About this time my uncle, on my father's side, Atanasio Duprè, provost at San Piero di Bagno, died. They wrote to us from there to bring my father to take possession of the inheritance of his brother; and as he was in Rome, by my mother's advice I left at once for Bagno. According to my habit, and also to save a few soldi, I left towards evening on foot, and walked all night. It was winter, beautiful weather, cold, and with clear moonlight. In the middle of the night I met no one, and only towards daybreak some few carts passed me near Borgo alla Collina and Bibbiena, where I stopped at the inn, as I could not go on any farther, having come thirty-six miles without halting. I rested there some hours; but in order to pursue my journey, I hired a mount and guide, because it was necessary to go along the dry river-bed of the Corsalone for some miles, and cross it several times. Through this plain, which was flooded over at times, the river ordinarily kept to a narrow tortuous channel, which, seen from the heights of Bibbiena, produced a wonderful effect. It looked like an enormous serpent with golden scales when lighted up by the rays of the sun. Having gone over this strange and fatiguing road, leaving to the right La Vernia, abode and sanctuary of the "poor one" of Assisi, I mounted the Apennines, and descended again, arriving towards evening at San Piero di Bagno. I went at once to my poor uncle's residence, where I found a woman and some priests, who showed me our inheritance. It was little enough, to speak truly—some modest furniture, a little linen, and a little money. What was really of value was the library; but this he had left to the Eremo of Camaldoli, from whence it originally came, as, at the time of the suppression of convents, he had taken it to save it from the thieving hands of the governors and partisans of Napoleon I.

In order to understand how my uncle was able to save a great part of the books and precious manuscripts belonging to the library at Camaldoli, it is enough to know that he was one of the fathers of that hermitage, and when at the suppression they were all expelled, my uncle became a priest, and was made provost of San Piero di Bagno, where he remained until his death.

My father hastened at once to Florence, where I found him at home, after I had stopped a few days at San Piero. He went there and took possession of those few things, and afterwards returned to Florence, and from that time forward never left it. He opened a little shop himself, and I used to help him in spare moments with certain kinds of work that he was unable to do,—such as little figures, animals, and other things. It is a great comfort to me to remember those days. I had the will and the ability to help my father to do work that was appreciated and liked as if it were really his, and so increase his reputation and obtain his affection. It happened once, however, that a most miserable man took advantage of my father's good faith about a piece of work that had cost me not a little time and study. This was what occurred:—

One day a man presented himself to my father, and said that he had a commission to have a group made in wood of not very large dimensions, that should represent the Sacred Family—the Virgin Mary, St Joseph, the Infant Jesus, and St John—and that it had come into his head to come to him, whom he knew to be so clever at figure-work. My father tried in some way to excuse himself, feeling that the work would be a long one, and not wishing to take too much advantage of my hours of rest and study. But there was no way of avoiding it, and he had to yield and take the order for this work, without even speaking of the price, "for" (so said this man) "the person who gives the order is both intelligent and rich, and will not question the price." Having pledged himself in this way, he spoke to me about it, and said, "Here is a fine opportunity. It is true you will have to work hard, but you will be recompensed. The money for this will belong entirely to you, as I can do absolutely nothing on it." I said yes, to satisfy him; but in reality I intended to leave the gain to him, only taking something not to humiliate him.

The work was begun: I made a little model in clay, gave it a great deal of study, and took much interest in it. I got on with it very well, but slowly, as is natural; and the man in question came almost every week to see it and hurry on the work, saying the person who had given the commission was most desirous of seeing it, and that we must let him know when it would be in a condition to be seen,—in brief, when the little group would be nearly finished. To say the truth, it was entirely finished; but as then a doubt came up as to whether, in order to finish it entirely, it would be well to put the lamb at St John's feet, and as he would not decide upon so important a matter, he proposed to my father—I was not present—to show it to the person who had commissioned it at his house, as he could not come to see it at the shop; and he also congratulated my father on his work, which he felt sure was most praiseworthy. "The house is not far off—a mere step or two for me there and back—and so the question about the lamb will be decided." So saying, he took the little group, wrapped it up in a handkerchief, and begging my father not to move from the shop, that on his return he might not be kept outside waiting with the group, he went away, and never more was seen.

