Silence settled within. The ringing echo of footsteps died away, lost in the labyrinth of terracotta tiles. A soft cry, torn from her chest, dissolved into the air — still thick with the scent of incense and hot wax. Darkness rounded the corners, spread across the walls of the small chamber, and climbed upward into its hollowed height. That darkness, and that hollow, were gently — yet with quiet certainty — parted on the diagonal, west to east, by a column of yellow-rose light. Flowing from the great round window, it revealed only faintly the long wooden benches branching from the narrow aisle like ribs and spine that had, until moments ago, supported a living, breathing diaphragm — only to strike, at last, the frontal bone: the altar triptych, where the Madonna's face shone with an even, steady radiance.
Softly, yet insistently.
«She was right…»
Before the altar, unable to withstand the shock, a young woman knelt. A hooded travel-cloak covered her head, its long hems spilling across the floor still bearing the dusty traces of parishioners. Vespers had ended — the last service of the day — and the sacristan was in no hurry to tidy up. Heavy velvet the color of indigo streamed down her back; from beneath it escaped curls of brown shot with gold, and at the point where a silver-and-pearl brooch fastened the cloak, a veil-thin white kerchief lay loosely wrapped around a fur-lined collar.
«That woman in the cathedral square — the one who flung herself at my feet, crying 'A miracle, a miracle, she has come in the flesh, the Madonna herself, come to save us, to hold us, to soothe us…' and dragged me here. She was right.»
Her voice trembled — her whole body trembled — while her bewildered gaze, wide open and shining like the pearls on her brooch, held fast to the tender, snow-pale face with its faint blush, set against the grey-yellow roughness of the humble chamber wall.
«It is — me… But how can that be? He painted her ten years ago, when I was only sixteen, living in a convent far from here. He could not have seen me. And that tilt of the head, that thoughtful look — troubled by the angel's words — when, in the midst of prayer, I would suddenly stray, trying to understand what it means to love and to lose; to stand beside someone, give all of oneself, and yet not possess; to know what lies ahead, and walk toward it still. He could not have known that. No one could. And yet he captured it so precisely, as if he himself had pondered these very things… Who is he? What is his name? How old is he? Is he still alive? Where is he now?»
Outside the church, in the small square where three narrow alleys converged, the noise had returned — townsfolk were hurrying home before nightfall. The church itself, modest yet admirable in its harmony, was built straight into the line of houses. Its only adornment was a marble portal, its geometric profiles arranged with deliberate care. Smooth brick walls glowed crimson in the last rays of the setting sun. Against them, two figures in long dresses stood in shadow.
One — wearing a short fur-trimmed cloak and a bright belt — gesticulated energetically, insisting on something to the other — a woman with a dark veil over her head and simple leather shoes — who answered with jokes and waved her away.
«I tell you: while you were examining those frescoes of the Virgin, she appeared to me herself — young, beautiful, serene, like a being not of this world. How could I fail to recognize her, when I see her every day in our church! I forgot all about you, and when I realized, I ran back — you're not familiar with these little streets.»
«My dear sister, you astonish me! I thought the city — and marriage to a merchant — had grounded your sensibilities. That it is we, who deal with the earth, who raise our eyes to heaven each day. A curious turn of words, that. And suddenly — such reverence on your face, such ecstasy of the soul…»
The church's massive door opened smoothly, and a young woman stepped onto the threshold, her movements full of grace. The visitor froze, gasped, and, clutching her hands to her chest, fell at her feet with a cry.
«Her! Merciful God, it is her! I mean — him — the angel!»
***
The angel gazed from the portrait at his creator with utter indifference. He looked through him, as if the man were not there at all. As if the world around them did not exist.
The brush, lifted above the unfinished face, had frozen — like a falcon holding itself in midair, waiting for prey. But the plain was empty, and he saw nowhere to cast down his exhausted body. From the walls, the floor, from other easels, dozens of eyes stared at the painter. Sketches, studies, and cartoons with the heads of angels and Madonnas lay, hung, or stood everywhere. Some bent in sorrow or submission; others lifted ecstatic eyes toward the heavens; still others radiated warmth and serenity. The last, like the one now drying on the canvas, bore that same seal of calm. And all of them had the same face. And all of them, it seemed, were judging him as he stood in the middle of his own studio.
It occupied the top floor of a three-storey stone house, in that part of the city where everything was near, yet never quite within reach. The spacious room was lit by large windows facing north: southern light was too capricious for colours mixed with oil, and in recent years the master had been receiving more and more commissions for portraits. The even evening light fell softly across the whitewashed walls and sheets of paper; reflecting back, it dyed them — and the beams of the high ceiling, and everything that filled the space, even the air itself — in a tender shade of rose.
Along the walls stood crates of pigments, rolled canvases, bundles of brushes and goose quills. Beneath the windows, plaster models crowded the tabletops, along with sheets of geometric constructions, compasses, rulers, mortars and bowls of paint; knives and brushes lay beside them. A sprig of laurel in a graceful vessel leaned over a basin of water. In the corner loomed a cabinet: the works of Plato and Pliny, treatises on perspective, and Pacioli's Divine Proportion stood next to clay and bronze ware, jugs of wine, and bread. A wide table stretched nearby, cluttered with frames and wooden panels. Behind simple screens were concealed a bed and a chest for clothing. The warm scent of linseed oil filled the air — the finest incense the master knew.
Yet the brush still hesitated to make its stroke. The tension — born of all those eyes, of that emptiness, of the unfinishedness, the bewilderment, the not-knowing — pulled at his chest like an overlong exhale. His eyes did not blink, as if afraid to miss the sign that the severe yet merciful "interlocutor" was about to give — an answer to the question that had tormented his soul for so long. A haze had already begun to veil his sight.
And then — deliverance: a quiet yet steady knock at the door.
The painter drew a sharp breath; his hand, the one that held the brush, sank with weary relief, sliding past the canvas.
«Come in,» he said in a soft, low voice.
A young man of about thirty appeared on the threshold, wearing a robe the color of ripe plums and a black velvet berretto. Tall and broad-shouldered, he carried himself with the easy discipline of someone accustomed to holding his head high, whatever befell him. Wavy chestnut hair framed his freshly shaven face, and his eyes — clear as water — betrayed every feeling the instant it surfaced, catching the slightest current rising from the depths of the soul. So it was now: the dense sediment of thought was washed clean in a quick bright wave, and golden sand sparkled in his gaze the moment he saw his teacher at work.
«Good evening, master. Forgive me for disturbing you at your labors,» the guest said, offering a slight bow. Yet the smile playing upon his lips made it plain he was glad for such a chance—he loved watching the master paint.
«You never disturb me, my friend,» the master answered with a quiet laugh and beckoned him toward the easel. «Come closer — carefully now. Mind you don't crush someone's wing.»
The young man slipped off his mantle and tossed it carelessly onto a crate of dusty jars, laying the berretto on top; a ring with his family's crest gleamed on his finger. Beneath the mantle he wore a dark-green doublet of heavy silk lined with fine wool, its collar and cuffs edged with a narrow band of fur. It fit closely to his figure, showing the narrowness of his waist. Stepping lightly between scattered sheets, he reached the canvas in a few springy strides.
«So many eyes,» he remarked, letting his gaze glide over the sketches. «Some stern, others sorrowful… and all of them — her. She gives you no peace.» He leaned in. «But what do I see! You've decided to dress your Madonna like an aristocratic lady?»
«I'm as surprised as anyone,» the painter dipped his brushes into the water. «Of late she appears in my sleep—not as a shining spirit, but as a woman among the crowd. At times she smiles, at times she is sorrowful. I wanted to see if I could hold her thus on the canvas.»
«If she appeared to me in a dream, I'd die the moment I woke,» the young man sighed. «But on the painting she is still the holy visage — only gentler.»
