In making my Giotto, I followed my inspiration by drawing upon nature for that type of rude good-nature which constituted the outward character of my statue; and although some of my literary friends, who were more attached to the antique and the so-called bello ideale, blamed me, and some artists of distinction opposed me openly, I firmly adhered to the sound principle of imitating nature. The Giotto was finished without a moment's indecision, although, as I have said, I had been revolving over and over again in my mind the conception of a beauty ideal and beyond nature, but which, without great judgment, becomes conventional.
CALAMATTA'S VISIT.
About this time a controversy occurred between me and a great artist which it may be well to speak of here, because, although it will show how tenacious I was of this principle of imitating nature, yet it will also show how much I was affected by it, and how the acerbity of this artist produced a change in me, which certainly he did not desire. His fear was lest I should fall into a servile copying of life; and had his language been more measured, we should easily have understood each other. But he took a different course, and I now proceed to give the history of this controversy.
CALAMATTA'S ATTACK.
I had a short time previously completed my model of Giotto, and, as I have said, some among the artists most tenacious of the classic rules attacked me sharply, but Bartolini defended me. I was therefore somewhat irritated when Calamatta, accompanied by Signor Floridi, the draughtsman, came to my studio. He came in with a magisterial and rather arrogant air. I received him politely and with respectful words, such as became me towards the author of the famous mask of Napoleon I. He looked at "Abel" and "Cain" without opening his mouth, and as if he found in them nothing either to praise or to blame; but when he came to the "Giotto," he said, "I have heard a good deal of talk about you, in which you have been lauded to the skies, and I wished to come and ascertain with my own eyes whether you were entitled to your fame; and I confess to you, though what I shall say may seem bitter to you, that in the presence of your works your fame disappears; and if it be permitted to me to make a comparison, I should say that you produce the same effect upon me as if I saw a balloon inflated with gas rising majestically in the air, and which, after arriving at a certain height, bursts, and afterwards leaves nothing to be seen." I answered that such things might be thought, and even spoken, but a little more graciously, and I said no more. Calamatta rejoined, with some irritation, that he was a person who could not endure the ugly—that it was his instinct to denounce it with the same vivacity and earnestness that one does when there is a cry of fire, and some place is in flames. I began then to lose my patience: still I only contented myself with asking whether he was quite sure that there was a conflagration, and whether he was absolutely called upon to extinguish it; and finally, added that Bartolini, Tenerani, and others had seen my works, and had spoken of them in very different terms. This only more irritated poor Calamatta, and he said that he had just come from Paris, and had visited Tenerani at Rome, and his insipid and hard mysticism had seemed pitiable to him; and that, on coming to Florence, he had found in Bartolini the most filthy and offensive realism, carried to the point of proclaiming the beauty of deformity, and that in response to his just criticisms upon the injury that he was thus doing to the true principles of Art, Bartolini had advised him to come to my studio and see the application of those principles which he censured,—and now, after examining my works, he perceived that I was sliding down a steep declivity, which would soon precipitate me into naturalism and deformity, and though he recognised in me a certain talent, he warned me to avoid that false school and those insidious precepts, and more than all, to be on my guard against treacherous and lying praises. All this was very fine, if it were granted that I was on a false road. But as I did not think so then, and still less now,—and besides, as I was young, flattered, and praised, and those words of his, "that I should be on my guard against insidious precepts and treacherous praises," seemed to me a very unjust accusation against Bartolini,—I indicated to him that I should be glad if he would leave me in peace, and in fact, as he had declared my works to be ugly, and of an ugliness that he abhorred, he was not in his proper place here; and as to his counsel, not having asked for it, I should not take the trouble to consider it. Poor Calamatta was angry at this, and taking by the hand Floridi, who during the whole squabble was on thorns, he said, "Let us go away; let us go away; let us go away"—and away he went.
HIS REPORT AND DEFENCE OF ME.
CALAMATTA'S SPEECH.
Poor Calamatta, my illustrious friend. If any one had said on that day, when we separated with such unpleasant feelings, and on my part with so little kindness, "The time will come, and soon, when he will be your most open defender and friend," I would not have believed him, and I should not have wished to believe him,—and yet it so turned out. In 1855, eleven years after our disagreement, he was in Paris, and on the Jury of the Fine Arts at the World's Exhibition. I had sent a model of the "Abel" in plaster, and among the jury the doubt arose whether it was not cast from life. As in Florence that opinion was originated out of evil-mindedness, so it was repeated in Paris from speciousness, and heedlessness of judgment. Calamatta, whom I had not seen since that famous day, although he frequently returned to Florence, undertook to defend my work with sound reasoning and friendly warmth, but he did not succeed in convincing the entire body of the jury of their error of judgment; and in assigning the prizes, out of mere regard for Calamatta they gave to "Abel" one of the last. Calamatta then rose and said, "Gentlemen, our judgment of this work must not be given in this way. I have endeavoured to show you by artistic reasoning that this statue is really modelled in clay, in imitation of beautiful nature. I have pointed out that certain imperfections which are always found in nature have been wisely avoided by the artist. I have shown you clear proofs of modelling in the mode of working the clay. I thought that I had convinced you that so noble and refined a whole is rather the creation of the mind, through a studious and loving imitation of parts, than a mechanical reproduction by casting; and finally, I have demonstrated, and you have conceded to me, that the head is of equal merit with all the rest of the body, and this could not have been cast from life. From these considerations, which arise from the examination of the work itself, and without regard to the artist, whom I have only once met in Florence, and who is, I believe, inimical to me, I am of opinion that your judgment of this work should be reconsidered, and if it seems to you to be proved that this statue is a cast from nature and not modelled, and in consequence a falsification and not a work of art, you ought not to adjudge to it even the lowest prize, but to exclude it entirely from the Exhibition, and in so doing you should give your reasons for such a decision in writing, and under your signatures,—and in such case I shall retire from the Jury of Fine Arts, and shall publish in the journals of Paris my reasons for withdrawing." After this discourse there arose an exceedingly animated discussion, and the President decided that a new examination of the model should be made; and as many were convinced by the good reasons put forward by Calamatta, the second examination of "Abel" resulted in a complete success, and at the next voting the golden medal of the First Class was awarded to me. The news of this, derived directly from Calamatta himself, was sent to me at once by Rossini, who had conceived a strong affection for me, and honoured me with his friendship.
GOLDEN MEDAL—PIUS II.
I now return to the point where I left off. After Giotto I began Pius II.; and filled as my head was by the criticism of the academicians, the eulogies of the naturalisti, the contempt of some to whom the subject was displeasing, and more than all by the exceptional character of the studies I had made for this work, I began it unwillingly, and strove (strangely enough) to conciliate the academicians, copying from the life with timidity, where boldness and fidelity were required—boldness, that is to say, in accepting frankly the stiff paper-like folds of the pontifical mantle, and fidelity in copying them. In consequence I made a washed-out work, and I pleased neither one party nor the other, and much less myself. I make this statement so that young men may be on their guard against allowing themselves to stray from the true path, which is this—viz., to embody the subject in its appropriate form by the imitation of living nature, to strive for truth of character in the general action and in all the particulars, and in proportion as the subject is historical and natural, as in portraiture, to adhere all the more closely to nature. In such a case as this statue of Pius II., it is necessary to be naturalistic—avoiding, of course, all minutiæ which add nothing to the beauty of general effect and the truth of character.