Bardossi's Daughter

Front matter

BRUNO THE CONSCRIPT BY MARIE HUTCHESON. In crown 8vo., cloth gilt 3/6. A FEW PRESS OPINIONS. Academy. "One of the best short stories we have read for some time. The features of Italian life and scenery have been admirably seized upon and described. The character drawing is unusually good .... ably and gracefully written and cannot fail to afford real pleasure to the reader." Globe. *' Deserves many readers. An admirably written, sympathetic Italian love-tale .... may be recommended." Gentlewoman. "I never realised the horrors of the conscription so vividly as after reading 'Bruno the Conscript'. It is a book to read." Observer. "A clever and well-evolved plot. Scenes truly Italian in character are described in a manner which not only brings a sanse of reality but shows that the authoress knows and loves well the land of the Florentines.

The interest of this cleverly-written book is amply sustained to the very last page." Literary World. " 'Bruno the Conscript' is as pretty a tale as one need wish to read .... a charming book." Yorkshire Daily Post. 11 People who like a pretty and perfectly harmless narrative may ask with confidence for this story." Manchester Guardian. " There is a good deal of charm and genuine feeling in 'Bruno the Conscript*. The story is gracefully and easily written, and shows a good deal of sympathetic insight into Italian character." Scotsman. A pleasant and readable story. The female characters are well drawn." New York Herald. Admirably written. Altogether the story may be recommended as both picturesque and pleasing." Bradford Observer. A fine bit of art, as well as a most pathetic story ; the characters stand solid and clear cut like marble figures ; the conversations are wonderfully well done, and the descriptions make one see what is before the eyes of the author."

Sheffield Independent. A pretty romance well worked out, well conceived and well told." National Observer. A pretty little story. The tale is well told and one feels that MISS HUTCHESON knows the country which she describes." Morning Post. The love-story is gracefully written, and harmonises with the picturesque frame in which it is set." Spectator. The characters are finely conceived and drawn with great skill. The dialogue is very well done. We must praise, too, the restraint and good taste with which the denouement of the story is managed." Western Mail. A pathetic little tale, beautifully told. The characters of the two girls are finished studies and the tale is one which will well repay the reader." Hearth and Home. "A pretty tale. The story is told in a pleasant, easy style, the book is very readable."

Chapter I. The Marked Marbles

The brilliant sunshine of an early autumn afternoon flooded a narrow strip of garden enclosed between a high wall and still higher house, situated in a side street off the Viale Principessa Margharita at Florence. The sunlight irradiated the clear air with a golden glow which lent a beauty to all it rested on, from the walls — coloured a soft chrome that harmonised with the atmospheric tone — to the straggling flower border which stretched along the garden wall. The rose trees and sturdy geraniums, bloomed with the luxuriance of the South, their untrained branches interlacing each other in their abundant growth, but the convolvulus which ran riot over the ground and shot up adventurous tendrils where it could find support, bid fair to smother the stronger plants to which it clung. The flower bed looked neglected in its rank profusion, but sunlight brightened it into a glowing mass of colour, and the warm air was full of perfume.

A few wires on which a vine had been trained, stretched from the flower border to the opposite wall of the house, above large wooden doors which with the absence of any windows on the bare expanse of wall indicated a sculptor's studio. The side of the house faced westward and was in the full blaze of the afternoon sun. A wide path of fine white gravel ran between the overgrown border and the studio, and at the further end of the little garden was a rockery, seemingly once designed for plants as a few leaves peeped out here and there between the pieces of marble that had been piled over them. The marbles so placed were all more or less chiselled, but a nearer inspection revealed on each some flaw which had necessitated their being dis carded. " Clay the life, plaster death, marble the resurrection ", was Michelangelo's definition of his art; and there seemed a pathetic human suggestion in these unfinished works, banished from the sculp tor's studio by reason of the deep-seated imperfection which forbade their embodying " the resurrection " of the artist's conception.

And as the pure, clear sunlight, streaming on the heterogeneous collection caused each stain on the whiteness of the marbles to appear more distinct and disfiguring in its search ing illumination, the unconscious parallel became stronger. The accumulation was evidently the work of some years; the lower specimens were weather-stained, and partly overgrown by the few creepers which had survived from the days when the rockery was given up to them ; and a careful study of the many varieties and types of faces visible, suggested the gradual alteration in his ideals which the sculptor had experienced since the first useless piece of marble had been thrown aside. The confused heap was crowned by a medallion of a female face, executed in very low relief, and as the sunshine poured on it, the flaw in the marble looked like a scar s-om the temple to the ear.

