THE STUDIO. "ARE you never going to eat anything, Leonard? Three times have I come to summon you to dinner, and now it has been cold these two hours. You really are injuring your health! If you would only take a biscuit and a glass of wine! There is nothing worse for you than fasting; you know what Dr.-- told you-Leonard you are not attending one bit to what I say!" "Yes I am, my dear; you—you were observing-Just reach me-no, the other brush-Yes, you were talking about-Stand a little farther back out of the light, there's a good girl-Doesn't the old monk's head come out splendidly, Mary? A little darker shade to the left, to throw the features forward-the light falling on the brow defined a little more clearly-and there we have him, living, breathing before us!" Reader, such a scene as the above, which the pencil of Goodall has so ably pourtrayed, is now daily enacting in many an obscure painting room in this great human hive. Talent of a very high order, if not positive genius, may be found striving to realize the ideal of the beautiful, which like some coy nymph still eludes the grasp of her pursuer, but in escaping only reveals new charms, and rivets still more closely the chains of that fascination by which the votary is enslaved. At this period of the year, artists generally are engaged in preparing their pictures for the various exhibitions which gladden, and sometimes, it must be confessed, fatigue the eyes of the amusement-seekers during the London season. It must be weary work, to paint for the public taste of such a nation of realists as England has become nowa-days. John Bull likes well enough to be considered a connoisseur; and when he has done the grand tour, and got through Italy, he can prate with considerable fluency about the pretty things he has seen; but we shall not begin to believe in his real power of appreciating the beautiful in art, until he is cured of his intense delight in causing to be multiplied the innumerable "portraits of a gentleman," or, in plain English, unmistakeable likenesses of himself, the veritable "J. B., Sir! rough and tough old John, at your service," refined and embellished up to the highest point of perfection his common sense will allow him to swallow. Ere we conclude, we must remark, with what very great pleasure we see so talented and successful an artist as Frederick Goodall devoting his powers to direct public attention to the toils and struggles of his less fortunate brethren, by such clever and interesting paintings as that from which our Engraving is taken. THE VILLA MARAVIGLIOSA. A PAINTER'S ADVENTURE. CHAPTER I. My friend Oliver, on his departure for Italy in the summer of 18, had faithfully promised to keep up a regular correspondence with me. A year had, however, elapsed without bringing any tidings of the fugitive, when one morning I received a note. It was from my friend, briefly announcing his return, and begging that I would come and spend that evening with him, tête-à-tête, in his studio. It was there that after supper he related to me the following nar- city; secondly, the hotel in which I lodged was a "In the streets of Genoa I encountered several of those wandering spirits of European literature to whom the physicians of taste recommend tours in Italy, in order that they may by this means be enabled in some measure to recruit their exhausted imaginations. To watch the antics of these hot-pressed heroes,' one would imagine they designed to carry off all the monuments of the country in their portmanteaus; they devour palaces, cathedrals, triumphal arches; they dine upon Carrara marble, and quench their thirst with the breezes of Ionia. They would have led one by their proceedings to suppose that we have no such thing as fresh air in England. As these gentlemen travel, not for the sake of any enjoyment derived from the act itself, but merely for the sake of having travelled, they, as it were, fill bladders with blue air, they carefully fold sunbeams in their pockethandkerchiefs, they stow away echoes of the murmuring waves in their portmanteaus and carpet-bags, and upon their return to England they pour out upon the public these rays, this blue air, these waves, these murmuring echoes, in all their amplifications; and under the titles of Tour,' or 'Journey,' or 'Summer Sketches,' or 'Winter Rambles,' they make their poor deluded countrymen swallow a sort of weak, frothy mixture, little intoxicating, it is true, but vapid and tasteless to the last degree. chanced to meet on the road, and adored her as a Madonna; in short, I played in Italy the part performed by Don Quixote in Spain. Will not Italy, some day or other, have also its Cervantes?" "I trust so, with all my heart," said I. My friend continued. "The possessor of the first gallery I desired to | fervid admiration before the first village girl whom I make acquaintance with, had just wedded his daughter to some grandee of the place; admittance was refused me. They were repairing the staircase of the second gallery, and I was requested to wait a few months, after which time it would be ready for my inspection. The owner of the third gallery, not being on friendly terms with the travelling English, accorded not to them the favour of