A WARNING TO YOUNG ARTISTS—PROFESSOR CAMBI'S PROPOSITIONS—A FINANCIAL PROBLEM: TO INCREASE GAIN BY DIMINISHING THE MEANS THAT PRODUCE IT—I LEAVE SANI'S SHOP TO HAVE MORE TIME AND LIBERTY TO STUDY—AN IMITATION IS NOT SO BAD, BUT A FALSIFICATION IS INDEED AN UGLY THING—THE MARCHESA POLDI AND A CASKET, SUPPOSED TO BE AN ANTIQUE—HOW A MASTER SHOULD BE—THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER, SEPTEMBER 1840—OPINION OF THE ACADEMY—THE "TIPSY BACCHANTE"—A DIVIDED VOTE—THE "CARIATIDI" OF THE ROSSINI THEATRE AT LEGHORN.

L Let us consider for a moment the state of my mind at this time. I felt within me an unconquerable inclination for the study of sculpture; and even as a child, I gave vent to my feeling as well as I was able. As I increased in years, the more this desire was repressed and opposed, whether by my poverty or the aversion of my father, the more it developed into a settled passion. But after the progress I had made in my studies gave me a right to hope, and my masters had encouraged me, and I had acquired some skill in working the marble, no work was given me to do. Nor was this all. I was humiliated at last, being told by a workman to whom I applied—who was the administrator of the studio of a foreign artist—that there was nothing for me to do there, because the work in that studio was so difficult as to be beyond my ability. I swallowed this bitter mouthful, but I did not despair. Not only did I not despair, but I determined, by study and force of will, to prove that I was right and they were wrong. Add to this that I was not alone; I had a wife and children. But no matter. Since the first prophecies that I never should be good for anything as a wood-carver had proved false, this also, which was both a humiliation and an insult, might prove to be untrue. My poor wife saw that my mind was greatly disturbed, and, with her sweetness, strove to calm me by representing to me that we were fairly well off and without troubles, and exhorted me to drive from my head a thought which was rendering my life bitter to me. These words, dictated by love, made me still more unhappy; but dissimulating and caressing her, I told her that she was right.

One day, in the studio of Magi, I and another young man were modelling together a man's torso which had been cast from nature. A friend of Magi, a painter, as he passed by us paused, and after looking at our two copies, said, turning to my rival and patting him gently on the shoulder, "I am delighted: this is an artist!" Then turning to me with an expression of regret, he said, "A rivederla." My good reader, do you think that made me despair? No, by the Lord! I tell you rather that these words were seared upon my brain as with a red-hot iron, and there they still remain—and they did me a great deal of good. The Professor who spoke them (yes, he was a Professor), three years afterwards embraced me in the Accademia delle Belle Arti before my "Abel." My rival? My rival is perfectly sound in health, and is fatter and more vigorous than I am, but he is not a sculptor. So, my dear young artist, courage! in the face of poverty, and opposition, and abuse, and contempt, and even (remember this) of blandishments and flatteries, which are more destructive than even abuse and contempt.

But be careful to consider well what your vocation really is, and do not allow yourself to be deluded by false appearances. It is absolutely necessary that your calling should be imperious, tenacious, persistent; that it should enter into all your thoughts; that it should give its form and pressure to all your feelings; that it should not abandon you even in your sleep; and that it should drive from your memory your hour of dinner, your appointments, your ease, your pleasures. If, when you take a walk in the country, the hills and groves do not awaken in you in the least the idea that it would be pleasant to own them; but, instead of this, if you feel yourself enamoured by the beautiful harmony of nature, with its varied outlines, and swelling bosoms, and slopes sadly illuminated by the setting sun, and all seems to you an exquisite picture—then hope. If at the theatre you see a drama represented, and you feel impelled to judge within yourself whether this or that character is well played—whether the gestures, the expression of face, and the inflections of voice are such as properly belong to the character, and accord with the affections that move him, or the passions which agitate him—then hope. If, while you are walking along, you see the face of a beautiful woman, and if it does not immediately awaken in you the idea of a statue with its name and expression, but, on the contrary, you idly or improperly admire it—then fear. If in reading of a pathetic incident you feel your heart grow tender; if the triumph of pride and arrogance rouse your scorn—then hope. And if you do not feel your faculties debilitated by the long and thorny path of study, but, on the contrary, tempered and strengthened every day by constant and patient labour, then hope—hope—hope. If you have property, attend to the management of it. If you are poor, learn some trade. It is better to be a good carpenter than a bad artist.

