The Man With The Glove

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Title:     The Man With The Glove
Author: Jennette Lee [More Titles by Lee]

I

"Ho, Tiziano! Ala-ala-ho! Tizi-ah-no!"

The group in the gondola raised a merry call. The gondola rocked at the foot of a narrow flight of steps leading to a tall, sombre dwelling. The moonlight that flooded the gondola and steps revealed no sign of life in the dark front.

The young man sitting with his back to the gondolier raised the call again: "What, ho!--Tiziano!" The clear, tenor voice carried far, and occupants of passing gondolas turned to look and smile at the dark, handsome youth as they drifted past.

The door at the top of the steps opened and Titian ran lightly down. He carried in his hand a small lute with trailing purple ribbons, and the cap that rested on his thick curls was of purple velvet. He lifted it with gentle grace as he stepped into the gondola and took the vacant seat beside a young woman facing the bow of the boat.

Her smiling face was turned to him mockingly. "Late again, Signor Cevelli, and yet again!" She plucked at the strings of a small instrument lying on her lap, and the notes tinkled the music of her words.

"Pardon, Signora, a thousand pardons to you and to your gracious lord!" He bowed to the man opposite him.

"Giorgio? Oh--Giorgio doesn't mind." Her soft lips smiled. "He's too big and lazy. He never minds." Her laugh rose light and sweet. The three men joined in.

The boat shot into midstream. It threaded its way among the brilliant craft that floated in the moonlight, or shot by them under vigorous strokes. Many glances were turned toward the boat as it passed. The face of Titian was well known and that of the woman beside him was the face of many pictures; while the big man opposite--her husband--the famous Giorgione, was the favorite of art-loving Venice. It was a group to attract attention at any time. But it was the fourth member of the group that drew the eyes and held them to-night.

He was a stranger to Venice, newly come from Rome--known in Venice years ago, it was whispered--a mere stripling. Now the face and figure had the beauty and the strength of manhood.... A famous courtesan touched her red-gold locks and laughed sweetly as she drifted by. But the sombre, dark face with the inscrutable eyes and the look of power did not turn. He sat, for the most part, a little turned away, looking at the waves dancing with leaden lights under the moon and running in ripples from the boat. Now and then his lips curved in a smile at some jest of his companions, or his eyes rested on the face of the woman opposite--and filled with gentle, wondering light.

Titian, watching him from beside the young woman, marvelled at the look of mystery and the strength. He leaned forward, about to speak--but Giorgione stayed him with a gesture.

"The Fondaco," he said, raising his hand to the gondolier. "Ho, there! Halt for the Fondaco!"

The boat came slowly to rest at the foot of the great building that rose white and gray and new in the half light. Giorgione's eye ran lovingly along the front. "To-morrow," he said, "we begin the last frescos. You, Titian, on the big facade to the south, and Zarato and I--" He laid his hand affectionately on the arm of the young man at his side, "Zarato and I on the inner court."

The youth started and looked up. His eyes studied the massive walls, with the low, arching porticos and long unbroken lines. "A noble piece of work," he said.

Giorgione nodded. "German and Venetian mixed." He laughed softly. "With three Venetians at the frescos--we shall see, ah--we shall see!" He laughed again good-humoredly.

The boat shot under the Rialto and came out again in the clear moonlight.

"To-morrow," said Giorgione, looking back, "to-morrow we begin."

"To-morrow Zarato comes to me--for his portrait." Titian spoke quickly, almost harshly. His eyes were on the young man's face.

The gondola stirred slightly. Every one looked at the young man. He sat staring at Titian, a look half amused and half perplexed in his dark eyes. The look broke and ran. "Is it so!" he said almost gayly.

Titian nodded grimly. "You come to me."

Giorgione leaned forward. "But I can't spare him," he pleaded. "I can't spare you. The work is late, and the Council hammer at a man! You must wait."

"Just one day," said Titian briefly. "I block in the outlines. It can wait then--a year, six months--I care not."

