CHAPTER XIII
A SCULPTOR'S STUDIO
About this period, Miriam seems to have been goaded by a wearyrestlessness that drove her abroad on any errand or none. She went onemorning to visit Kenyon in his studio, whither he had invited her tosee a new statue, on which he had staked many hopes, and which was nowalmost completed in the clay. Next to Hilda, the person for whomMiriam felt most affection and confidence was Kenyon and in all thedifficulties that beset her life, it was her impulse to draw near Hildafor feminine sympathy, and the sculptor for brotherly counsel.
Yet it was to little purpose that she approached the edge of thevoiceless gulf between herself and them. Standing on the utmost verge ofthat dark chasm, she might stretch out her hand, and never clasp a handof theirs; she might strive to call out, "Help, friends! help!" but, aswith dreamers when they shout, her voice would perish inaudibly inthe remoteness that seemed such a little way. This perception of aninfinite, shivering solitude, amid which we cannot come close enough tohuman beings to be warmed by them, and where they turn to cold, chillyshapes of mist, is one of the most forlorn results of any accident,misfortune, crime, or peculiarity of character, that puts an individualajar with the world. Very often, as in Miriam's case, there is aninsatiable instinct that demands friendship, love, and intimatecommunion, but is forced to pine in empty forms; a hunger of the heart,which finds only shadows to feed upon.
Kenyon's studio was in a cross-street, or, rather, an ugly and dirtylittle lane, between the Corso and the Via della Ripetta; and thoughchill, narrow, gloomy, and bordered with tall and shabby structures,the lane was not a whit more disagreeable than nine tenths of the Romanstreets. Over the door of one of the houses was a marble tablet, bearingan inscription, to the purport that the sculpture-rooms within hadformerly been occupied by the illustrious artist Canova. In theseprecincts (which Canova's genius was not quite of a character to rendersacred, though it certainly made them interesting) the young Americansculptor had now established himself.
The studio of a sculptor is generally but a rough and dreary-lookingplace, with a good deal the aspect, indeed, of a stone-mason's workshop.Bare floors of brick or plank, and plastered walls,--an old chairor two, or perhaps only a block of marble (containing, however, thepossibility of ideal grace within it) to sit down upon some hastilyscrawled sketches of nude figures on the whitewash of the wall. Theselast are probably the sculptor's earliest glimpses of ideas that mayhereafter be solidified into imperishable stone, or perhaps may remainas impalpable as a dream. Next there are a few very roughly modelledlittle figures in clay or plaster, exhibiting the second stage of theidea as it advances towards a marble immortality; and then is seen theexquisitely designed shape of clay, more interesting than even thefinal marble, as being the intimate production of the sculptor himself,moulded throughout with his loving hands, and nearest to his imaginationand heart. In the plaster-cast, from this clay model, the beauty ofthe statue strangely disappears, to shine forth again with pure whiteradiance, in the precious marble of Carrara. Works in all these stagesof advancement, and some with the final touch upon them, might be foundin Kenyon's studio.
Here might be witnessed the process of actually chiselling the marble,with which (as it is not quite satisfactory to think) a sculptor inthese days has very little to do. In Italy, there is a class of menwhose merely mechanical skill is perhaps more exquisite than waspossessed by the ancient artificers, who wrought out the designs ofPraxiteles; or, very possibly, by Praxiteles himself. Whatever ofillusive representation can be effected in marble, they are capable ofachieving, if the object be before their eyes. The sculptor has but topresent these men with a plaster-cast of his design, and a sufficientblock 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. Hiscreative 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 maybe suspected they could not always be done by the sculptor's own. Andhow much of the admiration which our artists get for their buttonsand buttonholes, their shoe-ties, their neckcloths,--and these, at ourpresent epoch of taste, make a large share of the renown,--would beabated, if we were generally aware that the sculptor can claim no creditfor such pretty performances, as immortalized in marble! They are nothis work, but that of some nameless machine in human shape.
Miriam stopped an instant in an antechamber, to look at a half-finishedbust, the features of which seemed to be struggling out of the stone;and, as it were, scattering and dissolving its hard substance by theglow of feeling and intelligence. As the skilful workman gave strokeafter stroke of the chisel with apparent carelessness, but sure effect,it was impossible not to think that the outer marble was merely anextraneous environment; the human countenance within its embrace musthave existed there since the limestone ledges of Carrara were firstmade. Another bust was nearly completed, though still one of Kenyon'smost trustworthy assistants was at work, giving delicate touches,shaving off an impalpable something, and leaving little heaps of marbledust to attest it.
"As these busts in the block of marble," thought Miriam, "so does ourindividual fate exist in the limestone of time. We fancy that we carveit out; but its ultimate shape is prior to all our action."
Kenyon was in the inner room, but, hearing a step in the antechamber, hethrew a veil over what he was at work upon, and came out to receive hisvisitor. He was dressed in a gray blouse, with a little cap on the topof his head; a costume which became him better than the formal garmentswhich he wore whenever he passed out of his own domains. The sculptorhad a face which, when time had done a little more for it, would offer aworthy subject for as good an artist as himself: features finely cut, asif already marble; an ideal forehead, deeply set eyes, and a mouth muchhidden in a light-brown beard, but apparently sensitive and delicate.
"I will not offer you my hand," said he; "it is grimy with Cleopatra'sclay."
"No; I will not touch clay; it is earthy and human," answered Miriam."I have come to try whether there is any calm and coolness amongyour marbles. My own art is too nervous, too passionate, too full ofagitation, for me to work at it whole days together, without intervalsof repose. So, what have you to show me?"
"Pray look at everything here," said Kenyon. "I love to have painterssee my work. Their judgment is unprejudiced, and more valuable than thatof the world generally, from the light which their own art throws onmine. More valuable, too, than that of my brother sculptors, who neverjudge me fairly,--nor I them, perhaps."
To gratify him, Miriam looked round at the specimens in marble orplaster, of which there were several in the room, comprising originalsor casts of most of the designs that Kenyon had thus far produced. Hewas still too young to have accumulated a large gallery of such things.What he had to show were chiefly the attempts and experiments, invarious directions, of a beginner in art, acting as a stern tutor tohimself, and profiting more by his failures than by any successes ofwhich he was yet capable. Some of them, however, had great merit; andin the pure, fine glow of the new marble, it may be, they dazzled thejudgment into awarding them higher praise than they deserved. Miriamadmired the statue of a beautiful youth, a pearlfisher; who had gotentangled in the weeds at the bottom of the sea, and lay dead among thepearl-oysters, the rich shells, and the seaweeds, all of like value tohim now.
"The poor young man has perished among the prizes that he sought,"remarked she. "But what a strange efficacy there is in death! If wecannot all win pearls, it causes an empty shell to satisfy us just aswell. I like this statue, though it is too cold and stern in its morallesson and, physically, the form has not settled itself into sufficientrepose."
In another style, there was a grand, calm head of Milton, not copiedfrom any one bus
t or picture, yet more authentic than any of them,because all known representations of the poet had been profoundlystudied, and solved in the artist's mind. The bust over the tomb inGrey Friars Church, the original miniatures and pictures, wherever tobe found, had mingled each its special truth in this one work; wherein,likewise, by long perusal and deep love of the Paradise Lost, the Comus,the Lycidas, and L'Allegro, the sculptor had succeeded, even better thanhe knew, in spiritualizing his marble with the poet's mighty genius. Andthis was a great thing to have achieved, such a length of time after thedry bones and dust of Milton were like those of any other dead man.
There were also several portrait-busts, comprising those of two or threeof the illustrious men of our own country, whom Kenyon, before he leftAmerica, had asked permission to model. He had done so, because hesincerely believed that, whether he wrought the busts in marble orbronze, the one would corrode and the other crumble in the long lapseof time, beneath these great men's immortality. Possibly, however, theyoung artist may have underestimated the durability of his material.Other faces there were, too, of men who (if the brevity of theirremembrance, after death, can be augured from their little value inlife) should have been represented in snow rather than marble. Posteritywill be puzzled what to do with busts like these, the concretions andpetrifactions of a vain self-estimate; but will find, no doubt, that theyserve to build into stone walls, or burn into quicklime, as well as ifthe marble had never been blocked into the guise of human heads.
But it is an awful thing, indeed, this endless endurance, this almostindestructibility, of a marble bust! Whether in our own case, or that ofother men, it bids us sadly measure the little, little time during whichour lineaments are likely to be of interest to any human being. Itis especially singular that Americans should care about perpetuatingthemselves in this mode. The brief duration of our families, asa hereditary household, renders it next to a certainty that thegreat-grandchildren will not know their father's grandfather, and thathalf a century hence at furthest, the hammer of the auctioneer willthump its knock-down blow against his blockhead, sold at so much for thepound of stone! And it ought to make us shiver, the idea of leavingour features to be a dusty-white ghost among strangers of anothergeneration, who will take our nose between their thumb and fingers (aswe have seen men do by Caesar's), and infallibly break it off if theycan do so without detection!
"Yes," said Miriam, who had been revolving some such thoughts as theabove, "it is a good state of mind for mortal man, when he is content toleave no more definite memorial than the grass, which will sprout kindlyand speedily over his grave, if we do not make the spot barren withmarble. Methinks, too, it will be a fresher and better world, when itflings off this great burden of stony memories, which the ages havedeemed it a piety to heap upon its back."
