Chapter XVI: Section VII (2)

Antonio answered: "Let me lay aside all bashfulness, which might close my lips. Let me speak freely out exactly what is in my mind. Salvator, I have never revered a master so wholly from out the very depths of my being as I do you. It is the often superhuman grandeur of the ideas which I admire in your works. You see, and comprehend, and grasp the profoundest secrets of Nature. You read, and understand, the marvellous hieroglyphs of her rocks, her trees, her waterfalls; you hear her mighty voices; you interpret her language, and can transcribe what she says to you. Yes, transcription is what I would call your bold and vivid style of working. Man, with his doings, contents you not; you look at him only as being in the lap of Nature, and in so far as his inmost being is conditioned by her phenomena. Therefore, Salvator, it is in marvellous combinations of landscape with figure that you are so wondrous great. Historical painting places limits which hem your flight, to your disadvantage."

"You tell me this, Antonio," said Salvator, "as the envious historical painters do, who throw landscape to me by way of a _bonne-bouche_, that I may occupy myself in chewing it, and abstain from tearing their flesh. Do I not know the human figure, and everything appertaining to it? However, all those silly slanders, echoed from others----"

"Do not be indignant, dear master," answered Antonio. "I do not repeat things blindly after other folks, and least of all should I pay any attention to the opinions of our masters here in Rome just now. Who could help admiring the daring drawing, the marvellous expression, and particularly the lively action, of your figures! One sees that you do not work from the stiff, awkward model, or from the dead lay figure, but that you are, yourself, your own living model, and that you draw and paint the figure which you place on the canvas in front of a great mirror."

"Heyday, Antonio!" cried Salvator, laughing. "I believe you must have been peeping into my studio without my knowledge, to know so well what goes on there."

"Might not that have been?" said Antonio. "But let me go on. The pictures which your mighty genius inspires I should by no means narrow into one class so strictly as the pedantic masters try to do. In fact, the term 'landscape,' as generally understood, applies badly to your paintings, which I should prefer to call 'historical representations.' In a deeper sense, it often seems that this or the other rock, that or the other tree, gazes on us with an earnest look: and that this and the other group of strangely-attired people is like some wonderful crag which has come to life. All Nature, moving in marvellous unity, speaks out the sublime thought which glowed within you. This is how I have looked at your pictures, and this is how I am indebted to you, my great and glorious master, for a profound understanding of art. But do not suppose that, on this account, I have fallen into a childishness of imitation. Greatly as I wish I possessed your freedom and daring of brush, I must confess that the colouring of Nature seems to me to be different from what I see represented in your pictures. I hold that, even for the sake of practice, it is helpful to a learner to imitate the style of this or that master: but still, when once he stands on his own feet, to a certain extent, he should strive to represent Nature as he sees it himself. This true seeing, this being at unity with oneself, is the only thing which can produce character and truth. Guido was of this opinion, and the unresting Preti, whom, as you know, they call the Calabrese, a painter who certainly reflected on his art more than any other, warned me in the same way against slavish imitation. And now you know, Salvator, why I reverence you more than all the others, without being in the slightest degree your imitator, in any way."

Salvator had been gazing fixedly into the young man's eyes as he spoke, and he now clasped him stormily to his breast.

"Antonio," he said, "you have spoken very wise words of deep significance. Young as you are in years, you surpass, in knowledge of art, many of our old, much belauded masters, who talk a great deal of nonsense about their art, and never get to the bottom of the matter. Truly, when you spoke of my pictures, it seemed that I was, for the first time, beginning to come to a clear understanding of myself, and I prize you very highly just because you do not imitate my style--that you don't, like so many others, take a pot of black paint, lay on staring high lights, make a few crippled-looking figures, in horrible costumes, peep out of the dirty-looking ground, and then think 'There's a Salvator.' You have found in me the truest of friends, and I devote myself to you with all my soul."

Antonio was beyond himself with joy at the good will which the master thus charmingly displayed to him. Salvator expressed a strong desire to see Antonio's pictures, and Antonio took him at once to his studio.

Salvator had formed no small expectations of this youth who spoke so understandingly about art, and in whom there seemed to be a peculiar genius at work; and yet the master was most agreeably astonished by Antonio's wealth of pictures. He found everywhere boldness of idea, correctness of drawing; and the fresh colouring, the great tastefulness of the breadth of the flow of folds, the unusual delicacy of the extremities, and the high beauty of the heads evidenced the worthy pupil of the great Reni; although Antonio's striving was not, like that of his master (who was overapt to do this), to sacrifice expression to beauty, often too visibly. One saw that Antonio aimed at Annibale's strength, without, as yet, being able to attain to it.

In his first silence Salvator had examined each of Antonio's pictures for a long time. At length he said: "Listen, Antonio, there is not the slightest doubt about it, you are born for the noble painter's art. For not only has Nature given you the creative spirit, from which the most glorious ideas flame forth in inexhaustible wealth, but she has further endowed you with the rare talent, which, in a brief time, overcomes the difficulties of technical practice. I should be a lying flatterer if I said you had as yet equalled your teachers, that you had attained to Guido's marvellous delightsomeness, or Annibale's power; but it is certain that you far surpass our masters who give themselves such airs here in the Academy of San Luca, your Tiarini, Gessi, Sementa, and whatever they may call themselves, not excepting Lanfranco, who can only draw in chalk; and yet, Antonio, were I in your place I should consider long before I threw away the lancet altogether, and took up the brush. This sounds strange; but hear me further. Just at present an evil time for art has begun; or rather, the devil seems to be busy amongst our masters, stirring them up pretty freely. If you have not made up your mind to meet with mortifications and vexations of every kind, to suffer the more hatred and contempt the higher you soar in art, as your fame increases everywhere to meet with villains, who will press round you with friendly mien, to destroy you all the more surely--if, I say, you have not made up your mind for all this, keep aloof from painting! Think of the fate of your teacher, the great Annibale, whom a knavish crew of fellow-painters in Naples persecuted so that he could not get a single great work to undertake, but was everywhere shown the door with despite, which brought him to his untimely grave. Think what happened to our Domenichino, when he was painting the cupola of the chapel of St. Januarius. Didn't the villains of painters there (I shall not mention any of their names, not even that scoundrel Belisario's or Ribera's), did not they bribe Domenichino's servant to put ashes into the lime, so that the plastering would not bind? The painting could thus have no permanence. Think on all those things, and prove yourself well, whether your spirit is strong enough to withstand the like; for otherwise your power will be broken, and when the firm courage to make is gone, the power to do it is gone along with it."

"Ah, Salvator," said Antonio, "it is scarcely possible that, had I once devoted myself entirely to painting, I should have to undergo more despite and contempt than I have had to suffer already, being still a surgeon. You have found pleasure in my pictures, and you have said, doubtless from inner conviction, that I have it in me to do better things than many of our San Luca men. And yet it is just they who turn up their noses at all that I have, with much industry, achieved, and say, contemptuously, 'Ho, ho, the surgeon thinks he can paint a picture!' But, for that very reason my decision is firmly come to, to get clear of a calling which is more and more hateful to me every day. It is on you, master, that I pin all my hopes. Your word is worth much. If you chose to speak for me you could at once dash my envious persecutors to the dust, and put me in the place which is mine by right."

"You have great confidence in me," said Salvator; "but now that we have so thoroughly understood each other as to our art, and now that I have seen your works, I do not know any one for whom I should take up the cudgels, and that with all my might, so readily as I should for you."

Salvator once more examined Antonio's pictures, and paused before one representing a Magdalone at the Saviour's feet, which he specially commended.

"You have departed," he said, "from the style in which people generally represent this Magdalene. Your Magdalene is not an earnest woman, but rather an ingenuous, charming child, and such a wondrous one as nobody else (except Guido) could have painted. There is a peculiar charm about the beautiful creature. You have painted her with enthusiasm, and, if I am not deceived, the original of this Magdalene is in life, and here in Rome. Confess, Antonio, you are in love."

Antonio cast his eyes down and said, softly and bashfully: "Nothing escapes those sharp eyes of yours, my dear master. It may be as you say, but don't blame me. I prize this picture most of all, and I have kept it concealed from every one's sight, like a holy mystery."

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

"That is so," said Antonio.

"Then," said Salvator, his eyes shining with joy, "be assured, Antonio, that I will overthrow your envious, puffed-up enemies, and bring you to merited honour. Entrust your picture to me--send it secretly in the night to my lodgings, and leave the rest to me. Will you?"

"A thousand times yes, with gladness," answered Antonio. "Ah! I should like to tell you, at once, the troubles connected with my love-affair, but somehow it seems to me that I do not dare, to-day, just when our hearts have opened to one another in art; but some day I shall probably ask you to advise and help me in that direction too."

"Both my advice and my help shall be at your service wherever and whenever they may be necessary," Salvator answered. As he was leaving he turned round and said with a smile: "Antonio, when you told me you were a painter, I was sorry I had mentioned your likeness to the Sanzio. I thought you might be silly enough, as many of our young fellows are, if they chance to have a passing likeness in the face to this or that great master, they take to wearing their hair and beard as he does, and find it necessary to imitate his style in art as well, though it may be quite contrary to their character. We have neither of us named the name of Raphael; but, believe me, in your pictures I find distinct traces of the extent to which the whole heaven of godlike ideas in the works of the greatest master of our time has been revealed to you. You understand Raphael. You will not reply to me as did Velasquez, whom I asked, the other day, what he thought of the Sanzio. He said Titian was the greater master; Raphael knew nothing about flesh colour. In that Spaniard is the Flesh, not the Word; yet they laud him to the skies in San Luca, because he once painted cherries which the birds came and tried to peck."

A few days after the above conversation, it happened that the Academists of San Luca assembled in their church to judge the pictures of the painters who had applied for admission to the Academy. Salvator had sent Scacciati's beautiful Magdalene picture. The painters were amazed by the charm and the power of the work, and the most unstinted praise resounded from every lip when Salvator explained that he had brought the picture with him from Naples--the work of a young painter, prematurely snatched away by death.