Giorgione's face regained its look of good-humor. "But you are foolish, Titian, foolish! Paint doges, if you will, paint popes and dukes--paint gold. But never paint an artist--an artist and a gentleman!"

They laughed merrily and the boat glided on--out into the lagoon and the broad, flooding moonlight.

"Sing something," said Giorgione. He raised the flute to his lips, breathing into it a gay, gentle air. The lute and cithara, from the opposite side, took it up. Presently the tenor voice joined in, carrying the air with sweet, high notes. They fell softly on the ear.

The slender fingers plucking at the cithara faltered. The bosom beneath its white tunic, where a single pansy glowed, trembled with swift breathing, and the red lips parted in a quick sigh.

Titian looked up, smiling reproachfully: "Violante! ah, Violante!" he murmured softly.

She shook her head smilingly. A tear rested on her cheek. "I cannot help it," she said; "it is the music."

"Yes, it is the music," said Titian. His tone was dry--half cynical.

Her husband looked over with faithful eyes and smiled at her.

Only Zarato had not looked up. His eyes followed the dancing leaden water. A flush had come into his sallow cheek. But the moonlight did not reveal it.

Violante glanced at him timidly.

"Come, we will try again," she said. She swept her cithara, and the tenor voice took up the notes. "Faster!" she said. The time quickened. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone.

"Chi boit et ne reboit, ne cais qua boir soit," rang out the voice.

"Qua boir soit--qua boir soit," repeated Violante softly.

The duet rose, full and sweet and clear, with passionate undertones. Slowly it died away, calling to itself across the lighted water.

The two men applauded eagerly. "Bella!" murmured Giorgione. "Once more!--Bella!" He clapped his hands.

Again the music rose. Once the eyes of the singers met--a long, slow look. The time quickened a little, and the music deepened.

Titian sat watching them, his head in its velvet cap, thrown back against the cushions, his lips smiling dreamily. His eye strayed over the voluptuous figure at his side--the snowy tunic and the ruby-red bodice and skirt. He knew the figure well, the red-gold hair and wondrous eyes. But a new look had come into them--something tender, almost sweet.

He leaned forward as the music ceased. "You shall pose for me," he said under his breath. "I want you for the Duke's picture."

She nodded slightly, her bosom rising and falling.

Giorgione leaned forward, smiling.

"What is that?" he asked. His eyes rested tenderly on the flushed face and the full lips of his wife. "What is it you say?"

"I want her for Bacchante," said Titian, "for the Duke's picture." He had not removed his eyes from her face.

Giorgione smiled. Then his face darkened. "My frescos! Oh, my frescos!" he murmured tragically. "But you will help, Zarato. You will not go paint for dukes and popes?" The tone was half laughing and half querulous.

The young man roused himself and looked at him questioningly. He drew his hand across his eyes. "What is it?" he said dreamily. "What is it?" His face flushed. "Help you? Yes, I will help you--if--I can."

 

II

"A little more to the right, please."

Titian's eyes studied the figure before him thoughtfully. His voice murmured half-articulate words, and his glance ran swiftly from the sitter to his canvas.

"That is good." He gave a sigh of satisfaction. "Can you hold that--ten minutes, say!" He had taken up his brush and was painting with swift strokes.

The young man before him smiled a little. The dark, handsome face lighted under it and glowed. "I will do my best." The quiet irony in the tone laughed gently.

Titian smiled back. "I forget that you are of the craft. You have too much of the grand air, Zarato, to belong to us."

"I am indebted to you!" said the young man politely. He lifted his hand with a courtly gesture, half mocking and half sincere. It dropped easily to the console beside him.

With rapid touches Titian sketched it as it lay. His face glowed with satisfaction, and he worked with eager haste. "Good!--Good!" he murmured under his breath. "It will be great. You will see.... You will see." He hummed softly to himself, his glance flashing up and down the tall figure before him, inserting a touch here and a line there, with swift decision.

The warm air of the studio was very quiet. Voices drifted up from the Grand Canal, and now and then the sound of bells.

