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.
My studio, as I think I have already said, was the resort of many of the
literary men of the time--Giusti, Thouar, Montazio, La Farina, F. S.
Orlandini, Enrico Mayer, Girolamo Gargiolli, Giovanni Chiarini, Filippo
Moisè, and sometimes, but rarely, G. B. Niccolini, Atto Vannucci, and
Giuseppe Arcangeli. These distinguished men, all talking with me, and
bringing forward their theories of Art, somewhat confused me in my
ideas. I said, at the very beginning of these memoirs--and the reader, I
hope, keeps it in mind--that I had received no education, and my
judgment was not trained to discern and distinguish the laws of the
beautiful, which, the more deeply one studies them, the more they
scatter, and seem, as it were, to fly from us. I was attracted to Art by
a purely natural sentiment, which I sought to express by a simple
imitation of nature; and so far, I think I was right, for whatever other
path we may take, supported however it may be by philosophic and
æsthetic reasons, it will prove utterly fallacious unless it lead to
this end, of imitating the beautiful in nature, and will surely lead
astray the young artist, even though he has a good natural talent and a
lively fancy.
[Sidenote: A PASSAGE IN DANTE.]
Yes, sir; my poor head was perplexed, and I began to distrust nature,
with its imperfections and its vulgarity. The warm and imaginative
utterances of La Farina made all the words of Niccolini seem colourless
to me, for though given with antique beauty, they came from him with
difficulty. The pure and touching morality of Thouar conflicted with the
humoristic and cynical freedom of Montazio. Giusti, who might have set
me right in my opinions, kept at a distance without giving a reason why;
and in this he was wrong, for I should have given heed to him. But he
contented himself with writing to the advocate Galeotti, telling him
that I was surrounded by a number of fops who spoiled me, and that if I
did not shut myself up in my studio, as I did when I made the Abel, I
should not succeed in making anything good. This outburst of Giusti's I
only knew many years afterwards, on the publication of his letters.
I remember one day, when Giusti was with me, I recited from memory the
canto in the 'Inferno' relating to Francesca, but when I came to this
passage--
"Quali colombe dal desio chiamate
Con l'ali aperte e ferme, al dolce nido
Volan per l'aere dal voler portate;"
he interrupted me, saying, "You recite well and intelligently the verses
of the divine poet; but you, too, fall into the error into which so many
have fallen--copyists, printers, and commentators--that of placing the
semicolon at the end of the line, after the word _portate_, instead of
putting it in the middle of the line, after the word _aere_. This
punctuation makes Dante guilty of a blunder, he attributing to the
doves, besides desire, which is most proper, also will, which belongs
properly to man. Try and place the comma and the pause after the word
_aere_, and you will see what a stupendous philosophical value it gives
to the verses. Listen; I will repeat them to you:--
'Quali colombe dal desio chiamate
Con l'ali aperte e ferme, al dolce nido
Volan per l'aere; dal voler portate
Cotali uscir dalla schiera, ov'è Dido,'" &c.
This correction, so clear, so easy, so just, satisfied me immediately,
and from that day I have always recited these lines in this way. The
unintelligent did not perceive the change of sense, but those who were
more attentive and refined gave me praise for it; but I rejected it at
once as belonging to me, saying that the correction was due to Giuseppe
Giusti.[6]
[6] The distinguished Signor Carlo Ara of Palermo informs me
that this new punctuation did not originate with Giusti, but with Muzzi.
And, in truth, Giusti did not tell me that it was his, but simply
recommended me to try to say it and understand it in that sense; and I,
supposing the correction to be his, recited and wrote it so. The
distinguished Carlo Ara pointed out to me the way in which I could
verify his assertion; and I am glad to be able to correct an error
(involuntary on my part), and to take this occasion to thank the
distinguished Signor Carlo Ara.
The distinguished Signor Angelo Cavalieri of Trieste writes to me that
this new punctuation of this Dantesque simile does not convince him, and
he gives his reasons; but upon this I am not competent to enter into a
discussion.
[Sidenote: STATUE OF GIOTTO.]
