Thoughts on Art and Autobiographical Memoirs of Giovanni Dupre Part 7

But to return to the point where I left off to make this digression about the Marchioness Poldi. Let me say, that if in my studio I enjoyed complete liberty of imagination and action, and if my works met with such success and were so praised as to give me consolation, matters did not go on so well in the studio Cambi, where I was modelling for the compet.i.tion. Scarcely had I put my foot into that studio when I became timid, embarra.s.sed, and almost fearful; for the Professor would not leave me free to see and execute from the life as I saw it. I do not say that he was wrong; I only say, that thus feeling my hands bound to the will of another, rendered me hesitating and discontented. I should have preferred a studio of my own, and after I had sketched out as well as I could my own ideas, then to have my master come in to correct me. But there he was always; and he was not content with correcting me by words alone, but he would take the modelling tool and go on and model what I ought to have modelled myself. My work might be done with difficulty; but if I could have done it all myself, as I wished, I should have been much happier, and my hand would have been better seen in it--the hand of a youth without skill indeed, but still desirous to do and to learn; and I should also have been spared the annoyance of hearing that the work was not done by me, but by Professor Cambi. Now Cambi is a very dear friend of mine, and I do not mean in the least to reprove him for what he did; but it is my duty to state the facts clearly just as they are--and I take this occasion to say a few words as to what I consider a master should do in directing his young pupils.

[Sidenote: LAWS OF COMPOSITION AND GROUPING.]

Every historical fact, in its manifestations of time, place, circ.u.mstances, and character, presents itself to the mind of each person who studies it--and far more to any one who intends to reproduce it--in an entirely different way from what it would impress another. The impression each receives depends upon his character, intelligence, temperament, and education. This being admitted, it is in the highest degree difficult to a.s.sert with a.s.surance, "I understand and can express the fact better than you." When certain essential points are established, such as the age and character of the personages, and the costumes and style of dress, all the rest depends upon the taste of the artist, and his manner of viewing and feeling it. As to the composition and grouping of the figures, in regard to which dogmatic statements are so often laid down, this should be a free field to the artist in which he may move about as he will. The harmony of lines, the balance of parts, the equality of s.p.a.ces, are all very fine words; but above all and before all, and as the base of all, there should be clear expression of the fact, truth of action, and living beauty. It is very true that sometimes, and indeed very often, the young pupil is without much study or much knowledge, and in composing his sketch he makes mistakes in the arrangement of the dresses and the character and truth of the subject he wishes to represent. Then indeed the master should interpose. But how?

Not by taking the tool himself and saying, "You should do thus and thus"; but rather by putting his pupil on the right road, and making him clearly appreciate the story he is trying to represent, and showing him that this or that figure ought to have the dress and the character appropriate to it, and to point out the means by which he may attain this result. If after this teaching the youth is dull, he should be counselled not to go on; but if, on the contrary, he improves his sketch, the master should correct it and perfect it in its movement, in its _ensemble_, and in its expression. In this way the youth will take courage and cognisance of his own powers, and improve.

[Sidenote: FAULTS OF YOUNG STUDENTS.]

One of the commonest faults with young scholars is their slothfulness in trying to discover for themselves their own way to express their ideas.

For the most part, they are completely deficient in this, and prefer to seek among the works of their master, or of some other master, for their subjects, types, and movements--and thus, with little fatigue and less honour, they only succeed in giving a colourless reminiscence of works already known; and one of the faults of the master is this--not only to allow his scholars to imitate and steal from him, but what is worse, to desire to impose upon them his own works as models.

[Sidenote: ILLNESS OF MY MOTHER.]

I return to my narrative. In my stable I pursued my artistic life freely and happily, with power to select the work I was to do, to carry out my own designs in whatever style I liked, and almost to fix their prices.

