Chapter XII: Magnani

Nothing is so mortifying as to have believed, though it were only for a single hour, in the reality of a romantic, intoxicating adventure, and to discover that you have simply been dreaming an absurd dream. Each new reflection in which our young artist indulged cooled his brain and led him back to the dismal field of probabilities. Upon what foundation had he built so many castles in Spain? Upon a glance which he had doubtless misinterpreted, and upon a remark which he must have misunderstood. All the convincing arguments which offered a flat contradiction to his extravagant conceit stood like a mountain in his path, and he felt that he was falling back from heaven to earth.

"I am very foolish," he said to himself, "to give all my thoughts to a problematical pair of eyes and to unintelligible words from a woman whom I do not know, and whom consequently I do not love, when I have far more important matters on hand. I must go and see if this marquis did not deceive me, and if everybody really considers that my paintings show genius in default of science. And yet," he continued, as he left the grotto, "there is something that savors of mystery at the bottom of all this, none the less. How does this marquis know me, when I never saw him? How does it happen that he accosted me without hesitation, with such familiarity, and called me by my Christian name, as if we were old friends? To be sure, he may have been at some window, or in a church, or on the public square on the day I walked through the city with my father; or when I was looking at the aërial gardens of the Semiramis who employs me, he may have been in one of those boudoirs, apparently so tightly closed, whose windows look in that direction, and where he is allowed, doubtless, to go and sigh hopelessly for her lovely capricious eyes."

Michel walked through the crowd, and attracted no one's attention. His features were not known, although his name had been on many lips, and people talked freely of his work in his very ears.

"That is promising," said some.

"He still has much to learn," said others.

"There is much imagination and good taste; it pleases the eye and interests the mind."

"True, but some of the arms are too long, and the legs too short; the foreshortening shows extreme ignorance; the figures are making impossible gestures."

"Agreed, but graceful, none the less. I tell you that this boy, for they say he is a mere child, will go a long way."

"He is a child of our city."

"Indeed! well, he will go around it and no farther," retorted a Neapolitan.

From first to last Michelangelo Lavoratori heard more kindly praise than bitter criticism; but he felt many thorns while plucking many roses, and he realized that success is a sweetmeat in which there is a plentiful supply of gall. He was depressed at first; then, folding his arms across his breast, and contemplating his work, without listening farther to the opinion of others, he took account of its merits and defects with an impartiality which triumphed over his self-love.

"They are all right," he said. "It promises, but pays nothing in advance. I have already made up my mind to destroy these canvases when I store them in the storerooms of the palace, and I will do better hereafter. I have made an experiment upon myself, which I do not regret, although I am not very well satisfied with it; but I shall know how to profit by it, and whether this undertaking is favorable to my fortunes or not, it shall be to my talent."

Having recovered all his lucidity of thought, and reflecting that he was not one of those patrons who assisted the poor by purchasing a card of admission, Michel determined to abstain from watching the fête and to walk about alone in some quiet corner of the palace until he felt absolutely calm and disposed to go home and to bed. His reason had returned, but the fatigue of the preceding days had left a touch of feverish excitement in his blood and in his nerves. He bent his steps toward the Casino, whence he could go out upon the natural terraces of the mountain.

The whole of that magnificent abode was illuminated and adorned with flowers; the public were allowed free access to every part; but, after once making the tour of the upper floors, the crowd ceased to go thither. The bulk of the spectacle, the dancing, music, bustle, youth and love, were below, in the great temporary ball-room. No one remained in the upper galleries, on the graceful staircases, or in the vast apartments, save an occasional majestic or mysterious group of solemn personages discussing affairs of state, or great coquettes collecting and detaining by their refined conversation certain chosen men around their chairs.

Toward midnight all those who had not a direct interest in the affair, or were not enjoying themselves, took their leave, and, the concourse becoming less numerous, the fête was more enjoyable and more beautiful to the eye.

Michel reached the princess's aërial garden by a small secret staircase. At that elevation the breeze was very cool, and he felt exceedingly refreshed and comfortable as he sat on the top step of that staircase, near a fragrant flower-bed. The garden was deserted. Through the silver gauze curtains he could see the interior of the princess's apartments, also deserted. But Michel was not long alone; Magnani joined him.

