The sculptor Lukomski began a month ago a full-length statue of my
father, from a bust done by himself some years ago. I call upon him
often in the middle of the day to watch the progress of the work. The
studio is a barn-like building, with a huge skylight on the north
side; consequently no sun comes in, and the light is cold. When I sit
there I seem to be out of Rome altogether. To heighten the illusion,
there is Lukomski, with his Northern features, light beard, and the
dreamy blue eyes of a mystic. His two assistants are Poles, and the
two dogs in the yard are called Kruk and Kurta,--in short, the place
has the appearance of a northern isle in a southern sea. I like to go
there for the quaintness of the thing, and I like to watch Lukomski
at his work. There is in him at the same time so much power and
simplicity. He is especially interesting when he stands back a short
distance so as to get a better view of his work, and then suddenly
goes back as to an attack. He is a very talented sculptor. The shape
of my father seems to grow under his hand, and assume a wonderful
likeness. It will be not only a portrait, but a work of art.
If anybody, it is he who is altogether absorbed in the beauty of form.
It seems to me that he works out his thoughts by the help of Greek
noses, heads, arms, and torsos, more than by help of ideas. He has
lived fifteen years at Rome, and still goes to galleries and museums,
as if he had arrived yesterday. This proves that worship of form may
fill a man's life, and become his religion, provided he is its high
priest. Lukomski has as much veneration for beauty in human shape as
devotees for holy shrines. I asked him which he considered the most
beautiful woman in Rome. He answered, without hesitation, "Mrs.
Davis;" and there and then, with his plastic thumbs, with the
expressive motion common to artists, he began to draw her outline in
the air. Lukomski, as a rule, is self-contained and melancholy; but
at this moment he was so animated that his eyes lost their mystic
expression. "Like this, for instance," he said, drawing a new line,
"or like that. She is the most beautiful woman not only in Rome, but
in the whole world." He says that when she lifts her head, the neck
is as the continuation of the face,--the same breadth, which is very
rare; sometime on the Transtevere one might see women with similar
necks; but never in that perfection. Really, who seeks to find a flaw
in Laura's beauty, must seek in vain. Lukomski goes so far as to
maintain that statues ought to be raised to women like her in their
lifetime. Of course, I did not contradict him.