In making my Giotto, I followed my inspiration by drawing upon nature
for that type of rude good-nature which constituted the outward
character of my statue; and although some of my literary friends, who
were more attached to the antique and the so-called _bello ideale_,
blamed me, and some artists of distinction opposed me openly, I firmly
adhered to the sound principle of imitating nature. The Giotto was
finished without a moment's indecision, although, as I have said, I had
been revolving over and over again in my mind the conception of a beauty
ideal and beyond nature, but which, without great judgment, becomes
conventional.
[Sidenote: CALAMATTA'S VISIT.]
About this time a controversy occurred between me and a great artist
which it may be well to speak of here, because, although it will show
how tenacious I was of this principle of imitating nature, yet it will
also show how much I was affected by it, and how the acerbity of this
artist produced a change in me, which certainly he did not desire. His
fear was lest I should fall into a servile copying of life; and had his
language been more measured, we should easily have understood each
other. But he took a different course, and I now proceed to give the
history of this controversy.
[Sidenote: CALAMATTA'S ATTACK.]
I had a short time previously completed my model of Giotto, and, as I
have said, some among the artists most tenacious of the classic rules
attacked me sharply, but Bartolini defended me. I was therefore somewhat
irritated when Calamatta, accompanied by Signor Floridi, the
draughtsman, came to my studio. He came in with a magisterial and rather
arrogant air. I received him politely and with respectful words, such as
became me towards the author of the famous mask of Napoleon I. He looked
at "Abel" and "Cain" without opening his mouth, and as if he found in
them nothing either to praise or to blame; but when he came to the
"Giotto," he said, "I have heard a good deal of talk about you, in which
you have been lauded to the skies, and I wished to come and ascertain
with my own eyes whether you were entitled to your fame; and I confess
to you, though what I shall say may seem bitter to you, that in the
presence of your works your fame disappears; and if it be permitted to
me to make a comparison, I should say that you produce the same effect
upon me as if I saw a balloon inflated with gas rising majestically in
the air, and which, after arriving at a certain height, bursts, and
afterwards leaves nothing to be seen." I answered that such things might
be thought, and even spoken, but a little more graciously, and I said no
more. Calamatta rejoined, with some irritation, that he was a person who
could not endure the ugly--that it was his instinct to denounce it with
the same vivacity and earnestness that one does when there is a cry of
fire, and some place is in flames. I began then to lose my patience:
still I only contented myself with asking whether he was quite sure that
there was a conflagration, and whether he was absolutely called upon to
extinguish it; and finally, added that Bartolini, Tenerani, and others
had seen my works, and had spoken of them in very different terms. This
only more irritated poor Calamatta, and he said that he had just come
from Paris, and had visited Tenerani at Rome, and his insipid and hard
mysticism had seemed pitiable to him; and that, on coming to Florence,
he had found in Bartolini the most filthy and offensive realism, carried
to the point of proclaiming the beauty of deformity, and that in
response to his just criticisms upon the injury that he was thus doing
to the true principles of Art, Bartolini had advised him to come to my
studio and see the application of those principles which he
censured,--and now, after examining my works, he perceived that I was
sliding down a steep declivity, which would soon precipitate me into
naturalism and deformity, and though he recognised in me a certain
talent, he warned me to avoid that false school and those insidious
precepts, and more than all, to be on my guard against treacherous and
lying praises. All this was very fine, if it were granted that I was on
a false road. But as I did not think so then, and still less now,--and
besides, as I was young, flattered, and praised, and those words of his,
"that I should be on my guard against insidious precepts and treacherous
praises," seemed to me a very unjust accusation against Bartolini,--I
indicated to him that I should be glad if he would leave me in peace,
and in fact, as he had declared my works to be ugly, and of an ugliness
that he abhorred, he was not in his proper place here; and as to his
counsel, not having asked for it, I should not take the trouble to
consider it. Poor Calamatta was angry at this, and taking by the hand
Floridi, who during the whole squabble was on thorns, he said, "Let us
go away; let us go away; let us go away"--and away he went.
[Sidenote: HIS REPORT AND DEFENCE OF ME.]
[Sidenote: CALAMATTA'S SPEECH.]
