CHAPTER LVIII
GERARD took a modest lodging on the west bank of the Tiber, and everyday went forth in search of work, taking a specimen round to every shophe could hear of that executed such commissions.
They received him coldly. "We make our letter somewhat thinner thanthis," said one. "How dark your ink is," said another. But the main crywas, "What avails this? Scant is the Latin writ here now. Can ye notwrite Greek?"
"Ay, but not nigh so well as Latin."
"Then you shall never make your bread at Rome."
Gerard borrowed a beautiful Greek manuscript at a high price, and wenthome with a sad hole in his purse, but none in his courage.
In a fortnight he had made vast progress with the Greek character; sothen, to lose no time, he used to work at it till noon, and huntcustomers the rest of the day.
When he carried round a better Greek specimen than any they possessed,the traders informed him that Greek and Latin were alike unsalable; thecity was thronged with works from all Europe. He should have come lastyear.
Gerard bought a psaltery.
His landlady, pleased with his looks and manners, used often to speak akind word in passing. One day she made him dine with her, and somewhatto his surprise asked him what had dashed his spirits. He told her. Shegave him her reading of the matter. "Those sly traders," she would bebound, "had writers in their pay for whose work they received a nobleprice and paid a sorry one. So no wonder they blow cold on you. Methinksyou write too well. How know I that? say you. Marry--marry, because youlock not your door, like the churl Pietro, and women will be curious.Ay, ay, you write too well for _them_."
Gerard asked an explanation.
"Why," said she, "your good work might put out the eyes of that they areselling."
Gerard sighed. "Alas! dame, you read folk on the ill side, and you sokind and frank yourself."
"My dear little heart, these Romans are a subtle race. Me? I am aSiennese, thanks to the Virgin."
"My mistake was leaving Augsburg," said Gerard.
"Augsburg?" said she, haughtily; "is that a place to even to Rome? Inever heard of it for my part."
She then assured him that he should make his fortune in spite of thebooksellers. "Seeing thee a stranger, they lie to thee without sense ordiscretion. Why all the world knows that our great folk are bitten withthe writing spider this many years, and pour out their money like water,and turn good land and houses into writ sheepskins to keep in a chest ora cupboard. God help them, and send them safe through this fury, as hehath through a heap of others; and in sooth hath been somewhat lesscutting and stabbing among rival factions, and vindictive eating oftheir opposites' livers, minced and fried, since Scribbling came in. Why_I_ can tell you two. There is his eminence Cardinal Bassarion, and hisholiness the Pope himself. There be a pair could keep a score such asthee a writing night and day. But I'll speak to Teresa; she hears thegossip of the court."
The next day she told him she had seen Teresa, and had heard of fivemore signors who were bitten with the writing spider. Gerard took downtheir names, and bought parchment, and busied himself for some days inpreparing specimens. He left one, with his name and address, at each ofthese signors' doors, and hopefully awaited the result.
There was none.
Day after day passed and left him heartsick.
And strange to say this was just the time when Margaret was fighting sohard against odds to feed her male dependents at Rotterdam, and arrestedfor curing without a licence instead of killing with one.
Gerard saw ruin staring him in the face.
He spent the afternoons picking up canzonets and mastering them. He laidin playing cards to colour, and struck off a meal per day.
This last stroke of genius got him into fresh trouble.
In these "camere locande" the landlady dressed all the meals, though thelodgers bought the provisions. So Gerard's hostess speedily detectedhim, and asked him if he was not ashamed of himself: by which brusqueopening, having made him blush and look scared, she pacified herselfall in a moment, and appealed to his good sense whether Adversity was athing to be overcome on an empty stomach.
"Patienza, my lad! times will mend, meantime I will feed you for thelove of heaven" (Italian for "gratis").
"Nay, hostess," said Gerard, "my purse is not yet quite void, and itwould add to my trouble an if true folk should lose their due by me."
"Why you are as mad as your neighbour Pietro, with his one bad picture."
"Why, how know you 'tis a bad picture?"
"Because nobody will buy it. There is one that hath no gift. He willhave to don casque and glaive, and carry his panel for a shield."
Gerard pricked up his ears at this: so she told him more. Pietro hadcome from Florence with money in his purse, and an unfinished picture;had taken her one unfurnished room, opposite Gerard's, and furnished itneatly. When his picture was finished, he received visitors and hadoffers for it: these, though in her opinion liberal ones, he had refusedso disdainfully as to make enemies of his customers. Since then he hadoften taken it out with him to try and sell, but had always brought itback; and, the last month, she had seen one movable after another go outof his room, and now he wore but one suit, and lay at night on a greatchest. She had found this out only by peeping through the keyhole, forhe locked the door most vigilantly whenever he went out. "Is he afraidwe shall steal his chest, or his picture that no soul in all Rome isweak enough to buy?"
