vehemence, "be a thing so unheard-of, or even singular? In the
beautiful, when in its appearance the idea is realized, the attraction
of the sensible world assumes a higher, a divine character, and thus
the awe and pity which in uninspired souls want a voice and an
interpreter, are exalted by the mediation of art into heavenly
devotion. It is to be sure absurd, though excusable, when a wretched
picture enraptures the believing spectator, merely on account of its
pious subject; but it is to me perfectly inconceivable how a feeling
heart at the sight of the Maria di Papa Sesto at Dresden can resist an
impression of faith and devotion. I am well aware that the recent
efforts of modern artists, among whom I own myself enlisted, have given
great offence to many excellent people, but it is time to let passion
subside, and to admit that the old track is quite broken up and become
impassable. What in fact was the object of those who first revived the
modern doctrine but to rekindle the feelings, which had long been
considered as quite superfluous in all productions of art? And has not
this new school already produced much that is respectable? A spirit, it
cannot be denied, is manifesting itself, which will strengthen and
improve. A new road has been discovered, which will, it is true, as is
the case in every period of enthusiasm, be trodden by many uncalled
aspirants, whose productions will be exaggerated, offensive, and in
every respect censurable. But is then the bad of this age worse than
the creations which some time ago raised Casanova to celebrity? or the
empty emptier than that cold copying of the misunderstood antique,
which gives the whole of the last age the appearance of one great botch
in the history of the arts? Were not quaint mannerists even then the
phenomena of promise? And could the Association in aid of the arts,
respectable as were its founders, bring forth one vigorous production?"
"Young man," said the stranger with the most cutting coolness, "I ought
to be ten years younger, or yourself older by some few, to engage in
dispute on a subject of such importance. This new fantastic dream has
taken possession of the age, that indeed cannot be denied, and must now
be slept off to the waking. If those whom you find fault with were
perhaps too sober, the men who are now extolled are on the other hand
labouring under a morbid excitement, from a little weak beverage having
mounted into their heads."
"You would not dispute," cried the young painter, "and you do more, you
are bitter. Passion at all events takes from a man his freedom of
judgment. Whether the party for which you contend with such weapons
will gain by it, the future must decide."
Sophia had the malice to cast an encouraging look at the young man.
Walther was by this time uneasy; but Erich joined in the conversation
as mediator, and said, "Whenever a violent controversy stirs itself in
the age, it is a sign that some truth lies midway between the parties,
of which a contemporary, if he would be impartial, ought not to be
entirely ignorant. The arts had long withdrawn from the business of
life, and had become a mere article of luxury; it was in the mean time
forgotten that they had ever been connected with the church and the
world, with devotion and the spirit of enterprise, and all that was
left to produce them was cold connoisseurship, partiality for petty
details and the common-place natural, and an artificial enthusiasm. I
well remember the time when the finest works of a Leonardo were pointed
out only as remarkable and singular antiquities; Raphael himself was
admired only with a qualifying criticism, and people shrugged their
shoulders at still more ancient great masters, and never viewed the
paintings of the earlier German and Flemish artists without laughter.
This barbarism of ignorance at least is now gone by."
"If only no new and worse barbarism had arisen to supply its place!"
cried Eulenböck, purpling deep with wine, as he threw a fiery glance at
the stranger. "I never cease to regret that in our days the language of
a genuine connoisseur is scarcely any longer to be heard; enthusiasm
drowns the voice of judgment; and yet nothing is so instructive for the
artist as a conversation with a genuine lover of the arts, to inform
and animate him, though it is an advantage which for years together he
may not be fortunate enough to enjoy."
The stranger, who seemed to be losing his temper and growing violent,
became after these words again cheerful and mild. "Artists and lovers
of art," he answered, "ought always to court each other's society, in
order to be constantly learning of one another. So it was in former
times; and this was another cause of the flourishing state of painting.
The imagination of every inventor is confined, and flags if it be not
refreshed and enriched from without, and this can only be done by means
of judicious friendly suggestions, not to mention what is gained in
point of correctness, gracefulness in the management, and taste in the
selection of subjects."
"You have chosen," answered the old painter, "for the principal object
of your study, an artist whom I myself love in a measure above all
others."
"I confess," said the stranger, "that I have devoted my heart to him
perhaps somewhat too exclusively. It was my good fortune early in life
to become acquainted with and to understand some distinguished works of
Julio Romano; in Mantua, on my travels, I met with an opportunity of
studying him, and since then I think I am able to justify my
predilection."
"Undoubtedly," rejoined the old man, "your stay there will have been
one of the brightest epochs of your life. I have been forced of late
years, to my intense disgust, to hear a great deal of blame thrown upon
that great genius, chiefly for not treating sacred subjects with a due
degree of fervour. All is not given to every one; but the sublimation
of a vigorous animal life, the free range of frolic wantonness, the
play of the liveliest of imaginations, were things reserved for him.