«The venture was doomed,» the master wiped his brushes and hands with a cloth. «I knew it the moment I reached for the charcoal.»
«You once managed to paint her alive,» the guest pointed to several cartoons propped against the wall. «Those beautiful studies — I've seen them in the churches...»
«Images on paper are but impressions of ideas; time turns them into poor teachers. The result is predictable: a shadow of a shadow.» He tried to let the words sound philosophical, though the bitterness in them was plain.
«Still, it's a bold step — to cast down to earth the one who led others toward the heavens.»
«Perhaps the hands seek what the soul once did not know,» the painter murmured. His pensive gaze drifted for a moment to the grey-blue ridges of mountains depicted on the canvas to the right of the young woman's face. Then it returned — and moved leftward, to where the city's red roofs glowed. There it lingered. A shadow crossed his brow. «Perhaps I am growing old.»
«Old age keeps to familiar paths,» the student said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. «But your soul, even at forty-three, is younger than many at thirty, I assure you.»
He searched his friend's sorrowful face for the source of his unease, but it remained hidden. Suddenly he brightened:
«Evening service is near! We mustn't make the priest wait for our prayers.»
He headed for the exit the same way he had come.
«Yes,» the master roused himself, «enough wrestling with shadows. Let us go.»
Once he shed his work apron, he revealed his going-out clothes beneath — a sturdy dark-brown broadcloth, simple but well sewn — and the open collar of his under-shirt. He took up a long cloak with a hood, made of warm dark-grey wool, and was ready.
He was a man taller than average, though shorter than his protégé; he carried his strength not as an ornament but as a prudently managed reserve. In his face, austere lines were softened by the weariness of eyes accustomed to lingering long in light and shadow.
Still marvelling at the qualities of his teacher, the guest raised his brows. The master gave him a slight, knowing wink — one must think everything through in advance — and they set out.
They descended the narrow stone stairway, their steps trailing a hollow echo, and passed beneath the heavy arch. From there a massive portal led them onto a small street — alive with movement, yet hushed in its voices — for the hospital rose directly opposite. Its walls, like the prior himself in silent vigil, reminded all who passed of the frailty of the world; people slowed their pace, lowered their voices. Shops lined the way: baskets of dried herbs and bundles of roots stood beside rolls of linen cloth, and next to them lay books and fresh parchment, hastily taken indoors to save them from the evening damp. The cool March air was rich with the scents of resins, incense, and the last freshly baked bread of the day.
«You often say that the task of the painter is to lift the gaze from the sensible to the intelligible. Yet without the sensible, the path is impossible.»
«Indeed. Nature is no goal, but a step. Through its beauty the mind remembers beauty itself.»
They turned the corner — and the quiet broke into tumult: smoke from the butcher's brazier struck their nostrils, the ring of hammers answered the barking of dogs, and children's voices rang above the paving stones. The two had to raise their voices to be heard.
«And is there virtue in seeing only the step? Do we not belittle creation if we look at it merely as a means?»
Women in headscarves hurried toward the fountain with their pitchers; boys carried baskets of firewood; street vendors gathered their wares. The city lived out the final breath of the day. Stone walls caught the glow of sunset, the sky above the rooftops blushed pink, and soft shadows swirled across the street.
«Virtue lies in remembering the measure. He who stops at the surface is captive to the glimmer of colors. He who despises the surface loses the way to the source.»
«So this woman from your dreams — she is a step as well?»
«Perhaps…» The painter held his breath for a moment. «A guide.» Hearing adjusted, and they could speak softly again. «Her likeness reminds me: behind the flesh there is light. Even if the hand paints only a shadow, the mind seeks the fountain of radiance.»
«You once told me that beauty and virtue are akin: the one captivates the eyes, the other the mind. Perhaps true art is born where the two meet?»
«Where the artist can unite the purity of contemplation with love for the living. Yet that measure is the hardest of all — to keep the eye poised on the boundary between the visible and the eternal.»
«That is why you are the master,» the young man smiled, looking down at the stones beneath their feet. «And I am still learning to see not only the form, but its meaning.»
