DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.48088#0131
108 THE FALL OE SATAN.
“I know it is, my friend, I do not question the excellence of San Gennaro, but of the Rosalia.”
“She has received two stab-trusts, but they have not been fatal,” answered the visitor.
“She is dead, and shall remain dead, and shall go into Purgatory, as far as I am concerned,”
murmured Don Jose fiercely. “Rosa, I have a question to ask you. But I know what your
answer will be.”
“Do not swear to it, my friend,” observed Salvator Rosa, with a comic grimace.
The artist Rosa had straight black hair, a long face, high cheek bones, a sharp eagle nose,
lips with a disdainful curve, and sparkling eyes, which twinkled like those of a fox, looking
out over a sunlit country. Rosa put his hand into the side pocket of his coat, making a clicking
noise with his tongue, when a little capuchin ape sprang into his hand, ran up his arm, and at
last seated itself on his head, where he remained immovable, while its master, in a very
methodical manner, sat upon a chair.
“If only you did not always carry such horrible animals about with you,” said Don Jose,
looking with a shudder at the ape, which fixed its gaze upon him.
“You drag beasts after you, as bad and even worse, but I allow mine to be seen in public.
Will you believe it, this little beast has fed my brood of unfledged falcons for three days, as if
he were their grandmother. Is not this true, Domine Dominice?”
“Si—i —i— ” drawled the ape, in a whining tone.
“He can already speak Italian; what do you think of him?”
ftPer Bacco, Salvator! shall you always remain a child? I am sitting here, in true anguish
of soul, and you begin to talk about this monster, this ape.”
“But you are painting monsters,” answered Salvator, pointing to the Furies of the Pestilence.
“They still need torches, to swing round their heads.”
“Then they will be all the more like furies, Spagnoletto.”
“Salvator, allow me to take leave of you. I hope that you will make yourself comfortable,
—but X cannot remain with you when you begin your sorry jokes. And if you have nothing
better to do, you may sketch out a St. Rosalia for me, that is the turning-point of my existence.”
“Willingly, Spagnoletto, provided that you find me a good model. Without that, I shall
be in danger of degenerating into ugliness. And as to the expression, I cannot produce the
effects of calm, conquering dignity, my Rosalia, I can assure you would lay the furies low with
well aimed blows.”
Spagnoletto had stood up, but quietly reseated himself.
“If a man has made a vow before Heaven,” he began after a long pause, as if speaking to
himself, while Salvator Rosa balanced the little ape on his thin outstretched fingers. “If a man
has made a vow, we may ask whether he may break it with impunity?”
“Of course, he may break it, for what other reason were popes and bishops created?”
“Salvator, I am very unhappy, and you are joking,” cried Spagnoletto, raising his hands
in despair.
'A.h, carissimo, why did you not say that before? but your misery is nothing: you are
afflicted with the epidemic common to all experienced old painters, who believe themselves to be
in the depicts of poverty, when they cannot attain in real life the beauty which they depict.”
“No, it is not that,” answered Ribera, deeply moved. “Six months ago, before I conceived
the idea of this picture, I made a vow to San Gennaro, that my daughter should remain in the
“I know it is, my friend, I do not question the excellence of San Gennaro, but of the Rosalia.”
“She has received two stab-trusts, but they have not been fatal,” answered the visitor.
“She is dead, and shall remain dead, and shall go into Purgatory, as far as I am concerned,”
murmured Don Jose fiercely. “Rosa, I have a question to ask you. But I know what your
answer will be.”
“Do not swear to it, my friend,” observed Salvator Rosa, with a comic grimace.
The artist Rosa had straight black hair, a long face, high cheek bones, a sharp eagle nose,
lips with a disdainful curve, and sparkling eyes, which twinkled like those of a fox, looking
out over a sunlit country. Rosa put his hand into the side pocket of his coat, making a clicking
noise with his tongue, when a little capuchin ape sprang into his hand, ran up his arm, and at
last seated itself on his head, where he remained immovable, while its master, in a very
methodical manner, sat upon a chair.
“If only you did not always carry such horrible animals about with you,” said Don Jose,
looking with a shudder at the ape, which fixed its gaze upon him.
“You drag beasts after you, as bad and even worse, but I allow mine to be seen in public.
Will you believe it, this little beast has fed my brood of unfledged falcons for three days, as if
he were their grandmother. Is not this true, Domine Dominice?”
“Si—i —i— ” drawled the ape, in a whining tone.
“He can already speak Italian; what do you think of him?”
ftPer Bacco, Salvator! shall you always remain a child? I am sitting here, in true anguish
of soul, and you begin to talk about this monster, this ape.”
“But you are painting monsters,” answered Salvator, pointing to the Furies of the Pestilence.
“They still need torches, to swing round their heads.”
“Then they will be all the more like furies, Spagnoletto.”
“Salvator, allow me to take leave of you. I hope that you will make yourself comfortable,
—but X cannot remain with you when you begin your sorry jokes. And if you have nothing
better to do, you may sketch out a St. Rosalia for me, that is the turning-point of my existence.”
“Willingly, Spagnoletto, provided that you find me a good model. Without that, I shall
be in danger of degenerating into ugliness. And as to the expression, I cannot produce the
effects of calm, conquering dignity, my Rosalia, I can assure you would lay the furies low with
well aimed blows.”
Spagnoletto had stood up, but quietly reseated himself.
“If a man has made a vow before Heaven,” he began after a long pause, as if speaking to
himself, while Salvator Rosa balanced the little ape on his thin outstretched fingers. “If a man
has made a vow, we may ask whether he may break it with impunity?”
“Of course, he may break it, for what other reason were popes and bishops created?”
“Salvator, I am very unhappy, and you are joking,” cried Spagnoletto, raising his hands
in despair.
'A.h, carissimo, why did you not say that before? but your misery is nothing: you are
afflicted with the epidemic common to all experienced old painters, who believe themselves to be
in the depicts of poverty, when they cannot attain in real life the beauty which they depict.”
“No, it is not that,” answered Ribera, deeply moved. “Six months ago, before I conceived
the idea of this picture, I made a vow to San Gennaro, that my daughter should remain in the