"What are you doing? I wish you were here. Come, and see how we paint in Germany, and especially how paints your friend, "EDWARD MAURICE." I was dead; but far from it. I am as alive | mance and grossness, the sentimental and as possible. It is you who are dead, you in the grotesque. You find it in all the ways the Eternal City! Dresden is pleasant in of the people, in their character, in their its way, though dull; not that I care about ideas, in all their literature of every kind, either quality, who am here to work and not everywhere, in short, except perhaps in their to play. I have to live stingily also; but music, and it is sometimes even there. then the little I have now is wealth to the nothing I had in London. After all, my dear fellow, though I grumbled at the time, old Owen was right; and not only right, but kind into the bargain. God knows I long for the time when I shall be what you call lost for ever; but it will certainly be best for all parties for me not to enter a rich family quite a beggar. You and I are too great friends for me not to tell you all. I wish you had been in town when matters were arranged, for I detest letter-writing, even to you- perhaps to you more than to any one, for you never answer. Well, then, I am to marry Grace Owen in two years' time. What am I to do meanwhile? you ask. This is the very mystery of my being in Dresden. You must have stared at the date of my letter, but this is why. It is explained in two words. I am to study here under Tibald himself, at the expense of Grace's father. No making me enter his counting-house; no making me give up Art; but telling me to make the best of the gifts God gave me; and, when I have done so, to take his daughter's hand freely, rich or poor. Ought I not to work after that? "How goes luck with you in Rome, and how with Harris, and Vere, and Roche ? Tell me soon. I have a good set here; but even now I sometimes think with a sigh of the beer and negrohead of Newman Street. You return soon to England, do you not? I suppose you will be calling in Street. Please send me news of Grace, for I have promised not to write to her. I shall envy you. Do you know I was jealous of 66 you once? August 25.-Another of my anniversaries, the day when she first visited my studio. Miserable rubbish she saw there! I know I was half ashamed; and how I afterwards loved the little sketch she praised, and now keeps for my sake! How I long to hear from her, but that cannot be. Work-that is now the best thing I can do both for her and for myself. I almost think I make progress; I am certain that I must, for how could I help it with such a motive? I think it rather a good sign that the maestro is always blaming me, and finding faults in my work. I used to dislike it at first, but I now understand him better, and see that he takes an interest in me after all. I wish I could find out what he really thinks though-and I should like a little praise sometimes. The highest that I get seems to consist of a long-drawn "So!" or, if he is in an excessively good humour, a sound something like "Hm! Hm!" spoken distinctly through the nose. Well, what shall I have to show her when she enters my studio the next time? Rubbish again, or - something great? Who knows? I still have a good hour of daylight left; I will make it another hour of Moreau. August 29.- One of those glorious summer days when we seem to be wasting life even when we spend it with Art, when eternal and supreme nature asserts her sove"I have begun to paint a picture-sub-reignty. I thought of summer days just ject, the death of Moreau, which, you pos- as glorious - I confess that I grew sentisibly don't know, is locally historical, so I mental—all past and gone, and the sweet can do the topography business from nature. scent with which the air was filled made me There is a charming point here on the road long to throw myself upon the grass and to Pillnitz, whence I have directed the smoke weep, if need were, from very excess of of five hundred cigars straight across the sunshine and beauty. If she were only battle-field. I go and sit there constantly here, what glorious days we could spend in the evening with my note-book, and think together! As it was, everything and everyand sketch and smoke and dream in the body seemed glad but myself, who found most delightful manner possible, to the ac-pleasure impossible, and work utterly against companiment of the rustling of the leaves, the grain. I must get rid of these childish the song of the birds, and the rumbling feelings. One's will ought to be superior of the skittle-alleys. For wherever there is a pleasant spot near the town, there you will find skittles and