Mr. Ferris went into another room, through the open door of which Don
Ippolito saw the paraphernalia of a painter's studio: an easel with a
half-finished picture on it; a chair with a palette and brushes, and
crushed and twisted tubes of colors; a lay figure in one corner; on the
walls scraps of stamped leather, rags of tapestry, desultory sketches
on paper.

Mr. Ferris came out again, brushing his hat.

"The Signor Console amuses himself with painting, I see," said Don
Ippolito courteously.

"Not at all," replied Mr. Ferris, putting on his gloves; "I am a
painter by profession, and I amuse myself with consuling;" [Footnote:
Since these words of Mr. Ferris were first printed, I have been told
that a more eminent painter, namely Rubens, made very much the same
reply to very much the same remark, when Spanish Ambassador in England.
"The Ambassador of His Catholic Majesty, I see, amuses himself by
painting sometimes," said a visitor who found him at his easel. "I
amuse myself by playing the ambassador sometimes," answered Rubens. In
spite of the similarity of the speeches, I let that of Mr. Ferris
stand, for I am satisfied that he did not know how unhandsomely Rubens
had taken the words out of his mouth.] and as so open a matter needed
no explanation, he said no more about it. Nor is it quite necessary to
tell how, as he was one day painting in New York, it occurred to him to
make use of a Congressional friend, and ask for some Italian consulate,
he did not care which. That of Venice happened to be vacant: the income
was a few hundred dollars; as no one else wanted it, no question was
made of Mr. Ferris's fitness for the post, and he presently found
himself possessed of a commission requesting the Emperor of Austria to