gardens and the sun-bathed Campagna I could sometimes forget the
nightmare that haunted me. This was not often possible, unless I was in
the company of cheerful companions, and I grew to dread the hour when I
was to return to the studio after an excursion into the country among
the soothing signs of returning summer. To shut the clanging door of the
studio was to place an impenetrable barrier between me and the outside
world; and the loneliness of that interior seemed to be only intensified
by the presence of my companion, who was apparently as much depressed in
spirits as myself.
We made various attempts at the entertainment of friends, but they all
lacked that element of spontaneous fun which makes such occasions
successful, and we soon gave it up. On pleasant days we threw open the
windows on the street to let in the warm air and sunshine, but this did
not seem to drive away the musty odors of the interior. We were much too
high up to feel any neighborly proximity to the people on the other
side of the street. The chimney-pots and irregular roofs below and
beyond were not very cheerful objects in the view; and the landlady,
who, as far as we knew, was the only other occupant of the upper story,
did not give us a great sense of companionship. Never once did I enter
the studio without feeling the same curious sensation of alternate warm
and cool strata of air. Never for a quarter of an hour did I succeed in
reading a book or a newspaper, however interesting it might be. We
frequently had two models at a time, and both my friend and myself made
several beginnings of pictures, but neither of us carried the work very
far.
On one occasion a significant remark was made by a lady friend who came
to call. She will undoubtedly remember now when she reads these lines
that she said, on leaving the studio: “This is a curiously draughty
place. I feel as if it had been blowing hot and cold on me all the time
I have been here, and yet you have no windows open.”
At another time my comrade burst out as I was going away one evening
about eleven o’clock to a reception at one of the palaces: “I wish you
wouldn’t go in for society so much. I can’t go to the café; all the
fellows go home about this time of the evening. I don’t like to stay
here in this dismal hole, all cooped up by myself. I can’t read, I can’t
sleep, and I can’t think.”
It occurred to me that it was a little queer for him to object to being
left alone, unless he, like myself, had some disagreeable experiences
there, and I remembered that he had usually gone out when I had, and was
seldom, if ever, alone in the studio when I returned. His tone was so
peevish and impatient that I thought discussion was injudicious, and
simply replied, “Oh, you’re bilious; I’ll be home early,” and went away.
I have often thought since that it was the one occasion when I could
have easily broached the subject of my mental trouble, and I have always
regretted I did not do so.
Matters were brought to a climax in this way: My friend was summoned to
America by telegraph a little more than two months after we took the
studio, and left me at a day’s notice. The amount and kind of moral
courage I had to summon up before I could go home alone the first
evening after my comrade left me can only be appreciated by those who
have undergone some similar torture. It was not like the bracing up a
man goes through when he has to face some imminent known danger, but was
of a more subtle and complex kind. “There is nothing to fear,” I kept
saying to myself, and yet I could not shake off a nameless dread. “You
are in your right mind and have all your senses,” I continually argued,
“for you see and hear and reason clearly enough. It is a brief
hallucination, and you can conquer the mental weakness which causes it
by persistent strength of will. If it be a simulacrum, you, as a
practical man, with good physical health and sound enough reasoning
powers, ought to investigate it to the best of your ability.” In this
way I endeavored to nerve myself up, and went home late, as usual. The
regular incident of the night occurred. I felt keenly the loss of my
friend’s companionship, and suffered accordingly, but in the morning I
was no nearer to the solution of the mystery than I was before.
For five weary, torturing nights did I go up to that room alone, and,
with no sound of human proximity to cheer me or to break the wretched
feeling of utter solitude, I endured the same experience. At last I
could bear it no longer, and determined to have a change of air and
surroundings. I hastily packed a travelling-bag and my color-box,
leaving all my extra clothes in the wardrobes and the bureau drawers,
told the landlady I should return in a week or two, and paid her for the
remainder of the time in advance. The last thing I did was to take my
travelling-cap, which hung near the head of my bed. A break in the
wall-paper showed that there was a small door here. Pulling the knob
which had held my cap, the door was readily opened, and disclosed a
small niche in the wall. Leaning against the back of the niche was a
small crucifix with a rude figure of Christ, and suspended from the
neck of the image by a small cord was a triangular object covered with
faded cloth. While I was examining with some interest the hiding-place
of these relics, the landlady entered.
