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.
I ran home with all speed, elated and full of enthusiasm, to tell my
wife of the charming proposal of Count Benino. My wife, poor soul, could
not understand all this delight, this vehemence and excitement, in
praise of that kind gentleman; and without saying it, she made me
understand that she should have greatly preferred my continuing as a
wood-carver, without troubling myself about an art which hitherto had
only given me disappointment and worry. With her eyes she seemed to say
to me, "Don't bother yourself, Nanni, about it."
I looked about to find a studio, and took one in the Niccolini
buildings in Via Tedesca, now Via Nazionale. I ordered two large
modelling-stands--one for the living model, the other for the statue in
clay. "A standing statue he will not make," they said; but I will make
it, and in movement too. The idea of Cain came at once into my head.
Cain, the first homicide, fratricide! A fierce and tremendous subject,
and one of great difficulty. I made the sketch, and it seemed to me that
I had divined the movement and expression. Among the artists, it was
soon known that I had taken a new studio to make another statue. Those
who had laughed at first, laughed no longer. My friends encouraged me,
and added fuel to the fire. I had also some offers for the
Abel--insufficient if you will, but enough to encourage me. Among the
others I accepted that of Signor Lorenzo Mariotti, an agent of the
Russian Government, who lived in his own house in the Piazza Pitti. He
came to see me, and said that he should like to order the statue of
Abel, whenever I would make it, for what it cost me, and when it was
done he would help me to sell it. The expenses were calculated at 800
_scudi_; and he offered me this price, with the understanding that
whatever sum it was sold for above the 800 _scudi_, should be divided
between us.
[Sidenote: MODEL OF CAIN.]
The marble was procured, and I was already modelling with ardour the
statue of Cain. Fortunately the Grand Duchess Maria of Russia, daughter
of the Emperor Nicholas, was passing through Florence. She had already
heard the discussion, _pro_ and _con_, which this statue had raised. She
wished to see it, and was so well pleased by it that she did not conceal
her delight. She was in company with her husband, the Prince of
Leuchtenberg. They went into my private studio and saw the Cain, only
just begun. She exchanged some words with the Prince, and he was much
pleased, and embraced me. Then the Grand Duchess, pressing my hand,
said, "The Abel and the Cain are mine." Then they departed. When I went
home and told the good news to my wife, it seemed as if she had a little
more faith in what I was so convinced of--viz., my future career as an
artist.
[Sidenote: PRINCE OF LEUCHTENBERG.]
For the rest of the time that the august Prince and Princess were in
Florence, he never omitted to pass some half-hours of the morning in my
studio, because he liked so much to see me at work. He spoke Italian
extremely well, and it amused him to talk with my model Antonio Petrai
on various subjects; and as he was such a strong and well-made fellow,
one day he asked him if he would like to measure his strength at
fisticuffs with any one; and Petrai--who knew well enough who it was who
asked the question, and was embarrassed about making a proper
reply--after much hesitation could only say "Aho!" upon which the Prince
laughed heartily and gave him something.
Who would have thought that such a handsome youth, so tall, squarely
built, and so spirited, would have died only a few years later of an
insidious disease? He was the son of Prince Beauharnais, Viceroy of
Italy in the troublous times of Napoleon I. One day he came and carried
me away from the studio, because he wished to see with me the statues
which ornament our Piazza della Signoria and the Loggia of Orsanmichele;
but first he would go to Doney's to breakfast. As soon as we were
seated, he ordered _caviale_. "_Caviale_!" answered the waiter, "we have
none." "Bring _caviale_," said the Prince, sharply; but before the
servant could reply he made a sign to the master, who was at the desk,
and he knocked loudly on the marble to call the waiter back. After a
little while a magnificent plate of _caviale_ was served. I wish to note
this anecdote, as it depicts the courteousness, affability, and
popularity of this Prince, who, though he had married the daughter of
the Emperor of Russia, had not forgotten that he was born and educated
in Italy.
[Sidenote: COMMISSION FOR CAIN AND ABEL.]
In the meantime, Mariotti, by order of the Grand Duchess, made the
contract for the two statues, Cain and Abel, and the price fixed for the
Abel was 1500 _scudi_, and for the Cain 2000 _scudi_. The contract which
I had made with Mariotti was torn up, and I gave him out of my first
receipts the sum he had given me; but as to the remainder, the 700
_scudi_, which was to be divided between us, he would not receive it,
saying that the Grand Duchess had already paid him enough. And this, for
Mariotti, whom they call _mangia-russi_, was a good action.
In the meantime the good Count del Benino lent me a considerable sum of
money to pay the rent of my studio, for the modelling stands and tools,
and for the models, as also the daily sum I carried home for household
expenses. This was all registered in a book, with the sums, the dates,
and my name signed in receipt. And all this together came to the amount
of about 100 _scudi_.
Now that I had two good commissions, and the relative advances on them,
I went to Palazzo del Benino, this time to pay rather than receive, and
therefore with lighter and freer spirit. I was anxious to cancel this
debt, which weighed upon my mind like an incubus, which I had felt was
increased and renewed every time I was forced by necessity to ask for
more money; and poor Del Benino, who perceived my reluctance, encouraged
me, and made me feel that it was indifferent to him whether he gave more
or less, trying to distract me while he counted out the money. But this
time, as I have said, I was gay and light-hearted, and caused my name to
be announced by the servant in a loud voice: in short, I was in bearing
and in words slightly proud.
