The statuette of the Bacchino so much pleased my friend Pietro Selvatico, who happened to be in Florence precisely at the time when I finished it, that he made a drawing of it as a souvenir in his album. This able writer and distinguished critic and historian of art was also an artist and accomplished draughtsman, or rather he was so until an obstinate disease in his eyes deprived them of that clearness of vision which is necessary to mastery as a draughtsman.

CHAPTER XIV.

One other piece of advice. In conceiving and working out subjects which, in their intention as well as in the manner required to express them, tend towards sensuality, one should inspire one's self with a purely intellectual love. To this kind of love one should adhere tenaciously, for it is easy to go astray. Such love seizes, and desires, and prefers to attain what is good, in which is included all that is true and all that is beautiful; but the seductions of the senses veil the eyes of reason and light the fires of voluptuousness. Therefore we should be careful, in order that art, which is the mistress and mother of civilisation, should not lower itself to be the corrupter of taste and habits. It is not in the least in regard to nudity that we should be circumspect, but in regard to the conception, the expression, and the movement of the statue; in a word, to the state of mind, the idea, the interior condition of the artist. Thus, for instance, one may look at a figure entirely nude, like the Venus of the Capitol, and be impressed merely by a reverent admiration, or by quite the opposite sentiment. The purest and most sacred subjects, the most completely clothed figures,—as, for instance, a nun, or the Santa Teresa of Bernini,—may be impressed by an unequivocal sensuality. No! nudity does not offend modesty. If it did, all the works of Michael Angelo deserve condemnation; while on the contrary, as every one knows (I appeal for the truth of this to the most prudish; to the priests, to the popes, who ordered and placed in the churches the works of this divine man—and in so doing did well, though these figures, both male and female, are as naked as God made them), far from offending against decency in the least, they elevate the mind into regions so high and so ideal that their bodies are transfigured, so to speak, and clothed with a supersensual light in which there is nothing earthly.

About this period the question began to be agitated in respect to the David of Michael Angelo. Already for some time artists and lovers of works of art had expressed a fear that this masterpiece should remain exposed to injury in the open air, and thus be subjected to constant deterioration. A commission was nominated to examine into the matter and prepare some manner of placing under shelter this celebrated work. Professor Pasquale Poccianti, president of the commission, proposed that it should be removed and placed in the Loggia dell'Orgagna close by, under the great central arch. This proposition was supported strongly by Lorenzo Bartolini, who had expressed his opinion several years before in a letter addressed to Signor Giovanni Benericetti-Talenti, then Inspector of the Academy of Fine Arts, and which I have seen. The Grand Duke, assured by the opinion of such competent artists, ordered the statue to be removed and placed under the Loggia, in conformity with the advice of the commission, and with the plans presented for this end by Professor Poccianti. It was the intention of the Grand Duke to substitute for the colossus that he removed a copy of it in bronze, to be cast by Papi, and the order was given for making a mould and casting it. I was not on the commission for the removal; on the contrary, I was among those who did not believe in the injuries which the statue was supposed to be suffering. I did not think that there was any grave danger in allowing it to remain where it was, or that the cause that had produced the very apparent injury occasioned to the head and the left arm was constant dropping of water from the roof above; and as this had already been guarded against, it seemed to me inadvisable to remove it and withdraw it from public view. I remembered also to have read that Michael Angelo himself had strongly urged that it should be allowed to remain where he had placed it, and where he, in working at it, had harmonised it with its surroundings; for even then doubts were raised lest it might suffer injury in that position. And besides, I did not consider it prudent to remove such a colossal statue, both on account of the danger of the operation, and because I thought it impossible to find another place so favourable for artistic effect and historical significance. Therefore, when I learned that its removal had been decreed, I regretted it extremely. Information of this intention was given me by my friend Luigi Venturi, from whom I did not conceal my regret; and as the Grand Duke was well disposed towards me, I decided to go that very evening to the Pitti Palace and humbly submit all the arguments which induced me to oppose this removal of the David. He received me with his customary kindness, and imagining perhaps that I desired to speak with him about some work which I was doing for him on commission (of which I shall speak in its proper place), he said—

"Sit down, and tell me what you have to say."

