In the days of his opulence his charity and generosity knew no bounds. Many of his compatriots lived upon him. One day I was walking with him in his garden at Fulham, when up came a caricature of a man, as tall and lean as a church tower, with a hat that reached the skies, dressed in a long snuff-coloured coat falling to his heels, a grizzled beard, and a cascade of grey hair over his shoulders; a figure out of Struwel Peter. He made a low sweeping bow as if he meant to cut the turf with his hat. “Signor Mario!” another obeisance, hand on heart, and once more the steeple hat shaved the grass. “Ah! Dottor Beggé, what have you there?” “Signor Mario, I hold here a manuscript”—producing a roll from under his arm—“but a manuscript! such a manuscript!” and he blew a kiss into the air. “Well! What do you want for it?” asked Mario. “For you, Signor Mario, a mere nothing, only twenty pounds sterling.” Mario looked at it, bought it, and the long Doctor, bowing even lower than before, stalked off happy. Mario turned round to me and said, “Ca ne vaut pas vingt sous! Mais, ce pauvre Beggé, il faut bien qu’il vive.” Another Sunday an obviously very impecunious Italian came up and told a piteous story of misery at home. Mario did not hesitate a moment; he told the man to go to his room, open a drawer in his writing-table where he would find some notes and gold, and take what he wanted. He was a grand, large-hearted, generous creature; one of the most lovable of men. In his later days Mario used to be subject to sudden flushing and slight giddiness—out of this the jealousy and ill-nature of rivals got up the myth that he drank. He was well aware of this and made fun of it. At dinner one evening there was some Château Lafitte of ’48 on the table; Mario poured out a quarter of a tumbler of this and filled it up with water. I told him that it was an act of vandalism to drown so rare a wine. He held up the glass laughing and said, “Mon cher, c’est avec cela que je me suis fait une réputation d’ivrogne.” Sometimes after dinner a valse would be played and Mario would call out, “Chi vuol ballare con Papa?” and he would dance with his children, then little girls, like a boy in his teens. They adored him and their mother, who looked on radiant. One met many famous people in that villa. There it was that I last saw the Countess Castiglione—still beautiful, though, dreading as it was said that her beauty might fade, she had already retired from the world before her charms should begin to wane. The first time I met her was at an afternoon party at Holland House, a dream of loveliness acknowledged by everybody; not a fault to be found from the crown of her head to the tips of her feet, and what arms and hands! Then she was in her pride of queendom, radiant, attracting all eyes. Now she was dressed in black, thickly veiled, and speaking only to Mario and Grisi. But disguise herself as she might, she could not altogether hide her transcendent charms.