The painter lifted his gaze — toward the southwest, where the cathedral's dome shimmered in the evening light.
«I too am still learning. No one attains perfection — we only move toward it, as travelers toward the light over the sea.»
Amid the clamor of the street a bell began to ring. The student raised a finger toward the sky in playful solemnity and laughed:
«Then let the evening bell remind us that the path goes on.»
The service had already begun when they entered the cathedral: the priest had finished the greeting, and the choir was singing the opening psalm. The two friends slipped through the dust of the narthex, skirted the long, dim, gray-brown tail of the central nave, and merged into a wing blazing with color — shimmering with purples, malachite, indigo, and gold — like the plumage of a bird of paradise crowned with the copper pipes of the organ that filled the entire space of the liturgy.
They found in the crowd the painter's patrons — the family of his student — and joined them.
The sun had already set. The light of hundreds of candles and lamps trembled upon the velvet of mantles and the satin of skirts, gleamed in the eyes of the praying, and snatched from the darkness their faces, their hands. The chest-deep voice of the great wind-borne instrument and the bright young voices of the choristers rose to the very dome — an engineering marvel — and dissolved there in the gloom.
The painter stood beneath a tall candelabrum, leaning his back against a pier, and studied the motley assembly. He drew from his pocket a small notebook, a stump of an Italian pencil, and began sketching outlines. The even oval of a choirboy's face; upon it, the equally even oval of an open mouth and the wide round whites of eyes rolled upward. A bumpy brow, the broken line of a nose, and the workman's ears, splayed as if deliberately so, holding a psalter upside down. Long, knotted fingers pressing coral beads to trembling thin lips. The sharp, net-casting gaze of the priest — a fisher of souls. The curious eyes of a young coquette studying the garments of the visiting newcomers in the opposite transept. The master's hand moved quickly: a few strokes — and a character, vivid and exact, lived on the page.
The voices of the choir parted. The air shuddered with the movement of the crowd and brought a new wave of the sweet scent of incense. The painter's young patron sank to his knees with the others to read the psalm. And suddenly he felt strong fingers dig into his shoulder. The notebook and pencil fell to the floor. He looked at his teacher. The man was standing with one hand clutched to his heart. But it was not only the heart that had been struck. In his gaze everything froze at once — joy and fear, hope and denial.
The young man rose, followed that gaze — and fell speechless himself.
«My God…» he whispered soundlessly. «It's her.»
She stood in the opposite wing, behind the local noblewomen who had taken the benches. A mantle the color of midnight, golden threads of hair, skin like rose-hued marble. The Madonna. Not the one who lifts rapturous eyes to heaven — this one was sunk deep in her own thoughts and feelings. Long shadows of lashes trembled along her cheeks. Then, as if hearing a call from without, she lifted her gaze from the empty space before her and turned it toward the painter.
On the steps before the main entrance the crowd was streaming out. The young man held his friend's hand tightly, searching the faces around them, then searching the eyes of the master — eyes emptied by the force of what had struck him.
The cathedral was emptying while the square was filling. Then the hourglass turned: the square, in its turn, began to run out, scattering its grains — its people — into the streets.
«You must find her, master,» he urged with heat. «This is providence, destiny. You must not give up!» He himself was shaken, even — so it seemed — cast down. «I wish I could help you…» His voice wavered. «Oh, how I wish I could! But I cannot: duty calls. There is a reception tonight — you know it. You yourself should be there, but I will excuse you — do not hurry…» He drew a heavy breath. «How I wish I could stay…»
The painter's consciousness rose from its depths, and their eyes met.
«But it is my duty,» the young man repeated softly, with sorrow.
***
All day long, the banker's city villa was alive with work: servants scraped the marble slabs in the courtyard, polished the brass candlesticks and bronze door handles until they gleamed, hung fresh draperies along the hall walls; in the kitchen, copper clattered, ovens roared, and the air grew heavy with the scents of roasted meat and sweet flatbreads. Everything was being prepared to welcome the aristocrats from the south with proper honor. By evening, the house fell silent. The villa — with its austere stone facade and elegant marble court, its spacious halls and modest chambers — seemed to hold its breath.
