AN UNJUST LAW—THE "ABEL"—BRINA THE MODEL AND I IN DANGER OF BEING ASPHYXIATED—MY FIRST REQUEST—BENVENUTI WISHES TO CHANGE THE NAME OF MY ABEL FOR THAT OF ADONIS—I INVITE BARTOLINI TO DECIDE ON THE NAME OF MY STATUE—BARTOLINI AT MY STUDIO—HIS ADVICE AND CORRECTIONS ON THE ABEL—LORENZO BARTOLINI—GIUSEPPE SABATELLI—EXHIBITION OF THE ABEL—IT IS SAID TO BE CAST FROM LIFE—I ASK FOR A SMALL STUDIO, BUT DO NOT OBTAIN IT—MY SECOND AND LAST REQUEST—THE PRESIDENT ANTONIO MONTALVO—I DON'T SUCCEED SOMEHOW IN DOING ANYTHING AS I SHOULD—I TALK OVER MATTERS AT HOME—COUNT DEL BENINO A TRUE FRIEND AND TRUE BENEFACTOR—HIS GENEROUS ACTION.

W While I was pondering a subject for a statue which should silence the idle and malevolent, it happened that a competition in sculpture was opened in Siena, in which no one could compete but those who were of that country and province. Naturally I determined to compete. The only other competitor was the young sculptor Enea Becheroni, a pupil of the Academy there. Another wished to enter into the competition, and this was Giovanni Lusini, an accomplished sculptor who had lately returned from Rome, where he had been pensioned for four years, he having gained the prize at the quadrennial competition of our Academy at Florence. But he was not allowed to come in; for although, like Becheroni and myself, he was a native of Siena, he was inadmissible because he had passed the age decreed by the rules. This competition was called Biringucci, from the name of the worthy man who by his will had founded a prize and pension for sculpture, as well as others for painting, architecture, and various sciences that I do not remember. The studies and pensions established by him had been in existence for more than 300 years, and are still in existence, but, by one of those curious combinations that some would call a fatality, precisely in this very year, when it would have been most welcome to me, the prize for sculpture was struck out by one stroke of the pen.

I had already for some time prepared myself for this competition, which required that the artist should be shut up in a room by himself, and there should make, in the course of one day from morning till evening, a sketch in clay of some subject drawn by him by lot at the moment of entering the studio. For a considerable time I had made nothing but sketches; and within a space of time certainly not greater than that allowed by the competition, I had in fact made some dozen, and by practice I had become so rapid in composition, that whatever subject might be given me, I felt fully equipped, so as to be able to come out of the struggle with honour.

One day—it was Sunday—I was standing in my little studio in the Via del Palagio, and modelling one of these sketches, the subject of which was Elias carried away in the chariot. I was working with goodwill, and was happy and in the vein. My father had come to see me, and he was sitting and reading quietly the Bible. The bell rang, and a letter was given me bearing the post-mark of Siena, and I recognised the handwriting of the secretary of the competition, Signor Corsini. I opened the letter, and read that the Government had suppressed the pension for sculpture as being superfluous, and had disposed of the sum by appropriating it to a chair at the University, and therefore the competition would not take place. I see, as if he were now before me, my father start up suddenly and exclaim—"Sagratino Moro Moraccio" (which is, literally, "Cursed Moor of the Blackamoors "), "what have you done?"

With one blow of my fist I had smashed to pieces my poor Elias, and he saw it on the ground between the legs of the horse.

"Read," I said, giving him the letter.

Scarcely had he fixed his eyes on it, than he grew red, stamped with his feet, and repeated his usual "Sagratino Moro." I was at once aware that I had acted ill in giving way thus brutally to my irritation. This I have recounted out of love of the truth, and that those who know me now may see how different I was then, and how ludicrously that excitability of character which I still feel, but which I have learned how to repress, was exhibited in the tragic destruction of that poor sketch.

And this too was of advantage, just as the gossip and incredulity about the first triennial was. The refusal to give work was also of advantage, when I went seeking about from studio to studio, and it was denied to me, even in terms of scorn. It was all of advantage to me. It obliged me to concentrate myself, and, seeing myself rejected on all sides, to will and to know, and with God's assistance to make my place with my own unassisted powers. It was all right—thoroughly right; I repeat it. Who can tell? The pension of Siena was for ten years. May God pardon me, but I always feared that that pension might prove to me, as it had to others, a Capuan idleness.

