respect, might yet be compared with him in a certain sense; I mean
OESER, who was also one of those men who dream away their lives in
a comfortable state of being busy. His friends themselves secretly
acknowledged that, with very fine natural powers, he had not spent
his younger years in sufficient activity; for which reason, he never
went so far as to practise his art with perfect technicality. Yet
a certain diligence appeared to be reserved for his old age, and,
during the many years which I knew him, he never lacked invention or
laboriousness. From the very first moment he had much attracted me;
even his residence, strange and portentous, was highly charming to me.
In the old castle Pleissenburg, at the right-hand corner, one ascended
a repaired, cheerful, winding staircase. The saloons of the Academy
of Design, of which he was director, were found to the left, and were
light and roomy; but he himself could only be reached through a narrow,
dark passage, at the end of which one first sought the entrance into
his apartments, having just passed between the whole suite of them and
an extensive granary. The first apartment was adorned with pictures
from the later Italian school, by masters whose grace he used highly to
commend. As I, with some noblemen, had taken private lessons of him, we
were permitted to draw here, and we often penetrated into his adjoining
private cabinet, which contained at the same time his few books,
collections of art and natural curiosities, and whatever else might
have most interested him. Everything was arranged with taste, simply,
and in such a manner that the little space held a great deal. The
furniture, presses, and portfolios were elegant, without affectation
or superfluity. Thus also the first thing which he recommended to us,
and to which he always recurred, was simplicity in everything that art
and manual labour united are called upon to produce. As a sworn foe
of the scroll-and-shell style, and of the whole taste for quaintness,
he showed us in copper-plates and drawings old patterns of the sort,
contrasted with better decorations and simpler forms of furniture, as
well as with other appurtenances of a room; and, because everything
about him corresponded with these maxims, his words and instructions
made a good and lasting impression on us. Besides this, he had an
opportunity to let us see his opinions in practice, since he stood in
good consideration both with private and with official persons, and
was asked for advice when there were new buildings and alterations. He
seemed in general to be more fond of preparing anything on occasion,
for a certain end and use, than of undertaking and completing things
which exist for themselves and require a greater perfection; he
was therefore always ready and at hand when the publishers needed
larger and smaller copper-plates for any work; thus the vignettes
to Winckelmann's first writings were etched by him. But he often
made only very sketchy drawings, to which Geyser knew very well how
to adapt himself. His figures had throughout something general, not
to say ideal. His women were pleasing and agreeable, his children
_naïve_ enough; only he could not succeed with the men, who, in his
spirited but always cloudy and at the same time foreshortening manner,
had for the most part the look of _Lazzaroni._ Since he designed his
composition less with regard to form than to light, shade, and masses,
the general effect was good; as indeed all that he did and produced
was attended by a peculiar grace. As he at the same time neither could
nor would control a deep-rooted propensity to the significant and the
allegorical--to that which excites a secondary thought, so his works
always furnished something to reflect upon, and were complete through
a conception, even where they could not be so from art and execution.
This bias, which is always dangerous, frequently led him to the very
bounds of good taste, if not beyond them. He often sought to attain
his views by the oddest notions, and by whimsical jests; nay, his best
works always have a touch of humour. If the public were not always
satisfied with such things, he revenged himself by a new and even
stranger drollery. Thus he afterwards exhibited in the ante-room of
the great concert-hall, an ideal female figure, in his own style, who
was raising a pair of snuffers to a taper, and he was extraordinarily
delighted when he was able to cause a dispute on the question: whether
this singular muse meant to snuff the light or to extinguish it? when
he roguishly allowed all sorts of bantering by-thoughts to peep forth.
But the building of the new theatre, in my time, made the greatest
noise; in which his curtain, when it was still quite new, had certainly
an uncommonly charming effect. Oeser had taken the Muses out of the
clouds, upon which they usually hover on such occasions, and set them
upon the earth. The statues of Sophocles and Aristophanes, around whom
all the modern dramatic writers were assembled, adorned a vestibule to
the Temple of Fame. Here, too, the goddesses of the arts were likewise
present, and all was dignified and beautiful. But now comes the oddity!
