Kenyon, it will be remembered, had asked Donatello's permission to model
his bust. The work had now made considerable progress, and necessarily
kept the sculptor's thoughts brooding much and often upon his host's
personal characteristics. These it was his difficult office to bring out
from their depths, and interpret them to all men, showing them what they
could not discern for themselves, yet must be compelled to recognize at
a glance, on the surface of a block of marble.
He had never undertaken a portrait-bust which gave him so much trouble
as Donatello's; not that there was any special difficulty in hitting
the likeness, though even in this respect the grace and harmony of
the features seemed inconsistent with a prominent expression of
individuality; but he was chiefly perplexed how to make this genial and
kind type of countenance the index of the mind within. His acuteness and
his sympathies, indeed, were both somewhat at fault in their efforts
to enlighten him as to the moral phase through which the Count was now
passing. If at one sitting he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a
genuine and permanent trait, it would probably be less perceptible on
a second occasion, and perhaps have vanished entirely at a third. So
evanescent a show of character threw the sculptor into despair; not
marble or clay, but cloud and vapor, was the material in which it
ought to be represented. Even the ponderous depression which constantly
weighed upon Donatello's heart could not compel him into the kind of
repose which the plastic art requires.
Hopeless of a good result, Kenyon gave up all preconceptions about the
character of his subject, and let his hands work uncontrolled with the
clay, somewhat as a spiritual medium, while holding a pen, yields it
to an unseen guidance other than that of her own will. Now and then he
fancied that this plan was destined to be the successful one. A skill
and insight beyond his consciousness seemed occasionally to take up the
task. The mystery, the miracle, of imbuing an inanimate substance
with thought, feeling, and all the intangible attributes of the soul,
appeared on the verge of being wrought. And now, as he flattered
himself, the true image of his friend was about to emerge from the
facile material, bringing with it more of Donatello's character than
the keenest observer could detect at any one moment in the face of the
original Vain expectation!--some touch, whereby the artist thought to
improve or hasten the result, interfered with the design of his unseen
spiritual assistant, and spoilt the whole. There was still the moist,
brown clay, indeed, and the features of Donatello, but without any
semblance of intelligent and sympathetic life.
"The difficulty will drive me mad, I verily believe!" cried the sculptor
nervously. "Look at the wretched piece of work yourself, my dear friend,
and tell me whether you recognize any manner of likeness to your inner
man?"