Meanwhile, as I was finishing the model of Cain, the Grand Duchess Maria Antonietta ordered of me a statue for the Uffizi. I selected Giotto, and she presented this statue to the Commission for erecting statues of illustrious Tuscans, which, while they ornament the Loggia, serve to recall past glory and to advise one to study more and to chatter a little less. In roughing out the statue I found a flaw which split the marble in two. I was obliged to throw it away and to buy another block. When the good Grand Duchess heard of this, she insisted upon repaying me the price of the new marble. I note this because so generous an act is uncommon.

The Cain was exhibited, and, as was natural, was less liked than the Abel,—first of all, because the enthusiasm raised by the former statue had too sensibly wounded the self-love of many; and then, because some of my friends were too zealous, and their excessive praise of it before it was on exhibition created a public opinion in its favour which perhaps was not justified by its merits, for the difficulties of the subject were very great. With a phrase more witty than just, they said, "This time Abel has killed Cain;" but Bartolini, who generally liked wit, said this was unjust and stupid, and declared that I had overcome a thousand times greater difficulties than in the Abel. But that witticism was prompted by suspicion and passion, and it came from those same persons who said that the Abel had been cast from life.

Being proposed by Bartolini, I was elected Professor of the Academy. At that time, being invited by some of my townsmen, I went to Siena, where I was received with warmth and fraternal love. I was a guest of the Bianchis—of that charming Signora Laura who had always been so good to my poor mother and my family. That dear lady, and Carlo, who is still alive, and Luigi, who, alas! was too soon snatched away from the love of his relations and of Siena, rejoiced in seeing me made the subject of honour and ovation by all the citizens, who came to the palace to greet me.

I remember with emotion that crowd of people, and those deputations of the contrade and academies of the city, sent to bring me salutations and presents. These were the first flowers that I gathered and smelt in the garden of my youth; and their perfume I still smell, and it is now perhaps even more delightful, for it is associated in my memory with a time when I had no remorse.

A subscription was opened on the spot, promoted by the Cavaliere Alessandro Saracini, the Count Scipione Borghese, the Count Augusto dei Gori, and the Marquis Alessandro Bichi-Ruspoli. The statue which they ordered was of the Pontiff Pius II., Eneas Silvius Piccolomini.

These four gentlemen were good friends of mine; but I saw Saracini oftenest, as he came to Florence on business affairs. He had an intelligent love of Art, which he practised a little for his amusement, and he was President of the Institute of Fine Arts at Siena. One day he came to me quite breathless. He said that he had seen, in a shop or store-house near the Via Faenza, a wall all painted over, and that it was concealed by carriages, carts, wheels, and poles—in fact, it was at a carriage-maker's.

"But what painting is it?" I asked.

"I do not know—I cannot say what it is; but it appears to me very beautiful," he replied. "It is like Perugino, or certainly of his school."

"Wait a moment," I said; "here in the neighbourhood is some one who understands these things better than you or I;" and we went to Count Carlo della Porta, and to Ignazio Zotti, painters who lived in the Niccolini building with me. They lost no time, and we all four went to the place. Carlo della Porta having placed a ladder against the wall, mounted, and stayed there only a few moments, then descended, and made Zotti go up. They then, after exchanging some words, expressed the opinion that it was by Raphael.

The clearing out of this place, and the arguments for and against the decision on the part of the Government, and the ultimate destination of the picture, are all well known, and I pass to other things. Having finished the Giotto, I went to Rome to make studies there for the statue of Pius II. I stayed there a month, and lived at the Hotel Cesari, Piazza di Pietra. It was the month of December 1844.

I must confess, whatever it costs me, that the Eternal City did not make the most favourable impression upon me; and except the ruins of ancient Rome, the Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Forum, with its triumphal arches and colonnades, all the rest excited in me no enthusiasm. But I must admit I had been spoiled by too much praise; and I was so vain, that while I accepted everything with apparent modesty, I was so puffed up internally with pride that at times it would show itself in spite of me. I remember once at the house of the Signora Clementina Carnevali, where every evening were to be seen all the most distinguished persons in Rome, either in letters or art, strangers as well as Italians,—I remember, I say, to have replied in a most impertinent manner to some one who asked me how I liked the monuments and the art of Rome, and what above all had most pleased me. I replied—and I blush to repeat it—"What I like best is the stewed broccoli"—a reply as outrageously stupid as insolent, and I wonder that those who heard it could have taken it in good part. For myself, as I feel to-day, if a young artist had replied to me in such a manner, he would have got little good out of it, and so much the better for him!

But I had better luck; my foolish reply was repeated by every one, and so clouded by vanity and pride were my eyes, that I fancied it excited mirth and approbation, while it really deserved only compassion.

O Minardi! O Tenerani! O Massimo d'Azeglio! you who were present, but now dead, cannot see the amende which I make. However, you knew me later, and were aware of my repentance. But as for you, excellent Clementina—who are alive, and will read, I hope, these pages—if then you smiled with compassion, because you are so good you will to-day smile with approbation and praise.

And now, gentle reader, would you like to see how headstrong and proud I had become? One evening—Christmas Eve—I proposed to go to the midnight Mass at St Peter's. I set out at ten o'clock from the Via Condotti, where I had passed the evening with some of my English friends whom I had known in Florence. Mrs ——, to whom I had disclosed my purpose, said, "Take care! you are not much acquainted with Roman streets; you had better take a carriage to go there. If you do not, you may easily lose your way in the streets of Rome. They are very confusing by day; imagine what they are at night!" If this lady had not given me such a warning, it is probable that I should have done as she suggested; but because she had given it I despised it, and determined to go by myself to St Peter's.

I walked until two o'clock without even being able to find the bridge of St Angelo. I got bewildered in all those streets and lanes which are comprised between San Luigi dei Francesi, Piazza Navona, San Andrea della Valle, San Carlo a Catinari, Teatro Argentina, Il Gesu, and San Ignazio e la Minerva; and after having walked for two hours, I found myself at the point I had started from. Then, more obstinate than ever, though overcome by weariness and mortified pride, I persisted in going up and down all sorts of streets unknown to me, and often very filthy, and again coming across the same piazze, the same fountains, until at last I found myself at the foot of the Campidoglio steps. The people whom I met in the streets here and there returning from the Mass could have shown me the way, not to go to St Peter's, but how to return to my hotel, had I been less headstrong, and had I inquired for the Piazza Colonna or Piazza di Pietra, where I lodged. But no; it appeared to me to be a humiliation. I wished to find the hotel by myself; and I did find it finally, but in what a condition I leave those to judge who know Rome, and the sharp pavements of its streets, but, above all, tired out, and more than this, humiliated and without supper. It was two o'clock. The Hotel Cesari was shut, and I had to wait until they opened it for me. I asked for supper; they replied that they had nothing, and that if they had it they could not give me anything, because they were prohibited by law from supplying any food on that night. I should have been glad of any little thing, but could get nothing. My pride was singularly punished that night, and I went to bed hungry. At first I strove in vain to go to sleep, then I dreamt all night of eating, and awoke in the morning rather late. I could not realise that I could get up and have a good breakfast. I went over again in thought the weariness of the night, the hunger, the annoyance, and I felt weak. But finally I said to myself, I will eat now, and another time I shall be wiser. Now to breakfast! After going out of the hotel, I turned to the right to go into the Osteria dell'Archetto. It was closed; the caffè next door was closed. I ran into the Piazza Colonna, and found all shut up—caffès, pastry-cooks, everything closed. I asked, angrily and with a bewilderment easy to comprehend, what was the reason of this, and was told that during the time of the religious ceremonies no one could sell anything to eat. I was stupefied, and walked along slowly, not knowing where to go. Until after twelve o'clock neither the trattorie nor the caffès would be opened. I would not go back to the hotel, as I feared a refusal such as I had the night before. I began to feel very faint; for nearly twenty hours I had eaten nothing. I saw the people gaily walking about, smiling, smoking, and looking well-fed and of good colour, and I felt angry and envious. They had eaten leisurely and at home, or in the caffè or trattoria before ten o'clock, the hour prescribed. I had slept until that hour, and dreamt of eating, and when I went out intending to get something to eat, it was too late. Fortunately, one of my friends, the engraver Travalloni, saw me, and coming to meet me, said, "What is the matter? Why do you look so scared?" I told him my story, and he laughed, and taking me by the arm, said—"Come with me." After a few turns he entered a doorway half closed, and pushed me up a dark staircase, where there were the savoury odours of cooking, all the more grateful to me because my appetite was so great. The staircase opened upon an ante-room, also dark. We closed the door and knocked at a smaller door. It was opened, and I found myself in a spacious hall, well ventilated and full of people, who were sitting eating and drinking cheerfully at table.

