relative, Mr. Pennington, a prominent merchant of Philadelphia, came
to pay the family a visit. He thought the boy's crude pictures were
wonderful, as he was then only entering his eighth year. When he went
home he immediately sent the little fellow a box of paints, with six
engravings by Grevling. John Gait, who wrote from the artist's own
statements, describes the effect of this gift upon the boy. In going
to bed he placed the box so near his couch, that he could hug and
caress it every time he wakened. Next morning he rose early, and
taking his paints and canvas to the garret, began to work. He went to
breakfast, and then stole back to his post under the roof, forgetting
all about school. When dinnertime came he presented himself at table,
as usual, but said nothing of his occupation. He had been absent from
school some days before the master called on his parents to inquire
what had become of him. This led to the discovery of his secret
painting, for his mother proceeded to the garret and found the truant.
She was, however, so astonished with the creation upon his canvas,
that she took him in her arms and kissed him with transports of
affection. He had made a composition of his own out of two of the
engravings--which he had colored from his ideas of the proper tints to
be used--and so perfect did the picture appear to Mrs. West that,
although half the canvas remained to be covered, she would not suffer
the child to add another touch with his brush. Sixty-seven years
afterward, Mr. Gait saw this production in the exact state in which it
was left, and Mr. West himself acknowledged that in subsequent efforts
he had never been able to excel some of the touches of invention in
this first picture.
The first instruction in art which the artist received was from Mr.
William Williams, a painter in Philadelphia. Young West's first
attempt at portraiture was at Lancaster, where he painted "The Death
of Socrates" for William Henry, a gunsmith. He was not yet sixteen,
but other paintings followed which possessed so much genuine merit,
that they have been preserved as treasures. One of these is in
possession of General Meredith Reed, of Paris, France, a descendant of
the signer. West returned to his home in Springfield, in 1754, to
discuss the question of his future vocation. He had an inclination for
military life, and volunteered as a recruit in the old French war;
but military attractions vanished among the hardships involved, and in
1756, when eighteen years old, he established himself in Philadelphia
as a portrait-painter, his price being "five guineas a head." Two
years later he went to New York, where he passed eleven months, and
was liberally employed by the merchants and others. He painted the
portrait of Bishop Provoost, those of Gerardus Duyekinck and his
wife--full length--one of Mrs. Samuel Breese, and many others, which
are in the families of descendants, and characteristic examples of his
early work.
In 1760 an opportunity offered for him to visit Rome, Italy. He
carried letters to Cardinal Albani and other celebrities, and as he
was very handsome and intelligent, and came from a far-away land about
which hung the perpetual charm of tradition and romance, he soon
became the lion of the day among the imaginative Italians. It was a
novelty then for an American to appear in the Eternal City, and the
very morning after his arrival a curious party followed his steps to
observe his pursuit of art. He remained in Italy until 1763, and while
there he painted, among others, his pictures of "Cimon and Iphigenia,"
and "Angelica and Medora." His portrait of Lord Grantham excited much
interest, and that nobleman's introduction facilitated his visit to
London, which proved so prolific in results. There was no great living
historical painter in England just then; and at first there was no
sale for West's pictures, as it was unfashionable to buy any but "old
masters." But the young artist was undaunted, and presently attracted
attention in high places. His picture of "Agrippina Landing with the
Ashes of Germanicus," painted for Dr. Drummond, Archbishop of York,
secured him the favor of George III., and the commission from his
majesty to paint the "Departure of Regulus from Rome." His untiring
industry and gentlemanly habits were conspicuous, and may be regarded
as among the great secrets of his continual advance and public
recognition. His "Parting of Hector and Andromache," and "Return of
the Prodigal Son," were among his notable productions of this period.
His "Death of General Wolfe" has been, says Tuckerman, "truly declared
to have created an era in English art, by the successful example it
initiated of the abandonment of classic costume--a reform advocated by
Reynolds, who glories in the popular innovation." His characters were
clad in the dress of their time. Reynolds said to the Archbishop of
York: "I foresee that this picture will not only become one of the
most popular, but will occasion a revolution in art." It was purchased
by Lord Grosvenor. Among the long list of paintings executed by order
of the king were "The Death of Chevalier Bayard;" "Edward III.
Embracing his Son on the Field of Battle at Cressy;" "The Installation
of the Order of the Garter;" "The Black Prince Receiving the King of
France and his Son Prisoners at Poictiers," and "Queen Philippa
Interceding with Edward for the Burgesses of Calais." West was one of
the founders, in 1768, of the Royal Academy, and succeeded Sir Joshua
Reynolds as president of the institution in 1792, which post he held
almost uninterruptedly until 1815.