In my own case, I armed myself with stout patience, and pursued my ordinary work of wood-carving; and when I returned home in the evening, I applied myself to study, and, in the simple and frank conversation of my wife, felt a calm come over my agitated mind; and my powers, enervated by ungrateful labour, were thus restored. But the opportunity which was to launch me once and for ever in art was already near, and I seized upon it with all my strength, hope, and love. Many and sad were the first steps against opposition and division; but I pushed on, and I have never stopped since.

Professor Ulisse Cambi, who had seen me modelling in Magi's studio, and who had his own studio close by, now began to talk to me about the triennial competition in sculpture, which took place precisely in this year, and he proposed that I should go in for it, and hoped that I should succeed; but even if I did not, he said, at all events the study incident to it would be no loss to me. Flattered by this suggestion, which showed that he had some confidence in me, I replied that I would think of it, and would speak about it to Magi, who might possibly lend me one of his rooms which he did not use, and also give me his assistance. I spoke to him on the subject, but I did not find him at all disposed to favour the project. In the first place, he told me that he could not give me a room; then that he did not think that I had gone on sufficiently far in my studies to be able to attempt such a competition; and finally, that he would not undertake to direct my work. This answer having been repeated to Cambi, he told me that he was convinced that I should succeed, and that if Magi would neither give me a room nor superintend my work, he would do both—and this he did.

The subject of the basso-relievo was "The Judgment of Paris," and required five figures—Paris, Venus, Minerva, Juno, and Mercury. I made a sketch; but it did not please Cambi, and taking a piece of paper, he sketched with a pen a new composition, saying, "That, I think, will do very well." I then made a new sketch founded upon this by Cambi. Some one will now say, "This is not right; you ought to have worked out an idea of your own, and not one of your master's." Agreed; but these considerations will come afterwards. For the present, let us go on.

In the meantime it was necessary to come to a decision, and to take into consideration that the work required much time, and could not be completed in my off-hours, as I had hitherto done with my other studies, and also that money would be required to pay the models; so that, as it would be necessary to give less time to my ordinary work, I should earn less, while I should have need of more money in order to pay the models. The problem was a difficult one, and at first sight not easily solved. The reader will remember the Brothers Pacetti, in whose shop I had sold the Santa Filomena. One of these, Tonino, had often said to me that if I would work for them they would give me anything to do that I might prefer—whether cornices rich with figures and putti and arabesques, or coffers and chests all'antica, or whatever I liked with figures, with the prices agreed upon, and liberty to work when and how I liked. The offer was excellent, as you see; but it involved leaving my old master Sani, and I was affectionately attached to him, and he and all in the shop were attached to me; and on this account I felt repugnance to leaving the place and the persons who had helped me on when I was a child. So, thanking Pacetti, I repeatedly refused his offer. But now it was necessary to come to a decision between two alternatives—either to abandon the competition and remain in the shop, or to abandon the shop and accept the offer of the Brothers Pacetti. I spoke of this to my good Marina, who at first did not look upon it at all favourably, fearing that if I left the shop, which had always given me work, I should find myself left in the lurch by the other, in spite of all the fine promises of gain and liberty and the like. But at last, seeing that I was decided, she contented herself with saying, "Do as you think best." O blessed woman, may God reward thee!

When I stated to old Sani my determination to leave his shop, angry as a hornet, he said, "Do as you like," and spoke to me no more the whole day. The next day, however, more softened, but still severe, he asked me the reason of this strange resolution, and I told him. Then he proposed an increase of salary and a diminution of work, and at last agreed (I must do justice to this good man) to allow me to have all the hours which were necessary for the competition. But I had already made my contract with Pacetti, had decided upon a work after my own choice, arranged the room given me by Pacetti, and which was the Hospital for Horses in the old stable of the Palazzo Borghese, and I could not withdraw from it.

I began to model the basso-relievo for the competition in the studio Cambi, and my intaglio work I did in the little studio or stable of the Palazzo Borghese. The work that I had undertaken for Pacetti was curious. It had every recommendation except that of honesty. Let me explain. There was at this time a great passion among strangers for antique objects: great chests, cornices, and coffers, provided they were old, were sought for and purchased; but modern works, though of incontestable merit, no one cared for, and they brought very low prices. It came into the head either of Pacetti or myself—I do not remember which—to make something in imitation of the antique (and so far it was all right), and to sell it for antique, and here was the maggot.

