Thoughts on Art and Autobiographical Memoirs of Giovanni Dupre Part 33

We enjoyed other evenings of feast and merriment, but none like this one. We were invited to a dinner given by the Italian General Commissioner, which went off most splendidly, but was naturally more dignified. We were all Italians, but not all artists; for, in fact, the greater number were scientific men--and where there are scientific men, all is at an end, and seriousness at once walks in. The imaginative, frisky, and reckless words of the artist do not venture to come out at such meetings; and the talk there gains as much in rhetoric as it loses in living art, sincerity, and unexpectedness.

[Sidenote: AN ADVENTURE WITH A CABMAN.]

We were also invited by his Imperial Highness the Archduke Ranieri to an entertainment, which was most splendid, cordial, and brilliant. The Archduke talked to every one in his own language; and if he expressed himself with the same exactness and propriety to the English, Russians, or Spaniards, as he did to us Italians and to the French, he is really a wonderful polyglot. At this _fete_ something happened to me which proves that the Viennese cabmen are more quarrelsome than ours. This is how it was. I got into the cab at the hotel, and said that I wanted to go to the palace of his Highness Archduke Ranieri, to remain there two hours, and then return to the hotel; and for this the price of six florins (fifteen _lire_) was agreed upon. Having stayed my time at the _fete_, I descended to look for my charioteer. He was not there. To be sure, the cab was there, and the poor beast in harness seemed to be deep in thought or sleeping; but the coachman was not there. He was looked for everywhere, in all the neighbouring beer-houses, but could nowhere be traced. So in a rage I had to go up again, and coming down about half an hour afterwards, I called him, but he was not there. The poor beast stood with his nose nearly on the ground, I do not know whether more from sleepiness or hunger; and I in a rage, as may well be imagined, got inside the cab to wait for him. Finally, after about half an hour the man returned, and I abused him roundly; but it was like speaking to the wall, for he understood nothing, and off he drove. On arriving at the hotel I put the six florins briskly into his hand; he refused to take them, and I could not understand why. The porter of the hotel intervened, and said that the cabman had agreed to wait at the _fete_ for two hours, instead of which I had kept him there three hours. I explained to the porter the whole thing, and what a rascal he was! But not to discuss the matter any longer, I paid even for the hour that I had to wait that _canaille's_ convenience. Really I would have paid anything to have been able to say two or three words after my own heart in German to the miserable scamp.

[Sidenote: MONUMENT TO COUNT LUIGI CAMERINI.]

My duty was now ended. I gave a last look at the beautiful Schiller Platz, where my hotel was, saluted the Academy of Fine Arts, then building, and with open heart, filling my lungs with a great breath of country air, I flew in thought to beautiful Florence, to my family, and to the studies I loved. I plunged into the most comfortable railway carriage that I could find, and never again turned to the right or to the left. I think that I was the first of the Italian jury that returned to our beautiful country.

At this time I was making the monument to Duke Silvestro Camerini that had been ordered from me by his ill.u.s.trious and most n.o.ble nephew, Count Luigi. Senatore Achilli Mauri had first spoken to me of it on his behalf, and had shown me a design by Signor Gradenigo of Padua, in which there were to be two statues that the Count wished me to make. The design did not please me, and I answered that I would make the monument, but that I wished to compose it after my own fashion. The Count was content. I made a design; he saw it, it pleased him, and all was settled in a friendly way by a few frank words, without all those precautions of contract, seal register, witnesses, and caution that are invented by distrust to protect one from rascals. It is thus that honest men deal with honest men; and of such is Count Luigi, and of such by G.o.d's mercy am I, and I can proclaim it loudly in the broad light of the sun. I am certain that, of the many persons who have given me commissions, not one has had any question with me, nor even the slightest feeling of unpleasantness! The thought of this, and the certainty of being able to proclaim it _coram populo_, is to me a consolation so complete and grateful, that it forms, so to speak, my happiness.

[Sidenote: COUNT LUIGI CAMERINI.]

