This mood, we see, is far more gentle and sympathetic than the former one; there is sunshine within as well as without; and, indeed, I remember with what glee my father took part in the frolic, as well as looked on at it; he laughed and pelted and was pelted; he walked down the Corso and back again; he drove to and fro in a carriage; he mounted to Mr. Motley's balcony and took long shots at the crowd below. The sombre spirit of criticism had ceased, for a time, to haunt him.
[IMAGE: WILLIAM WETMORE STORY]
We went quite often to the studio of William Story, whom my father had slightly known in Salem before he became a voluntary exile from America. Mr. Story was at this time a small, wiry, nervous personage, smiling easily, but as much through nervousness as from any inner source or outward provocation of mirth, and as he smiled he would stroke his cheeks, which were covered with a short, brown beard, with the fingers and thumb of his right hand, while wrinkles would appear round his bright, brown eyes. “He looks thin and worn already,” wrote my father; “a little bald and a very little gray, but as vivid as when I saw him last; he cannot, methinks, be over thirty-seven.” He was thirty-nine in 1858. “The great difficulty with him, I think, is a too facile power,” my father goes on; “he would do better things if it were more difficult for him to do merely good ones. Then, too, his sensibility is too quick; being easily touched by his own thoughts, he cannot estimate what is required to touch a colder and duller person, and so stops short of the adequate expression.” He commented on the vein of melancholy beneath the sparkle of his surface, as if, in the midst of prosperity, he was conscious of a “deadly shadow gliding close behind.” Boys of twelve are not troubled with insight, unless of that unconscious, intuitive kind that tells them that a person is likeable, or the reverse, no matter what the person may do or say. I liked Mr. Story, and thought him as light of spirit as he seemed; not that he was not often earnest enough in his talks with my father, to whom he was wont to apply himself with a sort of intensity, suggesting ideas, and watching, with his nervous smile, my father's reception of them; plunging into deep matters, beyond my comprehension, dwelling there a few minutes, and then emerging again with a sparkle of wit; he was certainly very witty, and the wit was native and original, not memorized. When he got into the current of drollery, he would, as it were, set himself afire by his own sallies, and soar to astonishing heights, which had an irresistible contagion for the hearers; and he would sometimes, sitting at a table with pen and paper at hand, illustrate his whimsicalities with lightning sketches of immense cleverness, considering their impromptu character. I have preserved a sheet of letter-paper covered with such drawings. The conversation had got upon Byron, whom Mr. Story chose to ridicule; as he talked, he drew a head of “Byron as he thought he was,” followed by one of “Byron as he was,” and by another of “Byron as he might have been,” showing a very pronounced negro type. Then he made a portrait of “Ada, sole daughter of my house and heart,” and wrote under it, “Thy face was like thy mother's, my fair child!” a hideous, simpering miss, with a snub nose and a wooden mouth — ”A poet's dream!” He also showed the appearance of the Falls of Terni, “as described by Byron,” and added studies of infant phenomena, mother's darlings, a Presidential candidate, and other absurdities, accompanying it all with a running comment and imaginative improvisations which had the charm of genius in them, and made us ache with laughter, young and old alike. Such a man, nervous, high-strung, of fine perceptions and sensibilities, must inevitably pass through rapid and extreme alternations of feeling; and, no doubt, an hour after that laughing seance of ours, Mr. Story was plunged deep in melancholy. Yet surely his premonitions of evil were unfulfilled; Story lived long and was never other than fortunate. Perhaps he was unable to produce works commensurate with his conceptions; but unhappiness from such a cause is of a noble sort, and better than most ordinary felicities.
