It was an extraordinarily fine piece of work, full of life and vigour. It represented a bearded man of about fifty.
Even a person who had never seen the original would say, on looking at it: “That must be a good portrait.”
It had individuality.
That is to say, it had, what nearly all modern sculpture lacks, Life.
In portraiture there is only one real medium—marble. Paint, photography, Berlin woolwork, all are pretty much on the same level when compared to marble, cut by the chisel of a master.
Whoever has seen the statue of Demosthenes, by Praxiteles, has heard Demosthenes speak; has seen him as he once stood in the Agora.
A man’s face is individuality, expressed by a million curves; in a portrait these curves are suggested; in a bust they are reproduced.
This bust, reconstructed and unveiled by Antonides, was a triumph of art.
“Ah!” said the old Greek, forgetting even gold for a moment and staring at the thing he had unveiled. “What Philistine smashed it? If he wanted to use his hammer why did he not wait for the next opening of the English Royal Academy? But if he had done that, of course, he would not have been a Philistine, but a lover of art.”
“It is a fine piece of work,” said Freyberger, “and you have done the restoration not badly.”