Ambrose the Sculptor: an autobiography of artist life

Introduction

. In every age that has made certain approaches to civilisation there will exist a class of men whose natural susceptibilities and talents are considerably in advance of their fellows. The susceptibility to impression, whether from within or without, may be a gift of nature ; the talent, or, in other words, the power of improving that gift and of imparting its results to others, may be partly natural and partly acquired, either by mere practice or by previous study. In either case, success must be in some degree the fruit of reflection, — of analysis of the objects which the mind has compassed, and which the will seeks to retain or to perpetuate, — of frequent careful reconsideration to prove to its own satisfac tion by repeated trial the truth of its conceptions. VI

INTRODUCTION.

. Such mental exercise cannot but elevate the man who schools his faculties to its discipline, and no matter in what early or simple state of society he may be placed, will raise him to a higher rank of culture and intellectual advancement than that of the majority of his fellow-men. The usual subjects of archaic or early Art con spire with these circumstances to fix the position of the Artist. Heroic art, historical monuments, religious rites, — all demand his aid : he is of necessity connected with all that a simple and earnest people hold most sacred and most dear. Hence the severe character of very early Art. But this exercise of the inventive and imitative powers of man, tinctured as it may have been with superstition and many other characteristics which later cultivation and a finer perception of the beautiful and the correct have rejected, could not go on very long without awakening in the workman, — the term is not derogatory, — a stronger love for his work, and a deeper insight into the principles by which he must be guided in bringing it, by slow steps perhaps, nearer and nearer to his idea of per fection. For in true genius the idea will ever be

INTRODUCTION.

. VII beforehand with the work. Art, in its high sense, is the idea united with the execution : high Art, in that high sense, is the idea guided by Genius happily united with Execution directed by Skill. Now, to bring this union of qualifications to bear its full fruit, genius must submit to the discipline of instruction, and execution to the toil of practice. And all this cannot be done without severe labour of mind and body ; but the result is a great Artist, — in a word, a great man. Then, arrived at the higher walks of his career, the earnest labourer in his vocation, suddenly awakened to the full majes ty, the true nobility of Art, in its mission of convey ing to the senses and to the mind the symmetries of form, the impressions of poetry, the beauties of nature, presses onward in the study which now for the first time is opened to him.

He contemplates Art for its own sake, discovers new principles, dives into the mysteries of science, and begins to perceive that even on æsthetic grounds he must dip far be neath the surface in order to understand not only how, but why, he pleases others in his Avorks, even Avhen he may not please himself: how he may

INTRODUCTION.

. VIII sometimes fail to please others, even when he him self is satisfied. In these investigations the deepest powers of thought must be brought into play : the mind must be tutored ere it can properly compose or invent. Simple works of art may be produced once, or sel dom, by a stroke of native genius ; but the un taught genius is frequently unable to reproduce its OAvn work. But with the faculties of mind Avell taught, and the skilful hand well practised, the accomplished Artist will not only invent and com bine in infinite variety, but will do something to extend the limits of Art itself. These phases of Art present diversity of character according to the times and countries, — the nations and individuals, — the subjects and ideas Avith which they are connected. But they always employ the finest minds, — the choicest spirits of their respective eras.

Are such gifted men, then, to be honoured amongst us ? Have such men not in every age been found worthy of all honour? Do not the names of Apelles, Phidias, Raphael, M. Angelo,

INTRODUCTION.

. IX Bramante, Wren, and many others, attest it ? In old times : but are they now so honoured, especially in England ? The question is not new, and has been answered, Yes, and No. Art is great, intrinsically great. It may advance from rude beginnings, — develop itself from simple germs, — improve in its scope and in its details, — may become stationary, retrograde, degenerate, and recover itself again. Art is a life, not of one man but of generations : it is a history of mind and men. But one man can embrace in his career but a small portion of the long progress of art. Every artist must begin, and it is long before he can reach even the outskirts of high art. Can the patronage, the honour which is willingly and deservedly bestowed on the profession and the highest names in it, be indiscriminately lavished on the working majority ere they have at tained the eminence of fame ?

It is impossible : general patronage is all the majority can look to until the celebrity of some work raises the name of its author to public notoriety. Now, this working part of his career is of necessity the greater part of VOL. I. a X

INTRODUCTION.