Magnani was one of the handsomest young men among the mechanics of the city. He was industrious, intelligent, high-spirited, and honest. Michel did not attempt to combat the friendly feeling he inspired, and in his company forgot the embarrassment and distrust which he had felt from the beginning with all the workmen with whom his father's position had compelled him to associate. He suffered, poor boy, after years of leisure, to be thrown with young men who were inclined to be a little rough and noisy, who reproached him for looking down on them, and whom he made vain efforts to look upon as his equals.

He confessed everything to Magnani, whom he saw to be the most intelligent of them all, and in whose hearty outspokenness there was nothing offensive or tyrannical. He confided to him all the ambitions, all the weaknesses, all the intoxicating emotions, all the sufferings, in a word, all the little secrets of his young heart. Magnani understood him, excused him and talked sensibly to him.

"You are not wrong in my eyes, Michel," he said; "inequality of rank is the law of society; everyone wishes to rise, no one wishes to descend. If it were otherwise the people would remain in the brute stage. But the people aspire to grow, thank God! and they do grow, whatever may be done to prevent them. I myself strive to succeed, to possess something, to reach a point where I shall not always have to obey, in a word, to be free! But whatever happiness I may attain, it seems to me that I ought not to forget the point from which I started. Unjust chance compels many men to remain in poverty who deserve as well as I, perhaps much better, to escape from it. That is why I shall never despise those whom I leave behind me, and shall not cease to love them with all my heart and aid them with all my power.

"I know that you shun your brothers in rank without despising them, without hating them; you do not enjoy yourself with them, and yet you would do them a favor on occasion; but beware! there is a touch of ill-advised pride in this sort of patronizing affection, and, although the day may come when it will be all right, remember that at the present time it may well seem misplaced. You have more intelligence and more knowledge of life than most of us, I agree; but is that a very real superiority? Will not any poor devil who happens to have more wisdom, virtue, or courage than you be entitled to consider himself your equal at least, even if his speech is abrupt and his language vulgar?

"It will happen more than once in your career as an artist that you will have to endure patiently the impertinence of the rich; indeed, if I am not mistaken, an artist's life is likely to be a constant struggle to shelter his individual merit from the contempt of the imaginary merit attached to birth, power, and wealth. However, you are aiming for that social level, without fear or shame; you accept the challenge in advance, you propose to measure strength with the bitter vanity of the great; how does it happen, pray, that that seems less offensive and less unpleasant than the harmless familiarity of the humble? I could more readily excuse the affront of an ignorant man than that of a coxcomb, and I should feel more at ease amid the fisticuffs of my companions, than when exposed to the graceful witticisms of my alleged superiors.

"Is it ennui that drives you away from us? Is it because we have few ideas and little skill in expressing them? But perhaps we have something else which would interest you if you understood it. The simplicity which characterizes us has its noble side, which should arouse respect and emotion in those who have lost it. Is it the faults or the vices that are found among us that make you sick at heart? But are the upper classes exempt from these same vices, which it pains me to see, and which I am constantly on my guard against? Because they conceal them better, or because in them debauchery of the mind colors and quickens that of the body, does it follow that their vices are more estimable? In vain do they, the fortunate ones of the age, cover their tracks; their sins, their crimes become known to us, and often, almost always in fact, they seek their confederates or their victims among us.

"Go on, Michel, work, hope, rise, but let it not be at the expense of the spirit of justice and kindness; for in that case, although you might grow in the opinion of some, you would descend proportionately in the esteem of the majority."

"All that you say is true and wise," Michel replied, "but is the conclusion well drawn? Ought I to pursue the career of art, and at the same time associate exclusively, or at least by preference, with these mechanics among whom fate willed that I should be born? If you reflect, you will see that that is inconsistent, that the great works of art are in the hands of the rich, that they alone own, purchase, and order pictures, statues, urns, carvings, and engravings. To be employed by them, one must needs live with them and as they live; otherwise oblivion, obscurity and poverty are the lot of genius. Our ancestors, the noble artists of the Renaissance and the Middle Ages, were artists and artisans at once. Their position was well-defined, and was more or less brilliant according to their talent. To-day all is changed. Artists are more numerous and the rich are less powerful and magnificent. Taste has become corrupted, the Mæcenases are no longer connoisseurs. Fewer palaces are built; for one great collection that is formed, thirty are sold piecemeal to pay debts, or because the heirs of the great families prefer cash to monuments of genius. It is no longer enough, therefore, to be a man of superior talent in order to find employment and honor in one's profession. Chance, and, even more frequently, intrigue, cause some to float, while others, who it may be are of far greater worth, are submerged.

