My hotel was very far from the poorhouse, but the two places were not very dissimilar; for although all my expenses were paid by the Grand Duke, it had not yet become the fashion to squander and waste after the ways of to-day; and be it from education, temperament, or other motives, I felt it my duty to economise for that good gentleman's purse even more than for my own, and therefore my inn could really be called a poorhouse in spite of its pompous name, for it was a third-class hotel; but the distance was great, and, to mortify the Professor a little, I wrote on his studio door—"G. Duprè at home on such a day and such an hour."
PROFESSOR ANGELINI.
He will come, he will certainly come, to see me at my inn to make his excuses. Poor Angelini! he is certainly absent-minded, and am I not also absent-minded? He will come to find me out. Yes; I stayed in Naples six months, and never saw him. Something beyond absent-mindedness, I think; but so it was. I told all this for amusement to his colleagues, but they took it seriously to heart,—so much so, that at one of their academic meetings they proposed me as an Associate-Professor: and Angelini seemed delighted, and warmly supported my nomination, so that naturally it was passed; but I never went into his studio. Oh no.
Yes; I repeat it ten, twenty times over. My dear colleague, this happened in the month of January 1853; see what a good memory I have. You, it is quite natural, have forgotten it, because he who is guilty of such things does not take heed of them, neither should the person to whom they are done, unless he be as black as Loredan, who wrote down the death of the two Foscari in his book of Debit and Credit. Therefore let it be understood, that I did not take note of it, and don't remember it; but if you ever take it into your head to return to Florence, and, passing casually through the Via della Sapienza, you would like to rest a little in my studio, you can do so; and the best of it is, that I do not name the day or the hour, only take this journey and make this visit soon, for we are now both old, and I shall not return to you, for I am afraid of finding the door shut!
Here I come to the moral. I speak of artists. The desire to see the works and also become acquainted personally with contemporary artists is a good sign; it indicates a spirit of emulation, a wish to learn, and form bonds of friendship, so to discuss and bring to light errors and doubts on questions of art. But if the artist with whom you desire to speak names a certain day and hour, then answer at once, "Thank you very much, but I cannot come." Tell him this untruth—it will be but a small sin; whereas he who imposes upon you a day and hour gives himself so much importance that he resembles that ugly and haughty signor called Pride.
SHAKING HANDS.
There are some medicines so proper and efficacious, that once you have taken them, you are radically cured, and for good. Angelini cured me of the wish to knock at studio doors; and the Signora Marchesini cured me of another habit, formed either by custom or stupidity, of shaking hands with everybody, especially with women. The Signora Marchesini was at that time (I am speaking of about thirty years ago) an aristocratic lady of a certain age—one of those persons who, without even taking the trouble to turn to look at any one who came to see her, would answer the salutation and bow prescribed by good breeding with an addio and a "good evening" when one took leave, were it even at midnight. Such was the Signora Marchesini.
EMBRACING FRIENDS.
One night I went into her box at the Pergola, and going up to her I bowed and put out my hand. Ass that I was! I did not know that this act of familiarity was not allowed to inferiors; and putting aside nobility of birth, I was her junior by thirty years, and perhaps this offended the austere lady more than anything else. The lesson, however, was a good one; and from that day, in fact from that evening, I have never since been the first to offer my hand to any woman, old or young. All this nonsense reminds me of a much rougher and more vulgar instance of haughtiness, from which my beloved wife was the sufferer. She was as simple and good, poor darling, as the woman who offended her was hard and proud.
I had gone to pay a visit to a friend of mine, a gentleman of noble birth, education, and tact, with whom I had friendly relations. My wife was with me, and he was in the drawing-room with his, who was French by birth, much younger than himself, and whom he had lately married. As soon as my friend saw me he spread out his arms, and we embraced each other; my wife, with a feeling of spontaneous tenderness, pressed forward to embrace the young lady, but she drew back, perhaps not thinking it beseeming or according to etiquette to embrace a woman the first time she saw her, even although she was much older than herself. My poor Marina, with her purity of soul, did not feel offended, but turning to me she timidly asked, "Have I done wrong?"