The sugary porousness of much of the inferior marble of
to-day arrests the eye, and troubles it. Story's Cleopatra is smooth,
close-fibred as glass, and the snowstorm has not been allowed to drift
upon the folds of her robe, the interstices of her modeling. She, with
a few others of still later date, comes near to the old art, which has
as much possibility for our imaginative survey as the plot of "The
Marble Faun," so marvelously, so intricately, so unslavishly finished.
In looking at the Dying Gladiator, we wonder whether he has already
passed on from mastering the thought of his approaching death to the
remembrance of his wife and children; or whether upon the agony of the
physical pang and the insult to courage, which his wound has brought
him to endure, is yet to break the pathos of a hero's regret for the
relinquished sweetness of love and home.
The Marble Faun suggests the problem as to whether he has for an
instant stopped laughing, or will not immediately laugh; and what has
a little while ago, or will suddenly cause, the animal fury of
gladness to turn this jocund athlete into a dancing, bewilderingly
enticing companion, chiming with guffaws and songs. Cleopatra's
watchful melancholy partook also of classic momentariness, and I hoped
she would spring to her feet. I liked very much to go to Mr. Story's
studio, and I thought that for so slight a figure he was remarkably
fearless.
The arches of triumph, which my mother studied reverently, seemed to
me too premeditated and unnecessary; although an architect could no
doubt have explained why, even to the present day, the little door for
the little cat should supplement the big door of all space, which one
would at first take to be a hero's best environment.
Pages:
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360