Thoughts on Art
AND
AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIRS
OF
Giovanni Duprè
TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN BY
E. M. PERUZZI
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY W. W. STORY
BOSTON
ROBERTS BROTHERS
1886
Copyright, 1886
By Roberts Brothers
INTRODUCTION TO NEW EDITION.
This book contains the record of the life and thoughts upon Art of Giovanni Duprè, one of the most eminent sculptors of the present century in Italy. It was written by him from time to time, during the latter years of his life, in the intervals of work in his studio, and given to the public about three years before his death. Those three years, of which it contains no account, were assiduously devoted to his art. Every day had its work, and it was done faithfully and joyously even to the last. "Nulla dies sine linea." Within these years, among other works of less importance, he successively executed a basso-relievo of the Baptism of our Lord, a portrait statue of Pius IX. for the Cathedral of Piacenza, one of Victor Emmanuel for the public square at Trapani, one of Raimondo Lullo for a chapel in the island of Majorca, and one of St Francis of Assisi which now adorns the front of the Cathedral at Assisi. This was the last statue which he ever made. The model he had completed in clay and cast in plaster, and had somewhat advanced in executing it in marble, when death arrested his hand. It was finished by his daughter Amalia, who had for years been his loving and faithful pupil, and who had already won distinction for herself as a sculptor. In this his last work he found a peculiar attractiveness, and his heart and hand were earnestly given to it. "I am most happy," he says in his reply to the authorities of Assisi, who gave him this order, "that the Commission has thought of me,—not so much on account of what little talent I may possess, as for the love I bear to religious art." The statue itself is very simple, and informed by a deep religious sentiment. It is clothed in the dress of the order which St Francis founded, the hands crossed over the breast, the cowl falling behind, the head bent, and the eyes cast down in an attitude of submission and devotion.
The statue had not only deeply interested all his feelings and sympathies, but in its treatment and sentiment he seems to have been satisfied. A singular presentiment, however, came over him as he was showing it to a friend upon its completion. "It will be a triumph to you and a glory to Assisi," said his friend. "Ah," he answered, "who knows that it may not be the last!" So indeed it proved. But a few days after this conversation he was seized by an attack of peritonitis. From this, however, he recovered, as well as from a second attack, which shortly afterwards followed. As he was recovering from this second attack he wrote to Monsignore Andrea Ulli: "The doctor has no doubt that I shall get well, and in a few days I hope he will allow me to return to my studio. But how I have suffered!—doubly suffered from having been deprived of the occupation that most delights me. This is my joy and my life. What a happy day it will be when I am permitted to put my foot again into my studio, and to resume my work and my St Francis."
His hopes, however, were fated to be disappointed. Although he sufficiently recovered to go to his studio, he was able to do but little work; and shortly afterwards—on the 1st of January—he was again prostrated by a third attack of the same disease. His death, he felt, was now certain; but he met its approach with the courage, resignation, and piety that had always characterised him, looking forward with certainty to a reunion with the dear ones who had gone before him—Luisina, his daughter, whose loss he had so bitterly felt, and his wife Marina, his steadfast help and loving companion for so many years, who had died seven years previously. One regret constantly possessed him during these last days, that he should not be able, as he had projected, to model the statue of the Madonna for the Duomo at Florence, upon which he had set his heart. One day when he gave expression to this feeling, his daughter Amalia sought to console him by saying, "But you have already made her statue, and it is so beautiful—the addolorata for Santa Croce." "Ah!" he answered, "but I desired to model her as Queen of Florence." This apparently was the only desire that haunted him during his last attack. In regard to all other things he was resigned; and after lingering in almost constant pain for ten days, he expired on the 10th of January 1882, at the age of sixty-five.
The announcement of his death was received everywhere in Italy with the warmest expressions of sorrow. It was felt to be a national loss. His life had been so pure, so conscientious, and so animated by high purpose—his temper and character had been so blameless and free from envy and stain of any kind—he had been so generous and kindly in all the varied relations of life, as a son, as a husband, as a father, as a friend,—and he had so greatly distinguished himself as a sculptor, that over his grave the carping voice of criticism was hushed, and a universal voice of praise and sorrow went up everywhere. All classes united to do him reverence, from the highest to the lowest. Funeral ceremonies were celebrated in his honour, not only in Florence, where a great procession accompanied his remains to the church where the last rites were performed, but also in Siena, his birthplace, in Fiesole, where he was buried in the family chapel, and in Antella and Agnone. The press of his native country gave expression to high eulogiums on him as an artist and as a man. Public honours were decreed to him. In front of the house where he was born in Siena, the municipality placed this inscription: "This humble abode, in which was born Giovanni Duprè, honour of Art and Italy, may teach the sons of the people what height can be reached by the force of genius and will." In the Parrocchial Church dell'Onda (in Siena) was placed a bust of the artist executed by his daughter Amalia; and in Florence, over the house where he had passed a large portion of his life, a tablet is inserted, on which is inscribed these words: "The Municipality of Florence, in whose council sat Giovanni Duprè, has placed this memorial on the house where for twenty years lived the great sculptor, glory of Italy and of Art, and in which he died on the 10th day of 1882."
During his life, honours had been showered upon him at home and abroad—honours well deserved and meekly borne, without vanity or pretension. He had been made a knight and counsellor of the Civil Order of Savoy, a member of the Institute of France, a knight of the Tuscan Order of Merit and of the Legion of Honour in France, an officer of the Brazilian Order of the Rose, a commander of the Order of the Corona d'Italia, Mexico and Guadaloupe, an associate of the Academy of St Luke, and of various other academies in Italy and elsewhere. The Municipal Council of Siena also commissioned his friend and pupil, Tito Sarrocchi, to execute for it a bust of his master in marble during his lifetime, on which was this inscription: "To Giovanni Duprè of Siena, who to the glories of Italian Art has added, by the wonders of his chisel, new and immortal glories. The city of Siena—xii. July 1867."
His life was a busy and an earnest one. During his forty years of patient labour he executed about a hundred works in the round and in relief, including a considerable number of busts and statuettes. Of these, perhaps the most important are: The statues of Cain and Abel, the original bronzes of which are in the Pitti Palace in Florence, and by which he leaped at once to fame as a sculptor; the group of the Pietà in the cemetery of Siena; the large bas-relief of the Triumph of the Cross on the façade of the Church of Santa Croce in Florence; the monument to Cavour at Milan; the Ferrari monument in San Lorenzo, with the angel of the resurrection; the Sappho; the pedestal for the colossal Egyptian Tazza, with its alto-reliefs, representing Thebes, Imperial Rome, Papal Rome, and Tuscany, each with its accompanying genius; the portrait statue of Giotto; the ideal statue of St Francis; and the Risen Christ.
The Tazza, the Pietà, the Triumph of the Cross, and the Risen Christ, were selected by him out of all his works to send to the French Exposition of 1867, and it may therefore be supposed that he considered them as the best representatives of his genius and power. Indeed, in a letter to Professor Pietro Dotto (1866) he mentions particularly these last three as the statues which in conception he considers to be the most worthy of praise of all his works. This selection also indicates the religious character of his mind and his works. At this Exposition he was one of the jury on Sculpture, and though he gave his own vote in favour of the eminent sculptor Signor Vela of Milan, who exhibited on that occasion his celebrated statue of the Last Hours of Napoleon I., to his surprise the grand medal of honour was awarded to himself. He had scarcely dared to hope for this; and in his letters to his family he wrote that he considered it certain that the distinction would be conferred upon Signor Vela. When the award was made to him, he wrote a most characteristic letter to his daughter, announcing the result. "Mia cara Beppina," he says, "I have just returned from the sitting of the jury, and hasten at once to answer your dear letter. It is true that the Napoleon I. of Vela is a beautiful statue. There is always a crowd about it, and consequently every one thought it would receive the first prize. I have given him my vote; but the public and I and you, Beppina, were wrong. The first prize has come to me, your father! Vela received two votes with mine. You see, my dear, how the Holy Virgin has answered your and our prayer. Let us seek to render ourselves worthy of her powerful protection."
It was toward the close of his life, as has already been said, that he wrote his 'Biographical Reminiscences and Thoughts upon Art,' of which the present book is a translation. It was at once received by the Italian public with great favour, and is by no means the least remarkable of his works. It would be difficult for any autobiography to be more simple, honest, frank, and fearless. The whole character of the man is in it. It is an unaffected and unpretending record of his life and thoughts. He has no concealment to make, no glosses to put upon the real facts. He speaks to the public as if he were talking to a friend, never posing for effect, never boasting of his successes, never exaggerating his powers, never assailing his enemies and detractors, never depreciating his fellow-artists, but ever striving to be generous and just to all. There is no bitterness, no envy, no arrogance to deform a single page; but, on the contrary, a simplicity, a naïveté, a sincerity of utterance, which are remarkable. The history of his early struggles and poverty, the pictures of his childhood and youth, are eminently interesting; and the story of his love, courtship, and early married life is a pure Italian idyl of the middle class of society in Florence, which could scarcely be surpassed for its truth to nature and its rare delicacy and gentleness of feeling. If the 'Thoughts upon Art' do not exhibit any great profundity of thinking, they are earnest, instructive, and characteristic. His descriptions of his travels in France and England; his criticisms and anecdotes of artists and persons in Florence; his account of his daily life in his studio and at his home,—are lively and amusing. Altogether, the book has a special charm which it is not easy to define. In reading it, we feel that we are in the presence and taken into the confidence of a person of great simplicity and purity of character, of admirable instincts and perceptions, of true kindness of heart, and of a certain childlike naïveté of feeling and expression, which is scarcely to be found out of Italy.
In respect of style, this autobiography resembles more the spoken than the written literary language of Italy. It is free, natural, unstudied, and often careless. But its very carelessness has a charm. Duprè was not a scholar nor a literary man. He was not bound by the rigid forms of what is called in Italy "lo stile," which but too often is the enemy of natural utterance. Undoubtedly this book needs compression; but no exactness of style and form could compensate for the absence of that unstudied natural ease and familiarity which are among its greatest charms. The writer, fortunately for the reader, is as unconscious of elaborated style as Monsieur Jourdain was that he was talking prose. The character of Duprè's writing has been admirably caught and reproduced by Madame Peruzzi, in the translation to which these few words may serve as preface.
As an artist, Duprè was not endowed with a great creative or imaginative power. His spirit never broke out of the Roman Church in which he was brought up, and all that he did and thought was coloured by its influence. The subjects which he chose in preference to all others were of a religious character, and his works are animated by a spirit of humility and devotion, rather than of power and intensity. His piety—and he was a truly pious man—narrowed the field of his imagination, and restricted the flights of his genius. "But even his failings leaned to virtue's side," and what he lacked in breadth of conception, was compensated by his deep sincerity of purpose and religious feeling. He was not a daring creator—not an originator of ideas—not a bold discoverer. He hugged the shore of his Church. He wanted the passion and overplus of nature that might have borne him to new heights, and new continents of thought and feeling. His Cain, almost alone of all his works, breathes a spirit of defiance and rebellion, and breaks through the limitations of his usual conceptions. But it was not in harmony with his genius; and in natural expression it falls so far below his previous statue of Abel, that it was epigrammatically said that his Abel killed his Cain. There was undoubtedly a certain truth in this criticism, for though the Cain is vigorously conceived and admirably executed, the heart of the man was not in it, as it was in the gentle and placid figure of Abel. In mastery of modelling and truth to nature, this latter statue could scarcely be surpassed. Indeed, so remarkable was it for these qualities, that it gave rise in Florence to the scandalous calumny that it had been cast, not modelled, from nature,—a calumny which, it is scarcely necessary to add, was as false in fact as it was inconsistent with the honest and lofty spirit of Duprè; and which, though intended as a reproach, proved to be the highest testimonial to the extraordinary skill of the artist.
Within the bounded domain of thought and conception which his religious faith had set for him, he worked with great earnestness and devotion of spirit. Though he created no works which are stamped by the audacity of genius, or intensified by passion, or characterised by bold originality and reach of power, yet the work he did do is eminently faithful, admirably executed, and informed by knowledge as well as feeling. His artistic honesty cannot be too highly praised. He spared no pains to make his work as perfect as his powers would permit. He had an accurate eye, a remarkable talent for modelling from nature, and an indefatigable perseverance. He never lent his hand to low, paltry, and unworthy work. Art and religion went hand in hand in all he did. He sought for the beautiful and the noble—sought it everywhere with an inquiring and susceptible spirit; despised the brutal, the low, and the trifling; never truckled to popularity, or sought for fame unworthily; and scorned to degrade his art by sensuality. As the man was, so his work was—pure, refined, faithful to nature and to his own nature. He pandered to no low passions; he modelled no form, he drew no line, that dying he could wish to blot; and the world of Art is better that he has lived. While he bent his head to Nature, the whole stress of his life as an artist was to realise his favourite motto, "Il vero nel bello"—the true in the beautiful.
