ON THE STUDY OF EXPRESSION FROM LIFE--THE CARE ONE MUST TAKE IN
MAKING STUDIES FROM LIFE--A GENRE PICTURE AND RAPHAEL'S CARTOON
OF THE "MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS "--I LOSE MYSELF IN
LONDON--THE HOUSEMAID AT HOTEL GRANARA--THE INCONVENIENCE OF
BEING IGNORANT AND ABSENT-MINDED--RISTORI AND PICCOLOMINI IN
LONDON--THE CARTOONS OF RAPHAEL AT HAMPTON COURT--FANTASY RUNS
AWAY WITH ME--A CURIOUS BUT JUST LAW--THE RESULT OF
FASTING--THE VILLA OF QUARTO AND A PRINCE'S "EARLY HOUR"--AGAIN
OF PRINCE DEMIDOFF.
But it is time to return to the point I started from, and to speak of
the study of character and spontaneous expression from life. In fact it
was in London that I had occasion to see a picture of extraordinary
beauty for strength and truth of expression, in which the result of that
study was clearly demonstrated. This picture, on exhibition at the
School or Academy of Fine Arts, was of small dimensions; the subject, a
familiar one, or, as it is usually called, _genre_, was as follows: To
the right of the person facing the picture is a gentleman's
country-house, and outside by the garden-gate a mother is seated near
her little girl, who is ill, and reclines in an arm-chair, supported by
pillows. The mother has left off working, and looks anxiously at the
pale exhausted girl, whose eyes are sunk deep in their sockets, and who
smiles and looks languidly at two little children, a boy and girl,
little peasants, strong, healthy, and robust, who are dancing, and have
evidently been invited to do so by the parents of the little invalid. It
is autumn, the hour a sad one. The last rays of the sun are gilding the
dead leaves on the trees and on the bushes. On the left you see the
father in close conversation with the doctor, questioning him with
anxious eyes, whilst he, very serious and sad, hardly dares look at the
unhappy father. To speak the truth, when _genre_ pictures are so full of
interest and life as this, I prefer them to all the gods of Olympus.
But, generally, they are entirely wanting in this first quality, and
abound in the second, which becomes vulgarity; and so the foundation of
art, which is the beauty of truth, is wanting, and only the "business"
remains, with its puerile attractions.
[Sidenote: THE NATIONAL GALLERY IN LONDON.]
I saw many other works of art, both in painting and sculpture, at this
exhibition of living English artists, but none of them compared with
that marvellous work. I do not remember the name of its author, and much
I regret it; but I have given a minute and exact description of it.
In the National Gallery, rich in pictures of the Italian school, I
admired a marvellous cartoon of Raphael's, slightly coloured, of the
"Massacre of the Innocents." It is jealously guarded under glass. Of the
beauty of this work as to form, I do not speak--it is Raphael's, and
that is enough; but what most struck me was the brutal movement of
murdering soldiers, the desperate convulsive resistance of the mothers,
pressing to their breasts the little babes, whilst they scratch and tear
at the faces of the executioners; and it would seem as if one heard
their sharp screams mingled with the cries of the murdered infants. The
calm and flowing grace that are the characteristic notes of that divine
genius, do not appear in this; but instead one sees and hears _parole
di dolore, accenti d'ira, voci alte e fioche_, of the desperate mothers.
Those who have not seen this cartoon and the others at Hampton Court, of
which I will soon speak, cannot entirely appreciate Raphael.
[Sidenote: I LOSE MY WAY IN LONDON.]
I advise young artists who want to go to London to learn a little of the
language of the country; they will find themselves the better for it. It
happened to me, who knew nothing of it, one day to lose myself in that
interminable city, and another day, very little to my taste, to find
myself carried off in the train to Scotland. If, therefore, they learn a
little English, they will understand that Leicester Square is pronounced
_Lester Squere_. As I said, I lost myself in London, and this was how. I
lodged at the Hotel Granara. Granara is an honest Genoese, who knows how
to attend to his own affairs, as all the Genoese do, and more than that,
knows how to secure the goodwill of his customers, almost all of whom
are Italians. His hotel was at that time, in 1856, in Leicester Square.