Poor Calamatta, my illustrious friend. If any one had said on that day,
when we separated with such unpleasant feelings, and on my part with so
little kindness, "The time will come, and soon, when he will be your
most open defender and friend," I would not have believed him, and I
should not have wished to believe him,--and yet it so turned out. In
1855, eleven years after our disagreement, he was in Paris, and on the
Jury of the Fine Arts at the World's Exhibition. I had sent a model of
the "Abel" in plaster, and among the jury the doubt arose whether it was
not cast from life. As in Florence that opinion was originated out of
evil-mindedness, so it was repeated in Paris from speciousness, and
heedlessness of judgment. Calamatta, whom I had not seen since that
famous day, although he frequently returned to Florence, undertook to
defend my work with sound reasoning and friendly warmth, but he did not
succeed in convincing the entire body of the jury of their error of
judgment; and in assigning the prizes, out of mere regard for Calamatta
they gave to "Abel" one of the last. Calamatta then rose and said,
"Gentlemen, our judgment of this work must not be given in this way. I
have endeavoured to show you by artistic reasoning that this statue is
really modelled in clay, in imitation of beautiful nature. I have
pointed out that certain imperfections which are always found in nature
have been wisely avoided by the artist. I have shown you clear proofs of
modelling in the mode of working the clay. I thought that I had
convinced you that so noble and refined a whole is rather the creation
of the mind, through a studious and loving imitation of parts, than a
mechanical reproduction by casting; and finally, I have demonstrated,
and you have conceded to me, that the head is of equal merit with all
the rest of the body, and this could not have been cast from life. From
these considerations, which arise from the examination of the work
itself, and without regard to the artist, whom I have only once met in
Florence, and who is, I believe, inimical to me, I am of opinion that
your judgment of this work should be reconsidered, and if it seems to
you to be proved that this statue is a cast from nature and not
modelled, and in consequence a falsification and not a work of art, you
ought not to adjudge to it even the lowest prize, but to exclude it
entirely from the Exhibition, and in so doing you should give your
reasons for such a decision in writing, and under your signatures,--and
in such case I shall retire from the Jury of Fine Arts, and shall
publish in the journals of Paris my reasons for withdrawing." After this
discourse there arose an exceedingly animated discussion, and the
President decided that a new examination of the model should be made;
and as many were convinced by the good reasons put forward by Calamatta,
the second examination of "Abel" resulted in a complete success, and at
the next voting the golden medal of the First Class was awarded to me.
The news of this, derived directly from Calamatta himself, was sent to
me at once by Rossini, who had conceived a strong affection for me, and
honoured me with his friendship.
[Sidenote: GOLDEN MEDAL--PIUS II.]
I now return to the point where I left off. After Giotto I began Pius
II.; and filled as my head was by the criticism of the academicians, the
eulogies of the _naturalisti_, the contempt of some to whom the subject
was displeasing, and more than all by the exceptional character of the
studies I had made for this work, I began it unwillingly, and strove
(strangely enough) to conciliate the academicians, copying from the life
with timidity, where boldness and fidelity were required--boldness, that
is to say, in accepting frankly the stiff paper-like folds of the
pontifical mantle, and fidelity in copying them. In consequence I made a
washed-out work, and I pleased neither one party nor the other, and much
less myself. I make this statement so that young men may be on their
guard against allowing themselves to stray from the true path, which is
this--viz., to embody the subject in its appropriate form by the
imitation of living nature, to strive for truth of character in the
general action and in all the particulars, and in proportion as the
subject is historical and natural, as in portraiture, to adhere all the
more closely to nature. In such a case as this statue of Pius II., it is
necessary to be naturalistic--avoiding, of course, all minutiæ which add
nothing to the beauty of general effect and the truth of character.
Has it ever happened to you, courteous reader, to meet a person with
whom your personal relations brought you often in contact, and who,
reserved and serious by nature as well as on account of his social
position, differed from you, who are perhaps too vivacious and open; and
on the one side you feared to displease him by your vivacity, and on the
other you were annoyed by his reserve? In such a case, if certain
allowance be made on both sides--as far as you are concerned by
listening with attentive deference to his wise counsels, austere maxims,
and high principles, and on his part by an indulgent consideration for
your free and vivacious nature--has it not happened to you that
insensibly and firmly a harmony of relation has established itself which
it is difficult to break,--and this for the undeniable, however
recondite reason, that there is a sympathy between entirely different
natures which causes each to compensate for the other?
[Sidenote: MY FRIENDSHIP WITH VENTURI.]
