Thoughts on Art and Autobiographical Memoirs, by Giovanni Duprè

"Don't stop to deny anything. The Signor Commissario knows all. Your name is Giovanni Duprè. You live in Via del Gelsomino, which is precisely in our quarter; and I did not go to look for you at your house, in order not to disturb the family. But I can assure you that it is a matter of no importance—perhaps a scolding, but nothing more."

I resigned myself, and went with him. This person was not absolutely a sbirro, but something of that kind; and out of a sense of delicacy, and divining my thoughts, he said to me—

"Go on before me. You know the way. I will keep behind you in the distance, and no one will perceive that we are together."

This I did, and arriving at the Commissariato, was immediately introduced to the Commissario. The Commissario was in those days a sort of justice of the peace, who possessed certain attributes and powers, by which he was enabled to adjudge by himself certain causes, and to punish by one day's imprisonment in the Commissariato itself. If the affair after the interrogatory required a longer punishment, the accused party was conducted to the Bargello.

The interrogatory then took place; and after severely blaming me for my conduct, he told me that the matter in itself was very grave, both on account of the assault and the injuries done by me to these persons, and also of the tumult which had been occasioned on a fête which was not only public but sacred, and that therefore it was beyond his power to deal with such an offence. I felt myself grow cold, and had scarcely breath to speak, so completely had the idea of being sent to the Bargello overwhelmed me. But the good magistrate hastened to add, "However, do not fear. The single deposition of only one of the corrisanti is not in itself sufficient, and therefore it may be assumed that the provocation came from their side, and that you acted in legitimate self-defence. But as there was disorder, and injuries were received, you must be content to pass the day shut up in one of our cells." Thus saying, he rang his bell, and said to a sbirro who appeared at the door, "Conduct this gentleman out, and lock him up;" and as I went out he added, "Another time be cautious, and remember that you might fall into the hands of some one whose name is not entered here;" and he laid his hand upon a large book which he had on the table. I bowed, went out, and the sbirro opened a door in the court of the Commissariato, made a gesture to me to enter, and shut me in.

The room in which I found myself was tolerably large, with a fair amount of light, which came in from a high iron-barred window. In one corner was a heap of charcoal; and from this, perhaps, the room had received the name of the Carbonaia. The walls were dirty, and covered with obscene inscriptions. There was a bench to sit upon, a closet, and nothing else. I remained standing and looking about, but I saw nothing. My thoughts were wandering sadly and confusedly from one thing to another, and fixed themselves with fear and sorrow upon my mother and Marina, who, in the state in which I found myself, seemed to me more than ever dear and worthy of honour. I thought of their grief, and felt a shudder of emotion come over me. But the assurance that I should soon be free, and should not pass the night there, strengthened me and gave me courage, and I walked up and down the room humming to myself. Then, not knowing what to do, and how to occupy the time, which is always so long and tedious when one has nothing to do, I caught sight of the charcoal, and my spirits rose, and I said, "Now I have nothing to fear, for here is an occupation which will last me as long as there is light;" and I began to draw upon the wall a composition of figures almost as large as life, the subject of which was the death of Ferruccio. This was a composition which I had seen at about that time in the exhibition of the Academy of Fine Arts, in a picture which had struck my fancy. It represented Ferruccio lying on the ground mortally wounded, and wrapped in the flag of the Commune. With a fierce and scornful look he seemed to be saying to Maramaldo, who was giving orders to finish killing him, "You kill a dead man." The author of this picture was the painter Bertoli, a young man of great promise, and who unhappily died not long afterwards in the insane asylum. The drawing that I made upon the wall was a reminiscence of that composition, and there was nothing of mine in it beyond an effort of memory.

My poor mother, having been informed by the people of the shop, came to the Commissario, in the hope of obtaining my liberation, but she could not even obtain permission to see me. The only thing allowed to her was permission to bring me my dinner—that is, to give it to some one to bring in to me, all but the wine; and this she did. Oh, my sweet mother, may God grant thee the reward of thy love!

