THE POLITICAL REFORMS OF THE YEAR 1847 IN TUSCANY—MY FIRST SCHOLARS—CISERI, PRATI, ALEARDI, FUSINATO, COLETTI, AND CHIARINI THE IMPROVISATORE—INEDITED VERSES BY PRATI—GIUSEPPE VERDI—A DIGRESSION ON ARTISTIC INDIVIDUALITY—THE EMPEROR OF RUSSIA'S VISIT TO MY STUDIO—REACTIONARY MOVEMENT OF THE 12TH OF APRIL, 1849—I AM IN DANGER OF MY LIFE—THE RETURN OF THE GRAND DUKE.

T The elevation of Pius IX. to the Pontificate, the amnesty and reforms granted by that Pontiff, which initiated and awoke the liberal sentiments of all Italy, were perhaps felt more in Florence than elsewhere, almost all the political refugees from the different States having for some time past found a safe and peaceful home there, owing to the character and patriarchal laws of the Grand Duke. This drew me away from the serene quiet of my studio, and with the others I shouted, "Long live Ferruccio! Pius IX.! the press! the civic guard and Gioberti!" and all the rest. The principal leader of our peaceful demonstrations was the advocate Antonio Mordini, and after him came Giuseppe La Farina, and others. Not a petition was made to the Government or a deputation sent to the Prince in which I did not take part. Whether our honest demands were of use to the country, I will not discuss, but certainly my work suffered not a little from this state of things. Nor was I the only one to abandon the studio; all, young and old, were possessed and inflamed with a national aspiration for independence from foreign occupation. The consequence of all this excitement was, that I was taken away from my studies and work; and, in short, while there was a great deal of patriotic enthusiasm, there was but little study, very little profit, and much idle talk on questions more or less futile, by which family peace was destroyed, and friendship made a matter of caution and suspicion.

Although in these memoirs I do not propose to speak of politics (not feeling equal to it), I wish to touch on the great events that produced the revolution of '48, as they were one of the causes of interruption in my art; and even in politics, in consequence of the turn things were taking, I found myself set aside. Some of my friends whose views went far beyond mine left me, and the others that had remained stationary blamed me even for those temperate aspirations that were those also of the Government. I was disheartened, self-involved, and ill at ease. With the growth of the revolution, the departure of the Grand Duke, and the dread of a dangerous crisis, artistic life was not one of the most flourishing, and I had not work of any kind, except to retouch the wax of "Abel and Cain," that the Grand Duke had given an order to Papi to cast in bronze.

Seeing this, I concentrated all my life in my family affections. My studio had become deserted; my scholars—Tito Sarrocchi, Luigi Majoli, and Enrico Pazzi—had left me to go to the camp. They returned afterwards, but were always tossed about on the wave of the revolution. Only one of my workmen, Romualdo Bianchini, was left dead on the field, the 29th of May, at Curtatone.

I passed my days in great sadness. Antonio Ciseri, with whom I had contracted a friendship from my earliest steps in art, had his studio near mine, and we used to exchange visits. Although he was not a facile talker, his nature was open and ingenuous; and as his principles in art, his morals, and his habits agreed with mine, a strong friendship grew up between us, which has never diminished; and if years have whitened our beards, our hearts have not grown old, and we love each as in our early years. To-day he is one of our first painters, and has a number of able and devoted scholars.

Amongst my friends was also Dr Giuseppe Saltini, who for many years had been a physician in the employment of the Government, and now leads a hard life with restricted means, on account of having so many children. Now I will describe an evening passed most pleasantly in those times. One day some clever men came to see me—Prati, Aleardi, Fusinato, Coletti, doctor and poet, and others that I do not remember. They said to me, "Is it true that in Florence there are, as in the days gone by, improvisatori poets? We [it was Prati who spoke] are curious to hear one, and have not the pretension, as you can imagine, to expect high flights, but only free verses, and really improvised. Here is Aleardi (whom I present to you), who is a confounded sceptic on the subject of improvisation, and says that these people commit to memory a great quantity of verses of various measures, and when the occasion offers itself, have the art of patching them together in such a way that the mosaic resembles a real picture. You must know, however, that my friend is very slow in composition,—much slower than I am, although he is a far abler and more graceful poet."

