El Paso daily herald. (El Paso, Tex.) 1881-1901, 1900-10-03
BEATRIClA AND
THE IMAGE VENDER.
A Tale of Italy and
New York

~S-e-S-S-S-s-~s-~S~-c
Tho snow fiurries were binding the
eyes of the passing throng, but Pietro
stood valiantIy at the curb holding out
his plaster images for sale. 1t seemed
bitterly cold to the muffied. scurrying
crowd. but it was warm and balmy to
Pietro. Though the hands which held
out the little white image of the wing
ed victory or a bust of Beethoven were
blue and stiff and the narrow shoulders
OF the thin frame were doubled togeth-
er i'm an attitude of cringing subjec-
ton, yet the eyes of Pietro were look
ing far beyond the brilliant shops of
Fifth avenue. In his Imagination he
was wandering i'm the Elysian fields
with his Beatricia where the sunlight
gilded the meadows and the smile Of
nature shone everywhere.
oh, valiant heart of Petrol For two
years now he had nodded plaster casts
and images and sold his wares on
street corners and boarded the meager
gain to be able to get back to his Bea-
tricia- On the banks OF the Tiber he
had left her picking grapes with the
men and girls i'm the Roman vineyards,
and he had come to seek an FL Dorado
before he claimed her as his bride.
For one long. sad year of separation
she wrote to him. She upbraided him
for his slowness in winning the wealth
they had dreamed of, she scolded him
for only lukewarm affection. she
wounded his sensitive soul with re-
peated attacks on his loyalty and love.
and gradually these criticisms. emanat-
ing from the restless. passionate soul
Of the young girl, tender, but selfish,
giving much, but demanding more.
crushed the ardent spirit OF the young
Italian, and he drew his love within
the recesses of his heart and brooded
over IL, and ceased to pour out the
souls desires i'm the little message
which he sent occasionally across the
water.
Finally. when she believed her love
too little appreciated. she ceased alto
gether to write Pietro had been wait
Ing and watching and counting the
days for the letter which she owed.
Weeks went by. then months. and no
word came to tighten his labors and his
loneliness. The first sharp pain of dis
appointment gave way to n long, dull,
ceaseless agony that filed his heart
to the brim and made il throb wildly
at times within the tender walls. "Oh,
beloved Beatricia," he would cry out
in the wakeful watches of the long
night. have you forgotten your
PfetroT"
Tho plaster Ven-Ses and Mcrc;Irys
and Sacred Marys stood side by side
along the shelves of his shop. gazing
fhafr rIo
deur with cold. Implying eyes. Some
times at night he thought that he saw
the imperious Milo shake her head dis
when he cried aloud Mer-
curry sneered. and a dimpled Cupid's
head, by Praxiteles. broke into amused
mirth. Once in his grief he knelt be-
fore a Mary, which he had himself
nodded that very day, and he prayed
wildly and despairingly, and. as IL in
it seemed to him that the
sacred lips of the image moved to in
tercede.
He lived alone. Others I'm Little
Italy" sought to know him and to draw
him out Of himself. He was a hand
some youth. perhaps % years OF age.
and many of the American born young
Italian girls cast amorous giances at
him. He did not even notice them. He
looked far beyond them and saw
little dark eyed girl. with a clear.
white, transparent skin. more beautiful
than the day-a cameo with but the
nerest blush of pink.
HE no gooda; lie no gooda," shouted
he mob OF merrymakers, tossing back
their heads in unbridled. hooking
aughter- They would look at one an
)ther when he passed silently, and
hen raise their eyebrows significantly
md smile with knowing. conclusive
Imiles as they touched their foreheads
With n finger.
Pietro scarcely knew of their pres
nee. He used to hear their uproarious
aughter but it did not attract him.
he had no respect for them. Many
we're but provincial born. and he. why,
lie. Pietro Gonzales. had been born in
Rome itself. above the shop where
Gonzales the elder had chiseled the
reads of prelates of the Vatican from
he finely veined. dazzling white ribs
II marble from Italy's own hills and
lad been a true artist i'm his day and
rad loved art and labored for it in the
'ure joy of creating. Money to him
vas nothing. He did not know how to
arm it well. or to keep it. Art was
He deemed it worth the
acrifice of his son, whom he forced to
20 to America in order to extract a for
une from the new world.
But Pietro was beginning to learn |
hat fortunes are slow in coming, even |
n young. thriving provinces, and his |
lrt was more than the art of chiseled |
marbles or of plaster casts. His love
vas his ambition. He placed it above.
is art, above his duty, above life itself |
md the object had only grown to mock |