CHAPTER VII.

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THE GRAND DUCHESS MARIA OF RUSSIA AND THE COMMISSION FOR THE CAIN AND ABEL—THE PRINCE OF LEUCHTENBERG AND A PLATE OF CAVIALE AT CAFFÈ DONEY—AN UNUSUAL AMUSEMENT THAT DID SOME GOOD—AGAIN THE GENEROSITY OF COUNT DEL BENINO—BARTOLINI'S HUNCHBACK, AND IN CONSEQUENCE A RETURN TO THE ABEL—BARTOLINI GETS ANGRY WITH ME—EXAMINATION OF THE MATERIALISTIC OR REALISTIC IN ART—EFFECTS OF THE REALISTIC—DO NOT HAVE GIRLS ALONE BY THEMSELVES FOR MODELS—SUBSCRIPTION GOT UP BY THE SIENESE TO HAVE MY ABEL EXECUTED IN MARBLE—A NEW WAY OF CURING A COUGH—SIGNORA LETIZIA'S RECEIPT, WHO SENT IT AND PAID FOR IT HERSELF—ONE MUST NEVER OFFER WORKS GRATIS, FOR THEY ARE NOT ACCEPTED—THE GRAND DUCHESS MARIE ANTOINETTA ORDERS THE "GIOTTO" FOR THE UFFIZI—HAS ABEL KILLED CAIN?—STATUE OF PIUS II.—A FOOLISH OPINION AND IMPERTINENT ANSWER—I DEFY THE LAW THAT PROHIBITS EATING.

I I ran home with all speed, elated and full of enthusiasm, to tell my wife of the charming proposal of Count Benino. My wife, poor soul, could not understand all this delight, this vehemence and excitement, in praise of that kind gentleman; and without saying it, she made me understand that she should have greatly preferred my continuing as a wood-carver, without troubling myself about an art which hitherto had only given me disappointment and worry. With her eyes she seemed to say to me, "Don't bother yourself, Nanni, about it."

I looked about to find a studio, and took one in the Niccolini buildings in Via Tedesca, now Via Nazionale. I ordered two large modelling-stands—one for the living model, the other for the statue in clay. "A standing statue he will not make," they said; but I will make it, and in movement too. The idea of Cain came at once into my head. Cain, the first homicide, fratricide! A fierce and tremendous subject, and one of great difficulty. I made the sketch, and it seemed to me that I had divined the movement and expression. Among the artists, it was soon known that I had taken a new studio to make another statue. Those who had laughed at first, laughed no longer. My friends encouraged me, and added fuel to the fire. I had also some offers for the Abel—insufficient if you will, but enough to encourage me. Among the others I accepted that of Signor Lorenzo Mariotti, an agent of the Russian Government, who lived in his own house in the Piazza Pitti. He came to see me, and said that he should like to order the statue of Abel, whenever I would make it, for what it cost me, and when it was done he would help me to sell it. The expenses were calculated at 800 scudi; and he offered me this price, with the understanding that whatever sum it was sold for above the 800 scudi, should be divided between us.

The marble was procured, and I was already modelling with ardour the statue of Cain. Fortunately the Grand Duchess Maria of Russia, daughter of the Emperor Nicholas, was passing through Florence. She had already heard the discussion, pro and con, which this statue had raised. She wished to see it, and was so well pleased by it that she did not conceal her delight. She was in company with her husband, the Prince of Leuchtenberg. They went into my private studio and saw the Cain, only just begun. She exchanged some words with the Prince, and he was much pleased, and embraced me. Then the Grand Duchess, pressing my hand, said, "The Abel and the Cain are mine." Then they departed. When I went home and told the good news to my wife, it seemed as if she had a little more faith in what I was so convinced of—viz., my future career as an artist.

PRINCE OF LEUCHTENBERG.

For the rest of the time that the august Prince and Princess were in Florence, he never omitted to pass some half-hours of the morning in my studio, because he liked so much to see me at work. He spoke Italian extremely well, and it amused him to talk with my model Antonio Petrai on various subjects; and as he was such a strong and well-made fellow, one day he asked him if he would like to measure his strength at fisticuffs with any one; and Petrai—who knew well enough who it was who asked the question, and was embarrassed about making a proper reply—after much hesitation could only say "Aho!" upon which the Prince laughed heartily and gave him something.

Who would have thought that such a handsome youth, so tall, squarely built, and so spirited, would have died only a few years later of an insidious disease? He was the son of Prince Beauharnais, Viceroy of Italy in the troublous times of Napoleon I. One day he came and carried me away from the studio, because he wished to see with me the statues which ornament our Piazza della Signoria and the Loggia of Orsanmichele; but first he would go to Doney's to breakfast. As soon as we were seated, he ordered caviale. "Caviale!" answered the waiter, "we have none." "Bring caviale," said the Prince, sharply; but before the servant could reply he made a sign to the master, who was at the desk, and he knocked loudly on the marble to call the waiter back. After a little while a magnificent plate of caviale was served. I wish to note this anecdote, as it depicts the courteousness, affability, and popularity of this Prince, who, though he had married the daughter of the Emperor of Russia, had not forgotten that he was born and educated in Italy.

COMMISSION FOR CAIN AND ABEL.