"I believe," said I, "I know just the person you are looking for, and Aleardi will be disabused of such a notion. It is a certain Chiarini, called Baco, who keeps a little stall under the Uffizi, and I have heard him many times, alone or in company of others. It was real improvisation; the flow of his ideas was not common or vulgar, and he invested them with a graceful and vigorous form. You shall hear him. I will take upon myself to invite him to come. Return here, and I will tell you when he is able to do so, for he is a man who has much to do. During the day, as I have said, he attends to his little shop under the Uffizi, and in the evening he is engaged to go here and there on purpose to show his skill as an extempore poet."

The poet having been engaged, and an appointment made for my friends at the studio, trial of his improvisation took place; and he did not know who his listeners were, which was perhaps as well, for who knows how much the poor poet might have felt embarrassed by the presence of such men? A table was constructed by laying a board on two trestles. I had invited, besides Prati and the rest, Ciseri the painter, Giulio Piatti, and some others whom I do not remember. The table was laid with great simplicity—some bread, sausages, and wine serving only as a sort of excuse for animating our poet with a little food and drink. Before anything else was done, Aleardi and Prati besieged the improvisatore with questions to ascertain how far his culture went; and although he showed that he was familiar and well acquainted with the poets, beginning with Homer and Virgil down to our times—so that he could repeat by memory some of the most beautiful fragments—as far as history, geography, and critical works went, he really knew very little, or at least so pretended. Then without further preamble Chiarini said, "Some one give me a theme. I feel in the mood for singing;" and seating himself whilst waiting, he began a prelude upon his guitar, which was sometimes soft and mournful, and then again loud and stirring. Seeing that we delayed giving him a subject, he began to sing off verse after verse in ottava rima, and stringing together a series of piquant and pointed remarks against us, ridiculing our torpor and indifference. I cannot describe our hearty laughter in hearing the deluge of sarcasm and biting epigrams launched at each of us in turn by way of stirring us up. The verses were so flowing, fresh, and spirited, that they really did not seem like improvisations, so that Prati, a little irritated, after a brief consultation with the others, gave out the following theme: "The death of Buondelmonte of the Buondelmonti." Our poet began as if he had studied the subject before in all its parts, situations, colouring, names, dates, and particulars, the circumstances and sad consequences of that tragic death, and sang with inspired freedom, and with always increasing warmth and passion. The tender and pure love of the Amidei, the betrothal and pledges made between the two families, the insidious and malicious conduct of the mother of the Donati, the frivolities of Buondelmonte attracted by the saucy beauty of her daughter, the perjury and breaking away of the compact with the Amidei family, the marriage arranged with the Donati, the preparations for this marriage, the rage of the Amidei and their followers for such an atrocious insult and want of good faith, their schemes of vengeance, the conspiracy, the ambush and murder at the foot of the statue of Mars (where he interpolated in a masterly way the saying of Mosca—

—it seemed as if the whole thing stood there before him, not as a picture, but a living and breathing reality; while he, with his head and eyes uplifted, was heedless of our enthusiasm and shouts of applause. He sang for almost two hours; and when he had finished, all bathed with perspiration, he put down his lute and drank. Prati and the others embraced him with effusion, only regretting that, owing to the rapidity and rush of the poet's inspiration, they had been able to retain but a few lines. Prati, however, repeated and perhaps somewhat refashioned a whole verse in ottava rima, and not content with expressing his admiration in words, wished to prove it to poor, tired, and excited Baco by dictating an improvised sonnet to him, of which I remember the first four and the last three lines.

In order, however, to understand Prati's verses, it is necessary to know that in those days the Capponi Ministry had fallen, and Guerrazzi come into power. Prati, who had suffered some persecution from him, owing to having in his harangues before the Circolo Politico Moderato fulminated Pindarically against this Titan from Leghorn, whilst praising the improvisatore, lashes out against the opposition. Here are the verses, and I regret I have only retained these in my memory:—

And the last three lines are:—

And, placing his signature at the bottom of it, he presented it to Chiarini, whose face, when he had read it and seen by whom it was signed, assumed an expression of admiration mingled with regret touching to behold.

