The Denison review. [volume] (Denison, Iowa) 1867-current, 1900-10-12
BEATRIClA AND
THE IMAGE VENDER.
A Tale of Italy and
New York.

4
his plaster images for sale. 1t seemed
bitterly cold to the muffled, scurrying
crowd, but 1T was warm and balmy to
Pietro. Though the hands which held |
out the little white image of the wing
ed victory or bust of Beethoven We're
blue and stiff and the narrow shoulders
of the thin frame were doubled togeth-
er in an attitude of cringing subjec-
ton, yet the eyes of Pietro We're look
ing far beyond the brilliant shops Of
Fifth avenue. In his imagination he
was wandering in the Elysian fields
with his Beatreia 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
4 street corners and boarded the meager
gain to be able to get back to his Bea-
tricia. On the banks of the Tiber be
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
K 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 it, 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 hear
to the brim and made it throb wildly
at times within the tender walls. ooh
beloved Beatricia,' he would cry on
In the wakeful watches Of the Ion:
night, have you forgotten you
Pietro?"
The plaster yenuses and Mercury
and Sacred Marys stood side by sid
along the shelves of his shop, gain,
down on him from their classic gran
deur with cold, Implying eyes. Some
times at night he thought that he say
the imperious Milo shake her head dis
painfully when he cried aloud. Mel
curry sneered and a dimpled Cupid
head, by Praxiteles, broke into amuse
mirth. Once in his grief he knelt be
fore Mary, which he had himsel
nodded that very day, and he praye
wildly and despairingly, and, as if j
compassion. it seemed to him that til
sacred lips of the image moved to IL
tercede.
He lived alone Others in "Littl
Italy" sought to know him and to dfa'
him out Of himself. He was a hant
some youth perhaps % years of ag
si and many of the American born youn
Italian girls cast amorous glances {
him. He did not even notice them. II
looked far beyond them and saw
little dark eyed girl, with a clea
white, transparent skin, more beautif1
than the day-a cameo with but til
merest blush of pink.
ttHe no gooda; he no gooda," shoute
the mob of merrymakers, tossing bac
their heads in unbridled, mockin
laughter They would look at one a
& other when he passed silently, al
4 then raise their eyebrows significant
and smile with knowing, conclusiN
smiles as they touched their forehead
with a finger.
Pietro scarcely knew Of their pre-
ence. He used to hear their uproario1
laughter, but it did not attract hill
He had no respect for them. Maj
4, were but provincial born, and he, VIII
| he, Pietro Gonzales, had been born
Rome itself above the shop whe
Gonzales the elder had chiseled Il
II heads Of prelates of the Vatican fro
the finely veined, dazzling white ri
Y of marble from Italy's own hills al
had been q true artist in his day al
had loved art and labored for 1t in t
Il pure joy Of creating. Money to hi
f was nothing He did not know how
earn it well, or to keep it. Art W
everything. He deemed it worth t
sacrifice Of his son, whom he forced
70 to Ameri in order to extract II
tune from the new world.
But Pietro was beginning to lea
that fortunes are slow in coming, ev
In young. thriving provinces, and
art was more than the art Of chisel
marbles or Of plaster casts. His 10
was his ambition. He placed it abo
\ his art, above his duty, above life itse
And the object had only grown to mo
him for his devotion.
Often as he sauntered along the G
streets, absorbed In thoughts Of her,