"What you say," remarked Kenyon, "goes against my whole art. Sculpture,and the delight which men naturally take in it, appear to me a proofthat it is good to work with all time before our view."
"Well, well," answered Miriam, "I must not quarrel with you for flingingyour heavy stones at poor Posterity; and, to say the truth, I think youare as likely to hit the mark as anybody. These busts, now, much as Iseem to scorn them, make me feel as if you were a magician.. You turnfeverish men into cool, quiet marble. What a blessed change for them!Would you could do as much for me!"
"O, gladly!" cried Kenyon, who had long wished to model that beautifuland most expressive face. "When will you begin to sit?"
"Poh! that was not what I meant," said Miriam. "Come, show me somethingelse."
"Do you recognize this?" asked the sculptor.
He took out of his desk a little old-fashioned ivory coffer, yellowwith age; it was richly carved with antique figures and foliage; and hadKenyon thought fit to say that Benvenuto Cellini wrought this preciousbox, the skill and elaborate fancy of the work would by no means havediscredited his word, nor the old artist's fame. At least, it wasevidently a production of Benvenuto's school and century, and mightonce have been the jewel-case of some grand lady at the court of the De'Medici.
Lifting the lid, however, no blaze of diamonds was disclosed, butonly, lapped in fleecy cotton, a small, beautifully shaped hand, mostdelicately sculptured in marble. Such loving care and nicest art hadbeen lavished here, that the palm really seemed to have a tendernessin its very substance. Touching those lovely fingers,--had the jealoussculptor allowed you to touch,--you could hardly believe that a virginwarmth would not steal from them into your heart.
"Ah, this is very beautiful!" exclaimed Miriam, with a genial smile."It is as good in its way as Loulie's hand with its baby-dimples, whichPowers showed me at Florence, evidently valuing it as much as if hehad wrought it out of a piece of his great heart. As good as HarrietHosmer's clasped hands of Browning and his wife, symbolizing theindividuality and heroic union of two high, poetic lives! Nay, I do notquestion that it is better than either of those, because you musthave wrought it passionately, in spite of its maiden palm and daintyfingertips."
"Then you do recognize it?" asked Kenyon.
"There is but one right hand on earth that could have suppliedthe model," answered Miriam; "so small and slender, so perfectlysymmetrical, and yet with a character of delicate energy. I have watchedit a hundred times at its work; but I did not dream that you had wonHilda so far! How have you persuaded that shy maiden to let you take herhand in marble?"
"Never! She never knew it!" hastily replied Kenyon, anxious to vindicatehis mistress's maidenly reserve. "I stole it from her. The hand is areminiscence. After gazing at it so often, and even holding it once foran instant, when Hilda was not thinking of me, I should be a bunglerindeed, if I could not now reproduce it to something like the life."
"May you win the original one day!" said Miriam kindly.
"I have little ground to hope it," answered the sculptor despondingly;"Hilda does not dwell in our mortal atmosphere; and gentle and soft asshe appears, it will be as difficult to win her heart as to entice downa white bird from its sunny freedom in the sky. It is strange, with allher delicacy and fragility, the impression she makes of being utterlysufficient to herself. No; I shall never win her. She is abundantlycapable of sympathy, and delights to receive it, but she has no need oflove."
"I partly agree with you," said Miriam. "It is a mistaken idea, whichmen generally entertain, that nature has made women especially prone tothrow their whole being into what is technically called love. We have,to say the least, no more necessity for it than yourselves; only we havenothing else to do with our hearts. When women have other objectsin life, they are not apt to fall in love. I can think of many womendistinguished in art, literature, and science,--and multitudes whosehearts and minds find good employment in less ostentatious ways,--wholead high, lonely lives, and are conscious of no sacrifice so far asyour sex is concerned."
"And Hilda will be one of these!" said Kenyon sadly; "the thought makesme shiver for myself, and and for her, too."
"Well," said Miriam, smiling, "perhaps she may sprain the delicate wristwhich you have sculptured to such perfection. In that case you may hope.These old masters to whom she has vowed herself, and whom her slenderhand and woman's heart serve so faithfully, are your only rivals."
The sculptor sighed as he put away the treasure of Hilda's marble handinto the ivory coffer, and thought how slight was the possibilitythat he should ever feel responsive to his own the tender clasp of theoriginal. He dared not even kiss the image that he himself had made: ithad assumed its share of Hilda's remote and shy divinity.
"And now," said Miriam, "show me the new statue which you asked mehither to see."