CHAPTER XI.
CLOSE IMITATION FROM LIFE—MY ILLNESS—I AM IN DANGER OF LOSING MY LIFE—LUIGI DEL PUNTA, HEAD PHYSICIAN AT COURT—THE GRAND DUKE FURNISHES ME WITH THE MEANS FOR GOING TO NAPLES—I LEAVE FOR NAPLES—A BEGGAR IMPOSTOR—ANOTHER AND MY BOOTS—SORRENTO—MY NEAPOLITAN FRIENDS—PROFESSOR TARTAGLIA AND THE HYDROPATHIC CURE—THE MUSEUM AT NAPLES—LET US STUDY THE GOOD WHEREVER IT IS TO BE FOUND—A STRANGE PRESENTATION.
That my words may not be obscure, and that one may see with sufficient clearness the difference that exists between the details that constitute different types and the minutiæ that must be left out, I will mention where this sound principle of art is to be found. For greater brevity and clearness I will speak of busts. The bust in bronze of Seneca in the museum at Naples, the bust of Scipio Africanus in the statue-gallery at Florence, the Vitellius, Julia and Lucius Verus, the Cicero of the British Museum, and another Seneca at the Capitol, each has a distinct character of its own. So firm and decided are the details of those different faces, the planes are so clear and certain, the life so shines in the eyes, the breath so seems to come from the lips, that they have been for centuries the study and stumbling-block of all artists; for after that period you do not find anything, unless it be some terre cotte of Luca della Robbia, and a bust of a bishop by Mino da Fiesole, in which you do not find every hair, and, in fact, every possible minutia.
TRUTH OF DETAIL.
The error into which these two schools run—that is to say, the Academic and Naturalistic—is this, that the one, exaggerating its general rules, neglects detail, and so becomes hard and cold; whilst the other, multiplying them ad infinitum, falls into minutiæ which make art vulgar. These are both errors, both ugly, both false.
Does this brief tirade, half dictatorial and half careless, bore you, gentle reader? If so, skip it, for I cannot let go the opportunity, from time to time, of making a good critical observation when it occurs to me, and I think it well not to omit doing so. Young artists will, I am sure, be grateful to me; and besides, though these few words may have bored you, they serve as a warning to them on the importance of different characteristics, and are also of use to me, I do not say as an excuse, but as a frank statement of opinion, for in my Sant'Antonino this rule is not clearly carried into practice. The importance of speaking the truth and loving it is clearly given by Dante when he says:—
"Che s'io al vero son timido amico
Temo di perder vita tra coloro,
Che questo tempo chiameranno antico."[7]
As I am an ardent lover of truth, I wish to speak it now. With regard to this statue, if I had not the strength of mind to reproduce the saint just as he was, with all his peculiarities, in other statues it has been my study to do so, and I believe not without success.
But in the meanwhile—I do not know for what reason—a general feeling of uneasiness took possession of me, and a prostration of strength, that prevented me from thinking or working. Added to this, I had attacks of giddiness, and was obliged to spend entire days sitting down without being able to do anything, and feeling sad and melancholy. My medical friends—Alberti and Barzellotti—recommended exercise, meat diet, and a little good wine, which in those days (1852) could scarcely be found genuine. They ordered me to take preparations of iron and zinc, but my health grew worse every day. It was now three months since I had gone to the studio. I went out sometimes in the carriage with my poor wife, and we used to go into the country, or on the hills of San Domenico, Settignano, or Pian di Giullari. Sometimes I went out on foot, but accompanied by and leaning on the arm of Enrico Pazzi, Luigi Majoli, or Ciseri, who one day took me by the railway to Prato, where we remained until evening. After that I began to feel a want of appetite, nausea, and sleeplessness, and then my friends really became alarmed about my health.