Part 24 (2/2)
One may answer, ”We know this; the artist should himself give the expression required by his subject.” Quite right; but how can the artist seize hold of the right expression if first he has not seen it in life, and studied with attention beyond words? Then it is evident to me, and other works show it without my words, that not a few artists expect and insist on finding expression in their models. I remember an artist who flew into a pa.s.sion because his model did not a.s.sume an expression of grief. The model naturally laughed louder and louder, every time this simpleton said, ”Don't laugh; be serious and sad; I want you to express grief.”
[Sidenote: STUDY OF EXPRESSION FROM NATURE.]
It is true that this kind of study may occasion some little inconvenience--as, for instance, one may pa.s.s for being very stupid, because absorbed in observing and committing to memory, and hearing nothing that has been talked about. One may answer at random, and be extremely ridiculous. One may appear as a somewhat offensive admirer, and give umbrage to some jealous husband. One may even pa.s.s for a scatter-brain and imbecile. But have patience! With time and practice the artist will gain his point, and be able to study as much as he wishes, while a.s.suming an air of indifference that will shelter him from the above-mentioned misconceptions.
[Sidenote: A CIRCE AT A BALL.]
[Sidenote: A LESSON.]
He may, however, fall into other mistakes; and I here take note of them that he may avoid so doing. One evening I was at a ball at the Palazzo Torlonia at Rome. I have no fancy for b.a.l.l.s, but I like to see a great many people,--beautiful ladies, elegant dresses, and naked arms,--and more than all, the expression of eyes now languid, now animated,--smiles now ingenuous, now coquettish,--the weariness of the fathers, and the eager concern of the mammas,--the reckless joy of the Don Giovanni _in erba_, and the deceitful, washed-out look of the Don Giovanni _in ritiro_. It is a pleasant as well as useful study, as long as one does not change parts, and instead of a spectator become an actor in the scene. The ”lime-twigs are spread out, the little owls are at their places; so beware, ye blackbirds, not to be caught.” There I stood; the painter Podesti, with whom I had come to the ball, had left me, carried away by the attractions of the card-table. In one of the many rooms open for the circulation of the company, and for the repose of dancers and those not dancing, seated on one of the divans I saw a young woman of singular beauty. She was about thirty: several gentlemen surrounded her like a garland, and she had now for one, now for another, some trivial gay word; but in strange contrast with her careless words and smiles was her austere brow, and the haughty looks that came from her eyes. The turn of her head was stately and attractive; and a clasp of diamonds that was fastened in her dark s.h.i.+ning hair flashed every time she moved.
I never saw a more a.s.sa.s.sinating beauty than hers! Leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room, studying that face with its strangely variable expression, all the women of history and fable with which this singular beauty had affinity rose before my mind. Less full of pa.s.sion than Norma, less ferocious than Medea, almost Helen, and, without an _almost_, a Circe,--in fact, one of those women who promise one paradise and prepare one an _inferno_--capable of killing the body, the soul, and the memory of a man. When I had got so far in my reflections, the young lady rose, and coming straight towards me, she said these simple words--”_Monsieur, tandis que vous pensiez, je ne sais pas a quoi, la cire a coule tout a son aise sur voire habit_”--and she pa.s.sed on slowly, demolis.h.i.+ng in two words my castles in the air. I found, in fact, that the shoulder and sleeve of my dress-coat were covered with wax, to say nothing of the suppressed laughter of the beautiful Circe. Of two things one must therefore be warned--to put one's self out of the dangerous proximity of lights, and to be careful to look at people with some reserve.
CHAPTER XVI.
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 ”Ma.s.sACRE 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.
But it is time to return to the point I started from, and to speak of the study of character and spontaneous expression from life. In fact it was in London that I had occasion to see a picture of extraordinary beauty for strength and truth of expression, in which the result of that study was clearly demonstrated. This picture, on exhibition at the School or Academy of Fine Arts, was of small dimensions; the subject, a familiar one, or, as it is usually called, _genre_, was as follows: To the right of the person facing the picture is a gentleman's country-house, and outside by the garden-gate a mother is seated near her little girl, who is ill, and reclines in an arm-chair, supported by pillows. The mother has left off working, and looks anxiously at the pale exhausted girl, whose eyes are sunk deep in their sockets, and who smiles and looks languidly at two little children, a boy and girl, little peasants, strong, healthy, and robust, who are dancing, and have evidently been invited to do so by the parents of the little invalid. It is autumn, the hour a sad one. The last rays of the sun are gilding the dead leaves on the trees and on the bushes. On the left you see the father in close conversation with the doctor, questioning him with anxious eyes, whilst he, very serious and sad, hardly dares look at the unhappy father. To speak the truth, when _genre_ pictures are so full of interest and life as this, I prefer them to all the G.o.ds of Olympus.
But, generally, they are entirely wanting in this first quality, and abound in the second, which becomes vulgarity; and so the foundation of art, which is the beauty of truth, is wanting, and only the ”business”
remains, with its puerile attractions.
[Sidenote: THE NATIONAL GALLERY IN LONDON.]
I saw many other works of art, both in painting and sculpture, at this exhibition of living English artists, but none of them compared with that marvellous work. I do not remember the name of its author, and much I regret it; but I have given a minute and exact description of it.
