MY FATHER'S DEATH--A TURN IN THE OMNIBUS--THE FERRARI
MONUMENT--I KEEP THE "SAPPHO" FOR MYSELF--THE "TIRED BACCHANTE"
AND THE LITTLE MODEL--RAPHAEL AND THE FORNARINA--THE MADONNA
AND BAS-RELIEFS AT SANTA CROCE AND CAVALIERE SLOANE--MY
DAUGHTER AMALIA AND HER WORKS--MY DAUGHTER BEPPINA--DESCRIPTION
OF THE BAS-RELIEF ON THE FAÇADE OF SANTA CROCE--I AM TAKEN FOR
THE WRONG PERSON BY THE HOLY FATHER PIUS IX.--MARSHAL
HAYNAU--PROFESSOR BEZZUOLI AND HAYNAU'S PORTRAIT.
My stay in London had been rather a long one, but it was necessary for
the restorations (and what restorations!) of my work, and also to see
the wonders of art collected by that powerful nation, by force of will,
money, and time. I stayed there about two months; and notwithstanding
the many and novel distractions which that vast city offered, and the
good health I enjoyed at that time under a climate so different from
ours, I felt every day more and more keenly the ardent desire to see my
family, so that when I arrived in Paris I delayed very little. The
letters which I received from home breathed the same affectionate
longing that I felt myself; and the gay, thoughtless life of Paris,
instead of attracting me, disgusted me. My daughters by their mother's
side in our little parlour were always present to me; and knowing their
dispositions, and the loving wisdom of the mother, I felt that tender,
holy joy which is difficult to describe, but such as a loving and
beloved father feels for his dear ones. I had lost two years ago my poor
father from cholera. The poor old man had at first resisted the fury of
that tremendous disease. He lived at the Carra, beyond Porta al Prato.
All around death reaped its victims,--young and old, poor and rich; it
spared no one. Almost every evening, at dusk, I went to him to assure
myself of his health. One evening I found him unwell and in bed; but he
had no fever, and his servant-maid, a good girl, served him with
affectionate zeal. I left him quiet. On going away I urged her to be
attentive to my father through fear of the epidemic then raging. The
girl assured me that I need not doubt of her being so, and that I
might be tranquil. The next evening I went back to see him: he
was still in bed, and was better; but he told me that he stayed
there as a precaution, and that he was to get up the following
day, having the physician's permission to do so. The door had been
opened for me by a little boy, to whom he gave lessons in drawing and
ornamentation--Gabriello Maranghi--who to-day is one of our ornamental
marble-workers.
[Sidenote: MY FATHER'S ILLNESS--DEATH OF ROSA.]
"Oh, Rosa," I said to my father; "where is she?"
"Rosa, poor thing, died this morning. She came back from marketing, put
down her things, went into her room, and I have not seen her since. They
carried her away a short time ago!"--and the poor old man was much
moved.
This sudden news of a death so instantaneous upset me and frightened me
for my poor father. It was the same whether he stayed there or was
carried elsewhere, for in every district they died in the same way. I
went away sad at heart. The next day he got up, and was pretty well,
even gay--in fact, for several days continued well, and went on with
his work as usual. One morning--it was Sunday--my wife, who had got up
before me, came into the bedroom, waked me up, and said--
[Sidenote: DEATH OF MY FATHER.]
"Nanni, get up; father is ill."
I looked in my wife's face, and read there the nature and gravity of my
poor father's illness. I ran to him; he recognised me, and said--
"My good Giannino, you have done well to come quickly to your father; I
am so glad to see you before I die."
He lived all day, but had spasms of pain and wandered in mind. Then he
died, and his face became serene, as if he were sleeping peacefully.
Whoever has lost a father knows the kind of grief it is!
As I have said, I stayed but a few days in Paris. I saw, on the wing as
it were, and without being able to study them, the monuments of art in
which that great capital is rich. I repeat, I felt an irresistible
desire to return home. Of the artists, I saw only Gendron, whom I had
known in Florence; Anieni, a Roman; and Prince Joseph Poniatowsky, then
in his prime. What was most to my taste was to ride up and down the
streets of Paris in an omnibus to get an idea of the movement and
grandeur of that city; but an incident occurred to me that prevented my
having that desire any longer, and I should have put an end to this
going up and down even if I had not already determined upon my
departure. This was what happened. I had just come from a walk in the
Champs Elysées, when I saw the omnibus which goes from the Barrière du
Trône to the Madeleine standing still. I said to myself: "Very good; I
will get in here, go through all the Boulevards as far as the Barrière,
and without even descending, turn about again, and when I get back to
the Rue du Helder (where I lodged), I will get out and go home." The
omnibus started, drove through all the Boulevards des Italiens, des
Capucines, Poissonnière, &c., and arrived at the Barrière. The
passengers got out, the omnibus stopped, and the conductor said to me--
[Sidenote: I RETURN TO FLORENCE.]
