But yonder to the south, beyond the walls of Rome, and five, ten, twenty miles away, lies old Rome, lifting here and there above the earth some broken bit of the skeleton of her own mighty proportions. And down here by the Tiber, immediately under us as we stand on the Spanish steps and look west, we see shafts of marble, old columns that lift like mossy tombstones on the grave of the great dead city. There lies Rome on the banks of the Tiber, old Rome, dead, very dead, and buried in the dust and the debris of ten and fifteen centuries.
On the side of this dead city, out of the grave as it were, even out of the dust and bones and ashes of this great dead city, has grown a sort of mushroom.
New Rome is here, pushed back from the Tiber, back on to the higher land, for they could not build closer because of the imense ruins; and then the Tiber overflowed too. But here is new Rome today — a very rickety town it is too, compared with the old one. You might call it a toadstool grown up out of the bones of the dead, and not be far wrong.
Here are shops, banks, saloons for rereshments, fashionable resorts for fashionable gamblers, fashionable modern improvements of civilization.
Here are side walks and wide streets, and well paved drives, all giving the new town an infinite advantage over the old down there in the Ghetto where the Jews are.
Here are also painted women, fast and frivolous, gay young men, giving their fortunes many a chase, broken foreigners and threadbare Romans, and many other things which make a man who is in earnest with the world and himself, infinitely prefer the old town, even as it is now, with all its rags and wretchedness, to the new. New Rome is, in fact, a kind of imitation Paris. It may not be quite so wicked, but it cerainly does its best, and is improving in that direction every season.
Murietta was a man of extremes. He had been among the miserable long enough. He had settled away down to the very dregs from what was reckoned about the top of the fashionable world. This he had done by choice; but now that the sun was out again, and winter nearly gone in fact and in fancy, and a new life was being offered him, he chose to accept it.
In this one year past, the artist had ranged society in all its shades and grades with a freedom and a facility that was amusing even to himself to think of.
"I have seen it all." said he to himself "from the open air reception of the crossing sweeper up to the first step of the throne. It is a little better than a comedy down about the bottom, but not quite so good as a funeral as you get to the top. Perhaps the best place is a calling acquaintance with those who are just a little below or a good distance above 'shop.'"
And now that little Mollie Wopsus, who talked to everybody and told everything, had seen the artist, all Rome — that is, all the toadstool and mushroom part of Rome — knew of it, and invitations to "teas," " afternoon receptions," "evenings," "balls," "club dinners," " prayer meetings," " Christian Associations," " Missionary Societies for the Conversion of Catholic Rome," poured into the hands of Mollie, who was supposed to know where he dwelt, to hand over to Murietta.
He liked the prospect of a change. There was a general "evening" to be given at the palace at the head of the Scala de Spagna. Murietta chose this place for good and sufficient reasons to make his debut in Rome, for he foresaw that he should have to play the unpleasant part of the "lion of the season" in what he chose to call "Mushroom Rome."
There was the picture of an American eagle with outspread wings above. There was a porter sound asleep in a little lodge which was not nearly big enough for a bedoom, yet a great deal too big for a coffin,.
Murietta had come late, and he waked up this man with a military cap and military clothes, made the necessary inquiries as to the route he should take in the labyrinth of stairs, and on what particular flat or floor he should stop and pull the bell, and slipping a franc into the fellow's hand as a sort of healing plaster for his broken rest, he passed up as he had been directed.
In mushroom Rome you always find this Italian at the door. He is the faithful sentinel. When Rome comes to be detroyed like Pompeii, as it probably will some day, it will be this man, this porter with the military cap with its gold braid, and military clothes with gold stripe, who sits at every door of fashionable Rome, who will, centuries after, be found in the ashes and ruins, dead at his post!
No, it will not be the Roman soldier this time! It will be the Italian porter in the military cap and military clothes, for he will be sound asleep and cannot escape.
This porter of mushroom Rome seems never to do anything whatever but sleep — but to take toll and sleep. He wakes up just long enough to take your pennies or your franc, or half-franc, and then he settles back in his coffin at the side of the door, and peacefully sleeps right before your eyes.
What a conscience he must have!