. the life of the Artist, — and if he meets due honour in the latter half of his career, it is unreasonable to complain of neglect in the former portion when the pinnacles of fame were occupied by an older race. It may be disheartening, but it is not cruel : it can hardly be ordered otherwise. The man who shows most mental courage in persevering through long years of severe training, and whose strong heart braves the suffering of disappointment and delay, has already proved that force of mind which is the highest moral qualification of an accomplished Artist. The Author has been induced to make these observations in favour of a class Avhose talents and at tainments entitle them to a degree of social distinc tion to which they have not as yet been admitted in some of the most liberal countries of Europe.

Sympathizing deeply with their feelings, honouring their spirit of independence, and admiring their abilities ; — persuaded, moreover, of their high vo cation towards the good of mankind) by the power Avhich art confers on its gifted votaries of calling

INTRODUCTION.

. XI forth the noblest inspirations of which human na ture is capable ; — she offers her convictions to the reader with the hope that they may be considered as not without weight, even though recommended through the medium of a work of fiction. Craven Hill, Hyde Park, May 1854. E R R A T A . Vol. 1. Page 1 14, line 7, for " nepuno la sprezza — ma nepuno la vuole," read " nessuno la sprezza — ma nessuno la vuole." 150, „ 7, for " e pri scappano loro," read " e poi scappano loro."

Chapter I

Oh la vile chose et abjecte que lliomme I s'il ne s'dleve au-dessus de 1 'humanity. — Montaigne. That man of genius who thinks he can tamper with his glorious gifts, and for a season indulge in social excesses, stoop from his high calling to the dregs of earth, abandon himself to the stream of common life, and trust to his native powers to bring him up again ; — 0 believe it, he plays a desperate game ! — one that in nearly ninety-nine cases out of a hundred is fatal. — Mrs Jameson. LETTER FROM FRANCIS LOCKWOOD TO AMBROSE ARNOLD THE SCULPTOR. You asked me, during our late conversation, what was the reason of my sudden silence, and of the gravity of my manner after the cheerful intercourse of the happy evening which we spent together lately. VOL. I. B : I was unable to answer, and I left you dissatisfied with myself at my want of readiness to reply to my benefactor.

Yes, my revered teacher, you, to whom I owe all the insight I have yet gained into the recesses of Art, you have a right to question me ; and it is my duty to answer you freely. You will remember that the tenour of our conver sation had been directed to the philosophy of Art, and that you had enlarged in a manner peculiar to yourself, and delightful to me your attached scholar, upon the unknown, the unregistered feelings of the Artist, in inventing and carrying on to perfection any work worthy of a man of genius. It was, you said, but a tithe of the power of the mind that came to be exhibited before the public, in the shape of any given work of Art in any of its branches ; it was sad to think how the deep thought, the weary study, the frequent change and correction of ideas, which result in this or that picture or statue, are lost with regard to even those who take a true de light in Art's productions.

How doubly lost, then, to the vast, unreflecting multitude, who, charmed with the execution, dream not of the labour, or of the conflict of spirit and necessity, which the Artist is doomed to undergo in working for their super ficial pleasure. My unexplained sadness arose from the reflection, that all these struggles of the mind, which give the real value of his dearest labours to the Artist, should be lost to future schools; and in particular, that your own experience of what may be called the moral or inner soul of our profession should not be put on record for admirers, for such there will be, of your genius, yet unborn. In a word, that you would permit Erancis Lockwood, the humblest of your pupils, to write, for the benefit of posterity, all he has treasured up of your conversations, enriched with as much as you would kindly impart to him of the history of your life and of your professional career.

He knows the boldness of his request, as well as the arduous nature of the task ; he solicits it with reverence, he will execute it with affection : fearing that were the fife of one so celebrated to be undertaken by a less devoted pen, it would fail of meeting with that full justice which the heart of a grateful scholar can alone supply. F. L. : ANSWER FROM AMBROSE ARNOLD TO FRANCIS LOCKWOOD. It is with no common feelings that I reply, my dear pupil, to your kind and affectionate letter. You have touched with tenderness and delicacy on a topic which is usually one of the most irritating to those who have, like me, long passed the prime of life, and Avho see, with the sad infirmity of human nature, the inevitable goal to which they are ap proaching. I have long tried to master all such weakness, and have myself prepared a full narrative of the events of my chequered life, to which I have added here and there the remarks which naturally arise from my experience of good and evil, of for tune and misfortune, in the laborious career which I have followed.