Amongst those who have given me commissions, Count Luigi Camerini has been one of the most courteous--a true friend. Every time that I went to Padua or Piazzola on account of the work I was engaged on, besides the glad welcome that he and his amiable wife gave me, he managed to arrange some excursions for our pastime and pleasure--now to Venice, now to Pa.s.sagno, now to Vicenza, and sometimes even farther; and he pushed courtesy and friendship to the extent of taking us all as far as Turin, on the occasion of the inauguration of Cavour's monument. As I said, to do this, besides being amiable and kind, one must also be rich, and he is rich indeed. I remember that one day, during one of these excursions, we found ourselves in a first-cla.s.s railway carriage with the Princess Troubetzkoi and her husband, Duke Talleyrand. We all talked together more or less about everything--all except the Duke, who gathered himself up in his corner, with his travelling-cap pulled down on his forehead, intent on reading a French newspaper. He had never lifted his eyes on us, so absorbed did he seem in his reading.

I do not know how it was that the conversation fell on the heaviness of the taxes. I am greatly afraid that it was I who started the subject, because on this key I am wonderfully eloquent; I storm about the laws, agents, cashiers, everybody, and everything.

"Let them lay a heavy hand," I was saying, "on play, on luxury, on vices, on property, but leave in peace the labour, industry, and talent that are the bonds of civilisation and health, because the public conscience rebels against this."

[Sidenote: DESCRIPTION OF THE MONUMENT.]

The good Duke did not even move; for him it was as if I was neither in the wrong nor the right. My friend Camerini, perhaps to allay my indignation, quietly smiled and said--

"You are right; certainly these taxes are very heavy. But what can one do about it? One must pay, and that is all----"

"Certainly," I continued, repeating his favourite word, "one must pay--and I pay; but it is too much--these taxes are too high."

"I agree, I agree.... Just imagine that I pay annually in taxes (beyond the indirect ones, you understand), two hundred and fifty thousand _lire_!"

At the mention of this sum the Duke turned slightly towards Camerini, looked fixedly at him a short time over his spectacles, then took them off very slowly, folded them and put them in their case, set aside his newspaper, and entered into a conversation with him that only came to an end when we separated. "Oh the power of gold!" said I to myself.... Let us return to the monument.

It is composed thus: on the first foundation a great urn, above which rises the base, on which is placed the seated statue of the Duke in a thoughtful att.i.tude, dressed in the clothes he wore, and wrapped in a cloak. At the sides of the urn, which form two semicircles, are two statues. Beneficence is standing and offering money to a youthful workman, who, in an att.i.tude of affectionate grat.i.tude, wishes to kiss the hand that with such loving wisdom has lifted him out of misery, and enn.o.bled him by the sanct.i.ty of labour, so that this payment is only the legitimate recompense of his work. This group represents one of the virtues of Duke Camerini, who made use of his very large rent-roll to alleviate the misery of his fellow-beings, and give them encouragement and work; and certainly no one more than he could feel the usefulness of work, because from being a humble workman (although of a respectable family) he elevated himself to the highest rank of society, and to riches as honourable as they were great. Corresponding to this statue, on the other side kneels Grat.i.tude, who scatters flowers on the urn; and although grat.i.tude is one of the virtues that adorned that great man, as I shall explain hereafter, yet this statue refers to that sentiment of affectionate remembrance by which his nephew, Count Luigi Camerini, wished to honour the memory of his munificent uncle. The lower base is ornamented by a bas-relief, representing Duke Camerini when, during one of the inundations of the Po, an immense population of that desolate country were left without a roof to their heads and without bread, he rescued them, encouraged them, and helped them, giving bread and work to all, ordering the work of new embankments immediately to be undertaken, avoiding most wisely by so doing greater disaster, and saving from misery and hunger that wretched population. This bas-relief is an admirable work of Professor Luigi Ceccon, of Padua; and this, as well as the execution of all the architectural and ornamental parts of the monument, Count Camerini and I intrusted to him.

