CHAPTER III.
The next evening Theodore read, from an old Italian "Ovid," the fable of the Medusa, as he had promised. He looked from time to time over his book towards Bianchi, whose eyes were fixed upon the ceiling. Theodore's calm voice seemed to bind him with a spell; the tale which he read, to move his innermost soul--so the other read on. When he arose, Bianchi drew a deep breath, and cried, "You are going!--you do not know how I have enjoyed it! These tales were to me but mutilated old statues, the limbs scattered about, the head far from the trunk, and all weather-beaten and decayed. As you read it, all drew itself together again, and now stands entire before me. Oh! that my arms were but sound again--my fingers tremble at the thought of kneading a piece of clay--but that is not to be--and you go--you smile! I can guess where you are going! well--enjoy your youth. But now I think for the first time of the nights I have made you pass."
"They would have been more lonely than they have been here--and you cannot guess where I go, Bianchi. I am going to pay court to two old people, and only now and then the soft hand of their daughter touches my arm in secret. All my enjoyment is seeing--hoping."
"And you can confess that so quietly, and not gnash your teeth with impatience and longing? I fear that I, too, once passed such a fruitless lovetime. Like a worm I grovelled on the ground, and cursed the eyes which had played me so bitter a trick."
"I bless them! And when I suspect such madness in my blood, I refresh my dull soul in the free air, up and down the Forum, or roam away to the Capucines, where now the snow is resting against the stem of the palm-tree; it must struggle through the winter, too, however warm its heart may be."
"Can you deny that it plagues and worries you more than the whole affair is worth? It makes one idle and womanly, and that is the worst of all. If we were not fools, longing for the impossible, all were well, one as good as another, if she were pretty and kind."
"I think not. I require something more than any one can give me, unless I am to leave her for the sake of some other."
"Who spoke of that?"--"Both of us, I think."
"Not I," said Bianchi. "I never could dream that you know your own advantages so little--with your face and your years."
He said no more, seemingly out of humour. "Let it be as it may." said Theodore, earnestly, "and let each one care for himself, and be glad that the other can be happy after his own fashion."
They never touched upon this subject again. Bianchi seemed to have entirely forgotten it, and Theodore did not agitate it. The old bitterness and fierceness of the sick man returned more and more as his wounds healed, and those rare touches of gentleness which he had shown to his friend disappeared for ever. He avoided giving him his hand; he never spoke of himself nor his feelings, never asked Theodore about his plans nor his past life, and hardly ever called him by his name; yet he never avoided Theodore's frequent visits, nor refused the little comforts which he brought him. Only once, when he saw some fruit in a basket, arranged beneath a layer of the earliest violets, with that delicate taste which belongs to a woman's hand alone, he placed the present coldly, and without saying a word, upon the mantelpiece. Theodore was silent; when he went he took the basket with him as he had brought it.
Still he continued to read to him--old poets, extracts from Dante and Tasso, and, at last, Machiavelli. The old deities, whose statues, scattered about Rome, had hitherto been to him merely fine carvings, semi-vivified by indistinct ideas, now became clear and living. It seemed as if he now for the first time saw with his waking eyes the world in which he had so long wandered in dreams. And the desire to go abroad awoke in him, and he longed to visit, personally, all that his imagination had clearly, and for the first time, thoroughly grasped.
The almond-trees blossomed crimson in the gardens of Monte Pincio, when he first stood on the parapet and looked over broad Rome towards the hills. Below him lay the town, noisy and sunny; the river glimmered brightly. On St. Angelo fluttered the broad folds of the standard in the wind that breathed softly from the sea, and overhead stretched the soft, delicate blue of the Roman March sky. Bianchi supported himself upon his staff, and looked darkly from under his eyebrows, as was his wont when he struggled against the promptings of his own heart. Theodore also stood buried in thought; at last he turned his gaze from the distance, looked seriously at Bianchi, and said, "You are recovered; in a few days more you will be below there in your new studio and I think that we shall still find a little time to spend together, even though I, too, shall be obliged to keep closer to my work, and must somewhat curtail the pleasure of being with you. It so happens that I shall have a reason for visiting you much oftener than you might otherwise permit--that is, if you will consecrate the new studio by undertaking a work in which I am personally much interested. The matter is this: a family with whom I am intimate has settled here, perhaps permanently. The man, a German, formerly lived in England, and married an Englishwoman, who brought him two children, a son and a daughter. The son, who was attacked by consumption, tried the climate of Rome as his last chance of recovery, and so the whole family emigrated with him. I loved him well, as did every one who knew him, and can hardly believe that I saw so much worth and nobleness sink into the earth--there, by the Pyramid of Cestus. That was last winter. His parents wish to erect a monument to him, with a relief which may shadow forth his character and honour his memory. I know no one to whom I would so willingly intrust this work as yourself."
