THE UNIVERSAL EXHIBITION AT PARIS IN 1867—THE IMITATORS OF VELA—INEDITED MUSIC BY ROSSINI AND GUSTAVE DORÉ—DOMENICO MORELLI—GROUP OF PRINCE TRABIA'S CHILDREN AND THE THIEVES—"STICK NO BILLS"—THE STATUE OF MARSHAL PALLAVICINI—THE EMPRESS MARIA TERESA AND MARSHAL PALLAVICINI—A MEMORIAL MONUMENT TO FRA GIROLAMO SAVONAROLA—THE UNIVERSAL EXHIBITION AT VIENNA—A TINY ROOM—EXCELLENT AND VERY DEAR—ON HARMONY OF SOUNDS—ON THE HARMONY IN THE ANIMAL WORLD—THE HARMONY OF THE HUMAN FORM AS MANIFESTED BY THE INNER BEAUTY OF THE SOUL—THE CAMPANILE OF ST STEPHEN'S AND CANOVA'S MONUMENT.

I It is now necessary for me to speak of the Universal Exhibition at Paris in 1867; but first, I wish frankly to give my opinion on the utility or non-utility of such exhibitions, monstrous agglomerations of manufactures, machinery, raw material, food, liquid for drink, sacred utensils, machines for war, &c., all exposed by the different nations of the world at the same time and in the same place. It has been said that this serves to create rivalry and emulation in the people of the different civilised nations, by placing their industries in contact with each other, to be judged by special men named for the purpose to give them their merited reward. The idea seems to be a fine one; in fact, it is so much too fine that the excess deforms it. On the contrary, I believe that all this assemblage of things in an immense edifice, with thousands and thousands of visitors, on one of the pleasantest and most smiling sites, in the most beautiful part of the year, in one of the great metropolises of the world, answers admirably to the economical and political aims of the State that assembles the exhibition; gives an opportunity to travellers and exposers to see, to divert and enjoy themselves, and make acquaintances, sometimes good, but oftener bad; brings money into the pockets of intriguers and swindlers in proportion to their dexterity, and gives or increases the renown of Tizio or Caio, to the detriment of Sempronio, in the opinion of some with justice, and in the opinion of others with great injustice. But who has the rights of it? The rights of it are at the bottom of a well, and need the grappling-irons of time to drag them out.

I should believe in the utility of these world exhibitions if they were by sections—industries, manufactures, machinery, and agriculture—everything separate; and separated always absolutely from all the rest, in time and in place, the Fine Arts, to which I should wish to see prizes awarded, not by a medal, but rather by the purchase of the work itself, or if this be already disposed of, by the commission for another.

It may be somewhat useful to artists to see the works of others, their variety, and the different modes of feeling and seeing of their authors; it may infuse into them new life, new strength, and stimulate them to search within themselves for what they find in the works of others: but if this examination, this comparison, this stimulating fever be of assistance to some, to the greater number it is a stumbling-block, and the cause of their going astray. It is useless to have any illusion. The greater number of young artists allow themselves to be taken by the bait of novelty, only because it is novelty, without being able to discern the hidden reasons for which good sense and experience concede or deny merit to such novelty. To but few belongs the power of examination and criticism,—to them alone who, having by nature the sentiment and cult of art, exercise themselves by constantly holding up the mirror before it; for they find in it always something new and varied, and on this very account do not ignore the reasons and laws that willingly give consent to these varieties and novelties. But the others allow themselves to be dazzled, and accept the novelty whatever it may be, choosing by preference the strangest and most unusual, which for that very reason is sure to be the least true; and so they fall into double error—into imitation which lands one in mediocrity, and into oddity which has affinity with error. As with both—that is to say, amongst those who do not depreciate novelty, and amongst the others that are seduced by the false attractions of mere novelty—there are some who are capable of appreciating the good only so far as the means for being able to manifest it is made apparent to them. To these, great exhibitions are of use; but to the first named they are not of use, as they have no need of them—and to the others even less so, for to them they can do harm.

