It was just at that moment the painter looked up from
his work and shook his bush of hair back. Something
in his sketch had displeased him; he looked up frowning,
with a brush between his teeth. When he saw the
tear-stained, distressful, beautiful face it had
a strange effect upon him. He dropped nerveless,
like a wounded man, to his knees, and covered his eyes
with his hands. “Ah Madonna! for the pity
of heaven forgive me! forgive me! I have sinned,
I have done thee fearful wrong; I, who still dare to
love thee.” He uncovered his face and looked
up radiant: his own words had inspired him, “Yes,”
he went on, with a steadfast smile, “I, Sandro,
the painter, the poor devil of a painter, have seen
thee and I dare to love!” His triumph was short-lived.
Simonetta had grown deadly white, her eyes burned,
she had forgotten herself. She was tall and slender
as a lily, and she rose, shaking, to her height.
“Thou presumest strangely,” she said,
in a slow still voice, “Go! Go in peace!”
She was conqueror. In her calm scorn she was
like a young immortal, some cold victorious Cynthia
whose chastity had been flouted. Sandro was pale
too: he said nothing and did not look at her again.
She stood quivering with excitement, watching him
with the same intent alertness as he rolled up his
paper and crammed his brushes and pencils into the
breast of his jacket. She watched him still as
he backed out of the room and disappeared through
the curtains of the archway. She listened to his
footsteps along the corridor, down the stair.
She was alone in the silence of the sunny room.
Her first thought was for her cloak; she snatched it
up and veiled herself shivering as she looked fearfully
round the walls. And then she flung herself on
the piled cushions before the window and sobbed piteously,
like an abandoned child.
The sun slanted in between the golden leaves and tendrils
and played in the tangle of her hair....
At ten o’clock on the morning of April the twenty-sixth,
a great bell began to toll: two beats heavy and
slow, and then silence, while the air echoed the reverberation,
moaning. Sandro, in shirt and breeches, with
bare feet spread broad, was at work in his garret on
the old bridge. He stayed his hand as the strong
tone struck, bent his head and said a prayer:
“Miserere ei, Domine; requiem eternam dona, Domine”;
the words came out of due order as if he was very
conscious of their import. Then he went on.
And the great bell went on; two beats together, and
then silence. It seemed to gather solemnity and
a heavier message as he painted. Through the
open window a keen draught of air blew in with dust
and a scrap of shaving from the Lung’ Arno down
below; it circled round his workshop, fluttering the
sketches and rags pinned to the walls. He looked
out on a bleak landscape—San Miniato in
heavy shade, and the white houses by the river staring