Down in old Rome, real Rome, they also have porters. But these porters are shoe makers, and they sit either outside the door or inside the hall. There is no house so humble in Rome but that it has its porter. And these porters of the Ghetto are great men. They sit there all day, and talk and work, and work and talk, and truly come to be very wise and learned. They know even more than the French barber, and, if such a thing were possible, could even talk faster than he. There is always a crowd around the porter in the Ghetto. He is a sort of bulletin-board, and the poor Jews and the fishermen, and the chestnut women, come and stand before him, and read the news as he prods, and pegs, and pokes, and pounds away at his knees.
When you first visit this part of old Rome, you wonder why in the world there are so many shoemakers. After you have walked half a mile over the villainous sharp little stones set up as pavement and side Avalk, you cease to wonder.
All, or at least it seemed to Murietta, all Rome was at this reception. He started back with an expression of displeasure as the gentle and genial hostess led him across the salon. The countess was before him. And more beautiful than ever before! The same half sad smile on her baby face, the same abundance of blond hair about her brows and neck; the same rose and alabaster complexion — just as he had seen her in Genoa! In fact there were the same pink slippers, the same pearloloured gloves, the same rustle of soft rose silk. She was indeed the beautiful pink princess!
It was a strange dress for any land save this. But in this intense and passionate country, where the blood is warm, and the imagination is forever fired by beauty and beautiful scenes, where the soul is warm with love, and the body glad with wine and the glorious sunshine, colour may run riot, and men only admire.
The commonest Italian soldier wears a uniform more rich and showy tenfold, than the commander-in-chief of the United States army.
Let one of the police of the city of Rome walk down Broadway in his uniform, with sword and hat and feathers, and all New York would turn out to look and wonder. Here in this warm land you take it all as a matter of course and count it all very appropriate.
Here was the din and tumult of a hunred voices. Above the tumult the voice of Mollie Wopsus rose like the call of a hunter's horn, and she was everywhere and at the same time the happiest heart, and perhaps the most guileless in all new Rome.
There was a crowd of admirers around the countess as she lounged back in a sofa that half buried her in its luxuriance, and they talked of the wonderful pictures in Rome with a learning and aptitude of exression not to be found outside of a guide book.
How terribly bored she did seem! It looked as if she had retreated backward to this sofa, and, after retreating from the learned young travellers as far as possible, had there entrenched herself and tried to hide down in the depths of the cushions, and escape.
The countess was silent and patient as usual. The young men fairly exhausted the guide-books from Murray to Harper. A little pink slipper tapped on the low ottoman, and a little pink finger had twisted itself and rolled itself like a silkworm tight up in a little pink frill, and was playing sad havoc with itself and the little pink glove. The countess was getting nervous. She smiled, pouted, pushed out her rich ruddy lips like the opening of a rose, and tapping the foot a little faster than before, said to those travelled and learned young men,
"Yes, yes, gentlemen, I understand. I see how it is. This talk about Art has its phases and its symptoms, and makes its attack and passes away just like a fever. But with this difference. It does not hurt the person whom it attacks. It is only those who are near him who have to suffer."
The young men fell back a little, and one of them looked as red as if he had been painted for the war path. In fact he seemed to think and to act as if he was really on the eve of a battle, and was now advancing with very aggressive voice and gesture on the quiet countess entrenched in her sofa.
"Well, well," she said with a sigh of resignation "have it out! Your first month in Italy, you will talk Art all the time. After you are here six months you will only talk Art half the time; after you are here a year you will not talk Art at all; but you will begin to think. After thinkng it over a year, you will then quietly go home, perfectly satisfied that you don't know anything about it."
The little silkworm unrolled itself, and the butterflies flew away. "There! I got rid of them at last. Come, sit by me and escape this whirlpool. There are better things in the world than a war dance. Don't you think so?"
"You speak in parables." answered the artist, as he took the pretty little hand that was reached to him, in his, and sat down by the side of the countess. The little pink feet ceased to play on the ottoman; the pretty little hands lay still; and the nervousness was quite gone away.
"I surely am getting old." said the countess a little gravely, as she looked up at the artist. "I take no pleasure in all this excitement of society whatever. In fact I have a terror of it."
"It does not take many years for one to come to that." laughed the artist. And then he added, looking at the countess "That is a sign of wisdom, not of years."
"You are complimentary tonight. But speaking of wisdom, do you not know that that same little Mollie is the wisest one in all the salon?"
"No; but — to coin a new expression — excepting the present company, I know she is about the best."
"Nay, nay, but she is really wise. Laugh and talk — that is wisdom."
