CLOSE IMITATION FROM LIFE--MY ILLNESS--I AM IN DANGER OF LOSING
MY LIFE--LUIGI DEL PUNTA, HEAD PHYSICIAN AT COURT--THE GRAND
DUKE FURNISHES ME WITH THE MEANS FOR GOING TO NAPLES--I LEAVE
FOR NAPLES--A BEGGAR IMPOSTOR--ANOTHER AND MY
BOOTS--SORRENTO--MY NEAPOLITAN FRIENDS--PROFESSOR TARTAGLIA AND
THE HYDROPATHIC CURE--THE MUSEUM AT NAPLES--LET US STUDY THE
GOOD WHEREVER IT IS TO BE FOUND--A STRANGE PRESENTATION.
That my words may not be obscure, and that one may see with sufficient
clearness the difference that exists between the details that constitute
different types and the minutiæ that must be left out, I will mention
where this sound principle of art is to be found. For greater brevity
and clearness I will speak of busts. The bust in bronze of Seneca in the
museum at Naples, the bust of Scipio Africanus in the statue-gallery at
Florence, the Vitellius, Julia and Lucius Verus, the Cicero of the
British Museum, and another Seneca at the Capitol, each has a distinct
character of its own. So firm and decided are the details of those
different faces, the planes are so clear and certain, the life so shines
in the eyes, the breath so seems to come from the lips, that they have
been for centuries the study and stumbling-block of all artists; for
after that period you do not find anything, unless it be some _terre
cotte_ of Luca della Robbia, and a bust of a bishop by Mino da Fiesole,
in which you do not find every hair, and, in fact, every possible
minutia.
[Sidenote: TRUTH OF DETAIL.]
The error into which these two schools run--that is to say, the Academic
and Naturalistic--is this, that the one, exaggerating its general rules,
neglects detail, and so becomes hard and cold; whilst the other,
multiplying them _ad infinitum_, falls into minutiæ which make art
vulgar. These are both errors, both ugly, both false.
Does this brief tirade, half dictatorial and half careless, bore you,
gentle reader? If so, skip it, for I cannot let go the opportunity, from
time to time, of making a good critical observation when it occurs to
me, and I think it well not to omit doing so. Young artists will, I am
sure, be grateful to me; and besides, though these few words may have
bored you, they serve as a warning to them on the importance of
different characteristics, and are also of use to me, I do not say as an
excuse, but as a frank statement of opinion, for in my Sant'Antonino
this rule is not clearly carried into practice. The importance of
speaking the truth and loving it is clearly given by Dante when he
says:--
"Che s'io al vero son timido amico
Temo di perder vita tra coloro,
Che questo tempo chiameranno antico."[7]
[7] "And if I am a timid friend to truth,
I fear that I may lose my life with those
Who will hereafter call this time the olden."
--DANTE: _Paradiso_, Canto xvii.
As I am an ardent lover of truth, I wish to speak it now. With regard to
this statue, if I had not the strength of mind to reproduce the saint
just as he was, with all his peculiarities, in other statues it has been
my study to do so, and I believe not without success.
But in the meanwhile--I do not know for what reason--a general feeling
of uneasiness took possession of me, and a prostration of strength, that
prevented me from thinking or working. Added to this, I had attacks of
giddiness, and was obliged to spend entire days sitting down without
being able to do anything, and feeling sad and melancholy. My medical
friends--Alberti and Barzellotti--recommended exercise, meat diet, and a
little good wine, which in those days (1852) could scarcely be found
genuine. They ordered me to take preparations of iron and zinc, but my
health grew worse every day. It was now three months since I had gone to
the studio. I went out sometimes in the carriage with my poor wife, and
we used to go into the country, or on the hills of San Domenico,
Settignano, or Pian di Giullari. Sometimes I went out on foot, but
accompanied by and leaning on the arm of Enrico Pazzi, Luigi Majoli, or
Ciseri, who one day took me by the railway to Prato, where we remained
until evening. After that I began to feel a want of appetite, nausea,
and sleeplessness, and then my friends really became alarmed about my
health.
[Sidenote: ILLNESS.]
The Grand Duke Leopold, that excellent sovereign, who was called the
_babbo_--I know not if from affection or derision--was for me (and for
many others who do not think proper to admit it) really paternal in his
care and timely help. Almost every day he wished to have news of my
health; and constantly sent Luigi Venturi, his secretary and a friend of
mine, to make inquiries. When he heard that matters had come to this bad
pass, he charged his private medical attendant, Luigi del Punta, to come
and examine me, study my disease, and suggest a remedy. Del Punta,
before coming to see me, acquainted my medical advisers with the order
he had received, and a consultation was fixed for the following day,
which was the 8th of September, 1852--the Feast of the Virgin. On that
morning Alberti and Barzellotti arrived first, paid me a little visit,
and then retired into the sitting-room to wait for Del Punta. The
sitting-room was next to my room. Del Punta came in, and they talked for
a long time, but in an undertone, so that I heard nothing, except one
word pronounced by Del Punta, which put me in a great state of
apprehension, and that was "tape-worm." The idea that I could have that
ugly malicious beast inside me frightened me, and when they came into my
room they found me in a much worse condition than when they had left me
a little time before. I always remember the piercing look of Del Punta,
anxious and penetrating. Then he began to question me, and examine me
all over, by auscultation, thumping, and squeezing me. His inspection
was a long one; but as he proceeded little by little, his expression
became more _open_, his beaming frank eyes met mine, and I could almost
say that a mocking smile played about his lips. Seeing me still staring
at him, he gave me a little tap with his hand on my shoulder, and said,
"Well, be of good cheer; there is nothing serious the matter." And
seeing that I did not believe him, he added, "I tell you you haven't a
cabbage-worth the matter with you!" and he said this with emphasis.
[Sidenote: CONSULTATION OF PHYSICIANS.]
Well, my dear reader, that foolish expression did me good. If he had
assured me in the usual way, and with select phraseology, that I had
nothing serious the matter with me, it would not have had the eloquence
or efficacy of that slang word blurted out with such force in the face
of the sick man, before the other medical men, with my poor wife
listening sadly and anxiously, my little ones about me, not
understanding, but full of vague fears on account of their mother's
sadness and the novelty of the thing. It brought with it, I say, such a
sense of conviction, that it was for me a true and positive
affirmation.
Poor Luigi! as learned in medicine as you were genial as a friend, on
that day you gave new life to me when I seemed to see it fleeting from
me. You so vivacious, so full of health--I so weak and ill; who would
have then said that so soon you would be gone?
[Sidenote: I AM SENT TO NAPLES.]
After having assured me and my wife that there was no serious disease,
that I should certainly recover, he added that I required a special
method of treatment that had more to do with a regimen of life than with
medicine, and that he would refer the result of the consultation and his
examination to the Grand Duke. In fact, he reported to the Grand Duke
(as I afterwards learned), that in the condition in which I was, I could
not have lived; my nerves were so shattered that I had become very weak,
and that I suffered from vertigo and could hardly stand, and at last had
lost my appetite and power of sleeping. It was urgent that I should have
rest; and this would consist in taking me away from home, away from my
studio, from Florence, from all--in one word, sending me off on a
journey, not a long one, but far enough to distract me from cares and
thoughts that oppressed; this was the only remedy, he said, and could be
freely adopted, as I had no internal disease. It was necessary that I
should have a companion that I liked with me, and he suggested that my
wife should accompany me.
A few days after, the Grand Duke informed me by means of his secretary,
Venturi, that it was necessary for me to have a change of air, and that
Professor del Punta had advised Naples, as it was a bright cheerful
place to stay in--where the air was mild, and where there were many
pleasant things to distract one: that I must therefore make my
arrangements to go there; that my wife and one little girl must
accompany me; and that I was not to give a thought to anything, as he
provided for everything during the time that was necessary for my
recovery, and he recommended me to his minister Cavaliere Luigi
Bargagli.
[Sidenote: ARRANGEMENTS FOR DEPARTURE.]
Every day that preceded my departure, Professor del Punta came to see
me, and encouraged me to be of good cheer also, on the part of the Grand
Duke. The preparations for our departure were many, and by no means
trifling. It was necessary to make arrangements so that the work in the
studio should not be without direction, and should be carried on
carefully. Tito Sarrocchi, then my scholar and workman, was intrusted
with the direction of it. The works in hand, besides the statue of
Sant'Antonino, were, "Innocence and the Fisherman," for Lord Crawford of
London, and some busts. As to models in clay, I left a Bacco dell'uva
Malata, that Sarrocchi had charge of until my return. My friends,
artists and not artists, came during those days to say good-bye to me,
some of them consoling themselves with hopes of my recovery, and others
fearing that they should never see me again, so emaciated and sad was I;
and Antonio Ciseri wept in saying good-bye.