You have full permission from me to make what use you think proper of the MS. Avhich I send en closed ; and I think that in intrusting this hitherto secret autobiography to the hands of my most at tached and most promising scholar, I am consulting at once the interest of my own credit and reputation as an Artist, and the reasonable wishes of one whom, at my age, I scruple not to call my last and mos t faithful friend. The difficult art of biography, how ever, is new to you ; and I request you to remember, in the little you may have of your own to add to the materials with Avhich I now furnish you, that I have a strong objection to the flatteries and minu tiæ of all sorts, with their insignificant and trifling details, so constantly found in the lives noAv daily published ; and that I beg you to do no more than fill up the outline I have draAvn.

I have had many and deep afflictions, wherein I have found the love and study of Art the most obvious consolation ; high in itself and glorious, but still more glorious in that it opens to its votaries still higher views of Glories beyond our reach. When the heart of man is sore, when his pride is humbled, when promises prove deceitful, and friend ship treacherous, then come the soothing handmaids of Art and Science to elevate the suffering mind : then the soul soars high above the reach of detrac tion, and by the exaltation of the intellectual facul ties which God has granted her, seizes a faint glimpse of that perfection at which she aims — feebly, per- : haps, but not in vain. This, my son, is the true spirit of Art ; this is the happiness of the Artist.... A. A. MANUSCRIPT OF ARNOLD. It is with small feelings of satisfaction that I en deavour to retrace the events of my earliest days, which were to me indeed days of little else but pri vation and sorrow.

My first recollections dwell on the image of a mother — a kind, beauteous, sweet tempered, loving mother, whose shade stands out in strong relief from the crowd of inferior beings by which she was surrounded. And then, my father. . . the httle I remember of him and of his associates is so dark, so forbidding, that I do not Avillingly allow my thoughts to rest on the feAV particulars which the lapse of years has suffered to remain im printed on my memory. In my youth', our existence was so precarious, and my mother, on whom all domestic cares were left to press with double weight from the absence of sympathy where she might most have looked for it, was so taken up with providing for our wants, that I went through the most precious years of life without anything that could be called education.

Now, when I look back to those dark days, I mar vel that I contrived to pick up the little instruction that I did in a state of alternate profusion and penury. For when money came in, there was pro fusion, extravagance so excessive, that sums which, well invested, might have made a decent provision for us, were squandered immediately in reckless prodigality, to be speedily followed by a recurrence of absolute want. The periods of distress, alas, were far more frequent and more lasting than those of affluence, if such it could be called in our un steady circumstances. Of all the painful feelings which the retrospect of those melancholy days brings back to my heart, the necessity, the absolute necessity, in candour and in truth, of casting blame, deep blame, on the con duct of a parent, is the most agonizing.

At my present age, knowing, as a man should do, his own character, I feel that had my father been such as some parents are — such, in a word, as my mother deserved to meet with in a partner, I could have loved with the most devoted affection, I could have : sacrificed my life for such a parent. My heart yearns for the power of bestowing upon his remem brance the strong and sincere tribute of affection of which I feel that it is capable : it sinks into the lowest depths of humiliation, when I reflect that such affection is not due to the memory of him whom I ought to respect before all other men. This I was early sensitive enough to discover, and I brooded over the thought Avith grief and shame. But when I saw my mother, whose image was heaven to me, her only child, suffering under the rude maltreatment of her and my natural protector, — left to neglect, perhaps the least of her evils, and even to destitution, by him — my patience could bear it no longer, and I frequently fled the house for hours to weep alone, and exhaust in silence and in solitude the passion that would not be controlled.

In his joyous, or, more properly speaking, his riot ous moods, my father would be fond of me ; he would load me with caresses, and, had that long continued, would have spoiled me, considering what his habits were. He would teach me the, rudiments of the art in which he excelled : he would sit for hours with pleasure to see me attempt to model the plastic clay, or copy some bold design of his own in chalk upon the wall. My mother would look on in pleased, but fearful silence, ever delighted with the smallest symptom of returning love on his part exhibited to me or to herself. Yet the slightest interruption of these better moods, whether from the calls of his idle associates, or the temptations of pleasure, would put an end to the good so spar ingly begun. Grim want alone would make him work, and then, as I was usually called in to give the slight manual assistance in my power, I con trived to learn as it were by fits and starts some further principles of his art, which at leisure mo ments, and during my father's too frequent and long absences from his studio, I practised alone Avith portions of his refuse materials.

