I FIND PAPI ASLEEP.
"Yes; he is asleep, I assure you. He has been asleep more than two hours, he was so tired when he came home."
"Well, then, since you assure me that he is asleep, my commission is at an end; and when he wakes up, which will probably be to-morrow morning, you may tell him that I had come in a great hurry to say two words to him that contained the power of making him sleep, but having found him in his first sleep, I shall tell him another time, although they may then seem quite stale."
To speak sincerely, such an extraordinary feat I have never been able to explain. To sleep after a similar misfortune—to go to sleep at once, immediately, two hours after, at his usual hour, the hour when those who have nothing on their minds sleep! And yet, now that I think of it, Napoleon slept on the night that preceded one of his greatest battles. So at least he wrote in his biography, and because it is printed, a great number of simple-hearted people believe in it as they do in the Gospel; and you, gentle reader, do you believe it? "Mi, no!" as Sior Tonin Bonagrazia would say.
It has been necessary to make this digression on character,—that is to say, on the difference between those who acquire calmness by virtue of their reason, and those whose senses are obtuse to all passions—differences which are visible to any one who observes with care, and that escape many, indeed most people who do not think. Let the young artist be persuaded that the study and observation of the true nature of love and human passions are most essential. Let them give up all thoughts of seeing these expressions in their models. One's studio models are common people, who certainly have their feelings and passions, but they are generally vulgar; and in any case, during the time that they are posing as models, they are thinking of everything except the moral condition of mind of the person they are representing. One may answer, "We know this; the artist should himself give the expression required by his subject." Quite right; but how can the artist seize hold of the right expression if first he has not seen it in life, and studied with attention beyond words? Then it is evident to me, and other works show it without my words, that not a few artists expect and insist on finding expression in their models. I remember an artist who flew into a passion because his model did not assume an expression of grief. The model naturally laughed louder and louder, every time this simpleton said, "Don't laugh; be serious and sad; I want you to express grief."
STUDY OF EXPRESSION FROM NATURE.
It is true that this kind of study may occasion some little inconvenience—as, for instance, one may pass for being very stupid, because absorbed in observing and committing to memory, and hearing nothing that has been talked about. One may answer at random, and be extremely ridiculous. One may appear as a somewhat offensive admirer, and give umbrage to some jealous husband. One may even pass for a scatter-brain and imbecile. But have patience! With time and practice the artist will gain his point, and be able to study as much as he wishes, while assuming an air of indifference that will shelter him from the above-mentioned misconceptions.
A CIRCE AT A BALL.
A LESSON.
He may, however, fall into other mistakes; and I here take note of them that he may avoid so doing. One evening I was at a ball at the Palazzo Torlonia at Rome. I have no fancy for balls, but I like to see a great many people,—beautiful ladies, elegant dresses, and naked arms,—and more than all, the expression of eyes now languid, now animated,—smiles now ingenuous, now coquettish,—the weariness of the fathers, and the eager concern of the mammas,—the reckless joy of the Don Giovanni in erba, and the deceitful, washed-out look of the Don Giovanni in ritiro. It is a pleasant as well as useful study, as long as one does not change parts, and instead of a spectator become an actor in the scene. The "lime-twigs are spread out, the little owls are at their places; so beware, ye blackbirds, not to be caught." There I stood; the painter Podesti, with whom I had come to the ball, had left me, carried away by the attractions of the card-table. In one of the many rooms open for the circulation of the company, and for the repose of dancers and those not dancing, seated on one of the divans I saw a young woman of singular beauty. She was about thirty: several gentlemen surrounded her like a garland, and she had now for one, now for another, some trivial gay word; but in strange contrast with her careless words and smiles was her austere brow, and the haughty looks that came from her eyes. The turn of her head was stately and attractive; and a clasp of diamonds that was fastened in her dark shining hair flashed every time she moved. I never saw a more assassinating beauty than hers! Leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room, studying that face with its strangely variable expression, all the women of history and fable with which this singular beauty had affinity rose before my mind. Less full of passion than Norma, less ferocious than Medea, almost Helen, and, without an almost, a Circe,—in fact, one of those women who promise one paradise and prepare one an inferno—capable of killing the body, the soul, and the memory of a man. When I had got so far in my reflections, the young lady rose, and coming straight towards me, she said these simple words—"Monsieur, tandis que vous pensiez, je ne sais pas à quoi, la cire a coulé tout à son aise sur voire habit"—and she passed on slowly, demolishing in two words my castles in the air. I found, in fact, that the shoulder and sleeve of my dress-coat were covered with wax, to say nothing of the suppressed laughter of the beautiful Circe. Of two things one must therefore be warned—to put one's self out of the dangerous proximity of lights, and to be careful to look at people with some reserve.