I need not say how my father felt: as for me, for more than a year my fixed idea was, could I but only meet the man who had robbed me! I looked for him in the streets, in the market-places, in the churches—yes, even in the churches. For had he not stolen a Holy Family from me? He might also steal a lamp or a candle hung before some image. The ardent desire I felt to find the thief, was not to put him into the hands of justice—for, more than the actual loss of the money, I felt roused by the insult and mockery of it. I wanted to teach him what a lamb was! I! yes indeed; for although I was young then, I was not at all weak, and there was more than enough strength in me to break his nose and give him a black eye. I foresaw all the consequences, even to my imprisonment, which would undoubtedly have followed, for I was fully aware that one cannot administer justice on one's own account. It did not matter to me; I felt I must break his nose with my own fists! As these were my thoughts then, I am obliged to narrate them as they are, though God forgive me! All this, however, was useless, for I never saw him again.

As wood is not wax, this group must be somewhere now, and will last for some time to come; so I leave the description of it, that he who is the present owner may know that its first possessor was a thief.

The little group is a little more than a palm in height; it is of linden wood, and is composed of four figures in high relief. The Madonna is seated, with the infant Jesus in her arms, who, with both His arms around the Virgin's neck, is in the act of reaching up to kiss her, and she presses Him to her bosom with one hand, whilst the other hangs down on her left side. St Joseph is bent forward and kneeling, with an expression of love and adoration; and little St John, also on his knees, behind the Virgin, is pulling aside her mantle that he may see this touching scene. St Joseph is at the right and St John on the left of the Virgin.

CHAPTER III.

In the meantime, in Sani's shop I had made for myself an almost enviable position. All the works of a certain importance were given to me. The principal placed entire confidence in my judgment and skill—so much so, that he put me at the head of the young men in the shop, and delegated to me the direction of the great works that were being executed at that time for the approaching nuptials of the Grand Duke Leopold II. with the Princess Antoinetta of Naples. I had even the satisfaction of directing a certain Saladini, a young Sienese who had come to help us, and whom I had known at Siena at the Academy of Fine Arts. There we had been companions and fellow-students, sharing the same desk; but to say the truth, he drew better than I did, which irritated me, and one day we came to words, and I said boastfully that I defied him to draw with me, and could easily beat him.

It appears that the master heard loud words, and from the glass bull's-eye in the door of the room from which he dominated the whole school, he saw me standing by the desk with one leg in the air, my arm passed under my thigh, making a drawing of a Corinthian capital. I could not see the master, as my back was turned to him; neither did I perceive how silent the school was, nor the singular attention my rival was devoting to his work.

The reason of it all, however, I soon discovered, or rather felt, from a sharp switch on my back, and before I could put my leg down, three or four good blows, accompanied with these words, "And this is the prize for those who are skilful in drawing from under their legs." These words were accompanied by the general ill-repressed hilarity of the school, and especially of my rival Saladini. I confess the blows, and even the laughter of my companions which made them more stinging, were well merited; but I remember that I took it in bad part, especially as my friend Saladini, who certainly had seen the master, had not warned me, as I felt I should have done in his place. For this reason I rejoiced when he came to Florence to work in our shop, and was put by the principal under my direction, when I could and was obliged to correct him and say, "No, it is not right in this way; you must do so and so." I must add, however, that I did not make any abuse of my power, that Saladini had no reason to complain, and that we became good friends.

It now occurs to me to make an observation. I had a switching, therefore the "birch" existed in our schools. The master could administer it and the scholar receive it coram populo officially, according to the natural order of things, as a legitimate correction; but I ask, if to-day a master in our Academy, or in fact in any academy in Italy, gave four blows on the back of a young man, be his fault even much greater than mine, what would happen? The heavens would fall; there would be a revolution in the school and shouts without, and a scandal for the master. The ill-advised master would be reprimanded by the head-master; a report made to the Minister of Public Instruction; the master dismissed altogether or sent elsewhere; and perhaps even, if the Ministry be Progressista, all would lose their places.

