PART I.

Produced by Charles Bowen, from scans obtained from The

Internet Archive.

Web Archive: http://www.archive.org/details/weirdtales00unkngoog

WEIRD TALES

BY

E. T. W. HOFFMANN

A NEW TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN

WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR

By J. T. BEALBY, B.A.

FORMERLY SCHOLAR OF CORPUS CHRISTI COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. I.

NEW YORK

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

1885

CONTENTS OF VOLUME I.

PAGE

THE CREMONA VIOLIN, 1

THE FERMATA, 32

SIGNOR FORMICA, 59

THE SAND-MAN, 168

THE ENTAIL, 216

ARTHUR'S HALL, 322

THE CREMONA VIOLIN.

Councillor Krespel was one of the strangest, oddest men I ever met with

in my life. When I went to live in H---- for a time the whole town was

full of talk about him, as he happened to be just then in the midst of

one of the very craziest of his schemes. Krespel had the reputation

of being both a clever, learn lawyer and a skilful diplomatist. One of

the reigning princes of Germany--not, however, one of the most

powerful--had appealed to him for assistance in drawing up a memorial,

which he was desirous of presenting at the Imperial Court with the view

of furthering his legitimate claims upon a certain strip of territory.

The project was crowned with the happiest success; and as Krespel had

once complained that he could never find a dwelling sufficiently

comfortable to suit him, the prince, to reward him for the memorial,

undertook to defray the cost of building a house which Krespel might

erect just as he pleased. Moreover, the prince was willing to purchase

any site that he should fancy. This offer, however, the Councillor

would not accept; he insisted that the house should be built in his

garden, situated in a very beautiful neighbourhood outside the

town-walls. So he bought all kinds of materials and had them carted

out. Then he might have been seen day after day, attired in his curious

garments (which he had made himself according to certain fixed rules of

his own), slacking the lime, riddling the sand, packing up the bricks

and stones in regular heaps, and so on. All this he did without once

consulting an architect or thinking about a plan. One fine day,

however, he went to an experienced builder of the town and requested

him to be in his garden at daybreak the next morning, with all his

journeymen and apprentices, and a large body of labourers, &c., to

build him his house. Naturally the builder asked for the architect's

plan, and was not a little astonished when Krespel replied that none

was needed, and that things would turn out all right in the end, just

as he wanted them. Next morning, when the builder and his men came to

the place, they found a trench drawn out in the shape of an exact

square; and Krespel said, "Here's where you must lay the foundations;

then carry up the walls until I say they are high enough." "Without

windows and doors, and without partition walls?" broke in the builder,

as if alarmed at Krespel's mad folly. "Do what I tell you, my dear

sir," replied the Councillor quite calmly; "leave the rest to me; it

will be all right." It was only the promise of high pay that could

induce the builder to proceed with the ridiculous building; but none

has ever been erected under merrier circumstances. As there was an

abundant supply of food and drink, the workmen never left their work;

and amidst their continuous laughter the four walls were run up with

incredible quickness, until one day Krespel cried, "Stop!" Then the

workmen, laying down trowel and hammer, came down from the scaffoldings

and gathered round Krespel in a circle, whilst every laughing face was

asking, "Well, and what now?" "Make way!" cried Krespel; and then

running to one end of the garden, he strode slowly towards the square

of brick-work. When he came close to the wall he shook his head in a

dissatisfied manner, ran to the other end of the garden, again strode

slowly towards the brick-work square, and proceeded to act as before.

These tactics he pursued several times, until at length, running his

sharp nose hard against the wall, he cried, "Come here, come here, men!

break me a door in here! Here's where I want a door made!" He gave the

exact dimensions in feet and inches, and they did as he bid them. Then

he stepped inside the structure, and smiled with satisfaction as the

builder remarked that the walls were just the height of a good

two-storeyed house. Krespel walked thoughtfully backwards and forwards

across the space within, the bricklayers behind him with hammers and

picks, and wherever he cried, "Make a window here, six feet high by

four feet broad!" "There a little window, three feet by two!" a hole

was made in a trice.

It was at this stage of the proceedings that I came to H----; and it

was highly amusing to see how hundreds of people stood round about the

garden and raised a loud shout whenever the stones flew out and a new

window appeared where nobody had for a moment expected it. And in the

same manner Krespel proceeded with the buildings and fittings of the

rest of the house, and with all the work necessary to that end;

everything had to be done on the spot in accordance with the

instructions which the Councillor gave from time to time. However, the

absurdity of the whole business, the growing conviction that things

would in the end turn out better than might have been expected, but

above all, Krespel's generosity--which indeed cost him nothing--kept

them all in good-humour. Thus were the difficulties overcome which

necessarily arose out of this eccentric way of building, and in a short

time there was a completely finished house, its outside, indeed,

presenting a most extraordinary appearance, no two windows, &c., being

alike, but on the other hand the interior arrangements suggested a

peculiar feeling of comfort. All who entered the house bore witness to

the truth of this; and I too experienced it myself when I was taken in

by Krespel after I had become more intimate with him. For hitherto I

had not exchanged a word with this eccentric man; his building had

occupied him so much that he had not even once been to Professor

M----'s to dinner, as he was in the habit of going on Tuesdays. Indeed,

in reply to a special invitation, he sent word that he should not set

foot over the threshold before the house-warming of his new building

took place. All his friends and acquaintances, therefore, confidently

looked forward to a great banquet; but Krespel invited nobody except

the masters, journeymen, apprentices, and labourers who had built the

house. He entertained them with the choicest viands: bricklayer's

apprentices devoured partridge pies regardless of consequences; young

joiners polished off roast pheasants with the greatest success; whilst

hungry labourers helped themselves for once to the choicest morsels of

_truffes fricassees_. In the evening their wives and daughters came,

and there was a great ball. After waltzing a short while with the wives

of the masters, Krespel sat down amongst the town-musicians, took a

violin in his hand, and directed the orchestra until daylight.

On the Tuesday after this festival, which exhibited Councillor Krespel

in the character of a friend of the people, I at length saw him appear,

to my no little joy, at Professor M----'s. Anything more strange and

fantastic than Krespel's behaviour it would be impossible to find. He

was so stiff and awkward in his movements, that he looked every moment

as if he would run up against something or do some damage. But he did

not; and the lady of the house seemed to be well aware that he would

not, for she did not grow a shade paler when he rushed with heavy steps

round a table crowded with beautiful cups, or when he man[oe]uvred near

a large mirror that reached down to the floor, or even when he seized a

flower-pot of beautifully painted porcelain and swung it round in the

air as if desirous of making its colours play. Moreover, before dinner

he subjected everything in the Professor's room to a most minute

examination; he also took down a picture from the wall and hung it up

again, standing on one of the cushioned chairs to do so. At the same

time he talked a good deal and vehemently; at one time his thoughts

kept leaping, as it were, from one subject to another (this was most

conspicuous during dinner); at another, he was unable to have done with

an idea; seizing upon it again and again, he gave it all sorts of

wonderful twists and turns, and couldn't get back into the ordinary

track until something else took hold of his fancy. Sometimes his voice

was rough and harsh and screeching, and sometimes it was low and

drawling and singing; but at no time did it harmonize with what he was

talking about. Music was the subject of conversation; the praises of a

new composer were being sung, when Krespel, smiling, said in his low

singing tones, "I wish the devil with his pitchfork would hurl that

atrocious garbler of music millions of fathoms down to the bottomless

pit of hell!" Then he burst out passionately and wildly, "She is an

angel of heaven, nothing but pure God-given music!--the paragon and

queen of song!"--and tears stood in his eyes. To understand this, we

had to go back to a celebrated _artiste_, who had been the subject of

conversation an hour before.

Just at this time a roast hare was on the table; I noticed that Krespel

carefully removed every particle of meat from the bones on his plate,

and was most particular in his inquiries after the hare's feet; these

the Professor's little five-year-old daughter now brought to him with a

very pretty smile. Besides, the children had cast many friendly glances

towards Krespel during dinner; now they rose and drew nearer to him,

but not without signs of timorous awe. What's the meaning of that?

thought I to myself. Dessert was brought in; then the Councillor took a

little box from his pocket, in which he had a miniature lathe of steel.

This he immediately screwed fast to the table, and turning the bones

with incredible skill and rapidity, he made all sorts of little fancy

boxes and balls, which the children received with cries of delight.

Just as we were rising from table, the Professor's niece asked, "And

what is our Antonia doing?" Krespel's face was like that of one who has

bitten of a sour orange and wants to look as if it were a sweet one;

but this expression soon changed into the likeness of a hideous mask,

whilst he laughed behind it with downright bitter, fierce, and as it

seemed to me, satanic scorn. "Our Antonia? our dear Antonia?" he asked

in his drawling, disagreeable singing way. The Professor hastened to

intervene; in the reproving glance which he gave his niece I read that

she had touched a point likely to stir up unpleasant memories in

Krespel's heart. "How are you getting on with your violins?" interposed

the Professor in a jovial manner, taking the Councillor by both hands.

Then Krespel's countenance cleared up, and with a firm voice he

replied, "Capitally, Professor; you recollect my telling you of the

lucky chance which threw that splendid Amati[1] into my hands. Well,

I've only cut it open to-day--not before to-day. I hope Antonia has

carefully taken the rest of it to pieces." "Antonia is a good child,"

remarked the Professor. "Yes, indeed, that she is," cried the

Councillor, whisking himself round; then, seizing his hat and stick, he

hastily rushed out of the room. I saw in the mirror how that tears were

standing in his eyes.

As soon as the Councillor was gone, I at once urged the Professor to

explain to me what Krespel had to do with violins, and particularly

with Antonia. "Well," replied the Professor, "not only is the

Councillor a remarkably eccentric fellow altogether, but he practises

violin-making in his own crack-brained way." "Violin-making!" I

exclaimed, perfectly astonished. "Yes," continued the Professor,

"according to the judgment of men who understand the thing, Krespel

makes the very best violins that can be found nowadays; formerly he

would frequently let other people play on those in which he had been

especially successful, but that's been all over and done with now for a

long time. As soon as he has finished a violin he plays on it himself

for one or two hours, with very remarkable power and with the most

exquisite expression, then he hangs it up beside the rest, and never

touches it again or suffers anybody else to touch it. If a violin by

any of the eminent old masters is hunted up anywhere, the Councillor

buys it immediately, no matter what the price put upon it. But he plays

it as he does his own violins, only once; then he takes it to pieces in

order to examine closely its inner structure, and should he fancy he

hasn't found exactly what he sought for, he in a pet throws the pieces

into a big chest, which is already full of the remains of broken

violins." "But who and what is Antonia?" I inquired, hastily and

impetuously. "Well, now, that," continued the Professor, "that is a

thing which might very well make me conceive an unconquerable aversion

to the Councillor, were I not convinced that there is some peculiar

secret behind it, for he is such a good-natured fellow at bottom as to

be sometimes guilty of weakness. When he came to H---- several years

ago, he led the life of an anchorite, along with an old housekeeper, in

---- Street. Soon, by his oddities, he excited the curiosity of his

neighbours; and immediately he became aware of this, he sought and made

acquaintances. Not only in my house but everywhere we became so

accustomed to him that he grew to be indispensable. In spite of his

rude exterior, even the children liked him, without ever proving a

nuisance to him; for notwithstanding all their friendly passages

together, they always retained a certain timorous awe of him, which

secured him against all over-familiarity. You have to-day had an

example of the way in which he wins their hearts by his ready skill in

various things. We all took him at first for a crusty old bachelor, and

he never contradicted us. After he had been living here some time, he

went away, nobody knew where, and returned at the end of some months.

The evening following his return his windows were lit up to an unusual

extent! this alone was sufficient to arouse his neighbours' attention,

and they soon heard the surpassingly beautiful voice of a female

singing to the accompaniment of a piano. Then the music of a violin was

heard chiming in and entering upon a keen ardent contest with the

voice. They knew at once that the player was the Councillor. I myself

mixed in the large crowd which had gathered in front of his house to

listen to this extraordinary concert; and I must confess that, beside

this voice and the peculiar, deep, soul-stirring impression which the

execution made upon me, the singing of the most celebrated _artistes_

whom I had ever heard seemed to me feeble and void of expression. Until

then I had had no conception of such long-sustained notes, of such

nightingale trills, of such undulations of musical sound, of such

swelling up to the strength of organ-notes, of such dying away to the

faintest whisper. There was not one whom the sweet witchery did not

enthral; and when the singer ceased, nothing but soft sighs broke the

impressive silence. Somewhere about midnight the Councillor was heard

talking violently, and another male voice seemed, to judge from the

tones, to be reproaching him, whilst at intervals the broken words of a

sobbing girl could be detected. The Councillor continued to shout with

increasing violence, until he fell into that drawling, singing way that

you know. He was interrupted by a loud scream from the girl, and then

all was as still as death. Suddenly a loud racket was heard on the

stairs; a young man rushed out sobbing, threw himself into a

post-chaise which stood below, and drove rapidly away. The next day the

Councillor was very cheerful, and nobody had the courage to question

him about the events of the previous night. But on inquiring of the

housekeeper, we gathered that the Councillor had brought home with him

an extraordinarily pretty young lady whom he called Antonia, and she it

was who had sung so beautifully. A young man also had come along with

them; he had treated Antonia very tenderly, and must evidently have

been her betrothed. But he, since the Councillor peremptorily insisted

on it, had had to go away again in a hurry. What the relations between

Antonia and the Councillor are has remained until now a secret, but

this much is certain, that he tyrannises over the poor girl in the most

hateful fashion. He watches her as Doctor Bartholo watches his ward in

the _Barber of Seville_; she hardly dare show herself at the window;

and if, yielding now and again to her earnest entreaties, he takes her

into society, he follows her with Argus' eyes, and will on no account

suffer a musical note to be sounded, far less let Antonia sing--indeed,

she is not permitted to sing in his own house. Antonia's singing on

that memorable night, has, therefore, come to be regarded by the

townspeople in the light of a tradition of some marvellous wonder that

suffices to stir the heart and the fancy; and even those who did not

hear it often exclaim, whenever any other singer attempts to display

her powers in the place, 'What sort of a wretched squeaking do you call

that? Nobody but Antonia knows how to sing.'"

Having a singular weakness for such like fantastic histories, I found

it necessary, as may easily be imagined, to make Antonia's

acquaintance. I had myself often enough heard the popular sayings about

her singing, but had never imagined that that exquisite _artiste_ was

living in the place, held a captive in the bonds of this eccentric

Krespel like the victim of a tyrannous sorcerer. Naturally enough I

heard in my dreams on the following night Antonia's marvellous voice,

and as she besought me in the most touching manner in a glorious

_adagio_ movement (very ridiculously it seemed to me, as if I had

composed it myself) to save her, I soon resolved, like a second

Astolpho,[2] to penetrate into Krespel's house, as if into another

Alcina's magic castle, and deliver the queen of song from her

ignominious fetters.

It all came about in a different way from what I had expected; I had

seen the Councillor scarcely more than two or three times, and eagerly

discussed with him the best method of constructing violins, when he

invited me to call and see him. I did so; and he showed me his

treasures of violins. There were fully thirty of them hanging up in a

closet; one amongst them bore conspicuously all the marks of great

antiquity (a carved lion's head, &c.), and, hung up higher than the

rest and surmounted by a crown of flowers, it seemed to exercise a

queenly supremacy over them. "This violin," said Krespel, on my making

some inquiry relative to it, "this violin is a very remarkable and

curious specimen of the work of some unknown master, probably of

Tartini's[3] age. I am perfectly convinced that there is something

especially exceptional in its inner construction, and that, if I took

it to pieces, a secret would be revealed to me which I have long been

seeking to discover, but--laugh at me if you like--this senseless thing

which only gives signs of life and sound as I make it, often speaks to

me in a strange way of itself. The first time I played upon it I

somehow fancied that I was only the magnetiser who has the power of

moving his subject to reveal of his own accord in words the visions of

his inner nature. Don't go away with the belief that I am such a fool

as to attach even the slightest importance to such fantastic notions,

and yet it's certainly strange that I could never prevail upon myself

to cut open that dumb lifeless thing there. I am very pleased now that

I have not cut it open, for since Antonia has been with me I sometimes

play to her upon this violin. For Antonia is fond of it--very fond of

it." As the Councillor uttered these words with visible signs of

emotion, I felt encouraged to hazard the question, "Will you not play

it to me, Councillor." Krespel made a wry face, and falling into his

drawling, singing way, said, "No, my good sir!" and that was an end of

the matter. Then I had to look at all sorts of rare curiosities, the

greater part of them childish trifles; at last thrusting his arm into a

chest, he brought out a folded piece of paper, which he pressed into my

hand, adding solemnly, "You are a lover of art; take this present as a

priceless memento, which you must value at all times above everything

else." Therewith he took me by the shoulders and gently pushed me

towards the door, embracing me on the threshold. That is to say, I was

in a symbolical manner virtually kicked out of doors. Unfolding the

paper, I found a piece of a first string of a violin about an eighth of

an inch in length, with the words, "A piece of the treble string with

which the deceased Staraitz[4] strung his violin for the last concert

at which he ever played."

This summary dismissal at mention of Antonia's name led me to infer

that I should never see her; but I was mistaken, for on my second visit

to the Councillor's I found her in his room, assisting him to put a

violin together. At first sight Antonia did not make a strong

impression; but soon I found it impossible to tear myself away from her

blue eyes, her sweet rosy lips, her uncommonly graceful, lovely form.

She was very pale; but a shrewd remark or a merry sally would call up a

winning smile on her face and suffuse her cheeks with a deep burning

flush, which, however, soon faded away to a faint rosy glow. My

conversation with her was quite unconstrained, and yet I saw nothing

whatever of the Argus-like watchings on Krespel's part which the

Professor had imputed to him; on the contrary, his behaviour moved

along the customary lines, nay, he even seemed to approve of my

conversation with Antonia. So I often stepped in to see the Councillor;

and as we became accustomed to each other's society, a singular feeling

of homeliness, taking possession of our little circle of three, filled

our hearts with inward happiness. I still continued to derive exquisite

enjoyment from the Councillor's strange crotchets and oddities; but it

was of course Antonia's irresistible charms alone which attracted me,

and led me to put up with a good deal which I should otherwise, in the

frame of mind in which I then was, have impatiently shunned. For it

only too often happened that in the Councillor's characteristic

extravagance there was mingled much that was dull and tiresome; and it

was in a special degree irritating to me that, as often as I turned the

conversation upon music, and particularly upon singing, he was sure to

interrupt me, with that sardonic smile upon his face and those

repulsive singing tones of his, by some remark of a quite opposite

tendency, very often of a commonplace character. From the great

distress which at such times Antonia's glances betrayed, I perceived

that he only did it to deprive me of a pretext for calling upon her for

a song. But I didn't relinquish my design. The hindrances which the

Councillor threw in my way only strengthened my resolution to overcome

them; I must hear Antonia sing if I was not to pine away in reveries

and dim aspirations for want of hearing her.

One evening Krespel was in an uncommonly good humour; he had been

taking an old Cremona violin to pieces, and had discovered that the

sound-post was fixed half a line more obliquely than usual--an

important discovery! one of incalculable advantage in the practical

work of making violins! I succeeded in setting him off at full speed on

his hobby of the true art of violin-playing. Mention of the way in

which the old masters picked up their dexterity in execution from

really great singers (which was what Krespel happened just then to be

expatiating upon), naturally paved the way for the remark that now the

practice was the exact opposite of this, the vocal score erroneously

following the affected and abrupt transitions and rapid scaling of the

instrumentalists. "What is more nonsensical," I cried, leaping from my

chair, running to the piano, and opening it quickly, "what is more

nonsensical than such an execrable style as this, which, far from being

music, is much more like the noise of peas rolling across the floor?"

At the same time I sang several of the modern _fermatas_, which rush up

and down and hum like a well-spun peg-top, striking a few villanous

chords by way of accompaniment Krespel laughed outrageously and

screamed, "Ha! ha! methinks I hear our German-Italians or our

Italian-Germans struggling with an aria from Pucitta,[5] or

Portogallo,[6] or some other _Maestro di capella_, or rather _schiavo

d'un primo uomo_."[7] Now, thought I, now's the time; so turning to

Antonia, I remarked, "Antonia knows nothing of such singing as that, I

believe?" At the same time I struck up one of old Leonardo Leo's[8]

beautiful soul-stirring songs. Then Antonia's cheeks glowed; heavenly

radiance sparkled in her eyes, which grew full of reawakened

inspiration; she hastened to the piano; she opened her lips; but at

that very moment Krespel pushed her away, grasped me by the shoulders,

and with a shriek that rose up to a tenor pitch, cried, "My son--my

son--my son!" And then he immediately went on, singing very softly, and

grasping my hand with a bow that was the pink of politeness, "In very

truth, my esteemed and honourable student-friend, in very truth it

would be a violation of the codes of social intercourse, as well as of

all good manners, were I to express aloud and in a stirring way my wish

that here, on this very spot, the devil from hell would softly break

your neck with his burning claws, and so in a sense make short work of

you; but, setting that aside, you must acknowledge, my dearest friend,

that it is rapidly growing dark, and there are no lamps burning

to-night so that, even though I did not kick you downstairs at once,

your darling limbs might still run a risk of suffering damage. Go home

by all means; and cherish a kind remembrance of your faithful friend,

if it should happen that you never,--pray, understand me,--if you

should never see him in his own house again." Therewith he embraced

me, and, still keeping fast hold of me, turned with me slowly towards

the door, so that I could not get another single look at Antonia. Of

course it is plain enough that in my position I couldn't thrash the

Councillor, though that is what he really deserved. The Professor

enjoyed a good laugh at my expense, and assured me that I had ruined

for ever all hopes of retaining the Councillor's friendship. Antonia

was too dear to me, I might say too holy, for me to go and play the

part of the languishing lover and stand gazing up at her window, or to

fill the _role_ of the lovesick adventurer. Completely upset, I went

away from H----; but, as is usual in such cases, the brilliant colours

of the picture of my fancy faded, and the recollection of Antonia, as

well as of Antonia's singing (which I had never heard), often fell upon

my heart like a soft faint trembling light, comforting me.

Two years afterwards I received an appointment in B----, and set out on

a journey to the south of Germany. The towers of M---- rose before me

in the red vaporous glow of the evening; the nearer I came the more was

I oppressed by an indescribable feeling of the most agonising distress;

it lay upon me like a heavy burden; I could not breathe; I was obliged

to get out of my carriage into the open air. But my anguish continued

to increase until it became actual physical pain. Soon I seemed to hear

the strains of a solemn chorale floating in the air; the sounds

continued to grow more distinct; I realised the fact that they were

men's voices chanting a church chorale. "What's that? what's that?" I

cried, a burning stab darting as it were through my breast "Don't you

see?" replied the coachman, who was driving along beside me, "why,

don't you see? they're burying somebody up yonder in yon churchyard."

And indeed we were near the churchyard; I saw a circle of men clothed

in black standing round a grave, which was on the point of being

closed. Tears started to my eyes; I somehow fancied they were burying

there all the joy and all the happiness of life. Moving on rapidly down

the hill, I was no longer able to see into the churchyard; the chorale

came to an end, and I perceived not far distant from the gate some of

the mourners returning from the funeral. The Professor, with his niece

on his arm, both in deep mourning, went close past me without noticing

me. The young lady had her handkerchief pressed close to her eyes, and

was weeping bitterly. In the frame of mind in which I then was I could

not possibly go into the town, so I sent on my servant with the

carriage to the hotel where I usually put up, whilst I took a turn in

the familiar neighbourhood, to get rid of a mood that was possibly only

due to physical causes, such as heating on the journey, &c. On arriving

at a well-known avenue, which leads to a pleasure resort, I came upon a

most extraordinary spectacle. Councillor Krespel was being conducted by

two mourners, from whom he appeared to be endeavouring to make his

escape by all sorts of strange twists and turns. As usual, he was

dressed in his own curious home-made grey coat; but from his little

cocked-hat, which he wore perched over one ear in military fashion, a

long narrow ribbon of black crape fluttered backwards and forwards in

the wind. Around his waist he had buckled a black sword-belt; but

instead of a sword he had stuck a long fiddle-bow into it. A creepy

shudder ran through my limbs: "He's insane," thought I, as I slowly

followed them. The Councillor's companions led him as far as his house,

where he embraced them, laughing loudly. They left him; and then

his glance fell upon me, for I now stood near him. He stared at me

fixedly for some time; then he cried in a hollow voice, "Welcome, my

student-friend! you also understand it!" Therewith he took me by the

arm and pulled me into the house, up the steps, into the room where the

violins hung. They were all draped in black crape; the violin of the

old master was missing; in its place was a cypress wreath. I knew what

had happened. "Antonia! Antonia!" I cried in inconsolable grief. The

Councillor, with his arms crossed on his breast, stood beside me, as if

turned into stone. I pointed to the cypress wreath. "When she died,"

said he in a very hoarse solemn voice, "when she died, the soundpost of

that violin broke into pieces with a ringing crack, and the sound-board

was split from end to end. The faithful instrument could only live with

her and in her; it lies beside her in the coffin, it has been buried

with her." Deeply agitated, I sank down upon a chair, whilst the

Councillor began to sing a gay song in a husky voice; it was truly

horrible to see him hopping about on one foot, and the crape strings

(he still had his hat on) flying about the room and up to the violins

hanging on the walls. Indeed, I could not repress a loud cry that rose

to my lips when, on the Councillor making an abrupt turn, the crape

came all over me; I fancied he wanted to envelop me in it and drag me

down into the horrible dark depths of insanity. Suddenly he stood still

and addressed me in his singing way, "My son! my son! why do you call

out? Have you espied the angel of death? That always precedes the

ceremony." Stepping into the middle of the room, he took the violin-bow

out of his sword-belt and, holding it over his head with both hands,

broke it into a thousand pieces. Then, with a loud laugh, he cried,

"Now you imagine my sentence is pronounced, don't you, my son? but it's

nothing of the kind--not at all! not at all! Now I'm free--free--free--

hurrah! I'm free! Now I shall make no more violins--no more

violins--Hurrah! no more violins!" This he sang to a horrible mirthful

tune, again spinning round on one foot. Perfectly aghast, I was making

the best of my way to the door, when he held me fast, saying quite

calmly, "Stay, my student friend, pray don't think from this outbreak

of grief, which is torturing me as if with the agonies of death, that

I am insane; I only do it because a short time ago I made myself a

dressing-gown in which I wanted to look like Fate or like God!" The

Councillor then went on with a medley of silly and awful rubbish, until

he fell down utterly exhausted; I called up the old housekeeper, and

was very pleased to find myself in the open air again.

I never doubted for a moment that Krespel had become insane; the

Professor, however, asserted the contrary. "There are men," he

remarked, "from whom nature or a special destiny has taken away the

cover behind which the mad folly of the rest of us runs its course

unobserved. They are like thin-skinned insects, which, as we watch the

restless play of their muscles, seem to be misshapen, while

nevertheless everything soon comes back into its proper form again. All

that with us remains thought, passes over with Krespel into action.

That bitter scorn which the spirit that is wrapped up in the doings and

dealings of the earth often has at hand, Krespel gives vent to in

outrageous gestures and agile caprioles. But these are his lightning

conductor. What comes up out of the earth he gives again to the earth,

but what is divine, that he keeps; and so I believe that his inner

consciousness, in spite of the apparent madness which springs from it

to the surface, is as right as a trivet. To be sure, Antonia's sudden

death grieves him sore, but I warrant that tomorrow will see him going

along in his old jog-trot way as usual." And the Professor's prediction

was almost literally filled. Next day the Councillor appeared to be

just as he formerly was, only he averred that he would never make

another violin, nor yet ever play on another. And, as I learned later,

he kept his word.

Hints which the Professor let fall confirmed my own private conviction

that the so carefully guarded secret of the Councillor's relations to

Antonia, nay, that even her death, was a crime which must weigh heavily

upon him, a crime that could not be atoned for. I determined that I

would not leave H---- without taxing him with the offence which I

conceived him to be guilty of; I determined to shake his heart down to

its very roots, and so compel him to make open confession of the

terrible deed. The more I reflected upon the matter the clearer it grew

in my own mind that Krespel must be a villain, and in the same

proportion did my intended reproach, which assumed of itself the form

of a real rhetorical masterpiece, wax more fiery and more impressive.

Thus equipped and mightily incensed, I hurried to his house. I found

him with a calm smiling countenance making playthings. "How can peace,"

I burst out, "how can peace find lodgment even for a single moment in

your breast, so long as the memory of your horrible deed preys like a

serpent upon you?" He gazed at me in amazement, and laid his chisel

aside. "What do you mean, my dear sir?" he asked; "pray take a seat."

But my indignation chafing me more and more, I went on to accuse him

directly of having murdered Antonia, and to threaten him with the

vengeance of the Eternal.

Further, as a newly full-fledged lawyer, full of my profession, I went

so far as to give him to understand that I would leave no stone

unturned to get a clue to the business, and so deliver him here in this

world into the hands of an earthly judge. I must confess that I was

considerably disconcerted when, at the conclusion of my violent and

pompous harangue, the Councillor, without answering so much as a

single word, calmly fixed his eyes upon me as though expecting me

to go on again. And this I did indeed attempt to do, but it sounded so

ill-founded and so stupid as well that I soon grew silent again.

Krespel gloated over my embarrassment, whilst a malicious ironical

smile flitted across his face. Then he grew very grave, and addressed

me in solemn tones. "Young man, no doubt you think I am foolish,

insane; that I can pardon you, since we are both confined in the same

madhouse; and you only blame me for deluding myself with the idea that

I am God the Father because you imagine yourself to be God the Son. But

how do you dare desire to insinuate yourself into the secrets and lay

bare the hidden motives of a life that is strange to you and that must

continue so? She has gone and the mystery is solved." He ceased

speaking, rose, and traversed the room backwards and forwards several

times. I ventured to ask for an explanation; he fixed his eyes upon me,

grasped me by the hand, and led me to the window, which he threw wide

open. Propping himself upon his arms, he leaned out, and, looking down

into the garden, told me the history of his life. When he finished I

left him, touched and ashamed.

In a few words, his relations with Antonia rose in the following way.

