Weird Tales. Vol. I (of 2) Read online

  SIGNOR FORMICA.[1.1]

  I.

  _The celebrated painter Salvator Rosa comes to Rome, and is attacked bya dangerous illness. What befalls him in this illness._

  Celebrated people commonly have many ill things said of them, whetherwell-founded or not And no exception was made in the case of thatadmirable painter Salvator Rosa, whose living pictures cannot fail toimpart a keen and characteristic delight to those who look upon them.

  At the time that Salvator's fame was ringing through Naples, Rome, andTuscany--nay, through all Italy, and painters who were desirous ofgaining applause were striving to imitate his peculiar and uniquestyle, his malicious and envious rivals were laboring to spread abroadall sorts of evil reports intended to sully with ugly black stains theglorious splendor of his artistic fame. They affirmed that he had at aformer period of his life belonged to a company of banditti,[1.2] andthat it was to his experiences during this lawless time that he owedall the wild, fierce, fantastically-attired figures which he introducedinto his pictures, just as the gloomy fearful wildernesses of hislandscapes--the _selve selvagge_ (savage woods)--to use Dante'sexpression, were faithful representations of the haunts where they layhidden. What was worse still, they openly charged him with having beenconcerned in the atrocious and bloody revolt which had been set on footby the notorious Masaniello[1.3] in Naples. They even described theshare he had taken in it, down to the minutest details.

  The rumor ran that Aniello Falcone,[1.4] the painter of battle-pieces,one of the best of Salvator's masters, had been stung into fury andfilled with bloodthirsty vengeance because the Spanish soldiers hadslain one of his relatives in a hand-to-hand encounter. Without delayhe leagued together a band of daring spirits, mostly young painters,put arms into their hands, and gave them the name of the "Company ofDeath." And in truth this band inspired all the fear and consternationsuggested by its terrible name. At all hours of the day they traversedthe streets of Naples in little companies, and cut down without mercyevery Spaniard whom they met. They did more--they forced their way intothe holy sanctuaries, and relentlessly murdered their unfortunate foeswhom terror had driven to seek refuge there. At night they gatheredround their chief, the bloody-minded madman Masaniello,[1.5] andpainted him by torchlight, so that in a short time there were hundredsof these little pictures[1.6] circulating in Naples and theneighbourhood.

  This is the ferocious band of which Salvator Rosa was alleged to havebeen a member, working hard at butchering his fellow-men by day, and bynight working just as hard at painting. The truth about him has howeverbeen stated by a celebrated art-critic, Taillasson,[1.7] I believe. Hisworks are characterised by defiant originality, and by fantastic energyboth of conception and of execution. He delighted to study Nature, notin the lovely attractiveness of green meadows, flourishing fields,sweet-smelling groves, murmuring springs, but in the sublime as seen intowering masses of rock, in the wild sea-shore, in savage inhospitableforests; and the voices that he loved to hear were not the whisperingsof the evening breeze or the musical rustle of leaves, but the roaringof the hurricane and the thunder of the cataract. To one viewing hisdesolate landscapes, with the strange savage figures stealthily movingabout in them, here singly, there in troops, the uncomfortable thoughtsarise unbidden, "Here's where a fearful murder took place, there'swhere the bloody corpse was hurled into the ravine," etc.

  Admitting all this, and even that Taillasson is further right when hemaintains that Salvator's "Plato," nay, that even his "Holy St. Johnproclaiming the Advent of the Saviour in the Wilderness," look just alittle like highway robbers--admitting this, I say, it is neverthelessunjust to argue from the character of the works to the character of theartist himself, and to assume that he, who represents with lifelikefidelity what is savage and terrible, must himself have been a savage,terrible man. He who prates most about the sword is often he who wieldsit the worst; he who feels in the depths of his soul all the horrors ofa bloody deed, so that, taking the palette or the pencil or the pen inhis hand, he is able to give living form to his feelings, is often theone least capable of practising similar deeds. Enough! I don't believea single word of all those evil reports, by which men sought to brandthe excellent Salvator an abandoned murderer and robber, and I hopethat you, kindly reader, will share my opinion. Otherwise, I seegrounds for fearing that you might perhaps entertain some doubtsrespecting what I am about to tell you of this artist; the Salvator Iwish to put before you in this tale--that is, according to myconception of him--is a man bubbling over with the exuberance of lifeand fiery energy, but at the same time a man endowed with the noblestand most loyal character--a character, which, like that of all men whothink and feel deeply, is able even to control that bitter irony whicharises from a clear view of the significance of life. I need scarcelyadd that Salvator was no less renowned as a poet and musician than as apainter. His genius was revealed in magnificent refractions. I repeatagain, I do not believe that Salvator had any share in Masaniello'sbloody deeds; on the contrary, I think it was the horrors of thatfearful time which drove him from Naples to Rome, where he arrived apoor poverty-stricken fugitive, just at the time that Masaniello fell.

