The Deputy of Arcis [110]
masses are more capable than individuals of understanding generous impulses and of distinguishing the honest language of truth. Here are the facts which I related, but more briefly and with less detail, to my electors.
A few months before my departure from Rome, I was in a cafe frequented by the pupils of the Academy, when an Italian musician, named Benedetto, came in, as he usually did every evening. Nominally he was a musician and a tolerable one; but we had been warned that he was also a spy of the Roman police. However that might be, he was very amusing; and as we cared nothing for the police, we not only endured but we encouraged his visits,--which was not hard to do in view of his passion for /poncio spongato/ and /spuma di latte/.
On his entrance one evening, a member of our party asked him who was the woman with whom he had met him that morning.
"My wife, signore," answered the Italian.
"Yours, Benedetto!--you the husband of such a beauty!"
"Si, signore."
"Nonsense! you are ugly and drunken, and people say you are police spy; but she, on the contrary, is as handsome as Diana the huntress."
"I charmed her with my talent; she adores me."
"Well, if she is your wife, make her pose to our friend here, Dorlange, who wants a model for his Pandora. He can't get a finer one."
"That can be managed," replied the Italian.
The next day I was in my studio in company with several young painters and sculptors when Benedetto came in accompanied by a woman of rare beauty, whom I need not describe, for you have seen her, madame, at my house. A joyous hurrah greeted the Italian, who said to me,--
"/Ecco la Pandora/! Hey! what do you think of her?"
"Marvellously beautiful; but would she pose?"
"Pooh!" exclaimed Benedetto, with an air which seemed to say: "I'd like to see her refuse."
"But," I remarked, "she would cost too much, a model of her beauty."
"No; you need only make my bust--just a plaster cast--and give it to her."
"Very good," I said. Then I told my friends to go and leave us alone together.
Nobody minded me. Judging the wife by the husband, the eager young fellows pressed round her; while she, wounded and angered by the audacity of their eyes, looked like a caged panther irritated by peasants at a fair.
Going up to her and pulling her aside, Benedetto told her in Italian that I wanted to copy her from head to foot, and she must then and there take off her clothes. The woman gave him one withering look, and made for the door. Benedetto rushed forward to prevent her; while my comrades, for the honor of the studio, endeavored to bar his way.
Then began an argument between the wife and the husband; but, as I saw that Benedetto sustained his part of it with great brutality, I was angry, and, having a pretty vigorous arm, I pushed him aside, and took the wife, who was trembling all over, to the door. She said, in Italian, a few words of thanks, and disappeared instantly.
Returning to Benedetto, who was gesticulating furiously, I told him to leave the studio, that his conduct was infamous, and if I heard of his ill-treating his wife I would have him punished.
"/Debole/!" (idiot!) he replied, shrugging his shoulders, and departing amid derisive cheers.
Several days passed, and no signs of Benedetto. By the end of a week he was forgotten. Three days before my departure from Rome his wife entered my studio.
"You are leaving Rome," she said, "and I want you to take me with you."
"Take you with me!--but your husband?"
"Dead," she answered tranquilly.
A thought crossed my mind.
"Did you kill him?" I said.
She made an affirmative sign, adding, "But I meant to die too."
"How was it?" I asked.
"After he offered me that affront," she replied, "he came home and beat me, as he often did; then he went out and was gone all day. At night he returned with a pistol and threatened to shoot me; but I got the pistol away from him, for he was drunk. I threw him--the /briccone/!--on his bed, and he fell asleep. Then I stuffed up the doors and windows, and lighted
A few months before my departure from Rome, I was in a cafe frequented by the pupils of the Academy, when an Italian musician, named Benedetto, came in, as he usually did every evening. Nominally he was a musician and a tolerable one; but we had been warned that he was also a spy of the Roman police. However that might be, he was very amusing; and as we cared nothing for the police, we not only endured but we encouraged his visits,--which was not hard to do in view of his passion for /poncio spongato/ and /spuma di latte/.
On his entrance one evening, a member of our party asked him who was the woman with whom he had met him that morning.
"My wife, signore," answered the Italian.
"Yours, Benedetto!--you the husband of such a beauty!"
"Si, signore."
"Nonsense! you are ugly and drunken, and people say you are police spy; but she, on the contrary, is as handsome as Diana the huntress."
"I charmed her with my talent; she adores me."
"Well, if she is your wife, make her pose to our friend here, Dorlange, who wants a model for his Pandora. He can't get a finer one."
"That can be managed," replied the Italian.
The next day I was in my studio in company with several young painters and sculptors when Benedetto came in accompanied by a woman of rare beauty, whom I need not describe, for you have seen her, madame, at my house. A joyous hurrah greeted the Italian, who said to me,--
"/Ecco la Pandora/! Hey! what do you think of her?"
"Marvellously beautiful; but would she pose?"
"Pooh!" exclaimed Benedetto, with an air which seemed to say: "I'd like to see her refuse."
"But," I remarked, "she would cost too much, a model of her beauty."
"No; you need only make my bust--just a plaster cast--and give it to her."
"Very good," I said. Then I told my friends to go and leave us alone together.
Nobody minded me. Judging the wife by the husband, the eager young fellows pressed round her; while she, wounded and angered by the audacity of their eyes, looked like a caged panther irritated by peasants at a fair.
Going up to her and pulling her aside, Benedetto told her in Italian that I wanted to copy her from head to foot, and she must then and there take off her clothes. The woman gave him one withering look, and made for the door. Benedetto rushed forward to prevent her; while my comrades, for the honor of the studio, endeavored to bar his way.
Then began an argument between the wife and the husband; but, as I saw that Benedetto sustained his part of it with great brutality, I was angry, and, having a pretty vigorous arm, I pushed him aside, and took the wife, who was trembling all over, to the door. She said, in Italian, a few words of thanks, and disappeared instantly.
Returning to Benedetto, who was gesticulating furiously, I told him to leave the studio, that his conduct was infamous, and if I heard of his ill-treating his wife I would have him punished.
"/Debole/!" (idiot!) he replied, shrugging his shoulders, and departing amid derisive cheers.
Several days passed, and no signs of Benedetto. By the end of a week he was forgotten. Three days before my departure from Rome his wife entered my studio.
"You are leaving Rome," she said, "and I want you to take me with you."
"Take you with me!--but your husband?"
"Dead," she answered tranquilly.
A thought crossed my mind.
"Did you kill him?" I said.
She made an affirmative sign, adding, "But I meant to die too."
"How was it?" I asked.
"After he offered me that affront," she replied, "he came home and beat me, as he often did; then he went out and was gone all day. At night he returned with a pistol and threatened to shoot me; but I got the pistol away from him, for he was drunk. I threw him--the /briccone/!--on his bed, and he fell asleep. Then I stuffed up the doors and windows, and lighted