le.

Marzio had begun life in a bad humour. He delighted in his imaginary
grievances, and inflicted his anger on all who came near him, only
varying the manifestation of it to suit the position in which he chanced
to find himself. With his wife he was overbearing; with his brother he
was insolent; with his apprentice he was sullen; and with his associates
at the old Falcone he played the demagogue. The reason of these phases
was very simple. His wife could not oppose him, Don Paolo would not
wrangle with him, Gianbattista imposed upon him by his superior calm and
strength of character, and, lastly, his socialist friends applauded him
and nattered his vanity. It is impossible for a weak man to appear
always the same, and his weakness is made the more noticeable when he
affects strength. The sinews of goodness are courage, moral and
physical, a fact which places all really good men and women beyond the
reach of ridicule and above the high-water mark of the world's
contempt.

Marzio lacked courage, and his virulence boiled most hotly when he had
least to fear for his personal safety. It was owing to this innate
weakness that such a combination of artistic sensitiveness and spasmodic
arrogance was possible. The man's excitable imagination apprehended
opposition where there was none, and his timidity made him fear a
struggle, and hate himself for fearing it. As soon as he was alone,
however, his thoughts generally returned to his art, and found
expression in the delicate execution of the most exquisite fancies.
Under other circumstances his character might have developed in a widely
different way; his talent would still have been the same. There is a
sort of nervous irritability which acts as a stimulant upon the
faculties, and makes them work faster. With Marzio this unnatural state
was chronic, and had become so because he had given himself up to it. It
is a common disease in cities, where a man is forced to associate with
his fellow-men, and to compete with them, whether he is naturally
inclined to do so or not. If Marzio could have exercised his art while
living as a hermit on the top of a lonely mountain he might have been a
much better man.

He almost understood this himself as he walked slowly through the Via
delle Botteghe Oscure--"the street of dark shops"--in the early
morning. He was thinking of the crucifix he was to make, and the
interest he felt in it made him dread the consequences of the previous
night's