POMPEII--A CAMEO--SKETCH FOR THE BACCO DELLA
CRITTOGAMA--PROFESSOR ANGELINI THE SCULPTOR--ONE MUST NOT OFFER
ONE'S HAND WITH TOO MUCH FREEDOM TO LADIES--A HARD-HEARTED
WOMAN WITH SMALL INTELLIGENCE--THE SAN CARLO, THE SAN CARLINO,
THE FENICE, AND THE SEBETO--MONUMENT BY DONATELLO AT
NAPLES--THE BAROCCO AND MISTAKEN OPINIONS--DILETTANTI IN THE
FINE ARTS--PRINCE DON SEBASTIAN OF BOURBON--IS THE BEARD A SIGN
OF BEING LEGITIMIST OR LIBERAL?--I AM TAKEN FOR A PRINCE OR
SOMETHING LIKE ONE--"THE BOTTLE" FOR DOORKEEPERS AND CUSTODI OF
THE PUBLIC MUSEUMS OF NAPLES--PHIDIAS, DEMOSTHENES, AND CICERO
ALL AGAINST RUGGERO BONGHI.
I summoned up all my little stock of patience, and moved slowly towards
the door, they following me. Thanking the gentlemen, I shut them out,
and returned in silence to my work. This happened some thirty years ago,
nor as yet does it seem as if the prophecy about that young man were
realised.
To return to ourselves. "Appetite comes with eating," as the proverb has
it; and in fact, by degrees, as I visited the museums, the churches, and
the studios of the Neapolitan artists, I felt an increasing desire to do
something, to try again to draw or to model, were it but a mere trifle.
One day, after having gone over the whole breadth and length of the
excavations at Pompeii, I was examining a mosaic pavement made out of a
great many pretty little coloured stones, some of them broken away from
their place; and bending down to examine it closer, I touched one of the
stones. The _custode_ hastened to say to me, "Don't touch, signor--the
regulations prohibit it." It cannot be denied that I have always been
disposed to respect all regulations; but since I had seen them broken,
even by those who ought to have been the first to respect them, I had
taken them in dudgeon. I looked at the _custode_, and he at me, and we
understood each other at once. I took a turn, went to the door, looked
to the right and to the left of me, and coming back, as I was taking
something out of my pocket I dropped some money on the ground.
[Sidenote: A LITTLE CAMEO-HEAD.]
My friend picked it up for me, and I gave him a _carlino_. We returned
to the room where the mosaic pavement was. It represented a race of
animals, hares and dogs, on a yellow ground. Some of the little stones
were loose, and already many were missing; they were small squares about
as large as my little-finger nail. I bent down again, and stretched out
my hand, looking at the guard, who for decency's sake turned in the
other direction; and I took the little stone, on which, with a great
deal of patience and increasing gusto, I drew and engraved a small head
after the fashion of a cameo, roughing it out at first with the point of
a penknife, and finishing it off with sharpened needles fastened into
little handles, which I used in the place of small chisels and burins. I
always keep this little head, which was set in gold as a pin, and
sometimes wear it in my necktie. When I look at this small piece of
workmanship, I am astonished at my patience and my eyesight at that
time.
To tell the truth, when I picked up that little stone I had no idea of
working on it, but merely took it as a remembrance of the day and the
place. In touching it, I thought that it had been shaped and put there
by a man like myself, two thousand years ago. In holding that little
square stone between my fingers, it seemed to me as if my hand touched
the hand of that man, who then was full of life. I thought of his scant
dust, now dispersed, transformed but not lost! Where is this dust now?
I, where was I then? While I was thinking on this, my good Marina
approached, and said--
"Do you find any beauty in that little stone?"
[Sidenote: VESUVIUS AND ITS LAVA.]
"No. I was thinking that it is very old. I was thinking that it is a
fusion of fire, and in substance lava. But was not Vesuvius unknown at
the time that this city was constructed? Could you imagine that they
would have been so insane as to have built on the outskirts of a
mountain vomiting fire? Have you not observed that in all the many
paintings on these houses, where you find over and over again
landscapes, sea views, animals, figures, in fact everything, that there
is never the slightest trace of a view of Vesuvius? If it had been
there, surely they would not have failed to reproduce in painting such a
marvellous phenomenon. Therefore it could not have been there; and yet
all these mosaics are made of lava, and all the surrounding country at a
certain distance below the surface of the ground is covered with it. It
was not there, I say, in their memory; but when was it there?"
"Do you know?" said my wife.
"I?--no, indeed."
"Then you can imagine if I do."
After this small cameo, I wished to model a little figure in bas-relief,
which it was my intention to have executed on a shell cameo, and I gave
the order for it; but the workmen employed for this kind of work are so
unintelligent that if you take them away from the work they are
accustomed to do almost mechanically, they are not able to succeed in
doing anything. The little figure represented Medicine. She was seated
on a stool, and with a little stick was pushing aside the bushes to look
for some medicinal plants; but in doing so a serpent had wound itself
around her stick, as it is said to have happened to Æsculapius. Behind
the stone on which she is seated flows a little stream of water, to
denote the salutary action of water by which I was cured, and to which
she turns her back.
[Sidenote: NEW SKETCH OF THE BACCHUS.]
I also made a new sketch for the Bacchino della Crittogama, which was
the one that I afterwards made of life-size on my return from Naples.
The one I had left behind me in clay was very different, and I destroyed
it. I had this new sketch baked, and I remember one day when I went to
get it from the man who sells _terre cotte_, near Santa Lucia, to whom I
had given it to bake, that I found him arguing with a stranger who had
taken it absolutely into his head to buy it. It was useless for the man
to say that the statuette did not belong to him; that he could not sell
it; that it was not finished; and that his little figures of Apollo, the
Idolino, Venus, and Flora were far better and more finished than this
sketch: he only kept repeating, "I like this, and want to buy it;" and
all persuasion was useless. I put an end to the discussion in two words,
saying to the man--
"Sell it to him."
"How much must I ask?"
"A thousand _lire_."
At which the good _touriste_ immediately put down the Bacchino, and went
away in peace. Some two months after this I presented this little sketch
to a priest from Verona, whose name I do not remember, but who came to
preach the Lenten sermons at our cathedral in Florence. I regret to
have given it to him, for it is always well that a man's sketches should
remain in his family, and also because, for all his eloquence, he has
never since reported himself to me. Can he really be dead? _Requiem
æternam._
[Sidenote: VISIT TO CAVALIERE ANGELINI.]
In this manner the time passed by, alternating the long walks in the
neighbourhood of Naples with a little work and some artistic visits to
Mancinelli, to Balzico (then but a young student), to Smargiassi the
landscape-painter, and to Gigante, the famous water-colourist. I did not
fail to try to find the sculptor Cavaliere Angelini, whom I had already
known in Florence; but for some inexplicable reason I could not see him,
and this was what happened. I went to his studio, and his men told me
that he had gone to the Academy to lecture to the young men. I went to
the Academy, and was told that he desired me to wait, because he was
giving his lessons. I waited a good long time, and when he came out he
said that he was in such a hurry he could not pay any attention to me
then, but that I must come to his studio on a certain day at a certain
hour. I went there and knocked; no one answered, and the soldier who was
mounting guard at the Serraglio dei Poveri close by said that every one
had gone away more than two hours before. It seemed to me a little
strange, after having named the day and hour; but more or less
forgetfulness in an artist means nothing--in fact it is a sort of sauce
or dressing to an artist's character, be he young or full-grown, on
horseback or on foot. Dear me! such things are easily understood; and if
I had not been a little tired, I should not even have thought of it, and
would have returned another day. But when, and at what time? Should I
have ever found the door open?
My hotel was very far from the poorhouse, but the two places were not
very dissimilar; for although all my expenses were paid by the Grand
Duke, it had not yet become the fashion to squander and waste after the
ways of to-day; and be it from education, temperament, or other motives,
I felt it my duty to economise for that good gentleman's purse even more
than for my own, and therefore my inn could really be called a poorhouse
in spite of its pompous name, for it was a third-class hotel; but the
distance was great, and, to mortify the Professor a little, I wrote on
his studio door--"_G. Duprè at home on such a day and such an hour._"
[Sidenote: PROFESSOR ANGELINI.]
