Peter Schlemih (“A New Year’s Eve Adventure”)
Salvator spent some considerable time of thoughtful silence in the examination of each of the pictures. Then he said, “Listen, Antonio: it is indeed undeniable that you were born to follow the noble art of painting. For not only has Nature endowed you with the creative spirit from which the finest thoughts pour forth in an inexhaustible stream, but she has also granted you the rare ability to surmount in a short space of time the difficulties of technique. It would only be false flattery if I were to tell you that you had yet advanced to the level of your masters, that you are equal to Guido’s exquisite grace or Annibal’s strength; but I am certain that you far excel all the painters who hold up their heads so proudly in the Academy of San Luca here—Tiarini, Gessi, Sementa, and all the rest of them, even Lanfranco himself, for he only understands fresco painting. And yet, Antonio, if I were in your place, I should deliberate a while before throwing away the lancet altogether, and confining myself entirely to the pencil. That sounds rather strange, but listen to me. Art seems to be having a bad time of it just now, or rather the devil seems to be very busy amongst our painters nowadays, setting them against one another. If you cannot make up your mind to put up with all sorts of annoyances, to endure more and more scorn and abuse in proportion as you advance in art, and as your fame spreads to meet with malicious scoundrels everywhere, who with a friendly face will force themselves upon you in order to ruin you the most surely afterwards—if you cannot, I say, make up your mind to endure all this—let painting alone. Think of the fate of your teacher, the great Annibal, whom a rascally band of rivals persecuted in Naples, so that he did not receive one single commission for a great work, and was everywhere rejected with contempt. This is said to have been instrumental in his early death. Think of what happened to Domenichino when he was painting the dome of the chapel of St. Januarius. Didn’t the villains of painters—I won’t mention a single name, not even the rascals Belisario and Ribera—didn’t they bribe Domenichino’s servant to strew ashes in the lime, so the plaster wouldn’t stick fast on the walls, and the painting have no permanence? Think of all that, and examine yourself well whether your spirit is strong enough to endure things like that; if not, your artistic power will be broken, and along with the resolute courage for work you will also lose your ability.”
“But, Salvator,” replied Antonio, “it would hardly be possible for me to have more scorn and abuse to endure, supposing I took up painting entirely and exclusively, than I have already endured while merely a barber-surgeon. You have been pleased with my pictures, you have indeed! and at the same time declared from inner conviction that I am capable of doing better things than several of our painters of the Academy. But these are just the men who turn up their noses at all that I have produced, and say contemptuously, ‘Look, here’s our barber-surgeon who wants to be a painter!’ And for this very reason my resolve is only more unshaken; I will sever myself from a trade that grows more hateful every day. Upon you, my honoured master, I now stake all my hopes. Your word is powerful; if you would speak a good word for me, you might overthrow my envious persecutors at a single blow, and put me in the place where I ought to be.”
“You repose great confidence in me,” rejoined Salvator. “And now that we thoroughly understand each other’s views on painting, and I have seen your works, I don’t really know that there is anybody for whom I would rather take up the cudgels than for you.”
Salvator once more inspected Antonio’s pictures, and stopped before one representing a “Magdalene at the Saviour’s feet,” which he especially praised.
“In this Magdalene,” he said, “you have deviated from the usual mode of representation. Your Magdalene is not a thoughtful virgin, but a lovely artless child rather, and yet she is such a marvellous child that hardly anybody else but Guido could have painted her. There is a unique charm in her dainty figure; you must have painted with enthusiasm; and if I am not mistaken, the original of this Magdalene is alive and to be found in Rome. Come, confess, Antonio, you are in love!”
Antonio looked down, while he said in a low shy voice, “Nothing escapes your penetration, my dear sir; perhaps it is as you say, but do not blame me for it. That picture I set the highest store by, and hitherto I have guarded it as a holy secret from all men’s eyes.”
“What do you say?” interrupted Salvator. “None of the painters here has seen your picture?”
“No, not one,” was Antonio’s reply.
“All right then, Antonio,” continued Salvator, his eyes sparkling with delight. “Very well then, you may rely upon it, I will overwhelm your enemies, and get you the honour you deserve. Entrust your picture to me; bring it to my studio secretly by night, and then leave all the rest to me. Will you do so?”
