按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
Finally Dona Luisa rebelled against this troublesome vigilance； preferring to accompany her husband on his hunt for underpriced riches。 Chichi went to the skating rink with one of the dark… skinned maids； passing the afternoons with her sporty friends of the new world。 Together they ventilated their ideas under the glare of the easy life of Paris； freed from the scruples and conventions of their native land。 They all thought themselves older than they were； delighting to discover in each other unsuspected charms。 The change from the other hemisphere had altered their sense of values。 Some were even writing verses in French。 And Desnoyers became alarmed； giving free rein to his bad humor； when Chichi of evenings； would bring forth as aphorisms that which she and her friends had been discussing； as a summary of their readings and observations。 〃Life is life； and one must live！ 。 。 。 I will marry the man I love； no matter who he may be。 。 。 。〃
But the daughter's independence was as nothing compared to the worry which the other child gave the Desnoyers。 Ay； that other one！ 。 。 。 Julio； 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 th