Twenty years before, the Councillor had been led into Italy by his

favourite engrossing passion of hunting up and buying the best violins

of the old masters. At that time he had not yet begun to make them

himself, and so of course he had not begun to take to pieces those

which he bought. In Venice he heard the celebrated singer Angela ----i,

who at that time was playing with splendid success as _prima donna_ at

St. Benedict's Theatre. His enthusiasm was awakened, not only in her

art--which Signora Angela had indeed brought to a high pitch of

perfection--but in her angelic beauty as well. He sought her

acquaintance; and in spite of all his rugged manners he succeeded in

winning her heart, principally through his bold and yet at the same

time masterly violin-playing. Close intimacy led in a few weeks to

marriage, which, however, was kept a secret, because Angela was

unwilling to sever her connection with the theatre, neither did she

wish to part with her professional name, that by which she was

celebrated, nor to add to it the cacophonous "Krespel." With the most

extravagant irony he described to me what a strange life of worry and

torture Angela led him as soon as she became his wife. Krespel was of

opinion that more capriciousness and waywardness were concentrated in

Angela's little person than in all the rest of the _prima donnas_ in

the world put together. If he now and again presumed to stand up in his

own defence, she let loose a whole army of abbots, musical composers,

and students upon him, who, ignorant of his true connection with

Angela, soundly rated him as a most intolerable, ungallant lover for

not submitting to all the Signora's caprices. It was just after one of

these stormy scenes that Krespel fled to Angela's country seat to try

and forget in playing fantasias on his Cremona, violin the annoyances

of the day. But he had not been there long before the Signora, who had

followed hard after him, stepped into the room. She was in an

affectionate humour; she embraced her husband, overwhelmed him with

sweet and languishing glances, and rested her pretty head on his

shoulder. But Krespel, carried away into the world of music, continued

to play on until the walls echoed again; thus he chanced to touch the

Signora somewhat ungently with his arm and the fiddle-bow. She leapt

back full of fury, shrieking that he was a "German brute," snatched the

violin from his hands, and dashed it on the marble table into a

thousand pieces. Krespel stood like a statue of stone before her; but

then, as if awakening out of a dream, he seized her with the strength

of a giant and threw her out of the window of her own house, and,

without troubling himself about anything more, fled back to Venice--to

Germany. It was not, however, until some time had elapsed that he had a

clear recollection of what he had done; although he knew that the

window was scarcely five feet from the ground, and although he was

fully cognisant of the necessity, under the above-mentioned

circumstances, of throwing the Signora out of the window, he yet felt

troubled by a sense of painful uneasiness, and the more so since she

had imparted to him in no ambiguous terms an interesting secret as to

her condition. He hardly dared to make inquiries; and he was not a

little surprised about eight months afterwards at receiving a tender

letter from his beloved wife, in which she made not the slightest

allusion to what had taken place in her country house, only adding to

the intelligence that she had been safely delivered of a sweet little

daughter the heartfelt prayer that her dear husband and now a happy

father would come at once to Venice. That however Krespel did not do;

rather he appealed to a confidential friend for a more circumstantial

account of the details, and learned that the Signora had alighted upon

the soft grass as lightly as a bird, and that the sole consequences of

the fall or shock had been psychic. That is to say, after Krespel's

heroic deed she had become completely altered; she never showed a trace

of caprice, of her former freaks, or of her teasing habits; and the

composer who wrote for the next carnival was the happiest fellow under

the sun, since the Signora was willing to sing his music without the

scores and hundreds of changes which she at other times had insisted

upon. "To be sure," added his friend, "there was every reason for

preserving the secret of Angela's cure, else every day would see lady

singers flying through windows." The Councillor was not a little

excited at this news; he engaged horses; he took his seat in the

carriage. "Stop!" he cried suddenly. "Why, there's not a shadow of

doubt," he murmured to himself, "that as soon as Angela sets eyes upon

me again the evil spirit will recover his power and once more take

possession of her. And since I have already thrown her out of the

window, what could I do if a similar case were to occur again? What

would there be left for me to do?" He got out of the carriage, and

wrote an affectionate letter to his wife, making graceful allusion to

her tenderness in especially dwelling upon the fact that his tiny

daughter had like him a little mole behind the ear, and--remained in

Germany. Now ensued an active correspondence between them. Assurances

of unchanged affection--invitations--laments over the absence of the

beloved one--thwarted wishes--hopes, &c.--flew backwards and forwards

from Venice to H----, from H---- to Venice. At length Angela came to

Germany, and, as is well known, sang with brilliant success as _prima

donna_ at the great theatre in F----. Despite the fact that she was no

longer young, she won all hearts by the irresistible charm of her

wonderfully splendid singing. At that time she had not lost her voice

in the least degree. Meanwhile, Antonia had been growing up; and her

mother never tired of writing to tell her father how that a singer of

the first rank was developing in her. Krespel's friends in F---- also

confirmed this intelligence, and urged him to come for once to F---- to

see and admire this uncommon sight of two such glorious singers. They

had not the slightest suspicion of the close relations in which Krespel

stood to the pair. Willingly would he have seen with his own eyes the

daughter who occupied so large a place in his heart, and who moreover

often appeared to him in his dreams; but as often as he thought upon

his wife he felt very uncomfortable, and so he remained at home amongst

his broken violins. There was a certain promising young composer,

B---- of F----, who was found to have suddenly disappeared, nobody knew

where. This young man fell so deeply in love with Antonia that, as she

returned his love, he earnestly besought her mother to consent to an

immediate union, sanctified as it would further be by art. Angela had

nothing to urge against his suit; and the Councillor the more readily

gave his consent that the young composer's productions had found

favour before his rigorous critical judgment. Krespel was expecting

to hear of the consummation of the marriage, when he received

instead a black-sealed envelope addressed in a strange hand. Doctor

R---- conveyed to the Councillor the sad intelligence that Angela had

fallen seriously ill in consequence of a cold caught at the theatre,

and that during the night immediately preceding what was to have been

Antonia's wedding-day, she had died. To him, the Doctor, Angela had

disclosed the fact that she was Krespel's wife, and that Antonia was

his daughter; he, Krespel, had better hasten therefore to take charge

of the orphan. Notwithstanding that the Councillor was a good deal

upset by this news of Angela's death, he soon began to feel that an

antipathetic, disturbing influence had departed out of his life, and

that now for the first time he could begin to breathe freely. The very

same day he set out for F----. You could not credit how heartrending

was the Councillor's description of the moment when he first saw

Antonia. Even in the fantastic oddities of his expression there was

such a marvellous power of description that I am unable to give even so

much as a faint indication of it. Antonia inherited all her mother's

amiability and all her mother's charms, but not the repellent reverse

of the medal. There was no chronic moral ulcer, which might break out

from time to time. Antonia's betrothed put in an appearance, whilst

Antonia herself, fathoming with happy instinct the deeper-lying

character of her wonderful father, sang one of old Padre Martini's[9]

motets, which, she knew, Krespel in the heyday of his courtship had

never grown tired of hearing her mother sing. The tears ran in streams

down Krespel's cheeks; even Angela he had never heard sing like that.

Antonia's voice was of a very remarkable and altogether peculiar

timbre, at one time it was like the sighing of an AEolian harp, at

another like the warbled gush of the nightingale. It seemed as if there

was not room for such notes in the human breast. Antonia, blushing with

joy and happiness, sang on and on--all her most beautiful songs,

B---- playing between whiles as only enthusiasm that is intoxicated

with delight can play. Krespel was at first transported with rapture,

then he grew thoughtful--still--absorbed in reflection. At length

he leapt to his feet, pressed Antonia to his heart, and begged

her in a low husky voice, "Sing no more if you love me--my heart

is bursting--I fear--I fear--don't sing again."

"No!" remarked the Councillor next day to Doctor R----, "when, as she

sang, her blushes gathered into two dark red spots on her pale cheeks,

I knew it had nothing to do with your nonsensical family likenesses, I

knew it was what I dreaded." The Doctor, whose countenance had shown

signs of deep distress from the very beginning of the conversation,

replied, "Whether it arises from a too early taxing of her powers of

song, or whether the fault is Nature's--enough, Antonia labours under

an organic failure in the chest, while it is from it too that her voice

derives its wonderful power and its singular timbre, which I might

almost say transcend the limits of human capabilities of song. But it

bears the announcement of her early death; for, if she continues to

sing, I wouldn't give her at the most more than six months longer to

live." Krespel's heart was lacerated as if by the stabs of hundreds of

stinging knives. It was as though his life had been for the first time

overshadowed by a beautiful tree full of the most magnificent blossoms,

and now it was to be sawn to pieces at the roots, so that it could not

grow green and blossom any more. His resolution was taken. He told

Antonia all; he put the alternatives before her--whether she would

follow her betrothed and yield to his and the world's seductions, but

with the certainty of dying early, or whether she would spread round

her father in his old days that joy and peace which had hitherto been

unknown to him, and so secure a long life. She threw herself sobbing

into his arms, and he, knowing the heartrending trial that was before

her, did not press for a more explicit declaration. He talked the

matter over with her betrothed; but, notwithstanding that the latter

averred that no note should ever cross Antonia's lips, the Councillor

was only too well aware that even B---- could not resist the temptation

of hearing her sing, at any rate arias of his own composition. And the

world, the musical public, even though acquainted with the nature of

the singer's affliction, would certainly not relinquish its claims to

hear her, for in cases where pleasure is concerned people of this class

are very selfish and cruel. The Councillor disappeared from F---- along

with Antonia, and came to H----. B---- was in despair when he learnt

that they had gone. He set out on their track, overtook them, and

arrived at H---- at the same time that they did. "Let me see him only

once, and then die!" entreated Antonia "Die! die!" cried Krespel, wild

with anger, an icy shudder running through him. His daughter, the only

creature in the wide world who had awakened in him the springs of

unknown joy, who alone had reconciled him to life, tore herself away

from his heart, and he--he suffered the terrible trial to take place.

B---- sat down to the piano; Antonia sang; Krespel fiddled away

merrily, until the two red spots showed themselves on Antonia's cheeks.

Then he bade her stop; and as B was taking leave of his betrothed, she

suddenly fell to the floor with a loud scream. "I thought," continued

Krespel in his narration, "I thought that she was, as I had

anticipated, really dead; but as I had prepared myself for the worst,

my calmness did not leave me, nor my self-command desert me. I grasped

B----, who stood like a silly sheep in his dismay, by the shoulders,

and said (here the Councillor fell into his singing tone), 'Now that

you, my estimable pianoforte-player, have, as you wished and desired,

really murdered your betrothed, you may quietly take your departure; at

least have the goodness to make yourself scarce before I run my bright

hanger through your heart. My daughter, who, as you see, is rather

pale, could very well do with some colour from your precious blood.

Make haste and run, for I might also hurl a nimble knife or two after

you.' I must, I suppose, have looked rather formidable as I uttered

these words, for, with a cry of the greatest terror, B---- tore himself

loose from my grasp, rushed out of the room, and down the steps."

Directly after B---- was gone, when the Councillor tried to lift up his

daughter, who lay unconscious on the floor, she opened her eyes with a

deep sigh, but soon closed them again as if about to die. Then

Krespel's grief found vent aloud, and would not be comforted. The

Doctor, whom the old housekeeper had called in, pronounced Antonia's

case a somewhat serious but by no means dangerous attack; and she did

indeed recover more quickly than her father had dared to hope. She now

clung to him with the most confiding childlike affection; she entered

into his favourite hobbies--into his mad schemes and whims. She helped

him take old violins to pieces and glue new ones together. "I won't

sing again any more, but live for you," she often said, sweetly smiling

upon him, after she had been asked to sing and had refused. Such

appeals however the Councillor was anxious to spare her as much as

possible; therefore it was that he was unwilling to take her into

society, and solicitously shunned all music. He well understood how

painful it must be for her to forego altogether the exercise of that

art which she had brought to such a pitch of perfection. When the

Councillor bought the wonderful violin that he had buried with Antonia,

and was about to take it to pieces, she met him with such sadness in

her face and softly breathed the petition, "What! this as well?" By

some power, which he could not explain, he felt impelled to leave this

particular instrument unbroken, and to play upon it. Scarcely had he

drawn the first few notes from it than Antonia cried aloud with joy,

"Why, that's me!--now I shall sing again." And, in truth, there was

something remarkably striking about the clear, silvery, bell-like tones

of the violin; they seemed to have been engendered in the human soul.

Krespel's heart was deeply moved; he played, too, better than ever. As

he ran up and down the scale, playing bold passages with consummate

power and expression, she clapped her hands together and cried with

delight, "I did that well! I did that well!"

From this time onwards her life was filled with peace and cheerfulness.

She often said to the Councillor, "I should like to sing something,

father." Then Krespel would take his violin down from the wall and play

her most beautiful songs, and her heart was right glad and happy.

Shortly before my arrival in H----, the Councillor fancied one night

that he heard somebody playing the piano in the adjoining room, and he

soon made out distinctly that B---- was flourishing on the instrument

in his usual style. He wished to get up, but felt himself held down as

if by a dead weight, and lying as if fettered in iron bonds; he was

utterly unable to move an inch. Then Antonia's voice was heard singing

low and soft; soon, however, it began to rise and rise in volume until

it became an ear-splitting fortissimo; and at length she passed over

into a powerfully impressive song which B---- had once composed for her

in the devotional style of the old masters. Krespel described his

condition as being incomprehensible, for terrible anguish was mingled

with a delight he had never experienced before. All at once he was

surrounded by a dazzling brightness, in which he beheld B---- and

Antonia locked in a close embrace, and gazing at each other in a

rapture of ecstasy. The music of the song and of the pianoforte

accompanying it went on without any visible signs that Antonia sang or

that B---- touched the instrument. Then the Councillor fell into a sort

of dead faint, whilst the images vanished away. On awakening he still

felt the terrible anguish of his dream. He rushed into Antonia's room.

She lay on the sofa, her eyes closed, a sweet angelic smile on her

face, her hands devoutly folded, and looking as if asleep and dreaming

of the joys and raptures of heaven. But she was--dead.

* * * * * * *

FOOTNOTES TO "THE CREMONA VIOLIN":

[Footnote 1: The Amati were a celebrated family of violin-makers of

the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, belonging to Cremona in Italy.

They form the connecting-link between the Brescian school of makers and

the greatest of all makers, Straduarius and Guanerius.]

[Footnote 2: A reference to Ariosto's _Orlando Furioso_. Astolpho, an

English cousin of Orlando, was a great boaster, but generous,

courteous, gay, and remarkably handsome; he was carried to Alcina's

island on the back of a whale.]

[Footnote 3: Giuseppe Tartini, born in 1692, died in 1770; was one of

the most celebrated violinists of the eighteenth century, and the

discoverer (in 1714) of "resultant tones," or "Tartini's tones" as they

are frequently called. Most of his life was spent at Padua. He did much

to advance the art of the violinist, both by his compositions for that

instrument as well as by his treatise on its capabilities.]

[Footnote 4: This was the name of a well-known musical family from

Bohemia. Karl Stamitz is the one here possibly meant, since he died

about eighteen or twenty years previous to the publication of this

tale.]

[Footnote 5: Vincenzo Pucitta (1778-1861) was an Italian opera

composer, whose music "shows great facility, but no invention." He also

wrote several songs.]

[Footnote 6: Il Portogallo was the Italian sobriquet of a Portuguese

musician named Mark Anthony Simao (1763-1829). He lived alternately in

Italy and Portugal, and wrote several operas.]

[Footnote 7: Literally, "The slave of a _primo uomo_," _primo uomo_

being the masculine form corresponding to _prima donna_, that is, a

singer of hero's parts in operatic music. At one time also female parts

were sung and acted by men or boys.]

[Footnote 8: Leonardo Leo, the chief Neapolitan representative of

Italian music in the first part of the eighteenth century, and author

of more than forty operas and nearly one hundred compositions for the

Church.]

[Footnote 9: Giambattista Martini, more commonly called Padre Martini,

of Bologna, formed an influential school of music there in the latter

half of the eighteenth century. He wrote vocal and instrumental pieces

both for the church and for the theatre. He was also a learned

historian of music. He has the merit of having discerned and encouraged

the genius of Mozart when, a boy of fourteen, he visited Bologna in

1770.]

THE FERMATA.

Hummel's[1] amusing, vivacious picture, "Company in an Italian Inn,"

became known by the Art Exhibition at Berlin in the autumn of 1814,

where it appeared, to the delight of all who saw and studied it An

arbour almost hidden in foliage--a table covered with wine-flasks and

fruits--two Italian ladies sitting at it opposite each other, one

singing, the other playing a guitar; between them, more in the

background, stands an abbot, acting as music-director. With his baton

raised, he is awaiting the moment when the Signora shall end, in a long

trill, the cadence which, with her eyes directed heavenwards, she is

just in the midst of; then down will come his hand, whilst the

guitarist gaily dashes off the dominant chord. The abbot is filled with

admiration--with exquisite delight--and at the same time his attention

is painfully on the stretch. He wouldn't miss the proper downward beat

for the world. He hardly dare breathe. He would like to stop the mouth

and wings of every buzzing bee and midge. So much the more therefore is

he annoyed at the bustling host who must needs come and bring the wine

just at this supreme, delicious moment. An outlook upon an avenue,

patterned by brilliant strips of light! There a horseman has pulled up,

and a glass of something refreshing to drink is being handed up to him

on horseback.

Before this picture stood the two friends Edward and Theodore. "The

more I look at this singer," said Edward, "in her gay attire, who,

though rather oldish, is yet full of the true inspiration of her art,

and the more I am delighted with the grave but genuine Roman profile

and lovely form of the guitarist, and the more my estimable friend the

abbot amuses me, the more does the whole picture seem to me instinct

with free, strong, vital power. It is plainly a caricature in the

higher sense of the term, but rich in grace and vivacity. I should just

like to step into that arbour and open one of those dainty little

flasks which are ogling me from the table. I tell you what, I fancy I

can already smell something of the sweet fragrance of the noble wine.

Come, it were a sin for this solicitation to be wasted on the cold

senseless atmosphere that is about us here. Let us go and drain a flask

of Italian wine in honour of this fine picture, of art, and of merry

Italy, where life is exhilarating and given for pleasure."

Whilst Edward was running on thus in disconnected sentences, Theodore

stood silent and deeply absorbed in reflection. "Ay, that we will, come

along," he said, starting up as if awakening out of a dream; but

nevertheless he had some difficulty in tearing himself away from the

picture, and as he mechanically followed his friend, he had to stop at

the door to cast another longing lingering look back upon the singer

and guitarist and abbot. Edward's proposal easily admitted of being

carried into execution. They crossed the street diagonally, and very

soon a flask exactly like those in the picture stood before them in

Sala Tarone's[2] little blue room. "It seems to me," said Edward, as

Theodore still continued very silent and thoughtful, even after several

glasses had been drunk, "it seems to me that the picture has made a

deeper impression upon you than upon me, and not such an agreeable

impression either." "I assure you," replied Theodore, "that I lost

nothing of the brightness and grace of that animated composition; yet

it is very singular,--it is a faithful representation of a scene out of

my own life, reproducing the portraits of the parties concerned in it

in a manner startlingly lifelike. You will, however, agree with me that

diverting memories also have the power of strangely moving the mind

when they suddenly spring up in this extraordinary and unexpected way,

as if awakened by the wave of a magician's wand. That's the case with

me just now." "What! a scene out of your own life!" exclaimed Edward,

quite astonished. "Do you mean to say the picture represents an episode

in your own life? I saw at once that the two ladies and the priest were

eminently successful portraits, but I never for a moment dreamed that

you had ever come across them in the course of your life. Come now,

tell me all about it, how it all came about; we are quite alone, nobody

else will come at this time o' day." "Willingly," answered Theodore,

"but unfortunately I must go a long way back--to my early youth in

fact." "Never mind; fire away," rejoined Edward; "I don't know over

much about your early days. If it lasts a good while, nothing worse

will happen than that we shall have to empty a bottle more than we at

first bargained for; and to that nobody will have any objection,

neither we, nor Mr. Tarone."

"That, throwing everything else aside, I at length devoted myself

entirely to the noble art of music," began Theodore, "need excite

nobody's astonishment, for whilst still a boy I would hardly do

anything else but play, and spent hours and hours strumming on my

uncle's old creaking, jarring piano. The little town was very badly

provided for music; there was nobody who could give me instruction

except an old opinionated organist; he, however, was merely a dry

arithmetician, and plagued me to death with obscure, unmelodious

toccatas and fugues. But I held on bravely, without letting myself be

daunted. The old fellow was crabby, and often found a good deal of

fault, but he had only to play a good piece in his own powerful style,

and I was at once reconciled both with him and with his art. I was then

often in a curious state of mind; many pieces particularly of old

Sebastian Bach were almost like a fearful ghost-story, and I yielded

myself up to that feeling of pleasurable awe to which we are so prone

in the days of our fantastic youth. But I entered into a veritable Eden

when, as sometimes happened in winter, the bandmaster of the town and

his colleagues, supported by a few other moderate dilettante players,

gave a concert, and I, owing to the strict time I always kept, was

permitted to play the kettledrum in the symphony. It was not until

later that I perceived how ridiculous and extravagant these concerts

were. My teacher generally played two concertos on the piano by Wolff

or Emanuel Bach,[3] a member of the town band struggled with

Stamitz,[4] while the receiver of excise duties worked away hard at the

flute, and took in such an immense supply of breath that he blew out

both lights on his music-stand, and always had to have them relighted

again. Singing wasn't thought about; my uncle, a great friend and

patron of music, always disparaged the local talent in this line. He

still dwelt with exuberant delight upon the days gone by, when the four

choristers of the four churches of the town agreed together to give

_Lottchen am Hofe_.[5] Above all, he was wont to extol the toleration

which united the singers in the production of this work of art, for not

only the Catholic and the Evangelical but also the Reformed community

was split into two bodies--those speaking German and those speaking

French. The French chorister was not daunted by the _Lottchen_, but, as

my uncle maintained, sang his part, spectacles on nose, in the finest

falsetto that ever proceeded forth from a human breast. Now there was

amongst us (I mean in the town) a spinster named Meibel, aged about

fifty-five, who subsisted upon the scanty pension which she received as

a retired court singer of the metropolis, and my uncle was rightly of

opinion that Miss Meibel might still do something for her money in the

concert hall. She assumed airs of importance, required a good deal of

coaxing, but at last consented, so that we came to have _bravuras_ in

our concerts. She was a singular creature this Miss Meibel. I still

retain a lively recollection of her lean little figure. Dressed in a

many-coloured gown, she was wont to step forward with her roll of music

in her hand, looking very grave and solemn, and to acknowledge the

audience with a slight inclination of the upper part of her body. Her

head-dress was a most remarkable head-dress. In front was fastened a

nosegay of Italian flowers of porcelain, which kept up a strange

trembling and tottering as she sang. At the end, after the audience had

greeted her with no stinted measure of applause, she proudly handed the

music-roll to my uncle, and permitted him to dip his thumb and finger

into a little porcelain snuff-box, fashioned in the shape of a pug dog,

out of which she took a pinch herself with evident relish. She had a

horrible squeaky voice, indulged in all sorts of ludicrous flourishes

and roulades, and so you may imagine what an effect all this, combined

with her ridiculous manners and style of dress, could not fail to have

upon me. My uncle overflowed with panegyrics; that I could not

understand, and so turned the more readily to my organist, who, looking

with contempt upon vocal efforts in general, delighted me down to the

ground as in his hypochondriac malicious way he parodied the ludicrous

old spinster.

"The more decidedly I came to share with my master his contempt for

singing, the higher did he rate my musical genius. He took a great and

zealous interest in instructing me in counterpoint, so that I soon came

to write the most ingenious toccatas and fugues. I was once playing one

of these ingenious specimens of my skill to my uncle on my birthday (I

was nineteen years old), when the waiter of our first hotel stepped

into the room to announce the visit of two foreign ladies who

had just arrived in the town. Before my uncle could throw off his

dressing-gown--it was of a large flower pattern--and don his coat and

vest, his visitors were already in the room. You know what an electric

effect every strange event has upon those who are brought up in the

narrow seclusion of a small country town; this in particular, which

crossed my path so unexpectedly, was pre-eminently fitted to work a

complete revolution within me. Picture to yourself two tall, slender

Italian ladies, dressed fantastically and in bright colours, quite up

to the latest fashion, meeting my uncle with the freedom of

professional _artistes_, and yet with considerable charms of manner,

and addressing him in firm and sonorous voices. What the deuce of a

strange tongue they speak! Only now and then does it sound at all like

German. My uncle doesn't understand a word; embarrassed, mute as a

maggot, he steps back and points to the sofa. They sit down, talk

together--it sounds like music itself. At length they succeed in making

my good uncle comprehend that they are singers on a tour; they would

like to give a concert in the place, and have come to him, as he is the

man to conduct such musical negotiations.

"Whilst they were talking together I picked up their Christian names,

and I fancied that I could now more easily and more distinctly

distinguish the one from the other, for their both making their

appearance together had at first confused me. Lauretta, apparently the

elder of the two, looked about her with sparkling eyes, and talked away

at my embarrassed old uncle with gushing vivacity and with

demonstrative gestures. She was not too tall, and of a voluptuous

build, so that my eyes wandered amid many charms that hitherto had been

strangers to them. Teresina, taller, more slender, with a long grave

face, spoke but seldom, but what she did say was more intelligible. Now

and then a peculiar smile flitted across her features; it almost seemed

as if she were highly amused at my good uncle, who had withdrawn into

his silken dressing-gown like a snail into its shell, and was vainly

endeavouring to push out of sight a treacherous yellow string, with

which he fastened his night-jacket together, and which would keep

tumbling out of his bosom yards and yards long. At length they rose to

depart; my uncle promised to arrange everything for the concert for the

third day following; then the sisters gave him and me, whom he

introduced to them as a young musician, a most polite invitation to

take chocolate with them in the afternoon.

"We mounted the steps with a solemn air and awkward gait; we both felt

very peculiar, as if we were going to meet some adventure to which we

were not equal. In consequence of due previous preparation my uncle had

a good many fine things to say about art, which nobody understood,

neither he himself nor any of the rest of us. This done, and after I

had thrice burned my tongue with the scalding hot chocolate, but with

the stoical fortitude of a Scaevola had smiled under the fiery

infliction, Lauretta at length said that she would sing to us. Teresina

took her guitar, tuned it, and struck a few full chords. It was the

first time I had heard the instrument, and the characteristic

mysterious sounds of the trembling strings made a deep and wonderful

impression upon me. Lauretta began very softly and held on, the note

rising to _fortissimo_, and then quickly broke into a crisp complicated

run through an octave and a half. I can still remember the words of the

beginning, '_Sento l'amica speme_.' My heart was oppressed; I had never

had an idea of anything of the kind. But as Lauretta continued to soar

in bolder and higher flights, and as the musical notes poured upon me

like sparkling rays, thicker and thicker, then was the music that had

so long lain mute and lifeless within me enkindled, rising up in

strong, grand flames. Ah! I had never heard what music was in my life

before! Then the sisters sang one of those grand impressive duets of

Abbot Steffani[6] which confine themselves to notes of a low register.

My soul was stirred at the sound of Teresina's alto, it was so

sonorous, and as pure as silver bells. I couldn't for the life of me

restrain my emotion; tears started to my eyes. My uncle coughed

warningly, and cast angry glances upon me; it was all of no use, I was

really quite beside myself. This seemed to please the sisters; they

began to inquire into the nature and extent of my musical studies; I

was ashamed of my performances in that line, and with the hardihood

born of enthusiastic admiration, I bluntly declared that that day was

the first time I had ever heard music. 'The dear good boy!' lisped

Lauretta, so sweetly and bewitchingly.

"On reaching home again, I was seized with a sort of fury: I pounced

upon all the toccatas and fugues that I had hammered out, as well as a

beautiful copy of forty-five variations of a canonical theme that the

organist had written and done me the honour of presenting to me,--all

these I threw into the fire, and laughed with spiteful glee as the

double counterpoint smoked and crackled. Then I sat down at the piano

and tried first to imitate the tones of the guitar, then to play the

sisters' melodies, and finished by attempting to sing them. At length

about midnight my uncle emerged from his bedroom and greeted me with,

'My boy, you'd better just stop that screeching and troop off to bed;'

and he put out both candles and went back to his own room. I had no

other alternative but to obey. The mysterious power of song came to me

in my dreams--at least I thought so--for I sang '_Sento l'amica speme_'

in excellent style.

"The next morning my uncle had hunted up everybody who could fiddle

and blow for the rehearsal. He was proud to show what good musicians

the town possessed; but everything seemed to go perversely wrong.

Lauretta set to work at a fine scene; but very soon in the recitative

the orchestra was all at sixes and sevens, not one of them had any idea

of accompaniment Lauretta screamed--raved--wept with impatience and

anger. The organist was presiding at the piano; she attacked him with

the bitterest reproaches. He got up and in silent obduracy marched out

of the hall. The bandmaster of the town, whom Lauretta had dubbed a

'German ass!' took his violin under his arm, and, banging his hat on

his head with an air of defiance, likewise made for the door. The

members of his company, sticking their bows under the strings of their

violins, and unscrewing the mouthpieces of their brass instruments,

followed him. There was nobody but the dilettanti left, and they gazed

about them with disconsolate looks, whilst the receiver of excise

duties exclaimed, with a tragic air, 'O heaven! how mortified I feel!'

All my diffidence was gone,--I threw myself in the bandmaster's way, I

begged, I prayed, in my distress I promised him six new minuets with

double trios for the annual ball. I succeeded in appeasing him. He went

back to his place, his companions followed suit, and soon the orchestra

was reconstituted, except that the organist was wanting. He was slowly

making his way across the market-place, no shouting or beckoning could

make him turn back. Teresina had looked on at the whole scene with

smothered laughter, while Lauretta was now as full of glee as before

she had been of anger. She was unstinted in her praise of my efforts;

she asked me if I played the piano, and ere I knew what I was about, I

sat in the organist's place with the music before me. Never before had

I accompanied a singer, still less directed an orchestra. Teresina sat

down beside me at the piano and gave me every time; Lauretta encouraged

me with repeated 'Bravos!' the orchestra proved manageable, and things

continued to improve. Everything was worked out successfully at the

second rehearsal; and the effect of the sisters' singing at the concert

is not to be described.