"However, I do not trust to chance, and my pride refuses to stoop to intrigue. What shall I do, then? Shall I wait until some collector's eye is attracted by a decorative figure, broadly conceived, on sized canvas, and he is so impressed by it that he comes next day to the wineshop to hunt me up and order a picture? Such good fortune may occur once in a hundred times; but even then, on the day when it occurs to me, I shall owe my bread to the patronage of the rich man, who is beginning to be interested in me. Sooner or later I must bow before him and beg him to recommend me to others. Would it not be better for me, at the earliest possible moment, as soon as I am sure of myself, to quit the ladder and the apron, to assume the external aspect of a man who does not beg, and to present myself, with my head erect, among the rich? If I go out of the wineshop arm-in-arm with the merry knights of the saw and trowel, it is evident that I cannot enter the palace as a guest, but as a paid workman; and at this moment, if I should venture to accost one of these lovely women and ask her to dance, I should be spat upon and turned out of doors within a quarter of an hour. The time must come, however, when they will make overtures to me, and when my talent will be a title capable of contending on equal terms with that of duke or marquis for the triumphs of this world. But only on condition that my habits and my manners bear the stamp and seal of aristocracy. I must be what they call a man of good breeding; otherwise it would avail me nothing to be a man of genius; no one would believe it.

"I shall not make my way as an artist, therefore, except by destroying the artisan in me. I must succeed in becoming the free possessor of my own works, and in selling them as an owner does, instead of executing them like a day-laborer. Well! for that I must have reputation, and in these days reputation does not go about looking for an artist in his garret; he is obliged to acquire it himself by his own exertions, consorting with those who award it, demanding it as a right and not imploring it as alms. Tell me, Magnani, how I am to escape this dilemma! And yet it pains me terribly, I assure you, to think that I must in some sense deny the race of my fathers, and that I must submit to be accused of idiocy and impudence by men whose brother and friend I feel that I am. You see that I must go away from a country where my father's popularity would make this separation more offensive to others and more painful to myself than elsewhere. I came here to perform a duty--to expiate my heedlessness at Rome; but when my task is done, I must return thither, and from there travel the world over, in the disguise, perhaps premature, of a free man. If I do not do it, farewell to my whole future; I may as well renounce it to-day."

"Yes! yes! I understand," said Magnani; "you must set yourself free at any price. The journeyman's work is slavery; the work of an artist is the title of manhood. You are right, Michel; it is your right, consequently your duty and your destiny. But how dismal and cruel the destiny of an intelligent man is! One must cast off his family, leave his native land, act a sort of comedy to induce strangers to accept him as one of themselves, assume a mask in order to receive the laurel wreath, take up arms against the poor who condemn him and the rich who are loath to receive him! Why, it is horrible! it is enough to disgust one with glory! In God's name, what is glory that one should purchase it at that price?"

"Glory, as it is commonly understood, is nothing at all, I agree," replied Michel, warmly, "if it is nothing more than the trifling noise a man may make in the world. Shame to him who denies his blood and sacrifices his affections to gratify his vanity! But glory, according to my conception, is not that! It is the manifestation and development of the genius one bears within oneself. In default of enlightened judges, warm admirers, stern critics, and even jealous detractors--in default of opportunity to enjoy all the advantages, to receive all the counsels, to undergo all the persecution which follow in the wake of renown--genius withers and dies in discouragement, apathy, doubt or ignorance of itself. Thanks to all the triumphs, all the struggles, all the wounds which await us in a lofty career, we acquire the power to make the most glorious use of our capabilities, and to leave a deep, ineffaceable, forever fruitful trace in the world of thought. Ah! he who truly loves his art desires glory for his works, not in order that his name may live, but that his art may not die. And what would it matter to me that I had not the art of my patron saint Michelangelo, if I should leave to posterity an anonymous work worthy to be compared to the _Last Judgment_! To make oneself talked about is more often a source of martyrdom than of intoxicating pleasure. The serious-minded artist seeks that martyrdom and endures it patiently. He knows that it is the harsh condition of his success; and his success, not in being applauded and understood by all, but in producing and leaving behind him something in which he himself has faith. But what is the matter, Magnani? You are sad, and you are not listening to me."