=Kunstverein=, or "Society of Arts." A similar institution of amateurs
and artists, maintained by subscription, exists, I believe, in all the
principal cities of Germany. The young artists exhibit their works here,
whether pictures, models, or engravings. Some of these are removed and
replaced by others almost every day, so that there is a constant variety.
As yet, however, I have seen no _very_ striking, though many pleasing
pictures; but I have added several names to my list of German
artists.[11] To-day at the Kunstverein, there was a series of small
pictures framed together, the subjects from Victor Hugo's romance of
Notre Dame. These attracted general attention, partly as the work of
a stranger, partly from their own merit, and the popularity of Victor
Hugo. The painter, M. Couder, is a young Frenchman, now on his return
from Italy to Paris. I understand that he has obtained leave to paint
one of the frescos in the Pinakothek, as a trial of skill. Of the
designs from Notre Dame, the central and largest picture is the scene in
the garret between Phoebus and Esmeralda, when the former is stabbed
by the priest Frollo: one can hardly imagine a more admirable subject
for painting, if properly treated; but this is a failure in effect and
in character. It fails in effect because the light is too generally
diffused:--it is day-light, not lamp-light. The monk ought to have been
thrown completely into shadow, only _just_ visible, terribly, mysteriously
visible, to the spectator. It fails in character because the figure of
Esmeralda, instead of the elegant, fragile, almost etherial creature she
is described, rather reminds us of a coarse Italian contadina; and, for
the expression--a truly poetical painter would have averted the face,
and thrown the whole expression into the attitude. It will hardly be
believed that of such a subject, the painter has made a _cold_ picture,
merely by not feeling the bounds within which he ought to have kept.
The small pictures are much better, particularly the Sachet embracing
her child, and the tumult in front of Notre Dame. There were some other
striking pictures by the same artist, particularly Chilperic and
Fredegonde strangling the young queen Galsuinde, painted with shocking
skill and truth. That taste for horrors, which is now the reigning
fashion in French art and French literature, speaks ill for French
_sensibilite_--a word they are so fond of--for that sensibility cannot
be great which requires such extravagant _stimuli_. Painters and authors,
all alike! They remind me of the sentimental negresses of queen Carathis,
in the Tale of Vathek--"qui avaient un gout particulier pour les
pestilences." Couder, however, has undoubted talent. His portrait of
De Klenze, painted since he came here, is all but _alive_.
In the evening at the theatre with M. and Mad. S----. We had Karl
von Holtei's melo-drama of Lenore, founded on Buerger's well-known
ballad;--but with the omission of the spectre, which was something like
acting Hamlet "with the part of Hamlet left out, by particular desire."
Lenore is, however, one of the prettiest and most effective of the
_petites pieces_ I have seen here--very tragical and dolorous of course.
Madlle. Schoeller acted Lenore with more feeling and power than I thought
was in her. There is a mad scene, in which she fancies her lover at her
window, calling to her, as the spectre calls in the ballad--
"Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, Leonore?"
And which was so fine as a picture, and so well acted, that it quite
thrilled me--no easy matter. Holtei is one of the first dramatists in
Germany for comedies, melo-dramas, farces, and musical pieces. In this
particular department he has no rival. He played to-night himself, being
for his own benefit, and sung his popular Mantel Lied, or _cloak-song_,
which, like his other songs, may be heard from one end of Germany to the
other.
_18th._--A grand military fete. The consecration of the great bronze
obelisk, which the king has erected in the Karoline-Platz, to the
_glory_ and the memory of the thirty-seven thousand Bavarian conscripts
who followed, or rather were dragged by, Napoleon to the fatal Russian
campaign in 1812. Of these, about six thousand returned alive: most of
them mutilated, or with diseases which shortened their existence. Of
many thousands no account ever reached home. They perished, God knows
how or where. There was, in particular, a detachment, or a battery of
six thousand Bavarians, so completely destroyed that it was as if the
earth had swallowed them, or the snows had buried them, for not one
remained to tell the tale of how or where they died. Of those who did
return, about one thousand one hundred survive, of whom four hundred
continue in the army; the rest had returned to their civil pursuits, and
had become peasants or tradesmen in different parts of the kingdom. Now,
it appears, that several hundreds of these men have arrived in Munich
within the last few days in order to be present at the ceremony: and
some, from the mere sentiment of honour, have travelled from afar--even
from Upper Bavaria and the Flemish Provinces, a distance of more than
eighty leagues, (two hundred and fifty miles.) On this occasion,
according to the arrangements previously made, the veteran soldiers who
remained in the army, were alone to be admitted within the enclosure
round the monument. The others, I believe about five hundred in number,
who had quitted the service, but who had equally fought, suffered, bled,
in the same disastrous expedition, demanded, very naturally, the same
privilege. It was refused; because forsooth they had no uniforms, and
the unseemly intrusion of drab coats and blue worsted stockings among
epaulettes and feathers and embroidered facings, would certainly spoil
the symmetry--the effect of the _coup d'oeil_! They complained,
murmured aloud, resisted; and all night there was fighting in the
streets and taverns between them and the police. This morning they went
up in a body to Marshal Wrede, (who is said to have betrayed the army,)
and were _renvoyes_. They then went up to the palace; and at last,
at a late hour this morning, the king gave orders that they should be
admitted within the circle; but it was too late--the affront had sunk
deep. The permission, which in the first instance ought indeed to
have been rather an invitation, now seemed forced, ungraceful, and
ungracious. There was a palpable cloud of discontent over all; for the
popular feeling was with them. For myself, a mere stranger, such was
my indignation, the whole proceeding appeared to me so heartless,
so unkingly, so unkind, and my sympathy with these brave men was so
profound, that I could scarce persuade myself to go;--however, I went.
