Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

The boy and she, the lovely, gazed,
Stirless, affrighted, and amazed:
That look was strange to her and him
As lava to the fountain's brim.

It seemed not that old age had laid
A kindly burthen on his head,
Or that his many years had been
Soft as the shower that wets the green;

Or as the weight of leaves that strews
The earth with rich decaying hues;
Or as the veils a mother lays

O'er her nursed babe in wintry days.

Not gently thus to him had come
The influence of time;
Remorse and shame had learnt to roam
With him from clime to clime.

Around him still their presence wrought, And gnawed the kernel of his frame; Till he, the withered wretch, was taught To start at his own name.

And now with words subdued, yet wild, Before the maiden and the child

He spoke; ye might have seemed to hear The accents of an elder sphere.

"O, God! thou heard'st a voice that cried
Against my soul from out the dust;
A fearful voice that never died,
Vengeance on me was in its trust.

It gathered serpents o'er my way,
And rent with seething gulphs the flood;
And never, never let decay
The tingling torture in my blood.

I heard it in the night, its jars
Shattered the morning's tune to pain;
And from amid thy quiet stars,
It echoed through my brain.

Now from the grave whose cry has given
My madness and despair,

O, God! let thrill to thee through heaven
My broken spirit's prayer!"

More lowly still he sank and bowed
Upon that lettered stone;

And from the spot there burst aloud
A single stifling groan.

A moment shook that aged form,
"Twas the last whirl-gust of the storm;
And senseless now that weary head,
More than the weeds around it dead.

SKETCHES OF CONTEMPORARY FOREIGN AUTHORS, STATESMEN, &c.

No. III-CANOVA.

Ar a soirée of one of the most recherché houses at Rome, I espied, in an hitherto unobserved corner of the room, on a neglected sofa, with some gloomy yards of picture above it, a tall and somewhat bilious-looking lady, whom I at first mistook for an Italian. She was dressed in black, and very simply dressed pallid, thin, and thoughtful. By her side was seated a still more remarkable figure. I saw a man somewhat beyond sixty, very small, and very delicate, with no pretension to mass or muscle, or to that firm and serried kind of outline which distinguishes the structure of the more southern Italian. He was neither grey nor bald; the hair still clustered about him in short, grizzled locks. His dress was plain, but quite exempt from all affectation of simplicity. On approaching, he for a moment raised his head. It had been bent upon his hand whilst listening to the lady, who appeared to have had much the larger share of the conversation. It was a

noble countenance, though veiled and subobscured by years: the features were cast in a clear and expressive mould; the nose keen and prominent, the forehead spreading out into a fine capacity for beautiful and fair thought; the eyes fervent and mellow, rather than bold or sparkling, and full of a deep and persuasive philosophy; and over the entire countenance a general sweetness was soberly diffused, indicative of the highest moral and intellectual cultivation. My companion soon made me acquainted with both. The lady was an Irish Marchioness. She had returned to Italy after a long absence, and was repassing the events which had occurred since her first acquaintance with the country. The hero of the history was Canova.

"And is this the sculptor of the age?" I exclaimed, as we were gradually advancing to the sofa. "He is as unconscious of his celebrity as if he were the youngest élève in the Academie de France."-" A great deal

