stranger, "is boundlessness; it is that which it is, precisely because
it does not admit of being confined within bounds, for by its limit
every thing rational becomes what it is--the Beautiful, the Noble, the
Free, Art and Enthusiasm. But because in these there is a mixture of
something unearthly and inexpressible, the fools suppose, it is
unlimited, and in their assumed mysticism outrage nature and
imagination. Do you see this mad Höllenbreughel here on this pillar? It
is precisely because his eye had not a look left for truth and taste;
because he had entirely renounced nature, and extravagance and madness
supplied the place of inspiration and judgment with him; for this very
reason do I like him the best of all the host of grotesque painters,
for he shut the door without ceremony, and left the understanding on
the outside. Look at Julio Romano's Hall of the Titans at Milan, his
strange scenes with beasts and centaurs, and all the monsters of fable,
his bacchanals, his bold mixture of the Human, the Beautiful, the
Brutal, and the Wanton; dive deep into these studies, and you will then
learn what a real poet can and may make of these strange and indistinct
moods of our soul, and how it is in his power, even in this dream-woven
net, to catch beauty."
"In this way," said Dietrich, "we shall soon have despatched every
subject, if we adopt a single square and rule, and dazzled by passion,
transfer all the divinity of genius to a single name, and from a
partial knowledge of one man, reject all that he has not performed, or
could not perform; who, after all, was but a single mortal, whose eye
pierced not all depths, and from whom, at all events, death took away
the palette, had even his powers been such that a universe of forms
might have issued from his hand. A limit there must be; who doubts
that? But the grave wisdom which one often sees priding itself on the
observance of its rule, always reminds me of that singular property of
the cock, who, whatever swashing and martial airs he may give himself,
if he is laid on his side, and a chalk line is drawn from his beak
along the ground, remains motionless as if in a fit of devotion,
believing himself chained by God knows what natural necessity,
philosophical rule, or indispensable limit of art."
"You grow presuming, my young antiquarian," said the stranger, in a
somewhat high tone. "Good breeding will indeed soon have to be reckoned
among the lost arts."
"To make up for it, however," rejoined Dietrich, "good care is taken
that arrogance do not fail, and that conceit flourish in full vigour."
He made a hasty bow to the master of the house and left the company.
"I do not know how I come to be treated in this way," said the
stranger. "An evil destiny seems to reign over this saloon, that I
always meet giants here who want to trample me in the dust."
Old Walther was exceedingly vexed at the occurrence of such scenes in
his house. As he had been obliged already at table to give up the
Unknown, so he now gave up the thought of ever proposing the young
painter as his son-in-law. He addressed himself in a pacifying tone to
the stranger, who in his anger was bestowing a greater degree of
attention on the Höllenbreughel than he would otherwise have done. "Is
it not," he began, "an excellent picture of its kind?"
"The finest of this master I ever saw," answered the young man, out of
humour. He took his glass to his assistance to examine it more
accurately. "What is this?" cried he, suddenly. "Do you see, where the
legs of the two devils and the fiery tail of the third come together,
there is formed a face, a truly strange expressive profile, and, if I
am not mistaken, a striking likeness of your old friend the worthy
artist?"
All crowded to the place; no one had remarked this singular device. The
rogue, Eulenböck, acted surprise most to the life. "That a memorial of
me," said he, "should be preserved in this singular remembrancer, I
could never have dreamt; if the spiteful painter had a presentiment of
my profile, it was too cruel to make this fiery tail just form my nose,
though it has a reddish tinge."
"The thing," said Erich, "is so singularly introduced, that one really
cannot ascertain whether it be design or mere accident."
Walther examined the profile in the picture, then perused the
physiognomy of his friend, shook his head, grew pensive, and made his
bow with an absent air when the stranger took his leave with Eulenböck,
who had begged his company to shew him his paintings.
"What is the matter with you?" asked Erich, who had stayed behind with
the old gentleman in the saloon. "You seem out of humour at this
curious sport of chance which extorted laughter from all of us; the sot
is surely sufficiently punished by having his portrait so nicely formed
by this devil's crew."
"Do you then really take it for chance?" cried Walther, in a rage: "Do
you not see that the old rogue has fraudulently palmed this picture
upon me? that it is his production? Only look here, I would not shame
him before the rest; but not content with this sketch of himself he has
also inscribed the name of Eulenböck in minute letters above there, in
the enormous mustachio of the great devil, who is grinding the souls in
a hand-mill. I discovered the scrawl a short time back; but I believed,
as it was not very distinct, the painter or some one else meant to
inscribe the name of Höllenbreughel: in this way the old scoundrel
himself explained it to me when I shewed it him, and read it
Ellenbroeg, and added that artists had never concerned themselves
particularly with orthography. A light now dawns upon me, that it was
only this profligate sot who seduced the young man to sell me the
Salvator; that you have likewise had such another of him; and we have
to fear withal that our own faces will some time or other be
introduced, under God knows what horrible circumstances, in some
degrading position, by way of a pasquinade."
He was so enraged that he raised his fist to dash the picture to
pieces. But Erich restrained him and said, "Do not destroy in a fit of
spleen a remarkable production of a virtuoso, which will hereafter
afford you entertainment. If it is the work of our Eulenböck, as I am
myself now forced to believe, and if the two Salvators are likewise
his, I cannot but admire the man's talent. It is a mad way in which he
has drawn himself; at the same time this freak can hurt no one but
himself, since you and I, whom he would otherwise have lightened of
many a dollar, will now be on our guard against buying of him. But
there is something else preys on your spirits, I see it by your looks.
Can I give you advice? Perhaps the old anxiety about your daughter?"
"Yes, my friend," said the father; "and how is it with you? Have you
yourself reflected on what I said?"
"Much and often," answered Erich; "but, my dear visionary friend,
though there may be happy marriages without passion, there must at
least be a sort of inclination; now that I do not find, and I cannot be
angry with your daughter for it,--we are too unlike each other. And it
were pity the dear creature, with her lively feelings, should not be
happy."
"Who is to make her so?" cried the father; "there is nobody to be found
whom she likes, and who is fit for her; you withdraw altogether; my
unknown high-minded guest offered me to-day a most mortifying affront
with his consequential manners; young Dietrich would never make a
sensible husband, for I see he cannot adapt himself to the way of the
world, and of young Eisenschlicht I do not even venture to speak.
Besides, the loss of those glorious pictures sunk with a new weight
upon my heart. Into what hiding-place has the foul fiend carried them?
I would not grudge them, look you, to my worst enemy, so long as they
were but visible. And then--am I not in Edward's debt too? You know at
what low prices I bought of him from time to time all that he found in
his paternal inheritance. He had no knowledge of the articles, set no
value on them; I never pressed him, never tempted him,--but still--if
the young fellow would turn an orderly man, if he would strike into the
better road, if I were only sure it would not spoil him again, that he
would not squander it away, I would willingly pay him a considerable
arrear."
"Bravo!" cried Erich, and gave him his hand. "I have never lost sight
of the young man; he is not quite so bad as the town-talk makes him
out; he may still become a respectable man. If we see an improvement in
him, and you feel yourself inclined in his favour, perhaps your
daughter may sooner or later think well of him too, possibly she may
please him. What would there be then to prevent you from bestowing your
property to make them a happy pair, from dandling your grandchildren on
your knees, instilling into them the rudiments of the arts, and hearing
them lisp in this saloon the illustrious names of your favourite
masters?"
"Never!" cried the old man, and stamped the ground. "How! my only child
to such a worthless profligate? To him this collection here, to let him
waste it in riot, and sell it for an old song? No friend can give me
such advice."
"Be calm only," said Erich; "deliberate on the proposal
dispassionately, and endeavour to sound your daughter."
"No, no!" repeated Walther aloud; "it cannot, may not be! If indeed he
could produce but one of those precious incomparable pictures, which
are now lost for ever, there might be some better occasion for talking
on this subject. But as it is, spare me in future all proposals of this
sort.--And that infernal Breughel here! I will hang him aloft there,
out of my sight, with the gallows physiognomy of the old reprobate, and
all his devils."
He looked up, and again Sophia was peeping down from the little window,
observing their conversation. She blushed, and ran away without
shutting the window, and the old gentleman cried, "That was still
wanting! Now has the self-willed baggage overheard all, and very likely
fills her little stubborn head with these notions."
