[Sidenote: Journal, 20th July, 1854.]
I said a last farewell to Cambridge Street on 20th July, 1854, and
found myself on board the _Ravensbourne_, bound for Antwerp. The day
was glorious, and our passage perfect. The sunset was lovely, but
still lovelier the dawn as we were passing up the Scheldt between two
and three in the morning. The crescent moon, the stars, the first
faint blush of the dawn reflected in the glassy river, the dark mass
of clouds on the horizon, which sent forth flashes of lightning, and
the graceful forms of the boats and sailing-vessels, painted in
jet-black on the reddish gold of the sky and water, made up an
unforgettable picture. Then the sun rose and lighted up the sleepy
shores of Belgium, with their fringe of long grass, their rows of
poplars, their church spires and farm buildings.
[Sidenote: 21st July.]
The great treat at Antwerp was the sight of the Descent from the
Cross, which, with its pendant, the Elevation of the Cross, has been
undergoing restoration. In the latter the face of Jesus is sublime in
its expression of agony and trust in the Divine. It is certainly the
finest conception of the suffering Christ I have ever seen. The rest
of the picture gave me no pleasure. But in the Descent from the Cross,
color, form, and expression alike impressed me with the sense of
grandeur and beauty. A little miserable copy of the picture placed
near it served as an admirable foil.
[Sidenote: 22d July.]
We went to the museum and saw Rubens's Crucifixion, even more
beautiful to me than the Descent from the Cross. These two pictures
profoundly impressed me with the miserable lack of breadth and
grandeur in the conceptions of our living artists. The reverence for
the old masters is not all humbug and superstition.
[Sidenote: 30th July.]
We breakfasted in the public room at the hotel at Cologne, and were
joined there by Dr. Brabant and Strauss. After a short interview with
them we went on board the steamboat which was to take us to Coblentz.
[Sidenote: Weimar, Description, Aug.-Oct. 1854.]
It was very pretty to look out of the window, when dressing, on a
garden that reminded one of an English village: the town is more like
a huge village, or market-town, than the precincts of a court.
G. called on Schöll, and in the afternoon he (Schöll) came and took us
to the _Schloss_, where we saw the Dichter Zimmer--a suite of rooms
dedicated to Goethe, Schiller, and Wieland. In each room there is the
bust of the poet who is its presiding genius; and the walls of the
Goethe and Schiller rooms are decorated with frescoes representing
scenes from their works. The Wieland room is decorated with arabesques
only. The idea of these rooms is a very pretty one, but the frescoes
are badly executed. I am delighted with Schöll. He is a
bright-looking, well-made man, with his head finely set on his
shoulders, very little like a German. We discovered, after we had
known him some time, that he is an Austrian, and so has more southern
blood in his veins than the heavy Thuringians. His manners are hearty
and cordial, and his conversation really instructive: his ideas are so
thoroughly shaped and so admirably expressed. Sauppe is also a
_Gelehrter_, director of the gymnasium, and editor of a series of
classics which are being brought out; and he is evidently thought a
great deal of in Weimar. We went with the Schölls and Sauppes to
Tiefurt, and saw the queer little _Schloss_ which used to be Amalia's
residence. Tiefurt was a favorite resort of ours, for the walk to it
is a very pleasant one, and the Tiefurt park is a little paradise. The
Ilm is seen here to the best advantage: it is clearer than at Weimar,
and winds about gracefully among fine trees. One of the banks is a
high, steep declivity, which shows the trees in all their perfection.
In autumn, when the yellow and scarlet were at their brightest, these
banks were fairy-like in their beauty. It was here that Goethe and his
court friends got up the performance of "Die Fischerin" by torchlight.
About ten days after our arrival at Weimar we made an excursion to
Ettersburg, one of the duke's summer residences, interesting to us
beforehand as the scene of private theatricals and _sprees_ in the
Goethe days. We carried provisions with us, and Keats's poems. The
morning was one of the brightest and hottest that August ever
bestowed, and it required some resolution to trudge along the
shadeless _chaussée_, which formed the first two or three miles of our
way. One compensating pleasure was the sight of the beautiful mountain
ashes in full berry, which, alternately with cherry-trees, border the
road for a considerable distance. I felt a child's love for the
bunches of coral standing out against the blue sky. The _Schloss_ is a
house of very moderate size, and no pretension of any kind. Two
flights of steps lead up to the door, and the balustrades are
ornamented with beautiful creepers. A tiny sort of piazza under the
steps is ornamented with creepers too, and has pretty earthenware
vases filled with plants hanging from the ceiling. We felt how much
beauty might be procured at small expense in looking at these things.
A beautiful walk through a beech wood took us to the _Mooshütte_,
before which stands the beech whereon Goethe and his friends cut their
names, and from which Goethe denounced Waldemar. We could recognize
some of the initials. With Ettersburg I shall always associate Arthur
Helps, for he was with us on the second and last time we saw it. He
came to Weimar quite unexpectedly on the 29th August, and the next
evening we all three drove to Ettersburg. He said the country just
round Weimar reminded him of Spain. This led him to talk of his
Spanish travels, and he told us some delightful stories in a
delightful way. At one inn he was considerably embarrassed in eating
his dinner by the presence of a handsome woman, who sat directly
opposite to him, resting on her elbows, and fixing her dark eyes on
him with a fearful intensity of interest. This woman was the cook,
anxious to know that her dishes were acceptable to the stranger. Under
this terrible surveillance he did not dare to omit a single dish,
though sorely longing to do so.
Our greatest expedition from Weimar was to Ilmenau. We set out with a
determination to find the Gabel-Bach and Kickel-hahn (Goethe's
residence) without the encumbrance of a guide. We found the man who
inhabits the simple wooden house which used to be Carl August's
hunting-box. He sent a man on with us to show us the way to the
Kickel-hahn, which we at last reached--I with weary legs. There is a
magnificent view of hills from this spot; but Goethe's tiny wooden
house is now closely shut in by fir-trees, and nothing can be seen
from the windows. His room, which forms the upper floor of the house,
is about ten or twelve feet square. It is now quite empty, but there
is an interesting memorial of his presence in these wonderful lines,
written by his own hand, near the window-frame:
"Ueber allen Gipfeln
Ist Ruh,
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch."
We wrote our names near one of the windows.