His

more so," replied my companion; and subduing nature of the noble oc"but true genius does not waste itself cupations in which he had been enin self-contemplation. You will see, gaged. The arts have this especial on knowing him better, that he is of advantage over literature and politics, the true race of the great fathers of that they are conversant only with the the art. He deserves to be a founder. ideal, the perfect, the very loftiest No man possesses the moral elements portions of our being. A proud and for such an achievement in freer or bold tone of thinking, an abstraction richer vein than Canova. There is from the degrading, the little, the nothing' metier,' nothing boutique,' virulent-from all the plebeian pasnothing of the base and coarse traffic, sions of existence-give a sort of sancthe paltry manufacture, the vile job, tity to such a vocation. It was visible which disgrace so many of our north- in everything he did or said. ern statue-mongers. He lives for the voice, though not good, was pleasing; grandeur and beauty of the intellectual and there was a stir of gentle inspirapursuit. The art to him is its own tion, a sort of suppressed glow about exceeding great reward. Society, and it, whenever he touched on his favorits boudoir factions, glance off from ite pursuits, which carried the hearer, such a mind. His eye is too fixed on much more than any words could do, Europe and posterity to heed the petty into the full enthusiasm of the subpassions, the fleeting interests at his ject. His habitual language was Itafeet. Then he is so overflowing with lian; he spoke French heavily and such kindliness for every one and eve- clumsily; the few phrases he did use ry thing. I do not know whether he were thrown into a broad Italian is not more beloved than admired. No mould, from whence they came out one can approach him without getting no longer intelligible or recognizable. better, more reconciled with our hu- Italians lavish their gesture even on manity, more rapt with the aspects of trifles; his was calm, smooth, and imall that is noble and good, more wor- pressive. His whole being breathed thy of all the loftier and larger pur- grace and gentleness; there was noposes of our nature. A few words thing bold, strong, impetuous; he with Canova have done more for me wanted power and weight. In everythan many sermons. I visit him for thing, he was the anti-type of Thorthe same ends as I often ramble waltzen. through the Vatican or St. Peter's."

This excited my attention. I was soon introduced. Canova rose to salute my friend as we approached, and in a few moments we were familiar acquaintances. Nothing indeed could be more prepossessing than his first address. There was no effort, no condescension. His affability was not put on, but a part of himself. When he left his high contemplations, and mingled with the ordinary clay of our mortality, he was in all things as the men with whom he mixed. Neither did he lie down on society for mere relief. He contributed quite as much as he received; and in all there was that unobtrusive cheerfulness of manner which, more than words, bespoke the habitual content of a pure and generous spirit, and the ameliorating

Our conversation began on the most indifferent subjects, then wheeled round to the German and English schools-to literature, painting, sculpture-(Flaxman he regarded as our first artist); and concluded in a very graphic sketch of his visit to London. It was now eleven, and the party were retiring, but before they broke up, I had begged to be permitted to see him the next morning.

The next day I made my projected visit to his studio. It is situated in the Vicolo delle Colonne, at a short distance from the Corso. The entry is designated by a rough heap of broken columns, and the incrustation of various ancient fragments over the door. It is thus that Canova writes his occupation rather than his name; Wicar has his sculptured in marble,

with a fulsome panegyric on his merits, over his studio in San Apollinare. On entering, I found the low-roofed house branched off into a succession of chambers. "Il gran' Maestro" was engaged in completing the model of some of his later productions, upstairs his nephew Este conducted us through the chambers. A stream of winter sunshine, pouring in from the tall windows at the time, gave a mellow splendor to the entire gallery. Without any particular distribution, the casts of most of his more celebrated statues were arranged along the walls. Many, however, of his earlier works were wanting, nor had I the good fortune to see them all till some years afterwards. No artist, I believe, has been more prolific in marble than Canova; but there is no good reason, in the present improved division of mechanical labor, why there should not be a still more extensive gallery than Canova's.

[The writer here describes the Statues, Portraits, and Sepulchral Monuments, in the different chambers of the artist's studio. We have room only for his observations on a few of them.]

A little farther on is a very different subject. It is the exquisite group of the "Cupid and Psyche." How far superior, even in passion, to the kissing group of the ancients, and the affected exaggeration of the same subject from his own studio!

