For the rest, it is very easy to see how one may vaccilate, and even fall; and on this account I deem it my duty, for the love that I bear to young men, to put them on their guard against the blandishments of praise. Imagine, dear reader, an inexperienced youth of spirit and lively fancy, who in his first essays in Art finds it said and written of him that he has surpassed all others, has begun where others ended, that he is born perhaps to outdo the Greeks with his chisel, that Michael Angelo must descend from the pedestal he has occupied for centuries, and other similar stuff—more than this, expose him to the envy of the Mæviis, and those light and inconsiderate flatteries, which are all the more dangerous when made attractive by courtesy and refinement of expression,—and you will have the secret of his vaccilations, even if with God's help he is not led utterly astray.
At this most trying time of my life the peace of my family was somewhat disturbed by these influences. My wife was disquieted because I had prevented her from carrying on her occupation. Our daily necessities increased with the growth of our children. Then there were requirements and troubles on account of my father, thoughts about my sister, as well as my brother, who wished to become a rougher-out in marble, and who brought to my studio very little aptitude united with great pretensions on the score of being my brother. All these annoyances were partly confided to my friend Venturi, to whom I poured out all my mind; and he with wise and kindly words consoled me.
BARTOLINI AND THE CRUCIFIX.
Not the least affliction to me was Bartolini's unconcealed animosity, of which I had a new proof in a fact which it is here the place to narrate. I hope that the reader will remember that I made, while in the studio of Sani, a little crucifix which the Signor Emanuel Fenzi bought for the chamber of his son Orazio, who married the noble Lady Emilia of the Counts Delia Gherardesca. About this time Signor Emanuel desired to make my acquaintance, and having become intimate with me, wished to have me often with him. Thus he discovered that this crucifix he had bought of Sani was my work, and I cannot say how much this delighted him. To his dinners and conversazioni, which were frequented by many foreigners as well as Italians, Bartolini often came; but he was never willing to renew his relations with me, although my bearing towards him was that of the most affectionate consideration. As long as this unwillingness was concealed or perceived by few, I bore it quietly; but it happened that it was soon openly exhibited. One evening after dinner the salon of Signor Fenzi was filled with guests, and gay with all sorts of talk. Soon, as was natural, the conversation fell upon Art; and Bartolini, who was an easy and clever talker, affirmed that the arts were in decadence, for various reasons: first, because of the want of enthusiasm and faith among the lower and upper classes, both of whom were sleeping in a dolce far niente; and second, because the artists had abandoned the right road of imitation of beautiful nature, and were pursuing with panting breath a chimerical beauty, which they called a bello ideale; and last, because the vices of both had usurped the place of the virtues of our ancestors, and luxury, apathy, and avarice had drawn out of our beautiful country activity, temperance, modesty, and liberality,—and he illustrated this by various instances of ancient temperance and modesty. While Bartolini was speaking, Signor Fenzi went into the chamber of the Cavaliere Orazio and brought out the "Christ," which, by reason of the long time that it had been executed, and perhaps of the kisses of the pious Signora Emilia, had an antique look, and showing it to the maestro, said—
"Look at this work."
After examining it, he said, "The proof that our artists of old were as able as they were modest can be seen in this work. The artist who made it, and who probably was only an intagliatore, would have been able to make a statue such as perhaps no one to-day could."
At this Fenzi replied, with a smile, "Excuse me, but you are in error. This is a modern work, and there is the artist who made it," pointing me out, who was just coming in at that moment.
Bartolini laid down the "Christ," spoke not a word more, and did not deign even to look at me, although he had praised the work. This did not seem just, either to Fenzi or to any of the persons there present.