"What is this?" I asked. "Can I get anything to eat here?"

"Yes," he said; "give your orders."

The waiter, with a napkin over his shoulder, was standing before us. I was like a full flask which, being upturned, can with difficulty empty itself. There was such a variety of odours in the room, and such a quantity of things to eat, that I could not get out a word; and my friend, seeing my embarrassment, hastened to say to me—

"Will you have some soup and a cutlet?"

"Yes; two," I replied.

"Will you have Orvieto or good Roman wine?"

"Do me the favour to bring anything you please, so long as you bring me something to eat and drink. I can't stop to choose."

And the good Travalloni, turning to the servant, said—

"Bring at once a flask of Orvieto, such as I drink—you understand?—some bread, some soup, a cutlet, cheese, and fruit."

That day Travalloni appeared to me to be a man of genius.

CHAPTER VIII.

M My studio, as I think I have already said, was the resort of many of the literary men of the time—Giusti, Thouar, Montazio, La Farina, F. S. Orlandini, Enrico Mayer, Girolamo Gargiolli, Giovanni Chiarini, Filippo Moisè, and sometimes, but rarely, G. B. Niccolini, Atto Vannucci, and Giuseppe Arcangeli. These distinguished men, all talking with me, and bringing forward their theories of Art, somewhat confused me in my ideas. I said, at the very beginning of these memoirs—and the reader, I hope, keeps it in mind—that I had received no education, and my judgment was not trained to discern and distinguish the laws of the beautiful, which, the more deeply one studies them, the more they scatter, and seem, as it were, to fly from us. I was attracted to Art by a purely natural sentiment, which I sought to express by a simple imitation of nature; and so far, I think I was right, for whatever other path we may take, supported however it may be by philosophic and æsthetic reasons, it will prove utterly fallacious unless it lead to this end, of imitating the beautiful in nature, and will surely lead astray the young artist, even though he has a good natural talent and a lively fancy.

Yes, sir; my poor head was perplexed, and I began to distrust nature, with its imperfections and its vulgarity. The warm and imaginative utterances of La Farina made all the words of Niccolini seem colourless to me, for though given with antique beauty, they came from him with difficulty. The pure and touching morality of Thouar conflicted with the humoristic and cynical freedom of Montazio. Giusti, who might have set me right in my opinions, kept at a distance without giving a reason why; and in this he was wrong, for I should have given heed to him. But he contented himself with writing to the advocate Galeotti, telling him that I was surrounded by a number of fops who spoiled me, and that if I did not shut myself up in my studio, as I did when I made the Abel, I should not succeed in making anything good. This outburst of Giusti's I only knew many years afterwards, on the publication of his letters.

I remember one day, when Giusti was with me, I recited from memory the canto in the 'Inferno' relating to Francesca, but when I came to this passage—

he interrupted me, saying, "You recite well and intelligently the verses of the divine poet; but you, too, fall into the error into which so many have fallen—copyists, printers, and commentators—that of placing the semicolon at the end of the line, after the word portate, instead of putting it in the middle of the line, after the word aere. This punctuation makes Dante guilty of a blunder, he attributing to the doves, besides desire, which is most proper, also will, which belongs properly to man. Try and place the comma and the pause after the word aere, and you will see what a stupendous philosophical value it gives to the verses. Listen; I will repeat them to you:—

This correction, so clear, so easy, so just, satisfied me immediately, and from that day I have always recited these lines in this way. The unintelligent did not perceive the change of sense, but those who were more attentive and refined gave me praise for it; but I rejected it at once as belonging to me, saying that the correction was due to Giuseppe Giusti.[6]

In making my Giotto, I followed my inspiration by drawing upon nature for that type of rude good-nature which constituted the outward character of my statue; and although some of my literary friends, who were more attached to the antique and the so-called bello ideale, blamed me, and some artists of distinction opposed me openly, I firmly adhered to the sound principle of imitating nature. The Giotto was finished without a moment's indecision, although, as I have said, I had been revolving over and over again in my mind the conception of a beauty ideal and beyond nature, but which, without great judgment, becomes conventional.

About this time a controversy occurred between me and a great artist which it may be well to speak of here, because, although it will show how tenacious I was of this principle of imitating nature, yet it will also show how much I was affected by it, and how the acerbity of this artist produced a change in me, which certainly he did not desire. His fear was lest I should fall into a servile copying of life; and had his language been more measured, we should easily have understood each other. But he took a different course, and I now proceed to give the history of this controversy.

I had a short time previously completed my model of Giotto, and, as I have said, some among the artists most tenacious of the classic rules attacked me sharply, but Bartolini defended me. I was therefore somewhat irritated when Calamatta, accompanied by Signor Floridi, the draughtsman, came to my studio. He came in with a magisterial and rather arrogant air. I received him politely and with respectful words, such as became me towards the author of the famous mask of Napoleon I. He looked at "Abel" and "Cain" without opening his mouth, and as if he found in them nothing either to praise or to blame; but when he came to the "Giotto," he said, "I have heard a good deal of talk about you, in which you have been lauded to the skies, and I wished to come and ascertain with my own eyes whether you were entitled to your fame; and I confess to you, though what I shall say may seem bitter to you, that in the presence of your works your fame disappears; and if it be permitted to me to make a comparison, I should say that you produce the same effect upon me as if I saw a balloon inflated with gas rising majestically in the air, and which, after arriving at a certain height, bursts, and afterwards leaves nothing to be seen." I answered that such things might be thought, and even spoken, but a little more graciously, and I said no more. Calamatta rejoined, with some irritation, that he was a person who could not endure the ugly—that it was his instinct to denounce it with the same vivacity and earnestness that one does when there is a cry of fire, and some place is in flames. I began then to lose my patience: still I only contented myself with asking whether he was quite sure that there was a conflagration, and whether he was absolutely called upon to extinguish it; and finally, added that Bartolini, Tenerani, and others had seen my works, and had spoken of them in very different terms. This only more irritated poor Calamatta, and he said that he had just come from Paris, and had visited Tenerani at Rome, and his insipid and hard mysticism had seemed pitiable to him; and that, on coming to Florence, he had found in Bartolini the most filthy and offensive realism, carried to the point of proclaiming the beauty of deformity, and that in response to his just criticisms upon the injury that he was thus doing to the true principles of Art, Bartolini had advised him to come to my studio and see the application of those principles which he censured,—and now, after examining my works, he perceived that I was sliding down a steep declivity, which would soon precipitate me into naturalism and deformity, and though he recognised in me a certain talent, he warned me to avoid that false school and those insidious precepts, and more than all, to be on my guard against treacherous and lying praises. All this was very fine, if it were granted that I was on a false road. But as I did not think so then, and still less now,—and besides, as I was young, flattered, and praised, and those words of his, "that I should be on my guard against insidious precepts and treacherous praises," seemed to me a very unjust accusation against Bartolini,—I indicated to him that I should be glad if he would leave me in peace, and in fact, as he had declared my works to be ugly, and of an ugliness that he abhorred, he was not in his proper place here; and as to his counsel, not having asked for it, I should not take the trouble to consider it. Poor Calamatta was angry at this, and taking by the hand Floridi, who during the whole squabble was on thorns, he said, "Let us go away; let us go away; let us go away"—and away he went.