The young man's eyes looked dreamily before him. He had forgotten the studio and its occupant. He might have been listening to pleasant words--to the sound of a voice.

"There!" Titian dropped the brush and stepped back. "We have done for to-day." He surveyed the canvas critically.

The young man stepped to his side. He looked earnestly at the daubs and lines of paint that streaked it. A smile crept over his dark face. "You paint like no other," he said quietly.

Titian nodded. "Like no other," he repeated the words with satisfaction. "They will not call it like Palma, this time--nor like Giorgione, nor Signor Somebody Else." He spoke with mild irritation. His eyes travelled over the lines of glowing canvas that covered the walls.

The young man's glance followed them. "No," he assented, "you have outstepped them all.... You used them but to climb on." He moved toward a canvas across the room.

"But this--" he laid his hand lightly on the frame--"this was after Palma?" He turned his eyes with a look of inquiry.

Titian nodded curtly.

"It was the model--partly," he said half grudgingly.

"I know--Violante." Zarato spoke the name softly. He hesitated a moment. "Would she pose for any one--for me, do you think?"

Titian laughed harshly. "Better not, my boy--Better not! When she gets into a brush, it is a lost brush, Zarato--bewitched forever! Look there--and there--and there!" His rapid hand flashed at the canvases.

The young man's eyes followed the gesture. "The result is not so bad," he said gravely.

Titian laughed back. "Not so bad!..." He studied them a minute. "You've no idea how I had to fight to keep her out--And, oh, that hair!" He groaned thoughtfully, looking at the canvases--"Palma's worse!" he chuckled.

The young man started. A thought crossed his face and he looked up. "And Giorgione?" he asked doubtingly.

Titian shook his head grimly. "He married her."

The young man moved a little away. He picked up a small book and mechanically turned the leaves.

The older man eyed him keenly.

"Don't mind me, Zarato." He said it kindly, and laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. "I have no right to say anything against her--except that she's a somewhat fickle woman," he added dryly.

The young man's eyes were fixed on the page before him. He held it out, pointing to a name scrawled on the margin.

Titian took it in his hands, holding it gently, and turning it so that the light fell on the rich binding. "A treasure!" he said enthusiastically.

The young man nodded. "An Aldine--I saw that. What does the marking mean?" He asked the question almost rudely.

His companion turned the leaves. "It's a bacchanal for the Duke," he said slowly.... "I've been looking up Violante's pose.--Here it is." He read the lines in a musical voice.

A heavy frown had come between the handsome eyes watching him. "You'll not paint her like that?"

"I rather think I shall," responded Titian slowly. "She has promised."

"And Giorgione?"

"Giorgione lets her do as she likes. He trusts her--as I do." He laid his hand again on the shoulder near him. "I tell you, man, you're wrong. Believe in her and--leave her," he said significantly.

The shoulder shrugged itself slightly away. The young man picked up his hat from the table near by. He raised it courteously before he dropped it with a little laugh on the dark curls.

"I go to an appointment," he said.

 

III

A face looked over the balcony railing as the gondola halted at the foot of the steps. It smiled with a look of satisfaction, and the owner, reaching for a rose at her belt, dropped it with a quick touch over the balcony edge.

It fell at the feet of the young man stepping from the gondola, and caused him to bend with a deep flush. It touched his lips lightly as he raised himself and lifted his velvet cap to the face above.

She smiled mockingly. "You are late," she said--"two minutes late!"

"I come!" he replied, springing up the steps. In another minute he was beside her, smiling and flushed, looking down at her with deep, intent gaze.

She made a place for him on the divan. "Sit down," she said.

He seated himself humbly, his eyes studying hers.

She smiled lazily and unfurled her fan, covering her face except the eyes. They regarded him over the fringe of feathers.

"Where have you been?" she demanded.

"With Titian."

"Giorgione wanted you. He did scold so--!" She laughed musically.

Zarato nodded. "I go to him to-morrow."