“Gladly, with all my heart,” replied Antonio. “And now I should very much like to talk to you about my love-troubles as well; but I feel as if I ought not to do so today, after we have opened our minds to each other on the subject of art. I also entreat you to grant me your assistance both in word and deed later on in this matter of my love.”
“I am at your service,” said Salvator, “for both, both when and where you require me.” Then as he was going away, he once more turned round and said, smiling, “See here, Antonio, when you disclosed to me the fact that you were a painter, I was very sorry that I had spoken about your resemblance to Sanzio. I took it for granted that you were as silly as most of our young folk, who, if they bear but the slightest resemblance in the face to any great master, at once trim their beard or hair as he does, and from this fancy it their business to imitate the style of the master in their art achievements, even though it is a manifest violation of their natural talents to do so. Neither of us has mentioned Raphael’s name, but I assure you that I have seen in your pictures clear indications that you have grasped the full significance of the inimitable thoughts which are reflected in the works of the greatest painter of this age. You understand Raphael, and would give me a different answer than Velásquez did when I asked him not long ago what he thought of Sanzio. ‘Titian,’ he replied, ‘is the greatest painter; Raphael knows nothing about carnation.’ This Spaniard, I think, understands flesh but not criticism; and yet these men in San Luca elevate him to the clouds because he once painted cherries which the sparrows picked at.”
It happened not many days afterwards that the Academicians of San Luca met together in their church to judge the works of painters who had applied for admission to the Academy. There Salvator had sent Scacciati’s fine picture. In spite of themselves the painters were greatly struck with its grace and power; and from all lips there was heard nothing but the most extravagant praise when Salvator informed them that he had brought the picture with him from Naples, as the legacy of a young painter who had died prematurely.
It was not long before all Rome was crowding to see and admire the picture by the young unknown master who had died so young; it was unanimously agreed that no such work had been done since Guido Reni’s time; some even went so far in their enthusiasm as to place this exquisitely lovely Magdalene above Guido’s creations of a similar kind.
Among the crowd of people who were gathered round Scacciati’s picture, Salvator one day observed a man who, besides presenting a most extraordinary appearance, behaved as if he were crazy. Well advanced in years, he was tall, thin as a spindle, with a pale face, a long sharp nose, a chin equally long, a little, pointed beard, and gray, gleaming eyes. On the top of his light sand-coloured wig he had set a high hat with a magnificent feather; he wore a short dark red mantle or cape with many bright buttons, a sky-blue doublet slashed in the Spanish style, immense leather gauntlets with silver fringes, a long rapier at his side, light gray stockings drawn up above his bony knees and gartered with yellow ribbons, and bows of the same sort of yellow ribbon on his shoes.
This remarkable figure was standing before the picture as if enraptured: he raised himself on tiptoe; he stooped down till he became quite small
; then he jumped up with both feet at once, heaved deep sighs, groaned, nipped his eyes so close together that the tears began to trickle down his cheeks, opened them wide again, fixed his gaze immovably upon the charming Magdalene, sighed again, lisped in a thin, querulous castrato-like voice, “Ah! carissima—bebedettissima! Ah! Marianna—Mariannina—bellissima.” [“Oh! dearest—most adored! Ah! Marianna—sweet Marianna! my most beautiful!”]
Salvator, who delighted in such eccentricities, drew near the old fellow, intending to engage him in conversation about Scacciati’s work, which seemed to afford him so much exquisite delight. Without paying any particular heed to Salvator, the old gentleman stood cursing his poverty, because he could not give a million sequins for the picture, and place it under lock and key where nobody else could set his cursed eyes upon it. Then, hopping up and down again, he blessed the Virgin and all the holy saints that the scoundrel of an artist who had painted the heavenly picture which was driving him to despair and madness was dead.
Salvator concluded that the man either was out of his mind, or was an Academician of San Luca with whom he was unacquainted.
