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F. MARION CRAWFORD
AUTHOR OF “THE THREE FATES,” “ZOROASTER,” “DR. CLAUDIUS,” “SARACINESCA,” ETC.
NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS
1891, MACMILLAN AND CO.
Reprinted January, April, December, 1893; June, 1894; January, November, 1895; June, 1896, January, 1898, June, 1899; July, 1901 June, 1903; June, 1905; January, 1907.
Norwood Press J.S. Cushing & Co.–Berwick & Smith Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
Don Orsino Saracinesca is of the younger age and lives in the younger Rome, with his father and mother, under the roof of the vast old palace which has sheltered so many hundreds of Saracinesca in peace and war, but which has rarely in the course of the centuries been the home of three generations at once during one and twenty years.
The lover of romance may lie in the sun, caring not for the time of day and content to watch the butterflies that cross his blue sky on the way from one flower to another. But the historian is an entomologist who must be stirring. He must catch the moths, which are his facts, in the net which is his memory, and he must fasten them upon his paper with sharp pins, which are dates.
By far the greater number of old Prince Saracinesca’s contemporaries are dead, and more or less justly forgotten. Old Valdarno died long ago in his bed, surrounded by sons and daughters. The famous dandy of other days, the Duke of Astrardente, died at his young wife’s feet some three and twenty years before this chapter of family history opens. Then the primeval Prince Montevarchi came to a violent end at the hands of his librarian, leaving his English princess consolable but unconsoled, leaving also his daughter Flavia married to that other Giovanni Saracinesca who still bears the name of Marchese di San Giacinto; while the younger girl, the fair, brown-eyed Faustina, loved a poor Frenchman, half soldier and all artist. The weak, good-natured Ascanio Bellegra reigns in his father’s stead, the timidly extravagant master of all that wealth which the miser’s lean and crooked fingers had consigned to a safe keeping. Frangipani too, whose son was to have married Faustina, is gone these many years, and others of the older and graver sort have learned the great secret from the lips of death.
But there have been other and greater deaths, beside which the mortality of a whole society of noblemen sinks into insignificance. An empire is dead and another has arisen in the din of a vast war, begotten in bloodshed, brought forth in strife, baptized with fire. The France we knew is gone, and the French Republic writes “Liberty, Fraternity, Equality” in great red letters above the gate of its habitation, which within is yet hung with mourning. Out of the nest of kings and princes and princelings, and of all manner of rulers great and small, rises the solitary eagle of the new German Empire and hangs on black wings between sky and earth, not striking again, but always ready, a vision of armed peace, a terror, a problem–perhaps a warning.
Old Rome is dead, too, never to be old Rome again. The last breath has been breathed, the aged eyes are closed for ever, corruption has done its work, and the grand skeleton lies bleaching upon seven hills, half covered with the piecemeal stucco of a modern architectural body. The result is satisfactory to those who have brought it about, if not to the rest of the world. The sepulchre of old Rome is the new capital of united Italy.
The three chief actors are dead also–the man of heart, the man of action and the man of wit, the good, the brave and, the cunning, the Pope, the King and the Cardinal–Pius the Ninth, Victor Emmanuel the Second, Giacomo Antonelli. Rome saw them all dead.
In a poor chamber of the Vatican, upon a simple bed, beside which burned two waxen torches in the cold morning light, lay the body of the man whom none had loved and many had feared, clothed in the violet robe of the cardinal-deacon. The keen face was drawn up on one side with a strange look of mingled pity and contempt. The delicate, thin hands were clasped together on the breast. The chilly light fell upon the dead features, the silken robe and the stone floor. A single servant in a shabby livery stood in a corner, smiling foolishly, while the tears stood in his eyes and wet his unshaven cheeks. Perhaps he cared, as servants will, when no one else cares. The door opened almost directly upon a staircase and the noise of the feet of those passing up and down upon the stone steps disturbed the silence in the death chamber. At night the poor body was thrust unhonoured into a common coach and driven out to its resting-place.
In a vast hall, upon an enormous catafalque, full thirty feet above the floor, lay all that was left of the honest king. Thousands of wax candles cast their light up to the dark, shapeless face, and upon the military accoutrements of the uniform in which the huge body was clothed. A great crowd pressed to the railing to gaze their fill and go away. Behind the division tall troopers in cuirasses mounted guard and moved carelessly about. It was all tawdry, but tawdry on a magnificent scale–all unlike the man in whose honour it was done. For he had been simple and brave.
When he was at last borne to his tomb in the Pantheon, a file of imperial and royal princes marched shoulder to shoulder down the street before him, and the black charger he had loved was led after him.
In a dim chapel of St. Peter’s lay the Pope, robed in white, the jewelled tiara upon his head, his white face calm and peaceful. Six torches burned beside him; six nobles of the guard stood like statues with drawn swords, three on his right hand and three on his left. That was all. The crowd passed in single file before the great closed gates of the Julian Chapel.
At night he was borne reverently by loving hands to the deep crypt below. But at another time, at night also, the dead man was taken up and driven towards the gate to be buried without the walls. Then a great crowd assembled in the darkness and fell upon the little band and stoned the coffin of him who never harmed any man, and screamed out curses and blasphemies till all the city was astir with riot. That was the last funeral hymn.
Old Rome is gone. The narrow streets are broad thoroughfares, the Jews’ quarter is a flat and dusty building lot, the fountain of Ponte Sisto is swept away, one by one the mighty pines of Villa Ludovisi have fallen under axe and saw, and a cheap, thinly inhabited quarter is built upon the site of the enchanted garden. The network of by-ways from the Jesuits’ church to the Sant’ Angelo bridge is ploughed up and opened by the huge Corso Vittorio Emmanuele. Buildings which strangers used to search for in the shade, guide-book and map in hand, are suddenly brought into the blaze of light that fills broad streets and sweeps across great squares. The vast Cancelleria stands out nobly to the sun, the curved front of the Massimo palace exposes its black colonnade to sight upon the greatest thoroughfare of the new city, the ancient Arco de’ Cenci exhibits its squalor in unshadowed sunshine, the Portico of Octavia once more looks upon the river.
He who was born and bred in the Rome of twenty years ago comes back after a long absence to wander as a stranger in streets he never knew, among houses unfamiliar to him, amidst a population whose speech sounds strange in his ears. He roams the city from the Lateran to the Tiber, from the Tiber to the Vatican, finding himself now and then before some building once familiar in another aspect, losing himself perpetually in unprofitable wastes made more monotonous than the sandy desert by the modern builder’s art. Where once he lingered in old days to glance at the river, or to dream of days yet older and long gone, scarce conscious of the beggar at his elbow and hardly seeing the half dozen workmen who laboured at their trades almost in the middle of the public way–where all was once aged and silent and melancholy and full of the elder memories–there, at that very corner, he is hustled and jostled by an eager crowd, thrust to the wall by huge, grinding, creaking carts, threatened with the modern death by the wheel of the modern omnibus, deafened by the yells of the modern newsvendors, robbed, very likely, by the light fingers of the modern inhabitant.
And yet he feels that Rome must be Rome still. He stands aloof and gazes at the sight as upon a play in which Rome herself is the great heroine and actress. He knows the woman and he sees the artist for the first time, not recognising her. She is a dark-eyed, black-haired, thoughtful woman when not upon the stage. How should he know her in the strange disguise, her head decked with Gretchen’s fair tresses, her olive cheek daubed with pink and white paint, her stately form clothed in garments that would be gay and girlish but which are only unbecoming? He would gladly go out and wait by the stage door until the performance is over, to see the real woman pass him in the dim light of the street lamps as she enters her carriage and becomes herself again. And so, in the reality, he turns his back upon the crowd and strolls away, not caring whither he goes until, by a mere accident, he finds himself upon the height of Sant’ Onofrio, or standing before the great fountains of the Acqua Paola, or perhaps upon the drive which leads through the old Villa Corsini along the crest of the Janiculum. Then, indeed, the scene thus changes, the actress is gone and the woman is before him; the capital of modern Italy sinks like a vision into the earth out of which it was called up, and the capital of the world rises once more, unchanged, unchanging and unchangeable, before the wanderer’s eyes. The greater monuments of greater times are there still, majestic and unmoved, the larger signs of a larger age stand out clear and sharp; the tomb of Hadrian frowns on the yellow stream, the heavy hemisphere of the Pantheon turns its single opening to the sky, the enormous dome of the world’s cathedral looks silently down upon the sepulchre of the world’s masters.
Then the sun sets and the wanderer goes down again through the chilly evening air to the city below, to find it less modern than he had thought. He has found what he sought and he knows that the real will outlast the false, that the stone will outlive the stucco and that the builder of to-day is but a builder of card-houses beside the architects who made Rome.
So his heart softens a little, or at least grows less resentful, for he has realised how small the change really is as compared with the first effect produced. The great house has fallen into new hands and the latest tenant is furnishing the dwelling to his taste. That is all. He will not tear down the walls, for his hands are too feeble to build them again, even if he were not occupied with other matters and hampered by the disagreeable consciousness of the extravagances he has already committed.
Other things have been accomplished, some of which may perhaps endure, and some of which are good in themselves, while some are indifferent and some distinctly bad. The great experiment of Italian unity is in process of trial and the world is already forming its opinion upon the results. Society, heedless as it necessarily is of contemporary history, could not remain indifferent to the transformation of its accustomed surroundings; and here, before entering upon an account of individual doings, the chronicler may be allowed to say a few words upon a matter little understood by foreigners, even when they have spent several seasons in Rome and have made acquaintance with each other for the purpose of criticising the Romans.
