From Pistoia the babbo took me to Prato, where he had been requested to go by the gilder Signor Stefano Mazzoni. There we took up our abode in a street and court called Il Giuggiolo. In the same house, and almost with us, lived a man from Lucca, who made little plaster-images, and was one of the many who go about the streets selling little coloured figures for a few sous. This connection, ridiculous as it may appear, inspired me more and more with a desire for the study of figures. It is true these figures and parrots and clowns were ugly; but, at the same time, their innocent ugliness attracted me, and filled me with a longing, not indeed to imitate them, but to do something better. In turning over my father's papers and designs, I found a quantity of prints, fashion-plates of dresses, landscapes, and animals, and particularly (I remember it so well that I could draw it now) a large print representing the building of the Temple of Jerusalem. In the distance you saw the building just begun, and rising a little above its foundations. Carts loaded with heavy materials and tall straight timber (the cedars of Lebanon) were dragged along by a great many oxen and camels, amid a vast number of people and things. On all sides were workmen of every kind, some carving the columns, some putting up a jamb and squaring it, some sawing timber, and some busied in making ditches; others were talking, or listening, or admiring: and all the scene was animated with a truly marvellous life. In the foreground you saw the majestic figure of Solomon, surrounded by his ministers and soldiers, showing his architect (with his scholars) the designs of the Temple. In fact, it was a wonderful thing to behold, and I was so enchanted that I could not sleep for thinking of it, for it seemed to me impossible that any man could imagine and execute anything so marvellous. My little head seemed on fire, it was so full of these figures. I tried at first to copy in part this print, which, above all the others, had taken my fancy; but I did not succeed, and I was so discouraged that I sat down and cried. And not for this only I cried, but also because my father looked with so unfavourable eye on these efforts of mine—they seeming to him quite unnecessary for an intagliatore—that, in order to go on with these studies, I was obliged to hide myself almost, and to work in spare moments. Finding this print so complicated that I could in no way copy it, I then undertook to copy the little costume-figures that I found amongst the prints. These, one by one, I drew during the evening, after my father had gone to bed and was asleep; and sometimes it happened that I fell asleep over my drawing, and on waking found myself in the dark, with the little lamp gone out. This constant exercise, to which I gave myself every day with great ardour, so trained my hand and practised my eye, that my last drawings were made with little or no erasures.

But though I derived a good deal of satisfaction from these small drawings, my heart was still oppressed at being so far from my mother. I longed to see her, and have her near me, and begged my father to take me to her, or at least to send me to her by the carrier; but wishes and prayers were useless. My father went sometimes, it is true, to see her; but although I was only seven or eight years of age, I had to remain behind at Prato to look after the house. I do not wish to blame my father, but neither then nor since have I been able to understand his notions of things; and certainly, to keep a little boy alone by himself in a house, and often for several days together, is not to be recommended. One evening I remember, when, having fallen asleep while reading at the table, with my head bent near the lamp, my little cap caught on fire, and I woke up with my hair in flames. But this adventurous life—beaten about, thwarted in all my wishes and in all my affections—formed my character. I became accustomed to suffer, to persevere, and to obey, while I always kept alive those desires and affections which my conscience assured me were good.

About this time, what with continuous study, hardish work in my father's shop, and the melancholy that weighed upon me because I could not see my mother, my health began to fail. Even before this, and indeed from my birth, I had always been delicate, but now I became so pale and weak that every one called me il morticino (the little dead fellow). A physician who examined me about this time talked seriously to my father about me on the subject, telling him that I ought to rest longer in the mornings (my father rose very early, and I had to get up to go with him to the shop), and eat more nourishing food; and he explained what it should be. Amongst other things, I remember he ordered me to drink goat's milk, milked and drunk on the spot, as soon as I got out of bed, before leaving my room. This treatment succeeded marvellously. Every day I gained strength, colour, and flesh. The little goat that came every morning to my room to pay me a visit, and brought me her milk, sweet, warm, and light, will be always remembered by me; and I still have a feeling for the little creature, even after half a century, which I cannot well define.

