Hoffmann's Strange Stories/Chapter 7
SALVATOR ROSA.
At the time when the fisherman, Massaniello proclaimed by the sound of the tocsin, liberty in Naples, the painter Salvator, driven from the city by the terror which this eight days' revolution occasioned, fled, destitute of everything, and took the road to Rome. He wore a costume of humble appearance, and two poor sequins, well worn, chinked in the bottom of his almost empty purse, when he arrived, towards dark, at the gates of Rome, the same day that witnessed the death of Massaniello, and Naples return to the yoke of Spain. He slipped like a shadow through the deserted streets, until he reached the Navona Square. It was there that, in happier times, he had lived in a beautiful house, near the Pamfili palace. His gaze was fixed, with all the anguish of a sad remembrance, on the high windows which reflected the brilliancy of the full moon.
"Alas!" said he to himself, I shall have to expend much time in producing paintings before I shall be able to regain my favorite studio!"
This thought agitated him with a painful shudder; then, his strength being nearly exhausted suddenly failed him, and, sinking down on a stone seat, before the regretted house, he exclaimed:
"How many pictures must I daub, in order to live, and satisfy the caprice of fools? I feel no longer courage, or confidence in the future!"
A frozen wind whirled whistling through the deserted streets. Salvator soon felt the necessity of seeking for an asylum; and dragging himself as far as the corner of Bergognona street, near the Corso, he stopped before a silent little house, with two windows, in which lived a poor widow with her two daughters. This family had made a home for him at the time of his first visit to Rome, when he was nothing but a poor unknown artist. Salvator hoped that this remembrance would procure him a kindly welcome. He knocked for a long time without being able to make himself heard; finally the widow, suddenly awaking, came gropingly and half opened the window, grumbling with her whole soul against the belated individual who came to disturb her repose at this hour of the night; but as soon as Salvator, after many words wholly lost, thanks to the state of half slumber in which the lady was wrapped, had succeeded in making himself recognized—
"What is it!" exclaimed his old hostess, "what, is that you, master Salvator? You are very welcome; your little chamber has remained empty, and the fig-tree which grew up against the wall, now encloses the window in its fresh foliage. My good friend, how happy my daughters will be to see you again! You will no longer recognize my dear Margaret, she has grown so tall and handsome! and your favorite cat, alas! she, three months ago choked herself with a fish-bone. We are all mortal! And our fat neighbor, whom you so well caricatured, has married a Signor Luigi, a young man.—Heaven be praised for all; but singular marriages are arranged up above."
"But," interrupted Salvator, with great exertion, "for heaven's sake, Madame Catherine, open the door for me at once, then we will talk at our ease about the fig-tree, your daughter, the cat and the fat neighbor. I am dying of fatigue and hunger."
"Well, well!" said the old lady, grumblingly, "patience, I am coming."
Then it took her a good quarter of an hour to find the key of the door, awaken the girls, and light a fire. The door was finally opened to the poor traveller, who took three steps inside the door and fainted with exhaustion. The good lady Catherine loved Salvator, and placed his talents far above those of other painters. The accident of her old lodger caused her extreme pain, and she cried out for them to quickly seek a confessor. By chance, her son, who ordinarily worked at Tivoli, was in the house that night. This young man thought that a physician was more necessary than a confessor, and he ran to the Place d'Espagne to beg the doctor Splendiano Accoramboni to come immediately to the artist, whom they had swaddled up in a very warm bed. The good Catherine sprinkled him with holy water, and surrounded him with holy relics, whilst the young girls, bathed in tears, endeavored to pour through the lips of the sick man some drops of an old cordial. Day began to break when the doors were thrown open, to allow the famous doctor to pass. The young girls discreetly retired, not without throwing on poor Salvator uneasy glances.
It is not, perhaps, useless to describe the new character who makes his appearance on the stage at the little house in Bergognona street. In spite of all the natural dispositions towards the most perfect physical developement, doctor Splendiano Accoramboni had not been able to exceed the respectable height of four feet. It is yet truth to tell that in his childhood he had given promises of acquiring the finest proportions; and before his head became a little deformed by I know not what accident, had acquired, thanks to his puffy cheeks and his double chin, an exaggerated volume; before his nose had become violet by the corrosive action of the Spanish tobacco; before his paunch, swelled with maccaroni, had attained uncomfortable dimensions, the celebrated doctor Splendiano very advantageously wore the costume of an abbot. He was, to tell the truth, such a pretty young man, that the old Roman ladies, who petted him, rivalled each other in calling him a duck, their dear little fellow. This nick-name had made his fortune, and a German painter said, cunningly, on seeing Signor Splendiano pass through the Place d'Espagne, that he seemed like an Alcides of gigantic stature, and at least six feet high, with the head of a puppet. This strange figure was rolled up in an immense piece of Venice damask with large figures; a belt of buffalo skin, buckled over his chest, supported a rapier at least three ells in length, and on his powdered wig swayed a high and pointed cap, which resembled not a little the obelisk of Saint Peter's Square; and this frizzled wig, which, on account of the small stature of the wearer, reached the middle of his back, represented a kind of cocoon, from which this enormous silk-worm projected half way.
Splendiano put on his spectacles to observe the sick man, and taking dame Catherine aside:—"He is very ill," said he in a low voice; "the esteemed painter, Salvator Rosa, will give up the ghost in your house, if my science does not preserve him. When did he arrive? Does he bring any fine pictures to Naples?"
"Alas! my worthy Signor," said the old lady, "the poor fellow came very suddenly upon me to-night: as for the pictures of which you speak, I have seen nothing of them; but there is down below a great box that Salvator had recommended to my care before falling into the state in which you see him." Catherine lied, but we shall soon see on what account.
"Ho, ho!" said the doctor, smacking his lips and smiling through his beard; then, with all the gravity which his long rapier would allow him to assume, whilst it caught against every piece of furniture, he approached the sick man and felt his pulse with a knowing look, breathing like a smith's bellows in the silence that surrounded him. After having declined in Greek and Latin, the odd names of more than a hundred diseases which the painter had not, he added that he could not ex abrupto denominate that from which Salvator was suffering, but that he should not be long in finding a very remarkable name, and very efficacious remedies. Having said that, he went away with measured steps, as he had come; but at the foot of the staircase the box came into his mind, and, pressed with questions, dame Catherine showed him an old chest in which reposed some garments of her departed husband. The doctor sounded the chest with his foot and went out, repeating, "We shall see."
"When the good widow went back to the little chamber, Salvator began to give some signs of life. The young girls had come stealthily back, and stood, like two guardian angels, at his bedside. There was a delicious poetry in the joy of this poor family, when the pale face of the artist appeared to grow animated under the rays of the rising sun.
Mother, said the young girls in a low voice, "God will save our good friend Salvator; why then has this ugly doctor, whose face is repulsive, and whose words are fearful, been called?"
"Silence, young people," answered Catherine, "it is fortunate for us that the wise Splendiano has not disdained to come to our humble dwelling, for he is the fashionable physician amongst great lords; and if, thanks to him, master Salvator recovers his health, he will paint some fine picture to pay him for it; Splendiano is a generous man who treats artists like brothers."
"When he does not bury them!" said the young girls, softly; and their eyes sought again on the features of the painter the first indications of his awaking from this fatal fainting fit. When Salvator opened his eyes, an almost imperceptible smile of affectionate gratitude to the good hearts that had not abandoned him, lightly contracted his lips; he was, perhaps, about to speak, but a delicate white hand was placed upon his mouth, whilst a sweet voice said softly to him, "Hope and courage!"
Some minutes afterwards, Splendiano re-appeared, loaded with several phials filled with a detestable drug, which he prescribed to be administered to his patient; but either the disease progressed, or the remedy was worse than the disease, Salvator was making his way slowly towards the other world.
Poor Catherine passed the whole night in praying to the Madonna and all the saints in heaven to aid her old lodger, and not allow him to die so young and with so promising a future before him. The young girls, in despair, accused the doctor's medicines, and uttered plaintive cries at each convulsion of the sick man, who had become delirious. This scene of tears and terror lasted until broad day. Suddenly in an attack of fever, Salvator furiously sprang from the bed, seized all the phials one after the other, and threw them out of the window. The wise Splendiano, who was then entering the house, was copiously inundated with the stinking fluid in the phials, which broke on his head. He ran, squalling strangely: "Master Salvator has become mad! in ten minutes he is a dead man! Give me the picture, dame Catherine! I will have it immediately, to pay for my visits!"
The old lady opened the chest without saying a word; but when the doctor saw the rags with which it was filled, his eyes, fringed with scarlet, became inflamed with anger; he stamped his foot, gritted his teeth, and, devoting the whole house in Bergognona street to all the devils in h, he flew like a bomb-shell, violently driven from a mortar by an explosion.
When the fever had left him, Salvator fell back into a state of insensibility again. The good Catherine believing that he was going, ran to the neighboring monastery to seek for father Bonifazio to administer the last sacraments to him. But at the sight of the sick man, the reverend man guessed that his ministry was not yet in season, and that the artist, with judicious care, might escape from it, provided that the door should be immediately shut against the doctor. Wiser remedies soon reëstablished an equilibrium in the organs of the sick man. When he opened his eyes again, his first glance fell upon a young man of distinguished exterior, who threw himself on his knees at his bedside, and exclaimed, weeping with joy:
"Oh my excellent, my illustrious master, you are saved!"
"Where am I?" murmured Salvator. But the young man, begging him not to speak in his present state of weakness, hastened to anticipate his questions.
"You were sick on arriving from Naples here; but thanks to God, simple remedies and devoted care would soon have put you on your feet again, if chance had not delivered you into the hands of doctor Pyramid, who was taking strong measures to consign you to the ground."
"Who is this," said Salvator, "who is this doctor Pyramid? Is he not a kind of monkey whom I caught sight of during my delirium, and who seemed to wear upon his head the obelisk of Saint Peter's Square?"
"Would to God," replied the young man, "the name of Pyramid came from his head-dress! You do not know that this infernal doctor has a monomania for pictures, and that he uses, to augment his gallery, quite a new proceeding? Misfortune to painters, above all foreigners, whom the chance of a bad digestion, or the consequences of an orgie place in his hands; he muffles them up in a disease of his own invention, the danger of which is wholly in his remedies. Under a fine air of disinterestedness, he stipulates for a picture as the price of his cure, and he is often the heir of the unfortunates whom he hastens to the cemetery in the neighborhood of the Pyramid of Cestius. That is the field in which the doctor Splendiano Accoramboni sows and reaps, surnamed Pyramid by those who escape from his claws. Dame Catherine, who is not rich, had made him believe that you brought a magnificent picture from Naples, and the hope of becoming possessor of it stimulated the zeal of this executioner. Very fortunate for you, in your delirium you broke over his head his poisonous phials, and, believing you in extremity, dame Catherine called in father Bonifazio, to whom I owe the happiness of being near you. We combatted, by a moderate bleeding, the inflammation of your blood, then we brought you to this little chamber which you formerly occupied. Here, here is your easel, and several sketches that dame Catherine kept as relics of you. You will return to health, to glory; this is more than is necessary for the happiness of your poor servant Antonia Scacciati, who desired nothing so much as to see once in his life the celebrated Salvator Rosa!"
"I cannot guess," said Salvator," what motives animate the affectionate sentiments that you express towards me."
"Permit me," continued the young man, "to still keep silence; but when you are recovered, I will confide to you a great secret."
"Dispose of me," replied Salvator, "for I know not the face of a man that I have contemplated with more interest than yours; the more I look at you, the more I seem to find in your features resemblance to those of the divine Sanzio!"
At these words, his eyes flashed like lightning, but he did not answer. The good Catherine entered the little chamber, followed by father Bonifazio, who offered Salvator an excellent strengthening cordial.
A very few days after, our artist, perfectly recovered, took up his pencil again and drew several sketches, which he proposed executing in oil. Antonio very seldom quitted him; he was present during his hours of labor, and often made observations which announced very advanced practical notions.
"Listen," said Salvator to him, one day, "you understand too well the rules of the art to allow me not to believe that you have yourself handled the pencil."
"Remember, my dear master," answered Antonio, that I spoke to you during your illness, of a secret that consumes my heart; the time seems to have come for me to open my mind to you. Why should I conceal from you that Antonio Scacciati, the poor surgeon who, God aiding, saved your life, burns like yourself with the most ardent love for art?"
"Truly, think well of it, dear Antonio, from skilful surgeon that you are, do not become a moderate painter; are you not a little too old for a study which would require a whole lifetime?"
"Ought I to tell you," continued Scacciati, "that I have worked at it from my earliest youth, and that in spite of all the opposition of my father, I have already been with several great artists? Annibal Carracci has advised me, and I confess myself the pupil of Guido Reni."
"In that case," exclaimed Salvator, in a voice slightly moved, and through which appeared a little irony, "if you are, as I believe, the worthy pupil to such high talent, how can you find in my humble paintings the least merit?"