It was settled, then, that I should make a coffer or chest in the beautiful and rich style of the Seicento—rectangular of form and not high. The cover was slightly pointed, with various arabesque ornaments, and in the centre of this cover in the front I carved a Medusa crying out loudly; and by looking at myself in the mirror, I succeeded in giving a good deal of truth to the sad expression of this head—indeed the muscles of the face and the eyes had such a truth of expression that I would not promise to do as well again even now. This is the portion of the work which is really original; all the divisions in panels, and the external faces, were an absolute counterfeit representation of the ornaments on the bookshelves in the Libreria Laurenziana, which were carved by Tasso the carver, the friend of Benvenuto Cellini, and, as some say, were designed by Cellini himself. Every precaution was taken—the wood was antique but not worm-eaten, so that I could carve with delicacy all the ornaments, dragons, and chimerÆ; and when it was finished, here and there a worm-hole was counterfeited and filled up with wax, but so as to be visible. The hinges and ironwork were also imitations of the antique, which were first oxidated and then repolished. In a word, it was a veritable trap, and I give an account of it for the sake of the truth; and I hope that the first statement of this falsification does not come from me. But however this may be, we laughed at it, and it amused me then, though now it displeases me.

This coffer was seen by many persons, some of whom asked the price; but Pacetti set a high value upon it, and he had spread about some sort of story that it was a work of Benvenuto Cellini's. Finally, after some time, the Marchioness Poldi of Milan, who had gone to Florence to urge Bartolini to finish the famous group of Astyanax which he was making for her, saw this coffer, liked it, and took it for an antique; but in regard to the excellence of the work, and above all the name of the artist to whom it was sought to attribute it, she determined to consult Bartolini himself, and if his judgment was favourable, to buy it for the price that was asked, but which naturally was not what I had been paid. Bartolini decided that it was one of the finest works of Tasso the intagliatore, made after the designs of Benvenuto Cellini; and the Marchioness Poldi then bought the coffer, and carried it to Milan.

Four years later, I finished my "Abel" and "Cain." I had made a name, which had been rendered still more attractive by the curious story of my origin; for all of a sudden, while nobody knew who I was, I seemed to be an artist who had been born one morning and grown up before night. The only thing that was reported about me was, that I had never studied, and that I had suddenly leaped from the bench of the intagliatore on to that of the sculptor. The reader who has thus far followed me, and who will continue with me up to the completion of my "Abel" and "Cain," will see with what heedlessness these reports were propagated. Let us go on. The Marchioness Poldi came to my studio, and having heard the story of my life, which was in the hands of all, and was written in that easy, attractive, and poetic style of which Farini is master, told me that she possessed a magnificent work in intaglio by the famous intagliatore Tasso, and said that this work was imagined and executed with such grace and excellence that it might truly be called a work of art, and she added that these were the very words of Bartolini.

The reader may imagine whether I was flattered by this; and in consequence of this praise, as well as to pluck out this thorn from my heart by a confession of my fault, I said, "I beg your pardon, Signora Marchesa, but that work was made by me."

The Marchioness looked at me with a kind of wonder, and then said, "No matter—nay, all the better."

I begged her not to tell Bartolini.

But to return to the point where I left off to make this digression about the Marchioness Poldi. Let me say, that if in my studio I enjoyed complete liberty of imagination and action, and if my works met with such success and were so praised as to give me consolation, matters did not go on so well in the studio Cambi, where I was modelling for the competition. Scarcely had I put my foot into that studio when I became timid, embarrassed, and almost fearful; for the Professor would not leave me free to see and execute from the life as I saw it. I do not say that he was wrong; I only say, that thus feeling my hands bound to the will of another, rendered me hesitating and discontented. I should have preferred a studio of my own, and after I had sketched out as well as I could my own ideas, then to have my master come in to correct me. But there he was always; and he was not content with correcting me by words alone, but he would take the modelling tool and go on and model what I ought to have modelled myself. My work might be done with difficulty; but if I could have done it all myself, as I wished, I should have been much happier, and my hand would have been better seen in it—the hand of a youth without skill indeed, but still desirous to do and to learn; and I should also have been spared the annoyance of hearing that the work was not done by me, but by Professor Cambi. Now Cambi is a very dear friend of mine, and I do not mean in the least to reprove him for what he did; but it is my duty to state the facts clearly just as they are—and I take this occasion to say a few words as to what I consider a master should do in directing his young pupils.