In like manner as this may have happened to you, so it happened to me
with Luigi Venturi, then private secretary of his Royal and Imperial
Highness the Grand Duke Leopold II. He often came to my studio by order
of the Grand Duke, for whom I was making a statuette of Dante and
another of Beatrice. He took a liking to me, which I have returned
sincerely, even till to-day; and he is the oldest and most affectionate
of my friends. After the revolution of '59, with the loss of his high
position he lost also a great portion of such friends as come with
Fortune and flee with her. But neither the ingratitude of some nor the
fickleness of others ever drew from him a lament. He was contented with
those who remained, and I was one of them. Our long and intimate
connection has at last harmonised our characters,--he making me more
temperate, and I (as I dare to hope) making him more open and vivacious.
His friendship, as well as that of others of whom I shall speak in the
proper place, has strengthened my judgment and tempered my fancies.
Trustworthy, honest, and sincere friends are a great fortune--and I have
had such, and have kept them. To distinguish the good from the bad
requires study, and we must learn how to get rid of chatterers and
adulators.
[Sidenote: PRINCE ANATOLIO DEMIDOFF.]
And this warning I feel it my duty to give to young artists, for whom
these memoirs are specially written. I have already said, in speaking of
models, "Girls unaccompanied as models, no!" now I add, "Nor even
married women without the express consent of their husbands." Here is a
little incident which may serve as a lesson.
Prince Anatolio Demidoff often came to my studio. He gave vent to his
annoyance at the delays and the infinite difficulties interposed by
Bartolini in completing the groups and statues of the monument ordered
by him in honour of the memory of his dead father. To listen to the
Prince, he seemed to have a thousand good reasons; but the consequences
he drew from them, and the bold, unjust measures which he proposed, I
could not but think blameworthy, and I strove in every way to moderate
him, and to dissuade him from carrying out his intentions. My frank and
loyal defence of Bartolini, so far from exasperating him, as often
happened when he was opposed, made him more kindly towards me, and he
proposed to order of me a great work worthy, as he was pleased to say,
of my genius. He had a thousand projects, and among them he spoke to me
of a colossal statue of Napoleon I. He was at that time tenderly
inclined toward the Bonaparte family. His pride in being connected with
it, as well as the charms of the beautiful Princess, his wife, were in
great measure the cause of this enthusiasm. He treated me with great
kindness, invited me often to dinner and to his evening receptions, and
talked very freely with me in regard to works that he wished me to make
for him.
[Sidenote: STATUETTE OF PRINCESS DEMIDOFF.]
About this time the Princess came one day to my studio, and told me that
she wished me to make her portrait--not merely a bust, but the whole
figure, almost half the size of life. I answered that I should like much
to make it, for I was persuaded that it would give the Prince pleasure;
but she hastened to say that the Prince must know nothing about it. I
had not sufficient presence of mind to reply that without his consent I
could not undertake it--and I was wrong, I confess: but the Princess
stood before me blandly insisting; and overcome by the beauty of the
model, I agreed to make it and keep it a secret from the Prince. She
gave me a number of sittings, and I was going on satisfactorily with the
statuette, and had already a good likeness, when unexpectedly the Prince
came one day to see me, and after exchanging a few words and taking a
turn through the room, he stopped before the modelling-stand, on which
was the clay of the statuette covered with wet cloths, and said--
"And what have you got here?"
"Nothing, your Excellency--nothing."
"Let me see what there is under here."
"But there is nothing; it is only a mass of infirm clay, and is not in a
state to show."
"Let us see, my friend,--I am extremely curious." And so saying he
lifted up the cloths, looked at it, and then said seriously, "Very
good--very like;" and then in a sharp tone added, "And who has ordered
this?"
"Listen, Signor Principe. The Princess has ordered this statuette of me,
for I see that you recognise it as her portrait--and she ordered me to
show it to no one, not even to you, Signor Principe; for I believe she
wished to give you a surprise, and to present it to you when it should
be finished in marble."
[Sidenote: PRINCE DEMIDOFF'S DISPLEASURE.]
He answered, "The Princess has done wrong in ordering her portrait
without my consent, and you have done wrong in complying with her
request. I do not like these surprises, and when the Princess returns
for a sitting you must request her to go about her business; and you may
tell her that you do this by my order. And besides--and this I say
particularly to you--destroy this work, and think no more about it."