Restored to health, I was taken to see my mother in Florence. My own great joy, as well as her caresses and petitions that I might be left with her, it is impossible to describe. She insisted that she would find me a shop where I could go and continue to learn the art of wood-carving. Thank God, this time my mother's tenderness overcame my father's tenacity (loving though it was), and I was allowed to remain with her. They both looked about to find me a shop, and I was finally placed in Borgo Sant' Jacopo, with the wood-carvers Gaetano Ammanati and Luigi Pieraccini, who worked together. They were both very able men, certainly much more so than my father, who, poor man, owing to the constant requirements of the family, had never been able to perfect himself in his art. In this shop figures were carved, so that I had before me models and teachers, as well as incitement to work. My principals liked me, and I them; and I should have remained with them who knows how long, had I not been carried off by another intagliatore. And the way in which it happened was this: Signor Paolo Sani, a carver in wood who sometimes came on business or for other reasons to Ammanati's, seeing that my work was fairly good, and that I worked with goodwill, determined, if possible, to take me away to work for him. He wrote, therefore, to my father, who had returned to Siena, asking him to remove me from Ammanati's shop, and send me to him, binding himself to pay me double the salary that I was then receiving. As he did not wish, however, to appear to act underhandedly (though this was really the case), he persuaded my father to take me to Siena, and place me at the Academy of Fine Arts, to study drawing; and he promised, after I had passed some months there, to take me to work in his own shop. My father accepted the offer, and I was obliged to go to Siena, where I studied in the Academy at the school of "Ornato," which was then under the direction of Professor Dei. Out of school hours my father let me work upon anything I liked—such as children's heads, angels, and even crucifixes. God knows what rubbish they were! I also took lessons, in drawing the human figure, of Signor Carlo Pini, then the custode of the Academy, and afterwards one of the most distinguished annotators of Vasari, and keeper of the drawings by the old masters in the Royal Gallery of the Uffizi.

At that time Signor Angelo Barbetti, a very skilful wood-carver, was at Siena, and my father wished to place me in his shop, which was in the Piazza di San Giovanni. But Signor Angelo was as irascible and fault-finding as he was intelligent; and one day, when I had not succeeded in executing some work that he had given me, he struck me on the head, accompanying the blow with these words, which hurt me more than the blow itself—"You will always be an ass, harnessed and shod, even when the beard is on your chin." Afterwards I was sent to Signor Antonio Manetti, who not only carved ornaments and figures in wood, but also worked in marble, and was occupied in restoring the façade of the cathedral. Signor Manetti was a man of no common genius—he designed and sculptured ornaments and figures with much facility and cleverness. But even with him I was not fortunate. He gave me a little Napoleonic eagle with thunderbolts in his claws to execute. For what it was intended I do not remember, but apparently I did not succeed in satisfying him. In this case, however, there were neither blows on the head nor bitter words, but, with a certain haughty dignity, he took my poor little eaglet in his hand, and dashed it to the ground, breaking it to atoms in spite of the thunderbolts. Viewed from this long distance of time, this scene has a somewhat comic character, and must seem especially so to one who hears it described. But for me, a poor little boy, anxious to learn and get on, so as to lighten, as far as possible, the burden on my father—who, poor man, earned little, and of that little was obliged to send a portion to his family in Florence—it was quite another thing; and though I felt within myself that I was not a complete donkey, still to see my work thrown thus brutally on the ground was so painful to me that it took away all my little strength. I wept in secret; and as the time assigned by Signor Paolo Sani and my father for my return had arrived, I begged my father to send me back to Florence. He wished, however, to keep me with him still longer, and so I occupied myself in making angels and seraphim heads for churches.

