The morning after these disturbing events an exciting stir delighted
the inhabitants of the Via Tresette, the street of the cow. The owner
of the dairy had in the course of years become the proprietor of the
old house which sheltered his trade; and, having prospered of late,
he had built on the roof a new apartment, containing four small rooms
and a large airy studio, which he hoped to let to some painter. His
neighbors had shaken their heads over this bold speculation, but it
seemed that his optimism was justified, for here, at the small door
beside the shop, stood a handcart loaded with stiff-legged easels,
canvases tied together in a red tablecloth, a chair similarly protected
by a green one, the disjointed limbs of an iron bedstead, cooking
utensils, and various odds and ends, all of which proved incontestably
that a tenant had been found for the appartamentino on the roof.
Beside the cart, helping the perspiring facchino to unload the things,
stood a young man of cheerful countenance and remarkably dapper
costume. Adjuring the porter to move delicately, he unearthed a
life-sized mummy-like object swathed in a drab sheet, which he hoisted
tenderly on the man's back. Then, turning to the landlord, who stood
by, beaming on this visible proof of his own good luck, he begged him,
in language more elegant than usually echoed through that obscure
thoroughfare, to favor him by keeping an eye on the other belongings
while he accompanied the bearer of this particular treasure up the
stairs.
No sooner had he disappeared than an excited group gathered round the
owner of the premises to find out all about him. What was his name? Had
he really taken the new room? What rent was he going to pay? Even Sora
Rosa, the sybil among the cabbages opposite, raised her head and cocked
an ear to catch the answer.
Why yes, the gentleman had taken the studio apartment for three years,
paying half-a-year's rent in advance. (The landlord in the just pride
of his heart mentioned precisely double the sum he had asked and
received.) The signorino's name was Goffi, Rinaldo Goffi, and he was an
artist--but distintissimo. Signor Freschi, the picture dealer in Via
Condotti, bought everything he painted, and for sums!
At this juncture the distinguished artist came out from the doorway
and, quite unembarrassed by his growing audience, gathered up more of
his properties--a paint box under each arm, a saucepan in one hand and
a wicker cage tied up in a yellow handkerchief in the other, and, thus
loaded, ducked back into the Cimmerian darkness of the passage. The
handcart was now empty, the porter paid, with a joke and a "bicchiere"
thrown in, and Signor Goffi, rather out of breath, ascended the four
flights of stairs and took possession of his new domain.
He was a Roman of the Romans, although not born within the walls of
the city. His father, a lawyer of good old provincial stock, had risen
to be mayor of his native town, Orbetello, and, being also the owner of
rich vine lands, was a man of solid position and comfortable fortune.
His eldest son was following in his father's steps, and would inherit
the fat Orbetello property; the second was a rising engineer; and the
third, Rinaldo, having early shown quick intelligence and some artistic
talent, had been sent to Rome for his education, with the understanding
that if he satisfactorily completed his studies at the university he
should be permitted to devote himself to the career of his choice in
the very cradle of Art itself.
The parental allowance, a very modest one, was to be continued until
he could earn his own living; but having inherited from a maternal
relative a tiny property near Rome, he, as in duty bound, renounced the
allowance in order that his sisters' doweries might be increased, and
lived as Romans so well know how to live, decorously and comfortably,
on a very small income. The "vigna" outside Porta San Giovanni
was cultivated by peasants, whose family had tenanted it for some
generations, on the mezzadria system, an equal division of profits with
the owner. As hardly any taxes were levied in the Papal States, and no
duty assessed on provisions passing the city gates, the full value of
ownership and labor was reaped from the land, and the half-and-half
arrangement, while equally distributing the losses of lean years,
insured to both landlord and tenant the entire benefit of fat ones.