Immediately after the taking of the city in 1870, three distinct parties declared themselves, to wit, the Clericals or Blacks, the Monarchists or Whites, and the Republicans or Beds. All three had doubtless existed for a considerable time, but the wine of revolution favoured the expression of the truth, and society awoke one morning to find itself divided into camps holding very different opinions.
At first the mass of the greater nobles stood together for the lost temporal power of the Pope, while a great number of the less important families followed two or three great houses in siding with the Royalists. The Republican idea, as was natural, found but few sympathisers in the highest class, and these were, I believe, in all cases young men whose fathers were Blacks or Whites, and most of whom have since thought fit to modify their opinions in one direction or the other. Nevertheless the Red interest was, and still is, tolerably strong and has been destined to play that powerful part in parliamentary life, which generally falls to the lot of a compact third party, where a fourth does not yet exist, or has no political influence, as is the case in Rome.
For there is a fourth body in Rome, which has little political but much social importance. It was not possible that people who had grown up together in the intimacy of a close caste-life, calling each other “thee” and “thou,” and forming the hereditary elements of a still feudal organisation, should suddenly break off all acquaintance and be strangers one to another. The brother, a born and convinced clerical, found that his own sister had followed her husband to the court of the new King. The rigid adherent of the old order met his own son in the street, arrayed in the garb of an Italian officer. The two friends who had stood side by side in good and evil case for a score of years saw themselves suddenly divided by the gulf which lies between a Roman cardinal and a Senator of the Italian Kingdom. The breach was sudden and great, but it was bridged for many by the invention of a fourth, proportional. The points of contact between White and Black became Grey, and a social power, politically neutral and constitutionally indifferent, arose as a mediator between the Contents and the Malcontents. There were families that had never loved the old order but which distinctly disliked the new, and who opened their doors to the adherents of both. There is a house which has become Grey out of a sort of superstition inspired by the unfortunate circumstances which oddly coincided with each movement of its members to join the new order. There is another, and one of the greatest, in which a very high hereditary dignity in the one party, still exercised by force of circumstances, effectually forbids the expression of a sincere sympathy with the opposed power. Another there is, whose members are cousins of the one sovereign and personal friends of the other.
A further means of amalgamation has been found in the existence of the double embassies of the great powers. Austria, France and Spain each send an Ambassador to the King of Italy and an Ambassador to the Pope, of like state and importance. Even Protestant Prussia maintains a Minister Plenipotentiary to the Holy See. Russia has her diplomatic agent to the Vatican, and several of the smaller powers keep up two distinct legations. It is naturally neither possible nor intended that these diplomatists should never meet on friendly terms, though they are strictly interdicted from issuing official invitations to each other. Their point of contact is another grey square on the chess-board.
The foreigner, too, is generally a neutral individual, for if his political convictions lean towards the wrong side of the Tiber his social tastes incline to Court balls; or if he is an admirer of Italian institutions, his curiosity may yet lead him to seek a presentation at the Vatican, and his inexplicable though recent love of feudal princedom may take him, card-case in hand, to that great stronghold of Vaticanism which lies due west of the Piazza di Venezia and due north of the Capitol.
During the early years which followed the change, the attitude of society in Rome was that of protest and indignation on the one hand, of enthusiasm and rather brutally expressed triumph on the other. The line was very clearly drawn, for the adherence was of the nature of personal loyalty on both sides. Eight years and a half later the personal feeling disappeared with the almost simultaneous death of Pius IX. and Victor Emmanuel II. From that time the great strife degenerated by degrees into a difference of opinion. It may perhaps be said also that both parties became aware of their common enemy, the social democrat, soon after the disappearance of the popular King whose great individual influence was of more value to the cause of a united monarchy than all the political clubs and organisations in Italy put together. He was a strong man. He only once, I think, yielded to the pressure of a popular excitement, namely, in the matter of seizing Rome when the French troops were withdrawn, thereby violating a ratified Treaty. But his position was a hard one. He regretted the apparent necessity, and to the day of his death he never would sleep under the roof of Pius the Ninth’s Palace on the Quirinal, but had his private apartments in an adjoining building. He was brave and generous. Such faults as he had were no burden to the nation and concerned himself alone. The same praise may be worthily bestowed upon his successor, but the personal influence is no longer the same, any more than that of Leo XIII. can be compared with that of Pius IX., though all the world is aware of the present Pope’s intellectual superiority and lofty moral principle.
Let us try to be just. The unification of Italy has been the result of a noble conception. The execution of the scheme has not been without faults, and some of these faults have brought about deplorable, even disastrous, consequences, such as to endanger the stability of the new order. The worst of these attendant errors has been the sudden imposition of a most superficial and vicious culture, under the name of enlightenment and education. The least of the new Government’s mistakes has been a squandering of the public money, which, when considered with reference to the country’s resources, has perhaps no parallel in the history of nations.
Yet the first idea was large, patriotic, even grand. The men who first steered the ship of the state were honourable, disinterested, devoted–men like Minghetti, who will not soon be forgotten–loyal, conservative monarchists, whose thoughts were free from exaggeration, save that they believed almost too blindly in the power of a constitution to build up a kingdom, and credited their fellows almost too readily with a purpose as pure and blameless as their own. Can more be said for these? I think not. They rest in honourable graves, their doings live in honoured remembrance–would that there had been such another generation to succeed them.
And having said thus much, let us return to the individuals who have played a part in the history of the Saracinesca. They have grown older, some gracefully, some under protest, some most unbecomingly.
In the end of the year 1887 old Leone Saracinesca is still alive, being eighty-two years of age. His massive head has sunk a little between his slightly rounded shoulders, and his white beard is no longer cut short and square, but flows majestically down upon his broad breast. His step is slow, but firm still, and when he looks up suddenly from under his wrinkled lids, the fire is not even yet all gone from his eyes. He is still contradictory by nature, but he has mellowed like rare wine in the long years of prosperity and peace. When the change came in Rome he was in the mountains at Saracinesca, with his daughter-in-law, Corona and her children. His son Giovanni, generally known as Prince of Sant’ Ilario, was among the volunteers at the last and sat for half a day upon his horse in the Pincio, listening to the bullets that sang over his head while his men fired stray shots from the parapets of the public garden into the road below. Giovanni is fifty-two years old, but though his hair is grey at the temples and his figure a trifle sturdier and broader than of old, he is little changed. His son, Orsino, who will soon be of age, overtops him by a head and shoulders, a dark youth, slender still, but strong and active, the chief person in this portion of my chronicle. Orsino has three brothers of ranging ages, of whom the youngest is scarcely twelve years old. Not one girl child has been given to Giovanni and Corona and they almost wish that one of the sturdy little lads had been a daughter. But old Saracinesca laughs and shakes his head and says he will not die till his four grandsons are strong enough to bear him to his grave upon their shoulders.
Corona is still beautiful, still dark, still magnificent, though she has reached the age beyond which no woman ever goes until after death. There are few lines in the noble face and such as are there are not the scars of heart wounds. Her life, too, has been peaceful and undisturbed by great events these many years. There is, indeed, one perpetual anxiety in her existence, for the old prince is an aged man and she loves him dearly. The tough strength must give way some day and there will be a great mourning in the house of Saracinesca, nor will any mourn the dead more sincerely than Corona. And there is a shade of bitterness in the knowledge that her marvellous beauty is waning. Can she be blamed for that? She has been beautiful so long. What woman who has been first for a quarter of a century can give up her place without a sigh? But much has been given to her to soften the years of transition, and she knows that also, when she looks from her husband to her four boys.
Then, too, it seems more easy to grow old when she catches a glimpse from time to time of Donna Tullia Del Ferice, who wears her years ungracefully, and who was once so near to becoming Giovanni Saracinesca’s wife. Donna Tullia is fat and fiery of complexion, uneasily vivacious and unsure of herself. Her disagreeable blue eyes have not softened, nor has the metallic tone of her voice lost its sharpness. Yet she should not be a disappointed woman, for Del Ferice is a power in the land, a member of parliament, a financier and a successful schemer, whose doors are besieged by parasites and his dinner-table by those who wear fine raiment and dwell in kings’ palaces. Del Ferice is the central figure in the great building syndicates which in 1887 are at the height of their power. He juggles with millions of money, with miles of real estate, with thousands of workmen. He is director of a bank, president of a political club, chairman of half a dozen companies and a deputy in the chambers. But his face is unnaturally pale, his body is over-corpulent, and he has trouble with his heart. The Del Ferice couple are childless, to their own great satisfaction.
Anastase Gouache, the great painter, is also in Rome. Sixteen years ago he married the love of his life, Faustina Montevarchi, in spite of the strong opposition of her family. But times had changed. A new law existed and the thrice repeated formal request for consent made by Faustina to her mother, freed her from parental authority and brotherly interference. She and her husband passed through some very lean years in the beginning, but fortune has smiled upon them since that. Anastase is very famous. His character has changed little. With the love of the ideal republic in his heart, he shed his blood at Mentana for the great conservative principle, he fired his last shot for the same cause at the Porta Pia on the twentieth of September 1870; a month later he was fighting for France under the gallant Charette–whether for France imperial, regal or republican he never paused to ask; he was wounded in fighting against the Commune, and decorated for painting the portrait of Gambetta, after which he returned to Rome, cursed politics and married the woman he loved, which was, on the whole, the wisest course he could have followed. He has two children, both girls, aged now respectively fifteen and thirteen. His virtues are many, but they do not include economy. Though his savings are small and he depends upon his brush, he lives in one wing of an historic palace and gives dinners which are famous. He proposes to reform and become a miser when his daughters are married.
“Misery will be the foundation of my second manner, my angel,” he says to his wife, when he has done something unusually extravagant.