I begged and begged my father to take me to Florence, to see my mother. He promised to do so at Easter. Meanwhile, I contented myself with this hope; but on the eve of Easter he told me he could not go, on account of his engagements, which would detain him at Siena, and also for many other reasons that I could not and would not understand. Now, however, my patience gave way before my loving desire to see my mother; and without saying a word, I rose early and ran away from the house. Passing out of the Porta Camollia, I set off on my walk with only a bit of bread in my pocket, in the boyish hope of reaching my destination the same day, and so passing my Easter with my mother, without reflecting that, by so doing, I should pass it neither with my father nor my mother. I was about nine years old, and walked on with courage beyond my strength. So great was my desire to get to Florence, that I passed Staggia and Poggibonsi without feeling tired; but near Barberino—which is about twenty miles from Siena, and half-way to Florence—my mind misgave me that I should not be able to arrive in Florence that evening; and then my strength abandoned me, and I was so overcome with fatigue that I could not get up from a little wall on which I had seated myself to rest. I had not a penny. No carts or carriages were passing that way. It was Easter, and every one was at home resting for his holiday; and I, there I was alone in the middle of the road, oppressed with weariness and remorse for having left my father in such anxiety. At times I hoped that he might come after me with a carriage to take me up, and I quite resigned myself to a sound beating; but even this hope was vain, and I had to continue my walk. How many sad thoughts passed one after another through my little tired head! What will my mother, who is expecting us, do or say? What will my babbo think, left alone, and not knowing where I am? He will be certainly looking for me, and asking after me from every one in Siena. What will become of me in the middle of the road if night overtakes me? This thought gave strength and energy to my will, and on I went. I don't think that I was frightened. At length my strength was exhausted; the sun began to set; I was seven or eight miles from San Casciano, and I could not be certain of arriving even there to pass the night. I stopped at a wretched little house to rest, and asked for a glass of water. A man, a woman, and several children were eating. They asked me where I came from, and I told them. With expressions of compassion, especially from the woman, they gathered round me, gave me some bread, a hard-boiled egg, and a little wine, and I thanked them with emotion. They wanted me to stay with them until the next day—and tired out as I was, I should have stayed and accepted their kindly offer; but at this moment a vettura for Florence passed by, and with my eyes full of tears I told them how infinitely grateful I should be if I could be allowed to fasten myself in any way on to the carriage. The driver, who had stopped to get a glass of wine, seeing the state I was in, and hearing my story from these good country people, took me up on the box by his side, and carried me to Florence, where we arrived in less than three-quarters of an hour, an hour after nightfall. As my mother and the other children lived in Via Toscanelli, when we were near the Sdrucciolo de' Pitti the good driver set me down there. I descended from the box and ran—no, I could not run, for my feet were swollen, and my sides numb, but my heart was glad, exultant, and throbbing. I knocked; my mother came to the window and saw me, but she did not recognise me until I spoke, and then she gave a scream and came down. What followed I cannot recount. Those who have a heart will imagine it better than I can tell it. Neither the good family who welcomed and refreshed me, nor the honest humane carrier, have I ever seen, for I remained in Florence, and did not return to Siena until many years after. Then I made all possible researches to find both the one and the other, but I could never find them. Not, indeed, that I wished to remunerate them with money (the price of charity has not yet been named), but I wished to express to them my gratitude; and this is the only recompense acceptable to charitable hearts.

The day after, as I hoped and feared, the babbo arrived, and as soon as he saw me, his expression, anxious and grieved as it was, became threatening. His few ill-repressed words were the sure sign of the blows to come, and he was just going to strike me when my mother, with indescribable tenderness, caught me in her arms and pressed me to her, with her face and eyes turned towards my father, without uttering a word. Softened by this, he then began a long speech on the obedience and submission due from children to the holy parental authority, not omitting to censure my mother's indulgence and petting. After this I begged his pardon, and all was at an end. My father returned to Siena, and I went to Signor Sani's shop (built with his own money), in the Piazza di San Biagio, under the Piatti printing-office. Signor Paolo Sani was a man of about fifty, thin, pale, and exceedingly active. He had a great deal of work to do, and was employed by the Court and first houses in Florence. His taste was not exquisite, but he understood effects and proportions, so that his decorative carving, either in the way of furniture, caskets, frames, chandeliers, or ornamental work for churches, was greatly in demand. He had many men, and the works succeeded each other with great rapidity. In his house he had portfolios full of designs, and the walls of his shop were covered with plaster casts, bas-reliefs of figures, and ornaments, animals, arabesques, flowers, angels, &c., making a strange fantastic medley full of attraction for me. When the master was not there, the men at their work used to talk and sing; but when any one saw him coming, the scene changed, and there was perfect silence. I came into the shop as an apprentice and errand-boy; so that although I had my little bench, with my tools and work, yet, if there was any glue to be heated or made, or the tools were to be taken to the grinder, or the breakfast to be brought for the men, this duty always fell upon me. But I did not in the least complain. It is true that amongst these duties there was one for which I had a dislike, although I did not show it, and this was carrying a basket full of shavings on my back to the master's house in the Borgo Sant' Jacopo. To go there I had to pass through the Mercato Nuovo and over Ponte Vecchio, which is much frequented at all hours, as every one knows; and during this year I went there with the basket of shavings on my back. Notwithstanding this, I was well off in the shop, and was light-hearted from being near my mother and sisters. One of my sisters—my elder by a year—died soon after my return from my wanderings with my father. Poor Clementina! she was so good, delicate in health, and suffering. Indeed, we all suffered because of our poverty. Father sent us little, for he earned little, and our bread was often wet with tears because we could not help our mother as we wished. Added to this, she could do almost nothing herself on account of her infirmity of eyesight, which little by little so increased, that at last she was no longer able to see us; and as I have already said, Clementina died. God willed it so—to shorten her road, which was too full of thorns and danger, to one pretty as she was, artless, away from the father's watchful eye, and with her mother blind. My other smaller sister Maddalena accompanied her mother when she went out, as she did in the endeavour to earn something by buying and selling women's old clothes. My brother Lorenzo (perhaps because he was too quick-tempered) was obliged to go to the poorhouse, and here he learnt the art of carpet-maker. After a short time, however, he came out and returned to Parenti, who had a carpet manufactory in the ancient refectory of the monks of Santa Croce, where he remained for some time.

