THOUGHTS ON ART
AND
AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIRS
OF
GIOVANNI DUPRÈ
TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN BY
E. M. PERUZZI
_WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY W. W. STORY_
BOSTON
ROBERTS BROTHERS
1886
_Copyright, 1886_
BY ROBERTS BROTHERS
INTRODUCTION TO NEW EDITION.
This book contains the record of the life and thoughts upon Art of
Giovanni Duprè, one of the most eminent sculptors of the present century
in Italy. It was written by him from time to time, during the latter
years of his life, in the intervals of work in his studio, and given to
the public about three years before his death. Those three years, of
which it contains no account, were assiduously devoted to his art. Every
day had its work, and it was done faithfully and joyously even to the
last. "_Nulla dies sine linea._" Within these years, among other works
of less importance, he successively executed a basso-relievo of the
Baptism of our Lord, a portrait statue of Pius IX. for the Cathedral of
Piacenza, one of Victor Emmanuel for the public square at Trapani, one
of Raimondo Lullo for a chapel in the island of Majorca, and one of St
Francis of Assisi which now adorns the front of the Cathedral at Assisi.
This was the last statue which he ever made. The model he had completed
in clay and cast in plaster, and had somewhat advanced in executing it
in marble, when death arrested his hand. It was finished by his daughter
Amalia, who had for years been his loving and faithful pupil, and who
had already won distinction for herself as a sculptor. In this his last
work he found a peculiar attractiveness, and his heart and hand were
earnestly given to it. "I am most happy," he says in his reply to the
authorities of Assisi, who gave him this order, "that the Commission has
thought of me,--not so much on account of what little talent I may
possess, as for the love I bear to religious art." The statue itself is
very simple, and informed by a deep religious sentiment. It is clothed
in the dress of the order which St Francis founded, the hands crossed
over the breast, the cowl falling behind, the head bent, and the eyes
cast down in an attitude of submission and devotion.
The statue had not only deeply interested all his feelings and
sympathies, but in its treatment and sentiment he seems to have been
satisfied. A singular presentiment, however, came over him as he was
showing it to a friend upon its completion. "It will be a triumph to you
and a glory to Assisi," said his friend. "Ah," he answered, "who knows
that it may not be the last!" So indeed it proved. But a few days after
this conversation he was seized by an attack of peritonitis. From this,
however, he recovered, as well as from a second attack, which shortly
afterwards followed. As he was recovering from this second attack he
wrote to Monsignore Andrea Ulli: "The doctor has no doubt that I shall
get well, and in a few days I hope he will allow me to return to my
studio. But how I have suffered!--doubly suffered from having been
deprived of the occupation that most delights me. This is my joy and my
life. What a happy day it will be when I am permitted to put my foot
again into my studio, and to resume my work and my St Francis."
His hopes, however, were fated to be disappointed. Although he
sufficiently recovered to go to his studio, he was able to do but little
work; and shortly afterwards--on the 1st of January--he was again
prostrated by a third attack of the same disease. His death, he felt,
was now certain; but he met its approach with the courage, resignation,
and piety that had always characterised him, looking forward with
certainty to a reunion with the dear ones who had gone before
him--Luisina, his daughter, whose loss he had so bitterly felt, and his
wife Marina, his steadfast help and loving companion for so many years,
who had died seven years previously. One regret constantly possessed him
during these last days, that he should not be able, as he had projected,
to model the statue of the Madonna for the Duomo at Florence, upon which
he had set his heart. One day when he gave expression to this feeling,
his daughter Amalia sought to console him by saying, "But you have
already made her statue, and it is so beautiful--the _addolorata_ for
Santa Croce." "Ah!" he answered, "but I desired to model her as Queen of
Florence." This apparently was the only desire that haunted him during
his last attack. In regard to all other things he was resigned; and
after lingering in almost constant pain for ten days, he expired on the
10th of January 1882, at the age of sixty-five.
The announcement of his death was received everywhere in Italy with the
warmest expressions of sorrow. It was felt to be a national loss. His
life had been so pure, so conscientious, and so animated by high
purpose--his temper and character had been so blameless and free from
envy and stain of any kind--he had been so generous and kindly in all
the varied relations of life, as a son, as a husband, as a father, as a
friend,--and he had so greatly distinguished himself as a sculptor, that
over his grave the carping voice of criticism was hushed, and a
universal voice of praise and sorrow went up everywhere. All classes
united to do him reverence, from the highest to the lowest. Funeral
ceremonies were celebrated in his honour, not only in Florence, where a
great procession accompanied his remains to the church where the last
rites were performed, but also in Siena, his birthplace, in Fiesole,
where he was buried in the family chapel, and in Antella and Agnone. The
press of his native country gave expression to high eulogiums on him as
an artist and as a man. Public honours were decreed to him. In front of
the house where he was born in Siena, the municipality placed this
inscription: "This humble abode, in which was born Giovanni Duprè,
honour of Art and Italy, may teach the sons of the people what height
can be reached by the force of genius and will." In the Parrocchial
Church dell'Onda (in Siena) was placed a bust of the artist executed by
his daughter Amalia; and in Florence, over the house where he had passed
a large portion of his life, a tablet is inserted, on which is inscribed
these words: "The Municipality of Florence, in whose council sat
Giovanni Duprè, has placed this memorial on the house where for twenty
years lived the great sculptor, glory of Italy and of Art, and in which
he died on the 10th day of 1882."
During his life, honours had been showered upon him at home and
abroad--honours well deserved and meekly borne, without vanity or
pretension. He had been made a knight and counsellor of the Civil Order
of Savoy, a member of the Institute of France, a knight of the Tuscan
Order of Merit and of the Legion of Honour in France, an officer of the
Brazilian Order of the Rose, a commander of the Order of the Corona
d'Italia, Mexico and Guadaloupe, an associate of the Academy of St Luke,
and of various other academies in Italy and elsewhere. The Municipal
Council of Siena also commissioned his friend and pupil, Tito Sarrocchi,
to execute for it a bust of his master in marble during his lifetime, on
which was this inscription: "To Giovanni Duprè of Siena, who to the
glories of Italian Art has added, by the wonders of his chisel, new and
immortal glories. The city of Siena--xii. July 1867."
His life was a busy and an earnest one. During his forty years of
patient labour he executed about a hundred works in the round and in
relief, including a considerable number of busts and statuettes. Of
these, perhaps the most important are: The statues of Cain and Abel, the
original bronzes of which are in the Pitti Palace in Florence, and by
which he leaped at once to fame as a sculptor; the group of the Pietà in
the cemetery of Siena; the large bas-relief of the Triumph of the Cross
on the façade of the Church of Santa Croce in Florence; the monument to
Cavour at Milan; the Ferrari monument in San Lorenzo, with the angel of
the resurrection; the Sappho; the pedestal for the colossal Egyptian
Tazza, with its alto-reliefs, representing Thebes, Imperial Rome, Papal
Rome, and Tuscany, each with its accompanying genius; the portrait
statue of Giotto; the ideal statue of St Francis; and the Risen Christ.
The Tazza, the Pietà, the Triumph of the Cross, and the Risen Christ,
were selected by him out of all his works to send to the French
Exposition of 1867, and it may therefore be supposed that he considered
them as the best representatives of his genius and power. Indeed, in a
letter to Professor Pietro Dotto (1866) he mentions particularly these
last three as the statues which in conception he considers to be the
most worthy of praise of all his works. This selection also indicates
the religious character of his mind and his works. At this Exposition he
was one of the jury on Sculpture, and though he gave his own vote in
favour of the eminent sculptor Signor Vela of Milan, who exhibited on
that occasion his celebrated statue of the Last Hours of Napoleon I., to
his surprise the grand medal of honour was awarded to himself. He had
scarcely dared to hope for this; and in his letters to his family he
wrote that he considered it certain that the distinction would be
conferred upon Signor Vela. When the award was made to him, he wrote a
most characteristic letter to his daughter, announcing the result. "Mia
cara Beppina," he says, "I have just returned from the sitting of the
jury, and hasten at once to answer your dear letter. It is true that the
Napoleon I. of Vela is a beautiful statue. There is always a crowd about
it, and consequently every one thought it would receive the first prize.
I have given him my vote; but the public and I and you, Beppina, were
wrong. The first prize has come to me, your father! Vela received two
votes with mine. You see, my dear, how the Holy Virgin has answered your
and our prayer. Let us seek to render ourselves worthy of her powerful
protection."
It was toward the close of his life, as has already been said, that he
wrote his 'Biographical Reminiscences and Thoughts upon Art,' of which
the present book is a translation. It was at once received by the
Italian public with great favour, and is by no means the least
remarkable of his works. It would be difficult for any autobiography to
be more simple, honest, frank, and fearless. The whole character of the
man is in it. It is an unaffected and unpretending record of his life
and thoughts. He has no concealment to make, no glosses to put upon the
real facts. He speaks to the public as if he were talking to a friend,
never posing for effect, never boasting of his successes, never
exaggerating his powers, never assailing his enemies and detractors,
never depreciating his fellow-artists, but ever striving to be generous
and just to all. There is no bitterness, no envy, no arrogance to deform
a single page; but, on the contrary, a simplicity, a _naïveté_, a
sincerity of utterance, which are remarkable. The history of his early
struggles and poverty, the pictures of his childhood and youth, are
eminently interesting; and the story of his love, courtship, and early
married life is a pure Italian idyl of the middle class of society in
Florence, which could scarcely be surpassed for its truth to nature and
its rare delicacy and gentleness of feeling. If the 'Thoughts upon Art'
do not exhibit any great profundity of thinking, they are earnest,
instructive, and characteristic. His descriptions of his travels in
France and England; his criticisms and anecdotes of artists and persons
in Florence; his account of his daily life in his studio and at his
home,--are lively and amusing. Altogether, the book has a special charm
which it is not easy to define. In reading it, we feel that we are in
the presence and taken into the confidence of a person of great
simplicity and purity of character, of admirable instincts and
perceptions, of true kindness of heart, and of a certain childlike
_naïveté_ of feeling and expression, which is scarcely to be found out
of Italy.
In respect of style, this autobiography resembles more the spoken than
the written literary language of Italy. It is free, natural, unstudied,
and often careless. But its very carelessness has a charm. Duprè was not
a scholar nor a literary man. He was not bound by the rigid forms of
what is called in Italy "_lo stile_," which but too often is the enemy
of natural utterance. Undoubtedly this book needs compression; but no
exactness of style and form could compensate for the absence of that
unstudied natural ease and familiarity which are among its greatest
charms. The writer, fortunately for the reader, is as unconscious of
elaborated style as Monsieur Jourdain was that he was talking prose. The
character of Duprè's writing has been admirably caught and reproduced by
Madame Peruzzi, in the translation to which these few words may serve as
preface.
As an artist, Duprè was not endowed with a great creative or imaginative
power. His spirit never broke out of the Roman Church in which he was
brought up, and all that he did and thought was coloured by its
influence. The subjects which he chose in preference to all others were
of a religious character, and his works are animated by a spirit of
humility and devotion, rather than of power and intensity. His
piety--and he was a truly pious man--narrowed the field of his
imagination, and restricted the flights of his genius. "But even his
failings leaned to virtue's side," and what he lacked in breadth of
conception, was compensated by his deep sincerity of purpose and
religious feeling. He was not a daring creator--not an originator of
ideas--not a bold discoverer. He hugged the shore of his Church. He
wanted the passion and overplus of nature that might have borne him to
new heights, and new continents of thought and feeling. His Cain, almost
alone of all his works, breathes a spirit of defiance and rebellion, and
breaks through the limitations of his usual conceptions. But it was not
in harmony with his genius; and in natural expression it falls so far
below his previous statue of Abel, that it was epigrammatically said
that his Abel killed his Cain. There was undoubtedly a certain truth in
this criticism, for though the Cain is vigorously conceived and
admirably executed, the heart of the man was not in it, as it was in the
gentle and placid figure of Abel. In mastery of modelling and truth to
nature, this latter statue could scarcely be surpassed. Indeed, so
remarkable was it for these qualities, that it gave rise in Florence to
the scandalous calumny that it had been cast, not modelled, from
nature,--a calumny which, it is scarcely necessary to add, was as false
in fact as it was inconsistent with the honest and lofty spirit of
Duprè; and which, though intended as a reproach, proved to be the
highest testimonial to the extraordinary skill of the artist.
Within the bounded domain of thought and conception which his religious
faith had set for him, he worked with great earnestness and devotion of
spirit. Though he created no works which are stamped by the audacity of
genius, or intensified by passion, or characterised by bold originality
and reach of power, yet the work he did do is eminently faithful,
admirably executed, and informed by knowledge as well as feeling. His
artistic honesty cannot be too highly praised. He spared no pains to
make his work as perfect as his powers would permit. He had an accurate
eye, a remarkable talent for modelling from nature, and an indefatigable
perseverance. He never lent his hand to low, paltry, and unworthy work.
Art and religion went hand in hand in all he did. He sought for the
beautiful and the noble--sought it everywhere with an inquiring and
susceptible spirit; despised the brutal, the low, and the trifling;
never truckled to popularity, or sought for fame unworthily; and scorned
to degrade his art by sensuality. As the man was, so his work was--pure,
refined, faithful to nature and to his own nature. He pandered to no low
passions; he modelled no form, he drew no line, that dying he could wish
to blot; and the world of Art is better that he has lived. While he bent
his head to Nature, the whole stress of his life as an artist was to
realise his favourite motto, "_Il vero nel bello_"--the true in the
beautiful.
His last letter, written only three days before his final attack, was
addressed to his friend Professor Giambattista Giuliani, and as it
breathes the whole spirit of the man, it may form a fit conclusion to
these few words: "My excellent friend,--We also, Amalia and I, wish you
truly from our hearts, now and always, every good from our blessed
God--perfect health, elevation of spirit, serene affections, peace of
heart in the contemplation of the beautiful and the good, and the
immortal hope of a future life, that supreme good that the modern
Sadducees deny--unhappy beings!"
W. W. STORY.
PREFACE.
"Do you know," I said to a friend six months ago, while I was looking
over the rough draft of my memoirs, "that I have decided to print them?"
"You will do well," he answered; "but you must write a preface--a bit of
a preface is necessary." "I do not think so," I said. "In my opinion the
few words on the first page will suffice." My friend read over the first
page and replied, "That's enough."
Now, however, a couple of words do not seem to me superfluous,--first,
in order that I may express my surprise and pleasure that my book,
written just as it came to me, has been received with so much kindness;
and then to explain that this second edition has been enlarged by some
additions and necessary notes. The additions do not form an appendix,
but are inserted in the chapters, each in its proper place.
It did not seem advisable to me, as it did to some other persons, to
enlarge this book by letters, documents, and other writings of mine. I
thought this would interfere with the simplicity and brevity of my first
plan.
In re-reading this book, I admit that I have found passages here and
there which I felt tempted to correct, or rather to polish and improve
in style, but I have let them go. Who knows that I should not have made
them worse? It seems to me (perhaps I am wrong) not to perceive in good
writers the labour, the smoothing, and the transposition of words, and
so on, but a rapid and broad embodiment of the idea in the words that
were born with it.
One last and most essential word I have reserved for the end as a _bonne
bouche_. Some persons have excusably and pleasantly observed that to
write a book about one's self while the author is living is both very
difficult and rather immodest. I replied to them, both by word of mouth
and through the press, that although on account of my life and works I
had studied to be as temperate and unpretentious as the truth and the
facts would allow, still here and there my narrative with regard to some
persons might not be agreeable, and therefore after my death it might be
discredited or denied. No, this must not be, I said, and say again. I am
alive, and am here to correct everything at variance with the truth, and
also (I wish to be just) what is wanting in chivalrousness.
_NOTE BY TRANSLATOR._
In making the present translation of the Memoirs of Giovanni Duprè, one
of two courses had to be taken--either to turn the whole into pure
idiomatic English, or to follow, with a certain degree of literalness,
the peculiar forms of expression, and the characteristic style, or
absence of style, of the original. I have chosen the latter course, in
order, as far as in me lay, to convey the individuality of the author,
and the local colour and character of his book. This would to a great
degree have been lost had I attempted to render into purely English
idiom a work that is not only written in a careless, familiar, and
conversational form, and abounds in turns of expression which are
essentially Florentine, but derives its interest, in part at least, from
this very peculiarity.
E. M. P.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE
My motive for writing these Memoirs--My father's family--Removal
of the family to Florence--My childhood--My father takes me to
Pistoia, but I run away from his house to return to my
mother--From Pistoia I go with my father to Prato--My first
study in drawing--Strong impression made upon me by an old
print--My father's opposition to my studies--My sorrow at being
so far from my mother--I run the risk of being burnt--Having
grown tall, fears are entertained for my health--I return to my
mother at Florence and work with Ammanati--I go to Siena and
study ornate design in the Academy--Carlo Pini gives me lessons
in drawing the human figure--Signor Angelo Barbetti's
prophecy--I run away from Siena, and on foot go to my mother at
Florence--Signor Paolo Sani--Death of my sister Clementina--My
mother's infirmity of eyesight--My brother Lorenzo goes to the
poorhouse--My aversion to learn reading and writing--My first
library, and inexperience of books, 1
CHAPTER II.
Without knowing it, I was doing what Leonardo advises--New way
of decorating the walls of one's house--I wish to study design
at the Academy, but cannot carry this into effect--A bottle of
anise-seed cordial--Intelligent people are benevolent, not so
those of mediocre minds--The statues in the Piazza della
Signoria and alabaster figures--The discovery of a hidden
well--My father returns home without work, and leaves for
Rome--Young Signor Emilio del Fabris--Sea-baths and cholera at
Leghorn--With help I save a woman from drowning--I go to San
Piero di Bagno--My uncle the provost dies--My father returns
from Rome, and settles in Florence--My work, a group of a Holy
Family, is stolen--Description of this group, 18
CHAPTER III.
A punishment well deserved, and my satisfaction--Different
times, different customs--The use of the birch given up in
schools--A portrait--Companions and bad habits--How I became
acquainted with my dear Marina--My first time of speaking with
her--Difficulty to obtain my mother's consent to our
marriage--She makes trouble, thinking to do well--I am sent away
from my betrothed, and return to bad habits--An escapade--The
public baths of Vaga-Loggia--My clothes stolen, 35
CHAPTER IV.
Return to the house of my betrothed, and put an end to my
thoughtless ways--A talking parrot--He who does not wish to read
these pages knows what he has to do--How I went to prison, and
how I passed my time there--"The Death of Ferruccio," by the
painter Bertoli--Signor Luigi Magi, the sculptor--How I learnt
to become economical--Shirts with plaited wrist-bands--The first
love-kiss, and a little bunch of lemon-verbena--My marriage--My
wife has doubts as to my resolution of studying
sculpture--Pacetti's shop in Palazzo Borghese--I sell the "Santa
Filomena" to a Russian, who re-christens her "Hope"--I begin to
work on marble--I make a little crucifix in boxwood, which is
bought by Cav. Emanuel Fenzi--Verses by Giovanni Battista
Niccolini, 52
CHAPTER V.
A warning to young artists--Professor Cambi's propositions--A
financial problem: to increase gain by diminishing the means
that produce it--I leave Sani's shop to have more time and
liberty to study--An imitation is not so bad, but a
falsification is indeed an ugly thing--The Marchesa Poldi and a
casket, supposed to be an antique--How a master should be--The
death of my mother, September 1840--Opinion of the Academy--The
"Tipsy Bacchante"--A divided vote--The "Cariatidi" of the
Rossini Theatre at Leghorn, 72
CHAPTER VI.
An unjust law--The "Abel"--Brina the model and I in danger of
being asphyxiated--My first request--Benvenuti wishes to change
the name of my Abel for that of Adonis--I invite Bartolini to
decide on the name of my statue--Bartolini at my studio--His
advice and corrections on the Abel--Lorenzo Bartolini--Giuseppe
Sabatelli--Exhibition of the Abel--It is said to be cast from
life--I ask for a small studio, but do not obtain it--My second
and last request--The President Antonio Montalvo--I don't
succeed somehow in doing anything as I should--I talk over
matters at home--Count del Benino a true friend and true
benefactor--His generous action, 89
CHAPTER VII.
The Grand Duchess Maria of Russia and the commission for the
Cain and Abel--The Prince of Leuchtenberg and a plate of
_caviale_ at Caffè Doney--An unusual amusement that did some
good--Again the generosity of Count del Benino--Bartolini's
Hunchback, and in consequence a return to the Abel--Bartolini
gets angry with me--Examination of the materialistic or
realistic in art--Effects of the realistic--Do not have girls
alone by themselves for models--Subscription got up by the
Sienese to have my Abel executed in marble--A new way of curing
a cough--Signora Letizia's receipt, who sent it and paid for it
herself--One must never offer works gratis, for they are not
accepted--The Grand Duchess Marie Antoinetta orders the "Giotto"
for the Uffizi--Has Abel killed Cain?--Statue of Pius II.--A
foolish opinion and impertinent answer--I defy the law that
prohibits eating, 110
CHAPTER VIII.
_Literati_ at my studio, and their influence on my
work--Calamatta's opinion of Tenerani, of Bartolini, and of
myself--His defence of my Abel in Paris--Pius II.--Academicians
and "Naturalisti"--Luigi Venturi--Prince Anatolia Demidoff and
the Princess Matilde--The statuette in clay of the Princess
Matilde is destroyed--Our minister Nigra presents me to the
Emperor Napoleon III.--Beauty does not exist outside of
nature--Praise puts one to sleep--The incoherence of Bartolini,
139
CHAPTER IX.
The political reforms of the year 1847 in Tuscany--My first
scholars--Ciseri, Prati, Aleardi, Fusinato, Coletti, and
Chiarini the _improvisatore_--Inedited verses by Prati--Giuseppe
Verdi--A digression on artistic individuality--The Emperor of
Russia's visit to my studio--Reactionary movement of the 12th of
April 1849--I am in danger of my life--The return of the Grand
Duke, 159
CHAPTER X.
My wife, my little girls, and my work--Death of my brother
Lorenzo--Death of Lorenzo Bartolini--The base for the
"Tazza"--Eight years of work, only to obtain a living--Mussini
and his school--Pollastrini--The school in Via
Sant'Apollini--Prince Demidoff and the monument by
Bartolini--The Nymph of the Scorpion and the Nymph of the
Serpent, by Bartolini--Marchese Ala--Count Arese--The four
statuettes for Demidoff--Amerigo of the Prince Corsinis--His
Royal Highness Count of Syracuse, a sculptor--"Sant'Antonino"
statue at the Uffizi, 179
CHAPTER XI.
Close imitation from life--My illness--I am in danger of losing
my life--Luigi del Punta, head physician at Court--The Grand
Duke furnishes me with the means for going to Naples--I leave
for Naples--A beggar impostor--Another and my
boots--Sorrento--My Neapolitan friends--Professor Tartaglia and
the hydropathic cure--The museum at Naples--Let us study the
good wherever it is to be found--A strange presentation, 203
CHAPTER XII.
Pompeii--A cameo--Sketch for the Bacco della
Crittogama--Professor Angelini the sculptor--One must not offer
one's hand with too much freedom to ladies--A hard-hearted
woman with small intelligence--The San Carlo, the San Carlino,
the Fenice, and the Sebeto--Monument by Donatello at Naples--The
Barocco and mistaken opinions--_Dilettanti_ in the fine
arts--Prince Don Sebastian of Bourbon--Is the beard a sign of
being Legitimist or Liberal?--I am taken for a prince or
something like one--"The bottle" for doorkeepers and _custodi_
of the public museums of Naples--Phidias, Demosthenes, and
Cicero all against Ruggero Bonghi, 223
CHAPTER XIII.
Never make a present of your works--Pope Rezzonico by
Canova--Tenerani--Overbeck's theories--Minardi and his school--A
woman from the Trastevere who looked like the Venus of
Milo--Conventionalists and Realists--An ambitious question and
bitter answer--Filippo Gualterio, 242
CHAPTER XIV.
The nude--The statue of David--Rauch--The base of the Tazza--The
chapel of the Madonna del Soccorso--Sepulchral monuments for San
Lorenzo--The 27th of April 1859--Count Scipione Borghesi--A
group of the Deluge--Competition for Wellington's monument, and
a great help, 259
CHAPTER XV.
Patience a most essential virtue--Trust was a good man, but
Trust-no-one a better--A competition either attracts or drives
away men of talent--A study from life of a lion by
Marrocchetti--Assistant modellers--Sydenham and its wonders--One
of "Abel's" fingers--New judgment of Solomon--An important
question--An Indian who speaks about things as they
are--Professor Papi and the failure of the first cast in bronze
of the "Abel"--A medicine not sold by the chemist, 277
CHAPTER XVI.
On the study of expression from life--The care one must take in
making studies from life--A _genre_ picture and Raphael's
cartoon of the "Massacre of the Innocents"--I lose myself in
London--The housemaid at Hotel Granara--The inconvenience of
being ignorant and absent-minded--Ristori and Piccolomini in
London--The cartoons of Raphael at Hampton Court--Fantasy runs
away with me--A curious but just law--The result of fasting--The
villa of Quarto and a prince's "early hour"--Again of Prince
Demidoff, 301
CHAPTER XVII.
My father's death--A turn in the omnibus--The Ferrari
monument--I keep the "Sappho" for myself--The "Tired Bacchante"
and the little model--Raphael and the Fornarina--The Madonna and
bas-reliefs at Santa Croce and Cavaliere Sloane--My daughter
Amalia and her works--My daughter Beppina--Description of the
bas-relief on the façade of Santa Croce--I am taken for the
wrong person by the Holy Father Pius IX.--Marshal
Haynau--Professor Bezzuoli and Haynau's portrait, 322
CHAPTER XVIII.
One of my colleagues--A mysterious voice--The group of the
"Pietà"--Very clear Latin--A professor who ignores the 'Divina
Commedia'--Composition of the group of the
"Pietà"--Digression--A good lesson and nervous
attack--Mancinelli and Celentano, 345
CHAPTER XIX.
A prophetic dream--Giovanni Strazza--Signor Vonwiller and
societies for promoting art--Return from Naples to Rome, and my
daughter Luisina's illness--Our return to Florence--Death of
Tria the model--The Mossotti monument at Pisa--How it was that I
did not make the portrait of his Majesty the King--The
competition for Cavour's monument--I go to Turin to pass
judgment on it--The "Christ after the Resurrection," a
commission of Signor Filippi di Buti--Religious art and
Alessandro Manzoni and Gino Capponi--Thought is not
free--Cavour's monument--The description of it, 365
CHAPTER XX.
Allegories in art--The Monga monument at Verona--Of my late
daughter Luisina--Her death--How I was robbed--Monsignore
Archbishop Limberti's charitable project--One of my
colleagues--Nicolô Puccini and the statue of Cardinal
Forteguerri--Cesare Sighinolfi--Cardinal Corsi, Archbishop of
Pisa, 385
CHAPTER XXI.
The Universal Exhibition at Paris in 1867--The imitators of
Vela--Inedited music by Rossini and Gustave Doré--Domenico
Morelli--Group of Prince Trabia's children and the
thieves--"Stick no bills"--The statue of Marshal
Pallavicini--The Empress Maria Teresa and Marshal Pallavicini--A
memorial monument to Fra Girolamo Savonarola--The Universal
Exhibition at Vienna--A tiny room--Excellent and very dear--On
harmony of sounds--On the harmony in the animal world--The
harmony of the human form as manifested by the inner beauty of
the soul--The campanile of St Stephen's and Canova's monument,
402
CHAPTER XXII.
The palace of the Exhibition at Vienna--Why, with my attributes
of President, I was in such haste--Michael Angelo and
Garibaldi--A Viennese cabman--The Camerini monument--Duke
Camerini--An anecdote of his life--Statue of Michael Angelo in
the future--The centenary festival of Michael Angelo--Signora
Adelina Patti--A greedy young man of little judgment--The Favard
monument, 418
CHAPTER XXIII.
Pius IX. objects to having me make his bust--I go to Rome to see
the Pope--The Exhibition at Naples--Again on idealism and
naturalism--The masters of Italian melody--Vincenzo Bellini and
his monument--Conclusion, 438
INDEX, 453
AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIRS
OF
GIOVANNI DUPRÈ.
CHAPTER I.
MY MOTIVE FOR WRITING THESE MEMOIRS--MY FATHER'S
FAMILY--REMOVAL OF THE FAMILY TO FLORENCE--MY CHILDHOOD--MY
FATHER TAKES ME TO PISTOIA, BUT I RUN AWAY FROM HIS HOUSE TO
RETURN TO MY MOTHER--FROM PISTOIA I GO WITH MY FATHER TO
PRATO--MY FIRST STUDY IN DRAWING--STRONG IMPRESSION MADE UPON
ME BY AN OLD PRINT--MY FATHER'S OPPOSITION TO MY STUDIES--MY
SORROW AT BEING SO FAR FROM MY MOTHER--I RUN THE RISK OF BEING
BURNT--HAVING GROWN TALL, FEARS ARE ENTERTAINED FOR MY
HEALTH--I RETURN TO MY MOTHER AT FLORENCE AND WORK WITH
AMMANATI--I GO TO SIENA AND STUDY ORNATE DESIGN IN THE
ACADEMY--CARLO PINI GIVES ME LESSONS IN DRAWING THE HUMAN
FIGURE--SIGNOR ANGELO BARBETTI'S PROPHECY--I RUN AWAY FROM
SIENA, AND ON FOOT GO TO MY MOTHER AT FLORENCE--SIGNOR PAOLO
SANI--DEATH OF MY SISTER CLEMENTINA--MY MOTHER'S INFIRMITY OF
EYESIGHT--MY BROTHER LORENZO GOES TO THE POORHOUSE--MY AVERSION
TO LEARN READING AND WRITING--MY FIRST LIBRARY, AND
INEXPERIENCE OF BOOKS.
I have often thought that perhaps it would be well for me to leave some
written memoirs of my life--not only for the sake of my family, but also
for the young artists of the future; but I have hitherto been deterred
from so doing by the fear lest I might seem to have been prompted by
pride and vanity. Since, however, various notices of my life and my
doings in art have been made public, it may not be either without
interest, or indeed without a certain utility, if I venture now to speak
at length on these subjects; for it seems to me that these memoirs may
not only serve as an encouragement to timid but well-disposed youths,
but may at the same time be a severe admonition to those who, presuming
too much on themselves, imagine that with little study and great
boldness they can wing their way up the steps of Art instead of
laboriously climbing them.
[Sidenote: MY FATHER'S FAMILY.]
My father was Francesco Duprè, the youngest son of Lorenzo Duprè, who
came to Siena with the princes of Lorraine. My grandfather kept a
draper's shop in the Piazza del Campo, where at first, through his
activity and honesty, his business so prospered that he was able to give
his family a good education; and my father was just entering on the
course of studies that his brothers had already finished, when my
grandfather, through the ignorance and bad faith of his debtors and his
own determination to be honest himself, was reduced to poverty. In
consequence of this, my father was obliged to discontinue his studies,
and to set to work to learn a trade, in order that he might earn his
bread as soon as possible; and thinking to derive some advantage from
the studies he had already made in drawing, he apprenticed himself to a
wood-carver. Later he married Victoria Lombardi of Siena, and she was my
mother. I was born on the 1st of March 1817, in Via San Salvadore, in
the Contrada dell'Onda, and lived in Siena until I was four years old.
My family then removed to Florence, where my father went, at the request
of the wood-carver, Signor Paolo Sani, to help him in the execution of
some _intaglio_ decorations in the Palazzo Borghese, which the Prince
was anxious to have finished within the shortest possible time. My
recollections of those early days are not worth recording. I grew up
from a little boy going with my father to the shop. I had a few lessons
in the Catechism and in reading from a schoolmistress who lodged in our
house. In the evening my _babbo_[1] used to read and explain some Latin
book (I do not remember what it was), perhaps for the innocent
satisfaction of letting us know that he had studied that language, but
certainly with no profit to me, who understood nothing and was greatly
bored. When, however, he gave me some of his designs of ornamentation,
such as leaves, arabesques, and friezes, to copy, I was very happy. The
time passed without my knowing it; and such was my delight in this
occupation, that I often put off the hour of supper or sleep and gave up
any amusement for it. At home we lived very poorly. My father earned
little, for his work was badly paid, and by nature he was slow. This
poverty of our daily life began to disturb the relations between my
father and mother. The family had increased, and besides my eldest
sister Clementina, who died soon afterwards, were born Lorenzo and
Maddalena. I remember the sharpness of the tones, but not the sense of
the words that passed between my parents; and the tears of my mother and
sullen silence of my father frightened us little ones, and filled us
with sadness.
[1] "Babbo" is the familiar word for father in Tuscany.
[Sidenote: FAMILY AND CHILDHOOD.]
It was impossible that such a state of things could last long, and my
father decided to leave Florence and go to Pistoia, where he thought he
could earn more money. I was destined to follow him, while the others
remained with my mother. For more than three years I stayed with him. My
life was sad for me here, as the distance from my mother made it almost
unbearable; and all the more so because my father, whenever he went to
Florence to see her, as he sometimes did, always left me behind him,
alone, at Pistoia. Once, when I was barely seven years old, I ran away
from the house, and went on foot to Florence, although I knew for a
certainty that I should have to pay dearly for the kisses and caresses
of my mother by a thrashing from the _babbo_. Nor was I mistaken: I got
the thrashing, and was brought back.
[Sidenote: LONGING TO BE AN ARTIST.]
About this time there awoke in me a certain sentiment and longing to try
to draw the human figure--leaves and _grumoli_ had begun to weary me;
and this desire was developed in an odd way. There was in Pistoia, in
the house of a certain gilder named Canini, a little theatre for
puppets, and one of the characters, which was wanted for a certain
performance, happened to be missing. Canini, who was a friend of my
father, was much put out by this loss, and came to beg my father to make
the head and hands for the puppet. He answered that he could not do
this, as he had never attempted anything in the way of figures; and the
poor gilder, who was director and proprietor of the company, was at a
loss to know where to turn. I, with the utmost effrontery, then offered
to make the head and hands myself; and as Canini was hopeful as well as
incredulous, and my father gave a sort of half consent, I set to work,
and succeeded so well that my puppet turned out to be the most beautiful
"personage" of the company. The happy result encouraged me to go on, and
I remade almost all the puppets. I also made some small ducks in cork,
that were to appear in a pond, and were moved about here and there by
silk threads. It was a pleasure to see the little creatures--they turned
out so well, and had such a look of reality; and this I was enabled to
give them because in the court of our house there were some ducks which
I could copy from life. Ah, Nature! not only is it a great help, but it
is the principal foundation of Art!
[Sidenote: I GO TO PRATO.]
[Sidenote: MY FIRST DRAWINGS.]
From Pistoia the _babbo_ took me to Prato, where he had been requested
to go by the gilder Signor Stefano Mazzoni. There we took up our abode
in a street and court called Il Giuggiolo. In the same house, and almost
with us, lived a man from Lucca, who made little plaster-images, and was
one of the many who go about the streets selling little coloured figures
for a few sous. This connection, ridiculous as it may appear, inspired
me more and more with a desire for the study of figures. It is true
these figures and parrots and clowns were ugly; but, at the same time,
their innocent ugliness attracted me, and filled me with a longing, not
indeed to imitate them, but to do something better. In turning over my
father's papers and designs, I found a quantity of prints,
fashion-plates of dresses, landscapes, and animals, and particularly (I
remember it so well that I could draw it now) a large print representing
the building of the Temple of Jerusalem. In the distance you saw the
building just begun, and rising a little above its foundations. Carts
loaded with heavy materials and tall straight timber (the cedars of
Lebanon) were dragged along by a great many oxen and camels, amid a vast
number of people and things. On all sides were workmen of every kind,
some carving the columns, some putting up a jamb and squaring it, some
sawing timber, and some busied in making ditches; others were talking,
or listening, or admiring: and all the scene was animated with a truly
marvellous life. In the foreground you saw the majestic figure of
Solomon, surrounded by his ministers and soldiers, showing his architect
(with his scholars) the designs of the Temple. In fact, it was a
wonderful thing to behold, and I was so enchanted that I could not
sleep for thinking of it, for it seemed to me impossible that any man
could imagine and execute anything so marvellous. My little head seemed
on fire, it was so full of these figures. I tried at first to copy in
part this print, which, above all the others, had taken my fancy; but I
did not succeed, and I was so discouraged that I sat down and cried. And
not for this only I cried, but also because my father looked with so
unfavourable eye on these efforts of mine--they seeming to him quite
unnecessary for an _intagliatore_--that, in order to go on with these
studies, I was obliged to hide myself almost, and to work in spare
moments. Finding this print so complicated that I could in no way copy
it, I then undertook to copy the little costume-figures that I found
amongst the prints. These, one by one, I drew during the evening, after
my father had gone to bed and was asleep; and sometimes it happened that
I fell asleep over my drawing, and on waking found myself in the dark,
with the little lamp gone out. This constant exercise, to which I gave
myself every day with great ardour, so trained my hand and practised my
eye, that my last drawings were made with little or no erasures.
But though I derived a good deal of satisfaction from these small
drawings, my heart was still oppressed at being so far from my mother. I
longed to see her, and have her near me, and begged my father to take me
to her, or at least to send me to her by the carrier; but wishes and
prayers were useless. My father went sometimes, it is true, to see her;
but although I was only seven or eight years of age, I had to remain
behind at Prato to look after the house. I do not wish to blame my
father, but neither then nor since have I been able to understand his
notions of things; and certainly, to keep a little boy alone by himself
in a house, and often for several days together, is not to be
recommended. One evening I remember, when, having fallen asleep while
reading at the table, with my head bent near the lamp, my little cap
caught on fire, and I woke up with my hair in flames. But this
adventurous life--beaten about, thwarted in all my wishes and in all my
affections--formed my character. I became accustomed to suffer, to
persevere, and to obey, while I always kept alive those desires and
affections which my conscience assured me were good.
[Sidenote: AN ACCIDENT--DELICATE HEALTH.]
About this time, what with continuous study, hardish work in my father's
shop, and the melancholy that weighed upon me because I could not see my
mother, my health began to fail. Even before this, and indeed from my
birth, I had always been delicate, but now I became so pale and weak
that every one called me _il morticino_ (the little dead fellow). A
physician who examined me about this time talked seriously to my father
about me on the subject, telling him that I ought to rest longer in the
mornings (my father rose very early, and I had to get up to go with him
to the shop), and eat more nourishing food; and he explained what it
should be. Amongst other things, I remember he ordered me to drink
goat's milk, milked and drunk on the spot, as soon as I got out of bed,
before leaving my room. This treatment succeeded marvellously. Every day
I gained strength, colour, and flesh. The little goat that came every
morning to my room to pay me a visit, and brought me her milk, sweet,
warm, and light, will be always remembered by me; and I still have a
feeling for the little creature, even after half a century, which I
cannot well define.
[Sidenote: ACADEMY AT SIENA.]
Restored to health, I was taken to see my mother in Florence. My own
great joy, as well as her caresses and petitions that I might be left
with her, it is impossible to describe. She insisted that she would find
me a shop where I could go and continue to learn the art of
wood-carving. Thank God, this time my mother's tenderness overcame my
father's tenacity (loving though it was), and I was allowed to remain
with her. They both looked about to find me a shop, and I was finally
placed in Borgo Sant' Jacopo, with the wood-carvers Gaetano Ammanati and
Luigi Pieraccini, who worked together. They were both very able men,
certainly much more so than my father, who, poor man, owing to the
constant requirements of the family, had never been able to perfect
himself in his art. In this shop figures were carved, so that I had
before me models and teachers, as well as incitement to work. My
principals liked me, and I them; and I should have remained with them
who knows how long, had I not been carried off by another
_intagliatore_. And the way in which it happened was this: Signor Paolo
Sani, a carver in wood who sometimes came on business or for other
reasons to Ammanati's, seeing that my work was fairly good, and that I
worked with goodwill, determined, if possible, to take me away to work
for him. He wrote, therefore, to my father, who had returned to Siena,
asking him to remove me from Ammanati's shop, and send me to him,
binding himself to pay me double the salary that I was then receiving.
As he did not wish, however, to appear to act underhandedly (though this
was really the case), he persuaded my father to take me to Siena, and
place me at the Academy of Fine Arts, to study drawing; and he promised,
after I had passed some months there, to take me to work in his own
shop. My father accepted the offer, and I was obliged to go to Siena,
where I studied in the Academy at the school of "Ornato," which was then
under the direction of Professor Dei. Out of school hours my father let
me work upon anything I liked--such as children's heads, angels, and
even crucifixes. God knows what rubbish they were! I also took lessons,
in drawing the human figure, of Signor Carlo Pini, then the _custode_ of
the Academy, and afterwards one of the most distinguished annotators of
Vasari, and keeper of the drawings by the old masters in the Royal
Gallery of the Uffizi.
[Sidenote: ANGELO BARBETTI'S PROPHECY.]
At that time Signor Angelo Barbetti, a very skilful wood-carver, was at
Siena, and my father wished to place me in his shop, which was in the
Piazza di San Giovanni. But Signor Angelo was as irascible and
fault-finding as he was intelligent; and one day, when I had not
succeeded in executing some work that he had given me, he struck me on
the head, accompanying the blow with these words, which hurt me more
than the blow itself--"You will always be an ass, harnessed and shod,
even when the beard is on your chin." Afterwards I was sent to Signor
Antonio Manetti, who not only carved ornaments and figures in wood, but
also worked in marble, and was occupied in restoring the façade of the
cathedral. Signor Manetti was a man of no common genius--he designed and
sculptured ornaments and figures with much facility and cleverness. But
even with him I was not fortunate. He gave me a little Napoleonic eagle
with thunderbolts in his claws to execute. For what it was intended I do
not remember, but apparently I did not succeed in satisfying him. In
this case, however, there were neither blows on the head nor bitter
words, but, with a certain haughty dignity, he took my poor little
eaglet in his hand, and dashed it to the ground, breaking it to atoms in
spite of the thunderbolts. Viewed from this long distance of time, this
scene has a somewhat comic character, and must seem especially so to one
who hears it described. But for me, a poor little boy, anxious to learn
and get on, so as to lighten, as far as possible, the burden on my
father--who, poor man, earned little, and of that little was obliged to
send a portion to his family in Florence--it was quite another thing;
and though I felt within myself that I was not a complete donkey, still
to see my work thrown thus brutally on the ground was so painful to me
that it took away all my little strength. I wept in secret; and as the
time assigned by Signor Paolo Sani and my father for my return had
arrived, I begged my father to send me back to Florence. He wished,
however, to keep me with him still longer, and so I occupied myself in
making angels and seraphim heads for churches.
[Sidenote: I RUN AWAY FROM SIENA.]
[Sidenote: WEARINESS AND REMORSE.]
I begged and begged my father to take me to Florence, to see my mother.
He promised to do so at Easter. Meanwhile, I contented myself with this
hope; but on the eve of Easter he told me he could not go, on account of
his engagements, which would detain him at Siena, and also for many
other reasons that I could not and would not understand. Now, however,
my patience gave way before my loving desire to see my mother; and
without saying a word, I rose early and ran away from the house. Passing
out of the Porta Camollia, I set off on my walk with only a bit of bread
in my pocket, in the boyish hope of reaching my destination the same
day, and so passing my Easter with my mother, without reflecting that,
by so doing, I should pass it neither with my father nor my mother. I
was about nine years old, and walked on with courage beyond my strength.
So great was my desire to get to Florence, that I passed Staggia and
Poggibonsi without feeling tired; but near Barberino--which is about
twenty miles from Siena, and half-way to Florence--my mind misgave me
that I should not be able to arrive in Florence that evening;
and then my strength abandoned me, and I was so overcome with fatigue
that I could not get up from a little wall on which I had seated myself
to rest. I had not a penny. No carts or carriages were passing that way.
It was Easter, and every one was at home resting for his holiday; and I,
there I was alone in the middle of the road, oppressed with weariness
and remorse for having left my father in such anxiety. At times I hoped
that he might come after me with a carriage to take me up, and I quite
resigned myself to a sound beating; but even this hope was vain, and I
had to continue my walk. How many sad thoughts passed one after another
through my little tired head! What will my mother, who is expecting us,
do or say? What will my _babbo_ think, left alone, and not knowing where
I am? He will be certainly looking for me, and asking after me from
every one in Siena. What will become of me in the middle of the road if
night overtakes me? This thought gave strength and energy to my will,
and on I went. I don't think that I was frightened. At length my
strength was exhausted; the sun began to set; I was seven or eight miles
from San Casciano, and I could not be certain of arriving even there to
pass the night. I stopped at a wretched little house to rest, and asked
for a glass of water. A man, a woman, and several children were eating.
They asked me where I came from, and I told them. With expressions of
compassion, especially from the woman, they gathered round me, gave me
some bread, a hard-boiled egg, and a little wine, and I thanked them
with emotion. They wanted me to stay with them until the next day--and
tired out as I was, I should have stayed and accepted their kindly
offer; but at this moment a _vettura_ for Florence passed by, and with
my eyes full of tears I told them how infinitely grateful I should be
if I could be allowed to fasten myself in any way on to the carriage.
The driver, who had stopped to get a glass of wine, seeing the state I
was in, and hearing my story from these good country people, took me up
on the box by his side, and carried me to Florence, where we arrived in
less than three-quarters of an hour, an hour after nightfall. As my
mother and the other children lived in Via Toscanelli, when we were near
the Sdrucciolo de' Pitti the good driver set me down there. I descended
from the box and ran--no, I could not run, for my feet were swollen, and
my sides numb, but my heart was glad, exultant, and throbbing. I
knocked; my mother came to the window and saw me, but she did not
recognise me until I spoke, and then she gave a scream and came down.
What followed I cannot recount. Those who have a heart will imagine it
better than I can tell it. Neither the good family who welcomed and
refreshed me, nor the honest humane carrier, have I ever seen, for I
remained in Florence, and did not return to Siena until many years
after. Then I made all possible researches to find both the one and the
other, but I could never find them. Not, indeed, that I wished to
remunerate them with money (the price of charity has not yet been
named), but I wished to express to them my gratitude; and this is the
only recompense acceptable to charitable hearts.
[Sidenote: I REACH FLORENCE--MY MOTHER.]
[Sidenote: PAOLO SANI'S SHOP.]
The day after, as I hoped and feared, the _babbo_ arrived, and as soon
as he saw me, his expression, anxious and grieved as it was, became
threatening. His few ill-repressed words were the sure sign of the blows
to come, and he was just going to strike me when my mother, with
indescribable tenderness, caught me in her arms and pressed me to her,
with her face and eyes turned towards my father, without uttering a
word. Softened by this, he then began a long speech on the obedience and
submission due from children to the holy parental authority, not
omitting to censure my mother's indulgence and petting. After this I
begged his pardon, and all was at an end. My father returned to Siena,
and I went to Signor Sani's shop (built with his own money), in the
Piazza di San Biagio, under the Piatti printing-office. Signor Paolo
Sani was a man of about fifty, thin, pale, and exceedingly active. He
had a great deal of work to do, and was employed by the Court and first
houses in Florence. His taste was not exquisite, but he understood
effects and proportions, so that his decorative carving, either in the
way of furniture, caskets, frames, chandeliers, or ornamental work for
churches, was greatly in demand. He had many men, and the works
succeeded each other with great rapidity. In his house he had portfolios
full of designs, and the walls of his shop were covered with plaster
casts, bas-reliefs of figures, and ornaments, animals, arabesques,
flowers, angels, &c., making a strange fantastic medley full of
attraction for me. When the master was not there, the men at their work
used to talk and sing; but when any one saw him coming, the scene
changed, and there was perfect silence. I came into the shop as an
apprentice and errand-boy; so that although I had my little bench, with
my tools and work, yet, if there was any glue to be heated or made, or
the tools were to be taken to the grinder, or the breakfast to be
brought for the men, this duty always fell upon me. But I did not in the
least complain. It is true that amongst these duties there was one for
which I had a dislike, although I did not show it, and this was carrying
a basket full of shavings on my back to the master's house in the Borgo
Sant' Jacopo. To go there I had to pass through the Mercato Nuovo and
over Ponte Vecchio, which is much frequented at all hours, as every one
knows; and during this year I went there with the basket of shavings on
my back. Notwithstanding this, I was well off in the shop, and was
light-hearted from being near my mother and sisters. One of my
sisters--my elder by a year--died soon after my return from my
wanderings with my father. Poor Clementina! she was so good, delicate in
health, and suffering. Indeed, we all suffered because of our poverty.
Father sent us little, for he earned little, and our bread was often wet
with tears because we could not help our mother as we wished. Added to
this, she could do almost nothing herself on account of her infirmity of
eyesight, which little by little so increased, that at last she was no
longer able to see us; and as I have already said, Clementina died. God
willed it so--to shorten her road, which was too full of thorns and
danger, to one pretty as she was, artless, away from the father's
watchful eye, and with her mother blind. My other smaller sister
Maddalena accompanied her mother when she went out, as she did in the
endeavour to earn something by buying and selling women's old clothes.
My brother Lorenzo (perhaps because he was too quick-tempered) was
obliged to go to the poorhouse, and here he learnt the art of
carpet-maker. After a short time, however, he came out and returned to
Parenti, who had a carpet manufactory in the ancient refectory of the
monks of Santa Croce, where he remained for some time.
[Sidenote: DEATH OF MY SISTER.]
But all these difficulties and sorrows one feels less in early years,
and in spite of them I was light-hearted. I had the master's goodwill,
and the men in the shop treated me with the open cordial heartiness
belonging to that class in those days. My love for the study of design
increased, and in the off-hours of work I used to stay behind in the
shop and eat a bit of bread there, and draw from some of the casts
hanging on the walls, without taking them down or even dusting them. I
began with little things such as leaves, branches, small figures,
capitals of columns, heads of animals, and so on and so on, until I got
to figures. In the shop there were two beautiful bas-reliefs from the
pulpit in Santa Croce, two from the doors of the sacristy of the Duomo
by Luca della Robbia, and several of those little figures by Ghiberti
which surround the principal door of San Giovanni. All these casts I
drew during this period--badly, as one may imagine, and without guide or
method; but still, this served to occupy me pleasantly, and also to keep
alive within me the craving to learn and advance myself, so as to be
able to do other and more important work in the shop, and thus gain
distinction.
[Sidenote: BACKWARDNESS AT SCHOOL.]
[Sidenote: MY FIRST LIBRARY.]
[Sidenote: BOOKS AT CHURCH.]
This desire of distinguishing myself has always been very strong in me;
and through all my privations, discomforts, loss of sleep, harsh
corrections, irony, and scorn, I was borne up by this desire to do
myself credit, and see my father and mother rejoice in me and for me;
and also, I must confess, by the hope of seeing the rage of those who
had treated me with irony and scorn. But if I learned, more and more
every day, how to design and to carve in wood--for this was very
attractive to me--in everything else I was perfectly ignorant. I had not
even learned to read well, and could not write at all. My father had
tried placing me at a public school, but I learned absolutely nothing
there. The rudiments of writing and arithmetic were so irksome to me
that the master in despair sent me home again, and would have nothing to
do with such a little dunce. For all this, I had my little library at
home, which I kept with great care locked up in a small box in my room,
and it was composed of seven or eight books. These I had bought in the
streets from book-stalls set against old walls, and they were as
follows: A volume of the 'Capitoli of Berni,' 'Paul and Virginia,' and
'Atala and Chatta' (translations of course), a volume of the comedies of
Alberto Nota, and the 'Jerusalem Liberated,' 'Guerrino Meschino agli
Alberi del Sole,' 'Oreste,' and the 'Pazzi Conspiracy.' At first I
understood almost nothing excepting some of the adventures of Guerrino.
Afterwards 'Atala and Chatta' and 'Paul and Virginia' became my
favourite reading; and so much did I like them, and so often did I read
them, that whole pages remained in my memory. Then I fell in love with
the 'Jerusalem,' and this my memory more easily retained. Some of the
verses I tried to write from memory, in a little running hand, copying
the letters from my father's writing, for, as I have said before, I
never learnt the rudiments of writing; and those pot-hooks, and big
letters between two lines, never were to my taste. As to other things, I
had the innocence and good faith belonging to my age and the imperfect
education I had received. I thought all books good--good because they
were printed--and not only good at home, but good everywhere else; and
so I used to take my books to read in church during the Mass. One day
(it was Sunday) at mid-day Mass in Sant' Jacopo, while I was reading the
'Conspiracy of the Pazzi,' my master, Signor Sani, who lived opposite
the church, and was also at Mass, observed me, and suspecting that the
book I was reading was not a proper one to take to church, stopped me as
he was going out and asked to see it, and finding what it was, told me
that I was not to bring it again to church, as it was not a book of
prayers. More also he added that I did not understand, especially when
he wanted to explain to me the verses--
"Il putrido
Annoso tronco, a cui s'appoggia fraude."[2]
[2] "The rotten knotted trunk on which fraud leans."
I obeyed, however, and never took this or any of my other books to
church; and so I learnt that books you can read at home you cannot read
in church. Later I learnt there are others not to be read anywhere.