How the fable is rescued from its absurdity! The boy is ripened into a youth; Cupid is, in his forms at least, but a younger and more celestialized Adonis a sort of earthly and more kindly Apollo. Nothing can be more truly sculptural. It is just existing merely sensible of the reception of pleasure: the feelings flow over both those beautiful beings, like soft waters over a smooth beach. The right arm of Cupid hangs fondly round the neck of Psyche; the left supports her right, on which she languidly places, with her other hand, the mythological emblem of the soul. Both are looking down with eyes which seem encumber

ed with the entire spirit of love; but it is not precisely passion, but the capacity for passion they evince. The butterfly apparently absorbs all their attention; but a delicate recollection of the past diffuses itself in a sort of voluptuous reverie over the whole person. An expiring smile still hovers over the lips,

"Dal sorriso del bel labro
Si conosce, ch' egli e fabro
Del piacer''

and gives pledge and promise of an unchanging future. The whole anatomy is in the same tranquil music : there is no discord: the shifting boundary between innocence and sensibility, childhood and youth, is admirably expressed. Throughout, Canova seems to have his view bent upon the "Eros Ouranios" of antiquity; that beautiful embodying of all the lofty affections, which Plato placed, as presiding genius, over his academy, and Petrarch afterwards divinized for modern wor

shipers, and enshrined in the mysticism of his metaphysical verse. The Washington" is an instance It is someof mortality divinized. thing more than the mere fixing of a man into marble. It is an apotheosis of his mind. Washington was no hero, but something infinitely better. He did not save America, but he showed America how she might save herself! one of the few great men who were contented to be great for their country only, and who, founding a State by the mere force of singlehearted high-minded public feeling, had the still greater glory of knowing how to retire when the mighty work was done. He was no genius, no orator, no writer; but he was thoroughly penetrated with the consciousness of a great and solemn trust he was stamped with a firmness which wielded and kneaded events to his will: he was glowing with an unextinguishable devotion to liberty; beside which, the world, and all that the world could proffer, was as dust and dross in the scale. To shape out such faculties to the eye was no easy task: for an Italian it might seem impossible. But

Canova has cast into his work all the inspiration of the "America Libera:" he has sculptured what Alfieri wrote.* The Mausoleum of the "Princess Sta. Croce" is by far the most original of his sepulchral productions. The idea is daring. A crowd of all sexes and ages are represented entering the funereal pyramid. This is bas-relief done into statues. The details are perfection. Age and youth were never so divinely linked before; the father, in particular, bending under that burthen which not even the piety of his daughter can remove, is in the finest strain of poetry. There is nothing so modern in all the compositions of Canova, nothing of which the moderns have more reason to be proud. The only group of any magnitude executed by Canova, is the "Descent from the Cross," for his own Church in his native village of Passignano. The clay model was terminated only a few months previous to his death: this, and the unfinished "Endymion," were his last works. bly chosen.

It was favora

These Pietàs, under an uniform idea, present a great variety of tender and graceful attitudes and forms; they are, moreover, so essentially modern, that the artist may walk about at will in his own territory; Canova has looked at Michael Angelo, but remained himself. The anatomy, the gravity, the austerity of the mighty founder have been admired; but Canova has spread in profusion qualities which might not less have warranted the admiration of Michael Angelo. The whole soul of a love surpassing that of woman, is outpoured in the divine Mother and her attendants; Christ is less a most perfect dead body, than the most beautiful of the sons of men." In Michael there is more science, in Canova more art; but we read Tasso, and speak of Dante.

Another instance of the justice of this remark is the admirable "Magdalen." Some call this the great miracle of his chisel. It is indeed an exploit. Here Canova has walked steadily and nobly alone. His Magdalen is sufficient proof that when he leant upon himself, he could bear his faculties with the force and facility of a creator. It is the only Magdalen, truly such, in either art. Penitence and remorse have drained away all remnant of human passion, and left no recollection of the courtezan to profane the saint. Here Canova, with true taste, moral as well as intellectual, has reined in his own habitual luxuriance, and swept away all that voluptuousness, which he casts with such profusion over his Olympus, from the pure and holy forms of the Gospel.

In

The Bas-reliefs of Canova are, next to his paintings, his greatest sins. He seems never to have understood that department of the art. execution, they approach the flat and starved chiselling of the early Florentines; in conception, they have all the flutter and frivolity of the late French school. The moment he has to get two figures to put together, the magic sceptre drops from his hand. He can write a chapter, but not a book; he can give you a figure, but not a series. Here Thorwaltzen lords it undivided. One entire portion, and much the noblest and most ample, of his art, is forbidden ground.

[blocks in formation]

Particularly the fifth strophe of the fourth Ode. "Si disser quelle; e Liberta togliea,"which is a poetical compilation of all the virtues of the great Republican; but I doubt whether the feelings which animated and regulated his whole political life are anywhere better expressed than in the prefatory sonnet of the "Tirannide."

"Non io percio da un si sublime scopo

Rimuovero giammai l'anima," &c. &c.

gress, complimented the workmen in ter is likely to be mirrored in his

his usual encouraging manner, and then advanced towards our group. After a great deal of cordial greeting, we adjourned to his boudoir near. Here were the engravings of his works, and one or two of his paintings. I was much amused at the naïveté with which he explained the subjects, and pointed out their merits to our examination.

works. Canova wrought himself into his marble, and to the very minutiæ of the execution, there is not a line or touch which does not seem " part and parcel" of his divine soul.

There is a strong similarity at the outset of his career, between him, Michael Angelo, and Raphael. Each of these three great men were seized by There was an artless and un- the inspiration; they scarcely sought suspecting complacency in all this, it. It descended on them in its pleniwhich, in another man, might have of- tude, at a period of life when others fended, but in Canova, I know not how, only begin to think. The "numbers was fascinating in the extreme. These came," the chisel wrought unconlittle foibles connect a superior intelli- sciously in their hand. At the age of gence more closely with our humanity, fifteen, Canova had already finished and give us a more intimate title to an his "Basket of Fruit," as Michael interest and participation in his great- Angelo had his "Faun." His proest works. Thus Michael Angelo gress for a time was slow; the "res anpiqued himself on his poetry-David gusta domi" hemmed him in; he had on his two or three sonatas on the vi- to struggle with his genius and his forolin, &c. The paintings are strange tunes. Sir W. Hamilton, and other enough. Nothing can be more bizarre appreciators of merit, cleared, in some than their composition: the style of measure, the obstacles from his path; the design is more than Parmegia- but it was to the kinder, and homefelt nesque, the coloring attempts the Ve- encouragements of a friend, that he netian; the general air suggests some- owed the impulse and the fiery instinct thing very like the doing into painting which hurried him along. Nothing of the lightest of his bas-reliefs. Yet, can be more affecting than the monuso well satisfied was their author of mental tablet in which he records this their superiority, that he had already event in the vestibule of the Church of contemplated ornamenting the walls of the Holy Apostles at Rome. It is his new church with paintings as well difficult to say which of the two is as sculpture from his own hand. A most to be envied, Canova or Volpato. compliment to his "Death of Adonis" From thenceforward his flight was was sure to find its way to his heart. straight and rapid. He felt his wings Yet he could listen unmoved to the grow by the very exertion of the flight. acclamations of all Europe, to his He divided the public gaze with the "Venus," or to his "Hebé." greatest names in modern history. He was venerated by all that was venerable or revered amongst mankind. Sovereigns contended for his labors; conquerors sought their apotheosis from bis hands, and Napoleon had no reason to envy Alexander: he had a Lysippus, in Canova, proportionate to his victories. His latter days were passed in a bright and uninterrupted sunshine of happiness and glory. Honors from all sides crowded round him, the willing offerings of the gratitude of mankind; the tribute of nations, to whose pleasures he had so largely ministered. His triumphs were un

It was now near two o'clock, the hour at which he usually retires to dine, and to take his siesta; and we were obliged, after a most interesting conversation, to separate. But I saw bim often, and knew him well, afterwards. Few days passed without meeting him in public or in private, to the hour of his death.

The productions of Canova are, more than any other I have ever seen, the perfect reflections of the man's character, as well as of his mind. It has been questioned rather too generally, how far the "moral" of a wri

« AnteriorContinuar »