The lean years had been few in the garden vineyard outside the Lateran
Gate; the vines flowered into heady fragrance in the divine Roman
spring behind their tall hedges of canes and roses, and bore their
splendid bunches nobly when the late summer rains came to swell, nearly
to bursting, the tightly clustered fruit baked black on the brown stems
whence every leaf had been stripped in August to let the sun and air do
their magic work. Then came the crown of the year, the October vintage,
when every little winepress poured its purple froth from under the
bare feet of the treaders into the seething vat below; when the very
air was wine, from Lombardy to Messina, and each Sunday of the glowing
month brought the population of the city, in gay attire, out to eat and
drink, to laugh and dance and make music, from dawn to dark, in the
garden of the gods, the vinelands of Romagna.
Rinaldo went with the rest, inviting a chosen party of fellow-students
to the vigna, where the padroncino was always delightedly welcomed and
the best the house could afford brought out for him and his friends.
The meal was served in the open air, by the fountain, under the brown
thatch woven in between the branches of the four cypress-trees as a
shelter from the sun; old songs and young laughter accompanied the
repast; the new wine, cloudy and sweet still and of terrific headiness,
was tasted, and healths drunk in the safer product of past years.
Then a game of bowls was played, a substantial present made to the
"vignarolo," and, in the cool of the evening, the "raggazzi" climbed,
six at a time, into the small open carriage hired for the occasion,
and were borne back to the town. The jolly driver, who had had his
share of the day's good things, cracked his beribboned whip high over
the heads of the little black horses, who, with roses on their ears
and bows on their tails, frisked gaily along in a cloud of dust,
running races with dozens of other vehicles full of noisy, happy people
twanging guitars and shaking tamborines, very few of them at all the
worse for the innocent orgy. At last came the scamper for the Lateran
Gate before Ave Maria rang and it should be closed for the night, and
the usually severe guardians only smiled at the merry scramble and
closed the huge portals, regretfully when the last carrozzella had
romped safely through.
Such holidays were the more enjoyed by Rinaldo because they were rare.
In general he led a life as orderly and studious as that of Carlo
Bianchi himself; but it was illuminated with hope for the future, with
pleasure in the present in spite of the slow labor necessary, in spite
of the many discouragements to be lived down before he could attain
even modest proficiency in his kindly art. His chief relaxation in the
summer time was provided by Father Tiber. The "Cannottieri" club had
not been organized in those early days, but its forerunner, a river
boating society, drew the young men together in the warm afternoons and
gave them many a cool swim and invigorating hour of rowing on the full
yellow tide. Rinaldo was a favorite with his compeers, but he never
allowed their importunities to interfere with the great business of his
life, success in his reasonable aims. He had gone through every step
of the art student's course with sturdy conscientiousness, trusting
nothing to inspiration, avoiding what he recognized as impressionism
(the word itself had not been coined) as he avoided bad women and
sour wine. He never imagined himself a genius; he was content to have
talent and to cultivate it faithfully. Month after month he copied
in the galleries, reverently tracing the perceptive lines of great
masterpieces on his canvas and his memory. Constant work in the Life
School filled the evening hours when the days were short, and humble
acceptance of the master's sharp criticisms corrected any slightest
tendency to conceit. With native shrewdness he had understood that
there was always a market for good, unostentatious work, and he was not
too proud to take commissions for copies when he could not sell his
own really charming little pictures. For Rinaldo had an end in view,
and he worked steadily towards it. Loneliness did not appeal to his
cheerful nature; he meant to find a pretty, sweet-tempered wife as soon
as he could support her, and to have a home as strongly foundationed as
the one in Orbetello, of which he retained admiring and affectionate
memories.
Having no fortune beyond the small income derived from the vigna, he
could not expect to marry a girl with much of a dowry; in such matters
a certain similarity of circumstances was the accepted rule. So he
put by all that it was possible for him to save, resolved to marry
while young and in love with life, and equally resolved to feel no
pinch of poverty afterwards. His attitude was one not at all uncommon
among his fellow-students and contemporaries; nothing could have been
further from the happy-go-lucky Bohemianism of the foreign artistic
coteries, Scandinavian, German, Anglo-Saxon, which swarmed in Rome
at that time. There is but one calling which makes Bohemians of the
sober-going yet light-hearted children of Latium, the musical one.
