FAMILY DIFFICULTIES.
"Beautiful this work, is it not, Nanni?"
"Yes; do you like it?"
"Yes."
But in this exchange of loving words there was a certain sadness, and although it did not appear on the surface, yet the ear and eye of him who loves hears and sees what is hidden below. We remained silent, and she, taking the little girls by the hand, said good-bye to me, and I was deeply moved, and resumed my work.
Added to all this, we were preoccupied about my sister, who would not remain any longer in the Conservatorio of Monticelli, and could not return to my house on account of incompatibility of temper between her and my mother-in-law. At last I arranged that she should be with my father; and this proved satisfactory, as he thus had some one to look after his house, and she some one to lean upon. As soon, however, as this was settled, we had other troubles, and of a graver kind—my brother's illness. Already for some time past, after the work in the studio had fallen off, the maintenance of this brother had been a serious thing to me; but with a little sacrifice and a little goodwill, this difficulty had been got over, and the hope of better days kept up the courage in both of us. But he constantly grew worse, and we had no hope of his recovery. In his wanderings he always spoke about me and my works, and it seemed as if his mind at times was clearer and more active. Perhaps this is so because the soul feels the day of its freedom approaching, and is breaking the chains which bind it to the body, and drawing nearer to its immortal life. We say that it is wandering, because we do not understand it; the veil of the flesh obscures our spiritual vision, and we cannot comprehend the meaning of the strange and mysterious words we use. Having partaken of the blessed Sacrament, he expired, at peace with God, in the first days of January 1850. My poor brother! poor Lorenzo! strong and handsome of person; open and gay of nature, and generous-hearted; loving work and not minding fatigue, with a frank sincere smile that often came to soften the sharpness of his words. In those days a man of high intellect and great spirit, burning with a love for all that was truly beautiful, also left us. Lorenzo Bartolini died, after a few days' illness, of congestion of the brain, not young in years, but always very young in his affections and inspirations. Some moments before he was overtaken by illness, he was working on the marble with the energy and precision of a man in the prime of life. Whatever was the cause, he was taken ill, and neither the efforts of science, nor the love of his family, nor the interest and concern of every one, was able to save him. He was universally lamented, even by those who disliked him; for genius, though at first it may irritate the weak, in the long-run commands admiration and love.
DEATH OF BARTOLINI.
His works remain as an example of the beautiful in nature, which is the mainspring of Art. In the foregoing pages I have already touched on his character as a man. I have also mentioned the reasons why he kept me at a distance; and now it is pleasant for me to remember that some time before his death he became reconciled to me, and the reconciliation took place in a most singular and casual way. One evening at Fenzi's house, after dinner, we were all assembled in the billiard-room playing pool: there were also some ladies, who were not kept away by the cigar-smoke. Bartolini came in; and Carlino Fenzi, as soon as he saw him, went forward to meet him, and said—
ANECDOTE OF BARTOLINI.
"Good evening, Professor."