It was my habit then, as always, to go out very early in the morning and
take a little turn before breakfast. I made it a study to observe well
all the turnings, the names of the streets and their peculiarities, so
as to be able to return home, but did not succeed. I tried again and
again for about two hours, before asking my way, to see if it were
possible for me to find a street, a name, or a sign that I had seen
before, but all was in vain. I was tired, had had no food, and had not a
_soldo_ in my pocket; and although I had with me the key of the place
where I kept my money, this was of no avail in getting me a breakfast.
Driven by hunger I put aside my pride, or rather my pretence, of finding
my way to the inn, and asked a policeman. I asked him both in Italian
and in French, but he did not understand me, and presented me to
another, but with the same result. There I beheld myself lost in that
immense city, without a penny, and very hungry. It must be admitted that
my position was a rather serious one--not that those excellent policemen
did not perfectly understand that I had lost the way to my hotel, and
were most desirous of putting me on the right road to it, but they did
not know how, as they were not acquainted with the name of the square
that I inquired for. At last, and it was quite time, one of them took
out of his pocket his note-book and pencil and gave it to me, saying in
good French, "_Écrivez le lieu où vous êtes logé._" I had hardly written
the first word when the policeman quickly said, "Lester Squere?" "It may
be so," said I; but to make sure I finished writing out the address,
adding even the name of the hotel, and showed it to him, to which the
policeman said, "Yes, very well." He took the paper and begged me to
follow him to another policeman at the end of the street, to whom he
consigned me and the paper, and having exchanged a word or two with him,
returned to his post. The new guard, without uttering a word, took me to
another and consigned me to him, and so on, until in about half an hour
I was reconducted home.
[Sidenote: IT IS BEST TO SPEAK ENGLISH IN ENGLAND.]
You understand me, therefore, in England the knowledge of a little of
the English language will do no harm, and not be _de trop_, and by it
you may avoid another inconvenience, that of finding a teacher at the
wrong time and place. Let me explain myself. The maid-servant who had
the care of my room got it into her head that she would teach me to
speak English, and she set herself to work to teach me with a method
entirely her own. She seized hold of a chair and called it by name, then
the chest of drawers, then the bed, then the looking-glass, &c., and
she insisted that I should repeat these names after her in her language.
The thing in itself was innocent enough, but foolish, as both she and I
lost our time by it. For me it was not so much matter, but for her the
neglect of her duties might have lost her her situation; and therefore,
with the language common to all--that is, by gesticulations--I made her
understand that she must stop her lessons. Let the reader not think,
however, that I refused that good, and, let me add, beautiful teacher in
a rough way; no indeed, I am not a satrap. I said to her--(beg pardon!)
I gesticulated all this to her nicely, and with a good grace. One must
always have every care to treat women in a gentle and respectful manner.
[Sidenote: VISIT TO HAMPTON COURT.]
Here is another story, always _àpropos_ of the necessity there is of
knowing at least a little of the English language. Hampton Court is a
palace of the Queen's, about an hour's distance from London by rail. It
is open to the public on holidays. The palace is beautiful, and contains
many precious things; the country about is green, fresh, and pleasant:
therefore, as can easily be imagined, there is always a large concourse
of people. I wished also to procure myself this outing; so, betaking
myself to the northern station, I took my ticket for Hampton Court, and
got into the train. In that country one goes along at the pace of twenty
kilometres an hour. Enchanted by the sight of the beautiful country
clothed in its deep-green mantle,--so new to us who are accustomed to
ours, so much more pallid, and burnt in streaks by the greater
fierceness of the sun,--I forgot the pace we were going at, paid no
attention when we stopped, and did not hear them call out the name
Hampton Court. I suppose similar things must happen to the _touristes_
who visit our Italy. Let us imagine one of them to have taken a ticket
for Certaldo, desiring to visit Boccaccio's house; the train stops, and
the guard, with a stentorian voice, more calculated to slur over than
pronounce the name, calls out, "Who is for Certaldo?" (_chi è
peccettardo_). Naturally the _touriste_ does not understand, and allows
himself to be carried on maybe even as far as Siena. But this is not so
bad as my case, for I ran the risk of being taken on to Edinburgh.