In a very short time all Rome streamed to see and admire this work of the young, unknown, dead master. Every one was unanimously of opinion that no such picture had been painted since Guido Reni's time, and, indeed, people carried their enthusiasm so far as to declare that this work was even to be ranked above Guido Reni's creations of the same kind. Among the crowd of people who were always collected before Scacciati's picture, Salvator one day observed a man, who, besides being of very remarkable exterior, was conducting himself like a madman. He was advanced in years, tall, lean as a spindle, pale of face, with a long, pointed nose, and an equally long chin, which increased its pointedness by being tipped with a little beard, and green, flashing eyes. Upon his thick, extremely fair peruke he had stuck a tall hat with a fine feather. He had on a short, dark-red cloak with many shining buttons, a sky-blue Spanish-slashed doublet, great gauntlets trimmed with silver fringe, a long sword by his side, light grey hose drawn over his bony knees, and bound with yellow ribbons, and bows of the same ribbon on his shoes. This strange figure was standing, as if enraptured, before the picture. He would stand up on his tiptoes, then bob himself quite low down; then hop up, with both legs at once, sigh, groan, close his eyes so tightly that the tears streamed from them, and then open them as wide as they would go; gaze incessantly at the beautiful Magdalene, sigh afresh, and lisp out in his mournful, _castrato_ voice, "Ah, Carissima! Benedetissima! Ah, Marianna! Marianna! Belissima!" &c.

Salvator, always greedy after figures of this sort, got as near to him as he could, and tried to enter into conversation with him about Scacciati's picture, which seemed to delight him so much; but, without taking much heed of Salvator, the old fellow cursed his poverty, which would not allow him to buy this picture for a million, and so prevent any one else from fixing his devilish glances upon it. And then he hopped up and down again, and thanked the Virgin and all the saints that the infernal painter who had painted this heavenly picture, which drove him to madness and despair, was dead and gone.

Salvator came to the conclusion that the man must be either a maniac, or some Academician of San Luca whom he did not know.

All Rome rang with the fame of Scacciati's wonderful picture. Scarce anything else was talked of, and this ought to have been enough to show its superiority. When the painters held their next meeting in San Luca to decide as to the reception of sundry applicants for admission, Salvator Rosa made a sudden inquiry whether the painter of the Magdalene at the Saviour's feet would not have been worthy to be admitted. All the members of the Academy, not excepting the excessively critical Cavaliere Josepin, declared, with one voice, that such a great master would have been an ornament to the Academy, and, in the most studied forms of speech, expressed their regret that he was dead (though in their hearts they thanked heaven that he was). Not only this, but in their enthusiasm for art, they decided to elect this marvellous young painter an Academician, notwithstanding that he had been withdrawn from art by a premature death; directing masses to be said for the repose of his soul in the church of San Luca. Wherefore they requested Salvator to acquaint them with the full names of the deceased, as well as the year and place of his birth, &c., &c.

On this Salvator rose up and said: "Signori, the honours which you fain would pay to a man in his grave are due to, and had better be bestowed on, a living painter, who is walking to and fro in our midst. Know ye that the Magdalene at the Saviour's feet--the picture which you have such a high opinion of justly, and esteem so highly above anything which living painters have produced--is not the work of a Neapolitan painter no longer in life, as I pretended it was, that your verdict might be unbiassed. This picture, this masterpiece, which all Rome admires at this moment, is by the hand of Antonio Scacciati, the surgeon."

The painters glared dumb and motionless at Salvator, like men struck by lightning. Salvator enjoyed their consternation for a short time, and then went on to say: "Well, gentlemen, you would not allow Antonio to come amongst you because he is a surgeon; but I think the Academy of San Luca is in very great need of a surgeon to mend and set the crippled arms and legs of the figures which come from the studios of many of its members. However, I presume you will not longer delay to do what you ought to have done long ago; that is, to admit this admirable painter, Antonio Scacciati, a member of your Academy."

The Academicians swallowed Salvator's bitter pill; they said they were much overjoyed that Antonio had displayed his talent in such a striking and decided manner, and they elected him a member of the Academy with much ceremony. As soon as it was known in Rome that Antonio was the painter of the wonderful picture, there streamed in upon him from all sides congratulations, and commissions to undertake great and important works. Thus was this young painter--thanks to Salvator's method of setting to work--brought, in a moment, out of obscurity, and raised to high honour, at the very juncture when he had made up his mind to start upon his career as an artist.

Floating and hovering, as he was, in an atmosphere of happiness and bliss, it all the more surprised Salvator one day when Antonio came to him, pale and upset, full of anger and despair. "Ah, Salvator," he cried, "what does it avail me that you have set me up on a pinnacle, where I could never have dreamt of being, that I am overwhelmed with praise and honour, that the prospect of the most delightful and glorious artistic career opens before me, when I am inexpressibly unhappy, when the very picture, to which, next to yourself, dear master, I am indebted for my victory, is the express cause of irremediable misfortune to me?"

"Silence!" cried Salvator. "Do not commit a sin against your art and your picture. I don't believe a word as to your irremediable misfortune. You are in love, and perhaps things are not going in all respects exactly as you wish; but that is all, no doubt. Lovers are like children, they cry and yell the moment anybody touches their toy. Leave off lamenting, I beg of you; it is a thing which I cannot endure. Sit down there, and tell me quietly how matters stand as regards your beautiful Magdalene and your love-affair altogether, and where the stumbling-blocks are which we must get out of the way, for I promise you, to commence with, that I will help you. The more difficult and arduous and adventurous the things are that we have to set about, the better I shall be pleased, for the blood is running quick in my veins again, and the state of my health calls upon me to set to work and play a wild trick or two; so tell me all about it, Antonio, and, as aforesaid, none of your 'Ohs' and your 'Ahs.'"