“What are these?” I asked.
“Oh, signore!” she said, half sobbing as she spoke. “These are relics of
my poor husband. He was an artist like yourself, signore. He was--he
was--ill, very ill--and in mind as well as body, signore. May the
Blessed Virgin rest his soul! He hated the crucifix, he hated the
scapular, he hated the priests. Signore, he--he died without the
sacrament, and cursed the holy water. I have never dared to touch those
relics, signore. But he was a good man, and the best of husbands;” and
she buried her face in her hands.
I took the first train for Naples, and have never been in Rome since.
* * * * *
Three years later I was making an afternoon call in Boston, and met for
the first time since we parted in Rome the friend who had occupied the
studio with me there.
When our greetings were over I asked, without any preliminary remark or
explanation:
“Did you ever notice anything peculiar about that studio in Rome?”
“If you hadn’t asked me that question,” he replied, “I should have put a
similar one to you. I remember it as the most dismal and oppressive
place I ever was in. I had a constant presentiment that something
terrible was going to happen there. The air in the studio was often cold
and warm in streaks. I couldn’t read, write, or paint without feeling
that some one was looking over my shoulder. Every night I waked up
towards morning and lay awake for some time, and often thought of
speaking to find out whether you were awake too; for it seemed as if you
must be, from your breathing. I couldn’t bear to stay alone there either
in the daytime or at night, and even now I would rather live in the
catacombs than set my easel up in that studio again. Now, what made you
ask me about it?”
“Because I have never felt quite certain that I was in my right mind
during the season we spent in Rome, and the memory of that studio has
always haunted me like a horrid dream,” I replied. “Did you never have
any hallucinations or nightmares there?”
“No,” he said, “unless you call the whole thing a nightmare.”
“Why didn’t you say something to me about it at the time?” I asked.
“Why didn’t you say something, if you felt as you say you did?” was his
reply.
YATIL
While in Paris, in the spring of 1878, I witnessed an accident in a
circus, which for a time made me renounce all athletic exhibitions. Six
horses were stationed side by side in the ring before a springboard, and
the whole company of gymnasts ran and turned somersaults over the
horses, alighting on a mattress spread on the ground. The agility of one
finely developed young fellow excited great applause every time he made
the leap. He would shoot forward in the air like a javelin, and in his
flight curl up and turn over directly above the mattress, dropping on
his feet as lightly as a bird. This play went on for some minutes, and
at each round of applause the favorite seemed to execute his leap with
increased skill and grace. Finally, he was seen to gather himself a
little farther in the background than usual, evidently to prepare for a
better start. The instant his turn came, he shot out of the crowd of
attendants and launched himself into the air with tremendous momentum.
Almost quicker than the eye could follow him, he had turned and was
dropping to the ground, his arms held above his head, which hung
slightly forward, and his legs stretched to meet the shock of the
elastic mattress.
But this time he had jumped an inch too far. His feet struck just on the
edge of the mattress, and he was thrown violently forward, doubling up
on the ground with a dull thump, which was heard all over the immense
auditorium. He remained a second or two motionless, then sprang to his
feet, and as quickly sank to the ground again. The ring attendants and
two or three gymnasts rushed to him and took him up. The clown, in
evening dress, personating the mock ring-master, the conventional
spotted merryman, and a stalwart gymnast in buff fleshings, bore the
drooping form of the favorite in their arms, and, followed by the
by-standers, who offered ineffectual assistance, carried the wounded man
across the ring and through the draped arch under the music gallery.
