He called me “Excellence,” said he was going to mark the day with a white stone, and made me sit down. The hall in which we were represented the union of the kitchen, reception-room, bedchamber, studio, and wine-cellar. There were charcoal furnaces visible, a bed, paintings, an easel, bottles, strings of onions, and a magnificent lustre of coloured glass pendants. I glanced at the paintings on the wall.
“The arts! the arts!” cried Signor Polizzi, throwing up his arms again to heaven—“the arts! What dignity! what consolation! Excellence, I am a painter!”
And he showed me an unfinished Saint-Francis, which indeed could very well remain unfinished for ever without any loss to religion or to art. Next he showed me some old paintings of a better style, but apparently restored after a decidedly reckless manner.
“I repair,” he said—“I repair old paintings. Oh, the Old Masters! What genius, what soul!”
“Why, then,” I said to him, “you must be a painter, an archaeologist, and a wine-merchant all in one?”
“At your service, Excellence,” he answered. “I have a zucco here at this very moment—a zucco of which every single drop is a pearl of fire. I want your Lordship to taste of it.”
“I esteem the wines of Sicily,” I responded, “but it was not for the sake of your flagons that I came to see you, Signor Polizzi.”
He: “Then you have come to see me about paintings. You are an amateur. It is an immense delight for me to receive amateurs. I am going to show you the chef-d’oeuvre of Monrealese; yes, Excellence, his chef-d’oeuvre! An Adoration of Shepherds! It is the pearl of the whole Sicilian school!”
I: “Later on I will be glad to see the chef-d’oeuvre; but let us first talk about the business which brings me here.”
His little quick bright eyes watched my face curiously; and I perceived, with anguish, that he had not the least suspicion of the purpose of my visit.