THE PALACE OF THE EXHIBITION AT VIENNA--WHY, WITH MY ATTRIBUTES
OF PRESIDENT, I WAS IN SUCH HASTE--MICHAEL ANGELO AND
GARIBALDI--A VIENNESE CABMAN--THE CAMERINI MONUMENT--DUKE
CAMERINI--AN ANECDOTE OF HIS LIFE--STATUE OF MICHAEL ANGELO IN
THE FUTURE--THE CENTENARY FESTIVAL OF MICHAEL ANGELO--SIGNORA
ADELINA PATTI--A GREEDY YOUNG MAN OF LITTLE JUDGMENT--THE
FAVARD MONUMENT.
The Palace of the Exhibition was built on the Prater. It cost twenty
millions of florins (fifty millions of _lire_), without counting, be it
remembered, the sum expended by other nations on their special
buildings. It is not my intention to describe this immense edifice, and
all the smaller ones around it, in that large and most delightful
Prater. I will not even speak of the Exhibition, excepting only as
regards my department--that of sculpture.
Without expectations or merits on my part I was elected President of the
department in sculpture; and this honour was most prized by me, because
it enabled me to hasten on the work in our section with all the alacrity
compatible with the number and importance of the works submitted to our
judgment; and this, indeed, was not a trifling matter, for, between
statues and groups, there were two hundred and fifteen, without counting
large and small busts. There was a great deal of German sculpture; but
with few exceptions, it was somewhat hard and conventional. Ours, with
some honourable exceptions,--and amongst them Monteverde's group of
Jenner, fine in the choice of subject, well grouped, and admirably
modelled--and a few other works,--were like the usual old woman's tale,
trivial in conception and ungainly in form. It is painful to say so, but
the French sculpture at this Exhibition surpassed, and more than
surpassed, ours; and if it proved possible to divide the number of
medals between the French and us, it is due to the condescension of the
French members of the jury, Dubois and Masson, to the Germans, and to my
obstinacy in upholding our art as much as I possibly could.
[Sidenote: UNIVERSAL EXHIBITIONS ARE FAIRS.]
Ugh! these blessed universal exhibitions! What good do they do to art,
to true art, to great art? None whatever. I believe, at the best, they
only bring about the sale of some smart humoristic or coarse statuette,
and nothing more. I am aware that Vela's "Napoleon I.," which was sold
in Paris, will be brought up in opposition to this. That is an exception
to the rule; and then--who knows?--if Napoleon III. had not been on the
throne, perhaps Vela's beautiful statue would have come back to the
artist's studio at Turin. Many fine Italian statues returned at that
time; and did not the "Jenner" come back from Vienna? These universal
exhibitions--let us say it in plain words--are fairs and markets, in
which the merchandise most appreciated is something odd, humoristic, or
ridiculous. But of this I have spoken elsewhere, and do not like to
retrace my steps.
I have said that the office of president was grateful to me because it
enabled me to hasten on the work in our section; but I have not given
the reason for this hurry. The poor artists, the greater part of them
strangers, that had never seen Vienna, felt a longing to do so; and when
at mid-day, after three hours of work, I suspended the meeting until one
o'clock, they said to me, "Mr President, have a little patience; be
reasonable. We have never seen anything of this city. We will work as
much as you wish in the mornings, but only let us be free the rest of
the day." And I answered: "Have a little patience yourselves. Let us
work now that we are at it: it is for this reason we have come here. As
soon as we have finished, we will rest and amuse ourselves, and will
enjoy all the beautiful objects in the town and in the country; but now
that we are here, we must stick to work. Good-bye; I shall see you again
shortly--at one o'clock." And with very long faces they went away. But
why, wherefore, all this hurry--this uninterrupted work, without rest?
This is why: I was there alone; and when I am alone, away from home,
without one of my daughters, whatever may be the city or country,
however beautiful and attractive, everything bores me to a superlative
degree. When, in answer to my colleagues, I said that as soon as our
work was finished we would amuse ourselves and see and enjoy all the
wonders of the town, I repeated mentally to myself, I will take the
fastest direct train, and without leaving the railway carriage, in
thirty-six hours will get back to Florence; and I did so.
[Sidenote: WORK AND AMUSEMENTS AT VIENNA.]
