CHAPTER I.

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The Novels of F. Marion Crawford

In Twenty-five Volumes, Authorized Edition

MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX

and

ZOROASTER

by

F. MARION CRAWFORD

With Frontispiece

P.F. Collier & Son

New York

1887

[Illustration: HE MOVED NOT THROUGH THE LONG HOURS OF DAY.

--_Zoroaster_.]

[Illustration]

MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX

CHAPTER I

"The whole of this modern fabric of existence is a living lie!" cried

Marzio Pandolfi, striking his little hammer upon the heavy table with an

impatient rap. Then he dropped it and turning on his stool rested one

elbow upon the board while he clasped his long, nervous fingers together

and stared hard at his handsome apprentice. Gianbattista Bordogni looked

up from his work without relinquishing his tools, nodded gravely, stared

up at the high window, and then went on hammering gently upon his little

chisel, guiding the point carefully among the delicate arabesques traced

upon the silver.

"Yes," he said quietly, after a few seconds, "it is all a lie. But what

do you expect, Maestro Marzio? You might as well talk to a stone wall as

preach liberty to these cowards."

"Nevertheless, there are some--there are half a dozen--" muttered

Marzio, relapsing into sullen discontent and slowly turning the body of

the chalice beneath the cord stretched by the pedal on which he pressed

his foot. Having brought under his hand a round boss which was to become

the head of a cherub under his chisel, he rubbed his fingers over the

smooth silver, mechanically, while he contemplated the red wax model

before him. Then there was silence for a space, broken only by the

quick, irregular striking of the two little hammers upon the heads of

the chisels.

Maestro Marzio Pandolfi was a skilled workman and an artist. He was one

of the last of those workers in metals who once sent their masterpieces

from Rome to the great cathedrals of the world; one of the last of the

artistic descendants of Caradosso, of Benvenuto Cellini, of Claude

Ballin, and of all their successors; one of those men of rare talent who

unite the imagination of the artist with the executive skill of the

practised workman. They are hard to find nowadays. Of all the twenty

chisellers of various ages who hammered from morning till night in the

rooms outside, one only--Gianbattista Bordogni--had been thought worthy

by his master to share the privacy of the inner studio. The lad had

talent, said Maestro Marzio, and, what was more, the lad had

ideas--ideas about life, about the future of Italy, about the future of

the world's society. Marzio found in him a pupil, an artist and a

follower of his own political creed.

It was a small room in which they worked together. Plain wooden shelves

lined two of the walls from the floor to the ceiling. The third was

occupied by tables and a door, and in the fourth high grated windows

were situated, from which the clear light fell upon the long bench

before which the two men sat upon high stools. Upon the shelves were

numerous models in red wax, of chalices, monstrances, marvellous ewers

and embossed basins for the ablution of the priests' hands, crucifixes,

crowns, palm and olive branches--in a word, models of all those things

which pertain to the service and decoration of the church, and upon

which it has been the privilege of the silversmith to expend his art and

labour from time immemorial until the present day. There were some few

casts in plaster, but almost all were of that deep red, strong-smelling

wax which is the most fit medium for the temporary expression and study

of very fine and intricate designs. There is something in the very

colour which, to one acquainted with the art, suggests beautiful

fancies. It is the red of the Pompeian walls, and the rich tint seems to

call up the matchless traceries of the ancients. Old chisellers say that

no one can model anything wholly bad in red wax, and there is truth in

the saying. The material is old--the older the better; it has passed

under the hand of the artist again and again; it has taken form, served

for the model of a lasting work, been kneaded together in a lump, been

worked over and over by the boxwood tool. The workman feels that it has

absorbed some of the qualities of the master's genius, and touches it

with the certainty that its stiff substance will yield new forms of

beauty in his fingers, rendering up some of its latent capacity of shape

at each pressure and twist of the deftly-handled instrument.

At the extremities of the long bench huge iron vices were fixed by

staples that ran into the ground. In one of these was fastened the long

curved tool which serves to beat out the bosses of hollow and

small-necked vessels. Each of the workmen had a pedal beneath his foot

from which a soft cord ascended, passed through the table, and pressed

the round object on which he was working upon a thick leather cushion,

enabling him to hold it tightly in its place, or by lifting his foot to

turn it to a new position. In pots full of sand were stuck hundreds of

tiny chisels, so that the workmen could select at a glance the exact

form of tool needful for the moment. Two or three half balls of heavy

stone stood in leathern collars, their flat surfaces upwards and covered

with a brown composition of pitch and beeswax an inch thick, in which

small pieces of silver were firmly embedded in position to be chiselled.

The workshop was pervaded by a smell of wax and pitch, mingled with the

curious indefinable odour exhaled from steel tools in constant use, and

supplemented by the fumes of Marzio's pipe. The red bricks in the

portion of the floor where the two men sat were rubbed into hollows, but

the dust had been allowed to accumulate freely in the rest of the room,

and the dark corners were full of cobwebs which had all the air of being

inhabited by spiders of formidable dimensions.

Marzio Pandolfi, who bent over his work and busily plied his little

hammer during the interval of silence which followed his apprentice's

last remark, was the sole owner and master of the establishment. He was

forty years of age, thin and dark. His black hair was turning grey at

the temples, and though not long, hung forward over his knitted eyebrows

in disorderly locks. He had a strange face. His head, broad enough at

the level of the eyes, rose to a high prominence towards the back, while

his forehead, which projected forward at the heavy brows, sloped

backwards in the direction of the summit. The large black eyes were deep

and hollow, and there were broad rings of dark colour around them, so

that they seemed strangely thrown into relief above the sunken,

colourless cheeks. Marzio's nose was long and pointed, very straight,

and descending so suddenly from the forehead as to make an angle with

the latter the reverse of the one most common in human faces. Seen in

profile, the brows formed the most prominent point, and the line of the

head ran back above, while the line of the nose fell inward from the

perpendicular down to the small curved nostrils. The short black

moustache was thick enough to hide the lips, though deep furrows

surrounded the mouth and terminated in a very prominent but pointed

chin. The whole face expressed unusual qualities and defects; the gifts

of the artist, the tenacity of the workman and the small astuteness of

the plebeian were mingled with an appearance of something which was not

precisely ideality, but which might easily be fanaticism.

Marzio was tall and very thin. His limbs seemed to move rather by the

impulse of a nervous current within than by any development of normal

force in the muscles, and his long and slender fingers, naturally yellow

and discoloured by the use of tools and the handling of cements, might

have been parts of a machine, for they had none of that look of humanity

which one seeks in the hand, and by which one instinctively judges the

character. He was dressed in a woollen blouse, which hung in odd folds

about his emaciated frame, but which betrayed the roundness of his

shoulders, and the extreme length of his arms. His apprentice,

Gianbattista Bordogni, wore the same costume; but beyond his clothing he

bore no trace of any resemblance to his master. He was not a bad type

of the young Roman of his class at five-and-twenty years of age. His

thick black hair curled all over his head, from his low forehead to the

back of his neck, and his head was of a good shape, full and round,

broad over the brows and high above the orifice of the ear. His eyes

were brown and not over large, but well set, and his nose was slightly

aquiline, while his delicate black moustache showed the pleasant curve

of his even lips. There was colour in his cheeks, too--that rich colour

which dark men sometimes have in their youth. He was of middle height,

strong and compactly built, with large, well-made hands that seemed to

have more power in them, if less subtle skill, than those of Maestro

Marzio.

"Remember what I told you about the second indentation of the acanthus,"

said the elder workman, without looking round; "a light, light hand--no

holes in this work!"

Gianbattista murmured a sort of assent, which showed that the warning

was not wanted. He was intent upon the delicate operation he was

performing. Again the hammers beat irregularly.

"The more I think of it," said Marzio after the pause, "the more I am

beside myself. To think that you and I should be nailed to our stools

here, weekdays and feast-days, to finish a piece of work for a

scoundrelly priest--"

"A cardinal," suggested Gianbattista.

"Well! What difference is there? He is a priest, I suppose--a creature

who dresses himself up like a pulcinella before his altar--to--"

"Softly!" ejaculated the young man, looking round to see whether the

door was closed.

"Why softly?" asked the other angrily, though his annoyance did not seem

to communicate itself to the chisel he held in his hand, and which

continued its work as delicately as though its master were humming a

pastoral. "Why softly? An apoplexy on your softness! The papers speak as

loudly as they please--why should I hold my tongue? A dog-butcher of a

priest!"

"Well," answered Gianbattista in a meditative tone, as he selected

another chisel, "he has the money to pay for what he orders. If he had

not, we would not work for him, I suppose."

"If we had the money, you mean," retorted Marzio. "Why the devil should

he have money rather than we? Why don't you answer? Why should he wear

silk stockings--red silk stockings, the animal? Why should he want a

silver ewer and basin to wash his hands at his mass? Why would not an

earthen one do as well, such as I use? Why don't you answer? Eh?"

"Why should Prince Borghese live in a palace and keep scores of

horses?" inquired the young man calmly.

"Ay--why should he? Is there any known reason why he should? Am I not a

man as well as he? Are you not a man--you young donkey? I hate to think

that we, who are artists, who can work when we are put to it, have to

slave for such fellows as that--mumbling priests, bloated princes, a

pack of fools who are incapable of an idea! An idea! What am I saying?

Who have not the common intelligence of a cabbage-seller in the street!

And look at the work we give them--the creation of our minds, the labour

of our hands--"

"They give us their money in return," observed Gianbattista. "The

ancients, whom you are so fond of talking about, used to get their work

done by slaves chained to the bench--"

"Yes! And it has taken us two thousand years to get to the point we have

reached! Two thousand years--and what is it? Are we any better than

slaves, except that we work better?"

"I doubt whether we work better."

"What is the matter with you this morning?" cried Marzio. "Have you been

sneaking into some church on your way here? Pah! You smell of the

sacristy! Has Paolo been here? Oh, to think that a brother of mine

should be a priest! It is not to be believed!"

"It is the irony of fate. Moreover, he gets you plenty of orders."

"Yes, and no doubt he takes his percentage on the price. He had a new

cloak last month, and he asked me to make him a pair of silver buckles

for his shoes. Pretty, that--an artist's brother with silver buckles! I

told him to go to the devil, his father, for his ornaments. Why does he

not steal an old pair from the cardinal, his bondmaster? Not good

enough, I suppose--beast!"

Marzio laid aside his hammer and chisel, and lit the earthen pipe with

the rough wooden stem that lay beside him. Then he examined the

beautiful head of the angel he had been making upon the body of the

ewer. He touched it lovingly, loosed the cord, and lifted the piece from

the pad, turning it towards the light and searching critically for any

defect in the modelling of the little face. He replaced it on the table,

and selecting a very fine-pointed punch, laid down his pipe for a moment

and set about putting the tiny pupils into the eyes. Two touches were

enough. He began smoking again, and contemplated what he had done. It

was the body of a large silver ewer of which Gianbattista was

ornamenting the neck and mouth, which were of a separate piece. Amongst

the intricate arabesques little angels'-heads were embossed, and on one

side a group of cherubs was bearing a "monstrance" with the sacred Host

through silver clouds. A hackneyed subject on church vessels, but which

had taken wonderful beauty under the skilled fingers of the artist, who

sat cursing the priest who was to use it, while expending his best

talents on its perfections.

"It is not bad," he said rather doubtfully. "Come and look at it,

Tista," he added. The young man left his place and came and bent over

his master's shoulder, examining the piece with admiration. It was

characteristic of Marzio that he asked his apprentice's opinion. He was

an artist, and had the chief peculiarities of artists--namely,

diffidence concerning what he had done, and impatience of the criticism

of others, together with a strong desire to show his work as soon as it

was presentable.

"It is a masterpiece!" exclaimed Gianbattista. "What detail! I shall

never be able to finish anything like that cherub's face!"

"Do you think it is as good as the one I made last year, Tista?"

"Better," returned the young man confidently. "It is the best you have

ever made. I am quite sure of it. You should always work when you are in

a bad humour; you are so successful!"

"Bad humour! I am always in a bad humour," grumbled Marzio, rising and

walking about the brick floor, while he puffed clouds of acrid smoke

from his coarse pipe. "There is enough in this world to keep a man in a

bad humour all his life."

"I might say that," answered Gianbattista, turning round on his stool

and watching his master's angular movements as he rapidly paced the

room. "I might abuse fate--but you! You are rich, married, a father, a

great artist!"

"What stuff!" interrupted Marzio, standing still with his long legs

apart, and folding his arms as he spoke through his teeth, between which

he still held his pipe. "Rich? Yes--able to have a good coat for

feast-days, meat when I want it, and my brother's company when I don't

want it--for a luxury, you know! Able to take my wife to Frascati on the

last Thursday of October as a great holiday. My wife, too! A creature of

beads and saints and little books with crosses on them--who would leer

at a friar through the grating of a confessional, and who makes the

house hideous with her howling if I choose to eat a bit of pork on a

Friday! A good wife indeed! A jewel of a wife, and an apoplexy on all

such jewels! A nice wife, who has a face like a head from a tombstone in

the Campo Varano for her husband, and who has brought up her daughter to

believe that her father is condemned to everlasting flames because he

hates cod-fish--salt cod-fish soaked in water! A wife who sticks images

in the lining of my hat to convert me, and sprinkles holy water on me

Then she thinks I am asleep, but I caught her at that the other night--"

"Indeed, they say the devil does not like holy water," remarked

Gianbattista, laughing.

"And you want to many my daughter, you young fool," continued Marzio,

not heeding the interruption. "You do. I will tell you what she is like.

My daughter--yes!--she has fine eyes, but she has the tongue of the--"

"Of her father," suggested Gianbattista, suddenly frowning.

"Yes--of her father, without her father's sense," cried Marzio angrily.

"With her eyes, those fine eyes!--those eyes!--you want to marry her. If

you wish to take her away, you may, and good riddance. I want no

daughter; there are too many women in the world already. They and the

priests do all the harm between them, because the priests know how to

think too well, and women never think at all. I wish you good luck of

your marriage and of your wife. If you were my son you would never have

thought of getting married. The mere idea of it made you send your

chisel through a cherub's eye last week and cost an hoax's time for

repairing. Is that the way to look at the great question of humanity?

Ah! if I were only a deputy in the Chambers, I would teach you the

philosophy of all that rubbish!"

"I thought you said the other day that you would not have any deputies

at all," observed the apprentice, playing with his hammer.

"Such as these are--no! A few of them I would put into the acid bath, as

I would a casting, to clean them before chiselling them down. They might

be good for something then. You must begin by knocking down, boy, if you

want to build up. You must knock down everything, raze the existing

system to the ground, and upon the place where it stood shall rise the

mighty temple of immortal liberty."

"And who will buy your chalices and monstrances under the new order of

things?" inquired Gianbattista coldly.

"The foreign market," returned Marzio. "Italy shall be herself again, as

she was in the days of Michael Angelo; of Leonardo, who died in the arms

of a king; of Cellini, who shot a prince from the walls of Saint Angelo.

Italy shall be great, shall monopolise the trade, the art, the greatness

of all creation!"

"A lucrative monopoly!" exclaimed the young man.

"Monopolies! There shall be no monopolies! The free artisan shall sell

what he can make and buy what he pleases. The priests shall be turned

out in chain gangs and build roads for our convenience, and the

superfluous females shall all be deported to the glorious colony of

Massowah! If I could but be absolute master of this country for a week I

could do much."

"I have no doubt of it," answered Gianbattista, with a quiet smile.

"I should think not," assented Marzio proudly; then catching sight of

the expression on the young man's face, he turned sharply upon him. "You

are mocking me, you good-for-nothing!" he cried angrily. "You are

laughing at me, at your master, you villain you wretch, you sickly

hound, you priest-ridden worm! It is intolerable! It is the first time

you have ever dared; do you think I am going to allow you to think for

yourself after all the pains I have taken to educate you, to teach you

my art, you ungrateful reptile?"

"If you were not such a great artist I would have left you long ago,"

answered the apprentice. "Besides, I believe in your principles. It is

your expression of them that makes me laugh now and then; I think you go

too far sometimes!"

"As if any one had ever gone far enough" exclaimed Marzio, somewhat

pacified, for his moods were very quick. "Since there are still men who

are richer than others, it is a sign that we have not gone to the

end--to the great end in which we believe. I am sure you believe in it

too, Tista, don't you?"

"Oh yes--in the end--certainly. Do not let us quarrel about the means,

Maestro Marzio. I must do another leaf before dinner."

"I will get in another cherub's nose," said his master, preparing to

relight his pipe for a whiff before going to work again. "Body of a dog,

these priests!" he grumbled, as he attacked the next angel on the ewer

with matchless dexterity and steadiness. A long pause followed the

animated discourse of the chiseller. Both men were intent upon their

work, alternately holding their breath for the delicate strokes, and

breathing more freely as the chisel reached the end of each tiny curve.

"I think you said a little while ago that I might marry Lucia," observed

Gianbattista, without looking up, "that is, if I would take her away!"

"And if you take her away," retorted the other, "where will you get

bread?"

"Where I get it now. I could live somewhere else and come here to work;

it seems simple enough."

"It seems simple, but it is not," replied Marzio. "Perhaps you could try

and get Paolo's commissions away from me, and then set up a studio for

yourself; but I doubt whether you could succeed. I am not old yet, nor

blind, nor shaky, thank God!"

"I did not catch the last words," said Gianbattista, hiding his smile

over his work.

"I said I was not old, nor broken down yet, thanks to my strength,"

growled the chiseller; "you will not steal my commissions yet awhile.

What is the matter with you to-day? You find fault with half I say, and

the other half you do not hear at all. You seem to have lost your head,

Tista. Be steady over those acanthus leaves; everybody thinks an

acanthus leaf is the easiest thing in the world, whereas it is one of

the most difficult before you get to figures. Most chisellers seem to

copy their acanthus leaves from the cabbage in their soup. They work as

though they had never seen the plant growing. When the Greeks began to

carve Corinthian capitals, they must have worked from real leaves, as I

taught you to model when you were a boy. Few things are harder than a

good acanthus leaf."

"I should think women could do the delicate part of our work very well,"

said the apprentice, returning to the subject from which Marzio was

evidently trying to lead him. "Lucia has such very clever fingers."

"Idiot!" muttered Marzio between his teeth, not deigning to make any

further answer.

The distant boom of a gun broke upon the silence that followed, and

immediately the bells of all the neighbouring churches rang out in quick

succession. It was midday.

"I did not expect to finish that nose," said Marzio, rising from his

stool. He was a punctual man, who exacted punctuality in others, and in

spite of his thin frame and nervous ways, he loved his dinner. In five

minutes all the men had left the workshop, and Marzio and his apprentice

stood in the street, the former locking the heavy door with a lettered

padlock, while the younger man sniffed the fresh spring air that blew

from the west out of the square of San Carlo a Catenari down the Via dei

Falegnami in which the establishment of the silver-chiseller was

situated.

As Marzio fumbled with the fastenings of the door, two women came up and

stopped. Marzio had his back turned, and Gianbattista touched his hat in

silence. The younger of the two was a stout, black-haired woman of

eight-and-thirty years, dressed in a costume of dark green cloth, which

fitted very closely to her exuberantly-developed bust, and was somewhat

too elaborately trimmed with imitation of jet and black ribands. A high

bonnet, decorated with a bunch of purple glass grapes and dark green

leaves, surmounted the lady's massive head, and though carefully put on

and neatly tied, seemed too small for the wearer. Her ears were adorned

by long gold earrings, in each of which were three large garnets, and

these trinkets dangled outside and over the riband of the bonnet, which

passed under her chin. In her large hands, covered with tight black

gloves, she carried a dark red parasol and a somewhat shabby little

black leather bag with steel fastenings. The stout lady's face was of

the type common among the Roman women of the lower class--very broad and

heavy, of a creamy white complexion, the upper lip shaded by a dark

fringe of down, and the deep sleepy eyes surmounted by heavy straight

eyebrows. Her hair, brought forward from under her bonnet, made smooth

waves upon her low forehead and reappeared in thick coils at the back of

her neck. Her nose was relatively small, but too thick and broad at the

nostrils, although it departed but little from the straight line of the

classic model. Altogether the Signora Pandolfi, christened Maria Luisa,

and wife to Marzio the silver-chiseller, was a portly and

pompous-looking person, who wore an air of knowing her position, and of

being sure to maintain it. Nevertheless, there was a kindly expression

in her fat face, and if her eyes looked sleepy they did not look

dishonest.

Signora Pandolfi's companion was her old maid-of-all-work, Assunta,

commonly called Suntarella, without whom she rarely stirred abroad--a

little old woman, in neat but dingy-coloured garments, with a grey

woollen shawl drawn over her head like a cowl, instead of a bonnet.

Marzio finished fastening the door, and then turned round. On seeing his

wife he remained silent for a moment, looking at her with an expression

of dissatisfied inquiry. He had not expected her.

"Well?" he ejaculated at last.

"It is dinner time," remarked the stout lady.

"Yes, I heard the gun," answered Marzio drily. "It is the same as if you

had told me," he added ironically, as he turned and led the way across

the street.

"A pretty answer!" exclaimed Maria Luisa, tossing her large head as she

followed her lord and master to the door of their house. Meanwhile

Assunta, the old servant, glanced at Gianbattista, rolled up her eyes

with an air of resignation, and spread out her withered hands for a

moment with a gesture of despair, instantly drawing them in again

beneath the folds of her grey woollen shawl.

"Gadding!" muttered Marzio, as he entered the narrow door from which the

dark steps led abruptly upwards. "Gadding--always gadding! And who minds

the soup-kettle when you are gadding, I should like to know? The cat, I

suppose! Oh, these women and their priests! These priests and these

women!"

"Lucia is minding the soup-kettle," gasped Maria Luisa, as she puffed up

stairs behind her thin and active husband.

"Lucia!" cried Marzio angrily, a flight of steps higher. "I suppose you

will bring her up to be woman of all work? Well, she could earn her

living then, which is more than you do! After all, it is better to mind

a soup-kettle than to thump a piano and to squeal so that I can hear her

in the shop opposite, and it is better than hanging about the church all

the morning, or listening to Paolo's drivelling talk. By all means keep

her in the kitchen."

It was hard to say whether Signora Pandolfi was puffing or sighing as

she paused for breath upon the landing, but there was probably something

of both in the labour of her lungs. She was used to Marzio. She had

lived with him for twenty years, and she knew his moods and his ways,

and detected the coming storm from afar. Unfortunately, or perhaps

fortunately, for her, there was little variety in the sequence of his

ideas. She was accustomed to his beginning at the grumbling stage before

dinner, and proceeding by a crescendo movement to the pitch of rage,

which was rarely reached until he had finished his meal, when he

generally seized his hat and dragged Gianbattista away with him,

declaring loudly that women were not fit for human society. The daily

excitement of this comedy had long lost its power to elicit anything

more than a sigh from the stout Maria Luisa, who generally bore Marzio's

unreasonable anger with considerable equanimity, waiting for his

departure to eat her boiled beef and salad in peace with Lucia, while

old Assunta sat by the table with the cat in her lap, putting in a word

of commiseration alternately with a word of gossip about the lodgers on

the other side of the landing. The latter were a young and happy pair:

the husband, a chorus singer at the Apollo, who worked at glove cleaning

during the day time; his wife, a sempstress, who did repairs upon the

costumes of the theatre. Their apartments consisted of two rooms and a

kitchen, while Marzio and his family occupied the rest of the floor, and

entered their lodging by the opposite door.

Maria Luisa envied the couple in her sleepy fashion. Her husband was

indeed comparatively rich, and though economical in his domestic

arrangements, he had money in the bank enough to keep him comfortably

for the rest of his days. His violence did not extend beyond words and

black looks, and he was not miserly about a few francs for dress, or a

dinner at the Falcone two or three times a year. But in the matter of

domestic peace his conduct left much to be desired. He was a sober man,

but his hours were irregular, for he attended the meetings of a certain

club which Maria Luisa held in abhorrence, and brought back opinions

which made her cross herself with her fat fingers, shuddering at the

things he said. As for Gianbattista Bordogni, who lived with them, and

consequently received most of his wages in the shape of board and

lodging, he loved Lucia Pandolfi, his master's daughter, and though he

shared Marzio's opinions, he held his tongue in the house. He understood

how necessary to him the mother's sympathy must be, and, with subtle

intelligence, he knew how to create a contrast between himself and his

master by being reticent at the right moment.

Lucia opened the door in answer to the bell her father had rung, and

stood aside in the narrow way to let members of the household pass by,

one by one. Lucia was seventeen years old, and probably resembled her

mother as the latter had looked at the same age. She was slight, and

tall, and dark, with a quantity of glossy black hair coiled behind her

head. Her black eyes had not yet acquired that sleepy look which

advancing life and stoutness had put into her mother's, as a sort of

sign of the difficulty of quick motion. Her figure was lithe, though she

was not a very active girl, and one might have predicted that at forty

she, too, would pay her debt to time in pounds of flesh. There are thin

people who look as though they could never grow stout, and there are

others whose leisurely motion and deliberate step foretells increase of

weight. But Gianbattista had not studied these matters of physiological

horoscopy. It sufficed him that Lucia Pandolfi was at present a very

pretty girl, even beautiful, according to some standards. Her thick

hair, low forehead, straight classic features, and severe mouth

fascinated the handsome apprentice, and the intimacy which had developed

between the two during the years of his residence under Marzio's roof,

from the time when Lucia was a little girl to the present day, had

rendered the transition from friendship to love almost imperceptible to

them both. Gianbattista was the last of the party to enter the lodging,

and as he paused to shut the door, Lucia was still lingering at the

threshold.

"Hist! They will see!" she protested under her breath.

"What do I care!" whispered the apprentice, as he kissed her cheek in

the dusky passage. Then they followed the rest.

CHAPTER II

That evening Marzio finished the last cherub's head on the ewer before

he left the shop. He had sent Gianbattista home, and had dismissed the

men who were working at a huge gilded grating ordered by a Roman prince

for a church he was decorating. Marzio worked on by the light of a

strong lamp until the features were all finished and he had indicated

the pupils of the eyes with the fine-pointed punch. Then he sat some

time at his bench with the beautiful piece of workmanship under his

fingers, looking hard at it and straining his eyes to find imperfections

that did not exist. At last he laid it down tenderly upon the stuffed

leather pad and stared at the green shade of the lamp, deep in thought.

The man's nature was in eternal conflict with itself, and he felt as

though he were the battle-ground of forces he could neither understand

nor control. A true artist in feeling, in the profound cultivation of

his tastes, in the laborious patience with which he executed his

designs, there was an element in his character and mind which was in

direct contradiction with the essence of what art is. If art can be said

to depend upon anything except itself, that something is religion. The

arts began in religious surroundings, in treating religious subjects,

and the history of the world from the time of the early Egyptians has

shown that where genius has lost faith in the supernatural, its efforts

to produce great works of lasting beauty in the sensual and material

atmosphere of another century have produced comparatively insignificant

results. The science of silver-chiselling began, so far as this age is

concerned, in the church. The tastes of Francis the First directed the

attention of the masters of the art to the making of ornaments for his

mistresses, and for a time the men who had made chalices for the Vatican

succeeded in making jewelry for Madame de Chateaubriand, Madame

d'Etampes, and Diane de Poitiers. But the art itself remained in the

church, and the marvels of _repoussé_ gold and silver to be seen in the

church of Notre Dame des Victoires, the masterpieces of Ossani of Rome,

could not have been produced by any goldsmith who made jewelry for a

living.

Marzio Pandolfi knew all this better than any one, and he could no more

have separated himself from his passion for making chalices and

crucifixes than he could have changed the height of his stature or the

colour of his eyes. But at the same time he hated the church, the

priests, and every one who was to use the beautiful things over which he

spent so much time and labour. Had he been indifferent, a careless,

good-natured sceptic, he would have been a bad artist. As it was, the

very violence of his hatred lent spirit and vigour to his eye and hand.

He was willing to work upon the figure, perfecting every detail of

expression, until he fancied he could feel and see the silver limbs of

the dead Christ suffering upon the cross under the diabolical skill of

his long fingers. The monstrous horror of the thought made him work

marvels, and the fancied realisation of an idea that would startle even

a hardened unbeliever, lent a feverish impulse to this strange man's

genius.

As for the angels on the chalices, he did not hate them; on the

contrary, he saw in them the reflection of those vague images of

loveliness and innocence which haunt every artist's soul at times, and

the mere manual skill necessary to produce expression in things so

minute, fascinated a mind accustomed to cope with difficulties, and so

inured to them as almost to love them.

Nevertheless, when a man is constantly a prey to strong emotions, his

nature cannot long remain unchanged. The conviction had been growing in

Marzio's mind that it was his duty, for the sake of consistency, to

abandon his trade. The thought saddened him, but the conclusion seemed

inevitable. It was absurd, he repeated to himself, that one who hated

the priests should work for them. Marzio was a fanatic in his theories,

but he had something of the artist's simplicity in his idea of the way

they should be carried out. He would have thought it no harm to kill a

priest, but it seemed to him contemptible to receive a priest's money

for providing the church with vessels which were to serve in a worship

he despised.

Moreover, he was not poor. Indeed, he was richer than any one knew, and

the large sums paid for his matchless work went straight from the

workshop to the bank, while Marzio continued to live in the simple

lodgings to which he had first brought home his wife, eighteen years

before, when he was but a young partner in the establishment he now

owned. As he sat at the bench, looking from his silver ewer to the green

lampshade, he was asking himself whether he should not give up this life

of working for people he hated and launch into that larger work of

political agitation, for which he fancied himself so well fitted. He

looked forward into an imaginary future, and saw himself declaiming in

the Chambers against all that existed, rousing the passions of a

multitude to acts of destruction--of justice, as he called it in his

thoughts--and leading a vast army of angry men up the steps of the

Capitol to proclaim himself the champion of the rights of man against

the rights of kings. His eyelids contracted and the concentrated light

of his eyes was reduced to two tiny bright specks in the midst of the

pupils; his nervous hand went out and the fingers clutched the jaws of

the iron vice beside him as he would have wished to grapple with the

jaws of the beast oppression, which in his dreams seemed ever tormenting

the poor world in which he lived.

There was something lacking in his face, even in that moment of secret

rage as he sat alone in his workroom before the lamp. There was the

frenzy of the fanatic, the exaltation of the dreamer, clearly expressed

upon his features, but there was something wanting. There was everything

there except the force to accomplish, the initiative which oversteps the

bank of words, threats, and angry thoughts, and plunges boldly into the

stream, ready to sacrifice itself to lead others. The look of power, of

stern determination, which is never absent from the faces of men who

change their times, was not visible in the thin dark countenance of the

silver-chiseller. Marzio was destined never to rise above the common

howling mob which he aspired to lead.

This fact asserted itself outwardly as he sat there. After a few minutes

the features relaxed, a smile that was almost weak--the smile that shows

that a man lacks absolute confidence--passed quickly over his face, the

light in his eyes went out, and he rose from his stool with a short,

dissatisfied sigh, which was repeated once or twice as he put away his

work and arranged his tools. He made the rounds of the workshop, looked

to the fastenings of the windows, lighted a taper, and then extinguished

the lamp. He threw a loose overcoat over his shoulders without passing

his arms through the sleeves, and went out into the street. Glancing up

at the windows of his house opposite, he saw that the lights were

burning brightly, and he guessed that his wife and daughter were waiting

for him before sitting down to supper.

"Let them wait," he muttered with a surly grin, as he put out the taper

and went down the street in the opposite direction.

He turned the street corner by the dark Palazzo Antici Mattei, and

threaded the narrow streets towards the Pantheon and the Piazza Sant'

Eustachio. The weather had changed, and the damp south-east wind was

blowing fiercely behind him. The pavement was wet and slippery with the

strange thin coating of greasy mud which sometimes appears suddenly in

Rome even when it has not rained. The insufficient gas lamps flickered

in the wind as though they would go out, and the few pedestrians who

hurried along clung closely to the wall as though it offered them some

protection from the moist scirocco. The great doors of the palaces were

most of them closed, but here and there a little red light announced a

wine-shop, and as Marzio passed by he could see through the dirty panes

of glass dark figures sitting in a murky atmosphere over bottles of

coarse wine. The streets were foul with the nauseous smell of decaying

vegetables and damp walls which the south-east wind brings out of the

older parts of Rome, and while few voices were heard in the thick air,

the clatter of horses' hoofs on the wet stones rattled loudly from the

thoroughfares which lead to the theatres. It was a dismal night, but

Marzio Pandolfi felt that his temper was in tune with the weather as he

tramped along towards the Pantheon.

The streets widened as he neared his destination, and he drew his

overcoat more closely about his neck. Presently he reached a small door

close to Sant' Eustachio, one of the several entrances to the ancient

Falcone, an inn which has existed for centuries upon the same spot, in

the same house, and which affords a rather singular variety of

accommodation. Down stairs, upon the square, is a modern restaurant with

plate-glass windows, marble floor, Vienna cane chairs, and a general

appearance of luxury. A flight of steps leads to an upper story, where

there are numerous rooms of every shape and dimension, furnished with

old-fashioned Italian simplicity, though with considerable cleanliness.

Thither resort the large companies of regular guests who have eaten

their meals there during most of their lives. But there is much more

room in the house than appears. The vast kitchen on the ground floor

terminates in a large space, heavily vaulted and lighted by oil lamps,

where rougher tables are set and spread, and where you may see the

well-to-do wine-carter eating his supper after his journey across the

Campagna, in company with some of his city acquaintances of a similar

class. In dark corners huge wine-casks present their round dusty faces

to the doubtful light, the smell of the kitchen pervades everything,

tempered by the smell of wine from the neighbouring cellars; the floor

is of rough stone worn by generations of cooks, potboys, and guests.

Beyond this again a short flight of steps leads to a narrow doorway,

passing through which one enters the last and most retired chamber of

the huge inn. Here there is barely room for a dozen persons, and when

all the places are full the bottles and dishes are passed from the door

by the guests themselves over each other's heads, for there is no room

to move about in the narrow space. The walls are whitewashed and the

tables are as plain as the chairs, but the food and drink that are

consumed there are the best that the house affords, and the society,

from the point of view of Marzio Pandolfi and his friends, is of the

most agreeable.

The chiseller took his favourite seat in the corner furthest from the

window. Two or three men of widely different types were already at the

table, and Marzio exchanged a friendly nod with each. One was a florid

man of large proportions, dressed in the height of the fashion and with

scrupulous neatness. He was a jeweller. Another, a lawyer with a keen

and anxious face, wore a tightly-buttoned frock coat and a black tie.

Immense starched cuffs covered his bony hands and part of his fingers.

He was supping on a salad, into which he from time to time poured an

additional dose of vinegar. A third man, with a round hat on one side of

his head, and who wore a very light-coloured overcoat, displaying a

purple scarf with a showy pin at the neck, held a newspaper in one hand

and a fork in the other, with which he slowly ate mouthfuls of a ragout

of wild boar. He was a journalist on the staff of an advanced radical

paper.