"Your Imperial Highness, I have heard with great surprise that you intend to remove the David from where it now stands, and to place it under the Loggia dell'Orgagna."

"Yes; that statue is, as you know, the masterpiece of Michael Angelo. It is suffering injury every day, and it is dangerous to leave it there exposed to the sun and the rain. It ought to be placed under cover, and the Loggia is not only so near as to render the operation of removal easy and safe, but it also is a most beautiful place, and with its great central arch will fitly frame this magnificent statue."

I answered—"I also always have thought that this statue suffers from its exposure to the frost and sun—although the marble is from Fantiscritti, and is of most durable quality; and naturally the idea suggests itself to one that it would be better to remove it where it would not be subjected to this slow but certain deterioration. But the grave question which has always preoccupied my mind has been the difficulty of handling this colossus, so weak in its supports; and what renders this all the more difficult is the crack which is said to have been discovered in the leg upon which it stands, which is the weakest. I therefore think that if this crack exists, it constitutes another and principal reason why the statue should not be touched. But independent of this difficulty, which practised and scientific persons might possibly overcome, there is the question as to where it should be placed. This colossus is made for the open air, and to be seen at great distances; and the place to which it is now proposed to assign it is not in the open air, and has not the light of the sky, but on the contrary, a light reflected from the earth, so that only the lower part would be illuminated, and in a negative sense—that is, from below upward, and not from above downward, as from the light of the sky. The upper part would in consequence remain in a half light, so as to divide the statue into two zones: the one which would be in the half light ought to be illuminated, and that which would be illuminated ought to be in graduated shadow. And again, there is no distance: from the sides it is not sufficient, and in front the statue would seem too high in consequence of the steps of the Loggia. Nor only this: if for the reasons I have stated the statue itself would suffer, the Loggia would suffer still more, and would be enormously sacrificed, and in consequence of the colossal proportions of the statue, its beautiful arches would be dwarfed; and still more——"

"Enough!" the Grand Duke with vexation interrupted me. "These are considerations which might have been discussed, but now the thing has been decreed." And rising, he added, "Good evening,"—which being interpreted into common language, was as much as to say, "Go away; you bore me."

I bowed and went away. On the stairs I said to myself, "You have done a pretty business. You see how you were dismissed, and with what irritation. You had better have minded your business. What had you to do with this? Did he ask you to give your advice? No; you have your deserts, and will learn better another time." And slowly, slowly I returned home. But none the less I was not dissatisfied with myself for having spoken frankly to the Grand Duke on this matter. I had expressed my true opinion, and I should have felt more regret if I had been silent, inasmuch as I was thoroughly convinced of the utility and propriety of what I had said. Besides, I knew how good the Grand Duke was, and with what attention he had listened to me on other occasions when he interrogated me on questions relating to art in general, or to my own works in particular. But the phrase "decreed" still hammered in my head, and I said to myself, "Very well,—it is decreed; but his decree is not a decree of heaven. We shall see. After all, I have said what it seemed to me just to say, and there is nothing improper in that; and if there was any impropriety, it was on his part in not allowing me to finish. And there is this also," I said—"that colossus in the middle of the Loggia will dwarf all the other statues, and make them of little consequence; so that by an accursed necessity they will have to remove the group of the Rape of the Sabines, and the Perseus, which stand very well there, as well as the Centaur and the Ajax, and all the others along the wall, which are not placed well, whether the David is there or not."

But in the meantime, a fortunate incident gave a new direction to the affair of the removal of the David, and a great weight to my words.

One morning a gentleman came to my studio, who said he wished to see me. I, who then was accustomed to permit no one to pass into my private studio, went out to see him. He was tall of person, dignified, and benevolent of aspect; his eyes were blue, and over his handsome forehead his white hair was parted and carried behind the ears in two masses, which fell over the collar of his coat. He extended his hand to me, and said—

"For some time I have heard you much spoken of; but as Fame is frequently mendacious, in coming to Florence I wished, first of all, to verify by an examination of your works the truth of all I have heard of you; and as I find them not inferior to your high reputation, I wished to have the pleasure of shaking your hand;" and he then took both my hands in his.