I began now to turn over in my mind a new subject which should be serious and sympathetic, and into which I could put my whole heart, strength, will, hopes, and all—and I found it. Among the pictures, bronzes, and terre cotte of Pacetti's shop, where I used often to wander about, I was struck by a group in terra cotta of a pietÀ. The figure of Christ specially seemed to me beautiful; and I had half a mind to make a dead Christ, and went about ruminating in my mind over the composition. Certainly a dead Christ would be, as it always is, a very sublime theme. But yet I was not satisfied. I wished to find a new subject; and as the Bible was familiar to me, the death of Abel suggested itself, and I seized upon it with settled purpose. I sought for a studio to shut myself up in with the model, and I found one in the Piazzetta of S. Simone, opposite the church. Then I put together a few sous to buy me two stands, one for the living model and one for the clay. Among the nude figures which I saw in the evenings when I went to draw, I selected the one that seemed to me best adapted to the subject, and I arranged with him to come to me every afternoon, as I was employed in wood-carving all the morning. I had already made several sketches, but I wished to make one from life, so as to be sure of a good movement and a true expression. It was on Shrove Thursday in 1842, and all the world who could and wished to do so, were walking about in the Corso. The model and I were shut up together in the studio, and it was nothing less than a miracle that that day was not the last of both of our lives. Poor Brina is still living, as old as I am, and he still stands as a model at our Academy.

And this is the way in which we ran the risk of losing our lives. In the studio which I had hired there was no way of putting up a stove, except by carrying the tube up through the upper floor, and so out through the roof. The expense of doing this was large, and for me very large; so I determined to make a sketch from life, and from this to put up my clay, and I hoped to be able to go on with the model without fire until the warmer season came on. But these days were so extremely cold that the model could not remain naked even for a few minutes; and we determined to warm the room with a pan of coals, in which apparently there remained a residuum of the powdery dregs of charcoal. The brazier having been lighted, and at intervals stirred up, the room, which was small, was soon tolerably warm. I was intent on modelling with my tool the outline and planes of my sketch, and moving about the model to assure myself of the movement and the ensemble, when I felt an oppression on my head; but I attributed it to the intensity of my labour, and on I went. Suddenly I saw the model make a slight movement, and draw a long deep sigh, and the eyes and the colour of his face were like those of a dead man. I ran to help him, but my legs would not hold me up. I half lost my senses, my sight grew dim. I made an effort to open the door, and fell to the ground. But I had strength enough left to drag myself along to it, and kneeling, I laid hold of the lock; but the handle would not move, and with the left thumb I was obliged to raise the spring, and with the right hand to draw the bolt, and to do it quickly. I was wrestling with death, as I well knew, and I redoubled my efforts with the determination not to die. By good fortune, by my panting I drew in a little breath of pure fresh air through the keyhole, and at last I pulled back the bolt, and threw it wide open; and there I sat drinking in full draughts of the outer air. In the streets there was not a living soul, but I could hear the joyous shouts from the races in the Piazza or Santa Croce near by. Poor Brina gasped and rolled his eyes. The air which came blowing into the room revived him, but he could not rise. I had entirely recovered, except that I felt a tight band around my head. I ran to the nearest shop, got a little vinegar, mixed it with water, and dashed it over his face. We then extinguished the fire and went away.

I began to model the statue a few days after. My mornings up to one o'clock were employed in wood-carving, and all the afternoon I modelled. In this way I went on for some time, and the statue was fairly well advanced, but I required a little more money. The want of this made me rather doubtful whether I should be able to finish the model in time for the exhibition in September. I required thirty or forty pauls a-month for five months in order to go on until September. By the advice of Signor Antonio Sferra, a publisher of prints, I made a petition, to which Professor Cavaliere Pietro Benvenuti, Aristodemo Costoli, Giuseppe Sabatelli, and Emilio Santarelli were kind enough to append their names. This petition, which I now have under my eye, and which I copy literally, was as follows. It was not dictated or written by me. My friend Giuseppe Saltini, now Government Physician at Scrofiano, did me this favour:—

"Illustrissimi Signori,—The undersigned being desirous to submit to the judgment of the public a work of sculpture at the exhibition of the Academy of Fine Arts during the current year, has begun to model for his studio a figure, of life size, representing a Dying Abel. Family circumstances have, however, deprived him of the means which were required to bring this work to a conclusion. Regretting to find his money and labour spent thus far to no purpose, he refers himself to the philanthropy of his countrymen, in the hope that they will lend him their assistance. The sum required he has calculated at only forty francs a-month until the time of the said exhibition.

"He begs to inform all those persons who will kindly lend him their aid and honour him with a visit, that the statue which he has begun is at his studio, opposite the Church of S. Simone, where the undersigned will be glad to express to them his gratitude, and where the undersigned professors, in attestation of their goodwill, have not disdained to honour him with their approbation.—He subscribes himself as their most devoted and obliged servant,

"GIOVANNI DUPRÈ.

"Studio, 15th April 1842.

"Cav. Pietro Benvenuti.
Aristodemo Costoli.
Giuseppe Sabatelli.
Emilio Santarelli."

The signatures of the subscribers were as follows:—

And thus I obtained 26 lire and 4 crazie a-month for five months, which were sufficient to enable me to finish the "Abel." From that time forward I have troubled nobody.

Thanks to the aid of those generous persons who assisted me, and whose names as I read them thrill me to the heart, I went on every day with my model, carefully copying him, and giving a proper expression. There was a moment when I hesitated as to the name I should give to my statue,—or I should rather say, that this hesitation was induced by the Cavaliere Pietro Benvenuti, who thought that, in consequence of the absence of any clear attributes to explain the subject, I should rather call it an Adonis. I had never been greatly impressed either by the name or story of Adonis, and I never had wished to join the devotees of Olympus; but my respect for this gentleman made me somewhat hesitate, and before going on further, as the difference of subject required a difference of character, expression, and style, I determined to ask the judgment of some one in whose decision I could in every way safely confide—and this person was Bartolini. With this view I went one morning to his house in Borgo Pinti, having already informed myself that the hour when he could receive me was between half-past five and six o'clock in the afternoon. I see him as if it were now. He was seated in his garden, with a cup of coffee, which he was slowly sipping when I approached him and said, "Signor Maestro, would you do me the favour to visit me at my studio, and give me your opinion on a statue that I am modelling?"

He answered: "You have called me maestro, and that is all right; but I do not know you: you are not one of my scholars at the Academy. Who is it, then, who supervises your statue, and who is your master?"

"I had some time ago some lessons from Magi and Cambi, and I am not unknown to you, who had the kindness to praise a little statuette of mine in wood, the Santa Filomena. But I have asked neither Magi nor Cambi, nor any one else, to correct the statue that I am now making, and this for very good reasons."

Bartolini smiled at these words, and said to me, "To-morrow at six I will come to see you. Leave your name with the servants, and go in peace."

In the evening, when I went home, I said to my wife: "Listen. Call me early to-morrow morning, for before six I must be at my studio, as a Professor is coming to see my statue."

And she called me, poor dear—and called me in time. How it happened I know not, but I was late, and six o'clock was striking as I passed the Piazza di Sta Croce. When I arrived at my studio, I found in the hole of the door-lock the card of Bartolini, on which he had written in pencil—"Six o'clock in the morning." I ran immediately to his studio in the Porta San Frediano to make my excuses, and to inform him that I had been but a moment late. His carriage was still at his door. He had not taken off his coat, and he was correcting with his pencil a statue, so that the workman might see as soon as he arrived where he should work. As soon as he saw me, and before I had begun to exculpate myself, he said, "Never mind; there is no harm done. I will come again to-morrow. Addio!"

It is scarcely necessary for me to say that the next morning I was at my studio by five o'clock, and at six Bartolini knocked. He came in, looked at the statue, scowling, and pronouncing one of his oaths, which I will not repeat. I begged him to tell me where I was wrong, and how I could make it better. He asked me what was the subject, and I told him that I intended it for a Dying Abel. I then showed him the sketch, upon which was the goat-skin that as yet I had not put on the large model, in order first to study carefully the nude underneath. And then I told him the objection that Benvenuti had made, and his proposal to change the subject. Bartolini answered, "You will do the best possible thing not to change it, for, as far as regards the clear indication of the theme, nothing more could be done. Besides, the goat-skin, which immediately denotes a shepherd, the wound on the head, and the expression of gentleness, explain that it is Abel. Now, I will give you a little counsel as to the unity of expression, to which you must carefully attend. The face, you see, is gentle, and is that of a just man who pardons as he dies. The limbs also correspond to this sentiment There is only one discord, and that is in the left hand. Why have you closed it, while the right hand is open, and just as it should be?"

"I closed it," I answered, "in order to give variety."

"Variety," said the master, "is good when it does not contradict unity. You will do well to open it like the other,—and I have nothing else to say."

This comforted me, but wishing to draw from him something more, in an exacting tone I said, "And as to the imitation, the character, the form?"

"The imitation, the character, and the form of this statue show that you are not of the Academy."

Other words he also added, which it is not proper for me to report. As to the feet, he only made a movement with his thumb, and I said, "I understand."

He looked at me, and added, "All the better for you if you have understood."

This ended all the correction of my statue made by this singular man. It was the first and the last. Bartolini was disdainful and unprejudiced, and called things by their real name; and if any one seemed to him an ass, he called him an ass, though he might be senator or minister. He knew that he was a great sculptor, and liked to be so recognised by all. He was often epigrammatic, and to his pungency he frequently added indecency,—liberal and charitable, jealous of the decorum and education of his family, an admirer of the code of Leopold, Frederic the Great, Napoleon the Great, and the principles of Eighty-nine. He liked to be called master, and detested to be called professor. He ridiculed all decorations, but what he had he wore constantly. As a sculptor he was very great. His example was better than his teaching. He restored the school of sculpture by bringing it back to the sound principles of truth. His enemies were numerous and very provoking, but he took no pains to conciliate them. When he was irritated, he struck about him right and left, lashing out fiercely, and laughing.

I went on and finished my statue, shutting out everybody except my dearest friends, among whom was Professor Giuseppe Sabatelli, who, after seeing my work and signing my petition for assistance, took a liking to me. And every morning, with a knock which we had agreed upon, he came to my studio to sit for a while, before going, as usual, to paint the cupoletta of the Chapel of the Madonna in the Church of San Firenze. He used at once to sit down and say—"I am not ill, but I am tired." He was thin and pale, and his black moustaches made his gentle and quiet face look even paler. Only few and kindly words came from his lips. As a companion, he was mild and pleasant. His memory comes over me sadly, and seems like the remembrance of something dear which has been mislaid, but not lost.

By the first days of September I finished the Abel; and the caster Lelli, who was then also a beginner, undertook the casting, and gave his service in the most friendly way, so that the expense should be as small as possible. All my friends, indeed, came forward to aid me in making the mould and casting, and removing the outer mould, with that brotherly love that I still recall with emotion. They are still living: Ferdinand Folchi the painter, who served me as model for the hands; Ulisse Giusti, the carver; Bartolommeo Bianciardi, Paolo Fanfani, and Michele Poggi, all carvers. They came to help me to raise and turn over the mould, or to give me any other assistance. Folchi and Sanesi assisted me in taking off the waste mould; and, in a word, all were eager to see my work finished and put on exhibition. Bartolini told me to select the place at the Academy that I thought best; and that if I found any opposition, as no one but the professors had any right to make the choice of place, to come to him there in the school, and he would arrange it for me. I had no occasion to avail myself of this frank and kind offer, for no sooner had Benvenuti seen me and the statue than he said, "Select the place and the light that you prefer."

