MY FATHER'S DEATH—A TURN IN THE OMNIBUS—THE FERRARI MONUMENT—I KEEP THE "SAPPHO" FOR MYSELF—THE "TIRED BACCHANTE" AND THE LITTLE MODEL—RAPHAEL AND THE FORNARINA—THE MADONNA AND BAS-RELIEFS AT SANTA CROCE AND CAVALIERE SLOANE—MY DAUGHTER AMALIA AND HER WORKS—MY DAUGHTER BEPPINA—DESCRIPTION OF THE BAS-RELIEF ON THE FAÇADE OF SANTA CROCE—I AM TAKEN FOR THE WRONG PERSON BY THE HOLY FATHER PIUS IX.—MARSHAL HAYNAU—PROFESSOR BEZZUOLI AND HAYNAU'S PORTRAIT.

M My stay in London had been rather a long one, but it was necessary for the restorations (and what restorations!) of my work, and also to see the wonders of art collected by that powerful nation, by force of will, money, and time. I stayed there about two months; and notwithstanding the many and novel distractions which that vast city offered, and the good health I enjoyed at that time under a climate so different from ours, I felt every day more and more keenly the ardent desire to see my family, so that when I arrived in Paris I delayed very little. The letters which I received from home breathed the same affectionate longing that I felt myself; and the gay, thoughtless life of Paris, instead of attracting me, disgusted me. My daughters by their mother's side in our little parlour were always present to me; and knowing their dispositions, and the loving wisdom of the mother, I felt that tender, holy joy which is difficult to describe, but such as a loving and beloved father feels for his dear ones. I had lost two years ago my poor father from cholera. The poor old man had at first resisted the fury of that tremendous disease. He lived at the Carra, beyond Porta al Prato. All around death reaped its victims,—young and old, poor and rich; it spared no one. Almost every evening, at dusk, I went to him to assure myself of his health. One evening I found him unwell and in bed; but he had no fever, and his servant-maid, a good girl, served him with affectionate zeal. I left him quiet. On going away I urged her to be attentive to my father through fear of the epidemic then raging. The girl assured me that I need not doubt of her being so, and that I might be tranquil. The next evening I went back to see him: he was still in bed, and was better; but he told me that he stayed there as a precaution, and that he was to get up the following day, having the physician's permission to do so. The door had been opened for me by a little boy, to whom he gave lessons in drawing and ornamentation—Gabriello Maranghi—who to-day is one of our ornamental marble-workers.

"Oh, Rosa," I said to my father; "where is she?"

"Rosa, poor thing, died this morning. She came back from marketing, put down her things, went into her room, and I have not seen her since. They carried her away a short time ago!"—and the poor old man was much moved.

This sudden news of a death so instantaneous upset me and frightened me for my poor father. It was the same whether he stayed there or was carried elsewhere, for in every district they died in the same way. I went away sad at heart. The next day he got up, and was pretty well, even gay—in fact, for several days continued well, and went on with his work as usual. One morning—it was Sunday—my wife, who had got up before me, came into the bedroom, waked me up, and said—

"Nanni, get up; father is ill."

I looked in my wife's face, and read there the nature and gravity of my poor father's illness. I ran to him; he recognised me, and said—

"My good Giannino, you have done well to come quickly to your father; I am so glad to see you before I die."

He lived all day, but had spasms of pain and wandered in mind. Then he died, and his face became serene, as if he were sleeping peacefully. Whoever has lost a father knows the kind of grief it is!