His last letter, written only three days before his final attack, was addressed to his friend Professor Giambattista Giuliani, and as it breathes the whole spirit of the man, it may form a fit conclusion to these few words: "My excellent friend,—We also, Amalia and I, wish you truly from our hearts, now and always, every good from our blessed God—perfect health, elevation of spirit, serene affections, peace of heart in the contemplation of the beautiful and the good, and the immortal hope of a future life, that supreme good that the modern Sadducees deny—unhappy beings!"
PREFACE.
"Do you know," I said to a friend six months ago, while I was looking over the rough draft of my memoirs, "that I have decided to print them?" "You will do well," he answered; "but you must write a preface—a bit of a preface is necessary." "I do not think so," I said. "In my opinion the few words on the first page will suffice." My friend read over the first page and replied, "That's enough."
Now, however, a couple of words do not seem to me superfluous,—first, in order that I may express my surprise and pleasure that my book, written just as it came to me, has been received with so much kindness; and then to explain that this second edition has been enlarged by some additions and necessary notes. The additions do not form an appendix, but are inserted in the chapters, each in its proper place.
It did not seem advisable to me, as it did to some other persons, to enlarge this book by letters, documents, and other writings of mine. I thought this would interfere with the simplicity and brevity of my first plan.
In re-reading this book, I admit that I have found passages here and there which I felt tempted to correct, or rather to polish and improve in style, but I have let them go. Who knows that I should not have made them worse? It seems to me (perhaps I am wrong) not to perceive in good writers the labour, the smoothing, and the transposition of words, and so on, but a rapid and broad embodiment of the idea in the words that were born with it.
One last and most essential word I have reserved for the end as a bonne bouche. Some persons have excusably and pleasantly observed that to write a book about one's self while the author is living is both very difficult and rather immodest. I replied to them, both by word of mouth and through the press, that although on account of my life and works I had studied to be as temperate and unpretentious as the truth and the facts would allow, still here and there my narrative with regard to some persons might not be agreeable, and therefore after my death it might be discredited or denied. No, this must not be, I said, and say again. I am alive, and am here to correct everything at variance with the truth, and also (I wish to be just) what is wanting in chivalrousness.
NOTE BY TRANSLATOR.
In making the present translation of the Memoirs of Giovanni Duprè, one of two courses had to be taken—either to turn the whole into pure idiomatic English, or to follow, with a certain degree of literalness, the peculiar forms of expression, and the characteristic style, or absence of style, of the original. I have chosen the latter course, in order, as far as in me lay, to convey the individuality of the author, and the local colour and character of his book. This would to a great degree have been lost had I attempted to render into purely English idiom a work that is not only written in a careless, familiar, and conversational form, and abounds in turns of expression which are essentially Florentine, but derives its interest, in part at least, from this very peculiarity.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
My motive for writing these Memoirs—My father's family—Removal of the family to Florence—My childhood—My father takes me to Pistoia, but I run away from his house to return to my mother—From Pistoia I go with my father to Prato—My first study in drawing—Strong impression made upon me by an old print—My father's opposition to my studies—My sorrow at being so far from my mother—I run the risk of being burnt—Having grown tall, fears are entertained for my health—I return to my mother at Florence and work with Ammanati—I go to Siena and study ornate design in the Academy—Carlo Pini gives me lessons in drawing the human figure—Signor Angelo Barbetti's prophecy—I run away from Siena, and on foot go to my mother at Florence—Signor Paolo Sani—Death of my sister Clementina—My mother's infirmity of eyesight—My brother Lorenzo goes to the poorhouse—My aversion to learn reading and writing—My first library, and inexperience of books,
1
Without knowing it, I was doing what Leonardo advises—New way of decorating the walls of one's house—I wish to study design at the Academy, but cannot carry this into effect—A bottle of anise-seed cordial—Intelligent people are benevolent, not so those of mediocre minds—The statues in the Piazza della Signoria and alabaster figures—The discovery of a hidden well—My father returns home without work, and leaves for Rome—Young Signor Emilio del Fabris—Sea-baths and cholera at Leghorn—With help I save a woman from drowning—I go to San Piero di Bagno—My uncle the provost dies—My father returns from Rome, and settles in Florence—My work, a group of a Holy Family, is stolen—Description of this group,
18
A punishment well deserved, and my satisfaction—Different times, different customs—The use of the birch given up in schools—A portrait—Companions and bad habits—How I became acquainted with my dear Marina—My first time of speaking with her—Difficulty to obtain my mother's consent to our marriage—She makes trouble, thinking to do well—I am sent away from my betrothed, and return to bad habits—An escapade—The public baths of Vaga-Loggia—My clothes stolen,
35
Return to the house of my betrothed, and put an end to my thoughtless ways—A talking parrot—He who does not wish to read these pages knows what he has to do—How I went to prison, and how I passed my time there—"The Death of Ferruccio," by the painter Bertoli—Signor Luigi Magi, the sculptor—How I learnt to become economical—Shirts with plaited wrist-bands—The first love-kiss, and a little bunch of lemon-verbena—My marriage—My wife has doubts as to my resolution of studying sculpture—Pacetti's shop in Palazzo Borghese—I sell the "Santa Filomena" to a Russian, who re-christens her "Hope"—I begin to work on marble—I make a little crucifix in boxwood, which is bought by Cav. Emanuel Fenzi—Verses by Giovanni Battista Niccolini,
52
A warning to young artists—Professor Cambi's propositions—A financial problem: to increase gain by diminishing the means that produce it—I leave Sani's shop to have more time and liberty to study—An imitation is not so bad, but a falsification is indeed an ugly thing—The Marchesa Poldi and a casket, supposed to be an antique—How a master should be—The death of my mother, September 1840—Opinion of the Academy—The "Tipsy Bacchante"—A divided vote—The "Cariatidi" of the Rossini Theatre at Leghorn,
72
An unjust law—The "Abel"—Brina the model and I in danger of being asphyxiated—My first request—Benvenuti wishes to change the name of my Abel for that of Adonis—I invite Bartolini to decide on the name of my statue—Bartolini at my studio—His advice and corrections on the Abel—Lorenzo Bartolini—Giuseppe Sabatelli—Exhibition of the Abel—It is said to be cast from life—I ask for a small studio, but do not obtain it—My second and last request—The President Antonio Montalvo—I don't succeed somehow in doing anything as I should—I talk over matters at home—Count del Benino a true friend and true benefactor—His generous action,
89
The Grand Duchess Maria of Russia and the commission for the Cain and Abel—The Prince of Leuchtenberg and a plate of caviale at Caffè Doney—An unusual amusement that did some good—Again the generosity of Count del Benino—Bartolini's Hunchback, and in consequence a return to the Abel—Bartolini gets angry with me—Examination of the materialistic or realistic in art—Effects of the realistic—Do not have girls alone by themselves for models—Subscription got up by the Sienese to have my Abel executed in marble—A new way of curing a cough—Signora Letizia's receipt, who sent it and paid for it herself—One must never offer works gratis, for they are not accepted—The Grand Duchess Marie Antoinetta orders the "Giotto" for the Uffizi—Has Abel killed Cain?—Statue of Pius II.—A foolish opinion and impertinent answer—I defy the law that prohibits eating,
110
Literati at my studio, and their influence on my work—Calamatta's opinion of Tenerani, of Bartolini, and of myself—His defence of my Abel in Paris—Pius II.—Academicians and "Naturalisti"—Luigi Venturi—Prince Anatolia Demidoff and the Princess Matilde—The statuette in clay of the Princess Matilde is destroyed—Our minister Nigra presents me to the Emperor Napoleon III.—Beauty does not exist outside of nature—Praise puts one to sleep—The incoherence of Bartolini,
139
The political reforms of the year 1847 in Tuscany—My first scholars—Ciseri, Prati, Aleardi, Fusinato, Coletti, and Chiarini the improvisatore—Inedited verses by Prati—Giuseppe Verdi—A digression on artistic individuality—The Emperor of Russia's visit to my studio—Reactionary movement of the 12th of April 1849—I am in danger of my life—The return of the Grand Duke,
159
My wife, my little girls, and my work—Death of my brother Lorenzo—Death of Lorenzo Bartolini—The base for the "Tazza"—Eight years of work, only to obtain a living—Mussini and his school—Pollastrini—The school in Via Sant'Apollini—Prince Demidoff and the monument by Bartolini—The Nymph of the Scorpion and the Nymph of the Serpent, by Bartolini—Marchese Ala—Count Arese—The four statuettes for Demidoff—Amerigo of the Prince Corsinis—His Royal Highness Count of Syracuse, a sculptor—"Sant'Antonino" statue at the Uffizi,
179
Close imitation from life—My illness—I am in danger of losing my life—Luigi del Punta, head physician at Court—The Grand Duke furnishes me with the means for going to Naples—I leave for Naples—A beggar impostor—Another and my boots—Sorrento—My Neapolitan friends—Professor Tartaglia and the hydropathic cure—The museum at Naples—Let us study the good wherever it is to be found—A strange presentation,
203
Pompeii—A cameo—Sketch for the Bacco della Crittogama—Professor Angelini the sculptor—One must not offer one's hand with too much freedom to ladies—A hard-hearted woman with small intelligence—The San Carlo, the San Carlino, the Fenice, and the Sebeto—Monument by Donatello at Naples—The Barocco and mistaken opinions—Dilettanti in the fine arts—Prince Don Sebastian of Bourbon—Is the beard a sign of being Legitimist or Liberal?—I am taken for a prince or something like one—"The bottle" for doorkeepers and custodi of the public museums of Naples—Phidias, Demosthenes, and Cicero all against Ruggero Bonghi,
223
Never make a present of your works—Pope Rezzonico by Canova—Tenerani—Overbeck's theories—Minardi and his school—A woman from the Trastevere who looked like the Venus of Milo—Conventionalists and Realists—An ambitious question and bitter answer—Filippo Gualterio,
242
The nude—The statue of David—Rauch—The base of the Tazza—The chapel of the Madonna del Soccorso—Sepulchral monuments for San Lorenzo—The 27th of April 1859—Count Scipione Borghesi—A group of the Deluge—Competition for Wellington's monument, and a great help,
259
Patience a most essential virtue—Trust was a good man, but Trust-no-one a better—A competition either attracts or drives away men of talent—A study from life of a lion by Marrocchetti—Assistant modellers—Sydenham and its wonders—One of "Abel's" fingers—New judgment of Solomon—An important question—An Indian who speaks about things as they are—Professor Papi and the failure of the first cast in bronze of the "Abel"—A medicine not sold by the chemist,
277
On the study of expression from life—The care one must take in making studies from life—A genre picture and Raphael's cartoon of the "Massacre of the Innocents"—I lose myself in London—The housemaid at Hotel Granara—The inconvenience of being ignorant and absent-minded—Ristori and Piccolomini in London—The cartoons of Raphael at Hampton Court—Fantasy runs away with me—A curious but just law—The result of fasting—The villa of Quarto and a prince's "early hour"—Again of Prince Demidoff,
301
My father's death—A turn in the omnibus—The Ferrari monument—I keep the "Sappho" for myself—The "Tired Bacchante" and the little model—Raphael and the Fornarina—The Madonna and bas-reliefs at Santa Croce and Cavaliere Sloane—My daughter Amalia and her works—My daughter Beppina—Description of the bas-relief on the façade of Santa Croce—I am taken for the wrong person by the Holy Father Pius IX.—Marshal Haynau—Professor Bezzuoli and Haynau's portrait,
322
One of my colleagues—A mysterious voice—The group of the "Pietà"—Very clear Latin—A professor who ignores the 'Divina Commedia'—Composition of the group of the "Pietà"—Digression—A good lesson and nervous attack—Mancinelli and Celentano,
345
A prophetic dream—Giovanni Strazza—Signor Vonwiller and societies for promoting art—Return from Naples to Rome, and my daughter Luisina's illness—Our return to Florence—Death of Tria the model—The Mossotti monument at Pisa—How it was that I did not make the portrait of his Majesty the King—The competition for Cavour's monument—I go to Turin to pass judgment on it—The "Christ after the Resurrection," a commission of Signor Filippi di Buti—Religious art and Alessandro Manzoni and Gino Capponi—Thought is not free—Cavour's monument—The description of it,
365
Allegories in art—The Monga monument at Verona—Of my late daughter Luisina—Her death—How I was robbed—Monsignore Archbishop Limberti's charitable project—One of my colleagues—Nicolô Puccini and the statue of Cardinal Forteguerri—Cesare Sighinolfi—Cardinal Corsi, Archbishop of Pisa,
385
The Universal Exhibition at Paris in 1867—The imitators of Vela—Inedited music by Rossini and Gustave Doré—Domenico Morelli—Group of Prince Trabia's children and the thieves—"Stick no bills"—The statue of Marshal Pallavicini—The Empress Maria Teresa and Marshal Pallavicini—A memorial monument to Fra Girolamo Savonarola—The Universal Exhibition at Vienna—A tiny room—Excellent and very dear—On harmony of sounds—On the harmony in the animal world—The harmony of the human form as manifested by the inner beauty of the soul—The campanile of St Stephen's and Canova's monument,
402
The palace of the Exhibition at Vienna—Why, with my attributes of President, I was in such haste—Michael Angelo and Garibaldi—A Viennese cabman—The Camerini monument—Duke Camerini—An anecdote of his life—Statue of Michael Angelo in the future—The centenary festival of Michael Angelo—Signora Adelina Patti—A greedy young man of little judgment—The Favard monument,
418
Pius IX. objects to having me make his bust—I go to Rome to see the Pope—The Exhibition at Naples—Again on idealism and naturalism—The masters of Italian melody—Vincenzo Bellini and his monument—Conclusion,
438
453
AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIRS
OF
GIOVANNI DUPRÈ.
