About this time there was a residenza[3] to be made in the shop for some church, where, in the midst of the clouds that supported the ostensorio, were a quantity of seraphim. This work was required to be done at once without delay; and as Bartolommeo Bianciardi, who did this kind of work in the shop, could not alone do all that was required of him, I proposed to the master to make one of the seraphim myself, and I succeeded so well that he was entirely satisfied. After that I made others, and always better and better. From that time, when similar work came to the shop, I was always employed on it together with the other workman, and sometimes in preference to him. In the meantime I continued to make progress in the art of wood-carving, and the best and most skilful workmen flattered me and helped me with their advice, but the others looked upon me with an evil eye. I could not understand this difference, nor can I understand it now; but as I have since met with this, and felt it always at every time and everywhere, it must be in the natural order of bad things.
ARTISTIC LONGINGS.
But there was always a thorn in my heart. The seraphim were not enough to satisfy me, nor even the large masks and heads of Medusa with all their serpents. And when I passed through the Piazza della Signoria and saw the David, the Perseus, and the Group of the Sabines, I thought that by going to the Academy of Fine Arts one might learn how to make such works!
Heavens, how grand a thing it would be to be able to go to the Academy! But it was useless even to think of this, for my father had declared himself opposed to it. Therefore peace be to it, and let me have patience. At least those pretty little alabaster figures that are shown in the shop windows of Pisani on the Prato, and Bazzanti on the Lung'Arno, those I should be able to do with time and study and a firm will. For after all, it is only a question of changing the material, of substituting alabaster for wood, a seraphim or an angel for a little Venus or Apollo—there is nothing to create. Those who make these figures, also copy them from others in alabaster, plaster, or bronze, as I do; and even now I invent my little seraphim, and no longer look at Flammingo's little boys as I did at first—I do them from memory, making them either leaner or fatter, or more smiling or more sad, as best I feel inclined. So I reasoned and persuaded myself that in the end, one day or other, I also should be able to make one of those graceful little statuettes.
A PRACTICAL JOKE.
In this way I consoled myself, and went on with courage and hopefulness. Here some one may say, this artist in his old age gives us a picture of himself as a boy where there is too much fancy. The portrait is beautiful, but is it a likeness? Has not the love of beauty seduced him? What is the truth? Who ever saw a boy who was always obedient, studious, patient, constant, &c. &c.?
Slowly, my good sirs—slowly; have a little patience. Some scrapes even I have got into, and for the love of truth I must not pass them by in silence. But everything has its place, and here, for instance, is the place for one of these scrapes. In the shop where I was employed, close to my bench there was a great plaster pillar rising from the floor to the ceiling. Neither I nor any one had ever thought or inquired for what purpose it had been made. In this pillar was a sort of little niche, into which was walled up a phial of oil kept for sharpening our tools. Now it happened that this phial got broken, and in consequence it became necessary to knock down the rest of the little niche in order to put in a new one; but in performing this operation, I perceived that the wall was thin under the hammer, as if it were hollow, so I began to think what this could mean. The others also wondered, and some said one thing, and some said another. In the meantime, as I continued to hammer on the wall in the interior of the niche, a brick fell down, the wall gave way, and we looked into a hollow space. Taking a stick to measure the depth, we found it was considerable; but we could not understand what the meaning of this could be. I have already said, in the beginning of these memoirs, that our shop was under the Piatti printing-office—and so it is, for the printing-office is on the first floor over it; but the building is very high, and above that floor are others occupied by lodgers. Suddenly, as we stood still, perplexed and wondering what could be the use of this hollow pillar, I, being nearest the spot, heard a noise within like a rustling or rubbing of something which we could not explain.
THE "SOULS OF PURGATORY."
For a while I stood still, thinking, when suddenly I guessed what it was, and said to my companions—
"In a moment, if I succeed, you will witness a scene that will make you laugh."