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 al
ternately 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 ha
d 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.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 244