From Bentley's Miscellany. THORWALDSEN, THE SCULPTOR. BY H. C. ANDERSEN.-TRANSLATED BY C. BECKWITH. A RICH Scroll in the history of art is unfolded and read: Thorwaldsen has lived; his life was a triumphal procession; fortune and victory accompanied him; men have in him acknowledged and paid homage to art. It was in Copenhagen, on the 19th of November, 1770, that a carver of figures for ships' heads, by name Gottskalk Thorwaldsen, was presented by his wife, Karen Grönlund, the daughter of a clergyman in Jutland, with a son, who at his baptism received the name of Bertel Albert. The father had come from Iceland, and lived in poor circumstances. They dwelt in Lille Gronnegade (Little Green Street), not far from the academy of arts. The moon has often peeped into their poor room she has told us about it in "A Picture-book without Pictures." "The father and mother slept, but their little son did not sleep; where the flowered cotton bed-curtains moved I saw the child peep out. I thought at first that he looked at the Bornholm clock, for it was finely painted with red and green, and there was a cuckoo on the top; it had heavy leaden weights, and the pendulum with its shining brass plate went to and fro with a tick! tick! But it was not that he looked at; no, it was his mother's spinning-wheel, which stood directly under the clock; this was the dearest piece of furniture in the whole house for the boy; but he dared not touch it, for if he did he got a rap over the fingers. Whilst his mother spun, he would sit for hours together looking at the burring spindle and the revolving wheel, and then he had his own thoughts. Oh! if he only durst spin that wheel! His father and mother slept; he looked at them, he looked at the wheel, and then by degrees a little naked foot was stuck out of the bed, and then another naked foot; then there came two small legs, and, with a jump, he stood on the floor. He turned round once more, to see if his parents slept; yes, they did; and so he went softly, quite softly, only in his little shirt, up to the wheel, and began to spin. The cord flew off, and the wheel then ran much quicker. His mother awoke at the same moment; the curtains moved; she looked out, and thought of the brownie, or another little spectral being. Have mercy on us!' said she, and in her fear she struck her husband in the side; he opened his eyes, rubbed them with his hands, and looked at the busy little fellow. It is Bertel, woman,' said he." What the moon relates we see here as the first picture in Thorwaldsen's life's-gallery; for it is a reflection of the reality. Thorwaldsen has himself, when in familiar conversation at Nosoe, told the author almost word for word what he in his "Picture-book" lets the moon say. It was one of his earliest remembrances, how he, in his little short shirt, sat in the moonlight and spun his mother's wheel, whilst she, dear soul, took him for a little spectre. A few years ago, there still lived an old ship-carpenter, who remembered the little, light haired, blue-eyed boy, that came to his father in the carving-house at the dockyard; he was to learn his father's trade; and, as the latter felt how bad it was not to be able to draw, the boy, then eleven years of age, was sent to the drawing school at the academy of arts, where he made rapid progress. Two years afterwards, Bertel, or Albert, as we shall in future call him, was of great assistance to his father; nay, he even improved his work. See the hovering ships on the wharfs! The Dannebrog waves, the workmen sit in a circle under the shade at their frugal breakfasts; but foremost stands the principal figure in this picture: it is a boy who cuts with a bold hand the life-like features in the wooden image for the beak-head of the vessel. It is the ship's guardian-spirit ; and, as the first image from the hand of Albert Thorwaldsen, it shall wander out into the wide world. The eternally swelling sea should baptize it with its waters, and hang its wreaths of wet plants around it. Our next picture advances a step forward. Unobserved amongst the other boys, he has now frequented the academy's school for six years already, where, always taciturn and silent, he stood by his drawing-board. * The Danish national flag. His answer was "yes" or "no," a nod or a shake of the head; but mildness shone from his features, and good nature was in every expression. The picture shows us Albert as a candidate for confirmation. He is now seventeen years of age-not a very young age to ratify his baptismal compact; his place at the dean's house is the last among the poor boys, for his knowledge is not sufficient to place him higher. There had just at that time been an account in the newspapers that the pupil, Thorwaldsen, had gained the academy's smaller medal for a bas-relief representing "a Cupid reposing." Is it your brother that has gained the medal" inquired the dean. own name at the head of a subscription We will now fix our eyes on an object which at that time was dear to him: we find it at his feet in those lively evening scenes, where he, in merry company with such men as Rahbeck and Steffens, sits a silent spectator; we find it in the corner behind the great stove chamber at home which contrasts strangely with the appear "It is myself," said Albert; and the clergyman looked kindly on bim, placed him first among all the boys, and from that time always called him Monsieur Thorwaldsen. Oh! how deeply did that "Monsieur" then sound in his mind, as he has often said since it sounded far more powerfully than any title that kings could give him; he ne-ance of the well dressed men who come