CHAPTER I.
MY MOTIVE FOR WRITING THESE MEMOIRS—MY FATHER'S FAMILY—REMOVAL OF THE FAMILY TO FLORENCE—MY CHILDHOOD—MY FATHER TAKES ME TO PISTOIA, BUT I RUN AWAY FROM HIS HOUSE TO RETURN TO MY MOTHER—FROM PISTOIA I GO WITH MY FATHER TO PRATO—MY FIRST STUDY IN DRAWING—STRONG IMPRESSION MADE UPON ME BY AN OLD PRINT—MY FATHER'S OPPOSITION TO MY STUDIES—MY SORROW AT BEING SO FAR FROM MY MOTHER—I RUN THE RISK OF BEING BURNT—HAVING GROWN TALL, FEARS ARE ENTERTAINED FOR MY HEALTH—I RETURN TO MY MOTHER AT FLORENCE AND WORK WITH AMMANATI—I GO TO SIENA AND STUDY ORNATE DESIGN IN THE ACADEMY—CARLO PINI GIVES ME LESSONS IN DRAWING THE HUMAN FIGURE—SIGNOR ANGELO BARBETTI'S PROPHECY—I RUN AWAY FROM SIENA, AND ON FOOT GO TO MY MOTHER AT FLORENCE—SIGNOR PAOLO SANI—DEATH OF MY SISTER CLEMENTINA—MY MOTHER'S INFIRMITY OF EYESIGHT—MY BROTHER LORENZO GOES TO THE POORHOUSE—MY AVERSION TO LEARN READING AND WRITING—MY FIRST LIBRARY, AND INEXPERIENCE OF BOOKS.
I have often thought that perhaps it would be well for me to leave some written memoirs of my life—not only for the sake of my family, but also for the young artists of the future; but I have hitherto been deterred from so doing by the fear lest I might seem to have been prompted by pride and vanity. Since, however, various notices of my life and my doings in art have been made public, it may not be either without interest, or indeed without a certain utility, if I venture now to speak at length on these subjects; for it seems to me that these memoirs may not only serve as an encouragement to timid but well-disposed youths, but may at the same time be a severe admonition to those who, presuming too much on themselves, imagine that with little study and great boldness they can wing their way up the steps of Art instead of laboriously climbing them.
MY FATHER'S FAMILY.
My father was Francesco Duprè, the youngest son of Lorenzo Duprè, who came to Siena with the princes of Lorraine. My grandfather kept a draper's shop in the Piazza del Campo, where at first, through his activity and honesty, his business so prospered that he was able to give his family a good education; and my father was just entering on the course of studies that his brothers had already finished, when my grandfather, through the ignorance and bad faith of his debtors and his own determination to be honest himself, was reduced to poverty. In consequence of this, my father was obliged to discontinue his studies, and to set to work to learn a trade, in order that he might earn his bread as soon as possible; and thinking to derive some advantage from the studies he had already made in drawing, he apprenticed himself to a wood-carver. Later he married Victoria Lombardi of Siena, and she was my mother. I was born on the 1st of March 1817, in Via San Salvadore, in the Contrada dell'Onda, and lived in Siena until I was four years old. My family then removed to Florence, where my father went, at the request of the wood-carver, Signor Paolo Sani, to help him in the execution of some intaglio decorations in the Palazzo Borghese, which the Prince was anxious to have finished within the shortest possible time. My recollections of those early days are not worth recording. I grew up from a little boy going with my father to the shop. I had a few lessons in the Catechism and in reading from a schoolmistress who lodged in our house. In the evening my babbo[1] used to read and explain some Latin book (I do not remember what it was), perhaps for the innocent satisfaction of letting us know that he had studied that language, but certainly with no profit to me, who understood nothing and was greatly bored. When, however, he gave me some of his designs of ornamentation, such as leaves, arabesques, and friezes, to copy, I was very happy. The time passed without my knowing it; and such was my delight in this occupation, that I often put off the hour of supper or sleep and gave up any amusement for it. At home we lived very poorly. My father earned little, for his work was badly paid, and by nature he was slow. This poverty of our daily life began to disturb the relations between my father and mother. The family had increased, and besides my eldest sister Clementina, who died soon afterwards, were born Lorenzo and Maddalena. I remember the sharpness of the tones, but not the sense of the words that passed between my parents; and the tears of my mother and sullen silence of my father frightened us little ones, and filled us with sadness.
FAMILY AND CHILDHOOD.
It was impossible that such a state of things could last long, and my father decided to leave Florence and go to Pistoia, where he thought he could earn more money. I was destined to follow him, while the others remained with my mother. For more than three years I stayed with him. My life was sad for me here, as the distance from my mother made it almost unbearable; and all the more so because my father, whenever he went to Florence to see her, as he sometimes did, always left me behind him, alone, at Pistoia. Once, when I was barely seven years old, I ran away from the house, and went on foot to Florence, although I knew for a certainty that I should have to pay dearly for the kisses and caresses of my mother by a thrashing from the babbo. Nor was I mistaken: I got the thrashing, and was brought back.
LONGING TO BE AN ARTIST.
About this time there awoke in me a certain sentiment and longing to try to draw the human figure—leaves and grumoli had begun to weary me; and this desire was developed in an odd way. There was in Pistoia, in the house of a certain gilder named Canini, a little theatre for puppets, and one of the characters, which was wanted for a certain performance, happened to be missing. Canini, who was a friend of my father, was much put out by this loss, and came to beg my father to make the head and hands for the puppet. He answered that he could not do this, as he had never attempted anything in the way of figures; and the poor gilder, who was director and proprietor of the company, was at a loss to know where to turn. I, with the utmost effrontery, then offered to make the head and hands myself; and as Canini was hopeful as well as incredulous, and my father gave a sort of half consent, I set to work, and succeeded so well that my puppet turned out to be the most beautiful "personage" of the company. The happy result encouraged me to go on, and I remade almost all the puppets. I also made some small ducks in cork, that were to appear in a pond, and were moved about here and there by silk threads. It was a pleasure to see the little creatures—they turned out so well, and had such a look of reality; and this I was enabled to give them because in the court of our house there were some ducks which I could copy from life. Ah, Nature! not only is it a great help, but it is the principal foundation of Art!
I GO TO PRATO.
MY FIRST DRAWINGS.
From Pistoia the babbo took me to Prato, where he had been requested to go by the gilder Signor Stefano Mazzoni. There we took up our abode in a street and court called Il Giuggiolo. In the same house, and almost with us, lived a man from Lucca, who made little plaster-images, and was one of the many who go about the streets selling little coloured figures for a few sous. This connection, ridiculous as it may appear, inspired me more and more with a desire for the study of figures. It is true these figures and parrots and clowns were ugly; but, at the same time, their innocent ugliness attracted me, and filled me with a longing, not indeed to imitate them, but to do something better. In turning over my father's papers and designs, I found a quantity of prints, fashion-plates of dresses, landscapes, and animals, and particularly (I remember it so well that I could draw it now) a large print representing the building of the Temple of Jerusalem. In the distance you saw the building just begun, and rising a little above its foundations. Carts loaded with heavy materials and tall straight timber (the cedars of Lebanon) were dragged along by a great many oxen and camels, amid a vast number of people and things. On all sides were workmen of every kind, some carving the columns, some putting up a jamb and squaring it, some sawing timber, and some busied in making ditches; others were talking, or listening, or admiring: and all the scene was animated with a truly marvellous life. In the foreground you saw the majestic figure of Solomon, surrounded by his ministers and soldiers, showing his architect (with his scholars) the designs of the Temple. In fact, it was a wonderful thing to behold, and I was so enchanted that I could not sleep for thinking of it, for it seemed to me impossible that any man could imagine and execute anything so marvellous. My little head seemed on fire, it was so full of these figures. I tried at first to copy in part this print, which, above all the others, had taken my fancy; but I did not succeed, and I was so discouraged that I sat down and cried. And not for this only I cried, but also because my father looked with so unfavourable eye on these efforts of mine—they seeming to him quite unnecessary for an intagliatore—that, in order to go on with these studies, I was obliged to hide myself almost, and to work in spare moments. Finding this print so complicated that I could in no way copy it, I then undertook to copy the little costume-figures that I found amongst the prints. These, one by one, I drew during the evening, after my father had gone to bed and was asleep; and sometimes it happened that I fell asleep over my drawing, and on waking found myself in the dark, with the little lamp gone out. This constant exercise, to which I gave myself every day with great ardour, so trained my hand and practised my eye, that my last drawings were made with little or no erasures.
But though I derived a good deal of satisfaction from these small drawings, my heart was still oppressed at being so far from my mother. I longed to see her, and have her near me, and begged my father to take me to her, or at least to send me to her by the carrier; but wishes and prayers were useless. My father went sometimes, it is true, to see her; but although I was only seven or eight years of age, I had to remain behind at Prato to look after the house. I do not wish to blame my father, but neither then nor since have I been able to understand his notions of things; and certainly, to keep a little boy alone by himself in a house, and often for several days together, is not to be recommended. One evening I remember, when, having fallen asleep while reading at the table, with my head bent near the lamp, my little cap caught on fire, and I woke up with my hair in flames. But this adventurous life—beaten about, thwarted in all my wishes and in all my affections—formed my character. I became accustomed to suffer, to persevere, and to obey, while I always kept alive those desires and affections which my conscience assured me were good.
AN ACCIDENT—DELICATE HEALTH.
About this time, what with continuous study, hardish work in my father's shop, and the melancholy that weighed upon me because I could not see my mother, my health began to fail. Even before this, and indeed from my birth, I had always been delicate, but now I became so pale and weak that every one called me il morticino (the little dead fellow). A physician who examined me about this time talked seriously to my father about me on the subject, telling him that I ought to rest longer in the mornings (my father rose very early, and I had to get up to go with him to the shop), and eat more nourishing food; and he explained what it should be. Amongst other things, I remember he ordered me to drink goat's milk, milked and drunk on the spot, as soon as I got out of bed, before leaving my room. This treatment succeeded marvellously. Every day I gained strength, colour, and flesh. The little goat that came every morning to my room to pay me a visit, and brought me her milk, sweet, warm, and light, will be always remembered by me; and I still have a feeling for the little creature, even after half a century, which I cannot well define.
ACADEMY AT SIENA.
Restored to health, I was taken to see my mother in Florence. My own great joy, as well as her caresses and petitions that I might be left with her, it is impossible to describe. She insisted that she would find me a shop where I could go and continue to learn the art of wood-carving. Thank God, this time my mother's tenderness overcame my father's tenacity (loving though it was), and I was allowed to remain with her. They both looked about to find me a shop, and I was finally placed in Borgo Sant' Jacopo, with the wood-carvers Gaetano Ammanati and Luigi Pieraccini, who worked together. They were both very able men, certainly much more so than my father, who, poor man, owing to the constant requirements of the family, had never been able to perfect himself in his art. In this shop figures were carved, so that I had before me models and teachers, as well as incitement to work. My principals liked me, and I them; and I should have remained with them who knows how long, had I not been carried off by another intagliatore. And the way in which it happened was this: Signor Paolo Sani, a carver in wood who sometimes came on business or for other reasons to Ammanati's, seeing that my work was fairly good, and that I worked with goodwill, determined, if possible, to take me away to work for him. He wrote, therefore, to my father, who had returned to Siena, asking him to remove me from Ammanati's shop, and send me to him, binding himself to pay me double the salary that I was then receiving. As he did not wish, however, to appear to act underhandedly (though this was really the case), he persuaded my father to take me to Siena, and place me at the Academy of Fine Arts, to study drawing; and he promised, after I had passed some months there, to take me to work in his own shop. My father accepted the offer, and I was obliged to go to Siena, where I studied in the Academy at the school of "Ornato," which was then under the direction of Professor Dei. Out of school hours my father let me work upon anything I liked—such as children's heads, angels, and even crucifixes. God knows what rubbish they were! I also took lessons, in drawing the human figure, of Signor Carlo Pini, then the custode of the Academy, and afterwards one of the most distinguished annotators of Vasari, and keeper of the drawings by the old masters in the Royal Gallery of the Uffizi.
ANGELO BARBETTI'S PROPHECY.
At that time Signor Angelo Barbetti, a very skilful wood-carver, was at Siena, and my father wished to place me in his shop, which was in the Piazza di San Giovanni. But Signor Angelo was as irascible and fault-finding as he was intelligent; and one day, when I had not succeeded in executing some work that he had given me, he struck me on the head, accompanying the blow with these words, which hurt me more than the blow itself—"You will always be an ass, harnessed and shod, even when the beard is on your chin." Afterwards I was sent to Signor Antonio Manetti, who not only carved ornaments and figures in wood, but also worked in marble, and was occupied in restoring the façade of the cathedral. Signor Manetti was a man of no common genius—he designed and sculptured ornaments and figures with much facility and cleverness. But even with him I was not fortunate. He gave me a little Napoleonic eagle with thunderbolts in his claws to execute. For what it was intended I do not remember, but apparently I did not succeed in satisfying him. In this case, however, there were neither blows on the head nor bitter words, but, with a certain haughty dignity, he took my poor little eaglet in his hand, and dashed it to the ground, breaking it to atoms in spite of the thunderbolts. Viewed from this long distance of time, this scene has a somewhat comic character, and must seem especially so to one who hears it described. But for me, a poor little boy, anxious to learn and get on, so as to lighten, as far as possible, the burden on my father—who, poor man, earned little, and of that little was obliged to send a portion to his family in Florence—it was quite another thing; and though I felt within myself that I was not a complete donkey, still to see my work thrown thus brutally on the ground was so painful to me that it took away all my little strength. I wept in secret; and as the time assigned by Signor Paolo Sani and my father for my return had arrived, I begged my father to send me back to Florence. He wished, however, to keep me with him still longer, and so I occupied myself in making angels and seraphim heads for churches.
I RUN AWAY FROM SIENA.
WEARINESS AND REMORSE.
I begged and begged my father to take me to Florence, to see my mother. He promised to do so at Easter. Meanwhile, I contented myself with this hope; but on the eve of Easter he told me he could not go, on account of his engagements, which would detain him at Siena, and also for many other reasons that I could not and would not understand. Now, however, my patience gave way before my loving desire to see my mother; and without saying a word, I rose early and ran away from the house. Passing out of the Porta Camollia, I set off on my walk with only a bit of bread in my pocket, in the boyish hope of reaching my destination the same day, and so passing my Easter with my mother, without reflecting that, by so doing, I should pass it neither with my father nor my mother. I was about nine years old, and walked on with courage beyond my strength. So great was my desire to get to Florence, that I passed Staggia and Poggibonsi without feeling tired; but near Barberino—which is about twenty miles from Siena, and half-way to Florence—my mind misgave me that I should not be able to arrive in Florence that evening; and then my strength abandoned me, and I was so overcome with fatigue that I could not get up from a little wall on which I had seated myself to rest. I had not a penny. No carts or carriages were passing that way. It was Easter, and every one was at home resting for his holiday; and I, there I was alone in the middle of the road, oppressed with weariness and remorse for having left my father in such anxiety. At times I hoped that he might come after me with a carriage to take me up, and I quite resigned myself to a sound beating; but even this hope was vain, and I had to continue my walk. How many sad thoughts passed one after another through my little tired head! What will my mother, who is expecting us, do or say? What will my babbo think, left alone, and not knowing where I am? He will be certainly looking for me, and asking after me from every one in Siena. What will become of me in the middle of the road if night overtakes me? This thought gave strength and energy to my will, and on I went. I don't think that I was frightened. At length my strength was exhausted; the sun began to set; I was seven or eight miles from San Casciano, and I could not be certain of arriving even there to pass the night. I stopped at a wretched little house to rest, and asked for a glass of water. A man, a woman, and several children were eating. They asked me where I came from, and I told them. With expressions of compassion, especially from the woman, they gathered round me, gave me some bread, a hard-boiled egg, and a little wine, and I thanked them with emotion. They wanted me to stay with them until the next day—and tired out as I was, I should have stayed and accepted their kindly offer; but at this moment a vettura for Florence passed by, and with my eyes full of tears I told them how infinitely grateful I should be if I could be allowed to fasten myself in any way on to the carriage. The driver, who had stopped to get a glass of wine, seeing the state I was in, and hearing my story from these good country people, took me up on the box by his side, and carried me to Florence, where we arrived in less than three-quarters of an hour, an hour after nightfall. As my mother and the other children lived in Via Toscanelli, when we were near the Sdrucciolo de' Pitti the good driver set me down there. I descended from the box and ran—no, I could not run, for my feet were swollen, and my sides numb, but my heart was glad, exultant, and throbbing. I knocked; my mother came to the window and saw me, but she did not recognise me until I spoke, and then she gave a scream and came down. What followed I cannot recount. Those who have a heart will imagine it better than I can tell it. Neither the good family who welcomed and refreshed me, nor the honest humane carrier, have I ever seen, for I remained in Florence, and did not return to Siena until many years after. Then I made all possible researches to find both the one and the other, but I could never find them. Not, indeed, that I wished to remunerate them with money (the price of charity has not yet been named), but I wished to express to them my gratitude; and this is the only recompense acceptable to charitable hearts.
I REACH FLORENCE—MY MOTHER.
PAOLO SANI'S SHOP.
The day after, as I hoped and feared, the babbo arrived, and as soon as he saw me, his expression, anxious and grieved as it was, became threatening. His few ill-repressed words were the sure sign of the blows to come, and he was just going to strike me when my mother, with indescribable tenderness, caught me in her arms and pressed me to her, with her face and eyes turned towards my father, without uttering a word. Softened by this, he then began a long speech on the obedience and submission due from children to the holy parental authority, not omitting to censure my mother's indulgence and petting. After this I begged his pardon, and all was at an end. My father returned to Siena, and I went to Signor Sani's shop (built with his own money), in the Piazza di San Biagio, under the Piatti printing-office. Signor Paolo Sani was a man of about fifty, thin, pale, and exceedingly active. He had a great deal of work to do, and was employed by the Court and first houses in Florence. His taste was not exquisite, but he understood effects and proportions, so that his decorative carving, either in the way of furniture, caskets, frames, chandeliers, or ornamental work for churches, was greatly in demand. He had many men, and the works succeeded each other with great rapidity. In his house he had portfolios full of designs, and the walls of his shop were covered with plaster casts, bas-reliefs of figures, and ornaments, animals, arabesques, flowers, angels, &c., making a strange fantastic medley full of attraction for me. When the master was not there, the men at their work used to talk and sing; but when any one saw him coming, the scene changed, and there was perfect silence. I came into the shop as an apprentice and errand-boy; so that although I had my little bench, with my tools and work, yet, if there was any glue to be heated or made, or the tools were to be taken to the grinder, or the breakfast to be brought for the men, this duty always fell upon me. But I did not in the least complain. It is true that amongst these duties there was one for which I had a dislike, although I did not show it, and this was carrying a basket full of shavings on my back to the master's house in the Borgo Sant' Jacopo. To go there I had to pass through the Mercato Nuovo and over Ponte Vecchio, which is much frequented at all hours, as every one knows; and during this year I went there with the basket of shavings on my back. Notwithstanding this, I was well off in the shop, and was light-hearted from being near my mother and sisters. One of my sisters—my elder by a year—died soon after my return from my wanderings with my father. Poor Clementina! she was so good, delicate in health, and suffering. Indeed, we all suffered because of our poverty. Father sent us little, for he earned little, and our bread was often wet with tears because we could not help our mother as we wished. Added to this, she could do almost nothing herself on account of her infirmity of eyesight, which little by little so increased, that at last she was no longer able to see us; and as I have already said, Clementina died. God willed it so—to shorten her road, which was too full of thorns and danger, to one pretty as she was, artless, away from the father's watchful eye, and with her mother blind. My other smaller sister Maddalena accompanied her mother when she went out, as she did in the endeavour to earn something by buying and selling women's old clothes. My brother Lorenzo (perhaps because he was too quick-tempered) was obliged to go to the poorhouse, and here he learnt the art of carpet-maker. After a short time, however, he came out and returned to Parenti, who had a carpet manufactory in the ancient refectory of the monks of Santa Croce, where he remained for some time.
DEATH OF MY SISTER.
But all these difficulties and sorrows one feels less in early years, and in spite of them I was light-hearted. I had the master's goodwill, and the men in the shop treated me with the open cordial heartiness belonging to that class in those days. My love for the study of design increased, and in the off-hours of work I used to stay behind in the shop and eat a bit of bread there, and draw from some of the casts hanging on the walls, without taking them down or even dusting them. I began with little things such as leaves, branches, small figures, capitals of columns, heads of animals, and so on and so on, until I got to figures. In the shop there were two beautiful bas-reliefs from the pulpit in Santa Croce, two from the doors of the sacristy of the Duomo by Luca della Robbia, and several of those little figures by Ghiberti which surround the principal door of San Giovanni. All these casts I drew during this period—badly, as one may imagine, and without guide or method; but still, this served to occupy me pleasantly, and also to keep alive within me the craving to learn and advance myself, so as to be able to do other and more important work in the shop, and thus gain distinction.
BACKWARDNESS AT SCHOOL.
MY FIRST LIBRARY.
BOOKS AT CHURCH.
This desire of distinguishing myself has always been very strong in me; and through all my privations, discomforts, loss of sleep, harsh corrections, irony, and scorn, I was borne up by this desire to do myself credit, and see my father and mother rejoice in me and for me; and also, I must confess, by the hope of seeing the rage of those who had treated me with irony and scorn. But if I learned, more and more every day, how to design and to carve in wood—for this was very attractive to me—in everything else I was perfectly ignorant. I had not even learned to read well, and could not write at all. My father had tried placing me at a public school, but I learned absolutely nothing there. The rudiments of writing and arithmetic were so irksome to me that the master in despair sent me home again, and would have nothing to do with such a little dunce. For all this, I had my little library at home, which I kept with great care locked up in a small box in my room, and it was composed of seven or eight books. These I had bought in the streets from book-stalls set against old walls, and they were as follows: A volume of the 'Capitoli of Berni,' 'Paul and Virginia,' and 'Atala and Chatta' (translations of course), a volume of the comedies of Alberto Nota, and the 'Jerusalem Liberated,' 'Guerrino Meschino agli Alberi del Sole,' 'Oreste,' and the 'Pazzi Conspiracy.' At first I understood almost nothing excepting some of the adventures of Guerrino. Afterwards 'Atala and Chatta' and 'Paul and Virginia' became my favourite reading; and so much did I like them, and so often did I read them, that whole pages remained in my memory. Then I fell in love with the 'Jerusalem,' and this my memory more easily retained. Some of the verses I tried to write from memory, in a little running hand, copying the letters from my father's writing, for, as I have said before, I never learnt the rudiments of writing; and those pot-hooks, and big letters between two lines, never were to my taste. As to other things, I had the innocence and good faith belonging to my age and the imperfect education I had received. I thought all books good—good because they were printed—and not only good at home, but good everywhere else; and so I used to take my books to read in church during the Mass. One day (it was Sunday) at mid-day Mass in Sant' Jacopo, while I was reading the 'Conspiracy of the Pazzi,' my master, Signor Sani, who lived opposite the church, and was also at Mass, observed me, and suspecting that the book I was reading was not a proper one to take to church, stopped me as he was going out and asked to see it, and finding what it was, told me that I was not to bring it again to church, as it was not a book of prayers. More also he added that I did not understand, especially when he wanted to explain to me the verses—
"Il putrido
Annoso tronco, a cui s'appoggia fraude."[2]
I obeyed, however, and never took this or any of my other books to church; and so I learnt that books you can read at home you cannot read in church. Later I learnt there are others not to be read anywhere.
