I never saw such an eloquent look of shame, of pitiable
humiliation, overspread a countenance before.
The Petrified Man rose slowly to his feet, and said:
“Honestly, is that true?”
“As true as I am sitting here.”
He took the pipe from his mouth and laid it on the
mantel, then stood irresolute a moment (unconsciously,
from old habit, thrusting his hands where his pantaloons
pockets should have been, and meditatively dropping
his chin on his breast); and finally said:
“Well-I never felt so absurd before. The
Petrified Man has sold everybody else, and now the
mean fraud has ended by selling its own ghost!
My son, if there is any charity left in your heart
for a poor friendless phantom like me, don’t
let this get out. Think how you would feel if
you had made such an ass of yourself.”
I heard his stately tramp die away, step by step down
the stairs and out into the deserted street, and felt
sorry that he was gone, poor fellow —and
sorrier still that he had carried off my red blanket
and my bath-tub.
[Scene-An Artist’s Studio in Rome.]
“Oh, George, I do love you!”
“Bless your dear heart, Mary, I know that—why
is your father so obdurate?”
“George, he means well, but art is folly to
him—he only understands groceries.
He thinks you would starve me.”
“Confound his wisdom—it savors of
inspiration. Why am I not a money-making bowelless
grocer, instead of a divinely gifted sculptor with
nothing to eat?”
“Do not despond, Georgy, dear—all
his prejudices will fade away as soon as you shall
have acquired fifty thousand dol—”
“Fifty thousand demons! Child, I am in
arrears for my board!”
[Scene-A Dwelling in Rome.]
“My dear sir, it is useless to talk. I
haven’t anything against you, but I can’t
let my daughter marry a hash of love, art, and starvation—I
believe you have nothing else to offer.”
“Sir, I am poor, I grant you. But is fame
nothing? The Hon. Bellamy Foodle of Arkansas
says that my new statue of America, is a clever piece
of sculpture, and he is satisfied that my name will
one day be famous.”
“Bosh! What does that Arkansas ass know
about it? Fame’s nothing—the
market price of your marble scarecrow is the thing
to look at. It took you six months to chisel
it, and you can’t sell it for a hundred dollars.
No, sir! Show me fifty thousand dollars and you
can have my daughter —otherwise she marries
young Simper. You have just six months to raise
the money in. Good morning, sir.”
“Alas! Woe is me!”
[ Scene-The Studio.]
