SECTION VII.

The dreary late autumn had arrived, and Theodore was sitting in his

room beside the crackling fire, waiting for the worthy Serapion

Brethren, who came dropping in, one by one, at the appointed hour.

"What diabolical weather!" cried Cyprian, entering the last. "In spite

of my cloak I am nearly wet through, and a gust of wind all but carried

away my hat."

"And it won't be better very soon," said Ottmar; "for our

meteorologist, who lives in the same street with me, has prognosticated

very fine weather at the end of this autumn."

"Right; you are perfectly right, my friend Ottmar," Vincenz said.

"Whenever our great prophet consoles his neighbours with the

announcement that the winter is not going to be at all severe, but

principally of a southerly character, everybody rushes away in alarm,

and buys all the wood he can cram into his cellar. The weather-prophet

is a wise and highly-gifted man, whom we can thoroughly trust, so long

as we expect the exact reverse of what he predicts."

"Those autumnal storms always make me thoroughly wretched," said

Sylvester; "I always feel depressed and ill whilst they are going on;

and I think you feel the same, Theodore."

"Oh, indeed I do," answered Theodore; "this sort of weather always

makes----"

"Splendid!--delightful beginning of a meeting of the Serapion Club!"

intercalated Lothair. "We set to work to discuss the weather, like a

parcel of old women round the coffee-table."

"I don't see," said Ottmar, "why we should not talk about the weather;

the only reason you can object to it is that talking about it seems to

be an observance of a kind of rather slovenly old custom, which has

resulted from a necessity to say something or other when there happens

to be nothing else in people's minds to talk about. What I think is

that a few words about the weather and the wind make a very good

beginning of a conversation, whatsoever its nature may turn out to be,

and that the very universality of the applicability of this as the

beginning of a conversation prove how natural it really is."

"As far as I am concerned," said Theodore, "I don't think it matters

a farthing how a conversation commences. But there is one thing

certain--that, if one wants to make some very striking and clever

beginning, that is enough to kill all the freedom and unconstraint

which may be termed the very soul of conversation. I know a young

man--I think he is known to you all, as well--who is by no means

deficient in that mobility of intellect which is absolutely necessary

for good conversation; but he is so tormented, particularly when ladies

are present, by that kind of eagerness to burst out with something

brilliant and striking at the very outset of a talk, that he walks

restlessly about the room; makes the most extraordinary faces in the

keenness of his inward torment; opens his lips, and--cannot manage to

utter a syllable."

"Cease, cease, base wretch!" Cyprian cried, with comic pathos, "do not,

with murderous hand, tear open wounds which are barely healed. He is

speaking of me," he continued, laughing, "and he doesn't know that, a

few weeks ago, when I insisted on restraining that tendency of mine,

which I see the absurdity of, and falling into a conversation in the

ordinary style of other people, I had to pay for it by complete

annihilation. I prefer telling you all about this myself to letting

Ottmar do it, and add witty comments of his own. At a tea-party where

Ottmar and I were, there was present a certain pretty and clever lady,

as to whom you are in the habit of maintaining that she interests me

more than is right and proper. I went to talk to her, and I admit that

I was a little at a loss how exactly to begin, and she was wicked

enough to gaze at me with questioning eyes. I burst out with 'The new

moon has brought a nice change of weather.' She answered, very quietly:

'Oh, are you writing the Almanac this season?'"

The friends laughed heartily.

"On the other hand," said Ottmar, "I know another young man--and you

all know him--who, particularly with ladies, is never at a loss for the

first word of a talk; in fact, my belief is that he has severely

thought out, in private, a regular system, of the most comprehensive

kind, as to conversation with ladies, which is by no means likely ever

to find him left in the lurch. For instance, one of his dodges is to go

to the prettiest--one who scarce ventures to dip a sweet biscuit in her

tea; who, at the utmost, whispers into the ear of her who is sitting

next to her: 'It is very warm, dear;' to which the latter answers with

equal softness into her ear: 'Dreadfully, my love;' whose communication

goeth not beyond 'Yea, yea,' and 'Nay, nay,'--to go up to such an one,

I say, and, in an artful manner, startle her out of her wits, and

thereby so utterly revolutionize her very being, in such a sudden

manner, that she seems to herself to be no longer the same person:

'Good heavens! how very pale you are looking!' he cried out, recently,

to a pretty creature, as silent as a church, just in the act of

beginning a stitch of silver thread at a purse which she was working.

The young lady let her work fall on her lap in terror, said she was

feeling a little feverish that day. Feverish!--my friend was thoroughly

at home on that subject; could talk upon it in the most interesting

way, like a man who knows his ground; inquired minutely into all the

symptoms; gave advice, gave warnings,--and behold! there was a

delightful, interesting, confidential conversation spun out in a few

minutes."

"I am much obliged to you," said Theodore, "for having so carefully

observed that talent of mine, and given it its due meed of approval."

The friends laughed again at this.

"There is no doubt," said Sylvester, "that society talk is, altogether,

a rather curious thing. The French say that a certain heaviness in our

nature always prevents us from hitting the precise tact and tone

necessary for it; and they may be right, to a certain extent, but I

must declare that the much-belauded _légèreté_ and lightsomeness of

French Society puts me out of temper, and makes me feel stupid and

uncomfortable, and that I cannot look upon those _bon mots_ and

_calembours_ of theirs, which are continually being fired off in all

directions, as coming under the class of that 'Society wit' which gives

out constantly fresh sparks of new life of conversation. Moreover, that

peculiar style of wit to which the genuine French 'wit' belongs is, to

me, in the highest degree disagreeable."

"That opinion," said Cyprian, "comes from the very depths of your

quiet, friendly spirit, my dearest Sylvester: but you are forgetting

that, besides the (generally utterly empty and insipid) _bon mots_, the

'Society wit' of the French is, in a great degree, founded on a mutual

contempt of, and jeering and scoffing at, each other (such as at the

present time we call 'chaff,' although it is less good-humoured than

that), which soon passes the bounds of what we consider courtesy and

consideration, and consequently would speedily deprive our intercourse

of all pleasure. Then the French have not the very slightest

comprehension of that wit whose basis is real humour, and it is almost

incomprehensible how often the point of some not very profound, but

superficially funny, little story escapes them."

"Don't forget," said Ottmar, "that the point of a story is very often

completely untranslatable."

"Or is badly translated," said Vincenz. "It so happens that I just

think of a very amusing thing which happened quite recently, and which

I will tell you, if you care to hear it."

"Tell us, tell us! delightful fabulist! valued anecdotist!" cried the

friends.

"A young man," related Vincenz, "whom nature had endowed with a

splendid bass voice, and who had gone upon the operatic stage, was

making his first appearance as Sarastro, in the 'Magic Flute.' As he

was mounting the car, in which he first comes on, he was seized with

such a terrible attack of stage-fright that he trembled and shook--nay,

when the car got into motion to come forward, he shrunk into himself,

and all the manager's efforts to induce him to reassure himself, and,

at all events, stand upright, were useless. Just then it happened that

one of the wheels got entangled in the long mantle which Sarastro

wears, so that the further he got on to the stage, the more this mantle

dragged him backwards; whilst he, struggling against this, and keeping

his feet firm, appeared in the centre of the stage with the nether

portion of his body projecting forwards, and his head and shoulders

held tremendously far back. The audience were immensely pleased at this

most regal attitude and appearance of the inexperienced neophyte, and

the manager offered him, and concluded with him, an engagement on very

liberal terms. Now, this simple little story was being told, lately, in

a company where there was a French lady who did not understand a word

of German. When everybody laughed, at the end of the story, she wanted

to know what the laughter was about, and our worthy D. (who, when he

speaks French, gives a most admirable, and very close, imitation of the

tones and actions of French people, but is continually at a loss for

the words) undertook to translate the story to her. When he came to the

wheel which had got entangled with Sarastro's cloak, constraining him

to his regal attitude, he called it 'Le rat,' instead of 'La roue.' The

French lady's brow clouded, her eyebrows drew together, and in her face

was plainly to be read the terror which the story had produced in her,

whereto conduced the circumstance that D. had 'let on' upon his face

the full power of tragi-comic muscular play which it was capable of.

When, at the end, we all laughed more than before at this amusing

misunderstanding (which we all took good care not to explain), she

murmured to herself, 'Ah! les barbares!' The good lady not unnaturally

looked upon us as barbarians for thinking it so amusing that an

abominable rat should have frightened the poor young man almost to

death, at the very commencement of his stage-career, by holding on to

his cloak."

When the friends had done laughing, Vincenz said: "Suppose we now bid

adieu to the subject of French conversation, with all its _bon mots_,

_calembours_, and other ingredients, and come to the conclusion that it

really is an immense pleasure when, amongst intellectual Germans, a

conversation, inspired by their humour, rushes up skyward like a

coruscating firework, in a thousand hissing light-balls, crackling

serpents, and lightning-like rockets."

"But it must be remembered," said Theodore, "that this pleasure is

possible only when the friends in question, besides being intellectual

and endowed with humour, possess the talent not only of talking, but of

listening, the principal ingredient of real conversation."

"Of course," said Lothair; "those people who constitute themselves

'spokesmen' destroy all conversation--and so, in a lesser degree,

do the 'witty' folk, who go from one company to another with

anecdotes, crammed full of all sorts of shallow sayings; a kind of

self-constituted 'Society clowns.' I knew a man who, being clever and

witty, and at the same time a terribly talkative fellow, was invited

everywhere to amuse the company; so that, the moment he came into a

room, everybody looked in his face, waiting till he came out with

something witty. The wretch was compelled to put himself to the

torture, in order to fulfil the expectations entertained of him as

well as he could, so that he could not avoid soon becoming flat and

commonplace; and then he was thrown aside by every one, like a used-up

utensil. He now creeps about, spiritless and sad, and seems to be like

that dandy in Abener's 'Dream of Departed Souls,' who, brilliant as he

was in this life, is sorrowful and valueless in the other, because, on

his sudden and unexpected departure, he left behind him his snuff-box

of Spanish snuff, which was an integral part of him."

"Then, too," said Ottmar, "there are certain extraordinary people

who, when entertaining company, keep up an unceasing stream of

talk; not from conceit in themselves, but from a strange, mistaken

well-meaningness, for fear that people shouldn't be enjoying

themselves; and keep asking if people are not 'finding it dull,' and so

forth, thereby nipping every description of enjoyment in the bud in a

moment."'

"That is the very surest way to weary people," said Theodore, "and I

once saw it employed with the most brilliant success by my old

humourist of an uncle, who, I think, from what I have told you of him,

you know pretty intimately by this time. An old schoolfellow of his had

turned up--a man who was utterly tedious and unendurably wearisome in

all his works and ways--and he came to my uncle's house every forenoon,

disturbed him at his work, worried him to death, and then sat down to

dinner without being invited. My uncle was grumpy, snappish, silent,

giving his visitor most unmistakably to understand that his calls were

anything but a pleasure to him; but it was all of no use. Once, when

the old gentleman was complaining to me (in strong enough language, as

his manner was) on the subject of this schoolfellow, I said I thought

he should simply show him the door and have done with it. 'That

wouldn't do, boy,' said my uncle, puckering his face into a rather

pleased smile. 'You see, he is an old schoolfellow of mine, after all;

but there is another way of getting rid of him which I shall try; and

that will do it.' I was not a little surprised when, the next morning,

my uncle received the schoolfellow with open arms and talked to him

unceasingly, saying how delighted he was to see him, and go back

over the old days with him. All the old school-day stories which

the schoolfellow was incessantly in the habit of repeating, and

re-repeating, till they became intolerable to listen to, now poured

from my uncle's lips in a resistless cataract, no that the visitor

could not escape them. And all the while my uncle kept asking him,

'What is the matter with you to-day? You don't seem happy. You are so

monosyllabic. Do be jolly! Let us have a regular feast of old stories

to-day.' But the moment the schoolfellow opened his lips to speak my

uncle would cut him short with some interminable tale. At last the

affair became so unendurable to him that he wanted to cut and run. But

my uncle so pressed him to stay to lunch and dinner, that, unable to

resist the temptation of the good dishes, and better wine, he did stay.