"Halloa, Sor Marzio!" cried this last guest, suddenly looking up from

the sheet he was reading, "here is news of your brother."

"What?" asked Marzio briefly, but as though the matter were utterly

indifferent to him. "Has he killed anybody, the assassin?" The

journalist laughed hoarsely at the jest.

"Not so bad as that," he answered. "He is getting advancement. They are

going to make him a canon of Santa Maria Maggiore. It is in the

_Osservatore Romano_ of this evening."

"He is good for nothing else," growled Marzio. "It is just like him not

to have told me anything about it."

"With the sympathy which exists between you, I am surprised," said the

journalist. "After all, you might convert him, and then he would be

useful. He will be an archdeacon next, and then a bishop--who

knows?--perhaps a cardinal!"

"You might as well talk of converting the horses on Monte Cavallo as of

making Paolo change his mind," replied Pandolfi, beginning to sip the

white wine he had ordered. "You don't know him--he is an angel, my

brother! Oh, quite an angel! I wish somebody would send him to heaven,

where he is so anxious to be!"

"Look out, Marzio!" exclaimed the lawyer, glancing from the vinegar

cruet towards the door and then at his friend.

"No such luck," returned the chiseller. "Nothing ever happens to those

black-birds. When we get as far as hanging them, my dear brother will

happen to be in Paris instead of in Rome. You might as well try to catch

a street cat by calling to it _micio, micio_! as try and catch a priest.

You may as well expect to kill a mule by kicking it as one of those

animals, Burn the Vatican over their heads and think you have destroyed

them like a wasps' nest, they will write you a letter from Berlin the

next day saying that they are alive and well, and that Prince Bismarck

protests against your proceedings."

"Bravo, Sor Marzio!" cried the journalist. "I will put that in the paper

to-morrow--it is a fine fulmination. You always refresh my ideas--why

will you not write an article for us in that strain? I will publish it

as coming from a priest who has given up his orders, married, and opened

a wine-shop in Naples. What an effect! Magnificent! Do go on!"

Marzio did not need a second invitation to proceed upon his favourite

topic. He was soon launched, and as the little room filled, his pale and

sunken cheeks grew red with excitement, his tongue was unloosed, and he

poured out a continuous stream of blasphemous ribaldry such as would

have shocked the ears of a revolutionist of the year '89 or of a

_pétroleuse_ of the nineteenth century. It seemed as though the spring

once opened would never dry. His eyes flashed, his fingers writhed

convulsively on the table, and his voice rang out, ironical and cutting,

with strange intonations that roused strange feelings in his hearers. It

was the old subject, but he found something new to say upon it at each

meeting with his friends, and they wondered where he got the imagination

to construct his telling phrases and specious, virulent arguments.

We have all wondered at such men. They are the outcome of this age and

of no previous time, as it is also to be hoped that their like may not

arise hereafter. They are found everywhere, these agitators, with their

excited faces, their nervous utterances, and their furious hatred of all

that is. They find their way into the parliaments of the world, into the

dining-rooms of the rich, into the wine-shops of the working men, into

the press even, and some of their works are published by great houses

and read by great ladies, if not by great men. Suddenly, when we least

expect it, a flaming advertisement announces a fiery tirade against all

that the great mass of mankind hold in honour, if not in reverence.

Curiosity drives thousands to read what is an insult to humanity, and

even though the many are disgusted, some few are found to admire a

rhetoric which exalts their own ignorance to the right of judging God.

And still the few increase and grow to be a root and send out shoots and

creepers like an evil plant, so that grave men say among themselves that

if there is to be a universal war in our times or hereafter it will be

fought by Christians of all denominations defending themselves against

those who are not Christians.

Marzio sat long at his table, and his modest pint of wine was enough to

moisten his throat throughout the time during which he held forth. When

the liquor was finished he rose, took down his overcoat from the peg on

which it hung, pushed his soft hat over his eyes, and with a sort of

triumphant wave of the hand, saluted his friends and left the room. He

was a perfectly sober man, and no power would have induced him to

overstep the narrow limit he allowed to his taste. Indeed, he did not

care for wine itself, and still less for any excitement it produced in

his brain. He ordered his half-litre as a matter of respect for the

house, as he called it, and it served to wet his throat while he was

talking. Water would have done as well. Consumed by the intensity of his

hatred for the things he attacked, he needed no stimulant to increase

his exaltation.

When he was gone, there was silence in the room for some few minutes.

Then the journalist burst into a loud laugh.

"If we only had half a dozen fellows like that in the Chambers, all

talking at once!" he cried.

"They would be kicked into the middle of Montecitorio in a quarter of an

hour," answered the thin voice of the lawyer. "Our friend Marzio is

slightly mad, but he is a good fellow in theory. In practice that sort

of thing must be dropped into public life a little at a time, as one

drops vinegar into a salad, on each leaf. If you don't, all the vinegar

goes to the bottom together, and smells horribly sour."

While Marzio was holding forth to his friends, the family circle in the

Via dei Falegnami was enjoying a very pleasant evening in his absence.

The Signora Pandolfi presided at supper in a costume which lacked

elegance, but ensured comfort--the traditional skirt and white cotton

jacket of the Italian housewife. Lucia wore the same kind of dress, but

with less direful effects upon her appearance. Gianbattista, as usual

after working hours, was arrayed in clothes of fashionable cut, aiming

at a distant imitation of the imaginary but traditional English tourist.

A murderous collar supported his round young chin, and a very

stiffly-constructed pasteboard-lined tie was adorned by an exquisite

silver pin of his own workmanship--the only artistic thing about him.

Besides these members of the family, there was a fourth person at

supper, the person whom, of all others, Marzio detested, Paolo Pandolfi,

his brother the priest, commonly called Don Paolo. He deserves a word of

description, for there was in his face a fleeting resemblance to Marzio,

which might easily have led a stranger to believe that there was a

similarity between their characters. Tall, like his brother, the priest

was a little less thin, and evidently far less nervous. The expression

of his face was thoughtful, and the deep, heavily-ringed eyes were like

Marzio's, but the forehead was broader, and the breadth ascended higher

in the skull, which was clearly defined by the short, closely-cropped

hair and the smooth tonsure at the back. The nose was larger and of more

noble shape, and Paolo's complexion was less yellow than his brother's;

the features were not surrounded by furrows or lines, and the leanness

of the priest's face threw them into relief. The clean shaven upper lip

showed a kind and quiet mouth, which smiled easily and betrayed a sense

of humour, but was entirely free from any suggestion of cruelty. Don

Paolo was scrupulous of his appearance, and his cassock and mantle were

carefully brushed, and his white collar was immaculately clean. His

hands were of the student type--white, square at the tips, lean, and

somewhat knotty.

Marzio, in his ill-humour, had no doubt flattered himself that his

family would wait for him for supper. But his family had studied him and

knew his ways. When he was not punctual, he seldom came at all, and a

quarter of an hour was considered sufficient to decide the matter.

"What are we waiting to do?" exclaimed Maria Luisa, in the odd Italian

idiom. "Marzio is in his humours--he must have gone to his friends. Ah!

those friends of his!" she sighed. "Let us sit down to supper," she

added; and, from her tone, the idea of supper seemed to console her for

her husband's absence.

"Perhaps he guessed that I was coming," remarked Don Paolo, with a

smile. "In that case he will be a little nervous with me when he comes

back. With your leave, Maria Luisa," he added, by way of announcing that

he would say grace. He gave the short Latin benediction, during which

Gianbattista never looked away from Lucia's face. The boy fancied she

was never so beautiful as when she stood with her hands folded and her

eyes cast down.

"Marzio does not know what I have come for," began Don Paolo again, as

they all sat down to the square table in the little room. "If he knew,

perhaps he might have been here--though perhaps he would not care very

much after all. You all ask what it is? Yes; I will tell you. His

Eminence has obtained for me the canonry that was vacant at Santa Maria

Maggiore--"

At this announcement everybody sprang up and embraced Don Paolo, and

overwhelmed him with congratulations, reproaching him at the same time

for having kept the news so long to himself.

"Of course, I shall continue to work with the Cardinal," said the

priest, when the family gave him time to speak. "But it is a great

honour. I have other news for Marzio--"

"I imagine that you did not count upon the canonry as a means of

pleasing him," remarked the Signora, Pandolfi, with a smile.

"No, indeed," laughed Lucia. "Poor papa--he would rather see you sent to

be a curate in Cività Lavinia!"

"Dear me! I fear so," answered Don Paolo, with a shade of sadness. "But

I have a commission for him. The Cardinal has ordered another crucifix,

which he desires should be Marzio's masterpiece--silver, of course, and

large. It must be altogether the finest thing he has ever made, when it

is finished."

"I daresay he will be very much pleased," said Maria Luisa, smiling

comfortably.

"I wish he could make the figure solid, cast and chiselled, instead of

_repoussé_," remarked Gianbattista, whose powerful hands craved heavy

work by instinct.

"It would be a pity to waste so much silver; and besides, the effects

are never so light," said Lucia, who, like most artists' daughters, knew

something of her father's work.

"What is a little silver, more or less, to the Cardinal?" asked

Gianbattista, with a little scorn; but as he met the priest's eye his

expression instantly became grave.

The apprentice was very young; he was not beyond that age at which, to

certain natures, it seems a fine thing to be numbered among such men as

Marzio's friends. But at the same time he was not old enough, nor

independent enough, to exhibit his feelings on all occasions. Don Paolo

exercised a dominant influence in the Pandolfi household. He had the

advantage of being calm, grave, and thoroughly in earnest, not easily

ruffled nor roused to anger, any more than he was easily hurt. By

character sensitive, he bore all small attacks upon himself with the

equanimity of a man who believes his cause to be above the need of

defence against little enemies. The result was that he dominated his

brother's family, and even Marzio himself was not free from a certain

subjection which he felt, and which was one of the most bitter elements

in his existence. Don Paolo imposed respect by his quiet dignity, while

Marzio asserted himself by speaking loudly and working himself

voluntarily into a state of half-assumed anger. In the contest between

quiet force and noisy self-assertion the issue is never doubtful. Marzio

lacked real power, and he felt it. He could command attention among the

circle of his associates who already sympathised with his views, but in

the presence of Paolo he was conscious of struggling against a superior

and incomprehensible obstacle, against the cool and unresentful

disapprobation of a man stronger than himself. It was many years since

he had ventured to talk before his brother as he talked when he was

alone with Gianbattista, and the latter saw the change that came over

his master's manner before the priest, and guessed that Marzio was

morally afraid. The somewhat scornful allusion to the Cardinal's

supposed wealth certainly did not constitute an attack upon Don Paolo,

but Gianbattista nevertheless felt that he had said something rather

foolish, and made haste to ignore his words. The influence could not be

escaped.

It was this subtle power that Marzio resented, for he saw that it was

exerted continually, both upon himself and the members of his household.

The chiseller acknowledged to himself that in a great emergency his

wife, his daughter, and even Gianbattista Bordogni, would most likely

follow the advice of Don Paolo, in spite of his own protests and

arguments to the contrary. He fancied that he himself alone was a free

agent. He doubted Gianbattista, and began to think that the boy's

character would turn out a failure. This was the reason why he no longer

encouraged the idea of a marriage between his daughter and his

apprentice, a scheme which, somewhat earlier, had been freely discussed.

It had seemed an admirable arrangement. The young man promised to turn

out a freethinker after Marzio's own heart, and showed a talent for his

profession which left nothing to be desired. Some one must be ready to

take Marzio's place in the direction of the establishment, and no one

could be better fitted to undertake the task than Gianbattista. Lucia

would inherit her father's money as the capital for the business, and

her husband should inherit the workshop with all the stock-in-trade.

Latterly, however, Marzio had changed his mind, and the idea no longer

seemed so satisfactory to him as at first. Gianbattista was evidently

falling under the influence of Don Paolo, and that was a sufficient

reason for breaking off the match. Marzio hardly realised that as far as

his outward deportment in the presence of the priest was concerned, the

apprentice was only following his master's example.

Marzio had been looking about him for another husband for his daughter,

and he had actually selected one from among his most intimate friends.

His choice had fallen upon the thin lawyer--by name Gasparo

Carnesecchi--who, according to the chiseller's views, was in all

respects a most excellent match. A true freethinker, a practising lawyer

with a considerable acquaintance in the world of politics, a discreet

man not far from forty years of age, it seemed as though nothing more

were required to make a model husband. Marzio knew very well that

Lucia's dowry would alone have sufficed to decide the lawyer to marry

her, and an interview with Carnesecchi had almost decided the matter. Of

course, he had not been able to allude to the affair this evening at the

inn, when so many others were present, but the preliminaries were

nearly settled, and Marzio had made up his mind to announce his

intention to his family at once. He knew well enough what a storm he

would raise, and, like many men who are always trying to seem stronger

than they really are, he had determined to choose a moment for making

the disclosure when he should be in a thoroughly bad humour. As he

walked homewards from the old inn he felt that this moment had arrived.

The slimy pavement, the moist wind driving through the streets and round

every corner, penetrating to the very joints, contributed to make him

feel thoroughly vicious and disagreeable; and the tirade in which he had

been indulging before his audience of friends had loosed his tongue,

until he was conscious of being able to face any domestic disturbance or

opposition.

The little party had adjourned from supper, and had been sitting for

some time in the small room which served as a place of meeting.

Gianbattista was smoking a cigarette, which he judged to be more in

keeping with his appearance than a pipe when he was dressed in civilised

garments, and he was drawing an elaborate ornament of arabesques upon a

broad sheet of paper fixed on a board. Lucia seated at the table was

watching the work, while Don Paolo sat in a straight-backed chair, his

white hands folded on his knee, from time to time addressing a remark

to Maria Luisa. The latter, being too stout to recline in the deep

easy-chair near the empty fireplace, sat bolt upright, with her feet

upon the edge of a footstool, which was covered by a tapestry of

worsted-work, displaying an impossible nosegay upon a vivid green

ground.

They had discussed the priest's canonry, and the order for the crucifix.

They had talked about the weather. They had made some remarks upon

Marzio's probable disposition of mind when he should come home, and the

conversation was exhausted so far as the two older members were

concerned. Gianbattista and Lucia conversed in a low tone, in short,

enigmatic phrases.

"Do you know?" said the apprentice.

"What?" inquired Lucia.

"I have spoken of it to-day." Both glanced at the Signora Pandolfi. She

was sitting up as straight as ever, but her heavy head was slowly

bending forward.

"Well?" asked the young girl

"He was in a diabolical humour. He said I might take you away."

Gianbattista smiled as he spoke, and looked into Lucia's eyes. She

returned his gaze rather sadly, and only shook her head and shrugged her

shoulders for a reply.

"If we took him at his word," suggested Gianbattista.

"Just so--it would be a fine affair!" exclaimed Lucia ironically.

"After all, he said so," argued the young man. "What does it matter

whether he meant it?"

"Things are going badly for us," sighed his companion. "It was different

a year ago. You must have done something to displease him, Tista. I wish

I knew!" Her dark eyes suddenly assumed an angry expression, and she

drew in her red lips.

"Wish you knew what?" inquired the apprentice, in a colder tone.

"Why he does not think about it as he used to. He never made any

objections until lately. It was almost settled."

Gianbattista glanced significantly at Don Paolo, shrugged his shoulders,

and went on drawing.

"What has that to do with it?" asked Lucia impatiently.

"It is enough for your father that it would please his brother. He would

hate a dog that Don Paolo liked."

"What nonsense!" exclaimed the girl. "It is something else. Papa sees

something--something that I do not see. He knows his own affairs, and

perhaps he knows yours too, Tista. I have not forgotten the other

evening."

"I!" ejaculated the young man, looking up angrily.

"You know very well where I was--at the Circolo Artistico. How do you

dare to think--"

"Why are you so angry if there is no one else in the case?" asked Lucia,

with a sudden sweetness, which belied the jealous glitter in her eyes.

"It seems to me that I have a right to be angry. That you should suspect

me after all these years! How many times have I sworn to you that I went

nowhere else?"

"What is the use of your swearing? You do not believe in anything--why

should you swear? Why should I believe you?"

"Oh--if you talk like that, I have finished!" answered Gianbattista.

"But there--you are only teasing me. You believe me, just as I believe

you. Besides, as for swearing and believing in something besides

you--who knows? I love you--is not that enough?"

Lucia's eyes softened as they rested on the young man's face. She knew

he loved her. She only wanted to be told so once more.

"There is Marzio," said Don Paolo, as a key rattled in the latch of the

outer door.

"At this hour!" exclaimed the Signora Pandolfi, suddenly waking up and

rubbing her eyes with her fat fingers.

CHAPTER III

Marzio, having divested himself of his heavy coat and hat, appeared at

the door of the sitting-room.

Everybody looked at him, as though to discern the signs of his temper,

and no one was perceptibly reassured by the sight of his white face and

frowning forehead.

"Well, most reverend canon," he began, addressing Don Paolo, "I am in

time to congratulate you, it seems. It was natural that I should be the

last to hear of your advancement, through the papers."

"Thank you," answered Don Paolo quietly. "I came to tell you the news."

"You are very considerate," returned Marzio. "I have news also; for you

all." He paused a moment, as though to give greater effect to the

statement he was about to make. "I refer," he continued very slowly, "to

the question of Lucia's marriage."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the priest. "I am glad if it is to be arranged at

last."

The other persons in the room held their breath. The young girl blushed

deeply under her white skin, and Gianbattista grew pale as he laid aside

his pencil and shaded his eyes with his hands. The Signora Pandolfi

panted with excitement and trembled visibly as she looked at her

husband. His dark figure stood out strongly from the background of the

shabby blue wall paper, and the petroleum lamp cast deep shadows in the

hollows of his face.

"Yes," he continued, "I talked yesterday with Gasparo Carnesecchi--you

know, he is the lawyer I always consult. He is a clever fellow and

understands these matters. We talked of the contract; I thought it

better to consult him, you see, and he thinks the affair can be arranged

in a couple of weeks. He is so intelligent. A marvel of astuteness; we

discussed the whole matter, I say, and it is to be concluded as soon as

possible. So now, my children--"

Gianbattista and Lucia, seated side by side at the table, were looking

into each other's eyes, and as Marzio fixed his gaze upon them, their

hands joined upon the drawing-board, and an expression of happy surprise

overspread their faces. Marzio smiled too, as he paused before

completing the sentence.

"So that now, my children," he continued, speaking very slowly, "you may

as well leave each other's hands and have done with all this nonsense."

The lovers looked up suddenly with a puzzled air, supposing that Marzio

was jesting.

"I am in earnest," he went on. "You see, Tista, that it will not be

proper for you to sit and hold Lucia's hand when she is called Signora

Carnesecchi, so you may as well get used to it."

For a moment there was a dead silence in the room. Then Lucia and

Gianbattista both sprang to their feet.

"What!" screamed the young girl in an agony of terror. "Carnesecchi!

what do you mean?"

"_Infame!_ Wretch!" shouted Gianbattista, beside himself with rage as he

sprang forward to grasp Marzio in his hands.

But the priest had risen too, and placed himself between the young man

and Marzio to prevent any struggle. "No violence!" he cried in a tone

that dominated the angry voices and the hysterical weeping of Maria

Luisa, who sat rocking herself in her chair. Gianbattista stepped back

and leaned against the wall, choking with anger. Lucia fell back into

her seat and covered her face with her hands.

"Violence? Who wants violence?" asked Marzio in contemptuous tones. "Do

you suppose I am afraid of Tista? Let him alone, Paolo; let us see

whether he will strike me."

The priest now turned his back on the apprentice, and confronted Marzio.

He was not pale like the rest, for he was not afraid of the chiseller,

and the generous flush of a righteous indignation mounted to his calm

face.

"You are mad," he said, meeting his brother's gaze fearlessly.

"Not in the least," returned Marzio. "Lucia shall marry Gasparo

Carnesecchi at once, or she shall not marry any one; what am I saying?

She shall have no choice. She must and she shall marry the man I have

chosen. What have you to do with it? Have you come here to put yourself

between me and my family? I advise you to be careful. The law protects

me from such interference, and fellows of your cloth are not very

popular at present."

"The law," answered the priest, controlling his wrath, "protects

children against their parents. The law which you invoke provides that a

father shall not force his daughter to marry against her will, and I

believe that considerable penalties are incurred in such cases."

"What do you know of law, except how to elude it?" inquired Marzio

defiantly.

Not half an hour had elapsed since he had been haranguing the admiring

company of his friends, and his words came easily. Moreover, it was a

long time since he had broken through the constraint he felt in Don

Paolo's presence, and the opportunity having presented itself was not to

be lost.

"Who are you that should teach me?" he repeated, raising his voice to a

strained key and gesticulating fiercely. "You, your very existence is a

lie, and you are the server of lies, and you and your fellow liars would

have created them if they didn't already exist, you love them so. You

live by a fraud, and you want to drag everybody into the comedy you play

every day in your churches, everybody who is fool enough to drop a coin

into your greedy palm! What right have you to talk to men? Do you work?

Do you buy? Do you sell? You are worse than those fine gentlemen who do

nothing because their fathers stole our money, for you live by stealing

it yourselves! And you set yourselves up as judges over an honest man to

tell him what he is to do with his daughter? You fool, you thing in

petticoats, you deceiver of women, you charlatan, you mountebank, go! Go

and perform your antics before your altars, and leave hardworking men

like me to manage their families as they can, and to marry their

daughters to whom they will!"

Marzio had rolled off his string of invective in such a tone, and so

rapidly, that it had been impossible to interrupt him. The two women

were sobbing bitterly. Gianbattista, pale and breathing hard, looked as

though he would throttle Marzio if he could reach him, and Don Paolo

faced the angry artist, with reddening forehead, folding his arms and

straining his muscles to control himself. When Marzio paused for breath,

the priest answered him with an effort.

"You may insult me if it pleases you," he said, "it is nothing to me. I

cannot prevent your uttering your senseless blasphemies. I speak to you

of the matter in hand. I tell you simply that in treating these two, who

love each other, as you are treating them, you are doing a thing

unworthy of a man. Moreover, the law protects your daughter, and I will

see that the law does its duty."

"Oh, to think that I should have such a monster for a husband," groaned

the fat Signora Pandolfi, still rocking herself in her chair, and hardly

able to speak through her sobs.

"You will do a bad day's work for yourself and your art when you try to

separate us," said Gianbattista between his teeth.

Marzio laughed hoarsely, and turned his back on the rest, beginning to

fill his pipe at the chimney-piece. Don Paolo heard the apprentice's

words, and understood their meaning. He went and laid his hand on the

young man's shoulder.

"Do not let us have any threats, Tista," he said quietly. "Sor Marzio

will never do this thing--believe me, he cannot if he would."

"Go on," cried Marzio, striking a match. "Go on--sow the seeds of

discord, teach them all to disobey me. I am listening, my dear Paolo."

"All the better, if you are," answered the priest, "for I assure you I

am in earnest. You will have time to consider this thing. I have a

matter of business with you, Marzio. That is what I came for this

evening. If you have done, we will speak of it."

"Business?" exclaimed Marzio in loud ironical tones. "This is a good

time for talking of business--as good as any other! What is it?"

"The Cardinal wants another piece of work done, a very fine piece of

work."

"The Cardinal? I will not make any more chalices for your cardinals. I

am sick of chalices, and monstrances, and such stuff."

"It is none of those," answered Don Paolo quietly. "The Cardinal wants a

magnificent silver crucifix. Will you undertake it? It must be your

greatest work, if you do it at all."

"A crucifix?" repeated Marzio, in a changed tone. The angry gleam faded

from his eyes, and a dreamy look came into them as he let the heavy lids

droop a little, and remained silent, apparently lost in thought. The

women ceased sobbing, and watched his altered face, while Gianbattista

sank down into a chair and absently fingered the pencil that had fallen

across the drawing-board.

"Will you do it?" asked Don Paolo, at last.

"A crucifix," mused the artist. "Yes, I will make a crucifix. I have

made many, but I have never made one to my mind. Yes, tell the Cardinal

that I will make it for him, if he will give me time."

"I do not think he will need it in less than three or four months,"

answered Don Paolo.

"Four months--that is not a long time for such a work. But I will try."

Thereupon Marzio, whose manner had completely changed, puffed at his

pipe until it burned freely, and then approached the table, glancing at

Gianbattista and Lucia as though nothing had happened. He drew the

drawing-board which the apprentice had been using towards him, and,

taking the pencil from the hand of the young man, began sketching heads

on one corner of the paper.

Don Paolo looked at him gravely. After the words Marzio had spoken, it

had gone against the priest's nature to communicate to him the

commission for the sacred object. He had hesitated a moment, asking

himself whether it was right that such a man should be allowed to do

such work. Then the urgency of the situation, and his knowledge of his

brother's character, had told him that the diversion might avert some

worse catastrophe, and he had quickly made up his mind. Even now he

asked himself whether he had done right. It was a question of theology,

which it would have taken long to analyse, and Don Paolo had other

matters to think of in the present, so he dismissed it from his mind. He

wanted to be gone, and he only stayed a few minutes to see whether

Marzio's mind would change again. He knew his brother well, and he was

sure that no violence was to be feared from him, except in his speech.

Such scenes as he had just witnessed were not uncommon in the Pandolfi

household, and Don Paolo did not believe that any consequence was to be

expected after he had left the house. He only felt that Marzio had been

more than usually unreasonable, and that the artist could not possibly

mean seriously what he had proposed that evening.

The priest did not indeed think that Gianbattista was altogether good

enough for Lucia. The boy was occasionally a little wild in his speech,

and though he was too much in awe of Don Paolo to repeat before him any

of the opinions he had learned from his master, his manner showed

occasionally that he was inclined to take the side of the latter in most

questions that arose. But the habit of controlling his feelings in order

not to offend the man of the church, and especially in order not to hurt

Lucia's sensitive nature, had begun gradually to change and modify the

young man's character. From having been a devoted admirer of Marzio's

political creed and extreme free thought, Gianbattista had fallen, into

the way of asking questions of the chiseller, to see how he would answer

them; and the answers had not always satisfied him. Side by side with

his increasing skill in his art, which led him to compare himself with

his teacher, there had grown up in the apprentice the habit of comparing

himself with Marzio from the intellectual point of view as well as from

the artistic. The comparison did not appear to him advantageous to the

elder man, as he discovered, in his way of thinking, a lack of logic on

the one hand, and a love of frantic exaggeration on the other, which

tended to throw a doubt upon the whole system of ideas which had

produced these defects. The result was that the young man's mental

position was unbalanced, and he was inclined to return to a more normal

condition of thought. Don Paolo did not know all this, but he saw that

Gianbattista had grown more quiet during the last year, and he hoped

that his marriage with Lucia would complete the change. To see her

thrown into the arms of a man like Gasparo Carnesecchi was more than the

priest's affection for his niece could bear. He hardly believed that

Marzio would seriously think again of the scheme, and he entertained a

hope that the subject would not even be broached for some time to come.

Marzio continued to draw in silence, and after a few minutes, Don Paolo

rose to take his leave. The chiseller did not look up from his pencil.

"Good-night, Marzio--let it be a good piece of work," said Paolo.

"Good-night," growled the artist, his eyes still fixed on the paper. His

brother saluted the rest and left the room to go home to his lonely

lodgings at the top of an old palace, in the first floor of which dwelt

the Cardinal, whom he served as secretary. When he was gone, Lucia rose

silently and went to her room, leaving her father and mother with

Gianbattista. The Signora Pandolfi hesitated as to whether she should

follow her daughter or stay with the two men. Her woman's nature feared

further trouble, and visions of drawn knives rose before her swollen

eyes, so that, after making as though she would rise twice, she finally

remained in her seat, her fat hands resting idly upon her knees, staring

at her husband and Gianbattista. The latter sat gloomily watching the

paper on which his master was drawing.

"Marzio, you do not mean it?" said Maria Luisa, after a long interval of

silence. The good woman did not possess the gift of tact.

"Do you not see that I have an idea?" asked her husband crossly, by way

of an answer, as he bent his head over his work.

"I beg your pardon," said the Signora Pandolfi, in a humble tone,

looking piteously at Gianbattista. The apprentice shook his head, as

though he meant that nothing could be done for the present. Then she

rose slowly, and with a word of good-night as she turned to the door,

she left the room. The two men were alone.

"Now that nobody hears us, Sor Marzio, what do you mean to do?" asked

Gianbattista in a low voice. Marzio shrugged his shoulders.

"What I told you," he answered, after a few seconds. "Do you suppose

that rascally priest of a brother has made me change my mind?"

"No, I did not expect that, but I am not a priest; nor am I a boy to be

turned round your fingers and put off in this way--sent to the wash like

dirty linen. You must answer to me for what you said this evening."

"Oh, I will answer as much as you please," replied the artist, with an

evil smile.

"Very well. Why do you want to turn me out, after promising for years

that I should marry Lucia with your full consent when she was old

enough?"

"Why? because you have turned yourself out, to begin with. Secondly,

because Carnesecchi is a better match for my daughter than a beggarly

chiseller. Thirdly, because I please; and fourthly, because I do not

care a fig whether you like it or not. Are those reasons sufficient or

not?"

"They may satisfy you," answered Gianbattista. "They leave something to

be desired in the way of logic, in my humble opinion."

"Since I have told you that I do not care for your opinion--"

"I will probably find means to make you care for it," retorted the young

man. "Don Paolo is quite right, in the first place, when he tells you

that the thing is simply impossible. Fathers do not compel their

daughters to marry in this century. Will you do me the favour to explain

your first remark a little more clearly? You said I had turned myself

out--how?"

"You have changed, Tista," said Marzio, leaning back to sharpen his

pencil, and staring at the wall. "You change every day. You are not at

all what you used to be, and you know it. You are going back to the

priests. You fawn on my brother like a dog."

"You are joking," answered the apprentice. "Of course I would not want

to make trouble in your house by quarrelling with Don Paolo, even if I

disliked him. I do not dislike him. This evening he showed that he is a

much better man than you."

"Dear Gianbattista," returned Marzio in sour tones, "every word you say

convinces me that I have done right. Besides, I am busy--you see--you

disturb my ideas. If you do not like my house, you can leave it. I will

not keep you. I daresay I can educate another artist before I die. You

are really only fit to swing a censer behind Paolo, or at the heels of

some such animal."

"Perhaps it would be better to do that than to serve the mass you sing

over your work-bench every day," said Gianbattista. "You are going too

far, Sor Marzio. One may trifle with women and their feelings. You had

better not attempt it with men."

"Such as you and Paolo? There was once a mule in the Pescheria Vecchia;

when he got half-way through he did not like the smell of the fish, and

he said to his leader, 'I will turn back.' The driver pulled him along.

Then said the mule, 'Do not trifle with me. I will turn round and kick

you.' But there is not room for a mule to turn round in the Pescheria

Vecchia. The mule found it out, and followed the man through the fish

market after all. I hope that is clear? It means that you are a fool."

"What is the use of bandying words?" cried the apprentice angrily. "I

will offer you a bargain, Sor Marzio. I will give you your choice.

Either I will leave the house, and in that case I will carry off Lucia

and marry her in spite of you. Or else I will stay here--but if Lucia

marries any one else, I will cut your throat. Is that a fair bargain?"

"Perfectly fair, though I cannot see wherein the bargain consists,"

answered Marzio, with a rough laugh. "I prefer that you should stay

here. I will run the risk of being murdered by you, any day, and you may

ran the risk of being sent to the galleys for life, if you choose. You

will be well cared for there, and you can try your chisel on

paving-stones for a change from silver chalices."

"Never mind what becomes of me afterwards, in that case," said the young

man. "If Lucia is married to some one else, I do not care what happens.

So you have got your warning!"

"Thank you. If you had remained what you used to be, you might have

married her without further difficulty. But to have you and Lucia and

Maria Luisa and Paolo all conspiring against me from morning till night

is more than I can bear. Good-night, and the devil be with you, you

fool!"

"_Et cum spiritu tuo_," answered Gianbattista as he left the room.

When Marzio was alone he returned to the head he was drawing--a head of

wonderful beauty, inclined downwards and towards one side, bearing a

crown of thorns, the eyelids drooped and shaded in death. He glanced at

it with a bitter smile and threw aside the pencil without making another

stroke upon the paper.

He leaned back, lighted another pipe, and began to reflect upon the

events of the evening. He was glad it was over, for a strange weakness

in his violent nature made it hard for him to face such scenes unless he

were thoroughly roused. Now, however, he was satisfied. For a long time

he had seen with growing distrust the change in Gianbattista's manner,

and in the last words he had spoken to the apprentice he had uttered

what was really in his heart. He was afraid of being altogether

overwhelmed by the majority against him in his own house. He hated Paolo

with his whole soul, and he had hated him all his life. This calm,

obliging brother of his stood between him and all peace of mind. It was

not the least of his grievances that he received most of his commissions

through the priest who was constantly in relation with the cardinal and

rich prelates who were the patrons of his art. The sense of obligation

which he felt was often almost unbearable, and he longed to throw it

off. The man whom he hated for his own sake and despised for his

connection with the church, was daily in his house; at every turn he met

with Paolo's tacit disapprobation or outspoken resistance. For a long

time Paolo had doubted whether the marriage between the two young people

would turn out well, and while he expressed his doubts Marzio had

remained stubborn in his determination. Latterly, and doubtless owing to

the change in Gianbattista's character, Paolo had always spoken of the

marriage with favour. This sufficed at first to rouse Marzio's

suspicions, and ultimately led to his opposing with all his might what

he had so long and so vigorously defended; he resolved to be done with

what he considered a sort of slavery, and at one stroke to free himself

from his brother's influence, and to assure Lucia's future. During

several weeks he had planned the scene which had taken place that

evening, waiting for his opportunity, trying to make sure of being

strong enough to make it effective, and revolving the probable answers

he might expect from the different persons concerned. It had come, and

he was satisfied with the result.

Marzio Pandolfi's intelligence lacked logic. In its place he possessed

furious enthusiasm, an exaggerated estimate of the value of his social

doctrines, and a whole vocabulary of terms by which to describe the

ideal state after which he hankered. But though he did not possess a

logic of his own, his life was itself the logical result of the

circumstances he had created. As, in the diagram called the

parallelogram of forces, various conflicting powers are seen to act at a

point, producing an inevitable resultant in a fixed line, so in the plan

of Marzio's life, a number of different tendencies all acted at a

centre, in his overstrained intelligence, and continued to push him in a

direction he had not expected to follow, and of which even now he was

far from suspecting the ultimate termination.

