It was impossible that such a state of things could last long, and my father decided to leave Florence and go to Pistoia, where he thought he could earn more money. I was destined to follow him, while the others remained with my mother. For more than three years I stayed with him. My life was sad for me here, as the distance from my mother made it almost unbearable; and all the more so because my father, whenever he went to Florence to see her, as he sometimes did, always left me behind him, alone, at Pistoia. Once, when I was barely seven years old, I ran away from the house, and went on foot to Florence, although I knew for a certainty that I should have to pay dearly for the kisses and caresses of my mother by a thrashing from the babbo. Nor was I mistaken: I got the thrashing, and was brought back.
LONGING TO BE AN ARTIST.
About this time there awoke in me a certain sentiment and longing to try to draw the human figure—leaves and grumoli had begun to weary me; and this desire was developed in an odd way. There was in Pistoia, in the house of a certain gilder named Canini, a little theatre for puppets, and one of the characters, which was wanted for a certain performance, happened to be missing. Canini, who was a friend of my father, was much put out by this loss, and came to beg my father to make the head and hands for the puppet. He answered that he could not do this, as he had never attempted anything in the way of figures; and the poor gilder, who was director and proprietor of the company, was at a loss to know where to turn. I, with the utmost effrontery, then offered to make the head and hands myself; and as Canini was hopeful as well as incredulous, and my father gave a sort of half consent, I set to work, and succeeded so well that my puppet turned out to be the most beautiful "personage" of the company. The happy result encouraged me to go on, and I remade almost all the puppets. I also made some small ducks in cork, that were to appear in a pond, and were moved about here and there by silk threads. It was a pleasure to see the little creatures—they turned out so well, and had such a look of reality; and this I was enabled to give them because in the court of our house there were some ducks which I could copy from life. Ah, Nature! not only is it a great help, but it is the principal foundation of Art!
I GO TO PRATO.
MY FIRST DRAWINGS.
From Pistoia the babbo took me to Prato, where he had been requested to go by the gilder Signor Stefano Mazzoni. There we took up our abode in a street and court called Il Giuggiolo. In the same house, and almost with us, lived a man from Lucca, who made little plaster-images, and was one of the many who go about the streets selling little coloured figures for a few sous. This connection, ridiculous as it may appear, inspired me more and more with a desire for the study of figures. It is true these figures and parrots and clowns were ugly; but, at the same time, their innocent ugliness attracted me, and filled me with a longing, not indeed to imitate them, but to do something better. In turning over my father's papers and designs, I found a quantity of prints, fashion-plates of dresses, landscapes, and animals, and particularly (I remember it so well that I could draw it now) a large print representing the building of the Temple of Jerusalem. In the distance you saw the building just begun, and rising a little above its foundations. Carts loaded with heavy materials and tall straight timber (the cedars of Lebanon) were dragged along by a great many oxen and camels, amid a vast number of people and things. On all sides were workmen of every kind, some carving the columns, some putting up a jamb and squaring it, some sawing timber, and some busied in making ditches; others were talking, or listening, or admiring: and all the scene was animated with a truly marvellous life. In the foreground you saw the majestic figure of Solomon, surrounded by his ministers and soldiers, showing his architect (with his scholars) the designs of the Temple. In fact, it was a wonderful thing to behold, and I was so enchanted that I could not sleep for thinking of it, for it seemed to me impossible that any man could imagine and execute anything so marvellous. My little head seemed on fire, it was so full of these figures. I tried at first to copy in part this print, which, above all the others, had taken my fancy; but I did not succeed, and I was so discouraged that I sat down and cried. And not for this only I cried, but also because my father looked with so unfavourable eye on these efforts of mine—they seeming to him quite unnecessary for an intagliatore—that, in order to go on with these studies, I was obliged to hide myself almost, and to work in spare moments. Finding this print so complicated that I could in no way copy it, I then undertook to copy the little costume-figures that I found amongst the prints. These, one by one, I drew during the evening, after my father had gone to bed and was asleep; and sometimes it happened that I fell asleep over my drawing, and on waking found myself in the dark, with the little lamp gone out. This constant exercise, to which I gave myself every day with great ardour, so trained my hand and practised my eye, that my last drawings were made with little or no erasures.
But though I derived a good deal of satisfaction from these small drawings, my heart was still oppressed at being so far from my mother. I longed to see her, and have her near me, and begged my father to take me to her, or at least to send me to her by the carrier; but wishes and prayers were useless. My father went sometimes, it is true, to see her; but although I was only seven or eight years of age, I had to remain behind at Prato to look after the house. I do not wish to blame my father, but neither then nor since have I been able to understand his notions of things; and certainly, to keep a little boy alone by himself in a house, and often for several days together, is not to be recommended. One evening I remember, when, having fallen asleep while reading at the table, with my head bent near the lamp, my little cap caught on fire, and I woke up with my hair in flames. But this adventurous life—beaten about, thwarted in all my wishes and in all my affections—formed my character. I became accustomed to suffer, to persevere, and to obey, while I always kept alive those desires and affections which my conscience assured me were good.
AN ACCIDENT—DELICATE HEALTH.
About this time, what with continuous study, hardish work in my father's shop, and the melancholy that weighed upon me because I could not see my mother, my health began to fail. Even before this, and indeed from my birth, I had always been delicate, but now I became so pale and weak that every one called me il morticino (the little dead fellow). A physician who examined me about this time talked seriously to my father about me on the subject, telling him that I ought to rest longer in the mornings (my father rose very early, and I had to get up to go with him to the shop), and eat more nourishing food; and he explained what it should be. Amongst other things, I remember he ordered me to drink goat's milk, milked and drunk on the spot, as soon as I got out of bed, before leaving my room. This treatment succeeded marvellously. Every day I gained strength, colour, and flesh. The little goat that came every morning to my room to pay me a visit, and brought me her milk, sweet, warm, and light, will be always remembered by me; and I still have a feeling for the little creature, even after half a century, which I cannot well define.
ACADEMY AT SIENA.