its inspection. Three powerful motives of exclusion which might be expected, and which have existed ever since there have been such things as picture-galleries in Italy: the marriage of a daughter of the house, the repair of a staircase, and a prejudice against a class. "The reception I met with from the Count Æneas di Frontifero charmed me; and even at this present moment, I am ready to avow that his villa fully justified the title of Marvellous which it bore, although Piranesi had never honoured it with his exaggerating crayon. "At my very first visit the count showed a noble anxiety to throw open for me the doors of his gallery, the pictures of which were shrouded in a sort of dim, uncertain, yet voluptuous obscurity. Curtains of a very pale green hue diffused over the room a uniform shadowy tint, imparting to the attentive soul that mystical religious feeling one experiences while wandering through the aisles of an ancient cathedral. Under the influence of this 'dim mysterious light,' and the sensations it called forth in the spectator's mind, the severe works of the Roman school no longer displeased through their insufficiency of colour, while those of the Venetian school seemed thus to acquire fresh beauties, no longer dazzling the eye at the expense of the judgment, by their too vivid brilliancy." "I departed, then, from Genoa for Florence, having as yet admired but the blue air, and having heard but the murmuring wave. Well, I arrived safely at Florence. The Count di Frontifero, to whom I bore letters of introduction, was not so proud as are the generality of Italian signors. He boasted not a descent from Hercules, like the Este family, nor yet from Mars, like many other Florentine houses; he merely traced a descent, as he with much candour assured me, from Æneas; a name of which, through a yet more laudable modesty, he assumed but the initial. He signed his name, Æ. Frontifero. Although he held not from the succession of Æneas his beautiful Villa Maravigliosa, situated at some leagues distance from Florence upon the Arno, it is no less true that this superb property had belonged "In short, Oliver, you were enchanted at the result from time immemorial, (but not before Æneas, how-of your first visit to the Count di Frontifero?" ever,) to the Frontifero family, who prided itself u f upon "And the more so, because, as he informed me having given three popes to the Church, six gonfali- later, I had enjoyed, by special favour, the liberty of onieri to the city of Florence, and an incomparable strolling alone through his gallery, and of being left amateur to the fine arts,-this incomparable ama- to examine it in its most minute details, unshackled teur being none other than the Count Æneas di Fron- with the officious cares of a cicerone. My eulogiums, tifero himself. however, amply repaid him for his complaisance; I actually exhausted upon him my vocabulary of terms of admiration;- Beautiful! most beautiful! lovely! delicious! sublime! heavenly! transporting!' cried I. At length, I could praise no more; in a sort of wild delirium of admiration, I stamped upon the floor, I was in convulsions! Carried away by a blameable excess of enthusiasm, I was upon the point of springing on the count's shoulders. His great age, and the name of Æneas, alone restrained me. Uni "He resided all the year round at his Villa Maravigliosa, renowned for its gardens, its woods, and its waters; but above all for its splendid and matchless gallery of pictures. "This single word, 'villa,' arouses in the memories of those who have gazed in admiration on the colossal views of Piranesi, certain gigantic structures compared with which Buckingham Palace or the Exchange appear but as children's toys; but when one makes acquaintance with the Villa Pamphili-versal custom, however, was upon my side; foreigners now the Villa Doria-the Villa Corsini, and the Villa Ferroni, only through the designs of this artist, one can scarcely imagine that these apparently princely residences are severally composed but of a very common-place sort of dwelling-house, of a garden with a considerable quantity of stagnant water, because water costs nothing at Rome, and of a crowd of little tombs, for the simple reason that in digging the Roman soil, it is easier to find tombs than to avoid doing so. "But I was then," continued Oliver, "under the coup de soleil of enthusiam. In my besotted blindness I denominated the most disguised of trees, an Italian pine; a huge, mis-shapen mass of marble was dignified by me with the title of palace; I knelt in never praised in other terms, save those I myself employed; he was content. In order to be absolutely ravished, I should have wished to see the pictures under, if not a better, at least a stronger light; but I moderated this desire, anticipating a second visit, and happy in having thus procured such a fruitful source of pleasure for the duration of my stay in Florence. "Prepare,' said the Count di Frontifero to me, as we reached the last painting in the gallery; 'prepare to contemplate the most precious work of my collection, that one which, I can assure you, I display not to all eyes.' "A Tintoretto?' I suggested. "A Raphael?' cried I. "Better than that, my good sir!' "Better than Raphael?' "My daughter!-see!' "So saying, the count drew aside a curtain, and I beheld a young girl occupied in making a copy of Titian's Venus. "She is named Venus, as well as her model,' said the count. "The young girl rose from her seat. "She is worthy of the name,' cried I. "The Signora Venus blushed, and begged that I would give her my opinion on the copy she was making." "And so you fell in love, my poor Oliver, I'll engage?" I know of an excellent hotel, at once elegant and commodious, situated only a few paces from this gate. You will there be well fed, admirably lodged, and at a reasonable rate. I would insist upon your taking up your quarters there, independently of the great desire I have of possessing you for a neighbour.' "Oh, count!' I replied, 'I shall only be too happy in lodging so near your palace; it is I, on the contrary, who ought to feel deeply grateful at seeing a man of your birth, your rank, your fortune, your talents, lowering himself so far as to seek a lodging for so humble an individual as myself. I shall proceed at once to the hotel you have named.' "The sign is Brutus sacrificing his Son.' "Beautiful country!' exclaimed I, in the fulness of my heart, as I took leave of the noble Count Æneas, even the very signs of Italy are pictorial moralities!' "I forgot to tell you one thing," added Oliver, before terminating this first portion of his narrative; "the Count di Frontifero wore a red velvet coat.' And I, dear reader, had forgotten to tell you one thing of far greater importance, as the sequel will show. Oliver possessed a fortune of two thousand a-year, and painted from taste, and not necessity. Madly in love. O Italy!' thought I, land of the sun, of art, and of beauty! Nature created beauty for Italy, and deformity for other countries!' What Sabine locks had the Signora di Frontifero! What a Tuscan eye! What a Volscian neck! What holy, saint-like hands! What a Campagnian skin! What grace in the tournure! Odious,' murmured I, while lost in admiration of the fair girl, a hundred times odious the recollection of English women, and, above all, of London women!' My dear fellow, there is not a single Londoner whose form would bear the test of sculpture,-who has any style. They are pretty "I PUT up, as I have already said, at the hostelry women, that's all. And who is not a pretty woman, of Brutus sacrificing his Son. It was not, I am comin these days of false ringlets and marvellous cos-pelled to own, one of the best houses in Italy; but metics? To complete her conquest, the Signora Venus spoke English as well as Italian." "She was a prodigy!" exclaimed I. "She was an angel! "We proceeded, afterwards, to breakfast together, under an odoriferous bower, in one of the most delicious gardens in the world. English trees are mere canaille, compared to these princes of vegetation. What poetry is there in the flowers of Italy! Our roses and jessamines actually infect the air with a disagreeable odour, when compared to these flowers. Oh, Florence, happily named of cities, the City of Flowers! I speak not now of thy fruits. Much in the same frame of mind as the Prince Carraccioli, who considered a Neapolitan moon to be warmer than a London sun, so did I find a piece of Florentine lemon-peel far superior in flavour to an English pine, or bunch of hot-house grapes. In a word, filled with admiration, enthusiasm, and love, at the close of this first and delicious interview, I took leave of the Count di Frontifero, and his charming daughter, the Signora Venus. Both accompanied me to the gate of the Villa Maravigliosa, making me promise to come and see them again at an early opportunity. “As I was making my parting bow, the Count di Frontifero said to me- The tie of art is that of friendship. Permit me to give you one word of advice, however intrusive it may appear. Florence is a ruinous place for foreigners; where is the necessity of your ruining yourself? Pardon me, once more, for drawing your attention to these common-place affairs of life; but life, for all that, must be supported. Now, CHAPTER II. then, I could perceive from my windows the towers of the Villa Maravigliosa, a circumstance which, in my eyes, amply compensated for any little inconveniences of lodging and attendance. After this, nothing was easier for me than to fancy that Domenichino had occupied my bed-room, and that I drank from the water-pot of Paul Veronese. My landlord was not a man likely to destroy my chimera with his kitchenknife. Quite the reverse; for when, one day, I happened to say to him, "Signor Policastro, might it not have been at your house that Bramante, finding himself unable to settle the amount due for a plate of French beans, for which one of your ancestors charged rather too high a figure, drew upon the wall a representation of this identical plate of beans, acquitting himself of the debt in this picturesque fashion?' 66 6 'Pray show me,' continued I, anxiously, this recollection of a great man!' "Hereupon, the Signor Policastro muttered some unintelligible words, throwing all the blame upon the French, the universal spoilers of Italy. Beyond a doubt, the French had carried off both painting and wall in a baggage waggon. "Besides his love for the arts, my landlord possessed a very pretty talent for cookery. My dear friend, nothing in my eyes equals Italian. I smiled with disdain whenever my thoughts reverted to English, or even French cookery, destitute alike of poetry and cheese!