knows its divine origin. I have not lost myself. I shall remain
faithful to virtue, and though mistaken by the world, I carry with me
across the sea the esteem which innocent souls feel for themselves. I
have only been compelled to forsake that which was not my own, and what
I suffer is but the pain of a body which hitherto has not been
accustomed to deny itself.”
Thus my mind, after one year had passed, obtained the victory; thus did
I live the greater part of my life, joyless, and in solitude. I have
grown old in misfortune, and have never again heard any thing of those
who once loved me. The only cheerful feelings I have had were when, in
my leisure hours, I could write down my thoughts, and look back with
tears on the long passed paradise of my youth. Often during the
monotonous sound of the oars, grief recalled to my mind the visions of
the happy past. Then it seemed as if Clementine floated on the waves
of the sea, and encouraged me with her smiles, like an angel of
consolation. I gazed with moistened eyes at the beloved vision, and
felt all the wounds of my heart again opened. Still I despaired not,
but rowed cheerfully on.
I should sometimes have taken all the felicities of my youth as the
effect of imagination, had not the melancholy farewell letter which
Madame Bertollon had written from the convent, by some chance remained
with me. I preserved it with veneration, as the last sacred remnant of
what I formerly possessed. I often read it in distant seas, and on the
burning coasts of Africa; and I always drew from it unspeakable
consolation, and rowed cheerfully onwards, nearer and nearer to the end
of my life.
Thus nine-and-twenty years have now elapsed. What are they?
Death, my ardently wished for friend comes to release me. Ah! sir, you
have shown much compassion for me in making the last hours of my life
so sweet. Our minds are congenial, and will, perhaps, meet again.
* * * * *
[The preceding narrative, according to the author, is related to some
friends by the Abbé Dillon, who was with Alamontade the last days of
his life, after his liberation from the galleys.
Shortly before his death, Alamontade learns that Clementine is still
living, and is much delighted to hear that she has remained faithfully
attached to him. His only wish and consolation now is, that his days
may be prolonged till she arrives; but she does not come till the day
after his death; aged and infirm herself, she soon follows him to the
grave.
The whole of Alamontade is divided into two books in the original, the
first containing Zschokhe’s[3] views on religion and moral philosophy.
The following are the author’s prefatory remarks:
“The following narrative was composed during the winter of 1801-2, at
Berne, where the author having retired from public affairs, wished to
devote his leisure hours to some useful purpose, having, by frequent
intercourse become acquainted with many of those diseased minds who,
being entangled in doubts, have lost their God and the joys of life.
He therefore was desirous of making an attempt to raise again in them a
holy faith and courage for virtue. He was inspired by the affecting
dream of one night; it was an angelic but transient vision, which he in
vain endeavoured to hold fast. However imperfect the original
narrative was, yet it went through four editions during the first ten
years after its appearance. This circumstance makes the author believe
that he has not altogether failed in his object.”]
C. A. F.
[1] One of the most lovely walks near Montpellier.
[2] The Calvinists in Nismes had, in the night after Michaelmas day,
1567, murdered in their fanatic rage, about thirty magistrates, deans,
and monks. This slaughter gave rise to the word _Michelade_.
[3] It will be remembered that he is the author of _Die Stunden der
Andacht_.
THE JESUITS’ CHURCH IN G----.
BY E. T. W. HOFFMANN.
Packed up in a wretched post-chaise, which the moths had left from
instinct--as the rats left Prospero’s vessel--I at last, after a
break-neck journey, stopped half dislocated, at the inn in the G----
market-place. All the possible misfortune that might have befallen me
had lighted on my carriage, which lay, shattered, with the postmaster
at the last stage. Four skinny, jaded horses, after a lapse of many
hours, dragged up the crazy vehicle, with the help of several peasants
and my own servant; knowing folks came up, shook their heads, and
thought that a thorough repair, which might occupy two, or even three
days would be necessary. The place seemed to me agreeable, the country
pretty, and yet I felt not a little horror-struck at the delay with
which I was threatened. If, gentle reader, you were ever compelled to
stop three days in a little town, where you did not know a soul, but
were forced to remain a stranger to every body, and if some deep pain
did not destroy the inclination for social converse, you will be able
to appreciate my annoyance. In words alone does the spirit of life
manifest itself in all around us; but the inhabitants of your small
towns are like a secluded orchestra, which has worked into its own way
of playing and singing by hard practice, so that the tone of the
foreigner is discordant to their ears, and at once puts them to
silence. I was walking up and down my room, in a thorough ill-humour,
when it at once struck me that a friend at home, who had once passed
two years at G----, had often spoken of a learned, clever man, with
whom he had been intimate. His name, I recollected, was Aloysius
Walter, professor at the Jesuits’ college. I now resolved to set out,
and turn my friend’s acquaintance to my own advantage. They told me at
the college that Professor Walter was lecturing, but would soon have
finished, and as they gave me the choice of calling again or waiting in
the outer rooms, I chose the latter. The cloisters, colleges, and
churches of the Jesuits are everywhere built in that Italian style
which, based upon the antique form and manner, prefers splendour and
elegance to holy solemnity and religious dignity. In this case the
lofty, light, airy halls were adorned with rich architecture and the
images of saints, which were here placed against the walls, between
Ionic pillars, were singularly contrasted by the carving over the
doorways, which invariably represented a dance of genii, or fruit and
the dainties of the kitchen.
The professor entered--I reminded him of my friend, and claimed his
hospitality for the period of my forced sojourn in the place. I found
him just as my friend had described him; clear in his discourse,
acquainted with the world, in short, quite in the style of the higher
class priest, who has been scientifically educated, and peeping over
his breviary into life, has often sought to know what is going on
there. When I found his room furnished with modern elegance, I
returned to my former reflections in the halls, and uttered them to the
professor aloud.
“You are right,” said he, “we have banished from our edifices that
gloomy solemnity, that strange majesty of the crushing tyrant, who
oppresses our bosoms in Gothic architecture, and causes a certain
unpleasant sensation, and we have very properly endowed our works with
the lively cheerfulness of the ancients.”
“But,” said I, “does not that sacred dignity, that lofty majesty of
Gothic architecture which seems, as it were, striving after Heaven,
proceed from the true spirit of Christianity, which, supersensual
itself, is directly opposed to that sensual spirit of the antique world
which remains in the circle of the earthly?”
The professor smiled: “The higher kingdom,” said he, “should be
recognised in this world, and this recognition can be awakened by
cheerful symbols, such as life--nay, the spirit which descends from
that kingdom into earthly life--presents. Our home is above, but while
we dwell here, our kingdom is of this world also.”
“Ay,” thought I, “in every thing that you have done you have indeed
shown that your kingdom is of this world--nay, of this world only;” but
I did not communicate my thoughts to Professor Aloysius Walter, who
proceeded thus:
“What you say of the magnificence of our buildings in this place can
only refer properly to the pleasant appearance of the form. Here,
where we cannot afford marble, and great masters in painting will not
work for us, we are--in conformity with the modern fashion--obliged to
make use of substitutes. If we get as high as polished plaster we have
done a great deal, and our different kinds of marble are often nothing
more than the work of the painter. This is the case in our church,
which, thanks to the liberality of our patrons, has been newly
decorated.”
I expressed a desire to see the church; the professor led me down, and
when I entered the Corinthian colonnade, which formed the nave of the
church, I felt the pleasing--too pleasing impression of the graceful
proportions. To the left of the principal altar a lofty scaffolding
had been erected, upon which a man stood, who was painting over the
walls in the antique style.
“Now! how are you going on, Berthold?” cried the professor.
The painter turned round to us, but immediately proceeded with his
work, saying in an indistinct, and almost inaudible voice: “Great deal
of trouble--crooked, confused stuff--no rule to make use
of--beasts--apes--human faces--human faces--miserable fool that I am!”
These last words he cried aloud in a voice, that nothing but the
deepest agony working in the soul could produce. I felt strangely
affected;--these words, the expression of face, the glance which he had
previously cast at the professor, brought before my eyes the whole
struggling life of an unfortunate artist. The man could have been
scarcely more than forty years old; his form, though disfigured by the
unseemly, dirty costume of a painter, had something in it indescribably
noble, and deep grief could only discolour his face, but could not
extinguish the fire that sparkled in his black eyes. I asked the
professor for particulars respecting this painter: “He is a foreign
artist,” was the reply, “who came here just at the time when the repair
of the church had been resolved upon. He undertook the work we offered
him with pleasure, and indeed his arrival was for us a stroke of good
fortune, since neither here, nor for a great distance round, could we
find a painter so admirably fitted for all that we require. Besides,
he is the most good-natured creature in the world, and we all love him
heartily; for that reason he got on well in our college. Beside giving
him a considerable salary for his work, we board him, which, by the
way, does not entail a very heavy burden upon us, for he is abstemious
almost to excess, though perhaps it may accord with the weakness of his
constitution.
“But,” said I, “he seemed to-day so peevish--so irritable.”
“That,” replied the professor, “is owing to a particular cause. But
let us look at some fine pictures on the side altars, which by a lucky
chance we obtained some time ago. There is only a single original--a
Dominichino--among them, the rest are by unknown masters of the Italian
school; but if you are free from prejudice, you will be forced to
confess that every one of them might bear the most celebrated name.”
I found it was exactly as the professor had said. Strangely enough,
the only original was one of the weakest--if not the very, weakest of
the collection, while the beauty of many of the anonymous pictures had
for me an irresistible charm. The picture on one of the altars was
covered up, and I asked the cause of this: “This picture,” said the
professor, “is the finest that we possess,--it is the work of a young
artist of modern times--certainly his last, for his flight is checked.
At this time we are obliged, for certain reasons, to cover it up, but
to-morrow, or the day after, I shall perhaps be in a condition to show
it you.”
I wished to make further inquiries, but the professor hurried swiftly
through the passage, and that was enough to show his unwillingness to
answer more. We went back to the college, and I readily accepted the
invitation of the professor, who wished me, in the afternoon, to go
with him to some public gardens in the neighbourhood. We returned home
late, a storm had risen, and I had scarcely reached my dwelling than
the rain began to pour down. About midnight the sky cleared up, and
the thunder only murmured in the distance. Through the open windows
the warm air, laden with scents, entered the room, and though I was
weary I could not resist the temptation to take a walk. I succeeded in
waking the surly man-servant, who had been snoring for about two hours;
and in showing him that there was no madness in walking at midnight.
Soon I found myself in the street. When I passed the Jesuits’ church,
I was struck by the dazzling light that beamed through a window. The
little side-door was ajar, so I entered and saw a wax-taper burning
before a niche. When I had come nearer, I observed that before this
niche a pack-thread net had been spread, behind which a dark form was
running up and down the ladder, and seemed to be designing something on
the niche. It was Berthold, who was accurately tracing the shadow of
the net with black colour. On a tall easel, by the ladder, stood the
drawing of an altar. I was much struck at the ingenious contrivance.
If, gentle reader, you are in the least acquainted with the noble art
of painting, you will once know, without further explanation, the use
of the net, the shadow of which Berthold was sketching. Berthold was
about to paint a projecting altar on the niche, and that he might make
a large copy of the small drawing with due correctness, he was obliged
to put a net, in the usual manner, over both the sketch and the surface
on which the sketch was to be completed. In this instance he had to
paint not on a flat surface but on a semicircular one; and the
correspondence of the squares which the curved lines of the net formed
on the concave surface, with the straight ones of the sketch, together
with accuracy in the architectural proportions which were to be brought
forward in perspective, could not be otherwise obtained than by that
simple and ingenious contrivance. I was cautious enough not to step
before the taper, lest I might betray myself by my shadow, but I stood
near enough to his side to observe the painter closely. He appeared to
me quite another man. Perhaps it was the effect of the taper, but his
face had a good colour, his eyes sparkled with internal satisfaction,
and when he had completed the lines he placed himself before the
screen, with his hands resting on his sides, and looking at his work,
whistled a merry tune. He now turned round, and tore down the net.
Suddenly he was struck by my figure, and cried aloud:
“Halloah! halloah! is that you, Christian?”
I went up to him, explained how I had been attracted into the church,
and praising the ingenious contrivance of the net, gave him to
understand that I was but a connoisseur and practiser of the noble art
of painting. Without making me any further answer, Berthold said:
“Christian is neither more nor less than a sluggard. He was to have
kept with me faithfully through the whole night, and now he is
certainly snoring somewhere! I must get on with my work, for probably
it will be bad to paint here on the screen to-morrow--and yet I can do
nothing by myself.”
I offered my assistance, upon which he laughed aloud, laid hold of both
my shoulders, and cried:
“That is a capital joke! What will Christian say, when he finds
to-morrow that he is an ass, and that I have done without him? So,
come hither, stranger, help me to build a little.”
He lit several tapers, we ran through the church, pulled together a
number of blocks and planks, and a lofty scaffold was soon raised
within the screen.
“Now hand up quickly,” cried Berthold, as he ascended.
I was astonished at the rapidity with which Berthold made a large copy
of the drawing; he drew his lines boldly, and always clearly and
correctly, without a single fault. Having been accustomed to such
matters in my early youth, I was of good service to him, for standing,
now above him, now below him, I fixed the long rulers at the points he
indicated, and held them fast, pointed the charcoal, and handed it to
him, and so on.
“You are a capital assistant,” cried Berthold, quite delighted.
“And you,” I retorted, “are one of the best architectural painters
possible. But tell me, have you applied your bold, ready hand to no
sort of painting but this?--Pardon the question.”
“What do you mean?” said Berthold.
“Why, I mean,” replied I, “that you are fit for something better than
painting church walls with marble pillars. Architectural painting is,
after all, something subordinate; the historical painter, the landscape
painter, stands infinitely higher. With them, mind and fancy, no
longer confined to the narrow limits of geometrical lines, take a
higher flight. Even the only fantastic part of your painting, that
perspective, which deceives the senses, depends upon accurate
calculation, and the result therefore is the product not of genius, but
of mathematical speculation.” While I was speaking thus, the painter
laid aside his pencil, and rested his head on his hand.
“Friend stranger,” he began, in a solemn, indistinct voice, “thou
speakest profanely, when thou endeavourest to arrange the different
branches of art according to rank, like the vassals of some proud king.
And still more profane is it, when thou only esteemest those
presumptuous fools who, being deaf to the clang of the fetters that
enslave them, and being without feeling for the pressure of the earthy,
wish to think themselves free--yea, even to be gods--and to rule light
and life after their own fashion. Dost thou know the fable of
Prometheus, who wished to be a creator, and stole fire from heaven to
animate his lifeless figures? He succeeded; the forms stalked living
along, and from their eyes beamed forth that heavenly fire that burned
within them; but the impious being, who had dared to attempt the
divine, was condemned to fearful, endless torment, without redemption.
The heart which had felt the divine, in which the desire after the
unearthly had awakened, was torn by the vulture, to which revenge had
given birth, and which now fed upon the vitals of the presumptuous one.
He who has attempted the heavenly, feels earthly pain for ever.”
The painter stood absorbed in his own reflections.
“Berthold,” I exclaimed, “what has all this to do with your art? I do
not think that any one can deem it presumption to present the human
form, either by painting or sculpture.”
“Um, ha,” laughed Berthold, in wild derision; “child’s play is no
presumption. It is all child’s play with those folks, who comfortably
dip their pencils into colour-pots, and daub a canvass with the
veritable desire of producing human beings; but it always turns out as
if some drudge of nature had undertaken to make men, as it stands in
that tragedy, and had failed. Such as those are no presumptuous
sinners, but poor innocent fools. But if one strives to attain the
highest, not the mere sensual, like Titian--no, the highest in divine
nature, the Promethean spark in man--that is a precipice--a narrow edge
on which we stand--the abyss is open! The bold sailor soars above him,
and a devilish deceit lets him perceive _that_ below, which he wished
to see above the stars.” The painter uttered a deep sigh, passed his
hand over his forehead, and then looked upwards. “But why do I talk
all this mad stuff to you, comrade, and leave off painting? Look here,
mate, this is what I call well and honestly drawn. How noble is the
rule! All the lines combine to a determined end--a determined, clearly
conceived effect. Only that which is done by measure is purely
human;--what is beyond, is of evil. Can we not conceive that the Deity
has expressly created us, to manage for his own good purpose that which
is exhibited according to measured, appreciable rules;--in a word, the
purely commeasurable, just as we, in our turn build saw-mills and
spinning-machines, as the mechanical superintendents of our wants?
Professor Walter lately maintained, that certain beasts were merely
created to be eaten by others, and that this in the end, conduced to
our own utility. Thus, for example, cats, he said, had an innate
propensity to devour mice, that they might not nibble the sugar placed
ready for our breakfast. And the professor was right in the
end;--animals, and we ourselves are but well-ordered machines, made to
work up and knead certain materials for the table of the unknown
king.--Come, come, mate, hand me up the pots. I prepared all the tones
yesterday by daylight, that this candlelight might not deceive us, and
they all stand numbered in yonder corner. Hand me up No. 1, young
friend. Gray with gray!--What would dry, weary life be, if the Lord of
Heaven had not put so many motley playthings into our hands. He who
demeans himself well does not, like the curious boy, try to break the
box from which the music comes when he turns the handle. It is just
natural, they say, that it sounds inside, for I turn the handle.
Because I have drawn this intellective correctly according to the point
of view, I know that it will have the effect of actual sculpture on the
spectator.--Now, boy, reach me No. 2, now I paint in colours that are
toned down according to rule, and it appears receding five yards. All
that I know well enough--oh, we are amazingly clever! How is it that
objects diminish in the distance? This one stupid question of a
Chinese could put to confusion Professor Eytelwein himself; but he
could help himself out with the music-box, and say he had often turned
the handle, and always experienced the same result.--Violet, No. 2,
youngster! Another rule, and a thick washed-out brush! Ah, what is
all our striving and struggling after the higher, but the helpless,
unconscious act of an infant who hurts the nurse that feeds him.
Violet, No. 2! Quick, young man! The ideal is an evil, lying dream,
produced by fermented blood. Take away the pot, young man, I am coming
down. The devil lures us with puppets, to which he glues angel’s
wings.”
I am unable to repeat literally, what Berthold said, while he went on
painting rapidly, and treated me only as his fag. He went on in the
tone in which he had begun, scoffing at the limited nature of every
human effort. Ah, I was inspecting the depth of a mind that had
received its death-wound, and that only uttered its complaints in
bitter irony. Morning dawned, and the glimmer of the taper grew pale
before the entrance of sunlight. Berthold painted on zealously, but he
became more and more silent, and only single sounds--ultimately, only
sighs--escaped his burdened breast. He had planned the entire altar
with all its gradation of colour, and even now the picture stood out
quite prominently.
“Admirable! admirable!” I cried out with delight.
“Do you think,” said Berthold, faintly, “that I shall make something of
it? I at least took great pains to make my drawing correct, but now I
can do no more.”
“No, no, not a stroke more, dear Berthold,” I exclaimed, “it is almost
incredible how you have made so much progress in such a work within a
few hours. But you exert yourself too much, and are quite lavish of
your power.”
“And yet,” said Berthold, “these are my happiest hours. Perhaps I
talked too much, but it is only in words that the pain which consumes
my vitals finds a vent.”
“You seem to feel very unhappy, my poor friend,” said I, “some
frightful event has had an evil influence on your life.”
The painter slowly took his materials into the chapel, extinguished the
lights, and coming up to me, seized my hand, and said, in a faltering
voice, “Could you be cheerful, nay, could you have one quiet moment, if
you were conscious of a fearful, irreparable crime?”
I stood perfectly amazed. The bright sunbeams fell on the painter’s
pallid, agitated countenance, and he almost looked like a spectre as he
staggered through the little door into the interior of the college.