"Mollie laughs because she cannot help it. When we are wise enough to know that it is best to laugh, then we are past laughing."
"Such is life," sighed the countess. "But do not talk in that way." She looked at him with an earnestness in her great brown eyes that he had never seen before. "Do not stand upon that ground, I entreat you, or you will break down the wall that lies between us now, and our souls will stand confronting each other."
The little pink foot fairly trembled on the ottoman.
Murietta was thoughtful and silent now. He was an artist with his brush — not with his tongue. At last he rose up and said slowly,
"You are right. I will not touch upon that land again. We two sail solitary seas. We are in the world, and must in some measure remain of the world. We will go on in the way, in the line of thought and action, and after the fashion that it has precribed, and-"
"Bet your life, here he is, mamma! here he is, making love to the pink princess! Now come! we're going to have something to eat. Ah, they do make the best lobster salads in Rome! Celery and lobster and vinegar and oil! Oh, it's awful jolly! Come along, come. You've got to take mamma to supper, the hostess said so, 'cause we all come from California you know. Come now — come along! Oh if my dear count was only here"
Murietta laughed outright.
"Love and lobster salad! Oh Mollie, you will do!"
"Bet your life I'll do!" And the light hearted Mollie laid her head sideways and danced the hoka-poka. And Murietta resigned the countess to a gentleman sent to escort her to the table, and taking Mrs. Wopsus on his arm, left Mollie to dance to the admiring Italians in uniform, who hovered about and laughed with delight in spite of themselves.
Mollie came dancing in as if she was dancing the Saturnalia. She was in the midst of an admiring group of Italian offiers. It seems odd to tell, but it was not at all inappropriate. She was so thoroughly good, so simple-hearted, that everybody smiled, and said "Oh, it's only Mollie Wopsus." and sat down to the repast.
It was a little singular, and so thought Murietta, that he should find himself seated between the tearful Mrs. Wopsus and the countess. But such is Italian civility. The gentleman who had come to escort the countess to the table rightly guessed that he had cut the thread of a conversation, and therefore took some care to restore the lady as nearly as possible to where he found her.
Mollie sat opposite, and was soon entrenched behind a perfect barricade of salad, and was firing right and left with her tongue at the officers of the Italian army.
"Hush!" She put up her hand, fork and all, to the side of her head, and leaning half way over the table, to Murietta, said again "Hush! No; he is not here: he — he — is not here." She began to catch her breath as if she was about to burst into tears.
Murietta hastened to change the topic, and spoke to the countess and Mrs. Wopsus of the weather.
"Charming weather!" said Mrs. Wopsus, and went on with her lobster salad.
"Tomorrow," said the countess "is .the opening of the Carnival, I shall drive to Porta Malo to see Saturn descend the Tiber, and will take it as an especial favour if you will be with me and my little boy."
"But have you place in your carriage? The count and the admiral-"
"No — no — no! Don't mention them — don't mention him, I mean the admiral. They will not be with me, and-"
She almost threw down her fork, and half drew back from the table with excitement.
Murietta had made another mistake, and hastened again to change the subject, and began to talk to Mollie of the climate of Italy.
"You will come?" half whispered the countess.
"Yes." answered Murietta sharply "Yes." And then the next second he wished with all his heart he had said No.
"Come then, to the palace at twelve. Or shall I send the carriage for you?"
Murietta smiled, and said he preferred to call.
"I will wait for you and expect you; I cannot go alone. The count cannot or will not go with me without the admiral. I will not take the admiral."
Good! He is a beast."
"Do you know him?"
"Yes — no — that is, I know him thooughly for a dog and a villain, or a fool and buffoon."
"Soft! He is not a fool — not a bit of it. If he only was! No, no; don't for a moment imagine he is a fool. There! I have been telling secrets!" sighed the countess. "Let it pass. Forget what I have said. But be sure to come."
"I will come. I shall be glad to forget what you have said. And you will pardon me for having said so much about a man of whom I know so little."
"There you are again making love to the pink princess!" cried Mollie; and all the table looked up and laughed, while the face of the countess took on the hue of not only pink but scarlet.
"Ah! you are only jealous and provoked because the count is not here."
"Bet your life I am provoked because he ain't here."
"And why is he not here, then?" queried Murietta across the table.
"Because, because you see he and Prince Trawaska have gone to Court. They have to be there, you see."
"And why do they have to be there?"
