The Clergyman's Wife and Other Sketches/The Sculptor's Triumph

by Anna Cora Mowatt

The Sculptor's Triumph.

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n the palmiest days of art in Florence, one of its grand Dukes made known, by proclamation, that he designed to add to the statues which adorned his palace, a representation of Mary, the pardoned sinner, anointing the Saviour's feet, which she had washed with her penitent tears, and wiped with her flowing hair. The space of three years was allowed for the creation of a chef-d'œuvre. Three venerable sculptors were appointed judges. At the expiration of the allotted time, they were commissioned to visit the atelier of every artist, who notified them that he had a Mary to offer, and decide what statues were worthy of being sent to the ducal palace for further examination. There the final selection was to be made, by thirty-four judges. The sculptor whose chisel produced a marble Mary of superlative beauty was to receive the sum of £500 for his labor. But mere gold mattered little, compared to the honor of a triumph which opened a brilliant career to the successful aspirant.

Need we number the artists who were competitors for the invaluable distinction?

The day previous to the one fixed for the exhibition arrived, the day upon which the three judges made their rounds, and awarded permission for the statues approved to enter the palace on the morrow.

Many a heart in Florence grew sick with alternations of hope and fear. Many an artist's soul was filled with despair as he recognized the vast distance that existed between his actual execution and the sublime heights reached by his ideal conception. Many others, gifted with the gigantic self-esteem which is often the blemish of genius, exulted in the certainty of their triumph, and, unrebuked by a doubt of their surpassing merits, impatiently awaited the coming of the judges.

In one studio sat a youth who had seen the roses of but twenty-two summers bloom and wither. Though the dawn had scarcely broken, he was dressed with scrupulous care, and his picturesque attire, of black velvet, displayed to advantage his lithely moulded form, and imparted a striking transparency to his colorless complexion. His hollow cheeks bespoke vigils of study and labor; his dark, deeply sunken eyes, full of restless fire, betrayed a fervid and highly sensitive organization, a temperament at once imaginative and volcanic. His hair of purple blackness, wandered in untaught curls from beneath a velvet cap, shading his expansive brow, and eloquent, though too sharply cut, features.

His studio was somewhat bare. A crimson curtain divided the apartment. As the golden rays of morning began to illumine the chamber, Andrea was roused from his reverie. He rose and bolted the door, a precaution always taken before that curtain was thrown aside. Now, with eager movements, he flung back the crimson folds and again sank into his seat. As he contemplated the treasure disclosed, what rapidly varying expressions chased each other over his countenance, like a changing panorama fitfully reflected in some pellucid mirror.

Before him stood a marble wonder, indeed! The plaster model was partially visible in the background. In general, sculptors do not themselves handle the chisel, except to give a few finishing and embellishing touches. The laborious mechanical duty of copying in marble, by close measurement from the plaster cast, is usually entrusted to skilful workmen; but Andrea felt as though his exquisite creation would have been profaned if other eyes rested upon it, other hands touched it during its incompletion. He had called his Mary into existence out of the snowy block himself. Truth to say, he had manipulated as lightly and tenderly as though he feared the frigid stone were gifted with sensation; as though he thought, each moment, that it would pulsate with life. Pygmalion looked not more enamored of the loveliness that had started into shape beneath his touch than the young, unnoted Florentine sculptor in the presence of the Mary he had evoked!

It was a gloriously beautiful form, full of the most exquisite delicacy, the most speaking grace, the most touching purity. The kneeling figure, though ethereally fragile, was rounded to such perfection that laughing dimples were pressed upon the falling shoulders, the Andalusian feet, the dainty hands. The swell of the expanding bosom, just budding into the fulness of womanhood, was revealed beneath the transparent drapery. The small, poetically shaped head was raised, disclosing the graceful curve of the slender throat; the upturned face seemed gazing with inspired devotion, into that of the Saviour. The hair flowed to the ground in rippling waves. One hand held the box of ointment; the other clasped the clustering tresses, as though in the act of pressing them upon the Redeemer's feet.

