by Howard Pyle
Niccola sat down. She was panting with her ebbing rage. Presently she arose and began preparing the dinner, looking sidewise at Giovanni. Every now and then she muttered to herself, as her mother did.
Presently a neighbor came knocking at the door. Giovanni opened the door to him. He did not come into the house, but stood at some little distance. “Your man Carlo.” he said, “is sick in the road. Come to him as quickly as you can.”
Giovanni’s face grew as white as wax. He snatched up his hat and hurried into the road. There at a little distance away he saw a man lying upon the grass. Around him three other men were standing. Giovanni and the neighbor ran to where they were, and those who were standing there made room for him. He kneeled and tried to take Carlo’s hand, but the man drew it from him. He was breathing short and quick, but with labored breath. His face was white, and there was froth streaked with blood upon his lips. His eyes, as heavy as lead, turned to Giovanni with a terrible look. “The evil eye,” he said. Then he gave a tremor of the body and lay still. “He is dead,” said the man who had come to Giovanni.
Giovanni looked from one to the other of the faces that gazed down at the dead man. They turned their eyes away and moved uneasily. Did they believe him to have the evil eye?
The next day Giovanni took his staff in his hand, put on his hat, and set forth to walk to Florence.
Tie went to the house of Montofacini the Magician.
Giovanni found Montofacini alone in his house.
He was a tall, saturnine figure, with long, white hair and beard, and eyes deep-set beneath shaggy, bushy brows. They gleamed very brightly from their shadows. His hands were thin, and corded with veins and sinews. He was dressed in black velvet, and he had a crimson girdle about his waist with gold tassels at the end of it.
He was reading a great book that lay on the table in front of him, slowly turning the leaves one by one as he did so. He looked up from under his brows at Giovanni as he entered and he said, “This is Giovanni Riposali, is it not?” Giovanni was astonished.
“That is my name,” said he, “but I do not remember ever having seen your Honor, and I do not know where you have seen me.”
Montofacini smiled. He was a very learned man, and knew more than a book contained. It was true that he had never seen Giovanni before, but he knew who he was when he came into the room. “Sit down,” he said, “and tell me what you will, and if I can I will help you.”
Giovanni took the seat toward which he pointed. “ Sir,” said he when he had sat, “it is the evil eye. It has come upon me in the last month. I was engaged to marry a girl, but she fell sick so t h a t her breath grew heavy. She eats nothing, her skin is like dough, and she herself is so thin that if you Would pinch her between your thumb and finger, thus, you would break her. I loved her, but somehow I grew to hate her — I know not why. Then I married another girl who was in better shape, but I do not love her. Since then things have gone very ill with me. My horse died and my cow died, my grapes are dying in the vineyard, and yesterday my hired man fell sick at the roadside and died in a few minutes, with Giuseppe and Tommaso Sastori and Giulio Tonti and Pietro Titori and me beside him. What I want is to stop this, or else I am a ruined man, for my turn to die will come by and by.”
“I can help you,” said Montofacini, “but it may bring a worse sorrow to you than those you already have.”
“No sorrow can be worse than those I already have,” said Giovanni, “for I am in the way of being ruined. So I pray you to help me if your wisdom can untangle the knots.”
“I will try,” said Montofacini. “Sit you hero for a little.”
He arose and went out of the room. He was gone for a while and then he came back again.
He carried in his hand a little figure made of red wax, and he gave it to Giovanni. “Keep this,” said he, “and if you are troubled with the evil eye again thrust it into a live fire and you will be free of it.”
Giovanni looked closely at the little waxen figure.
“This is very strange, Signore,” said he. “This figure looks like my wife. No; it looks like her mother. Yes; it looks like both of them..”
Montofacini looked very strangely at him.
“Do not burn that image unless you have to,” said he. “For misfortune will come to you if you destroy it.”
But Giovanni made up his mind that now he would not suffer again, and so he went home with the little waxen figure in his pocket rolled up in a piece of soft paper. He put the figure where he could easily get it again, and after that he ate his supper in silence and went to bed.
