Lyon County times. [volume] (Silver City, Nev.) 1874-1907, 1890-08-09

IllIl. plOulclOItc ldu ucNCI DtCu w iidt
is considered an indefatigable toiler. But,
his art now became a necessity to him,
to enable him to forget the petty trials Of
every day life.
The studio caused his wife continual
suspicious.
In the first place she permitted him ne
models save men and old women.
Next she kept him at home under all
sorts of pretexts, and constantly disturb
ed him with visits which she claimed as
Indispensable.
Was he about to settle down to work?
Was his task beginning to interest him?
A little tinkle of the bell announced the
arrival of his wife, sustained by one of
her family Teresa came to assure her.
self of his presence in the studio, and to
find out who was posing for him.
Every night, after the Z o'clock supper
"a cold collation. composed either of the
dessert left from the dinner. or of salad
and fried fish picked in lemon juice, or
of cooked egetables-Monteforte went
to the Cafe dEurope to meet the other
artists. Generally he contented himself
with the traditional glass of water, SO
little money had he at his disposal. The
young couple received only a part of the
promised income, the union of the house.
holds lessening the expense. And this
part went for clothing and studio sup
plies.
Monteforte's paintings not selling, he
had no pocket money. They held him
in the attitude of a child, and Teresa
would scarcely allow him to go out with
out her.
Did he try to rebel? The family united
as one man, took the side of his wife by
their attitude and silence. Then, either
I from incidence or lassitude, or to avoid
the ennui of discussion, sometimes too
Inrougn sort OF passive good nature,
| he allowed things to go on.
/ His rich marriage, which others en-
vied-what misery! He always found
comfortable meals, to be sure.
His clothes were cared for; he lacked
nothing excepting that necessity-inde-
pendence!
When he was poor he sometimes paid
for comrades glass of beer at the same
time as his own. When he was poor
beautiful girls posed as his models, ask
ing no reward beyond gay supper paid
for by him.
When he was poor he sang serenades;
his voice aroused the reveries of women,
pretty girls of the port, laundresses with
glowing cheeks and statuesque bodies
modelled in bronze at once tender and
warm.
Now he had to endure continual in
sipidities. That need of tranquility
which finally conquers the most rebellious
and the strongest diminished him every
day. He could no longer even receive
his friends in the privacy of his home.
! At first it had been necessary to con-
sole Teresa for her poor unappreciated
love. Later, when the memory of this
must have long been effaced, Monteforte
was bent under the ferrule of daily life, SO
dull and ordinary, that he felt that he
must die of ennui.
Certainly he lacked genius; but now he
never found, even in his happiest hours,
the old vision of art, the beautiful starry
dream. In this commonplace interior
even that Joy was denied him. The cour-
age to complain left him also. The hand
some Orlando, whose health, needless
ness and Joy made him force of nature,
was conquered by these four mediocrities.
His present dream, a negative -happi-
ness, was to pass an afternoon alone. with
out a model, without being disturbed, in
his studio, his last refuge.
He smoked. Astride his chair, with
eyes fixed upon virgin canvas or lost
upon point in space, he evoked works.
events. sensations. which did not need
to be humanity realizable; he also impro-
vised songs, while following with his
look the mobile transformations of the
clouds, images of his reverie.
But even this happiness was not free
from anxiety; the fear of seeing one Of
his tyrants appear spoiled this rare joy.
Undoubtedly he could have closed his
door and let them ring in vain.
Cowardice prevented him ,as he thought
of the silent reproaches of the evening
and the following days.
1t seemed as if his beautiful voice of a
captive nightingale had 10 longer its old
time brilliancy; gaps gradually appeared
in it; certain notes were lacking or no
longer rang out with that clear harmony
to which he was accustomed.
One day he began the Fenestra che
luciva. At the first phrase he became
terribly agitated. What! could he no
longer sing? Was this weakening Of the
organ, which he had noticed for some
time past, but supposed to be temporary,
becoming more and more pronounced?
Monteforte felt the first cruel anguish
of his life. Several times he renewed
his attempt: nothing
| A voice of wood.
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