At last, the quiet of the night street was broken by the ring of hooves, the thud of wheels, the shouts of coachmen. The villa's heavy doors swung open, and a river of light spilled outward, illuminating the lavish carriages and the gleaming flanks of the horses. A few moments — and its slow, graceful currents began to flow back to their source, carrying with them placers of gemstones, as though scattered along a shore.
The inner court came alive with the echo of footsteps, the shine of torches, the rustle of expensive fabrics. At the front, as was proper, walked the men: the bride's father — tall, with the imprint of self-respect upon his face — beside him her godfather and a pair of noble companions. Their gait was unhurried; every gesture, every motion was a reminder of court life and the habit of ceremonial appearances. Servants led the guests through the cool vestibule and further into the great hall with its high ceiling, where warmth poured from the hearth and from a multitude of candles; the vaulted frescoed ceiling seemed both festive and severe at once. Here, at the foot of the wide staircase, the master of the house awaited them with his sons, his business partner, and a few of the family's closest friends. They held themselves straight, without pretentiousness, with that quiet dignity of the bourgeoisie born of confidence in the strength of their affairs and their wealth.
Only when the men had exchanged bows and formal greetings did the women enter the hall: on one side — the master's mother and sisters, restrained in gesture, modest in color, relying on harmony of cloth and silhouette; on the other — the bride's aunt and her attendants, in bright silks that shimmered like the southern sea. And finally, behind their shoulders, appeared the one for whom all of this was taking place.
Torchlight fell upon her and set her apart from the crowd. A mantle of deep sapphire flowed over her shoulders; beneath it one could sense the weight of silk. Chestnut curls, gathered in a fine gold net, caught the fire and scattered into the air like a thousand sparks. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as though each step were part of a courtly ritual. But her face… it lived a different life: a pallor, a faint trace of weariness in her eyes, and a hidden sorrow that no fabric or jewel could mask.
The groom stepped forward, and in that instant his heart lurched so sharply that he pressed a hand to his chest unconsciously. He recognized her — and could not believe his own eyes. A smile broke free, only to dim at once: happiness was cut through with bitterness, as though fate itself were playing a double game with him. Someone among the guests asked, surprised, what had happened to him, and he, recovering quickly, bowed and said with a slight shade of embarrassment:
«Her beauty struck me… my bride-to-be.»
Laughter and approving murmurs eased the pause. And the young woman, hearing that word — bride — grew even paler. Despair flared in her eyes, but she mastered herself at once and lowered her lashes. To the question her aunt asked, she answered softly, almost apologetically:
«The road… and hours of service on my feet. They've taken their toll — nothing more.»
Everyone nodded in understanding, and attention returned to the ceremony of reception.
The master of the house raised his hand, and the noise of introductions fell silent.
«As agreed,» he said, «we will not burden the evening with formalities: no priest, no notary. Tonight — only joy. Let this celebration be in honor of the young couple.»
The groom and bride exchanged gifts: he offered her a delicate medallion, its miniature enamel glimmering with a view of the city; she answered with a woven belt embroidered in gold — a symbol of binding ties. Their hands met, but their eyes did not. The fathers and elder relatives gave their blessings, and the doors to the adjoining hall were thrown open.
There, beneath the painted vaults, the hearth was blazing; a long table draped in white linen stood laden with silverware, fruits, and wine. The feast began. First course, second; musicians in the gallery played lutes and flutes; sonnets and madrigals followed one another, recited by friends and invited poets.
The bride, seated beside the groom, finally dared to speak. She leaned just slightly, enough for their words to be swallowed by the noise of the room.
«Tell me,» she whispered — quieter than the music — «was what you said true? I saw joy on your face… and also pain.»
The corner of his mouth twitched, and he answered her with a question of his own:
«And was what you said true? This evening in the church, your face bore that same expression.»