beer. I begin to like it, however. There is something rather fascinating about the national mingling of ro to weather, be the latter good or bad. Today I fought successfully indeed, but the fight was very hard, and left me very weary. However, I had my reward. My evening walk, though solitary, was thus all the more delightful, and the contrast of the quiet, | about. Such passengers! Where could soft air which soothed, with the brightness they have come from? They were not which disturbed, restored me to the happiness which now ought never to be invaded. I walked along the river; and the hills, and woods, and water, for once, were more than beautiful. I did not think as I walked-I only lived; I felt for once as if I were one with nature the leader of a great chorus of sky and earth, of wood and river, of hill and plain; and what was it that the chorus sang? Ah, Grace! what but you could be the soul of that song? CHAPTER II. "DRESDEN, 4th September. "DEAR FRANK, -This neighbourhood grows on me. It certainly is not great, nor is there much variety-the river, the hills, the woods, the vineyards — that is about all. Before I return I must make a run into Saxon Switzerland and fill my sketch-book, which is as yet rather empty. But one can't do everything. Meanwhile, I am rather glad that there is nothing to seduce me into dreaming among good scenery away from the study of lines and muscles. If there were, I feel I should be lost. I felt to-day an unutterable disgust for the studio, the gallery, and all the whole machinery for turning out an artist in the approved style. I had a real longing for open nature, and, shaking myself free of men and statues, to revel in the sun without thinking of anything, and so -I went to my beer-garden! Why, I must be more than half Teutonised already. "However, I had not been long at my favourite spot, and had not sent many discharges of smoke towards the death-ground of the Marshal, when I was amused by a little adventure that has left a pleasant impression on me, God knows why, for it was slight enough. To begin with, the eilwagen was creeping along the Leipzig road, between myself and the river. I felt my usual temptation to see if I could not throw a stone on to the top of it, but I have become so skilful of late that I was really afraid of succeeding, so I restrained myself. But what's that? The eilwagen overturned? Impossible!—yes, but true, nevertheless. So I went down the hill to inquire into such an extraordinary circumstance. "The wheel had come off. When I arrived, there was the driver holding the horses (neither of which was the least inclined to move), and gazing on the wreck in despair. The eilwagen had fallen to pieces, and the passengers were scattered hurt by the catastrophe, and so I could af ford to stare. Yet I don't know why I should have stared either, only they looked so miserable and so extremely dusty. First, there was an old man, little, lean, as brown almost as a coffee-berry, with long hair and grey mustache for the rest, close shorn, but stubbly very seedy as to costume, and with a half-smoked cigar still in his mouth; he had not parted with that, even in the moment of calamity. Secondly, a woman who might be old or might be young, very ugly, very fat, nearly as brown as the man, quite as shabby, but smiling placidly. Lastly, a young woman with a family likeness to the other two, and therefore, as you may suppose, not beautiful, and not dressed after the fashion-books. When I approached, the man stooped, picked up his hat, put it on his head, and then took it off again with a sweeping bow, and stepped forward easily and quite composed. "I hastily asked in German what was the matter, and if any one was hurt. "The man gave a piteous shrug of his whole person not the least like the celebrated shrug of Tibald, which is made with the tips of the shoulders only- and said in some strange language which I suppose he thought was French 666 Ah, Mosiou, que sche suis désolé ! — ne compra la votra langua, per Bacco!" "At least it sounded something like this, so I repeated my question in French, but this would not do either, and, my Italian being altogether drawn from the libretti of operas, I ransacked my brain in vain for a phrase applicable to the upset of an eilwagen. Very soon, however, the younger woman came forward, and in good French, but with a bad accent, told me what had happened. They were coming from Leipzig-(considering their road and their direction I could have told them that myself) all their luggage was with themwhich I suppose meant that they had no luggage anywhere at all, for I could see none and they were going to Dresden, which was equally evident. But