It gave a tragic look to the delicate face which was already expressive of a varied nature. The broad low brow and dreamy eye indicated thoughtful serenity ; while the lines about the sensitive mouth and lower part of the face, too narrow for artistic perfection, were instinct with a joyous youth that seemed breaking into dimpling smiles. The little garden basking in the sunshine was empty, but the hum of voices came softly through the closed doors of the studio, mingled with the tap of hammers and the sound of a marble drill. Suddenly the placid sounds ceased, and were succeeded by an eager murmur of conversation ; and a moment later, the doors were flung open and a workman in a holland blouse hurried out, carrying a block of marble. He was closely followed by two other men, one of whom was a hunchback, and a small boy.

" See there, " cried the first, comparing the marble in his arms with the female head above mentioned. •" It is the same mark, as I told you. I thought so this morning ; but I waited until I had cut well down to it to be sure. " It was the same lovely, mobile face with deli cately marked features, and a similar flaw in the marble gave the same effect of a sinister looking scar from temple to ear. " The curse of Heaven ! " exclaimed the elder of the two workmen who had followed closely. " Bar dossi's luck seems likely to fall on his daughter, poor little thing ! " " Presence of the devil ! what folly you talk, " broke in the hunchback excitedly ; " and all over a flaw in two blocks of marble. Look at that, " pointing with an eager gesture, " is not that a heap of spoiled marbles? And is there a studio or a marble shop in Florence where such things do not happen so often that plugging marble has come with many to be a trade for honest men?

It is as simple as roasting chestnuts, and yet you talk of the curse of Heaven falling on the innocent. An apoplexy on your superstitions ! Take to the petticoats of a priest and spend your time mumbling out jargon to old women and give up talking before men. Fool ! " And casting an uneasy look which belied his words at the two sculptured faces, the hunchback turned towards the studio, pushing the boy before him. " What ! what ! The Gobbo's tongue is loosened, and bad words fly about like marble dust," remarked Domenico Morandi, the object of the vituperative outburst. " Capers ! He has known the Signorina Silvia since she was a child, and blood is not bean water because it flows in the veins of a Gobbo, " answered his companion, still comparing the marks on the two pieces of marble. " I wish this unlucky mark had not come twice on the portrait of the Signorina," he continued musingly.

" So gentle and yet so gay in a life that cannot be easy. On the contrary ! " " To whom do you say that, " cried Domenico. * Is not Cherubina my sister ? and though she is fond of saying 'a closed mouth catches no flies', still she knows whom she can trust. Bacchus! but things are not easy, when the east wind is blow ing, for example ! " The click of the gate latch cut short Domenico Morandi's conversation and sent him back to the studio, but Giovanni Venturi remained, muttering to himself, " Old windbag ! if Cherubina were like her brother, I would give Luigi a hint, but she is a serious woman." The gate opened to admit the active figure of a young man, who walked towards the studio door with the manner of one well accustomed to the place. There was a brisk decision in his step which accorded with his wiry, well-knit figure, and the alert expression of his dark grey eyes.

A heavy brown moustache hid his mouth, but the firm lines of the square clean-shaved jaw accentuated the impression of determination and vigour which his general appearance gave. He paused as Venturi came forward, taking off his linen cap with a pleased greeting. " How are you, Venturi ? Here I am back again, you see, and more glad than ever to return," said the new comer, speaking with a hesitation which proved his Italian to be indifferent. " I always ask myself on my return why I ever leave Florence." " On account of the summer heat, Signore, " replied Venturi, with such unexpected matter-of-fact directness that Lawrence Trent broke out into a hearty laugh The sound seemed familiar, for the men at work in the studio looked up simultaneously with the remark, " The Signor Trent has come back.

" " The padrone will be pleased," added the Gobbo, looking towards a door which opened on the left from their workshop to their master's room, and a moment later, John Crawfurd, the owner of the studio, huiried out. He was a tall spare man with strongly marked ragged features, and a somewhat absent expression. He looked older than his forty years warranted. The dark hair which his linen cap barely covered was streaked with g/ey. He wore a linen blouse and cap, and his fingers were covered with clay, indicating that he had interrupted his work at the sound of the laughter. As he reached the doorway, Trent leant forward to examine the marble which Venturi still held in his powerful arms. "What have you there, Venturi?" he asked. " Anything new ? " But as he spoke, he caught sight of the mark on the medallion.