But scarce had he swallowed a mouthful of soup when my uncle, in

extreme indignation, cried, 'What in the devil's name is this infernal

mess? Don't touch any more of it, brother, I beg you; there's something

better to come. Take those plates away, John!' Like a flash of

lightning the plate was swept away from under the school-friend's nose.

It was the same thing with all the dishes and courses, though they were

of a nature sufficiently to excite the appetite, till the 'something

better to come' resolved itself into Cheshire cheese, which of all

cheeses the school-friend hated the most, although he disliked all

cheese. From an apparently ardent endeavour to set before him an

unusually good dinner he had not been suffered to swallow two

mouthfuls; and it was much the same with the wine. Scarce had he put a

glass to his lips when my uncle cried, 'Old fellow, you're making a wry

face. Quite right, that isn't wine, it's vinegar. John, a better tap!'

And one kind after another came, French wines, Rhine wines, and still

the cry was, 'You don't care about that wine,' &c., till, when the

Cheshire cheese put the finishing stroke on things, the school-friend

jumped up from his chair in a fury. 'Dear old friend!' said my uncle

in the kindliest of tones, 'you are not at all like your usual self.

Come, as we are together here, let us crack a bottle of the real old

"care-killer."' The school-friend plumped into his chair again. The

hundred years' old Rhine wine pearled glorious and clear in the two

glasses which my uncle filled to the brim. 'The devil,' he cried, holding

his glass to the light, 'this wine has got muddy, on my hands. Don't

you see? No, no; I can't set that before anybody,' and he swallowed

the contents of both glasses himself, with evident delight. The

school-friend popped up again, and plumped into his chair once more on

my uncle's crying, 'John, Tokay!' The Tokay was brought, my uncle poured

it out, and handed the schoolfellow a glass, saying, 'There, my boy,

you shall be satisfied at last, in good earnest. That is nectar!' But

scarce had the school-friend set the glass to his lips when my uncle

cried, 'Thunder! there's been a cockroach at this bottle.' At this the

school-friend, in utter fury, dashed the glass into a thousand pieces

against the wall, ran out of the house like one possessed, and never

showed his face across the threshold again."

"With all respect for your uncle's grim humour," said Sylvester, "I

think there was rather a systematic perseverance in the course of

mystification involved in such a process of getting rid of a

troublesome person. I should have much preferred to show him the door

and have done with it; though I admit that it was quite according to

your uncle's peculiar vein of humour to prearrange a theatrical scene

of this sort in place of the perhaps troublesome and unpleasant

consequences which might have arisen if he had kicked him out. I can

vividly picture to myself the old parasite as he suffered the torments

of Tantalus, as your uncle kept continually awakening fresh hopes in

his mind and instantly dashing them to the ground; and how, at last,

utter desperation took possession of him."

"You can introduce the scene into your next comedy," said Theodore.

"It reminds me," said Vincenz, "of that delightful meal in

Katzenberger's _Badereise_, and of the poor exciseman who has almost to

choke himself with the bites of food which are slid to him over the

'Trumpeter's muscle,' the Buccinator, although that scene would not be

of much service to Sylvester for a new piece."

"The great Kazenberger," said Theodore, "whom women do not like on

account of the robustness of his cynicism, I formerly knew very well.

He was intimate with my uncle, and I could, at some future time, tell

you many delightful things concerning him."

Cyprian had been sitting in profound thought, and seemed to have been

scarcely attending to what the others had been saying. Theodore tried

to arouse his attention and direct it to the hot punch which he had

brewed as the best corrective of the evil influence of the weather.

"Beyond a doubt," said Cyprian, "this is the germ of insanity, if it is

not actually insanity itself."

The friends looked questionably at each other.

"Ha!" cried Cyprian, getting up from his chair and looking round him

with a smile, "I find I have spoken out, aloud, the conclusion of the

mental process which has been going on within me in silence. After I

have emptied this glass of punch and duly lauded Theodore's art of

preparing that liquid after its mystic proportions, and due relations

of the hot, strong and sweet, I will simply point out that there is a

certain amount of insanity, a certain dose of crackiness, so deeply

rooted in human nature, that there is no better mode of getting at the

knowledge of it than by carefully studying it in those madmen and

eccentrics whom we by no means have to go to madhouses to come across,

but whom we may meet with every hour of the day in our daily course;

and, in fact, best of all in the study of our own selves, in each of

whom these is present a sufficient quantum of that 'precipitate

resulting from the chemical process of life.'"

"What has brought you back to the subject of insanity and the insane?"

asked Lothair, in a tone of vexation.

"Do not lose your temper, dear Lothair," said Cyprian, "we were talking

on the subject of society conversation; and then I thought of two

mutually antagonistic classes of characters which are often fatal to

social talking. There are people who find it impossible to get away

from ideas which have come to occupy their minds; who go on repeating

the same things over and over again, for hours, no matter what turn the

conversation may have taken. All efforts to carry them along with the

stream of the conversation are vain; when one at last flatters oneself

that one has got them into the current of the talk, lo and behold, they

return _à leurs moutons_ again, just as before, and consequently dam up

the beautiful, rushing stream of conversation. In contradistinction to

them are those who forget one second what they said in the immediately

preceding one; who ask a question, and, without waiting for an answer,

introduce something completely irrelevant and heterogeneous; to whom

everything suggests everything else, and consequently nothing which has

any connection with the subject of the talk--who, in a few words, throw

together a many-tinted lumber of ideas in which nothing that can be

called distinct is discoverable. Those latter destroy everything like

agreeable conversation and drive us to a state of despair, and the

former produce intolerable tedium and annoyance. But, don't you think

there lies in those people the germ of real insanity in the one

case, and in the other of _folie_, whose character is very much,

if not exactly, what the psychological doctors term 'looseness' or

'incoherence' of ideas?"

"There is no doubt," said Theodore, "that I should like to say a great

deal concerning the art of _relating_ in society, for there is much

which is mysterious about it, depending, as it does, on place, time,

and individual relationships, and difficult to be ranged under special

heads. But it seems to me that this matter might carry us too far, and

be opposed to the real tendency of the Serapion Club."

"Most certainly," said Lothair. "We want to tranquillise ourselves with

the thought that we--neither madmen nor fools--are, on the contrary,

the most delightful companions to each other; who not only can talk,

but can listen; more than that, each of us can listen quite patiently

when another reads aloud, and that is saying a good deal. Friend Ottmar

told me a day or two ago that he had written a story in which the

celebrated poet-painter Salvator Rosa played a leading part. I hope he

will read it to us now."

"I am a little afraid," said Ottmar, as he took the manuscript from his

pocket, "that you won't think my story Serapiontic. I had it in mind to

imitate that ease and genial liberty of breadth which predominates in

the 'Novelli' of the old Italians, particularly of Boccaccio; and over

this endeavour I acknowledge that I have grown prolix. Also you will

say, with justice, that it is only here and there that I have hit upon

the true 'Novella' tone--perhaps only in the headings of the chapters.

After this noble and candid confession I am sure you will not deal too

hardly with me, but think chiefly of anything which you may find

entertaining and lively."

"What prefaces!" cried Lothair. "An unnecessary _Capitatio

Benevolentiae_; read us your Novella, my good friend Ottmar, and

if you succeed in vividly portraying to us your Salvator Rosa

in verisimilitude before our eyes, we will recognise you as a

true Serapion brother, and leave everything else to the grumbling,

fault-finding critics. Shall it not be so, my eminent Serapion

Brethren?"

The friends acquiesced, and Ottmar began.

SIGNOR FORMICA.

_A NOVELLA._

The renowned painter, Salvator Rosa, comes to Rome, and is attacked by

a dangerous malady.--What happened to him during this malady.

People of renown generally have much evil spoken of them, whether

truthfully or otherwise, and this was the case with the doughty painter

Salvator Rosa, whose vivid, living pictures you, dear reader, have

certainly never looked upon without a most special and heartfelt

enjoyment.

When his fame had pervaded and resounded through Rome, Naples, Tuscany,

nay, all Italy; when other painters, if they would please, were obliged

to imitate his peculiar style--just then, malignant men, envious of

him, invented all sorts of wicked reports concerning him, with

the view of casting foul spots of shadow upon the shining auriole

of his artistic fame. Salvator, they said, had, at an earlier

time of his life, belonged to a band of robbers, and it was to his

experiences at that time that he was indebted for all the wild, gloomy,

strangely-attired figures which he introduced into his pictures, just

as he copied into his landscape those darksome deserts, compounded of

lonesomeness, mystery, and terror--the _Selve Selvagge_ of Dante--where

he had been driven to lurk. The worst accusation brought against him

was that he had been involved in that terrible, bloody conspiracy which

"Mas' Aniello" of evil fame had set afoot in Naples. People told all

about that, with the minutest details.

Aniello Falcone, the battle-painter (as he was called), blazed up in

fury and bloodthirsty revenge when the Spanish soldiers killed one of

his relations in a skirmish. On the spot he collected together a crowd

of desperate and foolhardy young men, principally painters, provided

them with arms, and styled them "the death-company"; and, in verity,

this band spread abroad a full measure of the terror and alarm which

its name indicated. Those young men pervaded Naples, in troop form, all

day long, killing every Spaniard they came across. More than this, they

stormed their way into all the sacred places of sanctuary, and there,

without compunction, murdered their wretched enemies who had taken

refuge there, driven by fear of death. At night they betook themselves

to their chief, the mad, bloodthirsty Mas' Aniello, and they painted

pictures of him by torchlight, so that in a short time hundreds of

those pictures of him were spread about Naples and the surrounding

neighbourhood.

Now it was said that Salvator Rosa had been a member of this band,

robbing and murdering all day, but painting with equal assiduity all

night. What a celebrated art-critic--Taillasson, I think--said of our

master is true: "His works bear the impress of a wild haughtiness and

arrogance, of a bizarre energy, of the ideas and of their execution.

Nature displays herself to him not in the lovely peacefulness of green

meadows, flowery fields, perfumed groves, murmuring streams, but in the

awfulness of mighty up-towering cliffs, or sea-coasts, and wild,

inhospitable forests; the voice to which he listens is not the

whispering of the evening breeze, or the rustling of the leaves, but

the roar of the hurricane, the thunder of the cataract. When we look at

his deserts and the people of strange, wild appearance, who, sometimes

singly, sometimes in troops, prowl about them, the weirdest fancies

come to us of their own accord. Here there happened a terrible murder,

there the bleeding corpse was thrown hurriedly over the cliff, &c.,

&c."

Now this may all be the case, and although Taillasson may not be far

wrong when he says that Salvator's "Plato," and even his "St. John in

the Wilderness announcing the Birth of the Saviour," look just the

least little bit like brigands, still it is unfair to base any

conclusions drawn from the works upon the painter himself, and to

suppose that, though he represents the wild and the terrible in such

perfection, he must have been a wild and terrible person himself. He

who talks most of the sword often wields it the worst; he who so feels

in his heart the terror of bloody deeds that he is able to call them

into existence with palette, pencil or pen, may be the least capable of

practising them. Enough! of all the wicked calumnies which would

represent the doughty Salvator to have been a remorseless robber and

murderer, I do not believe a single word, and I hope you, dear reader,

maybe of the same opinion, or I should have to cherish a certain amount

of doubt whether you would quite believe what I am going to tell you

about him.

For--as I hope--my Salvator will appear to you as a man burning and

coruscating with life and fire, but also endowed with the most charming

and delightful nature, and often capable of controlling that bitter

irony which--in him, as in all men of depth of character--takes form of

itself from observation of life. Moreover, it is known that Salvator

was as good a poet and musician as a painter, his inward genius

displaying itself in rays thrown in various directions. I repeat that I

have no belief in his having had anything to do with the crimes of Mas'

Aniello; I rather hold to the opinion that he was driven from Naples to

Rome by the terror of the time, and arrived there as a fugitive at the

very time of Mas' Aniello's fall.

