The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1890-08-22

trips in Padre Antouio's boat. For sums
varying from five to twenty-five francs
they supply me with colors, canvas
and brushes-I produce Fortunys, De-
tailles, thing that peo-
pie will buy"
Rienzi could not restrain an angry
growl; he opened his mouth to speak,
but the old artist gently raised his hand.
again interrupting him, and continued,
in fatigued voice:
81 even produce-although I revere
and love you'll produce Rienzis most of
all. Do not be angry, my great Peppino;
this does not affect your glory. 1t de-
ceives only the imbeciles and contempt
ible fellows who would like to get for
few hundred francs whole years toll
of painter of genius. Those who under
stand art lose no time over our paltry
limitations"
"But, then" Rienzi violently broke in.
The old man, without looking at him,
without hearing him, kept on:
''You see, my dear boy, the very illu-
sion of name like yours suffices to give
food, even from afar, with no trouble on
your part, to the disinherited like me-"
Rienzi was disarmed. What anger
could withstand this confession of an
unconscious cynicism, SO full of sorrows
endured?
Fcrucci told the bitter experiences of
days, the inhospitality of men and
things. And all this simply, as the
progress of life, in supreme lassitude.
Rienzi looked at him with growing
sadness. The vision of old age and pos
sible decrepitude rose before the young
masters eyes. And, speaking in his
turn, impelled by the influence of his
surroundings, he murmured:
81 feel myself robust and strong
enough for the expenditure of several
lives. I can look at the sun for hours,
walk over dusty and burning roads, en-
dure cold, hunger, thirst, without ever
feeling lassitude, without pains and with
out exhaustion"
He turned to his wife.
81 love-" said he; 'aad I am loved as I
wish to be, to the exclusion of every
thing, without thought, without an en-
thusiasm, without even a comprehension
outside of myself"
Then his brow wrinkled.
"When l think that some day perhaps
my faculties will decline, that my bare
head will have only few white hairs
upon it, and that my legs will sustain me
no longer--h!'' he exclaimed, with
shudder, 81 would like to believe in an
endless futures; desire an immortal love!
Youth, beauty, grace, all our infinity of
love; her voice, oh! that voice which
others scarcely know, her voice which
pours forth tenderness and marvellous
dreams-all this may change, diminish,
or disappear some day in death! That is
what often makes me shudder with
sadness which you do not know"
These words came to the souls of all
as the translation of certain shadows
which they had seen pass over Rienzi's
face.
Ferucci let them fall, as heavy and
sorrowful vibrations, into the immensely
of bhe sea.
Then he answered.:
"Grow old! You! My Rienzi! Nature
has given you manly beauty and grace,
charm and genius, the crown of all
things, a woman's love corresponding
to the most ambitious aspirations of your
brain and heart.
"Child," he declared in tone of
prophecy, "you will never know diminu-
ton; logical nature does not create a
man like you to drop her work by the
roadside. You will die in full glory, in
full youth, in full love, in full genius,
like the heroes and demigods"
The conversation was saddened the
Neapolitans do not like to speak of death.
There is always Il superstition conceal
ed beneath their apparent skepticism.
Strange people, so ready for excuses of
all sorts, so thoroughly masters of them
selves, so easily taken in, generous to the
point of devotion, and as cold as Levan-
tine banker.
Then in the silence the masculine voice
of fisherman rose in the distance, sud
denly mingling its rhythm with the gen.
tie surging of the pillows, the regular
splashing of the waves. The indistinct
words of the barcarole did not mean
much, and We're only pretext for the
melody.
Monteforte suddenly felt himself de-
livered from the yoke beneath which he
had bent for the last five years. An in
vincible desire to sing, to let his feeling
overflow in the initial fashion of his ma
ture, came over him irresistibly. He
forgot that he had lost his voice, and be-
gan the response to the distant singer.
To an old air of "Carissimi" Monte
forte improvised strange words, in which
passed visions, the worship of this beau
tiful night, things unnaulabie, lofty and
superhuman.
His voice was nervous; suddenly in
that moment which marks the luminous
point-sometimes limited in duration,
sometimes long-of every artists life, he
resuscitated the harmony for which he
was born. His voice rang out again
with the ardor of old time enthusiasm.
And when the last note pierced the air
like a cry of distress, a final plant ex-
hailed in the same breath with a shout of
victory, they uncovered their heads. The
old Ferucci rose. His lofty stature stood
out against the pale clearness of the night;
above his head the moon lighted sky and
sea, divine and mysterious lamp. The
distant isles seemed like clouds them
selves.
1t was the illimitable.
Ferucci raised his soft hat, and turn
ing his sublime old eagles head toward
the Orient, with gesture of superhuman
ma iestv ha cried i'm vihratinO tones.