" What a nuisance ! " he exclaimed, . speaking in English ; " these flaws in the marble always make me feel mad." " What makes you feel mad this time, Lawrence ? " asked Crawfurd, whose intonation marked the Scotch man as certainly as Trent's did the American. The younger man turned quickly round and they shook hands with evident pleasure. " This last addition to your collection over there" — pointing to the accumulated heap of marked marbles — "was the occasion of my remark," replied Lawrence Trent, after they had exchanged greetings; and as he spoke, John Crawfurd's eyes fell on the bas relief. " What are you carrying that spoiled one about for, Venturi ? " he asked, with some surprise. " Why not show Mr. Trent how far you have got with the other if he asked to see what you were doing?" " It is not the spoiled one, padrone, at least not the first spoilt marble of the Signorina Silvia's portrait, " replied Venturi.

" I am afraid there is no more luck for his daughter, poor little thing, than for Luigi. ' Who is born unlucky, even the sheep bite', and. for example, see the two marbles both marked." Venturi moved rapidly to the corner where the previous attempt had been placed, and held up the medallion by its counterpart. " Give it to me, " said Mr. Crawfurd, and he com pared the two attentively ; Lawrence Trent followed him. "Great Scott! that is a strange thing," Trent exclaimed, " I never remember seeing two flaws so identical. And what a nasty scar it resembles." " It is a curious coincidence, " said John Crawfurd, slowly. " And what a lovely, interesting face, " went on Trent, looking intently at the marble. " Is it a portrait, did Venturi say? It looks more like an ideal subject." "It is a. portrait, " answered his friend, whose absent manner contrasted strongly with the young American's decided voice.

"But I intended calling it Morning ; there is a blending of purity and calm, with eager expectation which realizes my idea of early morning more nearly than any face I have seen. " "And I reckon it is with a view of making it emerge from a mass of Morning Glory that you have raised such a crop, " remarked Lawrence Trent, looking at the convolvulus running riot over the flower bed and stretching across the path. Mr. Crawfurd looked up with an amused smile. "I did not know that name for convolvulus, for one thing, Laurence," he answered, " and for another, I do not care to get effects that way; I do not think masses of flowers lend themselves to sculpture. They should rank with the veiled faces, and tambourings, mere marble shop tricks." " I daresay you are right, " said his companion, " in fact, I have no doubt you are ; but our folks haven't risen much above that sort of article just yet; it is thought elegant for a piece of parlour sculpture.

There is a figure of a little girl, nice lace frock and open-work stockings, ringletted head, like a mother's darling coming in after dinner, caressing a tousy puppy, that Scott keeps on reproducing for the benefit of poor Bradshaw's mother like the white man he is— well, he told me last winter that he had sold eighteen in the States, and thought he would try a London dealer to get a sale in a new field. He got it expressed straight back, and was informed it would not take, the public taste was too pure and classic. I told quite a number of people that little anecdote this summer when I was home, but they did not seem to enjoy it, somehow." " When did you come back, " asked Crawfurd, smiling ; " come inside and we'll have a crack over your doings. Put that aside, Venturi," he added, indicating the marble which he had laid down.

" We must be careful to get the next marble out of a better block." " Does the Signore mean to try it again ? " asked Venturi. " Of course, and don't let us have any more talk about such folly as bad luck, you are too sensible a fellow for that, Giovanni ; still, " he added, turning back in the doorway, "it might be as well not to let Bardossi hear of this." " Easy enough to say, and very kindly meant by the padrone," grumbled Venturi to himself as he was left alone ; " but not so easy to do with that long-tongued Domenico so sure to spread it. Here, Cesare ! " he called. The hunchback came out, and Venturi beckoned him to the corner of the garden where the cast away marbles were placed. As they got there, Cesari Baldi looked furtively from one to the other of the medallions, and then made the sign of the cross.

" It can do no harm, " he muttered, more to himself than to his companion who eyed him derisively. " The padrone says it is all nonsense to talk about bad luck," began Giovanni Venturi; "and as he means to have another bas relief set in hand at once, no doubt he believes what he says." The Gobbo looked up sharply as Venturi laid a perceptible stress on the pronoun, but said nothing. " All the same, " went on Venturi, " he says it would be better that Luigi should not hear of this second disappointment, but as I was just saying to myself that is easier said than done. Domenico will run to the Piazza Santo Spirito like a cat to cream." " But I can go there first, and give Cherubina a hint and she will manage it," interposed Cesare Baldi. " Even then, " continued Venturi, in an argument ative tone, making no reference to the fact that he had called Cesare in order that the offer should be made, " I don't know how matters will be arranged, Luigi takes a great interest in this — " " What does Luigi take a great interest in ?

" asked a deep rich voice behind them, and the two men started round to see the object of their solicitude standing close to them. Luigi Bardossi had approached them unheard, the garden gate, which rang a bell when opened, had been imperfectly closed after Lawrence Trent had passed through it, and they had been too absorbed by their conversation to notice Bardossi's step on the gravel. There seemed nothing about the handsome face with its pleased smile to warrant the anxiety which was depicted on each of the faces turned to him ; the bold well-cut features, and the magnificent frame might have served as a model after the antique; and the large deep-set eyes were expressive of good humoured pleasure. But as neither of the men answered him, having lost their self-possession for the moment, a curious flicker passed over Bardossi's face.

His eyes looked dazed for a moment, and then acquired a wavering, uncertain expression which transformed his whole face. " Body of Bacchus ! have you lost your tongues ? " he asked, in a tone which quickly ran the gamut from sarcasm to anger. " To find Giovanni Venturi silent, and the Gobbo struck dumb is a curious experience certainly. And that, too, when I come upon you whispering about me in corners. Out with it! What affair are you plotting about that 'Luigi takes a great interest in', but that you want to keep from him ? " " The devil ! Luigi, is that the way to speak to old friends, " interposed Venturi, deprecatingly. " You are haranguing us as if we were a couple of priests. not honest workmen. We were talking of the Sig norina's likeness which comes out with a certain effect in the marble beyond description, and we just came out to have a look at this old one and a chat over the different marbles."

Venturi held out the bas relief which he had been leaning against his knee, and turned it towards Bar dossi; but he had forgotten the latter's superior height, and the restless gaze which had not ceased to rove from one object to another from the moment Bardossi's suspicions had been aroused, fell on the spoilt medallion on the rockery, as Venturi drew his attention to the one he held. "What is that?" he asked, pointing to the other, and Venturi, shrugging his shoulders with a discom fited gesture, handed the piece of marble to Cesare Baldi and passed quickly through the open door of the studio. " That is the first attempt to put the Signorina's likeness into marble," said the Gobbo, hastily deter mining to put a bold face on the matter. " Giovanni is a fool, but he means well. We did not want to tell you about this, as it is a disappointment, and Giovanni and I were saying what an interest you took in it when you came up, and that it would be as well not to tell you of another failure, especially as it has been so badly managed.

The padrone," sinking his voice in confidence, and lying with calm effrontery, " was foolish enough to take the next piece of marble from the same block for the second attempt, and — as you see — in such a low relief as this, the thickness is not great, and of course, the flaw in the second, ran the same course as in the first. ' He who blows dust fills his eyes with it,' " quoted Cesare, sententiously. " What else can one expect ? " " Do not trouble to make up any more lies, Cesare; I know the Signor Crawfurd too well for that story to go down," said Luigi Bardossi, con temptuously ; " give me the marble, " and for the third time the two medallions were compared attentively. " The same mark on the two. What evil does this portend? " he muttered to himself, then, looking up with a sudden glitter in his dark eyes, he lifted the block high above his head, then dashed it down on the heap of stone and marble before him.

Cesare Baldi sprang back as he saw the action, but Bardossi stood unmoved amid the splinters that flew out in every direction. " The scar is not for me, " he said under his breath, as he turned unharmed towards the studio door through which all its occupants were hurrying. " Did you let the marble drop, Cesare, so that he should not see it ? " asked Domenico Morandi, in a shrill whisper audible to each of the little group. " Why, you are here, Bardossi ! " cried John Crawfurd, with an uneasy laugh, " and making wallies of my failures, I see." "I was trying an experiment," said Bardossi, in a curiously suppressed voice, which contrasted markedly with the strange glitter in his dark eyes ; " but I must beg your pardon, Signor Crawfurd. I did not reflect when I broke the medallion portrait of my daughter that you might have found some further use for the marble."

" Hoots, toots, Bardossi ! don't talk of the marble, " exclaimed Crawfurd ; " it is a merciful thing that you did not get blinded with all those splinters flying about. " " The danger is not mine, evidently, " Bardossi began with excitement, then checked himself with an evident effort, waved a farewell to John Craw furd and walked quickly out through the still open garden gate. " Now that poor fellow will brood over this until he gets more raised than ever," said Crawfurd, in a tone of commiseration. " And Heaven only knows how it may be magnified in his brain by the time it gets to the lassie." " I never knew until now that Bardossi had a daughter, " said Lawrence Trent ; " I am afraid she don't have much of a time, and such a lovely face, too." "She is as good as she is bonnie, and she has a hard struggle often to get their bread.

