A PROPHETIC DREAM--GIOVANNI STRAZZA--SIGNOR VONWILLER AND
SOCIETIES FOR PROMOTING ART--RETURN FROM NAPLES TO ROME, AND MY
DAUGHTER LUISINA'S ILLNESS--OUR RETURN TO FLORENCE--DEATH OF
TRIA THE MODEL--THE MOSSOTTI MONUMENT AT PISA--HOW IT WAS THAT
I DID NOT MAKE THE PORTRAIT OF HIS MAJESTY THE KING--THE
COMPETITION FOR CAVOUR'S MONUMENT--I GO TO TURIN TO PASS
JUDGMENT ON IT--THE "CHRIST AFTER THE RESURRECTION," A
COMMISSION OF SIGNOR FILIPPI DI BUTI--RELIGIOUS ART AND
ALESSANDRO MANZONI AND GINO CAPPONI--THOUGHT IS NOT
FREE--CAVOUR'S MONUMENT--THE DESCRIPTION OF IT.
[Sidenote: VISCONTI THE PAINTER.]
And yet I do not feel in the vein to stop talking of the dead. It is so
sweet to go back in memory to those dear persons that we have loved and
esteemed, and who have returned our love. One day in Rome--it was in the
summer of 1864--a young painter of the brightest promise had received a
letter from his betrothed, who was a long way off. In it she expressed
the great anxiety she had been suffering on account of a dream she had
had, in which she had seen her dear one drowning; and she beseeched him
in the warmest manner to pay attention and not expose himself to danger.
The ingenuousness and affection in this letter made the young painter
smile, and in his answer he jokingly expressed himself as follows: "With
regard to your dream, set your mind at rest, because if I don't drown
myself in wine, I shall certainly not drown in water." A few days after
this some of his friends proposed to him to go and bathe, but he refused
decidedly, and said, "Go, the rest of you; I don't want to bathe, and
shall go home," and he left them. Shortly after this his friends went,
as they had decided, to bathe, and they saw a young fellow struggling in
the water; recognising him, they at once undressed and ran to his
rescue, as it was evident that he did not know how to swim. Their
attempt, as well as that of others, was vain, for the poor young man
went down and was carried away by the current of the Tiber to a great
distance from the spot where he had thrown himself in. This young man
was universally and sincerely regretted. Painting lost in him one of her
brightest geniuses, and Siena, his birthplace, a son that would have
been a very great honour to her. Some studies sent by him to Siena, and
a picture of San Luigi in the Church of the Madonna del Soccorso at
Leghorn, bear witness to Visconti's talent, a name dear and revered
amongst all artists. He studied at the Sienese Academy, under Luigi
Mussini, who, besides his sound principles in art, had the power of
being able to communicate them, and carried persuasion and conviction
through the weight of example. Visconti was buried in Rome in the Church
of San Bartolommeo all'Isola,[15] a short distance from the place where
his body was found, and Siena honoured him by having a modest but
touching monument made by his friend Tito Sarrocchi and placed for him
in the Church of San Domenico. Visconti was a handsome young man,
healthy and strong, of olive complexion, black hair and beard, endowed
with an open, frank, loyal, and at the same time modest, nature.
[15] Poor Visconti is not buried in the Church of San
Bartolommeo all'Isola. My friend Majoli tells me that I have made a
mistake. His body was taken there, as it was found near there, and the
funeral took place in that church; but the body was taken afterwards to
the Campo Verano, and buried in the lower part of that cemetery. A
modest little monument called a _Pincietto_ was erected over it by the
subscription of several sorrowing and affectionate friends, and amongst
these the good Majoli, who most particularly exerted himself in
modelling and cutting a portrait of him in marble, and offering his work
as a tribute of friendship.
[Sidenote: GIOVANNI STRAZZA.]
I return to the living, I return to Naples. About this time the
competition for the statue of Victory, as a monument for the martyrs of
the four revolutions, 1821, 1831, 1848, and 1860, was to be decided on.
Many were those competing for it, and all Neapolitans--amongst these
Pasquarelli and Caggiano, pupils of mine; and for this reason, as well
as on account of my ill health, I could not accept the position of
judge. Giovanni Strazza was therefore invited to come from Milan; and he
too died a few months ago, my poor friend! He had a very cultivated
mind, and was as amiable and polished in manner as he could be. I knew
him first in Rome in 1844, when he was very young, and when artists,
amateurs, and all people crowded round his first statue of Ishmael. To
all, as well as to me, he was open-hearted, loyal, and sincere, and his
words were always urbane and pleasant. I saw him again at Vienna in
1873, when he was my companion in the jury for our section of sculpture
at the great exhibition. But let us really return to the living, if that
be possible.
The prize for the statue of Victory was adjudicated to Emanuele
Caggiano, and justly so. I think this statue is one of his finest works.
I have heard nothing of him now for a long time, and am afraid that he
does not occupy himself with the same fervour that he displayed when he
began to work under my direction.
I revisited all the things that I had seen the first time I was in
Naples, with a feeling of _ennui_, and only gave some attention to
Pompeii, because there I had the good fortune to meet the Commendatore
Fiorelli, director of the excavations, and some artists that I have
forgotten. I remember, however, the brotherly solicitude shown me by my
friends Morelli and Palizzi, and this time even by Angelini, and the
particular courtesy of Signor Vonwiller, a most cultivated man, and so
great a lover of art that he has converted his house into a real modern
and most select gallery. Here one finds in perfect harmony all the best
products of Italian art. At that time (and many years have since passed)
the pictures of Morelli, Celentano, Altamura, Palizzi, and other clever
painters of that beautiful school, were admirably exhibited; there too,
Vela, Magni, Angelini, and Fedi had works; and in the midst of these I
felt honoured also to find myself represented by my two statues of
Bacchini, the "Festante" and the "Dolente." If every city in Italy had a
gentleman like Vonwiller, it may easily be believed that art would
derive great benefit from it; for taste backed by great fortunes has
more direct and potent efficacy than all the societies for promoting
art, where, with small sips and small prizes, the genius of poor artists
is frittered away. Until the day when these societies make the heroic
resolution of only conferring two or three prizes (be it for pictures or
statues of small dimensions; the size does not matter, as long as they
are really beautiful), art will not advance one step. But in the
meanwhile, let us take things as they are and push on.
[Sidenote: SIGNOR VONWILLER'S GALLERY.]
The repose and the balmy airs of beautiful hospitable Naples worked a
wonderful change for the better in my health. Sleep, that beneficent
restorer of the forces, which for some time past had gone from me,
verily without my having murdered it, as Macbeth had, or even in the
least offended it, returned with its blandishments and its calm smiling
visions full of pleasant happy memories. It was the season of the year
when nature dons again her green mantle. In that happy country, her
awakening is more precocious, and one could say that nature was there a
very early riser; and whilst the mountains were still all covered with
snow, on those sweet slopes, on those enchanted shores, the little green
new-born leaflets mix with the blossoms of the apple, almond, and peach
trees. The light morning breeze makes these leaflets and blossoms
tremble, and wafts to the air a sweet delicate perfume, that revives the
body and rejoices the spirit.
[Sidenote: THE CHARM OF SPRING.]
This reawakening of nature has in it I know not what of harmony that is
difficult to describe. It seems as if the chest expanded to drink in the
air with unusual longing; the eyes are never weary of looking again at
the budding flowerets, whose odour one inhales with a chaste
voluptuousness, as of the breath of our children in their mother's arms.
The mysterious wave of life, that insinuates itself in the earth,
penetrating even into its most infinitesimal parts, that prepares the
nuptial bed, and makes the budding vegetation fruitful; the wave, that
in the profound depths of the sea gladdens the life of its mute
inhabitants, gives joy and swiftness to the flight of the birds in the
air, makes the animals of the earth walk with more erect, ready, and
joyful step,--the wave of life, more than all, operates wonderfully on
man. And I--I felt myself born unto a new life; nature seemed to me more
beautiful, her bounty more desirable; the wish to observe and to work
returned to me, the enjoyment of conversation, attention in listening,
temperance in discussions, and courtesy in controversies, all impulses
of the mind, wherein, it seems to me, lies the mysterious harmony of
body and soul in perfect union--_mens sana in corpore sano_.
[Sidenote: ILLNESS OF LUISINA.]
Having therefore recovered my health, and taken leave of my friend
Mancinelli and his good family, I again left for Rome, with the
intention of passing the approaching Holy Week there; but it so happened
that my poor Luisina, the youngest of my daughters, fell ill. Some
symptoms of her illness had already manifested themselves in the first
days after our arrival; then she had to take to her bed, and became so
much worse, that we were all in the greatest anxiety--two months of such
anxiety as only a father can understand; and she was so sweet a
creature, and so intelligent! Then she improved a little, but did not
recover. We left hurriedly, because the bitterness of losing her away
from home was unbearable to us. The affectionate solicitude of our
friends at this juncture was really brotherly. Majoli, Marchetti,
Mantovani, Wolf, and Tenerani came forward and showed us indescribable
kindness, and I remember it with gratitude, that no time can ever efface
or weaken.
After our return to Florence, under treatment the disease seemed to have
been got under; she recovered her health, and we thought no more about
it.
I took up my studio life again. As I stood before my work that I had
left when in a state of such utter prostration, it seemed to me that I
had almost a new spirit within me. The head of the Madonna, who, when I
left, looked as if she was sorrowing for me, now seemed to me so full of
sadness that I did not touch it again, and it remains just as it was
when I left, tormented by the insupportable, atrocious, and stunning
noise in my head. Tears of emotion, of gratitude, and of feeling ran
down my cheeks as I stood before the clay, and, full of confidence, I
set myself again to work. In thought I returned to the days of my
sufferings, when the fear of losing my mind frightened me, and I dared
not look at my children or at my good wife. These remembrances quickened
the pleasure I felt in my new state of health, and I thanked the Lord
from the bottom of my heart.
[Sidenote: TRIA, THE MODEL OF MY "CHRIST."]
I had taken Tonino Liverani (nick-named Tria) as a model for my
"Christ." He was rather too old for a "Christ," but I was not able to
find another who united such majesty and grace of movement and of parts.
Hardly had I put the whole masses together and begun to define some of
the outlines, when he fell ill and died in a few days. I went to see him
when he was at his worst, and the poor man was glad to see me, and was
pained (as he said) not to be able to finish the "Dead Christ." With his
deep sunk eyes, mouth half opened, and with the pallor of death upon
him, he looked marvellously beautiful, and strangely like that type of
Christ that good artists of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries have
handed down to us. Poor Tria, I still remember the long, piteous look
you gave me when we bade each other good-bye!
Scarcely had I finished the model for the "Pietà," when I modelled the
statue of Astronomy for the Mossotti monument, which is in the Campo
Santo at Pisa, a work that I had pledged myself to make for its mere
cost; and I did so most willingly on account of the reverent friendship
that I had had for Mossotti. But even the expenses were not covered, and
to all my pressing inquiries I never got a word of answer from the
treasurer of the committee, in consequence of which the committee itself
was never able to publish a report of its administration. But, that the
word expenses may be clearly understood, I wish it to be known that
that statue, with its sarcophagus, base, and ornamentation, I had
pledged myself to make, and did make, for six thousand _lire_. I have
received _five thousand eight hundred and fifty_; there remain the
_hundred and fifty_, which I am obliged to make a present of, after
having given gratuitously my work on the models and the finishing of it
in marble. I don't know if it is so with other artists, but with me it
has always happened that the works I have been desirous of making for
their mere cost--which is like saying, as a present--have not been
accepted, or, besides giving my own work, I have been obliged to add
something from my pocket! Before these memoirs are finished the reader
will find something else of the same kind which will serve as a lesson
and warning to young artists, even if they ever feel within them the
"softness" to work for nothing.
[Sidenote: BUST OF VICTOR EMMANUEL.]
In another place I have said that, in the enumeration of my works, I
should not make mention of the portraits. I was obliged, however, to
deviate from that promise to speak of one that had occasioned a great
deal of talk and false reports about me. I must now speak of another
that I was to have made, and did not--that is to say, the portrait of
his Majesty King Victor Emmanuel. Why I never made it I cannot say
myself, and perhaps the reader himself will not know after he has read
the following account, unless he is satisfied with the explanation that
I shall presently give.
The Superintendent of the Archives, Commendatore Francesco Bonaini,
after having put in order and nearly reconstructed the archives of Pisa,
wished to put in the main hall a marble bust, of almost colossal size,
of Victor Emmanuel; and in order to determine the size and study the
light, I went with him to Pisa to see the place itself where the bust
of the King was to stand. Having seen it and fixed upon the size of the
bust, I made one condition, agreeing to all arrangements as to price and
time for making it. The condition that I made--a most natural one--was
that his Majesty should concede to me the sittings required, that I
might model him from life and not from photograph. The syndic of the day
(Cavaliere Senatore Ruschi, if my memory serves me) went to Florence,
accompanied by some of the _assessori_, to ask the King, first for the
permission of placing his portrait in the Great Hall of the Pisan
Archives, and then to grant the necessary sittings to the artist, and
settle the place, the time, and the length of the sittings, according to
his Majesty's pleasure. Both the one request and the other were granted
most graciously by the King with his usual affability, and he added that
he knew the artist and was well satisfied, and that, in the meanwhile,
they were to wait for notice to communicate to me that I might begin my
work. Months passed, and this notice never came; Bonaini was pressing
me, being in a hurry to have the archives inaugurated, and I appealed to
his Excellency Marchese di Breme, Minister of the Royal House, to beg
the King to let me have the required sittings, but my request met with
no good result. Later, after the death of Di Breme, I made the same
appeal to the Marchese Filippo Gualterio, who succeeded him in that
office; but this appeal not only had no good result, but did not even
receive an answer. As the affair of the inauguration of the Pisan
Archives had boiled over, Bonaini did not speak of it again, and
naturally neither did I. Here there would be some observations to be
made on this favour having been asked for and granted, and then given
up. As for me, I resolve the question in a few simple words and say,
that as it is a most boring thing to all to stand as model, for a king
it must be excessively so and insufferable, and therefore the notice to
begin this boring business never came from the person who was to undergo
it; and it is reasonable enough, and even satisfies me, who have posed
as model two or three times.
[Sidenote: JURY OF ARTISTS ON CAVOUR'S MONUMENT.]
About this time the Syndic of Turin invited me to form part of a
commission of artists to pass judgment on the models sent up for
Cavour's monument. I was then at Leghorn with my family, as my little
girls were in need of sea-bathing. I had no need for it myself, and, in
fact, I think that the damp salt air was not good for me, and I stayed
there most unwillingly, so that when the invitation to go to Turin came
I instantly accepted it with pleasure as a fortunate opportunity to
change the air and have something to occupy my mind; and leaving my wife
with the two youngest little girls, I took Amalia with me.
This competition, of which we were to judge, was a second trial, as the
first had failed; the competitors were many, and some of them
praiseworthy. My colleagues in the jury were, if I remember right, the
Professors Santo Varni of Genoa, Innocenzo Fraccaroli of Milan, Ceppi of
Turin, and another whose name I cannot recall. The examination was a
long one, and the discussion, although opinions differed, was a quiet
one: the majority pronounced itself favourable to a project of the
architect Cipolla, which was in drawing; my vote had been for one of the
two designs in relief by Vela. The reporter of our decision was
Professor Ceppi. I returned to Leghorn to my family, and from there to
Florence, where I again took up my work.
