It is not the Greek tragedy—although the ancient Melpomene has transmitted to our time its cothurnus, its mise en scène, its triple unity, its heroes themselves, with their terrors and their tears. The poetic form is the same, the moral force is entirely different. On the Athenian stage, the will was subjugated by a brutal fatality; upon ours, the will makes the destiny. Vice becomes more terrible, virtue more magnanimous, and the struggles of the soul hold a larger place than the tricks of fortune. The heroes of the ancient tragedy, to become endurable with us, would have not only to take on something of our character, of our manners, of our sentiments, and, above all, of our conscience, but it would be necessary to change their mode of action, and to lead them to a denouement by paths wholly new.
Returning to the trilogy of the Passion, let us conclude this essay with a [{598}] reflection which appears to us of a nature to throw great light upon the popularity and the gigantic proportions of this "mystery." The middle age, so penetrated with Christian beliefs and ideas, loved it only because it found there the supreme manifestation of Divine Providence, at once merciful and just. It had been induced to thus represent the whole history of the human race, only to give to that manifestation all the development demanded by the religious conscience and the ethics of nations. There was needed the representation of sin and the fall of the first man to explain the justice and the pardon of Cavalry: there was needed the spectacle of a universal judgment to solve the grand tragedy of human destinies.
We may blame the literary tastes of our good ancestors, but not their philosophy. It has established on an immovable basis the fundamental laws of our dramatic art. We may laugh at the puerile simplicity of their theatre, but let us laugh reverently, since we find in their literary infancy the germ, the strength, the character of the manhood of the great century.
Translated and Abridged from the Civiltà Cattolica.
ANTONIO CANOVA.
Memorie di Antonio Canova, scritte da Antonio d'Este, e publicate per cura, di Alessandro d'Este. Firenze: Felice Le Monnier. 1864.
"It must be known," says Signor Antonio d'Este, "that when the learned Missirini undertook to publish the artist-life of Canova, he had recourse to me as the only person living who could inform him thoroughly and truly of the principles of the Venetian artist, and instruct him in some details of a life which I had known intimately for the space of fifty years. … I put upon paper whatever might serve to illustrate not only the disposition and character of my friend, but also the excellent qualities of his heart. … I was disappointed when the illustrious writer, in sending back my manuscript, said: 'I have made use of many things, and of some anecdotes, but not of all, since they appeared to me too familiar.' To tell the truth, such an answer hurt my self-love, and offended the unquenchable affection which I felt for Canova."
Hence the book before us. The author has apparently endeavored chiefly to exhibit Canova the artist as a model for the studious, but he has not overlooked Canova the citizen and the Christian. He begins with him in the humble Possagno, and shows us his life in Venice, where his genius first displayed itself, even in the degenerate school with which alone he was then acquainted. It was in Rome that the young sculptor saw the ancient purity in its full splendor. It burst upon him like a sudden revelation. For several days he was like one in a trance. Then, with his conceptions enlightened, his manner fixed, and his aim determined, he threw himself into his work. Yet he was never a servile copyist of Greek or Roman models. He imbibed the spirit of the classical school, but his genius never was trammelled by imitation. The last group which he carved under the inspiration drawn from the ancient masterpieces,—his Daedalus and Icarus,—compared with his Theseus, the first work which he executed in Rome, shows in a marked [{599}] manner the change in his style—we might almost say his conversion to the true principles of art.
From this time Canova, though endowed with rare modesty, and always ready to take advice, showed a fixed resolution to free sculpture from the mannerism then so common; and neither the advice of friends nor the abuse of evil-minded critics could shake his purpose.
Nature undoubtedly lavished talents upon him with unsparing hand; but he was without a parallel in the industry and care with which he fostered the divine flame. His whole time not passed in labor was devoted to monuments and museums of art. With his friend d'Este he often paid a reverential visit to the famous horses at the Quirinal, before which he gave free vent to his fancy. He used to spend many hours in contemplating these masterpieces. Long before sunrise he would spring from his bed and shut himself up in his studio. He took no relaxation—scarcely even food and rest. After hammering at the marble all day, he examined it by candlelight, and dreamed about it at night. He so consumed himself in work that his friends had to wrench the tools from his hands by force. But if he laid down the chisel, it was only to return to the study of ancient masterpieces. Not content with contemplating the works themselves under every possible aspect, he tried to study out what instruments the artists probably made use of. He would throw open his studio, and then hide or disguise himself in order to overhear the honest opinions of his visitors. Extravagant praise always made him suspicious. Once he was so much pained at a lavish eulogium upon one of his works that he ran, all trembling, to his friend Hamilton, and begged him to point out some defect in it; and having obtained the criticism that he asked, he ran home again in great glee to correct the fault. He gladly accepted criticism from the ignorant as well as the learned. One day, when he was quite old, and recognized as the first sculptor of the time, he begged d'Este to move to a certain spot a beautiful group that he had finished. Several laborers were called in to move it. When they had done their task, one of them, with that connoisseur-air which the Roman laborer knows so well how to assume, shrugged his shoulders and exclaimed: