Here might be witnessed the process of actually chiselling the marble,

with which (as it is not quite satisfactory to think) a sculptor in

these days has very little to do. In Italy, there is a class of men

whose merely mechanical skill is perhaps more exquisite than was

possessed by the ancient artificers, who wrought out the designs of

Praxiteles; or, very possibly, by Praxiteles himself. Whatever of

illusive representation can be effected in marble, they are capable of

achieving, if the object be before their eyes. The sculptor has but to

present these men with a plaster-cast of his design, and a sufficient

block of marble, and tell them that the figure is imbedded in the stone,

and must be freed from its encumbering superfluities; and, in due time,

without the necessity of his touching the work with his own finger,

he will see before him the statue that is to make him renowned. His

creative power has wrought it with a word.

In no other art, surely, does genius find such effective instruments,

and so happily relieve itself of the drudgery, of actual performance;

doing wonderfully nice things by the hands of other people, when it may

be suspected they could not always be done by the sculptor's own. And

how much of the admiration which our artists get for their buttons

and buttonholes, their shoe-ties, their neckcloths,--and these, at our

present epoch of taste, make a large share of the renown,--would be

abated, if we were generally aware that the sculptor can claim no credit

for such pretty performances, as immortalized in marble! They are not

his work, but that of some nameless machine in human shape.

Miriam stopped an instant in an antechamber, to look at a half-finished

bust, the features of which seemed to be struggling out of the stone;

and, as it were, scattering and dissolving its hard substance by the

glow of feeling and intelligence. As the skilful workman gave stroke

after stroke of the chisel with apparent carelessness, but sure effect,

it was impossible not to think that the outer marble was merely an

extraneous environment; the human countenance within its embrace must

have existed there since the limestone ledges of Carrara were first

made. Another bust was nearly completed, though still one of Kenyon's

most trustworthy assistants was at work, giving delicate touches,

shaving off an impalpable something, and leaving little heaps of marble

dust to attest it.

"As these busts in the block of marble," thought Miriam, "so does our

individual fate exist in the limestone of time. We fancy that we carve

it out; but its ultimate shape is prior to all our action."

Kenyon was in the inner room, but, hearing a step in the antechamber, he

threw a veil over what he was at work upon, and came out to receive his

visitor. He was dressed in a gray blouse, with a little cap on the top

of his head; a costume which became him better than the formal garments

which he wore whenever he passed out of his own domains. The sculptor

had a face which, when time had done a little more for it, would offer a

worthy subject for as good an artist as himself: features finely cut, as

if already marble; an ideal forehead, deeply set eyes, and a mouth much

hidden in a light-brown beard, but apparently sensitive and delicate.




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024