"And can you paint a Madonna?"
Certainly he can. It was he, if the signor recollects, who painted the
famous Turk on the cigarette boxes, the Turk whose fame is known even
in America. And now three brush-pushers are painting Madonnas for me.
The rest are running about Rome seeking models. I said to one, in my
barbarous, American ignorance of the higher arts:
"But if you find such a model, Signor, just bring her to me. Why waste
paint and canvas?"
He was evidently pained and mumbled:
"Ah, Signor--a model?"
I think he took me for a merchant in "live stock." But, fool, why do I
need your aid for which I must pay a commission, when my ante-chamber
is filled with a flock of beauties? They all worship me. I remind them
of Savanarola, and they seek to transform every dark corner in my
drawing room, and every soft couch into a confessional. I am so glad
that these society ladies, like the painters, know so well the history
of their country and realize who I am.
The joy of the Roman papers on finding that I did not perish in the
wreck and lost neither my legs nor my billions, was equal to the
joy of the papers of Jerusalem on the day of the resurrection of
Christ--in reality there was little cause for satisfaction on the
part of the latter, as far as I am able to read history. I feared
that I might remind the journalists of J. Cæsar, but fortunately
they think little of the past and confined themselves to pointing
out my resemblance to President Wilson. Scoundrels! They were simply
flattering my American patriotism. To the majority, however, I recall
a Prophet, but they do not know which one. On this point they are
modestly silent. At any rate it is not Mahomet: my opposition to
marriage is well known at all telegraph stations.
It is difficult to imagine the filth on which I fed my hungry
interviewers. Like an experienced swine-herd, I gaze with horror on
the mess they feed upon. They eat and yet they live. Although, I must
admit, I do not see them growing fat! Yesterday morning I flew in an
aeroplane over Rome and the Campagna. You will probably ask whether I
saw Maria's home? No. I did not find it: how can one find a grain of
sand among a myriad of other grains--But I really did not look for it:
I felt horror-stricken at the great altitude.
But my good interviewers, restless and impatient, were astounded by
my coolness and courage. One fellow, strong, surly and bearded, who
reminded me of Hannibal, was the first to reach me after the flight,
and asked:
"Did not the sensation of flying in the air, Mr. Wondergood, the
feeling of having conquered the elements, thrill you with a sense of
pride in man, who has subdued----"
He repeated the question: they don't seem to trust me, somehow, and
are always suggesting the proper answers. But I shrugged my shoulders
and exclaimed sadly:
"Can you imagine Signor--No! Only once did I have a sense of pride in
men and that was--in the lavatory on board the 'Atlantic.'"
"Oh! In the lavatory! But what happened? A storm, and you were
astounded by the genius of man, who has subdued----"
"Nothing extraordinary happened. But I was astounded by the genius of
man who managed to create a palace out of such a disgusting necessity
as a lavatory."
"Oh!"
"A real temple, in which one is the arch priest!"
"Permit me to make a note of that. It is such an
original--illumination of the problem----"
And to-day the whole Eternal City was feeding on this sally. Not only
did they not request me to leave the place, but on the contrary, this
was the day of the first official visits to my apartments: something
on the order of a minister of state, an ambassador or some other
palace chef came and poured sugar and cinnamon all over me as if I
were a pudding. Later in the day I returned the visits: it is not very
pleasant to keep such things.
Need I say that I have a nephew? Every American millionaire has a
nephew in Europe. My nephew's name is also Wondergood. He is connected
with some legation, is very correct in manners and his bald spot
is so oiled that my kiss could serve me as a breakfast were I fond
of scented oil. But one must be willing to sacrifice something,
especially the gratification of a sense of smell. The kiss cost me not
a cent, while it meant a great deal to the young man. It opened for
him a wide credit on soap and perfumery.
But enough! When I look at these ladies and gentlemen and reflect
that they are just as they were at the court of Aschurbanipal and
that for the past 2000 years the pieces of silver received by Judas
continue to bear interest, like his kiss--I grow bored with this old
and threadbare play. Ah, I want a great play. I seek originality
and talent. I want beautiful lines and bold strokes. This company
here casts me in the rôle of an old brass band conductor. At times I
come to the conclusion that it wasn't really worth my while to have
undertaken such a long journey for the sake of this old drivel--to
exchange ancient, magnificent and multi-colored Hell for its miserable
replica. In truth, I am sorry that Magnus and his Madonna refused to
join me--we would have played a little--just a little!
I have had but one interesting morning. In fact I was quite excited.