Under any other circumstances the group would have excited a laugh, for
the audience was in that condition of almost hysterical excitement when
only the least effort of a clown is necessary to cause a wave of
laughter. But the moment the wounded man was lifted from the ground, the
whole strong light from the brilliant chandelier struck full on his
right leg dangling from the knee, with the foot hanging limp and turned
inward. A deep murmur of sympathy swelled and rolled around the crowded
amphitheatre.
I left the circus, and hundreds of others did the same. A dozen of us
called at the box-office to ask about the victim of the accident. He was
advertised as “The Great Polish Champion Bare-back Rider and Aerial
Gymnast.” We found that he was really a native of the East, whether Pole
or Russian the ticket-seller did not know. His real name was Nagy, and
he had been engaged only recently, having returned a few months before
from a professional tour in North America. He was supposed to have
money, for he commanded a good salary, and was sober and faithful. The
accident, it was said, would probably disable him for a few weeks only,
and then he would resume his engagement.
The next day an account of the accident was in the newspapers, and
twenty-four hours later all Paris had forgotten about it. For some
reason or other I frequently thought of the injured man, and had an
occasional impulse to go and inquire after him; but I never went. It
seemed to me that I had seen his face before, when or where I tried in
vain to recall. It was not an impressive face, but I could call it up at
any moment as distinct to my mind’s eye as a photograph to my physical
vision. Whenever I thought of him, a dim, very dim memory would flit
through my mind, which I could never seize and fix.
Two months later, I was walking up the Rue Richelieu, when some one,
close beside me and a little behind, asked me in Hungarian if I was a
Magyar. I turned quickly to answer no, surprised at being thus
addressed, and beheld the disabled circus-rider. The feeling that I had
met him before came upon me even stronger than at the time of the
accident, and my puzzled expression was evidently construed by him into
vexation at being spoken to by a stranger. He began to apologize for
stopping me, and was moving away, when I asked him about the accident,
remarking that I was present on the evening of his misfortune. My next
question, put in order to detain him, was:
“Why did you ask if I was a Hungarian?”
“Because you wear a Hungarian hat,” was the reply.
This was true. I happened to have on a little, round, soft felt hat,
which I had purchased in Buda-Pesth.
“Well, but what if I were Hungarian?”
“Nothing; only I was lonely and wanted company, and you looked as if I
had seen you somewhere before. You are an artist, are you not?”
I said I was, and asked him how he guessed it.
“I can’t explain how it is,” he said, “but I always knew them. Are you
doing anything?”
“No,” I replied.
“Perhaps I may get you something to do,” he suggested. “What is your
line?”
“Figures,” I answered, unable to divine how he thought he could assist
me.
This reply seemed to puzzle him a little, and he continued:
“Do you ride or do the trapeze?”
It was my turn now to look dazed, and it might easily have been
gathered, from my expression, that I was not flattered at being taken
for a sawdust artist. However, as he apparently did not notice any
change in my face, I explained without further remark that I was a
painter. The explanation did not seem to disturb him any: he was
evidently acquainted with the profession, and looked upon it as kindred
to his own.
As we walked along through the great open quadrangle of the Tuileries, I
had an opportunity of studying his general appearance. He was neatly
dressed, and, though pale, was apparently in good health.
Notwithstanding a painful limp, his carriage was erect and his movements
denoted great physical strength. On the bridge over the Seine we paused
for a moment and leaned on the parapet, and thus, for the first time,
stood nearly face to face. He looked earnestly at me a moment without
speaking, and then, shouting “_Torino_” so loudly and earnestly as to
attract the gaze of all the passers, he seized me by the hand, and
continued to shake it and repeat “_Torino_” over and over again.
This word cleared up my befogged memory like magic. There was no longer
any mystery about the man before me. The impulse which now drew us
together was only the unconscious souvenir of an early acquaintance, for
we had met before. With the vision of the Italian city, which came
distinctly to my eyes at that moment, came also to my mind every detail
of an incident which had long since passed entirely from my thoughts.