What would you have? When a man is born with a voice that can sing the
stars down from heaven and the angels from paradise, is it not to be
expected that he should also be born drunk with celestial wine? When
he can compose operas whose airs, after the first hearing, are sung in
every alley of the city--as happened the morning after the production
of the _Trovatore_--no one can demand that he should understand the
intricacies of account books. It is the world's business to see to the
daily wants of its Orpheuses and Apollos--and the world, as a rule,
attends to the obligation nobly.
When Rinaldo took possession of his new studio he felt that he was
marking an important point on the road of his ambitions. Hitherto he
had shared the workshop of a friend, in the warren of studios which
climb from the Via Babuino to the lower terraces of the Pincian Hill.
Now, having sold some small pictures, and having secured through
the dealer an order from a rich foreigner for a large one, he felt
justified in assuming the responsibilities of quiet, airy quarters
where he could work without interruptions. As he sat among his queer
belongings--scattered over the floor in wild disorder--an unreasoning
joy took possession of him, a certainty that he had found more in this
new home than clean, bright rooms and a superb north light. He rose
and walked about, exploring his new domain, and lingering on the little
terrace to breathe in the breeze which, rioting over from the coast,
twenty miles away, seemed to disdain ever to sink into the hot streets
so far below.
His attention was called to material things by the protests of
the inhabitant of the wicker cage, still wrapped in the yellow
handkerchief. He took it up gently and in a moment liberated a splendid
gray and purple pigeon, which hopped on his shoulder and began to preen
its ruffled feathers with a deeply injured air. "My poor Themistocles,"
Rinaldo apologized, "I had forgotten all about you. And your grain is
spilt and your cup is empty." Gravely he attended to the creature's
wants, while it fluttered about, taking in all the possibilities of
the place. Themistocles was accused by Rinaldo's friends of being a
most uncanny bird, watching their actions with a sarcastic eye and
understanding many things which did not come within his province at
all. Though he was allowed to roam at will over the housetops he always
returned to his master in the evening and generally slept on the head
of the lay figure, the carefully swathed treasure which had so excited
the curiosity of the denizens of the street of the cow.
Rinaldo had become so accustomed to this quaint feathered companion
that he would have felt lonely without him; indeed Themistocles had
been the recipient of many a confidence and ambition which his master
would have betrayed to no articulate listener. One must talk to
something about the things nearest one's heart, and it was fine to
have a confidant who never objected or contradicted.
In an hour the properties were all in place. The little platform was
set in the best light, and the ancient chair, topped with gilt cherubs
and covered with ragged crimson velvet, was placed on it at the usual
angle. How many cardinals, fair ladies, and swaggering bravos had sat
in that chair during the last few years! Of each and all the corporeal
body was supplied by the trusty lay figure, which, now liberated from
its cerecloth, disclosed the amputation of one leg below the knee, the
dislocation of the other, incurable paralysis of the fingers; a pink
but blistered countenance, a nose injured by contact with a mahlstick
hurled at it by Rinaldo's former studio companion; vacuous blue eyes
and a set smile completed the model's attractions, and these were
crowned by a damaged wig of a sickly yellow hue, much impoverished
by the attentions of Themistocles, who was in the habit of tearing
out locks of hair when playing at building a nest in the angle of the
least-used easel. In a few minutes, however, the warworn veteran of
the studio was sitting in the gilt chair, cleverly robed in the red
tablecloth and impersonating a cardinal in full canonicals; a large
canvas was brought out, the dear, bedaubed paint boxes opened, the
favorite palette loaded with its daily rainbow of colors--and behold
Rinaldo, forgetful of everything else, utterly happy, absorbed in his
immortal work for the rich foreigner.
That evening he sat and smoked on his loggia, lifted far above the
nightmare of fever which stalks in the lowlying streets on summer
nights. He felt that he had come into a new world, where stars and
sky were a part of the bargain. Going over to the balustrade he
leaned out and looked down into the street--a chasm of blackness at
that hour--then up at the violet dome of the heavens quivering with a
thousand points of tender radiance, and, remembering his schooldays,
softly quoted, "Donde uscimmo a riveder le stelle!"
He too had left his purgatory behind and had entered a paradise
all-sufficing to his simple soul, save for one thing, it contained
no Beatrice. He did not call her that, however. Dante's impersonal
goddess would never have filled the vacant throne in Rinaldo's heart.
The unattainable had no charms for him, and the idea of worshiping
another man's wife at a respectful distance seemed both a mortal sin
and a waste of time; he meant to fall joyfully in love with his own
wife; and, being a sincere beauty worshiper, permitted himself to paint
an enchanting picture of the future Signora Goffi. For hard-working,
economical Rinaldo, with all his respect for conventionalities and
his sound Roman sense, was at heart an exuberant idealist and had
never considered it necessary to even clip the plumes of his radiant
imagination. He had not yet beheld, but he was sure he should find, the
face of holy fairness, the eyes of innocence and love, the golden hair
that was to be crown and halo in one--the dear, pretty sister of angels
and pattern of housekeepers whom he resolutely intended to marry.
He fell asleep wondering what kind of paper she would ask him to put on
these whitewashed walls, and woke--as it seemed to him, immediately
afterwards--with a violent start, to find the air full of the pealing
of bells, the bells of San Severino, which Fra Tommaso was ringing with
all his might for the first Mass.
He jumped up and ran out on the terrace, pleased as a schoolboy, to see
what everything looked like at this early hour. Glancing over the iron
balustrade, he discovered that it lay at a right angle to the street
and looked directly into the back court of San Severino. The connection
with the church was evident, for there was a mendicant lifting the
leather curtain for a lady to pass in. The first ray of the sun shot
over the farther wall and lit on a golden head just disappearing under
the curtain; the beggar made an aggrieved gesture and stretched out his
hand for alms. Then the lady stepped back into the sunshine and stood
for a moment seeking for something in her purse. Yes, the head was
golden--Rinaldo's heart leaped for joy--and the fingers that dropped a
copper in the outstretched hand were white and fine. Then the curtain
was lifted once more, the lady disappeared, and the court was empty
save for the beggar, who at once assumed his professionally forlorn air
so as to be ready for the next passer-by.
"I too will go to Mass," said Rinaldo to himself, "it is a pious
habit." Having dressed as fast as he could, he flew downstairs and made
his way into the church, quiet and dim still, and holding only a few
scattered worshipers. Mass had begun in a side chapel, and, kneeling on
a prièdieu before the altar steps was a girl, simply dressed in black,
her face hidden in her hands. A smooth roll of hair like spun gold
showed under a lace head covering; the figure was young and slight, and
the pose perfectly graceful.
Rinaldo turned red with emotion. Might not--oh, Santa Speranza--might
not this be the embodiment of his dreams? He actually trembled with
apprehension lest the unseen face should fall short of what he asked
to find in it; yet how could it, he asked himself, do less than match
the harmony of the devout attitude, the fairness of the fingers through
which the beads of a white rosary slipped one by one?
He drew nearer and leaned against the wall, where he could see her
profile whenever she should raise her head. He crossed himself, took
out his handkerchief and knelt down on it at the proper moments, and
tried to remember his prayers, but these did not get much further than
the attractive apparition before him and resolved themselves into
wordless but frightened entreaties that the vision would show its face.
The Mass was approaching its end when he was aware of a little stir
among the chairs; then an old woman with a scanty handkerchief thrown
over her head and its corners tightly held in her mouth, came and knelt
down between him and the girl. The latter moved her head slightly in
acknowledgment of her neighbor's presence, but continued her devotions
without looking up. "What is she praying for so earnestly?" Rinaldo
wondered. "Could Heaven refuse anything to such a santarella as that?
Oh, what a shame to disturb her."
This was evidently not the old woman's view. She had something to say
and meant to get it off her mind at once. She pulled at the girl's
sleeve and whispered sharply, "Giannella, listen. I must go to the
cleaner for the padrone's coat--he is off to Ostia for the day, thank
the Lord--so you take the key and go home, and here is the money for
the tomatoes, don't forget."
