Читать книгу Thoughts on Art and Autobiographical Memoirs of Giovanni Duprè - Giovanni Duprè - Страница 9

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WITHOUT KNOWING IT, I WAS DOING WHAT LEONARDO ADVISES—NEW WAY OF DECORATING THE WALLS OF ONE'S HOUSE—I WISH TO STUDY DESIGN AT THE ACADEMY, BUT CANNOT CARRY THIS INTO EFFECT—A BOTTLE OF ANISE-SEED CORDIAL—INTELLIGENT PEOPLE ARE BENEVOLENT, NOT SO THOSE OF MEDIOCRE MINDS—THE STATUES IN THE PIAZZA DELLA SIGNORIA AND ALABASTER FIGURES—THE DISCOVERY OF A HIDDEN WELL—MY FATHER RETURNS HOME WITHOUT WORK, AND LEAVES FOR ROME—YOUNG SIGNOR EMILIO DEL TABRIS—SEA-BATHS AND CHOLERA AT LEGHORN—WITH HELP I SAVE A WOMAN FROM DROWNING—I GO TO SAN PIERO DI BAGNO—MY UNCLE THE PROVOST DIES—MY FATHER RETURNS FROM ROME, AND SETTLES IN FLORENCE—MY WORK, A GROUP OF A HOLY FAMILY, IS STOLEN—DESCRIPTION OF THIS GROUP.

How dear to me is the remembrance of those times! My goodwill and desire to learn were indeed above my very poor condition. The difficulties of my profession did not discourage me; on the contrary, I felt a pleasurable though distant hope of surpassing my companions in figure-work that they did so badly and laboriously. For this purpose, from that time I gave all my efforts to the study of the human figure. I bought an album and kept it always with me, begged my friends to stand as models, and drew their portraits. At first my attempts were not happy; but I was never tired, and after a time I acquired so much freedom that with a few strokes I could make a fair likeness. I was always at work, and the walls of our kitchen and dining-room were all smudged over with charcoal. Naturally, there was no one to scold me for this unusual way of adorning the walls, for the mother, poor dear, was blind, my father was not there, and as I was the eldest, I was, as it were, the head of the family. Besides, though my mother could not see, she still knew of this strange practice of mine, and thought it better for me thus to occupy myself than to be playing with the boys in the street.

LONGING TO BE AN ARTIST.

In the meantime, however, many doubts and self-questionings arose within me. I knew that there was a school where one could really learn to draw and paint and make statues. Heavens, how delightful it would be to know how to make statues! In fact, I understood there was the Academy of Fine Arts, for so I had been told, and some of the fortunate young men who frequented this Academy were my acquaintances, and had shown me their designs, which seemed to me, as my friend Dotti would say, most stupendous! I was no longer happy. The Academy appeared to me in the most splendid and glowing colours; it seemed to me the haven, the landmark, the temple of glory, the throne of my golden dreams.

I spoke of it to my mother with tears in my eyes. She mingled her tears with mine, but not, perhaps, so much from being persuaded of the necessity of such studies as from a desire to soothe me. She spoke about it to Signor Sani, who, I shall always remember, with his eyes fixed fiercely on me, made even more formidable under his silver spectacles, replied, that to do all that was to be done in his shop, it was enough to remain in the shop and have the wish to learn—of this he was certain; but as to the work in the Academy, he did not feel so sure, for, on the contrary, that would fill me with desires and cravings that I could not satisfy, owing to the poverty of my family, even admitting that I had the disposition to enable me to master these studies; and finally, he hinted at the danger there was of my being contaminated by my companions. My mother did not answer him. She said good-bye to me, and in her sightless eyes I saw the sadness within. She went out, and I set myself to work.

A FLASK OF ANISE-SEED.

I resigned myself, but continued always to study by myself. As Luigi, the master's eldest son, was studying design at Professor Gaspero Martellini's school, which was in the Fondacci di Santo Spirito, he gave me some of his designs to copy. Not only did Professor Martellini give him lessons in drawing, but also in modelling in clay, and Sani was one of the most assiduous of his scholars. I remember to have pounded his clay for him many times, in a room on the ground-floor in his house in Borgo Sant' Jacopo. This little room was used as a storehouse for all sorts of odds and ends, and amongst these I once found a flask of anise-seed cordial, that (to confess the truth) I tasted sometimes. One morning, having finished what I had to do, and having gone up-stairs to take the key of the room, one of the master's daughters (he had four) smelt in my breath the odour of anise-seed, and said to me—

"Who has given you anise-seed?"

