Florence.
I have generally, since our arrival at Florence, passed two hours every
forenoon in the famous gallery. Connoisseurs, and those who wish to be
thought such, remain much longer. But I plainly feel this is enough for
me; and I do not think it worth while to prolong my visit after I begin
to be tired, merely to be thought what I am not. Do not imagine, however,
that I am blind to the beauties of this celebrated collection; by far the
most valuable now in the world.
One of the most interesting parts of it, in the eyes of many, is the
series of Roman Emperors, from Julius Cæsar to Gallienus, with a
considerable number of their Empresses, arranged opposite to them.
This series is almost complete; but wherever the bust of an Emperor
is wanting, the place is filled up by that of some other distinguished
Roman. Such an honour is bestowed with great propriety on Seneca, Cicero,
or Agrippa, the son-in-law of Augustus. But, on perceiving a head of
Antinous, the favourite of Adrian, among them, a gentleman whispered
me,—_that_ minion, pointing to the head, would not have been admitted
into such company any where but in Florence. It ought, however, to be
remembered, that the Gallery is not an Ægyptian court of judicature,
where Princes are tried, after death, for crimes committed during their
life. If the vices of originals had excluded their portraits, what would
have become of the series of Roman Emperors, and particularly of the bust
of the great Julius himself, who was husband to all the wives and —— ——
—— The gallery is sacred to art, and every production which she avows,
has a right to a place here.
Amidst those noble specimens of ancient sculpture, some of the works
of Michael Angelo are not thought undeserving a place. His Bacchus
and Faunus, of which the well-known story is told, have been by some
preferred to the two antique figures representing the same.
The beautiful head of Alexander is universally admired by all the
virtuosi; though they differ in opinion with regard to the circumstance
in which the sculptor has intended to represent that hero. Some imagine
he is dying; Mr. Addison imagines he sighs for new worlds to conquer;
others that he faints with pain and loss of blood from the wounds he
received at Oxydrace. Others think the features express not bodily pain
or languor, but sorrow and remorse, for having murdered his faithful
friend Clitus. You see how very uncertain a business this of a virtuoso
is. I can hardly believe that the artist intended simply to represent
him dying; there was nothing very creditable in the manner he brought
on his death. Nor do I think he would choose to represent him moaning,
or languishing with pain or sickness; there is nothing heroic in that;
nor do we sympathise so readily with the pains of the body, as with those
of the mind. As for the story of his weeping for new worlds, he will
excite still less sympathy, if that is the cause of his affliction. The
last conjecture, therefore, that the artist intended to represent him
in a violent fit of remorse, is the most probable. The unfinished bust
of Marcus Brutus, by Michael Angelo, admirably expresses the determined
firmness of character which belonged to that virtuous Roman. The artist,
while he wrought at this, seems to have had in his mind Horace’s Ode
Justum et tenacem propositi virum
Non civium ardor prava jubentium,
Non vultus instantis tyranni
Mente quatit solidâ, &c.
This would, in my opinion, be a more suitable inscription for the bust,
than the concetto of Cardinal Bembo, which is at present under it[8].
Michael Angelo, in all probability was pleased with the expression he
had already given the features, and chose to leave it as an unfinished
sketch, rather than risk weakening it by an attempt to improve it.
The virtuosi differ in opinion respecting the Arrotino, or Whetter,
as much as about the head of Alexander. A young gentleman said to an
antiquarian, while he contemplated the Arrotino, “I believe, Sir, it
is imagined that this statue was intended for the slave, who, while
he was whetting his knife, overheard Catiline’s conspiracy.”—“That is
the vulgar opinion,” said the other; “but the statue was, in reality,
done for a peasant, who discovered the plot into which the two sons of
Junius Brutus entered for the restoration of Tarquin.” “I ask pardon,
Sir,” said the young man; “but although one may easily see that the
figure listens with the most exquisite expression of attention, yet I
should think it very difficult to delineate in the features, whether the
listener heard a conspiracy, or any thing else which greatly interested
him, and absolutely impossible to mark, by any expression of countenance,
what particular conspiracy he is hearing.” “Your observation is just,
young man,” said the antiquarian, “when applied to modern artists, but
entirely the reverse when applied to the ancient. Now, for my own part,
I plainly perceive in that man’s countenance, and after you have studied
those matters as profoundly as I have done you will see the same, that
it is the conspiracy for the restoration of Tarquin, and no other plot
whatever, which he listens to; as for Catiline’s conspiracy, it is not
possible he could know any thing about it; for, good God! people ought
to reflect, that the man must have been dead four hundred years before
Catiline was born.”