Poor Calamatta, my illustrious friend. If any one had said on that day, when we separated with such unpleasant feelings, and on my part with so little kindness, "The time will come, and soon, when he will be your most open defender and friend," I would not have believed him, and I should not have wished to believe him,—and yet it so turned out. In 1855, eleven years after our disagreement, he was in Paris, and on the Jury of the Fine Arts at the World's Exhibition. I had sent a model of the "Abel" in plaster, and among the jury the doubt arose whether it was not cast from life. As in Florence that opinion was originated out of evil-mindedness, so it was repeated in Paris from speciousness, and heedlessness of judgment. Calamatta, whom I had not seen since that famous day, although he frequently returned to Florence, undertook to defend my work with sound reasoning and friendly warmth, but he did not succeed in convincing the entire body of the jury of their error of judgment; and in assigning the prizes, out of mere regard for Calamatta they gave to "Abel" one of the last. Calamatta then rose and said, "Gentlemen, our judgment of this work must not be given in this way. I have endeavoured to show you by artistic reasoning that this statue is really modelled in clay, in imitation of beautiful nature. I have pointed out that certain imperfections which are always found in nature have been wisely avoided by the artist. I have shown you clear proofs of modelling in the mode of working the clay. I thought that I had convinced you that so noble and refined a whole is rather the creation of the mind, through a studious and loving imitation of parts, than a mechanical reproduction by casting; and finally, I have demonstrated, and you have conceded to me, that the head is of equal merit with all the rest of the body, and this could not have been cast from life. From these considerations, which arise from the examination of the work itself, and without regard to the artist, whom I have only once met in Florence, and who is, I believe, inimical to me, I am of opinion that your judgment of this work should be reconsidered, and if it seems to you to be proved that this statue is a cast from nature and not modelled, and in consequence a falsification and not a work of art, you ought not to adjudge to it even the lowest prize, but to exclude it entirely from the Exhibition, and in so doing you should give your reasons for such a decision in writing, and under your signatures,—and in such case I shall retire from the Jury of Fine Arts, and shall publish in the journals of Paris my reasons for withdrawing." After this discourse there arose an exceedingly animated discussion, and the President decided that a new examination of the model should be made; and as many were convinced by the good reasons put forward by Calamatta, the second examination of "Abel" resulted in a complete success, and at the next voting the golden medal of the First Class was awarded to me. The news of this, derived directly from Calamatta himself, was sent to me at once by Rossini, who had conceived a strong affection for me, and honoured me with his friendship.

I now return to the point where I left off. After Giotto I began Pius II.; and filled as my head was by the criticism of the academicians, the eulogies of the naturalisti, the contempt of some to whom the subject was displeasing, and more than all by the exceptional character of the studies I had made for this work, I began it unwillingly, and strove (strangely enough) to conciliate the academicians, copying from the life with timidity, where boldness and fidelity were required—boldness, that is to say, in accepting frankly the stiff paper-like folds of the pontifical mantle, and fidelity in copying them. In consequence I made a washed-out work, and I pleased neither one party nor the other, and much less myself. I make this statement so that young men may be on their guard against allowing themselves to stray from the true path, which is this—viz., to embody the subject in its appropriate form by the imitation of living nature, to strive for truth of character in the general action and in all the particulars, and in proportion as the subject is historical and natural, as in portraiture, to adhere all the more closely to nature. In such a case as this statue of Pius II., it is necessary to be naturalistic—avoiding, of course, all minutiæ which add nothing to the beauty of general effect and the truth of character.

Has it ever happened to you, courteous reader, to meet a person with whom your personal relations brought you often in contact, and who, reserved and serious by nature as well as on account of his social position, differed from you, who are perhaps too vivacious and open; and on the one side you feared to displease him by your vivacity, and on the other you were annoyed by his reserve? In such a case, if certain allowance be made on both sides—as far as you are concerned by listening with attentive deference to his wise counsels, austere maxims, and high principles, and on his part by an indulgent consideration for your free and vivacious nature—has it not happened to you that insensibly and firmly a harmony of relation has established itself which it is difficult to break,—and this for the undeniable, however recondite reason, that there is a sympathy between entirely different natures which causes each to compensate for the other?

In like manner as this may have happened to you, so it happened to me with Luigi Venturi, then private secretary of his Royal and Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Leopold II. He often came to my studio by order of the Grand Duke, for whom I was making a statuette of Dante and another of Beatrice. He took a liking to me, which I have returned sincerely, even till to-day; and he is the oldest and most affectionate of my friends. After the revolution of '59, with the loss of his high position he lost also a great portion of such friends as come with Fortune and flee with her. But neither the ingratitude of some nor the fickleness of others ever drew from him a lament. He was contented with those who remained, and I was one of them. Our long and intimate connection has at last harmonised our characters,—he making me more temperate, and I (as I dare to hope) making him more open and vivacious. His friendship, as well as that of others of whom I shall speak in the proper place, has strengthened my judgment and tempered my fancies. Trustworthy, honest, and sincere friends are a great fortune—and I have had such, and have kept them. To distinguish the good from the bad requires study, and we must learn how to get rid of chatterers and adulators.

