ALLEGORIES IN ART—THE MONGA MONUMENT AT VERONA—OF MY LATE DAUGHTER LUISINA—HER DEATH—HOW I WAS ROBBED—MONSIGNORE ARCHBISHOP LIMBERTI'S CHARITABLE PROJECT—ONE OF MY COLLEAGUES—NICOLÔ PUCCINI AND THE STATUE OF CARDINAL FORTEGUERRI—CESARE SIGHINOLFI—CARDINAL CORSI, ARCHBISHOP OF PISA.

I I should now feel inclined to speak at length of the troubles, the thoughts, and of the opposition that I had to encounter during eight years, the grimaces and the miserable enmities of fickle, unstable friends and ungenerous enemies; but I must keep silent, as I have been thus far on all such matters, because my intentions and my works being known to all, others may judge them. Then I also remember a wise warning that was given me when I was quite little, which is never to satisfy any desire or impulse to give vent to personal resentment, and I have always found myself the better for it. In such cases, silence has two advantages,—that of leaving one's own soul at peace, and of not satisfying those who would take pleasure in hearing us complain.

Only on one thing I will not be silent, because this does not concern me, but is a principle in art. I was reproved for having used allegorical figures in Cavour's monument, it being asserted that as the subject was entirely a modern one, and could not bear allegory, it was inopportune and improper. To which I answered, that when the subject permitted, it was well not to think even of allegories. If they had said to me, "A memorial of Count Cavour is wanted, make us a statue," nothing would have been easier. A portrait-statue dressed in the clothes he wore, one or two bas-reliefs on the base, and a brief inscription, would have been enough; and, I repeat, nothing would have been easier. It was not this, however, that the commission required for Cavour's monument. The commission desired that the whole of his character and intentions, the tenacity of his will, the greatness of his propositions, and the benefits obtained therefrom, should be portrayed. Now, how to explain this with real historical figures, or, as they say, in living art? As if a complex idea expressed by one or more figures, as is the case with allegory, is dead art! Oh, do me the famous pleasure, you irritating Æsthetics, to go and prattle to babes! But don't speak to them of Phidias, Zeuxis, Alcamenes, and others, of that dead art that is now more alive than it ever was; nor of Giotto, nor of Giovanni and Andrea Pisani, nor of Raphael, nor of Michael Angelo, and many more, for they might find you out in your error. I repeat, this does not concern me or my work in the least, but it bears on a principle, and is a question that has been many times ventilated and resolved by the best thinkers in the way of argument, and by artists, who were not blockheads, in their works.

From the noble Signora Augusta Albertini of Verona, through my friend Aleardo Aleardi, I had an order for a monument to her family, an extremely painful subject. The Signora Albertini had lost, one by one, all her family—father, mother, brothers, sisters, all—and she had alone survived; alone, but with the bitterly sweet memory of those she had loved so much, and the desire to erect a monument to them. Some time before, she had given the commission to a young Veronese sculptor of great promise, Torquato della Torre, and they tell me that he had already made a sketch; but shortly after, the young sculptor died, and after a long time had gone by I undertook to make this monument. Here is the description of it. On a quadrangular conical base there is placed a group consisting of the Angel of Death seated, and prostrated at his feet the only survivor of the family, waiting, as it were, after the havoc made by that angel in her family, for her turn to fall a victim. The angel, seated on a fragment of an antique frieze, to denote that he is superior to time and the pomps of humanity, is crowned with cypress, and has a pained expression, as if he deplored the office that Divine Justice had ordered him to fulfil; the exterminating sword is still in his hand, but the point is lowered. On the base is a bas-relief representing the dead members of that family; and as they died at brief intervals the one from the other, as if Death had blown them down with her breath as the wind overthrows the trees in the country, so they are laid out, shoulder to shoulder, by each other. A little angel hovers in the air near them with hands clasped in prayer, and in the background, on the horizon line, one perceives Verona. The bas-relief is in bronze, and its colours add seriousness and sadness to the scene. On the sides, and again in bronze, are sculptured two wreaths of cypress, so that this first base on the plinth seems as if it were entirely made of bronze; the upper part, on which the inscription is engraved and the group stands, is in granite. This monument is at the end of the first nave on the right in the cemetery at Verona.

I said in the beginning of these memoirs, that I wrote not only for young artists desirous of knowing something of my life, my works, and the principles that have been my guide in art and my intercourse with my fellow-beings, but also to leave to my family a remembrance of my feeling and affection for them. And now that it behoves me to speak of one of our greatest sorrows—that is, of the loss of my most beloved daughter Luisina—I know that I am doing what my dear ones desire, however sad it may be; therefore I warn those not caring for this theme to pass on.