As soon as the exhibition was opened there was a crowd about my statue. Its truth to nature, its appropriateness of expression, and the novelty and sympathetic character of the subject, made a great impression, and every day the crowd about the statue increased. But little by little it began to be whispered about, first in undertones, and then more openly and authoritatively, that the statue was worth nothing, because it was not really a work of art, but merely a cast from life; that I had wished to take in the Academy, masters, scholars, and the public; and that such a living piece of work thus introduced as if it were a work of art, while in point of fact it was a mere cast from life, ought at once to be expelled from the public exhibition. And this scandalous talk, which was as absurd as malign, originated among the artists, and especially among the sculptors. It was pushed to such a point, that in order to make the fraud clear, they obliged the model, Antonio Petrai, to undress, and laying him down in the same position as the statue, they proceeded with compasses and strips of paper to take all the measures of his body in length and breadth. Naturally they did not agree in a single measure; for, without intending it or thinking about it, I had made my statue four fingers taller and two fingers narrower across the back. This beautiful experiment was made in the evening; and the President of the Academy, who by chance surprised them in the very act, reprimanded all severely, not heeding whether among them there were professors.

But none the less this malignant and ridiculous accusation was still kept up, and nothing was said of the failure of the attempted proof. The model himself, who persisted in affirming that the statue was modelled and not cast, was openly jeered; and one person went so far as to tell him, that for a bottle of wine he could be made to say anything. But the person who thus insulted Petrai had better have let him alone, for Tonino—who, poor man, though now old, would still hold his own perhaps—added certain arguments to his words which no one dared to resist.

Signor Presidente Montalvo was quite right in expressing his disapproval of this dirty and impertinent examination, which was made without giving notice to the President and Director of the Academy; but, besides this, he felt all the more inclined to assume my defence on account of a little debt of conscience that he had towards me, and that he wished to pay off.

One day, before resolving to take a studio on lease, I made up my mind to petition the Grand Duke to give me one gratis. The Government had then at its disposition several small studios, which were given away, without rent and for an indefinite time, to those young men who either in painting or sculpture gave good promise not only of aptitude, but also of goodwill and proper conduct. As I did not think myself wanting in all these qualities, and specially the last two, I determined to make an application, driven to it indeed by necessity. But before presenting my petition I wished to inform the President of it, and to beg that he would be so kind as to lend me his support, as I well knew that petitions of this nature were always passed on to him for due information.

Montalvo was a perfect gentleman, and of an ancient and wealthy family, instructed in the history of art, a great admirer of it, and a very good friend of all artists, especially of those who to their artistic skill added an outward practice of religious duties, to which he was a devotee—though, as far as sentiment, enthusiasm, and real taste for art go, he was not distinguished.

Accordingly, I went one morning to pay him a visit at his rooms in the gallery of the Uffizi—he being also a Director of the Royal Gallery. I must here premise that I was not much in his good graces, because I had not studied at the Academy, which he believed to be the true nursery of an artist. As soon as he saw me, suspecting perhaps what I had come to ask, he said to me—

"And what do you want?"

"I come, Signor President, to say to you that I have made a petition to his Royal Highness the Grand Duke in the hope of obtaining a studio to make a model of a statue that I wish to exhibit this year in the Academy. My means are narrow, because I have a family; and before presenting this petition to the Sovereign, I have thought it my duty to inform you, and at the same time to beg your aid, and to use your influence that it may be answered favourably."

He answered, "You are not a pupil of the Academy, and therefore you have no right to ask for a studio, which the grace of the Sovereign grants only to those who have completed their studies in our Academy of Fine Arts."

"If I have not studied," I answered, "at the Academy, I have competed there, and gained the triennial prize, which is the end of the studies at the Academy."

The good Signor replied with impatience, "Which, then, do you think that you are, Canova or Thorwaldsen?"

"God save us, Signor President, I never thought this! But it may be permitted to me to observe, that even Canova and Thorwaldsen began from small beginnings, and were not born at once great sculptors, as Minerva sprung from the head of Jove."

You see that I really had no luck this morning; for the Director, rising, said to me, "Ah, then, as you argue in this way, I will tell you that, if the petition is referred to me for information, you shall have nothing," and then reseated himself.

I made my bow, and went out. But when I was outside, and wished to put on my hat, I found it was completely crushed: without being aware of it, I had reduced it to this state. So much the better. You lose as far as your hat is concerned, but you gain in character; and I counsel all young men who find themselves in a similar situation to take the same course.