[Sidenote: I OFFER TO REPAY DEL BENINO.]
The Count was seated writing in his usual place. He put down his pen,
and staring at me with his blue eyes, said, "Sor Giovanni, welcome! I am
delighted to see you. What charming thing have you to tell me? Yes, what
can you tell me that I do not already know? To begin, then, I
congratulate you truly--truly. You see, this is for me a new
satisfaction: you cannot imagine the pleasure I feel in now seeing
certain faces cloudy and sad which a few months ago were bursting with
laughter. And I divert myself very much playing the ignoramus with them,
saying, 'Then it appears that this youth is going straight ahead, _per
Bacco!_' The Abel! that stands for what it is--I mean to say, that if
the artist has cast it from life, as you say, the Grand Duchess Maria
has caught a fine crab; but the Cain! that is scarcely begun, and they
tell me that she has seen it only in the clay, and liked it, and given
the order for it, and other like things; for the desire to torment them
does not fail me, and they were much teased and molested by my bitter
words, which I pretended not to mean and ran on. So I have diverted
myself, and so I will divert myself. Now, then, again I congratulate
you. And now tell me if I can do anything for you. I am at your
service."
"Signor Conte, I have come to repay the money which you have lent me,
with so much generosity and kindness, to enable me to make my new model
of Cain, which, God be thanked, has so much pleased the Grand Duchess.
If I had not already begun this, she could not have seen it; and who
knows if she would have taken the risk to order even the Abel? I feel,
but cannot express all the importance of your valuable aid. This aid, so
timely, has been for me a second life, without which, who knows what
would have become of me, discouraged, despised, and probably deserted by
those who now cry out, 'Beautiful, beautiful!' Here am I, then, to
thank you cordially, and to return the money I have borrowed." While I
was speaking the Count gradually lost that gay and lively expression
which was habitual to him, and at my last words looked at me with an
expression of seriousness and regret that I knew not how to interpret.
Then he said--
[Sidenote: COUNT DEL BENINO REFUSES REPAYMENT.]
"There is time enough for this; don't be in such a hurry. This is only
the beginning; a thousand things may occur, and it will do you no harm
to have a little money in the house. On the contrary, it may be
convenient. Now think of study and your reputation; and to pay your debt
to me there is time enough."
"Listen, Signor Conte: I have come here on purpose, and have brought the
money. I do not need it for the present. Let me pay this material debt;
that other great moral substantial debt, the infinite good you have done
me, I can never repay, and never should wish to." The Count grew even
more earnest and serious. He held the paper of our accounts mechanically
in his hand, and tried to prove to me that there was time enough, and
that I should keep the money; but seeing that I insisted, and held out
my hand for the papers to see the sum due, drew it back with vivacity,
and with flashing eyes said to me--
"Oh, leave me, dear Sor Giovanni, this satisfaction."
He tore up the paper and threw it in the basket. I was mortified, and
had half a mind to be offended, but the kind expressions of this
excellent man prevailed. He took my hand and pressed it between his,
saying--
"Don't take it amiss, but leave me the consolation that I have been able
to assist, even in the least degree, in the sale of your work--as you
say, opened for you a future which I hope may prove full of honours.
And moreover, you must know that it has always been my firm intention
to assist you until the road was open and easy before you. I did not at
once open my mind to you, because then, perhaps, you would not have
accepted the offer; therefore I said, you will sign the contract,--and
in good time you will pay. Now you have really paid me, because that
small sum of money has secured your future and given me a great
satisfaction."
[Sidenote: IDEALISTS AND ACADEMICIANS.]
It is necessary now for me to touch upon a question vital to art, and
which was being agitated just at the time I was modelling the Abel. This
work served to inflame it, and to encourage as much one side as the
other--that is, either the idealists or the academicians in opposition
to Bartolini, who, while he was not naturalistic in the strict sense of
the word, proposed to introduce this principle into his teaching by bold
innovations. It is necessary for me to speak of this, inasmuch as this
dispute and my statue served as the target for the shots of one as well
as the other parties, and had the effect of estranging Bartolini from
me--although, as we shall see later, it was another and less justifiable
cause that made the great sculptor indignant with me.
When Stefano Ricci, Master of Sculpture in the Royal Academy, died, it
was wisely decided to call Lorenzo Bartolini to his place (this was a
little before I modelled the Abel), and Bartolini took possession of the
school with the air of a conqueror. Various were the causes for his
extremely overbearing conduct. First, the opposition his demands
encountered on the part of the President and others of the Academy; then
his before-mentioned principles of reform, diametrically opposed to
those now taught in the school; also, finally, the heated political and
religious opinions, which were discussed with little charity on either
side. He altered everything, theories and systems. The position of his
assistant, Professor Costoli, was unpleasant; but he was obliged to
remain. He prohibited all study from statues, and restricted the whole
system of teaching to an imitation only of nature; and he pushed this
principle so far, that he introduced a hunchback into the school and
made the young students copy him. This daring novelty raised a shout of
indignation: they cried out against the profanation of the school, of
the sacred principles of the beautiful, &c.; said that he was ignorant
of his duties as master, and that he misled the youths, extinguishing in
them the love of the beautiful by the study of deformity; and many other
accusations of this agreeable sort, in a freer and more pointed style
than mine.