In this way, with only a half-day's work, I was able to carry home my ordinary earnings for the maintenance of my family; and beyond this, I had two francs over to pay my model for the remainder of the day, which I spent on my ba.s.so-relievo. My daily life, therefore, was gay and free in my stable, timorous and gloomy in the studio Cambi, and peaceful, glad, and quiet all the evening at home. But for all this, the bitterness had to come. The other compet.i.tor, Ludovico Caselli, was already hinting it about that the ba.s.so-relievo was not made by me, and that Professor Cambi worked upon it. Caselli was modelling under the direction of Professor Pampaloni; but I never complained that Pampaloni worked upon it, although there were some who affirmed that he did. I kept my peace, and resolved formally in my own mind that whatever should be the issue of this compet.i.tion, I would again make an attempt the next year. When the time of the exhibition and the decision approached, I began to hear contemptuous and insolent rumours, which, whether I failed or was successful, would equally afflict me. To this is to be added, that my poor mother was suffering from a very severe illness--an illness, indeed, that carried her in a few days to her grave. I remember, as something that still pierces my heart, the interest she showed during that illness for me, for my compet.i.tion, and for my triumph (as she called it); and it seemed as if this belief of my loving mother gave a certain alleviation to the terrible anguish of her disease, which every day grew worse and worse. This was in the first days of September 1840. On Sunday the 15th the decision was to be given, and my poor mother was at the point of death. What I felt in my heart may be imagined, it cannot be told. The instant I heard that the prize had been given to me, I ran to my mother--from whom I had of late been somewhat separated--with almost a hope that this good news might bring her back to life again. And in fact, on hearing this news her face became radiant, her cheeks glowed, her eyes, which for a time had seen nothing, became animated and seemed to gaze at me. Then she stretched out her arms, and, pressing me to her, said, "Now I die willingly." She lived a few days longer, and then, comforted by the sacrament of our holy religion, died. She had finished her short life of about fifty years, in the restrictions of poverty and in the bitterness of one of the greatest misfortunes--blindness. G.o.d has taken her to the joy of His infinite mercy.

[Sidenote: DECISION OF THE ACADEMY.]

The conflict of judgment among the professors of the Academy at the compet.i.tion was tempestuous, and the result extraordinary. The votes were divided thus: Ten votes were given for my model, four or five (if I mistake not) to that of my compet.i.tor, and there were eleven votes for a division of the prize. I thought that votes for a division could not properly be given; and at all events, as I received ten and the other four, I considered myself the superior. But no. The legal adviser declared that the number eleven was superior to the number ten, and as eleven had voted for the division, that the prize must be divided. But the matter did not end here. My compet.i.tor, not satisfied with his prize, went about saying that it was not I who had competed; that he did not know who I was, nor where I had studied; and he threatened to challenge me to I know not what trial in design or modelling. I answered that I intended to continue to study, and that naturally we should be measured against each other often, if he chose to have it so; and this put an end to it. More than this, we became friends, and still are; and I believe he is now employed in the foundry of Cavaliere Pietro Bonini, as a designer or mechanic, I don't well know which. He is a man of talent, and has made several works of sculpture, among which are Hagar and Ishmael, Susannah, and the statue of Mascagni which is under the Uffizi.

[Sidenote: MODEL OF YOUTHFUL BACCHANTE.]

But in the opinion of the young students at that time there still remained a doubt whether that work was all grist from my mill, and in consequence I had a strong desire to do something by myself in my own studio. In order to put an end to all this gossiping, I put up a figure of life size representing a drunken and youthful Bacchante leaning against the trunk of a tree as half falling, while she smiled and held to her lips a goblet. The difficulty of the subject was as great as my inexperience. The tender age of the model, who could not be made to stand still, the difficult and fatiguing att.i.tude, my own total want of practice in setting up the irons and clay, the smallness of the room, and the deficiency of light, were obstacles which conquered at last all my poor capacity, and my figure fell, and I had not the courage to put it up again; and it was all the better that I did not.

After this came new attacks, new gossip, and new affronts, all carefully covered and veiled, and, as Giusti says, "_Tramati in regola, alla sordina._"

I have already spoken of the voting on the compet.i.tion, and I may as well return to this here--for these memoirs are not solely a meagre narrative of my life, but also an examination of principles; and whenever it seems to me proper to make this examination, I shall do so, endeavouring, as usual, to be brief and clear.

And first of all, you must believe that I do not return to this decision to complain that the prize was divided between me and my rival; and I wish you to understand that even had the entire prize been adjudged to me, I should equally have returned to this question. The subject I mean to examine is the false principle of a vote of division.

[Sidenote: VOTES ON COMPEt.i.tIVE WORK.]

