I shall again refer to this Christ; but for the present, let us go on. I had a great desire to give up once for all this working in wood—not because I thought that material less worthy than marble, for the excellence of a work depends upon the skill and knowledge of the artist, and not upon the material which he has used. Very worthless statues have been seen, and still may be seen, in beautiful marble, and, vice versâ, beautiful statues in simple terra cotta or wood.
WORK AT MAGI'S.
"You will be noble if you are virtuous," answered D'Azeglio to his son, when the latter asked him, with the ingenuousness of a child, if their family was noble.
Let us then understand that the nobility of any one is founded upon his deeds, and the excellence of a work depends upon the work itself, and not upon the material. We shall return to this consideration hereafter; now let us proceed. I say that I wished to give up working in wood, because it was my business at the shop to make all sorts of little things, such as candlesticks, cornices, masks, &c. Naturally it fell to me to make them; and not always—on the contrary, very rarely—it happened that I had a Christ, an angel, or anything of that kind to execute: and on this account I was irritable and irascible (except when I was at home) with everybody, and specially with myself.
At Magi's I had as much work as I wished. I had already finished for him two busts,—one of the Grand Duke in Roman drapery, according to the style then in vogue among the academic sculptors, who dressed in Roman or Greek costume the portrait of their own uncle or godfather; the other of an old woman, whom I did not know. Work enough I had; but naturally I wished to earn something by it, and this was soon spoken of. I understand very well that the master has a kind of right to all the profits of the first works of his pupil; but with me this went on so long, that at last he saw its impropriety; and he proposed to engage me to finish the group of Charity which he had made for the Chapel of the Poggio Imperiale, as a substitute for that wonderful work of Bartolini, which is still admired in the Palatine Gallery. But the proposition of Magi was in every way impossible to accept, as he only agreed to pay me when the work was completed—that is to say, I and my family were to go for at least a year without anything to eat.
DEATH OF MY DAUGHTER—POEM.
I tried here and there; but I could not make a satisfactory arrangement, and I had to resign myself to the making of candlesticks. I had now become a father. My wife had given me a little girl, whom I lost afterwards when she was seven years old; and as I have never made mention of my dear angel, let me embellish the meagreness of my prose with the charming verses of Giovanni Battista Niccolini, who then honoured me with his friendship, and which he wrote with his own hand under the portrait of my little child. They are as follows:—
Few were the evils that Life brought to thee,
Dear little one, ere thou from us wast torn,
Even as a rosebud plucked in early morn.
Tears thou hast left, and many a memory,
To those who gave thee birth,
But thou from Life's short dream on earth
Hast waked the perfect bliss of heaven to see;
And thou art safe in port, and in the tempest we.
Pochi a te della vita
Furono i mali, o pargoletta, e mori
Come rose ch'è colta ai primi albóri.
Ognor memoria e pianto
Al genitor sarai, benchè per sempre
Dal sogno della vita in ciel gia desta.
Tu stai nel porto e noi siamo in tempesta.