"You may depend upon me, Theodore," said the sculptor; "I will do what within me lies."
"Would you not like to know his parents, and learn from them the idea which they wish to be carried out on the monument?"
The other was silent for a while. "No," he said, quietly: "I wish for no acquaintances, and love not tears. You loved him--that is enough: I will do it for you. You must not misunderstand me," he continued, after a pause. "I should be of no use there. Whoever wants me must attack me like a bear in his den. If I cannot escape, I can manage to get upon my hind legs almost politely, and growl my word with them. But even that is tiresome. I will say nothing and show nothing until the model is so far advanced that even the laity may see what it means--then they may come."
They spoke of other matters. Bianchi grew even brighter and almost joyous, whilst a shadow lay on Theodore's face. So they remained all the day together, and they both felt it like a leave-taking. For the first time the open, common-place day was around them--the rattle of carriages, and the whirl of laughing passengers. Bianchi did not take Theodore's arm. Slowly he walked near him, glancing at the women and the girls, many of whom seemed to know him, and here and there nodding to an acquaintance without stopping to speak to him. When he had passed, people stood still, whispering, pointing towards him, and following him with glances in which pity, respect, and a certain kind of fear, seemed mingled. He himself appeared not to observe it. He looked straight before him, often over the heads of the people, towards the villas without the walls, and the broad campagna, and his eyes glittered. "What are you thinking of?" asked Theodore.
"I am thinking how my mice will bear their fate when the old palace is pulled about their ears, and the bright daylight peeps into all their private holes and comers. I know that they have had a family lately. Poor fools! to love to linger under the same roof without learning anything from one! How I rejoice that I am poor, and free, and alone, and can carry all my belongings with me in a hand-cart!" He stretched out his arms, and waved them in the sir, as if he poised the burden that awaited them. He looked younger and fresher than he had ever done before.
In the evening he asked Theodore to accompany him to a tavern, in which, before his accident, he had spent many a night. "You shall see what good Roman society is, and the remains of nobler races," he said. "They are a little mistrustful of foreign elements, that step in without knowing what they want, or perhaps who know only too well. They say that it is not much better in nobler houses. Let them do what they like, and drink your wine without making much fuss: they let me do as I please, even if I bring a German with me, for they rather look up to me."
He led him a few streets distant from the Sistine, to the beautiful fountain of Bernini, the Fontana di Trivi. Opposite the lofty grottoed and niched façade, in the centre of which the water-god stands above the artificial rocks, and rules the streams, which burst out from all sides into the deep bason, there stood a mean-looking old house, with a smoky lantern over the door. They entered the spacious chamber, which occupied the whole breadth of the house, and served as a drinking-room. At the further end the fire on the hearth played against the blackened wall, and to the right a flight of steps led to the upper story. No furniture was to be seen except benches and tables, on and around which a mixed, silent company was gathered. A boy bore plates of fried fish, salad, and macaroni, and disappeared from time to time through a trap-door, to rise to the surface again, bearing fresh-filled flasks.