But Faustina laughs softly and winds her arm about his neck as they look together at the last great picture. Anastase has not grown fat. The gods love him and have promised him eternal youth. He can still buckle round his slim waist the military belt of twenty years ago, and there is scarcely one white thread in his black hair.
San Giacinto, the other Saracinesca, who married Faustina’s elder sister Flavia, is in process of making a great fortune, greater perhaps than the one so nearly thrust upon him by old Montevarchi’s compact with Meschini the librarian and forger. He had scarcely troubled himself to conceal his opinions before the change of government, being by nature a calm, fearless man, and under the new order he unhesitatingly sided with the Italians, to the great satisfaction of Flavia, who foresaw years of dulness for the mourning party of the Blacks. He had already brought to Rome the two boys who remained to him from his first marriage with Serafina Baldi–the little girl who had been born between the other two children had died in infancy–and the lads had been educated at a military college, and in 1887 are both officers in the Italian cavalry, sturdy and somewhat thick-skulled patriots, but gentlemen nevertheless in spite of the peasant blood. They are tall fellows enough but neither of them has inherited the father’s colossal stature, and San Giacinto looks with a very little envy on his young kinsman Orsino who has outgrown his cousins. This second marriage has brought him issue, a boy and a girl, and the fact that he has now four children to provide for has had much to do with his activity in affairs. He was among the first to see that an enormous fortune was to be made in the first rush for land in the city, and he realised all he possessed, and borrowed to the full extent of his credit to pay the first instalments on the land he bought, risking everything with the calm determination and cool judgment which lay at the root of his strong character. He was immensely successful, but though he had been bold to recklessness at the right moment, he saw the great crash looming in the near future, and when the many were frantic to buy and invest, no matter at what loss, his millions were in part safely deposited in national bonds, and in part as securely invested in solid and profitable buildings of which the rents are little liable to fluctuation. Brought up to know what money means, he is not easily carried away by enthusiastic reports. He knows that when the hour of fortune is at hand no price is too great to pay for ready capital, but he understands that when the great rush for success begins the psychological moment of finance is already passed. When he dies, if such strength as his can yield to death, he will die the richest man in Italy, and he will leave what is rare in Italian finance, a stainless name.
Of one person more I must speak, who has played a part in this family history. The melancholy Spicca still lives his lonely life in the midst of the social world. He affects to be a little old-fashioned in his dress. His tall thin body stoops ominously and his cadaverous face is more grave and ascetic than ever. He is said to have been suffering from a mortal disease these fifteen years, but still he goes everywhere, reads everything and knows every one. He is between sixty and seventy years old, but no one knows his precise age. The foils he once used so well hang untouched and rusty above his fireplace, but his reputation survives the lost strength of his supple wrist, and there are few in Rome, brave men or hairbrained youths, who would willingly anger him even now. He is still the great duellist of his day; the emaciated fingers might still find their old grip upon a sword hilt, the long, listless arm might perhaps once more shoot out with lightning speed, the dull eye might once again light up at the clash of steel. Peaceable, charitable when none are at hand to see him give, gravely gentle now in manner, Count Spicca is thought dangerous still. But he is indeed very lonely in his old age, and if the truth be told his fortune seems to have suffered sadly of late years, so that he rarely leaves Rome, even in the hot summer, and it is very long since he spent six weeks in Paris or risked a handful of gold at Monte Carlo. Yet his life is not over, and he has still a part to play, for his own sake and for the sake of another, as shall soon appear more clearly.
Orsino Saracinesca’s education was almost completed. It had been of the modern kind, for his father had early recognised that it would be a disadvantage to the young man in after life if he did not follow the course of study and pass the examinations required of every Italian subject who wishes to hold office in his own country. Accordingly, though he had not been sent to public schools, Orsino had been regularly entered since his childhood for the public examinations and had passed them all in due order, with great difficulty and indifferent credit. After this preliminary work he had been at an English University for four terms, not with any view to his obtaining a degree after completing the necessary residence, but in order that he might perfect himself in the English language, associate with young men of his own age and social standing, though of different nationality, and acquire that final polish which is so highly valued in the human furniture of society’s temples.
Orsino was not more highly gifted as to intelligence than many young men of his age and class. Like many of them he spoke English admirably, French tolerably, and Italian with a somewhat Roman twang. He had learned a little German and was rapidly forgetting it again; Latin and Greek had been exhibited to him as dead languages, and he felt no more inclination to assist in their resurrection than is felt by most boys in our day. He had been taught geography in the practical, continental manner, by being obliged to draw maps from memory. He had been instructed in history, not by parallels, but as it were by tangents, a method productive of odd results, and he had advanced just far enough in the study of mathematics to be thoroughly confused by the terms “differentiation” and “integration.” Besides these subjects, a multitude of moral and natural sciences had been made to pass in a sort of panorama before his intellectual vision, including physics, chemistry, logic, rhetoric, ethics and political economy, with a view to cultivating in him the spirit of the age. The Ministry of Public Instruction having decreed that the name of God shall be for ever eliminated from all modern books in use in Italian schools and universities, Orsino’s religious instruction had been imparted at home and had at least the advantage of being homogeneous.
It must not be supposed that Orsino’s father and mother were satisfied with this sort of education. But it was not easy to foresee what social and political changes might come about before the boy reached mature manhood. Neither Giovanni nor his wife were of the absolutely “intransigent” way of thinking. They saw no imperative reason to prevent their sons from joining at some future time in the public life of their country, though they themselves preferred not to associate with the party at present in power. Moreover Giovanni Saracinesca saw that the abolition of primogeniture had put an end to hereditary idleness, and that although his sons would be rich enough to do nothing if they pleased, yet his grandchildren would probably have to choose between work and genteel poverty, if it pleased the fates to multiply the race. He could indeed leave one half of his wealth intact to Orsino, but the law required that the other half should be equally divided among all; and as the same thing would take place in the second generation, unless a reactionary revolution intervened, the property would before long be divided into very small moieties indeed. For Giovanni had no idea of imposing celibacy upon his younger sons, still less of exerting any influence he possessed to make them enter the Church. He was too broad in his views for that. They promised to turn out as good men in a struggle as the majority of those who would be opposed to them in life, and they should fight their own battles unhampered by parental authority or caste prejudice.
Many years earlier Giovanni had expressed his convictions in regard to the change of order then imminent. He had said that he would fight as long as there was anything to fight for, but that if the change came he would make the best of it. He was now keeping his word. He had fought as far as fighting had been possible and had sincerely wished that his warlike career might have offered more excitement and opportunity for personal distinction than had been afforded him in spending an afternoon on horseback, listening to the singing of bullets overhead. His amateur soldiering was over long ago, but he was strong, brave and intelligent, and if he had been convinced that a second and more radical revolution could accomplish any good result, he would have been capable of devoting himself to its cause with a single-heartedness not usual in these days. But he was not convinced. He therefore lived a quiet life, making the best of the present, improving his lands and doing his best to bring up his sons in such a way as to give them a chance of success when the struggle should come. Orsino was his eldest born and the results of modern education became apparent in him first, as was inevitable.
Orsino was at this time not quite twenty-one years of age, but the important day was not far distant and in order to leave a lasting memorial of the attaining of his majority Prince Saracinesca had decreed that Corona should receive a portrait of her eldest son executed by the celebrated Anastase Gouache. To this end the young man spent three mornings in every week in the artist’s palatial studio, a place about as different from the latter’s first den in the Via San Basilio as the Basilica of Saint Peter is different from a roadside chapel in the Abruzzi. Those who have seen the successful painter of the nineteenth century in his glory will have less difficulty in imagining the scene of Gouache’s labours than the writer finds in describing it. The workroom is a hall, the ceiling is a vault thirty feet high, the pavement is of polished marble; the light enters by north windows which would not look small in a good-sized church, the doors would admit a carriage and pair, the tapestries upon the walls would cover the front of a modern house. Everything is on a grand scale, of the best period, of the most genuine description. Three or four originals of great masters, of Titian, of Reubens, of Van Dyck, stand on huge easels in the most favourable lights. Some scores of matchless antique fragments, both of bronze and marble, are placed here and there upon superb carved tables and shelves of the sixteenth century. The only reproduction visible in the place is a very perfect cast of the Hermes of Olympia. The carpets are all of Shiraz, Sinna, Gjordez or old Baku–no common thing of Smyrna, no unclean aniline production of Russo-Asiatic commerce disturbs the universal harmony. In a full light upon the wall hangs a single silk carpet of wonderful tints, famous in the history of Eastern collections, and upon it is set at a slanting angle a single priceless Damascus blade–a sword to possess which an Arab or a Circassian would commit countless crimes. Anastase Gouache is magnificent in all his tastes and in all his ways. His studio and his dwelling are his only estate, his only capital, his only wealth, and he does not take the trouble to conceal the fact. The very idea of a fixed income is as distasteful to him as the possibility of possessing it is distant and visionary. There is always money in abundance, money for Faustina’s horses and carriages, money for Gouache’s select dinners, money for the expensive fancies of both. The paint pot is the mine, the brush is the miner’s pick, and the vein has never failed, nor the hand trembled in working it. A golden youth, a golden river flowing softly to the red gold sunset of the end–that is life as it seems to Anastase and Faustina.
On the morning which opens this chronicle, Anastase was standing before his canvas, palette and brushes in hand, considering the nature of the human face in general and of young Orsino’s face in particular.
“I have known your father and mother for centuries,” observed the painter with a fine disregard of human limitations. “Your father is the brown type of a dark man, and your mother is the olive type of a dark woman. They are no more alike than a Red Indian and an Arab, but you are like both. Are you brown or are you olive, my friend? That is the question. I would like to see you angry, or in love, or losing at play. Those things bring out the real complexion.”