So it is. "O tempora! O mores!" But is it, after all, a bad thing to administer a good whipping to a rascal who, instead of studying himself, annoys those who are really working, instigates them to leave school, and leads them to do wrong by using bad and obscene words, swearing, and drawing and writing improper things on the Academy walls? They can be sent away from school, but they must not be beaten, is the answer. But the fact is, that though they ought to be sent away, they are always allowed to remain. Would it not, therefore, be better to administer a little corporal punishment with the "birch" before arriving at this finale? Where is the harm of it? I have had it myself, and at fifty years of age am well and strong. But enough of this.

The good Saladini, therefore, was placed under me. He endured and even appeared to enjoy my corrections. In fact, he had a character and temperament that prevented his feeling anything. He was a young fellow about eighteen or nineteen, older than I was, small, fat, with good colouring, chestnut hair, and light eyes which never grew animated and moved slowly, seeing little and being surprised at nothing. He never got angry, and laughed in the same way when he heard of an accident as when he heard a joke. It was not that he was stupid, for his words, though few, were not devoid of sense. He ate more than I did, and drank more too, and retired to bed early, being an enemy of walks, of discussions, and merrymaking even of the most discreet and proper kind. He lived but a short time, and died as soon as he returned to Siena, I don't know of what malady. Not of disease of the heart, however; for although his heart was not bad, yet it seemed a useless part of him, never beating with any feeling of emotion or passion: there it was, quite stock-still, seeming even dead, like the hearts of stoics or stupid people, which are about the same thing. Those, however, who have the misfortune to be made in this way, live a long time, eat much, drink much, and sleep—above all things sleep—profoundly; and so did he, though only for a short time, because he died. It was better so, for who knows whether his heart would not have waked up some day, repented the time lost in sleeping, and quickened its beat? Therefore it was better so. May the earth weigh lightly on you, my friend, and the peace of the Lord rejoice your spirit!

By this time I had grown to be a young man beloved by my friends, who were not many, and not all of them excellent. Some were a little too full of life, like myself, and these gay young fellows used sometimes to drag me to places where young men of good repute should never go—I mean to osterias and billiard-rooms. In such places there is loss of time, loss of health, and loss of morals. Vaguely I felt, even then, the impropriety of such places, and an internal sense of dissatisfaction warned me to break off from these habits and to avoid these friends. Indeed at home I was no longer like the same person. I was restless, intolerant, despising the naturally frugal meals of the family; and my mother, my poor mother, suffered for this, but my father was angry, and sometimes with loving words and sometimes with severe ones he reproached me for my crabbedness and caprices, and I then felt sincere regret, and my heart softened, and quite overcome I embraced my mother. For all this, the road that I had taken was a slippery one. I no longer studied anything or drew as I had always done before. I read very little, and that little was rubbish. Praised and cajoled by my companions, quite satisfied with the kind of superiority I had acquired amongst them in the shop, I might have fallen very low, and have become a good-for-nothing man, and perhaps a despicable one; but God willed it otherwise. And now that I must begin to speak of her who saved me and loved me, and whom I loved and esteemed always, because she was so rich in all true virtues, I feel my hand tremble, and the fulness of my love confuses my ideas. One day as I was standing by my work-bench, I saw a young girl pass with quick short footsteps, quite concentrated in herself. It was but a fugitive impression, but so vivid that every now and then that vision came back to me and seemed to comfort me. I had not seen the features of her face, nor her eyes, which she kept on the ground; and yet that upright modest little figure, those quick little footsteps, had taken my fancy. I desired to see her again. Every now and then I looked up from my work, in the hope of seeing the person that I had been so struck by; but I did not see her again during that day or the following ones.

