ite of rooms in the Hotel de L----, and my
friends Colonel and Mrs. Everard fraternized with him very warmly. He
was by no means slow to respond to their overtures of friendship, and
so it happened that his studio became a sort of lounge for us, where we
would meet to have tea, to chat, to look at the pictures, or to discuss
our plans for future enjoyment. These visits to Cellini's studio,
strange to say, had a remarkably soothing and calming effect upon my
suffering nerves. The lofty and elegant room, furnished with that
"admired disorder" and mixed luxuriousness peculiar to artists, with
its heavily drooping velvet curtains, its glimpses of white marble
busts and broken columns, its flash and fragrance of flowers that
bloomed in a tiny conservatory opening out from the studio and leading
to the garden, where a fountain bubbled melodiously--all this pleased
me and gave me a curious, yet most welcome, sense of absolute rest.
Cellini himself had a fascination for me, for exactly the same reason.
As an example of this, I remember escaping from Mrs. Everard on one
occasion, and hurrying to the most secluded part of the garden, in
order to walk up and down alone in an endeavour to calm an attack of
nervous agitation which had suddenly seized me. While thus pacing about
in feverish restlessness, I saw Cellini approaching, his head bent as
if in thought, and his hands clasped behind his back. As he drew near
me, he raised his eyes--they were clear and darkly brilliant--he
regarded me steadfastly with a kindly smile. Then lifting his hat with
the graceful reverence peculiar to an Italian, he passed on, saying no
word. But the effect of his momentary presence upon me was
remarkable--it was ELECTRIC. I was no longer agitated. Calmed, soothed
and almost happy, I returned to Mrs. Everard, and entered into her
plans for the day with so much alacrity that she was surprised and
delighted.

"If you go on like this," she said, "you will be perfectly well in a
month."

I was utterly unable to account for the remedial influence Raffaello
Cellini's presence had upon me; but such as it was I could not but be
grateful for the respite it gave me from nervous suffering, and my now
daily visits to the artist's studio were a pleasure and a privilege not
to be foregone. Moreover, I was never tired of looking at his pictures.
His subjects were all original, and some of them were very weird and
fantastic. One large picture particularly attracted