Walter had appointed to see me. I told him the whole affair of the
previous night, which had excited me not a little; I described in the
most lively colours the strange conduct of the painter, and did not
suppress a word that he had uttered--not even those, which related to
himself. But the more I hoped for the professor’s sympathy, the more
indifferent he appeared; nay, he smiled upon me in a most unpleasant
manner when I continued to talk of Berthold, and pressed him to tell me
all he knew about this unfortunate man.
“He is a strange creature that painter,” said the professor, “mild,
good-tempered, sober, industrious, as I told you before, but weak in
his intellect. If he had been otherwise he would never have descended,
even though he did commit a crime, from a great historical painter, to
a poor dauber of walls.”
This expression, “dauber of walls,” annoyed me as much as the
professor’s general indifference. I tried to convince him that
Berthold was even now a most estimable artist, and deserving of the
highest, the most active sympathy.
“Well,” said the professor at last, “since you take so much interest in
Berthold you shall hear all that I know of him, and that is not a
little. By way of introduction we will go into the church at once. As
Berthold has worked hard throughout the night he will rest during the
forenoon. If we found him in the church my design would fail.”
We went to the church, the professor had the cloth removed from the
covered picture, and a work of the most magical splendour, such as I
had never seen, was revealed to me. The composition was in the style
of Raffaelle, simple and of heavenly sublimity. Mary and Elizabeth
were sitting on the grass in a beautiful garden; the children, Jesus
and John, were before them, playing with flowers, and in the background
towards the side, a male figure was praying. Mary’s lovely, heavenly
face, the dignity and elevation of her entire figure, filled me with
astonishment and the deepest admiration. She was beautiful, more
beautiful than an earthly woman, and her glance indicated the higher
power of the mother of God, like that of Raffaelle’s Mary in the
Dresden Gallery. Ah! was not the deepest thirst for eternity awakened
perforce in the human heart, by those wondrous eyes round which a deep
shadow was floating? Did not those soft, half-opened lips speak in
consolatory language, as in the sweet melody of angels, of the infinite
happiness of heaven? An indescribable feeling impelled me to cast
myself down in the dust before her, the Queen of Heaven. I had lost
the power of speech, and could not turn my eyes from the incomparable
figure. Only Mary and the children were quite finished; the last touch
had not, apparently, been given to the figure of Elizabeth, and the
praying man was not yet painted over. Approaching nearer, I perceived
in this man the features of Berthold, and already anticipated in my
mind what the professor presently said: “This picture is Berthold’s
last work. We got it several years ago from N----, in Upper Silesia,
where one of our colleagues bought it at an auction. Although
unfinished, we had it fitted in here, in the place of the wretched
altar-piece which we had formerly. When Berthold first came and saw
the picture, he uttered a loud shriek and fell senseless to the ground.
Afterwards he carefully avoided looking at it, and told me in
confidence that it was his last work of this class. I hoped that I
should gradually persuade him to finish it, but every proposal of the
sort he rejected with the utmost abhorrence, and to keep him in good
spirits, and in the full possession of his powers, I was forced to
cover up the picture so long as he remained in the church. If it met
his eye only by accident, he ran as if impelled by some irresistible
power, cast himself sobbing on the ground, a paroxysm seized him, and
he was for many days quite unfit for work.”
“Poor unfortunate man!” exclaimed I, “how did the hand of the devil
take such a deadly hold of thy life?”
“Oh!” cried the professor, “the hand as well as the arm grew in his own
body: he was his own demon, his own Lucifer, flashing the infernal
torch upon his own life. That is plain enough to those who know his
biography.”
I entreated the professor at once to tell me all that he knew about the
life of the unfortunate painter.
“That would be much too prolix, and cost too much breath,” replied the
professor. “Do not let us spoil the cheerful day by such gloomy stuff.
We will take breakfast and then go to the mill, where an excellent
dinner awaits us.”