Antonio sat down in the chair which Salvator had placed for him near the easel where he was at work, and commenced as follows:--

"In Strada Ripetta, in the lofty house whose projecting balcony you see as soon as you go through the Porta del Popolo, lives the greatest ass and most idiotic donkey in all Rome. An old bachelor, with all the faults of his class--vain, trying to be young, in love, and a coxcomb. He is tall, thin as a whip-stalk, dresses in party-coloured Spanish costume, with a blonde periwig, a steeple-crowned hat, gauntlets, and long sword at his side----"

"Stop, stop! wait a moment, Antonio," cried Salvator, and, turning round the picture he was working at, he took a crayon, and, on the reverse side of it, drew, in a few bold touches, the curious old fellow who had been going on so absurdly in front of Antonio's picture.

"By all the saints!" cried Antonio, jumping up from his chair, and laughing loud and clear in spite of his despair, "that is the very man--that is Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, of whom I am speaking, to the very life."

"There, you see," said Salvator quietly, "I know the gentleman who is probably your bitter rival. But go on with your story."

"Signor Pasquale Capuzzi," continued Antonio, "is as rich as Crœsus, but, as I think I was telling you, a terrible miser, as well as a perfect ass. His best quality is that he is devoted to the arts, particularly to music and painting. But there is so much idiotic absurdity mixed up with this, that, even in those directions, it is impossible to put up with him. He believes himself to be the greatest composer in the world, and a singer the like of whom is not to be found in the Papal Chapel. Therefore he looks askance at our old Frescobaldi, and when the Romans talk of the marvellous charm and spell which Ceccarelli's voice possesses, he thinks Ceccarelli knows as much about singing as an old slipper, and that he--Capuzzi--is the person to enchant the world. But as the Pope's principal singer bears the proud name of Edoardo Ceccarelli di Merania, our Capuzzi likes to be styled 'Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia,' for his mother bore him in that place, and, in fact, people say, in a fishing-boat, from sudden terror at the rising of a sea-calf, and there is, consequently, a great deal of the sea-calf in his nature. In early life he put an opera on the stage, and it was hissed off it in the completest manner possible; but that did not cure him of his craze for writing diabolical music. On the other hand, when he heard Francesco Cavalli's opera, 'Le Nozze di Teti e di Peleo,' he said the Capellmeister had borrowed the most sublime ideas from his own immortal works; for saying which he had a narrow escape of cudgellings, or even of knife-thrusts. He is still possessed with the idea of singing arias, accompanying himself by torturing a wretched guitar, which has to groan and sigh in support of his mewing and caterwauling. His faithful Pylades is a broken-down, dwarfish Castrato, whom the Romans call Pitichinaccio; and guess who completes the trio. Well, none other than the Pyramid Doctor, who emits sounds like a melancholy jackass, and is under the impression that he sings a magnificent bass, as good as Martinelli's, of the Papal Chapel. Those three worthies meet together of evenings, and sit on the balcony, singing motetts of Carissimi's till all the dogs and cats in the neighbourhood yell and howl, and the human beings within earshot devote the hellish trio to all the thousand devils.

"My father," Antonio continued, "was in the habit of going in and out of the house of this incomparable idiot, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi (whom you know sufficiently well from my description), because he used to dress his wig and his beard. When he died, I undertook those offices, and Capuzzi was greatly pleased with me, firstly, because he considered that I was able to give his moustaches a bold upward twist in a manner which nobody else could, and further, doubtless, because I was satisfied with the two or three quattrinos which he gave me for my trouble. But he thought he was over-paying me, inasmuch as, every time I dressed his beard he would croak out to me, with closed eyes, an aria of his own composing, which flayed the skin off my ears, although the remarkable antics of this creature afforded me much entertainment--which was the reason I continued to go back to him. I on one occasion walked gently up the stairs, knocked at the door, and opened it, when there met me a girl--an angel of light! You know my Magdalene!--it was she. I stood rooted to the spot. No, no, Salvator, I won't treat you to any 'Ohs' or 'Ahs.' I need but say that on the instant, when I saw the loveliest of all ladies, I fell into the deepest, fondest affection for her. The old fellow said, with simpers, that she was the daughter of his brother Pietro, who had died in Senegaglia, that her name was Marianna, and that, as she had no mother, and neither brothers nor sisters, he had taken her into his house. You may imagine that from that time forth Capuzzi's dwelling was my paradise. But, scheme as I might, I could never be alone with Marianna for a single instant; yet her eyes, as well as many a stolen sigh, and even many a pressure of the hand, left me in no doubt of my happiness. The old man found this out, and it was not a very difficult matter. He told me that he was by no means pleased with my behaviour to his niece, and asked me what I meant by it. I candidly confessed that I loved her with all my soul, and could imagine no more perfect bliss on earth than to make her my wife. On this, Capuzzi eyed me up and down, broke into sneering laughter, and said that he could not have imagined that ideas of the kind could have haunted the brain of a wretched hairdresser. My blood got up: I said he knew very well that I was by no means a mere wretched hairdresser, but a skilled surgeon, and, more than that, as concerned the glorious art of painting, a faithful scholar and pupil of the grand Annibale Caracci, and the unsurpassed Guido Reni. On this the despicable Capuzzi broke out into louder laughter, and squeaked out, in his abominable falsetto: 'Very good, my sweet Signor Beard-curler, my talented Signor Surgeon, my charming Annibale Caracci, my most beloved Guido Reni, _go to all the devils_, and don't show that nose of yours inside my door again, unless you want every bone in your body broken.' And the demented old totterer actually took hold of me with no less an idea in his head than that of chucking me out of the door and downstairs. But this was rather more than could be endured. I was furious, and I seized hold of the fellow, turned him topsy-turvy, with his toes pointing to the ceiling (screaming at the top of his lungs), and ran downstairs and out of the door, which was from thenceforth closed against me.

