Then it was, either from too hard work or on account of the dampness of the room in which I worked, or both together, I took so tiresome and obstinate a cough, that it gave me no peace night or day. I tried many things to get rid of it, and all in vain--decoctions, a.s.s"s milk, care, all were useless. La Signora Letizia having urged me a thousand times to take care of myself and to get rid of that cough, said to me so seriously that it made me laugh--
"It is absolutely necessary for you to get well."
"Bravo!" I said; "that is what I have been thinking of for the past month, and I have done everything for that purpose--the advice and prescriptions of the physicians have not been neglected; but now seriously I must get well--Go away, cough!"
"No, don"t joke; you must get well, and I mean to cure you. Listen," she said, "what you ought to do: you should buy a quant.i.ty of pine-wood, and with this line all the walls of your studio from top to bottom, leaving s.p.a.ce between the wood and the wall; and you must do the same for the floor. Have the window open some hour of the day when you are not in the studio, that the current of air may not do you harm."
[Sidenote: SHE LINES THE STUDIO WALLS.]
It seemed an odd thing to me. I could not understand what all this wood had to do with my cough; but to content her, I said that I would do as she advised. In the meantime I continued to cough in spite of the pot of lichen which I kept hot in my studio; and every day when this poor lady came to see me and saw that her advice was not followed, she appeared serious and disappointed, and finally said--
"Do you think, Signor Dupre, that my advice could do you harm?"
"Certainly not," I said.
"Then why don"t you follow it?"
"I must wait a few days; just at present I cannot. But I will do it--of this you may be sure; and I am very grateful to you: it seems to me that it will be more comfortable and warmer."
She soon went away, and I seriously considered that I ought to try and content her, not that I thought the remedy effective. I said to myself--"My trouble is either a cold or something else; it is in the stomach, or the throat, or the bronchial tubes, and surely is not owing to the walls of my studio. But what shall I do? I must satisfy her.
Certainly it will cost something to line all the studio with wood from top to bottom, and the floor; but what a strange idea has come into this lady"s head, and with what seriousness and impressiveness she urges me to use pine-wood!"
Shortly after, I heard a knock at the door and saw three or four loads of boards in the street. The head carter said to me--
"_Is this wood to come here?_"
[Sidenote: MY STUDIO IS LINED.]
I had ordered no wood, I replied. Then he showed me a card on which was written my name and the number of my studio, and added--
"This wood has been ordered and paid for, including the carriage, and--is it to come here?"
"Certainly," I said, "it is to come here." It was unloaded, and I gave the men a little money, for although they had been paid, it would do them no harm. I sent immediately to call Petrai, who, besides being a model, was also a carpenter, and told him that I wished, in the quickest possible manner, to use this wood to line the studio walls and plank the floor; that he was to employ as many men as were necessary, and that they could not go to bed until this work was done.
The blacksmith was immediately set to work on the irons which were to support the boards, the mason to fasten them to the walls, and men to saw and nail. All the day and all the evening it appeared to be the devil"s own house, and I was in the midst directing and overseeing the work.
The next morning, when I entered my studio, I felt revived by the odour of the pine and the air so sensibly dry, and I said, "If this work does no good to the cough, no matter; but it is certain that I find myself much better. Besides, I like the colour of the wood, which is gay. I like the smell of the pine. The floor is better to walk upon, and it is drier than any carpet. The air circulates everywhere. _Viva_ Mrs Let.i.tia! And now, how to repay her for this wood which she has bought for me? Ah! this is not so easy. To talk of giving back the money is useless, and it would also be in bad taste, for I know how sensitive this lady is; but as a present I will not receive it." As it happened, I had a small bust of Beatrice in marble, which she had always admired. I sent this to her house, and she was so much pleased that she never ceased to speak of it to me. And the cough? The cough diminished day by day as if by enchantment, and in a week I was perfectly cured.
[Sidenote: BUSTS OF BEATRICE AND RAPHAEL.]