Good gracious! how long and tedious is this narrative of your illness!
Long! yes or no. Long for you perhaps, who, as it would seem, have never
been ill, and who do not know what a consolation it is for one who is
suffering from the same malady as yourself to hear about such illness
from one who is at present quite well. If it annoys you, have
patience--some one may benefit by it; and at any rate, for the present I
have done.
The night that preceded my departure, that dear saintly woman my wife
remained up all night to put everything in the house in order, and to
prepare what was needed for us--that is, myself, my wife, and Beppina,
our second daughter. I had at that time four daughters: Amalia, who is
the eldest; Beppina, who went with me; and Luisina and Emilia, who
remained at home with their grandmother and Amalia. I lost Emilia quite
young, dear little angel. Her little body rests in the cemetery of San
Leonardo. Gigina I lost when she was grown up, and will speak of this in
its place.
The journey had to be made by short stages in a _vettura_, so that it
was necessary to hire a carriage and keep it at one's own expense as far
as Naples. We left on the morning of the 20th of October 1852, arrived
on the 28th, and lodged at the Hotel de Rome, Santa Lucia. That eight
days' journey in the sweet company of my wife, the pretty, innocent
questionings of Beppina about the fields, the rivers, and the villages
that we passed by one after the other, the novelty of the life, the pure
country air, and the hope of regaining my health, had softened the
asperity of my suffering. Apathy and sadness gradually gave way to a
desire to see new things; my wife's questions and those of my little one
obliged me to answer, and sometimes to smile. I felt my appetite for
food return, and I slept peacefully some hours every night.
[Sidenote: IMPRESSIONS OF NAPLES.]
In this way I arrived in Naples--in that immense city, so crowded with
people, so noisy and deafening on account of the numbers of carriages,
shouts of the coachmen, of the people offering things for sale, of
jugglers, beggars, all speaking in a strange difficult dialect most
unpleasant to a Tuscan. In this city the first impression made upon me
was a mixture of wonder and anger. It seemed to me as if one could do
all that those good people were doing without being obliged to scream
and throw one's self about so much. Here a coachman smacked his whip
within four fingers of your ears, to ask you if you wanted his
carriage; there a man, selling iced water and lemonade, screamed out at
the height of his voice I don't know what, and, to give it more force,
beat with his lemon-squeezers against his metallic bench, like Norma or
Villeda on Irminsul's shield; a little farther on a half-naked beggar,
with his ragged wife and children, shouted out, "I am dying with
hunger," with lungs that a commander of a battalion in the battle-field
might envy. These beggars, however, are for the most part impostors. One
day--it was a _festa_--I was returning from San Gennaro, where I had
been to Mass with my wife and little girl. I saw a man extended on the
ground with his body and legs inside a doorway, his head and his arms
out into the street; his mouth was green with grass that he had been
chewing, and some of which was hanging out of his mouth. The people
passing by looked, and then went on their way talking and laughing as if
it was nothing. I was stunned, indignant, and full of pity, and turning
to my wife (and even I flinging about my arms in the Neapolitan
fashion), said, with all the Christian and human resentment that I was
capable of, "How is it possible that, in such a flourishing and civil
city as this, a poor Christian is left to die of hunger in the street
for want of a little bread which is denied him by his unnatural
brethren, and is obliged to feed upon the food for beasts?" And I ran at
once to a pastrycook's near by for some cakes, because I thought bread
would be too hard food for a man reduced to such a state; and with a
light heart on account of the good action, I took them to him that I
might see him eat them, and as soon as he was a little restored give him
some _soldi_. Clever indeed! You little thought that the man was an
impostor! I bent over him, called him; he did not answer. I put a cake
to his mouth, and he looked at me, took the cakes, and hid them in his
bosom between his shirt and his skin, and this kind of a bag was crammed
full of bread and other things. Some inquisitive people had stopped to
look on, and seeing this, it seemed to me as if they laughed at my
simplicity.
[Sidenote: I GIVE MY BOOTS TO A BEGGAR.]
And as I am on this question, and my memory serves me well, I will tell
you of another beggar. In front of the Hotel de France, Largo Castello,
where I was staying, is the Church of San Giacomo. At the door of this
church a poor man stood from morning until night trembling, half naked,
and barefoot. It made me feel badly, comfortably lodged as I was, and
sitting smoking my cigar on the terrace, to see that poor creature out
in the cold with his feet in the mud. More than once my poor wife had
given him some _soldi_; but one day when it was raining heavily, and the
poor man was out in it all, with his feet nearly covered by water, a
happy thought struck me, inspired by Christian charity, and I said, "I
am here under cover, and have boots on my feet, while that poor wretch
is there outside with no shoes on; I will give him my boots." I rang the
bell; the servant came, and I said to him, "Raffael, take this pair of
boots to that poor man over there by the door of San Giacomo."
"Yes, sir," said Raffael, and away he went.
I went back on to the balcony to enjoy the effect of my good deed,
imagining that I should see an expression of amazement and joy on the
man's face. Nothing of the sort; he remained there with the boots in
hand as if he did not know exactly what sort of things they were, and
when Raffael told him that I gave them to him, and pointed me out to him
on the terrace, the man turned, looked up, and, always holding them in
his hand, made signs of thanking me; then he put them down on the
ground near his feet, and continued to stretch out his hands to the
people entering the church! "Ah, poor man," I said, "he wished to put
them on to-morrow morning; he must wash himself, of course, and dry his
feet before putting them on. How stupid of me! The people are just going
in for the _novena_ (it was Christmas-time), and he does not want to
lose a chance _grano_ to buy him some bread." But the next morning he
was still barefooted, and it was raining. I said to my wife--
[Sidenote: THE BEGGAR SELLS THE BOOTS.]
"Look, I sent that poor man my boots yesterday, so that he should not
wet his feet, but he has not put them on. What do you think is the
reason? What should you say?"
"He probably wishes to keep them for Sundays," was the serious answer of
that dear simple woman.
"You are joking, my dear; that man is old, and if he keeps them for
Sundays he will not see the end of them. I say that he has sold them."
"And I say, that if he had two or three _lire_ to spare, he would have
wished to buy a pair, poor man!"
We each remained of our own opinion. Late in the day we went out, and,
approaching the poor man, I said to him--
"Why have you not put on the boots that I gave you? Are they tight?"
"Your Excellency," he replied, "if I put the boots on, no one will give
me another penny. I have sold them, your Excellency; and may the Virgin
bless you."
A few days after my arrival at Naples I went to Sorrento. The discordant
noise of the town annoyed me, and I wished to try that little place, so
much praised for its climate and for its quietness, and so full of
association with that illustrious and unhappy man, Torquato Tasso. I
went there with my friend Venturi, who had come to Naples for a few days
with the Grand Duke.
[Sidenote: SORRENTO AND ITS INHABITANTS.]
Sorrento is a charming little town seated on the crest of a hill called
the Deserto. It is surrounded on the left by woods of orange, citron,
and lemon trees, and on the right by the sea with the island of Capri,
that seems to rise up majestically from the deep blue waters. On the far
horizon one catches a glimpse of Nisida and Baia. This small town is
inhabited by fishermen, orange-packers employed on the large landed
possessions in the neighbourhood, and by most clever workers of inlaid
wood, who have made their art so much in request by the thousand little
trifles, so pretty in design and so carefully executed, that they make.
Garguillo's manufactory is much renowned, and justly so. Not only do you
find on the pieces of furniture cornices, fillets, meanders, and other
graceful ornaments, but also extremely pretty figures inlaid on the
boxes, little tables, and other nick-nacks with which well-to-do people
embellish their rooms. Here the air is mild, and the sun is tempered by
the shade of laurels and orange-trees. The character of the inhabitants
is gentle and laborious, and through their acts and their words there
breathes a quiet, ineffable melancholy, like the memory of a sweet pure
dream. Their complexion is dark, and also their hair; their eyes have
long lashes, and are cut in almond shape. It seems as if they looked
with infinite sweetness at something immeasurably far off; their smile
is sad, as if it recalled to them a lost existence that hope induced
them to think not irretrievably lost. This favoured, I should almost say
ideal, bit of nature, at a few miles' distance from the thoughtless
vulgar noise of the inhabitants of Naples, is a thing commented on by
all, but by no one reasonably explained. The climate so temperate, the
air perfumed with the scent of orange-flowers, and the sweet melancholy
on those faces, instead of rendering the place agreeable to me, made me
profoundly sad. Why did my heart not open itself to the enjoyments of
that pure, serene, and most beautiful nature? Why was it that that
bright sky, that tranquil sea, that quiet industrious life, rendered me
more sad and thoughtful? Perhaps it was because being so very weak I did
not feel the strength within me to reproduce in art any of those many
impressions that the mind took in and fancy clothed in most varied
forms. One day I visited Tasso's house; and whilst, as usual, the
cicerone explained in his way the singularity of that abode, I dwelt in
imagination on the life and vicissitudes of that unhappy poet, and
recalled the secret joys of that passionate soul after he had finished
his Christian epic: I saw the courteous, handsome cavalier, the inspired
poet, envied and conspired against by the favourites of the Duke and the
_literati_, his rivals; the looks of the ladies, whose frank admiration
was veiled in the shadow of profligacy; then the disorder, confusion,
first in the heart, and then in the brain of poor Torquato, the
suspicions of the Duke, his imprisonment, his lawsuit, his resignation
and death; and I wept.