In the year 1780 he proposed a series of pictures on the progress of
revealed religion, of which there were thirty-six subjects in all,
but he never executed but twenty-eight of these, owing to the mental
trouble which befell the king. He then commenced a new series of
important works, of which "Christ Healing the Sick" was purchased by
an institution in Great Britain for L3,000, and was subsequently
copied for the Pennsylvania Hospital. "Penn's Treaty with the Indians"
was painted for Granville Penn, the scene representing the founding of
Pennsylvania. West wrote to one of his family that he had taken the
liberty of introducing in this painting the likeness of his father and
his brother Thomas. "That is the likeness of our brother," he says,
"standing immediately behind Penn, leaning on his cane. I need not
point out the picture of our father, as I believe you will find it in
the print from memory." Tuckerman says that the work which, in the
opinion of many critics, best illustrates the skill of West in
composition, drawing, expression, and dramatic effect, is his "Death
on the Pale Horse." His "Cupid," owned in Philadelphia, is one of his
most effective pictures as to color.
The full-length portrait of West, by Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A.,
represents the great artist in his character as president of the Royal
Academy, delivering a lecture on "coloring" to the students. Under his
right hand may be noticed, standing on an easel, a copy of Raphael's
cartoon of the "Death of Ananias." The picture of West's face has been
considered a perfect likeness, but the figure somewhat too large and
too tall in its effects. A copy of this portrait was made by Charles
R. Leslie; and Washington Allston also painted a portrait of the
artist. There exists, it is said, a portrait of West from his own
hand, taken apparently at about the age of forty, three-quarter
length, in Quaker costume.
[Illustration: Benjamin West, President of the Royal Academy.]
THORWALDSEN
By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
(1770-1844)
It was in Copenhagen, on November 19, 1770, that a carver of figures
for ships' heads, by name Gottskalk Thorwaldsen, was presented by his
wife, Karen Groenlund, the daughter of a clergyman in Jutland, with a
son, who at his baptism received the name of Bertel, or Albert.
The father had come from Iceland, and lived in poor circumstances.
They dwelt in _Lille Groennegade_ (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":
[Illustration: Thorwaldsen.]
"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. While his mother spun, he would sit for
hours together looking at the buzzing 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
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 Nysoee, 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,
while 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 dock-yard; 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 afterward, 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 wharves! The Dannebrog waves, the
workmen sit in 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 lifelike 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 among 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. 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. "It is
myself," said Albert, and the clergyman looked kindly on him, 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 never afterward forgot
it.
In a small house in Aabeuraa--the street where Holberg lets his poor
poets dwell--lived Albert Thorwaldsen with his parents, and divided
his time between the study of art and assisting his father. The
Academy's lesser gold 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 Charlottenburg; 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 to 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. This was on August 15, 1791.
Count Ditlew de Reventlow, minister of state, saw the young artist's
work, and became his protector; he placed his own name at the head of
a subscription that enabled Thorwaldsen to devote his time to the
study of his art. Two years afterward the large gold medal was to be
contended for at the Academy, the successful candidate thereby gaining
the right to a travelling _stipendium_. Thorwaldsen was again the
first; but before he entered on his travels, it was deemed necessary
to extend that knowledge which an indifferent education at school had
left him in want of. He read, studied, and the Academy gave him its
support; acknowledgment smiled on him, a greater and more spiritual
sphere lay open to him.
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
roundabout 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, while 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 carelessly 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, Frederikke 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; for he himself had no more money than was just sufficient for
his expenses home.
The last glass of wine had been already drunk as a farewell, the boxes
packed, and the _vetturino's_ carriage was before the door at daybreak;
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--stayed to win an immortal name
on earth, and cast a lustre over Denmark.
Though forty years resident in Rome, rich and independent, he lived
and worked with the thought of once returning home to Denmark, there
to rest himself; unaccustomed to the great comforts of other rich
artists in Rome, he lived a bachelor's life. Was his heart, then, no
longer open to love since his first departure from Copenhagen? A
thousand beautiful Cupids in marble will tell us how warmly that heart
beat. Love belongs to life's mysteries.
We know that Thorwaldsen left a daughter in Rome, whose birth he
acknowledged; we also know that more than one female of quality would
willingly have given her hand to the great artist. The year before his
first return to Denmark he lay ill at Naples, and was nursed by an
English lady who felt the most ardent affection for him; and, from
that feeling of gratitude which was awakened in him, he immediately
consented to their union. When he had recovered and afterward returned
to Rome, this promise preyed on his mind, he felt that he was not now
formed to be a husband, acknowledged that gratitude was not love, and
that they were not suited for each other; after a long combat with
himself, he wrote and informed her of his determination. Thorwaldsen
was never married.
The following trait is as characteristic of his heart as of his whole
personality. One day, while in Rome, there came a poor countryman to
him, an artisan, who had long been ill. He came to say farewell, and
to thank him for the money that he and others of his countrymen had
subscribed together, with which he was to reach home.
"But you will not walk the whole way?" said Thorwaldsen.
"I am obliged to do so," replied the man.
