Napoleon--a figure in an invalid's chair, with drooping head and worn
countenance, the map of the globe lying spread upon his passive knees.
Every trait already says, "This _was_ Napoleon," the man of modern times
who longest survived himself, who was dead and could not expire. Wreaths
of immortelles always lay at the foot of this statue. It is the work of
an Italian artist, and the only sculpture in the whole exhibition which
I can recall as easily and deservedly remembered.
Our American part in the art-exhibition was not great. William Hunt's
pictures were badly placed, and not grouped, as they should have been,
to give an adequate idea of the variety of his merits. Bierstadt's Rocky
Mountains looked thin in coloring, and showed a want of design. Church's
Niagara was effective. Johnston's Old Kentucky Home was excellent in its
kind, and characteristic. Kensett had a good landscape. But America has
still more to learn than to teach in the way of high art. Success among
us is too cheap and easy. Art-critics are wordy and ignorant, praising
from caprice rather than from conscience. It would be most important for
us to form at least one gallery of art in which American artists might
study something better than themselves. The presence of twenty
first-rate pictures in one of our great cities would save a great deal
of going abroad, and help to form a sincere and intelligent standard of
aesthetic judgment. Such pictures should, of course, be constantly open
to the public, as no private collection can well be. We should have a
Titian, a Rubens, an Andrea, a Paul Veronese, and so on. But these
pictures should be of historical authenticity. The most responsible
artists of the country should be empowered to negotiate for them, and
the money might be afforded from the heavy gains of late years with far
more honor and profit than the superfluous splendors with which the
fortunate of this period bedizen their houses and their persons.
Among American sculptures I may mention a pleasing medallion or two by
Miss Foley. Miss Hosmer's Faun is a near relative in descent from the
Barberini Faun, and, however good in execution, has little originality
of conception. And these things I say, Beloved, in the bosom of our
American family, because I think they ought to be said, and not out of
pride or fancied superiority.
I am ashamed to say that I have already told the little I am able to
tell of the Exposition as seen by daylight--the little, at least, that
every one else has not told. But I visited the enclosure once in the
evening, when only the cafes were open. Among these I sought a beer-shop
characterized as the Bavarian brewery, and sought it long and with
trouble; for the long, winding paths showed us, one after the other,
many agglomerations of light, which were obviously places of public
entertainment, and in each of which we expected to find our Bavarian
brewery, famous for the musical performances of certain gypsies much
spoken of in Parisian circles. In the pursuit of this we entered half a
dozen buildings, in each of which some characteristic entertainment was
proceeding. Coming finally to the object of our search, we found it a
plain room with small tables, half filled with visitors. Opposite the
entrance was a small orchestral stage, on which were seated the wild
musicians whom we sought. A franc each person was the entrance fee, and
we were scarcely seated before a functionary authoritatively invited us
to command some refreshment, in a tone which was itself the order of the
day. In obedience, one ordered beer, another _gloria_, a third
cigars--all at extortionate prices. But then the music was given for
nothing, and must be paid for somehow. And it proved worth paying for.
At first the body of sound seemed overpowering, for there was no
pianissimo, and not one of the regular orchestral effects. A
weird-looking leader in high boots stood and fiddled, holding his violin
now on a level with his eyes, now with his nose, now with his stomach,
writhing and swaying with excitement, his excitable troupe following the
ups and downs of his movement like a track of gaunt hounds dashing after
a spectre. The cafe gradually filled, and orders were asked and given.
But little disturbance did these give either to the band or its hearers.
They played various wild airs and symphonies (not technical ones), being
partially advised therein by an elegant male personage who sat leaning
his head upon his jewelled hand, absorbed in attention. These melodies
were obviously compositions of the most eccentric and accidental sort.
