The Florentine groom

CLARE BOOTHE BROKAW

Sir Isaac Winter, the well-known art dealer, and his host had been discussing at length the hot disputes which had arisen in artistic circles over the "genuineness" of a recent Metropolitan Museum acquisition. This discussion had been sprinkled with some delicate if obvious definitions of art and not a few heady aesthetic epigrams.

"I can't see that it matters in the least." persisted Sir Isaac's host, "if the damned thing is authentic or not. Surely, if so many intelligent connoisseurs as well as laymen have reacted to it precisely as though it were an original. and it takes either an X-ray machine or a diabolical expert like yourself to disillusion them, then fraud or not, for all aesthetic purposes it is a work of art and a masterpiece!"

"Art," replied Sir Isaac, with deliberate and playful pomposity, "Art is Truth, and Truth, unlike Beauty is not in the eye of the beholder. Which is why, my dear fellow, art is always moral, and beauty never!" Suddenly he hesitated, gazing at the end of his cigar with a reminiscent scowl. "That apparently meaningless remark," he said slowly, "reminds me of a story—a strange story; a story about a beautiful woman; a story that is both tragic and moral."

"Let's have it," his host urged.

"I have never told it before," Sir Isaac said, twisting the stem of his empty liqueur glass between his knotted fingers. "I am going to tell it to you, because I am sure I can count on your discretion not to repeat it. And also because you, of all the men I know, have the wit to understand it." He hesitated again, then shook his head, as if incredulous himself of what he was about to say.

"The story also concerns an old friend of mine—Gustave Marks—"

"The collector?"

"Yes, Gustave Marks, and—his beautiful daughter, Leila." Sir Isaac took a deep breath, shoved back the silver about his plate, and peered over the top of the dining-room screen to assure himself that the butler had gone.

"When Gustave Marks bought Agnolo Jacopo's 'Portrait of a Young Man' to add to his world-famous collection of Italian masters, the press found that the incident had excellent news value. The rumor was that this sixteenth-century picture had been discovered by a German art student, in a brothel of a small hill town, or castello, near Empoli. Empoli. you remember, was the birthplace of the great Leonardo. There, after the immemorial custom of art students, he had spent the night. On a wall of that filthy little bagnio he spied this bright gem of the Renaissance. Feeling sure that the patronne could have no knowledge of its value, he tactfully offered to buy it. To his amazement, she steadfastly and somewhat passionately refused his offer. V hen he persisted, the plump little lady, with the aid of two olive-skinned, sloe-eyed little strumpets, thrust him unceremoniously into the starsprinkled Italian night. That young man had courage and conviction. He crept hack in the dim blue twilight of morning, and craftily cut it out of its frame not, however, before he had received a stiletto between his shoulder blades. The fate of the gallant wench who gave him that blow was never known. Anyway, this is all rumor, lie escaped with the picture, smeared its glowing surface with some atrocious modernistic daubs, and managed to smuggle it out of Italy.

"In Berlin, the canvas was restored, and the intrepid student realized an immediate profit. The portrait found its natural way to Paris, where Gustave Marks saw it, and, struck by its singular beauty, bought it . . . without, I may add, consulting me. I was in London at the time, and the first knowledge I had of the purchase was when he wired me that he had paid two hundred thousand dollars—the highest price ever given for a Jacopo. Now, Jacopo, although undoubtedly a fine painter, can not be ranked with his contemporaries. Da Vinci. Fra Filippo Lippi, or even Verrocchio.

"But what excited the greatest public interest, was, perhaps, the immediately disputed identity of the subject, the 'Young Man" of the portrait. After heated controversies, and a frenzied amount of hasty research work into the archives of the period, a few Parisian critics and experts decided that the 'Young Man' was none other than Mario Varesi, the natural son of the beautiful and infamous Duchessa Ludovici, by Lorenzo the Magnificent.

"When Marks arrived in New York, the fame of his acquisition had preceded him. Secretly, I suppose, he was not at all displeased that his discovery had caused such a furor, and that his rival collectors were green with envy that his purchase of one of the lesser masters occasioned so much discussion. But, knowing him as I did. 1 am sure the thrill of pride which this gave him meant nothing to him as against the express opinion of one other person.

