"I know; but I understood it, and I repeat that she will not listen to you,—and if you want to do well, you will never come here again. Here there is work and not love-making to be done. But if you like, you might go to her house and speak with her mother. Perhaps then—who knows? But I should say that nothing would come of it, and it would be better so. You are too young, and so is she. Now you understand. So go away, and good-bye."
I GO TO SEE MARINA.
"Thank you, I understand; but where is Marina's house?"
"It is in the Via dell'Ulivo, near San Piero."
"Good-bye, Signora maestra."
"Your servant."
The day after this I went to Marina's house and found her mother Regina. The house was a small one, but very clean. In a few words I opened my heart to her and told her all, even of my having stopped Marina in the Piazzetta de' Giuochi. Regina was a woman of about forty years of age, and a widow. She listened quietly to me until I got to the end, and then only blamed me for having stopped her daughter in the street. She added that she would think about it; but she did not conceal from me that she thought me too young. I hastened to tell her how much I made by my day's work, and that I had a settled occupation. She then wished to hear about my family, and showed a desire to know my mother; and after having spoken to Marina, she said she would allow me to come to the house of an evening two or three times a-week. So far things went well; but at home I had as yet said nothing, and this I was obliged to do, as it was the first condition made before I could go to the girl's house. I was not afraid of my father, because, single or married, it was the same to him, as long as I continued to help him in the work he required of me; but as regards my mother, it was quite another "pair of sleeves." As soon as I had opened my mouth I saw a frown on her beautiful forehead, and she would not let me go on to the end, saying that I was doing wrong, that I was too young, that I ought to think of the shop, of my family, and make for myself a standing. Not without tears she made me feel that she looked upon this determination of mine as a sign of want of love for her. I attempted in every way to persuade her that I always cared the same for her, and that this new affection would in no wise diminish my love for her; that the young girl was an angel; that she would be pleased by her, and love her like a daughter. I embraced her, and wept, and she took pity on me, poor mother! She condescended to make the girl's acquaintance, and so we went to her house. The two mothers talked a long time together, whilst Marina put some things in order here and there about the room, without going away; and you could see the embarrassment of the poor girl. I held one of my mother's hands in mine, and kept my eyes on Marina, who never looked at me once.
OPPOSITION TO MY MARRIAGE.
It was settled that I could go to the house two or three times a-week without speaking of the time that was to elapse before the day of the wedding. Yes, I really was too young, as I was only eighteen.
All these particulars may seem superfluous, and for most people they certainly are so; but I meant, and I said so from the first, that these memoirs should be destined for my family and for young artists, to whom I desire to show myself such as I am, even in all the truth and purity of the most tender of affections. Then it is with a feeling of tender gratitude and painful sadness that I go back in memory to those days of my meeting with her, the difficulties that arose to prevent our union, and the very great influence she had over me. From these pictures interpolated now and then amongst these papers, young men of good intentions will feel the charm that surrounds the sanctity of domestic affections. Every other evening I saw the good and charming girl. I remained for only about an hour or so—such was her mother's desire. Whilst both of them worked—the mother spinning and the daughter sewing together their long braids of straw—I talked to them of my work in the shop, of my studies, and of my hopes. Again returned to me stronger than ever the desire to do figure-work, and a vague, persistent, and fierce hope to become a sculptor in marble. When in various forms I expressed these my thoughts, Marina, who was listening to me with her eyes on her work, looked up to me and seemed to search in mine for the meaning of my words. Poor Marina, you did not then understand what agitated the heart of your young friend. Later you understood; and although full of fears, you did not discourage him. But enough—do not let us anticipate.