Part 2 (1/2)
In this way I consoled myself, and went on with courage and hopefulness.
Here some one may say, this artist in his old age gives us a picture of himself as a boy where there is too much fancy. The portrait is beautiful, but is it a likeness? Has not the love of beauty seduced him?
What is the truth? Who ever saw a boy who was always obedient, studious, patient, constant, &c. &c.?
Slowly, my good sirs--slowly; have a little patience. Some sc.r.a.pes even I have got into, and for the love of truth I must not pa.s.s them by in silence. But everything has its place, and here, for instance, _is_ the place for one of these sc.r.a.pes. In the shop where I was employed, close to my bench there was a great plaster pillar rising from the floor to the ceiling. Neither I nor any one had ever thought or inquired for what purpose it had been made. In this pillar was a sort of little niche, into which was walled up a phial of oil kept for sharpening our tools.
Now it happened that this phial got broken, and in consequence it became necessary to knock down the rest of the little niche in order to put in a new one; but in performing this operation, I perceived that the wall was thin under the hammer, as if it were hollow, so I began to think what this could mean. The others also wondered, and some said one thing, and some said another. In the meantime, as I continued to hammer on the wall in the interior of the niche, a brick fell down, the wall gave way, and we looked into a hollow s.p.a.ce. Taking a stick to measure the depth, we found it was considerable; but we could not understand what the meaning of this could be. I have already said, in the beginning of these memoirs, that our shop was under the Piatti printing-office--and so it is, for the printing-office is on the first floor over it; but the building is very high, and above that floor are others occupied by lodgers. Suddenly, as we stood still, perplexed and wondering what could be the use of this hollow pillar, I, being nearest the spot, heard a noise within like a rustling or rubbing of something which we could not explain.
[Sidenote: THE ”SOULS OF PURGATORY.”]
For a while I stood still, thinking, when suddenly I guessed what it was, and said to my companions--
”In a moment, if I succeed, you will witness a scene that will make you laugh.”
”What do you mean to do?”
”You will see.” Taking a long piece of beaten iron wire, I bent it into the form of a mark of interrogation, and fastening the straight end of it firmly to a bit of wood, when I heard the noise again I thrust it to the opposite side of the hole, and again and again tried if I could catch hold of anything within. At last, when I thought I had grappled hold of something, I pulled it up, and found it to be a rope. As soon as the rope was caught, we heard several voices scolding, calling, and disputing--amongst others, a woman's voice shouting, ”No, I tell you there are no other lodgers; pull away, the bucket must have got into some hole.” Then the poor woman pulled, and every time she pulled I gave a loud groan. At last, apparently the woman's strength failed, the mistress herself or some one else pulled at it, for I could feel she had no more strength to pull, and then cried out with an impertinent voice, worthy of greater success, ”Who is there?” ”The souls of purgatory,” I shouted out lugubriously, and instantly felt the rope fall down.
To say the truth, I was then a little alarmed through fear of being discovered, so I pushed forward the iron hook, and the rope fell, bucket and all, into the well. My companions laughed at the scene, but I did not; and thinking the joke might be found out, I hastened to close up again the hole with a brick, set the little bottle of oil into it, restore the niche as it was, smudge it over well that it might appear old and as if it had never been touched, sweep away all traces of the plaster that had been used, straighten out the instrument I had used, and apply myself to my work in serious rather than hilarious mood.
[Sidenote: MY FATHER GOES TO ROME.]
About this time my father, failing to get work, came to Florence, hoping to find something to do; but his hopes proved vain. He stayed there a little while, but at last determined to go away, and this time for a more distant place. My mother and all of us tried to dissuade him, telling him to have patience, that some way would be found, that we would do all we could to help, and although we were very poor, still we should all be together. But it seemed to him that we could not get on in this way, and accordingly he left for Rome. So long as he was at Siena and wrote to us, and sometimes sent us a few _sous_, it was not so bad, and we were accustomed to it; but now, who could say how we should get on? So far away, without any one to help him, without acquaintances, and with so imperious a character, what would become of him? Fortunately, however, he found employment, and he wrote that he was well, and hoped in a short time to be able to send us something. G.o.d knows there was need of it.
Meanwhile I had become tolerably skilful. I was no longer a boy; I earned about three _pauls_ a-day, and nearly all this I gave to my mother, reserving for myself only a few _sous_ to buy paper, pencils, and books. Beyond these things I wanted nothing, for my mother took care to keep me cleanly and decently dressed.