"That person was Leila, his only child. He cherished her more than all his masterpieces and valued her judgment even above his own. Perhaps this was because he realized that whereas his passion for art had developed rather late in life—it was, in fact, the hobby of a man grown slowly very rich—to Leila, art (especially the art of the Renaissance) was the breath in her body.

"At the time Marks first began his collection, and Leila was very young, her mother died. Marks never remarried. He lived alone in that great house on Fifth Avenue—which is now, as you know, a public museum—with his daughter and his pictures. There, Leila, a lonely and fragile child, was allowed to play and roam at will in the galleries. I have often seen her there, surrounded by primitive sweet madonnas with pale hands and enigmatic eyes (who, in a sense, must have become her foster-mothers), and faintly smiling holy children—her only playmates. 1 once told Marks—and 1 am sure that he was pleased—that little Leila, with her excessive pallor and almost sculptural restraint, looked as though she, too, might have stepped out of an old Italian picture. Certainly it is not strange that in the contemplation of these vibrant masterpieces, in constant association with the living creations of hands long dead, she should have acquired such an instinctive knowledge of art, that at the age of eighteen her critical judgment was second to none except, of course, my own.

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"Leila had not accompanied her father to Paris, and therefore, like myself, she had not seen the actual portrait of the 'Young Man'. So it must have been with the keenest pleasure that Marks awaited her verdict. As Marks told me the story afterwards, he made a small ceremony of that occasion—an almost childish mystery. The night of his arrival in New York, the picture having been already uncrated and hung in his gallery, he and Leila dined together. During dinner they spoke of nothing but the 'Young Man'—of his beauty, and of his romantic history. When Leila, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glittering with anticipation, had reached a delicious point of impatience, Marks arose, and, trembling with excitement, placed his arm around her shoulders and drew her into the gallery.

"The picture, veiled by a black velvet curtain, was hung between a 'Virgin of the Hills' by Raphael, and an 'Annunciation' by del Sarto.

" 'My darling,' Marks said—and I can hear his voice deepening with pride now—'What will you say?'

"He stepped forward and drew the curtain aside, and there was the 'Portrait of a Young Man', suddenly bathed in light.

"They stood silently a few feet from the wall, his arm again around her shoulders, their eyes riveted upon the canvas. Then Marks began to speak.

"'It is a gem,' he said. 'Jacopo here is surely worthy of Michael Angelo, his master. And the subject: The young man himself! You can sense the vigor, the superb, panther-like grace of those young shoulders under his crimson jacket. Look at his dark hair. You can almost feel the moisture on his temples where the thick curls lie! Observe the ivory pallor of his throat and face above that snowy frill. He is as proud as a prince, insolent as a peasant. He is indeed the son of Lorenzo the Magnificent! His eyes glow like a tiger's in the night, and the typically full, sensual, Medici lips are both sweet and cruel.'

"He was, he told me, pleasantly conscious that his daughter had swayed heavily against him, as though she, too, were being carried away by the breathless beauty of Mario Veresi.

"'But it is the hands,' Marks went on with increasing admiration, no doubt, 'which are most beautiful. The flawless del Sarto himself never painted such hands. Observe the delicate modelling of the one that rests on his hip. It might almost be a young virgin's hand. And most perfect of all, the other hand that holds the book so firmly, with the long middle finger thrust vigorously between the uncut leaves.'

"Then Marks felt his daughter suddenly grip his arm, and turning from the canvas, he looked at her eagerly, expectantly. Instantly she averted her eyes. She was paler than usual, he thought—the flush on her cheeks had gone. But she spoke calmly.

"'Father,' she said, 'I do not like this "Young Man". I do not like him.'

"Marks was amazed and confused by her unaccustomed vehemence. He immediately began to argue, to ask questions—but to no avail. Leila would give no valid artistic reasons to explain her distaste for the portrait. She merely asserted, as he said, in a strangely muted voice that she detested it. Then shaking off her father's arm, she walked to the canvas, abruptly pulled the velvet curtain across its smooth, vibrant surface, and turned to go.