Whilst I am speaking of favours received and the manner in which I requited them, independent of the sentiment of grat.i.tude which I always preserve for those who have rendered me a service, I must add that Mrs Macartney was pleased with the little bust of Beatrice; so also was Del Benino more than delighted with a bust in marble of the boy Raphael which I had copied from a painting by his father, Sanzio, who had painted the little boy when six years of age. At the bottom of this portrait was written in red, "Raphael Santii d"anni sei, Santii patre dipinse."
I saw this work of mine only a few years ago in the palace belonging to the heirs of Count del Benino.
As I have alluded to that excellent man--of whom, as you see, I retain such an affectionate remembrance--I will mention that I asked permission of his heirs by letter to be permitted at my own expense to make a little memorial of him in marble, and to place it in the chapel of the villa where Del Benino was buried; but I have never received any answer.
It appears that works either for love or money are not wanted. Here is another example of this. It must be now four or five years since the lamented Professor G. B. Donati, the astronomer, came to my studio with the engineer Del Sarto, to tell me that the commune of Florence intended to place a sun-dial on one side of the Ponte alla Carraja, exactly at the beginning or end of the terrace, where there is at present a kiosk; and in order to have an elegant and artistic thing, it came into the head of Donati, or some one of the Munic.i.p.al Council of Art, to have a figure in bronze holding a disc on which should be marked the meridian, and the hand of this figure should be held gracefully in such a manner that its shadow indicated the hour. The idea pleased me. I made a sketch, and Del Sarto the engineer sent me the exact dimensions of the terrace. He liked the sketch, and asked me what the cost of such a work would be, adding that unless the price was small they would not be able to order it. I replied that nothing could cost less than this, as I intended to present the model, and the Munic.i.p.ality would only have to pay for the casting in bronze. I had an estimate made by Professor Clemente Papi, who asked a very reasonable sum--seven or eight thousand lire, I believe; and he signed a paper to this effect, which, at the same time with a letter I had written repeating the offer of my work gratis, I sent in an envelope to the Munic.i.p.ality: and since then I have heard nothing. Poor Donati is dead; the sketch and the model of the terrace are in my studio. Count Cambray Digny was then syndic. On Ponte alla Carraja, in place of my statue, there is a kiosk where papers, wax-matches, &c., are sold. Even this is not the last of the statues I have offered as a present which have not been accepted, but I will not mention them here.
[Sidenote: FIGURE FOR A SUN-DIAL.]
Meanwhile, as I was finishing the model of Cain, the Grand d.u.c.h.ess Maria Antonietta ordered of me a statue for the Uffizi. I selected Giotto, and she presented this statue to the Commission for erecting statues of ill.u.s.trious Tuscans, which, while they ornament the Loggia, serve to recall past glory and to advise one to study more and to chatter a little less. In roughing out the statue I found a flaw which split the marble in two. I was obliged to throw it away and to buy another block.
When the good Grand d.u.c.h.ess heard of this, she insisted upon repaying me the price of the new marble. I note this because so generous an act is uncommon.
[Sidenote: ABEL HAS KILLED CAIN.]
The Cain was exhibited, and, as was natural, was less liked than the Abel,--first of all, because the enthusiasm raised by the former statue had too sensibly wounded the self-love of many; and then, because some of my friends were too zealous, and their excessive praise of it before it was on exhibition created a public opinion in its favour which perhaps was not justified by its merits, for the difficulties of the subject were very great. With a phrase more witty than just, they said, "This time Abel has killed Cain;" but Bartolini, who generally liked wit, said this was unjust and stupid, and declared that I had overcome a thousand times greater difficulties than in the Abel. But that witticism was prompted by suspicion and pa.s.sion, and it came from those same persons who said that the Abel had been cast from life.
Being proposed by Bartolini, I was elected Professor of the Academy. At that time, being invited by some of my townsmen, I went to Siena, where I was received with warmth and fraternal love. I was a guest of the Bianchis--of that charming Signora Laura who had always been so good to my poor mother and my family. That dear lady, and Carlo, who is still alive, and Luigi, who, alas! was too soon s.n.a.t.c.hed away from the love of his relations and of Siena, rejoiced in seeing me made the subject of honour and ovation by all the citizens, who came to the palace to greet me.
I remember with emotion that crowd of people, and those deputations of the _contrade_ and academies of the city, sent to bring me salutations and presents. These were the first flowers that I gathered and smelt in the garden of my youth; and their perfume I still smell, and it is now perhaps even more delightful, for it is a.s.sociated in my memory with a time when I had no remorse.
[Sidenote: DISCOVERY OF A RAPHAEL.]
A subscription was opened on the spot, promoted by the Cavaliere Alessandro Saracini, the Count Scipione Borghese, the Count Augusto dei Gori, and the Marquis Alessandro Bichi-Ruspoli. The statue which they ordered was of the Pontiff Pius II., Eneas Silvius Piccolomini.
These four gentlemen were good friends of mine; but I saw Saracini oftenest, as he came to Florence on business affairs. He had an intelligent love of Art, which he practised a little for his amus.e.m.e.nt, and he was President of the Inst.i.tute of Fine Arts at Siena. One day he came to me quite breathless. He said that he had seen, in a shop or store-house near the Via Faenza, a wall all painted over, and that it was concealed by carriages, carts, wheels, and poles--in fact, it was at a carriage-maker"s.
"But what painting is it?" I asked.
"I do not know--I cannot say what it is; but it appears to me very beautiful," he replied. "It is like Perugino, or certainly of his school."
"Wait a moment," I said; "here in the neighbourhood is some one who understands these things better than you or I;" and we went to Count Carlo della Porta, and to Ign.a.z.io Zotti, painters who lived in the Niccolini building with me. They lost no time, and we all four went to the place. Carlo della Porta having placed a ladder against the wall, mounted, and stayed there only a few moments, then descended, and made Zotti go up. They then, after exchanging some words, expressed the opinion that it was by Raphael.
The clearing out of this place, and the arguments for and against the decision on the part of the Government, and the ultimate destination of the picture, are all well known, and I pa.s.s to other things. Having finished the Giotto, I went to Rome to make studies there for the statue of Pius II. I stayed there a month, and lived at the Hotel Cesari, Piazza di Pietra. It was the month of December 1844.
[Sidenote: MY FOLLY AT ROME.]
I must confess, whatever it costs me, that the Eternal City did not make the most favourable impression upon me; and except the ruins of ancient Rome, the Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Forum, with its triumphal arches and colonnades, all the rest excited in me no enthusiasm. But I must admit I had been spoiled by too much praise; and I was so vain, that while I accepted everything with apparent modesty, I was so puffed up internally with pride that at times it would show itself in spite of me.
I remember once at the house of the Signora Clementina Carnevali, where every evening were to be seen all the most distinguished persons in Rome, either in letters or art, strangers as well as Italians,--I remember, I say, to have replied in a most impertinent manner to some one who asked me how I liked the monuments and the art of Rome, and what above all had most pleased me. I replied--and I blush to repeat it--"What I like best is the stewed broccoli"--a reply as outrageously stupid as insolent, and I wonder that those who heard it could have taken it in good part. For myself, as I feel to-day, if a young artist had replied to me in such a manner, he would have got little good out of it, and so much the better for him!
But I had better luck; my foolish reply was repeated by every one, and so clouded by vanity and pride were my eyes, that I fancied it excited mirth and approbation, while it really deserved only compa.s.sion.
O Minardi! O Tenerani! O Ma.s.simo d"Azeglio! you who were present, but now dead, cannot see the _amende_ which I make. However, you knew me later, and were aware of my repentance. But as for you, excellent Clementina--who are alive, and will read, I hope, these pages--if then you smiled with compa.s.sion, because you are so good you will to-day smile with approbation and praise.
[Sidenote: I LOSE MY WAY.]
And now, gentle reader, would you like to see how headstrong and proud I had become? One evening--Christmas Eve--I proposed to go to the midnight Ma.s.s at St Peter"s. I set out at ten o"clock from the Via Condotti, where I had pa.s.sed the evening with some of my English friends whom I had known in Florence. Mrs ----, to whom I had disclosed my purpose, said, "Take care! you are not much acquainted with Roman streets; you had better take a carriage to go there. If you do not, you may easily lose your way in the streets of Rome. They are very confusing by day; imagine what they are at night!" If this lady had not given me such a warning, it is probable that I should have done as she suggested; but because she had given it I despised it, and determined to go by myself to St Peter"s.
[Sidenote: MY PRIDE PUNISHED.]
I walked until two o"clock without even being able to find the bridge of St Angelo. I got bewildered in all those streets and lanes which are comprised between San Luigi dei Francesi, Piazza Navona, San Andrea della Valle, San Carlo a Catinari, Teatro Argentina, Il Gesu, and San Ign.a.z.io e la Minerva; and after having walked for two hours, I found myself at the point I had started from. Then, more obstinate than ever, though overcome by weariness and mortified pride, I persisted in going up and down all sorts of streets unknown to me, and often very filthy, and again coming across the same _piazze_, the same fountains, until at last I found myself at the foot of the Campidoglio steps. The people whom I met in the streets here and there returning from the Ma.s.s could have shown me the way, not to go to St Peter"s, but how to return to my hotel, had I been less headstrong, and had I inquired for the Piazza Colonna or Piazza di Pietra, where I lodged. But no; it appeared to me to be a humiliation. I wished to find the hotel by myself; and I did find it finally, but in what a condition I leave those to judge who know Rome, and the sharp pavements of its streets, but, above all, tired out, and more than this, humiliated and without supper. It was two o"clock.
The Hotel Cesari was shut, and I had to wait until they opened it for me. I asked for supper; they replied that they had nothing, and that if they had it they could not give me anything, because they were prohibited by law from supplying any food on that night. I should have been glad of any little thing, but could get nothing. My pride was singularly punished that night, and I went to bed hungry. At first I strove in vain to go to sleep, then I dreamt all night of eating, and awoke in the morning rather late. I could not realise that I could get up and have a good breakfast. I went over again in thought the weariness of the night, the hunger, the annoyance, and I felt weak. But finally I said to myself, I will eat now, and another time I shall be wiser. Now to breakfast! After going out of the hotel, I turned to the right to go into the Osteria dell"Archetto. It was closed; the _caffe_ next door was closed. I ran into the Piazza Colonna, and found all shut up--_caffes_, pastry-cooks, everything closed. I asked, angrily and with a bewilderment easy to comprehend, what was the reason of this, and was told that during the time of the religious ceremonies no one could sell anything to eat. I was stupefied, and walked along slowly, not knowing where to go. Until after twelve o"clock neither the _trattorie_ nor the _caffes_ would be opened. I would not go back to the hotel, as I feared a refusal such as I had the night before. I began to feel very faint; for nearly twenty hours I had eaten nothing. I saw the people gaily walking about, smiling, smoking, and looking well-fed and of good colour, and I felt angry and envious. They had eaten leisurely and at home, or in the _caffe_ or _trattoria_ before ten o"clock, the hour prescribed. I had slept until that hour, and dreamt of eating, and when I went out intending to get something to eat, it was too late.
Fortunately, one of my friends, the engraver Travalloni, saw me, and coming to meet me, said, "What is the matter? Why do you look so scared?" I told him my story, and he laughed, and taking me by the arm, said--"Come with me." After a few turns he entered a doorway half closed, and pushed me up a dark staircase, where there were the savoury odours of cooking, all the more grateful to me because my appet.i.te was so great. The staircase opened upon an ante-room, also dark. We closed the door and knocked at a smaller door. It was opened, and I found myself in a s.p.a.cious hall, well ventilated and full of people, who were sitting eating and drinking cheerfully at table.
[Sidenote: NOTHING TO EAT.]
"What is this?" I asked. "Can I get anything to eat here?"
"Yes," he said; "give your orders."