"Nay, sweet hostess, see you not 'tis his poverty he would screen fromview?"
"And the more fool he! Are all our hearts as ill as his? A might give usa trial first any way."
"How you speak of him. Why his case is mine; and your countryman toboot."
"Oh, we Siennese love strangers. His case yours? nay 'tis just thecontrary. You are the comeliest youth ever lodged in this house; hairlike gold; he is a dark sour-visaged loon. Besides you know how to takea woman on her better side; but not he. Natheless I wish he would notstarve to death in my house, to get me a bad name. Any way, onestarveling is enough in any house. You are far from home, and it is forme, which am the mistress here, to number your meals--for me and theDutch wife, your mother, that is far away: we two women shall settlethat matter. Mind thou thine own business, being a man, and leavecooking and the like to us, that are in the world for little else that Isee but to roast fowls, and suckle men at starting, and sweep theirgrown-up cobwebs."
"Dear kind dame, in sooth you do often put me in mind of my mother thatis far away."
"All the better; I'll put you more in mind of her before I have donewith you." And the honest soul beamed with pleasure.
Gerard not being an egotist, nor blinded by female partialities, saw hisown grief in poor proud Pietro; and the more he thought of it, the morehe resolved to share his humble means with that unlucky artist; Pietro'ssympathy would repay him. He tried to waylay him: but without success.
One day he heard a groaning in the room. He knocked at the door, butreceived no answer. He knocked again. A surly voice bade him enter.
He obeyed somewhat timidly, and entered a garret furnished with a chair,a picture, face to wall, an iron basin, an easel, and a long chest, onwhich was coiled a haggard young man with a wonderfully bright eye.Anything more like a coiled cobra ripe for striking the first comer wasnever seen.
"Good Signor Pietro," said Gerard, "forgive me that, weary of my ownsolitude, I intrude on yours; but I am your nighest neighbour in thishouse, and methinks your brother in fortune. I am an artist too."
"You are a painter? Welcome, signor. Sit down on my bed."
And Pietro jumped off and waved him into the vacant throne with amagnificent demonstration of courtesy.
Gerard bowed, and smiled; but hesitated a little. "I may not call myselfa painter. I am a writer, a caligraph. I copy Greek and Latinmanuscripts, when I can get them to copy."
"And you call that an artist?"
"Without offense to your superior merit, Signor Pietro."
"No offence, str
anger, none. Only, me seemeth an artist is one whothinks and paints his thought. Now a caligraph but draws in black andwhite the thoughts of another."
"'Tis well distinguished, signor. But then, a writer can write thethoughts of the great ancients, and matters of pure reason, such as noman may paint: ay, and the thoughts of God, which angels could notpaint. But let that pass. I am a painter as well; but a sorry one."
"The better thy luck. They will buy thy work in Rome."
"But seeking to commend myself to one of thy eminence, I thought it wellrather to call myself a capable writer than a scurvy painter."
At this moment a step was heard on the stair.
"Ah! 'tis the good dame," cried Gerard. "What ho! hostess, I am here inconversation with Signor Pietro. I dare say he will let me have myhumble dinner here."
The Italian bowed gravely.
The landlady brought in Gerard's dinner smoking and savory. She put thedish down on the bed with a face divested of all expression, and went.
Gerard fell to. But ere he had eaten many mouthfuls he stopped, andsaid: "I am an ill-mannered churl, Signor Pietro. I ne'er eat to mymind, when I eat alone. For our Lady's sake put a spoon into this ragoutwith me; 'tis not unsavoury, I promise you."
Pietro fixed his glittering eye on him.
"What, good youth, thou a stranger, and offerest me thy dinner?"
"Why, see, there is more than one can eat."
"Well, I accept," said Pietro: and took the dish with some appearance ofcalmness, and flung the contents out of the window.
Then he turned trembling with mortification and ire, and said: "Let thatteach thee to offer alms to an artist thou knowest not, master writer."
Gerard's face flushed with anger, and it cost him a bitter struggle notto box this high-souled creature's ears. And then to go and destroy goodfood! His mother's milk curdled in his veins with horror at suchimpiety. Finally, pity at Pietro's petulance and egotism, and a touch ofrespect for poverty-struck pride, prevailed.
However he said coldly, "Likely what thou hast done might pass in anovel of thy countryman, Signor Boccaccio; but 'twas not honest."
"Make that good!" said the painter sullenly.
"I offered thee half my dinner; no more. But thou hast ta'en it all.Hadst a right to throw away thy share, but not mine. Pride is well, butjustice is better."
Pietro stared, then reflected.
"'Tis well. I took thee for a fool, so transparent was thine artifice.Forgive me! And prithee leave me! Thou seest how 'tis with me. The worldhath soured me. I hate mankind. I was not always so. Once more excusethat my discourtesy, and fare thee well!"
Gerard sighed and made for the door.