And this warning I feel it my duty to give to young artists, for whom these memoirs are specially written. I have already said, in speaking of models, "Girls unaccompanied as models, no!" now I add, "Nor even married women without the express consent of their husbands." Here is a little incident which may serve as a lesson.

Prince Anatolio Demidoff often came to my studio. He gave vent to his annoyance at the delays and the infinite difficulties interposed by Bartolini in completing the groups and statues of the monument ordered by him in honour of the memory of his dead father. To listen to the Prince, he seemed to have a thousand good reasons; but the consequences he drew from them, and the bold, unjust measures which he proposed, I could not but think blameworthy, and I strove in every way to moderate him, and to dissuade him from carrying out his intentions. My frank and loyal defence of Bartolini, so far from exasperating him, as often happened when he was opposed, made him more kindly towards me, and he proposed to order of me a great work worthy, as he was pleased to say, of my genius. He had a thousand projects, and among them he spoke to me of a colossal statue of Napoleon I. He was at that time tenderly inclined toward the Bonaparte family. His pride in being connected with it, as well as the charms of the beautiful Princess, his wife, were in great measure the cause of this enthusiasm. He treated me with great kindness, invited me often to dinner and to his evening receptions, and talked very freely with me in regard to works that he wished me to make for him.

About this time the Princess came one day to my studio, and told me that she wished me to make her portrait—not merely a bust, but the whole figure, almost half the size of life. I answered that I should like much to make it, for I was persuaded that it would give the Prince pleasure; but she hastened to say that the Prince must know nothing about it. I had not sufficient presence of mind to reply that without his consent I could not undertake it—and I was wrong, I confess: but the Princess stood before me blandly insisting; and overcome by the beauty of the model, I agreed to make it and keep it a secret from the Prince. She gave me a number of sittings, and I was going on satisfactorily with the statuette, and had already a good likeness, when unexpectedly the Prince came one day to see me, and after exchanging a few words and taking a turn through the room, he stopped before the modelling-stand, on which was the clay of the statuette covered with wet cloths, and said—

"And what have you got here?"

"Nothing, your Excellency—nothing."

"Let me see what there is under here."

"But there is nothing; it is only a mass of infirm clay, and is not in a state to show."

"Let us see, my friend,—I am extremely curious." And so saying he lifted up the cloths, looked at it, and then said seriously, "Very good—very like;" and then in a sharp tone added, "And who has ordered this?"

"Listen, Signor Principe. The Princess has ordered this statuette of me, for I see that you recognise it as her portrait—and she ordered me to show it to no one, not even to you, Signor Principe; for I believe she wished to give you a surprise, and to present it to you when it should be finished in marble."

He answered, "The Princess has done wrong in ordering her portrait without my consent, and you have done wrong in complying with her request. I do not like these surprises, and when the Princess returns for a sitting you must request her to go about her business; and you may tell her that you do this by my order. And besides—and this I say particularly to you—destroy this work, and think no more about it."

I felt that the Prince was right, but to throw down this work was a bitter pain to me; and besides, I was unwilling to displease the Princess, who so earnestly desired to have this statuette, and who had already expressed her satisfaction with it. My face must have been very expressive at that moment, for the Prince, taking my hands in his, said—

"My dear Duprè, I understand your embarrassment and annoyance, but it is necessary that this should be done. I do not like, and I will not have this sort of thing, and I like still less this way of doing it. Do you understand? A portrait of the Princess, or even a statue of her, would be a charming possession, and I should particularly like one by you. I have already a beautiful statue of Madame Letizia by Canova, and this of my wife would make an admirable pendant; but I repeat that this way of doing it does not please me, and though I may seem harsh, I again say to you—Destroy this statuette, and let us say no more about it."