And if the heart of the youthful pilgrim is still closed against the
exuberance of this brilliant genius, let him bend his steps to Mantua,
there, in the Palazzo del T., to learn I might almost say all the
glories heaven and earth comprize in them; how radiant amid the terrors
of the fall of the Titans is yet the revelry of joy and mirth, how
glorious, in the saloon of Cupid and Psyche, amid the drunkenness of
rapture, the heavenly appearance of perfect beauty."
Young Dietrich had for some time past been opening his eyes at their
full stretch upon his apostate adherent; he could not comprehend this
defection, and determined in a familiar moment to come to an
explanation with the old man upon the subject; for though he might let
the admiration of Julio pass, yet the first half of the conversation
seemed to him to be in direct contradiction to Eulenböck's previous
language, who however gave himself no concern about these trifles, but
with the stranger amateur talked himself into so lively an enthusiasm,
that for a long time they neither listened to the rest nor allowed them
to put in a word.
Erich thought he observed a likeness between the stranger and a
relative of Walther; this led them into the chapter of likenesses, and
the strange way in which certain forms repeat themselves in families,
often most distinctly in the most remote ramifications. "It is singular
too," said the host, "that nature often proceeds just in the manner of
art. If a Netherlander and an Italian of the elder school had to paint
the same portrait, they would both seize the likeness, but each would
produce quite a different portrait and quite a different likeness. So
in my youth I knew a family consisting of several children, on all of
whom was stamped the physiognomy of their parents, and a single leading
form, but under different modifications, as clearly and distinctly as
if the children had been portraitures of the same subject drawn by
different great masters. The eldest daughter was as if painted by
Correggio, with delicate complexion and slender form; the second was
the same face, only larger and fuller, as if from the Florentine
school; the third looked as if Rubens had painted the same portrait in
his manner; the fourth like a picture of Dürer; the next like a work of
the French school, showy and full, but indistinct; and the youngest
like one painted in the liquid style of Leonardo. It was delightful to
compare these faces, which with the same forms were so different again
in expression, colouring, and lineaments."
"Do you remember that singular portrait," asked Erich, "which your old
friend possessed in his collection, and which with so many other things
has been lost in so inexplicable a manner?"
"Ay, to be sure," cried old Walther; "if it was not from the hand of
Raphael, as some assert, it was at least by a first-rate master, who
had successfully studied the art after his model. When some moderns
talk of the art of portrait-painting, as if it were something trivial
or even degrading to a painter, they need only be taken to this
admirable work to be shamed out of their opinion."
"How say you," inquired the stranger, addressing himself with animation
to the old Counsellor; "were other remarkable pictures lost beside this
excellent piece? In what way?"
"Whether they are lost," said Walther, "it is impossible precisely to
say; but they have disappeared, and have perhaps been sold and
transported far away abroad. My friend, Baron von Essen, the father of
the young man whom you lately met in my saloon, as he advanced in life
grew humorsome and eccentric. Love of the arts was the basis of our
friendship, and I may say I enjoyed his entire confidence. Our great
pleasure was in our collections, and his at that time far surpassed
mine, which I have been enabled to enlarge so considerably only by the
thoughtlessness of his son. Whenever we wished to give ourselves a real
treat, we seated ourselves in his cabinet, in which his choicest works
were collected. He had set them in particularly splendid frames, and
ingeniously arranged them in the most advantageous light. Beside that
portrait there was an incomparable landscape of Nicholas Poussin, of
which I have never seen the fellow. In a soft evening light, Christ is
sailing with his disciples on the water. The lovely reflection of the
houses and trees, the clear sky, the transparency of the waves, the
noble character of the Redeemer, and the heavenly repose that hung over
the whole, and almost dissolved the soul in melancholy and peaceful
aspiration, are not to be described. By its side hung a Christ with the
crown of thorns, by Guido Reni, of an expression such as since then I
have never seen again. My old friend, among his oddities, would in
general allow that excellent artist perhaps too little merit. But this
picture always threw him into raptures; and indeed one seemed every
time one saw it to see it for the first time; a familiar acquaintance
with it did but heighten the enjoyment, and still discover new and more
refined beauties. That expression of mildness, of patient resignation,
of heavenly goodness, and forgiveness, could not but penetrate the most
stubborn heart. It was not that state of intense passion which one sees
in other similar pictures of Guido, and which, in spite of the
excellent treatment of the subject, is rather repulsive than
attractive, but on the contrary the sweetest while it was the most
painful of pictures. Through the delicate fleshy parts beneath the
cheek, chin, and eye, one saw and felt the whole skull, and this
expression of suffering only enhanced its beauty. Opposite was a
Lucretia, by the same master, plunging the dagger with a strong full
arm into her beauteous bosom. In this picture the expression was great
and vigorous, the colouring incomparable. A Holy Mother withdrawing the
cloth from the naked body of the sleeping child, and Joseph and John
gazing on the sleeper; the figures, large as life, were represented by
an old Roman master, so nobly and gracefully as to baffle all
description. But well might I seek words to give but a faint conception
of that matchless Van Eyck, an Annunciation, which was perhaps the
crown of the collection. If colour ever appeared in its glory as a
daughter of heaven, if there ever was a play of light and shade, in
which the noblest emotions of the soul were awakened; if delight,
inspiration, poetry and truth and dignity of character, were ever fixed
in figures and colouring upon canvas, it was done in that picture,
which was more than painting and enchantment. I must break off, not to
forget myself. These pictures were the principal; but a Hemling, a
magnificent Annibal Carracci, a little picture of Christ among the
soldiers, a Venus, perhaps by Titian, would have been well worth
mentioning, and there was not a piece in this cabinet which would not
have made any lover of the arts a happy man. And, imagine, conceive the
singularity of the old gentleman; a short time before his death all
these pieces disappeared, disappeared without leaving a trace behind.