[Sidenote: IMITATION OF NATURE--THE HUNCHBACK.]
Neither was Bartolini the man to allow this deluge to fall upon his
head, which, together with much that was true, carried with it a torrent
of errors and unreasonable absurdities. As he understood well the clever
use of the pen, he launched forth certain articles so stinging and
cutting that they were delightful. The Abbé Chiari and the Abbé Vicini
were treated by old Baretti with distinction as compared with the
treatment Bartolini gave the Anonymous Society of the Via del Cocomero.
I recollect one of the foolish arguments raised by his detractors
against Bartolini, which was so ingenuous that it showed in its author
more emptiness and smallness of mind than cleverness or bad faith. This
is what he said: "The expert gardener, by means of his art, transforms a
forest which is rough and horrid, as nature made it, into a beautiful
grove, by rooting out plants, opening alleys, pruning into a straight
line the projecting branches," &c. How much this comparison of the grove
to the human figure diverted Bartolini is not to be told. I have not
before me his sharp stinging words, and I do not wish to spoil them by
repeating them from memory, but to me he appeared to be as pleasant and
brilliant a writer as he was admirable as an artist.
[Sidenote: BARTOLINI'S VIEWS AND CHARACTER.]
This dispute was rekindled, as I have said, on the appearance of my
Abel. I do not remember by which side was first pronounced my name and
my work, but certain it is that Bartolini said that the most convincing
proof of the excellence of his method was "precisely the Abel," which
statue was made by a youth who knew nothing of Phidias or Alcamenes, nor
of the others--who had not breathed the stifling air of the
Academy--that he had trusted himself to beautiful nature, and that he
had copied her with fidelity and love. After this there was fresh
sarcasm against him and his system of copying nature, even when
deformed, &c. Added to this, there were long-winded eulogies on my work,
and I could see that these were advanced merely to put this man in bad
humour.
He had taken a dislike to me, and wished to tell me so. He sent his
father-in-law, Dr Costantino Boni, to summon me. I went, and when I
arrived he received me in the great ante-room, and said to me, with his
usual striking bluntness, "I have sent for you to tell you that I do not
wish to see you again." How astounded I was by these words you can
imagine who know the veneration and affection I had always felt for this
celebrated master; and I could only reply--"Why?"
"Why! You have no more need of me, nor I of you; stay in your own
studio, and don't come any more to mine."
It appeared to me so strange, not to say unreasonable, that he should
send for me to tell me not to come to him, that I could not do less
than reply that I had come to his studio because he had sent for me, and
that I was very sorry to be forbidden to return, as I always wished to
learn.
[Sidenote: BARTOLINI REFUSES A RECONCILIATION.]
"No matter," replied he; "you understand--each one for himself," and
this he said in French. Because you must know, that when he was excited
he preferred that language either for speaking or writing.
Notwithstanding this, the next year, as I wished for a
reconciliation,--having made the model in clay of the Giotto, which I
wanted to try in the niche of the Uffizi, to hear the opinion of my
friends about it, and to correct it where it was necessary, before its
execution in marble,--I wrote to Bartolini begging him to come to see my
statue in its place to give me his authoritative opinion. He replied in
a manner specially his own--I might almost say with his own brutal
sincerity,--that which distinguished him from his sugared and often
hypocritical contemporaries. He could not deceive; he held me in
aversion, and he wished me to know it, not by his silence, but by a
letter. Here it is: "Dearest, the thing which above all things I like in
this world is to see the races in the Cascine; but as I have so much
work which prevents me, just imagine if I shall come to see your
statue?"
Observe, I do not say that I expected precisely such a reply, and I was
a little stung by it; but I understood him, and really liked it better
than if he had made an excuse and told a lie. All men should be true to
themselves. Bartolini was still angry with me, as I found out
afterwards, because, in the discussion about the hunchback, my name
being brought forward, I did not enter into its defence. In fact, if a
similar discussion were now to arise on this subject, it would seem to
me cowardly to draw back and not clear up a point of controversy of the
greatest importance; but then, being young and a beginner, how could I
presume to offer my support to Bartolini? Would it not appear
pretentious in me even to assume to be the defender of so great a
master? It seemed to me so then, and it seems so now. Let it not be
thought that I did not do this while arguing with my artist friends; it
was quite otherwise, and this was the way in which I drew upon myself
their ill feeling and dislike. And the defence of the Bartolini system
which I then made was in a much more absolute sense than that which I
now make; for while I see that Bartolini was right in carrying back art
to its first source--that is (and we should thank him for that), to the
imitation of nature--he went beyond bounds in proposing a deformed
person as a model. It is very true that Bartolini never affirmed, as his
enemies assert, that a hunchback was beautiful. He said that it was as
difficult to copy a hunchback well as a well-formed person, and that a
youth ought to copy as faithfully the one as the other; and when the eye
had been educated to discover the most minute differences in the
infinite variety of nature, and the hand able to portray them, then, but
only then, was the time to speak, and select from nature the most
perfect, which others called the _bello ideale_, and he the _bello
naturale_. But that blessed hunchback still remains, who, in the strict
sense of the word, is not the real truth; for in what is deformed there
is something deficient, which removes it from the truth, however natural
it may be. It is a defect in nature, and therefore not true to nature.
[Sidenote: BELLO IDEALE--BELLO NATURALE.]