Fortunately I began to suspect that I had passed by the station where I
ought to have got out, and asked. The answer was, that we had passed
Hampton Court some time since.
[Sidenote: AM CARRIED ON BEYOND HAMPTON COURT.]
"What must I do?" I asked.
"Stop at the first station; and this evening, by the Edinburgh train,
you can return to London."
"Are there no other trains before this one, that I may return to London
during the day to dine?"
"No."
"Many thanks!"
I got down at the first station, paid the difference in my ticket, and,
in the very worst of humours, took a turn in the little village or
hamlet,--I did not even care to ask its name. I had some wretched food,
and everything seemed to me bad and ugly.
Yes, yes; a little of the language of the country is even more necessary
than bread or than money, for the English--and I think they are
right--speak no other language than their own. But they go so far as to
pretend, when they come amongst us, that we should speak English like
them; and here they are in the wrong.
When I got home to the hotel in the evening, Avvocato Fornetti and
Caraffa, my friends and companions at the hotel, came to me smiling, and
said, "Have you amused yourself?"
[Sidenote: PICCOLOMINI AND RISTORI.]
I said, "Yes;" I did not tell them what had happened, for they were the
kind of men who would have ridiculed me for a long time.
Beyond these few little mishaps, my time passed most pleasantly in
London. My fellow-citizen Marietta Piccolomini was singing at the
Queen's Opera House with Giulini and Belletti. Ristori was acting at the
Ateneo Italiano. There were very often concerts of music, instrumental
and vocal, where Bottesini, Giovacchino Bimboni, and the violinist
Favilli played. I knew De Vincenzi, who was afterwards in the Ministry;
and I again met Count Piero Guicciardini, Count Arrivabene, the
_maestro_ Fiori, that scatter-brain of a Fabio Uccelli; Monti, the
Milanese sculptor; our Fedi; Bulletti, a carver in wood; Romoli, the
painter and sculptor; and others,--in fact, a perfect colony of
Italians.
Among the tragedies which Ristori acted in at that time, and which I
already knew, I saw one that I liked extremely. It was the 'Camma,' by
Professor Giuseppe Montanelli,--in my belief, a very fine work, and
superlatively well interpreted, in its proud and passionate character,
by the first actress, Signora Ristori. I heard the Signora Piccolomini,
with her usual grace and intelligence, sing in the 'Traviata' and the
'Figlia del Reggimento.' Although these entertainments, be they prose or
music, were deserving of all praise, yet the price of the
entrance-ticket, according to us Italians, was enormously dear, being
one pound sterling, which is equal to twenty-five _lire_ and twenty
_centimes_ of our money. May I be forgiven if that is little? One must
also take note that at that time, A. D. 1856, everything was done in a
small way,--reasonable incomes, few requirements, small expenditures,
and, smallest of all, taxation. The ciphers of millions in the great
book of 'Debit and Credit' had not yet been invented; the floating debt
did not even exist in dreams. So that thirty _lire codine_ at that time
represented nearly a hundred francs of to-day. Who is there (I mean
amongst us) who would wish to spend a hundred _lire_ for a 'Traviata'?
Not I, indeed; for I remember, when I was an _abonné_ at the Cocomero
(now Niccolini), to have heard Ristori for four _soldi_ a-night, and she
acted equally well, without taking into account her youth and beauty,
that inexorable Time will not respect, even in celebrities.
[Sidenote: PRICES AT THE OPERA.]
"Then you went to a foolish expense; and you contradict yourself without
even turning your page, for you say that you would not spend the money,
and at the same time you inform us that you heard Ristori act in
'Camma'!"
I answer, "'Camma' cost me absolutely nothing, as the Signora Ristori,
who is as amiable as she is eminent as an _artiste_, favoured me with an
entrance-ticket;" and so I clear up the apparent contradiction that the
critical reader was in such haste to bring forward. Go on, however, and
look sharply through these papers, where you will find something of
everything. Moreover, you will be often bored, but I hope you will never
find any contradictions. I have also a very good habit--that is, of
re-reading what I have written: and then, with a little art, one
succeeds in putting everything nicely in its place. You understand? Then
we will push on.