I remember very well the statue of Cleopatra while yet in the clay. There she sat in the centre of the large, empty studio, pondering on Augustus and on the asp. The hue of the clay added a charm to the figure which even the pure marble has not quite maintained. Story said that he never was present while the cast of one of his statues was being made; he could not endure the sight of the workmen throwing the handfuls of plaster at the delicate clay. Cleopatra was substantially finished, but Story was unwilling to let her go, and had no end of doubts as to the handling of minor details. The hand that rests on her knee — should the forefinger and thumb meet or be separated? If they were separated, it meant the relaxation of despair; if they met, she was still meditating defiance or revenge. After canvassing the question at great length with my father, he decided that they should meet; but when I saw the marble statue in the Metropolitan Museum the other day I noticed that they were separated. In the end the artist had preferred despair. Such things indicate the man's character, and, perhaps, explain his failure to reach the great heights of art. He could not trust a great idea to manage itself, but sought subtler expression through small touches, and thus, finally, lost the feeling of the larger inspiration. A little more of the calm, Greek spirit would have done him good.
He had many projects for other statues, which he would build up in fancy before my father and discuss with him. His words and gestures made the ideas he described seem actual and present, but he seldom got them into marble; he probably found, upon trial, that they did not belong to sculpture. He had the ambition to make marble speak not its own language merely, but those of painting and of poetry likewise; and when this proved impossible he was unhappy and out of conceit with himself, On the other hand, he did good work in poetry and in prose; but neither did these content him. After all, my father's observation hit the mark; things came too easy to him. Goethe speaks the word for him:
“Wer nie sein Brod mit thranen ass,
Er kennt euch nicht, ihr ewige Machte!”
XVI
Drilled in Roman history — Lovely figures made of light and morning — What superb figures! — The breath and strength of immeasurable antiquity — Treasures coming direct from dead hands into mine — A pleasant sound of coolness and refreshment — Receptacles of death now dedicated to life — The Borghese is a forest of Ardennes — Profound and important communings — A smiling deceiver — Of an early-rising habit — Hauling in on my slack — A miniature cabinet magically made Titanic — ”If I had a murder on my conscience” — None can tell the secret origin of his thoughts — A singularly beautiful young woman — She actually ripped the man open — No leagues of chivalry needed in Rome — A resident army — Five foot six — Corsets and padding — She was wounded in the house of her friends.
We children had been drilled in Roman history, from Romulus to Caesar, and we could, and frequently did, repeat by heart the Lays of Ancient Rome by Macaulay, which were at that period better known, perhaps, than they are now. Consequently, everything in Rome had a certain degree of meaning for us, and gave us a pleasure in addition to the intrinsic beauty or charm that belonged thereto. Our imagination thronged the Capitol with senators; saw in the Roman Forum the contentions of the tribunes and the patricians; heard the populus Romanus roar in the Coliseum; beheld the splendid processions of victory wind cityward through the Arch of Titus; saw Caesar lie bleeding at the base of Pompey's statue; pondered over the fatal precipice of the Tarpeian Rock; luxuriated in the hollow spaces of the Baths of Caracalla; lost ourselves in gorgeous reveries in the palace of the Caesars, and haunted the yellow stream of Tiber, beneath which lay hidden precious treasures and forgotten secrets. And we were no less captivated by the galleries and churches, which contained the preserved relics of the great old times, and were in themselves so beautiful. My taste for blackened old pictures and faded frescoes was, indeed, even more undeveloped than my father's; but I liked the brilliant reproductions in mosaic at St. Peter's and certain individual works in various places. I formed a romantic attachment for the alleged Beatrice Cenci of Guido, or of some other artist, and was very sorry that she should be
so unhappy, though, of course, I was ignorant of the occasion of her low spirits. But I liked much better Guide's large design of Aurora, partly because I had long been familiar with it on the head-board of my mother's bedstead. Before her marriage she had bought a set of bedroom furniture, and had painted it a dull gold color, and on this surface she had drawn in fine black lines the outlines of several classical subjects, most of them from Flaxman; but in the space mentioned she had executed an outline of this glorious work of the Italian artist. I knew every line of the composition thoroughly; and, by-the-way, I doubt if a truer, more inspired copy of the picture was ever produced by anybody. But the color had to be supplied by the observer's imagination; now, for the first time, I saw the hues as laid on by the original painter. In spite of time, they were pure and exquisite beyond description; these lovely figures seemed made of light and morning. Another favorite picture of mine was the same artist's “Michael Overcoming the Evil One,” and I even had the sense to like the painting better than the mosaic copy. Raphael's “Transfiguration” I also knew well from the old engraving of it that used to hang on our parlor wall from my earliest recollections; it still hangs yonder. But I never cared for this picture; it was too complicated and ingenious — it needed too much co-operation from the observer's mind. Besides, I had never seen a boy with anything approaching the muscular development of the epileptic youth in the centre. The thing in the picture that I most approved of was the end of the log in the little pool, in the foreground; it looked true to life.
