The San Francisco call., 1905-05-21

III LINUS
a bears a simple inscription
in black, touched with gilt:
''Signor Domenico-Curios-" Cobwebs
ere about the windows and the floor
OF the little shop is thick with dust.
An air Of desolation overhangs the
place. It has been vacant only a
month, but already the rats play
hide-and-seek in the tiny wine cellar
beneath the steps.
Above the shop is a room musty
from lack Of air. A bed of rough
wood occupies one corner; in the win
dow space an upturned box serves as a
table and on it rests q vase in which
spiders have made a nest. Scrape
away a bit Of the dust; the vase is
Of cut glass. exquisite in design. 1t
contains the remnants of withered
rose, placed there q silent tribute to
q pictured face. The picture is tackled
above the vase. It is an old-fashioned
miniature painted by a master hand.
1t is the face Of a woman, whose
beauty held a court spellbound half a
century ago.
Signor Domenico, a little stoop-
shouldered italian, who lived like a
beggar and had the manners of a
prince. is remembered by the resi-
dents OF Little Italy as IL hermito.
He lived ouite alone, making bust
ness and a pastime Of polishing his
brasses. The curios were scarcely suf-
hcient in number TO give his shop its
utle-but, diavolo, they were rarei
They were treasures he had brought
from Italy IN PALMER days.
But Signor Domenico was not a
tradesman. He polished his brasses.
he busted his books, he labeled his
wares; but he made no sales.
He stood behind his counter, hands
outstretched; he claimed your atten-
ton. Here he showed you a picture
Of an old Italian tower. in which a
cleverly contrived clock Of Swiss work.
nanship tolled out the hour in chime
like tones; there he showed silver
candelabrum with a monarch's crest;
from a drawer he drew forty-six small
daggers, and proceeded to give the
history Of each.
The prices? He will tell them: but
he will not sell. He shakes his head
at each entreaty. 'It is sold now." he
VIII say, or "I buy this myself for my
wife Julia"
A stranger does not stare at the
mention OF a woman about the place.
but a neighbor taps his head. and ex-
plains later.
"His wife. Julia-shs Is not-she
never was."
Back Of the shop Ia q small room
furnished with table and chairs. 1t
was here that SIgnor Domenico dis
pensed wine-rare stuff OF his own
making, he would tell you. Here 1t was
that he regaled the stranger who had
come to buy.
But the stranger, were he wise. had
come with another object as well.
'I drink TO your fame. Signor Domen-
eco. You viii play for me. perhaps?"
It was then that signor Domenico
would straighten UP, looking almost
youthful under his assumed import
ance.
he would 60 to 4 small hair-cloth
trunk. slowed away in corner. and
would bring out a black leather case.
with dull hinges. He would handle If
reverently, for the treasure it contain
ed outranked in value the contents of
his shop.
lie stands back near the window. his
long white beard flung across his
chest, the violin pressed against his
chin. The first draw Of the bow holds
the listener spellbound. The old man
plays not with his fingers. but with his
soul.
A virtuoso. Signor Domenico-ab.
where has one heard the name?
But my real name is not Domenico. y
What then2"
The signor frowns and shakes his
head; he does not fancy the question.
You have played abroad-you were
famous, perhaps?"
His eyes glow now. He draws from
his pocket picture. as If he had placed
II there for this express purpose.