cry at the same time; not in unison with his merchandise, for he has
birds--quail, woodcock, and snipe--for sale, besides a string of dead
nightingales, which he says he will 'sell cheap for a nice stew.' Think
of stewed nightingales! One would as soon think of eating a boiled
Cremona violin.
But out of the way! Here comes, blocking up the narrow street, a
_contadino_, a countryman from the Campagna. His square wooden cart is
drawn by a donkey about the size of, and resembling, save ears, a singed
Newfoundland dog; his voice, strong for a vegetarian,--for he sells
onions and broccoli, celery and tomatoes, _finocchio_ and mushrooms,--is
like tearing a firm rag: how long can it last, subjected to such use?
It is in the game and meat market, near the Pantheon, that you can more
fully become acquainted with the street cries of Rome; but the Piazza
Navona excels even this. Passing along there one morning, Caper heard
such an extraordinary piece of vocalization, sounding like a Sioux
war-whoop with its back broken, that he stopped to see what it was all
about. There stood a butcher who had exposed for sale seven small stuck
pigs, all one litter; and if they had been his own children, and died
heretics, he could not have howled over them in a more heart-rending
manner.
About sunrise, and even before it,--for the Romans are early
risers,--you will hear in spring-time a sharp ringing voice under your
window, '_Acqua chetosa! Acqua, chetosa!_' an abridgment of _acque
accetosa_, or water from the fountain of Accetosa, considered a good
aperient, and which is drank before breakfast. Also a voice crying out,
'_Acqua-vi-ta!_' or spirits, drank by the workmen and others at an
expense of a baioccho or two the table-spoonful, for that is all the
small glasses hold. In the early morning, too, you hear the chattering
jackdaws on the roofs; and then, more distinctly than later in the day,
the clocks striking their odd way. The Roman clocks ring from one to six
strokes four times during the twenty-four hours, and not from one to
twelve strokes, as with us. Sunset is twenty-four o'clock, and is noted
by six strokes; an hour after sunset is one o'clock, and is noted by one
stroke; and so on until six hours after, when it begins striking one
again. As the quarter hours are also rung by the clocks, if you happen
to be near one you will have a fine chance to get in a muddle trying to
separate quarters from hours, and Roman time from your own. Another
noise comes from the game of _morra_. Caper was looking out of his
window one morning, pipe in mouth, when he saw two men suddenly face
each other, one of them bringing his arm down very quickly, when the
other yelled as if kicked, '_Due!_' (two), and the first shouted at the
top of his lungs, '_Tre!_' (three). Then they both went at it, pumping
their hands up and down and spreading their fingers with a quickness
which was astonishing, while all the time they kept screaming, 'One!'
'Four!' 'Three!' 'Two!' 'Five!' etc., etc. 'Ha!' said Caper, 'this is
something like; 'tis an arithmetical, mathematical, etcetrical school in
the open air. The dirtiest one is very quick; he will learn to count
five in no time. But I don't see the necessity of saying "three" when
the other brings down four fingers, or saying "five" when he shows two.
But I suppose it is all right; he hasn't learned to give the right names
yet.' He learned later that they were gambling.
While these men were shouting, there came along an ugly old woman with a
tambourine and a one-legged man with a guitar, and seeing prey in the
shape of Caper at his window, they pounced on him, as it were, and
poured forth the most ear-rending discord; the old lady singing, the old
gentleman backing up against a wall and scratching at an accompaniment
on a jangling old guitar. The old lady had a bandana handkerchief tied
over her head, and whilst she watched Caper she cast glances up and down
the street, to see if some rich stranger, or _milordo_, was not coming
to throw her a piece of silver.
'What are you howling about?' shouted Caper down to her.
'A new Neapolitan canzonetta, signore; all about a young man who grieves
for his sweetheart, because he thinks she is not true to him, and what
he says to her in a serenade.' And here she screechingly sung,--
But do not rage, I beg, my dear;
I want you for my wife,
And morning, noon, and night likewise,
I'll love you like my life.
CHORUS.
I only want to get a word,
My charming girl, from thee.
You know, Ninella, I can't breathe,
Unless your heart's for me!
'Well,' said Caper, 'if this is Italian music, I don't _see_ it.'
The one-legged old gentleman clawed away at the strings of the guitar.
