I speculated vaguely on the meaning of these last words, but I felt disinclined to ask any more questions, and Cellini, probably seeing this, worked on at his sketch without further converse. My eyes were growing heavy, and the printed words in the "Dead Musician's Letters" danced before my sight like active little black demons with thin waving arms and legs. A curious yet not unpleasant drowsiness stole over me, in which I heard the humming of the bees at the open window, the singing of the birds, and the voices of people in the hotel gardens, all united in one continuous murmur that seemed a long way off. I saw the sunshine and the shadow--I saw the majestic Leo stretched full length near the easel, and the slight supple form of Raffaello Cellini standing out in bold outline against the light; yet all seemed shifting and mingling strangely into a sort of wide radiance in which there was nothing but varying tints of colour. And could it have been my fancy, or did I actually SEE the curtain fall gradually away from my favourite picture, just enough for the face of the "Angel of Life" to be seen smiling down upon me? I rubbed my eyes violently, and started to my feet at the sound of the artist's voice.
"I have tried your patience enough for to-day," he said, and his words sounded muffled, as though they were being spoken through, a thick wall. "You can leave me now if you like."
I stood before him mechanically, still holding the book he had lent me clasped in my hand. Irresolutely I raised my eyes towards the "Lords of our Life and Death." It was closely veiled. I had then experienced an optical illusion. I forced myself to speak--to smile --to put back the novel sensations that were overwhelming me.
"I think," I said, and I heard myself speak as though I were somebody else at a great distance off--"I think, Signor Cellini, your Eastern wine has been too potent for me. My head is quite heavy, and I feel dazed."
"It is mere fatigue and the heat of the day," he replied quietly. "I am sure you are not too DAZED, as you call it, to see your favourite picture, are you?"
I trembled. Was not that picture veiled? I looked--there was no curtain at all, and the faces of the two Angels shone out of the canvas with intense brilliancy! Strange to say, I felt no surprise at this circumstance, which, had it occurred a moment previously, would have unquestionably astonished and perhaps alarmed me. The mistiness of my brain suddenly cleared; I saw everything plainly; I heard distinctly; and when I spoke, the tone of my voice sounded as full and ringing as it had previously seemed low and muffled. I gazed steadfastly at the painting, and replied, half smiling: "I should be indeed 'far gone,' as the saying is, if I could not see that, signor! It is truly your masterpiece. Why have you never exhibited it?"