to ver afterwards forgot it. visit him. We see it, but bound with a In a small house in Aabeuraa-the street cord, behind the door of the amateur comwhere Holberg lets his poor poets dwell-pany's theatre, where Thorwaldsen retires lived Albert Thorwaldsen with his parents, after delivering the two reptiles he has to and divided his time between the study of art and assisting his father. The Academy's lesser gold medal was then the prize to be obtained for sculpture. Our artist was now twenty years of age; his friends knew his abilities better than himself, and they compelled him to enter on the task. The subject proposed was, Heliodorus driven out of the temple." We are now in Charlottenburgh :* but the little chamber in which Thorwaldsen lately sat to make his sketch is empty, and he, chased by the demons of fear and distrust, hastens down the narrow back-stairs with the intention not te return. Nothing is accidental in the life of a great genius; an apparent insignificance is a God's guiding finger. Thorwaldsen was to complete his task. Who is it that stops him on the dark stairs? One of the professors just comes that way, speaks to him, questions, admonishes him. He returns, and in four hours the sketch is finished, and the gold medal won. gust, 1791. make in the "Barber of Seville ;"—it is his dear dog. It just belongs to this time, it belongs to his life's triumphal procession; he has loved it, he has remembered it in many a work; it was his faithful companion, his dear comrade. All his friends will have one of its whelps, for once when one of Albert's creditors became too violent, it flew with fury at the severe dun. Thorwaldsen has made it immortal in marble; yet he has not done so with his first love, that which otherwise transforms itself into an imperishable Daphne leaf in a poet's breast. We know a chapter in that history. It was in the spring of 1796 that Thorwaldsen intended to commence his wanderings in the world by passing over the Alps to Rome; but he fell ill, and after his recovery was depressed in mind. War was then raging in Germany; and his friends advised him to go by the royal frigate, Thetis, which was just about to sail for the Mediterranean. This was on the 15th of Au-He had then a betrothed bride: he took an honest, open-hearted farewell of her, and said, "Now that I am going on my travels, you shall not be bound to me. If you keep true to me, and I to you, until will be united." They separated,—and we meet again some years hence, then we they met again many, many years after Count Ditlew de Reventlow, minister of State, saw the young artist's work, and became his protector; he placed his • An old palace now used as the academy of art. Father of the present Danish ambassador in Lon 112 THORWALDSEN, THE SCULPTOR. captain was on shore there, the ship was driven, by a storm, from its moorings, and carried out again to sea, when it had to undergo a fresh quarantine at Malta; after which it was found to be in such a state that it was obliged to be keel-hauled. Thorwaldsen, therefore, left his countrymen at Malta, from which place he went in an open boat to Palermo, whence it was that the packet now brought him to Naples. Not a single fellow-countryman did he meet here. The language he did not understand. wards, shortly before his death, she as a then followed the long quarantine at Malta widow, he as Europe's eternally young-then a tour to Tripoli, in order to quell artist. When Thorwaldsen's corpse was the disturbance that had arisen with reborne through the streets of Copenhagen spect to Danish vessels; and, whilst the with royal magnificence; when the streets were filled with thousands of spectators in mourning; there sat an old woman, of the class of citizens, at an open window ;--it was she. The first farewell was here called to mind by the last. The first farewell yes, that was a festal day! The cannons sounded a farewell from the frigate Thetis. See how the sails sweep before the wind; the water foams in the wake of the ship as it passes the wood-grown coast, and the towers of Copenhagen disappear in the distance. Albert stands by the prow; the waves dash against the image of Thetis, that which he himself once carved with life-like features. He looks forward; he has now begun his Argonautic expedition, in search of art's golden fleece in Colchis-Rome. But at home, in the little parlor in Aabeuraa, there stands the inconsolable mother lamenting her lost son, whom she shall see no more, no more press to her heart. One of Albert's dearest friends is also there; he has brought her a little box of ducats from the departed traveller; but she shakes her head, and cries aloud: "I want nothing in this world but my child, who will now perish in the wild ocean!" And she takes her boy's old black silk waistcoat from the closet, imprints a thousand kisses on it, and sheds many heavy tears for Albert, her beloved Albert.