Ay me, for one hour we were happy, and for many hours thereafter. But
when your heart is glad, when you drink the wine of joy, there is Madame
Circumstance keeping the score, and she brings in the bill at the end of
the banquet, and you pay it in coin of sorrow. She is my old enemy, this
Madame Circumstance, as I have told you. It is not always that I can
defy her. Who is it that is always brave? Not I. But I shall be brave
again in the morning, and the battle will begin again, and I shall
win. Pah! I have won already. I have smoked my pipe, and the incense of
victory curls about my head just now, at this moment. There is no friend
like your pipe. None.
Ten minutes ago I was despondent when; I sat down to write. I broke off
and smoked, and I am my own man again. (Regard once more the beautiful
English idiom, and the smiling soul which so soon after battle can take
delight in verbal felicities.)
Now I will go on with my story. It takes a long time to write. It will
be twelve months to-morrow since I last looked at the pages of this
narrative. I may not touch it again after to-day for a year. Who knows?
I went to Mr. Gregory's house in West-bourne Terrace on Friday, and I
continued to go there on Friday evenings until the close of the season.
Mr. Gregory is no more my patron, only: he is now my friend, and his
friendship is firm and true. I shall be honest in saying that to me
those Friday evenings were very beautiful. It was so great a change from
the hungry and lonely nights in my attic, to find myself back again with
ladies and gentlemen, myself well dressed and at home, and no longer
hungry. There I was admired and _fêted_, and all people made much of me.
I played and sang, and the people talked of my pictures, and everywhere
I was asked out, until I could have spent my every hour in those
calm social dissipations which make up so large a share of life in all
refined societies. For my friend Gregory is a man of refinement--within
himself--and his friends are all artistic and literary.. But why should
I talk about him? Everybody knows him. Gregory the millionaire; Gregory
the connoisseur in wines, in pictures, in old violins, in pottery; the
Connoisseur in humanity at whose gatherings the wisest and the most
charming meet each other. Gregory the ship-builder, iron-master,
coal-owner; architect of himself--a splendid edifice. That such a man
should have bought my pictures was of itself a fortune to me. I am on
my way to get riches, and my balance at-the bank is already respectable.
Why, then, should I be at battle with Madame Circumstance? You shall
see.
One day at the beginning of this year he called to see me. I was hard at
work making the best of the few hours of light. He sat and watched for a
full hour, talking very little. At last he said--
'I can trust you, Calvotti. I want you to do me a service.'
'I am very heartily glad to hear it,' I answered.
'You won't understand what I want you to do unless I tell you the whole
story,' he said, after a pause. Then he remained silent for some time.
'Put down your brushes and listen,' he went on.
I obeyed him. He lit a cigar, poured out a glass of claret, crossed
his legs, and talked easily, though at times I could see that he felt
strongly.
'I have had a good many friendly acquaintances in my life, and one
friend: he died five years ago. I was abroad at the time, in Russia,
laying down a railway. My friend, whom everybody supposed to be fairly
well-to-do, died poor. There was one lump sum of money in my hands,
placed there by him for investment, and that was almost all he had. By
some terrible mischance, the acknowledgment I had given for this lump
sum was lost, and his relatives were in ignorance of it. Six months
after his death I came home, and finding that nothing had been said of
the money he had entrusted to my care, I went to his lawyer and spoke to
him about it. My friend had been a widower for the last dozen years. He
had three children, and no other relatives in the world. After the sale
of his effects, poor fellow, the two girls disappeared utterly. The
son, who was a reckless, good-for-nothing scamp, was my poor friend's
favourite, and whatever the old man died possessed of went by will to
him with a mere injunction to look after his sisters. He had not been
heard of for more than a year, but was believed to be somewhere in
Italy. The scoundrel professed to be a painter, and might have made a
decent sign-writer, if he hadn't been a drunkard. I could not find even
him, and the girls have been advertised for, vainly. Now, the lawyer
has just received a letter from this young ne'er-do-weel, who wants
to borrow money. I will tell you what I want you to do. If this scamp
learns that ten thousand pounds belong to him, he will take every penny,
though he left the girls to starve. But I want things so managed that he
shall share with his sisters--a thing he will be very reluctant to do.