But suddenly a thought struck him. "Signor Pietro," said he, "weDutchmen are hard bargainers. We are the lads 'een eij scheeren,' thatis 'to shave an egg.' Therefore, I, for my lost dinner, do claim tofeast mine eyes on your picture, whose face is toward the wall."
"Nay, nay," said the painter hastily, "ask me not that; I have alreadymisconducted myself enough towards thee. I would not shed thy blood."
"Saints forbid! My blood?"
"Stranger," said Pietro sullenly, "irritated by repeated insults to mypicture, which is my child, my heart, I did in a moment of rage make asolemn vow to drive my dagger into the next one that should flout it,and the labour and love that I have given to it."
"What, are all to be slain that will not praise this picture?" and helooked at its back with curiosity.
"Nay, nay: if you would but look at it, and hold your parrot tongues.But you will be talking. So I have turned it to the wall for ever. WouldI were dead, and buried in it for my coffin!"
Gerard reflected.
"I accept the conditions. Show me the picture! I can but hold my peace."
Pietro went and turned its face, and put it in the best light the roomafforded, and coiled himself again on his chest, with his eye, andstiletto, glittering.
The picture represented the Virgin and Christ, flying through the air ina sort of cloud of shadowy cherubic faces; underneath was a landscape,forty or fifty miles in extent, and a purple sky above.
Gerard stood and looked at it in silence. Then he stepped close, andlooked. Then he retired as far off as he could, and looked; but said nota word.
When he had been at this game half an hour, Pietro cried out querulouslyand somewhat inconsistently: "Well, have you not a word to say aboutit?"
Gerard started. "I cry your mercy; I forgot there were three of us here.Ay, I have much to say." And he drew his sword.
"Alas! alas!" cried Pietro, jumping in terror from his lair. "Whatwouldst thou?"
"Marry, defend myself against thy bodkin, signor; and at due odds,being, as aforesaid, a Dutchman. Therefore, hold aloof, while I deliverjudgment, or I will pin thee to the wall like a cockchafer."
"Oh! is that all," said Pietro greatly relieved. "I feared you weregoing to stab my poor picture with your sword, stabbed already by somany foul tongues."
Gerard "pursued criticism under difficulties." Put himself in a positionof defence, with his sword's point covering Pietro, and one eye glancingaside at the picture. "First, signor, I would have you know that, in themixing of certain colours, and in the preparation of your oil, youItalians are far behind us Flemings. But let that flea stick. For assmall as I am, I can show you certain secrets of the Van Eycks, that youwill put to marvellous profit in your next picture. Meantime I see inthis one the great qualities of your nation. Verily, ye are _solisfilii_. If we have colour, you have imagination. Mother of heaven! an hehath not flung his immortal soul upon the panel. One thing I go by isthis; it makes other pictures I once admired seem drossy, earth-bornthings. The drapery here is somewhat short and stiff. Why not let itfloat freely, the figures being in air and motion?"
"I will! I will!" cried Pietro eagerly. "I will do anything for thosewho will but see what I _have_ done."
"Humph! This landscape it enlightens me. Henceforth I scorn those littlehuddled landscapes that did erst content me. Here is Nature's very face:a spacious plain, each distance marked, and every tree, house, figure,field and river smaller and less plain, by exquisite gradation, tillvision itself melts into distance. O beautiful! And the cunning roguehath hung his celestial figure in air out of the way of his little worldbelow. Here, floating saints beneath heaven's purple canopy. There, fardown, earth and her busy hives. And they let you take this paintedpoetry, this blooming hymn, through the streets of Rome and bring ithome unsold. But I tell thee in Ghent or Bruges, or even in Rotterdam,they would tear it out of thy hands. But 'tis a common saying that astranger's eye sees clearest. Courage, Pietro Vanucci! I reverence thee,and, though myself a scurvy painter, do forgive thee for being a greatone. Forgive thee? I thank God for thee and such rare men as thou art;and bow the knee to thee in just homage. Thy picture is immortal, andthou, that hast but a chest to sit on, art a king in thy most royal art.Viva, il maestro! Viva!"
At this unexpected burst the painter, with all the abandon of hisnation, flung himself on Gerard's neck. "They said it was a maniac'sdream," he sobbed.
"Maniacs themselves! no, idiots!" shouted Gerard.
"Generous stranger! I will hate men no more since the world hath such asthee. I was a viper to fling thy poor dinner away; a wretch, a monster."
"Well, monster, wilt be gentle now, and sup with me?"
"Ah! that I will. Whither goest thou?"
"To order supper on the instant. We will have the picture for thirdman."
"I will invite it whiles thou art gone. My poor picture, child of myheart."
"Ah! master; 'twill look on many a supper after the worms have eaten youand me."
"I hope so," said Pietro.
The Cloister and the Hearth: A Tale of the Middle Ages Page 60