Signor Ferdinando Filippi di Buti, whom I had met at Leghorn, showed
himself desirous of having a statue of mine to put in the mortuary
chapel that he had built from its very foundation close to one of his
villas on the pleasant hill that rises above the town. The subject was a
beautiful one, and, after the "Dead Christ," I could not have desired
anything better to make than "Christ after the Resurrection," and this
was the very subject that Signor Filippi wanted of me.
[Sidenote: IMPORTANCE OF RELIGIOUS SENTIMENT.]
The "Triumph of the Cross," the "Madonna Addolorata" that I spoke of
further back, the "Pietà," and this "Christ after the Resurrection," are
the strictly religious subjects that I have made--rather, that I have
had the good fortune to make, because I believe that such subjects,
always beautiful in themselves, when they find the soul of the artist
disposed to feel them and comprehend them, are also capable of high
serene inspiration, and secret efficacy to the soul of those who behold
them, be they in spirit even thousands of miles distant from the number
of believers.
Let the truth prevail. Religious sentiment has its root in the heart, in
the intellect, in the imagination, and, in a word, in all the impulses
of the soul. A heart without God is a heart without love, and will not
love woman but for the brutal pleasure she procures, and, in
consequence, not even the children that are the fruit of, and also a
burden upon, his selfishness. He will not love his country except for
the honours and the gain that can be got out of it, and will sacrifice
it carelessly for a single moment of pleasure or interest, because a
heart without God is a heart without love. An intelligence without the
knowledge of God is wanting in a basis as starting-point for all its
reasoning--it is without the light that should illumine the objects it
takes hold of to examine. Such an intellect is circumscribed within the
narrow circle of things perceptible to the senses, where, finding
nothing but aridness wherein to quench its burning thirst, which is
always insatiate for goodness and truth, it ends either in a fierce
desire of suicide, or as a vengeance of nature's own in that saddest of
nights, madness. An imagination deprived of the splendid visions of the
supersensible, loses even its true functions, because, not seeing or
divining through time and space, through life and death, in the stars
and in the atoms, anything but a casual mechanism, it is cruelly
condemned to inertia, and with clipped wings can no longer sustain its
flight--those wings which so potently upheld Dante as he passed from
planet to planet, leaving the earth down in depths far beneath him. The
eye accustomed to matter is besmeared with mud, and can no longer bear
the bright light of the sun and the planets, which seem as if they were
the eyes of God.
[Sidenote: RELIGIOUS SENTIMENT.]
Religious sentiment has existed in all times, amongst all people, and it
exists in the conscience of man independent of all education and
example. The immense vault of the heavens; the innumerable planets
resplendent in light; the sun that illuminates, warms, and fertilises
the earth; the expanse of the waters of the sea; the prodigious variety
and beauty of animals, plants, and fruits; the loveliness of colours,
harmony of sounds from everywhere, and for all our senses,--come to us
as the proof of God. But more even than from exterior things we feel it
within ourselves. The blood shed by the martyrs fighting for the faith;
life given in large profusion for the defence of country, liberty, and
honour, or our women and children; active indignation against tyranny,
cowardliness, and injustice; the tender charm we feel for innocence,
admiration for virtue, and charity towards the poor, orphans, and those
in trouble,--all these are signs that God has placed within us a part of
His very nature. We feel within us the impulses of charity, and in
prayer we feel our heart expand with hope; out of frailty we fall, and
faith renews in us the strength to rise again. Religious sentiment makes
the heart glow, illuminates the intellect, fertilises the imagination,
and creates not only the good citizen and good father, but also the
artist.
[Sidenote: VISIT OF MANZONI.]
Our hundred basilicas, the paintings and statues of our Christian
artists that Italy and the world is so rich in, bear witness to this
tribunal of truth to which anxious humanity, even from its earliest
days, appeals. Phidias, Homer, Dante and Michael Angelo, Brunellesco and
Orgagna, Raphael and Leonardo, Donatello and Ghiberti, and a hundred
others, prove that religious inspiration is of so large a source that
one can always draw from it; and although in the application of it the
form may in a measure vary, yet it will always be great and admirable,
because the mind that lifts itself up, though it may deviate more or
less salient in curves, will always remain elevated. Correggio and
Bernini, Guido Reni and the Caracci, were under the bad influence of
their time as to method, but the intention was always good. And coming
down to our recent fathers, and speaking always of artists, were Canova,
Rossini, and Manzoni not great, for the very reason that they took their
inspiration from religious subjects?
As the venerated name of Manzoni has fallen from my pen, I shall
describe the visit that he made to my studio. When his visit was
announced to me, I had but just finished the bas-relief for Santa Croce
and the "Pietà." He was in company with the Marchese Gino Capponi,
Aleardi, and Professor Giovan Battista Giorgini. After having seen
several of my works, he stopped before the model in plaster of the
bas-relief for Santa Croce, and said--
[Sidenote: THE POWER OF FAITH.]
"I see here a vast subject that speaks to me of lofty things; it seems
to me that in parts I can divine its meaning, but I should wish to hear
the artist himself speak and explain his entire intention."
It is always unwillingly that I act as cicerone to my very poor
works--and to say the truth, I only do so most rarely with my intimate
friends in order to ask some advice; but the abrupt request made by such
a man as he was did not displease me, and I began my explanation. But
after I had been talking a few minutes, Marchese Gino Capponi began to
stammer out something full of emotion in his sorrow not to be able to
see the things I was explaining, and had to go out accompanied by
Giorgini, if I mistake not. And here was another of those great souls
that warmed itself in the rays of that faith which broke asunder the
chains of the slave--opened the mind and softened the heart of the
savage--restrained the flights of fancy within the beaten road of truth
and good--willed that power, justice, and charity should be friends with
each other, and made one taste of peace and happiness in poverty--and
that enlarged and extended the confines of the intellect, of morality,
and of civilisation.
I beg pardon if I have enlarged too much on this subject, but I do not
think it can be superfluous to endeavour to correct the tendency of the
day, when from every side one hears repeated that, for the future, in
art the study of religious subjects is at an end, as if society of
to-day was entirely composed of unbelievers or free-thinkers, who, by
way of parenthesis, amongst other fine things have never thought that
thought itself is not at all free. It seems to me that thought is an
attribute of the soul that is moved with marvellous rapidity by means of
a strength and impulse superior to itself, which depend upon physical
constitution, education, and example. Thought, with all its freedom, all
its flights, is subject, dependent, and, as one might say, formed by
those forces and those impulses.
[Sidenote: GUARDIAN ANGEL FOR THE GRAND DUKE.]
In the infinite scale of human thoughts there are some good, but a great
many more are bad. In the moral order of things, those contrary to good
are evil; as in the intellectual, those contrary to truth--and in the
ideal, those contrary to the beautiful.
Now thought moves inconstantly from the beautiful to the ugly, from the
true to the false, from good to evil, until our will, which is really
free, either repulses it or takes possession of it according to the
power, more or less, that reason has over the will. It is clear,
therefore, that thought is not free, but, on the contrary, is
subservient to laws independent of and superior to itself. How this
happens is quite another pair of sleeves; but the fact is this, our
thought is moved, and so to speak, subject to this power. Will comes and
accepts it, weds it and makes it its own, good or bad though it be, with
or without register of baptism, and snaps its fingers at the syndic or
the priest. Once stirred, thought moves the will, and the will
assenting, commands it as with a rod. And now, for the second time, let
me really beg pardon.
