the four horsemen of the apocalypse-第19节

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io；　upon　arriving　in　Paris；　had　changed　the　bent　of　his　aspirations。　　He　no　longer　thought　of　becoming　an　engineer；　he　wished　to　become　an　artist。　　Don　Marcelo　objected　in　great　consternation；　but　finally　yielded。　　Let　it　be　painting！　　The　important　thing　was　to　have　some　regular　profession。　　The　father；　while　he　considered　property　and　wealth　as　sacred　rights；　felt　that　no　one　should　enjoy　them　who　had　not　worked　to　acquire　them。

Recalling　his　apprenticeship　as　a　wood　carver；　he　began　to　hope　that　the　artistic　instincts　which　poverty　had　extinguished　in　him　were；　perhaps；　reappearing　in　his　son。　　What　if　this　lazy　boy；　this　lively　genius；　hesitating　before　taking　up　his　walk　in　life；　should　turn　out　to　be　a　famous　painter；　after　all！　。　。　。　　So　he　agreed　to　all　of　Julio's　caprices；　the　budding　artist　insisting　that　for　his　first　efforts　in　drawing　and　coloring；　he　needed　a　separate　apartment　where　he　could　work　with　more　freedom。　　His　father；　therefore；　established　him　near　his　home；　in　the　rue　de　la　Pompe　in　the　former　studio　of　a　well…known　foreign　painter。　　The　workroom　and　its　annexes　were　far　too　large　for　an　amateur；　but　the　owner　had　died；　and　Desnoyers　improved　the　opportunity　offered　by　the　heirs；　and　bought　at　a　remarkable　bargain；　the　entire　plant；　pictures　and　furnishings。

Dona　Luisa　at　first　visited　the　studio　daily　like　a　good　mother；　caring　for　the　well…being　of　her　son　that　he　may　work　to　better　advantage。　　Taking　off　her　gloves；　she　emptied　the　brass　trays　filled　with　cigar　stubs　and　dusted　the　furniture　powdered　with　the　ashes　fallen　from　the　pipes。　　Julio's　visitors；　long…haired　young　men　who　spoke　of　things　that　she　could　not　understand；　seemed　to　her　rather　careless　in　their　manners。　。　。　。　　Later　on　she　also　met　there　women；　very　lightly　clad；　and　was　received　with　scowls　by　her　son。　Wasn't　his　mother　ever　going　to　let　him　work　in　peace？　。　。　。　　So　the　poor　lady；　starting　out　in　the　morning　toward　the　rue　de　la　Pompe；　stopped　midway　and　went　instead　to　the　church　of　Saint　Honore　d'Eylau。

The　father　displayed　more　prudence。　　A　man　of　his　years　could　not　expect　to　mingle　with　the　chums　of　a　young　artist。　　In　a　few　months'　time；　Julio　passed　entire　weeks　without　going　to　sleep　under　the　paternal　roof。　　Finally　he　installed　himself　permanently　in　his　studio；　occasionally　making　a　flying　trip　home　that　his　family　might　know　that　he　was　still　in　existence。　。　。　。　　Some　mornings；　Desnoyers　would　arrive　at　the　rue　de　la　Pompe　in　order　to　ask　a　few　questions　of　the　concierge。　　It　was　ten　o'clock；　the　artist　was　sleeping。　Upon　returning　at　midday；　he　learned　that　the　heavy　sleep　still　continued。　　Soon　after　lunch；　another　visit　to　get　better　news。　　It　was　two　o'clock；　the　young　gentleman　was　just　arising。　　So　the　father　would　retire；　muttering　stormily〃But　when　does　this　painter　ever　paint？〃　。　。　。

At　first　Julio　had　tried　to　win　renown　with　his　brush；　believing　that　it　would　prove　an　easy　task。　　In　true　artist　fashion；　he　collected　his　friends　around　him；　South　American　boys　with　nothing　to　do　but　enjoy　life；　scattering　money　ostentatiously　so　that　everybody　might　know　of　their　generosity。　　With　serene　audacity；　the　young　canvas…dauber　undertook　to　paint　portraits。　　He　loved　good　painting；　〃distinctive〃　painting；　with　the　cloying　sweetness　of　a　romance；　that　copied　only　the　forms　of　women。　　He　had　money；　a　good　studio；　his　father　was　standing　behind　him　ready　to　helpwhy　shouldn't　he　accomplish　as　much　as　many　others　who　lacked　his　opportunities？　。　。　。

So　he　began　his　work　by　coloring　a　canvas　entitled；　〃The　Dance　of　the　Hours；〃　a　mere　pretext　for　copying　pretty　girls　and　selecting　buxom　models。　　These　he　would　sketch　at　a　mad　speed；　filling　in　the　outlines　with　blobs　of　multi…colored　paint；　and　up　to　this　point　all　went　well。　　Then　he　would　begin　to　vacillate；　remaining　idle　before　the　picture　only　to　put　it　in　the　corner　in　hope　of　later　inspiration。　　It　was　the　same　way　with　his　various　studies　of　feminine　heads。　　Finding　that　he　was　never　able　to　finish　anything；　he　soon　became　resigned；　like　one　who　pants　with　fatigue　before　an　obstacle　waiting　for　a　providential　interposition　to　save　him。　　The　important　thing　was　to　be　a　painter　。　。　。　even　though　he　might　not　paint　anything。　　This　afforded　him　the　opportunity；　on　the　plea　of　lofty　aestheticism；　of　sending　out　cards　of　invitation　and　asking　light　women　to　his　studio。　　He　lived　during　the　night。　　Don　Marcelo；　upon　investigating　the　artist's　work；　could　not　contain　his　indignation。　　Every　morning　the　two　Desnoyers　were　accustomed　to　greet　the　first　hours　of　dawnthe　father　leaping　from　his　bed；　the　son；　on　his　way　home　to　his　studio　to　throw　himself　upon　his　couch　not　to　wake　till　midday。

The　credulous　Dona　Luisa　would　invent　the　most　absurd　explanations　to　defend　her　son。　　Who　could　tell？　　Perhaps　he　had　the　habit　of　painting　during　the　night；　utilizing　it　for　original　work。　　Men　resort　to　so　many　devilish　things！　。　。　。

Desnoyers　knew　very　well　what　these　nocturnal　gusts　of　genius　were　amounting　toscandals　in　the　restaurants　of　Montmartre；　and　scrimmages；　many　scrimmages。　　He　and　his　gang；　who　believed　that　at　seven　a　full　dress　or　Tuxedo　was　indispensable；　were　like　a　band　of　Indians；　bringing　to　Paris　the　wild　customs　of　the　plains。　Champagne　always　made　them　quarrelsome。　　So　they　broke　and　paid；　but　their　generosities　were　almost　invariably　followed　by　a　scuffle。　　No　one　could　surpass　Julio　in　the　quick　slap　and　the　ready　card。　　His　father　heard　with　a　heavy　heart　the　news　brought　him　by　some　friends　thinking　to　flatter　his　vanityhis　son　was　always　victorious　in　these　gentlemanly　encounters；　he　it　was　who　always　scratched　the　enemy's　skin。　　The　painter　knew　more　about　fencing　than　art。　　He　was　a　champion　with　various　weapons；　he　could　box；　and　was　even　skilled　in　the　favorite　blows　of　the　prize　fighters　of　the　slums。　　〃Useless　as　a　drone；　and　as　dangerous；　too；〃　fretted　his　father。　　And　yet　in　the　back　of　his　troubled　mind　fluttered　an　irresistible　satisfactionan　animal　pride　in　the　thought　that　this　hare…brained　terror　was　his　own。

For　a　while；　he　thought　that　he　had　hit　upon　a　way　of　withdrawing　his　son　from　such　an　existence。　　The　relatives　in　Berlin　had　visited　the　Desnoyers　in　their　castle　of　Villeblanche。　　With　good…natured　superiority；　Karl　von　Hartrott　had　appreciated　the　rich　and　rather　absurd　accumulations　of　his　brother…in…law。　　They　were　not　bad；　he　admitted　that　they　gave　a　certain　cachet　to　the　home　in　Paris　and　to　the　castle。　　They　smacked　of　the　possessions　of　titled　nobility。　But　Germany！　。　。　。　　The　comforts　and　luxuries　in　his　country！　。　。　。　He　just　wished　his　brother…in…law　to　admire　the　way　he　lived　and　the　noble　friendships　that　embellished　his　opulence。　　And　so　he　insisted　in　his　letters　that　the　Desnoyers　family　should　return　their　visit。　This　change　of　environment　might　tone　Julio　down　a　little。　　Perhaps　his　ambition　might　waken　on　seeing　the　diligence　of　his　cousins；　each　with　a　career。　　The　Frenchman　had；　besides；　an　underlying　belief　in　the　more　corrupt　influence　of　Paris　as　compared　with　the　purity　of　the　customs　in　Patriarchal　Germany。

They　were　there　four　months。　　In　a　little　while　Desnoyers　felt　ready　to　retreat。　　Each　to　his　own　kind；　he　would　never　be　able　to　understand　such　people。　　Exceedingly　amiable；　with　an　abject　amiability　and　evident　desire　to　please；　but　constantly　blundering　through　a　tactless　desire　to　make　their　grandeur　felt。　　The　high…　toned　friends　of　Hartrott　emphasized　their　love　for　France；　but　it　was　the　pious　love　that　a　weak　and　mischievous　child　inspires；　needing　protection。　　And　they　would　accompany　their　affability　with　all　manner　of　inopportune　memories　of　the　wars　in　which　France　had　been　conquered。　　Everything　in　Germanya　monument；　a　railroad　station；　a　simple　dining…room　device；　instantly　gave　rise　to　glorious　comparisons。　　〃In　France；　you　do　not　have　this；〃　〃Of　course；　you　never　saw　anything　like　this　in　America。〃

Don　Marcelo　came　away　fatigued　by　so　much　condescension；　and　his　wife　and　daughter　refused　to　be　convinced　that　the　elegance　of　Berlin　could　be　superior　to　Paris。　　Chichi；　with　audacious　sacrilege；　scandalized　her　cousins　by　declaring　that　she　could　not　abide　the　corseted　officers　with　immovable　monocle；　who　bowed　to　the　women　with　such　automatic　rigidity；　blending　their　gallantries　with　an　air　of　superiority。

Julio；　guided　by　his　cousins；　was　saturated　in　the　virtuous　atmosphere　of　Berlin。　　With　the　oldest；　〃The　Sage；〃　he　had　nothing　to　do。　　He　was　a　poor　creature　devoted　to　his　books　who　patronized　all　the　family　with　a　protecting　air。　　It　was　the　others；　the　sub…　lieutenants　or　military　students；　who　proudly　showed　him　the　rounds　of　German　joy。

Julio　was　accordingly　introduced　to　all　the　night　restaurants　imitations　of　those　in　Paris；　but　on　a　much　larger　scale。　　The　women　who　in　Paris　might　be　counted　by　the　dozens　appeared　here　in　hundreds。　　The　scandalous　drunkenness　here　never　came　by　chance；　but　always　by　design　as　an　indispensable　part　of　the　gaiety。　　All　was　grandiose；　glittering；　colossal。　　The　libertines　diverted　themselves　in　platoons；　the　public　got　drunk　in　companies；　the　harlots　presented　themselves　in　regiments。　　He　felt　a　sensation　of　disgust　before　t