PATIENCE A MOST ESSENTIAL VIRTUE--TRUST WAS A GOOD MAN, BUT
TRUST-NO-ONE A BETTER--A COMPETITION EITHER ATTRACTS OR DRIVES
AWAY MEN OF TALENT--A STUDY FROM LIFE OF A LION BY
MARROCCHETTI--ASSISTANT MODELLERS--SYDENHAM AND ITS
WONDERS--ONE OF "ABEL'S" FINGERS--NEW JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON--AN
IMPORTANT QUESTION--AN INDIAN WHO SPEAKS ABOUT THINGS AS THEY
ARE--PROFESSOR PAPI AND THE FAILURE OF THE FIRST CAST IN BRONZE
OF THE "ABEL"--A MEDICINE NOT SOLD BY THE CHEMIST.
I started at once, and it was well that I did so, for the vessel which
had the case containing my model sprang a leak on account of the bad
weather, had to stop at Malta, and arrived in London too late, as the
term had expired for the presentation of these models. If it had not
been for my having the bill of lading,--from which it was made clear
that I had not only sent it in time, but a long time before I was
required, and that this delay had occurred from circumstances entirely
independent of my will,--my work would have been undoubtedly rejected.
For this reason, and through the good offices of William Spence, it was
accepted; and he made me acquainted with the royal commissioner of the
exhibition as the person intrusted by the author of the work. When they
proceeded to open the case the commissioner wished me to be present,
that I might see in what state it had arrived--and it was a truly
lamentable state! The ship, as I have already said, sprang a leak, and
the water had entered the case and softened the plaster figures, so that
they were dislodged from their places, and rolled about in the box in
all directions. Heads were detached from their bodies, hands mutilated
and broken, aquiline noses flattened out, the helmets had lost their
plumes and front pieces. In fact, it was all a perfect hash! Besides
this, as I had wrapped them up in cotton-wool and paper, and the salt
water had penetrated and remained there for many days, they had gone
through a sort of special chemical process, by which my sketch was
coloured in the most varied and capricious way. Blue, red, and yellow
were mixed up together with the most lively pleasantry; and if it had
been done on purpose, one could not have reduced the poor work to a more
wretched condition. I saw at once that I needed all the _sang froid_
possible, so I did not utter a word, and ostentatiously showed a calm
exterior that I did not really feel,--all the more because already the
greater part of the models had been put in their places, and the
exhibition and judgment on them were imminent. Fedi, who was present at
this disaster, seeing me so cold, said to me, almost in a rage, "Why
don't you get angry?"
[Sidenote: MY SKETCH ARRIVES BROKEN TO PIECES.]
"Why should I get angry?" I answered. "Shall I mend the matter by
getting angry? On the contrary, see how well I shall manage, in a slow
and orderly way. I remember to have read somewhere--I don't recollect
where--that he who has to go up a steep ascent must take it slowly; and
so shall I."
He was of the contrary opinion, and advised me rather to leave
everything alone for the moment, to take a pleasant walk, and to set
myself to work the next day with a fresh mind; and he himself, with
praiseworthy thoughtfulness, offered to help me. But I held to my
purpose, thanking him for his advice and offer to help me, as I felt
confident that I should be able to do it all by myself. I then at once
informed the commissioner for the exhibition that, as I was empowered by
the author of the sketch, and was in his entire confidence, I intended
immediately to set to work and restore it. As this gentleman
commissioner understood not a word of French or Italian, William Spence,
then a young man, was my interpreter. When he understood what it was I
wanted, he called a gentleman who was looking at the models for
competition, and spoke to him in a low voice in his own language; but my
young mentor, who, besides his intelligence, had a fine sense of
hearing, taking me aside, told me what orders the commissioner had given
this gentleman.
[Sidenote: REPARATION OF THE SKETCH.]
It should be known that the English Government, among the articles
regulating this competition, had made one which was most wise, as it
partially guaranteed the artist who had not been able to accompany his
sketch in person, and had no correspondents or friends who could act for
him, to repair any chance damages to his work. For this they had
appointed an able artist capable of making the required restorations.
This, then, was what Spence told me: "The commissioner, as you see,
called that gentleman to tell him to pay attention to what you are doing
to this model, for although you have asserted yourself to be the person
intrusted by the author of the work, yet he has not felt sure of it; and
as you might also be a person who, with bad intentions, propose to
damage it under pretence of restoring it, it was his duty to prevent
this,--so he gave orders to that gentleman, in case he saw that your
hand was guided by bad faith or incompetency, to make you leave off at
once, and to set himself instead to work on it."
[Sidenote: SIGNOR BRUCCIANI'S FRIENDLINESS.]
I understand I must give all my attention and mind to the manner in
which I do my work, though I should have acted more freely had I not
been exposed to a supervision as reasonable as it was conscientious. The
consequence of a mistake or an oversight might be to see myself set
aside as an ass, or even worse, as an impostor, and the heads and hands
of my little figure mended by another, Heaven knows how!
In the meantime, the sculptor or modeller who was to watch me never lost
sight of me, and being sure that I knew nothing of his charge, observed
every movement of mine; but after I had been at work about ten minutes
he was completely convinced, and declared that I could be allowed to
continue the restorations--_meno male!_ Plaster brushes, small knives,
sharp tools, and all other implements, had been largely furnished to me
by Signor Brucciani, a most able caster, and the proprietor of a large
shop, or rather a gallery of plaster statues, able to supply any school
of design, and what my friend Giambattista Giuliani would have called a
perfect _gipsoteca_.
And with regard to good Signor Brucciani, I must say some words in his
praise, not only because he provided me liberally with plaster and
tools, and help in my work, but because he, a stranger in a foreign
land, has known how, with his activity, to acquire for himself the
esteem of a people who are as tardy in conceding it as they are
tenacious in keeping to it when once given. From this he derives his
good fortune and enviable position.
When Signor Brucciani fell in with an active and open-hearted
compatriot, it brightened him up soul and body, and he often wished to
have me with him. His wife and daughter united a certain English
stiffness with Italian _brio_ and frankness that they took from their
husband and father. One day Brucciani and his family desired to spend
the day in the country and dine in Richmond Park. Everything Brucciani
did he did well; and I hope he is alive and able to do so still. He
brought with him several carriages, with everything that was required
for the _cuisine_ and table--furniture, servants, food, and exquisite
wines, even ice in which to keep the ices, &c. A _viva_ to him! for as
the Marchese Colombi said, "Things can be done or not done." After
dinner a caravan of gipsies, perfect witches, who live in that forest,
made their appearance, and asked if we wanted our fortunes told. The
request was odd enough; but being made in such a serious manner, it
became really amusing. Naturally, as we had to give something to these
poor gipsies not to humiliate them, we had our fortunes told; and as for
the old woman that examined my hand, she guessed so much that was true
that I was almost frightened, and drew away my hand. The old witch
continued to point with her bony finger, and say, "There is still more,
still more."
[Sidenote: THE SKETCH IS RESTORED.]
My work was rather long, and would have been tiresome; but as it was a
necessity, I did it willingly, and succeeded very well. It is true,
however, that both the architecture and the figures were strangely
spotted with stains made by the salt water, and bits of paper and
cotton-wool in which it had been packed. Some one advised me to give it
all a uniform tint to hide this; but I insisted on leaving it in that
way, trusting to the good sense of the judges, who were called upon to
consider much worse defects than those produced by a chance accident. I
remember that Mr Stirling Crawford, of London, on receiving some years
before the two statues of "Innocence and the Fisherman," and a stain
having made its appearance on the leg of one of these, wrote to me
manifesting his entire satisfaction with these works, and adding: "It
is true that here and there there are some stains in the marble; but as
I know that you do not make the marble yourself, it would be absurd to
reprove you for this." There are but few gentlemen like him, however--so
few, that I have never found another; but on the contrary, I have seen
more than one who would even buy a mediocre statue, to use no harsher
expression, provided it were made out of beautiful marble.
[Sidenote: MARROCCHETTI'S VIEWS OF COMPETITION.]
I remained in London about two months, and left the day before the
opening of the competitive exhibition. The judgment was to be pronounced
after the public exhibition was over; and there were a great many
competing--nearly a hundred--and some of the models were very beautiful.
There were to be nine prizes given--three first class and six second.
The Government reserved to itself the power of giving the final
commission without regard to the models that had received prizes, as it
might so happen that when the name of the sculptor who drew the first
prize was known, he might not be able to offer sufficient warrant as to
the final execution of the work as to tranquillise the consciences of
the judges and satisfy public opinion. This argument is a just one when
not vitiated by preconceived opinions or self-love, which sometimes
happens, as we shall see hereafter.