After my "Christ," his Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Constantine of
Russia gave me an order for an angel that he wanted as a present for a
German prince, whose name I do not remember. This angel was to be the
Guardian Angel; the subject was determined upon, and I don't know if, in
the mind of the giver, it was to guard the prince or the principality.
If it was the prince, I hope my poor angel will have done the best he
could; if the principality, I am afraid that he has been overcome by
cunning and force. His head is crowned with olives, and his lifted right
hand points to heaven. Will the prince feel any consolation looking at
the statue? I hope so; and in any way, he will be persuaded that true
peace is not of this world.
[Sidenote: CIPOLLA AND THE MONUMENT TO CAVOUR.]
It is now the time and place to speak of Cavour's monument. As I before
mentioned, I was one of the judges on that committee. My vote had been
for Professor Vela's design, but the prize was obtained by the architect
Professor Cipolla; and as he was an architect, he naturally could not
carry his work into execution: he therefore went the rounds, and it was
not difficult for him to find several sculptors who assumed, each and
all of them, certain parts, either a statue or bas-relief. For the
principal statue of Cavour, it was the intention, I know not whether of
Cipolla or the Giunta Comunale, that I should make it, but their
reiterated request I did not think well to accept.
In the meantime, in Turin there began to be a sort of persistent, dull
warfare against Cipolla's design. All sorts of possible and imaginable
doubts were raised as to its general character, meaning, proportions,
and effect. That excellent artist, Professor Cipolla, proposed to put an
end to all this talk by setting up in relief, in largish proportions, a
model of his so-much-contested design. Would that he had never done so!
The aversion to it grew beyond bounds, and pronounced itself by means of
the press to such a degree, that the Giunta thought it best no longer to
intrust him with the commission for the work; for, by virtue of an
article in the programme for this competition, the committee were not in
the least tied down to commit the execution of the monument to the
gainer of the prize at the competition, having left itself full and
entire liberty of action. From this began a sequel of remonstrances and
appeals on the part of the artist, and answers backed by law on the part
of the commission, which was then broken up and another formed, for the
purpose of studying anew the whole affair.
[Sidenote: THE CAVOUR MONUMENT GIVEN TO ME.]
I hurry over these things quickly as they come to me and as my memory
has retained them after many years, without searching amongst letters,
newspapers, or elsewhere, wishing, as I have done until now, to make use
only of my memory.
The new Giunta, presided over by my illustrious and lamented friend
Count Federigo Sclopis, took up this tangled affair, discussed in so
many ways, and came to the determination of not having any more
competition. They decided that the best thing to be done was to choose
an artist, and order the work directly from him, leaving him free to
determine the rendering of the subject, the size of the monument, the
materials to be employed, and choice of the site, and all other matters,
except, naturally, as to price and time,--which latter could be but
short, owing to the two years that had passed in competitions! The
choice fell on me, who was a thousand miles away from thinking of such a
thing. However, before saying a word to me, and much less, writing to
me, I was interrogated by a most estimable person if I would accept that
work, and I answered at once that I would not: in the first place,
because the subject was a difficult one, on account of its purely
political significance,--so extraneous, not to say tiresome, to my
nature and studies; in the second place, because, having been one of the
judges on that commission, it did not seem delicate to accept it; and
finally, because I thought Vela's design most praiseworthy. But neither
my refusal nor the reasons I put forth availed to alter the resolution
they had now taken to make me accept the work, which, for the matter of
that, if it presented great difficulties, and even rather rough ones, in
the rendering of its great conception, yet offered a most rare
opportunity, that would have flattered many other artists of more
ambitious hope than I, who have always been temperate. With all this,
however, I should always have replied in the negative, had not a gentle
and most noble lady begged me to accept, touching on certain family
affections that have always found in me an echo of assent.
[Sidenote: I ACCEPT THE COMMISSION.]