While he was speaking I thought to myself—This statuette and portrait of his wife he does not wish to have, but rather wishes to have a statue of her of life size; and so much the better. And then, considering that he had said he did not like the way in which it was done, I perceived, as I ought from the first to have perceived, that he objected to the Princess coming to my studio to sit, and I answered—

"You shall be obeyed. To-morrow the Princess is to return to give me a sitting, and I will tell her all, and this clay shall go back into the tank. But I hope that you will not forget that you have spoken of a life-size statue of the Princess; and as this work would require considerable time, and it might be more convenient to her that I should model it in your own palace, I could——"

He did not let me finish my sentence, but, embracing me warmly and kissing me, said—

"Thanks, dear Duprè, that is right. That is what pleases me, and that is the way it shall be done. And now, addio." And pressing my hand, he departed.

The day after, at one o'clock, the usual hour, the Princess arrived, gay and laughing, as usual; and after giving a glance at herself in the mirror, and arranging a little her hair, she seated herself and said—

"I am ready."

I had not as yet thrown down the statuette. There it stood uncovered, just as the Prince had left it the day before.

"I am very sorry, Signora Principessa," I began, "to give you some bad news. The Prince was here yesterday."

"I hope you did not allow him to see this portrait?"

"Yes, he has seen it—he has seen it, Signora Principessa. It was useless to try to conceal it from him, and I did wrong to endeavour to do so, for he was perfectly aware of its existence when he came here. He must have been exactly informed about it; and so sure was he that I was making your portrait, that he planted himself here precisely before the modelling-stand, and seeing that I was unwilling to uncover it, he uncovered it himself without any ceremony. He told me that I did wrong to begin the work, and that I must not go on with it, and, in fact, he has expressly ordered me to destroy it and throw it down."

While I was thus speaking she stood disquieted and frowning, and then said that it was unjust, absurd, and ridiculous, and that I must not give heed to him, but that she should stay, and I must go on with the portrait. After a while, however, she grew calmer, and decided to go away; and this was well. But she did not give up the matter, and the day after, she wrote to me to say that she should return to give me more sittings. I had not yet thrown down the clay, not only on account of my natural unwillingness to do so, which is excusable, but also because of the advice of Prince Jerome, the brother of the Princess Matilde, who insisted that the Prince could not pretend to anything more than that the work should be suspended. But of this I was a safer and better advised judge than he, and well knew that a husband is the legitimate master of his own wife, and of any portrait of her. But I repeat, I allowed the statuette to remain because I disliked to destroy it. The Princess did not return as she had promised, and wrote again to me to expect her another day. This went on for some time; and finally, when I saw her again, she told me that she was going to Paris with the Prince, and that on her return we must go on, and if the Prince persisted in his ideas, she would recompense me for the work I had done on it.

In fact, she went to Paris with the Prince, and there she remained; while he, recalled by the Emperor Nicholas of Russia, went to St Petersburg, where he found that a decree of divorce had been demanded by the Princess and signed by the Emperor. The Prince gave me nothing further to do, except some slight things which are scarcely worth mentioning, and the Princess entirely forgot her promise. And as I am now on this matter, and in order to make an end of it, let me leap over eleven years, and say that, having exhibited in Paris at the Exposition of 1855, besides the model in plaster of the Abel (as I have before narrated), a reproduction in small of this statue in marble, which I desired to sell, I wrote to the Princess asking her to purchase it. This I did to remind her indirectly of her promise to recompense me for the labour I had given to her statuette, but she never answered. I now make another leap over twelve years more. In the Exposition Universelle at Paris in 1867, I was one of the Italian Jury on Sculpture; and one evening, at a reception at the Tuilleries, I was presented by our minister Nigra to the Emperor, who had on his arm the Princess Matilde. As soon as she saw me she said, "We have known each other a long time;" but I, remembering how she had treated me, pretended to have no remembrance of her. And the Emperor looked at me through his sleepy eyes, and must have thought me either remarkably forgetful or a great fool. The Princess, naturally, never deigned to give me another look.

