_Of the business appointed to the painter, and how he set about the
same._
The young man had risen and was standing by the table when we turned
from the window; he seemed greatly refreshed, his face had lost its
livid hue of passion and death, and looked the better for a tinge of
colour. He met our regard boldly, yet with no braggart, insolent air,
but the composure of a brave man facing his trial with a consciousness
of right upon his side.
"I would ask you," says the Don, seating himself on t'other side the
table, "why you refused to do that before?"
"Sir," answers he, "I have lost everything in the world save some small
modicum of pride, which, being all I have, I do cherish, maybe, unduly.
And so, when these unmannerly hinds took me by the throat, calling on me
to tell my name and business, this spirit within me flaring up, I could
not answer with the humility of a villain seeking to slink out of danger
by submissive excuses."
"Be seated," says the Don, accepting this explanation with a bow. "How
may we call you?"
"In Venice," replies the other, with some hesitation, "I was called
Dario--a name given me by my fellow-scholars because my English name was
not to their taste."
"Enough," says the Don. "I can understand a man of better fortune, as I
perceive you have been, wishing in such a position as this to retain his
incognito. There are no parks in Venice, to my knowledge, but surely,
sir, you would not enter a palazzo there uninvited without some
reasonable pretext."
"It would be sufficient that in such a house as this I thought I might
find some employment for a painter."
"You are a painter?" says I.
"A poor one, as you see," replies Dario, with a significant glance at
his clothes.
Don Sanchez turned to me, hunching his shoulders.
"'Tis clear," says he, "that Signor Dario has been grossly abused by our
lady's over-zealous steward. You have but to tell us, sir, what
reparation we can make you."
"I'll not refuse it," answers Dario, eagerly. "You shall grant me
permission to prove the honesty of my story--and something more than
that. Somewhere here," adds he, glancing around him, "I'd leave a
tribute to the grace of that dear lady who brought me back to life."
Don Sanchez assents with a bow to this proposal, but with a rueful
glance at the rich panels of the wall, as fearing this painter might be
as poor in talent as in his clothes--the latter reflecting discredit on
the former--and would disfigure the handsome walls with some rude daub.
"Ah!" cries Dario, casting his eye upon the ceiling, which was plastered
in the Italian mode and embellished with a poor design of cherubs and
clouds, "this ceiling is ill done. I could paint a fresco that would
less disgrace the room."
"You will need materials," says the Don, laying his purse upon the
table. "When you return with them, you may rely upon having our lady's
consent to your wishes."
The painter took the purse with a bow of acknowledgment, and no more
hesitation than one gentleman would show in receiving an obligation from
another, and presently left us.
"Shall we see him again, think ye, Señor?" I asked when we were left to
ourselves.
He nodded, but with such a reflective, sombre air, that I was impelled
to ask him if he lacked confidence in the story told us by the painter.
"His story may be true enough, but whether Signor Dario be an honest man
or not is another matter. A painter's but a man. A ruined gentleman will
accommodate his principles to circumstances" (with a side glance that
seemed to say, "I am a ruined gentleman")--"and my mind would be easier
if I knew by what curious accident a painter in need should find himself
in the heart of Kent, and why fixing on this house to seek employment he
should linger to the point of starvation before he can pluck up courage
to ask a simple question. We must keep our eyes open, Mr. Hopkins, and,"
adds he, dropping his voice, "our mouths shut."
I could not sleep that night for thinking of house-breakings and bloody
struggles for dear life; for 'tis a matter of common report that this
sort of robbers, ere they make attack, do contrive to get one of their
number into the house that he may learn where good goods are stowed,
which part is easiest of attack, etc. I know not whether these quakings
were shared by the Don, but certainly our misgivings never entered
Moll's little head. Nay, rather, her romantic disposition did lead her
(when she heard our narration) to conceive that this mysterious Dario
might be some wandering genius, whose work upon our ceiling would make
the Court for ever glorious. And while in this humour she bade me go to
Simon, whose presence she would not tolerate in her house, and make him
acquainted with her high displeasure, and furthermore, to command that
he should make satisfactory apology to Dario upon his return. So to him
I went, and he wringing his hands in anguish deplored that his best
endeavours to serve his mistress served only to incense her the more
against him. But for his apology he declared that has been made the
moment he heard of the gentleman's release, at the same time that he
restored to him his hat and a pocket-book which had fallen from his
pocket.
This did somewhat reassure me, knowing full well that Simon would not
have given up this book without first acquainting himself with its
contents, and urging that had there been anything in it to incriminate
him, he had certainly laid it before his mistress for his own
justification.
A couple of days after this, as Don Sanchez and I were discoursing in
the great avenue, Dario presents himself, looking all the better for a
decent suit of clothes and a more prosperous condition, and Moll joining
us at that moment, he makes her a very handsome obeisance and standing
uncovered before her, begs to know if it is her will that he should
paint the ceiling of her dining-hall.
As he spoke, the colour rose on his cheek, and a shaft of sunlight
falling on his curling hair, which shone with the lustre of health, made
him look as comely a man as ever I did see, and a good five years
younger than when he stood before us in the extremity of distress.
"Sir," says Moll, "were you my debtor as much as I am yours, I could not
ask for better payment."
Don Sanchez put an end to this pretty exchange of courtesies--which
maybe he considered overmuch as between a lady of Moll's degree and one
who might turn out to be no more than an indifferent painter at the
best--by proposing that Dario should point out what disposition he would
have made for his convenience in working. So he went within doors, and
there Dario gave orders to our gardener, who was a handy sort of
Jack-of-all-trades, what pieces of furniture should be removed, how the
walls and floor should be protected, and how a scaffold should be set up
for him to work on. And the gardener promising to carry out all these
instructions in the course of the day, Dario took his leave of us in a
very polished style, saying he would begin his business the next morning
betimes.
Sure enough, we were awoke next day by a scraping below, and coming
down, we found our painter in a scull-cap and a smock that covered him
to his heels, upon his scaffold, preparing the ceiling in a very
workmanlike manner. And to see him then, with his face and beard thickly
crusted over with a mess of dry plaster and paint, did I think somewhat
dispel those fanciful illusions which our Moll had fostered--she,
doubtless, expecting to find him in a very graceful attitude and
beautiful to look at, creating a picture as if by inchantment. Her
mortification was increased later in the day when, we having invited him
on her insistence to dine at our table, he declined (civilly enough),
saying he had brought his repast with him, and we presently found him
seated astride one of his planks with a pocket knife in one hand and a
thumb-piece of bread and bacon in the other, which he seemed to be
eating with all the relish in the world.
"Why, he is nought but a common labourer," says Moll, disgusted to see
him regaling himself in this fashion, as we returned to our room. "A
pretty picture we are like to get for all this mess and inconvenience!"
And her idol being broken (as it were), and all her fond fancies dashed,
she would not as much as look at him again nor go anigh the room, to be
reminded of her folly.
However, on the third day Dario sent to ask if she would survey his
outlines and decide whether the design pleased her or not. For this
purpose he had pushed aside his scaffold, and here we saw a perspective
done on the ceiling in charcoal, representing a vaulted roof with an
opening to the sky in the middle, surrounded by a little balcony with
trailing plants running over it, and flowers peeping out betwixt the
balusters. And this, though very rough, was most artificial, making the
room look twice its height, and the most admirable, masterly drawing
that I did ever see.
And now Moll, who had prepared a courteous speech to cover the contempt
she expected to feel for the work, could say nought for astonishment,
but stood casting her eyes round at the work like one in a maze.
"If you would prefer an allegory of figures," says Dario, misconceiving
her silence.
"Nay," answers she, "I would have nothing altered. 'Tis wonderful how
such effect can be made with mere lines of black. I can scarce believe
the ceiling is flat." And then she drops her eyes upon Dario, regarding
him with wonder, as if doubting that such a dirty-looking man could have
worked this miracle.
"You must have seen better designs in Rome," says he.
At this I took alarm, not thinking for the moment that he might have
picked up some particulars of Judith Godwin's history from Mrs.
