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Sears' honors have been awarded to her portraits. <b>SEIDLER, CAROLINE LUISE.</b> Born in Jena, 1786; died in Weimar, 1866. Her early studies were made in Gotha with Doell; in 1811 she went to Dresden, where she became a pupil of G. von Kügelgen; in 1817 Langer received her into his Munich studio; and between 1818 and 1823 she was in Italy, making special studies of Vanucci and Raphael.
At that, Margaret, I really don't know what came over me, for supposing Signor Vanucci had been wrong, and I had no voice, she would have thought me mad, but truth to say, I simply did not feel I was risking anything when I turned, and looking at her across the big grand piano that fills up her little drawing-room, and said, "No, it is not true, I have not a nice little drawing-room voice."
Die all the world; 'tis nought to me: so that I die among the first." When he got home there was a man in a slouched hat walking briskly to and fro on the opposite side of the way. "Why, there is that cur again," thought Gerard. But in this state of mind, the circumstance made no impression whatever on him. Two nights after this Pietro Vanucci and Andrea sat waiting supper for Gerard.
"But that letter never came; and about ten days later I knew why, for I saw in the papers that the famous musician, Signor Vanucci, had been knocked down by a motor-car when crossing a street near his house, and though not much injured, had died a few hours after from the shock."
But I tell thee in Ghent or Bruges, or even in Rotterdam, they would tear it out of thy hands. But it is a common saying that a stranger's eye sees clearest. Courage, Pietro Vanucci! I reverence thee and though myself a scurvy painter, do forgive thee for being a great one. Forgive thee? I thank God for thee and such rare men as thou art; and bow the knee to thee in just homage.
"Yes, I am not telling my story properly," said Eleanor, "but the truth is that though I sit here so calmly, and talk so quietly, I am just devoured by excitement whenever I think of my good luck. Well, I can tell you what Madame Martelli said in a very few words. She was even more enthusiastic than Signor Vanucci about my voice. Far, far more.
He called this work 'The Guard Ship Attacked. It represented a Dead Sea of Reckitt's Blue with two impossible ships wedged tightly into it, each broadside on to the spectator. From the port-holes of each issued little streaks of vermilion, and puffs of smoke like pills. The artist gloated over this work, and was ready to resent criticism of it like another Pietro Vanucci.
"What are ye cackling at?" remonstrated the spark, "I desire to know how 'tis that one moment a gentleman is out yonder a pricking of African beef, and the next moment " Gerard's lady. "Disporting in his native stream." "Tell him not, a soul of ye," cried Vanucci. "Let him find out 's own riddle." Confound ye all. I might puzzle my brains till doomsday, I should ne'er find it out.
Wait, I thought, until that letter comes from Signor Vanucci, and you will see that you will be nothing to the man who cut bread-and-butter with a razor, for you will have been guilty of the enormity of setting a Melba and a Patti down to teach children their Sol-re-fa.
And as he passed through the ancient gateway and threaded his way up the narrow street towards the little shop, he seemed to see once more the kindly smile of his old master and to hear him say, 'Thou wilt soon be the greatest man in Perugia, and we will call thee no longer Pietro Vanucci, but Perugino. So it had come to pass. Here he was.