Notwithstanding all my persistence, we took, however, one or two
half-days' rest, and each one of us went the way he liked best to
satisfy his desire of amusing himself. As for me, I wrote long letters
home, and in the evening went to the theatre, where they were singing
(and really singing) Wagner's 'Lohengrin'; or joined, in brotherly
symposiums, the Italian, German, Hungarian, or French members of our
jury. The Viennese and Hungarian members gave us a dinner, and it went
off in a most gay and friendly fashion: the toasts burst forth, one
after the other, in a bright rapid line of fire. There is no doubt about
it--Art fraternises all nations. Our speeches, half French and half
Italian and Hungarian-Latin, were spoken freely, and without giving even
a thought that a phrase or word might offend the political opinion or
oratorical taste of any one. Everything was good, everything applauded,
and we drank to everything. I remember a Hungarian artist, who, drinking
to the toast of Art and the Italians, said that Italy had always been
great; and if, in days gone by, she had been able to glory in Michael
Angelo, to-day she gloried in Garibaldi! And we drank even to this,
although the comparison seemed to us to be very far-fetched. But I
repeat, when once we opened our mouth, it did not much matter what came
out of it. I also spoke, and was applauded; but if I wanted to repeat
what I said, I should have to draw upon my imagination, because I don't
remember a word of it.
[Sidenote: DINNERS AT VIENNA.]
We enjoyed other evenings of feast and merriment, but none like this
one. We were invited to a dinner given by the Italian General
Commissioner, which went off most splendidly, but was naturally more
dignified. We were all Italians, but not all artists; for, in fact, the
greater number were scientific men--and where there are scientific men,
all is at an end, and seriousness at once walks in. The imaginative,
frisky, and reckless words of the artist do not venture to come out at
such meetings; and the talk there gains as much in rhetoric as it loses
in living art, sincerity, and unexpectedness.
[Sidenote: AN ADVENTURE WITH A CABMAN.]
We were also invited by his Imperial Highness the Archduke Ranieri to an
entertainment, which was most splendid, cordial, and brilliant. The
Archduke talked to every one in his own language; and if he expressed
himself with the same exactness and propriety to the English, Russians,
or Spaniards, as he did to us Italians and to the French, he is really a
wonderful polyglot. At this _fête_ something happened to me which proves
that the Viennese cabmen are more quarrelsome than ours. This is how it
was. I got into the cab at the hotel, and said that I wanted to go to
the palace of his Highness Archduke Ranieri, to remain there two hours,
and then return to the hotel; and for this the price of six florins
(fifteen _lire_) was agreed upon. Having stayed my time at the _fête_, I
descended to look for my charioteer. He was not there. To be sure, the
cab was there, and the poor beast in harness seemed to be deep in
thought or sleeping; but the coachman was not there. He was looked for
everywhere, in all the neighbouring beer-houses, but could nowhere be
traced. So in a rage I had to go up again, and coming down about half an
hour afterwards, I called him, but he was not there. The poor beast
stood with his nose nearly on the ground, I do not know whether more
from sleepiness or hunger; and I in a rage, as may well be imagined, got
inside the cab to wait for him. Finally, after about half an hour the
man returned, and I abused him roundly; but it was like speaking to the
wall, for he understood nothing, and off he drove. On arriving at the
hotel I put the six florins briskly into his hand; he refused to take
them, and I could not understand why. The porter of the hotel
intervened, and said that the cabman had agreed to wait at the _fête_
for two hours, instead of which I had kept him there three hours. I
explained to the porter the whole thing, and what a rascal he was! But
not to discuss the matter any longer, I paid even for the hour that I
had to wait that _canaille's_ convenience. Really I would have paid
anything to have been able to say two or three words after my own heart
in German to the miserable scamp.
[Sidenote: MONUMENT TO COUNT LUIGI CAMERINI.]
My duty was now ended. I gave a last look at the beautiful Schiller
Platz, where my hotel was, saluted the Academy of Fine Arts, then
building, and with open heart, filling my lungs with a great breath of
country air, I flew in thought to beautiful Florence, to my family, and
to the studies I loved. I plunged into the most comfortable railway
carriage that I could find, and never again turned to the right or to
the left. I think that I was the first of the Italian jury that returned
to our beautiful country.