I felt that the Prince was right, but to throw down this work was a
bitter pain to me; and besides, I was unwilling to displease the
Princess, who so earnestly desired to have this statuette, and who had
already expressed her satisfaction with it. My face must have been very
expressive at that moment, for the Prince, taking my hands in his,
said--
"My dear Duprè, I understand your embarrassment and annoyance, but it is
necessary that this should be done. I do not like, and I will not have
this sort of thing, and I like still less this way of doing it. Do you
understand? A portrait of the Princess, or even a statue of her, would
be a charming possession, and I should particularly like one by you. I
have already a beautiful statue of Madame Letizia by Canova, and this of
my wife would make an admirable pendant; but I repeat that this way of
doing it does not please me, and though I may seem harsh, I again say to
you--Destroy this statuette, and let us say no more about it."
While he was speaking I thought to myself--This statuette and portrait
of his wife he does not wish to have, but rather wishes to have a statue
of her of life size; and so much the better. And then, considering that
he had said he did not like the way in which it was done, I perceived,
as I ought from the first to have perceived, that he objected to the
Princess coming to my studio to sit, and I answered--
"You shall be obeyed. To-morrow the Princess is to return to give me a
sitting, and I will tell her all, and this clay shall go back into the
tank. But I hope that you will not forget that you have spoken of a
life-size statue of the Princess; and as this work would require
considerable time, and it might be more convenient to her that I should
model it in your own palace, I could----"
[Sidenote: THE ANNOYANCE OF THE PRINCESS.]
He did not let me finish my sentence, but, embracing me warmly and
kissing me, said--
"Thanks, dear Duprè, that is right. That is what pleases me, and that is
the way it shall be done. And now, _addio_." And pressing my hand, he
departed.
The day after, at one o'clock, the usual hour, the Princess arrived, gay
and laughing, as usual; and after giving a glance at herself in the
mirror, and arranging a little her hair, she seated herself and said--
"I am ready."
I had not as yet thrown down the statuette. There it stood uncovered,
just as the Prince had left it the day before.
"I am very sorry, Signora Principessa," I began, "to give you some bad
news. The Prince was here yesterday."
"I hope you did not allow him to see this portrait?"
"Yes, he has seen it--he has seen it, Signora Principessa. It was
useless to try to conceal it from him, and I did wrong to endeavour to
do so, for he was perfectly aware of its existence when he came here. He
must have been exactly informed about it; and so sure was he that I was
making your portrait, that he planted himself here precisely before the
modelling-stand, and seeing that I was unwilling to uncover it, he
uncovered it himself without any ceremony. He told me that I did wrong
to begin the work, and that I must not go on with it, and, in fact, he
has expressly ordered me to destroy it and throw it down."
[Sidenote: THE PRINCESS REMONSTRATES.]
While I was thus speaking she stood disquieted and frowning, and then
said that it was unjust, absurd, and ridiculous, and that I must not
give heed to him, but that she should stay, and I must go on with the
portrait. After a while, however, she grew calmer, and decided to go
away; and this was well. But she did not give up the matter, and the day
after, she wrote to me to say that she should return to give me more
sittings. I had not yet thrown down the clay, not only on account of my
natural unwillingness to do so, which is excusable, but also because of
the advice of Prince Jerome, the brother of the Princess Matilde, who
insisted that the Prince could not pretend to anything more than that
the work should be suspended. But of this I was a safer and better
advised judge than he, and well knew that a husband is the legitimate
master of his own wife, and of any portrait of her. But I repeat, I
allowed the statuette to remain because I disliked to destroy it. The
Princess did not return as she had promised, and wrote again to me to
expect her another day. This went on for some time; and finally, when I
saw her again, she told me that she was going to Paris with the Prince,
and that on her return we must go on, and if the Prince persisted in his
ideas, she would recompense me for the work I had done on it.