There was nothing very remarkable about his dress, and, with a little

purse containing a few zecchini in his pocket, he slipped in at the

gate just as night was falling. Without exactly knowing how, he came to

the Piazza Navoni, where, in happier days, he had formerly lived in a

fine house close to the Palazzo Pamphili. Looking up at the great

shining windows, glittering and sparkling in the moonbeams, he cried,

with some humour, "Ha! it will cost many a canvass ere I can establish

my studio there again." Just as he said so he suddenly felt as if

paralysed in all his limbs, and, at the same time, feeble and powerless

in a manner which he had never before experienced in all his life. As

he sank down on the stone steps of the portico of the house he murmured

between his teeth, "Shall I ever want canvasses? It seems to me that

_I_ have done with them."

A cold, cutting night-wind was blowing through the streets; Salvator

felt he must try and get a shelter. He rose with difficulty, tottered

painfully forward, reached the Corso, and turned into Strada

Vergognona. There he stopped before a small house, only two windows

wide, where lived a widow with two daughters. They had taken him as a

lodger for a small sum when first he came to Rome, known and cared for

by nobody, and he hoped he would find a lodging with them now suited to

his reduced circumstances.

He knocked familiarly at the door, and called his name in at it time

after time. At last he heard the old woman rousing herself with

difficulty from sleep. She came, dragging along her slippers, to the

window, scolding violently at the scoundrel who was disturbing her in

the middle of the night--her house not being an inn, &c. Then it took a

deal of up and down talking ere she recognised her former lodger by his

voice; and on Salvator's complaining that he had been obliged to flee

from Naples and could find no roof to cover him in Rome, she cried out,

"Ah! Christ and all the saints! Is it you, Signor Salvator? Your room

upstairs, looking upon the courtyard, is empty still, and the old

fig-tree has stretched its leaves and branches right into the window,

so that you can sit and work as if you were in a beautiful cool arbour.

Ah! how delighted my girls will be that you are here again, Signor

Salvator. But I must tell you Margerita has grown a big girl, and a

very _pretty_ girl--it won't do to take her on your knee now! Your cat,

only fancy, died three months ago--a fish bone stuck in its throat.

Aye, aye, poor thing! the grave is the common lot. And what do you

think? Our fat neighbour woman--she whom you so often laughed at and

drew the funny caricatures of--she has gone and got married to that

young lad, Signor Luigi. Well, well! _Nozze e magistrati sono da dio

destinati!_ Marriages are made in heaven, they say."

"But, Signora Caterina," interrupted Salvator, "I implore you by all

the saints let me in to begin with, and then tell all about your

fig-tree, your daughters, the kitten, and the fat woman. I am dying of

cold and weariness."

"Now, just see how impatient he is!" cried the old woman. "_Chi va

piano va sano; chi va presto muore lesto._ The more haste the less

speed, is what I always say. But you're tired, you're shivering; so

quick with the key, quick with the key."

Before getting hold of the key, however, she had to awaken her

daughters, and then slowly, slowly strike a light. Ultimately she

opened the door to the exhausted Salvator; but as soon as he crossed

the threshold he fell down like a dead man, overcome by exhaustion and

illness. Fortunately the widow's son, who lived at Tivoli, happened to

have just come home, and he was at once turned out of his bed, which he

willingly gave up to this sick family friend.

The old lady had a great fondness for Salvator, rated him, as regarded

his art, above all the painters in the world, and had the utmost

delight in everything he did. Therefore she was much distressed at his

deplorable condition, and wanted to run off at once to the neighbouring

monastery and bring her own Father Confessor, that he might do battle

with the powers of evil at once, with consecrated tapers, or some

powerful amulet or other. But the son thought it would be better almost

to send for a good doctor, and he set off on the instant to the Piazza

di Spagna, where he knew the celebrated doctor, Splendiano Accoramboni,

lived. As soon as he heard that the great painter Salvator Rosa was

lying sick in Strada Vergognona, he prepared to pay him a professional

visit. Salvator was lying unconscious in the most violent fever. The

old woman had hung up one or two images of saints over his bed, and was

praying fervently. The daughters, bathed in tears, were trying to

get him now and then to swallow a few drops of the cooling lemonade

which they had made, whilst the son, who had taken his station at the

bed-head, wiped the cold perspiration from his brow. In these

circumstances the morning had come, when the door opened with much

noise, and the celebrated doctor, Signor Splendiano Accoramboni,

entered.

If it had not been for the great heart-sorrow over Salvator's mortal

sickness, the two girls, petulant and merry as they were, would have

laughed loud and long at the doctor's marvellous appearance. As it was,

they drew away into corners, frightened and shy. It is worth while to

describe the aspect of this extraordinary little fellow as he came into

Dame Caterina's in the grey of the morning. Although he had,

apparently, given early promise of reaching a most distinguished

stature, Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni had not managed to get beyond

the altitude of four feet. At the same time he had, in his early years,

been of most delicate formation as regarded his members--and, before

the head (which had always been somewhat shapeless) had acquired too

much increment of matter in the shape of his fat cheeks and his

stately double chin--ere the nose had assumed too much of a lateral

development, in consequence of being stuffed with Spanish snuff--ere

the stomach had assumed too great a rotundity by dint of maccaroni

fodder--the dress of an Abbate, which he had worn in those early days,

became him very well. He had a right to be styled a nice little fellow,

and the Roman ladies accordingly did speak of him as their _caro

puppazetto_.

But now those days were over, and a German painter, who saw him

crossing the Piazza di Spagna, said of him, not without reason, that he

looked as if some stalwart fellow of six feet high had run away from

his own head and it had fallen on to the shoulders of a little

marionette Pulcinello, who had now to go about with it as his own. This

strange little figure had thrust itself into a great mass of Venetian

damask, all over great flowers, made into a dressing-gown, and girt

itself about, right under the breast, with a broad leather girdle, in

which was stuck a rapier three ells long; and above his snow-white

periwig there clung a high-peaked head-dress, not much unlike the

obelisk in the Piazza San Pietro. As the periwig went meandering like a

tangled web, thick and broad, over his back and shoulders, it might

well have been taken for the cocoon out of which the beautiful insect

had issued.

The worthy Splendiano Accoramboni glared through his spectacles, first

at the sick Salvator, and then on Dame Caterina, whom he drew to one

side. "There," he said, in a scarce audible whisper, "lies the great

painter Salvator Rosa sick unto death in your house, Dame Caterina, and

nothing but my skill can save him! Tell me, though, how long it is

since he came to you? Has he plenty of grand, beautiful pictures with

him?"

"Ah! dear Signor Dottore," answered the old woman, "this dear boy of

mine only came to-night, and, as concerns the pictures, I know nothing

about them as yet. But there's a large box downstairs, which he told

me, before he got to be unconscious as he is now, to take the greatest

care of. I should suppose there is a grand picture in it which he has

painted in Naples."

Now this was a fib which Dame Caterina told; but we shall soon see what

good reason she had for telling it to the doctor.

"Ah, ah! Yes, yes!" said the doctor, stroking his beard. Then he

solemnly strode up as close to the patient as his long rapier, which

banged against and entangled itself with the chairs and tables,

admitted of his doing, took his hand and felt his pulse, sighing and

groaning as he did so in a manner which sounded wonderful enough in the

deep silence of reverential awe which prevailed. He then named a

hundred and twenty diseases, in Latin and Greek, which Salvator

had not, then about the same number which he might possibly have

contracted, and ended by saying that although he could not just at that

moment exactly name the malady which Salvator was suffering from, he

would hit upon a name for it in a short time, and also the proper

remedies and treatment for its cure. He then took his departure with

the same amount of solemnity with which he had entered, leaving all

hands in the due condition of anxiety and alarm. He asked to see

Salvator's box downstairs, and Dame Caterina showed him a box, in which

were some old clothes of her deceased husband's, and some old boots and

shoes. He tapped the box with his hand here and there, saying, with a

smile, "We shall see! We shall see!" In an hour or two he came back

with a very grand name for what was the matter with Salvator, and

several large bottles of a potion with an evil smell, which he directed

that the patient should keep on swallowing. That was not such an easy

matter, for the patient resisted with might and main, and expressed, as

well as he could, his utter abhorrence of this stuff, which seemed to

be a brew from the very pit of Acheron. But whether it was that the

malady, now that it had got a name, exerted itself more powerfully, or

that Splendiano and medicine were working too energetically--enough,

with every day and nearly every hour, one might say, Salvator grew

weaker and weaker, so that, although Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni

asseverated that, the processes of life having come to a complete

standstill, he had given the machine an impetus towards renewed

activity (as if it had been the pendulum of a clock), all the

by-standers doubted of Salvator's recovery, and were disposed to think

that the Signor Dottore might, perhaps, have given the pendulum such a

rough impulse that it was put out of gear.

But one day it happened that Salvator, who seemed scarcely able to move

a muscle, suddenly got into a paroxysm of tremendous fever, and,

regaining strength in an instant, jumped out of bed, seized all the

bottles of medicine, and in a fury sent the whole collection flying out

of the window. Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni was just in the act to

come into the house to pay a visit, and, as Fate would have it, two or

three of the phials hit him on the head, and breaking, sent the brown

liquid within them flowing in dark streams over his face, his periwig,

and his neckerchief. The doctor sprang nimbly into the house, and

cried, like a man possessed, "Signor Salvator is off his head! Delirium

has evidently set in--nothing can save him. He'll be a dead man in ten

minutes. Here with the picture, Dame Caterina; it belongs to me--all I

shall get for my services! Here with the picture, I tell you."

But when Dame Caterina opened the box, and Doctor Splendiano

Accoramboni saw the old cloaks and the burst and tattered boots and

shoes which it contained, his eyes rolled in his head like fire wheels,

he gnashed his teeth, stamped with his feet, devoted Salvator, the

widow, and all the inmates of the house, to the demons of hell, and

bolted out of the door as if discharged from a cannon.

When the paroxysm of excitement was over, Salvator again fell into a

deathlike condition, and Dame Caterina thought his last hour was

certainly come. So she ran as quickly as she could to the convent, and

brought Father Bonifazio to administer the sacraments to the dying man.

When Father Bonifazio came, he looked at the patient, said he very well

knew the peculiar signs which death imprints upon the face of one whom

he is going to carry off; but there was nothing of the sort to be seen

on the face of the unconscious Salvator in his faint, and that help was

still possible, and he himself would procure or bestow; only Doctor

Splendiano Accoramboni, with his Greek names and diabolical phials,

must never cross the doorstep again. The good father set to work, and

we shall find that he kept his word.

Salvator came to his senses, and it seemed to him that he was lying in

a delightful, sweet-smelling arbour, for green branches and leaves were

stretching over him. He felt a delightful salutary warmth of life

permeating him, only, apparently, his left arm was fettered.

"Where am I?" he cried, in a faint voice. Then a young man of handsome

appearance, whom he had not observed before, though he was standing by

his bed, fell down on his knees, seized Salvator's right hand, bathing

it in tears, and cried over and over again, "Oh, my beloved Signor, my

grand master! all is well now! You are saved; you will recover!"

"Well," began Salvator, "but tell me----"

The young man interrupted him, begging him not to talk in his weak

condition, and promising to tell him all that had been happening. "You

must know, my dear and great master, that you must have been

exceedingly ill when you arrived in Naples here; but your condition was

not probably very dangerous, and moderate measures, considering the

strength of your constitution, would doubtless have set you on your

legs again in a short time, if it had not happened, through Carlo's

well-meant mischance--as he ran for the nearest doctor at once--that

you fell into the clutches of the abominable Pyramid Doctor, who did

his very best to put you under the sod."

"The Pyramid Doctor?" said Salvator, laughing most heartily, weak as he

was. "Yes, yes; ill as I was, I saw him well enough, the little damasky

creature, who condemned me to swallow all that diabolical stuff--hell

broth as it was--and had the obelisk of the Piazza San Pietro on the

top of his head, which is the reason you call him the Pyramid Doctor."

"Oh, heavens!" cried the young man, laughing loudly too. "Yes, it was

Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni who appeared to you in that mysterious

high-pointed nightcap of his, in which he gleams out of his window in

the Piazza di Spagna every morning like some meteor of evil omen. But

it is not on account of the cap that he is called the Pyramid Doctor;

there is a very different reason for that. Doctor Splendiano is very

fond of pictures, and has a very fine collection, which he has got

together through a peculiar piece of technical practice. He keeps a

close and watchful eye upon painters and their illnesses, and

particularly he manages to throw his nets over stranger masters.