This was in itself a thing easily understood, but was not understood by
us, who went in for this competition. Not so Marrocchetti, who, clever
artist that he was, was none the less wide awake and wise. With those
who instigated him to compete he reasoned in this way, saying: "They
know that I am capable of doing this work. Why, therefore, enter into
competition with others, if not to find out that there is some one else
cleverer than I am? Very well; but I choose to retire, and you can take
the other fellow--take him and leave me in peace. So far this would
seem prompted by nothing but the fear of losing, which in itself is no
small thing for a man who has a name and has gone through his long
career applauded by all. But there is another and a much more piercing
and almost insufferable dread. Do you know what it is? That of winning.
Yes, that of coming in victor before a poor young fellow, perhaps one of
your own scholars!" Thus he gave vent to his feelings one day to me,
with the sort of intimacy that springs to life quickly and vigorously
between artists who are neither hypocrites nor asses; and his words
depict in a lifelike manner the frank, and, I might say, bold character
of this original artist, who was most dashing, and who, with a thorough
knowledge of dramatic effects in art, from the very exuberance
of his strength, not seldom had the defects produced by these
qualities--defects which were perhaps magnified by his assistant
modellers, who worked with too much rapidity and carelessness.
[Sidenote: MARROCCHETTI.]
When he saw the photograph of my model he desired to have it, and I was
delighted to give it to him. He wished me to choose something of his as
a remembrance, and I did not need to be urged. I had set my eyes on a
most beautiful study of a lion from life in dry clay, and so I asked him
for that; but as that was a thing precious to him, he asked me if I
would not content myself with a cast of it in bronze instead of the
clay. On my answering that I would, he called his caster, who worked for
him in his own great foundry, and ordered it to be cast at once. Two
days after this I received it, and keep it as the dear remembrance of an
excellent friend, and as a valuable work of art.
At that time Marrocchetti had finished his great equestrian statue of
Richard the Lion-hearted. It is a singular thing that Marrocchetti, in
his long and glorious life, made four equestrian statues--Emanuele
Filiberto, the Duke of Orleans, Carlo Alberto, and Richard the
Lion-hearted. Each one of these statues bears a different stamp, both as
regards composition, feeling, and mode of treatment; one would say that
they were the work of four different artists. This difference of work
can be reasonably explained by the diversity of the subjects and the
distance of time that occurred between each work, necessarily producing
notable changes in the mind and style of the artist; and also because
Marrocchetti, on account of the multiplicity of serious work he had in
hand, thought it advisable to have help, not only in the marble work,
but also on his clay models; and as those who helped him were not always
of his school, so every one brought just so much of their own
individuality to bear upon the work as to alter the master's character
and style. These are the sad but inevitable results for him who has the
bad habit of getting assistance with his clay models.
[Sidenote: MARROCCHETTI AND HIS ASSISTANTS.]
While I was there in 1856 he had under his directions a very able
modeller--I think he was a Roman, by name Bezzi. Bezzi went on
modelling, and Marrocchetti directed his work, whilst he sat smoking and
talking with me and others. Sometimes he would make him pull down a
piece he had been at work on and begin afresh. This method seemed to me
then, as it does now, a most strange and dangerous one; and it has not
resulted happily, even amongst us, with those who have been induced to
follow it.
Marrocchetti was distinguished from other sculptors by another
originality--I was almost going to say oddity--and this was, that he
coloured his statues often to such a degree that you could no longer
distinguish the material of which they were made. I remember to have
seen an imposing monument composed of several figures that had been put
up in honour of Madame de la Riboisière in the chapel belonging to the
hospital which bears that name in Paris. It is completely coloured--I
should better say painted all over--with body colour,--the heads, hair,
eyes, draperies, all coloured so that it is impossible to distinguish
the material in which it was sculptured. You could distinguish
absolutely nothing; and if it had not been for the _custode_, who
affirmed that the work was in marble, you might have thought it was
coloured plaster or _terra cotta_. And this worthy man was so sure of
having thus added beauty to his statues that he was much astonished that
others did not imitate him.
[Sidenote: THE COLOURING OF STATUES.]
Marrocchetti, there is no doubt, was wrong in loading on colour as he
did; but it is a question not yet solved or to be lightly put aside as
to whether a delicate veil of colour may not be tried on the fleshy
parts. Grecian sculptors used colour, and ours also in the middle ages,
although only on particular parts of the figure and on the ornamental
portions of their monuments. The only one that I know of, amongst modern
artists, who used colour with discretion, was Pradier. The English
sculptor Gibson was more audacious. I have seen a Cupid by Gibson
entirely coloured--the hair golden, the eyes blue, his quiver chiselled
and gilt, and, incredible as it may seem, the wings painted in various
colours with tufts or masses of red, green, blue, and orange feathers,
like those of an Arara parrot.