Through the open centre was seen the portal of the distant temple, and
a man in a light jerkin was passing between the two above-mentioned
groups, and without troubling himself about them, directly up to
the temple; he was seen from behind, and was not particularly
distinguished. Now this man was to represent Shakspeare, who, without
predecessors or followers, without concerning himself about models,
went to meet immortality in his own way. This work was executed on the
great floor over the new theatre. We often assembled round him there,
and in that place I read aloud to him the proof-sheets of _Musarion._
[Side-note: Influence of Oeser.]
As to myself, I by no means advanced in the practice of the art. His
instructions worked upon our mind and our taste; but his own drawing
was too undefined to guide me, who had only glimmered along by the
objects of art and of nature, to a severe and decided practice. Of the
faces and bodies he gave us rather the aspect than the forms, rather
the postures than the proportions. He gave us the conceptions of the
figures, and desired that we should impress them vividly upon our
minds. That might have been beautifully and properly done, if he had
not had mere beginners before him. If, on this account, a pre-eminent
talent for instruction may be well denied him, it must, on the other
hand, be acknowledged that he was very discreet and politic, and that
a happy adroitness of mind qualified him very peculiarly for a teacher
in a higher sense. The deficiencies under which each one laboured he
clearly saw; but he disdained to reprove them directly, and rather
hinted his praise and censure indirectly and very laconically. One
was now compelled to think over the matter, and soon came to a far
deeper insight. Thus, for instance, I had very carefully executed,
after a pattern, a nosegay on blue paper, with white and black crayon,
and partly with the stump, partly by hatching it up, had tried to
give effect to the little picture. After I had been long labouring in
this way, he once came behind me and said: "More paper!" upon which
he immediately withdrew. My neighbour and I puzzled our heads as to
what this could mean: for my bouquet, on a large half-sheet, had
plenty of space around it. After we had reflected a long while, we
thought, at last, that we had hit his meaning, when we remarked that,
by working together the black and the white, I had quite covered up
the blue ground, had destroyed the middle tint, and, in fact, with
great industry, had produced a disagreeable drawing. As to the rest,
he did not fail to instruct us in perspective, and in light and shade,
sufficiently indeed, but always so that we had to exert and torment
ourselves to find the application of the principles communicated.
Probably his view with regard to us who did not intend to become
artists, was only to form the judgment and taste, and to make us
acquainted with the requisites of a work of art, without precisely
requiring that we should produce one. Since, moreover, patient industry
was not my talent, for nothing gave me pleasure except what came to
me at once, so by degrees I became discouraged, if not lazy, and as
knowledge is more comfortable than doing, I was quite content to follow
wherever he chose, after his own fashion, to lead us.
At this time the _Lives of the Painters_, by D'Argenville, was
translated into German; I obtained it quite fresh, and studied it
assiduously enough. This seemed to please Oeser, and he procured us
an opportunity of seeing many a portfolio out of the great Leipzig
collections, and thus introduced us to the history of the art. But even
these exercises produced in me an effect different from that which he
probably had in mind. The manifold subjects which I saw treated by
artists awakened the poetic talent in me, and as one easily makes an
engraving for a poem, so did I now make poems to the engravings and
drawings, by contriving to present to myself the personages introduced
in them, in their previous and subsequent condition, and sometimes to
compose a little song which might have suited them; and thus accustomed
myself to consider the arts in connexion with each other. Even the
mistakes which I made, so that my poems were often descriptive, were
useful to me in the sequel, when I came to more reflection, by making
me attentive to the differences between the arts. Of the little things
many were in the collection which Behrisch had arranged; but there is
nothing left of them now.
The atmosphere of art and taste in which Oeser lived, and into which
one was drawn, provided one visited him frequently, was the more and
more worthy and delightful, because he was fond of remembering departed
or absent persons, with whom he had been, or still continued to be, on
good terms; for if he had once given any one his esteem, he remained
unalterable in his conduct towards him, and always showed himself
equally friendly.
After we had heard CAYLUS pre-eminently extolled among the French, he
made us also acquainted with Germans of activity in this department.