He had never loved his brother, but he had loved his wife with all his

heart. He had begun to love Lucia when she was a child. He had felt a

sort of admiring fondness for Gianbattista Bordogni, and a decided pride

in the progress and the talent of the apprentice. By degrees, as the

prime mover, his hatred for Paolo, gained force, it had absorbed his

affection for Maria Luisa, who, after eighteen years of irreproachable

wifehood, seemed to Marzio to be nothing better than an accomplice and a

spy of his brother's in the domestic warfare. Next, the lingering love

for his child had been eaten up in the same way, and Marzio said to

himself that the girl had joined the enemy, and was no longer worthy of

his confidence. Lastly, the change in Gianbattista's character and ideas

seemed to destroy the last link which bound the chiseller to his family.

Henceforth, his hand was against each one of his household, and he

fancied that they were all banded together against himself.

Every step had followed as the inevitable consequence of what had gone

before. The brooding and suspicious nature of the artist had persisted

in seeing in each change in himself the blackest treachery in those who

surrounded him. His wife was an implacable enemy, his daughter a spy,

his apprentice a traitor, and as for Paolo himself, Marzio considered

him the blackest of villains. For all this chain of hatreds led

backwards, and was concentrated with tenfold virulence in his great

hatred for his brother. Paolo, in his estimation, was the author of all

the evil, the sole ultimate cause of domestic discord, the arch enemy of

the future, the representative, in Marzio's sweeping condemnation, not

only of the church and of religion, but of that whole fabric of existing

society which the chiseller longed to tear down.

Marzio's socialism, for so he called it, had one good feature. It was

sincere of its kind, and disinterested. He was not of the common herd, a

lazy vagabond, incapable of continuous work, or of perseverance in any

productive occupation, desiring only to be enriched by impoverishing

others, one of the endless rank and file of Italian republicans, to whom

the word "republic" means nothing but bread without work, and the

liberty which consists in howling blasphemies by day and night in the

public streets. His position was as different from that of a private in

the blackguard battalion as his artistic gifts and his industry were

superior to those of the throng. He had money, he had talent, and he had

been very successful in his occupation. He had nothing to gain by the

revolutions he dreamed of, and he might lose much by any upsetting of

the existing laws of property. He was, therefore, perfectly sincere, so

far as his convictions went, and disinterested to a remarkable degree.

These conditions are often found in the social position of the true

fanatic, who is the more ready to run to the greatest length, because he

entertains no desire to better his own state. Marzio's real weakness lay

in the limited scope of his views, and in a certain timid prudence which

destroyed his power of initiative. He was an economical man, who

distrusted the future; and though such a disposition produces a good

effect in causing a man to save money against the day of misfortune, it

is incompatible with the career of the true enthusiast, who must be

ready to risk everything at any moment. The man who would move other

men, and begin great changes, must have an enormous belief in himself,

an unbounded confidence in his cause, and a large faith in the future,

amounting to the absolute scorn of consequence.

These greater qualities Marzio did not possess, and through lack of them

the stupendous results of which he was fond of talking had diminished to

a series of domestic quarrels, in which he was not always victorious.

His hatred of the church was practically reduced to the detestation of

his brother, and to an unreasoning jealousy of his brother's influence

in his home. His horror of social distinctions, which speculated freely

upon the destruction of the monarchy, amounted in practice to nothing

more offensive than a somewhat studious rudeness towards the few

strangers of high position who from time to time visited the workshop in

the Via dei Falegnami. In the back room of his inn, Marzio could find

loud and cutting words in which to denounce the Government, the

monarchy, the church, and the superiority of the aristocracy. In real

fact, Marzio took off his hat when he met the king in the street, paid

his taxes with a laudable regularity, and increased the small fortune he

had saved by selling sacred vessels to the priests against whom he

inveighed. Instead of burning the Vatican and hanging the College of

Cardinals to the pillars of the Colonnade, Marzio Pandolfi felt a very

unpleasant sense of constraint in the presence of the only priest with

whom he ever conversed, his brother Paolo. When, on very rare occasions,

he broke out into angry invective, and ventured to heap abuse upon the

calm individual who excited his wrath, he soon experienced the

counter-shock in the shape of a strong conviction that he had injured

his position rather than bettered it, and the melancholy conclusion

forced itself upon him that by abusing Paolo he himself lost influence

in his own house, and not unfrequently called forth the contempt of

those he had sought to terrify.

The position was galling in the extreme; for, like many artists who are

really remarkable in their profession, Marzio was very vain of his

intellectual superiority in other branches. It may be a question whether

vanity is not essential to any one who is forced to compete in

excellence with other gifted men. Vanity means emptiness, and in the

case of the artist it means that emptiness which craves to be filled

with praise. The artist may doubt his own work, but he is bitterly

disappointed if other people doubt it also. Marzio had his full share of

this kind of vanity, which, as in most cases, extended beyond the sphere

of his art. How often does one hear two or three painters or sculptors

who are gathered together in a studio, laying down the law concerning

Government, society, and the distribution of wealth. And yet, though

they make excellent statues and paint wonderful pictures, there are very

few instances on record of artists having borne any important part in

the political history of their times. Not from any want of a desire to

do so, in many cases, but from the real want of the power; and yet many

of them believe themselves far more able to solve political and social

questions than the men who represent them in the Parliament of their

country, or the persons who by innate superiority of tact have made

themselves the arbiters of society.

Marzio's vanity suffered terribly, for he realised the wide difference

that existed between his aims and the result actually produced. For this

reason he had determined to bring matters to a point of contention in

his household, in order to assert once and for all the despotic

authority which he believed to be his right. He knew well enough that in

proposing the marriage of Lucia with Carnesecchi, he had hit upon a plan

which Paolo would oppose with all his might. It seemed as though he

could not have selected a question more certain to produce a hot

contention. He had brought forward his proposal boldly, and had not

hesitated to make a most virulent personal attack on his brother when

the latter had shown signs of opposition. And yet, as he sat over his

drawing board, staring at the clouds of smoke that rose from his pipe,

he was unpleasantly conscious that he had not been altogether

victorious, that he had not played the part of the despot to the end, as

he had intended to do, that he had suddenly felt his inferiority to

Paolo's calmness, and that upon hearing of the proposition concerning

the crucifix he had acted as though he had received a bribe to be quiet.

He bit his thin lips as he reflected that all the family must have

supposed his silence from that moment to have been the effect of the

important commission which Paolo had communicated to him; for it seemed

impossible that they should understand the current of his thoughts.

As he glanced at the head he had drawn he understood himself better than

others had understood him, for he saw on the corner of the paper the

masterly sketch of an ideal Christ he had sought after for years without

ever reaching it. He knew that that ideal had presented itself to his

mind at the very moment when Paolo had proposed the work to him--the

result perhaps, of the excitement under which he laboured at the moment.

From that instant he had been able to think of nothing. He had been

impelled to draw, and the expression of his thought had driven

everything else out of his mind. Paolo had gained a fancied victory by

means of a fancied bribe. Marzio determined to revenge himself for the

unfair advantage his brother had then taken, by showing himself

inflexible in his resolution concerning the marriage. It was but a small

satisfaction to have braved Gianbattista's boyish threats, after having

seemed to accept the bribe of a priest.

CHAPTER IV

On the following morning, Marzio left the house earlier than usual

Gianbattista had not finished his black coffee, and was not in a humour

to make advances to his master, after the scene of the previous evening.

So he did not move from the table when the chiseller left the room, nor

did he make any remark upon the hour. The door that led to the stairs

had hardly closed after Marzio, when Lucia put her head into the room

where Gianbattista was seated.

"He is gone," said the young man; "come in, we can talk a few minutes."

"Tista," began, Lucia, coming forward and laying her fingers on his

curly hair, "what did all that mean last night? Have you understood?"

"Who understands that lunatic!" exclaimed Gianbattista, passing his arm

round the girl's waist, and drawing her to him. "I only understand one

thing, we must be married as soon as possible and be done with it. Is it

not true, Lucia?"

"I hope so," answered his companion, with a blush and a sigh. "But I am

so much afraid."

"Do not be afraid, leave it all to me, I will protect you, my darling,"

replied the young man, tapping his breast with the ready gesture of an

Italian, as though to prove his courage.

"Oh, I am sure of that! But how can it be managed? Of course he cannot

force me to marry Carnesecchi, as Uncle Paolo explained to him. But he

will try, and he is so bad!"

"Let him try, let him try," repeated Gianbattista. "I made a bargain

with him last night after you had gone to bed. Do you know what I told

him? I told him that I would stay with him, but that if you married any

one but me, I would cut his throat--Sor Marzio's throat, do you

understand?"

"Oh, Tista!" cried Lucia. "How did you ever have the courage to tell him

such a thing? Besides, you know, you would not do it, would you?"

"Do not trouble yourself, he saw I was in earnest, and he will think

twice about it. Besides, he said yesterday that I might have you if I

would take you away."

"A nice thing for a father to say of his daughter!" exclaimed the girl

angrily. "And what did you answer him then, my love?"

"Oh! I said that I had not the slightest objection to the proceeding.

And then he tried to prove to me that we should starve without him, and

then he swore at me like a Turk. What did it matter? He said I was

changed. By Diana! Any man would change, just for the sake of not being

like him!"

"How do you mean that you are changed, dear?" asked Lucia anxiously.

"Who knows? He said I fawned on Don Paolo like a dog, instead of hating

the priests as I used to do. What do you think, love?"

"I think Uncle Paolo would laugh at the idea," answered the girl,

smiling herself, but rather sadly. "I am afraid you are as bad as ever,

in that way."

"I am not bad, Lucia. I begin to think I like Don Paolo. He was splendid

last night. Did you see how he stared your father out of countenance,

and then turned him into a lamb with the order for the crucifix? Don

Paolo has a much stronger will than Sor Marzio, and a great deal more

sense. He will make your father change his mind."

"Of course it would be for the better if we could be married without any

objection, and I am very glad you are growing fond of Uncle Paolo. But I

have seen it for some time. He is so good!"

"Yes. That is the truth," answered Gianbattista in meditative tone. "He

is too good. It is not natural. And then he has a way of making me feel

it. Now, I would have strangled Sor Marzio last night if your uncle had

not been there, but he prevented me. Of course he was right. Those

people always are. But one hates to be set right by a priest. It is

humiliating!"

"Well, it is better than not to be set right at all," said Lucia. "You

see, if you had strangled poor papa, it would have been dreadful! Oh,

Tista, promise me that you will not do anything violent! Of course he is

very unkind, I know. But it would be terrible if you were to be angry

and hurt him. You will not, Tista? Tell me you will not?"

"We shall see; we shall see, my love!"

"You do not love me if you will not promise."

"Oh, if that is all, my love, I will promise never to lay a finger on

him until you are actually married to some one else. But then--"

Gianbattista made the gesture which means driving the knife into an

enemy.

"Then you may do anything you please," answered Lucia, with a laugh. "He

will never make me marry any one but you. You know that, my heart!"

"In that case we ought to be married very soon," argued the young man.

"We need not live here, you know. Indeed, it would be out of the

question. We will take one of those pretty little places in the new

quarter--"

"That is so far away," interrupted the girl.

"Yes, but there is the tramway, and there are omnibuses. It only takes a

quarter of an hour."

"But you would be so far from me all day, my love. I could not run into

the studio at all hours, and you would not come home for dinner. Oh! I

could not bear it!"

"Very well, we will try and find something near here," said

Gianbattista, yielding the point. "We will get a little apartment near

the Minerva, where there is sun."

"And we will have a terrace on the top of the house, with pots of

carnations."

"And red curtains on rings, that we can draw; it is such a pretty light

when the sun shines through them."

"And green wall paper with blue furniture," suggested Lucia. "It is so

gay."

"Or perhaps the furniture of the same colour as the paper--you know they

have it so in all fashionable houses."

"Well, if it is really the fashion, I suppose we must," assented the

girl rather regretfully.

"Yes, it is the fashion, my heart, and you must have everything in the

fashion. But I must be going," added the young man, rising from his seat.

"Already? It is early, Tista--" she hesitated, "Dear Tista," she began

again, her dark eyes resting anxiously on his face, "what will you say

to him in the workshop? You will tell him that I would rather die than

marry Carnesecchi, that we are solemnly promised, that nothing shall

part us! You will make him see reason, Tista, will you not? I cannot go

to him, or I would; and mamma, poor mamma, is so afraid of him when he

is in his humours. There are only you and Uncle Paolo to manage him; and

after the way he insulted Uncle Paolo last night, it will be all the

harder. Think of it, Tista, while you are at work, and bring me word

when you come to dinner."

"Never fear, love," replied Gianbattista confidently; "what else should

I think of while I am hammering away all day? A little kiss, to give me

courage."

In a moment he was gone, and his quick step resounded on the stairs as

he ran down, leaving Lucia at the door above, to catch the last good-bye

he called up to her when he reached the bottom. His fresh voice came up

to her mingled with the rattle of the lumbering carts in the street. She

answered the cry and went in.

Just then the sleepy Signora Pandolfi emerged from her chamber, clad in

the inevitable skirt and white cotton jacket, her heavy black hair

coiled in an irregular mass on the top of her head, and held in place

by hair-pins that seemed to be on the point of dropping out.

"Ah, Lucia, my darling! Such a night as I have passed!" she moaned,

sinking into a chair beside the table, on which the coffee-pot and the

empty cups were still standing. "Such a night, my dear! I have not

closed an eye. I am sure it is the last judgment! And this scirocco,

too, it is enough to kill one!"

"Courage, mamma," answered Lucia gaily. "Things are never so bad as they

seem."

"Oh, that monster, that monster!" groaned the fat lady. "He would make

an angel lose his patience! Imagine, my dear, he insists that you shall

be married in a fortnight, and he has left me money to go and buy things

for your outfit! Oh dear! What are we to do? I shall go mad, my dear,

and you will all have to take me to Santo Spirito! Oh dear! Oh dear!

This scirocco!"

"I think papa will go mad first," said Lucia. "I never heard of such an

insane proposition in my life. All in a moment too--I think I am to

marry Tista--papa gets into a rage and--_patatunfate!_ a new

husband--like a conjuror's trick, such a comedy! I expected to see the

door open at every minute, Pulcinella walk in and beat everybody with a

blown bladder! But Uncle Paolo did quite as well."

"Oh, my head!" complained the Signora Pandolfi. "I have not slept a

wink!"

"And then it was shameful to see the way papa grew quiet and submissive

when Uncle Paolo gave him the order for the crucifix! If it had been

anybody but papa, I should have said that a miracle had been performed.

But poor papa! No--the miracle of the soldi--that is the truth. I would

like to catch sight of the saint who could work a miracle on papa!

Capers, what a saint he would have to be!"

"Bacchus!" ejaculated Maria Luisa, "San Filippo Neri would be nowhere!

The Holy Father would have to make a saint on purpose to convert that

monster! A saint who should have nothing else to do. Oh, how hot it is!

My head is splitting. What are we to do, Lucia, my heart? Tell me a

little what we are to do--two poor women--all alone--oh dear!"

"In the first place, it needs courage, mamma," answered Lucia, "and a

cup of coffee. It is still hot, and you have not had any--"

"Coffee! Who thinks of coffee?" cried the Signora Pandolfi, taking the

cup from her daughter's hands, and drinking the liquid with more

calmness than might have been anticipated.

"That is right," continued the girl. "Drink, mamma, it will do you good.

And then, and then--let me see. And then you must talk to Suntarella

about the dinner. That old woman has no head--"

"Dinner!" cried the mother, "who thinks of dinner at such a time? And he

left me the money for the outfit, too! Lucia, my love, I have the

fever--I will go to bed."

"Eh! What do you suppose? That is a way out of all difficulties,"

answered Lucia philosophically.

"But you cannot go out alone--"

"I will stay at home in that case."

"And then he will come to dinner, and ask to see the things--"

"There will be no things to show him," returned the young girl.

"Well? And then where should we be?" inquired the Signora Pandolfi. "I

see him, my husband, coming back and finding that nothing has been done!

He would tear his hair! He would kill us! He would bring his broomstick

of a lawyer here to marry you this very afternoon, and what should we

have gained then? It needs judgment, Lucia, my heart--judgment,

judgment!" repeated the fat lady, tapping her forehead.

"Eh! If you have not enough for two, mamma, I do not know what we shall

do."

"At the same time, something must be done," mused Maria Luisa. "My head

is positively bursting! We might go out and buy half a dozen

handkerchiefs, just to show him that we have begun. Do you think a few

handkerchiefs would quiet him, my love? You could always use them

afterwards--a dozen would be too many--"

"Bacchus!" exclaimed Lucia, "I have only one nose."

"It is a pity," answered her mother rather irrelevantly. "After all,

handkerchiefs are the cheapest things, and if we spread them out, all

six, on the green sofa, they will make a certain effect--these men! One

must deceive them, my child."

"Suppose we did another thing," began Lucia, looking out of the window.

"We might get some things--in earnest, good things. They will always do

for the wedding with Tista. Meanwhile, papa will of course have to

change his mind, and then it will be all right."

"What genius!" cried the Signora Pandolfi. "Oh, Lucia! You have found

it! And then we can just step into the workshop on our way--that will

reassure your father."

"Perhaps, after all, it would be better to go and tell him the truth,"

said Lucia, beginning to walk slowly up and down the room. "He must know

it, sooner or later."

"Are you mad, Lucia?" exclaimed her mother, holding up her hands in

horror. "Just think how he would act if you went and faced him!"

"Then why not go and find Uncle Paolo?" suggested the girl. "He will

know what is best to be done, and will help us, you may be sure. Of

course, he expected to see us before anything was done in the matter.

But I am not afraid to face papa all alone. Besides, Tista is talking to

him at this very minute. I told him all he was to say, and he has so

much courage!"

"I wish I had as much," moaned the Signora Pandolfi, lapsing into

hesitation.

"Come, mamma, I will decide for you," said Lucia. "We will go and find

Uncle Paolo, and we will do exactly as he advises."

"After all, that is best," assented her mother, rising slowly from her

seat.

Half an hour later they left the house upon their errand, but they did

not enter the workshop on their way. Indeed, if they had, they would

have been surprised to find that Marzio was not there, and that

Gianbattista was consequently not talking to him as Lucia had supposed.

When Gianbattista reached the workshop, he was told that Marzio had only

remained five minutes, and had gone away so soon as everybody was at

work. He hesitated a moment, wondering whether he might not go home

again and spend another hour in Lucia's company; but it was not possible

to foretell whether Marzio would be absent during the whole morning, and

Gianbattista decided to remain. Moreover, the peculiar smell of the

studio brought with it the idea of work, and with the idea came the love

of the art, not equal, perhaps, to the love of the woman but more

familiar from the force of habit.

All men feel such impressions, and most of all those who follow a fixed

calling, and are accustomed to do their work in a certain place every

day. Théophile Gautier confessed in his latter days that he could not

work except in the office of the _Moniteur_--elsewhere, he said, he

missed the smell of the printers' ink, which brought him ideas. Artists

know well the effect of the atmosphere of the studio. Five minutes of

that paint-laden air suffice to make the outer world a mere dream, and

to recall the reality of work. There was an old dressing-gown to which

Thackeray was attached as to a friend, and which he believed

indispensable to composition. Balzac had his oval writing-room, when he

grew rich, and the creamy white colour of the tapestries played a great

part in his thoughts. The blacksmith loves the smoke of the forge and

the fumes of hot iron on the anvil, and the chiseller's fingers burn to

handle the tools that are strewn on the wooden bench.

Gianbattista stood at the door of the studio, and had he been master

instead of apprentice, he could not have resisted the desire to go to

his place and take up the work he had left on the previous evening. In a

few minutes he was hammering away as busily as though there were no such

thing as marriage in the world, and nothing worth living for but the

chiselling of beautiful arabesques on a silver ewer. His head was bent

over his hands, his eyes followed intently the smallest movements of the

tool he held, he forgot everything else, and became wholly absorbed in

his occupation.

Nevertheless, much of a chiseller's work is mechanical, and as the

smooth iron ran in and out of the tiny curves under the gentle tap of

the hammer, the young man's thoughts went back to the girl he had left

at the top of the stairs a quarter of an hour earlier; he thought of

her, as he did daily, as his promised wife, and he fell to wondering

when it would be, and how it would be. They often talked of the place in

which they would live, as they had done that morning; and as neither of

them was very imaginative, there was a considerable similarity between

the speculations they indulged in at one time and at another. It was

always to be a snug home, high up, with a terrace, pots of carnations,

and red curtains. Their only difference of opinion concerned the colour

of the walls and furniture. Like most Italians, they had very little

sense of colour, and thought only of having everything gay, as they

called it; that is to say, the upholstery was to be chosen of the most

vivid hues, probably of those horrible tints known as aniline. Italians,

as a rule, and especially those who belong to the same class as the

Pandolfi family, have a strong dislike for the darker and softer tones.

To them anything which is not vivid is sad, melancholy, and depressing

to the senses. Gianbattista saw in his mind's eye a little apartment

after his own heart, and was happy in the idea. But, as he followed the

train of thought, it led him to the comparison of the home to which he

proposed to take his wife with the one in which they now lived under her

father's roof, and suddenly the scene of the previous evening rose

clearly in the young man's imagination. He dropped his hammer, and

stared up at the grated windows.

He went over the whole incident, and perhaps for the first time realised

its true importance, and all the danger there might be in the future

should Marzio attempt to pursue his plan to the end. Gianbattista had

only once seen the lawyer who was thus suddenly thrust into his place.

He remembered a thin, cadaverous man, in a long and gloomy black coat,

but that was all. He did not recall his voice, nor the expression of his

face; he had only seen him once, and had thought little enough of the

meeting. It seemed altogether impossible, and beyond the bounds of

anything rational, that this stranger should ever really be brought

forward to be Lucia's husband.

For a moment the whole thing looked like an evil dream, and Gianbattista

smiled as he looked down again at his work. Then the reality of the

occurrence rose up again and confronted him stubbornly. He was not

mistaken, Marzio had actually pronounced those words, and Don Paolo had

sprung forward to prevent Gianbattista from attacking his master then

and there. The young man looked at his work, holding his tools in his

hands, but hesitating to lay the point of the chisel on the silver, as

he hesitated to believe the evidence of his memory.

CHAPTER V

Marzio had risen early that morning, as has been said, and had left the

house before any one but Gianbattista was up. He was in reality far from

inclined to drink his coffee in the company of his apprentice, and would

have avoided it, if possible. Nor did he care to meet Lucia until he had

found time and occasion to refresh his anger. His wife was too sleepy to

quarrel, and hardly seemed to understand him when he gave her money and

bade her look to Lucia's outfit, adding that the wedding was to take

place immediately.

"Will you not let me sleep in peace, even in the morning?" she groaned.

"Magari! I wish you would sleep, and for ever!" growled Marzio, as he

left the room.

He drank his coffee in silence, and went out. After looking into the

workshop he walked slowly away in the direction of the Capitol. The damp

morning air was pleasant to him, and the gloomy streets through which he

passed were agreeable to his state of feeling. He wished Home might

always wear such a dismal veil of dampness, scirocco, and cloud.

A man in a bad humour will go out of his way to be rained upon and blown

against by the weather. We would all like to change our surroundings

with our moods, to fill the world with sunshine when we are happy, and

with clouds when we have stumbled in the labyrinths of life. Lovers wish

that the whole earth might be one garden, crossed and recrossed by

silent moonlit paths; and when love has taken the one and left the

other, he who stays behind would have his garden changed to an angry

ocean, and the sweet moss banks to storm-beaten rocks, that he may drown

in the depths, or be dashed to pieces by the waves, before he has had

time to know all that he has lost.

As we grow older, life becomes the expression of a mood, according to

the way we have lived. He who seeks peace will find that with advancing

age the peaceful moment, that once came so seldom, returns more readily,

and that at last the moments unite to make hours, and the hours to build

up days and years. He who stoops to petty strife will find that the

oft-recurring quarrel has power to perpetuate the discontented weakness

out of which it springs, and that it can make all life a hell. He who

rejoices in action will learn that activity becomes a habit, and at last

excludes the possibility of rest, and the desire for it; and his lot is

the best, for the momentary gladness in a great deed well done is worth

a millennium of sinless, nerveless tranquillity. The positive good is as

much better than the negative "non-bad," as it is better to save a life

than not to destroy a life. But whatever temper of mind we choose will

surely become chronic in time, and will be known to those among whom we

live as our temper, our own particular temper, as distinguished from the

tempers of other people.

Marzio had begun life in a bad humour. He delighted in his imaginary

grievances, and inflicted his anger on all who came near him, only

varying the manifestation of it to suit the position in which he chanced

to find himself. With his wife he was overbearing; with his brother he

was insolent; with his apprentice he was sullen; and with his associates

at the old Falcone he played the demagogue. The reason of these phases

was very simple. His wife could not oppose him, Don Paolo would not

wrangle with him, Gianbattista imposed upon him by his superior calm and

strength of character, and, lastly, his socialist friends applauded him

and nattered his vanity. It is impossible for a weak man to appear

always the same, and his weakness is made the more noticeable when he

affects strength. The sinews of goodness are courage, moral and

physical, a fact which places all really good men and women beyond the

reach of ridicule and above the high-water mark of the world's

contempt.

Marzio lacked courage, and his virulence boiled most hotly when he had

least to fear for his personal safety. It was owing to this innate

weakness that such a combination of artistic sensitiveness and spasmodic

arrogance was possible. The man's excitable imagination apprehended

opposition where there was none, and his timidity made him fear a

struggle, and hate himself for fearing it. As soon as he was alone,

however, his thoughts generally returned to his art, and found

expression in the delicate execution of the most exquisite fancies.

Under other circumstances his character might have developed in a widely

different way; his talent would still have been the same. There is a

sort of nervous irritability which acts as a stimulant upon the

faculties, and makes them work faster. With Marzio this unnatural state

was chronic, and had become so because he had given himself up to it. It

is a common disease in cities, where a man is forced to associate with

his fellow-men, and to compete with them, whether he is naturally

inclined to do so or not. If Marzio could have exercised his art while

living as a hermit on the top of a lonely mountain he might have been a

much better man.

He almost understood this himself as he walked slowly through the Via

delle Botteghe Oscure--"the street of dark shops"--in the early

morning. He was thinking of the crucifix he was to make, and the

interest he felt in it made him dread the consequences of the previous

night's domestic wrangling. He wanted to be alone, and at the same time

he wanted to see places and things which should suggest thoughts to him.

He did not care whither he went so long as he kept out of the new Rome.

When he reached the little garden in front of San Marco he paused,

looked at the deep doorway of the church, remembered the barbarous

mosaics within, and turned impatiently into a narrow street on the

right--the beginning of the Via di Marforio.

The network of by-ways in this place is full of old-time memories. Here

is the Via Giulio Romano, where the painter himself once lived; here is

the Macel dei Corvi, where Michael Angelo once lodged; hard by stood the

statue of Marforio, christened by the mediæval Romans after _Martis

Forum_, and famous as the interlocutor of Pasquino. The place was a

centre of artists and scholars in those days. Many a simple question was

framed here, to fit the two-edged biting answer, repeated from mouth to

mouth, and carefully written down among Pasquino's epigrams. First of

all the low-born Roman hates all that is, and his next thought is to

express his hatred in a stinging satire without being found out.

Like every real Roman, Marzio thought of old Marforio as he strolled up

the narrow street towards the Capitol, and regretted the lawless days of

conspiracy and treacherous deeds when every man's hand was against his

fellow. He wandered on, his eyes cast down, and his head bent. Some one

jostled against him, walking quickly in the opposite direction. He

looked up and recognised Gasparo Carnesecchi's sallow face and long

nose.

"Eh! Sor Marzio--is it you?" asked the lawyer.

"I think so," answered the artist. "Excuse me, I was thinking of

something."

"No matter. Of what were you thinking, then? Of Pasquino?"

"Why not? But I was thinking of something else. You are in a hurry, I am

sure. Otherwise we would speak of that affair."

"I am never in a hurry when there is business to be treated," replied

Carnesecchi, looking down the street and preparing to listen.

"You know what I mean," Marzio began. "The matter we spoke of two days

ago--my plans for my daughter."

The lawyer glanced quickly at his friend and assumed an indifferent

expression. He was aware that his position, was socially superior to

that of the silver-chiseller, in spite of Marzio's great talent. But he

knew also that Lucia was to have a dowry, and that she would ultimately

inherit all her father possessed. A dowry covers a multitude of sins in

the eyes of a man to whom money is the chief object in life.

Carnesecchi, therefore, meant to extract as many thousands of francs

from Marzio as should be possible, and prepared himself to bargain. The

matter was by no means settled, in spite of the chiseller's instructions

to his wife concerning the outfit.

"We must talk," said Carnesecchi. "Not that I should be altogether

averse to coming easily to an understanding, you know. Bat there are

many things to be considered. Let us see."

"Yes, let us see," assented the other. "My daughter has education. She

is also sufficiently well instructed. She could make a fine marriage.

But then, you see, I desire a serious person for my son-in-law. What

would you have? One must be prudent."

It is not easy to define exactly what a Roman means by the word

"serious." In some measure it is the opposite of gay, and especially of

what is young and unsettled. The German use of the word Philistine

expresses it very nearly. A certain sober, straitlaced way of looking at

life, which was considered to represent morality in Rome fifty years

ago; a kind of melancholy superiority over all sorts of amusements,

joined with a considerable asceticism and the most rigid economy in the

household--that is what was meant by the word "serious." To-day its

signification has been slightly modified, but a serious man--_un uomo

serio_--still represents to the middle-class father the ideal of the

correct son-in-law.

"Eh, without prudence!" exclaimed Carnesecchi, elliptically, as though

to ask where he himself would have been had he not possessed prudence in

abundance.

"Exactly," answered Marzio, biting off the end of a common cigar and

fixing his eyes on the lawyer's thin, keen face. "Precisely. I think--of

course I do not know--but I think that you are a serious man. But then,

I may be mistaken."

"Well, it is human to err, Sor Marzio. But then, I am no longer of that

age--what shall I say? Everybody knows I am serious. Do I lead the life

of the café? Do I wear out my shoes in Piazza Colonna? Capers! I am a

serious man."

"Yes," answered Marzio, though with some hesitation, as though he were

prepared to argue even this point with the sallow-faced lawyer. He

struck a match on the gaudy little paper box he carried and began to

smoke thoughtfully. "Let us make a couple of steps," he said at last.

Both men moved slowly on for a few seconds, and then stopped again. In

Italy "a couple of steps" is taken literally.

"Let us see," said Carnesecchi. "Let us look at things as they are. In

these days there are many excellent opportunities for investing money."

"Hum!" grunted Marzio, pulling a long face and looking up under his

eyebrows. "I know that is your opinion, Sor Gasparo. I am sorry that you

should put so much faith in the stability of things. So you, too, have

got the malady of speculation. I suppose you are thinking of building a

Palazzo Carnesecchi out at Sant' Agnese in eight floors and thirty-two

apartments."

"Yes, I am mad," answered the lawyer ironically.

"Who knows?" returned the other. "I tell you they are building a Pompeii

in those new quarters. When you and I are old men, crazy Englishmen will

pay two francs to be allowed to wander about the ruins."

"It may be. I am not thinking of building. In tine first place I have

not the _soldi_."

"And if you had?" inquired Marzio.

"What nonsense! Besides, no one has. It is all done on credit, and the

devil take the hindmost. But if I really had a million--eh! I know what

I would do."

"Let us hear. I also know what I would do. Besta! What is the use of

building castles in the air?"

"In the air, or not in the air, if I had a million, I know what I would

do."

"I would have a newspaper," said Marzio. "Whew! how it would sting!"

"It would sting you, and bleed you into the bargain," returned the

lawyer with some contempt. "No one makes mosey out of newspapers in

these times. If I had money, I would be a deputy. With prudence there is

much to be earned in the Chambers, and petitioners know that they must

pay cash."

"It is certainly a career," assented the artist "But, as you say, it

needs money for the first investment."

"Not so much as a million, though. With a good opening, and some

knowledge of the law, a small sum would be enough."

"It is a career, as I said," repeated Marzio. "But five thousand francs

would not give you an introduction to it."

"Five thousand francs!" exclaimed Carnesecchi, with a scornful laugh.

"With five thousand francs you had better play at the lottery. After

all, if you lose, it is nothing."

"It is a great deal of money, Sor Gasparo," replied the chiseller. "When

you have made it little by little--then you know what it means."

"Perhaps. But we have been standing here more than a quarter of an

hour, and I have a client waiting for me about a big affair, an affair

of millions."

"Bacchus!" ejaculated Marzio. "You are not in a hurry about the matter.

Well, we can always talk, and I will not keep you."

"We might walk together, and say what we have to say."

"I am going to the Capitol," Marzio said, for he had been walking in

that direction when they met.

"That is my way, too," answered the lawyer, forgetting that he had run

into Marzio as he came down the street.

"Eh! That is lucky," remarked the artist with an almost imperceptible

smile. "As I was saying," he continued, "five thousand francs is not the

National Bank, but it is a very pretty little sum, especially when there

is something more to be expected in the future."

"That depends on the future. But I do not call it a sum. Nothing under

twenty thousand is a sum, properly speaking."

"Who has twenty thousand francs?" laughed Marzio, shrugging his

shoulders with an incredulous look.

"You talk as though Rome were an asylum for paupers," returned

Carnesecchi. "Who has twenty thousand francs? Why, everybody has. You

have, I have. One must be a beggar not to have that much. After all, we

are talking about business, Sor Marzio. Why should I not say it? I have

always said that I would not marry with less than that for a dowry. Why

should one throw away one's opportunities? To please some one? It is not

my business to try and please everybody. One must be just."

"Of course. What? Am I not just? But if justice were done, where would

some people be? I say it, too. If you marry my daughter, you will expect

a dowry. Have I denied it? And then, five thousand is not so little.

There is the outfit, too; I have to pay for that."

"That is not my affair," laughed the lawyer. "That is the business of

the woman. But five thousand francs is not my affair either. Think of

the responsibilities a man incurs when he marries! Five thousand! It is

not even a cup of coffee! You are talking to a _galantuomo_, an honest

man, Sor Marzio. Reflect a little."

"I reflect--yes! I reflect that you ask a great deal of money, Signer

Carnesecchi," replied Marzio with some irritation.

"I never heard that anybody gave money unless it was asked for."

"It will not be for lack of asking if you do not get it," retorted the

artist.

"What do you mean, Signor Pandolfi?" inquired Carnesecchi, drawing

himself up to his full height and then striking his hollow chest with

his lean hand. "Do you mean that I am begging money of you? Do you mean

to insult an honest man, a _galantuomo_? By heaven, Signor Pandolfi, I

would have you know that Gasparo Carnesecchi never asked a favour of any

man! Do you understand? Let us speak clearly."

