Natheless, I wish he would not starve to death in my house, to get me a bad name.Anyway, one starveling is enough in any house.You are far from home, and it is for me, which am the mistress here, to number your meals - for me and the Dutch wife, your mother, that is far away: we two women shall settle that matter.Mind thou thine own business, being a man, and leave cooking and the like to us, that are in the world for little else that I see but to roast fowls, and suckle men at starting, and sweep their grownup cobwebs.""Dear kind dame, in sooth you do often put me in mind of my mother that is far away.""All the better; I'll put you more in mind of her before I have done with you." And the honest soul beamed with pleasure.
Gerard not being an egotist, nor blinded by female partialities, saw his own grief in poor proud Pietro; and the more he thought of it the more he resolved to share his humble means with that unlucky artist; Pietro's sympathy would repay him.He tried to waylay him; but without success.
One day he heard a groaning in the room.He knocked at the door, but received no answer.He knocked again.A surly voice bade him enter.
He obeyed somewhat timidly, and entered a garret furnished with a chair, a picture, face to wall, an iron basin, an easel, and a long chest, on which was coiled a haggard young man with a wonderfully bright eye.Anything more like a coiled cobra ripe for striking the first comer was never seen.
"Good Signor Pietro," said Gerard, "forgive me that, weary of my own solitude, I intrude on yours; but I am your nighest neighbour in this house, and methinks your brother in fortune.I am an artist too.""You are a painter? Welcome, signer.Sit down on my bed."And Pietro jumped off and waved him into the vacant throne with a magnificent demonstration of courtesy.
Gerard bowed, and smiled; but hesitated a little."I may not call myself a painter.I am a writer, a caligraph.I copy Greek and Latin manuscripts, when I can get them to copy.""And you call that an artist?"
"Without offence to your superior merit, Signor Pietro.""No offence, stranger, none.Only, meseemeth an artist is one who thinks, and paints his thought.Now a caligraph but draws in black and white the thoughts of another.""'Tis well distinguished, signor.But then, a writer can write the thoughts of the great ancients, and matters of pure reason, such as no man may paint: ay, and the thoughts of God, which angels could not paint.But let that pass.I am a painter as well; but a sorry one.""The better thy luck.'They will buy thy work in Rome.""But seeking to commend myself to one of thy eminence, I thought it well rather to call myself a capable writer, than a scurvy painter."At this moment a step was heard on the stair."Ah! 'tis the good dame," cried Gerard."What oh! hostess, I am here in conversation with Signor Pietro.I dare say he will let me have my humble dinner here."The Italian bowed gravely.
The landlady brought in Gerard's dinner smoking and savoury.She put the dish down on the bed with a face divested of all expression, and went.
Gerard fell to.But ere he had eaten many mouthfuls, he stopped, and said: "I am an ill-mannered churl, Signor Pietro.I ne'er eat to my mind when I eat alone.For our Lady's sake put a spoon into this ragout with me; 'tis not unsavoury, I promise you."Pietro fixed his glittering eye on him.
"What, good youth, thou a stranger, and offerest me thy dinner?""Why, see, there is more than one can eat.""Well, I accept," said Pietro; and took the dish with some appearance of calmness, and flung the contents out of window.
Then he turned, trembling with mortification and ire, and said:
"Let that teach thee to offer alms to an artist thou knowest not, master writer."Gerard's face flushed with anger, and it cost him a bitter struggle not to box this high-souled creature's ears.And then to go and destroy good food! His mother's milk curdled in his veins with horror at such impiety.Finally, pity at Pietro's petulance and egotism, and a touch of respect for poverty-struck pride, prevailed.
However, he said coldly, "Likely what thou hast done might pass in a novel of thy countryman, Signor Boccaccio; but 'twas not honest.""Make that good!" said the painter sullenly.
"I offered thee half my dinner; no more.But thou hast ta'en it all.Hadst a right to throw away thy share, but not mine.Pride is well, but justice is better."Pietro stared, then reflected.
"'Tis well.I took thee for a fool, so transparent was thine artifice.Forgive me! And prithee leave me! Thou seest how 'tis with me.The world hath soured me.I hate mankind.I was not always so.Once more excuse that my discourtesy, and fare thee well."Gerard sighed, and made for the door.
But suddenly a thought struck him."Signor Pietro," said he, "we Dutchmen are hard bargainers.We are the lads 'een eij scheeren,'