He will come, he will certainly come, to see me at my inn to make his
excuses. Poor Angelini! he is certainly absent-minded, and am I not also
absent-minded? He will come to find me out. Yes; I stayed in Naples six
months, and never saw him. Something beyond absent-mindedness, I think;
but so it was. I told all this for amusement to his colleagues, but they
took it seriously to heart,--so much so, that at one of their academic
meetings they proposed me as an Associate-Professor: and Angelini seemed
delighted, and warmly supported my nomination, so that naturally it was
passed; but I never went into his studio. Oh no.
Yes; I repeat it ten, twenty times over. My dear colleague, this
happened in the month of January 1853; see what a good memory I have.
You, it is quite natural, have forgotten it, because he who is guilty of
such things does not take heed of them, neither should the person to
whom they are done, unless he be as black as Loredan, who wrote down the
death of the two Foscari in his book of Debit and Credit. Therefore let
it be understood, that I did not take note of it, and don't remember it;
but if you ever take it into your head to return to Florence, and,
passing casually through the Via della Sapienza, you would like to rest
a little in my studio, you can do so; and the best of it is, that I do
not name the day or the hour, only take this journey and make this visit
soon, for we are now both old, and I shall not return to you, for I am
afraid of finding the door shut!
Here I come to the moral. I speak of artists. The desire to see the
works and also become acquainted personally with contemporary artists is
a good sign; it indicates a spirit of emulation, a wish to learn, and
form bonds of friendship, so to discuss and bring to light errors and
doubts on questions of art. But if the artist with whom you desire to
speak names a certain day and hour, then answer at once, "Thank you very
much, but I cannot come." Tell him this untruth--it will be but a small
sin; whereas he who imposes upon you a day and hour gives himself so
much importance that he resembles that ugly and haughty signor called
_Pride_.
[Sidenote: SHAKING HANDS.]
There are some medicines so proper and efficacious, that once you have
taken them, you are radically cured, and for good. Angelini cured me of
the wish to knock at studio doors; and the Signora Marchesini cured me
of another habit, formed either by custom or stupidity, of shaking hands
with everybody, especially with women. The Signora Marchesini was at
that time (I am speaking of about thirty years ago) an aristocratic lady
of a certain age--one of those persons who, without even taking the
trouble to turn to look at any one who came to see her, would answer the
salutation and bow prescribed by good breeding with an _addio_ and a
"good evening" when one took leave, were it even at midnight. Such was
the Signora Marchesini.
[Sidenote: EMBRACING FRIENDS.]
One night I went into her box at the Pergola, and going up to her I
bowed and put out my hand. Ass that I was! I did not know that this act
of familiarity was not allowed to _inferiors_; and putting aside
nobility of birth, I was her junior by thirty years, and perhaps this
offended the austere lady more than anything else. The lesson, however,
was a good one; and from that day, in fact from that evening, I have
never since been the first to offer my hand to any woman, old or young.
All this nonsense reminds me of a much rougher and more vulgar instance
of haughtiness, from which my beloved wife was the sufferer. She was as
simple and good, poor darling, as the woman who offended her was hard
and proud.
I had gone to pay a visit to a friend of mine, a gentleman of noble
birth, education, and tact, with whom I had friendly relations. My wife
was with me, and he was in the drawing-room with his, who was French by
birth, much younger than himself, and whom he had lately married. As
soon as my friend saw me he spread out his arms, and we embraced each
other; my wife, with a feeling of spontaneous tenderness, pressed
forward to embrace the young lady, but she drew back, perhaps not
thinking it beseeming or according to etiquette to embrace a woman the
first time she saw her, even although she was much older than herself.
My poor Marina, with her purity of soul, did not feel offended, but
turning to me she timidly asked, "Have I done wrong?"
"You! no, my dear; but another time stand on your own ground. That woman
did not deserve to be embraced by you."
My friend took no notice of anything, and shortly after we left the
house. I do not know why, but this remembrance goads me more and more
every day; it stimulates my love for her who now smiles at all these
miseries--she who was so worthy of all honours, who desired and was able
to keep herself always good, mild, and compassionate--a good wife, a
good mother, truly a lady by her virtues, and not by reason of her birth
and riches. More I should like to say, but cannot; I look with anxious
love for the words that fail me, and I think that the innermost
lineaments of that temperate, strong, patient soul can be felt but
cannot be portrayed.