But all these difficulties and sorrows one feels less in early years, and in spite of them I was light-hearted. I had the master's goodwill, and the men in the shop treated me with the open cordial heartiness belonging to that class in those days. My love for the study of design increased, and in the off-hours of work I used to stay behind in the shop and eat a bit of bread there, and draw from some of the casts hanging on the walls, without taking them down or even dusting them. I began with little things such as leaves, branches, small figures, capitals of columns, heads of animals, and so on and so on, until I got to figures. In the shop there were two beautiful bas-reliefs from the pulpit in Santa Croce, two from the doors of the sacristy of the Duomo by Luca della Robbia, and several of those little figures by Ghiberti which surround the principal door of San Giovanni. All these casts I drew during this period—badly, as one may imagine, and without guide or method; but still, this served to occupy me pleasantly, and also to keep alive within me the craving to learn and advance myself, so as to be able to do other and more important work in the shop, and thus gain distinction.

This desire of distinguishing myself has always been very strong in me; and through all my privations, discomforts, loss of sleep, harsh corrections, irony, and scorn, I was borne up by this desire to do myself credit, and see my father and mother rejoice in me and for me; and also, I must confess, by the hope of seeing the rage of those who had treated me with irony and scorn. But if I learned, more and more every day, how to design and to carve in wood—for this was very attractive to me—in everything else I was perfectly ignorant. I had not even learned to read well, and could not write at all. My father had tried placing me at a public school, but I learned absolutely nothing there. The rudiments of writing and arithmetic were so irksome to me that the master in despair sent me home again, and would have nothing to do with such a little dunce. For all this, I had my little library at home, which I kept with great care locked up in a small box in my room, and it was composed of seven or eight books. These I had bought in the streets from book-stalls set against old walls, and they were as follows: A volume of the 'Capitoli of Berni,' 'Paul and Virginia,' and 'Atala and Chatta' (translations of course), a volume of the comedies of Alberto Nota, and the 'Jerusalem Liberated,' 'Guerrino Meschino agli Alberi del Sole,' 'Oreste,' and the 'Pazzi Conspiracy.' At first I understood almost nothing excepting some of the adventures of Guerrino. Afterwards 'Atala and Chatta' and 'Paul and Virginia' became my favourite reading; and so much did I like them, and so often did I read them, that whole pages remained in my memory. Then I fell in love with the 'Jerusalem,' and this my memory more easily retained. Some of the verses I tried to write from memory, in a little running hand, copying the letters from my father's writing, for, as I have said before, I never learnt the rudiments of writing; and those pot-hooks, and big letters between two lines, never were to my taste. As to other things, I had the innocence and good faith belonging to my age and the imperfect education I had received. I thought all books good—good because they were printed—and not only good at home, but good everywhere else; and so I used to take my books to read in church during the Mass. One day (it was Sunday) at mid-day Mass in Sant' Jacopo, while I was reading the 'Conspiracy of the Pazzi,' my master, Signor Sani, who lived opposite the church, and was also at Mass, observed me, and suspecting that the book I was reading was not a proper one to take to church, stopped me as he was going out and asked to see it, and finding what it was, told me that I was not to bring it again to church, as it was not a book of prayers. More also he added that I did not understand, especially when he wanted to explain to me the verses—

I obeyed, however, and never took this or any of my other books to church; and so I learnt that books you can read at home you cannot read in church. Later I learnt there are others not to be read anywhere.

CHAPTER II.

H How dear to me is the remembrance of those times! My goodwill and desire to learn were indeed above my very poor condition. The difficulties of my profession did not discourage me; on the contrary, I felt a pleasurable though distant hope of surpassing my companions in figure-work that they did so badly and laboriously. For this purpose, from that time I gave all my efforts to the study of the human figure. I bought an album and kept it always with me, begged my friends to stand as models, and drew their portraits. At first my attempts were not happy; but I was never tired, and after a time I acquired so much freedom that with a few strokes I could make a fair likeness. I was always at work, and the walls of our kitchen and dining-room were all smudged over with charcoal. Naturally, there was no one to scold me for this unusual way of adorning the walls, for the mother, poor dear, was blind, my father was not there, and as I was the eldest, I was, as it were, the head of the family. Besides, though my mother could not see, she still knew of this strange practice of mine, and thought it better for me thus to occupy myself than to be playing with the boys in the street.

In the meantime, however, many doubts and self-questionings arose within me. I knew that there was a school where one could really learn to draw and paint and make statues. Heavens, how delightful it would be to know how to make statues! In fact, I understood there was the Academy of Fine Arts, for so I had been told, and some of the fortunate young men who frequented this Academy were my acquaintances, and had shown me their designs, which seemed to me, as my friend Dotti would say, most stupendous! I was no longer happy. The Academy appeared to me in the most splendid and glowing colours; it seemed to me the haven, the landmark, the temple of glory, the throne of my golden dreams.

I spoke of it to my mother with tears in my eyes. She mingled her tears with mine, but not, perhaps, so much from being persuaded of the necessity of such studies as from a desire to soothe me. She spoke about it to Signor Sani, who, I shall always remember, with his eyes fixed fiercely on me, made even more formidable under his silver spectacles, replied, that to do all that was to be done in his shop, it was enough to remain in the shop and have the wish to learn—of this he was certain; but as to the work in the Academy, he did not feel so sure, for, on the contrary, that would fill me with desires and cravings that I could not satisfy, owing to the poverty of my family, even admitting that I had the disposition to enable me to master these studies; and finally, he hinted at the danger there was of my being contaminated by my companions. My mother did not answer him. She said good-bye to me, and in her sightless eyes I saw the sadness within. She went out, and I set myself to work.

I resigned myself, but continued always to study by myself. As Luigi, the master's eldest son, was studying design at Professor Gaspero Martellini's school, which was in the Fondacci di Santo Spirito, he gave me some of his designs to copy. Not only did Professor Martellini give him lessons in drawing, but also in modelling in clay, and Sani was one of the most assiduous of his scholars. I remember to have pounded his clay for him many times, in a room on the ground-floor in his house in Borgo Sant' Jacopo. This little room was used as a storehouse for all sorts of odds and ends, and amongst these I once found a flask of anise-seed cordial, that (to confess the truth) I tasted sometimes. One morning, having finished what I had to do, and having gone up-stairs to take the key of the room, one of the master's daughters (he had four) smelt in my breath the odour of anise-seed, and said to me—

"Who has given you anise-seed?"

"No one," I answered.

"You smell of anise-seed; who has given it to you? Mind, don't tell lies."

Then I told everything.

"I don't believe you. You are a liar."

"No; come and see."

"Certainly I wish to see."

She then came down, and taking the flask in her hand, looked at it, smelled it, and tasted it. Apparently she must have drunk a little, for as soon as she had put down the flask and shut up the room, she began to totter, and could not stand on her feet. With difficulty I succeeded in getting her up-stairs, where, as soon as her mother saw her in that state, there ensued a serious scene. They all talked and scolded at once—the three girls who had not drank the anise-seed, as well as the mamma; and when I tried to explain how the thing had happened, I felt two slaps in the face, which were given with such force that I was stunned. My ideas became so confused that I was not able to say anything. Fortunately the girl spoke, and said—

"Nanni is not at fault."

At these words the mistress said—

"Go at once to the shop. Master shall know everything this evening."

I did not breathe a word, and even she said nothing about it to the master, nor was I scolded by him, or by the Signora Carolina (the mistress). Some days after I returned to knead the clay, but the flask of cordial had disappeared.