Whoever undertakes to judge of the comparative merit of various works, ought, I think, to have sufficient critical ability to distinguish minutely the smallest differences between these works on various points--such as, for instance, their composition, character, proportion, movement, expression, refinement, historical accuracy in the types and fashion of the dresses, truth, style, &c. &c. Now it is absolutely impossible that in all these particulars two works can be perfectly equal and of the same value; and the conclusion thus far is unavoidable, that the judge who gives his vote for a division, either has not the qualities required to discern these delicate differences, or omits through culpable negligence to make such a rigorous examination as is required to arrive at what is true and just. Therefore the President should declare formally that the votes for a division will be null; and as their absence might invalidate the decision through a consequent deficiency of votes, he should invite the judges to declare for one or the other. I conclude (and with this I shall finish my disquisition on this subject of division of votes) that whoever feels inclined to give a vote in this indeterminate way, either is, or thereby declares himself to be, ignorant of the matter in regard to which he is required to have knowledge and to give judgment.

The youthful Bacchante fell down; and, as I have said, it was well that it did. This I say now; but then I was much vexed, both on account of the accident itself, and also for the unpleasant talk that it gave rise to. But after all, things are what they really are, and not what we think them to be. I was, however, consoled by a commission--very small indeed, but it seemed to raise my depressed spirits--and it was this, to make the four "Cariatidi" of the Royal Box in the Rossini Theatre in Leghorn. I should not have mentioned this humble work did it not give me occasion to note one thing which the young men of to-day seem to have forgotten.

[Sidenote: HUMBLE COMMISSIONS.]

It is common for the young sculptors of our day to scorn and sneer at any work that is offered to them which they think beneath that skill and capacity which they suppose themselves to possess; and they will not, as they say, abase themselves to mere work in plaster. If any one orders of them a bust or a statue in plaster, their pretence is so excessive that they deem it an insult. Now, I say the material counts for nothing; and a plaster statue merely for decoration, well executed, is worth more than a statue in marble or bronze which is ill executed. Undoubtedly, if one could choose, he would reject the statue in plaster and accept that in marble--always, however, recognising that the one essential thing is, to do his work well. But I was not given this choice, and I accepted this humble commission, and executed it with zealous love. There was this, too, of good in the commission--it might induce me to believe that I should have made a far better statue had I been given more time and more means to make one of my own selection; and I said, "If I have been able to make these statues in a month, with thirty or forty lire to pay to my models, how much better I might do in five or six months, with much more money!" The question reduces itself, then, to time and money.

Let the young artist consider whether my reasoning is not just; and let him also consider what is more important--that if I had not accepted this commission, I should not have come to the knowledge of the power that was in me, nor have gone through the reasoning which by strict logic induced me to make the "Abel."

This humble work was of great importance to me, and I recommend it to the attention of those young artists who consider themselves humiliated by small commissions. No; do not let them be alarmed either by the subject or the material, and if they should receive an order even for a great _terra cotta_ mask for a fountain, provided it be well made, they will acquire by it praise, and new and worthier orders, so long as their sole endeavour is to do their work well.

CHAPTER VI.

AN UNJUST LAW--THE "ABEL"--BRINA THE MODEL AND I IN DANGER OF BEING ASPHYXIATED--MY FIRST REQUEST--BENVENUTI WISHES TO CHANGE THE NAME OF MY ABEL FOR THAT OF ADONIS--I INVITE BARTOLINI TO DECIDE ON THE NAME OF MY STATUE--BARTOLINI AT MY STUDIO--HIS ADVICE AND CORRECTIONS ON THE ABEL--LORENZO BARTOLINI--GIUSEPPE SABATELLI--EXHIBITION OF THE ABEL--IT IS SAID TO BE CAST FROM LIFE--I ASK FOR A SMALL STUDIO, BUT DO NOT OBTAIN IT--MY SECOND AND LAST REQUEST--THE PRESIDENT ANTONIO MONTALVO--I DON'T SUCCEED SOMEHOW IN DOING ANYTHING AS I SHOULD--I TALK OVER MATTERS AT HOME--COUNT DEL BENINO A TRUE FRIEND AND TRUE BENEFACTOR--HIS GENEROUS ACTION.