Thus we learned that Professor CHRIST, as an amateur, a collector, a
connoisseur, a fellow-labourer, had done good service for art; and
had applied his learning to its true improvement. HEINECKEN**, on
the contrary, could not be honourably mentioned, partly because he
devoted himself too assiduously to the ever-childish beginnings of
German art, which Oeser little valued, partly because he had once
treated Winckelmann shabbily, which could never be forgiven him. Our
attention, however, was strongly drawn to the labours of LIPPERT,
since our instructor knew how to set forth his merits sufficiently.
"For," he said, "although single statues and larger groups of sculpture
remain the foundation and the summit of all knowledge of art, yet
either as originals or as casts they are seldom to be seen; on the
contrary, by Lippert, a little world of gems is made known, in which
the more comprehensible merit of the ancients, their happy invention,
judicious composition, tasteful treatment, are made more striking and
intelligible, while, from the great number of them, comparison is much
more possible." While now we were busying ourselves with these as much
as was allowed, WINCKELMANN'S lofty life of art in Italy was pointed
out, and we took his first writings in hand with devotion: for Oeser
had a passionate reverence for him, which he was able easily to instil
into us. The problematical part of those little treatises, which are,
besides, confused even from their irony, and from their referring to
opinions and events altogether peculiar, we were, indeed, unable to
decipher; but as Oeser had great influence over us, and incessantly
gave them out to us as the gospel of the beautiful, and still more
of the tasteful and the pleasing, we found out the general sense,
and fancied that with such interpretations we should go on the more
securely, as we regarded it no small happiness to draw from the same
fountain from which Winckelmann had allayed his earliest thirst.
[Side-note: Feeling for Art in Leipzig.]
No greater good fortune can befall a city, than when several educated
men, like-minded in what is good and right, live together in it.
Leipzig had this advantage, and enjoyed it the more peacefully, as so
many differences of judgment had not yet manifested themselves. HUBER,
a print collector, and a well-experienced connoisseur, had furthermore
the gratefully acknowledged merit of having determined to make the
worth of German literature known to the French; KREUCHAUF, an amateur
with a practised eye, who, as the friend of the whole society of art,
might regard all collections as his own; WINKLER, who much loved to
share with others the intelligent delight which he cherished for his
treasures; many more who were added to the list, all lived and laboured
with one feeling, and often as I was permitted to be present when they
examined works of art, I do not remember that a dispute ever arose: the
school from which the artist had proceeded, the time in which he lived,
the peculiar talent which nature had bestowed on him, and the degree of
excellence to which he had brought it in his performances, were always
fairly considered. There was no prejudice for spiritual or terrestrial
subjects, for landscape or for city views, for animate or inanimate;
the question was always about the accordance with art.
Now although from their situation, mode of thought, abilities, and
opportunities, these amateurs and collectors inclined more to the Dutch
school, yet, while the eye was practised on the endless merits of the
north-western artist, a look of reverential longing was always turned
towards the south-east.
And so the university, where I neglected the ends both of my family
and myself, was to ground me in that in which I afterwards found the
greatest satisfaction of my life; the impression of those localities,
too, in which I received such important incitements, has always
remained to me most dear and precious. The old Pleissenburg, the
rooms of the Academy, but, above all, the abode of Oeser, and no less
the collections of Winkler and Richter, I have always vividly present
before me.
But a young man who, while older persons are conversing with each other
on subjects already familiar to them, is instructed only incidentally,
and for whom the most difficult part of the business, that of rightly
arranging all, yet remains, must find himself in a very painful
situation. I therefore, as well as others, looked about with longing
for some new light, which was indeed to come to us from a man to whom
we owed so much already.
[Side-note: Lessing's Laocoön.]