I would that I could divest myself of all my defects to speak of Gigina. I would that this page which I consecrate to her memory breathed a little of the sweetly chaste love that showed itself in every act, every word, and every look of hers. I would that I could simplify my style, temper and purify my words, that they might sound sadly sweet, pure, and serene, as were her words, her looks, and her mind. But I greatly fear that I shall not succeed in giving even a feeble idea of that dear child; I fear, because purity and chastity of imagery and simplicity of words have in some measure vanished with my youth and ambition—the passion and love for renown have perhaps clouded the clearness of mind wherein was reflected the true and the good. I shall also not succeed, because the innate beauty of that sweet creature was not fully revealed to me, for the confidence existing between a daughter and her father is always modified by respect; and so it is bereft of those intimate and delicate traits which are its sweetest perfume. My family will read these words on our beloved Luisina, and supply with their loving memory where I fail in my littleness. My son-in-law, Antonino, wrote of her with the intelligence of love; and several of my friends in condoling with me rendered her image more beautiful and more amiable. Yet notwithstanding all this, I feel a desire to return to that dear little angel, were it for nothing else but to rejuvenate and sanctify that sorrow.

From her early girlhood my Luisina was as vivacious and playful with her little sisters and with her mother as they would allow her to be; with me she was more serious, and sometimes even sad, perhaps because she saw that I was serious, and because at that time my health was not good. As she grew older she was more confiding in me, and displayed great love for her mother and sisters. She took pleasure in helping them with such little household affairs as no one else could or can do. She also drew, seeing her sisters draw, and could draw from memory faces and persons of our acquaintance. I have also amongst her papers extracts copied by her from books that had pleased her. She loved flowers, and in the morning, together with her sisters, she gathered them in the garden of our villa, and, making bunches of them, placed them on the altar in the little chapel. Those days were delicious ones, but they were brief! There is no happiness on earth, or it lasts but a very little while. True it is that memory remains to make us taste of a bitterness mingled somewhat with a sweet sadness, because the dear person taken from us lives again in our mind and responds to the beating of our heart. We remember the movements, the modest look, the words, the gentle affections, and all the virtues by which she was adorned, rendered still more visible and clear without the encumbrance of the body, by whose veil the light was subdued. And then—then there remains for us that sweet, most consoling hope of seeing her again for evermore, leaning on that faith that "is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."

O my good Gigina, my beloved little angel! I remember all that relates to thee—thy obedience, thy affection, thy anxious delicate care of us, our walks on the delightful Fiesole hill so dear to thee, almost a presage that the body should one day have rest there, and now the little chapel in the cemetery there contains also that of thy dear, tired, and martyred mother! Oh if I had strength equal to love, I would also write of her! I shall do so in time, but now I return to thee. The remembrance of that morning lies buried in my heart; it was in June 1872, two days before thy fÊte day, San Luigi. For several days thou hadst felt ill, and could not dissimulate as in the past. That morning, before going down into Florence, I went into thy room, and seeing that thou wast determined to get up, I ordered thee to remain in bed; thou wast obedient as always, my angel, but wept, because wanting, as I afterwards knew, to be up on thy festal day. The illness was felt by thee, but with hope to overcome it, at least for two days, resigning thyself to all suffering thereafter. Thou didst obey, but weeping. Perhaps this aggravated thy disease. This is the thorn I bear within my heart.

As soon as Bendini, the medical man from Fiesole, saw her, he thought her case most grave, and wished to consult her own doctor, Dr Alberti, who had treated her at other times. I went at once to beg him to come, and brought him back with me, as he has always had great kindness and friendship for us, and from that day he always saw her in company with Bendini. But the disease increased more and more, and she already breathed with difficulty, but preserved in her thoughts and words serenity and resignation. Then began those most painful alternations of disease—a little better and then a little worse—and always the same story over and over again. There is no pain more cruel and stinging than the delusion of a hoped-for good; the heart that opens anxiously to hope is as if crushed and torn from one's breast by implacable delusion. He who has experienced these painful alternations knows that they are more cruel than even death itself. O Great God of Israel, sustainer of all faithful souls, look down upon the affliction of Thy servant! oh assist him in all things to come! This affliction that came to us by God's will broke down my pride, and spread over my family a veil of sadness; it gave a shock to my beloved Marina's health, and perhaps accelerated her death.