Orsino laughed and showed a remarkably solid set of teeth. But he did not find anything to say.
“I would like to know the truth about your complexion,” said Anastase, meditatively.
“I have no particular reason for being angry,” answered Orsino, “and I am not in love–“
“At your age! Is it possible!”
“Quite. But I will play cards with you if you like,” concluded the young man.
“No,” returned the other. “It would be of no use. You would win, and if you happened to win much, I should be in a diabolical scrape. But I wish you would fall in love. You should see how I would handle the green shadows under your eyes.”
“It is rather short notice.”
“The shorter the better. I used to think that the only real happiness in life lay in getting into trouble, and the only real interest in getting out.”
“And have you changed your mind?”
“I? No. My mind has changed me. It is astonishing how a man may love his wife under favourable circumstances.”
Anastase laid down his brushes and lit a cigarette. Reubens would have sipped a few drops of Rhenish from a Venetian glass. Teniers would have lit a clay pipe. Duerer would perhaps have swallowed a pint of Nueremberg beer, and Greuse or Mignard would have resorted to their snuff-boxes. We do not know what Michelangelo or Perugino did under the circumstances, but it is tolerably evident that the man of the nineteenth century cannot think without talking and cannot talk without cigarettes. Therefore Anastase began to smoke and Orsino, being young and imitative, followed his example.
“You have been an exceptionally fortunate man,” remarked the latter, who was not old enough to be anything but cynical in his views of life.
“Do you think so? Yes–I have been fortunate. But I do not like to think that my happiness has been so very exceptional. The world is a good place, full of happy people. It must be–otherwise purgatory and hell would be useless institutions.”
“You do not suppose all people to be good as well as happy then,” said Orsino with a laugh.
“Good? What is goodness, my friend? One half of the theologians tell us that we shall be happy if we are good and the other half assure us that the only way to be good is to abjure earthly happiness. If you will believe me, you will never commit the supreme error of choosing between the two methods. Take the world as it is, and do not ask too many questions of the fates. If you are willing to be happy, happiness will come in its own shape.”
Orsino’s young face expressed rather contemptuous amusement. At twenty, happiness is a dull word, and satisfaction spells excitement.
“That is the way people talk,” he said. “You have got everything by fighting for it, and you advise me to sit still till the fruit drops into my mouth.”
“I was obliged to fight. Everything comes to you naturally–fortune, rank–everything, including marriage. Why should you lift a hand?”
“A man cannot possibly be happy who marries before he is thirty years old,” answered Orsino with conviction. “How do you expect me to occupy myself during the next ten years?”
“That is true,” Gouache replied, somewhat thoughtfully, as though the consideration had not struck him.
“If I were an artist, it would be different.”
“Oh, very different. I agree with you.” Anastase smiled good-humouredly.
“Because I should have talent–and a talent is an occupation in itself.”
“I daresay you would have talent,” Gouache answered, still laughing.
“No–I did not mean it in that way–I mean that when a man has a talent it makes him think of something besides himself.”
“I fancy there is more truth in that remark than either you or I would at first think,” said the painter in a meditative tone.
“Of course there is,” returned the youthful philosopher, with more enthusiasm than he would have cared to show if he had been talking to a woman. “What is talent but a combination of the desire to do and the power to accomplish? As for genius, it is never selfish when it is at work.”
“Is that reflection your own?”
“I think so,” answered Orsino modestly. He was secretly pleased that a man of the artist’s experience and reputation should be struck by his remark.
“I do not think I agree with you,” said Gouache.
Orsino’s expression changed a little. He was disappointed, but he said nothing.
“I think that a great genius is often ruthless. Do you remember how Beethoven congratulated a young composer after the first performance of his opera? ‘I like your opera–I will write music to it.’ That was a fine instance of unselfishness, was it not. I can see the young man’s face–” Anastase smiled.
“Beethoven was not at work when he made the remark,” observed Orsino, defending himself.
“Nor am I,” said Gouache, taking up his brushes again. “If you will resume the pose–so–thoughtful but bold–imagine that you are already an ancestor contemplating posterity from the height of a nobler age–you understand. Try and look as if you were already framed and hanging in the Saracinesca gallery between a Titian and a Giorgione.”
Orsino resumed his position and scowled at Anastase with a good will.
“Not quite such a terrible frown, perhaps,” suggested the latter. “When you do that, you certainly look like the gentleman who murdered the Colonna in a street brawl–I forget how long ago. You have his portrait. But I fancy the Princess would prefer–yes–that is more natural. You have her eyes. How the world raved about her twenty years ago–and raves still, for that matter.”
“She is the most beautiful woman in the world,” said Orsino. There was something in the boy’s unaffected admiration of his mother which contrasted pleasantly with his youthful affectation of cynicism and indifference. His handsome face lighted up a little, and the painter worked rapidly.
But the expression was not lasting. Orsino was at the age when most young men take the trouble to cultivate a manner, and the look of somewhat contemptuous gravity which he had lately acquired was already becoming habitual. Since all men in general have adopted the fashion of the mustache, youths who are still waiting for the full crop seem to have difficulty in managing their mouths. Some draw in their lips with that air of unnatural sternness observable in rough weather among passengers on board ship, just before they relinquish the struggle and retire from public life. Others contract their mouths to the shape of a heart, while there are yet others who lose control of the pendant lower lip and are content to look like idiots, while expecting the hairy growth which is to make them look like men. Orsino had chosen the least objectionable idiosyncrasy and had elected to be of a stern countenance. When he forgot himself he was singularly handsome, and Gouache lay in wait for his moments of forgetfulness.
“You are quite right,” said the Frenchman. “From the classic point of view your mother was and is the most beautiful dark woman in the world. For myself–well in the first place, you are her son, and secondly I am an artist and not a critic. The painter’s tongue is his brush and his words are colours.”
“What were you going to say about my mother?” asked Orsino with some curiosity.
“Oh–nothing. Well, if you must hear it, the Princess represents my classical ideal, but not my personal ideal. I have admired some one else more.”
“Donna Faustina?” enquired Orsino.
“Ah well, my friend–she is my wife, you see. That always makes a great difference in the degree of admiration–“
“Generally in the opposite direction,” Orsino observed in a tone of elderly unbelief.
Gouache had just put his brush into his mouth and held it between his teeth as a poodle carries a stick, while he used his thumb on the canvas. The modern painter paints with everything, not excepting his fingers. He glanced at his model and then at his work, and got his effect before he answered.
“You are very hard upon marriage,” he said quietly. “Have you tried it?”
“Not yet. I will wait as long as possible, before I do. It is not every one who has your luck.”
“There was something more than luck in my marriage. We loved each other, it is true, but there were difficulties–you have no idea what difficulties there were. But Faustina was brave and I caught a little courage from her. Do you know that when the Serristori barracks were blown up she ran out alone to find me merely because she thought I might have been killed? I found her in the ruins, praying for me. It was sublime.”
“I have heard that. She was very brave–“
“And I a poor Zonave–and a poorer painter. Are there such women nowadays? Bah! I have not known them. We used to meet at churches and exchange two words while her maid was gone to get her a chair. Oh, the good old time! And then the separations–the taking of Rome, when the old Princess carried all the family off to England and stayed there while we were fighting for poor France–and the coming back and the months of waiting, and the notes dropped from her window at midnight and the great quarrel with her family when we took advantage of the new law. And then the marriage itself–what a scandal in Rome! But for the Princess, your mother, I do not know what we should have done. She brought Faustina to the church and drove us to the station in her own carriage–in the face of society. They say that Ascanio Bellegra hung about the door of the church while we were being married, but he had not the courage to come in, for fear of his mother. We went to Naples and lived on salad and love–and we had very little else for a year or two. I was not much known, then, except in Rome, and Roman society refused to have its portrait painted by the adventurer who had run away with a daughter of Casa Montevarchi. Perhaps, if we had been rich, we should have hated each other by this time. But we had to live for each other in those days, for every one was against us. I painted, and she kept house–that English blood is always practical in a desert. And it was a desert. The cooking–it would have made a billiard ball’s hair stand on end with astonishment. She made the salad, and then evolved the roast from the inner consciousness. I painted a chaudfroid on an old plate. It was well done–the transparent quality of the jelly and the delicate ortolans imprisoned within, imploring dissection. Well, must I tell you? We threw it away. It was martyrdom. Saint Anthony’s position was enviable compared with ours. Beside us that good man would have seemed but a humbug. Yet we lived through it all. I repeat it. We lived, and we were happy. It is amazing, how a man may love his wife.”
Anastase had told his story with many pauses, working hard while he spoke, for though he was quite in earnest in all he said, his chief object was to distract the young man’s attention, so as to bring out his natural expression. Having exhausted one of the colours he needed, he drew back and contemplated his work. Orsino seemed lost in thought.
“What are you thinking about?” asked the painter.
“Do you think I am too old to become an artist?” enquired the young man.
“You? Who knows? But the times are too old. It is the same thing.”
“I do not understand.”
“You are in love with the life–not with the profession. But the life is not the same now, nor the art either. Bah! In a few years I shall be out of fashion. I know it. Then we will go back to first principles. A garret to live in, bread and salad for dinner. Of course–what do you expect? That need not prevent us from living in a palace as long as we can.”
Thereupon Anastase Gouache hummed a very lively little song as he squeezed a few colours from the tubes. Orsino’s face betrayed his discontentment.
“I was not in earnest,” he said. “At least, not as to becoming an artist. I only asked the question to be sure that you would answer it just as everybody answers all questions of the kind–by discouraging my wish do anything for myself.”
“Why should you do anything? You are so rich!”