In the meantime the evening drew nigh; the walls were covered with my poor drawings, and my hands and face and handkerchief were all black. I would willingly have remained in prison till another day in order to finish a little less badly the Ferruccio; but to stay there for long hours in the dark, and with nothing to do, so irritated and disquieted me, that I began to cry out, and beat on the door, asking for a light at my own expense. But no one heeded me; and as I continued to drum loudly on the door, and had even taken the bench to hammer with, a voice different from the others called out to me, "Sir, for your own good I pray you to stop. The rules forbid lights; and if you go on in this way, I promise you that you shall sleep to-night in the Bargello." Never did so short a speech produce the desired effect like this. I hastened to answer that I would be absolutely quiet. I put back my bench in its place, and seated myself upon it, in the attitude perhaps of Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage; and there I remained until eleven o'clock at night. The door was then opened, and I was told to go to the Signor Commissario to thank him. This I did, and he repeated to me the sermon of the morning, and added that I owed to him the mildness of my sentence. I renewed my thanks to him, and ran home, where I found my mother and father awaiting me—he with a severe face, and she with tears in her eyes.

The day after, I went to the house of Marina—for I invented some sort of lie to explain why I had not come the day before, as I had promised—and taking aside Regina (as Marina had established a school in the house), I expressed to her my desire to be married as soon as possible. It was rather soon, I confess; but for me there was no other safety. With her—with my good Marina—I felt that I should cut short the too excited kind of life I was then leading, and which carried me into company and into gambling, and down that decline which leads every one knows where. That very evening I returned and insisted on acquainting the dear girl with my determination, at which she showed herself modestly happy. The true affection that I felt for that good creature, and the solemn pledge that I then took, put an absolute end to the thoughtless life which I had been leading. Stronger than ever came back to me my love for study, and I began to turn over in my mind how to occupy myself in marble work, even though it should be as a simple workman. At that time I made the acquaintance of Signor Luigi Magi, who was in the Studio Ricci, in Via S. Leopoldo, now Via Cavour, and I opened my mind to him, and he did not dissuade me from my purpose. But he advised me first to learn how to draw well and to model, and after going through a certain course of these studies, then to attempt to work in marble. He offered to procure for me copies to draw from; and then, as he intended to set up a studio for himself, he offered to give me lessons in modelling in clay. This being agreed upon, I returned home happy in the hope of carrying out this plan. But the many little things that I had to think of, and not the least of which was to save all the time I could in order to provide for the unusual expenses of my marriage, upset entirely for several months this ambitious project.

The ideas of wise economy which have up to the present time always accompanied me, I owe to my most excellent Marina. One day she said to me, "You make four pauls a-day, and two you spend on the house. What do you do with the other two?"

"See," she answered, "on your dress it is evident that you don't spend much; your cigars are a small matter; so it seems to me that you might put a part aside to supply what we most need."

I accepted with pleasure, and every week brought her the surplus; and I strove that it should not be small, for she knew pretty well what I had over. At the end of a few weeks I found that I had a package of six or eight beautiful shirts with plaited cuffs, such as I had always worn ever since I was a boy. An intelligent economy saves us from need, and even in narrow circumstances makes life easy. I owe to this wise woman the exact and judicious regulation of my family, as well in the first years of our marriage—when we were very much restricted in means—as in those which came after.

My eagerness to see her every evening, my exactness in carrying her all my savings, and the respect which I showed her by my words and acts, made me dearer to her eyes than I ever was before. One evening we were standing at the window of our little parlour, which overlooked a garden which was not ours. On its ledge were some pots of flowers reaching out over the windows, and among the flowers was a plant of verbena, which she liked above all things. I talked to her of my studies, of my hopes, of the happiness I felt in being near her; and all the time I was so close to her, that our two breathings were mingled together.