"Who has said anything?" asked Marzio. "Why do you heat yourself in this

way? And then, after all, we shall arrange this affair. You wish it. I

wish it. Why should it not be arranged? If five thousand does not suit

you, name a sum. We are Christians--we will doubtless arrange. But we

must talk. How much should you think, Sor Gasparo?"

"I have said it. As I told you just now, I have always said that I would

not marry with less than eighteen thousand francs of dowry. What is the

use of repeating? Words are not roasted chestnuts."

"Nor eighteen thousand francs either," answered the other. "Magari! I

wish they were. You should have them in a moment. But a franc is a

franc."

"I did not say it was a cabbage," observed Carnesecchi. "After all, why

should I marry?"

"Perhaps you will not," suggested Marzio, who was encouraged to continue

the negotiations, however, by the diminution in the lawyer's demands.

"Why not?" asked the latter sharply, "Do you think nobody else has

daughters?"'

"If it comes to that, why have you not married before?"

"Because I did not choose to marry," answered Carnesecchi, beginning to

walk more briskly, as though to push the matter to a conclusion.

Marzio said nothing in reply. He saw that his friend was pressing him,

and understood that, to do so, the lawyer must be anxious to marry

Lucia. The chiseller therefore feigned indifference, and was silent for

some minutes. At the foot of the steps of the Capitol he stopped again.

"You know, Sor Gasparo," he said, "the reason why I did not arrange

about Lucia's marriage a long time ago, was because I was not

particularly in a hurry to have her married at all. And I am not in a

hurry now, either. We shall have plenty of opportunities of discussing

the matter hereafter. Good-bye, Sor Gasparo. I have business up there,

and that client of yours is perhaps impatient about his millions."

"Good-bye," answered Carnesecchi. "There is plenty of time, as you say.

Perhaps we may meet this evening at the Falcone."

"Perhaps," said Marab drily, and turned away.

He had a good understanding of his friend's character, and though in his

present mood he would have been glad to fix the wedding day, and sign

the marriage contract at once, he had no intention of yielding to

Carnesecchi's exorbitant demands. The lawyer was in need of money,

Marzio thought, and as he himself was the possessor of what the other

coveted, there could be little doubt as to the side on which the

advantage would ultimately be taken. Marzio went half-way up the steps

of the Capitol, and then stopped to look at the two wretched wolves

which the Roman municipality thinks it incumbent on the descendants of

Romulus to support. He thought one of them very like Carnesecchi. He

watched the poor beasts a moment or two as they tramped and swung and

pressed their lean sides against the bars of their narrow cage.

"What a sympathetic animal it is!" he exclaimed aloud. A passer-by

stared at him and then went on hurriedly, fearing that he might be mad.

Indeed, there was a sort of family likeness between the lawyer, the

chiseller, and the wolves.

Other thoughts, however, occupied Marzio's attention; and as soon as he

was sure that his friend was out of the way, he descended the steps. He

did not care whither he went, but he had no especial reason for climbing

the steep ascent to the Capitol. The crucifix his brother had ordered

from him on the previous evening engaged his attention, and it was as

much for the sake of being alone and of thinking about the work that he

had taken his solitary morning walk, as with the hope of finding in some

church a suggestion or inspiration which might serve him. He knew what

was to be found in Roman churches well enough; the Crucifixion in the

Trinità dei Pellegrini and the one in San Lorenzo in Lucina--both by

Guido Reni, and both eminently unsympathetic to his conception of the

subject--he had often looked at them, and did not care to see them

again. At last he entered the Church of the Gesù, and sat down upon a

chair in a corner.

He did not look up. The interior of the building was as familiar to him

as the outside. He sat in profound thought, occasionally twisting his

soft hat in his hands, and then again remaining quite motionless. He did

not know how long he stayed there. The perfect silence was pleasant to

him, and when he rose he felt that the idea he had sought was found, and

could be readily expressed. With a sort of sigh of satisfaction he went

out again into the air and walked quickly towards his workshop.

The men told him that Gianbattista was busy within, and after glancing

sharply at the work which was proceeding, Marzio opened the inner door

and entered the studio. He strode up to the table and took up the body

of the ewer, which lay on its pad where he had left it the night before.

He held it in his hands for a moment, and then, pushing the leather

cushion towards Gianbattista, laid it down.

"Finish it," he said shortly; "I have something else to do."

The apprentice looked up in astonishment, as though he suspected that

Marzio was jesting.

"I am afraid--" he answered with hesitation.

"It makes no difference; finish it as best you can; I am sick of it; you

will do it well enough. If it is bad, I will take the responsibility."

"Do you mean me really to finish it--altogether?"

"Yes; I tell you I have a great work on hand. I cannot waste my time

over such toys as acanthus leaves and cherubs' eyes!" He bent down and

examined the thing carefully. "You had better lay aside the neck and

take up the body just where I left it, Tista," he continued. "The

scirocco is in your favour. If it turns cold to-morrow the cement may

shrink, and you will have to melt it out again."

Marzio spoke to him as though there had not been the least difference

between them, as though Gianbattista had not proposed to cut his throat

the night before, as though he himself had not proposed to marry

Carnesecchi to Lucia.

"Take my place," he said. "The cord is the right length for you, as it

is too short for me. I am going to model."

Without more words Marzio went and took a large and heavy slate from

the corner, washed it carefully, and dried it with his handkerchief.

Then he provided himself with a bowl full of twisted lengths of red wax,

and with a couple of tools he sat down to his work. Gianbattista, having

changed his seat, looked over the tools his master had been using, with

a workman's keen glance, and, taking up his own hammer, attacked the

task given him. For some time neither of the men spoke.

"I have been to church," remarked Marzio at last, as he softened a piece

of wax between his fingers before laying it on the slate. The news was

so astounding that Gianbattista uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"You need not be frightened," answered the artist. "I only went to look

at a picture, and I did not look at it after all. I shall go to a great

many more churches before I have finished this piece of work. You ought

to go to the churches and study, Tista. Everything is useful in our

art--pictures, statues, mosaics, metal-work. Now I believe there is not

a really good crucifix, nor a crucifixion, in Rome. It is strange, too,

I have dreamed of one all my life."

Gianbattista did not find any answer ready in reply to the statement.

The words sounded so strangely in Marzio's mouth this morning, that the

apprentice was confused. And yet the two had often discussed the subject

before.

"You do not seem to believe me," continued Marzio quietly. "I assure you

it is a fact. The other things of the kind are not much better either.

Works of art, perhaps, but not satisfactory. Even Michael Angelo's

_Pietà_ in Saint Peter's does not please me. They say it did not please

the people of his time either--he was too young to do anything of that

sort--he was younger than you, Tista, only twenty-four years old when he

made that statue."

"Yes," answered Gianbattista, "I have heard you say so." He bent over

his work, wondering what his master meant by this declaration of taste.

It seemed as though Marzio felt the awkwardness of the situation and was

exerting himself to make conversation. The idea was so strange that the

apprentice could almost have laughed. Marzio continued to soften the wax

between his fingers, and to lay the pieces of it on the slate, pressing

them roughly into the shape of a figure.

"Has Paolo been here?" asked the master after another long pause.

Gianbattista merely shook his head to express a negative.

"Then he will come," continued Marzio. "He will not leave me in peace

all day, you may be sure."

"What should he come for? He never comes," said the young man.

"He will be afraid that I will have Lucia married before supper time. I

know him--and he knows me."

"If he thinks that, he does not know you at all," answered Gianbattista

quietly.

"Indeed?" exclaimed Marzio, raising his voice to the ironical tone he

usually affected when any one contradicted him. "To-day, to-morrow, or

the next day, what does it matter? I told you last night that I had made

up my mind."

"And I told you that I had made up mine."

"Oh yes--boy's threats! I am not the man to be intimidated by that sort

of thing. Look here, Tista, I am in earnest. I have considered this

matter a long time; I have determined that I will not be browbeaten any

longer by two women and a priest--certainly not by you. If things go on

as they are going, I shall soon not be master in my own house."

"You would be the only loser," retorted Gianbattista.

"Have done with this, Tista!" exclaimed Marzio angrily. "I am tired of

your miserable jokes. You have gone over to the enemy, you are Paolo's

man, and if I tolerate you here any longer it is merely because I have

taught you something, and you are worth your wages. As for the way I

have treated you during all these years, I cannot imagine how I could

have been such a fool. I should think anybody might see through your

hypocritical ways."

"Go on," said Gianbattista calmly. "You know our bargain of last night"

"I will risk that. If I see any signs of your amiable temper I will have

you arrested for threatening my life. I am not afraid of you, my boy,

but I do not care to die just at present. You have all had your way long

enough, I mean to have mine now."

"Let us talk reasonably, Sor Marzio. You say we have had our way. You

talk as though you had been in slavery in your own house. I do not think

that is the opinion of your wife, nor of your daughter. As for me, I

have done nothing but execute your orders for years, and if I have

learnt something, it has not been by trying to overrule you or by

disregarding your advice. Two years ago, you almost suggested to me that

I should marry Lucia. Of course, I asked nothing better, and we agreed

to wait until she was old enough. We discussed the matter a thousand

times. We settled the details. I agreed to go on working for the same

small wages instead of leaving you, as I might have done, to seek my

fortune elsewhere. You see I am calm, I acknowledge that I was grateful

to you for having taught me so much, and I am grateful still. You have

just given me another proof of your confidence in putting this work into

my hands to finish. I am grateful for that. Well, we have talked of the

marriage often; I have lived in your house; I have seen Lucia every day,

for you have let us be together as much as we pleased; the result is

that I not only am more anxious to marry her than I was before--I love

her; I am not ashamed to say so. I know you laugh at women and say they

are no better than monkeys with parrots' heads. I differ from you. Lucia

is an angel, and I love her as she loves me. What happens? One day you

take an unreasonable dislike for me, without even warning me of the

fact, and then, suddenly, last night, you come home and say she is to

marry the Avvocato Gasparo Carnesecchi. Now, for a man who has taught me

that there is no God but reason, all this strikes me as very

unreasonable. Honestly, Sor Marzio, do you not think so yourself?"

Marzio looked at his apprentice and frowned, as though hesitating

whether to lose his temper and launch into the invective style, or to

answer Gianbattista reasonably. Apparently he decided in favour of the

more peaceable course.

"It is unworthy of a man who follows reason to lose his self-control and

indulge in vain threats," he answered, assuming a grand didactic air.

"You attempt to argue with me. I will show you what argument really

means, and whither it leads. Now answer me some questions, Tista, and I

will prove that you are altogether in the wrong. When a man is devoted

to a great and glorious cause, should he not do everything in his power

to promote its success against those who oppose it?"

"Undoubtedly," assented Gianbattista.

"And should not a man be willing to sacrifice his individual preferences

in order to support and to further the great end of his life?"

"Bacchus! I believe it!"

"Then how much the more easy must it be for a man to support his cause

when there are no individual preferences in the way!" said Marzio

triumphantly. "That is true reason, my boy. That is the inevitable logic

of the great system."

"I do not understand the allegory," answered Gianbattista.

"It is as simple as roasted chestnuts," returned Marzio. "Even if I

liked you, it would be my duty to prevent you from marrying Lucia. As I

do not like you--you understand?"

"I understand that," replied the young man. "For some reason or other

you hate me. But, apart from the individual preferences, which you say

it is your duty to overcome, I do not see why you are morally obliged

to hinder our marriage, after having felt morally obliged to promote

it?"

"Because you are a traitor to the cause," cried Marzio, with sudden

fierceness. "Because you are a friend of Paolo. Is not that enough?"

"Poor Don Paolo seems to stick in your throat," observed Gianbattista.

"I do not see what he has done, except that he prevented me from killing

you last night!"

"Paolo! Paolo is a snake, a venomous viper! It is his business, his only

aim in life, to destroy my peace, to pervert my daughter from the

wholesome views I have tried to teach her, to turn you aside from the

narrow path of austere Italian virtue, to draw you away from following

in the footsteps of Brutus, of Cassius, of the great Romans, of me, your

teacher and master! That is all Paolo cares for, and it is enough--more

than enough! And he shall pay me for his presumptuous interference, the

villain!"

Marzio's voice sank into a hissing whisper as he bent over the wax he

was twisting and pressing. Gianbattista glanced at his pale face, and

inwardly wondered at the strange mixture of artistic genius, of

bombastic rhetoric and relentless hatred, all combined in the strange

man whom destiny had given him for a master. He wondered, too, how he

had ever been able to admire the contrasts of virulence and weakness,

of petty hatred and impossible aspirations which had of late revealed

themselves to him in a new light. Have we not most of us assisted at the

breaking of the Image of Baal, at the destruction of an imaginary

representative of an illogical ideal?

"Well, Sor Marzio," said Gianbattista after a pause, "if I were to

return to my worship of you and your principles--what would you do?

Would you take me back to your friendship and give me your daughter?"

Marzio looked up suddenly, and stared at the apprentice in surprise. But

the fresh young face gave no sign. Gianbattista had spoken quietly, and

was again intent upon his work.

"If you gave me a proof of your sincerity," answered Marzio, in low

tones, "I would do much for you. Yes, I would give you Lucia--and the

business too, when I am too old to work. But it must be a serious

proof--no child's play."

"What do you call a serious proof? A profession of faith?"

"Yes--sealed with the red wax that is a little thicker than water,"

answered Marzio grimly, his eyes still fixed on Gianbattista's face.

"In blood," said the young man calmly. "Whose blood would you like, Sor

Marzio?"

"Paolo's!"

The chiseller spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and bent low over

his slate, modelling hard at the figure under his fingers.

"I thought so," muttered Gianbattista between his teeth. Then he raised

his voice a little and continued: "And have you the courage, Sor Marzio,

to sit there and bargain with me to kill your brother, bribing me with

the offer of your daughter's hand? Why do you not kill him yourself,

since you talk of such things?"

"Nonsense, my dear Tista--I was only jesting," said the other nervously.

"It is just like your folly to take me in earnest." The anger had died

out of Marzio's voice and he spoke almost persuasively.

"I do not know," answered the young man. "I think you were in earnest

for a moment. I would not advise you to talk in that way before any one

else. People might interpret your meaning seriously."

"After all, you yourself were threatening to cut my throat last night,"

said Marzio, with a forced laugh. "It is the same thing. My life is as

valuable as Paolo's. I only suggested that you should transfer your

tender attentions from me to my brother."

"It is one thing to threaten a man to his face. It is quite another to

offer a man a serious inducement to commit murder. Since you have been

so very frank with me, Sor Marzio, I will confess that if the choice lay

between killing you, or killing Don Paolo, under the present

circumstances I would not hesitate a moment."

"And which would you--"

"Neither," replied the young man, with a cool laugh. "Don Paolo is too

good to be killed, and you are not good enough. Come and look at the

cherub's head I have made."

CHAPTER VI

Lucia's cheerfulness was not genuine, and any one possessing greater

penetration than her mother would have understood that she was, in

reality, more frightened than she was willing to show. The girl had a

large proportion of common sense, combined with a quicker perception

than the stout Signora Pandolfi. She did not think that she knew

anything about logic, and she had always shown a certain inconsistency

in her affection for Gianbattista, but she had nevertheless a very clear

idea of what was reasonable, a quality which is of immense value in

difficulties, though it is very often despised in every-day life by

people who believe themselves blessed by the inspirations of genius.

It seems very hard to make people of other nationalities understand that

the Italians of the present day are not an imaginative people. It is

nevertheless true, and it is only necessary to notice that they produce

few, if any, works of imagination. They have no writers of fiction, no

poets, few composers of merit and few artists who rank with those of

other nations. They possessed the creative faculty once; they have lost

it in our day, and it does not appear that they are likely to regain it.

On the other hand, the Italians are remarkable engineers, first-rate

mathematicians, clever, if unscrupulous, diplomatists. Though they

overrate their power and influence, they have shown a capacity for

organisation which is creditable on the whole. If they fail to obtain

the position they seek in Europe, their failure will have been due to

their inordinate vanity and over-governing, if I may coin the word,

rather than to an innate want of intelligence.

The qualities and defects of the Italian nation all existed in the

Pandolfi family. Marzio possessed more imagination than most of his

countrymen, and he had, besides, that extraordinary skill in his manual

execution of his work, which Italians have often exhibited on a large

scale. On the other hand, he was full of bombastic talk about principles

which he called great. His views concerning society, government, and the

future of his country, were entirely without balance, and betrayed an

amazing ignorance of the laws which, direct the destinies of mankind. He

suffered in a remarkable degree from that mental disease which afflicts

Italians--the worship of the fetish--of words which mean little, and are

supposed to mean much, of names in history which have been exalted by

the rhetoric of demagogues from the obscurity to which they had been

wisely consigned by the judgment of scholars. He was alternately weak

and despotic, cunning about small things which concerned his own

fortunes, and amazingly foolish about the set of ideas which he loosely

defined as politics.

Lucia's nature illustrated another phase of the Italian character, and

one which, if it is less remarkable, is much more agreeable. She

possessed the character which looks at everything from the point of view

of daily life. Without imagination, she regarded only the practical side

of existence. Her vanity was confined to a modest wish to make the best

of her appearance, while her ambition went no further than the strictest

possibility, in the shape of a marriage with Gianbattista Bordogni, and

a simple little apartment with a terrace and pots of pinks. Had she

known how much richer her father was than she suspected him of being,

the enlargement of her views for the future would have been marked by a

descent, from the fourth story of the house which was to be her

imaginary home, to the third story. It could never have entered her head

that Gianbattista ought to give up his profession until he was too old

to work any longer. In her estimation, the mere possession of money

could not justify a change of social position. She had been accustomed

from her childhood to hear her father air his views in regard to the

world in general, but his preaching had produced but little impression

upon her. When he thought she was listening in profound attention to his

discourse, she was usually wishing that he could be made to see the

absurdity of his theories. She wished also that he would sacrifice some

of his enthusiasm for the sake of a little more quiet in the house, for

she saw that his talking distressed her mother. Further than this she

cared little what he said, and not at all for what he thought. Her mind

was generally occupied with the one subject which absorbed her thoughts,

and which had grown to be by far the most important part of her nature,

her love for Gianbattista Bordogni.

Upon that point she was inflexible. Her Uncle Paolo might have led her

to change her mind in regard to many things, for she was open to

persuasion where her common sense was concerned. But in her love for

Gianbattista she was fixed and determined. It would have been more easy

to turn her father from his ideas than to make Lucia give up the man she

loved. When Marzio had suddenly declared that she should marry the

lawyer, her first feeling had been one of ungovernable anger which had

soon found vent in tears. During the night she had thought the matter

over, and had come to the conclusion that it was only an evil jest,

invented by Marzio to give her pain. But in the morning it seemed to

her as though on the far horizon a black cloud of possible trouble were

gathering; she had admitted to herself that her father might be in

earnest, and she had felt something like the anticipation of the great

struggle of her life. Then she felt that she would die rather than

submit.

She had no theatrical desire to swear a fearful oath with Gianbattista

that they should drown themselves at the Ponte Quattro Capi rather than

be separated. Her nature was not dramatic, any more than his. The young

girl dressed herself quickly, and made up her mind that if any pressure

were brought to bear upon her she would not yield, but that, until then,

there was no use in making phrases, and it would be better to be as

cheerful as possible under the circumstances. But for Lucia's reassuring

manner, the Signora Pandolfi would have doubtless succumbed to her

feelings and gone to bed. Lucia, however, had no intention of allowing

her mother any such weakness, and accordingly alternately comforted her

and suggested means of escape from the position, as though she were

herself the mother and Maria Luisa were her child.

They found Don Paolo in his small lodging, and he bid them enter, that

they might all talk the matter over.

"In the first place," said the priest, "it is wrong. In the second

place it is impossible. Thirdly, Marzio will not attempt to carry out

his threat."

"Dear me! How simple you make it seem!" acclaimed the Signora Pandolfi,

reviving at his first words, like a tired horse when he sees the top of

the hill.

"But if papa should try and force me to it--what then?" asked Lucia, who

was not so easily satisfied.

"He cannot force you to it, my child--the law will not allow him to do

so. I told you so last night"

"But the law is so far off--and he is so violent" answered the young

girl.

"Never fear," said Don Paolo, reassuring her. "I will manage it all.

These will be a struggle, perhaps; but I will make him see reason. He

had been with his friends last night, and his mind was excited; he was

not himself. He will have thought differently of it this morning;"

"On the contrary," put in the Signora Pandolfi, "he waked me up at

daylight and gave me a quantity of money to go and buy Lucia's outfit.

And he will come home at midday and ask to see the things I have

brought, and so I thought perhaps we had better buy something just to

show him--half a dozen handkerchiefs--something to make a figure, you

understand?"

Don Paolo smiled, and Lucia looked sympathetically from him to her

mother.

"I am afraid that half a dozen handkerchiefs would have a bad effect,"

said the priest. "Either he would see that you are not in earnest, and

then he would be very angry, or else he would be deceived and would

think that you were really buying the outfit. In that case you would

have done harm. This thing must not go any further. The idea must be got

out of his head as soon as possible."

"But if I do nothing at all before dinner he will be furious--he will

cry out that we are all banded together against him--"

"So we are," said Don Paolo simply.

"Oh dear, oh dear!" moaned the Signora Pandolfi, looking for her

handkerchief in the anticipation of fresh tears.

"Do not cry, mamma. It is of no use," said Lucia.

"No, it is of no use to cry," assented the priest. "There is nothing to

be done but to go and face Marzio, and not leave him until he has

changed his mind. You are afraid to meet him at midday. I will go now to

the workshop and find him."

"Oh, you are an angel, Paolo!" cried Maria Luisa, regaining her

composure and replacing her handkerchief in her pocket. "Then we need

not buy anything? What a relief!"

"I told you Uncle Paolo would know what to do," said Lucia. "He is so

good--and so courageous. I would not like to face papa this morning.

Will you really go, Uncle Paolo?" The young girl went and took down his

cloak and hat from a peg on the wall, and brought them to him.

"Of course I will go, and at once," he answered. "But I must give you a

word of advice."

"We will do everything you tell us," said the two women together.

"You must not ask him any questions, nor refer to the matter at all when

he comes home."

"Diana! I would as soon speak of death!" exclaimed the Signora Pandolfi.

"And if he begins to talk about it you must not answer him, nor irritate

him in any way."

"Be easy about that," answered the fat lady. "Never meddle with sleeping

dogs--I know."

"If he grows very angry you must refer him to me."

"Oh, but that is another matter! I would rather offer pepper to a cat

than talk to him of you. You would see how he would curse and swear and

call you by bad names."

"Well, you must not do anything to make him swear, because that would be

a sin; but if he only abuses me, I do not mind. He will do that when I

talk to him. Perhaps after all, if he mentions the matter, you had

better remain silent."

"Eh! that will be easy. He talks so much, and he talks so fast, never

waiting for an answer. But are you not afraid for yourself, dear Paolo?"

"Oh, he will not hurt me--I am not afraid of him," answered the priest.

"He will talk a little, he will use some big words, and then it will be

finished. You see, it is not a great thing, after all. Take courage,

Maria Luisa, it will be a matter of half an hour."

"Heaven grant it may be only that!" murmured Marzio's wife, turning up

her eyes, and rising from her chair.

Lucia, who, as has been said, had a very keen appreciation of facts, did

not believe that things would go so smoothly.

"You had better come back with him to our house when it is all over,"

she said, "just to give us a sign that it is settled, you know, Uncle

Paolo."

Don Paolo himself had his doubts about the issue, although he put such a

brave face on it, and in spite of the Signora Pandolfi. That good lady

was by nature very sincere, but she always seemed to bring an irrelevant

and comic element into the proceedings.

The result of the interview was that, in half an hour, Don Paolo knocked

at the door of the workshop in the Via dei Falegnami, where Marzio and

Gianbattista were at work. The chiseller's voice bade him enter.

Don Paolo had not found much time to collect his thoughts before he

reached the scene of battle, but his opinion of the matter in hand was

well formed. He loved his niece, and he had begun to like Gianbattista.

He knew the lawyer, Carnesecchi, by reputation, and what he had heard of

him did not prejudice him in the man's favour. It would have been the

same had Marzio chosen any one else. In the priest's estimation,

Gianbattista had a right to expect the fulfilment of the many promises

which had been made to him. To break those promises for no ostensible

reason, just as Gianbattista seemed to be growing up to be a sensible

man, was an act of injustice which Don Paolo would not permit if he

could help it. Gianbattista was not, perhaps, a model man, but, by

contrast with Marzio, he seemed almost saintly. He had a good

disposition and no vices; married to Lucia and devoted to his art, much

might be expected of him. On the other hand, Gasparo Carnesecchi

represented the devil in person. He was known to be an advanced

freethinker, a radical, and, perhaps, worse than a radical--a socialist.

He was certainly not very rich, and Lucia's dowry would be an object to

him; he would doubtless spend the last copper of the money in attempting

to be elected to the Chambers. If he succeeded, he would represent

another unit in that ill-guided minority which has for its sole end the

subversion of the existing state of things. He would probably succeed in

getting back the money he had spent, and more also, by illicit means. If

he failed, the money would be lost, and he would go from bad to worse,

intriguing and mixing himself up with the despicable radical press, in

the hope of getting a hearing and a place.

There is a scale in the meaning of the word socialist. In France it

means about the same thing as a communist, when one uses plain language.

When one uses the language of Monsieur Dramont, it means a Jew. In

England a socialist is equal to a French conservative republican. In

America it means a thief. In Germany it means an ingenious individual of

restricted financial resources, who generally fails to blow up some

important personage with wet dynamite. In Italy a socialist is an

anarchist pure and simple, who wishes to destroy everything existing for

the sake of dividing a wealth which does not exist at all. It also means

a young man who orders a glass of water and a toothpick at a _café_, and

is able to talk politics for a considerable time on this slender

nourishment. Signor Succi and Signor Merlatti have discovered nothing

new. Their miracles of fasting may be observed by the curious at any

time in a Roman _café_.

Don Paolo regarded the mere idea of an alliance with Gasparo

Carnesecchi as an outrage upon common sense, and when he entered

Marzio's workshop he was determined to say so. Marzio looked up with an

air of inquiry, and Gianbattista foresaw what was coming. He nodded to

the priest, and brought forward the old straw chair from the corner;

then he returned to his work in silence.

"You will have guessed my errand," Don Paolo began, by way of

introducing his subject.

"No," answered Marzio doggedly. "Something about the crucifix, I

suppose."

"Not at all," returned the priest, folding his hands over the handle of

his umbrella. "A much more delicate matter. You suggested last night an

improbable scheme for marrying Lucia."

"You had better say that I told you plainly what I mean to do. If you

have come to talk about that, you had better talk to the workmen

outside. They may answer you. I will not!"

Don Paolo was not to be so easily put off. He waited a moment as though

to give Marzio time to change his mind, and then proceeded.

"There are three reasons why this marriage will not take place," he

said. "In the first place, it is wrong--that is my point of view. In the

second place, it is impossible--and that is the view the law takes of

it. Thirdly, it will not take place because you will not attempt to push

it. What do you say of my reasons, Marzio?"

"They are worthy of you," answered the artist. "In the first place, I do

not care a fig for what you think is wrong, or right either. Secondly, I

will take the law into my own hands. Thirdly, I will bring it about and

finish it in a fortnight; and fourthly, you may go to the devil! What do

you think of my reasons, Paolo? They are better than yours, and much

more likely to prevail."

"My dear Marzio," returned the priest quietly, "you may say anything you

please, I believe, in these days of liberty. But the law will not permit

you to act upon your words. If you can persuade your daughter to marry

Gasparo Carnesecchi of her own free will, well and good. If you cannot,

there is a statute, I am quite sure, which forbids your dragging her up

the steps of the Capitol, and making her sign her name by force or

violence in the presence of the authorities. You may take my word for

it; and so you had better dismiss the matter from your mind at once, and

think no more about it."

"I remember that you told her so last night," growled Marzio, growing

pale with anger.

"Certainly."

"You--you--you priest!" cried the chiseller, unable in his rage to find

an epithet which he judged more degrading. Don Paolo smiled.

"Yes, I am a priest," he answered calmly.

"Yea, you are a priest," yelled Marzio, "and what is to become of

paternal authority in a household where such fellows as you are

listening at the keyholes? Is a man to have no more rights? Are we to be

ruled by women and creatures in petticoats? Viper! Poisoning my

household, teaching my daughter to disobey me, my wife to despise me, my

paid workmen to--"

"Silence!" cried Gianbattista in ringing tones, and with the word he

sprang to his feet and clapped his hand on Marzio's mouth.

The effect was sudden and unexpected. Marzio was utterly taken by

surprise. It was incredible to him that any one should dare to forcibly

prevent him from indulging in the language he had used with impunity for

so many years. He leaned back pale and astonished, and momentarily dumb

with amazement. Gianbattista stood over him, his young cheeks flushed

with anger, and his broad fist clenched.

"If you dare to talk in that way to Don Paolo, I will kill you with my

hands!" he said, his voice sinking lower with concentrated

determination. "I have had enough of your foul talk. He is a better man

than you, as I told you last night, and I repeat it now--take care--"

Marzio made a movement as though he would rise, and at the same instant

Gianbattista seized the long, fine-pointed punch, which served for the

eyes of the cherubs--a dangerous weapon in a determined hand.

Don Paolo had risen from his chair, and was trying to push himself

between the two. But Gianbattista would not let him.

"For heaven's sake," cried the priest in great distress, "no violence,

Tista--I will call the men--"

"Never fear," answered the apprentice quietly; "the man is a coward."

"To me--you dare to say that to me!" exclaimed Marzio, drawing back at

the same time.

"Yes--it is quite true. But do not suppose that I think any the worse of

you on that account, Sor Marzio."

With this taunt, delivered in a voice that expressed the most profound

contempt, Gianbattista went back to his seat and took up his hammer as

though nothing had happened. Don Paolo drew a long breath of relief. As

for Marzio, his teeth chattered with rage. His weakness had been

betrayed at last, and by Gianbattista. All his life he had succeeded in

concealing the physical fear which his words belied. He had cultivated

the habit of offering to face danger, speaking of it in a quiet way, as

he had observed that brave men did. He had found it good policy to tell

people that he was not afraid of them, and his bearing had hitherto

saved him from physical violence. Now he felt as though all his nerves

had been drawn out of his body. He had been terrified, and he knew that

he had shown it. Gianbattista's words stung in his ears like the sting

of wasps.

"You shall never enter this room again," he hissed out between his

teeth. The young man shrugged his shoulders as though he did not care.

Don Paolo sat down again and grasped his umbrella.

"Gianbattista," said the priest, "I am grateful to you for your

friendship, my boy. But it is very wrong to be violent--"

"It is one of the seven deadly sins!" cried Marzio, finding his voice at

last, and by a strange accident venting his feelings in a sentence which

might have been spoken by a confessor to a penitent.

Gianbattista could not help laughing, but he shook his head as though to

explain that it was not his fault if he was violent with such a man.

"It is very wrong to threaten people, Tista," repeated Don Paolo; "and

besides it does not hurt me, what Marzio says. Let us all be calm.

Marzio, let us discuss this matter reasonably. Tista, do not be angry at

anything that is said. There is nothing to be done but to look at the

question quietly."

"It is very well for you to talk like that," grumbled Marzio,

pretending to busy himself over his model in order to cover his

agitation.

"It is of no use to talk in any other way," answered the priest "I

return to the subject. I only want to convince you that you will find it

impossible to carry out your determination by force. You have only to

ask the very man you have hit upon, the Avvocato Garnesecchi, and he

will tell you the same thing. He knows the law better than you or I. He

will refuse to be a party to such an attempt. Ask him, if you do not

believe me."

"Yes; a pretty position you want to put me in, by the body of a dog! To

ask a man to marry my daughter by force! A fine opinion he would

conceive of my domestic authority! Perhaps you will take upon yourself

to go and tell him--won't you, dear Paolo? It would save me the

trouble."

"I think that is your affair," answered Don Paolo, taking him in

earnest. "Nevertheless, if you wish it--"

"Oh, this is too much!" cried Marzio, his anger rising again. "It is not

enough that you thwart me at every turn, but you come here to mock me,

to make a figure of me! Take care, Paolo, take care! You may go too

far."

"I would not advise you to go too far, Sor Marzio," put in

Gianbattista, turning half round on his stool.

"Cannot I speak without being interrupted? Go on with your work, Tista,

and let us talk this matter out. I tell you, Paolo, that I do not want

your advice, and that I have had far too much of your interference. I

will inquire into this matter, so far as it concerns the law, and I will

show you that I am right, in spite of all your surmises and prophecies.

A man is master in his own house and must remain so, whatever laws are

made. There is no law which can force a man to submit to the dictation

of his brother--even if his brother is a priest."

Marzio spoke more calmly than he had done hitherto, in spite of the

sneer in the last sentence. He had broken down, and he felt that Paolo

and Gianbattista were too much for him. He desired no repetition of the

scene which had passed, and he thought the best thing to be done was to

temporise for a while.

"I am glad you are willing to look into the matter," answered Don Paolo.

"I am quite sure you will soon be convinced."

Marzio was silent, and it was evident that the interview was at an end.

Don Paolo was tolerably well satisfied, for he had gained at least one

point in forcing his brother to examine the question. He remained a

moment in his seat, reviewing the situation, and asking himself whether

there was anything more to be said. He wished indeed that he could

produce some deeper impression on the artist. It was not enough, from

the moral point of view, that Marzio should be made to see the

impossibility of his scheme, although it was as much as could be

expected. The good man wished with all his heart that Marzio could be

softened a little, that he might be made to consider his daughter's

feelings, to betray some sign of an affection which seemed wholly dead,

to show some more human side of his character. But the situation at

present forbade Don Paolo from making any further effort. The presence

of Gianbattista, who had suddenly constituted himself the priest's

defender, was a constraint. Alone with his brother, Marzio might

possibly have exhibited some sensibility, but while the young man who

had violently silenced him a few moments earlier was looking on, the

chiseller would continue to be angry, and would not forget the

humiliation he had suffered. There was nothing more to be done at

present, and Don Paolo prepared to take his departure, gathering his

cloak around him, and smoothing the felt of his three-cornered hat while

he held his green umbrella under his arm.

"Are you going already, Don Paolo?" asked Gianbattista, rising to open

the door.

"Yes, I must go. Good-bye, Marzio. Bear me no ill-will for pressing you

to be cautious. Good-bye, Tista." He pressed the young man's hand

warmly, as though to thank him for his courageous defence, and then left

the workshop. Marzio paid no attention to his departure. When the door

was closed, and as Gianbattista was returning to his bench, the artist

dropped his modelling tools and faced his apprentice.

"You may go too," he said in a low tone, as though he were choking. "I

mean you may go for good. I do not need you any longer."

He felt in his pocket for his purse, opened it, and took out some small

notes.

"I give you an hour to take your things from my house," he continued.

"There are your wages--you shall not tell the priest that I cheated

you."

Gianbattista stood still in the middle of the room while Marzio held out

the money to him. A hot flush rose to his young forehead, and he seemed

on the point of speaking, but the words did not pass his lips. With a

quick step he came forward, took the notes from Marzio's hand, and

crumpling them in his fingers, threw them in his face with all his

might. Then he turned on his heel, spat on the floor of the room, and

went out before Marzio could find words to resent the fresh insult.

The door fell back on the latch and Marzio was alone. He was very pale,

and for a moment his features worked angrily. Then a cruel smile passed

over his face. He stooped down, picked up the crumpled notes, counted

them, and replaced them in his purse. The economical instinct never

forsook him, and he did the thing mechanically. Glancing at the bench

his eyes fell on the pointed punch which Gianbattista had taken up in

his anger. He felt it carefully, handled it, looked at it, smiled again

and put it into his pocket.

"It is not a bad one," he muttered. "How many cherubs' eyes I have made

with that thing!"

He turned to the slate and examined the rough model he had made in wax,

flat still, and only indicated by vigorous touches, the red material

smeared on the black surface all around it by his fingers. There was

force in the figure, even in its first state, and there was a strange

pathos in the bent head, the only part as yet in high relief. But Marzio

looked at it angrily. He turned it to the light, closed his eyes a

moment, looked at it again, and then, with an incoherent oath, his long,

discoloured hand descended on the model, and, with a heavy pressure and

one strong push, flattened out what he had done, and smeared it into a

shapeless mass upon the dark stone.

"I shall never do it," he said in a low voice. "They have destroyed my

idea."

For some minutes he rested his head in his hand in deep thought. At

last he rose and went to a corner of the workshop in which stood a

heavily ironed box. Marzio fumbled in his pocket till he found a key,

bright from always being carried about with him, and contrasting oddly

with the rusty lock into which he thrust it. It turned with difficulty

in his nervous fingers, and he raised the heavy lid. The coffer was full

of packages wrapped in brown paper. He removed one after another till he

came to a wooden case which filled the whole length and breadth of the

safe. He lifted it out carefully and laid it on the end of the bench.

The cover was fastened down by screws, and he undid them one by one

until it moved and came off in his hands. The contents were wrapped

carefully in a fine towel, which had once been white, but which had long

grown yellow with age. Marzio unfolded the covering with a delicate

touch as though he feared to hurt what was within. He took out a large

silver crucifix, raising it carefully, and taking care not to touch the

figure. He stood it upon the bench before him, and sat down to examine

it.

It was a work of rare beauty, which he had made more than ten years

before. With the strange reticent instinct which artists sometimes feel

about their finest works, he had finished it in secret, working at night

alone, and when it was done he had put it away. It was his greatest

feat, he had said to himself, and, as from time to time he took it out

and looked at it, he gradually grew less and less inclined to show it to

any one, resolving to leave it in its case, until it should be found

after his death. It had seemed priceless to him, and he would not sell

it. With a fantastic eccentricity of reasoning he regarded it as a

sacred thing, to part with which would be a desecration. So he kept it.

Then, taking it out again, it had seemed less good to him, as his mind

became occupied with other things, and he had fancied he should do

better yet. At last he screwed it up in a wooden case and put it at the

bottom of his strong box, resolving never to look at it again. Many

years had passed since he had laid eyes upon it.

The idea which had come to him when Paolo had communicated the order to

him on the previous evening, had seemed absolutely new. It had appeared

to him as a glorification of the work he had executed in secret so long

ago. Time, and the habit of dissatisfaction had effaced from his mind

the precise image of the work of the past, and the emotions of the

present had seemed something new to him. He had drawn and modelled

during many hours, and yet he was utterly disappointed with the new

result. He felt the innate consciousness of having done it before, and

of having done it better.

And now the wonderful masterpiece of his earlier years stood before

him--the tall and massive ebony cross, bearing the marvellous figure of

the dead Saviour. A ray of sunlight fell through the grated window upon

the dying head, illuminating the points of the thorns in the crown, the

falling locks of hair, the tortured hands, and casting a shadow of death

beneath the half-closed eyes.

For several minutes Marzio sat motionless on his stool, realising the

whole strength and beauty of what he had done ten years before. Then he

wanted to get a better view of it. It was not high enough above him, for

it was meant to stand upon an altar. He could not see the face. He

looked about for something upon which to make it stand, but nothing was

near. He pushed away his stool, and turning the cross a little, so that

the sunlight should strike it at a better angle, he kneeled down on the

floor, his hands resting on the edge of the bench, and he looked up at

the image of the dead Christ.

CHAPTER VII

When Don Paolo left the workshop, he immediately crossed over and

entered the street door of Marzio's house, intending to tell Maria Luisa

and Lucia the result of the interview. He had not got to the top of the

first flight of stairs when he heard Gianbattista's step behind him, and

turning he saw the young man's angry face.

"What is the matter, Tista?" asked the priest, stopping on the steps and

laying his hand on the iron railing.

"I am discharged, turned out, insulted by that animal!" answered the

apprentice hotly. "He is like a piece of wood! You might as well talk to

a wall! You had only just closed the door when he pulled out his purse,

counted my wages, and told me to take my things from his house in an

hour. I threw the money in his face--the beast!"

"Hush, Tista," said Don Paolo. "Do not be angry--we will arrange it all

before night. He cannot do without you, and after all it is my fault.

Calm yourself, Tista, my boy--we will soon set that straight."

"Yes--in an hour I will have left the house. Then it will be straight

enough, as you call it. Oh! I would like to strangle him! Dear Don

Paolo, nobody but you can arrange this affair--"

"Hush, hush, Tista. I cannot hear you talk in this way. Come, we will go

back to Marzio. He will listen to reason--"

"Do you know what he said to me not a quarter of an hour before you came

in?" asked Gianbattista quickly, laying his hand on the priest's arm.

"He said I might have Lucia and welcome if I would kill you! Do you

understand? I wish you could have seen the look in his eyes!"

"No, no, my boy--he was angry. He did not mean it."

"Mean it! Bacchus! He would kill you himself if he were not such a

dastardly coward!"

Don Paolo shook his head with an incredulous smile, and looked kindly

into the young man's eyes.

"You have all lost your heads over this unfortunate affair, Tista. You

are all talking of killing each other and yourselves as though it were

as simple as 'good-morning.' It is very wrong to talk of such things,

and besides, you know, it is not really worth while--"

"It seems simple enough to me," answered the young man, frowning and

clenching his hand.

"Come with me," urged the other, making as though he would descend the

steps. "Come back to the workshop, and we will talk it all over."

"Wait a minute, Don Paolo. There is one thing--one favour I want to ask

of you." Gianbattista lowered his voice. "You can do it for us--I am

sure you will. I will call Lucia, and we will go with you--"

"Where?" asked the priest, not understanding the look of the young man.

"To church, of course. You can marry us in ten minutes, and the thing

will be all over. Then we can laugh at Sor Marzio."

Don Paolo smiled.

"My dear boy," he answered, "those things are not done in a moment like

roasting chestnuts. There are banns to be published. There is a civil

marriage at the Capitol--"

"I should be quite satisfied with your benediction--a _Pater Noster_, an

_Oremus_ properly said--eh? Would it not be all right?"

"Really, Tista!" exclaimed the good man, holding up his hands in horror.

"I had no idea that your religious education had been so neglected! My

dear child, marriage is a very solemn thing."

"By Diana! I should think so! But that need not make it such a long

ceremony. A man dies in a moment--_paff!_--the light is out!--you are

dead. It is very solemn. The same thing for marriage. The priest looks

at you, says _Oremus_--_paff!_ You are married, and it cannot be undone!

I know it is very serious, but it is only the affair of a moment."

Don Paolo did not know whether to laugh or to look grave at this

exposition of Gianbattista's views of death and matrimony. He put it

down to the boy's excitement.

"There is another reason, Tista. The law does not allow a girl of

seventeen to be married without her father's consent."

"The law again!" exclaimed Gianbattista in disgust. "I thought the law

protected Lucia from her father. You said so last night, and you

repeated it this morning."

"Certainly, my boy. But the law also protects parents against any

rashness their children may meditate. It would be no marriage if Lucia

had not Marzio's consent."

"I wish there were no laws," grumbled the young man. "How do you come to

know so much about marriage, Don Paolo?"

"It is my profession. Come along; we will talk to Marzio."

"What can we say to him? You do not suppose I will go and beg to be

taken back?"

"You must be forgiving--"

"I believe in forgiveness when the other side begins," said

Gianbattista.

"Perhaps Marzio will forgive too," argued the priest.

"He has nothing to forgive," answered the young man. The reasoning

seemed to him beyond refutation.

"But if he says he has no objection, if he begs you to come back, I

think you might make some advance on your side, Tista. Besides, you were

very rough with him this morning."

"He turned me out like a dog--after all these years," said Gianbattista.

"I will go back and work for him on one condition. He must give me Lucia

at once."

"I am afraid that as a basis of negotiations that plan leaves much to be

desired," replied Don Paolo, in a meditative tone. "Of course, we are

all determined that you shall marry her in the end; but unless

Providence is pleased to change Marzio's state of mind, you may have to

wait until she is of age. He will never consent at present."

"In that case I had better go and take my things away from his house,"

returned the apprentice. "And say good-bye to Lucia--for a day or two,"

he added in a low voice.

"Of course, if you will not agree to be conciliatory it is of no use for

you to come with me," said Don Paolo rather sadly. "Dear me! Here comes

Maria Luisa with Suntarella!"

"Ah, dear Paolo, dear Paolo!" cried the stout lady, puffing up the

stairs with the old woman close behind her. "How good you are! And what

did he say? We asked if you had gone at the workshop, and they said you

had, so Lucia went in to ask her father whether he would have the

chickens boiled or roasted. Well, well, tell me all about it. These

stairs! Suntarella, run up and open the door while I get my breath! Dear

Paolo, you are an angel of goodness!"

"Softly, Maria Luisa," answered the priest. "There is good and bad. He

has admitted that he will have to consider the matter because he cannot

make Lucia marry without her consent. But on the other hand--poor

Tista--" he looked at the young man and hesitated.

"He has turned me out," said Gianbattista. "He has given me an hour to

leave his house. I believe a good part of the hour has passed already--"

"And Tista says he will not go back at any price," put in Don Paolo. The

Signora Pandolfi gasped for breath.

"Oh! oh! I shall faint!" she sobbed, pressing the handle of her parasol

against her breast with both hands. "Oh, what shall we do? We are lost!

Paolo, your arm--I shall die!"

"Courage, courage, Maria Luisa," said the priest kindly. "We will find

a remedy. For the present Tista can come to my house. There is the

little room Where the man-servant sleeps, who is gone to see his sick

wife in the country. The Cardinal will not mind."

"But you are not going like tins?" cried the stout lady, grasping

Gianbattista's arm and looking into his face with an expression of

forlorn bewilderment. "You cannot go to-day--it is impossible,

Tista--your shirts are not even ironed! Oh dear I oh dear! And I had

anticipated a feast because I was sure that Marzio would see reason

before midday, and there are chickens for dinner--with rice, Tista, just

as you like them--oh, you cannot go, Tista, I cannot let you go!"

"Courage, Maria Luisa," exhorted Don Paolo. "It is not a question of

chickens."

"Dear Sora Luisa, you are too good," said Gianbattista. "Let us go

upstairs first, to begin with--you will catch cold here on the steps.

Come, come, courage, Sora Luisa!"

He took the good woman's arm and led her upwards. But Don Paolo stayed

behind. He believed it to be his duty to return to the workshop, and to

try and undo the harm Gianbattista had done himself by the part he had

played in the proceedings of the morning. The Signora Pandolfi suffered

herself to be led upstairs, panting and sobbing as she went, and

protesting still that Gianbattista could not possibly be allowed to

leave the house.

When Don Paolo had parted from the two women an hour earlier, they had

not gone home as he had supposed, but, chancing to meet old Assunta near

the house, the three had gone together to make certain necessary

purchases. On their return they had inquired for Paolo at the workshop,

as Maria Luisa had explained, and Lucia had entered in the confident

expectation of finding that the position of things had mended

considerably since the early morning. Moreover, since the announcement

of the previous evening, the young girl had not seen her father alone.

She wanted to talk to him on her own account, in order to sound the

depth of his determination. She was not afraid of him. The fact that for

a long time he had regarded favourably the project of her marriage with

Gianbattista had given her a confidence which was not to be destroyed in

a moment, even by Marzio's strange conduct. She passed through the outer

rooms, nodding to the workmen, who touched their caps to the master's

daughter. A little passage separated the large workshop from the inner

studio. The door at the end was not quite closed. Lucia went up to it,

and looked through the opening to see whether Gianbattista were with her

father. The sight she saw was so surprising that she leaned against the

door-post for support. She could not believe her eyes.

There was her father in his woollen blouse, kneeling, on the brick floor

of the room, before a crucifix, his back turned towards her, his hands

raised, and, as it seemed from the position of the arms, folded in

prayer. The sunlight fell upon the silver figure, and upon the dark

tangled hair of the artist who remained motionless, as though absorbed

in devotion, while his daughter watched him through the half-open door.

The scene was one which would have struck any one; the impression it

made on Lucia was altogether extraordinary. She easily fancied that

Marzio, after his interview with Don Paolo, had felt a great and sudden

revulsion of sentiment. She knew that the priest had not left the studio

many minutes before, and she saw her father apparently praying before a

crucifix. A wonderful conversion had been effected, and the result was

there manifest to the girl's eyes.

She held her breath, and remained at the door, determined not to move

until Marzio should have risen from his knees. To interrupt him at such

a moment would have been almost a sacrilege; it might produce the most

fatal results; it would be an intrusion upon the privacy of a repentant

man. She stood watching and waiting to see what would happen.

Presently Marzio moved. Lucia thought he was going to rise from his

knees, but she was surprised to see that he only changed the position of

the crucifix with one hand. He approached his head so near the lower

part of it that Lucia fancied he was in the act of pressing his lips

upon the crossed feet of the silver Christ. Then he drew back a little,

turned his head to one side, and touched the figure with his right hand.

It was evident, now, that he was no longer praying, but that something

about the workmanship had attracted his attention.

How natural, the girl said to herself, that this man, even in such a

supreme moment, should not forget his art--that, even in prayer, his

eyes should mechanically detect an error of the chisel, a flaw in the

metal, or some such detail familiar to his daily life. She did not think

the worse of him for it. He was an artist! The habit of his whole

existence could not cease to influence him--he could as soon have ceased

to breathe. Lucia watched him and felt something like love for her

father. Her sympathy was with him in both actions; in his silent prayer,

in the inner privacy of his working-room, as well as in the inherent

love of his art, from which he could not escape even when he was doing

something contrary to the whole tenor of his life. Lucia thought how Don

Paolo's face would light up when she should tell him of what she had

seen. Then she wondered, with a delicate sense of respect for her

father's secret feelings, whether she would have the right to tell any

one what she had accidentally seen through the half-closed door of the

studio.

Marzio moved again, and this time he rose to his feet and remained

standing, so that the crucifix was completely hidden from her view. She

knocked at the door. Her father turned suddenly round, and faced the

entrance, still hiding the crucifix by his figure.

"Who is it?" he asked in a tone that sounded as though he were startled.

"Lucia," answered the girl timidly. "May I come in, papa?"

"Wait a minute," he answered. She drew back, and, still watching him,

saw that he laid the cross down upon the table, and covered it with a

towel--the same one in which it had been wrapped.

"Come in," he called out "What is the matter?"

"I only came for a moment, papa," answered Lucia, entering the room and

glancing about her as she came forward. "Mamma sent me in to ask you

about the chickens--there are chickens for dinner--she wanted to know

whether you would like them roasted or boiled with rice."

"Roasted," replied Marzio, taking up a chisel and pretending to be busy.

"It is Gianbattista who likes them boiled."

"Thank you, I will go home and tell her. Papa--" the girl hesitated.

"What is the matter?"

"Papa, you are not angry any more as you were last night?"

"Angry? No. What makes you ask such a question? I was not angry last

night, and I am not angry now. Who put the idea into your head?"

"I am so glad," answered Lucia. "Not with me, not with Tista? I am so

glad! Where is Tista, papa?"

"I have not the slightest idea. You will probably not see Tista any

more, nor Gianbattista, nor his excellency the Signorino Bordogni"

Lucia turned suddenly pale, and rested her hand upon the old straw chair

on which Don Paolo had sat during his visit.

"What is this? What do you tell me? Not see Tista?" she asked quickly.

"Gianbattista had the bad taste to attack me this morning--here--in my

own studio," said Marzio, turning round and facing his daughter. "He put

his hands upon my face, do you understand? He would have stabbed me with

a chisel if Paolo had not interfered. Do you understand that? Out of

deference for your affections I did not kill him, as I might have done.

I dismissed him from my service, and gave him an hour to take his

effects out of my house. Is that clear? I offered him his money. He

threw it in my face and spat at me as he went out. Is that enough? If I

find him at home when I come to dinner I will have him turned out by the

police. You see, you are not likely to set eyes on him for a day or two.

You may go home and tell your mother the news, if she has not heard it

already. It will be sauce for her chickens."

Lucia leaned upon the chair during this speech, her black eyes growing

wider and wider, and her face turning whiter at every word. To her it

seemed, in this first moment, like a hopeless separation from the man

she loved. With a sudden movement she sprang forward, and fell on her

knees at Marzio's feet.

"Oh, my father, I beseech you, in the name of heaven," she cried wildly.

"It is not of the slightest use," answered Marzio, drawing back. Lucia

knelt for one moment before him, with upturned face, an expression of

imploring despair on her features. Then she sank down in a heap upon the

floor against the three-legged stool, which tottered, lost its balance

under her weight, and fell over upon the bricks with a loud crash. The

poor girl had fainted away.

Marzio was startled by the sight and the sound, and then, seeing what

had happened, he was very much frightened. He knelt down beside his

daughter's prostrate body and bent over her face. He raised her up in

his long, nervous arms, and lifted her to the old chair till she sat

upon it, and he supported her head and body, kneeling on the floor

beside her. A sharp pain shot through his heart, the faint indication of

a love not wholly extinguished.

"Lucia, dear Lucia!" he said, in a voice so tender that it sounded

strangely in his own ears. But the gill gave no sign. Her head would

have fallen forward if he had not supported it with his hands.

"My daughter! Little Lucia! You are not dead--tell me you are not dead!"

he cried. In his fright and sudden affection he pressed his lips to her

face, kissing her again and again. "I did not mean to hurt you, darling

child," he repeated, as though she could hear him speak.

At last her eyes opened. A shiver ran through her body and she raised

her head. She was very pale as she leaned back in the chair. Marzio took

her hands and robbed them between his dark fingers, still looking into

her eyes.

"Ah!" she gasped, "I thought I was dead." Then, as Marzio seemed about

to speak, she added faintly: "Don't say it again!"

"Lucia--dear Lucia! I knew you were not dead I knew you would come back

to me," he said, still in very tender tones. "Forgive me, child--I did

not mean to hurt you."

"No? Oh, papa! Then why did you say it?" she cried, suddenly bursting

into tears and weeping upon his shoulder. "Tell me it is not true--tell

me so!" she sobbed.

Marzio was almost as much disconcerted by Lucia's return to

consciousness as he had been by her fainting away. His nature had

unbent, momentarily, under the influence of his strong fear for his

daughter's life. Now that she had recovered so quickly, he remembered

Gianbattista's violence and scornful words, and he seemed to feel the

young man's strong hand upon his mouth, stifling his speech. He

hesitated, rose to his feet, and began to pace the floor. Lucia watched

him with intense anxiety. There was a conflict in his mind between the

resentment which was not half an hour old, and the love for his child,

which had been so quickly roused during the last five minutes.

"Well--Lucia, my dear--I do not know--" he stopped short in his walk and

looked at her. She leaned forward as though to catch his words.

"Do you think you could not--that you would be so very unhappy, I mean,

if he lived out of the house--I mean to say, if he had lodgings,

somewhere, and came back to work?"

"Oh, papa--I should faint away again--and I should die. I am quite sure

of it."

Marzio looked anxiously at her, as though he expected to see her fall to

the ground a second time. It went against the grain of his nature to

take Gianbattista back, although he had discharged him hastily in the

anger of the moment. He turned away and glanced at the bench. There were

the young man's tools, the hammer as he had left it, the piece of work

on the leathern pad. The old impulse of foresight for the future acted

in Marzio's mind. He could never find such another workman. In the

uncertainty of the moment, as often happens, details rose to his

remembrance and produced their effect. He recollected the particular way

in which Gianbattista used to hold the blunt chisel in first tracing

over the drawing on a silver plate. He had never seen any one do it in

the same way.

"Well, Lucia--don't faint away. If you can make him stay, I will take

him back. But I am afraid you will have hard work. He will make

difficulties. He threw the money in my face, Lucia--in your father's

face, girl! Think of that. Well, well, do what you like. He is a good

workman. Go away, child, and leave me to myself. What will you say to

him?"

Lucia threw her arms round her father's neck and kissed him in her

sudden joy. Then she stood a moment in thought.

"Give me his money," she said. "If he will take the money he will come

back."

Marzio hesitated, slowly drew out his purse, and began to take out the

notes.

"Well--if you will have it so," he grumbled. "After all, as he threw it

away, I do not see that he has much right to it. There it is. If he says

anything about that ten-franc note being torn, tell him he tore it

himself. Go home, Lucia, and manage things as you can."

Lucia put the money in her glove, and busied herself for a moment in

brushing the dust from her clothes. Mechanically, her father helped her.

"You are quite sure you did not hurt yourself?" he asked. The whole

occurrence seemed indistinct, as though some one had told something

which he had not understood--as we sometimes listen to a person reading

aloud, and, missing by inattention the verb of the sentence, remain

confused, and ask ourselves what the words mean.

"No--not at all. It is nothing," answered Lucia, and in a moment she was

at the door.

Opening it to go out, she saw the tall figure of Don Paolo at the other

end of the passage coming rapidly towards her. She raised her finger to

her lips and nodded, as though to explain that everything was settled,

and that the priest should not speak to Marzio. She, of course, did not

know that he had been talking with Gianbattista and her mother, nor that

he knew anything about the apprentice's dismissal. She only feared fresh

trouble, now that the prospect looked so much clearer, in case Don Paolo

should again attack her father upon the subject of the marriage. But her

uncle came forward and made as though he would enter the workshop.

"It is all settled," she said quietly. Don Paolo looked at her in

astonishment. At that moment Marzio caught sight of him over the girl's

shoulder, in the dusky entrance.

"Come in, Paolo," he called out "I have something to show you. Go home,

Lucia, my child."

Not knowing what to expect, and marvelling at the softened tone of his

brother's voice, Don Paolo entered the room, waited till Lucia was out

of the passage, and then closed the door behind him. He stood in the

middle of the floor, grasping his umbrella in his hand and wondering

upon what new phase the business was entering.

"I have something to show you," Marzio repeated, as though to check any

question which the priest might be going to put to him. "You asked me

for a crucifix last night. I have one here. Will it do! Look at it."

While speaking, Marzio had uncovered the cross and lifted it up, so that

it stood on the bench where he had at first placed it to examine it

himself. Then he stepped back and made way for Don Paolo. The priest

stood for a moment speechless before the masterpiece, erect, his hands

folded before him. Then, as though recollecting himself, he took off his

hat, which he had forgotten to remove on entering the workshop.

"What a miracle!" he exclaimed, in a low voice.

Marzio stood a little behind him, his hands in the pockets of his

woollen blouse. A long silence followed. Don Paolo could not find words

to express his admiration, and his wonder was mixed with a profound

feeling of devotion. The amazing reality of the figure, clothed at the

same time in a sort of divine glory, impressed itself upon him as he

gazed, and roused that mystical train of religious contemplation which

is both familiar and dear to devout persons. He lost himself in his

thoughts, and his refined features showed as in a mirror the current of

his meditation. The agony of the Saviour of mankind was renewed before

him, culminating in the sacrifice upon the cross. Involuntarily Paolo

bent his head and repeated in low tones the words of the Creed, "_Qui

propter nos homines et propter_ _nostram, salutem descendit de

coelis_," and then, "_Crucifixus etiam pro nobis_."

Marzio stood looking on, his hands in his pockets. His fingers grasped

the long sharp punch he had taken from the table after Gianbattista's

departure. His eyes fixed themselves upon the smooth tonsure at the back

of Paolo's head, and slowly his right hand issued from his pocket with

the sharp instrument firmly clenched in it. He raised it to the level of

his head, just above that smooth shaven circle in the dark hair. His

eyes dilated and his mouth worked nervously as the pale lips stretched

themselves across the yellow teeth.

Don Paolo moved, and turned to speak to his brother concerning the work

of art. Seeing Marzio's attitude, he started with a short cry and

stretched out his arm as though to parry a blow.

"Marzio!"

The artist had quickly brought his hand to his forehead, and the ghastly

affectation of a smile wreathed about his white lips. His voice was

thick.

"I was only shading my eyes from the sun. Don't you see how it dazzles

me, reflected from the silver? What did you imagine, Paolo? You look

frightened."

"Oh, nothing," answered the priest bravely. "Perhaps I am a little

nervous to-day."

"Bacchus! It looks like it," said Marzio, with an attempt to laugh.

Then he tossed the tool upon the table among the rest with an impatient

gesture. "What do you think of the crucifix?"

"It is very wonderful," said Paolo, controlling himself by an effort.

"When did you make it, Marzio? You have not had time--"

"I made it years ago," answered the chiseller, turning his face away to

hide his pallor. "I made it for myself. I never meant to show it, but I

believe I cannot do anything better. Will it do for your cardinal? Look

at the work. It is as fine as anything of the kind in the world, though

I say it. Yes--it is cast. Of course, you do not understand the art,

Paolo, but I will explain it all to you in a few minutes--"

Marzio talked very fast, almost incoherently, and he was evidently

struggling with an emotion. Paolo, standing back a little from the

bench, nodded his head from time to time.

"It is all very simple," continued the artist, as though he dared not

pause for breath. "You see one sometimes makes little figures of real

_repoussé_, half and half, done in cement and then soldered together so

that they look like one piece, but it is impossible to do them well

unless you have dies to press the plate into the first shape--and the

die always makes the same figure, though you can vary the face and twist

the arms and legs about. Cheap silver crucifixes and angels and those

things are all made in that way, and with care a great deal can be done,

of course, to give them an artistic look."

"Of course," assented Don Paolo, in a low voice. He thought he

understood the cause of his brother's eloquence.

"Yes, of course," continued Marzio, as rapidly as before. "But to make a

really good thing like this, is a different matter. A very different

matter. Here you must model your figure in wax, and make moulds of the

parts of it, and chisel each part separately, copying the model. And

then you must join all the parts together with silver-soldering, and go

over the lines carefully. It needs the most delicate handling, for

although the casting is very heavy it is not like working on a chalice

that is filled with cement and all arranged for you, that can be put in

the fire, melted out, softened, cooled, and worked over as often as you

please. There is no putting in the fire here--not more than once after

you have joined the pieces. Do you understand me? Why do you look at me

in that way, Paolo? You look as though you did not follow me."

"On the contrary," said the priest, "I think I understand it very

well--as well as an outsider can understand such a process. No--I merely

look at the finished work. It is superb, Marzio--magnificent! I have

never seen anything like it."

"Well, you may have it to-night," said Marzio, turning away, and

walking about the room. "I will touch it over. I can improve it a

little. I have learned something in ten years. I will work all to-day,

and I will bring it home this evening to show Maria Luisa. Then you may

take it away."

"And the price? I must be able to tell the Cardinal."

"Oh, never mind the price. I will be content to take whatever he gives

me, since it is going. No price would represent the labour. Indeed,

Paolo, if it were any one but you, I would not let it go. Nothing but my

affection for you would make me give it to you. It is the gem of my

studio. Ah, how I worked at it ten years ago!"

"Thank you. I think I understand," answered the priest. "I am very much

obliged to you, Marzio, and I assure you it will be appreciated. I must

be going. Thank you for showing it to me. I will come and get it

to-night."

"Well, good-bye, Paolo," said Marzio. "Here is your umbrella."

As Don Paolo turned away to leave the room, the artist looked curiously

at the tonsure on his head, and his eyes followed it until Paolo had

covered it with his hat. Then he closed the door and went back to the

bench.

CHAPTER VIII

Lucia hastened homewards with the good news she bore. Her young nature

was elastic, and, in the sudden happiness of having secured

Gianbattista's recall, she quickly recovered from the shock she had

received. She did not reflect very much, for she had not the time. It

had all happened so quickly that her senses were confused, and she only

knew that the man she loved must be in despair, and that the sooner she

reached him the sooner she would be able to relieve him from what he

must be suffering. Her breath came fast as she reached the top of the

stairs, and she panted as she rang the bell of the lodging. Apparently

she had rung so loud in her excitement as to rouse the suspicions of old

Assunta, who cautiously peered through the little square that opened

behind a grating in the door, before she raised the latch. On seeing

Lucia she began to laugh, and opened quickly.

"So loud!" chuckled the old thing. "I thought it was the police or Sor

Marzio in a rage."

Lucia did not heed her, but ran quickly on to the sitting-room, where

the Signora Pandolfi was alone, seated on her straight chair and holding

her bonnet in her hand, the bonnet with the purple glass grapes; she was

the picture of despair. Lucia made haste to comfort her.

"Do not cry, mamma," she said quickly. "I have arranged it all. I have

seen papa. I have brought Tista's money. Papa wants him to stay after

all. Yes--I know you cannot guess how it all happened. I went in to ask

about the chickens, and then I asked about Tista, and he told me that I

should not see him any more, and then--then I felt this passion--here in

the chest, and everything went round and round and round like a

whirligig at the Termini, and I fell right down, mamma, down upon the

bricks--I know, my frock is all dusty still, here, look, and here, but

what does it matter? Patience! I fell down like a sack of flour--_pata

tunfate_!"

"T-t-t-t!" exclaimed the Signora Pandolfi, holding up her hands and

drawing in her breath as she clacked her tongue against the roof of her

mouth. "T-t-t-t! What a pity!"

"And when I came to my senses--I had fainted, you understand--I was

sitting on the old straw chair and papa was holding my hands in his and

calling me his angel! _Capperi_! But it was worth while. You can

imagine the situation when he called me an angel! It is the first time I

have ever fainted, mamma--you have no idea--it was so curious!"

"Ah, my dear, it must have softened his heart!" cried Maria Luisa. "If I

could only faint away like that once in a while! Who knows? He might be

converted. But what would you have?" The signora glanced down sadly at

her figure, which certainly suggested no such weakness as she seemed to

desire. "Well, Lucia," she continued, "and then?"

"Yes, I talked to him, I implored him, I told him I should probably

faint again, and, indeed, I felt like it. So he said I might have my

way, and he told me to come home and tell Tista at once. Where is

Tista?"

"Eh! He is in his room, packing up his things. I will go and call him.

Oh dear! What a wonderful day this is, my child! To think that it is not

yet eleven o'clock, and all that has happened! It is enough to make a

woman crazy, fit to send to Santo Spirito. First you are to be married,

and then you are not to be married! Then Gianbattista is sent

away--after all these years, and such a good boy! And then he is taken

back! And then--but the chickens, Lucia, you forgot to ask about the

chickens--"

"Not a bit of it," answered the young girl. "I asked first, before he

told me. Afterwards, I don't know--I should not have had the strength to

speak of chickens. He said roasted, mamma. Poor Tista! He likes them

with rice. Well, one cannot have everything in this world."

The Signora Pandolfi had reached the door, and called out at the top of

her voice to the young man.

"Tista! Tista!" She could have been heard in the street.

"Eh, Sora Luisa! We are not in the Piazza Navona," said Gianbattista,

appearing at the door of his little room. "What has happened?"

"Go and talk to Lucia," answered the good lady, hurrying off in search

of Assunta to tell her the decision concerning the dinner.

Gianbattista entered the sitting-room, and, from the young girl's

radiant expression, he guessed that some favourable change had taken

place in his position, or in the positions of them both. Lucia began to

tell him what had passed, and gave much the same account as she had

given to her mother, though some of the intonations were softer, and

accompanied by looks which told her happiness. When she had explained

the situation she paused for an answer. Gianbattista stood beside her

and held her hand, but he looked out of the window, as though uncertain

what to say.

"Here is the money," said Lucia. "You will take it, won't you? Then it

will be all settled. What is the matter, Tista? Are you not glad?"

"I do not trust him," answered the young man. "It is not like him to

change his mind like that, all in a minute. He means some mischief."

"What can he do?"

"I do not know. I feel as if some evil were coming. Patience! Who knows?

You are an angel, Lucia, darling."

"Everybody is telling me so to-day," answered the young girl. "Papa,

you--"

"Of course. It is quite true, my heart, and so every one repeats it.

What do you think? Will he come home to dinner? It is only eleven

o'clock--perhaps I ought to go back and work at the ewer. Somehow I do

not want to see him just now--"

"Stay with me, Tista. Besides, you were packing up your belongings to go

away. You have a right to take an hour to unpack them. Tell me, what is

this idea you have that papa is not in earnest? I want to understand it.

He was quite in earnest just now--so good, so good, like sugar! Is it

because you are still angry with him, that you do not want to see him?"

"No--why should I still be angry? He has made reparation. After all, I

took a certain liberty with him."

"That is all the more reason. If he is willing to forget it--but I

could tell you something, Tista, something that would persuade you."

"What is it, my treasure?" asked Gianbattista with a smile, bending down

to look into her eyes.

"Oh, something very wonderful, something of which you would never dream.

I could scarcely believe my eyes. Imagine, when I went to find him just

now, the door was open. I looked through before I went in, to see if you

were there. Do you know what papa was doing? He was kneeling on the

floor before a beautiful crucifix, such a beautiful one. I think he was

saying prayers, but I could not see his face. He stayed a long time, and

then when I knocked he covered it up, was not that strange? That is the

reason why I persuaded him so easily to change his mind."

Gianbattista smiled incredulously. He had often seen Marzio kneel on the

floor to get a different view of a large piece of work.

"He was only looking at the work," he answered. "I have seen him do it

very often. He would laugh if he could hear you, Lucia. Do you imagine

he is such a man as that? Perhaps it would not do him any harm--a little

praying. But it is a kind of medicine he does not relish. No, Lucia, you

have been deceived, believe me."

The girl's expression changed. She had quite persuaded herself that a

great moral change had taken place in her father that morning, and had

built many hopes upon it. To her sanguine imagination it seemed as

though his whole nature must have changed. She had seen visions of him

as she had always wished he might be, and the visions had seemed likely

to be realised. She had doubted whether she should tell any one the

story of what she regarded as Marzio's conversion, but she had made an

exception in favour of Gianbattista. Gianbattista simply laughed, and

explained the matter away in half a dozen words. Lucia was more deeply

disappointed than any one, listening to her light talk, could have

believed possible. Her face expressed the pain she felt, and she

protested against the apprentice's explanation.