"Has Titian finished?"

"For the present--He will lay it away."

"I know," she laughed, "--to mellow!... How did you like it?"

He hesitated a second. "It was a little rough," he confessed.

"Always!" The laugh rippled sweetly. "Like a log of wood--or a heap of stones--or a large loaf of bread."

He stirred uneasily. "Do you sit to him often?" he asked.

Her eyes dwelt for a moment on his face. "Not now," she replied.

He returned the look searchingly. "You are going to?"

"Yes," she assented.

He still held her eyes. "I don't like it," he said slowly.

The ghost of a smile came into her face. Her eyes danced in the shadow of it. "No?" she said quietly.

"No!"

She waited, looking down and plucking at the silken fringe of her bodice. "Why?" she asked after a time.

He made no reply.

She glanced up at him. He was looking away from her, across the gay canal. His face had a gentle, preoccupied look, and his lip trembled.

Her glance fell. "Why not?" she repeated softly.

He looked down at her and his face flushed. "I don't know," he said. He bent toward her and took the fan from her fingers.

She yielded it with half reluctance, her eyes mocking him and her lips alluring.

He smiled back at her, shaking his head slightly and unfurling the fan. He had regained his self-possession. He moved the fan gently, stirring the red-gold hair and fluttering the silken fringe on her bodice. It rose and fell swiftly, moved in the soft current of air. His eyes studied her face. "Will you sit for me some day?" he said.

She nodded without speaking. The breath came swiftly between the red lips and the eyes were turned away. They rested on the facade of a tall building opposite, where a flock of doves, billing and cooing in the warm air, strutted and preened themselves. Their plump and iridescent breasts shone in the sun.

Her hand reached for the cithara at her side. "Shall I sing you their song?" she said, "The Birds of Venus."

He smiled indulgently. Her voice crooned the words.

"Sing!" she said imperiously. He joined in, following her mood with ready ease.

There was silence between them when the song was done. She sat with her eyes half closed, looking down at the white hands in her lap.

He lifted one of them gently, his eyes on her face. She did not stir or look up. He raised it slowly to his lips.

The warm breath stirred a smile on her face. She glanced at him from under falling lids.

He dropped the hand and stood up with a half cry.

"I must go--Violante--I must--go!" He groped to where the doorway opened, cool and dark, behind them, "I must go," he repeated vaguely.

She rose and came to him slowly. "You must go," she said softly.

They passed into the dark, open doorway.

Below, in the hot sun, the gondola rocked at the foot of the stairs.

 

IV

The noon-bell in the southern turret of the Fondaco chimed softly. A painter at work on the facade near by looked up inquiringly at the sun. He smiled absently to himself and, dropping his brushes, descended lightly from the scaffolding to the ground. He walked away a few steps--as far as the ground permitted--and turned to look at the work above.

"Not so bad," he murmured softly, "--not so bad ... and better from the water." He glanced at the canal below. A white hand from a passing gondola waved to him and motioned approvingly toward the colors of the great wall.

"Bravo, Tiziano!" called some one from another craft. The canal took up the cry. "Bravo, bravo! Bravo,--Tiziano!"

Titian raised his painter's cap and returned the salute. He stood with one foot on the parapet, looking down and smiling with easy grace, at the pleasure-loving crowd below. A man came in sight around the corner of the Fondaco, walking slowly and looking up at the picture as he came.

"Well?" Titian glanced at him keenly.

"Great!" responded Giorgione heartily. "The Judith bears the light well, and when the scaffolding is down it will be better yet.... Venice will be proud!" He laid his hand affectionately on the other's shoulder and motioned toward the throng of boats that had halted below, gazing at the glowing wall.

"To-day Titian--to-morrow another!" said Titian a little bitterly.

"Why care?" responded Giorgione. "Some one to-day told me that my Judith, on the south wall here, surpasses all my other work together." He laughed cordially.

Titian looked at him keenly. His face had flushed a little under the compliment. "It is like you not to care," he said affectionately.

