The Sunday morning news. [volume] (Jersey City [N.J.]) 1886-1891, 1890-05-25
self Of his presence in the studio, and to

Every night, after the 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 vegetables 9fonteforte went
to the Cafe d'Europe 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 part Of the
promised income, the union of the house
| holds lessening the expense. And this
| part went for clothing and studio sup
! plies.
Montefortes paintings not selling, he
had no pocket money. They held him
Ia the attitude of child, and 7 resa
would scarcely allow him to go out with
| out her.
! Did he try to rebel? The family, united
as one man, took tho side of his wife by
their attitude and silence. Then. either
| from Incidence or lassitude, or to avoid
the ennui of discussion, sometimes too
through sort OF passive good natures
he allowed things to go on.
His rich marriage, which others en-
vied-what miseryi He always found
comfortable meals, to be sure.
His clothes were cared for; he lacked
nothing excepting that necessity-inde-
pendencei
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 a gay supper paid
for by him.
When lie was poor he sang serenades;
his voice aroused the rcveries of women,
pretty girls of the port, laundresses with
glowing cheeks and statuesque bodies
modelled in a 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 h. 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 eiTaced, Monteforte
was bent under the ferrule of daily life, SO
dull and ordinary, that he felt that he
must die Of eului.
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 LETT him also. The hand
some Orlando, whose health, Needless
ness and JOY made him a force of nature,
was conquered by these four mediocrities.
His present dream, a negative happi-
ness, was to pass an afternoon alone, with
out 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 las 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 no 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 be renewed
his attempt: nothing.
A voice Of wood.
Then he placed himself before a mirror
and started back.
What? This poor fellow, bent, dimin-
ished, was he, the handsome Orlando
Monteforte:
lie approached again FOR closer look.
Gray hair falling over his temples? Then
old agel
And asking himself how old he could
really be, he calculated:
Thirty years"
Nothing left in brain or heart. No il.
fusion left. Emptied! Not even the
memory Of lofty sadnesses, lifting his
lassitude and his submissions to the re.
gion of philosophy.
Once more he tried his voice, this time
in that song Of infinite bitterness Bee
| thoven's ''Pacification."
And then his head dropped as he muir
INJURED:
mot even thatr'
After five years of marriage he was
morally unacceptable.
! But one evening q simple bit of news
brought a ray Of pleasure into this uni
fornily gloomy existence. Rienzi had
! arrived.
The return of a compatriot from for
eign land was small thing in appear
ance. To Orlando it was an awakening
of memories, with the hope of talks
about art, exquisite and charming de
3 XII A ~ a..