The evening passed gaily. Prati also improvised, encouraged (which is saying a great deal) and accompanied by Chiarini, and, despite his puffing and blowing, said some very fine things. At last we separated, engaging our improvisatore for another evening in another place; but this I shall omit.

This symposium of artists was one of the few pleasures of those days, when my interest and enthusiasm for Art were relaxed, and I had no opportunity to work, as I have before said, because, except retouching in wax the Abel and Cain, and some few portraits, I had absolutely nothing to do. In connection with these statues that the Grand Duke had ordered in bronze, let me say that, having finished in marble the Abel, the Grand Duke saw it, regretted that he had not ordered it himself, and that it was to go away from Florence. I proposed, to satisfy his wishes, to make a replica; but he was set upon having the original. It was in vain I said that any replica made by him who had originally made the model is always and substantially original, the artist in finishing it always introducing modifications and changes which make it an original and not a copy. His Highness was not satisfied with this reasoning, and preferred that it should be cast in bronze, making the mould upon that which was already finished in marble.

I answered, "In order to do that, I must have the permission of the owner."

"Right," he said to me; "and if, as you assure me, the marble is not injured by making the mould, I am certain that permission will be given."

I wrote to the Imperial household of Russia that his Highness the Grand Duke wished to have a cast in bronze of the Abel, taking the mould from the finished marble that I was making for his Imperial Majesty (the Grand Duchess Marie having presented both this statue and the Cain to her father the Emperor Nicholas). The answer was precisely this: "If the Abel is finished, have it boxed up and sent immediately."

I showed the answer to the Grand Duke, who smiled and said—

"One cannot deny that the answer is not very gracious; but now, as I really desire to have this statue in bronze, tell me, could not a mould be taken from the plaster-cast?"

"Your Highness, yes; and for this, only the consent of the artist is required."

"And do you give this consent?"

"I prefer to take the mould from the plaster-cast rather than from the marble, because the cast is the more accurate—in fact, is the true original."

And so it was settled. And at the same time, he ordered also the Cain, from which I removed the trunk that served as a support in the marble, bent a little more the arm and the hand, which was upon the forehead, and remodelled it almost entirely in the wax.

About this time Giuseppe Verdi came to Florence to bring out his 'Macbeth.' If I mistake not, it was the first time he ever came among us; but his fame had preceded him. Enemies, it is natural, he had in great numbers. I was an admirer of all his works then known, 'Nabuco,' 'Ernani,' and 'Giovanna d'Arco.' His enemies said that as an artist he was very vulgar, and corrupted the Italian school of singing; and as a man, they said he was an absolute bear, full of pride and arrogance, and disdained to make the acquaintance of any one. Wishing to convince myself at once of the truth of this, I wrote a note in the following terms: "Giovanni DuprÈ begs the illustrious Maestro G. Verdi to do him the honour of paying him a visit at his studio whenever it is convenient for him to do so, as he desires to show him his Cain, that he is now finishing in marble, before he sends it away." But in order to see how much of a bear he really was, I carried the letter, and represented myself as a young man belonging to the Professor's studio. He received me with great urbanity, read the letter, and then, with a face which was neither serious nor smiling, he said—

"Tell the Professor that I thank him very much, and I will go to see him as soon as possible, for I had it in my mind to do so, wishing to know personally a young sculptor who," &c.

I answered, "If you, Signor Maestro, desire to make the acquaintance as soon as possible of that young sculptor, you can have that satisfaction at once, for I am he."

He smiled pleasantly, and shaking my hand, he said, "Oh, this is just like an artist."

We talked a long time together, and he showed me some letters of introduction that he had for Capponi, Giusti, and Niccolini. The one for Giusti was from Manzoni. All the time that he remained in Florence we saw each other every day. We made some excursions into the neighbourhood, such as to the Ginori porcelain manufactory, to Fiesole, and to Torre del Gallo. We were a company of four or five: Andrea Maffei, Manara, who afterwards died at Rome, Giulio Piatti, Verdi, and myself. In the evenings he allowed either the one or the other of us to go to hear the rehearsals of 'Macbeth;' in the mornings he and Maffei very often came to my studio. He had a great deal of taste for painting and sculpture, and talked of them with no ordinary acumen. He had a great preference for Michael Angelo; and I remember that, in the chapel of Canon Sacchi, which is below Fiesole, on the old road, where there is a fine collection of works of art, he remained on his knees for nearly a quarter of an hour in admiration of an altar-piece said to be the work of Michael Angelo. I wanted to make his bust; but for reasons independent of his will and mine, this plan could not be carried into effect, and I contented myself with taking a cast of his hand, which I afterwards cut in marble and presented to the Siennese Philharmonic Society, to which I have belonged since 1843, when, as I have before said, I went to Siena. The hand of Verdi is in the act of writing. In taking the cast the pen remained embedded in it, and now serves as a little stick to my sketch of Sant'Antonino.

Verdi seemed to be pleased with the Cain, the fierce and savage nature of which he felt in his very blood; and I remember that my friend Maffei endeavoured to persuade him that a fine drama, with effective situations and contrasts of character, with which Verdi's genius and inclination fitted him to cope, could be made out of Byron's tragedy of 'Cain,' which he was then translating. The gentleness of character and piety of Abel contrasted with that of Cain, excited by fierce anger and envy because the offer of Abel was acceptable to God; Abel, who caresses his brother and talks to him about God—and Cain, who scornfully rejects his gentle words, uttering blasphemies even against God; a chorus of invisible angels in the air, a chorus of demons under ground; Cain, who, blinded by anger, kills his brother; then the mother, who at the cry of Abel rushes in and finds him dead, then the father, then the young wife of Abel; the grief of all for the death of that pure character, their horror of the murderer; the dark and profound remorse of Cain; and finally, the curse that fell upon him,—all formed a theme truly worthy of the dramatic and Biblical genius of Giuseppe Verdi. I remember that at the time he was much taken with it; but he did nothing more about it, and I suppose he had his good reasons. Perhaps the nudity was an obstacle. Still, with the skins of wild beasts, tunics and eminently picturesque mantles can be made; at all events he could have set the subject to music if it offered him situations and effects and really attracted him, for Verdi has shown in his many works that he possesses that sublime and fiery genius which is adapted to such a tremendous drama. He who had conceived the grand and serious melodies of 'Nabuco,' the pathetic songs of the 'Trovatore' and the 'Traviata,' and the local colour, character, and sublime harmonies of 'Aida,' might well set Cain to music. Should Verdi at any time read these pages, who knows what he may do?

And here perhaps it is best for me to make a slight digression, in order to speak of the character and disposition which specially belong to every artist independently of everything else—of his studies, of what he copies, and of the fashion of the day. Who would have thought that so sweet and strong a painter as Giotto would ever have risen out of the harsh and coarse mosaic-paintings of the Byzantines and the teachings of Cimabue? Variety of character, truth of movement and expression, broad and flowing draperies, colouring at once temperate, airy, and strong, were, it might be said, created by him, and took the place of the hardness, and I could almost say deformity, of the Byzantines and the dryness of the works of Cimabue. Nor did Fra Giovanni Angelico show less originality and individuality in his works. He lived in the full noon of the naturalistic school of Masaccio, Lippi, and Donatello, and his pure spirit drew its inspirations from the mystic and ideal sources of heaven, the Virgin, and the saints, not only in his subjects, but in their treatment. Michael Angelo, solitary in the midst of a corrupt, avaricious, and lascivious civilisation, by his temperament and will was conspicuous for his purity of morals, his large liberality, and his intellectual love; and despite of Raphael and Leonardo, those most splendid planets of Art, he maintained his originality, and his great figure towers like a giant among them.