Well, things went on at home as fine as silk with Giovanni and Niccola for a while, but not for very long. One afternoon Giovanni quarreled with his wife again. That night his straw stack caught fire, and the cow-shed and stable and maybe even the house itself would have burned to the ground had not the neighbors come with wet blankets and spread them upon the fronts of the buildings.
After it was all over and done and even the cinders in the barn-yard had been trampled out, Giovanni went to bed and lay there all the rest of the night tossing from this side to that.
At the dawn and before the light of day had become very broad he arose and dressed himself, all except his jacket. He shook Niccola by the shoulder and said: “Niccola! Niccola! Get up and make a little fire of fagots!”
Niccola groaned. She too was lying awake, repenting herself of her anger. She arose and put on her skirt and slipped her feet into her shoes.
“What do you want with a live fire?” said she.
“Niccola,” said Giovanni, “I am cursed with the evil eye, and I know not whence it comes. It rests upon me so that nothing but misfortune will ever follow me unless it is removed. Make the fire and lose no time, for I want to lift the evil eye from me.”
Niccola went as white as marble. “Giovanni,” said she, “darling of my life, do not have me light the fire.”
“I have a charm,” said he, “and I want to see it work. Make the fire!”
THE EVIL EYE
There was not a spot of color in Niccola’s cheeks. She did not know what Giovanni’s charm was, but she knew that something dreadful was about to happen to her. Nevertheless, she built a charcoal fire and blew it with her breath until it glowed red and angry. Then she piled the fagots over the charcoal; her hands trembled with fear of what was coming as she did so. She could hardly hold the sticks, but she set them one over the other until the blaze was burning, crackling, and alive. “The fire burns,” she cried in a whimpering voice.
Giovanni brought the image of red wax and threw it upon the fire. Niccola saw that the image resembled both herself and her mother. She clasped her hands together over her breast and stood watching.
The figure began to melt; a trickle of the wax ran from it as though it were a drop of blood. Niccola sucked her nether lip under her shining teeth. A pang as of death ran through her, but she bit her lip savagely. She would not show the pain she suffered if she could help it. The figure melted rapidly; it moved upon the fire as though it were alive. The breast of the figure melted away; it collapsed and ran into the fire. Niccola could bear her agony no longer. She screamed hoarsely and fell upon the floor. Giovanni ran to her. He did not touch her, but stood looking at her. What had happened to her? He did not know. “I burn!” she screamed. “I burn! Oh, God! what suffering!” She screamed again and again. Giovanni stood wringing his hands together; he knew not what ailed her or what to do.
Now the image was melted. Niccola lay upon the floor breathing quickly and terribly. “I do not suffer now,” she said, “but I am sped!” Then she said: “Giovanni, come here; I have but little time to live. Let me speak to you.”
Giovanni came to her. She was his wife, and he was weeping. What had he done? She seized his hand in hers and set it to her white lips. “Giovanni,” she said, “you were right. The evil eye was upon you, and it was I who set it there. I am a witch, but I meant, no ill to you, for I love you, Giovanni, T love you! But you d
id not love me, and so sometimes we quarreled. Then I wished you ill, and ill befell you. It was I who sent the sickness to Caterina, and it was I who bewitched you so that you could not help coming to me. It was I who brought all your misfortunes upon you. But now I shall die, and Caterina will get well and you will marry her and be happy and prosperous again. But do not forget that I loved you, Giovanni — I loved you!”
She kissed his hand again and again, but by and by she ceased kissing it. She stretched out her feet and was dead.
Giovanni did not know what had befallen. He stood looking at the dead body of Niccola, and the tears ran in streams down his face. He knew now that he did not love her, and that he had never loved her; but she was his wife, and he had killed her. It seemed to him that this was the worst that had befallen him.
That same time Niccola’s mother must have died also. For when the people of the village broke into her house sometime that morning, they found her lying dead upon the floor.
