Thoughts on Art and Autobiographical Memoirs of Giovanni Dupre Part 13

"Listen, Signor Principe. The Princess has ordered this statuette of me, for I see that you recognise it as her portrait--and she ordered me to show it to no one, not even to you, Signor Principe; for I believe she wished to give you a surprise, and to present it to you when it should be finished in marble."

[Sidenote: PRINCE DEMIDOFF'S DISPLEASURE.]

He answered, "The Princess has done wrong in ordering her portrait without my consent, and you have done wrong in complying with her request. I do not like these surprises, and when the Princess returns for a sitting you must request her to go about her business; and you may tell her that you do this by my order. And besides--and this I say particularly to you--destroy this work, and think no more about it."

I felt that the Prince was right, but to throw down this work was a bitter pain to me; and besides, I was unwilling to displease the Princess, who so earnestly desired to have this statuette, and who had already expressed her satisfaction with it. My face must have been very expressive at that moment, for the Prince, taking my hands in his, said--

"My dear Dupre, I understand your embarra.s.sment and annoyance, but it is necessary that this should be done. I do not like, and I will not have this sort of thing, and I like still less this way of doing it. Do you understand? A portrait of the Princess, or even a statue of her, would be a charming possession, and I should particularly like one by you. I have already a beautiful statue of Madame Letizia by Canova, and this of my wife would make an admirable pendant; but I repeat that this way of doing it does not please me, and though I may seem harsh, I again say to you--Destroy this statuette, and let us say no more about it."

While he was speaking I thought to myself--This statuette and portrait of his wife he does not wish to have, but rather wishes to have a statue of her of life size; and so much the better. And then, considering that he had said he did not like the way in which it was done, I perceived, as I ought from the first to have perceived, that he objected to the Princess coming to my studio to sit, and I answered--

"You shall be obeyed. To-morrow the Princess is to return to give me a sitting, and I will tell her all, and this clay shall go back into the tank. But I hope that you will not forget that you have spoken of a life-size statue of the Princess; and as this work would require considerable time, and it might be more convenient to her that I should model it in your own palace, I could----"

[Sidenote: THE ANNOYANCE OF THE PRINCESS.]

He did not let me finish my sentence, but, embracing me warmly and kissing me, said--

"Thanks, dear Dupre, that is right. That is what pleases me, and that is the way it shall be done. And now, _addio_." And pressing my hand, he departed.

The day after, at one o'clock, the usual hour, the Princess arrived, gay and laughing, as usual; and after giving a glance at herself in the mirror, and arranging a little her hair, she seated herself and said--

"I am ready."

I had not as yet thrown down the statuette. There it stood uncovered, just as the Prince had left it the day before.

"I am very sorry, Signora Principessa," I began, "to give you some bad news. The Prince was here yesterday."

"I hope you did not allow him to see this portrait?"

"Yes, he has seen it--he has seen it, Signora Principessa. It was useless to try to conceal it from him, and I did wrong to endeavour to do so, for he was perfectly aware of its existence when he came here. He must have been exactly informed about it; and so sure was he that I was making your portrait, that he planted himself here precisely before the modelling-stand, and seeing that I was unwilling to uncover it, he uncovered it himself without any ceremony. He told me that I did wrong to begin the work, and that I must not go on with it, and, in fact, he has expressly ordered me to destroy it and throw it down."

[Sidenote: THE PRINCESS REMONSTRATES.]

While I was thus speaking she stood disquieted and frowning, and then said that it was unjust, absurd, and ridiculous, and that I must not give heed to him, but that she should stay, and I must go on with the portrait. After a while, however, she grew calmer, and decided to go away; and this was well. But she did not give up the matter, and the day after, she wrote to me to say that she should return to give me more sittings. I had not yet thrown down the clay, not only on account of my natural unwillingness to do so, which is excusable, but also because of the advice of Prince Jerome, the brother of the Princess Matilde, who insisted that the Prince could not pretend to anything more than that the work should be suspended. But of this I was a safer and better advised judge than he, and well knew that a husband is the legitimate master of his own wife, and of any portrait of her. But I repeat, I allowed the statuette to remain because I disliked to destroy it. The Princess did not return as she had promised, and wrote again to me to expect her another day. This went on for some time; and finally, when I saw her again, she told me that she was going to Paris with the Prince, and that on her return we must go on, and if the Prince persisted in his ideas, she would recompense me for the work I had done on it.