I could see that this steadiness in occupation gave the greatest pleasure to my poor mother which she was capable of enjoying. She encouraged me in my work, both as a means of forming my character to earnest la bour, which there was no need to tell me must be my portion through life, and as a chance of my becoming sufficiently capable in a short time to add something by my own industry to the scanty : resources of the family. Dear, anxious, partial mother! little did she know the long study, the severe practice, that are necessary for even a second rate proficiency in Sculpture. The more progress I made, the more I became convinced that, although I might ultimately succeed, years must be spent in toiling up the hill of manual dexterity, ere I could venture to give the reins to any freedom of imagination or of composition which I might haply possess.

I attended a drawing-class by no means of the first order, but where I learnt something from the occasional visits of an artist who had once been my father's friend, and who kindly paid particular at tention to me. At least after I had once begun, I never lost ground in my practice, and by degrees I advanced sufficiently in drawing to astonish my father by some specimens of my progress which accidentally fell under his eye. But it was too late ; a few years earlier, and he would have been proud of me, and would have done something to wards bringing my infant talent to perfection. Now, however, the capability was past : he no longer worked steadily himself, and he was daily plung ing himself and us more and more deeply in debt and destitution. We left one humble lodging after another, the present always more humble than the last, till finally illness and misery, in their most awful shape, beset our squalid abode.

My mother was pining away with grief, while I had but a bare nourishment. It is painful to me to dAvell upon this period of my life. I Avill pass over it as briefly as I can, though one dreadful scene remains so strongly en graven on my memory that I feel constrained to mention it to you. One evening I was sitting as usual with my mother in the loggia of our small house, Avhich, as is commonly the case in Italy, looked out upon a garden not belonging to us, but by which we profited in the delicious perfumes of its jessamines and orange-trees, and in the cool breeze agitated by its murmuring fountain. Oh, those happy moments ! too short for motherly affection, but long enough to give me a fixed love for all that is morally beautiful in woman, together with the persuasion that such alone should be the beauty that inspires the Sculptor's art.

Judge, then, of my disagreeable surprise, Avhen, as I was listening with love to the simple tales with which _ she would ever amuse and instruct me — feeling as I did already, even at my young age, the soft in fluence of that virtue which it was her constant endeavour to instil into me — I heard the voice of my father calling to me : " Ambrogino — boy, where are you ? Come down ! come to your work, and learn ! Why sit you there, moping over saintly books ? Come to the studio, and leam to be a man ! Show your genius, ragazzo ! and leave all the stuff your mother teaches you to priests and fools !" Sudden as the interruption was — for I knew not that my father was in the house — I yet knew the sharp tones of that voice too well to dare to dis obey : besides, I did not dislike the labour of the studio, when my father Avas in a humour to impart to me the knowledge of his art.

I hoped, too, by pleasing him with my proficiency, to draw off his attention from my poor mother, who always suffered, directly or indirectly, when her husband was ex cited. I immediately repaired to his presence. My mother, moved perhaps by some misgivings, followed me, and we reached the door together. We opened it, and passed the threshold at the same moment. My father was sitting in a careless atti tude, and apparently in rather a bad temper, before his unfinished group in clay of Hylas and the Nymphs, which was placed, half-fashioned into shape, upon a pedestal before him. He had the in strument used for moulding in his hand, and in wayward mood was dashing little bits of clay about the room. On a raised platform on his left hand, was placed in a recumbent position, her pose for one of the nymphs, a woman whose bold and fear less air would at any time have terrified me, naturally timid and broken by ill-treatment as I was, but whose loose and scanty dress, or rather undress, showed plainly that she was there in the capacity of what is called in artist's phrase, " the living model."

My mother, indignant at seeing the company to which my father would have introduced me, and knowing moreover the woman at first sight to be one notorious for profligacy even among the de graded class to which she belonged, drew back in unutterable disgust. Whether she said anything or not to irritate her unhappy husband, I never knew ; but as she pulled me forcibly backward through the : door, my father started forward and seized me violently by the shoulder. I fell, fell at the feet of that horrid Avoman, whose diabolical laugh long sounded in my ears as the cry of an evil spirit. " Hai tu dunque paura del nudo, poveretto," cried the repulsive creature — for repulsive she seemed to me, young and handsome though she was — as half-rising from her recumbent attitude, and Avithout the slightest attempt at any arrangement of her thin drapery, she made a movement as if to approach me ; when my mother, goaded almost to frenzy, and gaining the courage that virtue insulted feels in the presence of vice, stepped forward and dragged me by main force into her apartment.