She lifted her brows — his words had taken her entirely by surprise. From her reaction he understood she had not noticed him then.
The time of dances came. First of the light ones, in circles; then of the paired dances, with partners changing. Noise, laughter, the sweep and rustle of fabric. Yet again and again they found themselves near one another. In these brief closenesses their conversation continued, broken by curtseys and the compliments of others.
He said to her:
«The man you saw — the artist — is my friend and mentor. My family is his patron. Ten years ago, my father and his partner began building small churches wherever a branch of the bank was opened. The altar triptych of the first was his first independent work. Since then, in every church — on the walls, or in the dome — I saw the same face: yours. And I was enchanted by it. For ten years I loved that image, not knowing it belonged to a living woman. But that artist, my friend — he has seen you even longer.»
She answered him:
«On the road here they brought me into one of those churches. And I saw myself. I was astonished, if not something stronger. I looked upon myself from the outside and heard someone calling for me, searching. I wanted to ask the pastor for the painter's name, but I was afraid: I was travelling to my wedding. And besides, it might not have been the painter — it could have been the patron. His name I was even more afraid to hear. Then they told me that in other towns too, in their churches, there were angels with my face. I begged my father to change our route, to stop in each of them. That is why we arrived only today. And all this time I felt that I was going home… not to a new home, but to one I had long known, one the soul remembers and longs for.»
A respite. Dessert, idle chatter, the satisfied glances of the elders observing the peaceful conversation of the young couple. And then the dances again.
In the last, the groom said quietly:
«I may be an unloved husband. But I cannot be the cause of suffering for two people I love so dearly.»
The music died away, the candles burned low. The guests departed, exchanging their final courtesies. The young couple bid farewell without unnecessary words. Yet in that silence, both of them heard much.
***
The next day the young man found his master in the very same setting and in the very same posture as the day before. Only now his face was darker than the storm cloud — just as the friend left him at the cathedral doors. The youth tried to put on an air of cheerfulness and excitement. He sprang toward him and embraced him by the shoulders.
«Master! I have found her!» His gaze darted toward the portrait. «Can you believe it? Now your search is over!»
«Then you have not listened well,» the painter said sharply.
He freed himself from the embrace and fixed his stare once more on the canvas — his displeasure growing with every passing second, though its object was not clear: the portrait, the woman within it, the visitor… perhaps the master himself? His inner vision seemed to circle restlessly, unable to settle.
«Our search must not take place in the world of things. To know the body is to distort the image.»
The visitor had not expected such a response. He needed a moment to gather his thoughts.
«But a person, a friend of heart,» he finally retorted, «is a companion not only in body, but in soul.»
«An artist who paints saints must remain pure,» the master replied, tossing his soiled brushes onto the table with irritation. «I wished for her to come to my deathbed as an angel and carry me heavenward. But she has appeared in the flesh, to unsettle the senses, to profane the image.»
He looked upon his unfinished work as though accusing it. The young man was wounded by that gaze.
«Yes, you paint saints. But you paint them for people. You present an idea, but its embodiment is still a form. Clothes do not give a figure life — the soul does. Your figures have long been without one.» He lowered his voice, as if suddenly aware of what he had said. «I remember what they were at the beginning.»
Receiving no answer, he added almost imploringly:
«You need her.»
It was not the sharpness of a blade, but the persistence of water that finally opened the shell in which the painter's awareness had hidden.
His gaze drifted over the sketches carpeting the floor. He realized one could arrange them chronologically without difficulty — an attentive eye would easily see how, in his search for the ideal, the faces had been stripped of feature after feature. The countenance grew increasingly remote, elevated, purified, turning into a visage. Beautiful, serene, radiant — yet too distant, too withdrawn. The Adoration, The Ascension, The Coronation — the heavens had closed. He lifted his eyes to the unfinished portrait. The richness of the fabrics, the gleam of the jewels, the sun's rays gliding gently over green hills, as though caressing them, drawing slowly toward the warm reddish-brown patch of the town. And above it — a visage. A moment more, and it would dissolve into the light, its form vanish completely. A moment more, and he would lose her forever.