"You are an artist?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied,—"a sculptor."

I wondered who he could be. He spoke Italian admirably, but with a foreign accent.

"Excuse me,—are you living in Rome?"

"Oh no," he answered; "I lived there for thirty years, but now for some time I have been in Berlin. I am Rauch."

I bowed to him, and he embraced me and kissed me, and accompanying me into my private room, we sat down. I shall never forget his quiet conversation, which was calm and full of benevolence. While he was speaking, I went over in my memory the beautiful works of this great German artist,—his fine monument to Frederick the Great, his remarkable statue of Victory, and many others. I recalled the sharp passages between him and Bartolini, and without knowing why, I could not help contrasting his gentleness with the caustic vivacity of our master. Their disagreements have long been over; the peace of the tomb has united them; and now the busts of both stand opposite to each other in the drawing-room of my villa of Lappeggi.

Among other things, we discussed the question of the removal of the David, and its proposed collocation under the Loggia dell'Orgagna. He strongly disapproved of it, and exhorted me to use all my influence (to use his own words) to induce the Grand Duke to alter this decision. I then narrated to him my conversation with the Grand Duke, and the issue of it. He was surprised, and after thinking awhile, said that perhaps there was no ground to despair, and that I ought to speak of it again and to insist. I answered—

"I really cannot do so. You, however, might. Your name, and the friendship of the Grand Duke for you, might perform miracles; and nothing else is needed, as there is already a decree in the way."

"Leave it to me. To-morrow I am invited to dine at Court, and I will manage so that they will speak to me of this; and unless they ask me, I will not let it be known that we have met."

A few days afterwards he returned and told me that he had spoken at length on the subject with the Grand Duke, who did not seem to be annoyed, but on the contrary, listened to him to the end; and then smiling, said that I had advanced the same doubts and objections. He then thought it best to openly confess that we had talked together on the subject. Rauch went away shortly after; but he so well managed the affair, that the Grand Duke thought no more of the removal of the statue to the Loggia, considering the means proper to shield it from the injuries of the weather. He also sent for me to tell me that Rauch had advised him not to place it under the Loggia, and I remember used these words: "Rauch is entirely of your opinion in regard to the David, and he is a man who, on such a ground, deserves entire confidence; and I wish to say this to you, because it ought to give you pleasure, and because it proves that you were right."

I thanked the Grand Duke for the attention and consideration he had paid to the reasoning of Rauch in regard to the David, as well as for his kindness towards me; and this procured me a dismissal more benignant than the previous one. A short time after, I received a letter from Rauch from Berlin, in which he spoke to me of the David. I showed it to the Grand Duke, who ordered me to leave it with him. But he returned it a few days later, and I have transcribed the passage relating to the David:—

"I learn with great pleasure that his Highness the Grand Duke has resolved to leave the statue of David in its place in consequence of the trial made with the plaster cast. But I should like to recommend to his Highness to remove the group of Ajax and Patroclus from its present position, and to arrange a proper place of just proportion and with a good light, to receive worthily this work of sculpture divinely composed and executed by Greek hands.

"Berlin, 17th December 1854."

This is the reason why the statue of David was allowed to remain in its place for some twenty years more, and until the fear of the danger which this masterpiece undoubtedly incurred induced the Municipality and the Government to order its removal to the Academy of Fine Arts, where it now stands, but where it is not seen; for if the Government is liberal in spending many millions upon a Palace of Finance in Rome, it feels itself so restricted that it obstinately refuses to spend a few thousands to complete the building which is to harbour the most beautiful sculpture in the world.

