Thoughts on Art and Autobiographical Memoirs of Giovanni Dupre Part 19

I stood there like a bit of stucco, looking at the young man, and then at the person who had spoken to me thus. Then I answered--

"Tell me, does this gentleman speak, or at least understand, Italian?

Has he understood what you have just said of him?"

"Oh no! he only speaks English; he is an American."

"The Lord be thanked," muttered I to myself, "that the poor young man understood nothing!" But this polite person, misunderstanding my question, began--

"Now I will tell him what I have said to you."

And he began in English to repeat the little tirade that he had given me, and this genius of a young man nodded his head at every phrase, looking at me, at the stool, and at the cat!

CHAPTER XII.

POMPEII--A CAMEO--SKETCH FOR THE BACCO DELLA CRITTOGAMA--PROFESSOR ANGELINI THE SCULPTOR--ONE MUST NOT OFFER ONE'S HAND WITH TOO MUCH FREEDOM TO LADIES--A HARD-HEARTED WOMAN WITH SMALL INTELLIGENCE--THE SAN CARLO, THE SAN CARLINO, THE FENICE, AND THE SEBETO--MONUMENT BY DONATELLO AT NAPLES--THE BAROCCO AND MISTAKEN OPINIONS--DILETTANTI IN THE FINE ARTS--PRINCE DON SEBASTIAN OF BOURBON--IS THE BEARD A SIGN OF BEING LEGITIMIST OR LIBERAL?--I AM TAKEN FOR A PRINCE OR SOMETHING LIKE ONE--"THE BOTTLE" FOR DOORKEEPERS AND CUSTODI OF THE PUBLIC MUSEUMS OF NAPLES--PHIDIAS, DEMOSTHENES, AND CICERO ALL AGAINST RUGGERO BONGHI.

I summoned up all my little stock of patience, and moved slowly towards the door, they following me. Thanking the gentlemen, I shut them out, and returned in silence to my work. This happened some thirty years ago, nor as yet does it seem as if the prophecy about that young man were realised.

To return to ourselves. "Appet.i.te comes with eating," as the proverb has it; and in fact, by degrees, as I visited the museums, the churches, and the studios of the Neapolitan artists, I felt an increasing desire to do something, to try again to draw or to model, were it but a mere trifle.

One day, after having gone over the whole breadth and length of the excavations at Pompeii, I was examining a mosaic pavement made out of a great many pretty little coloured stones, some of them broken away from their place; and bending down to examine it closer, I touched one of the stones. The _custode_ hastened to say to me, "Don't touch, signor--the regulations prohibit it." It cannot be denied that I have always been disposed to respect all regulations; but since I had seen them broken, even by those who ought to have been the first to respect them, I had taken them in dudgeon. I looked at the _custode_, and he at me, and we understood each other at once. I took a turn, went to the door, looked to the right and to the left of me, and coming back, as I was taking something out of my pocket I dropped some money on the ground.

[Sidenote: A LITTLE CAMEO-HEAD.]

My friend picked it up for me, and I gave him a _carlino_. We returned to the room where the mosaic pavement was. It represented a race of animals, hares and dogs, on a yellow ground. Some of the little stones were loose, and already many were missing; they were small squares about as large as my little-finger nail. I bent down again, and stretched out my hand, looking at the guard, who for decency's sake turned in the other direction; and I took the little stone, on which, with a great deal of patience and increasing gusto, I drew and engraved a small head after the fashion of a cameo, roughing it out at first with the point of a penknife, and finishing it off with sharpened needles fastened into little handles, which I used in the place of small chisels and burins. I always keep this little head, which was set in gold as a pin, and sometimes wear it in my necktie. When I look at this small piece of workmanship, I am astonished at my patience and my eyesight at that time.

To tell the truth, when I picked up that little stone I had no idea of working on it, but merely took it as a remembrance of the day and the place. In touching it, I thought that it had been shaped and put there by a man like myself, two thousand years ago. In holding that little square stone between my fingers, it seemed to me as if my hand touched the hand of that man, who then was full of life. I thought of his scant dust, now dispersed, transformed but not lost! Where is this dust now?

I, where was I then? While I was thinking on this, my good Marina approached, and said--

"Do you find any beauty in that little stone?"

[Sidenote: VESUVIUS AND ITS LAVA.]

"No. I was thinking that it is very old. I was thinking that it is a fusion of fire, and in substance lava. But was not Vesuvius unknown at the time that this city was constructed? Could you imagine that they would have been so insane as to have built on the outskirts of a mountain vomiting fire? Have you not observed that in all the many paintings on these houses, where you find over and over again landscapes, sea views, animals, figures, in fact everything, that there is never the slightest trace of a view of Vesuvius? If it had been there, surely they would not have failed to reproduce in painting such a marvellous phenomenon. Therefore it could not have been there; and yet all these mosaics are made of lava, and all the surrounding country at a certain distance below the surface of the ground is covered with it. It was not there, I say, in their memory; but when was it there?"

"Do you know?" said my wife.

"I?--no, indeed."

"Then you can imagine if I do."

After this small cameo, I wished to model a little figure in bas-relief, which it was my intention to have executed on a sh.e.l.l cameo, and I gave the order for it; but the workmen employed for this kind of work are so unintelligent that if you take them away from the work they are accustomed to do almost mechanically, they are not able to succeed in doing anything. The little figure represented Medicine. She was seated on a stool, and with a little stick was pushing aside the bushes to look for some medicinal plants; but in doing so a serpent had wound itself around her stick, as it is said to have happened to aesculapius. Behind the stone on which she is seated flows a little stream of water, to denote the salutary action of water by which I was cured, and to which she turns her back.

[Sidenote: NEW SKETCH OF THE BACCHUS.]

I also made a new sketch for the Bacchino della Crittogama, which was the one that I afterwards made of life-size on my return from Naples.

The one I had left behind me in clay was very different, and I destroyed it. I had this new sketch baked, and I remember one day when I went to get it from the man who sells _terre cotte_, near Santa Lucia, to whom I had given it to bake, that I found him arguing with a stranger who had taken it absolutely into his head to buy it. It was useless for the man to say that the statuette did not belong to him; that he could not sell it; that it was not finished; and that his little figures of Apollo, the Idolino, Venus, and Flora were far better and more finished than this sketch: he only kept repeating, "I like this, and want to buy it;" and all persuasion was useless. I put an end to the discussion in two words, saying to the man--

"Sell it to him."

"How much must I ask?"

"A thousand _lire_."

At which the good _touriste_ immediately put down the Bacchino, and went away in peace. Some two months after this I presented this little sketch to a priest from Verona, whose name I do not remember, but who came to preach the Lenten sermons at our cathedral in Florence. I regret to have given it to him, for it is always well that a man's sketches should remain in his family, and also because, for all his eloquence, he has never since reported himself to me. Can he really be dead? _Requiem aeternam._

[Sidenote: VISIT TO CAVALIERE ANGELINI.]

In this manner the time pa.s.sed by, alternating the long walks in the neighbourhood of Naples with a little work and some artistic visits to Mancinelli, to Balzico (then but a young student), to Smargia.s.si the landscape-painter, and to Gigante, the famous water-colourist. I did not fail to try to find the sculptor Cavaliere Angelini, whom I had already known in Florence; but for some inexplicable reason I could not see him, and this was what happened. I went to his studio, and his men told me that he had gone to the Academy to lecture to the young men. I went to the Academy, and was told that he desired me to wait, because he was giving his lessons. I waited a good long time, and when he came out he said that he was in such a hurry he could not pay any attention to me then, but that I must come to his studio on a certain day at a certain hour. I went there and knocked; no one answered, and the soldier who was mounting guard at the Serraglio dei Poveri close by said that every one had gone away more than two hours before. It seemed to me a little strange, after having named the day and hour; but more or less forgetfulness in an artist means nothing--in fact it is a sort of sauce or dressing to an artist's character, be he young or full-grown, on horseback or on foot. Dear me! such things are easily understood; and if I had not been a little tired, I should not even have thought of it, and would have returned another day. But when, and at what time? Should I have ever found the door open?

My hotel was very far from the poorhouse, but the two places were not very dissimilar; for although all my expenses were paid by the Grand Duke, it had not yet become the fashion to squander and waste after the ways of to-day; and be it from education, temperament, or other motives, I felt it my duty to economise for that good gentleman's purse even more than for my own, and therefore my inn could really be called a poorhouse in spite of its pompous name, for it was a third-cla.s.s hotel; but the distance was great, and, to mortify the Professor a little, I wrote on his studio door--"_G. Dupre at home on such a day and such an hour._"

[Sidenote: PROFESSOR ANGELINI.]

He will come, he will certainly come, to see me at my inn to make his excuses. Poor Angelini! he is certainly absent-minded, and am I not also absent-minded? He will come to find me out. Yes; I stayed in Naples six months, and never saw him. Something beyond absent-mindedness, I think; but so it was. I told all this for amus.e.m.e.nt to his colleagues, but they took it seriously to heart,--so much so, that at one of their academic meetings they proposed me as an a.s.sociate-Professor: and Angelini seemed delighted, and warmly supported my nomination, so that naturally it was pa.s.sed; but I never went into his studio. Oh no.

Yes; I repeat it ten, twenty times over. My dear colleague, this happened in the month of January 1853; see what a good memory I have.

You, it is quite natural, have forgotten it, because he who is guilty of such things does not take heed of them, neither should the person to whom they are done, unless he be as black as Loredan, who wrote down the death of the two Foscari in his book of Debit and Credit. Therefore let it be understood, that I did not take note of it, and don't remember it; but if you ever take it into your head to return to Florence, and, pa.s.sing casually through the Via della Sapienza, you would like to rest a little in my studio, you can do so; and the best of it is, that I do not name the day or the hour, only take this journey and make this visit soon, for we are now both old, and I shall not return to you, for I am afraid of finding the door shut!

Here I come to the moral. I speak of artists. The desire to see the works and also become acquainted personally with contemporary artists is a good sign; it indicates a spirit of emulation, a wish to learn, and form bonds of friendship, so to discuss and bring to light errors and doubts on questions of art. But if the artist with whom you desire to speak names a certain day and hour, then answer at once, "Thank you very much, but I cannot come." Tell him this untruth--it will be but a small sin; whereas he who imposes upon you a day and hour gives himself so much importance that he resembles that ugly and haughty signor called _Pride_.

[Sidenote: SHAKING HANDS.]

There are some medicines so proper and efficacious, that once you have taken them, you are radically cured, and for good. Angelini cured me of the wish to knock at studio doors; and the Signora Marchesini cured me of another habit, formed either by custom or stupidity, of shaking hands with everybody, especially with women. The Signora Marchesini was at that time (I am speaking of about thirty years ago) an aristocratic lady of a certain age--one of those persons who, without even taking the trouble to turn to look at any one who came to see her, would answer the salutation and bow prescribed by good breeding with an _addio_ and a "good evening" when one took leave, were it even at midnight. Such was the Signora Marchesini.

[Sidenote: EMBRACING FRIENDS.]

One night I went into her box at the Pergola, and going up to her I bowed and put out my hand. a.s.s that I was! I did not know that this act of familiarity was not allowed to _inferiors_; and putting aside n.o.bility of birth, I was her junior by thirty years, and perhaps this offended the austere lady more than anything else. The lesson, however, was a good one; and from that day, in fact from that evening, I have never since been the first to offer my hand to any woman, old or young.

All this nonsense reminds me of a much rougher and more vulgar instance of haughtiness, from which my beloved wife was the sufferer. She was as simple and good, poor darling, as the woman who offended her was hard and proud.

I had gone to pay a visit to a friend of mine, a gentleman of n.o.ble birth, education, and tact, with whom I had friendly relations. My wife was with me, and he was in the drawing-room with his, who was French by birth, much younger than himself, and whom he had lately married. As soon as my friend saw me he spread out his arms, and we embraced each other; my wife, with a feeling of spontaneous tenderness, pressed forward to embrace the young lady, but she drew back, perhaps not thinking it beseeming or according to etiquette to embrace a woman the first time she saw her, even although she was much older than herself.

My poor Marina, with her purity of soul, did not feel offended, but turning to me she timidly asked, "Have I done wrong?"

"You! no, my dear; but another time stand on your own ground. That woman did not deserve to be embraced by you."

My friend took no notice of anything, and shortly after we left the house. I do not know why, but this remembrance goads me more and more every day; it stimulates my love for her who now smiles at all these miseries--she who was so worthy of all honours, who desired and was able to keep herself always good, mild, and compa.s.sionate--a good wife, a good mother, truly a lady by her virtues, and not by reason of her birth and riches. More I should like to say, but cannot; I look with anxious love for the words that fail me, and I think that the innermost lineaments of that temperate, strong, patient soul can be felt but cannot be portrayed.

[Sidenote: AMUs.e.m.e.nTS AT NAPLES.]

I continued to get better and better in Naples. The medical man insisted that I should walk a great deal and take simple and abundant food--a little soup, roastbeef, and a plate of vegetables, and nothing else, for dinner; for breakfast, after my bath and walk, a gla.s.s of cold milk and some bread. As a distraction for my mind, he recommended my seeing and talking with people I liked, and going to the theatre of an evening. At first the theatre bored me; I did not understand those little _bouffe_ comedies in dialect at the Fenice and San Carlino, and all those repartees of Punchinello irritated me. It was bad for me to go to the San Carlo, where they were giving the 'Trovatore' with the Penco, Fraschini, and the Borghi-mamo, and 'Oth.e.l.lo' with the Pancani, for they made me weep, not on account of the dramas themselves, which I already knew, but on account of the music, which had such a strong effect on my nerves. For these reasons I was obliged to give up the music at San Carlo, and 'Punch' at San Carlino and the Fenice, and took refuge in the Sebeto, a very small theatre, where for the most part were represented dramas in bad taste, artistically speaking, but not as far as morals are concerned--exaggerated characters, forced situations to create immoderate effects, &c.,--in fact, dramas of the Federici stamp, to touch the hearts of the populace, but not calculated to influence them with voluptuousness, the more dangerous when veiled in the attractive, graceful, and polished forms of cunning sophistry. Then these dramas were not in dialect, and 'Punch' only came in at the farce, and for such a very small part that I could bear him, and little by little began to understand and appreciate him. As I have already said, the theatre was a necessity for me, and it entered into my _sage's_ system of treatment; but he added that I was not to take the recreation by myself, but in the company of my wife and child, and with as much ease as possible, so that it was necessary to take a small box, which, as the theatre was so small and unpretending, was not a very great expense. Perhaps the idea of economy never once occurred to the generous sovereign who came to my aid, but I used to think of it, as I have before said.

[Sidenote: CHURCHES AT NAPLES.]

Thus, with so much to divert my mind, during the day going to see the public monuments and the churches in which this immense city is so rich, and at evening to the theatre, my recovery was completed. Nor were there wanting splendid works of art, besides the collection of ancient bronzes, unique in the world, and wonderfully useful to the students of sculpture. The Church of San Gennaro, with its monuments, amongst which are those of Carlo d'Angio, Carlo Martello, and Clemenza his wife; San Paolo, built on the ruins of the Roman theatre where Nero used to appear in public and declaim his verses, and where Metronate gave his lessons in philosophy, which were attended by Seneca as his pupil (what a lesson to young men!); Santa Chiara, with its monuments to the ancient kings of Naples, which once was all frescoed over by Giotto, and has been most barbarously whitewashed by Berio Nuovo; Sant'Angelo a Nilo, with that splendid monument to Cardinal Brancaccio, one of Donatello's finest works; and San Domenico Maggiore,--all these monuments, as much for their beauty as for the historical records they contain, are worthy of the greatest attention and study, and are calculated to inspire ideas and a desire to work.