  Not over well dressed, and with a scanty purse containing not more thana few bright sequins[1.8] in his pocket, he crept through the gate justafter nightfall. Somehow or other, he didn't exactly know how, hewandered as far as the Piazza Navona. In better times he had once livedthere in a large house near the Pamfili Palace. With an ill-temperedgrowl, he gazed up at the large plate-glass windows glistening andglimmering in the moonlight "Hm!" he exclaimed peevishly, "it'll costme dozens of yards of coloured canvas before I can open my studio upthere again." But all at once he felt as if paralysed in every limb,and at the same moment more weak and feeble than he had ever felt inhis life before. "But shall I," he murmured between his teeth as hesank down upon the stone steps leading up to the house door, "shall Ireally be able to finish canvas enough in the way the fools want itdone? Hm! I have a notion that that will be the end of it!"

  A cold cutting night wind blew down the street. Salvator recognisedthe necessity of seeking a shelter. Rising with difficulty, hestaggered on into the Corso,[1.9] and then turned into the ViaBergognona. At length he stopped before a little house with only acouple of windows, inhabited by a poor widow and her two daughters.This women had taken him in for little pay the first time he came toRome, an unknown stranger noticed of nobody; and so he hoped again tofind a lodging with her, such as would be best suited to the sadcondition in which he then was.

  He knocked confidently at the door, and several times called out hisname aloud. At last he heard the old woman slowly and reluctantlywakening up out of her sleep. She shuffled to the window in herslippers, and began to rain down a shower of abuse upon the knave whowas come to worry her in this way in the middle of the night; herhouse was not a wine-shop, &c., &c. Then there ensued a good deal ofcross-questioning before she recognised her former lodger's voice; buton Salvator's complaining that he had fled from Naples and was unableto find a shelter in Rome, the old dame cried, "By all the blessedsaints of Heaven! Is that you, Signor Salvator? Well now, your littleroom up above, that looks on to the court, is still standing empty, andthe old fig-tree has pushed its branches right through the window andinto the room, so that you can sit and work like as if you was in abeautiful cool arbour. Ay, and how pleased my girls will be that youhave come back again, Signor Salvator. But, d'ye know, my Margarita'sgrown a big girl and fine-looking? You won't give her any more rides onyour knee now. And--and your little pussy, just fancy, three months agoshe choked herself with a fish-bone. Ah well, we all shall come to thegrave at last. But, d'ye know, my fat neighbour, who you so oftenlaughed at and so often painted in such funny ways--d'ye know, she_did_ marry that young fellow, Signor Luigi, after all. Ah well! _nozzee magistrati sono da dio destinati_ (marriages and magistrates are madein heaven) they say."

  "But," cried Salvator, interrupting the old woman,
"but, SignoraCaterina, I entreat you by the blessed saints, do, pray, let me in, andthen tell me all about your fig-tree and your daughters, your cat andyour fat neighbour--I am perishing of weariness and cold."

  "Bless me, how impatient we are," rejoined the old dame; "_Chi va pianova sano, chi va presto more lesto_ (more haste less speed, take thingscool and live longer), I tell you. But you are tired, you are cold;where are the keys? quick with the keys!"

  But the old woman still had to wake up her daughters and kindle afire--but oh! she was such a long time about it--such a long, longtime. At last she opened the door and let poor Salvator in; butscarcely had he crossed the threshold than, overcome by fatigue andillness, he dropped on the floor as if dead. Happily the widow's son,who generally lived at Tivoli, chanced to be at his mother's that nightHe was at once turned out of his bed to make room for the sick guest,which he willingly submitted to.

  The old woman was very fond of Salvator, putting him, as far as hisartistic powers went, above all the painters in the world; and ineverything that he did she also took the greatest pleasure. She wastherefore quite beside herself to see him in this lamentable condition,and wanted to run off to the neighbouring monastery to fetch her fatherconfessor, that he might come and fight against the adverse power ofthe disease with consecrated candles or some powerful amulet or other.On the other hand, her son thought it would be almost better to seeabout getting an experienced physician at once, and off he ran thereand then to the Spanish Square, where he knew the distinguished DoctorSplendiano Accoramboni dwelt. No sooner did the doctor learn that thepainter Salvator Rosa lay ill in the Via Bergognona than he at oncedeclared himself ready to call early and see the patient.

  Salvator lay unconscious, struck down by a most severe attack of fever.The old dame had hung up two or three pictures of saints above his bed,and was praying fervently. The girls, though bathed in tears, exertedthemselves from time to time to get the sick man to swallow a few dropsof the cooling lemonade which they had made, whilst their brother, whohad taken his place at the head of the bed, wiped the cold sweat fromhis brow. And so morning found them, when with a loud creak the dooropened, and the distinguished Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni entered theroom.

  If Salvator had not been so seriously ill that the two girls' heartswere melted in grief, they would, I think, for they were in generalfrolicsome and saucy, have enjoyed a hearty laugh at the Doctor'sextraordinary appearance, instead of retiring shyly, as they did, intothe corner, greatly alarmed. It will indeed be worth while to describethe outward appearance of the little man who presented himself at DameCaterina's in the Via Bergognona in the grey of the morning. In spiteof all his excellent capabilities for growth, Doctor SplendianoAccoramboni had not been able to advance beyond the respectable statureof four feet Moreover, in the days of his youth, he had beendistinguished for his elegant figure, so that, before his head, alwaysindeed somewhat ill-shaped, and his big cheeks, and his stately doublechin had put on too much fat, before his nose had grown bulky andspread owing to overmuch indulgence in Spanish snuff, and before hislittle belly had assumed the shape of a wine-tub from too muchfattening on macaroni, the priestly cut of garments, which he at thattime had affected, had suited him down to the ground. He was then intruth a pretty little man, and accordingly the Roman ladies had styledhim their _caro puppazetto_ (sweet little pet).

  That however was now a thing of the past. A German painter, seeingDoctor Splendiano walking across the Spanish Square, said--and he wasperhaps not far wrong--that it looked as if some strapping fellow ofsix feet or so had walked away from his own head, which had fallenon the shoulders of a little marionette clown, who now had tocarry it about as his own. This curious little figure walked about inpatchwork--an immense quantity of pieces of Venetian damask of a largeflower pattern that had been cut up in making a dressing-gown; high upround his waist he had buckled a broad leather belt, from which anexcessively long rapier hung; whilst his snow-white wig was surmountedby a high conical cap, not unlike the obelisk in St. Peter's Square.Since the said wig, like a piece of texture all tumbled and tangled,spread out thick and wide all over his back, it might very well betaken for the cocoon out of which the fine silkworm had crept.

  The worthy Splendiano Accoramboni stared through his big, brightspectacles, with his eyes wide open, first at his patient, then at DameCaterina. Calling her aside, he croaked with bated breath, "There liesour talented painter Salvator Rosa, and he's lost if my skill doesn'tsave him, Dame Caterina. Pray tell me when he came to lodge with you?Did he bring many beautiful large pictures with him?"

  "Ah! my dear Doctor," replied Dame Caterina, "the poor fellow only camelast night. And as for pictures--why, I don't know nothing about them;but there's a big box below, and Salvator begged me to take very goodcare of it, before he became senseless like what he now is. I daresaythere's a fine picture packed in it, as he painted in Naples."

  What Dame Caterina said was, however, a falsehood; but we shall soonsee that she had good reasons for imposing upon the Doctor in this way.

  "Good! Very good!" said the Doctor, simpering and stroking his beard;then, with as much solemnity as his long rapier, which kept catching inall the chairs and tables he came near, would allow, he approached thesick man and felt his pulse, snorting and wheezing, so that it had amost curious effect in the midst of the reverential silence which hadfallen upon all the rest. Then he ran over in Greek and Latin the namesof a hundred and twenty diseases that Salvator had not, then almost asmany which he might have had, and concluded by saying that on the spurof the moment he didn't recollect the name of his disease, but that hewould within a short time find a suitable one for it, and alongtherewith, the proper remedies as well. Then he took his departure withthe same solemnity with which he had entered, leaving them all full oftrouble and anxiety.

