CHAPTER VIII
Egidio Valentini was a young man of about thirty, a Roman born, full of the civic pride that even now stirs the bosom of those who can say: "Civis Romanus sum"—flaunting the superiority conferred on her children by the Eternal City, in the face of less fortunate mortals.
Educated by the Jesuit Fathers, spoiled by an indulgent family, he knew no law but his own pleasure, no restraint but that imposed by policy or incontrovertible circumstance. Endowed with a high degree of cleverness, and with a dominant personality, he was one who would undoubtedly mould his surroundings. Of medium stature with small hands and feet, muscular and well proportioned, he yet lacked the careless grace characteristic of his countrymen. His head, well set on broad shoulders had a nobility of modelling about the forehead curiously belied by the sensual mouth and obstinate chin. His eyes were dark and of a peculiar brilliance, shaded by beetling black brows which almost met at the base of his well shaped nose—slightly twisted to the right, however. This slight crookedness of the nose gave to his face, in certain aspects, an expression of low cunning. In spite of these defects, his appearance was distinctly pleasing, and if, to the close observer, faults of character corresponding to those of feature might be apparent, the blunt bonhomie of his manner, and its too insistent sincerity conveyed to most people the impression of sturdy honesty, while his carefully timed and placed liberality gave him the reputation of open-handed generosity. He never gave or lent where the transaction would not redound to his credit or interest, but the public could not know that. He lived for the house tops and whatever his own closet may have seen of him, there was none to repeat.
People said of him: "His bark is worse than his bite," and showed him an indulgence not always accorded to brusquerie.
He had come to Florence a few months previously, his family having lost the greater part of a fortune in unsuccessful speculations. Cast on his own resources, he turned to account the decided artistic talent he possessed, and even in so short a time had succeeded in winning recognition as one of the foremost rising young artists of the time. This was not accomplished without hard work, but a love of work, and especially of his chosen profession, with a tenacity of purpose rarely equalled, were among Egidio's best qualities. One would have thought that the congenial occupation and the promise of success would have brought contentment, but Valentini never ceased to lament the change in his fortunes and his lost inheritance, which growing daily in his imagination soon increased from the modest competency it had been, to a princely fortune. He never tired of repeating the story.
"My friends, it was terrible! In one day, from being a prince to become a beggar!"
Let it be said, however, that his pride kept him from asking the assistance of any man, and if he rose, it was by his own unaided effort. It was this quality of independence that, as much as anything, had drawn to him the friendship of Enrico Ferrati. They had been at school together as boys, but for years their lives had laid apart. Ferrati, on taking his degree, had settled in Florence, where a flourishing practice rewarded his effort, and it was to Florence that Egidio also betook himself, his pride rebelling against life in Rome in the changed conditions of his fortunes. Ferrati at once seized the opportunity of renewing the old intimacy and his sympathy and respect were as balm to the wounds of Valentini. Ferrati, on his part, attributed to the severe disappointment undergone, the changes he could not fail to remark in his friend, though indeed in his company Valentini was at his best; the devoted friendship of Ferrati called out all that was best in his nature, and Enrico never saw the depths underlying the surface manner. It would, perhaps, be better to say that in the company of Ferrati, the underlying meannesses vanished; the affection Valentini had for him was the one pure, disinterested love of his selfish nature.
Valentini heard with slight enthusiasm Ferrati's plan of a course of drawing lessons to two young Norwegian girls.
"Carissimo," he said, "pot-hooks are not in my line." He was sitting with Ferrati, over a glass of wine at the end of their dinner in a modest trattoria.
"I think you will teach them more than pot-hooks, Egidio; one of them, at least could be taught to see and appreciate, besides you must keep the pot boiling, you know."