"_Monsieur, descendez, s'il vous plait._"
I answered, "_Je ne descends pas moi._"
"_Pourquoi donc?_"
"_Parce que je retourne sur mon chemin._"
The ill-concealed laughter made me aware of my mistake, and the
conductor, with good manners, gave me to understand that the drive ended
there, and on account of the lateness of the hour there was no return
trip. I got out, and was at least four miles from home. To find a
carriage, I was obliged to take a long walk towards the centre of Paris,
and finally found one, and had myself conveyed home, muttering against
my own stupidity. The next day, without turning either to the right or
to the left, I returned to Italy,--to dear, beautiful Florence; to the
bosom of my family; to my studies; to my works; to my good pupils; to my
faithful workmen; and to my dear friends. Fortune had favoured me in
London: my work had gained one of the first prizes in the competition.
Another prize was obtained also by Professor Cambi.
I had scarcely got back from London when Count Ferrari Corbelli ordered
from me the monument for his wife, the Countess Berta, whom he had lost
a few days before. This work, which he wished to see finished as soon as
possible, was the cause of my abandoning the group of the "Deluge,"
which I had already sketched, as I have before stated. The monument was
composed of a base, on which was placed the urn containing the body of
the deceased. Modesty and Charity, the principal virtues of the
departed Countess, stand leaning on the angles of the sarcophagus, and
above these the Angel of the Resurrection points the way to heaven for
the soul of the Countess, snatched from the love of her husband and
children. The monument stands under an arch, on which are three _putti_
who hold up some folds as if they were opening the curtain of heaven.
The background is encrusted with lapis-lazuli. This monument is placed
in the Church of San Lorenzo, in the chapel next to the sacristy. My
friend Augusto Conti liked the conception of this monument, but objected
to the nudity of the child of Charity. I have a sincere respect for his
criticism, as I respect also the one he made on the monument to Cavour.
He is a profound and conscientious critic of art; and besides this, he
has had, and has, for me and my family, a truly fraternal love, and I
remember with emotion the part which he took during the illness and
death of my daughter and my wife.
[Sidenote: COUNTESS FERRARI CORBELLI.]
Contemporaneously with this work I modelled a "Sappho," and put it at
once into marble, by order of Signor Angiolo Gatti, a dealer in statues;
but it happened that when he should have received the statue he had no
funds, and so I sent it to our Italian Exhibition. The Government, which
had set apart a sum of money for the acquisition of the best works of
art, decided not to take my statue, so I have it by me now. It seems to
me (I confess the weakness) as if I had been wronged, so to speak, and
as if my poor "Sappho" resented this wrong from the new Phaons: so I
have wished to keep my faith with her, since the desertion of her lover
had caused her death; and although I have several times had offers not
to be despised, yet I have never been willing to sell her. Who can tell
where this poor "Sappho" will be, and how situated, after my death?
[Sidenote: MODEL OF THE "BACCHANTE."]
At this same time--that is, in 1857--I made the model of the "Tired
Bacchante"; and the idea of this figure was suggested to me by a little
model who was brought to me by her mother, and who had never before been
seen naked by any one. The freshness of this young girl, her unspoiled
figure, the delicate beauty, somewhat sensual, of her face, suggested as
a subject the "Tired Dancer," which afterwards was converted to a
"Bacchante"; and as some time before I had made a little statue,
representing Gratitude, for the Signora Maria Nerli of Siena, the
general lines of that statuette served me as a sketch for this. But were
I to say that it was only the beauty of the model, the subject suggested
so spontaneously to me, and the composition already made, that persuaded
me to keep the girl and make the statue, I should not be telling the
exact truth. The mother of this girl was one of those women who not only
throw aside all a mother's duty and responsibility, but despising all
decency, show that they are capable of worse things. I tried at first to
dissuade her from taking the young girl about to studios, and so forcing
her to lose all that a maiden has most precious--modesty; nor was I
silent about the perils that she was exposing her to. But my words were
thrown away, for she smiled at them as if they were childish: so I kept
the young girl and made the statue. I can assure you that she was a good
young creature, and when I had finished the model I dismissed her with
paternal words. I saw her many years after, so changed and sad, that one
could hardly recognise her. She told me her sad story,--a name was on
her lips, but a daughter's love made her conceal it. I repeat, she was
good, and suffered, but not by any fault of hers. I have never seen her
again: perhaps she is dead--the only good thing that can befall any of
those unhappy creatures.