When, now many years ago, Vela and others of the Milanese school taught a new and totally different way of looking at and treating drapery, flesh, and more especially hair, they would never have believed, I think, that their imitators would have gone to such lengths, and have so exaggerated that method as to have rendered it supremely false, ridiculous, and incomprehensible. In fact, things have got to such a pass to-day that hair looks like anything but hair—more like stalactites or beehives, salad or whipped cream; and this last the hair made by some of the imitators and exaggerators of that peculiar way of seeing nature particularly resembles. At the great exhibition at Paris one saw both master and scholars; or it would be better to say, the initiator and the imitators. Vela with his sobriety of purpose, full of life, here and there with rough-and-ready touches as art and taste counsel, and nature and harmony teach—the others, with little taste, great self-reliance, and equal audacity, striving their best to muddle up everything together in a topsy-turvy fashion. Taste, which is an individual sentiment, was reduced to a system, or rather a manner; sobriety was transformed into hardness, and a studied neglect of certain parts, exchanged for a systematic and excessive carelessness; and on the contrary, as if in contrast, an affected imitation of little folds, bands, lace, and polished beads and necklaces, the delight and admiration of women and children, little and big.

At the exhibition in Paris, amongst the fops and the milliners this alluring kind of work was received with enthusiasm, because a novelty always makes a greater impression on the frivolous; but serious people of good taste, as well as the judges, did not allow themselves to be attracted by such superficiality. It is true, however, that they were too severe with works of merit, and if it had not been that the limited number of prizes prevented them from being more liberal, the jury that I belonged to would have been to blame. But it is not requisite for me to repeat here what I said on sculpture, and what I wrote officially on that exhibition.

I became acquainted at that time with the best French artists, and they showed me almost brotherly kindness. I sat at their meetings at the Academy, of which I had been a member since 1863, and was afterwards raised to the rank of corresponding member, which is the highest honour the Academy can confer. Although unworthy to do so, I had Giovacchino Rossini's seat.

Rossini's house was the genial meeting-place of all there was of most distinguished then in Paris, not only of the musical class, but of the artistic and literary. He had music, and often sat down to the piano and accompanied his inedited songs. I remember two of singular beauty; one most sad in subject, words, and notes, of a father from whom his little son had been stolen. It was a lament, refined, delicate, and touching, and at the end of every verse came the ritornello—"Chi l'avesse trovato il mio piccino!" The words, I was told, were by Castellani of Rome. The other song was brilliant, strong, thrilling. It was an outburst of love, where a Tyrolese jodel was interpolated and sung by that brilliant imaginative genius Gustave DorÉ. Here one met with choice conversation, fruitful, instructive, amiable, and vivacious, from which one came forth with the mind more elevated and a greater warmth at heart; but....

To that exhibition I sent a plaster cast of my bas-relief representing the "Triumph of the Cross," the marble group of the "PietÀ," and the model for the base of the Egyptian Vase. For these works the great medal of honour was conferred upon me. In painting, Professor Ussi had the same great medal for his picture "La Cacciata del Duca d'Atene." Domenico Morelli for his "Torquato Tasso," and Vincenzo Vela for his "Dying Napoleon," obtained the first-class gold medal, but they also deserved to have had the great medal.

A fine genius is Domenico Morelli, as well as a loyal and generous friend, for he greatly rejoiced when Ussi obtained the great prize for Italian painting; and I remember that he said, "As long as there is the great prize, be it awarded to myself, Ussi, or any one else, it is of small consequence as long as Italy does not fall behind. Long live Art and Italy!"