"Care! Why should I care--so that the work is done?" His eyes rested lovingly on the facade. "It is marvellous--that trick of light," he said wonderingly.... "You must teach it to me."

Titian laughed under his breath. "I learned it from you."

Giorgione shook his head. "Not from me...." he replied doubtingly. "If you learned it from me, others would learn from me." He stood, looking up, lost in thought.

"Where is Zarato?" asked Titian abruptly.

Giorgione started vaguely. A flush came into his face. "He stopped work--an hour ago," he said.

Titian's eyes were on his face.

The open friendliness had vanished. It was turned to him with a look of trouble. "Had you thought, Cevelli--" His speech hesitated and broke off. He was looking down at the dark water.

Titian answered the unspoken question. "Yes, I had thought," he said. His voice was very quiet.

His companion looked up quickly. "He is with her now, it may be.... I told them that I should not go home at the noon-bell." He looked about him slowly--at the clear sky and at the moving throng of boats below--

"I am going home." He spoke the words with dull emphasis.

Titian turned and held out his hand. "The gods be with you, friend!"

Giorgione gripped it for a moment. Tears waited behind the eyes and clouded the look of trust. "I could bear it if--if Zarato was not my friend," he said as he turned away.

"Keep faith while you may," said Titian, following him a step. "He who distrusts a friend lends thunderbolts to the gods," he quoted softly.

"Remind him that he is to sit for me this afternoon," he called more lightly, as the other moved away.

"I will remember," said Giorgione soberly. The next moment he had disappeared in the maze of buildings.

Titian, looking after him, shook his head slowly. He turned and gathered up some tools from a bench near by.... The look in his friend's eyes haunted him.

 

V

It still haunted him as he laid out brushes and colors in his studio for the appointed sitting with Zarato.

He brought the canvas from the wall and placed it on the easel and stood back, examining it critically. His face lighted and he hummed softly, gazing at the rough outline.... Slowly, in the smudge of the vague face, gleaming eyes formed themselves--Giorgione's eyes! They looked out at him, pathetic and fierce.

With an exclamation of disgust he threw down the brush. He looked about him for his cap, and found it at last--on the back of his head. He settled it more firmly in place. "There will be time," he muttered. "I shall be back in time." With a swift glance about him he was gone from the room, and on the way to Giorgione's studio.

As he opened the door he saw Giorgione's great figure huddled together against the eastern window. Bars of light fell across it and danced on the floor. Titian crossed the studio quickly and touched the bent shoulder.

The eyes that looked up were those that had called him. Giorgione's eyes--a fierce, pathetic light in their depths. They gazed at him stupidly. "What is it?" asked the man. He spoke thickly and half rose, gazing curiously about the room. He ran a hand across his forehead and looked at Titian vaguely. "What is it?" he repeated.

Titian fell back a step. "That's what I came to find out," he said frankly. He was more startled than he cared to show.

"What has happened, Giorgione?" His tone was gentle, as if speaking to a child, and he took him by the shoulder to lead him to a seat.

For a moment the man resisted. Then he let himself be led, passively, and sank back in the chair with a hoarse sigh. He looked about the studio as if seeking something--and afraid of it. "She's gone!" he whispered.

Titian started. "No!"

Giorgione laughed harshly. "Fled as a bird," he said gayly, "a bird that was snared." He hummed a few bars of the song and stopped, his gaze fixed on vacancy. A great shudder broke through him, and he buried his face in his hands. There was no movement but the heave of his shoulders, and no sound. The light upon the floor danced in the stillness.

Titian's eyes rested on it, perplexed. He crossed the room swiftly and touched a bell. He gave an order and waited with his hand on his friend's shoulder till the servant returned.

"Drink this," he said firmly, bending over him. He was holding a long, slender glass to his lips.

The man quaffed it--slowly at first, then eagerly. "Yes, that is good!" he said as he drained the glass. "I tremble here." He laid his hand on his heart. "And my hand is strange." He smiled--a wan, wintry smile--and looked at his friend with searching eyes.