Antonio's face became scarlet, but he continued quickly: "Allow me to tell you all. I have never, I swear to you, venerated the talent of any master so much as I have done yours; I admire the sublime elevation of ideas which breathes in your works. You know how to bring to light the most secret beauties of nature, you read in her mysterious books; you understand her voice, and you depict her to the life on the canvas!"
"A thousand thanks," interrupted Salvator, "you repeat those fine words to me after the manner of the jealous, who abandon landscape to me in order to make room for themselves in the historic style. In effect, have I the least knowledge in the world of how to sketch the human figure!"
"For heaven's sake, master, do not be angry; the real painters in Rome would be too happy to copy after you! No, the vulgar term landscape cannot be applied to your pictures; they are living scenes from which the thoughts spring in luminous features, which attest the independence of a creation, even when you seem to imitate nature. That is the sign of true genius, as Guido Reni and Pietri the Calabrian say, painters who know how to work conscientiously!"
Salvator listened to the young man in astonishment. When he had ended, he threw himself into his arms.
"You have just spoken," said he, "with an understanding of art much, superior to that of many false artists who praise the vulgar. Whilst listening to you, it seemed to me that my genius revealed itself to me! Be my friend, Scacciati, for my soul has just opened itself to your own. Come and show me the pictures on which you have worked in secret."
Antonio led him into his studio. Salvator examined the work for a long time, then he broke the silence:—"Young man, there is no mediocrity here, and you have received from heaven the vocation of an artist; but time and practice are requisite before you can attain the perfection of your masters. I will not tell you that you possess the delicate touch of Guido nor the vigor of Annibal; but, certainly, you leave far behind our colorists of the Aadcemy of San-Luca, the Tiarini, les Gessi, the Sementa and many others, comprising Lanfranco, who only knows how to paint frescoes. But, yet, dear Antonio, I should still hesitate, in your place, between the lancet and the pencil. Art, do you see, becomes every day more ungrateful, and the devil is making war upon us! If you have not the resolution to submit to all kinds of affronts, injustice, and disgust,—for the more talent you have, the more envious and false friends you will have,—if you have not the strength of the martyrs, believe me, you had better give up the art. Remember the fate of the great Annibal, your master, whom the baseness of his enviers deprived of the fruits of his great labors, and who died poor in prime of life; remember our Dominiquin and the Cupola of Saint Janvier! Two cowardly rivals, Belisario and Pubera, did they not bribe his servant to mix ashes with his lime, so that his painting, deprived of temper, fell in scales under his despairing hand! Take care, Antonio, measure well your strength; for as soon as your courage fails, talent dies."
"I accept the struggle!" exclaimed Scacciati with an inspired voice; "and since you have proclaimed me painter, it is in you that I place my trust. You can by a word place me in the position which belongs to me."
"You have faith in me," said Salvator. "Well, I will sustain you with all my heart."
Saying this, he looked over the paintings of Scacciati again, and stopping before a Magdalen at the feet of the Saviour:—"Here," continued he, "you have strayed from your subject. Your Magdalen is not the penitent sinner, she is more like a graceful child, such as Guido might have created. This charming face breathes with the magic of inspiration, and I am much mistaken if the original of this Magdalen is not be to found in Rome. Confess, Antonio, that you are in love!"
The young man lowered his eyes, and answered hesitatingly—"Nothing then escapes from your observation! You have surprised my secret, but do not condemn me! Yes, I like that picture above all, and until to-day I have carefully kept it from sight."
"What!" exclaimed Salvator, "have none of our painters seen that canvas?"
"I swear it to you!"
"In that case, you will soon be revenged on the rivals who wish to discourage you. Will you immediately carry that picture to my house, and leave the rest to me?"
"I will do so, master, and you shall afterwards listen to the story of my love, and you will give me advice and assistance?"
"Now and always," said Salvator. And taking leave of Antonio, he added: "Listen, young man: when you told me that you were a painter, I remember with what emotion I found that you resembled Sanzio. I thought that I saw another of those young fools who copy the costume, the fashions, the beard and the hair of an illustrious master, and who make themselves imitators of a talent that they can never possess. But now, I repeat to you, I have seen in your painting a spark of the sacred fire which animated the works of Raphael.
On hearing these words from the master, the artist's eyes sparkled. The phantom of glory appeared to him in the future, followed and surrounded by an endless retinue of illusions.—Raphael Sanzio!—The echo of this divine name resounded in his ear, like the voice of his good genius, and the protection of Salvator was about to make real the wishes of his whole life.
When he left the little house in Bergognona street, his joy proclaimed itself in all his movements; the radiant smile of hope animated his features; glory and love, those gods of youth were coming to him to carry him off to their heaven; there was enough in this dream to render delirious a less ardent head than that of Antonio Scacciati. His Magdalen at the feet of Christ appeared to his eyes of inestimable price, since the eulogium bestowed upon it by Salvator. He felt proud and worthy of the original, since this copy of an angelic face had risen him to the rank of a master. He awaited with anxiety the result of the promises of his friend.
At some time from this, the day came when the Academy of San-Luca opened in the church the annual exhibition of paintings. Salvator had Scacciati's Magdalen carried there: the masters of San-Luca were surprised at the vigor of the coloring and the gracefulness of the drawing, and as soon as Salvator opened his mouth to announce that this marvellous painting was the work of a poor artist who had died at Naples, these gentlemen exhausted themselves in eulogiums and admiration; the whole of the inhabitants of Rome were soon invited to see this legacy of genius. They all agreed in saying that since the time of Guido Reni nothing so beautiful had appeared; the most enthusiastic went so far as to place the beautiful Magdalen above all that Guido had done.
In the thickest of the crowd who were praising the work of Scacciati, Salvator found one day, a man of strange aspect; he was a middle-aged man, tall and thin, with a thin face ornamented with two red eyes, with a long pointed nose, and a long chin covered with a bunch of grey hair. This unique look was framed in a kind of stringy wig, surmounted by a high crowned hat with a plume; a little brown mantle very scant, garnished with bright buttons, a Spanish doublet slashed with blue, a rapier nobly rusted, clear grey stockings which showed the knee-pan, and shoes loaded with pink bows, completed his costume. This uncommon personage seemed to be in ecstacies before the Magdalen; now raising himself on the points of his toes, then dropping clown again; moving his legs forward and back, uttering suppressed sighs, shutting his eyes until the tears flowed, then opening them again like telescopes, he devoured with his looks the angelic painting, lisping, in his sharp falsetto:
"Ah, dearest, most blessed! Ah, most beautiful Marianna!"
Salvator curious to study nearer this living mummy, made his way through the crowd and placed himself near the unknown, to try and learn the motive that detained him before Scacciati's painting. Without noticing Salvator, the man cursed his poverty, that deprived him of the happiness of buying a picture which he would have been willing, at the price of a million, to withdraw from every profane gaze. Then he recommenced dancing about, giving thanks to the Virgin and to all the saints for the death of the painter who had executed this marvellous work. Salvator thought that this man had lost his wits.
Meanwhile, nothing was talked of in Rome but this famous Magdalen; and when the Academicians of San-Luca met again to elect candidates to the vacant places, Salvator asked if the author of the master-piece, which was talked of in the city, was worthy of being admitted into the illustrious society. All, without even excepting the quarrelsome Josepin, were unanimous in deploring the loss of so eminent an artist, but whom, in the bottom of their hearts, they were glad to be rid of.
They carried hypocrisy so far as to decide that the palm of the academy should be awarded to the departed, and that a solemn mass should be said every year, in the church of San-Luca, for the repose of his soul. As soon as this resolution was taken, Salvator rose in the midst of the assembly:
"Well, gentlemen," exclaimed he, "console yourselves; the glorious prize with which you were about to honor the ashes of a dead man, you can give into the hands of a living one. Know that the Magdalen at the Saviour's feet, this painting that you have praised above all the productions of our time, is not the work of a Neapolitan painter who died in poverty and obscurity; its author is by your side, he is in Home; he is Antonio Scacciati, the surgeon!"
The painters of San-Luca looked at Salvator with astonishment. The great artist diverted himself awhile with the critical position in which he had placed them; then he added: "Until now, my masters, you have rejected Antonio from your college, on account of his humble profession; for myself, I think that a surgeon would be very much in place in the noble Academy of San-Luca to adjust the distorted figures which come from time to time from the hands of some of our painters."
The gentlemen of San-Luca quietly swallowed the pill; they pretended to render justice to the genius of Antonio Scacciati, and proceeded to his reception with the accustomed ceremonial.
This news was hardly known, when congratulations were received on every hand; offers of service, and orders for great works beseiged Antonio's studio. A word from Salvator had raised him from obscurity. Glory and fortune smiled upon him,—what could be wanting to complete his happiness? Great then, was the surprise of Salvator on seeing him enter his house one day, mournful and sad with suffering.
"Master," said Antonio to him, "of what use is the rank to which you have elevated me? to what purpose are these honors, this reputation which comes to me, since my unhappiness does not quit my bedside? Do you know, master, that the picture of the Magdalen, which made my glory, also causes my despair?"
"Silence!" answered Salvator; "do not insult art by insulting your own work. And as to this unheard of misfortune which you deplore, I do not believe in it. You are in love, and your desires anticipate time; that is all. Lovers are like children. Leave off these complaints, unworthy of a man of courage. Sit down and relate your story, show me the obstacles which oppose themselves to what you believe to be the height of happiness. The more difficult these obstacles are to surmount, the more interest I shall take in them."
At these words, he took up his brush again, and Scacciati, seated near his easel, thus commenced:
"In Ripetta street rises a house, whose balcony is remarked as soon as you enter the city by the Popolo gate. There resides the strangest and most whimsical personage in Rome; an old bachelor, hunted down by ail the miseries of life, vain as a peacock, miserly as a Jew, giving himself the airs of a young man, as dandified as a duke, and what is worse, in love; physically a vine stalk in Spanish doublet, with a faded wig, a plumed hat, gauntlet gloves, and a rapier"
"Halt there!" exclaimed Salvator; and turning over the canvas on which he was working, he took a piece of chalk and sketched in two or three lines the profile of the personage that he had seen before Antonio's picture.
"By all the saints," exclaimed Antonio, without being able, in spite of his sorrow, to refrain from laughing, "that is truly the man, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi!"
"Well, then," continued Salvator, "since I already know your rival, go on."
"Signor Pasquale Capuzzi," said Antonio, "is as rich as he is miserly and pretentious. There is nothing good in him except his passion for the arts, above all, music and painting; but he spoils this taste by so deplorable a mania, that even on this side his heart and his purse are inaccessible. Add to this, that he believes himself the best composer in the world, and singer, the like of whom the pope's chapel does not possess. He also calls our old Frescobaldi a novice; and when Rome is in ecstacies at Ceccarelli's concerts, Pasquale says that he sings like a postillion's boot; but as the celebrated Ceccarelli, first singer to the pope, bears the name of Odoardo Ceccarelli de Merania, our Capuzzi, to show his contempt, calls himself, pompously, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi de Senigaglia; that is the name of the village where, it is said, his mother brought him into the world before his time, being seized with a sudden fright, at the sight of a monstrous fish.
"In his youth, Capuzzi produced on the stage an opera, which was pitilessly hissed; and, far from being cured by this fall, of the desire to pain the ears of others, he dared to say of Francesco Cavalli, the celebrated author of the Marriage of Thetis and Pelée, that this chapel master had borrowed some of his sublimest melodies from him. He has, in addition to this, a mania for singing, and accompanies himself on a miserable guitar, which is dragged everywhere after him by an ugly dwarf, whom he makes his Pylades, and who is known by all Rome under the name of Pitichinaccio. To these two personages is harnessed that dd doctor Pyramid, who brays like a lost donkey, all the time imagining that he possesses a bass which rivals that of Martinelli. These three demons perch themselves every evening on the balcony in Ripetta street, to the great annoyance of the neighborhood.
"My father formerly had free access to this madman, whose wig and beard he adjusted. After his death, I inherited his practice, and Capuzzi was at first charmed with my visits, for I knew how, better than any one else, to give a unique turn of coquetry to his moustache, and I had, above all, the civility to receive, whilst bowing to the ground, so trifling a salary, that an apprentice would not have accepted it. It is true that master Capuzzi thought to do things liberally by splitting my ears every night with a new air of his own composition. That was the comedy; here is the drama:
"One day when I reached my patient's house, a door opens, and I find myself in the presence of an angel; yes, an angel! it was my Magdalen. I stopped in my embarrassment, trembling with emotion; love had entered my heart at first sight! The old man Capuzzi, gratified at my surprise, said to me smilingly, that this beautiful girl was his niece, that she was called Marianna, and that the poor orphan had no one in the world to depend upon except himself. From that day, Capuzzi's house became a paradise for me; but I sought in vain, all means, all opportunities to meet Marianna alone. An evil genius prevented it; some fugitive glances, some hidden signs were the only proofs that made me hope that I should be loved. The old monkey undoubtedly perceived this, for he pretty clearly gave me to understand that it was not to his taste. I dared to throw myself at his feet and confess my love to him. His answer was a burst of laughter, and he scornfully told me to go back to my barber's shop.
