Part 31 (1/2)
[Sidenote: LUISINA'S CHARACTER.]
From her early girlhood my Luisina was as vivacious and playful with her little sisters and with her mother as they would allow her to be; with me she was more serious, and sometimes even sad, perhaps because she saw that I was serious, and because at that time my health was not good. As she grew older she was more confiding in me, and displayed great love for her mother and sisters. She took pleasure in helping them with such little household affairs as no one else could or can do. She also drew, seeing her sisters draw, and could draw from memory faces and persons of our acquaintance. I have also amongst her papers extracts copied by her from books that had pleased her. She loved flowers, and in the morning, together with her sisters, she gathered them in the garden of our villa, and, making bunches of them, placed them on the altar in the little chapel. Those days were delicious ones, but they were brief! There is no happiness on earth, or it lasts but a very little while. True it is that memory remains to make us taste of a bitterness mingled somewhat with a sweet sadness, because the dear person taken from us lives again in our mind and responds to the beating of our heart. We remember the movements, the modest look, the words, the gentle affections, and all the virtues by which she was adorned, rendered still more visible and clear without the enc.u.mbrance of the body, by whose veil the light was subdued. And then--then there remains for us that sweet, most consoling hope of seeing her again for evermore, leaning on that faith that ”is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”
[Sidenote: ILLNESS AND DEATH OF LUISINA.]
O my good Gigina, my beloved little angel! I remember all that relates to thee--thy obedience, thy affection, thy anxious delicate care of us, our walks on the delightful Fiesole hill so dear to thee, almost a presage that the body should one day have rest there, and now the little chapel in the cemetery there contains also that of thy dear, tired, and martyred mother! Oh if I had strength equal to love, I would also write of her! I shall do so in time, but now I return to thee. The remembrance of that morning lies buried in my heart; it was in June 1872, two days before thy _fete_ day, San Luigi. For several days thou hadst felt ill, and could not dissimulate as in the past. That morning, before going down into Florence, I went into thy room, and seeing that thou wast determined to get up, I ordered thee to remain in bed; thou wast obedient as always, my angel, but wept, because wanting, as I afterwards knew, to be up on thy festal day. The illness was felt by thee, but with hope to overcome it, at least for two days, resigning thyself to all suffering thereafter. Thou didst obey, but weeping. Perhaps this aggravated thy disease. This is the thorn I bear within my heart.
As soon as Bendini, the medical man from Fiesole, saw her, he thought her case most grave, and wished to consult her own doctor, Dr Alberti, who had treated her at other times. I went at once to beg him to come, and brought him back with me, as he has always had great kindness and friends.h.i.+p for us, and from that day he always saw her in company with Bendini. But the disease increased more and more, and she already breathed with difficulty, but preserved in her thoughts and words serenity and resignation. Then began those most painful alternations of disease--a little better and then a little worse--and always the same story over and over again. There is no pain more cruel and stinging than the delusion of a hoped-for good; the heart that opens anxiously to hope is as if crushed and torn from one's breast by implacable delusion.
He who has experienced these painful alternations knows that they are more cruel than even death itself. O Great G.o.d of Israel, sustainer of all faithful souls, look down upon the affliction of Thy servant! oh a.s.sist him in all things to come! This affliction that came to us by G.o.d's will broke down my pride, and spread over my family a veil of sadness; it gave a shock to my beloved Marina's health, and perhaps accelerated her death.
[Sidenote: AMALIA MAKES A MONUMENT TO HER.]
Luisina expired in the first morning hours of the day of the Ascension of the Most Holy Mary. She had, whilst living, the semblance, the thoughts, and the affections of an angel; and she seemed to fall asleep in the Virgin's arms, and fly away with her to heaven. In this belief I find comfort and a sweet peace that not only compensates for her loss, but even more, makes me taste of so pure a pleasure that no words could express and no worldly care could disturb. Her body rests in our chapel in the new cemetery at Fiesole, and there my daughter Amalia has erected a little monument to her. The sepulchral urn is placed in a niche with a flat background, and on it lies sculptured the dear child in peaceful slumber, holding the crucifix in her right hand. Everybody could see, and none better than I, how much poor Amalia suffered in completing this sorrowful work. I attempted to dissuade her from this most painful duty she had imposed upon herself, but the strong affection for her dead sister suggested perhaps to her that in offering this tribute of sister and artist the pain would be somewhat softened.
I know that this remembrance, and the thoughts that have dictated it, may make some smile; but in time they will think better of it, and will know that sadness is worth more than laughter, for the heart becomes better for the sadness in the face. And with this I have finished talking of my Gigina, keeping her memory always in my heart.
[Sidenote: 50,000 LIRE IS STOLEN FROM ME.]
To narrate the death of my Luisina, I have omitted a circ.u.mstance, and not a trifling one in my life--that of the theft that occurred to me of fifty thousand _lire_. I hasten to declare that until that day (it was in 1866) I never had been the possessor of such a sum, and as soon as I was, it was stolen from me. This is how I came into possession of the money, why I kept it intact, and how it was stolen from me. I had only begun on Cavour's monument a short time before, and in accordance with the form of the contract, had received the first remittance of fifty thousand _lire_. At the same time, I was arranging to buy a house in the Via Pinti that I thought I should be able to adapt and make into a s.p.a.cious studio, such as was necessary for me in modelling the colossal figures for the monument. As the sale of the house was to take place from day to day, I was persuaded also, by the advice of my lawyer, not to employ this money in any way, so as to have it ready to give in payment for it. And as I had kept the little sums of money that I had had in hand up to that time in a secret drawer of the closet in my own room in the studio, I placed this also there.
At this time I was working on the marble of a statue, the ”Tired Bacchante,” which had been bought by the King of Portugal. I had a young Roman girl as a model, and she came accompanied by her mother. This woman also had a son (so, at least, it was said; then it was no longer so; in fact, there was some mystery that I don't remember, because naturally such things were of no importance to me). The boy came also for a model, and appeared to be a good fellow, as well as the girl.
[Sidenote: HOW THE THEFT TOOK PLACE.]
One morning (I was still in bed, but about to get up) my poor wife came into the room and said--
”Here is Bardi, who wants to speak to you.”
”What can he have to say to me? Does he not know that in half an hour I shall be at the studio? He could wait. Let us hear what is the matter.”
Bardi was one of my studio men, the rougher-out, whom I had brought up from a boy, and he had been with me twenty-three years. He was a thin, white-looking man, with a black beard, and dark lines under his eyes in his normal condition. That morning, as soon as I saw him, he really frightened me, for he looked absolutely like a dead man, or as Dante says, _cosa rimorta_. He took me aside, that my wife should not hear, and he told me that he had found the door of my room open, and having waited and listened awhile to ascertain if by chance I had arrived before him and was inside, but not hearing a sound after having called me, he entered the room and saw the closet open, the drawers on the ground, and the papers scattered about. He asked me anxiously if I kept anything of value there.
”All, my dear Bardi! all that I possessed in money was there.” And having almost no breath for words, I went out with him, rus.h.i.+ng through the street. It is easier imagined than told how I felt on seeing all the drawers upset and empty, and the papers and thousand little objects they contained scattered about the ground. All the men of my studio gathered about me, and pitied me without even suspecting that it was a matter of such a sum of money. My good friend Cavaliere Raffaello Borri, being told what had occurred, came to me at once, and with rare generosity offered me his purse and his credit, and accompanied me home, with my heart full of anguish to be obliged to give this news to my poor wife.
My friends rivalled each other in consoling me, some with offerings and some with affectionate words; and I can never forget the charitable proposition made by Monsignore the Archbishop Giovacchino Limberti, to collect a certain sum for my benefit amongst those who were best able to give, and who knew me and loved me. All these I truly thanked from the bottom of my heart, saying that for the moment I was not in straitened circ.u.mstances, and if I was no longer in possession of that money--for which, thank G.o.d, I was not in debt--yet it was not lawful for me to accept help of any kind, for in substance I could not call myself strictly in need, and I remembered in the past having really been poor and not having accepted or asked for anything, because my principle is that every one ought to be sufficient for himself.
[Sidenote: A PORTION OF THE MONEY FOUND.]
How the thieves were discovered, how some escaped from justice, how one was taken and condemned, and how, finally, part of the money stolen was saved, the sum of 12,400 _lire_ returned to me, besides the gold medal that I had obtained at the Universal Exhibition of Paris in 1855, and which was shut up in the same place with the stolen money,--all this appears in the judiciary chronicle of that time. Nor do I feel inclined to mix in such mire, and the reader could not follow me without disgust.
It was well that in the part of the theft recovered my Paris medal was found, not only because by this the reality of the robbery committed on me was proved and the rest.i.tution instantly made, but still more because it silenced some, I don't know how to qualify them, who seemed to doubt the misfortune that had befallen me, as if almost I had invented it--as if I had been a vulgar impostor, and had invented this fable to avoid payment ... of what? I had never had debts before that time, then, or since; and that I had no engagements to meet is proved by the refusal I made to those who so kindly and willingly offered to come to my aid.
[Sidenote: I FORGET A PROMISSORY-NOTE.]
But yes, once I had a debt, but merely by chance, or I had better say by forgetfulness. When this happened I was very young--at the beginning of my artistic career, if I mistake not. Then I was making the ”Cain.” In order to put it into marble I went to Carrara, found the block that suited me, and said that I would pay for it when the marble itself arrived. The trader answered, ”All right! I shall send the marble at once; and as to the payment, I shall draw out a promissory-note for the first of the month.” I had before me some twenty days' time. My mind being entirely possessed by the marble, I took no note of the day when the money became due. I knew that I had to pay, but the date escaped me, and one fine day I suddenly beheld before me a man from a bank, who came to receive the money that I had not got in full. I stammered out something, as a man might do about to be hanged. ”Oh, don't hurry yourself much,” said the man; ”suit your own convenience--I will return later; there is time until three,” and he went away. How I felt can easily be imagined by those who know me. I became whiter and harder than the marble that I had then before me on the ground. I must find there and then, in the beat of a drum, the three or four hundred _scudi_ that were wanting; and where to find them, I, who had never before asked for anything in loan? A good inspiration came to me. ”Yes,” said I, ”Sor Emanuele can do me this favour;” and putting on my coat, I ran into the square to the Fenzi bank. Sor Emanuele was there at the back in his study, and you could see through the open gla.s.s door that fine jovial witty face of his.
[Sidenote: AN INCREDULOUS COLLEAGUE.]
When he saw me he exclaimed, ”How are you?”