-cookery of a declining age, fit only to produce portrait and still-life painters, and a host of similar diseases. But true historical cookery is to be found in thy land, O matchless Italy! Cheese every where; cheese in the vegetables, cheese in the viands, cheese in the fruits, cooked cheese in cheese! "Not a link is wanting in the chain of our national glory,' cried Signor Policastro, one day, as he placed before me six dishes, each containing cheese. "Not a link, my Policastro,' assented I, 'unless it be the art of mingling cheese with coffee.' "I leave, for a while, the Signor Policastro, to return to his noble neighbours, the Count Eneas di Frontifero and his graceful daughter. My visits to the Villa Maravigliosa became more frequent. At the end of two months, I was like one of the family. My passion for the fair Signora Venus augmented in the same proportion as did my enthusiasm for her father's gallery, the cookery of my landlord Policastro, and my delight in the blue air and golden sun-beams of matchless Italy! "Truth, however, obliges me to confess, that the count, under various pretences, had, by degrees, interdicted me the entrance of his gallery. smoke for some time in silence, gazing into the fire with an abstracted air. "Do you know," said he, at length breaking silence, "what I was thinking of just then?" I, of course, replied in the negative. "I was thinking of the analogy which exists between love and drinking. The first sip from a glass of hot gin-and-water, is like the first kiss of love, pure and unalloyed enjoyment; and though we may afterwards take deep draughts from either fountain, that first kiss is never equalled! There's philosophy for you, old fellow! But I see you are impatient for the continuation of my tale. “As you may imagine, or, at least, as you ought to imagine, I was rather anxious to learn what sort of a reputation my future father-in-law possessed in the country, previous to joining my lot to that of his daughter. The villa is a town, and each house of this town, hotel, shop, workroom, depends upon the villa. I leave you to judge whether or not the tenants spoke well of the Count di Frontifero, their proprietor. But the occurrence of an unlooked-for event furnished me with the means of more directly appreciating the character and manners of my father-in-law that was to be. "One evening when alone in my room, I was engaged ins ketching from a bust after the antique; "Unlike the old saying, the course of my true love glided along as smoothly as can well be imagined; ours was quite a lyrical love affair. I would address myself to her in a canzona of Petrarch's; she would reply to me in a sonnet. As you may easily imagine, I did not, after this, declare my flame in a drawing-I heard a slight noise, apparently proceeding from room, seated upon a prosaic cane-bottomed chair, between a chimney-piece and a bell-rope. No, nothing so common-place, I can assure you; we made love, warm, ardent, Italian love, mingled with flowers and poison, in the gardens of the Villa Maravigliosa, full of ruins, cypress-trees, and ancient tombs. Upon the fortunate day on which I whispered an avowal which made her as red as a laurel rose, she was surrounded with funereal stones. Beneath her feet I read : "DIIS MANIBUS.' Her hand lay upon this inscription: "AELIAE ROMANAE CONIVGI DULCISSIMAE.' 6 one side of the apartment. It had just struck twelve. The dogs of the neighbourhood had ceased barking, and the serenaders had also ceased to mingle their wood notes wild' to those of their canine companions; a universal calm reigned throughout the house and offices. Guided by the sound which apparently proceeded from two persons in close conversation, I crept softly to the wall, and through a crevice in the lath-and-plaster partition I perceived my landlord, Signor Policastro, lighting in the Count di Frontifero, who entered the room and seated himself in a large arm-chair. Policastro placed the lamp on a table, and seated himself likewise; he then opened a volume, which by its form, and the grease spots by which it was stained, I recognised as the day-book. The count took a pen, and after And when I impressed my lips upon her brow-having gone through its pages with a gravity which the antique method of securing a gentle reply-I read above her head : : "SUB ASCIA DEDICAVIT.' "Let not thy modesty, O my friend, take the alarm; soon were to be celebrated my nuptials with the Signora Venus di Frontifero." "And so you have married her?" I hastily interrupted, "and the gallery is yours, and the beautiful Villa Maravigliosa-" "Patience, patience, my friend; but, before we proceed any further, let's have another brew of gin and water-true artistic nectar." The brew completed, Oliver filled his glass, and drank; after which he proceeded to charge an enormous German pipe, the companion of many an artistic pilgrimage, and after lighting, he continued to alarmed his companion, prepared to write. 666 |