Part 93 (1/2)

”'Tis well distinguished, signor. But then, a writer can write the thoughts of the great ancients, and matters of pure reason, such as no man may paint: ay, and the thoughts of G.o.d, which angels could not paint. But let that pa.s.s. I am a painter as well; but a sorry one.”

”The better thy luck. They will buy thy work in Rome.”

”But seeking to commend myself to one of thy eminence, I thought it well rather to call myself a capable writer than a scurvy painter.”

At this moment a step was heard on the stair.

”Ah! 'tis the good dame,” cried Gerard. ”What ho! hostess, I am here in conversation with Signor Pietro. I dare say he will let me have my humble dinner here.”

The Italian bowed gravely.

The landlady brought in Gerard's dinner smoking and savory. She put the dish down on the bed with a face divested of all expression, and went.

Gerard fell to. But ere he had eaten many mouthfuls he stopped, and said: ”I am an ill-mannered churl, Signor Pietro. I ne'er eat to my mind, when I eat alone. For our Lady's sake put a spoon into this ragout with me; 'tis not unsavoury, I promise you.”

Pietro fixed his glittering eye on him.

”What, good youth, thou a stranger, and offerest me thy dinner?”

”Why, see, there is more than one can eat.”

”Well, I accept,” said Pietro: and took the dish with some appearance of calmness, and flung the contents out of the window.

Then he turned trembling with mortification and ire, and said: ”Let that teach thee to offer alms to an artist thou knowest not, master writer.”

Gerard's face flushed with anger, and it cost him a bitter struggle not to box this high-souled creature's ears. And then to go and destroy good food! His mother's milk curdled in his veins with horror at such impiety. Finally, pity at Pietro's petulance and egotism, and a touch of respect for poverty-struck pride, prevailed.

However he said coldly, ”Likely what thou hast done might pa.s.s in a novel of thy countryman, Signor Boccaccio; but 'twas not honest.”

”Make that good!” said the painter sullenly.

”I offered thee half my dinner; no more. But thou hast ta'en it all.

Hadst a right to throw away thy share, but not mine. Pride is well, but justice is better.”

Pietro stared, then reflected.

”'Tis well. I took thee for a fool, so transparent was thine artifice.

Forgive me! And prithee leave me! Thou seest how 'tis with me. The world hath soured me. I hate mankind. I was not always so. Once more excuse that my discourtesy, and fare thee well!”

Gerard sighed and made for the door.

But suddenly a thought struck him. ”Signor Pietro,” said he, ”we Dutchmen are hard bargainers. We are the lads 'een eij scheeren,' that is 'to shave an egg.' Therefore, I, for my lost dinner, do claim to feast mine eyes on your picture, whose face is toward the wall.”

”Nay, nay,” said the painter hastily, ”ask me not that; I have already misconducted myself enough towards thee. I would not shed thy blood.”

”Saints forbid! My blood?”

”Stranger,” said Pietro sullenly, ”irritated by repeated insults to my picture, which is my child, my heart, I did in a moment of rage make a solemn vow to drive my dagger into the next one that should flout it, and the labour and love that I have given to it.”

”What, are all to be slain that will not praise this picture?” and he looked at its back with curiosity.