Now, will you go to Naples, find this man out, get to know from him the
whereabouts of his sisters, manoeuvre him, and, if possible, induce him
to accept half? Will you remember that there is absolutely no receipt
in existence for the money which lies in my hand--that I am not legally
bound to pay a penny of it? That is my only power over this fellow. Keep
my name dark. Let him know there is a certain sum of money--never mind
telling him how much--in the hands of a certain person in London, who is
willing, on his written undertaking to divide with his sisters whatever
his father may have left, to pay over to him his moiety. Let him
understand distinctly that the person in whose hands the money lies
will not pay him one farthing without this bond unless he produces
the receipt given to his father. When you have secured his written
undertaking, will you bring him to me? I will be answerable for all your
charges in the matter.'
I had listened attentively to this story, and I said Yes, at once. I
added, that it seemed to me a very easy task and an honourable one.
'I want it done at once,' he said, 'because I know the girls must be in
a very poor position wherever they are. When can you start? There is a
tidal train at eight o'clock this evening, and the man is now in Naples.
I have the papers here all ready: you can study them on the way.'
'I will start to-night,' I answered.
'Thank you, Calvotti, thank you,' he said heartily. 'Do you remember how
I excused myself for overturning that little girl who was carrying the
first picture I ever saw of yours to your estimable uncle round the
corner, as you called him?'
'Yes. There was a man in the street you were anxious to speak to, and
you jumped from a cab to catch him, and lost sight of him through the
accident.'
'That was the man I want you to see--Charles Grammont.'
I had only time to catch at the name and weave Cecilia and her sister
into this romance with one throw of the shuttle, when there came a knock
at the door.
'Come in,' I said. The door opened, and a man entered. Seeing my patron
and myself, he drew back.
'I have made a mistake,' he murmured awkwardly. 'I wish to find Miss
Grammont. I was told she lived here.'
'Talk of the devil!' cried my patron. 'Charles Grammont!'
'That is my name,' said the new-comer, standing awkwardly in the
doorway. 'You have the advantage of me, sir.'
'H'm!' said my patron, returning to the manner he had first worn in my
presence. 'Likely to keep it too. Good-day, Calvotti. You'll remember
that little commission. Things may perhaps be easier than I thought they
would be.' He muttered this to himself so that the new-comer did not
hear him. He pushed uncourteously past the young man and went out.
'You will find Miss Grammont upstairs, sir,' I said. 'If you are Mr.
Charles Grammont, the brother of the ladies upstairs, I shall be glad to
speak to you in an hour's time, on a matter of much advantage to you.'
The young man had a disagreeable swagger and a bloated face. His swagger
was intended to hide the discomfiture in the midst of which that sort of
man's soul lives always.
'If you have any thing to say to me,' he answered, still holding the
handle of the door, 'you can say it now, or save yourself the trouble of
saying it at all.'
'Sir,' I replied with some asperity, 'it is not a matter which concerns
me at all, but you.
Your late father left some money in which you are interested, that is
all.'
He looked bewildered.
'My father left no money,' he stammered.
'Your father left a considerable sum,' I answered, 'and if you will
call upon me in one hour from now I will inform you of the conditions
attached to your receipt of it. Meantime, the stairs are dark, and I
will give you a light.'
'No, thank you,' he said. 'I won't trouble my sisters until I've heard
what you have to say, I'll call again in an hour's time.'
He went away, closing the door behind him. I, sitting there, and
listening to his footsteps, heard him speak to somebody on the stairs,
and heard two sets of footsteps blunder down the ill-lighted staircase
together. I took the papers Mr. Gregory had left behind him and looked
them through. They were short and simple, and I mastered them in five
minutes. Then I went back to my painting and worked until I heard a
knock at the door and admitted my new acquaintance. He had a companion
with him, and, since I must do him justice, I must say that his
companion was sevenfold worse than he. He was a countryman of my own, as
I knew by his face and voice. They had both been drinking.
'You know my name, it seems,' said young Grammont, 'and I shall be glad
to know yours.'
I was decided that nobody but our two selves should be present when I
spoke to him, lest any slip of mine before a witness should blunder the
matter I had in charge.
'My business with you, Mr. Grammont, is of a private nature, and I
cannot discuss it in the presence of a third party.' I was plain and
outspoken, because this kind of man does not comprehend innuendo.
'This is a chum of mine,' he answered. 'He's quite welcome to hear
anything about _me_.'
'Pardon me, sir,' I told him quietly; 'but I can only discuss this
matter in private.'
'All right,' he hiccoughed. 'You'd better slide, Jack. Evado, you
blackguard! Hidi! git! chabouk!'
'You are merry, my friend,' said my unwholesome countryman, who was very
drunk indeed. 'But I am not a Hamal that you speak to me so.'
'There's half-a-crown,' said young Grammont, throwing a coin on the
carpet. 'Wait at the Red Lion. It's all right.'
My unwholesome countryman took himself out of the room with the
half-crown, and went downstairs in a series of dangerous slides and
tumbles.
'Now, then,' said my client, throwing himself insolently upon the sofa
and lighting a pipe. 'You can say what you have; to say, and get it over
as soon as you like.'
One is not angry with this kind of person. 'If you are in a fit
condition to listen, sir, you may know all about the matter in five
minutes. Your father just before his death invested a large sum of
money. The receipt for that sum of money was lost, but the gentleman
with whom he invested it is honourable and is ready to pay it. He will
only pay it on one condition, and that is that it be divided into equal
portions between your two sisters and yourself.'
He sat up with the pipe between his finger and thumb.
'Whatever my father left,' he said, 'belongs to me.'
'Then,' I answered, 'claim it!'
He lay down again as suddenly as if I had shot him.
'You will remember,' I said, 'that the receipt is lost, and that you
have no legal claim upon the gentleman who now holds the money. He
is willing to pay it over at once, provided you divide it with your
sisters.'
'Who is he?'
I made no answer.
'What right has he, whoever he is, to dictate terms to me? What right
has he to suppose that I shouldn't make fair terms with my sisters, and
make them a decent allowance, and all that sort of thing, if I had the
money?'
'I know nothing of the matter, sir,' I answered, 'except that on your
written undertaking to divide whatever property your father may have
left, you can take half of it, and that without such an undertaking you
can get nothing.'
'I'll sign no such undertaking!' he cried angrily. 'Why should I be
juggled out of money which belongs to me? If I choose to make my sisters
a present, why, I'll do it, and if I don't, I won't.'
'Very good, sir,' I said; 'when you have changed your mind, and wish to
draw the money, you can apply to me again.'
'What's the amount?' he asked sulkily, after a time.
'I am requested not to mention the amount,' I answered, 'but it is
considerable.'
'How do _you_ come to be mixed up with my affairs?' he asked. 'I don't
even know your name. You're not a lawyer. How do I know that the whole
thing isn't a stupid joke? How do I know there's not a trap of some sort
in it?'
'All these things are for your own consideration, sir,' I answered, as
coolly as I could. 'I am acting to oblige a friend, and if it were not
for my desire to oblige a friend----'
There I stayed. He glared at me, and rose-to his feet.. 'Well!' he said,
'what then?'.
'I should take no trouble at all in the matter, and should be glad to be
rid of you.'
'Oh!' he said jeeringly, and then sat down again. By-and-by he looked
up and shook a forefinger at me with an air of drunken perspicacity and
resolution which was amusing.
'Don't think,' he said, 'that I can't see through _your_ little game.