[Sidenote: SORRENTO--RETURN TO NAPLES.]
I decided to return to Naples--for this quiet full of fancies drove me
back into myself, and made me more sad. I took up my abode in the centre
of the great city, in Piazza Castello, at the Hotel de France, on the
angle of the Strada dei Guantai Vecchi. In this hotel strangers were
continually coming and going, and changing every day. The windows of my
little apartment opened on the Piazza, and the mid-day and westerly sun
bathed them in heat and light. Some artists, in compassion for my
condition, came to give me courage; and among them I remember with
profound sadness, for almost all of them are now dead, Cammillo Guerra,
Giuseppe Mancinelli, Gigante, and Tommaso Aloysio Juvara, who had such a
tragic end in Rome. The warmth of your heart turned your brain, my poor
friend! but in your last moments you acknowledged your sin, and God will
have been merciful to you. The other younger artists who are still alive
are the sculptors Solari and Balzico, the miniature-painter Di
Crescenzio, and Postiglione the painter. But my health was always the
same. Professor Vulpes, to whom I had brought a letter of recommendation
from Professor del Punta, continued to follow the same treatment as that
indicated by the other Florentine doctors,--that is to say, prescribing
preparations of iron, meat diet, rest, and tranquillity of mind. And in
the meanwhile I had no desire to eat; my sleep was restless and of short
duration; my legs would ill support me, and my mind was so depressed
that I could not endure to read more than a few pages. As to writing, I
was obliged to stop every moment or so; ideas got confused, and I could
not separate them from each other or give them any proper shape. It was
a great fatigue to me to give my news to Venturi when he desired to hear
from me.
[Sidenote: MY ILL HEALTH CONTINUES.]
At last the longed-for day came which was to decide the question of my
health. It was already two months since I had left my home; and although
the journey to Naples and the air there had been somewhat beneficial to
me, yet I was very far from entertaining the slightest hope of
recovery--or rather this recovery was so slow as to make me lose all
patience. At this stage good Professor Smargiassi, seeing me always so
weak and melancholy, said to me, "Why do you not try the water-cure?"
[Sidenote: I TRY THE WATER-CURE.]
"What do you mean by water-cure?" I replied; and he explained it to me,
adding, "Here in Naples there is Professor Tartaglia, who has effected
some wonderful cures." He told me of some, and he added that he himself
had tried this cure and had got well. As Smargiassi was a serious man,
with a temperate habit of speech on all matters, his words carried
weight with them, and I consented willingly to consult this hydropathic
professor, and so sent for him.
Professor Tartaglia was an exceptional Neapolitan--that is to say, he
had nothing of the vivacity of speech and manners that is peculiar to
this warm-hearted, exuberant, and imaginative people; he spoke little
and quietly, listened a great deal, and observed attentively. When he
had heard of my complaints, he examined me, and after that said: "You
have no disease, although you may not feel well; you will recover
quietly and easily--of that you may be sure. In the meanwhile I will
tell you that I shall not come again to see you; but instead, you must
come to see me every morning at twelve o'clock to give me an account of
how you feel. To-morrow you must take your first bath. Don't be
alarmed--it is not a bath by immersion; you are not to go into the
water," and he gave me the directions to be followed; and as he was
going away he said, "Let alone the medicines that you have taken thus
far."
