Part 4

“Oh, my lord! My heavens!” she shouted, as she looked at me, with both hands on her lifted thigh. “I've got a cramp in my leg! I've got a cramp in my leg!”

I supported the lady and spoke a comforting word or two. She closed her eyes and rested her head on my arm, and presently put down her leg and looked brighter.

“There, it's all right now,” said she, with a shake of her skirt. “Thanks! Do you come from Michigan?”

“No.”

“Where do you hail from?”

“Pointview, Connecticut.”

“I'm from Flint, Michigan, and I'm just tuckered out. They keep me going night and day. I'm making a collection of old knockers. Do you suppose there are any shops where they keep 'em here?”

“Don't know. I'm just a pilgrim and a stranger and am not posted in the knocker trade,” I answered.

The crowd had turned a corner; and with a swift good-by she ran after it, fearful, I suppose, of losing some detail in the domestic life of Hadrian.

So on one leg, as it were, she enters and swiftly crosses the stage. It's a way Providence has of preparing us for the future. To this moment's detention I was indebted for an adventure of importance, for as she left me I saw Muggs, the sleek, pestiferous Muggs, coming out of the old baths on his way to the gate. He must have been the man who had called to see Norris that morning. He turned pale with astonishment and nodded.

“Well, Muggs, here you are,” I said.

He handled himself in a remarkable fashion, for he was as cool as a cucumber when he answered:

“I used to resemble a lot of men, and some pretty decent fellows used to resemble me, but as soon as they saw me they quit it--got out from under, you know. Even my photographs have quit resembling me.”

“Well, you have changed a little, but my hat and overcoat look just about as they did,” I laughed. .

“If I didn't know it was impossible I would say that your name was Potter,” said he.

“And if I knew it was impossible I would swear that your name was Muggs,” I answered.

“Forget it,” said he; “in the name of God, forget it. I'm trying to live honest, and I'm going to let you and your friends alone if you'll let me alone. Now, that's a fair bargain.”

I hesitated, wondering at his sensitiveness.

“You owe us quite a balance, but I'm inclined to call it a bargain,” I said. “Only be kind to that hat and coat; they are old friends of mine. I don't care so much about the two hundred dollars.”

“Thanks,” he answered with a laugh, and went on: “I've given you proper credit on the books. You'll hear from me as soon as I am on my feet.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

He answered: “Ever since I was a kid I've wanted to see the Colosseum where men fought with lions.”

“I am sure that you would enjoy a look at Hadrian's Walk,” I said, pointing to the tourists who had halted there as I turned away.

So we parted, and with a sense of good luck I hurried to Norris.

“I've got a crick in my back,” I said. “Let's get out of here.”

We proceeded to our motor-car at the entrance.

“This ruin is the most infamous relic in the world,” said Norris, as we got into our car; “it stands for the grandeur of pagan hoggishness. Think of a man who wanted all the treasures and poets and musicians and beauties in the world for the exclusive enjoyment of himself and friends. Millions of men gave their lives for the creation of this sublime swine-yard. Hadrian's Villa, and others like it, broke the back of the empire. I tell you, the world has changed, and chiefly in its sense of responsibility for riches. Here in Italy you still find the old feudal, hog theory of riches, which is a thing of the past in America and which is passing in England. We have a liking for service. I tell you, Potter, my daughter ought to marry an American who is strong in the modem impulses, and go on with my work.”

VII.--IN WHICH I TEACH THE DIFFICULT ART OF BEING AN AMERICAN IN ITALY

NORRIS had overtaxed himself in this ride to Tivoli and spent the next day in his bed.

“My conversation often has this effect,” I said, as I sat by his bedside. “Forty miles of it is too much without a sedative. You need the assistance of the rest of the family. Let Gwendolyn and her mother take a turn at listening.”

“That's exactly what I propose. I want you to look after them,” he said. “They need me now if they ever did, and I'm a broken reed. Be a friend to them, if you can.”

I liked Norris, for he was bigger than his fortune, and you can't say that of every millionaire. Not many suspect how a lawyer's heart can warm to a noble client. I would have gone through fire and water for him.