A joyous welcome resounded from the lower end of the room as the two friends entered. "Eccolo!" cried a portly woman, who forced her way through the crowd towards the door, drying her hands on her apron. "Eccolo! welcome a thousand times, Ser Carlo!" and she gave him her hand heartily. "A mezzo of Frascati, Chico; of the new, that came in yesterday. Only think, Ser Carlo! who do you think that I was just talking about to my Domenico this very moment? I said to him, 'Domenicuccio,' said I, 'you are a bear and a brute, never to go and see how it fares with our Ser Carlo; for I, as you well know, have my hands full with the children and the guests, and you yourself to look after, you stupid animal! And it will seem a thousand years till I see him again, fine fellow that he is!' 'Lalla mia!' says he, 'to-morrow I will see about it; and,' says he, 'if you have no objection, Lalla, I think that he won't refuse a little drop of the new wine, just a barilotto!' Said I, 'Well, Cuccio, that is just the very best idea you have had all these ten years that we have been married!' And just then Girolamo came in, and said that he had seen you on the Pincio, and I said, 'Blessed be the Virgin! then it won't be long before we see him here;' and just at that moment you opened the door and stood before us! And really it has done you good--you have grown handsomer, Ser Carlo. I would not believe Girolamo, but positively the Madonna has wrought a miracle on you. I have not prayed all through my rosary for nothing!"
"So I have to thank you, Sera Lalla, that I have not gone mad, and am quit for a little lameness? You have got the best wife in Rome, Domenico,--a saint! a real treasure of grace! Ay, here I am once more!" and he shook the host, a heavy-looking, insinuating sort of fellow, vehemently by the hand; "and this gentleman that you see here is my friend, who saved me from the jaws of the dogs. But, holla! there sits my noble Gigi over there, and eats and drinks, and can't even give his throat time to say 'Good evening.' Shame on you, Gigi! to treat old friends, and one, moreover, who has risen, like Saint Lazarus, from the dead, in such a frosty fashion!"
"He has asked after you more than all the others put together," whispered the hostess. "He could not take his glass for a week at a time when they began to talk about you. He was only afraid of visiting you."
The man of whom the good woman spoke sat at one of the centre tables, propped up tightly against the wall, and continued steadily thrusting large pieces of food into his mouth. He was good-looking, his bald head covered with a little skull-cap, his black coat buttoned up to his throat, and a certain air of decency about him, which distinguished him from the others, without showing, at the same time, any particular pretension.
Bianchi stepped up to him, and greeted him across the table with a wave of the hand. "Dear Ser Gigi," he said, "do not distress yourself--we understand each other." He remarked now for the first time that the worthy man's eyes were glimmering moistly, and that he only continued eating in order to prevent his joyous embarrassment being marked.
"He is a singer," whispered Bianchi to his companion; "he keeps to the churches, and sings on festal days. They wanted to give him the tonsure, because he has some education and is decent-looking, but it did not quite suit him. They are all free men, as many as sit here. Come, my friend Gigi will make room for us near himself."
Meanwhile, the boy brushed down the table with a by no means clean napkin, and placed a large open flask before them. Theodore seated himself, whilst Bianchi had to shake hands and answer questions about the room. A reeking brass lamp flared with its thin, redly-burning wicks over the table. It took Theodore some time to become accustomed to the atmosphere of tobacco-smoke and rancid oil, but he soon forgot all, at the sight of a striking couple, who sat at the table directly opposite to him. One was a young girl in the costume of Albano--the red jacket closed neatly round the just ripening bosom, above it was folded the lace collar, and large silver pins held the flat white handkerchief, which did not conceal the shape of her head, firmly on her hair. Her face was in the fresh bloom of youth, beauty, and health--three virtues which love to be kept together in such a situation. Only the expression of the mouth had a shy softness and yieldingness about it, almost irresolute and sorrowful, and the large eyelids so entirely covered the eyes that only a narrow dark gleaming line betrayed that they slept not.
She ate from the plate before her, slowly and indifferently, and drank but little wine, whilst her brown cheeks glowed ever with the same fire.
Beside her sat an old woman in a Roman costume, blinking vivaciously about her, but silent, and busied with her wine and food, which she enjoyed greedily. They had nothing whatever in common, and yet seemed to belong to each other.
When Bianchi at last came to take his seat, and had emptied his first glass, he started back with an almost comic expression of astonishment, and cried, "Madonna Santa! what beauty! How did you come by such a neighbour, Ser Gigi? A niece of yours? or only a forgotten child, that appeared before your eyes by chance? Blessed be her mother."
