and that of every other nineteenth-century painter, thanks to the magnificent institution of free trade, which has resulted in a vulgar competition of all countries and all classes to see which can most quickly jostle the other out of existence.  But I am wearying you, mademoiselle—­pardon me!  To resume my own story.  As I told you, I could think of nothing but the one subject of Colour; it haunted me incessantly.  I saw in my dreams visions, of exquisite forms and faces that I longed to transfer to my canvas, but I could never succeed in the attempt.  My hand seemed to have lost all skill.  About this time my father died, and I, having no other relation in the world, and no ties of home to cling to, lived in utter solitude, and tortured my brain more and more with the one question that baffled and perplexed me.  I became moody and irritable; I avoided intercourse with everyone, and at last sleep forsook my eyes.  Then came a terrible season of feverish trouble, nervous dejection and despair.  At times I would sit silently brooding; at others I started up and walked rapidly for hours, in the hope to calm the wild unrest that took possession of my brain.  I was then living in Rome, in the studio that had been my father’s.  One evening—­how well I remember it!—­I was attacked by one of those fierce impulses that forbade me to rest or think or sleep, and, as usual, I hurried out for one of those long aimless excursions I had latterly grown accustomed to.  At the open street-door stood the proprietress of the house, a stout, good-natured contadina, with her youngest child Pippa holding to her skirt.  As she saw me approaching, she started back with an exclamation of alarm, and catching the little girl up in her arms, she made the sign of the cross rapidly.  Astonished at this, I paused in my hasty walk, and said with as much calmness as I could muster: 

“‘What do you mean by that?  Have I the evil-eye, think you?’

“Curly-haired Pippa stretched out her arms to me—­I had often caressed the little one, and given her sweetmeats and toys—­but her mother held her back with a sort of smothered scream, and muttered: 

“‘Holy Virgin!  Pippa must not touch him; he is mad.’

“Mad?  I looked at the woman and child in scornful amazement.  Then without further words I turned, and went swiftly away down the street out of their sight.  Mad!  Was I indeed losing my reason?  Was this the terrific meaning of my sleepless nights, my troubled thoughts, my strange inquietude?  Fiercely I strode along, heedless whither I was going, till I found myself suddenly on the borders of the desolate Campagna.  A young moon gleamed aloft, looking like a slender sickle thrust into the heavens to reap an over-abundant harvest of stars.  I paused irresolutely.  There was a deep silence everywhere.  I felt faint and giddy:  curious flashes of light danced past my eyes, and my limbs shook like those of a palsied old man.  I sank upon a stone to rest, to try and arrange my scattered ideas into some sort of connection and order.  Mad!  I clasped my aching head between my hands, and brooded on the fearful prospect looming before me, and in the words of poor King Lear, I prayed in my heart: