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.
And now to return to my unfortunate escapade, which, so to speak, was
the cause of my good fortune. Whilst they were looking for me, hidden in
the crowd, I got away by slow degrees to the Porta San Miniato, and,
keeping close to the walls up the hillside, escaped the observation of
the police; and then, on thinking over the danger I had run, and the
scandal I had created by my folly, I resolved to mend my ways. Here the
remembrance of the dear gentle maiden came over me, and I thought if I
had been with her and had not been driven away, this disturbance would
never have taken place. Her presence, her words, the desire of
possessing her, and being loved and esteemed by her, were necessary to
me. At last I returned to town by the same road, and, going up by the
Renai, I crossed the Ponte alle Grazie, and near there I saw Marina and
her mother walking before me. My heart leaped within me! Had they been
to the procession? Did they know what had happened, and had they seen
me? What a start it gave me! To appear such a poor creature in her eyes
was intolerable: what others might say was nothing compared to her
condemnation; and, let alone condemnation, what I feared was the loss of
her esteem. Under the influence of this fear, I had not the courage to
address her; but at last, this uncertainty seeming too bitter to bear, I
went up to her mother's side and said, "Good evening, Regina."
[Sidenote: I RETURN TO MARINA'S HOUSE.]
"Oh, see who is here! Good evening," she replied, with a joyful face.
I felt a new life come to me.
"What! have you been to the procession?" she said.
I looked both straight in the face and answered, "I come from that
direction. I have been out of the gate of San Miniato."
"Have you heard that there has been a disturbance in the Piazza di San
Niccolò?"
"I believe so; but it was a mere nothing."
"Ah, not so much of a mere nothing. They came to blows; there were some
women among them; the soldiers came--the dragoons. I tell you it was a
great row. Besides, some have been arrested, and will be taken to
prison; and it serves them right. Pretty business, such a scandal as
this!"
After a pause, I began again, turning to Marina--
"Where were you when you saw the procession?"
"We!" answered Marina--"we were in the church. We saw it go out, and a
little after the disturbance occurred. I had such a fright!"
[Sidenote: STORY OF A PARROT.]
Having ascertained that they knew nothing of my doings, I was consoled,
changed the conversation, and accompanied them down from Santa Croce to
their house. When we were on the threshold I sadly said good-night; but
Regina, to my great surprise and pleasure, said to me, "Won't you come
up for a little while?"
"Well, if you will permit me, I will stop a little while with the
greatest pleasure." And looking into the face of my good Marina, her
eyes seemed to say, "Yes, I am most happy." We then went up-stairs, and
I remained there only a short time, so as not to appear to presume upon
their kindness; but in taking leave, I told the mother that I should
return the next day, for I had something to say to her. My resolution
was taken.
Have you done at last with all your childish follies, your tiresome
tirades, your colourless love, fit only for collegians? You promised to
give us your memoirs, and we supposed that you had something of
importance and interest to tell us. Are these, then, your memoirs? and
do you really and seriously think that such things as this are of the
least interest to anybody?
Listen, dear reader. You have a thousand good reasons to think so, after
your mode of viewing things; but I have quite as many on my side, as I
will now prove to you. But first let me tell you a little story. There
was once a parrot trained to put together certain words and make a
little speech, almost as if it was his own. One day the servant (who was
new to the house where the parrot was, and had never seen such a bird
before) was struck with astonishment at hearing him, and was so
delighted that he stretched out his hand to touch him. As he did this,
the bold and loquacious bird opened his beak and said, "What do you
want?" The astonished servant at once withdrew his hand, and, lifting
his cap, answered, "Excuse me, sir, but I took you for a beast!"
[Sidenote: AM ARRESTED AND SENT TO PRISON.]
I find myself now in the opposite case, and say to you, "Excuse me, I
took you for a man"--that is to say, I imagined that you sympathised
with me, and even appreciated a man who promises to tell the truth, and
to narrate things just as they really were and are; and this I am doing,
and mean to do to the end, without caring who likes great effects of
light and shade, fearful shadows, and mere inventions, more or less
romantic. If you don't like my way of doing this, you know very well
what to do--shut the book and lay it aside, or skip what bores you, and
perhaps you may find here and there something which pleases you. But I
wish to give you fair warning, that these memoirs refer to and describe
in part that very love which, though it may seem to you perfectly
colourless, was none the less living, deep, and holy, and that retained
its warmth and vividness of light for forty years, until she who was its
object disappeared from this earth, leaving in my heart the memory of
her rare virtues, a love which is ever alive, and the hope that I may
again see her.
And now again I take up the thread of my narrative. Truly, when I said
to Regina that I should return the next day to speak with her, I counted
without my host, as the saying goes. The next day I found myself in
"quod"--for but a short time, if you please, but still in prison for
fourteen hours from morning to evening. But I was very well off there,
as I shall now explain.
The morning after, on Monday--I was at my post, the first bench in
Sani's shop--a person, after walking for some time up and down before
the shop windows, came in and said, "Be so kind as to come with me to
the Commissary of Santo Spirito, and---- Do not be alarmed; it is
nothing. The Signor Commissario wishes to learn from you something about
the disturbance that occurred yesterday at San Niccolò after the
procession."
[Sidenote: EXAMINATION BY THE COMMISSARIO.]
"But I--be assured----"
"Don't stop to deny anything. The Signor Commissario knows all. Your
name is Giovanni Duprè. You live in Via del Gelsomino, which is
precisely in our quarter; and I did not go to look for you at your
house, in order not to disturb the family. But I can assure you that it
is a matter of no importance--perhaps a scolding, but nothing more."
I resigned myself, and went with him. This person was not absolutely a
_sbirro_, but something of that kind; and out of a sense of delicacy,
and divining my thoughts, he said to me--
"Go on before me. You know the way. I will keep behind you in the
distance, and no one will perceive that we are together."
This I did, and arriving at the Commissariato, was immediately
introduced to the Commissario. The Commissario was in those days a sort
of justice of the peace, who possessed certain attributes and powers, by
which he was enabled to adjudge by himself certain causes, and to punish
by one day's imprisonment in the Commissariato itself. If the affair
after the interrogatory required a longer punishment, the accused party
was conducted to the Bargello.
The interrogatory then took place; and after severely blaming me for my
conduct, he told me that the matter in itself was very grave, both on
account of the assault and the injuries done by me to these persons, and
also of the tumult which had been occasioned on a _fête_ which was not
only public but sacred, and that therefore it was beyond his power to
deal with such an offence. I felt myself grow cold, and had scarcely
breath to speak, so completely had the idea of being sent to the
Bargello overwhelmed me. But the good magistrate hastened to add,
"However, do not fear. The single deposition of only one of the
_corrisanti_ is not in itself sufficient, and therefore it may be
assumed that the provocation came from their side, and that you acted in
legitimate self-defence. But as there was disorder, and injuries were
received, you must be content to pass the day shut up in one of our
cells." Thus saying, he rang his bell, and said to a _sbirro_ who
appeared at the door, "Conduct this gentleman out, and lock him up;" and
as I went out he added, "Another time be cautious, and remember that you
might fall into the hands of some one whose name is not entered here;"
and he laid his hand upon a large book which he had on the table. I
bowed, went out, and the _sbirro_ opened a door in the court of the
Commissariato, made a gesture to me to enter, and shut me in.
[Sidenote: MY PRISON WALLS.]
The room in which I found myself was tolerably large, with a fair amount
of light, which came in from a high iron-barred window. In one corner
was a heap of charcoal; and from this, perhaps, the room had received
the name of the Carbonaia. The walls were dirty, and covered with
obscene inscriptions. There was a bench to sit upon, a closet, and
nothing else. I remained standing and looking about, but I saw nothing.
My thoughts were wandering sadly and confusedly from one thing to
another, and fixed themselves with fear and sorrow upon my mother and
Marina, who, in the state in which I found myself, seemed to me more
than ever dear and worthy of honour. I thought of their grief, and felt
a shudder of emotion come over me. But the assurance that I should soon
be free, and should not pass the night there, strengthened me and gave
me courage, and I walked up and down the room humming to myself. Then,
not knowing what to do, and how to occupy the time, which is always so
long and tedious when one has nothing to do, I caught sight of the
charcoal, and my spirits rose, and I said, "Now I have nothing to fear,
for here is an occupation which will last me as long as there is light;"
and I began to draw upon the wall a composition of figures almost as
large as life, the subject of which was the death of Ferruccio. This was
a composition which I had seen at about that time in the exhibition of
the Academy of Fine Arts, in a picture which had struck my fancy. It
represented Ferruccio lying on the ground mortally wounded, and wrapped
in the flag of the Commune. With a fierce and scornful look he seemed to
be saying to Maramaldo, who was giving orders to finish killing him,
"You kill a dead man." The author of this picture was the painter
Bertoli, a young man of great promise, and who unhappily died not long
afterwards in the insane asylum. The drawing that I made upon the wall
was a reminiscence of that composition, and there was nothing of mine in
it beyond an effort of memory.
[Sidenote: DRAWING ON PRISON WALLS.]
My poor mother, having been informed by the people of the shop, came to
the Commissario, in the hope of obtaining my liberation, but she could
not even obtain permission to see me. The only thing allowed to her was
permission to bring me my dinner--that is, to give it to some one to
bring in to me, all but the wine; and this she did. Oh, my sweet mother,
may God grant thee the reward of thy love!
In the meantime the evening drew nigh; the walls were covered with my
poor drawings, and my hands and face and handkerchief were all black. I
would willingly have remained in prison till another day in order to
finish a little less badly the Ferruccio; but to stay there for long
hours in the dark, and with nothing to do, so irritated and disquieted
me, that I began to cry out, and beat on the door, asking for a light at
my own expense. But no one heeded me; and as I continued to drum loudly
on the door, and had even taken the bench to hammer with, a voice
different from the others called out to me, "Sir, for your own good I
pray you to stop. The rules forbid lights; and if you go on in this way,
I promise you that you shall sleep to-night in the Bargello." Never did
so short a speech produce the desired effect like this. I hastened to
answer that I would be absolutely quiet. I put back my bench in its
place, and seated myself upon it, in the attitude perhaps of Marius
sitting on the ruins of Carthage; and there I remained until eleven
o'clock at night. The door was then opened, and I was told to go to the
Signor Commissario to thank him. This I did, and he repeated to me the
sermon of the morning, and added that I owed to him the mildness of my
sentence. I renewed my thanks to him, and ran home, where I found my
mother and father awaiting me--he with a severe face, and she with tears
in her eyes.
[Sidenote: RELEASE FROM PRISON.]
The day after, I went to the house of Marina--for I invented some sort
of lie to explain why I had not come the day before, as I had
promised--and taking aside Regina (as Marina had established a school in
the house), I expressed to her my desire to be married as soon as
possible. It was rather soon, I confess; but for me there was no other
safety. With her--with my good Marina--I felt that I should cut short
the too excited kind of life I was then leading, and which carried me
into company and into gambling, and down that decline which leads every
one knows where. That very evening I returned and insisted on
acquainting the dear girl with my determination, at which she showed
herself modestly happy. The true affection that I felt for that good
creature, and the solemn pledge that I then took, put an absolute end to
the thoughtless life which I had been leading. Stronger than ever came
back to me my love for study, and I began to turn over in my mind how to
occupy myself in marble work, even though it should be as a simple
workman. At that time I made the acquaintance of Signor Luigi Magi, who
was in the Studio Ricci, in Via S. Leopoldo, now Via Cavour, and I
opened my mind to him, and he did not dissuade me from my purpose. But
he advised me first to learn how to draw well and to model, and after
going through a certain course of these studies, then to attempt to work
in marble. He offered to procure for me copies to draw from; and then,
as he intended to set up a studio for himself, he offered to give me
lessons in modelling in clay. This being agreed upon, I returned home
happy in the hope of carrying out this plan. But the many little things
that I had to think of, and not the least of which was to save all the
time I could in order to provide for the unusual expenses of my
marriage, upset entirely for several months this ambitious project.
[Sidenote: LITTLE ECONOMIES.]
The ideas of wise economy which have up to the present time always
accompanied me, I owe to my most excellent Marina. One day she said to
me, "You make four _pauls_ a-day, and two you spend on the house. What
do you do with the other two?"
"I dress, buy cigars, and I don't know what else."
"See," she answered, "on your dress it is evident that you don't spend
much; your cigars are a small matter; so it seems to me that you might
put a part aside to supply what we most need."
[Sidenote: MARINA--AND A POT OF VERBENA.]
"The fact is, that I cannot keep the money."
"If you like, I will keep it for you."
I accepted with pleasure, and every week brought her the surplus; and I
strove that it should not be small, for she knew pretty well what I had
over. At the end of a few weeks I found that I had a package of six or
eight beautiful shirts with plaited cuffs, such as I had always worn
ever since I was a boy. An intelligent economy saves us from need, and
even in narrow circumstances makes life easy. I owe to this wise woman
the exact and judicious regulation of my family, as well in the first
years of our marriage--when we were very much restricted in means--as in
those which came after.
My eagerness to see her every evening, my exactness in carrying her all
my savings, and the respect which I showed her by my words and acts,
made me dearer to her eyes than I ever was before. One evening we were
standing at the window of our little parlour, which overlooked a garden
which was not ours. On its ledge were some pots of flowers reaching out
over the windows, and among the flowers was a plant of verbena, which
she liked above all things. I talked to her of my studies, of my hopes,
of the happiness I felt in being near her; and all the time I was so
close to her, that our two breathings were mingled together.
She was silent, her face and eyes lifted to the starry heavens. The
perfume of the flowers, the silence of the evening, and her sweet and
chaste ecstasy so touched me, that, impelled by an irresistible force, I
reached my lips towards hers. My movement was instantaneous, but I
failed to carry out my purpose; she turned away her face, and my lips
only brushed against a lock of her hair, and then she immediately moved
away and seated herself beside her mother. After forty years this comes
back to me as if it had just happened. Her face had an expression
neither of displeasure nor of joy; but a certain somewhat of sorrow was
there, which seemed an answer to all that I had been saying. When she
perceived that I was serious and a little mortified, she said with calm
benignity--
[Sidenote: MY MARRIAGE.]
"Do you like verbena?"
"Oh yes; I like it so much."
Then quickly rising, she cut off a sprig, put it in the buttonhole of my
coat, and said--
"There, that looks well!"
I took my leave, and on going away said to her _addio_, and not a
_rivederla_.
The 7th of December 1836, on the Vigil of the Immaculate Conception of
the Virgin Mary, I married my good Marina in the Church of St Ambrogio.
This was, in truth, the great event of my life, and that which exercised
the most salutary influence over my studies, over my peace, and over the
prosperity and morality of my family. We were married in the evening,
not only to screen ourselves from the curious, but also because our joy
was as secret as it was great. Our witnesses were Luigi Sani, son of my
chief--he for whom (as I hope my reader has not forgotten) I used when a
boy to prepare his clay--and Bartolomeo Bianciardi, who was a workman in
the shop of Sani. At our modest supper, besides the witnesses, were my
father and mother.
My new existence being thus assured, I began to think seriously how to
carry out and give real form to the dream of all my life, which resolved
itself into this--_to be a sculptor_. My young wife was timid, and
sought to persuade me that I was very well as I was. My father openly
blamed me, and kept repeating in his beloved Latin, "Multi sunt vocati
pauci vero electi" (Many are called but few chosen). This I knew as
well as he; but he referred it to my desire to be an artist, and my
ambition did not reach further than merely to be a workman in marble. My
mother listened to me kindly, and half sympathised with me in my bold
hope of becoming a workman in some sculptor's studio. To my dear wife
(for she above all others was nearest my heart, and on her account it
behoved me to take care what I was doing) I kept repeating--
[Sidenote: COPYING DESIGNS AND DRAWINGS.]
"My good Marina, listen. I risk nothing. I do not lose my skill as a
wood-carver, and if I only study sculpture in the off-hours of my work,
this very study may be useful to me as a carver; and if I succeed in
becoming a sculptor, I shall be able to earn more, and acquire
reputation, and enable you to live well and to give up your trade. Say,
would not this be a good thing?"
And she would look at me sadly, and gently smiling would say--
"But we are very well off as we are."
In the meantime, in view of an offer of Signor Magi to give me some
drawings and designs to copy, I went, according to our agreement, to his
studio in the Licei di Candeli, and begged him to fulfil his promise;
and a few days after he gave me some heads in light and dark from the
"Transfiguration" of Raphael, which I copied, working at them early in
the morning and in the evenings. Having finished these rapidly and to
his satisfaction, he gave me plate by plate the whole course of anatomy
of Professor Sabatelli, done in red chalk. In this task I was so
interested that I worked till very late at night, until I had attained
such facility and knowledge, that after sketching in the general
outlines, I at once finished them without requiring to make a rough
copy. Magi was surprised that I was able so easily to turn off every day
a copy of one of these drawings of legs, arms, and _torsi_, which were
of life size. Afterwards he gave me a number of the so-called
_Accademie_, which are nude studies of the entire figure--and these,
too, I drew rapidly and with increasing taste; and so enamoured was I of
them, that I afterwards repeated them at the shop upon any fragment of
paper or wood, drawing them in all their attitudes from memory.
[Sidenote: ANXIETIES AND STRUGGLES.]
I made, as I was well aware, very rapid progress, and I longed for the
moment when the master should say to me that it was time to begin to
model. In fact, he soon suggested this. However, as it was necessary to
have a certain apparatus and help, I could only begin to model in the
studio of Magi. It was therefore arranged that I should go to him during
all the off-hours of my work; and this I did. I will not stop to note
the number of hands, feet, and heads that he made me copy; I will only
say that my life was most exhausting, and my wife, poor dear, had to
suffer for it. She had to wait for dinner, and I was often so late, that
I had only time to swallow a little soup and a piece of bread, and then
to rush back to the shop.
When I remember this life of mine, with its painful anxieties and
struggles, it makes me angry to see some of the youths of to-day, with
every opportunity and all their time, and without a care in the world,
either for their family or any thing or person, who rot in idleness,
assume airs of scorn for others, even for their masters, and then swear
out against adverse fortune, and deplore their genius crushed and
unrecognised, and similar insipidities. My two hours of rest during the
day, which were from one to three o'clock, were thus occupied: one hour
was given to study, and the other was but just sufficient to enable me
to go from my shop in the Piazza di San Biagio to the Liceo di Candeli,
and there take my dinner, and then return to the shop. I was punctual
too, for I was determined to do my duty, and to keep my promise to my
wife never to allow my study of sculpture to interfere with my regular
occupation.
[Sidenote: A HOME-PICTURE.]
It was indeed a life full of agitations, anxieties, fears, and
privations, but animated with what joyous hopes! Every evening when I
came back from my work, I devoted myself at home to making anatomical
drawings from casts, while my wife did her ironing in the same room; and
I drew until the hour of supper came. It was a pure sweet pleasure to me
to see that strong and lively creature coming and going with her
flat-irons from the fireplace to the table, and gaily ironing, and
singing
"Muskets and broadswords; fire--fire--poum!"[4]
as she smoothed and beat with the flat-iron on the linen, while her
mother sat silently spinning in the corner. Truly that blessed woman was
right when she said, "We are so happy as we are"--for one of the purest
joys that cheers my present life is the memory of those days. No joy is
purer than that which comes from the memory of that past time of work,
of study, and of domestic peace. Those days of narrow means and
agitations now shine upon me with a serene and lovely light; and I bless
the Lord, who softens by His grace the bitterness of poverty and the
harshness of fatigue, and so preserves this sweetness of remembrance in
the heart, that neither time nor fortune has the power to extinguish it,
or even to diminish it.
[4] "Schioppi, sciabola; fuoco--puhm!"
In the opinion of my master, Signor Magi, I had arrived at that point in
my studies that I could be permitted to make portraits from life.
Accordingly he proposed that I should find some friend who had time and
patience to stand for me as a model. I soon found one, and his was the
first bust I modelled. The likeness was good, and Magi and the others
began to have a strong faith in my future. Encouraged by this trial from
life, I determined to make a statuette of small dimensions. The subject
which was given to me by Magi was Santa Filomena standing with her head
and eyes turned to heaven, one hand on her breast and the other holding
a bunch of lilies, while the anchor, the sign of her martyrdom, lay at
her feet. The statuette was liked; and I pleased myself with executing
it in wood, and finished it with great care of handling and delicacy of
detail. It was exhibited at the Accademia delle Belle Arti in 1838; was
praised by distinguished artists, such as Benvenuti and Bartolini; and
the latter recalled it to me when, some time afterwards, I went to ask
for work in his studio, and said--
[Sidenote: STATUETTE OF SANTA FILOMENA.]
"Believe me, my dear sir, if I had any work to give you to do, I would
give it with pleasure, for I have seen that statuette of yours, which
shows that you have intelligence and love."
My Santa Filomena was liked--liked by artists and by those who were not
artists; but no purchaser presented himself, and I was anxious to sell
it, not only for the sake of a little money, which would have been very
opportune, but still more for the satisfaction of my _amore proprio_ as
an artist. But the purchaser did not come, and I was obliged to place my
statuette in the magazine of antiquities of the Brothers Pacetti, on the
ground-floor of the Borghese Palace in the Via del Palagio. It did not
long remain here, however. It was frequented by many strangers, who
found there a great number of things which were curious, and some of
which were really beautiful. In this magazine there were, first of all,
old pictures of our Florentine school: whence they had been excavated I
know not, but the exportation of them out of the country was not as
difficult as it now is. There were also _terre cotte_ of the school of
Luca della Robbia, statuettes in bronze, marble busts of the Roman
school, to ornament halls or staircases in palaces; chests of ebony
inlaid with _pietra dura_, ivory, tortoise-shell, &c. Specially rich was
it in Venetian glass, antique plates, enamels, laces, &c., &c. There,
among all these antiquities, figured my Santa Filomena, which seemed
more pure and white from contrast with all the chests of drawers, and
stuffs, and tapestries which formed its background.
[Sidenote: SANTA FILOMENA.]
A Russian gentleman asked the price; and it being stated to him, without
refusing to take it, he made a strange condition of purchase. He would
not have it a saint, and in consequence he exacted that all the
attributes which belonged to Santa Filomena should be removed. I took
great pains to make him see that this could not be done, and that the
statuette would in so doing lose much of its artistic value. If the
lilies were taken from the hand, it would be perfectly meaningless and
idle, and would injure the expression of the figure. He seemed to a
certain extent persuaded, but he still persisted that he would not have
it as a saint; and after thinking for a long time how he could change
the name, and seeing that there was an anchor at her feet, he said that
it might be called Hope. I remained between yes and no, and only
observed to him that Hope ought to hold the anchor in her hand, and not
leave it on the ground as if she had forgotten it.
"No matter," he answered, "I insist on calling it Hope; but the lilies
must be removed."
[Sidenote: CHRIST ON THE CROSS.]
I answered that they would rather help the subject, and it might be
called The Virgin, Hope.
"_Oh! c'est très-bien_," he replied.
There remained the crown of roses on her head, but in regard to this
everything was easy. Roses are the symbol of joy, and Hope in the purity
of its aspirations is crowned with joy. Truly that day I was a more
eloquent orator than artist.
The Russian, quite content (and I more than he), counted me out the
price of the statuette in golden napoleons, and before it was boxed up,
had inscribed on the base of the Filomena these words--_La Vera
Speranza_.
After this work, Magi advised me to begin to work in marble. This cost
me little trouble, practised as I was in carving wood, which, though it
is a softer material, is more ungrateful and irresponsive. After a few
weeks' practice, I was able to execute some works, and to assure myself
that henceforward, whenever I wished, I could go from one material to
the other. Remember, however, that I then did not even dream of becoming
an artist. I only hoped to succeed as a workman in marble, as I then was
in wood. The idea of being an artist came to me afterwards, slowly and
by degrees--the appetite growing, as the saying is, by eating; or I
should rather say, I was driven and drawn to it, out of pique and
self-assertion (_punto d'onore_). But let us proceed regularly.
About this time Signor Sani received an order from certain nuns--I do
not now remember whom--to make a Christ upon the cross, which was to be
of small size and executed in boxwood. Naturally Sani thought of me, and
gave it to me to execute. I set to work upon it with such love and such
a desire to do well, that I neglected nothing. After making studies of
parts from life, and pilfering here and there, I succeeded in making an
_ensemble_, movement, character, and expression appropriate to the
subject, and this I executed with patience and intelligence. But the
excellence of the work was superior to the importance of the commission.