I did not desist from my requests to the professor, and after much talk
on both sides, it came out that, immediately after Berthold’s arrival,
a youth who was studying at the college, devotedly attached himself to
him, and that Berthold, by degrees, communicated the particulars of his
life to this youth, who had carefully written them down, and had given
the manuscript to the professor.
“He was,” said the professor, “much such an enthusiast as--pardon
me--you are! But this work of writing down the strange events in the
painter’s life served him as a capital exercise for style.”
With much trouble I obtained from the professor a promise that he would
lend me the manuscript after the close of our pleasure-party. Whether
it proceeded from my own violent curiosity, or whether it was the
professor’s fault, I never felt more uneasy than during this day. The
icy coldness of the professor when speaking of Berthold had been
repulsive to me, but his conversation with his colleagues who
participated in the repast, convinced me, that in spite of all his
learning, and all his knowledge of the world, he had no sense for the
sublime, and was as gross a materialist as possible. The system of
consuming and being consumed, as Berthold called it, he had actually
adopted. All mental endeavours, all the powers of creation and
invention, he deduced from certain states of the stomach and the
entrails, uttering on this subject all sorts of monstrous conceits.
Thus, for instance, he very seriously maintained that every thought
proceeded from the marriage of two fibres in the human brain. I
perceived how the professor, with all this absurd stuff, must torment
poor Berthold, who, in the irony of despair, attacked the notion of any
favourable influence from a higher region, and how he must plunge
pointed daggers into wounds still fresh and bleeding. The evening at
last came, and the professor put a few sheets of manuscript into my
hand, with the words: “There, my dear enthusiast, is the student’s
handy work. It is not badly written but very odd, and the author,
against all rule, thrusts in discourses of the painter, word for word,
without any notice to the reader. I will make you a present of the
work, of which I have a right to dispose by virtue of my office, for I
know perfectly well that you are no writer. The author of the
“Fantasie-Stücke in Callot’s Manier,”[1] (fancy pieces in the style of
Callot) would have cut it according to his own mad fashion, and would
have printed it at once. I have nothing of the sort to expect from
you.”
Professor Aloysius Walter did not know that he really stood before the
“travelling enthusiast,” although he might have found it out, and thus,
gentle reader, I am enabled to give you the Jesuit-student’s short
history of the painter, Berthold. It thoroughly explains the manner in
which he conducted himself in my presence, and thou, reader, wilt be
able to see how the strange spirit of destiny often plunges us into
destructive error.
* * * * *
“‘Only let your son make up his mind and go to Italy. He is already a
clever artist, and here at D---- there is no lack of opportunity for
studying after excellent originals in every class, but here he must not
stay. The free life of an artist must dawn upon him in the cheerful
land of art, his studies will there first take a living form, and
produce individual thoughts. Mere copying is now of no further use to
him. The growing plant requires more sun to thrive and bring forth its
blossoms and fruit. Your son has a really artistical temperament, so
you may be perfectly satisfied about all the rest!’ Thus said the old
painter, Stephan Birkner, to Berthold’s parents. The latter scraped
together all that their slender means would allow to fit out the youth
for his long journey, and thus was Berthold’s warmest wish--that of
travelling to Italy--accomplished.
“‘When Birkner told me the decision of my parents, I literally jumped
for joy. I wandered about as in a dream till the time of my departure.
I was not able to make a single stroke with my pencil in the gallery.
I made the inspector, and all the artists who had been to Italy, tell
me of the land where art flourishes. The day and hour at length
arrived. The parting from my parents was painful, as they felt a
gloomy presentiment that they should not see me again. Even my father,
generally a firm, resolute man, had difficulty in containing his
feelings. ‘Italy! you will see Italy!’ cried my brother artists, and
then my wish shone forth with greater power, from my deep melancholy,
and I stepped boldly forth, for the path of an artist seemed to begin
even at my parents’ door.’