what were they to do? The driver had to see after the horses and carriage, or rather the remnants, and they did not know their way. Now for the adventure!' you will exclaim. Well, I told them! and that is all. 46 Imagine the laziness that makes me sit down and write a letter like this. The fact is I have, for once, taken a whole holiday, and have enjoyed it very much indeed. Also I wanted to write to you; but resolved not to tell you anything until I heard from you. Why don't you write-per Bacco ? Yours eternally, E. MAURICE." September 6. Moreau is advancing, but slowly. Legitimate work, faster, though the maestro is as taciturn as ever. Life, though, is very pleasant. I am certainly lucky in the people I find here, and there is at the same time no fear of my having too much society, even if I wished it. Only I wish I could get news of Grace. How much of two years is gone? I wonder who that is singing in the other attic. A wonderfully sweet voice, and not badly taught altogether not such as one would expect to find up half-a-hundred flights. I hope she won't use it too often though; it will play the devil with Moreau. It would drive me wild if I had Grisi herself for a neighbour. Good or bad, singing or speaking, there is something in hearing the sound of a woman's voice when one is at work that drives one wild with nervous irritation -one voice of course excepted. It is certainly time Lawson wrote; he must have been in England some weeks now. September 9.-A letter from Lawson! "DEAR MAURICE,-Both your letters arrived at Rome after I left; consequently I have only just got them, and hence the delay in my answer. 66 "I left Rome to escape the latter summer, but, instead of going to Florence, as I intended, came back here at once. Circumstances, and so on. Where do you think I write this? At the old place in Newman Street! I am lonely enough just now, though all the world is out of town except myself-including the Owens. I asked after them yesterday, and was told they are at Scarborough, so I cannot send you any news now. Rely on me, however, in October. 66 "My dear fellow, I am duller than Thames water, or even than father Tiber, who is just now duller still. You ask after friends. Well, I left all in good spirits, the more so as none had any money. I don't think we had eight shillings among us all. But did you ever observe that remarkable phenomenon that as our friends' purses go down their spirits go up? So just before I went we spent the eight shillings in drinking to each other's speedy prosperity-not to yours, old fellow. -your Bohemian days are over, so we drank your memory in solemn silence. "Depend upon me for sending all the news I hear. I shall be sure to see the Owens before long, and will make a point of letting Mademoiselle know whatever I hear from you. There are more ways of killing a dog than hanging him. "Yours ever, F. L." September 11.-Confound that young woman who sings! Who can she be, I wonder? Some chorus-singer at the theatre, perhaps her airs seem all to have an operatic tendency. I expect she knows the feel of the boards, and I guess her to be Italian. She doesn't sing like a German. She might be English, from her voice, but that isn't likely. One doesn't find English girls with charming voices singing to the four walls of a Dresden attic-nor Italian either, for that matter. But one or the oth er she must be, I wager anything. Scales! now then, I am in for it! No more work for me at present. So I'll just see what her notion of a scale is, and then I'll take a turn on the Terrace. Bravissima! Why, who the devil can she be? This grows interesting. But has she no piano? Well, thank God, I am spared that, at all events. September 15.-I wonder what the result of these two years with Tibald will be. I have learned something, certainly, but now seem at a standstill. I really want a little encouragement. What an ass I was not to have stipulated for at least one letter during the time! For aught I know — no, no! I have nothing to do with fear or doubt. But certainly Lawson ought to have written again. I will stir him up. His ra "DEAR FRANK, I write for news. Having none of my own to give in exchange, I send you a continuation of the eilwagen adventure, without reference to the probability of your having forgotten it. If you have not, perhaps you will not have forgotten my account of the passengers who were spilled on that memorable occasion. Well, they have turned up again, and very oddly. The other day, on the stairs, I met the little old man, still with half a cigar in his mouth, and still stubbly as to the cheeks. zors must be unmatchable for bluntness. We exchanged good mornings, and I