The congregation of a so-called "free" church, composed of very
serious men and women, who insist upon worshipping in accordance
with the dictates of their conscience, invited Me to deliver a
Sunday sermon. I donned a black frock coat, which gave me a close
resemblance to--Toppi, went through a number of particularly
expressive gestures before my mirror and was driven in an automobile,
like a prophet--moderne, to the service. I took as my subject or
"text" Jesus' advice to the rich youth to distribute his wealth
among the poor--and in not more than half an hour, I demonstrated as
conclusively as 2 and 2 make 4, that love of one's neighbor is the
all important thing. Like a practical and careful American, however,
I pointed out that it was not necessary to try and go after the whole
of the kingdom of Heaven at one shot and to distribute one's wealth
carelessly; that one can buy it up in lots on the instalment plan and
by easy payments. The faces of the faithful bore a look of extreme
concentration. They were apparently figuring out something and came to
the conclusion that on the basis I suggested, the Kingdom of Heaven
was attainable for the pockets of all of them.
Unfortunately, a number of my quick-witted compatriots were present
in the congregation. One of them was about to rise to his feet to
propose the formation of a stock company, when I realized the danger
and frustrated this plan by letting loose a fountain of emotion, and
thus extinguished his religiously practical zeal! What did I not talk
about? I wept for my sad childhood, spent in labor and privation; I
whined about my poor father who perished in a match factory. I prayed
solemnly for all my brothers and sisters in Christ. The swamp I
created was so huge that the journalists caught enough wild ducks to
last them for six months. How we wept!
I shivered with the dampness and began to beat energetically the drum
of my billions: dum-dum! Everything for others, not a cent for me:
dum-dum! With a brazenness worthy of the whip I concluded "with the
words of the Great Teacher:"
"Come ye unto me all who are heavy-laden and weary and I will comfort
ye!"
Ah, what a pity I cannot perform miracles! A little practical miracle,
something on the order of transforming a bottle of water into one
of sour Chianti or some of the worshippers into pastry, would have
gone a long way at that moment.--You laugh and are angry, my earthy
reader? There is no reason for you to act thus. Remember only that the
_extraordinary_ cannot be expressed in your ventriloquist language and
that my words are merely a cursed mask for my thoughts.
Maria!
You will read of my success in the newspapers. There was one fool,
however, who almost spoiled my day for me: he was a member of the
Salvation Army. He came to see me and suggested that I immediately
take up a trumpet and lead the army into battle--they were too
cheap laurels he offered and I drove him out. But Toppi--he was
triumphantly silent all the way home and finally he said very
respectfully:
"You were in fine mettle to-day, Mr. Wondergood. I even wept. It is a
pity that neither Magnus nor his daughter heard you preach, She--she
would have changed her opinion of us."
You understand, of course, that I felt like kicking this admirer out
of the carriage! I again felt in the pupils of my eyes the piercing
sting of hers. The speed with which I was again turned inside out and
spread out on a plate for the public's view is equal only to that
with which an experienced waiter opens a can of conserves. I drew my
top hat over my eyes, raised the collar of my coat and looking very
much like a tragedian just hissed off the stage, I rode silently, and
without acknowledging the greetings showered upon me, I proceeded
to my apartments. Ah, that gaze of Maria! And how could I have
acknowledged the greetings when I had no cane with me?
I have declined all of to-day's invitations and am at home: I am
engaged in "religious meditation"--this was how Toppi announced it
to the journalists. He has really begun to respect me. Before me are
whiskey and champagne. I am slowly filling up on the liquor while
from the dining hall below come the distant strains of music. My
Wondergood was apparently considerable of a drunkard and every night
he drags me to the wineshop, to which I interpose no objection. What's
the difference? Fortunately his intoxication is of a merry kind and we
make quite a pleasant time of it. At first we cast our dull eyes over
the furniture and involuntarily begin to calculate the value of all
this bronze, these carpets, Venetian mirrors, etc.
"A trifle!" we agree, and with peculiar self-satisfaction we lose
ourselves in the contemplation of our own billions, of our power
and our remarkable wisdom and character. Our bliss increases with
each additional glass. With peculiar pleasure we wallow in the cheap
luxury of the hotel, and--think of it!--I am actually beginning to
have a liking for bronze, carpets, glass and stones. My Puritan Toppi
condemns luxury. It reminds him of Sodom and Gommorah. But it is
difficult for me to part with these little emotional pleasures. How
silly of me!
We continue to listen dully and half-heartedly to the music and
venture to whistle some accompaniments. We add a little contemplation
on the decollete of the ladies and then, with our step still firm, we
proceed to our resting room.
But we were just ready for bed when suddenly I felt as if some one
had struck me a blow and I was immediately seized with a tempest
of tears, of love and sadness. The extraordinary suddenly found
expression. I grew as broad as space, as deep as eternity and I
embraced all in a single breath! But, oh, what sadness! Oh, what love,
Maria!
But I am nothing more than a subterranean lake in the belly of
Wondergood and my storms in no way disturb his firm tread. I am only a
solitaire in his stomach, of which he seeks to rid himself!
We ring for the servants.
"Soda!"