PATIENCE A MOST ESSENTIAL VIRTUE—TRUST WAS A GOOD MAN, BUT TRUST-NO-ONE A BETTER—A COMPETITION EITHER ATTRACTS OR DRIVES AWAY MEN OF TALENT—A STUDY FROM LIFE OF A LION BY MARROCCHETTI—ASSISTANT MODELLERS—SYDENHAM AND ITS WONDERS—ONE OF "ABEL'S" FINGERS—NEW JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON—AN IMPORTANT QUESTION—AN INDIAN WHO SPEAKS ABOUT THINGS AS THEY ARE—PROFESSOR PAPI AND THE FAILURE OF THE FIRST CAST IN BRONZE OF THE "ABEL"—A MEDICINE NOT SOLD BY THE CHEMIST.

I I started at once, and it was well that I did so, for the vessel which had the case containing my model sprang a leak on account of the bad weather, had to stop at Malta, and arrived in London too late, as the term had expired for the presentation of these models. If it had not been for my having the bill of lading,—from which it was made clear that I had not only sent it in time, but a long time before I was required, and that this delay had occurred from circumstances entirely independent of my will,—my work would have been undoubtedly rejected. For this reason, and through the good offices of William Spence, it was accepted; and he made me acquainted with the royal commissioner of the exhibition as the person intrusted by the author of the work. When they proceeded to open the case the commissioner wished me to be present, that I might see in what state it had arrived—and it was a truly lamentable state! The ship, as I have already said, sprang a leak, and the water had entered the case and softened the plaster figures, so that they were dislodged from their places, and rolled about in the box in all directions. Heads were detached from their bodies, hands mutilated and broken, aquiline noses flattened out, the helmets had lost their plumes and front pieces. In fact, it was all a perfect hash! Besides this, as I had wrapped them up in cotton-wool and paper, and the salt water had penetrated and remained there for many days, they had gone through a sort of special chemical process, by which my sketch was coloured in the most varied and capricious way. Blue, red, and yellow were mixed up together with the most lively pleasantry; and if it had been done on purpose, one could not have reduced the poor work to a more wretched condition. I saw at once that I needed all the sang froid possible, so I did not utter a word, and ostentatiously showed a calm exterior that I did not really feel,—all the more because already the greater part of the models had been put in their places, and the exhibition and judgment on them were imminent. Fedi, who was present at this disaster, seeing me so cold, said to me, almost in a rage, "Why don't you get angry?"

"Why should I get angry?" I answered. "Shall I mend the matter by getting angry? On the contrary, see how well I shall manage, in a slow and orderly way. I remember to have read somewhere—I don't recollect where—that he who has to go up a steep ascent must take it slowly; and so shall I."

He was of the contrary opinion, and advised me rather to leave everything alone for the moment, to take a pleasant walk, and to set myself to work the next day with a fresh mind; and he himself, with praiseworthy thoughtfulness, offered to help me. But I held to my purpose, thanking him for his advice and offer to help me, as I felt confident that I should be able to do it all by myself. I then at once informed the commissioner for the exhibition that, as I was empowered by the author of the sketch, and was in his entire confidence, I intended immediately to set to work and restore it. As this gentleman commissioner understood not a word of French or Italian, William Spence, then a young man, was my interpreter. When he understood what it was I wanted, he called a gentleman who was looking at the models for competition, and spoke to him in a low voice in his own language; but my young mentor, who, besides his intelligence, had a fine sense of hearing, taking me aside, told me what orders the commissioner had given this gentleman.

It should be known that the English Government, among the articles regulating this competition, had made one which was most wise, as it partially guaranteed the artist who had not been able to accompany his sketch in person, and had no correspondents or friends who could act for him, to repair any chance damages to his work. For this they had appointed an able artist capable of making the required restorations. This, then, was what Spence told me: "The commissioner, as you see, called that gentleman to tell him to pay attention to what you are doing to this model, for although you have asserted yourself to be the person intrusted by the author of the work, yet he has not felt sure of it; and as you might also be a person who, with bad intentions, propose to damage it under pretence of restoring it, it was his duty to prevent this,—so he gave orders to that gentleman, in case he saw that your hand was guided by bad faith or incompetency, to make you leave off at once, and to set himself instead to work on it."