“Berthold had studied every department of painting, but he had
especially devoted himself to landscapes, at which he worked with
ardent love and zeal. In Rome he expected to find abundant nurture for
this branch of art, but it proved otherwise. The very circle of
artists and _dilettanti_ in which he moved, continually told him that
the historical painter alone stood on the highest point, and that all
the rest were but subordinate. He was advised, if he wished to become
an artist of eminence, to abandon at once the department he had chosen,
and to devote himself to the higher branch; and this advice, coupled
with the novel impression which Raffaelle’s mighty frescoes in the
Vatican had made upon him, determined him to give up landscape painting
altogether. He sketched after the Raffaelles, and he copied small oil
paintings by other celebrated masters. All these things were very
cleverly done by his practised hand; but he plainly felt that the
praise of the artists and _dilettanti_ should only solace him, and
encourage him to further efforts. He himself saw that his sketches and
copies wanted all the fire of the originals. Raffaelle’s and
Correggio’s heavenly thoughts--so he thought--inspired him to creations
of his own, but he wished to hold them fast in his fancy, they vanished
as in a mist, and all that he sketched was like every obscure, confused
thought, without motion and significance. During his vain endeavours
deep melancholy took possession of his soul, and he often escaped from
his friends, privately to sketch and paint in the vicinity of Rome,
groups of trees--single pieces of landscape. But even these attempts
were less successful than formerly; and, for the first time in his
life, he doubted the truth of his calling as an artist. His proudest
hopes seemed on the point of vanishing. ‘Ah, my revered friend and
instructor,’ wrote Berthold to Birkner, ‘you gave me credit for great
things; but here, when a light should have risen in my soul, I have
learned that that which you termed real artistical genius was nothing
but a sort of _talent_--mere dexterity of hand. Tell my parents that I
shall soon return, and learn some trade that I may get my living,’ &c.
Birkner wrote back: ‘Oh! would I could be with you, my son, to support
you in your depression. It is your very doubts that prove your calling
as an artist. He who with steady immoveable confidence in his powers
believes that he will always progress, is a blind fool, who only
deceives himself, for he wants the proper spur to endeavour, which only
consists in the thought of deficiency. Persevere and you will soon
gain strength; and then, no longer fettered by the opinion or the
advice of friends, who are, perhaps, unable to appreciate you, you will
quietly pursue the path which your own nature has designed for you. It
will then be left to your own decision whether you become a painter of
landscapes or historical pieces, and you will cease to think of a
hostile separation of the branches of one trunk.’
“It happened that about the time when Berthold received this letter of
consolation from his old friend and instructor, Philip Hackert’s fame
became widely extended in Rome. Some of the paintings which he had
exhibited, and which were distinguished by wonderful grace and
clearness, proved the real genius of the artist, and even the
historical painters admitted that there was much greatness and
excellence in this pure imitation of nature. Berthold breathed again;
he no more heard his favourite art treated with contempt, he saw a man
who pursued it honoured and elevated, and, as it were, a spark fell on
his soul that he must travel to Naples and study under Hackert. In
high spirits he wrote to Birkner, and his parents, that he had now,
after a hard struggle, discovered the right way, and hoped to become a
clever artist in his own style. The honest German, Hackert, received
his German pupil with great kindness, and the latter soon made great
efforts to follow his master. Berthold attained great facility in
giving faithful representations of the different kinds of trees and
shrubs, and was not a little successful in those misty effects, which
are to be found in Hackert’s pictures. He thus gained great praise,
but it seemed to him as if something was wanting both in his own and
his master’s landscapes;--something to which he could not give a name,
and which was nevertheless plainly apparent in the pictures by Claude
Lorraine, and the wild landscapes of Salvator Rosa. Soon he felt a
want of confidence in his instructor, and he felt particularly
dispirited when Hackert, with unwearied exertion, painted some dead
game which the king had sent him. Soon, however, he conquered such
presumptuous thoughts--as he considered them--and went on with virtuous
resignation and true German industry, following the pattern of his
master, so that in a short time he could nearly equal him. At
Hackert’s own suggestion he sent a large landscape, which he had
faithfully copied from nature, to an exhibition, which was chiefly to
consist of landscapes and pieces of still-life in the Hackert style.
All the artists and connoisseurs admired the young man’s faithful,
neatly executed works, and praised him aloud. There was only an
elderly strangely-attired man who did not say a word about Hackert’s
pictures, but smiled, significantly, whenever the multitude broke out
into extravagant praises. Berthold perceived plainly enough that this
stranger, when he stood before his landscape, shook his head with an
air of the deepest pity, and was then about to retire. Being somewhat
elevated by the general praise which he had received, Berthold could
not help feeling indignant with the stranger. He went up to him, and
speaking more sharply than was necessary, said: ‘You do not seem
satisfied with the picture, sir, although I must say there are
excellent artists and connoisseurs who do not think it so bad. Pray
tell me where the fault lies that I may improve the picture according
to your kind suggestion.’ The stranger cast a keen glance at Berthold,
and said, very seriously: ‘Young man, a great deal might be made out of
you.’ Berthold felt deeply horrified at the glance and words of this
man; he had not courage to say any thing more, or to follow him, when
he slowly stalked out of the saloon. Hackert soon came in himself, and
Berthold hastened to tell him of his meeting with this strange man.
‘Ha!’ said Hackert, smiling, ‘do not take that to heart. That is a
crabbed old man, who grumbles at every thing, and is pleased at
nothing; I met him in the ante-room. He was born of Greek parents, in
Malta, and is a rich, queer old fellow, and no bad painter. All that
he does has a fantastic appearance, and this proceeds from the absurd
notion he has about art, and from the fact that he has constructed a
system which is utterly worthless. I know well enough that he has no
opinion of me, which I readily pardon in him, since he cannot throw any
doubt on my honourably acquired fame.’ Berthold had felt as if the
Maltese had touched a sore place in his soul, like a beneficent
physician, only for the purpose of probing it and healing it; but he
soon drove this notion from his mind, and worked on happily as he had
done before.
“The success of this large picture, which was universally admired, gave
him courage to begin a companion to it. Hackert himself selected one
of the most lovely spots in the gorgeous vicinity of Naples; and, as
the first picture had represented sunset, this landscape was to show
the effect of sunrise. He had a number of strange trees, a number of
vineyards, and, above all, a good deal of mist to paint.
“Berthold was sitting on a large flat stone, in this very spot,
completing the sketch of the great picture after nature. ‘Bravo--well
done!’ said a voice near him. He looked up. The Maltese was viewing
his work, and added, with a sarcastic smile, ‘You have only forgotten
one thing, my dear young friend. Only look yonder, at the wall of the
distant vineyard; the one covered with green tendrils. The door is
half-open, don’t you see? You must represent that with its proper
shading. The half-open door makes a surprising effect!’
“‘You are joking, sir,’ exclaimed Berthold, ‘and without reason. Such
accidental circumstances are by no means so contemptible as you
imagine, and for that very reason my master loves to employ them. Only
recollect the suspended white cloth in the landscape of one of the
Dutch painters, that could not be omitted without marring the general
effect. You, however, seem to be no friend to landscape painting in
general; and, as I have given myself up to it with heart and soul, I
beg of you to let me go on working in quiet.’
“‘You are much mistaken, young man,’ said the Maltese. ‘I tell you
again that a good deal might be made of you, for your works visibly
prove an unwearied endeavour to attain the highest; but that,
unfortunately, you will never attain, since the path that you have
taken does not lead to it. Only mark what I tell you. Perhaps I may
succeed in kindling that flame in your soul, which you, senseless as
you are, are endeavouring to smother, and in making it flash up
brightly, so as to enlighten you. Then you will be able to recognise
the real spirit that animates you. Do you think I am so foolish as to
place the landscape lower in rank than the historical painting, and
that I do not recognise the common goal after which the painters of
both classes should strive? The apprehension of nature in the deepest
import of that higher sense, which kindles all beings to a higher life,
that is the sacred end of all art. Can the mere dim copying of nature
lead to this? How poor, how stiff and forced, is the appearance of a
manuscript copied from another in some foreign language, which the
copyist does not understand, and is, therefore, unable to give the
strokes, which he laboriously imitates, their proper significance.
Thus your master’s landscapes are correct copies of an original author
in a language which is strange to him. The initiated artist hears the
voice of nature, which from trees, hedges, flowers, mountains, and
waters, speaks to him, and of unfathomable mysteries in wondrous
sounds, which form themselves in his bosom to a pious feeling of
foreboding; then, as a divine spirit, the talent itself of transferring
this dim feeling to his works, descends upon him. Have not you
yourself, young man, felt strangely affected when looking at the
landscapes of the old masters? Assuredly you did not think whether the
leaves of the lime trees, the pines, the plane trees, might be truer to
nature, whether the back ground might be more misty, or the water might
be clearer; but the spirit that breathes from the whole raised you into
a higher region, the reflection of which you seemed to behold.
Therefore, study nature in the mechanical part, sedulously and
carefully, that you may attain the practice of representation; but do
not take the practice for the art itself. If you have penetrated into
the deep import of nature, her pictures will arise within you in bright
magnificence.’ The Maltese was silent; but when Berthold, deeply moved
by what he had heard, stood with downcast eyes, and incapable of
uttering a word, the Maltese left him, saying, ‘I had no intention of
interrupting you in your calling, but I know that a higher spirit is
slumbering in you. I called upon it, with strong words, that it might
awake, and move its wings with freshness and vigour. Farewell.’
“Berthold felt as if the Maltese had only clothed in words that which
had already been fermenting in his soul. The inner voice broke forth.
‘No! All this striving, this constant endeavour, is but the uncertain,
deceptive groping of the blind. Away with all that has hitherto
dazzled me.’ He was not in a condition to accomplish a single other
stroke. He left his master, and wandered about full of wild
uneasiness, loudly imploring that the high knowledge of which the
Maltese had spoken might be revealed to him.
“‘Only in sweet dreams was I happy--yes, truly blessed! Then every
thing that the Maltese had spoken became true. I lay in the green
hedge, while magical exhalations played around me, and the voice of
nature sounded audibly and melodiously through the dark forest.
‘Listen, listen, oh! thou initiated one. Hear the original tones of
creation, which fashion themselves to beings accessible to thy mind.’
And when I heard the chords sound plainer and plainer, I felt as though
a new sense was awakened in me, and apprehended with wonderful
perspicuity, that which had appeared unfathomable. As if in strange
hieroglyphics I drew in the air the secrets that had been revealed to
me with characters of fire; and this hieroglyphic writing was a strange
landscape, upon which trees, hedges, flowers, and waters moved, as it
seemed, in loud delightful sounds.’
“But it was only in dreams that poor Berthold felt real happiness, for
his strength was broken, and his mind was more disturbed than it had
been in Rome, when he wished to be an historical painter. If he strode
through the dark wood, an unpleasant sensation of awe came over him; if
he went out and looked into the distant mountains, he felt as though
icy cold claws grasped his heart--his breath was stopped--and he felt
as if he perished from internal anguish. All nature, which used to
smile kindly upon him, became a threatening monster, and her voice,
which used to greet him sweetly in the murmuring of the evening breeze,
in the bubbling of the brook, in the rustling of the leaves, now told
him of nothing but perdition. At last, however, the more these lively
dreams consoled him, the calmer he became; nevertheless, he avoided
being alone in the open air, and hence he associated himself with a
couple of cheerful German painters, and took with them many a trip to
the loveliest spots of Naples.