e snow had just then thawed from my eyes," he has himself
often repeated. The drawings of the Danish painter Carstens formed one
of those spiritual books that shed its holy baptism over that growing
genius. The little _atelier_ looked like a battle-field, for
roundabout were broken statues. Genius formed them often in the
midnight hours; despondency over their faults broke them in the day.

The three years, for which he had received a _stipendium_, were as if
they had flown away, and as yet he had produced nothing. The time for
his return drew nigh. One work, however, he must complete, that it
might not with justice be said in Denmark, "Thorwaldsen has quite
wasted his time in Rome." Doubting his genius just when it embraced
him most affectionately; not expecting a victory, while he already
stood on its open road, he modelled "Jason who has Gained the Golden
Fleece." It was this that Thorwaldsen would have gained in the kingdom
of arts, and which he now thought he must resign. The figure stood
there in clay, many eyes looked carelessly on it, and--he broke it to
pieces!

It was in April, 1801, that his return home was fixed, in company with
Zoega. It was put off until the autumn. During this time "Jason"
occupied all his thoughts. A new, a larger figure of the hero was
formed, an immortal work; but it had not then been announced to the
world, nor understood by it. "Here is something more than common!" was
said by many. Even the man to whom all paid homage, the illustrious
Canova, started, and exclaimed: "Quest' opera di quel giovane Danese e
fatta in uno stilo nuovo, e grandioso!" Zoega smiled. "It is bravely
done!" said he. The Danish songstress, Frederikke Brunn, was then in
Rome and sang enthusiastically about Thorwaldsen's "Jason." She
assisted the artist, so that he was enabled to get this figure cast in
plaster; for he himself had no more money than was just sufficient for
his expenses home.

The last glass of wine had been already drunk as a farewell, the boxes
packed, and the _vetturino's_ carriage was before the door at daybreak;
the boxes were fastened behind. Then came a fellow-traveller--the
sculptor, Hagemann, who was returning to his native city, Berlin. His
passport was not ready. Their departure must be put off until the next
day; and Thorwaldsen promised, although the _vetturino_ complained and
abused him, to remain so long. He stayed--stayed to win an immortal name
on earth, and cast a lustre over D