The second festa of Easter I was at Mass in the Church of the Santi Apostoli near by. Suddenly lifting my eyes, I saw facing me the dear young girl on her knees. Her face was in shadow, as it was bent down, and the church was rather dark, but the features and general expression were chaste and sweet. I stayed there enchanted. That figure in her modest dress and humble attitude, so still, so serene, enraptured me. When Mass was finished, the people began to go away, but she still remained on her knees. At last she rose and went out, and I followed her from afar. She stopped at a house on the door of which I saw the sign of "laundress." I could not believe that such a modest serious young girl could be so employed; for as a general thing, laundresses are rather frisky and provocative, turning their heads and glancing about, and sometimes very slovenly in their dress—in fact, the opposite of all that dear good creature was. From the first moment that I saw her I felt for her a respectful admiration, a tranquil serene brotherly affection and trust. I was seized with an irresistible desire to love her, to possess her, and to have my love returned. Often without her knowing it, I followed her at a distance, to assure myself of her bearing and her ways, and always observed in her a chaste, serious, and modest nature. At last I attempted to follow her nearer; and when she became aware of it, she hastened her steps and crossed to the other side of the street. I was disconcerted, but at the same time felt contented. One day, however, I decided at any cost to speak to her, and to open my heart to her; and as I knew the hour when she was in the habit of passing by the Piazza di San Biagio, where I was at work, I held myself in readiness, and as soon as I saw her, went out and followed her, that I might draw this thorn out of my heart. Yes, I somehow thought she would not take my offer amiss. She crossed the Loggia del Mercato and took the Via di Baccano and Condotta, and turned into the Piazzetta de' Giuochi, and I always followed her nearer and nearer. At last she became aware of this, stopped suddenly, turned, and without looking me in the face, said, "I want no one to follow me."

I stammered a few words, but with so much emotion in my voice, that she again stopped, looked at me a moment, and said, "Go home to your mother, and do not stop me again in the streets."

I gave her a grateful look, and we parted. I returned to the shop with my heart overflowing with love and hope.

From that day a great change took place in me: companions, rioting, and billiards disappeared as by enchantment from my life. That same evening I went to the laundry. I saw the mistress of it, and with an excuse of having some work to give her, I spoke to her casually, and in a general way, of the young girl (whose name I did not know); but she being very sharp, smiled and said—

"Ah yes; Marina—certainly—I understand. But take care and mind what I say; Marina is such a well-conducted girl that she will not give heed to you."

"But I did not say that I wanted to make love to her."

"I know; but I understood it, and I repeat that she will not listen to you,—and if you want to do well, you will never come here again. Here there is work and not love-making to be done. But if you like, you might go to her house and speak with her mother. Perhaps then—who knows? But I should say that nothing would come of it, and it would be better so. You are too young, and so is she. Now you understand. So go away, and good-bye."

"Thank you, I understand; but where is Marina's house?"

"It is in the Via dell'Ulivo, near San Piero."

"Good-bye, Signora maestra."

"Your servant."

The day after this I went to Marina's house and found her mother Regina. The house was a small one, but very clean. In a few words I opened my heart to her and told her all, even of my having stopped Marina in the Piazzetta de' Giuochi. Regina was a woman of about forty years of age, and a widow. She listened quietly to me until I got to the end, and then only blamed me for having stopped her daughter in the street. She added that she would think about it; but she did not conceal from me that she thought me too young. I hastened to tell her how much I made by my day's work, and that I had a settled occupation. She then wished to hear about my family, and showed a desire to know my mother; and after having spoken to Marina, she said she would allow me to come to the house of an evening two or three times a-week. So far things went well; but at home I had as yet said nothing, and this I was obliged to do, as it was the first condition made before I could go to the girl's house. I was not afraid of my father, because, single or married, it was the same to him, as long as I continued to help him in the work he required of me; but as regards my mother, it was quite another "pair of sleeves." As soon as I had opened my mouth I saw a frown on her beautiful forehead, and she would not let me go on to the end, saying that I was doing wrong, that I was too young, that I ought to think of the shop, of my family, and make for myself a standing. Not without tears she made me feel that she looked upon this determination of mine as a sign of want of love for her. I attempted in every way to persuade her that I always cared the same for her, and that this new affection would in no wise diminish my love for her; that the young girl was an angel; that she would be pleased by her, and love her like a daughter. I embraced her, and wept, and she took pity on me, poor mother! She condescended to make the girl's acquaintance, and so we went to her house. The two mothers talked a long time together, whilst Marina put some things in order here and there about the room, without going away; and you could see the embarrassment of the poor girl. I held one of my mother's hands in mine, and kept my eyes on Marina, who never looked at me once.