I accepted this commission, therefore, not blinding myself to the great
difficulties that I was going to encounter, or the many little
annoyances that I should undergo on account of the disappointed hopes of
those who had competed for the work. I saw and felt all the seriousness
of my undertaking, and thought of nothing else but carrying it out most
conscientiously. I asked for eight years' time, which will not appear
much, to execute the work; but I was begged to be satisfied with six,
and I wrote my adhesion, still declaring in the contract that it would
be impossible for me to complete it in that short time. Although I
worked with all possible energy, and provided myself with additional
workmen besides my own usual ones, yet the monument could not be
finished and put in its place until after the eight years that I had
asked for.
[Sidenote: DESCRIPTION OF MY DESIGN.]
My composition of the architectural part of the monument was a
quadrangular base, with two spherical bodies on each side, whereon
reposed another base, with the corners cut off, that sustained the
principal group of Italy and Cavour. In front, on the lower base, is the
half-reclining figure representing Right in the act of rising, who leans
with the right hand on a broken yoke, and clenches the left on his
breast in a menacing attitude. His head and back are covered by a lion's
skin, signifying that right is strength. Opposite is Duty, in a quiet
attitude of repose. His head is crowned by a wreath of olives,
signifying that in the fulfilment of duty peace is to be found; his
right elbow rests on a block, where, on the two sides exposed to view,
are sculptured in bas-relief the two extremes of human activity. On one
of these there is a king distributing a crown and prizes to a virtuous
man, whilst behind him there is a chained delinquent undergoing his
penalty; and on the other there is a husbandman ploughing the ground. On
the two lateral sides there are two groups. That on the right is of
Politics, with two little genii, Revolution and Diplomacy. Politics is
seated, but alert, and almost in the act of rising: her head is turned
to the little genius of Diplomacy, who has unfolded the treaties of
1815, and is gravely showing it to her with his right hand, whilst with
his left he hides behind him a sword and olive-branch, demonstrating
that he brings with him either war or peace. The other little genius of
Revolution, in the act of wishing to dash forward, is held back by
Politics, who keeps her eyes on him, and, with a caressing expression,
tries to temper his ardour; one of his feet rests on a fragment of
medieval architecture, and he holds in his right hand a brand, the
symbol of destruction. The group on the left is of Independence, tightly
clasping in her embrace the little genius of the Provinces, at whose
feet still lies a link of his chain of captivity. Independence has Roman
sandals on her feet, and a warrior's helmet on her head; her right arm
is uplifted, and she holds a broken chain in her hand, in the act of
dashing it from her. The other genius is that of Unity, crowned by an
oak-wreath; he holds the fasces, to show that union is strength. The
principal group stands up on the top, and represents Cavour, wrapped in
his funereal mantle. Italy, at his side, in the act of rising from her
prostration, is offering him the civic crown, with expressions of
gratitude, more decidedly expressed by her left arm, by which she holds
her great politician tenderly around the waist; whilst he, with kindly
act, shows the people a chart, on which is written his famous formula,
"_Libera Chiesa in libero Stato_," or free Church in free State. On the
two façades of the great base are two bas-reliefs in bronze. In one of
these is portrayed the return from the Crimea of the Sardinian troops,
who, by Cavour's advice, took part, in union with France and England, in
the war against Russia, to put a check to the ambitious designs of that
Power in the East. The other bas-relief represents the Congress of
Paris, where for the first time, on account of Cavour, Italy's voice was
listened to.
[Sidenote: DESCRIPTION OF THIS MONUMENT.]
The architectural part is made in rose granite of Baveno; the
ornaments--that is to say, the arms, cornices, and trophies--and the
statues are in clear white marble of Canal Grande, which withstands all
attacks of weather. The entire monument is elevated on three steps, and
surrounded by a garden enclosed by railing.
The inscriptions are: On the front, "To Cammillo Cavour, born in Turin
the 10th of August 1810, died the 6th of June 1861." On the side over
the Politics, "_Audace prudente_;" over the Independence, "_L'Italia
libero_;" and behind, "_Gli Italiani, auspice Torino_." These
inscriptions are by Professor Michele Coppino.