Читать книгу Thoughts on Art and Autobiographical Memoirs of Giovanni Duprè - Giovanni Duprè - Страница 8

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.