CHAPTER XVI.
ON THE STUDY OF EXPRESSION FROM LIFE—THE CARE ONE MUST TAKE IN MAKING STUDIES FROM LIFE—A GENRE PICTURE AND RAPHAEL'S CARTOON OF THE "MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS "—I LOSE MYSELF IN LONDON—THE HOUSEMAID AT HOTEL GRANARA—THE INCONVENIENCE OF BEING IGNORANT AND ABSENT-MINDED—RISTORI AND PICCOLOMINI IN LONDON—THE CARTOONS OF RAPHAEL AT HAMPTON COURT—FANTASY RUNS AWAY WITH ME—A CURIOUS BUT JUST LAW—THE RESULT OF FASTING—THE VILLA OF QUARTO AND A PRINCE'S "EARLY HOUR"—AGAIN OF PRINCE DEMIDOFF.
But it is time to return to the point I started from, and to speak of the study of character and spontaneous expression from life. In fact it was in London that I had occasion to see a picture of extraordinary beauty for strength and truth of expression, in which the result of that study was clearly demonstrated. This picture, on exhibition at the School or Academy of Fine Arts, was of small dimensions; the subject, a familiar one, or, as it is usually called, genre, was as follows: To the right of the person facing the picture is a gentleman's country-house, and outside by the garden-gate a mother is seated near her little girl, who is ill, and reclines in an arm-chair, supported by pillows. The mother has left off working, and looks anxiously at the pale exhausted girl, whose eyes are sunk deep in their sockets, and who smiles and looks languidly at two little children, a boy and girl, little peasants, strong, healthy, and robust, who are dancing, and have evidently been invited to do so by the parents of the little invalid. It is autumn, the hour a sad one. The last rays of the sun are gilding the dead leaves on the trees and on the bushes. On the left you see the father in close conversation with the doctor, questioning him with anxious eyes, whilst he, very serious and sad, hardly dares look at the unhappy father. To speak the truth, when genre pictures are so full of interest and life as this, I prefer them to all the gods of Olympus. But, generally, they are entirely wanting in this first quality, and abound in the second, which becomes vulgarity; and so the foundation of art, which is the beauty of truth, is wanting, and only the "business" remains, with its puerile attractions.
THE NATIONAL GALLERY IN LONDON.
I saw many other works of art, both in painting and sculpture, at this exhibition of living English artists, but none of them compared with that marvellous work. I do not remember the name of its author, and much I regret it; but I have given a minute and exact description of it.
In the National Gallery, rich in pictures of the Italian school, I admired a marvellous cartoon of Raphael's, slightly coloured, of the "Massacre of the Innocents." It is jealously guarded under glass. Of the beauty of this work as to form, I do not speak—it is Raphael's, and that is enough; but what most struck me was the brutal movement of murdering soldiers, the desperate convulsive resistance of the mothers, pressing to their breasts the little babes, whilst they scratch and tear at the faces of the executioners; and it would seem as if one heard their sharp screams mingled with the cries of the murdered infants. The calm and flowing grace that are the characteristic notes of that divine genius, do not appear in this; but instead one sees and hears parole di dolore, accenti d'ira, voci alte e fioche, of the desperate mothers. Those who have not seen this cartoon and the others at Hampton Court, of which I will soon speak, cannot entirely appreciate Raphael.
I LOSE MY WAY IN LONDON.
I advise young artists who want to go to London to learn a little of the language of the country; they will find themselves the better for it. It happened to me, who knew nothing of it, one day to lose myself in that interminable city, and another day, very little to my taste, to find myself carried off in the train to Scotland. If, therefore, they learn a little English, they will understand that Leicester Square is pronounced Lester Squere. As I said, I lost myself in London, and this was how. I lodged at the Hotel Granara. Granara is an honest Genoese, who knows how to attend to his own affairs, as all the Genoese do, and more than that, knows how to secure the goodwill of his customers, almost all of whom are Italians. His hotel was at that time, in 1856, in Leicester Square. It was my habit then, as always, to go out very early in the morning and take a little turn before breakfast. I made it a study to observe well all the turnings, the names of the streets and their peculiarities, so as to be able to return home, but did not succeed. I tried again and again for about two hours, before asking my way, to see if it were possible for me to find a street, a name, or a sign that I had seen before, but all was in vain. I was tired, had had no food, and had not a soldo in my pocket; and although I had with me the key of the place where I kept my money, this was of no avail in getting me a breakfast. Driven by hunger I put aside my pride, or rather my pretence, of finding my way to the inn, and asked a policeman. I asked him both in Italian and in French, but he did not understand me, and presented me to another, but with the same result. There I beheld myself lost in that immense city, without a penny, and very hungry. It must be admitted that my position was a rather serious one—not that those excellent policemen did not perfectly understand that I had lost the way to my hotel, and were most desirous of putting me on the right road to it, but they did not know how, as they were not acquainted with the name of the square that I inquired for. At last, and it was quite time, one of them took out of his pocket his note-book and pencil and gave it to me, saying in good French, "Écrivez le lieu où vous êtes logé." I had hardly written the first word when the policeman quickly said, "Lester Squere?" "It may be so," said I; but to make sure I finished writing out the address, adding even the name of the hotel, and showed it to him, to which the policeman said, "Yes, very well." He took the paper and begged me to follow him to another policeman at the end of the street, to whom he consigned me and the paper, and having exchanged a word or two with him, returned to his post. The new guard, without uttering a word, took me to another and consigned me to him, and so on, until in about half an hour I was reconducted home.