At this time I was making the monument to Duke Silvestro Camerini that
had been ordered from me by his illustrious and most noble nephew, Count
Luigi. Senatore Achilli Mauri had first spoken to me of it on his
behalf, and had shown me a design by Signor Gradenigo of Padua, in which
there were to be two statues that the Count wished me to make. The
design did not please me, and I answered that I would make the monument,
but that I wished to compose it after my own fashion. The Count was
content. I made a design; he saw it, it pleased him, and all was settled
in a friendly way by a few frank words, without all those precautions of
contract, seal register, witnesses, and caution that are invented by
distrust to protect one from rascals. It is thus that honest men deal
with honest men; and of such is Count Luigi, and of such by God's mercy
am I, and I can proclaim it loudly in the broad light of the sun. I am
certain that, of the many persons who have given me commissions, not one
has had any question with me, nor even the slightest feeling of
unpleasantness! The thought of this, and the certainty of being able to
proclaim it _coram populo_, is to me a consolation so complete and
grateful, that it forms, so to speak, my happiness.
[Sidenote: COUNT LUIGI CAMERINI.]
Amongst those who have given me commissions, Count Luigi Camerini has
been one of the most courteous--a true friend. Every time that I went to
Padua or Piazzola on account of the work I was engaged on, besides the
glad welcome that he and his amiable wife gave me, he managed to arrange
some excursions for our pastime and pleasure--now to Venice, now to
Passagno, now to Vicenza, and sometimes even farther; and he pushed
courtesy and friendship to the extent of taking us all as far as Turin,
on the occasion of the inauguration of Cavour's monument. As I said, to
do this, besides being amiable and kind, one must also be rich, and he
is rich indeed. I remember that one day, during one of these excursions,
we found ourselves in a first-class railway carriage with the Princess
Troubetzkoi and her husband, Duke Talleyrand. We all talked together
more or less about everything--all except the Duke, who gathered himself
up in his corner, with his travelling-cap pulled down on his forehead,
intent on reading a French newspaper. He had never lifted his eyes on
us, so absorbed did he seem in his reading.
I do not know how it was that the conversation fell on the heaviness of
the taxes. I am greatly afraid that it was I who started the subject,
because on this key I am wonderfully eloquent; I storm about the laws,
agents, cashiers, everybody, and everything.
"Let them lay a heavy hand," I was saying, "on play, on luxury, on
vices, on property, but leave in peace the labour, industry, and talent
that are the bonds of civilisation and health, because the public
conscience rebels against this."
[Sidenote: DESCRIPTION OF THE MONUMENT.]
The good Duke did not even move; for him it was as if I was neither in
the wrong nor the right. My friend Camerini, perhaps to allay my
indignation, quietly smiled and said--
"You are right; certainly these taxes are very heavy. But what can one
do about it? One must pay, and that is all----"
"Certainly," I continued, repeating his favourite word, "one must
pay--and I pay; but it is too much--these taxes are too high."
"I agree, I agree.... Just imagine that I pay annually in taxes (beyond
the indirect ones, you understand), two hundred and fifty thousand
_lire_!"
At the mention of this sum the Duke turned slightly towards Camerini,
looked fixedly at him a short time over his spectacles, then took them
off very slowly, folded them and put them in their case, set aside his
newspaper, and entered into a conversation with him that only came to an
end when we separated. "Oh the power of gold!" said I to myself.... Let
us return to the monument.
It is composed thus: on the first foundation a great urn, above which
rises the base, on which is placed the seated statue of the Duke in a
thoughtful attitude, dressed in the clothes he wore, and wrapped in a
cloak. At the sides of the urn, which form two semicircles, are two
statues. Beneficence is standing and offering money to a youthful
workman, who, in an attitude of affectionate gratitude, wishes to kiss
the hand that with such loving wisdom has lifted him out of misery, and
ennobled him by the sanctity of labour, so that this payment is only the
legitimate recompense of his work. This group represents one of the
virtues of Duke Camerini, who made use of his very large rent-roll to
alleviate the misery of his fellow-beings, and give them encouragement
and work; and certainly no one more than he could feel the usefulness of
work, because from being a humble workman (although of a respectable
family) he elevated himself to the highest rank of society, and to
riches as honourable as they were great. Corresponding to this statue,
on the other side kneels Gratitude, who scatters flowers on the urn; and
although gratitude is one of the virtues that adorned that great man, as
I shall explain hereafter, yet this statue refers to that sentiment of
affectionate remembrance by which his nephew, Count Luigi Camerini,
wished to honour the memory of his munificent uncle. The lower base is
ornamented by a bas-relief, representing Duke Camerini when, during one
of the inundations of the Po, an immense population of that desolate
country were left without a roof to their heads and without bread, he
rescued them, encouraged them, and helped them, giving bread and work to
all, ordering the work of new embankments immediately to be undertaken,
avoiding most wisely by so doing greater disaster, and saving from
misery and hunger that wretched population. This bas-relief is an
admirable work of Professor Luigi Ceccon, of Padua; and this, as well as
the execution of all the architectural and ornamental parts of the
monument, Count Camerini and I intrusted to him.