"No one," I answered.

"You smell of anise-seed; who has given it to you? Mind, don't tell lies."

Then I told everything.

"I don't believe you. You are a liar."

"No; come and see."

"Certainly I wish to see."

She then came down, and taking the flask in her hand, looked at it, smelled it, and tasted it. Apparently she must have drunk a little, for as soon as she had put down the flask and shut up the room, she began to totter, and could not stand on her feet. With difficulty I succeeded in getting her up-stairs, where, as soon as her mother saw her in that state, there ensued a serious scene. They all talked and scolded at once—the three girls who had not drank the anise-seed, as well as the mamma; and when I tried to explain how the thing had happened, I felt two slaps in the face, which were given with such force that I was stunned. My ideas became so confused that I was not able to say anything. Fortunately the girl spoke, and said—

"Nanni is not at fault."

At these words the mistress said—

"Go at once to the shop. Master shall know everything this evening."

I did not breathe a word, and even she said nothing about it to the master, nor was I scolded by him, or by the Signora Carolina (the mistress). Some days after I returned to knead the clay, but the flask of cordial had disappeared.

About this time there was a residenza[3] to be made in the shop for some church, where, in the midst of the clouds that supported the ostensorio, were a quantity of seraphim. This work was required to be done at once without delay; and as Bartolommeo Bianciardi, who did this kind of work in the shop, could not alone do all that was required of him, I proposed to the master to make one of the seraphim myself, and I succeeded so well that he was entirely satisfied. After that I made others, and always better and better. From that time, when similar work came to the shop, I was always employed on it together with the other workman, and sometimes in preference to him. In the meantime I continued to make progress in the art of wood-carving, and the best and most skilful workmen flattered me and helped me with their advice, but the others looked upon me with an evil eye. I could not understand this difference, nor can I understand it now; but as I have since met with this, and felt it always at every time and everywhere, it must be in the natural order of bad things.

ARTISTIC LONGINGS.

But there was always a thorn in my heart. The seraphim were not enough to satisfy me, nor even the large masks and heads of Medusa with all their serpents. And when I passed through the Piazza della Signoria and saw the David, the Perseus, and the Group of the Sabines, I thought that by going to the Academy of Fine Arts one might learn how to make such works!

Heavens, how grand a thing it would be to be able to go to the Academy! But it was useless even to think of this, for my father had declared himself opposed to it. Therefore peace be to it, and let me have patience. At least those pretty little alabaster figures that are shown in the shop windows of Pisani on the Prato, and Bazzanti on the Lung'Arno, those I should be able to do with time and study and a firm will. For after all, it is only a question of changing the material, of substituting alabaster for wood, a seraphim or an angel for a little Venus or Apollo—there is nothing to create. Those who make these figures, also copy them from others in alabaster, plaster, or bronze, as I do; and even now I invent my little seraphim, and no longer look at Flammingo's little boys as I did at first—I do them from memory, making them either leaner or fatter, or more smiling or more sad, as best I feel inclined. So I reasoned and persuaded myself that in the end, one day or other, I also should be able to make one of those graceful little statuettes.

A PRACTICAL JOKE.

In this way I consoled myself, and went on with courage and hopefulness. Here some one may say, this artist in his old age gives us a picture of himself as a boy where there is too much fancy. The portrait is beautiful, but is it a likeness? Has not the love of beauty seduced him? What is the truth? Who ever saw a boy who was always obedient, studious, patient, constant, &c. &c.?

Slowly, my good sirs—slowly; have a little patience. Some scrapes even I have got into, and for the love of truth I must not pass them by in silence. But everything has its place, and here, for instance, is the place for one of these scrapes. In the shop where I was employed, close to my bench there was a great plaster pillar rising from the floor to the ceiling. Neither I nor any one had ever thought or inquired for what purpose it had been made. In this pillar was a sort of little niche, into which was walled up a phial of oil kept for sharpening our tools. Now it happened that this phial got broken, and in consequence it became necessary to knock down the rest of the little niche in order to put in a new one; but in performing this operation, I perceived that the wall was thin under the hammer, as if it were hollow, so I began to think what this could mean. The others also wondered, and some said one thing, and some said another. In the meantime, as I continued to hammer on the wall in the interior of the niche, a brick fell down, the wall gave way, and we looked into a hollow space. Taking a stick to measure the depth, we found it was considerable; but we could not understand what the meaning of this could be. I have already said, in the beginning of these memoirs, that our shop was under the Piatti printing-office—and so it is, for the printing-office is on the first floor over it; but the building is very high, and above that floor are others occupied by lodgers. Suddenly, as we stood still, perplexed and wondering what could be the use of this hollow pillar, I, being nearest the spot, heard a noise within like a rustling or rubbing of something which we could not explain.

THE "SOULS OF PURGATORY."

For a while I stood still, thinking, when suddenly I guessed what it was, and said to my companions—

"In a moment, if I succeed, you will witness a scene that will make you laugh."

"What do you mean to do?"

"You will see." Taking a long piece of beaten iron wire, I bent it into the form of a mark of interrogation, and fastening the straight end of it firmly to a bit of wood, when I heard the noise again I thrust it to the opposite side of the hole, and again and again tried if I could catch hold of anything within. At last, when I thought I had grappled hold of something, I pulled it up, and found it to be a rope. As soon as the rope was caught, we heard several voices scolding, calling, and disputing—amongst others, a woman's voice shouting, "No, I tell you there are no other lodgers; pull away, the bucket must have got into some hole." Then the poor woman pulled, and every time she pulled I gave a loud groan. At last, apparently the woman's strength failed, the mistress herself or some one else pulled at it, for I could feel she had no more strength to pull, and then cried out with an impertinent voice, worthy of greater success, "Who is there?" "The souls of purgatory," I shouted out lugubriously, and instantly felt the rope fall down.

To say the truth, I was then a little alarmed through fear of being discovered, so I pushed forward the iron hook, and the rope fell, bucket and all, into the well. My companions laughed at the scene, but I did not; and thinking the joke might be found out, I hastened to close up again the hole with a brick, set the little bottle of oil into it, restore the niche as it was, smudge it over well that it might appear old and as if it had never been touched, sweep away all traces of the plaster that had been used, straighten out the instrument I had used, and apply myself to my work in serious rather than hilarious mood.

MY FATHER GOES TO ROME.

About this time my father, failing to get work, came to Florence, hoping to find something to do; but his hopes proved vain. He stayed there a little while, but at last determined to go away, and this time for a more distant place. My mother and all of us tried to dissuade him, telling him to have patience, that some way would be found, that we would do all we could to help, and although we were very poor, still we should all be together. But it seemed to him that we could not get on in this way, and accordingly he left for Rome. So long as he was at Siena and wrote to us, and sometimes sent us a few sous, it was not so bad, and we were accustomed to it; but now, who could say how we should get on? So far away, without any one to help him, without acquaintances, and with so imperious a character, what would become of him? Fortunately, however, he found employment, and he wrote that he was well, and hoped in a short time to be able to send us something. God knows there was need of it.

Meanwhile I had become tolerably skilful. I was no longer a boy; I earned about three pauls a-day, and nearly all this I gave to my mother, reserving for myself only a few sous to buy paper, pencils, and books. Beyond these things I wanted nothing, for my mother took care to keep me cleanly and decently dressed.

DISCONTENT.

As my face, my way of speaking, and my manners were not vulgar, many of the customers who came to our shop took me for the son of the principal instead of an apprentice. They readily addressed themselves to me; I took their messages, and sometimes their orders for the work, and the older and more skilful workmen showed no ill-feeling about it. Amongst other customers who had a liking for me, I remember Signor Emilio de Fabris, who at that time was the head workman in Baccani's studio. He used to come to direct and urge on the work. He used to talk with me, and to make his observations on the work; and as he even then had an easy and graceful way of talking, I listened to him with attention. He was a thin, tall, refined young man, admirably educated, and courteous in his manners. To-day he is one of the most famous masters of architecture, President of our Academy of Fine Arts, and my good friend.

But although I had many reasons for being contented—for at home, thanks to the small wages of my brother Lorenzo, the few sous that came from Rome, and the earnings, meagre though they were, of my mother, we were able, by putting all together, to live tolerably though poorly, and in the shop I was liked and esteemed by my master, by the men, by all—still I was not contented. I felt there was a void, a feeling of uneasiness, and a melancholy that I could neither explain to myself, nor could others explain to me except by jestingly calling me "the poet."

And this was the truth, for the poet is eminently a dreamer whose dreams are more joyous and smiling than any reality, and I dreamed—yes, but not of a smiling future when I should be rich and famous, but of any sort of way by which I could find vent for that inward longing to distinguish myself above others, and to distinguish myself especially in figure-work, though it should be only in wood; but it was not possible for me to satisfy this longing in the shop. Here I was obliged to work at all sorts of things—chandeliers, frames, mask-heads, everything; and I not only felt unhappy, but was unhappy, and my health began to fail. I was advised to take sea-baths; but in Leghorn the cholera was raging, and it would have been imprudent to go there, and so another year passed in the midst of desires and hopes and fears and ill-health. But at last I went to the baths. I had scarcely arrived there, however, when that terrible disease reappeared and raged furiously: the inhabitants and strangers hastened to fly from it; all business was suspended; movement and gaiety almost entirely disappeared; the shops were shut; and in a short time Leghorn became deserted, sad, and oppressed with fear.

CHOLERA AT LEGHORN.

My mother wrote to me from Florence urging my immediate return; but I—I know not why—felt myself, as it were, riveted to Leghorn. It may have been perhaps on account of the effect of the sea air, the novelty of the life, and the excitement produced in me by the danger to which my life was exposed, which I not only did not fear, but even felt strong enough almost to challenge, and more than all, the notable improvement that I daily felt in my health, which decided me to remain. I had found some friends even gayer and more thoughtless than myself. We went to the fish-market and bought the best fish for almost nothing—fresh red mullet for two or three soldi a pound—for there were no purchasers. It was generally believed that the disease came from the sea, and was brought on by eating fish; but we ate and drank and smoked merrily.

In a few days I recovered my health, got a good colour, gained strength, and melancholy went to the devil. I also found some work to do. The few soldi that I had brought with me rapidly disappeared. I worked but little, only doing so much day by day as would enable me to live merrily. By one o'clock my day of work was over, and then began that of amusement—which consisted of dinner, walks in the country sometimes as far as Montenero, towards evening a good swim in the sea, then to the café, and late to bed. Leading as I did this happy life, one can readily imagine that my letters home breathed trust, courage, and tranquillity of spirit, so that my mother, although she never ceased to beg me to return, did so in less pressing terms and with gentler expressions.

AMUSEMENTS—CACCIUCCO.

I SAVE A DROWNING WOMAN.

One day when I had gone with my friends on board one of those small vessels which are stationed at the "Anelli," and while we were eating a dish of fresh fish called cacciucco, which the sailors excel in making, a woman who was walking by the shore fell or threw herself into the sea. For a short time she floated, sustained by her clothes, which puffed up into a sort of bell; then she began to waver to and fro, and down she went. We looked at each other, and then about us to see if any of the sailors on the neighbouring ships had seen the woman and were moving to the rescue, and those on board our boat only shrugged their shoulders as if she were a dog.

"Down with you! throw yourself in! you know how to swim!"

"I, of course; but don't you swim better than I?"

"I! no; but yes——"

And at this one of us, a fellow nicknamed Braccio di Ferro—I don't remember his real name—taking off jacket and boots, shouted out, "Hold your tongues, cowards!" and plunged in head first with his hands above his head. At the word cowards, made even more telling by the brave act of the man, I felt my face suffused with shame; and although I was not such an expert swimmer as Braccio di Ferro, I also took off my jacket and shoes, and gathering my loins tightly together, with my hands under my feet, jumped in. Under water one could see quite as clearly as above, for the rays of the sun penetrated obliquely and lighted up all the space about me. I saw my friend diving down to touch bottom, which meant that he had seen that poor woman, but I had to come up to the surface to take breath. As soon as I had done so once or twice, I made a somersault, and away I went, striking out with my hands in the water. My friend, however, had found the woman, and had seized hold of her by her foot. Swimming around, I caught hold of her skirts—and just in time; for poor Braccio di Ferro was blown, and who knows how much water he would have drunk if I had not come. Leaving the woman to me, he made a curve in the water, and went to the surface to breathe, plunging his head under again to look after us. The two boats that had come to get the poor woman were ready. Braccio di Ferro mounted into one to help me pull her in. With one hand I caught hold of the boat, and with the other I clung on to the woman's dress, who was at once dragged out, placed on her face that she might throw up the water she had swallowed, taken to land, and escorted to her house, which was not far off. We mounted upon our vessel amidst the applause of the people and of our friends who were waiting for us; they took off some of their clothes to cover us as best they could, and we hung ours out to dry on one of the cords of the ship. We drank some pipiona wine, finished our repast, and each of us returned home.

I remained about a month longer in Leghorn; and if it had not been for my mother, who pressed me to return, I should have stayed who knows how long. I found also something to do which was to my taste; I made three heads of Medusa to ornament the panels of a chemist's bench. It was a new chemist's shop that was to be opened in those days. Who knows what they have done with those poor heads of mine!