Portrait of a Girl (27 page)

“No sign of anything,” the woman said. “Of course I was curious, as you can imagine one would be when one suddenly finds an infant outside one’s door. I opened the locket. And the minister did too. But there was just a scrap of paper with some scrawled writing that I couldn’t make out. And the minister couldn’t figure it out either.”

“And in spite of that you think that the mother was Italian?” Robustelli asked. He was beginning to realize that he wouldn’t be getting any new information.

“I’d hold my hand in the fire about that,” the innkeeper said.

After his return journey to Maloja, Robustelli felt tired. He hadn’t been able to clear up anything. He evaded Andrina’s questions about where he had been. And oddly enough, he had a guilty conscience doing so.

James received a message from Segantini via Fabrizio Bonin that the painter wanted to meet him at the hotel in Maloja at two o’clock. James hoped fervently that the trek to see the painting in its outdoor location would not turn into a long excursion. He was looking forward to spending a few hours with his newfound friend Bonin, for he wanted to ask him, as a fellow newspaper man, about the situation of newspapers in Italy. He was also avoiding Edward’s company. He hadn’t wanted to talk with him ever since his last conversation with Mathilde.

He hadn’t gone to see Mathilde again after that, but he certainly hadn’t forgotten her. It had been cowardly of him to demand an admission of love from her when she was the one who had asked him for one first. And yet, he simply couldn’t bring himself to seriously court her. He had too many doubts—fewer about Mathilde than about himself and his own constancy. And now here was Edward who’d jumped into the breach and seemed to have successfully established himself.

That had hurt James’s vanity, even though he wouldn’t have admitted it. Between the two of them, hadn’t he always been the more successful in conquering ladies’ hearts?

“Don’t worry,” Segantini said, smiling after looking James up and down, and taking note of his not-very-serviceable mountaineering clothes. “The picture I’m going to take you to see is in an easily accessible spot just outside the village. I call it
La Morte
and I visualize it as just one part of a larger project.” He set out with a strong stride, going ahead of Bonin and James and heading up toward the pass.

James was startled when Bonin translated the title of the picture:
Death
. Thoughts of death and mourning had never been of particular interest to him. Fabrizio asked him if he knew Segantini’s
The Dead Hero
, a painting he had done when he was a young man, in which he gave the dead hero his own features.

James nodded.

“He kept coming back to this same subject,” Bonin said thoughtfully. “And again and again he had given the laid-out corpse his own face. Remarkable. As if the image of his own death was always very close to him. Do you also know the painting
Return to the Homeland
? It was shown in Venice in 1895, and I thought it impressive. A dead man is being taken back to his home in a coffin borne on a horse-drawn cart. The mountain landscape in the painting resembles this area. The painting was awarded the Prize of the Italian State.”

James shook his head. “No. Don’t know it.”

Segantini, who had walked on ahead, stopped and was waiting for them. “Come on. We’re going to leave the road that leads up to the pass and bear left. It isn’t much farther. But if you want to take a beautiful hike one day—then keep on going in this direction and you’ll come to Lake Cavloc. A really worthwhile excursion.”

He turned and looked back in the direction of the village; he pointed to the small white church a little distance outside the village.

“I painted one of my most recent works there. I called it
The Comfort of Faith
. A father and mother are mourning at the grave of their child whose soul is being carried off to heaven by two angels. Unfortunately, I can’t show you the painting; it’s in Munich just now at the Exhibition of the Secession. For me, the vast wintry landscape I used as the backdrop is more of a consolation than the religious imagery. In nature we are in good hands, with or without religion.”

He walked on ahead of them again, then stopped at a large wooden box. When he opened its double doors, they saw a painting inside the box.

James, who was afraid not only of hospitals but also of dead people, breathed a deep sigh of relief. There in the late-summer countryside where they stood, a wonderful winter landscape was revealed to their eyes.

There was nothing dark or shocking in the painting; quite the opposite. James felt drawn into the picture as if by magic. It seemed as if he were walking on the crunching snow that covered the path toward the mountains over which the sun was just rising. A horse with a sleigh was waiting for a coffin that was being carried out of an alpine hut; mourning figures stood about, looking very small in the magnificent landscape. A cloud, warmly lit by the morning sun, floated above the highest of the mountains, like a messenger bringing redemption. James stepped closer, quite taken, almost against his will, for winter was not his favorite season.

Asking Segantini to stand beside his picture, James photographed the scene. He squeezed his eyes almost shut, concentrating his gaze on the majestic mountain with the luminous cloud which dominated the painting. He said nothing, but as he narrowed his focus even further, he suddenly saw here too, in the mountain, the same face that appeared in
The Dead Hero
.

Shocked, James tried to drive away the monumental face of Segantini that stared back at him from the painting, but couldn’t. Was Segantini working here on an apotheosis of himself? Or did he visualize himself humbly being assimilated into an eternal, everlasting nature, into the landscape that he loved?