But there was a marked defect in the marble representation, though Andrea saw it not. That face and form inspired the gazer with a sense of the spiritualizing power of perfect chastity. Its loveliness was that of the most unsullied innocence. No trace of sensuous emotion was visible. It was not possible to imagine that one whose soul had been heavy with sin, could ever again wear a look so pure.

While Andrea sat dreaming before his masterpiece, a light tap on the door was thrice repeated, as though for a signal. Andrea started up, and his pale countenance flushed with a sudden glow of rapture. Is it the judges he is expecting, so soon after the sunrise? The bolt is rapidly withdrawn, the door opens, a young girl, followed by a sort of nurse, or gouvernante, enters.

"Constanza, you have come!"

"Did I ever fail you, Andrea?"

"Never, my good angel, my saint of Inspiration? Come, and let me see if I can dare to look once more upon the copy, and behold it fade into dull, impotent insignificance before the divine original!"

Andrea's Mary was not the offspring of his imagination; there, before him, beamed that guileless countenance, stood that shape full of artless grace and infantile purity, which he had so faithfully transmitted to marble. But the "lunar beauty of sculpture" could not convey the lustre of those clear, blue eyes, the amber gleaming of the hair, the peach-like hue of the cheeks, the dewy rosiness of the tender lips, the auroral freshness of the whole form.

Something more than two years previous to the date of our narrative, the maiden's father chanced to see a statuette of St. Catharine modelled by Andrea, and was struck by the genius evinced by its execution. The Duke was not only an experienced judge but a liberal patron of art. He at once purchased the St. Catharine, sought out the young sculptor, and engaged him to adorn a hall of his palace with bas relievos.

A room was appropriated to Andrea's use, for the prosecution of his work. The Duke and his daughter watched its progress with deep interest. Indeed, Constanza, when her studies were accomplished, daily wandered to the apartment where the young sculptor was employed. That one as sensitive to physical beauty as Andrea, finding it united to rare mental loveliness, should have become enamored of this paragon of maidenhood, was almost a matter of course. But Andrea worshipped in respectful silence, and never had the audacity to suppose that his passion had revealed itself in his looks; never dared to hope that she who inspired it could become conscious of its existence; never was mad enough to dream for a moment that, if divined, it could ever be returned.

The bas relievos completed, the sculptor withdrew, full of gratitude to his noble patron, and bearing with him the image of Constanza, indelibly stamped on his own soul! She was the far-off star that henceforth illumined his horizon, though deemed as unapproachable by him, as constellations are to mortals.

What was his astonishment when Constanza, with her faithful attendant, Bettina, who had watched over the motherless young maiden from her infancy, made their appearance at his atelier! They came again and again; and Constanza, unconscious as Desdemona of the betrayal of her affection, like Desdemona, was "half the wooer." Andrea's discretion was put to flight; in an unguarded moment he poured forth his hopeless passion, asking and expecting nothing but the privilege of saying that he loved and despaired, the joy of daring to believe that his love was not spurned. To aspire to the hand of a Florentine lady of high lineage, seemed too wild a vision even for an enthusiast. But the gentle Constanza thought otherwise.

"You will be famous one of these days," she timidly said; "you will win renown equal to that of Michael Angelo, and then my father will not refuse you his child. Genius has a nobility of its own, far higher and worthier than that of accidental descent. We have only to wait—wait for years, perhaps many years! Wait until clustering laurels have crowned your brow, and then you may place the bridal chaplet upon mine."

So she prattled on in her hopeful, innocent way, and Andrea, against his better judgment, could not forego the happiness of believing her words.

When the prize for Mary was offered by the Grand Duke, Andrea immediately became one of the competitors. Was it wonderful that he unconsciously communicated to his design the face. and form ever present to his mind? Old Bettina first discovered the resemblance. Then Constanza impulsively proposed to sit as the model for her lover. How could he refuse? Day after day, before the house was astir, she and Bettina stole forth, under the pretence of taking a morning walk, and hastened to Andrea's studio. All the young artist's faculties were quickened by love and ambition. All his powers, in the fulness of their strength, were concentrated on this one work, the chef-d'œuvre which was to earn him fame and win the bright original he was duplicating.