Did he sell them? He never answered this question, and his books must
have afforded evidence of the fact after his death, but they contained
no reference to it. Did he give them away? But to whom? One cannot help
fearing, and the thought is heart-rending, that in a sort of raving
melancholy, because he would not resign them to any other man on earth,
shortly before his death he destroyed them. Destroyed them! Can you
conceive, is it possible for a man to form an idea of so dreadful a
distraction, if my conjecture is well founded?"
The old man was so agitated that he could not restrain his tears, and
Eulenböck drew an immense yellow silk handkerchief out of his pocket,
to dry his dark red face with theatrical pathos. "You no doubt
remember," he began sobbing, "that singular picture of Quintin Messys,
in which a young shepherd and a girl were represented in a strange
dress, both admirably executed, and of which the old gentleman used to
maintain that the figures looked like his son and your daughter." "The
likeness was at that time striking," answered Erich; "but you have
still forgotten to mention the St. John, which might at least vie with
the Guido. It was perhaps a picture of Dominichino, or at least was
extremely like his celebrated one. The eye of the youth upraised
towards heaven, the inspiration, the longing, and at the same time the
melancholy, that he had already seen the divine person on earth, had
embraced him as a friend and understood him as a teacher, this
reflexion of a past epoch on the mirror of his noble countenance was
affecting and elevating. Ah! a few of these pictures might save the
young man, and restore him to opulence."
"All would certainly be lost upon him," cried Eulenböck. "He would only
squander it away again. What warnings have I not given him! But he does
not listen to an old friend and the voice of experience. Now at last
that the waters perhaps have come into his soul, his spirits sink
within him; he saw that I was affected even to tears at his
misfortunes, and solemnly promised me to amend forthwith, to work, and
to become a regular man. When upon this I clasp him in an affectionate
embrace, he tears himself from me laughing, and cries; but it is only
from Twelfth-night that this resolution is to hold good, till then I am
determined to be merry, and to go on in the old course! Say what I
would, all was in vain: he threatened, if I did not let him have his
will, to give up the reforming scheme altogether. Well, well: the
holiday will come in a few days; the delay is but short; but at all
events you may see from this how little his good resolutions are to be
built on."
"He has always," said Sophia, "been too closely surrounded by pious
people; from a spirit of contradiction he has turned himself to the
other side, and thus indeed his wilfulness has prevented his
intercourse with the virtuous from being of service to him."
"You are right in some degree," cried the old painter. "Has he not for
some time past suffered himself to be besieged in a manner by the
puritan, that tiresome old musical director Henne? But I assure you,
that man's dry sermons cannot possibly take a hold on him; besides, the
old fellow grows fuddled at his third glass, and so travels out of his
text."
"He has carried things too far," observed the host: "men of this sort,
when irregularity and extravagance have once become their way of life,
can never right themselves again. A life of order, one that deserves
the name of life, appears to them trivial and unmeaning; they are
lost."
"Very true," said Eulenböck: "and merely to give you a striking
instance of his madness, hear how he went to work with his library. He
inherited from his worthy father an incomparable collection of books;
the most magnificent editions of the classics, the greatest rarities of
Italian literature, the first editions of Dante and Petrarch, things
which one inquires after in vain, even in great cities. It comes into
his head now that he must have a secretary to keep this library in
order, to enter newly purchased books in a catalogue, to arrange the
works systematically, and so forth. A young libertine proposes himself
for this important office, and is immediately accepted, because he can
chatter. There is not much to write, but he must learn to drink; and
the loose companion takes his lessons kindly. Presently begins
a mad life; day after day wild and wasteful, balls, masquerades,
water-parties, open house kept for half the town. So by the end of half
a year, when the young bibliologist comes to beg his salary, there is a
lack of cash. The expedient they hit upon is, that he should take out
his first year's salary in books at a fair rate. Neither master nor
servant however know the value of the articles, which are indeed
valuable only for connoisseurs, and these are not to be found in every
street. The most precious works therefore were abandoned to him at a
ridiculously low rate, and, the expedient once discovered, the same
game is played again and again, and the oftener, because the new
favorite had sometimes occasion to make disbursements for his patron in
ready money, which were then repaid him in books. So that I am afraid
nothing is left of the library but the bookcases."