The mind can be highly delighted in two ways, by perception and
conception. But the former demands a worthy object, which is not
always at hand, and a proportionate culture, which one does not
immediately attain. Conception, on the other hand, requires only
susceptibility; it brings its subject-matter with it, and is itself
the instrument of culture. Hence that beam of light was most welcome
to us which that most excellent thinker brought down to us through
dark clouds. One must be a young man to render present to oneself the
effect which Lessing's _Laocoön_ produced upon us, by transporting
us out of the region of scanty perceptions into the open fields of
thought. The so long misunderstood _ut pictura poesis_ was at once
laid aside, the difference between plastic and speaking art[1] was
made clear, the summits of the two now appeared sundered, however
near their bases might border on each other. The plastic artist was
to keep himself within the bounds of the beautiful, if the artist of
language, who cannot dispense with the significant in any kind, is
permitted to ramble abroad beyond them. The former labours for the
outer sense, which is satisfied only by the beautiful; the latter for
the imagination, which may even reconcile itself to the ugly. All the
consequences of this splendid thought were illumined to us as by a
lightning flash; all the criticism which had hitherto guided and judged
was thrown away like a worn-out coat; we considered ourselves freed
from all evil, and fancied we might venture to look down with some
compassion upon the otherwise so splendid sixteenth century, when, in
German sculptures and poems, they knew how to represent life only under
the form of a fool hung with bells, death under the misformed shape
of a rattling skeleton, and the necessary and accidental evils of the
world under the image of the caricatured devil.
We were the most enchanted with the beauty of that thought, that
the ancients had recognised death as the brother of sleep, and had
represented them similar even to confusion, as becomes Menæchmi. Here
we could first do high honour to the triumph of the beautiful, and
banish the ugly of every kind into the low sphere of the ridiculous in
the kingdom of art, since it could not be utterly driven out of the
world.
The splendour of such leading and fundamental conceptions appears only
to the mind upon which they exercise their infinite activity--appears
only to the age in which, after being longed for, they come forth at
the right moment. Then do those at whose disposal such nourishment is
placed, fondly occupy whole periods of their lives with it, and rejoice
in a superabundant growth; while men are not wanting, meanwhile, who
resist such an effect on the spot, nor others who afterwards haggle and
cavil at its high meaning.
But as conception and perception mutually require each other, I could
not long work up these new thoughts, without an infinite desire arising
within me to see important works of art, once and away, in great
number. I therefore determined to visit Dresden without delay. I was
not in want of the necessary cash; but there were other difficulties
to overcome, which I needlessly increased still further, through my
whimsical disposition; for I kept my purpose a secret from every one,
because I wished to contemplate the treasures of art there quite after
my own way, and, as I thought, to allow no one to perplex me. Besides
this, so simple a matter became more complicated by still another
eccentricity.
We have weaknesses, both by birth and by education, and it may be
questioned which of the two gives us the most trouble. Willingly as
I made myself familiar with all sorts of conditions, and many as had
been my inducements to do so, an excessive aversion from all inns had
nevertheless been instilled into me by my father. This feeling had
rooted itself firmly in him on his travels through Italy, France, and
Germany. Although he seldom spoke in images, and only called them to
his aid when he was very cheerful, yet he used often to repeat that he
always fancied he saw a great cobweb spun across the gate of an inn,
so ingeniously that the insects could indeed fly in, but that even the
privileged wasps could not fly out again unplucked. It seemed to him
something horrible, that one should be obliged to pay immoderately
for renouncing one's habits and all that was dear to one in life,
and living after the manner of publicans and waiters. He praised the
hospitality of the olden time, and reluctantly as he otherwise endured
even anything unusual in the house, he yet practised hospitality,
especially towards artists and virtuosi; thus gossip Seekatz always had
his quarters with us, and Abel, the last musician who handled the _viol
di gamba_ with success and applause, was well received and entertained.
With such youthful impressions, which nothing had as yet rubbed off,
how could I have resolved to set foot in an inn in a strange city?
Nothing would have been easier than to find quarters with good friends.
