I went on to tell Serafino, that Thomas Jefferson, when drafting the Declaration of Independence, had condemned George III who had forbidden the American Colonies “to prohibit or restrain this execrable commerce”; but that the clause was stricken out by South Carolina and Georgia.  Therefore that the Declaration did not mean negroes when it said “all men.”  Serafino looked at me with quiet, comprehending eyes which said:  “It’s the same struggle of money and power everywhere.”  He added aloud:  “Italy will never eat free bread and have enough of it until the Austrian is driven off our back.  They make us work and take away our labor in taxes.  We are negroes too.”

He wanted to know something of Garrison, of whom he had heard.  What was thought of Washington in America?  But in the midst of these subjects he would stop to point to a broken column, a ruined temple; or he would turn suddenly into an old church to show me some beloved picture.  After all, the old life of street brawls, debates, and dungeons had faded out of him with the dying of the rebellious fires of youth.  There were only echoes of these thunderous events in his soul.  His eye only brightened fully before a picture or a statue.  His reverence arose only to some perfection of color or of form.

Once he took me by a quick turn, as if by impulse, into an old church.  “There is a lovely Madonna here,” he said.  “Who painted it?” “Some pupil of Raphael’s perhaps.”  Serafino removed his hat and stood reverently before this beautiful face, so human, so tender.  “I have heard you say so much against the Church, the Papacy—­I thought you were not in the Church,” I said.  “No, I am an atheist,” replied Serafino.  “But what has that to do with this?  Look at those eyes, those lips.  In ’48, when my soul was torn, I used to come in here every day just for the consolation of that face.  And now I come for the memory and the peace it brings me.”  Slow tears were on the lower lids of his eyes.  With a rough hand he brushed them away, then asked me:  “What do you think?” “I love that face,” I replied.  “I understand how you feel.”

A friendship grew up between Serafino and me.  He was not a perfunctory guide.  He never grew tired.  When five o’clock would come and the day was really ended I would say:  “Well I must be back now.  Little Reverdy is coming over for an early dinner.”  “Ah, but just this one picture,” he would say, “it will only take a few minutes.  I want you to see this.  It is a great work and something may happen.  I may forget to bring you again.”  Then we would walk in and out of the cold and gloom of the church after having stared the picture into vividness.