I I summoned up all my little stock of patience, and moved slowly towards the door, they following me. Thanking the gentlemen, I shut them out, and returned in silence to my work. This happened some thirty years ago, nor as yet does it seem as if the prophecy about that young man were realised. To return to ourselves. "Appetite comes with eating," as the proverb has it; and in fact, by degrees, as I visited the museums, the churches, and the studios of the Neapolitan artists, I felt an increasing desire to do something, to try again to draw or to model, were it but a mere trifle. One day, after having gone over the whole breadth and length of the excavations at Pompeii, I was examining a mosaic pavement made out of a great many pretty little coloured stones, some of them broken A LITTLE CAMEO-HEAD. My friend picked it up for me, and I gave him a carlino. We returned to the room where the mosaic pavement was. It represented a race of animals, hares and dogs, on a yellow ground. Some of the little stones were loose, and already many were missing; they were small squares about as large as my little-finger nail. I bent down again, and stretched out my hand, looking at the guard, who for decency's sake turned in the other direction; and I took the little stone, on which, with a great deal of patience and increasing gusto, I drew and engraved a small head after the fashion of a cameo, roughing it out at first with the point of a penknife, and finishing it off with sharpened needles fastened into little handles, which I used in the place of small chisels and burins. I always keep this little head, which was set in gold as a pin, and sometimes wear it in my necktie. When I look at this small piece of workmanship, I am astonished at my patience and my eyesight at that time. To tell the truth, when I picked up that little stone I had no idea of working on it, but merely took it as a remembrance of the day and the place. In touching it, "Do you find any beauty in that little stone?" VESUVIUS AND ITS LAVA. "No. I was thinking that it is very old. I was thinking that it is a fusion of fire, and in substance lava. But was not Vesuvius unknown at the time that this city was constructed? Could you imagine that they would have been so insane as to have built on the outskirts of a mountain vomiting fire? Have you not observed that in all the many paintings on these houses, where you find over and over again landscapes, sea views, animals, figures, in fact everything, that there is never the slightest trace of a view of Vesuvius? If it had been there, surely they would not have failed to reproduce in painting such a marvellous phenomenon. Therefore it could not have been there; and yet all these mosaics are made of lava, and all the surrounding country at a certain distance below the surface of the ground is covered with it. It was not there, I say, in their memory; but when was it there?" "Do you know?" said my wife. "I?—no, indeed." "Then you can imagine if I do." After this small cameo, I wished to model a little figure in bas-relief, which it was my intention to have executed on a shell cameo, and I gave the order for it; but the workmen employed for this kind of work are so unintelligent that if you take them away from the work NEW SKETCH OF THE BACCHUS. I also made a new sketch for the Bacchino della Crittogama, which was the one that I afterwards made of life-size on my return from Naples. The one I had left behind me in clay was very different, and I destroyed it. I had this new sketch baked, and I remember one day when I went to get it from the man who sells terre cotte, near Santa Lucia, to whom I had given it to bake, that I found him arguing with a stranger who had taken it absolutely into his head to buy it. It was useless for the man to say that the statuette did not belong to him; that he could not sell it; that it was not finished; and that his little figures of Apollo, the Idolino, Venus, and Flora were far better and more finished than this sketch: he only kept repeating, "I like this, and want to buy it;" and all persuasion was useless. I put an end to the discussion in two words, saying to the man— "Sell it to him." "How much must I ask?" "A thousand lire." At which the good touriste immediately put down the Bacchino, and went away in peace. Some two months after this I presented this little sketch to a priest from Verona, whose name I do not remember, but who came to preach the Lenten sermons at our cathedral VISIT TO CAVALIERE ANGELINI. In this manner the time passed by, alternating the long walks in the neighbourhood of Naples with a little work and some artistic visits to Mancinelli, to Balzico (then but a young student), to Smargiassi the landscape-painter, and to Gigante, the famous water-colourist. I did not fail to try to find the sculptor Cavaliere Angelini, whom I had already known in Florence; but for some inexplicable reason I could not see him, and this was what happened. I went to his studio, and his men told me that he had gone to the Academy to lecture to the young men. I went to the Academy, and was told that he desired me to wait, because he was giving his lessons. I waited a good long time, and when he came out he said that he was in such a hurry he could not pay any attention to me then, but that I must come to his studio on a certain day at a certain hour. I went there and knocked; no one answered, and the soldier who was mounting guard at the Serraglio dei Poveri close by said that