It is necessary now to say something as to this theatre, and Signor

Formica himself.

Nothing can be sadder than when, at carnival time in Rome, the

_impressarii_ have been unfortunate in their composers--when the

_primo tenore_ of the Argentina has left his voice on the road--when

the _primo uomo da donna_ in the Teatro Valle is down with the

influenza--in short, when the chief pleasures to which the Romans have

been looking forward have proved disappointments, and Giovedi Grasso

has been shorn, at one fell swoop, of all the hoped-for flowers which

were expected to come at that time into blossom. Immediately alter a

melancholy carnival of this description (in fact, the fasts were

scarcely over) a certain Nicolo Musso opened a theatre outside the

Porto del Popolo, limiting himself to announcing the performance of

minor, improvised _buffonades_. His advertisement was couched in a

clever and witty style of wording, and from it the Romans formed in

advance a favourable opinion of Musso's undertaking, and would have

done so even had they not, in the unsatisfied state of their dramatic

appetites, been eager to snatch at anything of the kind that was

offered to them. The arrangements of the theatre--or rather of the

little booth--could not be said to give evidence of any very

flourishing state of finances on the manager's part. There was no

orchestra; there were no boxes. There was a sort of gallery at the back

of the audience part of the house, adorned with the arms of the

Colonnas--a mark that the Conte Colonna had taken Murso and his theatre

under his special protection. The stage was a raised platform covered

with carpets, and surrounded with gay-coloured paper-hangings which had

to serve for forests, interiors, or streets, according to the

requirements of the drama. As, moreover, the audience had to be content

with hard, uncomfortable wooden benches to sit upon, it is not matter

for wonder that the first set of spectators expressed themselves pretty

strongly on the subject of the audacity of Signor Musso in giving the

name of a theatre to this boarded booth. But scarcely had the two first

actors who appeared spoken a few words, when the audience became

attentive. As the piece went on, the attention became applause, the

applause astonishment, and the astonishment enthusiasm, which expressed

itself in the most prolonged and stormy laughter, hand-clapping, and

cries of bravo!

And, in truth, nothing more perfect could have been seen than those

improvised representations of Nicolo Musso's which sparkled with wit,

fun, and _esprit_, castigating the follies of the day with unsparing

lash. The performers all rendered their parts with incomparable

distinctiveness of character, but the "Pasquarello" more particularly

carried the house away with him bodily, by his inimitable play of

gesture, and a talent for imitating well-known personages, in voice,

walk, and manner, by his inexhaustible drollery, and the extraordinary

originality of the ideas which struck him. This actor, who called

himself Signor Formica, seemed to be inspired by a very remarkable and

unusual spirit; often, in his tone and manner, there would be a

something so strange that the audience, while in the middle of a burst

of the heartiest laughter, would suddenly feel a species of cold

shiver. Almost on a par with him, and a worthy compeer, was the "Dr.

Graziano" of the troupe, who had a play of feature, a voice, a power of

saying the most delightful things in, apparently, the most foolish

manner, to which nothing in the world could be likened. This "Doctor

Graziano" was an old Bolognese, of the name of Maria Aglia. As a matter

of course, all the fashionable world of Rome soon came thronging to the

little theatre outside the Porto del Popolo. The name of Formica was on

everybody's lips; and in the streets as in the theatre, all voices were

crying, with the utmost enthusiasm, "Oh, Formica! Formica benedetto!

Oh, Formicisimo!" He was looked upon as a supernatural being; and many

an old woman, ashake with laughter in the theatre, would (if anybody

ventured to criticise Formica's action in the slightest degree) turn

grave, and say, with the utmost seriousness and solemnity--

"Scherza coi fanti e lascia star santi."

This was because, out of the theatre, Formica was an unfathomable

mystery. No one ever saw him anywhere, and every attempt to come upon

his traces was vain. Nothing as to where he lived could be got out of

Musso.

Such was the theatre to which Marianna wished to go.

"Let us fly straight at our enemies' throats," Salvator said; "the walk

home from the theatre to the town offers us a most admirable

opportunity."

He then communicated a plan to Antonio, which seemed very risky and

daring, but which the latter adopted with delight, thinking it would

enable him to rescue his Marianna from the abominable Capuzzi;

moreover, it pleased him well that Salvator made one great feature of

it the punishing of the Pyramid Doctor.

When evening came, Salvator and Antonio each took a guitar, went to

Strada Ripetta, and (by way of annoying old Capuzzi) treated the lovely

Marianna to the most exquisite _serenata_ imaginable. For Salvator

played and sang like a master, and Antonio had a lovely tenor voice,

and was almost an Odoardo Ceccarelli. Signor Pasquale of course came

out on to the balcony, and scolded down at the singers, ordering them

to hold their peace; but the neighbours, whom the beautiful music had

brought to their windows, cried out to him, asking him whether, as he

and his friends were in the habit of howling and screaming like all the

demons in hell, he wouldn't suffer such a thing as a little _good_

music in the street? Let him be off into the house, they said, and stop

his ears, if he didn't want to hear the beautiful singing. Thus Signor

Pasquale was obliged, to his torture, to endure Salvator and Antonio's

singing, all night long--songs which at times consisted of the sweetest

words of love, and at others ridiculed the folly of amorous old men.

They distinctly saw Marianna at the window, and heard Pasquale adjuring

her, in the most honeyed terms, not to expose herself to the night air.

The next evening there passed along the street towards the Porto del

Popolo the strangest group of persons ever seen. They attracted all

eyes, and people asked each other if some strange survival of the

Carnival had preserved two or three mad maskers. Signor Pasquale

Capuzzi, in his many-coloured, well-brushed Spanish suit, a new yellow

feather in his steeple-crowned hat, tightly belted and buckled, all

tenderness and grace, tripping along on shoes too tight for him, as if

treading on eggs, conducted on his arm the lovely Marianna, whose

pretty figure, and still more beautiful face, could not be seen, in

consequence of the extraordinary manner in which she was wimpled and

wrapped up in a cloak and hood. On her other side tripped along Signor

Splendiano Accoramboni in his enormous wig, which covered the whole of

his back, so that, when seen from behind, he looked like some enormous

head moving along on two diminutive legs. Close behind Marianna, almost

clinging on to her, came, in crab-like fashion, the little hideosity of

a Pitichinaccio, in flame-coloured female dress, with his hair

bedecked, in the most repulsive style, with flowers of all the colours

of the rainbow.

On this particular evening Signor Formica even surpassed himself;

and--what he had never done before--he introduced little snatches of

songs, imitating various well-known singers. In old Capuzzi this awoke

all the old delight in theatrical matters which in former days had been

a regular mania with him. He kissed Marianna's hands over and over

again, and vowed that he certainly would bring her to Nicolo Musso's

theatre every night without fail. He extolled Signor Formica to the

very skies, and joined most heartily in the uproarious applause of the

rest of the audience. Signor Splendiano was less content, and

repeatedly begged Signor Capuzzi and Marianna not to laugh so very

immoderately. He named, in one breadth, some twenty maladies which were

liable to be brought on by over-agitation of the diaphragm; but neither

the one nor the other gave themselves any trouble on the subject.

Pitichinaccio was thoroughly unhappy. He had been obliged to sit just

behind the Pyramid Doctor, who so overshadowed him with his enormous

wig that he could not see the smallest peep of the stage, nor of the

characters upon it; moreover, he was tortured by two facetious women

who were sitting beside him, and who kept on calling him "Charming,

pretty signora," and asking him whether he was married, for all he was

so young, and had nice little children, who must be the dearest little

things imaginable, &c., &c. Drops of cold perspiration stood on the

poor little creature's brow; he whimpered and whined, and cursed the

hour when he was born.

When the acting was over, Signor Pasquale waited till every one had

left the house; and as the last of the lamps was being put out, Signor

Splendiano lighted at it the stump of a wax candle, and they set forth

on their homeward way. Pitichinaccio whined and cried; Capuzzi, to his

torment, had to take him on his left arm, having Marianna on his right;

before them went Doctor Splendiano with his candle-stump, whose feeble

rays made the darkness of the night seem deeper.

While they were still some distance from the Porto del Popolo, they

found themselves suddenly surrounded by several tall figures, thickly

wrapped in cloaks. The Doctor's candle was instantly snatched from

his hand, and went out on the ground. Capuzzi and the Doctor stood

speechless and amazed. Then there fell (it was not clear from whence)

a faint reddish glimmer upon the cloaked figures, and four pale

death's-heads were seen staring at the Pyramid Doctor, with hollow,

fearful eyes. "Woe! woe! woe unto thee, Splendiano Accoramboni!" howled

the terrible spectres, in deep, hollow tones. Then one of them wailed

out, "Knowest thou me? knowest thou me, Splendiano? I am Cordier, the

French painter, buried last week; sent under-ground by thee, with thy

drugs!" Then the second: "Knowest thou _me_, Splendiano? I am Kueffner,

the German painter, whom thou didst poison with thy hellish

electuaries!" Then the third: "Knowest thou _me_, Splendiano? I am

Liers, the Fleming, whom thou didst murder with thy pills, cheating his

brother out of his pictures!" Then the fourth: "Knowest thou _me_,

Splendiano? I am Ghigi, the Neapolitan painter, whom thou didst slay

with thy powders!" Finally, all the four cried out in quartet, "Woe!

woe to thee, Splendiano Accoramboni, accursed Pyramid Doctor! Thou must

away!--away with us!--down, down under the earth! On!--on with thee!

Halloh!--halloh!" Therewith they seized the luckless Doctor, heaved him

up, and disappeared with him like the storm-wind.

Sorely as terror was like to overcome Pasquale, he collected himself,

and took heart of grace with wonderful courage, when he saw that this

affair only concerned his friend Accoramboni. Pitichinaccio had put his

head, flowers and all, under Pasquale's cloak, and was clinging so

tightly about his neck that it was impossible to shake him off.

"Recover yourself," said Capuzzi to Marianna, when nothing more was to

be seen of the spectres or of the Pyramid Doctor. "Recover yourself!

Come to me, my sweet, darling little dove! My good friend Splendiano is

gone. May Saint Bernard, who was a doctor himself, stand by him and

defend him, if those revengeful painters, whom he sent to that Pyramid

of his rather before their time, are going to twist his windpipe. Ah!

who will take the bass parts in my canzonet now, I should like to know?

And this creature here, Pitichinaccio, is squeezing my throat to that

extent that, what with that, and what with the fright at seeing

Splendiano spirited away, I dare say it'll be three months good before

I can get out a single note in tune! Don't you be frightened, my own

sweetest Marianna!--it is all over."

Marianna declared that she had quite recovered from the fright, and

only begged him to let her walk by herself to enable him to get quit of

his troublesome lap-child; but he only held her the tighter, and vowed

that no consideration in the world would induce him to allow her to

venture a single step by herself in the terrible darkness.

Just then, as Capuzzi was going to step courageously forward, there

suddenly rose before him, as if from the depths of the earth, four

terrible-looking figures of devils, in short cloaks of glittering

red, who glared at him with fearful eyes, and began making a

horrible croaking and squeaking. "Hup! hup!" they cried. "Pasquale

Capuzzi!--idiotic fool!--amorous old donkey! We are comrades of yours;

we are love-devils; and we have come to carry you down to the hottest

hell, you and your bosom-friend there, Pitichinaccio!" Thus screaming,

the devils fell upon Capuzzi, and he, with Pitichinaccio, went down,

both of them raising piercing yells of distress like those of a whole

herd of beaten donkeys.

Marianna had forcibly torn herself away from the old fellow, and sprung

to one side, where one of the devils folded her softly in his arms, and

said, in a sweet voice of affection: "Oh, Marianna! my own Marianna! it

has all come right at last. My friends are taking the old man a long

distance off, while we find some place of safety to fly to."

"My own Antonio!" Marianna whispered softly.

Suddenly a bright glare of torches lightened up the place, and Antonio

felt himself stabbed on the shoulder-blade. Quick as lightning he

turned round, drew his sword, and attacked the fellow, who was aiming a

second stab with his stiletto. He saw that his three friends were

defending themselves against a much stronger force of Sbirri. He

managed to beat off the man who was attacking him, and to join his

friends; but, bravely as they fought, the struggle was too unequal, and

the Sbirri must unfailingly have had the best of it, had not two men

suddenly burst, with loud shouts, into the ranks of the young fellows,

one of whom immediately floored the Sbirro who was taxing Antonio the

hardest.