But it happened then as it happens always: the reform of Bartolini and
the dogmas of the academicians never came to an end. They might have
confined themselves to the indisputable principle that one should
imitate life in its infinite scale of variety, avoiding always
deformity. But once they had begun with the meagre child, the adipose
old man, the lean or flabby youth, they went on through thick and thin.
It would not have been so bad had they really appreciated what Bartolini
meant to say, and that is, that _copying_ anything was very well as a
mere exercise and _means_ of learning one's art--or, to use his
expression, of "holding the reins of art"; but the misfortune was, that
some took the means for the end, and so went wrong.
[Sidenote: COPYING OF ANTIQUE STATUES.]
But nevertheless, this Bartolinian reform was of great advantage. Let us
remember how sculpture was then studied. The teaching of Ricci was only
a long and tedious exercise of copying wholesale the antique statues,
good and bad; and what was worse, the criterion of Greek art was carried
into the study of nude life--the characteristic forms of the antique
statues supplanting those of the living model. The outlines were added
to and cut away with a calm superiority, which was even comical. The
abdominal muscles were widened, the base of the pelvis narrowed, in
order to give strength and elegance to the figure. The model was never
copied; the head was kept smaller, and the neck fuller, so that,
although the general effect was more slender and more robust, the
character was falsified, and was always the same, and always
conventional. This restriction of nature to a single type led directly
to conventionality; and once this direction was taken, and this habit of
working from memory, following always a pre-established type, the artist
gradually disregarded the beautiful variety of nature, and not only did
not notice it, but held it in suspicion, believing that nature is always
defective, and that it is absolutely necessary to correct it; and in
this, they said, lies the secret of Art. And yet Bartolini cried aloud,
and, so to speak, strained his voice to make himself understood, and
stood up on a table and beat his drum for the hunchback. But as soon as
a sufficient number of people is collected to make a respectable
audience, one must lay aside the great drum and begin to speak
seriously. And this is just what the _maestro_ did: he gave up the
hunchback, inculcated the imitation of beautiful nature in all its
varieties of sex, age, and temperament. But, in the ears of the greater
number of persons the beat of the great drum still sounded, and the
words of Bartolini were not understood. From that time to this there
have been no more statues of Apollo, Jove, and Minerva. Chased from this
earth, they returned to their place on Olympus--and there they still
remain.
[Sidenote: HOW FAR NATURE IS TO BE COPIED.]
Still the seed of deformity had been sown, and struck strong roots.
There are some men who grub in filth and dirt with pure delight, and
have for the ugly and evil a special predilection, because, as they say,
these are as true representatives of nature as what is beautiful and
good, and are in fact a particular phase of that truth which, as a
whole, constitutes the truly beautiful. And reasoning thus, this school,
or rather this coterie, has given us, and still gives us, the most
strange and repulsive productions, improper and lascivious in subject,
and in form a servile copy of such offensively ugly models as Mother
Nature produces when she is not well. What would you say, dear reader,
if you were ever to see a hideous little baby, crying with his ugly
mouth wide open, because his bowl of pap has fallen out of his hand? or
an infamous and bestial man, with the gesticulations expressive of the
lowest and most vicious desires? or a woman vomiting under a
cherry-tree because she has eaten too much? or other similar
filthinesses of subject and imitation, which are disgusting even to
describe? For myself, I am not a fanatic for ancient Art: on the
contrary, I detest the academic and conventional; but I confess that,
rather than these horrors, I should prefer to welcome Cupid, and Venus,
and Minerva, and the Graces, and in a word all Olympus. But, good
heavens! is there no possibility of confining one's self within limits?
And if we abandon Olympus and its deities, is it necessary to root and
grub in the filth of the Mercato Vecchio and in the brothel?
[Sidenote: MODEL OF BEATRICE PORTINARI.]
Now we will return to our story. At the time I was modelling the Cain,
and as it were for the purpose of repose, I made a little figure of
Beatrice Portinari, which I afterwards repeated in marble, I know not
how many times. For this statue I had used as a model a tolerably pretty
young girl who was named likewise Portinari. I tell this little story
for the instruction of young artists. There will even be two of these
stories, for I omitted one in speaking of the Cariatidi of the Rossini
Theatre; and these little matters show how one should treat the model.
One morning, when I had the Portinari for a model, the curate Cecchi of
the Santissima Annunziata knocked at my door and told me that he wished
to come in to have a few words with me. I replied that for the moment I
could not attend to him, as I had a model, but that if he would have the
goodness to come back a little later, we should then be alone, and he
could speak to me at his ease. After dinner he returned, and said, "Have
you a certain Portinari for a model?"
"Yes," I said.
"Then you must know that this girl is engaged to my nephew; and as I
have learned that she comes to you as a model, and as I absolutely will
not allow my nephew to marry a model, I have already so told the girl,
and she denies that she comes to you. Now I beg that you will do me the
favour to let me come in when she is here. I will then surprise her, and
blow into the air this marriage arranged with my nephew."
[Sidenote: A MODEL AND HER LOVER.]
"Listen," I said. "This sort of thing I do not like. I cannot lend
myself to do an injury of this kind to this poor girl, who comes here to
be my model. She has confided to me that she is in want of money, having
larger demands than her daily earnings will supply. She has said nothing
about her being engaged, in which case I would not have employed her
unless her mother or other near relation came with her. But, since it
seems to me reasonable that you should not wish your future relation to
go out as a model, I will promise you not to so employ her any more; and
the first time she comes, I will tell her that I do not want her again,
and I will warn her not to go to others. Are you content?"