In the delirium of my despair, I proclaimed that I was not a vile reaper of chins, that I had studied surgery with success, and that in painting I followed the style of Annibal Caracci and the inimitable Guido Reni. This simplicity procured for me another attack of mockery; and the old Cerebus pushing me towards the door, tried to throw me down stairs. Reduced to the necessity of using the right of legitimate defence, I tumbled over, with all possible gentleness, the ferocious guardian of Marianna; but from that day his door was closed to me! This was the condition of things when you came to Rome, and heaven inspired the worthy father Bonifazio with the idea of introducing me to you. Since when, thanks to your support, I have taken a place in the Academy of San-Luca; as Rome applauds my efforts, I took courage to go to Capuzzi; I produced on him the effect of a spectre. Profiting by his stupor, I gravely asked him if a surgeon, crowned with the palm of San-Luca, was worthy of aspiring to the hand of Marianna. This name operated upon him like an electric shock. He raved about, he howled like a demon, saying that I was an assassin, that I had stolen his niece from him by copying her features upon canvas; that she was his delight, his life, his heaven; that he would like to burn me, together with my accursed studio and my hateful picture!
The exasperation of the worthy man, who began to cry out, murder, robbers, made me fear some misfortune, and I quickly fled, rage in my heart and death in my soul! The old Capuzzi is madly in love with his niece; he watches her with all the precautions of an atrocious jealousy, and if he obtains a dispensation from the pope, he will forcibly marry her. I am the most unfortunate of men!"
"On the contrary,"" said Salvator, "you are near the realization of your hopes; Marianna loves you; it will only be necessary to withdraw her from the tyranny of Capuzzi.—Return to your studio, keep quiet, and come and see me again to-morrow, at day break, to draw up our plan of attack."
II.
Salvator made such good use of his time, that on the following day he related to his friend Antonio all the details of Capuzzi's mode of living:—"Poor Marianna is on the rack; her argus exhales in sighs, and from morning to night he besieges her with silliness, or sings, in order to soften her, the ridiculous airs which he has himself composed. More than this, he is so jealous, that he will not allow the poor child to have any other human creature to serve her, than the hideous Pitichinaccio, disguised as a duenna. If the hoary wretch absents himself, gratings and bolts do their office within, whilst a kind of porter, a reformed robber, guards the house door. To enter by force is hardly practicable; and yet, to-morrow night, I will, dear Antonio, place you once more in the presence of Capuzzi and your beautiful Marianna."
"Good heaven! can it be! by what means?"
"Chance," continued Salvator, "has already connected me with Pasquale Capuzzi. Look, that dilapidated and worm-eaten spinet in the corner, belongs to the old madman, to whom I still owe the price of it, ten ducats. Wishing to amuse, by a little music, the tiresome moments of my convalescence, dame Catherine procured for me this miserable instrument, which was brought from Ripetta street. I did not think at first either of the price of the thing or of the proprietor, and it was only yesterday that I learned that honest Capuzzi had taken me for a dupe. Now, give me the whole of your attention. Every clay, towards dark, when the abortion Pitichinaccio has finished his functions of chamber-maid, signor Pasquale takes him in his arms, and"
At this moment, Salvator's door was noisily opened, and signor Pasquale Capuzzi appeared in person, and richly caparisoned, to the eyes of the two friends. At the sight of Scacciati, a shock, like the effect produced by the torpedo, stopped him short, breathless and stupified. Salvator arose, and taking him by both hands:
"Indeed, my worthy lord," said he to him, "your visit fills me with joy; is the purpose of it to see my new productions, or to give me an order? In what manner can I serve you?"
"I come expressly to see you," stammered Capuzzi; "but, as I want to talk alone with you, we will put it off until a more convenient time."
"God forbid," replied Salvator; "you cannot choose your time better; and I congratulate myself on being able to make you acquainted with the first artist in Rome, Antonio Scacciati, author of the famous Magdalen at the feet of Christ."
At these words, the old man trembled every limb; his red eyes flashed furious looks at poor Antonio, who, concentrating all his remaining self-possession, made, nevertheless, the most careless and easy salutation, adding, in the tone of a great lord, and emphasizing every syllable, that he judged himself too happy at such a meeting, and at being able to salute a man, who, of all Italy, possessed in the highest degree the love of science and the arts.
Capuzzi, swallowing his anger in favor of this warm eulogium, screwed his mouth into a smile, twirled his moustache, and, after several "I thank you's," inarticulately uttered, he hastened to remind Salvator of his little debt of ten ducats:
"I am at your orders for that trifle," said the painter, "but will you please to throw a glance on this sketch, and accept a goblet of excellent Syracuse?"
And, suiting the action to the word, Salvator placed his easel in the most favorable light for the drawing he wished to show, then, offering an oak chair to Capuzzi, he hastened to fill, before him, a fine agate cup, in which sparkled the precious liquor that he was proud to offer to his new guest. The eyes of Marianna's tyrant shone like carbuncles at the sight of the generous wine poured out for him by the artist. He slowly bent his head, as if to collect himself whilst discussing this exquisite beverage; then raising his eyes, long hidden beneath his withered eyelids, he several times caressed his long grey moustache, murmuring, in a low voice:—"Divine! Perfect! Admirable!" Without its being possible for those present to guess if this too strange personage gave his opinion of the Syracuse juice, or Salvator's painting.
Salvator took this opportunity to attack him boldly:
"Have I not heard, my worthy lord, that you possess an admirable niece? Nothing is talked of, in Ripetta street, so much as the charms of Marianna. All those who have seen her become sleepless; and I know that more than one young man of noble race, who has caught cold whilst watching, for a look, a smile from that delicious girl, through the thick glass of the balcony in front of your house."
The old man frowned; his answer was short and awkward: "Indeed," said he, "the young men of our time are troubled with a strange perversity. When their e}es have plotted the dishonor of a poor orphan, there is no seduction which they are not ready to become guilty of. I do not say that for my niece, master Salvator; Marianna is assuredly very pretty; but, after all, we ought still to look upon her as a careless, frolicksome child."
Salvator, in order not to lose ground, changed his proceedings, and had recourse to the flagon of Syracuse before renewing the assault.
"But, at least, my dear signor Capuzzi, you will not refuse to tell me if this niece, whom you prize so highly, this ravishing Marianna, that all Rome is now making the whole subject of their conversations, has light hair, or brown, or even black, and if by chance she is not the admirable original of the picture of the Magdalen at the feet of Christ, which the academicians of San-Luca had judged so unseasonably,—so little in conformity with the ordinary rules of equity."
"What do I know about it, and what can I tell you?" repeated Capuzzi, accompanying his language with actions in which very little cordiality was manifested; "will you have the kindness to allow," added he, "a change of the subject of conversation? This excites in me nervous impressions which are very painful."
This management was repeated so long and so well, that signor Capuzzi, pushed from his self-possession by the artist's questions, bounded about like a tiger-cat, and pushing back his half filled goblet, exclaimed in his owl-like voice:—"By all the devils in hell, you have given me some kind of poison, in order to play upon me some infamous trick with that accursed Antonio! But I will set things to rights. Think of immediately paying me the ten ducats which are due me, and after that, Satan take you."
"How," cried Salvator, "dare you insult me in this manner in my own house? You want ten ducats for a wormeaten spinet? Ten ducats! no! not even five, nor three, not even an obole of copper!" And suiting the action to the words, he kicked the unfortunate instrument, from which each blow made the splinters fly about the room.
"But there are laws in Rome! there are judges!" howled Capuzzi; "I will let you rot in a dungeon! I"
As he was trying to reach the door, Salvator seized him with an iron hand, and nailed him to the seat he had just left.
"Well, my very worthy signor Pasquale," said he to him with the most velvety accent he knew how to assume, "do you not see, that all this is a game? Ten ducats for your spinet,—for such a master-piece? not so, you shall have thirty for it."
This promise, uttered with the greatest seriousness, had a magical effect . Pasquale Capuzzi no longer spoke of a prison, and repeated in a low voice:—"Thirty ducats! thirty ducats for such a master-piece!"
Then, fixing his eyes upon the artist:
"But do you know, master Salvator, that you have cruelly treated me?"
"Thirty ducats!" answered the painter.
"But," added Capuzzi, "you have outraged me in an unworthy manner!"
"Forty ducats," continued Salvator, "and I promise you not to think any more about it, provided you find it agreeable to subscribe to a trifling condition. You are, master Pasquale Capuzzi de Senegaglia, the greatest composer in Italy, and more than that, the most exquisite singer in the universe. I have heard with enthusiasm the grand scene from the opera of Le Nozze di Teti et Peleo, of which that miserable Francesco Cavalli has stolen the divine melody: will you, whilst I put the spinet in order again, sing us that scene? I shall owe you, on my part, an eternal gratitude for it."
Pasquale Capuzzi so well enjoyed this astounding eulogium, that his whole physiognomy was distorted by an ineffable grimace; the muscles of his thin face were puffed out, and his infinitely little red eyes sparkled under a convulsion of the optic nerve, which gave to his looks an expression of satisfied malice that no words could describe.
"But, I am," said he to Salvator, "your very humble servant, for you appear yourself to be in possession of a most exquisite musical taste; your tact in matters of harmony announces the most severe study, and I believe that art would make enormous progress, if the wits of Rome would take your judgment for a guide. Listen, signor painter, listen to my favorite air; I am not lavish of my compositions, but you are capable of appreciating them, and I will treat you like a friend."
Salvator, taken in his snare, prayed God in his heart, to make him deaf at least for that day.
"You load me with joy at the honor," answered he with an inward suffering, worthy of this lie.Nothing could describe the monstrous smile of the old fellow; he began, by putting on a look of his grey eyes, whilst trying to catch the key-note of his air; then raising himself on his toes, throwing about his puny aims like the wings of an old cock, he burst out into so formidable a bellowing, that the walls of the studio trembled.
Dame Catherine and her daughters ran at the noise, thinking that some misfortune had happened. Judge of their surprise at the sight of the excited, virtuoso, who was not disconcerted by their presence. Salvator had taken up the damaged spinet, and on the case of it he began to paint the scene which he had before his eyes. Capuzzi, Antonio, Catherine and her daughters were perfectly delineated, and doctor Pyramid, although absent, was not forgotten. Meanwhile, the indefatigable Capuzzi, desirous of earning his forty ducats, did not spare the deafened audience a single one of his infernal airs; at the end of two long hours, exhausted, and in a profuse perspiration, his face purple and his veins violet colored, he sank voiceless into a seat.
Salvator placed in front of him his picture, improvised on the spinet case. Capuzzi looked at it long and attentively, rubbing his eyes to assure himself that he was not dreaming. Suddenly crowding his hat upon his wig, he took his cane in one hand, and, with the other, plucking from its hinges Salvator's sketch, he threw himself down the staircase like a chased thief.
Go, then, old madman," exclaimed Salvator, "Count Colonna or my friend Rosi, will pay you dearly for this caprice of my brush!"
When Capuzzi had departed, Salvator and Antonio raised all their batteries with consummate art against this terrible adversary. It was decided that they should attack, the following night, the fortress of Ripetta street. The two friends separated to attend, each one in his way, to the most urgent preparations.
That same evening, at dark, Signor Pasquale shut and carefully bolted all the doors; then taking Pitichinaccio under his arm, he carried him back to his own house. On the way, the abortion loudly complained, (being so badly paid to sing every day Capuzzi's airs, or in burning his fingers to make the maccaroni boil,) of adding to that labor the more difficult still, of serving the beautiful Marianna, who loaded him with buffets and kicks, every time he came near her to fulfil his duties of valet de chambre. The old man consoled him and filled his mouth with sweetmeats to make him hold his tongue; he even added that he would have cut for him an abbe's coat out of his oldest doublet; Pitchinaccio required besides, to seal the peace, a wig and a rapier. It was disputing in this manner that they reached Bergognona, where Pitchinaccio lived, near Salvator's studio. Capuzzi placed the dwarf on his crooked feet, opened the door, and they both ascended, one behind the other, a staircase as straight and steep as a ladder leading to a hen-house.
When they had reached the middle of the stairs, a frightful racket shook the building: it was a drunken man who was asking, with loud oaths, the way to get out of this house of h—l. Pitichinaccio hugged the wall, and begged Capuzzi to pass on before: but hardly had the honorable citizen of Sengaglia ascended several steps, than the drunken man, loosing his equilibrium, fell upon him, and drove him like an avalanche into the street.
Capuzzi was sorely bruised on the pavement, and the drunkard, like a filled sack, quietly crushed him, without saying a word. At his cries of distress, two passers-by stopped; they picked up Pasquale, who rubbed his shins, whilst the drunkard, who appeared to be a little sobered by this event, went off without offering any excuse and, cursing him heartily.