The fight was now speedily decided to the disadvantage of the Sbirri,

and those of them who were not on the ground wounded, fled with loud

cries towards the Porto del Popolo.

Salvator Rosa--for it was no other who had hastened to Antonio's help,

and struck down the Sbirro--was for starting off without more ado, with

Antonio and the young painters who were in the devils' dresses, after

the Sbirri to town.

Maria Agli, who had come with him, and, notwithstanding his years, had

set to with the Sbirri like the others, thought this was not advisable,

as the guard at the Porto del Popolo, informed of the affair, would of

course arrest them all. So they betook themselves to Nicolo Musso, who

received them gladly in his small abode not far from the theatre. The

painters took off their devils' masks and their cloaks rubbed with

phosphorus; and Antonio--who, save for the unimportant prick in his

shoulder, was not at all hurt--brought his surgical skill into play,

all the others having wounds, though none of any importance.

The plot, so daringly and skilfully contrived, would have succeeded had

not Salvator and Antonio left one person out of account; and that

person ruined it all. Michele, the ex-Bravo and Sbirro, who lived

downstairs in Capuzzi's house, and was a kind of servant to him, had,

by his wish, gone behind him to the theatre, but at some distance, as

the old man was ashamed of his tattered and scoundrelly appearance. In

the same way, Michele had followed on the homeward way; so that, when

the spectres appeared, Michele--who really did not fear death or

devil--smelt a rat, ran, in the darkness, straight away to the Porto

del Popolo, gave the alarm, and came back with the Sbirri, who, as we

know, arrived just at the moment when the devils fell upon Signor

Pasquale, and were going to take him away, as the dead men had taken

the Pyramid Doctor.

Bat in the thick of the fight, one of the young painters had distinctly

seen a fellow hurrying away towards the gate with Marianna, in a

fainting state, in his arms, followed by Pasquale, who was rushing

along at an incredible rate, as if his veins were running quicksilver.

There was, moreover, some glimmering object visible by the torch-light

hanging on to his cloak, and whining, probably Pitichinaccio.

Next morning Doctor Splendiano was discovered at the Pyramid of

Cestius, rolled up in a ball and immersed in his periwig, fast asleep,

as though in a warm, soft nest. When they woke him, he talked

incoherently, and it was hard to convince him that he was still in this

visible life and, moreover, in Rome. When, at length, he was taken to

his house, he thanked the Virgin and all the Saints for his rescue,

threw all his tinctures, essences, electuaries, and powders out of

window, made a bonfire of his recipes, and for the future healed his

patients in no other manner than by laying his hands upon them and

stroking them, as a celebrated physician used to do before him (who was

a Saint into the bargain, but whose name I cannot think of at the

moment), with much success, for his patients died as well as the

other's, and before their deaths saw heaven open, and anything that the

Saint pleased.

"I do not know," said Antonio, next day, to Salvator, "what fury has

blazed up within me since some of my blood was spilt. Death and

destruction to the miserable, ignoble Capuzzi! Do you know, Salvator,

that I have made up my mind to get into his house by force; and if he

makes any resistance, I will run him through, and carry Marianna off."

"Glorious idea!" exclaimed Salvator. "A truly happy inspiration. I have

no doubt you have also devised the means of carrying Marianna through

the air to the Piazza di Spagna, so that you may reach that place of

sanctuary before they have arrested you and hanged you! No, no, dear

Antonio, there is nothing to be done in this affair by violence, and

you may be quite certain that Signor Capuzzi will be too well prepared

for anything in the shape of an open attack. Besides this, our escapade

has attracted a great deal of attention; and more than that, the

laughable style in which we set about our little piece of entertainment

with Splendiano and Capuzzi has had the effect of waking the police up

from their gentle slumbers, so that they will now be on the watch for

us, as far as their feeble powers enable them. No, Antonio, we must

resort to stratagem: '_Con arte e con inganno si vive mezzo l'anno; con

inganno e con arte si vive l'altro parte._' That is what Dame Caterina

says, and she is quite right. I can't help laughing at our having set

to work just as if we were innocent boys; but it is my fault, chiefly,

seeing that I have the advantage of you in years. Tell me, Antonio,

if our plot had succeeded, and you had really carried Marianna off,

where should you have gone with her?--where could you have kept her

hidden?--how could you have got married by the priest so speedily that

the old man should not have managed to interfere? As it is, in a very

few days you shall actually carry her off. I have enlisted the aid of

Nicolo Musso and Formica, and in conjunction with them thought out a

plan which scarcely can break down. Comfort yourself, therefore, Signor

Formica is going to help you."

"Signor Formica!" repeated Antonio, in an indifferent, almost

contemptuous tone; "and pray how can that 'funny-man' help me?"

"Ho, ho!" cried Salvator, "I must beg you to treat Signor Formica with

a proper amount of respect. Don't you know that he is a kind of wizard,

and has all sorts of wondrous secret arts at his command? I tell you,

Signor Formica is going to help you. And old Maria Agli, our great and

grand 'Doctor Graziano,' of Bologna, has joined in our plot, and is

going to play a most important part in it. You shall carry your

Marianna off from Musso's theatre."

"Salvator," said Antonio, "you are buoying me up with vain hopes. You

have said, yourself, that Capuzzi will be thoroughly on his guard

against any more open attacks; so, after what has happened to him

already, how can he possibly be induced to go to Musso's theatre

another time?"

"It is not such a difficult matter as you suppose," answered Salvator,

"to get him to go back there again; the difficulty will be to induce

him to go without his companions, and to get him on to the stage. But

however that may be, you must now arrange matters with Marianna so as

to be ready to fly from Rome whenever the favourable moment arrives.

You will have to go to Florence. Your art will be an introduction to

you there to begin with, and I will take care that you shall not want

for friends, or for valuable support and assistance. We shall have to

rest on our oars for a few days, and then we shall see what more is to

be done. Keep up your courage. Formica will help."

A Fresh Misfortune Comes Upon Signor Pasquale Capuzzi. Antonio

Scacciati Carries Out A Plot At Musso's Theatre, And Flies To

Florence.

Signor Pasquale knew but too well who were the authors of the trick

played upon him and the poor Pyramid Doctor near the Porto del Popolo;

and we can imagine his rage with Antonio and with Salvator Rosa, whom

he rightly considered to be the prime mover in the matter. He did his

utmost to console Marianna, who was quite ill, from the fright--as she

put it--but really from disappointment and vexation at the accursed

Michele's having carried her off, with his Sbirri, from Antonio.

Meanwhile, Margarita industriously brought her tidings of her lover,

and she based all her hopes and expectations upon the enterprising

Salvator. She waited most impatiently from day to day for anything in

the shape of fresh events, and vented her vexation upon the old

gentleman by a thousand teasings and naggings, which rendered him

humble and submissive in his foolish amourishness, but had not the

effect of in any degree casting out the love-devil by which he was

possessed. When Marianna had poured out upon his devoted head a full

measure of all the evil caprices of a selfish girl, she had only to

suffer him to press his withered lips a single time upon her little

hand, and he would vow, in the excess of his delight, that he would

never leave off kissing the Pope's slipper till he had obtained his

dispensation to marry his niece, quintessence as she was of all beauty

and loveliness. Marianna was careful to do nothing to disturb this

condition of delight, for those rays of hope of her uncle's made her

own to shine brighter--her hopes of being all the nearer escaping him,

the more firmly he believed himself to be united to her by bonds which

were indissoluble.

Some time had elapsed when, one day, Michele came stumping upstairs and

announced to his master (who opened the door after a good deal of

knocking), with much prolixity, that there was a gentleman below who

insisted, most urgently, on speaking with Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, who,

he was aware, lived in that house.

"Oh, all ye heavenly hosts!" cried the old gentleman, in a rage,

"doesn't this lubber know as well as possible that I never speak with

strangers in the house!"

But Michele said the gentleman was very well-looking, rather elderly,

and spoke exceedingly nicely, saying his name was Nicolo Musso.

"Nicolo Musso!" said Capuzzi, thoughtfully to himself; "Nicolo Musso,

who has the theatre outside the Porta del Popolo! What can he want with

me?" He carefully closed and bolted the door, and went down with

Michele to talk with Nicolo in the street.

"My dear Signor Pasquale," said Nicolo, greeting him with an easy

courtesy, "how very much delighted I am that you honour me with

your acquaintance! How many thanks I owe you! Since the Romans saw

_you_--the man of the most acknowledged taste, of the most universal

knowledge, the virtuoso in art--in my theatre, my reputation, and my

receipts, have been doubled. All the more does it pain me that some

wicked, malicious fellows should have made a murderous attack upon you

and your party as you were going home from my theatre at night. For the

love of all the Saints, Signor Pasquale, do not form a prejudice

against me and my theatre on account of an affair of this sort, which

could scarcely have been anticipated. Do not deprive me of your

patronage."

"My good Signor Nicolo," said Capuzzi, flattered, "let me assure you

that I never, anywhere, found more pleasure than in your theatre.

Your Formica, your Agli, are actors, whose equals have still to

be discovered; but the alarm which brought my friend Splendiano

Accoramboni--and indeed myself as well--nearly to death's door, was too

severe. It has closed to me for ever, not your theatre, but the road to

it. Open your theatre in the Piazza del Popolo, or in Strada Babuina,

or Strada Ripetta, and I shall never miss a single evening; but no

power on earth would induce me to set foot outside the Porto del Popolo

at night."

Nicolo sighed as if possessed by profound sorrow. "That hits me hard,"

he said; "harder than you perhaps may suppose, Signor Pasquale. I had

based all my hopes upon you. In fact, I came to implore your

assistance."

"My assistance!" echoed the old gentleman; "my assistance! In what way

could that be of any use to you, Signor Nicolo?"

"My dear Signor Pasquale," answered Nicolo, passing his handkerchief

over his eyes as if wiping away a tear or two, "you will have observed

that my actors occasionally introduce a little aria or so here and

there; and my idea was to carry that further gradually; bring a small

orchestra together, and finally evade prohibitions so far as to start

an opera. You, Signor Capuzzi, are the first composer in all Italy, and

it is only the incredible frivolity of the Romans, and the envy of the

_Maestri_, that are to blame for the circumstance that anything except

your compositions is to be heard on the stage. Signor Pasquale, I came

to beg you, on my knees, to allow me to represent your immortal works

in my theatre."

"My good Signor Nicolo!" cried the old fellow, with bright sunshine in

his face, "why are we talking here in the public street? Will you be

kind enough to climb up a steep flight of stairs, and come with me into

my humble dwelling?"

As soon as he got into the room with Nicolo, he hauled out a great

packet of dusty music-manuscript, opened it up, turned pages over, and

began that frightful yelling and screeching which he called "singing."

Nicolo demeaned himself like one enraptured. He sighed, he groaned; he

cried "bravo!" from time to time, and "Bravissimo! Benedetto Capuzzi!"

At length, as if in an excess of blissful enthusiasm, he fell at the

old man's feet, and clasped his knees, hugging them so very tightly,

however, that Capuzzi gave a great bound to try and shake him off,

screamed with the pain, and cried out: "All the Saints! let me go,

Signor Nicolo! you'll be the death of me!"

"No!" cried Nicolo. "No, Signor Pasquale! I will not rise from this

spot till you promise to let me have that heavenly aria which you have

just rendered so magnificently, so that Formica may sing it two nights

hence on my stage."

"You are a person of some taste," sighed Pasquale; "a man of insight;

to whom, rather than to you, should I intrust my compositions? You

shall take all my arias with you (Oh! oh! do let me go!) but, oh

heavens! I shall not hear them--my heavenly masterpieces! (Oh, oh! let

go my legs, Signor Nicolo!)"

"No!" cried Nicolo, still on his knees, and firmly grasping the old

man's spindle-shanks like a vice. "No, Signor Pasquale! I will not let

you go till you give me your word that you will come to my theatre the

evening after to-morrow. Have no fear of being attacked again. You may

be certain that, when the Romans have heard those arias of yours, they

will carry you home triumphantly in a torchlight procession. But even

if they do not, I and my trusty comrades will arm, and escort you

safely home."

