Delphi Collected Works of Grant Allen, page 63
But he would meet her again — that was something! He knew her name now, and all about her. As they left Sir Henry’s hotel together, Gwen had turned with one of her gracious smiles to Sam, flooding his soul with her eyes, and said in that delicious trilling voice of hers: ‘I can’t forbear to tell you, Mr. Churchill, that I’d been to see Sir Henry, as he hinted to you, on the very self-same errand as yourself, almost. I met your brother in the train coming here, and I learnt from him accidentally what he’d come for, and how he was coming; and I couldn’t resist going to tell that horrid old man the whole story. It was so delightful, you know, so very romantic. Of course I thought he’d be only too delighted to hear it, and admire your brother’s pluck and resolution so much, exactly as I did. I thought he’d say at once “A sculptor! How magnificent! Then he shan’t stay here with me another minute. I’m a lover of art myself. I know what it must be to feel that divine yearning within one,” or something of that sort. “I won’t allow a born artist to waste another moment of his precious time upon such useless and unworthy occupations. Let him go immediately and study his noble profession; I’ll use all my interest to get him the best introductions to the very first masters in all Italy.” That’s what a man of any heart or spirit would have said on the spur of the moment. Instead of that, the horrid old creature put up his eyeglass and stared at me so that I was frightened to death, and swore dreadfully, and said your brother oughtn’t to have engaged himself under the circumstances; and used such shocking language, that I was just going to leave the room in a perfect state of terror when you came in and detained me for a minute. And then you saw yourself the dreadful rage he got into — the old wretch! I should like to see him put into prison or something. I’ve no patience with him.’
Hiram felt in his own soul at that moment a certain fierce demon rising up within him, and goading him on to some desperate vengeance. Was he alone the only man that Gwen didn’t seem to notice or care for in any way? She was so cordial to Audouin, she was so cordial to Sam, and now she was so interested in Sam’s unknown brother, whom she had only met casually in a railway carriage, that she had actually faced, alone and undaunted, this savage old curmudgeon of a British nobleman (Hiram’s views as to the status of English baronets were as vague as those of the Tichborne Claimant’s admirers), in order to release him from the necessary consequences of an unpleasant arrangement. But him, Hiram, she had utterly forgotten; and even when reminded of him, she only seemed to remember his personality in a very humiliating fashion as a sort of unimportant pendant or corollary to that brilliant Mr. Audouin. To him, she was all the world of woman; to her, he was evidently nothing more than an uninteresting young man, who happened to accompany that delightfully clever American whom she met at the Thousand Islands!
How little we all of us are to some people who are so very, very much to us!
But when she was leaving them at the door of her own hotel, Gwen handed Hiram a card with a smile that made amends for everything, and said so brightly: ‘I hope we may see you again, Mr. Winthrop. I haven’t forgotten your delightful picture. I’m so fond of everything at all artistic. And how nice it is, too, that you’ve got that charming Mr. Audouin still with you. You must be sure to bring him to see us here, or rather, I must send papa to call upon you. And, Mr. Churchill, as soon as your brother sets up a studio — I suppose he will now — we won’t forget to drop in and see him at it. I’m so very much interested in anything like sculpture.’
Poor Hiram’s heart sank again like a barometer to Very Stormy. She only wanted to see him again, then, because he’d got Audouin with him! Hiram was too profoundly loyal to feel angry, even in his own heart, with his best friend and benefactor; but he couldn’t help feeling terribly grieved and saddened and downcast, as he walked along silently the rest of the way through those novel crowded streets of Rome towards the Hôtel de Russie. He felt sure he should cordially hate this horrid, interesting, interloping fellow, Sam’s brother.
Sam had left a little note at the Allemagne to be given to Mr. Colin Churchill — Sir Henry’s valet — as soon as ever he came back. In the note he told Colin he was to call round at once, without speaking to Sir Henry, for a very particular purpose, at the Hôtel de Russie. The letter was duly signed: ‘Your affectionate brother, Sam Churchill.’ Colin took it up and looked at it again and again. Yes, there was no denying it; it was Sam’s handwriting, But how on earth had Sam got to Rome, and what on earth was Sam doing there? It was certainly all most mysterious. Still, the words ‘without speaking to that old fool Sir Henry’ were trebly underlined, and Colin felt sure there must be some sufficient reason for them, especially as the arrangement of epithets was at once so correct and so forcible. So he turned hastily to the Hôtel de Russie, filled with amazement at this singular adventure.
In Colin’s mind, the Sam of his boyish memory was a Dorsetshire labourer clad in Dorsetshire country clothes, a trifle loutish (if the truth must be told), and with the easy, slouching, lounging gait of the ordinary English agricultural workman. When he called at the Russie, he was ushered up into a room where he saw three men sitting on a red velvet sofa, all alike American in face, dress, and action, and all alike, at first sight, complete strangers to him. When one of the three, a tall, handsome, middle-aged man, with a long brown moustache, and a faultless New Yorker tourist suit, rose hastily from the sofa, and came forward to greet him with a cry of ‘Colin!’ he could hardly make his eyes believe there was any relic of the original Sam about this flourishing and eminently respectable American citizen.
‘Well, Colin,’ his brother said kindly, but with such an unexpected Yankee accent, ‘I surmise you ain’t likely to recognise me, anyhow; that’s so, ain’t it? You were only such a little chap when I first went away across the millpond.’
When one sees a member of one’s own family after a separation of many years, one judges of him as one judges of a stranger; and Colin was certainly pleased with the first glimpse of this resurrected and wholly transfigured Sam — he seemed such a good-humoured, easygoing, kindly-confidential sort of fellow, that Colin’s heart warmed to him immediately. They fell to talking at once about old times at Wootton Mandeville, and Sam told Colin the whole story of how he came to cross the Atlantic again, and what reception he had met with that morning from Sir Henry Wilberforce. Hiram and Audouin went out while the two brothers discussed their family affairs and future prospects, ostensibly to see something of the sights of Rome, but really to let them have their talk out in peace and quietness.
‘And now, Colin,’ Sam said in a blunt, straightforward, friendly fashion, ‘of course you mustn’t see this Wilberforce man again, whatever happens. It’s no use exposing yourself to a scene with him, all for nothing. You’ve just got to go back to the Hôtel d’Allamain on the quiet, pack up your things without saying a word to him, and walk it. I’ve written a note to him that’ll settle everything, and I’ve put in two bills.’
‘Two what?’ Colin asked doubtfully.
‘Bills,’ Sam repeated with a hasty emphasis. ‘Notes I think you call ’em in England; bank-notes to cover all expenses of your journey, don’t you see, and baggage, and so forth. No, never you mind thanking me like that about a trifle, Colin, but just sit there quietly like a sensible fellow and listen to what I’ve got to say to you. It’s a long time since I left the old country, you know, my boy; and I’ve kind o’ forgotten a good deal about it. I’ve forgotten that you were likely to be so hard up for money as you were, Colin, or else I’d have sent you over a few hundred dollars long ago to pay your expenses. When you wrote to me that you were working with a sculptor in London, I took it for granted, anyhow, that you were making a pretty tidy thing out of it; and when you wrote that you were going to Rome to continue your studies, I thought I’d bring Hiram Winthrop along just to keep you company. But I never imagined you’d come over as I find you have done. Why, when that Sickolary man told me you’d gone as a valet, I was so ashamed I couldn’t look Mr. Audouin straight in the face again for half-an-hour. And what I want to know now’s just this, Who’s the very best sculptor, should you say, in all Rome, this very minute?’
‘There’s only one really great sculptor in Rome at all, at present, that I know of,’ Colin answered without a moment’s hesitation.
‘Nicola Maragliano.’
‘Well,’ Sam continued in a business-like fashion; ‘I suppose he takes pupils?’
‘I should doubt it very much, Sam, unless they were very specially recommended.’
‘What, really? At least, we’ll try, Colin. We’ll see what Mr. Maragliano’s terms are, any way.’
‘But, my dear fellow, whatever his terms are, I can’t afford them. I must work for my livelihood one way or another.’
‘Nonsense,’ Sam answered energetically. ‘You just leave this business alone. I’ve got to manage it my own way, and don’t you go and interfere with it. I pay, you work; do you see, Colin?’
Colin looked back at his brother with a look half incredulity, half pride. ‘Oh, Sam,’ he said, ‘I can’t let you. I really can’t let you. You mustn’t do it. It’s too kind of you, too kind of you altogether.’
‘In America,’ Sam answered, taking a cigar from his pocket and lighting a vesuvian, ‘we’re a busy people. We haven’t got time for thanks and that sort of thing, Colin; we just take what we get, and say nothing about it. I’m going out now, to have a look after one of their Vaticans, or Colosseums, or triumphal arches, or something; you’d better go and pack up your traps meanwhile at this Wilberforce creature’s. You’ll sleep here tonight; I’ll bespeak a room for you; then you and Hiram can talk things over and arrange all comfortable. They have dinner here at the wrong end of the day — seven o’clock; mind you’re back for it. Now, good-bye for the present. I’m off to hunt up some of these ancient Roman ruins.’
Sam put on his hat before Colin could thank him any further, and in half an hour more, he was meditating, with the aid of his cigar, among the big gloomy arches of the Colosseum.
So Colin took the proffered freedom, with an apologetic note to poor old Sir Henry, whom he didn’t wish to treat badly; and that evening he and Hiram met to make one another’s acquaintance in earnest. Hiram’s spleen against the young Englishman who had had the audacity to attract Gwen’s favourable attention didn’t long outlast their introduction. To say the truth, both young men were too simple and too transparent not to take a sincere liking for one another almost immediately. Sam and Audouin were both delighted at the success of their scheme for bringing them together; and Sam was really very proud of his brother’s drawings and designs which Colin brought down for their inspection after dinner. He had enough, of Colin’s leaven in him to be able at least to recognise a true and beautiful work of art when it was set before him.
‘I shall just wait a bit here in Rome so as to fix up Colin with this man Maragliano, Mr. Audouin,’ Sam said, after the two younger men had retired, as they sat talking over the prospect in the billiard-room of the hotel; ‘and then I shall run back to England to pay a visit to the old folk, before I return to work at Syracuse.’
‘And I,’ said Audouin, ‘will stop the winter so as to set Hiram fairly on the right way, and let him get free play for his natural talents. He’s going to be the greatest American painter ever started, Mr. Churchill; and I’m going to see that he has room and scope to work in.’
But all that night, Hiram dreamt of Chattawauga Lake, and Gwen, and the Thousand Islands, and the green fields he had seen in England. And when he woke to look out on the broad sunshine flooding the neighbourhood of the Piazza del Popolo, his heart was sad within him.
CHAPTER XXI. COLIN SETTLES HIMSELF.
After breakfast next morning, Sam rose resolutely from the table, like a man who means business, and said to his brother in a tone of authority, ‘Come along, Colin; I’m going to call on this Mr. Maragliano you were telling me about.’
‘But, Sam,’ Colin expostulated, ‘he won’t receive us. We haven’t got any introduction or anything.’
‘Not got any introduction? Yes, I guess we have, Colin. Just you bring along those drawings and designs you showed us last night, and you bet Mr. Maragliano won’t want any other introduction, I promise you. In America, we’d rather see what a man can do, any day, than what all his friends put together can say to crack him up in a letter of recommendation.’
Colin ran upstairs trembling with excitement, and brought down the big portfolio — Minna’s portfolio, made with cloth and cardboard by her own small fingers, and containing all his most precious sketches for statues or bas-reliefs. They turned out into the new Rome of the English quarter, and following the directions of the porter, they plunged at last into the narrow alleys down by the Tiber till they came to the entrance of a small and gloomy-looking street, the Via Colonna. It is the headquarters of the native Italian artists. Colin’s heart beat fast when at length they stopped at a large house on the left-hand side and entered the studio of Nicola Maragliano.
The great sculptor was standing in the midst of a group of friends and admirers, his loose coat all covered with daubs of clay, and his shaggy hair standing like a mane around him, when Sam and Colin were ushered into his studio. Colin stood still for a moment, awestruck at the great man’s leonine presence; for Maragliano was one of the very few geniuses whose outer shape corresponded in majesty to the soul within him.
But Sam, completely unabashed by the novelty of the situation, walked straight up to the famous artist, and said with a rapid jerk in his own natural, easy-going manner, ‘Speak any English?’
‘A leetle,’ Maragliano answered, smiling at the brusqueness of the interrogation.
‘Then what we want to know, sir, without wasting any time over it, is just this: Here’s my brother. He wants to be made into a sculptor. Will you take him for a pupil, and if so, what’ll your charge be? He’s brought some of his drawings along, for you to look at them. Will you see them?’
Maragliano smiled again, this time showing all his white teeth, and looked with an air of much amusement at Colin. The poor fellow was blushing violently, and Maragliano saw that he was annoyed and hurt by Sam’s brusqueness. So he took the portfolio with a friendly gesture (for he was a true gentleman), and proceeded to lay it down upon his little side-table. ‘Let us see,’ he said in Italian, ‘what the young American has got to show me.’
‘Not American,’ Colin answered, in Italian too. ‘I am English; but my brother has lived long in America, and has perhaps picked up American habits.’
Maragliano looked at him keenly again, nodded, and said nothing. Then he opened the portfolio and took out the first drawing. It was the design for the Cephalus and Aurora — the new and amended version. As the great sculptor’s eye fell upon the group, he started and gave a little cry of suppressed astonishment. Then he looked once more at Colin, but said nothing. Colin trembled violently. Maragliano turned over the leaf, and came to the sketch for the bas-relief of the Boar of Calydon. Again he gave a little start, and murmured to himself, ‘Corpo di Bacco!’ but still said nothing to the tremulous aspirant. So he worked through the whole lot, examining each separate drawing carefully, and paying keener and keener attention to each as he recognised instinctively their profound merit. At last, he came to the group of Orestes and the Eumenides. It was Colin Churchill’s finest drawing, and the marble group produced from it is even now one of the grandest works that ever came out of that marvellous studio. Maragliano gave a sharper and shorter little cry than ever.
‘You made it?’ he asked, turning to Colin.
Colin nodded in deep suspense, not unmixed with a certain glorious premonition of assured triumph.
Maragliano turned to the little group, that stood aloof around the clay of the Calabrian Peasant, and called out, ‘Bazzoni!’
‘Master!’
‘See this design. It is the Englishman’s. What think you of it?’
The scholar took it up and looked at it narrowly. ‘Good;’ he said shortly, in an Italian crescendo; ‘excellent — admirable — surprising — extraordinary.’
Maragliano drew his finger over the curve of the Orestes’ figure with a sort of free sweep, like a sculptor’s fancy, and answered simply, turning to Colin, ‘He says true. It is the touch of genius.’
As Maragliano said those words, Colin felt the universe reeling wildly around him, and clutched at Sam’s arm for support from falling. Sam didn’t understand the Italian, but he saw from Colin’s face that the tremor was excess of joy, not shock of disappointment. ‘Well,’ he said inquiringly to Maragliano. ‘You like his drawings? You’ll take him for a pupil? You’ll make a sculptor of him?’
‘No,’ Maragliano answered in English, holding up the Orestes admiringly before him; ‘I cannot do zat. Ze great God has done so already.’
Sam smiled a smile of brotherly triumph. ‘I thought so, Colin,’ he said approvingly.
‘I told him so last night, Mr. Maragliano. You see, I’m in the artistic business myself, though in another department — the advertising block trade — and I know artistic work when I look at it.’
Maragliano showed his white teeth once more, but didn’t answer.
‘And what’ll your terms be for taking him?’ Sam asked, in as business-like a fashion as if the famous sculptor had been a flourishing greengrocer, or a respectable purveyor of kippered herrings.
Maragliano glanced around him with a nervous glance. ‘Zere are many people here,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘We cannot talk at leisure. Let us go into my private chamber.’ And he led the way into a small parlour behind the studio.
Sam took a chair at once with republican promptitude, but Colin stood, his hands folded before him, still abashed by the great man’s presence. Maragliano looked at him once more with his keenly interested look. ‘That is well,’ he said in Italian. ‘Greatness always pays the highest homage to greatness. I know a true artist at sight by the way he first approaches me. Rich men condescend; pretenders fawn; ordinary men recognise no superiority save rank or money; but greatness shows its innate reverence at once, and thereby securely earns its own recognition. Be seated, I pray you. Your drawings are wonderful; but you have studied little. They are full of genuine native power, but they lack precise artistic teaching. Where have you taken your first lessons?’