As I have said, I stayed but a few days in Paris. I saw, on the wing as it were, and without being able to study them, the monuments of art in which that great capital is rich. I repeat, I felt an irresistible desire to return home. Of the artists, I saw only Gendron, whom I had known in Florence; Anieni, a Roman; and Prince Joseph Poniatowsky, then in his prime. What was most to my taste was to ride up and down the streets of Paris in an omnibus to get an idea of the movement and grandeur of that city; but an incident occurred to me that prevented my having that desire any longer, and I should have put an end to this going up and down even if I had not already determined upon my departure. This was what happened. I had just come from a walk in the Champs ElysÉes, when I saw the omnibus which goes from the BarriÈre du TrÔne to the Madeleine standing still. I said to myself: "Very good; I will get in here, go through all the Boulevards as far as the BarriÈre, and without even descending, turn about again, and when I get back to the Rue du Helder (where I lodged), I will get out and go home." The omnibus started, drove through all the Boulevards des Italiens, des Capucines, PoissonniÈre, &c., and arrived at the BarriÈre. The passengers got out, the omnibus stopped, and the conductor said to me—

"Monsieur, descendez, s'il vous plait."

I answered, "Je ne descends pas moi."

"Pourquoi donc?"

"Parce que je retourne sur mon chemin."

The ill-concealed laughter made me aware of my mistake, and the conductor, with good manners, gave me to understand that the drive ended there, and on account of the lateness of the hour there was no return trip. I got out, and was at least four miles from home. To find a carriage, I was obliged to take a long walk towards the centre of Paris, and finally found one, and had myself conveyed home, muttering against my own stupidity. The next day, without turning either to the right or to the left, I returned to Italy,—to dear, beautiful Florence; to the bosom of my family; to my studies; to my works; to my good pupils; to my faithful workmen; and to my dear friends. Fortune had favoured me in London: my work had gained one of the first prizes in the competition. Another prize was obtained also by Professor Cambi.

I had scarcely got back from London when Count Ferrari Corbelli ordered from me the monument for his wife, the Countess Berta, whom he had lost a few days before. This work, which he wished to see finished as soon as possible, was the cause of my abandoning the group of the "Deluge," which I had already sketched, as I have before stated. The monument was composed of a base, on which was placed the urn containing the body of the deceased. Modesty and Charity, the principal virtues of the departed Countess, stand leaning on the angles of the sarcophagus, and above these the Angel of the Resurrection points the way to heaven for the soul of the Countess, snatched from the love of her husband and children. The monument stands under an arch, on which are three putti who hold up some folds as if they were opening the curtain of heaven. The background is encrusted with lapis-lazuli. This monument is placed in the Church of San Lorenzo, in the chapel next to the sacristy. My friend Augusto Conti liked the conception of this monument, but objected to the nudity of the child of Charity. I have a sincere respect for his criticism, as I respect also the one he made on the monument to Cavour. He is a profound and conscientious critic of art; and besides this, he has had, and has, for me and my family, a truly fraternal love, and I remember with emotion the part which he took during the illness and death of my daughter and my wife.

Contemporaneously with this work I modelled a "Sappho," and put it at once into marble, by order of Signor Angiolo Gatti, a dealer in statues; but it happened that when he should have received the statue he had no funds, and so I sent it to our Italian Exhibition. The Government, which had set apart a sum of money for the acquisition of the best works of art, decided not to take my statue, so I have it by me now. It seems to me (I confess the weakness) as if I had been wronged, so to speak, and as if my poor "Sappho" resented this wrong from the new Phaons: so I have wished to keep my faith with her, since the desertion of her lover had caused her death; and although I have several times had offers not to be despised, yet I have never been willing to sell her. Who can tell where this poor "Sappho" will be, and how situated, after my death?