* * * * *
It was during the Turin carnival in 1875 that I happened to stop over
for a day and a night, on my way down from Paris to Venice. The festival
was uncommonly dreary, for the air was chilly, the sky gray and gloomy,
and there was a total lack of spontaneity in the popular spirit. The
gaudy decorations of the Piazza, and the Corso, the numberless shows and
booths, and the brilliant costumes, could not make it appear a season of
jollity and mirth, for the note of discord in the hearts of the people
was much too strong. King Carnival’s might was on the wane, and neither
the influence of the Church nor the encouragement of the State was able
to bolster up the superannuated monarch. There was no communicativeness
in even what little fun there was going, and the day was a long and a
tedious one. As I was strolling around in rather a melancholy mood, just
at the close of the cavalcade, I saw the flaming posters of a circus,
and knew my day was saved, for I had a great fondness for the ring. An
hour later I was seated in the cheerfully lighted amphitheatre, and the
old performance of the trained stallions was going on as I had seen it a
hundred times before. At last, the “Celebrated Cypriot Brothers, the
Universal Bare-back Riders,” came tripping gracefully into the ring,
sprang lightly upon two black horses, and were off around the narrow
circle like the wind, now together, now apart, performing all the while
marvellous feats of strength and skill. It required no study to discover
that there was no relationship between the two performers. One of them
was a heavy, gross, dark-skinned man, with the careless bearing of one
who had been nursed in a circus. The other was a small, fair-haired
youth of nineteen or twenty years, with limbs as straight and as shapely
as the Narcissus, and with joints like the wiry-limbed fauns. His head
was round, and his face of a type which would never be called beautiful,
although it was strong in feature and attractive in expression. His eyes
were small and twinkling, his eyebrows heavy, and his mouth had a
peculiar proud curl in it which was never disturbed by the tame smile of
the practised performer. He was evidently a foreigner. He went through
his acts with wonderful readiness and with slight effort, and, while
apparently enjoying keenly the exhilaration of applause, he showed no
trace of the _blasé_ bearing of the old stager. In nearly every act that
followed he took a prominent part. On the trapeze, somersaulting over
horses placed side by side, grouping with his so-called brother and a
small lad, he did his full share of the work, and, when the programme
was ended, he came among the audience to sell photographs while the
lottery was being drawn.
As usual during the carnival, there was a lottery arranged by the
manager of the circus, and every ticket had a number which entitled the
holder to a chance in the prizes. When the young gymnast came in turn
to me, radiant in his salmon fleshings and blue trunks, with slippers
and bows to match, I could not help asking him if he was an Italian.
“No, signore, Magyar!” he replied, and I shortly found that his
knowledge of Italian was limited to a dozen words. I occupied him by
selecting some photographs, and, much to his surprise, spoke to him in
his native tongue. When he learned I had been in Hungary, he was greatly
pleased, and the impatience of other customers for the photographs was
the only thing that prevented him from becoming communicative
immediately. As he left me I slipped into his hand my lottery-ticket,
with the remark that I never had any luck, and hoped he would.
The numbers were, meanwhile, rapidly drawn, the prizes being arranged in
the order of their value, each ticket taken from the hat denoting a
prize, until all were distributed. “Number twenty-eight--a pair of
elegant vases!” “Number sixteen--three bottles of vermouth!” “Number one
hundred and eighty-four--candlesticks and two bottles of vermouth!”
“Number four hundred and ten--three bottles of vermouth and a set of
jewelry!” “Number three hundred and nineteen--five bottles of vermouth!”
and so on, with more bottles of vermouth than anything else. Indeed,
each prize had to be floated on a few litres of the Turin specialty, and
I began to think that perhaps it would have been better, after all, not
to have given my circus friend the ticket if he were to draw drink with
it.