CHAPTER II.
WITHOUT KNOWING IT, I WAS DOING WHAT LEONARDO ADVISES—NEW WAY OF DECORATING THE WALLS OF ONE'S HOUSE—I WISH TO STUDY DESIGN AT THE ACADEMY, BUT CANNOT CARRY THIS INTO EFFECT—A BOTTLE OF ANISE-SEED CORDIAL—INTELLIGENT PEOPLE ARE BENEVOLENT, NOT SO THOSE OF MEDIOCRE MINDS—THE STATUES IN THE PIAZZA DELLA SIGNORIA AND ALABASTER FIGURES—THE DISCOVERY OF A HIDDEN WELL—MY FATHER RETURNS HOME WITHOUT WORK, AND LEAVES FOR ROME—YOUNG SIGNOR EMILIO DEL TABRIS—SEA-BATHS AND CHOLERA AT LEGHORN—WITH HELP I SAVE A WOMAN FROM DROWNING—I GO TO SAN PIERO DI BAGNO—MY UNCLE THE PROVOST DIES—MY FATHER RETURNS FROM ROME, AND SETTLES IN FLORENCE—MY WORK, A GROUP OF A HOLY FAMILY, IS STOLEN—DESCRIPTION OF THIS GROUP.
How dear to me is the remembrance of those times! My goodwill and desire to learn were indeed above my very poor condition. The difficulties of my profession did not discourage me; on the contrary, I felt a pleasurable though distant hope of surpassing my companions in figure-work that they did so badly and laboriously. For this purpose, from that time I gave all my efforts to the study of the human figure. I bought an album and kept it always with me, begged my friends to stand as models, and drew their portraits. At first my attempts were not happy; but I was never tired, and after a time I acquired so much freedom that with a few strokes I could make a fair likeness. I was always at work, and the walls of our kitchen and dining-room were all smudged over with charcoal. Naturally, there was no one to scold me for this unusual way of adorning the walls, for the mother, poor dear, was blind, my father was not there, and as I was the eldest, I was, as it were, the head of the family. Besides, though my mother could not see, she still knew of this strange practice of mine, and thought it better for me thus to occupy myself than to be playing with the boys in the street.
LONGING TO BE AN ARTIST.
In the meantime, however, many doubts and self-questionings arose within me. I knew that there was a school where one could really learn to draw and paint and make statues. Heavens, how delightful it would be to know how to make statues! In fact, I understood there was the Academy of Fine Arts, for so I had been told, and some of the fortunate young men who frequented this Academy were my acquaintances, and had shown me their designs, which seemed to me, as my friend Dotti would say, most stupendous! I was no longer happy. The Academy appeared to me in the most splendid and glowing colours; it seemed to me the haven, the landmark, the temple of glory, the throne of my golden dreams.
I spoke of it to my mother with tears in my eyes. She mingled her tears with mine, but not, perhaps, so much from being persuaded of the necessity of such studies as from a desire to soothe me. She spoke about it to Signor Sani, who, I shall always remember, with his eyes fixed fiercely on me, made even more formidable under his silver spectacles, replied, that to do all that was to be done in his shop, it was enough to remain in the shop and have the wish to learn—of this he was certain; but as to the work in the Academy, he did not feel so sure, for, on the contrary, that would fill me with desires and cravings that I could not satisfy, owing to the poverty of my family, even admitting that I had the disposition to enable me to master these studies; and finally, he hinted at the danger there was of my being contaminated by my companions. My mother did not answer him. She said good-bye to me, and in her sightless eyes I saw the sadness within. She went out, and I set myself to work.
A FLASK OF ANISE-SEED.
I resigned myself, but continued always to study by myself. As Luigi, the master's eldest son, was studying design at Professor Gaspero Martellini's school, which was in the Fondacci di Santo Spirito, he gave me some of his designs to copy. Not only did Professor Martellini give him lessons in drawing, but also in modelling in clay, and Sani was one of the most assiduous of his scholars. I remember to have pounded his clay for him many times, in a room on the ground-floor in his house in Borgo Sant' Jacopo. This little room was used as a storehouse for all sorts of odds and ends, and amongst these I once found a flask of anise-seed cordial, that (to confess the truth) I tasted sometimes. One morning, having finished what I had to do, and having gone up-stairs to take the key of the room, one of the master's daughters (he had four) smelt in my breath the odour of anise-seed, and said to me—
"Who has given you anise-seed?"
"No one," I answered.
"You smell of anise-seed; who has given it to you? Mind, don't tell lies."
Then I told everything.
"I don't believe you. You are a liar."
"No; come and see."
"Certainly I wish to see."
She then came down, and taking the flask in her hand, looked at it, smelled it, and tasted it. Apparently she must have drunk a little, for as soon as she had put down the flask and shut up the room, she began to totter, and could not stand on her feet. With difficulty I succeeded in getting her up-stairs, where, as soon as her mother saw her in that state, there ensued a serious scene. They all talked and scolded at once—the three girls who had not drank the anise-seed, as well as the mamma; and when I tried to explain how the thing had happened, I felt two slaps in the face, which were given with such force that I was stunned. My ideas became so confused that I was not able to say anything. Fortunately the girl spoke, and said—
"Nanni is not at fault."
At these words the mistress said—
"Go at once to the shop. Master shall know everything this evening."
I did not breathe a word, and even she said nothing about it to the master, nor was I scolded by him, or by the Signora Carolina (the mistress). Some days after I returned to knead the clay, but the flask of cordial had disappeared.
About this time there was a residenza[3] to be made in the shop for some church, where, in the midst of the clouds that supported the ostensorio, were a quantity of seraphim. This work was required to be done at once without delay; and as Bartolommeo Bianciardi, who did this kind of work in the shop, could not alone do all that was required of him, I proposed to the master to make one of the seraphim myself, and I succeeded so well that he was entirely satisfied. After that I made others, and always better and better. From that time, when similar work came to the shop, I was always employed on it together with the other workman, and sometimes in preference to him. In the meantime I continued to make progress in the art of wood-carving, and the best and most skilful workmen flattered me and helped me with their advice, but the others looked upon me with an evil eye. I could not understand this difference, nor can I understand it now; but as I have since met with this, and felt it always at every time and everywhere, it must be in the natural order of bad things.
ARTISTIC LONGINGS.
But there was always a thorn in my heart. The seraphim were not enough to satisfy me, nor even the large masks and heads of Medusa with all their serpents. And when I passed through the Piazza della Signoria and saw the David, the Perseus, and the Group of the Sabines, I thought that by going to the Academy of Fine Arts one might learn how to make such works!
Heavens, how grand a thing it would be to be able to go to the Academy! But it was useless even to think of this, for my father had declared himself opposed to it. Therefore peace be to it, and let me have patience. At least those pretty little alabaster figures that are shown in the shop windows of Pisani on the Prato, and Bazzanti on the Lung'Arno, those I should be able to do with time and study and a firm will. For after all, it is only a question of changing the material, of substituting alabaster for wood, a seraphim or an angel for a little Venus or Apollo—there is nothing to create. Those who make these figures, also copy them from others in alabaster, plaster, or bronze, as I do; and even now I invent my little seraphim, and no longer look at Flammingo's little boys as I did at first—I do them from memory, making them either leaner or fatter, or more smiling or more sad, as best I feel inclined. So I reasoned and persuaded myself that in the end, one day or other, I also should be able to make one of those graceful little statuettes.
A PRACTICAL JOKE.
In this way I consoled myself, and went on with courage and hopefulness. Here some one may say, this artist in his old age gives us a picture of himself as a boy where there is too much fancy. The portrait is beautiful, but is it a likeness? Has not the love of beauty seduced him? What is the truth? Who ever saw a boy who was always obedient, studious, patient, constant, &c. &c.?
Slowly, my good sirs—slowly; have a little patience. Some scrapes even I have got into, and for the love of truth I must not pass them by in silence. But everything has its place, and here, for instance, is the place for one of these scrapes. In the shop where I was employed, close to my bench there was a great plaster pillar rising from the floor to the ceiling. Neither I nor any one had ever thought or inquired for what purpose it had been made. In this pillar was a sort of little niche, into which was walled up a phial of oil kept for sharpening our tools. Now it happened that this phial got broken, and in consequence it became necessary to knock down the rest of the little niche in order to put in a new one; but in performing this operation, I perceived that the wall was thin under the hammer, as if it were hollow, so I began to think what this could mean. The others also wondered, and some said one thing, and some said another. In the meantime, as I continued to hammer on the wall in the interior of the niche, a brick fell down, the wall gave way, and we looked into a hollow space. Taking a stick to measure the depth, we found it was considerable; but we could not understand what the meaning of this could be. I have already said, in the beginning of these memoirs, that our shop was under the Piatti printing-office—and so it is, for the printing-office is on the first floor over it; but the building is very high, and above that floor are others occupied by lodgers. Suddenly, as we stood still, perplexed and wondering what could be the use of this hollow pillar, I, being nearest the spot, heard a noise within like a rustling or rubbing of something which we could not explain.
THE "SOULS OF PURGATORY."
For a while I stood still, thinking, when suddenly I guessed what it was, and said to my companions—
"In a moment, if I succeed, you will witness a scene that will make you laugh."
"What do you mean to do?"
"You will see." Taking a long piece of beaten iron wire, I bent it into the form of a mark of interrogation, and fastening the straight end of it firmly to a bit of wood, when I heard the noise again I thrust it to the opposite side of the hole, and again and again tried if I could catch hold of anything within. At last, when I thought I had grappled hold of something, I pulled it up, and found it to be a rope. As soon as the rope was caught, we heard several voices scolding, calling, and disputing— amongst others, a woman's voice shouting, "No, I tell you there are no other lodgers; pull away, the bucket must have got into some hole." Then the poor woman pulled, and every time she pulled I gave a loud groan. At last, apparently the woman's strength failed, the mistress herself or some one else pulled at it, for I could feel she had no more strength to pull, and then cried out with an impertinent voice, worthy of greater success, "Who is there?" "The souls of purgatory," I shouted out lugubriously, and instantly felt the rope fall down.
To say the truth, I was then a little alarmed through fear of being discovered, so I pushed forward the iron hook, and the rope fell, bucket and all, into the well. My companions laughed at the scene, but I did not; and thinking the joke might be found out, I hastened to close up again the hole with a brick, set the little bottle of oil into it, restore the niche as it was, smudge it over well that it might appear old and as if it had never been touched, sweep away all traces of the plaster that had been used, straighten out the instrument I had used, and apply myself to my work in serious rather than hilarious mood.
MY FATHER GOES TO ROME.
About this time my father, failing to get work, came to Florence, hoping to find something to do; but his hopes proved vain. He stayed there a little while, but at last determined to go away, and this time for a more distant place. My mother and all of us tried to dissuade him, telling him to have patience, that some way would be found, that we would do all we could to help, and although we were very poor, still we should all be together. But it seemed to him that we could not get on in this way, and accordingly he left for Rome. So long as he was at Siena and wrote to us, and sometimes sent us a few sous, it was not so bad, and we were accustomed to it; but now, who could say how we should get on? So far away, without any one to help him, without acquaintances, and with so imperious a character, what would become of him? Fortunately, however, he found employment, and he wrote that he was well, and hoped in a short time to be able to send us something. God knows there was need of it.
Meanwhile I had become tolerably skilful. I was no longer a boy; I earned about three pauls a-day, and nearly all this I gave to my mother, reserving for myself only a few sous to buy paper, pencils, and books. Beyond these things I wanted nothing, for my mother took care to keep me cleanly and decently dressed.
DISCONTENT.
As my face, my way of speaking, and my manners were not vulgar, many of the customers who came to our shop took me for the son of the principal instead of an apprentice. They readily addressed themselves to me; I took their messages, and sometimes their orders for the work, and the older and more skilful workmen showed no ill-feeling about it. Amongst other customers who had a liking for me, I remember Signor Emilio de Fabris, who at that time was the head workman in Baccani's studio. He used to come to direct and urge on the work. He used to talk with me, and to make his observations on the work; and as he even then had an easy and graceful way of talking, I listened to him with attention. He was a thin, tall, refined young man, admirably educated, and courteous in his manners. To-day he is one of the most famous masters of architecture, President of our Academy of Fine Arts, and my good friend.