In the meantime, Mariotti, by order of the Grand Duchess, made the contract for the two statues, Cain and Abel, and the price fixed for the Abel was 1500 scudi, and for the Cain 2000 scudi. The contract which I had made with Mariotti was torn up, and I gave him out of my first receipts the sum he had given me; but as to the remainder, the 700 scudi, which was to be divided between us, he would not receive it, saying that the Grand Duchess had already paid him enough. And this, for Mariotti, whom they call mangia-russi, was a good action.

In the meantime the good Count del Benino lent me a considerable sum of money to pay the rent of my studio, for the modelling stands and tools, and for the models, as also the daily sum I carried home for household expenses. This was all registered in a book, with the sums, the dates, and my name signed in receipt. And all this together came to the amount of about 100 scudi.

Now that I had two good commissions, and the relative advances on them, I went to Palazzo del Benino, this time to pay rather than receive, and therefore with lighter and freer spirit. I was anxious to cancel this debt, which weighed upon my mind like an incubus, which I had felt was increased and renewed every time I was forced by necessity to ask for more money; and poor Del Benino, who perceived my reluctance, encouraged me, and made me feel that it was indifferent to him whether he gave more or less, trying to distract me while he counted out the money. But this time, as I have said, I was gay and light-hearted, and caused my name to be announced by the servant in a loud voice: in short, I was in bearing and in words slightly proud.

I OFFER TO REPAY DEL BENINO.

The Count was seated writing in his usual place. He put down his pen, and staring at me with his blue eyes, said, "Sor Giovanni, welcome! I am delighted to see you. What charming thing have you to tell me? Yes, what can you tell me that I do not already know? To begin, then, I congratulate you truly—truly. You see, this is for me a new satisfaction: you cannot imagine the pleasure I feel in now seeing certain faces cloudy and sad which a few months ago were bursting with laughter. And I divert myself very much playing the ignoramus with them, saying, 'Then it appears that this youth is going straight ahead, per Bacco!' The Abel! that stands for what it is—I mean to say, that if the artist has cast it from life, as you say, the Grand Duchess Maria has caught a fine crab; but the Cain! that is scarcely begun, and they tell me that she has seen it only in the clay, and liked it, and given the order for it, and other like things; for the desire to torment them does not fail me, and they were much teased and molested by my bitter words, which I pretended not to mean and ran on. So I have diverted myself, and so I will divert myself. Now, then, again I congratulate you. And now tell me if I can do anything for you. I am at your service."

"Signor Conte, I have come to repay the money which you have lent me, with so much generosity and kindness, to enable me to make my new model of Cain, which, God be thanked, has so much pleased the Grand Duchess. If I had not already begun this, she could not have seen it; and who knows if she would have taken the risk to order even the Abel? I feel, but cannot express all the importance of your valuable aid. This aid, so timely, has been for me a second life, without which, who knows what would have become of me, discouraged, despised, and probably deserted by those who now cry out, 'Beautiful, beautiful!' Here am I, then, to thank you cordially, and to return the money I have borrowed." While I was speaking the Count gradually lost that gay and lively expression which was habitual to him, and at my last words looked at me with an expression of seriousness and regret that I knew not how to interpret. Then he said—

COUNT DEL BENINO REFUSES REPAYMENT.

"There is time enough for this; don't be in such a hurry. This is only the beginning; a thousand things may occur, and it will do you no harm to have a little money in the house. On the contrary, it may be convenient. Now think of study and your reputation; and to pay your debt to me there is time enough."

"Listen, Signor Conte: I have come here on purpose, and have brought the money. I do not need it for the present. Let me pay this material debt; that other great moral substantial debt, the infinite good you have done me, I can never repay, and never should wish to." The Count grew even more earnest and serious. He held the paper of our accounts mechanically in his hand, and tried to prove to me that there was time enough, and that I should keep the money; but seeing that I insisted, and held out my hand for the papers to see the sum due, drew it back with vivacity, and with flashing eyes said to me—

"Oh, leave me, dear Sor Giovanni, this satisfaction."

He tore up the paper and threw it in the basket. I was mortified, and had half a mind to be offended, but the kind expressions of this excellent man prevailed. He took my hand and pressed it between his, saying—

"Don't take it amiss, but leave me the consolation that I have been able to assist, even in the least degree, in the sale of your work—as you say, opened for you a future which I hope may prove full of honours. And moreover, you must know that it has always been my firm intention to assist you until the road was open and easy before you. I did not at once open my mind to you, because then, perhaps, you would not have accepted the offer; therefore I said, you will sign the contract,—and in good time you will pay. Now you have really paid me, because that small sum of money has secured your future and given me a great satisfaction."

IDEALISTS AND ACADEMICIANS.

It is necessary now for me to touch upon a question vital to art, and which was being agitated just at the time I was modelling the Abel. This work served to inflame it, and to encourage as much one side as the other—that is, either the idealists or the academicians in opposition to Bartolini, who, while he was not naturalistic in the strict sense of the word, proposed to introduce this principle into his teaching by bold innovations. It is necessary for me to speak of this, inasmuch as this dispute and my statue served as the target for the shots of one as well as the other parties, and had the effect of estranging Bartolini from me—although, as we shall see later, it was another and less justifiable cause that made the great sculptor indignant with me.