"Where have they gone?" he demanded.

Titian shook his head. "How should I know?"

"He said he was going to you."

"Zarato?" Titian started. "For the portrait--He will be there!"

Giorgione broke into a harsh laugh. "No portrait for Zarato!" He said it exultantly.

"What do you mean!"

"He bears a beauty mark." He laughed again.

"You did not----?"

Giorgione glanced cunningly about the studio. His big face worked and his eyes were flushed. He laid his hand on his lips.

"Hush!" he said. "It is a secret--I--she--branded him with this." A piece of heavy iron lay on the sill--the wood near it blackened and charred. He took it up fondly.

"Look!" He pointed to the fire-worn end.

Titian shrank back in horror. "You are mad!" he said.

Giorgione shook his head sadly. "I wish I were mad ... my eyes have seen too much." He rubbed his hand across them vaguely.

"Sleep--" he murmured. "A little sleep." The potion was beginning to take effect.

Titian laid him on the couch near by and hurried from the studio.

"Home!" he said to the white-robed gondolier who looked back for orders. "Home! Row for life!"

A sense of vague horror haunted him. He dared not think what tragedy might be enacting. A man of Zarato's proud spirit--"Faster!" he called to the laboring gondolier, and the boat shot under the awning.

With a sigh of relief he closed the door of his studio behind him.... On the couch across the room, his cap fallen to the floor and his arms hanging at his sides, lay the young man asleep. Titian moved forward, scanning eagerly the dark, handsome face. Deep shadows lay under the closed lids, and a look of scornful suffering touched the lines of the mouth. Slowly his eyes traversed the figure. He gave a start and bent closer, his eyes peering forward.... The left hand trailing on the floor was gloved, but above the low wrist a faint line shot up--a blotch on the firm flesh.

With an exclamation of horror he dropped to his knees and lifted the hand.

It rested limply in his grasp.

Slowly the eyes opened and looked out at him. A faint flush overspread the young man's face. He withdrew the hand and sat up. "I came to tell you the portrait--must wait," he said apologetically, "I fell asleep." He picked up his cap from the floor and smoothed its ruffled surface. "I must go now." He looked awkwardly at his friend and got to his feet.

"Zarato," said Titian sternly. "Where is she?"

He shook his head. "I don't know," slowly.

"You don't know! She has left home----"

"But not with me."

The two men stood staring at each other.

There was a sound of steps in the hall and the door swung open. It was a group of Venetian boatmen, bearing in their midst a wet, sagging form. The red-gold hair trailed heavily. They moved stolidly across the room and laid their burden on the low bench. The oldest of them straightened his back and looked apologetically at the wet marks on the shining floor.

"He said to bring her here, Signor." He motioned clumsily toward the wet figure. "He said so."

"Who said it?" said Titian harshly.

"Signor--The Signor--Giorgione.... We took her there. He would not let us in. He stood at the window. He was laughing. He said to bring her here," ended the old man stolidly. "She is long dead." He bent to pick up the heavy litter. The group shuffled from the room.

Slowly the young man crossed to the bench. He knelt by the motionless figure and, drawing the glove from his hand, laid it on the breast that shone in the wet folds.

"I swear, before God--" he said ... "before God!" He swayed heavily and fell forward.

The artist sprang to his side. As he touched him, his eye fell on the ungloved hand.... Shuddering, he reached over and lifted the glove from the wet breast. He drew it over the hand, covering it from sight.

 

VI

"You must go!" said Titian sternly.

The young man looked at him dully, almost appealingly. He shook his head. "I have work to do."

Titian lifted an impatient hand. "The people will not permit it--I tell you!" He spoke harshly. "Giorgione is their idol. It has been hard to keep them--this one week! Only my promise that you go at once holds them."

The young man smiled, a little cynically. "Do you think I fear death--I crave it!" His arms fell at his sides.

His companion looked at him intently. "What is your plan?" he asked shortly.

