Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  The lawyer glanced quickly at his friend and assumed an indifferent expression. He was aware that his position, was socially superior to that of the silver-chiseller, in spite of Marzio’s great talent. But he knew also that Lucia was to have a dowry, and that she would ultimately inherit all her father possessed. A dowry covers a multitude of sins in the eyes of a man to whom money is the chief object in life. Carnesecchi, therefore, meant to extract as many thousands of francs from Marzio as should be possible, and prepared himself to bargain. The matter was by no means settled, in spite of the chiseller’s instructions to his wife concerning the outfit.

  “We must talk,” said Carnesecchi. “Not that I should be altogether averse to coming easily to an understanding, you know. Bat there are many things to be considered. Let us see.”

  “Yes, let us see,” assented the other. “My daughter has education. She is also sufficiently well instructed. She could make a fine marriage. But then, you see, I desire a serious person for my son-in-law. What would you have? One must be prudent.”

  It is not easy to define exactly what a Roman means by the word “serious.” In some measure it is the opposite of gay, and especially of what is young and unsettled. The German use of the word Philistine expresses it very nearly. A certain sober, straitlaced way of looking at life, which was considered to represent morality in Rome fifty years ago; a kind of melancholy superiority over all sorts of amusements, joined with a considerable asceticism and the most rigid economy in the household — that is what was meant by the word “serious.” To-day its signification has been slightly modified, but a serious man — un uomo serio — still represents to the middle-class father the ideal of the correct son-in-law.

  “Eh, without prudence!” exclaimed Carnesecchi, elliptically, as though to ask where he himself would have been had he not possessed prudence in abundance.

  “Exactly,” answered Marzio, biting off the end of a common cigar and fixing his eyes on the lawyer’s thin, keen face. “Precisely. I think — of course I do not know — but I think that you are a serious man. But then, I may be mistaken.”

  “Well, it is human to err, Sor Marzio. But then, I am no longer of that age — what shall I say? Everybody knows I am serious. Do I lead the life of the café? Do I wear out my shoes in Piazza Colonna? Capers! I am a serious man.”

  “Yes,” answered Marzio, though with some hesitation, as though he were prepared to argue even this point with the sallow-faced lawyer. He struck a match on the gaudy little paper box he carried and began to smoke thoughtfully. “Let us make a couple of steps,” he said at last.

  Both men moved slowly on for a few seconds, and then stopped again. In Italy “a couple of steps” is taken literally.

  “Let us see,” said Carnesecchi. “Let us look at things as they are. In these days there are many excellent opportunities for investing money.”

  “Hum!” grunted Marzio, pulling a long face and looking up under his eyebrows. “I know that is your opinion, Sor Gasparo. I am sorry that you should put so much faith in the stability of things. So you, too, have got the malady of speculation. I suppose you are thinking of building a Palazzo Carnesecchi out at Sant’ Agnese in eight floors and thirty-two apartments.”

  “Yes, I am mad,” answered the lawyer ironically.

  “Who knows?” returned the other. “I tell you they are building a Pompeii in those new quarters. When you and I are old men, crazy Englishmen will pay two francs to be allowed to wander about the ruins.”

  “It may be. I am not thinking of building. In tine first place I have not the soldi.”

  “And if you had?” inquired Marzio.

  “What nonsense! Besides, no one has. It is all done on credit, and the devil take the hindmost. But if I really had a million — eh! I know what I would do.”

  “Let us hear. I also know what I would do. Besta! What is the use of building castles in the air?”

  “In the air, or not in the air, if I had a million, I know what I would do.”

  “I would have a newspaper,” said Marzio. “Whew! how it would sting!”

  “It would sting you, and bleed you into the bargain,” returned the lawyer with some contempt. “No one makes mosey out of newspapers in these times. If I had money, I would be a deputy. With prudence there is much to be earned in the Chambers, and petitioners know that they must pay cash.”

  “It is certainly a career,” assented the artist “But, as you say, it needs money for the first investment.”

  “Not so much as a million, though. With a good opening, and some knowledge of the law, a small sum would be enough.”

  “It is a career, as I said,” repeated Marzio. “But five thousand francs would not give you an introduction to it.”

  “Five thousand francs!” exclaimed Carnesecchi, with a scornful laugh. “With five thousand francs you had better play at the lottery. After all, if you lose, it is nothing.”

