The shoemakers of Italy are remarkable for their devotion to harmony, and my Assisi friends may be cited as a favourable specimen of the craft, who, if unable to afford money to purchase instruments, and time to use them, will sing glees as they sit at work, with a degree of proficiency that is sometimes astonishing. Nor do they confine their vocal powers to the shop only. When work is over, and they are about to separate for the evening, they will be seen with their hands rammed down into their pockets, and their heads close together, either singing at a street corner, or marking time with measured pace, as they take the road homewards. Giuseppe and his companions, who were all instrumentalists, devoted two nights in the week to the private performance of concerted pieces, to which as a stranger I was kindly invited, and it will be long before I lose the remembrance of these agreeable and unpretending little réunions.
I quitted Assisi on the day of Tuttisanti, or All Saints, making a bargain with the Fuligno postman to take me that far in his carrettina for the sum of four pauls. Taking a last peep into the Cathedral church of San Rufino, where some imposing ceremonies were going forward, I took leave of my Assisi friends, and got away about two. It rained hard all the way to Fuligno, but the monstrous campagna umbrella kindly lent me by the Signora Carpinelli, covered both myself and the postman, and saved us from a thorough drenching. On alighting at the “Croce Bianca,” I found a vetturino who was to start the next morning for Rome, and with him I soon came to an arrangement.
The waiter called me at five, bringing a cup of coffee, and having hastily dressed myself, I got into my corner of the legno. The rain was descending in sheets, and I wondered that our driver would venture out before day-break in such weather. As soon as the light had dawned, I discovered my travelling companions to be two priests and a lady, who soon commenced an animated conversation, that served to shorten the ride to Spoleto, where our vetturino pulled up at the hotel, declaring he would proceed no farther in such tempaccio. His half-dripping freight had nothing to do but to submit, and I therefore entered the inn and ordered a bed, determined to make the best of a forced halt. In the coffee-room, up stairs, I found a stout lady at a table, eating, with a lot of damp Italians gazing at her in astonishment. On a rainy day, a weather-bound traveller may be excused a trifling liberty, and I therefore stared with the rest, though I really did not observe anything remarkable until the lady addressed the gaping half-dozen. “Ah! you may stare; pity you ai’nt got nothing better to stare at!” The Italians seemed surprised and edified, and looked at each other in silence, and then again at the stout lady, who resumed. “Yes, I only wish looking at them cutlets ’ud make em bigger! Here, garsony, some salad!” “Eccomi qua Signora!” said the waiter, who emerged from behind a screen, at the far end of the room, where he had concocted a genuine insalata of highly lubricated beans, with a garnish of anchovies, which he now set down in triumph before the astonished lady. “Well, I never,” exclaimed she, “cold French beans with ile and vinegar—no, no, I aint quite come to that yet, neither, the very look on ’em makes me ill!” And my graceful countrywoman, producing a capacious case-bottle, drank her own health with infinite gusto, and then pledged the crowd of admirers, who bowed and took another long stare. At this juncture a good-humoured looking vetturino entered the room, whom she no sooner caught sight of, than she poured out for him another petit verre, and shaking her head ruefully, pointed to the dessert and remains of her repast which had evidently consisted of some few and very light materials, and had by no means come up to her understanding of the agreement made with the vetturino. But her wily driver, who swallowed the cognac, declined taking the hint, beckoning her away with a notice of “Siamo pronto, Signora,” and in defiance of both wind and water, they were soon again on their road northwards before I could get an opportunity of speaking the strange sail. The rain did not hold up until the moon rose, when it was too late to go forward; so we staid the night at Spoleto, and on the following day managed to reach Strittura, where we again met with a detention of some hours. At Terni, we dropped one of the priests, and took in his place a worthy sort of man, Governor of some little country district, and exceedingly self-important. On arriving at Narni, our vetturino drove to the “Campana,” or Bell Inn, a poor place enough, though said to be the best in the town. The waiter, who took us for a party of natives, from whom he would scarcely derive as much profit, as from a carriage-load of travelling “Inglese,” was impudent and abusive, but had no sooner detected a little badge of office worn by the Governatore, who unfastened his upper Benjamin to that intent, than he altered his tone, and shewed us excellent rooms. In the dining-room, I fell in with more than a score of English, principally ladies, and most amusing was it to me to hear their remarks upon our little party, our dress and personal appearance being freely canvassed, without the least affectation of whisper or concealment. I had my revenge upon them in the evening, when it was decided that we should amuse ourselves by having a song from every one present, the priests only being exempted. On its coming round to me, I selected something in the mother tongue, which, as the language was entirely unanticipated by certain of the young ladies, produced so strange an effect, that they left the room in confusion, and could scarcely be induced to return.