About the middle of September the theatre opened, and we went to hear
"Ernani." Liszt looked splendid as he conducted the opera. The grand
outline of his face and floating hair were seen to advantage as they
were thrown into dark relief by the stage lamps. We were so fortunate
as to have all three of Wagner's most celebrated operas while we were
at Weimar. G., however, had not patience to sit out more than two acts
of "Lohengrin;" and, indeed, I too was weary. The declamation appeared
to me monotonous, and situations, in themselves trivial or
disagreeable, were dwelt on fatiguingly. Without feeling competent to
pass a judgment on this opera as music, one may venture to say that it
fails in one grand requisite of art, based on an unchangeable element
in human nature--the need for contrast. With the "Fliegender
Holländer" I was delighted; the poem and the music were alike
charming. The "Tannhäuser," too, created in me a great desire to hear
it again. Many of the situations, and much of the music, struck me as
remarkably fine. And I appreciated these operas all the better
retrospectively when we saw "Der Freischütz," which I had never
before heard and seen on the stage. The effect of the delicious music,
with which one is so familiar, was completely spoiled by the absence
of recitative, and the terrible _lapsus_ from melody to ordinary
speech. The bacchanalian song seemed simply ridiculous, sung at a
little pot-house table at a party of _two_, one of whom was sunk in
melancholy; and the absurdity reached a _ne plus ultra_ when Caspar
climbed the tree, apparently with the sole purpose of being shot. _À
propos_ of the theatre, we were immensely amused to learn that a fair,
small-featured man, who somehow always looked to me as if he had just
come out of the shell, had come to Weimar to fit himself for a
dramatic writer by going behind the scenes! He had as yet written
nothing, but was going to work in what he considered a _gründlich_
way.
When we passed along the Schiller Strasse, I used to be very much
thrilled by the inscription, "Hier wohnte Schiller," over the door of
his small house. Very interesting it is to see his study, which is
happily left in its original state. In his bedroom we saw his skull
for the first time, and were amazed at the smallness of the
intellectual region. There is an intensely interesting sketch of
Schiller lying dead, which I saw for the first time in the study; but
all pleasure in thinking of Schiller's portraits and bust is now
destroyed to me by the conviction of their untruthfulness. Rauch told
us that he had a _miserabled Stirne_.[45] Waagen says that Tieck the
sculptor told him there was something in Schiller's whole person which
reminded him of a _camel_.
Goethe's house is much more important-looking, but, to English eyes,
far from being the palatial residence which some German writers think
it. The entrance-hall is certainly rather imposing, with its statues
in niches, and broad staircase. The latter was made after his own
design, and was an "after-shine" of Italian tastes. The pictures are
wretched, the casts not much better--indeed, I remember nothing which
seemed intrinsically worth looking at. The MS. of his "Römische
Elegien," written by himself in the Italian character, is to be seen
here; and one likes to look at it better than at most of the other
things. G. had obtained permission from Frau v. Goethe to see the
studio and Schlafzimmer, which are not open to the public, and here
our feelings were deeply moved. We entered first a small room
containing drawers and shelves devoted to his mineralogical
collections. From these we passed into the study. It is rather a dark
room, for there are only two small windows--German windows. A plain
deal table stands in the middle, and near the chair, against this
table, is a high basket, where, I was afterwards told, Goethe used to
put his pocket-handkerchief. A long sort of writing-table and bookcase
united stands against one wall. Here hangs the pin-cushion, just as he
left it, with visiting-cards suspended on threads, and other trifles
which greatness and death have made sacred. Against the opposite wall,
where you enter the bedroom, there is a high writing-desk, on which
stands a little statue of Napoleon in creamy glass. The bedroom is
very small. By the side of the bed stands a stuffed arm-chair, where
he used to sit and read while he drank his coffee in the morning. It
was not until very late in his life that he adopted the luxury of an
arm-chair. From the other side of the study one enters the library,
which is fitted up in a very makeshift fashion, with rough deal
shelves, and bits of paper, with Philosophy, History, etc., written on
them, to mark the classification of the books. Among such memorials
one breathes deeply, and the tears rush to one's eyes. There is one
likeness of Goethe that is really startling and thrilling from the
idea it gives one of perfect resemblance. It is painted on a cup, and
is a tiny miniature, but the execution is so perfect that, on applying
a magnifying glass, every minute stroke has as natural an appearance
as the texture of a flower or the parts of an insect under the
microscope.
Equally interesting is the _Gartenhaus_, which we used to see almost
every day in our walks. Within, it is a not uncomfortable, homely sort
of cottage; no furniture is left in it, and the family want to sell
it. It stands on a pleasant slope fronting the west, and there is a
charming bit of garden and orchard attached to it. Close to the garden
hedge runs the road which leads to Ober Weimar, and on the other side
of this road a meadow stretches to the trees which border the Ilm. A
bridge nearly opposite the Gartenhaus takes one to the Borkenhaus,
Carl August's little retreat, from which he used to telegraph to
Goethe. The road to Ober Weimar was one of our favorite walks,
especially towards the end of our stay at Weimar, when we were glad of
all the sunshine we could get. Sometimes we used to turn out of it, up
a grove of weeping birches, into the ploughed fields at the top of the
slope on which the Gartenhaus and other little villas stand. Here we
enjoyed many a lovely sunset; one, in particular, was marvellously
splendid. The whole hemisphere was golden, towards the east tinted
with rose-color. From this little height we looked on the plantations
of the park, in their autumnal coloring, the town, with its
steep-roofed church and its castle tower, colored a gay green, the
line of chestnuts along the Belvedere Chaussée, and Belvedere itself
peeping from its nest of trees.
Another very favorite walk of mine was the _Webicht_, a beautiful wood
through which ran excellent carriage-roads and grassy footpaths. How
richly have I enjoyed skirting this wood and seeing, on the other
side, the sky arching grandly down over the open fields, the evening
red flushing the west over the town, and the bright stars come out as
if to relieve the sun in his watch over mortals. And then the winding
road through the Webicht on the side towards Tiefurt, with its tall,
overarching trees now bending their mossy trunks forward, now standing
with stately erectness like lofty pillars; and the charming grassy
paths through the heart of the wood, among its silvery-barked birches!
The Webicht lies towards Tiefurt, and one side of it is bordered by
the road thither. I remember, as we were returning from Tiefurt one
evening, a beautiful effect of the setting sunlight pouring itself
under the trees, and making the road before us almost crimson.
One of our pleasantest acquaintances at Weimar was the French
ambassador, the Marquis de Ferrière, a very favorable specimen of a
Frenchman, but intensely French. His genial soul and perfect
good-humor gave one the same sort of _bien-être_ as a well-stuffed
arm-chair and a warm hearthrug. In the course of conversation,
speaking of Yvan's accounts of his travels (the marquis was first
secretary to the Chinese embassy which Yvan accompanied), he said,
"C'était faux d'un bout à l'autre; mais c'était spirituel, paradoxal,
amusant--enfin _tout ce qu'il fallait pour un journal_." Another day
he observed that the famous words of Napoleon to his Egyptian army,
"Forty centuries look down on you from the summits of these pyramids,"
were characteristic of the French national feeling, as those of
Nelson, "England expects the man to make his duty" were of the
English. This is a fair specimen of the correctness with which one
generally hears English quoted; and we often reminded ourselves that
it was a mirror in which we might see our own German.