"Matters were in this position when you came to Rome, and Heaven inspired the good Father Bonifazio to conduct me to you; and then, when that had happened, through your cleverness, which I had striven after in vain, when the Academy of San Luca had admitted me, and all Rome was praising and honouring me above my desert, I went straight away to the old man, and appeared suddenly before him in his room like a threatening spectre. That is what I must have seemed like to him, for he turned as pale as death, and drew back behind a table, trembling in every limb. In a grave, firm voice, I told him that I was not now the Beard-curler and Surgeon, but the celebrated Painter, and Member of the Academy of San Luca, Antonio Scacciati, to whom he could not refuse his niece's hand. You should have seen the fury into which the old man fell. He yelled, he beat about him with his arms, he cried out that I was a remorseless murderer, seeking to take his life, that I had stolen his Marianna away from him, as I had counterfeited her in the picture which drove him to madness and despair. That now all the world--all the world--was looking at his Marianna, his life, his hope, his everything, with longing, coveting eyes; but that I had better be careful, for he would burn the house down about my ears, and make an end of me and my picture together. And on this he began to vociferate, and scream out so loudly, 'Fire!--murder!--thieves!--help!' that I thought of nothing but getting out of the house as speedily as possible.

"You see that this old lunatic Capuzzi is over head and ears in love with his niece. He keeps her shut up, and, if he can get a dispensation, he will force her to the most horrible marriage conceivable. All hope is at an end."

"Why not, indeed?" said Salvator, laughing. "For my part, I think, rather, that your affairs could not possibly be in a better position. Marianna loves you--you know that well enough--and all that has to be done is to get her out of the clutches of this old lunatic. Now I really do not see what should prevent two adventurous, sturdy fellows, like you and me, from accomplishing this. Keep up your heart, Antonio! Instead of lamenting, and getting to be love-sick and powerless, the thing to do is to keep thinking on Marianna's rescue. Just watch, Antonio, how we will lead the old donkey by the nose. The very wildest undertakings are not wild enough for me, in circumstances like those. This very moment I shall set to work to see what more I can find out about the old fellow and all his ways of life. You must not let yourself be seen in this, Antonio. Go you quietly home, and come to me to-morrow as early as you can, that we may consider the plan for our first attack."

With that Salvator washed his brushes, threw on his cloak, and hastened to the Corso; whilst Antonio, comforted, and with fresh hope in his heart, went home, as Salvator had enjoined him.

* * * * * *

Signor Pasquale Capuzzi makes his appearance in Salvator Rosa's
abode.--What happened there.--Rosa and Scacciati's artful
stratagem, and its consequences.

Antonio was not a little surprised, the next morning, when Salvator gave him the most minute account of Capuzzi's whole manner of life, which, in the interval, he had found out all about. Salvator said the miserable Marianna was tortured by the crack-brained old scoundrel in the most fiendish manner. That he sighed, and made love to her all day long; and, what was worse, by way of touching her heart, sang to her all sorts of amorous ditties and arias which he had composed, or attempted to compose. Moreover, he was so madly jealous that he would not allow this much-to-be-compassionated girl even the usual female attendance, for fear of love-intrigues to which the Abigail might possibly be corrupted. "Instead of that," Salvator went on, "there comes, every morning and evening, a little horrible, ghastly spectre of a creature, with hollow eyes, and pale, flabby, hanging cheeks, to do what a maid-servant ought to do for the beautiful Marianna. And this spectre is none other than that tiny hop-o-my-thumb Pitichinaccio, dressed in woman's clothes. When Capuzzi is away, he carefully locks and bars all the doors; and besides that, watch and ward is kept by that infernal fellow who was once a Bravo, afterwards a Sbirro, who lives downstairs in Capuzzi's house. Therefore it seems impossible to get inside the door. But I promise you, Antonio, that to-morrow night you shall be in the room with Capuzzi, and see your Marianna, though, this time, only in Capuzzi's presence."

"What!" cried Antonio, "is that which appears to me an impossibility going to come to pass to-morrow night?"

