Marzios Crucifix and Zoroaster | Page 3

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