[Sidenote: HAMPTON COURT.]
In order not to fail a second time in my intention of seeing the royal
villa of Hampton Court, I wrote that name on a card and showed it to the
guard every time we stopped. I got there at last. The place all about is
very pleasant, with a wide, clear horizon, for the fogs only have their
home in London. The palace, as may be imagined, is large and majestic. I
don't remember the style of its architecture, and don't want to refer
to the easy expedient of consulting a guide-book. I promised myself that
I would write my life, the thoughts that came to me one after another,
without help, trusting only to memory. So I have done thus far, and
intend doing so to the end. The villa, as I have said, is majestic,
enclosed on all sides by gardens and orchards. The interior consists of
innumerable halls richly decorated with paintings, somewhat out of
repair, as they are no longer used, it would appear, as a royal
residence. People crowd more particularly to the Queen's own private
apartments, to see her sitting-room, and even her bedroom with its
bed-furniture, and the thousand rich, pretty, and curious things with
which these rooms are filled. The rest of the place, or the greater part
of it, such as the gallery of pictures and cartoons, is generally
deserted. Yet the English are great lovers of art; we see them with
great interest frequent our galleries in Rome, Florence, Venice, and
Naples. But perhaps the people brought by curiosity to Hampton Court
belong to the lower class, which has not in London the feeling for art
that the people even of the lowest class have in Italy. In a great long
hall, like a gallery, I saw the eight cartoons of Raphael that were made
for the arrases in the Vatican. They consist of "St Paul preaching to
the Athenians;" "St Peter and the miracle of the fish;" "St Peter and
Ananias;" "St Peter receiving from Christ the charge of guarding His
sheep;" "Peter and John healing the lame man at the gates of the
Temple;" "Elymas the Sorcerer punished by losing his sight;" and others
that I do not remember. He who has never seen these cartoons, and the
"Massacre of the Innocents" above mentioned, can form no idea of the
strength of Raphael in that grandly fierce style initiated by Michael
Angelo, who spread therein so broad a sail as to make him terrible to
the beholder, and to occasion the shipwreck of many in a smaller craft,
who perished miserably, desirous of following him on that fearful ocean.
[Sidenote: HYDE PARK.]
There are other cartoons in the same gallery by Mantegna representing
the "Triumph of Caesar." Mantegna, as all know, as an artist is an
imitator of the antique: the execution of the work which is merely the
material part alone is his own, for he took the conception, character,
and style, in generalities and detail, from the antique.
Besides the treasures of art contained in the London museums--and one
may also call Hampton Court a museum--there are the beautiful public
walks called parks. The largest, richest in avenues, fields, and lakes
peopled by innumerable ducks and fish, is called Hyde Park. This is the
promenade where all the fashionable world meet. Ladies and gentlemen on
horseback dash down the interminable avenues of this park, giving loose
rein to their fiery steeds. It is a fine sight to see these animals, so
elegant in form, and at the same time full of fire, pawing the ground,
neighing, and fretting at the bit, from their desire to be off: but
still more beautiful to look at are those gentle ladies on their backs;
and when they are going at full pace, bending slightly forward on their
fiery steeds, their flowing skirts, in ample undulating lines, giving a
slender, flexible look to their figures, you feel carried away, and as
if you would like to follow them in that rapid, anxious race, where
peril changes into pleasure, and where the inebriation of the senses
becomes ideality. Such is the fascination youth, beauty, and strength
produce on the mind and senses of all natures susceptible of feeling. It
is a pungent pleasure; the soul struggles in these meshes of flowers,
and their perfume inebriates and captivates it. I beg pardon of the
reader, if, for an instant attracted by this race of beautiful ladies,
my head galloped away with them. Another time I will hold the reins
tighter; and it ought not to be difficult to stop this little horse of
mine, sixty years old.
[Sidenote: DISTRIBUTION OF CRIMEAN MEDALS.]