Liszt's conversation is charming. I never met with a person whose
manner of telling a story was so piquant. The last evening but one
that he called on us, wishing to express his pleasure in G.'s article
about him, he very ingeniously conveyed that expression in a story
about Spontini and Berlioz. Spontini visited Paris while Liszt was
living there, and haunted the opera--a stiff, self-important
personage, with high shirt-collars, the least attractive individual
imaginable; Liszt turned up his own collars, and swelled out his
person, so as to give us a vivid idea of the man. Every one would have
been glad to get out of Spontini's way--indeed, elsewhere "on feignait
de le croire mort," but at Paris, as he was a member of the Institute,
it was necessary to recognize his existence. Liszt met him at Erard's
more than once. On one of these occasions Liszt observed to him that
Berlioz was a great admirer of his (Spontini's), whereupon Spontini
burst into a terrible invective against Berlioz as a man who, with the
like of him, was ruining art, etc. Shortly after the "Vestale" was
performed, and forthwith appeared an enthusiastic article by Berlioz
on Spontini's music. The next time Liszt met him of the high collars
he said, "You see I was not wrong in what I said about Berlioz's
admiration of you." Spontini swelled in his collars, and replied,
"Monsieur, Berlioz a du talent comme critique!"
Liszt's replies were always felicitous and characteristic. Talking of
Mme. d'Agoult, he told us that when her novel "Nelida" appeared, in
which Liszt himself is pilloried as a delinquent, he asked her, "Mais
pourquoi avez-vous tellement maltraité ce pauvre Lehmann?" The first
time we were asked to breakfast at his house, the Altenburg, we were
shown into the garden, where, in a saloon formed by overarching trees,
the _déjeuner_ was set out. We found Hoffmann von Fallersleben, the
lyric poet, Dr. Schade--a _Gelehrter_, and Cornelius. Presently came a
Herr--or Doctor--Raff, a musician, who has recently published a volume
called "Wagnerfrage." Soon after we were joined by Liszt and the
Princess Marie, an elegant, gentle-looking girl of seventeen, and last
by the Princess Wittgenstein, with her nephew, Prince Eugène, and a
young French artist, a pupil of Scheffer. The princess was tastefully
dressed in a morning-robe of some semi-transparent white material,
lined with orange-color, which formed the bordering and ornamented the
sleeves, a black lace jacket, and a piquant cap set on the summit of
her comb, and trimmed with violet color. When the cigars came, Hoffman
was requested to read some of his poetry, and he gave us a
bacchanalian poem with great spirit. I sat next to Liszt, and my great
delight was to watch him and observe the sweetness of his expression.
Genius, benevolence, and tenderness beam from his whole countenance,
and his manners are in perfect harmony with it. Then came the thing I
had longed for--his playing. I sat near him, so that I could see both
his hands and face. For the first time in my life I beheld real
inspiration--for the first time I heard the true tones of the piano.
He played one of his own compositions--one of a series of religious
fantasies. There was nothing strange or excessive about his manner.
His manipulation of the instrument was quiet and easy, and his face
was simply grand--the lips compressed, and the head thrown a little
backward. When the music expressed quiet rapture or devotion a smile
flitted over his features; when it was triumphant the nostrils
dilated. There was nothing petty or egoistic to mar the picture. Why
did not Scheffer paint him thus, instead of representing him as one of
the three Magi? But it just occurs to me that Scheffer's idea was a
sublime one. There are the two aged men who have spent their lives in
trying to unravel the destinies of the world, and who are looking for
the Deliverer--for the light from on high. Their young fellow-seeker,
having the fresh inspiration of early life, is the first to discern
the herald star, and his ecstasy reveals it to his companions. In this
young Magus, Scheffer has given a portrait of Liszt; but even here,
where he might be expected to idealize unrestrainedly, he falls short
of the original. It is curious that Liszt's face is the type that one
sees in all Scheffer's pictures; at least, in all I have seen.
In a little room which terminates the suite at the Altenburg there is
a portrait of Liszt, also by Scheffer--the same of which the engraving
is familiar to every one. This little room is filled with memorials of
Liszt's triumphs and the worship his divine talent has won. It was
arranged for him by the princess, in conjunction with the Arnims, in
honor of his birthday. There is a medallion of him by Schwanthaler, a
bust by an Italian artist, also a medallion by Rietschl--very
fine--and cabinets full of jewels and precious things--the Weimar
gifts of the great. In the music _salon_ stand Beethoven's and
Mozart's pianos. Beethoven's was a present from Broadwood, and has a
Latin inscription intimating that it was presented as a tribute to his
illustrious genius. One evening Liszt came to dine with us at the Erb
Prinz, and introduced M. Rubinstein, a young Russian, who is about to
have an opera of his performed in Weimar. Our expenses at Weimar,
including wine and washing, were £2 6_s._ per week. Dear Weimar! We
were sorry to say good-bye to it, with its pleasant group of friends.
On the 4th of November, after a stay of just three months, we turned
our backs on it "to seek fresh streets and faces new" at Berlin.
[Sidenote: Berlin, Recollections, Nov. 1854 to Mch. 1855.]
There are certain persons without any physiognomy, the catalogue of
whose features, as, item, a Roman nose, item, a pair of black eyes,
etc., gives you the entire contents of their faces. There is no
difference of opinion about the looks of such people. All the world is
agreed either that they are pretty or ugly. So it is with Berlin.
Every one tells you it is an uninteresting modern city, with broad,
monotonous streets; and when you see it, you cannot for the life of
you get up an emotion of surprise, or make a remark about the place
which you have not heard before.
The day after our arrival was Sunday, 6th November; the sun shone
brightly, and we went to walk in the Linden, elbowing our way among
the _promeneurs endimanchés_, who looked remarkably smart and handsome
after the Thuringians. We had not gone far when we met a nice-looking
old gentleman, with an order round his neck, and a gold-headed cane in
his hand, who exclaimed, on seeing G., "Ist's möglich?" and then bade
him heartily welcome. I saw at once it was the Varnhagen of whom I
had heard so often. His niece, arrayed in smiles and a pink bonnet,
was with him.