It was settled that I could go to the house two or three times a-week without speaking of the time that was to elapse before the day of the wedding. Yes, I really was too young, as I was only eighteen.

All these particulars may seem superfluous, and for most people they certainly are so; but I meant, and I said so from the first, that these memoirs should be destined for my family and for young artists, to whom I desire to show myself such as I am, even in all the truth and purity of the most tender of affections. Then it is with a feeling of tender gratitude and painful sadness that I go back in memory to those days of my meeting with her, the difficulties that arose to prevent our union, and the very great influence she had over me. From these pictures interpolated now and then amongst these papers, young men of good intentions will feel the charm that surrounds the sanctity of domestic affections. Every other evening I saw the good and charming girl. I remained for only about an hour or so—such was her mother's desire. Whilst both of them worked—the mother spinning and the daughter sewing together their long braids of straw—I talked to them of my work in the shop, of my studies, and of my hopes. Again returned to me stronger than ever the desire to do figure-work, and a vague, persistent, and fierce hope to become a sculptor in marble. When in various forms I expressed these my thoughts, Marina, who was listening to me with her eyes on her work, looked up to me and seemed to search in mine for the meaning of my words. Poor Marina, you did not then understand what agitated the heart of your young friend. Later you understood; and although full of fears, you did not discourage him. But enough—do not let us anticipate.

Although my poor mother had yielded to my prayers, and had convinced herself that Marina was a well-conducted girl, industrious, docile, and honest, yet she could not, as she said, be persuaded that she would have to lose me; and every evening when I returned home and tried to speak to her of Marina, she would be troubled, and break off the conversation as if it annoyed her. Already, unknown to me, she had gone several times to the mother of the young girl, and said that I was too young—that I ought to think more of my studies than taking to myself a wife, of whom in the end I should tire; and poor little Marina would be sure to suffer, in the first place because she cared for me, and in the second place because, if abandoned by me, she would find it hard to get a husband. All these things were said by my poor mother for love for me and through the fear of losing me. I knew it some time after. But now let us see what were the fruits of these words of hers.

One morning—it was Sunday—I went to Marina's house feeling more light-hearted than usual. It was about one o'clock, after Mass. I went up-stairs, knocked, and Regina opened the door to me; but as I entered I heard a rustling sound, and saw Marina retiring into her little room. Her mother was more serious than usual, but seemed not to wish to show it. I perceived at once that there must be something the matter, and wished to clear it up. So I began—

"Marina—where is she? Is she not at home?"

"Yes; she is in her room."

"Does she feel ill? I hope not."

"She has nothing the matter with her, thank God; but as I have something to say to you, and as she knows what it is I want to say, she would not remain, and has retired to her room."

After this preamble, although there was nothing that I could reproach myself with, I felt quite frozen up.

"What is it then that you have to say to me?"

"Listen, and don't take it ill; in fact, I have already told you from the first that you are too young, and who knows when you will be able to marry my daughter? From now until then some time must elapse, and I have no wish that you should occupy that time sitting about on my chairs. Then, too, you may change—your companions may put you up to this; and we are poor people but honest, and I don't want my Marina to be courted by one who——"

"Enough, Regina—enough. It is true I am too young, but you knew it when you allowed me to come to the house. My earnings seemed then sufficient; and if no date was fixed for the marriage, it was because it was not asked. I am decided, if it so pleases Marina, to take her home in a year or a year and a half's time. Your words are the result of the tittle-tattle of people who wish us ill."