Every historical fact, in its manifestations of time, place, circumstances, and character, presents itself to the mind of each person who studies it—and far more to any one who intends to reproduce it—in an entirely different way from what it would impress another. The impression each receives depends upon his character, intelligence, temperament, and education. This being admitted, it is in the highest degree difficult to assert with assurance, "I understand and can express the fact better than you." When certain essential points are established, such as the age and character of the personages, and the costumes and style of dress, all the rest depends upon the taste of the artist, and his manner of viewing and feeling it. As to the composition and grouping of the figures, in regard to which dogmatic statements are so often laid down, this should be a free field to the artist in which he may move about as he will. The harmony of lines, the balance of parts, the equality of spaces, are all very fine words; but above all and before all, and as the base of all, there should be clear expression of the fact, truth of action, and living beauty. It is very true that sometimes, and indeed very often, the young pupil is without much study or much knowledge, and in composing his sketch he makes mistakes in the arrangement of the dresses and the character and truth of the subject he wishes to represent. Then indeed the master should interpose. But how? Not by taking the tool himself and saying, "You should do thus and thus"; but rather by putting his pupil on the right road, and making him clearly appreciate the story he is trying to represent, and showing him that this or that figure ought to have the dress and the character appropriate to it, and to point out the means by which he may attain this result. If after this teaching the youth is dull, he should be counselled not to go on; but if, on the contrary, he improves his sketch, the master should correct it and perfect it in its movement, in its ensemble, and in its expression. In this way the youth will take courage and cognisance of his own powers, and improve.

One of the commonest faults with young scholars is their slothfulness in trying to discover for themselves their own way to express their ideas. For the most part, they are completely deficient in this, and prefer to seek among the works of their master, or of some other master, for their subjects, types, and movements—and thus, with little fatigue and less honour, they only succeed in giving a colourless reminiscence of works already known; and one of the faults of the master is this—not only to allow his scholars to imitate and steal from him, but what is worse, to desire to impose upon them his own works as models.

I return to my narrative. In my stable I pursued my artistic life freely and happily, with power to select the work I was to do, to carry out my own designs in whatever style I liked, and almost to fix their prices. In this way, with only a half-day's work, I was able to carry home my ordinary earnings for the maintenance of my family; and beyond this, I had two francs over to pay my model for the remainder of the day, which I spent on my basso-relievo. My daily life, therefore, was gay and free in my stable, timorous and gloomy in the studio Cambi, and peaceful, glad, and quiet all the evening at home. But for all this, the bitterness had to come. The other competitor, Ludovico Caselli, was already hinting it about that the basso-relievo was not made by me, and that Professor Cambi worked upon it. Caselli was modelling under the direction of Professor Pampaloni; but I never complained that Pampaloni worked upon it, although there were some who affirmed that he did. I kept my peace, and resolved formally in my own mind that whatever should be the issue of this competition, I would again make an attempt the next year. When the time of the exhibition and the decision approached, I began to hear contemptuous and insolent rumours, which, whether I failed or was successful, would equally afflict me. To this is to be added, that my poor mother was suffering from a very severe illness—an illness, indeed, that carried her in a few days to her grave. I remember, as something that still pierces my heart, the interest she showed during that illness for me, for my competition, and for my triumph (as she called it); and it seemed as if this belief of my loving mother gave a certain alleviation to the terrible anguish of her disease, which every day grew worse and worse. This was in the first days of September 1840. On Sunday the 15th the decision was to be given, and my poor mother was at the point of death. What I felt in my heart may be imagined, it cannot be told. The instant I heard that the prize had been given to me, I ran to my mother—from whom I had of late been somewhat separated—with almost a hope that this good news might bring her back to life again. And in fact, on hearing this news her face became radiant, her cheeks glowed, her eyes, which for a time had seen nothing, became animated and seemed to gaze at me. Then she stretched out her arms, and, pressing me to her, said, "Now I die willingly." She lived a few days longer, and then, comforted by the sacrament of our holy religion, died. She had finished her short life of about fifty years, in the restrictions of poverty and in the bitterness of one of the greatest misfortunes—blindness. God has taken her to the joy of His infinite mercy.

The conflict of judgment among the professors of the Academy at the competition was tempestuous, and the result extraordinary. The votes were divided thus: Ten votes were given for my model, four or five (if I mistake not) to that of my competitor, and there were eleven votes for a division of the prize. I thought that votes for a division could not properly be given; and at all events, as I received ten and the other four, I considered myself the superior. But no. The legal adviser declared that the number eleven was superior to the number ten, and as eleven had voted for the division, that the prize must be divided. But the matter did not end here. My competitor, not satisfied with his prize, went about saying that it was not I who had competed; that he did not know who I was, nor where I had studied; and he threatened to challenge me to I know not what trial in design or modelling. I answered that I intended to continue to study, and that naturally we should be measured against each other often, if he chose to have it so; and this put an end to it. More than this, we became friends, and still are; and I believe he is now employed in the foundry of Cavaliere Pietro Bonini, as a designer or mechanic, I don't well know which. He is a man of talent, and has made several works of sculpture, among which are Hagar and Ishmael, Susannah, and the statue of Mascagni which is under the Uffizi.