[Sidenote: THE CRYSTAL PALACE.]
Having seen the Kensington Museum, and the other sculpture and picture
galleries in which London is so rich, I take pleasure in recounting a
little occurrence that happened to me at Sydenham. Sydenham is a place
some fifteen miles from London, in an open country, healthy, and rich
in green vegetation. There is the famous Crystal Palace, where one can
see a permanent exhibition of all the most beautiful things that are
scattered about in different parts of the world, beginning with
ante-diluvian animals reconstructed scientifically from some fossil
bones found in the excavations of mines in Scotland and elsewhere. There
are gigantic trees from Australia, one of which, having been cut in
pieces, bored, and the centre extracted, to enable it to be transported,
had been put together again and planted inside this palace. It is as
high as a veritable campanile; at its base a door has been made, so that
one can enter inside it; and it holds comfortably some thirty persons.
All the tropical plants are there in fine vegetation, in conservatories
heated by stoves, where the heat is so oppressive that one longs to go
out and breathe the fresh outside air. There also can be seen that
famous plant that grows in the water, with its flower floating on the
surface. This gigantic flower, when I then saw it, measured not less
than two metres in diameter, and the leaves flattened out on the water
looked like open umbrellas. It seems really as if one were dreaming, to
see such gigantic vegetation. Besides plants and animals from all parts
of the earth--from the polar as well as from the tropical regions--there
are the full-sized models of men taken from life, and coloured according
to nature--Cretins, Esquimaux, savages, Tartars, Mongols, and
anthropophagi, all in most natural attitudes, and in their various
costumes. There are also full-size reproductions of pieces of Egyptian,
Indian, Assyrian, Mongolian, and Moorish architecture; parts of the
Alhambra Palace; some rooms from Pompeii; minarets and Chinese temples;
sculpture (I mean, be it understood, reproductions in plaster) of the
best Egyptian, Indian, Greek, and Roman works, as well as those of the
middle ages; Ghiberti's doors; the equestrian statues of Colleoni, of
Gattamelata, of Marcus Aurelius; and even some modern works, amongst
which is my "Abel."
[Sidenote: I BREAK OFF THE FINGER OF "ABEL."]
I knew that this statue of mine must be there, for I had it cast by
Papi, who had the mould ever since he cast it in bronze; and when I saw
it amongst these masterpieces as a specimen of modern art, I felt a
certain feeling of complacency that I hope will be forgiven me. But this
complacency of mine was disturbed when I saw that one of the fingers of
the left hand had been badly restored, not merely formed inelegantly,
but actually distorted, as the last phalange was much too short. That
little stump of a finger so irritated me, that I gave it a blow with the
stick I had in my hand, and it fell on the ground. Ill-luck would have
it that one of the guards saw me, and seizing hold of me, he carried me
off to the commissary of the exhibition. I was asked why I had damaged
that statue; and I answered that the finger was badly made, and that I
had broken it off by an involuntary movement. They replied that I could
not judge whether that finger or anything else was well done or badly
done, and in any case it was not permitted for persons to damage the
objects exhibited there; that therefore, for this violation of the
rules, I had incurred the penalty decreed in such and such an article,
and that they intended to keep me in custody. To tell the truth, this
Signor Commissary spoke French rather badly; but I understood him very
well, and with the best grace possible begged to be forgiven, saying
that the wish to damage the statue had never entered into my thoughts,
that the finger I had broken was positively ugly, that it must be remade
as it ought to be, and that, as to having it restored, I would myself
bear the expense. But the commissioner was firm, and was about to
consign me to a guard, who was to conduct me not exactly to prison, but
to something of that kind. I then felt obliged to make my name known. At
first he had no intention of yielding to my explanation, and there was
an expression on his face that might be translated thus: "It seems to me
strange; it cannot be; I don't believe it." Then he went on to say,
"Your position as author did not give you the right to do what you have
done, even admitting that what you affirm is true--and we shall soon see
if it be really true (_tout de suite_). You are the author of that
statue; then remake the finger that you have broken." I was completely
taken aback by this new judgment of Solomon, so simple and just. Calling
to my aid a young modeller who was employed there, working a little and
directing a little, the finger was soon remade. And so this odd
adventure came to an end, proving the justice of the proverb, "Who
breaks, pays."
[Sidenote: DINNER GIVEN BY INDUSTRIAL SOCIETY.]