My father's rage was ungovernable — the last thing I saw Avas his arm uplifted, I knew not against whom, — but luckily it only fell, though with Herculean force, upon the half-shaped mass before him. Whether he meant to wreak his vengeance on the inanimate clay or not, may be doubtful, but having given the first blow, he now flew at it with redoubled violence, and soon reduced the lifeless mass, which was to have brought a large sum to his family, into a hundred fragments. Work was at an end. I soon after heard him go out, followed by his worthless companion, and the sequel did but too well show into what society he must subsequently have fallen. My mother, in the deepest grief, clasped me to her bosom, called me her dearest, her beloved, her virtuous child, invoked heaven's blessings on my head, with prayer that I at least might be strengthened to shun evil company and to follow in the ways of peace.

Albeit not un used to such trying scenes, in which her own trust in God and consciousness of pure and moral con duct alone supported her, she was now fairly Avorn out : she sank into a stupor, which was but a relief to nature. I cannot recall those moments without a feeling of burning shame — but even that came to an end. My anxiety about my mother occupied me all night, and I watched the bright stars sink into early dawn with the sad prospect of passing another day, and perhaps many days, like the last. Suddenly, as I sat by my mother's couch, I was roused by a loud and fearful knocking at the door. The sun had not risen ; my father had often returned home equally late : again louder knocks and cries. Our : servant ran in and cried, " Signora, ecco gli sbirri! " and in a few minutes some men in official costume had entered the lower apartment.

I ran down stairs only in time to see the corpse of my father brought in on a plank, and placed in that studio, fraught Avith such harrowing recollection to me, where I had last seen him living. I cannot continue this dreadful theme. He had but just breathed his last, having been stabbed in a drunken broil among the lowest haunts of the Trastevere. Through the long lapse of years, how vividly arises the dread remembrance of that a-wful night before my shrink ing soul !

Chapter II

The composition of works of art, or of science, shows a prevalence of the individual factor ; but the artist and man of science know that their most individual works are expressions of a common perception, and are therefore independent of self. — Bunsen. My poor mother, although she must long have fore boded some such catastrophe, was completely over whelmed by this dreadful event. Well aware as I was of the penury of her resources, I was happily unconscious of the daily, hourly cares, entailed by the want of money upon that fond parent. I was ignorant that the provision for our very sustenance often depended entirely on her labours, which were carried on and maintained through hours of bochly suffering, studiously concealed from the child of her affection, lest his education, the prospect of which weighed as heavily at her heart as the struggle for VOL. I. C : his subsistence, should suffer diminution or neglect.

Dear, loving mother ! Ah, when I bent over that wasted form, that pale and care-worn countenance, half-stilled in the stupor of unconsciousness, my distress seemed too great for endurance : I wept, I cried aloud, until roused from the torpor of her senses by the voice of her darling child, she pressed me to her bosom, but spoke not, ever and anon re lapsing into this state of insensibility. So passed many — I know not how many weary hours — until the entrance of Brigida, our only attendant, a peasant woman from the Abruzzi, who had faith fully served my mother for years, and had nursed me from infancy, roused me from my grief. She told me in plain terms that my mother must be left to repose, or she would be unequal to procure all that was necessary for the burial of the dead, or even to provide the sustenance of another day for the living !

Heartstricken at these Avords, and at my own inability to help or succour her, I rushed in despair from the house. Young and inexperienced as I was, I knew not where to turn ; I bent my steps mechanically towards the banks of the Tiber, seeking to avoid every face I knew, lest I should be betrayed to repeat the dread fact of my father's untimely end. I suppose I must have walked fast. I found myself at the door of our old friend Vitelli. I hesitated whether to go in or not, and lingered some time near the entrance. I reflected that of all the friends my father had, and in his prosperity they were not few, Vitelli was the only one of whom my mother entertained a good opinion. Indeed he had befriended her on more than one occasion ; and my father himself esteemed his talent and his friendly disposition so highly, that he had accepted his generous offer to instruct me in drawing without any remuneration until I should be capable of modelling in my father's studio.

Vitelli was older than my father, and had seen his whole career. He had taken a fancy to me as a child, and had given me lessons more as a parent than as a master. Though I had never as yet been under the necessity of asking his advice on any but subjects of art, I had full confidence in his good sense and willing ness to serve my mother and myself in any point connected with our future reduced condition in life. I entered the arcfnvay, and mounted the long, steep, stone staircase that led to his apartment. I knew _ that at this hour I should find him there, and I had no desire, in my then depressed state of mind, to encounter the young men whom I might expect to find working in his studio. As soon as the old man heard my voice upon the threshold, he came out to meet me, and seeing that I was in a state of great emotion, he took me kindly by the hand, and made me sit down with his family.