The Finger of Fate: A Romance

Why he was upon a Roman instead of an English road is already known. Flung upon his own resources in the great city of London – too proud to return to his father’s home, stung by what he fancied to have been a refusal to his last request – he had, under the tutelage of his Italian friend, now taken to painting as his profession. He had not stained canvas without some success – enough to justify him in following the advice of Luigi Torreani, and completing his studies under the bright skies of Italy, and amid the classic scenes of the seven-hilled city. Thither had he found his way, with no other support than the precarious earnings of his pencil. This was fully evidenced by his threadbare coat and chafed chaussure, as he trudged afoot along the dusty road of the Romagna.

Whither was he going? He was far enough out to have almost lost sight of the Eternal City, and those classic monuments that only give proof of its decay. These, one would think, should have been the objects of his study – the subjects upon which to perfect it. And so they had been. He had painted them one after another – portal and palace, sculptured figure and fresco, Capitol and Coliseum – till his head was tired with such art delineation; and he was now on his way to the hills, to drink from the pure fountain of Nature – to fling rock and stream and tree upon the canvas, under the light of an Italian sun, and the canopy of an azure sky.

It was his first journey to the Campagna; he was going without a guide, only inquiring now and then for Valdiorno, a small mountain town lying near the Neapolitan frontier. To the “sindico” of this place he carried a letter of introduction, obtained from his son, who was the young Italian artist he had left behind him in London. But the chief object of this country excursion was to find some scene paintable, and worthy of being painted.

He had not made many miles along his route before he was tempted to stop, and this more than once. Every turn of the road presented him with a landscape; every peasant would have made a picture. He resisted these allurements with the thought, that these landscapes, so near to the city, might all have been sketched before; while the peasants could be caught at any time, in the streets of Rome itself, and there painted in all their picturesqueness.

On towards some shaggy hills he saw looming out in the distance; and on went he, until near the close of the day he found himself toiling up a steep ravine, whose every turn gave him a tableau worthy of being transferred to canvas, framed, and conspicuously suspended against the walls of the Royal Academy.

After a slight repast drawn from his wallet, and a smoke from his meerschaum pipe, he set about painting a scene, he had at length selected. He fought against the fatigue of his journey, for the sake of catching a magnificent mellow sunset that had welcomed his approach to the place. He had no need to add to the “composition” of his picture. Rocks, trees, cliffs, torrents foaming over them, points of chiaro and oscuro, abruptly contrasted – all were under his eye. If there was aught wanting to give life to the landscape, it was only a few figures – animal or human – and these he could fill in according to his fancy.

“Ah,” he reflected aloud, “just the scene for a band of brigands. I’d give something to have a half-dozen of them in the foreground. I could then make a picture of these fantastic Turpins drawn from real life – a thing, I take it, which has never been done before. That would be something to hang up in the Royal Academy – something worth wasting colour and canvas on. I’d give – ”

“How much?” answered a voice that seemed to issue out of the rocks behind him. “How much would you give, Master Painter, for that you speak o’? If you bid high enough, I dare say I mout find the means o’ accommodatin’ you.”

Along with the voice came the footsteps of a man – not in soft, stealthy tread, as of one approaching unawares, but with a quick thump, as the man himself dropped down from a rock above upon the little platform where the artist had planted his sticks. The latter looked up, at first in surprise, then rather in pleased admiration. He was thinking only of his art, and before him stood the very model of his imagination – a man clad in a complete suit of plush and coloured velvet, breeched, bandaged, and belted, with a plumed hat upon his head, and a short carbine across his arms – in costume and caparison the beau-ideal of a brigand. Two things alone hindered him from appearing the true heroic type of stage representation, such as we are accustomed to see in “Mazzaroni” and the “Devil’s Brother.” There was a broad Saxon face, and a tongue unmistakably from the shire of Somerset. Both were so marked, that but for the velveteen knee-breeches, the waist-belt, the elaborately buttoned vest, and the plumed hat upon his head, Henry Harding might have thought himself at home, and in the presence of a man he had met before.

Ere the young artist had sufficiently recovered from his surprise to respond to the unexpected salutation, the picturesque stranger continued —

“Want to paint brigands, do ye? Well, there’s a chance for ye now. The band’s close by. Jess wait a bit; I’ll call ’em down. Hey, there, captin!” he cried, changing his English to Italian, “ye may come on. It’s only one o’ them poor devils o’ daubers from the city. He wants to take our likenesses. I s’pose you’ve no objection to his doin’ it?”

Before the painter could make response, or remove his paraphernalia out of the way, the ledge he had selected for his “point of view” was crowded with figures – one and all of them so picturesquely attired, that had they stood in the Corso, or elsewhere within police protection, he would have been only too delighted to have painted them with the most Pre-Raphaelitish detail. As it was, all thoughts of art were chased out of his mind. He saw that he was encircled by banditti!