[Sidenote: AMUSEMENTS AT NAPLES.]
I continued to get better and better in Naples. The medical man insisted
that I should walk a great deal and take simple and abundant food--a
little soup, roastbeef, and a plate of vegetables, and nothing else, for
dinner; for breakfast, after my bath and walk, a glass of cold milk and
some bread. As a distraction for my mind, he recommended my seeing and
talking with people I liked, and going to the theatre of an evening. At
first the theatre bored me; I did not understand those little _bouffe_
comedies in dialect at the Fenice and San Carlino, and all those
repartees of Punchinello irritated me. It was bad for me to go to the
San Carlo, where they were giving the 'Trovatore' with the Penco,
Fraschini, and the Borghi-mamo, and 'Othello' with the Pancani, for they
made me weep, not on account of the dramas themselves, which I already
knew, but on account of the music, which had such a strong effect on my
nerves. For these reasons I was obliged to give up the music at San
Carlo, and 'Punch' at San Carlino and the Fenice, and took refuge in the
Sebeto, a very small theatre, where for the most part were represented
dramas in bad taste, artistically speaking, but not as far as morals are
concerned--exaggerated characters, forced situations to create
immoderate effects, &c.,--in fact, dramas of the Federici stamp, to
touch the hearts of the populace, but not calculated to influence them
with voluptuousness, the more dangerous when veiled in the attractive,
graceful, and polished forms of cunning sophistry. Then these dramas
were not in dialect, and 'Punch' only came in at the farce, and for such
a very small part that I could bear him, and little by little began to
understand and appreciate him. As I have already said, the theatre was a
necessity for me, and it entered into my _sage's_ system of treatment;
but he added that I was not to take the recreation by myself, but in the
company of my wife and child, and with as much ease as possible, so that
it was necessary to take a small box, which, as the theatre was so small
and unpretending, was not a very great expense. Perhaps the idea of
economy never once occurred to the generous sovereign who came to my
aid, but I used to think of it, as I have before said.
[Sidenote: CHURCHES AT NAPLES.]
Thus, with so much to divert my mind, during the day going to see the
public monuments and the churches in which this immense city is so rich,
and at evening to the theatre, my recovery was completed. Nor were there
wanting splendid works of art, besides the collection of ancient
bronzes, unique in the world, and wonderfully useful to the students of
sculpture. The Church of San Gennaro, with its monuments, amongst which
are those of Carlo d'Angio, Carlo Martello, and Clemenza his wife; San
Paolo, built on the ruins of the Roman theatre where Nero used to appear
in public and declaim his verses, and where Metronate gave his lessons
in philosophy, which were attended by Seneca as his pupil (what a lesson
to young men!); Santa Chiara, with its monuments to the ancient kings of
Naples, which once was all frescoed over by Giotto, and has been most
barbarously whitewashed by Berio Nuovo; Sant'Angelo a Nilo, with that
splendid monument to Cardinal Brancaccio, one of Donatello's finest
works; and San Domenico Maggiore,--all these monuments, as much for
their beauty as for the historical records they contain, are worthy of
the greatest attention and study, and are calculated to inspire ideas
and a desire to work.
[Sidenote: INDIFFERENCE TO WHAT IS NEAR US.]
But often it happens that the most valuable things one has, so to speak,
at one's very door, are not thought anything of--not even noticed; and
such was the case then with some artists in Naples, who either did not
remember or were not acquainted with their own artistic treasures. I
remember a young sculptor who often lamented that Naples was wanting in
art of the middle ages. I reminded him of the monuments above mentioned,
dwelling especially on that by Donatello, to which he answered that he
did not know it. "Go to see it," I said; "it is unpardonable in you not
to know it."
After some time I saw the youth, and said to him--
"Well, did you see the monument by Donatello, and what did you think of
it?" to which he answered, "I found that I had already seen it once
before, but did not remember it."
"Then," thought I to myself, "there is an end of all hope for you."