The master's eyes no longer burned with anger but had dimmed with sorrow. His gaze found his first work — The Annunciation. There all was in balance: she was beautiful, yet alive. Her expression and gestures, those barely perceptible movements, hinted at a storm of feeling, but it was as though her very skin held it in place. Her marble did not reflect light; it emitted it, sifting glimmers of the inner world through its grain.
He recalled her face in the cathedral: first turned inward, then turned toward him. He had read in it everything, as if it were his own. A long journey fulfilled; the road had led to the threshold of home — a home familiar, nearly forgotten, seemingly long lost. And there it stood again before her. She, holding her breath, reached toward the door's handle, then gripped it boldly. Expectation — and then thunder, an earthquake, a chasm opening between her and the threshold. Everything collapsing into an abyss, leaving only the handle in her hand. He thought he had seen tears in her eyes.
How he longed to study each of her emotions: to catch the flash of feeling in her eyes, to see what color it cast upon her skin, how it traveled through her body, to remember every contour of its passing.
Warmth filled his own body; his gaze softened. He reached out to touch her cheek — but only in his thoughts.
«Once I know her, I will no longer be able to paint,» he said in a low voice.
The Betrothal to Joseph. Mary lowers her eyes in modesty. But he had read in her gesture a sign of his own unworthiness. Could he still change anything?
As a disciple, the young man understood him. But as a man, he reproached him:
«If you fear you are no longer an artist, then blame your own fall — not the angel.»
It was difficult for him to say this, yet he continued:
«I wish to buy this portrait from you. But first, it must be completed. And for that you need the model. You shall have her. That woman is my future wife.»
The painter nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the floor, as though the visitor's words merely confirmed the thoughts already unfolding within him.
***
The bride's family had taken lodging in a house not far from the cathedral square, occupying its piano nobile — the principal floor where the owners usually lived. Even from the street it was clear that these were no ordinary guests. Footmen in sumptuous livery clustered by the entrance; wrought-iron lanterns burned even in daylight; and the broad shutters stood open, granting passersby brief glimpses of precious fabrics within. In the inner courtyard, where quiet normally reigned, people now hurried back and forth: servants hung carpets embroidered with the arms of families from distant lands, grooms watered the horses, and several armed attendants of the family's head kept watch beneath the arcade as though this were a palace.
And the chambers themselves, occupied for a time by these travellers, breathed that foreign southern splendor. The owners had ceded their finest halls, but the aristocrats had transformed them at once: the walls disappeared beneath heavy tapestries, solid chests were crowned with silver caskets, and the windows were draped with sumptuous silks brought from home. Everything betrayed the guests' habit of a certain manner of life — and their ability to recreate it wherever they went.
In one of the rooms, the brightest of them all, where tall windows looked out onto the street and admitted an even daylight, the painter was at work. The walls were nearly bare — only a carpet softening the damp stone, and a few chairs carried in from a neighboring hall. At the center stood a chair for the bride, upholstered in purple cloth, and beside it a tall easel with the canvas. On a low table lay crumbled bits of chalk, shells filled with mixed paints, brushes.
The bride sat motionless, as though she already belonged to the painting. The groom stood a little apart: his eyes were fixed not on the canvas but on her face — serene, yet flushed with the fire of agitation, her gaze clinging to the painter. And the master, in turn, watched her. The pattern of the mantle, the gleam of the jewels, the weight of the lavish fabrics already lived on the canvas; only her face remained. That was the strangeness: the maid fussed with folds and draperies as though the result depended upon them, when the true purpose of the sitting lay entirely elsewhere. Only she was unaware that something more was taking place here than the creation of a ceremonial portrait.
When the painter had crossed this threshold some fifteen minutes before and seen the young woman approaching him for their introduction — her steps held back only by effort — he had thought he would not be able to withstand it. For a moment, it had seemed to him that no greater happiness could exist than the chance to touch her hands, hear her voice, look openly into her eyes. Now he hated himself for that weakness. Focused, almost stern, he traced the lines of her features — and each stroke brought nearer the moment of release, of escape.