When Stefano Ricci, Master of Sculpture in the Royal Academy, died, it was wisely decided to call Lorenzo Bartolini to his place (this was a little before I modelled the Abel), and Bartolini took possession of the school with the air of a conqueror. Various were the causes for his extremely overbearing conduct. First, the opposition his demands encountered on the part of the President and others of the Academy; then his before-mentioned principles of reform, diametrically opposed to those now taught in the school; also, finally, the heated political and religious opinions, which were discussed with little charity on either side. He altered everything, theories and systems. The position of his assistant, Professor Costoli, was unpleasant; but he was obliged to remain. He prohibited all study from statues, and restricted the whole system of teaching to an imitation only of nature; and he pushed this principle so far, that he introduced a hunchback into the school and made the young students copy him. This daring novelty raised a shout of indignation: they cried out against the profanation of the school, of the sacred principles of the beautiful, &c.; said that he was ignorant of his duties as master, and that he misled the youths, extinguishing in them the love of the beautiful by the study of deformity; and many other accusations of this agreeable sort, in a freer and more pointed style than mine.

IMITATION OF NATURE—THE HUNCHBACK.

Neither was Bartolini the man to allow this deluge to fall upon his head, which, together with much that was true, carried with it a torrent of errors and unreasonable absurdities. As he understood well the clever use of the pen, he launched forth certain articles so stinging and cutting that they were delightful. The AbbÉ Chiari and the AbbÉ Vicini were treated by old Baretti with distinction as compared with the treatment Bartolini gave the Anonymous Society of the Via del Cocomero. I recollect one of the foolish arguments raised by his detractors against Bartolini, which was so ingenuous that it showed in its author more emptiness and smallness of mind than cleverness or bad faith. This is what he said: "The expert gardener, by means of his art, transforms a forest which is rough and horrid, as nature made it, into a beautiful grove, by rooting out plants, opening alleys, pruning into a straight line the projecting branches," &c. How much this comparison of the grove to the human figure diverted Bartolini is not to be told. I have not before me his sharp stinging words, and I do not wish to spoil them by repeating them from memory, but to me he appeared to be as pleasant and brilliant a writer as he was admirable as an artist.

BARTOLINI'S VIEWS AND CHARACTER.

This dispute was rekindled, as I have said, on the appearance of my Abel. I do not remember by which side was first pronounced my name and my work, but certain it is that Bartolini said that the most convincing proof of the excellence of his method was "precisely the Abel," which statue was made by a youth who knew nothing of Phidias or Alcamenes, nor of the others—who had not breathed the stifling air of the Academy—that he had trusted himself to beautiful nature, and that he had copied her with fidelity and love. After this there was fresh sarcasm against him and his system of copying nature, even when deformed, &c. Added to this, there were long-winded eulogies on my work, and I could see that these were advanced merely to put this man in bad humour.

He had taken a dislike to me, and wished to tell me so. He sent his father-in-law, Dr Costantino Boni, to summon me. I went, and when I arrived he received me in the great ante-room, and said to me, with his usual striking bluntness, "I have sent for you to tell you that I do not wish to see you again." How astounded I was by these words you can imagine who know the veneration and affection I had always felt for this celebrated master; and I could only reply—"Why?"

"Why! You have no more need of me, nor I of you; stay in your own studio, and don't come any more to mine."

It appeared to me so strange, not to say unreasonable, that he should send for me to tell me not to come to him, that I could not do less than reply that I had come to his studio because he had sent for me, and that I was very sorry to be forbidden to return, as I always wished to learn.

BARTOLINI REFUSES A RECONCILIATION.

"No matter," replied he; "you understand—each one for himself," and this he said in French. Because you must know, that when he was excited he preferred that language either for speaking or writing.

Notwithstanding this, the next year, as I wished for a reconciliation,—having made the model in clay of the Giotto, which I wanted to try in the niche of the Uffizi, to hear the opinion of my friends about it, and to correct it where it was necessary, before its execution in marble,—I wrote to Bartolini begging him to come to see my statue in its place to give me his authoritative opinion. He replied in a manner specially his own—I might almost say with his own brutal sincerity,—that which distinguished him from his sugared and often hypocritical contemporaries. He could not deceive; he held me in aversion, and he wished me to know it, not by his silence, but by a letter. Here it is: "Dearest, the thing which above all things I like in this world is to see the races in the Cascine; but as I have so much work which prevents me, just imagine if I shall come to see your statue?"

