bernard!” The hoarse whisper awoke only echoes. “Bernard!” This time his voice rang out loud and clear; there was no answer. lie stepped across the threshold holding his candle high above his head. On the stately bed a dark form was stretched, both arms extended in the same direction—the direction of the portrait. Prescott drew nearer, until the light, from his candle fell full on the face of the figure. It was livid. The glassy eyes were staring into the gloom with a wild, expectant look. Prescott put his hand above the heart. The physician paced up and down the room, a look of doubt and perplexity in his face. Prescott waited for him to break the silence, lie sat at an open window, his back turned to the temporary bier that had been arranged in the great hall of the villa. Around it candles were burning, now blue and ghost like in the early light of dawn. •Well, sir?” he said at last, a note of impatience in his voice. "It is an incredible thing.” the physician began in a slow voice, “but it is also a certainty. 1. have made a thorough examination. Your report of the symptoms is complete and thorough.” "Well, then —” Prescott interrupted. The physician paused before him. “You friend died by a slow poison. But that is not the remarkable feature of the case, lie died by a poison not now known to be in existence, but much in vogue three centuries ago. when the eup and the dagger settled many problems.” "But, Dr. Boggi, how do von know this!" “As a chemist, years ago I made a Kt inly of poisons, past and present. 1 wrote a book on the subject in connection with some historical investigations which the government had undertaken. My autopsy has proved to me, conclusively, that your friend died of a poison of which the formula has been lost—a poison practically non-existent —the red spots behind the ears ” lie broke off suddenly, and began to pace the floor. “But how in heaven's name !” Prescott cried. "Precisely that—how?” lie was silent a moment, then he added: "There is no wine-cellar?” “Our wines were sent from Florence.” “And the food?”, “We shared the same table, of cou rse! ” “( an von remember any action of your friend that might throw light ” “Nothing that would throw light—yes! the picture he was copying! It. was of a beautiful woman. He would

sometimes kiss the lips of the portrait; hut a poison such as you s|ieak of could not be embedded in oils dry for nearly three hundred years.” “What was the age of the painting?” Dr. Boggi asked. “I judged so from its appearance.” “Show it to mo.” On their way through the villa Prescott told of the curious fascination which the painting had possessed for his friend; and how he had practically spent his summer before if. The physician made no comment. When he saw the portrait he gave a start of surprise, then a curious smile passed over his face. “You already know the painting?” “It is not unknown to me. This is a famous villa,” Dr. Boggi replied. He took out a sharp knife, and scraped a line powder from the lips of the portrait. Then from a ease he took a microscope. “Will you wait for me here? I wish to go to the kitchen of the villa. I wish to make a certain test.” When he returned the look of perplexity was still on his face. "I found, of course, nothing in the nature of poison. I have no explanation to advance but one which, as a man of science, I could only put forward as chimerical.” "Present any you wish that might throw even a dim light on this mystery,” Prescott said earnestly. Dr. Boggi shook his head. “There are people who believe in a soul of evil as indestructible as the power of good. There are people who believe that malignant influences linger among the scenes which saw their birth; that these influences have power over souls which are not in armour, or over souls of like passions, and this power may be exercised after generations have intervened between the original deed ami the deed which is its consequence. I see you are impatient and incredulous. Welk I also am incredulous. These are not my theories.” “But the application ?” “I offer none. 1 tell you some facts, only, about the original of. this portrait.” "Who was she?” ■•Bianca Segaloni. She was put to death toward the end of the sixteenth century—she and her lover.” “Put to death—and for what?” “For the murder of her husband.” Prescott looked searchingly at the physician. What incredible theory! “For the murder of her husband,” he repeated. “How did she kill him?” The physician hesitated a moment, then he said, looking directly at Prescott: “By a slow poison. The signor, your friend, betrayed the symptoms evidenced in the ease of Count Giovanni Segaloni, the husband of Donna Bianca.”—Written for “Short Stories.”