I returned to Sydenham several times, because the quantity and
importance of the things to be seen required time and attention; but
when I found myself near my own statue, I gave it a wide berth.
One day I found myself, or rather I should say I was taken by William
Spence, to a great dinner given by the Artistic and Industrial Society
in the dining-hall of the great Palace of the Exhibition. We were no
less than four hundred, and Lord Derby presided. About the end of the
dinner the toasts began, with speeches of which naturally I understood
not a word; but fortunately "Mino" translated them to me in a few brief
words. At last an Indian officer of the English army arose with a face
the colour of copper, and began to speak; but after the first words,
here and there in that immense hall, first in undertones, and then
louder and louder, there arose a confused noise of voices of
disapprobation. I understood nothing, and begged "Mino" to explain; and
he replied that I must keep quiet, and he would afterwards explain
everything. In the meantime the noise of disapprobation increased, and
some loud words were repeated. The orator's voice could hardly be heard
any more, but he was not disturbed, and waited until the tempest was a
little calmed down before continuing. Then I heard a word repeated
louder and louder, which "Mino" explained to me was "Enough." The only
one who remained cold, passive, and silent was the president; and when
the speaker saw that it was an impossibility to make himself heard, he
bowed and sat down. After a little while every one rose from table.
[Sidenote: AN EXCITING SPEECH ON INDIA.]
"Now, then, relieve my curiosity. What has that officer said of so
extraordinary a nature as to compel him to silence in a country like
this, where really such entire liberty prevails?"
"What he has said," replied "Mino," "he could have said and repeated
most freely; but he was badly inspired, and had the imprudence to name
the Queen. Now amongst us the Queen, whatever may be the question, is
never mentioned. The law--and more than the law, respect for her
person--prohibits us from naming her. The officer who spoke is a colonel
in our Indian army, and is, as you can see by the colour of his face, an
Indian. He only arrived a few days ago on a mission, they say, of some
importance. Now this is what he has said: The Indians, subjugated by the
force and cunning of the English Government, having borne as much as is
humanly possible to bear--the loss of their liberty, of their wealth,
and of their religious faith; aggravated by the odious sight of their
oppressors; every modest demand of theirs rejected; weighed down every
day more and more by additional taxation,--for some time past have
burned with impatience to shake off their yoke and regain their lost
liberty. The English Government, being aware in part of this movement,
and in part ignoring it, he felt himself in duty bound to proclaim it
loudly, as much for the good of his own people as for the English
themselves. After having in vain attempted all ways of adjustment with
the Government of the Queen (first time of mention), he hoped at least
by these means to open the eyes and move the heart of the Queen (second
time) in favour of those poor pariahs, assassinated by a Government who,
in the name of her Majesty the Queen (third time), add to insult the
derision of a people whom it has enervated with the pretext of
civilising it. Revolution and war being imminent if their just demands
are this time again rejected, the Government being responsible for this
disaster, and the Queen ... and the Queen----Here the orator, as you
saw, was unable to continue, and already they had allowed him to say too
much. Neither the gravity of his revelations nor his injurious
assertions against the Government had been able in the least to excite
our delicate organisation, but it was only and entirely on account of
the sacred name of the Queen being mixed up in his speech so imprudently
and with so little judgment."
[Sidenote: THE INDIAN MUTINY.]
The fact is, however, that in less than five weeks from the day that
this poor Indian attempted to make the truth known--explaining what was
wrong, and revealing the consequences that would follow, and counselling
a remedy--the telegraph, with its flashing words, announced the Mutiny,
the peril the English were in, and their calls for help. It is true that
the Queen was not then mentioned, but for all that, men did not the less
die. Methinks I can hear it said, "What has this to do with your
memoirs? In our opinion, it has nothing to do either with your life or
with any artistic reflection that can be of interest to us."
[Sidenote: STUDY OF CHARACTER AND TEMPERAMENT.]
But this objection bears only the appearance of reason. With this scene
I wished to depict the temper and character of the English in general,
and in particular of the two most prominent persons of that
assemblage--namely, the Indian colonel and the president of the banquet.