[Sidenote: CICERONI AND THEIR IDEAS.]
It is certainly a most painful fact that some of the finest works of our
elders are either entirely ignored or not cared for, but it is most sad
when this indifference comes from young men who have dedicated
themselves to art. That the usual ignorant _ciceroni_ who show strangers
the sepulchral chapel of the Princes of Sangro take no notice of the
monument by Donatello is natural enough, but it is none the less
disgusting to hear them pouring forth their opinions after the following
fashion: "See, gentlemen, these statues are the stupendous work of the
famous Venetian Antonio Corradini. Observe the two statues that stand in
the arch by the columns of the high altar; they are miracles of
sculpture; one is by Corradini, and one by Quieroli. The first
represents the mother of the Prince Don Raimondo, who restored and
enriched this chapel--which was founded by the Prince Don Francesco in
1590--with precious marble. The statue represents Modesty--one of the
principal virtues that distinguished the Princess. See, gentlemen, she
is enveloped in a transparent veil, beneath which is revealed the whole
of her figure: this is a method of sculpture unknown even to the Greeks,
for the ancients only painted their draperies, but did not cut them in
marble. The other prodigy of art is a statue representing the father of
the Prince himself as 'Disinganno.' In this statue behold a man caught
in a net; you see all the meshes of the net, and inside it the body
itself." The stranger, meantime, stands there open-mouthed, admiring
these statues, in which, to tell the truth, one could not too deeply
deplore the time and patience that have been wasted on work whose only
object is to arrest the attention of vulgar people, who take all these
material and mechanical difficulties for the essential and only aim in
art. All this, I repeat, is disgusting if you like, and rather
ridiculous; but the people of the country, and most particularly
artists, ought to laugh at such works as these, as well as their
admirers. This mania for the difficult and surprising, to the detriment
of beauty itself, which is so simple, has carried corruption into art
itself as well as to its amateurs--so much so, that dresses of rich
stuffs, embroideries, laces, and like trifles, which need but a little
patience and practice to produce, have to-day become so much in vogue as
to really make one fear that art is in danger, and that research and
study to reproduce the beautiful will be replaced by work of a sort of
asinine patience, which surprises and impresses only simple-minded,
vulgar people, and dilettanti. And _àpropos_ of dilettanti, I wish to
express my opinion that although they may take pleasure in painting and
sculpture they are not of the slightest use to these arts. Dilettanti
are generally gentlemen--fine gentlemen, sometimes even princes--and in
consequence of their station and wealth, are surrounded by a cloud of
small-minded people, who, owing to the respect and deference they feel
for them, are induced to praise them. This cheap praise, which is taken
so unceremoniously, engenders in those who give it a false and
sophistical tone, with which they quiet their consciences, ever
muttering, "You ought not to have said this; it is not just--it is not
true." As this internal grumbling is irksome, the mind builds up a sort
of reasoning that holds out as long as it can, and then falls for want
of that solid foundation, Truth, that alone can uphold any structure, be
it scientific, artistic, or literary. With him who receives the praise,
matters go far more easily; he does not give it another thought, or if
he does, it is from excess of vanity that he sniffs the remaining odour
from that small cloud of incense.
[Sidenote: CHEAP PRAISE.]
[Sidenote: A DILETTANTI PRINCE.]