He seemed to be tolerably well satisfied, and I did as I had promised.
Here is the other little story of the model of the Cariatidi. Every
morning there came to me as a model a girl who lived in the Prato, and
was a weaver. The first morning, she came to the studio with a
_subbio_.[5] I took no notice of it; but the second and the third, as
well as the fourth time, she had always under her arm this clumsy and
heavy thing, so I asked her--
"Why do you carry about that _subbio_?"
[5] Weaver's beam.
She answered: "I have a lover. If I meet him in the street, I tell him
that I am going to my employers."
"What occupation has your lover?"
"He is a butcher."
Ah! thought I. "Look here, you must do me the favour to bring your
mother with you when you come again."
"The mother cannot leave her work."
"Then bring some one else; one of your relations, or a lodger--at all
events _some one_. I will not have you here alone."
I had scarcely spoken these words when I heard a knock at the door.
"Hark! it is your lover who knocks," I said, as a joke.
I went and opened the door, and found there a sturdy youth as red as a
lobster.
"Who do you want?" I asked.
"Are you the painter?"
"No, I am not a painter."
"Nonsense! let me come in. You have got Anina in there to paint. I want
to have one word with her, and will go away at once."
"And I tell you that you don't know what you are talking about."
"If you take it so," he said, "let me come in;" and he pushed the door
with all his force.
I, who had been warned, was ready with all my strength, and shut the
door in his face. I went back into the studio, and found the girl, who,
only as yet half dressed, was trembling like a leaf. I crossed the court
of Palazzo Borghese, and opened carefully the door which gave upon the
Via Pandolfini, and made signs to the girl to follow me. I looked out on
the street to make sure that the youth was not there, and said to the
girl hastily, "Go away, and don't come back to me, even if you are
accompanied by some one."
The young man stayed in the Via del Palagio, and walked up and down for
some hours before my door; but I saw no more of him, and know nothing
more. The conclusion: girls as models--never _alone_.
[Sidenote: SUBSCRIPTION FOR THE ABEL.]
I return to where I left off--to the Cain. There was in Florence at that
time a certain English lady, Mrs Letitia Macartney, who had been living
for some time in Siena. She wished so much to see the Abel reproduced in
marble, that on her return to Siena she issued a paper which invited the
Sienese to make a subscription for this purpose. I have before me that
paper, dated 12th December 1842, a few days before the Grand Duchess of
Russia had given me her commission. This invitation to my townsmen had a
great success, for in a few days sheets were covered with signatures,
among which all classes figured--beginning with the Governor Serristori,
the Archbishop, the clergy, the university, the gentry, and the people,
and finally the religious corporations. Certainly, that excellent lady
could not have had a better result from her touching appeal, which ran
as follows: "I beg the Sienese not to reject my humble petition, and
that the poor as well as the rich, whoever reads these words, will put
his signature, and will contribute a half _paul_ to assist his townsman,
who has so well proved that he deserves encouragement. Those who wish to
give more than the small proposed sum can privately satisfy their
generous impulses in the way they think best,--on this paper they are
begged not to exceed the sum named." And by half _pauls_ only, the not
small sum of 100 _scudi_ was collected; and if this good lady had added
that the half _paul_ was to be paid every month for a year or fourteen
months, I am sure that my townsmen would not have refused it, and that
the Abel would be to-day at Siena.
The sum of money and the list of subscribers were sent to me, and I
preserve the latter jealously; and after these many years I read over
the names with heartache, thinking how all these have disappeared,
together with the good Signora Letizia. And now I am speaking of her, I
will mention something which will cause her to be appreciated and loved,
even as I loved and admired her.
[Sidenote: MRS LETITIA MACARTNEY'S KINDNESS.]
A short time after she had issued the appeal for my Abel, she came with
a nephew and her two sisters to establish herself in Florence. She was
about fifty years of age, enthusiastic for the beautiful wherever she
found it. She had a small gallery of ancient pictures which she had
collected with careful study in her wanderings through Italy. She had
taken an apartment in the Piazza di Santa Maria Novella, and I often
went there with my wife to pass the evening; and on her part the Signora
Letizia often came to look me up in my studio. She liked to discuss with
me artistic things, and when I could not attend to her, she said
good-bye and went away.
Then it was, either from too hard work or on account of the dampness of
the room in which I worked, or both together, I took so tiresome and
obstinate a cough, that it gave me no peace night or day. I tried many
things to get rid of it, and all in vain--decoctions, ass's milk, care,
all were useless. La Signora Letizia having urged me a thousand times to
take care of myself and to get rid of that cough, said to me so
seriously that it made me laugh--
"It is absolutely necessary for you to get well."
"Bravo!" I said; "that is what I have been thinking of for the past
month, and I have done everything for that purpose--the advice and
prescriptions of the physicians have not been neglected; but now
seriously I must get well--Go away, cough!"
"No, don't joke; you must get well, and I mean to cure you. Listen," she
said, "what you ought to do: you should buy a quantity of pine-wood,
and with this line all the walls of your studio from top to bottom,
leaving space between the wood and the wall; and you must do the same
for the floor. Have the window open some hour of the day when you are
not in the studio, that the current of air may not do you harm."
