“It was a ‘Descent from the Cross,’ left by the artist, as I gathered at a glance, in an unfinished state. Nothing indeed had been attempted except the central Figure, which lay unattended and alone at the foot of the Cross. One weak and wavering line, visible only to the expert’s eye, might have been taken to imply that, worn out by his task, the painter had flung down his brush, and, satisfied or dissatisfied with the result, had never cared to re-touch his work.
“Yet satisfied he surely must have been, for, in spite of numerous faults, it was great, immeasurably great, in rough untutored power. What most impressed me was the terrible truthfulness with which he had realised the details. Surely, such total collapse, such limp and inert limbs, such lights and shadows on the livid skin, were never the outcome of the painter’s consciousness? Death alone, and death that was only just not life, had been the model from which he drew.
“And then, as I studied it more closely, other minor details grew out of the obscurity and impressed themselves upon me. It was unfinished, as I said, and had been painted with lightning rapidity, probably at a single sitting. It had been painted, too, by artificial light—the tone of the colouring proved it—but painted certainly to suit its surroundings, and probably on the very spot where we stood to view it. Now and again, as the wind forced its way through the time-worn casement, it swayed the draperies that hung around the picture—only another accessory, or so it seemed, to which the painter had attuned his work.
“‘Strong and terrible as a Ribera,’ was my verdict, ‘but a Ribera inspired and glorified.’ For this was no morbid study of Death the Destroyer’s handiwork. No; the artist had carried his subject far beyond the dominion of Death, when he transfigured the Face on the canvas with the light of an Everlasting Love.”
CHAPTER XIX
In the evening after supper Eric told me the story of the picture as he had heard it from his friend the priest.
“Years ago,” he said—“for so I heard the story on my arrival in the parish—a rich Englishman, travelling for pleasure, found his way to our village, and, intending to stay three weeks, was detained for eight. For he had caught the fever which prevails in the lower valleys, and only recovered from it thanks to the care he received from my predecessor in the house to which it has been my pleasure to welcome you. On his departure he left a hundred pounds with the priest as a thank-offering for his recovery, on the understanding that it was to be employed in the purchase of an altar-piece for our church, painted, if possible, by some local artist from the surrounding district. Many competed, but it was felt from the first that the honour was as good as won by Agostino Villari, a young painter of extraordinary talent, who lived in the house I showed you at the further end of the village. At that time he was only twenty—hardly more than a boy—and his talent was almost wholly undeveloped. But he only wanted time and teaching. The power was there, as you have seen for yourself to-day. Well, Agostino had but one great friend, a cousin, who shared his house, sat for his model, and whose single hope and assurance was that Agostino would live to be a famous painter. Cecco, for so he was called, was about thirty, a pale sedate man, of a gentle loving nature. But why describe him? You have seen him to-day, pictured by his friend’s hand as no words of mine could paint him.
“As the time for the competition drew on, the two friends were wholly absorbed in anticipating the result. Agostino was to be immortalised as the painter, Cecco as the model. And their love for each other made them wholly unselfish; each hoped for success solely in the interest of his friend. Nothing short of a perfect likeness would satisfy Agostino, nothing short of a perfect picture would satisfy Cecco’s ambition for his friend.
“On the night before the pictures were to be sent in, the two went up together to the church, to place the painting in position and to judge of its effect, taking with them the materials for retouching it if it should be required. It was a wild night—a night like this (for the story is precise in its details)—and the two friends had a hard climb up the hill to the church, where they placed the picture in the side chapel, because they could utilise the stronger light to throw into relief the details of the composition.
“You ask for the result? Well, Cecco was in raptures. ‘It is immortality, ’Tino,’ he cried, ‘for both of us. How great you are! It is I—I myself, and to the very life—only grander, nobler, spiritualised.’ ‘Yes, it is you,’ said ’Tino hesitatingly, ‘you, no doubt, and to the very life, as you say. But will that do? Look at that face, that chest, those firm and muscular limbs. True to life, I admit, well-drawn and well-painted. But life, not death, and death is what we wanted. Strip yourself, Cecco, and lie at the foot of the Cross; see if you can help me. You know I can never paint the smallest detail without a model. There—fling yourself down in a heap as if you had lost all strength, all energy. Yes, that is well. You have given me the attitude. But the blood, the rich colouring in your face and limbs—it is life, vigorous life, all of it—and I cannot even picture what they would be like, shrunk and colourless and lifeless. If you could only faint, Cecco, I might do something. Can’t you faint—just for one moment—just to oblige me?’ ‘No, ’Tino, but I will do more for you and the picture than that. Only promise to finish it—here, this evening, before you leave the church. ’Tino, remember, I count upon your promise.’