“Long live Mario Forza!” a stout-lunged carpenter shouted. “But down with the Supper!”
“Well spoken! On, comrades! Down with it!” a dozen of them chimed in, and there was a general move toward the painting.
“You have right on your side!” Mario proclaimed, in a voice sounding above the growl of the mob. “When you wish to pull down this work of Leonardo it is your right to do so, and no one may say no. You are the people, and the people must rule!”
“Come on, then, let us rule!” the carpenter cried, raising his axe, ready to spring forward, but Red Errico pulled him back.
“Wait!” he commanded. “Wait until the Honourable has spoken.”
“Just a minute, men and women,” Mario went on. “Just a minute let us look at the picture before we blot it out forever. Let us have a last look at the face of that Blessed Workman at the middle of the table. You all know He was a carpenter, and let me tell you that He made as good a fight in His time to help the workingman as you are making to-day.”
“Bravo!” the carpenter exclaimed, lowering his axe.
“He told the rich man to sell all that he had and give to the poor,” Mario began again, the dissentient outbursts of his audience succeeded now by sullen murmurs here and there. “He told him, too, that it was harder for him to get into Paradise than for a camel to go through a needle’s eye. He always had a good word for the poor, and He was never afraid to speak out. And what happened? You all know. So I ask you, for your good,—men and women of Milan,—before you kill His beautiful likeness there, as the heedless ones of old killed Him—before you do this let us look well upon His face, that we may remember long the man who dared to tell the wearers of purple and fine linen that their gifts were not so great as the widow’s mite.”
He paused a moment and no voice in the crowd made reply.
“Most of you have looked upon this picture before,” he continued, every ear attentive now, “for I see among you the faces of those who live in the neighbourhood, and the door here has always been open.”