where the few yielded to the many, and the rich divided their riches
voluntarily with the poor--was in theory what he advocated.

Yet with these lofty views, these grand aspirations, with unbounded
faith, and unbounded energy and generosity, Marescotti achieved
nothing. He wanted the power of concentration, of bringing his
energies to bear on any one particular object. His mind was like an
old cabinet, crowded with artistic rubbish--gems and rarities, jewels
of price and pearls of the purest water, hidden among faded flowers;
old letters, locks of hair, daggers, tinsel reliquaries, crosses, and
modern grimcracks--all that was incongruous, piled together pell-mell
in hopeless confusion.

His countrymen, singularly timid and conventional, and always
unwilling to admit new ideas upon any subject unless imperatively
forced upon them, did not understand him. They did not appreciate
either his originality or the real strength of his character. He
differed from them and their mediaeval usages--therefore he must
be wrong. He was called eccentric by his friends, a lunatic by his
enemies. He was neither. But he lived much alone; he had dreamed
rather than reflected, and he had planned instead of acting.

"Count Marescotti," said the marchesa, holding out her hand, "I salute
you.--Baldassare, you are welcome."

The intonation of her voice, the change in her manner, gave the exact
degree of consideration proper to accord to the head of an ancient
Roman family, and the dandy son of a Lucca chemist. And, lest it
should be thought strange that the Marchesa Guinigi should admit
Baldassare at all to her presence, I must explain that Baldassare