"No," Regina hastened to say—"no, they are not ill wishes of you or of us. But you understand me quite well, that if I speak in this manner to you, it is for the good name of my daughter. Nothing is damaged by it. For the present you will be so good as not to come to the house. If it is a rose, as they say, it will blossom; and when you return and say, next month, I want to marry Marina, you need have no fears; she will wait for you."

I remained silent and sad, and then said—"Is this also Marina's wish?"

"It is."

"Will you allow me to say one word to her before going?"

"Say it, certainly."

I went to her door and pushed it open a little. She was standing with one hand leaning on the back of a chair; her eyes were cast down, but the expression of her face seemed tranquil. "Marina," I said, "your mother has sent me away, and she has told me that this is also your wish." She lifted her eyes and moved a little. "I therefore obey, but be sure that I will never look into the face of another young girl until I come to claim you for mine. Do you accept my promise willingly?"

"Yes," she answered, with a steadfast quiet voice. Then I stepped nearer to her and put out my hand. First she looked towards her mother, and then she put her hand in mine, and we looked at each other, and in her eyes I saw a little tear, and her faith in my promise.

I went away pierced to the heart, but firm in my resolve. Neither at home nor at the shop could they understand what was the matter with me, for my whole character had so changed. I think my mother understood what it was, for she caressed me more than usual, and asked me no questions; and I set my heart at rest, because I trusted in the strength of character and true nature of the girl. Although it was prohibited me to go to her house, yet I made it a study how to meet her out of doors, and, without being seen, to see her, and even follow her from a distance. I was not at peace, however—not because I had any fears as regards her, but I was afraid of myself. I felt an aching void within me that nothing would fill. I saw smiling dreams of fame and honour vanish little by little. I heard a voice whispering within me—"Put an end, poor fool, to your melancholy; you were born poor and ignorant, and so you will die. Qualities are required to lift one's self above others that you are entirely wanting in. Genius is necessary, and you cannot say that you have it. Education is necessary, and you have none. Money is necessary, and you have not a farthing. Above all, a strong will is needed, and yours is most variable, transient, and weak, bending to the slightest breath of a contrary wind. Put an end to it all, and do as I say: enjoy day by day whatever is given to you to enjoy. Amuse yourself with friends your equals, and whenever any of these thoughts oppress you, drown them in a glass of wine. As to your young girl, remember it is as her mother has said, 'If it is a rose, it will blossom.' Up! up! Viva! and keep a light heart." I already felt myself half yielding to these suggestions. I was down-hearted, and had not the strength to shake myself free from this strait of discouragement and desolation.

I had but little religion in me, which alone could have comforted my soul with constancy and faith in these first ebullitions of life; so it is not to be wondered at if, in this state of languor and discontent, I again turned to the amusements of my friends, losing not a few hours in the public billiard-rooms. I returned to one of the worst of habits, for him who has a home—that of going to the osteria; and I remember to have felt humiliated on finding myself in the midst of that noisy, vulgar merriment, and hearing the coarse words uttered in those taverns, where the air was heavy with wine, food, and cigar-smoke. The chaste image and simple gentle words of my good Marina came back to me, and I felt troubled, and, shaking myself, I used to rise abruptly and go away.

Yes, truly the image of that gentle being aroused me, and made me return to myself with a feeling of shame, and a determination to put an end to all this. It was providential, however, that not only her image but she herself appeared to arrest me on the brink where I had allowed myself to be dragged, and my meeting with her deserves to be narrated.

Months had passed since I had been sent away from my Marina's house. It happened one day, it being a festa, that I had promised to go out of the Porta San Miniato to meet some friends and eat a fresh plate of salad; and when I was near the Church of San Niccolo, I could not cross the street on account of the procession that was just coming out of the church. I think it was during the Octave of Corpus Domini: there were many people, and I waited until the procession had passed; then, perhaps because I was in such a hurry to overtake my friends, in passing by I inadvertently knocked against two women who were in the company of a young man. They took it in ill part, and the young man, thinking perhaps that I had knocked against them on purpose, said—

"Has the boor passed by?"