For the first six weeks, when the weather permitted, we took long
walks in the Thiergarten, where the straight and uniform avenues of
insignificant trees contrasted very disadvantageously with the
charming variety of our beloved park at Weimar. Still, we now and then
noticed a beautiful wintry effect, especially in the part most remote
from the town, where the trees are finer and the arrangements more
varied. One walk, which skirted the Thiergarten on the right-hand side
coming from the town, we were particularly fond of, because it gave us
on one side an open view, with water and a boat or two, which, touched
by the magic of sunshine, was pleasant to see. At Berlin it was "a day
of small things" with regard to the beautiful, and we made much of
little.
Our little circle of acquaintances was very agreeable and varied.
Varnhagen was a real treasure to G., for his library supplied all the
deficiencies of the public one, where to ask for books was generally
like "sinking buckets into empty wells." He is a man of real culture,
kindliness, and polish (Germanly speaking); and he has besides that
thorough liberalism, social, religious, and political, which sets the
mind at ease in conversation, and delivers it from the fear of running
against some prejudice, or coming suddenly on the sunk fence of some
miserable limitation. The first morning he called on us he talked of
his terrible disappointment in Carlyle, a subject to which he often
returned. He evidently felt an antipathy to the "Teufelsdröckh,"
which, indeed, it was not difficult to understand from the mere
_manière d'étre_ of the two men. They had corresponded for years
before they saw each other; and Varnhagen was, and is, a great
admirer of Carlyle's best work, but he was thoroughly repelled by his
rough, paradoxical talk, and, more justifiably, by the despotic
doctrines which it has been his humor to teach of late. We were amused
to hear that Carlyle said he should think no one could die at Berlin,
"for in beds _without curtains_ what Christian could give up the
ghost?"
At Varnhagen's we met, for the first time, Professor Stahr, who was
there with Fanny Lewald, Fräulein Solmar, Frau Muisch, Dr. Ring, Dr.
Vehse, Gräfin von Kalkreuth, and Director Wilhelm Schadow, author of
"Der Moderne Vasari." We talked of Goethe. Varnhagen brought out
autographs and portraits, and read us an epigram of his own on the
want of liberality which Goethe's family show about opening his house
to the public. He showed us a portrait of Kleist, who shot himself, in
company with Frau Vogel, near an inn on the way to Potsdam. There was
no love-affair between them; they were both thoroughly unhappy--he
poor and hopeless for the future; and she suffering from an incurable
disease. In the evening they both wrote, on a single sheet of paper,
letters to their friends, communicating their intention (this sheet
Varnhagen possesses). Early in the morning they rose, took a cup of
coffee, went to the brink of a piece of water in the neighborhood of
the inn, and there shot themselves.
Du Bois Reymond spoke very decidedly of the German civilization as
inferior to the English.
Varnhagen, when well, is a regular visitor at Fräulein Solmar's, who
for many years has kept an open _salon_ for her friends every evening
but one in the week. Here the three-cornered chair next the sofa was
reserved for him, except when General Pfuhl was there. This General
Pfuhl is a fine specimen of an old soldier, who is at the same time a
man of instruction and of strong social sympathies. He has been in the
service of Prussia, has been within a hair's-breadth of being frozen
to death, "and so following." He spoke French admirably, and always
had something interesting and characteristic to tell or say. His
appreciatory groans, always in the right place, when G. was reading
"Shylock" did us both good, under the chills of a German audience.
Fräulein Solmar is a remarkably accomplished woman--probably between
fifty and sixty, but of that agreeable _Wesen_ which is so free from
anything startling in person or manner, and so at home in everything
one can talk of, that you think of her simply as a delightful
presence, and not as a woman of any particular age. She converses
perfectly in French, well in English, and well also, as we were told,
in Italian. There is not the slightest warmth of manner or expression
in her, but always the same even cheerfulness and intelligence--in
fact, she is the true type of the mistress of the _salon_. During the
first half of our stay in Berlin we went about once a week to her
house; but bad health and bad weather kept us away during the last six
weeks, except for one or two evenings. Baron Sternberg, the novelist,
used frequently to glide in when we were there, and cast strange, cold
glances around, talking quietly to Fräulein Assing or some other lady
who sat in a distant parallel of latitude.
One evening a Frenchman there amused us by saying that he found in
Meyerbeer's "Huguenots" the whole spirit of the epoch of Charles IX.
"Lisez les Chroniques"--"de Froissart?" suggested Mlle. Solmar. "Oui,
quelque chose comme ça; ou bien les Chroniques de Brantôme ou de
_Mérimée_, et vous trouverez que Meyerbeer a parfaitement exprimé tout
cela; du moins c'est ce que je trouve, moi." I said, "Mais peut-être,
Monsieur, c'est votre génie à vous qui a fait entrer les idées dans la
musique." He answered with complacent deprecation. G. looked immovably
serious, but was inwardly tickled by the audacity of my compliment,
and the evident acceptance of it.
A still more interesting acquaintance was Professor Gruppe, who has
written great books on the Greek drama and on Philosophy; has been a
political writer; is a lyric and epic poet; has invented a beautiful
kind of marbled paper for binding books; is an enthusiastic huntsman,
and, withal, the most simple, kind-hearted creature in the world. His
little wife, who is about twenty years younger than himself, seems to
adore him, and it is charming to see the group they and their two
little children make in their dwelling, up endless flights of stairs
in the Leipziger Platz. Very pleasant evenings we had there, chatting
or playing whist, or listening to readings of Gruppe's poems. We used
to find him in a gray cloth _Schlafrock_, which I fancy was once a
great-coat, and a brown velvet cap surmounting his thin gray hairs. I
never saw a combination at all like that which makes up Gruppe's
character. Talent, fertility, and versatility that seem to indicate a
fervid temperament, and yet no scintillation of all this in his talk
and manner; on the contrary, he seems slow at apprehending other
people's ideas, and is of an almost childish _naiveté_ in the value he
attaches to poor jokes, and other trivialities. _À propos_ of jokes,
we noticed that during the whole seven months of our stay in Germany
we never heard one witticism, or even one felicitous idea or
expression, from a German!