And who is there who does not see how useful and good these studies of
character, taken from the life, are to the artist? The essential thing
required to make a work of art beautiful and valuable is, that it should
be a just expression of the passions and feelings of the various
characters the artist wishes to represent. It is vain to look for the
right expression amongst the mercenary models that one ordinarily makes
use of. The model is used for all that is on the outside--movement,
proportions, physical characteristics, beauty of form,--for all, in
fact, except, however, just that turn of the head and look of the eye,
that movement of the lips, dilation of the nostrils, and a thousand
other signs and indications on the face which reveal the inner struggles
of the soul. These passions and feelings are more or less intense
according to the temperament, habit, and education of different
individuals; and in the mysterious sea of the soul, tempests gather, and
become the more dreadful in proportion as they are not kept in check by
reason. Not to give a false expression to the subject we wish to treat,
we must study all these differences. Love in Francesca does not manifest
itself as in Ophelia, the madness of Orestes is not that of Hamlet,
Ugolino's grief is not the grief of Prometheus, and Penelope's sadness
is different from that of Ariadne's. There are natures in whom the soul
is of such delicate fibre, and who revolt so haughtily against an
insult, that, oblivious of physical weakness, they flash into anger, and
rush blindly against the offender, whoever he may be. There are others,
strong and robust in body, who take things comfortably and easily, and
let alone the calumnies launched against them; which, in fact, have
rather the effect of mosquitoes upon them,--they are disturbed for a
little while, and then go quietly to sleep again. The acute thrusts of
love wound but the external epidermis of these well-wadded souls.
Giuseppe Giusti created a couple of these curious beings--man and
woman--and he called them Taddeo and Veneranda. For them the sea that I
spoke of is always becalmed, and their tranquil souls float peacefully
about therein. There is, however, a calm very different from this,
brought by reason into these fierce struggles of the soul. The first,
instead of being a calm, is indolence, and all the fibres that make our
whole being move and throb, are, as it were, dormant. But this calm I
speak of is caused by the force of reason, and strengthened by the
sentiment of temperance and charity.
[Sidenote: GIUSTI'S 'AMOR PACIFICO.']
How much self-control that Indian officer must have exercised over
himself, knowing that he was proclaiming a great truth, which, had it
been listened to and reparation made in time, would have prevented that
most unfortunate war that he knew to be imminent, certain, and
homicidal! To hear the shouts crying silence to him, and not to be
disturbed by them, continuing with a firm voice not any louder (which
would indicate anger), nor lower (which would be a sign of fear), only
stopping a little when the other voices grew louder and prevented him
from being heard, and then again taking up his discourse without turning
to the right or to the left, and repeating over again the last word that
had been drowned by the noise,--I say that this produced on me the
impression of a profound admiration for the man. Even now, after twenty
years have elapsed, I seem to see that grand figure before me, and I
feel all his manly tranquillity.
[Sidenote: CLEMENTE PAPI.]
[Sidenote: CASTING IN BRONZE OF "ABEL."]
One of the peaceful natures, always content, so well described by Giusti
in his 'Amor Pacifico,' and whom I knew well, was Professor Clemente
Papi, an excellent caster in bronze. When I knew him he was between
fifty and sixty years of age, of moderate height, stout build, and high
colour, always laughing, always full of bright stories and little jokes.
The muscles expressive of indignation had, as it would seem, been left
out of his composition by mother nature. His brow was always
smooth--there was never a frown on his face when speaking or listening,
whatever might be the subject of discussion; and this constant habit of
laughing made him laugh, or shape his mouth into a smile, even in the
most serious moments of life. This man, who was in many respects most
excellent, in his art, in his family, and as a master, appeared as if he
had no heart, or as if it were made of sugar-candy; and yet he died
suddenly of heart-disease. As I have said, he had a heart, but it was
sugar-sweet; the bitterness of sorrow and the harshness of anger never
in the least disturbed his state of calm, careless joviality. The
following occurrence depicts Professor Papi's nature to the life: The
Grand Duke having ordered a cast in bronze of my "Abel," and all the
preliminary work for the fusion of it having been accomplished,--that is
to say, the mould made on the original plaster, the earth pressed into
that mould to form the kernel, or _nocciolo_, so as both to obtain
lightness and to strengthen the cast--the wax cast having been made and
the necessary touches given to it by myself--the whole cased in its
heavy covering, armed and bound about by irons that it might bear the
stream of liquid metal, and placed in the pit and heated to allow the
wax to escape from the fissures, then baked that it might become of the
consistency required for the operation,--the composition of the metal
was prepared, placed in the furnace, and set on fire. After fifteen or