The artist by nature, developed by study, becomes original and has a character distinct from all others, and in no way, not even in the slightest characteristic, can, despite any exterior influence, be different from what he is. For if Giotto had been born and educated in the sixteenth or seventeenth century, he would not have painted the vain pomps and the archaic frivolities of that period; nor would Fra Angelico at the school of Giulio Romano have given himself up to the lasciviousness of his master; nor would Michael Angelo have been warped, nor was he warped, by the strength of those giants Leonardo and Raphael. The artist, then, is what he is and such as he is born, and study will only fertilise his genius, his nature, and his propensities, nor can he with the utmost force of his will conceive and create a work contrary to his nature and to his genius. Michael Angelo would never have been able, even with a hundred years of the most powerful effort, to create a Paradise like that of Giovanni Angelico; and Fra Angelico would never have imagined even one of the figures of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel. I remember—and this is my reason for this digression—that one day Rossini, speaking to me confidentially of Art in general, and upon this subject and all its bearings (and he was a competent judge), came by degrees to speak of music, and of the individual character of the composers he had known, and in regard to Verdi he spoke thus: "You see, Verdi is a master whose character is serious and melancholy; his colouring is dark and sad, which springs abundantly and spontaneously from his genius, and precisely for this reason is most valuable. I have the highest esteem for it; but on the other hand, it is indubitable that he will never compose a semi-serious opera like the 'Linda,' and still less a comic opera like the 'Elixir d'Amore.'"

I added, "Nor like the 'BarbiÈre.'"

He replied, "Leave me entirely out of the question."

This he said to me twenty-two years ago in my studio in the Candeli, and Verdi has not yet composed a comic or semi-serious opera, nor do I believe that he has ever thought of doing so; and in this he has been quite right. The musical art and Italy wait for a 'Cain' from him, and they wait for it because he himself felt the will and the power to create it.

I remember also another judgment and another expression of Rossini's in regard to Verdi. One evening after dinner I stayed on with him, because he liked to have a little talk. He was walking slowly up and down the dining-room, for he did not like to leave the room, the unpleasant odour which remains after dinner giving him apparently no annoyance. The Signora Olimpia, his wife, was playing a game of cards called minchiate with one of the regular friends of the house—I mean one of those inevitable sticks that old ladies make use of to amuse them and help them to pass the time at cards.

Some one always arrived late, but Rossini would not see everybody. This evening, if I mistake not, came the Signora Varese, Signor de Luigi, and others whom I did not know; then two youths, who apparently were music-masters, and they, after saluting the Signora, turned to Rossini with these words: "Have you heard, Signor Maestro, the criticism of Scudo on the new opera of Verdi, 'I Vespri Siciliani,' which has just been given in Paris?"

"No," answered Rossini, rather seriously.

"A regular criticism, you know; you should read it. It is in the last number of the 'Revue des Deux Mondes.'" And then they began to repeat some of these opinions of Scudo's, with adulation, which, if courteous, was little praiseworthy. But Rossini interrupted them, saying—

"They make me laugh when they criticise Verdi in this way, and with such a pen! To write an able and true criticism of him, requires higher capacity and an abler pen. In my opinion, this would require two Italian composers of music who could write better than he does himself; but as these Italian musical composers who are superior to Verdi are yet to come, we must content ourselves with his music, applaud him when he does well," and here he clapped his hands, "and warn him in a fraternal way when we think he could have done better." As he finished these words he seemed a little heated, and almost offended, as if he thought that these people had come to give him this news by way of flattering him, or in order to have the violent criticism of Scudo confirmed. The fact is, he must have already read the criticism itself, as I had seen the number of the 'Revue' on his table before dinner. The conversation then changed, and nothing more was said.

