Bitter-sweet memories of days now passed for ever. Days of utter irresponsible freedom to abolish time, to scorn ambition, to forget love and glory.
Oh strong, grand Italy! Wild Italy! Heedless of that sister Italy—the Italy of Art!
In time I became friendly with many of the villagers; one in particular, named Crispino, grew very fond of me; he not only got me perfumed pipe-stems (I had not then found out that I disliked the sort of excitement produced by tobacco) but balls, powder and even percussion caps. I first won his affection by helping to serenade his mistress and by singing a duet with him to that untameable young person; then fixed them by a present of two shirts and a pair of trousers. Crispino could not write, so when he had anything to tell me he came to Rome. What were thirty leagues to him?
At the Academy we usually left our doors open; one January morning—having left the mountains in October I had had three months’ boredom—on turning over in bed, I found, standing over me, a great sun-burnt scamp with pointed hat and twisted leggings, waiting quite quietly till I woke.
“Hallo, Crispino! What brings you here?”
“Oh, I have just come to—see you.”
“Yes; what next?”
“Well—just now——”
“Just now?”
“To tell the truth—I’ve got no money.”