"You and your comrades will escort me home, will you?" Pasquale

inquired; "how many of them might there be?"

"Eight or ten people will be at your disposal, Signor Pasquale. Make up

your mind; decide upon coming, and yield to my earnest prayers."

"Formica," lisped Pasquale, "has a capital voice; how he _would_ sing

my arias!"

"Decide on it," cried Nicolo once more, grasping the old man's legs

tighter than ever.

"You promise me," said Pasquale; "you undertake to be responsible that

I get safe home without being set upon?"

"Upon my life and honour," said Nicolo, giving the legs an extra grip.

"Done!" cried the old gentleman. "The evening after to-morrow I shall

be at your theatre."

Nicolo jumped up, and pressed the old man to his heart with such

violence that he coughed and gasped for breath.

At this juncture Marianna came in. Pasquale tried to restrain her by

casting a grim look at her, but in vain. She went straight to Musso,

and said angrily: "It is of no use your trying to entice my dear uncle

to go to your theatre again. Remember that the horrible trick played

upon me by abandoned villains who have a plot against me nearly cost my

darling uncle and his worthy friend Splendiano their lives, not to

mention myself. Never will I allow him to run such a risk again. Cease

your attempts, Nicolo. Dearest uncle! you will stay quietly at home,

will you not, and never venture outside the Porto del Popolo again in

the treacherous night, which is no one's friend?"

This came upon Signor Pasquale like a clap of thunder. He gazed at his

niece with eyes widely opened; and presently addressed her in the

sweetest language, explaining to her at much length that Signor Nicolo

had taken the responsibility of making such arrangements that there

should be no possible risk of danger on the homeward way.

"For all that," answered Marianna, "my opinion remains the same, and I

implore you most earnestly, dearest uncle, not to go. Excuse me, Signor

Nicolo, for speaking clearly in your presence, and uttering the dark

presentiment which I so strongly feel. I know that Salvator Rosa is a

friend of yours, and I have no doubt so is Antonio Scacciati. How if

you were in collusion with my enemies? How if you are tempting my uncle

(who, I know, will not go to your theatre unless I am with him) only to

have a surer opportunity of carrying out some fresh plot against him?"

"What an idea!" cried Nicolo, as if horrified. "What a terrible

suspicion to entertain, Signora! Have you had such an evil experience

of me in the past? Is my reputation such that you believe me capable of

such a frightful piece of treachery? But if you _do_ think so badly of

me--if you have no confidence in the help I have promised--you can

bring Michele (who was so useful in rescuing you on the former

occasion), and let him bring a good force of Sbirri, who could be

waiting for you outside; as you could scarcely expect _me_ to fill my

house with Sbirri."

Marianna, looking him steadfastly in the eyes, said earnestly: "Since

you suggest that, I see that you mean honourably, Signor Nicolo, and

that my evil suspicions of you were unfounded. Pray forgive my

thoughtless words. Yet I cannot overcome my anxiety, and my fear for my

dearest uncle, and I again beg him not to venture upon this dangerous

expedition."

Signor Pasquale had listened to the conversation with strange looks,

which clearly testified to the contest within him. He could now

restrain himself no longer; he fell on his knees before Marianna,

seized her hands, kissed them, covered them with tears which streamed

from his eyes, and cried, as if beside himself: "Heavenly and adored

Marianna! the fire in my heart breaks forth into flame! Ah! this

anxiety, this fear on my account; what are they but the sweetest

admissions of your love for me?" He entreated her not to allow herself

to be alarmed in the very slightest degree, but to hear, on the stage,

the most lovely of the arias which the divinest of composers ever had

written.

Nicolo, too, continued the most pathetic entreaties, until Marianna

declared she was persuaded, and promised to lay aside all fear, and go

with her dear uncle to the theatre outside the Porto del Popolo.

Signor Pasquale was in the seventh heaven of bliss. He had the full

conviction that Marianna loved him, and he was going to hear his own

music on the stage, and gather the laurels which he had so long been

striving for in vain. He was on the very point of finding his fondest

dreams realized, and he wanted his light to shine in all its glory on

his faithful friends. His idea, therefore, was that Signor Splendiano

and little Pitichinaccio should go with him, just as they had done on

the former occasion.

But in addition to the spectres who had carried him off, all manner of

direful apparitions had haunted Signor Splendiano on the night when he

slept in his periwig near the Pyramid of Cestius. The whole

burying-ground seemed to have come to life, and hundreds of the dead

had stretched their bony arms out at him, complaining loudly concerning

his essences and electuaries, the tortures of which were not abated

even in the tomb. Hence the Pyramid Doctor, though he could not

contradict Signor Pasquale when he held that the whole thing was only a

trick performed by a parcel of wicked young men, continued to be in a

melancholy mood; and though, formerly, he was not greatly prone to

anything in the nature of superstition, he now saw spectres everywhere,

and was sorely plagued with presentiments and evil dreams.

As for Pitichinaccio, nothing would persuade him that those devils who

fell upon him and Signor Pasquale were not real and veritable demons

from the flames of hell, and he screamed aloud whenever any one so much

as alluded to that terrible night. All Pasquale's assurances that it

was only Antonio Scacciati and Salvator Rosa who were behind those

devil's masks were unavailing; for Pitichinaccio vowed, with many

tears, that, notwithstanding his terror, he distinctly recognized the

fiend Fanfarell, by his voice and appearance, and that said Fanfarell

had beaten his stomach black and blue.

It may be imagined what trouble Signor Pasquale had to persuade the

Pyramid Doctor and Pitichinaccio to go with him again to Musso's

theatre. Splendiano did not agree to do so until he had succeeded in

getting from a monk of the Order of St. Bernard a consecrated bag of

musk (the smell whereof neither dead men nor devils can abide), with

which he was proof against all attacks. Pitichinaccio could not resist

the promise of a box of grapes in sugar, but Signor Pasquale had to

expressly agree that he was not to wear female attire (which, he

thought, was what had brought the devils upon him), but go in his

Abbate's costume.

What Salvator had dreaded seemed thus to be about to insist on

happening, although, as he declared, his whole plot depended for

success upon Signor Pasquale and Marianna going by themselves, without

the faithful companions, to Musso's theatre.

Both he and Antonio cudgelled their brains how to keep Splendiano and

Pitichinaccio away; but there was not time enough to carry out any plan

having that for its aim, as the great stroke itself had to be struck on

the evening of the next day. But heaven--which often employs the oddest

tools in the punishment of foolish folk--interposed, in this instance,

in favour of the lovers, and so guided Michele that he gave the rein to

his natural dunderheadedness, and by that means brought about what the

skill of Salvator and Antonio was powerless to accomplish.

On that self-same night there suddenly arose, in Strada Ripetta before

Pasquale's house, such a terrible swearing, shouting, and quarrelling

that all the neighbours started from their sleep, and the Sbirri (who

had been after a murderer who took sanctuary in the Piazza di Spagna),

supposing there was another murder going on, came hurrying up with

their torches. When they, and a crowd of people attracted by the noise

who came with them, arrived on the scene of the supposed murder, what

was seen was poor little Pitichinaccio lying on the ground as if dead;

Michele belabouring the Pyramid Doctor with a frightful cudgel, and the

said Doctor in the act of falling down; whilst Signor Pasquale, picking

himself up with difficulty, drew his sword, and began furiously lunging

at Michele. All round lay fragments of shattered guitars. Several

people stopped the old gentleman's arm, or he would infallibly have run

Michele through the body. The latter (who, now that the torches had

come, saw, for the first time, who it was that he had to do with),

stood like a statue, with eyes staring out of his head. Presently He

emitted a terrific yell, tore his hair, and implored forgiveness and

mercy. Neither the Pyramid Doctor nor Pitichinaccio were seriously

hurt, but they were so stiff, and so black and blue, that they could

not move a muscle, and had to be carried home.

Signor Pasquale had brought this trouble upon his own pate. We are

aware that Salvator and Antonio had favoured Marianna with the most

beautiful night-music imaginable, but I have forgotten to add that they

went on repeating it on succeeding nights, tremendously infuriating

Signor Pasquale; his anger was held in check by the neighbours, and he

was silly enough to apply to the authorities to prevent the two

painters from singing in Strada Ripetta. The authorities considered it

an unheard of thing in Rome to forbid anybody singing whenever he

chose, and said it was absurd to demand it. On this Signor Pasquale

determined to put an end to the thing himself, and promised Michele a

good sum of money if he would fall upon the singers and give them a

good cudgelling on the first opportunity. Michele at once provided

himself with a big stick, and kept watch every night behind the door.

However, it happened that Salvator and Antonio thought it advisable to

discontinue the night-music in Strada Ripetta on the nights immediately

preceding the execution of their plot, so that nothing might suggest

ideas of his enemies to the old man. And Marianna innocently remarked

that, much as she hated Salvator and Antonio, she would have been very

glad to hear their singing, for their music, soaring on the breeze in

the night, surpassed everything.

Pasquale took mental note of this, and, as an exquisite piece of

gallantry, determined to delight and surprise his beloved with a

serenata, composed by himself, and carefully rehearsed with his

companions. So the very night before the projected visit to the theatre

he slipped secretly out and fetched his two associates, who were

prepared beforehand. But no sooner had they struck the first chords on

their guitars than Michele (whom his master had unfortunately forgotten

to warn of what was going to happen), in high glee at the near prospect

of earning the promised reward, burst out at the door, and set to work

unmercifully becudgelling the musicians. What happened afterwards we

know. Of course it was out of the question that either Splendiano or

Pitichinaccio could go with Pasquale to the theatre, as they were lying

in their beds covered all over with sticking-plaster. But Signor

Pasquale could not refrain from going himself, although his shoulders

and back smarted not a little from the licking he had had; every note

of his aria was a rope dragging him there irresistibly.

"Now that the obstacle which we thought insurmountable has cleared

itself out of the way of its own accord," said Salvator to Antonio,

"everything depends upon your adroitness in not letting slip, when it

comes, the proper moment for carrying your Marianna off from Nicolo's

theatre. But you will not fail; and I greet you already as the

bridegroom of Capuzzi's beautiful niece, who will be your wife in a few

days. I wish you every happiness, Antonio, although it goes to my very

marrow when I think of your marriage."

"What do you mean, Salvator?" asked Antonio.

"Call it whim, or fanciful idea, Antonio," he answered; "the long and

the short of it is, I love women; but every one of them, even her whom

I am madly in love with, for whom I would gladly die, affects my mind

with an apprehension which raises in me the most inexplicable and

mysterious shudder the moment I think of a union with her such as

marriage would be. The unfathomable element in woman's nature mockingly

sets all the weapons of our sex at complete defiance. She whom we

believe to have devoted herself to us with her whole being--to have

opened to us the innermost recesses of her nature--is the first to

deceive us, and with the sweetest kisses we imbibe the most destroying

poison."

"And my Marianna?" asked Antonio, aghast.

"Pardon me, Antonio," answered Salvator; "even your Marianna, who is

sweetness and delightsomeness personified, has given me a fresh proof

how constantly we are menaced by the mysterious nature of woman.

Remember how that innocent, inexperienced child behaved when we took

her uncle home to her; how, at one glance of mine, she comprehended the

whole situation, and played her part, as you said yourself, with the

most amazing ability. But that was not to be named in the same day with

what happened when Musso went to see the old man. The most practised

skill, the most impenetrable craftiness--in short, every art of the

woman most accomplished and experienced in the ways of the world--could

suggest nothing more than what little Marianna did, in order to throw

dust in the old man's eyes with the most absolute assurance of success.

She could not possibly have acted with greater talent to make the road

clear for us, whatever our undertakings were to be. The campaign

against the insane old fool was legitimate--every kind of trick and

artifice seems justified; still, however, dear Antonio, don't let my

dreamer's fancies influence you too much, and be as happy with your

Marianna as ever you can."

If only some monk had accompanied Signor Pasquale as he was on his way

to Musso's theatre with Marianna, everybody must have thought the

strange pair were being taken to the place of execution; for ahead of

them marched Michele, truculent in aspect, and armed to the teeth; and

he was followed by well on to twenty Sbirri, who were surrounding

Signor Pasquale and Marianna.