About this time the Emperor of Russia, who was passing through Florence, honoured me with a visit. I should have passed over in silence this fact; but as it was the occasion of a false impression, by which I appeared to be the most stupid and ignorant man in the world, it is better that I should narrate exactly what occurred. Signor Mariotti, the agent for the Russian Imperial household, who, the reader may remember, had procured for me the commission for the marble of Abel, sent me word that during the day the Emperor would come to see the Cain, which was already finished in marble. I waited for him all day; but towards evening, an hour before nightfall, I dressed myself to go away, not believing that any one would come at that hour. Just as I was going out I heard a disturbance, a noise of carriages and horses, and saw the Emperor stopping at my studio. It was nearly dark, so, with a stout heart, before he descended I went to the door of the carriage and said—

"Your Majesty, I am highly honoured by your visit to my studio, but I fear that your Majesty cannot satisfy your desire to see the Cain, as it is nearly nightfall, and I should like to show this work of mine in a more favourable light."

The street was full of curious people; the studios of the artists my neighbours were all open, and they were in the doorway; the ministers of the Imperial house put their heads out of their carriage to see what was the reason the Emperor did not get out, and with whom he was talking. The Emperor, with a benign countenance, answered—

"You are quite right; one cannot see well at this hour. I will return to-morrow after mid-day."

I bowed, and the carriages drove on. This stopping of the carriage and its driving on again after a few words had passed between his Majesty and myself, led some ass to suppose that I had not been willing to receive the Emperor, and some malicious person repeated the little story; but not for long, as the next morning he returned with all his suite.

As soon as he descended, he said to me—

"Vous parlez franÇais?"

"TrÈs mal, MajestÉ."

"Well, I speak a little Italian; we will make a mixture."

General Menzicoff, Count Orloff, and others whom I do not remember, accompanied the Emperor. As soon as he entered the studio he took off his hat, to the great astonishment of his suite, who all hastened to imitate him, and remained with his head uncovered all the time he was there. He was of colossal build, and perfectly proportioned. The Emperor Nicholas was then of mature years, but he looked as if he were in the flower of manhood. He talked and listened willingly, and tried to enter into the motives and conceptions of the artist.

Amongst others he saw a sketch of Adam and Eve that I had just made with the intention of representing the first family. He saw it, and it pleased him. He said it would go well with the Cain and Abel; and from these words, one might have taken for granted that he had ordered it. But I have always rather held back and been little eager for commissions, so that I did not feel myself empowered to execute it. Then, also, I had taken this subject for my simple satisfaction, and certainly with the intention of making it in the large, which I did not, however, carry into effect; for if I had done so, I should probably have offered it to him, as he had been so much pleased by the sketch. The Emperor was most affable with me, and showed a desire to know something about me besides my studies and works that he had before his eyes, so I satisfied his wishes. Nor is it to be wondered at that so important a person as he was should inquire into the particulars of simple home-life, for he was (so I afterwards heard) a good husband and father. He accompanied the Empress his wife to Palermo, as her ill health made it necessary for her to be in that mild climate, perfumed with life-giving odours. He married his daughter Maria Nicolaiewna to the Prince of Leuchtenberg, who was a simple officer in the army; but as he became aware that the young people loved each other, he wished to procure their happiness. A good husband and a good father; pity it is that one cannot say a good sovereign! His persecutions and cruelty towards Poland, especially in regard to her religious liberty, and even her language, which is the principal inheritance of a nation, are not a small stain on that patriarchal figure.

If the young reader has the good habit of not skipping, he will remember perhaps the danger I ran of dying asphyxiated in my little studio near San Simone in company with the model, whilst I was making the sketch for the Abel. Now I must speak of another grave peril that I ran of certain death, had it not been that Divine Providence sent me help just in time. It was the 12th of April 1849: for some days past a crowd of rough and violent Livornese had been going about our streets with jeering and menacing bearing; and insults, violence, and provocations of every kind had not been wanting. That day a squad of these brutal fellows, after having eaten and taken a good deal to drink, would not pay their reckoning; there were altercations and blows, to the damage of the poor man who kept the wine-shop; and as if that were not enough, there were other gross improprieties. This happened in the Camaldoli of San Lorenzo, at a place called La Cella, where the population was crowded and rude. The cup was overflowing, and at a cry of, "Give it to them! give it to them!" they fell upon these scoundrels; and although the latter were armed with swords (being of the Livornese national guard) and stilettoes, they were overwhelmed by the rush of the populace, disarmed, and killed.