This is all as true as the Gospel of Saint Matthew. But why was this story written? I will tell you! It is to warn you of the evil eye, for God knows who it may light upon or when. So what you should do is to always carry about you a small hand of red coral or of silver, with the two fingers extended into the sign of the horns, for thus you may be protected from the blight.
For you cannot always make the sign with your own hand because you have other things to do with it. But if you have a little hand of red coral or, better, of silver hung about your neck, then that is the next best thing, and the evil eye will not rest upon you.
It is a pity that everybody does not know this.
Giovanni and Caterina were married a year after these things happened. Prosperity came hack again to Giovanni and health returned to Caterina.
But the neighbors were for a long time afraid of him, for it was said by all that he had burned his wife in the fire because of the evil eye.
THE END
HUNTFORD’S FAIR NIHILIST
Harper’s Magazine Jun 1913
THE ROMANTIC EPISODE of the fair Nihilist occurred in that period of Huntford’s life before he began painting great mural paintings and while he was as yet merely in repute as a clever painter of illustrations for the magazines of the day.
It was in the fall of ‘81, and at that time he occupied a rather large but clingy studio, with a bedroom adjoining, in a lean and ugly four-story brick building on Thirteenth Street, just off Broadway. He had come to New York from a provincial city two years before, with a great deal of talent and some excellent letters of introduction.
His talents found him plenty of work, his letters of introduction admitted him into pleasant homes, and his poverty spurred him on to those vehement efforts that were afterward crowned with so great a success.
Huntford used to breakfast and lunch at the old Budapest Bakery, where they had the best coffee and rolls in New York. He dined at a cellar restaurant on Broadway, just below Fortieth Street. It was a great resort, that cellar restaurant, where the younger artists of the day, and some of the older fellows also, used to dine. A long table was provided for the artist patrons, and anybody could sit where he pleased — only that old Bowles, the sculptor, always sat at one end, and McClafferty, the landscape - painter, at the other.
That was a democratic table where those young fellows sat and dined. They all talked Art; they argued with loud voices; they interrupted one another; they disputed and contradicted — sometimes with loud shoutings at one another. Each man was sure that his own opinions were perfectly correct, and that his neighbor was, to state it mildly, altogether mistaken in his view’s.
Such was the free-and-easy life that Huntford led in those green and salad days of his beginnings. It was upon this life that the personality of Fraulein Victoria, the fair Nihilist, was suddenly projected, changing the entire color and flavor of his after existence.
Huntford’s studio was on the second floor of the building which he occupied, and just over the frame-maker’s shop. On the third floor back was a smaller suite of rooms, consisting of a studio, a little reception-room, and a bedchamber; all of which overlooked the quadrangular well of a big brick building in the rear. Old Blount, the marine-painter, occupied those rooms when Huntford first came to New York, but in the fall of ‘81 he moved out. Shortly afterward the apartment was taken by an elderly German, and the words “Frederick Vollmer — Heraldic Designer” appeared upon the tin sign tacked upon the door.
Herr Vollmer was established in his studio for nearly two weeks before Huntford became really acquainted with him. He used to hear the old fellow sometimes going down-stairs. This was always after dark — for he never came out of his room during the daytime. His step, though firm, was very light and soft, and he would always hesitate at the bottom landing for a moment or two before passing out into the lamp lit street. No one ever entered his studio, and no one, so far as Huntford could learn, ever spoke to him. At intervals Huntford could hear the notes of a piano, beautifully played, sounding from his studio, but beyond these he made no other sign of life. The young fellow came to feel very sorry for the old German gentleman in his loneliness and solitude.
One evening, just after the dusk of twilight had fallen, Huntford left his studio with intent to take a little walk up-town before his dinner. He lingered for a while upon the landing and listened, for Herr Vollmer was playing Chopin very beautifully in his studio upon the floor above. A sudden resolution seized upon Huntford to call upon him. He ascended the stairs, instinctively walking upon tiptoe; he hesitated for a moment or two upon the landing before the door, and then tapped lightly upon the panel.
