Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  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,” re
turned 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.