twenty hours, the melting was accomplished--an operation easily related,
but which was the result of many months of labour and great expense. The
valve was then opened, that it might descend into the mould below. The
strangeness of the enterprise, the time and sacrifices of those employed
in it, the strange and almost mysterious spot where the operation took
place, the heat from the furnace-fire, the gases that came from it, the
anxiety of the workmen, their extreme fatigue in that decisive moment,
the lamp that burned before the crucifix, and prayer that preceded the
opening of the valve--all filled me with an undefined sense of the
marvellous and unknown, of the fearful and sacred. The valve was opened,
the metal flowed down the pipe into the main channel clear and liquid,
as all metal is during this process. Joy was depicted on all the faces
of those anxious persons who had toiled so long on the work. The metal
had been already poured into the greater part; the mould, which had
resisted well, cased as it was in its thick covering, and bound with
hoops of iron, gave no signs of cracking, nor was any noise heard, as
not unseldom happens when, as the metal flows in, the air inside has not
an easy escape. Papi stood upright and beaming, ready to embrace his
scholars, when all at once some little violet flames from the mouth of
the furnace announced the cooling off of the metal, which gradually
slackened its flow and lost its splendour. Stupor and depression were
depicted on all faces--a mortal pallor, rendered stranger still by the
light reflected from the furnace, making them look like spectres. The
metal no longer flowed along, but began to drop in flakes like polenta,
then became coagulated, and then stopped still. The statue was little
more than half cast, and all was lost! At this sight the poor workmen,
tired out, and torn with grief, threw themselves on the ground with
violent contortions and weeping. I, between stupor and regret for the
failure of the work, the seeming despair of those poor people, and the
grief--although not visible, but still great--that Papi must feel, did
not know what to say; it seemed as if my tongue were tied. I wanted to
get away from that place of misery: it seemed to me as if those people,
master and workmen, must be left alone to give vent to their sorrow.
Papi came to my rescue. He came up to me, and said that he had promised
the Grand Duke to give him the news of the casting, and that he had
hoped to do so himself; but as it had failed, he did not feel courage
enough to carry him the bad news, and begged me to do so. He shook hands
with me, and turned to take leave of others that he had invited or
allowed to be present at the casting.
[Sidenote: FAILURE OF THE CASTING.]
The evening was well on when I went to the Pitti. I spoke to Paglianti,
the royal valet of the Grand Duke, and asked if I could be permitted to
have an audience. Paglianti knew me, and also knew that the Duke liked
to see me. In a few moments I was shown into his study, and briefly told
him what had happened. According to his wont, he listened thoughtfully
and attentively, but did not seem disturbed by it. One would have
thought that he was listening to a thing that might be anticipated as
possible or probable. Then he began to speak--
"Poor Papi! poor man! Who knows how disappointed he must have felt, and
how miserable he is now? And your work, too, which gave you so much
trouble--all is lost! I feel deeply for your misfortune and that poor
man's unhappiness. Let us think about consoling him. Return to him, and
tell him in my name to be of good cheer, for there is a remedy for
everything, and that I am certain he has nothing to reproach himself
with; for, when one has taken every possible precaution to secure
success in the execution of anything, and notwithstanding all, the work
does not turn out well, no one can blame him for it, and I least of any
one. Tell him that battles are won and lost in the same way. Sometimes
even a mistake makes one win, and one can lose in spite of every
forecast. Tell him this and more, all that comes into your head, to
comfort him, and speak in my name. Go at once to him, console him, and
your words will bring him a little calm. I am certain that you will do
him a great deal of good, and that he may afterwards be able to rest
to-night; but I am sure that if you do not speak to him, the poor man
will not sleep."
[Sidenote: GRAND DUKE SENDS ME TO CONSOLE PAPI.]
I went almost at a run, and from Palazzo Pitti to the Via Cavour is a
good bit of way. I was all in a perspiration. I knocked at his door, and
after a time his maid-servant appeared.
"Who is it?" says she.
"It is I; open the door."
"Oh, is it you, Signor Professor?"
"Yes, it is I; open the door, I have a word to say to your master."
"The master is in bed; you could speak to him to-morrow."
"No; I must do so now. If he is in bed, no matter; he will be glad all
the same."
"But if he is asleep, do you want to wake him?"
"Asleep!" said I; "is he asleep?"
[Sidenote: I FIND PAPI ASLEEP.]
"Yes; he is asleep, I assure you. He has been asleep more than two
hours, he was so tired when he came home."
"Well, then, since you assure me that he is asleep, my commission is at
an end; and when he wakes up, which will probably be to-morrow morning,
you may tell him that I had come in a great hurry to say two words to
him that contained the power of making him sleep, but having found him
in his first sleep, I shall tell him another time, although they may
then seem quite stale."
To speak sincerely, such an extraordinary feat I have never been able to
explain. To sleep after a similar misfortune--to go to sleep at once,
immediately, two hours after, at his usual hour, the hour when those who
have nothing on their minds sleep! And yet, now that I think of it,
Napoleon slept on the night that preceded one of his greatest battles.
So at least he wrote in his biography, and because it is printed, a
great number of simple-hearted people believe in it as they do in the
Gospel; and you, gentle reader, do you believe it? "_Mi, no!_" as Sior
Tonin Bonagrazia would say.
It has been necessary to make this digression on character,--that
is to say, on the difference between those who acquire calmness by
virtue of their reason, and those whose senses are obtuse to all
passions--differences which are visible to any one who observes with
care, and that escape many, indeed most people who do not think. Let the
young artist be persuaded that the study and observation of the true
nature of love and human passions are most essential. Let them give up
all thoughts of seeing these expressions in their models. One's studio
models are common people, who certainly have their feelings and
passions, but they are generally vulgar; and in any case, during the
time that they are posing as models, they are thinking of everything
except the moral condition of mind of the person they are representing.
One may answer, "We know this; the artist should himself give the
expression required by his subject." Quite right; but how can the artist
seize hold of the right expression if first he has not seen it in life,
and studied with attention beyond words? Then it is evident to me, and
other works show it without my words, that not a few artists expect and
insist on finding expression in their models. I remember an artist who
flew into a passion because his model did not assume an expression of
grief. The model naturally laughed louder and louder, every time this
simpleton said, "Don't laugh; be serious and sad; I want you to express
grief."
[Sidenote: STUDY OF EXPRESSION FROM NATURE.]
It is true that this kind of study may occasion some little
inconvenience--as, for instance, one may pass for being very stupid,
because absorbed in observing and committing to memory, and hearing
nothing that has been talked about. One may answer at random, and be
extremely ridiculous. One may appear as a somewhat offensive admirer,
and give umbrage to some jealous husband. One may even pass for a
scatter-brain and imbecile. But have patience! With time and practice
the artist will gain his point, and be able to study as much as he
wishes, while assuming an air of indifference that will shelter him from
the above-mentioned misconceptions.
[Sidenote: A CIRCE AT A BALL.]
[Sidenote: A LESSON.]
He may, however, fall into other mistakes; and I here take note of them
that he may avoid so doing. One evening I was at a ball at the Palazzo
Torlonia at Rome. I have no fancy for balls, but I like to see a great
many people,--beautiful ladies, elegant dresses, and naked arms,--and
more than all, the expression of eyes now languid, now animated,--smiles
now ingenuous, now coquettish,--the weariness of the fathers, and the
eager concern of the mammas,--the reckless joy of the Don Giovanni _in
erba_, and the deceitful, washed-out look of the Don Giovanni _in
ritiro_. It is a pleasant as well as useful study, as long as one does
not change parts, and instead of a spectator become an actor in the
scene. The "lime-twigs are spread out, the little owls are at their
places; so beware, ye blackbirds, not to be caught." There I stood; the
painter Podesti, with whom I had come to the ball, had left me, carried
away by the attractions of the card-table. In one of the many rooms open
for the circulation of the company, and for the repose of dancers and
those not dancing, seated on one of the divans I saw a young woman of
singular beauty. She was about thirty: several gentlemen surrounded her
like a garland, and she had now for one, now for another, some trivial
gay word; but in strange contrast with her careless words and smiles was
her austere brow, and the haughty looks that came from her eyes. The
turn of her head was stately and attractive; and a clasp of diamonds
that was fastened in her dark shining hair flashed every time she moved.
I never saw a more assassinating beauty than hers! Leaning against the
wall on the opposite side of the room, studying that face with its
strangely variable expression, all the women of history and fable with
which this singular beauty had affinity rose before my mind. Less full
of passion than Norma, less ferocious than Medea, almost Helen, and,
without an _almost_, a Circe,--in fact, one of those women who promise
one paradise and prepare one an _inferno_--capable of killing the body,
the soul, and the memory of a man. When I had got so far in my
reflections, the young lady rose, and coming straight towards me, she
said these simple words--"_Monsieur, tandis que vous pensiez, je ne sais
pas à quoi, la cire a coulé tout à son aise sur voire habit_"--and she
passed on slowly, demolishing in two words my castles in the air. I
found, in fact, that the shoulder and sleeve of my dress-coat were
covered with wax, to say nothing of the suppressed laughter of the
beautiful Circe. Of two things one must therefore be warned--to put
one's self out of the dangerous proximity of lights, and to be careful
to look at people with some reserve.