“If they can stand it I can,” was my answer. “A good many people have tried my friendship and chucked it overboard. It's like swinging an ax, and not for women. One has to have regular rest and good natural vitality to stand my friendship.”

“They have just stood a medical examination,” he went on. “I want you and Mrs. Potter to see Rome with Gwendolyn and her mother and give them your view of things. Be their guide and teacher. I hope you may succeed in building up their Americanism, but if you conclude to turn them into Italians I shall be content.”

“There are many things I can't do, but you couldn't find a more willing professor of Americanism,” I declared.

So it happened that Betsey and I went with Gwendolyn and her mother for a drive.

I am not much inclined to the phrases of romance. Being a lawyer, I hew to the line. But I have come to a minute when my imagination pulls at the rein as if it wanted to run away. I remember that an old colonial lawyer refers in one of his complaints to “a most comely and winsome mayd who with ribbands and slashed sleeves and snug garments and stockings well knit and displayed and sundry glances of her eye did wickedly and unlawfully work upon this man until he forgot his duty to his God, his state, and his family,” and it is on record that this “winsome mayd” was condemned to sit in the bilboes.

The tall, graceful, blue-eyed, blond-haired girl, opposite whom I sat in the motor-car that day, was both comely and winsome. She innocently “worked upon” the opposite sex until one member of it got to work upon me, and I'm not the kind that goes around looking for trouble. Even when it looks for me it often fails to find me.

I am a man rather firmly set in my way and well advanced upon it, but I have to acknowledge that Gwendolyn's face kept reminding me of the best days of my boyhood, when life itself was like a rose just opened, and the smile of Betsey was morning sunlight. Backed by great wealth, its effect upon the marryers of Italy can be imagined.

Gwendolyn had survived the three deadly perils of girlhood--cake, candy, and the soda-fountain. A pony and saddle and good air to breathe helped her to win the fight until she went to school in Munich, where a wise matron and the spirit of the school induced her to climb mountains and eat meat and vegetables and other articles in the diet of the sane. Now she was a strong, red-cheeked, full-blooded young lady of twenty. In spite of the stanch Americanism of Norris, Gwendolyn and her mother were full of European spirit. They liked democracy, but they loved the pomp and splendor of courts, and the sound of titles, and the glitter of swords and uniforms. As we got into the car we observed numbers of young men staring at us, and I spoke of it, and Gwendolyn said to me:

“I think that the young men in America are better-looking, but they are so cold! All the girls tell me that these boys can beat them making love, and I believe it.”

“But most of our boys have work to do,” I said. “With them love-making is only a side issue, and it often comes at the end of a long, hard day. These Italians seem to have nothing else to do but make love.”

“I don't see, for my part, why men who have plenty of money should have to work,” said Mrs. Norris. “What's the use of having money if it doesn't give you leisure for enjoyment?”

“But leisure is like dynamite--you have to be careful with it,” I said. “For most of us it's the only danger. All deviltry begins in leisure and ends in work, if at all. Being naturally sinful, I don't fool with it much. Of course you women are moral giants, and you don't need to be so scared of it.”

“You have to joke about everything,” said Mrs. Norris. “Sometimes I think that I understand you and suddenly you begin joking, and then I lose confidence in all you have said.”

“I mean all I say and then some more,” I declared. “I assume that you are moral giants or that you do a lot of work secretly. No _man_ could keep his footing in the slippery path of unending leisure. In Europe leisure is the aim of all, and where it most abounds morality is a joke. Here blood and leisure are the timber of which all ladies and gentlemen are made. In America we know that it's rotten timber. We have discovered three great commandments. They are written not only on tablets of stone, but everywhere. If they were printed across the sky they couldn't be any plainer. You know them as well as I do.” The three ladies turned serious eyes upon me and shook their heads.

Then I shot my bolt at them:

“They are:

“1. Get busy.

“2. Keep busy.

“3. See that it pays, which means that you are to play as well as work.”

Mrs. Norris smiled and nimbly stepped out of my way and bravely answered, like a real rococo aristocrat:

“I fear that you are prejudiced. I should be proud to have my daughter marry into one of these old families, not hastily, of course, but after we have found the right man. There are splendid men in some of them, and your best Italian is a most devoted husband. He worships his wife.”