The first morning this hydropathic cure seemed very arduous. To get out
of one's bed and put on a sheet drenched with cold water is not the
pleasantest thing in the world, especially at that season of the year
(it was the last of December); but after the first impression, I can
assure you that the external warmth finally produces a pleasant effect,
and gives strength and elasticity to the body. After the bath, walking
exercise should be taken for at least an hour. To my objection that I
could not walk, the Professor answered, "Walk as much as you can, rest a
little, and then continue to walk, and so on; you will see day by day
that your strength will return, and with your strength, courage and
happiness." In short, after a month of this treatment I was so well that
I could walk easily eight miles during the day. When I wrote to Florence
of the new cure that I had begun, Del Punta was frightened, and said
that he would not be responsible for the result of this resolution of
mine, which, to say the least, was hazardous; and that I ought not to
have undertaken it without the advice of an ordinary practitioner--that
is to say, of an allopathic doctor. His making this a condition
tranquillised me, as Professor Tartaglia was really an allopathic
doctor; but in some cases that were rebellious to that system of
treatment he adopted hydropathy. Then, too, the result was so
satisfactory, so decided, that all objections fell to the ground, and
nothing more was said about it.
[Sidenote: MY HEALTH IS RENEWED.]
By degrees I felt my strength returning, and my heart expanded with
hope. Delightful artistic thoughts, that had so long lain dormant,
sprang into life within me, one by one, like the first leaves in April;
and Will, precious gift, mysterious, immortal power, again took and held
its empire over me, and pronounced itself. During the days just passed,
the smiling country, the glorious sun, the terrible beauty of the sea,
the joys of men, the creations of art, and (sad to say) even the
affectionate care of my dear ones, were irksome to me; and now, with
pleasure, slowly and by degrees I began to feel a desire and thirst to
enjoy these good things, thinking about them and loving them with more
intensity of understanding and hearty sincerity. Every day there was a
new excursion to be made: Capodimonte, with its immense park and rich
gallery; that beautiful walk, the Strada Maria Teresa, now Vittorio
Emanuele; the Certosa of San Martino, where one enjoys a view of the
whole city, of the sea and all the Campagna-Felice, of Vesuvius, of
Monte Somma, of Portici, Resina, Capri, and Nisida. Then I felt a desire
to see the Royal Museum, unique in the world for its great riches in
ancient bronzes; the Flora, Venus Victrix, Callipige, Aristides, the
equestrian statues of the Balbi, father and son; the seated Mercury; the
Sleeping Faun, and a thousand other statues, big and little; busts, in
marble and in bronze, of exquisite beauty, all or almost all of them
having been dug out of the ashes of Herculaneum and Pompeii. On certain
days, or I should rather say at certain moments, a sight of these works
of sculpture sets one on fire, and fills one with courage and a strong
desire to do something; but at other times it gives one a feeling of
dismay, discouragement, and fear that cannot be described. This
difference of impression deserves to be examined a little, and he who is
bored must here skip; the young artist, however, I am certain, will
follow me attentively. I have made a promise to myself not to leave
these papers as food for mere curiosity, for, seriously speaking, there
should be no satisfaction in that; whereas a little value and profit
will be found by every one who has the patience to follow me.
[Sidenote: EXCURSIONS--THE ROYAL MUSEUM.]
[Sidenote: THE ACADEMICIANS AND NATURALISTS.]
Yes, dear friends, sometimes, in seeing certain works of art, one burns
with enthusiasm, with a fire, a desire to do, that is really marvellous,
and we ease our minds with the conviction that this is a sign of our
strength. Illusions, dear sirs--illusions! To the eyes of the artist all
works of art ought to be the occasion of examination and serious
hesitating thought; and when these outbursts of immoderate confidence in
ourselves occur, they are a sign that our sight is obscured by pride, or
that we are not able to comprehend the degree of beauty in such works,
and consequently the difficulties that have been overcome to produce
them. We must correct ourselves of both these defects, and learn to
respect even mediocre things, as by this method we arrive at the
discovery of something good even in these, if not as a whole, at least
in their intention and germ, and this will always be something gained.