Nicolo received the old gentleman and the lady with much solemnity of

ceremony, and conducted them to the places reserved for them close in

front of the stage. Much flattered at being thus honoured, Signor

Pasquale looked about him with proud, beaming glances; and his pleasure

was increased by the circumstance that there were none but women round

and behind Marianna. Behind the scenes, on the stage, one or two

violins and a bass were being tuned, and the old gentleman's heart beat

high with anticipation, and a sort of electric shock pierced through

his joints and marrow when all at once the ritornello of his aria

sounded.

Formica came on as Pasquarello, and sang, with the gestures most

peculiarly characteristic of Capuzzi, and in his very voice, that most

atrocious of all arias. The theatre resounded with the audience's most

uproarious laughter. People shouted out: "Ah! Pasquale Capuzzi!

Compositore--Virtuoso celeberrimo! Bravo, bravissimo!" The old man, not

observing the tone of the laughter, was all delight. When the aria

ended, the audience called for silence; Doctor Graziano (played on this

occasion by Nicolo) came on, holding his ears, and calling out to

Pasquarello to cease his din, and not make such an insane crowing. He

proceeded to ask Pasquarello when he had taken to singing, and where he

had picked up that abominable tune. Pasquarello said he did not know

what the Doctor meant, and that he was just like the Romans, who had no

taste for real music, and left the finest talents in neglect. The aria,

he said, was by the greatest of living composers and virtuosi, whose

service it was his good fortune to be in, and who himself gave him

lessons in music and singing. Graziano went over the names of a number

of well-known composers and virtuosi, but at each renowned name

Pasquarello disdainfully shook his head.

At length he said the Doctor showed gross ignorance in not knowing the

very greatest composer of the day--none other than Signor Pasquale

Capuzzi, who had done him the honour to take him into his service.

Could he not see that Pasquarello was the friend and servant of Signor

Pasquale?

The Doctor broke into an immoderate fit of laughter and cried: "What!

had Pasquarello, after serving _him_, where, besides wages and food,

many a good _quattrino_ fell into his mouth, gone to the very greatest

and most accomplished skinflint and miser that ever swallowed

macaroni?--to the motley Carnival-fool, who strutted about like a

turkey-cock after a shower?--to that cur, that amorous old coxcomb, who

poisons the air in Strada Ripetta with that disgusting goat-bleating

which he calls 'singing?'" &c., &c.

To this Pasquarello answered quite angrily, that it was mere envy on

the Doctor's part. To speak with his heart in his hand (_parla col

cuore in mano_) the Doctor was by no means in a position to pass a

judgment on Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia. To speak heart in

hand, the Doctor himself had a pretty good dash of all which he was

finding fault with in the admirable Signor Pasquale. Speaking, as he

was, heart in hand, he had often, himself, known some six hundred

people or so to laugh with all their throats at Doctor Graziano

himself. And then Pasquarello held forth at great length in praise of

his new master, Signor Pasquale, attributing to him all possible

excellences, and finishing with a description of his character, which

he made out to be absolutely perfect as regarded amiability and

lovableness.

"Blessed Formica!" whispered Signor Capuzzi aside to himself, "I see

that you have determined to render my triumph complete, by rubbing the

noses of the Romans in all the envy and ingratitude with which they

have persecuted me, and showing them clearly whom and what I am."

"Here comes my master himself," cried Pasquarello; and there came on to

the stage Signor Capuzzi, as he lived and moved, in dress, face, walk,

and manner--in all respects so exactly similar to the Capuzzi down in

the audience part of the house, that the latter, quite alarmed, let go

his hold of Marianna (whom he had been holding up to this time with one

hand), and rubbed his nose and periwig, as if to find out whether he

was awake or dreaming of seeing his own double, or really in Nicolo

Musso's theatre, obliged to believe his eyes, and infer that he did see

this miraculous appearance.

The Capuzzi on the stage embraced Doctor Graziano with much amity, and

inquired after his welfare. The Doctor said his appetite was good, at

his service (_per servir-lo_), and his sleep sound; but that his purse

laboured under a complete depletion. Yesterday, in honour of his lady

love, he said, he had spent his last ducat in buying a pair of rosemary

stockings, and he was just going to certain bankers to see if they

would lend him thirty ducats.

"How could you think of such a thing?" cried Capuzzi. "Why pass the

door of your best friend? Here, my dear sir, are fifty ducats; pray

accept them."

"Pasquale, what are you doing?" cried the Capuzzi down in the audience,

half aloud.

Doctor Graziano talked of giving a bill and paying interest; but the

stage Capuzzi vowed he could not think of taking either from such a

friend as the Doctor. "Pasquale! are you crazy?" cried the Capuzzi

below, louder.

Doctor Graziano made his exit here, after many grateful embracings.

Pasquarello then went forward, with lowly reverences; lauded Signor

Capuzzi to the skies; said _his_ (Pasquarello's) purse was afflicted

with the same malady as the Doctor's, and begged for some of the same

medicine. The Capuzzi on the stage laughed, saying he was glad that

Pasquarello knew how to take advantage of his good dispositions, and

threw him two or three shining ducats.

"Pasquale, you're mad! the devil's in you!" the audience-Capuzzi cried,

very loudly. The audience called him to order. Pasquarello waxed still

louder in Capuzzi's praise, and came, at length, on the subject of the

arias which he (Capuzzi) had composed, with which he (Pasquarello) was

in hopes of charming the world. Capuzzi on the stage patted Pasquarello

on the shoulder, and said he could confide to a faithful servant like

_him_, that the truth was that he really knew nothing whatever about

music, and that the aria he had been mentioning, like all the arias he

had ever written, was cribbed from Frescobaldi's canzone, and

Carissimi's motets.

"You lie, you scoundrel, in your throat!" screamed the Capuzzi below,

rising from his seat. "Silence!--sit down!" cried the audience; the

women who were sitting near him dragged him down into his place.

The stage-Capuzzi went on to say it was time, now, to come to matters

of more importance. He wanted to give a large dinner the next day, and

Pasquarello must set to work briskly to get together all the

requirements. He drew out of his pocket a list of the most expensive

and recherché dishes, and read it aloud; as each dish was mentioned,

Pasquarello had to say how much it would cost, and the money was handed

to him on the spot.

"Pasquale!--idiotic fool!--madman!--spendthrift!--prodigal!" cried the

Capuzzi below, in crescendo, after the mention of the several dishes,

and grew more and more angry the higher the total bill for this most

unheard-of of all dinners became.

When at length the list was gone through, Pasquarello asked Signor

Pasquale's reason for giving so grand a dinner; and Capuzzi (on the

stage) replied: "To-morrow will be the happiest day of all my life. Let

me tell you, my good Pasquarello, that to-morrow I celebrate the

wedding-day, rich in blessings, of my dear niece Marianna. I am giving

her hand to that fine young fellow, the greatest of all painters,

Scacciati."

Scarce had the Capuzzi on the stage uttered those words, than he of the

audience, quite beside himself, and incapable of further self-control,

sprang up, with all the fury of a demon in his face of fire, clenched

both his fists at his counterfeit, and screamed out at him, in a

yelling voice: "That you shall not!--that you shall never! you

infernal scoundrel of a Pasquale! Will you defraud yourself of

your own Marianna, you dog? Are you going to throw her at that

diabolical rascal's head? The sweet Marianna--your life, your hope,

your all-in-all? Ah, beware! Have a care, deluded blockhead! These

fists shall beat you black and blue, and give you something else to

think about than dinners and marriages."

But the Capuzzi on the stage clenched _his_ fists too, and cried out in

a similar fury, with the same yelling voice: "May all the devils enter

your body! you cursed, senseless Pasquale! Abominable skinflint!--old

amorous goose!--motley fool, with the cap and bells over your ears!

Have a care of yourself, or I will blow the breath of life out of you!

that the mean actions you want to father upon the shoulders of the

good, honourable, upright Pasquale may be put an end to at last."

To an accompaniment of the most furious curses and maledictions of the

Capuzzi beneath, he on the stage proceeded to narrate one scurrilous

story of him after another, finishing off by crying out: "Try if you

dare, Pasquale--amorous old ape!--to interfere with the happiness of

those two young people, destined for each other by heaven."

As he spoke, there appeared at the back of the stage Antonio Scacciati

and Marianna, with their arms about each other. Shaky as the old

gentleman was on his legs, fury gave him strength and agility. At a

bound he was on to the stage, where he drew his sword, and ran at

Antonio. But he felt himself seized from behind; an officer of the

Papal Guard was holding him, and said, in a serious tone: "Consider a

little, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi; you are on Nicolo Musso's stage.

Without being aware of it, you have been playing a most entertaining

part this evening. You will not find Antonio or Marianna here." The two

performers whom Capuzzi had taken to be them had come closer, with the

rest of the actors, and he did not know their faces at all. The sword

fell from his trembling hand; he drew a deep breath, like one waking

from a fearful dream, clasped his forehead, forced his eyes wide open.

The dreadful sense of what had really happened flashed upon him, and he

cried: "Marianna!" in a terrible voice, till the walls re-echoed.

But his calling could no longer reach her ears; for Antonio had

carefully watched for the moment when Capuzzi, oblivious of everything,

even himself, was contending with his counterfeit on the stage, had

then cautiously made his way to Marianna, and taken her through the

audience to a side door, where the Vetturino was waiting with the

carriage; and away they were driven towards Florence as fast as they

could go.

"Marianna!" the old man continued crying. "She has gone!--she has

flown!--the villain Antonio has robbed me of her! Away!--after her!

Good people, have pity! Get torches; search for my dove! Ha, the

serpent!"

And the old man was making off; but the officer held him fast, saying:

"If you mean the pretty young girl who was sitting by you, I rather

fancy I saw her slip out with a young fellow--Antonio Scacciati, I

believe,--some considerable time ago, just as you were beginning that

useless, silly quarrel with the actor who had on a mask something like

you. Signor Pasquale, it is my duty to arrest you, on account of your

behaviour, and the murderous attack upon the actor."

Signor Pasquale, with pale death in his face, incapable of uttering a

word or a sound, was marched off by the very Sbirri who had come there

to protect him from masquerading demons and spectres. Thus there fell

upon him deep distress and sorrow, and all the wild despair of a

foolish and deceived old amorous fool, on the very night when he looked

to celebrate his greatest triumph.

Salvator Rosa Quits Rome For Florence. The End Of This Story.

All things here below under the sun are subject to constant change and

fluctuation, but there is nothing that more deserves to be called

fickle and fleeting than mankind's opinions, which keep rotating in an

eternal circle, like Fortune's wheel. Bitter censure falls to-day upon

him who yesterday gathered a grand harvest of praise; he who walks

to-day a-foot may to-morrow ride in a gilded chariot.

Who was there in all Rome who did not scorn and mock at old Capuzzi,

with his mean avarice, his silly amorousness, his crazy jealousy?--or

who did not wish the poor tormented Marianna her freedom? Yet now that

Antonio had succeeded in carrying her off, all the scorn and mockery

suddenly turned to pity for the poor old fellow who was seen creeping

about the streets of Rome, with bowed head, inconsolable.

Misfortunes rarely come singly. Soon after Marianna had been carried

off, Pasquale lost his dearest bosom friends. Little Pitichinaccio

choked himself with an almond, which he incautiously tried to swallow

as he was in the middle of a _cadenza_; and a slip of the pen (of

his own making) put a sudden period to the life of the renowned

Pyramid-Doctor, Signor Splendiano Accoramboni. Michele's cudgelling had

such an effect on him that he fell into a fever. He determined to cure

himself by a remedy which he believed he had discovered. He demanded

pen and ink, and wrote a recipe, in which, by putting down a wrong

fever, he enormously increased the quantity of a very powerful

ingredient; so that as soon as he swallowed the medicine he fell back

upon his pillow and was gone; proving, by his own death, the effect of

this final tincture of his prescribing in the most striking and heroic

manner.

As we have said, all who had previously laughed the most heartily at

Capuzzi, and the most sincerely wished success to the brave Antonio in

his undertaking, were now all compassion for the old man; and the

bitterest blame was laid, not upon Antonio so much as upon Salvator

Rosa, whom they all, with very good reason, held to have been at the

bottom of the whole affair.

Salvator's enemies (of whom there were a goodly band) were not slow to

stir up the fire to the best of their ability. "See!" they said; "this

is Masaniello's worthy comrade, always ready to lay his hand to any

evil trick, any robberish undertaking; if his dangerous stay in Rome is

prolonged, we shall soon feel the effects of it heavily."

And, in fact, the ignoble herd of those who conspired against Salvator

succeeded in stemming the bold flight which his fame would otherwise

have taken. One picture after another came from his hand, bold of

conception, magnificent of execution, but the so-called "connoisseurs"

always shrugged the shoulder; said, now that the mountains were too

blue; now, that the trees were too green, the figures too tall, or

too stumpy; found fault with everything where there was no fault

to be found, and made it their business to detract from Salvator's

well-merited renown in every possible way. His chief persecutors were

the members of the Academia di San Luca, who could never get over the

affair of the surgeon, and went out of their own province to depreciate

the pretty verses which Salvator wrote about that time, even trying to

make out that he did not live upon the fruit of his own land, but

pilfered the property of other people. And this, too, led to Salvator's

being by no means in a position to surround himself with the splendour

and luxury which he had formerly displayed in Rome. Instead of the

grand, spacious studio, where all the celebrities of Rome used to visit

him, he went on living at Dame Caterina's, beside his green figtree.

And in this very restrictedness he, doubtless, soon found comfort and

ease of heart.

But he laid the malignant conduct of his enemies more to heart than

there was any occasion for; nay, he felt as though some creeping

malady, engendered by annoyance and vexation, was gnawing at his inmost

marrow. In this evil mood, he conceived and executed the great pictures

which set all Rome in uproar. One of them represented the

transitoriness of all earthly things; and in the principal female

figure (which bore all the marks of a disreputable calling) it was easy

to recognize the lady-love of one of the Cardinals. In the other was

shown the Goddess of Fortune distributing her precious gifts. But

Cardinal's hats, Bishop's mitres, and decorations were falling down

upon bleating sheep, braying asses, and other despised creatures;

whilst well-favoured men, in tattered garments, looked up in vain

for the slightest favour. Salvator had given the rein to his bitter

mood, and those beasts' heads had very striking resemblances to sundry

well-known characters. It may be imagined how the hatred of him

increased, and how much more bitterly he was persecuted than before.

Dame Caterina cautioned him with tears in her eyes. She had noticed

that as soon as it was dark, birds of evil omen--suspicious-looking

characters--came slinking about the house, watching Salvator's every

step. He saw that it was time to be gone; and Dame Caterina and her

dear daughters were the only people he felt any pain in parting from.

Remembering the Duke of Tuscany's repeated invitations, he went to

Florence; and there his mortification was richly compensated for, and

the annoyances of tome lost sight of in the honour and fame--so richly

merited--which were bestowed upon him in fullest measure. The Duke's

presents, and the large prices which he got for his pictures, soon

enabled him to occupy a large mansion, and furnish it in the most

magnificent style. There he collected round him all the most famous

poets and literati of the day; it is sufficient to mention amongst them

Evangelista Torricelli, Valerio Chimentelli, Battista Ricciardi, Andrea

Cavalcanti, Pietro Salviati, Filippo Apolloni, Volumnio Bandelli,

Francesco Rovai. Art and science were joined together in a charming

fusion, and Salvator Rosa had a manner of endowing the meetings with an

element of the fanciful, which in a peculiar manner gave a stimulus to

the thoughts and ideas of the company. Thus, the dining-hall had the

appearance of a beautiful shrubbery, containing sweet-smelling bushes

and flowers and gurgling springs; and the very dishes, served by

singularly-attired pages, had a wonderful appearance, as if they came

from some far-off enchanted land. These assemblages of poets and

_savants_ in Salvator Rosa's house were at the time known as the

Academia de' Percossi.

But although Salvator occupied his mind in this manner with art and

science, his inmost heart was cheered by his friend Antonio Scacciati,

who was living a happy artistic life, free from care, with the

beautiful Marianna. They used to think, sometimes, of the old deceived

Signor Pasquale, and all that took place in Nicolo Musso's theatre. And

Antonio asked Salvator how he had managed to interest not only Musso,

but the wonderful Formica and Agli, in his affairs, to employ their

talents on his behalf as they had done. Salvator said it had been an

easy matter, inasmuch as Formica had been his most intimate friend in

Rome, and always delighted to carry out upon the stage anything that he

had suggested to him. Antonio declared that, much as he was unable

still to help laughing when he thought of the occurrence which had made

no happiness, he wished, from his heart, for a reconciliation with the

old man, even although he should never touch a farthing of Marianna's

fortune (which the old man had taken possession of), seeing that his

art brought him money enough. Marianna, too, could often not restrain

her tears at the thought that her father's brother would never till his

dying day forgive the trick that had been played upon him; and thus

Pasquale's hatred cast a sorrowful shadow upon her happy life. Salvator

comforted them both with the thought that time cures much harder

matters, and that chance might perhaps bring the old man to them in a

much less dangerous manner than if they had remained in Rome, or were

to go back there now.

We shall find that a spirit of prophecy dwelt in Salvator. A

considerable time had elapsed, when one day Antonio burst into

Salvator's studio, breathless, and pale as death. "Salvator!" he cried;

"my friend! my protector!--I am lost unless you help me! Pasquale

Capuzzi is here, and has got a warrant to arrest me for carrying off

his niece."

"But what can Pasquale do to you now?" asked Salvator. Has not the

Church united Marianna and you?"

"Alas!" answered Antonio, in despair, "even the Church cannot save me

here. Heaven knows how he has accomplished it, but the old man has

managed to get the ear of the Pope's nephew; and it is this nephew who

has taken him under his protection, and given him hope that the Holy

Father will declare our marriage void; and not only that, but give him

a dispensation to enable _him_ to marry his niece."

"Stop!" cried Salvator. "Now--_now_ I understand the whole matter. It

is that nephew's hatred for _me_, Antonio, which threatens to ruin

everything. This nephew--this conceited, raw, boorish fellow--is one of

those beasts which the Goddess of Fortune is overwhelming with her

gifts in that picture of mine. That it was I who helped you to your

Marianna--more or less indirectly, of course--is known not only to this

nephew, but to every one in Rome. Season enough to persecute you, since

they cannot specify anything against _me_. Even were it not for my

affection for you, Antonio, as my best and dearest friend, I could not

but stand by you if it were for nothing else than that it is I who have

brought this mischance upon you. But, by all the saints, I do not see

how I am to set about spoiling the game of your enemies."

As he said this Salvator, who up to this point had been working away at

a picture without interrupting himself, laid his brushes, palette and

mahlstick down, got up from his easel, and, folding his arms across his

breast, strode 'several times up and down, whilst Antonio, in deepest

thought, contemplated the floor with fixed glance.

Presently Salvator halted before him, and cried, laughing: "Antonio,

there is nothing that _I_ can accomplish as against your powerful

enemies; but there is _one_ who can, and will, help you; and that is

Signor Formica."

"Alas!" cried Antonio; "do not jest with an unfortunate, for whom there

is no further salvation."

"Still determined to despair?" cried Salvator, who had suddenly risen

into the highest spirits. He laughed aloud: "I tell you, Antonio,

friend Formica will help in Florence quite as well as he did in Rome.

Go quietly home. Comfort your Marianna, and await the course of events

quite tranquilly. All I expect of you is that you will be ready and

prepared to do whatever Signor Formica--who happens to be here at this

moment--may require of you." Antonio promised obedience with all his

heart, hope and confidence at once beginning to glimmer up within him.

Signor Pasquale was not a little astonished to receive a formal

invitation from the Academia de' Percossi. "Ha!--indeed!" he cried.

"One sees that Florence is the place where they know how to esteem

merit; where a man endowed with such gifts as Signor Pasquale Capuzzi

di Senegalia chances to possess, is properly appreciated."

Thus the thought of the amount of artistic knowledge which he

possessed, and of the honours which were being paid to him in

consequence, overcame the repugnance which he would otherwise have

entertained to an assemblage which had Salvator Rosa, at its head. The

Spanish state costume was brushed more carefully than usual; the

steeple-crowned hat adorned with a new feather; the shoes set off with

fresh bows of ribbon; and Signor Pasquale made his appearance in

Salvator's house glittering like a golden beetle, with a countenance of

radiant sunshine. The splendour around him--Salvator himself (who was

much more finely dressed than he had been wont to be)--inspired him

with reverence; and--as is usually the case with shallow souls, which

are puffed-up at first, but at once fall down into the dust when they

perceive any distinct superiority over them--Pasquale was all deference

and humility towards that Salvator whom he was for ever lording over in

Rome.

So much attention was paid to Signor Pasquale on all hands; his

opinions were so unconditionally appealed to; so much was said as to

his artistic merits, that he felt himself a new man; nay, it seemed to

him that a special spirit came to life within him, so that he really

spoke much more sensibly on many subjects than might have been

expected. As, in addition to all this, he had never in all his life

partaken of such a splendid dinner, or tasted such inspiring wine, his

enjoyment necessarily mounted higher and higher, and he forgot all

about the wrongs done him in Rome, and the unpleasant business which

had brought him to Florence.

In a short time the bushes at the bottom of the hall began to get in

motion, the leafy branches opened out apart, and a little theatre came

into view, with its stage, and some seats for an audience.

"All ye saints!" cried Pasquale Capuzzi, in much alarm. "Where am I?

That is Nicolo Mussos's theatre!"

Without paying attention to his outcry, two gentlemen of dignified

appearance--Evangelista Torricelli and Andrea Cavalcanti--took him by

the arms, one on each side, and conducted him to a seat in front of the

stage, taking their places on either side of him.

No sooner were they seated than there entered on to the stage, Formica,

as Pasquarello!

"Accursed Formica!" cried Pasquale, springing up and shaking his

clenched fist towards the stage. Torricelli's and Cavalcanti's grave

looks of disapproval, however, constrained him to silence and

quietness.

Pasquarello sobbed, wept, and cursed his fate which brought him nothing

but grief and misery; declared he did not know how he should manage to

laugh, were it but ever so little, and concluded by saying that, in the

excess of his despair, he would most certainly cut his throat, were it

not that the sight of blood always made him faint; or throw himself

into the river, if he only could help swimming when in the water.

Here Doctor Graziano entered and inquired the cause of his grief.

Pasquarello asked him if he did not know what had been happening in his

master's, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia's, house?--whether he

had heard that an abandoned ruffian had run off with his master's

niece, Marianna?

"Ha!" murmured Capuzzi, "I see what it is, Signor Formica. You think

you will exculpate and excuse yourself; you desire my forgiveness.

Well, we shall see."

Doctor Graziano expressed his sympathy, and thought the ruffian must

have been very clever to have evaded Capuzzi's search after him.

Pasquarello told the Doctor not to allow himself to imagine that the

rascal Antonio Scacciati succeeded in getting the better of the deep

and clever Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, supported as he was, moreover, by

influential friends. Antonio was in prison, his marriage declared void,

and Marianna again in her uncle's hands.

"Has he got her?" cried Capuzzi, beyond himself; "has he got her again,

the good Capuzzi? Has he got his little dove again; his Marianna? Is

the scoundrel Antonio in prison? O most blessed Formica!"

"You take too lively an interest in the piece, Signor Pasquale," said

Cavalcanti very seriously. "Pray allow the actors to speak, and do not

interrupt them."

Signor Pasquale, abashed, sat down in his place again.

Pasquarello went on to say that there had been a wedding. Marianna had

repented of what she had done; Signor Pasquale had obtained the

necessary dispensation from the Holy Father, and had married his niece.

"Yes, yes," murmured Pasquale, aside, whilst his eyes shone with

delight; "yes, yes, my dearest Formica! He marries the sweet Marianna,

the lucky Pasquale! He always knew the little dove loved him; it was

but the devil that led her astray."

In that case, Doctor Graziano said, everything was well, and there was

no cause for lamentation.

But Pasquarello began to sob and cry more violently than before, and at

last fell down in a faint, as if overcome by his terrible sorrow.

