The clock for the Prince and the price of the statue paid off the young couple’s debts.  Steinbock had acquired fashionable habits; he went to the play, to the opera; he talked admirably about art; and in the eyes of the world he maintained his reputation as a great artist by his powers of conversation and criticism.  There are many clever men in Paris who spend their lives in talking themselves out, and are content with a sort of drawing-room celebrity.  Steinbock, emulating these emasculated but charming men, grew every day more averse to hard work.  As soon as he began a thing, he was conscious of all its difficulties, and the discouragement that came over him enervated his will.  Inspiration, the frenzy of intellectual procreation, flew swiftly away at the sight of this effete lover.

Sculpture—­like dramatic art—­is at once the most difficult and the easiest of all arts.  You have but to copy a model, and the task is done; but to give it a soul, to make it typical by creating a man or a woman—­this is the sin of Prometheus.  Such triumphs in the annals of sculpture may be counted, as we may count the few poets among men.  Michael Angelo, Michel Columb, Jean Goujon, Phidias, Praxiteles, Polycletes, Puget, Canova, Albert Durer, are the brothers of Milton, Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, Tasso, Homer, and Moliere.  And such an achievement is so stupendous that a single statue is enough to make a man immortal, as Figaro, Lovelace, and Manon Lescaut have immortalized Beaumarchais, Richardson, and the Abbe Prevost.

Superficial thinkers—­and there are many in the artist world—­have asserted that sculpture lives only by the nude, that it died with the Greeks, and that modern vesture makes it impossible.  But, in the first place, the Ancients have left sublime statues entirely clothed—­the Polyhymnia, the Julia, and others, and we have not found one-tenth of all their works; and then, let any lover of art go to Florence and see Michael Angelo’s Penseroso, or to the Cathedral of Mainz, and behold the Virgin by Albert Durer, who has created a living woman out of ebony, under her threefold drapery, with the most flowing, the softest hair that ever a waiting-maid combed through; let all the ignorant flock thither, and they will acknowledge that genius can give mind to drapery, to armor, to a robe, and fill it with a body, just as a man leaves the stamp of his individuality and habits of life on the clothes he wears.

Sculpture is the perpetual realization of the fact which once, and never again, was, in painting called Raphael!

The solution of this hard problem is to be found only in constant persevering toil; for, merely to overcome the material difficulties to such an extent, the hand must be so practised, so dexterous and obedient, that the sculptor may be free to struggle soul to soul with the elusive moral element that he has to transfigure as he embodies it.  If Paganini, who uttered his soul through the strings of his violin, spent three days without practising, he lost what he called the stops of his instrument, meaning the sympathy between the wooden frame, the strings, the bow, and himself; if he had lost this alliance, he would have been no more than an ordinary player.