It was at this time that the Royal Manufactory of Pietre Dure finished the restoration of the famous Tazza of porphyry—a most precious and rare object, which, from the time of Cosimo I., to whom Pope Clement VII. presented it, had remained hidden in the store-rooms, and in great part mutilated. Now, as I have said, owing to the great care and intelligence of the directors, united to the goodwill and money of the Prince, it had been restored to its pristine beauty and perfection. In order that this work, which is also an historical record, should be properly exhibited by itself in the Royal Gallery, the Grand Duke desired that it should be placed on a base with a new and rich design, which should at once be a completion and adornment of the Tazza itself, and also offer an occasion for a work of sculpture. In matters of this kind this excellent Prince was intelligent, earnestly entered into them, and gave full liberty to the artist who wrought for him; and this work he would have carried out had not the revolution interrupted it. But let us not be in a hurry.

I imagined a base of a form naturally cylindrical, with ovolo mouldings. That from below the base of the Tazza descended in a vertical line to the base, which stood upon a quadrate plinth. Between the base and the Tazza—that is to say, on the first cylinder—was a complete history of the Tazza, by means of symbolical figures which represented its origin, fortunes, and final destination. Perhaps this Tazza once embellished the immense gardens of the ancient Pharaohs; and when their empire was overthrown by the power of Rome, all things great and precious which the genius and power of the nation had produced were either destroyed or carried off. This Tazza, as well as the famous obelisks, were brought to Rome. On the fall of the Roman Empire, the Tazza and obelisks remained, and the former was presented by Clement VII., together with other precious objects (among which was the Venus—so called—de' Medici), to Cosimo I. After the Medician domination was over, the Tazza remained forgotten, until it was restored, as I have said, and placed in the Pitti Gallery, where it now stands.

To express artistically this history, I imagined four groups, representing Thebes with the genius of mechanics, Imperial Rome with the genius of conquest, Papal Rome with the genius of religion, and Tuscany with the genius of art. Thebes is in a sad and thoughtful attitude, with a simple vest without mantle, and has on his head the Egyptian fillet. He holds by the hand his genius, who frowning and unwillingly follows after him and looks backward, recalling "il tempo felice nella miseria." In his hand he carries a pair of broken compasses, to denote his lost empire over science and art; and at his feet is a truncated palm, around which is coiled and sleeping the sacred serpent. Imperial Rome stands in a proud attitude, resting her right hand on the consular fasces, and the left hand gathering up her mantle, which falls to her feet. She is crowned with oak-leaves, and above her head is a lion-skin in the shape of a helmet. Her genius, with a bold step and fierce aspect, grasps a lance and a torch, implements of destruction and emblems of iron and fire. Papal Rome stands still, with three crowns on her head, from which the fillets descend upon her breast. She is dressed in the pontifical robes, and holds closed upon her breast the Bible. Her genius, dressed in a Levite tunic, and with one hand holding a cross and the other placed upon his breast, in sign of faith and humility, treads on a serpent, the symbol of error, which even from the earliest time insinuated itself into the Church. Tuscany is in the act of walking. On the diadem which crowns her head are engraved the Tiber and the Magra, the rivers which bounded ancient Etruria. She holds the royal sceptre in her right hand, and in her left the palladium of the arts. Her genius is crowned with laurels, and leans upon a cippus, on which are disposed the implements which are used in the arts of poetry, music, sculpture, painting, and architecture, bound together by a branch of olive, to denote that the arts are only developed during peace.

This conception, which was clearly expressed in a sketch, met with the approbation of the sovereign, and he ordered me to model it on a large scale, to be cast in bronze. Afterwards, it seeming to me that the dark hue of bronze, added to the shadow cast by the Tazza itself, would injure the effect of my work, I sought and obtained permission to execute it in marble; and I was at once paid for my model. In the meantime, in consequence of rich work of great delicacy, it became necessary to seek for some marble which should be hard, white, and beautiful; for this work differed from others in having no back view, in which ordinarily the imperfections of the marble can be hidden, but was exposed on all sides, in consequence of its round form, every point of view being a principal one. Hence there was a difficulty in finding a block entirely free from blemish, and having no spots to injure the view of any important part. The search for this consumed much time; and when at last I had a clear hope that I had found it, the revolution first suspended, and afterwards ended, everything. I shall return to this subject later, and at present I shall go on.