'I say,'_llustrissimo_,' shouted Caper down to him, 'what kind of
strings are those on your instrument?'
'_Excellenza_, catgut,' he shouted, in answer.
'_Benissimo!_ I prefer cats in the original packages. There's a _paolo_:
travel!'
Caper had the misfortune to make the acquaintance of a professor of the
mandolin, a wire-strung instrument, resembling a long-necked squash cut
in two, to be played on with a quill, and which, with a guitar and
violin, makes a concert that thrills you to the bones and cuts the
nerves away.
But the crowning glory of all that is ear-rending and peace-destroying,
is carried around by the _Pifferari_ about Christmas time. It is a
hog-skin, filled with wind, having pipes at one end, and a jackass at
the other, and is known in some lands as the bagpipe. The small shrines
to the Virgin, particularly those in the streets where the wealthy
English reside, are played upon assiduously by the _pifferari_, who are
supposed by romantic travelers to come from the far-away Abbruzzi
Mountains, and make a pilgrimage to the Eternal City to fulfil a vow to
certain saints; whereas it is sundry cents they are really after. They
are for the most part artists' models, who at this season of the year
get themselves up _a la pifferari_, or piper, to prey on the romantic
susceptibilities and pockets of the strangers in Rome, and, with a pair
of long-haired goat-skin breeches, a sheepskin coat, brown rags, and
sandals, or _cioccie_, with a shocking bad conical black or brown hat,
in which are stuck peacock's or cock's feathers, they are ready equipped
to attack the shrines and the strangers.
Unfortunately for Caper there was a shrine to the Virgin in the
second-story front of the house next to where he lived; that is,
unfortunately for his musical ear, for the lamp that burned in front of
the shrine every dark night was a shining and pious light to guide him
home, and thus, ordinarily, a very fortunate arrangement. In the
third-story front room of the house of the shrine dwelt a Scotch artist
named MacGuilp, who was a grand amateur of these pipes, and who declared
that no sound in the world was so sweet to his ear as the bagpipes: they
recalled the heather, haggis, and the Lothians, and the mountain dew, ye
ken, and all those sorts of things.
One morning at breakfast in the Cafe Greco he discoursed at length about
the pleasure the pifferari gave him; while Caper, taking an opposite
view, said they had, during the last few days, driven him nearly crazy,
and he wished the squealing hog-skins well out of town.
MacGuilp told him he had a poor ear for music: that there was a charm
about the bagpipes unequalled even by the unique voices of the Sistine
Chapel; and there was nothing he would like better than to have all the
pipers of Rome under his windows.
Caper remembered this last rash speech of Master MacGuilp, and
determined at an early hour to test its truth. It happened, the very
next morning at breakfast, that MacGuilp, in a triumphant manner, told
him that he had received a promise of a visit from the Duchess of ----,
with several other titled English; and said he had not a doubt of
selling several paintings to them. MacGuilp's style was of the
blood-and-thunder school: red dawns, murdered kings, blood-stained
heather, and Scotch plaids, the very kind that should be shown to the
sweet strainings of hog-skin bagpipes.
In conversation Caper found out the hour at which the duchess intended
to make her visit. He made his preparations accordingly. Accompanied by
Rocjean, he visited Gigi, who kept a costume and life school of models,
found out where the pipers drank most wine, and going there and up the
Via Fratina and down the Spanish Steps, managed to find them, and
arranged it so that at the time the duchess was viewing MacGuilp's
paintings, he should have the full benefit of a serenade from all the
pifferari in Rome.
The next morning Caper, pipe in mouth, at his window, saw the carriage
of the duchess drive up, and from it the noble English dismount and
ascend to the artist's studio. The carriage had hardly driven away when
up came two of the pipers, and happening to cast their eyes up they saw
Caper, who hailed them and told them not to begin playing until the
others arrived. In a few moments six of the hog-skin squeezers stood
ready to begin their infernal squawking.
'Go ahead!' shouted Caper, throwing a handful of _baiocchi_ among them;
and as soon as these were gathered up, the pipers gave one awful,
heart-chilling blast, and the concert was fairly commenced. Squealing,
shrieking, grunting, yelling, and humming, the sounds rose higher and
higher. Open flew the windows in every direction.
'_C'est foudroyante!_' said the pretty French _modiste_.
'What the devil's broke loose?' shouted an American.
'_Mein Gott im himmel! was ist das?_' roared the German baron.
'_Casaccio! cosa faceste?_' shrieked the lovely Countess Grimanny.
'_In nomine Domine!_' groaned a fat friar.
'_Caramba! vayase al infierno!_' screamed Don Santiago Gomez.
'_Bassama teremtete!_' swore the Hungarian gentleman.
Louder squealed the bagpipes, their buzz filled the air, their shrieks
went ringing up to MacGuilp like the cries of Dante's condemned. The
duchess found the sound barbarous. MacGuilp opened his window, upon
which the pipers strained their lungs for the Signore Inglese, grand
amateur of the bagpipes. He begged them to go away. 'No, no, signore; we
know you love our music; we won't go away.'
The duchess could stand it no longer, her Servant called the carriage,
the English got in and drove off.
Still rung out the sounds of the six bagpipes. Caper threw them more
_baiocchi_.
Suddenly MacGuilp burst out of the door of his house, maul-stick in
hand, rushing on the pifferari to put them to flight.
'_Iddio giusto!_' shouted two of the pipers; 'it is, IT IS the
_Cacciatore_! the hunter; the Great Hunter!'
'He is a painter!' shouted another.
'No, he isn't; he's a hunter. _Gran Cacciatore!_ Doesn't he spend all
his time after quails and snipe and woodcock? Haven't I been out with
him day after day at Ostia? Long live the great hunter!'
MacGuilp was touched in a tender spot. The homage paid him as a great
hunter more than did away with his anger at the bagpipe serenade. And
the last Caper saw of him he was leading six pifferari into a wine shop,
where they would not come out until seven of them were unable to tell
the music of bagpipes from the music of the spheres.
So ends the music, noises, and voices, of the seven-hilled city.
SERMONS IN STONES.
One bright Sunday morning in January, Rocjean called on Caper to ask him
to improve the day by taking a walk.
'I thought of going up to the English chapel outside the Popolo to see a
pretty New Yorkeress,' said the latter; 'but the affair is not very
pressing, and I believe a turn round the Villa Borghese would do me as
much good as only looking at a pretty girl and half hearing a poor
sermon.'
'As for a sermon, we need not miss that,' answered Rocjean, 'for we will
stop in at Chapin the sculptor's studio, and if we escape one, and he
there, I am mistaken. They call his studio a shop, and they call his
shop the Orphan's Asylum, because he manufactured an Orphan Girl some
years ago, and, as it sold well, he has kept on making orphans ever
since.
'The murderer!'
'Yes; but not half as atrocious as the reality. You must know that when
he first came over here he had an order to make a small Virgin Mary for
a Catholic church in Boston; but the order being countermanded after he
had commenced modeling in clay, he was determined not to lose his time,
and so, having somewhere read of, in a yellow-covered novel, or seen in
some fashion-plate magazine, a doleful-looking female called The Orphan,
he instantly determined, cruel executioner that he is, to also make an
orphan. And he did. There is a dash of bogus sentiment in it that passes
for coin current with many of our traveling Americans; and the thing has
"sold." He told me not long since he had orders for twelve copies of
different sized Orphans, and you will see them all through his asylum.
Do you remember those lines in Richard the Third,--
'"Why do you look on us, and shake your head,
And call us orphans--wretched?"'
They found Chapin in his shop, alias studio, busily looking over a
number of plaster casts of legs and arms. He arose quickly as they
entered and threw a cloth over the casts.
'Hah! gudmornin', Mister Caper. Glad to see you in my studiyo. Hallo,
Rocjan! you there? Why haven't you ben up to see my wife and daughters?
She feels hurt, I tell you, 'cause you don't come near us. Do you know
that Burkings of Bosting was round here to my studiyo yeserday: sold
_him_ an Orphan. By the way, Mister Caper, air you any relation to Caper
of the great East Ingy house of Caper?'
'He is an uncle of mine, and is now in Florence; he will be in Rome next
week.'
A tender glow of interest beamed in Chapin's eyes: in imagination he saw
another Orphan sold to the rich Caper, who might 'influence trade.' His
tone of voice after this was subdued. As Caper happened to brush against
some plaster coming in the studio, Chapin hastened to brush it from his
coat, and he did it as if it were the down on the wing of a beautiful
golden butterfly.