[Sidenote: THE NUDE MODEL.]
To some it may seem as if I have been rather tedious about this poor
Traviata; but most people, I hope, have found my indignation reasonable,
for the condition of such a girl as this is most sad and
humiliating,--forced by her mother, who ought to be the jealous guardian
of the modesty and innocence of her child, to strip herself naked before
a man. Even though her mother remain there present, it is always a hard
thing, and most disagreeable to a young woman jealous of her good name,
and dreading the looks and thoughts of the man there before her. It is
not even impossible that it may be thought I have studiously and
affectedly deplored such cases as these, as if I wished to show myself
better than I am. I have no answer to give to any one who thinks thus,
for in these papers he will find nothing to justify such an opinion. I
only desire to remind the profane in art, that when we have a model
before us, our mind and all our strength is so absorbed in our work, and
the difficulties are so great in taking from nature just so much as is
required for the character, expression, and form of our subject, that
nothing else affects us. He who does not credit this is not an artist,
and does not feel art.
I see a little smile of incredulity, almost of triumph, come over the
face of my unbelieving reader, and the old story, so often sung and
perhaps exaggerated, of Raphael and the Fornarina placed before me, to
belie my words. This case of Raphael and the Fornarina was a unique one,
and quite different from the ordinary relations that exist between the
artist and his models. A model is for us like an instrument or a tool,
necessary for our work. If good and beautiful, we prize her and respect
her as we would a good tool; if neither beautiful nor good, we bid her
be off. The Fornarina was beautiful, and perhaps she may have been even
good; but unfortunately she was of a sanguine temperament, imaginative,
and ardent, as she appears from the portraits Raphael has left of her.
The graceful nature, the delicate figure of the young artist, and the
prestige of his fame, roused the love and ambition of the beautiful
Trasteverina.
"Amor che a nullo amato amar perdona,"[10]
"Love, that exempts no one beloved from loving,"
seized hold of that angel and smothered him in its embrace. What has
this most fatal story to do with our usual artistic life? To-day there
are no more Fornarinas, and, above all, there are no Raphaels; and if by
chance an artist falls in love with his model, why, he marries her, and
there is an end of it. In conclusion, a good and beautiful model that
willingly and honestly (I use this word for want of a better) does her
business, I like and employ; but a simple, good-natured, ignorant young
girl forced to this shame by her own mother, irritates me and makes me
sad.
[10] Dante, Inferno, canto v.
[Sidenote: RAPHAEL AND THE FORNARINA.]
At this time they were making the façade of the Church of Santa Croce,
with the most valuable aid of Cavaliere Sloane, to whom we are chiefly
indebted that it was possible to complete this work. In the design of
the façade there were bas-reliefs in the arches over the three doors:
over the middle door the "Triumph of the Cross"; over that of the right
nave the "Vision of Constantine"; and over the other, on the left, the
"Refinding of the Cross." I had already made for the façade the
Madonna, who stands high up over the _cuspide_ of the middle door; and
because the subject was dear to me, as also the idea which it should
convey, I was content with a price which would barely cover the cost of
making it, without counting my work on the model. But these three
bas-reliefs were much more arduous work; and as I could not make them at
the same rate as I had made the Madonna, I refused. Cavaliere Sloane,
however, who much desired that these bas-reliefs should be made, came to
me and begged me to accept them. As to the price, he assured me that we
should agree, and that he would himself pay it, because he wished that
the façade should be made by me. I took time to reply, and reflecting
that the three bas-reliefs would take much more time than I had to
dispose of, and desiring to help my two clever and affectionate pupils,
I proposed to Cavaliere Sloane to divide this labour into three parts.
