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Thorswaldsen
by
Who knows?–I may go to that boy to borrow money or to hear him preach, or to beg him to defend me in a lawsuit; or he may stand with pulse unhastened, bare of arm, in white apron, ready to do his duty, while the cone is placed over my face, and Night and Death come creeping into my veins. Be patient with the boys–you are dealing with soul-stuff–Destiny awaits just around the corner. Be patient with the boys!
Bertel Thorwaldsen was fourteen years old. He was pale and slender, and had a sharp chin and a straight nose and hair the color of sunburned tow. His eyes were large, set wide apart and bright blue; and he looked out upon the world silently, with a sort o’ wistful melancholy. He helped his father carve out the wonderful figureheads that were to pilot the ships across strange seas and bring good luck to the owners.
“A boy like that should be sent to the Academy and taught designing,” said one of the shipowners one day as he watched the lad at his work. Gottschalk shook his head dubiously. “How could a poor man, with a family to support, and provisions so high, spare his boy from work! Aye, wasn’t he teaching the lad a trade himself, as it was?”
But the shipowner fumbled his fob, and insisted, and to test the boy he had him work with his designers. And he compromised with the father by having Bertel sent to the Academy half a day at a time.
At the school one of the instructors remembered Bertel, on account of his long yellow hair that hung down in his eyes when he leaned over the desk; also his dulness in every line except drawing and clay-modeling. The newspapers one day announced that a certain young Master Thorwaldsen had been awarded a prize for clay-modeling.
“Is that your brother?” asked the teacher next day. “It is myself, Herr Chaplain,” replied the boy, blushing to the roots of his yellow hair.
The Chaplain coughed to conceal his surprise. He had always thought this boy incapable of anything. “Herr Thorwaldsen,” he said, severely, “you will please pass to the first grade!” And to be addressed as “Herr” meant that you really were somebody. “He called me ‘Herr’!” said Bertel to his mother that night–“He called me ‘Herr’!”
About this time we find the painter Abildgaard taking a special interest in young Bertel, giving him lessons in drawing and painting, and encouraging him in his modeling. In fact, Thorwaldsen has himself explained that all of his “original” designs about this time were supplied by Abildgaard. The interest of Abildgaard in the boy was slightly resented by the young man’s parents, who were afraid that their son was getting above his station. Abildgaard has left a record to the effect that at this time Thorwaldsen was very self-contained, reticent, and seemingly without ambition. He used to postpone every task, and would often shirk his duties until sharp reminders came. Yet when he did begin, he would fall on the task like one possessed, and finish it in an hour. This proved to Abildgaard that the stuff was there, and down in his heart he believed that this sleepy lad would some day awake from slumber.
Anyway, Abildgaard used to say, long years after, “What did I tell you?” Gottschalk was paid by the piece for his carving; he was getting better pay now, because he did better work, his employer thought. Bertel was helping him. The family was getting quite prosperous.
When Bertel had secured, between sleepy spells, about all the prizes for clay-modeling and sketching that artistic Copenhagen had to offer, he started for Rome, armed with a three-year traveling scholarship. This prize proved to be a pivotal point. The young man had done good work, and seemingly without effort; but he was sadly lacking in general education–and worse, he apparently had no desire to learn.