"It is too bad of you, Tista," she said in hurt tones. "But I do not

think you are right. You have no idea how quietly he knelt, and his

hands were folded on the bench. He bent his head once, and I believe he

kissed the feet--I wish you could have seen it, you would not doubt me.

You think I have invented a silly tale, I am sure you do."

The tears filled her eyes as she turned away and stared vacantly out of

the window at the dark houses opposite. The sun, which had been shining

until that moment, disappeared behind a mass of driving clouds, and a

few drops of rain began to beat against the panes of glass. The world

seemed suddenly more dreary to Lucia. Gianbattista, who was sensitive

where she was concerned, looked at her, and understood that he had

destroyed something in which she had wished to believe.

"Well, well, my heart, perhaps you are right," he said softly, putting

his arm round her.

"No, you do not believe it," she answered.

"For you, I will believe in anything, in everything--even in Sor

Marzio's devotions," he said, pressing her to his side. "Only--you see,

darling, he was talking in such a way a few moments before--that it

seemed impossible--"

"Nothing is quite impossible," replied Lucia. "The heart beats fast.

There may be a whole world between one beat and the next."

"Yes, my love," assented Gianbattista, looking tenderly into her eyes.

"But do you think that between all the beatings of our two hearts there

could ever be a world of change?"

"Ah--that is different, Tista. Why should we change? We could only

change for worse if we began to love each other less, and that is

impossible. But papa! Why should he not change for the better? Who can

tell you, Tista, dear, that in a moment, in a second, after you were

gone, he was not sorry for all he had done? It may have been in an

instant. Why not?"

"Things done so very quickly are not done well," answered the young man.

"I know that from my art. You may stamp a thing in a moment with the

die--it is rough, unfinished. It takes weeks to chisel it--"

"The good God is not a chiseller, Tista."

The words fell very simply from the young girl's lips, and the

expression of her face did not change. Only the tone of her voice was

grave and quiet, and there was a depth of conviction in it which struck

Gianbattista forcibly. In a short sentence she had defined the

difference between his mode of thought and her own. To her mind

omnipotence was a reality. To him, it was an inconceivable power, the

absurdity of which he sought to demonstrate by comparing the magnitude

claimed for it with the capacities of man. He remained silent for a

moment, as though seeking an answer. He found none, and what he said

expressed an aspiration and not a retort.

"I sometimes wish that I could believe as you do," he said. "I am sure I

could do much greater things, make much more beautiful angels, if I were

quite sure that they existed."

"Of course you could," answered Lucia. Then, with a tact beyond her

years, she changed the subject of their talk. She would not endanger the

durability of his aspiration by discussing it. "To go back to what we

were speaking of," she said, "you will go to the workshop this

afternoon, Tista, won't you?"

"Yes," he said mechanically. "What else should I do? Oh, Lucia, my

darling, I cannot bear this uncertainty," he cried, suddenly giving vent

to his feelings. "Where will it end? He may have changed, he may be all

you say he is to-day, all that he was not yesterday, but do you really

believe he has given up his wild idea? It is not all as it should be,

and that is not his nature. It will come upon us suddenly with something

we do not expect. He will do something--I cannot tell what, but I know

him better than you do. He is cruel, he plots over his work, and then,

when all seems calm, the storm breaks. It will not end well."

"We must love each other, Tista. Then all will end well. Who can divide

us?"

"No one," answered the young maid firmly. "But many things may happen

before we are united for ever."

He was not subject to presentiments, and his self-confident nature

abhorred the prospect of trouble. He had arrived at his conclusion by a

logical process, and there seemed no escape from it. As he had told

Lucia, he knew the character of the chiseller better than the women of

the household could know it, for he had been his constant companion for

years, and was not to be deceived in his estimate of Marzio's temper. A

man's natural disposition shows itself most clearly when he is in his

natural element, at his work, busied in the ordinary occupations of his

life. To such a man as Marzio, the workshop is more sympathetic than the

house. Disagreeing on most points with his family, obliged to be absent

during the whole day, wholly absorbed in the production of works which

the women of his household could not thoroughly appreciate, because they

did not thoroughly understand the ideas which originated them, nor the

methods employed in their execution--under these combined circumstances

it was to be expected that the artist's real feelings would find

expression at the work-bench rather than in the society of his wife and

daughter. Seated by Marzio's side, and learning from him all that could

be learned, Gianbattista had acquired at the same time a thorough

knowledge of his instincts and emotions, which neither Maria Luisa nor

Lucia was able to comprehend.

Marzio was tenacious of his ideas and of his schemes. Deficient in power

of initiative and in physical courage, he was obstinate beyond all

belief in his adherence to his theories. That he should suddenly yield

to a devotional impulse, fall upon his knees before a crucifix and cry

_meâ culpâ_ over his whole past life, was altogether out of the

question. In Gianbattista's opinion it was almost as impossible that he

should abandon in a moment the plan which he had announced with so much

resolution on the previous evening. It was certain that before declaring

his determination to marry his daughter to the lawyer he must have

ruminated and planned during many days, as it was his habit to do in all

the matters of his life, without consulting any one, or giving the

slightest hint of his intention. Some part of his remarkable talent

depended upon this faculty of thoroughly considering a resolution before

proceeding to carry it out; and it is a part of every really great

talent in every branch of creative art, for it is the result of a great

continuity in the action of the mind combined with the power of

concentration and the virtue of reticence. Many a work has appeared to

the world to be the spontaneous creation of transcendent genius, which

has, in reality, been conceived, studied, and elaborated during years of

silence. Reticence, concentration, and continuity, are characteristics

which cannot influence one part of a man's life without influencing the

rest as well. The habit of studying before proceeding is co-existent

with the necessity of considering before acting; and a man who is

reticent concerning one half of his thoughts is not communicative about

the other half. Nature does not do things by halves, and the nerves

which animate the gesture at the table are the same which guide the

chisel at the work-bench.

Gianbattista understood Marzio's character, and in his mind tried to

construct the future out of the present. He endeavoured to follow out

what he supposed to be the chiseller's train of thought to its

inevitable conclusion, and the more he reflected on the situation the

more certain he became that Lucia's hypothesis was untenable. It was not

conceivable, under any circumstances whatever, that Marzio should

suddenly turn into a gentle, forgiving creature, anxious only for the

welfare of others, and willing to sacrifice his own inclinations and

schemes to that laudable end.

At twelve o'clock, Marzio appeared, cold, silent, and preoccupied. His

manner did not encourage the idea entertained by Lucia, though the girl

explained it to herself on the ground that her father was ashamed of

having yielded so easily, and was unwilling to have it thought that he

was too good-natured. There was truth in her idea, and it showed a good

deal of common sense and appreciation of character. But it was not the

whole truth. Marzio not only felt humiliated at having suffered himself

to be overcome by his daughter's entreaties; he regretted it, and wished

he could undo what he had done. It was too late, however. To change his

mind a second time would be to show such weakness as his family had

never witnessed in his actions.

He ate his food in silence, and the rest of the party ventured but few

remarks. They inwardly congratulated themselves upon the favourable

issue of the affair, in so far as it could be said to have reached a

conclusion, and they all dreaded equally some fresh outburst of anger,

should Marzio's temper be ruffled. Gianbattista himself set the example

of discretion. As for the Signora Pandolfi, she had ready in her pocket

the money her husband had given her in the morning for the purchase of

Lucia's outfit, and she hoped at every moment that Marzio would ask for

it, which would have been a sign that he had abandoned the idea of the

marriage with Carnesecchi. But Marzio never mentioned the subject. He

ate as quickly as he could, swallowed a draught of weak wine and water,

and rose from the table without a word. With a significant nod to Maria

Luisa and Lucia, Gianbattista left his seat and followed the artist

towards the door. Marzio looked round sharply as he heard the steps

behind him.

"Lucia told me," said the young man simply. "If you wish it, I will come

and work."

Marzio hesitated a moment, beating his soft felt hat over his arm to

remove the dust.

"You can go with the men and put up the prince's grating," he said at

last. "The right hand side is ready fitted. If you work hard you can

finish it before night."

"Very well," answered Gianbattista. "I will see to it. I have the keys

here. In fire minutes I will come across."

Marzio nodded and went out. Gianbattista returned to the room where the

women were finishing their dinner.

"It is all right," he said. "I am to put up the grating this afternoon.

Will you come and see it, Sora Luisa?" He spoke to the mother, but he

included the daughter by his look.

"It is very far," objected the Signora Pandolfi, "and we have been

walking so much this morning. I think this day will never end!"

"Courage, mamma," said Lucia, "it will do you good to walk. Besides,

there is the omnibus. What did he say, Tista? Am I not right?"

"Who knows? He is very quiet," replied the apprentice.

"What is it? What are you right about, my heart?" asked Maria Luisa.

"She thinks Sor Marzio has suddenly turned into a sugar doll," answered

Gianbattista, with a laugh. "It may be. They say they make sugar out of

all sorts of things nowadays."

"_Capperi!_ It would be hard!" exclaimed Maria Luisa. "If there is

enough sugar in him to sweeten a teaspoonful of coffee, write to me,"

she added ironically.

"Well--I shall be at the church in an hour, but it will be time enough

if you come at twenty-three o'clock--between twenty-two and

twenty-three." This means between one hour and two hours before sunset.

"The light is good then, for there is a big west window," added

Gianbattista in explanation.

"We will come before that," said Lucia. "Good-bye, Tista, and take care

not to catch cold in that damp place."

"And you too," he answered, "cover yourselves carefully."

With this injunction, and a parting wave of the hand, he left the house,

affecting a gay humour he did not really feel. His invitation to the two

women to join him in the church had another object besides that of

showing them the magnificent gilded grating which was to be put in

place. Gianbattista feared that Marzio had sent him upon this business

for the sake of getting him out of the way, and he did not know what

might happen in his absence. The artist might perhaps choose that time

for going in search of Gasparo Carnesecchi in order to bring him to the

house and precipitate the catastrophe which the apprentice still feared,

in spite of the last events of the morning. It was not unusual for Maria

Luisa and her daughter to accompany him and Marzio when a finished work

was to be set up, and Gianbattista knew that there could be no

reasonable objection to such, a proceeding.

With an anxious heart he left the house and crossed the street to the

workshop where the men were already waiting for the carts which were to

convey the heavy grating to its destination. The pieces were standing

against the walls, wrapped in tow and brown paper, and immense parcels

lay tied up upon the benches. It was a great piece of work of the

decorative kind, but of the sort for which Marzio cared little. Great

brass castings were chiselled and finished according to his designs

without his touching them with his hands. Huge twining arabesques of

solid metal were prepared in pieces and fitted together with screws that

ran easily in the thread, and then were taken apart again. Then came the

laborious work of gilding by the mercury process, smearing every piece

very carefully with an amalgam of mercury and gold, and putting it into

a gentle, steady fire, until the mercury had evaporated, tearing only

the dull gold in an even deposit on the surfaces. Then the finishing,

the burnishing of the high lights, and the cleaning of the portions

which were to remain dull. Sometimes the gilding of a piece failed, and

had to be begun again, and there was endless trouble in saving the gold,

as well as in preventing the workmen from stealing the amalgam. It was

slow and troublesome work, and Marzio cared little for it, though his

artistic instinct restrained him from allowing it to leave the workshop

until it had been perfected to the highest degree.

At present the artist stood in the outer room among the wrapped pieces,

his pipe in his mouth and his hands in his pockets. A moment after

Gianhattista had entered, two carts rolled up to the door and the

loading began.

"Take the drills and some screws to spare," said Marzio, looking into

the bag of tools the foreman had prepared. "One can never tell in these

monstrous things."

"It will be the first time, if we have to drill a new hole after you

have fitted a piece of work, Maestro Marzio," answered the foreman, who

had an unlimited admiration for his master's genius and foresight.

"Never mind; do as I tell you. We may all make mistakes in this world,"

returned the artist, giving utterance to a moral sentiment which did not

influence him beyond the precincts of the workshop. The workman obeyed,

and added the requisite instruments to the furnishing of his leather

bag.

"And be careful, Tista," added Marzio, turning to the apprentice. "Look

to the sockets in the marble when you place the large pieces. Measure

them with your compass, you know; if they are too loose you have the

thin plates of brass to pack them; if they are tight, file away, but

finish and smooth it well Don't leave anything rough."

Gianbattista nodded as he lent a helping hand to the workmen who were

carrying the heavy pieces to the carts.

"Will you come to the church before night?" he asked.

"Perhaps. I cannot tell. I am very busy."

In ten minutes the pieces were all piled upon the two vehicles, and

Gianbattista strode away on foot with the workmen. He had not thought of

changing his dress, and had merely thrown an old overcoat over his grey

woollen blouse. For the time, he was an artisan at work. When working

hours were over, and on Sundays, he loved to put on the stiff high

collar and the cheeked clothes which suggested the garments of the

English tourist. He was then a different person, and, in accordance with

the change, he would smoke a cigarette and pull his cuffs over his

hands, like a real gentleman, adjusting the angle of his hat from time

to time, and glancing at his reflection in the shop windows as he passed

along. But work was work; it was a pity to spoil good clothes with

handling tools and castings, and jostling against the men, and,

moreover, the change affected his nature. He could not handle a hammer

or a chisel when he felt like a real gentleman, and when he felt like an

artisan he must enjoy the liberty of being able to tuck up his sleeves

and work with a will. At the present moment, too, he was proud of being

in sole charge of the work, and he could not help thinking what a fine

thing it would be to be married to Lucia and to be the master of the

workshop. With the sanguine enthusiasm of a very young man who loves his

occupation, he put his whole soul into what he was to do, assured that

every skilful stroke of the hammer, every difficulty overcome, brought

him nearer to the woman he loved.

Marzio entered the inner studio when Gianbattista was gone, leaving a

boy who was learning to cut little files--the preliminary to the

chiseller's profession--in charge of the outer workshop. The artist shut

himself in and bolted the door, glad to be alone with the prospect of

not being disturbed during the whole afternoon. He seemed not to

hesitate about the work he intended to do, for he immediately took in

hand the crucifix, laid it upon the table, and began to study it, using

a lens from time to time as he scrutinised each detail. His rough hair

fell forward over his forehead, and his shoulders rounded themselves

till he looked almost deformed.

He had suffered very strong emotions during the last twenty-four

hours--enough to have destroyed the steadiness of an ordinary man's

hand; but with Marzio manual skill was the first habit of nature, and it

would have been hard to find a mental impression which could shake his

physical nerves. His mind, however, worked rapidly and almost fiercely,

while his eyes searched the minute lines of the work he was examining.

Uppermost in his thoughts was a confused sense of humiliation and of

exasperation against his brother. The anger he felt had nearly been

expressed in a murderous deed not more than two or three hours earlier,

and the wish to strike was still present in his mind. He twisted his

lips into an ugly smile as he recalled the scene in every detail; but

the determination was different from the reality and more in accordance

with his feelings. He realised again that moment during which he had

held the sharp instrument over his brother's head, and the thought which

had then passed so rapidly through his brain recurred again with

increased clearness. He remembered that beneath the iron-bound box in

the corner there was a trap-door which descended to the unused cellar,

for his workshop had in former times been a wine-shop, and he had hired

the cellar with it. One sharp blow would have done the business. A few

quick movements and Paolo's body would have been thrown down the dark

steps beneath, the trap closed again, the safe replaced in its position.

It was eleven o'clock then, or thereabouts. He would have sent the

workmen to their dinner, and would have returned to the inner studio.

They would have supposed afterwards that Don Paolo had left the place

with him. He would have gone home and would have said that Paolo had

left him--or, no--he would have said that Paolo had not been there, for

some one might see him leave the workshop alone. In the night he would

have returned, his family thinking he had gone to meet his friends, as

he often did. When the streets were quiet he would have carried the body

away upon the hand-cart that stood in the entry of the outer room. It

was not far--scarcely three hundred yards, allowing for the turnings--to

the place where the Via Montella ends in a mud bank by the dark river. A

deserted neighbourhood, too--a turn to the left, the low trees of the

Piazza de' Branca, the dark, short, straight street to the water. At one

o'clock after midnight who was stirring? It would all have been so

simple, so terribly effectual.

And then there would have been no more Paolo, no more domestic

annoyances, no more of the priest's smooth-faced disapprobation and

perpetual opposition in the house. He would have soon brought Maria

Luisa and Lucia to reason. What could they do without the support of

Paolo? They were only women after all. As for Gianbattista, if once the

poisonous influence of Paolo were removed--and how surely

removed!--Marzio's lips twisted as though he were tasting the sourness

of failure, like an acid fruit--if once the priest were gone,

Gianbattista would come back to his old ways, to his old scorn of

priests in general, of churches, of oppression, of everything that

Marzio hated. He might marry Lucia then, and be welcome. After all, he

was a finer fellow for the pretty girl than Gasparo Carnesecchi, with

his claw fingers and his vinegar salad. That was only a farce, that

proposal about the lawyer--the real thing was to get rid of Paolo. There

could be no healthy liberty of thought in the house while this fellow

was sneaking in and out at all hours. Tumble Paolo into a quiet

grave--into the river with a sackful of old castings at his neck--there

would be peace then, and freedom. Marzio ground his teeth as he thought

how nearly he had done the thing, and how miserably he had failed. It

had been the inspiration of the moment, and the details had appeared

clear at once to his mind. Going over them he found that he had not been

mistaken. If Paolo came again, and he had the chance, he would do it. It

was perhaps all the better that he had found time to weigh the matter.

But would Paolo come again? Would he ever trust himself alone in the

workshop? Had he guessed, when he turned so suddenly and saw the weapon

in the air, that the blow was on the very point of descending? Or had

he been deceived by the clumsy excuse Marzio had made about the sum

shining in his eyes?

He had remained calm, or Marzio tried to think so. But the artist

himself had been so much moved during the minutes that followed that he

could hardly feel sure of Paolo's behaviour. It was a chilling thought,

that Paolo might have understood and might have gone away feeling that

his life had been saved almost by a miracle. He would not come back, the

cunning priest, in that case; he would not risk his precious skin in

such company. It was not to be expected--a priest was only human, after

all, like any other man. Marzio cursed his ill luck again as he bent

over his work. What a moment this would be if Paolo would take it into

his head to make another visit! Even the men were gone. He would send

the one boy who remained to the church where Gianbattista was working,

with a message. They would be alone then, he and Paolo. The priest might

scream and call for help--the thick walls would not let any sound

through them. It would be even better than in the morning, when he had

lost his opportunity by a moment, by the twinkling of an eye.

"They say hell is paved with good intentions--or lost opportunities,"

muttered Marzio. "I will send Paolo with the next opportunity to help in

the paving."

He laughed softly at his grim joke, and bent lower over the crucifix.

By this time he had determined what to do, for his reflections had not

interfered with his occupation. Removing two tiny silver screws which

fitted with the utmost exactness in the threads, he loosened the figure

from the cross, removed the latter to a shelf on the wall, and returning

laid the statue on a soft leathern pad, surrounding it with sand-bags

till it was propped securely in the position he required. Then he took a

very small chisel, adjusted it with the greatest care, and tapped upon

it with the round wooden handle of his little hammer. At each touch he

examined the surface with his lens to assure himself that he was making

the improvement he contemplated. It was very delicate work, and as he

did it he felt a certain pride in the reflection that he could not have

detected the place where improvement was possible when he had worked

upon the piece ten years ago. He found it now, in the infinitesimal

touches upon the expression of the face, in the minute increase in the

depressions and accentuated lines in the anatomy of the figure. As he

went over each portion he became more and more certain that though he

could not at present do better in the way of idea and general execution,

he had nevertheless gained in subtle knowledge of effects and in skill

of handling the chisel upon very delicate points. The certainty gave

him the real satisfaction of legitimate pride. He knew that he had

reached the zenith of his capacities. His old wish to keep the crucifix

for himself began to return.

If he disposed of Paolo he might keep his work. Only Paolo had seen it.

The absurd want of logic in the conclusion did not strike him. He had

not pledged himself to his brother to give this particular crucifix to

the Cardinal, and if he had, he could easily have found a reason for

keeping it back. But he was too much accustomed to think that Paolo was

always in the way of his wishes, to look at so simple a matter in such a

simple light.

"It is strange," he said to himself. "The smallest things seem to point

to it. If he would only come!"

Again his mind returned to the contemplation of the deed, and again he

reviewed all the circumstances necessary for its safe execution. What an

inspiration, he thought, and what a pity it had not found shape in fact

at the very moment when it had presented itself! He considered why he

had never thought of it before, in all the years, as a means of freeing

himself effectually from the despotism he detested. It was a despotism,

he reflected, and no other word expressed it. He recalled many scenes in

his home, in which Paolo had interfered. He remembered how one Sunday,

in the afternoon, they had all been together before going to walk in

the Corso, and how he had undertaken to demonstrate to Maria Luisa and

Lucia the folly of wasting time in going to church on Sundays. He had

argued gently and reasonably, he thought. But suddenly Paolo had

interrupted him, saying that he would not allow Marzio to compare a

church to a circus, nor priests to mountebanks and tight-rope dancers.

Why not? Then the women had begun to scream and cry, and to talk of his

blasphemous language until he could not hear himself speak. It was

Paolo's fault. If Paolo had not been there the women would have listened

patiently enough, and would doubtless have reaped some good from his

reasonable discourse. On another occasion Marzio had declared that Lucia

should never be taught anything about Christianity, that the definition

of God was reason, that Garibaldi had baptized one child in the name of

Reason and that he, Marzio, could baptize another quite as effectually.

Paolo had interfered, and Maria Luisa had screamed. The contest had

lasted nearly a month, at the end of which tune, Marzio had been obliged

to abandon the uneven contest, vowing vengeance in some shape for the

future.

Many and many such scenes rose to his memory, and in every one Paolo was

the opposer, the enemy of his peace, the champion of all that he hated

and despised. In great things and small his brother had been his

antagonist from his early manhood, through eighteen years of married

life to the present day. And yet, without Paolo, he could hardly have

hoped to find himself in his present state of fortune.

This was one of the chief sources of his humiliation in his own eyes.

With such a character as his, it is eminently true that it is harder to

forgive a benefit than an injury. He might have felt less bitterly

against his brother if he had not received at his hands the orders and

commissions which had turned into solid money in the bank. It was hard

to face Paolo, knowing that he owed two-thirds of his fortune to such a

source. If he could get rid of the priest he would be relieved at once

from the burden of this annoyance, of this financial subjection, as well

of all that embittered his life. He pictured to himself his wife and

daughter listening respectfully to his harangues and beginning to

practise his principles, Gianbattista, an eloquent member of the society

in the inner room of the old inn, reformed, purged from his sneaking

fondness for Paolo--since Paolo would not be in the world any

longer--and ultimately married to Lucia, the father of children who

should all be baptized in the name of Reason, and the worthy successor

of himself, Marzio Pandolfi.

Scrutinising the statue under his lens, he detected a slight

imperfection in the place where one of the sharp thorns touched the

silver forehead of the beautiful, tortured head. He looked about for a

tool fine enough for the work, but none suited his wants. He took up the

long fine-pointed punch he had thrown back upon the table after the

scene in the morning. It was too long, and over sharp, but by turning it

sideways it would do the work under his dexterous fingers.

"Strange!" he muttered, as he tapped upon the tool. "It is like a

consecration!"

When he had made the stroke he dropped the instrument into the pocket of

his blouse, as though fearing to lose it. He had no occasion to use it

again, though he went on with his work during several hours.

The thoughts which had passed through his brain recurred, and did not

diminish in clearness. On the contrary, it was as though the passing

impulse of the morning had grown during those short hours into a settled

and unchangeable resolution. Once he rose from his stool, and going to

the corner, dragged away the iron-bound safe from its place. A rusty

ring lay flat in a little hollow in the surface of the trap-door. Marzio

bent over it with a pale face and gleaming eyes. It seemed to him as

though, if he looked round, he should see Paolo's body lying on the

floor, ready to be dropped into the space below. He raised the wood and

set the trap back against the wall, peering down into the black depths.

A damp smell came up to his nostrils from the moist staircase. He struck

a match, and held it into the opening, to see in what direction the

stairs led down.

Something moved behind him and made a little noise. With a short cry of

horror Marzio sprang back from the opening and looked round. It was as

though the body of the murdered man had stirred upon the floor. His

overstrained imagination terrified him, and his eyes started from his

head. He examined the bench and saw the cause of the sound in a moment.

The silver Christ, unsteadily propped in the position in which he had

just placed it, had fallen upon one side of the pad by its own weight.

Marzio's heart still beat desperately as he went back to the hole and

carefully reclosed the trap-door, dragging the heavy safe to its

position over the ring. Trembling violently, he sat down upon his stool

and wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead. Then, as he laid the

figure upon the cushion, he glanced uneasily behind him and at the

corner.

CHAPTER IX

When Don Paolo had shut the door of the studio and found himself once

more in the open street, he felt a strangely unpleasant sensation about

the heart, and for a few moments he was very pale. He had suffered a

shock, and in spite of his best efforts to explain away what had

occurred, he knew that he had been in danger. Any one who, being himself

defenceless, has suddenly seen a pistol pointed at him in earnest, or a

sharp weapon raised in the air to strike him, knows the feeling well

enough. Probably he has afterwards tried to reason upon what he felt in

that moment, and has failed to come to any conclusion except the very

simple one, that he was badly frightened. Hector was no coward, but he

let Achilles chase him three times round Troy before he could make up

his mind to stand and fight, and but for Athena he might have run even

further. And yet Hector was armed at all points for battle. He was badly

frightened, brave man as he was.

But when the first impression was gone, and Paolo was walking quickly

in the direction of the palace where the Cardinal lived, he stoutly

denied to himself that Marzio had meant to harm him. In the first place,

he could find no adequate reason for such an attempt upon his life. It

was true that his relations with his brother had not been very amicable

for some time; but between quarrelling and doing murder, Paolo saw a

gulf too wide to be easily overstepped, even by such a person as Marzio.

Then, too, the good man was unwilling to suspect any one of bad

intentions, still less of meditating a crime. This consideration,

however, was not, logically speaking, in Marzio's favour; for since

Paolo was less suspicious than other men, it must necessarily have

needed a severe shock to shake his faith in his brother's innocence. He

had seem the weapon in the air, and had seen also the murderous look in

the artist's eyes.

"I had better not think anything more about it," he said to himself,

fearing lest he should think anything unjust.

So he went on his way towards the palace, and tried to think about

Gianbattista and Lucia, their marriage and their future life. The two

young faces came up before him as he walked, and he smiled calmly,

forgetting what he had so recently passed through, in the pleasant

contemplation of a happiness not his own. He reached his rooms, high up

at the top of the ancient building, and he sighed with a sense of

relief as he sat down upon the battered old chair before his

writing-table.

Presently the Cardinal sent for him. Don Paolo rose and carefully

brushed the dust from his cassock and mantle, and smoothed the long silk

nap of his hat. He was a very neat man and scrupulous as to his

appearance. Moreover, he regarded the Cardinal with a certain awe, as

being far removed beyond the sphere of ordinary humanity, even though he

had known him intimately for years. This idea of the great importance of

the princes of the Church is inherent in the Roman mind. There is no

particular reason why it should be eradicated, since it exists, and does

no harm to any one, but it is a singular fact and worthy of remark. It

is one of those many relics of old times, which no amount of outward

change has been able to obliterate. A cardinal in Rome occupies a

position wholly distinct from that of any other dignitary or hereditary

noble. It is not so elsewhere, except perhaps in some parts of the

south. The Piedmontese scoffs at cardinals, because he scoffs at the

church and at all religion in general. The Florentine shrugs his

shoulders because cardinals represent Rome, and Rome, with all that is

in it, is hateful to Florence, and always was. But the true Roman, even

when he has adopted the ideas of the new school, still feels an

unaccountable reverence for the scarlet mantle. There is a

dignity--often, now, very far from magnificent--about the household of a

cardinal, which is not found elsewhere. The servants are more grave and

tread more softly, the rooms are darker and more severe, the atmosphere

is more still and the silence more intense, than in the houses of lay

princes. A man feels in the very air the presence of a far-reaching

power, noiselessly working to produce great results.

Don Paolo descended the stairs and entered the apartments through the

usual green baize door, which swung upon its hinges by its own weight

behind him. He passed through several large halls, scantily and sombrely

furnished, in the last of which stood the throne chair, turned to the

wall, beneath a red canopy. Beyond this great reception-chamber, and

communicating with it by a low masked door, was the Cardinal's study, a

small room, very high and lighted by a single tall window which opened

upon an inner court of the palace. The furniture was very simple,

consisting of a large writing-table, a few high-backed chairs, and the

Cardinal's own easy-chair, covered with dingy leather and well worn by

use. On the dark green walls hung two engravings, one a portrait of Pius

IX., the other a likeness of Leo XIII. The Cardinal himself sat in the

arm-chair, holding a newspaper spread out upon his knees.

"Good-day, Don Paolo," he said, in a pleasant, but not very musical

voice.

His Eminence was a man about sixty years of age, hale and strong in

appearance, but below the middle height and somewhat inclining to

stoutness. His face was round, and the complexion very clear, which,

with his small and bright brown eyes, gave him a look of cheerful

vitality. Short white hair fringed his head where it was not covered by

the small scarlet skull-cap. He wore a purple cassock with scarlet

buttons and a scarlet silk mantle, which fell in graceful folds over one

arm of the chair.

"Good-day, Eminence," answered Don Paolo, touching the great ruby ring

with his lips. Then, in obedience to a gesture, the priest sat down upon

one of the high-backed chairs.

"What weather have we to-day?" asked the Cardinal after a pause.

"Scirocco, Eminence."

"Ah, I thought so--especially this morning, very early. It is very

disagreeable. Since Padre Secchi found that the scirocco really brings

the sand of the desert with it, I dislike it more than ever. And what

have you been doing, Don Paolo? Have you been to see about the

crucifix?"

"I spoke to my brother about it last night, Eminence. He said he would

do his best to make it in the time, but that he would have preferred to

have a little longer."

"He is a good artist, your brother," said the Cardinal, nodding his head

slowly and joining his hands, while the newspaper slipped to the floor.

"A good artist," repeated Don Paolo, stooping to pick up the sheet. "I

have just seen his best work--a crucifix such as your Eminence wishes.

Indeed, he proposed that you should take it, for he says he can make

nothing better."

"Let us see, let us see," answered the prelate, in a tone which showed

that he did not altogether like the proposal. "You say he has it already

made. Tell me, has your brother much work to do just now?"

"Not much, Eminence. He has just finished the grating of a chapel for

some church or other. I think I saw a silver ewer begun upon his table."

"I thought that perhaps he had not time for my crucifix."

"But he is an artist, my brother!" cried the priest, who resented the

idea that Marzio might wish to palm off an ill-made object in order to

save time. "He is a good artist, he loves the work, he always does his

best! When he says he can do nothing better than what he has already

finished, I believe him."

"So much the better," replied the Cardinal. "But we must see the work

before deciding. You seem to have great faith in your brother's good

intentions, Don Paolo. Is it not true? Dear me! You were almost angry

with me for suggesting that he might be too busy to undertake my

commission."

"Angry! I angry? Your Eminence is unjust. Marzio puts much conscience

into his work. That is all."

"Ah, he is a man of conscience? I did not know. But, being your brother,

he should be, Don Paolo." The prelate's bright brown eyes twinkled.

Paolo was silent, though he bowed his head in acknowledgment of the

indirect praise.

"You do not say anything," observed the Cardinal, looking at his

secretary with a smile.

"He is a man of convictions," answered Paolo, at last.

"That is better than nothing, better than being lukewarm. 'Because thou

art lukewarm,' you know the rest."

"_Incipiam te evomere_," replied the priest mechanically. "Marzio is not

lukewarm."

"_Frigidusne?_" asked the Cardinal.

"Hardly that."

"_An calidus?_"

"Not very, Eminence. That is, not exactly."

"But then, in heaven's name, what is he?" laughed the prelate. "If he is

not cold, nor hot, nor lukewarm, what is he? He interests me. He is a

singular case."

"He is a man who has his opinions," answered Don Paolo. "What shall I

say? He is so good an artist that he is a little crazy about other

things."

"His opinions are not ours, I suppose. I have sometimes thought as much

from the way you speak of him. Well, well--he is not old; his opinions

will change. You are very much attached to your brother, Don Paolo, are

you not?"

"We are brothers, Eminence."

"So were Cain and Abel, if I am not mistaken," observed the Cardinal.

Paolo looked about the room uneasily. "I only mean to say," continued

the prelate, "that men may be brothers and yet not love each other."

"_Come si fà?_ What can one do about it?" ejaculated Paolo.

"You must try and influence him. You must do your best to make him

change his views. You must make an effort to bring him to a better state

of mind."

"Eh! I know," answered the priest. "I do my best, but I do not succeed.

He thinks I interfere. I am not San Filippo Neri. Why should I conceal

the matter? Marzio is not a bad man, but he is crazy about what he calls

politics. He believes in a new state of things. He thinks that

everything is bad and ought to be destroyed. Then he and his friends

would build up the ideal state."

"There would soon be nothing but equality to eat--fried, roast and

boiled. I have heard that there are socialists even here in Rome. I

cannot imagine what they want."

"They want to divide the wealth of the country among themselves,"

answered Don Paolo. "What strange ideas men have!"

"To divide the wealth of the country they have only to subtract a paper

currency from an inflated national debt. There would be more

unrighteousness than mammon left after such a proceeding. It reminds me

of a story I heard last year. A deputation of socialists waited upon a

high personage in Vienna. Who knows what for? But they went. They told

him that it was his duty to divide his wealth amongst the inhabitants of

the city. And he said they were quite right. 'Look here,' said he, 'I

possess about seven hundred thousand florins. It chances that Vienna has

about seven hundred thousand inhabitants. Here, you have each one

florin. It is your share. Good-morning.' You see he was quite just. So,

perhaps, if your brother had his way, and destroyed everything, and

divided the proceeds equally, he would have less afterwards than he had

before. What do you think?"

"It is quite true, Eminence. But I am afraid he will never understand

that. He has very unchangeable opinions."

"They will change all the more suddenly when he is tired of them. Those

ideas are morbid, like the ravings of a man in a fever. When the fever

has worn itself out, there comes a great sense of lassitude, and a

desire for peace."

"Provided it ever really does wear itself out," said Don Paolo, sadly.

"Eh! it will, some day. With such political ideas, I suppose your

brother is an atheist, is he not?"

"I hope he believes in something," replied the priest evasively.

"And yet he makes a good living by manufacturing vessels for the service

of the Church," continued the Cardinal, with a smile. "Why did you never

tell me about your brother's peculiar views, Don Paolo?"