In fact, she went to Paris with the Prince, and there she remained;
while he, recalled by the Emperor Nicholas of Russia, went to St
Petersburg, where he found that a decree of divorce had been demanded by
the Princess and signed by the Emperor. The Prince gave me nothing
further to do, except some slight things which are scarcely worth
mentioning, and the Princess entirely forgot her promise. And as I am
now on this matter, and in order to make an end of it, let me leap over
eleven years, and say that, having exhibited in Paris at the Exposition
of 1855, besides the model in plaster of the Abel (as I have before
narrated), a reproduction in small of this statue in marble, which I
desired to sell, I wrote to the Princess asking her to purchase it. This
I did to remind her indirectly of her promise to recompense me for the
labour I had given to her statuette, but she never answered. I now make
another leap over twelve years more. In the Exposition Universelle at
Paris in 1867, I was one of the Italian Jury on Sculpture; and one
evening, at a reception at the Tuilleries, I was presented by our
minister Nigra to the Emperor, who had on his arm the Princess Matilde.
As soon as she saw me she said, "We have known each other a long time;"
but I, remembering how she had treated me, pretended to have no
remembrance of her. And the Emperor looked at me through his sleepy
eyes, and must have thought me either remarkably forgetful or a great
fool. The Princess, naturally, never deigned to give me another look.
[Sidenote: I MEET THE PRINCESS IN PARIS.]
And now again I return to my works. After Pius II., I put up a figure of
life-size representing Innocence. This was ordered of me by Signor
Tommasi of Leghorn; but later, with my full consent, it remained on my
hands, and was bought by Prince Constantine of Russia. I have determined
not to judge my own works, though here and there I may give a little
hint; but in order that these memoirs may be of some use, it is well
that I should indicate the spirit of the principles which guided me in
my work. I have said that my faith in the pure imitation of nature was
somewhat shaken by the criticisms of my Giotto as being too
naturalistic. Some reasonings by my friends, and above all, certain
articles by Giuseppe Arcangeli in the 'Rivista, Sul Bello Ideale,' as
well as the compliments and eulogies of my statue of Innocence by
Borghi, finally persuaded me that there does exist a _bello ideale_
impossible to find in nature, and this beauty should be arrived at by an
imitation of the antique, and by the aid of memory.
[Sidenote: IDEALISTS AND NATURALISTS.]
Nothing is more dangerous than this theory. Beauty is scattered over
universal nature. The artist born to feel and perceive this beauty
(which is the object of art) has his mind and heart always exercised in
seeking it out and expressing it. He discerns in nature one or more
living forms that in some degree approximate to the type he has in his
mind, and the reality of these, by strengthening his ideals, enables him
to work the latter properly out. The artist who is without his ideal,
and forces himself to find it outside of nature, torturing his memory
with what he has seen or studied in the works of others, makes but a
cold and conventional work. The animating spark, the heat, the life,
does not inform his work, for he is not the father, but only the
stepfather of his children. To this school belong the imitators--that
is, the timid friends of nature.
On the other side, but in much greater numbers and with much greater
petulance, are the _naturalisti_, who despise every kind of ideality,
and especially despise it because they have it not. Neither is their
heart warmed by strong and sweet affections, nor do they with their
eyes or their mind seize, among the multiform shapes of nature, a type,
a movement, or an expression which, assiduously pursued, awakens and
fecundates the idea within them. The first ruffian or harlot of the
streets taken by evil chance suffices for them, and they delight to drag
this noble art of ours through filth and ugliness.
[Sidenote: BAD EFFECTS OF EULOGY.]
Each of these extremes I have sought to avoid. But it is none the less
true that, at the period to which I have arrived in my narrative, I was
carried a little away, by the discourses and writings of literary men
and critics of Art, on the road that leads to the conventional and
academic. This bad influence weakened my faith in nature and my courage
in my work. And the Pius II., the Innocence, and the Purity are, so to
speak, the mirrors in which are reflected my want of faith, uncertainty,
and weakness of mind during these three years of artistic irresolution.
In seeking after the perfect I lost the little good that my genius had
produced in my first years, uninfluenced by all these discussions, and
what is of more importance, by all eulogies both of good and of bad
alloy. Yes, also of bad alloy. The young artist should take heed of all
the praise that he receives. He should hold it in suspicion, and weigh
it, and make a large deduction. Eulogy is like a perfume, grateful to
the sense, but it is better to inhale it but little, little, little,
because it goes to the head, lulls us to sleep, and sometimes
intoxicates us and bewilders us so that we lose our compass. One must be
prudent. Flowers of too strong an odour must be kept outside the room.