"'I beg you, Leila,' her father remonstrated, 'give it more consideration. Perhaps you are tired. Perhaps you are jumping to conclusions. Your judgment is, as a rule, so sound, that when you take this view it alarms me terribly.' He also reminded her that I had not seen it, and that it would be folly to take any such drastic stand, until I was consulted. At last he made a final plea. He requested that she accord the same treatment to this picture that she often had to others about which she had entertained doubts.

"'Take it to the Alcove in your room tonight.' he said. 'And if, after living with it, you are still of the same opinion, 1 promise to sell the thing.'

"Leila looked at him with wide, startled eyes. He remembered their fright when it was too late. 'Please, father,' she said, 'don't ask me to do that!'

"But Marks was so insistent, and his disappointment so obvious, that in the end she consented, with a little shrug of weariness, frustration, and almost—Marks confessed afterwards—as though she were resigning herself to something terrible and inevitable.

"The portrait was accordingly hung in the empty Alcove facing Leila's bed.

"Marks had a restless night, during which in his uneasy dreams, lie saw his daughter's virginal white face and throat swaying and vanishing like a misty orb, replaced, blotted out, superimposed on that of Mario Veresi's. But, in spite of this, he arose early, for his daughter's verdict. Her maid informed him that Mademoiselle was sleeping, and did not wish to he disturbed. When evening came the maid once again brought him word that his daughter was suffering from a headache, and still wished to be left alone. The following day, and the following night Leila's door remained locked to him, and even to her maid. She merely slipped a little note under the sill, in which she wrote to her father that she felt indisposed, and begged him to leave her alone.

"The night of the third day Leila sent for him.

"As he entered her room, he immediately perceived that the portrait, which hung in the Alcove facing her bed, was covered with its velvet shroud. He walked to her bedside. He saw her lying there in her great, red and gold Florentine bed, wan and very quiet. The remarkable pallor of her face, the blue circles on her cheeks, in which her eyes glittered feverishly, gave a poignancy and body to his former fears.

""Leila, you are ill!' he cried, taking her hand. She closed her eyes and did not speak.

"A sense of guilt pervaded him. 'I am the cause of it,' he said. 'It is the portrait. I will have it taken away at once.'

"And then she spoke. Her words were uttered slowly, their intensity muffled by an emotion which made them seem as though they came from a long way off.

"'Father,' she told him, 'because you love me, you must try to understand. I do not want you to send—the portrait—away. I do not want you to send it away—ever.' She paused, searching for words. 'I do not want you to send Mario Veresi away, because—l love him. All my life 1 have dreamed of him. In my dreams I have seen his face, like that of a pale Lucifer. in the pillared gloom of a thousand cathedrals. I have heard his voice in the music of unplayed cellos. He is the Sun of Rome, the Moon of Venice, and the Florentine Stars. He is both Good and Evil. Truth and Beauty, and he is the undying eternal youth, because he is Art. I have waited for him through centuries of lonely hours. And now that we have found each other—I want to marry him.'

"Marks, bewildered and frightened, tried to speak. Leila's eyes caught his. and held them. As he told me later, he read in their sombre, passionate depths, that which in spite of his reason, his love, and his fears, convinced him that this girl was stating a truth, a reality, which was so right and natural for her, that any effort to dissuade her. to argue with her, would have tragic results. But feebly he tried to remonstrate, using words whose very wisdom and sense sounded false in his own ears in the presence of that strange and otherworldly desire of hers which he could not understand.

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" 'I love him.' she said quite simply. "1 belong to Mario.' And, she added, 'Without him I shall die.'

"I will not tell you of his further remonstrances with Leila, of his painful consultations with doctors, and his struggles with their advice and his own conscience. It came to this: It was arranged, shortly after, that Leila was to he married to the 'Young Man of her choice in the great Italian hall of Marks' house. By a fortunate (or was it fatal?) coincidence, it happened that I was arriving from London that very morning on the Majestic. I received a wireless on board ship, which stated only, 'Leila to be married. You are the only guest.'