'I was goin' to church this mornin' long with Missus Chapin; but I guess
I'll stay away for once in me life. I want to show you The Orphan.'
'I beg that you will not let me interfere with any engagement you may
have,' said Caper; 'I can call as well at any other time.'
'Oh, no; I won't lissen to that; I don't want to git to meeting before
sermon, so come right stret in here now. There! there's The Orphan. You
see I've made her accordin' to the profoundest rules of art. You may
take a string or a yard measure and go all over her, you won't find her
out of the way a fraction. The figure is six times the length of the
foot; this was the way Phidias worked, and I agree with him. Them were
splendid old fellows, them Greeks. There was art for you; high art!'
'That in the Acropolis was of the highest order,' said Rocjean.
'Yes,' answered Chapin, who did not know where it was; 'far above all
other. There was some sentiment in them days; but it was all of the
religious stripe; they didn't come down to domestic life and feelin';
they hadn't made the strides we have towards layin' open art to the
million--towards developing _hum_ feelings. They worked for a precious
few; but we do it up for the many. Now there's the A-poller
Belvidiary--beautiful thing; but the idea of brushin' his hair that way
is ridicoolus. Did you ever see anybody with their hair fixed that way?
Never! They had a way among the Greeks of fixing their drapery right
well; but I've invented a plan--for which I've applied to Washington for
a patent--that I think will beat anything Phidias ever did.'
'You can't tell how charmed I am to hear you,' spoke Rocjean.
'Well, it _is_ a great invention,' continued Chapin; 'and as I know
neither of you ain't in the 'trade' (smiling), I don't care but what
I'll show it to you, if you'll promise, honor bright, you won't tell
anybody. You see I take a piece of muslin and hang it onto a statue the
way I want the folds to fall; then I take a syringe filled with starch
and glue and go all over it, so that when it dries it'll be as hard as a
rock. Then I go all over it with a certain oily preparation and lastly
I run liquid plaster-paris in it, and when it hardens, I have an exact
mold of the drapery. There! But I hain't explained The Orphan. You see
she's sittin' on a very light chair--_that_ shows the very little
support she has in this world. The hand to the head shows meditation;
and the Bible on her knee shows devotion; you see it's open to the book,
chapter, and verse which refers to the young ravens.'
'Excuse me,' said Caper, 'but may I ask why she has such a _very_
low-necked dress on?'
'Well, my model has got such a fine neck and shoulders,' replied Chapin,
'that I re-eely couldn't help showing 'em off on the Orphan: besides,
they're more in demand--the low neck and short sleeves--than the
high-bodied style, which has no buyers. But there is a work I'm engaged
on now that would just soot your uncle. Mr. Caper, come this way.'
Caper saw what he supposed was a safe to keep meat cool in, and
approached. Chapin threw back the doors of it like a showman about to
disclose the What Is It? and Caper saw a dropsical-looking Cupid with a
very short shirt on, and a pair of winged shoes on his feet. The figure
was starting forward as if to catch his equilibrium, which he had that
moment lost, and was only prevented from tumbling forward by a bag held
behind him in his left hand, while his right arm and hand, at full
length, pointed a sharp arrow in front of him.
'Can you tell me what _that_ figger represents?' asked Chapin. As he
received no reply, he continued: '_That_ is Enterprise; the two little
ruts at his feet represent a railroad; the arrow, showin' he's sharp,
points ahead; Go ahead! is his motto; the bag in his hand represents
money, which the keen, sharp, shrewd business man knows is the reward of
enterprise. The wreath round his head is laurel mixed up with lightnin',
showin' he's up to the tellygraph; the pen behind his ear shows he can
figger; and his short shirt shows economy, that admirable virtoo. The
wings on his shoes air taken from Mercury, as I suppose you know; and--'
'I say, now, Chapin, don't you think he's got a little too much legs,
and rather extra stomach on him, to make fast time?' asked Rocjean.
'Measure him, measure him!' said Chapin, indignantly; 'there's a string.
Figure six times the length of his foot, everything else in proportion.