As a young man, I have found myself laughing compassionately at some of
the most beautiful works of art, both ancient and modern, and this
merely because my natural pride had been excited by light or false
praise. The complacency that we feel in ourselves and our works comes in
part from a species of exclusiveness and belief in the infallibility of
the principles we profess. Not that I would counsel any disloyalty to
the principles that are our guides in art--no, indeed, for we must keep
entirely true to them; but it is a very different thing to despise all
other schools that are removed from ours. For instance, why despise the
Academicians, who are tenacious of the study of antique statues, in
order to keep within bounds the turbid torrent of the _veristi_, who in
their turn, through their coarse adherence to nature, lose the idea of
the beautiful? Let us, on the contrary, respect them for their
intentions and motives, at the same time that we make certain
reservations as to the final consequences that would result from this
distrust and refashioning of nature. The fault of the Academic school
lies in this, that instead of saying, "Study the antique; look how well
they knew how to choose from life and how to interpret it," they say,
"Here, copy these casts; apart from them there is no health or safety
for you. Nature is imperfect; you must improve on it, and, imitating the
Grecian and Roman statues, you will learn to purge nature from all her
imperfections." So saying, the intention, which is good, is spoiled by
its application of exaggerated rules. But, I repeat, the intention is
good; therefore let us look to that whilst we reject its application. On
the other hand, why should we despise the _naturalisti_ in all that they
have that is good--I mean, in their axioms and rules--which, in short,
putting aside amplification and exaggeration, means the imitation always
in everything of nature? We have always accepted and insisted upon the
imitation of nature, that is of beautiful nature, putting aside that
exaggeration which leads to folly, absurdity, and licence of conception,
and to ugliness of form, detail, and minutiæ.
[Sidenote: THE NATURALISTS AND IDEALISTS.]
The same may be said of the mystics, the purists, colourists, lovers of
effect and _barocco_, &c. Let us take the good where we can find it:
not, indeed, make a mixture, a medley, as some have been fantastic
enough to imagine, by which we should arrive directly at eclecticism,
which is the most foolish thing in this world; but putting our minds
into the study of all these schools, we shall be able to find good
reasons for their teachings. Separating them from excess and
exaggeration, we shall find ourselves in a wider, clearer, higher
atmosphere, and the impressions that we receive from works of art will
not produce despondency or rejoicing, our judgments will be more
temperate and just, and our own work will be done quicker and better.
This does not mean, indeed, that we are to remain indifferent before
works of art. Alas for the man who is indifferent! for the artist who
before some work of art stands cold and without feeling! A young man who
is ardent, boasting, and proud, can correct himself, can be trained by
difficulties and instances, by emulation or jeering. The timid will
become animated, and take courage, moving with measured and cautious
steps on his arduous journey, and, by reason of his timid, gentle
character, conciliate the goodwill of his masters and fellow-students;
but the indifferent and cold of nature has too much the air of a
simpleton or an arrogant person, and he is fled from and left in his
stupid ignorance.
[Sidenote: AN ARTISTIC VISIT.]
And here, gentle reader, is one of these happy mortals who live their
little day in dreamland. A person came to see me one day bringing with
him a young man who might have borne a quarter of a century weight on
his shoulders. He was of medium height, with broad shoulders, bent
slightly, owing, perhaps, to his being twenty-five years of age; he had
a black beard, bronzed complexion, and wandering eyes. He looked all
about him and saw nothing. I say that he saw nothing, for he paid the
same attention to my cat as he did to the head of the Colossus of Monte
Cavallo, which stood on a stand in the room, and to my "Abel" as he did
to me or my stool. He spoke no Italian, not even French; but the person
who accompanied him, and who was competent in all respects, spoke for
him, or rather of him, for the young man himself never opened his mouth
to utter a word, although he kept it half open even when he was looking
at the cat. This very polite person said--
"You will forgive me, Signor Professor, if I take you away from your
occupations for a few brief moments; but I could not forego the pleasure
of regaling you with a visit from, and making you acquainted with, this
young sculptor, who is on his way to Rome, where he goes, not, indeed,
to perfect himself as an artist, but to practise the profession which he
has so nobly and splendidly illustrated by his genius. As he is
undoubtedly born to fame, and the whole world will talk of him, I wished
to bring him to you, and make you really acquainted, that you might some
day be able to say, 'I have seen him and spoken with him.'"
[Sidenote: A GENIUS.]
I stood there like a bit of stucco, looking at the young man, and then
at the person who had spoken to me thus. Then I answered--
"Tell me, does this gentleman speak, or at least understand, Italian?
Has he understood what you have just said of him?"
"Oh no! he only speaks English; he is an American."
"The Lord be thanked," muttered I to myself, "that the poor young man
understood nothing!" But this polite person, misunderstanding my
question, began--
"Now I will tell him what I have said to you."
And he began in English to repeat the little tirade that he had given
me, and this genius of a young man nodded his head at every phrase,
looking at me, at the stool, and at the cat!