She fished a heavy housekey and some jingling coppers from her bulging
pocket and tried to thrust them into the girl's hand. The latter raised
her head and looked round slowly, as if coming back to things of earth
against her will. And then Rinaldo leaned heavily against the cold
wall and felt dizzy and faint. What he beheld was only a pure young
face with shadowed eyes and a rather sad mouth, but the expression
was one of such grace, sweetness and candor that the young man might
be forgiven the cry of his heart, "Amore mio, I have found you!" The
morning hour, the quiet church, with its incense-laden air, the first
slow sunbeams creeping across the spaces overhead--all combined to make
a perfect setting for the picture of his dreams. He closed his eyes so
that it should be imprinted on his memory for ever. Then he opened them
quickly, for the young girl and the old woman had risen and were moving
away. Should he follow them at once? No, better wait a moment; he could
catch up with them unnoticed as soon as they should have passed out
into the street. Ah, here came a friendly-looking old sacristan to put
the chairs back in their places; he might know by what name heavenly
visitants were called in this world of sin.
"La Biondina?" queried Fra Tommaso in answer to the eager inquiry.
"Oh, she lives with Sora Mariuccia somewhere over there in the Palazzo
Santafede. They serve Professor Bianchi, the archæologist--keep him
and his books clean and cook his meals when he gives them anything to
buy food with. La Giannella was an orphan whom Mariuccia took into
compassion and brought up. Now that she has grown big and pretty, they
say the Professor wants to marry her--what silliness! But she is a good
girl and a great help to Mariuccia. Thank you, Signorino. Arrivederci,"
as Rinaldo pressed a coin into his hand and scuttled away down the
church in most unseemly haste.
Fra Tommaso looked after him and shook his head with an indulgent
smile. Youth and romance appealed to the heart of him still, even
as the dew and the sunshine penetrate to the heart of the gray old
olive-tree and cause it to break out into leaf and fruit.
When Rinaldo reached the street the elder woman had disappeared, but
"la Giannella" (he wished her name had not such a Florentine sound!)
was standing before the vegetable stall apparently bargaining for
tomatoes with the witch who presided there. The girl was smiling down
at her, but the witch kept her eyes on her knitting and growled, "Take
them or leave them. They are four baiocchi the pound to you as to
others."
When Rinaldo, standing in the cover of his own doorway opposite,
wondered what would happen next, Giannella stealthily drew the big key
from her pocket and let it fall on the stones. The old lady looked up
at the sudden clatter to find the girl still smiling at her and holding
out three coppers in her hand.
"It is all I may spend, Sora Rosa," she said coaxingly. "Won't you be
kind and give me the pound?"
"Ah, furba, cunning one!" exclaimed the other, "you always get what you
want when you make me look at you. There, run along with my beautiful
pomidori--and I hope they will choke the old miser you work for," she
added viciously, as Giannella gathered up her spoils and went quickly
down the street.
Of course Rinaldo followed her; that was a compliment one might pay
to any woman so long as the regulation distance was maintained and no
attempt made to attract her attention. He saw Giannella vanish into the
palace, and then he slowly approached the portone, to try and find out
which of the various stairways she would ascend. The building was so
enormous, reaching the whole length of the street from Piazza Santafede
to the Ripetta (on which thoroughfare its second façade opened) that it
would be difficult to locate the modest apartment probably occupied by
the Professor and his ministrants. Rinaldo gazed through the archway to
where a fountain was bubbling in the courtyard, and found courage to
put his question to the porter, who was lounging about, smoking a pipe
while his wife scrubbed the lower steps of the chief staircase. It was
so early that the maestro di casa had not come to open the cancelleria
or office, a hall of sepulchral grimness on the ground floor, where the
archives were kept and all the business of the household and estates
carried on. The palace was still in dressing-gown and slippers, so
to speak, and the porter in a fairly condescending mood, so Rinaldo
was informed that to find Professor Bianchi he must take the third
staircase to the right and ascend to the fourth floor, where he would
see the name on the door. Rinaldo passed in, bent on discovering
whether the apartment looked into the courtyard or out on the Via
Santafede; if the latter, there might be some chance of catching
another glimpse of that lovely girl at one of the windows. Passing
along under the colonnade, where grooms were whistling and joking as
they curried horses and sluiced down carriage wheels, he reached "Scala
III." and raced up the long flights of steps, with two doors on every
landing, and his heart beat more with exultation than exercise when at
last he sprang on to the fourth of these and ascertained that "Bianchi"
was the name on a shabby card nailed to the right-hand door. This was
the street side.
Ten minutes later he was back on his own terrace, craning his neck
to catch a glimpse of the palace. Only a far corner was visible from
where he stood. Between him and it, adjoining the side of his loggia,
stretched the wide roof of the Fathers' dwelling, most picturesquely
diversified, as he now perceived, by detached rooms opening on flowery
terraces perched at different levels, connected by irregular little
flights of steps, and here and there by a small bridge, railed in where
it spanned the depth of some inner court designed to give light to the
central rooms of the old pile.
All was deserted at this hour; the Fathers were busy in the church or
with their pupils, far below; and Rinaldo, with a thrilling new sense
of adventure, started on a voyage of discovery. Vaulting over his own
parapet he landed on the flat gray tiles beyond and made his way, after
one or two mistakes, which led him to closed doors, to the farther side
of the little city on the roof. It struck him as a charming place,
quite operatic in arrangement, and much more appropriate for dreaming
lovers than meditating monks.
As he dropped over the last division he started back, dazed by a
whirr of wings beating against his face. When they rose and hovered
above his head he saw that he had disturbed a flock of pigeons who
apparently had their home in this delightful retreat. He was standing
on a narrow loggia some twenty feet long, protected on the street side
by a solid parapet on whose broad top bloomed carnations, roses and
verbenas; a big oleander at one end waved its pink fragrant flowers
against the stainless blue of the sky; at the other, a fat little
lemon-tree displayed its pale rich fruit. Sweet herbs in boxes filled
all available corners, and against a side wall, shaded by a tile roof
which projected over a glass door, was a neat dovecote, showing that
the protesting pigeons were the rightful inhabitants of the place.
The door was open, and Rinaldo, curious as a girl, peeped in. But there
was nothing to attract him inside. A pallet bed, a table, a straw
chair; a crucifix; and on the brick range a battered cooking pot; these
constituted the furniture, and an embrowned old sacred print the only
ornamentation. The explorer made a grimace at the austerity of the
abode and stepped back to the parapet to carry out the real object of
his visit. Yes, he had come to the right spot. Far below was the Via
Santafede, and opposite, on a level slightly lower than the one where
he stood, were certain fourth-floor windows which, by all the canons of
topography, should belong to the Bianchi apartment. Four were closed
and curtained; the fifth and sixth were open and evidently belonged
to the kitchen, for Rinaldo could see the bricks of the floor and
the corner of the range. There was one more beyond, open too, with a
carnation flowering on the sill. Within was a low chair with a basket
of work on it. Was this the spot where the Biondina was accustomed to
sit? Even as he framed the eager question, she came forward, put the
basket down beside the chair and settled herself to her sewing without
once glancing up. She had removed her lace veil, and her bent head
shone in the morning light as her needle flew in and out of the linen.
Once she turned to speak to someone in the room, and Rinaldo ducked
behind his flowered defenses in fear of being seen; but in a moment he
was leaning over again, taking in every detail of the picture across
the street.
Now came another diversion. Giannella found some Indian corn on the
window sill and scattered it on the outer ledge, whistling softly.
One, two, half-a-dozen pigeons materialized out of blue space, paused
a moment among the flower-pots near Rinaldo, cocked their heads,
considered well, and then descended in a flock to gather the golden
harvest. He heard the girl laugh as she pushed away one which had
boldly settled on her shoulder. Then someone within called sharply, and
she left her place in haste. Rinaldo lingered awhile, but she did not
return; and conscience, suddenly aware of the flight of time, drove him
back to his own quarters, to the society of Themistocles, who was sick
and sulky to-day, and of the lay figure, fallen stiffly aside in the
grand chair, as if the red cotton cardinal were tired of waiting for
his truant portrait painter.