[Sidenote: CHARACTER OF DUKE CAMERINI.]
[Sidenote: ANECDOTE OF DUKE CAMERINI.]
The moral character of Duke Camerini is worthy of being remembered and
honoured. It is certainly not my task to relate his life, but I cannot
pass by in silence a most notable instance in it, the knowledge of which
strengthened the study and affection that I put into the modelling and
chiselling of this monument. When the youth Silvestro, in the capacity
of simple labourer, worked at I know not what improvement of land in the
neighbourhood of Ferrara, he used to go during the hour of rest to a
small eating-house to recruit his strength with his usual temperance. It
happened one day that he found himself without money, and as he was a
daily customer, frankly, with an honest man's conscience, he said to the
host, "I will pay you to-morrow." But this man, who was hard and brutal,
answered that "when one has no money, one should not order anything to
eat;" to which the youth was about to reply, when a young gentleman, who
happened by chance to be shooting in those parts, and had come in to
take some refreshment, seeing the embarrassment of the young labourer
and the hardness of the host, tossed a bit of money on to the counter,
saying to the latter, "Take your pay for what this man has eaten here."
The host took the money and returned the change; but the excellent
gentleman said, "No; give the rest of the money to this youth. He seems
to me to have the air of being an honest man, and he can use it another
day when his own money fails him." It was not such a small matter
either, for the money he had given to be changed was a golden _Genova_.
Then on one side excuses were made and restitution offered, whilst on
the other a mild but determined insistence, which ended in the shaking
of hands and leave-taking. From that day forward Silvestro Camerini had
no more need to go on credit, not because the remainder of that piece of
gold could place him for ever beyond necessity, but because those
insulting and brutal words had been a lesson to him, with his high and
noble spirit, never again to place himself in a similar position.
Camerini went out from that house much moved in spirit and full of
gratitude towards the gentleman, whose name he inquired and ever kept in
his memory. In the meantime, by good conduct, economy, and work, he was
able to save something; and as by nature he had a mind much superior to
his condition, he was able to take upon himself the direction of some
works, and always advancing in his activity, economy, and good
administration, he gradually made a considerable fortune, all of which
he put into land. But the noble gentleman who had so opportunely helped
him, either through bad administration, too much liberality, or some
other reason, lost his fortune, and was obliged to sell all his lands to
pay his debts. One day the last villa belonging to him, and the one he
cared most for, was about to be put up to auction; and that day, so full
of sadness for him, turned out perhaps the brightest and happiest of his
life. Camerini, who had already become rich, bid at the auction for it,
and having obtained it, went to the unhappy gentleman and presented it
to him. His surprise, joy, and incredulity are more easily imagined than
described. He said, "What is the meaning of this? In what way?
Wherefore? Is it perhaps a restitution? So much has been stolen from me
that----" "Yes, really," answered Camerini, "it is a restitution, but
not of anything stolen." And he then told him, or rather reminded him,
of the youth that he had benefited so many years before. The worthy
gentleman at first held back, and wished to refuse the gift; but at last
overcome by emotion and admiration, he wept and embraced his friend--a
true friend indeed, for all the others he had known in his prosperity
had disappeared with it.
[Sidenote: NOBLE RESTITUTION.]