Luisina expired in the first morning hours of the day of the Ascension of the Most Holy Mary. She had, whilst living, the semblance, the thoughts, and the affections of an angel; and she seemed to fall asleep in the Virgin's arms, and fly away with her to heaven. In this belief I find comfort and a sweet peace that not only compensates for her loss, but even more, makes me taste of so pure a pleasure that no words could express and no worldly care could disturb. Her body rests in our chapel in the new cemetery at Fiesole, and there my daughter Amalia has erected a little monument to her. The sepulchral urn is placed in a niche with a flat background, and on it lies sculptured the dear child in peaceful slumber, holding the crucifix in her right hand. Everybody could see, and none better than I, how much poor Amalia suffered in completing this sorrowful work. I attempted to dissuade her from this most painful duty she had imposed upon herself, but the strong affection for her dead sister suggested perhaps to her that in offering this tribute of sister and artist the pain would be somewhat softened.

I know that this remembrance, and the thoughts that have dictated it, may make some smile; but in time they will think better of it, and will know that sadness is worth more than laughter, for the heart becomes better for the sadness in the face. And with this I have finished talking of my Gigina, keeping her memory always in my heart.

To narrate the death of my Luisina, I have omitted a circumstance, and not a trifling one in my life—that of the theft that occurred to me of fifty thousand lire. I hasten to declare that until that day (it was in 1866) I never had been the possessor of such a sum, and as soon as I was, it was stolen from me. This is how I came into possession of the money, why I kept it intact, and how it was stolen from me. I had only begun on Cavour's monument a short time before, and in accordance with the form of the contract, had received the first remittance of fifty thousand lire. At the same time, I was arranging to buy a house in the Via Pinti that I thought I should be able to adapt and make into a spacious studio, such as was necessary for me in modelling the colossal figures for the monument. As the sale of the house was to take place from day to day, I was persuaded also, by the advice of my lawyer, not to employ this money in any way, so as to have it ready to give in payment for it. And as I had kept the little sums of money that I had had in hand up to that time in a secret drawer of the closet in my own room in the studio, I placed this also there.

At this time I was working on the marble of a statue, the "Tired Bacchante," which had been bought by the King of Portugal. I had a young Roman girl as a model, and she came accompanied by her mother. This woman also had a son (so, at least, it was said; then it was no longer so; in fact, there was some mystery that I don't remember, because naturally such things were of no importance to me). The boy came also for a model, and appeared to be a good fellow, as well as the girl.

One morning (I was still in bed, but about to get up) my poor wife came into the room and said—

"Here is Bardi, who wants to speak to you."

"What can he have to say to me? Does he not know that in half an hour I shall be at the studio? He could wait. Let us hear what is the matter."

Bardi was one of my studio men, the rougher-out, whom I had brought up from a boy, and he had been with me twenty-three years. He was a thin, white-looking man, with a black beard, and dark lines under his eyes in his normal condition. That morning, as soon as I saw him, he really frightened me, for he looked absolutely like a dead man, or as Dante says, cosa rimorta. He took me aside, that my wife should not hear, and he told me that he had found the door of my room open, and having waited and listened awhile to ascertain if by chance I had arrived before him and was inside, but not hearing a sound after having called me, he entered the room and saw the closet open, the drawers on the ground, and the papers scattered about. He asked me anxiously if I kept anything of value there.

"All, my dear Bardi! all that I possessed in money was there." And having almost no breath for words, I went out with him, rushing through the street. It is easier imagined than told how I felt on seeing all the drawers upset and empty, and the papers and thousand little objects they contained scattered about the ground. All the men of my studio gathered about me, and pitied me without even suspecting that it was a matter of such a sum of money. My good friend Cavaliere Raffaello Borri, being told what had occurred, came to me at once, and with rare generosity offered me his purse and his credit, and accompanied me home, with my heart full of anguish to be obliged to give this news to my poor wife. My friends rivalled each other in consoling me, some with offerings and some with affectionate words; and I can never forget the charitable proposition made by Monsignore the Archbishop Giovacchino Limberti, to collect a certain sum for my benefit amongst those who were best able to give, and who knew me and loved me. All these I truly thanked from the bottom of my heart, saying that for the moment I was not in straitened circumstances, and if I was no longer in possession of that money—for which, thank God, I was not in debt—yet it was not lawful for me to accept help of any kind, for in substance I could not call myself strictly in need, and I remembered in the past having really been poor and not having accepted or asked for anything, because my principle is that every one ought to be sufficient for himself.

How the thieves were discovered, how some escaped from justice, how one was taken and condemned, and how, finally, part of the money stolen was saved, the sum of 12,400 lire returned to me, besides the gold medal that I had obtained at the Universal Exhibition of Paris in 1855, and which was shut up in the same place with the stolen money,—all this appears in the judiciary chronicle of that time. Nor do I feel inclined to mix in such mire, and the reader could not follow me without disgust. It was well that in the part of the theft recovered my Paris medal was found, not only because by this the reality of the robbery committed on me was proved and the restitution instantly made, but still more because it silenced some, I don't know how to qualify them, who seemed to doubt the misfortune that had befallen me, as if almost I had invented it—as if I had been a vulgar impostor, and had invented this fable to avoid payment ... of what? I had never had debts before that time, then, or since; and that I had no engagements to meet is proved by the refusal I made to those who so kindly and willingly offered to come to my aid.

But yes, once I had a debt, but merely by chance, or I had better say by forgetfulness. When this happened I was very young—at the beginning of my artistic career, if I mistake not. Then I was making the "Cain." In order to put it into marble I went to Carrara, found the block that suited me, and said that I would pay for it when the marble itself arrived. The trader answered, "All right! I shall send the marble at once; and as to the payment, I shall draw out a promissory-note for the first of the month." I had before me some twenty days' time. My mind being entirely possessed by the marble, I took no note of the day when the money became due. I knew that I had to pay, but the date escaped me, and one fine day I suddenly beheld before me a man from a bank, who came to receive the money that I had not got in full. I stammered out something, as a man might do about to be hanged. "Oh, don't hurry yourself much," said the man; "suit your own convenience—I will return later; there is time until three," and he went away. How I felt can easily be imagined by those who know me. I became whiter and harder than the marble that I had then before me on the ground. I must find there and then, in the beat of a drum, the three or four hundred scudi that were wanting; and where to find them, I, who had never before asked for anything in loan? A good inspiration came to me. "Yes," said I, "Sor Emanuele can do me this favour;" and putting on my coat, I ran into the square to the Fenzi bank. Sor Emanuele was there at the back in his study, and you could see through the open glass door that fine jovial witty face of his.

When he saw me he exclaimed, "How are you?"

"Sor Emanuele, this and this is the matter," and I told him everything.

He gave me a slightly frowning look, and then burst into a fit of laughter that made his subalterns who were behind turn round, and he said, "Look here, we will do so;" he tore off a cheque, wrote the sum on it, and continuing to laugh, added, "Pass on there to Bosi and give him this; and au revoir until this evening" (I used to frequent his house); but when he had turned he called me back again and said: "Listen—I want to give you a counsel. You must never again sign any promissory-notes if you can help it; or if you do, make a note of them and look at it every day,"—and he began again to write, smiling to himself.

Will you believe it, Sor reader, I have never again signed any bills, although more than thirty-six years have gone by? Yet (to return to the robbery), amongst those who doubted my misfortune there was a colleague of mine, who, listening that day with an incredulous air to the account of what had occurred, and hearing that the sum in question was fifty thousand lire, with a smile on his lips and bad feeling at heart, came out with these words—

"Fifty thousand lire! that is rather too much!"

This colleague of mine was not the only one, nor one of the worst. Some few years ago a little thing happened which shows the uprightness and generosity of another of my colleagues!

Cavaliere NicolÔ Puccini, in dying at Pistoia, left orders in his will that a statue of Cardinal Forteguerri should be made and placed in the Piazza del Duomo of that city. Cavaliere Puccini's idea was, as every one can see, a wise and generous one, and belied reports, which made him out odd and unfriendly to the priests. This statue was to be assigned by competition, and with the obligation of presenting a model in plaster representing the Cardinal in his robes, with the insignia of his office, and the size of life. It is evident to all that this obligation was a serious one, and would cause many to withdraw from the competition, as really happened. One person, however, went in for the competition, and this was Signor Cesare Sighinolfi of Modena, who, having left my teaching but a short time before, set himself to model this statue in too trivial a way—without a model, without the necessary robes, and without even caring a pin as regards asking me anything concerning the composition, or the requisite means for not making a jackanapes instead of a cardinal! Vivacious and careless as he was then, he had the pretension of being able to model a cardinal's statue life-size by only consulting some prints or pictures of cardinals, and the result was—as it should have been—that the statue was a very bad one. An article in the programme for this competition provided that the adjudication of the prize should be given by the Florentine Academy. I was not present at the meeting, to avoid giving a vote against it, as I was not unaware how the work had turned out. The poor statue, therefore, was judged and condemned without mercy. Then, after the first ebullition of juvenile impetuosity that had made him run on so foolishly was over, he returned to his senses, remembered me, and as at the same time though he had so much youthful light-heartedness, he had also a certain tenacity of will and self-love that had been wounded by the rejection of his work, he ran to me and entreated me to intercede with the commission that organised the competition, and obtain for him the concession of another trial. I willingly agreed to do so, seeing the despair he was in, and appreciating the no small amount of courage required to recommence from the very beginning a difficult, expensive, and uncertain work; but I had to say to him, "... that is, if you are only in time, because the commission having just fulfilled its duty, and the competition turned out null, is now free to give the statue to whomsoever it likes without the obligation of competition." It was therefore necessary to make an appeal to the commission to obtain its consent that another competition should be opened, and this was done by Sighinolfi, accompanied by a recommendation from me; and that it should have more value, and the second trial be conceded, I advised Sighinolfi to have this appeal signed by all my other colleagues. He did so, and hurried by rail to Pistoia to present his request to the commission; but what was his surprise when, on his arrival there, and just as he was going up the stairs to present his paper to the secretary of the commission, he saw coming down one of the professors who had backed and signed his appeal! The poor youth divined all, but still wished to make the attempt; and he did well to do so,—in fact the secretary in the most polite manner tried to persuade the young artist that now there was no longer time, that the competition had resulted in nothing, and that another trial would only draw things out to too great a length; and finally, that as an offer had just been made to the commission in shape of a request for this work whereby its own responsibility was covered, so that it would come out of the affair with honour, he thought the commission would not accord the petition, but that he would take it, and officially present it, so as to give it its due course. As soon, however, as that excellent gentleman had set his eyes on the paper, and had seen the recommendation and signature of the same individual that only a short time before had made a request for the work for himself, he was so filled with indignation that, turning to Sighinolfi, he said—

"Go back to Florence, make another trial, and as you are recommended by Professor DuprÈ, he will assist you, and the commission will trust, I am certain, to the words and help of your master."

These, or words to the same effect, were reported to me by Sighinolfi on his return, and I saw myself doubly pledged that the young man should really this time succeed.

Here I am met by a reflection. Was it not perhaps quite lawful for an artist to present himself and ask to have that work to do himself, which, by reason of an unsuccessful competition, any one was free to ask for and obtain? Lawful it certainly would have been for any one who had not recommended the young man for a second trial, but certainly it was not praiseworthy in one who had made this recommendation; so, at least, it seems to me.

Therefore, as matters stood thus, I thought it my duty to advise and direct the youth to follow a sure road, and the only good one by which to come safely into port. And, satisfying myself first as to his firm will to do all and follow in everything what I advised, I ordered him to make a small sketch, enough to get lines grateful to the eye. Then, remembering the kindness that Cardinal Corsi, Archbishop of Pisa, had always shown me, I wrote him a letter nearly in the following terms: "Eminence,—Signor Cesare Sighinolfi, my scholar, is the person who presents this letter to you. He has to make the statue of Cardinal Forteguerri for Pistoia, but could not possibly make anything good without having the robes appropriate to that high office. See, Eminenza, if it would be possible for him to obtain them from you—as, for instance, if your Eminence had a robe, even a worn-out one, that you could let him have for a short time—you would be doing a great act of charity; for I repeat, without this neither he nor any one else could succeed in doing anything. I am here to guarantee that the sculptor will take the greatest care of it, and return it as soon as possible," &c., &c. Sighinolfi, although he is not, I believe, one of those many would-be devourers of priests, yet was, and still is, a most decided Liberal, and the dignity and the face of a cardinal must have had the same effect upon him as coming in contact with a most antipathetic person would have upon you or me. But, as the proverb says, one must make of necessity a virtue, and having crossed himself, he presented himself before his Eminence. Great was his surprise to find that prelate most jovial and pleasant, and quite ready to grant his request; and that worthy man pushed courtesy and amiability to the extent of making him sit down at the table while he was taking his breakfast. It is as true as the Gospel that I have seen some democrats more aristocratic than his Eminence Corsi. He then called his secretary, CodibÒ, and told him to have a whole suit of his best clothes, from the hat to the shoes, given to Sighinolfi, and dismissed him with kindness. I don't know if Sighinolfi offered to kiss his hand; but even if he had, it would have been the same thing, for Corsi would not have allowed him to kiss it, as I well know, for he would never allow me to do so.

With this precious bundle of cardinal's clothes he was able to dress one of our models, who, although somewhat ridiculous, lent himself admirably to being dressed in that way; and this is the only means of doing serious work. The model was made under my direction, and exhibited to be judged by the Academy, and declared worthy of being executed in marble. So ended the difficulties arising from the light-headedness of a young artist, and made still harder by the intervention of an artist who was neither generous nor just.