"Are you content with your Mary, yet?" asked Constanza, looking into his dark eyes and discovering the cloud that shadowed them.

"I am never content with her when you are by! It is in vain that I have tried to give this hair the soft ripple of yours! And, oh! that I could impart to the blank marble the living hues, the changing gold of the locks, the celestial blue of the eyes, the rose-tint of the lips! The statue looks so cold and senseless when you are before me, that I am in despair!"

"Oh! Andrea, I am sure that it is perfect! But since you are dissatisfied with your work, I must sit for you once more. It will be the last time, for the judges visit the studio to-day, and tomorrow the statue will be admitted into the palace."

Before Andrea could reply, Constanza had hurried with Bettina into the ante-chamber. In a few moments she re-appeared, looking more angelic than ever, in the spotless white robe, girdled lightly around her flexible waist, and flowing into folds that clung to her slight form and revealed its undulating outlines. Her long hair enveloped her like a golden cloud. With unstudied ease, she at once threw herself into the attitude of the penitent Mary, and remained motionless. Andrea contemplated her in almost breathless silence, then took up his chisel and gave a few light touches to the marble, then drew back, and gazed upon the living form, glowing with life and beauty, and upon its inanimate copy. Carried away by an ungovernable emotion, he suddenly flung aside the chisel, and burst into tears.

Constanza sprang up and hastened to his side, but his agitation was so violent that he seemed unconscious of her presence. With gentle force she drew away the hands that covered his face, and gathered up her flowing tresses as though to wipe his eyes. Well might the mingled archness and poetry of the action make him smile.

"Your Mary will win the prize, Andrea! I am sure of it!"

"Will it win both prizes, this above all?" answered Andrea, taking her hand.

"Yes, one now, and the other in time. Perhaps," she added, laughing, "when there are a few wrinkles here for you to add to your Mary's brow, that the likeness may be retained. But see how the sun is marching up the heavens! Come, Bettina, it warns us to be on our way."

The attendant and her beloved young mistress retired again and quickly returned, Constanza wearing her usual dress.

"Farewell, Andrea; to-morrow morning I will come again to learn what the judges have said. To learn?" she continued, gayly, "why I can prophesy their words, I shall have nothing to learn, only a sweet confirmation to hear. Do not shake your head, I am sure of their verdict; farewell."

The leave-taking between the young lovers was hardly as warm as might have been expected. They clasped hands, she with trustful, yet tremulous timidity, he with tender reverence. Such had ever been the reserved character of their intercourse.

As the door closed the young sculptor turned again to his Mary. A thousand glaring defects became suddenly apparent to his excited imagination; all the features were distorted, the lines were faulty, the whole expression was tame, senseless! He could not endure the sight of his work, and impetuously drew the crimson curtain, vowing that he would not throw back its folds until the judges arrived.

There was no likelihood of their appearance before noon, yet he did not dare to absent himself from the studio, even to break his fast. He sat with his head leaning on his hands, lost in thought; and, while he mused, the gates of fancy opened to every fantastic fear that presented itself for admission.

Hour after hour passed, and now he began to start at every step that approached his door; his heart palpitated and his breath came thick, but the steps passed carelessly on, as though no one were conscious of his existence. The gairish light began to soften and fade; surely it must be evening! Andrea shuddered at the terrible possibility that he had been wholly forgotten.

A loud rap on the door put to flight this last tormenting fiend. The judges had come. As they entered Andrea thought they glanced around with an expression of undisguised scorn.

He faltered out, "You are very welcome, it was so late, I almost feared"—

One of the judges interrupted him, and answered, gruffly, "Yes, we are late, we have made the rounds of the studios, and a fatiguing time we have had of it; this is the last, we must get through quickly while the light serves."

His tone expressed not merely impatience, but the conviction that they could meet with no artistic achievement in that locality which would require much examination, or give rise to any prolonged discussion.

Andrea seized the crimson curtain with a convulsive grasp, threw it aside, and turned away, that he might not see the condemning countenances of his merciless critics. Large drops of dew started from his brow; a cold tremor ran through his frame; his heart sank as with the pressure of a leaden weight. The door which opened to admit those stern-visaged old men had let out his last hope. His only struggle now was to bear the sentence of condemnation like a man; his only wish that the interview might be quickly over.