[Sidenote: SHE LINES THE STUDIO WALLS.]
It seemed an odd thing to me. I could not understand what all this wood
had to do with my cough; but to content her, I said that I would do as
she advised. In the meantime I continued to cough in spite of the pot of
lichen which I kept hot in my studio; and every day when this poor lady
came to see me and saw that her advice was not followed, she appeared
serious and disappointed, and finally said--
"Do you think, Signor Duprè, that my advice could do you harm?"
"Certainly not," I said.
"Then why don't you follow it?"
"I must wait a few days; just at present I cannot. But I will do it--of
this you may be sure; and I am very grateful to you: it seems to me that
it will be more comfortable and warmer."
She soon went away, and I seriously considered that I ought to try and
content her, not that I thought the remedy effective. I said to
myself--"My trouble is either a cold or something else; it is in the
stomach, or the throat, or the bronchial tubes, and surely is not owing
to the walls of my studio. But what shall I do? I must satisfy her.
Certainly it will cost something to line all the studio with wood from
top to bottom, and the floor; but what a strange idea has come into this
lady's head, and with what seriousness and impressiveness she urges me
to use pine-wood!"
Shortly after, I heard a knock at the door and saw three or four loads
of boards in the street. The head carter said to me--
"_Is this wood to come here?_"
[Sidenote: MY STUDIO IS LINED.]
I had ordered no wood, I replied. Then he showed me a card on which was
written my name and the number of my studio, and added--
"This wood has been ordered and paid for, including the carriage,
and--is it to come here?"
"Certainly," I said, "it is to come here." It was unloaded, and I gave
the men a little money, for although they had been paid, it would do
them no harm. I sent immediately to call Petrai, who, besides being a
model, was also a carpenter, and told him that I wished, in the quickest
possible manner, to use this wood to line the studio walls and plank the
floor; that he was to employ as many men as were necessary, and that
they could not go to bed until this work was done.
The blacksmith was immediately set to work on the irons which were to
support the boards, the mason to fasten them to the walls, and men to
saw and nail. All the day and all the evening it appeared to be the
devil's own house, and I was in the midst directing and overseeing the
work.
The next morning, when I entered my studio, I felt revived by the odour
of the pine and the air so sensibly dry, and I said, "If this work does
no good to the cough, no matter; but it is certain that I find myself
much better. Besides, I like the colour of the wood, which is gay. I
like the smell of the pine. The floor is better to walk upon, and it is
drier than any carpet. The air circulates everywhere. _Viva_ Mrs
Letitia! And now, how to repay her for this wood which she has bought
for me? Ah! this is not so easy. To talk of giving back the money is
useless, and it would also be in bad taste, for I know how sensitive
this lady is; but as a present I will not receive it." As it happened, I
had a small bust of Beatrice in marble, which she had always admired. I
sent this to her house, and she was so much pleased that she never
ceased to speak of it to me. And the cough? The cough diminished day by
day as if by enchantment, and in a week I was perfectly cured.
[Sidenote: BUSTS OF BEATRICE AND RAPHAEL.]
Whilst I am speaking of favours received and the manner in which I
requited them, independent of the sentiment of gratitude which I always
preserve for those who have rendered me a service, I must add that Mrs
Macartney was pleased with the little bust of Beatrice; so also was Del
Benino more than delighted with a bust in marble of the boy Raphael
which I had copied from a painting by his father, Sanzio, who had
painted the little boy when six years of age. At the bottom of this
portrait was written in red, "Raphael Santii d'anni sei, Santii patre
dipinse."
I saw this work of mine only a few years ago in the palace belonging to
the heirs of Count del Benino.
As I have alluded to that excellent man--of whom, as you see, I retain
such an affectionate remembrance--I will mention that I asked permission
of his heirs by letter to be permitted at my own expense to make a
little memorial of him in marble, and to place it in the chapel of the
villa where Del Benino was buried; but I have never received any answer.
It appears that works either for love or money are not wanted. Here is
another example of this. It must be now four or five years since the
lamented Professor G. B. Donati, the astronomer, came to my studio with
the engineer Del Sarto, to tell me that the commune of Florence intended
to place a sun-dial on one side of the Ponte alla Carraja, exactly at
the beginning or end of the terrace, where there is at present a kiosk;
and in order to have an elegant and artistic thing, it came into the
head of Donati, or some one of the Municipal Council of Art, to have a
figure in bronze holding a disc on which should be marked the meridian,
and the hand of this figure should be held gracefully in such a manner
that its shadow indicated the hour. The idea pleased me. I made a
sketch, and Del Sarto the engineer sent me the exact dimensions of the
terrace. He liked the sketch, and asked me what the cost of such a work
would be, adding that unless the price was small they would not be able
to order it. I replied that nothing could cost less than this, as I
intended to present the model, and the Municipality would only have to
pay for the casting in bronze. I had an estimate made by Professor
Clemente Papi, who asked a very reasonable sum--seven or eight thousand
lire, I believe; and he signed a paper to this effect, which, at the
same time with a letter I had written repeating the offer of my work
gratis, I sent in an envelope to the Municipality: and since then I have
heard nothing. Poor Donati is dead; the sketch and the model of the
terrace are in my studio. Count Cambray Digny was then syndic. On Ponte
alla Carraja, in place of my statue, there is a kiosk where papers,
wax-matches, &c., are sold. Even this is not the last of the statues I
have offered as a present which have not been accepted, but I will not
mention them here.