"Why should I trouble you with such matters? I am sorry I have said so

much, for no one can understand exactly what Marzio is, who does not

know him. It is an injury to him to let your Eminence know that he is a

freethinker. And yet he is not a bad man, I believe. He has no vices

that I know of, except a sharp tongue. He is sober and works hard. That

is much in these days. Though he is mistaken, he will doubtless come to

his senses, as you say. I do not hate him; I would not injure him."

"Why do you think it can harm him to let me about him? Do you think that

I, or others, would not employ him if we knew all about him?"

"It would seem natural that your Eminence should hesitate to do so."

"Let us see, Don Paolo. There are some bad priests in the world, I

suppose; are there not?"

"It is to be feared--"

"Yes, there are. There are bad priests in all forms of religion. Yet

they say mass. Of course, very often the people know that they are bad.

Do you think that the mass is less efficacious for the salvation of

those who attend it, provided that they themselves pray with the same

earnestness?"

"No; certainly not. For otherwise it would be necessary that the people

should ascertain whether the priest is in a state of grace every time he

celebrates; and since their salvation would then, depend upon that, they

would be committing a sin if they did not examine the relative morality

of different priests and select the most saintly one."

"Well then, so much the more is it indifferent whether the inanimate

vessels we use are chiselled by a saint or an unbeliever. Their use

sanctifies them, not the moral goodness of the artist. For, by your own

argument, we should otherwise he committing a sin if we did not find

out the most saintly men and set them to silver-chiselling instead of

ordaining them bishops and archbishops. It would take a long time to

build a church if you only employed masons who were in a state of

grace."

"Well, but would you not prefer that the artist should be a good man?"

"For his own sake, Don Paolo, for his own sake. The thing he makes is

not at all less worthy if he is bad. Are there not in many of our

churches pillars that stood in Roman temples? Is not the canopy over the

high altar in Saint Peter's made of the bronze roof of the Pantheon? And

besides, what is goodness? We are all bad, but some are worse than

others. It is not our business to judge, or to distribute commissions

for works of art to those whom we think the best among men, as one gives

medals and prizes to industrious and well-behaved children."

"That is very clear, and very true," answered the priest.

He did not really want to discuss the question of Marzio's belief or

unbelief. Perhaps, if he had not been disturbed in mind by the events of

the morning he would have avoided the subject, as he had often done

before when the Cardinal had questioned him. But to-day he was not quite

himself, and being unable to tell a falsehood of any kind he had spoken

more of idle truth than he had wished. He felt that he had perhaps been

unjust to his brother. He looked ill at ease, and the Cardinal noticed

it, for he was a kindly man and very fond of his secretary.

"You must not let the matter trouble you," said the prelate, after a

pause. "I am an inquisitive old man, as you know, and I like to be

acquainted with my friends' affairs. But I am afraid I have annoyed

you--"

"Oh! Your Eminence could never--"

"Never intentionally," interrupted the Cardinal. "But it is human to

err, and it is especially human to bore one's fellow-creatures with

inquisitive questions. We all have our troubles, Don Paolo, and I am

yours. Some day, perhaps, you will be a cardinal yourself--who knows? I

hope so. And then you will have an excellent secretary, who will be much

too good, even for you, and whom you can torture by the hour together

with inquiries about his relations. Well, if it is only for your sake,

Sor Marzio shall never have any fewer commissions, even if he turn out

more in earnest with his socialism than most of those fellows."

"You are too kind," said Paolo simply.

He was very grateful for the kindly words, for he knew that they were

meant and not said merely in jest. The idea that he had perhaps injured

Marzio in the Cardinal's estimation was very painful to him, in spite

of what he had felt that morning. Moreover, the prelate's plain,

common-sense view of the case reassured him, and removed a doubt that

had long ago disturbed his peace of mind. On reflection it seemed true

enough, and altogether reasonable, but Paolo knew in his heart what a

sensation of repulsion, not to say loathing, he would experience if he

should ever be called upon to use in the sacred services a vessel of his

brother's making. The thought that those long, cruel fingers of Marzio's

had hammered and worked out the delicate design would pursue him and

disturb his thoughts. The sound of Marzio's voice, mocking at all the

priest held holy, would be in his ears and would mingle with the very

words of the canon.

But then, provided that he himself were not obliged to use his brother's

chalices, what could it matter? The Cardinal did not know the artist,

and whatever picture he might make to himself of the man would be

shadowy and indistinct. The feeling, then, was his own and quite

personal. It would be the height of superstitious folly to suppose that

any evil principle could be attached to the silver and gold because they

were chiselled by impious hands. A simple matter this, but one which had

many a time distressed Don Paolo.

There was a long pause after the priest's last words, during which the

prelate looked at him from time to time, examined his own white hands,

and turned his great ruby ring round his finger.

"Let us go to work," he said at length, as though dismissing the subject

of the conversation from his mind.

Paolo fetched a large portfolio of papers and established himself at the

writing-table, while the Cardinal examined the documents one by one, and

dictated what he had to say about them to his secretary. During two

hours or more the two men remained steadily at their task. When the last

paper was read and the last note upon it written out, the Cardinal rose

from his arm-chair and went to the window. There was no sound in the

room but that of the sand rattling upon the stiff surface, as Paolo

poured it over the wet ink in the old-fashioned way, shook it about and

returned it to the little sandbox by the inkstand. Suddenly the old

churchman turned round and faced the priest.

"One of these days, when you and I are asleep out there at San Lorenzo,

there will be a fight, my friend," he said.

"About what, Eminence?" asked the other.

"About silver chalices, perhaps. About many things. It will be a great

fight, such as the world has never seen before."

"I do not understand," said Don Paolo.

"Your brother represents an idea," answered the Cardinal. "That idea is

the subversion of all social principle. It is an idea which must spread,

because there is an enormous number of depraved men in the world who

have a very great interest in the destruction of law. The watchword of

that party will always be 'there is no God,' because God is order, and

they desire disorder. They will, it is true, always be a minority,

because the greater part of mankind are determined that order shall not

be destroyed. But those fellows will fight to the death, because they

know that in that battle there will be no quarter for the vanquished. It

will be a mighty struggle and will last long, but it will be decisive,

and will perhaps never be revived when it is once over. Men will kill

each other where-ever they meet, during months and years, before the end

comes, for all men who say that there is a God in Heaven will be upon

the one side, and all those who say there is no God will be upon the

other."

"May we not be alive to see anything so dreadful!" exclaimed Don Paolo

devoutly.

"No, you and I shall not see it. But those little children who are

playing with chestnuts down there in the court--they will see it. The

world is uneasy and dreads the very name of war, lest war should become

universal if it once breaks out. Tell your brother that."

"It is what he longs for. He is always speaking of it."

"Then it is inevitable. When many millions like him have determined that

there shall be evil done, it cannot long be warded off. Their blood be

on their own heads."

When Don Paolo had climbed again to his lonely lodging, half an hour

later, he pondered long upon what the Cardinal had said to him, and the

longer he thought of it, the more truth there seemed to be in the

prediction.

CHAPTER X

Gianbattista reached the church in which he was to do his work, and

superintended the unloading of the carts. It was but a little after one

o'clock, and he expected to succeed in putting up the grating before

night. The pieces were carefully carried to the chapel where they were

to be placed, and laid down in the order in which they would be needed.

It took a long time to arrange them, and the apprentice was glad he had

advised Maria Luisa and Lucia to come late. It would have wearied them,

he reflected, to assist at the endless fitting and screwing of the

joints, and they would have had no impression of the whole until they

were tired of looking at the details.

For hours he laboured with the men, not allowing anything to be done

without his supervision, and doing more himself than any of the workmen.

He grew hot and interested as the time went on, and he began to doubt

whether the work could be finished before sunset. The workmen

themselves, who preferred a job of this kind to the regular occupation

of the studio, seemed in no hurry, though they did what was expected of

them quietly and methodically. Each one of them was calculating, as

nearly as possible, the length of time needed to drive a screw, to lift

a piece into position, to finish off a shank till it fitted closely in

the prepared socket. Half an hour wasted by driblets to-day, would

ensure them for the morrow the diversion of an hour or two in coming to

the church and returning from it.

From time to time Gianbattista glanced towards the door, and as the

hours advanced his look took the same direction more often. At last, as

the rays of the evening sun fell through the western window, he heard

steps, and was presently rewarded by the appearance of the Signora

Pandolfi, followed closely by Lucia. They greeted Gianbattista from a

distance, for the church being under repairs was closed to the public,

and had not been in use for years, so that the sound of voices did not

seem unnatural nor irreverent.

"It is not finished," said Gianbattista, coming forward to meet them;

"but you can see what it will be like. Another hour will be enough."

At that moment Don Paolo suddenly appeared, walking fast up the aisle in

pursuit of the two women. They all greeted him with an exclamation of

surprise.

"Eh!" he exclaimed, "you are astonished to see me? I was passing and saw

you go in, and as I knew about the grating, I guessed what you came for

and followed you. Is Marzio here?"

"No," answered Gianbattista. "He said he might perhaps come, but I doubt

it. I fancy he wants to be alone."

"Yes," replied Don Paolo thoughtfully, "I daresay he wants to be alone."

"He has had a good many emotions to-day," remarked Gianbattista. "We

shall see how he will be this evening. Of course, you have heard the

news, Don Paolo? Besides, you see I am at work, so that the first great

difference has been settled. Lucia managed it--she has an eloquence,

that young lady! She could preach better than you, Don Paolo."

"She is a little angel," exclaimed the priest, tapping his niece's dark

cheek with his white hand.

"That is four to-day!" cried Lucia, laughing. "First mamma, then

papa--figure to yourself papa!--then Tista, and now Uncle Paolo. Eh! if

the wings don't grow before the Ave Maria--"

She broke off with a pretty motion of her shoulders, showing her white

teeth and turning to look at Gianbattista. Then the young man took them

to see the grating. A good portion of it was put up, and it produced a

good effect. The whole thing was about ten or twelve feet high,

consisting of widely-set gilt bars, between which were fastened large

arabesques and scrolls. On each side of the gate, in the middle, an

angel supported a metal drapery, of which the folds were in reality of

separate pieces, but which, as it now appeared, all screwed together in

its place, had a very free and light effect. It was work of a

conventional kind and of a conventional school, but even here Marzio's

great talent had shown itself in his rare knowledge of effects and free

modelling; the high lights were carefully chosen and followed out, and

the deep shadows of the folds in dull gold gave a richness to the

drapery not often found in this species of decoration. The figures of

the angels, too, were done by an artist's hand--conventional, like the

rest, but free from heaviness or anatomical defects.

"It is not bad," said Don Paolo, in a tone which surprised every one. He

was not often slow to praise his brother's work.

"How, not bad? Is that all you say?" asked Gianbattista, in considerable

astonishment. He felt, too, that as Marzio and he worked together, he

deserved acme part of the credit. "It is church decoration of course,

and not a 'piece,' as we say, but I would like to see anybody do

better."

"Well, well, Tista, forgive me," he answered, "The fact is, Marzio

showed me something to-day so wonderful, that I see no beauty in

anything else--or, at least, not so much beauty as I ought to see. I

went in to find him again, you know, just as Lucia was leaving, and he

showed me a crucifix--a marvel, a wonder!--he said he had had it a long

time, put away in a box."

"I never saw it," said Tista.

"I did!" exclaimed Lucia. She regretted the words as soon as she had

spoken them, and bit her lip. She had not told her mother what she had

told Gianbattista.

"When did you see it? Is it so very beautiful?" asked the Signora

Pandolfi.

"Oh, I only saw it through the door, when I went," she answered quickly.

"The door was open, but I knocked and I saw him hide it. But I think it

was very fine--splendid! What did you talk about, Uncle Paolo? You have

not told us about your visit. I whispered to you that everything was

settled, but you looked as though you did not understand. What did you

say to each other?"

"Oh, nothing--nothing of any importance," said Don Paolo in some

embarrassment. He suddenly recollected that, owing to his brother's

strange conduct, he had left the studio without saying a word about the

errand which had brought him. "Nothing," he repeated. "We talked about

the crucifix, and Marzio gave a very long explanation of the way it was

made. Besides, as Lucia says, she had told me that everything was

settled, and Marzio spoke very quietly."

This was literally true. Marzio's words had been gentle enough. It was

his action that had at first startled Don Paolo, and had afterwards set

him thinking and reflecting on the events of those few minutes. But he

would not for anything in the world have allowed any of his three

companions to know what had happened. He was himself not sure. Marzio

had excused the position of his hand by saying that the sun was in his

eyes. There was something else in his eyes, thought Paolo; a look of

hatred and of eager desire for blood which it was horrible to remember.

Perhaps he ought not to remember it, for he might, be mistaken, after

all, and it was a great sin to suspect any one of wishing to commit such

a crime; but nevertheless; and in spite of his desire that it might not

have been true, Don Paolo was conscious of having received the

impression, and he was sure that it had not been the result of any

foolish fright. He was not a cowardly, man, and although his physical

courage had rarely been put to the test, no one who knew him would have

charged him with the contemptible timidity which imagines danger

gratuitously, and is afraid where no fear is. He was of a better temper

than Marzio, who had been startled so terribly by a slight noise when

his back was turned. And yet he had been profoundly affected by the

scene of the morning, and had not yet entirely recovered his serenity.

Lucia noticed the tone of his answer, and suspected that something had

happened, though her suspicion took a direction exactly opposed to the

fact. She remembered what she had seen herself, and recalling the fact

that Paolo had entered the workshop just as she was leaving it, she saw

nothing unnatural in the supposition that her father's conversation with

her uncle had taken a religious tone. She used the word religion to

express to herself what she meant. She thought it quite possible that

after Marzio had been so suddenly softened, and evidently affected, by

her own fainting fit, and after having been absorbed in some sort of

devotional meditation, he might have spoken of his feelings to Don

Paolo, who in his turn would have seized the opportunity for working

upon his brother's mind. Paolo, she thought, would naturally not care to

speak lightly of such an occurrence, and his somewhat constrained manner

at the present moment might be attributed to this cause. To prevent any

further questions from her mother or Gianbattista, Lucia interposed.

"Yes," she said, "he seemed very quiet. He hardly spoke at dinner. But

Tista says he may perhaps be here before long, and then we shall know."

It was not very clear what was to be known, and Lucia hastened to direct

their attention to the new grating. Gianbattista returned to work with

the men, and the two women and Don Paolo stood looking on, occasionally

shifting their position to get a better view of the work. Gianbattista

was mounted upon a ladder which leaned against one of the marble pillars

at the entrance of the side chapel closed by the grating. A heavy piece

of arabesque work had just been got into its place, and was tied with

cords while the young man ran a screw through the prepared holes to

fasten one side of the fragment to the bar. He was awkwardly placed, but

he had sent the men to uncover and clean the last pieces, at a little

distance from where he was at work. The three visitors observed him with

interest, probably remarking to themselves that it must need good nerves

to maintain one's self in such a position. Don Paolo, especially, was

more nervous than the rest, owing, perhaps, to what had occurred in the

morning. All at once, as he watched Gianbattista's twisted attitude, as

the apprentice strained himself and turned so as to drive the screw

effectually, the foot of the ladder seemed to move a little on the

smooth marble pavement. With a quick movement Don Paolo stepped forward,

with the intention of grasping the ladder.

Hearing the sound of rapid steps, Gianbattista turned his head and a

part of his body to see what had happened. The sudden movement shifted

the weight, and definitely destroyed the balance of the ladder. With a

sharp screech, like that of a bad pencil scratching on a slate, the

lower ends of the uprights slipped outward from the pillar.

Gianbattista clutched at the metal bars desperately, but the long

screw-driver in his hands impeded him, and he missed his hold.

Don Paolo, the sound of whose step had at first made the young man turn,

and had thus probably precipitated the accident, sprang forward, threw

himself under the falling ladder, and grasped it with all his might. But

it was too late. Gianbattista was heavy, and the whole ladder with his

weight upon it had gained too much impetus to be easily stopped by one

man. With a loud crash he fell with the wooden frame upon the smooth

marble floor. Rolling to one side, Gianbattista leapt to his feet, dazed

but apparently unhurt.

The priest lay motionless in a distorted position under the ladder, his

head bent almost beneath his body, and one arm projecting upon the

pavement, seemingly twisted in its socket, the palm upwards. The long

white fingers twitched convulsively once or twice, and then were still.

It was all the affair of a moment. Maria Luisa screamed and leaned

against the pillar for support, while Lucia ran forward and knelt beside

the injured man. Gianbattista, whose life had probably been saved by Don

Paolo's quick action, was dragging away the great ladder, and the

workmen came running up in confusion to see what had happened.

It seemed as though Marzio's wish had been accomplished without his

agency. A deadly livid colour overspread the priest's refined features,

and as they lifted him his limp limbs hung down as though the vitality

would never return to them--all except the left arm, which was turned

stiffly out and seemed to refuse to hang down with the rest. It was

dislocated at the shoulder.

A scene of indescribable confusion followed, in which Gianbattista alone

seemed to maintain some semblance of coolness. The rest all spoke and

cried at once. Maria Luisa and Lucia knelt beside the body where they

had laid it on the steps of the high altar, crying aloud, kissing the

white hands and beating their breasts, praying, sobbing, and calling

upon Paolo to speak to them, all in a breath.

"He is dead as a stone," said one of the workmen in a low voice.

"Eh! He is in Paradise," said another, kneeling at the priest's feet and

rubbing them.

"Take him to the hospital, Sor Tista--"

"Better take him home--"

"I will run and call Sor Marzio--"

"There is an apothecary in the next street."

"A doctor is better--apothecaries are all murderers."

Gianbattista, very pale, but collected and steady, pushed the men gently

away from the body.

"_Cari miei_, my dear fellows," he said, "he may be alive. One of you

run and get a carriage to the side door of the sacristy. The rest of you

put the things together and be careful to leave nothing where it can

fall. We will take him to Sor Marzio's house and get the best doctor."

"There is not even a drop of holy water in the basins," moaned Maria

Luisa.

"He will go to Heaven without holy water," sobbed Lucia. "Oh, how good

he was--"

Gianbattista kneeled down in his turn and tried to find the pulse in the

poor limp wrist. Then he listened for the heart. He fancied he could

hear a faint flutter in the breast. He looked up and a little colour

came to his pale face.

"I think he is alive," he said to the two women, and then bent down

again and listened. "Yes," he continued joyfully. "The heart beats.

Gently--help me to carry him to the sacristy; get his hat one of you.

So--carefully--do not twist that arm. I think I see colour in his

cheeks--"

With four other men Gianbattista raised the body and bore it carefully

to the sacristy. The cab was already at the door, and in a few minutes

poor Don Paolo was placed in it. The hood was raised, and Maria Luisa

got in and sat supporting the drooping head upon her broad bosom. Lucia

took the little seat in front, and Gianbattista mounted to the box,

after directing the four men to follow in a second cab as fast as they

could, to help to carry the priest upstairs. He sent another in search

of a surgeon.

"Do not tell Sor Marzio--do not go to the workshop," he said in a last

injunction. He knew that Marzio would be of no use in such an emergency,

and he hoped that Don Paolo might be pronounced out of danger before the

chiseller knew anything of the accident.

In half an hour the injured man was lying in Gianbattista's bed. It was

now evident that he was alive, for he breathed heavily and regularly.

But the half-closed eyes had no intelligence in them, and the slight

flush in the hollow cheeks was not natural to see. The twisted arm still

stuck out of the bed-coverings in a painfully distorted attitude. The

two women and Gianbattista stood by the bedside in silence, waiting for

the arrival of the surgeon.

He came at last, a quiet-looking man of middle age, with grizzled hair

and a face deeply pitted with the smallpox. He seemed to know what he

was about, for he asked for a detailed account of the accident from

Gianbattista while he examined the patient. The young man, who was

beginning to feel the effects of the fall, now that the first excitement

had subsided, sat down while he told the story. The surgeon urged the

two women to leave the room.

"The left arm is dislocated at the shoulder, without fracture," said

the surgeon. "Lend me a hand, will you? Hold his body firmly--here and

here--with all your might, while I pull the joint into place. If his

head or spine are not injured the pain may bring him to consciousness.

That will be a good thing. Now, ready--one, two, three, pull!"

The two men gave a vigorous jerk, and to Gianbattista's surprise the arm

fell back in a natural position; but the injured priest's features

expressed no pain. He was evidently quite unconscious. A further

examination led the surgeon to believe that the harm was more serious.

There was a bad bruise on one side of the head, and more than one upon

other parts of the body.

"Will he live?" asked Gianbattista faintly, as he sank back into his

chair.

"Oh yes--probably. He is likely to have a brain fever; One cannot tell.

How old is he?"

He asked one or two other questions, arranging the patient's position

with skilful hands while he talked Then he asked for paper and wrote a

prescription.

"Nothing more can be done for the present," he said. "You should put

some ice on his head, and if he recovers consciousness, so as to speak

before I come back, observe what he says. He may be in a delirium, or he

may talk quite rationally. One cannot tell Send for this medicine and

give it to him if he is conscious. Otherwise, only keep his head cool. I

will come back early in the evening. You are not hurt yourself?" he

inquired, looking at Gianbattista curiously.

"No; I am badly shaken, and my hands are a little cut--that is all,"

answered the young man.

"What a beautiful thing youth is!" observed the surgeon philosophically,

as he went away.

Gianbattista remained alone in the sick-room, seated upon his chair by

the head of the bed. With anxious interest and attention he watched the

expressionless face as the heavy breath came and went between the parted

lips. In the distance he could hear the sobbing and incoherent talk of

the two women, as the doctor explained to them Paolo's condition, but he

was now too much dazed to give any thought to them. It seemed to him

that Don Paolo had sacrificed his life for him, and that he had no other

duty than to sit beside the bed and watch his friend. All the

impressions of the afternoon were very much confused, and the shock of

the fall had told upon his nerves far more severely than he had at first

realised. His limbs ached and his hands pained him; at the same time he

felt dizzy, and the outline of Don Paolo's face grew indistinct as he

watched it. He was roused by the entry of Lucia, who had hastily laid

aside her hat. Her face was pale, and her dark eyes were swollen with

tears; her hair was in disorder and was falling about her neck.

Gianbattista instinctively rose and put his arm about the girl's waist

as they stood together and looked at the sick man. He felt that it was

his duty to comfort her.

"The doctor thinks he may get well," he said.

"Who knows," she answered tearfully, and shook her head, "Oh, Tista, he

was our best friend!"

"It was in trying to save me--" said the young fellow. But he got no

further. The words stuck in his throat.

"If he lives I will be a son to him!" he added presently. "I will never

leave him. But perhaps--perhaps he is too good to live, Lucia!"

"He must not die. I will take care of him," answered Lucia. "You must

pray for him, Tista, and I will--we all will!"

"Eh! I will try, but I don't understand that kind of thing as well as

you," said Gianbattista dolefully. "If you think it is of any use--"

"Of course it is of use, my heart; do not doubt it," replied the young

girl gravely. Then her features suddenly quivered, she turned away, and,

hiding her face on the pillow beside the priest's unconscious, head, she

sobbed as though her heart would break. Gianbattista knelt down at her

side and put his arm round her neck, whispering lovingly in her ear.

The day was fading, and the last glow of the sun in the south-western

sky came through the small window at the other end of the narrow room,

illuminating the simple furniture, the white bed coverings, the upturned

face of the injured man, and the two young figures that knelt at the

bedside. It was Gianbattista's room, and there was little enough in it.

The bare bricks, with only a narrow bit of green drugget by the bed, the

plain deal table before the window, the tiny round mirror set in lead,

at which the apprentice shaved himself, the crazy old chest of

drawers--that was all. The whitewashed walls were relieved by two or

three drawings of chalices and other church vessels, the colour of the

gold or silver, and of the gems, washed into one half of the design and

the other side left in black and white. A little black cross hung above

the bedstead, with a bit of an olive branch nailed over it--a

reminiscence of the last Palm Sunday. There were two nails in another

part of the room, on which some old clothes were hung--that was all. But

the deep light of the failing day shed a peaceful halo aver everything,

and touched the coarse details of a hardworking existence with the

divine light of Heaven.

Lucia's sobbing ceased after a while, and, as the sunset faded into

twilight and dusk, the silence grew more profound; the sick man's

breathing became lighter, as though in his unconsciousness he were

beginning to rest after the day in which he had endured so much. From

the sitting-room beyond the short passage the sound of Maria Luisa's

voice, moaning in concert with old Assunta, gradually diminished till

they were heard only at intervals, and at last ceased altogether. The

household of Marzio Pandolfi was hushed in the presence of a great

sorrow, and awed by the anticipation of a great misfortune.

CHAPTER XI

Marzio, in ignorance of all that was happening at the church, continued

to work in the solitude of his studio, and the current of his thoughts

flowed on in the same channel. He tried to force his attention upon the

details of the design he meditated against his brother's life, and for

some time he succeeded. But another influence had begun to work upon his

brain, since the moment when he had been frightened by the sound behind

him while he was examining the hole beneath the strong box. He would not

own to himself that such a senseless fear could have produced a

permanent impression on him, and yet he felt disturbed and unsettled,

unaccountably discomposed, and altogether uncomfortable. He could not

help looking round from time to time at the door, and more than once his

eyes rested for several seconds upon the safe, while a slight shiver ran

through his body and seemed to chill his fingers.

But he worked on in spite of all this. The habit of the chisel was not

to be destroyed by the fancied scare of a moment, and though his eyes

wandered now and then, they came back to the silver statue as keen as

ever. A little touch with the steel at one point, a little burnishing at

another, the accentuation of a line, the deepening of a shadow--he

studied every detail with a minute and scrupulous care which betrayed

his love for the work he was doing.

And yet the uneasiness grew upon him. He felt somehow as though Paolo

were present in the room with him, watching him over his shoulder,

suggesting improvements to be made, in that voice of his which now rang

distinctly in the artist's ear. His imagination worked morbidly, and he

thought of Paolo standing beside him, ordering him to do this or that

against his will, until he began to doubt his own judgment in regard to

what he was doing. He wondered whether he should feel the same thing

when Paolo was dead. Again he looked behind him, and the idea that he

was not alone gained force. Nevertheless the room was bright, brighter

indeed in the afternoon than it ever was in the morning, for the window

was towards the south, and though the first rays of the sun reached it

at about eleven in the morning, the buildings afterwards darkened it

again until the sun was in the west. Moreover to-day, the weather had

been changeable, and it had rained a little about noon. Now the air was

again clear, and the workshop was lit up so that the light penetrated

even to the ancient cobwebs in the corners, and touched the wax models

and casts on the shelves, and gilded the old wood of the door opposite

with rich brown gold. Marzio had a curtain of dusty grey linen which he

drew across the lower part of the window to keep the sunshine off his

work.

He was impatient with himself, and annoyed by the persistency of the

impression that Paolo was in some way present in the place. As though to

escape from it by braving it he set himself resolutely to consider the

expediency of destroying his brother. The first quick impulse in the

morning had developed to a purpose in the afternoon. He had constructed

the probable occurrences out of the materials of his imagination, and

had done it so vividly as to frighten himself. The fright had in some

measure cooled his intention, and had been now replaced by a new element

in his thoughts, by the apprehension for the future if the deed were

accomplished. He began to speculate upon what would happen afterwards,

wondering whether by any means the murder could be discovered, and if in

that case it could ever be traced to him.

At the first faint suggestion that such a thing as he was devising could

possibly have another issue than he had supposed, Marzio felt a cold

sensation in his heart, and his thoughts took a different direction. It

was all simple enough. To get Paolo into the workshop alone--a

blow--the concealment of the dead body until night--then the short three

hundred yards with the hand-cart--it seemed very practicable. Yes, but

if by any chance he should meet a policeman under those low trees in the

Piazza de' Branca, what would happen? A man with a hand-cart, and with

something shapeless upon the hand-cart, in the dark, hurrying towards

the river--such a man would excite the suspicions of a policeman. Marzio

might be stopped and asked what he was taking away. He would

answer--what would he answer in such a case? The hand-cart would be

examined and found to contain a dead priest. Besides, he reflected that

the wheels would make a terrible clatter in the silent streets at night.

Of course he might go out and walk down to the river first and see if

there was anybody in the way, but even then he could not be sure of

finding no one when he returned with his burden.

But there was the cellar, after all. He could go down in the night and

bury his brother's body there. No one ever went down, not even he

himself. Who would suspect the place? It would be a ghastly job, the

chiseller thought. He fancied how it would be in the cold, damp vault

with a lantern--the white face of the murdered man. No, he shrank from

thinking of it. It was too horrible to be thought of until it should be

absolutely necessary. But the place was a good one.

And then when Paolo was buried deep under the damp stones, who would be

the first to ask for him? For two or three days no one would be much

surprised if he did not come to the house. Marzio would say that he had

met him in the street, and that Paolo had excused himself for not

coming, on the ground of extreme pressure of work. But the Cardinal,

whom he served as secretary, would ask for the missing man. He would be

the first. The Cardinal would be told that Paolo had not slept at home,

in his lodging high up in the old palace, and he would send at once to

Marzio's house to know where his secretary was. Well, he might send,

Marzio would answer that he did not know, and the matter would end

there.

It would be hard to sit calmly at the bench all day with Gianbattista at

his side. He would probably look very often at the iron-bound box.

Gianbattista would notice that, and in time he would grow curious, and

perhaps explore the cellar. It would be a miserable ending to such a

drama to betray himself by his own weakness after it was all done, and

Paolo was gone for ever--a termination unworthy of Marzio, the

strong-minded freethinker. To kill a priest, and then be as nervous and

conscious as a boy in a scrape! The chiseller tried to laugh aloud in

his old way, but the effort was ineffectual, and ended in a painful

twisting of the lips, accompanied by a glance at the corner. It would

not do; he was weak, and was forced to submit to the humiliation of

acknowledging the fact to himself. With a bitter scorn of his

incapacity, he began to wonder whether he could ever get so far as to

kill Paolo in the first instance. He foresaw that if he did kill him, he

could never get rid of him afterwards.

Where do people go when they die? The question rose suddenly in the mind

of the unbeliever, and seemed to demand an answer. He had answered often

enough over a pint of wine at the inn, with Gaspare Carnesecchi the

lawyer and the rest of his friends. Nowhere. That was the answer, clear

enough. When a man dies he goes to the ground, as a slaughtered ox to

the butcher's stall, or a dead horse to the knacker's. That is the end

of him, and it is of no use asking any more questions. You might as well

ask what becomes of the pins that are lost by myriads of millions, to

the weight of many tons in a year. You might as well inquire what

becomes of anything that is old, or worn out, or broken. A man is like

anything else, an agglomeration of matter, capable of a few more tricks

than a monkey, and capable of a few less than a priest. He dies, and is

swallowed up by the earth and gives no more trouble. These were the

answers Marzio was accustomed to give to the question, "Where do people

go to when they die?" Hitherto they had satisfied him, as they appear

to satisfy a very small minority of idiots.

But what would became of Paolo when Marzio had killed him? Well, in time

his body would become earth, that was all. There was something else,

however. Marzio was conscious to certainty that Paolo would in some way

or other be at his elbow ever afterwards, just as he seemed to feel his

presence this afternoon in the workshop. What sort of presence would it

be? Marzio could not tell, but he knew he should feel it. It did not

matter whether it were real to others or not, it would be too real to

him. He could never get rid of the sensation; it would haunt him and

oppress him for the rest of his life, and he should have no peace.

How could it, if it were not a real thing? Even the priests said that

the spirits of dead men did not come back to earth; how much more

impossible must it be in Marzio's view, since he denied that man had a

soul. It would then only be the effect of his imagination recalling

constantly the past deed, and a thing which only existed in imagination

did not exist at all. If it did not exist, it could not be feared by a

sensible man. Consequently there was nothing to fear.

The conclusion contradicted the given facts from which he had argued,

and the chiseller was puzzled. For the first time his method of

reasoning did not satisfy him, and he tried to find out the cause. Was

it, he asked to himself, because there lingered in his mind some early

tradition of the wickedness of doing murder? Since there was no soul,

there was no absolute right and wrong, and everything must be decided by

the standard of expediency. It was a mistake to allow people to murder

each other openly, of course, because people of less intellectual

capacity would take upon themselves to judge such cases in their own

way. But provided that public morality, the darling of the real

freethinker, were not scandalised, there would be no inherent wrong in

doing away with Paolo. On the contrary, his death would be a benefit to

the community at large, and an advantage to Marzio in particular. Not a

pecuniary advantage either, for in Marzio's strange system there would

have been an immorality in murdering Paolo for his money if he had ever

had any, though it seemed right enough to kill him for an idea. That is,

to a great extent, the code of those persons who believe in nothing but

what they call great ideas. The individuals who murdered the Czar would

doubtless have scrupled to rob a gentleman in the street of ten francs.

The same reasoning developed itself in Marzio's brain. If his brothel

had been rich, it would have been a crime to murder him for his wealth.

It was no crime to murder him for an idea. Marzio said to himself that

to get rid of Paolo would be to emancipate himself and his family from

the rule and interference of a priest, and that such a proceeding was

only the illustration on a small scale of what he desired for his

country; consequently it was just, and therefore it ought to be done.

Unfortunately for his logic, the continuity of his deductions was

blocked by a consideration which he had not anticipated. That

consideration could only be described as fear for the future, and it had

been forcibly thrust upon him by the fright he had received while he was

examining the hole in the floor. In order to neutralise it, Marzio had

tried the experiment of braving what he considered to be a momentary

terror by obstinately studying the details of the plan he intended to

execute. To his surprise he found that he returned to the same

conclusion as before. He came back to that unaccountable fear of the

future as surely as a body thrown upwards falls again to the earth. He

went over it all in his mind again, twice, three times, twenty times. As

often as he reached the stage at which he imagined Paolo dead, hidden,

and buried in a cellar, the same shiver passed through him as he glanced

involuntarily behind him. Why? What power could a dead body possibly

exercise over a living man in the full possession of his senses?

Here was something which Marzio could not understand, but of which he

was made aware by his own feelings. The difficulty only increased in

magnitude as he faced it, considered it, and tried to view it from all

its horrible aspects. But he could not overcome it. He might laugh at

the existence of the soul and jest about the future state after death;

he could not escape from the future in this life if he did the deed he

contemplated. He should see the dead man's face by day and night as long

as he lived.

This forced conclusion was in logical accordance with his original

nature and developed character, for it was the result of that

economical, cautious disposition which foresees the consequences of

action and guides itself accordingly. Even in the moment when he had

nearly killed Paolo that morning he had not been free from this

tendency. In the instant when he had raised the tool to strike he had

thought of the means of disposing of the body and of hindering

suspicion. The panorama of coming circumstances had presented itself to

his mind with the rapidity of a flash of lightning, but in that

infinitesimal duration of time Paolo had turned round, and the

opportunity was gone. His mind had worked quickly, but it had not gone

to the end of its reasoning. Now in the solitude of his studio he had

found leisure to follow out the results to the last link of the chain.

