INGRATITUDE.
So, as I have said, these instances grow like cherries.
Let us remember, although above I have spoken about the necessity of getting well paid, yet at times, either as a matter of duty, friendship, or gratitude, one can and one ought to work for little. I remember a young scholar of mine who enjoyed a little pension, given to him by a gentleman from his village, who, to enable the young man to work from life, went so far as to allow him to model his head, and, to encourage him, desired that he should put it into marble,—but before giving him the commission, wanted to know what the expense would be. The youth, in telling me this, asked me what he ought to ask for it. I answered, "You must ask nothing; the gentleman is over and above good to give you the pension. Would you also ask him to pay for the bust? You will give this answer: I have asked my master about the expense of the marble and the roughing of it out, and he has answered me that one hundred lire is necessary for the marble and two hundred for the roughing it out; as to finishing it, I will finish it myself, and so learn to work on marble, because no one can call himself a sculptor who does not work on the marble himself."
But the youth showed no judgment, did not follow my advice, and asked the gentleman a thousand lire, and the avidity and ingratitude thus shown by the person he had benefited so disgusted him, that he did not let him make it. When I heard how matters had gone, I did not fail to call him an ass, and he really was one. Born and bred a peasant, he had learnt nothing in town by mixing with educated young men. He was tall of person, and endowed with uncommon strength; he used to exercise himself—making it more a business than a simple pastime—at the game of forma, and, challenged or challenger, was always the winner. He died from breaking a blood-vessel in his chest; and for the matter of that, as no one was left behind to weep for him, for he was an orphan, and as he had no talent or judgment, it was better so.
BUILDING ONE'S OWN MONUMENT.
Let us therefore understand each other. One must always get one's pay, excluding the case or cases of gratitude like the one I have mentioned above, and even between friends, there must not be one that gives and the other that takes. I remember now, many years ago, that Luigi Acussini made my portrait, and I his; and later, Cisere painted my portrait and that of my wife, and I made a bust of his wife, amici cari e borsa del pari. Presents don't answer well, and therefore it is rare to find those who make them; and if any one with heart and no head does so, he makes a fiasco.
A singular taste, and one that I can enter into completely, is that of preparing one's own place of burial whilst living; and for those who can, besides the burial-place, also the chapel and monument. It does one good to see, whilst living, the place where one will sleep the last sleep. Amongst those who agree with me in this, besides Marchese Bichi Ruspoli of Siena, and Signor Ferdinando Filippi di Buti—whose monuments I made some fifteen years ago, and who are still living, hale and hearty, so that I even think that the thought of death and the sight of the monuments prolong their lives—is the Baroness Favard de Langlade, who also wished to have her monument made; and after having had the illustrious architect Giuseppe Poggi construct the beautiful chapel in the park of the villa at Rovezzano, which is adorned by the beautiful paintings of Annibale Gatti, she ordered from me the monument wherein her body is to rest.
THE FAVARD MONUMENT.
The difficulty of this kind of work is not to give umbrage to the modesty of the person who gives the commission. At first sight it seems like vanity and pride to order one's own monument; but besides the fact that he who orders a monument does not order it for himself alone, but also for his family, the artist composes his work in such a way as not to give the least offence by adulation and flattery, which is the more contemptible in the person who offers it in measure as the adulated person is in a high position. The artist, however, who has a proper respect for his own dignity, and wishes that of the person in question also to be respected, will find a way of making his work, even though it be grandiose, so as to enable both him and the person who is to die to look at each other in the face without blushing.
The subject that I treated for the Favard monument was the Angel of the Resurrection, who, poised on his wings, offers his hands to the dead woman, who is in the act of rising, to lead her to heaven. She has half lifted herself up on the sarcophagus where she was laid out, and her expression shows her happiness in awakening to eternal day. The only adulation—excusable, I think—that I offered to that lady was having made her appear younger than she was,—not more beautiful, for one can still see that she must have been most beautiful. I regret that this work of mine is almost hidden—first of all, because it is far from town, as I have already said,—at Rovezzano; for although the noble lady has given orders to have it shown to any one who asks to see it, yet the double difficulty of the distance and the asking prevents many—those who are lazy and who are lukewarm, who are the most in number—from being able to see it. It is still worse as concerns my "Christ after the Resurrection," which is on a hill in the neighbourhood of Buti, a little village, nearly hidden from view and out of hand, between Pisa and Lucca.