In Naples there were two of these dilettanti princes,--one a painter,
the other a sculptor. His Royal Highness Don Sebastian, Prince of
Bourbon, brother-in-law of the King of Naples, was the painter, and His
Royal Highness Count of Syracuse, brother of the same king, was the
sculptor. The last named died a little after the revolution in 1860, and
of his artistic merits I have already spoken. I shall therefore now say
two words about his Highness Don Sebastian. I had the honour of being
presented to him by the Grand Duke Leopold, who was at that time in
Naples with his daughter the Princess Isabella, married to Count
Trapani, who was expecting to be confined. Having been some time in
Naples myself, I went to pay my homage to him, and he then made me
acquainted with his Highness Don Sebastian, who was without pretensions,
a simple, modest man. He asked for advice, and he asked for it with such
eagerness and persistency that it showed a desire to know the absolute
truth, that he might correct himself--and not truth disguised under a
veil of complimentary praise, which only misleads. And I, with the
mildest words that I could find in the vocabulary of truth, gave him
briefly and generally some advice; for his wish to do something really
good was above his school and the studies he had followed. Although, as
I have said, he had a sincere desire to hear the truth, yet I became
aware that the language I used was quite new to him. I can add, however,
that he did not feel hurt by it, as he often wished to see me and hear
me, and corrected himself or tried to do so in many things, thus
indicating confidence and goodwill. At this time he was painting a large
picture for an altar, which he presented to the church of San Giacomo
degli Spagnuoli, above Toledo, and I remember that he gave me a drawing
of it. He had taken refuge in Naples with the king his brother-in-law,
owing to the part he had taken as a Legitimist against the government of
Queen Isabella, who had confiscated all his revenues; and he mitigated
the bitterness of exile and poverty by his devoted love for art. After
some time he was restored to his country, and reinstated in his
property, so that at last he must have comforted himself with his own
bread, having known how salt was that of exile. He returned to his
country, and who knows if he did not cut off his beard, which he used to
wear full and long, after the fashion of Spanish Legitimists? Strange to
say, in Italy at that time, especially in Naples, a beard was the sign
of just the contrary--that is to say, of a Liberal; and the annoyances
caused by the police on this account were so ridiculous as to be quite
disgusting. One was obliged, however, to conform to all this, for if a
young man desired not to be exposed to worse annoyances, he was obliged
to shave his chin. He might keep his moustache and whiskers after the
German fashion, or wear his whiskers alone like the English--he was
quite free to do that; but a beard on his chin, be it long or short,
indicated Liberalism: and as I have said, he was immediately marked by
the agents of Del Carretto, Minister of Police, and, willing or no, was
obliged to shave to avoid something worse. At that time, therefore, the
manliness of a Neapolitan showed itself everywhere but on his chin. In
all Naples--with the rare exception of some foreigner, the Prince Don
Sebastian, who was anything but a Liberal, the Count of Syracuse, and
Count of Aquila, brothers of the king, whom the police hounds could
growl at but not bite--not for a million of money could a beard be seen,
unless it were mine, which, although not so luxuriant as it is now, was
still more than enough for the police.
[Sidenote: BEARDS IN NAPLES.]
During the days that the Grand Duke remained in Naples, he desired to
see the museums and other monuments of this great city, and wished me to
accompany him, out of simple kindness, for his Highness acted as my
guide, being much better acquainted with them than I was. This driving
up and down the streets of Naples in a Court carriage, with a full
beard on my face, upset all the ideas of those poor _sbirri_. Some
people took me for a Spanish Legitimist; and others--especially the
sentinels at the palace--christened me at once a relation of the royal
family,--so much so, that they presented arms to me every time I passed
by. Must I admit that I took pleasure in this, returning their salute
and passing before them as if I had been a true prince? "_Viva_ my
beard!" said I to myself; "but see how things are going in this country!
Some people are sent almost to the gallows for wearing a beard, and to
me they are presenting arms." One evening, however, even I came very near
being sent to prison. I was walking in the Strada Toledo, and about to
return home. Near the turning of the _Orefici_ by the Palazzo dei
Ministeri, there was a print-shop lighted by a reflected lamp, that
threw a light upon it as brilliant as day. There were some French
engravings, such as the Death of Richelieu, the Death of the Duke de
Guise, and I know not what else. I felt a hand on my shoulder; turning
round I saw some one gazing attentively at me, and before I had time to
ask him what he wanted, some one else took the man by the arm and said,
"Don't occupy yourself with him; he is one of the royal household;" and
away they went in the crowd, and I saw them no more.
[Sidenote: I PASS FOR A PRINCE.]
[Sidenote: LA BOTTIGLIA.]