* A whole year passes; towards the end of February, 1797, we stand on the Malo at Naples. The packet from Palermo arrives, and with it Turks, Greeks, Maltese, and people of all nations; amongst them is a pale, sickly Scandinavian: he assists the porter to carry his own luggage, shakes his head at the other's garrulity, for he does not understand the language! Of what use is it that the sun shines so warm and bright on all around-there is no sunshine in his mind; it is sickly, it is depressed by homesickness. Thus has Albert Thorwaldsen at length entered Italy's continent, after having been cast about like an Ulysses. The frigate Thetis was obliged to cruise in the North Sea, to guard the Norwegian coasts against English privateers; it was in September that it first passed through the British Channel, and arrived in October at Algiers, where the plague had broken out; The Thetis sailed from Copenhagen on the 20th of May, 1796. Anxious and discouraged he wandered about the harbor the whole of the following day, to see if there were not amongst the many foreign flags, the white cross on a red ground; but no, there was not one Danish vessel. Had there been one there, he would then have returned to Denmark. Sick at heart, he burst into tears. The old Neapolitan woman with whom he lodged for a few days saw him weep, and thought :-"It is certainly love that depresses him,--love, love for one in his cold barbarian land!" and she wept too, and thought, perhaps, of her own first love; for the rose-bush can be fresh and green with youth within, although it is harvesttime, and it stands leafless without, yet bearing its buds. "What has that voyage led to? Why does that womanly imp come back?" These were the words with which he would have A sort of shamebeen greeted at home; and this he felt in that struggling moment. fulness struck deep in his soft mind, and with this feeling he hastened to take a place with a velturino for Rome, where he arrived on the 8th of March, 1797,-a day that was afterwards celebrated by his friends in Copenhagen as his birthday, before they knew the day on which he was born; the 8th of March was the day on which Thorwaldsen was born in Rome for his immortal art. A portrait-figure stands now before us; it is that of a Dane, the learned and severe Zoega, to whom the young artist is specially recommended,-but who only sees in him a common talent; whose words are only those of censure, and whose eye sees only a servile imitation of the antique in his works. Strictly honest in his judgment, according to his own ideas, is this man, who should be Thorwaldsen's guide. We let three years glide away after the arrival of Thorwaldsen, and ask Zoega what he now says of Albert, or, as the Italians call him, Alberto, and the severe man shakes his head, and says: "There is much to blame, little to be satisfied with, and diligent he is not !" Yet he was diligent in a high degree; but genius is foreign to a foreign mind. "The snow had just then thawed from my eyes," he has himself often repeated. The drawings of the Danish painter, Carstens, formed one of those spiritual books that shed its holy baptism over that growing genius. The little atelier looked like a battle-field, for round about were broken statues. Genius formed them often in the midnight hours; despondency over their faults broke them in the day. The three years, for which he had received a stipendium, were as if they had flown away, and as yet he had produced nothing. The time for his return drew nigh. One work, however, he must complete, that it might not, with justice, be said in Denmark, "Thorwaldsen has quite wasted his time in Rome." Doubting his genius just when it embraced him most affectionately; not expecting a victory, whilst he already stood on its open road, he modelled "Jason who has gained the golden fleece." It was this that Thorwaldsen would have gained in the kingdom of arts, and which he now thought he must resign. The figure stood there in clay, many eyes looked on it, and he broke it to pieces! It was in April, 1801, that his return home was fixed, in company with Zoega. It was put off until the autumn. During this time "Jason" occupied all his thoughts. A new, a larger figure of the hero was formed, an immortal work; but it had not then been announced to the world, nor understood by it. "Here is something more than common!" was said by many. Even the man to whom all paid homage, the illustrious Canova, started and exclaimed: "Quest' opera di quel giovane Danese e fatta in uno stilo nuovo e grandioso!" Zoega smiled. "It is bravely done!" said he The Danish songstress, Frederika Brunn, was then in Rome, and sang enthusiastically about Thorwaldsen's "Jason." She assisted the artist so, that he was enabled to get this figure cast in plaster; he himself had no more money than was sufficient for his expenses home. at day-break; the boxes were fastened behind. Then came a fellow-traveller-the sculptor Hagemann, who was returning to his native city, Berlin. His passport was not ready. Their departure must be put off until the next day; and Thorwaldsen promised, although the vetturino complained and abused him, to remain so long. He stayed to win an immortal name on earth, and cast a lustre over Denmark. The British bombs have demolished the towers of Copenhagen; the British have robbed us Danes of our fleet; but in our just indignation and bitterness thereat, we will remember that it was an Englishman who rescued for us, and our land's greatness-thee, Albert Thorwaldsen! An Englishman it was, who, by the will of Providence, raised for us more than towers and spires; who cast more honor and glory around the nation's name, than all the ships of the land, with flag and cannon, could thunder forth,-it was an Englishman, Thomas Hope, Esq. In the little studio which the artist was about to leave, stood Hope, before the uncovered "Jason." It was a life's moment in Thorwaldsen's, and, consequently, in the history of art. The rich stranger had been conducted there by a hired guide; for Canova had said that "Jason" was a work in a new and gigantic style. Thorwaldsen demanded only six hundred zechins for the completion of his work in marble. Hope immediately offered him eight hundred. His career of fame now began. This was the year 1803. Jason" was finished twenty-five