San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1890-05-26

"a fine night for little trip on the
water, Don Gennaro. Would you like
% take one?'
All the boatmen knew Ferucci. When
ne had little money he ate macarOni on
he shore with the fishermen and spent
he rest in boating. \ single passion re-
NAMED unchanged in the old painter
he passion for the sea. Never tired of
he knew all the ships, flags and boats
BY instinct his steps led him infallibly to
he harbOr
He glanced over the bay regretfully
md greedily. The others had turned to
20 home. He was standing alone.
Sadly he shook his head.
mo money tonight, Padre Antonio"
But Peppino de Rienzi heard him. A
rip on the water in this beautiful moon
light, what happy idea.
Padre Antonio pointed to his boat;
hey all stepped into it-Rienzi, his wife,
Monteforte and Ferucci. How long would
he trip last? Orlando did not ask.
At first they talked of those whom
Peppino used to know.
Del Vecchio? He showed himself
among them no more. He had inherited
some property and lived confined in his
material comfort, gradually thickening
mis- brain and his body. Another one
had emigrated into the provinces. they
knew not where. A third, musician,
had become infatuated with pretty lit
tie flower girl, who was running him.
while his wife and children were coming
to want.
A fourth had abandoned painting.
All! indeed, art was discouraging in
these days. Formerly at least there was
hope. They awaited the coming of the
dealers, large and small-Mueser, Ber-
trand, COrdier of Paris, Hartwell of
London, Leemann of New York, and
many others.
Now what misery and what a struggle
and competition, just to sell one poor
canvas to the Society for the Promotion
of Art! No more true ComradeShip!
The aged Ferucci continued his bitter
indictment.
you, too" he concluded, looking at
Orlando-''yOu have lost all interest in
you take your walks, well dressed, with
a f1orid face, smiling at the beautiful la
dies in the row of passing carriages"
He stopped a few moments. Rienzi
listened to him sadly. FeruCci COntin
ued, with sigh:
My children, art is dying round about
us-art is dead! am left, the last pom
tiff-nO, the last servant-of the ideal.
Fortunately, for the S&rvants Of the idea!
die Of poverty and hunger amid the we'll
dressed bourgeois"
"Ah" he exclaimed, bitterly, "to eat
every day when one is hungry, to sleep
in a good bed, to change ones linen fire.
quentiy, to wear stockings that have no
holes in them, knit by womans hands
that is happiness, and the height Of wis
dom, and talent. and glory, and all!
l speak Of what | know he con-
tinued, gIoomiIy. Il do not see how
it is that succeed in eating every day
Now he forgot himself, going 50 far as
to impart secrets that he had never
| before confdcd to any one.
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