Suppose they have swallowed a little too much macaroni, or taken a cup

or two more syracuse than is good for them, he succeeds in throwing his

noose over them, and labels them with this or that disease, which he

christens by some monstrous name, and then sets to work to cure. As fee

he makes them promise him a picture, which, as it is only the strongest

constitutions which can resist the powerful drugs he administers, he

generally selects from the effects of the deceased, deposited at the

Pyramid of Cestius. He takes the best of them, and others into the

bargain. The refuse heap at the Pyramid of Cestius is the seedfield of

Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni, and he cultivates, dresses, and manures

it most assiduously. And that is why he is called the Pyramid Doctor.

Now Dame Caterina, with the best intentions, had given the doctor to

understand that you had brought a fine picture with you, and you can

imagine the ardour with which he set to work to brew potions for you.

It was lucky for you that in your paroxysm of fever you threw the stuff

at his head, that he left you in a fury, that Dame Caterina sent for

Father Bonifazio to administer the sacraments, believing you at death's

door. Father Bonifazio knows a great deal about doctoring; he formed a

correct opinion as to your condition, sent for me, and----"

"Then you are a doctor too," said Salvator, in a faint, melancholy

tone.

"No," answered the young gentleman, while a bright colour came to his

cheek, "my dear, renowned master, I am not a doctor like Signor

Splendiano Accoramboni; I am a surgeon. I thought I should have sunk

into the ground with terror--with joy--when Father Bonifazio told me

Salvator Rosa was lying sick to death in Strada Vergognona and

requiring my assistance. I hastened here, opened a vein in your left

arm, and you were saved. We brought you here to this cool, airy room,

where you used to live before. Look around you; there is the easel

which you left behind you; there are one or two sketches still,

preserved, like holy relics, by Dame Caterina. Your illness has had its

back broken. Simple remedies, which Father Bonifazio will give you, and

careful nursing will set you on your legs again. And now, permit me

once more to kiss this creative hand, which calls forth, as by magic,

the most hidden secrets of nature. Permit the poor Antonio Scacciati to

allow all his heart to stream forth in delight and fervent gratitude

that heaven vouchsafed to him the good fortune to save the life of the

glorious and renowned master, Salvator Rosa."

He again knelt, seized Salvator's hand, kissed it, and bedewed it with

hot tears as before.

"I cannot tell, dear Antonio," said Salvator, raising himself up a

little, "what strange spirit inspires you to exhibit such a profound

veneration for me. You say you are a surgeon, and that is a calling

which does not usually pair itself readily with art."

"When you have got some strength back, dear master," answered Antonio,

"there are many matters lying heavy at my heart which I will tell you

of."

"Do so," said Salvator; "place full confidence in me--you may, for I do

not know when a man's face went more truly to my very heart than does

yours. The more I look at you the more clear it becomes to me that

there is a great likeness in your face to that of the heavenly, godlike

lad--I mean the Sanzio." Antonio's eyes glowed with flashing fire; he

seemed to strive in vain to find words.

Just then Dame Caterina came in with Father Bonifazio, bringing a

draught which he had skilfully compounded, and which the sick man took,

and relished better than the Acherontic liquids of the Pyramid Doctor,

Splendiano Accoramboni.

* * * * * *

Antonio Scacciati comes to high honour through the intervention of

Salvator Rosa.--He confides to Salvator the causes of his

continual sorrowfulness, and Salvator comforts him, and promises

him help.

What Antonio promised came to pass. The simple, healing medicines of

Father Bonifazio, the careful nursing of Dame Caterina and her

daughters, the mild season of the year which just then came on, had

such a speedy effect on Salvator's strong constitution, that he soon

felt well enough to begin thinking of his art, and, as a beginning,

made some magnificent sketches for pictures which he intended to paint

at a future time.

Antonio scarcely left Salvator's room. He was all eye when the master

was sketching, and his opinions on many matters showed him to be

initiated in the mysteries of art himself.

"Antonio," said Salvator, one day, "you know so much about art that I

believe you have not only looked on at a great deal with correct

understanding, but have even wielded the pencil yourself!"

"Remember, dear master," answered Antonio, "that when you were

recovering from unconsciousness, I told you there were many things

lying heavy on my heart. Perhaps it is time, now, for me to divulge my

secrets to you fully. Although I am the surgeon who opened a vein for

you, I belong to Art with all my heart and soul. I intend now to devote

myself to it altogether, and throw the hateful handicraft entirely to

the winds."

"Ho, ho, Antonio!" said Salvator, "bethink you what you are going to

do. You are a clever surgeon, and perhaps will never be more than a

bungler at painting. Young as you are in years, you are too old to

begin with the crayon. A man's whole life is scarcely enough in which

to attain to one single perception of the True, still less to the power

of representing it poetically."

"Ah, my dear master," said Antonio, smiling gently, "how should I

entertain the mad idea of beginning now to turn myself to the difficult

art of painting, had I not worked at it as hard as I could ever since I

was a child, had not heaven so willed it that, though I was kept away

from art, and everything in the shape of it, by my father's obstinacy

and folly, I made the acquaintance, and enjoyed the society, of masters

of renown. Even the great Annibale interested himself in the neglected

boy, and I have the happiness to be able to say I am a pupil of Guido

Reni."

"Well, good Antonio," said Salvator, a little sharply, as his manner

sometimes was. "If that is so, you have had great teachers; so, no

doubt, in spite of your surgical skill, you may be a great pupil of

theirs too. Only what I do not understand is, how you, as a pupil of

the gentle and tender Guido (whom, perhaps, as pupils in their

enthusiasm sometimes do--you even outdo in tenderness, in your work),

how you can hold me to be a master in my art at all."

Antonio coloured at those words of Salvator's; in fact, they had about

them a ring of jeering irony.

Antonio answered: "Let me lay aside all bashfulness, which might close

my lips. Let me speak freely out exactly what is in my mind. Salvator,

I have never revered a master so wholly from out the very depths of my

being as I do you. It is the often superhuman grandeur of the ideas

which I admire in your works. You see, and comprehend, and grasp the

profoundest secrets of Nature. You read, and understand, the marvellous

hieroglyphs of her rocks, her trees, her waterfalls; you hear her

mighty voices; you interpret her language, and can transcribe what she

says to you. Yes, transcription is what I would call your bold and

vivid style of working. Man, with his doings, contents you not; you

look at him only as being in the lap of Nature, and in so far as his

inmost being is conditioned by her phenomena. Therefore, Salvator, it

is in marvellous combinations of landscape with figure that you are so

wondrous great. Historical painting places limits which hem your

flight, to your disadvantage."

"You tell me this, Antonio," said Salvator, "as the envious historical

painters do, who throw landscape to me by way of a _bonne-bouche_, that

I may occupy myself in chewing it, and abstain from tearing their

flesh. Do I not know the human figure, and everything appertaining to

it? However, all those silly slanders, echoed from others----"

"Do not be indignant, dear master," answered Antonio. "I do not repeat

things blindly after other folks, and least of all should I pay any

attention to the opinions of our masters here in Rome just now. Who

could help admiring the daring drawing, the marvellous expression, and

particularly the lively action, of your figures! One sees that you do

not work from the stiff, awkward model, or from the dead lay figure,

but that you are, yourself, your own living model, and that you draw

and paint the figure which you place on the canvas in front of a great

mirror."

"Heyday, Antonio!" cried Salvator, laughing. "I believe you must have

been peeping into my studio without my knowledge, to know so well what

goes on there."

"Might not that have been?" said Antonio. "But let me go on. The

pictures which your mighty genius inspires I should by no means narrow

into one class so strictly as the pedantic masters try to do. In fact,

the term 'landscape,' as generally understood, applies badly to your

paintings, which I should prefer to call 'historical representations.'

In a deeper sense, it often seems that this or the other rock, that or

the other tree, gazes on us with an earnest look: and that this and the

other group of strangely-attired people is like some wonderful crag

which has come to life. All Nature, moving in marvellous unity, speaks

out the sublime thought which glowed within you. This is how I have

looked at your pictures, and this is how I am indebted to you, my great

and glorious master, for a profound understanding of art. But do not

suppose that, on this account, I have fallen into a childishness of

imitation. Greatly as I wish I possessed your freedom and daring of

brush, I must confess that the colouring of Nature seems to me to be

different from what I see represented in your pictures. I hold that,

even for the sake of practice, it is helpful to a learner to imitate

the style of this or that master: but still, when once he stands on his

own feet, to a certain extent, he should strive to represent Nature as

he sees it himself. This true seeing, this being at unity with oneself,

is the only thing which can produce character and truth. Guido was of

this opinion, and the unresting Preti, whom, as you know, they call the

Calabrese, a painter who certainly reflected on his art more than any

other, warned me in the same way against slavish imitation. And now you

know, Salvator, why I reverence you more than all the others, without

being in the slightest degree your imitator, in any way."

Salvator had been gazing fixedly into the young man's eyes as he spoke,

and he now clasped him stormily to his breast.

"Antonio," he said, "you have spoken very wise words of deep

significance. Young as you are in years, you surpass, in knowledge of

art, many of our old, much belauded masters, who talk a great deal of

nonsense about their art, and never get to the bottom of the matter.

Truly, when you spoke of my pictures, it seemed that I was, for the

first time, beginning to come to a clear understanding of myself, and I

prize you very highly just because you do not imitate my style--that

you don't, like so many others, take a pot of black paint, lay on

staring high lights, make a few crippled-looking figures, in horrible

costumes, peep out of the dirty-looking ground, and then think 'There's

a Salvator.' You have found in me the truest of friends, and I devote

myself to you with all my soul."

Antonio was beyond himself with joy at the good will which the master

thus charmingly displayed to him. Salvator expressed a strong desire to

see Antonio's pictures, and Antonio took him at once to his studio.

Salvator had formed no small expectations of this youth who spoke so

understandingly about art, and in whom there seemed to be a peculiar

genius at work; and yet the master was most agreeably astonished by

Antonio's wealth of pictures. He found everywhere boldness of idea,

correctness of drawing; and the fresh colouring, the great tastefulness

of the breadth of the flow of folds, the unusual delicacy of the

extremities, and the high beauty of the heads evidenced the worthy

pupil of the great Reni; although Antonio's striving was not, like that

of his master (who was overapt to do this), to sacrifice expression to

beauty, often too visibly. One saw that Antonio aimed at Annibale's

strength, without, as yet, being able to attain to it.

In his first silence Salvator had examined each of Antonio's pictures

for a long time. At length he said: "Listen, Antonio, there is not the

slightest doubt about it, you are born for the noble painter's art. For

not only has Nature given you the creative spirit, from which the most

glorious ideas flame forth in inexhaustible wealth, but she has further

endowed you with the rare talent, which, in a brief time, overcomes the

difficulties of technical practice. I should be a lying flatterer if I

said you had as yet equalled your teachers, that you had attained to

Guido's marvellous delightsomeness, or Annibale's power; but it is

certain that you far surpass our masters who give themselves such airs

here in the Academy of San Luca, your Tiarini, Gessi, Sementa, and

whatever they may call themselves, not excepting Lanfranco, who can

only draw in chalk; and yet, Antonio, were I in your place I should

consider long before I threw away the lancet altogether, and took up

the brush. This sounds strange; but hear me further. Just at present an

evil time for art has begun; or rather, the devil seems to be busy

amongst our masters, stirring them up pretty freely. If you have not

made up your mind to meet with mortifications and vexations of every

kind, to suffer the more hatred and contempt the higher you soar in

art, as your fame increases everywhere to meet with villains, who

will press round you with friendly mien, to destroy you all the more

surely--if, I say, you have not made up your mind for all this, keep

aloof from painting! Think of the fate of your teacher, the great

Annibale, whom a knavish crew of fellow-painters in Naples persecuted

so that he could not get a single great work to undertake, but was

everywhere shown the door with despite, which brought him to his

untimely grave. Think what happened to our Domenichino, when he was

painting the cupola of the chapel of St. Januarius. Didn't the villains

of painters there (I shall not mention any of their names, not

even that scoundrel Belisario's or Ribera's), did not they bribe

Domenichino's servant to put ashes into the lime, so that the

plastering would not bind? The painting could thus have no permanence.