I hurried home, for fear of finding others who might not share the same
opinion. My wife and little one were waiting for me to go to the
theatre, and I remember that they were then giving 'Edmondo Dante, Count
of Monte Cristo,' a monstrous production which lasted twelve
hours--divided, however, into three evenings. My little box was on the
first tier near the orchestra,--and such an orchestra! Two violins, one
double-bass, a clarionet, and a flute, the music being pieces adapted
from the 'Trovatore'; and such an adaptation! Good heavens! All this
cost me--that is to say, cost the Grand Duke--four _carlini_, including
"the bottle," for in Naples one must always pay for "the bottle" to
every one. Really in that fortunate country one required to have a
_carlino_ always in hand. I don't know how it is now, but then every one
was constantly drinking. Ushers, inspectors, _custodi_--all asked for
"this bottle" with the utmost frankness and in perfect seriousness. I,
who went often to the museum, wished to have my cane to lean on, as
there were no chairs to sit down on; but "No, sir,"--the porter, with
his great cocked-hat, came and took it away, having the right to do so,
as it was against the regulations. When I left he gave it back to me,
always saying, "Your Excellency, the bottle," pronouncing these words
with such dignity that you would have thought they were part of the
royal regulations; and I used to give it--that is to say, a
half-_carlino_ at every section. Pompeian paintings, statues and
bronzes, Etruscan vases, Renaissance paintings and drawings--each had a
_custode_, and all wanted a drink. Perhaps now they are no longer
thirsty, which will be all the better for the poor visitor. I paid these
half-bottles, or rather half-_carlini_, most unwillingly, for to be
always paying out is in itself most tiresome; and I was more out of
temper than really tired, not being able to find a seat anywhere. One
day a painter who was copying there was moved to pity, and offered me
his stool. It is not unnatural that a man who was both poor and unwell,
should be unwilling to pay out money in gratuities, and should look upon
that given to the porter as the hardest part of all, as it was to pay
him merely for taking away the stick he had to lean on. The consequence
was, that not being able to bear this _lucro cessante_ and _danno
emergente_, as they say in law, I made bold to say to this high
personage (he was at least a palm taller than I), "Listen, signor; I
will no longer give you the bottle."
[Sidenote: FEES FOR ADMISSION TO THE GALLERIES.]
"Why not, Excellency?"
"Because you take away my stick, which would be a comfort for me to lean
on."
"Well, well," he answered, "keep your stick, Excellency; but remember
the bottle."
"I understand, I quite understand--and add a little more to it."
And the eyes of that Argus brightened, although he was by way of
shutting them as far as the regulations were concerned. The necessity
for drinking, it seems, belongs to this people, and it must be on
account of the hot air they breathe, all impregnated with the salt from
the sea. Therefore I fancy this desire of theirs has not yet been
allayed, for even I drank a great deal when I was there, only it was
water, which is so good, so fresh, so light, that it is a pleasure to
drink; but alas! so many prefer "the bottle." If, however, even against
the natural order of the country, this has been suppressed amongst the
subalterns, it has been adopted by the heads themselves, as the Minister
of Public Instruction has decreed an entrance-tax for every one who
wishes to see in our galleries the works of Raphael, Michael Angelo, or
our other glorious fathers, who in their simplicity certainly never
thought of being obliged to show themselves at so much a head like some
wild beasts.
[Sidenote: ADMISSION FEES TO THE PUBLIC GALLERIES.]
It is a curious thing (which induces me to think that thirst must be in
the air of Naples) that this bottle-tax was instituted by a Neapolitan,
the Honourable Ruggero Bonghi, who, be it said with all due respect,
seems to be less anxious for the decorum of art and the advantage of
artists than for an economy which, to say the truth, is but a shabby
one. I know quite well that artists are free from this tax, but they
must be provided with a certificate, which is always a restriction; and
it is also true that artists, and those who are not artists, can enjoy
free entrance, but only on _festa_ days. It comes to the same as if to
one who said, "I am hungry," you answered, "You shall eat next week." Is
it believed that only those students who are provided with certificates
are to become artists? Art learns more from example than from precept,
as it is with every other thing. I should be curious to know if
Demosthenes and Cicero lived before or after the Treatise on Eloquence,
or if Phidias studied at the Academy, and paid a tax for admission.
Then, also, this is the common property of all, and therefore its
advantages should not be restricted. The answer is, that the
entrance-tax is used for the maintenance and decorum of the galleries
themselves. The decorum and support of the public galleries never
suffered from the want of this in bygone days; why should they feel the
need of it to-day?