The larger bas-relief, that over the central door, I would make; the
other two, over the lateral doors, should be made, one by Sarrocchi of
Siena, and the other by Emilio Zocchi of Florence. Sloane was satisfied
with my proposition, but with the understanding that I should be
answerable for the excellence of these works, and while I should leave
these artists freedom in their conceptions, I should direct them in such
conceptions as well as in the execution. This I formally promised to do,
and the work was decided upon.
[Sidenote: BAS-RELIEFS ON SANTA CROCE.]
These bas-reliefs, which I relinquished to my scholars, recall to my
mind other works also given up to scholars, but not mine. Among these is
Professor Costa of Florence. In the beginning of my artistic career,
when I was making the "Cain" and "Abel," "Giotto," and "Pius II.," I had
also a commission to make a statue representing Summer, for one of the
four seasons which ornament the palace once called Batelli. This
commission, though a poor one, I should have executed, because I had
engaged to do so, and poor Batelli had urged it in a friendly way; but
Pietro Costa, then very young, studious, and needy, begged it of me, and
I, with the consent of the person who had given the commission, gave it
up to him, and it was a great success.
[Sidenote: MY DAUGHTER AMALIA.]
Now that I am speaking of my scholars, it is but just that I should
mention my daughter Amalia. She used at that time to come and see me in
my studio with her mother and sisters; and while the little Beppina and
Gigina stayed out in the little square playing together and gathering
flowers, Amalia remained in my studio silently watching me at work. When
her mother was getting ready to take her home, she was so unwilling to
tear herself away from gazing at my work, that I asked her one day--
"Would you like to do this work?"
"Yes, papa," the child quickly replied.
"Well, then," I said, "stay with me."
Then I turned to my wife and said, "Leave Amalia with me for company;
she can return home with me." I arranged a slate on a little easel in
form of a reading-desk for her, prepared some bits of clay, and showed
her how to spread the clay to a certain thickness on the slate as a
foundation; then I placed before her a small figure of one of the
bas-reliefs from the doors of San Giovanni, by Andrea Pisano, and I said
to her,--"With this little pointed stick you must draw in the figure,
then you must put on clay to get the relief; but first I must see if
your drawing is like the original. Only the outline is necessary, and
this line should only reproduce the movement and proportion of the
little figure you have before you. Do you understand?" The child
understood so well, that, at the first trial, she traced all the outline
of the figure correctly. It must, however, be remembered that Amalia and
her sisters had taken lessons in drawing from me, and had always kept
them up.
[Sidenote: AMALIA DUPRÈ AND HER WORKS.]
From that day to this Amalia has never left the studio, and art has
become so dear a thing to her that she can now no longer do without it.
Her works are well known. Besides portraits, of which she has many, the
greater number of them in marble, she has modelled and executed in
marble various statues and bas-reliefs. The statues are: the "Child
Giotto," Dante's "Matelda," "St Peter in Chains," the Monument of the
Signora Adele Stracchi, and that of our dearest Luisina--statues all
life-size, and except the "Matelda" and "St Peter," all cut in marble;
also two small statues, a "St John," and an Angel throwing water, for
the baptismal font in a rich chapel of one of Marchese Nerli's villas;
also a little Angel, still in plaster, and a group of the Madonna and
Child with a lamb, for the Church of Badia in Florence. The bas-reliefs
are: the Madonna, accompanied by an angel, taking to her arms the
youthful soul of the daughter of the Duchess Ravaschieri of Naples. For
Arezzo: the Sisters of Charity conducting the asylum children to the
tomb of Cavaliere Aleotti, in act of prayer and gratitude; eight saints
in bas-relief for the pulpit of the Cathedral of San Miniato; four
bas-reliefs for monuments in that same cathedral to the following
persons--"Religion" for Bishop Poggi, "History" for Bernardo Buonaparte,
"Physics" for Professor Taddei, and "Poesy" for the poet Bagnoli; a
font, with a small statue of Sant'Eduvige, for the Countess Talon of
Paris; a bas-relief for the lunette over the door of my new studio at
Pinti; a little bronze copy of the "Pietà"; a copy of the "Justice,"
also in bronze; a statuette of St Joseph, and a statue of St Catherine
of Siena, in _terra cotta_, for the chapel of a pious refuge for poor
children at Siena; a little group in marble of the _Virtù teologali_ for
Signor Raffaello Agostini of Florence; and a large statue, life-size, of
the Madonna Addolorata, in _terra cotta_, for the Church of St Emidio at
Agnone. All these works, you understand, were done by her as a pleasant
way of exercising herself in her art, gratuitously, as is most natural;
but it did not so appear to the tax-agent, who, however, was obliged to
correct himself by cancelling her name from the roll of taxpayers, where
it had been put. Poor Amalia, working from pure love of art, doing good
by giving your work away, and often the worse for it in your pocket; and
then to behold yourself taxed in the exercise and sale of your work! A
pretty thing indeed!
