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?"




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024