[Sidenote: DISCONTENT.]
As my face, my way of speaking, and my manners were not vulgar, many of the customers who came to our shop took me for the son of the princ.i.p.al instead of an apprentice. They readily addressed themselves to me; I took their messages, and sometimes their orders for the work, and the older and more skilful workmen showed no ill-feeling about it. Amongst other customers who had a liking for me, I remember Signor Emilio de Fabris, who at that time was the head workman in Baccani's studio. He used to come to direct and urge on the work. He used to talk with me, and to make his observations on the work; and as he even then had an easy and graceful way of talking, I listened to him with attention. He was a thin, tall, refined young man, admirably educated, and courteous in his manners. To-day he is one of the most famous masters of architecture, President of our Academy of Fine Arts, and my good friend.
But although I had many reasons for being contented,--for at home, thanks to the small wages of my brother Lorenzo, the few _sous_ that came from Rome, and the earnings, meagre though they were, of my mother, we were able, by putting all together, to live tolerably though poorly, and in the shop I was liked and esteemed by my master, by the men, by all,--still I was not contented. I felt there was a void, a feeling of uneasiness, and a melancholy that I could neither explain to myself, nor could others explain to me except by jestingly calling me ”the poet.”
And this was the truth, for the poet is eminently a dreamer whose dreams are more joyous and smiling than any reality, and I dreamed--yes, but not of a smiling future when I should be rich and famous, but of any sort of way by which I could find vent for that inward longing to distinguish myself above others, and to distinguish myself especially in figure-work, though it should be only in wood; but it was not possible for me to satisfy this longing in the shop. Here I was obliged to work at all sorts of things--chandeliers, frames, mask-heads, everything; and I not only felt unhappy, but was unhappy, and my health began to fail. I was advised to take sea-baths; but in Leghorn the cholera was raging, and it would have been imprudent to go there, and so another year pa.s.sed in the midst of desires and hopes and fears and ill-health. But at last I went to the baths. I had scarcely arrived there, however, when that terrible disease reappeared and raged furiously: the inhabitants and strangers hastened to fly from it; all business was suspended; movement and gaiety almost entirely disappeared; the shops were shut; and in a short time Leghorn became deserted, sad, and oppressed with fear.
[Sidenote: CHOLERA AT LEGHORN.]
My mother wrote to me from Florence urging my immediate return; but I--I know not why--felt myself, as it were, riveted to Leghorn. It may have been perhaps on account of the effect of the sea air, the novelty of the life, and the excitement produced in me by the danger to which my life was exposed, which I not only did not fear, but even felt strong enough almost to challenge, and more than all, the notable improvement that I daily felt in my health, which decided me to remain. I had found some friends even gayer and more thoughtless than myself. We went to the fish-market and bought the best fish for almost nothing--fresh red mullet for two or three _soldi_ a pound--for there were no purchasers.
It was generally believed that the disease came from the sea, and was brought on by eating fish; but we ate and drank and smoked merrily.
In a few days I recovered my health, got a good colour, gained strength, and melancholy went to the devil. I also found some work to do. The few _soldi_ that I had brought with me rapidly disappeared. I worked but little, only doing so much day by day as would enable me to live merrily. By one o'clock my day of work was over, and then began that of amus.e.m.e.nt--which consisted of dinner, walks in the country sometimes as far as Montenero, towards evening a good swim in the sea, then to the _cafe_, and late to bed. Leading as I did this happy life, one can readily imagine that my letters home breathed trust, courage, and tranquillity of spirit, so that my mother, although she never ceased to beg me to return, did so in less pressing terms and with gentler expressions.
[Sidenote: AMUs.e.m.e.nTS--CACCIUCCO.]
[Sidenote: I SAVE A DROWNING WOMAN.]
One day when I had gone with my friends on board one of those small vessels which are stationed at the ”Anelli,” and while we were eating a dish of fresh fish called _cacciucco_, which the sailors excel in making, a woman who was walking by the sh.o.r.e fell or threw herself into the sea. For a short time she floated, sustained by her clothes, which puffed up into a sort of bell; then she began to waver to and fro, and down she went. We looked at each other, and then about us to see if any of the sailors on the neighbouring s.h.i.+ps had seen the woman and were moving to the rescue, and those on board our boat only shrugged their shoulders as if she were a dog.
”Down with you! throw yourself in! you know how to swim!”
”I, of course; but don't you swim better than I?”