every one had gone away more than two hours before. It seemed to me a little strange, after having named the day and hour; but more or less forgetfulness in an artist means nothing—in fact it is a sort of sauce or dressing to an artist's character, be he young or full-grown, on horseback or on foot. Dear me! such things are easily understood; and if I had not been a little tired, I should not even have thought of it, and would have returned another day. But when, and at what time? Should I have ever found the door open? My hotel was very far from the poorhouse, but the PROFESSOR ANGELINI. He will come, he will certainly come, to see me at my inn to make his excuses. Poor Angelini! he is certainly absent-minded, and am I not also absent-minded? He will come to find me out. Yes; I stayed in Naples six months, and never saw him. Something beyond absent-mindedness, I think; but so it was. I told all this for amusement to his colleagues, but they took it seriously to heart,—so much so, that at one of their academic meetings they proposed me as an Associate-Professor: and Angelini seemed delighted, and warmly supported my nomination, so that naturally it was passed; but I never went into his studio. Oh no. Yes; I repeat it ten, twenty times over. My dear colleague, this happened in the month of January 1853; see what a good memory I have. You, it is quite natural, have forgotten it, because he who is guilty of such things does not take heed of them, neither should the person to whom they are done, unless he be as black as Loredan, who wrote down the death of the two Foscari in his book of Debit and Credit. Therefore let it be understood, that I did not take note of it, and don't remember it; but if you ever take it into your Here I come to the moral. I speak of artists. The desire to see the works and also become acquainted personally with contemporary artists is a good sign; it indicates a spirit of emulation, a wish to learn, and form bonds of friendship, so to discuss and bring to light errors and doubts on questions of art. But if the artist with whom you desire to speak names a certain day and hour, then answer at once, "Thank you very much, but I cannot come." Tell him this untruth—it will be but a small sin; whereas he who imposes upon you a day and hour gives himself so much importance that he resembles that ugly and haughty signor called Pride. SHAKING HANDS. There are some medicines so proper and efficacious, that once you have taken them, you are radically cured, and for good. Angelini cured me of the wish to knock at studio doors; and the Signora Marchesini cured me of another habit, formed either by custom or stupidity, of shaking hands with everybody, especially with women. The Signora Marchesini was at that time (I am speaking of about thirty years ago) an aristocratic lady of a certain age—one of those persons who, without even taking the trouble to turn to look at any one who came to see her, would answer the salutation and bow prescribed by good breeding with an addio and a "good evening" when one took leave, were it even at midnight. Such was the Signora Marchesini. EMBRACING FRIENDS. One night I went into her box at the Pergola, and going up to her I bowed and put out my hand. Ass that I was! I did not know that this act of familiarity was not allowed to inferiors; and putting aside nobility of birth, I was her junior by thirty years, and perhaps this offended the austere lady more than anything else. The lesson, however, was a good one; and from that day, in fact from that evening, I have never since been the first to offer my hand to any woman, old or young. All this nonsense reminds me of a much rougher and more vulgar instance of haughtiness, from which my beloved wife was the sufferer. She was as simple and good, poor darling, as the woman who offended her was hard and proud. I had gone to pay a visit to a friend of mine, a gentleman of noble birth, education, and tact, with whom I had friendly relations. My wife was with me, and he was in the drawing-room with his, who was French by birth, much younger than himself, and whom he had lately married. As soon as my friend saw me he spread out his arms, and we embraced each other; my wife, with a feeling of spontaneous tenderness, pressed forward to embrace the young lady, but she drew back, perhaps not thinking it beseeming or according to etiquette to embrace a woman the first time she saw her, even although she was much older than herself. My poor Marina, with her purity of soul, did not feel offended, but turning to me she timidly asked, "Have I done wrong?" "You! no, my dear; but another time stand on your own ground. That woman did not deserve to be embraced by you." My friend took no notice of anything, and shortly after we left the house. I do not know why, but this AMUSEMENTS AT NAPLES. I continued to get better and better in Naples. The medical man insisted that I should walk a great deal and take simple and abundant food—a little soup, roastbeef, and a plate of vegetables, and nothing else, for dinner; for breakfast, after my bath and walk, a glass of cold milk and some bread. As a distraction for my mind, he recommended my seeing and talking with people I liked, and going to the theatre of an evening. At first the theatre bored me; I did not understand those little bouffe comedies in dialect at the Fenice and San Carlino, and all those repartees of Punchinello irritated me. It was bad for me to go to the San Carlo, where they were giving the 'Trovatore' with the Penco, Fraschini, and the Borghi-mamo, and 'Othello' with the Pancani, for they made me weep, not on account of the dramas themselves, which I already knew, but on account of the music, which had such a strong effect on my nerves. For these reasons I was obliged to give up the music at San Carlo, and 'Punch' at San Carlino and the Fenice, and took refuge in the Sebeto, a very small theatre, where for the most part were represented dramas in bad taste, artistically speaking, but not as far as morals are concerned—exaggerated characters, forced situations to create immoderate effects, &c.,—in fact, CHURCHES AT NAPLES. Thus, with so much to divert my mind, during the day going to see the public monuments and the churches in which this immense city is so rich, and at evening to the theatre, my recovery was completed. Nor were there wanting splendid works of art, besides the collection of ancient bronzes, unique in the world, and wonderfully useful to the students of sculpture. The Church of San Gennaro, with its monuments, amongst which are those of Carlo d'Angio, Carlo Martello, and Clemenza his wife; San Paolo, built on the ruins of the Roman theatre where Nero used to appear in public and declaim his verses, and where Metronate gave his lessons in philosophy, which were attended by Seneca as his pupil (what a lesson to young men!); Santa Chiara, with its monuments to the ancient kings of Naples, which once was all frescoed over by Giotto, INDIFFERENCE TO WHAT IS NEAR US. But often it happens that the most valuable things one has, so to speak, at one's very door, are not thought anything of—not even noticed; and such was the case then with some artists in Naples, who either did not remember or were not acquainted with their own artistic treasures. I remember a young sculptor who often lamented that Naples was wanting in art of the middle ages. I reminded him of the monuments above mentioned, dwelling especially on that by Donatello, to which he answered that he did not know it. "Go to see it," I said; "it is unpardonable in you not to know it." After some time I saw the youth, and said to him— "Well, did you see the monument by Donatello, and what did you think of it?" to which he answered, "I found that I had already seen it once before, but did not remember it." "Then," thought I to myself, "there is an end of all hope for you." CICERONI AND THEIR IDEAS. It is certainly a most painful fact that some of the finest works of our elders are either entirely ignored or not cared for, but it is most sad when this indifference comes from young men who have dedicated themselves to art. That the usual ignorant ciceroni who show strangers the sepulchral chapel of the Princes of Sangro take no notice of the monument by Donatello is natural CHEAP PRAISE. A DILETTANTI PRINCE. In Naples there were two of these dilettanti princes,—one a painter, the other a sculptor. His Royal Highness Don Sebastian, Prince of Bourbon, brother-in-law of the King of Naples, was the painter, and His Royal Highness Count of Syracuse, brother of the same king, was the sculptor. The last named died a little after the revolution in 1860, and of his artistic merits I have BEARDS IN NAPLES. During the days that the Grand Duke remained in Naples, he desired to see the museums and other monuments of this great city, and wished me to accompany him, out of simple kindness, for his Highness acted as my guide, being much better acquainted with them than I was. This driving up and down the streets of I PASS FOR A PRINCE. LA BOTTIGLIA. I hurried home, for fear of finding others who might not share the same opinion. My wife and little one were waiting for me to go to the theatre, and I remember that they were then giving 'Edmondo Dante, Count of Monte Cristo,' a monstrous production which lasted twelve hours—divided, however, into three evenings. My little box was on the first tier near the orchestra,—and such an orchestra! Two violins, one "Why not, Excellency?" "Because you take away my stick, which would be a comfort for me to lean on." "Well, well," he answered, "keep your stick, Excellency; but remember the bottle." "I understand, I quite understand—and add a little more to it." And the eyes of that Argus brightened, although he was by way of shutting them as far as the regulations were concerned. The necessity for drinking, it seems, belongs to this people, and it must be on account of the hot air they breathe, all impregnated with the salt from the sea. Therefore I fancy this desire of theirs has not yet been allayed, for even I drank a great deal when I was there, only it was water, which is so good, so fresh, so light, that it is a pleasure to drink; but alas! so many prefer "the bottle." If, however, even against the natural order of the country, this has been suppressed amongst the subalterns, it has been adopted by the heads themselves, as the Minister of Public Instruction has decreed an entrance-tax for every one who wishes to see in our galleries the works of Raphael, Michael Angelo, or our other glorious fathers, who in their simplicity certainly never thought of being obliged to show themselves at so much a head like some wild beasts. ADMISSION FEES TO THE PUBLIC GALLERIES. It is a curious thing (which induces me to think that thirst must be in the air of Naples) that this bottle-tax was instituted by a Neapolitan, the Honourable Ruggero Bonghi, who, be it said with all due respect, seems to be |