"Good heaven! Signor Pasquale, what are you doing here at this time, in this situation? what misfortune has happened to you?"
"Ah! my noble lords, I am nearly killed! that hell-hound has broken all my limbs!"
"Let us see!" exclaimed Antonio, (for Capuzzi's deliverers were our two artists,) "let us see!"
And, feeling of the thin carcase of his enemy, he pinched his right leg so forcibly that the patient made a terrible outcry.
"Ah, my worthy sir, your left leg is broken; the case is very serious, and you are in danger of dying or remaining crippled for life."
"Alas! my dear Jesus!" sighed Capuzzi, in a mournful voice.
"Courage," replied Antonio; "although I am a painter and an academician of San-Luca, I have not forgotten surgery. "We will carry you to Salvator's house, and I will see that you are well taken care of."
"But, my excellent master Antonio," said Capuzzi, sadly, "I know that you have but little cause to be my friend."
"On the contrary," interrupted Salvator; "but, in the presence of suffering, every other sentiment must give way to humanity. Come, Antonio, let us fulfil this duty."
They then took up the old man, one by the head, and the other by the feet, and they carried him away, not without laughing secretly at his groans. Dame Catherine delivered them a fine discourse upon charity, without sparing reflections upon Capuzzi.
"You have received," said she to him, "no more than you deserve; God punishes you for tormenting your niece; for you are a jealous brute, a true tyrant; and if you do not die in consequence of this accident, may you profit by the lesson; provide yourself with friends, if you can, and try to let your little Marianna see a little of the sun. Is it not an odious thing to treat as you do so pretty a girl, so sweet and so loving? And are you not ashamed to shut her up under the guard of such a monster as Pitchinaccio? Do you not fear that all the young people in the city will rise some day against a like oppression? And tell me, then, if you dare, why you dress up your miserable dwarf in a duenna's robe? What do you do with this Cerebus, who is not worth a kick? Look here, my poor signor, in the state which I find you, listen for once seriously to my representations, for fear that it should cost you dearer soon. When any one has, like yourself, so gentle a dove in a cage, it is not kind to treat it like an owl. If your heart was not dried up and your mind was not crippled, would you not be, all day long, studying to guess and anticipate the least caprices of Marianna? Take care of the justice of God, my very honored master; and if he allows you to recover, offer him, as expiation for your unworthy proceeding, the marriage of your niece with a fine young gentleman who seems to have fallen from the sky expressly for her happiness."
This long sermon was delivered from beginning to end by the severe Catherine, whilst the two painters were putting the unfortunate Capuzzi in close confinement between two sheets. The poor devil was so well convinced of the entire dislocation of his individual self, that he dared neither stir nor breathe. Antonio made signs to prevent him from speaking, and he suddenly begged dame Catherine to procure for him, as quickly as possible, a good quantity of iced water. As to the injury, it was trifling, and the danger only existed in the disturbed brain of Capuzzi. The person ambuscaded in the house where Pitichinaccio resided, had played his part to perfection; the old man's fall had produced no other consequence than a few contusions, of no great severity, which were attested sufficiently by several black and blue spots on Capuzzi's blistered skin.
Capuzzi had been taken in a snare, for the whole adventure of that night was the contrivance of Salvator. Antonio tied up the good man's leg in splints, so as to prevent him from moving; he also enveloped him in compresses dipped in iced water, which he often renewed, under the pretence of preventing the inflammation. The poor devil, thus tied up, shivered in every limb.
"My good master, Antonio," said he, from time to time, "do you think that I shall escape from it?"
"We shall see," replied the artist, "I shall do my best to get you out of this scrape; but"
"Ah, my dear, my excellent friend, do not abandon me!"
"You really say that, but you have treated me very severely!"
"Forget it, then, I beg of you!"
"I am satisfied to do so," continued Antonio; "but your niece, your niece must feel uneasy at your absence; she will die with anguish if she does not see you back again; so that, I think it would be prudent to have you transported to your own house; there I will look at the dressing again, and I will instruct Marianna in the care it will be necessary to take to hasten your cure."
At the remembrance of Marianna, Capuzzi shut his eyes and recollected himself for a moment; then he held out his hand to Antonio, and, drawing him towards him:—"Swear to me, my good sir, that you have no project against the repose of my niece."
"I swear it to you!" replied Antonio; "and you can have the same confidence in my words as you have in my care; I do not conceal from you that this little Marianna attracted me the first time that chance threw me in her way; I even had the weakness to reproduce, from remembrance, and feature for feature, her face in the picture of the Magdalen at the feet of the Saviour; but, in truth, it was nothing, as I am aware, but the passion of an artist. I esteem your niece: she is a piquant young girl, and I thought for a moment that I loved her; but I have, now, other affairs in hand."
"Ah, my dear friend, you do not love Marianna? Say so, repeat it again! this is a divine balm that you are pouring into my wounds! I feel myself cured, perfectly cured!"
"Really," exclaimed Salvator, "if you were not known as a wise and sensible man, it would be thought that you were madly in love with your niece!"
At these words Capuzzi shut his eyes again; his face contracted painfully, and he complained of a return of his pain.
Meanwhile, day began to break, Antonio and Salvator raised the mattress of the sick man, who in vain begged to have the compresses taken off, his wig and moustache adjusted, in order that his appearance should not frighten Marianna. Two laboring men were waiting in the street with a litter, on which they placed Capuzzi. Dame Catherine, who was not in the secret of the artists, wanted to follow him home, to lecture him again as he deserved. She spread over the litter an old worn out cloak, and this procession took the road to Ripetta street.
Marianna, seeing her uncle in this pitiful state, burst into tears, and covered his wrinkled hands with kisses. It was a touching sight to see this young girl disconsolate for the misfortune which had happened to her persecutor; but such is the quickness of woman's instinct, that a sign from Salvator was sufficient to reveal to her the mystification of which Capuzzi was the subject. Modesty was mingled with joy, Marianna saw near, her beloved Antonio: a quick blush covered her pale cheeks, and an adorably malicious smile sparkled amidst her tears. Pasquale Capuzzi was so overjoyed with the tender welcome of his niece, that he forgot his hurt, and you could imagine nothing more grotesque than his amorous postures and his lover's sighs. But Antonio did not give him time to recover himself; the splints were removed and more closely bound; they bundled up the imaginary sick manlike a wooden doll, his head buried in a heap of cushions, and Salvator discreetly retired, to leave the two lovers to the unlooked for happiness of seeing each other again. The young girl had appeared to him, in this interview, of admirable beauty. That ravishing face was a thousand times more worthy of being traced as the image of the Mother of God than the patron saint of penitent women. The artist felt a touch of jealousy, but it was as evanescent as air, and the natural loyalty of his character immediately dissipated this movement of the passions, caused by a masterpiece of grace. Salvator thought no longer of anything except finishing his finest work, by delivering Marianna from the claws of her guardian. The good and sweet child, forgetting the severity of Capuzzi, ran every moment to his bedside to inquire how he felt; she found herself so sweetly happy in devoting herself to the assuagement of his sufferings, that she abandoned several times a little white hand to his kisses.
The morrow, at an early hour, Antonio ran to his friend's house, with a disconsolate look.
"Alas," exclaimed he, "all is lost, all is discovered!"
"So much the better," said Salvator; "tell me how it is."
"Figure to yourself, that yesterday, on my return to Capuzzi's house, which I had only left for a moment, to seek some good purgative medicines, I perceived the old man, dressed from head to foot, at the door, talking with doctor Pyramid. Capuzzi could not be described; he threatened me with his fist, assailed me with curses, and swore that he would have me strangled if ever I stepped my foot into his house again. 'And as for your protector, Salvator,' added he, 'I have ducats enough to settle his account without a trial.' As he was crying out and raving in this manner, aided by doctor Pyramid, who chorused his imprecations, the passers by stopped, and I saw that I was threatened with difficulty, if, plucking up, in spite of my emotion, all the courage and strength I had left, I had not rescued myself by rudely attacking this devilish Capuzzi. This is the second time that I have been obliged to act in this manner towards the uncle and guardian of Marianna; you see, master, that all is lost!"
"By my honor, that is joyful news!" exclaimed Salvator; "but I knew that long before you told me. Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni, who is in search of all wounds and bruises, has too soon become acquainted with his friend Capuzzi's accident; his zeal became inflamed; he examined the dressings, and not much cunning was necessary to discover the stratagem."
"But how do you know all these things?"
"What does it matter? it is enough to profit by it, and I shall do my best, since I have become bound to make you succeed. I know, besides, that Marianna possesses the disposition that inspires love; she has persuaded old Capuzzi that she was ignorant of our stratagem, and that she much despised it, and that on no account would she allow us to see her again. The old argus, mad with joy, and believing himself on the eve of an unlooked for happiness, has sworn to grant every wish to Marianna; she immediately asked to be taken to signor Formica's theatre, near the Popolo gate.—The good man, surprised at this desire, held eouncil with doctor Pryamid and Pitichinaccio; and they decided that Capuzzi ought to keep his word. To-morrow Marianna is to go to the theatre; Pitichinaccio is to accompany her, dressed like a duenna."
Antonio Scacciati became more and more surprised, and he was not far from thinking that his friend had dealings with the devil, to have so well informed himself of all that concerned Marianna. "This is the explanation that Salvator gave him of this omniscience, from which no detail escaped. In the Ripetta street house lodged, next door to Capuzzi, an old friend of Salvator's hostess. This woman's daughter, a firm friend of Margerita's, had taken a tender interest in Capuzzi's poor niece, and chance favored their secret interviews, for Margerita's friend had discovered in her chamber an opening for ventilation, which had for a long time been closed by a thin board. This aperture opened into a dark closet, which belonged to Marianna's chamber, only separated from her neighbor's lodging by a simple partition. The young girls had, in this manner, long and confidential conversations, during the daily siesta of old Capuzzi; it was from Margerita's friend that Salvator had procured all the necessary information concerning the domestic habits of Marianna's tyrant, and had learned the projected visit to Formica's theatre.
But it is necessary, before going farther, that the reader become acquainted with the famous Formica and his theatre at the People's gate.
The originator of this enterprise was a certain Nicolo Musso, who caused to be represented, during the Carnival, impromptu pantomimes. The location which served for the exercise of his industry did not announce a very brilliant state of finances; there was only, in place of boxes and orchestra, a circular gallery which bore, on the exterior, the representation of count Colanna's arms, the protector of Nicolo Musso. The stage was a kind of scaffolding covered with boards and ornamented with old carpets. The partitions were decorated, by turns, with strips of painted paper which represented, according to the necessities, a forest, an apartment, or a street. For seats, the spectators had to content themselves with hard and narrow benches; so that the public in the theatre made more noise than it brought in money. For the rest, nothing could be seen more amusing than these joyous parodies, in which Nicolo Musso was the prime mover; it was a running fire, well sustained, of epigrams against all the vices, all the defects, all the singularities and all that was ridiculous in society. Every actor gave to his part its broadest physiognomy. But Pasquarello, official clown, bore off the applause by his caustic witicisms, and the originality of his pantomime, which reproduced, so as perfectly to deceive, the voice, the form and the movements of people well known in the city. The individual who played this part of critic, and who was called amongst the people Signor Formica, was a phenomenon. There was in his talent for mimicry such an elasticity, his voice sometimes took such strange inflections, that one could hardly refrain from shuddering, and at the same time yield to the maddest bursts of laughter. At the side of this personage figured, as habitual companion, a certain doctor Graziano, whose part was played by an old circus rider of Bologna, named Maria Agli.
The fashionable society of Rome did not disdain the comic representations of Nicolo Musso. The theatre of the People's Gate was always well filled, and Formica's name was in every one's mouth. What contributed not a little to augment the reputation of this place, was that Nicolo Musso never showed himself anywhere out of his theatre; a very well kept secret concealed him, and no one even knew exactly where this singular manager could be in the habit of going. Such was the theatre where the pretty Marianna wished to go.
"The best plan, then," said Salvator, "is to attack our enemy openly; and I have a scheme in my head, the execution of which must be accomplished during the passage from Ripetta street to the theatre."
This project whispered into Antonio's ear, made him bound with joy and impatience; they were about to separate Marianna from her persecutor, and rudely chastise that doctor Pyramid, who had taken a notion to throw stones into the lover's garden!
When evening came, Salvator and Antonio each took a guitar, and met under the balcony in Ripetta street, to enrage old Capuzzi by giving to his pretty niece a brilliant serenade, which would be heard by the whole neighborhood. Salvator had a very remarkable voice, and Antonio had not made a bad figure in a duet with master Odoardo Ceccarelli. From the prelude of our impromptu troubadours, Signor Pasquale appeared on the terrace, to impose silence on the vagabonds who came to disturb his repose. Rut the neighbors, attracted by the melody of the first accords that they had heard, cried out to him, with much jeering, that jealousy alone excited his anger, and that he might go back into his hole, to sing falsetto there at his ease, and bore the ears of the unfortunate individuals forced to live and suffer under his key. Salvator and his companion thus passed nearly the whole night in singing love songs, which they interrupted from time to time, in order to vary the performance, by satirical songs against ridiculous old men, of whom Capuzzi was the most finished type. Marianna approached the window several times, and, in spite of the discontented signs of her guardian, she exchanged several speaking glances with her beloved Antonio.
