"I used to admire this statue exceedingly," he remarked, "but, latterly, I find myself getting weary and annoyed that the man should be such a length of time leaning on his arm in the very act of death.If he is so terribly hurt, why does he not sink down and die without further ado? Flitting moments, imminent emergencies, imperceptible intervals between two breaths, ought not to be incrusted with the eternal repose of marble; in any sculptural subject, there should be a moral standstill, since there must of necessity be a physical one.Otherwise, it is like flinging a block of marble up into the air, and, by some trick of enchantment, causing it to stick there.You feel that it ought to come down, and are dissatisfied that it does not obey the natural law.""I see," said Miriam mischievously, "you think that sculpture should be a sort of fossilizing process.But, in truth, your frozen art has nothing like the scope and freedom of Hilda's and mine.In painting there is no similar objection to the representation of brief snatches of time, --perhapsbecause a story can be so much more fully told in picture, and buttressed about with circumstances that give it an epoch.For instance, a painter never would have sent down yonder Faun out of his far antiquity, lonely and desolate, with no companion to keep his simple heart warm.""Ah, the Faun!" cried Hilda, with a little gesture of impatience; "I have been looking at him too long; and now, instead of a beautiful statue, immortally young, I see only a corroded and discolored stone.This change is very apt to occur in statues.""And a similar one in pictures, surely," retorted the sculptor."It is the spectator's mood that transfigures the Transfiguration itself.I defy any painter to move and elevate me without my own consent and assistance.""Then you are deficient of a sense," said Miriam.
The party now strayed onward from hall to hall of that rich gallery, pausing here and there, to look at the multitude of noble and lovely shapes, which have been dug up out of the deep grave in which old Rome lies buried.And still, the realization of the antique Faun, in the person of Donatello, gave a more vivid character to all these marble ghosts.Why should not each statue grow warm with life! Antinous might lift his brow, and tell us why he is forever sad.The Lycian Apollo might strike his lyre; and, at the first vibration, that other Faun in red marble, who keeps up a motionless dance, should frisk gayly forth, leading yonder Satyrs, with shaggy goat-shanks, to clatter their little hoofs upon the floor, and all join hands with Donatello! Bacchus, too, a rosy flush diffusing itself over his time-stained surface, could come down from his pedestal, and offer a cluster of purple grapes to Donatello's lips; because the god recognizes him as the woodland elf who so often shared his revels.And here, in this sarcophagus, the exquisitely carved figures might assume life, and chase one another round its verge with that wild merriment which is so strangely represented on those old burial coffers: though still with some subtile allusion to death, carefully veiled, but forever peeping forth amid emblems of mirth and riot.
As the four friends descended the stairs, however, their play of fancy subsided into a much more sombre mood; a result apt to follow upon such exhilaration as that which had so recently taken possession of them.
"Do you know," said Miriam confidentially to Hilda, "I doubt the reality of this likeness of Donatello to the Faun, which we have been talking so much about?To say the truth, it never struck me so forcibly as it did Kenyon and yourself, though I gave in to whatever you were pleased to fancy, for the sake of a moment's mirth and wonder." "I was certainly in earnest, and you seemed equally so," replied Hilda, glancing back at Donatello, as if to reassure herself of the resemblance."But faces change so much, from hour to hour, that the same set of features has often no keeping with itself; to an eye, at least, which looks at expression more than outline.How sad and sombre he has grown all of a sudden!" "Angry too, methinks! nay, it is anger much more than sadness," said Miriam."I have seen Donatello in this mood once or twice before.If you consider him well, you will observe an odd mixture of the bulldog, or some other equally fierce brute, in our friend's composition; a trait of savageness hardly to be expected in such a gentle creature as he usually is.Donatello is a very strange young man.I wish he would not haunt my footsteps so continually.""You have bewitched the poor lad," said the sculptor, laughing."You have a faculty of bewitching people, and it is providing you with a singular train of followers.I see another of them behind yonder pillar; and it is his presence that has aroused Donatello's wrath."They had now emerged from the gateway of the palace; and partly concealed by one of the pillars of the portico stood a figure such as may often be encountered in the streets and piazzas of Rome, and nowhere else.He looked as if he might just have stepped out of a picture, and, in truth, was likely enough to find his way into a dozen pictures; being no other than one of those living models, dark, bushy bearded, wild of aspect and attire, whom artists convert into saints or assassins, according as their pictorial purposes demand.
"Miriam," whispered Hilda, a little startled, "it is your model!"