All Rome was full of Scacciati’s wonderful picture; people could scarcely talk about anything else, and this of course was convincing proof of the excellence of the work. And when the painters were again assembled in the church of San Luca, to decide about the admission of certain other pictures which had been announced for exhibition, Salvator Rosa suddenly asked, whether the painter of the “Magdalene at the Saviour’s Feet” was not worthy of being admitted a member of the Academy. They all with one accord, including even that hairsplitter in criticism, Cavalierè Josepin, declared that such a great artist would have been an ornament to the Academy, and expressed their sorrow at his death in the choicest phrases, although, like the old madman, they were praising Heaven in their hearts that he was dead. Still more, they were so far carried away by their enthusiasm that they passed a resolution that the admirable young painter whom death had snatched away from art so early should be nominated a member of the Academy in his grave, and that masses should be read for the benefit of his soul in the church of San Luca. They therefore begged Salvator to inform them what was the full name of the deceased, the date of his birth, the place where he was born, and so forth.
Then Salvator rose and said in a loud voice, “Signors, the honour you are anxious to render to a dead man you can more easily bestow upon a living man who walks in your midst. The ‘Magdalene at the Saviour’s Feet’—the picture which you so justly exalt above all other artistic productions that the last few years have given us, is not the work of a dead Neapolitan painter as I pretended (this I did simply to get an unbiased judgment from you); that painting, that masterpiece, which all Rome is admiring, is from the hand of Signor Antonio Scacciati, the barber-surgeon.”
The painters sat staring at Salvator as if suddenly thunderstruck, incapable of either moving or uttering a single sound. After quietly exulting over their embarrassment for some minutes, Salvator continued, “Well now, signors, you would not tolerate the worthy Antonio among you because he is a surgeon; but I think that the illustrious Academy of San Luca has great need of a surgeon to set the limbs of the many crippled figures which emerge from the studios of a good many among your number. But of course you will no longer scruple to do what you ought to have done long ago, namely, elect that excellent painter Antonio Scacciati a member of the Academy.”
The Academicians, swallowing Salvator’s bitter pill, feigned to be highly delighted that Antonio had in this way given such incontestable proofs of his talent, and with all due ceremony nominated him a member of the Academy.
As soon as it became known in Rome that Antonio was the author of the wonderful picture, he was overwhelmed with congratulations, and even with commissions for great works, which poured in upon him from all sides. Thus by Salvator’s shrewd and cunning stratagem the young man emerged all at once out of obscurity, and with the first real step he took in his artistic career rose to great honour.
Antonio revelled in ecstasies of delight. So much the more therefore did Salvator wonder, some days later, to see him appear with his face pale and distorted, utterly miserable and woebegone. “Ah! Salvator!” said Antonio, “what advantage has it been to me that you have helped me to rise to a level far beyond my expectations, that I am now overwhelmed with praise and honour, that the prospect of a most successful artistic career is opening out before me? I am utterly miserable, for the picture to which, next to you, my dear sir, I owe my great triumph, has proved the cause of lasting misfortune to me.”
“Stop!” replied Salvator, “don’t sin against your art or your picture. I don’t believe a word about the terrible misfortune which you say has befallen you. You are in love, and I presume you can’t get all your wishes gratified at once, on the spur of the moment; that’s all it is. Lovers are like children; they scream and cry if anyone touches their doll. Stop your moaning and groaning; that’s something I cannot stand. Come, sit down there and tell all about your fair Magdalene, quietly, and give me the history of your love affair, and let me know what the stumbling blocks are that we have to remove. I promise you my help beforehand. The more adventurous, the more I shall like them. In fact, my blood is coursing hot in my veins again, and I must work off some energy in a few wild pranks. But go on with your story, Antonio, and as I said, let’s have it quietly without any sighs and lamentations, without any Ohs! and Ahs!”
Antonio took his seat on the stool which Salvator had pushed up to the easel at which he was working, and began as follows:—
“There is a high house in the Via Ripetta, with a balcony which projects far over the street so that it immediately strikes the eye of anyone entering through the Porta del Popolo. In it lives the biggest fool in all Rome—an old bachelor with every fault that a bachelor could have—he is avaricious, vain, anxious to appear young, amorous, foppish. He is tall, as thin as a switch, wears a gay Spanish costume, a sandy wig, a conical hat, leather gauntlets, a rapier at his side—”
“Stop, stop!” cried Salvator, interrupting him, “excuse me a minute or two, Antonio.” Then, turning over the picture which he was painting, he seized his charcoal and in a few free, bold strokes sketched on the back of the canvas the old man whom he had seen behaving so strangely in front of Antonio’s picture at San Luca.