You're living in the same house, are you? You've got my sister's
affairs into your own dirty fingers, eh, my boy? She's getting to a
nice manageable age, isn't she? And you've found out that some money is
coming to me after all, and you think me idiot enough to sign away half
of it for you and that young----'
'Stop, sir, if you please. You shall commit what folly you like in
respect to the business in hand, but I have no time or taste for a
drunken brawl. You may call upon me in the morning. You will forgive me
if I suggest that you are not quite fit for business at present. I have
the honour to bid you a good afternoon.'
'Oh!' said he, 'I'm quite fit for business, if there is any business
to be done. Have you any objection to my consulting a lawyer before I
sign?'
I disregarded the sneer, and said that I could have no objection to such
a course.
'Will you come with me?' he asked.
'No,' I told him. There was the case already in his hands. I was
powerless to alter its conditions. He could tell the story to his lawyer
for himself.
'I will give you a reply to-morrow, he said.
I gave him my card, and he went away. I had no doubt of his final
acceptance of the terms offered to him, and when on the morrow he
returned, he proclaimed himself willing to accept one-half of the sum
left in Mr. Gregory's hands. The lawyer he had consulted was the man who
had acted professionally for his father during the latter's lifetime,
and it was he also to whom my directions ordered me. I telegraphed to
Mr. Gregory at his offices in the city, and then drove to Russell Square
with young Grammont. At the lawyer's we were detained for a few minutes,
and before wo could get to business Mr. Gregory arrived. The matter was
then gone into, and everything was over in half-an-hour. Mr. Gregory
gave young Grammont a cheque for five thousand pounds, and took the
receipt for it. Then we bade the lawyer good-day and went out together.
Young Grammont took a cab and went away in high feather, whilst Mr.
Gregory and I went to my rooms, and sent a message to Miss Grammont.
In a few minutes we were admitted, and it was my felicity to make the
announcement of the pleasant change in their fortunes. Miss Grammont
recognised Mr. Gregory at once, and both she and Cecilia accepted this
stroke of good fortune with a calm gladness.
'Why did you hide yourself in this way?' asked Mr. Gregory.
'What could we do?' Miss Grammont answered him. 'We have never been in
actual want, and you know that we were always very foolishly proud--we
Grammonts.'
'Very foolishly proud, the lot of you,' said Mr. Gregory. 'You knew very
well how much I owed to your father's help and advice when I was a young
man. You know that Lizzie would have given you a home, and have thought
herself more than paid by your society and friendship.' (Lizzie was the
late Mrs. Gregory.) 'Forgive me,' he said a minute later. 'Had I been
in your place, I should probably have done as you have done. But now to
business. Fifteen thousand pounds remain in my hands. Of this sum only
ten thousand honestly belongs to you two.'
'How is this?' asked Miss Grammont.
'Mr. Calvotti told me just now that my father had left but ten thousand
pounds in all.'
'For investment, madam--for investment. I am a business man and I have
invested it and doubled it. That graceless brother of yours who has gone
away with his five thousand now will be back in a year's time to borrow.
He will still have five thousand to draw upon, but I hold his discharge
in full, and I shall cheat him for his own good and button him
down tightly to a weekly allowance. Money is cheap just now, Miss
Grammont--dirt cheap--and you can't do better than leave this in my
hands at five per cent, interest. That's five hundred a year. But all
that we'll talk about, in future. Meantime, that's the first half-year's
allowance'--laying a cheque upon the table--'and the first thing to be
done is to leave this place and come straightway to my house until you
can look about you and settle where to live.'
'You are just as generous and just as imperious as you always were,'
said Miss Grammont. 'We will come this day week.'
'Come now,' said Mr. Gregory. 'My sister will make you comfortable. Poor
Jane's an old maid still, and lives with me.'
'Not now,' she said. 'There are many things to be seen to before we can
leave here.'
I saw her glance at her own shabby dress, and he saw that also.
'When you like,' he said cheerfully. 'But this day week is a bargain.
At what time? Say two o'clock. I'll be there to meet you. Good-day,
Calvotti; good-day, Miriam.' Then he turned and kissed Cecilia.
'Good-day, Baby. God bless my soul! it seems only the other day since
you _were_ a baby. And now I suppose you'll be getting married in a week
or two.'
Cecilia blushed and laughed, and Mr. Gregory turned round with a
droll look to me, and then took his hat and went in his own solid and
determined way out of the room. Even in his walk the determination of
his character declared itself. He was strong and square and firm,
but within very gentle. Oh, you English! you English! you are a great
people! Great in your stolidity and solidity, before which I, who
know what lives beneath them, can only bow in a fluttering, butterfly
respect! Great in your passions, which you repress so splendidly that
to the superficial eye they look only like affections! Solid, stolid,
much-enduring people, with corners all over you, accept my profoundest
veneration!
Now it befalls me that I am impelled to tell why, with a reputation
already considerable and fast increasing, and with a balance at the
banker's in the same beautiful conditions, I yet remained in that poor
studio of mine, and in those unfashionable apartments. It was not that
I am penurious, although I have changed my old harum-scarum habits with
regard to money.
It was not--but why should I go on saying what it was not to pave the
way to saying what it was? It was, then, that in that house had lived
that little English angel who is a woman, and Cecilia. I will set it
down in one line. She is all the joy I have and all the sorrow. And
now I will set down one thing more that I may see it in plain black and
white, and study it there until I drive its meaning into my thick head
and my sore heart, and can at last smoke calm pipes over it, and be once
more contented. There is no hope for me--there is no hope for me: none
in the world. For my little Cecilia is in love already, and I would not
for twenty thousand times my own sake have her in one thought untrue.
I was walking upstairs one night a month before the events I have just
related, when I met a man coming down in the dark. I did not at all
know who he was, but I knew that he had been to Miss Grammont's rooms,
because I was already near my own door, and nobody but Miss Grammont
lived above me. The stranger said Good-night as he passed me, and I
returned his salutation. He stopped short.
'Have I the honour to address Mr. Calvotti?' he asked.
'That is my name,' I answered, in some astonishment.
'Ah, then,' he said, turning back again, 'if you can spare me just a
minute, I will deliver a letter I have for you.'
We went upstairs together, and into my studio. I lighted the gas and
took the letter. It came from Miss Grammont, and introduced Mr. Arthur
Clyde, an old friend who had found them out by accident, and who had an
especial desire to know me.
'This is not a good time at night to make a call,' he said, with a frank
and winning smile; 'but I'm an artist myself. I've seen your work, and
I've heard so much about you, that when I found that Miss Grammont knew
you I couldn't deny myself the pleasure of making your acquaintance.'
He was very frank and pleasant in his manner, very fresh and English in
his look, very handsome and self-possessed. Not self-possessed in the
sense that he had assurance, but in the sense that he did not seem
to think about himself at all, which is the most agreeable kind of
self-possession, both for those who have it and for those who meet them.
We talked about indifferent things for a minute or two, and then he lit
a cigar and rose to go.
'I have heard of your kindness to Miss Grammont and little Cecilia,' he
said, turning at the door. 'You'll forgive me for saying a word about
it, but they're such dear old friends of mine, that I can't help
thanking anybody who has been good to them. Good-night, I'll run in
to-morrow, if I may. Good-night.'
He came again next evening, and we dined together. He is a fine young
fellow, and I got to like him greatly. He is fiery and enthusiastic and
impulsive, and all his adjectives are superlatives, after the manner
of earnest youth. But he is good-hearted and honourable to the core. We
took to each other naturally, and he used to run up to my studio every
evening at dusk. Very frequently we used to go upstairs and spend an
evening with the ladies. Then we had music, and sometimes young Clyde
would sing, and we would all laugh at him, for he knew no more of music
than a crow. And yet I could see that it was to him Cecilia played and
sang, and to her he listened as though she had been an angel out of
heaven. When I played he had no great joy in the music, but when she
played---- ah! it was plain enough--then Love gave him ears, and the
music she created had power over him. This was hard for me, but I have
my consolations.
I can stand up and say one or two things which it is well for a man to
say. It is one of them that I do not whine like a baby because I cannot
have my own way. It is another that I have strangled jealous hate
and buried deep the baseness which would have led me to endeavour to
estrange these hearts for my own purpose. I tell myself at times, 'You
have done well, my friend, and some day you will have your reward. And
if the reward should not come, or if it should not be worth having,
why--you have still done well.' For it came to pass one night when I was
quite convinced, that I came downstairs to my own room, and sat down and
pulled a certain dream-house to pieces and beat the sawdust out of the
foolish dolls who had had their abiding place in it. But, oh me, my
friends, it is hard to pull down dream-houses; and Madame Circumstance
exults over the bare rafters and the dismantled walls. And, ah! I loved
her, and I love her still, and I shall love her till the day I die. But
I am going to be an Italian old bachelor, with no wife but my pipe
and no family but my canvas children. Do you triumph, madame? Do you
triumph? Over my subdued heart? No! Over my broken life? No! Over any
cowardly complaint of mine? Over any envy of this good young Englishman?
No! no! no! No! madame, I was not born a cad, and you shall not remould
me. Accept, once more, my defiance!
Young Clyde came on the evening of the day on which the good fortune of
the ladies' had been declared. He received the news very joyfully,
but after a while he sobered down greatly, and when we took our leave
together he was very depressed, and had grown unlike himself, I asked no
questions, but he turned into my room and sat down and lit a cigar and
held silence for a few minutes. Then he said--
'I say, Calvotti, old man, have you noticed that I have never once asked
you to my rooms?'
I had never thought about it, and I told him so.
'Will you come up to-morrow, in the daytime? Don't say No. I do
particularly want you to come. Say twelve o'clock. Will you?'
He seemed strangely eager about this simple matter, and I promised
to go. He went away a minute later, and next morning I walked to the
address he had given me. He met me at the door, and I saw that he was
pale and perturbed. I learned afterwards that he had not been to bed,
but had sat up all night harassing himself with groundless misgivings.
He led me to his studio, a fine spacious room, with a high north light.
He had a chair set in the middle of the room, and on the easel a large
veiled picture.
'Now, Calvotti,' he said, speaking with a nervous haste which was
altogether foreign to him, 'I have asked you here to settle a question
which I cannot settle for myself. Sometimes I'm brimfull of faith and
hope, and sometimes I'm in a perfect abyss of despair. You know I've
been painting all my life, but I've never sold anything. Everything I
paint goes to the governor. Some of the things he hangs about his own
place, you know, and some of them--more than half, I suppose--he has
cut into strips and sent back to me. He's a very singular man, and has
extraordinary ideas about pictures. But I've been working on one subject
now for some months past, and now I've finished it, and---- Look here,
Calvotti, I'll tell you everything. When I got here last night, I found
a letter from my governor telling me that my allowance is stopped after
next quarter-day, and that I must get a living by painting. He always
said he would give me the chance to make a living, and then leave me
to make it. Well, I'm not afraid of that, but I want a candid judgment,
because--because--Well, I'm engaged to be married, old man, and I can't
live on my wife, you know. And I want you to tell me candidly whether
there's any good stuff in me, and whether I can ever do anything, you
know.'
'You are engaged to Cecilia?' I asked him.
'Yes,' he said simply, 'I am engaged to Cecilia, and I want to begin
work in earnest now.'
'Let me look at your picture,' I said, and took my seat in the chair he
had placed ready for me.
He paused a minute as though he would have spoken, but checking himself,
he turned to the picture, drew away the cloth by which it was covered,
and passed behind me. The picture represented a garret room, through the
window of which could be seen the far-reaching roofs of a great city.
Against the window rose the figure of a girl who was seated at an old
grand piano. Her fingers rested on the keys, and her eyes were looking
a great way off. The face and figure were Cecilia's, the garret was that
in which I myself had lived, and the piano was mine. The outer light of
the picture was so subdued and calm that the face was allowed to reveal
itself quite clearly. I looked long and carefully, guarding myself from
a too rapid judgment. Arthur, as by this time I had begun to call him,
stood at the back of my chair. At last he laid a hand upon my shoulder--
'What do think about it?'
'Do you want my candid opinion?' I asked him.
'Yes, your candid opinion.'
'You will not be offended at anything I shall say?'
'No. I want an honest judgment, and I can trust yours.'
I used the common slang of criticism.
'Suppose, then, I were to say that the: composition is bad, the colour
crude, the whole work amateurish, the modelling thin and in places,
false, the----'
'Don't say any more, Calvotti. I've been a fool, and the governor has
been right all the time.'
'If I said these things, you would believe them?'
'_If_ you said them?' he cried, coming from-behind my chair. 'But do you
say them?'
'Stand off!' I said, laughing. A man can rarely endure praise and blame
with equal fortitude. My young friend, you will some day paint great
pictures. In four or five hundred years' time great painters will look
at this and will reverently point out in it the faults of early manner;
but they will read the soul in it--as I do now. You are a creature of
a hundred years--a painter, an artist. This is not paint, but a face--a
face of flesh and blood, with soul behind. And this is not paint, but
a faded brown silk. And this is not paint, but solid mahogany. You have
done more than paint a picture. You have made concrete an inspiration.
Your technique is all masterly, but it does not overpower. It gives only
fitting body to a beautiful idea--its soul!'
He blushed and trembled whilst I spoke. Englishmen do not often talk
poetry--off the stage. He answered--
'No, really, Calvotti, old man, that's rot, you know. But do you like
it?'
I spoke gravely then.
'My dear young friend, so surely as that is your work, so surely will
you be a great artist if you choose.'
'You bet I choose,' this young genius answered. He would sooner have
died, I suppose, than have put his emotions at that moment into words.
This is another characteristic of you English. You will sooner look like
fools than have it appear that you feel. You wear the rags of cynicism
over the pure gold of nature. This is a foolish pride, but it is useless
to crusade against national characteristics.
I was a little chilled, and I said in a business tone--
'Well, we will see about selling this at once.'
'No,' he answered. 'I will not sell this.'
'No?' I asked.
'No,' he said again; 'not this picture,' And for one minute he regarded
it, and then shook his head and once more said 'No.'
'Well,' I answered, not trying to persuade him, 'I will ask Mr. Gregory
to look at it, and he will give you a commission for a work, and then
you will be fairly afloat.'
'Oh, thank you, Calvotti. What a good fellow you are!'
I was unsettled for work. My praise was hysterical and hyperbolical. I
could have wept whilst I uttered it. For though I had given up all hope,
and though I was glad to find that in art he was worthy as in manhood
he was worthy, yet it was still hard to endorse a rival's triumph and
to cut out all envy and stifle all pain. And now I had to go home and to
live beneath the same roof with Cecilia, and to see her sometimes, and
to talk and look like a friend. If you resist the Devil, will he always
fly from you? Is it not sometimes safer to fly from him? And is there
anywhere a baser fiend than that which prompted me to throw myself upon
my knees before her and tell her everything, and so barter honour for
an impulse? Brave or not, I know that I was wise when that afternoon I
packed up everything and went to say good-bye.
'I am ill,' so I excused myself, 'and I am a child of impulse. Impulse
says to me “Go back to Italy--to the air of your childhood--to the
scenes you love best.” And I obey.'
'But you do not leave England in this way?' asked Cecilia.
'No, mademoiselle, I shall return. But, for a time, good-bye.'
They both bade me good-bye sorrowfully, and I went away. And whatever
disturbance my soul made within its own private residence, it was too
well-bred to let the outside people know of it.
And so it came to pass that I continue this narrative at Posilipo, in my
native air, within sight of smoking Vesuvius and the glittering city and
the gleaming bay--old friends, who bear comfort to the soul.