At the same time the Grand Duke ordered me to decorate a chapel of the Madonna del Soccorso at Leghorn. Of this, which is the first on the left on entering the church, he had become the patron. The chapel was to represent the entire life of the Madonna. I made a large sketch, in relief, of the chapel and the ornaments of the altar, with statues and pictures on the side walls. In the great lunette over the altar, I designed and coloured the Annunciation of the Virgin. In the empty spaces between the arc of the lunette and the side walls, which are trapezic like half pedestals, were angels painted upon a mosaic ground of gold, and holding spread out rolls of papyrus, on which were written the prophecies of the Virgin and of Christ. The altars I made with columns and round arches, with a straight base, after the style of the Quattrocentisti. The table of the altar represented the return from Calvary of the Virgin with St John. Behind, in the distance, were seen the crosses, and the angels of the Passion weeping and flying from the sorrowful scene. This also I designed and coloured in my sketch. Under the table, and through a perforated screen, was seen the dead body of Christ, illuminated by hidden lights. The statues in the niches of the lateral walls were to be St John and St Luke, as those who had specially written about the Virgin. In the two lateral walls above the niches, there were to be two pictures representing the Nativity and the Death; and these compositions, as well as the sketches of the two statues of John and Luke, I did not carry out, relying upon the intelligence of the Grand Duke, which would enable him to judge from what I did do.

Besides this complex and important work—the Scriptural portion of which I was to execute, while in regard to the paintings and architecture, I was assigned the post of director, with an authority to select the artists,—besides this, I say, he ordered of me the monuments to the Grand Duke Ferdinand III. his father, to his brother, his sister, and various of his children, all to be erected in the chapel called the "Vergine Ben Tornata," which is in San Lorenzo, where at present is to be seen the monument of the Grand Duchess Maria Carolina. And all these monuments I designed, and made sketches of them, which were approved by his Highness; and a royal rescript was made to me, signed by the President of the Ministry, Prince Andrea Corsini, ordering me to execute these works. But the 27th of April 1859, foreseen by all, unexpected by few, arrived and overthrew everything.

From all these statements, two facts are clear; the first, that the Grand Duke esteemed me—and the second, that I knew absolutely nothing of the revolutionary movement of these days: and this increased the not small number of persons, who held me in dislike, owing to the favour which I enjoyed at Court, and owing to the works which were intrusted to me. These persons, whom I must not call artists, showed themselves, both then and after, to be sorely deficient in intellect and heart, in blaming me for my affection and gratitude towards the Prince, who treated me so beneficently.

I have said that the events of the 27th of April were quite unexpected by me. But how was it possible for me to know anything, when those who, above all, were so intimately acquainted with what was going on, kept me at a distance, and some, as for instance the Marquis Gualterio, who usually frequented my studio, withdrew entirely from me? Besides, how many there were who were as much in the dark as I, though they were in a position that almost obliged them not to be ignorant! I remember that the Sardinian Minister, Buoncompagni, who lived in the Pennetti Palace in Borgo Pinti, gave every week (I do not remember on what day) a reception or party at which I met and conversed, with the utmost frankness, with the Advocate Vincenzo Salvagnoli, Giovanni Baldasseroni, then Minister, the Marquis Lajatico, the Marchioness Ginori, as well as the Princess Conti and others, and all of us were ignorant.

It was only on Easter morning (I believe it was the antivigilia of the revolution) that I heard that something was to occur, but vaguely; there was nothing positive or precise. There was to be some sort of demonstration or manifestation to induce the Grand Duke to enter into a league with Piedmont for the war of independence. But afterwards, reassured by one who ought to have known more than I, that it was really nothing, but mere idle talk, and childish vague reports, I believed him. And then? The day after, I met Count Scipione Borghesi, my excellent friend, who, as soon as he saw me, said—

"Well, I have just arrived from Siena; and to what point have we come?"

"About what?" I answered.

"About our request—about our demonstration, which is already organised. It should take place to-day. What! you know nothing about it?"

"I know nothing—and there is nothing to know; trust me, for I ought to know something about it," I answered, assuming rather an air of authority.

My friend was a little disturbed at first; and then smiling, he added—

"It may be as you say. Have you any commands for Siena?"

"No, thank you. Are you going back to Siena soon?"