About this time there was a residenza[3] to be made in the shop for some church, where, in the midst of the clouds that supported the ostensorio, were a quantity of seraphim. This work was required to be done at once without delay; and as Bartolommeo Bianciardi, who did this kind of work in the shop, could not alone do all that was required of him, I proposed to the master to make one of the seraphim myself, and I succeeded so well that he was entirely satisfied. After that I made others, and always better and better. From that time, when similar work came to the shop, I was always employed on it together with the other workman, and sometimes in preference to him. In the meantime I continued to make progress in the art of wood-carving, and the best and most skilful workmen flattered me and helped me with their advice, but the others looked upon me with an evil eye. I could not understand this difference, nor can I understand it now; but as I have since met with this, and felt it always at every time and everywhere, it must be in the natural order of bad things.

But there was always a thorn in my heart. The seraphim were not enough to satisfy me, nor even the large masks and heads of Medusa with all their serpents. And when I passed through the Piazza della Signoria and saw the David, the Perseus, and the Group of the Sabines, I thought that by going to the Academy of Fine Arts one might learn how to make such works!

Heavens, how grand a thing it would be to be able to go to the Academy! But it was useless even to think of this, for my father had declared himself opposed to it. Therefore peace be to it, and let me have patience. At least those pretty little alabaster figures that are shown in the shop windows of Pisani on the Prato, and Bazzanti on the Lung'Arno, those I should be able to do with time and study and a firm will. For after all, it is only a question of changing the material, of substituting alabaster for wood, a seraphim or an angel for a little Venus or Apollo—there is nothing to create. Those who make these figures, also copy them from others in alabaster, plaster, or bronze, as I do; and even now I invent my little seraphim, and no longer look at Flammingo's little boys as I did at first—I do them from memory, making them either leaner or fatter, or more smiling or more sad, as best I feel inclined. So I reasoned and persuaded myself that in the end, one day or other, I also should be able to make one of those graceful little statuettes.

In this way I consoled myself, and went on with courage and hopefulness. Here some one may say, this artist in his old age gives us a picture of himself as a boy where there is too much fancy. The portrait is beautiful, but is it a likeness? Has not the love of beauty seduced him? What is the truth? Who ever saw a boy who was always obedient, studious, patient, constant, &c. &c.?

Slowly, my good sirs—slowly; have a little patience. Some scrapes even I have got into, and for the love of truth I must not pass them by in silence. But everything has its place, and here, for instance, is the place for one of these scrapes. In the shop where I was employed, close to my bench there was a great plaster pillar rising from the floor to the ceiling. Neither I nor any one had ever thought or inquired for what purpose it had been made. In this pillar was a sort of little niche, into which was walled up a phial of oil kept for sharpening our tools. Now it happened that this phial got broken, and in consequence it became necessary to knock down the rest of the little niche in order to put in a new one; but in performing this operation, I perceived that the wall was thin under the hammer, as if it were hollow, so I began to think what this could mean. The others also wondered, and some said one thing, and some said another. In the meantime, as I continued to hammer on the wall in the interior of the niche, a brick fell down, the wall gave way, and we looked into a hollow space. Taking a stick to measure the depth, we found it was considerable; but we could not understand what the meaning of this could be. I have already said, in the beginning of these memoirs, that our shop was under the Piatti printing-office—and so it is, for the printing-office is on the first floor over it; but the building is very high, and above that floor are others occupied by lodgers. Suddenly, as we stood still, perplexed and wondering what could be the use of this hollow pillar, I, being nearest the spot, heard a noise within like a rustling or rubbing of something which we could not explain.

For a while I stood still, thinking, when suddenly I guessed what it was, and said to my companions—

"In a moment, if I succeed, you will witness a scene that will make you laugh."

"What do you mean to do?"

"You will see." Taking a long piece of beaten iron wire, I bent it into the form of a mark of interrogation, and fastening the straight end of it firmly to a bit of wood, when I heard the noise again I thrust it to the opposite side of the hole, and again and again tried if I could catch hold of anything within. At last, when I thought I had grappled hold of something, I pulled it up, and found it to be a rope. As soon as the rope was caught, we heard several voices scolding, calling, and disputing— amongst others, a woman's voice shouting, "No, I tell you there are no other lodgers; pull away, the bucket must have got into some hole." Then the poor woman pulled, and every time she pulled I gave a loud groan. At last, apparently the woman's strength failed, the mistress herself or some one else pulled at it, for I could feel she had no more strength to pull, and then cried out with an impertinent voice, worthy of greater success, "Who is there?" "The souls of purgatory," I shouted out lugubriously, and instantly felt the rope fall down.