This anecdote deserves to be told, because it draws to the life the
lovable, grateful, and most liberal character of Duke Camerini. It was
told me by Count Antonio Pallavicini of Bologna, the friend and
contemporary of Duke Camerini and the other gentleman, whose name, I
regret to say, I do not remember. The anecdote that I have just told,
and many others that illustrated the character of this great man, as
well as the nobility and generosity of his worthy nephew, who intrusted
to me the execution of this monument, spurred me on and facilitated my
undertaking.
[Sidenote: REJECTED OFFERS.]
If the reader has a good memory, he will remember that elsewhere I have
spoken of my offers to execute works for their mere cost--that is to
say, my proposals to give my time, work, and study _gratis et amore
Dei_. He will remember, also, that these offers were not accepted, and
that having been taught by so many lessons of this kind, I advised young
artists to abjure and chase from their mind these Utopian ideas that
experience had fully shown me could not be carried out. To confirm them
in this opinion, I must now add a new and more striking instance of a
work offered by me that was not accepted; and I trust that the account
of this new fact will not be wanting in importance, and will serve as a
good lesson.
[Sidenote: CENTENARY OF MICHAEL ANGELO.]
When my excellent friend Commendator Giuseppe Poggi had finished the
beautiful Piazzale Michael Angelo, and before the inauguration of the
monument designed by him, with the statues of the divine artist himself,
had taken place (and this occurred before the centenary), he proposed
that the statue of Michael Angelo should be placed in a commanding
position under the middle arch of the Loggia that fronts on the
Piazzale; and it was his intention (for which I thank him from the
bottom of my heart) that this statue should be made by me. Knowing,
however, that on account of its colossal proportions, as well as the
importance of the subject, it would require no small expense, and as
even then the municipality foresaw its present straits, he said to me,
in a pleasant and friendly manner, that it was his hope, as well as that
of others, that I would make the statue for its mere cost. "I am ready,"
said I to myself. "I like the subject, and I can satisfy my friend in
his legitimate pride of citizen and artist, and also place there a sign
of my veneration for Michael Angelo, and a testimony of affection and
disinterestedness to my country, but at no slight sacrifice, it is
true--that is to say, by working at least a year _gratis et amore Dei_."
I am mistaken; there is something else I should add--that is the
income-tax and tax on the exercise of my art, &c., that the tax agent
would naturally have insisted on exacting, even if it had been proved to
him that I was working to gain nothing. But I had given my word, and
said I am ready; and when I say I am ready, I stick to it. In the
meanwhile time passed, the centenary drew near, and the municipality
decided nothing about the statue; and, so far, all was well--it meant
that they found it inconvenient to give even those few thousand _lire_
required for the marble and the roughing out of the statue; and wished
to save them. About this I say nothing, for, in fact, I am in favour of
saving; but now comes the best of it. When the day for the famous
centenary arrived, the festivities were conducted admirably, with an
exhibition of all Michael Angelo's works, a visit to his tomb in Santa
Croce, to his house, which is a most precious museum, and, at last, to
the Piazzale, where the monument was inaugurated. There was music in the
great hall of the Cinquecento at the Palazzo Vecchio, illuminations on
the great Piazzale and on the Colli, and everything was done with the
utmost order and decorum, thanks to the exquisite tact of our president
of the committee for organising the centenary festivals, Commendatore
Ubaldino Peruzzi. Among these festive meetings one was arranged to take
place in the old Senate Hall, which had for its object the pronouncing
of eulogies on the great artist; and to all, the Academy of Fine Arts
and the Della Crusca Academy were invited, as Michael Angelo was not
only to be honoured as an artist supreme in the imitative arts, but also
as a philosopher, literary man, and poet. This was splendidly done by
the two Presidents of the Academy of Fine Arts and the Della Crusca
Academy, Commendatore Emilio de' Fabris and Commendatore Augusto Conti.
They were surrounded by the members of these two Academies united in
solemn assembly, and the semicircle was filled by a crowd of
distinguished artists, literary and scientific men, foreign and native,
and was honoured by the presence of his Highness Prince Cazignano. My
friend De' Fabris spoke of Michael Angelo as an architect, and my friend
Conti enlarged upon him as philosopher, citizen, and poet. They had
begged me to read a few words on that occasion; but I, being aware of my
insignificance, and, to speak frankly, my incapacity to think and speak
on so great a subject, at first refused to do so; then I tried jotting
down something in writing, and made my friend Luigi Venturi read it--and
as he did not dislike what I had written, I accepted, and on the day
before mentioned I read my little scrap of writing, in which I treated
particularly of Michael Angelo as a sculptor.