In the National Gallery, rich in pictures of the Italian school, I admired a marvellous cartoon of Raphael's, slightly coloured, of the ”Ma.s.sacre of the Innocents.” It is jealously guarded under gla.s.s. Of the beauty of this work as to form, I do not speak--it is Raphael's, and that is enough; but what most struck me was the brutal movement of murdering soldiers, the desperate convulsive resistance of the mothers, pressing to their b.r.e.a.s.t.s the little babes, whilst they scratch and tear at the faces of the executioners; and it would seem as if one heard their sharp screams mingled with the cries of the murdered infants. The calm and flowing grace that are the characteristic notes of that divine genius, do not appear in this; but instead one sees and hears _parole di dolore, accenti d'ira, voci alte e fioche_, of the desperate mothers.
Those who have not seen this cartoon and the others at Hampton Court, of which I will soon speak, cannot entirely appreciate Raphael.
[Sidenote: I LOSE MY WAY IN LONDON.]
I advise young artists who want to go to London to learn a little of the language of the country; they will find themselves the better for it. It happened to me, who knew nothing of it, one day to lose myself in that interminable city, and another day, very little to my taste, to find myself carried off in the train to Scotland. If, therefore, they learn a little English, they will understand that Leicester Square is p.r.o.nounced _Lester Squere_. As I said, I lost myself in London, and this was how. I lodged at the Hotel Granara. Granara is an honest Genoese, who knows how to attend to his own affairs, as all the Genoese do, and more than that, knows how to secure the goodwill of his customers, almost all of whom are Italians. His hotel was at that time, in 1856, in Leicester Square.
It was my habit then, as always, to go out very early in the morning and take a little turn before breakfast. I made it a study to observe well all the turnings, the names of the streets and their peculiarities, so as to be able to return home, but did not succeed. I tried again and again for about two hours, before asking my way, to see if it were possible for me to find a street, a name, or a sign that I had seen before, but all was in vain. I was tired, had had no food, and had not a _soldo_ in my pocket; and although I had with me the key of the place where I kept my money, this was of no avail in getting me a breakfast.
Driven by hunger I put aside my pride, or rather my pretence, of finding my way to the inn, and asked a policeman. I asked him both in Italian and in French, but he did not understand me, and presented me to another, but with the same result. There I beheld myself lost in that immense city, without a penny, and very hungry. It must be admitted that my position was a rather serious one--not that those excellent policemen did not perfectly understand that I had lost the way to my hotel, and were most desirous of putting me on the right road to it, but they did not know how, as they were not acquainted with the name of the square that I inquired for. At last, and it was quite time, one of them took out of his pocket his note-book and pencil and gave it to me, saying in good French, ”_ecrivez le lieu ou vous etes loge._” I had hardly written the first word when the policeman quickly said, ”Lester Squere?” ”It may be so,” said I; but to make sure I finished writing out the address, adding even the name of the hotel, and showed it to him, to which the policeman said, ”Yes, very well.” He took the paper and begged me to follow him to another policeman at the end of the street, to whom he consigned me and the paper, and having exchanged a word or two with him, returned to his post. The new guard, without uttering a word, took me to another and consigned me to him, and so on, until in about half an hour I was reconducted home.
[Sidenote: IT IS BEST TO SPEAK ENGLISH IN ENGLAND.]
You understand me, therefore, in England the knowledge of a little of the English language will do no harm, and not be _de trop_, and by it you may avoid another inconvenience, that of finding a teacher at the wrong time and place. Let me explain myself. The maid-servant who had the care of my room got it into her head that she would teach me to speak English, and she set herself to work to teach me with a method entirely her own. She seized hold of a chair and called it by name, then the chest of drawers, then the bed, then the looking-gla.s.s, &c., and she insisted that I should repeat these names after her in her language.
The thing in itself was innocent enough, but foolish, as both she and I lost our time by it. For me it was not so much matter, but for her the neglect of her duties might have lost her her situation; and therefore, with the language common to all--that is, by gesticulations--I made her understand that she must stop her lessons. Let the reader not think, however, that I refused that good, and, let me add, beautiful teacher in a rough way; no indeed, I am not a satrap. I said to her--(beg pardon!) I gesticulated all this to her nicely, and with a good grace. One must always have every care to treat women in a gentle and respectful manner.
[Sidenote: VISIT TO HAMPTON COURT.]
Here is another story, always _apropos_ of the necessity there is of knowing at least a little of the English language. Hampton Court is a palace of the Queen's, about an hour's distance from London by rail. It is open to the public on holidays. The palace is beautiful, and contains many precious things; the country about is green, fresh, and pleasant: therefore, as can easily be imagined, there is always a large concourse of people. I wished also to procure myself this outing; so, betaking myself to the northern station, I took my ticket for Hampton Court, and got into the train. In that country one goes along at the pace of twenty kilometres an hour. Enchanted by the sight of the beautiful country clothed in its deep-green mantle,--so new to us who are accustomed to ours, so much more pallid, and burnt in streaks by the greater fierceness of the sun,--I forgot the pace we were going at, paid no attention when we stopped, and did not hear them call out the name Hampton Court. I suppose similar things must happen to the _touristes_ who visit our Italy. Let us imagine one of them to have taken a ticket for Certaldo, desiring to visit Boccaccio's house; the train stops, and the guard, with a stentorian voice, more calculated to slur over than p.r.o.nounce the name, calls out, ”Who is for Certaldo?” (_chi e peccettardo_). Naturally the _touriste_ does not understand, and allows himself to be carried on maybe even as far as Siena. But this is not so bad as my case, for I ran the risk of being taken on to Edinburgh.
Fortunately I began to suspect that I had pa.s.sed by the station where I ought to have got out, and asked. The answer was, that we had pa.s.sed Hampton Court some time since.
[Sidenote: AM CARRIED ON BEYOND HAMPTON COURT.]
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