Not thus do great or small harmonists mate their tones and arch their
passages. But there was a vivacity and a passion in all that these men
did which made every bar seem full of electric fire; and these must be,
I thought, traditional vestiges of another time, when music was not yet
an art, but only nature. Here Dwight's Journal has no power. Beethoven
or Handel may do as he likes; these do as they please, also. This is the
heathendom of art, in which feeling is all, authority nothing; in which
rules are only suspected, not created. After an hour or more of this
entertainment, we left it, not unwillingly, being a little weary of its
labyrinthine character and unmoderated ecstasy. Yet we left it much
impressed with the musical material presented in it. Our civilized
orchestras have no such enthusiasts as that nervous leader, with his
leaping violin and restraining high boots. And this, with the lights and
shadows, and broken music of the outside walks, is all that I saw of
evening at the Exposition.
PICTURES IN ANTWERP.
As you cannot, with rare exceptions, see Raphael out of Italy, so, I
should almost say, you cannot see Rubens and Vandyck out of Belgium.
This is especially true of the former; for one does, I confess, see
marvellous portraits of Vandyck's in Genoa and in other places. But one
judges a painter best by seeing a group of his best works, which show
his sphere of thought with some completeness. A single sentence suffices
to show the great poet; but no one will assume that a sentence will give
you to know as much of him as a poem or volume. So the detached
sentences of the two great Flemish painters, easily met with in
European galleries, bear genuine evidence of the master's hand; but the
collections of Antwerp and Bruges show us the master himself. Intending
no disrespect to Florence, Munich, or the Medicean series at the Louvre,
I must say that I had no just measure of the dignity of Rubens as a man
and as an artist, until I stood before his two great pictures in the
Cathedral of Antwerp. One of these represents the Elevation of the
Cross. Mathematically it offends one--the cross, the principal object in
the picture, being seen diagonally, in an uneasy and awkward posture. On
the other hand, the face of the Christ corresponds fully to the heroism
of the moment; it expresses the human horror and agony, but, triumphing
over all, the steadfastness of resolve and faith. It is a
transfiguration--the spiritual glory holding its own above all
circumstances of pain and infamy. A sort of beautiful surprise is in the
eyes--the first deadly pang of an organism unused to suffer. It is a
face that lifts one above the weakness and meanness of ordinary human
life. This soul, one sees, had the true talisman, the true treasure. If
we earn what he did, we can afford to let all else go. The Descent from
the Cross is better known than its fellow-picture. It had not to me the
wonderful interest of the living face of Christ in the supreme moment of
his great life; for I shall always consider that the Christ represented
in the Elevation is a true Christ, not a mere fancy figure or dramatic
ghost. The Descent is, however, more grand and satisfactory in its
grouping, and the contrast between the agony of the friendly faces that
surround the chief figure and the dead peace of his expression and
attitude is profound and pathetic. The head and body fall heavily upon
the arms of those who support it, and who seem to bear an inward weight
far transcending the outward one. The pale face of the Virgin is
stricken and compressed with sorrow. Each of the pictures is the centre
of a triptych, the two smaller paintings representing subjects in
harmony with the chief groups. On the right of the Descent we have Mary
making her historical visit to the house of Elisabeth; on the left, the
presentation of the infant Christ in the temple. On the right of the
Elevation is a group of those daughters of Jerusalem to whom Christ
said, "Weep not for me." The subject on the left is less significant.
With these pictures deserves to rank the Flagellation of Christ, by the
same artist, in the Church of St. Paul. The resplendent fairness of the
body, the cruel reality of the bleeding which follows the scourge, and
the expression of genuine but noble suffering, seize upon the very quick
of sympathy, weakened by mythicism and sentimentalism. This fair body,
sensitive as yours or mine, endured bitter and agonizing blows. This
great heart was content to endure them as the penalty of bequeathing to
mankind its priceless secret.
The churches of Antwerp are rich in architecture, paintings, and
marbles. In the latter the Church of St. Jacques excels, the high altar
and side chapels being adorned with twisted columns of white marble, and
with various sculptures. The Musee contains many pictures of great
reputation and merit. Among these are a miniature painting of the
Descent from the Cross, by Rubens himself, closely, but not wholly,
corresponding with his great picture; the Education of the Virgin, and
the Vierge au Perroquet, both by Rubens, in his most brilliant style.