No, _sir_; I have not studied the classic for nothin'; if there is any
one thing I am strong on, it's anatomy. Only look at his hair. Why, sir,
I spent three weeks once dissectin'; and for more'n six months I didn't
do anything, during my idle time, but dror figgers. Art is a kind of
thing that's born in a man. This saying the ancients were better
sculpters than we air, is no such thing; what did they know about
steam-engines or telegraphs? _Fiddle!_ They did some fustrate things,
but they had no idee of fixin' hair as it should be fixed. No, sir; we
moderns have great add-vantagiz, and we improve 'em. Rome is the Cra--'
'I must bid you good-day,' interrupted Caper; 'your wife will miss you
at the sermon: you will attribute it to me; and I would not
intentionally be the cause of having her ill-will for anything.'
'Well, she is a pretty hard innimy; and they do talk here in Rome if you
don't toe the mark. But ree-ly, you mustn't go off mad (smiling). You
must call up with Rocjan and see us; and I ree-ly hope that when your
uncle comes you will bring him to my studiyo. I am sure my Enterprise
will soot him.'
So Chapin saw them out of his studio. Not until Caper found himself
seated on a stone bench under the ilexes of the Villa Borghese, watching
the sunbeams darting on the little lizards, and seeing far off the
Albanian Mountains, snowcapped against the blue sky--not until then did
he breathe freely.
'Rocjean,' said he; 'that stone-cutter down there--that Chapin--'
'_Chameau!_ roared Rocjean. 'He and his kind are doing for art what the
Jews did for prize-fighting--they ruin it. They make art the
laughing-stock of all refined and educated people. Art applied solely to
sculpture and painting is dead; it will not rise again in these our
times. But art, the fairy-fingered beautifier of all that surrounds our
homes and daily walks, save paintings and statuary, never breathed so
fully, clearly, nobly as now, and her pathway amid the lowly and homely
things around us is shedding beauty wherever it goes. The rough-handed
artisan who, slowly dreaming of the beautiful, at last turns out a stone
that will beautify and adorn a room, instead of rendering it hideous,
has done for this practical generation what he of an earlier theoretical
age did for his cotemporaries when he carved the imperial Venus of
Milos. Enough; _this_ is the sermon _not_ preached from stones.'
A BALL AT THE COSTA PALACE
One sunlight morning in February, while hard at work in his studio,
Caper was agreeably surprised by the entrance of an elderly uncle of
his, Mr. Bill Browne, of St. Louis, a gentleman of the rosy, stout,
hearty school of old bachelors, who, having made a large fortune by
keeping a Western country store, prudently retired from business, and
finding it dull work doing nothing, wisely determined to enjoy himself
with a tour over the Continent, 'or any other place he might conclude to
visit.'
'I say, Jim, did you expect to see me here?' was his first greeting.
'Why, Uncle Bill! Well, you are the last man I ever thought would turn
up. They didn't write me a word of your coming over,' answered Caper.
'Mistake; they wrote you all about it; and if you'll drop round at the
post-office, you'll find letters there telling you the particulars. Fact
is, I am ahead of the mail. Coming over in the steamer, met a man named
Orville; told me he knew you, that he was coming straight through to
Rome, and offered to pilot me. So I gave up Paris and all that, and came
smack through, eighteen days from New York. But I'm dry. Got a match?
Here, try one of these cigars.'
Caper took a cigar from his uncle's case, lit it, and then, calling the
man who swept out the studios, sent him to the neighboring wine-shop for
a bottle of wine.
'By George, Jim, that's a pretty painting: that jackass is fairly alive,
and so's the girl with a red boddice. I say, what's she got that towel
on her head for? Is it put there to dry?'
'No; that's an Italian peasant girl's head-covering. Most all of them do
so.'
'Do they? I'm glad of that. But here comes your man with the liquor.'
And, after drinking two or three tumblers full, Uncle Bill decided that
it was pretty good cider. The wine finished, together with a couple of
rolls that came with it, the two sallied out for a walk around the
Pincian Hill, the grand promenade of Rome. Towards sunset they thought
of dinner, and Uncle Bill, anxious to see life, accepted Caper's
invitation to dine at the old Gabioni: here they ordered the best
dishes, and the former swore it was as good a dinner as he ever got at
the Planter's House. Rocjean, who dined there, delighted the old
gentleman immensely, and the two fraternized at once, and drank each
other's health, old style, until Caper, fearing that neither could
conveniently hold more, suggested an adjournment to the Greco for coffee
and cigars.
While they were in the cafe, Rocjean quietly proposed something to
Caper, who at once assented; the latter then said to Uncle Bill,--