[Sidenote: FIGURE FOR A SUN-DIAL.]
Meanwhile, as I was finishing the model of Cain, the Grand Duchess Maria
Antonietta ordered of me a statue for the Uffizi. I selected Giotto, and
she presented this statue to the Commission for erecting statues of
illustrious Tuscans, which, while they ornament the Loggia, serve to
recall past glory and to advise one to study more and to chatter a
little less. In roughing out the statue I found a flaw which split the
marble in two. I was obliged to throw it away and to buy another block.
When the good Grand Duchess heard of this, she insisted upon repaying me
the price of the new marble. I note this because so generous an act is
uncommon.
[Sidenote: ABEL HAS KILLED CAIN.]
The Cain was exhibited, and, as was natural, was less liked than the
Abel,--first of all, because the enthusiasm raised by the former statue
had too sensibly wounded the self-love of many; and then, because some
of my friends were too zealous, and their excessive praise of it before
it was on exhibition created a public opinion in its favour which
perhaps was not justified by its merits, for the difficulties of the
subject were very great. With a phrase more witty than just, they said,
"This time Abel has killed Cain;" but Bartolini, who generally liked
wit, said this was unjust and stupid, and declared that I had overcome a
thousand times greater difficulties than in the Abel. But that witticism
was prompted by suspicion and passion, and it came from those same
persons who said that the Abel had been cast from life.
Being proposed by Bartolini, I was elected Professor of the Academy. At
that time, being invited by some of my townsmen, I went to Siena, where
I was received with warmth and fraternal love. I was a guest of the
Bianchis--of that charming Signora Laura who had always been so good to
my poor mother and my family. That dear lady, and Carlo, who is still
alive, and Luigi, who, alas! was too soon snatched away from the love of
his relations and of Siena, rejoiced in seeing me made the subject of
honour and ovation by all the citizens, who came to the palace to greet
me.
I remember with emotion that crowd of people, and those deputations of
the _contrade_ and academies of the city, sent to bring me salutations
and presents. These were the first flowers that I gathered and smelt in
the garden of my youth; and their perfume I still smell, and it is now
perhaps even more delightful, for it is associated in my memory with a
time when I had no remorse.
[Sidenote: DISCOVERY OF A RAPHAEL.]
A subscription was opened on the spot, promoted by the Cavaliere
Alessandro Saracini, the Count Scipione Borghese, the Count Augusto dei
Gori, and the Marquis Alessandro Bichi-Ruspoli. The statue which they
ordered was of the Pontiff Pius II., Eneas Silvius Piccolomini.
These four gentlemen were good friends of mine; but I saw Saracini
oftenest, as he came to Florence on business affairs. He had an
intelligent love of Art, which he practised a little for his amusement,
and he was President of the Institute of Fine Arts at Siena. One day he
came to me quite breathless. He said that he had seen, in a shop or
store-house near the Via Faenza, a wall all painted over, and that it
was concealed by carriages, carts, wheels, and poles--in fact, it was at
a carriage-maker's.
"But what painting is it?" I asked.
"I do not know--I cannot say what it is; but it appears to me very
beautiful," he replied. "It is like Perugino, or certainly of his
school."
"Wait a moment," I said; "here in the neighbourhood is some one who
understands these things better than you or I;" and we went to Count
Carlo della Porta, and to Ignazio Zotti, painters who lived in the
Niccolini building with me. They lost no time, and we all four went to
the place. Carlo della Porta having placed a ladder against the wall,
mounted, and stayed there only a few moments, then descended, and made
Zotti go up. They then, after exchanging some words, expressed the
opinion that it was by Raphael.
The clearing out of this place, and the arguments for and against the
decision on the part of the Government, and the ultimate destination of
the picture, are all well known, and I pass to other things. Having
finished the Giotto, I went to Rome to make studies there for the statue
of Pius II. I stayed there a month, and lived at the Hotel Cesari,
Piazza di Pietra. It was the month of December 1844.
[Sidenote: MY FOLLY AT ROME.]
I must confess, whatever it costs me, that the Eternal City did not make
the most favourable impression upon me; and except the ruins of ancient
Rome, the Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Forum, with its triumphal arches
and colonnades, all the rest excited in me no enthusiasm. But I must
admit I had been spoiled by too much praise; and I was so vain, that
while I accepted everything with apparent modesty, I was so puffed up
internally with pride that at times it would show itself in spite of me.
I remember once at the house of the Signora Clementina Carnevali, where
every evening were to be seen all the most distinguished persons in
Rome, either in letters or art, strangers as well as Italians,--I
remember, I say, to have replied in a most impertinent manner to some
one who asked me how I liked the monuments and the art of Rome, and what
above all had most pleased me. I replied--and I blush to repeat
it--"What I like best is the stewed broccoli"--a reply as outrageously
stupid as insolent, and I wonder that those who heard it could have
taken it in good part. For myself, as I feel to-day, if a young artist
had replied to me in such a manner, he would have got little good out of
it, and so much the better for him!
But I had better luck; my foolish reply was repeated by every one, and
so clouded by vanity and pride were my eyes, that I fancied it excited
mirth and approbation, while it really deserved only compassion.