To attempt to retreat was out of the question. They were above, below, on all sides of him. Even had he been swifter than any of the gang, their carbines were slung handy en bandoulière; and a volley from these would certainly have checked his flight. There was no alternative but to resign himself to his fate – which was now to be made a captive.

Chapter Sixteen

Empty Pockets

If he who had surprised the painter at his task did not present the exact classic type of the stage bandit, there was one upon the ground who did. This man stood a little in advance of the others with that easy air that betokened authority. There was no mistaking his position. He was the chief. His dress did not differ, in cut or fashion, so materially from that of his followers; it was only more costly in the material. Where their breeches were velveteen, his was of the finest silk velvet. Besides, there was a glitter about his arms and a sparkle on the clasp which held the plume in his Calabrian hat that bespoke real jewellery. His face, moreover, was not of the common cast; it was of the true Roman type, the nose and chin of exceeding prominence, with a broad oval jaw-bone indicative of determination. He might have been deemed handsome but for an expression of ferocity – animal, almost brutal – that gleamed and sparkled in his coal-black eyes. If not handsome, he was sufficiently striking, and Henry Harding might have fancied himself confronted by the renowned Fra Diavolo. Had he stepped from behind the proscenium of the scenic stage, or come bounding from a “back flat,” the Transpontine spectators would have hailed him as the hero they had come to the theatre to see.

For some seconds there was silence. The first spokesman had slunk into the rear of the band; and all stood waiting for the chief to commence speech or action. The latter stood looking at the young artist, scanning him from head to foot. The scrutiny seemed to give him no great pleasure. There was not much booty to be expected in the pockets of such a threadbare coat; and a grin passed over his dark features as he pronounced, in a contemptuous tone, the word —

“Artista?”

“Si, Signore,” replied the artist, with as much sang froid as if he had been answering an ordinary question. “At your service, if you wish to sit or stand for your portrait.”

“Portrait? Bah! What care I for your chalks and ochres, signor painter? Better if you’d been a pedlar with a good fat pack. That’s the sort of toys for such as we. You’re from the cittada? What’s brought you up here?”

“My legs,” replied the young Englishman, thinking that a bold front might be best under the circumstances.

“Cospetto! I can tell that without asking. Such boots as yours don’t look much like the stirrup. But come, declare yourself. What have you got in your pockets; a scudi or two, I suppose. How much, signore?”

“Three scudi.”

“Hand them over.”

“Here they are – you are welcome to them.”

The brigand took the three coins, with as much nonchalance as if he had been receiving them in liquidation for some service rendered.

“This all?” he asked, again surveying the artist from head to foot.

“All I have got upon me.”

“But you have more in the cittada?”

“A little more.”

“How much?”

“About four score scudi.”

“Corpo di Bacco! a good sum; where is it lying?”

“At my lodgings.”

“Your landlord can lay hands upon it?”

“He can by breaking open my box.”

“Good! now write out an order giving him authority to break open the box and send you the money. Some paper, Giovanni. Your ink-horn, Giacomo. Here, signor artista, write.”

Seeing that it would be useless to make objection, the artist consented.

“Stay!” cried the brigand, arresting his pen; “you have something besides money at your lodgings? You Ingleses always carry about a stock of loose property. I include them in the requisition.”

“There is not much to include. Another suit of clothes, but a trifle better than these you see on my back. A score or two of sketches – half-finished paintings – which you wouldn’t value even if the last touch had been given them.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the brigand, his comrades joining in the laugh. “You’re a good judge of character, signor artista. You can keep your sketches and your spare suit too, neither of which commodities would be likely to suit our market. Write, then, for the scudi.”

Again the artist was about to use the pen.

“Hold!” once more exclaimed the bandit. “You have friends in the cittada. What a mistake I was making not to think of them! They can give something towards your ransom.”

“I have not a friend in Rome; at least not one who would pay five scudi to rescue me from a rope.”

“Bah! you are jesting, signore.”

“I am speaking the simple truth.”

“If that be so,” said the brigand, who seemed to melt a little at mention of the rope, “If that be so,” he added reflectingly, “then – ah, we shall see. Hark you, signor painter, if what you say be true, you may sleep in your own lodgings to-night. If false, you will spend your night here in the hills, and perhaps minus your ears, you understand me!”

“I should be dull not to do so.”

“Buono – buono! And now one word of warning. Let there be no trickery in what you write – no deception in what you say. The messenger who carries your letter to the cittada will learn all about you – even to the quality of your spare suit and the value of your pictures. If you have friends he will find them out. If not, he will know it. And, by the Virgin, if it turn out that you are playing with us, your ears shall answer for it!”

“So be it. I accept the conditions.”