The old friends parted, Walther dissatisfied with himself and all the
world.
* * * * *
At a late hour in the night, Edward was sitting in his lonely chamber,
occupied with a multiplicity of thoughts. Around him lay unpaid bills;
and he was heaping by their side the sums which were to discharge them
the next morning. He had succeeded in borrowing a fund upon fair terms,
on the security of his house; and, poor as he seemed to himself, he was
still satisfied in the feeling imparted to him by his firm resolution
of adopting a different course of life for the future. He saw himself,
in imagination, already active; he formed plans, how he would rise from
a small post to a more important one, and in this prepare himself for
one still more considerable. "Habit," said he, "becomes a second
nature, in good as in evil; and as indolence has hitherto been
necessary to my enjoyment, occupation will in future be no less so. But
when, when will this golden age of my nobler consciousness really and
truly arrive, when I shall be able to view the objects before me and
myself with complacency and satisfaction? At present it is only
resolutions and sweet hopes that bloom and beckon me on; and, alas!
shall I not flag at half way, perhaps even at the outset of my career?"
He looked tenderly at the rose in the water-glass; it seemed to return
his gaze with a blushing smile. He took it, and with a delicate touch
pressed a soft kiss on its leaves, and breathed a sigh into its cup; he
then carefully replaced it in the nourishing element. He had recently
found it again already withered in his bosom; from the hour when it
touched his face in its fall, he had become a different man, without
being willing to own the change to himself. Man is never so
superstitious, and so inclined to pay attention to omens, as when the
heart is deeply agitated, and a new life is on the point of rising out
of the tempest of the feelings. Edward himself did not observe to what
a degree the little flower made Sophia present to his mind; and as he
had lost all, and almost himself, he resolved the withered plant should
be his oracle, to see whether it would recover its strength, and
announce to him too the revival of his fortune. But when, after some
hours, it did not open itself in the water, he assisted it and its
oracular power by the common operation of lopping the stalk, then
holding it a few moments in the flame of the candle, and afterwards
setting the flower again in the cold element. It recovered its strength
almost visibly after this violent assistance, and blossomed so rapidly
and strongly, that Edward feared it would in a short time drop all its
leaves. Still after this he felt cheered, and once more trusted his
stars.
He rummaged among old papers of his father, and found numberless
reminiscences of his childhood, as well as the youth of his parent. He
had spread out before him the contents of a cabinet which contained
bills, memorandums, pleadings of a suit, and many things of the same
sort. A paper now rolled open, containing the catalogue of the late
gallery, the history of the pictures, their prices, and whatever had
struck the owner as remarkable in each piece. Edward, who on his return
from a journey had found his father on his deathbed, had after the
funeral searched in a variety of quarters for those lost pictures, and
made many unavailing inquiries. He had reason to expect that a word
might here be found respecting the missing ones, and in fact he
discovered in another packet, hidden between papers, a memorandum which
exactly described those pieces, and contained the names of the masters,
as well as of the former proprietors. The writing evidently belonged to
the last days of his father, and beneath were the words, "These pieces
are now----" The hand had written no farther, and even these lines had
been erased again.
Edward now searched more actively, but not a trace appeared. The light
was burnt down to the socket; his blood was heated; he tossed the
papers hastily about the room, but nothing was to be discovered. On
opening a paper which age had turned yellow, he saw to his astonishment
a note drawn many years back, in which his father acknowledged himself
Walther's debtor for a sum therein named. There was no receipt upon it,
and yet it was not in the creditor's hands. How was this circumstance
to be explained?
He put it into his pocket, and calculated that, if the paper was
binding, he should scarcely have any thing left from the mortgage of
his house. He looked at a purse which he had put in a corner, and which
was designed to give, once for all, a considerable assistance to the
families which he had hitherto secretly maintained. For as he was
thoughtless in his prodigality, so was he in his charities; they too
might, in strictness, have been termed prodigalities.--"If I can only
avoid touching this sum, that the poor people may once more be made
happy, I may after that just as well begin entirely anew, and rely only
on my own powers." This was his last thought before he fell asleep.