"The sovereign's return to his capital was to be celebrated there with

several festive demonstrations; the sisters were summoned to sing in

the theatre and at concerts. Until the time that their presence was

required they resolved to remain in our little town, and thus it came

to pass that they gave us a few more concerts. The admiration of the

public rose to a kind of madness. Old Miss Meibel, however, took with a

deliberate air a pinch of snuff out of her porcelain pug and gave her

opinion that 'such impudent caterwauling was not singing; singing

should be low and melodious.' My friend, the organist, never showed

himself again, and, in truth, I did not miss him in the least I was

the happiest fellow in the world. The whole day long I spent with

the sisters, copying out the vocal scores of what they were to

sing in the capital. Lauretta was my ideal; her vile caprices, her

terribly passionate violence, the torments she inflicted upon me at the

piano--all these I bore with patience. She alone had unsealed for me

the springs of true music. I began to study Italian, and try my hand at

a few canzonets. In what heavenly rapture was I plunged when Lauretta

sang my compositions, or even praised them. Often it seemed to me as if

it was not I who had thought out and set what she sang, but that the

thought first shone forth in her singing of it. With Teresina I could

not somehow get on familiar terms; she sang but seldom, and didn't seem

to make much account of all that I was doing, and sometimes I even

fancied that she was laughing at me behind my back. At length the time

came for them to leave the town. And now I felt for the first time how

dear Lauretta had become to me, and how impossible it would be for me

to separate from her. Often, when she was in a tender, playful mood,

she had caressed me, although always in a perfectly artless fashion;

nevertheless, my blood was excited, and it was nothing but the strange

coolness with which she was more usually wont to treat me that

restrained me from giving reins to my ardour and clasping her in my

arms in a delirium of passion. I possessed a tolerably good tenor

voice, which, however, I had never practised, but now I began to

cultivate it assiduously. I frequently sang with Lauretta one of those

tender Italian duets of which there exists such an endless number. We

were just singing one of these pieces, the hour of departure was close

at hand--'_Senza di te ben mio, vivere non poss' io_' ('Without thee,

my own, I cannot live!') Who could resist that? I threw myself at her

feet--I was in despair. She raised me up--'But, my friend, need we then

part?' I pricked up my ears with amazement. She proposed that I should

accompany her and Teresina to the capital, for if I intended to devote

myself wholly to music I must leave this wretched little town some time

or other. Picture to yourself one struggling in the dark depths of

boundless despair, who has given up all hopes of life, and who, in the

moment in which he expects to receive the blow that is to crush him for

ever, suddenly finds himself sitting in a glorious bright arbour of

roses, where hundreds of unseen but loving voices whisper, 'You are

still alive, dear,--still alive'--and you will know how I felt then.

Along with them to the capital! that had seized upon my heart as an

ineradicable resolution. But I won't tire you with the details of how I

set to work to convince my uncle that I ought now by all means to go to

the capital, which, moreover, was not very far away. He at length gave

his consent, and announced his intention of going with me. Here was a

tricksy stroke of fortune! I dare not give utterance to my purpose of

travelling in company with the sisters. A violent cold, which my uncle

caught, proved my saviour.

"I left the town by the stage-coach, but only went as far as the first

stopping-station, where I awaited my divinity. A well-lined purse

enabled me to make all due and fitting preparations. I was seized with

the romantic idea of accompanying the ladies in the character of a

protecting paladin--on horseback; I secured a horse, which, though not

particularly handsome, was, its owner assured me, quiet, and I rode

back at the appointed time to meet the two fair singers. I soon saw the

little carriage, which had two seats, coming towards me. Lauretta and

Teresina sat on the principal seat, whilst on the other, with her back

to the driver, sat their maid, the fat little Gianna, a brown-cheeked

Neapolitan. Besides this living freight, the carriage was packed full

of boxes, satchels, and baskets of all sizes and shapes, such as

invariably accompany ladies when they travel. Two little pug-dogs which

Gianna was nursing in her lap began to bark when I gaily saluted the

company.

"All was going on very nicely; we were traversing the last stage of the

journey, when my steed all at once conceived the idea that it was high

time to be returning homewards. Being aware that stern measures were

not always blessed with a remarkable degree of success in such cases, I

felt advised to have recourse to milder means of persuasion; but the

obstinate brute remained insensible to all my well-meant exhortations.

I wanted to go forwards, he backwards, and all the advantage that my

efforts gave me over him was that instead of taking to his heels for

home, he continued to run round in circles. Teresina leaned forward out

of the carriage and had a hearty laugh; Lauretta, holding her hands

before her face, screamed out as if I were in imminent danger. This

gave me the courage of despair, I drove the spurs into the brute's

ribs, but that very same moment I was roughly hurled off and found

myself sprawling on the ground. The horse stood perfectly still, and,

stretching out his long neck, regarded me with what I took to be

nothing else than derision. I was not able to rise to my feet; the

driver had to come and help me; Lauretta had jumped out and was weeping

and lamenting; Teresina did nothing but laugh without ceasing. I had

sprained my foot, and couldn't possibly mount again. How was I to get

on? My steed was fastened to the carriage, whilst I crept into it. Just

picture us all--two rather robust females, a fat servant-girl, two

pug-dogs, a dozen boxes, satchels, and baskets, and me as well, all

packed into a little carriage. Picture Lauretta's complaints at the

uncomfortableness of her seat, the howling of the pups, the chattering

of the Neapolitan, Teresina's sulks, the unspeakable pain I felt in my

foot, and you will have some idea of my enviable situation! Teresina

averred that she could not endure it any longer. We stopped; in a trice

she was out of the carriage, had untied my horse, and was up in the

saddle, prancing and curvetting around us. I must indeed admit that she

cut a fine figure. The dignity and elegance which marked her carriage

and bearing were still more prominent on horseback. She asked for her

guitar, then dropping the reins on her arm, she began to sing proud

Spanish ballads with a full-toned accompaniment. Her light silk dress

fluttered in the wind, its folds and creases giving rise to a sheeny

play of light, whilst the white feathers of her hat quivered and shook,

like the prattling spirits of the air which we heard in her voice.

Altogether she made such a romantic figure that I could not keep my

eyes off her, notwithstanding that Lauretta reproached her for making

herself such a fantastic simpleton, and predicted that she would suffer

for her audacity. But no accident happened; either the horse had lost

all his stubbornness or he liked the fair singer better than the

paladin; at any rate, Teresina did not creep back into the carriage

again until we had almost reached the gates of the town.

"If you had seen me then at concerts and operas, if you had seen me

revelling in all sorts of music, and as a diligent accompanist studying

arias, duets, and I don't know what besides at the piano, you would

have perceived, by the complete change in my behaviour, that I was

filled with a new and wonderful spirit. I had cast off all my rustic

shyness, and sat at the pianoforte with my score before me like an

experienced professional, directing the performances of my _prima

donna_. All my mind--all my thoughts--were sweet melodies. Utterly

regardless of all the rules of counterpoint, I composed all sorts of

canzonets and arias, which Lauretta sang, though only in her own room.

Why would she never sing any of my pieces at a concert? I could not

understand it. Teresina also arose before my imagination curvetting on

her proud steed with the lute in her hands, like Art herself disguised

in romance. Without thinking of it consciously, I wrote several songs

of a high and serious nature. Lauretta, it is true, played with her

notes like a capricious fairy queen. There was nothing upon which she

ventured in which she had not success. But never did a roulade cross

Teresina's lips; nothing more than a simple interpolated note, at most

a _mordent_; but her long-sustained tones gleamed like meteors through

the darkness of night, awakening strange spirits, who came and gazed

with earnest eyes into the depths of my heart. I know not how I

remained ignorant of them so long!

"The sisters were granted a benefit concert; I sang with Lauretta a

long scena from Anfossi.[7] As usual I presided at the piano. We came

to the last _fermata_. Lauretta exerted all her skill and art; she

warbled trill after trill like a nightingale, executed sustained notes,

then long elaborate roulades--a whole _solfeggio_. In fact, I thought

she was almost carrying the thing too far this time; I felt a soft

breath on my cheek; Teresina stood behind me. At this moment Lauretta

took a good start with the intention of swelling up to a 'harmonic

shake,' and so passing back into _a tempo_. The devil entered into me;

I jammed down the keys with both hands; the orchestra followed suit;

and it was all over with Lauretta's trill, just at the supreme moment

when she was to excite everybody's astonishment. Almost annihilating me

with a look of fury, she crushed her roll of music together, tore it

up, and hurled it at my head, so that the pieces flew all over me. Then

she rushed like a madwoman through the orchestra into the adjoining

room; as soon as we had concluded the piece, I followed her. She wept;

she raved. 'Out of my sight, villain,' she screamed as soon as she saw

me. 'You devil, you've completely ruined me--my fame, my honour--and

oh! my trill. Out of my sight, you devil's own!' She made a rush

at me; I escaped through the door. Whilst some one else was performing,

Teresina and the music-director at length succeeded in so far pacifying

her rage, that she resolved to appear again; but I was not to be

allowed to touch the piano. In the last duet that the sisters sang,

Lauretta did contrive to introduce the swelling 'harmonic shake,' was

rewarded with a storm of applause, and settled down into the best of

humours.

"But I could not get over the vile treatment which I had received at

her hands in the presence of so many people, and I was firmly resolved

to set off home next morning for my native town. I was actually engaged

in packing my things together when Teresina came into my room.

Observing what I was about, she exclaimed, astonished, 'Are you going

to leave us?' I gave her to understand that after the affront which had

been put upon me by Lauretta I could not think of remaining any longer

in her society. 'And so,' replied Teresina, 'you're going to let

yourself be driven away by the extravagant conduct of a little fool,

who is now heartily sorry for what she has done and said. Where else

can you better live in your art than with us? Let me tell you, it only

depends upon yourself and your own behaviour to keep her from such

pranks as this. You are too compliant, too tender, too gentle. Besides,

you rate her powers too highly. Her voice is indeed not bad, and it has

a wide compass; but what else are all these fantastic warblings and

flourishes, these preposterous runs, these never-ending shakes, but

delusive artifices of style, which people admire in the same way that

they admire the foolhardy agility of a rope-dancer? Do you imagine that

such things can make any deep impression upon us and stir the heart?

The 'harmonic shake' which you spoilt I cannot tolerate; I always feel

anxious and pained when she attempts it. And then this scaling up into

the region of the third line above the stave, what is it but a violent

straining of the natural voice, which after all is the only thing that

really moves the heart? I like the middle notes and the low notes. A

sound that penetrates to the heart, a real quiet, easy transition from

note to note, are what I love above all things. No useless

ornamentation--a firm, clear, strong note--a definite expression, which

carries away the mind and soul--that's real true singing, and that's

how I sing. If you can't be reconciled to Lauretta again, then think of

Teresina, who indeed likes you so much that you shall in your own way

be her musical composer. Don't be cross--but all your elegant canzonets

and arias can't be matched with this single ----,' she sang in her

sonorous way a simple devotional sort of canzona which I had set a few

days before. I had never dreamed that it could sound like that I felt

the power of the music going through and through me; tears of joy and

rapture stood in my eyes; I seized Teresina's hand, and pressing it to

my lips a thousand times, swore I would never leave her.

"Lauretta looked upon my intimacy with her sister with envious but

suppressed vexation, and she could not do without me, for, in spite of

her skill, she was unable to study a new piece without help; she read

badly, and was rather uncertain in her time. Teresina, on the contrary,

sang everything at sight, and her ear for time was unparalleled. Never

did Lauretta give such free rein to her caprice and violence as when

her accompaniments were being practised. They were never right for her;

she looked upon them as a necessary evil; the piano ought not to be

heard at all, it should always be _pianissimo_; so there was nothing

but giving way to her again and again, and altering the time just as

the whim happened to come into her head at the moment But now I took a

firm stand against her; I combated her impertinences; I taught her that

an accompaniment devoid of energy was not conceivable, and that there

was a marked difference between supporting and carrying along the song

and letting it run to riot, without form and without time. Teresina

faithfully lent me her assistance. I composed nothing but pieces for

the Church, writing all the solos for a voice of low register.

Teresina, too, tyrannised over me not a little, to which I submitted

with a good grace, since she had more knowledge of, and (so at least I

thought) more appreciation for, German seriousness than her sister.

"We were touring in South Germany. In a little town we met an Italian

tenor who was making his way from Milan to Berlin. My fair companions

went in ecstasies over their countryman; he stuck close to them,

cultivating in particular Teresina's acquaintance, so that to my great

vexation I soon came to play rather a secondary part. Once, just as I

was about to enter the room with a roll of music under my arm, the

voices of my companions and the tenor, engaged in an animated

conversation, fell upon my ear. My name was mentioned; I pricked up my

ears; I listened. I now understood Italian so well that not a word

escaped me. Lauretta was describing the tragical occurrence of the

concert when I cut short her trill by prematurely striking down the

concluding notes of the bar. 'A German ass!' exclaimed the tenor. I

felt as if I must rush in and hurl the flighty hero of the boards out

of the window, but I restrained myself. She then went on to say that

she had been minded to send me about my business at once, but, moved by

my clamorous entreaties, she had so far had compassion upon me as to

tolerate me some time longer, since I was studying singing under her.

This, to my utter amazement, Teresina confirmed. 'Yes, he's a good

child,' she added; 'he's in love with me now and sets everything for

the alto. He is not without talent, but he must rub off that stiffness

and awkwardness which is so characteristic of the Germans. I hope to

make a good composer out of him; then he shall write me some good

things--for there's very little written as yet for the alto voice--and

afterwards I shall let him go his own way. He's very tiresome with his

billing and cooing and love-sick sighing, and he worries me too much

with his wearisome compositions, which have been but poor stuff up to

the present.' 'I at least have now got rid of him,' interrupted

Lauretta; 'and Teresina, how the fellow pestered me with his arias and

duets you know very well.' And now she began to sing a duet of my

composing, which formerly she had praised very highly. The other sister

took up the second voice, and they parodied me both in voice and in

execution in the most shameful manner. The tenor laughed till the walls

rang again. My limbs froze; at once I formed an irrevocable resolve. I

quietly slipped away from the door back into my own room, the windows

of which looked upon a side street. Opposite was the post-office; the

post-coach for Bamberg had just driven up to take in the mails and

passengers. The latter were all standing ready waiting in the gateway,

but I had still an hour to spare. Hastily packing up my things, I

generously paid the whole of the bill at the hotel, and hurried across

to the post-office. As I crossed the broad street I saw the fair

sisters and the Italian still standing at the window, and looking out

to catch the sound of the post-horn. I leaned back in the corner, and

dwelt with a good deal of satisfaction upon the crushing effect of the

bitter scathing letter that I had left behind for them in the hotel."

* * * * * * *

With evident gratification Theodore tossed off the rest of the fiery

Aleatico[8] that Edward had poured into his glass. The latter, opening

a new flask and skilfully shaking off the drops of oil[9] which swam at

the top, remarked, "I should not have deemed Teresina capable of such

falseness and artfulness. I cannot banish from my mind the recollection

of what a charming figure she made as she sat on horseback singing

Spanish ballads, whilst the horse pranced along in graceful curvets."

"That was her culminating point," interrupted Theodore; "I still

remember the strange impression which the scene made upon me. I forgot

my pain; she seemed to me like a creature of a higher race. It is

indeed very true that such moments are turning-points in one's life,

and that in them many images arise which time does not avail to dim.

Whenever I have succeeded with any fine _romance_, it has always been

when Teresina's image has stepped forth from the treasure-house of my

mind in clear bright colours at the moment of writing it."

"But," said Edward, "but let us not forget the artistic Lauretta; and,

scattering all rancour to the winds, let us drink to the health of the

two sisters." They did so. "Oh," exclaimed Theodore, "how the fragrant

breezes of Italy arise out of this wine and fan my cheeks,--my blood

rolls with quickened energy in my veins. Oh! why must I so soon leave

that glorious land again!" "As yet," interrupted Edward, "as yet in all

that you have told me I can see no connection with the beautiful

picture, and so I believe that you still have something more to tell me

about the sisters. Of course I perceive plainly that the ladies in the

picture are none other than Lauretta and Teresina themselves." "You are

right, they are," replied Theodore; "and my ejaculations and sighs, and

my longings after the glorious land of Italy, will form a fitting

introduction to what I still have to say. A short time ago, perhaps

about two years since, just before leaving Rome, I made a little

excursion on horseback. Before an inn stood a charming girl; the idea

struck me how nice it would be to receive a cup of wine at the hands of

the pretty child. I pulled up before the door, in a walk so thickly

planted on each side with shrubs that the sunlight could only make its

way through in patches. In the distance I heard sounds of singing and

the tinkling of a guitar. I pricked up my ears and listened, for the

two female voices affected me somehow in a singular fashion; strangely

enough dim recollections began to stir within my mind, but they refused

to take definite shape. I dismounted and slowly drew near to the

vine-clad arbour whence the music seemed to proceed, eagerly catching

up every sound in the meantime. The second voice had ceased to sing.

The first sang a canzonet alone. As I came nearer and nearer that which

had at first seemed familiar to me, and which had at first attracted my

attention, gradually faded away. The singer was now in the midst of a

florid, elaborate _fermata_. Up and down she warbled, up and down; at

length she stopped, holding a note on for some time. But all at once a

female voice began to let off a torrent of abuse, maledictions, curses,

vituperations! A man protested; a second laughed. The other female

voice took part in the altercation. The quarrel continued to wax louder

and more violent, with true Italian fury. At length I stood immediately

in front of the arbour; an abbot rushes out and almost runs over me; he

turns his head to look at me; I recognise my good friend Signor

Lodovico, my musical news-monger from Rome. 'What in the name of

wonder'--I exclaim. 'Oh, sir! sir!' he screams, 'save me, protect me

from this mad fury, from this crocodile, this tiger, this hyaena, this

devil of a woman. Yes, I did, I did; I was beating time to Anfossi's

canzonet, and brought down my baton too soon whilst she was in the

midst of the _fermata_; I cut short her trill; but why did I meet her

eyes, the devilish divinity! The deuce take all _fermatas_, I say!' In

a most curious state of mind I hastened into the arbour along with the

priest, and recognised at the first glance the sisters Lauretta and

Teresina. The former was still shrieking and raging, and her sister

still seriously remonstrating with her. Mine host, his bare arms

crossed over his chest, was looking on laughing, whilst a girl was

placing fresh flasks on the table. No sooner did the sisters catch

sight of me than they threw themselves upon me exclaiming, 'Ah! Signor

Teodoro!' and covered me with caresses. The quarrel was forgotten.

'Here you have a composer,' said Lauretta to the abbot, 'as charming as

an Italian and as strong as a German.' Both sisters, continually

interrupting each other, began to recount the happy days we had spent

together, to speak of my musical abilities whilst still a youth, of our

practisings together, of the excellence of my compositions; never did

they like singing anything else but what I had set. Teresina at length

informed me that a manager had engaged her as his first singer in

tragic casts for the next carnival; but she would give him to

understand that she would only sing on condition that the composition

of at least one tragic opera was intrusted to me. The tragic was above

all others my special department, and so on, and so on. Lauretta on her

part maintained that it would be a pity if I did not follow my bent for

the light and the graceful, in a word, for _opera buffa_. She had been

engaged as first lady singer for this species of composition; and that

nobody but I should write the piece in which she was to appear was

simply a matter of course. You may fancy what my feelings were as I

stood between the two. In a word, you perceive that the company which I

had joined was the same as that which Hummel painted, and that just at

the moment when the priest is on the point of cutting short Lauretta's

_fermata_." "But did they not make any allusion," asked Edward, "to

your departure from them, or to the scathing letter?" "Not with a

single syllable," answered Theodore, "and you may be sure I didn't, for

I had long before banished all animosity from my heart, and come to

look back upon my adventure with the sisters as a merry prank. I did,

however, so far revert to the subject that I related to the priest how

that, several years before, exactly the same sort of mischance befell

me in one of Anfossi's arias as had just befallen him. I painted the

period of my connection with the sisters in tragi-comical colours, and,

distributing many a keen side-blow, I let them feel the superiority,

which the ripe experiences, both of life and of art, of the years that

had elapsed in the interval had given me over them. 'And a good thing

it was,' I concluded, 'that I did cut short that _fermata_, for it was

evidently meant to last through eternity, and I am firmly of opinion

that if I had left the singer alone, I should be sitting at the piano

now.' 'But, signor,' replied the priest, 'what director is there who

would dare to prescribe laws to the _prima donna_? Your offence was

much more heinous than mine, you in the concert hall, and I here in the

leafy arbour. Besides, I was only director in imagination; nobody need

attach any importance to that, and if the sweet fiery glances of these

heavenly eyes had not fascinated me, I should not have made an ass of

myself.' The priest's last words proved tranquillising, for, although

Lauretta's eyes had begun to flash with anger as the priest spoke,

before he had finished she was quite appeased.

"We spent the evening together. Many changes take place in fourteen

years, which was the interval that had passed since I had seen my fair

friends. Lauretta, although looking somewhat older, was still not

devoid of charms. Teresina had worn better, without losing her graceful

form. Both were dressed in rather gay colours, and their manners were

just the same as before, that is, fourteen years younger than the

ladies themselves. At my request Teresina sang some of the serious

songs that had once so deeply affected me, but I fancied that they

sounded differently from what they did when I first heard them; and

Lauretta's singing too, although her voice had not appreciably lost

anything, either in power or in compass, seemed to me to be quite

different from my recollection of it of former times The sisters'

behaviour towards me, their feigned ecstasies, their rude admiration,

which, however, took the shape of gracious patronage, had done much to

put me in a bad humour, and now the obtrusiveness of this comparison

between the images in my mind and the not over and above pleasing

reality, tended to put me in a still worse. The droll priest, who in

all the sweetest words you can imagine was playing the _amoroso_ to

both sisters at once, as well as frequent applications to the good

wine, at length restored me to good humour, so that we spent a very

pleasant evening in perfect concord and gaiety. The sisters were most

pressing in their invitations to me to go home with them, that we might

at once talk over the parts which I was to set for them and so concert

measures accordingly. I left Rome without taking any further steps to

find out their place of abode."

"And yet, after all," said Edward, "it is to them that you owe the

awakening of your genius for music." "That I admit," replied Theodore,

"I owed them that and a host of good melodies besides, and that is just

the reason why I did not want to see them again. Every composer can

recall certain impressions which time does not obliterate. The spirit

of music spake, and his voice was the creative word which suddenly

awakened the kindred spirit slumbering in the breast of the artist;

then the latter rose like a sun which can nevermore set. Thus it is

unquestionably true that all melodies which, stirred up in this way,

proceed from the depths of the composer's being, seem to us to belong

to the singer alone who fanned the first spark within us. We hear her

voice and record only what she has sung. It is, however, the

inheritance of us weak mortals that, clinging to the clods, we are only

too fain to draw down what is above the earth into the miserable

narrowness characteristic of things of the earth. Thus it comes to pass

that the singer becomes our lover--or even our wife. The spell is

broken, and the melody of her nature, which formerly revealed glorious

things, is now prostituted to complaints about broken soup-plates or

ink-stains in new linen. Happy is the composer who never again so long

as he lives sets eyes upon the woman who by virtue of some mysterious

power enkindled in him the flame of music. Even though the young

artist's heart may be rent by pain and despair when the moment comes

for parting from his lovely enchantress, nevertheless her form will

continue to exist as a divinely beautiful strain which lives on and on

in the pride of youth and beauty, engendering melodies in which time

after time he perceives the lady of his love. But what is she else if

not the Highest Ideal which, working its way from within outwards, is

at length reflected in the external independent form?"

"A strange theory, but yet plausible," was Edward's comment, as the two

friends, arm in arm, passed out from Sala Tarone's into the street.

* * * * * * *

FOOTNOTES TO "THE FERMATA":

[Footnote 1: Johann Erdmann Hummel, born 1769, died 1852, a German

painter, studied in Italy, painted various kinds of pieces, and also

wrote treatises on perspective and kindred subjects. The picture here

referred to became perhaps almost as much celebrated from the fact of

its having suggested this amusing sketch to Hoffmann as for its

intrinsic merits as a work of art.]

[Footnote 2: The keeper of a well-known tavern in Berlin, at about the

time when this tale was written, 1817 to 1820.]

[Footnote 3: The third son of the Sebastian Bach--_the_ Bach--just

mentioned above. He was sometimes called "the Berlin Bach," or "the

Hamburg Bach."]

[Footnote 4: See note, p. 12 above.]

[Footnote 5: This was one of a species of musical composition called

_Singspiele_, a development of the simple song or _Lied_, by Johann

Adam Hiller, (properly Hueller), born 1728, died 1804.]

[Footnote 6: Agostino Steffani, an Italian by birth (1655), spent

nearly all his life in Germany at the courts of Munich and Hanover. He

wrote several operas, and was renowned for his duets, motets, &c.]

[Footnote 7: Pasquale Anfossi, an Italian operatic composer of the

eighteenth century. He was for a time the fashion of the day at Rome,

but occupies now only a subordinate rank amongst musicians.]

[Footnote 8: A red, aromatic, sweet Italian wine, made chiefly at

Florence.]

[Footnote 9: The wine was presumably in flasks of the usual Italian

kind, bottles encased in straw or reed, &c., with oil on the top of the

wine instead of a cork in the neck of the bottle.]

SIGNOR FORMICA.[1.1]

I.

_The celebrated painter Salvator Rosa comes to Rome, and is attacked by

a dangerous illness. What befalls him in this illness._

Celebrated people commonly have many ill things said of them, whether

well-founded or not And no exception was made in the case of that

admirable painter Salvator Rosa, whose living pictures cannot fail to

impart a keen and characteristic delight to those who look upon them.

At the time that Salvator's fame was ringing through Naples, Rome, and

Tuscany--nay, through all Italy, and painters who were desirous of

gaining applause were striving to imitate his peculiar and unique

style, his malicious and envious rivals were laboring to spread abroad

all sorts of evil reports intended to sully with ugly black stains the

glorious splendor of his artistic fame. They affirmed that he had at a

former period of his life belonged to a company of banditti,[1.2] and

that it was to his experiences during this lawless time that he owed

all the wild, fierce, fantastically-attired figures which he introduced

into his pictures, just as the gloomy fearful wildernesses of his

landscapes--the _selve selvagge_ (savage woods)--to use Dante's

expression, were faithful representations of the haunts where they lay

hidden. What was worse still, they openly charged him with having been

concerned in the atrocious and bloody revolt which had been set on foot

by the notorious Masaniello[1.3] in Naples. They even described the

share he had taken in it, down to the minutest details.

The rumor ran that Aniello Falcone,[1.4] the painter of battle-pieces,

one of the best of Salvator's masters, had been stung into fury and

filled with bloodthirsty vengeance because the Spanish soldiers had

slain one of his relatives in a hand-to-hand encounter. Without delay

he leagued together a band of daring spirits, mostly young painters,

put arms into their hands, and gave them the name of the "Company of

Death." And in truth this band inspired all the fear and consternation

suggested by its terrible name. At all hours of the day they traversed

the streets of Naples in little companies, and cut down without mercy

every Spaniard whom they met. They did more--they forced their way into

the holy sanctuaries, and relentlessly murdered their unfortunate foes

whom terror had driven to seek refuge there. At night they gathered

round their chief, the bloody-minded madman Masaniello,[1.5] and

painted him by torchlight, so that in a short time there were hundreds

of these little pictures[1.6] circulating in Naples and the

neighbourhood.

This is the ferocious band of which Salvator Rosa was alleged to have

been a member, working hard at butchering his fellow-men by day, and by

night working just as hard at painting. The truth about him has however

been stated by a celebrated art-critic, Taillasson,[1.7] I believe. His

works are characterised by defiant originality, and by fantastic energy

both of conception and of execution. He delighted to study Nature, not

in the lovely attractiveness of green meadows, flourishing fields,

sweet-smelling groves, murmuring springs, but in the sublime as seen in

towering masses of rock, in the wild sea-shore, in savage inhospitable

forests; and the voices that he loved to hear were not the whisperings

of the evening breeze or the musical rustle of leaves, but the roaring

of the hurricane and the thunder of the cataract. To one viewing his

desolate landscapes, with the strange savage figures stealthily moving

about in them, here singly, there in troops, the uncomfortable thoughts

arise unbidden, "Here's where a fearful murder took place, there's

where the bloody corpse was hurled into the ravine," etc.

Admitting all this, and even that Taillasson is further right when he

maintains that Salvator's "Plato," nay, that even his "Holy St. John

proclaiming the Advent of the Saviour in the Wilderness," look just a

little like highway robbers--admitting this, I say, it is nevertheless

unjust to argue from the character of the works to the character of the

artist himself, and to assume that he, who represents with lifelike

fidelity what is savage and terrible, must himself have been a savage,

terrible man. He who prates most about the sword is often he who wields

it the worst; he who feels in the depths of his soul all the horrors of

a bloody deed, so that, taking the palette or the pencil or the pen in

his hand, he is able to give living form to his feelings, is often the

one least capable of practising similar deeds. Enough! I don't believe

a single word of all those evil reports, by which men sought to brand

the excellent Salvator an abandoned murderer and robber, and I hope

that you, kindly reader, will share my opinion. Otherwise, I see

grounds for fearing that you might perhaps entertain some doubts

respecting what I am about to tell you of this artist; the Salvator I

wish to put before you in this tale--that is, according to my

conception of him--is a man bubbling over with the exuberance of life

and fiery energy, but at the same time a man endowed with the noblest

and most loyal character--a character, which, like that of all men who

think and feel deeply, is able even to control that bitter irony which

arises from a clear view of the significance of life. I need scarcely

add that Salvator was no less renowned as a poet and musician than as a

painter. His genius was revealed in magnificent refractions. I repeat

again, I do not believe that Salvator had any share in Masaniello's

bloody deeds; on the contrary, I think it was the horrors of that

fearful time which drove him from Naples to Rome, where he arrived a

poor poverty-stricken fugitive, just at the time that Masaniello fell.

