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 domestic wrangling.  He wanted to be alone, and at the same time he wanted to see places and things which should suggest thoughts to him.  He did not care whither he went so long as he kept out of the new Rome.  When he reached the little garden in front of San Marco he paused, looked at the deep doorway of the church, remembered the barbarous mosaics within, and turned impatiently into a narrow street on the right—­the beginning of the Via di Marforio.