"You are a boor yourself," I answered.

"Pass on, if you want to." And he gave me a push. I turned around on him and hit him a blow in the face, and from that instant I had all three, the youth and the girls, down on me. But they got little good out of it: the young fellow, who was rather slight than otherwise, was put at once out of fighting condition by two blows of my fist in the face; and I freed myself from the girls, who seemed like infuriated harpies. In an instant lace, ribbon, and feathers flew in the air like dry leaves scattered by the wind.

A space was cleared around me, and some said, "Oh, what a scandal!" others, "Bravo!" Some ran away, some laughed, and the soldiers came to clear the place and quell the tumult, and the sbirri (for there were sbirri then) to make arrests.

A mounted dragoon stationed himself in front of the church. A strong-built young man, then practitioner at the hospital, and now a distinguished physician—Doctor Gozzini—seeing the bad plight I was in, and having been one of those who had called out "Bravo!" came quickly to me, and taking me by the arm, hid me amongst the crowd, and took me with him behind the mounted dragoon. There we stood quite still, and saw them arrest the poor young fellow with his broken nose, and the girls with their crushed hats. I was not discovered that evening. They found me, however, easily enough next morning at the shop; but I will speak of this later. And now I feel in duty bound to assert that that was the last escapade of that kind that I was guilty of. I feel strong enough (or, as some may think, weak enough) now to bear quietly similar words and acts that so outraged me then. Ah! indeed age and experience are, as one may say, like the grindstone that rounds and softens down the asperities and impetuosities of early youth to form the character.

Not to excuse the affair nor the violence of my ways, but for the love of truth, I feel bound to narrate another adventure that happened to me on the morning of that same day, which had perhaps served to exasperate my already irritable state of mind. About mid-day I had betaken myself to the public baths of Vaga-Loggia, a bathing-place which was formed out of that part of the canal called the Macinante running between the Franzoni Palace and the palace belonging to the Baroness Favard. It was covered in by a framework of wood, with awnings, and the entrance was by a little door and through a narrow corridor that went along the side of the canal. At the end of this passage was a sort of stand, and a room that was used for undressing, and where, for a few soldi, an employé of the municipality was stationed, who furnished towels, and took charge of the clothes and other effects belonging to the bathers. For those also who could not or would not pay, below the steps leading to the baths there was a sort of small amphitheatre with a little wall around it, and in this wall niches to put one's clothes in. It seems to me that I have seen a something of the same kind that was used for a similar purpose at Pompeii, only there they were hot baths.

I chose this second-named place, which was more economical certainly, but not so safe, as you will see. After having bathed, on coming out of the water I went to my little niche and found it empty. I looked about, inquired, and swore. No one knew anything about my clothes. At first I thought it was a joke, to keep me some time naked; but at last I was convinced, and the other bathers as well, that my things had all been stolen.

What was there then to do? Nothing had been left—they had taken everything; and to say the truth, it did not seem at all comic to me, however others might laugh. A friend relieved me from my embarrassment. He dressed himself in haste, went home to his house, which was on the Prato, and brought me all I required, from my shoes to my hat. I dressed myself, went home in the worst of tempers, and I have already described what followed.

CHAPTER IV.

A And now to return to my unfortunate escapade, which, so to speak, was the cause of my good fortune. Whilst they were looking for me, hidden in the crowd, I got away by slow degrees to the Porta San Miniato, and, keeping close to the walls up the hillside, escaped the observation of the police; and then, on thinking over the danger I had run, and the scandal I had created by my folly, I resolved to mend my ways. Here the remembrance of the dear gentle maiden came over me, and I thought if I had been with her and had not been driven away, this disturbance would never have taken place. Her presence, her words, the desire of possessing her, and being loved and esteemed by her, were necessary to me. At last I returned to town by the same road, and, going up by the Renai, I crossed the Ponte alle Grazie, and near there I saw Marina and her mother walking before me. My heart leaped within me! Had they been to the procession? Did they know what had happened, and had they seen me? What a start it gave me! To appear such a poor creature in her eyes was intolerable: what others might say was nothing compared to her condemnation; and, let alone condemnation, what I feared was the loss of her esteem. Under the influence of this fear, I had not the courage to address her; but at last, this uncertainty seeming too bitter to bear, I went up to her mother's side and said, "Good evening, Regina."

