Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  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!”