He saw clearly that even if he eluded discovery after the crime, he

could never escape from the horror of his dead brother's presence.

He laid the silver figure of the Christ straight before him upon the

leathern pad, and looked intently at it, while his hands played idly

with the tools upon the table. His deep-set, heavy eyes gazed fixedly at

the wonderful face, with an expression which had not yet been there.

There was no longer any smile upon his thin lips, and his dark emaciated

features were restful and quiet, almost solemn in their repose.

"I am glad I did not do it," he said aloud after some minutes.

Still he gazed at his work, and the impression stole over him that but

for a slight thing he might yet have killed his brother. If he had left

the figure more securely propped upon the pad, it could not have slipped

upon the bench; it could not have made that small distinct sound just as

he was examining the place which was to have been his brother's grave;

he would not have been suddenly frightened; he would not have gone over

the matter in his mind as he had done, from the point of view of a

future fear; he would have waited anxiously for another opportunity, and

when it presented itself he would have struck the blow, and Paolo would

have been dead, if not to-day, to-morrow. There would have been a search

which might or might not have resulted in the discovery of the body.

Then there would have been, the heartrending grief of his wife, of

Lucia, and the black suspicious looks of Gianbattista. The young man had

heard him express a wish that Paolo might disappear. His home would have

been a hell, instead of being emancipated from tyranny as he had at

first imagined. Discovery and conviction would have come at last, the

galleys for life for himself, dishonour and contempt for his family.

He remembered Paolo's words as he stood contemplating the crucifix just

before that moment which had nearly been his last. _Qui propter nos

homines et propter nostram salutem_--"Who for us men and for our

salvation came down from Heaven." In a strange revulsion of feeling

Marzio applied the words to himself, with an odd simplicity that was at

once pathetic and startling.

"If Christ had not died," he said to himself, "I should not have made

this crucifix. If I had not made it, it would not have frightened me. I

should have killed my brother. It has saved me. 'For us men and for our

salvation'--those are the words--for my salvation, it is very strange.

Poor Paolo! If he knew to what he owed his life he would be pleased. Who

can believe such things? Who would have believed this if I had told it?

And yet it is true."

For some minutes still he gazed at the figure. Then he shook himself as

though to rouse his mind from a trance, and took up his tools. He did

not glance behind him again, and, for the time at least, his nervous

dislike of the box in the corner seemed to have ceased. He laboured with

patient care, touching and re-touching, believing that each tap of the

hammer should be the last, and yet not wholly satisfied.

The light waned, and he took down the curtain to admit the last glows of

the evening. He could do no more, art itself could have done no more to

beautify and perfect the masterpiece that lay upon the cushion before

him. The many hours he had spent in putting the last finish upon the

work had produced their result. His hand had imparted something to the

features of the dying head which had not been there before, and as he

stood over the bench he knew that he had surpassed his greatest work. He

went and fetched the black cross from the shelf, and polished its smooth

surface carefully with a piece of silk. Then he took the figure tenderly

in his hands and laid it in its position. The small screws turned evenly

in the threads, fitting closely into their well-concealed places, and

the work was finished. Marzio placed the whole crucifix upon the bench

and sat down to look at it.

It made a strong impression upon him, this thing of his own hands, and

again he remained a long time resting his chin upon his folded fingers

and gazing up at the drooping lids. The shadows lay softly on the

modelled silver, so softly that the metal itself seemed to tremble and

move, and in his reverie Marzio could almost have expected the divine

eyes to open and look into his face. And gradually the shadows deepened

more and more, and gathered into gloom till in the dark the black arms

of the cross scarcely stood out from the darkness, and in the last

lingering twilight he could see only the clear outline of the white head

and outstretched hands, that seemed to emit a soft radiance gathered

from the brightness of the departed day.

Marzio struck a match and lit his lamp. His thoughts were so wholly

absorbed that he had not remembered the workmen, nor wondered why they

had not come back. After all, most of them lived in the direction of the

church, and if they had finished their work late they would very

probably go home without returning to the shop. The chiseller wrapped

the crucifix in the old white cloth, and laid it in its plain wooden

box, but he did not screw the cover down, merely putting it on loosely

so that it could be removed in a moment. He laid his tools in order,

mechanically, as he did every evening, and then he extinguished the

light and made his way to the door, carrying the box under his arm.

The boy who alone had remained at work had lighted a tallow candle, and

was sitting dangling his heels from his stool as Marzio came out.

"Still here!" exclaimed the artist.

"Eh! You did not tell me to go," answered the lad.

Marzio locked the heavy outer door and crossed over to his house, while

the boy went whistling down the street in the dusk. Slowly the artist

mounted the stairs, pondering, as he went, on the many emotions of the

day, and at last repeating his conclusion, that he was glad that he had

not killed Paolo.

By a change of feeling which he did not wholly realise, he felt for the

first time in many years that he would be glad to see his brother alive

and well. He had that day so often fancied him dead, lying on the floor

of the workshop, or buried in a dark corner of the cellar, that the idea

of meeting him, calm and well as ever, had something refreshing in it.

It was like the waking from a hideous dream of evil to find that the

harm is still undone, to experience that sense of unutterable relief

which every one knows when the dawn suddenly touches the outlines of

familiar objects in the room, and dispels in an instant the visions of

the night.

Paolo might not come that evening, but at least Maria Luisa and Lucia

would speak of him, and it would be a comfort to hear his name spoken

aloud. Marzio's step quickened with the thought, and in another moment

he was at the door. To his surprise it was opened before he could ring,

and old Assunta came forward with her wrinkled fingers raised to her

lips.

"Hist! hist!" she whispered. "It goes a little better--or at least--"

"What? Who?" asked Marzio, instinctively whispering also.

"Eh! You have not heard? Don Paolo--they have killed him!"

"Paolo!" exclaimed Marzio, staggering and leaning against the door-post.

"He is not dead--not dead yet at least," went on the old woman in low,

excited tones. "He was in the church with Tista--a ladder--"

Marzio did not stop to hear more, but pushed past Assunta with his

burden under his arm, and entered the passage. The door at the end was

open, and he saw his wife standing in the bright light in the

sitting-room, anxiously looking towards him as though she had heard his

coming.

"For God's sake, Gigia," he said, addressing her by her old pet name,

"tell me quickly what has happened!"

The Signora Pandolfi explained as well as she could, frequently giving

way to her grief in passionate sobs. She was incoherent, but the facts

were so simple that Marzio understood them. He was standing by the

table, his hand resting upon the wooden case he had brought, and his

face was very pale.

"Let me understand," he said at last. "Tista was on the ladder. The

ladder slipped, Paolo ran to catch it, and it fell on him. He is badly

hurt, but not dead; is that it, Gigia?"

Maria Luisa nodded in the midst of a fit of weeping.

"The surgeon has been, you say? Yes. And where is Paolo lying?"

"In Tista's room," sobbed his wife. "They are with him now."

Marzio stood still and hesitated. He was under the influence of the most

violent emotion, and his face betrayed something of what he felt. The

idea of Paolo's death had played a tremendous part in his thoughts

during the whole day, and he had firmly believed that he had got rid of

that idea, and was to realise in meeting his brother that it had all

been a dream. The news he now heard filled him with horror. It seemed as

if the intense wish for Paolo's death had in some way produced a

material result without his knowledge; it was as though he had killed

his brother by a thought--as though he had had a real share in his

death.

He could hardly bear to go and see the wounded man, so strong was the

impression that gained possession of him. His fancy called up pictures

of Paolo lying wounded in bed, and he dreaded to face the sight. He

turned away from the table and began to walk up and down the little

room. In a corner his foot struck against something--the drawing board

on which he had begun to sketch the night before. Marzio took it up and

brought it to the light. Maria Luisa stared at him sorrowfully, as

though reproaching him with indifference in the general calamity. But

Marzio looked intently at the drawing. It was only a sketch, but it was

very beautifully done. He saw that his ideal was still the same, and

that upon the piece of paper he had only reproduced the features he had

chiselled ten years ago, with an added beauty of expression, with just

those additions which to-day he had made upon the original. The moment

he was sure of the fact he laid aside the board and opened the wooden

case.

Maria Luisa, who was very far from guessing what an intimate connection

existed between the crucifix and Paolo in her husband's mind, looked on

with increasing astonishment as he took out the beautiful object and Bet

it upon the table in the light. But when she saw it her admiration

overcame her sorrow for one moment.

"_Dio mio!_ What a miracle!" she exclaimed.

"A miracle?" repeated her husband, with a strange expression. "Who

knows? Perhaps!"

At that moment Gianbattista and Lucia entered through the open door, and

stood together watching the scene without understanding what was

passing. The young girl recognised the crucifix at once. She supposed

that her father did not realise Paolo's condition, and was merely

showing the masterpiece to her mother.

"That is the one I saw," she whispered to Gianbattista. The young man

said nothing, but fixed his eyes upon the cross.

"Papa," said Lucia timidly, "do you know?"

"Yes. Is he alone?" asked Marzio in a tone which was not like his own.

"There is Assunta," answered the young girl.

"I will go to him," said the artist, and without further words he lifted

the crucifix from the table and went out. His face was very grave, and

his features had something in them that none of the three had seen

before--something almost of grandeur. Gianbattista and Lucia followed

him.

"I will be alone with him," said Marzio, looking back at the pair as he

reached the door of the sick chamber. He entered and a moment afterwards

old Assunta came out and shuffled away, holding her apron to her eyes.

Marzio went in. There was a small shaded lamp on the deal table, which

illuminated the room with a soft light. Marzio felt that he could not

trust himself at first to look at his brother's face. He set the

crucifix upon the old chest of drawers, and put the lamp near it. Then

he remained standing before it with his back to the bed, and his hands

in the pockets of his blouse. He could hear the regular breathing which

told that Paolo was still alive. For a long time he could not turn

round; it was as though an unseen power held him motionless in his

position. He looked at the crucifix.

"If he wakes," he thought, "he will see it. It will comfort him if he is

going to die!"

With his back still turned towards the bed, he moved to one side, until

he thought that Paolo could see what he had brought, if consciousness

returned. Very slowly, as though fearing some horrible sight, he changed

his position and looked timidly in the direction of the sick man. At

last he saw the pale upturned face, and was amazed that such an accident

should have produced so little change in the features. He came and stood

beside the bed.

Paolo had not moved since the surgeon had left; he was lying on his

back, propped by pillows so that his face was towards the light. He was

pale now, for the flush that had been in his cheeks had subsided; his

eyelids, which had been half open, had dropped and closed, so that he

seemed to be sleeping peacefully, ready to wake at the slightest sound.

Marzio stood and looked at him. This was the man he had hated through so

many years of boyhood and manhood--the man who had faced him and opposed

him at every step--who had stood up boldly before him in his own house

to defend what he believed to be right. This was Paolo, whom he had

nearly killed that morning. Marzio's right hand felt the iron tool in

the pocket of his blouse, and his fingers trembled as he touched it,

while his long arms twitched nervously from the shoulder to the elbow.

He took it out, looked at it, and at the sick man's face. He asked

himself whether he could think of using it as he had meant to, and then

he let it fall upon the bit of green drugget by the bedside.

That was Paolo--it would not need any sharpened weapon to kill him now.

A little pressure on the throat, a pillow held over his face for a few

moments, and it would all be over. And what for? To be pursued for ever

by that same white face? No. It was not worth while, it had never been

worth while, even were that all. But there was something else to be

considered. Paolo might now die of his accident, in his bed. There would

be no murder done in that case, no haunting horror of a presence, no

discovery to be feared, since there would have been no evil. Let him

die, if he was dying!

But that was not all either. What would it be when Paolo should be dead?

Well, he had his ideas, of course. They were mistaken ideas. Were they?

Perhaps, who could tell? But he was not a bad man, this Paolo. He had

never tried to wring money out of Marzio, as some people did. On the

contrary, Marzio still felt a sense of humiliation when he thought how

much he owed to the kindness of this man, his brother, lying here

injured to death, and powerless to help himself or to save himself.

Powerless? yes--utterly so. How easy it would be, after all, to press a

pillow on the unconscious face. There would probably not even be a

struggle. Who should save him, or who could know of it? And yet Marzio

did not want to do it, as he had wished to a few hours ago. As he looked

down on the pale head he realised that he did not want Paolo to die.

Standing on the sharp edge of the precipice where life ends and breaks

off, close upon the unfathomable depths of eternity, himself firmly

standing and fearing no fall, but seeing his brother slipping over the

brink, he would put out his hand to save him, to draw him back. He would

not have Paolo die.

He gazed upon the calm features, and he knew that he feared lest they

should be still for ever. The breath came more softly, more and more

faintly. Marzio thought. He bent down low and tried to feel the warm

air as it issued from the lips. His fears grew to terror as the life

seemed to ebb away from the white face. In the agony of his

apprehension, Marzio inadvertently laid his hand upon the injured

shoulder, unconsciously pressing his weight upon the place.

With a faint sigh the priest's eyes opened and seemed to gaze for a

moment on the crucifix standing in the bright light of the lamp. An

expression of wonderful gentleness and calm overspread the refined

features.

"_Qui propter nos homines et propter nostram salutem descendit de

coelis_."

The words came faintly from the dying man's lips, the last syllables

scarcely audible in the intense stillness. A deathly pallor crept

quickly over the smooth forehead and thin cheeks. Marzio looked for one

instant more, and then with a loud cry fell upon his knees by the

bedside, his long arms extended across his brother's body. The strong

hot tears fell upon the bed coverings, and his breast heaved with

passionate sobbing.

He did not see that Paolo opened his eyes at the sound. He did not

notice the rush of feet in the passage without, as Maria Luisa and Lucia

and Gianbattista ran to the door, followed by old Assunta holding up her

apron to her eyes.

"Courage, Sor Marzio," said Gianbattista, drawing the artist back from

the bed. "You will disturb him. Do you not see that he is conscious at

last?"

Lucia was arranging the pillows under Paolo's head, and Maria Luisa was

crying with joy. Marzio sprang to his feet and stared as though he could

not believe what he saw. Paolo turned his head and looked kindly at his

brother.

"Courage, Marzio," he said, "I have been asleep, I believe--what has

happened to me? Why are you all crying?"

Marzio's tears broke out again, mingled with incoherent words of joy. In

his sudden happiness he clasped the two persons nearest to him, and

hugged them and kissed them. These two chanced to be Lucia and

Gianbattista. Paolo smiled, but the effort of speaking had tired him.

"Well," said Marzio at last, with a kinder smile than had been on his

face for many a day--"very well, children. For Paolo's sake you shall

have your own way."

Half an hour later the surgeon made his visit and assured them all that

there was no serious injury, nor any further danger to be feared. The

patient had been very badly stunned, that was all. Marzio remained by

his brother's side.

"You see, Tista," said Lucia when they were in the sitting-room, "I was

quite right about the crucifix and the rest."

"Of course," assented the Signora Pandolfi, though she did not

understand the allusion in the least. "Of course you are all of you

right. But what a day this has been, _cari miei_! What a day! Dear,

dear!" She spread out her fat hands upon her knees, looking the picture

of solid contentment.

THE END

* * * * *

ZOROASTER

TO

My Beloved Wife

I DEDICATE THIS DRAMA

CHAPTER I.

The hall of the banquets was made ready for the feast in the palace of

Babylon. That night Belshazzar the king would drink wine with a thousand

of his lords, and be merry before them; and everything was made ready.

From end to end of the mighty nave, the tables of wood, overlaid with

gold and silver, stood spread with those things which the heart of man

can desire; with cups of gold and of glass and of jade; with great

dishes heaped high with rare fruits and rarer flowers; and over all, the

last purple rays of the great southern sun came floating through the

open colonnades of the porch, glancing on the polished marbles, tingeing

with a softer hue the smooth red plaster of the walls, and lingering

lovingly on the golden features and the red-gold draperies of the vast

statue that sat on high and overlooked the scene.

On his head the head-dress of thrice royal supremacy, in his right hand

and his left the sceptre of power and the winged wheel of immortality

and life, beneath his feet the bowed necks of prostrate captives;--so

sat the kingly presence of great Nebuchadnezzar, as waiting to see what

should come to pass upon his son; and the perfume of the flowers and the

fruits and the rich wine came up to his mighty nostrils, and he seemed

to smile there in the evening sunlight, half in satisfaction, half in

scorn.

On each side of the great building, in the aisles and wings, among the

polished pillars of marble thronged the serving-men, bearing ever fresh

spices and flowers and fruits, wherewith to deck the feast, whispering

together in a dozen Indian, Persian and Egyptian dialects, or in the

rich speech of those nobler captives whose pale faces and eagle eyes

stood forth everywhere in strong contrast with the coarser features and

duskier skins of their fellows in servitude,--the race not born to

dominate, but born to endure even to the end. These all mingled together

in the strange and broken reflections of the evening light, and here and

there the purple dye of the sun tinged the white tunic of some poor

slave to as fair a colour as a king's son might wear.

On this side and on that of the tables that were spread for the feast,

stood great candlesticks, as tall as the height of two men, tapering

from the thickness and heavy carving below to the fineness and delicate

tracery above, and bearing upon them cups of bronze, each having its

wick steeped in fine oil mixed with wax. Moreover, in the midst of the

hall, where the seat of the king was put upon a raised floor, the

pillars stood apart for a space, so that there was a chamber, as it

were, from the wall on the right to the wall on the left, roofed with

great carved rafters; and the colour of the walls was red,--a deep and

glorious red that seemed to make of the smooth plaster a sheet of

precious marble. Beyond, beneath the pillars, the panels of the aisles

were pictured and made many-coloured with the story of Nebuchadnezzar

the king, his conquests and his feasts, his captives and his courtiers,

in endless train upon the splendid wall. But where the king should sit

in the midst of the hall there were neither pillars nor paintings; only

the broad blaze of the royal colour, rich and even. Beside the table

also stood a great lamp, taller and more cunningly wrought than the

rest,--the foot of rare marble and chiselled bronze and the lamp above

of pure gold from southern Ophir. But it was not yet kindled, for the

sun was not set and the hour for the feast was not fully come.

At the upper end of the hall, before the gigantic statue of wrought

gold, there was an open space, unencumbered by tables, where the smooth,

polished marble floor came to view in all its rich design and colour.

Two persons, entering the hall with slow steps, came to this place and

stood together, looking up at the face of the golden king.

Between the two there was the gulf of a lifetime. The one was already

beyond the common limit of age, while he who stood beside him was but a

fair boy of fourteen summers.

The old man was erect still, and his snowy hair and beard grew like a

lion's mane about his massive brow and masterful face. The deep lines of

thought, graven deeper by age, followed the noble shaping of his brows

in even course, and his dark eyes still shot fire, as piercing the

bleared thickness of time to gaze boldly on the eternity beyond. His

left hand gathered the folds of a snow-white robe around him, while in

his right he grasped a straight staff of ebony and ivory, of fine

workmanship, marvellously polished, whereon were wrought strange sayings

in the Israelitish manner of writing. The old man stood up to his noble

height, and looked from the burnished face of the king's image to the

eyes of the boy beside him, in silence, as though urging his young

companion to speak for him the thoughts that filled the hearts of both.

The youth spoke not, nor gave any sign, but stood with folded hands and

gazed up to the great features of Nebuchadnezzar.

He was but fourteen years of age, tall and delicately made, full of the

promise of a graceful and elastic power, fine of skin, and instinct with

the nervous strength of a noble and untainted race. His face was fair

and white, tinged with faint colour, and his heavy golden hair fell in

long curls upon his shoulders, thick and soft with the silken fineness

of early youth. His delicate features were straight and noble, northern

rather than Oriental in their type--supremely calm and thoughtful,

almost godlike in their young restfulness. The deep blue eyes were

turned upward with a touch of sadness, but the broad forehead was as

marble, and the straight marking of the brows bounded it and divided it

from the face. He wore the straight white tunic, edged about with fine

embroideries of gold and gathered at the waist with a rich belt, while

his legs were covered with wide Persian trousers wrought in many colours

of silk upon fine linen. He wore also a small cap of linen, stiffened

to a point and worked with a cunning design in gold and silver. But the

old man's head was covered only by the thick masses of his snowy hair,

and his wide white mantle hid the details of his dress from view.

Again he glanced from the statue to his companion's eyes, and at last he

spoke, in a deep smooth voice, in the Hebrew tongue.

"Nebuchadnezzar the king is gathered to his fathers, and his son also,

and Nabonnedon Belshazzar reigns in his stead, yet have I endured to

this day, in Babylon, these threescore and seven years, since

Nebuchadnezzar the king destroyed our place upon the earth and led us

away captive. Unto this day, Zoroaster, have I endured, and yet a little

longer shall I stand and bear witness for Israel."

The old man's eyes flashed, and his strong aquiline features assumed an

expression of intense vitality and life. Zoroaster turned to him and

spoke softly, almost sadly:

"Say, O Daniel, prophet and priest of the Lord, why does the golden

image seem to smile to-day? Are the times accomplished of thy vision

which thou sawest in Shushan, in the palace, and is the dead king glad?

I think his face was never so gentle before to look upon,--surely he

rejoices at the feast, and the countenance of his image is gladdened."

"Nay, rather then should his face be sorrowful for the destruction of

his seed and of his kingdom," answered the prophet somewhat scornfully.

"Verily the end is at hand, and the stones of Babylon shall no longer

cry out for the burden of the sins of Belshazzar, and the people call

upon Bel to restore unto life the King Nebuchadnezzar; nay, or to send

hither a Persian or a Mede to be a just ruler in the land."

"Hast thou read it in the stars, or have thine eyes seen these things in

the visions of the night, my master?" The boy came nearer to the aged

prophet and spoke in low earnest tones. But Daniel only bent his head,

till his brow touched his ebony staff, and so he remained, deep in

thought.

"For I also have dreamed,"--continued Zoroaster, after a short

pause,--"and my dream took hold of me, and I am sorry and full of great

weariness. Now this is the manner of my dreaming." He stopped and

glanced down the great nave of the hall through the open porch at the

other end. The full glory of the red sun, just touching the western

plain, streamed upon his face and made the tables, the preparations and

the crowd of busy serving-men look like black shadows between him and

the light. But Daniel leaned upon his staff and spoke no word, nor moved

from his position.

"I saw in my dream," said Zoroaster, "and there was darkness; and upon

the winds of the night arose the sound of war, and the cry and the clash

of battle, mighty men striving one with another for the mastery and the

victory, which should be to the stronger. And I saw again, and behold it

was morning, and the people were led away captive, by tens, and by

hundreds, and by thousands, and the maidens also and young women into a

far country. And I looked, and the face of one of the maidens was as the

face of the fairest among the daughters of thy people. Then my heart

yearned for her, and I would have followed after into the captivity; but

darkness came upon me, and I saw her no more. Therefore am I troubled

and go heavily all the day."

He ceased and the cadence of the boy's voice trembled and was sad. The

sun set out of sight beneath the plain, and from far off a great sound

of music came in upon the evening breeze.

Daniel raised his snowy head and gazed keenly on his young companion,

and there was disappointment in his look.

"Wouldst thou be a prophet?" he asked, "thou that dreamest of fair

maidens and art disquieted for the love of a woman? Thinkest thou, boy,

that a woman shall help thee when thou art grown to be a man, or that

the word of the Lord dwelleth in vanity? Prophesy, and interpret thy

vision, if so be that thou art able to interpret it. Come, let us

depart, for the king is at hand, and the night shall be given over for a

space to the rioters and the mirth-makers, with whom our portion is not.

Verily I also have dreamed a dream. Let us depart."

The venerable prophet stood up to his height, and grasping his staff in

his right hand, began to lead the way from the hall. Zoroaster laid hold

of him by the arm, as though entreating him to remain.

"Speak, master," he cried earnestly, "and declare to me thy dream, and

see whether it accords with mine, and whether there shall be darkness

and rumour of war in the land."

But Daniel the prophet would not stay to speak, but went out of the

hall, and Zoroaster the Persian youth went with him, pondering deeply on

the present and on the future, and on the nature of the vision he had

seen; and made fearful by the silence of his friend and teacher.

The darkness fell upon the twilight, and within the hall the lamps and

candlesticks were kindled and gave out warm light and rare perfumes. All

down the endless rows of tables, the preparations for the feast were

ready; and from the gardens without, strains of music came up ever

stronger and nearer, so that the winged sounds seemed to come into the

vast building and hover above the tables and seats of honour, preparing

the way for the guests. Nearer and nearer came the harps and the pipes

and the trumpets and the heavy reed-toned bagpipes, and above all the

strong rich chorus of the singers chanting high the evening hymn of

praise to Bel, god of sunlight, honoured in his departing, as in his

coming, with the music of the youngest and most tuneful voices in

Shinar.

First came the priests of Bel, two and two, robed in their white tunics,

loose white garments on their legs, the white mitre of the priestly

order on their heads, and their great beards curled smooth and glossy as

silk. In their midst, with stately dignity, walked their chief, his eyes

upon the ground, his hands crossed upon his breast, his face like dark

marble in the twilight. On either side, those who had officiated at the

sacrifice, bore the implements of their service,--the knife, the axe,

the cord, and the fire in its dish; and their hands were red with the

blood of the victim lately slain. Grand, great men, mighty of body and

broad of brow, were these priests of Bel,--strong with the meat and the

wine of the offerings that were their daily portion, and confident in

the faith of their ancient wisdom.

After the priests the musicians, one hundred chosen men of skill, making

strange deep harmonies in a noble and measured rhythm, marching ten and

ten abreast, in ten ranks; and as they came on, the light streaming from

the porch of the palace caught their silver ornaments and the strange

shapes of their instruments in broken reflections between the twilight

and the glare of the lamps.

Behind these came the singers,--of young boys two hundred, of youths a

hundred, and of bearded men also a hundred; the most famous of all that

sang praises to Bel in the land of Assur. Ten and ten they marched, with

ordered ranks and step in time to the massive beat of the long-drawn

measure.

_"Mighty to rule the day, great in his glory and the

pride of his heat,

Shooting great bolts of light into the dark earth,

turning death into life,

Making the seed to grow, strongly and fairly, high

in furrow and field,

Making the heart of man glad with his gladness,

rideth over the dawn

Bel, the prince, the king of kings.

"Hotly his flaming hair, streaming with brightness,

and the locks of his beard

Curl'd into clouds of heat, sweeping the heavens,

spread all over the sky:

Who shall abide his face, fearful and deadly, when

he devours the land,

Angry with man and beast, horribly raging, hungry

for sacrifice?

Bel, the prince, the king of kings.

"Striding his three great strides, out of the morning

through the noon to the night,

Cometh he down at last, ready for feasting, ready

for sacrifice:

Then doth he tread the wine, purple and golden,

foaming deep in the west;

Shinar is spread for him, spread as a table, Assur

shall be his seat:

Bel, the prince, the king of kings.

"Bring him the fresh-slain flesh, roast it with fire,

with the savour of salt,

Pour him the strength of wine, chalice and goblet,

trodden for him alone:

Raise him the song of songs, cry out in praises, cry

out and supplicate

That he may drink delight, tasting our off'ring, hearing

our evening song:

Bel, the prince, the king of kings.

"So, in the gentle night, when he is resting,

peace descendeth on earth;

High in the firmament, where his steps led him,

gleam the tracks of his way:

Where the day felt his touch, there the night also

breaketh forth into stars,

These are the flowers of heaven, garlands of blossoms,

growing to weave his crown:

Bel, the prince, the king of kings.

"Hail! thou king of the earth, hail! Belteshazzar,

hail! and for ever live!

Born of the gods on high, prince of the nations,

ruling over the world:

Thou art the son of Bel, full of his glory, king over

death and life;

Let all the people bow, tremble and worship, bow

them down and adore

The prince of Bel, the king of kings."_

As the musicians played and the singers sang, they divided their ranks

and came and stood on each side of the broad marble staircase; and the

priests had done so before them, but the chief priest stood alone on the

lowest step.

Then, between the files of those who stood, advanced the royal

procession, like a river of gold and purple and precious stones flowing

between banks of pure white. Ten and ten, a thousand lords of Babylon

marched in stately throng, and in their midst rode Belshazzar the king,

high upon his coal-black steed, crowned with the great tiara of white

linen and gold and jewels, the golden sceptre of the kingdom in his

right hand. And after the lords and the king came a long procession of

litters borne by stalwart slaves, wherein reclined the fairest women of

all Assyria, bidden to the great feast. Last of all, the spearmen of

the guard in armour all chased with gold, their mantles embroidered with

the royal cognisance, and their beards trimmed and curled in the close

soldier fashion, brought up the rear; a goodly company of men of war.

As the rich voices of the singers intoned the grand plain chant of the

last stanza in the hymn, the king was in the middle of the open space at

the foot of the staircase; there he drew rein and sat motionless on his

horse, awaiting the end. As the ripe corn bends in its furrows to the

wind, so the royal host around turned to the monarch, and fell upon

their faces as the music died away at the signal of the high priest.

With one consent the lords, the priests, the singers and the spearmen

bowed and prostrated themselves on the ground; the bearers of the

litters set down their burden while they did homage; and each of those

beautiful women bent far forward, kneeling in her litter, and hid her

head beneath her veil.

Only the king sat erect and motionless upon his steed, in the midst of

the adoring throng. The light from the palace played strangely on his

face, making the sneering smile more scornful upon his pale lips, and

shading his sunken eyes with a darker shadow.

While you might count a score there was silence, and the faint evening

breeze wafted the sweet smell of the roses from the gardens to the

king's nostrils, as though even the earth would bring incense of

adoration to acknowledge his tremendous power.

Then the host rose again and fell back on either side while the king

rode to the staircase and dismounted, leading the way to the banquet;

and the high priest followed him and all the ranks of the lords and

princes and the ladies of Babylon, in their beauty and magnificence,

went up the marble steps and under the marble porch, spreading then like

a river, about the endless tables, almost to the feet of the golden

image of Nebuchadnezzar. And presently, from beneath the colonnades a

sound of sweet music stole out again and filled the air; the serving-men

hurried hither and thither, the black slaves plied their palm-leaf fans

behind each guest, and the banquet was begun.

Surely, a most glorious feast, wherein the hearts of the courtiers waxed

merry, and the dark eyes of the Assyrian women shot glances sweeter than

the sweetmeats of Egypt and stronger than the wine of the south to move

the spirit of man. Even the dark king, wasted and hollow-eyed with too

much pleasure-seeking, smiled and laughed,--sourly enough at first, it

is true, but in time growing careless and merry by reason of his deep

draughts. His hand trembled less weakly as the wine gave him back his

lost strength, and more than once his fingers toyed playfully with the

raven locks and the heavy earrings of the magnificent princess at his

elbow. Some word of hers roused a thought in his whirling brain.

"Is not this day the feast of victories?" he cried in sudden animation;

and there was silence to catch the king's words. "Is not this the day

wherein my sire brought home the wealth of the Israelites, kept holy

with feasting for ever? Bring me the vessels of the unbelievers' temple,

that I may drink and pour out wine this night to Bel, the god of gods!"

The keeper of the treasure had anticipated the king's desire and had

caused everything to be made ready; for scarcely had Belshazzar spoken

when a long train of serving-men entered the hall of the banquet and

came and stood before the royal presence, their white garments and the

rich vessels they bore aloft standing vividly out against the deep even

red of the opposite wall.

"Let the vessels be distributed among us," cried the king,--"to every

man a cup or a goblet till all are served."

And so it was done, and the royal cup-bearer came and filled the huge

chalice that the king held, and the serving-men hastened to fill all the

cups and the small basins; while the lords and princes laughed at the

strange shapes, and eyed greedily enough the thickness and the good

workmanship of the gold and silver. And so each man and each woman had a

vessel from the temple of Jerusalem wherein to drink to the glory of Bel

the god and of Belshazzar his prince. And when all was ready, the king

took his chalice in his two hands and stood up, and all that company of

courtiers stood up with him, while a mighty strain of music burst

through the perfumed air, and the serving-men showered flowers and

sprinkled sweet odours on the tables.

Without stood the Angel of Death, whetting his sword upon the stones of

Babylon. But Belshazzar held the chalice and spoke with a loud voice to

the princes and the lords and the fair women that stood about the tables

in the great hall:

"I, Belshazzar the king, standing in the hall of my fathers, do pour

and drink this wine to the mighty majesty of Bel the great god, who

lives for ever and ever; before whom the gods of the north and of the

west and of the east and of the south are as the sand of the desert in

the blast; at whose sight the vain deities of Egypt crumbled into

pieces, and the God of the Israelites trembled and was made little in

the days of Nebuchadnezzar my sire. And I command you, lords and princes

of Babylon, you and your wives and your fair women, that ye also do pour

wine and drink it, doing this homage to Bel our god, and to me,

Belshazzar the king."

And so saying, he turned about to one side and spilled a few drops of

wine upon the marble floor, and set the cup to his lips, facing the

great throng of his guests; and he drank. But from all the banquet went

up a great shout.

"Hail! king, live for ever! Hail! prince of Bel, live for ever! Hail!

king of kings, live for ever!" Long and loud was the cry, ringing and

surging through the pillars and up to the great carved rafters till the

very walls seemed to rock and tremble with the din of the king's praise.

Slowly Belshazzar drained the cup to the dregs, while with half-closed

eyes he listened to the uproar, and perhaps sneered to himself behind

the chalice, as was his wont. Then he set the vessel down and looked up.

But as he looked he staggered and turned pale, and would have fallen; he

grasped the ivory chair behind him and stood trembling in every joint,

and his knees knocking together, while his eyes seemed starting from

his head, and all his face was changed and distorted with dreadful fear.

Upon the red plaster of the wall, over against the candlestick which

shed its strong rays upon the fearful sight, the fingers of a vast hand

moved and traced letters. Only the fingers could be seen, colossal and

of dazzling brightness, and as they slowly did their work, huge

characters of fire blazed out upon the dark red surface, and their

lambent angry flame dazzled those who beheld, and the terror of terrors

fell upon all the great throng; for they stood before Him whose shadow

is immortality and death.

In a silence that could be felt, the dread hand completed its message

and vanished out of sight, but the strange fire burned bright in the

horrid characters of the writing that remained upon the wall.

This was the inscription in Chaldean letters:

SUTMM

IPKNN

NRLAA

Then at last the king found speech and shrieked aloud wildly, and he

commanded that they should bring in all the astrologers, the Chaldeans

and the diviners, for he was in great terror and he dreaded some fearful

and imminent catastrophe.

"Whoever shall read this writing," he cried, his voice changed and

broken, "and declare to me the meaning of it, shall be clothed in

purple, and shall have a chain of gold about his neck and shall rule as

the third in the kingdom."

Amidst the mighty confusion of fear, the wise men were brought in before

the king.