But although I had many reasons for being contented,—for at home, thanks to the small wages of my brother Lorenzo, the few sous that came from Rome, and the earnings, meagre though they were, of my mother, we were able, by putting all together, to live tolerably though poorly, and in the shop I was liked and esteemed by my master, by the men, by all,—still I was not contented. I felt there was a void, a feeling of uneasiness, and a melancholy that I could neither explain to myself, nor could others explain to me except by jestingly calling me "the poet."
And this was the truth, for the poet is eminently a dreamer whose dreams are more joyous and smiling than any reality, and I dreamed—yes, but not of a smiling future when I should be rich and famous, but of any sort of way by which I could find vent for that inward longing to distinguish myself above others, and to distinguish myself especially in figure-work, though it should be only in wood; but it was not possible for me to satisfy this longing in the shop. Here I was obliged to work at all sorts of things—chandeliers, frames, mask-heads, everything; and I not only felt unhappy, but was unhappy, and my health began to fail. I was advised to take sea-baths; but in Leghorn the cholera was raging, and it would have been imprudent to go there, and so another year passed in the midst of desires and hopes and fears and ill-health. But at last I went to the baths. I had scarcely arrived there, however, when that terrible disease reappeared and raged furiously: the inhabitants and strangers hastened to fly from it; all business was suspended; movement and gaiety almost entirely disappeared; the shops were shut; and in a short time Leghorn became deserted, sad, and oppressed with fear.
CHOLERA AT LEGHORN.
My mother wrote to me from Florence urging my immediate return; but I—I know not why—felt myself, as it were, riveted to Leghorn. It may have been perhaps on account of the effect of the sea air, the novelty of the life, and the excitement produced in me by the danger to which my life was exposed, which I not only did not fear, but even felt strong enough almost to challenge, and more than all, the notable improvement that I daily felt in my health, which decided me to remain. I had found some friends even gayer and more thoughtless than myself. We went to the fish-market and bought the best fish for almost nothing—fresh red mullet for two or three soldi a pound—for there were no purchasers. It was generally believed that the disease came from the sea, and was brought on by eating fish; but we ate and drank and smoked merrily.
In a few days I recovered my health, got a good colour, gained strength, and melancholy went to the devil. I also found some work to do. The few soldi that I had brought with me rapidly disappeared. I worked but little, only doing so much day by day as would enable me to live merrily. By one o'clock my day of work was over, and then began that of amusement—which consisted of dinner, walks in the country sometimes as far as Montenero, towards evening a good swim in the sea, then to the café, and late to bed. Leading as I did this happy life, one can readily imagine that my letters home breathed trust, courage, and tranquillity of spirit, so that my mother, although she never ceased to beg me to return, did so in less pressing terms and with gentler expressions.
AMUSEMENTS—CACCIUCCO.
I SAVE A DROWNING WOMAN.
One day when I had gone with my friends on board one of those small vessels which are stationed at the "Anelli," and while we were eating a dish of fresh fish called cacciucco, which the sailors excel in making, a woman who was walking by the shore fell or threw herself into the sea. For a short time she floated, sustained by her clothes, which puffed up into a sort of bell; then she began to waver to and fro, and down she went. We looked at each other, and then about us to see if any of the sailors on the neighbouring ships had seen the woman and were moving to the rescue, and those on board our boat only shrugged their shoulders as if she were a dog.
"Down with you! throw yourself in! you know how to swim!"
"I, of course; but don't you swim better than I?"
"I! no; but yes——"
And at this one of us, a fellow nicknamed Braccio di Ferro—I don't remember his real name—taking off jacket and boots, shouted out, "Hold your tongues, cowards!" and plunged in head first with his hands above his head. At the word cowards, made even more telling by the brave act of the man, I felt my face suffused with shame; and although I was not such an expert swimmer as Braccio di Ferro, I also took off my jacket and shoes, and gathering my loins tightly together, with my hands under my feet, jumped in. Under water one could see quite as clearly as above, for the rays of the sun penetrated obliquely and lighted up all the space about me. I saw my friend diving down to touch bottom, which meant that he had seen that poor woman, but I had to come up to the surface to take breath. As soon as I had done so once or twice, I made a somersault, and away I went, striking out with my hands in the water. My friend, however, had found the woman, and had seized hold of her by her foot. Swimming around, I caught hold of her skirts,—and just in time; for poor Braccio di Ferro was blown, and who knows how much water he would have drunk if I had not come. Leaving the woman to me, he made a curve in the water, and went to the surface to breathe, plunging his head under again to look after us. The two boats that had come to get the poor woman were ready. Braccio di Ferro mounted into one to help me pull her in. With one hand I caught hold of the boat, and with the other I clung on to the woman's dress, who was at once dragged out, placed on her face that she might throw up the water she had swallowed, taken to land, and escorted to her house, which was not far off. We mounted upon our vessel amidst the applause of the people and of our friends who were waiting for us; they took off some of their clothes to cover us as best they could, and we hung ours out to dry on one of the cords of the ship. We drank some pipiona wine, finished our repast, and each of us returned home.
I remained about a month longer in Leghorn; and if it had not been for my mother, who pressed me to return, I should have stayed who knows how long. I found also something to do which was to my taste; I made three heads of Medusa to ornament the panels of a chemist's bench. It was a new chemist's shop that was to be opened in those days. Who knows what they have done with those poor heads of mine!
A DROP TOO MUCH.
I have just said that when we returned to the ship after having got hold of the woman who was drowning, we drank some pipiona wine; and now I must stop and put others who may intend to drink of this pipiona on their guard. It is wretched wine, or perhaps we drank a drop too much, for we, who might have had the medal awarded to courage, went home almost drunk. And whereas an hour before we had been honoured and applauded, on our return we ran the risk of being scorned. So it is; a drop of wine too much may serve one such a turn that I, as a good Christian, warn my equals, and especially inexperienced young men who find themselves in the company of merry companions, against it.
I returned to Florence, and never heard anything more of my Livornese friends. Part of them were in Magagnini's shop, who was then a cabinet-maker, and is now a much-esteemed architect. Others—and amongst these Braccio di Ferro—were with Ricciardelli, cabinet-maker in Via dell'Angiolo. I returned home, therefore, and found the mother always dear and loving, who clasped me in her arms. The day following, I went back to the shop so brisk and well that the principal and all the men were rejoiced.
ATANASIO DUPRÈ'S DEATH.
About this time my uncle, on my father's side, Atanasio Duprè, provost at San Piero di Bagno, died. They wrote to us from there to bring my father to take possession of the inheritance of his brother; and as he was in Rome, by my mother's advice I left at once for Bagno. According to my habit, and also to save a few soldi, I left towards evening on foot, and walked all night. It was winter, beautiful weather, cold, and with clear moonlight. In the middle of the night I met no one, and only towards daybreak some few carts passed me near Borgo alla Collina and Bibbiena, where I stopped at the inn, as I could not go on any farther, having come thirty-six miles without halting. I rested there some hours; but in order to pursue my journey, I hired a mount and guide, because it was necessary to go along the dry river-bed of the Corsalone for some miles, and cross it several times. Through this plain, which was flooded over at times, the river ordinarily kept to a narrow tortuous channel, which, seen from the heights of Bibbiena, produced a wonderful effect. It looked like an enormous serpent with golden scales when lighted up by the rays of the sun. Having gone over this strange and fatiguing road, leaving to the right La Vernia, abode and sanctuary of the "poor one" of Assisi, I mounted the Apennines, and descended again, arriving towards evening at San Piero di Bagno. I went at once to my poor uncle's residence, where I found a woman and some priests, who showed me our inheritance. It was little enough, to speak truly—some modest furniture, a little linen, and a little money. What was really of value was the library; but this he had left to the Eremo of Camaldoli, from whence it originally came, as, at the time of the suppression of convents, he had taken it to save it from the thieving hands of the governors and partisans of Napoleon I.
In order to understand how my uncle was able to save a great part of the books and precious manuscripts belonging to the library at Camaldoli, it is enough to know that he was one of the fathers of that hermitage, and when at the suppression they were all expelled, my uncle became a priest, and was made provost of San Piero di Bagno, where he remained until his death.
A GROUP OF THE HOLY FAMILY.
My father hastened at once to Florence, where I found him at home, after I had stopped a few days at San Piero. He went there and took possession of those few things, and afterwards returned to Florence, and from that time forward never left it. He opened a little shop himself, and I used to help him in spare moments with certain kinds of work that he was unable to do,—such as little figures, animals, and other things. It is a great comfort to me to remember those days. I had the will and the ability to help my father to do work that was appreciated and liked as if it were really his, and so increase his reputation and obtain his affection. It happened once, however, that a most miserable man took advantage of my father's good faith about a piece of work that had cost me not a little time and study. This was what occurred:—
One day a man presented himself to my father, and said that he had a commission to have a group made in wood of not very large dimensions, that should represent the Sacred Family—the Virgin Mary, St Joseph, the Infant Jesus, and St John—and that it had come into his head to come to him, whom he knew to be so clever at figure-work. My father tried in some way to excuse himself, feeling that the work would be a long one, and not wishing to take too much advantage of my hours of rest and study. But there was no way of avoiding it, and he had to yield and take the order for this work, without even speaking of the price, "for" (so said this man) "the person who gives the order is both intelligent and rich, and will not question the price." Having pledged himself in this way, he spoke to me about it, and said, "Here is a fine opportunity. It is true you will have to work hard, but you will be recompensed. The money for this will belong entirely to you, as I can do absolutely nothing on it." I said yes, to satisfy him; but in reality I intended to leave the gain to him, only taking something not to humiliate him.
THE GROUP IS STOLEN.
The work was begun: I made a little model in clay, gave it a great deal of study, and took much interest in it. I got on with it very well, but slowly, as is natural; and the man in question came almost every week to see it and hurry on the work, saying the person who had given the commission was most desirous of seeing it, and that we must let him know when it would be in a condition to be seen,—in brief, when the little group would be nearly finished. To say the truth, it was entirely finished; but as then a doubt came up as to whether, in order to finish it entirely, it would be well to put the lamb at St John's feet, and as he would not decide upon so important a matter, he proposed to my father—I was not present—to show it to the person who had commissioned it at his house, as he could not come to see it at the shop; and he also congratulated my father on his work, which he felt sure was most praiseworthy. "The house is not far off—a mere step or two for me there and back—and so the question about the lamb will be decided." So saying, he took the little group, wrapped it up in a handkerchief, and begging my father not to move from the shop, that on his return he might not be kept outside waiting with the group, he went away, and never more was seen.
I need not say how my father felt: as for me, for more than a year my fixed idea was, could I but only meet the man who had robbed me! I looked for him in the streets, in the market-places, in the churches—yes, even in the churches. For had he not stolen a Holy Family from me? He might also steal a lamp or a candle hung before some image. The ardent desire I felt to find the thief, was not to put him into the hands of justice—for, more than the actual loss of the money, I felt roused by the insult and mockery of it. I wanted to teach him what a lamb was! I! yes indeed; for although I was young then, I was not at all weak, and there was more than enough strength in me to break his nose and give him a black eye. I foresaw all the consequences, even to my imprisonment, which would undoubtedly have followed, for I was fully aware that one cannot administer justice on one's own account. It did not matter to me; I felt I must break his nose with my own fists! As these were my thoughts then, I am obliged to narrate them as they are, though God forgive me! All this, however, was useless, for I never saw him again.
DESCRIPTION OF THE GROUP.
As wood is not wax, this group must be somewhere now, and will last for some time to come; so I leave the description of it, that he who is the present owner may know that its first possessor was a thief.
The little group is a little more than a palm in height; it is of linden wood, and is composed of four figures in high relief. The Madonna is seated, with the infant Jesus in her arms, who, with both His arms around the Virgin's neck, is in the act of reaching up to kiss her, and she presses Him to her bosom with one hand, whilst the other hangs down on her left side. St Joseph is bent forward and kneeling, with an expression of love and adoration; and little St John, also on his knees, behind the Virgin, is pulling aside her mantle that he may see this touching scene. St Joseph is at the right and St John on the left of the Virgin.
CHAPTER III.
A PUNISHMENT WELL DESERVED, AND MY SATISFACTION—DIFFERENT TIMES, DIFFERENT CUSTOMS—THE USE OF THE BIRCH GIVEN UP IN SCHOOLS—A PORTRAIT—COMPANIONS AND BAD HABITS—HOW I BECAME ACQUAINTED WITH MY DEAR MARINA—MY FIRST TIME OF SPEAKING WITH HER—DIFFICULTY TO OBTAIN MY MOTHER'S CONSENT TO OUR MARRIAGE—SHE MAKES TROUBLE, THINKING TO DO WELL—I AM SENT AWAY FROM MY BETROTHED, AND RETURN TO BAD HABITS—AN ESCAPADE—THE PUBLIC BATHS OF VAGA-LOGGIA—MY CLOTHES STOLEN.
Perhaps some one may think, "How is it that, after so many years, you have been able to remember the composition of your work?" To say the truth, even I am surprised; but it must be taken into consideration that, besides being gifted with a most tenacious memory, the first efforts of the mind remain more firmly engraved thereon, being produced by the workings of one's whole soul. So it is with one's affections and one's hopes. Add, therefore, to this, the brutality of the offence, and it will be seen that I could not forget it in any way.
In the meantime, in Sani's shop I had made for myself an almost enviable position. All the works of a certain importance were given to me. The principal placed entire confidence in my judgment and skill—so much so, that he put me at the head of the young men in the shop, and delegated to me the direction of the great works that were being executed at that time for the approaching nuptials of the Grand Duke Leopold II. with the Princess Antoinetta of Naples. I had even the satisfaction of directing a certain Saladini, a young Sienese who had come to help us, and whom I had known at Siena at the Academy of Fine Arts. There we had been companions and fellow-students, sharing the same desk; but to say the truth, he drew better than I did, which irritated me, and one day we came to words, and I said boastfully that I defied him to draw with me, and could easily beat him.
BRAGGING AND BIRCHING.
It appears that the master heard loud words, and from the glass bull's-eye in the door of the room from which he dominated the whole school, he saw me standing by the desk with one leg in the air, my arm passed under my thigh, making a drawing of a Corinthian capital. I could not see the master, as my back was turned to him; neither did I perceive how silent the school was, nor the singular attention my rival was devoting to his work.
The reason of it all, however, I soon discovered, or rather felt, from a sharp switch on my back, and before I could put my leg down, three or four good blows, accompanied with these words, "And this is the prize for those who are skilful in drawing from under their legs." These words were accompanied by the general ill-repressed hilarity of the school, and especially of my rival Saladini. I confess the blows, and even the laughter of my companions which made them more stinging, were well merited; but I remember that I took it in bad part, especially as my friend Saladini, who certainly had seen the master, had not warned me, as I felt I should have done in his place. For this reason I rejoiced when he came to Florence to work in our shop, and was put by the principal under my direction, when I could and was obliged to correct him and say, "No, it is not right in this way; you must do so and so." I must add, however, that I did not make any abuse of my power, that Saladini had no reason to complain, and that we became good friends.
THE BIRCH AT SCHOOL.
It now occurs to me to make an observation. I had a switching, therefore the "birch" existed in our schools. The master could administer it and the scholar receive it coram populo officially, according to the natural order of things, as a legitimate correction; but I ask, if to-day a master in our Academy, or in fact in any academy in Italy, gave four blows on the back of a young man, be his fault even much greater than mine, what would happen? The heavens would fall; there would be a revolution in the school and shouts without, and a scandal for the master. The ill-advised master would be reprimanded by the head-master; a report made to the Minister of Public Instruction; the master dismissed altogether or sent elsewhere; and perhaps even, if the Ministry be Progressista, all would lose their places.
So it is. "O tempora! O mores!" But is it, after all, a bad thing to administer a good whipping to a rascal who, instead of studying himself, annoys those who are really working, instigates them to leave school, and leads them to do wrong by using bad and obscene words, swearing, and drawing and writing improper things on the Academy walls? They can be sent away from school, but they must not be beaten, is the answer. But the fact is, that though they ought to be sent away, they are always allowed to remain. Would it not, therefore, be better to administer a little corporal punishment with the "birch" before arriving at this finale? Where is the harm of it? I have had it myself, and at fifty years of age am well and strong. But enough of this.
SALADINI—BAD COMPANIONS.
The good Saladini, therefore, was placed under me. He endured and even appeared to enjoy my corrections. In fact, he had a character and temperament that prevented his feeling anything. He was a young fellow about eighteen or nineteen, older than I was, small, fat, with good colouring, chestnut hair, and light eyes which never grew animated and moved slowly, seeing little and being surprised at nothing. He never got angry, and laughed in the same way when he heard of an accident as when he heard a joke. It was not that he was stupid, for his words, though few, were not devoid of sense. He ate more than I did, and drank more too, and retired to bed early, being an enemy of walks, of discussions, and merrymaking even of the most discreet and proper kind. He lived but a short time, and died as soon as he returned to Siena, I don't know of what malady. Not of disease of the heart, however; for although his heart was not bad, yet it seemed a useless part of him, never beating with any feeling of emotion or passion: there it was, quite stock-still, seeming even dead, like the hearts of stoics or stupid people, which are about the same thing. Those, however, who have the misfortune to be made in this way, live a long time, eat much, drink much, and sleep—above all things sleep—profoundly; and so did he, though only for a short time, because he died. It was better so, for who knows whether his heart would not have waked up some day, repented the time lost in sleeping, and quickened its beat? Therefore it was better so. May the earth weigh lightly on you, my friend, and the peace of the Lord rejoice your spirit!
I FIRST SEE MY WIFE.
By this time I had grown to be a young man beloved by my friends, who were not many, and not all of them excellent. Some were a little too full of life, like myself, and these gay young fellows used sometimes to drag me to places where young men of good repute should never go—I mean to osterias and billiard-rooms. In such places there is loss of time, loss of health, and loss of morals. Vaguely I felt, even then, the impropriety of such places, and an internal sense of dissatisfaction warned me to break off from these habits and to avoid these friends. Indeed at home I was no longer like the same person. I was restless, intolerant, despising the naturally frugal meals of the family; and my mother, my poor mother, suffered for this, but my father was angry, and sometimes with loving words and sometimes with severe ones he reproached me for my crabbedness and caprices, and I then felt sincere regret, and my heart softened, and quite overcome I embraced my mother. For all this, the road that I had taken was a slippery one. I no longer studied anything or drew as I had always done before. I read very little, and that little was rubbish. Praised and cajoled by my companions, quite satisfied with the kind of superiority I had acquired amongst them in the shop, I might have fallen very low, and have become a good-for-nothing man, and perhaps a despicable one; but God willed it otherwise. And now that I must begin to speak of her who saved me and loved me, and whom I loved and esteemed always, because she was so rich in all true virtues, I feel my hand tremble, and the fulness of my love confuses my ideas. One day as I was standing by my work-bench, I saw a young girl pass with quick short footsteps, quite concentrated in herself. It was but a fugitive impression, but so vivid that every now and then that vision came back to me and seemed to comfort me. I had not seen the features of her face, nor her eyes, which she kept on the ground; and yet that upright modest little figure, those quick little footsteps, had taken my fancy. I desired to see her again. Every now and then I looked up from my work, in the hope of seeing the person that I had been so struck by; but I did not see her again during that day or the following ones.
MASS AT SANTI APOSTOLI.
The second festa of Easter I was at Mass in the Church of the Santi Apostoli near by. Suddenly lifting my eyes, I saw facing me the dear young girl on her knees. Her face was in shadow, as it was bent down, and the church was rather dark, but the features and general expression were chaste and sweet. I stayed there enchanted. That figure in her modest dress and humble attitude, so still, so serene, enraptured me. When Mass was finished, the people began to go away, but she still remained on her knees. At last she rose and went out, and I followed her from afar. She stopped at a house on the door of which I saw the sign of "laundress." I could not believe that such a modest serious young girl could be so employed; for as a general thing, laundresses are rather frisky and provocative, turning their heads and glancing about, and sometimes very slovenly in their dress—in fact, the opposite of all that dear good creature was. From the first moment that I saw her I felt for her a respectful admiration, a tranquil serene brotherly affection and trust. I was seized with an irresistible desire to love her, to possess her, and to have my love returned. Often without her knowing it, I followed her at a distance, to assure myself of her bearing and her ways, and always observed in her a chaste, serious, and modest nature. At last I attempted to follow her nearer; and when she became aware of it, she hastened her steps and crossed to the other side of the street. I was disconcerted, but at the same time felt contented. One day, however, I decided at any cost to speak to her, and to open my heart to her; and as I knew the hour when she was in the habit of passing by the Piazza di San Biagio, where I was at work, I held myself in readiness, and as soon as I saw her, went out and followed her, that I might draw this thorn out of my heart. Yes, I somehow thought she would not take my offer amiss. She crossed the Loggia del Mercato and took the Via di Baccano and Condotta, and turned into the Piazzetta de' Giuochi, and I always followed her nearer and nearer. At last she became aware of this, stopped suddenly, turned, and without looking me in the face, said, "I want no one to follow me."
I FOLLOW MARINA—HER REBUKE.
I stammered a few words, but with so much emotion in my voice, that she again stopped, looked at me a moment, and said, "Go home to your mother, and do not stop me again in the streets."
I gave her a grateful look, and we parted. I returned to the shop with my heart overflowing with love and hope.
From that day a great change took place in me: companions, rioting, and billiards disappeared as by enchantment from my life. That same evening I went to the laundry. I saw the mistress of it, and with an excuse of having some work to give her, I spoke to her casually, and in a general way, of the young girl (whose name I did not know); but she being very sharp, smiled and said—
"Ah yes; Marina—certainly—I understand. But take care and mind what I say; Marina is such a well-conducted girl that she will not give heed to you."
"But I did not say that I wanted to make love to her."
"I know; but I understood it, and I repeat that she will not listen to you,—and if you want to do well, you will never come here again. Here there is work and not love-making to be done. But if you like, you might go to her house and speak with her mother. Perhaps then—who knows? But I should say that nothing would come of it, and it would be better so. You are too young, and so is she. Now you understand. So go away, and good-bye."
I GO TO SEE MARINA.
"Thank you, I understand; but where is Marina's house?"
"It is in the Via dell'Ulivo, near San Piero."
"Good-bye, Signora maestra."
"Your servant."
The day after this I went to Marina's house and found her mother Regina. The house was a small one, but very clean. In a few words I opened my heart to her and told her all, even of my having stopped Marina in the Piazzetta de' Giuochi. Regina was a woman of about forty years of age, and a widow. She listened quietly to me until I got to the end, and then only blamed me for having stopped her daughter in the street. She added that she would think about it; but she did not conceal from me that she thought me too young. I hastened to tell her how much I made by my day's work, and that I had a settled occupation. She then wished to hear about my family, and showed a desire to know my mother; and after having spoken to Marina, she said she would allow me to come to the house of an evening two or three times a-week. So far things went well; but at home I had as yet said nothing, and this I was obliged to do, as it was the first condition made before I could go to the girl's house. I was not afraid of my father, because, single or married, it was the same to him, as long as I continued to help him in the work he required of me; but as regards my mother, it was quite another "pair of sleeves." As soon as I had opened my mouth I saw a frown on her beautiful forehead, and she would not let me go on to the end, saying that I was doing wrong, that I was too young, that I ought to think of the shop, of my family, and make for myself a standing. Not without tears she made me feel that she looked upon this determination of mine as a sign of want of love for her. I attempted in every way to persuade her that I always cared the same for her, and that this new affection would in no wise diminish my love for her; that the young girl was an angel; that she would be pleased by her, and love her like a daughter. I embraced her, and wept, and she took pity on me, poor mother! She condescended to make the girl's acquaintance, and so we went to her house. The two mothers talked a long time together, whilst Marina put some things in order here and there about the room, without going away; and you could see the embarrassment of the poor girl. I held one of my mother's hands in mine, and kept my eyes on Marina, who never looked at me once.
OPPOSITION TO MY MARRIAGE.
It was settled that I could go to the house two or three times a-week without speaking of the time that was to elapse before the day of the wedding. Yes, I really was too young, as I was only eighteen.
All these particulars may seem superfluous, and for most people they certainly are so; but I meant, and I said so from the first, that these memoirs should be destined for my family and for young artists, to whom I desire to show myself such as I am, even in all the truth and purity of the most tender of affections. Then it is with a feeling of tender gratitude and painful sadness that I go back in memory to those days of my meeting with her, the difficulties that arose to prevent our union, and the very great influence she had over me. From these pictures interpolated now and then amongst these papers, young men of good intentions will feel the charm that surrounds the sanctity of domestic affections. Every other evening I saw the good and charming girl. I remained for only about an hour or so—such was her mother's desire. Whilst both of them worked—the mother spinning and the daughter sewing together their long braids of straw—I talked to them of my work in the shop, of my studies, and of my hopes. Again returned to me stronger than ever the desire to do figure-work, and a vague, persistent, and fierce hope to become a sculptor in marble. When in various forms I expressed these my thoughts, Marina, who was listening to me with her eyes on her work, looked up to me and seemed to search in mine for the meaning of my words. Poor Marina, you did not then understand what agitated the heart of your young friend. Later you understood; and although full of fears, you did not discourage him. But enough—do not let us anticipate.