For the matter of that, one art (I speak of painting) was most worthily represented, and brought forward a virgin element—subject to discussion and confirmation, it is true, yet fruitful of good result, such as recalling art to its fundamental principle, which is the imitation of nature, and relieving young men from the conventional trammels learnt on the benches of the Academy (I wish I could say learnt in the past), making them breathe a more ventilated, healthy air, placing before their eyes that infinite variety and beauty of which nature is composed in all its parts, in all its effects, and in all its forms—in the heavens, in the sea, on the hills, in the plains, in the forests, in the animals and in men—and every one of these things always varying according to light, according to the quietness or the emotions of nature, according to temperament, to the habits of animals and men; all of which things are so well taught by nature to those holding a constant firm will to study her. This element, I say, appeared with but slight deviations at the world's exhibition in Paris, and did good. It rejuvenated art, and lifted it out of some conventionalities, whilst it placed others in bad repute. But enough of this for the present; let us speak of something else.

One of the reasons that spurred me on to write these memoirs is this: Allowing that my works may with time not be entirely forgotten, I have wished to register them all in this book, that it should not occur after a certain time that some copy, some imitation, or unknown piece of sculpture, more or less praiseworthy than mine, should be attributed to me. For this reason, from the first I have mentioned even such works as are of no great size and importance, and will continue to do so, excluding, be it understood, reproduction, which would carry me to too great lengths. The Signora Maria Galeotti, nata Petrovitz, ordered from me a life-size group of her grandchildren, sons of Prince Trabia. This group reminds me of that most unfortunate robbery that I have spoken of further back, and this is why I am reminded of it. In the closet where I kept the money shut up that was stolen from me, there was a little of everything, papers, designs, tools, books, medals, and various little trinkets, that were respected—that is, not taken away, for they were scattered about on the floor. In this closet I also kept my clothes; and for convenience, or out of carelessness, amongst other things I had left a straw hat there. This straw hat of mine the thieves had put on the head of one of the little ones in the Trabia group, and it would have been really ridiculous to see the statuette of that little boy with my great straw hat hiding half of his head, had it only been at another time, because even now (and a good many years have passed), only to think of it—no, indeed, it does not make me laugh! And to think that of those gentlemen thieves, for there were several, some escaped the claws of justice, and some must have come out of "college" by this time, and if by chance they meet me, may smile to themselves under their beards at my simplicity. So goes the world; it is so fashioned, and has always been the same, even from the so-called prehistoric ages, and no instruction, either more or less obligatory, will change it one atom. As for me, when I am Minister of "Justice and Mercy" (devil take it, why not?) I will have engraved upon all the corners where one now reads "Stick no bills," the eighth commandment, "Thou shalt not steal; or if so, the whip will be administered and plenty of it;" and to my colleagues in favour of progress who rise up in arms against me I will answer: "A little luxury as regards the whip, my good gentlemen, will bring about great economy as regards the prisons and domiciliary compulsion, and what is more, will bring about a considerable rise in the funds—of public security. But it is said the lash degrades humanity. Perhaps it is degraded less by theft? In times not very remote, theft was punished much more severely even when it was not a very grave matter; but if it was grave and accompanied by the breaking open of drawers, the thieves were hanged outright. Certainly this punishment was excessive, Draconian, and in a word barbarous; and yet, in those days Arnolfo built, Giotto painted, and Dante wrote his immortal poem. Be it as it may, this is most certain, that thieves were then conspicuous by their very scarcity, whereas to-day they shine by their frequency; and vice versÂ, Arnolfo, Giotto, and Dante then existed, e questo È quanto, as Marchese Colombi would say."

Count Antonio Pallavicini, a man cut out after the old-fashioned stamp,—one of the few who in their hearts keep to the religion of gratitude and affectionate remembrance of their dear relations,—gave me the order for a statue of his grandfather, Marshal Pallavicini, who was in the Austrian service under the reign of Maria Teresa. The Count told me an anecdote of this excellent grandfather that I wish to repeat, so that one may see how, though in a foreign service, the heart—I will not say of an Italian, for Italy was hardly spoken of then, but—of a Genoese and good republican beat. Here it is: The Republic of Genoa—I know not on what question with Austria—had become discontented, and threatened to resist by force the pretension of that powerful Empress, who, either because she was by nature careless and unmindful of public virtue, or because she thought of obtaining a better result, decreed that Marshal Pallavicini should move at the head of an army to put down Genoese arrogance. But this brave soldier—this worthy patriot—on coming into the presence of the sovereign, took off his sword, and placing it on the table, said with calm dignity—