Think on all those things, and prove yourself well, whether your spirit

is strong enough to withstand the like; for otherwise your power will

be broken, and when the firm courage to make is gone, the power to do

it is gone along with it."

"Ah, Salvator," said Antonio, "it is scarcely possible that, had I once

devoted myself entirely to painting, I should have to undergo more

despite and contempt than I have had to suffer already, being still a

surgeon. You have found pleasure in my pictures, and you have said,

doubtless from inner conviction, that I have it in me to do better

things than many of our San Luca men. And yet it is just they who turn

up their noses at all that I have, with much industry, achieved, and

say, contemptuously, 'Ho, ho, the surgeon thinks he can paint a

picture!' But, for that very reason my decision is firmly come to, to

get clear of a calling which is more and more hateful to me every day.

It is on you, master, that I pin all my hopes. Your word is worth much.

If you chose to speak for me you could at once dash my envious

persecutors to the dust, and put me in the place which is mine by

right."

"You have great confidence in me," said Salvator; "but now that we have

so thoroughly understood each other as to our art, and now that I have

seen your works, I do not know any one for whom I should take up the

cudgels, and that with all my might, so readily as I should for you."

Salvator once more examined Antonio's pictures, and paused before one

representing a Magdalone at the Saviour's feet, which he specially

commended.

"You have departed," he said, "from the style in which people generally

represent this Magdalene. Your Magdalene is not an earnest woman, but

rather an ingenuous, charming child, and such a wondrous one as nobody

else (except Guido) could have painted. There is a peculiar charm about

the beautiful creature. You have painted her with enthusiasm, and, if I

am not deceived, the original of this Magdalene is in life, and here in

Rome. Confess, Antonio, you are in love."

Antonio cast his eyes down and said, softly and bashfully: "Nothing

escapes those sharp eyes of yours, my dear master. It may be as you

say, but don't blame me. I prize this picture most of all, and I have

kept it concealed from every one's sight, like a holy mystery."

"What!" cried Salvator, "have none of the painters seen this picture?"

"That is so," said Antonio.

"Then," said Salvator, his eyes shining with joy, "be assured, Antonio,

that I will overthrow your envious, puffed-up enemies, and bring you to

merited honour. Entrust your picture to me--send it secretly in the

night to my lodgings, and leave the rest to me. Will you?"

"A thousand times yes, with gladness," answered Antonio. "Ah! I should

like to tell you, at once, the troubles connected with my love-affair,

but somehow it seems to me that I do not dare, to-day, just when our

hearts have opened to one another in art; but some day I shall probably

ask you to advise and help me in that direction too."

"Both my advice and my help shall be at your service wherever and

whenever they may be necessary," Salvator answered. As he was leaving

he turned round and said with a smile: "Antonio, when you told me you

were a painter, I was sorry I had mentioned your likeness to the

Sanzio. I thought you might be silly enough, as many of our young

fellows are, if they chance to have a passing likeness in the face to

this or that great master, they take to wearing their hair and beard as

he does, and find it necessary to imitate his style in art as well,

though it may be quite contrary to their character. We have neither of

us named the name of Raphael; but, believe me, in your pictures I find

distinct traces of the extent to which the whole heaven of godlike

ideas in the works of the greatest master of our time has been revealed

to you. You understand Raphael. You will not reply to me as did

Velasquez, whom I asked, the other day, what he thought of the Sanzio.

He said Titian was the greater master; Raphael knew nothing about flesh

colour. In that Spaniard is the Flesh, not the Word; yet they laud him

to the skies in San Luca, because he once painted cherries which the

birds came and tried to peck."

A few days after the above conversation, it happened that the

Academists of San Luca assembled in their church to judge the pictures

of the painters who had applied for admission to the Academy. Salvator

had sent Scacciati's beautiful Magdalene picture. The painters were

amazed by the charm and the power of the work, and the most unstinted

praise resounded from every lip when Salvator explained that he had

brought the picture with him from Naples--the work of a young painter,

prematurely snatched away by death.

In a very short time all Rome streamed to see and admire this work of

the young, unknown, dead master. Every one was unanimously of opinion

that no such picture had been painted since Guido Reni's time, and,

indeed, people carried their enthusiasm so far as to declare that this

work was even to be ranked above Guido Reni's creations of the same

kind. Among the crowd of people who were always collected before

Scacciati's picture, Salvator one day observed a man, who, besides

being of very remarkable exterior, was conducting himself like a

madman. He was advanced in years, tall, lean as a spindle, pale of

face, with a long, pointed nose, and an equally long chin, which

increased its pointedness by being tipped with a little beard, and

green, flashing eyes. Upon his thick, extremely fair peruke he had

stuck a tall hat with a fine feather. He had on a short, dark-red cloak

with many shining buttons, a sky-blue Spanish-slashed doublet, great

gauntlets trimmed with silver fringe, a long sword by his side, light

grey hose drawn over his bony knees, and bound with yellow ribbons, and

bows of the same ribbon on his shoes. This strange figure was standing,

as if enraptured, before the picture. He would stand up on his tiptoes,

then bob himself quite low down; then hop up, with both legs at once,

sigh, groan, close his eyes so tightly that the tears streamed from

them, and then open them as wide as they would go; gaze incessantly at

the beautiful Magdalene, sigh afresh, and lisp out in his mournful,

_castrato_ voice, "Ah, Carissima! Benedetissima! Ah, Marianna!

Marianna! Belissima!" &c.

Salvator, always greedy after figures of this sort, got as near to him

as he could, and tried to enter into conversation with him about

Scacciati's picture, which seemed to delight him so much; but, without

taking much heed of Salvator, the old fellow cursed his poverty, which

would not allow him to buy this picture for a million, and so prevent

any one else from fixing his devilish glances upon it. And then he

hopped up and down again, and thanked the Virgin and all the saints

that the infernal painter who had painted this heavenly picture, which

drove him to madness and despair, was dead and gone.

Salvator came to the conclusion that the man must be either a maniac,

or some Academician of San Luca whom he did not know.

All Rome rang with the fame of Scacciati's wonderful picture. Scarce

anything else was talked of, and this ought to have been enough to show

its superiority. When the painters held their next meeting in San Luca

to decide as to the reception of sundry applicants for admission,

Salvator Rosa made a sudden inquiry whether the painter of the

Magdalene at the Saviour's feet would not have been worthy to be

admitted. All the members of the Academy, not excepting the excessively

critical Cavaliere Josepin, declared, with one voice, that such a great

master would have been an ornament to the Academy, and, in the most

studied forms of speech, expressed their regret that he was dead

(though in their hearts they thanked heaven that he was). Not only

this, but in their enthusiasm for art, they decided to elect this

marvellous young painter an Academician, notwithstanding that he had

been withdrawn from art by a premature death; directing masses to be

said for the repose of his soul in the church of San Luca. Wherefore

they requested Salvator to acquaint them with the full names of the

deceased, as well as the year and place of his birth, &c., &c.

On this Salvator rose up and said: "Signori, the honours which you fain

would pay to a man in his grave are due to, and had better be bestowed

on, a living painter, who is walking to and fro in our midst. Know ye

that the Magdalene at the Saviour's feet--the picture which you have

such a high opinion of justly, and esteem so highly above anything

which living painters have produced--is not the work of a Neapolitan

painter no longer in life, as I pretended it was, that your verdict

might be unbiassed. This picture, this masterpiece, which all Rome

admires at this moment, is by the hand of Antonio Scacciati, the

surgeon."

The painters glared dumb and motionless at Salvator, like men struck by

lightning. Salvator enjoyed their consternation for a short time, and

then went on to say: "Well, gentlemen, you would not allow Antonio to

come amongst you because he is a surgeon; but I think the Academy of

San Luca is in very great need of a surgeon to mend and set the

crippled arms and legs of the figures which come from the studios of

many of its members. However, I presume you will not longer delay to do

what you ought to have done long ago; that is, to admit this admirable

painter, Antonio Scacciati, a member of your Academy."

The Academicians swallowed Salvator's bitter pill; they said they were

much overjoyed that Antonio had displayed his talent in such a striking

and decided manner, and they elected him a member of the Academy with

much ceremony. As soon as it was known in Rome that Antonio was the

painter of the wonderful picture, there streamed in upon him from all

sides congratulations, and commissions to undertake great and important

works. Thus was this young painter--thanks to Salvator's method of

setting to work--brought, in a moment, out of obscurity, and raised to

high honour, at the very juncture when he had made up his mind to start

upon his career as an artist.

Floating and hovering, as he was, in an atmosphere of happiness and

bliss, it all the more surprised Salvator one day when Antonio came to

him, pale and upset, full of anger and despair. "Ah, Salvator," he

cried, "what does it avail me that you have set me up on a pinnacle,

where I could never have dreamt of being, that I am overwhelmed with

praise and honour, that the prospect of the most delightful and

glorious artistic career opens before me, when I am inexpressibly

unhappy, when the very picture, to which, next to yourself, dear

master, I am indebted for my victory, is the express cause of

irremediable misfortune to me?"

"Silence!" cried Salvator. "Do not commit a sin against your art and

your picture. I don't believe a word as to your irremediable

misfortune. You are in love, and perhaps things are not going in all

respects exactly as you wish; but that is all, no doubt. Lovers are

like children, they cry and yell the moment anybody touches their toy.

Leave off lamenting, I beg of you; it is a thing which I cannot endure.

Sit down there, and tell me quietly how matters stand as regards your

beautiful Magdalene and your love-affair altogether, and where the

stumbling-blocks are which we must get out of the way, for I promise

you, to commence with, that I will help you. The more difficult and

arduous and adventurous the things are that we have to set about, the

better I shall be pleased, for the blood is running quick in my veins

again, and the state of my health calls upon me to set to work and play

a wild trick or two; so tell me all about it, Antonio, and, as

aforesaid, none of your 'Ohs' and your 'Ahs.'"

Antonio sat down in the chair which Salvator had placed for him near

the easel where he was at work, and commenced as follows:--

"In Strada Ripetta, in the lofty house whose projecting balcony you see

as soon as you go through the Porta del Popolo, lives the greatest ass

and most idiotic donkey in all Rome. An old bachelor, with all the

faults of his class--vain, trying to be young, in love, and a coxcomb.

He is tall, thin as a whip-stalk, dresses in party-coloured Spanish

costume, with a blonde periwig, a steeple-crowned hat, gauntlets, and

long sword at his side----"

"Stop, stop! wait a moment, Antonio," cried Salvator, and, turning

round the picture he was working at, he took a crayon, and, on the

reverse side of it, drew, in a few bold touches, the curious old fellow

who had been going on so absurdly in front of Antonio's picture.

"By all the saints!" cried Antonio, jumping up from his chair, and

laughing loud and clear in spite of his despair, "that is the very

man--that is Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, of whom I am speaking, to the

very life."

"There, you see," said Salvator quietly, "I know the gentleman who is

probably your bitter rival. But go on with your story."

"Signor Pasquale Capuzzi," continued Antonio, "is as rich as Crœsus,

but, as I think I was telling you, a terrible miser, as well as a

perfect ass. His best quality is that he is devoted to the arts,

particularly to music and painting. But there is so much idiotic

absurdity mixed up with this, that, even in those directions, it is

impossible to put up with him. He believes himself to be the greatest

composer in the world, and a singer the like of whom is not to be found

in the Papal Chapel. Therefore he looks askance at our old Frescobaldi,

and when the Romans talk of the marvellous charm and spell which

Ceccarelli's voice possesses, he thinks Ceccarelli knows as much about

singing as an old slipper, and that he--Capuzzi--is the person to

enchant the world. But as the Pope's principal singer bears the proud

name of Edoardo Ceccarelli di Merania, our Capuzzi likes to be styled

'Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia,' for his mother bore him in

that place, and, in fact, people say, in a fishing-boat, from sudden

terror at the rising of a sea-calf, and there is, consequently, a great

deal of the sea-calf in his nature. In early life he put an opera on

the stage, and it was hissed off it in the completest manner possible;

but that did not cure him of his craze for writing diabolical music. On

the other hand, when he heard Francesco Cavalli's opera, 'Le Nozze di

Teti e di Peleo,' he said the Capellmeister had borrowed the most

sublime ideas from his own immortal works; for saying which he had a

narrow escape of cudgellings, or even of knife-thrusts. He is still

possessed with the idea of singing arias, accompanying himself by

torturing a wretched guitar, which has to groan and sigh in support of

his mewing and caterwauling. His faithful Pylades is a broken-down,

dwarfish Castrato, whom the Romans call Pitichinaccio; and guess who

completes the trio. Well, none other than the Pyramid Doctor, who emits

sounds like a melancholy jackass, and is under the impression that he

sings a magnificent bass, as good as Martinelli's, of the Papal Chapel.