Instantly the music ceased, and there was a pause of dead silence. Huntford stood patiently in the lamplit dusk, and presently he heard Herr Vollmer moving softly within. Then the door was opened very slowly to the width of an inch or so, and one eye and a section of Herr Vollmer’s face appeared at the narrow crack.
“I hope I don’t intrude,” said Huntford, “but it seemed to me that such near neighbors as we are ought to be better acquainted with each other. The fact is,” he added, “I am ashamed of myself that I have not called upon you before.”
“Ach, ja!” said Herr Vollmer. “Dot is so! Come in! Come in!” He stood aside and Huntford entered. Herr Vollmer motioned him to a sofa or lounge beneath the studio window, and as Huntford sat himself down upon the soft — the luxuriously soft — seat, he was impressed (although he could see hut indistinctly in the rapidly gathering darkness) with the elegance, it may even be said with the sumptuousness, of Herr Vollmer’s surroundings. The only signs of Herr Vollmer’s particular craft was a partly finished heraldic design pinned to a drawing-table with thumb-tacks, and a large colored drawing of a coat of arms, finished, framed, and hung against the wall beside the floor.
“Do you speak German?” said Herr Vollmer turning from the lamp which he had just lighted.
“No,” said Huntford. “I wish I did.”
“Do you speak French?” Herr Vollmer asked again.
“Not very well,” Huntford acknowledged. “Indeed,” he added, “I should make a poor fist at it if I tried.”
“Ach, ja!” said Herr Vollmer. “Dot is a pity.”
“You speak beautiful English, sir,” said Huntford.
“You think so?” said Herr Vollmer, with a pleased smile.
Then there was a pause of silence, in which Herr Vollmer smoked contentedly, as though relegating it to Huntford to carry on the conversation.
“You were playing very beautifully upon the piano just now when I came in,” said Huntford.
“Ah?” said Herr Vollmer. “You like my playing?”
“Indeed I did.” said Huntford, and he added, crudely: “Chopin is my favorite. I wish you would play some more.”
“To be sure! To be sure!” said the old gentleman. He instantly arose and went to the piano and began playing. Huntford knew but little of music, but he was conscious that Herr Vollmer indeed played very remarkably. He sat part
ly listening, partly thinking — speculating and guessing about the old gentleman and his surroundings: Who and what was he? Whence did he come? Why did he live so luxuriously in so poor a neighborhood? He could then evolve no theory to fit the facts as they appeared before him.
Such was the beginning of an acquaintance which, if it may be said to have matured, did so entirely through Huntford’s own efforts. For Herr Vollmer, though he was always pleased, kind, cordial, made no advances upon his own part. Nevertheless he accepted all Huntford’s civilities with an urbane and very gentlemanly good-humor.
Huntford was often in his room, and was always welcomed, and two or three times (always upon Huntford’s invitation) Herr Vollmer visited the young fellow’s studio, where he looked curiously at his pictures and with great apparent interest, but without any professional comment whatsoever. Upon Huntford’s invitation he went with him several times to dinner at Muldoon’s, the cellar restaurant where the fellows dined, and on these occasions the old gentleman would eat his dinner almost in silence, smiling pleasantly, answering to all that was said with great civility, but always remotely individual and apart from the others. The young fellows called him “Count Vollmer,” and he accepted the title smilingly, without comment or remark.
This phase of Huntford’s acquaintance with Herr Vollmer continued for two or three weeks. Then came a very memorable evening, when the old German was suddenly presented to his consideration in an altogether different light.
It was after a dinner at Muldoon’s — the last dinner that Herr Vollmer ever ate in the cellar restaurant. Huntford and he had finished, and were upon their way back to Herr Vollmer’s room. Huntford was speaking about some German illustrations, and he was so busy talking and so interested in what he was saying that he did not notice that Herr Vollmer was unusually silent and unresponsive.
As they drew near to Thirteenth Street, Herr Vollmer suddenly slipped his arm within Huntford’s. “My friend,” he said, cutting in upon Huntford’s talk, “do not turn at Thirteenth Street; we are being followed.”