O Minardi! O Tenerani! O Massimo d'Azeglio! you who were present, but
now dead, cannot see the _amende_ which I make. However, you knew me
later, and were aware of my repentance. But as for you, excellent
Clementina--who are alive, and will read, I hope, these pages--if then
you smiled with compassion, because you are so good you will to-day
smile with approbation and praise.
[Sidenote: I LOSE MY WAY.]
And now, gentle reader, would you like to see how headstrong and proud I
had become? One evening--Christmas Eve--I proposed to go to the midnight
Mass at St Peter's. I set out at ten o'clock from the Via Condotti,
where I had passed the evening with some of my English friends whom I
had known in Florence. Mrs ----, to whom I had disclosed my purpose,
said, "Take care! you are not much acquainted with Roman streets; you
had better take a carriage to go there. If you do not, you may easily
lose your way in the streets of Rome. They are very confusing by day;
imagine what they are at night!" If this lady had not given me such a
warning, it is probable that I should have done as she suggested; but
because she had given it I despised it, and determined to go by myself
to St Peter's.
[Sidenote: MY PRIDE PUNISHED.]
I walked until two o'clock without even being able to find the bridge of
St Angelo. I got bewildered in all those streets and lanes which are
comprised between San Luigi dei Francesi, Piazza Navona, San Andrea
della Valle, San Carlo a Catinari, Teatro Argentina, Il Gesu, and San
Ignazio e la Minerva; and after having walked for two hours, I found
myself at the point I had started from. Then, more obstinate than ever,
though overcome by weariness and mortified pride, I persisted in going
up and down all sorts of streets unknown to me, and often very filthy,
and again coming across the same _piazze_, the same fountains, until at
last I found myself at the foot of the Campidoglio steps. The people
whom I met in the streets here and there returning from the Mass could
have shown me the way, not to go to St Peter's, but how to return to my
hotel, had I been less headstrong, and had I inquired for the Piazza
Colonna or Piazza di Pietra, where I lodged. But no; it appeared to me
to be a humiliation. I wished to find the hotel by myself; and I did
find it finally, but in what a condition I leave those to judge who know
Rome, and the sharp pavements of its streets, but, above all, tired out,
and more than this, humiliated and without supper. It was two o'clock.
The Hotel Cesari was shut, and I had to wait until they opened it for
me. I asked for supper; they replied that they had nothing, and that if
they had it they could not give me anything, because they were
prohibited by law from supplying any food on that night. I should have
been glad of any little thing, but could get nothing. My pride was
singularly punished that night, and I went to bed hungry. At first I
strove in vain to go to sleep, then I dreamt all night of eating, and
awoke in the morning rather late. I could not realise that I could get
up and have a good breakfast. I went over again in thought the weariness
of the night, the hunger, the annoyance, and I felt weak. But finally I
said to myself, I will eat now, and another time I shall be wiser. Now
to breakfast! After going out of the hotel, I turned to the right to go
into the Osteria dell'Archetto. It was closed; the _caffè_ next door was
closed. I ran into the Piazza Colonna, and found all shut up--_caffès_,
pastry-cooks, everything closed. I asked, angrily and with a
bewilderment easy to comprehend, what was the reason of this, and was
told that during the time of the religious ceremonies no one could sell
anything to eat. I was stupefied, and walked along slowly, not knowing
where to go. Until after twelve o'clock neither the _trattorie_ nor the
_caffès_ would be opened. I would not go back to the hotel, as I feared
a refusal such as I had the night before. I began to feel very faint;
for nearly twenty hours I had eaten nothing. I saw the people gaily
walking about, smiling, smoking, and looking well-fed and of good
colour, and I felt angry and envious. They had eaten leisurely and at
home, or in the _caffè_ or _trattoria_ before ten o'clock, the hour
prescribed. I had slept until that hour, and dreamt of eating, and when
I went out intending to get something to eat, it was too late.
Fortunately, one of my friends, the engraver Travalloni, saw me, and
coming to meet me, said, "What is the matter? Why do you look so
scared?" I told him my story, and he laughed, and taking me by the arm,
said--"Come with me." After a few turns he entered a doorway half
closed, and pushed me up a dark staircase, where there were the savoury
odours of cooking, all the more grateful to me because my appetite was
so great. The staircase opened upon an ante-room, also dark. We closed
the door and knocked at a smaller door. It was opened, and I found
myself in a spacious hall, well ventilated and full of people, who were
sitting eating and drinking cheerfully at table.
[Sidenote: NOTHING TO EAT.]
"What is this?" I asked. "Can I get anything to eat here?"
"Yes," he said; "give your orders."
The waiter, with a napkin over his shoulder, was standing before us. I
was like a full flask which, being upturned, can with difficulty empty
itself. There was such a variety of odours in the room, and such a
quantity of things to eat, that I could not get out a word; and my
friend, seeing my embarrassment, hastened to say to me--
[Sidenote: A BREAKFAST.]
"Will you have some soup and a cutlet?"
"Yes; two," I replied.
"Will you have Orvieto or good Roman wine?"
"Do me the favour to bring anything you please, so long as you bring me
something to eat and drink. I can't stop to choose."
And the good Travalloni, turning to the servant, said--
"Bring at once a flask of Orvieto, such as I drink--you
understand?--some bread, some soup, a cutlet, cheese, and fruit."
That day Travalloni appeared to me to be a man of genius.