Those three worthies meet together of evenings, and sit on the balcony,

singing motetts of Carissimi's till all the dogs and cats in the

neighbourhood yell and howl, and the human beings within earshot devote

the hellish trio to all the thousand devils.

"My father," Antonio continued, "was in the habit of going in and out

of the house of this incomparable idiot, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi (whom

you know sufficiently well from my description), because he used to

dress his wig and his beard. When he died, I undertook those offices,

and Capuzzi was greatly pleased with me, firstly, because he considered

that I was able to give his moustaches a bold upward twist in a manner

which nobody else could, and further, doubtless, because I was

satisfied with the two or three quattrinos which he gave me for my

trouble. But he thought he was over-paying me, inasmuch as, every

time I dressed his beard he would croak out to me, with closed eyes,

an aria of his own composing, which flayed the skin off my ears,

although the remarkable antics of this creature afforded me much

entertainment--which was the reason I continued to go back to him. I on

one occasion walked gently up the stairs, knocked at the door, and

opened it, when there met me a girl--an angel of light! You know my

Magdalene!--it was she. I stood rooted to the spot. No, no, Salvator, I

won't treat you to any 'Ohs' or 'Ahs.' I need but say that on the

instant, when I saw the loveliest of all ladies, I fell into the

deepest, fondest affection for her. The old fellow said, with simpers,

that she was the daughter of his brother Pietro, who had died in

Senegaglia, that her name was Marianna, and that, as she had no mother,

and neither brothers nor sisters, he had taken her into his house. You

may imagine that from that time forth Capuzzi's dwelling was my

paradise. But, scheme as I might, I could never be alone with Marianna

for a single instant; yet her eyes, as well as many a stolen sigh, and

even many a pressure of the hand, left me in no doubt of my happiness.

The old man found this out, and it was not a very difficult matter. He

told me that he was by no means pleased with my behaviour to his niece,

and asked me what I meant by it. I candidly confessed that I loved her

with all my soul, and could imagine no more perfect bliss on earth than

to make her my wife. On this, Capuzzi eyed me up and down, broke into

sneering laughter, and said that he could not have imagined that ideas

of the kind could have haunted the brain of a wretched hairdresser. My

blood got up: I said he knew very well that I was by no means a mere

wretched hairdresser, but a skilled surgeon, and, more than that, as

concerned the glorious art of painting, a faithful scholar and pupil of

the grand Annibale Caracci, and the unsurpassed Guido Reni. On this the

despicable Capuzzi broke out into louder laughter, and squeaked out, in

his abominable falsetto: 'Very good, my sweet Signor Beard-curler, my

talented Signor Surgeon, my charming Annibale Caracci, my most beloved

Guido Reni, _go to all the devils_, and don't show that nose of yours

inside my door again, unless you want every bone in your body broken.'

And the demented old totterer actually took hold of me with no less

an idea in his head than that of chucking me out of the door and

downstairs. But this was rather more than could be endured. I was

furious, and I seized hold of the fellow, turned him topsy-turvy, with

his toes pointing to the ceiling (screaming at the top of his lungs),

and ran downstairs and out of the door, which was from thenceforth

closed against me.

"Matters were in this position when you came to Rome, and Heaven

inspired the good Father Bonifazio to conduct me to you; and then, when

that had happened, through your cleverness, which I had striven after

in vain, when the Academy of San Luca had admitted me, and all Rome

was praising and honouring me above my desert, I went straight away to

the old man, and appeared suddenly before him in his room like a

threatening spectre. That is what I must have seemed like to him, for

he turned as pale as death, and drew back behind a table, trembling in

every limb. In a grave, firm voice, I told him that I was not now the

Beard-curler and Surgeon, but the celebrated Painter, and Member of the

Academy of San Luca, Antonio Scacciati, to whom he could not refuse his

niece's hand. You should have seen the fury into which the old man

fell. He yelled, he beat about him with his arms, he cried out that I

was a remorseless murderer, seeking to take his life, that I had stolen

his Marianna away from him, as I had counterfeited her in the picture

which drove him to madness and despair. That now all the world--all the

world--was looking at his Marianna, his life, his hope, his everything,

with longing, coveting eyes; but that I had better be careful, for he

would burn the house down about my ears, and make an end of me and my

picture together. And on this he began to vociferate, and scream out so

loudly, 'Fire!--murder!--thieves!--help!' that I thought of nothing but

getting out of the house as speedily as possible.

"You see that this old lunatic Capuzzi is over head and ears in

love with his niece. He keeps her shut up, and, if he can get a

dispensation, he will force her to the most horrible marriage

conceivable. All hope is at an end."

"Why not, indeed?" said Salvator, laughing. "For my part, I think,

rather, that your affairs could not possibly be in a better position.

Marianna loves you--you know that well enough--and all that has to be

done is to get her out of the clutches of this old lunatic. Now I

really do not see what should prevent two adventurous, sturdy fellows,

like you and me, from accomplishing this. Keep up your heart, Antonio!

Instead of lamenting, and getting to be love-sick and powerless, the

thing to do is to keep thinking on Marianna's rescue. Just watch,

Antonio, how we will lead the old donkey by the nose. The very wildest

undertakings are not wild enough for me, in circumstances like those.

This very moment I shall set to work to see what more I can find out

about the old fellow and all his ways of life. You must not let

yourself be seen in this, Antonio. Go you quietly home, and come to me

to-morrow as early as you can, that we may consider the plan for our

first attack."

With that Salvator washed his brushes, threw on his cloak, and hastened

to the Corso; whilst Antonio, comforted, and with fresh hope in his

heart, went home, as Salvator had enjoined him.

* * * * * *

Signor Pasquale Capuzzi makes his appearance in Salvator Rosa's

abode.--What happened there.--Rosa and Scacciati's artful

stratagem, and its consequences.

Antonio was not a little surprised, the next morning, when Salvator

gave him the most minute account of Capuzzi's whole manner of life,

which, in the interval, he had found out all about. Salvator said the

miserable Marianna was tortured by the crack-brained old scoundrel in

the most fiendish manner. That he sighed, and made love to her all day

long; and, what was worse, by way of touching her heart, sang to her

all sorts of amorous ditties and arias which he had composed, or

attempted to compose. Moreover, he was so madly jealous that he would

not allow this much-to-be-compassionated girl even the usual female

attendance, for fear of love-intrigues to which the Abigail might

possibly be corrupted. "Instead of that," Salvator went on, "there

comes, every morning and evening, a little horrible, ghastly spectre of

a creature, with hollow eyes, and pale, flabby, hanging cheeks, to do

what a maid-servant ought to do for the beautiful Marianna. And this

spectre is none other than that tiny hop-o-my-thumb Pitichinaccio,

dressed in woman's clothes. When Capuzzi is away, he carefully locks

and bars all the doors; and besides that, watch and ward is kept by

that infernal fellow who was once a Bravo, afterwards a Sbirro, who

lives downstairs in Capuzzi's house. Therefore it seems impossible to

get inside the door. But I promise you, Antonio, that to-morrow night

you shall be in the room with Capuzzi, and see your Marianna, though,

this time, only in Capuzzi's presence."

"What!" cried Antonio, "is that which appears to me an impossibility

going to come to pass to-morrow night?"

"Hush, Antonio!" said Salvator; "let us calmly reflect how the plan

which I have hit upon is to be carried out. To begin with, I must tell

you that I have a certain connection with Signor Capuzzi which I was

not aware of. That wretched spinett standing in the corner there is his

property, and I am supposed to be going to pay him the exorbitant price

of ten ducats for it. When I had got somewhat better after my illness,

I had a longing for music, which is consolation and recreation to me. I

asked my landlady to get hold of an instrument of that sort for me.

Dame Caterina soon found out that a certain old fellow in Strada

Ripetta had an old spinett for sale. It was brought here, and I

troubled myself neither about the price nor about the owner. It was

only last night that I discovered that it was our honourable Signor

Capuzzi who was going to swindle me with his old, broken-down

instrument. Dame Caterina had applied to an acquaintance who lives in

the house with Capuzzi, and, in fact, on the same storey; so that now

you see where I got all my information from."

"Ha!" cried Antonio; "thus is the means of admission discovered. Your

landlady----"

"I know what you are going to say," said Salvator. "You think the way

to your Marianna is through Dame Caterina. That would never do at all.

Dame Caterina is much too talkative; she can't keep the most trifling

secret, and is therefore by no means to be made use of in our

undertaking. Listen to me, quietly. Every evening, when the little

Castrato has done the maid-servant work, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi

carries him home in his arms, difficult as that job is, considering the

shakiness of his own old knees. Not for all the world would the

timorous Pitichinaccio set foot on the pavement at that time of the

night. Very good; when----"

At this moment a knock came to Salvator's door, and, to the no small

astonishment of both, in came Signor Pasquale Capuzzi in all his glory.

As soon as he saw Scacciati he stood still, as if paralysed in every

limb, opened his eyes wide, and panted for air as if his breath would

fail him. But Salvator hurried up to him, took him by both hands, and

cried out: "My dear Signor Pasquale! how highly honoured I am that you

should visit me in my humble lodging. Doubtless it is the love of art

that brings you. You wish to look at what I have been doing lately;

perhaps you are even going to honour me with a commission. Tell me,

dear Signor Pasquale, wherein I can do you a pleasure."

"I have to speak with you," stammered Capuzzi, with difficulty, "dear

Signor Salvator; but, alone; when you are by yourself. Allow me to take

my departure for the present, and come back at a more convenient time."

"By no means, my dear Signor," said Salvator, holding the old man fast.

"You must not go. You could not possibly have come at a more convenient

time, for, as you are a great honourer of the noble art of painting, it

will give you no small joy when I present to you here Antonio

Scacciati, the greatest painter of our time, whose glorious picture,

the marvellous 'Magdalene at the Saviour's feet,' all Rome regards with

the utmost enthusiasm. No doubt you are full of the picture, like the

rest, and have been anxious to make the painter's acquaintance."

The old man was seized by a violent trembling. He shook like one in the

cold stage of a fever, sending, the while, burning looks of rage at

Antonio; who, however, went up to him with easy courtesy, declaring

that he thought himself fortunate to meet Signor Pasquale Capuzzi,

whose profound knowledge of music, as well as of painting, not only

Rome, but all Italy admired, and he recommended himself to his

protection.

It restored the old fellow to his self-control that Antonio treated him

as if he met him for the first time, and addressed him in such

flattering terms. He forced himself to a sort of simpering smile, and

(Salvator having let go his hands) softly stroked the points of his

moustaches heavenwards, stammered a few unintelligible words, and then

turned to Salvator, whom he attacked on the subject of the payment of

the ten ducats. "We will settle that every-day little affair

afterwards," said Salvator. "First let it please you to look at the

sketches which I have made for a picture, and, as you do so, to drink a

glass of good Syracuse." Salvator placed his sketches on the easel,

drew up a chair for the old gentleman, and, when he had seated himself,

handed him a large, beautiful goblet, in which the noble Syracuse was

sparkling.

The old man was only too fond of a glass of good wine, when he had not

to pay for it; and, moreover, as he was expecting to receive ten ducats

for a worn-out, rickety spinett, and was seated before a boldly

sketched-in picture, whose wonderful beauty he was quite capable of

appreciating, he could not but feel exceedingly happy in his mind. This

satisfaction he gave expression to, smirking quite pleasantly, stroking

his chin and moustaches assiduously, half closing his eyes, and

whispering, time after time, "Glorious! Precious!" without its clearly

appearing whether he referred to the picture or to the wine.