"Hush, Antonio!" said Salvator; "let us calmly reflect how the plan which I have hit upon is to be carried out. To begin with, I must tell you that I have a certain connection with Signor Capuzzi which I was not aware of. That wretched spinett standing in the corner there is his property, and I am supposed to be going to pay him the exorbitant price of ten ducats for it. When I had got somewhat better after my illness, I had a longing for music, which is consolation and recreation to me. I asked my landlady to get hold of an instrument of that sort for me. Dame Caterina soon found out that a certain old fellow in Strada Ripetta had an old spinett for sale. It was brought here, and I troubled myself neither about the price nor about the owner. It was only last night that I discovered that it was our honourable Signor Capuzzi who was going to swindle me with his old, broken-down instrument. Dame Caterina had applied to an acquaintance who lives in the house with Capuzzi, and, in fact, on the same storey; so that now you see where I got all my information from."

"Ha!" cried Antonio; "thus is the means of admission discovered. Your landlady----"

"I know what you are going to say," said Salvator. "You think the way to your Marianna is through Dame Caterina. That would never do at all. Dame Caterina is much too talkative; she can't keep the most trifling secret, and is therefore by no means to be made use of in our undertaking. Listen to me, quietly. Every evening, when the little Castrato has done the maid-servant work, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi carries him home in his arms, difficult as that job is, considering the shakiness of his own old knees. Not for all the world would the timorous Pitichinaccio set foot on the pavement at that time of the night. Very good; when----"

At this moment a knock came to Salvator's door, and, to the no small astonishment of both, in came Signor Pasquale Capuzzi in all his glory. As soon as he saw Scacciati he stood still, as if paralysed in every limb, opened his eyes wide, and panted for air as if his breath would fail him. But Salvator hurried up to him, took him by both hands, and cried out: "My dear Signor Pasquale! how highly honoured I am that you should visit me in my humble lodging. Doubtless it is the love of art that brings you. You wish to look at what I have been doing lately; perhaps you are even going to honour me with a commission. Tell me, dear Signor Pasquale, wherein I can do you a pleasure."

"I have to speak with you," stammered Capuzzi, with difficulty, "dear Signor Salvator; but, alone; when you are by yourself. Allow me to take my departure for the present, and come back at a more convenient time."

"By no means, my dear Signor," said Salvator, holding the old man fast. "You must not go. You could not possibly have come at a more convenient time, for, as you are a great honourer of the noble art of painting, it will give you no small joy when I present to you here Antonio Scacciati, the greatest painter of our time, whose glorious picture, the marvellous 'Magdalene at the Saviour's feet,' all Rome regards with the utmost enthusiasm. No doubt you are full of the picture, like the rest, and have been anxious to make the painter's acquaintance."

The old man was seized by a violent trembling. He shook like one in the cold stage of a fever, sending, the while, burning looks of rage at Antonio; who, however, went up to him with easy courtesy, declaring that he thought himself fortunate to meet Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, whose profound knowledge of music, as well as of painting, not only Rome, but all Italy admired, and he recommended himself to his protection.

It restored the old fellow to his self-control that Antonio treated him as if he met him for the first time, and addressed him in such flattering terms. He forced himself to a sort of simpering smile, and (Salvator having let go his hands) softly stroked the points of his moustaches heavenwards, stammered a few unintelligible words, and then turned to Salvator, whom he attacked on the subject of the payment of the ten ducats. "We will settle that every-day little affair afterwards," said Salvator. "First let it please you to look at the sketches which I have made for a picture, and, as you do so, to drink a glass of good Syracuse." Salvator placed his sketches on the easel, drew up a chair for the old gentleman, and, when he had seated himself, handed him a large, beautiful goblet, in which the noble Syracuse was sparkling.

The old man was only too fond of a glass of good wine, when he had not to pay for it; and, moreover, as he was expecting to receive ten ducats for a worn-out, rickety spinett, and was seated before a boldly sketched-in picture, whose wonderful beauty he was quite capable of appreciating, he could not but feel exceedingly happy in his mind. This satisfaction he gave expression to, smirking quite pleasantly, stroking his chin and moustaches assiduously, half closing his eyes, and whispering, time after time, "Glorious! Precious!" without its clearly appearing whether he referred to the picture or to the wine.

As he had now become quite friendly, Salvator said, suddenly: "Tell me, my dear sir, is it not the case that-you have a most beautiful niece, of the name of Marianna? All our young fellows are continually rushing to the Strada Ripetta, impelled by love-craziness. They give themselves cricks in the neck with gazing up at your balcony in the hope of seeing her, and catching a glance from her heavenly eyes."

The complacent smirk disappeared instantly from the old man's face, and all the good humour with which the wine had inspired him vanished. Gazing before him gloomily, he said, in a harsh voice: "See there the profound corruption of our sinful youth, who fasten their diabolical looks on children, detestable seducers that they are!--for I assure you, my dear sir, my niece Marianna is a mere child--a mere child scarce out of the nursery!"

Salvator changed the subject. The old man recovered his composure; but when, with new sunshine in his face, he placed the full goblet to his lips, Salvator set on him again, with: "Tell me, my dear Signor, has your niece (that young lady of sixteen), the lovely Marianna, really that wonderful chestnut-brown hair, and those eyes, full of the rapture and bliss of Heaven, which we see in Antonio's Magdalene? That is what is everywhere said."

"I can't say," cried the old man, in an angrier tone than before. "Don't let us refer to my niece; we can exchange words of more importance on the subject of the noble art to which your beautiful picture itself leads us."