Not over well dressed, and with a scanty purse containing not more than

a few bright sequins[1.8] in his pocket, he crept through the gate just

after nightfall. Somehow or other, he didn't exactly know how, he

wandered as far as the Piazza Navona. In better times he had once lived

there in a large house near the Pamfili Palace. With an ill-tempered

growl, he gazed up at the large plate-glass windows glistening and

glimmering in the moonlight "Hm!" he exclaimed peevishly, "it'll cost

me dozens of yards of coloured canvas before I can open my studio up

there again." But all at once he felt as if paralysed in every limb,

and at the same moment more weak and feeble than he had ever felt in

his life before. "But shall I," he murmured between his teeth as he

sank down upon the stone steps leading up to the house door, "shall I

really be able to finish canvas enough in the way the fools want it

done? Hm! I have a notion that that will be the end of it!"

A cold cutting night wind blew down the street. Salvator recognised

the necessity of seeking a shelter. Rising with difficulty, he

staggered on into the Corso,[1.9] and then turned into the Via

Bergognona. At length he stopped before a little house with only a

couple of windows, inhabited by a poor widow and her two daughters.

This women had taken him in for little pay the first time he came to

Rome, an unknown stranger noticed of nobody; and so he hoped again to

find a lodging with her, such as would be best suited to the sad

condition in which he then was.

He knocked confidently at the door, and several times called out his

name aloud. At last he heard the old woman slowly and reluctantly

wakening up out of her sleep. She shuffled to the window in her

slippers, and began to rain down a shower of abuse upon the knave who

was come to worry her in this way in the middle of the night; her

house was not a wine-shop, &c., &c. Then there ensued a good deal of

cross-questioning before she recognised her former lodger's voice; but

on Salvator's complaining that he had fled from Naples and was unable

to find a shelter in Rome, the old dame cried, "By all the blessed

saints of Heaven! Is that you, Signor Salvator? Well now, your little

room up above, that looks on to the court, is still standing empty, and

the old fig-tree has pushed its branches right through the window and

into the room, so that you can sit and work like as if you was in a

beautiful cool arbour. Ay, and how pleased my girls will be that you

have come back again, Signor Salvator. But, d'ye know, my Margarita's

grown a big girl and fine-looking? You won't give her any more rides on

your knee now. And--and your little pussy, just fancy, three months ago

she choked herself with a fish-bone. Ah well, we all shall come to the

grave at last. But, d'ye know, my fat neighbour, who you so often

laughed at and so often painted in such funny ways--d'ye know, she

_did_ marry that young fellow, Signor Luigi, after all. Ah well! _nozze

e magistrati sono da dio destinati_ (marriages and magistrates are made

in heaven) they say."

"But," cried Salvator, interrupting the old woman, "but, Signora

Caterina, I entreat you by the blessed saints, do, pray, let me in, and

then tell me all about your fig-tree and your daughters, your cat and

your fat neighbour--I am perishing of weariness and cold."

"Bless me, how impatient we are," rejoined the old dame; "_Chi va piano

va sano, chi va presto more lesto_ (more haste less speed, take things

cool and live longer), I tell you. But you are tired, you are cold;

where are the keys? quick with the keys!"

But the old woman still had to wake up her daughters and kindle a

fire--but oh! she was such a long time about it--such a long, long

time. At last she opened the door and let poor Salvator in; but

scarcely had he crossed the threshold than, overcome by fatigue and

illness, he dropped on the floor as if dead. Happily the widow's son,

who generally lived at Tivoli, chanced to be at his mother's that night

He was at once turned out of his bed to make room for the sick guest,

which he willingly submitted to.

The old woman was very fond of Salvator, putting him, as far as his

artistic powers went, above all the painters in the world; and in

everything that he did she also took the greatest pleasure. She was

therefore quite beside herself to see him in this lamentable condition,

and wanted to run off to the neighbouring monastery to fetch her father

confessor, that he might come and fight against the adverse power of

the disease with consecrated candles or some powerful amulet or other.

On the other hand, her son thought it would be almost better to see

about getting an experienced physician at once, and off he ran there

and then to the Spanish Square, where he knew the distinguished Doctor

Splendiano Accoramboni dwelt. No sooner did the doctor learn that the

painter Salvator Rosa lay ill in the Via Bergognona than he at once

declared himself ready to call early and see the patient.

Salvator lay unconscious, struck down by a most severe attack of fever.

The old dame had hung up two or three pictures of saints above his bed,

and was praying fervently. The girls, though bathed in tears, exerted

themselves from time to time to get the sick man to swallow a few drops

of the cooling lemonade which they had made, whilst their brother, who

had taken his place at the head of the bed, wiped the cold sweat from

his brow. And so morning found them, when with a loud creak the door

opened, and the distinguished Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni entered the

room.

If Salvator had not been so seriously ill that the two girls' hearts

were melted in grief, they would, I think, for they were in general

frolicsome and saucy, have enjoyed a hearty laugh at the Doctor's

extraordinary appearance, instead of retiring shyly, as they did, into

the corner, greatly alarmed. It will indeed be worth while to describe

the outward appearance of the little man who presented himself at Dame

Caterina's in the Via Bergognona in the grey of the morning. In spite

of all his excellent capabilities for growth, Doctor Splendiano

Accoramboni had not been able to advance beyond the respectable stature

of four feet Moreover, in the days of his youth, he had been

distinguished for his elegant figure, so that, before his head, always

indeed somewhat ill-shaped, and his big cheeks, and his stately double

chin had put on too much fat, before his nose had grown bulky and

spread owing to overmuch indulgence in Spanish snuff, and before his

little belly had assumed the shape of a wine-tub from too much

fattening on macaroni, the priestly cut of garments, which he at that

time had affected, had suited him down to the ground. He was then in

truth a pretty little man, and accordingly the Roman ladies had styled

him their _caro puppazetto_ (sweet little pet).

That however was now a thing of the past. A German painter, seeing

Doctor Splendiano walking across the Spanish Square, said--and he was

perhaps not far wrong--that it looked as if some strapping fellow of

six feet or so had walked away from his own head, which had fallen

on the shoulders of a little marionette clown, who now had to

carry it about as his own. This curious little figure walked about in

patchwork--an immense quantity of pieces of Venetian damask of a large

flower pattern that had been cut up in making a dressing-gown; high up

round his waist he had buckled a broad leather belt, from which an

excessively long rapier hung; whilst his snow-white wig was surmounted

by a high conical cap, not unlike the obelisk in St. Peter's Square.

Since the said wig, like a piece of texture all tumbled and tangled,

spread out thick and wide all over his back, it might very well be

taken for the cocoon out of which the fine silkworm had crept.

The worthy Splendiano Accoramboni stared through his big, bright

spectacles, with his eyes wide open, first at his patient, then at Dame

Caterina. Calling her aside, he croaked with bated breath, "There lies

our talented painter Salvator Rosa, and he's lost if my skill doesn't

save him, Dame Caterina. Pray tell me when he came to lodge with you?

Did he bring many beautiful large pictures with him?"

"Ah! my dear Doctor," replied Dame Caterina, "the poor fellow only came

last night. And as for pictures--why, I don't know nothing about them;

but there's a big box below, and Salvator begged me to take very good

care of it, before he became senseless like what he now is. I daresay

there's a fine picture packed in it, as he painted in Naples."

What Dame Caterina said was, however, a falsehood; but we shall soon

see that she had good reasons for imposing upon the Doctor in this way.

"Good! Very good!" said the Doctor, simpering and stroking his beard;

then, with as much solemnity as his long rapier, which kept catching in

all the chairs and tables he came near, would allow, he approached the

sick man and felt his pulse, snorting and wheezing, so that it had a

most curious effect in the midst of the reverential silence which had

fallen upon all the rest. Then he ran over in Greek and Latin the names

of a hundred and twenty diseases that Salvator had not, then almost as

many which he might have had, and concluded by saying that on the spur

of the moment he didn't recollect the name of his disease, but that he

would within a short time find a suitable one for it, and along

therewith, the proper remedies as well. Then he took his departure with

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

trouble and anxiety.

At the bottom of the steps the Doctor requested to see Salvator's box;

Dame Caterina showed him one--in which were two or three of her

deceased husband's cloaks now laid aside, and some old worn-out shoes.

The Doctor smilingly tapped the box, on this side and on that, and

remarked in a tone of satisfaction "We shall see! we shall see!" Some

hours later he returned with a very beautiful name for his patient's

disease, and brought with him some big bottles of an evil-smelling

potion, which he directed to be given to the patient constantly. This

was a work of no little trouble, for Salvator showed the greatest

aversion for--utter loathing of the stuff, which looked, and smelt, and

tasted, as if it had been concocted from Acheron itself. Whether it was

that the disease, since it had now received a name, and in consequence

really signified something, had only just begun to put forth its

virulence, or whether it was that Splendiano's potion made too much of

a disturbance inside the patient--it is at any rate certain that the

poor painter grew weaker and weaker from day to day, from hour to hour.

And notwithstanding Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni's assurance that,

after the vital process had reached a state of perfect equilibrium, he

would give it a new start like the pendulum of a clock, they were all

very doubtful as to Salvator's recovery, and thought that the Doctor

had perhaps already given the pendulum such a violent start that the

mechanism was quite impaired.

Now it happened one day that when Salvator seemed scarcely able to move

a finger he was suddenly seized with the paroxysm of fever; in a

momentary accession of fictitious strength he leapt out of bed, seized

the full medicine bottles, and hurled them fiercely out of the window.

Just at this moment Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni was entering the

house, when two or three bottles came bang upon his head, smashing all

to pieces, whilst the brown liquid ran in streams all down his face,

and wig, and ruff. Hastily rushing into the house, he screamed like a

madman, "Signer Salvator has gone out of his mind, he's become insane;

no skill can save him now, he'll be dead in ten minutes. Give me the

picture, Dame Caterina, give me the picture--it's mine, the scanty

reward of all my trouble. Give me the picture, I say."

But when Dame Caterina opened the box, and Doctor Splendiano saw

nothing but the old cloaks and torn shoes, his eyes spun round in his

head like a pair of fire-wheels; he gnashed his teeth; he stamped; he

consigned poor Salvator, the widow, and all the family to the devil;

then he rushed out of the house like an arrow from a bow, or as if he

had been shot from a cannon.

After the violence of the paroxysm had spent itself, Salvator again

relapsed into a death-like condition. Dame Caterina was fully persuaded

that his end was really come, and away she sped as fast as she could to

the monastery, to fetch Father Boniface, that he might come and

administer the sacrament to the dying man. Father Boniface came and

looked at the sick man; he said he was well acquainted with the

peculiar signs which approaching death is wont to stamp upon the human

countenance, but that for the present there were no indications of them

on the face of the insensible Salvator. Something might still be done,

and he would procure help at once, only Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni

with his Greek names and infernal medicines was not to be allowed to

cross the threshold again. The good Father set out at once, and we

shall see later that he kept his word about sending the promised help.

Salvator recovered consciousness again; he fancied he was lying in a

beautiful flower-scented arbour, for green boughs and leaves were

interlacing above his head. He felt a salutary warmth glowing in his

veins, but it seemed to him as if somehow his left arm was bound fast

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

had stood at his bedside, but whom he had not noticed until just now,

threw himself upon his knees, and grasping Salvator's right hand,

kissed it and bathed it with tears, as he cried again and again, "Oh!

my dear sir! my noble master! now it's all right; you are saved, you'll

get better."

"But do tell me"--began Salvator, when the young man begged him not to

exert himself, for he was too weak to talk; he would tell him all that

had happened. "You see, my esteemed and excellent sir," began the young

man, "you see, you were very ill when you came from Naples, but your

condition was not, I warrant, by any means so dangerous but that a few

simple remedies would soon have set you, with your strong constitution,

on your legs again, had you not through Carlos's well-intentioned

blunder in running off for the nearest physician fallen into the hands

of the redoubtable Pyramid Doctor, who was making all preparations for

bringing you to your grave."

"What do you say?" exclaimed Salvator, laughing heartily,

notwithstanding the feeble state he was in. "What do you say?--the

Pyramid Doctor? Ay, ay, although I was very ill, I saw that the little

knave in damask patchwork, who condemned me to drink his horrid,

loathsome devil's brew, wore on his head the obelisk from St. Peter's

Square--and so that's why you call him the Pyramid Doctor?"

"Why, good heavens!" said the young man, likewise laughing, "why,

Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni must have come to see you in his ominous

conical nightcap; and, do you know, you may see it flashing every

morning from his window in the Spanish Square like a portentous meteor.

But it's not by any means owing to this cap that he's called the

Pyramid Doctor; for that there's quite another reason. Doctor

Splendiano is a great lover of pictures, and possesses in truth quite a

choice collection, which he has gained by a practice of a peculiar

nature. With eager cunning he lies in wait for painters and their

illnesses. More especially he loves to get foreign artists into his

toils; let them but eat an ounce or two of macaroni too much, or drink

a glass more Syracuse than is altogether good for them, he will afflict

them with first one and then the other disease, designating it by a

formidable name, and proceeding at once to cure them of it. He

generally bargains for a picture as the price of his attendance; and as

it is only specially obstinate constitutions which are able to

withstand his powerful remedies, it generally happens that he gets his

picture out of the chattels left by the poor foreigner, who meanwhile

has been carried to the Pyramid of Cestius, and buried there. It need

hardly be said that Signor Splendiano always picks out the best of the

pictures the painter has finished, and also does not forget to bid the

men take several others along with it. The cemetery near the Pyramid of

Cestius is Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni's corn-field, which he

diligently cultivates, and for that reason he is called the Pyramid

Doctor. Dame Caterina had taken great pains, of course with the best

intentions, to make the Doctor believe that you had brought a fine

picture with you; you may imagine therefore with what eagerness he

concocted his potions for you. It was a fortunate thing that in the

paroxysm of fever you threw the Doctor's bottles at his head, it was

also a fortunate thing that he left you in anger, and no less fortunate

was it that Dame Caterina, who believed you were in the agonies of

death, fetched Father Boniface to come and administer to you the

sacrament. Father Boniface understands something of the art of healing;

he formed a correct diagnosis of your condition and fetched me"----

"Then you also are a doctor?" asked Salvator in a faint whining tone.

"No," replied the young man, a deep blush mantling his cheeks, "no, my

estimable and worthy sir, I am not in the least a doctor like Signor

Splendiano Accoramboni; I am however a chirurgeon. I felt as if I

should sink into the earth with fear--with joy--when Father Boniface

came and told me that Salvator Rosa lay sick unto death in the Via

Bergognona, and required my help. I hastened here, opened a vein in

your left arm, and you were saved. Then we brought you up into this

cool airy room that you formerly occupied. Look, there's the easel

which you left behind you; yonder are a few sketches which Dame

Caterina has treasured up as if they were relics. The virulence of your

disease is subdued; simple remedies such as Father Boniface can prepare

is all that you want, except good nursing, to bring back your strength

again. And now permit me once more to kiss this hand--this creative

hand that charms from Nature her deepest secrets and clothes them in

living form. Permit poor Antonio Scacciati to pour out all the

gratitude and immeasurable joy of his heart that Heaven has granted him

to save the life of our great and noble painter, Salvator Rosa."

Therewith the young surgeon threw himself on his knees again, and,

seizing Salvator's hand, kissed it and bathed it in tears as before.

"I don't understand," said the artist, raising himself up a little,

though with considerable difficulty, "I don't understand, my dear

Antonio, what it is that is so especially urging you to show me all

this respect. You are, you say, a chirurgeon, and we don't in a general

way find this trade going hand in hand with art----"

"As soon," replied the young man, casting down his eyes, "as soon as

you have picked up your strength again, my dear sir, I have a good deal

to tell you that now lies heavy on my heart."

"Do so," said Salvator; "you may have every confidence in me--that you

may, for I don't know that any man's face has made a more direct appeal

to my heart than yours. The more I look at you the more plainly I seem

to trace in your features a resemblance to that incomparable young

painter--I mean Sanzio."[1.10] Antonio's eyes were lit up with a proud,

radiant light--he vainly struggled for words with which to express his

feelings.

At this moment Dame Caterina appeared, followed by Father Boniface,

who brought Salvator a medicine which he had mixed scientifically

according to prescription, and which the patient swallowed with more

relish and felt to have a more beneficial effect upon him than the

Acheronian waters of the Pyramid Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni.

II.

_By Salvator Rosa's intervention Antonio Scacciati attains to a high

honour. Antonio discloses the cause of his persistent trouble to

Salvator, who consoles him and promises to help him._

And Antonio's words proved true. The simple but salutary remedies of

Father Boniface, the careful nursing of good Dame Caterina and her

daughters, the warmer weather which now came--all co-operated so well

together with Salvator's naturally robust constitution that he soon

felt sufficiently well to think about work again; first of all he

designed a few sketches which he thought of working out afterwards.

Antonio scarcely ever left Salvator's room; he was all eyes when the

painter drew out his sketches; whilst his judgment in respect to many

points showed that he must have been initiated into the secrets of art.

"See here," said Salvator to him one day, "see here, Antonio, you

understand art matters so well that I believe you have not merely

cultivated your excellent judgment as a critic, but must have wielded

the brush as well."

"You will remember," rejoined Antonio, "how I told you, my dear sir,

when you were just about coming to yourself again after your long

unconsciousness, that I had several things to tell you which lay heavy

on my mind. Now is the time for me to unfold all my heart to you. You

must know then, that though I am called Antonio Scacciati, the

chirurgeon, who opened the vein in your arm for you, I belong also

entirely to art--to the art which, after bidding eternal farewell to my

hateful trade, I intend to devote myself for once and for all."

"Ho! ho!" exclaimed Salvator, "Ho! ho! Antonio, weigh well what you are

about to do. You are a clever chirurgeon, and perhaps will never be

anything more than a bungling painter all your life long; for, with

your permission, as young as you are, you are decidedly too old to

begin to use the charcoal now. Believe me, a man's whole lifetime is

scarce long enough to acquire a knowledge of the True--still less the

practical ability to represent it."

"Ah! but, my dear sir," replied Antonio, smiling blandly, "don't

imagine that I should now have come to entertain the foolish idea of

taking up the difficult art of painting had I not practised it already

on every possible occasion from my very childhood. In spite of the fact

that my father obstinately kept me away from everything connected with

art, yet Heaven was graciously pleased to throw me in the way of some

celebrated artists. I must tell you that the great Annibal[2.1]

interested himself in the orphan boy, and also that I may with justice

call myself Guido Reni's[2.2] pupil."

"Well then," said Salvator somewhat sharply, a way of speaking he

sometimes had, "well then, my good Antonio, you have indeed had great

masters, and so it cannot fail but that, without detriment to your

surgical practice, you must have been a great pupil. Only I don't

understand how you, a faithful disciple of the gentle, elegant Guido,

whom you perhaps outdo in elegance in your own pictures--for pupils do

do those sort of things in their enthusiasm--how you can find any

pleasure in my productions, and can really regard me as a master in the

Art."

At these words, which indeed sounded a good deal like derisive mockery,

the hot blood rushed into the young man's face.

"Oh, let me lay aside all the diffidence which generally keeps my lips

closed," he said, "and let me frankly lay bare the thoughts I have in

my mind. I tell you, Salvator, I have never honoured any master from

the depths of my soul as I do you. What I am amazed at in your works is

the sublime greatness of conception which is often revealed You grasp

the deepest secrets of Nature: you comprehend the mysterious

hieroglyphics of her rocks, of her trees, and of her waterfalls, you

hear her sacred voice, you understand her language, and possess the

power to write down what she has said to you. Verily I can call your

bold free style of painting nothing else than writing down. Man alone

and his doings does not suffice you; you behold him only in the midst

of Nature, and in so far as his essential character is conditioned by

natural phenomena; and in these facts I see the reason why you are only

truly great in landscapes, Salvator, with their wonderful figures.

Historical painting confines you within limits which clog your

imagination to the detriment of your genius for reproducing your higher

intuitions of Nature."

"That's talk you've picked up from envious historical painters," said

Salvator, interrupting his young companion; "like them, Antonio, you

throw me the choice bone of landscape-painting that I may gnaw away at

it, and so spare their own good flesh. Perhaps I do understand the

human figure and all that is dependent upon it. But this senseless

repetition of others' words"----

"Don't be angry," continued Antonio, "don't be angry, my good sir; I am

not blindly repeating anybody's words, and I should not for a moment

think of trusting to the judgment of our painters here in Rome at any

rate. Who can help greatly admiring the bold draughtsmanship, the

powerful expression, but above all the living movement of your fingers?

It's plain to see that you don't work from a stiff, inflexible model,

or even from a dead skeleton form; it is evident that you yourself are

your own breathing, living model, and that when you sketch or paint,

you have the figure you want to put on your canvas reflected in a great

mirror opposite to you."

"The devil! Antonio," exclaimed Salvator, laughing, "I believe you must

often have had a peep into my studio when I was not aware of it, since

you have such an accurate knowledge of what goes on within."

"Perhaps I may," replied Antonio; "but let me go on. I am not by a long

way so anxious to classify, the pictures which your powerful mind

suggests to you as are those pedantic critics who take such great pains

in this line. In fact, I think that the word 'landscape,' as generally

employed, has but an indifferent application to your productions; I

should prefer to call them historical representations in the highest

sense of the word. If we fancy that this or the other rock or this or

the other tree is gazing at us like a gigantic being with thoughtful

earnest eyes, so again, on the other hand, this or the other group of

fantastically attired men resembles some remarkable stone which has

been endowed with life; all Nature, breathing and moving in harmonious

unity, lends accents to the sublime thought which leapt into existence

in your mind. This is the spirit in which I have studied your pictures,

and so in this way it is, my grand and noble master, that I owe to you

my truer perceptions in matters of art. But pray don't imagine that I

have fallen into childish imitation. However much I would like to

possess the free bold pencil that you possess, I do not attempt to

conceal the fact that Nature's colours appear to me different from what

I see them in your pictures. Although it is useful, I think, for the

sake of acquiring technique, for the pupil to imitate the style of this

or that master, yet, so soon as he comes to stand in any sense on his

own feet, he ought to aim at representing Nature as he himself sees

her. Nothing but this true method of perception, this unity with

oneself, can give rise to character and truth. Guido shared these

sentiments; and that fiery man Preti,[2.3] who, as you are aware, is

called _Il Calabrese_--a painter who certainly, more than any other

man, has reflected upon his art--also warned me against all imitation.

Now you know, Salvator, why I so much respect you, without imitating

you."

Whilst the young man had been speaking, Salvator had kept his eyes

fixed unchangeably upon him; he now clasped him tumultuously to his

heart.

"Antonio," he then said, "what you have just now said are wise and

thoughtful words. Young as you are, you are nevertheless, so far as the

true perception of art is concerned, a long way ahead of many of our

old and much vaunted masters, who have a good deal of stupid foolish

twaddle about their painting, but never get at the true root of the

matter. Body alive, man! When you were talking about my pictures, I

then began to understand myself for the first time, I believe; and

because you do not imitate my style,--do not, like a good many others,

take a tube of black paint in your hand, or dab on a few glaring

colours, or even make two or three crippled figures with repulsive

faces look up from the midst of filth and dirt, and then say, 'There's

a Salvator for you!'--just for these very reasons I think a good deal

of you. I tell you, my lad, you'll not find a more faithful friend than

I am--that I can promise you with all my heart and soul."

Antonio was beside himself with joy at the kind way in which the great

painter thus testified to his interest in him. Salvator expressed an

earnest desire to see his pictures. Antonio took him there and then to

his studio.

Salvator had in truth expected to find something fairly good from the

young man who spoke so intelligently about art, and who, it appeared,

had a good deal in him; but nevertheless he was greatly surprised at

the sight of Antonio's fine pictures. Everywhere he found boldness in

conception, and correctness in drawing; and the freshness of the

colouring, the good taste in the arrangement of the drapery, the

uncommon delicacy of the extremities, the exquisite grace of the heads,

were all so many evidences that he was no unworthy pupil of the great

Reni. But Antonio had avoided this master's besetting sin of an

endeavour, only too conspicuous, to sacrifice expression to beauty. It

was plain that Antonio was aiming to reach Annibal's strength, without

having as yet succeeded.

Salvator spent some considerable time of thoughtful silence in the

examination of each of the pictures. Then he said, "Listen, Antonio: it

is indeed undeniable that you were born to follow the noble art of

painting. For not only has Nature endowed you with the creative spirit

from which the finest thoughts pour forth in an inexhaustible stream,

but she has also granted you the rare ability to surmount in a short

space of time the difficulties of technique. It would only be false

flattery if I were to tell you that you had yet advanced to the level

of your masters, that you are yet equal to Guido's exquisite grace or

to Annibal's strength; but certain I am that you excel by a long way

all the painters who hold up their heads so proudly in the Academy of

St. Luke[2.4] here--Tiarini,[2.5] Gessi,[2.6] Sementa,[2.7] and all

the rest of them, not even excepting Lanfranco[2.8] himself, for he

only understands fresco-painting. And yet, Antonio, and yet, if I were

in your place, I should deliberate awhile before throwing away the

lancet altogether, and confining myself entirely to the pencil That

sounds rather strange, but listen to me. Art seems to be having a bad

time of it just now, or rather the devil seems to be very busy amongst

our painters now-a-days, bravely setting them together by the ears. If

you cannot make up your mind to put up with all sorts of annoyances, to

endure more and more scorn and contumely in proportion as you advance

in art, and as your fame spreads to meet with malicious scoundrels

everywhere, who with a friendly face will force themselves upon you in

order to ruin you the more surely afterwards,--if you cannot, I say,

make up your mind to endure all this--let painting alone. Think of the

fate of your teacher, the great Annibal, whom a rascally band of rivals

malignantly persecuted in Naples, so that he did not receive one single

commission for a great work, being everywhere rejected with contempt;

and this is said to have been instrumental in bringing about his early

death. Think of what happened to Domenichino[2.9] when he was painting

the dome of the chapel of St. Januarius. Didn't the villains of

painters--I won't mention a single name, not even the rascals

Belisario[2.10] and Ribera[2.11]--didn't they bribe Domenichino's

servant to strew ashes in the lime? So the plaster wouldn't stick fast

on the walls, and the painting had no stability. Think of all that, and

examine yourself well whether your spirit is strong enough to endure

things like that, for if not, your artistic power will be broken, and

along with the resolute courage for work you will also lose your

ability."

"But, Salvator," replied Antonio, "it would hardly be possible for me

to have more scorn and contumely to endure, supposing I took up

painting entirely and exclusively, then I have already endured whilst

merely a chirurgeon. You have been pleased with my pictures, you have

indeed! and at the same time declared from inner conviction that I am

capable of doing better things than several of our painters of the

Academy. But these are just the men who turn up their noses at all that

I have industriously produced, and say contemptuously, 'Do look, here's

our chirurgeon wants to be a painter!' And for this very reason my

resolve is only the more unshaken; I will sever myself from a trade

that grows with every day more hateful. Upon you, my honoured master, I

now stake all my hopes. Your word is powerful; if you would speak a

good word for me, you might overthrow my envious persecutors at a

single blow, and put me in the place where I ought to be."

"You repose great confidence in me," rejoined Salvator. "But now that

we thoroughly understand each other's views on painting, and I have

seen your works, I don't really know that there is anybody for whom I

would rather take up the cudgels than for you."

Salvator once more inspected Antonio's pictures, and stopped before one

representing a "Magdalene at the Saviour's feet," which he especially

praised.

"In this Magdalene," he said, "you have deviated from the usual mode of

representation. Your Magdalene is not a thoughtful virgin, but a lovely

artless child rather, and yet she is such a marvellous child that

hardly anybody else but Guido could have painted her. There is a unique

charm in her dainty figure; you must have painted with inspiration;

and, if I mistake not, the original of this Magdalene is alive and to

be found in Rome. Come, confess, Antonio, you are in love!"

Antonio's eyes sought the ground, whilst he said in a low shy voice,

"Nothing escapes your penetration, my dear sir; perhaps it is as you

say, but do not blame me for it. That picture I set the highest store

by, and hitherto I have guarded it as a holy secret from all men's

eyes."

"What do you say?" interrupted Salvator. "None of the painters here

have seen your picture?"

"No, not one," was Antonio's reply.

"All right then, Antonio," continued Salvator, his eyes sparkling with

delight "Very well then, you may rely upon it, I will overwhelm your

envious overweening persecutors, and get you the honour you deserve.

Intrust your picture to me; bring it to my studio secretly by night,

and then leave all the rest to me. Will you do so?"

"Gladly, with all my heart," replied Antonio. "And now I should very

much like to talk to you about my love-troubles as well; but I feel as

if I ought not to do so to-day, after we have opened our minds to each

other on the subject of art. I also entreat you to grant me your

assistance both in word and deed later on in this matter of my love."

"I am at your service," said Salvator, "for both, both when and where

you require me." Then as he was going away, he once more turned round

and said, smiling, "See here, Antonio, when you disclosed to me the

fact that you were a painter, I was very sorry that I had spoken about

your resemblance to Sanzio. I took it for granted that you were as

silly as most of our young folk, who, if they bear but the slightest

resemblance in the face to any great master, at once trim their beard

or hair as he does, and from this cause fancy it is their business to

imitate the style of the master in their art achievements, even though

it is a manifest violation of their natural talents to do so. Neither

of us has mentioned Raphael's name, but I assure you that I have

discerned in your pictures clear indications that you have grasped the

full significance of the inimitable thoughts which are reflected in the

works of this the greatest of the painters of the age. You understand

Raphael, and would give me a different answer from what Velasquez[2.12]

did when I asked him not long ago what he thought of Sanzio. 'Titian,'

he replied, 'is the greatest painter; Raphael knows nothing about

carnation.' This Spaniard, methinks, understands flesh but not

criticism; and yet these men in St. Luke elevate him to the clouds

because he once painted cherries which the sparrows picked at."[2.13]

It happened not many days afterwards that the Academicians of St. Luke

met together in their church to prove the works which had been

announced for exhibition. There too Salvator had sent Scacciati's fine

picture. In spite of themselves the painters were greatly struck with

its grace and power; and from all lips there was heard nothing but the

most extravagant praise when Salvator informed them that he had brought

the picture with him from Naples, as the legacy of a young painter who

had been cut off in the pride of his days.

