Part 9 (1/2)

'Ain't you no more sense than to heap 'em up that way?' he said. 'Take an' throw a hundred of 'em off. It's more than the team can compa.s.s.

Throw 'em off, I tell you, and make another trip for what's left over.

Excuse me, sir. You was saying----'

'I was saying that before the end of the year I went to Bury to strengthen the lead-work in the great Abbey east window there.'

'Now that's just one of the things I've never done. But I mind there was a cheap excursion to Chichester in Eighteen hundred Seventy-nine, an' I went an' watched 'em leading a won'erful fine window in Chichester Cathedral. I stayed watchin' till 'twas time for us to go back. Dunno as I had two drinks p'raps, all that day.'

Hal smiled. 'At Bury then, sure enough, I met my enemy Benedetto. He had painted a picture in plaster on the south wall of the Refectory--a n.o.ble place for a n.o.ble thing--a picture of Jonah.'

'Ah! Jonah an' his whale. I've never been as fur as Bury. You've worked about a lot,' said Mr. Springett, with his eyes on the carter below.

'No. Not the whale. This was a picture of Jonah and the pompion that withered. But all that Benedetto had shown was a peevish greybeard huggled up in angle-edged drapery beneath a pompion on a wooden trellis.

This last, being a dead thing, he'd drawn it as 'twere to the life. But fierce old Jonah, bared in the sun, angry even to death that his cold prophecy was disproven--Jonah, ashamed, and already hearing the children of Nineveh running to mock him--ah, that was what Benedetto had _not_ drawn!'

'He better ha' stuck to his whale, then,' said Mr. Springett.

'He'd ha' done no better with that. He draws the damp cloth off the picture, an' shows it to me. I was a craftsman too, d'ye see?

'”'Tis good,” I said, ”but it goes no deeper than the plaster.”

'”What?” he said in a whisper.

'”Be thy own judge, Benedetto,” I answered. ”Does it go deeper than the plaster?”

'He reeled against a piece of dry wall. ”No,” he says, ”and I know it. I could not hate thee more than I have done these five years, but if I live, I will try, Hal. I will try.” Then he goes away. I pitied him, but I had spoken truth. His picture went no deeper than the plaster.'

'Ah!' said Mr. Springett, who had turned quite red. 'You was talkin' so fast I didn't understand what you was drivin' at. I've seen men--good workmen they was--try to do more than they could do, and--and they couldn't compa.s.s it. They knowed it, and it nigh broke their hearts like. You was in your right, o' course, sir, to say what you thought o'

his work; but if you'll excuse me, was you in your duty?'

'I was wrong to say it,' Hal replied. 'G.o.d forgive me--I was young! He was workman enough himself to know where he failed. But it all came evens in the long run. By the same token, did ye ever hear o' one Torrigiano--Torrisany we called him?'

'I can't say I ever did. Was he a Frenchy like?'

'No, a hectoring, hard-mouthed, long-sworded Italian builder, as vain as a peac.o.c.k and as strong as a bull, but, mark you, a master workman. More than that--he could get his best work out of the worst men.'

'Which it's a gift. I had a foreman-bricklayer like him once,' said Mr.

Springett. 'He used to prod 'em in the back like with a pointing-trowel, and they did wonders.'

'I've seen our Torrisany lay a 'prentice down with one buffet and raise him with another--to make a mason of him. I worked under him at building a chapel in London--a chapel and a tomb for the king.'

'I never knew kings went to chapel much,' said Mr. Springett. 'But I always hold with a man, don't care who he be, seein' about his own grave before he dies. Tidn't the sort of thing to leave to your family after the will's read. I reckon 'twas a fine vault.'

'None finer in England. This Torrigiano had the contract for it, as you'd say. He picked master craftsmen from all parts--England, France, Italy, the Low Countries--no odds to him so long as they knew their work, and he drove them like--like pigs at Brightling Fair. He called us English all pigs. We suffered it because he was a master in his craft.

If he misliked any work that a man had done, with his own great hands he'd rive it out, and tear it down before us all. ”Ah, you pig--you English pig!” he'd scream in the dumb wretch's face. ”You answer me? You look at me? You think at me? Come out with me into the cloisters. I will teach you carving myself. I will gild you all over!” But when his pa.s.sion had blown out, he'd slip his arm round the man's neck, and impart knowledge worth gold. 'Twould have done your heart good, Mus'

Springett, to see the two hundred of us--masons, jewellers, carvers, gilders, iron workers and the rest--all toiling like c.o.c.k-angels, and this mad Italian hornet fleeing from one to next up and down the chapel.

'Done your heart good, it would!'

'I believe you,' said Mr. Springett. 'In Eighteen hundred Fifty-four, I mind, the railway was bein' made into Hastin's. There was two thousand navvies on it--all young--all strong--an' I was one of 'em. Oh, dearie me! Excuse me, sir, but was your enemy workin' with you?'