"Eh? Who knows?—to-morrow—the day after to-morrow—as may be."

"Good-bye, then," I said, and we shook hands.

The next morning, from my little villa which I had rented at the Pian di Giullari, I went down to Florence, taking my usual route, at about half-past eight, when I saw a gathering of people, and groups here and there crowded together and talking excitedly. I then began to suspect something. I went to my studio, uncovered my clay, and waited for the model, who should have been there. She kept me waiting for an hour; and before I could reprove her for her unpunctuality, she told me that she had been detained by the great crowd of the demonstration which blocked up all the streets around Barbano, and that the Piazza was thronged with people carrying banners and emblems. "Bravo!" I said to myself, "I did know a good deal!" At the same time, an under-officer and instructor of the Lyceum Ferdinando, who lived over me, came to the window and cried out "Viva Italia!" and his pupils repeated his cry with enthusiasm. "Do you know what this means?" I asked of my model, who was already undressed. "I cannot work now; dress yourself, and go." She at once obeyed, and I remained thinking over the fact. I desired that the Grand Duke should yield, as in fact he did yield, to the League with Piedmont for the war against the foreigner; and I was grieved when I heard of his departure. On returning to the country, I met my friend the advocate Mantellini with Duchoqué, and we were all very sorry for what had occurred, although I had nothing to do with the events which took place either before or on that day.

The desire to give an account of this day has kept me for some time from the regular order of my records, and I must now return upon my steps. When I had completed the model for the base of the Tazza, a desire came over me to model a group of colossal dimensions. I had selected as subject the universal Deluge, and with youthful ardour I had sketched out the whole, and had fairly well modelled some of the parts. But as at that time the English Parliament had decided to erect an imposing monument to the Duke of Wellington, and to that end had opened a world-competition, I stopped working on my group, and set myself to think out the monument to Wellington. I had, however, little wish to compete, because it seemed to me that the work would finally be intrusted to an English sculptor, and that love of country would naturally overcome that rectitude of judgment which is so deeply seated in the spirit of that great nation. And so it happened that I had, as I have said, little desire to compete; and besides, I have always been opposed to competitions, and I shall explain my reasons for this elsewhere. But my friends at first began by proposing it to me, then said so much, and urged the matter with such insistence, that finally I yielded and competed. This work of mine I cannot exactly describe, because, not having seen it for many years, I scarcely remember it. Let me try, however. In the angles of the great embasements were groups representing Military Science, Political Science, Temperance, and Fortitude, each with his Genius. The four faces of the base were ornamented with alti-rilievi.

Above this rose upon another base the principal group of Wellington with Victory and Peace. There was a large contribution of Florentine sculpture sent to London, for Fedi, Cambi, and Cartei competed as well, and their models were exhibited before going to England. The sending of these models was not without risk, owing to their fragility—being in plaster—the minuteness of the work upon them, and the length of the journey. All these difficulties did not escape the attention of our benevolent sovereign, who had seen my model; and as soon as I had sent it off, he told me he thought it both prudent and even necessary for me to go to London to attend to my work and see it taken out of its box. I answered that I had no fear of its being injured, having had it so well packed, and depending on the Government officials who were intrusted to receive and see to the placing of these competitive works. These were the reasons I gave; but there were others of a more intimate and delicate nature, for out of respect for the other competitors I did not wish to appear as if I went to push forward my own work. On his Highness urging me more and more, I told him all my thoughts, and he replied, with a smile, "If it is on account of this, you can go at once, for Fedi came to take leave of me yesterday; and to facilitate your journey, I shall give you a hundred zecchini. I could give you a letter for King Leopold of the Belgians, my good friend, but that would be like a recommendation, so I shall abstain from doing so. Go and make haste, for if your work should be damaged on its arrival, who is there who could mend it? Therefore go; and good-bye."

CHAPTER XV.