Hofrath Krebel, Assessor Hermann, and others had often spoken to me
about it already; but even to these my trip was to remain a secret,
and I hit upon a most singular notion. My next-room neighbour, the
industrious theologian, whose eyes unfortunately constantly grew weaker
and weaker, had a relation in Dresden, a shoemaker, with whom from time
to time he corresponded. For a long while already this man had been
highly remarkable to me on account of his expressions, and the arrival
of one of his letters was always celebrated by us as a holiday. The
mode in which he replied to the complaints of his cousin, who feared
blindness, was quite peculiar; for he did not trouble himself about
grounds of consolation, which are always hard to find; but the cheerful
way in which he looked upon his own narrow, poor, toilsome life,
the merriment which he drew even from evils and inconveniences, the
indestructible conviction that life is in itself and on its own account
a blessing, communicated itself to him who read the letter, and, for
the moment at least, transposed him into a like mood. Enthusiastic as
I was, I had often sent my compliments to this man, extolled his happy
natural gift, and expressed the wish to become acquainted with him. All
this being premised, nothing seemed to me more natural than to seek
him out, to converse with him, nay, to lodge with him, and to learn to
know him intimately. My good candidate, after some opposition, gave
me a letter, written with difficulty, to carry with me, and, full of
longing, I went to Dresden in the yellow coach, with my matriculation
in my pocket.
[Side-note: The Dresden Shoemaker.]
I looked for my shoemaker, and soon found him in the suburb
(_Vorstadt_). He received me in a friendly manner, sitting upon his
stool, and said smiling, after he had read the letter, "I see from
this, young Sir, that you are a whimsical Christian." "How so, master?"
replied I. "No offence meant by '_whimsical_,'" he continued; "one
calls every one so who is not consistent with himself; and I call you
a whimsical Christian because you acknowledge yourself a follower of
our Lord in one thing, but not in another." On my requesting him to
enlighten me, he said further: "It seems that your view is to announce
glad tidings to the poor and lowly; that is good, and this imitation
of the Lord is praiseworthy; but you should reflect besides, that he
rather sat down to table with prosperous rich folks, where there was
good fare, and that he himself did not despise the sweet scent of the
ointment, of which you will find the opposite in my house."
This pleasant beginning put me at once in good-humour, and we rallied
each other for some time. His wife stood doubting how she should board
and lodge such a guest. On this point, too, he had notions which
referred not only to the Bible, but also to _Gottfried's Chronicle_,
and when we were agreed that I was to stay, I gave my purse, such as
it was, into the charge of my hostess, and requested her to furnish
herself from it, if anything should be necessary. When he would have
declined it, and somewhat waggishly gave me to understand that he was
not so burnt out as he might appear, I disarmed him by saying, "Even
if it were only to change water into wine, such a well-tried domestic
resource would not be out of place, since there are no more miracles
now-a-days." The hostess seemed to find my conduct less and less
strange; we had soon accommodated ourselves to each other, and spent
a very merry evening. He remained always the same, because all flowed
from one source. His peculiarity was an apt common-sense, which rested
upon a cheerful disposition, and took delight in uniform habitual
activity. That he should labour incessantly was his first and most
necessary care; that he regarded everything else as secondary,--this
kept up his comfortable state of mind; and I must reckon him before
many others in the class of those who are called practical unconscious
philosophers.[2]
The hour when the gallery was to open, after being expected with
impatience, appeared. I entered into this sanctuary, and my
astonishment surpassed every conception which I had formed. This
saloon, returning into itself, in which splendour and neatness reigned,
together with the deepest stillness, the dazzling frames, all nearer
to the time in which they had been gilded, the floor polished with
bees'-wax, the spaces more trodden by spectators than used by copyists,
imparted a feeling of solemnity, unique of its kind, which so much
the more resembled the sensation with which one treads a church, as
the adornments of so many a temple, the objects of so much adoration,
seemed here again set up only for the sacred purposes of art. I readily
put up with the cursory description of my conductor; only I requested
that I might be allowed to remain in the outer gallery. Here, to my
comfort, I found myself really at home. I had already seen the works
of several artists, others I knew from engravings, others by name.
I did not conceal this, and I thus inspired my conductor with some
confidence; nay, the rapture which I expressed at pieces where the
pencil had gained the victory over nature, delighted him; for such were
the things which principally attracted me, where the comparison with
known nature must necessarily enhance the value of art.