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

The Sculptor's Triumph.
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, un​Page:The Clergyman's Wife.djvu/52 ​Page:The Clergyman's Wife.djvu/53 ​Page:The Clergyman's Wife.djvu/54 ​Page:The Clergyman's Wife.djvu/55 ​Page:The Clergyman's Wife.djvu/56 ​Page:The Clergyman's Wife.djvu/57 ​Page:The Clergyman's Wife.djvu/58 ​Page:The Clergyman's Wife.djvu/59 ​Page:The Clergyman's Wife.djvu/60 ​Page:The Clergyman's Wife.djvu/61 ​Page:The Clergyman's Wife.djvu/62 ​Page:The Clergyman's Wife.djvu/63 ​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.