The next day was the first day of Carnival. The crowd hastened to the promenades and pressed towards the People's Gate, around Nicolo Musso's theatre. The pretty Marianna had forced Capuzzi to keep his promise. In consequence, the old man, perfumed and trimmed up, imprisoned in his Spanish doublet, his pointed hat leaning towards his ear and ornamented with a new yellow feather, walked with visible anxiety in his tight shoes, drawing along in his wake Marianna, whose attractions were hidden from sight, under the double veils with which the Argus had required that she should envelope herself. On the other side walked doctor Splendiano Accoramboni, nearly hidden by his gigantic wig. Behind them, and on Marianna's heels, from whom he did not take his eyes, hobbled the abortion, Pitichinaccio, dressed up in a fire colored skirt, and with his head covered with flowers of every shade.
Signor Formica was, that evening, in his gayest mood; it was a pleasure to hear him mingle with his comic scenes, couplets which he sang, imitating the voices of the most celebrated artists. Old Capuzzi trembled with joy; his passion for the theatre came back to his memory; and, in his exaltations, he bruised Marianna's hands with kisses, swearing that he would take her every evening to Nicolo Musso's entertainment. His applause, his laughter, drew all eyes towards him; Signor Splendiano alone kept his professional gravity, and with his eyes and by gesture, he rebuked Capuzzi's and Marianna's bursts of laughter; giving out, entirely unheeded, the names of twenty diseases which a too great extension of the jaws might occasion. But his patients laughed as much at his morose face as at Signor Formica. As for the infinitely little Pitchinaccio, he had sadly roosted himself behind doctor Pyramid's wig, and called upon the devil to take him from between two women, who were much amused at his grotesque appearance. A cold sweat ran from his forehead to his livid cheeks, and sharp sounds, badly articulated, sufficiently expressed the disagreeableness of his situation.
When the play was finished, Pasquale Capuzzi prudently allowed all the spectators to go out, and the lamps to he all extinguished, except one, which served to light a lantern, with which he was to conduct Marianna and her two companions to Ripetta street. Pitichinaccio again began to groan and complain. Capuzzi took him under his left arm to pacify him, whilst with the other, he drew along his pretty niece. Splendiano walked on before, armed with the lantern, which gave nearly enough light to render the darkness more visible.
At some distance from the People's Gate, four figures, wrapped in immense cloaks of the color of the walls, suddenly stopped the progress of the company. By a blow of the hand, the doctor's lantern was extinguished and thrown down; then a dim light proceeding from an unknown source, lighted four skulls, whose eyeless sockets were turned towards Capuzzi and the doctor, who were petrified with terror.
"Curses, curses, curses on thee, Splendiano Accoramboni!" said the four phantoms. Then the first continued in a plaintive voice:
"Knowest thou me, Splendiano? I am Cordier, the French painter, whom thou hast put into the earth, last week, with thy devilish drugs!"
The second advanced, and said:—"Knowest thou me, Splendiano? I am Kufner, the German painter, killed by thy opiates!"
The third cried out to him, in a hoarse voice:—"Knowest thou me, Splendiano? I am Liers of Flanders, whom thou hast poisoned with thy pills, to gain possession of my pictures!"
Lastly, the fourth said to him:—"Knowest thou me, Splendiano? I am Ghigi, the Neapolitan, whom thy powders sent to purgatory!"
And all four exclaimed in chorus:—"Curses, curses, curses on thee, Splendiano Accoramboni! the devil sends us to seek thee, illustrious doctor Pyramid! come, come."
And seizing on him with the quickness of lightning, they disappeared in the darkness, howling like a storm wind.
Pasquale Capuzzi recovered a little from his fright when he saw that his friend Splendiano alone was hunted by the demons. The hideous Pitchinaccio, shuddering with fear, had hidden his head under his master's cloak, and clung to his doublet with all the tenacity of a drowning man. The beautiful Marianna had fainted,—"Come back to thyself, my cherished one, my sweet dove," said Capuzzi to her after the doctor had been carried off; "alas, the devil is carrying my illustrious friend Splendiano under the Pyramid of Cestius! May saint Bernard, who was so great a physician of souls, have pity on his, and defend it against the enemies which it will find in the other world! Alas, alas! who now will sing bass in my evening concerts? and when shall I be able myself, after such an accident, to draw from my throat one single pure and clear octave? Finally, all is for the best, for God has spared us. Come back to thyself, Marianna, my chicken, all is over!"
The young girl came gradually to herself, and begged Capuzzi to allow her to walk by herself, whilst he shook off the despairing embrace of Pitichinaccio; but the uncle would not consent to it, and pressed her arm more closely within his own, to protect her against all kinds of danger to come. Now, as he retook the road to his house, four horrible demons appeared suddenly by his side, as if vomited from the earth; these four figures, muffled up in fire colored cloaks, threw out from their mouths and eyes bluish flames, and began to dance around Capuzzi, crying out:
"Phew, phew! Pasquale Capuzzi! old amorous devil, accursed fool! We are thy companions from hell, we are the devils of ugly lovers, and we are about to transport thee to our furnace, with that little monster Pitchinaccio!"
And in the midst of these bowlings, which made the echoes tremble, the four demoniacs threw themselves upon Capuzzi and Pitichinaccio, and gave them such a frightful fall, that the unfortunate Argus of the beautiful Marianna began to bray like a beaten donkey. The young girl had disengaged her aim from Canuzzi as soon as the devils had made their appearance, but she bad no longer strength to fly, nor voice to beg for mercy, and what was her surprise, when the ugliest of the devils, foiling on his knee, and kissing her hand, said to her, in the sweetest tone:
"My angel, my beloved Marianna, God is for us! Oh! tell me that thou lovest me, whilst my friends detain thy jailer! Come with me, I know an asylum where none can reach us!"
"Antonio!" exclaimed Marianna, ready to fall.
But suddenly Ripetta street was inundated with the light of torches, and Antonio felt the sudden chill of a blade which grazed his shoulder. He sprang up, turned round, and, sword raised, attacked his adversary, whilst his three friends were wrangling with a company of Sbires. But their bravery was about yielding to the number of their assailants, if two strangers had not sprung into the midst of the soldiers, uttering menacing cries, and if one of them had not struck to the earth, with a furious blow, the Sbire who was struggling with Antonio This unlooked for aid ended the combat, and the Sbires dispersed in the direction of the People's Gate.
Salvator Rosa, for it was he who had so energetically aided his friend Antonio, proposed to follow the Sbires into the city. But the young painters who had aided Antonio in his nocturnal adventure, and the comedian Maria Agli, who had not shown himself as lacking courage, observed that this proceeding would hardly be wise, because the sentinels at the Gate, warned by the Sbires, would doubtlessly arrest them. They then agreed to ask for shelter for the night at Nicolo Musso's house, who received them and gave them a cordial welcome. The painters laid aside their pasteboard masks and their cloaks, rubbed with phosphorus: they then examined the wounds and bruises which they had received, and washed away, as far as was in their power, all traces of the fight. When our friends talked over the events of the night, they discovered that the expedition had failed, on account of their having forgotten a very important personage, Michael, the old bravo, who served Capuzzi as watch-dog, and who had followed them at a distance, as ordered, from Ripetta street to Formica's theatre, and during the return. Michael, whose former trade rendered him less superstitious, seeing the phantoms and devils appear, had run to call the guard at the People's Gate; but he did not return with the reinforcement until after doctor Splendiano had been carried off. One of the young painters had seen Michael carrying away the fainting Marianna in his arms; and Pasquale Capuzzi, profiting by the confusion, had followed them with as quick a step as his trembling legs, and the weight of the unfortunate Pitichinaccio, who clung to his neck in despair, would allow.
On the morrow was found, near the pyramid of Cestius, the doctor Splendiano, rolled up into a ball like a porcupine, and snoring in the recesses of his wig like a bird in a downy nest; it was necessary to shake him to arouse him from his stupor. On awaking, he raved, and a thousand arguments were used to prove to him that he had not quitted this humble planet, and that Rome still enjoyed the favor of possessing him. When they had very carefully transported him to his own house, he gave thanks to all the saints for his deliverance from the devil's claws; then throwing out of the window ointments, pills, opiates, elixirs, phials and boxes of all kinds, he burnt his prescriptions and books of medicine, and swore that he would, for the future, only treat his patients with the assistance of magnetism;—the secret of which he had from an old physician, who died in the full odor of sanctity, and who, if he never cured his patients, at least, before sending them on their long journey, offered them a foretaste of the joys of paradise, in a marvellous ecstasy which he knew how to occasion in place of a last agony.
"Salvator," said Antonio to his friend, when they had, the next day, retired to the studio at Bergognona street; "Salvator, I have no more patience left, nor respect to show. I must make my way forcibly into this rascal, Capuzzi's house, kill him if he resists me. and carry off Marianna!"
"Brilliant idea," exclaimed Saltator, laughing loudly; "you would have to make use of no little skill to escape from being hung after such a move; for that would be to give the whole game to the devil. Stratagem is better than force; and besides Capuzzi, I am sure, is on the defensive against an attack, and justice would prepare us a dish after her own fashion. Let us try stratagem then, and you may rely upon me; this is also dame Catherine's advice, whose good sense I highly prize. We, the other night, played Signor Capuzzi a mad-cap trick; everybody is talking about it; and I, who am your elder, and by my calling a serious man, should be very sorry to have the names of the actors in it known. I will not, nevertheless, abandon you mid-way towards success. We will carry off Marianna, I assert it, and time presses; Nicolo Musso and the comedian Formica shall assist me in this project."
"Nicolo Musso, Formica?" said Antonio, with an astonished look: and what can I expect from these mountebanks?"
"Softly, my friend, I beg of you," continued Salvator; "Nicolo is the prince of good fellows; and as for Formica, he is, with your permission, a kind of sorcerer, who knows more than one marvellous secret. Leave to me the care of making good use of them. Maria Agli and dear doctor Graziano of Bologna, have promised me their assistance. It is at Musso's theatre that I will give you an opportunity to carry off your Marianna."
"Salvator," replied Antonio, sadly, "you are giving me a deceptive hope; for if, according to appearances, Capuzzi is on his guard against any new adventure, how can you suppose that he will ever go to Musso's theatre again?"
"That is easier than you think," replied Salvator. "The most difficult part will be to get him there without companions and without escort. Hold yourself in readiness to fly from Rome with Marianna, as soon as you shall get possession of her. You will go to Florence, where your reputation precedes you; and I will take upon myself to assure you there an honorable calling and powerful protection. One word more, dear Antonio, Formica, the mountebank, holds your happiness in his hands!"
III.
Pasquale Capuzzi did not have to seek long for the authors of the scurvy trick, which had so seriously disturbed him near the People's Grate. Antonio and Sal vat or, whom he looked upon as the instigators, enjoyed in his mind unequalled hatred. Poor Marianna was ill, not, as he believed, from the effects of fear, but at Antonio's want of success, which placed her in much greater captivity. She hardly dared to hope that her friend would again attempt her deliverance. In her anger she overburdened Capuzzi with caprices and annoyances. The poor old man suffered without complaining, and trembled with love when, after scenes of reproaching and repining, enough to have destroyed the peace of a hundred families, Marianna deigned to allow him to place his dry and wrinkled lips upon her delicious little hand, rendered still more delicate by fever. Capuzzi then fell into an ecstacy, he fell at the feet of the beautiful young girl, protesting that he would devour with kisses, the pope's slipper, until he had obtained from His Holiness the dispensation necessary to his union with so adorable a person. Marianna quietly favored him in this thought: she understood that by allowing him to hold to this dear belief, she should secure the only chance of safety which remained to her.
Several days after the nocturnal adventure which we have related, Michael came and knocked at the door of the room in which Capuzzi was dining in company with Marianna, and said that a stranger insisted upon speaking with the master of the house.
"By all the saints," exclaimed the old man, "is it not well known that I do not open my doors to any one!"
"But, sir," added Michael, "this stranger appears to be a respectable man, he is middle aged and good looking, and calls himself Nicolo Musso."
"What!" said Capuzzi, "this must be the manager of the theatre at the People's Gate? What can he want of me?"
Curiosity was so strong, that the Argus, after having pushed the bolts, went down to the door of his house.
"My venerable lord," said Nicolo, bowing humbly, "I do not know how to thank you for the honor you do me in granting me this interview; I have to thank you a thousand times, and I hasten to express to you the sincerity of my admiration. Since the day you came to my theatre, you, in whom Rome entire, knows the science and exquisitely artistic taste, the reputation of my pieces and the amount of my receipts have doubled. I am sorry to learn that bold bandits have assailed you on your return from your previous visit; but I supplicate you, Signor, not to make me suffer for this deplorable accident, by depriving my theatre of the presence of the most distinguished man that Rome has the honor of possessing."