Let me explain myself. The time it cost me, and consequently the price I
was paid by my principal for my weeks of labour, far exceeded that which
had been agreed upon by the persons giving the commission. Sani, a
little grudgingly, but still feeling that it did honour to his shop,
showed himself half pleased and half annoyed; and when other persons
afterwards came to urge forward the work on which he was engaged for
them, and praised this Christ of mine, Sani took all the praise to
himself as if it belonged to him. Nor was he to blame for this. The
Christ, however, on account of the difference of price, remained in his
shop shut up in his chest. But as it had been somewhat noised about,
many came expressly to see it. Among these was the Cavaliere Professore
Giuseppe Martelli, who lately died, and who having seen it, told Sani
that he hoped to induce the Cavaliere Priore Emanuel Fenzi to buy it. He
was then putting in order the principal suite of rooms in the palace of
the Via San Gallo for the wedding of the Cavaliere Fenzi's eldest son,
Orazio, with the noble Lady Emilia de' Conte della Gherardesca, and he
hoped to place this Christ at the head of the bed of this young couple.
And this in fact happened. The Christ was seen and bought, and I believe
that it is still in that house. I saw it there myself when poor Orazio,
who honoured me with his friendship, was alive.
[Sidenote: THE "CHRIST" SOLD.]
I shall again refer to this Christ; but for the present, let us go on. I
had a great desire to give up once for all this working in wood--not
because I thought that material less worthy than marble, for the
excellence of a work depends upon the skill and knowledge of the artist,
and not upon the material which he has used. Very worthless statues have
been seen, and still may be seen, in beautiful marble, and, _vice
versâ_, beautiful statues in simple _terra cotta_ or wood.
[Sidenote: WORK AT MAGI'S.]
"You will be noble if you are virtuous," answered D'Azeglio to his son,
when the latter asked him, with the ingenuousness of a child, if their
family was noble.
Let us then understand that the nobility of any one is founded upon his
deeds, and the excellence of a work depends upon the work itself, and
not upon the material. We shall return to this consideration hereafter;
now let us proceed. I say that I wished to give up working in wood,
because it was my business at the shop to make all sorts of little
things, such as candlesticks, cornices, masks, &c. Naturally it fell to
me to make them; and not always--on the contrary, very rarely--it
happened that I had a Christ, an angel, or anything of that kind to
execute: and on this account I was irritable and irascible (except when
I was at home) with everybody, and specially with myself.
At Magi's I had as much work as I wished. I had already finished for him
two busts,--one of the Grand Duke in Roman drapery, according to the
style then in vogue among the academic sculptors, who dressed in Roman
or Greek costume the portrait of their own uncle or godfather; the other
of an old woman, whom I did not know. Work enough I had; but naturally I
wished to earn something by it, and this was soon spoken of. I
understand very well that the master has a kind of right to all the
profits of the first works of his pupil; but with me this went on so
long, that at last he saw its impropriety; and he proposed to engage me
to finish the group of Charity which he had made for the Chapel of the
Poggio Imperiale, as a substitute for that wonderful work of Bartolini,
which is still admired in the Palatine Gallery. But the proposition of
Magi was in every way impossible to accept, as he only agreed to pay me
when the work was completed--that is to say, I and my family were to go
for at least a year without anything to eat.
[Sidenote: DEATH OF MY DAUGHTER--POEM.]
I tried here and there; but I could not make a satisfactory arrangement,
and I had to resign myself to the making of candlesticks. I had now
become a father. My wife had given me a little girl, whom I lost
afterwards when she was seven years old; and as I have never made
mention of my dear angel, let me embellish the meagreness of my prose
with the charming verses of Giovanni Battista Niccolini, who then
honoured me with his friendship, and which he wrote with his own hand
under the portrait of my little child. They are as follows:--
Few were the evils that Life brought to thee,
Dear little one, ere thou from us wast torn,
Even as a rosebud plucked in early morn.
Tears thou hast left, and many a memory,
To those who gave thee birth,
But thou from Life's short dream on earth
Hast waked the perfect bliss of heaven to see;
And thou art safe in port, and in the tempest we.
Pochi a te della vita
Furono i mali, o pargoletta, e mori
Come rose ch'è colta ai primi albóri.
Ognor memoria e pianto
Al genitor sarai, benchè per sempre
Dal sogno della vita in ciel gia desta.
Tu stai nel porto e noi siamo in tempesta.