It was not long before all Rome was crowding to see and admire the

picture of the young unknown painter who had died so young; it was

unanimously agreed that no such work had been done since Guido Reni's

time; some even went so far in their just enthusiasm as to place this

exquisitely lovely Magdalene before Guido's creations of a similar

kind. Amongst the crowd of people who were always gathered round

Scacciati's picture, Salvator one day observed a man who, besides

presenting a most extraordinary appearance, behaved as if he were

crazy. Well advanced in years, he was tall, thin as a spindle, with a

pale face, a long sharp nose, a chin equally as long, ending moreover

in a little pointed beard, and with grey, gleaming eyes. On the top of

his light sand-coloured wig he had set a high hat with a magnificent

feather; he wore a short dark red mantle or cape with many bright

buttons, a sky-blue doublet slashed in the Spanish style, immense

leather gauntlets with silver fringes, a long rapier at his side, light

grey stockings drawn up above his bony knees and gartered with yellow

ribbons, whilst he had bows of the same sort of yellow ribbon on his

shoes.

This remarkable figure was standing before the picture like one

enraptured: he raised himself on tiptoe; he stooped down till he became

quite small; then he jumped up with both feet at once, heaved deep

sighs, groaned, nipped his eyes so close together that the tears began

to trickle down his cheeks, opened them wide again, fixed his gaze

immovably upon the charming Magdalene, sighed again, lisped in a thin,

querulous, mutilated voice, "_Ah! carissima--benedettissima! Ah!

Marianna--Mariannina--bellissima_," &c. ("Oh! dearest--most adored! Ah!

Marianna--sweet Marianna! my most beautiful!") Salvator, who had a mad

fancy for such oddities, drew near to the old fellow, intending to

engage him in conversation about Scacciati's work, which seemed to

afford him so much exquisite delight Without paying any particular heed

to Salvator, the old gentleman stood cursing his poverty, because he

could not give a million sequins for the picture, and place it under

lock and key where nobody could set their infernal eyes upon it. Then,

hopping up and down again, he blessed the Virgin and all the holy

saints that the reprobate artist who had painted the heavenly picture

which was driving him to despair and madness was dead.

Salvator concluded that the man either was out of his mind, or was an

Academician of St. Luke with whom he was unacquainted.

All Rome was full of Scacciati's wonderful picture; people could

scarcely talk about anything else, and this of course was convincing

proof of the excellence of the work. And when the painters were again

assembled in the church of St. Luke, to decide about the admission of

certain other pictures which had been announced for exhibition,

Salvator Rosa all at once asked, whether the painter of the "Magdalene

at the Saviour's Feet" was not worthy of being admitted a member of the

Academy. They all with one accord, including even that hairsplitter in

criticism, Baron Josepin,[2.14] declared that such a great artist would

have been an ornament to the Academy, and expressed their sorrow at his

death in the choicest phrases, although, like the crazy old man, they

were praising Heaven in their hearts that he was dead. Still more, they

were so far carried away by their enthusiasm that they passed a

resolution to the effect that the admirable young painter whom death

had snatched away from art so early should be nominated a member of the

Academy in his grave, and that masses should be read for the benefit of

his soul in the church of St. Luke. They therefore begged Salvator to

inform them what was the full name of the deceased, the date of his

birth, the place where he was born, &c.

Then Salvator rose and said in a loud voice, "Signors, the honour you

are anxious to render to a dead man you can more easily bestow upon a

living man who walks in your midst. Learn that the 'Magdalene at the

Saviour's Feet'--the picture which you so justly exalt above all other

artistic productions that the last few years have given us, is not the

work of a dead Neapolitan painter as I pretended (this I did simply to

get an unbiassed judgment from you); that painting, that masterpiece,

which all Rome is admiring, is from the hand of Signor Antonio

Scacciati, the chirurgeon."

The painters sat staring at Salvator as if suddenly thunderstruck,

incapable of either moving or uttering a single sound. He, however,

after quietly exulting over their embarrassment for some minutes,

continued, "Well now, signors, you would not tolerate the worthy

Antonio amongst you because he is a chirurgeon; but I think that the

illustrious Academy of St. Luke has great need of a surgeon to set the

limbs of the many crippled figures which emerge from the studios of a

good many amongst your number. But of course you will no longer scruple

to do what you ought to have done long ago, namely, elect that

excellent painter Antonio Scacciati a member of the Academy."

The Academicians, swallowing Salvator's bitter pill, feigned to be

highly delighted that Antonio had in this way given such incontestable

proofs of his talent, and with all due ceremony nominated him a member

of the Academy.

As soon as it became known in Rome that Antonio was the author of the

wonderful picture he was overwhelmed with congratulations, and even

with commissions for great works, which poured in upon him from all

sides. Thus by Salvator's shrewd and cunning stratagem the young man

emerged all at once out of his obscurity, and with the first real step

he took on his artistic career rose to great honour.

Antonio revelled in ecstasies of delight. So much the more therefore

did Salvator wonder to see him, some days later, appear with his face

pale and distorted, utterly miserable and woebegone. "Ah! Salvator!"

said Antonio, "what advantage has it been to me that you have helped me

to rise to a level far beyond my expectations, that I am now

overwhelmed with praise and honour, that the prospect of a most

successful artistic career is opening out before me? Oh! I am utterly

miserable, for the picture to which, next to you, my dear sir, I owe my

great triumph, has proved the source of my lasting misfortune."

"Stop!" replied Salvator, "don't sin against either your art or your

picture. I don't believe a word about the terrible misfortune which,

you say, has befallen you. You are in love, and I presume you can't get

all your wishes gratified at once, on the spur of the moment; that's

all it is. Lovers are like children; they scream and cry if anybody

only just touches their doll. Have done, I pray you, with that

lamentation, for I tell you I can't do with it. Come now, sit yourself

down there and quietly tell me all about your fair Magdalene, and give

me the history of your love affair, and let me know what are the stones

of offence that we have to remove, for I promise you my help

beforehand. The more adventurous the schemes are which we shall have to

undertake, the more I shall like them. In fact, my blood is coursing

hotly in my veins again, and my regimen requires that I engage in a few

wild pranks. But go on with your story, Antonio, and as I said, let's

have it quietly without any sighs and lamentations, without any Ohs!

and Ahs!"

Antonio took his seat on the stool which Salvator had pushed up to the

easel at which he was working, and began as follows:--

"There is a high house in the Via Ripetta,[2.15] with a balcony which

projects far over the street so as at once to strike the eye of any one

entering through the Porta del Popolo, and there dwells perhaps the

most whimsical oddity in all Rome,--an old bachelor with every fault

that belongs to that class of persons--avaricious, vain, anxious to

appear young, amorous, foppish. He is tall, as thin as a switch, wears

a gay Spanish costume, a sandy wig, a conical hat, leather gauntlets, a

rapier at his side"----

"Stop, stop!" cried Salvator, interrupting him, "excuse me a minute or

two, Antonio." Then, turning about the picture at which he was

painting, he seized his charcoal and in a few free bold strokes

sketched on the back side of the canvas the eccentric old gentleman

whom he had seen behaving like a crazed man in front of Antonio's

picture.

"By all the saints!" cried Antonio, as he leapt to his feet, and,

forgetful of his unhappiness, burst out into a loud laugh, "by all the

saints! that's he! That's Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, whom I was just

describing, that's he to the very T."

"So you see," said Salvator calmly, "that I am already acquainted with

the worthy gentleman who most probably is your bitter enemy. But go

on."

"Signor Pasquale Capuzzi," continued Antonio, "is as rich as Cr[oe]sus,

but at the same time, as I just told you, a sordid miser and an

incurable coxcomb. The best thing about him is that he loves art,

particularly music and painting; but he mixes up so much folly with it

all that even in these things there's no getting on with him. He

considers himself the greatest musical composer in the world, and that

there's not a singer in the Papal choir who can at all approach him.

Accordingly he looks down upon our old Frescobaldi[2.16] with contempt;

and when the Romans talk about the wonderful charm of Ceccarelli's

voice, he informs them that Ceccarelli knows as much about singing as a

pair of top-boots, and that he, Capuzzi, knows which is the right way

to fascinate the public. But as the first singer of the Pope bears the

proud name of Signor Odoardo Ceccarelli di Merania, so our Capuzzi is

greatly delighted when anybody calls him Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di

Senigaglia; for it was in Senigaglia[2.17] that he was born, and the

popular rumour goes that his mother, being startled at sight of a

sea-dog (seal) suddenly rising to the surface, gave birth to him in a

fisherman's boat, and that accounts, it is said, for a good deal of the

sea-cur in his nature. Several years ago he brought out an opera on the

stage, which was fearfully hissed; but that hasn't cured him of his

mania for writing execrable music. Indeed, when he heard Francesco

Cavalli's[2.18] opera _Le Nozze di Feti e di Peleo_, he swore that the

composer had filched the sublimest of the thoughts from his own

immortal works, for which he was near being thrashed and even stabbed.

He still has a craze for singing arias, and accompanies his hideous

squalling on a wretched jarring, jangling guitar, all out of tune. His

faithful Pylades is an ill-bred dwarfish eunuch, whom the Romans call

Pitichinaccio. There is a third member of the company--guess who it

is?--Why, none other than the Pyramid Doctor, who kicks up a noise like

a melancholy ass and yet fancies he's singing an excellent bass, quite

as good as Martinelli of the Papal choir. Now these three estimable

people are in the habit of meeting in the evening on the balcony of

Capuzzi's house, where they sing Carissimi's[2.19] motets, until all

the dogs and cats in the neighbourhood round break out into dirges of

miawing and howling, and all their neighbours heartily wish the devil

would run away with all the blessed three.

"With this whimsical old fellow, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, of whom my

description will have enabled you to form a tolerably adequate idea, my

father lived on terms of intimacy, since he trimmed his wig and beard.

When my father died, I undertook this business; and Capuzzi was in the

highest degree satisfied with me, because, as he once affirmed, I knew

better than anybody else how to give his moustaches a bold upward

twirl; but the real reason was because I was satisfied with the few

pence with which he rewarded me for my pains. But he firmly believed

that he more than richly indemnified me, since, whilst I was trimming

his beard, he always closed his eyes and croaked through an aria from

his own compositions, which, however, almost split my ears; and yet the

old fellow's crazy gestures afforded me a good deal of amusement, so

that I continued to attend him. One day when I went, I quietly ascended

the stairs, knocked at the door, and opened it, when lo, there was a

girl--an angel of light, who came to meet me. You know my Magdalene; it

was she. I stood stock still, rooted to the spot. No, Salvator, you

shall have no Ohs! and Ahs! Well, the first sight of this, the most

lovely maiden of her sex, enkindled in me the most ardent passionate

love. The old man informed me with a smirk that the young lady was the

daughter of his brother Pietro, who had died at Senigaglia, that her

name was Marianna, and that she was quite an orphan; being her uncle

and guardian, he had taken her into his house. You can easily imagine

that henceforward Capuzzi's house was my Paradise. But no matter

what devices I had recourse to, I could never succeed in getting a

_tete-a-tete_ with Marianna, even for a single moment. Her glances,

however, and many a stolen sigh, and many a soft pressure of the hand,

resolved all doubts as to my good fortune. The old man divined what I

was after,--which was not a very difficult thing for him to do. He

informed me that my behaviour towards his niece was not such as to

please him altogether, and he asked me what was the real purport of my

attentions. Then I frankly confessed that I loved Marianna with all my

heart, and that the greatest earthly happiness I could conceive was a

union with her. Whereupon Capuzzi, after measuring me from top to toe,

burst out in a guffaw of contempt, and declared that he never had any

idea that such lofty thoughts could haunt the brain of a paltry barber.

I was almost boiling with rage; I said he knew very well that I was no

paltry barber but rather a good surgeon, and, moreover, in so far as

concerned the noble art of painting, a faithful pupil of the great

Annibal Caracci and of the unrivalled Guido Reni. But the infamous

Capuzzi only replied by a still louder guffaw of laughter, and in his

horrible falsetto squeaked, 'See here, my sweet Signor barber, my

excellent Signor surgeon, my honoured Annibal Caracci, my beloved Guido

Reni, be off to the devil, and don't ever show yourself here again, if

you don't want your legs broken.' Therewith the cranky, knock-kneed old

fool laid hold of me with no less an intention than to kick me out of

the room, and hurl me down the stairs. But that, you know, was past

everything. With ungovernable fury I seized the old fellow and tripped

him up, so that his legs stuck uppermost in the air; and there I left

him screaming aloud, whilst I ran down the stairs and out of the

house-door; which, I need hardly say, has been closed to me ever since.

"And that's how matters stood when you came to Rome and when Heaven

inspired Father Boniface with the happy idea of bringing me to you.

Then so soon as your clever trick had brought me the success for which

I had so long been vainly striving, that is, when I was accepted by the

Academy of St. Luke, and all Rome was heaping up praise and honour upon

me to a lavish extent, I went straightway to the old gentleman and

suddenly presented myself before him in his own room, like a

threatening apparition. Such at least he must have thought me, for he

grew as pale as a corpse, and retreated behind a great table, trembling

in every limb. And in a firm and earnest way I represented to him that

it was not now a paltry barber or a surgeon, but a celebrated painter

and Academician of St. Luke, Antonio Scacciati, to whom he would not, T

hoped, refuse the hand of his niece Marianna. You should have seen into

what a passion the old fellow flew. He screamed; he flourished his arms

about like one possessed of devils; he yelled that I, a ruffianly

murderer, was seeking his life, that I had stolen his Marianna from him

since I had portrayed her in my picture, and it was driving him mad,

driving him to despair, for all the world, all the world, were fixing

their covetous, lustful eyes upon his Marianna, his life, his hope, his

all; but I had better take care, he would burn my house over my head,

and me and my picture in it. And therewith he kicked up such a din,

shouting, 'Fire! Murder! Thieves! Help!' that I was perfectly

confounded, and only thought of making the best of my way out of the

house.

"The crackbrained old fool is over head and ears in love with his

niece; he keeps her under lock and key; and as soon as he succeeds in

getting dispensation from the Pope, he will compel her to a shameful

alliance with himself. All hope for me is lost!"

"Nay, nay, not quite," said Salvator, laughing, "I am of opinion that

things could not be in a better form for you, Marianna loves you, of

that you are convinced; and all we have to do is to get her out of the

power of that fantastic old gentleman, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi. I

should like to know what there is to hinder a couple of stout

enterprising fellows like you and me from accomplishing this. Pluck up

your courage, Antonio. Instead of bewailing, and sighing, and fainting

like a lovesick swain, it would be better to set to work to think out

some plan for rescuing your Marianna. You just wait and see, Antonio,

how finely we'll circumvent the old dotard; in such like emprises, the

wildest extravagance hardly seems to me wild enough. I'll set about it

at once, and learn what I can about the old man, and about his usual

habits of life. But you must not be seen in this affair, Antonio. Go

away quietly home, and come back to me early to-morrow morning, then

we'll consider our first plan of attack."

Herewith Salvator shook the paint out of his brush, threw on his

mantle, and hurried to the Corso, whilst Antonio betook himself home as

Salvator had bidden him--his heart comforted and full of lusty hope

again.

* * * * * *

III.

_Signor Pasquale Capuzzi turns up at Salvator Rosa's studio. What takes

place there. The cunning scheme which Rosa and Scacciati carry out, and

the consequences of the same._

Next morning Salvator, having in the meantime inquired into Capuzzi's

habits of life, very greatly surprised Antonio by a description of

them, even down to the minutest details.

"Poor Marianna," said Salvator, "leads a sad life of it with the crazy

old fellow. There he sits sighing and ogling the whole day long, and,

what is worse still, in order to soften her heart towards him, he sings

her all and sundry love ditties that he has ever composed or intends to

compose. At the same time he is so monstrously jealous that he will not

even permit the poor young girl to have the usual female attendance,

for fear of intrigues and amours, which the maid might be induced to

engage in. Instead, a hideous little apparition with hollow eyes and

pale flabby cheeks appears every morning and evening to perform for

sweet Marianna the services of a tiring-maid. And this little

apparition is nobody else but that tiny Tomb Thumb of a Pitichinaccio,

who has to don female attire. Capuzzi, whenever he leaves home,

carefully locks and bolts every door; besides which there is always a

confounded fellow keeping watch below, who was formerly a bravo, and

then a gendarme, and now lives under Capuzzi's rooms. It seems,

therefore, a matter almost impossible to effect an entrance into his

house, but nevertheless I promise you, Antonio, that this very night

you shall be in Capuzzi's own room and shall see your Marianna, though

this time it will only be in Capuzzi's presence."

"What do you say?" cried Antonio, quite excited; "what do you say? We

shall manage it to-night? I thought it was impossible."

"There, there," continued Salvator, "keep still, Antonio, and let us

quietly consider how we may with safety carry out the plan which I have

conceived. But in the first place I must tell you that I have already

scraped an acquaintance with Signor Pasquale Capuzzi without knowing

it. That wretched spinet, which stands in the comer there, belongs to

the old fellow, and he wants me to pay him the preposterous sum of ten

ducats[3.1] for it. When I was convalescent I longed for some music,

which always comforts me and does me a deal of good, so I begged my

landlady to get me some such an instrument as that Dame Caterina soon

ascertained that there was an old gentleman living in the Via Ripetta

who had a fine spinet to sell I got the instrument brought here. I did

not trouble myself either about the price or about the owner. It was

only yesterday evening that I learned quite by chance that the

gentleman who intended to cheat me with this rickety old thing was

Signor Pasquale Capuzzi. Dame Caterina had enlisted the services of an

acquaintance living in the same house, and indeed on the same floor as

Capuzzi,--and now you can easily guess whence I have got all my budget

of news."

"Yes," replied Antonio, "then the way to get in is found; your

landlady"----

"I know very well, Antonio," said Salvator, cutting him short, "I know

what you're going to say. You think you can find a way to your Marianna

through Dame Caterina. But you'll find that we can't do anything of

that sort; the good dame is far too talkative; she can't keep the least

secret, and so we can't for a single moment think of employing her in

this business. Now just quietly listen to me. Every evening when it's

dark Signor Pasquale, although it's very hard work for him owing to his

being knock-kneed, carries his little friend the eunuch home in his

arms, as soon as he has finished his duties as maid. Nothing in the

world could induce the timid Pitichinaccio to set foot on the pavement

at that time of night. So that when"----

At this moment somebody knocked at Salvator's door, and to the

consternation of both, Signor Pasquale stepped in in all the splendour

of his gala attire. On catching sight of Scacciati he stood stock still

as if paralysed, and then, opening his eyes wide, he gasped for air as

though he had some difficulty in breathing. But Salvator hastily ran to

meet him, and took him by both hands, saying, "My dear Signor Pasquale,

your presence in my humble dwelling is, I feel, a very great honour.

May I presume that it is your love for art which brings you to me? You

wish to see the newest things I have done, perchance to give me a

commission for some work. Pray in what, my dear Signor Pasquale, can I

serve you?"

"I have a word or two to say to you, my dear Signor Salvator,"

stammered Capuzzi painfully, "but--alone--when you are alone. With your

leave I will withdraw and come again at a more seasonable time."

"By no means," said Salvator, holding the old gentleman fast, "by no

means, my dear sir. You need not stir a step; you could not have come

at a more seasonable time, for, since you are a great admirer of the

noble art of painting, and the patron of all good painters, I am sure

you will be greatly pleased for me to introduce to you Antonio

Scacciati here, the first painter of our time, whose glorious work--the

wonderful 'Magdalene at the Saviour's Feet'--has excited throughout all

Rome the most enthusiastic admiration. _You_ too, I need hardly say,

have also formed a high opinion of the work, and must be very anxious

to know the great artist himself."

The old man was seized with a violent trembling; he shook as if he had

a shivering fit of the ague, and shot fiery wrathful looks at poor

Antonio. He however approached the old gentleman, and, bowing with

polished courtesy, assured him that he esteemed himself happy at

meeting in such an unexpected way with Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, whose

great learning in music as well as in painting was a theme for wonder

not only in Rome but throughout all Italy, and he concluded by

requesting the honour of his patronage.

This behaviour of Antonio, in pretending to meet the old gentleman for

the first time in his life, and in addressing him in such flattering

phrases, soon brought him round again. He forced his features into a

simpering smile, and, as Salvator now let his hands loose, gave his

moustache an elegant upward curl, at the same time stammering out a few

unintelligible words. Then, turning to Salvator, he requested payment

of the ten ducats for the spinet he had sold him.

"Oh! that trifling little matter we can settle afterwards, my good

sir," was Salvator's answer. "First have the goodness to look at this

sketch of a picture which I have drawn, and drink a glass of good

Syracuse whilst you do so." Salvator meanwhile placed his sketch on the

easel and moved up a chair for the old gentleman, and then, when he had

taken his seat, he presented him with a large and handsome wine-cup

full of good Syracuse--the little pearl-like bubbles rising gaily to

the top.

Signor Pasquale was very fond of a glass of good wine--when he had

nothing to pay for it; and now he ought to have been in an especially

happy frame of mind, for, besides nourishing his heart with the hope of

getting ten ducats for a rotten, worn-out spinet, he was sitting before

a splendid, boldly-designed picture, the rare beauty of which he was

quite capable of estimating at its full worth. And that he was in this

happy frame of mind he evidenced in divers way; he simpered most

charmingly; he half closed his little eyes; he assiduously stroked his

chin and moustache; and lisped time after time, "Splendid! delicious!"

but they did not know to which he was referring, the picture or the

wine.

When he had thus worked himself round into a quiet cheerful humour,

Salvator suddenly began--"They tell me, my dear sir, that you have a

most beautiful and amiable niece, named Marianna--is it so? All the

young men of the city are so smitten with love that they stupidly do

nothing but run up and down the Via Ripetta, almost dislocating their

necks in their efforts to look up at your balcony for a sight of your

sweet Marianna, to snatch a single glance from her heavenly eyes."

Suddenly all the charming simpers, all the good humour which had been

called up into the old gentleman's face by the good wine, were gone.

Looking gloomily before him, he said sharply, "Ah! that's an instance

of the corruption of our abandoned young men. They fix their infernal

eyes, there probate seducers, upon mere children. For I tell you, my

good sir, that my niece Marianna is quite a child, quite a child, only

just outgrown her nurse's care."

Salvator turned the conversation upon something else; the old gentleman

recovered himself. But just as he, his face again radiant with

sunshine, was on the point of putting the full wine-cup to his lips,

Salvator began anew. "But pray tell me, my dear sir, if it is indeed

true that your niece, with her sixteen summers, really has such

beautiful auburn hair, and eyes so full of heaven's own loveliness and

joy, as has Antonio's 'Magdalene?' It is generally maintained that she

has."

"I don't know," replied the old gentleman, still more sharply than

before, "I don't know. But let us leave my niece in peace; rather let

us exchange a few instructive words on the noble subject of art, as

your fine picture here of itself invites me to do."

Always when Capuzzi raised the wine-cup to his lips to take a good

draught, Salvator began anew to talk about the beautiful Marianna, so

that at last the old gentleman leapt from his chair in a perfect

passion, banged the cup down upon the table and almost broke it,

screaming in a high shrill voice, "By the infernal pit of Pluto! by all

the furies! you will turn my wine into poison--into poison I tell you.

But I see through you, you and your fine friend Signor Antonio, you

think to make sport of me. But you'll find yourselves deceived Pay me

the ten ducats you owe me immediately, and then I will leave you and

your associate, that barber-fellow Antonio, to make your way to the

devil."

Salvator shouted, as if mastered by the most violent rage, "What! you

have the audacity to treat me in this way in my own house! Do you think

I'm going to pay you ten ducats for that rotten box; the woodworms

have long ago eaten all the goodness and all the music out of it? Not

ten--not five--not three--not one ducat shall you have for it, it's

scarcely worth a farthing. Away with the tumbledown thing!" and he

kicked over the little instrument again and again, till the strings

were all jarring and jangling together.

"Ha!" screeched Capuzzi, "justice is still to be had in Rome; I will

have you arrested, sir,--arrested and cast into the deepest dungeon

there is," and off he was rushing out of the room, blustering like a

hailstorm. But Salvator took fast hold of him with both hands, and drew

him down into the chair again, softly murmuring in his ear, "My dear

Signor Pasquale, don't you perceive that I was only jesting with you?

You shall have for your spinet, not ten, but _thirty_ ducats cash

down." And he went on repeating, "thirty bright ducats in ready money,"

until Capuzzi said in a faint and feeble voice, "What do you say, my

dear sir? Thirty ducats for the spinet without its being repaired?"

Then Salvator released his hold of the old gentleman, and asserted

on his honour that within an hour the instrument should be worth

thirty--nay, forty ducats, and that Signor Pasquale should receive as

much for it.

Taking in a fresh supply of breath, and sighing deeply, the old

gentleman murmured, "Thirty--forty ducats!" Then he began, "But you

have greatly offended me, Signor Salvator"---- "Thirty ducats,"

repeated Salvator. Capuzzi simpered, but then began again, "But you

have grossly wounded my feelings, Signor Salvator"---- "Thirty ducats,"

exclaimed Salvator, cutting him short; and he continued to repeat,

"Thirty ducats! thirty ducats!" as long as the old gentleman continued

to sulk--till at length Capuzzi said, radiant with delight, "If you

will give me thirty,--I mean forty ducats for the spinet, all shall be

forgiven and forgotten, my dear sir."

"But," began Salvator, "before I can fulfil my promise, I still have

one little condition to make, which you, my honoured Signor Pasquale

Capuzzi di Senigaglia, can easily grant. You are the first musical

composer in all Italy, besides being the foremost singer of the day.

When I heard in the opera _Le Nozze di Teti e Peleo_ the great scene

which that shameless Francesco Cavalli has thievishly taken from your

works, I was enraptured. If you would only sing me that aria whilst I

put the spinet to rights you would confer upon me a pleasure than which

I can conceive of none more enjoyable."

Puckering up his mouth into the most winning of smiles, and blinking

his little grey eyes, the old gentleman replied, "I perceive, my good

sir, that you are yourself a clever musician, for you possess taste and

know how to value the deserving better than these ungrateful Romans.

Listen--listen--to the aria of all arias."

Therewith he rose to his feet, and, stretching himself up to his full

height, spread out his arms and closed both eyes, so that he looked

like a cock preparing to crow; and he at once began to screech in such

a way that the walls rang again, and Dame Caterina and her two

daughters soon came running in, fully under the impression that such

lamentable sounds must betoken some accident or other. At sight of the

crowing old gentleman they stopped on the threshold utterly astonished;

and thus they formed the audience of the incomparable musician Capuzzi.

Meanwhile Salvator, having picked up the spinet and thrown back the

lid, had taken his palette in hand, and in bold firm strokes had begun

on the lid of the instrument the most remarkable piece of painting that

ever was seen. The central idea was a scene from Cavalli's opera _Le

Nozze di Teti_, but there was a multitude of other personages mixed up

with it in the most fantastic way. Amongst them were the recognisable

features of Capuzzi, Antonio, Marianna (faithfully reproduced from

Antonio's picture), Salvator himself, Dame Caterina and her two

daughters,--and even the Pyramid Doctor was not wanting,--and all

grouped so intelligently, judiciously, and ingeniously, that Antonio

could not conceal his astonishment, both at the artist's intellectual

power as well as at his technique.

Meanwhile old Capuzzi had not been content with the aria which Salvator

had requested him to give, but, carried away by his musical madness, he

went on singing or rather screeching without intermission, working his

way through the most awful recitatives from one execrable scene to

another. He must have been going on for nearly two hours when he sank

back in his chair, breathless, and with his face as red as a cherry.

And just at this same time also Salvator had so far worked out his

sketch that the figures began to wear a look of vitality, and the

whole, viewed at a little distance, had the appearance of a finished

work.

"I have kept my word with respect to the spinet, my dear Signer

Pasquale," breathed Salvator in the old man's ear. He started up as if

awakening out of a deep sleep. Immediately his glance fell upon the

painted instrument, which stood directly opposite him. Then, opening

his eyes wide as if he saw a miracle, and jauntily throwing his conical

hat on the top of his wig, he took his crutch-stick under his arm, made

one bound to the spinet, tore the lid off the hinges, and holding it

above his head, ran like a madman out of the room, down the stairs, and

away, away out of the house altogether, followed by the hearty laughter

of Dame Caterina and both her daughters.

"The old miser," said Salvator, "knows very well that he has only to

take yon painted lid to Count Colonna or to my friend Rossi and he will

at once get forty ducats for it, or even more."

Salvator and Antonio then both deliberated how they should carry out

the plan of attack which was to be made when night came. We shall soon

see what the two adventurers resolved upon, and what success they had

in their adventure.

As soon as it was dark, Signer Pasquale, after locking and bolting the

door of his house, carried the little monster of an eunuch home as

usual. The whole way the little wretch was whining and growling,

complaining that not only did he sing Capuzzi's arias till he got

catarrh in the throat and burn his fingers cooking the macaroni, but he

had now to lend himself to duties which brought him nothing but sharp

boxes of the ear and rough kicks, which Marianna lavishly distributed

to him as soon as ever he came near her. Old Capuzzi consoled him as

well as he could, promising to provide him an ampler supply of

sweetmeats than he had hitherto done; indeed, as the little man would

nohow cease his growling and querulous complaining, Pasquale even laid

himself under the obligation to get a natty abbot's coat made for the

little torment out of an old black plush waistcoat which he (the dwarf)

had often set covetous eyes upon. He demanded a wig and a sword as

well. Parleying upon these points they arrived at the Via Bergognona,

for that was where Pitichinaccio dwelt, only four doors from Salvator.

The old man set the dwarf cautiously down and opened the street door;

and then, the dwarf on in front, they both began to climb up the narrow

stairs, which were more like a rickety ladder for hens and chickens

than steps for respectable people. But they had hardly mounted half way

up when a terrible racket began up above, and the coarse voice of some

wild drunken fellow was heard cursing and swearing, and demanding to be

shown the way out of the damned house. Pitichinaccio squeezed himself

close to the wall, and entreated Capuzzi, in the name of all the

saints, to go on first. But before Capuzzi had ascended two steps, the

fellow who was up above came tumbling headlong downstairs, caught hold

of the old man, and whisked him away like a whirlwind out through

the open door below into the middle of the street. There they both

lay,--Capuzzi at bottom and the drunken brute like a heavy sack on top

of him. The old gentleman screamed piteously for help; two men came up

at once and with considerable difficulty freed him from the heavy

weight lying upon him; the other fellow, as soon as he was lifted up,

reeled away cursing.

"Good God! what's happened to you, Signor Pasquale? What are you doing

here at this time of night? What big quarrel have you been getting

mixed up in in that house there?" thus asked Salvator and Antonio, for

that is who the two men were.

"Oh, I shall die!" groaned Capuzzi; "that son of the devil has crushed

all my limbs; I can't move."

"Let me look," said Antonio, feeling all over the old gentleman's body,

and suddenly he pinched his right leg so sharply that Capuzzi screamed

out aloud.

"By all the saints!" cried Antonio in consternation, "by all the

saints! my dear Signer Pasquale, you've broken your right leg in the

most dangerous place. If you don't get speedy help you will within a

short time be a dead man, or at any rate be lame all your life long."

A terrible scream escaped the old man's breast. "Calm yourself, my dear

sir," continued Antonio, "although I'm now a painter, I haven't

altogether forgotten my surgical practice. We will carry you to

Salvator's house and I will at once bind up"----

"My dear Signor Antonio," whined Capuzzi, "you nourish hostile feelings

towards me, I know." "But," broke in Salvator, "this is now no longer

the time to talk about enmity; you are in danger, and that is enough

for honest Antonio to exert all his skill on your behalf. Lay hold,

friend Antonio."

Gently and cautiously they lifted up the old man between them, him

screaming with the unspeakable pain caused by his broken leg, and

carried him to Salvator's dwelling.

Dame Caterina said that she had had a foreboding that something was

going to happen, and so she had not gone to bed. As soon as she caught

sight of the old gentleman and heard what had befallen him, she began

to heap reproaches upon him for his bad conduct. "I know," she said, "I

know very well, Signor Pasquale, who you've been taking home again. Now

that you've got your beautiful niece Marianna in the house with you,

you think you've no further call to have women-folk about you, and you

treat that poor Pitichinaccio most shameful and infamous, putting him

in petticoats. But look to it. _Ogni carne ha il suo osso_ (Every house

has its skeleton). Why if you have a girl about you, don't you need

women-folk? _Fate il passo secondo la gamba_ (Cut your clothes

according to your cloth), and don't you require anything either more or

less from your Marianna than what is right. Don't lock her up as if she

were a prisoner, nor make your house a dungeon. _Asino punto convien

che trotti_ (If you are in the stream, you had better swim with it);

you have a beautiful niece and you must alter your ways to suit her,

that is, you must only do what she wants you to do. But you are an

ungallant and hard-hearted man, ay, and even in love, and jealous as

well, they say, which I hope at your years is not true. Your pardon for

telling you it all straight out, but _chi ha nel petto fiele non puo

sputar miele_ (when there's bile in the heart there can't be honey in

the mouth). So now, if you don't die of your broken leg, which at your

great age is not at all unlikely, let this be a warning to you; and

leave your niece free to do what she likes, and let her marry the fine

young gentleman as I know very well."

And so the stream went on uninterruptedly, whilst Salvator and Antonio

cautiously undressed the old gentleman and put him to bed. Dame

Caterina's words were like knives cutting deeply into his breast; but

whenever he attempted to intervene, Antonio signed to him that all

speaking was dangerous, and so he had to swallow his bitter gall. At

length Salvator sent Dame Caterina away, to fetch some ice-cold water

that Antonio wanted.

Salvator and Antonio satisfied themselves that the fellow who had been

sent to Pitichinaccio's house had done his duty well. Notwithstanding

the apparently terrible fall, Capuzzi had not received the slightest

damage beyond a slight bruise or two. Antonio put the old gentleman's

right foot in splints and bandaged it up so tight that he could not

move. Then they wrapped him up in cloths that had been soaked in

ice-cold water, as a precaution, they alleged, against inflammation, so

that the old gentleman shook as if with the ague.

"My good Signor Antonio," he groaned feebly, "tell me if it is all over

with me. Must I die?"

"Compose yourself," replied Antonio. "If you will only compose

yourself, Signor Pasquale! As you have come through the first dressing

with so much nerve and without fainting, I think we may say that the

danger is past; but you will require the most attentive nursing. At

present we mustn't let you out of the doctor's sight."

"Oh! Antonio," whined the old gentleman, "you know how I like you,

how highly I esteem your talents. Don't leave me. Give me your dear

hand--so! You won't leave me, will you, my dear good Antonio?"

"Although I am now no longer a surgeon," said Antonio, "although I've

quite given up that hated trade, yet I will in your case, Signor

Pasquale, make an exception, and will undertake to attend you, for

which I shall ask nothing except that you give me your friendship, your

confidence again. You were a little hard upon me"----

"Say no more," lisped the old gentleman, "not another word, my dear

Antonio"----

"Your niece will be half dead with anxiety," said Antonio again, "at

your not returning home. You are, considering your condition, brisk and

strong enough, and so as soon as day dawns we'll carry you home to your

own house. There I will again look at your bandage, and arrange your

bed as it ought to be, and give your niece her instructions, so that

you may soon get well again."

The old gentleman heaved a deep sigh and closed his eyes, remaining

some minutes without speaking. Then, stretching out his hand towards

Antonio, he drew him down close beside him, and whispered, "It was only

a jest that you had with Marianna, was it not, my dear sir?--one of

those merry conceits that young folks have"----

"Think no more about that, Signor Pasquale," replied Antonio. "Your

niece did, it is true, strike my fancy; but I have now quite different

things in my head, and--to confess honestly to it--I am very pleased

that you did return a sharp answer to my foolish suit. I thought I was

in love with your Marianna, but what I really saw in her was only a

fine model for my 'Magdalene.' And this probably explains how it is

that, now that my picture is finished, I feel quite indifferent towards

her."

"Antonio," cried the old man, in a strong voice, "Antonio, you glorious

fellow! What comfort you give me--what help--what consolation! Now that

you don't love Marianna I feel as if all my pain had gone."

"Why, I declare, Signor Pasquale," said Salvator, "if we didn't know

you to be a grave and sensible man, with a true perception of what is

becoming to your years, we might easily believe that you were yourself

by some infatuation in love with your niece of sixteen summers."

Again the old gentleman closed his eyes, and groaned and moaned at the

horrible pain, which now returned with redoubled violence.

The first red streaks of morning came shining in through the window.

Antonio announced to the old gentleman that it was now time to take him

to his own house in the Via Ripetta. Signor Pasquale's reply was a deep

and piteous sigh. Salvator and Antonio lifted him out of bed and

wrapped him in a wide mantle which had belonged to Dame Caterina's

husband, and which she lent them for this purpose. The old gentleman

implored them by all the saints to take off the villainous cold

bandages in which his bald head was swathed, and to give him his wig

and plumed hat. And also, if it were possible, Antonio was to put his

moustache a little in order, that Marianna might not be too much

frightened at sight of him.

Two porters with a litter were standing all ready before the door. Dame

Caterina, still storming at the old man, and mixing a great many

proverbs in her abuse, carried down the bed, in which they then

carefully packed him; and so, accompanied by Salvator and Antonio, he

was taken home to his own house.

No sooner did Marianna see her uncle in this wretched plight than she

began to scream, whilst a torrent of tears gushed from her eyes;

without noticing her lover, who had come along with him, she grasped

the old man's hands and pressed them to her lips, bewailing the

terrible accident that had befallen him--so much pity had the good

child for the old man who plagued and tormented her with his amorous

folly. Yet at this same moment the inherent nature of woman asserted

itself in her; for it only required a few significant glances from

Salvator to put her in full possession of all the facts of the case.

Now, for the first time, she stole a glance at the happy Antonio,

blushing hotly as she did so; and a pretty sight it was to see how a

roguish smile gradually routed and broke through her tears. Salvator,

at any rate, despite the "Magdalene," had not expected to find the

little maiden half so charming, or so sweetly pretty as he now really

discovered her to be; and, whilst almost feeling inclined to envy

Antonio his good fortune, he felt that it was all the more necessary to

get poor Marianna away from her hateful uncle, let the cost be what it

might.

Signor Pasquale forgot his trouble in being received so affectionately

by his lovely niece, which was indeed more than he deserved. He

simpered and pursed up his lips so that his moustache was all of a

totter, and groaned and whined, not with pain, but simply and solely

with amorous longing.

Antonio arranged his bed professionally, and, after Capuzzi had been

laid on it, tightened the bandage still more, at the same time so

muffling up his left leg as well that he had to lay there motionless

like a log of wood. Salvator withdrew and left the lovers alone with

their happiness.

The old gentleman lay buried in cushions; moreover, as an extra

precaution, Antonio had bound a thick piece of cloth well steeped in

water round his head, so that he might not hear the lovers whispering

together. This was the first time they unburdened all their hearts to

each other, swearing eternal fidelity in the midst of tears and

rapturous kisses. The old gentleman could have no idea of what was

going on, for Marianna ceased not, frequently from time to time, to ask

him how he felt, and even permitted him to press her little white hand

to his lips.

When the morning began to be well advanced, Antonio hastened away to

procure, as he said, all the things that the old gentleman required,

but in reality to invent some means for putting him, at any rate for

some hours, in a still more helpless condition, as well as to consult

with Salvator what further steps were then to be taken.

IV.

_Of the new attack made by Salvator Rosa and Antonio Scacciati upon

Signer Pasquale Capuzzi and upon his company, and of what further

happens in consequence._

Next morning Antonio came to Salvator, melancholy and dejected.

"Well, what's the matter?" cried Salvator when he saw him coming, "what

are you hanging your head about? What's happened to you now, you happy

dog? can you not see your mistress every day, and kiss her and press

her to your heart?"

"Oh! Salvator, it's all over with my happiness, it's gone for ever,"

cried Antonio. "The devil is making sport of me. Our stratagem has

failed, and we now stand on a footing of open enmity with that cursed

Capuzzi."

"So much the better," said Salvator; "so much the better. But come,

Antonio, tell me what's happened."

"Just imagine, Salvator," began Antonio, "yesterday when I went back to

the Via Ripetta after an absence of at the most two hours, with all

sorts of medicines, whom should I see but the old gentleman standing in

his own doorway fully dressed. Behind him was the Pyramid Doctor and

the deuced ex-gendarme, whilst a confused something was bobbing about

round their legs. It was, I believe, that little monster Pitichinaccio.

No sooner did the old man get sight of me than he shook his fist at me,

and began to heap the most fearful curses and imprecations upon me,

swearing that if I did but approach his door he would have all my bones

broken. 'Be off to the devil, you infamous barber-fellow,' he shrieked;

'you think to outwit me with your lying and knavery. Like the very

devil himself, you lie in wait for my poor innocent Marianna, and fancy

you are going to get her into your toils--but stop a moment! I will

spend my last ducat to have the vital spark stamped out of you, ere

you're aware of it. And your fine patron, Signor Salvator, the

murderer--bandit--who's escaped the halter--he shall be sent to join

his captain Masaniello in hell--I'll have him out of Rome; that won't

cost me much trouble.'

"Thus the old fellow raged, and as the damned ex-gendarme, incited by

the Pyramid Doctor, was making preparations to bear down upon me, and a

crowd of curious onlookers began to assemble, what could I do but quit

the field with all speed? I didn't like to come to you in my great

trouble, for I know you would only have laughed at me and my

inconsolable complaints. Why, you can hardly keep back your laughter

now."

As Antonio ceased speaking, Salvator did indeed burst out laughing

heartily.

"Now," he cried, "now the thing is beginning to be rather interesting.

And now, my worthy Antonio, I will tell you in detail all that took

place at Capuzzi's after you had gone. You had hardly left the house

when Signor Splendiano Accoramboni, who had learned--God knows in what

way--that his bosom-friend, Capuzzi, had broken his right leg in the

night, drew near in all solemnity, with a surgeon. Your bandage and the

entire method of treatment you have adopted with Signor Pasquale could

not fail to excite suspicion. The surgeon removed the splints and

bandages, and they discovered, what we both very well know, that there

was not even so much as an ossicle of the worthy Capuzzi's right foot

dislocated, still less broken. It didn't require any uncommon sagacity

to understand all the rest."

"But," said Antonio, utterly astonished, "but my dear, good sir, do

tell me how you have learned all that; tell me how you get into

Capuzzi's house and know everything that takes place there."

"I have already told you," replied Salvator, "that an acquaintance of

Dame Caterina lives in the same house, and moreover, on the same floor

as Capuzzi. This acquaintance, the widow of a wine-dealer, has a

daughter whom my little Margaret often goes to see. Now girls have a

special instinct for finding out their fellows, and so it came about

that Rose--that's the name of the wine-dealer's daughter--and Margaret

soon discovered in the living-room a small vent-hole, leading into a

dark closet that adjoins Marianna's apartment. Marianna had been by no

means inattentive to the whispering and murmuring of the two girls, nor

had she failed to notice the vent-hole, and so the way to a mutual

exchange of communications was soon opened and made use of. Whenever

old Capuzzi takes his afternoon nap the girls gossip away to their

heart's content. You will have observed that little Margaret, Dame

Caterina's and my favourite, is not so serious and reserved as her

elder sister, Anna, but is an arch, frolicsome, droll little thing.

Without expressly making mention of your love-affair I have instructed

her to get Marianna to tell her everything that takes place in

Capuzzi's house. She has proved a very apt pupil in the matter; and if

I laughed at your pain and despondency just now it was because I knew

what would comfort you, knew I could prove to you that the affair has

now taken a most favourable turn. I have quite a big budget full of

excellent news for you."

"Salvator!" cried Antonio, his eyes sparkling with joy, "how you cause

my hopes to rise! Heaven be praised for the vent-hole. I will write to

Marianna; Margaret shall take the letter with her"----

"Nay, nay, we can have none of that, Antonio," replied Salvator.

"Margaret can be useful to us without being your love-messenger

exactly. Besides, accident, which often plays many fine tricks, might

carry your amorous confessions into old Capuzzi's hands, and so bring

an endless amount of fresh trouble upon Marianna, just at the very

moment when she is on the point of getting the lovesick old fool under

her thumb. For listen to what then happened. The way in which Marianna

received the old fellow when we took him home has quite reformed him.

He is fully convinced that she no longer loves you, but that she has

given him at least one half of her heart, and that all he has to do is

to win the other half. And Marianna, since she imbibed the poison of

your kisses, has advanced three years in shrewdness, artfulness, and

experience. She has convinced the old man, not only that she had no

share in our trick, but that she hates our goings-on, and will meet

with scorn every device on your part to approach her. In his excessive

delight the old man was too hasty, and swore that if he could do

anything to please his adored Marianna he would do it immediately, she

had only to give utterance to her wish. Whereupon Marianna modestly

asked for nothing except that her _zio carissimo_ (dearest uncle) would

take her to see Signor Formica in the theatre outside the Porta del

Popolo. This rather posed Capuzzi; there were consultations with the

Pyramid Doctor and with Pitichinaccio; at last Signor Pasquale and

Signor Splendiano came to the resolution that they really would take

Marianna to this theatre to-morrow. Pitichinaccio, it was resolved,

should accompany them in the disguise of a handmaiden, to which he only

gave his consent on condition that Signor Pasquale would make him a

present, not only of the plush waistcoat, but also of a wig, and at

night would, alternately with the Pyramid Doctor, carry him home. That

bargain they finally made; and so the curious leash will certainly go

along with pretty Marianna to see Signor Formica to-morrow, in the

theatre outside the Porta del Popolo."

It is now necessary to say who Signor Formica was, and what he had to

do with the theatre outside the Porta del Popolo.

At the time of the Carnival in Rome, nothing is more sad than when the

theatre-managers have been unlucky in their choice of a musical

composer, or when the first tenor at the Argentina theatre has lost

his voice on the way, or when the male prima donna[4.1] of the Valle

theatre is laid up with a cold,--in brief, when the chief source of

recreation which the Romans were hoping to find proves abortive, and

then comes Holy Thursday and all at once cuts off all the hopes which

might perhaps have been realized It was just after one of these unlucky

Carnivals--almost before the strict fast-days were past, when a certain

Nicolo Musso opened a theatre outside the Porta del Popolo, where he

stated his intention of putting nothing but light impromptu comic

sketches on the boards. The advertisement was drawn up in an ingenious

and witty style, and consequently the Romans formed a favourable

preconception of Musso's enterprise; but independently of this they

would in their longing to still their dramatic hunger have greedily

snatched at any the poorest pabulum of this description. The interior

arrangements of the theatre, or rather of the small booth, did not say

much for the pecuniary resources of the enterprising manager. There was

no orchestra, nor were there boxes. Instead, a gallery was put up at

the back, where the arms of the house of Colonna were conspicuous--a

sign that Count Colonna had taken Musso and his theatre under his

especial protection. A platform of slight elevation, covered with

carpets and hung round with curtains, which, according to the

requirements of the piece, had to represent a wood or a room or a

street--this was the stage. Add to this that the spectators had to

content themselves with hard uncomfortable wooden benches, and it was

no wonder that Signor Musso's patrons on first entering were pretty

loud in their grumblings at him for calling a paltry wooden booth a

theatre. But no sooner had the first two actors who appeared exchanged

a few words together than the attention of the audience was arrested;

as the piece proceeded their interest took the form of applause, their

applause grew to admiration, their admiration to the wildest pitch of

enthusiastic excitement, which found vent in loud and continuous

laughter, clapping of hands, and screams of "Bravo! Bravo!"

And indeed it would not have been very easy to find anything more

perfect than these extemporised representations of Nicolo Musso; they

overflowed with wit, humour, and genius, and lashed the follies of the

day with an unsparing scourge. The audience were quite carried away by

the incomparable characterisation which distinguished all the actors,

but particularly by the inimitable mimicry of Pasquarello,[4.2] by his

marvellously natural imitations of the voice, gait, and postures of

well-known personages. By his inexhaustible humour, and the point and

appositeness of his impromptus, he quite carried his audience away. The

man who played the _role_ of Pasquarello, and who called himself Signor

Formica, seemed to be animated by a spirit of singular originality;

often there was something so strange in either tone or gesture, that

the audience, even in the midst of the most unrestrained burst of

laughter, felt a cold shiver run through them. He was excellently

supported by Dr. Gratiano,[4.3] who in pantomimic action, in voice, and

in his talent for saying the most delightful things mixed up with

apparently the most extravagant nonsense, had perhaps no equal in the

world. This _role_ was played by an old Bolognese named Maria Agli.

Thus in a short time all educated Rome was seen hastening in a

continuous stream to Nicolo Musso's little theatre outside the Porta

del Popolo, whilst Formica's name was on everybody's lips, and people

shouted with wild enthusiasm, "_Oh! Formica! Formica benedetto! Oh!

Formicissimo!_"--not only in the theatre but also in the streets. They

regarded him as a supernatural visitant, and many an old lady who had

split her sides with laughing in the theatre, would suddenly look grave

and say solemnly, "_Scherza coi fanti e lascia star santi_" (Jest with

children but let the saints alone), if anybody ventured to say the

least thing in disparagement of Formica's acting. This arose from the

fact that outside the theatre Signor Formica was an inscrutable

mystery. Never was he seen anywhere, and all efforts to discover traces

of him were vain, whilst Nicolo Musso on his part maintained an

inexorable silence respecting his retreat.

And this was the theatre that Marianna was anxious to go to.

"Let us make a decisive onslaught upon our foes," said Salvator; "we

couldn't have a finer opportunity than when they're returning home from

the theatre." Then he imparted to Antonio the details of a plan, which,

though appearing adventurous and daring, Antonio nevertheless embraced

with joy, since it held out to him a prospect that he should be able to

carry off his Marianna from the hated old Capuzzi. He also heard with

approbation that Salvator was especially concerned to chastise the

Pyramid Doctor.

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

the Via Ripetta, where, with the express view of causing old Capuzzi

annoyance, they complimented lovely Marianna with the finest serenade

that ever was heard. For Salvator played and sang in masterly style,

whilst Antonio, as far as the capabilities of his fine tenor would

allow him, almost rivalled Odoardo Ceccarelli. Although Signor Pasquale

appeared on the balcony and tried to silence the singers with abuse,

his neighbours, attracted to their windows by the good singing, shouted

to him that he and his companions howled and screamed like so many cats

and dogs, and yet he wouldn't listen to good music when it did come

into the street; he might just go inside and stop up his ears if he

didn't want to listen to good singing. And so Signor Pasquale had to

bear nearly all night long the torture of hearing Salvator and Antonio

sing songs which at one time were the sweetest of love-songs and at

another mocked at the folly of amorous old fools. They plainly saw

Marianna standing at the window, notwithstanding that Signor Pasquale

besought her in the sweetest phrases and protestations not to expose

herself to the noxious night air.

Next evening the most remarkable company that ever was seen proceeded

down the Via Ripetta towards the Porta del Popolo. All eyes were turned

upon them, and people asked each other if these were maskers left from

the Carnival. Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, spruce and smug, all elegance

and politeness, wearing his gay Spanish suit well brushed, parading a

new yellow feather in his conical hat, and stepping along in shoes too

little for him, as if he were walking amongst eggs, was leading pretty

Marianna on his arm; her slender figure could not be seen, still less

her face, since she was smothered up to an unusual extent in her veil

and wraps. On the other side marched Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni in

his great wig, which covered the whole of his back, so that to look at

him from behind there appeared to be a huge head walking along on

two little legs. Close behind Marianna, and almost clinging to her,

waddled the little monster Pitichinaccio, dressed in fiery red

petticoats, and having his head covered all over in hideous fashion

with bright-coloured flowers.

This evening Signor Formica outdid himself even, and, what he had never

done before, introduced short songs into his performance, burlesquing

the style of certain well-known singers. Old Capuzzi's passion for the

stage, which in his youth had almost amounted to infatuation, was now

stirred up in him anew. In a rapture of delight he kissed Marianna's

hand time after time, and protested that he would not miss an evening

visiting Nicolo Musso's theatre with her. Signor Formica he extolled to

the very skies, and joined hand and foot in the boisterous applause of

the rest of the spectators. Signor Splendiano was less satisfied, and

kept continually admonishing Signor Capuzzi and lovely Marianna not to

laugh so immoderately. In a single breath he ran over the names of

twenty or more diseases which might arise from splitting the sides with

laughing. But neither Marianna nor Capuzzi heeded him in the least. As

for Pitichinaccio, he felt very uncomfortable. He had been obliged to

sit behind the Pyramid Doctor, whose great wig completely overshadowed

him. Not a single thing could he see on the stage, nor any of the

actors, and was, moreover, repeatedly bothered and annoyed by two

forward women who had placed themselves near him. They called him a

dear, comely little lady, and asked him if he was married, though to be

sure, he was very young, and whether he had any children, who they dare

be bound were sweet little creatures, and so forth. The cold sweat

stood in beads on poor Pitichinaccio's brow; he whined and whimpered,

and cursed the day he was born.

After the conclusion of the performance, Signor Pasquale waited until

the spectators had withdrawn from the theatre. The last light was

extinguished just as Signor Splendiano had lit a small piece of a wax

torch at it; and then Capuzzi, with his worthy friends and Marianna,

slowly and circumspectly set out on their return journey.

Pitichinaccio wept and screamed; Capuzzi, greatly to his vexation, had

to take him on his left arm, whilst with the right he led Marianna.

Doctor Splendiano showed the way with his miserable little bit of

torch, which only burned with difficulty, and even then in a feeble

sort of a way, so that the wretched light it cast merely served to

reveal to them the thick darkness of the night.

Whilst they were still a good distance from the Porta del Popolo they

all at once saw themselves surrounded by several tall figures closely

enveloped in mantles. At this moment the torch was knocked out of the

Doctor's hand, and went out on the ground. Capuzzi, as well as the

Doctor, stood still without uttering a sound. Then, without their

knowing where it came from, a pale reddish light fell upon the muffled

figures, and four grisly skulls riveted their hollow ghastly eyes upon

the Pyramid Doctor. "Woe--woe--woe betide thee, Splendiano

Accoramboni!" thus the terrible spectres shrieked in deep, sepulchral

tones. Then one of them wailed, "Do you know me? do you know me,

Splendiano? I am Cordier, the French painter, who was buried last week,

and whom your medicaments brought to his grave." Then the second, "Do

you know me, Splendiano? I am Kuefner, the German painter, whom you

poisoned with your infernal electuary." Then the third, "Do you know

me, Splendiano? I am Liers, the Fleming, whom you killed with your

pills, and whose brother you defrauded of a picture." Then the fourth,

"Do you know me, Splendiano? I am Ghigi, the Neapolitan painter,

whom you despatched with your powders." And lastly all four together,

"Woe--woe--woe upon thee, Splendiano Accoramboni, cursed Pyramid

Doctor! We bid you come--come down to us beneath the earth.

Away--away--away with you! Hallo! hallo!" and so saying they threw

themselves upon the unfortunate Doctor, and, raising him in their

arms, whisked him away like a whirlwind.

Now, although Signor Pasquale was a good deal overcome by terror, yet

it is surprising with what remarkable promptitude he recovered courage

so soon as he saw that it was only his friend Accoramboni with whom the

spectres were concerned. Pitichinaccio had stuck his head, with the

flower-bed that was on it, under Capuzzi's mantle, and clung so fast

round his neck that all efforts to shake him off proved futile.

"Pluck up your spirits," Capuzzi exhorted Marianna, when nothing more

was to be seen of the spectres or of the Pyramid Doctor; "pluck up your

spirits, and come to me, my sweet little ducky bird! As for my worthy

friend Splendiano, it's all over with him. May St. Bernard, who also

was an able physician and gave many a man a lift on the road to

happiness, may he help him, if the revengeful painters whom he hastened

to get to his Pyramid break his neck! But who'll sing the bass of my

canzonas now? And this booby, Pitichinaccio, is squeezing my throat so,

that, adding in the fright caused by Splendiano's abduction, I fear I

shall not be able to produce a pure note for perhaps six weeks to come.

Don't be alarmed, my Marianna, my darling! It's all over now."

She assured him that she had quite recovered from her alarm, and begged

him to let her walk alone without support, so that he could free

himself from his troublesome pet. But Signor Pasquale only took faster

hold of her, saying that he wouldn't suffer her to leave his side a

yard in that pitch darkness for anything in the world.

In the very same moment as Signor Pasquale, now at his ease again, was

about to proceed on his road, four frightful fiend-like figures rose up

just in front of him as if out of the earth; they wore short flaring

red mantles and fixed their keen glittering eyes upon him, at the same

time making horrible noises--yelling and whistling. "Ugh! ugh! Pasquale

Capuzzi! You cursed fool! You amorous old devil! We belong to your

fraternity; we are the evil spirits of love, and have come to carry you

off to hell--to hell-fire--you and your crony Pitichinaccio." Thus

screaming, the Satanic figures fell upon the old man. Capuzzi fell

heavily to the ground and Pitichinaccio along with him, both raising a

shrill piercing cry of distress and fear, like that of a whole troop of

cudgelled asses.

Marianna had meanwhile torn herself away from the old man and leapt

aside. Then one of the devils clasped her softly in his arms,

whispering the sweet glad words, "O Marianna! my Marianna! At last

we've managed it! My friends will carry the old man a long, long way

from here, whilst we seek a better place of safety."

"O my Antonio!" whispered Marianna softly.

But suddenly the scene was illuminated by the light of several torches,

and Antonio felt a stab in his shoulder. Quick as lightning he turned

round, drew his sword, and attacked the fellow, who with his stiletto

upraised was just preparing to aim a second blow. He perceived that his

three companions were defending themselves against a superior number of

gendarmes. He managed to beat off the fellow who had attacked him, and

joined his friends. Although they were maintaining their ground

bravely, the contest was yet too unequal; the gendarmes would

infallibly have proved victorious had not two others suddenly ranged

themselves with a shout on the side of the young men, one of them

immediately cutting down the fellow who was pressing Antonio the

hardest.

In a few minutes more the contest was decided against the police.

Several lay stretched on the ground seriously wounded; the rest fled

with loud shouts towards the Porta del Popolo.

Salvator Rosa (for he it was who had hastened to Antonio's assistance

and cut down his opponent) wanted to take Antonio and the young

painters who were disguised in the devils' masks and there and then

pursue the gendarmes into the city.

Maria Agli, however, who had come along with him, and, notwithstanding

his advanced age, had tackled the police as stoutly as any of the rest,

urged that this would be imprudent, for the guard at the Porta del

Popolo would be certain to have intelligence of the affair and would

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

received them into his narrow little house not far from the theatre.

The artists took off their devils' masks and laid aside their mantles,

which had been rubbed over with phosphorus, whilst Antonio, who,

beyond the insignificant scratch on his shoulder, was not wounded

at all, exercised his surgical skill in binding up the wounds of the

rest--Salvator, Agli, and his young comrades--for they had none of them

got off without being wounded, though none of them in the least degree

dangerously.

The adventure, notwithstanding its wildness and audacity, would

undoubtedly have been successful, had not Salvator and Antonio

overlooked one person, who upset everything. The _ci-devant_ bravo and

gendarme Michele, who dwelt below in Capuzzi's house, and was in a

certain sort his general servant, had, in accordance with Capuzzi's

directions, followed them to the theatre, but at some distance off, for

the old gentleman was ashamed of the tattered reprobate. In the same

way Michele was following them homewards. And when the spectres

appeared, Michele who, be it remarked, feared neither death nor devil,

suspecting that something was wrong, hurried back as fast as he could

run in the darkness to the Porta del Popolo, raised an alarm, and

returned with all the gendarmes he could find, just at the moment when,

as we know, the devils fell upon Signor Pasquale, and were about to

carry him off as the dead men had the Pyramid Doctor.

In the very hottest moment of the fight, one of the young painters

observed distinctly how one of the fellows, taking Marianna in his arms

(for she had fainted), made off to the gate, whilst Signor Pasquale ran

after him with incredible swiftness, as if he had got quicksilver in

his legs. At the same time, by the light of the torches, he caught a

glimpse of something gleaming, clinging to his mantle and whimpering;

no doubt it was Pitichinaccio.

