MY WIFE, MY LITTLE GIRLS, AND MY WORK—DEATH OF MY BROTHER LORENZO—DEATH OF LORENZO BARTOLINI—THE BASE FOR THE "TAZZA"—EIGHT YEARS OF WORK, ONLY TO OBTAIN A LIVING—MUSSINI AND HIS SCHOOL—POLLASTRINI—THE SCHOOL IN VIA SANT'APOLLINI—PRINCE DEMIDOFF AND THE MONUMENT BY BARTOLINI—THE NYMPH OF THE SCORPION AND THE NYMPH OF THE SERPENT, BY BARTOLINI—MARCHESE ABA—COUNT ARESE—THE FOUR STATUETTES FOR DEMIDOFF—AMERIGO OF THE PRINCE CORSINIS—HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS COUNT OF SYRACUSE, A SCULPTOR—"SANT'ANTONINO" STATUE AT THE UFFIZI.

T The events of that day already belong to history, and it is not for me to narrate them. Those of the Livornese who could escape from the fury of the populace were part of them shut up in the Fortress da Basso, and part of them packed like anchovies in the railway-carriages. Guerrazzi was imprisoned in the fortress of the Belvedere, and the reins of the government were provisionally put into the hands of the Municipality, Ubaldino Peruzzi being gonfaloniere. That same evening the ensigns of liberty that the republicans had hoisted in the piazze and the street-crossings in Florence, were torn to the ground. Thus ended the enormities of these so-called democrats, who were in fact only the scum and unrestrained rabble of the flourishing and active city of Leghorn.

In the meantime affairs in my studio went from bad to worse. The political vicissitudes, the uncertainty of the present, and fears for the future, preoccupied every one, and no thought was given to the Arts. I had no work to do, and lived a secluded life of poverty with my little family, fearing that the apprehensions of my poor wife would be realised: often we were in need even of the mere necessaries of life, and one thing after another went to the monte di pietÀ in order to supply our most pressing wants. Sorrows, disillusions, and mortifications were not wanting: one of my children died, the only boy that I ever had; the statue of Pope Pius II. that I had made for Siena was despised and kept shut up in its box for month after month, the aversion taken to it being, they said, occasioned by the disaffection of Pius IX. What Pius II. had to do with Pius IX. I do not know.

The Grand Duke returned; but the joy felt for his return was embittered by the presence of foreigners, and thence there were fears, suspicions, and ill-repressed rage, so that Art suffered in consequence—Art, that lives and breathes in the quiet and life-giving atmosphere of peace.

The Grand Duke having returned, I went to make my bow to him. He received me with his usual kindness, and asked me about my works and my family. I spoke out sincerely to him, touching lightly, not to distress him, on my misfortunes. He remained thoughtful, and dismissed me with benevolence. Some days after, he sent his secretary Luigi Venturi for me, and talked at length with me about works that he was thinking of giving me. In the meanwhile, remembering that in times gone by I had occupied myself with wood-carving, he asked me if I could make or direct some work that he was thinking of having executed for a present he wished to make to his daughter Princess Isabella, who was to be married to Prince Francesco of Naples. Already, before Isabella, his eldest daughter, the Princess Augusta, to whom he had given my two little statuettes of Dante and Beatrice, had been married. The work for the Princess Isabella was, however, of an entirely different kind, being a casket for jewels. I accepted this commission with gratitude, although it was not a real work of sculpture; but remembering that our old artists had executed works of the same kind, and that Baccio d'Agnolo, a famous architect, used to make the cassone that contained the trousseau of the young Florentine brides, and gloried in signing himself Baccio d'Agnolo, carpenter, I was contented. And besides, to speak my mind clearly, it is not the material or the thing itself that counts for anything. A little terra cotta of Luca della Robbia, or an intaglio of Barili, is worth more than a hundred thousand wretched statues in marble or bronze. I therefore made and showed him the design for the casket. In shape it was rectangular, and stood on two squares, ornamented on all sides; the cover was slightly elevated, and on the top was a group of three figures representing maternal love; in the six spaces were six subjects taken from the Bible representing holy marriages. These, I thought, were real jewels—family jewels. They came in order as follows: Adam and Eve in the terrestrial paradise before the Fall, Isaac and Rebecca, Boaz and Ruth, Esther and Ahasuerus, Tobit and Sarah, David and Abigail. The Grand Duke liked the idea and the design, and asked me in what wood I should carve it. I answered, in ivory, for two reasons: on account of the smallness of the figures, which would not admit of another material; and then because ivory is in itself beautiful, rich, and most adapted for this kind of work. Fortunately, it was not necessary to look for the ivory, as in the Grand Duke's laboratory there was a most beautiful elephant's tusk. He gave it to me; and after having cut it up into as many pieces for the formelie, cornice, and lamine as were required for this work, there remained a large piece, which I still keep. I set myself to the task, and worked with a will, as the marriage of the Princess was soon to take place. In the construction of the square I employed a man from the cabinetmaker's, Ciacchi; for the ornaments, Paolino Fanfani, a clever wood-carver and my good friend, whom I had known when a boy in Sani's shop, where I used to work at wood-carving. Two poems by Luigi Venturi, "Lo sposo, la sposa e gli sposi," which form part of his poem "L'Uomo," were placed inside of the box.

And here I am at work. Consider, friendly reader, if you are an artist, and after long study and anxiety have ever obtained the hoped-for compensations and triumphs, the more deserved because so earnestly laboured for, that you now see an artist occupied, on a work difficult indeed, but very far from being of that ideal greatness that his hopes and the applause previously given him have led him to anticipate and desire. The smallness of the work, the material, and even the tools for working it, reminded me of the humbleness of my origin. I felt sick at heart, and then flashed into my mind the fear that I might be obliged to return to wood-carving. Not that I despised that art—I have already said the material is of no account; but I wanted to be a sculptor, and meantime I had nothing to do, and my family looked to me for support. This thought gave me strength, drove away the golden dreams of the future, even the memory of the smiling past, and I worked all day long and part of the night. My poor wife, who was always so good and active, attending to the household economy and to the education of our little girls, comforted me with her simple and affectionate words. Sometimes, returning home with the children, she would stop to see me, and would look at and praise my work, and perhaps, because it reminded her of our early years, would say—

"Beautiful this work, is it not, Nanni?"

"Yes; do you like it?"

"Yes."

But in this exchange of loving words there was a certain sadness, and although it did not appear on the surface, yet the ear and eye of him who loves hears and sees what is hidden below. We remained silent, and she, taking the little girls by the hand, said good-bye to me, and I was deeply moved, and resumed my work.

Added to all this, we were preoccupied about my sister, who would not remain any longer in the Conservatorio of Monticelli, and could not return to my house on account of incompatibility of temper between her and my mother-in-law. At last I arranged that she should be with my father; and this proved satisfactory, as he thus had some one to look after his house, and she some one to lean upon. As soon, however, as this was settled, we had other troubles, and of a graver kind—my brother's illness. Already for some time past, after the work in the studio had fallen off, the maintenance of this brother had been a serious thing to me; but with a little sacrifice and a little goodwill, this difficulty had been got over, and the hope of better days kept up the courage in both of us. But he constantly grew worse, and we had no hope of his recovery. In his wanderings he always spoke about me and my works, and it seemed as if his mind at times was clearer and more active. Perhaps this is so because the soul feels the day of its freedom approaching, and is breaking the chains which bind it to the body, and drawing nearer to its immortal life. We say that it is wandering, because we do not understand it; the veil of the flesh obscures our spiritual vision, and we cannot comprehend the meaning of the strange and mysterious words we use. Having partaken of the blessed Sacrament, he expired, at peace with God, in the first days of January 1850. My poor brother! poor Lorenzo! strong and handsome of person; open and gay of nature, and generous-hearted; loving work and not minding fatigue, with a frank sincere smile that often came to soften the sharpness of his words. In those days a man of high intellect and great spirit, burning with a love for all that was truly beautiful, also left us. Lorenzo Bartolini died, after a few days' illness, of congestion of the brain, not young in years, but always very young in his affections and inspirations. Some moments before he was overtaken by illness, he was working on the marble with the energy and precision of a man in the prime of life. Whatever was the cause, he was taken ill, and neither the efforts of science, nor the love of his family, nor the interest and concern of every one, was able to save him. He was universally lamented, even by those who disliked him; for genius, though at first it may irritate the weak, in the long-run commands admiration and love.

His works remain as an example of the beautiful in nature, which is the mainspring of Art. In the foregoing pages I have already touched on his character as a man. I have also mentioned the reasons why he kept me at a distance; and now it is pleasant for me to remember that some time before his death he became reconciled to me, and the reconciliation took place in a most singular and casual way. One evening at Fenzi's house, after dinner, we were all assembled in the billiard-room playing pool: there were also some ladies, who were not kept away by the cigar-smoke. Bartolini came in; and Carlino Fenzi, as soon as he saw him, went forward to meet him, and said—

"Good evening, Professor."

"Accidenti to all Professors!"

"What kind of a speech is this? Have I offended you?"

"Offence or no offence! I have said accidenti, and ... if you don't know anything, go and learn;" and with this he passed into the other rooms. Carlino stood there as if he had been made of stucco, and turning to me said—

"But what stuff is this? Do you understand anything about it?"

"Dear Carlino," I answered, "I understand it all, and will tell you at once. Bartolini does not wish to be called Professor."

"What! but is he not Professor Bartolini?"

"That he is,—a Professor, and one of the most able, and perhaps the oldest of them all; but he has a dislike to be called so, because he says all Professors are asses."

"This may be, and may not be," replied Carlino, "but I knew nothing about it; and besides, how does he wish to be called? A Cavaliere? It seems better to me to be an honourable Professor than a Cavaliere."

"No, my dear fellow, not even a Cavaliere, although he does not at all dislike being one, as you see he wears the ribbon of his order constantly in his button-hole."

"Well, what then?"

"He wishes to be called master," I answered.

"Dear, dear! oh, this is beautiful! And I, who knew nothing about it, what fault is it of mine? Does it seem to you proper or well-bred to come out with that word before everybody, even before ladies? To me it seems not only not like a master, but not even like a schoolboy."

"Have patience, Carlino, and don't let us talk any more about it: bury it under a stone, and leave it alone. Listen! they are calling out your number;" and so the matter ended.

The day after, I had a model, Tonino Liverani, called Tria—a beautiful model, and Bartolini's favourite one, the same from whom he modelled when making his group of the Astyanax. Half an hour before mid-day he said to me—

"Signor Giovanni, would you be so kind as to send me away a quarter of an hour earlier to-day? I must be at the maestro's at twelve o'clock.

I replied, "Certainly—of course; dress yourself at once and go; do not keep him waiting."

Whilst Tria was dressing, I thought over the accidente or the accidenti on the previous evening, and if that horrid word did not go down with Carlino because it was said at his house, neither did it please me, for in my quality of Professor it wounded me more than it did him. But, in fact, joking apart, I was really grieved to see such a great man descend without any cause to the use of such puerile and unbecoming expressions, the more so that he was made an object of ridicule because Carlino took the matter seriously. I said to myself, Shall I send him a message or let it go? If I let it go, he will think that I am afraid to say what I feel, or that I am so weak-minded as to think that sally of his the most natural thing in the world: in the one case, as in the other, I shall cut a bad figure, and Bartolini despises men who are afraid or stupid. Then, too, who knows if a frank sincere word, spoken at any rate with respect and reason, such as I should say, would not do him good? All depends on Tonino's reporting it straight.

"Have you any orders, Sor Giovanni? When shall I return?" said Tonino.

"Listen, Tonino; you must do me the kindness to say to the maestro, that last night he let fall from his mouth a word that displeased me, because those who heard it did not know why he used it, and having heard his reason did not appreciate it. Take care! not a word more or less, and don't make a mistake."

And having gone over his lesson two or three times, he repeated it quite right.

"You will return to-morrow morning at nine o'clock if Bartolini will let you, and then you will give me his answer."

The day after, at nine, Tria appeared and said to me—

"I told the maestro, you know."

"Well, what did he answer?"

"He replied in these words: 'You must say to DuprÈ that I thank him. I also was aware that I had done wrong, but it was too late. Salute him.'"

Some evenings afterwards I saw him again at Fenzi's house: I was playing billiards. He shook my hand and said "Good evening," a thing he had not done for a long time.

After the little ivory casket that I have already spoken of, the Grand Duke ordered me to compose a base for the famous Table of the Muses in pietra dura that is in the Palazzo Pitti. This work made me happier, as I was free to imagine and execute it in the manner I thought best, and a rich and elaborate subject occurred to me at once. The Table of the Muses is round; in the centre is Apollo driving the chariot of the sun, and encircling him are the attributes of the Muses. As the artist who made the top of the table had taken for his subject Apollo as the father of the Muses, I in my work gave to him the attributes of the sun, as fertiliser of the earth. In the base immediately under the table, I preserved its circular form, throwing out at the top a sort of capital supported by jutting brackets, and richly ornamented. Beneath this is a cylinder covered with figures of children (putte) engaged in the rural occupations and pleasures of the various seasons. In the spring they are sporting, and playing on instruments, and dancing among flowers; in the summer they are cutting and bringing in the corn; in the autumn they are harvesting and treading grapes; in the winter they are digging, hoeing, and sowing. This cylinder thus storied over is set upon a large disc with mouldings and bevelled slope, upon which the Seasons are seated, in varied attitudes, and weaving a garland of the flowers and fruits which the earth produces during the year. Spring is peacefully sitting, lightly draped, crowned with daisies, and holding her head somewhat elevated, to express the reawakening of Nature. Summer has her torso nude, is crowned with ears of corn, and is more robust of form than the others. Autumn is crowned with grapes and vine-leaves, entirely dressed, but without a mantle. Winter is crouching down, pressing her knees together, is entirely enveloped in her mantle, has a cloth on her head, and is expressive of cold. The garland which unites the figures is hidden behind Winter, is more slender, and composed solely of fruits. Each of these four figures seated upon the disc stretches forth a foot upon a projecting ledge or bracket, which is in plumb beneath the upper brackets, which support the capital; and these four lower brackets, making part of the disc and jutting forth from it, form the base and foot of the entire column. In the spaces between the figures on the upper bevelled slope of the disc, ornaments with the attributes of the elements are carved—for the earth a growth of acanthus-leaves, for the water a dolphin, for the air an eagle, for the fire a vase with flames. Full of goodwill, I put my hand to the work with new hopefulness. I remember those days of a new awakening within me of interest in my art, and trust in Providence for the support of my little family, which had been increased by the birth of Luisina, dear little angel, whom God took to Himself again, now some four years ago. In going from us, she left behind her the memory of her rare virtues, that softens the bitterness of our great loss. My poor little angel, pray for us. My eyes are dim with tears, but I feel how true it is that sorrow only rekindles the light of faith.

I worked with true enthusiasm, getting up at an early hour, and after a slight breakfast with my family, going down into the studio, which was almost under my own room. I kept note of all my expenses, to have some idea of the price I should ask for my model, as it was his Highness's intention to have it cast in bronze. I was very light-hearted, as I have already said; and the principal reason for my being so was, that I saw by means of this work the bread for my family was provided for. I had not put aside a soldo, and the various works I had made during eight years—that is to say, from '42 to '50—had yielded me barely enough to live upon, because the inevitable expenses of housekeeping had absorbed all the little I had beyond. I lived day by day, hoping always that fortune would smile upon me as in my early years; and now with this work of the pedestal for the table, I felt at ease.

I have thought it opportune to enter into these minute particulars, that the young artist may learn two things from them: first, not to give himself up with too much assurance to the joys of early triumphs; and secondly, not to get discouraged in the bitter days of want and disillusions, when he feels himself forsaken. I know so many young men who become dejected at once, and inveigh against adverse fortune, against the injustice of men and their neglect, and other phrases equally idle, proud, and foolish.

My studio was no longer what it used to be at one time—no longer the place of rendezvous of applauding friends and admirers who followed the fashion of the moment; these all went about their own affairs, and had nothing more to do with me. Some of the most distinguished amongst them, after the Restoration, were refugees, some in one place, some in another. Venturi was the only one who remained, and he came often to see me, and we talked at length about Art. Ciseri also was a good and faithful friend, and used to come to take me for a long walk in the evening. Mussini, whom I had known a short time before, first left for Paris, and then returned to go to Siena as Director of the Institute of Fine Arts there, where he still teaches, and from his admirable school have come such famous artists as Cassioli, Franchi, Maccari, and Visconti, who died a miserable death from drowning at Rome.

I knew Mussini in 1844, when he had finished his four years of pensionat, and was on his return from Rome. Mussini was then a remarkable young artist, having gone through a varied and severe course of study. His compositions were serious and careful, and as a draughtsman he followed the style of our Florentine school of the quattrocento. Those qualities he showed in his first pictures, the Expulsion of the Profaners of the Temple, Sacred Music, and the Allegory of Almsgiving. In his last sketch, which he made in Rome, Abelard and HeloÏse, he changed a little from his first manner, or I should better say from his first method: in the "Abelard" he followed the modern German school—Overbeck perhaps. As soon as he had returned to Florence he set to work on his Triumph of Truth, abandoning his first views, enlarging his style, freshening his colouring, and taking his inspiration from Leonardo and Raphael. We became friends. He was rather a small thin young man, with black hair, black eyes, and olive complexion. In his conversation he was vivacious, sententious, and decided; an admirer of Phidias and Giotto above all others; also of Raphael, Michael Angelo, and, in modern times, of Ingres and Bartolini. His companionship and friendship were of great use to me on account of his frank and sound advice on Art. He went for some time to Paris, and returned, as I have already said, to occupy the place of Director of the Institute of Fine Arts at Siena—a post that he had begged me to ask for in his name; and in this way I lost the friendship of Enrico Pollastrini, who had asked for it for himself. As soon as I heard that the post was vacant by the death of Menci, I advised Mussini by letter to apply for it. He answered me at once, thanking me for my advice, but adding that at present he did not wish to leave Paris. Two days after, in another letter he told me he had changed his mind, and begged me, as I have said, to make an application in his name. Pollastrini, who knew neither of my advice and counsel to Mussini nor of my having asked for the post for him, came to see me, to get me to promise that I would support him in his demands for the place. Poor Enrico! he died but a few months ago. He was an excellent man, affectionate, and ready to serve a friend, but mistrustful and irascible. He would take offence at a mere nothing, and once in that vein, he was capable of not bowing to you for some time. I did not like him the less for all this. He never did any harm to anybody; and I believe he would not have killed even a fly, much less have been of injury to any one. May God give his soul peace! He came, therefore, to see me and get me to pledge myself in his favour; and when he heard that I had recommended the nomination of Mussini—for by my petition it was to be understood that I supported him—he was annoyed, and did not hide his resentment, saying that he should not have expected me to show this preference, or to put another before him. I answered that I knew nothing about his having asked for the nomination, and that what I had done had been from a desire that a clever artist, and one so able to teach, should not remain in a foreign land. These reasons, instead of bringing persuasion to him, only embittered him the more, and he was angry with me for a long time. But below the surface poor Enrico cared for me, and has shown it in a thousand ways.

I have said that Mussini was a master of sound and true principles in Art; and so he is still, for his school at Siena has produced, and produces, excellent results. Beyond these principles, he had the power of communicating and exemplifying them to others, and this is a most important and invaluable faculty in a teacher. Before he left for Paris, he kept a school in Via Sant'Apollonia, where, amongst other scholars, I remember a certain Pelosi di Lucca, Gordigiani, and Norfini, now painters of repute. He begged me to take the direction of his school, and I accepted, not without observing to him that I had not the necessary qualities for that place; but he insisted, and I yielded. Things, however, went as it was natural they should go; the school lingered on awhile, and after a few months was broken up.

As it seemed to me, from his drawing, that Gordigiani had talent for sculpture, I advised him to give himself up to that art, and he readily came to my studio and began to model with goodwill. But, either because the material he had to handle was difficult to manage on account of its novelty, or because impatience got the better of him, one fine day he threw his tools and work to the ground, and would have nothing more to say to them. He gave himself up to painting portraits, and succeeded so well that he has now become the portrait-painter most praised amongst us, and has made for himself a really enviable position. Nevertheless, I believe that if he had had a little constancy, he would have succeeded as well in sculpture as in painting, because few understand as well as he does the form and relation of planes.

At this time I had a commission to finish in marble two statues by Bartolini that he had left unfinished; the "Nymph and the Scorpion" for the Emperor of Russia, and the "Nymph and the Serpent" for the Marchese Ala-Ponzoni of Milan. With regard to this there were certain ill-natured reports against me that I think best to clear up. Some time before, Prince Demidoff had engaged and even begged of me to finish some of the figures of the great monument to his father that Bartolini had left incomplete. I would not accept this commission, because the master had worked on them a great deal himself, and it seemed to me irreverent, and not a thing to be done, to continue and finish his work. I endeavoured to make the Prince understand that as Bartolini had worked upon it himself, and the work was so well advanced, it had more value left as it was than if it were finished by my hand, be it even with all the love of an artist. The Prince did not appear to be much persuaded by this reasoning, and insisted, saying that my principles in art were the same as those taught by Bartolini, and the veneration felt by me for him was a pledge of the love I would employ in finishing these figures. I thanked the Prince for the too great confidence he placed in me as an artist, but I begged of him not to insist in carrying out this idea of having the work finished, either by me or by any other—for he, in order to force me to accept, said that otherwise he should give it to some one else, and added (exaggerating out of kindness my worth in art) that it would be my fault if it chanced that the artist was not fully equal to the arduous enterprise. I answered that I thought other artists abler than myself, but was of opinion that the statues ought to be left as they were. In order to convince him, I reminded him, as an example to the purpose, of the Medici monuments in San Lorenzo, before which no one would dare to say, "What a pity these figures are not finished!" if he did not say it with regard to Michael Angelo himself. And if, instead, they had been finished by other hands, with a good reason he would curse Clement, who, after having betrayed his country, had wished to offer this offence to art and Michael Angelo's fame. This, God be praised, cannot be said, because the statues of Day and Night are just as that divine master left them. These words, said with the conviction and the warmth of an artist, who was a poor one to boot, and wishing and longing for fame and fortune, so entirely convinced the Prince, that he was quite satisfied; and pressing my hand in silence, which was more eloquent than words, he left me.

If this conduct of mine was praised by some people in the hopes that it had not been quite liked by the Prince, my acceptance of the order for the two statues for the Emperor and the Marchese Ala afterwards, gave rise to a number of remarks: "See his consistency of principles and opinions!" they said. "How is it that the same reasons that were held out for his refusing the figures in the Demidoff monument do not hold equally good for these? Are these not also statues of Bartolini's, and to be finished in the same way as those?"

And here I come to an explanation of this point, where it would seem as if I had been in contradiction with myself. On one of these statues, the "Nymph and the Scorpion," for the Emperor of Russia, Bartolini had never worked with his own hands—in fact, it was not finished, not even blocked out. On the other, for the Marchese Ala, he had worked, but how? The head, where he had wished to make a change in the arrangement of the hair, had been so cut away that there was a finger's-breadth of marble in the blocking-out points wanting on each side, so that it was ugly to see; and in addition to this, he had bent the forefinger of the left hand that rests on the serpent under the palm of the hand, perhaps because in undercutting it the last joint of the finger had been broken. Now this finger, bent back and dislocated, looked very badly, when compared with the model in plaster, where the fingers were all extended, and pressed upon the serpent's neck admirably. I therefore accepted both these commissions,—the one because it had never been touched by Bartolini's own hand, and the other because I was willing and able to put it straight. However, before touching the statue, I made the Marchese Ala acquainted with the serious defects there were in it, which Bartolini would certainly have remedied had he had the time to finish it; and I asked for his permission (and on this condition alone accepted the work) to cut off all the top of the head with the locks of hair where it had been injured, in order to replace it exactly in the way that Bartolini had first imagined and modelled it, and to add a piece of marble to the hand to remake the forefinger. He consented to these conditions. In order to make sure myself that I was right, before cutting away the defective parts, I had a mould and cast taken from them, that any one might see how they stood before I touched them, and how by taking the original model for my guide, I had replaced them: and I then said (as I now write), that all who were sensible and reasonable understood and were satisfied; as to the others, I do not know what they thought, nor did I care for them then, nor do now. I finished the two statues, copying the original models where these were carefully finished, and interpreting them where they were barely indicated, selecting suitable models from life; and so I satisfied those who trusted in me, and my own conscience.

Some time previous to this the Marchese Ala had given me an order for the "Sleep of Innocence"—a statue of a child sleeping—which I had already executed a long time before for my excellent friend the Marchese Alessandro Bichi-Ruspoli of Siena. I therefore repeated this child in marble by commission of the aforesaid Marchese Ala; but being rather changeable, he afterwards declared to me that this work did not entirely satisfy him, although it was conscientiously done, and that he should take it only because he had engaged to do so. I answered that I wished my works to be taken because they were liked, not because they were ordered, and begged that he would not speak of it again. He thanked me, and promised to give me another order for portraits of his three pretty little children; but subsequently I heard nothing more about it. One day, being in Turin, and finding myself at Vela's studio, where I had gone to pay him a visit, I saw a very graceful little portrait-group, full length, such as that able artist knew how to make and is in the habit of making. I asked, "Who are these pretty children?"

"They are the children of Marchese Ala," replied Vela. "It is already some time since he ordered this work, but he has not yet put in an appearance. I have written him so many letters, to which I have received no answer, that I don't know what to think."

I then recounted to him what took place about my little Putto, and the promise he had made of giving me an order for the little group. Vela answered that he was astonished and annoyed; but as the commission had been given to him, and the model was in plaster, he begged me to speak to the Marchese in order that he might be able to finish the work. I do not know whether Vela ever did put the group into marble.

As regards myself and compensation for the affair of the Putto, which had been left hanging for so many years, he took my Bacco della Crittogama; but as the Marchese was subject to very long periods of melancholy that prevented his thinking about anything for a good while, I heard nothing more on the subject, until one day Count Arese, to whom I began to speak about this affair, said to me—

"Leave the matter to me. Write me a letter giving me an account of this affair, and I will send you the money. I have business relations with the Marchese Ala, and will send him your receipt, and there will be an end to it."

I did as he said, and was satisfied. What a pity it is that that most noble gentleman was so often afflicted by such a malady! He was and is one of the most intelligent and generous patrons of art. The first Italian and foreign painters and sculptors had co-operated to make his house splendid and enviable for its works of art.

As I have already said, Demidoff kept these statues just as Bartolini had left them, and placed them in his villa of San Donato. One evening after dinner, as we were walking together through its magnificent apartments, he stopped in one of the little sitting-rooms and said to me—

"Your little statuettes of Dante and Beatrice would look well here on small pedestals in the corners; but there ought to be four. And you may complete the number, by making a Petrarch and Madonna Laura, if you like."

"I should like to do so."

And I made these other two statuettes. At present I do not know who has them; they were sold at Paris a few years ago, together with a great many other works of art belonging to the Prince.

The dinners that the Prince gave in that magnificent and enchanting house were most splendid. I met there, besides strangers that I do not speak of, Matas, the Prince's architect, Baron Gariod, my good friend Professor Zannetti, Prince Andrea Corsini, and that dear son of his, young Amerigo. One evening we were playing billiards together, and having finished our game of carolina, he said to me—

"Come away; let us take a turn through the rooms;" and looking at and talking about his statues of Pradier, Bartolini, and Powers, the stupendous Fiamminghi, the Canalettis, Titian, Greuze, the arrases in the large hall, the columns of malachite, remarkable both for their size and finish, and a thousand other objects of exquisite taste and great cost, the young man's eyes sparkled with joy and enthusiasm, and looking me steadily in the face, he said—

"I am going away soon, you know, to Spain. On my return, I want to do great things, and you must help me. I want a house that shall not be inferior to this."

I replied, "If you desire, you can have one even more beautiful. I know the suite of rooms in your palace, and the masterpieces of art in your gallery. With the riches you possess, and the will that is not wanting, you might, as I have said, surpass even this enchanting abode."

A short time after this, he came to my studio to say good-bye to me. Dear young man! with a pure heart and open mind, an enthusiast for the beautiful, and beloved by all, he went away, and not one of us saw him again. He died in a foreign land, where he had gone to bring away his bride.

Bartolini's statues being finished, I made a bas-relief of Adam and Eve by commission of Cavaliere Giulio Bianchi of Siena; after which I retouched in wax the pedestal of the Table for its casting in bronze, and in the meantime prepared to model the statue of Sant'Antonino for the Loggie of the Uffizi. From this time forth things began to go more evenly and liberally with me, and fears of falling back into poverty disappeared by slow degrees. Already the rent of my studio, which was not small, was no longer a weight to me, as by sovereign decree the studio which had been left by Professor Costoli on his promotion to the presidency of the Academy after Bartolini's death was given to me. The statuettes of Beatrice and Dante of themselves alone almost supplied enough for the daily wants of the family, as I always had one or two of them to make at a time. I think I have made about forty of them, and one of them deserves comment.

Before the Princess Matilde, who was married to Demidoff, left for Paris and was separated from her husband, the Grand Duchess of Tuscany ordered my Beatrice, with the intention of presenting it to that lady. The divorce having ensued, she did not give it to her, and the little statue remained for some time at her Highness's, and afterwards she gave it to her brother, the Count of Syracuse, who used to amuse himself by working in sculpture. This sculptor-Prince, without the slightest improper intention, but rather from a sort of good-natured, easy-going way, used to keep this statuette of mine alongside of his own, and it sometimes happened that persons praised him for it; and he must have felt not a little embarrassed to clear up this quid pro quo.

It appears that sometimes, perhaps because this annoyed him, he made matters so far from clear that the statuette passed off as his own work. One day a Neapolitan lady came to my studio, a Princess Caraffa or Coscia (I cannot say which with certainty, but it is a matter that can be verified, for she told me that she was a descendant of the family of Pope John XXIII., who is buried in our San Giovanni, where one sees his fine monument between the two columns on the right-hand side). This lady, when she saw the Beatrice among my other works, exclaimed—

"Oh! the graceful Portinari by the Count of Syracuse! Is it not true that it is charming?"

"Princess," I answered, "I do not know if that little figure is pretty or not, but I am glad that you think so, for it is mine, one of my very first works. I modelled it in 1843, inspired by that sublime sonnet of Dante which begins—

I made the first copy of this statuette for Signor Sansone Uzielli of Leghorn; the second for the Grand Duke, which, with the young Dante, he gave to the Princess Isabella his daughter, who married the Prince Luitpoldo of Bavaria; and the one that you saw was presented to the Count of Syracuse by the Grand Duchess."

The noble lady smiled, and said, "I must have been mistaken."

The Count of Syracuse was a great lover of sculpture, and occupied himself with it as much as was consistent with the position he occupied. Several of his works are most praiseworthy, and I keep some of the photographs of them that he was so kind as to send me.

To return to my Sant'Antonino that I left unfinished. This model cost me an immense deal of work. The subject required character, bearing, and attitude of an absolutely simple and natural treatment, such as I gave the Giotto; but fearing to meet with censure from the lovers of the classic, I kept doing and undoing my work in my sketches, as well as in my large model. It is useless! One must be decided, and sure of the side one wishes to take. This see-sawing between ideal beauty and truth to nature in portraiture will not do, just as it would be absurd and bad to adhere entirely to nature in other subjects, especially sacred ones.

And although imitation of beautiful nature is the foundation and substance of any work, yet the mode of seeing it and reproducing it constitutes the style that every artist, who is elevated, great, and pure, draws from within himself, according to his subject and the measure meted out to him by nature and education. In portrait statues one must abandon the ideal, even as regards the ordinary rules of the just proportions of the body. Sant'Antonino was named thus because he was small of stature. I was tempted several times to make him faithfully just as he was, small and crooked; and I made a sketch of him thus, which I still preserve, and it is precious on account of the little stick on which he leans, for this stick was no other than Giuseppe Verdi's pen. But I did nothing more with it, as I was vacillating between the rules of art and the close imitation of nature; and it is just this close imitation of the details of nature that constitutes the character of a portrait statue—a sound canon put wisely in practice by the ancients, as can easily be seen from their statues of the philosophers in the Vatican, such as the Zeno, and more particularly in that of Diogenes; and in the bas-relief of Æsop, where one sees even the absolute hump on his back. But the copying in detail from nature does not mean a too close imitation of every little thing, of every wrinkle; these are the mechanical nothings that are, as it were, the battle-horse to those who make a trade of art, and should be left to them.