“What everybody says! Do you know what we rich men, or we men who are to be rich, are expected to be? Farmers. It is not gay.”
“It would be my dream–pastoral, you know–Normandy cows, a river with reeds, perpetual Angelus, bread and milk for supper. I adore milk. A nymph here and there–at your age, it is permitted. My dear friend, why not be a farmer?”
Orsino laughed a little, in spite of himself.
“I suppose that is an artist’s idea of farming.”
“As near the truth as a farmer’s idea of art, I daresay,” retorted Gouache.
“We see you paint, but you never see us at work. That is the difference–but that is not the question. Whatever I propose, I get the same answer. I imagine you will permit me to dislike farming as a profession.”
“For the sake of argument, only,” said Gouache gravely.
“Good. For the sake of argument. We will suppose that I am myself in all respects what I am, excepting that I am never to have any land, and only enough money to buy cigarettes. I say, ‘Let me take a profession. Let me be a soldier.’ Every one rises up and protests against the idea of a Saracinesca serving in the Italian army. Why? Remember that your father was a volunteer officer under Pope Pius Ninth.’ It is comic. He spent an afternoon on the Pincio for his convictions, and then retired into private life. ‘Let me serve in a foreign army–France, Austria, Russia, I do not care.’ They are more horrified than ever. ‘You have not a spark of patriotism! To serve a foreign power! How dreadful! And as for the Russians, they are all heretics.’ Perhaps they are. I will try diplomacy. ‘What? Sacrifice your convictions? Become the blind instrument of a scheming, dishonest ministry? It is unworthy of a Saracinesca!’ I will think no more about it. Let me be a lawyer and enter public life. ‘A lawyer indeed! Will you wrangle in public with notaries’ sons, defend murderers and burglars, and take fees like the old men who write letters for the peasants under a, green umbrella in the street? It would be almost better to turn musician and give concerts.’ ‘The Church, perhaps?’ I suggest. ‘The Church? Are you not the heir, and will you not be the head of the family some day? You must be mad.’ ‘Then give me a sum of money and let me try my luck with my cousin San Giacinto.’ ‘Business? If you make money it is a degradation, and with these new laws you cannot afford to lose it. Besides, you will have enough of business when you have to manage your estates.’ So all my questions are answered, and I am condemned at twenty to be a farmer for my natural life. I say so. ‘A farmer, forsooth! Have you not the world before you? Have you not received the most liberal education? Are you not rich? How can you take such a narrow view! Come out to the Villa and look at those young thoroughbreds, and afterwards we will drop in at the club before dinner. Then there is that reception at the old Principessa Befana’s to-night, and the Duchessa della Seecatura is also at home.’ That is my life, Monsieur Gouache. There you have the question, the answer and the result. Admit that it is not gay.”
“It is very serious, on the contrary,” answered Gouache who had listened to the detached Jeremiah with more curiosity and interest than he often shewed.
“I see nothing for it, but for you to fall in love without losing a single moment.”
Orsino laughed a little harshly.
“I am in the humour, I assure you,” he answered.
“Well, then–what are you waiting for?” enquired Gouache, looking at him.
“What for? For an object for my affections, of course. That is rather necessary under the circumstances.”
“You may not wait long, if you will consent to stay here another quarter of an hour,” said Anastase with a laugh. “A lady is coming, whose portrait I am painting–an interesting woman–tolerably beautiful–rather mysterious–here she is, you can have a good look at her, before you make up your mind.”
Anastase took the half-finished portrait of Orsino from the easel and put another in its place, considerably further advanced in execution. Orsino lit a cigarette in order to quicken his judgment, and looked at the canvas.
The picture was decidedly striking and one felt at once that it must be a good likeness. Gouache was evidently proud of it. It represented a woman, who was certainly not yet thirty years of age, in full dress, seated in a high, carved chair against a warm, dark background. A mantle of some sort of heavy, claret-coloured brocade, lined with fur, was draped across one of the beautiful shoulders, leaving the other bare, the scant dress of the period scarcely breaking the graceful lines from the throat to the soft white hand, of which the pointed fingers hung carelessly over the carved extremity of the arm of the chair. The lady’s hair was auburn, her eyes distinctly yellow. The face was an unusual one and not without attraction, very pale, with a full red mouth too wide for perfect beauty, but well modelled–almost too well, Gouache thought. The nose was of no distinct type, and was the least significant feature in the face, but the forehead was broad and massive, the chin soft, prominent and round, the brows much arched and divided by a vertical shadow which, in the original, might be the first indication of a tiny wrinkle. Orsino fancied that one eye or the other wandered a very little, but he could not tell which–the slight defect made the glance disquieting and yet attractive. Altogether it was one of those faces which to one man say too little, and to another too much.
Orsino affected to gaze upon the portrait with unconcern, but in reality he was oddly fascinated by it, and Gouache did not fail to see the truth.
“You had better go away, my friend,” he said, with a smile. “She will be here in a few minutes and you will certainly lose your heart if you see her.”
“What is her name?” asked Orsino, paying no attention to the remark.
“Donna Maria Consuelo–something or other–a string of names ending in Aragona. I call her Madame d’Aragona for shortness, and she does not seem to object.”
“Married? And Spanish?”
“I suppose so,” answered Gouache. “A widow I believe. She is not Italian and not French, so she must be Spanish.”
“The name does not say much. Many people put ‘d’Aragona’ after their names–some cousins of ours, among others–they are Aranjuez d’Aragona–my father’s mother was of that family.”
“I think that is the name–Aranjuez. Indeed I am sure of it, for Faustina remarked that she might be related to you.”
“It is odd. We have not heard of her being in Rome–and I am not sure who she is. Has she been here long?”
“I have known her a month–since she first came to my studio. She lives in a hotel, and she comes alone, except when I need the dress and then she brings her maid, an odd creature who never speaks and seems to understand no known language.”
“It is an interesting face. Do you mind if I stay till she comes? We may really be cousins, you know.”
“By all means–you can ask her. The relationship would be with her husband, I suppose.”
“True. I had not thought of that; and he is dead, you say?”
Gouache did not answer, for at that moment the lady’s footfall was heard upon the marble floor, soft, quick and decided. She paused a moment in the middle of the room when she saw that the artist was not alone. He went forward to meet her and asked leave to present Orsino, with that polite indistinctness which leaves to the persons introduced the task of discovering one another’s names.
Orsino looked into the lady’s eyes and saw that the slight peculiarity of the glance was real and not due to any error of Gouache’s drawing. He recognised each feature in turn in the one look he gave at the face before he bowed, and he saw that the portrait was indeed very good. He was not subject to shyness.
“We should be cousins, Madame,” he said. “My father’s mother was an Aranjuez d’Aragona.”
“Indeed?” said the lady with calm indifference, looking critically at the picture of herself.
“I am Orsino Saracinesca,” said the young man, watching her with some admiration.
“Indeed?” she repeated, a shade less coldly. “I think I have heard my poor husband say that he was connected with your family. What do you think of my portrait? Every one has tried to paint me and failed, but my friend Monsieur Gouache is succeeding. He has reproduced my hideous nose and my dreadful mouth with a masterly exactness. No–my dear Monsieur Gouache–it is a compliment I pay you. I am in earnest. I do not want a portrait of the Venus of Milo with red hair, nor of the Minerva Medica with yellow eyes, nor of an imaginary Medea in a fur cloak. I want myself, just as I am. That is exactly what you are doing for me. Myself and I have lived so long together that I desire a little memento of the acquaintance.”
“You can afford to speak lightly of what is so precious to others,” said Gouache, gallantly. Madame d’Aranjuez sank into the carved chair Orsino had occupied.
“This dear Gouache–he is charming, is he not?” she said with a little laugh. Orsino looked at her.
“Gouache is right,” he thought, with the assurance of his years. “It would be amusing to fall in love with her.”
Gouache was far more interested in his work than in the opinions which his two visitors might entertain of each other. He looked at the lady fixedly, moved his easel, raised the picture a few inches higher from the ground and looked again. Orsino watched the proceedings from a little distance, debating whether he should go away or remain. Much depended upon Madame d’Aragona’s character, he thought, and of this he knew nothing. Some women are attracted by indifference, and to go away would be to show a disinclination to press the acquaintance. Others, he reflected, prefer the assurance of the man who always stays, even without an invitation, rather than lose his chance. On the other hand a sitting in a studio is not exactly like a meeting in a drawing-room. The painter has a sort of traditional, exclusive right to his sitter’s sole attention. The sitter, too, if a woman, enjoys the privilege of sacrificing one-half her good looks in a bad light, to favour the other side which is presented to the artist’s view, and the third person, if there be one, has a provoking habit of so placing himself as to receive the least flattering impression. Hence the great unpopularity of the third person–or “the third inconvenience,” as the Romans call him.
Orsino stood still for a few moments, wondering whether either of the two would ask him to sit down. As they did not, he was annoyed with them and determined to stay, if only for five minutes. He took up his position, in a deep seat under the high window, and watched Madame d’Aragona’s profile. Neither she nor Gouache made any remark. Gouache began to brush over the face of his picture. Orsino felt that the silence was becoming awkward. He began to regret that he had remained, for he discovered from his present position that the lady’s nose was indeed her defective feature.
“You do not mind my staying a few minutes?” he said, with a vague interrogation.
“Ask Madame, rather,” answered Gouache, brushing away in a lively manner. Madame said nothing, and seemed not to have heard.
“Am I indiscreet?” asked Orsino.
“How? No. Why should you not remain? Only, if you please, sit where I can see you. Thanks. I do not like to feel that some one is looking at me and that I cannot look at him, if I please–and as for me, I am nailed in my position. How can I turn my head? Gouache is very severe.”