I understand I must give all my attention and mind to the manner in which I do my work, though I should have acted more freely had I not been exposed to a supervision as reasonable as it was conscientious. The consequence of a mistake or an oversight might be to see myself set aside as an ass, or even worse, as an impostor, and the heads and hands of my little figure mended by another, Heaven knows how!

In the meantime, the sculptor or modeller who was to watch me never lost sight of me, and being sure that I knew nothing of his charge, observed every movement of mine; but after I had been at work about ten minutes he was completely convinced, and declared that I could be allowed to continue the restorations—meno male! Plaster brushes, small knives, sharp tools, and all other implements, had been largely furnished to me by Signor Brucciani, a most able caster, and the proprietor of a large shop, or rather a gallery of plaster statues, able to supply any school of design, and what my friend Giambattista Giuliani would have called a perfect gipsoteca.

And with regard to good Signor Brucciani, I must say some words in his praise, not only because he provided me liberally with plaster and tools, and help in my work, but because he, a stranger in a foreign land, has known how, with his activity, to acquire for himself the esteem of a people who are as tardy in conceding it as they are tenacious in keeping to it when once given. From this he derives his good fortune and enviable position.

When Signor Brucciani fell in with an active and open-hearted compatriot, it brightened him up soul and body, and he often wished to have me with him. His wife and daughter united a certain English stiffness with Italian brio and frankness that they took from their husband and father. One day Brucciani and his family desired to spend the day in the country and dine in Richmond Park. Everything Brucciani did he did well; and I hope he is alive and able to do so still. He brought with him several carriages, with everything that was required for the cuisine and table—furniture, servants, food, and exquisite wines, even ice in which to keep the ices, &c. A viva to him! for as the Marchese Colombi said, "Things can be done or not done." After dinner a caravan of gipsies, perfect witches, who live in that forest, made their appearance, and asked if we wanted our fortunes told. The request was odd enough; but being made in such a serious manner, it became really amusing. Naturally, as we had to give something to these poor gipsies not to humiliate them, we had our fortunes told; and as for the old woman that examined my hand, she guessed so much that was true that I was almost frightened, and drew away my hand. The old witch continued to point with her bony finger, and say, "There is still more, still more."

My work was rather long, and would have been tiresome; but as it was a necessity, I did it willingly, and succeeded very well. It is true, however, that both the architecture and the figures were strangely spotted with stains made by the salt water, and bits of paper and cotton-wool in which it had been packed. Some one advised me to give it all a uniform tint to hide this; but I insisted on leaving it in that way, trusting to the good sense of the judges, who were called upon to consider much worse defects than those produced by a chance accident. I remember that Mr Stirling Crawford, of London, on receiving some years before the two statues of "Innocence and the Fisherman," and a stain having made its appearance on the leg of one of these, wrote to me manifesting his entire satisfaction with these works, and adding: "It is true that here and there there are some stains in the marble; but as I know that you do not make the marble yourself, it would be absurd to reprove you for this." There are but few gentlemen like him, however—so few, that I have never found another; but on the contrary, I have seen more than one who would even buy a mediocre statue, to use no harsher expression, provided it were made out of beautiful marble.

I remained in London about two months, and left the day before the opening of the competitive exhibition. The judgment was to be pronounced after the public exhibition was over; and there were a great many competing—nearly a hundred—and some of the models were very beautiful. There were to be nine prizes given—three first class and six second. The Government reserved to itself the power of giving the final commission without regard to the models that had received prizes, as it might so happen that when the name of the sculptor who drew the first prize was known, he might not be able to offer sufficient warrant as to the final execution of the work as to tranquillise the consciences of the judges and satisfy public opinion. This argument is a just one when not vitiated by preconceived opinions or self-love, which sometimes happens, as we shall see hereafter.