She was silent, her face and eyes lifted to the starry heavens. The perfume of the flowers, the silence of the evening, and her sweet and chaste ecstasy so touched me, that, impelled by an irresistible force, I reached my lips towards hers. My movement was instantaneous, but I failed to carry out my purpose; she turned away her face, and my lips only brushed against a lock of her hair, and then she immediately moved away and seated herself beside her mother. After forty years this comes back to me as if it had just happened. Her face had an expression neither of displeasure nor of joy; but a certain somewhat of sorrow was there, which seemed an answer to all that I had been saying. When she perceived that I was serious and a little mortified, she said with calm benignity—

Then quickly rising, she cut off a sprig, put it in the buttonhole of my coat, and said—

The 7th of December 1836, on the Vigil of the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary, I married my good Marina in the Church of St Ambrogio. This was, in truth, the great event of my life, and that which exercised the most salutary influence over my studies, over my peace, and over the prosperity and morality of my family. We were married in the evening, not only to screen ourselves from the curious, but also because our joy was as secret as it was great. Our witnesses were Luigi Sani, son of my chief—he for whom (as I hope my reader has not forgotten) I used when a boy to prepare his clay—and Bartolomeo Bianciardi, who was a workman in the shop of Sani. At our modest supper, besides the witnesses, were my father and mother.

My new existence being thus assured, I began to think seriously how to carry out and give real form to the dream of all my life, which resolved itself into this—to be a sculptor. My young wife was timid, and sought to persuade me that I was very well as I was. My father openly blamed me, and kept repeating in his beloved Latin, "Multi sunt vocati pauci vero electi" (Many are called but few chosen). This I knew as well as he; but he referred it to my desire to be an artist, and my ambition did not reach further than merely to be a workman in marble. My mother listened to me kindly, and half sympathised with me in my bold hope of becoming a workman in some sculptor's studio. To my dear wife (for she above all others was nearest my heart, and on her account it behoved me to take care what I was doing) I kept repeating—

"My good Marina, listen. I risk nothing. I do not lose my skill as a wood-carver, and if I only study sculpture in the off-hours of my work, this very study may be useful to me as a carver; and if I succeed in becoming a sculptor, I shall be able to earn more, and acquire reputation, and enable you to live well and to give up your trade. Say, would not this be a good thing?"

In the meantime, in view of an offer of Signor Magi to give me some drawings and designs to copy, I went, according to our agreement, to his studio in the Licei di Candeli, and begged him to fulfil his promise; and a few days after he gave me some heads in light and dark from the "Transfiguration" of Raphael, which I copied, working at them early in the morning and in the evenings. Having finished these rapidly and to his satisfaction, he gave me plate by plate the whole course of anatomy of Professor Sabatelli, done in red chalk. In this task I was so interested that I worked till very late at night, until I had attained such facility and knowledge, that after sketching in the general outlines, I at once finished them without requiring to make a rough copy. Magi was surprised that I was able so easily to turn off every day a copy of one of these drawings of legs, arms, and torsi, which were of life size. Afterwards he gave me a number of the so-called Accademie, which are nude studies of the entire figure—and these, too, I drew rapidly and with increasing taste; and so enamoured was I of them, that I afterwards repeated them at the shop upon any fragment of paper or wood, drawing them in all their attitudes from memory.

I made, as I was well aware, very rapid progress, and I longed for the moment when the master should say to me that it was time to begin to model. In fact, he soon suggested this. However, as it was necessary to have a certain apparatus and help, I could only begin to model in the studio of Magi. It was therefore arranged that I should go to him during all the off-hours of my work; and this I did. I will not stop to note the number of hands, feet, and heads that he made me copy; I will only say that my life was most exhausting, and my wife, poor dear, had to suffer for it. She had to wait for dinner, and I was often so late, that I had only time to swallow a little soup and a piece of bread, and then to rush back to the shop.

When I remember this life of mine, with its painful anxieties and struggles, it makes me angry to see some of the youths of to-day, with every opportunity and all their time, and without a care in the world, either for their family or any thing or person, who rot in idleness, assume airs of scorn for others, even for their masters, and then swear out against adverse fortune, and deplore their genius crushed and unrecognised, and similar insipidities. My two hours of rest during the day, which were from one to three o'clock, were thus occupied: one hour was given to study, and the other was but just sufficient to enable me to go from my shop in the Piazza di San Biagio to the Liceo di Candeli, and there take my dinner, and then return to the shop. I was punctual too, for I was determined to do my duty, and to keep my promise to my wife never to allow my study of sculpture to interfere with my regular occupation.

It was indeed a life full of agitations, anxieties, fears, and privations, but animated with what joyous hopes! Every evening when I came back from my work, I devoted myself at home to making anatomical drawings from casts, while my wife did her ironing in the same room; and I drew until the hour of supper came. It was a pure sweet pleasure to me to see that strong and lively creature coming and going with her flat-irons from the fireplace to the table, and gaily ironing, and singing

"Muskets and broadswords; fire—fire—poum!"[4]

as she smoothed and beat with the flat-iron on the linen, while her mother sat silently spinning in the corner. Truly that blessed woman was right when she said, "We are so happy as we are"—for one of the purest joys that cheers my present life is the memory of those days. No joy is purer than that which comes from the memory of that past time of work, of study, and of domestic peace. Those days of narrow means and agitations now shine upon me with a serene and lovely light; and I bless the Lord, who softens by His grace the bitterness of poverty and the harshness of fatigue, and so preserves this sweetness of remembrance in the heart, that neither time nor fortune has the power to extinguish it, or even to diminish it.

In the opinion of my master, Signor Magi, I had arrived at that point in my studies that I could be permitted to make portraits from life. Accordingly he proposed that I should find some friend who had time and patience to stand for me as a model. I soon found one, and his was the first bust I modelled. The likeness was good, and Magi and the others began to have a strong faith in my future. Encouraged by this trial from life, I determined to make a statuette of small dimensions. The subject which was given to me by Magi was Santa Filomena standing with her head and eyes turned to heaven, one hand on her breast and the other holding a bunch of lilies, while the anchor, the sign of her martyrdom, lay at her feet. The statuette was liked; and I pleased myself with executing it in wood, and finished it with great care of handling and delicacy of detail. It was exhibited at the Accademia delle Belle Arti in 1838; was praised by distinguished artists, such as Benvenuti and Bartolini; and the latter recalled it to me when, some time afterwards, I went to ask for work in his studio, and said—

"Believe me, my dear sir, if I had any work to give you to do, I would give it with pleasure, for I have seen that statuette of yours, which shows that you have intelligence and love."

My Santa Filomena was liked—liked by artists and by those who were not artists; but no purchaser presented himself, and I was anxious to sell it, not only for the sake of a little money, which would have been very opportune, but still more for the satisfaction of my amore proprio as an artist. But the purchaser did not come, and I was obliged to place my statuette in the magazine of antiquities of the Brothers Pacetti, on the ground-floor of the Borghese Palace in the Via del Palagio. It did not long remain here, however. It was frequented by many strangers, who found there a great number of things which were curious, and some of which were really beautiful. In this magazine there were, first of all, old pictures of our Florentine school: whence they had been excavated I know not, but the exportation of them out of the country was not as difficult as it now is. There were also terre cotte of the school of Luca della Robbia, statuettes in bronze, marble busts of the Roman school, to ornament halls or staircases in palaces; chests of ebony inlaid with pietra dura, ivory, tortoise-shell, &c. Specially rich was it in Venetian glass, antique plates, enamels, laces, &c., &c. There, among all these antiquities, figured my Santa Filomena, which seemed more pure and white from contrast with all the chests of drawers, and stuffs, and tapestries which formed its background.

A Russian gentleman asked the price; and it being stated to him, without refusing to take it, he made a strange condition of purchase. He would not have it a saint, and in consequence he exacted that all the attributes which belonged to Santa Filomena should be removed. I took great pains to make him see that this could not be done, and that the statuette would in so doing lose much of its artistic value. If the lilies were taken from the hand, it would be perfectly meaningless and idle, and would injure the expression of the figure. He seemed to a certain extent persuaded, but he still persisted that he would not have it as a saint; and after thinking for a long time how he could change the name, and seeing that there was an anchor at her feet, he said that it might be called Hope. I remained between yes and no, and only observed to him that Hope ought to hold the anchor in her hand, and not leave it on the ground as if she had forgotten it.