But my delight in the statues was endless. It seems to me that I knew personally every statue and group in the Vatican and in the Capitol. Again and again, either with my parents, or with Eddy, or even alone, I would pass the warders at the doors and enter those interminable galleries, and look and look at those quiet, stained-marble effigies. My early studies of Flaxman had, in a measure, educated me towards appreciation of them. I never tired of them, as I did of the Cleopatras and the Greek Slaves. What superb figures! What power and grace and fleetness and athletic loins! The divine, severe Minerva, musing under the shadow of her awful helmet; the athlete with the strigil, resting so lightly on his tireless feet; the royal Apollo, disdaining his own victory; the Venus, half shrinking from the exquisiteness of her own beauty; the swaying poise of the Discobulus, caught forever as he drew his breath for the throw; the smooth-limbed, brooding Antinous; the terrible Laocoon, which fascinated me, though it always repelled me, too; the austere simplicity of the Dying Gladiator's stoop to death — the most human of all the great statues; the heads of heroic Miltiades, of Antony, of solitary Caesar, of indifferent Augustus; the tranquil indolence of mighty Nile, clambered over by his many children — these, and a hundred others, spoke to me out of their immortal silence. I can conceive of no finer discipline for a boy; I emulated while I adored them. Power, repose, beauty, nobility, were in their message: “Do you, too, possess limbs and shoulders like ours!” they said to me; “such a bearing, such a spirit within!” I cannot overestimate even the physical good they did me; it was from them that I gained the inspiration for bodily development and for all athletic exercise which has, since then, helped me over many a rough passage in the path of life. But they also awoke higher ambitions and conferred finer benefits.
From these excursions into the ideal I would return to out-of-doors with another inexhaustible zest. That ardent, blue Roman sky and penetrating, soft sunshine filled me with life and joy. The breath and strength of immeasurable antiquity emanated from those massive ruins, which time could deface but never conquer. Emerald lizards basked on the hot walls; flowers grew in the old crevices; butterflies floated round them; they were haunted by spirits of heroes. There is nothing else to be compared with the private, intimate, human, yet sublimated affection which these antique monuments wrought in me. They were my mighty brothers, condescending to my boyish thoughts and fancies, smiling upon me, welcoming me, conscious of my love for them. Each ruin had its separate individuality for me, so that to-day I must play with the Coliseum, to-morrow with the Forum, or the far-ranging arches of the Aqueduct, or the Temple of Vesta. Always, too, my eyes were alert for treasures in the old Roman soil, coming, as it seemed, direct from the dead hands of the vanished people into mine. I valued the scraps that I picked up thus more than anything to be bought in shops or seen in museums. These bits of tinted marble had felt the touch of real Romans; their feet had trodden on them, on them their arms had rested, their hands had grasped them. Two thousand years had dulled the polish of their surfaces; I took them to the stone-workers, who made them glow and bloom again — yellow, red, black, green, white. They were good-natured but careless men, those marble-polishers, and would sometimes lose my precious relics, and when I called for them would say, every day, “Domane — domane,” or try to put me off with some substitute — as if a boy could be deceived in such a matter! I once found in the neighborhood of a recent excavation a semi-transparent tourmaline of a cool green hue when held to the light; it had once been set in the ring of some Roman beauty. It had, from long abiding in the earth, that wonderful iridescent surface which ancient glass acquires. Rose, my sister, picked up out of a rubbish heap a little bronze statuette, hardly three inches high, but, as experts said, of the best artistic period. Such things made our Roman history books seem like a tale of yesterday, or they transported us back across the centuries, so that we trod in the footsteps of those who had been but a moment before us.
