I DREAM OF THE GROUP OF THE "PIETÀ."
The reader, therefore, understands perfectly that I did not want to make my "Pietà" a work from memory or of imitation, and give out with a bold face another man's conception for my own. Therefore pazienza,—and months passed, and it seemed to me as if I no longer thought of it; but one fine day, when I was at home lying on the sofa reading a newspaper, and waiting to be called to dinner, I fell asleep (newspapers have always put me to sleep, especially when they take things seriously),—I fell asleep, and I dreamed of the group of the "Pietà" just as I afterwards made it, but much more beautiful, more expressive, and more noble. In fact it was a wonderful vision, but only like a flash—a vision only of an instant—for an impression as of a blow awoke me, and I found myself lying over the arm of the sofa, with my arms hanging loosely, my legs stiffened out straight, and my head bent on my breast, just as in my dream I had seen Christ on the Virgin's knees. I jumped up and ran to my studio to fix the idea in clay. My wife seeing me go out almost running, called to me to say that the soup was on the table.
"Have patience," I answered; "I have forgotten something at the studio; perhaps I shall stop there a bit. You eat, and I will eat afterwards."
The poor woman, I could see, did not understand what was the matter, all the more because I had been hurrying them to send up the dinner; but she made no more inquiries. It was her nature not to enter too much into the affairs of my studio. In two hours I had made the sketch of that subject which had cost me so much thought, so many waking hours, and loss of sleep, and I returned home. I do not know whether I was more hungry, tired, or contented. My wife, to whom I explained the reason of my running away, smiled and said, "You might have waited until after dinner;" and perhaps, who knows that she was not right? but I was so astonished and out of myself on account of that strange dream, that I was afraid every instant to lose the remembrance of it. It is really a strange thing, that after having thought of, studied, and sketched this subject for many months, when I was least thinking of it (for then I was certainly not thinking of it)—all at once, when asleep, I should see so clearly stand out before me, without even an uncertain line, the composition of that group. I have often thought of it, and being obliged in some way to explain it, I should say that the position I took when asleep might have acted on my over-excited imagination, always fixed on that same idea.
I SKETCH IT AT ONCE.
If the reader has followed me so far, he may truly be called courteous; but who knows how many times he has looked with avidity in these pages, full of minute details of my doings, for some little facts, some little escapades which really define and give the impress of the moral character of a man, and not having found it, has closed the book with irritation, and has muttered between his teeth, "This man is really very stupid, or he imagines us to be such simpletons as to believe that his life has always run on in a smooth, pleasant path, where there are no stones to stumble over, or brambles to be caught by"? I will not judge if the reader be right or wrong in his reasoning, but it would be as wrong to think that my life had been perfectly exempt from the little wretchednesses that are as inherent to it as smoke to a fire, especially if the wood be green, as it would be to require for his own satisfaction that I should ostentatiously insist on this smoke at the risk of offending the tender and chaste eyes of those who, albeit not ignoring these things, love the light and abhor smoke. Then, also, in speaking of these little wretchednesses, one always errs, however faithful to the truth, in saying either too much or too little; and it is believed to be either exaggerated or underrated, according to the simplicity or malice of the reader: so it is better not to speak of them at all. These little details, these little moral wrinkles, ought to be cast aside, as they do not add an atom to the likeness of the person. The reader can imagine them, or, to speak plainer, he learns them from the voice of common report, which accompanies through life the acts of any man not absolutely obscure. But if in life there are brambles and pebbles that can momentarily molest the poor pilgrim, there are also errors and deviations which lead us astray. Grave misfortunes such as these, by God's mercy, I have not met with, although the danger has not been wanting. The least thought of the gentle nature of my good wife, so full of simplicity and truth, her deep and serious affection, her loving care of her children, and her total abnegation of self for them and for me,—this thought, I repeat, was enough, with God's help, to enable me to escape once or twice from danger; and I wish to say this, that the reader fond of suchlike particulars need not tire himself with looking for them here, where he will not find them.
DANGERS OF GOING ASTRAY.
In the moral character of a man, deviation from and forgetfulness of his duties is an ugly stain, even uglier than deformity in art. In fact, deformity, which by itself alone is contrary to art, when introduced into composition, especially when historical or critical reasons require it, can be of use as a contrast, and be—not beautiful in itself, for that would be a contradiction of terms—but of use to the ensemble, and to the beautiful,—as, for example, the dissonances in harmony used sparingly, if they suspend momentarily the flow of that broad sweet wave, they make one hear it again more vividly, more unexpectedly, and transformed into other colour and form. If all this concerns and is of use to Art, which is the manifestation of the beautiful, it does not apply to morals, which are the manifestation and practice of Good. The one is relative, but this is absolute. The well-known aphorism, Truth before all things, lands one nowhere; and I have shown that in being silent on some matters, one need not be false to her. But she is only cast into a slight shadow by these veils of decency and modesty; and so Truth should show her matronly bearing.
ADVANTAGE OF DISSONANCE.
I have spoken somewhat at length about this, because to some this exposition of my opinion may have appeared unseemly. Let them accept, then, with a kindly feeling, the reasons, which I think excellent ones, that have led me to this wise decision of representing the truth to each and every one's eyes in the most appropriate way, so that, while it attracts by the largeness and uprightness of its form, it leaves the spirit undisturbed and tranquil.