Chapters on Models, Part I [pp. 156-162]

CHAP TERS ON MODELS.
carried in his mother's arms, and held by her in the
positions desired for cherubs or more mundane in fants, sometimes to sing the nina nani to her baby
till it slept for pictures of sleeping innocents. As
Domenico grew there were demands upon his face
and figure for every subject which boyhood could per sonate; but artists most loved to paint him in his
pointed hat, gourd-shell, and sack pending jauntily
from his shoulders, and dangling upon his lamb-skin
jacket; in his red waistcoat and sash of deeper red,
blue breeches, white stockings laced up to his knees
with the leather thongs which fastened his moccasins
to his ankles at the same time. Portraits of him in this
costume are abundant; lots of sketches of him have
found their way into young ladies' drawing-books,
from memory, or stolen as he has been lounging on
the great stair, or playing noro with other peasant lads. No one who could paint or model, however
indifferently, saw him without exclaiming, "I should
like to make a study of that boy." Every pose,
movement, gesticulation, and expression, suggested
pictures; he seemed born, body and soul, a model.
And here I must trespass upon the patience of the
reader to relate a trifling incident which happened
in my own studio when I was alarmed for a moment
lest all these perfections, which I have so elaborately
described, had come to an untimely end. He was
posing to me for the picture of a hurdy-gurdy boy
asleep over his instrument; scene in London, a
monkey his companion, who was wide awake, and,
with his paw upon the handle of the instrument,
would himself have a turn at it. An old green
cloth covered the hurdy-gurdy; the boy's arms and
hands rested upon this, which was sustained upon
his knees, and his head rested upon his hands,
dreaming, let us suppose, of that far-away Italian
home which he had left to grind forth discordant
sounds in the streets of London, and pick up a
few pennies given in compassion, or to induce
him to put an end to the atrocious music. The
poor, wandering Savoyard is supposed to have received more kicks than pence, and had sat down disheartened and fallen dead asleep, pillowing his dark,
warm cheeks upon the soul-distracting musical machine. Such, at least, was the thought of the painter.
Domenico entered into the spirit of the personation
required of him with great earnestness, doing his
part to forward the picture to perfection, whatever
might be the shortcomings in my part of it-in
twenty minutes he was in a profound sleep. I had
mounted him on the model-stand which raised him
some four or five feet from the floor, and, as I
was wrestling with the difficulties of foreshortening
(which, by-the-by, is enough to break down any
ordinary constitution), I saw my model pitch forward
toward me, and fall head-foremost, instrument, cloth
and all, at the feet of my easel, his face and shoulders
buried under the debris. He did not stir. "Gracious
powers!" I inwardly exclaimed, holding my breath,
"has the poor boy broken his neck?" I was half
paralyzed with the thought, and stood motionless,
possessed by one of the most painful feelings I ever
endured in my life; a hundred ideas flashed through
my brain in a moment: if he were dead these sin gular people would perhaps say that I had killed
him-never believe it could have been an accident;
innocent as I was, and fond of Domenico, I should be
proclaimed his murderer. At best an awful suspi cion would rest against me by half the Roman
world. Great Heavens! what a terrible position!
Transfixed with these frightful fancies for twenty
seconds (which appeared an hour), I stooped, and
snatched with desperation the green cloth and a part
of the jacket away from his head. His eyes were
closed, his face calm and peaceful, a sweet smile
was on his lips. "If dead," I said, silently, "he
has suffered no pang, for there is no sign of distor tion." I took him by the arm and shoulders to lift
him up, when he opened his large eyes upon me
with a look of reproach for having disturbed his
siesta. I hope that the reader will believe me when
I assure him there is no exaggeration in this curious
incident, irrational as it may strike him or her. I
was as much surprised and staggered to reconcile
the possibility of such a circumstance as any one
can be by this recital of it. There was but one so lution that had the least color of reason in it: the
model must have fallen in such a manner that his
deep sleep was not interrupted-strange as it was.
I shall dwell no longer upon the many peculiari ties of Domenico. At thirteen, so great a favorite
had he become of the artists that he was fully occupied, and was the principal support of his widowed
mother and sisters. They had lodgings on the
ground-floor of a damp, dilapidated old house in
the Via Purificazione. It was getting into the hottest month of the spring when the unwholesome air
of their quarters, and the overtaxed endurance of the
model in close studios, brought on a slow fever, which,
neglected, progressed into a more malignant disease.
One morning the poor mother came to me to say
that her boy and chief support was in bed, and all
her means of living cut off save what Giacinta
earned, which was little now. She had not even the
means, she said, to buy the medicines which the doctor of the district had ordered. She had pawned her
coral beads, ear-rings, and Giacinta's best costume,
two weeks since, and the money was gone. "And,"
said she, "the Madonna has abandoned us to sickness and misery."
"Nay, good Rosa," said my wife, "you must not
talk so. We will see what can be done for you.
Here are a few lire; go and get the medicine, and I
will come to you later in the afternoon."
She went accordingly to see the lad, and brought
me back a discouraging report of him, and a sad
picture of the poverty and wretchedness of the place
where the family lived. Some better linen and softer
pillows were procured; the hard, rude bed made
easier; broths, jellies, and other comforts, sent daily
to the suffering model. Kind-hearted Rudolph Lehmann was as fond of the boy as myself, and engaged the best medical professor at his own expense
to see the patient and prescribe for him; but the
famous doctor could do nothing for him.
"I have been called in too late," he said; "the
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