For a few moments deep silence followed the disclosure of the statue. The stillness was broken by an exclamation from the eldest of the visitors. Andrea turned involuntarily. The features of the old man evinced violent emotion, as with piercing, uncompromising eyes, he intently surveyed the marble form. It was not admiration his countenance expressed, nor disappointment, nor disapproval, it was absolute horror.

In the looks of the other two judges the most casual observer could have read wonder and delight. They whispered together for a moment, then turned to Andrea.

"It is a noble work, full of power, full of genius!" exclaimed one of these two, with enthusiasm.

"I was never more amazed! I expected nothing like this!" ejauclated the other.

"It will be admitted to the exhibition, then?" asked Andrea, eagerly.

"Admitted?" replied the judge who had first spoken. "Young man, it will win the prize. Is not that your opinion?" turning to his companion. "Decidedly the best thing we have seen yet. It will be the chosen master-piece. Do you not say so?" said the latter, addressing the eldest of the party, who still stood silently glancing from the statue to Andrea with a troubled gaze.

"If it should be seen at the exhibition, yes—but"—

"If, Signor?" interrupted Andrea; "I intend to send it there; that is, if your permission will be granted."

"That is yours," said one of the old men, who had seated himself by the table, and was now writing. He held out the order of admission. "Send the statue betimes to-morrow; the doors will be open by ten."

Andrea extended his trembling hand for the paper, his lips moved inarticulately; the quick revulsion from despair to ecstasy had rendered him speechless. He was intoxicated with happiness, yet its suddenness caused him to suffer intensely. At that moment he felt that he knew what the sense of dying with joy must be.

Two of the judges passed out of the studio. The eldest lingered a moment behind, and whispered to Andrea, in a voice of command; "Remain here for a short time; I will return; I have something of importance to say to you."

Andrea bowed, smilingly.

The door closed, and he threw himself upon his knees and gave vent to his gratitude and rapture in a vehement burst of thanksgiving. Then he approached the sculptured figure and addressed it passionately, as though it were a living thing, as though it were Constanza herself!

A step behind him interrupted his rhapsody. The judge had returned. His face was very grave.

"Young man," he asked, abruptly, "who posed for that statue?"

Andrea started, but did not reply.

"Who was your model?" inquired the judge in a still harsher tone.

Andrea hesitated, then stammered out with undisguised confusion, "Is it always needful to have a model? An ideal work, methinks, might"—

"Do not trifle with me!" rejoined his questioner, in an authoritative tone. "This is no ideal work. You had a model, and that model was Constanza, only daughter of the Duke ———. Confess it."

Andrea's look of consternation was an unmistakable answer.

"It is well that you do not attempt to deny the fact. The likeness is so striking that it would be impossible for it not to be recognized at a glance. If this statue should appear at the exhibition, all who have ever beheld Constanza, will recognize it. as her faithful counterpart. Have you thought of the consequences of such a revelation? It will be known that she came here in secret; that she sat as your model; that love for you could alone have moved her to this imprudent act of devotion. Her spotless name will receive an indelible stain. Her proud father, overwhelmed by the public disgrace of his child, will visit his wrath upon her in some fearful manner; possibly by banishing her to a convent! You will win the prize, and the road to fame and fortune will be thrown open to you. I do not attempt to conceal from you that such will be the result of your exhibiting that statue; but the rash girl, through whose devotion you achieved your triumph, will be covered with obloquy!"

A thunderbolt had fallen upon Andrea. Hardly less white than the marble shape before him, and as powerless, he listened to these words of doom.

"I come to warn you," resumed the judge. "And now that you have heard that warning, I would test which is stronger in a young man's breast, the desire for fame, or love for a pure woman; ay, love, for it is evident that you are enamored of Constanza. I read that in every line of your work."

Still Andrea gave no sign.

"I shall know your answer to-morrow, by the absence or presence of that statue at the exhibition. Reflect upon my words. I know Constanza's father well. I leave you to make your choice."