"I know better than any one," said the counsellor, "in what an
inexcusable manner the books were disposed of."
"These are all frightful stories," said Sophia; "who would tell them
again in such a way even of his enemy?" "The worst of all though,"
proceeded Eulenböck, "was his passion for the celebrated beauty Betsy;
for she accomplished on a large scale the destruction of his fortune,
which his other follies could only partially injure. She too utterly
ruined his character, which was originally well inclined. He has a good
heart, but he is weak, so that every one who gains his favour can make
what he will of him. My well-meant words died away upon the winds. I
have sometimes sat up till midnight talking with him in the most
pressing manner, but all my admonitions were merely thrown away. She
had him so fast in her snares, that he was capable even of ill-treating
his sincerest and oldest friends for her sake."
As the company rose from table, and during the exchange of compliments,
Sophia took the opportunity, as she held out her hand to the old
painter, who politely kissed it, to whisper distinctly in his ear, "O
you most detestable of all detestable sinners, you ungrateful
hypocrite! How can your perverse heart find in itself publicly to
calumniate the man by whose benefits you have been enriched, and of
whose thoughtlessness you take advantage, in order with your helpmates
to plunge him into misery? Hitherto I have only taken you to be absurd,
but good-natured; but I see it is not without a cause that you have the
very physiognomy of a fiend! I abhor you!" She pushed him back with
vehemence, and then hurried out of the room.
The company proceeded to the picture-saloon, where coffee was handed
round. "What was the matter with my daughter?" the counsellor asked the
painter: "she seemed so hasty, and had tears in her eyes."
"A dear good child," answered Eulenböck with a sneer; "you are truly
fortunate, Mr. Privy Counsellor, in a daughter with such a sensitive
heart. She was so kindly solicitous about my health; she thinks she
sees an inflammation in my eyes, and imagined I might be in danger of
losing my sight. That was the cause of her emotion."
"Excellent child!" exclaimed the father; "if I could but see her well
settled, that I might die in peace!" The stranger had stayed behind to
inspect the new picture which Erich was shewing him in the dining-room;
they now rejoined the company, and Dietrich followed. They were all
engaged in very animated conversation: the stranger blamed the subject
of the picture, which Dietrich chose to defend. "If Teniers, and the
other Flemish masters," said the latter, "have represented the
temptation of St. Anthony in a comic and grotesque manner, it is a
fancy which we must excuse, considering the mood in which they painted,
and indulgence must be shown to the subordinate talent which was
incapable of creating a lofty work. But the subject requires a serious
treatment, and the old German master there has undoubtedly succeeded.
If the spectator can but be impartial, he will feel himself attracted
and gratified by that picture."
"The subject," replied the stranger, "is not one for painting. The
tormenting dreams of a doting old man, the spectres which he sees in
his solitude, and which by delusive charms or horrors endeavour to
divert him from his melancholy contemplation, can only fall within the
range of grotesque phantoms, and only be exhibited fantastically, if it
be permitted to exhibit them at all; whereas the female figure there,
which is meant to be noble and at the same time alluring, a naked
beauty in the bloom of youth, and which nevertheless is but a spectre
in disguise, the wild shapes around rendered the more conspicuous by
the abruptness of the contrast, the horror of the old man who is
seeking, with the confidence of finding himself again, this medley of
the most contradictory feelings is utterly senseless, and it is to be
lamented that talent and art should be lavished and ruined in labouring
upon such a subject."
"Your dislike," said Dietrich, "carries with it the picture's best
praise. Is not then all that tempts man a spectre, only wrapped in the
alluring form of beauty, or arming itself with an empty show of horror?
May it not be thought that a representation like this has acquired in
these latter days a double import? This temptation comes to all who are
not quite conscious what their hearts are made of; but in that holy man
we see the steady and pure eye, which is raised above fear, and has
been long enough acquainted with the real invisible beauty to spurn
horrour and trivial desire. The truly beautiful leads us into no
temptation; that which we ought to fear does not appear to us in an
ugly mask and distorted shape. The attempt therefore of the old master
admits of a justification before the tribunal of a refined taste--not
so Teniers and his fellows."