The Romance of Giovanni Calvotti

The Romance Of Giovanni
Calvotti, by

David Christie Murray This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at
no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it,
give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg
License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: The Romance Of Giovanni Calvotti From Coals Of Fire And
Other Stories, Volume II. (of III.)
Author: David Christie Murray
Release Date: August 1, 2007 [EBook #22207]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
ROMANCE OF GIOVANNI CALVOTTI ***

Produced by David Widger

THE ROMANCE OF GIOVANNI CALVOTTI.
By David Christie Murray
From Coals Of Fire And Other Stories By David Christie Murray In

Three Volumes Vol. II.
Chatto & Windus, Piccadilly 1882
CHAPTER I.
--IN THE ATTIC.
I live in an attic. I am in the immediate neighbourhood of a great tavern
and a famous place of amusement. The thoroughfare on which I can
look whilst I sit at my window is noisy with perpetual traffic. In the
midst of London I am more of a hermit than is that pretentious humbug
who waves his flag at passing steamers from his rock in the Ægean. I
am not a hermit from any choice of mine, or from any dislike of men
and women. I am not a hermit because of any dislike which men and
women may entertain for me. In my time I have been popular, and have
had many friends. If I could find it in my heart at this moment to face
some one of those friends, the necessity for a continued hermitage
might pass. If I could find it in my heart to write to one of them I might
close this lonely vigil to-morrow. Let me confess the truth. I am
ashamed of myself, and I can appeal to nobody for assistance. I have
gamed away the whole of my substance, and I am a broken man. It
would be possible to do something better for myself if I could venture
into the streets. But my sole possessions in the way of outer clothing
are one pair of too-ancient trousers, one pair of tattered slippers, one
fez, and one poor old dressing-gown.
My estimable Uncle round the corner has the rest. Perhaps I am less a
hermit than a prisoner--a prisoner over whom that sternest of janitors,
Poverty, holds the key.
I am a little proud of my English, and I do not think you can have yet
discovered from my style of expression that I am not a native of this
country. Permit me to describe myself.
I am an Italian and a gentleman, and my age is thirty. My main fault is,
that I am able to do much in too many directions. I play admirably
upon several instruments, and my little original compositions are

admitted to show great undeveloped talent. My verses in four
languages are also admitted to show great undeveloped talent. As a
painter or a sculptor I might have made fame certain. I am merry and
generous, and slow to offence, an unmeasured braggart, careless about
money matters, without dignity, but the soul of honour. I am also your
obedient servant. Permit me so to subscribe myself--Your obedient
servant, Giovanni Calvotti.
My attic is uncarpeted, and its general aspect is sordid. It contains a bed,
a table, a chair, a chest of drawers, a grand piano, a violin, a violoncello,
my pipes, my tobacco, my writing materials, and--me. Stay! Hidden for
the moment from my glance beneath the grand piano are the tools by
which I live: my easel, my porte-couleur, my palette, canvas, and
brushes. My estimable uncle round the corner is not a judge of art. It is
my weakness that I cannot paint bad pictures. I linger sometimes for a
whole day hungry--sometimes even without tobacco--touching and
again touching the ripened beauties of my canvas child, before I can
dare to leave it. I am a hungry amateur, but that is no reason why I
should be false to the principles of art. Like my playing upon four
instruments, and like my verses in four languages, my painting is
admitted to show great talent--as yet only partially developed. Upon
each of my works my estimable uncle advances me the sum of twelve
shillings and sixpence. I paint one picture per week. In consideration of
the restricted character of my wardrobe, my landlady is so obliging as
to send my works to the only dealer with whom I can at present do
business. I had never known until this morning who it was that acted as
my ambassador. I have told you already that I am of a merry
temperament. I snap my fingers