By the way, if your sister wants to learn Italian, she might do worse than employ Silvia Bardossi." " Give me her address, " was the brief reply, as Lawrence Trent followed Mr. Crawfurd into his studio.

Chapter II. Luigi Bardossi

Eighteen years before the circumstances just re corded, Luigi Bardossi was in the early prime of his splendid manhood. He was tall and powerfully built, but the symmetry of his proportions did not give his figure the appearance of such unusual size until he dwarfed those who stood near him, while his finely-cut face — like the replica of an antique cameo — was lighted up by a glow of animation and an ever-changing play of expression. The latter was indeed very marked, and the excitable nature which it revealed was in strange contrast to the massive form that seemed better suited to a calmer spirit. It was difficult to realize that every nerve in the frame that seemed an em bodiment of masculine vigour, was as finely strung as those of an hysterical woman; yet it was so. Luigi Bardossi was the son of a working jeweller and first saw the light in one of the quaint houses on the Ponte Vecchio.

It was built out on to one of the piers of the bridge, being in consequence some what larger than those erected on the arches, where the confined back premises are merely shored up by beams, and had therefore limited family accom modation as well as the business premises. The house followed the irregular conformation of the pier, making some of the rooms quaintly triangular in shape ; thus his childish days were spent over the rush of waters, sometimes peacefully flowing, sometimes surging round the massive masonry until the bent bridges Seeming to strain off like bows, And tremble when the arrowy undertide Shoots on." The river had an inexhaustible fascination for him, and many of his idle hours were spent at the open spaces in the centre of the bridge, looking down at the gliding water, or following its course with eager gaze.

One winter sunset hour, when little more than a child, Luigi Bardossi made the resolution which determined the aftercourse of his life. He was at his usual post, watching the swift rush of the river transformed into magical beauty by the sunset reflections; at his feet the bridge threw deep shadows, making the water black as night; beyond great crimson stains alternated with bars of darkness as bridge or palace shut out the glory of the sky; until, as the river glided past the woods of the Cascine, away from the domination of the city, it turned into a stream of living gold. The vivid colouring induced the boy to look up from its reflection to the sky; and as he did so, the snowy peaks behind the ranges of purpling hills caught the same golden glow, and the western horizon melted slowly from gold to pale translucent hues while yet above the city the heavens seemed afire.

Some subtle chord in the boy's sensitive nature was struck, and from that moment a deep disgust to the busy stir of the city's commercial life took possession of him, with as ardent a desire to pursue, in some form, the beautiful and ideal. His father, a worthy tradesman with no aspirations or ambition beyond executing his orders punctually, was at first very averse to the idea of his only child forsaking the trade which had been followed by his family for several generations in the house on the Goldsmiths' bridge. " There is no fortune to be made here, but there is always a livelihood, " he frequently urged, " which is more than you can be sure of if you run about trying to catch white flies." But as Luigi persisted in his refusal to continue in the steps of his predecessors, his father aban doned his opposition, though his predictions of failure in his son's self-chosen path were frequent.

" You will never make oil to your salad, " he sometimes grumbled. "The rent of this house will be no great fortune, yet I counsel you not to sell it, after my day; it may buy the salad." " With hard bread God sends sharp teeth," Luigi would often reply with the eager faith of youth and its happy confidence in the rectitude of its chosen course. " And I am not the first goldsmith's son who has taken to Art in our city, and suc ceeded, also." " That was long ago, we do not live in the fif teenth century, " was the favourite phrase with which the elder Bardossi closed such discussions. And a grudging consent to obtain employment at a marble shop was the utmost that Luigi Bardossi could ob tain from his father. He therefore began at the lowest rung of the ladder. His early experiences were much the story of most artistic aspirants, hard work and frequent disappointments, lighted up by brief rays of success, but with every revolution of the wheel of fortune hope or despair possessed him, intensifying his ner vous susceptibilities; and as the disappointments were, not unnaturally, more frequent than the suc cesses, he became, at times, a prey to the dread that he was indeed destined to be a failure.

One day, while haunted by this gloomy forebod ing, he betook himself to his old boyish haunt, the centre of the Ponte Vecchio, and leaned over the bridge at the spot where the magic spell of the beautiful had first been cast on him. He had not lingered there for some time, as since the death of his parents, and his consequent removal from his old home, the place had been associated with painful memories. For the first time in his life he began to wonder whether he had done well in the choice made so long ago in that spot, and recalled sadly his father's disappointment. " At least I have taken his advice about the house, " he thought with a melancholy smile at the recollection of the frequent prophecies of failure which seemed so likely to be realized, " and I will continue to do so. I will never part with it, come what may.