Another composition represents St. Theresa imploring the Savior to
release from purgatory the soul of a benefactor of her order. Rubens is
said to have given to this benefactor the features of Vandyck, and to
one of the angels releasing him those of his young wife, Helena Forman;
while the face of an old man still in suffering represents his own.
This gallery contains three Vandycks of first-class merit, each of which
will detain the attention of lovers of art. The one that first meets
your eye is a Pieta, in which the body of Christ is stretched
horizontally, his head lying on the lap of his mother. The strongest
point of the picture is the Virgin's sorrow, expressed in her pallid
face, eyes worn with weeping, and outstretched hands. The second is a
small crucifix, very harmonious and expressive. The third is a life-size
picture of the crucifixion, with a very individual tone of color. The
Virgin, at the foot of the cross, has great truth and dignity, but is
rather a modern figure for the subject. But the pride of the whole
collection is a unique triptych by Quintin Matsys, his greatest work,
and one without which the extent of his power can never be realized. The
central picture represents a dead Christ, surrounded by the men and
women who ministered to him, preparing him for sepulture. The right
hand of the Christ lies half open, with a wonderful expression of
acquiescence. The faces of those who surround him are full of intense
interest and tenderness; the Virgin's countenance expresses heart-break.
The whole picture disposes you to weep, not from sentimentalism, but
from real sympathy. Of the side pieces, one represents the wicked women
with the head of John the Baptist, the other the martyrdom of Ste.
Barbe. Add to these some of the best Teniers, Ostades, Ruysdaels, and
Vanderweldes, with many excellent works of second-class merit, and you
will understand, as well as words can tell you, what treasures lie
within the Musee of Antwerp.
* * * * *
Copy is exhausted, say the printers. Perhaps patience gave out first. My
MS. is at end--not handsomely rounded off, nor even shortened by a
surgical amputation, but broken at some point in which facts left no
room for words. Observation became absorbing, and description was
adjourned, as it now proves, forever. The few sentences which I shall
add to what is already written will merely apologize for my sudden
disappearance, lest the clown's "Here we are" should find a comic
_pendant_ in my "Here we are not."
I have only to say that I have endeavored in good faith to set down this
simple and hurried record of a journey crowded with interests and
pleasures. I was afraid to receive so freely of these without attempting
to give what I could in return, under the advantages and disadvantages
of immediate transcription. In sketches executed upon the spot, one
hopes that the vividness of the impression under which one labors may
atone for the want of finish and of elaboration. If read at all, these
notes may be called to account for many insufficiencies. Some pages may
appear careless, some sentences Quixotic. I am still inclined to think
that with more leisure and deliberation I should not have done the work
as well. I should, perhaps, like Tintoretto, have occupied acres and
acres of attention with superfluous delineation, putting, as he did, my
own portrait in the corner. Rejoice, therefore, good reader, in my
limitations. They are your enfranchisement.
Touching Quixotism, I will plead guilty to the sounding of various
parleys before some stately buildings and unshaken fortresses. "Who is
this that blows so sharp a summons?" may the inmates ask. I may answer,
"One who believes in the twelve legions of angels that wait upon the
endeavors of faithful souls." Should they further threaten or deride, I
will borrow Elizabeth Browning's sweet refrain,--
"I am no trumpet, but a reed,"--
and trust not to become a broken one.
Conscious of my many shortcomings, and asking attention only for the
message I have tried to bring, I ask also for that charity which
recognizes that good will is the best part of action, and good faith the
first condition of knowledge.
* * * * *
The following typogrphical errors were corrected by the etext
transcriber:
embarassment=>embarrassment
Minature=>Miniature
procesison=>procession
pivations=>privations
the shonlder of the garment=>the shoulder of the garment
fortutunate=>fortunate
Bronner pass.=>Brenner pass.
Pinakethek=>Pinakothek
antiquitties=>antiquities
Macchiavelli's Principe=>Machiavelli's Principe
End of Project Gutenberg's From the Oak to the Olive, by Julia Ward Howe