While I was pondering a subject for a statue which should silence the idle and malevolent, it happened that a compet.i.tion in sculpture was opened in Siena, in which no one could compete but those who were of that country and province. Naturally I determined to compete. The only other compet.i.tor was the young sculptor Enea Becheroni, a pupil of the Academy there. Another wished to enter into the compet.i.tion, and this was Giovanni Lusini, an accomplished sculptor who had lately returned from Rome, where he had been pensioned for four years, he having gained the prize at the quadrennial compet.i.tion of our Academy at Florence. But he was not allowed to come in; for although, like Becheroni and myself, he was a native of Siena, he was inadmissible because he had pa.s.sed the age decreed by the rules. This compet.i.tion was called _Biringucci_, from the name of the worthy man who by his will had founded a prize and pension for sculpture, as well as others for painting, architecture, and various sciences that I do not remember. The studies and pensions established by him had been in existence for more than 300 years, and are still in existence, but, by one of those curious combinations that some would call a fatality, precisely in this very year, when it would have been most welcome to me, the prize for sculpture was struck out by one stroke of the pen.

[Sidenote: BIRINGUCCI COMPEt.i.tION.]

I had already for some time prepared myself for this compet.i.tion, which required that the artist should be shut up in a room by himself, and there should make, in the course of one day from morning till evening, a sketch in clay of some subject drawn by him by lot at the moment of entering the studio. For a considerable time I had made nothing but sketches; and within a s.p.a.ce of time certainly not greater than that allowed by the compet.i.tion, I had in fact made some dozen, and by practice I had become so rapid in composition, that whatever subject might be given me, I felt fully equipped, so as to be able to come out of the struggle with honour.

One day--it was Sunday--I was standing in my little studio in the Via del Palagio, and modelling one of these sketches, the subject of which was Elias carried away in the chariot. I was working with goodwill, and was happy and in the vein. My father had come to see me, and he was sitting and reading quietly the Bible. The bell rang, and a letter was given me bearing the post-mark of Siena, and I recognised the handwriting of the secretary of the compet.i.tion, Signor Corsini. I opened the letter, and read that the Government had suppressed the pension for sculpture as being superfluous, and had disposed of the sum by appropriating it to a chair at the University, and therefore the compet.i.tion would not take place. I see, as if he were now before me, my father start up suddenly and exclaim--"Sagratino Moro Moraccio" (which is, literally, "Cursed Moor of the Blackamoors "), "what have you done?"

[Sidenote: I SMASH MY SKETCH OF ELIAS.]

With one blow of my fist I had smashed to pieces my poor Elias, and he saw it on the ground between the legs of the horse.

"Read," I said, giving him the letter.

Scarcely had he fixed his eyes on it, than he grew red, stamped with his feet, and repeated his usual "Sagratino Moro." I was at once aware that I had acted ill in giving way thus brutally to my irritation. This I have recounted out of love of the truth, and that those who know me now may see how different I was then, and how ludicrously that excitability of character which I still feel, but which I have learned how to repress, was exhibited in the tragic destruction of that poor sketch.

And this too was of advantage, just as the gossip and incredulity about the first triennial was. The refusal to give work was also of advantage, when I went seeking about from studio to studio, and it was denied to me, even in terms of scorn. It was all of advantage to me. It obliged me to concentrate myself, and, seeing myself rejected on all sides, to will and to know, and with G.o.d's a.s.sistance to make my place with my own una.s.sisted powers. It was all right--thoroughly right; I repeat it. Who can tell? The pension of Siena was for ten years. May G.o.d pardon me, but I always feared that that pension might prove to me, as it had to others, a Capuan idleness.

I began now to turn over in my mind a new subject which should be serious and sympathetic, and into which I could put my whole heart, strength, will, hopes, and all--and I found it. Among the pictures, bronzes, and _terre cotte_ of Pacetti's shop, where I used often to wander about, I was struck by a group in _terra cotta_ of a _pieta_. The figure of Christ specially seemed to me beautiful; and I had half a mind to make a dead Christ, and went about ruminating in my mind over the composition. Certainly a dead Christ would be, as it always is, a very sublime theme. But yet I was not satisfied. I wished to find a new subject; and as the Bible was familiar to me, the death of Abel suggested itself, and I seized upon it with settled purpose. I sought for a studio to shut myself up in with the model, and I found one in the Piazzetta of S. Simone, opposite the church. Then I put together a few _sous_ to buy me two stands, one for the living model and one for the clay. Among the nude figures which I saw in the evenings when I went to draw, I selected the one that seemed to me best adapted to the subject, and I arranged with him to come to me every afternoon, as I was employed in wood-carving all the morning. I had already made several sketches, but I wished to make one from life, so as to be sure of a good movement and a true expression. It was on Shrove Thursday in 1842, and all the world who could and wished to do so, were walking about in the Corso.

The model and I were shut up together in the studio, and it was nothing less than a miracle that that day was not the last of both of our lives.

Poor Brina is still living, as old as I am, and he still stands as a model at our Academy.

[Sidenote: SKETCH OF ABEL.]

[Sidenote: I AM NEARLY ASPHYXIATED.]

And this is the way in which we ran the risk of losing our lives. In the studio which I had hired there was no way of putting up a stove, except by carrying the tube up through the upper floor, and so out through the roof. The expense of doing this was large, and for me very large; so I determined to make a sketch from life, and from this to put up my clay, and I hoped to be able to go on with the model without fire until the warmer season came on. But these days were so extremely cold that the model could not remain naked even for a few minutes; and we determined to warm the room with a pan of coals, in which apparently there remained a residuum of the powdery dregs of charcoal. The brazier having been lighted, and at intervals stirred up, the room, which was small, was soon tolerably warm. I was intent on modelling with my tool the outline and planes of my sketch, and moving about the model to a.s.sure myself of the movement and the _ensemble_, when I felt an oppression on my head; but I attributed it to the intensity of my labour, and on I went.

Suddenly I saw the model make a slight movement, and draw a long deep sigh, and the eyes and the colour of his face were like those of a dead man. I ran to help him, but my legs would not hold me up. I half lost my senses, my sight grew dim. I made an effort to open the door, and fell to the ground. But I had strength enough left to drag myself along to it, and kneeling, I laid hold of the lock; but the handle would not move, and with the left thumb I was obliged to raise the spring, and with the right hand to draw the bolt, and to do it quickly. I was wrestling with death, as I well knew, and I redoubled my efforts with the determination not to die. By good fortune, by my panting I drew in a little breath of pure fresh air through the keyhole, and at last I pulled back the bolt, and threw it wide open; and there I sat drinking in full draughts of the outer air. In the streets there was not a living soul, but I could hear the joyous shouts from the races in the Piazza or Santa Croce near by. Poor Brina gasped and rolled his eyes.

The air which came blowing into the room revived him, but he could not rise. I had entirely recovered, except that I felt a tight band around my head. I ran to the nearest shop, got a little vinegar, mixed it with water, and dashed it over his face. We then extinguished the fire and went away.

[Sidenote: PEt.i.tION FOR a.s.sISTANCE.]

I began to model the statue a few days after. My mornings up to one o'clock were employed in wood-carving, and all the afternoon I modelled.

In this way I went on for some time, and the statue was fairly well advanced, but I required a little more money. The want of this made me rather doubtful whether I should be able to finish the model in time for the exhibition in September. I required thirty or forty _pauls_ a-month for five months in order to go on until September. By the advice of Signor Antonio Sferra, a publisher of prints, I made a pet.i.tion, to which Professor Cavaliere Pietro Benvenuti, Aristodemo Costoli, Giuseppe Sabatelli, and Emilio Santarelli were kind enough to append their names.

This pet.i.tion, which I now have under my eye, and which I copy literally, was as follows. It was not dictated or written by me. My friend Giuseppe Saltini, now Government Physician at Scrofiano, did me this favour:--

"ILl.u.s.tRISSIMI SIGNORI,--The undersigned being desirous to submit to the judgment of the public a work of sculpture at the exhibition of the Academy of Fine Arts during the current year, has begun to model for his studio a figure, of life size, representing a Dying Abel. Family circ.u.mstances have, however, deprived him of the means which were required to bring this work to a conclusion. Regretting to find his money and labour spent thus far to no purpose, he refers himself to the philanthropy of his countrymen, in the hope that they will lend him their a.s.sistance. The sum required he has calculated at only forty francs a-month until the time of the said exhibition.

[Sidenote: SUBSCRIPTIONS.]

"He begs to inform all those persons who will kindly lend him their aid and honour him with a visit, that the statue which he has begun is at his studio, opposite the Church of S. Simone, where the undersigned will be glad to express to them his grat.i.tude, and where the undersigned professors, in attestation of their goodwill, have not disdained to honour him with their approbation.--He subscribes himself as their most devoted and obliged servant,

"GIOVANNI DUPRe.

"Studio, 15th April 1842.

"CAV. PIETRO BENVENUTI.

ARISTODEMO COSTOLI.