  “It is a great deal of money, Sor Gasparo,” replied the chiseller. “When you have made it little by little — then you know what it means.”

  “Perhaps. But we have been standing here more than a quarter of an hour, and I have a client waiting for me about a big affair, an affair of millions.”

  “Bacchus!” ejaculated Marzio. “You are not in a hurry about the matter. Well, we can always talk, and I will not keep you.”

  “We might walk together, and say what we have to say.”

  “I am going to the Capitol,” Marzio said, for he had been walking in that direction when they met.

  “That is my way, too,” answered the lawyer, forgetting that he had run into Marzio as he came down the street.

  “Eh! That is lucky,” remarked the artist with an almost imperceptible smile. “As I was saying,” he continued, “five thousand francs is not the National Bank, but it is a very pretty little sum, especially when there is something more to be expected in the future.”

  “That depends on the future. But I do not call it a sum. Nothing under twenty thousand is a sum, properly speaking.”

  “Who has twenty thousand francs?” laughed Marzio, shrugging his shoulders with an incredulous look.

  “You talk as though Rome were an asylum for paupers,” returned Carnesecchi. “Who has twenty thousand francs? Why, everybody has. You have, I have. One must be a beggar not to have that much. After all, we are talking about business, Sor Marzio. Why should I not say it? I have always said that I would not marry with less than that for a dowry. Why should one throw away one’s opportunities? To please some one? It is not my business to try and please everybody. One must be just.”

  “Of course. What? Am I not just? But if justice were done, where would some people be? I say it, too. If you marry my daughter, you will expect a dowry. Have I denied it? And then, five thousand is not so little. There is the outfit, too; I have to pay for that.”

  “That is not my affair,” laughed the lawyer. “That is the business of the woman. But five thousand francs is not my affair either. Think of the responsibilities a man incurs when he marries! Five thousand! It is not even a cup of coffee! You are talking to a galantuomo, an honest man, Sor Marzio. Reflect a little.”

  “I reflect — yes! I reflect that you ask a great deal of money, Signer Carnesecchi,” replied Marzio with some irritation.

  “I never heard that anybody gave money unless it was asked for.”

  “It will not be for lack of asking if you do not get it,” retorted the artist.

  “What do you mean, Signor Pandolfi?” inquired Carnesecchi, drawing himself up to his full height and then striking his hollow chest with his lean hand. “Do you mean that I am begging money of you? Do you mean to insult an honest man, a galantuomo? By heaven, Signor Pandolfi, I would have you know that Gasparo Carnesecchi never asked a favour of any man! Do you understand? Let us speak clearly.”

  “Who has said anything?” asked Marzio. “Why do you heat yourself in this way? And then, after all, we shall arrange this affair. You wish it. I wish it. W
hy should it not be arranged? If five thousand does not suit you, name a sum. We are Christians — we will doubtless arrange. But we must talk. How much should you think, Sor Gasparo?”

  “I have said it. As I told you just now, I have always said that I would not marry with less than eighteen thousand francs of dowry. What is the use of repeating? Words are not roasted chestnuts.”

  “Nor eighteen thousand francs either,” answered the other. “Magari! I wish they were. You should have them in a moment. But a franc is a franc.”

  “I did not say it was a cabbage,” observed Carnesecchi. “After all, why should I marry?”

  “Perhaps you will not,” suggested Marzio, who was encouraged to continue the negotiations, however, by the diminution in the lawyer’s demands.

  “Why not?” asked the latter sharply, “Do you think nobody else has daughters?”’

  “If it comes to that, why have you not married before?”

  “Because I did not choose to marry,” answered Carnesecchi, beginning to walk more briskly, as though to push the matter to a conclusion.

  Marzio said nothing in reply. He saw that his friend was pressing him, and understood that, to do so, the lawyer must be anxious to marry Lucia. The chiseller therefore feigned indifference, and was silent for some minutes. At the foot of the steps of the Capitol he stopped again.

  “You know, Sor Gasparo,” he said, “the reason why I did not arrange about Lucia’s marriage a long time ago, was because I was not particularly in a hurry to have her married at all. And I am not in a hurry now, either. We shall have plenty of opportunities of discussing the matter hereafter. Good-bye, Sor Gasparo. I have business up there, and that client of yours is perhaps impatient about his millions.”