Next morning Doctor Splendiano was found near the Pyramid of Cestius,

fast asleep, doubled up like a ball and squeezed into his wig, as if

into a warm soft nest. When he was awakened, he rambled in his talk,

and there was some difficulty in convincing him that he was still on

the surface of the earth, and in Rome to boot. And when at length he

reached his own house, he returned thanks to the Virgin and all the

saints for his rescue, threw all his tinctures, essences, electuaries,

and powders out of the window, burnt his prescriptions, and vowed to

heal his patients in the future by no other means than by anointing and

laying on of hands, as some celebrated physician of former ages, who

was at the same time a saint (his name I cannot recall just at this

moment), had with great success done before him. For his patients died

as well as the patients of other people, and then they already saw the

gates of heaven open before them ere they died, and in fact everything

else that the saint wanted them to see.

"I can't tell you," said Antonio next day to Salvator, "how my heart

boils with rage since my blood has been spilled. Death and destruction

overtake that villain Capuzzi! I tell you, Salvator, that I am

determined to _force_ my way into his house. I will cut him down if he

opposes me and carry off Marianna."

"An excellent plan!" replied Salvator, laughing. "An excellent plan!

Splendidly contrived! Of course I presume you have also found some

means for transporting Marianna through the air to the Spanish Square,

so that they shall not seize you and hang you before you can reach that

place of refuge. No, my dear Antonio, violence can do nothing for you

this time. You may lay your life on it too that Signor Pasquale will

now take steps to guard against any open attack. Moreover, our

adventure has made a good deal of noise, and the irrepressible laughter

of the people at the absurd way in which we have read a lesson to

Splendiano and Capuzzi has roused the police out of their light

slumber, and they, you may be sure, will now exert all their feeble

efforts to entrap us. No, Antonio, let us have recourse to craft. _Con

arte e con inganno si vive mezzo l'anno, con inganno e con arte si vive

l'altra parte_ (If cunning and scheming will help us six months

through, scheming and cunning will help us the other six too), says

Dame Caterina, nor is she far wrong. Besides, I can't help laughing to

see how we've gone and acted for all the world like thoughtless boys,

and I shall have to bear most of the blame, for I am a good bit older

than you. Tell me now, Antonio, supposing our scheme had been

successful, and you had actually carried off Marianna from the old man,

where would you have fled to, where would you have hidden her, and how

would you have managed to get united to her by the priest before the

old man could interfere to prevent it? You shall, however, in a few

days, really and truly run away with your Marianna. I have let Nicolo

Musso as well as Signor Formica into all the secret, and in common with

them devised a plan which can scarcely fail. So cheer up, Antonio;

Signor Formica will help you."

"Signor Formica?" replied Antonio in a tone of indifference which

almost amounted to contempt. "Signor Formica! In what way can that

buffoon help me?"

"Ho! ho!" laughed Salvator. "Please to bear in mind, I beg you, that

Signor Formica is worthy of your respect. Don't you know that he is a

sort of magician who in secret is master of the most mysterious arts? I

tell you, Signor Formica will help you. Old Maria Agli, the clever

Bolognese Doctor Gratiano, is also a sharer in the plot, and will,

moreover, have an important part to play in it. You shall abduct your

Marianna, Antonio, from Musso's theatre."

"You are flattering me with false hopes, Salvator," said Antonio. "You

have just now said yourself that Signor Pasquale will take care to

avoid all open attacks. How can you suppose then, after his recent

unpleasant experience, that he can possibly make up his mind to visit

Musso's theatre again?"

"It will not be such a difficult thing as you imagine to entice the old

man there," replied Salvator. "What will be more difficult to effect,

will be, to get him in the theatre without his satellites. But, be that

as it may, what you have now got to do, Antonio, is to have everything

prepared and arranged with Marianna, so as to flee from Rome the moment

the favourable opportunity comes. You must go to Florence; your skill

as a painter will, after your arrival, in itself recommend you there;

and you shall have no lack of acquaintances, nor of honourable

patronage and assistance--that you may leave to me to provide for.

After we have had a few days' rest, we will then see what is to be done

further. Once more, Antonio--live in hope; Formica will help you."

V.

_Of the new mishap which befalls Signor Pasquale Capussi. Antonio

Scacciati successfully carries out his plan in Nicolo Musso's theatre,

and flees to Florence._

Signor Pasquale was only too well aware who had been at the bottom of

the mischief that had happened to him and the poor Pyramid Doctor near

the Porta del Popolo, and so it may be imagined how enraged he was

against Antonio, and against Salvator Rosa, whom he rightly judged to

be the ringleader in it all. He was untiring in his efforts to comfort

poor Marianna, who was quite ill from fear,--so she said; but in

reality she was mortified that the scoundrel Michele with his gendarmes

had come up, and torn her from her Antonio's arms. Meanwhile Margaret

was very active in bringing her tidings of her lover; and she based all

her hopes upon the enterprising mind of Salvator. With impatience she

waited from day to day for something fresh to happen, and by a thousand

petty tormenting ways let the old gentleman feel the effects of this

impatience; but though she thus tamed his amorous folly and made him

humble enough, she failed to reach the evil spirit of love that haunted

his heart. After she had made him experience to the full all the

tricksy humours of the most wayward girl, and then suffered him just

once to press his withered lips upon her tiny hand, he would swear in

his excessive delight that he would never cease fervently kissing the

Pope's toe until he had obtained dispensation to wed his niece, the

paragon of beauty and amiability. Marianna was particularly careful not

to interrupt him in these outbreaks of passion, for by encouraging

these gleams of hope in the old man's breast she fanned the flame of

hope in her own, for the more he could be lulled into the belief that

he held her fast in the indissoluble chains of love, the more easy it

would be for her to escape him.

Some time passed, when one day at noon Michele came stamping upstairs,

and, after he had had to knock a good many times to induce Signor

Pasquale to open the door, announced with considerable prolixity that

there was a gentleman below who urgently requested to see Signor

Pasquale Capuzzi, who he knew lived there.

"By all the blessed saints of Heaven!" cried the old gentleman,

exasperated; "doesn't the knave know that on no account do I receive

strangers in my own house?"

But the gentleman was of very respectable appearance, reported Michele,

rather oldish, talked well, and called himself Nicolo Musso.

"Nicolo Musso," murmured Capuzzi reflectively; "Nicolo Musso, who owns

the theatre beyond the Porta del Popolo; what can he want with me?"

Whereupon, carefully locking and bolting the door, he went downstairs

with Michele, in order to converse with Nicolo in the street before the

house.

"My dear Signor Pasquale," began Nicolo, approaching to meet him, and

bowing with polished ease, "that you deign to honour me with your

acquaintance affords me great pleasure. You lay me under a very great

obligation. Since the Romans saw you in my theatre--you, a man of the

most approved taste, of the soundest knowledge, and a master in art,

not only has my fame increased, but my receipts have doubled. I am

therefore all the more deeply pained to learn that certain wicked

wanton boys made a murderous attack upon you and your friends as you

were returning from my theatre at night. But I pray you, Signor

Pasquale, by all the saints, don't cherish any grudge against me or my

theatre on account of this outrage, which shall be severely punished.

Don't deprive me of the honour of your company at my performances!"

"My dear Signor Nicolo," replied the old man, simpering, "be assured

that I never enjoyed myself more than I did when I visited your

theatre. Your Formica and your Agli--why, they are actors who cannot be

matched anywhere. But the fright almost killed my friend Signor

Splendiano Accoramboni, nay, it almost proved the death of me--no, it

was too great; and though it has not made me averse from your theatre,

it certainly has from the road there. If you will put up your theatre

in the Piazza del Popolo, or in the Via Babuina, or in the Via Ripetta,

I certainly will not fail to visit you a single evening; but there's

no power on earth shall ever get me outside the Porta del Popolo at

night-time again."

Nicolo sighed deeply, as if greatly troubled. "That is very hard upon

me," said he then, "harder perhaps than you will believe, Signor

Pasquale. For unfortunately--I had based all my hopes upon you. I came

to solicit your assistance."

"My assistance?" asked the old gentleman in astonishment "My

assistance, Signor Nicolo? In what way could it profit you?"

"My dear Signor Pasquale," replied Nicolo, drawing his handkerchief

across his eyes, as if brushing away the trickling tears, "my most

excellent Signor Pasquale, you will remember that my actors are in the

habit of interspersing songs through their performances. This practice

I was thinking of extending imperceptibly more and more, then to get

together an orchestra, and, in a word, at last, eluding all

prohibitions to the contrary, to establish an opera-house. You, Signor

Capuzzi, are the first composer in all Italy; and we can attribute it

to nothing but the inconceivable frivolity of the Romans and the

malicious envy of your rivals that we hear anything else but your

pieces exclusively at all the theatres. Signor Pasquale, I came to

request you on my bended knees to allow me to put your immortal works,

as far as circumstances will admit, on my humble stage."

"My dear Signor Nicolo," said the old gentleman, his face all sunshine,

"what are we about to be talking here in the public street? Pray deign

to have the goodness to climb up one or two rather steep flights of

stairs. Come along with me up to my poor dwelling."

Almost before Nicolo got into the room, the old gentleman brought

forward a great pile of dusty music manuscript, opened it, and, taking

his guitar in his hands, began to deliver himself of a series of

frightful high-pitched screams which he denominated singing.

Nicolo behaved like one in raptures. He sighed; he uttered extravagant

expressions of approval; he exclaimed at intervals, "_Bravo!

Bravissimo! Benedettissimo Capuzzi!_" until at last he threw himself at

the old man's feet as if utterly beside himself with ecstatic delight,

and grasped his knees. But he nipped them so hard that the old

gentleman jumped off his seat, calling out with pain, and saying to

Nicolo, "By the saints! Let me go, Signor Nicolo; you'll kill me."

"Nay," replied Nicolo, "nay, Signor Pasquale, I will not rise until

you have promised that Formica may sing in my theatre the day after

to-morrow the divine arias which you have just executed."

"You are a man of taste," groaned Pasquale,--"a man of deep insight. To

whom could I better intrust my compositions than to you? You shall take

all my arias with you. Only let me go. But, good God! I shall not hear

them--my divine masterpieces! Oh! let me go, Signor Nicolo."

"No," cried Nicolo, still on his knees, and tightly pressing the old

gentleman's thin spindle-shanks together, "no, Signor Pasquale, I will

not let you go until you give me your word that you will be present in

my theatre the night after to-morrow. You need not fear any new attack!

Why, don't you think that the Romans, once they have heard your work,

will bring you home in triumph by the light of hundreds of torches? But

in case that does not happen, I myself and my faithful comrades will

take our arms and accompany you home ourselves."

"You yourself will accompany me home, with your comrades?" asked

Pasquale; "and how many may that be?"

"Eight or ten persons will be at your command, Signor Pasquale. Do

yield to my intercession and resolve to come."

"Formica has a fine voice," lisped Pasquale. "How finely he will

execute my arias."

"Do come, oh! do come!" exhorted Nicolo again, giving the old

gentleman's knees an extra grip.

"You will pledge yourself that I shall reach my own house without being

molested?" asked the old gentleman.

"I pledge my honour and my life," was Nicolo's reply, as he gave the

knees a still sharper grip.

"Agreed!" cried the old gentleman; "I will be in your theatre the day

after to-morrow."

Then Nicolo leapt to his feet and pressed Pasquale in so close an

embrace that he gasped and panted quite out of breath.

At this moment Marianna entered the room. Signor Pasquale tried to

frighten her away again by the look of resentment which he hurled at

her; she, however, took not the slightest notice of it, but going

straight up to Musso, addressed him as if in anger,--"It is in vain for

you, Signor Nicolo, to attempt to entice my dear uncle to go to your

theatre. You are forgetting that the infamous trick lately played by

some reprobate seducers, who were lying in wait for me, almost cost the

life of my dearly beloved uncle, and of his worthy friend Splendiano;

nay, that it almost cost my life too. Never will I give my consent to

my uncle's again exposing himself to such danger. Desist from your

entreaties, Nicolo. And you, my dearest uncle, you will stay quietly at

home, will you not, and not venture out beyond the Porta del Popolo

again at night-time, which is a friend to nobody?"

Signor Pasquale was thunderstruck. He opened his eyes wide and stared

at his niece. Then he rewarded her with the sweetest endearments, and

set forth at considerable length how that Signor Nicolo had pledged

himself so to arrange matters as to avoid every danger on the return

home.

"None the less," said Marianna, "I stick to my word, and beg you most

earnestly, my dearest uncle, not to go to the theatre outside the Porta

del Popolo. I ask your pardon, Signor Nicolo, for speaking out frankly

in your presence the dark suspicion that lurks in my mind. You are, I

know, acquainted with Salvator Rosa and also with Antonio Scacciati.

What if you are acting in concert with our enemies? What if you are

only trying with evil intent to entice my dear uncle into your theatre

in order that they may the more safely carry out some fresh villainous

scheme, for I know that my uncle will not go without me?"

"What a suspicion!" cried Nicolo, quite alarmed. "What a terrible

suspicion, Signora! Have you such a bad opinion of me? Have I such an

ill reputation that you conceive I could be guilty of this the basest

treachery? But if you think so unfavourably of me, if you mistrust the

assistance I have promised you, why then let Michele, who I know

rescued you out of the hands of the robbers--let Michele accompany you,

and let him take a large body of gendarmes with him, who can wait for

you outside the theatre, for you cannot of course expect me to fill my

auditorium with police."

Marianna fixed her eyes steadily upon Nicolo's, and then said,

earnestly and gravely, "What do you say? That Michele and gendarmes

shall accompany us? Now I see plainly, Signor Nicolo, that you mean

honestly by us, and that my nasty suspicion is unfounded. Pray forgive

me my thoughtless words. And yet I cannot banish my nervousness and

anxiety about my dear uncle; I must still beg him not to take this

dangerous step."

Signor Pasquale had listened to all this conversation with such curious

looks as plainly served to indicate the nature of the struggle that was

going on within him. But now he could no longer contain himself; he

threw himself on his knees before his beautiful niece, seized her

hands, kissed them, bathed them with the tears which ran down his

cheeks, exclaiming as if beside himself, "My adored, my angelic

Marianna! Fierce and devouring are the flames of the passion which

burns at my heart Oh! this nervousness, this anxiety--it is indeed the

sweetest confession that you love me." And then he besought her not to

give way to fear, but to go and listen in the theatre to the finest

arias which the most divine of composers had ever written.

Nicolo too abated not in his entreaties, plainly showing his

disappointment, until Marianna permitted her scruples to be overcome;

and she promised to lay all fear aside and accompany the best and

dearest of uncles to the theatre outside the Porta del Popolo. Signor

Pasquale was in ectasies, was in the seventh heaven of delight. He was

convinced that Marianna loved him; and he now might hope to hear his

music on the stage, and win the laurel wreath which had so long been

the vain object of his desires; he was on the point of seeing his

dearest dreams fulfilled. Now he would let his light shine in perfect

glory before his true and faithful friends, for he never thought for a

moment but that Signor Splendiano and little Pitichinaccio would go

with him as on the first occasion.

The night that Signor Splendiano had slept in his wig near the Pyramid

of Cestius he had had, besides the spectres who ran away with him, all

sorts of sinister apparitions to visit him. The whole cemetery was

alive, and hundreds of corpses had stretched out their skeleton arms

towards him, moaning and wailing that even in their graves they could

not get over the torture caused by his essences and electuaries.

Accordingly the Pyramid Doctor, although he could not contradict Signor

Pasquale that it was only a wild freakish trick played upon him by a

parcel of godless boys, grew melancholy; and, albeit not ordinarily

superstitiously inclined, he yet now saw spectres everywhere, and was

tormented by forebodings and bad dreams.

As for Pitichinaccio, he could not be convinced that they were not real

devils come straight from the flames of hell who had fallen upon Signor

Pasquale and upon himself, and the bare mention of that dreadful night

was enough to make him scream. All the asseverations of Signor Pasquale

that there had been nobody behind the masks but Antonio Scacciati and

Salvator Rosa were of none effect, for Pitichinaccio wept and swore

that in spite of his terror and apprehension he had clearly recognised

both the voice and the behaviour of the devil Fanfarelli in the one who

had pinched his belly black and blue.

It may therefore be imagined what an almost endless amount of trouble

it cost Signor Pasquale to persuade the two to go with him once more to

Nicolo Musso's theatre. Splendiano was the first to make the resolve to

go,--after he had procured from a monk of St. Bernard's order a small

consecrated bag of musk, the perfume of which neither dead man nor

devil could endure; with this he intended to arm himself against all

assaults. Pitichinaccio could not resist the temptation of a promised

box of candied grapes, but Signor Pasquale had besides expressly to

give his consent that he might wear his new abbot's coat, instead of

his petticoats, which he affirmed had proved an immediate source of

attraction to the devil.

What Salvator feared seemed therefore as if it would really take place;

and yet his plan depended entirely, he continued to repeat, upon Signor

Pasquale's being in Nicolo's theatre alone with Marianna, without his

faithful satellites. Both Antonio and Salvator greatly racked their

brains how they should prevent Splendiano and Pitichinaccio from going

along with Signor Pasquale. Every scheme that occurred to them for the

accomplishment of this desideratum had to be given up owing to want of

time, for the principal plan in Nicolo's theatre had to be carried out

on the evening of the following day.

But Providence, which often employs the most unlikely instruments for

the chastisement of fools, interposed on behalf of the distressed

lovers, and put it into Michele's head to practise some of his

blundering, thus accomplishing what Salvator and Antonio's craft was

unable to accomplish.

That same night there was heard in the Via Ripetta before Signor

Pasquale's house such a chorus of fearful screams and of cursing and

raving and abuse that all the neighbours were startled up out of their

sleep, and a body of gendarmes, who had been pursuing a murderer as far

as the Spanish Square, hastened up with torches, supposing that some

fresh deed of violence was being committed. But when they, and a crowd

of other people whom the noise had attracted, came upon the anticipated

scene of murder, they found poor little Pitichinaccio lying as if dead

on the ground, whilst Michele was thrashing the Pyramid Doctor with a

formidable bludgeon. And they saw the Doctor reel to the floor just at

the moment when Signor Pasquale painfully scrambled to his feet, drew

his rapier, and furiously attacked Michele. Round about were lying

pieces of broken guitars. Had not several people grasped the old man's

arm he would assuredly have run Michele right through the heart. The

ex-bravo, on now becoming aware by the light of the torches whom he had

been molesting, stood as if petrified, his eyes almost starting out of

his heady "a painted desperado, on the balance between will and power,"

as it is said somewhere. Then, uttering a fearful scream, he tore his

hair and begged for pardon and mercy. Neither the Pyramid Doctor nor

Pitichinaccio was seriously injured, but they had been so soundly

cudgelled that they could neither move nor stir, and had to be carried

home.

Signor Pasquale had himself brought this mishap upon his own shoulders.

We know that Salvator and Antonio complimented Marianna with the finest

serenade that could be heard; but I have forgotten to say that to the

old gentleman's very exceeding indignation they repeated it during

several successive nights. At length Signor Pasquale whose rage was

kept in check by his neighbours, was foolish enough to have recourse to

the authorities of the city, urging them to forbid the two painters to

sing in the Via Ripetta. The authorities, however, replied that it

would be a thing unheard of in Rome to prevent anybody from singing and

playing the guitar where he pleased, and it was irrational to ask such

a thing. So Signor Pasquale determined to put an end to the nuisance

himself, and promised Michele a large reward if he seized the first

opportunity to fall upon the singers and give them a good sound

drubbing. Michele at once procured a stout bludgeon, and lay in wait

every night behind the door. But it happened that Salvator and Antonio

judged it prudent to omit their serenading in the Via Ripetta for some

nights preceding the carrying into execution of their plan, so as not

to remind the old gentleman of his adversaries. Marianna remarked quite

innocently that though she hated Antonio and Salvator, yet she liked

their singing, for nothing was so nice as to hear music floating

upwards in the night air.

This Signor Pasquale made a mental note of, and as the essence of

gallantry purposed to surprise his love with a serenade on his part,

which he had himself composed and carefully practised up with his

faithful friends. On the very night preceding that in which he was

hoping to celebrate his greatest triumph in Nicolo Musso's theatre, he

stealthily slipped out of the house and went and fetched his

associates, with whom he had previously arranged matters. But no sooner

had they sounded the first few notes on their guitars than Michele,

whom Signor Pasquale had thoughtlessly forgotten to apprise of his

design, burst forth from behind the door, highly delighted at finding

that the opportunity which was to bring him in the promised reward had

at last come, and began to cudgel the musicians most unmercifully, with

the results of which we are already acquainted. Of course there was no

further mention made of either Splendiano or Pitichinaccio's

accompanying Signor Pasquale to Nicolo's theatre, for they were both

confined to their bed beplastered all over. Signor Pasquale, however,

was unable to stay away, although his back and shoulders were smarting

not a little from the drubbing he had himself received; every note in

his arias was a cord which drew him thither with irresistible power.

"Well now," said Salvator to Antonio, "since the obstacle which we took

to be insurmountable has been removed out of our way of itself, it all

depends now entirely upon your address not to let the favourable moment

slip for carrying off your Marianna from Nicolo's theatre. But I

needn't talk, you'll not fail; I will greet you now as the betrothed of

Capuzzi's lovely niece, who in a few days will be your wife. I wish you

happiness, Antonio, and yet I feel a shiver run through me when I think

upon your marriage."

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

"Call it a crotchet, call it a foolish fancy, or what you will,

Antonio," rejoined Salvator,--"at any rate I love the fair sex; but

there is not one, not even she on whom I foolishly dote, for whom I

would gladly die, but what excites in my heart, so soon as I think of a

union with her such as marriage is, a suspicion that makes me tremble

with a most unpleasant feeling of awe. That which is inscrutable in the

nature of woman mocks all the weapons of man. She whom we believe to

have surrendered herself to us entirely, heart and soul, whom we

believe to have unfolded all her character to us, is the first to

deceive us, and along with the sweetest of her kisses we imbibe the

most pernicious of poisons."

"And my Marianna?" asked Antonio, amazed.

"Pardon me, Antonio," continued Salvator, "even your Marianna, who is

loveliness and grace personified, has given me a fresh proof of how

dangerous the mysterious nature of woman is to us. Just call to mind

what was the behavior of that innocent, inexperienced child when we

carried her uncle home, how at a single glance from me she divined

everything--everything, I tell you, and, as you yourself admitted,

proceeded to play her part with the utmost sagacity. But that is not to

be at all compared with what took place on the occasion of Musso's

visit to the old gentleman. The most practised address, the most

impenetrable cunning,--in short, all the inventive arts of the most

experienced woman of the world could not have done more than little

Marianna did, in order to deceive the old gentleman with perfect

success. She could not have acted in any better way to prepare the

road for us for any kind of enterprise. Our feud with the cranky old

fool--any sort of cunning scheme seems justified, but--come, my dear

Antonio, never mind my fanciful crotchets, but be happy with your

Marianna; as happy as you can."

If a monk had taken his place beside Signor Pasquale when he set out

along with his niece to go to Nicolo Musso's theatre, everybody would

have thought that the strange pair were being led to execution. First

went valiant Michele, repulsive in appearance, and armed to the teeth;

then came Signor Pasquale and Marianna, followed by fully twenty

gendarmes.

Nicolo received the old gentleman and his lady with every mark of

respect at the entrance to the theatre, and conducted them to the seats

which had been reserved for them, immediately in front of the stage.

Signor Pasquale felt highly flattered by this mark of honour, and gazed

about him with proud and sparkling eyes, whilst his pleasure, his

joy, was greatly enhanced to find that all the seats near and behind

Marianna were occupied by women alone. A couple of violins and a

bass-fiddle were being tuned behind the curtains of the stage; the old

gentleman's heart beat with expectation; and when all at once the

orchestra struck up the _ritornello_ of his work, he felt an electric

thrill tingling in every nerve.

Formica came forward in the character of Pasquarello, and sang--sang in

Capuzzi's own voice, and with all his characteristic gestures, the most

hopeless aria that ever was heard. The theatre shook with the loud and

boisterous laughter of the audience. They shouted; they screamed

wildly, "O Pasquale Capuzzi! Our most illustrious composer and artist!

Bravo! Bravissimo!" The old gentleman, not perceiving the ridicule and

irony of the laughter, was in raptures of delight. The aria came to an

end, and the people cried "Sh! sh!" for Doctor Gratiano, played on this

occasion by Nicolo Musso himself, appeared on the stage, holding his

hands over his ears and shouting to Pasquarello for goodness' sake to

stop his ridiculous screeching.

Then the Doctor asked Pasquarello how long he had taken to the

confounded habit of singing, and where he had got that execrable piece

from.

Whereupon Pasquarello replied, that he didn't know what the Doctor

would have; he was like the Romans, and had no taste for real music,

since he failed to recognise the most talented of musicians. The aria

had been written by the greatest of living composers, in whose service

he had the good fortune to be, receiving instruction in both music and

singing from the master himself.

Gratiano then began guessing, and mentioned the names of a great number

of well-known composers and musicians, but at every distinguished name

Pasquarello only shook his head contemptuously.

At length Pasquarello said that the Doctor was only exposing gross

ignorance, since he did not know the name of the greatest composer of

the time. It was no other than Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, who had done

him the honour of taking him into his service. Could he not see that he

was the friend and servant of Signor Pasquale?

Then the Doctor broke out into a loud long roar of laughter, and cried.

What! Had he (Pasquarello) after running away from him (the Doctor),

with whom, besides getting his wages and food, he had had his palm

tickled with many a copper, had he gone and taken service with the

biggest and most inveterate old coxcomb who ever stuffed himself with

macaroni, to the patched Carnival fool who strutted about like a

satisfied old hen after a shower of rain, to the snarling skinflint,

the love-sick old poltroon, who infected the air of the Via Ripetta

with the disgusting bleating which he called singing? &c., &c.

To which Pasquarello, quite incensed, made reply that it was nothing

but envy which spoke in the Doctor's words; he (Pasquarello) was of

course speaking with his heart in his mouth (_parla col cuore in

mano_); the Doctor was not at all the man to pass an opinion upon

Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senigaglia; he was speaking with his heart

in his mouth. The Doctor himself had a strong tang of all that he

blamed in the excellent Signor Pasquale; but he was speaking with his

heart in his mouth; he (Pasquarello) had himself often heard fully six

hundred people at once laugh most heartily at Doctor Gratiano, and so

forth. Then Pasquarello spoke a long panegyric upon his new master,

Signor Pasquale, attributing to him all the virtues under the sun; and

he concluded with a description of his character, which he portrayed as

being the very essence of amiability and grace.

"Heaven bless you, Formica!" lisped Signor Capuzzi to himself; "Heaven

bless you, Formica! I perceive you have designed to make my triumph

perfect, since you are upbraiding the Romans for all their envious and

ungrateful persecution of me, and are letting them know _who_ I really

am."

"Ha! here comes my master himself," cried Pasquarello at this moment,

and there entered on the stage--Signor Pasquale Capuzzi himself, just

as he breathed and walked, his very clothes, face, gestures, gait,

postures, in fact so perfectly like Signor Capuzzi in the auditorium,

that the latter, quite aghast, let go Marianna's hand, which hitherto

he had held fast in his own, and tapped himself, his nose, his wig, in

order to discover whether he was not dreaming, or seeing double,

whether he was really sitting in Nicolo Musso's theatre and dare credit

the miracle.

Capuzzi on the stage embraced Doctor Gratiano with great kindness, and

asked how he was. The Doctor replied that he had a good appetite,

and slept soundly, at his service (_per servirlo_); and as for his

purse--well, it was suffering from a galloping consumption. Only

yesterday he had spent his last ducat for a pair of rosemary-coloured

stockings for his sweetheart, and was just going to walk round to one

or two bankers to see if he could borrow thirty ducats"----

"But how can you pass over your best friends?" said Capuzzi. "Here, my

dear sir, here are fifty ducats, come take them."

"Pasquale, what are you about?" said the real Capuzzi in an undertone.

Dr. Gratiano began to talk about a bond and about interest; but Signor

Capuzzi declared that he could not think of asking for either from such

a friend as the Doctor was.

"Pasquale, have you gone out of your senses?" exclaimed the real

Capuzzi a little louder.

After many grateful embraces Doctor Gratiano took his leave. Now

Pasquarello drew near with a good many bows, and extolled Signor

Capuzzi to the skies, adding, however, that his purse was suffering

from the same complaint as Gratiano's, and he begged for some of the

same excellent medicine that had cured his. Capuzzi on the stage

laughed, and said he was pleased to find that Pasquarello knew how to

turn his good humour to advantage, and threw him several glittering

ducats.

"Pasquale, you must be mad, possessed of the devil," cried the real

Capuzzi aloud. He was bidden be still.

Pasquarello went still further in his eulogy of Capuzzi, and came at

last to speak, of the aria which he (Capuzzi) had composed, and with

which he (Pasquarello) hoped to enchant everybody. The fictitious

Capuzzi clapped Pasquarello heartily on the back, and went on to say

that he might venture to tell him (Pasquarello), his faithful servant,

in confidence, that in reality he knew nothing whatever of the science

of music, and in respect to the aria of which he had just spoken, as

well as all pieces that he had ever composed, why, he had stolen them

out of Frescobaldi's canzonas and Carissimi's motets.

"I tell you you're lying in your throat, you knave," shouted the

Capuzzi off the stage, rising from his seat. Again he was bidden keep

still, and the woman who sat next him drew him down on the bench.

"It's now time to think about other and more important matters,"

continued Capuzzi on the stage. He was going to give a grand banquet

the next day, and Pasquarello must look alive and have everything that

was necessary prepared. Then he produced and read over a list of all

the rarest and most expensive dishes, making Pasquarello tell him how

much each would cost, and at the same time giving him the money for

them.

"Pasquale! You're insane! You've gone mad! You good-for-nothing scamp!

You spendthrift!" shouted the real Capuzzi at intervals, growing more

and more enraged the higher the cost of this the most nonsensical of

dinners rose.

At length, when the list was finished, Pasquarello asked what had

induced him to give such a splendid banquet.

"To-morrow will be the happiest and most joyous day of my life,"

replied the fictitious Capuzzi. "For know, my good Pasquarello, that I

am going to celebrate to-morrow the auspicious marriage of my dear

niece Marianna. I am going to give her hand to that brave young fellow,

the best of all artists, Scacciati."

Hardly had the words fallen from his lips when the real Capuzzi leapt

to his feet, utterly beside himself, quite out of his mind, his face

all aflame with the most fiendish rage, and doubling his fists and

shaking them at his counterpart on the stage, he yelled at the top of

his voice, "No, you won't, no, you won't, you rascal! you scoundrel,

you,--Pasquale! Do you mean to cheat yourself out of your Marianna, you

hound? Are you going to throw her in the arms of that scoundrel,--sweet

Marianna, thy life, thy hope, thy all? Ah! look to it! Look to it! you

infatuated fool. Just remember what sort of a reception you will meet

with from yourself. You shall beat yourself black and blue with your

own hands, so that you will have no relish to think about banquets and

weddings!"

But the Capuzzi on the stage doubled his fists like the Capuzzi

below, and shouted in exactly the same furious way, and in the same

high-pitched voice, "May all the spirits of hell sit at your heart, you

abominable nonsensical Pasquale, you atrocious skinflint--you love-sick

old fool--you gaudy tricked-out ass with the cap and bells dangling

about your ears. Take care lest I snuff out the candle of your life,

and so at length put an end to the infamous tricks which you try to

foist upon the good, honest, modest Pasquale Capuzzi."

Amidst the most fearful cursing and swearing of the real Capuzzi, the

one on the stage dished up one fine anecdote after the other about him.

"You'd better attempt," shouted at last the fictitious Capuzzi, "you

only dare, Pasquale, you amorous old ape, to interfere with the

happiness of these two young people, whom Heaven has destined for each

other."

At this moment there appeared at the back of the stage Antonio

Scacciati and Marianna locked in each other's arms. Albeit the old

gentleman was at other times somewhat feeble on his legs, yet now fury

gave him strength and agility. With a single bound he was on the stage,

had drawn his sword, and was charging upon the pretended Antonio. He

found, however, that he was held fast behind. An officer of the Papal

guard had stopped him, and said in a serious voice, "Recollect where

you are, Signor Pasquale; you are in Nicolo Musso's theatre. Without

intending it, you have today played a most ridiculous _role_. You will

not find either Antonio or Marianna here." The two persons whom Capuzzi

had taken for his niece and her lover now drew near, along with the

rest of the actors. The faces were all completely strange to him. His

rapier escaped from his trembling hand; he took a deep breath as if

awakening out of a bad dream; he grasped his brow with both hands; he

opened his eyes wide. The presentiment of what had happened suddenly

struck him, and he shouted, "Marianna!" in such a stentorian voice that

the walls rang again.

But she was beyond reach of his shouts. Antonio had taken advantage of

the opportunity whilst Pasquale, oblivious of all about him and even of

himself, was quarrelling with his double, to make his way to Marianna,

and back with her through the audience, and out at a side door, where a

carriage stood ready waiting; and away they went as fast as their

horses could gallop towards Florence.

"Marianna!" screamed the old man again, "Marianna! she is gone. She has

fled. That knave Antonio has stolen her from me. Away! after them! Have

pity on me, good people, and take torches and help me to look for my

little darling. Oh! you serpent!"

And he tried to make for the door. But the officer held him fast,

saying, "Do you mean that pretty young lady who sat beside you?

I believe I saw her slip out with a young man--I think Antonio

Scacciati--a long time ago, when you began your idle quarrel with one

of the actors who wore a mask like your face. You needn't make a

trouble of it; every inquiry shall at once be set on foot, and Marianna

shall be brought back to you as soon as she is found. But as for

yourself, Signor Pasquale, your behaviour here and your murderous

attempt upon the life of that actor compel me to arrest you."

Signor Pasquale, his face as pale as death, incapable of uttering a

single word or even a sound, was led away by the very same gendarmes

who were to have protected him against masked devils and spectres. Thus

it came to pass that on the selfsame night on which he had hoped to

celebrate his triumph, he was plunged into the midst of trouble and of

all the frantic despondency which amorous old fools feel when they are

deceived.

VI.

_Salvator Rosa leaves Rome and goes to Florence. Conclusion of the

history._

Everything here below beneath the sun is subject to continual change;

and perhaps there is nothing which can be called more inconstant than

human opinion, which turns round in an everlasting circle like the

wheel of fortune. He who reaps great praise to-day is overwhelmed with

biting censure to-morrow; to-day we trample under foot the man who

to-morrow will be raised far above us.

Of all those who in Rome had ridiculed and mocked at old Pasquale

Capuzzi, with his sordid avarice, his foolish amorousness, his insane

jealousy, who did not wish poor tormented Marianna her liberty? But now

that Antonio had successfully carried off his mistress, all their

ridicule and mockery was suddenly changed into pity for the old fool,

whom they saw wandering about the streets of Rome with his head hanging

on his breast, utterly disconsolate. Misfortunes seldom come singly;

and so it happened that Signor Pasquale, soon after Marianna had been

taken from him, lost his best bosom-friends also. Little Pitichinaccio

choked himself in foolishly trying to swallow an almond-kernel in the

middle of a cadenza; but a sudden stop was put to the life of the

illustrious Pyramid Doctor Signor Splendiano Accoramboni by a slip of

the pen, for which he had only himself to blame. Michele's drubbing

made such work with him that he fell into a fever. He determined to

make use of a remedy which he claimed to have discovered, so, calling

for pen and ink, he wrote down a prescription in which, by employing a

wrong sign, he increased the quantity of a powerful substance to a

dangerous extent. But scarcely had he swallowed the medicine than he

sank back on the pillows and died, establishing, however, by his own

death in the most splendid and satisfactory manner the efficacy of the

last tincture which he ever prescribed.

As already remarked, all those whose laughter had been the loudest, and

who had repeatedly wished Antonio success in his schemes, had now

nothing but pity for the old gentleman; and the bitterest blame was

heaped, not so much upon Antonio, as upon Salvator Rosa, whom, to be

sure, they regarded as the instigator of the whole plan.

Salvator's enemies, of whom he had a goodly number, exerted all their

efforts to fan the flame. "See you," they said, "he was one of

Masaniello's doughty partisans, and is ready to turn his hand to any

deed of mischief, to any disreputable enterprise; we shall be the next

to suffer from his presence in the city; he is a dangerous man."

And the jealous faction who had leagued together against Salvator did

actually succeed in stemming the tide of his prosperous career. He sent

forth from his studio one picture after the other, all bold in

conception, and splendidly executed; but the so-called critics shrugged

their shoulders, now pointing out that the hills were too blue, the

trees too green, the figures now too long, now too broad, finding fault

everywhere where there was no fault to be found, and seeking to detract

from his hard-earned reputation in all the ways they could think of.

Especially bitter in their persecution of him were the Academicians of

St. Luke, who could not forget how he took them in about the surgeon;

they even went beyond the limits of their own profession, and decried

the clever stanzas which Salvator at that time wrote, hinting very

plainly that he did not cultivate his fruit on his own garden soil, but

plundered that of his neighbours. For these reasons, therefore,

Salvator could not manage to surround himself with the splendour which

he had lived amidst formerly in Rome. Instead of being visited by the

most eminent of the Romans in a large studio, he had to remain with

Dame Caterina and his green fig-tree; but amid these poor surroundings

he frequently found both consolation and tranquillity of mind.

Salvator took the malicious machinations of his enemies to heart more

than he ought to have done; he even began to feel that an insidious

disease, resulting from chagrin and dejection, was gnawing at his

vitals. In this unhappy frame of mind he designed and executed two

large pictures which excited quite an uproar in Rome. Of these one

represented the transitoriness of all earthly things, and in the

principal figure, that of a wanton female bearing all the indications

of her degrading calling about her, was recognised the mistress of one

of the cardinals; the other portrayed the Goddess of Fortune dispensing

her rich gifts. But cardinals' hats, bishops' mitres, gold medals,

decorations of orders, were falling upon bleating sheep, braying asses,

and other such like contemptible animals, whilst well-made men in

ragged clothes were vainly straining their eyes upwards to get even the

smallest gift. Salvator had given free rein to his embittered mood, and

the animals' heads bore the closest resemblance to the features of

various eminent persons. It is easy to imagine, therefore, how the tide

of hatred against him rose, and that he was more bitterly persecuted

than ever.

Dame Caterina warned him, with tears in her eyes, that as soon as it

began to be dark she had observed suspicious characters lurking about

the house and apparently dogging his every footstep. Salvator saw that

it was time to leave Rome; and Dame Caterina and her beloved daughters

were the only people whom it caused him pain to part from. In response

to the repeated invitations of the Duke of Tuscany,[6.1] he went to

Florence; and here at length he was richly indemnified for all the

mortification and worry which he had had to struggle against in Rome,

and here all the honour and all the fame which he so truly deserved

were freely conferred upon him. The Duke's presents and the high prices

which he received for his pictures soon enabled him to remove into a

large house and to furnish it in the most magnificent style. There he

was wont to gather round him the most illustrious authors and scholars

of the day, amongst whom it will be sufficient to mention Evangelista

Toricelli,[6.2] Valerio Chimentelli, Battista Ricciardi, Andrea

Cavalcanti, Pietro Salvati, Filippo Apolloni, Volumnio Bandelli,

Francesco Rovai. They formed an association for the prosecution of

artistic and scientific pursuits, whilst Salvator was able to

contribute an element of whimsicality to the meetings, which had a

singular effect in animating and enlivening the mind. The

banqueting-hall was like a beautiful grove with fragrant bushes and

flowers and splashing fountains; and the dishes even, which were served

up by pages in eccentric costumes, were very wonderful to look at, as

if they came from some distant land of magic. These meetings of writers

and savans in Salvator Rosa's house were called at that time the

Accademia de' Percossi.

Though Salvator's mind was in this way devoted to science and art, yet

his real true nature came to life again when he was with his friend

Antonio Scacciati, who, along with his lovely Marianna, led the

pleasant _sans souci_ life of an artist. They often recalled poor old

Signor Pasquale whom they had deceived, and all that had taken place in

Nicolo Musso's theatre. Antonio asked Salvator how he had contrived to

enlist in his cause the active interest not only of Musso but of the

excellent Formica, and of Agli too. Salvator replied that it had been

very easy, for Formica was his most intimate friend in Rome, so that it

had been a work of both pleasure and love to him to arrange everything

on the stage in accordance with the instructions Salvator gave him.

Antonio protested that, though still he could not help laughing over

the scene which had paved the way to his happiness, he yet wished with

all his heart to be reconciled to the old gentleman, even if he should

never touch a penny of Marianna's fortune, which the old gentleman had

confiscated; the practice of his art brought him in a sufficient

income. Marianna too was often unable to restrain her tears when she

thought that her father's brother might go down to his grave without

having forgiven her the trick which she had played upon him; and so

Pasquale's hatred overshadowed like a dark cloud the brightness of

their happiness. Salvator comforted them both--Antonio and Marianna--by

saying that time had adjusted still worse difficulties, and that chance

would perhaps bring the old gentleman near them in some less dangerous

way than if they had remained in Rome, or were to return there now.

We shall see that a prophetic spirit spoke in Salvator.

A considerable time elapsed, when one day Antonio burst into Salvator's

studio breathless and pale as death. "Salvator!" he cried, "Salvator,

my friend, my protector! I am lost if you do not help me. Pasquale

Capuzzi is here; he has procured a warrant for my arrest for the

seduction of his niece."

"But what can Signor Pasquale do against you now?" asked Salvator.

"Have you not been united to Marianna by the Church?"

"Oh!" replied Antonio, giving way completely to despair, "the blessing

of the Church herself cannot save me from ruin. Heaven knows by what

means the old man has been able to approach the Pope's nephew.[6.3] At

any rate the Pope's nephew has taken the old man under his protection,

and has infused into him the hope that the Holy Father will declare my

marriage with Marianna to be null and void; nay, yet further, that he

will grant him (the old man) dispensation to marry his niece."

"Stop!" cried Salvator, "now I see it all; now I see it all. What

threatens to be your ruin, Antonio, is this man's hatred against me.

For I must tell you that this nephew of the Pope's, a proud, coarse,

boorish clown, was amongst the animals in my picture to whom the

Goddess of Fortune is dispensing her gifts. That it was I who helped

you to win your Marianna, though indirectly, is well known, not only to

this man, but to all Rome,--which is quite reason enough to persecute

you since they cannot do anything to me. And so, Antonio, having

brought this misfortune upon you, I must make every effort to assist

you, and all the more that you are my dearest and most intimate friend.

But, by the saints! I don't see in what way I can frustrate your

enemies' little game"----

Therewith Salvator, who had continued to paint at a picture all the

time, laid aside brush, palette, and maulstick, and, rising up from his

easel, began to pace the room backwards and forwards, his arms crossed

over his breast, Antonio meanwhile being quite wrapt up in his own

thoughts, and with his eyes fixed unchangeably upon the floor.

At length Salvator paused before him and said with a smile, "See here,

Antonio, I cannot do anything myself against your powerful enemies, but

I know one who can help you, and who will help you, and that is--Signor

Formica."

"Oh!" said Antonio, "don't jest with an unhappy man, whom nothing can

save."

"What! you are despairing again?" exclaimed Salvator, who was now all

at once in the merriest humour, and he laughed aloud. "I tell you,

Antonio, my friend Formica shall help you in Florence as he helped you

in Rome. Go away quietly home and comfort your Marianna, and calmly

wait and see how things will turn out. I trust you will be ready at the

shortest notice to do what Signor Formica, who is really here in

Florence at the present time, shall require of you." This Antonio

promised most faithfully, and hope revived in him again, and

confidence.

Signor Pasquale Capuzzi was not a little astonished at receiving a

formal invitation from the Accademia de' Percossi. "Ah!" he exclaimed,

"Florence is the place then where a man's merits are recognised, where

Pasquale Capuzzi di Senigaglia, a man gifted with the most excellent

talents, is known and valued." Thus the thought of his knowledge and

his art, and the honour that was shown him on their account, overcame

the repugnance which he would otherwise have felt against a society at

the head of which stood Salvator Rosa. His Spanish gala-dress was more

carefully brushed than ever; his conical hat was equipped with a new

feather; his shoes were provided with new ribbons; and so Signor

Pasquale appeared at Salvator's as brilliant as a rose-chafer,[6.4] and

his face all sunshine. The magnificence which he saw on all sides of

him, even Salvator himself, who had received him dressed in the richest

apparel, inspired him with deep respect, and, after the manner of

little souls, who, though at first proud and puffed up, at once grovel

in the dust whenever they come into contact with what they feel to be

superior to themselves, Pasquale's behaviour towards Salvator, whom he

would gladly have done a mischief to in Rome, was nothing but humility

and submissive deference.

So much attention was paid to Signor Pasquale from all sides, his

judgment was appealed to so unconditionally, and so much was said about

his services to art, that he felt new life infused into his veins; and

an unusual spirit was awakened within him, so that his utterances on

many points were more sensible than might have been expected. If it be

added that never in his life before had he been so splendidly

entertained, and never had he drunk such inspiriting wine, it will

readily be conceived that his pleasure was intensified from moment to

moment, and that he forgot all the wrong which had been done him at

Rome as well as the unpleasant business which had brought him to

Florence. Often after their banquets the Academicians were wont to

amuse themselves with short impromptu dramatic representations, and so

this evening the distinguished playwright and poet Filippo Apolloni

called upon those who generally took part in them to bring the

festivities to a fitting conclusion with one of their usual

performances. Salvator at once withdrew to make all the necessary

preparations.

Not long afterwards the bushes at the farther end of the

banqueting-hall began to move, the branches with their foliage were

parted, and a little theatre provided with seats for the spectators

became visible.

"By the saints!" exclaimed Pasquale Capuzzi, terrified, "where am I?

Surely that's Nicolo Musso's theatre."

Without heeding his exclamation, Evangelista Toricelli and Andrea

Cavalcanti--both of them grave, respectable, venerable men--took him by

the arm and led him to a seat immediately in front of the stage, taking

their places on each side of him.

This was no sooner done than there appeared on the boards--Formica in

the character of Pasquarello.

"You reprobate, Formica!" shouted Pasquale, leaping to his feet and

shaking his doubled fist at the stage. Toricelli and Cavalcanti's

stern, reproving glances bade him sit still and keep quiet.

Pasquarello wept and sobbed, and cursed his destiny, which brought him

nothing but grief and heart-breaking, declared he didn't know how he

should ever set about it if he wanted to laugh again, and concluded by

saying that if he could look upon blood without fainting, he should

certainly cut his throat, or should throw himself in the Tiber if he

could only let that cursed swimming alone when he got into the water.

Doctor Gratiano now joined him, and inquired what was the cause of his

trouble.

Whereupon Pasquarello asked him whether he did not know anything about

what had taken place in the house of his master, Signor Pasquale

Capuzzi di Senigaglia, whether he did not know that an infamous

scoundrel had carried off pretty Marianna, his master's niece?

"Ah!" murmured Capuzzi, "I see you want to make your excuses to me,

Formica; you wish for my pardon--well, we shall see."

Doctor Gratiano expressed his sympathy, and observed that the scoundrel

must have gone to work very cunningly to have eluded all the inquiries

which had been instituted by Capuzzi.

"Ho! ho!" rejoined Pasquarello. "The Doctor need not imagine that the

scoundrel, Antonio Scacciati, had succeeded in escaping the sharpness

of Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, supported as he was, moreover, by powerful

friends. Antonio had been arrested, his marriage with Marianna

annulled, and Marianna herself had again come into Capuzzi's power.

"Has he got her again?" shouted Capuzzi, beside himself; "has he got

her again, good Pasquale? Has he got his little darling, his Marianna?

Is the knave Antonio arrested? Heaven bless you, Formica!"

"You take a too keen interest in the play, Signor Pasquale," said

Cavalcanti, quite seriously. "Pray permit the actors to proceed with

their parts without interrupting them in this disturbing fashion."

Ashamed of himself, Signor Pasquale resumed his seat, for he had again

risen to his feet.

Doctor Gratiano asked what had taken place then.

A wedding, continued Pasquarello, a wedding had taken place. Marianna

had repented of what she had done; Signor Pasquale had obtained the

desired dispensation from the Holy Father, and had married his niece.

"Yes, yes," murmured Pasquale Capuzzi to himself, whilst his eyes

sparkled with delight, "yes, yes, my dear, good Formica; he will marry

his sweet Marianna, the happy Pasquale. He knew that the dear little

darling had always loved him, and that it was only Satan who had led

her astray."

"Why then, everything is all right," said Doctor Gratiano, "and there's

no cause for lamentation."

Pasquarello began, however, to weep and sob more violently than before,

till at length, as if overcome by the terrible nature of his pain, he

fainted away. Doctor Gratiano ran backwards and forwards in great

distress, was so sorry he had no smelling-bottle with him, felt in all

his pockets, and at last produced a roasted chestnut, and put it under

the insensible Pasquarello's nose. He at once recovered, sneezing

violently, and begging him to attribute his faintness to his weak

nerves, he related how that, immediately after the marriage, Marianna

had been afflicted with the saddest melancholy, continually calling

upon Antonio, and treating the old gentleman with contempt and

aversion. But the old fellow, quite infatuated by his passion and

jealousy, had not ceased to torment the poor girl with his folly in the

most abominable way. And here Pasquarello mentioned a host of mad

tricks which Pasquale had done, and which were really current in Rome

about him. Signor Capuzzi sat on thorns; he murmured at intervals,

"Curse you, Formica! You are lying! What evil spirit is in you?" He was

only prevented from bursting out into a violent passion by Toricelli

and Cavalcanti, who sat watching him with an earnest gaze.

Pasquarello concluded his narration by telling that Marianna had at

length succumbed to her unsatisfied longing for her lover, her great

distress of mind, and the innumerable tortures which were inflicted

upon her by the execrable old fellow, and had died in the flower of her

youth.

At this moment was heard a mournful _De profundis_ sung by hollow,

husky voices, and men clad in long black robes appeared on the stage,

bearing an open coffin, within which was seen the corpse of lovely

Marianna wrapped in white shrouds. Behind it came Signor Pasquale

Capuzzi in the deepest mourning, feebly staggering along and wailing

aloud, beating his breast, and crying in a voice of despair, "O

Marianna! Marianna!"

So soon as the real Capuzzi caught sight of his niece's corpse he broke

out into loud lamentations, and both Capuzzis, the one on the stage and

the one off, gave vent to their grief in the most heartrending wails

and groans, "O Marianna! O Marianna! O unhappy me! Alas! Alas for me!"

Let the reader picture to himself the open coffin with the corpse of

the lovely child, surrounded by the hired mourners singing their dismal

_De profundis_ in hoarse voices, and then the comical masks of

Pasquarello and Dr. Gratiano, who were expressing their grief in the

most ridiculous gestures, and lastly the two Capuzzis, wailing and

screeching in despair. Indeed, all who were witnesses of the

extraordinary spectacle could not help feeling, even in the midst of

the unrestrained laughter they had burst out into at sight of the

wonderful old gentleman, that their hearts were chilled by a most

uncomfortable feeling of awe.

Now the stage grew dark, and it thundered and lightened, and there rose

up from below a pale ghostly figure, which bore most unmistakably the

features of Capuzzi's dead brother, Pietro of Senigaglia, Marianna's

father.

"O you infamous brother, Pasquale! what have you done with my daughter?

what have you done with my daughter?" wailed the figure, in a dreadful

and hollow voice. "Despair, you atrocious murderer of my child. You

shall find your reward in hell."

Capuzzi on the stage dropped on the floor as if struck by lightning,

and at the same moment the real Capuzzi reeled from his seat

unconscious. The bushes rustled together again, and the stage was gone,

and also Marianna and Capuzzi and the ghastly spectre Pietro. Signor

Pasquale Capuzzi lay in such a dead faint that it cost a good deal of

trouble to revive him.

At length he came to himself with a deep sigh, and, stretching out both

hands before him as if to ward off the horror that had seized him, he

cried in a husky voice, "Leave me alone, Pietro." Then a torrent of

tears ran down his cheeks, and he sobbed and cried, "Oh! Marianna, my

darling child--my--my Marianna." "But recollect yourself," said now

Cavalcanti, "recollect yourself, Signor Pasquale, it was only on the

stage that you saw your niece dead. She is alive; she is here to crave

pardon for the thoughtless step which love and also your own

inconsiderate conduct drove her to take."

And Marianna, and behind her Antonio Scacciati, now ran forward from

the back part of the hall and threw themselves at the old gentleman's

feet,--for he had meanwhile been placed in an easy chair. Marianna,

looking most charming and beautiful, kissed his hands and bathed them

with scalding tears, beseeching him to pardon both her and Antonio, to

whom she had been united by the blessing of the Church.

Suddenly the hot blood surged into the old man's pallid face, fury

flashed from his eyes, and he cried in a half-choked voice, "Oh! you

abominable scoundrel! You poisonous serpent whom I nourished in my

bosom!" Then old Toricelli, with grave and thoughtful dignity, put

himself in front of Capuzzi, and told him that he (Capuzzi) had seen a

representation of the fate that would inevitably and irremediably

overtake him if he had the hardihood to carry out his wicked purpose

against Antonio and Marianna's peace and happiness. He depicted in

startling colours the folly and madness of amorous old men, who call

down upon their own heads the most ruinous mischief which Heaven can

inflict upon a man, since all the love which might have fallen to their

share is lost, and instead hatred and contempt shoot their fatal darts

at them from every side.

At intervals lovely Marianna cried in a tone that went to everybody's

heart, "O my uncle, I will love and honour you as my own father; you

will kill me by a cruel death if you rob me of my Antonio." And all the

eminent men by whom the old gentleman was surrounded cried with one

accord that it would not be possible for a man like Signor Pasquale

Capuzzi di Senigaglia, a patron of art and himself an artist, not to

forgive the young people, and assume the part of father to the most

lovely of ladies, not possible that he could refuse to accept with joy

as his son-in-law such an artist as Antonio Scacciati, who was highly

esteemed throughout all Italy and richly crowned with fame and honour.

Then it was patent to see that a violent struggle went on within the

old gentleman. He sighed, moaned, clasped his hands before his face,

and, whilst Toricelli was continuing to speak in a most impressive

manner, and Marianna was appealing to him in the most touching accents,

and the rest were extolling Antonio all they knew how, he kept looking

down--now upon his niece, now upon Antonio, whose splendid clothes and

rich chains of honour bore testimony to the truth of what was said

about the artistic fame he had earned.

Gone was all rage out of Capuzzi's countenance; he sprang up with

radiant eyes, and pressed Marianna to his heart, saying, "Yes, I

forgive you, my dear child; I forgive you, Antonio. Far be it from me

to disturb your happiness. You are right, my worthy Signor Toricelli;

Formica has shown me in the tableau on the stage all the mischief and

ruin that would have befallen me had I carried out my insane design. I

am cured, quite cured of my folly. But where is Signor Formica, where

is my good physician? let me thank him a thousand times for my cure; it

is he alone who has accomplished it. The terror that he has caused me

to feel has brought about a complete revolution within me."

Pasquarello stepped forward. Antonio threw himself upon his neck,

crying, "O Signor Formica, you to whom I owe my life, my all--oh! take

off this disfiguring mask, that I may see your face, that Formica may

not be any longer a mystery to me."

Pasquarello took off his cap and his artificial mask, which looked like

a natural face, since it offered not the slightest hindrance to the

play of countenance, and this Formica, this Pasquarello, was

transformed into--Salvator Rosa.[6.5]

"Salvator!" exclaimed Marianna, Antonio, and Capuzzi, utterly

astounded.

"Yes," said that wonderful man, "it is Salvator Rosa, whom the Romans

would not recognise as painter and poet, but who in the character of

Formica drew from them, without their being aware of it, almost every

evening for more than a year, in Nicolo Musso's wretched little

theatre, the most noisy and most demonstrative storms of applause, from

whose mouth they willingly took all the scorn, and all the satiric

mockery of what is bad, which they would on no account listen to and

see in Salvator's poems and pictures. It is Salvator Formica who has

helped you, dear Antonio."

"Salvator," began old Capuzzi, "Salvator Rosa, albeit I have always

regarded you as my worst enemy, yet I have always prized your artistic

skill very highly, and now I love you as the worthiest friend I have,

and beg you to accept my friendship in return."

"Tell me," replied Salvator, "tell me, my worthy Signor Pasquale, what

service I can render you, and accept my assurances beforehand, that I

will leave no stone unturned to accomplish whatever you may ask of me."

And now the genial smile which had not been seen upon Capuzzi's face

since Marianna had been carried off, began to steal back again. Taking

Salvator's hand he lisped in a low voice, "My dear Signor Salvator, you

possess an unlimited influence over good Antonio; beseech him in my

name to permit me to spend the short rest of my days with him, and my

dear daughter Marianna, and to accept at my hands the inheritance left

her by her mother, as well as the good dowry which I was thinking of

adding to it. And he must not look jealous if I occasionally kiss the

dear sweet child's little white hand; and ask him--every Sunday at

least when I go to Mass, to trim up my rough moustache, for there's

nobody in all the wide world understands it so well as he does."

It cost Salvator an effort to repress his laughter at the strange old

man; but before he could make any reply, Antonio and Marianna,

embracing the old gentleman, assured him that they should not believe

he was fully reconciled to them, and should not be really happy, until

he came to live with them as their dear father, never to leave them

again. Antonio added that not only on Sunday, but every other day, he

would trim Capuzzi's moustache as elegantly as he knew how, and

accordingly the old gentleman was perfectly radiant with delight.

Meanwhile a splendid supper had been prepared, to which the entire

company now turned in the best of spirits.

In taking my leave of you, beloved reader, I wish with all my heart

that, whilst you have been reading the story of the wonderful Signor

Formica, you have derived as much pure pleasure from it as Salvator and

all his friends felt on sitting down to their supper.

* * * * * * *

FOOTNOTES TO "SIGNOR FORMICA":

PART I.

[Footnote 1.1: This tale was written for the Leipsic _Taschenbuch zum

geselligen Vergnuegen_ for the year 1820.]

[Footnote 1.2: Respecting the facts of Salvator Rosa's life there

exists more than one disputed statement; and of these perhaps the most

disputed is his share of complicity (if any) in the evil doings of

Calabrian banditti. Poor, and of a wild and self-willed disposition,

but with a strong and independent character, he was unable to find a

suitable master in Naples, so, at the age of eighteen, he set out to

study the lineaments of nature face to face, and spent some time amidst

the grand and savage scenery of Calabria. Here it is certain that he

came into contact with the banditti who haunted those wild regions. He

is alleged to have been taken prisoner by a band, and to have become a

member of the troop. Accepting this as true, we may perhaps charitably

believe that he was prompted not so much by a regard for his own

safety, as by the wish to secure a rare opportunity for studying his

art unhindered, and also charitably hope that the accusations of his

enemies, that he actively participated in the deeds of his companions,

are unfounded, or, at any rate, exaggerations. It may be remarked that

the "Life and Times of Salvator Rosa" by Lady Morgan (1824) is

admittedly a romance rather than an accurate and faithful biography.]

[Footnote 1.3: Masaniello, a poor fisherman of Naples, was for a week

in July, 1647, absolute king of his native city. At that time Naples

was subject to the crown of Spain. The people, provoked by the

exasperating rapacity and extortion of the Viceroy of the King of

Spain, rose in rebellion, choosing Masaniello as their captain and

leader.]

[Footnote 1.4: Aniello Falcone (1600-65), teacher of Salvator Rosa and

founder of the _Compagnia della Morte_, painted battle-pieces which

bear a high reputation. His works are said to be scarce and much sought

after.]

[Footnote 1.5: At first the young fisherman administered stern but

impartial justice; but afterwards his mind seems to have reeled under

the intense excitement and strain of his position, and he began to act

the part of an arbitrary and cruel tyrant. Several hundreds of persons

are said to have been put to death by his order during the few days he

held power.]

[Footnote 1.6: Amongst them more than one by Salvator himself.]

[Footnote 1.7: A French painter and writer on painting; was born near

Bordeaux in 1746, and died at Paris in 1809. Besides other works he

wrote _Observations sur quelques grands peintres_ (1807).]

[Footnote 1.8: The sequin was a gold coin of Venice and Tuscany, worth

about 9s. 3d. It is sometimes used as equivalent to ducat (see note p.

98).]

[Footnote 1.9: The Corso is a wide thoroughfare running almost north

and south from the Piazza del Popolo, a square on the north side

of Rome, to the centre of the city. It is in the Corso that the

horse-races used to take place during the Carnival.]

[Footnote 1.10: The great painter Sanzio Raphael.]