As we are now in the famous octogonal room, called Tribuna, I ought, if
I had any thing new to say, to descant a little on the distinguishing
excellencies of the Dancing Faun, the Wrestlers, the Venus Urania, the
Venus Victrix; and I would most willingly pay the poor tribute of my
praise to that charming figure known by the name of Venus de Medicis.
Yet, in the midst of all my admiration, I confess I do not think her
equal to her brother Apollo in the Vatican. In that sublime figure, to
the most perfect features and proportions, is joined an air which seems
more than human. The Medicean Venus is unquestionably a perfect model of
female beauty; but while Apollo appears more than a man, the Venus seems
precisely a beautiful woman.
In the same room are many valuable curiosities, besides a collection
of admirable pictures by the best masters. I do not know whether any
are more excellent of their kind, but I am convinced none are more
attentively considered than the two Venuses of Titian; one is said to
be a portrait of his wife, the other of his mistress. The first is the
fined portrait I ever saw, except the second; of this you have seen many
copies: though none of them equals the beauty of the original, yet they
will give a juster idea of it than any description of mine could. On the
back ground, two women seem searching for something in a trunk. This
episode is found much fault with; for my part, I see no great harm the
two poor women do: none but those critics who search more eagerly after
_deformity_ than _beauty_, will take any notice of them.
Besides the Gallery and Tribuna, the hundredth part of whose treasures
I have not particularised, there are other rooms, whose contents are
indicated by the names they bear; as, the Cabinet of Arts, of Astronomy,
of Natural History, of Medals, of Porcelain, of Antiquities, and the
Saloon of the Hermaphrodite, so called from a statue which divides the
admiration of the Amateurs with that in the Borghese village at Rome. The
excellence of the execution is disgraced by the vileness of the subject.
We are surprised how the Greeks and Romans could take pleasure in such
unnatural figures; in this particular their taste seems to have been as
depraved, as in general it was elegant and refined. In this room there is
a collection of drawings by some of the greatest masters, Michael Angelo,
Raphael, Andrea del Sarto, and others. There is, in particular, a sketch
of the Last Judgment by the first-named of these painters, different,
and, in the opinion of some, designed with more judgment, than his
famous picture on the same subject in Sixtus the Fourth’s chapel in the
Vatican.
The large room, called the Gallery of Portraits, is not the least
curious in this vast Musæum. It contains the portraits, all executed by
themselves, of the most eminent painters who have flourished in Europe
during the three last centuries. They amount to above two hundred;
those of Rubens, Vandyke, Rembrandt, and Guido, were formerly the most
esteemed; two have been added lately, which vie with the finest in this
collection—those of Meng’s and Sir Joshua Reynolds. The portrait of
Raphael seems to have been done when he was young; it is not equal to
any of the above. The Electress Dowager of Saxony has made a valuable
addition to this collection, by sending her own portrait painted by
herself; she is at full length, with the palette and pencils in her
hands. Coreggio, after hearing the picture of St. Cecilia at Bologna
cried up as a prodigy, and the _ne plus ultra_ of art, went to see it;
and conscious that there was nothing in it that required the exertion
of greater powers than he felt within himself, he was overheard to say,
“Anch’ io sono pittore.” This illustrious princess was also conscious of
her powers when she painted this portrait, which seems to pronounce to
the spectators, _Anch’ io sono pittrice_.
[8]
Dum Bruti effigiem Michael de marmore fingit,
In mentem sceleris venit, et abstinuit.