"Chè, Chè!"' said the singer, seriously. "I wish you were right. Ask her yourself where she comes from. The sweet little mouth would not bestow a word upon me."
Bianchi cast a keen glance on the old woman, and growled to himself, "So, so, I fancy we understand each other." The old woman remarked it, and said, as she emptied the rest of the bottle into her glass,
"A bashful thing, gentlemen! a poor shy orphan; lived with the wicked people up in the mountains when I found her, and took pity on the young creature. How easily one is lost, when one gets into wrong hands. I brought her with me to Rome, for the Virgin's sake, and keep her here as well as a poor old woman can, in all honour and virtue--poor thing. Look up, Caterina, when the gentlemen speak to you."
The girl obeyed, and let her large calm eyes rest for a moment on Bianchi, and let them sink again almost immediately. The artist half-raised himself from his seat and bent over towards her.
"You are called Caterina?"
"Yes," she answered, in a deep but soft voice.
"How old are you?"----"Eighteen years."
"You have left a lover behind in Albano, or perhaps more than one?"
She shook her head.
"How you talk!" interrupted the old woman, hastily. "'Tis a good girl, I tell you, and as innocent as the Madonna. Should I have got so fond of her else?"
"Well, well! If I believe it, I believe her face, and not yours, mother. Can she dance? The gentleman here is a stranger, and I should like him to learn what a real salterello is like."
Theodore said a few words--"that it would be a great favour." The old woman beckoned to the hostess; Caterina arose silently. Soon the nearest tables were pushed aside, to leave a small space clear, and Lalla brought the tambourine. Whilst the old woman seated herself in a corner with it, the other guests crowded round one after the other, and the boy who had been serving them prepared himself for his part in the dance, Bianchi whispered in his friend's ear: "Look at that form, and the delicacy of the hands and feet, and how she stands there, a perfect figure! such as I never saw before--blameless even to the darling little ears--and as yet hardly knowing herself! To be obliged to let Checo dance with her! I understood it pretty well once. But now, I conjure you, let your eyes do their best. A miracle will be performed."
Theodore needed not the prompting. He leaned against a table, and turned not his eyes from Caterina. At the first vehement notes of the tambourine the girl began the dance; Lalla stood near he old woman and clattered the castanets. Señor Luigi, the singer, sat immovable behind his table, and began to hum an air with the first notes. Soon he sang the song and the words cheerily out. The words, which Theodore could not understand, the feverish restlessness of the monotoned instruments, and above all, the strange witchery of the dancing girl, by degrees so confused his ideas, that he felt as if he had been gazing into a new and unknown world. All that he had known, loved, possessed, retreated into a vacuous gloom, which deprived it of all colouring; forms, thoughts, wishes, and hopes whirled through his soul to the dull notes of the tambourine, as to a great review. He cast them all aside. It was as though a voice called within him, "They are all worthless and dead. Here alone is life and bliss."
When the dance ceased he awoke from his dream, and looked wildly around. He seized his hat. "Are you going? Already? Now?" asked Bianchi, astonished. "I see that you don't enjoy yourself amongst my friends here."
"You mistake me," answered Theodore, looking gloomily before him. "How gladly would I remain. How gladly--but I have given a promise. I must pay a visit--we shall see each other to-morrow, Bianchi."
"Oh!" murmured Bianchi. "Pity, pity! how you will amuse yourselves, you and the others! Pity, pity!"
He laughed sharply and bitterly as Theodore turned away, and yet he did not seem sorry at his going.
On getting into the open air, the young man stood long opposite the fountain, and drew into his confused soul the breath of the water, and the living rushing of its fall. The moon lighted up the head and part of the chest of the water god, below the drops only glanced out of the darkness. He descended the steps, and drank as if to wash away the intoxication of his soul, and then seated himself upon the edge of the bason. He remembered the old saying, that whoever drank of this fountain would lose his home-longing for Rome; and then he fell into painful reveries. When the noise of the tambourine reached his ear anew from the osteria, he started up in terror, with difficulty he forced himself to pass the door, and to follow one of the neighbouring streets. When in the distance, the deadened sound again reached him, he paused for a moment and seemed to wrestle with himself; then he went resolutely farther down into the town to Mary's house.