Observe, I do not say that I expected precisely such a reply, and I was a little stung by it; but I understood him, and really liked it better than if he had made an excuse and told a lie. All men should be true to themselves. Bartolini was still angry with me, as I found out afterwards, because, in the discussion about the hunchback, my name being brought forward, I did not enter into its defence. In fact, if a similar discussion were now to arise on this subject, it would seem to me cowardly to draw back and not clear up a point of controversy of the greatest importance; but then, being young and a beginner, how could I presume to offer my support to Bartolini? Would it not appear pretentious in me even to assume to be the defender of so great a master? It seemed to me so then, and it seems so now. Let it not be thought that I did not do this while arguing with my artist friends; it was quite otherwise, and this was the way in which I drew upon myself their ill feeling and dislike. And the defence of the Bartolini system which I then made was in a much more absolute sense than that which I now make; for while I see that Bartolini was right in carrying back art to its first source—that is (and we should thank him for that), to the imitation of nature—he went beyond bounds in proposing a deformed person as a model. It is very true that Bartolini never affirmed, as his enemies assert, that a hunchback was beautiful. He said that it was as difficult to copy a hunchback well as a well-formed person, and that a youth ought to copy as faithfully the one as the other; and when the eye had been educated to discover the most minute differences in the infinite variety of nature, and the hand able to portray them, then, but only then, was the time to speak, and select from nature the most perfect, which others called the bello ideale, and he the bello naturale. But that blessed hunchback still remains, who, in the strict sense of the word, is not the real truth; for in what is deformed there is something deficient, which removes it from the truth, however natural it may be. It is a defect in nature, and therefore not true to nature.

BELLO IDEALE—BELLO NATURALE.

But it happened then as it happens always: the reform of Bartolini and the dogmas of the academicians never came to an end. They might have confined themselves to the indisputable principle that one should imitate life in its infinite scale of variety, avoiding always deformity. But once they had begun with the meagre child, the adipose old man, the lean or flabby youth, they went on through thick and thin. It would not have been so bad had they really appreciated what Bartolini meant to say, and that is, that copying anything was very well as a mere exercise and means of learning one's art—or, to use his expression, of "holding the reins of art"; but the misfortune was, that some took the means for the end, and so went wrong.

COPYING OF ANTIQUE STATUES.

But nevertheless, this Bartolinian reform was of great advantage. Let us remember how sculpture was then studied. The teaching of Ricci was only a long and tedious exercise of copying wholesale the antique statues, good and bad; and what was worse, the criterion of Greek art was carried into the study of nude life—the characteristic forms of the antique statues supplanting those of the living model. The outlines were added to and cut away with a calm superiority, which was even comical. The abdominal muscles were widened, the base of the pelvis narrowed, in order to give strength and elegance to the figure. The model was never copied; the head was kept smaller, and the neck fuller, so that, although the general effect was more slender and more robust, the character was falsified, and was always the same, and always conventional. This restriction of nature to a single type led directly to conventionality; and once this direction was taken, and this habit of working from memory, following always a pre-established type, the artist gradually disregarded the beautiful variety of nature, and not only did not notice it, but held it in suspicion, believing that nature is always defective, and that it is absolutely necessary to correct it; and in this, they said, lies the secret of Art. And yet Bartolini cried aloud, and, so to speak, strained his voice to make himself understood, and stood up on a table and beat his drum for the hunchback. But as soon as a sufficient number of people is collected to make a respectable audience, one must lay aside the great drum and begin to speak seriously. And this is just what the maestro did: he gave up the hunchback, inculcated the imitation of beautiful nature in all its varieties of sex, age, and temperament. But, in the ears of the greater number of persons the beat of the great drum still sounded, and the words of Bartolini were not understood. From that time to this there have been no more statues of Apollo, Jove, and Minerva. Chased from this earth, they returned to their place on Olympus—and there they still remain.

HOW FAR NATURE IS TO BE COPIED.

Still the seed of deformity had been sown, and struck strong roots. There are some men who grub in filth and dirt with pure delight, and have for the ugly and evil a special predilection, because, as they say, these are as true representatives of nature as what is beautiful and good, and are in fact a particular phase of that truth which, as a whole, constitutes the truly beautiful. And reasoning thus, this school, or rather this coterie, has given us, and still gives us, the most strange and repulsive productions, improper and lascivious in subject, and in form a servile copy of such offensively ugly models as Mother Nature produces when she is not well. What would you say, dear reader, if you were ever to see a hideous little baby, crying with his ugly mouth wide open, because his bowl of pap has fallen out of his hand? or an infamous and bestial man, with the gesticulations expressive of the lowest and most vicious desires? or a woman vomiting under a cherry-tree because she has eaten too much? or other similar filthinesses of subject and imitation, which are disgusting even to describe? For myself, I am not a fanatic for ancient Art: on the contrary, I detest the academic and conventional; but I confess that, rather than these horrors, I should prefer to welcome Cupid, and Venus, and Minerva, and the Graces, and in a word all Olympus. But, good heavens! is there no possibility of confining one's self within limits? And if we abandon Olympus and its deities, is it necessary to root and grub in the filth of the Mercato Vecchio and in the brothel?

MODEL OF BEATRICE PORTINARI.

Now we will return to our story. At the time I was modelling the Cain, and as it were for the purpose of repose, I made a little figure of Beatrice Portinari, which I afterwards repeated in marble, I know not how many times. For this statue I had used as a model a tolerably pretty young girl who was named likewise Portinari. I tell this little story for the instruction of young artists. There will even be two of these stories, for I omitted one in speaking of the Cariatidi of the Rossini Theatre; and these little matters show how one should treat the model. One morning, when I had the Portinari for a model, the curate Cecchi of the Santissima Annunziata knocked at my door and told me that he wished to come in to have a few words with me. I replied that for the moment I could not attend to him, as I had a model, but that if he would have the goodness to come back a little later, we should then be alone, and he could speak to me at his ease. After dinner he returned, and said, "Have you a certain Portinari for a model?"

"Yes," I said.

"Then you must know that this girl is engaged to my nephew; and as I have learned that she comes to you as a model, and as I absolutely will not allow my nephew to marry a model, I have already so told the girl, and she denies that she comes to you. Now I beg that you will do me the favour to let me come in when she is here. I will then surprise her, and blow into the air this marriage arranged with my nephew."

A MODEL AND HER LOVER.

"Listen," I said. "This sort of thing I do not like. I cannot lend myself to do an injury of this kind to this poor girl, who comes here to be my model. She has confided to me that she is in want of money, having larger demands than her daily earnings will supply. She has said nothing about her being engaged, in which case I would not have employed her unless her mother or other near relation came with her. But, since it seems to me reasonable that you should not wish your future relation to go out as a model, I will promise you not to so employ her any more; and the first time she comes, I will tell her that I do not want her again, and I will warn her not to go to others. Are you content?"

He seemed to be tolerably well satisfied, and I did as I had promised.

Here is the other little story of the model of the Cariatidi. Every morning there came to me as a model a girl who lived in the Prato, and was a weaver. The first morning, she came to the studio with a subbio.[5] I took no notice of it; but the second and the third, as well as the fourth time, she had always under her arm this clumsy and heavy thing, so I asked her—

"Why do you carry about that subbio?"

She answered: "I have a lover. If I meet him in the street, I tell him that I am going to my employers."

"What occupation has your lover?"

"He is a butcher."]

Ah! thought I. "Look here, you must do me the favour to bring your mother with you when you come again."

"The mother cannot leave her work."

"Then bring some one else; one of your relations, or a lodger—at all events some one. I will not have you here alone."

I had scarcely spoken these words when I heard a knock at the door. "Hark! it is your lover who knocks," I said, as a joke.

I went and opened the door, and found there a sturdy youth as red as a lobster.

"Who do you want?" I asked.

"Are you the painter?"

"No, I am not a painter."

"Nonsense! let me come in. You have got Anina in there to paint. I want to have one word with her, and will go away at once."

"And I tell you that you don't know what you are talking about."

"If you take it so," he said, "let me come in;" and he pushed the door with all his force.

I, who had been warned, was ready with all my strength, and shut the door in his face. I went back into the studio, and found the girl, who, only as yet half dressed, was trembling like a leaf. I crossed the court of Palazzo Borghese, and opened carefully the door which gave upon the Via Pandolfini, and made signs to the girl to follow me. I looked out on the street to make sure that the youth was not there, and said to the girl hastily, "Go away, and don't come back to me, even if you are accompanied by some one."

The young man stayed in the Via del Palagio, and walked up and down for some hours before my door; but I saw no more of him, and know nothing more. The conclusion: girls as models—never alone.

SUBSCRIPTION FOR THE ABEL.

I return to where I left off—to the Cain. There was in Florence at that time a certain English lady, Mrs Letitia Macartney, who had been living for some time in Siena. She wished so much to see the Abel reproduced in marble, that on her return to Siena she issued a paper which invited the Sienese to make a subscription for this purpose. I have before me that paper, dated 12th December 1842, a few days before the Grand Duchess of Russia had given me her commission. This invitation to my townsmen had a great success, for in a few days sheets were covered with signatures, among which all classes figured—beginning with the Governor Serristori, the Archbishop, the clergy, the university, the gentry, and the people, and finally the religious corporations. Certainly, that excellent lady could not have had a better result from her touching appeal, which ran as follows: "I beg the Sienese not to reject my humble petition, and that the poor as well as the rich, whoever reads these words, will put his signature, and will contribute a half paul to assist his townsman, who has so well proved that he deserves encouragement. Those who wish to give more than the small proposed sum can privately satisfy their generous impulses in the way they think best,—on this paper they are begged not to exceed the sum named." And by half pauls only, the not small sum of 100 scudi was collected; and if this good lady had added that the half paul was to be paid every month for a year or fourteen months, I am sure that my townsmen would not have refused it, and that the Abel would be to-day at Siena.

The sum of money and the list of subscribers were sent to me, and I preserve the latter jealously; and after these many years I read over the names with heartache, thinking how all these have disappeared, together with the good Signora Letizia. And now I am speaking of her, I will mention something which will cause her to be appreciated and loved, even as I loved and admired her.

MRS LETITIA MACARTNEY'S KINDNESS.

A short time after she had issued the appeal for my Abel, she came with a nephew and her two sisters to establish herself in Florence. She was about fifty years of age, enthusiastic for the beautiful wherever she found it. She had a small gallery of ancient pictures which she had collected with careful study in her wanderings through Italy. She had taken an apartment in the Piazza di Santa Maria Novella, and I often went there with my wife to pass the evening; and on her part the Signora Letizia often came to look me up in my studio. She liked to discuss with me artistic things, and when I could not attend to her, she said good-bye and went away.

Then it was, either from too hard work or on account of the dampness of the room in which I worked, or both together, I took so tiresome and obstinate a cough, that it gave me no peace night or day. I tried many things to get rid of it, and all in vain—decoctions, ass's milk, care, all were useless. La Signora Letizia having urged me a thousand times to take care of myself and to get rid of that cough, said to me so seriously that it made me laugh—

"It is absolutely necessary for you to get well."

"Bravo!" I said; "that is what I have been thinking of for the past month, and I have done everything for that purpose—the advice and prescriptions of the physicians have not been neglected; but now seriously I must get well—Go away, cough!"

"No, don't joke; you must get well, and I mean to cure you. Listen," she said, "what you ought to do: you should buy a quantity of pine-wood, and with this line all the walls of your studio from top to bottom, leaving space between the wood and the wall; and you must do the same for the floor. Have the window open some hour of the day when you are not in the studio, that the current of air may not do you harm."

SHE LINES THE STUDIO WALLS.

It seemed an odd thing to me. I could not understand what all this wood had to do with my cough; but to content her, I said that I would do as she advised. In the meantime I continued to cough in spite of the pot of lichen which I kept hot in my studio; and every day when this poor lady came to see me and saw that her advice was not followed, she appeared serious and disappointed, and finally said—

"Do you think, Signor DuprÈ, that my advice could do you harm?"

"Certainly not," I said.

"Then why don't you follow it?"

"I must wait a few days; just at present I cannot. But I will do it—of this you may be sure; and I am very grateful to you: it seems to me that it will be more comfortable and warmer."

She soon went away, and I seriously considered that I ought to try and content her, not that I thought the remedy effective. I said to myself—"My trouble is either a cold or something else; it is in the stomach, or the throat, or the bronchial tubes, and surely is not owing to the walls of my studio. But what shall I do? I must satisfy her. Certainly it will cost something to line all the studio with wood from top to bottom, and the floor; but what a strange idea has come into this lady's head, and with what seriousness and impressiveness she urges me to use pine-wood!"

Shortly after, I heard a knock at the door and saw three or four loads of boards in the street. The head carter said to me—

"Is this wood to come here?"

MY STUDIO IS LINED.

I had ordered no wood, I replied. Then he showed me a card on which was written my name and the number of my studio, and added—

"This wood has been ordered and paid for, including the carriage, and—is it to come here?"

"Certainly," I said, "it is to come here." It was unloaded, and I gave the men a little money, for although they had been paid, it would do them no harm. I sent immediately to call Petrai, who, besides being a model, was also a carpenter, and told him that I wished, in the quickest possible manner, to use this wood to line the studio walls and plank the floor; that he was to employ as many men as were necessary, and that they could not go to bed until this work was done.

The blacksmith was immediately set to work on the irons which were to support the boards, the mason to fasten them to the walls, and men to saw and nail. All the day and all the evening it appeared to be the devil's own house, and I was in the midst directing and overseeing the work.

The next morning, when I entered my studio, I felt revived by the odour of the pine and the air so sensibly dry, and I said, "If this work does no good to the cough, no matter; but it is certain that I find myself much better. Besides, I like the colour of the wood, which is gay. I like the smell of the pine. The floor is better to walk upon, and it is drier than any carpet. The air circulates everywhere. Viva Mrs Letitia! And now, how to repay her for this wood which she has bought for me? Ah! this is not so easy. To talk of giving back the money is useless, and it would also be in bad taste, for I know how sensitive this lady is; but as a present I will not receive it." As it happened, I had a small bust of Beatrice in marble, which she had always admired. I sent this to her house, and she was so much pleased that she never ceased to speak of it to me. And the cough? The cough diminished day by day as if by enchantment, and in a week I was perfectly cured.

BUSTS OF BEATRICE AND RAPHAEL.

Whilst I am speaking of favours received and the manner in which I requited them, independent of the sentiment of gratitude which I always preserve for those who have rendered me a service, I must add that Mrs Macartney was pleased with the little bust of Beatrice; so also was Del Benino more than delighted with a bust in marble of the boy Raphael which I had copied from a painting by his father, Sanzio, who had painted the little boy when six years of age. At the bottom of this portrait was written in red, "Raphael Santii d'anni sei, Santii patre dipinse."

I saw this work of mine only a few years ago in the palace belonging to the heirs of Count del Benino.

As I have alluded to that excellent man—of whom, as you see, I retain such an affectionate remembrance—I will mention that I asked permission of his heirs by letter to be permitted at my own expense to make a little memorial of him in marble, and to place it in the chapel of the villa where Del Benino was buried; but I have never received any answer.

It appears that works either for love or money are not wanted. Here is another example of this. It must be now four or five years since the lamented Professor G. B. Donati, the astronomer, came to my studio with the engineer Del Sarto, to tell me that the commune of Florence intended to place a sun-dial on one side of the Ponte alla Carraja, exactly at the beginning or end of the terrace, where there is at present a kiosk; and in order to have an elegant and artistic thing, it came into the head of Donati, or some one of the Municipal Council of Art, to have a figure in bronze holding a disc on which should be marked the meridian, and the hand of this figure should be held gracefully in such a manner that its shadow indicated the hour. The idea pleased me. I made a sketch, and Del Sarto the engineer sent me the exact dimensions of the terrace. He liked the sketch, and asked me what the cost of such a work would be, adding that unless the price was small they would not be able to order it. I replied that nothing could cost less than this, as I intended to present the model, and the Municipality would only have to pay for the casting in bronze. I had an estimate made by Professor Clemente Papi, who asked a very reasonable sum—seven or eight thousand lire, I believe; and he signed a paper to this effect, which, at the same time with a letter I had written repeating the offer of my work gratis, I sent in an envelope to the Municipality: and since then I have heard nothing. Poor Donati is dead; the sketch and the model of the terrace are in my studio. Count Cambray Digny was then syndic. On Ponte alla Carraja, in place of my statue, there is a kiosk where papers, wax-matches, &c., are sold. Even this is not the last of the statues I have offered as a present which have not been accepted, but I will not mention them here.

FIGURE FOR A SUN-DIAL.

Meanwhile, as I was finishing the model of Cain, the Grand Duchess Maria Antonietta ordered of me a statue for the Uffizi. I selected Giotto, and she presented this statue to the Commission for erecting statues of illustrious Tuscans, which, while they ornament the Loggia, serve to recall past glory and to advise one to study more and to chatter a little less. In roughing out the statue I found a flaw which split the marble in two. I was obliged to throw it away and to buy another block. When the good Grand Duchess heard of this, she insisted upon repaying me the price of the new marble. I note this because so generous an act is uncommon.

ABEL HAS KILLED CAIN.

The Cain was exhibited, and, as was natural, was less liked than the Abel,—first of all, because the enthusiasm raised by the former statue had too sensibly wounded the self-love of many; and then, because some of my friends were too zealous, and their excessive praise of it before it was on exhibition created a public opinion in its favour which perhaps was not justified by its merits, for the difficulties of the subject were very great. With a phrase more witty than just, they said, "This time Abel has killed Cain;" but Bartolini, who generally liked wit, said this was unjust and stupid, and declared that I had overcome a thousand times greater difficulties than in the Abel. But that witticism was prompted by suspicion and passion, and it came from those same persons who said that the Abel had been cast from life.

Being proposed by Bartolini, I was elected Professor of the Academy. At that time, being invited by some of my townsmen, I went to Siena, where I was received with warmth and fraternal love. I was a guest of the Bianchis—of that charming Signora Laura who had always been so good to my poor mother and my family. That dear lady, and Carlo, who is still alive, and Luigi, who, alas! was too soon snatched away from the love of his relations and of Siena, rejoiced in seeing me made the subject of honour and ovation by all the citizens, who came to the palace to greet me.

I remember with emotion that crowd of people, and those deputations of the contrade and academies of the city, sent to bring me salutations and presents. These were the first flowers that I gathered and smelt in the garden of my youth; and their perfume I still smell, and it is now perhaps even more delightful, for it is associated in my memory with a time when I had no remorse.

DISCOVERY OF A RAPHAEL.

A subscription was opened on the spot, promoted by the Cavaliere Alessandro Saracini, the Count Scipione Borghese, the Count Augusto dei Gori, and the Marquis Alessandro Bichi-Ruspoli. The statue which they ordered was of the Pontiff Pius II., Eneas Silvius Piccolomini.

These four gentlemen were good friends of mine; but I saw Saracini oftenest, as he came to Florence on business affairs. He had an intelligent love of Art, which he practised a little for his amusement, and he was President of the Institute of Fine Arts at Siena. One day he came to me quite breathless. He said that he had seen, in a shop or store-house near the Via Faenza, a wall all painted over, and that it was concealed by carriages, carts, wheels, and poles—in fact, it was at a carriage-maker's.

"But what painting is it?" I asked.

"I do not know—I cannot say what it is; but it appears to me very beautiful," he replied. "It is like Perugino, or certainly of his school."

"Wait a moment," I said; "here in the neighbourhood is some one who understands these things better than you or I;" and we went to Count Carlo della Porta, and to Ignazio Zotti, painters who lived in the Niccolini building with me. They lost no time, and we all four went to the place. Carlo della Porta having placed a ladder against the wall, mounted, and stayed there only a few moments, then descended, and made Zotti go up. They then, after exchanging some words, expressed the opinion that it was by Raphael.

The clearing out of this place, and the arguments for and against the decision on the part of the Government, and the ultimate destination of the picture, are all well known, and I pass to other things. Having finished the Giotto, I went to Rome to make studies there for the statue of Pius II. I stayed there a month, and lived at the Hotel Cesari, Piazza di Pietra. It was the month of December 1844.

MY FOLLY AT ROME.

I must confess, whatever it costs me, that the Eternal City did not make the most favourable impression upon me; and except the ruins of ancient Rome, the Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Forum, with its triumphal arches and colonnades, all the rest excited in me no enthusiasm. But I must admit I had been spoiled by too much praise; and I was so vain, that while I accepted everything with apparent modesty, I was so puffed up internally with pride that at times it would show itself in spite of me. I remember once at the house of the Signora Clementina Carnevali, where every evening were to be seen all the most distinguished persons in Rome, either in letters or art, strangers as well as Italians,—I remember, I say, to have replied in a most impertinent manner to some one who asked me how I liked the monuments and the art of Rome, and what above all had most pleased me. I replied—and I blush to repeat it—"What I like best is the stewed broccoli"—a reply as outrageously stupid as insolent, and I wonder that those who heard it could have taken it in good part. For myself, as I feel to-day, if a young artist had replied to me in such a manner, he would have got little good out of it, and so much the better for him!

But I had better luck; my foolish reply was repeated by every one, and so clouded by vanity and pride were my eyes, that I fancied it excited mirth and approbation, while it really deserved only compassion.

O Minardi! O Tenerani! O Massimo d'Azeglio! you who were present, but now dead, cannot see the amende which I make. However, you knew me later, and were aware of my repentance. But as for you, excellent Clementina—who are alive, and will read, I hope, these pages—if then you smiled with compassion, because you are so good you will to-day smile with approbation and praise.

I LOSE MY WAY.

And now, gentle reader, would you like to see how headstrong and proud I had become? One evening—Christmas Eve—I proposed to go to the midnight Mass at St Peter's. I set out at ten o'clock from the Via Condotti, where I had passed the evening with some of my English friends whom I had known in Florence. Mrs ——, to whom I had disclosed my purpose, said, "Take care! you are not much acquainted with Roman streets; you had better take a carriage to go there. If you do not, you may easily lose your way in the streets of Rome. They are very confusing by day; imagine what they are at night!" If this lady had not given me such a warning, it is probable that I should have done as she suggested; but because she had given it I despised it, and determined to go by myself to St Peter's.

MY PRIDE PUNISHED.

I walked until two o'clock without even being able to find the bridge of St Angelo. I got bewildered in all those streets and lanes which are comprised between San Luigi dei Francesi, Piazza Navona, San Andrea della Valle, San Carlo a Catinari, Teatro Argentina, Il Gesu, and San Ignazio e la Minerva; and after having walked for two hours, I found myself at the point I had started from. Then, more obstinate than ever, though overcome by weariness and mortified pride, I persisted in going up and down all sorts of streets unknown to me, and often very filthy, and again coming across the same piazze, the same fountains, until at last I found myself at the foot of the Campidoglio steps. The people whom I met in the streets here and there returning from the Mass could have shown me the way, not to go to St Peter's, but how to return to my hotel, had I been less headstrong, and had I inquired for the Piazza Colonna or Piazza di Pietra, where I lodged. But no; it appeared to me to be a humiliation. I wished to find the hotel by myself; and I did find it finally, but in what a condition I leave those to judge who know Rome, and the sharp pavements of its streets, but, above all, tired out, and more than this, humiliated and without supper. It was two o'clock. The Hotel Cesari was shut, and I had to wait until they opened it for me. I asked for supper; they replied that they had nothing, and that if they had it they could not give me anything, because they were prohibited by law from supplying any food on that night. I should have been glad of any little thing, but could get nothing. My pride was singularly punished that night, and I went to bed hungry. At first I strove in vain to go to sleep, then I dreamt all night of eating, and awoke in the morning rather late. I could not realise that I could get up and have a good breakfast. I went over again in thought the weariness of the night, the hunger, the annoyance, and I felt weak. But finally I said to myself, I will eat now, and another time I shall be wiser. Now to breakfast! After going out of the hotel, I turned to the right to go into the Osteria dell'Archetto. It was closed; the caffÈ next door was closed. I ran into the Piazza Colonna, and found all shut up—caffÈs, pastry-cooks, everything closed. I asked, angrily and with a bewilderment easy to comprehend, what was the reason of this, and was told that during the time of the religious ceremonies no one could sell anything to eat. I was stupefied, and walked along slowly, not knowing where to go. Until after twelve o'clock neither the trattorie nor the caffÈs would be opened. I would not go back to the hotel, as I feared a refusal such as I had the night before. I began to feel very faint; for nearly twenty hours I had eaten nothing. I saw the people gaily walking about, smiling, smoking, and looking well-fed and of good colour, and I felt angry and envious. They had eaten leisurely and at home, or in the caffÈ or trattoria before ten o'clock, the hour prescribed. I had slept until that hour, and dreamt of eating, and when I went out intending to get something to eat, it was too late. Fortunately, one of my friends, the engraver Travalloni, saw me, and coming to meet me, said, "What is the matter? Why do you look so scared?" I told him my story, and he laughed, and taking me by the arm, said—"Come with me." After a few turns he entered a doorway half closed, and pushed me up a dark staircase, where there were the savoury odours of cooking, all the more grateful to me because my appetite was so great. The staircase opened upon an ante-room, also dark. We closed the door and knocked at a smaller door. It was opened, and I found myself in a spacious hall, well ventilated and full of people, who were sitting eating and drinking cheerfully at table.

"What is this?" I asked. "Can I get anything to eat here?"

"Yes," he said; "give your orders."

The waiter, with a napkin over his shoulder, was standing before us. I was like a full flask which, being upturned, can with difficulty empty itself. There was such a variety of odours in the room, and such a quantity of things to eat, that I could not get out a word; and my friend, seeing my embarrassment, hastened to say to me

A BREAKFAST.

"Will you have some soup and a cutlet?"

"Yes; two," I replied.

"Will you have Orvieto or good Roman wine?"

"Do me the favour to bring anything you please, so long as you bring me something to eat and drink. I can't stop to choose."

And the good Travalloni, turning to the servant, said—

"Bring at once a flask of Orvieto, such as I drink—you understand?—some bread, some soup, a cutlet, cheese, and fruit."

That day Travalloni appeared to me to be a man of genius.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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