And, accordingly, Donatello's bust (like that rude, rough mass of the
head of Brutus, by Michael Angelo, at Florence) has ever since remained
in an unfinished state. Most spectators mistake it for an unsuccessful
attempt towards copying the features of the Faun of Praxiteles. One
observer in a thousand is conscious of something more, and lingers long
over this mysterious face, departing from it reluctantly, and with many
a glance thrown backward. What perplexes him is the riddle that he sees
propounded there; the riddle of the soul's growth, taking its first
impulse amid remorse and pain, and struggling through the incrustations
of the senses. It was the contemplation of this imperfect portrait of
Donatello that originally interested us in his history, and impelled us
to elicit from Kenyon what he knew of his friend's adventures.