Hyde Park, as I have said, is larger than the two others, St James's
Park and Regent's Park, and is about five miles in circumference, which
seems a good deal; but so it is. These country spaces in the middle of
London are, as have been justly said, the lungs of the great city. By
means of these green oases, impregnated with oxygen, the air of that
gigantic body of London, where millions of men swarm like ants, is
constantly renovated. These parks are rich in timber, and flowers are
there cultivated with every art. There are very few guards, for great
respect is shown for the laws prohibiting the damaging of the plants. A
curious but very just penalty is inflicted by them, and this is it: If
Signor Tizio has damaged a plant, or only picked a flower, Signor Tizio,
according to the gravity of the mischief he has done, is prohibited from
entering those precincts for fifteen or twenty days. And this is not
enough--it would be too little; his name is posted up to view at all the
park entrances, specifying the damage he has done and the penalty
inflicted on him, that everybody who goes there may read and laugh!
I was present in Hyde Park at the distribution of medals to the troops
on their return from the Crimea. That great national _fête_ was a
splendid success--the whole army in arms and full uniform, every part of
it in its proper place, cavalry, artillery, marines, and infantry. At
the end of a large camp a throne was erected for the Queen, her
children, and her husband, Prince Albert. The Ministers, Court
dignitaries, and Lords surrounded her. The ceremony was a long one. The
troops had been on foot since early morning, and many were the numbers
who received medals. The sun beat down with great force on our heads,
for it was in the month of June. It is a fine sight to see the youth of
England, tall, square-shouldered young fellows, with upright bearing and
brilliant colouring; but notwithstanding all this, it would seem that
for all their strength of nature they cannot endure hunger. I was
present at some little occurrences that astonished me extremely: two or
three of those young men fainted as if they had been delicate girls,
although they had herculean chests and arms. But so it is: the
Englishman, when the hour has come, requires absolutely to have his tea;
if this fails, he can no longer stand on his feet.
[Sidenote: ENGLISHMEN MUST HAVE TEA.]
That this must really be the case, was demonstrated to me by the
affectionate solicitude shown by their comrades and the people carefully
conveying these fainting youths to the ambulances. Instead of this with
us Italians, we see young men of twenty bear long marches, discomfort,
and hunger with a bright face. It is the difference of nature and habits
in the two nations. I do not mean, indeed, to say that we do not feel
hunger--in fact, I can say for myself that I feel it most ferociously;
and if this expression seems exaggerated, I will correct myself and add,
brutally and insolently, and will recount a little anecdote in proof of
my appetite, especially after fasting. It is a trifling matter, that
goes as far back as thirty years. At that time of juvenile effervescence
one wishes for much and feels much, and is not very fastidious about
ways and means. The fact is a curious one, and, to say the truth, would
not be very pleasant for me to narrate were it not that it is peculiar,
and with the touch of a brush paints to the life the character of my
early youth. I had quite forgotten it, and it really would have been a
mistake to do so. Those fasting English soldiers reminded me of it, and
I am very glad of it.
[Sidenote: VISIT TO QUARTO.]
The benevolent reader must betake himself back to the time when I was
twenty-six years of age, which, in a young artist, sometimes means being
possessed of twenty-six devils. True it is that with time and increase
of years these devils, alas! diminish. Therefore, at my present
stand-point, I feel myself absolutely free of them, and could bear
fasting and hunger without dreaming of committing the impertinence that,
without other preamble, I am about to narrate.
Lorenzo Mariotti, an agent of the Russian Government, as I have before
mentioned, brought me a paper, on which were written the following
words:--
"Professor Duprè is requested to come at an early hour to-morrow morning
to Quarto. A. DEMIDOFF."