Many prizes were called out, and at last only two numbers remained. The
excitement was now intense, and it did not diminish when the conductor
of the lottery announced that the last two numbers would draw the two
great prizes of the evening, namely: An order on a Turin tailor for a
suit of clothes, and an order on a jeweller for a gold watch and chain.
The first of these two final numbers was taken out of the hat.
“Number twenty-five--order for a suit of clothes!” was the announcement.
Twenty-five had been the number of my ticket. I did not hear the last
number drawn, for the Hungarian was in front of my seat trying to press
the order on me, and protesting against appropriating my good-luck. I
wrote my name on the programme for him, with the simple address, U. S.
A., persuaded him to accept the windfall, and went home. The next
morning I left town.
On the occasion of our mutual recognition in Paris, the circus-rider
began to relate, as soon as the first flush of his surprise was over,
the story of his life since the incident in Turin. He had been to New
York and Boston, and all the large sea-coast towns; to Chicago, St.
Louis, and even to San Francisco; always with a circus company. Whenever
he had had an opportunity in the United States, he had asked for news of
me.
“The United States is so large!” he said, with a sigh. “Every one told
me that, when I showed the Turin programme with your name on it.”
The reason why he had kept the programme and tried to find me in
America was because the lottery-ticket had been the direct means of his
emigration, and, in fact, the first piece of good-fortune that had
befallen him since he left his native town. When he joined the circus he
was an apprentice, and, besides a certain number of hours of gymnastic
practice daily and service in the ring both afternoon and evening, he
had half a dozen horses to care for, his part of the tent to pack up and
load, and the team to drive to the next stopping-place. For sixteen, and
often eighteen hours of hard work, he received only his food and his
performing clothes. When he was counted as one of the troupe his duties
were lightened, but he got only enough money to pay his way with
difficulty. Without a _lira_ ahead, and, with no clothes but his rough
working suit and his performing costume, he could not hope to escape
from this sort of bondage. The luck of number twenty-five had put him on
his feet.
“All Hungarians worship America,” he said, “and when I saw that you were
an American, I knew that my good-fortune had begun in earnest. Of
course, I believed America to be the land of plenty, and there could
have been no stronger proof of this than the generosity with which you,
the first American I had ever seen, gave me, a perfect stranger, such a
valuable prize. When I remembered the number of the ticket and the
letter in the alphabet, Y, to which this number corresponds, I was dazed
at the significance of the omen, and resolved at once to seek my fortune
in the United States. I sold the order on the tailor for money enough to
buy a suit of ready-made clothes and pay my fare to Genoa. From this
port I worked my passage to Gibraltar, and thence, after performing a
few weeks in a small English circus, I went to New York in a
fruit-vessel. As long as I was in America everything prospered with me.
I made a great deal of money, and spent a great deal. After a couple of
years I went to London with a company, and there lost my pay and my
position by the failure of the manager. In England my good-luck all
left me. Circus people are too plenty there; everybody is an artist. I
could scarcely get anything to do in my line, so I drifted over to
Paris.”
We prolonged our stroll for an hour, for, although I did not anticipate
any pleasure or profit from continuing the acquaintance, there was yet a
certain attraction in his simplicity of manner and in his naïve faith in
the value of my influence on his fortunes. Before we parted he expressed
again his ability to get me something to do, but I did not credit his
statement enough to correct the impression that I was in need of
employment. At his earnest solicitation I gave him my address,
concealing, as well as I could, my reluctance to encourage an
acquaintance which would doubtless prove a burden to me.
One day passed, and two, and, on the third morning, the porter showed
him to my room.
“I have found you work!” he cried, in the first breath.
Sure enough, he had been to a Polish acquaintance who knew a
countryman, a copyist in the Louvre. This copyist had a superabundance
of orders, and was glad to get some one to help him finish them in
haste. My gymnast was so much elated over his success at finding
occupation for me that I hadn’t the heart to tell him that I was at
leisure only while hunting a studio. I therefore promised to go with him
to the Louvre some day, but I always found an excuse for not going.