It was at this time (1860) that I was obliged to leave my studio in the Liceo di Candeli, and with me all the other artists who were in that place had to go, as the present Government decided to place the militia there. This change made me feel very sad, for I had an affection for the place. I had improved it and enlarged it, renting a ground-floor in the next house, and putting it into communication with the studio. I had embellished the court with plants, fruit, and flowers. There my dear little girls used to amuse themselves at play, and gathered flowers to take home and arrange in a little vase to put before the image of the Madonna. One of them is no longer here, Luisina, of whom in time I will speak; but the other two—Amalia, who is with me, and Beppina, who is married to Cavaliere Antonio Ciardi—follow, even now, that pious custom, which others may make fun of, but which I love so much when I see these children of mine, in all the simplicity and pureness of their heart, make this act of homage to the Virgin.
My good Marina, who has also now joined our daughter and the other little ones and the boy (seven angels in all)—my good Marina tried to console me with her mild words. In her speech there was no excitement or speciousness, but a persuasive sweetness and serenity, learnt from duty and temperance. She had had no education—was a poor woman of the people, as I have said in the beginning; but I never felt bored by her, never desired a more cultured woman to teach me lessons. It is sweet to me to return in memory to the time that I lived with my good companion; and I owe her so much! I think that, if fate had given me another woman, who had not had the patience to bear my crotchets and the quick words that sometimes escaped me, who had doubted my faith, who had bored me with tittle-tattle, with sermons or other things, I think (God save me!) that I should have been a bad husband and a worse artist. So that, with a slight variation, I can repeat the words of the divine poet:—
"E la mia vita e tutto il mio valore,
Mosse dagli occhi di quella pietosa."[12]
A MYSTERIOUS VOICE.
I had therefore to resign myself to leaving the studio that I had an affection for; and the one I have now at the Academy of Fine Arts was assigned to me, with the charge of Maestro di Perfezionamento, without stipend, but with a promise of compensations, which I have never had, perhaps because I have never asked for them.
A fact that I ought to have narrated long before this—quite domestic and intimate in its wondrous strangeness—I have kept silent about, owing to a certain sentiment that I cannot well define; but now, in recalling my good wife and my dead children, I feel as if a voice within me said, "Tell it!—write the fact as it is, without taking anything from it or passing judgment on it." So here it is. My second daughter, Carolina, was put out to nurse. She was the only one that the good mother did not bring up herself; but, from motives of health, she could not do so. The wet-nurse of this little child lived at Londa, above the Rufina. The baby was thriving, when all of a sudden a very bad eruption came out all over her and her life was in danger. The nurse wrote to us to come and see her. Without delay I hired a calesse,[13] and left with my wife: the grandmother stayed behind to mind the little eldest one, who afterwards died at seven years of age, as I have written in its place. Arriving at Pontassieve, we bent our way to the Rufina, and from there continued on to Londa; on up a mountain, in part wooded with chestnut-trees, in part bare and stony, until we arrived at the small cottage of the nurse of my little one. The road circles around the hill, and in several places is very narrow, so much so that a calesse has great difficulty in passing,—as is most natural, for what has a calesse to do up on that hill and amongst those hovels? But we arrived, as God willed it. The baby was very ill, and there was now no hope that she could recover. We remained there a night and a day; and having given all the orders in case of the now certain death of the little angel, I took the mother, who could not tear herself from the place, away crying. As I have said, the road was narrow; and in our descent, the hill rose above us on our right, and on the left we were on the edge of a very deep torrent: I don't know whether it was the Rincine, Moscia, or some other. The horse went at a gentle trot on account of the easy descent, and we felt perfectly safe, as I had put the drag on the wheel. My wife, with her eyes bathed in tears, was repeating some words, I know not what, dictated by a hope that the child would recover. The sky was clear, and the sun had only just risen,—we saw no one on the hill, nor anywhere else,—when suddenly a voice was heard to say "Stop!" (Fermate!) The voice seemed as if it came from the hillside. My wife and I turned in that direction, and I half stopped the horse; but we saw no one. I touched up the horse again to push on, and at the same instant the voice made itself heard a second time, and still louder, saying, "Stop! stop!" I pulled in the reins, and this time my wife, after having looked all around with me without seeing a living soul, was frightened.
A MYSTERIOUS INCIDENT.
"Come, have courage," said I; "what are you afraid of? See, there is no one; and so no one can do us any harm." And, to put an end to the kind of fear even I felt, I gave my horse a good smack of the whip; but hardly had he started when we heard most distinctly, and still louder, the same voice calling out, three times, "Stop! stop! stop!" I stopped, and without knowing what to do or think, I got out, and helped my wife out, who was all trembling; and what was our surprise, our alarm, and our gratitude for the warning that had been given us to stop! The linch-pin had come out of the left wheel, which was all bent over and about to fall off its axle-tree, and this almost at the very edge of the precipice. With all my strength I propped up the trap on that side, pushed the wheel back into its place, and ran back to see if I could find the linch-pin, but I could not find it. I called again and again for the person who had come to my help with timely warning, to thank him, but I saw no one! In the meanwhile, it was impossible to go on in that condition. The little town of La Rufina was at some distance, and although we could walk to it on foot, how could the calesse be taken there with a wheel without a linch-pin? I set myself to hunt about on the hill for a little stick of wood, and having found it, I sharpened it, and with the aid of a stone, fastened it in the hole in place of the linch-pin. But as for getting back into the calesse, that was not to be thought of; so leading the horse by hand, we slowly descended to Rufina, neither my wife nor myself speaking a word, but every now and again our looks bespoke the danger we had run and the wonderful warning we had had. At the Rufina I got a cartwright to put in another linch-pin, and we returned safely home. If the reader laughs, let him do so; I do not. In fact, the seriousness and truth of this occurrence, which happened about forty years ago, filled me then, as it does now, with a feeling of wonder and surprise.
I MAKE A "PIETÀ."
In the first part of the year 1862, Marchese Bichi-Ruspoli of Siena gave me the order for a monument to be placed in the cemetery of the Misericordia in that city, where he had bought a mortuary chapel for himself and family. He left me free in the choice of the subject, and I decided on a "Pietà," a subject that has been frequently treated by many artists at different times, as lending itself to the expression of the most unspeakable sorrow, even if looked upon from a purely human point of view; and if one adds thought and religious sentiment, then its interest gains tenfold, as it contains in itself, besides the beauty of form in the nude figure, and the touching sorrow of the mother, the mystery of the incarnation, of the death and of the resurrection of our Saviour. The subject, therefore, was highly artistic, exquisitely touching, and particularly well adapted to a Christian sepulchre. But with all these admirable qualities, the rendering of the subject was extremely difficult, because so many great artists of every epoch had done all they could, in painting as well as in sculpture, to express this sublime idea. Wishing to keep myself from doing what others had done before me, I thought a long time on this difficult theme; but cudgel my brains as much as I would, my conceits always bore the impress of one or other of those many groups that one sees everywhere. As the gentleman who had given me the commission pressed me—in a polite way, it is true, but with some insistence—to let him see at least the sketch, I set to work with much ardour, but with little hope of succeeding. After a great deal of study, I made a small sketch, with which the gentleman pronounced himself content, and ordered me to set to work on it as soon as possible. When the stand was ready, the irons put up, the clay prepared, and the models had been found, one of my friends, who had come to look in on me, exclaimed on seeing the sketch—