[Sidenote: CHARACTER OF DUKE CAMERINI.]

[Sidenote: ANECDOTE OF DUKE CAMERINI.]

The moral character of Duke Camerini is worthy of being remembered and honoured. It is certainly not my task to relate his life, but I cannot pa.s.s by in silence a most notable instance in it, the knowledge of which strengthened the study and affection that I put into the modelling and chiselling of this monument. When the youth Silvestro, in the capacity of simple labourer, worked at I know not what improvement of land in the neighbourhood of Ferrara, he used to go during the hour of rest to a small eating-house to recruit his strength with his usual temperance. It happened one day that he found himself without money, and as he was a daily customer, frankly, with an honest man's conscience, he said to the host, "I will pay you to-morrow." But this man, who was hard and brutal, answered that "when one has no money, one should not order anything to eat;" to which the youth was about to reply, when a young gentleman, who happened by chance to be shooting in those parts, and had come in to take some refreshment, seeing the embarra.s.sment of the young labourer and the hardness of the host, tossed a bit of money on to the counter, saying to the latter, "Take your pay for what this man has eaten here."

The host took the money and returned the change; but the excellent gentleman said, "No; give the rest of the money to this youth. He seems to me to have the air of being an honest man, and he can use it another day when his own money fails him." It was not such a small matter either, for the money he had given to be changed was a golden _Genova_.

Then on one side excuses were made and rest.i.tution offered, whilst on the other a mild but determined insistence, which ended in the shaking of hands and leave-taking. From that day forward Silvestro Camerini had no more need to go on credit, not because the remainder of that piece of gold could place him for ever beyond necessity, but because those insulting and brutal words had been a lesson to him, with his high and n.o.ble spirit, never again to place himself in a similar position.

Camerini went out from that house much moved in spirit and full of grat.i.tude towards the gentleman, whose name he inquired and ever kept in his memory. In the meantime, by good conduct, economy, and work, he was able to save something; and as by nature he had a mind much superior to his condition, he was able to take upon himself the direction of some works, and always advancing in his activity, economy, and good administration, he gradually made a considerable fortune, all of which he put into land. But the n.o.ble gentleman who had so opportunely helped him, either through bad administration, too much liberality, or some other reason, lost his fortune, and was obliged to sell all his lands to pay his debts. One day the last villa belonging to him, and the one he cared most for, was about to be put up to auction; and that day, so full of sadness for him, turned out perhaps the brightest and happiest of his life. Camerini, who had already become rich, bid at the auction for it, and having obtained it, went to the unhappy gentleman and presented it to him. His surprise, joy, and incredulity are more easily imagined than described. He said, "What is the meaning of this? In what way?

Wherefore? Is it perhaps a rest.i.tution? So much has been stolen from me that----" "Yes, really," answered Camerini, "it is a rest.i.tution, but not of anything stolen." And he then told him, or rather reminded him, of the youth that he had benefited so many years before. The worthy gentleman at first held back, and wished to refuse the gift; but at last overcome by emotion and admiration, he wept and embraced his friend--a true friend indeed, for all the others he had known in his prosperity had disappeared with it.

[Sidenote: n.o.bLE RESt.i.tUTION.]

This anecdote deserves to be told, because it draws to the life the lovable, grateful, and most liberal character of Duke Camerini. It was told me by Count Antonio Pallavicini of Bologna, the friend and contemporary of Duke Camerini and the other gentleman, whose name, I regret to say, I do not remember. The anecdote that I have just told, and many others that ill.u.s.trated the character of this great man, as well as the n.o.bility and generosity of his worthy nephew, who intrusted to me the execution of this monument, spurred me on and facilitated my undertaking.

[Sidenote: REJECTED OFFERS.]

If the reader has a good memory, he will remember that elsewhere I have spoken of my offers to execute works for their mere cost--that is to say, my proposals to give my time, work, and study _gratis et amore Dei_. He will remember, also, that these offers were not accepted, and that having been taught by so many lessons of this kind, I advised young artists to abjure and chase from their mind these Utopian ideas that experience had fully shown me could not be carried out. To confirm them in this opinion, I must now add a new and more striking instance of a work offered by me that was not accepted; and I trust that the account of this new fact will not be wanting in importance, and will serve as a good lesson.

[Sidenote: CENTENARY OF MICHAEL ANGELO.]

When my excellent friend Commendator Giuseppe Poggi had finished the beautiful Piazzale Michael Angelo, and before the inauguration of the monument designed by him, with the statues of the divine artist himself, had taken place (and this occurred before the centenary), he proposed that the statue of Michael Angelo should be placed in a commanding position under the middle arch of the Loggia that fronts on the Piazzale; and it was his intention (for which I thank him from the bottom of my heart) that this statue should be made by me. Knowing, however, that on account of its colossal proportions, as well as the importance of the subject, it would require no small expense, and as even then the munic.i.p.ality foresaw its present straits, he said to me, in a pleasant and friendly manner, that it was his hope, as well as that of others, that I would make the statue for its mere cost. "I am ready,"

said I to myself. "I like the subject, and I can satisfy my friend in his legitimate pride of citizen and artist, and also place there a sign of my veneration for Michael Angelo, and a testimony of affection and disinterestedness to my country, but at no slight sacrifice, it is true--that is to say, by working at least a year _gratis et amore Dei_."

I am mistaken; there is something else I should add--that is the income-tax and tax on the exercise of my art, &c., that the tax agent would naturally have insisted on exacting, even if it had been proved to him that I was working to gain nothing. But I had given my word, and said I am ready; and when I say I am ready, I stick to it. In the meanwhile time pa.s.sed, the centenary drew near, and the munic.i.p.ality decided nothing about the statue; and, so far, all was well--it meant that they found it inconvenient to give even those few thousand _lire_ required for the marble and the roughing out of the statue; and wished to save them. About this I say nothing, for, in fact, I am in favour of saving; but now comes the best of it. When the day for the famous centenary arrived, the festivities were conducted admirably, with an exhibition of all Michael Angelo's works, a visit to his tomb in Santa Croce, to his house, which is a most precious museum, and, at last, to the Piazzale, where the monument was inaugurated. There was music in the great hall of the Cinquecento at the Palazzo Vecchio, illuminations on the great Piazzale and on the Colli, and everything was done with the utmost order and decorum, thanks to the exquisite tact of our president of the committee for organising the centenary festivals, Commendatore Ubaldino Peruzzi. Among these festive meetings one was arranged to take place in the old Senate Hall, which had for its object the p.r.o.nouncing of eulogies on the great artist; and to all, the Academy of Fine Arts and the Della Crusca Academy were invited, as Michael Angelo was not only to be honoured as an artist supreme in the imitative arts, but also as a philosopher, literary man, and poet. This was splendidly done by the two Presidents of the Academy of Fine Arts and the Della Crusca Academy, Commendatore Emilio de' Fabris and Commendatore Augusto Conti.

They were surrounded by the members of these two Academies united in solemn a.s.sembly, and the semicircle was filled by a crowd of distinguished artists, literary and scientific men, foreign and native, and was honoured by the presence of his Highness Prince Cazignano. My friend De' Fabris spoke of Michael Angelo as an architect, and my friend Conti enlarged upon him as philosopher, citizen, and poet. They had begged me to read a few words on that occasion; but I, being aware of my insignificance, and, to speak frankly, my incapacity to think and speak on so great a subject, at first refused to do so; then I tried jotting down something in writing, and made my friend Luigi Venturi read it--and as he did not dislike what I had written, I accepted, and on the day before mentioned I read my little sc.r.a.p of writing, in which I treated particularly of Michael Angelo as a sculptor.

That day the idea of the statue was again brought forward, and some of the gentlemen, in the name of the committee, came to my studio and asked me if I would agree to make the statue of Michael Angelo for the mere cost and expenses. I answered that I would, and added that I had promised to do so once before, but that nothing more had been done about it. In the meanwhile a subscription list was sent the rounds, and my ill.u.s.trious friends Meissonnier and Guillaume, who had come to Florence for the centenary festivals, put their names down each for a hundred _lire_. And then, after all, as G.o.d willed it, nothing more was done about it; and in fact, on the spot where the statue was to have been placed, there is now a _cafe restaurant_, very clean and convenient, and of a summer's evening it is enlivened by concerts of a band of music. Looking at the thing from this point of view, it is certainly much more comfortable and amusing than to see a statue of Michael Angelo standing there.

[Sidenote: FIASCO ABOUT THE STATUE OF ANGELO.]

The fact is, that there are sometimes fruitful enthusiasms and sometimes barren enthusiasms: the fruitful enthusiasms are those in which one finds the quickest and most perceptible enjoyment. In these days (it was 1876) there were people running in crowds to see and hear Signora Adelina Patti--spending an amount of money that they would have had great difficulty in spending on an object less sensible, or, rather, less enjoyable, such as in fact a statue might be, that promises to give you the rather meagre enjoyment, it is true, of making its appearance two or three years after it has taken the money out of your pocket.

It is true, however, that the enjoyment of song and sound pa.s.ses in a moment--its waves die upon the air, and our ears catch their last echo--while the view of a statue, with all its beauty and meaning, remains, so to speak, to all eternity. But this is a rather subtle and abstract consideration that not all can understand.

Thinking over it well, I do not believe the _fiasco_ about the statue of Michael Angelo occurred for want of enthusiasm for art or statuary, or much less for the subject. The deuce take it! Michael Angelo is out of the question; besides belonging to the world, he is a Florentine,--and then, too, enthusiasm has not been wanting in any town in Italy, and certainly not in Florence, even when it has been a question of immortalising in marble men oftentimes very unlike Buonarroti. Besides, did one not see about this time, and in fact during these very days, several thousands of _lire_ got together for a bust of Gino Capponi? And why was this? If I had asked to make that statue, it might have been supposed that the artist was not liked, and that no confidence was felt in him; but it was not so: in fact I was looked for and even begged to make it, which is natural when one desires to have work done for nothing but the pure cost and expenses. Confidence in the artist, therefore, was not wanting: there must have been some other reason, and I have found it is this, that work asked for and offered for nothing seems almost as if it had no attraction; no one wants it. One must, if one can, get as much pay as possible. Listen to this other instance; they grow like cherries.

[Sidenote: FIASCO OF ANOTHER STATUE.]

When I had made the "Christ after the Resurrection," for which my good friend Ferdinando Filippi di Buti gave me the order, the idea came to the worthy syndic, Signor Danielli, to erect in his village (which seemed as if it ought to be sacred to Minerva, it was so buried in a forest of olive-trees) a statue in honour of Professor del Rosso, who had been such a worthy representative of science and of his native place. The good and most lively Signor Danielli was full of ardour to carry out his project; and to obtain its success, he pressed me to accept this commission at the smallest possible price, almost for its mere cost.

I accepted. The subscription list was sent the rounds, and I know that my ill.u.s.trious friend Professor Conti, an old pupil of Del Rosso, gave himself a great deal of trouble in getting subscriptions; but neither he nor any one else obtained the desired result, and the statue remains where it was--in the future. In the same way, it seems, ended the affair of the bust of Pius IX., that a pious committee in this city proposed to have cut in marble and placed in our cathedral.

[Sidenote: INGRAt.i.tUDE.]

So, as I have said, these instances grow like cherries.

Let us remember, although above I have spoken about the necessity of getting well paid, yet at times, either as a matter of duty, friendship, or grat.i.tude, one can and one ought to work for little. I remember a young scholar of mine who enjoyed a little pension, given to him by a gentleman from his village, who, to enable the young man to work from life, went so far as to allow him to model his head, and, to encourage him, desired that he should put it into marble,--but before giving him the commission, wanted to know what the expense would be. The youth, in telling me this, asked me what he ought to ask for it. I answered, "You must ask nothing; the gentleman is over and above good to give you the pension. Would you also ask him to pay for the bust? You will give this answer: I have asked my master about the expense of the marble and the roughing of it out, and he has answered me that one hundred _lire_ is necessary for the marble and two hundred for the roughing it out; as to finishing it, I will finish it myself, and so learn to work on marble, because no one can call himself a sculptor who does not work on the marble himself."