And now again I return to my works. After Pius II., I put up a figure of life-size representing Innocence. This was ordered of me by Signor Tommasi of Leghorn; but later, with my full consent, it remained on my hands, and was bought by Prince Constantine of Russia. I have determined not to judge my own works, though here and there I may give a little hint; but in order that these memoirs may be of some use, it is well that I should indicate the spirit of the principles which guided me in my work. I have said that my faith in the pure imitation of nature was somewhat shaken by the criticisms of my Giotto as being too naturalistic. Some reasonings by my friends, and above all, certain articles by Giuseppe Arcangeli in the 'Rivista, Sul Bello Ideale,' as well as the compliments and eulogies of my statue of Innocence by Borghi, finally persuaded me that there does exist a bello ideale impossible to find in nature, and this beauty should be arrived at by an imitation of the antique, and by the aid of memory.

Nothing is more dangerous than this theory. Beauty is scattered over universal nature. The artist born to feel and perceive this beauty (which is the object of art) has his mind and heart always exercised in seeking it out and expressing it. He discerns in nature one or more living forms that in some degree approximate to the type he has in his mind, and the reality of these, by strengthening his ideals, enables him to work the latter properly out. The artist who is without his ideal, and forces himself to find it outside of nature, torturing his memory with what he has seen or studied in the works of others, makes but a cold and conventional work. The animating spark, the heat, the life, does not inform his work, for he is not the father, but only the stepfather of his children. To this school belong the imitators—that is, the timid friends of nature.

On the other side, but in much greater numbers and with much greater petulance, are the naturalisti, who despise every kind of ideality, and especially despise it because they have it not. Neither is their heart warmed by strong and sweet affections, nor do they with their eyes or their mind seize, among the multiform shapes of nature, a type, a movement, or an expression which, assiduously pursued, awakens and fecundates the idea within them. The first ruffian or harlot of the streets taken by evil chance suffices for them, and they delight to drag this noble art of ours through filth and ugliness.

Each of these extremes I have sought to avoid. But it is none the less true that, at the period to which I have arrived in my narrative, I was carried a little away, by the discourses and writings of literary men and critics of Art, on the road that leads to the conventional and academic. This bad influence weakened my faith in nature and my courage in my work. And the Pius II., the Innocence, and the Purity are, so to speak, the mirrors in which are reflected my want of faith, uncertainty, and weakness of mind during these three years of artistic irresolution. In seeking after the perfect I lost the little good that my genius had produced in my first years, uninfluenced by all these discussions, and what is of more importance, by all eulogies both of good and of bad alloy. Yes, also of bad alloy. The young artist should take heed of all the praise that he receives. He should hold it in suspicion, and weigh it, and make a large deduction. Eulogy is like a perfume, grateful to the sense, but it is better to inhale it but little, little, little, because it goes to the head, lulls us to sleep, and sometimes intoxicates us and bewilders us so that we lose our compass. One must be prudent. Flowers of too strong an odour must be kept outside the room. Air is necessary—air. I hope that these words will fall into the ear of some to whom they may do good—I mean, of those who not only sniff up praise with eagerness, but are discontented because they do not think it sufficient, and who re-read it and talk of it with others so as to prolong their pleasure, and preserve all the papers and writings which speak of them, without perceiving that this is all vanity and pettiness of heart.

For the rest, it is very easy to see how one may vaccilate, and even fall; and on this account I deem it my duty, for the love that I bear to young men, to put them on their guard against the blandishments of praise. Imagine, dear reader, an inexperienced youth of spirit and lively fancy, who in his first essays in Art finds it said and written of him that he has surpassed all others, has begun where others ended, that he is born perhaps to outdo the Greeks with his chisel, that Michael Angelo must descend from the pedestal he has occupied for centuries, and other similar stuff—more than this, expose him to the envy of the Mæviis, and those light and inconsiderate flatteries, which are all the more dangerous when made attractive by courtesy and refinement of expression,—and you will have the secret of his vaccilations, even if with God's help he is not led utterly astray.

At this most trying time of my life the peace of my family was somewhat disturbed by these influences. My wife was disquieted because I had prevented her from carrying on her occupation. Our daily necessities increased with the growth of our children. Then there were requirements and troubles on account of my father, thoughts about my sister, as well as my brother, who wished to become a rougher-out in marble, and who brought to my studio very little aptitude united with great pretensions on the score of being my brother. All these annoyances were partly confided to my friend Venturi, to whom I poured out all my mind; and he with wise and kindly words consoled me.