[Sidenote: AMALIA'S CHARACTER.]
As I am now on a subject that attracts me, I cannot tear myself from it
in such a hurry. It is not permitted me to speak of the artistic merit
of my daughter. My opinion would be a prejudiced one, both as father and
as master, and therefore I have restricted myself only to note down the
works that she has done so far; but I cannot refrain from making known
the internal satisfaction I feel in seeing my teaching productive of
such good fruit. It fell on ground so well prepared that it sprouted out
abundantly and spontaneously. The consolation a master feels when he
sees his pupil understand and almost divine his thought, is very great;
and when this pupil is his own daughter, one may imagine how much the
greater it is. And when I think of her modest nature, shrinking from
praise, desirous of good, tender and compassionate with the poor in
their sorrow, grieving as I do for the many irreparable family
misfortunes, I still thank the Lord that He has let me keep this angel,
and also my other daughter Beppina, who is not less loving to us and to
her husband, by whom her love is returned in a Christian spirit. She
also is endowed by nature with sentiment for art, and her drawings and
certain little models in clay are the indications of wide-awake, ready
aptitude. I treasure a bust of Dante that she modelled, and that was cut
in marble, and deplore that the new life she has entered upon, and
perhaps a delicate feeling of consideration for her sister, have made
her desist from the continuation of a career well begun. Now she is a
mother; and the duties of a mother are so noble and so arduous as to
repress any other tendencies even more natural to her and more
attractive.
[Sidenote: THE FAÇADE OF SANTA CROCE.]
[Sidenote: BAS-RELIEF, TRIUMPH OF THE CROSS.]
Now let us return to the façade of Santa Croce. I ordered the "Refinding
of the Cross" from Sarrocchi, and the "Vision of Constantine" from
Zocchi; and both Zocchi and Sarrocchi set themselves at once to work.
Here is the explanation of the conception of my bas-relief: It seemed to
me that the "Triumph or Exaltation of the Cross" ought to be explained
by means of persons or personifications that the Cross, with its divine
love, had won or conquered. The sign of the Cross stands on high
resplendent with light, and around it are angels in the act of
adoration. Under the Cross, and in the centre of the bas-relief on the
summit of a mountain, there is an angel in the act of prayer, expressive
of the attraction of the human soul towards Divinity. By means of prayer
descends the grace that warms and illuminates the intellect and
affections of man. The affections and intellect, divided from the Cross,
again return to the Cross, and are expressed by the following figures
that stand below: A liberated slave, half seated, half reclining, with
his face and eyes turned upward, expressive of gratitude for his
liberation,--for from the Cross descended and spread over all the earth
that divine word of human brotherhood; and near the slave a savage on
his knees, leaning on his club; the stupidity and fierceness of whose
look are subdued and illuminated by the splendour of the Cross. These
two impersonations are in the centre below, leaving the space to the
right and left for the following personages: On the right of the person
looking at the bas-relief is Constantine unsheathing his sword when he
beheld the sign and heard the words, "_In hoc signo vinces_"; near
Constantine is the Countess Matilda, whose pious attitude revealed her
strong love for the Church of Christ, and enabled it to put up a barrier
against foreign arrogance, and to defend the liberty of the Italian
Communes; behind her, nearly hidden, owing to her holy timidity, the
Magdalen, to indicate that the ardours of lust were conquered by the
fire of divine love. On his knees, bent to the ground, with his face in
his hands, is St Paul the elect, who from an enemy had become the
strenuous defender of the Gospel and apostle of the Gentiles. St Thomas,
with one knee on the ground, a book in his hand, in a modest pensive
attitude, recalls the words of Jesus, who said, "_Bene scriptisti de me,
Thoma._" A little in the background, near Constantine, is the Emperor
Heraclius, dressed in sad raiment, commemorative of the wars against the
Christians; and a Roman soldier bearing the standard inscribed with
"S.P.Q.R." closes the composition on this part of the bas-relief. On the
left side the principal figure is Charlemagne; an unsheathed sword is in
one hand, and in the other a globe with a cross, emblems of his vast
dominions and his mission of propagating the true faith; he also
represents the greatest material power conquered for the glory of the
Cross. Dante is near him--the greatest Christian intellectual
power--and he holds in his hand the three 'Canticles,' called by him
'Poema Sacro.' Near Dante the poor monk of Assisi, with his hands
pressed to his breast, looking lovingly and with fixed attention at the
Cross. In these three figures are represented the dominator of the
world, the dominator of the spirit, and the dominator of poverty and
humility attracted by love of the Cross. To complete this group you see
St Augustine in his episcopal robes, holding in his hand a volume of
'The City of God'; and behind them a martyr with a palm, as pendant to
the Roman soldier on the opposite side.
