Part 29 (1/2)
[14] Dante, Paradiso, Canto ii.
[Sidenote: I DREAM OF THE GROUP OF THE ”PIETa.”]
The reader, therefore, understands perfectly that I did not want to make my ”Pieta” a work from memory or of imitation, and give out with a bold face another man's conception for my own. Therefore _pazienza_,--and months pa.s.sed, and it seemed to me as if I no longer thought of it; but one fine day, when I was at home lying on the sofa reading a newspaper, and waiting to be called to dinner, I fell asleep (newspapers have always put me to sleep, especially when they take things seriously),--I fell asleep, and I dreamed of the group of the ”Pieta” just as I afterwards made it, but much more beautiful, more expressive, and more n.o.ble. In fact it was a wonderful vision, but only like a flash--a vision only of an instant--for an impression as of a blow awoke me, and I found myself lying over the arm of the sofa, with my arms hanging loosely, my legs stiffened out straight, and my head bent on my breast, just as in my dream I had seen Christ on the Virgin's knees. I jumped up and ran to my studio to fix the idea in clay. My wife seeing me go out almost running, called to me to say that the soup was on the table.
”Have patience,” I answered; ”I have forgotten something at the studio; perhaps I shall stop there a bit. You eat, and I will eat afterwards.”
The poor woman, I could see, did not understand what was the matter, all the more because I had been hurrying them to send up the dinner; but she made no more inquiries. It was her nature not to enter too much into the affairs of my studio. In two hours I had made the sketch of that subject which had cost me so much thought, so many waking hours, and loss of sleep, and I returned home. I do not know whether I was more hungry, tired, or contented. My wife, to whom I explained the reason of my running away, smiled and said, ”You might have waited until after dinner;” and perhaps, who knows that she was not right? but I was so astonished and out of myself on account of that strange dream, that I was afraid every instant to lose the remembrance of it. It is really a strange thing, that after having thought of, studied, and sketched this subject for many months, when I was least thinking of it (for then I was certainly not thinking of it)--all at once, when asleep, I should see so clearly stand out before me, without even an uncertain line, the composition of that group. I have often thought of it, and being obliged in some way to explain it, I should say that the position I took when asleep might have acted on my over-excited imagination, always fixed on that same idea.
[Sidenote: I SKETCH IT AT ONCE.]
If the reader has followed me so far, he may truly be called courteous; but who knows how many times he has looked with avidity in these pages, full of minute details of my doings, for some little facts, some little escapades which really define and give the impress of the moral character of a man, and not having found it, has closed the book with irritation, and has muttered between his teeth, ”This man is really very stupid, or he imagines us to be such simpletons as to believe that his life has always run on in a smooth, pleasant path, where there are no stones to stumble over, or brambles to be caught by”? I will not judge if the reader be right or wrong in his reasoning, but it would be as wrong to think that my life had been perfectly exempt from the little wretchednesses that are as inherent to it as smoke to a fire, especially if the wood be green, as it would be to require for his own satisfaction that I should ostentatiously insist on this smoke at the risk of offending the tender and chaste eyes of those who, albeit not ignoring these things, love the light and abhor smoke. Then, also, in speaking of these little wretchednesses, one always errs, however faithful to the truth, in saying either too much or too little; and it is believed to be either exaggerated or underrated, according to the simplicity or malice of the reader: so it is better not to speak of them at all. These little details, these little moral wrinkles, ought to be cast aside, as they do not add an atom to the likeness of the person. The reader can imagine them, or, to speak plainer, he learns them from the voice of common report, which accompanies through life the acts of any man not absolutely obscure. But if in life there are brambles and pebbles that can momentarily molest the poor pilgrim, there are also errors and deviations which lead us astray. Grave misfortunes such as these, by G.o.d's mercy, I have not met with, although the danger has not been wanting. The least thought of the gentle nature of my good wife, so full of simplicity and truth, her deep and serious affection, her loving care of her children, and her total abnegation of self for them and for me,--this thought, I repeat, was enough, with G.o.d's help, to enable me to escape once or twice from danger; and I wish to say this, that the reader fond of suchlike particulars need not tire himself with looking for them here, where he will not find them.