"I arrived a few minutes before the appointed hour of the wedding. At this time, as I have just said. I knew nothing. I greeted my old friends effusively, but words of congratulation died upon my lips, when Marks, his voice breaking, explained the extraordinary situation, told me all that I have told you, in hitter, unhappy words. I was too startled and dismayed to answer him. He dropped my hand, which he had been wringing in distress, and turned away. I followed him.

"The bride had not arrived when we walked into the great hall. But there, on a high mahogany easel, beside the altar-piece that had been painted by Perugino for the monks of Montessor, I saw the groom—the 'Portrait of a Young Man'. In the glow of many wax candles his crimson jacket gleamed like blood, and his insolent mouth was a ruby.

"Then Leila appeared in the high arched door, dressed in something long and white, and walked towards us. A priest emerged from the wavering shadows around the altar-piece, and stood in the candle light by the easel.

"Stepping forward, I took Leila forcibly by the arm, and, standing between her and the altar, said, 'This thing cannot happen.'

"She looked at me, like a child awakened from a pleasant sleep by a frightful sound. 'Go away!' she cried.

" 'I will go away,' I answered sharply, 'but not until I have told you the truth about this "Portrait of a Young Man".'

"'The . . . truth?' Leila said. The white hand that carried a sheaf of calla lilies clenched in sudden fear, breaking the stems. The pale reeds fell at her feet.

"I spoke rapidly and brutally. "'You must listen to me,' I said. 'It was about this very portrait that I came from London to see you and your father. You have not heard from me before, because I wanted to be sure of what I had to say. But now I have brought with me indisputable proofs that this Jacopo, this "Young Man," this Mario Varesi, this incredible bridegroom of yours, is the cleverest, the most consummate counterfeit and copy that has ever been perpetrated in the world of art!' I stopped. Now suddenly 1 knew that I had done irreparable harm. 'I cannot tell you how sorry I am to destroy your illusions,' I said very lamely.

"As when a light in an alabaster lamp flickers and dies, the glow in Leila's face vanished. She stood for a moment, the lilies crushed beneath her feet, gazing through and beyond me, silently. Then she turned to the portrait, and spoke.

" 'I loved you,' she said. 'I forgave you for being a profligate, for having loved other women than me. I forgave you your cruel silences, because you were beautiful; for your insolence, because of your charm; for your indifference, because of the passion in your eyes when you looked at ine. And I forgave you for what you did to me, because your hands were so beautiful.' Her voice broke. The sound of it was like a crystal vase shattered upon black marble steps. 'But I will not forgive,' she cried, 'that you are a lie, a cheat . . ., a copy!'

"She swayed, and Marks caught her iu his arms, his face almost as white and death-like as her own.

"It is a poor defense, as I think of it now, but I need not add that I was right: the portrait was not authentic. Further proofs were brought to light, and in the days that followed, Gustave Marks and his daughter heard the whole miserable story of this extraordinary hoax played upon all the art critics of Europe by a talented but unscrupulous German art student. On his deathbed he confessed. He had made this amazing copy from the original, which he had, indeed, discovered in an Italian brothel. But the whereabouts of that house of pleasure he would not. for reasons only known to himself, disclose.

"Leila, animated, by some secret hope, or strange resolve, seemed to recover from this terrible disillusionment more rapidly than her father, and although she moved as though she were a person in a dream, she seldom spoke of the portrait, and 1 never saw her weep. . . . Shortly afterwards, Gustave Marks died, leaving his entire collection to Leila, who, in turn, made it a public bequest, and sailed for Italy.

"One day I received a letter postmarked Florence.

" 'Dear Sir Isaac,' (she wrote) 'I am here, searching through all the little hovels and villas, the vine-covered taverns and mossy churches that dot the olive-treed slopes of Empoli, for the true Mario, of whom that other was but a pale copy. My heart tells me that, after all these centuries, he is still waiting for me, and that I shall find him somewhere, sometime.' "

Sir Isaac Winter was silent. His host was silent, too. But, at length, with only the faintest trace of incredulity in his voice, he spoke.

"But," he remonstrated gently, "if this picture, as you say, was in a brothel—?"

"That," Sir Isaac Winter replied, "is the moral. The lady became a harlot."

"Oh," replied his host. "I see."

"Do you?" the art dealer inquired wearily "Do you, indeed?"