  At the bottom of the steps the Doctor requested to see Salvator's box;Dame Caterina showed him one--in which were two or three of herdeceased husband's cloaks now laid aside, and some old worn-out shoes.The Doctor smilingly tapped the box, on this side and on that, andremarked in a tone of satisfaction "We shall see! we shall see!" Somehours later he returned with a very beautiful name for his patient'sdisease, and brought with him some big bottles of an evil-smellingpotion, which he directed to be given to the patient constantly. Thiswas a work of no little trouble, for Salvator showed the greatestaversion for--utter loathing of the stuff, which looked, and smelt, andtasted, as if it had been concocted from Acheron itself. Whether it wasthat the disease, since it had now received a name, and in consequencereally signified something, had only just begun to put forth itsvirulence, or whether it was that Splendiano's potion made too much ofa disturbance inside the patient--it is at any rate certain that thepoor painter grew weaker and weaker from day to day, from hour to hour.And notwithstanding Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni's assurance that,after the vital process had reached a state of perfect equilibrium, hewould give it a new start like the pendulum of a clock, they were allvery doubtful as to Salvator's recovery, and thought that the Doctorhad perhaps already given the pendulum such a violent start that themechanism was quite impaired.

  Now it happened one day that when Salvator seemed scarcely able to movea finger he was suddenly seized with the paroxysm of fever; in amomentary accession of fictitious strength he leapt out of bed, seizedthe full medicine bottles, and hurled them fiercely out of the window.Just at this moment Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni was entering thehouse, when two or three bottles came bang upon his head, smashing allto pieces, whilst the brown liquid ran in streams all down his face,and wig, and ruff. Hastily rushing into the house, he screamed like amadman, "Signer Salvator has gone out of his mind, he's become insane;no skill can save him now, he'll be dead in ten minutes. Give me thepicture, Dame Caterina, give me the picture--it's mine, the scantyreward of all my trouble. Give me the picture, I say."

  But when Dame Caterina opened the box, and Doctor Splendiano sawnothing but the old cloaks and torn shoes, his eyes spun round in hishead l
ike a pair of fire-wheels; he gnashed his teeth; he stamped; heconsigned poor Salvator, the widow, and all the family to the devil;then he rushed out of the house like an arrow from a bow, or as if hehad been shot from a cannon.

  After the violence of the paroxysm had spent itself, Salvator againrelapsed into a death-like condition. Dame Caterina was fully persuadedthat his end was really come, and away she sped as fast as she could tothe monastery, to fetch Father Boniface, that he might come andadminister the sacrament to the dying man. Father Boniface came andlooked at the sick man; he said he was well acquainted with thepeculiar signs which approaching death is wont to stamp upon the humancountenance, but that for the present there were no indications of themon the face of the insensible Salvator. Something might still be done,and he would procure help at once, only Doctor Splendiano Accoramboniwith his Greek names and infernal medicines was not to be allowed tocross the threshold again. The good Father set out at once, and weshall see later that he kept his word about sending the promised help.

  Salvator recovered consciousness again; he fancied he was lying in abeautiful flower-scented arbour, for green boughs and leaves wereinterlacing above his head. He felt a salutary warmth glowing in hisveins, but it seemed to him as if somehow his left arm was bound fast"Where am I?" he asked in a faint voice. Then a handsome young man, whohad stood at his bedside, but whom he had not noticed until just now,threw himself upon his knees, and grasping Salvator's right hand,kissed it and bathed it with tears, as he cried again and again, "Oh!my dear sir! my noble master! now it's all right; you are saved, you'llget better."

  "But do tell me"--began Salvator, when the young man begged him not toexert himself, for he was too weak to talk; he would tell him all thathad happened. "You see, my esteemed and excellent sir," began the youngman, "you see, you were very ill when you came from Naples, but yourcondition was not, I warrant, by any means so dangerous but that a fewsimple remedies would soon have set you, with your strong constitution,on your legs again, had you not through Carlos's well-intentionedblunder in running off for the nearest physician fallen into the handsof the redoubtable Pyramid Doctor, who was making all preparations forbringing you to your grave."