* * * * *
Edward had been invited by the counsellor to dinner; it was the first
invitation he had received from him for a long time; and though the
youth did not comprehend the cause of this returning good-will in his
old friend, still he went in high spirits, chiefly in the pleasing
expectation of renewing his former acquaintance with Sophia. He took
with him the paper which he had discovered.
It annoyed him extremely to find there the elder and younger Von
Eisenschlicht; still, as he sat fronting Sophia at table, he addressed
himself chiefly to her, and took pains to appear calm, though his
feelings were violently excited; for it did not escape him, that old
Walther paid all possible attentions to young Eisenschlicht, and almost
neglected him; it was known too in the town, that the counsellor wished
to have the rich young man for a son-in-law. The latter received the
kindness of his host as if it was a matter of course; and Erich, who
wished well to Edward, endeavoured to prevent the excited youth from
breaking out into violence. Sophia was sprightliness itself: she had
dressed herself more than usual, and her father could not help often
viewing her attentively, for her costume varied in some points from her
usual style, and reminded him more strongly than ever of that lost
picture of Messys, which represented the two young people, to a certain
degree of likeness, as shepherds.
After dinner the company assembled in the picture-saloon, and Erich
could not help smiling when he observed that his friend had actually
hung the counterfeit Höllenbreughel aloft in a corner, where he could
scarcely be noticed. The younger Eisenschlicht seated himself by the
side of Sophia, and seemed to be engaged in very earnest conversation
with her. Edward paced unquietly up and down, and looked at the
pictures; Erich conversed with the father of the young suitor, and
Walther kept an attentive eye on all.
"But why," said Erich to his neighbour, "are you disgusted with most of
the works of the Flemish school here?"
"Because they represent so many tatter-demalions and beggars," answered
the rich man. "Nor are these Netherlanders the sole objects of my
dislike: I hate particularly that Spaniard Murillo on that account, and
even a great number of your Italians. It is melancholy enough that one
cannot escape this vermin in the streets and market-places, nay, even
in our very houses; but that an artist should require me besides to
amuse myself with this noisome crew upon a motley canvas, is expecting
rather too much from my patience."
"Perhaps then," said Edward, "Quintin Messys would suit you, who so
frequently sets before us with such truth and vigour moneychangers at
their counters, with coins and ledgers."
"Not so either, young gentleman," said the old man: "that we can see
easily and without exertion in reality. If I am to be entertained with
a painting, I would have stately royal scenes, abundance of massy silk
stuffs, crowns and purple mantles, pages and blackamoors; that,
combined with a perspective of palaces and great squares, and down
broad straight streets, elevates the soul; it often puts me in spirits
for a long time, and I am never tired of seeing it over and over
again."
"Undoubtedly," said Erich, "Paul Veronese, and several other Italians,
have done many capital things in this department also."
"What say you to a marriage of Cana in this manner?" asked Edward.
"All eating," replied the old man, "grows tiresome in pictures, because
it never stirs from its place; and the roast peacocks and high-built
pasties, as well as the cup-bearers half bent double, are in all such
representations annoying things. But it is a different case, when they
are drawing a little Moses out of the water, and the king's daughter is
standing by, in her most costly attire, surrounded by richly dressed
ladies, who might themselves pass for princesses, men with halberds and
armour, and even dwarfs and dogs: I cannot express how delighted I am,
when I meet with one of these stories, which in my youth I was forced
to read in the uneasy confinement of a gloomy schoolroom, so gloriously
dressed up. But you, my dear Mr. Walther, have too few things of this
sort. Most of your pictures are for the feelings, and I never wish to
be affected, and least of all by works of art. Nor indeed am I ever so,
but only provoked."
"Still worse," began young Eisenschlicht, "is the case with our
comedies. When we leave an agreeable company, and, after a brilliant
entertainment, step into the lighted theatre, how can it be expected
that we should interest ourselves in the variety of wretchedness and
pitiful distress that is here served up for our amusement? Would it not
be possible to adopt the same laudable regulation which is established
by the police in most cities, to let me subscribe once for all for the
relief of poverty, and then not be incommoded any farther by the
tattered and hungry individuals?"