This was in itself a thing easily understood, but was not understood by us, who went in for this competition. Not so Marrocchetti, who, clever artist that he was, was none the less wide awake and wise. With those who instigated him to compete he reasoned in this way, saying: "They know that I am capable of doing this work. Why, therefore, enter into competition with others, if not to find out that there is some one else cleverer than I am? Very well; but I choose to retire, and you can take the other fellow—take him and leave me in peace. So far this would seem prompted by nothing but the fear of losing, which in itself is no small thing for a man who has a name and has gone through his long career applauded by all. But there is another and a much more piercing and almost insufferable dread. Do you know what it is? That of winning. Yes, that of coming in victor before a poor young fellow, perhaps one of your own scholars!" Thus he gave vent to his feelings one day to me, with the sort of intimacy that springs to life quickly and vigorously between artists who are neither hypocrites nor asses; and his words depict in a lifelike manner the frank, and, I might say, bold character of this original artist, who was most dashing, and who, with a thorough knowledge of dramatic effects in art, from the very exuberance of his strength, not seldom had the defects produced by these qualities—defects which were perhaps magnified by his assistant modellers, who worked with too much rapidity and carelessness.

When he saw the photograph of my model he desired to have it, and I was delighted to give it to him. He wished me to choose something of his as a remembrance, and I did not need to be urged. I had set my eyes on a most beautiful study of a lion from life in dry clay, and so I asked him for that; but as that was a thing precious to him, he asked me if I would not content myself with a cast of it in bronze instead of the clay. On my answering that I would, he called his caster, who worked for him in his own great foundry, and ordered it to be cast at once. Two days after this I received it, and keep it as the dear remembrance of an excellent friend, and as a valuable work of art.

At that time Marrocchetti had finished his great equestrian statue of Richard the Lion-hearted. It is a singular thing that Marrocchetti, in his long and glorious life, made four equestrian statues—Emanuele Filiberto, the Duke of Orleans, Carlo Alberto, and Richard the Lion-hearted. Each one of these statues bears a different stamp, both as regards composition, feeling, and mode of treatment; one would say that they were the work of four different artists. This difference of work can be reasonably explained by the diversity of the subjects and the distance of time that occurred between each work, necessarily producing notable changes in the mind and style of the artist; and also because Marrocchetti, on account of the multiplicity of serious work he had in hand, thought it advisable to have help, not only in the marble work, but also on his clay models; and as those who helped him were not always of his school, so every one brought just so much of their own individuality to bear upon the work as to alter the master's character and style. These are the sad but inevitable results for him who has the bad habit of getting assistance with his clay models.

While I was there in 1856 he had under his directions a very able modeller—I think he was a Roman, by name Bezzi. Bezzi went on modelling, and Marrocchetti directed his work, whilst he sat smoking and talking with me and others. Sometimes he would make him pull down a piece he had been at work on and begin afresh. This method seemed to me then, as it does now, a most strange and dangerous one; and it has not resulted happily, even amongst us, with those who have been induced to follow it.

Marrocchetti was distinguished from other sculptors by another originality—I was almost going to say oddity—and this was, that he coloured his statues often to such a degree that you could no longer distinguish the material of which they were made. I remember to have seen an imposing monument composed of several figures that had been put up in honour of Madame de la RiboisiÈre in the chapel belonging to the hospital which bears that name in Paris. It is completely coloured—I should better say painted all over—with body colour,—the heads, hair, eyes, draperies, all coloured so that it is impossible to distinguish the material in which it was sculptured. You could distinguish absolutely nothing; and if it had not been for the custode, who affirmed that the work was in marble, you might have thought it was coloured plaster or terra cotta. And this worthy man was so sure of having thus added beauty to his statues that he was much astonished that others did not imitate him.

Marrocchetti, there is no doubt, was wrong in loading on colour as he did; but it is a question not yet solved or to be lightly put aside as to whether a delicate veil of colour may not be tried on the fleshy parts. Grecian sculptors used colour, and ours also in the middle ages, although only on particular parts of the figure and on the ornamental portions of their monuments. The only one that I know of, amongst modern artists, who used colour with discretion, was Pradier. The English sculptor Gibson was more audacious. I have seen a Cupid by Gibson entirely coloured—the hair golden, the eyes blue, his quiver chiselled and gilt, and, incredible as it may seem, the wings painted in various colours with tufts or masses of red, green, blue, and orange feathers, like those of an Arara parrot.