  “Good-bye,” answered Carnesecchi. “There is plenty of time, as you say. Perhaps we may meet this evening at the Falcone.”

  “Perhaps,” said Marab drily, and turned away.

  He had a good understanding of his friend’s character, and though in his present mood he would have been glad to fix the wedding day, and sign the marriage contract at once, he had no intention of yielding to Carnesecchi’s exorbitant demands. The lawyer was in need of money, Marzio thought, and as he himself was the possessor of what the other coveted, there could be little doubt as to the side on which the advantage would ultimately be taken. Marzio went half-way up the steps of the Capitol, and then stopped to look at the two wretched wolves which the Roman municipality thinks it incumbent on the descendants of Romulus to support. He thought one of them very like Carnesecchi. He watched the poor beasts a moment or two as they tramped and swung and pressed their lean sides against the bars of their narrow cage.

  “What a sympathetic animal it is!” he exclaimed aloud. A passer-by stared at him and then went on hurriedly, fearing that he might be mad. Indeed, there was a sort of family likeness between the lawyer, the chiseller, and the wolves.

  Other thoughts, however, occupied Marzio’s attention; and as soon as he was sure that his friend was out of the way, he descended the steps. He did not care whither he went, but he had no especial reason for climbing the steep ascent to the Capitol. The crucifix his brother had ordered from him on the previous evening engaged his attention, and it was as much for the sake of being alone and of thinking about the work that he had taken his solitary morning walk, as with the hope of finding in some church a suggestion or inspiration which might serve him. He knew what was to be found in Roman churches well enough; the Crucifixion in the Trinità dei Pellegrini and the one in San Lorenzo in Lucina — both by Guido Reni, and both eminently unsympathetic to his conception of the subject — he had often looked at them, and did not care to see them again. At last he entered the Church of the Gesù, and sat down upon a chair in a corner.

  He did not look up. The interior of the building was as familiar to him as the outside. He sat in profound thought, occasionally twisting his soft hat in his hands, and then again remaining quite motionless. He did not know how long he stayed there. The perfect silence was pleasant to him, and when he rose he felt that the idea he had sought was found, and could be readily expressed. With a sort of sigh of satisfaction he went out again into the air and walked quickly towards his workshop.

  The men told him that Gianbattista was busy within, and after glancing sharply at the work which was proceeding, Marzio opened the inner door and entered the studio. He strode up to the table and took up the body of the ewer, which lay on its pad where he had left it the night before. He held it in his hands for a moment, and then, pushing the leather cushion towards Gianbattista, laid it down.

  “Finish it,” he said shortly; “I have something else to do.”

  The apprentice looked up in astonishment, as though he suspected that Marzio was jesting.

  “I am afraid—” he answered with hesitation.

  “It makes no difference; finish it as best you can; I am sick of it; you will do it well enough. If it is bad, I will take the responsibility.”

  “Do you mean me really to finish it — altogether?”

  “Yes; I tell you I have a great work on hand. I cannot waste my time over such toys as acanthus leaves and cherubs’ eyes!” He bent down and examined the thing carefully. “You had better lay aside the neck and take up the body just where I left it, Tista,” he continued. “The scirocco is in your favour. If it turns cold to-morrow the cement may shrink, and you will have to melt it out again.”

  Marzio spoke to him as though there had not been the least difference between them, as though Gianbattista had not proposed to cut his throat the night before, as though he himself had not proposed to marry Carnesecchi to Lucia.

  “Take my place,” he said. “The cord is the right length for you, as it is too short for me. I am going to model.”

  Without more words Marzio went and took a large and heavy slate from the corner, washed it carefully, and dried it with his handkerchief. Then he provided himself with a bowl full of twisted lengths of red wax, and with a couple of tools he sat down to his work. Gianbattista, having changed his seat, looked over the tools his master had been using, with a workman’s keen glance, and, taking up his own hammer, attacked the task given him. For some time neither of the men spoke.

  “I have been to church,” remarked Marzio at last, as he softened a piece of wax between his fingers before laying it on the slate. The news was so astounding that Gianbattista uttered an exclamation of surprise.