"Your Majesty, it is impossible for me, a Genoese, to make war against my own country; and I therefore to-day give up this sword that I have so often used in the defence of your empire, that it may not be stained by the blood of my brothers." At which the Empress smilingly answered—

"Take back your sword, that is so well suited to you, and that you use so valorously; and as your service is denied us in reducing to obedience your dear but obstinate brothers, be at least our envoy to arrange the difficulties and treat of peace." And peace was concluded.

It must be agreed that the subject was a fine one and a worthy one, and the statue was made and placed in the cemetery of the Certosa at Bologna; but the above-mentioned anecdote, that I would have so willingly treated in bas-relief as portraying vividly the character of this personage, was not given me to carry out, because the base was entirely occupied by long Latin inscriptions that the Count would at all costs have engraved upon it, to set forth the whole family history, and the reasons for his gratitude and the erection of the monument.

About that time I had to make a little monumental memorial of Frate Girolamo Savonarola. The reason for my having this order was this,—that in Germany—I do not remember in what town—a monument had been put up to Luther, and one of the figures that adorned this monument was Fra Girolamo Savonarola; and how much to the purpose, all, excepting those good Germans, can see, for they know Savonarola as well as I do the Emperor of the Mississippi. The promoters of this work were Gino Capponi, Bettino Ricasoli, NiccolÒ Tommaseo, Raffaello Lambruschini, Augusto Conti, Cesare Guasti, and Isidoro del Lungo. I assisted at their meetings, and the idea that prevailed was to make the statue of Savonarola and place it in the cloisters of St Mark; but this intention we did not fulfil, because another commission had already been formed with the same purpose of doing honour to Savonarola, and this had already asked for and obtained the place in the cloister, the more readily as the statue was already made by Professor Enrico Pazzi. We therefore had to change our project, and after many propositions it was decided that the monument should consist of a bas-relief and bust to be placed in the friar's cell. This was done accordingly, and there it is to be found. The subject of the bas-relief is Savonarola before the Gonfaloniere and Priori of the Comune, reading the Government statutes proposed by him for the Florentine Republic. On one of the sides or flanks of the bas-relief is the youth Savonarola in pensive attitude meditating leaving the world and dedicating himself to monastic life, and on the other one are represented the last moments of his life when he is on the way to his martyrdom. The bust is in bronze.

Six years have not passed since the honour befell me of sitting amongst those famous men who wanted this work to be made by me, and three of them are already dead. Gino Capponi, Tommaseo, and Lambruschini—they are dead, but their names and their works live, and will live as long as Truth and Good are loved and revered.

In 1873 the Universal Exhibition at Vienna took place, and I was named on the jury in the Italian section on sculpture, in company with my dearest friend Giovanni Strazza, so early lost to his family, to art, and to his country, which he so honoured and loved. On an occasion like this I had the means of knowing the clear acumen and kind heart of my illustrious colleague, be it either in his judgment on works of art, or in his intimate relation of friendship with our colleagues.

I will not speak of that great gay city, nor of the works of art in which she is so rich, nor of the Pinacoteca, her galleries and magnificent library—for this is not what I have undertaken, and these are things that can be found in the guide-books; and even if I wished to make some observations about them, it would be impossible for me to do so, because at that time I was most unhappy in the recent loss of my dear daughter Luisina; and therefore, alone and far from my family, I felt a void around me, and a most vivid desire to see them again, so that I looked at everything most hurriedly and through a veil of sadness and anguish.

I was lodged at the Hotel Britannia on the Schillerplatz, on the fourth floor, up one hundred and thirty-seven steps, in a small room, even smaller than that of my own maid-servant; there was only one window, and this opened on an inner court. The furniture consisted of a little bed, too small, but soft and sufficiently clean; a table, two chairs, a wardrobe, a looking-glass, a dressing-table—and that was all. All this for the miserable sum of ten lire a-day. I will say nothing about the meals; but the breakfast, I mean the early one of coffee and milk, a roll and butter, was sixty kreutzers—a lira and a half; and with the little refreshment of ice in your water (it was in June), twenty kreutzers more—half a lira. A cigar was half a lira, the washing and doing up of a shirt one lira, an ice one lira, and so on to your taste. For the matter of that, if I had had a little of the good-humour that my Italian companions Petrella, Boito, Govi, Bonghi, Palizzi, Mussini, Cantoni, Colombo, and Mariani had, without counting Jorick, who had to give and to spare, I should have remained there longer, and should have amused myself—for the city is really beautiful, most animated and bright, especially in the evening, well lighted, with fine theatres and music. Oh, for music, you must hear it at Vienna! I do not mean by music German music—for on the contrary, I love our own Italian; but I speak of the execution, of which we have (setting aside exceptions) but a most imperfect idea. It cannot be otherwise. There the musician has an assured position. There there is an institute where he is trained to be a professor of music—that is to say, as far as execution goes—where music is provided for, and nothing else is taught. During the day he studies, and in the evening he plays, and the next day the same thing over again, and so on until the day comes for receiving holy unction. I defy any one, therefore, not to play well! I heard one Sunday, at the St Stephen's Cathedral, music so sad and so sweet that I was almost carried away by it, it seemed as if it were a sweet and loving lament of the angels. These seemed not to be the voices of the instruments of this world, but a something superhuman, celestial, that filled one with emotion. Oh, music comes directly from heaven! The harmony of sounds is something of a more intimate, secret, and mysterious nature than the harmony of lines and colours; for what constitutes the beauty, harmony, and attraction of exterior things, is not there alone in appearance, but radiates from the spirit within: therefore it is that the beautiful, emanating from the divine harmony of sound, is more exquisite and more living, because it is the manifestation of the soul and the spirit without encumbrance. Our intellect grasps hold of it and falls in love with it, because it is itself also a part of that immortal beauty to which it feels an irresistible attraction to unite itself. But the impression of the beautiful, visible or invisible, we receive imperfectly, because the senses through which it is revealed to us are only so fitted as to enable us to receive it in part—that part which gives us pleasure, for its entire splendour would kill us. Harmony has laws of order and unity, and relations and affinities, inexplicable. We feel that certain combinations of notes express sorrow, others joy, others love, and so on; but given without that order and unity, without those relations and affinities, they express nothing, and are only unpleasant sounds. Why is it so? Oh, friend Biaggi, if I speak profanely, make the sign of the cross and correct me!

The same can be said of all things that have form and colour, that are animate or inanimate. There is in nature, in the configuration of certain parts of the country and certain places, a something, I know not what, of gloominess and melancholy, that, when we look at them, fills us with sadness. Others, on the contrary, are bright, happy, and joyous. It is just the same with one's self, and not by reason of the more or less fertility in this or sterility in that, nor by reason of the state of one's soul, but entirely from the effect of lines and colours. And so it is, again, with things animate. There are beautiful animals, and animals that seem ugly—some, in fact, absolutely repulsive—and why? Perhaps because they are harmful? Yet no; for there are most beautiful animals that are really bad and most dangerous—for example, the lion, the tiger, and the leopard; whilst others, as for instance a spider, a mouse, a tarantula, a black beetle, a worm, and a scorpion, which do no harm, or very little, seem to us so ugly, so repulsive, that we are obliged to turn away from them. Be it observed that this sort of aversion is felt the most by those natures that have the most exquisite feeling and love of the beautiful—the reason being that these animals have in their form a harmony certainly necessary to the universal order of nature, but most ungrateful to our eyes; whereas the lion, tiger, leopard, and above all, the horse, are beautiful and attractive to them. Therefore, in nature, to our way of seeing, there is the beautiful and the ugly—there are beings that attract and others that repulse us. "Certainly there are," I am answered. "What sort of a discovery do you think that you have made?" Very well, I am delighted with this answer, because the above tirade was made by me for the benefit of those who affirm that all is beautiful in nature,—in fact, their formula is, nature is beauty. Instead of which, I, with what I have said and am about to say, would wish to demonstrate that ugliness has a negative harmony all her own, and only in conformity with her cold and obtuse vitality; and therefore, nothing of it radiating on us, we are not attracted by it, but rather repulsed. In as far as the animal is perfect in living harmony, so much the greater the light that emanates from him. Man, who is the most perfect of animate creation, radiates so much the greater light in proportion as the interior harmony of order, of justice, and of love makes its impress upon and forms the body that encloses it. In the serenity of the brow one observes the majesty of order, in the erect bearing of the person and the temperate firm use of words the dictates of justice, and love is in the intense calm look of the eyes and almost happy expression of the mouth, which, with the eyes, are, as it were, the windows of the soul, from which that beauty radiates that attracts and impels to admiration and to love.

Man, therefore, is the most living manifestation of the beautiful, and he is also the being that most thirsts for the enjoyment of it. He looks for it everywhere—in the splendour of the heavens, over the expanse of the sea, on the high mountain-sides, in the mysterious shadows of the forests, and in the solitude of the valleys, when the dying sun casts languidly over them its violet light. At night, when man and beast rest after the fatigues of the day, and silence and quiet begin, he feels a tender harmony, delicate and mysterious, as the memory of the days of innocence, or as the hope of a future life. The harmony of night is, as it were, the breath of sleeping nature.

Look, now, into what a labyrinth I have been dragged by the music I heard at St Stephen's! The campanile of this cathedral is pointed and very high; it can be seen from all parts of the city. One sees at once that it is the campanile of the ecclesia major. I wished to see it. The cathedral is always the first thing that attracts the stranger's curiosity when he arrives in a place, because therein is expressed the religious sentiment of the people who have built it, which is the first of all sentiments, and then follows that of the citizen. First the cathedral was made by the people of old, and then the town-hall, and in the same order I also look at them and think of them. I wished to see it, therefore; but being at a distance, I stopped a cab and said to the driver that I wanted to go there. Bravo! and without knowing a bit of German! I told him in three languages—in Italian, in French, and in Latin (macaronic, of course); but it was dense darkness to him. I pointed with my hand to the campanile in the distance, and this time he understood! He answered, "Ja, ja," and whipping up his horses, off he went for some time; but as we never arrived, I again pointed to the campanile. "Ja, ja," and on we went, but away from the place I indicated. Then I stopped him, paid him, and got out. On the venture, I jumped into an omnibus, just to leave the man, who was going who knows where, returned to the centre, and got out at Oberring. There I found a friend, who took me in a short time on foot to St Stephen's, where I heard that wonderful music, the remembrance of which still excites me to ecstasy. This does not often happen to me, but it does sometimes.

From there—that is, not from my ecstasies, but from St Stephen's—I went to the Church of the Augustins, where Canova's famous monument in honour of Maria Christina is. As to its being beautiful, I say nothing, but an artist who was with me extolled it to the seventh heaven; though to me, with the music of St Stephen's still in my ears, it seemed that Canova in other works had arrived at greater perfection, both as regards general conception and as regards sentiment of truth. But, I repeat, it may have been the music that made it seem to me—and I say so in all reverence—a little conventional. I was there in Vienna, however, to form part of the jury on the sculpture of to-day, and not to criticise the art of the past; so that a little want of appreciation or a judgment too lightly given may be forgiven me. For the matter of that, Canova is Canova, and the braying of donkeys, as the proverb says, does not reach heaven.