Gruppe has a delightful library, with rare books, and books too good
to be rare; and we often applied to him for some of them. He lent me
"Lessing," and that is an additional circumstance to remember with
pleasure in connection with the Laocoon. He one evening gave us an
interesting account of his work on the cosmic system of the Greeks,
and read us a translation, by himself, of one of the Homeric
hymns--Aphrodite--which is very beautiful, a sort of _Gegenstück_ to
"Der Gott und die Bajadere:" and generally we were glad when he took
up the book. He read us a specimen of his epic poem, "Firdusi," which
pleased us. The fable on which this poem is founded is fine. The
sultan had engaged Firdusi to write a great poem on his exploits, and
had promised to pay for this one hundred thousand pieces (gold being
understood). Firdusi had delighted in the thought of this sum, which
he intended to devote to the benefit of his native city. When the poem
was delivered, and the sack of money given to Firdusi, he found that
the pieces were silver! He burst into a song of scorn against the
sultan, and paid the miserable sum to his bath-man. Gruppe thinks
Shakespeare more extensively sold in Germany than any other book,
except the Bible and Schiller! One night we attempted "Brag" or
"Pocher," but Gruppe presently became alarmed at G.'s play, and said
"Das würde an zwölf Groschen reichen." He drew some Jews' faces with a
pen admirably.
We were invited to meet Waagen, whom we found a very intelligent and
amusing man. He told us a story about Goethe, who said of some one, "I
thank thee, Almighty God, that thou hast produced no second edition of
this man!" and an amusing judgment passed on Goethe himself, that he
was "Kein dummer Mann!" Also a story of a lady who went to see him,
as an intellectual adorer, and began to spout to him, as his
masterpiece, "Fest gemauert in der Erden,"[46] etc.
Another pleasant friend was Edward Magnus, the portrait-painter, an
acute, intelligent, kind-hearted man, with real talent in his art. He
was the only German we met with who seemed conscious of his
countrymen's deficiencies. He showed in every possible way a hearty
desire to do us service--sent us books, came to chat with us, showed
us his portraits, and, when we were going away, brought us lithographs
of some paintings of his, that we might carry away a remembrance of
him. He has travelled very extensively, and had much intercourse with
distinguished people, and these means of culture have had some of
their best effects on his fine temperament and direct, truthful mind.
He told us a rich story about Carlyle. At a dinner-party, given by
Magnus in his honor, Wiese and Cornelius were deploring Goethe's want
of evangelical sentiment. Carlyle was visibly uneasy, fumbling with
his dinner-napkin. At last he broke out thus: "Meine Herren kennen sie
die Anekdote von dem Manne der die Sonne lästerte weil sie ihm sein
Cigarre nicht anstecken liess?"[47]
In the little room where we used to be ushered to wait for him there
was a portrait of Thorwaldsen and one of Mendelssohn, both of whom he
knew well. I was surprised to find in his _atelier_ the original of the
portrait of Jenny Lind, with which I was so familiar. He was going to
send it, together with Sontag's portrait, to the exhibition at Paris.
His brother, the chemist, was also a bright, good-natured-looking man.
We were invited to a large evening party at his house, and found very
elegant rooms, with a remarkable assemblage of celebrated men--Johannes
Müller, Du Bois Reymond, Rose, Ehrenberg, etc. Some of the women were
very pretty and well dressed. The supper, brought round on trays, was
well appointed; and altogether the party was well managed.
We spent one evening with Professor Stahr and his wife--Fanny
Lewald--after their marriage. Stahr has a copy of the charming
miniature of Schiller, taken when he was about thirty--a miniature in
the possession of a certain Madame von Kalb. There are the long
_Gänsehals_,[48] the aquiline nose, the blue eyes and auburn hair. It
is a most real and striking portrait. I saw also a portrait and bust of
Madame d'Agoult here, both rather handsome. The first evening Stahr
told us some of the grievances which the Prussians have to bear from
their government, and among the rest the vexatious necessity for a
"concession" or license, before any, the simplest vocation, can be
entered on. He observed, with justice, that the English are apt to
suppose the German Revolution of '48 was mere restlessness and aping of
other nations, when in fact there were real oppressions which the
Germans had to bear, and which they had borne with a patience that
the English would not imitate for a month. By far the most
distinguished-looking man we saw at Berlin, and, indeed, next to Liszt,
in Germany, was Rauch the sculptor. Schöll had given G. a letter for
him, and soon after it had been left at his house he called on us in
the evening, and at once won our hearts by his beautiful person and the
benignant and intelligent charm of his conversation. He is indeed the
finest old man I ever saw--more than seventy-six, I believe, but
perfectly upright, even stately, in his carriage. His features are
harmonious, his complexion has a delicate freshness, his silky white
hair waves gracefully round his high forehead, and his brown eyes beam
with benevolence and intelligence. He is above the common height, and
his stature and beauty together ennoble the gray working surtout and
cap which he wears in his _atelier_ into a picturesque and
distinguished costume. The evening he was with us he talked
delightfully of Goethe, dwelling especially on his lovable nature. He
described very graphically Goethe's way of introducing subjects,
showing plates, etc., bringing in the cast of Schiller's skull, and
talking of it and other little particulars of interest. We went one
morning to his _atelier_, and found him superintending his pupil's work
at a large group representing Moses with his hands held up by Aaron and
Hur. It was extremely interesting to me to see Rauch's original little
clay model of this group, for I had never seen statuary in that first
stage before. The intense expression of entreaty in the face of the
Moses was remarkable. But the spirit of this group is so alien to my
sympathies that I could feel little pleasure in the idea of its
production. On the other hand, my heart leaped at the sight of old
Kant's quaint figure, of which Rauch is commissioned to produce a
colossal statue for Königsberg. In another _atelier_, where the work is
in a different stage, we saw a splendid marble monument, nearly
completed, of the late king of Hanover. Pitiable that genius and
spotless white marble should be thrown away on such human trash! Our
second visit to Rauch's _atelier_ was paid shortly before we left
Berlin. The group of Moses, Aaron, and Hur was clothed up, and the
dark-eyed, olive-complexioned pupil was at work on a pretty little
figure of Hope--a child stepping forward with upturned face, a bunch of
flowers in her hand. In the other _atelier_ we saw a bust of
Schleiermacher, which, with the equestrian statue of Fritz, and its
pedestal, Rauch was going to send to the Paris Exhibition.
Schleiermacher's face is very delicately cut, and indicates a highly
susceptible temperament. The colossal head of Fritz, seen on a level
with one's eye, was perfectly startling from its living expression. One
can't help fancying that the head is thinking and that the eyes are
seeing.
