Part 7 (2/2)
And the seducer, he was perhaps after all not more of a blackguard than many others. He had done what he could to atone for a fault, which from his point of view was hardly to be considered so very great, he had provided for a whole year for a child which he said was none of his--what could he do more? He had asked the doctor if he knew of any virtuous models, and the doctor had answered him, ”No,” for neither did he know of any virtuous models.
And Raffaella had borne her degradation as she had borne her poverty, without bitterness and without despair; she wept sometimes, but she accused no one, neither herself nor him who had injured her. She was resigned. Authors believe that it is so easy to jump into the Seine or to take a dose of laudanum, but it is very difficult. Raffaella was a daughter of the people, no culture had entered into her thought-world, either with its light or its shadow, she was far too natural even to think of such a thing.
He who was cultured had brought forward the question of sending the child into the country or placing it in the _Enfants trouves_ (foundling hospital), and she who was uncultured had known of no other answer than to wind her arms still closer round her child's neck. And _la nonna_ (the old grandmother), who scrubbed steps and carried coals all day, and having at last lulled the child to rest in the evening, dead-tired went to sleep with half-shut eyes and a string round her wrist, so as now and then to rock the little one's cradle; neither could she understand that it would be any relief if ”_la piccerella_” were to be sent away.
The light fell on the squalid bed, and the doctor looked at his patient.
Yes! it was indeed very like her, he certainly was a clever artist that young painter! Her face was only a little paler now, that painful shadow over the forehead was probably not to be seen in the bright studio where the picture was painted, those dark rings round her eyes very likely were not suitable for the Salon. But the same perfection of form in every feature, the same n.o.ble shape of the head, the same childishly soft rounding of the cheek, the same curly locks round the beautiful brow; yes, rumour spoke true, she bore the mark of n.o.bility on her forehead, not that of Faubourg St. Germain, but that of h.e.l.las, she bore the features of the Venus of Milo.
It was quite still up there in the dim little garret. The doctor looked at the young mother who slept so peacefully with her child in her arms, he looked at the old woman who sat by his side fingering her rosary.
With foreboding sadness he looked into the future which awaited these three, and sorrowfully his thoughts wandered along the way which lay before his poor friends.
Ah yes, Raffaella soon got well, for she was healthy with Nature's youth. Model she never became again, for she could not leave her child.
She did not marry, for her people do not forgive one who has had a child by a _Signore_. With the baby at her breast she wandered about in search of work, any work whatever. Her demands were so small, but her chances were still smaller. She found no work. The old woman still held out for a time, then she broke down and Raffaella had to provide food for three mouths. The last savings were gone, and the Sunday clothes were at the p.a.w.n-shop. Public charity did not help her, for she was a foreigner, and private charity never came near Raffaella. She had to choose between want or going on the streets. Her child lived and she chose want. The world did not reward her for her choice, for virtue hungers and freezes in the poor quarters of Paris. And she ended like so many others by _fare la Scopa_.[24] Pale and emaciated sat the child on _la nonna's_ knee, and with low bent back Raffaella swept the streets where pleasure and luxury went by. Poverty had effaced her beauty, she bore the features of want and hards.h.i.+p. Sorrow had furrowed her brow, but the stamp of n.o.bility was still there. Hats off for virtue in rags! It is greater than the virtue of Faubourg St. Germain!
Perhaps a clever writer could make a nice little sketch out of Raffaella's story; it is, however, as I said before, neither a very original nor a very exciting one, it is quite commonplace. But I can give you a subject for another little sketch; it is that doctor who is so fond of Italians who has. .h.i.t upon it. He has been thinking it over for many years, but he never gets further than thinking. Write a story about female models and dedicate it to artists! Write it without lies and without sentimentality. Write it without exaggeration, for it needs none; without severity, for we all have need of forbearance. Tell them, the artists, how much we all like them, the light-hearted good-natured comrades, tell them how proud we are of them, the happy interpreters of our longing for beauty. But ask them why they so despise their models, ask them if they know what becomes of the originals of their female pictures!
They know it well.
If they answer you that they are young, that their temptations are greater than those of any others, then reflect if you yourself have the right to say any more to them. But if they answer you that the fault lies with the models, then tell them to their faces that they lie. Then tell them what road the greater part of the women models take--the statistics are there and they cannot be contradicted. We know well that many of these models have themselves to blame for their misfortunes, but by far the greater part of them owe their fall to the misleading of an artist.
And look here! Is he then quite wrong, that doctor who thinks that the artist stands towards his woman model in the same position as the physician towards his woman patient? Society demands, and is right in demanding, a pa.s.sionless eye from the physician, and between the physician's respect for his profession and the temptation of the man, honour has no choice. The present day ranks art higher than science, why then is not the artist's respect for his profession great enough to protect a woman model! Why are there no virtuous models? Is not the model the unknown collaborator in the artist's creation, is she not, even she, although unconsciously a humble servant in the temple of art, in that temple where the ancients placed the statue of the chaste Pallas Athene?
Yes, a clever writer may have a good deal more to say about this, and he may also make use of that doctor's meditations if he thinks there is any meaning in them, they have at least the merit of being founded upon experience, experience of the art world of Paris as well as that of Rome.[25]
But he must not forget that it is the spoiled children of our day that he is daring to blame. Should his article be to the point he may be sure he will be very severely censured by them; let him take it as praise for _il n'y a que la verite qui blesse_! And besides, let him remember that the world's blame is as little worth caring about as its praise.
[Footnote 24: The harbour of refuge for most of the s.h.i.+pwrecked ones who still can and will work. The street scavengers of Paris are to a great extent Italians.]
[Footnote 25: I was for ten years the confidant, the friend, and the doctor to most of the poor Italians in Paris, the greater number of whom are models. My experience during these years was a terrible one. Nine years in Rome have made the evidence still more conclusive. Of English models I know nothing and have nothing to say.]
THE DOGS IN CAPRI
AN INTERIOR
Like the ancient Romans, the Capri dogs devote the greater part of their day to public life. The Piazza is their Forum, and it is there they write their history. When Don Antonio opens the doors of his osteria, and Don Nicolino, barber and bleeder, steps out of his ”Salone,” Capri begins a new day. From all sides the dogs then come gravely walking forth--the doctor's, the tobacconist's, the secretary's, Don Archangelo's, Don Pietro's, etc. etc., and, after a greeting in accordance with nature's prescribed ceremonial, they seat themselves upon the Piazza to meditate. Don Antonio places a couple of chairs in front of his cafe, and whilst some of them accept the invitation to lean against them, others prefer the steps leading up to the Church, or that comfortable corner by the Campanile, to whose clock generations have listened with ever-increasing astonishment where, indomitable as the sun, it presses forward on its own path, but alas! not that of the sun.
After a while the dogs from Hotel Pagano make their appearance. They get up later than the others, for they eat a terribly solid dinner. They all descend from the venerable old ”Timberio”[26] Pagano, who walks a little behind the rest of his family. Timberio has a cataract in one eye, but the other eye looks out upon life with immovable calm. The Pagano dog-family has always ranked amongst the very first in Capri, and now, since one of their masters, Manfredo, was made Sindaco, they have still further accentuated that reserved bearing which they always understood how to maintain towards the lower orders. They usually form a ”circle”
of themselves and some of the Liberal dogs in the Munic.i.p.al Portico. The Conservative dogs, who were beaten at the last election when the Liberal candidate, Manfredo Pagano, became Sindaco, cl.u.s.ter together in a hostile minority on the other side of the Piazza by the steps leading up to the Church. Now and then they take a look inside the Church, and seat themselves down by the door with the greatest decorum, like humble publicans, whilst the Ma.s.s is said in the chancel or the _Figlie di Maria_ intone the Litany with half-singing voices.
About ten o'clock appear Il Cacciatore's[27] two dogs, mother and son.
They go without hesitation straight into Don Antonio's wineshop. They were born upon the island, but they have received an English education, and they well know the taste of a leg of mutton or a piece of roast beef. Don Antonio's dogs have also a certain idea of these things. After several generations a vague Anglicism still survives amongst them from the time when Don Antonio was steward on board an English steamboat, and it is with a visible pride that they say to their Capri colleagues their ”Bow-wow-wow--how do you do, sir?” as any stranger approaches their osteria. The German dogs never enter this place; in spite of all Bismarck's efforts to win Don Antonio over to the triple alliance, they are not well looked upon there, their permanent headquarters are still at Morgano's ”Zum Hiddigeigei,” whence one can hear them barking and yelping till late at night.
<script>