years afterwards, and then first sent to the noble Briton; but in these twenty-five years other master-pieces were created, and Thorwaldsen's name inscribed amongst the immortals. He was one of Fortune's favorites, yet still often sick at heart. The sun of Naples had not the power to cheer him ; but friendship and careful nursing were able to do so, and these he found with Baron Schubart, the Danish ambassador in Tuscany ; with him at his beautiful villa, Montenero, near Leghorn, health came into his blood, and peace into his mind. The summer life at that place is still reflected in his basreliefs, Summer" and "Autumn." Princes and artists here associated with him affectionately. On all sides were heard the sounds of acknowledgment and admira The last glass of wine had been already tion. "The Muses' dance on Helicon" drunk as a farewell, the boxes packed, and then sprang forth in marble. He formed the vetturino's carriage was before the door!" Amor and Psyche." This group stood VOL. XIII. No. Ï. 8 complete at the palace, when a storm came morning, after a sleepless night, he sat on; the lightning fell, and broke all the down before the wooden trough, laid the other figures except "Amor and Psyche." wet clay over it, and in a moment he formed It was a sign from heaven that he was its his celebrated bas-relief" Night." During favorite. Heaven with its lightning spared the work the dark mists in his mind vana work of Thorwaldsen's; the ocean itself ished; it was day there--the clear, sunlit in its anger afterwards spared his "Venus day-a confident peace that afterwards alwith the apple." This beautiful statue ways greeted him as victor. He had just sprang forth from the froth of the sea, completed this bas-relief when one of his saved, and well preserved, after the sorrow- Danish friends entered, and found him glad ful news of the vessel's having sunk on its and happy, playing with a large cat, and passage to England. The news of Thor- his dear dog Teverino. The same day waldsen's fame reached Denmark, and came the plaster-modeller, to cast it in awakened joy and interest. He was elected gypsum, when Thorwaldsen was already member of the royal academy of arts; or- busied with his accompanying bas-relief of ders for the palace and the town-hall were" Day," and said, "Stay a little while; sent to him. Beautiful statues came from then we can have them both cast at the his hand at this time. New works of art and fresh orders followed. Years rolled on. Norway was then united with Denmark. In 1811 a quarry of white marble was discovered there, and our present king, then Prince Christian, wrote to Thorwaldsen, who expressed his desire and longing to return; but the many works he had on hand still bound him for a time to the city of the Pope. There was a bustle and noise in Rome. An emperor's palace was to be erected on the Quirinal mountain. Artists and artisans were in full activity, for everything was to be ready in May, 1812, to receive Napoleon. There were several rooms, where, on the top part of the four walls of each, stood an open place for bas-reliefs. No one thought of Thorwaldsen's assistance; for he was going home to the north. The time approached for the completion of the work. The architect, Stern, who had the management of the whole, came by accident to sit beside Thorwaldsen in the academy of St. Luca, and there made to him a proposal to deliver a frieze in plaster for the rooms sixty feet in length; but it must be finished in three months. Thorwaldsen promised it, kept his word, and delivered a masterpiece, Alexander's triumphal entry." The report about it went through all countries: in Denmark it rose to enthusiasm. Sums of money were collected to obtain it in marble, and the Danish government gave an order for it. Thorwaldsen still remained in Rome. New works were produced. We will dwell on two since the year 1815. Weeks and months had run on without his having done anything. He went about in an inexplicable state of melancholy. Early one summer same time." Thus these two immortal works were begun and completed in one day. On the 14th of July, 1819, at four o'clock in the morning, he left Rome, in company. with Count Rantzau of Breitenburg, and the historical painter, Lund. Passing through Sleswick, Als, and Funen, Thorwaldsen arrived at Copenhagen on the 3d of October, after an absence of twentythree years. It was not his parents' lot to see him. His mother could not press her beloved Albert to her heart, nor hear of the homage paid to him,-hear the exultations that his arrival at home awakened. They had both died long before; but from heaven they looked down on him,-from heaven they had followed him on his earthly life's triumphal progress. A mother's tears on earth and prayers in heaven are blessings! In all the Italian and German towns through which he passed he was met by high and low with demonstrations of honor, and many an enthusiastic young artist hastened to that town whither he knew that Thorwaldsen would come. At one of the last stages, near Stutgard, a wanderer came and stopped by the carriage in which Thorwaldsen sat. He begged to be allowed to ride; he got permission, and when on the way narrated that he had come on foot a great distance, and that he was going to Stutgard in order to see the great artist Thorwaldsen, who was expected there. Thorwaldsen made himself known. It was one of the greatest moments in the stranger's life. Love and homage had made his journey home a victorious procession. His arrival in Copenhagen was not less so. See, how they crowded around him, old and young, the first men in the land! A |