"No matter," he answered, "I insist on calling it Hope; but the lilies must be removed."

I answered that they would rather help the subject, and it might be called The Virgin, Hope.

There remained the crown of roses on her head, but in regard to this everything was easy. Roses are the symbol of joy, and Hope in the purity of its aspirations is crowned with joy. Truly that day I was a more eloquent orator than artist.

The Russian, quite content (and I more than he), counted me out the price of the statuette in golden napoleons, and before it was boxed up, had inscribed on the base of the Filomena these words—La Vera Speranza.

After this work, Magi advised me to begin to work in marble. This cost me little trouble, practised as I was in carving wood, which, though it is a softer material, is more ungrateful and irresponsive. After a few weeks' practice, I was able to execute some works, and to assure myself that henceforward, whenever I wished, I could go from one material to the other. Remember, however, that I then did not even dream of becoming an artist. I only hoped to succeed as a workman in marble, as I then was in wood. The idea of being an artist came to me afterwards, slowly and by degrees—the appetite growing, as the saying is, by eating; or I should rather say, I was driven and drawn to it, out of pique and self-assertion (punto d'onore). But let us proceed regularly.

About this time Signor Sani received an order from certain nuns—I do not now remember whom—to make a Christ upon the cross, which was to be of small size and executed in boxwood. Naturally Sani thought of me, and gave it to me to execute. I set to work upon it with such love and such a desire to do well, that I neglected nothing. After making studies of parts from life, and pilfering here and there, I succeeded in making an ensemble, movement, character, and expression appropriate to the subject, and this I executed with patience and intelligence. But the excellence of the work was superior to the importance of the commission. Let me explain myself. The time it cost me, and consequently the price I was paid by my principal for my weeks of labour, far exceeded that which had been agreed upon by the persons giving the commission. Sani, a little grudgingly, but still feeling that it did honour to his shop, showed himself half pleased and half annoyed; and when other persons afterwards came to urge forward the work on which he was engaged for them, and praised this Christ of mine, Sani took all the praise to himself as if it belonged to him. Nor was he to blame for this. The Christ, however, on account of the difference of price, remained in his shop shut up in his chest. But as it had been somewhat noised about, many came expressly to see it. Among these was the Cavaliere Professore Giuseppe Martelli, who lately died, and who having seen it, told Sani that he hoped to induce the Cavaliere Priore Emanuel Fenzi to buy it. He was then putting in order the principal suite of rooms in the palace of the Via San Gallo for the wedding of the Cavaliere Fenzi's eldest son, Orazio, with the noble Lady Emilia de' Conte della Gherardesca, and he hoped to place this Christ at the head of the bed of this young couple. And this in fact happened. The Christ was seen and bought, and I believe that it is still in that house. I saw it there myself when poor Orazio, who honoured me with his friendship, was alive.

I shall again refer to this Christ; but for the present, let us go on. I had a great desire to give up once for all this working in wood—not because I thought that material less worthy than marble, for the excellence of a work depends upon the skill and knowledge of the artist, and not upon the material which he has used. Very worthless statues have been seen, and still may be seen, in beautiful marble, and, vice versâ, beautiful statues in simple terra cotta or wood.

"You will be noble if you are virtuous," answered D'Azeglio to his son, when the latter asked him, with the ingenuousness of a child, if their family was noble.

Let us then understand that the nobility of any one is founded upon his deeds, and the excellence of a work depends upon the work itself, and not upon the material. We shall return to this consideration hereafter; now let us proceed. I say that I wished to give up working in wood, because it was my business at the shop to make all sorts of little things, such as candlesticks, cornices, masks, &c. Naturally it fell to me to make them; and not always—on the contrary, very rarely—it happened that I had a Christ, an angel, or anything of that kind to execute: and on this account I was irritable and irascible (except when I was at home) with everybody, and specially with myself.