That day the idea of the statue was again brought forward, and some of
the gentlemen, in the name of the committee, came to my studio and asked
me if I would agree to make the statue of Michael Angelo for the mere
cost and expenses. I answered that I would, and added that I had
promised to do so once before, but that nothing more had been done
about it. In the meanwhile a subscription list was sent the rounds, and
my illustrious friends Meissonnier and Guillaume, who had come to
Florence for the centenary festivals, put their names down each for a
hundred _lire_. And then, after all, as God willed it, nothing more was
done about it; and in fact, on the spot where the statue was to have
been placed, there is now a _café restaurant_, very clean and
convenient, and of a summer's evening it is enlivened by concerts of a
band of music. Looking at the thing from this point of view, it is
certainly much more comfortable and amusing than to see a statue of
Michael Angelo standing there.
[Sidenote: FIASCO ABOUT THE STATUE OF ANGELO.]
The fact is, that there are sometimes fruitful enthusiasms and sometimes
barren enthusiasms: the fruitful enthusiasms are those in which one
finds the quickest and most perceptible enjoyment. In these days (it was
1876) there were people running in crowds to see and hear Signora
Adelina Patti--spending an amount of money that they would have had
great difficulty in spending on an object less sensible, or, rather,
less enjoyable, such as in fact a statue might be, that promises to give
you the rather meagre enjoyment, it is true, of making its appearance
two or three years after it has taken the money out of your pocket.
It is true, however, that the enjoyment of song and sound passes in a
moment--its waves die upon the air, and our ears catch their last
echo--while the view of a statue, with all its beauty and meaning,
remains, so to speak, to all eternity. But this is a rather subtle and
abstract consideration that not all can understand.
Thinking over it well, I do not believe the _fiasco_ about the statue of
Michael Angelo occurred for want of enthusiasm for art or statuary, or
much less for the subject. The deuce take it! Michael Angelo is out of
the question; besides belonging to the world, he is a Florentine,--and
then, too, enthusiasm has not been wanting in any town in Italy, and
certainly not in Florence, even when it has been a question of
immortalising in marble men oftentimes very unlike Buonarroti. Besides,
did one not see about this time, and in fact during these very days,
several thousands of _lire_ got together for a bust of Gino Capponi? And
why was this? If I had asked to make that statue, it might have been
supposed that the artist was not liked, and that no confidence was felt
in him; but it was not so: in fact I was looked for and even begged to
make it, which is natural when one desires to have work done for nothing
but the pure cost and expenses. Confidence in the artist, therefore, was
not wanting: there must have been some other reason, and I have found it
is this, that work asked for and offered for nothing seems almost as if
it had no attraction; no one wants it. One must, if one can, get as much
pay as possible. Listen to this other instance; they grow like cherries.
[Sidenote: FIASCO OF ANOTHER STATUE.]
When I had made the "Christ after the Resurrection," for which my good
friend Ferdinando Filippi di Buti gave me the order, the idea came to
the worthy syndic, Signor Danielli, to erect in his village (which
seemed as if it ought to be sacred to Minerva, it was so buried in a
forest of olive-trees) a statue in honour of Professor del Rosso, who
had been such a worthy representative of science and of his native
place. The good and most lively Signor Danielli was full of ardour to
carry out his project; and to obtain its success, he pressed me to
accept this commission at the smallest possible price, almost for its
mere cost.
I accepted. The subscription list was sent the rounds, and I know that
my illustrious friend Professor Conti, an old pupil of Del Rosso, gave
himself a great deal of trouble in getting subscriptions; but neither he
nor any one else obtained the desired result, and the statue remains
where it was--in the future. In the same way, it seems, ended the affair
of the bust of Pius IX., that a pious committee in this city proposed to
have cut in marble and placed in our cathedral.
[Sidenote: INGRATITUDE.]
So, as I have said, these instances grow like cherries.