Although my poor mother had yielded to my prayers, and had convinced herself that Marina was a well-conducted girl, industrious, docile, and honest, yet she could not, as she said, be persuaded that she would have to lose me; and every evening when I returned home and tried to speak to her of Marina, she would be troubled, and break off the conversation as if it annoyed her. Already, unknown to me, she had gone several times to the mother of the young girl, and said that I was too young—that I ought to think more of my studies than taking to myself a wife, of whom in the end I should tire; and poor little Marina would be sure to suffer, in the first place because she cared for me, and in the second place because, if abandoned by me, she would find it hard to get a husband. All these things were said by my poor mother for love for me and through the fear of losing me. I knew it some time after. But now let us see what were the fruits of these words of hers.
One morning—it was Sunday—I went to Marina's house feeling more light-hearted than usual. It was about one o'clock, after Mass. I went up-stairs, knocked, and Regina opened the door to me; but as I entered I heard a rustling sound, and saw Marina retiring into her little room. Her mother was more serious than usual, but seemed not to wish to show it. I perceived at once that there must be something the matter, and wished to clear it up. So I began—
I AM SENT AWAY.
"Marina—where is she? Is she not at home?"
"Yes; she is in her room."
"Does she feel ill? I hope not."
"She has nothing the matter with her, thank God; but as I have something to say to you, and as she knows what it is I want to say, she would not remain, and has retired to her room."
After this preamble, although there was nothing that I could reproach myself with, I felt quite frozen up.
"What is it then that you have to say to me?"
"Listen, and don't take it ill; in fact, I have already told you from the first that you are too young, and who knows when you will be able to marry my daughter? From now until then some time must elapse, and I have no wish that you should occupy that time sitting about on my chairs. Then, too, you may change—your companions may put you up to this; and we are poor people but honest, and I don't want my Marina to be courted by one who——"
"Enough, Regina—enough. It is true I am too young, but you knew it when you allowed me to come to the house. My earnings seemed then sufficient; and if no date was fixed for the marriage, it was because it was not asked. I am decided, if it so pleases Marina, to take her home in a year or a year and a half's time. Your words are the result of the tittle-tattle of people who wish us ill."
TEMPORARY SEPARATION.
"No," Regina hastened to say—"no, they are not ill wishes of you or of us. But you understand me quite well, that if I speak in this manner to you, it is for the good name of my daughter. Nothing is damaged by it. For the present you will be so good as not to come to the house. If it is a rose, as they say, it will blossom; and when you return and say, next month, I want to marry Marina, you need have no fears; she will wait for you."
I remained silent and sad, and then said—"Is this also Marina's wish?"
"It is."
"Will you allow me to say one word to her before going?"
"Say it, certainly."
I went to her door and pushed it open a little. She was standing with one hand leaning on the back of a chair; her eyes were cast down, but the expression of her face seemed tranquil. "Marina," I said, "your mother has sent me away, and she has told me that this is also your wish." She lifted her eyes and moved a little. "I therefore obey, but be sure that I will never look into the face of another young girl until I come to claim you for mine. Do you accept my promise willingly?"
"Yes," she answered, with a steadfast quiet voice. Then I stepped nearer to her and put out my hand. First she looked towards her mother, and then she put her hand in mine, and we looked at each other, and in her eyes I saw a little tear, and her faith in my promise.
I went away pierced to the heart, but firm in my resolve. Neither at home nor at the shop could they understand what was the matter with me, for my whole character had so changed. I think my mother understood what it was, for she caressed me more than usual, and asked me no questions; and I set my heart at rest, because I trusted in the strength of character and true nature of the girl. Although it was prohibited me to go to her house, yet I made it a study how to meet her out of doors, and, without being seen, to see her, and even follow her from a distance. I was not at peace, however—not because I had any fears as regards her, but I was afraid of myself. I felt an aching void within me that nothing would fill. I saw smiling dreams of fame and honour vanish little by little. I heard a voice whispering within me—"Put an end, poor fool, to your melancholy; you were born poor and ignorant, and so you will die. Qualities are required to lift one's self above others that you are entirely wanting in. Genius is necessary, and you cannot say that you have it. Education is necessary, and you have none. Money is necessary, and you have not a farthing. Above all, a strong will is needed, and yours is most variable, transient, and weak, bending to the slightest breath of a contrary wind. Put an end to it all, and do as I say: enjoy day by day whatever is given to you to enjoy. Amuse yourself with friends your equals, and whenever any of these thoughts oppress you, drown them in a glass of wine. As to your young girl, remember it is as her mother has said, 'If it is a rose, it will blossom.' Up! up! Viva! and keep a light heart." I already felt myself half yielding to these suggestions. I was down-hearted, and had not the strength to shake myself free from this strait of discouragement and desolation.
I RESUME MY BAD HABITS.
I had but little religion in me, which alone could have comforted my soul with constancy and faith in these first ebullitions of life; so it is not to be wondered at if, in this state of languor and discontent, I again turned to the amusements of my friends, losing not a few hours in the public billiard-rooms. I returned to one of the worst of habits, for him who has a home—that of going to the osteria; and I remember to have felt humiliated on finding myself in the midst of that noisy, vulgar merriment, and hearing the coarse words uttered in those taverns, where the air was heavy with wine, food, and cigar-smoke. The chaste image and simple gentle words of my good Marina came back to me, and I felt troubled, and, shaking myself, I used to rise abruptly and go away.
QUARREL AND FIGHT.
Yes, truly the image of that gentle being aroused me, and made me return to myself with a feeling of shame, and a determination to put an end to all this. It was providential, however, that not only her image but she herself appeared to arrest me on the brink where I had allowed myself to be dragged, and my meeting with her deserves to be narrated.
Months had passed since I had been sent away from my Marina's house. It happened one day, it being a festa, that I had promised to go out of the Porta San Miniato to meet some friends and eat a fresh plate of salad; and when I was near the Church of San Niccolo, I could not cross the street on account of the procession that was just coming out of the church. I think it was during the Octave of Corpus Domini: there were many people, and I waited until the procession had passed; then, perhaps because I was in such a hurry to overtake my friends, in passing by I inadvertently knocked against two women who were in the company of a young man. They took it in ill part, and the young man, thinking perhaps that I had knocked against them on purpose, said—
"Has the boor passed by?"
"You are a boor yourself," I answered.
"Pass on, if you want to." And he gave me a push. I turned around on him and hit him a blow in the face, and from that instant I had all three, the youth and the girls, down on me. But they got little good out of it: the young fellow, who was rather slight than otherwise, was put at once out of fighting condition by two blows of my fist in the face; and I freed myself from the girls, who seemed like infuriated harpies. In an instant lace, ribbon, and feathers flew in the air like dry leaves scattered by the wind.
ESCAPE FROM THE POLICE.
A space was cleared around me, and some said, "Oh, what a scandal!" others, "Bravo!" Some ran away, some laughed, and the soldiers came to clear the place and quell the tumult, and the sbirri (for there were sbirri then) to make arrests.
A mounted dragoon stationed himself in front of the church. A strong-built young man, then practitioner at the hospital, and now a distinguished physician—Doctor Gozzini—seeing the bad plight I was in, and having been one of those who had called out "Bravo!" came quickly to me, and taking me by the arm, hid me amongst the crowd, and took me with him behind the mounted dragoon. There we stood quite still, and saw them arrest the poor young fellow with his broken nose, and the girls with their crushed hats. I was not discovered that evening. They found me, however, easily enough next morning at the shop; but I will speak of this later. And now I feel in duty bound to assert that that was the last escapade of that kind that I was guilty of. I feel strong enough (or, as some may think, weak enough) now to bear quietly similar words and acts that so outraged me then. Ah! indeed age and experience are, as one may say, like the grindstone that rounds and softens down the asperities and impetuosities of early youth to form the character.
Not to excuse the affair nor the violence of my ways, but for the love of truth, I feel bound to narrate another adventure that happened to me on the morning of that same day, which had perhaps served to exasperate my already irritable state of mind. About mid-day I had betaken myself to the public baths of Vaga-Loggia, a bathing-place which was formed out of that part of the canal called the Macinante running between the Franzoni Palace and the palace belonging to the Baroness Favard. It was covered in by a framework of wood, with awnings, and the entrance was by a little door and through a narrow corridor that went along the side of the canal. At the end of this passage was a sort of stand, and a room that was used for undressing, and where, for a few soldi, an employé of the municipality was stationed, who furnished towels, and took charge of the clothes and other effects belonging to the bathers. For those also who could not or would not pay, below the steps leading to the baths there was a sort of small amphitheatre with a little wall around it, and in this wall niches to put one's clothes in. It seems to me that I have seen a something of the same kind that was used for a similar purpose at Pompeii, only there they were hot baths.
CLOTHES STOLEN AT BATH.
I chose this second-named place, which was more economical certainly, but not so safe, as you will see. After having bathed, on coming out of the water I went to my little niche and found it empty. I looked about, inquired, and swore. No one knew anything about my clothes. At first I thought it was a joke, to keep me some time naked; but at last I was convinced, and the other bathers as well, that my things had all been stolen.
I BORROW ANOTHER DRESS.
What was there then to do? Nothing had been left—they had taken everything; and to say the truth, it did not seem at all comic to me, however others might laugh. A friend relieved me from my embarrassment. He dressed himself in haste, went home to his house, which was on the Prato, and brought me all I required, from my shoes to my hat. I dressed myself, went home in the worst of tempers, and I have already described what followed.
CHAPTER IV.
RETURN TO THE HOUSE OF MY BETROTHED, AND PUT AN END TO MY THOUGHTLESS WAYS—A TALKING PARROT—HE WHO DOES NOT WISH TO READ THESE PAGES KNOWS WHAT HE HAS TO DO—HOW I WENT TO PRISON, AND HOW I PASSED MY TIME THERE—"THE DEATH OF FERRUCCIO," BY THE PAINTER BERTOLI—SIGNOR LUIGI MAGI, THE SCULPTOR—HOW I LEARNT TO BECOME ECONOMICAL—SHIRTS WITH PLAITED WRIST-BANDS—THE FIRST LOVE-KISS, AND A LITTLE BUNCH OF LEMON-VERBENA—MY MARRIAGE—MY WIFE HAS DOUBTS AS TO MY RESOLUTION OF STUDYING SCULPTURE—PACETTI'S SHOP IN PALAZZO BORGHESE—I SELL THE "SANTA FILOMENA" TO A RUSSIAN, WHO RE-CHRISTENS HER "HOPE"—I BEGIN TO WORK ON MARBLE—I MAKE A LITTLE CRUCIFIX IN BOXWOOD, WHICH IS BOUGHT BY CAV. EMANUEL FENZI—VERSES BY GIOVANNI BATTISTA NICCOLINI.
And now to return to my unfortunate escapade, which, so to speak, was the cause of my good fortune. Whilst they were looking for me, hidden in the crowd, I got away by slow degrees to the Porta San Miniato, and, keeping close to the walls up the hillside, escaped the observation of the police; and then, on thinking over the danger I had run, and the scandal I had created by my folly, I resolved to mend my ways. Here the remembrance of the dear gentle maiden came over me, and I thought if I had been with her and had not been driven away, this disturbance would never have taken place. Her presence, her words, the desire of possessing her, and being loved and esteemed by her, were necessary to me. At last I returned to town by the same road, and, going up by the Renai, I crossed the Ponte alle Grazie, and near there I saw Marina and her mother walking before me. My heart leaped within me! Had they been to the procession? Did they know what had happened, and had they seen me? What a start it gave me! To appear such a poor creature in her eyes was intolerable: what others might say was nothing compared to her condemnation; and, let alone condemnation, what I feared was the loss of her esteem. Under the influence of this fear, I had not the courage to address her; but at last, this uncertainty seeming too bitter to bear, I went up to her mother's side and said, "Good evening, Regina."
I RETURN TO MARINA'S HOUSE.
"Oh, see who is here! Good evening," she replied, with a joyful face.
I felt a new life come to me.
"What! have you been to the procession?" she said.
I looked both straight in the face and answered, "I come from that direction. I have been out of the gate of San Miniato."
"Have you heard that there has been a disturbance in the Piazza di San Niccolò?"
"I believe so; but it was a mere nothing."
"Ah, not so much of a mere nothing. They came to blows; there were some women among them; the soldiers came—the dragoons. I tell you it was a great row. Besides, some have been arrested, and will be taken to prison; and it serves them right. Pretty business, such a scandal as this!"
After a pause, I began again, turning to Marina—