On reaching Otricoli the next day, we found a great number of vehicles, public and private, as well as the Corriera or mail, detained there by the overflow of the Tiber at the Ponte Felice. We were disposing ourselves to pass the remainder of the day in this miserable village, when a post-boy with some return horses, having brought the news that the water was not more than three palms over the road, we all decided to venture, and arrived at Civita Castellana without difficulty. At Rome I put up at an inn in the Via del Orso, with my Italian friend the Governor, until I could suit myself with a lodging, and on walking to the Lepri, fell in with many of my old artistical acquaintance at Aurelio’s table, who received me with many expressions of welcome.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHANGE OF DOMICILE—FRANCESCO—FRIENDS FROM ENGLAND—PICTURE-SHOPS—OLD PAINTINGS—ARTISTS AND THEIR PATRONS—MR. TITMARSH—ANECDOTE OF N—— —THE DINNER AT BERTINI’s—THE ENGLISH ACADEMY—TABLE TALK—HARMONY—THE AMERICANS—ROMAN GAIETIES—TORLONIA’S—THE FESTINI—HOSPITAL OF SAN MICHELE—THE QUIRINAL—VIA GREGORIANA—MR. RAVEN AGAIN—THE ENGLISH CHURCH—THE FRIENDS’ MEETING-HOUSE—ILLUMINATION OF ST. PETER’S.
Being informed that my old friend Quatremolle, the artist, had taken a studio outside the Porta del Popolo, I called on him the day after my arrival, and found him snugly located in a Casino belonging to the Borghese Gardens, exactly opposite the building known as the English Church. I had no sooner made my appearance, and told him that I was roofless, my old rooms in the Sistina being occupied, than he introduced me to a fine unfurnished room, adjoining his own, of which he said I might at once take possession. The proposal was liberal, and the situation, if not the most convenient, was at least so agreeable that I hastened to an upholsterer in the Corso, who supplied me on hire with such few articles of furniture as were necessary, and in the course of a few days I was snugly settled in my new quarters. Francesco, the Barbarossa, served us in the capacity of factotum, lighting the fires in the morning, and running for red herrings and butter to the shop of a neighbouring pizzicarolo. Underneath my room was a decent coffee-shop, from whence two or three taps upon the floor would produce my breakfast, whilst for dinner I paid the usual mid-day visit to the “Lepri.”
I was busy one morning in finishing up a Venetian sketch, when I was surprised by the apparition of an intimate acquaintance, fresh from England. He was travelling in quest of health with two of his friends, to whom he introduced me at the Hotel d’Angleterre, and as they appeared resolved to see all they could of Rome, a week or more was passed in one continued round of sight-seeing. The galleries, however, were the great objects of attraction, and there were very few that escaped their notice, to say nothing of the host of picture-shops which they visited in search of bargains. Mack himself would hardly have displayed greater perseverance in ferretting among old worm-eaten and decayed rubbish, than did my London friends, who have to answer for the rubbing up of many an atrocious daub, which, but for their extraordinary resolution, would never again have known the smell of varnish. Small dealers, who had hitherto never possessed anything beyond a Sacchi or a Bassano, now suddenly became the proprietors of sundry undoubted Correggios, or maybe an indisputable Sebastian del Piombo, in a mahogany frame, with a lock and a glass window. Almost every one had a genuine Nicolo Poussin, an unfortunate who might now have been living had he painted two-thirds of the pictures ascribed to him. This poor man too appears to have possessed the queer habit of obliterating his own foregrounds with an over-coating of brambles and brushwood; the sagacious dealer never failing to declare, that by the merest accident imaginable, the genuine picture was brought to light by the removal of a thick over-stratum of paint.