Dessoir the actor was another pleasant variety in our circle of
acquaintance. He created in us a real respect and regard for him, not
only by his sincere devotion to his art, but by the superiority of
feeling which shone through all the little details of his conduct and
conversation. Of lowly birth, and entirely self-taught, he is by
nature a gentleman. Without a single physical gift as an actor, he
succeeds, by force of enthusiasm and conscientious study, in arriving
at a representation which commands one's attention and feelings. I was
very much pleased by the simplicity with which he one day said,
"Shakespeare ist mein Gott; ich habe keinen anderen Gott:" and indeed
one saw that his art was a religion to him. He said he found himself
inevitably led into singsong declamation by Schiller, but with
Shakespeare it was impossible to be declamatory. It was very agreeable
to have him as a companion now and then in our walks, and to have him
read or discuss Shakespeare for an hour or two in the evening. He told
us an amusing story about his early days. When he was a youth of
sixteen or seventeen, acting at Spandau, he walked to Berlin (about
nine miles) and back in the evening, accompanied by a watchmaker
named Naundorff, an enthusiast for the theatre. On their way Dessoir
declaimed at the top of his voice, and was encouraged by the applause
of his companion to more and more exertion of lungs and limbs, so that
people stared at them, and followed them, as if they thought them two
madmen. This watchmaker was Louis XVII.! Dessoir also imitated
admirably Aldridge's mode of advancing to kill Duncan--like a wild
Indian lurking for a not much wilder beast. He paid us the very pretty
attention of getting up a dinner for us at Dietz's, and inviting
Rötscher and Förster to meet us; and he supplied us with tickets for
the theatre, which, however, was a pleasure we used sparingly. The
first time we went was to see "Nathan der Weise"--a real enjoyment,
for the elegant theatre was new to us, and the scenery was excellent;
better than I saw there on any subsequent occasion. Döring performed
Nathan, and we thus saw him for the first time to great advantage;
for, though he drags down this part, as he does all others, the
character of Nathan sets limits which he cannot overstep; and though
we lose most of its elevation in Döring's acting, we get, _en
revanche_, an admirable ease and naturalness. His fine, clear voice
and perfect enunciation told excellently in the famous monologue, and
in the whole scene with Saladin. Our hearts swelled and the tears came
into our eyes as we listened to the noble words of dear Lessing, whose
great spirit lives immortally in this crowning work of his.
Our great anxiety was to see and hear Johanna Wagner, so we took
tickets for the "Orpheus," which Mlle. Solmar told us she thought her
best part. We were thoroughly delighted both with her and her music.
The caricatures of the Furies, the ballet-girls, and the butcher-like
Greek shades in Elysium, the ugly, screaming Eurydice, and the droll
appearance of Timzek as Amor, in which she looked like a shop-girl who
has donned a masquerade dress impromptu, without changing her
headdress--all these absurdities were rather an amusement than a
drawback to our pleasure; for the Orpheus was perfect in himself, and
looked like a noble horse among mules and donkeys.
[Sidenote: Letter to Miss Sara Hennell, 9th Jan. 1855.]
Our days are so accurately parcelled out that my time for
letter-writing is rather restricted, and for every letter I write I
have to leave out something which we have learned to think necessary.
We have been to hear "Fidelio" this evening--not well executed, except
so far as the orchestra was concerned; but the divine music positively
triumphs over the defects of execution. One is entirely wrapped in the
_idea_ of the composer. Last week we had "Orpheus and Eurydice," and I
heard, for the first time, at once an opera of Gluck's and Johanna
Wagner. It is one of the glories of Berlin to give Gluck's operas, and
it is also something of a glory to have "die Wagner." She is really a
fine actress and a fine singer; her voice is not ravishing, but she is
mistress of it. I thought of you that evening, and wished you could
hear and see what I know would interest you greatly--I refer rather to
Gluck's opera than to Johanna Wagner. The scene in which Orpheus
(Johanna Wagner) enters Tartarus, is met by the awful Shades, and
charms them into ecstatic admiration till they make way for him to
pass on, is very fine. The voices--except in the choruses--are all
women's voices; and there are only three characters--Orpheus, Amor,
and Eurydice. One wonders that Pluto does not come as a basso; and one
would prefer Mercury as a tenor to Amor in the shape of an ugly
German soprano; but Gluck wished it otherwise, and the music is
delightful. I am reading a charming book by Professor Stahr--who is
one of our acquaintances here--"Torso: Kunst, Künstler, und Kunst
Werke der Alten." It feeds the fresh interest I am now feeling in art.
Professor Stahr is a very erudite man, and, what is very much rarer
among Germans, a good writer, who knows how to select his materials,
and has, above all, a charming talent for description. We saw at his
house the other night the first portrait of Schiller which _convinces_
me of a likeness to him. It is the copy of a miniature which has never
been engraved. The face is less beautiful than that of the ordinary
busts and portraits, but is very remarkable--the eyes blue, the
complexion very fair (the picture was taken in his youth), and the
hair sunny. He has the long "goose-neck" which he describes as
belonging to Carl Moor in the "Robbers," and the forehead is _fuyant_
in correspondence with the skull. The piteous contrast there is
between the anxiety poor Schiller is constantly expressing about a
livelihood--about the thalers he has to pay for this and the thalers
he has to receive for that--and Goethe's perfect ease in that respect!
For the "History of the Netherlands" he got little more than fifteen
shillings per sheet. I am very much interested in Professor Gruppe as
a type of the German _Gelehrter_. He has written books on
everything--on the Greek drama, a great book on the cosmic system of
the Greeks, an epic, numberless lyric poems, etc.; he has a
philosophical work and a history of literature in the press; is
professor of philosophy at the university; is enthusiastic about
boar-hunting, and has written a volume of hunting poems--and _ich
weiss nicht was_. Withal he is as simple as a child. When we go to
see them in the evening we find him wrapped in a moth-eaten gray coat
and a cap on his head. Then he reads us a translation of one of the
Homeric hymns, and goes into the most naïve _impersonal_ ecstasy at
the beauty of his own poetry (which is really good). The other night
he read us part of an epic which is still in MS., and is to be read
before the king--such is the fashion here. And his little wife, who is
about twenty years younger than himself, listens with loving
admiration. Altogether, they and their two little children are a
charming picture.
[Sidenote: Berlin, Recollections, 1854-55.]
We went to only one concert, for which Vivier was kind enough to send
us tickets. It was given by him and Roger, assisted by Arabella
Goddard and Johanna Wagner. Roger's singing of the "Erl King" was a
treat not to be forgotten. He gave the full effect to Schubert's
beautiful and dramatic music; and his way of falling from melody into
awe-struck speech in the final words "_War todt_" abides with one. I
never felt so thoroughly the beauty of that divine ballad before. The
king was present in all his toothlessness and blinkingness; and the
new princess from Anhalt Dessau, young and delicate-looking, was there
too. Arabella Goddard played the "Harmonious Blacksmith" charmingly,
and then Wagner sang badly two ineffective German songs, and Halévy's
duet from the "Reine de Chypre" with Roger.
Vivier is amusing. He says Germans take off their hats on all possible
pretexts--not for the sake of politeness, but _pour être
embarrassants_. They have wide streets, simply to embarrass you, by
making it impossible to descry a shop or a friend. A German always has
_three_ gloves--"On ne sait pas pourquoi." There is a dog-tax in order
to maintain a narrow _trottoir_ in Berlin, and every one who keeps a
dog feels authorized to keep the _trottoir_ and move aside for no one.
If he has two dogs he drives out of the _trottoir_ the man who has
only one: the very dogs begin to be aware of it. If you kick one when
he is off the _trottoir_ he will bear it patiently, but on the
_trottoir_ he resents it vehemently. He gave us quite a bit of Molière
in a description of a mystification at a restaurant. He says to the
waiter--"Vous voyez ce monsieur là. C'est le pauvre M. Colignon." (Il
faut qu'il soit quelq'un qui prend très peu--une tasse de café ou
comme ça, et qui ne dépense pas trop.) "Je suis son ami. Il est fou.
Je le garde. Combien doit-il payer?" "Un franc." "Voilà." Then Vivier
goes out. Presently the so-called M. Colignon asks how much he has to
pay, and is driven to exasperation by the reiterated assurance of the
waiter--"C'est payé, M. Colignon."
The first work of art really worth looking at that one sees at Berlin
is the "Rosse-bändiger" in front of the palace. It is by a sculptor
named Cotes, who made horses his especial study; and certainly, to us,
they eclipsed the famous Colossi at Monte Cavallo, casts of which are
in the new museum.
The collection of pictures at the old museum has three gems, which
remain in the imagination--Titian's Daughter, Correggio's Jupiter and
Io, and his Head of Christ on the Handkerchief. I was pleased also to
recognize among the pictures the one by Jan Steen, which Goethe
describes in the "Wahlverwandschaften" as the model of a _tableau
vivant_, presented by Luciane and her friends. It is the daughter
being reproved by her father, while the mother is emptying her
wine-glass. It is interesting to see the statue of Napoleon, the
worker of so much humiliation to Prussia, placed opposite that of
Julius Cæsar.
They were very happy months we spent at Berlin, in spite of the bitter
cold which came on in January and lasted almost till we left. How we
used to rejoice in the idea of our warm room and coffee as we battled
our way from dinner against the wind and snow! Then came the
delightful long evening, in which we read Shakespeare, Goethe, Heine,
and Macaulay, with German _Pfefferkuchen_ and _Semmels_ at the end to
complete the _noctes cenæque deûm_.
We used often to turn out for a little walk in the evening, when it
was not too cold, to refresh ourselves by a little pure air as a
change from the stove-heated room. Our favorite walk was along the
Linden, in the broad road between the trees. We used to pace to old
Fritz's monument, which loomed up dark and mysterious against the sky.
Once or twice we went along the gas-lighted walk towards Kroll's. One
evening in our last week we went on to the bridge leading to the
Wilhelm Stadt, and there by moon and gas light saw the only bit of
picturesqueness Berlin afforded us. The outline of the Schloss towards
the water is very varied, and a light in one of the windows near the
top of a tower was a happy accident. The row of houses on the other
side of the water was shrouded in indistinctness, and no ugly object
marred the scene. The next day, under the light of the sun, it was
perfectly prosaic.
Our _table d'hôte_ at the Hotel de l'Europe was so slow in its
progress from one course to another, and there was so little
encouragement to talk to our neighbors, that we used to take our books
by way of beguiling the time. Lessing's "Hamburgische Briefe," which I
am not likely to take up again, will thus remain associated in my
memory with my place at the _table d'hôte_. The company here, as
almost everywhere else in Berlin, was sprinkled with officers. Indeed,
the swords of officers threaten one's legs at every turn in the
streets, and one sighs to think how these unproductive consumers of
_Wurst_, with all their blue and scarlet broadcloth, are maintained
out of the pockets of the community. Many of the officers and privates
are startlingly tall; indeed, some of them would match, I should
think, with the longest of Friedrich Wilhelm's _lange Kerle_.
It was a bitterly cold, sleety morning--the 11th of March--when we set
out from Berlin, leaving behind us, alas! G.'s rug, which should have
kept his feet warm on the journey. Our travelling companions to
Cologne were fat Madame Roger, her little daughter, and her dog, and a
queen's messenger--a very agreeable man, who afterwards persuaded
another of the same vocation to join us for the sake of warmth. This
poor man's teeth were chattering with cold, though he was wrapped in
fur; and we, all furless as we were, pitied him, and were thankful
that at least we were not feverish and ill, as he evidently was. We
saw the immortal old town of Wolfenbüttel at a distance, as we rolled
along; beyond this there was nothing of interest in our first day's
journey, and the only incident was the condemnation of poor Madame
Roger's dog to the dog-box, apart from its mistress with her warm
cloaks. She remonstrated in vain with a brutal German official, and it
was amusing to hear him say to her in German, "Wenn sie Deutsch nicht
verstehen können." "Eh bien--prenez la." "Ah! quel satan de pays!" was
her final word, as she held out the shivering little beast.
We stayed at Cologne, and next morning walked out to look at the
cathedral again. Melancholy as ever in its impression upon me! From
Cologne to Brussels we had some rather interesting companions, in two
French artists who were on their way from Russia. Strange beings they
looked to us at first, in their dirty linen, Russian caps, and other
queer equipments; but in this, as in many other cases, I found that a
first impression was an extremely mistaken one--for instead of being,
as I imagined, common, uncultivated men, they were highly intelligent.
At Brussels, as we took our supper, we had the pleasure of looking at
Berlioz's fine head and face, he being employed in the same way on the
other side of the table. The next morning to Calais.
They were pleasant days those at Weimar and Berlin, and they
were working days. Mr. Lewes was engaged in completing his
"Life of Goethe," which had been begun some time before, but
which was now for the most part rewritten. At Weimar, George
Eliot wrote the article on Victor Cousin's "Madame de Sablé"
for the _Westminster Review_. It was begun on 5th August, and
sent off on 8th September. At Berlin she nearly finished the
translation of Spinoza's "Ethics"--begun on 5th November--and
wrote an article on Vehse's "Court of Austria," which was
begun on 23d January, and finished 4th March, 1855. Besides
this writing, I find the following among the books that were
engaging their attention; and in collecting the names from
George Eliot's Journal, I have transcribed any remarks she
makes on them:
Sainte-Beuve, Goethe's "Wahlverwandschaften," Rameau's "Neffe,"
"Egmont," "The Hoggarty Diamond," Moore's "Life of Sheridan"--a
first-rate specimen of bad biographical writing; "Götz" and the
"Bürger General," Uhland's poems, "Wilhelm Meister," Rosenkranz on the
Faust Sage, Heine's poems, Shakespeare's plays ("Merchant of Venice,"
"Romeo and Juliet," "Julius Cæsar"--very much struck with the
masculine style of this play, and its vigorous moderation, compared
with "Romeo and Juliet"--"Antony and Cleopatra," "Henry IV.,"
"Othello," "As You Like It," "Lear"--sublimely powerful--"Taming of
the Shrew," "Coriolanus," "Twelfth Night," "Measure for Measure,"
"Midsummer-Night's Dream," "Winter's Tale," "Richard III.," "Hamlet");
Lessing's "Laocoon"--the most un-German of all the German books that
I have ever read. The style is strong, clear, and lively; the thoughts
acute and pregnant. It is well adapted to rouse an interest both in
the classics and in the study of art; "Emilia Galotti" seems to me a
wretched mistake of Lessing's. The Roman myth of Virginius is grand,
but the situation, transported to modern times and divested of its
political bearing, is simply shocking. Read "Briefe über Spinoza"
(Jacobi's), "Nathan der Weise," Fanny Lewald's "Wandlungen," "Minna
von Barnhelm," "Italiänische Reise," the "Residence in Rome;" a
beautiful description of Rome and the Coliseum by moonlight--a fire
made in the Coliseum sending its smoke, silvered by the moonlight,
through the arches of the mighty walls. Amusing story of Goethe's
landlady's cat worshipping Jupiter by licking his beard--a miracle,
in her esteem, explained by Goethe as a discovery the cat had made of
the oil lodging in the undulations of the beard. "Residence in
Naples"--pretty passage about a star seen through a chink in the
ceiling as he lay in bed. It is remarkable that when Goethe gets to
Sicily he is, for the first time in Italy, enthusiastic in his
descriptions of natural beauty. Read Scherr's "Geschichte Deutscher
Cultur und Sitte"--much interested in his sketch of German poetry in
the Middle Ages; "Iphigenia." Looked into the "Xenien," and amused
ourselves with their pointlessness. "Hermann and Dorothea," "Tasso,"
"Wanderjahre"--_à mourir d'ennui_; Heine's "Geständnisse"--immensely
amused with the wit of it in the first fifty pages, but afterwards it
burns low, and the want of principle and purpose make it wearisome.
Lessing's "Hamburgische Briefe." Read Goethe's wonderful observations
on Spinoza. Particularly struck with the beautiful modesty of the
passage in which he says he cannot presume to say that he thoroughly
understands Spinoza. Read "Dichtung und Wahrheit," Knight's "Studies
of Shakespeare." Talked of the "Wahlverwandschaften" with Stahr--he
finding fault with the _dénouement_, which I defended. Read Stahr's
"Torso"--too long-winded a style for reading aloud. Knight's "History
of Painting." Compared several scenes of "Hamlet" in Schlegel's
translation with the original. It is generally very close, and often
admirably well done; but Shakespeare's strong, concrete language is
almost always weakened. For example, "Though this hand were _thicker
than_ itself in brother's blood" is rendered, "Auch um und um in
Bruder's Blut getauchet." The prose speeches of Hamlet lose all their
felicity in the translation. Read Stahr on the Eginetan Sculptures,
"Die Neue Melusine," "West-Östliche Divan," Gervinus on
Shakespeare--found it unsatisfactory; Stahr's "Ein Jahr in
Italien"--the description of Florence excellent. Read the wonderfully
beautiful "Römische Elegien" again, and some of the Venetian
epigrams, Vehse's "Court of Austria"--called on Miss Assing to try and
borrow the book from Varnhagen. He does not possess it, so G. called
on Vehse, and asked him to lend it to me. He was very much pleased to
do so. Read the "Zueignung," the "Gedichte," and several of the
ballads. Looked through Wraxall's "Memoirs." Read Macaulay's "History
of England." Wrote article on Stahr.
This writing and reading, combined with visiting,
theatre-going, and opera-going, make a pretty full life for
these eight months--a striking contrast to the coming months
of complete social quietness in England. Both lives had their
attractions, the superficial aspects of which may be summed
up in a passage from the Journal, dated 13th March, 1855, on
arrival at the Lord Warden Hotel, at Dover:
English mutton and an English fire were likely to be appreciated by
creatures who had had eight months of Germany, with its questionable
meat and its stove-heated rooms. The taste and quietude of a
first-rate English hotel were also in striking contrast with the heavy
finery, the noise, and the indiscriminate smoking of German inns. But,
after all, Germany is no bad place to live in; and the Germans, to
counterbalance their want of taste and politeness, are at least free
from the bigotry of exclusiveness of their more refined cousins. I
even long to be among them again--to see Dresden and Munich and
Nürnberg and the Rhine country. May the day soon come!
_SUMMARY._
JULY, 1854, TO MARCH, 1855.
Leaves London with Mr. Lewes for Antwerp--Rubens's
pictures--Cologne--Dr. Brabant and
Strauss--Weimar--Schöll--The Dichter
Zimmer--Sauppe--Tiefurt--Ettersburg--Arthur Helps--Gabel-Bach
and Kickel-hahn--Liszt--Wagner's operas--"Der
Freischütz"--Schiller's house--Goethe's
house--Gartenhaus--Ober Weimar--The Webicht--Marquis de
Ferrière--Liszt anecdotes--Cornelius--Raff--Princess
Wittgenstein--Liszt's playing--Scheffer's picture--Expenses
at Weimar--Leave for Berlin--Meet
Varnhagen--Thiergarten--Acquaintances in Berlin--Fräulein
Solmar--Professor Gruppe--Epic of Firdusi--Waagen--Edward
Magnus--Professor Stahr and Fanny Lewald--Rauch the
sculptor--Kant's statue--Dessoir the actor--"Nathan der
Weise"--Döring's acting--Johanna Wagner--Letter to Miss
Hennell--"Fidelio"--Reading Stahr's "Torso"--Likeness of
Schiller--Vivier--Roger and Arabella Goddard--The
Rosse-bändiger--Pictures--Cold in Berlin--View of Schloss
from bridge--Leave Berlin for England--Books read--Article
written on "Madame de Sablé"--Translation of Spinoza's
"Ethics"--Article on Vehse's "Court of Austria"--Article on
Stahr.
FOOTNOTES:
[45] A wretched forehead.
[46] First line of Schiller's "Song of the Bell."
[47] "Gentlemen, do you know the story of the man who railed at the
sun because it would not light his cigar?"
[48] Goose-neck.