Quarto is an enchanting villa that was afterwards in the possession of
the Grand Duchess Maria of Russia; at that time, it was the property of
Prince Anatolio Demidoff, who had bought it from Prince Girolamo
Buonaparte, the father of Princess Matilde. It is four miles distant
from Florence, on the skirts of the steep hill of Monte Morello,
enclosed by beautiful gardens and a fine park. I therefore betook myself
there at an early hour; and in the hopes of quickly despatching my
business, I had not thought of breakfasting before starting, but merely
took a cup of coffee. I got into the carriage, and arrived there at
about eight o'clock. It was a good season of the year, being May, and
the day was a splendid one; in its quietness and fragrance it reminded
me of those most sweet verses of the divine poet:--
"E quale, annunziatrice degli albori,
L'aura di maggio movesi ed olezza,
Tutta impregnata dall'erbe e da fiori."[9]
[9] "And as the harbinger of early dawn,
The air of May doth move and breathe out fragrance,
Impregnate all with herbage and with flowers."
--DANTE: _Purgatorio_, Canto xxiv.
So I tasted the voluptuousness of these first warm days in the pure
quietness of our hills, and I looked forward to a short conversation
with the Prince (as I imagined the motive of his summons), and a speedy
return to Florence. I dismounted, and told the coachman to wait; he
lighted his cigar, took a turn round the villa, and then placed himself
in the shade. I asked for the Prince, and was answered that he was not
up. Then I feared that I should be obliged to wait; but the message was,
"at an early hour." Who knows, however, what is an early hour to a
gentleman? I found out afterwards, as the reader will soon hear.
[Sidenote: HUNGER AT QUARTO.]
I walked about in the apartment, in the court, in the garden, and in the
park, and from time to time I came back to see if the Prince had asked
for me; but the Prince had not yet called. Two good hours were already
past. The pure air of the beautiful country, the pleasant shade in the
park, the odour of the violets and roses, all had served to sharpen my
appetite. I risked asking a servant if he could give me some breakfast,
but he answered that no one could have anything to eat before his
Excellency had ordered his breakfast.
"And is it late before his Excellency orders his breakfast?"
"Ah! that is as it happens,--at mid-day, at one o'clock--when he thinks
best." So saying he left me, and I began my walks again. The beautiful
country seemed to me less beautiful, the shady avenues of the park had
assumed a certain sadness and obnoxious freshness, the odour from the
flowers made my head giddy! What was I to do? Return to Florence? It was
far. And what then of the Prince's message? I did not wish to fail to
meet his invitation. I reflected a little, and then resolved to make a
somewhat rash attempt, but which succeeded admirably. I had caught sight
of the breakfast-room, with its table all set out with cups, plates,
glasses, cakes, confectionery--in fact with everything, even with
flowers in crystal vases that were a wonder to look at. I went into the
room and rang the bell with violence; in an instant a servant appeared
dressed in black, to whom I turned, and with my head well in the air
pronounced in a harsh firm voice the one word--
"Breakfast!"
[Sidenote: I ORDER BREAKFAST FOR MYSELF.]
[Sidenote: AFTER A GOOD BREAKFAST.]
The servant disappeared, and returned almost on the instant with a
silver soup-tureen, which he placed on the table before me, and then
stationed himself behind me. Two other servants brought me ham, tongue,
_caviale_, veal cutlets, cold galantine, and then asked if I wanted
Madeira, Bordeaux, or Marsala. I was satisfied with the Bordeaux, and
also partook of a plate of strawberries; and as a last sacrifice, I
sipped a cup of Mocha coffee--really inebriating--lighted my cigar, and
lost myself in the thickest part of the park. I was really beaming. I
felt restored in body, and in a state of perfect wellbeing, feeling a
certain sort of complacency with my spirit, my genius, my quickness--my
impertinence, let us say--which, _au fond_, was of good service to me
and did nobody any harm. Carlo Bini assures us that the prison so
sharpened his brains that it was as much use to him in expressing his
ideas as style was:--
"La prigione è una lima sì sottile,
Che aguzzando il cervel ne fa uno stile;"
and does not hunger, I say, sharpen the brain? I could cite a thousand
examples of well-known geniuses who have grown up in the midst of
privations and hunger, but I do not wish to be pedantic. This I know
full well, that I should never have been capable of such an escapade had
I not had that formidable appetite, nor should I have had the idea of
satisfying it in that way. Necessity sharpens the intellect to invent