"Oh, see who is here! Good evening," she replied, with a joyful face.

I felt a new life come to me.

"What! have you been to the procession?" she said.

I looked both straight in the face and answered, "I come from that direction. I have been out of the gate of San Miniato."

"Have you heard that there has been a disturbance in the Piazza di San Niccolò?"

"I believe so; but it was a mere nothing."

"Ah, not so much of a mere nothing. They came to blows; there were some women among them; the soldiers came—the dragoons. I tell you it was a great row. Besides, some have been arrested, and will be taken to prison; and it serves them right. Pretty business, such a scandal as this!"

After a pause, I began again, turning to Marina—

"Where were you when you saw the procession?"

"We!" answered Marina—"we were in the church. We saw it go out, and a little after the disturbance occurred. I had such a fright!"

Having ascertained that they knew nothing of my doings, I was consoled, changed the conversation, and accompanied them down from Santa Croce to their house. When we were on the threshold I sadly said good-night; but Regina, to my great surprise and pleasure, said to me, "Won't you come up for a little while?"

"Well, if you will permit me, I will stop a little while with the greatest pleasure." And looking into the face of my good Marina, her eyes seemed to say, "Yes, I am most happy." We then went up-stairs, and I remained there only a short time, so as not to appear to presume upon their kindness; but in taking leave, I told the mother that I should return the next day, for I had something to say to her. My resolution was taken.

Have you done at last with all your childish follies, your tiresome tirades, your colourless love, fit only for collegians? You promised to give us your memoirs, and we supposed that you had something of importance and interest to tell us. Are these, then, your memoirs? and do you really and seriously think that such things as this are of the least interest to anybody?

Listen, dear reader. You have a thousand good reasons to think so, after your mode of viewing things; but I have quite as many on my side, as I will now prove to you. But first let me tell you a little story. There was once a parrot trained to put together certain words and make a little speech, almost as if it was his own. One day the servant (who was new to the house where the parrot was, and had never seen such a bird before) was struck with astonishment at hearing him, and was so delighted that he stretched out his hand to touch him. As he did this, the bold and loquacious bird opened his beak and said, "What do you want?" The astonished servant at once withdrew his hand, and, lifting his cap, answered, "Excuse me, sir, but I took you for a beast!"

I find myself now in the opposite case, and say to you, "Excuse me, I took you for a man"—that is to say, I imagined that you sympathised with me, and even appreciated a man who promises to tell the truth, and to narrate things just as they really were and are; and this I am doing, and mean to do to the end, without caring who likes great effects of light and shade, fearful shadows, and mere inventions, more or less romantic. If you don't like my way of doing this, you know very well what to do—shut the book and lay it aside, or skip what bores you, and perhaps you may find here and there something which pleases you. But I wish to give you fair warning, that these memoirs refer to and describe in part that very love which, though it may seem to you perfectly colourless, was none the less living, deep, and holy, and that retained its warmth and vividness of light for forty years, until she who was its object disappeared from this earth, leaving in my heart the memory of her rare virtues, a love which is ever alive, and the hope that I may again see her.

And now again I take up the thread of my narrative. Truly, when I said to Regina that I should return the next day to speak with her, I counted without my host, as the saying goes. The next day I found myself in "quod"—for but a short time, if you please, but still in prison for fourteen hours from morning to evening. But I was very well off there, as I shall now explain.

The morning after, on Monday—I was at my post, the first bench in Sani's shop—a person, after walking for some time up and down before the shop windows, came in and said, "Be so kind as to come with me to the Commissary of Santo Spirito, and—— Do not be alarmed; it is nothing. The Signor Commissario wishes to learn from you something about the disturbance that occurred yesterday at San Niccolò after the procession."