“And if you're looking for a worshiper you couldn't find a place where the arts of worship have been so highly developed,” I answered. “But no American girl should be looking for a worshiper unless she's under the impression that she created the world, and even then a doctor would do her more good. Of course Gwendolyn would prefer a man, and what's the matter with one of your own countrymen--Forbes, for instance?”

“I couldn't pass his examination--too difficult!” said Gwendolyn, with a laugh. “I think that he is looking for a world-beater--a girl who could win the first prize in a golf tournament or a beauty show or a competition in mathematics. What chance have I? He thinks that he has got to be a rich man before he gets married. What chance has he?” Clearly she wanted me to know that she liked him and resented his apparent indifference. I suppose that he had not fallen down before her, as other boys had done, and she could not quite make him out. Probably that's why she preferred him.

“He has wonderful self-possession,” I said.

“Yes, he'll never let go of himself. All the girls say that about him. He's a wise youngster.”

“If he were in my place I don't believe he could hold out through the day,” I declared.

“She does look well, doesn't she?” said Mrs. Norris, as she proudly surveyed her daughter. “Italy agrees with her, and she loves it and the people.”

“So do I,” was my answer. “The Italian people, who are doing the work of Italy, are admirable. Out in the vineyards you will find young men who are even good enough for Gwendolyn. It's these idle horse-traders that I object to--these fellows who are trying to swap a case of spavined respectability for a fortune.”

“Oh, you're a mountain of prejudice!” Mrs. Norris exclaimed. “Now, there's the Princess Carrero. She was an American girl, and she is the happiest, proudest woman in Italy. Her husband is one of the finest gentlemen I ever met.”

“He's a dear!” Gwendolyn echoed.

“For my part I think that international marriages are a fine thing,” Mrs. Norris went on. “They are drawing the races together into one brotherhood.”

“But such a brotherhood will be hard on our sisterhood,” I objected. “A wife here is the chief hired girl. Often if she doesn't mind she gets licked, and if she's an American she must always pay the bills.”

We had come to the great church of St. Paul, beyond the ancient walls of the city. There we left our car and passed through a crowd of insistent beggars to enter its door. We shivered in our wraps under the great, golden ceiling high above our heads. Its towering columns and pilasters looked like sculptured ice. It was all so cold!

“It doesn't seem right,” I said to Mrs. Norris, “that one should get a chill in the house of God.”

“Keep cool ought to be good advice for Christians,” said Betsey.

“But coldness and hospitality are bad companions,” I insisted. “Chilling grandeur a people might reasonably expect from their king; but is it the thing for a prodigal returning to his father's house?”

“But isn't it beautiful?”

Mrs. Norris wished me to agree, and I shocked her by saying:

“Beautiful, but too much like kings' palaces. The Golden House of Nero was just this kind of thing, and it's on record that Jesus Christ had no taste for show and glitter. I believe He called it vanity.” Mrs. Norris wore a look of surprise. The old horse called Honesty took the bit in his teeth then and fairly ran away with me.

“The whole difference between Europe and America is in this building,” I said. “We no longer believe in kings or kings' palaces in heaven or upon earth. With most of us God has ceased to be an emperor rejoicing in pomp and splendor and adulation. We find that He likes better to dwell in a cabin and a humble heart. We do not believe that he cares for the title of king. We do not believe that there are any titles in heaven.”

At this point I observed a look of astonishment in the face of Mrs. Norris, so I suddenly closed the tap of my thoughts.

Was it my philosophy? No, it was Muggs who lifted his hat (or rather my hat) as he passed us with the sentimental Mrs. Mullet clinging to his arm.

“Don't notice him,” Mrs. Norris whispered to her daughter, as both turned away. “It's that odious Wilton who used to come and see father.”

I wondered how it was going to be possible for me to rescue Mrs. Mullet under the circumstances of our covenant of non-interference. We turned and left this splendid memorial to the great apostle Paul.

Count Carola was waiting for us at the step of the car, and kissed the hands of Mrs. Norris and Gwendolyn, and assisted them to their seats. I was presented to him, and am forced to say that I didn't like the cut of his jib. Still, I'm very particular about jibs, especially the jib of a new boat.

“Poor dear boy!” Mrs. Norris exclaimed, as we drove away. “There's a lover for you!”