I I started at once, and it was well that I did so, for the vessel which had the case containing my model sprang a leak on account of the bad weather, had to stop at Malta, and arrived in London too late, as the term had expired for the presentation of these models. If it had not been for my having the bill of lading,—from which it was made clear that I had not only sent it in time, but a long time before I was required, and that this delay had occurred from circumstances entirely independent of my will,—my work would have been undoubtedly rejected. For this reason, and through the good offices of William Spence, it was accepted; and he made me acquainted with the royal commissioner of the exhibition as the person intrusted by the author of the work. When they proceeded to open the case the commissioner wished me to be present, that I might see in what state it had arrived—and it was a truly lamentable state! The ship, as I have already said, sprang a leak, and the water had entered the case and softened the plaster figures, so that they were dislodged from their places, and rolled about in the box in all directions. Heads were detached from their bodies, hands mutilated and broken, aquiline noses flattened out, the helmets had lost their plumes and front pieces. In fact, it was all a perfect hash! Besides this, as I had wrapped them up in cotton-wool and paper, and the salt water had penetrated and remained there for many days, they had gone through a sort of special chemical process, by which my sketch was coloured in the most varied and capricious way. Blue, red, and yellow were mixed up together with the most lively pleasantry; and if it had been done on purpose, one could not have reduced the poor work to a more wretched condition. I saw at once that I needed all the sang froid possible, so I did not utter a word, and ostentatiously showed a calm exterior that I did not really feel,—all the more because already the greater part of the models had been put in their places, and the exhibition and judgment on them were imminent. Fedi, who was present at this disaster, seeing me so cold, said to me, almost in a rage, "Why don't you get angry?"

"Why should I get angry?" I answered. "Shall I mend the matter by getting angry? On the contrary, see how well I shall manage, in a slow and orderly way. I remember to have read somewhere—I don't recollect where—that he who has to go up a steep ascent must take it slowly; and so shall I."

He was of the contrary opinion, and advised me rather to leave everything alone for the moment, to take a pleasant walk, and to set myself to work the next day with a fresh mind; and he himself, with praiseworthy thoughtfulness, offered to help me. But I held to my purpose, thanking him for his advice and offer to help me, as I felt confident that I should be able to do it all by myself. I then at once informed the commissioner for the exhibition that, as I was empowered by the author of the sketch, and was in his entire confidence, I intended immediately to set to work and restore it. As this gentleman commissioner understood not a word of French or Italian, William Spence, then a young man, was my interpreter. When he understood what it was I wanted, he called a gentleman who was looking at the models for competition, and spoke to him in a low voice in his own language; but my young mentor, who, besides his intelligence, had a fine sense of hearing, taking me aside, told me what orders the commissioner had given this gentleman.

It should be known that the English Government, among the articles regulating this competition, had made one which was most wise, as it partially guaranteed the artist who had not been able to accompany his sketch in person, and had no correspondents or friends who could act for him, to repair any chance damages to his work. For this they had appointed an able artist capable of making the required restorations. This, then, was what Spence told me: "The commissioner, as you see, called that gentleman to tell him to pay attention to what you are doing to this model, for although you have asserted yourself to be the person intrusted by the author of the work, yet he has not felt sure of it; and as you might also be a person who, with bad intentions, propose to damage it under pretence of restoring it, it was his duty to prevent this,—so he gave orders to that gentleman, in case he saw that your hand was guided by bad faith or incompetency, to make you leave off at once, and to set himself instead to work on it."

I understand I must give all my attention and mind to the manner in which I do my work, though I should have acted more freely had I not been exposed to a supervision as reasonable as it was conscientious. The consequence of a mistake or an oversight might be to see myself set aside as an ass, or even worse, as an impostor, and the heads and hands of my little figure mended by another, Heaven knows how!

In the meantime, the sculptor or modeller who was to watch me never lost sight of me, and being sure that I knew nothing of his charge, observed every movement of mine; but after I had been at work about ten minutes he was completely convinced, and declared that I could be allowed to continue the restorations—meno male! Plaster brushes, small knives, sharp tools, and all other implements, had been largely furnished to me by Signor Brucciani, a most able caster, and the proprietor of a large shop, or rather a gallery of plaster statues, able to supply any school of design, and what my friend Giambattista Giuliani would have called a perfect gipsoteca.