"Oh, they have to be — that's all. I reckon it is because the king wants them. Maybe the Court could not go on without them — don't know — but Prince Trawaska-"
"Prince whom?" asked Murietta, for the first time catching the name that seemed to be familiar.
"Prince Trawaska, or something of that kind. He's not an Italian, you know. No, he's one of those dreadful Germans, with big red ears and big red heads and big red faces, that look just like as if they had just been born, you know."
And here Mollie set her fork handle down on the table with the prongs erect in the air like the trident of Neptune in the Vatican statue, while her pretty lips pouted and wrestled with a mouthful of lobster salad.
"Mollie, I know a Prince Trawaska." anwered Marietta, half gravely, across the table.
"Ah, do you, do you, do you? Now, that's nice, you bet your life! Maybe it's the same one and maybe it's not. That will do you see for the first chapter of a novel. There'll be two. One of them will be a villain, you know, and he will marry some beautiful princess "
"Or a general's beautiful daughter from California,"put in the countess quietly.
"Yes, yes, that's it, bet your life! One of them, you see, will be the heavy villain of the novel. He will marry somebody, and then the other one, who will be the brave good knight, will come and rescue her and kill the wicked prince. And then she will mourn very deeply and very properly, and then the cross old father will get reconciled, and will give them any amount of tin and say, 'Bless you, my children!' And then, after mourning very deeply for just six months to the day, they will be married and move into a great castle with towers and battlements and a secret passage and — Oh bet your life! I could write the best novel in the world, I could."
The trident went down and made a harpoon plunge at the diminished heap of salad, and Mollie's little mouth was stopped effectually for some time.
"But Mollie,"nbegan Murietta gravely,
Mollie set the trident in rest like another Neptune, and looked up as she wrestled with the mouthful of lobster salad.
"But Mollie, suppose these two particular princes and the villain turn out to be the same one?"
"Oh nonsense, but it doesn't, it won't, it can't. It never does, you know. It never will."
"No, not in fiction. But it may in fact, nevertheless."
And Murietta wrinkled his brows and looked across the table very seriously at the light-hearted little Mollie wrestling with the last fragments of a plateful of lobster salad.
"But you frighten me, Mr. Murietta. You never talk to me like other people. You always make me think. You are a thousand years old, and — and-"Down went the trident across the empty plate with a clang, and Mollie began to pout in earnest.
"Well, Miss Mollie, I will not frighten you any more. I only want to tell you, however, that this Prince Trawaska that I know is not an Italian, that he is a colonel in the Italian army, that he has enormous ears, a red, smooth, fat face, a stout chin, and a long sabre at his side."
The Italians present were leaning and listening with as much attention and inerest as their matchless politeness will allow. Murietta went on, "And also I want to tell you that we live in the same house, on the same floor, and-"
Mollie could contain herself no longer.
"Good! tip-top, first class, bet your life! On the same floor with a prince."
"Yes, next door to him, in fact. He and an Italian count occupy the adjoining room. And the prince is a knave!"
"The adjoining room! and the prince is a knave!" ejaculated Mrs. Wopsus.
Mollie caught up and again clanged down the trident on the empty plate till it rang like a sword on a helmet.
"Next thing you'll be saying something dreadful about Count Paolini, you will! and I won't stand it, I won't!"
Down went the little head, up went the little hands, and tears ran through the fingers like rain.
Then in a moment she seemed to rally, and thought she had something to say and thought she could trust herself to say it, and taking down her hands and taking up the trident, she began:
"Bet your life, if— if— Bet your life, if — boo — hoo — hoo-"
Poor kind hearted Mrs. Wopsus looked up in silent dismay, and then in an instant started two full express trains of tears down the railroad lines of her face, as if to the assistance of her daughter.
But Mollie soon recovered. These were April showers falling in the bright springime of her youth, and the sun soon was shining bright as ever.
"I will never speak to you again, Mr. Murietta. Never, so long as I live. No, Mr. Murietta, I will not. I love Count Paolini, and I don't care who knows it; and I will have him, or it will kill me! There now! It's out, and I will never speak to you again. Please, Signor Coombo, pass me the salad."
The lobster salad was passed.
"And now, Mr. Murietta," said Mollie, as she set the trident in rest, "I want to know how you know Prince Trawaska is a villain."
Murietta only said "Tomorrow," in answer, as the guests arose and returned to the saloon.
Start reading Chapter 23 ofThe One Fair Lady