But the youth showed no judgment, did not follow my advice, and asked the gentleman a thousand _lire_, and the avidity and ingrat.i.tude thus shown by the person he had benefited so disgusted him, that he did not let him make it. When I heard how matters had gone, I did not fail to call him an a.s.s, and he really was one. Born and bred a peasant, he had learnt nothing in town by mixing with educated young men. He was tall of person, and endowed with uncommon strength; he used to exercise himself--making it more a business than a simple pastime--at the game of _forma_, and, challenged or challenger, was always the winner. He died from breaking a blood-vessel in his chest; and for the matter of that, as no one was left behind to weep for him, for he was an orphan, and as he had no talent or judgment, it was better so.

[Sidenote: BUILDING ONE'S OWN MONUMENT.]

Let us therefore understand each other. One must always get one's pay, excluding the case or cases of grat.i.tude like the one I have mentioned above, and even between friends, there must not be one that gives and the other that takes. I remember now, many years ago, that Luigi Acussini made my portrait, and I his; and later, Cisere painted my portrait and that of my wife, and I made a bust of his wife, _amici cari e borsa del pari_. Presents don't answer well, and therefore it is rare to find those who make them; and if any one with heart and no head does so, he makes a _fiasco_.

A singular taste, and one that I can enter into completely, is that of preparing one's own place of burial whilst living; and for those who can, besides the burial-place, also the chapel and monument. It does one good to see, whilst living, the place where one will sleep the last sleep. Amongst those who agree with me in this, besides Marchese Bichi Ruspoli of Siena, and Signor Ferdinando Filippi di Buti--whose monuments I made some fifteen years ago, and who are still living, hale and hearty, so that I even think that the thought of death and the sight of the monuments prolong their lives--is the Baroness Favard de Langlade, who also wished to have her monument made; and after having had the ill.u.s.trious architect Giuseppe Poggi construct the beautiful chapel in the park of the villa at Rovezzano, which is adorned by the beautiful paintings of Annibale Gatti, she ordered from me the monument wherein her body is to rest.

[Sidenote: THE FAVARD MONUMENT.]

The difficulty of this kind of work is not to give umbrage to the modesty of the person who gives the commission. At first sight it seems like vanity and pride to order one's own monument; but besides the fact that he who orders a monument does not order it for himself alone, but also for his family, the artist composes his work in such a way as not to give the least offence by adulation and flattery, which is the more contemptible in the person who offers it in measure as the adulated person is in a high position. The artist, however, who has a proper respect for his own dignity, and wishes that of the person in question also to be respected, will find a way of making his work, even though it be grandiose, so as to enable both him and the person who is to die to look at each other in the face without blushing.

The subject that I treated for the Favard monument was the Angel of the Resurrection, who, poised on his wings, offers his hands to the dead woman, who is in the act of rising, to lead her to heaven. She has half lifted herself up on the sarcophagus where she was laid out, and her expression shows her happiness in awakening to eternal day. The only adulation--excusable, I think--that I offered to that lady was having made her appear younger than she was,--not more beautiful, for one can still see that she must have been most beautiful. I regret that this work of mine is almost hidden--first of all, because it is far from town, as I have already said,--at Rovezzano; for although the n.o.ble lady has given orders to have it shown to any one who asks to see it, yet the double difficulty of the distance and the asking prevents many--those who are lazy and who are lukewarm, who are the most in number--from being able to see it. It is still worse as concerns my "Christ after the Resurrection," which is on a hill in the neighbourhood of Buti, a little village, nearly hidden from view and out of hand, between Pisa and Lucca.

CHAPTER XXIII.