At this same time—that is, in 1857—I made the model of the "Tired Bacchante"; and the idea of this figure was suggested to me by a little model who was brought to me by her mother, and who had never before been seen naked by any one. The freshness of this young girl, her unspoiled figure, the delicate beauty, somewhat sensual, of her face, suggested as a subject the "Tired Dancer," which afterwards was converted to a "Bacchante"; and as some time before I had made a little statue, representing Gratitude, for the Signora Maria Nerli of Siena, the general lines of that statuette served me as a sketch for this. But were I to say that it was only the beauty of the model, the subject suggested so spontaneously to me, and the composition already made, that persuaded me to keep the girl and make the statue, I should not be telling the exact truth. The mother of this girl was one of those women who not only throw aside all a mother's duty and responsibility, but despising all decency, show that they are capable of worse things. I tried at first to dissuade her from taking the young girl about to studios, and so forcing her to lose all that a maiden has most precious—modesty; nor was I silent about the perils that she was exposing her to. But my words were thrown away, for she smiled at them as if they were childish: so I kept the young girl and made the statue. I can assure you that she was a good young creature, and when I had finished the model I dismissed her with paternal words. I saw her many years after, so changed and sad, that one could hardly recognise her. She told me her sad story,—a name was on her lips, but a daughter's love made her conceal it. I repeat, she was good, and suffered, but not by any fault of hers. I have never seen her again: perhaps she is dead—the only good thing that can befall any of those unhappy creatures.

To some it may seem as if I have been rather tedious about this poor Traviata; but most people, I hope, have found my indignation reasonable, for the condition of such a girl as this is most sad and humiliating,—forced by her mother, who ought to be the jealous guardian of the modesty and innocence of her child, to strip herself naked before a man. Even though her mother remain there present, it is always a hard thing, and most disagreeable to a young woman jealous of her good name, and dreading the looks and thoughts of the man there before her. It is not even impossible that it may be thought I have studiously and affectedly deplored such cases as these, as if I wished to show myself better than I am. I have no answer to give to any one who thinks thus, for in these papers he will find nothing to justify such an opinion. I only desire to remind the profane in art, that when we have a model before us, our mind and all our strength is so absorbed in our work, and the difficulties are so great in taking from nature just so much as is required for the character, expression, and form of our subject, that nothing else affects us. He who does not credit this is not an artist, and does not feel art.

I see a little smile of incredulity, almost of triumph, come over the face of my unbelieving reader, and the old story, so often sung and perhaps exaggerated, of Raphael and the Fornarina placed before me, to belie my words. This case of Raphael and the Fornarina was a unique one, and quite different from the ordinary relations that exist between the artist and his models. A model is for us like an instrument or a tool, necessary for our work. If good and beautiful, we prize her and respect her as we would a good tool; if neither beautiful nor good, we bid her be off. The Fornarina was beautiful, and perhaps she may have been even good; but unfortunately she was of a sanguine temperament, imaginative, and ardent, as she appears from the portraits Raphael has left of her. The graceful nature, the delicate figure of the young artist, and the prestige of his fame, roused the love and ambition of the beautiful Trasteverina.

seized hold of that angel and smothered him in its embrace. What has this most fatal story to do with our usual artistic life? To-day there are no more Fornarinas, and, above all, there are no Raphaels; and if by chance an artist falls in love with his model, why, he marries her, and there is an end of it. In conclusion, a good and beautiful model that willingly and honestly (I use this word for want of a better) does her business, I like and employ; but a simple, good-natured, ignorant young girl forced to this shame by her own mother, irritates me and makes me sad.

At this time they were making the faÇade of the Church of Santa Croce, with the most valuable aid of Cavaliere Sloane, to whom we are chiefly indebted that it was possible to complete this work. In the design of the faÇade there were bas-reliefs in the arches over the three doors: over the middle door the "Triumph of the Cross"; over that of the right nave the "Vision of Constantine"; and over the other, on the left, the "Refinding of the Cross." I had already made for the faÇade the Madonna, who stands high up over the cuspide of the middle door; and because the subject was dear to me, as also the idea which it should convey, I was content with a price which would barely cover the cost of making it, without counting my work on the model. But these three bas-reliefs were much more arduous work; and as I could not make them at the same rate as I had made the Madonna, I refused. Cavaliere Sloane, however, who much desired that these bas-reliefs should be made, came to me and begged me to accept them. As to the price, he assured me that we should agree, and that he would himself pay it, because he wished that the faÇade should be made by me. I took time to reply, and reflecting that the three bas-reliefs would take much more time than I had to dispose of, and desiring to help my two clever and affectionate pupils, I proposed to Cavaliere Sloane to divide this labour into three parts. The larger bas-relief, that over the central door, I would make; the other two, over the lateral doors, should be made, one by Sarrocchi of Siena, and the other by Emilio Zocchi of Florence. Sloane was satisfied with my proposition, but with the understanding that I should be answerable for the excellence of these works, and while I should leave these artists freedom in their conceptions, I should direct them in such conceptions as well as in the execution. This I formally promised to do, and the work was decided upon.

These bas-reliefs, which I relinquished to my scholars, recall to my mind other works also given up to scholars, but not mine. Among these is Professor Costa of Florence. In the beginning of my artistic career, when I was making the "Cain" and "Abel," "Giotto," and "Pius II.," I had also a commission to make a statue representing Summer, for one of the four seasons which ornament the palace once called Batelli. This commission, though a poor one, I should have executed, because I had engaged to do so, and poor Batelli had urged it in a friendly way; but Pietro Costa, then very young, studious, and needy, begged it of me, and I, with the consent of the person who had given the commission, gave it up to him, and it was a great success.

Now that I am speaking of my scholars, it is but just that I should mention my daughter Amalia. She used at that time to come and see me in my studio with her mother and sisters; and while the little Beppina and Gigina stayed out in the little square playing together and gathering flowers, Amalia remained in my studio silently watching me at work. When her mother was getting ready to take her home, she was so unwilling to tear herself away from gazing at my work, that I asked her one day—

"Would you like to do this work?"

"Yes, papa," the child quickly replied.

"Well, then," I said, "stay with me."

Then I turned to my wife and said, "Leave Amalia with me for company; she can return home with me." I arranged a slate on a little easel in form of a reading-desk for her, prepared some bits of clay, and showed her how to spread the clay to a certain thickness on the slate as a foundation; then I placed before her a small figure of one of the bas-reliefs from the doors of San Giovanni, by Andrea Pisano, and I said to her,—"With this little pointed stick you must draw in the figure, then you must put on clay to get the relief; but first I must see if your drawing is like the original. Only the outline is necessary, and this line should only reproduce the movement and proportion of the little figure you have before you. Do you understand?" The child understood so well, that, at the first trial, she traced all the outline of the figure correctly. It must, however, be remembered that Amalia and her sisters had taken lessons in drawing from me, and had always kept them up.

From that day to this Amalia has never left the studio, and art has become so dear a thing to her that she can now no longer do without it. Her works are well known. Besides portraits, of which she has many, the greater number of them in marble, she has modelled and executed in marble various statues and bas-reliefs. The statues are: the "Child Giotto," Dante's "Matelda," "St Peter in Chains," the Monument of the Signora Adele Stracchi, and that of our dearest Luisina—statues all life-size, and except the "Matelda" and "St Peter," all cut in marble; also two small statues, a "St John," and an Angel throwing water, for the baptismal font in a rich chapel of one of Marchese Nerli's villas; also a little Angel, still in plaster, and a group of the Madonna and Child with a lamb, for the Church of Badia in Florence. The bas-reliefs are: the Madonna, accompanied by an angel, taking to her arms the youthful soul of the daughter of the Duchess Ravaschieri of Naples. For Arezzo: the Sisters of Charity conducting the asylum children to the tomb of Cavaliere Aleotti, in act of prayer and gratitude; eight saints in bas-relief for the pulpit of the Cathedral of San Miniato; four bas-reliefs for monuments in that same cathedral to the following persons—"Religion" for Bishop Poggi, "History" for Bernardo Buonaparte, "Physics" for Professor Taddei, and "Poesy" for the poet Bagnoli; a font, with a small statue of Sant'Eduvige, for the Countess Talon of Paris; a bas-relief for the lunette over the door of my new studio at Pinti; a little bronze copy of the "PietÀ"; a copy of the "Justice," also in bronze; a statuette of St Joseph, and a statue of St Catherine of Siena, in terra cotta, for the chapel of a pious refuge for poor children at Siena; a little group in marble of the VirtÙ teologali for Signor Raffaello Agostini of Florence; and a large statue, life-size, of the Madonna Addolorata, in terra cotta, for the Church of St Emidio at Agnone. All these works, you understand, were done by her as a pleasant way of exercising herself in her art, gratuitously, as is most natural; but it did not so appear to the tax-agent, who, however, was obliged to correct himself by cancelling her name from the roll of taxpayers, where it had been put. Poor Amalia, working from pure love of art, doing good by giving your work away, and often the worse for it in your pocket; and then to behold yourself taxed in the exercise and sale of your work! A pretty thing indeed!

As I am now on a subject that attracts me, I cannot tear myself from it in such a hurry. It is not permitted me to speak of the artistic merit of my daughter. My opinion would be a prejudiced one, both as father and as master, and therefore I have restricted myself only to note down the works that she has done so far; but I cannot refrain from making known the internal satisfaction I feel in seeing my teaching productive of such good fruit. It fell on ground so well prepared that it sprouted out abundantly and spontaneously. The consolation a master feels when he sees his pupil understand and almost divine his thought, is very great; and when this pupil is his own daughter, one may imagine how much the greater it is. And when I think of her modest nature, shrinking from praise, desirous of good, tender and compassionate with the poor in their sorrow, grieving as I do for the many irreparable family misfortunes, I still thank the Lord that He has let me keep this angel, and also my other daughter Beppina, who is not less loving to us and to her husband, by whom her love is returned in a Christian spirit. She also is endowed by nature with sentiment for art, and her drawings and certain little models in clay are the indications of wide-awake, ready aptitude. I treasure a bust of Dante that she modelled, and that was cut in marble, and deplore that the new life she has entered upon, and perhaps a delicate feeling of consideration for her sister, have made her desist from the continuation of a career well begun. Now she is a mother; and the duties of a mother are so noble and so arduous as to repress any other tendencies even more natural to her and more attractive.

Now let us return to the faÇade of Santa Croce. I ordered the "Refinding of the Cross" from Sarrocchi, and the "Vision of Constantine" from Zocchi; and both Zocchi and Sarrocchi set themselves at once to work. Here is the explanation of the conception of my bas-relief: It seemed to me that the "Triumph or Exaltation of the Cross" ought to be explained by means of persons or personifications that the Cross, with its divine love, had won or conquered. The sign of the Cross stands on high resplendent with light, and around it are angels in the act of adoration. Under the Cross, and in the centre of the bas-relief on the summit of a mountain, there is an angel in the act of prayer, expressive of the attraction of the human soul towards Divinity. By means of prayer descends the grace that warms and illuminates the intellect and affections of man. The affections and intellect, divided from the Cross, again return to the Cross, and are expressed by the following figures that stand below: A liberated slave, half seated, half reclining, with his face and eyes turned upward, expressive of gratitude for his liberation,—for from the Cross descended and spread over all the earth that divine word of human brotherhood; and near the slave a savage on his knees, leaning on his club; the stupidity and fierceness of whose look are subdued and illuminated by the splendour of the Cross. These two impersonations are in the centre below, leaving the space to the right and left for the following personages: On the right of the person looking at the bas-relief is Constantine unsheathing his sword when he beheld the sign and heard the words, "In hoc signo vinces"; near Constantine is the Countess Matilda, whose pious attitude revealed her strong love for the Church of Christ, and enabled it to put up a barrier against foreign arrogance, and to defend the liberty of the Italian Communes; behind her, nearly hidden, owing to her holy timidity, the Magdalen, to indicate that the ardours of lust were conquered by the fire of divine love. On his knees, bent to the ground, with his face in his hands, is St Paul the elect, who from an enemy had become the strenuous defender of the Gospel and apostle of the Gentiles. St Thomas, with one knee on the ground, a book in his hand, in a modest pensive attitude, recalls the words of Jesus, who said, "Bene scriptisti de me, Thoma." A little in the background, near Constantine, is the Emperor Heraclius, dressed in sad raiment, commemorative of the wars against the Christians; and a Roman soldier bearing the standard inscribed with "S.P.Q.R." closes the composition on this part of the bas-relief. On the left side the principal figure is Charlemagne; an unsheathed sword is in one hand, and in the other a globe with a cross, emblems of his vast dominions and his mission of propagating the true faith; he also represents the greatest material power conquered for the glory of the Cross. Dante is near him—the greatest Christian intellectual power—and he holds in his hand the three 'Canticles,' called by him 'Poema Sacro.' Near Dante the poor monk of Assisi, with his hands pressed to his breast, looking lovingly and with fixed attention at the Cross. In these three figures are represented the dominator of the world, the dominator of the spirit, and the dominator of poverty and humility attracted by love of the Cross. To complete this group you see St Augustine in his episcopal robes, holding in his hand a volume of 'The City of God'; and behind them a martyr with a palm, as pendant to the Roman soldier on the opposite side.

Such is the composition of the "Triumph of the Cross," which is above the middle door of that temple where the ashes of Michael Angelo and Galileo rest, and where it has been my desire for so many years that a memorial monument to Leonardo da Vinci should be placed. And, vain though it be, I shall always call for it louder and louder, the more that I see the mediocrity that a want of taste continues to erect there.

As it is not permissible for me to speak of the praise I had for this work, I will not pass over in silence a criticism that was made to me about my having selected the Countess Matilda to put into my composition. It was objected that the Countess Matilda served the Pope, served the Church of Rome, but did not do homage especially to the Cross. I have given the reason of her serving the Pope. I have already given a few words in explanation of that personage; and as for the distinction that there is between the Church of Christ and Christ Himself, I must frankly say that I do not understand it. Let not the reader believe, however, that I am one of those Christians desirous of being more Christian than the Pope himself, and excessively intolerant and passionate. No;

I am with the teaching of the apostles, and that seems to me enough, for it includes all, even comprising the beautiful exhortation of Father Dante, when he says—

In fact—not now, but soon—I will let you know, and touch with your hand, so to speak, the fact that I am not in the good graces of some of those people who depicted me to the eyes of the Holy Father after the manner of a bad barocco painter—falsifying proportions, character, and expression. But, as I have said, I will return to this later on; and meanwhile, I must say that the Holy Father did not know me at all, as the only time that I had the honour of bending before him and kissing his foot he took me for another person. And it occurred when the Pontiff Pius IX. passed through Florence after his tour through the Romagna. The Grand Duke did all the honours of Florence to him. During the few days that he remained in Florence the Grand Duke accompanied him wherever he thought it would give him pleasure to go, and, amongst other places, he took him to visit the manufactory of pietre dure, and the Academy of Fine Arts; and on this occasion our president invited the College of Professors to be present, that we might see the Holy Father near, and perform an act of reverence to the Supreme Hierarch. The Pope was seated on an elevated place like a throne; on his left was the Grand Duke; the Ministers, dignitaries, and our president were standing near him. We were called, one by one, and presented by our president, Marchese Luca Bourbon del Monte, to the Holy Father; and those who were presented prostrated themselves before him, kissed his foot, and then returned to their places. When it came to my turn, the Grand Duke turned to the Pope and said—

"Here, Blessed Father, is the artist who made the "Cain" and "Abel" that your Holiness seemed well satisfied with."

And the Holy Father, turning to me, answered—

"I congratulate you. They are two most beautiful statues. You have nothing to envy in the Berlin or Munich casting."

"Most Blessed Father," I hastened to reply, "I am not the caster of those statues, but——"

"Go," continued the Holy Father—"go, and may God bless you;" and making one of those great crosses in the air that Pius IX. knew so well how to make, he sent me away in peace, in the midst of the silent but visible hilarity of all those who had witnessed my embarrassment. It is more than probable that the Grand Duke rectified the mistake incurred by his Holiness; and I should regret if I had remained in his mind as the caster, when that merit belonged personally and legitimately to Professor Clemente Papi. But if it is easy to imagine that that mistake was then cleared up, it is difficult to say the same of the one at the present day, because it is harder to rectify. I heed very little the censure of certain extreme Catholics, believing that I share it with many whom I should wish to resemble in every respect: but the censure of the Pope was indeed painful to me; and I managed in such a way, by showing myself just as I am, that I obtained his goodwill. But of this, as I have already said, I will speak further on, and now I return to my works.

The reader may have observed that I have made no mention of portraits, although I have made many. As, however, amongst these portraits there is one that made some noise, and as the things that were said, being magnified by passion and by the inexact information of the person who spread these reports, might lead those who are in the dark to form a wrong impression, I have thought best to narrate the facts as they were.

One day a gentleman asked to speak to me. He was a man of about sixty, tall, thin, with deep-set, changeable, and vivacious eyes, thick-marked eyebrows, long moustaches, lofty bearing, and with such a singular and expressive face, that when an artist sees it, he is at once possessed with a desire to make it a study. This gentleman said—

"Would you make my portrait?"

I answered, "Yes."

"How many sittings do you require to make the model?"

"Six or eight, or more, according to the length of the sittings."

"When could you begin?"

"The first days of next week."

"Very well: Monday I will be with you. At what hour?"

"At nine in the morning, if not inconvenient to you."

"Good-bye, then, until Monday. Do you know who I am?"

"I have not the honour."

"I am Marshal Haynau." And he went away.

Now, to say that, after having heard the name, I had pleasure in making his portrait, would be a falsehood; and yet the singularity of that face, the curiosity I had to become acquainted through conversation with a man of such haughtiness and fierceness of character, the engagement I had entered into, and my pledged word, all took from me the courage to renounce the work. It is useless to say how all my friends, and naturally even more, those who were no friends of mine, declaimed against me. The newspapers were full of attacks, the story of the brewery in London, with all its details, was told, magnified and praised; in fact, to tell the truth, it was in the days when I was taking his portrait, and then alone, that I was made acquainted with the fierce nature of this great person, as my only idea of him until then had been a very indistinct and sketchy one. The beauty of it is, that in the conversation he held with me he showed himself a quiet man, opposed to all cruelty, although a severe military disciplinarian, and inexorable in punishing refractory soldiers. He made no mystery of this, and he named to me the Hungarian generals and officers that he had had shot, as the most natural thing in the world; and because I blamed him for this, he answered: With rebels one could not do otherwise, and that he would have become guilty himself had he not punished them. But I, who had read of his cruelty to women, children—to all, in fact—censured him for this, and he denied it in a most decided manner, adding a story which, if true, I don't know what to say. Here is the anecdote: When he had gained the victory at Pesth, and had all the heads of the revolution in his hands, they were all condemned to death by a council of war. Amongst these were the Archbishop of Pesth and a Count Karoli. He had the alter ego in his hands, and in consequence his orders had no need of the Imperial sanction; but both the Archbishop and Count Karoli had powerful friends and adherents at Vienna, and these did so much, and exerted themselves to such a degree, that, an hour before the execution of the sentence, the Imperial reprieve arrived. As he, however, thought both of these men more guilty than the others, owing to their high position, and as it seemed to him unjust that they should be saved and the others sacrificed, he called them all into his presence, and after having informed the two fortunate ones of the Imperial pardon, he added these words: "It is my conviction, in virtue of the proofs which I have in my hands, and which have been examined by the council of war, that the Archbishop and Count Karoli are the most guilty of any of you; but as our most gracious sovereign has saved them from the penalty that they deserved, it is not just that those who are less guilty should suffer from it; therefore, availing myself of the power I have of alter ego, I spare the life of all." I can attest the truth of this story, not only in its general sense, but even to its wording. The truth of the story, I say, for as to the facts I know nothing. And I have made a note of it; for if by chance it was not true, to the stain of cruelty one can add that of having told a lie to appear merciful. The fact was that he discussed all his affairs with facile prolixity. He spoke of art and the artists that he had known at Milan, Venice, and Bologna, in the days of our servitude to Austria, and through all his stories there was always something or other of the bombastic. He urged me to make his statue, but I decidedly refused to do so. He spoke to me about it several times, and at last I was obliged to speak openly to him, and he thought my reasons just ones. Then he manifested to me his wish to have his portrait painted on horseback, and asked me if I knew a clever artist with a name that would undertake the work. This question embarrassed me, being myself already compromised. I took some time to think about it, and fate was propitious, and gave me a companion with whom to bear the censure and abuse that only too certainly rained down upon us.

Early the next morning Professor Bezzuoli came to my studio, and said—"Let me see the portrait of Marshal Haynau."

"Certainly; here it is."

"Do you know," says Bezzuoli to me, "that yesterday I had to take up your defence? There were certain chatterboxes, that don't know even how to draw an eye, who, talking of you on account of the portrait you are making, said you ought never to have accepted it, and that they could never have abased themselves to do so. I answered that an artist when he makes a portrait is not occupied with politics. If the person whose portrait is taken is a scamp, he will always be a scamp, with or without his portrait, precisely like Nero, Tiberius, or other such beasts, of whom such beautiful portraits have been taken, that it is a pleasure to see them; but it never comes into the mind of anybody for an instant to say, Look what a canaille the artist must have been who made this portrait! So true does this seem to me, that if Haynau had come to me and given me an order to paint his portrait, I would have accepted his commission most willingly."

"Ah, very well!" thought I to myself, "I shall no longer be alone;" then I said to Bezzuoli,—"Thank you for the part you have taken in my defence. I still think if my colleagues only had an idea how I have been taken by surprise when I engaged to do this work, and how the originality of the head excited a desire in me, and if they felt how imperious the impulse born of that little capricious demon Art is—they would, I think, be more indulgent with me; and not only indulgent, but they would even praise me when they knew that I had refused to make a statue of Haynau for himself. And Àpropos of this statue, which I shall not make, I will tell you about it presently; but first permit me to ask a question. I understood you to say that if this gentleman had gone to you and asked you to paint his portrait, you would have accepted the commission—did I understand right?"

"You understood perfectly."

"I then add that he will come. He wants a full-sized portrait of himself on horseback. A large picture, an attack in battle, or something of that kind; and later, after mid-day, he will go to you for this purpose. Should you like it?"

"I should like it very much; but how can you speak to me with so much assurance about this?"

Then I told him what the reader already knows. That morning the Marshal went with a note from me to Professor Bezzuoli. In a few words all was arranged; the picture was finished in a short time, and had a great deal of deserved praise as far as work went, and bitter censure for the rest, which he divided and bore in company with me—with less resignation, however, than could have been desired from so old an artist who had thought over and discussed the importance of the engagement he had taken. This was the character of Bezzuoli, who preserved even as an old man all the vivacity and impetuosity of open, gay-hearted youth; but at the same time, he was mistrustful and touchy in the extreme. When I remember him, full of vivacity and bonhomie, the friend of young men, with his frank, open-hearted, sincere advice, and at the same time full of sensitiveness about the merest nothings, and with childish and ridiculous ambitions, such as not to be willing to be beaten at billiards, it makes me smile to think of the weakness of our poor human nature. He liked to invite a certain number of friends every Sunday to his villa near Fiesole, and after dinner to play at billiards. He who was unfortunate enough to beat Bezzuoli, was sure to find him cold and set against him for some time; and those who knew this, either for pastime and amusement, or for fear and interestedness, bravely lost, and the poor professor was full of joy, more even than if he had found some new striking effect in art.

Here ends the anecdote of that famous portrait. Further on I will speak of others that I had the order for and could not make, and why I could not make them.