Thoughts on Art and Autobiographical Memoirs of Giovanni Dupre Part 25

"What must I do?" I asked.

"Stop at the first station; and this evening, by the Edinburgh train, you can return to London."

"Are there no other trains before this one, that I may return to London during the day to dine?"

"No."

"Many thanks!"

I got down at the first station, paid the difference in my ticket, and, in the very worst of humours, took a turn in the little village or hamlet,--I did not even care to ask its name. I had some wretched food, and everything seemed to me bad and ugly.

Yes, yes; a little of the language of the country is even more necessary than bread or than money, for the English--and I think they are right--speak no other language than their own. But they go so far as to pretend, when they come amongst us, that we should speak English like them; and here they are in the wrong.

When I got home to the hotel in the evening, Avvocato Fornetti and Caraffa, my friends and companions at the hotel, came to me smiling, and said, "Have you amused yourself?"

[Sidenote: PICCOLOMINI AND RISTORI.]

I said, "Yes;" I did not tell them what had happened, for they were the kind of men who would have ridiculed me for a long time.

Beyond these few little mishaps, my time pa.s.sed most pleasantly in London. My fellow-citizen Marietta Piccolomini was singing at the Queen's Opera House with Giulini and Belletti. Ristori was acting at the Ateneo Italiano. There were very often concerts of music, instrumental and vocal, where Bottesini, Giovacchino Bimboni, and the violinist Favilli played. I knew De Vincenzi, who was afterwards in the Ministry; and I again met Count Piero Guicciardini, Count Arrivabene, the _maestro_ Fiori, that scatter-brain of a Fabio Uccelli; Monti, the Milanese sculptor; our Fedi; Bulletti, a carver in wood; Romoli, the painter and sculptor; and others,--in fact, a perfect colony of Italians.

Among the tragedies which Ristori acted in at that time, and which I already knew, I saw one that I liked extremely. It was the 'Camma,' by Professor Giuseppe Montanelli,--in my belief, a very fine work, and superlatively well interpreted, in its proud and pa.s.sionate character, by the first actress, Signora Ristori. I heard the Signora Piccolomini, with her usual grace and intelligence, sing in the 'Traviata' and the 'Figlia del Reggimento.' Although these entertainments, be they prose or music, were deserving of all praise, yet the price of the entrance-ticket, according to us Italians, was enormously dear, being one pound sterling, which is equal to twenty-five _lire_ and twenty _centimes_ of our money. May I be forgiven if that is little? One must also take note that at that time, A. D. 1856, everything was done in a small way,--reasonable incomes, few requirements, small expenditures, and, smallest of all, taxation. The ciphers of millions in the great book of 'Debit and Credit' had not yet been invented; the floating debt did not even exist in dreams. So that thirty _lire codine_ at that time represented nearly a hundred francs of to-day. Who is there (I mean amongst us) who would wish to spend a hundred _lire_ for a 'Traviata'?

Not I, indeed; for I remember, when I was an _abonne_ at the Cocomero (now Niccolini), to have heard Ristori for four _soldi_ a-night, and she acted equally well, without taking into account her youth and beauty, that inexorable Time will not respect, even in celebrities.

[Sidenote: PRICES AT THE OPERA.]

"Then you went to a foolish expense; and you contradict yourself without even turning your page, for you say that you would not spend the money, and at the same time you inform us that you heard Ristori act in 'Camma'!"

I answer, "'Camma' cost me absolutely nothing, as the Signora Ristori, who is as amiable as she is eminent as an _artiste_, favoured me with an entrance-ticket;" and so I clear up the apparent contradiction that the critical reader was in such haste to bring forward. Go on, however, and look sharply through these papers, where you will find something of everything. Moreover, you will be often bored, but I hope you will never find any contradictions. I have also a very good habit--that is, of re-reading what I have written: and then, with a little art, one succeeds in putting everything nicely in its place. You understand? Then we will push on.

[Sidenote: HAMPTON COURT.]

In order not to fail a second time in my intention of seeing the royal villa of Hampton Court, I wrote that name on a card and showed it to the guard every time we stopped. I got there at last. The place all about is very pleasant, with a wide, clear horizon, for the fogs only have their home in London. The palace, as may be imagined, is large and majestic. I don't remember the style of its architecture, and don't want to refer to the easy expedient of consulting a guide-book. I promised myself that I would write my life, the thoughts that came to me one after another, without help, trusting only to memory. So I have done thus far, and intend doing so to the end. The villa, as I have said, is majestic, enclosed on all sides by gardens and orchards. The interior consists of innumerable halls richly decorated with paintings, somewhat out of repair, as they are no longer used, it would appear, as a royal residence. People crowd more particularly to the Queen's own private apartments, to see her sitting-room, and even her bedroom with its bed-furniture, and the thousand rich, pretty, and curious things with which these rooms are filled. The rest of the place, or the greater part of it, such as the gallery of pictures and cartoons, is generally deserted. Yet the English are great lovers of art; we see them with great interest frequent our galleries in Rome, Florence, Venice, and Naples. But perhaps the people brought by curiosity to Hampton Court belong to the lower cla.s.s, which has not in London the feeling for art that the people even of the lowest cla.s.s have in Italy. In a great long hall, like a gallery, I saw the eight cartoons of Raphael that were made for the arrases in the Vatican. They consist of "St Paul preaching to the Athenians;" "St Peter and the miracle of the fish;" "St Peter and Ananias;" "St Peter receiving from Christ the charge of guarding His sheep;" "Peter and John healing the lame man at the gates of the Temple;" "Elymas the Sorcerer punished by losing his sight;" and others that I do not remember. He who has never seen these cartoons, and the "Ma.s.sacre of the Innocents" above mentioned, can form no idea of the strength of Raphael in that grandly fierce style initiated by Michael Angelo, who spread therein so broad a sail as to make him terrible to the beholder, and to occasion the s.h.i.+pwreck of many in a smaller craft, who perished miserably, desirous of following him on that fearful ocean.

[Sidenote: HYDE PARK.]

There are other cartoons in the same gallery by Mantegna representing the "Triumph of Caesar." Mantegna, as all know, as an artist is an imitator of the antique: the execution of the work which is merely the material part alone is his own, for he took the conception, character, and style, in generalities and detail, from the antique.

Besides the treasures of art contained in the London museums--and one may also call Hampton Court a museum--there are the beautiful public walks called parks. The largest, richest in avenues, fields, and lakes peopled by innumerable ducks and fish, is called Hyde Park. This is the promenade where all the fas.h.i.+onable world meet. Ladies and gentlemen on horseback dash down the interminable avenues of this park, giving loose rein to their fiery steeds. It is a fine sight to see these animals, so elegant in form, and at the same time full of fire, pawing the ground, neighing, and fretting at the bit, from their desire to be off: but still more beautiful to look at are those gentle ladies on their backs; and when they are going at full pace, bending slightly forward on their fiery steeds, their flowing skirts, in ample undulating lines, giving a slender, flexible look to their figures, you feel carried away, and as if you would like to follow them in that rapid, anxious race, where peril changes into pleasure, and where the inebriation of the senses becomes ideality. Such is the fascination youth, beauty, and strength produce on the mind and senses of all natures susceptible of feeling. It is a pungent pleasure; the soul struggles in these meshes of flowers, and their perfume inebriates and captivates it. I beg pardon of the reader, if, for an instant attracted by this race of beautiful ladies, my head galloped away with them. Another time I will hold the reins tighter; and it ought not to be difficult to stop this little horse of mine, sixty years old.

[Sidenote: DISTRIBUTION OF CRIMEAN MEDALS.]

Hyde Park, as I have said, is larger than the two others, St James's Park and Regent's Park, and is about five miles in circ.u.mference, which seems a good deal; but so it is. These country s.p.a.ces in the middle of London are, as have been justly said, the lungs of the great city. By means of these green oases, impregnated with oxygen, the air of that gigantic body of London, where millions of men swarm like ants, is constantly renovated. These parks are rich in timber, and flowers are there cultivated with every art. There are very few guards, for great respect is shown for the laws prohibiting the damaging of the plants. A curious but very just penalty is inflicted by them, and this is it: If Signor Tizio has damaged a plant, or only picked a flower, Signor Tizio, according to the gravity of the mischief he has done, is prohibited from entering those precincts for fifteen or twenty days. And this is not enough--it would be too little; his name is posted up to view at all the park entrances, specifying the damage he has done and the penalty inflicted on him, that everybody who goes there may read and laugh!

I was present in Hyde Park at the distribution of medals to the troops on their return from the Crimea. That great national _fete_ was a splendid success--the whole army in arms and full uniform, every part of it in its proper place, cavalry, artillery, marines, and infantry. At the end of a large camp a throne was erected for the Queen, her children, and her husband, Prince Albert. The Ministers, Court dignitaries, and Lords surrounded her. The ceremony was a long one. The troops had been on foot since early morning, and many were the numbers who received medals. The sun beat down with great force on our heads, for it was in the month of June. It is a fine sight to see the youth of England, tall, square-shouldered young fellows, with upright bearing and brilliant colouring; but notwithstanding all this, it would seem that for all their strength of nature they cannot endure hunger. I was present at some little occurrences that astonished me extremely: two or three of those young men fainted as if they had been delicate girls, although they had herculean chests and arms. But so it is: the Englishman, when the hour has come, requires absolutely to have his tea; if this fails, he can no longer stand on his feet.

[Sidenote: ENGLISHMEN MUST HAVE TEA.]

That this must really be the case, was demonstrated to me by the affectionate solicitude shown by their comrades and the people carefully conveying these fainting youths to the ambulances. Instead of this with us Italians, we see young men of twenty bear long marches, discomfort, and hunger with a bright face. It is the difference of nature and habits in the two nations. I do not mean, indeed, to say that we do not feel hunger--in fact, I can say for myself that I feel it most ferociously; and if this expression seems exaggerated, I will correct myself and add, brutally and insolently, and will recount a little anecdote in proof of my appet.i.te, especially after fasting. It is a trifling matter, that goes as far back as thirty years. At that time of juvenile effervescence one wishes for much and feels much, and is not very fastidious about ways and means. The fact is a curious one, and, to say the truth, would not be very pleasant for me to narrate were it not that it is peculiar, and with the touch of a brush paints to the life the character of my early youth. I had quite forgotten it, and it really would have been a mistake to do so. Those fasting English soldiers reminded me of it, and I am very glad of it.

[Sidenote: VISIT TO QUARTO.]

The benevolent reader must betake himself back to the time when I was twenty-six years of age, which, in a young artist, sometimes means being possessed of twenty-six devils. True it is that with time and increase of years these devils, alas! diminish. Therefore, at my present stand-point, I feel myself absolutely free of them, and could bear fasting and hunger without dreaming of committing the impertinence that, without other preamble, I am about to narrate.

Lorenzo Mariotti, an agent of the Russian Government, as I have before mentioned, brought me a paper, on which were written the following words:--

"Professor Dupre is requested to come at an early hour to-morrow morning to Quarto. A. DEMIDOFF."

Quarto is an enchanting villa that was afterwards in the possession of the Grand d.u.c.h.ess Maria of Russia; at that time, it was the property of Prince Anatolio Demidoff, who had bought it from Prince Girolamo Buonaparte, the father of Princess Matilde. It is four miles distant from Florence, on the skirts of the steep hill of Monte Morello, enclosed by beautiful gardens and a fine park. I therefore betook myself there at an early hour; and in the hopes of quickly despatching my business, I had not thought of breakfasting before starting, but merely took a cup of coffee. I got into the carriage, and arrived there at about eight o'clock. It was a good season of the year, being May, and the day was a splendid one; in its quietness and fragrance it reminded me of those most sweet verses of the divine poet:--

"E quale, annunziatrice degli albori, L'aura di maggio movesi ed olezza, Tutta impregnata dall'erbe e da fiori."[9]

[9] "And as the harbinger of early dawn, The air of May doth move and breathe out fragrance, Impregnate all with herbage and with flowers."

--DANTE: _Purgatorio_, Canto xxiv.

So I tasted the voluptuousness of these first warm days in the pure quietness of our hills, and I looked forward to a short conversation with the Prince (as I imagined the motive of his summons), and a speedy return to Florence. I dismounted, and told the coachman to wait; he lighted his cigar, took a turn round the villa, and then placed himself in the shade. I asked for the Prince, and was answered that he was not up. Then I feared that I should be obliged to wait; but the message was, "at an early hour." Who knows, however, what is an early hour to a gentleman? I found out afterwards, as the reader will soon hear.

[Sidenote: HUNGER AT QUARTO.]

I walked about in the apartment, in the court, in the garden, and in the park, and from time to time I came back to see if the Prince had asked for me; but the Prince had not yet called. Two good hours were already past. The pure air of the beautiful country, the pleasant shade in the park, the odour of the violets and roses, all had served to sharpen my appet.i.te. I risked asking a servant if he could give me some breakfast, but he answered that no one could have anything to eat before his Excellency had ordered his breakfast.

"And is it late before his Excellency orders his breakfast?"

"Ah! that is as it happens,--at mid-day, at one o'clock--when he thinks best." So saying he left me, and I began my walks again. The beautiful country seemed to me less beautiful, the shady avenues of the park had a.s.sumed a certain sadness and obnoxious freshness, the odour from the flowers made my head giddy! What was I to do? Return to Florence? It was far. And what then of the Prince's message? I did not wish to fail to meet his invitation. I reflected a little, and then resolved to make a somewhat rash attempt, but which succeeded admirably. I had caught sight of the breakfast-room, with its table all set out with cups, plates, gla.s.ses, cakes, confectionery--in fact with everything, even with flowers in crystal vases that were a wonder to look at. I went into the room and rang the bell with violence; in an instant a servant appeared dressed in black, to whom I turned, and with my head well in the air p.r.o.nounced in a harsh firm voice the one word--

"Breakfast!"

[Sidenote: I ORDER BREAKFAST FOR MYSELF.]

[Sidenote: AFTER A GOOD BREAKFAST.]

The servant disappeared, and returned almost on the instant with a silver soup-tureen, which he placed on the table before me, and then stationed himself behind me. Two other servants brought me ham, tongue, _caviale_, veal cutlets, cold galantine, and then asked if I wanted Madeira, Bordeaux, or Marsala. I was satisfied with the Bordeaux, and also partook of a plate of strawberries; and as a last sacrifice, I sipped a cup of Mocha coffee--really inebriating--lighted my cigar, and lost myself in the thickest part of the park. I was really beaming. I felt restored in body, and in a state of perfect wellbeing, feeling a certain sort of complacency with my spirit, my genius, my quickness--my impertinence, let us say--which, _au fond_, was of good service to me and did n.o.body any harm. Carlo Bini a.s.sures us that the prison so sharpened his brains that it was as much use to him in expressing his ideas as style was:--

"La prigione e una lima s sottile, Che aguzzando il cervel ne fa uno stile;"

and does not hunger, I say, sharpen the brain? I could cite a thousand examples of well-known geniuses who have grown up in the midst of privations and hunger, but I do not wish to be pedantic. This I know full well, that I should never have been capable of such an escapade had I not had that formidable appet.i.te, nor should I have had the idea of satisfying it in that way. Necessity sharpens the intellect to invent and to act; health and physical wellbeing kindle and spur on the fancy through flowering pathways of flattering hopes. Who knows with how many beautiful _grilli_ and beautiful bright-coloured b.u.t.terflies, swift of flight, a little gla.s.s of Bordeaux, or better still, a gla.s.s of our good Chianti wine, has brightened the life of poets and artists? I found myself in one of those beautiful dreams. My mind wandered from one thing to another; the past and the future were mixed up together. History and fable, religion and romance, light and serious love, the fantastic and the positive, fine statues, fine commissions, friends distinguished for rect.i.tude and genius,--all pa.s.sed before me. The flowers in the garden seemed to me more beautiful and more odorous than ever, the sky brighter and purer; and never did the hills of Artimino, Careggi, or Fiesole, populous with villas, seem to me so fair. I never gave a thought to the Prince or to his having sent for me, any more than if it had been all a dream. And all _was_ a dream; for I fell asleep seated on one of the sofa-chairs made of reeds, and in my sleep my thoughts went back to those beautiful legends of history and fable--beautiful women, fine statues, sweet friends--and to the delightful country, when a slight touch on my shoulder woke me from my placid sleep. It was one of the Prince's servants, who was in quest of me to take me to him. To judge from their dress, the Prince and Princess must have only been up a short time. The Prince was standing; he had a cup in his hand, and dipped some pieces of toasted bread into it. From the odour, I became aware that it was _consomme_. The Princess was seated, turning over the leaves of a book of prints. She was of rare beauty, and the time, the place, and mild season of the year made her seem even more beautiful. She ought therefore to have seemed and to have been an object of love and profound admiration to her happy husband; and if you add to the attractions of youth and beauty, grace of education, culture of mind, and _prestige_ of birth, the affection of the man who possessed her should have verged on idolatry. But, alas! in life such perfect happiness never lasts; and the reader remembers what I told of the end of this union.

[Sidenote: PRINCE DEMIDOFF'S COMMISSION.]

"My dear Dupre, you have arrived a little late, have you not? I sent for you, but you had not yet come."

"Your Excellency, let me tell you. I arrived betimes--in fact, very early, as your Excellency indicated I should do in your note; but----"

And here I told him the whole story already known to my reader; and I cannot describe how delighted he and the Princess were with it. Now and again the Prince held out his hand to me, saying, "Bravo! In faith, I like this. Bravo!"

Then he told me what was the object of his sending for me. It was to give me an order for a life-size statue of Napoleon I., in the very dress which he possessed, and would furnish me with. He would procure me a good mask and some authentic portraits; but he begged me to make it in the shortest possible time. It was very evident that he wanted to please the Princess, because whilst he was speaking to me he looked with loving intensity at her, and from time to time caressed her with a gentleness almost childlike.

[Sidenote: PRINCE DEMIDOFF'S CHARACTER.]