To say the truth, I was then a little alarmed through fear of being discovered, so I pushed forward the iron hook, and the rope fell, bucket and all, into the well. My companions laughed at the scene, but I did not; and thinking the joke might be found out, I hastened to close up again the hole with a brick, set the little bottle of oil into it, restore the niche as it was, smudge it over well that it might appear old and as if it had never been touched, sweep away all traces of the plaster that had been used, straighten out the instrument I had used, and apply myself to my work in serious rather than hilarious mood.

About this time my father, failing to get work, came to Florence, hoping to find something to do; but his hopes proved vain. He stayed there a little while, but at last determined to go away, and this time for a more distant place. My mother and all of us tried to dissuade him, telling him to have patience, that some way would be found, that we would do all we could to help, and although we were very poor, still we should all be together. But it seemed to him that we could not get on in this way, and accordingly he left for Rome. So long as he was at Siena and wrote to us, and sometimes sent us a few sous, it was not so bad, and we were accustomed to it; but now, who could say how we should get on? So far away, without any one to help him, without acquaintances, and with so imperious a character, what would become of him? Fortunately, however, he found employment, and he wrote that he was well, and hoped in a short time to be able to send us something. God knows there was need of it.

Meanwhile I had become tolerably skilful. I was no longer a boy; I earned about three pauls a-day, and nearly all this I gave to my mother, reserving for myself only a few sous to buy paper, pencils, and books. Beyond these things I wanted nothing, for my mother took care to keep me cleanly and decently dressed.

As my face, my way of speaking, and my manners were not vulgar, many of the customers who came to our shop took me for the son of the principal instead of an apprentice. They readily addressed themselves to me; I took their messages, and sometimes their orders for the work, and the older and more skilful workmen showed no ill-feeling about it. Amongst other customers who had a liking for me, I remember Signor Emilio de Fabris, who at that time was the head workman in Baccani's studio. He used to come to direct and urge on the work. He used to talk with me, and to make his observations on the work; and as he even then had an easy and graceful way of talking, I listened to him with attention. He was a thin, tall, refined young man, admirably educated, and courteous in his manners. To-day he is one of the most famous masters of architecture, President of our Academy of Fine Arts, and my good friend.

But although I had many reasons for being contented,—for at home, thanks to the small wages of my brother Lorenzo, the few sous that came from Rome, and the earnings, meagre though they were, of my mother, we were able, by putting all together, to live tolerably though poorly, and in the shop I was liked and esteemed by my master, by the men, by all,—still I was not contented. I felt there was a void, a feeling of uneasiness, and a melancholy that I could neither explain to myself, nor could others explain to me except by jestingly calling me "the poet."

And this was the truth, for the poet is eminently a dreamer whose dreams are more joyous and smiling than any reality, and I dreamed—yes, but not of a smiling future when I should be rich and famous, but of any sort of way by which I could find vent for that inward longing to distinguish myself above others, and to distinguish myself especially in figure-work, though it should be only in wood; but it was not possible for me to satisfy this longing in the shop. Here I was obliged to work at all sorts of things—chandeliers, frames, mask-heads, everything; and I not only felt unhappy, but was unhappy, and my health began to fail. I was advised to take sea-baths; but in Leghorn the cholera was raging, and it would have been imprudent to go there, and so another year passed in the midst of desires and hopes and fears and ill-health. But at last I went to the baths. I had scarcely arrived there, however, when that terrible disease reappeared and raged furiously: the inhabitants and strangers hastened to fly from it; all business was suspended; movement and gaiety almost entirely disappeared; the shops were shut; and in a short time Leghorn became deserted, sad, and oppressed with fear.

My mother wrote to me from Florence urging my immediate return; but I—I know not why—felt myself, as it were, riveted to Leghorn. It may have been perhaps on account of the effect of the sea air, the novelty of the life, and the excitement produced in me by the danger to which my life was exposed, which I not only did not fear, but even felt strong enough almost to challenge, and more than all, the notable improvement that I daily felt in my health, which decided me to remain. I had found some friends even gayer and more thoughtless than myself. We went to the fish-market and bought the best fish for almost nothing—fresh red mullet for two or three soldi a pound—for there were no purchasers. It was generally believed that the disease came from the sea, and was brought on by eating fish; but we ate and drank and smoked merrily.