[Sidenote: DANGERS OF GOING ASTRAY.]
In the moral character of a man, deviation from and forgetfulness of his duties is an ugly stain, even uglier than deformity in art. In fact, deformity, which by itself alone is contrary to art, when introduced into composition, especially when historical or critical reasons require it, can be of use as a contrast, and be--not beautiful in itself, for that would be a contradiction of terms--but of use to the _ensemble_, and to the beautiful,--as, for example, the dissonances in harmony used sparingly, if they suspend momentarily the flow of that broad sweet wave, they make one hear it again more vividly, more unexpectedly, and transformed into other colour and form. If all this concerns and is of use to Art, which is the manifestation of the beautiful, it does not apply to morals, which are the manifestation and practice of Good. The one is relative, but this is absolute. The well-known aphorism, Truth before all things, lands one nowhere; and I have shown that in being silent on some matters, one need not be false to her. But she is only cast into a slight shadow by these veils of decency and modesty; and so Truth should show her matronly bearing.
[Sidenote: ADVANTAGE OF DISSONANCE.]
I have spoken somewhat at length about this, because to some this exposition of my opinion may have appeared unseemly. Let them accept, then, with a kindly feeling, the reasons, which I think excellent ones, that have led me to this wise decision of representing the truth to each and every one's eyes in the most appropriate way, so that, while it attracts by the largeness and uprightness of its form, it leaves the spirit undisturbed and tranquil.
I set to work on the model of the ”Pieta” with a feeling of a.s.surance devoid of any of those outlooks of fallacious hope that so often preside over and accompany a work badly conceived and not sufficiently studied or thought out, with which the unsatisfied mind seeks to quiet itself, while the artist goes on persuading himself that he will better his idea as his work goes on, instead of which he finds out every day more and more the existence of those difficulties and doubts which increase in intensity as the strength to overcome them diminishes. And _apropos_ of this, I remember one day when I was making an excursion from Florence to Sant'Andrea, with Bartolini (it was on a Sat.u.r.day, to stay over until Sunday evening at Villa Fenzi), as we travelled along Bartolini seemed to me gayer and more expansive than usual, and having asked him what was the reason, he would not tell me, but answered, ”You will know why at Sant'Andrea; I am going to tell at dinner when every one is present, for it is a thing of great importance, as you will be able to judge perhaps better than any one else.” With these words he so roused my curiosity that it made that very short expedition seem a long one. Arrived at the Villa, _Sor_ Emanuele, seeing the master so gay and almost beaming, turned to him and jokingly said these words, ”I'll be bound you have found a new and beautiful little model.”
[Sidenote: BARTOLINI AND THE ”ASTYANAX.”]
”No; and even those I have--and they are beauties--I sent off this very morning. But I am contented, because I had a thorn in my side--a thought that had been tormenting me for more than a year. There was one side of my group--the ”Astyanax”--that I did not like. I have tried various ways of correcting it, but in vain; for the evil was fundamental. I have formed a resolution, and ordered my work to be pulled to pieces. I have sacrificed more than a year's time, but I am certain that I shall be the gainer, because the work will come better both as to lines and the quickness of execution. I feel sure that the change is a good one.”
Whoever is an artist understands the importance of such an act, and the courage of a man who destroys a work that has cost him more than a year's labour, and admonishes those who are too quick in putting an undigested thought into execution.
[Sidenote: I GET ILL AND NERVOUS.]
As for me, I felt an admiration as much for that heroic resolution as for his gaiety and indifference, and was persuaded that only men of such a temperament know how to act and comport themselves in that fas.h.i.+on.
I set to work, as I have said, on the group of the ”Pieta”; and although the novelty of the idea and harmony of lines gave me every reason to hope for success in my work, yet the impetuosity with which I had gone to work, the difficulty of giving the expression to the Virgin's face in contrast with the divine stillness of the dead Jesus, impossible to find in models--for the most part the negation of all that is sublime in expression,--all this acted so upon my poor brain that I began to hear noises, which gradually increased to such an intensity that they deafened me, and I had to stop working, not being able to go on. The thought of my weakness worked upon me so violently that it produced melancholy, insomnia, and aversion to food. My good friend Dr Alberti, who treated me, advised rest from work and distraction,--but of what kind, as everything bored me? Night and day I continually felt stunned by a buzzing noise in my head, which was most annoying; and what is worse, sounds, noises, and voices, even of the most moderate kind, became insufferable to me. A coachman smacking his whip put me in a tremor, and I ran at the sight of him. At home my poor wife and my little girls were obliged to speak in the lowest voice, and oftentimes by signs. As I have said, sleep had left me, and all taste for food, and I grew thinner before one's very eyes. I could not read two consecutive pages, and could not dream of writing. I used to go out of the house to escape melancholy, and walk for a long distance at a time without knowing where I was going. The buzzing in my head and the noise in the street tortured me. If I saw any one I knew, I avoided him, not to be obliged to answer the same tiresome question as to how I felt. If I went to the studio, my melancholy turned into acute pain on looking at my works which I could not begin to touch, and I felt my heart throb so hard that I cried most bitterly.
[Sidenote: I RETURN TO NAPLES.]
I could not continue on in this condition, and by advice of the doctor I resolved to go with my family to Naples. I hoped to recover my health in that great gay city, under that splendid sky, in that mild atmosphere pure and impregnated with life, and my hope was strengthened by the remembrance that I had once recovered my health there ten years before.
I left on the morning of the Epiphany, the 6th of January 1863, and that night I spent at Rome at the Hotel Cesari. I did not stop in Rome, and saw no one. I saw mechanically--more than anything else, to amuse my poor family--the finest monuments of the Eternal City; and the day after took the road to Naples--a true _via crucis_, by which I hoped to regain my health. We arrived in Naples between eight and ten o'clock. I ordered the coachman to take us to the Hotel de France. There was no room to be had, so we were conducted to a poor, dirty little inn, with which, being late, we were obliged to content ourselves. The day following, my friend Giuseppe Mancinelli insisted (in spite of my opposition, not wis.h.i.+ng to inconvenience him) that we should lodge in his house, Rampa San Pot.i.to, near the Museum degli Studii.
Mancinelli was an excellent man, an artist of merit, a good husband and father, and a conscientious and amiable master at the Academy of Fine Arts there. I remember with emotion the fraternal care that he took of us. Poor friend! you too have left us, but the memory of your virtues and love still lives with us, and is a consolation to us in the midst of the coldness of so many who have never known the religion of friends.h.i.+p, or who, if they appeared devoted, only sought to steal the candles offered by the faithful to her altar.
[Sidenote: CELENTANO.]
The first days after my arrival at Naples were very sad. The noises and voices in that immense city nearly drove me out of my mind, added to which the weather was wretched--for we had nearly a month of rain--so there were no walks to be taken, and nothing to distract me. Fortunately I had all my family with me, and my thoughts were not in Florence, as they had been during my former visit. I gave no thought to my studio, and only, as if in a vision, the head of my Madonna appeared to me in the sad pose in which I had left her, fearing that I should never see her again. In vain Mancinelli and his family, and my friends Morelli, Aloysio, Maldarelli, Palizzi, and others, tried to rouse me out of my despondency. How well I remember with what pains poor Celentano, whom I then knew for the first time, tried to cheer me up! Poor Celentano!
brightest light of that fine school that searches for and finds material in the universe of nature to embody the fantasies of the brain, how soon, and in what a manner, your light was extinguished!
Enough--enough of the dead, otherwise I shall fall into the elegiac, which would be ridiculous in these simple memoirs! But if it be true that every thought must be clothed in its own special garb, how sad is that of death, although through her veils s.h.i.+nes the hope of heaven!
CHAPTER XIX.