Despair flared again in the woman's eyes. The young man noticed it and hurried to intervene: he asked the maid to fetch a glass of water for her mistress. When she withdrew, he too stepped out through the door.
The young woman seized the moment and spoke in a half-voice:
«You must understand: this marriage is not born of need, but of strengthening. You see it yourself.» She gestured at the splendour of the house. «My father will do anything for me. Your friend knows everything, understands everything, and wishes happiness to us both. Is it only mine alone?»
He did not answer. He went on working, as though her words were no more than a faint wind that briefly ruffled the stillness, and nothing more. She studied his profile and could not tell what moved him now. Fear?
«If your patron should turn from you, I will become one in his place,» she said after a short pause.
Still he was silent. But by his eyes — never lifting to hers — and by the tightness of his breath, she understood: the very thought repelled him. What was it? Pride? With pain tightening her heart, she looked away.
Her voice was thoughtful and sorrowful when she spoke again.
«When I saw your Madonna of The Annunciation, in that church far in the south, I thought: to paint like that, it is not enough to see the face. One must know the feeling.»
«You are right,» the master replied unexpectedly. «I know that feeling. I lived with it once; I feel it now… and it will remain with me to the end. I lost you the moment I understood that I love you. I will be near — without the right to possess. And I know the road ahead is one of pain, yet I have no strength to turn from it.»
She peered at him, as if trying to understand — was he confessing, or passing sentence?
«But no one forces this upon you,» she said, holding back a rising indignation. «To give me away in order to stay close. To lead me into a place where everything becomes suffering. You could love me without losing me. Is that not so?»
But again he was silent. Why? she wondered. Why wound them both so? There was nothing of the proud man in him, and so his insistence seemed all the more hopeless.
Their gazes met briefly: his, weary and apologetic; hers, dimmed with disappointment.
The remainder of the sitting passed in silence. Only the scraping of the brush against the canvas could be heard. And that sound became torture to her. When the painter, attended by servants, was leaving the room, she said with pointed coldness:
«It is easy to defy gods who do not answer. Far harder is a crowd that never falls silent.»
The master halted, confounded. He searched for words to explain: she had understood everything wrongly. It was not pride, nor her father, nor his patrons… but others. Those who looked at his work and sought in it hope and support… to whom it carried faith. They would not understand. They would lose their trust in him. And then — they would lose their faith. And then… they…
They… the very crowd that never falls silent.
The master stood shaken, but it was too late to hope for any support from her — she had turned away and was already leaving. And thus he could not remain. He bowed to her retreating figure and departed the house.
«Leave it be,» she was saying to the groom in the adjoining room, her composure flawless. «Our fathers have long devised how to make everyone happy.»
He tried to soften the woman he loved: «Give him time; he will understand.»
«I have waited and refused enough. It is time to grow up.» She hesitated for a moment, then met his eyes directly. «I believe I will be able to love you.»
***
The wedding took place a few days later. To everyone's astonishment, the portrait was finished on time. It was magnificent: never had one's brush brought forth such a face — alive, and yet filled with a secret tenderness. People said the master had managed to capture not only the bride's likeness, but her very soul.
Many noble patrons offered any sum, if only he would paint such a portrait for them, but the painter refused each one. From that day on he no longer painted secular likenesses — only altarpieces. And those works came alive again: they answered the longing in human hearts, brought consolation and strength, and became faithful companions in prayer.
She never sat for him again. To paint new holy images, it was enough for the master to glimpse her now and then in the house of his patrons. Only once, after the birth of her child, did her husband persuade her to pose for a Madonna with the Infant. That canvas became his most celebrated work.
When it was finished, the painter resolved to leave the city forever. He asked permission to buy back the wedding portrait — the very one. She gave it to him as a gift. And to such a gift he found no strength to refuse.