"But you are still too weak to walk--you cannot bear the fatigue, nor
must you do it!" said he.
The man assured him of the necessity of doing so.
Thorwaldsen went and opened a drawer, took out a handful of _scudi_
and gave them to him, saying, "See, now you will ride the whole way!"
The man thanked him, but assured him that his gift would not be more
than sufficient to carry him to Florence.
"Well!" said Thorwaldsen, clapping him on the shoulder, as he went a
second time to the drawer and took out another handful. The man was
grateful in the highest degree, and was going. "Now you can ride the
whole way home and be comfortable on the way," said he, as he followed
the man to the door.
"I am very glad," said the man. "God bless you for it! but to ride the
whole way requires a little capital."
"Well, then, tell me how great that must be," he asked, and looked
earnestly at him. The man in a modest manner named the requisite sum,
and Thorwaldsen went a third time to the drawer, counted out the sum,
accompanied him to the door, pressed his hand, and repeated, "But now
you will ride, for you have not strength to walk!"
Our artist did not belong to the class of great talkers; it was only
in a small circle that he could be brought to say anything, but then
it was always with humor and gayety. A few energetic exclamations of
his are preserved. A well-known sculptor, expressing himself one day
with much self-feeling, entered into a dispute with Thorwaldsen, and
set his own works over the latter's. "You may bind my hands behind
me," said Thorwaldsen, "and I will bite the marble out with my teeth
better than you can carve it."
Thorwaldsen possessed specimens in plaster of all his works; these,
together with the rich marble statues and bas-reliefs which he had
collected of his own accord, without orders, and the number of
paintings that he every year bought of young artists, formed a
treasure that he wished to have in his proper home, Copenhagen.
Therefore, when the Danish government sent vessels of war to the
Mediterranean, in order to fetch the works that were ready for the
palace or the churches, he always sent a number of his own things with
them. Denmark was to inherit these treasures of art; and, in order to
see them collected in a place worthy of them, a zeal was awakened in
the nation to build a museum for their reception. A committee of his
Danish admirers and friends sent out a requisition to the people, that
everyone might give their mite; many a poor servant-girl and many a
peasant gave theirs, so that a good sum was soon collected. Frederick
VI. gave ground for the building, and the erection thereof was
committed to the architect, Bindesbol.
Thorwaldsen, in 1838, had attained universal fame. The frigate Rota
was dispatched to bring a cargo of his works to Copenhagen, and he was
to arrive at the same time, perhaps to remain in Denmark. Close to
Presto Bay, surrounded by wood-grown banks, lies Nysoee, the principal
seat of the barony of Stampenborg, a place which, through Thorwaldsen,
has become remarkable in Denmark. The open strand, the beautiful beech
woods, even the little town seen through the orchards, at some few
hundred paces from the mansion, make the place worthy of a visit on
account of its truly Danish scenery. Here Thorwaldsen found his best
home in Denmark; here he seemed to increase his fame, and here a
series of his last beautiful bas-reliefs were produced.
Baron Stampe was one of nature's noblest-minded men; his hospitality
and his lady's daughterly affection for Thorwaldsen opened a home for
him here, a comfortable and good one. A great energetic power in the
baroness incited his activity; she attended him with a daughter's
care, elicited from him every little wish, and executed it. Directly
after his first visit to Nysoee, a short tour to Moen's chalk cliffs
was arranged, and during the few days that were passed there, a little
_atelier_ was erected in the garden at Nysoee, close to the canal which
half encircles the principal building; here, and in a corner room of
the mansion, on the first floor facing the sea, most of Thorwaldsen's
works, during the last years of his life, were executed: "Christ
Bearing the Cross," "The Entry into Jerusalem," "Rebecca at the Well,"
his own portrait-statue, Oehlenschlaeger's and Holberg's busts, etc.
Baroness Stampe was in faithful attendance on him, lent him a helping
hand, and read aloud for him from Holberg. Driving abroad, weekly
concerts, and in the evenings his fondest play, "The Lottery," were
what most easily excited him, and on these occasions he would say many
amusing things. He has represented the Stampe family in two
bas-reliefs: in the one, representing the mother, the two daughters,
and the youngest son, is the artist himself; the other exhibits the
father and the two eldest sons.
All circles sought to attract Thorwaldsen; he was at every great
festival, in every great society, and every evening in the theatre by
the side of Oehlenschlaeger. His greatness was allied to a mildness, a
straightforwardness, that in the highest degree fascinated the
stranger who approached him for the first time. His _atelier_ in
Copenhagen was visited daily; he therefore felt himself more
comfortable and undisturbed at Nysoee. Baron Stampe and his family
accompanied him to Italy in 1841, when he again visited that country.
The whole journey, which was by way of Berlin, Dresden, Frankfort, the
Rhine towns, and Munich, was a continued triumphal procession. The
winter was passed in Rome, and the Danes there had a home in which
they found a welcome.