“He grows handsomer every day,” said Gwendolyn, in a low, lyrical tone.

“It's his suffering,” Mrs. Norris half moaned.

“Do you really think so?” the young lady sympathized.

“Hold on, Juliet!” said I. “If I were you I'd shoo him off the balcony. He's a perfect lily of a man, but he won't do--too generous, too devoted! We have men like him in America. There their titles are never mentioned in the best society, and their persons are often cruelly injured. For a badge of rank they have adopted a kind of liver-pad which they wear often over one eye or the other. Of course on Broadway they haven't the romantic environment of Italy, and are subject to all kinds of violence.”

Mrs. Norris flashed a glance of surprise at me.

“You are a cruel iconoclast,” said she. “He belongs to one of the best families in Italy.”

“And if I were you I'd let him continue to belong to it; at least, I wouldn't want to buy him. He acts like a book-agent or a seller of lightning-rods, or a train-boy with his chocolates and chewing-gum. He won't take 'No' for an answer. He keeps tossing his wares into your laps and seems to say: 'For God's sake, think of my starving family and make me some kind of an offer.' Do you think that compares in dignity with the self-possession of Richard?”

The ladies exchanged glances. Gwendolyn laughed and blushed. Mrs. Norris smiled. I went on:

“He defaces the landscape like the portraits of the late Mr. Mennen in America. He shows up everywhere as an advertisement for his own charms.”

“That's his legend.”

“It's just a little ridiculous, isn't it?” said the girl.

“Oh, the poor boy is in love!” Mrs. Norris pleaded, in a begging, purring tone which said, plainly enough, “Of course you are right, but every boy is a fool when he is in love, isn't he?”

“So is Richard in love,” I boldly declared for him, “but he isn't on the bargain-counter; he isn't damaged, shop-worn, or out of date; he hasn't been marked down.”

Two pairs of eyes stared at mine with a prying gaze.

Gwendolyn leaned forward and grasped my hand.

“Who in the world is he in love with?” she asked, eagerly. “Tell me at once.”

“Himself!” Mrs. Norris exclaimed, before I could answer.

“No; with Gwendolyn,” I ventured.

Both seemed to relax suddenly, and their backs touched the upholstery.

“I haven't a doubt of it,” was my firm assertion.

The fair maid leaned toward me again.

“You misguided man!” she exclaimed. “Why do you think that?”

“For many reasons and--_one_,”

“What is the _one?_” Gwendolyn asked.

“That is my last shot, and I am not going to throw it away. It's worth something, and if you get it you'll have to pay for it.”

“You cruel wretch!” she said, with a stinging slap on my hand. “What then are your many reasons?”

“They are all in this phrase, 'sundry glances of the eye.'”

“How disappointing you are!”

“And what a spoiled child you are!” I retorted. “Ever since you began to walk you have had about everything that you asked for. The magic lamp of Aladdin was in your hands. You had only to wish and to have. Of course you don't think that you can keep on doing that. You'll soon see that the best things come hard; they have to be earned, and I guess Dick Forbes is one of them. He doesn't seem to be looking for money; what he wants is a real woman. He can love, and with great tenderness and endurance. He's a long-distance lover. His love will keep right along with you to the last. He doesn't go around singing about it with a guitar; he doesn't burst the dam of his affection to inundate an heiress and swear that all the contents of the infinite skies are in his little flood. That kind of thing doesn't go down any longer; it's out of date. With us it's gone the way of the wig and the crown and the knight and the noisome intrigue and the tallow dip and the brush harrow. We know it's mostly mush, twaddle, and mendacity. Here in Europe you will still find the brush harrow, the tallow dip, and the tallow lover, but not in our land. If you get Richard Forbes you'll have to go into training and try to satisfy his ideals, but it will be worth while.”

The ladies changed color a little and sat with looks of thoughtful embarrassment, as if they had on their hands a white elephant whose playfulness had both amused and alarmed them. Twice Betsey and Gwendolyn had broken into laughter, but Mrs. Norris only smiled and looked surprised.

“Perhaps you could tell me what his ideals are,” said Gwendolyn.