“By all the saints!” cried Antonio, as he leaped to his feet, and forgetful of his unhappiness, he burst out into a loud laugh. “That’s the man! That’s Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, whom I was just describing, that’s Capuzzi to the very T.”
“So you see,” said Salvator calmly, “ that I am already acquainted with the worthy gentleman who most probably is your bitter enemy. But go on.”
“Signor Pasquale Capuzzi,” continued Antonio, “is as rich as Croesus, but at the same time, as I have just told you, a miser and an impossible ass. The best thing about him is that he loves art, particularly music and painting; but he mixes up so much folly with it all, that even here there’s no standing him. He considers himself the greatest composer in the world, and thinks that there’s not a singer in the Papal Choir who can approach him. Accordingly he looks down on our Frescobaldi with contempt; and when the Romans talk about the wonderful charm of Ceccarelli’s voice, he informs them that Ceccarelli knows as much about singing as a pair of top-boots, and that he, Capuzzi, knows which is the right way to delight the world. And since the first singer of the Pope bears the proud name of Signor Odoardo Ceccarelli di Merania, our Capuzzi is delighted when anybody calls him Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senigaglia; for it was in Senigaglia that he was born. Rumour goes that his mother, being startled at the sight of a seal suddenly rising to the surface, gave birth to him in a fisherman’s boat, and this accounts, it is said, for a good deal of the currishness in his nature.
“Several years ago he produced one of his operas on the stage. He was hissed off, but that hasn’t cured him of his mania for writing execrable music. Indeed, when he heard Fran
cesco Cavalli’s opera Le Nozze di Teti e Peleo, he swore that Cavalli had stolen the most sublime parts from his immortal works, for which he barely escaped being thrashed or even stabbed. He still has a craze for singing arias, and accompanies his hideous squalling on a jarring, jangling guitar, all out of tune. His faithful Pylades is an ill-bred eunuch dwarf, whom the Romans call Pitichinaccio. There is a third member of the company—guess who it is? None other than the Pyramid Doctor, who makes a noise like a melancholy ass and yet fancies he’s singing an excellent bass, as good as Martinelli of the Papal Choir. These three fine people are in the habit of meeting in the evening on the balcony of Capuzzi’s house, where they sing Carissimi’s motets until all the dogs and cats in the neighbourhood break out miaowing and howling, and all the neighbors heartily wish the devil would run away with all blessed three.
“With this old idiot, my father was very intimate, since he trimmed Capuzzi’s wig and beard. When my father died, I undertook this business, and Capuzzi was most satisfied with me, because, as he once stated, I knew better than anybody else how to give his mustaches a bold upward twirl. But the real reason was that I was satisfied with the few pence which he gave me for my trouble. He firmly believed that he overpaid me, since, while I was trimming his beard, he would always close his eyes and croak through an aria from his own compositions. My ears used to split, and yet the old fellow’s crazy antics afforded me a good deal of amusement, so that I continued to attend him.
“One day, I quietly ascended the stairs, knocked at the door, and opened it, when lo, a girl—an angel of light—came to meet me. You know my Magdalene; it was she. I stood stock still, rooted to the spot. No, Salvator, you shall have no Ohs! and Ahs! Well, the first sight of this, the most lovely girl I had ever seen, enkindled in me the most passionate love. The old man informed me with a smirk that the young lady was the daughter of his brother Pietro, who had died at Senigaglia, that her name was Marianna, and that she was an orphan. Since he was her uncle and guardian, he had taken her into his house. You can easily imagine that after this Capuzzi’s house was Paradise to me. But no matter what plans I made, I could never succeed in getting a téte-à-téte with Marianna, even for a single moment. Her glances, however, and many a stolen sigh, and many a soft pressure of the hand, let me know my good fortune.
The Best Tales of Hoffmann Page 47