Having seen the Kensington Museum, and the other sculpture and picture galleries in which London is so rich, I take pleasure in recounting a little occurrence that happened to me at Sydenham. Sydenham is a place some fifteen miles from London, in an open country, healthy, and rich in green vegetation. There is the famous Crystal Palace, where one can see a permanent exhibition of all the most beautiful things that are scattered about in different parts of the world, beginning with ante-diluvian animals reconstructed scientifically from some fossil bones found in the excavations of mines in Scotland and elsewhere. There are gigantic trees from Australia, one of which, having been cut in pieces, bored, and the centre extracted, to enable it to be transported, had been put together again and planted inside this palace. It is as high as a veritable campanile; at its base a door has been made, so that one can enter inside it; and it holds comfortably some thirty persons. All the tropical plants are there in fine vegetation, in conservatories heated by stoves, where the heat is so oppressive that one longs to go out and breathe the fresh outside air. There also can be seen that famous plant that grows in the water, with its flower floating on the surface. This gigantic flower, when I then saw it, measured not less than two metres in diameter, and the leaves flattened out on the water looked like open umbrellas. It seems really as if one were dreaming, to see such gigantic vegetation. Besides plants and animals from all parts of the earth—from the polar as well as from the tropical regions—there are the full-sized models of men taken from life, and coloured according to nature—Cretins, Esquimaux, savages, Tartars, Mongols, and anthropophagi, all in most natural attitudes, and in their various costumes. There are also full-size reproductions of pieces of Egyptian, Indian, Assyrian, Mongolian, and Moorish architecture; parts of the Alhambra Palace; some rooms from Pompeii; minarets and Chinese temples; sculpture (I mean, be it understood, reproductions in plaster) of the best Egyptian, Indian, Greek, and Roman works, as well as those of the middle ages; Ghiberti's doors; the equestrian statues of Colleoni, of Gattamelata, of Marcus Aurelius; and even some modern works, amongst which is my "Abel."

I knew that this statue of mine must be there, for I had it cast by Papi, who had the mould ever since he cast it in bronze; and when I saw it amongst these masterpieces as a specimen of modern art, I felt a certain feeling of complacency that I hope will be forgiven me. But this complacency of mine was disturbed when I saw that one of the fingers of the left hand had been badly restored, not merely formed inelegantly, but actually distorted, as the last phalange was much too short. That little stump of a finger so irritated me, that I gave it a blow with the stick I had in my hand, and it fell on the ground. Ill-luck would have it that one of the guards saw me, and seizing hold of me, he carried me off to the commissary of the exhibition. I was asked why I had damaged that statue; and I answered that the finger was badly made, and that I had broken it off by an involuntary movement. They replied that I could not judge whether that finger or anything else was well done or badly done, and in any case it was not permitted for persons to damage the objects exhibited there; that therefore, for this violation of the rules, I had incurred the penalty decreed in such and such an article, and that they intended to keep me in custody. To tell the truth, this Signor Commissary spoke French rather badly; but I understood him very well, and with the best grace possible begged to be forgiven, saying that the wish to damage the statue had never entered into my thoughts, that the finger I had broken was positively ugly, that it must be remade as it ought to be, and that, as to having it restored, I would myself bear the expense. But the commissioner was firm, and was about to consign me to a guard, who was to conduct me not exactly to prison, but to something of that kind. I then felt obliged to make my name known. At first he had no intention of yielding to my explanation, and there was an expression on his face that might be translated thus: "It seems to me strange; it cannot be; I don't believe it." Then he went on to say, "Your position as author did not give you the right to do what you have done, even admitting that what you affirm is true—and we shall soon see if it be really true (tout de suite). You are the author of that statue; then remake the finger that you have broken." I was completely taken aback by this new judgment of Solomon, so simple and just. Calling to my aid a young modeller who was employed there, working a little and directing a little, the finger was soon remade. And so this odd adventure came to an end, proving the justice of the proverb, "Who breaks, pays."

I returned to Sydenham several times, because the quantity and importance of the things to be seen required time and attention; but when I found myself near my own statue, I gave it a wide berth.

One day I found myself, or rather I should say I was taken by William Spence, to a great dinner given by the Artistic and Industrial Society in the dining-hall of the great Palace of the Exhibition. We were no less than four hundred, and Lord Derby presided. About the end of the dinner the toasts began, with speeches of which naturally I understood not a word; but fortunately "Mino" translated them to me in a few brief words. At last an Indian officer of the English army arose with a face the colour of copper, and began to speak; but after the first words, here and there in that immense hall, first in undertones, and then louder and louder, there arose a confused noise of voices of disapprobation. I understood nothing, and begged "Mino" to explain; and he replied that I must keep quiet, and he would afterwards explain everything. In the meantime the noise of disapprobation increased, and some loud words were repeated. The orator's voice could hardly be heard any more, but he was not disturbed, and waited until the tempest was a little calmed down before continuing. Then I heard a word repeated louder and louder, which "Mino" explained to me was "Enough." The only one who remained cold, passive, and silent was the president; and when the speaker saw that it was an impossibility to make himself heard, he bowed and sat down. After a little while every one rose from table.

"Now, then, relieve my curiosity. What has that officer said of so extraordinary a nature as to compel him to silence in a country like this, where really such entire liberty prevails?"

"What he has said," replied "Mino," "he could have said and repeated most freely; but he was badly inspired, and had the imprudence to name the Queen. Now amongst us the Queen, whatever may be the question, is never mentioned. The law—and more than the law, respect for her person—prohibits us from naming her. The officer who spoke is a colonel in our Indian army, and is, as you can see by the colour of his face, an Indian. He only arrived a few days ago on a mission, they say, of some importance. Now this is what he has said: The Indians, subjugated by the force and cunning of the English Government, having borne as much as is humanly possible to bear—the loss of their liberty, of their wealth, and of their religious faith; aggravated by the odious sight of their oppressors; every modest demand of theirs rejected; weighed down every day more and more by additional taxation,—for some time past have burned with impatience to shake off their yoke and regain their lost liberty. The English Government, being aware in part of this movement, and in part ignoring it, he felt himself in duty bound to proclaim it loudly, as much for the good of his own people as for the English themselves. After having in vain attempted all ways of adjustment with the Government of the Queen (first time of mention), he hoped at least by these means to open the eyes and move the heart of the Queen (second time) in favour of those poor pariahs, assassinated by a Government who, in the name of her Majesty the Queen (third time), add to insult the derision of a people whom it has enervated with the pretext of civilising it. Revolution and war being imminent if their just demands are this time again rejected, the Government being responsible for this disaster, and the Queen ... and the Queen——Here the orator, as you saw, was unable to continue, and already they had allowed him to say too much. Neither the gravity of his revelations nor his injurious assertions against the Government had been able in the least to excite our delicate organisation, but it was only and entirely on account of the sacred name of the Queen being mixed up in his speech so imprudently and with so little judgment."

The fact is, however, that in less than five weeks from the day that this poor Indian attempted to make the truth known—explaining what was wrong, and revealing the consequences that would follow, and counselling a remedy—the telegraph, with its flashing words, announced the Mutiny, the peril the English were in, and their calls for help. It is true that the Queen was not then mentioned, but for all that, men did not the less die. Methinks I can hear it said, "What has this to do with your memoirs? In our opinion, it has nothing to do either with your life or with any artistic reflection that can be of interest to us."

But this objection bears only the appearance of reason. With this scene I wished to depict the temper and character of the English in general, and in particular of the two most prominent persons of that assemblage—namely, the Indian colonel and the president of the banquet. And who is there who does not see how useful and good these studies of character, taken from the life, are to the artist? The essential thing required to make a work of art beautiful and valuable is, that it should be a just expression of the passions and feelings of the various characters the artist wishes to represent. It is vain to look for the right expression amongst the mercenary models that one ordinarily makes use of. The model is used for all that is on the outside—movement, proportions, physical characteristics, beauty of form,—for all, in fact, except, however, just that turn of the head and look of the eye, that movement of the lips, dilation of the nostrils, and a thousand other signs and indications on the face which reveal the inner struggles of the soul. These passions and feelings are more or less intense according to the temperament, habit, and education of different individuals; and in the mysterious sea of the soul, tempests gather, and become the more dreadful in proportion as they are not kept in check by reason. Not to give a false expression to the subject we wish to treat, we must study all these differences. Love in Francesca does not manifest itself as in Ophelia, the madness of Orestes is not that of Hamlet, Ugolino's grief is not the grief of Prometheus, and Penelope's sadness is different from that of Ariadne's. There are natures in whom the soul is of such delicate fibre, and who revolt so haughtily against an insult, that, oblivious of physical weakness, they flash into anger, and rush blindly against the offender, whoever he may be. There are others, strong and robust in body, who take things comfortably and easily, and let alone the calumnies launched against them; which, in fact, have rather the effect of mosquitoes upon them,—they are disturbed for a little while, and then go quietly to sleep again. The acute thrusts of love wound but the external epidermis of these well-wadded souls. Giuseppe Giusti created a couple of these curious beings—man and woman—and he called them Taddeo and Veneranda. For them the sea that I spoke of is always becalmed, and their tranquil souls float peacefully about therein. There is, however, a calm very different from this, brought by reason into these fierce struggles of the soul. The first, instead of being a calm, is indolence, and all the fibres that make our whole being move and throb, are, as it were, dormant. But this calm I speak of is caused by the force of reason, and strengthened by the sentiment of temperance and charity.

How much self-control that Indian officer must have exercised over himself, knowing that he was proclaiming a great truth, which, had it been listened to and reparation made in time, would have prevented that most unfortunate war that he knew to be imminent, certain, and homicidal! To hear the shouts crying silence to him, and not to be disturbed by them, continuing with a firm voice not any louder (which would indicate anger), nor lower (which would be a sign of fear), only stopping a little when the other voices grew louder and prevented him from being heard, and then again taking up his discourse without turning to the right or to the left, and repeating over again the last word that had been drowned by the noise,—I say that this produced on me the impression of a profound admiration for the man. Even now, after twenty years have elapsed, I seem to see that grand figure before me, and I feel all his manly tranquillity.

One of the peaceful natures, always content, so well described by Giusti in his 'Amor Pacifico,' and whom I knew well, was Professor Clemente Papi, an excellent caster in bronze. When I knew him he was between fifty and sixty years of age, of moderate height, stout build, and high colour, always laughing, always full of bright stories and little jokes. The muscles expressive of indignation had, as it would seem, been left out of his composition by mother nature. His brow was always smooth—there was never a frown on his face when speaking or listening, whatever might be the subject of discussion; and this constant habit of laughing made him laugh, or shape his mouth into a smile, even in the most serious moments of life. This man, who was in many respects most excellent, in his art, in his family, and as a master, appeared as if he had no heart, or as if it were made of sugar-candy; and yet he died suddenly of heart-disease. As I have said, he had a heart, but it was sugar-sweet; the bitterness of sorrow and the harshness of anger never in the least disturbed his state of calm, careless joviality. The following occurrence depicts Professor Papi's nature to the life: The Grand Duke having ordered a cast in bronze of my "Abel," and all the preliminary work for the fusion of it having been accomplished,—that is to say, the mould made on the original plaster, the earth pressed into that mould to form the kernel, or nocciolo, so as both to obtain lightness and to strengthen the cast—the wax cast having been made and the necessary touches given to it by myself—the whole cased in its heavy covering, armed and bound about by irons that it might bear the stream of liquid metal, and placed in the pit and heated to allow the wax to escape from the fissures, then baked that it might become of the consistency required for the operation,—the composition of the metal was prepared, placed in the furnace, and set on fire. After fifteen or twenty hours, the melting was accomplished—an operation easily related, but which was the result of many months of labour and great expense. The valve was then opened, that it might descend into the mould below. The strangeness of the enterprise, the time and sacrifices of those employed in it, the strange and almost mysterious spot where the operation took place, the heat from the furnace-fire, the gases that came from it, the anxiety of the workmen, their extreme fatigue in that decisive moment, the lamp that burned before the crucifix, and prayer that preceded the opening of the valve—all filled me with an undefined sense of the marvellous and unknown, of the fearful and sacred. The valve was opened, the metal flowed down the pipe into the main channel clear and liquid, as all metal is during this process. Joy was depicted on all the faces of those anxious persons who had toiled so long on the work. The metal had been already poured into the greater part; the mould, which had resisted well, cased as it was in its thick covering, and bound with hoops of iron, gave no signs of cracking, nor was any noise heard, as not unseldom happens when, as the metal flows in, the air inside has not an easy escape. Papi stood upright and beaming, ready to embrace his scholars, when all at once some little violet flames from the mouth of the furnace announced the cooling off of the metal, which gradually slackened its flow and lost its splendour. Stupor and depression were depicted on all faces—a mortal pallor, rendered stranger still by the light reflected from the furnace, making them look like spectres. The metal no longer flowed along, but began to drop in flakes like polenta, then became coagulated, and then stopped still. The statue was little more than half cast, and all was lost! At this sight the poor workmen, tired out, and torn with grief, threw themselves on the ground with violent contortions and weeping. I, between stupor and regret for the failure of the work, the seeming despair of those poor people, and the grief—although not visible, but still great—that Papi must feel, did not know what to say; it seemed as if my tongue were tied. I wanted to get away from that place of misery: it seemed to me as if those people, master and workmen, must be left alone to give vent to their sorrow. Papi came to my rescue. He came up to me, and said that he had promised the Grand Duke to give him the news of the casting, and that he had hoped to do so himself; but as it had failed, he did not feel courage enough to carry him the bad news, and begged me to do so. He shook hands with me, and turned to take leave of others that he had invited or allowed to be present at the casting.

The evening was well on when I went to the Pitti. I spoke to Paglianti, the royal valet of the Grand Duke, and asked if I could be permitted to have an audience. Paglianti knew me, and also knew that the Duke liked to see me. In a few moments I was shown into his study, and briefly told him what had happened. According to his wont, he listened thoughtfully and attentively, but did not seem disturbed by it. One would have thought that he was listening to a thing that might be anticipated as possible or probable. Then he began to speak—

"Poor Papi! poor man! Who knows how disappointed he must have felt, and how miserable he is now? And your work, too, which gave you so much trouble—all is lost! I feel deeply for your misfortune and that poor man's unhappiness. Let us think about consoling him. Return to him, and tell him in my name to be of good cheer, for there is a remedy for everything, and that I am certain he has nothing to reproach himself with; for, when one has taken every possible precaution to secure success in the execution of anything, and notwithstanding all, the work does not turn out well, no one can blame him for it, and I least of any one. Tell him that battles are won and lost in the same way. Sometimes even a mistake makes one win, and one can lose in spite of every forecast. Tell him this and more, all that comes into your head, to comfort him, and speak in my name. Go at once to him, console him, and your words will bring him a little calm. I am certain that you will do him a great deal of good, and that he may afterwards be able to rest to-night; but I am sure that if you do not speak to him, the poor man will not sleep."

I went almost at a run, and from Palazzo Pitti to the Via Cavour is a good bit of way. I was all in a perspiration. I knocked at his door, and after a time his maid-servant appeared.

"Who is it?" says she.

"It is I; open the door."

"Oh, is it you, Signor Professor?"

"Yes, it is I; open the door, I have a word to say to your master."

"The master is in bed; you could speak to him to-morrow."

"No; I must do so now. If he is in bed, no matter; he will be glad all the same."

"But if he is asleep, do you want to wake him?"

"Asleep!" said I; "is he asleep?"

"Yes; he is asleep, I assure you. He has been asleep more than two hours, he was so tired when he came home."

"Well, then, since you assure me that he is asleep, my commission is at an end; and when he wakes up, which will probably be to-morrow morning, you may tell him that I had come in a great hurry to say two words to him that contained the power of making him sleep, but having found him in his first sleep, I shall tell him another time, although they may then seem quite stale."

To speak sincerely, such an extraordinary feat I have never been able to explain. To sleep after a similar misfortune—to go to sleep at once, immediately, two hours after, at his usual hour, the hour when those who have nothing on their minds sleep! And yet, now that I think of it, Napoleon slept on the night that preceded one of his greatest battles. So at least he wrote in his biography, and because it is printed, a great number of simple-hearted people believe in it as they do in the Gospel; and you, gentle reader, do you believe it? "Mi, no!" as Sior Tonin Bonagrazia would say.

It has been necessary to make this digression on character,—that is to say, on the difference between those who acquire calmness by virtue of their reason, and those whose senses are obtuse to all passions—differences which are visible to any one who observes with care, and that escape many, indeed most people who do not think. Let the young artist be persuaded that the study and observation of the true nature of love and human passions are most essential. Let them give up all thoughts of seeing these expressions in their models. One's studio models are common people, who certainly have their feelings and passions, but they are generally vulgar; and in any case, during the time that they are posing as models, they are thinking of everything except the moral condition of mind of the person they are representing. One may answer, "We know this; the artist should himself give the expression required by his subject." Quite right; but how can the artist seize hold of the right expression if first he has not seen it in life, and studied with attention beyond words? Then it is evident to me, and other works show it without my words, that not a few artists expect and insist on finding expression in their models. I remember an artist who flew into a passion because his model did not assume an expression of grief. The model naturally laughed louder and louder, every time this simpleton said, "Don't laugh; be serious and sad; I want you to express grief."

It is true that this kind of study may occasion some little inconvenience—as, for instance, one may pass for being very stupid, because absorbed in observing and committing to memory, and hearing nothing that has been talked about. One may answer at random, and be extremely ridiculous. One may appear as a somewhat offensive admirer, and give umbrage to some jealous husband. One may even pass for a scatter-brain and imbecile. But have patience! With time and practice the artist will gain his point, and be able to study as much as he wishes, while assuming an air of indifference that will shelter him from the above-mentioned misconceptions.

He may, however, fall into other mistakes; and I here take note of them that he may avoid so doing. One evening I was at a ball at the Palazzo Torlonia at Rome. I have no fancy for balls, but I like to see a great many people,—beautiful ladies, elegant dresses, and naked arms,—and more than all, the expression of eyes now languid, now animated,—smiles now ingenuous, now coquettish,—the weariness of the fathers, and the eager concern of the mammas,—the reckless joy of the Don Giovanni in erba, and the deceitful, washed-out look of the Don Giovanni in ritiro. It is a pleasant as well as useful study, as long as one does not change parts, and instead of a spectator become an actor in the scene. The "lime-twigs are spread out, the little owls are at their places; so beware, ye blackbirds, not to be caught." There I stood; the painter Podesti, with whom I had come to the ball, had left me, carried away by the attractions of the card-table. In one of the many rooms open for the circulation of the company, and for the repose of dancers and those not dancing, seated on one of the divans I saw a young woman of singular beauty. She was about thirty: several gentlemen surrounded her like a garland, and she had now for one, now for another, some trivial gay word; but in strange contrast with her careless words and smiles was her austere brow, and the haughty looks that came from her eyes. The turn of her head was stately and attractive; and a clasp of diamonds that was fastened in her dark shining hair flashed every time she moved. I never saw a more assassinating beauty than hers! Leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room, studying that face with its strangely variable expression, all the women of history and fable with which this singular beauty had affinity rose before my mind. Less full of passion than Norma, less ferocious than Medea, almost Helen, and, without an almost, a Circe,—in fact, one of those women who promise one paradise and prepare one an inferno—capable of killing the body, the soul, and the memory of a man. When I had got so far in my reflections, the young lady rose, and coming straight towards me, she said these simple words—"Monsieur, tandis que vous pensiez, je ne sais pas À quoi, la cire a coulÉ tout À son aise sur voire habit"—and she passed on slowly, demolishing in two words my castles in the air. I found, in fact, that the shoulder and sleeve of my dress-coat were covered with wax, to say nothing of the suppressed laughter of the beautiful Circe. Of two things one must therefore be warned—to put one's self out of the dangerous proximity of lights, and to be careful to look at people with some reserve.