IN the Metropolitan Museum of New York there is a group, called “The Bohemian,” which represents a man leaning over a young bear, endeavouring by voice and gesture to encourage it to antics. The attitude and play of movement are very true to life.

One knows the action of a trained bear at the end of its keeper’s chain; how it balances from foot to foot, moves its body up and down like a huge, slow piston rod, while its head turns this way, that way, keeping rude time to the rhythm, half chant, half howl, of the man’s voice. The latter seemed to our childhood’s imagination to have some affinity with the bear; both strange creatures appearing in the village, whence no one knew; performing their uncouth antics, silent but for the man’s mournful, monotonous dirge or an occasional burst of gibberish as he rattled the chain; then disappearing, whither?

In the posturing of the man in this group we can anticipate what will be the movement of the bear when it is trained, and feel the suggestion also of an animal kinship between them and of their outcast, vagrant fellowship. Not only is the technique sure and facile, the observation of form and action just, but the conception is one in which imagination has played a distinct part.

It is an early work of Paul Weyland Bartlett, executed shortly after he had studied with FrÉmiet. One may fancy that he, too, had come under the spell of these strange travelling companions, and the absorbing question to his boy’s mind had been: How was the bear taught? Then, in after years, when his interest in animals, quickened by the example of his master, took artistic shape, he bethought him of his old-time wonder and set himself to solve it. However that may be, it is clear that Bartlett’s preoccupation in the subject extended beyond mere deftness of craftsmanship, and that in some way or other his imagination had been roused.

I urge this point because some of his subsequent works might lead one to suppose that he is lacking in imagination and absorbed exclusively in the exercise of a very accomplished, graceful and refined technique. Thus his statue of “Law” in the rotunda of the Library of Congress at Washington reveals no higher conception than that of a refined young woman in classic draperies, holding a scroll and resting one hand upon a table of the law; a personification entirely superficial and only redeemed from mediocrity by the tactful elegance of the modelling.

But, while he was engaged on this, he was pondering another statue which hit his interest closely. The artist in him that could not be aroused to enthusiasm by an abstraction, such as “Law,” awoke to the personal matter of portraying the greatest master of his own craft. His imagination was enlisted, and after much delay—for his conscience was very truly involved in this work and he had an ideal that to his utmost ability he would reach—the “Michelangelo” was completed; a work of sincere imagination; of most arresting and moving appeal.

Then followed a commission for an equestrian statue of Lafayette; and, after making the preliminary sketch for it in New York, he returned to Paris to execute it. It was there, too, that he had conceived and executed the “Michelangelo”; but with this “Lafayette” his imagination again failed him. Through lack of interest in the subject, I wonder, or lack of incentive in the environment, or lack of stability in himself? For from this statue which stands in the Place du Carrousel, a gift from the children of America, judged at least from the full-sized model temporarily erected for the ceremony of presentation in 1900, one receives mainly an impression of elegance. An elegance certainly monumental; raised to the dignity of a motive and incorporated into a fine structure of form, yet a little bit pretentious. It is as if the sculptor had no higher purpose than to prove his capability as a stylist. He has certainly succeeded; but the statue is more than a trifle modish.

Bartlett had no need, however, to protest his possession of stylistic qualities. The “Michelangelo” sufficiently proclaimed it, rivalling the skill of technique displayed in Macmonnies’s “Shakespeare” in the same rotunda, and displaying even greater accent of mastery, since it is the expression of a more forceful and imaginative characterisation. It is worth while to notice how keenly the sculptor has anticipated the material in which the statue was to be finished. For, while marble permits a great variety of surface effects and delicate contrasts of light and shade, the essential suggestion of bronze is its hardness, and consequently its special capacity is to express structure and action, bone and muscle. In this “Michelangelo” one will find no superfluities of detail, little insistence upon qualities of surface. A few salient lines of planes, with incisive depth of shade here and there, suffice for the drawing of the figure. The

main concern is structural, even the leather apron playing no inconsiderable part in the strong, stalwart frugality of the whole treatment.

This instinct for the special qualities of bronze has led Bartlett to make experiments in what is a thoroughly characteristic method of securing surface effect, the colouring of the metal with patina of various kinds. On several occasions he has exhibited little objects, such as frogs and turtles, in which he seemed to have recovered some of the secrets of Japanese art, so rich and varied were the tones of red and brown and green, so exquisite the silky smoothness of the not too highly polished surface. Compared with the crude effects of commercial pickling the colour and texture of these objects was a revelation.

As to the conception of character in the “Michelangelo,” opinions seem to differ, some finding it deficient in suggestion; as if any statue were likely to convey to our imagination the full suggestion of the master’s genius. Such can only be found in his own works. For myself, I find abundance of suggestion in the rugged grandeur of the head (which in the accompanying illustration has been unfortunately reduced in size); a ruggedness, scarred by time and spiritual conflict with the fever heat of supreme, unsatisfied passion; a rugged, mountain-like head, with deepset eyes, two craters communicating with the inner volcanic fire. I am happy in the possession of a cast of this head, have lived with it several years, turned to it constantly with a sense of being strengthened and purified thereby. I find, too, in the figure a fair amount of correspondence to the character of the head. Structurally it is strong and the attitude is that of a man completely absorbed in the thoughts that occupy his brain. Indeed, one of the most notable things in the composition is the entire absence of any suggestion of preconceived pose; the figure stands in complete, unconscious isolation. When the illusion from the front is so satisfactory it is with repugnance that one pries behind the scenes; but this statue in its position has to be viewed also from the rear and, so viewed, is less dignified. The coat, fitting trimly to the waist and finishing in a stiff skirt, again with a hint of modishness, belies the stern simplicity of the front view. Some smaller motive has here intervened, of historical accuracy to a little period of costume, quite out of place in one who belongs to all subsequent ages; unreasonable, too, for we fancy that the old hewer of marble would never have encumbered himself with such sartorial gear, when, as here represented, he stood with chisel in hand meditating some great conception.

But there is no satisfaction in dwelling on this point. The happier thought is that a sculptor, still young, could have given us a work so distinguished in technique, of so sincere and strong appeal.