  “You need not be frightened,” answered the artist. “I only went to look at a picture, and I did not look at it after all. I shall go to a great many more churches before I have finished this piece of work. You ought to go to the churches and study, Tista. Everything is useful in our art — pictures, statues, mosaics, metal-work. Now I believe there is not a really good crucifix, nor a crucifixion, in Rome. It is strange, too, I have dreamed of one all my life.”

  Gianbattista did not find any answer ready in reply to the statement. The words sounded so strangely in Marzio’s mouth this morning, that the apprentice was confused. And yet the two had often discussed the subject before.

  “You do not seem to believe me,” continued Marzio quietly. “I assure you it is a fact. The other things of the kind are not much better either. Works of art, perhaps, but not satisfactory. Even Michael Angelo’s Pietà in Saint Peter’s does not please me. They say it did not please the people of his time either — he was too young to do anything of that sort — he was younger than you, Tista, only twenty-four years old when he made that statue.”

  “Yes,” answered Gianbattista, “I have heard you say so.” He bent over his work, wondering what his master meant by this declaration of taste. It seemed as though Marzio felt the awkwardness of the situation and was exerting himself to make conversation. The idea was so strange that the apprentice could almost have laughed. Marzio continued to soften the wax between his fingers, and to lay the pieces of it on the slate, pressing them roughly into the shape of a figure.

  “Has Paolo been here?” a
sked the master after another long pause.

  Gianbattista merely shook his head to express a negative.

  “Then he will come,” continued Marzio. “He will not leave me in peace all day, you may be sure.”

  “What should he come for? He never comes,” said the young man.

  “He will be afraid that I will have Lucia married before supper time. I know him — and he knows me.”

  “If he thinks that, he does not know you at all,” answered Gianbattista quietly.

  “Indeed?” exclaimed Marzio, raising his voice to the ironical tone he usually affected when any one contradicted him. “To-day, to-morrow, or the next day, what does it matter? I told you last night that I had made up my mind.”

  “And I told you that I had made up mine.”

  “Oh yes — boy’s threats! I am not the man to be intimidated by that sort of thing. Look here, Tista, I am in earnest. I have considered this matter a long time; I have determined that I will not be browbeaten any longer by two women and a priest — certainly not by you. If things go on as they are going, I shall soon not be master in my own house.”

  “You would be the only loser,” retorted Gianbattista.

  “Have done with this, Tista!” exclaimed Marzio angrily. “I am tired of your miserable jokes. You have gone over to the enemy, you are Paolo’s man, and if I tolerate you here any longer it is merely because I have taught you something, and you are worth your wages. As for the way I have treated you during all these years, I cannot imagine how I could have been such a fool. I should think anybody might see through your hypocritical ways.”

  “Go on,” said Gianbattista calmly. “You know our bargain of last night”

  “I will risk that. If I see any signs of your amiable temper I will have you arrested for threatening my life. I am not afraid of you, my boy, but I do not care to die just at present. You have all had your way long enough, I mean to have mine now.”

  “Let us talk reasonably, Sor Marzio. You say we have had our way. You talk as though you had been in slavery in your own house. I do not think that is the opinion of your wife, nor of your daughter. As for me, I have done nothing but execute your orders for years, and if I have learnt something, it has not been by trying to overrule you or by disregarding your advice. Two years ago, you almost suggested to me that I should marry Lucia. Of course, I asked nothing better, and we agreed to wait until she was old enough. We discussed the matter a thousand times. We settled the details. I agreed to go on working for the same small wages instead of leaving you, as I might have done, to seek my fortune elsewhere. You see I am calm, I acknowledge that I was grateful to you for having taught me so much, and I am grateful still. You have just given me another proof of your confidence in putting this work into my hands to finish. I am grateful for that. Well, we have talked of the marriage often; I have lived in your house; I have seen Lucia every day, for you have let us be together as much as we pleased; the result is that I not only am more anxious to marry her than I was before — I love her; I am not ashamed to say so. I know you laugh at women and say they are no better than monkeys with parrots’ heads. I differ from you. Lucia is an angel, and I love her as she loves me. What happens? One day you take an unreasonable dislike for me, without even warning me of the fact, and then, suddenly, last night, you come home and say she is to marry the Avvocato Gasparo Carnesecchi. Now, for a man who has taught me that there is no God but reason, all this strikes me as very unreasonable. Honestly, Sor Marzio, do you not think so yourself?”