[Sidenote: THE TRIUMPH OF THE CROSS.]
Such is the composition of the "Triumph of the Cross," which is above
the middle door of that temple where the ashes of Michael Angelo and
Galileo rest, and where it has been my desire for so many years that a
memorial monument to Leonardo da Vinci should be placed. And, vain
though it be, I shall always call for it louder and louder, the more
that I see the mediocrity that a want of taste continues to erect there.
As it is not permissible for me to speak of the praise I had for this
work, I will not pass over in silence a criticism that was made to me
about my having selected the Countess Matilda to put into my
composition. It was objected that the Countess Matilda served the Pope,
served the Church of Rome, but did not do homage especially to the
Cross. I have given the reason of her serving the Pope. I have already
given a few words in explanation of that personage; and as for the
distinction that there is between the Church of Christ and Christ
Himself, I must frankly say that I do not understand it. Let not the
reader believe, however, that I am one of those Christians desirous of
being more Christian than the Pope himself, and excessively intolerant
and passionate. No; [Sidenote: PIUS IX. IN FLORENCE.]
I am with the teaching of the apostles, and that seems to me enough, for
it includes all, even comprising the beautiful exhortation of Father
Dante, when he says--
"Avete il vecchio e il nuovo Testamento,
E il pastor della Chiesa che vi guida,"[11] &c.
"Ye have the Old and the New Testament,
And the pastor of the Church who guideth you."
[11] Dante, Paradiso, canto 5.
In fact--not now, but soon--I will let you know, and touch with your
hand, so to speak, the fact that I am not in the good graces of some of
those people who depicted me to the eyes of the Holy Father after the
manner of a bad _barocco_ painter--falsifying proportions, character,
and expression. But, as I have said, I will return to this later on; and
meanwhile, I must say that the Holy Father did not know me at all, as
the only time that I had the honour of bending before him and kissing
his foot he took me for another person. And it occurred when the Pontiff
Pius IX. passed through Florence after his tour through the Romagna. The
Grand Duke did all the honours of Florence to him. During the few days
that he remained in Florence the Grand Duke accompanied him wherever he
thought it would give him pleasure to go, and, amongst other places, he
took him to visit the manufactory of _pietre dure_, and the Academy of
Fine Arts; and on this occasion our president invited the College of
Professors to be present, that we might see the Holy Father near, and
perform an act of reverence to the Supreme Hierarch. The Pope was seated
on an elevated place like a throne; on his left was the Grand Duke; the
Ministers, dignitaries, and our president were standing near him. We
were called, one by one, and presented by our president, Marchese Luca
Bourbon del Monte, to the Holy Father; and those who were presented
prostrated themselves before him, kissed his foot, and then returned to
their places. When it came to my turn, the Grand Duke turned to the Pope
and said--
[Sidenote: A MISTAKE OF PIUS IX.]
"Here, Blessed Father, is the artist who made the "Cain" and "Abel" that
your Holiness seemed well satisfied with."
And the Holy Father, turning to me, answered--
"I congratulate you. They are two most beautiful statues. You have
nothing to envy in the Berlin or Munich casting."
