AN ADVENTURE WITH A TRASTEVERE GIRL.
Whoever is familiar with the Roman people will have observed a notable difference between the figures of the common people, and especially those of the Trasteverini and the Monti, and those of the higher classes who are in better circumstances. The latter are more slender, with a fine and white skin, and often with chestnut hair; while the former have dark eyes, skin, and hair, are harsh and short in their ways and voices, and for a mere nothing throw up their barricades, and blood runs without much lamentation over it. You can easily see in these people their uninterrupted derivation from those fierce legions who planted their eagles over all the then known earth. Nor is the blood in the women different from that in the men; and if the men carry their knives in their pockets (they certainly did then), the women carried, thrust across their massive knots of ebon hair with much taste, a sharp dagger with a silver handle, which was in every way capable of sending any poor unfortunate devil into the other world. One day (it was Sunday towards evening) I was, as usual, dreaming about those busts or necks of Minerva and Polymnia, and the Venus of Milo, and I know not how many other antique statues, which seemed to me to give a solemn contradiction to all my little models of pastry that I had left in Florence, and I fixed my eyes on the neck of every woman that I passed. This examination induced me to modify in measure my opinion as to the conventionalism of the necks of the antique statues; and I should have been satisfied, and have changed my mind entirely, even had I not purely by chance gone on into the Trastevere. Here there was a great number of young persons, both male and female,—the men either in the pot-houses, or gathered around the doors, or standing in groups, and the girls in companies of three or four walking up and down the street of the Longaretta. Among these I saw one who, if she had been made on purpose to prove that the necks of the antique statues were not conventional, could not have here offered a more absolute proof. There were three girls, two small, and one large who was between them. She walked along with a slow and majestic step, talking with her companions. A sportsman who spies a hare, a creditor who meets a debtor, a friend who finds another friend whom he thought to be far away or dead, these give a weak notion of my surprise in beholding this girl. My dear reader, I do not in the least exaggerate when I say that I seemed to look on the Venus of Milo. Her head and neck, which alone were exposed to view, were as like that statue as two drops of water. I was astounded. I turned back to look at her again, and it would have been well for me had I contented myself with this; but I wished to see her yet once more. The girl, who had not an idea within a thousand miles of what I was pondering, nor of the corrections that I was formulating on an æsthetical opinion of such great importance, suddenly stopped, and taking the dagger from her hair, advanced towards me, and with a strong and almost masculine voice, said to me, "Well, Mr Dandy, does your life stink in your nostrils?" I shot off home directly, looking neither to the right nor left; and when I arrived I told my wife what had happened, and she reproved me gently for making my studies so out of time and place. Now I ask, why this disdain? Had I been guilty of anything improper in looking at the girl? Is it possible that she could have really been offended? I do not believe it. I know something about women, and I know that it is their weakness to try to attract attention. It is more probable that there was some one near her to whom the girl wished to show that in respect to anything touching her honour she was too fierce to allow any other person even to look at her. Leonardo none the less counsels us to study from nature, in the open air, not only by looking, but also by taking notes; and he makes no exception as to the Trasteverini. For the benefit of young artists, I propose to add a note on this subject to all new editions of Leonardo.
GREEK LIFE AND MODELS.
The discovery of this beautiful head and neck of the antique style and character set upon a living girl (and what a complexion!) led me to consider how many other parts of incontestable beauty which we find in the antique statues, and so readily believe to be born of the imagination of the Greek sculptors, are really to be found in nature; and the Greeks only selected them for imitation. But if this be so, how can the absolute deficiency of such models in our day be explained? Then I considered the different education of this people, their warlike lives, their games, and prizes at throwing the disc, racing, boxing, and the esteem in which physical beauty was held. If, indeed, for these reasons there is in our day a deficiency of fine models, we are not absolutely without them, as this spirited and beautiful girl clearly proves; and I firmly believe she must have been in respect to all the rest of her body an excellent model. Hence the necessity of carefully selecting our models. In this respect, however, we find ourselves in a much more difficult position than the ancients. First, because, as I have said, their education lent itself more efficaciously to the development of the body; and then, because the public games afforded far greater opportunities to see and select among them.
A BEAUTIFUL NUDE MODEL.
The first thing which assures a good result to a work is the selection of good models; and after taking great heed of this, good imitation is of absolute necessity. I have observed that he who exercises little or no selection, and contents himself with the first model he sees, belongs to that class of conventional artists who allow themselves such an infinity of additions and subtractions, and corrections of the model, that generally only the remnants of nature are to be found in their works; while those who follow the opposite school copy the model minutely just as it is, and even with all its imperfections. If the former remain cold and false, the latter are vulgar and tasteless; for they carry their love for truth to such an excess, that they do not distinguish the beautiful from the ugly. Nay, they prefer the ugly, because to them it seems more true because it is more common. It happened to me once to be in the studio of one of these young artists, who was engaged on I do not remember what work. When the model was stripped he was beautiful to see: a small head, squared breast, an elegant pelvis, delicate knees and ankles, and, in a word, seemed the "Idolino" itself, living and speaking. Will you believe it?—he was set aside.
"But what are you doing?" said I. "Don't you see how beautiful this boy is? Copy him fearlessly. He is beautiful as Idolino himself."
"That is exactly why I do not want him as a model. I am afraid it will be said that I have copied my Idolino."
CONVENTIONAL IMITATION.
To such a point did their aberration arrive. But at the same time, I am sure that if this model had fallen into the hands of one of the idealistic reformers of nature, he would have been corrected (that is, ruined) in every part, according to the suggestions of his stupid conventionalism. This mania of correcting nature is in itself extremely injurious, and the young artist must be constantly on his guard against it. A finished artist may sometimes do this, because in his skill and experience he finds the limits and the measure of the liberty which are permissible. Indeed he is not aware of the corrections that he is making, and believes that he sees it so; but this depends on the habit of seeing and portraying beautiful nature. But a youth who once is set going on this incline never stops; for he finds it far easier to draw freely on his memory than to keep within the proper bounds of imitation.