hable
wifehood, seemed to Marzio to be nothing better than an accomplice and a
spy of his brother's in the domestic warfare. Next, the lingering love
for his child had been eaten up in the same way, and Marzio said to
himself that the girl had joined the enemy, and was no longer worthy of
his confidence. Lastly, the change in Gianbattista's character and ideas
seemed to destroy the last link which bound the chiseller to his family.
Henceforth, his hand was against each one of his household, and he
fancied that they were all banded together against himself.

Every step had followed as the inevitable consequence of what had gone
before. The brooding and suspicious nature of the artist had persisted
in seeing in each change in himself the blackest treachery in those who
surrounded him. His wife was an implacable enemy, his daughter a spy,
his apprentice a traitor, and as for Paolo himself, Marzio considered
him the blackest of villains. For all this chain of hatreds led
backwards, and was concentrated with tenfold virulence in his great
hatred for his brother. Paolo, in his estimation, was the author of all
the evil, the sole ultimate cause of domestic discord, the arch enemy of
the future, the representative, in Marzio's sweeping condemnation, not
only of the church and of religion, but of that whole fabric of existing
society which the chiseller longed to tear down.

Marzio's socialism, for so he called it, had one good feature. It was
sincere of its kind, and disinterested. He was not of the common herd, a
lazy vagabond, incapable of continuous work, or of perseverance in any
productive occupation, desiring only to be enriched by impoverishing
others, one of the endless rank and file of Italian republicans, to whom
the word "republic" means nothing but bread without work, and the
liberty which consists in howling blasphemies by day and night in the
public streets. His position was as different from that of a private in
the blackguard battalion as his artistic gifts and his industry were
superior to those of the throng. He had money, he had talent, and he had
been very successful in his occupation. He had nothing to gain by the
revolutions he dreamed of, and he might lose much by any upsetting of
the existing laws of property. He was, therefore, perfectly sincere, so
far as his convictions went, and disinterested to a remarkable degree.
These conditions are often found in the social position of the true
fanatic, who is