“You may have heard, Madame, that a beautiful woman is most beautiful in repose,” said Gouache.
Orsino was annoyed, for he had of course wished to make exactly the same remark. But they were talking in French, and the Frenchman had the advantage of speed.
“And how about an ugly woman?” asked Madame d’Aragona.
“Motion is most becoming to her–rapid motion–the door,” answered the artist.
Orsino had changed his position and was standing behind Gouache.
“I wish you would sit down,” said the latter, after a short pause. “I do not like to feel that any one is standing behind me when I am at work. It is a weakness, but I cannot help it. Do you believe in mental suggestion, Madame?”
“What is that?” asked Madame d’Aragona vaguely.
“I always imagine that a person standing behind me when I am at work is making me see everything as he sees,” answered Gouache, not attempting to answer the question.
Orsino, driven from pillar to post, had again moved away.
“And do you believe in such absurd superstitions?” enquired Madame d’Aragona with a contemptuous curl of her heavy lips. “Monsieur de Saracinesca, will you not sit down? You make me a little nervous.”
Gouache raised his finely marked eyebrows almost imperceptibly at the odd form of address, which betrayed ignorance either of worldly usage or else of Orsino’s individuality. He stepped back from the canvas and moved a chair forward.
“Sit here, Prince,” he said. “Madame can see you, and you will not be behind me.”
Orsino took the proffered seat without any remark. Madame d’Aragona’s expression did not change, though she was perfectly well aware that Gouache had intended to correct her manner of addressing the young man. The latter was slightly annoyed. What difference could it make? It was tactless of Gouache, he thought, for the lady might be angry.
“Are you spending the winter in Rome, Madame?” he asked. He was conscious that the question lacked originality, but no other presented itself to him.
“The winter?” repeated Madame d’Aragona dreamily. “Who knows? I am here at present, at the mercy of the great painter. That is all I know. Shall I be here next month, next week? I cannot tell. I know no one. I have never been here before. It is dull. This was my object,” she added, after a short pause. “When it is accomplished I will consider other matters. I may be obliged to accompany their Royal Highnesses to Egypt in January. That is next month, is it not?”
It was so very far from clear who the royal highnesses in question might be, that Orsino glanced at Gouache, to see whether he understood. But Gouache was imperturbable.
“January, Madame, follows December,” he answered. “The fact is confirmed by the observations of many centuries. Even in my own experience it has occurred forty-seven times in succession.”
Orsino laughed a little, and as Madame d’Aragona’s eyes met his, the red lips smiled, without parting.
“He is always laughing at me,” she said pleasantly.
Gouache was painting with great alacrity. The smile was becoming to her and he caught it as it passed. It must be allowed that she permitted it to linger, as though she understood his wish, but as she was looking at Orsino, he was pleased.
“If you will permit me to say it, Madame,” he observed, “I have never seen eyes like yours.”
He endeavoured to lose himself in their depths as he spoke. Madame d’Aragona was not in the least annoyed by the remark, nor by the look.
“What is there so very unusual about my eyes?” she enquired. The smile grew a little more faint and thoughtful but did not disappear.
“In the first place, I have never seen eyes of a golden-yellow colour.”
“Tigers have yellow eyes,” observed Madame d’Aragona.
“My acquaintance with that animal is at second hand–slight, to say the least.”
“You have never shot one?”
“Never, Madame. They do not abound in Rome–nor even, I believe, in Albano. My father killed one when he was a young man.”
“Sant’ Ilario. My grandfather is still alive.”
“How splendid! I adore strong races.”
“It is very interesting,” observed Gouache, poking the stick of a brush into the eye of his picture. “I have painted three generations of the family, I who speak to you, and I hope to paint the fourth if Don Orsino here can be cured of his cynicism and induced to marry Donna–what is her name?” He turned to the young man.
“She has none–and she is likely to remain nameless,” answered Orsino gloomily.
“We will call her Donna Ignota,” suggested Madame d’Aragona.
“And build altars to the unknown love,” added Gouache.
Madame d’Aragona smiled faintly, but Orsino persisted in looking grave.
“It seems to be an unpleasant subject, Prince.”
“Very unpleasant, Madame,” answered Orsino shortly.
Thereupon Madame d’Aragona looked at Gouache and raised her brows a little as though to ask a question, knowing perfectly well that Orsino was watching her. The young man could not see the painter’s eyes, and the latter did not betray by any gesture that he was answering the silent interrogation.
“Then I have eyes like a tiger, you say. You frighten me. How disagreeable–to look like a wild beast!”
“It is a prejudice,” returned Orsino. “One hears people say of a woman that she is beautiful as a tigress.”
“An idea!” exclaimed Gouache, interrupting. “Shall I change the damask cloak to a tiger’s skin? One claw just hanging over the white shoulder–Omphale, you know–in a modern drawing-room–a small cast of the Farnese Hercules upon a bracket, there, on the right. Decidedly, here is an idea. Do you permit, Madame!”
“Anything you like–only do not spoil the likeness,” answered Madame d’Aragona, leaning back in her chair, and looking sleepily at Orsino from beneath her heavy, half-closed lids.
“You will spoil the whole picture,” said Orsino, rather anxiously.
“What harm if I do? I can restore it in five minutes–“
“An hour, if you insist upon accuracy of statement,” replied Gouache with a shade of annoyance.
He had an idea, and like most people whom fate occasionally favours with that rare commodity he did not like to be disturbed in the realisation of it. He was already squeezing out quantities of tawny colours upon his palette.
“I am a passive instrument,” said Madame d’Aragona. “He does what he pleases. These men of genius–what would you have? Yesterday a gown from Worth–to-day a tiger’s skin–indeed, I tremble for to-morrow.”
She laughed a little and turned her head away.
“You need not fear,” answered Gouache, daubing in his new idea with an enormous brush. “Fashions change. Woman endures. Beauty is eternal. There is nothing which may not be made becoming to a beautiful woman.”
“My dear Gouache, you are insufferable. You are always telling me that I am beautiful. Look at my nose.”
“Yes. I am looking at it.”
“And my mouth.”
“I look. I see. I admire. Have you any other personal observations to make? How many claws has a tiger, Don Orsino? Quick! I am painting the thing.”
“One less than a woman.”
Madame d’Aragona looked at the young man a moment, and broke into a laugh.
“There is a charming speech. I like that better than Gouache’s flattery.”
“And yet you admit that the portrait is like you,” said Gouache.
“Perhaps I flatter you, too.”
“Ah! I had not thought of that.”
“You should be more modest.”
“I lose myself–“
“In your eyes, Madame. One, two, three, four–are you sure a tiger has only four claws? Where is the creature’s thumb–what do you call it? It looks awkward.”
“The dew-claw?” asked Orsino. “It is higher up, behind the paw. You would hardly see it in the skin.”
“But a cat has five claws,” said Madame d’Aragona. “Is not a tiger a cat? We must have the thing right, you know, if it is to be done at all.”
“Has a cat five claws?” asked Anastase, appealing anxiously to Orsino.
“Of course, but you would only see four on the skin.”
“I insist upon knowing,” said Madame d’Aragona. “This is dreadful! Has no one got a tiger? What sort of studio is this–with no tiger!”
“I am not Sarah Bernhardt, nor the emperor of Siam,” observed Gouache, with a laugh.
But Madame d’Aragona was not satisfied.
“I am sure you could procure me one, Prince,” she said, turning to Orsino. “I am sure you could, if you would! I shall cry if I do not have one, and it will be your fault.”
“Would you like the animal alive or dead?” inquired Orsino gravely, and he rose from his seat.
“Ah, I knew you could procure the thing!” she exclaimed with grateful enthusiasm. “Alive or dead, Gouache? Quick–decide!”
“As you please, Madame. If you decide to have him alive, I will ask permission to exchange a few words with my wife and children, while some one goes for a priest.”
“You are sublime, to-day. Dead, then, if you please, Prince. Quite dead–but do not say that I was afraid–“
“Afraid? With, a Saracinesca and a Gouache to defend your life, Madame? You are not serious.”
Orsino took his hat.
“I shall be back in a quarter of an hour,” he said, as he bowed and went out.
Madame d’Aragona watched his tall young figure till he disappeared.
“He does not lack spirit, your young friend,” she observed.
“No member of that family ever did, I think,” Gouache answered. “They are a remarkable race.”
“And he is the only son?”
“Oh no! He has three younger brothers.”
“Poor fellow! I suppose the fortune is not very large.”
“I have no means of knowing,” replied Gouache indifferently. “Their palace is historic. Their equipages are magnificent. That is all that foreigners see of Roman families.”
“But you know them intimately?”
“Intimately–that is saying too much. I have painted their portraits.”
Madame d’Aragona wondered why he was so reticent, for she knew that he had himself married the daughter of a Roman prince, and she concluded that he must know much of the Romans.
“Do you think he will bring the tiger?” she asked presently.
“He is quite capable of bringing a whole menagerie of tigers for you to choose from.”
“How interesting. I like men who stop at nothing. It was really unpardonable of you to suggest the idea and then to tell me calmly that you had no model for it.”
In the meantime Orsino had descended the stairs and was hailing a passing cab. He debated for a moment what he should do. It chanced that at that time there was actually a collection of wild beasts to be seen in the Prati di Castello, and Orsino supposed that the owner might be induced, for a large consideration, to part with one of his tigers. He even imagined that he might shoot the beast and bring it back in the cab. But, in the first place, he was not provided with an adequate sum of money nor did he know exactly how to lay his hand on so large a sum as might be necessary, at a moment’s notice. He was still under age, and his allowance had not been calculated with a view to his buying menageries. Moreover he considered that even if his pockets had been full of bank notes, the idea was ridiculous, and he was rather ashamed of his youthful impulse. It occurred to him that what was necessary for the picture was not the carcase of the tiger but the skin, and he remembered that such a skin lay on the floor in his father’s private room–the spoil of the animal Giovanni Saracinesca had shot in his youth. It had been well cared for and was a fine specimen.
