DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.19775#0017
VILLA
ALBANI.
Winckelmann, who was of a simple, open nature,
took a liking to the man, talked freely of his
journey, and displayed a gold medal given him
by Maria Theresa, and admitted having a con-
siderable sum of money in his possession. The
stranger was a certain Francesco Archangeli, a
malefactor who had been condemned to death,
but whose sentence had been commuted to
banishment. One evening as Winckelmann
sat writing in his room, working on the last
references of his forthcoming book, Archangeli
came in, and, with many protestations of regret,
announced his impending departure. He begged
the professor, as a last favour, to show him his
gold medal once more, in order that he might
take away a final remembrance of it. Winckel-
mann willingly agreed, and while he was stooping
down to take it from his trunk the villain stole up
behind him and tried to strangle him with a cord.
He resisted desperately, and almost succeeded in
throwing ofF the assassin, who thereupon drew a
knife and stabbed him in five places. Archangeli
then fled, without, however, obtaining possession
of the medal. The unfortunate man succeeded
in arousing help, and a doctor was fetched,
only to pronounce at least two of the wounds to
be mortal. Winckelmann lived long enough to
make his will, and the register of the tribunal
records that he died with the firmness of a hero
and the piety of a Christian, resigning himself
without lamentation and pardoning his murderer.
The latter was caught, convicted, and broken on
the wheel. His victim was buried in Rome amid
universal mourning, and his bust was placed
in the Pantheon with an inscription recording
all he had done for the cause of art, while
another has been placed by Prince Torlonia, in
the garden that he loved.
The greatest service he rendered to art was
to take the antique once more into the province
of the artist. Hitherto only antiquaries had
written about it, it was only looked upon as
interesting from a historical or mythological point
of view, but Winckelmann set it forth at once
as the standard and guide, which all artists
should set before them.
The Cardinal lived for eleven years longer,
and died at eighty-nine. In 1868 the villa was
bought by Prince Torlonia, who has spent enor-
mous sums on keeping it up, in improving it,
and in repairing the ravages which time was
beginning to make.
It is a fortunate thing that the great Cardinal's
famous collection has not been dispersed, but
remains a wonderful monument of beauty and
interest, and of the magnificent liberality of those
great art patrons of the past. Small wonder if men
grew selfish, so shut away from the world, and
that the cutting of a cameo, the authenticity of a
bronze, became all-important. The world has
crept nearer, the houses have risen up all round
and shut out much of the beautiful view ; but
sitting out of sight of them in an ilex grove, or
in one of the pavilions, it is easy to forget all that
is not perfect and artistic. How still it lies on a
hot summer afternoon ! The breeze only stirs
enough to carry the scent of orange-flowers. The
silver toss of fountains, the flutter of a white
butterfly, the only movement, the singing of birds
and the plash of water the only sound. The
marble men and women keep watch and ward.
Do the great Cardinal and his murdered friend
ever come back to visit the scenes they
both loved so well ? We can almost believe
they must do so, on some summer night
when the moon is high and the garden is
bathed in silver light, when the marbles gleam
and the shadows lie black under the porticoes
and all is still as death in the enchanted
palace.
( 3 )
ALBANI.
Winckelmann, who was of a simple, open nature,
took a liking to the man, talked freely of his
journey, and displayed a gold medal given him
by Maria Theresa, and admitted having a con-
siderable sum of money in his possession. The
stranger was a certain Francesco Archangeli, a
malefactor who had been condemned to death,
but whose sentence had been commuted to
banishment. One evening as Winckelmann
sat writing in his room, working on the last
references of his forthcoming book, Archangeli
came in, and, with many protestations of regret,
announced his impending departure. He begged
the professor, as a last favour, to show him his
gold medal once more, in order that he might
take away a final remembrance of it. Winckel-
mann willingly agreed, and while he was stooping
down to take it from his trunk the villain stole up
behind him and tried to strangle him with a cord.
He resisted desperately, and almost succeeded in
throwing ofF the assassin, who thereupon drew a
knife and stabbed him in five places. Archangeli
then fled, without, however, obtaining possession
of the medal. The unfortunate man succeeded
in arousing help, and a doctor was fetched,
only to pronounce at least two of the wounds to
be mortal. Winckelmann lived long enough to
make his will, and the register of the tribunal
records that he died with the firmness of a hero
and the piety of a Christian, resigning himself
without lamentation and pardoning his murderer.
The latter was caught, convicted, and broken on
the wheel. His victim was buried in Rome amid
universal mourning, and his bust was placed
in the Pantheon with an inscription recording
all he had done for the cause of art, while
another has been placed by Prince Torlonia, in
the garden that he loved.
The greatest service he rendered to art was
to take the antique once more into the province
of the artist. Hitherto only antiquaries had
written about it, it was only looked upon as
interesting from a historical or mythological point
of view, but Winckelmann set it forth at once
as the standard and guide, which all artists
should set before them.
The Cardinal lived for eleven years longer,
and died at eighty-nine. In 1868 the villa was
bought by Prince Torlonia, who has spent enor-
mous sums on keeping it up, in improving it,
and in repairing the ravages which time was
beginning to make.
It is a fortunate thing that the great Cardinal's
famous collection has not been dispersed, but
remains a wonderful monument of beauty and
interest, and of the magnificent liberality of those
great art patrons of the past. Small wonder if men
grew selfish, so shut away from the world, and
that the cutting of a cameo, the authenticity of a
bronze, became all-important. The world has
crept nearer, the houses have risen up all round
and shut out much of the beautiful view ; but
sitting out of sight of them in an ilex grove, or
in one of the pavilions, it is easy to forget all that
is not perfect and artistic. How still it lies on a
hot summer afternoon ! The breeze only stirs
enough to carry the scent of orange-flowers. The
silver toss of fountains, the flutter of a white
butterfly, the only movement, the singing of birds
and the plash of water the only sound. The
marble men and women keep watch and ward.
Do the great Cardinal and his murdered friend
ever come back to visit the scenes they
both loved so well ? We can almost believe
they must do so, on some summer night
when the moon is high and the garden is
bathed in silver light, when the marbles gleam
and the shadows lie black under the porticoes
and all is still as death in the enchanted
palace.
( 3 )