"Giorgione--" The voice was tense. "He shall pay--to the uttermost!"

"For that?" Titian made a motion toward the gloved hand.

The young man raised it with a scornful gesture.

"For that"--he spoke sternly--"I would not touch the dog. It is for her!" His voice dropped.

Titian waited a moment. "What would you do?" he asked in a low voice.

The young man stirred. "I care not. He must suffer--as she suffered," he added with slow significance.

"Would that content you? Would you go away--and not return?"

"I would go--yes."

Titian waited, his eyes on the gloved hand. "You can go," he said at last, "the Lord has avenged her."

The young man leaned forward. His breath came sharply. "What do you mean?"

"That she is avenged," said Titian slowly. "Giorgione cannot live the year. Go away. Leave him to die in peace."

"I did not ask for peace," said the young man grimly.

Titian turned on him fiercely. "His heart breaks. He dies drop by drop!"

The young man smiled.

Titian watched him closely. "You need not fear his not suffering," he said significantly. "Go watch through his window, or by a crack in the door."--He waited a breath. "The man is mad!"

The young man started sharply.

"Mad!" repeated Titian.

Zarato turned on him a look of horror and exultation. "Mad!" he repeated softly. The gloved hand trembled.

A look of relief stole into Titian's face. "Does that satisfy you?" he asked quietly. "Will you go?"

"Yes, I will go." The young man rose. He moved toward the door. "Mad!" he whispered softly.

"Wait," said Titian. He sprang before him. "Not by daylight--you would be murdered in the open street! You must wait till night.... I shall row you, myself, out from the city. It is arranged. A boat waits for you."

The young man looked at him gratefully. "You take this risk for me?" he said humbly.

"For you and Giorgione and for--her."

They sat silent.

"He will never paint again," said the young man, looking up quickly with the thought.

Titian shook his head. "Never again," he said slowly.

The young man looked at him. "There are a dozen pictures begun," he said, "a dozen and more."

"Yes."

"Who will finish them?"

"Who can tell?" The painter's face had clouded.

"Shall you?"

Titian returned the suspicious gaze frankly. "It is not likely," he said. "He will not speak to me or see me. He says I am false to him--I harbor you."

The young man's gaze fell. "I will go," he said humbly. He shivered a little.

"And not return till I send for you."

"I will not return--till you send for me!"

 

VII

Venice laughed in the sunshine. Gay-colored boats flitted here and there on the Grand Canal, and overhead the birds of Venus sailed in the warm air.

A richly equipped gondola, coming down the canal, made its way among the moving boats. Its occupant, a dark, handsome man, sitting alone among the crimson cushions, looked out on the hurrying scene with watchful eyes. Other eyes from passing gondolas returned the glance with curious, smiling gaze and drifted past. No one challenged him and none remembered. Two years is overlong for laughing Venice to hold a grudge or to remember a man--when the waters close over him.... Slowly the boat drifted on, and the dark eyes of the man feasted on the flow and change of color.... "Bride of the Sea," he murmured as the boat swept on. "Bride of the Sea--There is none like thee in beauty or power!" His eyes, rapt with the vision, grew misty. He raised an impatient hand to them, and let it fall again to his knee. It rested there, strong and supple. The seal of a massive ring broke its whiteness. The other hand, incased in a rich glove, rested on the edge of the gondola. The man's eyes sought it for a moment and turned away to the gay scene.

With a skilful turn the boat had come to rest at the foot of a flight of stairs leading to a richly carved doorway. The young man leaped out and ran up the steps. The great silent door swung open to his touch, and he disappeared within.

Titian, standing by his easel, looked up quickly. "You are come!" He sprang forward, holding out his hands.

The young man took them, looking into the welcoming eyes. "I am come," he said slowly.

"Why did you send for me?" he asked after a pause. His eyes sought the glowing walls of color, with curious, eager glance.

"Nothing there!" The painter shook his head with a wistful smile. "I have not done a stroke since that last night--the night I rowed you out to the lagoon."