Doctor Graziano ran about anxiously; regretted that he had not a

smelling-bottle about him; searched in all his pockets, and at length

pulled out a roasted chestnut, which he held under the nose of the

insensible Pasquarello. The latter recovered at once, sneezing

violently, begged him to excuse the weak state of his nerves, and went

on to say that after the marriage Marianna had fallen into the deepest

melancholy, calling continually on Antonio's name, and regarding the

old man with loathing and contempt. But the latter, blinded by his love

and jealousy, had never ceased torturing her in the most terrible

manner with his foolishness. Then Pasquarello related a number of mad

tricks which Pasquale had been guilty of, and which were actually told

of him in Rome. Signor Pasquale jigged uneasily on his seat here and

there, murmuring, "Accursed Formica, you lie!--what devil inspires

you?" It was only the fact that Torricelli and Cavalcanti kept their

grave eyes fixed upon him that restrained a wild outburst of his anger.

Pasquarello ended by saying that the luckless Marianna had at last

fallen a victim to her unstilled love-longing, her bitter sorrow, and

the thousand-fold tortures which the accursed old man had inflicted

upon her, and had passed away from this world, in the flower of her

age.

At this moment there was heard an awe-inspiring _De profundis_, chanted

by hoarse and hollow voices; and men in long white mantles appeared

upon the stage bearing a bier, on which lay the body of the beautiful

Marianna, shrouded in white grave-clothes. Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, in

the deepest mourning, tottered along behind it, moaning aloud, beating

his breast, and crying, in his despair, "Oh, Marianna! Marianna!"

When the Capuzzi in the audience saw the body of his niece, both the

Capuzzis (him on the stage and he of the audience) howled, and cried in

the most heart-breaking tones: "Oh, Marianna! Oh, Marianna! Miserable

man that I am! Ah me! Ah me!"

Imagine the corpse of the beautiful girl on the open tier, Surrounded

by the mourners, their solemn _De profundis_, and along with all

this, the comic masks, Doctor Graziano and Pasquarello, expressing

their grief in the most absurd gesticulations; and then the two

Capuzzis, howling and crying in despair. And in truth, all they who

were spectators of this strangest of dramatic representations,

notwithstanding the irrepressible laughter into which they could not

help breaking over the extraordinary old man, were penetrated by a deep

and eerie shudder of awe.

The stage now suddenly grew dark. There was thunder and lightning; and

out of the depths arose a pale and spectral form, exactly alike in

every feature to Capuzzi's brother, Pietro, father of Marianna, who

died in Senegaglia.

"Wicked Pasquale!" cried the spectre-form, in hollow, terrible tones;

"what have you done with my daughter? Despair and die, accursed

murderer of my child! Your reward awaits you in hell!"

The Capuzzi on the stage fell down as if struck by lightning, and at

the same instant the Capuzzi down beneath fell senseless from his seat.

The branches rustling, closed into their former places; and the stage,

with Marianna and Capuzzi, and Pietro's grizzly ghost, disappeared from

view. Signor Pasquale was in such a deep faint that it cost some

trouble to bring him to himself again.

At last he revived, with a deep sigh, stretched his hands out before

him as if to keep off the terror which seized upon him, and cried in

hollow tones: "Let me go, Pietro!" A stream of tears burst from his

eyes, and he cried, with sobs: "Ah, Marianna!--my darling beautiful

girl!--my own Marianna!"

"Bethink you!" said Cavalcanti at last. "Consider Signor Pasquale! It

was only on the stage that you saw your niece dead. She is alive. She

is here, to implore your forgiveness for the thoughtless stratagem to

which love--and, perhaps, your own inconsiderate conduct--impelled

her."

Here Marianna, with Antonio Scacciati behind her, rushed forward from

the back of the hall, and fell at the feet of the old gentleman, who

had been placed in an easy chair. Marianna, in the fullest lustre of

her beauty, kissed his hands, bedewed them with hot tears, and begged

forgiveness for herself and Antonio, united to her by the Church's

benediction. From the old man's deathly pale face flames suddenly

broke, fury flashed from his eyes, and he cried in a half-articulate

voice: "Ha! abandoned wretch!--venomous serpent! whom I nourished in my

bosom, for my destruction!" But the grave old Torricelli came up to

him, in all his dignity, and said that he (Capuzzi) had seen in a

figure the fate which would inevitably overtake him if he dared to

prosecute his evil design against the peace and happiness of Antonio

and Marianna. He painted, in the most brilliant colours, the folly--the

madness--of amorous old age yielding to love, which has the power of

bringing down upon its head the most destroying evil with which Heaven

can threaten man, since it annihilates all the affection which

might still be his portion, whilst hatred and contempt aim their

death-dealing arrows at him from every side.

And Marianna cried out, in a tone which penetrated the heart: "Oh, my

uncle! I want to love and honour you as a father! You will bring me to

the bitter death if you take Antonio from me!"

And all the poets who were surrounding the old man cried, with one

voice, that it was impossible that such an one as Signor Pasquale

Capuzzi di Senegaglia--a lover and patron of the arts, himself an

admirable and accomplished artist--should not forgive; that he, who

occupied the position of a father to the loveliest of women, should not

welcome with joy, as a son-in-law, a painter such as Antonio Scacciati,

prized by the whole of Italy, overwhelmed with honour and fame.

It was easy to see that a mental process of some kind was going on

within the old man. He sighed; he groaned; he hid his face in his

hands, whilst Torricelli plied him with the most convincing arguments;

whilst Marianna implored him, in the most moving accents; whilst the

others extolled and belauded Antonio Scacciati to the utmost of their

skill. The old man looked, now at his niece, now at Antonio, whose fine

dress and rich chain of honour proved the truth of what was urged as to

his artistic position and success.

All anger had disappeared from Capuzzi's countenance. He sprung up with

beaming glances, pressed Marianna to his heart, and cried: "Yes, I

forgive you, my beloved child! I forgive you, Antonio! Far be it from

mo to destroy your happiness. You are right, my worthy Signor

Torricelli. Signor Formica has shown me, in a figure, on the stage, all

the misery and destruction which would have come upon me if I had

carried out my insane idea. I am cured--completely cured--of my folly.

But where is Signor Formica?--where is my worthy physician, that I may

thank him a thousand times for my recovery, which he has brought about.

The terror which he knew how to cause me has transformed my whole

being."

Pasquarello came forward. Antonio threw himself upon his breast,

crying:

"Oh, Signor Formica! to whom I owe my life, my all! cast aside the mask

which disguises you, that I may see your face--that Formica may cease

to be a mystery to me."

Pasquarello took off the cap, and the skilfully-constructed mask, which

seemed to be an actual, natural face, placing no obstacle in the way of

facial expression. And this Formica--this Pasquarello--was transformed

into--Salvator Rosa!

"Salvator!" cried Marianna, Antonio, and Capuzzi, _ensemble_, all

amazement.

"Yes," said that wondrous man. "Salvator Rosa; whom the Romans would

have none of, as painter, as poet; and who, as Formica, for more than a

year, on Nicolo Musso's poor little stage, moved them almost nightly to

the loudest and most immoderate applause; from whom they gladly

accepted all ridicule and mockery of what was bad, though they would

not swallow it in Salvator's poems and pictures. Salvator Formica it is

who has aided you, dear Antonio."

"Salvator!" old Capuzzi began; "Salvator Rosa! I have looked upon you

as my worst enemy, but I have always held your art in highest honour;

and now I love you as the most valued of my friends, and I venture to

beg you to accept me as such."

"Say, my worthy Signor Pasquale," answered Salvator, "in what I can be

of service to you, and be assured beforehand that I will employ all my

powers to fulfil your desires."

There dawned in Capuzzi's face once more that sugary smile which had

vanished since Marianna's departure. He took Salvator's hand, and

whispered gently: "My dear Signor Salvator, you can do anything with

the good Antonio. Beg him, in my name, to allow me to spend the brief

remainder of my days with him and my dear daughter Marianna, and to

accept from me the fortune which she inherits from her mother, to which

I mean to add a liberal marriage-portion. And then, too, he mustn't

look askew if I now and then kiss the lovely child's little white hand;

and--at all events on Sundays when I go to mass--he must dress my

moustache for me; a thing which nobody in all the world can do as he

can."

Salvator had difficulty in restraining his laughter; but before he

could make answer, Antonio and Marianna, embracing the old man, assured

him that they would not consider the reconciliation complete, or feel

thoroughly happy, until he took his place by their hearth as a beloved

father, never to leave them more. Antonio added that he would dress

Capuzzi's moustachios not only on Sundays, but every day of the week,

in the daintiest manner. And now the old man was all joy and happiness.

Meanwhile a splendid supper had been served, and to this they all sate

down, in the happiest mood of mind.

In taking my leave of you, dear reader, I wish with all my heart that

the happiness which has now fallen to the lot of Salvator and all his

friends, may have glowed very brightly in your own breast, whilst you

have been reading the story of the marvellous Signor Formica.

"Now," began Lothair, when Ottmar had ended, "since our friend has

been fair and honourable enough to admit from the outset the lack of

vigour--the weakness of knee, so to speak, of his production, which it

has pleased him to call a 'Novella,' this appeal to our considerateness

does, certainly, draw the sting out of our criticisms, which were

formed up, in complete steel, to attack him. He bares his bosom to the

partizan-pike, and therefore, as magnanimous adversaries, we withhold

our thrust, and are bound to have mercy."

"More than that," said Cyprian, "to console his pain, we feel ourselves

permitted to bestow a certain limited amount of praise. For my part, I

see a good deal in this work that is pleasant and Serapiontic.

Capuzzi's broken leg, for instance, and its consequences, his

mysterious serenade----"

"Which," interrupted Vincenz, "has all the more of the real Spanish, or

the true Italian smack about it, just because it ends with a tremendous

cudgelling. No proper Novella of the kind would be complete without the

due amount of licking, and I prize it highly as, medically speaking, a

specially powerful stimulant, always employed by the best writers. In

Boccacio things hardly ever wind up without cudgelling; and where does

it rain more blows or thrusts than in the Romance of all Romances, 'Don

Quixote?' Cervantes himself considered it necessary to apologise to his

readers about it. Now-a-days intellectual ladies will have none of such

matters in connection with the mental 'teas' (which they enjoy along

with tea for the body); the honoured hide of a favourite poet--if he

would retain his footing at 'teas,' and in pocket-books--must, at

highest, be blackened by a tap or so on the nose, or the least little

box on an ear. But what of tea? What of cultivated ladies? Behold in

me, oh, Ottmar, your champion in complete armour, and cudgel soundly in

all the novels you may be thinking of writing. I praise you for the

cudgelling's sake."

"And I," said Theodore, "for the delightful trio which Capuzzi, the

Pyramid-doctor, and the somewhat shudder-creating little abortion,

Pitichinaccio, form; and, moreover, for the wonderful way in which

Salvator Rosa--who never appears as the hero of the tale, but always as

an auxiliary--conforms to his character as it is described, and also as

it appears in his own works."

"Ottmar," said Sylvester, "has held chiefly to the adventurous and

enterprising side of his character, and given us less of what was grave

and gloomy in him. _A propos_ of this, I think of the famous sonnet in

which, allegorising on his own name--Salvator--he utters his deep

indignation at his enemies and persecutors who accused him of

plundering from older writers in his poetry, which, indeed, is all

ruggedness, and deficient in interior connectedness."

"But," said Lothair, "to return to Ottmar's Novella. The principal

fault which I have to find with it is that, instead of a story rounding

itself into a whole in all its parts, he has merely given us a series

of pictures, although they are often delightful enough."

"Can I do otherwise than fully agree with you?" said Ottmar. "Still,

you will all admit that it requires very skilful navigation to keep

clear of the rocks upon which I have run."

"Perhaps," said Sylvester, "the rocks in question are more dangerous to

dramatic writers. Nothing--at least in my opinion--is more annoying

than, instead of a Comedy, in which all that happens is necessarily and

closely attached to the thread which runs through the piece, and should

appear to be indispensably necessary to the picture represented, to see

merely a series of arbitrary incidents, or even unconnected, detached

situations; and indeed, the ablest dramatic author of recent times has

set the example of this thoughtless (or 'frivolous') treatment of

Comedy. Does the 'Pagen-streiche,' for example, consist of anything but

a series of ludicrous situations strung together apparently by chance,

and at random? In former days, when, on the whole (at all events as

regards the drama), one cannot complain of the want of due seriousness,

every writer of a Comedy took much pains to construct a regular plot,

and out of that plot all the comic element, the drollery, nay, the very

absurdity, duly evolved itself, of itself; because it seemed the

natural thing for it to do. Jünger (although he but too often seems

very 'flat') always did this, and even Brenner--utterly prosaic as he

was on the whole--was by no means deficient in the power of making the

comic element flow out from his plots, and his characters have often

real force and vividness of life, derived from actuality; as, for

instance, in his 'Eheprokurator.' Only those ladies of his, with their

grand phrases, are completely unenjoyablo by us nowadays.