and to act; health and physical wellbeing kindle and spur on the fancy
through flowering pathways of flattering hopes. Who knows with how many
beautiful _grilli_ and beautiful bright-coloured butterflies, swift of
flight, a little glass of Bordeaux, or better still, a glass of our good
Chianti wine, has brightened the life of poets and artists? I found
myself in one of those beautiful dreams. My mind wandered from one thing
to another; the past and the future were mixed up together. History and
fable, religion and romance, light and serious love, the fantastic and
the positive, fine statues, fine commissions, friends distinguished for
rectitude and genius,--all passed before me. The flowers in the garden
seemed to me more beautiful and more odorous than ever, the sky brighter
and purer; and never did the hills of Artimino, Careggi, or Fiesole,
populous with villas, seem to me so fair. I never gave a thought to the
Prince or to his having sent for me, any more than if it had been all a
dream. And all _was_ a dream; for I fell asleep seated on one of the
sofa-chairs made of reeds, and in my sleep my thoughts went back to
those beautiful legends of history and fable--beautiful women, fine
statues, sweet friends--and to the delightful country, when a slight
touch on my shoulder woke me from my placid sleep. It was one of the
Prince's servants, who was in quest of me to take me to him. To judge
from their dress, the Prince and Princess must have only been up a short
time. The Prince was standing; he had a cup in his hand, and dipped some
pieces of toasted bread into it. From the odour, I became aware that it
was _consommé_. The Princess was seated, turning over the leaves of a
book of prints. She was of rare beauty, and the time, the place, and
mild season of the year made her seem even more beautiful. She ought
therefore to have seemed and to have been an object of love and profound
admiration to her happy husband; and if you add to the attractions of
youth and beauty, grace of education, culture of mind, and _prestige_ of
birth, the affection of the man who possessed her should have verged on
idolatry. But, alas! in life such perfect happiness never lasts; and the
reader remembers what I told of the end of this union.
[Sidenote: PRINCE DEMIDOFF'S COMMISSION.]
"My dear Duprè, you have arrived a little late, have you not? I sent for
you, but you had not yet come."
"Your Excellency, let me tell you. I arrived betimes--in fact, very
early, as your Excellency indicated I should do in your note; but----"
And here I told him the whole story already known to my reader; and I
cannot describe how delighted he and the Princess were with it. Now and
again the Prince held out his hand to me, saying, "Bravo! In faith, I
like this. Bravo!"
Then he told me what was the object of his sending for me. It was to
give me an order for a life-size statue of Napoleon I., in the very
dress which he possessed, and would furnish me with. He would procure me
a good mask and some authentic portraits; but he begged me to make it in
the shortest possible time. It was very evident that he wanted to
please the Princess, because whilst he was speaking to me he looked with
loving intensity at her, and from time to time caressed her with a
gentleness almost childlike.
[Sidenote: PRINCE DEMIDOFF'S CHARACTER.]
It has been said that this man was extravagant and almost brutal; but
when I remember the expression of radiant joy he had on his face when he
was looking at his wife while proposing to give her a statue, as if it
had been only a flower or a fan--when I recall that I have seen him shed
warm tears for the death of Bartolini, and when I remember his great
charity in founding and maintaining the Asylum of Saint Niccolo,--I
cannot but deplore the bad feeling and injustice of those who take
pleasure in blackening his character, in misinterpreting facts, and
maligning his intentions.
The order for the statue of Napoleon proved a failure, as also for that
of the Princess, owing to the separation of husband and wife. And now
let me go back to my place, for oh, how I have wandered away from the
fainting young soldiers in Hyde Park!
The exhibition of the models competing for the Duke of Wellington's
monument was about to be opened, so I thought it better to return
home--all the more, because I wished to stop in Paris on my way back, as
I had been in too great a hurry to see it when I came through. By this
time, nothing that there was to be seen in London had escaped me, and I
could describe with great precision the Docks, the Tunnel, Westminster,
St Paul's, the Tower of London, the Houses of Parliament, &c., &c.; but
to what use? Are there not guide-books? And my impressions are many, it
is true, and not of the common run; but they would require no little
space, and this would change the simple design and form of these
papers.
