IN the evening after supper Eric told me the story of the picture as he
had heard it from his friend the priest.
“Years ago,” he said—“for so I heard the story on my arrival in the
parish—a rich Englishman, travelling for pleasure, found his way to our
village, and, intending to stay three weeks, was detained for eight. For
he had caught the fever which prevails in the lower valleys, and only
recovered from it thanks to the care he received from my predecessor in
the house to which it has been my pleasure to welcome you. On his
departure he left a hundred pounds with the priest as a thank-offering
for his recovery, on the understanding that it was to be employed in the
purchase of an altar-piece for our church, painted, if possible, by some
local artist from the surrounding district. Many competed, but it was
felt from the first that the honour was as good as won by Agostino
Villari, a young painter of extraordinary talent, who lived in the house
I showed you at the further end of the village. At that time he was only
twenty—hardly more than a boy—and his talent was almost wholly
undeveloped. But he only wanted time and teaching. The power was there,
as you have seen for yourself to-day. Well, Agostino had but one great
friend, a cousin, who shared his house, sat for his model, and whose
single hope and assurance was that Agostino would live to be a famous
painter. Cecco, for so he was called, was about thirty, a pale sedate
man, of a gentle loving nature. But why describe him? You have seen him
to-day, pictured by his friend’s hand as no words of mine could paint
him.
“As the time for the competition drew on, the two friends were wholly
absorbed in anticipating the result. Agostino was to be immortalised as
the painter, Cecco as the model. And their love for each other made them
wholly unselfish; each hoped for success solely in the interest of his
friend. Nothing short of a perfect likeness would satisfy Agostino,
nothing short of a perfect picture would satisfy Cecco’s ambition for his
friend.
“On the night before the pictures were to be sent in, the two went up
together to the church, to place the painting in position and to judge of
its effect, taking with them the materials for retouching it if it should
be required. It was a wild night—a night like this (for the story is
precise in its details)—and the two friends had a hard climb up the hill
to the church, where they placed the picture in the side chapel, because
they could utilise the stronger light to throw into relief the details of
the composition.
“You ask for the result? Well, Cecco was in raptures. ‘It is
immortality, ’Tino,’ he cried, ‘for both of us. How great you are! It
is I—I myself, and to the very life—only grander, nobler, spiritualised.’
‘Yes, it is you,’ said ’Tino hesitatingly, ‘you, no doubt, and to the
very life, as you say. But will that do? Look at that face, that chest,
those firm and muscular limbs. True to life, I admit, well-drawn and
well-painted. But life, not death, and _death_ is what we wanted. Strip
yourself, Cecco, and lie at the foot of the Cross; see if you can help
me. You know I can never paint the smallest detail without a model.
There—fling yourself down in a heap as if you had lost all strength, all
energy. Yes, that is well. You have given me the attitude. But the
blood, the rich colouring in your face and limbs—it is life, vigorous
life, all of it—and I cannot even picture what they would be like, shrunk
and colourless and lifeless. If you could only faint, Cecco, I might do
something. Can’t you faint—just for one moment—just to oblige me?’ ‘No,
’Tino, but I will do more for you and the picture than that. Only
promise to finish it—here, this evening, before you leave the church.
’Tino, remember, _I count upon your promise_.’
“One short swift stroke, and he had dealt himself the blow before ’Tino’s
hand could stay him.
“But ’Tino set up his easel beside the corpse, and all the night through
he painted—painted as if the Furies were upon him—till the dawn looked in
at the window and his friend’s form took shape on the canvas, and the
task that had been appointed him was done.
“Then ’Tino, too, vanished from among us, leaving the story of Cecco’s
death in writing beside the corpse.
“And it was said by some, but never believed by those who knew him, that
’Tino had slain his friend.”
* * * * *
It was some time before I or Eric spoke.
“I wonder what became of ’Tino,” I murmured. “Stay; do not tell me, even
if the legend has recorded it. I can picture it without words. Lonely
he must have been, for he had seen that which must have built a barrier
for ever between him and the world outside. And I can assume with equal
certainty that he never handled brush or palette again. And
sometimes—always at night—he would reappear at the church and watch
through the darkness in company with his friend. Yes, lonely he must
have been—but not unhappy, brightened by a great love here and by a
vision of the Greater beyond.”