At these words, the old man Capuzzi could not restrain his joy:
"Your theatre," exclaimed he; "yes, certainly I like it, and I render justice to the talent of your actors. But know you, master Nicolo, that I ran the risk of my life, with my illustrious friend, doctor Splendiano? Yes, certainly, your theatre amuses me infinitely, but accursed be a thousand times, the road that leads to it. Why don't you change your place? If you would go and establish yourself on the People's Square, in Babuina street or in Ripetta street, I would gladly become a frequenter; but all the devils in hell would not succeed in making me go again, during the night, into the vicinity of the People's Gate!"
"Alas, you will then ruin me, Signor Capuzzi!" replied Nicolo, in the tone of a discouraged man; "for it is upon you, my worthy protector, that reposed my whole prospect of success, and I came to solicit"
"Solicit? What can I do for you?"
"You can make me the happiest man in all Italy. You know how much the public are pleased with little plays interspersed with songs; well, I thought of going to the expense of engaging an orchestra, and thus create, in spite of the rigorous limits of my privilege, a kind of opera. Now, you are in truth, Signor Capuzzi, the first composer in Italy; and the fashionable world of Rome must have lost their wits, or your rivals are very powerful, in order that any other pieces than yours should be played in our theatres. And I, Signor, dared to take the liberty to beg of you to grant me the right to have them represented, with all the care in my power, on my humble stage."
Master Pasquale, puffed with pride on listening to the fine speech of Nicolo, made a thousand excuses for having so long conversed with him at the door, and begged him to enter his house, where they could continue at their ease, so agreeable an interview. When they were carefully shut up in a distant closet, the old man took from a mouldy old chest an enormous packet of music strangely scrawled, and, taking down a cracked guitar, began to stun poor Nicolo with his frightful bellowings.
The unfortunate manager devoted himself bravely; he stamped, clapped his hands, and raved like a person undergoing exorcism, crying out as loud as he could shout:
"Bravo, bravissimo! Benedettissimo Capuzzi!"
He carried the demonstrations of his magnificent enthusiasm so far, that, rolling himself on the floor, like a worm, he began to pinch and bite the legs of the unfortunate Capuzzi, who bounded with pain and howled out:
"By all the saints in heaven, leave me, master Nicolo, you hurt me horribly!"
"No, Signor Pasquale," cried Nicolo, "I will not let you go until you give me that divine air which enchants me, and which I wish to have Formica, my best actor, learn for to-morrow's representation!"
"I have then found a man capable of appreciating me," said Pasquale, trying to save his legs from the torture that Nicolo was inflicting upon him. "But, for God's sake, leave me, master Nicolo, and carry away with you all of my masterpieces."
"No!" still cried the crazy manager, "I will not leave you until you have promised and sworn to honor my theatre to-morrow, by your presence! Fear nothing for your safety; I am sure that the whole audience, after having heard your admirable music, will lead you back in triumph to your house; I myself, with my faithful comrades,—I will escort you with torches, and the malignant devils who dare to make us draw our rapiers had better beware!"
"Truly, truly will you do this?" murmured the happy Capuzzi, ready to burst with pride; "and I shall hear Formica who has such a fine voice, sing my best pieces? Well, master Nicolo, I promise you to go to your theatre to-morrow."
Nicolo arose lightly, like a victorious wrestler, and clasped Capuzzi's carcase in his arms so vigorously, that he nearly suffocated him.
At this moment Marianna appeared. The jealous old man threw a quick glance towards her to make her retire, but the young girl had recognized the manager of the theatre at the People's Gate.
"It is in vain, sir," said she to him in an angry tone, "it is in vain that you try to attract my excellent uncle to your barrack; I will not suffer him to expose himself again to a nocturnal attack like that which was near costing our learned friend Splendiano his life, and which nearly rendered this dear uncle a victim to his devotedness in saving my life and my honor. Do not hope for my consent, master Nicolo; and you, dear uncle, do not give me the pain of knowing you threatened again by some diabolical ambush."
Capuzzi fixed upon his niece his great red eyes, with a look of surprise; but it was in vain that he detailed all the precautions that the obliging Nicolo offered to take for his safety; Marianna remained inflexible.
"I will not," said she, "allow myself to be contradicted; I am still sick with fright; and at no price will I allow you to go and hear the finest singing of Formica. It may be that this master Nicolo is in league with that bandit Antonio Scacciati; and I strongly suspect"
"Good God! what an idea!" continued Nicolo, with a vivacity which admitted of no reply; "could you suppose, Signora, that I was capable of being in so cowardly a plot? But if my word is not sufficient to tranquillize you, why not have Michael and a good company of police accompany you, to watch around the theatre?"
"This proposition reconciles me to you," said Marianna; "excuse me for having doubted your loyal intentions; but an affectionate niece is allowed to tremble for the safety of so dear a relation; and notwithstanding the possibility of procuring an escort, I beg of him to remain prudently at home."
Pasquale had listened to this conversation with an expression on his face which sufficiently testified the hesitation of his thoughts. When Marianna had finished speaking, he embraced her with truly picturesque affection, and exclaimed, with tears in his eyes:
"Divine, adorable creature! this care that thou takest in all that concerns me is the sweetest confession for my heart of the secret sentiments which modesty hides in thy breast! Banish all fear, dear angel, and do not deny thyself the joy of hearing the applause which will crown thy beloved uncle's master-pieces, the glorious name of which will fly to-morrow from mouth to mouth, until they shall reach the ears of remotest posterity!"
Thanks to the entreaties of Nicolo, Marianna ended by yielding, promising to go herself to the brilliant representation of Formica. The soul of Pasquale Capuzzi already swam in heavenly delight; but he wanted, to complete his happiness, other witnesses than Marianna; he wished to take with him willingly or unwillingly doctor Pyramid and Pitichinaccio, but the success of this feat was slightly doubtful.
Splendiano had dreamed strange dreams, during his lethargy at the foot of the pyramid of Cestius. The bodies of all his patients had arisen from their graves to torment him, and, since that fatal night, he had been oppressed with a superstitious sadness which nothing could dissipate. As for Pitichinaccio, this unfortunate abortion had become well convinced that real devils had assailed his master, and the remembrance alone of this event made him utter frightened cries. Capuzzi had vainly endeavored to prove to him that the devils were no other than accursed Christians, such as Salvator, Antonio and their friends. Pitichinaccio was moved to tears at finding himself thus contradicted; he swore by the great Eternal that the devil Fanfarell had struck him with his horns, that he had recognized him; and, to prove what he said, he showed his back, tattooed with livid spots.
Splendiano, who prided himself upon his reasoning, and being of a strong mind, first came to the decision to revisit the theatre, after having piously provided himself with a relic, which had been given him by a Bernardian monk. Pitichinaccio allowed himself to be seduced, less by the example of the doctor than by a promise of a box of preserved grapes; but it was farther agreed that Capuzzi should allow him to free himself for that evening of his duenna's petticoats, and put on his new coat, made from the best portion of his master's old doublets.
The success of the project which Salvator had formed, wholly depended on the possibility of separating Capuzzi and Marianna at the theatre. The two friends exhausted themselves in seeking the means of avoiding the presence of Splendiano and Pitichinaccio. Chance, which often remains deaf to our most anxious desires, seemed on this occasion to favor Salvator and Antonio, for the man made use of by Providence was precisely the one from whom they had most to fear, Michael, the bravo.
The following night, a frightful noise aroused the inhabitants of Ripetta street. A squad of police who were seeking an escaped convict, arrived at the scene of action with torches. They found the unfortunate Pitichinaccio, lying on the ground amongst broken violins, without signs of life, whilst Michael was showering blows on the shoulders of doctor Pyramid.
In the midst of this nocturnal disturbance, Pasquale Capuzzi, drawing his long rapier, was about, with a furious thrust, to pierce through and through the redoubtable Michael, if some of the police had not thrown themselves between them. The light of the torches then showed the mistake: old Capuzzi stood still on the spot, in stupid astonishment, his eyes staring, his forehead purple, and his moustache in disorder. Splendiano and the abortion Pitichinaccio had been so badly treated, that they were taken up much bruised, and carried to their homes, scarcely alive.
Here is what caused this adventure. I have elsewhere related that Salvator and Antonio had given Marianna a brilliant serenade under her balcony in Ripetta street. The success which they had, and the welcome of the neighborhood, had inspired them with the idea of giving this gallant concert every night. Master Capuzzi, in despair at their audacity, which did not leave him a moment's repose, went and complained to the city authorities, and begged them to forbid the two artists disturbing his tranquillity. The magistrates, after having carefully weighed the matter, decided that it was impossible to prevent the inhabitants from practising so agreeable an art as music, and besides, a like prohibition, before unheard of, would anger the populace in the highest degree. Capuzzi, furious at the little support afforded him by the authorities, could imagine nothing better than to take the responsibility of vengeance into his own hands. He took into his confidence the ex-bravo, Michael, a man ready for anything, as I have before said, and proposed to him to aid in his revenge, in consideration of a pretty round sum which he promised to give him.
The assassin, well satisfied with such a prospect, provided himself with an oak staff, sufficiently solid, to expedite, in case of need, several individuals. This man, seduced by the glitter of the sequins, began to keep a vigilant nocturnal watch. But his expectation was without result; for, from the commencement, nobody came within reach of his blows. Salvator and Antonio, busied with their approaching expedition to the theatre at the People's Gate, had, from that very day, discontinued the serenades under Capuzzi's balcony. Marianna, who suspected nothing, complained of this deprivation; she graciously avowed to her uncle that she felt nothing but antipathy towards Salvator and Antonio, she did not think herself, on that account, compelled to give up her taste for music, and that she greatly regretted the loss of the symphonies which the two artists executed so well. The unfortunate Capuzzi, believing that his conquest was assured if he succeeded in restoring to his ward the evening concerts which she was pleased to like, ran to seek his two advisers, in order to organize, with their assistance, a serenade of his own composition, for the following night.
This night, which was to advance his affairs so much, was the evening before the day that he was to offer a fresh proof of devotion to her least desires, by conducting her to Nicolo Musso's theatre. All seemed to be going on well; unfortunately, too much distracted by his happiness, Capuzzi had forgotten the frightful orders which he had so vigorously given to master Michael; so that, as soon as he had gone cautiously from his house, had taken his place, with Splendiano and the dwarf, under the shadow of the opposite house, and as soon as a first and fatal prelude had awoke the silence of the night, the bravo, who was prowling about, cursing fortune which seemed to refuse him his victims, fell like a thunder clap upon our amateurs, who were far from thinking about him, and came near killing them, as I have just related.
This famous mistake delivered the artists from two obstacles. Doctor Accoramboni dreamed in his bed of the pyramid of Cestius, and Pitichinaccio thought that his last hour had come. Capuzzi tried to oppose bad fortune with a good heart alone; it was excessively repugnant to his vanity to have it believed that he had received his share of the blows so liberally distributed by Michael; besides, his finest opera was to be represented at Nicolo's theatre,—and nothing more was necessary to have recalled him from the other world.
Whilst he was preparing for this ovation, Salvator and Antonio were taking measures to lead to the successful abduction of Marianna.
"You will succeed, I am sure of it, and I will answer for it with my head," said Salvator to his friend; "receive, then, my best wishes for your happiness, in spite of the vain instinct of fear which seizes me at the thought of this marriage."
"What do you say," exclaimed Antonio, "what do you say, dear master?"
"I ought not to trouble you by my ideas concerning this marriage; and yet are you not free to treat these ideas as chimerical or foolish dreamings? I love woman, dear Antonio; but indeed, I tell you, that the most seductive, she for whom I should feel the most exalted passion, could not chase from my fearing mind those doubts, those apprehensions in which the conjugal ties are enveloped to my eyes. There is, do you see, in the nature of all women, I know not what mysterious machinery, which the science of the most skilful men cannot penetrate the secret of. She, by whose charms we have allowed ourselves to be caught, she who appears to have given herself to us with the truest, the most devoted passion, is often the first to betray her sworn faith and rend, without scruple, the compact of a union which ought to be eternal. It is my sad experience which makes me dread for you, my friend, some future sorrow which there would, perhaps, be time to avoid."
"But I dare not," replied Antonio, "I will no longer listen to you. Who then would dare to suspect my beautiful, my pure Marianna?"