discovered that we are fellow-inhabitants of No. 25-in fact, we live in adjoining attics. We recognised each other at once. This leads to another discovery. From that attic comes forth the most delicious voice conceivable; a full soprano, singing scales and elaborate exercises in the real Italian style. Is not this like the beginning of a romance? For I assume that it is not the old woman who sings. and if you must give up Bohemia for a pair of bright eyes, why, you might have done worse than you have. 66 "I suppose you don't want to hear about anything else? You do? Well, then, I am going to leave England - yes, even Newman Street. Upon my soul, I can't stand it to live here with neither money, prospects, nor friends—so I am back to Italy, there, if I may, to live, and die, and be buried. I would ask you to come too, but of course that would be hopeless now, so direct to me for the future, at the old address at Rome. morte! I start to-morrow. - Roma o "The man seems intelligent, and even clever, so far as I can make out; but my ignorance of Italian, and his of any tongue but his own, is rather in the way of an interchange of ideas. I wonder how he gets his living. I am rather disposed to think he doesn't get it at all. He is not very communicative, and I can't get him to ask me to his apartment. I fancy he is terribly poor - he had no apparent linen when I first saw him, and now he seems to have less, if that is possible—and I faney thinks me a sort of millionaire. Well, I suppose I am, compared with him. I think I will ask him to my own attic, so that he may see that he has no particular reason to be afraid of a "Roche is well, and has even got some comparison of furniture. There are many few half-crowns, so he has an idle fit on him. mysteries about him I should much like to Everybody else is helping him to pass it as unravel. First, of course, what brings him pleasantly as may be. For me, I am sick of to Dresden; secondly, how it is that he al- things in general, and if I were only a little ways appears to have shaved the day before less disgusted, I would really try to get yesterday; thirdly, who is the singer; some half-crowns myself-shillings, perfourthly, how they get their living; fifthly haps, would be more in my line. Such is -and above all-how it is that his cigar the condition, my dear fellow, of your is always exactly half smoked through. FRANK LAWSON." There are others too, but these will be enough for the present. "What has become of the Owens ? Have you seen anything of them yet? Let me know all you hear. "For myself, I am really doing something, both with Tibald and my own private work. The Death of Moreau' is drawing to an end. "Remember me to all friends and acquaintances, especially to Roche, if he is in England. How does he get on? and, above all, how do you? E. M." "September 26. "DEAR MAURICE, -Your letters are even emptier than mine, but I will beat you in emptiness this time. I have only just seen the Owens. Observe the plural number, for the father has been in town some days attending to the multiplication table, and other commercial mysteries. But the young lady has been staying with two aunts in Lincolnshire quite in the wilds of the fens -where nobody is ever heard of. I saw her, however, yesterday afternoon. She was extremely well, and looking it. I gave her bits of your letters, and she was extremely pleased. Health and pleasure naturally made her extremely amiable, but that she always is. But I need not sing her praises to you; besides, perhaps, I shall revive your jealousy. You have no reason to be afraid of her flirting-of that I feel sure. She didn't send you any messagethat is, not in words, for in looks she sent a hundred. Really she is very charming, friend, "P.S.-What a wonderful fellow you are for weaving romances out of nothing! Your mystery is as clear as daylight. Is there no opera in Dresden? And does it not require chorus-singers? A pint of stout to a dozen of champagne- done! "P.P.S. As to the nightingale, I have no doubt that invisibility lends enchantment to the sound." CHAPTER III. "DRESDEN, October 31. "DEAR FRANK,-Thanks, old fellow, for your letter and your news. I am sorry, though, you are going into exile. Shan't I find you when I come back? I suppose you don't mean to cut us all for ever. "I can scarcely say you're wrong either. But, selfishly, I am really very much disgusted. So let me hear soon that you intend to change your mind in a year-and-ahalf's time. You speak of money—can I help you at all? I can do so to the extent of a few pounds now, and I suppose when I am settled I shall be good for one or two more. You know there ought to be no humbug of