Part 19 (1/2)
”Is it possible,” I asked, ”that these amazing individuals are all artists and gentlemen?”
”Artists, every one,” replied Dalrymple; ”but as to their claim to be gentlemen, I won't undertake to establish it. After all, the _Chicards_ are not first-rate men.”
”What are they, then?”
”Oh, the Helots of the profession--hewers of wood engravings, and drawers of water-colors, with a sprinkling of daguerreotypists, and academy students. But hush--somebody is going to sing!”
And now, heralded by a convulsive flourish from the President's bugle, a young _Chicard_, whose dilapidated outer man sufficiently contradicted the burthen of his song, shouted with better will than skill, a _chanson_ of Beranger's, every verse of which ended with:--
”J'ai cinquante ecus, J'ai cinquante ecus, J'ai cinquante ecus de rente!”
Having brought this performance to a satisfactory conclusion, the singer sat down amid great clapping of hands and clattering of gla.s.ses, and the President, with another flourish on the bugle, called upon one Monsieur Tourterelle. Monsieur Tourterelle was a tall, gaunt, swarthy personage, who appeared to have cultivated his beard at the expense of his head, since the former reached nearly to his waist, while the latter was as bare as a billiard-ball. Preparing himself for the effort with a wine-gla.s.s full of raw cognac, this gentleman leaned back in his chair, stuck his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and plunged at once into a doleful ballad about one Mademoiselle Rosine, and a certain village _aupres de la mer_, which seemed to be in an indefinite number of verses, and amused no one but himself. In the midst of this ditty, just as the audience had begun to testify their impatience by much whispering and shuffling of feet, an elderly _Chicard_, with a very bald and s.h.i.+ny head, was discovered to have fallen asleep in the seat next but one to my own; whereupon my nearest neighbor, a merry-looking young fellow with a profusion of rough light hair surmounted by a cap of scarlet cloth, forthwith charred a cork in one of the candles, and decorated the bald head of the sleeper with a comic countenance and a pair of huge mustachios. An uproarious burst of laughter was the immediate result, and the singer, interrupted somewhere about his 18th verse, subsided into offended silence.
”Monsieur Muller is requested to favor the honorable society with a song,” cried the President, as soon as the tumult had somewhat subsided.
My red-capped neighbor, answering to that name, begged to be excused, on the score of having pledged his _ut de poitrine_ a week since at the Mont de Piete, without yet having been able to redeem it. This apology was received with laughter, hisses, and general incredulity.
”But,” he added, ”I am willing to relate an adventure that happened to myself in Rome two winters ago, if my honorable brother _Chicards_ will be pleased to hear it.”
An immense burst of approbation from all but Monsieur Tourterelle and the bald sleeper, followed this announcement; and so, after a preliminary _grog au vin_, and another explosive demonstration on the part of the chairman, Monsieur Muller thus began:--
THE STUDENT'S STORY.
”When I was in Rome, I lodged in the Via Margutta, which, for the benefit of those who have not been there, may be described as a street of studios and stables, crossed at one end by a little roofed gallery with a single window, like a shabby 'Bridge of Sighs,' A gutter runs down the middle, interrupted occasionally by heaps of stable-litter; and the perspective is damaged by rows of linen suspended across the street at uncertain intervals. The houses in this agreeable thoroughfare are dingy, dilapidated, and comfortless, and all which are not in use as stables, are occupied by artists. However, it was a very jolly place, and I never was happier anywhere in my life. I had but just touched my little patrimony, and I was acquainted with plenty of pleasant fellows who used to come down to my rooms at night from the French Academy where they had been studying all day. Ah, what evenings those were! What suppers we used to have in from the _Lepre_! What lots of Orvieto we drank! And what a mountain of empty wicker bottles had to be cleared away from the little square yard with the solitary lemon-tree at the back of the house!”
”Come, Muller--no fond memories!” cried a student in a holland blouse.
”Get on with the story.”
”Ay, get on with the story!” echoed several voices.
To which Muller, who took advantage of the interruption to finish his _grog au vin_, deigned no reply.
”Well,” he continued, ”like a good many other fellows who, having everything to learn and nothing to do, fancy themselves great geniuses only because they are in Rome, I put a grand bra.s.s plate on the door, testifying to all pa.s.sers-by that mine was the STUDIO DI HERR FRANZ MULLER; and, having done this, I believed, of course, that my fortune was to be made out of hand. Nothing came of it, however. People in search of Dessoulavy's rooms knocked occasionally to ask their way, and a few English and Americans dropped in from time to time to stare about them, after the free-and-easy fas.h.i.+on of foreigners in Rome; but, for all this, I found no patrons. Thus several months went by, during which I studied from the life, worked hard at the antique, and relieved the monotony of study with occasional trips to Frascati, or supper parties at the Cafe Greco.”
”The story! the story!” interrupted a dozen impatient voices.
”All in good time,” said Muller, with provoking indifference. ”We are now coming to it.”
And a.s.suming an att.i.tude expressive of mystery, he dropped his voice, looked round the table, and proceeded:--
”It was on the last evening of the Carnival. It had been raining at intervals during the day, but held up for a good hour just at dusk, as if on purpose for the _moccoli_. Scarcely, however, had the guns of St.
Angelo thundered an end to the frolic, when the rain came down again in torrents, and put out the last tapers that yet lingered along the Corso.
Wet, weary, and splashed from head to foot with mud and tallow, I came home about seven o'clock, having to dine and dress before going to a masked-ball in the evening. To light my stove, change my wet clothes, and make the best of a half-cold _trattore_ dinner, were my first proceedings; after which, I laid out my costume ready to put on, wrapped myself in a huge cloak, swallowed a tumbler full of hot cognac and water, and lay down in front of the fire, determined to have a sound nap and a thorough warming, before venturing out again that night. I fell asleep, of course, and never woke till roused by a tremendous peal upon the studio-bell, about two hours and a half afterwards. More dead than alive, I started to my feet. The fire had gone out in the stove; the room was in utter darkness; and the bell still pealed loud enough to raise the neighborhood.
”'Who's there?' I said, half-opening the door, through which the wind and rain came rus.h.i.+ng. 'And what, in the name of ten thousand devils, do you want?”
”'I want an artist,' said my visitor, in Italian. 'Are you one?'
”'I flatter myself that I am,' replied I, still holding the door tolerably close.