The ill-concealed laughter made me aware of my mistake, and the conductor, with good manners, gave me to understand that the drive ended there, and on account of the lateness of the hour there was no return trip. I got out, and was at least four miles from home. To find a carriage, I was obliged to take a long walk towards the centre of Paris, and finally found one, and had myself conveyed home, muttering against my own stupidity. The next day, without turning either to the right or to the left, I returned to Italy,—to dear, beautiful Florence; to the bosom of my family; to my studies; to my works; to my good pupils; to my faithful workmen; and to my dear friends. Fortune had favoured me in London: my work had gained one of the first prizes in the competition. Another prize was obtained also by Professor Cambi.
I had scarcely got back from London when Count Ferrari Corbelli ordered from me the monument for his wife, the Countess Berta, whom he had lost a few days before. This work, which he wished to see finished as soon as possible, was the cause of my abandoning the group of the "Deluge," which I had already sketched, as I have before stated. The monument was composed of a base, on which was placed the urn containing the body of the deceased. Modesty and Charity, the principal virtues of the departed Countess, stand leaning on the angles of the sarcophagus, and above these the Angel of the Resurrection points the way to heaven for the soul of the Countess, snatched from the love of her husband and children. The monument stands under an arch, on which are three putti who hold up some folds as if they were opening the curtain of heaven. The background is encrusted with lapis-lazuli. This monument is placed in the Church of San Lorenzo, in the chapel next to the sacristy. My friend Augusto Conti liked the conception of this monument, but objected to the nudity of the child of Charity. I have a sincere respect for his criticism, as I respect also the one he made on the monument to Cavour. He is a profound and conscientious critic of art; and besides this, he has had, and has, for me and my family, a truly fraternal love, and I remember with emotion the part which he took during the illness and death of my daughter and my wife.
COUNTESS FERRARI CORBELLI.
Contemporaneously with this work I modelled a "Sappho," and put it at once into marble, by order of Signor Angiolo Gatti, a dealer in statues; but it happened that when he should have received the statue he had no funds, and so I sent it to our Italian Exhibition. The Government, which had set apart a sum of money for the acquisition of the best works of art, decided not to take my statue, so I have it by me now. It seems to me (I confess the weakness) as if I had been wronged, so to speak, and as if my poor "Sappho" resented this wrong from the new Phaons: so I have wished to keep my faith with her, since the desertion of her lover had caused her death; and although I have several times had offers not to be despised, yet I have never been willing to sell her. Who can tell where this poor "Sappho" will be, and how situated, after my death?
MODEL OF THE "BACCHANTE."
At this same time—that is, in 1857—I made the model of the "Tired Bacchante"; and the idea of this figure was suggested to me by a little model who was brought to me by her mother, and who had never before been seen naked by any one. The freshness of this young girl, her unspoiled figure, the delicate beauty, somewhat sensual, of her face, suggested as a subject the "Tired Dancer," which afterwards was converted to a "Bacchante"; and as some time before I had made a little statue, representing Gratitude, for the Signora Maria Nerli of Siena, the general lines of that statuette served me as a sketch for this. But were I to say that it was only the beauty of the model, the subject suggested so spontaneously to me, and the composition already made, that persuaded me to keep the girl and make the statue, I should not be telling the exact truth. The mother of this girl was one of those women who not only throw aside all a mother's duty and responsibility, but despising all decency, show that they are capable of worse things. I tried at first to dissuade her from taking the young girl about to studios, and so forcing her to lose all that a maiden has most precious—modesty; nor was I silent about the perils that she was exposing her to. But my words were thrown away, for she smiled at them as if they were childish: so I kept the young girl and made the statue. I can assure you that she was a good young creature, and when I had finished the model I dismissed her with paternal words. I saw her many years after, so changed and sad, that one could hardly recognise her. She told me her sad story,—a name was on her lips, but a daughter's love made her conceal it. I repeat, she was good, and suffered, but not by any fault of hers. I have never seen her again: perhaps she is dead—the only good thing that can befall any of those unhappy creatures.
THE NUDE MODEL.
To some it may seem as if I have been rather tedious about this poor Traviata; but most people, I hope, have found my indignation reasonable, for the condition of such a girl as this is most sad and humiliating,—forced by her mother, who ought to be the jealous guardian of the modesty and innocence of her child, to strip herself naked before a man. Even though her mother remain there present, it is always a hard thing, and most disagreeable to a young woman jealous of her good name, and dreading the looks and thoughts of the man there before her. It is not even impossible that it may be thought I have studiously and affectedly deplored such cases as these, as if I wished to show myself better than I am. I have no answer to give to any one who thinks thus, for in these papers he will find nothing to justify such an opinion. I only desire to remind the profane in art, that when we have a model before us, our mind and all our strength is so absorbed in our work, and the difficulties are so great in taking from nature just so much as is required for the character, expression, and form of our subject, that nothing else affects us. He who does not credit this is not an artist, and does not feel art.
I see a little smile of incredulity, almost of triumph, come over the face of my unbelieving reader, and the old story, so often sung and perhaps exaggerated, of Raphael and the Fornarina placed before me, to belie my words. This case of Raphael and the Fornarina was a unique one, and quite different from the ordinary relations that exist between the artist and his models. A model is for us like an instrument or a tool, necessary for our work. If good and beautiful, we prize her and respect her as we would a good tool; if neither beautiful nor good, we bid her be off. The Fornarina was beautiful, and perhaps she may have been even good; but unfortunately she was of a sanguine temperament, imaginative, and ardent, as she appears from the portraits Raphael has left of her. The graceful nature, the delicate figure of the young artist, and the prestige of his fame, roused the love and ambition of the beautiful Trasteverina.
"Amor che a nullo amato amar perdona,"[10]