After having pretty well visited all the sights of Rome, and filled a large deal case with plasters, bronzes, mosaics, and paintings, my friends started off one fine morning for Florence, leaving behind them one of their party who was in poor health. This gentleman had been strongly recommended to Dr. P., an English physician of great and deserved popularity, who had made Rome his residence, and the introduction was no sooner effected, than W. put himself into the doctor’s hands, and taking a commodious suite of rooms in the Via Gregoriana, settled down for the winter. I staid a month or more in the studio outside the Popolo, when my friend Quatremolle decided on giving up the place and going northwards, and I then joined W——, who had begun to weary of living alone. Christmas time was fast approaching, and Rome becoming every day more and more crowded with English and other strangers, and consequent upon their arrival was a rapid succession of evening parties and artistical réunions. The brothers of the brush are not less averse than others to glitter in the reflected light of such stars of great magnitude, as twinkle away the winter in the Holy City, and when one of them does manage to nail a great man, there is generally some little manifestation of exclusiveness. Patrons, however, are by no means so plentiful as to be held in very light estimation, and the feeling is therefore excusable, whilst there can be no harm in fête-ing a pseudo-connoisseur with his own scudi, or standing treat at the Aliberti to Lord this, or the Marquis of that, with a heavy draft on Torlonia in prospectu. Of the great men who visited Rome during this winter, M. A. Titmarsh was among the most popular. Himself an artist, he dropped down among us on his way from Cairo, no one knowing when he came or how he went away. Installed in a quiet bed-room at Franz’s, in the Condotti, he appeared to amuse himself, like Asmodeus, with peering into the studios of his countrymen, and while he rummaged over their dusty portfolios, or critically scanned the pictures on the wall, would unconsciously read their secret thoughts, and penetrate, as it were, the arcana of their pockets, without allowing them for a moment to imagine that he intended aught save a mere friendly visit. Many, however, were the poor devils who managed to push through the winter on the strength of the timely fillip administered by Titmarsh,[40] who was moreover one of those pleasant paymasters who get a bad character because they make their settlements beforehand. Painting, however, ought certainly to be a ready-money business, as artists seldom like to give, what they somehow always manage to take—long credits; and as they never approach nearer to the practice of book-keeping than a chalk or charcoal memorandum on the wall or door-post, possess the happy knack of never knowing how their accounts stand, or may take the same businesslike view of a transaction, as my friend Savill, who declared that Mr. Milnes owed him £25. for a picture, which he afterwards gravely admitted he had neither commenced nor thought about.
I met Titmarsh at many of the evening parties which were held at this season by the artists. Perhaps the greatest display of this sort was made on a certain holiday, when the whole of us dined together at Bertini’s, and he was voted into the chair. It happened unfortunately, that the dinner provided on the occasion was of a most indifferent character, and very ill-calculated to impress the F. C. with any great idea of Roman advancement in gastronomy. Our motive, however, for thus meeting in a social way, was not that of mere feasting: a great amount of elocution had to be got through, in addition to the usual round of song and sentiment. It happened just at this time, that there was a schism among the members of the English Academy in Rome respecting a proposition originating with Mack,—that an Italian Professor of drawing should be appointed to the Academy! This proposal had met with the most vigorous and animated opposition from the other faction, headed by O’Neil, who had proved himself a most able champion, having set forth in an eloquent and elaborate speech, the consequences of such a measure,—the impropriety of introducing an Italian style of drawing to the annihilation of all originality,—the injustice of placing a master over men who never would submit to his criticism, and the unenviable position in which such a master would necessarily be placed,—the reflection, in fact, upon the state of English art, and other weighty considerations. O’Neil was supported by men of eminence and standing, as well as by a very conclusive argument adduced by the Secretary, who proved that the funds of the institution would ill support the expense. Mack, however, like an able general, having canvassed the whole body beforehand, carried his motion by a majority of eight! The master therefore was appointed, not as Professor of drawing to the English Academy, but to give his assistance to such as might ask it, a qualification of the original measure, which it was hoped would meet the views of all parties.