But for all this, I repeat, Cavaliere Ramirez di Montalvo was a good and excellent man; but everything irritated him which seemed to him in the least to run off the rails. In his view, a youth who had not come out of the wine-press of the Academy could have little good in him, and he looked upon him as being a schismatic or excommunicated person. The Academy was to him the baptism of an artist, and outside of it he saw neither health nor salvation. I fell under him, and he crushed me. Parce sepulto.

But he was soon obliged to go back on this academic puritanism. His friend Cavaliere Pietro Benvenuti spoke to him in praise of this germ which was budding forth outside the privileged garden; and he soon began to regret having treated me with a nonchalance more appropriate for a pasha than a Christian. I believe this—and more, I am sure of it; for having gone one day to invite him to come and see a statue which I was modelling, he received me with singular kindness. It was as if he had never seen me before, much less had spoken to me so severely only a few months before, when I urged him to look with favour on my petition for a studio. I was moved to invite him, not only because by nature I am not tenacious in my resentments, but because I knew that he desired to see me—perhaps because he regretted not having been able to further my request. In a word, I went to see him, and found him most kindly disposed, as I have said; and he accepted my invitation, and came to call upon me at my studio in San Simone, where I modelled my Abel.

I have said that Cavaliere Montalvo was rather deficient in his sentiment and taste for art, but he liked the contrary to be thought of him. He was not indeed entirely without a certain discernment, and he had enough to enable him to distinguish an absolutely bad thing from an absolutely good thing. He was, in a word, a connoisseur in a general way; but his dignity as Director of the Royal Galleries, and even more as President of the Academy of Fine Arts, required him to conscientiously believe himself a connoisseur with refined taste. What I was then ignorant of in this respect I now clearly know, but I had a suspicion of this from the manner in which he looked at my statue, and by his expressions of praise, which were interlarded with commonplaces which he had learned from the stale formulas of the Academy. And in order that I should not imagine that he had found everything as it should be in the statue, he wished to point out some defect, and what he discovered was this, that the left ear seemed a little too far back, by which the jaw was enlarged beyond what it should be.

I have promised from the beginning to tell the truth, and I will tell it, with the help of God, even to the end. I must here confess that I acted like a hypocrite. Instead of answering, "It does not seem so to me, but I will measure it to assure myself," I told him that he was right, and I was much obliged to him; and more, when he favoured me with a second visit, I said to him as soon as he came in—

"Look at the ear."

"Have you compared it with the model?"

"Yes."

"Have you moved it a little more forward?"

"Eh? what do you think?"

"Ah! now it is right."

When I think of this, now that I am old, it seems to me a very bad thing, a most vile lie, under which (may God pardon me!) was concealed perhaps a secret sentiment of vengeance; and yet that lie made him a friend to me, and so he remained as long as he lived. But thenceforward I have always guarded myself from lying, and above all, from making game of any one who trusted me.

I return to the event of the exhibition. My name was on the lips of all; some praised me to the skies, some despised me as the most vulgar of impostors. Bartolini, Pampaloni, and Santarelli openly assumed my defence. The Grand Duke asked Giuseppe Sabatelli about it, and he assured him that the statue was really modelled, and not cast from life, and that he had been an eyewitness of my work, staying in my studio every morning, and had seen me working at it. I was exposed to a tempest of words and looks diametrically opposed to each other. The meaning of the two parties might be rendered by precisely these words, "great artist," "miserable impostor." My poor wife consoled me by saying—

"Do not be troubled, do not listen to them. They are irritated because you have done better than they. They will talk and talk, and at last they will hold their peace."

"Yes, my dear Marina, they will hold their peace; but in the meantime, what an injury they have done me! A certain person perhaps would have given me an order for the statue, as I know; but after all this absurd and evil-minded chattering, he mistrusts me, and will now do nothing, and I am crushed and overcome by the very thing which ought to have given me reputation and cleared my path for me. In the same way that I have made this statue, I know that I can make another. The will to do it is not wanting, but how can I bear the expense. My earnings, as I well see, are not sufficient to support the family, and to pay the model, the rent of the studio and the casting, and to buy what is necessary for the studio. Besides, I tell you, dearest, that I cannot allow you to fatigue yourself with so much work. You labour all day and all the evening, you have a baby to nurse, you get little repose at night, and do you think that I can allow you thus to wear your strength out? I hoped to enable you to get some rest, and to lead an easier life, and I thought that I saw before us, after I had breathed the last breath of life into Abel, the beginning of our intellectual and loving life; and now I find that these are and were only vain hopes."

"Do not be troubled, Nanni," said that blessed woman, and she said nothing more, only her eyes were swimming with tears.

In the meantime, without knowing it, I had a friend, in truth a real friend and benefactor, in Count F. del Benino. Count Benino was an old man of noble and ancient family, and a bachelor, who lived in his own palace in the Borgognissanti, and in precisely that on the Lung'Arno which was designed by the able architect and engineer Professor Commendatore Giuseppe Poggi. Count Benino had taken a liking to me when I was a little boy in Sani's shop. He was a great and very intelligent lover of the Fine Arts, and everything relating to them, and was extremely interested that his house should be a model of good taste, from the modest furniture of the entrance-hall up to his own private cabinet, which was a wonder to behold. The walls were surrounded by bookcases of solid mahogany, his study desk was also of mahogany; the chairs were covered with polished leather, and the floors were of inlaid wood and polished with wax. The books on the shelves were bound simply in leather in the English style. Upon his desk, among his books and papers, were various objects of great value—as, for instance, an antique bronze inkstand ornamented with figures and arabesques, ivory paper-cutters with richly carved handles, portraits in miniature of persons dear to him, and little busts in bronze and figures in ivory set on the cases of the desk, which were divided into compartments to hold his papers. In person he was tall and erect, thin, and with full colour, blue eyes, and perfectly white hair. He spoke with invariable urbanity and facility, not infrequently with pungency, but always with proper restraint. He dressed very carefully, and he liked the conversation and sought the friendship of artists. From the time when I was a youth in Sani's shop and worked for him as a wood-carver, and afterwards while I was working by myself in the Borghese stable, up to the time when I was making the Abel, when he was one of the subscribers to my petition for assistance, and indeed the largest of them, he never lost sight of me, but often came to pay me a visit while I was modelling Abel, and showed himself delighted with it, and sure of my future; and now, perceiving this scandalous plot to put me down, he was indignant. He came to seek me out just at the moment when I was thoroughly discouraged and knew not to what saint to recommend myself, and after saluting me with his customary "Sor Giovanni, che fa?" ("How are you, Mr Giovanni?"), seated himself on the only seat I possessed, and seeing that I was oppressed with thought, though I endeavoured to put a gay face on it, said to me—

"Oh, don't give up! Courage! Don't you hear how these donkeys bray? What they want is a good cudgel and a hearty beating. Don't think about it. I know what I am talking about. I frequent the studios, and I see and feel what a disloyal and foolish war they are waging. But do not give them time. You must ward off the blow and give them two back. In one studio I heard a fellow, whom I will not stop to name (but names are of little importance)—I heard a fellow, who, with a contemptuous laugh, said, 'The Abel he could cast, because the figure is lying down, but a standing figure he cannot cast. He will not make one this year, nor any other year.' And all the others laughed. This happened only a few moments ago, and I have come now to tell you that it is your duty to silence these snarling curs. So, dear Sor Giovanni, you must make another statue, and this time a standing figure; and ... now be silent a moment. I imagine very well what you will say. I understand it all, and I say to you, Quit this studio, which is not fit to make a standing figure in, and go and look for another at once. Order the stands which you require, think out your statue, and I will pay whatever sum is necessary. You know where I live; come there, and you will find a register on which you must write down the sum that you need, and put your signature to it; and when you have orders and work to do, which will not fail to come, and have a surplus of money, you may pay me back the money that I advance. Say nothing. I do not wish to be thanked,—first of all, because I am not making you a present, and then because I have my own satisfaction out of the proposition I make to you. What I want is to laugh in the face of these rascals who are now deriding you, and me too, because I assert that I have seen you at your work. So you see that I, too, am an interested party. Without spending a penny, we have an advantage, which, with all my money, I could not otherwise get. And now, dear Sor Giovanni, a rivederla. I shall expect you, to give you the money you need. Lose no time, keep up your spirits, and think of me as your very sincere friend.