At Magi's I had as much work as I wished. I had already finished for him two busts,—one of the Grand Duke in Roman drapery, according to the style then in vogue among the academic sculptors, who dressed in Roman or Greek costume the portrait of their own uncle or godfather; the other of an old woman, whom I did not know. Work enough I had; but naturally I wished to earn something by it, and this was soon spoken of. I understand very well that the master has a kind of right to all the profits of the first works of his pupil; but with me this went on so long, that at last he saw its impropriety; and he proposed to engage me to finish the group of Charity which he had made for the Chapel of the Poggio Imperiale, as a substitute for that wonderful work of Bartolini, which is still admired in the Palatine Gallery. But the proposition of Magi was in every way impossible to accept, as he only agreed to pay me when the work was completed—that is to say, I and my family were to go for at least a year without anything to eat.

I tried here and there; but I could not make a satisfactory arrangement, and I had to resign myself to the making of candlesticks. I had now become a father. My wife had given me a little girl, whom I lost afterwards when she was seven years old; and as I have never made mention of my dear angel, let me embellish the meagreness of my prose with the charming verses of Giovanni Battista Niccolini, who then honoured me with his friendship, and which he wrote with his own hand under the portrait of my little child. They are as follows:—

Few were the evils that Life brought to thee,
Dear little one, ere thou from us wast torn,
Even as a rosebud plucked in early morn.
Tears thou hast left, and many a memory,
To those who gave thee birth,
But thou from Life's short dream on earth
Hast waked the perfect bliss of heaven to see;
And thou art safe in port, and in the tempest we.

Pochi a te della vita
Furono i mali, o pargoletta, e mori
Come rose ch'è colta ai primi albóri.
Ognor memoria e pianto
Al genitor sarai, benchè per sempre
Dal sogno della vita in ciel gia desta.
Tu stai nel porto e noi siamo in tempesta.

CHAPTER V.

One day, in the studio of Magi, I and another young man were modelling together a man's torso which had been cast from nature. A friend of Magi, a painter, as he passed by us paused, and after looking at our two copies, said, turning to my rival and patting him gently on the shoulder, "I am delighted: this is an artist!" Then turning to me with an expression of regret, he said, "A rivederla." My good reader, do you think that made me despair? No, by the Lord! I tell you rather that these words were seared upon my brain as with a red-hot iron, and there they still remain—and they did me a great deal of good. The Professor who spoke them (yes, he was a Professor), three years afterwards embraced me in the Accademia delle Belle Arti before my "Abel." My rival? My rival is perfectly sound in health, and is fatter and more vigorous than I am, but he is not a sculptor. So, my dear young artist, courage! in the face of poverty, and opposition, and abuse, and contempt, and even (remember this) of blandishments and flatteries, which are more destructive than even abuse and contempt.

But be careful to consider well what your vocation really is, and do not allow yourself to be deluded by false appearances. It is absolutely necessary that your calling should be imperious, tenacious, persistent; that it should enter into all your thoughts; that it should give its form and pressure to all your feelings; that it should not abandon you even in your sleep; and that it should drive from your memory your hour of dinner, your appointments, your ease, your pleasures. If, when you take a walk in the country, the hills and groves do not awaken in you in the least the idea that it would be pleasant to own them; but, instead of this, if you feel yourself enamoured by the beautiful harmony of nature, with its varied outlines, and swelling bosoms, and slopes sadly illuminated by the setting sun, and all seems to you an exquisite picture—then hope. If at the theatre you see a drama represented, and you feel impelled to judge within yourself whether this or that character is well played—whether the gestures, the expression of face, and the inflections of voice are such as properly belong to the character, and accord with the affections that move him, or the passions which agitate him—then hope. If, while you are walking along, you see the face of a beautiful woman, and if it does not immediately awaken in you the idea of a statue with its name and expression, but, on the contrary, you idly or improperly admire it—then fear. If in reading of a pathetic incident you feel your heart grow tender; if the triumph of pride and arrogance rouse your scorn—then hope. And if you do not feel your faculties debilitated by the long and thorny path of study, but, on the contrary, tempered and strengthened every day by constant and patient labour, then hope—hope—hope. If you have property, attend to the management of it. If you are poor, learn some trade. It is better to be a good carpenter than a bad artist.