false delicacy between you and me. The only thing I won't do for you is the only thing you ask me to dothat is, to come to Rome. "I am working really hard, and hope to be able to do something in time according to better lights. But beyond barren accounts of work I have nothing particular to say. For amusement, I am not badly off for society, and I manage to hear a good deal of music, which here is not very ruinous work, and is very good on the whole. The opera is over for the present, but it has been a very fair season, although without any very tremendous stars. Still we had —, and and our old Paris friend, and we are in the land of orchestras, unless, perhaps, Vienna beats us, which we never allow. "Of excursions I have made none, though Dresden is the head-quarters of tourists for the Saxon Schweiz. We have had lots of them-tourists, I mean; but no one that I knew anything about, except some people that you are fortunate enough not to know, and whom I always avoid as much as I can. sieur would be good enough to leave any message with me. "A thousand thanks, Mademoiselle; but it is of no consequence. Another time will do just as well.' “I was uncertain how to proceed. Suddenly a brilliant thought struck me. 'With your permission I will call again presently,' I said. 'Good evening, Madame-good evening, Mademoiselle." And I left the room without giving either time to reply. "On re-entering my own room I left the door open in order that I might hear when Salvi himself returned. It was not long before my ears caught the sound of a step on the stair, then the opening of the door opposite to mine, and then, for an instant, the "About your bet, you are partly right sound of voices before it was closed again. and partly wrong, so I will not take it. II then waited a quarter of an hour by my will tell you the whole story of how I found watch, filled my cigar-case, took up a light, out all about the Italians, though you do and again tapped at my neighbour's door. laugh at my tendency to romance. Well, This time it was a man's voice that ancuriosity got the better of me one idle eve-swered 'Herein!' ning after dusk, and, inventing an excuse, I went across the passage and tapped at the door. A woman's voice called out Herein!' and I opened. It was too dark for me to see who was in the room, but, seeing that it was not empty, I asked in French, 646 To the niece of Signor Salvi, Monsieur.' "I am your neighbour on this floor. My name is Maurice. I took the liberty of disturbing you to'-the pretence for calling which I had intended to make use of was that of asking for a light; but the room was so cold and so dark-excepting for the moonlight which shone through the window -that it was not difficult to see that my neighbours were unable to procure a light for themselves. I hesitated, and stood at the door-rather like a fool, I fear. The girl came forward into the moonlight; but as her back was to the window I could not see her face. 666 A 'Pardon me, Mademoiselle,' I said, affecting for the moment not to see her uncle, I think I should like to leave a message.' I then turned towards Salvi. thousand pardons, Monsieur; I did not see that had returned. I wished to speak to you just now, but found you gone out.' you You are most welcome, Monsieur. Pray be seated.' The old fellow spoke as if he was welcoming me to a palace. I looked at him—noticed the eternal half cigar-and took a seat, placing my light on the table. Salvi sat opposite, and regarded me gravely from his grey eyes. "This time I had my pretext ready. 'Knowing that you are an Italian,' I said, though not from what part of Italy, I want to ask you if you could kindly give me any information about Florence as a residence? Some friends of mine are thinking of settling there.' "This may appear a stupid pretext at first sight, but it was carefully calculated to serve two great purposes at once. One was that I might learn from what part of Italy my host came, and the other that he might be embarked in a long discourse, which would probably contain something about himself and his family, and would certainly give me time and opportunity to make farther observations. "You are quite welcome, Monsieur,' "I come from Milan, Monsieur; but I she said; I would ask you to sit down and know Florence well, and will tell you what wait, but'-and she hesitated in her turn- I know with pleasure. Does Monsieur un'but my uncle is not in yet, and I am doubt-derstand Italian?' ful when he will be.' She spoke rather anx- "Not twenty words.' iously, and looked at the window for an in- "Then I must continue to speak French. stant. If, however,' she added, Mon-But will not Monsieur smoke?' He put |