[Sidenote: EXAMINATION OF THE MODELS IN LONDON.]
Two or three days before the opening of the exhibition of these models,
the Minister of Public Instruction, accompanied by the royal
commissioner and other officials, visited the great hall at Westminster,
where the models were exhibited. Some English and a few foreign artists
thought proper to accompany the Minister when he went to inspect these
works. As for me, I felt no such wish; and not wanting to be thought
rude, and as neither the commissioner nor any of the people with the
Minister knew who I was, I reclined in my shirt-sleeves on one of the
cases belonging to these monuments, and so passed for a common workman
in the hall. The commissioner, in fact, only knew me as a person of
trust, who had some ability in restoring a work in plaster. I hope the
reader has not forgotten that little affair. I was consoled, however, by
seeing that the Minister stopped some time to look at my work, although
he passed by others in too much haste, excusable in many instances, but
not in some, where attention and praise were merited. Be it as it may, I
was well pleased that he stopped before mine--and all the more so, that
I did not form a part of his Excellency's suite. In fact I have been
always very slow in putting myself forward with Ministers of Public
Works, and I don't know to what saint I owe this feeling of respect for
the Ministry. With certain members I have had frank cordial relations,
before they became Excellencies; afterwards, when once they were in the
Ministry, as if by a sort of magic they became for me such respectable
personages that I retired into myself, and kept most willingly to my own
place. Then those poor gentlemen have so much to do that, without a
doubt, if you wanted to see them, you would be told that they could not
receive you. So the fact of it is, that I have so much respect for
them, and just so much for myself, as not to be willing to annoy them,
and there is not a Minister of Public Works who can say, "This fellow
has bored me about this or that thing." True it is, that by the grace of
God I have never felt the necessity of doing so. Once only, and that not
on my own account, but from a sentiment of dignity and justice,
negotiations were entered into with the Ministers Natoli, Correnti, and
Bonghi, as to the completion of a base for my Tazza, which I mentioned
some time back; and as it just fits in here, I shall now bring this
story to a close. The subject is a delicate, and for me a trying one,
but I shall discuss it with calmness, and in as few short words as truth
and reason can be clothed.
[Sidenote: THE BASE OF THE TAZZA.]
[Sidenote: I LEAVE LONDON.]
The base of the Tazza that I had modelled was either to be cast in
bronze or cut in marble, and the last was decided on. Whilst they were
looking for a pure piece of close-grained marble, the revolution took
place, and the Grand Duke left. My model had already been paid for, and
I hoped that the present Government, sooner or later, would have
confirmed the commission; but I hoped in vain. After several years had
passed, I asked my friend Commendatore Gotti, Director of the Royal
Galleries, to make known my claim to the Ministry, which was done; but I
obtained nothing. Later, Professor Dall'Ongaro spoke about it to
Correnti, the Minister, and also obtained nothing. At last Commendatore
D'Ancona was most pressing in speaking to Bonghi the Minister, and Betti
the Secretary; but then came the fall of the Minister with his Cabinet,
and I was really tired out by the whole thing, with its long, wearisome,
and useless negotiations. I must add, that as the model had already been
paid for, the expense for executing it was all that was required; and yet,
notwithstanding all these recommendations, this little sum was not
granted, and I was not given a hearing. And here it is to the purpose to
remind the Ministers of our Government that I for more than fifteen
years have occupied the gratuitous post of Master of Finishing; and as
in the statute creating this office it is declared that the Royal
Government is not wanting in funds to pay the professors who shall have
done the most for the good of their young pupils, it is to the purpose,
I repeat, to remind them of the office that I have filled, and to
declare to them that the pupils I have taught are now for the most part
young living artists--some of them already professors, _cavalieri_, and
masters in the schools--and that meanwhile I not only have not obtained
a recompense, but even my demand, which to my belief was but a matter of
pure justice, was not even listened to. But enough of this. I return to
London, or rather let me say I leave it, as my work was finished and in
place, only waiting for the judges. I therefore packed my trunk, paid my
landlord, said good-bye to my friends, and got into the train, thinking
of that blessed Channel where I had suffered so much in crossing.