The Mount Holly news. [volume] (Mount Holly, Burlington Co., N.J.) 1891-1942, 1900-11-13
BEATRIClA AND
THE IMAGE VENDER.
a Tale of Italy and
New York.

llLu dNeu ue. LII LIS udSlhdIlOA LAC
was wandering In the Elysian fields
with his Beatricia where the sunlight
gilded the meadows and the smile OF
nature shone everywhere.
oh, valiant heart of Pietro! 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 in the Roman vineyards,
and he had come to seek an Ell 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 1t, and ceased to pour out the
souls desires in 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 nc
word came to tighten his labors and his
loneliness. The first sharp pain of dis
appointment gave way to long, dull
ceaseless agony that filled his heart
to the brim and made 1t 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
Pietro~
The plaster Venuses and Mercurys
and Sacred Marys stood side by side
along the shelves of his shop. gazing
down on him from their classic gran
deur with cold, IMPLYING eyes. Some
times at night he thought that he saw
the imperious Milo shake her head dis
painfully 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 Mary, which he had himself
nodded that very day, and he prayed
wildly and despairingly, and, as If IN
compassion. 1t seemed to him that the
sacred lips of the image moved to In
tercede.
He lived alone. Others in "Little
Italy" sought to know him and to draw
him out of himself. He was hand
some youth. perhaps % years of age
and many Of the American born young
Italian girls cast amorous glances al
him. He did not even notice them. He
looked far beyond them and saw q
little dark eyed girl, with a clear
white, transparent skin. more beautiful
than the day-a cameo with but the
merest blush of pink.
HE no gooda; he no gooda," shouted
the mob of merrymakers, tossing back
their heads in unbridled. mockine
laughter. They would look at one an
other when he passed silently, and
then raise their eyebrows significantly
and smile with knowing, conclusive
smiles as they touched their foreheads
with finger
Pietro scarcely knew of their pres
ence. He used to hear their uproarious
laughter. but it did not attract him.
He had no respect for them. Many
were but provincial born, and he, why,
he. Pietro Gonzales. had been born in
Rome itself. above the shop where
Gonzales the elder had chiseled the
heads of prelates of the Vatican from
the finely veined, dazzling white ribs
of marble from Italy's own hills and
had been a true artist in his day and
had loved art and labored for it In the
pure joy Of creating. Money to him
was nothing. He did not know how tC
earn it well, or to keep 1t. Art was
everything. He deemed it worth the
sacrifice of his son. whom he forced to
go to America in order to extract for
tune from the new world.
But Pietro was beginning to learn
that fortunes are slow in coming. even
in young thriving provinces. and his
art was more than the art of chiseled
marbles or of plaster casts. His love
was his ambition. He placed 1t above
his art. above his duty. above life itself
And the object had only grown to mock
him for his devotion.
Often as he sauntered along the city
streets. absorbed in thoughts of her. he
would stop with a startled look ant
search the face of some passerby tina
reminded him wildly of his Beatricid
He saw her often in this way, for he
image was really never absent from
his minds eye. In his reveries of he
she used to appear to him, and. as II
the old days, she would wind he
soft, gentle arms around his neck ant
whisper, Beloved Pietro, thou art {
god"
For a year now he had not hear'
from her. "She must be dead" h
thought at times. IF she were alive
she could not feel the power of m,
love, though an ocean lies between us.
But, like all lovers, he was selfish an
sensitive, and he had sworn on hi
honor never to write to her again, an
he could picture her often making Low
to Marcello and Valentino and other
in the vineyards. as she had made Low
to him.
A second summer of silence came
and Pietro wandered out into the cour
try and walked among the wood ferns
crushing them to his breast with hi
passionate love of beauty He woul
go and spend days under the sky, beg
ging for food as he went. He coul
not work. He was stepped, saturatet
overcome by the accumulated longin
within him. The army Of laughin
fairies and Dominican monks stood o
their shelves, neglected array, III
busted and unsold.
The citizens of Little Italy" forge
his very existence. When he did nc
appear, they concluded that he had r.
turned to Italy for time, and the
did not even care to inquire One ola
a little, old woman In shabby blacl
with coarse veil tied around her hea
SO that her face was wholly concealed
came to little Italy" and inquire
! for Pietro. She could -spcak no En-