And with regard to good Signor Brucciani, I must say some words in his praise, not only because he provided me liberally with plaster and tools, and help in my work, but because he, a stranger in a foreign land, has known how, with his activity, to acquire for himself the esteem of a people who are as tardy in conceding it as they are tenacious in keeping to it when once given. From this he derives his good fortune and enviable position.

When Signor Brucciani fell in with an active and open-hearted compatriot, it brightened him up soul and body, and he often wished to have me with him. His wife and daughter united a certain English stiffness with Italian brio and frankness that they took from their husband and father. One day Brucciani and his family desired to spend the day in the country and dine in Richmond Park. Everything Brucciani did he did well; and I hope he is alive and able to do so still. He brought with him several carriages, with everything that was required for the cuisine and table—furniture, servants, food, and exquisite wines, even ice in which to keep the ices, &c. A viva to him! for as the Marchese Colombi said, "Things can be done or not done." After dinner a caravan of gipsies, perfect witches, who live in that forest, made their appearance, and asked if we wanted our fortunes told. The request was odd enough; but being made in such a serious manner, it became really amusing. Naturally, as we had to give something to these poor gipsies not to humiliate them, we had our fortunes told; and as for the old woman that examined my hand, she guessed so much that was true that I was almost frightened, and drew away my hand. The old witch continued to point with her bony finger, and say, "There is still more, still more."

My work was rather long, and would have been tiresome; but as it was a necessity, I did it willingly, and succeeded very well. It is true, however, that both the architecture and the figures were strangely spotted with stains made by the salt water, and bits of paper and cotton-wool in which it had been packed. Some one advised me to give it all a uniform tint to hide this; but I insisted on leaving it in that way, trusting to the good sense of the judges, who were called upon to consider much worse defects than those produced by a chance accident. I remember that Mr Stirling Crawford, of London, on receiving some years before the two statues of "Innocence and the Fisherman," and a stain having made its appearance on the leg of one of these, wrote to me manifesting his entire satisfaction with these works, and adding: "It is true that here and there there are some stains in the marble; but as I know that you do not make the marble yourself, it would be absurd to reprove you for this." There are but few gentlemen like him, however—so few, that I have never found another; but on the contrary, I have seen more than one who would even buy a mediocre statue, to use no harsher expression, provided it were made out of beautiful marble.

I remained in London about two months, and left the day before the opening of the competitive exhibition. The judgment was to be pronounced after the public exhibition was over; and there were a great many competing—nearly a hundred—and some of the models were very beautiful. There were to be nine prizes given—three first class and six second. The Government reserved to itself the power of giving the final commission without regard to the models that had received prizes, as it might so happen that when the name of the sculptor who drew the first prize was known, he might not be able to offer sufficient warrant as to the final execution of the work as to tranquillise the consciences of the judges and satisfy public opinion. This argument is a just one when not vitiated by preconceived opinions or self-love, which sometimes happens, as we shall see hereafter.

This was in itself a thing easily understood, but was not understood by us, who went in for this competition. Not so Marrocchetti, who, clever artist that he was, was none the less wide awake and wise. With those who instigated him to compete he reasoned in this way, saying: "They know that I am capable of doing this work. Why, therefore, enter into competition with others, if not to find out that there is some one else cleverer than I am? Very well; but I choose to retire, and you can take the other fellow—take him and leave me in peace. So far this would seem prompted by nothing but the fear of losing, which in itself is no small thing for a man who has a name and has gone through his long career applauded by all. But there is another and a much more piercing and almost insufferable dread. Do you know what it is? That of winning. Yes, that of coming in victor before a poor young fellow, perhaps one of your own scholars!" Thus he gave vent to his feelings one day to me, with the sort of intimacy that springs to life quickly and vigorously between artists who are neither hypocrites nor asses; and his words depict in a lifelike manner the frank, and, I might say, bold character of this original artist, who was most dashing, and who, with a thorough knowledge of dramatic effects in art, from the very exuberance of his strength, not seldom had the defects produced by these qualities—defects which were perhaps magnified by his assistant modellers, who worked with too much rapidity and carelessness.