‘It is Alfred,’ said Baroni, as Sidonia evinced his admiration. ‘He chiefly arranges all this, under my instructions. In drapery his talent is remarkable.’
At length, after a series of representations, which were all worthy of being exhibited in the pavilions of princes, Baroni announced the last scene.
‘What you are going to see now is the Descent from the Cross; it is after Rubens, one of the greatest masters that ever lived, if you ever heard of such a person,’ he added, in a grumbling voice, and then turning to Sidonia, he said, ‘This crucifixion is the only thing which these savages seem at all to understand; but I should like you, sir, as you are an artist, to see the children in some Greek or Roman story: Pygmalion, or the Death of Agrippina. I think you would be pleased.’
‘I cannot be more pleased than I am now,’ said Sidonia. ‘I am also astonished.’
But here Baroni was obliged to scrape his fiddle, for the curtain moved.
‘It is a triumph of art,’ said Sidonia, as he beheld the immortal group of Rubens reproduced with a precision and an exquisite feeling which no language can sufficiently convey, or too much extol.
The performances were over, the little artists were summoned to the front scene to be applauded, the scanty audience were dispersing: Sidonia lingered.
‘You are living in this house, I suppose?’ he said to Baroni.
Baroni shook his head. ‘I can afford no roof except my own.’
‘And where is that?’