In fact, she went to Paris with the Prince, and there she remained; while he, recalled by the Emperor Nicholas of Russia, went to St Petersburg, where he found that a decree of divorce had been demanded by the Princess and signed by the Emperor. The Prince gave me nothing further to do, except some slight things which are scarcely worth mentioning, and the Princess entirely forgot her promise. And as I am now on this matter, and in order to make an end of it, let me leap over eleven years, and say that, having exhibited in Paris at the Exposition of 1855, besides the model in plaster of the Abel (as I have before narrated), a reproduction in small of this statue in marble, which I desired to sell, I wrote to the Princess asking her to purchase it. This I did to remind her indirectly of her promise to recompense me for the labour I had given to her statuette, but she never answered. I now make another leap over twelve years more. In the Exposition Universelle at Paris in 1867, I was one of the Italian Jury on Sculpture; and one evening, at a reception at the Tuilleries, I was presented by our minister Nigra to the Emperor, who had on his arm the Princess Matilde.

As soon as she saw me she said, "We have known each other a long time;"

but I, remembering how she had treated me, pretended to have no remembrance of her. And the Emperor looked at me through his sleepy eyes, and must have thought me either remarkably forgetful or a great fool. The Princess, naturally, never deigned to give me another look.

[Sidenote: I MEET THE PRINCESS IN PARIS.]

And now again I return to my works. After Pius II., I put up a figure of life-size representing Innocence. This was ordered of me by Signor Tommasi of Leghorn; but later, with my full consent, it remained on my hands, and was bought by Prince Constantine of Russia. I have determined not to judge my own works, though here and there I may give a little hint; but in order that these memoirs may be of some use, it is well that I should indicate the spirit of the principles which guided me in my work. I have said that my faith in the pure imitation of nature was somewhat shaken by the criticisms of my Giotto as being too naturalistic. Some reasonings by my friends, and above all, certain articles by Giuseppe Arcangeli in the 'Rivista, Sul Bello Ideale,' as well as the compliments and eulogies of my statue of Innocence by Borghi, finally persuaded me that there does exist a _bello ideale_ impossible to find in nature, and this beauty should be arrived at by an imitation of the antique, and by the aid of memory.

[Sidenote: IDEALISTS AND NATURALISTS.]

Nothing is more dangerous than this theory. Beauty is scattered over universal nature. The artist born to feel and perceive this beauty (which is the object of art) has his mind and heart always exercised in seeking it out and expressing it. He discerns in nature one or more living forms that in some degree approximate to the type he has in his mind, and the reality of these, by strengthening his ideals, enables him to work the latter properly out. The artist who is without his ideal, and forces himself to find it outside of nature, torturing his memory with what he has seen or studied in the works of others, makes but a cold and conventional work. The animating spark, the heat, the life, does not inform his work, for he is not the father, but only the stepfather of his children. To this school belong the imitators--that is, the timid friends of nature.

On the other side, but in much greater numbers and with much greater petulance, are the _naturalisti_, who despise every kind of ideality, and especially despise it because they have it not. Neither is their heart warmed by strong and sweet affections, nor do they with their eyes or their mind seize, among the multiform shapes of nature, a type, a movement, or an expression which, a.s.siduously pursued, awakens and fecundates the idea within them. The first ruffian or harlot of the streets taken by evil chance suffices for them, and they delight to drag this n.o.ble art of ours through filth and ugliness.

[Sidenote: BAD EFFECTS OF EULOGY.]

Each of these extremes I have sought to avoid. But it is none the less true that, at the period to which I have arrived in my narrative, I was carried a little away, by the discourses and writings of literary men and critics of Art, on the road that leads to the conventional and academic. This bad influence weakened my faith in nature and my courage in my work. And the Pius II., the Innocence, and the Purity are, so to speak, the mirrors in which are reflected my want of faith, uncertainty, and weakness of mind during these three years of artistic irresolution.

In seeking after the perfect I lost the little good that my genius had produced in my first years, uninfluenced by all these discussions, and what is of more importance, by all eulogies both of good and of bad alloy. Yes, also of bad alloy. The young artist should take heed of all the praise that he receives. He should hold it in suspicion, and weigh it, and make a large deduction. Eulogy is like a perfume, grateful to the sense, but it is better to inhale it but little, little, little, because it goes to the head, lulls us to sleep, and sometimes intoxicates us and bewilders us so that we lose our compa.s.s. One must be prudent. Flowers of too strong an odour must be kept outside the room.

Air is necessary--air. I hope that these words will fall into the ear of some to whom they may do good--I mean, of those who not only sniff up praise with eagerness, but are discontented because they do not think it sufficient, and who re-read it and talk of it with others so as to prolong their pleasure, and preserve all the papers and writings which speak of them, without perceiving that this is all vanity and pettiness of heart.

[Sidenote: INJUDICIOUS PRAISE.]

For the rest, it is very easy to see how one may vaccilate, and even fall; and on this account I deem it my duty, for the love that I bear to young men, to put them on their guard against the blandishments of praise. Imagine, dear reader, an inexperienced youth of spirit and lively fancy, who in his first essays in Art finds it said and written of him that he has surpa.s.sed all others, has begun where others ended, that he is born perhaps to outdo the Greeks with his chisel, that Michael Angelo must descend from the pedestal he has occupied for centuries, and other similar stuff--more than this, expose him to the envy of the Maeviis, and those light and inconsiderate flatteries, which are all the more dangerous when made attractive by courtesy and refinement of expression,--and you will have the secret of his vaccilations, even if with G.o.d's help he is not led utterly astray.

At this most trying time of my life the peace of my family was somewhat disturbed by these influences. My wife was disquieted because I had prevented her from carrying on her occupation. Our daily necessities increased with the growth of our children. Then there were requirements and troubles on account of my father, thoughts about my sister, as well as my brother, who wished to become a rougher-out in marble, and who brought to my studio very little apt.i.tude united with great pretensions on the score of being my brother. All these annoyances were partly confided to my friend Venturi, to whom I poured out all my mind; and he with wise and kindly words consoled me.

[Sidenote: BARTOLINI AND THE CRUCIFIX.]

Not the least affliction to me was Bartolini's unconcealed animosity, of which I had a new proof in a fact which it is here the place to narrate.

I hope that the reader will remember that I made, while in the studio of Sani, a little crucifix which the Signor Emanuel Fenzi bought for the chamber of his son Orazio, who married the n.o.ble Lady Emilia of the Counts Delia Gherardesca. About this time Signor Emanuel desired to make my acquaintance, and having become intimate with me, wished to have me often with him. Thus he discovered that this crucifix he had bought of Sani was my work, and I cannot say how much this delighted him. To his dinners and _conversazioni_, which were frequented by many foreigners as well as Italians, Bartolini often came; but he was never willing to renew his relations with me, although my bearing towards him was that of the most affectionate consideration. As long as this unwillingness was concealed or perceived by few, I bore it quietly; but it happened that it was soon openly exhibited. One evening after dinner the _salon_ of Signor Fenzi was filled with guests, and gay with all sorts of talk.

Soon, as was natural, the conversation fell upon Art; and Bartolini, who was an easy and clever talker, affirmed that the arts were in _decadence_, for various reasons: first, because of the want of enthusiasm and faith among the lower and upper cla.s.ses, both of whom were sleeping in a _dolce far niente_; and second, because the artists had abandoned the right road of imitation of beautiful nature, and were pursuing with panting breath a chimerical beauty, which they called a _bello ideale_; and last, because the vices of both had usurped the place of the virtues of our ancestors, and luxury, apathy, and avarice had drawn out of our beautiful country activity, temperance, modesty, and liberality,--and he ill.u.s.trated this by various instances of ancient temperance and modesty. While Bartolini was speaking, Signor Fenzi went into the chamber of the Cavaliere Orazio and brought out the "Christ,"

which, by reason of the long time that it had been executed, and perhaps of the kisses of the pious Signora Emilia, had an antique look, and showing it to the _maestro_, said--

"Look at this work."

After examining it, he said, "The proof that our artists of old were as able as they were modest can be seen in this work. The artist who made it, and who probably was only an _intagliatore_, would have been able to make a statue such as perhaps no one to-day could."

At this Fenzi replied, with a smile, "Excuse me, but you are in error.

This is a modern work, and there is the artist who made it," pointing me out, who was just coming in at that moment.

Bartolini laid down the "Christ," spoke not a word more, and did not deign even to look at me, although he had praised the work. This did not seem just, either to Fenzi or to any of the persons there present.

CHAPTER IX.

THE POLITICAL REFORMS OF THE YEAR 1847 IN TUSCANY--MY FIRST SCHOLARS--CISERI, PRATI, ALEARDI, FUSINATO, COLETTI, AND CHIARINI THE IMPROVISATORE--INEDITED VERSES BY PRATI--GIUSEPPE VERDI--A DIGRESSION ON ARTISTIC INDIVIDUALITY--THE EMPEROR OF RUSSIA'S VISIT TO MY STUDIO--REACTIONARY MOVEMENT OF THE 12TH OF APRIL, 1849--I AM IN DANGER OF MY LIFE--THE RETURN OF THE GRAND DUKE.

The elevation of Pius IX. to the Pontificate, the amnesty and reforms granted by that Pontiff, which initiated and awoke the liberal sentiments of all Italy, were perhaps felt more in Florence than elsewhere, almost all the political refugees from the different States having for some time past found a safe and peaceful home there, owing to the character and patriarchal laws of the Grand Duke. This drew me away from the serene quiet of my studio, and with the others I shouted, "Long live Ferruccio! Pius IX.! the press! the civic guard and Gioberti!" and all the rest. The princ.i.p.al leader of our peaceful demonstrations was the advocate Antonio Mordini, and after him came Giuseppe La Farina, and others. Not a pet.i.tion was made to the Government or a deputation sent to the Prince in which I did not take part. Whether our honest demands were of use to the country, I will not discuss, but certainly my work suffered not a little from this state of things. Nor was I the only one to abandon the studio; all, young and old, were possessed and inflamed with a national aspiration for independence from foreign occupation. The consequence of all this excitement was, that I was taken away from my studies and work; and, in short, while there was a great deal of patriotic enthusiasm, there was but little study, very little profit, and much idle talk on questions more or less futile, by which family peace was destroyed, and friendship made a matter of caution and suspicion.

[Sidenote: POLITICS AND REVOLUTION OF '48.]

Although in these memoirs I do not propose to speak of politics (not feeling equal to it), I wish to touch on the great events that produced the revolution of '48, as they were one of the causes of interruption in my art; and even in politics, in consequence of the turn things were taking, I found myself set aside. Some of my friends whose views went far beyond mine left me, and the others that had remained stationary blamed me even for those temperate aspirations that were those also of the Government. I was disheartened, self-involved, and ill at ease. With the growth of the revolution, the departure of the Grand Duke, and the dread of a dangerous crisis, artistic life was not one of the most flourishing, and I had not work of any kind, except to retouch the wax of "Abel and Cain," that the Grand Duke had given an order to Papi to cast in bronze.

Seeing this, I concentrated all my life in my family affections. My studio had become deserted; my scholars--t.i.to Sarrocchi, Luigi Majoli, and Enrico Pazzi--had left me to go to the camp. They returned afterwards, but were always tossed about on the wave of the revolution.

Only one of my workmen, Romualdo Bianchini, was left dead on the field, the 29th of May, at Curtatone.

I pa.s.sed my days in great sadness. Antonio Ciseri, with whom I had contracted a friendship from my earliest steps in art, had his studio near mine, and we used to exchange visits. Although he was not a facile talker, his nature was open and ingenuous; and as his principles in art, his morals, and his habits agreed with mine, a strong friendship grew up between us, which has never diminished; and if years have whitened our beards, our hearts have not grown old, and we love each as in our early years. To-day he is one of our first painters, and has a number of able and devoted scholars.

[Sidenote: POETS AND IMPROVISATION.]

Amongst my friends was also Dr Giuseppe Saltini, who for many years had been a physician in the employment of the Government, and now leads a hard life with restricted means, on account of having so many children.