"No one, assuredly," continued Salvator; "your Marianna is an angel of beauty and virtue; but it is precisely the ineffable charm of her whole person which makes me tremble for your future peace. Still again, clear friend, distrust the capricious nature of women; and, since you force me to explain, have you not until now reflected on the conduct of Marianna herself? Have you forgot the duplicity of this pretty child, whose simplicity you admire? Remember the night that we carried old Capuzzi home; the tender ward, did she not play her part towards him like a finished actress? And still later, are you ignorant of the art that she knew how to assume, at the time of Nicolo Musso's visit? Say and maintain what you please, and you will not be the less convinced of the cunning of this little Marianna, to cajole her uncle and put at rest his suspicions; it exceeds all trickery imaginable at so tender an age. She has in reality overcome all the obstacles which might retard the success of our projects. I do not pretend to say that towards this old fool Capuzzi all tricks are not legitimate. All is fair in war, says the proverb; but it is not the less possible that"
"Hold, Antonio, let us stop here, I pray you; I don't know, perhaps, what I am saying; do not be offended with me, for I wish nothing but your most perfect felicity with the young girl that you love. Let us think of nothing but the success of the plan which we have formed."
The evening that saw Pasquale Capuzzi take the road, for a second time, with Marianna, towards Formica's theatre, seemed to light up by the rays of the setting sun, the march of an unfortunate, whom an irresistible law drew towards a torture. Before them gravely walked, with an extremely repulsive look, the terrible Michael, armed at all points, like a paladin of ancient times. Behind the trembling couple was scattered a score of police, each one under the strictest orders.
Master Nicolo Musso awaited the illustrious composer at the door of his theatre. The house was filled with spectators, and he hastened to conduct Capuzzi and his charming niece to the places of honor which had been provided for them.—Signor Pasquale was much pleased by the particular attention of which he was the object; his red eyes glanced from side to side with radiant pride; and his satisfaction was boundless, when, after a minute inspection of every part of the room, he saw that all the seats near that of Marianna were occupied by women. An orchestra composed of five or six violins and a base, was hidden behind the ragged tapestry which formed the decoration of the stage. Master Capuzzi trembled with hope, whilst listening to hear the unknown artists torment their instruments into an accord; when, after waiting an hour, a formidable flourish of the bow announced that the performances were about to commence, the whole of his aged frame was seized with a galvanic trembling.
Signor Formica first appeared on the stage, dressed like Pasquale. As soon as he opened his mouth, Capuzzi rubbed his eyes to assure himself that he was not dreaming. The actor copied with sorrowful exactitude the features and the figure, without excepting one single ridiculous point, of the inhabitant of Ripetta street, so well known in the city, that an unavoidable homeric laugh resounded through the house. They rolled upon the seats in a delirium; uttering deafening shouts. Unfortunately, the object of this boisterous hilarity, far from prudently escaping, took this parade for a delicate attention from his friend Nicolo. He found his representative enchanting, adorable; he listened to Formica's singing with transports of pleasure difficult to describe.
Silence and calm were restored when the false Pasquale had finished his opening air; and doctor Graziano was seen to come from behind the screens, whose part, for this once, Nicolo himself had assumed. This personage approached, stopping his ears and making a despairing grimace.
"Rogue," cried he to Capuzzi's valet, "will you ever stop your bellowing?"
"Softly, my master," replied Pasquarello, "I see that you are no better than the rest of the inhabitants of my quarter, hard heads, who understand nothing in melody, and who wither by their illiterate criticisms the most distinguished talent in Italy! The air that I have just sung is from the most celebrated composer of our age, whom I have the honor to serve, in the capacity of valet, and who pays me generously in lessons of solfeggio and singing!"
At these words, Graziano began to enumerate, by their names, all the known artists; but, at each celebrated name Pasquarello shook his head disdainfully.
"Foolish animal!" said he, drawing himself up; "is it necessary to submit to the judgment of such appreciators?"
"What, do you not even know what all the world proclaims, that the most admirable musician of our time is no other than Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia, who has deigned to do me the honor to accept me for his humble valet?"
Graziano burst out laughing at the extravagance of his questioner.
"Ingrate, do-nothing!" exclaimed he, "dost thou not blush at having quitted my service, which gave you bread, honest wages and blows, to go and scout with the most notorious miser in all Rome, with a kind of maccaroni bag, with a double ass, who tries to look like a virtuoso, and only knows how to bray day and night, to the great discomfort of all Ripetta street!"
"Miserable envier," replied Pasquarello; and, turning his back on his abusive adversary, he branched off into an interminable panegyric on Capuzzi, in which he took care not to forget the description of his physical advantages, seasoned with such burlesque features, that the hilarity of the spectators rose to its utmost height. But Capuzzi alone comprehended nothing of this parody. He was ready to die for joy, and felt himself avenged for what he called, in his own breast, the injustice of his cotemporaries.
At this moment, the scene at the end of the stage opened to give entrance to a caricature of Capuzzi in person, copied, mask and dress, with the most minute fidelity. It was his bearing, his look and his gait: the whole appeared so real, that the true Capuzzi, frozen by fear at this unexpected apparition, allowed Marianna's hand to escape from his grasp, which he had until then kept upon it, and began to feel of himself from head to foot, to see if he was still in the land of the living, and if the personage who was advancing on the stage was a spectre or his ghost.
The false Capuzzi began by kissing Graziano tenderly upon both cheeks, then he asked him how he was. The doctor smiled, and, taking the attitude of a conqueror, answered that his health was perfect, but that his purse was extremely sick; that he had, the night before, purchased for the queen of his thoughts, a magnificent pair of flame-colored stockings, the price of which had ruined him; and that if he did not find, that very day, some Jew who would lend him thirty ducats, his reputation as a man of gallantry would be gone forever, and he should lose his lady.
"Thirty ducats, my dear friend!" exclaimed the unknown, who so well represented the lean figure of Capuzzi, "thirty ducats! is that all? and must you really be troubled about such a trifle as that! Here, my estimable friend, here are fifty, that I beg you will accept out of love for me."
"Pasquale, Pasquale! what art thou doing? thou wilt ruin thyself," murmured in a low voice the veritable Capuzzi, moving uneasily upon his seat.
Master Graziano, the fashionable doctor, drew a parchment from his pocket to write a receipt upon; but the Capuzzi resisted and would not listen to his talk about receipts and interest for a loan which was not worth, as he said, the trouble of thinking about for two minutes.
"Pasquale, my friend, thou art losing thy wits," continued Capuzzi, half aloud. Notwithstanding, doctor Graziano secured the loan, and loaded with caresses, with which he appeared to wish to suffocate the false Capuzzi. Then the clown, approaching him in a very humble manner, and exhausting himself in the most extravagant salutations, held out his hand timidly, as if to solicit the wages already due him. The false Capuzzi in a vein of good humor, threw him a few ducats and a multitude of fine promises for the future.
"Pasquale, Pasquale! thou art yielding thyself to the devil Prodigality!" cried out the veritable Capuzzi, so loudly, that the whole audience called out for him to be quiet, with a threat to throw him out should he again disturb the play.
The clown gravely continued his eulogium on the fine qualities of his master, and judged that the time was appropriate to announce to the public a new air from this great master. The false Capuzzi, clapping his companion on the shoulder, said to him, with a look ridiculously cunning, enough to make Egyptian mummies die laughing, that the office of singing Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia's music was just suited to a valet, seeing that the pretended virtuoso Capuzzi found it infinitely convenient to dress himself up in the peacock's feathers; and copied all through, from the works of Frescobaldi and Carissimi, pieces which he afterwards appropriated with unheard of effrontery.
The attack was rude; its effect was irresistible. "Thou liest, by all the saints thou liest!" howled the veritable Capuzzi, bounding with fury upon his seat, where all the neighbors exerted their strength to restrain him and prevent him from springing upon the stage.
"Let us talk about something else," continued, without being disconcerted, the false Capuzzi. "I will offer to my numerous friends and admirers a royal festival, and I order thee, Pasquarello, to expend thy imagination, thy arms, and thy legs, so that nothing shall be wanting on this solemn occasion."
Then, taking a list of the most exquisite dishes from his pocket, he called them out one after the other; and, when the faithful valet announced the price, he gave him the money without discussion. When the bill of fare for the feast was settled upon, Pasquarello begged his master to tell him for what occasion he ordered so splendid an entertainment.
"It is because to-morrow is the most fortunate day of my life. To-morrow, Pasquarello, I will give my beautiful Marianna in marriage to the most celebrated painter in Rome, after the great Salvator; to the good and worthy Antonio Scacciati, whom she loves with her whole heart."
The false Capuzzi had hardly finished pronouncing these words, when the real Capuzzi, struggling like a madman in the hands of the people, who tried to keep him in his seat, made the house resound with such furious clamors, that four or five women fainted with fear. He rose to his fullest height before the actor who thus abused him.
"Vile impostor," cried he to him, "thou liest like an accursed rogue! Antonio Seacciati is a beggar, who shall never have my sweet Marianna! And thou canst tell him from me, that if he ever shows himself at my door, I will have him skinned alive and thrown to the dogs!"
"What does this mean, old madman! old devil's boarder?" interrupted the false Capuzzi from the stage. "Is it allowable for a citizen thus to disturb the joy of peaceable people who have paid at the door of the theatre, to hear the praises of the venerable Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia? Is there not here some brave policeman who will free us from thy stupid presence, old counterfeiter, who art trying to pass thyself off for the most illustrious man in Ripetta street? Dare to oppose the happiness of these dear children that heaven appears to have created for each other"
At the same time Marianna and Antonio were seen advancing on the stage, their hands joined, a smile on their faces, and their eyes animated with the sweetest contentment that fortunate love can bestow. At the sight of this, Capuzzi felt his strength redoubled by rage; with a more vigorous bound than would have been expected from a man of his size, he found himself standing before them on the stage, and drawing his rapier, he was about to stab the person of Antonio Scacciati, when a nervous hand, seizing his arm, prevented him from committing a useless murder. An officer of the pope's guard arrested him, and, proceeding into an examination of the affair, said to him roughly:
"You will never in your life forget the unfortunate part you have played to-night in Nicolo Musso's theatre."
The surprise of the old man was extreme when the two actors, whom he had taken for Antonio and Marianna, taking, off their masks, exhibited faces entirely unknown to him.—The sword fell from his hand, a cold perspiration moistened his wrinkled checks, and he carried his hands to his forehead, as if to pluck from his brain the last impression of a frightful nightmare. A painful instinct made him tremble in every limb, when, on recovering from this hallucination, he sought for his niece at his side and found her no longer there. His despair at this would have awakened pity in the most insensible heart.
Whilst this comedy, sadly burlesque, ended the performances by a scene which came near being bloody, another drama was approaching its denouement in a corner of the room.
The veritable Antonio, profiting by the confusion which he had so successfully caused between Capuzzi and the actors, very adroitly made his way behind the spectators to Marianna, and told her in a few words, to tranquillize her, the trick which had been played, by the assistance of Salvator, to triumph over the obstinacy of her jealous guardian. "Time pressed, and the entreaties of Antonio threw the poor girl into a cruel perplexity. The thought of flying with her beloved, without being united to him by the sacred ties of marriage, frightened her. And then, although she had so little reason to be pleased with the proceedings of Capuzzi, she nevertheless respected in him the man to whom her dying father had confided her. It seemed to her that she could not, without odious ingratitude, which would wither her reputation forever, thus abandon the old man, who had, after all, no other fault to reproach himself with towards her than a ridiculous love, and a jealousy which she had sufficiently trifled with. Antonio had the greatest difficulty in overcoming her hesitation; every minute lost might forever separate them. Marianna understood this as well as he did himself. She wept in silence; a convulsive trembling agitated her limbs; a cloud passed over her eyes; the artist felt her falling; immediately profiting by the tumult and confusion which filled the place, he carried the young girl off in his arms, covering her with tears and kisses. A carriage which was waiting a short distance from Nicolo's theatre, received the lovers, and carried them off with lightning speed, on the road to Florence.
No words can express the exasperation of poor Capuzzi. He tried to hasten in pursuit of the odious ravisher of his niece. But the officer of the guard who had possession of his person, surrounded him with soldiers, and said to him coldly:
"Justice will inform herself concerning the carrying off and seduction of which you complain. As for you, I cannot, by my private authority, set you at liberty: you must immediately answer to the magistrate for your attempt at murder on the person of the young actor whom you were about so expeditiously to forward, had it not been for my interference. Let us walk, if you please, and do not force me to pull you by the ears."
IV.
All things here below, alas! are nothing but uncertainty and perpetual change; but nothing is more variable than man's heart. Such a one sees himself to-day the object of general sympathy and veneration, and to-morrow may fail into the abyss of adversity and contempt, without any one of his flatterers deigning to extend a hand to aid him.
As long as Capuzzi had only been ridiculous, there was not in the whole of Rome a single person, of whatever age or rank, who did not take a malicious pleasure in laughing at his avarice, and the ridiculousness of his eccentric life. But as soon as misfortune had struck him, as soon as the news of the elopement of Marianna was spread far and near, nothing else was thought of but sincere pity for the poor old man. When he was seen mournful and pensive, going about, bowed down by grief, through the most solitary streets in the city, every one felt compassion for so legitimate a grief, and heartily cursed the author of a ravishment which raised indignation in every family.