"Most Blessed Father," I hastened to reply, "I am not the caster of
those statues, but----"
"Go," continued the Holy Father--"go, and may God bless you;" and making
one of those great crosses in the air that Pius IX. knew so well how to
make, he sent me away in peace, in the midst of the silent but visible
hilarity of all those who had witnessed my embarrassment. It is more
than probable that the Grand Duke rectified the mistake incurred by his
Holiness; and I should regret if I had remained in his mind as the
caster, when that merit belonged personally and legitimately to
Professor Clemente Papi. But if it is easy to imagine that that mistake
was then cleared up, it is difficult to say the same of the one at the
present day, because it is harder to rectify. I heed very little the
censure of certain extreme Catholics, believing that I share it with
many whom I should wish to resemble in every respect: but the censure of
the Pope was indeed painful to me; and I managed in such a way, by
showing myself just as I am, that I obtained his goodwill. But of this,
as I have already said, I will speak further on, and now I return to my
works.
[Sidenote: PORTRAIT OF MARSHAL HAYNAU.]
The reader may have observed that I have made no mention of portraits,
although I have made many. As, however, amongst these portraits there is
one that made some noise, and as the things that were said, being
magnified by passion and by the inexact information of the person who
spread these reports, might lead those who are in the dark to form a
wrong impression, I have thought best to narrate the facts as they were.
One day a gentleman asked to speak to me. He was a man of about sixty,
tall, thin, with deep-set, changeable, and vivacious eyes, thick-marked
eyebrows, long moustaches, lofty bearing, and with such a singular and
expressive face, that when an artist sees it, he is at once possessed
with a desire to make it a study. This gentleman said--
"Would you make my portrait?"
I answered, "Yes."
"How many sittings do you require to make the model?"
"Six or eight, or more, according to the length of the sittings."
"When could you begin?"
"The first days of next week."
"Very well: Monday I will be with you. At what hour?"
"At nine in the morning, if not inconvenient to you."
"Good-bye, then, until Monday. Do you know who I am?"
"I have not the honour."
"I am Marshal Haynau." And he went away.
[Sidenote: ANECDOTE OF HAYNAU.]
[Sidenote: PORTRAIT OF HAYNAU.]
Now, to say that, after having heard the name, I had pleasure in making
his portrait, would be a falsehood; and yet the singularity of that
face, the curiosity I had to become acquainted through conversation with
a man of such haughtiness and fierceness of character, the engagement I
had entered into, and my pledged word, all took from me the courage to
renounce the work. It is useless to say how all my friends, and
naturally even more, those who were no friends of mine, declaimed
against me. The newspapers were full of attacks, the story of the
brewery in London, with all its details, was told, magnified and
praised; in fact, to tell the truth, it was in the days when I was
taking his portrait, and then alone, that I was made acquainted with the
fierce nature of this great person, as my only idea of him until then
had been a very indistinct and sketchy one. The beauty of it is, that in
the conversation he held with me he showed himself a quiet man, opposed
to all cruelty, although a severe military disciplinarian, and
inexorable in punishing refractory soldiers. He made no mystery of this,
and he named to me the Hungarian generals and officers that he had had
shot, as the most natural thing in the world; and because I blamed him
for this, he answered: With rebels one could not do otherwise, and that
he would have become guilty himself had he not punished them. But I, who
had read of his cruelty to women, children--to all, in fact--censured
him for this, and he denied it in a most decided manner, adding a story
which, if true, I don't know what to say. Here is the anecdote: When he
had gained the victory at Pesth, and had all the heads of the revolution
in his hands, they were all condemned to death by a council of war.
Amongst these were the Archbishop of Pesth and a Count Karoli. He had
the _alter ego_ in his hands, and in consequence his orders had no need
of the Imperial sanction; but both the Archbishop and Count Karoli had
powerful friends and adherents at Vienna, and these did so much, and
exerted themselves to such a degree, that, an hour before the execution
of the sentence, the Imperial reprieve arrived. As he, however, thought
both of these men more guilty than the others, owing to their high
position, and as it seemed to him unjust that they should be saved and
the others sacrificed, he called them all into his presence, and after
having informed the two fortunate ones of the Imperial pardon, he added
these words: "It is my conviction, in virtue of the proofs which I have
in my hands, and which have been examined by the council of war, that
the Archbishop and Count Karoli are the most guilty of any of you; but
as our most gracious sovereign has saved them from the penalty that they
deserved, it is not just that those who are less guilty should suffer
from it; therefore, availing myself of the power I have of _alter ego_,
I spare the life of all." I can attest the truth of this story, not only
in its general sense, but even to its wording. The truth of the story, I
say, for as to the facts I know nothing. And I have made a note of it;
for if by chance it was not true, to the stain of cruelty one can add
that of having told a lie to appear merciful. The fact was that he
discussed all his affairs with facile prolixity. He spoke of art and the
artists that he had known at Milan, Venice, and Bologna, in the days of
our servitude to Austria, and through all his stories there was always
something or other of the bombastic. He urged me to make his statue, but
I decidedly refused to do so. He spoke to me about it several times, and
at last I was obliged to speak openly to him, and he thought my reasons
just ones. Then he manifested to me his wish to have his portrait
painted on horseback, and asked me if I knew a clever artist with a name
that would undertake the work. This question embarrassed me, being
myself already compromised. I took some time to think about it, and fate
was propitious, and gave me a companion with whom to bear the censure
and abuse that only too certainly rained down upon us.