In my own case, I armed myself with stout patience, and pursued my ordinary work of wood-carving; and when I returned home in the evening, I applied myself to study, and, in the simple and frank conversation of my wife, felt a calm come over my agitated mind; and my powers, enervated by ungrateful labour, were thus restored. But the opportunity which was to launch me once and for ever in art was already near, and I seized upon it with all my strength, hope, and love. Many and sad were the first steps against opposition and division; but I pushed on, and I have never stopped since.

Professor Ulisse Cambi, who had seen me modelling in Magi's studio, and who had his own studio close by, now began to talk to me about the triennial competition in sculpture, which took place precisely in this year, and he proposed that I should go in for it, and hoped that I should succeed; but even if I did not, he said, at all events the study incident to it would be no loss to me. Flattered by this suggestion, which showed that he had some confidence in me, I replied that I would think of it, and would speak about it to Magi, who might possibly lend me one of his rooms which he did not use, and also give me his assistance. I spoke to him on the subject, but I did not find him at all disposed to favour the project. In the first place, he told me that he could not give me a room; then that he did not think that I had gone on sufficiently far in my studies to be able to attempt such a competition; and finally, that he would not undertake to direct my work. This answer having been repeated to Cambi, he told me that he was convinced that I should succeed, and that if Magi would neither give me a room nor superintend my work, he would do both—and this he did.

The subject of the basso-relievo was "The Judgment of Paris," and required five figures—Paris, Venus, Minerva, Juno, and Mercury. I made a sketch; but it did not please Cambi, and taking a piece of paper, he sketched with a pen a new composition, saying, "That, I think, will do very well." I then made a new sketch founded upon this by Cambi. Some one will now say, "This is not right; you ought to have worked out an idea of your own, and not one of your master's." Agreed; but these considerations will come afterwards. For the present, let us go on.

In the meantime it was necessary to come to a decision, and to take into consideration that the work required much time, and could not be completed in my off-hours, as I had hitherto done with my other studies, and also that money would be required to pay the models; so that, as it would be necessary to give less time to my ordinary work, I should earn less, while I should have need of more money in order to pay the models. The problem was a difficult one, and at first sight not easily solved. The reader will remember the Brothers Pacetti, in whose shop I had sold the Santa Filomena. One of these, Tonino, had often said to me that if I would work for them they would give me anything to do that I might prefer—whether cornices rich with figures and putti and arabesques, or coffers and chests all'antica, or whatever I liked with figures, with the prices agreed upon, and liberty to work when and how I liked. The offer was excellent, as you see; but it involved leaving my old master Sani, and I was affectionately attached to him, and he and all in the shop were attached to me; and on this account I felt repugnance to leaving the place and the persons who had helped me on when I was a child. So, thanking Pacetti, I repeatedly refused his offer. But now it was necessary to come to a decision between two alternatives—either to abandon the competition and remain in the shop, or to abandon the shop and accept the offer of the Brothers Pacetti. I spoke of this to my good Marina, who at first did not look upon it at all favourably, fearing that if I left the shop, which had always given me work, I should find myself left in the lurch by the other, in spite of all the fine promises of gain and liberty and the like. But at last, seeing that I was decided, she contented herself with saying, "Do as you think best." O blessed woman, may God reward thee!

When I stated to old Sani my determination to leave his shop, angry as a hornet, he said, "Do as you like," and spoke to me no more the whole day. The next day, however, more softened, but still severe, he asked me the reason of this strange resolution, and I told him. Then he proposed an increase of salary and a diminution of work, and at last agreed (I must do justice to this good man) to allow me to have all the hours which were necessary for the competition. But I had already made my contract with Pacetti, had decided upon a work after my own choice, arranged the room given me by Pacetti, and which was the Hospital for Horses in the old stable of the Palazzo Borghese, and I could not withdraw from it.