But in the opinion of the young students at that time there still remained a doubt whether that work was all grist from my mill, and in consequence I had a strong desire to do something by myself in my own studio. In order to put an end to all this gossiping, I put up a figure of life size representing a drunken and youthful Bacchante leaning against the trunk of a tree as half falling, while she smiled and held to her lips a goblet. The difficulty of the subject was as great as my inexperience. The tender age of the model, who could not be made to stand still, the difficult and fatiguing attitude, my own total want of practice in setting up the irons and clay, the smallness of the room, and the deficiency of light, were obstacles which conquered at last all my poor capacity, and my figure fell, and I had not the courage to put it up again; and it was all the better that I did not.

After this came new attacks, new gossip, and new affronts, all carefully covered and veiled, and, as Giusti says, "Tramati in regola, alla sordina."

I have already spoken of the voting on the competition, and I may as well return to this here—for these memoirs are not solely a meagre narrative of my life, but also an examination of principles; and whenever it seems to me proper to make this examination, I shall do so, endeavouring, as usual, to be brief and clear.

And first of all, you must believe that I do not return to this decision to complain that the prize was divided between me and my rival; and I wish you to understand that even had the entire prize been adjudged to me, I should equally have returned to this question. The subject I mean to examine is the false principle of a vote of division.

Whoever undertakes to judge of the comparative merit of various works, ought, I think, to have sufficient critical ability to distinguish minutely the smallest differences between these works on various points—such as, for instance, their composition, character, proportion, movement, expression, refinement, historical accuracy in the types and fashion of the dresses, truth, style, &c. &c. Now it is absolutely impossible that in all these particulars two works can be perfectly equal and of the same value; and the conclusion thus far is unavoidable, that the judge who gives his vote for a division, either has not the qualities required to discern these delicate differences, or omits through culpable negligence to make such a rigorous examination as is required to arrive at what is true and just. Therefore the President should declare formally that the votes for a division will be null; and as their absence might invalidate the decision through a consequent deficiency of votes, he should invite the judges to declare for one or the other. I conclude (and with this I shall finish my disquisition on this subject of division of votes) that whoever feels inclined to give a vote in this indeterminate way, either is, or thereby declares himself to be, ignorant of the matter in regard to which he is required to have knowledge and to give judgment.

The youthful Bacchante fell down; and, as I have said, it was well that it did. This I say now; but then I was much vexed, both on account of the accident itself, and also for the unpleasant talk that it gave rise to. But after all, things are what they really are, and not what we think them to be. I was, however, consoled by a commission—very small indeed, but it seemed to raise my depressed spirits—and it was this, to make the four "Cariatidi" of the Royal Box in the Rossini Theatre in Leghorn. I should not have mentioned this humble work did it not give me occasion to note one thing which the young men of to-day seem to have forgotten.

It is common for the young sculptors of our day to scorn and sneer at any work that is offered to them which they think beneath that skill and capacity which they suppose themselves to possess; and they will not, as they say, abase themselves to mere work in plaster. If any one orders of them a bust or a statue in plaster, their pretence is so excessive that they deem it an insult. Now, I say the material counts for nothing; and a plaster statue merely for decoration, well executed, is worth more than a statue in marble or bronze which is ill executed. Undoubtedly, if one could choose, he would reject the statue in plaster and accept that in marble—always, however, recognising that the one essential thing is, to do his work well. But I was not given this choice, and I accepted this humble commission, and executed it with zealous love. There was this, too, of good in the commission—it might induce me to believe that I should have made a far better statue had I been given more time and more means to make one of my own selection; and I said, "If I have been able to make these statues in a month, with thirty or forty lire to pay to my models, how much better I might do in five or six months, with much more money!" The question reduces itself, then, to time and money. Let the young artist consider whether my reasoning is not just; and let him also consider what is more important—that if I had not accepted this commission, I should not have come to the knowledge of the power that was in me, nor have gone through the reasoning which by strict logic induced me to make the "Abel."

This humble work was of great importance to me, and I recommend it to the attention of those young artists who consider themselves humiliated by small commissions. No; do not let them be alarmed either by the subject or the material, and if they should receive an order even for a great terra cotta mask for a fountain, provided it be well made, they will acquire by it praise, and new and worthier orders, so long as their sole endeavour is to do their work well.