"Why not?" They were seated by a window; the tide of life drifted below.

Titian shook his head again. "I was broken at first--too strained and weak. My fingers would not follow my thoughts." He glanced down at them ruefully. "And then--" His voice changed. "Then they came for me to finish his pictures.... There has been no time."

"Did he want you to do it?" asked the other in a low voice.

Titian's gaze returned the question. "I shall never know--He would not see me--to the last. He never spoke.... When he was gone they came for me. I did the work and asked no questions--for friendship's sake." He sighed gently and his glance fell on the moving, changing crowd below.

"His name is water," he said slowly. "Ask for the fame of Giorgione--They will name you--Titian!" He laughed bitterly.

The young man's smile had little mirth in it. "We are all like that...." He turned to him sharply: "Why did you want me?"

The painter roused himself. "To sit for me"--with a swift look. "I am hunted! I cannot wipe away your face--as it looked that night. I paint nothing.... Perhaps when you are done in oil I shall rest easy." He laughed shortly and rose to his feet.

The young man rose also with a courteous gesture of the supple hand. "I am at your service, Signor Cevelli, now and always."

Titian's eyes swept the graceful figure. "I must begin at once." He turned away to an easel.

"There was a picture begun, was there not?" asked the young man. He had not moved from his place.

Titian looked up swiftly. "Yes," he said. "Yes."

"Why not finish that?"

The painter waited an awkward moment. He crossed the room and fumbled among the canvases. Then he brought it and placed it on the easel, looking at it.... Slowly the look changed to one of pride, and his hand reached out for a brush.

The young man moved to his side. They looked at it in silence.

"You will not do better." The young man spoke with decision. "Best finish it as it stands--I am ready." He moved to his place by the console, dropping his hand upon it and standing at ease.

Titian looked at him doubtfully. "We shall change the length and perhaps the pose," he said thoughtfully.

"Why?" The question came sharply.

The painter colored under it. "I had planned--to make much of the--hands." He hesitated between the words. "The change will be simple," he added hastily.

"Would you mind painting me as I am?" There was a note of insistence behind the words.

Titian's eyes leaped at the question. They scanned the figure before him with quick, gleaming lights.

The young man read their depths. "Go on," he said coolly. "When my feelings are hurt I will tell you."

The painter took up his brushes, working with swift haste. Fingers and brush and thumb flew across the canvas. Splotches of color were daubed on and rubbed carelessly in and removed with infinite pains. Over the picture crept a glow of living color and of light.

At last the brush dropped. "I can do no more--to-day," he said slowly. His eyes dwelt on the picture lovingly.

The young man came across and joined him, looking down at the glowing canvas. His lips curved in a sweet smile.

"You thought I was ashamed of it?" The gloved hand lifted itself slightly. "I would not part with it--not for all the gold of Venice!"

The painter's eyes were on it, doubtingly. "But you wear it gloved," he stammered.

"It is not for the world to see," murmured the young man quietly. "It is our secret--hers and mine. It was her last touch on my hand."

Titian's eyes stared at him.

"You did not know?" The lips smiled at him. "It was her hand that did it." He touched the glove lightly. "Giorgione stood over her--and guided it...." His voice ceased with a catch.

Titian's eyes were full of tears. "Poor Violante!" he murmured. "Poor child!"

The other nodded slightly. "It has pledged us forever--forever." He repeated the words in low, musical exultation. The locket suspended from its slender chain amid the folds of his cloak, swung forward as he moved. A hand stayed it--the gloved hand.

There was silence between them. Voices from the canal floated up, laughter-laden. The June sunshine flooded in.

Titian roused himself with a sigh. "It shall be called 'The Portrait of a Gentleman,'" he said. He laid his hand with swift affection on the arm beside him.

The young man smiled back. His hand closed firmly over the one on his arm. "Call it 'The Man With the Glove,'" he said quietly. "It is the open secret that remains unguessed."

[The end]
Jennette Lee's short story: Man With The Glove

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