"It would be convenient, undoubtedly," said Edward; "but whether
absolutely laudable, either as a regulation of police, or a maxim of
art, I am not prepared to say. For my own part, I cannot resist a
feeling of pity towards the individual unfortunates, and would not wish
to do so, though to be sure one is often unseasonably disturbed,
impudently importuned, and sometimes even grossly imposed upon."
"I am of your opinion," cried Sophia: "I cannot endure those dumb blind
books, in which one is to write one's name, in order placidly to rely
upon an invisible board of management, which is to relieve the distress
as far as possible. In many places even it is desired that the
charitable should engage to give nothing to individuals. But how is it
possible to resist the sight of woe? When I give to him who complains
to me of his distress, I at all events see his momentary joy, and may
hope to have comforted him."
"This is the very thing," said the old merchant, "which in all
countries maintains mendicity, that we cannot and will not rid
ourselves of this petty feeling of soft-hearted vanity and mawkish
philanthropy. This it is, at the same time, that renders the better
measures of states abortive and impracticable."
"You are of a different way of thinking from those Swiss whom I have
heard of," said Edward. "It was in a Catholic canton, where an old
beggar had long been in the habit of receiving his alms on stated days,
and, as the rustic solitude did not allow much trade and commerce, was
accounted in almost every house one of the family. It happened however,
that once when he called at a cottage, where the inmates were extremely
busied in attending a woman in labour, in the confusion and anxiety for
the patient, he met with a refusal. When after repeating his request he
really obtained nothing, he turned angrily away, and cried as he
departed, 'Well, I promise you, you shall find I do not come again, and
then you may see where you catch another beggar.'"
All laughed, except Sophia, who would have it the beggar's threat was
perfectly rational, and concluded with these words: "Surely if it were
put out of our power to perform acts of benevolence, our life itself
would become poor enough. If it were possible that the impulse of pity
could die in us, there would be a melancholy prospect for our joy and
our pleasure. The man who is fortunate enough to be able to bestow,
receives more than the poor taker. Alas! it is the only thing," she
added with great emotion, "that can at all excuse and mitigate the
harshness of property, the cruelty of possession, that a part of what
is disproportionately accumulated is dropped upon the wretched
creatures who are pining below us, that it may not be utterly forgotten
we are all brethren."
The father looked at her with a disapproving air, and was on the point
of saying something, when Edward, his beaming eyes fixed on the moist
eyes of the maid, interposed with vehemence: "If the majority of
mankind were of the same way of thinking, we should live in a different
and a better world. We are struck with horror when we read of the
distress that awaits the innocent traveller in wildernesses and deserts
of foreign climes, or of the terrible fate which wastes a ship's crew
on the inhospitable sea, when in their sorest need no vessel or no
coast will appear on the immeasurable expanse; we are struck with
horror when monsters of the deep tear to pieces the unfortunate
mariner--and yet do we not live in great cities, as upon the peak of a
promontory, where immediately at our feet all this woe, the same
horrible spectacle displays itself, only more slowly, and therefore the
more cruelly? But from the midst of our concerts and banquets, and from
the safe hold of our opulence, we look down into this abyss, where the
shapes of misery are tortured and wasted in a thousand fearful groups,
as in Dante's imagery, and do not venture even to raise their eyes to
us, because they know what a cold look they meet, when their cry rouses
us at times out of the torpor of our cold apathy."
"These," said the elder Eisenschlicht, "are youthful exaggerations. I
still maintain, the really good citizen, the genuine patriot, ought not
to suffer himself to be urged by a momentary emotion to support
beggary. Let him bestow on those charitable institutions as much as he
can conveniently spare; but let him not waste his slight means which
ought in this respect also to be subservient to the higher views of the
state. For in the opposite case, what is it he does? He promotes by his
weakness, nay, I should be inclined to call it a voluptuous itching of
the heart, imposture, laziness and impudence, and withdraws his little
contribution from real poverty, which, after all, he cannot always meet
with, or discern. Should we however be willing to acknowledge that
overcharged picture of wretchedness to be correct, what good, even in
this case, can a single individual effect? Is it in his power to
improve the condition of the wretch who is driven to despair? What does
it avail to give relief for a single day or hour? The unfortunate being
will only feel his misery the more deeply, if he cannot change his
state into a happy one; he will grow still more dissatisfied, still
more wretched, and I injure instead of benefiting him."