But as, whenever the old man took up the goblet and placed it to his lips to take a good draught, Salvator again began to speak of the beautiful Marianna, Pasquale at last sprung from his chair in fury, banged the goblet down on the table with such violence that it was nearly being broken, and cried in a screaming voice: "By the black, hellish Pluto, by all the Furies, you make the wine poison--poison to me. But I see how it is. You, and your fine Signor Antonio along with you, think you will make a fool of me; but you won't find it quite so easy. Pay me this instant the ten ducats you owe me, and I will leave you and your comrade, the beard-curler Antonio, to all the devils."

Salvator cried out as if overcome by the most furious anger, "What! You dare to treat me in this manner in my own lodging? Pay you ten ducats for that rotten old box, out of which the worms have long since gnawed all the marrow, all the sound! Not ten, not five, not three, not a single ducat will I pay you for that spinett, which is scarcely worth a quattrino. Away with the crippled old thing," and therewith Salvator sent the little spinett spinning round and round with his foot, its strings giving out a loud wail of sorrow.

"Ha!" screamed Capuzzi, "there is still law in Rome. I will have you put in prison, into the deepest dungeon;" and, growling like a thunder-cloud, he was making for the door. But Salvator put both his arms about him, set him down in the chair again, and whispered in his ear in dulcet tones, "My dear Signor Pasquale, do you not see that I am only joking? Not ten, thirteen ducats you shall have for your spinett," and went on repeating into his ear, "thirteen bright ducats," so long and so often that Capuzzi said, in a faint, feeble voice, "What say you, dear sir? Thirteen ducats for the spinett, and nothing for the repairs?" Then Salvator let him go, and assured him, on his honour, that in an hour's time the spinett should be worth thirty--forty ducats, and that he, Capuzzi, should get that sum for it.

The old man, drawing breath, murmured: with a deep sigh, "Thirty--forty ducats!" Then he added, "But you have greatly enraged me, Signor Salvator." "Thirty ducats," reiterated Salvator. The old man blinked his eyes. But then again, "You have wounded me to the heart, Signor Salvator." "Thirty ducats," said Salvator again and again, till at length the old man said, quite appeased, "If I can get thirty or forty ducats for my spinett, all will be forgotten and forgiven, dear Signor."

"But before I fulfil my promise," said Salvator, "I have one little stipulation to make which you, my worthy Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia, can easily comply with. You are the first composer in all Italy, and, into the bargain, the very finest singer that can possibly be found. I have listened with rapture to the grand scena in the opera 'Le Nozze di Teti e di Peleo,' which the villain Francesco Cavalli has cribbed from you and given out as his own. If you would be good enough to sing me that aria during the time that I am setting the spinett to rights, I cannot imagine anything more delightful that could happen to me."

The old fellow screwed his face up into the most sugary smile imaginable, twitched his eyebrows, and said, "It is easy to see that you are a fine musician yourself, Signor, for you have taste, and you can value people better than the unthankful Romans. Listen, listen to the aria of all arias."

He rose up, stood on the extreme points of his tiptoes, stretched out his arms, and closed both his eyes (so that he was exactly like a cock making ready for a crow), and immediately began to utter such a terrible screeching that the walls resounded again, and Dame Caterina came rushing in with her two daughters, having no other idea than that the terrible howling indicated the happening of some signal disaster. They stood completely bewildered in the doorway when they became aware of the old gentleman crooning in this manner, thus constituting themselves the audience of this unheard-of virtuoso, Capuzzi.

But as this was going on, Salvator had set the spinett to rights, shut down the top of it, taken his palette and set to work to paint, in bold touches, upon the very cover of the spinett, the most wonderful subject imaginable. The principal theme of it was a scene from Cavalli's opera, 'Le Nozze di Teti;' but there was mingled with this, in utterly fantastic fashion, a whole crowd of other characters, amongst whom were Capuzzi, Antonio, Marianna (exactly as she appeared in Antonio's picture), Salvator himself, Dame Caterina and her daughters, and even the Pyramid Doctor, and all so genially and comprehendingly pourtrayed, that Antonio could not conceal his delight at the Maestro's talent and technique.

The old fellow by no means restricted himself to the scena which Salvator had asked him for, but went on singing, or rather crowing, without cessation, working his way through the most terrible recitatives from one diabolical aria to another. This may have gone on for some two hours or so, till he sank down into an arm-chair, cherry-brown of countenance. By that time, however, Salvator had got so far with his sketch that everything in it appeared to be alive, and the effect of it, when seen a little way off, was that of a finished picture.

"I have kept my promise as regards the spinett, dear Signor Capuzzi," Salvator whispered into the old man's ear, and Capuzzi sprang up like one awaking from sleep. His eyes fell on the painted spinett; he opened them wide, as if looking upon a miracle, crammed his peaked hat down on to his periwig, took his crook-headed stick under his arm, made one jump to the spinett, wrenched the cover of it out of the hinges, and ran, like one possessed, out of the door, down the steps, and off and away out of the house, whilst Dame Caterina and her daughters accompanied his exit with bursts of laughter.

"The old skinflint knows very well," said Salvator, "that he has only to take the painted top of the spinett to Count Colonna, or to my friend Rossi, to get forty ducats, or more, for it in a moment."