I began to model the basso-relievo for the competition in the studio Cambi, and my intaglio work I did in the little studio or stable of the Palazzo Borghese. The work that I had undertaken for Pacetti was curious. It had every recommendation except that of honesty. Let me explain. There was at this time a great passion among strangers for antique objects: great chests, cornices, and coffers, provided they were old, were sought for and purchased; but modern works, though of incontestable merit, no one cared for, and they brought very low prices. It came into the head either of Pacetti or myself—I do not remember which—to make something in imitation of the antique (and so far it was all right), and to sell it for antique, and here was the maggot.

It was settled, then, that I should make a coffer or chest in the beautiful and rich style of the Seicento—rectangular of form and not high. The cover was slightly pointed, with various arabesque ornaments, and in the centre of this cover in the front I carved a Medusa crying out loudly; and by looking at myself in the mirror, I succeeded in giving a good deal of truth to the sad expression of this head—indeed the muscles of the face and the eyes had such a truth of expression that I would not promise to do as well again even now. This is the portion of the work which is really original; all the divisions in panels, and the external faces, were an absolute counterfeit representation of the ornaments on the bookshelves in the Libreria Laurenziana, which were carved by Tasso the carver, the friend of Benvenuto Cellini, and, as some say, were designed by Cellini himself. Every precaution was taken—the wood was antique but not worm-eaten, so that I could carve with delicacy all the ornaments, dragons, and chimeræ; and when it was finished, here and there a worm-hole was counterfeited and filled up with wax, but so as to be visible. The hinges and ironwork were also imitations of the antique, which were first oxidated and then repolished. In a word, it was a veritable trap, and I give an account of it for the sake of the truth; and I hope that the first statement of this falsification does not come from me. But however this may be, we laughed at it, and it amused me then, though now it displeases me.

This coffer was seen by many persons, some of whom asked the price; but Pacetti set a high value upon it, and he had spread about some sort of story that it was a work of Benvenuto Cellini's. Finally, after some time, the Marchioness Poldi of Milan, who had gone to Florence to urge Bartolini to finish the famous group of Astyanax which he was making for her, saw this coffer, liked it, and took it for an antique; but in regard to the excellence of the work, and above all the name of the artist to whom it was sought to attribute it, she determined to consult Bartolini himself, and if his judgment was favourable, to buy it for the price that was asked, but which naturally was not what I had been paid. Bartolini decided that it was one of the finest works of Tasso the intagliatore, made after the designs of Benvenuto Cellini; and the Marchioness Poldi then bought the coffer, and carried it to Milan.

Four years later, I finished my "Abel" and "Cain." I had made a name, which had been rendered still more attractive by the curious story of my origin; for all of a sudden, while nobody knew who I was, I seemed to be an artist who had been born one morning and grown up before night. The only thing that was reported about me was, that I had never studied, and that I had suddenly leaped from the bench of the intagliatore on to that of the sculptor. The reader who has thus far followed me, and who will continue with me up to the completion of my "Abel" and "Cain," will see with what heedlessness these reports were propagated. Let us go on. The Marchioness Poldi came to my studio, and having heard the story of my life, which was in the hands of all, and was written in that easy, attractive, and poetic style of which Farini is master, told me that she possessed a magnificent work in intaglio by the famous intagliatore Tasso, and said that this work was imagined and executed with such grace and excellence that it might truly be called a work of art, and she added that these were the very words of Bartolini.

The reader may imagine whether I was flattered by this; and in consequence of this praise, as well as to pluck out this thorn from my heart by a confession of my fault, I said, "I beg your pardon, Signora Marchesa, but that work was made by me."

The Marchioness looked at me with a kind of wonder, and then said, "No matter—nay, all the better."

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 competition. Scarcely had I put my foot into that studio when I became timid, embarrassed, 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.