Our arrival at the Borghese galleries saved me. We immediately entered them and resumed the study of art. Nothing there interested me so much as the busts of the old emperors. What a lot of human shoats they must have been! Idleness and overeating had created the imperial type of human architecture--eyes set in fat, massive jowls, great necks that seemed to rise to the tops of their heads. With them the title business began to thrive. It was nothing more or less than a license to prey on other people. No wonder that every other man's life was in danger while they lived.

What modesty was theirs! When a man became emperor he caused a statue of himself to be made as father of all the gods. It was probably not so large as he felt, but as large as the rocks would allow--only some fifteen feet high. It was the beginning of the bust and the portrait craze.

We passed from the hall of shoats to the picture-galleries.

I have read of what Beaudelaire calls “the beauty disease,” and there is no place where the young may be more sure of getting it than in these Old-World art-galleries. Gwendolyn and her mother had a mild attack of this disease, “this lust of the art faculties which eats up the moral like a cancer.” The monstrous excesses of the idle rich are symptoms of its progress. In Europe the church, the aristocracy, and the art students have caught the fever of it.

“How lovely! How tender!” said Gwendolyn, as we stood before the Danaë of Correggio.

“How lovely! How tenderloin!” I echoed, by way of an antitoxin.

Here was a fifteenth-century ideal of female attractiveness radiating an utterly morbid sensuality. The picture reeked and groaned with passion.

Young men and women from towns and villages in our land who sat industriously copying the works of old masters were turning money newly made in Zanesville, Keokuk, Cedar Rapids, and like places into weird imitations of Correggio, Titian, and Botticelli. Well, I expect that they were having a good time, but I would rather see them copying the tints and forms of nature near their own doors than worshiping the kings of art, which is another form of the title craze.

Here we met again the elderly lady with the beautiful feet who had crossed on our steamer--Mrs. Fraley from Terre Haute. She presented Betsey and me to Miss Muriel Fraley, her grandniece, a good-looking miss of about twenty-three, who was copying the Danaë. Mrs. Fraley had found new and delightful astonishments in Italy, the chief of which was this Europeanized niece. She drew me aside and whispered:

“She is a lovely child! Just notice the aristocratic pose of her head.”

I allowed that I could see it, for I had to, and ran my mental hand into the grab-bag for something to say and pulled out:

“I like that blond hair--of--hers.”

I observed, as the girl looked up, that her cheeks were just a bit too red and that her eyes had been slightly emphasized. They did not need it, either, for they were capital eyes to start with.

“And she is as good as she is beautiful,” the old lady went on, in a low tone of strict confidence. “And, you know, since she came here a real count has made love to her.”

“A count!” I exclaimed.

There was a touch of awe in her tone as she said, “Belongs to one of the oldest families in Italy!”

I cleared my throat and thought of death and funerals and comic supplements and such mournful things for safety.

“I want you to meet him at dinner,” the good soul went on. “Where are you stopping?”

“At the Grand Hotel.”

“We are near there, at the Pension Pirroni. You and Mrs. Potter must dine with us.”

I gradually separated myself from Mrs. Fraley and hastened to join my friends. I found them with startled looks in a group of the ancient marble gods and others who lived before the invention of trousers.

“If I were to assume the license of Hercules and stand up here on a pedestal, what do you suppose they'd do to me?” I whispered to Betsey.

“You're no work of art!” said she.

“No, I'm a man, and better than any imitation of a man, for when a lady came into the room I should jump down and hide in some sarcophagus.”

I left them with the poetic cattle of Olympus and went on and asked them to look for me at the door. I lingered awhile with the lovely figures of Canova and Bernini, and was glad at last to get out of the chilly atmosphere of the gallery.

I found the count at the door. He approached me and said, in broken English:

“The ladies, I suppose, they are yet inside now.”

I saw my chance and took advantage of it.

“Why do you follow them?”

“Because I have the hope for good devil-_op_-ments.”

His “devil-_op_-ments” amused me, and I could not help laughing.

“Ah, Signore, I have very much troubley in my harrit,” he added.

“And you will have trouble in other parts of your system if you do not go away,” I said. “If you follow these ladies again I shall ask the police to protect us. If they cannot keep you away I shall injure you in some manner, or hire a boy to do it.”