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Weird Tales. Vol. 1 (of 2)

by E. T. A. Hoffmann · English · Gutenberg #31377 · 667,803 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Weird Tales. Vol. 1 (of 2)

Author: E. T. A. Hoffmann

Translator: J. T. Bealby


        
Release date: February 23, 2010 [eBook #31377]
                Most recently updated: January 6, 2021

Language: English

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                             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 fricassées_. 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 _rôle_ 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 Æolian 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 Simâo (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 Scævola 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 hyæna, 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 Hüller), 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 Josépin,[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
_téte-à-téte_ 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
daugh

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