As he had now become quite friendly, Salvator said, suddenly: "Tell me,

my dear sir, is it not the case that-you have a most beautiful niece,

of the name of Marianna? All our young fellows are continually rushing

to the Strada Ripetta, impelled by love-craziness. They give themselves

cricks in the neck with gazing up at your balcony in the hope of seeing

her, and catching a glance from her heavenly eyes."

The complacent smirk disappeared instantly from the old man's face, and

all the good humour with which the wine had inspired him vanished.

Gazing before him gloomily, he said, in a harsh voice: "See there the

profound corruption of our sinful youth, who fasten their diabolical

looks on children, detestable seducers that they are!--for I assure

you, my dear sir, my niece Marianna is a mere child--a mere child

scarce out of the nursery!"

Salvator changed the subject. The old man recovered his composure; but

when, with new sunshine in his face, he placed the full goblet to his

lips, Salvator set on him again, with: "Tell me, my dear Signor, has

your niece (that young lady of sixteen), the lovely Marianna, really

that wonderful chestnut-brown hair, and those eyes, full of the rapture

and bliss of Heaven, which we see in Antonio's Magdalene? That is what

is everywhere said."

"I can't say," cried the old man, in an angrier tone than before.

"Don't let us refer to my niece; we can exchange words of more

importance on the subject of the noble art to which your beautiful

picture itself leads us."

But as, whenever the old man took up the goblet and placed it to his

lips to take a good draught, Salvator again began to speak of the

beautiful Marianna, Pasquale at last sprung from his chair in fury,

banged the goblet down on the table with such violence that it was

nearly being broken, and cried in a screaming voice: "By the black,

hellish Pluto, by all the Furies, you make the wine poison--poison to

me. But I see how it is. You, and your fine Signor Antonio along with

you, think you will make a fool of me; but you won't find it quite so

easy. Pay me this instant the ten ducats you owe me, and I will leave

you and your comrade, the beard-curler Antonio, to all the devils."

Salvator cried out as if overcome by the most furious anger, "What! You

dare to treat me in this manner in my own lodging? Pay you ten ducats

for that rotten old box, out of which the worms have long since gnawed

all the marrow, all the sound! Not ten, not five, not three, not a

single ducat will I pay you for that spinett, which is scarcely worth a

quattrino. Away with the crippled old thing," and therewith Salvator

sent the little spinett spinning round and round with his foot, its

strings giving out a loud wail of sorrow.

"Ha!" screamed Capuzzi, "there is still law in Rome. I will have

you put in prison, into the deepest dungeon;" and, growling like a

thunder-cloud, he was making for the door. But Salvator put both his

arms about him, set him down in the chair again, and whispered in his

ear in dulcet tones, "My dear Signor Pasquale, do you not see that I am

only joking? Not ten, thirteen ducats you shall have for your spinett,"

and went on repeating into his ear, "thirteen bright ducats," so long

and so often that Capuzzi said, in a faint, feeble voice, "What say

you, dear sir? Thirteen ducats for the spinett, and nothing for the

repairs?" Then Salvator let him go, and assured him, on his honour,

that in an hour's time the spinett should be worth thirty--forty

ducats, and that he, Capuzzi, should get that sum for it.

The old man, drawing breath, murmured: with a deep sigh, "Thirty--forty

ducats!" Then he added, "But you have greatly enraged me, Signor

Salvator." "Thirty ducats," reiterated Salvator. The old man blinked

his eyes. But then again, "You have wounded me to the heart, Signor

Salvator." "Thirty ducats," said Salvator again and again, till at

length the old man said, quite appeased, "If I can get thirty or forty

ducats for my spinett, all will be forgotten and forgiven, dear

Signor."

"But before I fulfil my promise," said Salvator, "I have one little

stipulation to make which you, my worthy Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di

Senegaglia, can easily comply with. You are the first composer in all

Italy, and, into the bargain, the very finest singer that can possibly

be found. I have listened with rapture to the grand scena in the opera

'Le Nozze di Teti e di Peleo,' which the villain Francesco Cavalli has

cribbed from you and given out as his own. If you would be good enough

to sing me that aria during the time that I am setting the spinett to

rights, I cannot imagine anything more delightful that could happen to

me."

The old fellow screwed his face up into the most sugary smile

imaginable, twitched his eyebrows, and said, "It is easy to see that

you are a fine musician yourself, Signor, for you have taste, and you

can value people better than the unthankful Romans. Listen, listen to

the aria of all arias."

He rose up, stood on the extreme points of his tiptoes, stretched out

his arms, and closed both his eyes (so that he was exactly like a cock

making ready for a crow), and immediately began to utter such a

terrible screeching that the walls resounded again, and Dame Caterina

came rushing in with her two daughters, having no other idea than that

the terrible howling indicated the happening of some signal disaster.

They stood completely bewildered in the doorway when they became aware

of the old gentleman crooning in this manner, thus constituting

themselves the audience of this unheard-of virtuoso, Capuzzi.

But as this was going on, Salvator had set the spinett to rights, shut

down the top of it, taken his palette and set to work to paint, in bold

touches, upon the very cover of the spinett, the most wonderful subject

imaginable. The principal theme of it was a scene from Cavalli's opera,

'Le Nozze di Teti;' but there was mingled with this, in utterly

fantastic fashion, a whole crowd of other characters, amongst whom were

Capuzzi, Antonio, Marianna (exactly as she appeared in Antonio's

picture), Salvator himself, Dame Caterina and her daughters, and even

the Pyramid Doctor, and all so genially and comprehendingly pourtrayed,

that Antonio could not conceal his delight at the Maestro's talent and

technique.

The old fellow by no means restricted himself to the scena which

Salvator had asked him for, but went on singing, or rather crowing,

without cessation, working his way through the most terrible

recitatives from one diabolical aria to another. This may have

gone on for some two hours or so, till he sank down into an arm-chair,

cherry-brown of countenance. By that time, however, Salvator had got so

far with his sketch that everything in it appeared to be alive, and the

effect of it, when seen a little way off, was that of a finished

picture.

"I have kept my promise as regards the spinett, dear Signor Capuzzi,"

Salvator whispered into the old man's ear, and Capuzzi sprang up like

one awaking from sleep. His eyes fell on the painted spinett; he opened

them wide, as if looking upon a miracle, crammed his peaked hat down on

to his periwig, took his crook-headed stick under his arm, made one

jump to the spinett, wrenched the cover of it out of the hinges, and

ran, like one possessed, out of the door, down the steps, and off and

away out of the house, whilst Dame Caterina and her daughters

accompanied his exit with bursts of laughter.

"The old skinflint knows very well," said Salvator, "that he has only

to take the painted top of the spinett to Count Colonna, or to my

friend Rossi, to get forty ducats, or more, for it in a moment."

Salvator and Antonio now set about considering the plan of attack which

they were about to carry out on the following night. We shall presently

see what it was, and what was the success of their attempt.

When night came, Pasquale, after carefully bolting and barring up his

house, carried the little monster of a Castrato home. The little

creature mewed and complained all the way, that not only was he

compelled to sing his lungs into a consumption over Capuzzi's arias,

and burn his hands with cooking of macaroons, but, into the bargain,

was employed in a service which brought him in nothing but cuffs on the

ears and sound kicks, which Marianna dealt out to him in ample measure

whenever he came into her vicinity. The old gentleman comforted him

as well as he could, promising to supply him more plentifully with

sugar-stuff than he had hitherto done, and even going so far as to enter

into a solemn undertaking (inasmuch as the little wretch would not cease

whining and lamenting) to have a little Abbate's coat made for him out

of an old black plush doublet, which he had often looked upon with

envious glances. He demanded, besides, a periwig and a sword.

Discussing those matters, they reached the Strada Vergognona, for that

was where Pitichinaccio lived, and, indeed, only four doors from

Salvator.

The old man set the little creature carefully down, and opened the

door. Then they went up the narrow steps, more like a hen's ladder than

anything else; but scarcely had they got half-way up when they became

aware of a tremendous raging on the storey above, and a wild drunken

fellow made his voice heard, calling upon all the devils in hell to

show him the way out of this accursed, haunted house. Pitichinaccio,

who was in front, pressed himself close to the wall and implored

Capuzzi to go on first, for the love of all the saints. Scarcely,

however, had Capuzzi gone a step or two up when the fellow from above

came stumbling down the stairs, came upon Capuzzi like a whirlwind,

seized hold of him, and went floundering down with him through the open

door right into the middle of the street. There they remained lying

prostrate, Capuzzi nethermost, and the drunken fellow on the top of

him, like a heavy sack. Capuzzi screamed pitifully for help, and

immediately there appeared two men, who, with much pains, eased Capuzzi

of his burden, the drunken fellow, who went staggering away as they did

so.

The two men were Salvator and Antonio, and they cried, "Jesus! what has

happened to you, Signor Capuzzi? What are you doing here at this time

of the night? You seem to have had some bad business going on in the

house."

"It's all over with me," groaned Capuzzi; "the hellhound has broken

every bone in my body. I can't move a muscle."

"Let us see--let us see!" said Antonio; and he felt him all over,

giving him, in the course of his examination, a pinch in the right leg

of such shrewdness that Capuzzi uttered a yell.

"Saints and angels!" ejaculated Antonio, "your right leg is broken just

at the most dangerous place. If it is not attended to immediately, you

are a dead man; or, at the very least, lamed for life."

Capuzzi uttered a frightful howl. "Calm yourself, my dear Signor," said

Antonio. "Although I am a painter now, I have not forgotten my surgery.

We will carry you into Salvator's lodgings, and I will bandage you

properly at once."

"Dear Signor Antonio," whined Capuzzi, "you are inimically minded

towards me, I am aware."

"Ah!" interposed Salvator, "there can be no question of enmity in a

case like this. You are in danger, and that is sufficient reason why

the honourable Antonio should devote all his skill to your service.

Take hold of him, friend Antonio."

Together they lifted the old man up softly and carefully, and carried

him--crying out over the suffering which his broken leg caused him--to

Salvator's lodgings.

Dame Caterina declared she had felt quite certain that something was

going to happen, and consequently hadn't been able to go to bed. And

when she saw the old gentleman and heard what had happened to him, she

broke out into reproaches as to his works and ways. "I know well

enough, Signor Pasquale, who it was that you were taking home, as

usual. You think, as long as you have your pretty niece Marianna at

home with you, you don't require any woman to do anything there, and

you most shamefully and God-defiantly misuse that poor creature of a

Pitichinaccio, whom you dress up in woman's clothes. But remember,

_ogni carne ha il mio osso_--every flesh has its own bones. If you have

a girl in the house, you can't do without women. _Fate il passo secondo

il gamba_--don't stretch your legs farther than the bedcover goes, and

don't do more, nor less, than what is right for your Marianna. Don't

shut her up like a prisoner. Don't turn your house into a gaol. _Asino

punto convien che trotti_--one who has started on the road must go

along. You have a pretty niece, and you must arrange your life

accordingly; that's to say, you mustn't do what she doesn't wish. But

you are an ungallant, hard-hearted man, and (I'm afraid I must say, at

your time of life), amorous and jealous into the bargain. You must

pardon me for saying all this straight out to your face, but you know

_chi ha nel petto fiele, non pu sputar miele_--what the heart is

full of comes out at the lips. If you don't die of this accident of

yours--as, at your time of life, it is to be feared you will--I hope it

will be a warning to you, and you'll leave your niece at liberty to do

what she wishes, and marry the charming young gentleman whom I think I

know about."

Thus did the stream of Dame Caterina's words flow on, whilst Salvator

and Antonio carefully undressed the old gentleman and laid him on the

bed. Dame Caterina's words were dagger-thrusts, which went deep into

his heart; but, whenever he tried to get in a word between them,

Antonio impressed on him that anything in the nature of talking was

fraught with the utmost danger, so that he was obliged to swallow the

bitter pill of her utterances. Salvator at length sent her away to get

some iced water, which Antonio had ordered.