[Sidenote: BEZZUOLI'S DEFENCE OF MY BUST.]
Early the next morning Professor Bezzuoli came to my studio, and
said--"Let me see the portrait of Marshal Haynau."
"Certainly; here it is."
"Do you know," says Bezzuoli to me, "that yesterday I had to take up
your defence? There were certain chatterboxes, that don't know even how
to draw an eye, who, talking of you on account of the portrait you are
making, said you ought never to have accepted it, and that they could
never have abased themselves to do so. I answered that an artist when he
makes a portrait is not occupied with politics. If the person whose
portrait is taken is a scamp, he will always be a scamp, with or without
his portrait, precisely like Nero, Tiberius, or other such beasts, of
whom such beautiful portraits have been taken, that it is a pleasure to
see them; but it never comes into the mind of anybody for an instant to
say, Look what a _canaille_ the artist must have been who made this
portrait! So true does this seem to me, that if Haynau had come to me
and given me an order to paint his portrait, I would have accepted his
commission most willingly."
"Ah, very well!" thought I to myself, "I shall no longer be alone;" then
I said to Bezzuoli,--"Thank you for the part you have taken in my
defence. I still think if my colleagues only had an idea how I have been
taken by surprise when I engaged to do this work, and how the
originality of the head excited a desire in me, and if they felt how
imperious the impulse born of that little capricious demon Art is--they
would, I think, be more indulgent with me; and not only indulgent, but
they would even praise me when they knew that I had refused to make a
statue of Haynau for himself. And _àpropos_ of this statue, which I
shall not make, I will tell you about it presently; but first permit me
to ask a question. I understood you to say that if this gentleman had
gone to you and asked you to paint his portrait, you would have accepted
the commission--did I understand right?"
[Sidenote: BEZZUOLI PAINTS HAYNAU'S PORTRAIT.]
"You understood perfectly."
"I then add that he will come. He wants a full-sized portrait of himself
on horseback. A large picture, an attack in battle, or something of that
kind; and later, after mid-day, he will go to you for this purpose.
Should you like it?"
"I should like it very much; but how can you speak to me with so much
assurance about this?"
Then I told him what the reader already knows. That morning the Marshal
went with a note from me to Professor Bezzuoli. In a few words all was
arranged; the picture was finished in a short time, and had a great deal
of deserved praise as far as work went, and bitter censure for the rest,
which he divided and bore in company with me--with less resignation,
however, than could have been desired from so old an artist who had
thought over and discussed the importance of the engagement he had
taken. This was the character of Bezzuoli, who preserved even as an old
man all the vivacity and impetuosity of open, gay-hearted youth; but at
the same time, he was mistrustful and touchy in the extreme. When I
remember him, full of vivacity and _bonhomie_, the friend of young men,
with his frank, open-hearted, sincere advice, and at the same time full
of sensitiveness about the merest nothings, and with childish and
ridiculous ambitions, such as not to be willing to be beaten at
billiards, it makes me smile to think of the weakness of our poor human
nature. He liked to invite a certain number of friends every Sunday to
his villa near Fiesole, and after dinner to play at billiards. He who
was unfortunate enough to beat Bezzuoli, was sure to find him cold and
set against him for some time; and those who knew this, either for
pastime and amusement, or for fear and interestedness, bravely lost, and
the poor professor was full of joy, more even than if he had found some
new striking effect in art.
[Sidenote: BEZZUOLI'S CHARACTER.]
Here ends the anecdote of that famous portrait. Further on I will speak
of others that I had the order for and could not make, and why I could
not make them.