Salvator and Antonio now set about considering the plan of attack which they were about to carry out on the following night. We shall presently see what it was, and what was the success of their attempt.

When night came, Pasquale, after carefully bolting and barring up his house, carried the little monster of a Castrato home. The little creature mewed and complained all the way, that not only was he compelled to sing his lungs into a consumption over Capuzzi's arias, and burn his hands with cooking of macaroons, but, into the bargain, was employed in a service which brought him in nothing but cuffs on the ears and sound kicks, which Marianna dealt out to him in ample measure whenever he came into her vicinity. The old gentleman comforted him as well as he could, promising to supply him more plentifully with sugar-stuff than he had hitherto done, and even going so far as to enter into a solemn undertaking (inasmuch as the little wretch would not cease whining and lamenting) to have a little Abbate's coat made for him out of an old black plush doublet, which he had often looked upon with envious glances. He demanded, besides, a periwig and a sword. Discussing those matters, they reached the Strada Vergognona, for that was where Pitichinaccio lived, and, indeed, only four doors from Salvator.

The old man set the little creature carefully down, and opened the door. Then they went up the narrow steps, more like a hen's ladder than anything else; but scarcely had they got half-way up when they became aware of a tremendous raging on the storey above, and a wild drunken fellow made his voice heard, calling upon all the devils in hell to show him the way out of this accursed, haunted house. Pitichinaccio, who was in front, pressed himself close to the wall and implored Capuzzi to go on first, for the love of all the saints. Scarcely, however, had Capuzzi gone a step or two up when the fellow from above came stumbling down the stairs, came upon Capuzzi like a whirlwind, seized hold of him, and went floundering down with him through the open door right into the middle of the street. There they remained lying prostrate, Capuzzi nethermost, and the drunken fellow on the top of him, like a heavy sack. Capuzzi screamed pitifully for help, and immediately there appeared two men, who, with much pains, eased Capuzzi of his burden, the drunken fellow, who went staggering away as they did so.

The two men were Salvator and Antonio, and they cried, "Jesus! what has happened to you, Signor Capuzzi? What are you doing here at this time of the night? You seem to have had some bad business going on in the house."

"It's all over with me," groaned Capuzzi; "the hellhound has broken every bone in my body. I can't move a muscle."

"Let us see--let us see!" said Antonio; and he felt him all over, giving him, in the course of his examination, a pinch in the right leg of such shrewdness that Capuzzi uttered a yell.

"Saints and angels!" ejaculated Antonio, "your right leg is broken just at the most dangerous place. If it is not attended to immediately, you are a dead man; or, at the very least, lamed for life."

Capuzzi uttered a frightful howl. "Calm yourself, my dear Signor," said Antonio. "Although I am a painter now, I have not forgotten my surgery. We will carry you into Salvator's lodgings, and I will bandage you properly at once."

"Dear Signor Antonio," whined Capuzzi, "you are inimically minded towards me, I am aware."

"Ah!" interposed Salvator, "there can be no question of enmity in a case like this. You are in danger, and that is sufficient reason why the honourable Antonio should devote all his skill to your service. Take hold of him, friend Antonio."

Together they lifted the old man up softly and carefully, and carried him--crying out over the suffering which his broken leg caused him--to Salvator's lodgings.

Dame Caterina declared she had felt quite certain that something was going to happen, and consequently hadn't been able to go to bed. And when she saw the old gentleman and heard what had happened to him, she broke out into reproaches as to his works and ways. "I know well enough, Signor Pasquale, who it was that you were taking home, as usual. You think, as long as you have your pretty niece Marianna at home with you, you don't require any woman to do anything there, and you most shamefully and God-defiantly misuse that poor creature of a Pitichinaccio, whom you dress up in woman's clothes. But remember, _ogni carne ha il mio osso_--every flesh has its own bones. If you have a girl in the house, you can't do without women. _Fate il passo secondo il gamba_--don't stretch your legs farther than the bedcover goes, and don't do more, nor less, than what is right for your Marianna. Don't shut her up like a prisoner. Don't turn your house into a gaol. _Asino punto convien che trotti_--one who has started on the road must go along. You have a pretty niece, and you must arrange your life accordingly; that's to say, you mustn't do what she doesn't wish. But you are an ungallant, hard-hearted man, and (I'm afraid I must say, at your time of life), amorous and jealous into the bargain. You must pardon me for saying all this straight out to your face, but you know _chi ha nel petto fiele, non pu sputar miele_--what the heart is full of comes out at the lips. If you don't die of this accident of yours--as, at your time of life, it is to be feared you will--I hope it will be a warning to you, and you'll leave your niece at liberty to do what she wishes, and marry the charming young gentleman whom I think I know about."

Thus did the stream of Dame Caterina's words flow on, whilst Salvator and Antonio carefully undressed the old gentleman and laid him on the bed. Dame Caterina's words were dagger-thrusts, which went deep into his heart; but, whenever he tried to get in a word between them, Antonio impressed on him that anything in the nature of talking was fraught with the utmost danger, so that he was obliged to swallow the bitter pill of her utterances. Salvator at length sent her away to get some iced water, which Antonio had ordered.