Salvator and Antonio convinced themselves that the fellow whom they had

employed had done his business most admirably. Beyond one or two blue

marks, Capuzzi had not suffered the slightest damage, frightful as his

tumble had the appearance of being. Antonio carefully put splints and

bandages on his right foot and leg, so that he could not move; and at

the same time they wrapped him in cloths soaked in iced water, on the

pretext of keeping off fever, so that he shivered as if he were in an

ague.

"My good Signor Antonio," he said, in faint accents, "tell me, is it

all over with me? Am I a dead man?"

"Do not excite yourself, Signor Pasquale," said Antonio.

"As you bore the first application of the bandages so well, and did not

fall into a faint, I hope all danger is over; but the most careful

nursing is absolutely essential. The most important point is that the

surgeon must not let you be out of his sight for a moment."

"Ah, Antonio!" whined the old gentleman, "you know how fond I am of

you--what a high opinion I have of your talent! Don't leave me--give me

your dear hand! That is it! My dear, good son, you won't go away from

me, will you?"

"Although I am no longer a surgeon," said Antonio, "although I have

cast away the abominable slavery of that calling to the four winds of

heaven, I do not mind making an exception in your case, Signor

Pasquale, and I undertake to cure you. The only thing which I ask of

you in return is, that you will give me back your friendship--your

confidence; you have been a little hard towards me."

"Say nothing about that," whispered the old fellow; "do not let us

allude to it, dear Antonio."

"Your niece," said Antonio, "will be half-dead with anxiety at your not

having come home. All things considered, you are wonderfully strong and

well, and we will move you to your own house as soon as it is daylight.

When we have got you there, I will have another look at your bandages,

and see to the bed upon which you are to be laid; and I will tell your

niece all that will be necessary to do in your case, so that you may

very soon be quite better."

The old gentleman heaved a very deep sigh, closed his eyes, and

remained silent for some moments. He then stretched his hand out toward

Antonio, drew him close to him, and said, in a whisper: "Tell me,

dearest Antonio, I am right, am I not, in supposing that all that about

Marianna--my niece--was merely your fun--the sort of jesting which gets

into young fellows' heads?"

"I beg you," said Antonio, "not to think about matters of that sort at

such a time as this. Put them out of your head altogether. It is

certainly true that your niece did attract my eyes a little; but I have

very different matters in my mind at present. And--I must tell you

quite candidly--I am very glad that you sent me and my foolish attempt

to the right about so speedily. I thought I was in love with Marianna,

but it was merely that I saw in her a splendid model for my Magdalene.

I presume that is why I have become completely indifferent to her since

my picture was finished. I have no longer the slightest interest in

her."

"Antonio!" cried the old gentleman; "Antonio, blessed of heaven! you

are my comfort, my help, my consolation! If you are not in love with

Marianna, my troubles are at an end."

"To tell you the truth, Signor Pasquale," said Salvator, "if one did

not know you to be a serious man, of great intelligence, very well

aware what is suitable to his advanced period of life, one would be

disposed to fancy that you were idiot enough to be in love with this

niece of yours (a child of sixteen) yourself."

The old man closed his eyes again, and groaned and lamented over the

terrible sufferings he was enduring, which had returned with double

force.

The morning-red came streaming through the window. Antonio told the old

gentleman it was time to take him to his own house in Strada Ripetta.

He answered with a deep, melancholy sigh. Salvator and Antonio lifted

him out of bed, and wrapped him in a large cloak of Dame Caterina's,

which had been her husband's. The old gentleman implored, for the love

of all the saints, that the shameful ice-cloths which were upon his

bald head should be taken away, and that he should wear his periwig and

plumed hat; also that Antonio should, as far as possible, arrange his

moustaches, so that Marianna should not be too much alarmed by his

appearance. Two bearers, with a litter, were waiting at the door. Dame

Caterina, continually scolding at the old gentleman, and quoting

proverbs plentifully, brought down bedding, in which, carefully packed,

and attended by Salvator and Antonio, he was got home to his own house.

When Marianna saw her uncle in this terrible condition, she gave a loud

cry, and a flood of tears burst from her eyes. Without paying any

attention to her lover, who was present, she took the old man's hands,

pressed them to her lips, and lamented over the sad misfortune which

had befallen him. Such was this good girl's compassion for the old

fellow who tortured her with his insane fondness for her. All the same

the inborn nature of woman within her displayed itself, for a few

significant looks of Salvator's were amply sufficient to let her

understand the whole position of matters. It was only then that she

gave a stolen glance at the happy Antonio, blushing deeply as she did

so, and it was marvellous to see how a somewhat roguish smile

victoriously dispelled her tears. On the whole, Salvator had never

thought that she was so delightful, so wonderfully lovely

(notwithstanding the Magdalene picture) as he now found her actually to

be. And whilst he almost envied Antonio his good fortune, he felt

doubly the necessity of getting the poor girl out of the clutches of

the accursed Capuzzi, at whatever cost.

The latter, welcomed in this charming manner (which he by no means

deserved) by his delightful niece, forgot his troubles; he smiled, and

ogled, working his lips so that his moustaches went up and down; and he

groaned and whined, not so much from pain as from amorousness.

Antonio skilfully prepared the bed for his patient, and when he had

been laid down upon it, tightened the bandages--and did so to such an

extent on the left leg, that the old gentleman had, perforce, to lie as

motionless as a wooden doll. Salvator went away, leaving the lovers to

their happiness.

The old gentleman was lying buried in cushions, and Antonio had,

moreover, so bound a thick cloth soaked in ice-water about his head,

that he could not hear a trace of what the lovers were whispering; so

they now, for the first time, uttered all that was in their hearts, and

vowed eternal fidelity, with tears and the sweetest kisses. The old man

could not possibly have any suspicion, as Marianna, every now and then,

kept asking him if there was anything he wanted, and even permitted him

to press her little white hand to his lips. When it was high day,

Antonio hastened away, according to his own statement, to order what

was further necessary for the patient, but, in reality, to consider how

he might possibly manage to keep him in a still more helpless state, if

he could, so that Salvator and he might reflect upon what steps were to

be taken in the next place.

* * * * * *

A fresh plot which Salvator and Antonio form, and carry out upon Signor

Pasquale Capuzzi and his associates; and the results thereof.

On the following morning Antonio came to Salvator, all vexation and

anger.

"Well, how goes it?" Salvator cried to him. "What are you hanging your

head for, superlatively happy man, who can kiss and caress his darling

every day?"

"Ah, Salvator!" answered Antonio; "it is all over with my happiness.

The devil delights in making me the sport of his tricks. Our plots have

all come to nothing, and we are at open war with the accursed Capuzzi."

"So much the better! so much the better!" said Salvator. "But tell me

what has been happening."

"Just imagine, Salvator," said Antonio. "When, yesterday, I was going

back to Strada Ripetta, after I had been gone about two hours, bringing

all sorts of essences, &c., there I saw the old gentleman standing at

his door, completely dressed. At his back were the Pyramid Doctor, and

the accursed Sbirro, whilst there was some little many-coloured object

running in and out amongst their legs; this, I believe, was that little

abortion of a Pitichinaccio. As soon as the old fellow saw me he

menaced me with his fist, uttered the most gruesome curses and

maledictions, and swore he would have every bone in my body broken if I

dared to come to his door. 'Be off with you to all the devils in Hell,

cursed Beard-scratcher!' he croaked and screamed at me. 'You thought to

make a fool of me, with all sorts of infernal lies and deceptions; you

have striven like the very Satan himself to tempt and mislead my

Marianna. But wait a little. I will spend my last farthing, if

necessary, in getting your life-light snuffed out before you are aware

of it. And as for your fine patron, Signor Salvator--the murderer, the

robber, the cheat-the-gallows!--he shall to hell to join his leader,

Mas' Aniello. Him I'll get kicked out of Rome; that won't give me much

trouble.' Thus did the old man rave; and as the cursed Sbirro, egged on

by the Pyramid Doctor, made as if he would set on me and attack me,

whilst the curious populace began to crowd round, what could I do but

get off as quickly as possible? In my despair I thought I should not

come to you, for I felt certain you would only laugh--and in fact you

hardly can help doing so at this moment."

Indeed, when Antonio ceased speaking, Salvator did laugh heartily.

"Now," he cried, "now the affair is really beginning to become

most delightful. But I shall now tell you, circumstantially, my

dear Antonio, what happened in Capuzzi's house when you had gone

out. Scarcely had you got down-stairs, when Signor Splendiano

Accoramboni--who, heaven knows how, had found out that his bosom

friend Capuzzi had broken his leg in the night--came, in the most

solemn state, to see him, bringing a surgeon with him. Your bandagings,

and your whole treatment of Capuzzi, could not but excite some

suspicion; the surgeon took the splints and bandages off, and of course

found--what we know very well--that there was nothing whatever the

matter with Capuzzi's foot; not so much as a sprained ankle. Very well;

it did not require much acuteness to find out the rest."

"My dearest Maestro," asked Antonio, full of amazement, "how on earth

did you manage to find out all this?--how could you get into Capuzzi's

house, and know all that went on?"

"I told you," said Salvator, "that in Capuzzi's house--and in fact on

the same storey with him--there lives an acquaintance of Dame

Caterina's. This acquaintance, the widow of a wine-merchant, has a

daughter whom my little Margerita often goes to see. Girls have a

special faculty for finding out others like themselves, and in this way

Rosa (the wine-merchant's widow's daughter) and Margerita soon

discovered a little peep-hole in the dining-room, which is the next

room to a dark chamber which opens into Marianna's room. The

whisperings of the girls by no means escaped Marianna's notice, neither

did the peephole; so that the way to mutual communications was marked

out, and taken advantage of. When the old gentleman is having his

afternoon nap, the girls have a right good chatter to their heart's

content. You have no doubt noticed that little Margerita (her mother's

favourite, and mine) is by no means so grave and reserved as her elder

sister Anna, but a droll, merry creature. Without having exactly told

her about your love affair, I have asked her to get Marianna to let her

know all that goes on in the house. In this she has proved very clever;

and if I, just now, laughed a little at your pain and despair, it was

because I have it in my power to prove to you that your affairs have

just, for the first time, got into an exceedingly favourable groove. I

have a whole sackful of delightful news for you."

"Salvator!" cried Antonio, his eyes bright with joy, "what hopes dawn

upon me! Blessings on the peephole in the dining-room. I can write to

Marianna--Margerita will take the note with her."

"No, no, Antonio," said Salvator, "not quite that; Margerita shall

do us good service without being exactly your go-between. Besides,

chance--which often plays strange tricks--might place your love-prattle

in the hands of old Capuzzi, and bring a thousand new troubles upon

Marianna's head, just at the moment when she is on the point of getting

the amorous old goose properly and completely under her little satin

shoe. For just listen how affairs are progressing. The style in which

Marianna received him when he was taken home has turned him round

completely. He believes no less a thing than that Marianna has ceased

to care for you, but has given one half of her heart to him, so that

all he has to do is to get hold of the other half. Since she has

imbibed the poison of your kisses, she has all at once become some

three years cleverer and more experienced. She has not only convinced

the old gentleman that she had nothing to do with our escapade, but

that she abhors the idea of it, and would repel with the deepest scorn

any plot which should have the object of bringing you into her

proximity. In the excess of his delight at this, he vowed that if there

should be anything he could do to please her, he would set about it in

a moment; she had but to give her wish a name. On this she very quietly

said what she would like would be that her _zio carissima_ should take

her to the theatre outside the Porto del Popolo, to see Signor Formica.

The old fellow was somewhat startled by this, and consulted with the

Pyramid Doctor and Pitichinaccio; and the result is that Signor

Pasquale and Signor Splendiano are actually going to take Marianna to

the said theatre to-morrow. Pitichinaccio is to be dressed as a

waiting-maid; but he only consented to this on condition that Pasquale

should give him a periwig, over and above the plush doublet, and that

he and the Pyramid Doctor should relieve each other, from time to time,

of the task of carrying him home at night. This has been all agreed

upon; and this remarkable three-bladed-clover will really go, to-morrow

evening, with beautiful Marianna, to see Signor Formica, at the theatre

outside the Porto del Popolo."