In those warm days, after our walks and explorations, Eddy and I, and little Hubert, who sometimes was permitted to accompany us, though we deemed him hardly in our class, would greatly solace ourselves with the clear and gurgling fountains which everywhere in Rome flow forth into their marble and moss-grown basins with a pleasant sound of coolness and refreshment. Rome without her fountains would not be Rome; every memory of her includes them. In the streets, in the piazzas, in the wide pleasaunces and gardens, the fountains allure us onward, and comfort us for our weariness. In the Piazza d' Espagna, at the foot of the famous steps, was that great, boat-shaped fountain whose affluent waters cool the air which broods over the wide, white stairway; and not far away is the mighty Trevi, with its turmoil of obstreperous figures swarming round bragging Neptune, and its cataract of innumerable rills welling forth and plunging downward by devious ways to meet at last in the great basin, forever agitated with baby waves lapping against the margins. These, and many similar elaborate structures, are for the delight of the eye; but there are scores of modest fountains, at the corners of the ways, in shady or in sunny places, formed of an ancient sarcophagus receiving the everlasting tribute of two open-mouthed lion-heads, or other devices, whose arching outgush splashes into the receptacle made to hold death, but now immortally dedicated to the refreshment of life. It was at these minor fountains that we quenched our boyish thirst, each drinking at the mouth of a spout; and when we discovered that by stopping up one spout with our thumb the other would discharge with double force, we played roguish tricks on each other, deluging each other at unawares with unmanageable gushes of water, till we were forced to declare a mutual truce of honor. But what delicious draughts did we suck in from those lion-mouths into our own; never elsewhere did water seem so sweet and revivifying. And then we would peer into the transparent depths of the old sarcophagus, with its fringes of green, silky moss waving slightly with the movement of the water, and fish out tiny-spired water-shells; or dip in them the bits of ancient marbles we had collected on our walk, to see the hues revive to their former splendor. Many-fountained Rome ought to be a cure for wine-bibbers; yet I never saw an Italian drink at these springs; they would rather quaff the thin red and white wines that are sold for a few baiocchi at the inns.
The Pincian Hill and the adjoining grounds of the Borghese Palace came at length to be our favorite haunts. The Borghese is a delectable spot, as my father remarks in one of those passages in his diary which was afterwards expanded into the art-picture of his romance. “Broad carriageways,” he says, “a
nd wood-paths wander beneath long vistas of sheltering boughs; there are ilex-trees, ancient and sombre, which, in the long peace of their lifetime, have assumed attitudes of indolent repose; and stone-pines that look like green islands in the air, so high above earth are they, and connected with it by such a slender length of stem; and cypresses, resembling dark flames of huge, funereal candles. These wooded lawns are more beautiful than English park scenery; all the more beautiful for the air of neglect about them, as if not much care of men were bestowed upon them, though enough to keep wildness from growing into deformity, and to make the whole scene like nature idealized — the woodland scenes the poet dreamed of — a forest of Ardennes, for instance. These lawns and gentle valleys are beautiful, moreover, with fountains flashing into marble basins, or gushing like natural cascades from rough rocks; with bits of architecture, as pillared porticos, arches, columns, of marble or granite, with a touch of artful ruin on them; and, indeed, the pillars and fragments seem to be remnants of antiquity, though put together anew, hundreds of years old, perhaps, even in their present form, for weeds and flowers grow out of the chinks and cluster on the tops of arches and porticos. There are altars, too, with old Roman inscriptions on them. Statues stand here and there among the trees, in solitude, or in a long range, lifted high on pedestals, moss-grown, some of them shattered, all grown gray with the corrosion of the atmosphere. In the midst of these sunny and shadowy tracts rises the stately front of the villa, adorned with statues in niches, with busts, and ornamented architecture blossoming in stone-work. Take away the malaria, and it might be a very happy place.”
Delphi Complete Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne (Illustrated) Page 653