“Palazzo Saracinesca,” he said to the cabman.
Now it chanced, as such things will chance in the inscrutable ways of fate, that Sant’ Ilario was just then in that very room and busy with his correspondence. Orsino had hoped to carry off what he wanted, without being questioned, in order to save time, but he now found himself obliged to explain his errand.
Sant’ Ilario looked, up in some surprise as his son entered.
“Well, Orsino? Is anything the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing serious, father. I want to borrow your tiger’s skin for Gouache. Will you lend it to me?”
“Of course. But what in the world does Gouache want of it? Is he painting you in skins–the primeval youth of the forest?”
“No–not exactly. The fact is, there is a lady there. Gouache talks of painting her as a modern Omphale, with a tiger’s skin and a cast of Hercules in the background–“
“Hercules wore a lion’s skin–not a tiger’s. He killed the Nemean lion.”
“Did he?” inquired Orsino indifferently. “It is all the same–they do not know it, and they want a tiger. When I left they were debating whether they wanted it alive or dead. I thought of buying one at the Prati di Castello, but it seemed cheaper to borrow the skin of you. May I take it?”
Sant’ Ilario laughed. Orsino rolled up the great hide and carried it to the door.
“Who is the lady, my boy?”
“I never saw her before–a certain Donna Maria d’Aranjuez d’Aragona. I fancy she must be a kind of cousin. Do you know anything about her?”
“I never heard of such a person. Is that her own name?”
“No–she seems to be somebody’s widow.”
“That is definite. What is she like?”
“Passably handsome–yellow eyes, reddish hair, one eye wanders.”
“What an awful picture! Do not fall in love with her, Orsino.”
“No fear of that–but she is amusing, and she wants the tiger.”
“You seem to be in a hurry,” observed Sant’ Ilario, considerably amused.
“Naturally. They are waiting for me.”
“Well, go as fast as you can–never keep a woman waiting. By the way, bring the skin back. I would rather you bought twenty live tigers at the Prati than lose that old thing.”
Orsino promised and was soon in his cab on the way to Gouache’s studio, having the skin rolled up on his knees, the head hanging out on one side and the tail on the other, to the infinite interest of the people in the street. He was just congratulating himself on having wasted so little time in conversation with his father, when the figure of a tall woman walking towards him on the pavement, arrested his attention. His cab must pass close by her, and there was no mistaking his mother at a hundred yards’ distance. She saw him too and made a sign with her parasol for him to stop.
“Good-morning, Orsino,” said the sweet deep voice.
“Good-morning, mother,” he answered, as he descended hat in hand, and kissed the gloved fingers she extended to him.
He could not help thinking, as he looked at her, that she was infinitely more beautiful even now than Madame d’Aragona. As for Corona, it seemed to her that there was no man on earth to compare with her eldest son, except Giovanni himself, and there all comparison ceased. Their eyes met affectionately and it would have been, hard to say which was the more proud of the other, the son of his mother, or the mother of her son. Nevertheless Orsino was in a hurry. Anticipating all questions he told her in as few words as possible the nature of his errand, the object of the tiger’s skin, and the name of the lady who was sitting to Gouache.
“It is strange,” said Corona. “I have never heard your father speak of her.”
“He has never heard of her either. He just told me so.”
“I have almost enough curiosity to get into your cab and go with you.”
“Do, mother.” There was not much enthusiasm in the answer.
Corona looked at him, smiled, and shook her head.
“Foolish boy! Did you think I was in earnest? I should only spoil your amusement in the studio, and the lady would see that I had come to inspect her. Two good reasons–but the first is the better, dear. Go–do not keep them waiting.”
“Will you not take my cab? I can get another.”
“No. I am in no hurry. Good-bye.”
And nodding to him with an affectionate smile, Corona passed on, leaving Orsino free at last to carry the skin to its destination.
When he entered the studio he found Madame d’Aragona absorbed in the contemplation of a piece of old tapestry which hung opposite to her, while Gouache was drawing in a tiny Hercules, high up in the right hand corner of the picture, as he had proposed. The conversation seemed to have languished, and Orsino was immediately conscious that the atmosphere had changed since he had left. He unrolled the skin as he entered, and Madame d’Aragona looked at it critically. She saw that the tawny colours would become her in the portrait and her expression grew more animated.
“It is really very good of you,” she said, with a grateful glance.
“I have a disappointment in store for you,” answered Orsino. “My father says that Hercules wore a lion’s skin. He is quite right, I remember all about it.”
“Of course,” said Gouache. “How could we make such a mistake!”
He dropped the bit of chalk he held and looked at Madame d’Aragona.
“What difference does it make?” asked the latter. “A lion–a tiger! I am sure they are very much alike.”
“After all, it is a tiresome idea,” said the painter. “You will be much better in the damask cloak. Besides, with the lion’s skin you should have the club–imagine a club in your hands! And Hercules should be spinning at your feet–a man in a black coat and a high collar, with a distaff! It is an absurd idea.”
“You should not call my ideas absurd and tiresome. It is not civil.”
“I thought it had been mine,” observed Gouache.
“Not at all. I thought of it–it was quite original.”
Gouache laughed a little and looked at Orsino as though asking his opinion.
“Madame is right,” said the latter. “She suggested the whole idea–by having yellow eyes.”
“You see, Gouache. I told you so. The Prince takes my view. What will you do?”
“Whatever you command–“
“But I do not want to be ridiculous–“
“I do not see–“
“And yet I must have the tiger.”
“I am ready.”
“Doubtless–but you must think of another subject, with a tiger in it.”
“Nothing easier. Noble Roman damsel–Colosseum–tiger about to spring–rose–“
“Just heaven! What an old story! Besides, I have not the type.”
“The ‘Mysteries of Dionysus,'” suggested Gouache. “Thyrsus, leopard’s skin–“
“A Bacchante! Fie, Monsieur–and then, the leopard, when we only have a tiger.”
“Indian princess interviewed by a man-eater–jungle–new moon–tropical vegetation–“
“You can think of nothing but subjects for a dark type,” said Madame d’Aragona impatiently.
“The fact is, in countries where the tiger walks abroad, the women are generally brunettes.”
“I hate facts. You who are enthusiastic, can you not help us?” She turned to Orsino.
“Am I enthusiastic?”
“Yes, I am sure of it. Think of something.”
Orsino was not pleased. He would have preferred to be thought cold and impassive.
“What can I say? The first idea was the best. Get a lion instead of a tiger–nothing is simpler.”
“For my part I prefer the damask cloak and the original picture,” said Gouache with decision. “All this mythology is too complicated–too Pompeian–how shall I say? Besides there is no distinct allusion. A Hercules on a bracket–anybody may have that. If you were the Marchessa di San Giacinto, for instance–oh, then everyone would laugh.”
“Why? What is that?”
“She married my cousin,” said Orsino. “He is an enormous giant, and they say that she has tamed him.”
“Ah no! That would not do. Something else, please.”
Orsino involuntarily thought of a sphynx as he looked at the massive brow, the yellow, sleepy eyes, and the heavy mouth. He wondered how the late Aranjuez had lived and what death he had died.
He offered the suggestion.
“It would be appropriate,” replied Madame d’Aragona. “The Sphynx in the Desert. Rome is a desert to me.”
“It only depends on you–” Orsino began.
“Oh, of course! To make acquaintances, to show myself a little everywhere–it is simple enough. But it wearies me–until one is caught up in the machinery, a toothed wheel going round with the rest, one only bores oneself, and I may leave so soon. Decidedly it is not worth the trouble. Is it?”
She turned her eyes to Orsino as though asking his advice. Orsino laughed.
“How can you ask that question!” he exclaimed. “Only let the trouble be ours.”
“Ah! I said you were enthusiastic.” She shook her head, and rose from her seat. “It is time for me to go. We have done nothing this morning, and it is all your fault, Prince.”
“I am distressed–I will not intrude upon your next sitting.”
“Oh–as far as that is concerned–” She did not finish the sentence, but took up the neglected tiger’s skin from the chair on which it lay.
She threw it over her shoulders, bringing the grinning head over her hair and holding the forepaws in her pointed white fingers. She came very near to Gouache and looked into his eyes, her closed lips smiling.
“Admirable!” exclaimed Gouache. “It is impossible to tell where the woman ends and the tiger begins. Let me draw you like that.”
“Oh no! Not for anything in the world.”
She turned away quickly and dropped the skin from her shoulders.
“You will not stay a little longer? You will not let me try?” Gouache seemed disappointed.
“Impossible,” she answered, putting on her hat and beginning to arrange her veil before a mirror.
Orsino watched her as she stood, her arms uplifted, in an attitude which is almost always graceful, even for an otherwise ungraceful woman. Madame d’Aragona was perhaps a little too short, but she was justly proportioned and appeared to be rather slight, though the tight-fitting sleeves of her frock betrayed a remarkably well turned arm. Not seeing her face, one might not have singled her out of many as a very striking woman, for she had neither the stateliness of Orsino’s mother, nor the enchanting grace which distinguished Gouache’s wife. But no one could look into her eyes without feeling that she was very far from being an ordinary woman.
“Quite impossible,” she repeated, as she tucked in the ends of her veil and then turned upon the two men. “The next sitting? Whenever you like–to-morrow–the day after–name the time.”
“When to-morrow is possible, there is no choice,” said Gouache, “unless you will come again to-day.”