In a few days I recovered my health, got a good colour, gained strength, and melancholy went to the devil. I also found some work to do. The few soldi that I had brought with me rapidly disappeared. I worked but little, only doing so much day by day as would enable me to live merrily. By one o'clock my day of work was over, and then began that of amusement—which consisted of dinner, walks in the country sometimes as far as Montenero, towards evening a good swim in the sea, then to the café, and late to bed. Leading as I did this happy life, one can readily imagine that my letters home breathed trust, courage, and tranquillity of spirit, so that my mother, although she never ceased to beg me to return, did so in less pressing terms and with gentler expressions.

One day when I had gone with my friends on board one of those small vessels which are stationed at the "Anelli," and while we were eating a dish of fresh fish called cacciucco, which the sailors excel in making, a woman who was walking by the shore fell or threw herself into the sea. For a short time she floated, sustained by her clothes, which puffed up into a sort of bell; then she began to waver to and fro, and down she went. We looked at each other, and then about us to see if any of the sailors on the neighbouring ships had seen the woman and were moving to the rescue, and those on board our boat only shrugged their shoulders as if she were a dog.

"Down with you! throw yourself in! you know how to swim!"

"I, of course; but don't you swim better than I?"

"I! no; but yes——"

And at this one of us, a fellow nicknamed Braccio di Ferro—I don't remember his real name—taking off jacket and boots, shouted out, "Hold your tongues, cowards!" and plunged in head first with his hands above his head. At the word cowards, made even more telling by the brave act of the man, I felt my face suffused with shame; and although I was not such an expert swimmer as Braccio di Ferro, I also took off my jacket and shoes, and gathering my loins tightly together, with my hands under my feet, jumped in. Under water one could see quite as clearly as above, for the rays of the sun penetrated obliquely and lighted up all the space about me. I saw my friend diving down to touch bottom, which meant that he had seen that poor woman, but I had to come up to the surface to take breath. As soon as I had done so once or twice, I made a somersault, and away I went, striking out with my hands in the water. My friend, however, had found the woman, and had seized hold of her by her foot. Swimming around, I caught hold of her skirts,—and just in time; for poor Braccio di Ferro was blown, and who knows how much water he would have drunk if I had not come. Leaving the woman to me, he made a curve in the water, and went to the surface to breathe, plunging his head under again to look after us. The two boats that had come to get the poor woman were ready. Braccio di Ferro mounted into one to help me pull her in. With one hand I caught hold of the boat, and with the other I clung on to the woman's dress, who was at once dragged out, placed on her face that she might throw up the water she had swallowed, taken to land, and escorted to her house, which was not far off. We mounted upon our vessel amidst the applause of the people and of our friends who were waiting for us; they took off some of their clothes to cover us as best they could, and we hung ours out to dry on one of the cords of the ship. We drank some pipiona wine, finished our repast, and each of us returned home.

I remained about a month longer in Leghorn; and if it had not been for my mother, who pressed me to return, I should have stayed who knows how long. I found also something to do which was to my taste; I made three heads of Medusa to ornament the panels of a chemist's bench. It was a new chemist's shop that was to be opened in those days. Who knows what they have done with those poor heads of mine!

I have just said that when we returned to the ship after having got hold of the woman who was drowning, we drank some pipiona wine; and now I must stop and put others who may intend to drink of this pipiona on their guard. It is wretched wine, or perhaps we drank a drop too much, for we, who might have had the medal awarded to courage, went home almost drunk. And whereas an hour before we had been honoured and applauded, on our return we ran the risk of being scorned. So it is; a drop of wine too much may serve one such a turn that I, as a good Christian, warn my equals, and especially inexperienced young men who find themselves in the company of merry companions, against it.

I returned to Florence, and never heard anything more of my Livornese friends. Part of them were in Magagnini's shop, who was then a cabinet-maker, and is now a much-esteemed architect. Others—and amongst these Braccio di Ferro—were with Ricciardelli, cabinet-maker in Via dell'Angiolo. I returned home, therefore, and found the mother always dear and loving, who clasped me in her arms. The day following, I went back to the shop so brisk and well that the principal and all the men were rejoiced.