He gave Segantini a sideways glance. The artist felt called upon to say something about the picture.

“You can see that it’s winter; nature is buried under snow; the mountains in the background are lit up by the rising sun. In the alpine hut a young girl has die
d . . .
”

“Why a girl?” James asked.

Segantini did not answer his question.

“The painting is still far from finished. Will I be able to depict the eternal meaning of the spirit in these earthly things? Will I be able to capture the light that gives space to the distance, which makes the sky infinite? Will I be able to show the connection between the idea of nature and the symbols that arise from our soul?”

Symbols, James thought, are always ambiguous. Perhaps even though Segantini elevated himself into immortality, he was still full of humility? Maybe he wanted to make himself eminent and yet cease to exist? It was as if he was certain of salvation and entrusting himself to it.

“You will need the light of winter to complete this painting,” Bonin said. “You’ll be able to do it. But it isn’t there yet.”

And with that, Death, which Segantini repeatedly conjured up, was once again warded off.

“Bye, Aunt Betsy. When will you come again?” Mathilde had tears in her eyes as she embraced her aunt. “I don’t like to see you leave. But I can understand that you have to go home again.”

“Tild
a . . .
” Betsy held Mathilde close. “Just look at you! You can ask Dr. Bernhard! You’re already doing much better. Up here in the mountains, you’ll get to be a strong, healthy young woman, and a very athletic one, with all the walks you take every day! And soon you’ll come back to Zurich. Adrian will come to see you here as often as he can. And your parents promised to come for a visit. You won’t be alone. And Edward is still here, too, after all.”

She didn’t mention James. And her niece said nothing about the conversation she had had with him before Adrian’s visit. It seemed as if James had withdrawn, either because he’d come to his senses or because he didn’t love her.

“I’d like you to come back soon. I’ll miss you, Aunt Betsy.”

“Shh,” Betsy put her finger to her lips. “Don’t talk about it. We’ll see each other again soon.”

Mathilde didn’t go with Betsy to the coach station. After these eventful weeks they had experienced together, she preferred a quick good-bye.

Betsy turned to wave several times; then she disappeared around a corner. The wide brim of her hat was the last thing Mathilde saw of her.

Once fall arrived it would get lonely up here, she feared. But Dr. Bernhard had assured Mathilde that October was often the most beautiful month of the year, and that the silent falling of the golden larch needles would conjure up a fairy tale rain of gold right before her eyes, a symphony of gold just as his friend Segantini—like no other—had painted it. She should be patient, he said, and she’d soon be strolling around in this fairy tale.

Mathilde smiled. Everything was still green outside, and in a little while, Edward would come by to pick her up for an afternoon walk. She was going to ask him whether James was leaving too. It would be easier for her if she knew that he wasn’t here anymore.

Entire hours had passed in which she hadn’t thought of him, sometimes half a day, and when Edward was with her she forgot him entirely, even though the two men were friends and belonged together. A few weeks ago, she could easily have chopped the head off anyone who said that there would come a time when she would no longer think of James every minute of the day. And yet, it had happened. I’m just like all the others, unfaithful, and fickle, she thought, feeling ashamed.

“Thanks, Edward, for being so thoughtful to my niece,” Betsy said. “When you leave here, you really must stop off in Zurich. Will you promise me?”

Edward had come to the post coach station to say good-bye to Betsy. James had sent his apologies, saying that he was on an excursion with Segantini and Bonin. Betsy’s baggage had been stowed away.

“We’re ready to leave,” the driver called out.

“Please promise that you’ll come by to see me?” Betsy asked again.

Edward nodded and kissed Betsy’s hand. “Yes, I promise. Have a good trip, all the best.”

Betsy waved once more to him. She hadn’t wanted to let on to Mathilde, but it was time for her to think of her own life and future. The summer in St. Moritz had caused quite a stir in her state of mind. She had stopped mourning, and had almost fallen in love with the same man as her young niece, and she actually would have liked it if at least Edward had made more of an effort to win her affections. He was very pleasant company; they had gotten along well, and he had always treated her in a way that made her feel respected and admired as a woman. But Edward, in spite of the lovely evening they’d shared at the Palace Hotel, had made no attempt to get closer to her. Betsy watched the landscape glide past through a kind of haze, for the horses and coach stirred up a lot of dust. Some of it must have gotten inside the carriage too, because moments later Betsy was searching for a handkerchief and dabbing at the corners of her eyes.

She wasn’t so very young anymore. But she wasn’t old either. She had enjoyed doing things, wearing bright colors, being with men, feeling pretty, and flirting.

Once back in Zurich, she would first work on improving the appearance of her house, her garden, and her wardrobe, and only then would she consider whether she wanted to spend the rest of her life working for charity and the introduction of a pension for widows and orphans. But, she thought, as she left the Engadine behind her, maybe she was really still a bit too young to devote herself completely to charity work.