  "What do you say?" exclaimed Salvator, laughing heartily,notwithstanding the feeble state he was in. "What do you say?--thePyramid Doctor? Ay, ay, although I was very ill, I saw that the littleknave in damask patchwork, who condemned me to drink his horrid,loathsome devil's brew, wore on his head the obelisk from St. Peter'sSquare--and so that's why you call him the Pyramid Doctor?"

  "Why, good heavens!" said the young man, likewise laughing, "why,Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni must have come to see you in his ominousconical nightcap; and, do you know, you may see it flashing everymorning from his window in the Spanish Square like a portentous meteor.But it's not by any means owing to this cap that he's called thePyramid Doctor; for that there's quite another reason. DoctorSplendiano is a great lover of pictures, and possesses in truth quite achoice collection, which he has gained by a practice of a peculiarnature. With eager cunning he lies in wait for painters and theirillnesses. More especially he loves to get foreign artists into histoils; let them but eat an ounce or two of macaroni too much, or drinka glass more Syracuse than is altogether good for them, he will afflictthem with first one and then the other disease, designating it by aformidable name, and proceeding at once to cure them of it. Hegenerally bargains for a picture as the price of his attendance; and asit is only specially obstinate constitutions which are able towithstand his powerful remedies, it generally happens that he gets hispicture out of the chattels left by the poor foreigner, who meanwhilehas been carried to the Pyramid of Cestius, and buried there. It needhardly be said that Signor Splendiano always picks out the best of thepictures the painter has finished, and also does not forget to bid themen take several others along with it. The cemetery near the Pyramid ofCestius is Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni's corn-field, which hediligently cultivates, and for that reason he is called the PyramidDoctor. Dame Caterina had taken great pains, of course with the bestintentions, to make the Doctor believe that you had brought a finepicture with you; you may imagine therefore with what eagerness heconcocted his potions for you. It was a fortunate thing that in theparoxysm of fever you threw the Doctor's bottles at his head, it wasalso a fortunate thing that he left you in anger, and no less fortunatewas it that Dame Caterina, who believed you were in the agonies ofdeath, fetched Father Boniface to come and administer to you thesacrament. Father Boniface understands something of the art of healing;he formed a correct diagnosis of your condition and fetched me"----

  "Then you also are a doctor?" asked Salvator in a faint whining tone.

  "No," replied the young man, a deep blush mantling his cheeks, "no, myestimable and worthy sir, I am not in the least a doctor like SignorSplendiano Accoramboni; I am however a chirurgeon. I felt as if Ishould sink into the earth with fear--with joy--when Father Bonifacecame and told me that Salvator Rosa lay sick unto death in the ViaBergognona, and required my help. I hastened here, opened a vein inyour left arm, and you were saved. Then we brought you up into thiscool airy room that you formerly occupied. Look, there's the easelwhich you left behind you; yonder are a few sketches which DameCaterina has treasured up as if they were relics. The virulence of yourdisease is subdued; simple remedies such as Father Boniface can prepareis all that you want, except good nursing, to bring back your strengthagain. And now permit me once more to kiss this hand--this creativehand that charms from Nature her deepest secrets and clothes them inliving form. Permit poor Antonio Scacciati to pour out all thegratitude and immeasurable joy of his heart that Heaven has granted himto save the life of our great and noble painter, Salvator Rosa."Therewith the young surgeon threw himself on his knees again, and,seizing Salvator's hand, kissed it and bathed it in tears as before.

  "I don't understand," said the artist, raising himself up a little,though with considerable difficulty, "I don't understand, my dearAntonio, what it is that is so especially urging you to show me allthis respect. You are, you say, a chirurgeon, and we don't in a generalway find this trade going hand in hand with art----"

  "As soon," replied the young man, casting down his eyes, "as soon asyou have picked up your strength again, my dear sir, I have a good dealto tell you that now lies heavy on my heart."

  "Do so," said Salvator; "you may have every confidence in me--that youmay, for I don't know that any man's face has made a more direct appealto my heart than yours. The more I look at you the more plainly I seemto trace in your features a resemblance to that incomparable youngpainter--I mean Sanzio."[1.10] Antonio's eyes were lit up with a proud,radiant light--he vainly struggled for words with which to express hisfeelings.

  At this moment Dame Caterina appeared, followed by Father Boniface,who brought Salvator a medicine which he had mixed scientificallyaccording to prescription, and which the patient swallowed with morerelish and felt to have a more beneficial effect upon him than theAcheronian waters of the Pyramid Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni.