Thoughts on Art and Autobiographical Memoirs of Giovanni Dupre Part 31

[Sidenote: LUISINA'S CHARACTER.]

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 enc.u.mbrance 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."

[Sidenote: ILLNESS AND DEATH OF LUISINA.]

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 _fete_ 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 G.o.d of Israel, sustainer of all faithful souls, look down upon the affliction of Thy servant! oh a.s.sist him in all things to come! This affliction that came to us by G.o.d'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.

[Sidenote: AMALIA MAKES A MONUMENT TO HER.]

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.

[Sidenote: 50,000 LIRE IS STOLEN FROM ME.]

To narrate the death of my Luisina, I have omitted a circ.u.mstance, 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 s.p.a.cious 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.

[Sidenote: HOW THE THEFT TOOK PLACE.]

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 circ.u.mstances, and if I was no longer in possession of that money--for which, thank G.o.d, 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.

[Sidenote: A PORTION OF THE MONEY FOUND.]

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 rest.i.tution 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.

[Sidenote: I FORGET A PROMISSORY-NOTE.]

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 gla.s.s door that fine jovial witty face of his.

[Sidenote: AN INCREDULOUS COLLEAGUE.]

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, "Pa.s.s 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!

[Sidenote: STATUE OF CARDINAL FORTEGUERRI.]

[Sidenote: SIGHINOLFI'S MODEL REJECTED.]

Cavaliere Nicolo 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 a.s.signed by compet.i.tion, 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 compet.i.tion, as really happened. One person, however, went in for the compet.i.tion, 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 compet.i.tion 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 compet.i.tion, 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 compet.i.tion turned out null, is now free to give the statue to whomsoever it likes without the obligation of compet.i.tion." It was therefore necessary to make an appeal to the commission to obtain its consent that another compet.i.tion 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 compet.i.tion 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 pet.i.tion, 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--

[Sidenote: THE COMPEt.i.tION REOPENED.]

"Go back to Florence, make another trial, and as you are recommended by Professor Dupre, he will a.s.sist 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 compet.i.tion, 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.

[Sidenote: CARDINAL CORSI LENDS HIS ROBES.]

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, Codib, 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.

[Sidenote: THE STATUE ADJUDGED TO SIGHINOLFI.]

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.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE UNIVERSAL EXHIBITION AT PARIS IN 1867--THE IMITATORS OF VELA--INEDITED MUSIC BY ROSSINI AND GUSTAVE DORe--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.

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 a.s.semblage 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 a.s.sembles 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 Semp.r.o.nio, 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.

[Sidenote: INFLUENCE OF WORLD EXHIBITIONS.]

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 a.s.sistance 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.

[Sidenote: THE MILANESE SCHOOL OF SCULPTURE.]