Notwithstanding this, I have a very high opinion of him, for the

reasons I have given."

"In my mind," said Theodore, "his Operas put him out of court

altogether. They may serve as examples how an opera ought not to be

written."

"For the simple reason," said Vincenz, "that the departed (peace to his

ashes, as Sylvester very properly said) did not show many signs of

having much poetry in his constitution; so that in the romantic realm

of opera he could not find the slightest indication of a track to go

upon. However, as you are talking in this strain on the subject of

Comedy, I might do worse than point out that you are wasting your time

in discussing a nonentity--a thing which does not exist; and cry out to

you, as Romeo did to Mercutio--

'Peace, peace, good people, peace,

Ye talk of nothing.'

What I mean is that, taking them altogether, we never see a single

German Comedy presented on the stage, for the simple reason that the

old ones cannot be swallowed or digested (by reason of the weakness

of our stomachs), and new ones are no longer written. The reason

of the latter I might establish, very briefly, in a treatise of

some forty sheets or so; but, for the moment, I let you off with a

play-upon-words. What I say is, that we have no comic plays, because we

have none of the comic which plays with itself; nor the sense for it."

"Dixi," cried Sylvester, laughing. "Dixi, and the name 'Vincenz'

thereunder, with due stamp and seal. I happened, at the moment, to be

thinking that in the lowest class of dramatic performances, or rather

of productions destined to be represented on the stage, perhaps those

should be included in which some clever _farceur_ mystifies and befools

some good uncle--a theatre director, or some such person. And yet it is

not so very long ago that shallow, stupid stuff of this description

constituted almost the daily bread of every stage. Just at present

there seems to be more or less an intermission in this."

"It will never come to an end," said Theodore, "as long as there are

actors to whom nothing in the world can be more delightful than to let

themselves be wondered at and admired as chameleontic marvels, in

that they change their costume and appearance in the most varied

manner in the course of the same evening. Right out of the very

depths of my being have I been compelled to roar with laughter over

the self-apotheosis of self-sufficiency with which, after passing

through a marvellous series of soul-transmigrations, the true _ego_ of

the performer takes its enfranchised flight, like a beautiful insect.

Generally speaking, this is done in the shape of a pretty, elegant

night-moth, dressed in black, with silk stockings, and a three-cornered

hat under one arm, having, from the moment of its appearance as such,

only to deal with the admiring public, not troubling itself about that

which previously had been doing it soccage-service. As (_vide_ Wilhelm

Meister's 'Lehr-jahren') a special line of parts may so bind and

enslave to it some given actor, who, for instance, plays all the

characters who have to be cudgelled, or otherwise maltreated, every

stage must possess a _sujet_ who undertakes all the parts of the

character of _souffre douleur_, and consequently plays those

indispensable theatre managers, &c.; at all events, every starring

actor has a part of the kind in his pocket, by way of entrance-pass, or

letter of credit."

"What you say," answered Lothair, "reminds me of a most extraordinary

fellow whom I met with in a theatrical troupe in a small town in the

south of Germany, who was the exact image of that 'pedant' (to speak

technically) in Wilhelm Meister. Insupportable as he now was on the

stage in his little minor parts, _praying_ them out in the most direful

monotony, it was said that formerly, in his younger days, he had been

a capital actor, and used to play, for instance, those sly, scampish

inn-keepers which, in older times, used to occur in almost every

comedy, and over whose total disappearance from the stage the host in

Tieck's 'Verkehrter Welt' complains. When I knew this man he seemed to

have completely accepted his fate, which truely had been a pretty hard

one, and, in complete apathy, to place no value on anything in the

world, least of all on himself. Nothing penetrated the crust which the

heaping up of the most complete wretchedness had formed over the

surface of his better self, and he was perfectly satisfied with himself

under it; and yet there often beamed out of his deep-set, clever eyes

the gleam of a higher intelligence, and there would rapidly jerk over

his face the expression of a bitter irony, so that the exaggerated

submissiveness with which he bore himself towards every one--and

more particularly towards his manager (a silly young man, full of

vanity)--took, in him, the form of an ironical contempt. On Sundays he

used to take his seat at the lower end of the _table d'hôte_ of the

best hotel in the place, dressed in a good well-brushed suit of

clothes, whose cut and extraordinary pattern indicated the actor of a

long by-gone period; and there he enjoyed a hearty meal, never saying a

word to a soul, although he was exceptionally temperate, particularly

as regarded the wine, for he scarcely half-emptied the bottle which was

placed before him. At each filling of his glass he made a courteous bow

to the landlord, who gave him his Sunday dinner in return for his

teaching his children reading and writing. It happened that I was

dining one Sunday at this _table d'hôte_, and found only one vacant

seat, which was at this old fellow's side. I hastened to occupy this

place, hoping that I might have the good fortune to bring to the

surface that better spirit which must be shut up within the man. It was

difficult, almost impossible, to get hold of that spirit. Just when one

thought one had him, he suddenly dived down, and slunk away in utter

humility of submissiveness. At length, after I had with difficulty

induced him to swallow a glass or two of good wine, he seemed to begin

to thaw a little, and spake with visible emotion of the fine old

theatrical times, now past and gone, apparently never to return. The

tables were being cleared; one or two of my friends joined themselves

to me; the player wanted to take his leave. I held him fast, though he

made the most touching protests. A poor superannuated actor, he said,

was no fit company for gentlemen such as we; it would be better that he

should not stay, it was not his place, and so forth. It was not so much

to my powers of persuasion as to the irresistible attractions of a cup

of coffee, and a pipe of the best Knaster, which I had in my pocket,

that I could attribute his remaining. He spoke with vividness and

_esprit_ of the old theatrical days. He had seen Eckhoff, and acted

with Schroeder. It came out that the untuned state in which he was now

so marred proceeded from the circumstance that those by-gone days had

been, for him, the world wherein he had breathed freely, and moved

unconstrainedly, and that, now that he was thrown forth out of that

period, he had no firm standing-point that he could get hold of. But

how marvellously did this man astonish us when, having become

thoroughly at his ease, and free from constraint with us, he spoke the

speech of the Ghost in Hamlet, as given in Schroeder's version

(Schlegel's translation he knew nothing about), with a power of

expression which touched our hearts; and we were all moved to

admiration at the manner in which he delivered several passages from

the part of Oldenhelm (for he would have nothing to say to the name

'Polonius'), rendering them in such a way that we distinctly saw before

our eyes the courtier, in his second childhood now, but who had clearly

not lacked worldly wisdom in former times, and still showed distinct

traces of it. This he brought before us in a manner very seldom seen on

the boards. All this, however, was but the prelude to a scene which I

never saw the parallel of, and which I can never forget. It is

here that I really, for the first time, come to what, during this

conversation of ours, brought to my remembrance the old actor in

question, and my worthy Serapion Brethren must pardon me if I have made

my introduction to this somewhat too long. This man was compelled to

undertake those wretched subordinate parts which we were talking of,

and thus it chanced that, some days after the occasion I have been

speaking of, he had to play the part of the 'Manager' in the piece 'The

Rehearsal,' which the _Impresario_ had altered to suit himself,

thinking he particularly excelled in it. Whether it was that the

conversation with us has stirred up his inner, better self, or that,

perhaps (as it was rumoured afterwards), on that day he had reinforced

his natural power with wine--contrary as that was to his usual custom--

he had no sooner come upon the stage than he appeared to be a totally

different man from what he had been at other times. His eyes sparkled,

and the hollow wavering voice of the worn-out hypochondriac was

transformed into a clear, resonant bass, such as is employed by jovial

characters of the old style; for instance, the rich uncles who, in the

exercise of poetical justice, punish folly and reward virtue. The

beginning of the piece gave no indication of what was to come; but how

amazed was the audience when, after the first changes of dress had been

made, the strange creature turned upon the manager with sarcastic

smiles, and addressed him somewhat as follows: 'Would not the respected

audience have recognised our good So-and-so' (he mentioned the

manager's name here), 'just as readily as I did myself at the first

glance? Is it possible to base the power of deception on a coat cut in

a particular fashion, or on a more or less frizzled wig? and in this

way to stuff out a meagre talent, unsupported by any vigour of

intelligence, like a child deserted by its nurse? The young man who is

trying to pass himself off upon me, in this unskilled manner, as a

many-sided artist, a chameleontic genius, need not gesticulate so

immoderately with his hands, nor fold himself up like a pocketknife

after each of his speeches, nor roll his r's so fearfully; and if he

had not done so, I believe that a highly-prized audience (any more than

I myself) would not have recognised our little manager in one instant,

as has been the case now, to such an extent that it is pitiable. But,

inasmuch as the piece has got to go on for another half-hour, I shall

conduct myself, this once more, as if I didn't see it; although the

affair is terribly tedious and uncongenial to me.' Be it enough to say

that upon each fresh entrance of the manager, the old fellow ridiculed

his acting in the most delicious manner; and it may be fancied that

this was accompanied by the most ringing laughter of the audience;

whilst the best part of it all was that the manager, completely

absorbed in his numerous changes of costume, was absolutely unconscious

of what was going forward till the very last scene. Perhaps the old

fellow may have made a wicked compact with the theatre tailor; but it

is a fact that the wretched manager's wardrobe had got into the most

complete confusion, so that the intermediate scenes which the old man

had to fill out lasted much longer than usual, giving him time enough

to let the fulness of his bitter mockery of the poor manager stream

forth in all its glory, and even to imitate his manner of speaking,

saying many things with a wicked verity which sent the audience out of

itself. The whole piece was turned topsy-turvy, so that the stop-gap

intermediate scenes became the principal and important part of the

business. It was delightful, too, how the old fellow sometimes told the

audience beforehand how the manager was going to appear, mimicking his

gestures and attitudes; and that he attributed the ringing laughter,

which really belonged to the old fellow's admirable imitation of him,

to his own success in making up. At last, however, the manager could

not possibly help finding out what the old fellow was doing, and you

may suppose he flew at him like a raging wild boar, so that it was all

that he could do to escape mishandling. He did not dare to appear on

the stage again; but the audience and the public had got so fond of the

old actor, and took his side with so much zeal, that the manager

(burdened, moreover, since that celebrated evening, with the curse of

ludicrosity), found himself compelled to close his theatre, and betake

himself elsewhere. Several respectable townsmen, with the innkeeper at

their head, met, and collected a considerable sum of money for the old

actor, enough to enable him to have done for ever with the worries of

the stage, and end his days in comfort in the place. But marvellous,

nay, unfathomable, is the mind of an actor! Before a year was over he

suddenly disappeared, nobody knew whither, and presently he was

discovered travelling with a strolling company, quite in the same

subordinate position from which he had so recently shaken himself

clear."

"With a very slight 'moral application,'" said Ottmar, "this tale of

the old actor belongs to the moral codex of all stage-players, and of

those who desire to become players."

During this, Cyprian had risen silently, and, after walking once or

twice up and down the room, taken his position behind the window

curtain. Just when Ottmar ceased speaking, a blast of wind came

suddenly howling and raging in. The lights threatened to go out;

Theodore's writing-table seemed to become alive; hundreds of papers

flew up, and were wafted about the room; the strings of the old piano

groaned aloud.

"Hey, hey!" cried Theodore, as he saw his literary notices, and who

knows what other written matter, at the mercy of the raging autumn

storm. "Hey, hey, Cyprianus, what are you about?" And they all set to

work to keep the lights in, and shield themselves from the thick

snowflakes which came swirling in.

"It is true," said Cyprian, shutting the window, "the weather won't let

one look to see what it is."

"Tell me," said Sylvester, taking the wholly absentminded and deeply

preoccupied Cyprian by both hands, and forcing him to sit down again in

the seat he had left, "only tell me--that is all I ask--where have you

been? In what distant region have you been wandering? for far, far away

from us has that restless spirit of yours been bearing you again."

"Not so very far away from you as you may suppose," answered Cyprian.

"And, at all events, it was your own conversation which opened the door

for my departure. You had been saying so much about Comedy, and Vincenz

was stating his conclusion (justly resulting from experience), that

amongst us the fun which plays with itself is lost. It occurred to me

that, on the other hand, many real talents have displayed themselves in

tragedy, in more and most recent times, and along with this thought I

was struck by the remembrance of a writer who began, with genuine,

high-aspiring genius, but suddenly, as if carried away by some fatal

eddy, went under, so that his name is scarcely ever heard of."

"There," said Ottmar, "you were going in exact opposition to Lothair's

principle--that true genius never goes under."

"And Lothair is right," answered Cyprian, "if he holds that the

fiercest storms of life cannot blow out the flame which blazes forth

from the inner spirit,--that the bitterest adversities, the keenest

misfortunes fight in vain against the inner heavenly might of the soul,

which only bends the bow to deliver the arrow with the greater power.

But how were it if in the first inner germ of the embryo there lurked

the poisonous parasite larva, the worm, which, developing along with

the beautiful blossom, gnaws at its life, so that it bears its death

within itself? No storm is then needed for its destruction."

"In that case," said Lothair, "your genius would be wanting in the

first condition indispensible to the tragic-poet who would enter upon

life free, and in possession of his powers. I mean that such a poet's

genius must be absolutely healthy--sound--free from the slightest

ailment, such as psychic weakness, or, to use your language, anything

such as congenital poison. Who could, and can, congratulate himself

more on such a soundness of mental constitution than our grand

Gœthe, mighty father of us all? It is with such an unweakened

strength as his, with such an inward purity, that heroes are begotten,

such as Goetz von Berlichingen and Egmont! And if we cannot, perhaps,

admit such a heroic power (in quite the same degree) in our Schiller,

there is, on the other hand, that pure sun-glance of the inner soul

beaming round his heroes in which we, beneficently warmed, feel as

powerful and strong as their creator. And we must not forget the Robber

Moor, whom Ludwig Tieck, with perfect justice, calls the Titanic

creation of a young and daring imagination. But we are getting far from

the tragic poet whom you were speaking of, Cyprian, and I hope you will

tell us at once to whom you allude, although I fancy I have a strong

idea?"

"I was very nearly breaking in upon your conversation, as I did once

before, with strange words and sayings," answered Cyprian, "which you

would not have understood, inasmuch as you were not seeing the images

of my waking-dream. Nevertheless, I cry out 'No! Since the days of

Shakespeare there never stalked such a Being across the stage as this

superhumanly terrible, gruesome old man!' And that you may not remain a

moment longer in doubt on the subject, I add at once that no modern

poet can congratulate himself on such a loftily tragic and powerful

creation as the author of the Söhne des Thales."

The friends looked at each other in amazement. They made a rapid

pass-muster of the principal characters in Zacharias Werner's pieces,

and then came to the same conclusion--that in every case there was a

certain element of the strange and singular, and often of the

commonplace, mingled with the truly great, the grandly tragic which

seemed to indicate that the author had never come to any really clear

seeing of his heroes, and that he was doubtless deficient in that

absolute health and soundness of the inner mind which Lothair

considered indispensible to every writer of tragedy.

Theodore alone had been laughing within himself, as if he were of

another opinion, and now began:

"Halt! Halt! ye worthy Serapion Brethren. Don't be in too great a

hurry. I know very well, in fact, I am the only one of you who can

know, that Cyprian is speaking of a work which the writer never

finished, which is consequently unknown to the world, although friends

in the writer's neighbourhood, to whom he communicated sketches of

scenes from it, had ample reason to be convinced that it would rise to

the position of being amongst the grandest and most powerful, not only

that he ever produced, but which have been seen in modern days."

"Of course," said Cyprian, "I was talking of the second part of the

'Kreuz an der Ostsee,' in which it is that the terrible, gruesome,

gigantic character to whom I was alluding occurs, the old King of

Prussia, Waidewuthis. It may be impossible for me to give you a

distinct idea of this character, which the poet, by virtue of some

mighty spell at his command, seems to have conjured up from the

mysterious depths of the subterranean kingdoms. It must suffice if I

enable you to look into the interior mechanism of the springs which the

poet has placed within it to set this production of his into due

activity of movement. According to historical tradition, the earliest

'culture' of the ancient Prussians was originated by their king,

Waidewuthis. He introduced the rights of property. The fields were

divided, and agriculture carried on. He also gave the nation a form of

religious worship, inasmuch as he himself carved three graven images,

to which sacrifices were offered beneath an ancient oak-tree, where

they were set up; but a terrible power grasped hold of him (though

himself all-powerful, the god of the nation which he ruled), those rude

graven images, carved by his own hands, that the people's force and

will might bow down before them as embodiments of a higher energy,

suddenly awoke into life. And what inflamed those senseless images thus

into life was the fire which the Satanic Prometheus stole from Hell.

Rebellious thralls of their Lord and Maker, those idols began to wield

against himself the weapons with which he had armed them. And thus

commences the monstrous conflict of the Superhuman principle with the

Human. I do not know if I have been intelligible to you--if I have

quite succeeded in representing to you the poet's colossal idea; but,

as Serapion Brethren, I would charge you to look deep down, as I have

done, into the terrible abyss which the poet has opened and disclosed,

and feel the terror and awe which overwhelms me even now as I think of

that Waidewuthis."

"And in truth," said Theodore, "our Cyprian has turned quite white;

which of course proves how the whole grand sketch of the extraordinary

picture which the poet displayed before him--but from which he has

shown us only one of the principal groups--has stirred his inner soul.

But, as regards Waidewuthis, I think it would have been sufficient to

say that the poet, with astonishing power and originality, conceived

this Daemon with so much grandeur, power, and might, so gigantic a

figure, that he appears quite worthy of the contest, and that the

triumph, the glory of Christianity must beam forth all the brighter in

consequence. It is true that in many of his characteristics, the old

monarch appears to me as if he were--to speak with Dante--the Imperador

del Doloroso Regno in person, walking on earth. The catastrophe of his

overthrow, that triumph of Christianity, which is the final chord

towards which everything strives, in the whole work (which to me, at

all events, according to the design of the second part, seems to belong

to another world), I have never been able to form a conception of to

myself in dramatic form; although in quite other sounds, and in those

only, I did conceive the possibility of a conclusion which, in terrific

sublimity, would surpass everything else which could be conceived of.

But this only became apparent to me when I had read Calderon's great

'Magus.' Moreover, the poet has not uttered himself as to the mode in

which he would finish the work; at least nothing of the sort has

reached my ears."

"It seems to me," said Vincent, "on the whole very much as though it

had gone with the poet, as to his work, as it did with old King

Waidewuthis and his graven images. It grew over his head; and that he

could not get control of his own power is proved by the very failure of

his inward energy, which, at length, does not allow anything sound,

healthy, vigorous, to come to the light of day. On the whole, even if

Cyprian is right in thinking that the old king had the best possible

dispositions for turning out a splendid and powerful Satan, I do not

see how he could have got into due relation with humanity again. The

Satan would have had to be, at the same time, a grand, powerful kingly

hero."

"And that is exactly what he was," answered Cyprian. "But to prove this

to you, I should require to know whole scenes by heart, which the

author communicated to us. I remember one in particular, very vividly,

which seemed to me magnificent. King Waidewuthis knew that none of his

sons would succeed him in the crown, so he selected a boy--I think he

appeared about twelve years old--as his successor. In the night they

two--Waidewuthis and the boy--are lying by the fire, and Waidewuthis.

occupies himself in kindling the boy's courage towards the idea of the

godly-might of the Euler of a People. This address of Waidewuthis

seemed to me quite masterly, quite perfect. The boy, who has a young

tame wolf, his faithful playmate, in his arms, listens attentively to

the old man's words; and when the latter at last asks him if, for the

sake of power he would be capable of sacrificing even his wolf, the boy

looks him gravely in the face, and without a word, throws the wolf into

the flames."

"I know," cried Theodore, as Vincent smiled strangely, and Lothair

seemed on the point of breaking out from inward impatience, "I know

what you are going to say--I hear the severe sentence of condemnation

with which you dismiss the author; and I will admit that I should have

perfectly agreed with you only a day or two ago, and been of the same

opinion, not so much from conviction, as from anger that the author

should have entered upon paths which must for ever carry him away from

me, Bo that a re-encounter between us must have appeared scarcely

conceivable, and moreover, almost not to be desired. It would have been

quite justifiable for the world, considering the manner in which the

author had commenced his career, to think that there was evidence of an

untruthful inconstancy--a weathercockiness--of mind, disposed to cast

over others the veil which self-deception had woven around him;

although, all this time, the truth had torn this veil asunder, with

rude vigour, so that the world could discern, in his heart, a wicked

spirit of self-seeking, endeavouring to gain the glitter of false fame

for purposes of self-beatification. But I am obliged to confess that

his preface to his sacred drama, 'The Mother of the Macabees,' has

completely disarmed me. And this preface can only be perfectly

understood by the few friends of his who were closely associated with

him in his most beautiful blossoming-time. It contains the most

affecting admissions of culpable weaknesses; the most pathetic

lamentations over powers for ever lost. Those things may have escaped

the writer involuntarily, and it is very likely that he did not,

himself, perceive that deeper significance which the friends whom he

had abandoned must have seen in those words. As I read this preface, I

seemed to see, through a dim, colourless ocean of cloud, rays feebly

piercing of a lofty, noble spirit, rising beyond the crack-brained

follies of immature perversity, and, if not fully conscious of its own

value, yet possessing a considerable inkling of its worth. The writer

seemed to me much like one of those who are victims of that form of

insanity of which the predominant symptom is 'fixed idea.' Those

unhappy people are, in their lucid intervals, aware of their delusions;

but, to soothe the comfortless horror of that consciousness, they

strive to convince themselves that in those very delusions their

highest and truest existence lives and moves. And this they do by the

most ingenious sophisms; striving also to induce themselves to believe

that their consciousness of their delusion is nothing but the sick

doubting of Humanity immeshed and enslaved in the Earthly. And in the

preface which I am speaking of, the writer touches upon the second part

of the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee,' admitting this."

"Please don't make such horrible faces, Lothair! Sit still on your

chair, Ottmar; don't drum the Russian Grenadiers' March on the elbow of

your seat, Vincenz. I really think that the author of the 'Soehne des

Thales' deserves to be discussed rationally and quietly by us, and I

must confess that my heart is very full of this subject, and I cannot

help letting the froth which is seething there boil thoroughly over."

"Ha!" cried Vincenz, very loudly and pathetically, "how the froth

seethes!--now that is a quotation from the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee,' where

the heathen priests sing it in fearful and horrible strains. My dear

Serapion-Brother Theodore, you may rage, revile, curse and blaspheme

as much as you please, but I must just introduce into this many-sided

discussion one little anecdote, which will throw, at all events,

a momentary glimpse of sunshine over all those corpse-watchers'

countenances. The author of whom we are speaking had got together a few

friends that he might read to them the 'Kreuz an der Ostsee' from the

manuscript. They had heard some passages from it before, which had

raised their expectations to the highest pitch. The author had, as

usual, seated himself in the centre of the circle, at a small table

where two candles were burning in tall candlesticks. He had taken his

manuscript out of his breast-pocket, and laid down before him his big

snuff-box, and his blue-and-white checked pocket-handkerchief. Profound

silence reigned. Not a breath was audible. The author, making one of

his extraordinary faces, which defy all description, began as

follows:--

"'Bankputtis!--Bankputtis!--Bankputtis!'

"Of course you remember that, in the opening scene, at the rising of

the curtain, the Prussians are discovered, assembled by the seashore,

collecting amber; and they invoke the deities who preside over this.

Very well. The author, as I have said, began with the words--

"'Bankputtis! Bankputtis!"

"Then there was a short pause; after which there came forth out of a

corner the soft voice of a member of the audience, saying: 'My dearest

and most beloved friend! Most glorious of all authors; if you have

written the whole of this most admirable poem of yours in that infernal

language, not one soul of us understands a single syllable of it. For

God's sake, be so kind as to start with a translation of it.'"