This was like a spark, and spread like lightning throughout Florence. There was a great tumult and angry cries for men from Leghorn. Everything served as a weapon; every workman ran out with the implements of his trade, and even dishevelled ragged women ran about like so many furies with cudgels, shovels, and tongs, screaming, "Kill them! kill them!" There were many victims. The soldiers who were in the Belvedere fortress, as soon as they heard the reports of the guns and the cause thereof, came down from there like wild beasts, such was their hatred against these people, from whom they had received every kind of insult, even to finding two of their companions nailed to the boards of their barracks one day—acts that were a dishonour to the good reputation of the open-hearted Livornese, with their free mode of speech and quick intelligence. Timid people retired and shut themselves up in their houses, the shops were closed, the streets deserted, and one saw some people running and others pursuing them, as dogs hares; reports of guns were heard, now close by and now in the distance, cries for mercy, the drums beating the generale, and the mournful tolling of the big bell,—all of which produced a fearful and cruel effect.

I lived in a house over my studio, in Via Nazionale, a short distance from the spot from which came the fatal spark. At the sound of the beating of the generale I rushed up into my house to arm myself, to run to join our company. My colonel was the Marchese Gerini, and the captain Carlo Fenzi. My poor wife! I see her still crying and supplicating me not to leave her, saying, "What are you going to do?—to kill or to be killed? Stay here, and if they come to attack us in the house, as they said they would, then you will defend these poor little ones." I yielded; but Sarrocchi, who was in the house with me, in spite of his father's tears and prayers, would go, and our company went forward and protected these Livornese Guards from the fury of the populace as far as the station of Santa Maria Novella. The company was led by the second lieutenant, Engineer Renard. I went back down into the studio and tried to work, but could do nothing. That constant noise of running, questioning, firing of guns, the beating of the distant drums—a dull sound, strange and fearful—had so irritated my nerves that I walked up and down the studio, taking up a book and putting it down again. At last I resolved to go home again, all the more so that I had left my wife feeling anxious and every moment fearing that something might happen to me. I had my studio dress on, which consisted of a linen blouse and red skull-cap. Just as I was going out I heard some screams, lamentations, and a rush of people. I looked out, and saw a squad of furious men following and beating with sticks a poor Livornese, who, not being able to go any farther, fell at the corner of the street, by the CaffÈ degli Artisti. That bloody scene made me ill; and compelled by compassion for that poor young fellow, I ran and thrust myself into the midst of the crowd that surrounded the fallen man. He was wounded in the head, and bleeding freely; one eye was almost put out, and he held one hand up in supplication, but his infuriated assailants beat at him as if they had been threshing corn. "Let him alone! Stop! Good heavens, don't you see that the poor young fellow is dying?" They turned and looked at me. "What does he say? Who is he?" asked these assassins. "He is a Livornese also," was the answer. The eagerness I had shown in favour of that unfortunate man, the red skull-cap that I wore on my head, and my accent not being that of a vulgar Florentine, gave strength to that assertion. From the dark look in their eyes and their sardonic smiles I became aware of my danger, and wished to speak; but these infuriated beings screamed out, "Give it to him! give it to him, for he is also a Livornese!" I felt that I was lost. A blow, aimed at my head, fell on my shoulder, and some one spat in my face. A person, whose name I do not recall, an ex-sergeant and drill-master of our company, arrived in time to save me.

"Stop!" said he—"stop!" and with these words he interposed and warded off the blows aimed at me. The words and resolute action of this man in sergeant's uniform carried weight with them, and to put an end to all this excitement he shouted out, "I bear witness, on my honour, that this is the Professor DuprÈ, sculptor, corporal in our company, and not at all a Livornese."

The crowd had thickened more and more, and in it there were some who knew me and echoed the words of this courageous and spirited man, so that I was saved. In the meantime my scholars, Enrico Pazzi and Luigi Majoli, armed with long iron compasses, had rushed to my succour; and it was fortunate that they were no longer needed, as, being young and brave-spirited, and Romagnoli, with these weapons in their hands, who knows what might have been the consequence?