Butterby, or the curious servants who were ever prying in the room.
"'Tis so long ago," says Moll, readily.
"I think I have seen something like it in the Holy City," observes the
Don, critically.
"Probably. Nothing has been left undone in Rome--I am told. It has not
been my good fortune to get so far."
This was good news; for otherwise he might have put some posers to Moll,
which she had found it hard to answer without betraying her ignorance.
Having Moll's approval, Dario set to work forthwith to colour his
perspective; and this he did with the sure firm hand of one who
understands his business, and with such nice judgment, that no builder,
whose design is ordered by fixed rule and line, could accomplish his
work with greater truth and justice. He made it to appear that the lower
part of his vaulted roof was wainscoted in the style of the walls, and
to such perfection that 'twould have puzzled a conjurer to decide where
the oaken panels ended and the painted ones began.
And now Moll suffers her fancies to run wild again, and could not
sufficiently marvel over this poor painter and his work, of which she
would discourse to such lengths, that both the Don and I at times had
some ado to stifle our yawns. She would have it that he was no common
man, but some great genius, compelled by misfortune or the persecution
of rivals, to wander abroad in disguise, taking for evidence the very
facts which had lately led her to condemn him, pointing out that,
whereas those young gentlemen who courted her so persistently did
endeavour, on all occasions, to make their estate and natural parts
appear greater than they were, this Dario did not, proving that he had
no such need of fictitious advancement, and could well afford to let the
world judge of his worth by his works, etc. This point we did not
contest, only we were very well content to observe that he introduced no
one into the house, had no friends in the village (to our knowledge),
and that nought was lacking from our store of plate.
She never tired of watching him at his work--having the hardihood to
mount upon the scaffold where he stood, and there she would sit by the
hour on a little stool, chatting like any magpie, when the nature of his
occupation allowed his thoughts to wander, silent as a mouse when she
perceived that his mind was absorbed in travail--ready at any moment to
fetch this or hold t'other, and seizing every opportunity to serve him.
Indeed, I believe she would gladly have helped him shift the heavy
planks, when he would have their position altered, had he permitted her
this rough usage of her delicate hands. One day, when he was about to
begin the foliage upon his balcony, he brought in a spray of ivy for a
model; then Moll told him she knew where much better was to be found,
and would have him go with her to see it. And she, coming back from this
expedition, with her arms full of briony and herbage, richly tinted by
the first frost, I perceived that there was a new kind of beauty in her
face, a radiance of great happiness and satisfaction which I had never
seen there before.
Here was herbage enough for a week, but she must have fresh the next
morning, and thenceforth every day they would go out ere the sun was
high, hunting for new models.
To prepare for these early excursions, Mistress Moll, though commonly
disposed to lie abed late in the morning, must have been up by daybreak.
And, despite her admiration of Dario's simplicity in dress, she showed
no inclination to follow his example in this particular; but, on the
contrary, took more pains in adorning her person at this time than ever
she had done before; and as she would dress her hair no two mornings
alike, so she would change the fashion of her dress with the same
inconstancy until the sly hussy discovered which did most please Dario's
taste; then a word of approval from him, nay, a glance, would suffice to
fix her choice until she found that his admiration needed rekindling.
And so, as if her own imagination was not sufficiently forcible, she
would talk of nothing with her friends but the newest fashions at court,
with the result that her maids were for ever a-brewing some new wash for
her face (which she considered too brown), compounding charms to remove
a little mole she had in the nape of her neck, cutting up one gown to
make another, and so forth. One day she presented herself with a black
patch at the corner of her lip, and having seen nought of this fashion
before, I cried out in alarm:
"Lord, child! have you injured your face with that mess Betty was
stewing yesterday?"
"What an absurd, old-fashioned creature you are!" answers she, testily.
"Don't you know that 'tis the mode now for ladies to wear spots? Signor
Dario," adds she, her eyes lighting up, "finds it mighty becoming." When
I saw her thus disfiguring her pretty face (as I considered it then,
though I came to admire this embellishment later on) to please Signor
Dario, I began to ask myself how this business was likely to end.