He bowed slightly, and passed from the room.

Andrea remained standing, mutely gazing upon the door that closed on the pitiless oracle. Slowly the sculptor turned once more to the marble Mary. His agony could not be compressed into speech, or even find vent in groans; he was stunned, petrified! His brain was on fire! A thousand frightful phantoms passed before his dazzled eyes! The statue lived, and talked to him; upbraided him, mocked him, cursed him for its creation! Myriads of tongues shouted "Shame!" "Shame!" "Shame!" in his ears.

That night was one of unbroken horror. The morning sun found him in a state of semi-stupefaction, which had succeeded his excess of phrenzy. Hardly had the amethyst light of dawn touched the statue, when three soft taps sounded on the door; but he stirred not. They were repeated again and again, but he did not hear. The door, which had not been fastened after the Judge passed out, gently opened. Constanza's airy step gave no sound, but Bettina's heavy tread aroused Andrea. The young maiden uttered a cry as she glanced at his haggard face, drawn into sharp lines; his wildly glaring eyes, his dishevelled hair, and look of hopeless wretchedness.

"Oh! Andrea, has your master-piece been refused?"

With almost maniacal vehemence, Andrea related what had occurred.

"Your disgrace, Constanza!" he added, wildly; "that shall never be! I have vowed that it should not! Love conquers ambition, and the hope of glory! Love is stronger than all else! See! see! thus I put an end to temptation!"

He seized a heavy mallet, and, with a few blows, the plaster model was shattered! Constanza tried to stay his arm; even Bettina interposed, and prayed him to desist; he heeded neither. For a moment he stood before the exquisite marble form, over which he had toiled, and hoped, and rejoiced, years. With a heart-bursting cry, and the look of an executioner, he lifted his arm; it descended, and the lovely head rolled on the ground! The work of destruction went rapidly on; the hand that held the box of ointment was smitten, the white arm fell, the glorious shape was mutilated; still the blows were repeated with frantic force.

Neither Andrea, nor the young girl, nor her attendant, had heard the door open. It was not until a shriek of terror escaped from Bettina, that they beheld two old men standing upon the threshold, mute spectators of the scene.

One was the Judge who had warned Andrea, the other was the father of Constanza!

The former, fearing to trust to the sculptor's decision, had informed his noble friend of the discovery he had made, and hastened with him to Andrea's studio, at an hour too early for the statue to have been sent to the palace.

The Duke's just indignation melted at the sight of that heroic deed of self-renunciation. He recognized and respected the nobility of spirit that nerved the young sculptor's heart and arm; the man he would have spurned, an hour before, was transformed by that noble act into a hero; was raised to an equal.

He strode past the trembling Constanza, and laid his hand on Andrea's arm, just as it was lifted for another blow.

"Enough! I would contemplate what is left of this wonderful work, which my friend so highly commends."

Andrea's excitement suddenly subsided; his knees knocked together; a livid hue overspread his countenance, the lids dropped over his glazing eyes, he tottered, and would have fallen, if the pitying Judge had not received him in his arms, and tenderly placed him in a chair.

"Pardon Constanza! visit no wrath upon her," Andrea murmured, faintly.

"She is pardoned," answered the Duke, extending his arms to receive her. The weeping girl gratefully clung to his bosom, but with her eyes fixed imploringly upon her half insensible lover.

"Andrea!" said the Duke, "you have achieved a greater triumph than if your statue had obtained the prize; and you have won a friend whose trust in you, the experience of this hour proves that you will never betray." ****** The Duke had not misjudged the character of the gifted sculptor. Not even his profound passion for Constanza, ever tempted him to return her father's generous confidence with treachery. Though he and Constanza often met, it was never again in secret, and Andrea breathed no word of love into the maiden's ear. Time tested, and forbearance strengthened, their affection. Andrea's powers as a sculptor kept steady pace with his ambition. In a few years he won renown, and, with it, a richer guerdon, for the Duke bestowed upon him the hand of his daughter. But this dearest triumph was wrought, not by the fame which crowned his genius, but by the glorious victory he had gained over himself.