Never, perhaps, was the saying truer, that misfortunes seldom come single. Capuzzi had to deplore, some days after this fatal event, the loss of his two most intimate acquaintances; the abortion, Pitchinaccio, was the victim of an indigestion, and doctor Splendiano Accoramboni died of a mistake in spelling. Whilst he was so grievously sick, in consequence of the beating he had received from Michael the bravo, he tried to write for himself, through the bed curtains, a prescription for medicine; but his hand trembled so much, that an exaggerated stroke of the pen, lengthening beyond measure the tail of an important letter, raised to a fatal degree a dose of sublimate which helped to make up the remedy. Hardly had the doctor swallowed it, when he uttered piercing cries and writhed in horrible convulsions. He was buried under the pyramid of Cestius, in the midst of the numerous patients who, by his care, had long since preceded him.
It is curious to remark that the severest blame which was attached to the carrying off of Marianna did not fall entirely upon Antonio Scacciati. Everybody knew the active part that Salvator had taken in the success of this unfortunate accident. This accusation rendered him, in the eyes of families, a very dangerous associate, and cut off his access to the best houses in the city. His enemies, and his talents rendered them numerous, did not allow this opportunity of decrying him to escape. They went so far as to impute to him the most odious acts; they pretended that he had escaped from Naples to avoid the just chastisement of the most revolting excesses, and that, if the authorities did not take care, he would become the accomplice of the most evil disposed people.
All these accumulated reports, all these criminations still more perfidious, since they were only founded upon vain hypothesis, were spread with sufficient rapidity to gravely prejudice the interests and reputation of the great artist. Salvator who, since the departure of Antonio had shut himself up in his studio, produced several paintings of rare merit, and which ought to have stamped his genius with a seal of glory. But thanks to the calumnies which enviers spread abroad unceasingly, it came into fashion to decry his works, as they decried his reputation; and in public exhibitions of paintings, pretended rivals to Salvator, people of the academy of San-Luca, and simple amateurs, no longer examined his paintings without shrugging their shoulders or shaking their heads with a most disdainful look. To listen to these gentlemen, sometimes the skies were too blue, or sometimes the trees were too green, or the figures were in a bad position, and then perspective was wanting. Every one had his say, and no one was sparing of his criticism.
The vain members of the college of San-Luca were not the least anxious for the ruin of Salvator; they could not pardon him for the triumph of having discovered the Magdalen of Antonio Scacciati. And painting was soon no longer an object for the hate of these miserable detractors. Salvator wrote sonnets admirably poetical; and they did not scruple to call him a plagiary, and cowardly to appropriate the originality of his works. No one thought of remedying these wrongs, so strong was the deplorable prejudice which attached itself to the name of Salvator, since the adventures in Ripetta street. Thus his position, far from regaining its former brilliancy, became every day more precarious. Confined in the modest home which the devoted friendship of dame Catherine preserved to him, under the weight of this anathema, the artist felt that he was failing; and it was under this discouragement that he finished two pictures of large dimensions, which were talked of throughout Rome. One of these pictures represented the emblem of Human Frailty; the principal figure, type of inconstaney and luxury, was manifestly a portrait of the mistress of one of the princes of the Church.
The other picture was a representation of Fortune, scattering her gifts as chance directed; her hand rained down in profusion cardinal's caps, bishop's mitres, purses filled with gold, and insignia of public honors; all these distinctions fell upon donkeys, upon stupid sheep; whilst by the side of these animals, men whose eyes shone with the fire of genius, vainly awaited the least part of these favors. The work of Salvator expressed a bitter irony, and each one of these animals bore a striking resemblance in feature to the physiognomy of some of his enemies. I leave you to think by what rage the academicians of San-Luca were animated at the sight of this.—Not content with every where decrying his talent, they laid plots against his life. Salvator would have been glad to leave Rome, had it not been for the deep affection which he cherished for the good Catherine and her two daughters.
Forced to yield to a dire necessity, he set out for Florence, where the welcome of the Grand-Duke rendered justice to the brilliancy of his genius. His pictures here met with such rapid favor, that he soon found himself able to reëstablish his affairs on the former footing of splendor which he had enjoyed. His house became the resort of the most celebrated persons of the time; there were scen together there Evangelista Corieelli, Valerio Chimeutelli, Battista Ricciardi, Andrea Cavalcanti, Pietro Salvati, Phillippo Apoloni, Vulumnio Bandelli and Francesco Rovai, all poets and artists whose reputation was crowned by the friendship of Salvator.
At a short distance from his friend's palace, master Antonio Scacciati was making his fortune under the auspices of love. They both loved to pass together, with the pretty Marianna, long hours in recalling the adventures of Nicolo's theatre.—Marianna alone did not always share their joy; her loving heart was pained at the idea that Capuzzi, the brother of her father, abandoned by her, urged by grief towards the tomb, would curse her in his last moments. Antonio could not see the tears of his beloved without seeking anxiously some means of reconciliation with his strange relation. Salvator for a long time consoled them with the hope, that some fortunate circumstance would soon reunite them, when one morning Antonio rushed into the studio like a madman, crying out:—
"My friend, my guardian angel, what shall I do if you abandon me! Capuzzi has just arrived at Florence with an order for my arrest, as the ravisher of his niece!"
"But it is too late," said Salvator; "the Church, has it not blessed your marriage?"
"The Church itself cannot save me. The old devil has made his way to the pope; and he natters himself with being able to annul my marriage, and obtain a dispensation for his own."
"I recognize in this a vengeance from Rome! This poor pontiff is surrounded by flatterers who do everything to blind him; and because I figured in my satire Fortune their ignoble faces, under the features of animals that resembled them, not being able to injure me, their impotence leads them to attack me in the persons of my friends. That is the secret of the persecution which disturbs you. But calm yourself, re-assure yourself, Salvator remains devoted to you, and Signor Formica shall undertake again to rescue you in this affair! Return to Marianna, take to her from me friendly and consolatory words to sustain her courage, and peaceably await the issue of the plan which I am about to follow."
Antonio, subjected by the ascendancy of Salvator, obeyed without reply. The same day Pasquale Capuzzi received a ceremonious invitation in the name of the Academia de Percossi.
"Thank God!" exclaimed he, in an ecstacy of pride, "Florence is a wise city where every talent finds its place, and judges fit to appreciate it; Florence has then rendered justice to the works of Master Capuzzi di Senegaglia!"
The self-esteem of the old man was so flattered by a distinction which he took seriously, that, without caring more about his spite against Salvator, president of the Academia de Percossi, he took pains to hasten, in full dress, to meet the honors which awaited him. The Spanish doublet was thoroughly brushed, the yellow feather for the hat was cleaned, the shoes were embellished with new rosettes, and the man of Ripetta street, followed by his rapier, bounded from his hotel to the palace inhabited by Salvator Rosa, before whom his gratitude displayed itself by numerous reverential bows.
Capuzzi's reception was so well arranged that he thought himself at the height of glory. After the academic session, during which every one praised the exquisite penetration of his judgment, the wit which shone, said they, in his least words, he was invited to a splendid banquet, where several glasses of generous wine drowned in sweet forgetfulness his domestic grief, and the important business which had drawn him to Florence. Profiting by this blissful state, Salvator hastened to arrange, with the assistance of his friends, a little play, with which he proposed to entertain his guest. At a given signal, the draperies which ornamented the lower part of the room were drawn slowly aside, and there appeared, as if by magic, a natural bower covered with flowers.
"Divine goodness!" exclaimed Capuzzi. "What do I see? That is Nicolo Musso's theatre!"
Without replying to him, two of the guests, Evangelista Coricelli and Andrea Cavalcanti, took him by the arms, and drew him softly towards an arm-chair, placed for him in front of the stage on which the play was about to be enacted.—Almost immediately Signor Formica appeared, in the dress of a clown.
"Accursed Formica!" exclaimed Capuzzi, springing from his place, with his fist clenched. But his two neighbors, who had not quitted him, forced him to be seated again. The clown weeping bitterly, spoke of cutting his throat or drowning himself in the Tiber; but, unfortunately, the sight of blood irritated his nerves, and, on the other hand, he thought that he could not throw himself into the water without immediately beginning to swim.
Then doctor Graziano came upon the stage, and asked him the cause of his grief.
"Alas!" said Pasquarello, "are you ignorant then, that a vile scoundrel has carried off honest Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia's niece?"
"But," replied Graziano, "has justice not placed her hand upon this guilty man?"
"Yes, certainly," said Pasquarello, "as cunning as he may be, Antonio Scacciati could not escape the chastisement prepared for him by the worthy Signor Capuzzi. Antonio is arrested, his secret marriage with the pretty Marianna is declared null by the Holy Father, and the fugitive dove has gone back to Capuzzi's cage."
"What! can it be true!" exclaimed Pasquale, seeking to shake off the grasp of his neighbors, "that beggar Antonio is under key? Oh Formica, I bless thee!"
"Be so kind as not to move about so," said one of the guardians of the poor madman, gravely; "your cries prevent the other spectators from enjoying the spectacle."
Doctor Graziano continued his questions:—"The pope," answered Pasquarello, "has given the necessary dispensation for the marriage of Capuzzi with Marianna. All is ended! But the poor child has pined since this fatal marriage, and Capuzzi is slowly killing her by his jealousy."
Whilst listening to this conversation, Capuzzi raved like a demoniac, but his two neighbors held fast and did not allow him to escape. Suddenly, Pasquarello exclaimed in a lamentable voice, that Marianna was dead. At the same time funeral voices uttered a formidable de profundis in the distance, then the black penitents made the circuit of the stage carrying an open bier, on which reposed, under a white shroud, the remains of the unfortunate Marianna. An actor, disguised in the costume and mask of Capuzzi, followed weepingly this sad procession. The true Capuzzi could not resist this spectacle, and his lamentations mingled with the sobs of the actors. The stage suddenly becomes dark, the thunder roars, the earth opens, and a spectre is seen to rise, whose pale visage represents Marianna's father.
"Miserable brother!" slowly uttered the citizen of the other world; "what hast thou done with my child? God curses thee, murderer of Marianna! Hell awaits thee!"
Under the blow of this terrible threat, the false Capuzzi fell upon the ground, and the real Capuzzi really fainted. When he came to himself, his despair was pitiable; he wrung his hands and tore his garments.
"Ah, my poor child!" exclaimed he, "my beloved Marianna! I have killed thee! I am an unfortunate man! An infamous man!"
Had this crisis lasted longer, the good man would have lost his reason. Salvator made a sign: Antonio and Marianna, who had advanced behind the arm-chair, threw themselves at Capuzzi's feet. Marianna, covering his hands with kisses and tears, implored her pardon and that of Antonio, who belonged to her before God. At this sight, the paleness of Capuzzi's face gave place to a tint of scarlet, his eyes flashed like lightning, and his mouth was made up to utter curses.—But Marianna, with a heavenly look, stopped the thunder:
"My uncle," said she, her hands joined, "pardon for him, pardon for me; do not separate us if you do not wish that I should die!"
And without giving him time to answer, all present exclaimed:—"How can the illustrious Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia, the great master, who is the pride of Italy, resist the tears, the prayers of the most beautiful of women, who implores him as a father! How can he refuse to grant his niece to Antonio Scacciati the painter, whose glory already equals his genius!"
The most intense emotion made the whole of Capuzzi's frame palpitate: a violent combat was taking place in his soul. Finally, tenderness triumphed over anger. He opened his arms to Antonio and his niece, who fell at his feet. When they rose again, there was no longer before them either Pasquareilo, or Formica; the actor, who had filled this part with unanimous applause, had thrown off his mask and his disguise, henceforth useless.
"What, Salvator! It was you!" exclaimed at once Capuzzi, Antonio and Marianna.
"Yes, my friends," said the great artist, "yes, it was I who played this part for your happiness! It was I; for a year, the Romans, who despised my pictures and my poetry, covered me every evening with frenzied applause at the theatre of the People's Gate, without suspecting that, under the mask of poor Formica, was hidden the despised artist, whose vengeance punished their foibles. But I forgive the Romans, on your account!"
"Master Salvator," said Capuzzi, "all the Romans were not unjust towards you; for I, I have always admired your genius, although until now detesting your person. Obtain, then, for me from your friend Antonio, the permission to end my days under the same roof with my dear Marianna. I do not believe that he can ever be jealous of me, even should he sometimes see me adventure a kiss on the pretty little hand of my niece. An uncle is nearly a father, especially at my age; and we shall be, henceforth, the best friends in the world, if Antonio promises, besides this, to curl my gray moustache himself, every Sunday; it is a little deference which I require, and which, I hope, will not humiliate him."
A thousand kisses from the pretty Marianna immediately sealed this happy compact of a forgetfulness of the past.
Salvator Rosa, in a melancholy attitude, seemed to reflect whilst contemplating his work. God alone knows the mysterious thought which clouded for a moment the features of the great artist.
Capuzzi was joyful, when Antonio undertook to arrange his venerable moustache in the most tasteful manner; but he would never set foot again in his house in Ripetta street.