Let us remember, although above I have spoken about the necessity of
getting well paid, yet at times, either as a matter of duty, friendship,
or gratitude, one can and one ought to work for little. I remember a
young scholar of mine who enjoyed a little pension, given to him by a
gentleman from his village, who, to enable the young man to work from
life, went so far as to allow him to model his head, and, to encourage
him, desired that he should put it into marble,--but before giving him
the commission, wanted to know what the expense would be. The youth, in
telling me this, asked me what he ought to ask for it. I answered, "You
must ask nothing; the gentleman is over and above good to give you the
pension. Would you also ask him to pay for the bust? You will give this
answer: I have asked my master about the expense of the marble and the
roughing of it out, and he has answered me that one hundred _lire_ is
necessary for the marble and two hundred for the roughing it out; as to
finishing it, I will finish it myself, and so learn to work on marble,
because no one can call himself a sculptor who does not work on the
marble himself."
But the youth showed no judgment, did not follow my advice, and asked
the gentleman a thousand _lire_, and the avidity and ingratitude thus
shown by the person he had benefited so disgusted him, that he did not
let him make it. When I heard how matters had gone, I did not fail to
call him an ass, and he really was one. Born and bred a peasant, he had
learnt nothing in town by mixing with educated young men. He was tall of
person, and endowed with uncommon strength; he used to exercise
himself--making it more a business than a simple pastime--at the game of
_forma_, and, challenged or challenger, was always the winner. He died
from breaking a blood-vessel in his chest; and for the matter of that,
as no one was left behind to weep for him, for he was an orphan, and as
he had no talent or judgment, it was better so.
[Sidenote: BUILDING ONE'S OWN MONUMENT.]
Let us therefore understand each other. One must always get one's pay,
excluding the case or cases of gratitude like the one I have mentioned
above, and even between friends, there must not be one that gives and
the other that takes. I remember now, many years ago, that Luigi
Acussini made my portrait, and I his; and later, Cisere painted my
portrait and that of my wife, and I made a bust of his wife, _amici cari
e borsa del pari_. Presents don't answer well, and therefore it is rare
to find those who make them; and if any one with heart and no head does
so, he makes a _fiasco_.
A singular taste, and one that I can enter into completely, is that of
preparing one's own place of burial whilst living; and for those who
can, besides the burial-place, also the chapel and monument. It does one
good to see, whilst living, the place where one will sleep the last
sleep. Amongst those who agree with me in this, besides Marchese Bichi
Ruspoli of Siena, and Signor Ferdinando Filippi di Buti--whose monuments
I made some fifteen years ago, and who are still living, hale and
hearty, so that I even think that the thought of death and the sight of
the monuments prolong their lives--is the Baroness Favard de Langlade,
who also wished to have her monument made; and after having had the
illustrious architect Giuseppe Poggi construct the beautiful chapel in
the park of the villa at Rovezzano, which is adorned by the beautiful
paintings of Annibale Gatti, she ordered from me the monument wherein
her body is to rest.
[Sidenote: THE FAVARD MONUMENT.]
The difficulty of this kind of work is not to give umbrage to the
modesty of the person who gives the commission. At first sight it seems
like vanity and pride to order one's own monument; but besides the fact
that he who orders a monument does not order it for himself alone, but
also for his family, the artist composes his work in such a way as not
to give the least offence by adulation and flattery, which is the more
contemptible in the person who offers it in measure as the adulated
person is in a high position. The artist, however, who has a proper
respect for his own dignity, and wishes that of the person in question
also to be respected, will find a way of making his work, even though it
be grandiose, so as to enable both him and the person who is to die to
look at each other in the face without blushing.
The subject that I treated for the Favard monument was the Angel of the
Resurrection, who, poised on his wings, offers his hands to the dead
woman, who is in the act of rising, to lead her to heaven. She has half
lifted herself up on the sarcophagus where she was laid out, and her
expression shows her happiness in awakening to eternal day. The only
adulation--excusable, I think--that I offered to that lady was having
made her appear younger than she was,--not more beautiful, for one can
still see that she must have been most beautiful. I regret that this
work of mine is almost hidden--first of all, because it is far from
town, as I have already said,--at Rovezzano; for although the noble lady
has given orders to have it shown to any one who asks to see it, yet the
double difficulty of the distance and the asking prevents many--those
who are lazy and who are lukewarm, who are the most in number--from
being able to see it. It is still worse as concerns my "Christ after the
Resurrection," which is on a hill in the neighbourhood of Buti, a little
village, nearly hidden from view and out of hand, between Pisa and
Lucca.