Air is necessary--air. I hope that these words will fall into the ear of
some to whom they may do good--I mean, of those who not only sniff up
praise with eagerness, but are discontented because they do not think it
sufficient, and who re-read it and talk of it with others so as to
prolong their pleasure, and preserve all the papers and writings which
speak of them, without perceiving that this is all vanity and pettiness
of heart.
[Sidenote: INJUDICIOUS PRAISE.]
For the rest, it is very easy to see how one may vaccilate, and even
fall; and on this account I deem it my duty, for the love that I bear to
young men, to put them on their guard against the blandishments of
praise. Imagine, dear reader, an inexperienced youth of spirit and
lively fancy, who in his first essays in Art finds it said and written
of him that he has surpassed all others, has begun where others ended,
that he is born perhaps to outdo the Greeks with his chisel, that
Michael Angelo must descend from the pedestal he has occupied for
centuries, and other similar stuff--more than this, expose him to the
envy of the Mæviis, and those light and inconsiderate flatteries, which
are all the more dangerous when made attractive by courtesy and
refinement of expression,--and you will have the secret of his
vaccilations, even if with God's help he is not led utterly astray.
At this most trying time of my life the peace of my family was somewhat
disturbed by these influences. My wife was disquieted because I had
prevented her from carrying on her occupation. Our daily necessities
increased with the growth of our children. Then there were requirements
and troubles on account of my father, thoughts about my sister, as well
as my brother, who wished to become a rougher-out in marble, and who
brought to my studio very little aptitude united with great pretensions
on the score of being my brother. All these annoyances were partly
confided to my friend Venturi, to whom I poured out all my mind; and he
with wise and kindly words consoled me.
[Sidenote: BARTOLINI AND THE CRUCIFIX.]
Not the least affliction to me was Bartolini's unconcealed animosity, of
which I had a new proof in a fact which it is here the place to narrate.
I hope that the reader will remember that I made, while in the studio of
Sani, a little crucifix which the Signor Emanuel Fenzi bought for the
chamber of his son Orazio, who married the noble Lady Emilia of the
Counts Delia Gherardesca. About this time Signor Emanuel desired to make
my acquaintance, and having become intimate with me, wished to have me
often with him. Thus he discovered that this crucifix he had bought of
Sani was my work, and I cannot say how much this delighted him. To his
dinners and _conversazioni_, which were frequented by many foreigners as
well as Italians, Bartolini often came; but he was never willing to
renew his relations with me, although my bearing towards him was that of
the most affectionate consideration. As long as this unwillingness was
concealed or perceived by few, I bore it quietly; but it happened that
it was soon openly exhibited. One evening after dinner the _salon_ of
Signor Fenzi was filled with guests, and gay with all sorts of talk.
Soon, as was natural, the conversation fell upon Art; and Bartolini, who
was an easy and clever talker, affirmed that the arts were in
_decadence_, for various reasons: first, because of the want of
enthusiasm and faith among the lower and upper classes, both of whom
were sleeping in a _dolce far niente_; and second, because the artists
had abandoned the right road of imitation of beautiful nature, and were
pursuing with panting breath a chimerical beauty, which they called a
_bello ideale_; and last, because the vices of both had usurped the
place of the virtues of our ancestors, and luxury, apathy, and avarice
had drawn out of our beautiful country activity, temperance, modesty,
and liberality,--and he illustrated this by various instances of ancient
temperance and modesty. While Bartolini was speaking, Signor Fenzi went
into the chamber of the Cavaliere Orazio and brought out the "Christ,"
which, by reason of the long time that it had been executed, and perhaps
of the kisses of the pious Signora Emilia, had an antique look, and
showing it to the _maestro_, said--
"Look at this work."
After examining it, he said, "The proof that our artists of old were as
able as they were modest can be seen in this work. The artist who made
it, and who probably was only an _intagliatore_, would have been able to
make a statue such as perhaps no one to-day could."
At this Fenzi replied, with a smile, "Excuse me, but you are in error.
This is a modern work, and there is the artist who made it," pointing me
out, who was just coming in at that moment.
Bartolini laid down the "Christ," spoke not a word more, and did not
deign even to look at me, although he had praised the work. This did not
seem just, either to Fenzi or to any of the persons there present.