“To-morrow, then, good-bye.” She held out her hand.
“There are sketches on each of my fingers, Madame–principally, of tigers.”
“Good-bye then–consider your hand shaken. Are you going, Prince?”
Orsino had taken his hat and was standing beside her.
“You will allow me to put you into your carriage.”
“I shall walk.”
“So much the better. Good-bye, Monsieur Gouache.”
“Why say, Monsieur?”
“As you like–you are older than I.”
“I? Who has told you that legend? It is only a myth. When you are sixty years old, I shall still be five-and-twenty.”
“And I?” enquired Madame d’Aragona, who was still young enough to laugh at age.
“As old as you were yesterday, not a day older.”
“Why not say to-day?”
“Because to-day has a to-morrow–yesterday has none.”
“You are delicious, my dear Gouache. Good-bye.”
Madame d’Aragona went out with Orsino, and they descended the broad staircase together. Orsino was not sure whether he might not be showing too much anxiety to remain in the company of his new acquaintance, and as he realised how unpleasant it would be to sacrifice the walk with her, he endeavoured to excuse to himself his derogation from his self-imposed character of cool superiority and indifference. She was very amusing, he said to himself, and he had nothing in the world to do. He never had anything to do, since his education had been completed. Why should he not walk with Madame d’Aragona and talk to her? It would be better than hanging about the club or reading a novel at home. The hounds did not meet on that day, or he would not have been at Gouache’s at all. But they were to meet to-morrow, and he would therefore not see Madame d’Aragona.
“Gouache is an old friend of yours, I suppose,” observed the lady.
“He was a friend of my father’s. He is almost a Roman. He married a distant connection of mine, Donna Faustina Montevarchi.”
“Ah yes–I have heard. He is a man of immense genius.”
“He is a man I envy with all my heart,” said Orsino.
“You envy Gouache? I should not have thought–“
“No? Ah, Madame, to me a man who has a career, a profession, an interest, is a god.”
“I like that,” answered Madame d’Aragona. “But it seems to me you have your choice. You have the world before you. Write your name upon it. You do not lack enthusiasm. Is it the inspiration that you need?”
“Perhaps,” said Orsino glancing meaningly at her as she looked at him.
“That is not new,” thought she, “but he is charming, all the same. They say,” she added aloud, “that genius finds inspiration everywhere.”
“Alas, I am not a genius. What I ask is an occupation, and permanent interest. The thing is impossible, but I am not resigned.”
“Before thirty everything is possible,” said Madame d’Aragona. She knew that the mere mention of so mature an age would be flattering to such a boy.
“The objections are insurmountable,” replied Orsino.
“What objections? Remember that I do not know Rome, nor the Romans.”
“We are petrified in traditions. Spicca said the other day that there was but one hope for us. The Americans may yet discover Italy, as we once discovered America.”
Madame d’Aragona smiled.
“Who is Spicca?” she enquired, with a lazy glance at her companion’s face.
“Spicca? Surely you have heard of him. He used to be a famous duellist. He is our great wit. My father likes him very much–he is an odd character.”
“There will be all the more credit in succeeding, if you have to break through a barrier of tradition and prejudice,” said Madame d’Aragona, reverting rather abruptly to the first subject.
“You do not know what that means.” Orsino shook his head incredulously. “You have never tried it.”
“No. How could a woman be placed in such a position?”
“That is just it. You cannot understand me.”
“That does not follow. Women often understand men–men they love or detest–better than men themselves.”
“Do you love me, Madame?” asked Orsino with a smile.
“I have just made your acquaintance,” laughed Madame d’Aragona. “It is a little too soon.”
“But then, according to you, if you understand me, you detest me.”
“Well? If I do?” She was still laughing.
“Then I ought to disappear, I suppose.”
“You do not understand women. Anything is better than indifference. When you see that you are disliked, then refuse to go away. It is the very moment to remain. Do not submit to dislike. Revenge yourself.”
“I will try,” said Orsino, considerably amused.
“Since you advise it–“
“Have I said that I detest you?”
“More or less.”
“It was only by way of illustration to my argument. I was not serious.”
“You have not a serious character, I fancy,” said Orsino.
“Do you dare to pass judgment on me after an hour’s acquaintance?”
“Since you have judged me! You have said five times that I am enthusiastic.”
“That is an exaggeration. Besides, one cannot say a true thing too often.”
“How you run on, Madame!”
“And you–to tell me to my face that I am not serious! It is unheard of. Is that the way you talk to your compatriots?”
“It would not be true. But they would contradict me, as you do. They wish to be thought gay.”
“Do they? I would like to know them.”
“Nothing is easier. Will you allow me the honour of undertaking the matter?”
They had reached the door of Madame d’Aragona’s hotel. She stood still and looked curiously at Orsino.
“Certainly not,” she answered, rather coldly. “It would be asking too much of you–too much of society, and far too much of me. Thanks. Good-bye.”
“May I come and see you?” asked Orsino.
He knew very well that he had gone too far, and his voice was correctly contrite.
“I daresay we shall meet somewhere,” she answered, entering the hotel.
The rage of speculation was at its height in Rome. Thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of persons were embarked in enterprises which soon afterwards ended in total ruin to themselves and in very serious injury to many of the strongest financial bodies in the country. Yet it is a fact worth recording that the general principle upon which affairs were conducted was an honest one. The land was a fact, the buildings put up were facts, and there was actually a certain amount of capital, of genuine ready money, in use. The whole matter can be explained in a few words.
The population of Rome had increased considerably since the Italian occupation, and house-room was needed for the newcomers. Secondly, the partial execution of the scheme for beautifying the city had destroyed great numbers of dwellings in the most thickly populated parts, and more house-room was needed to compensate the loss of habitations, while extensive lots of land were suddenly set free and offered for sale upon easy conditions in all parts of the town.
Those who availed themselves of these opportunities before the general rush began, realised immense profits, especially when they had some capital of their own to begin with. But capital was not indispensable. A man could buy his lot on credit; the banks were ready to advance him money on notes of hand, in small amounts at high interest, wherewith to build his house or houses. When the building was finished the bank took a first mortgage upon the property, the owner let the house, paid the interest on the mortgage out of the rent and pocketed the difference, as clear gain. In the majority of eases it was the bank itself which sold the lot of land to the speculator. It is clear therefore that the only money which actually changed hands was that advanced in small sums by the bank itself.
As the speculation increased, the banks could not of course afford to lock up all the small notes of hand they received from various quarters. This paper became a circulating medium as far as Vienna, Paris and even London. The crash came when Vienna, Paris and London lost faith in the paper, owing, in the first instance, to one or two small failures, and returned it upon Rome; the banks, unable to obtain cash for it at any price, and being short of ready money, could then no longer discount the speculator’s further notes of hand; so that the speculator found himself with half-built houses upon his hands which he could neither let, nor finish, nor sell, and owing money upon bills which he had expected to meet by giving the bank a mortgage on the now valueless property.
That is what took place in the majority of cases, and it is not necessary to go into further details, though of course chance played all the usual variations upon the theme of ruin.
What distinguishes the period of speculation in Rome from most other manifestations of the kind in Europe is the prominent part played in it by the old land-holding families, a number of which were ruined in wild schemes which no sensible man of business would have touched. This was more or less the result of recent changes in the laws regulating the power of persons making a will.
Previous to 1870 the law of primogeniture was as much respected in Rome as in England, and was carried out with considerably greater strictness. The heir got everything, the other children got practically nothing but the smallest pittance. The palace, the gallery of pictures and statues, the lands, the villages and the castles, descended in unbroken succession from eldest son to eldest son, indivisible in principle and undivided in fact.
The new law requires that one half of the total property shall be equally distributed by the testator amongst all his children. He may leave the other half to any one he pleases, and as a matter of practice he of course leaves it to his eldest son.
Another law, however, forbids the alienation of all collections of works of art either wholly or in part, if they have existed as such for a certain length of time, and if the public has been admitted daily or on any fixed days, to visit them. It is not in the power of the Borghese, or the Colonna, for instance, to sell a picture or a statue out of their galleries, nor to raise money upon such an object by mortgage or otherwise.
Yet these works of art figure at a very high valuation, in the total property of which the testator must divide one half amongst his children, though in point of fact they yield no income whatever. But it is of no use to divide them, since none of the heirs could be at liberty to take them away nor realise their value in any manner.
The consequence is, that the principal heir, after the division has taken place, finds himself the nominal master of certain enormously valuable possessions, which in reality yield him nothing or next to nothing. He also foresees that in the next generation the same state of things will exist in a far higher degree, and that the position of the head of the family will go from bad to worse until a crisis of some kind takes place.
Such a case has recently occurred. A certain Roman prince is bankrupt. The sale of his gallery would certainly relieve the pressure, and would possibly free him from debt altogether. But neither he nor his creditors can lay a finger upon the pictures, nor raise a centime upon them. This man, therefore, is permanently reduced to penury, and his creditors are large losers, while he is still _de jure_ and _de facto_ the owner of property probably sufficient to cover all his obligations. Fortunately, he chances to be childless, a fact consoling, perhaps, to the philanthropist, but not especially so to the sufferer himself.
It is clear that the temptation to increase “distributable” property, if one may coin such, an expression, is very great, and accounts for the way in which many Roman gentlemen have rushed headlong into speculation, though possessing none of the qualities necessary for success, and only one of the requisites, namely, a certain amount of ready money, or free and convertible property. A few have been fortunate, while the majority of those who have tried the experiment have been heavy losers. It cannot be said that any one of them all has shown natural talent for finance.
Let the reader forgive these dry explanations if he can. The facts explained have a direct bearing upon the story I am telling, but shall not, as mere facts, be referred to again.