I had been invited to view the ceremony from the balcony of the French
ambassador's house, which is exactly opposite to the obelisk.
I had indulged my ill-humour till it was late; already all the avenues
leading to the Karoline-Platz were occupied by the military, and my
carriage was stopped. As I was within fifty yards of the ambassador's
house, it did not much signify, and I dismissed the carriage; but they
would not allow the lacquais to pass. Wondering at all these precautions
I dismissed _him_ too. A little further on I was myself stopped, and
civilly _commanded_ to turn back. I pleaded that I only wished to enter
the house to which I pointed. "It was impossible." Now, what I had not
cared for a moment before became at once an object to be attained, and
which I was resolved to attain. I was really curious and anxious to see
how all this would end, for the indifferent or lowering looks of the
crowd had struck me. I observed to a well-dressed man, who politely
tried to make way for me, that it was strange to see so much severity of
discipline at a public fete. "Public fete!" he repeated with scornful
bitterness; "Je vous demande pardon, madame! c'est une fete pour quelques
uns, mais ce n'est pas une fete pour nous, ce n'est pas pour le peuple!"
At length I fortunately met an officer, with whom I was slightly
acquainted, who immediately conducted me to the door. The spectacle,
merely as a _spectacle_, was not striking; but to me it had a peculiar
interest. There was a raised platform on one side for the queen and her
children, who, attended by a numerous court, were spectators. An outer
circle was formed by several regiments of guards, and within this
circle the soldiers who had served in Russia were drawn up near the
obelisk, which was covered for the present with a tarpauling. But all
my attention was fixed on the disbanded soldiers without uniforms, who
stood together in a dark dense column, contrasting with the glittering
and gorgeous array of those around them. The king rode into the circle,
accompanied by his brother, Prince Charles, the arch-duke Francis of
Austria, Marshal Wrede, and followed by a troop of generals, equerries,
&c. There was a dead silence, and not a shout was raised to greet him.
A few of the disbanded soldiers, who were nearest to him, took off
their hats, others kept them on. The trumpets sounded a salute: the
bands struck up our "God save the King," which is nationalized as _the_
loyal anthem all over Germany. The canvass covering fell at once, and
displayed the obelisk, which is entirely of bronze, raised upon four
granite steps. It bears a simple inscription. I think it is "Ludwig I.,
king, to the soldiers of Bavaria who fell in the Russian campaign;" or
nearly to that purpose. Marshal Wrede then alighted from his horse and
addressed the soldiers. This was a striking moment; for while the outer
circle of military remained immovable as statues, the soldiers within,
both those with, and those without uniforms, finding themselves out of
ear-shot, advanced a few steps, and then breaking their ranks, pressed
forward in a confused mass, surrounding the king and his officers,
in the most eager but respectful manner. I could not distinguish one
sentence of the harangue, which, as I afterwards heard, was any thing
rather than satisfactory.
I heard it remarked round me that the Duke de Leuchtenberg, (the son
of Eugene Beauharnais,) was not present, neither as one of the royal
cortege nor as a spectator.
The whole lasted about twenty minutes. The day was cold; and, in truth,
the ceremony was _cold_, in every sense of the word. The Karoline-Platz
is so large that not a third part of the open space was occupied. Had
the people, who lingered sullen and discontented outside the military
barrier, been admitted under proper restrictions, it had been a grand
and imposing sight; but, perhaps the king is following the Austrian
tactics, and seeking to crush systematically every thing like feeling or
enthusiasm in his people. I know not how he will manage it; for he is
himself the very antipodes of Austrian carelessness and sluggishness:
a restless enthusiast--fond of intellectual excitement--fond of
novelty--with no natural taste, one would think, for Metternich's
_vieilleries_. If he adopt Austrian principles, his theory and his
practice, his precept and example, will always be at variance. At the
conclusion of the ceremony the king and his suite rode up to the
platform and saluted the queen: and when she--who is so universally
and truly beloved here that I believe the people would die for her at
anytime--rose to depart, I heard a cheer, the first and last this day!
The disbanded soldiers approached the platform, at first timidly by twos
and threes, and then in great numbers, taking off their hats. She stood
up, leaning on the princess Matilda, and bowed. The royal cortege then
disappeared. The military bands struck up, and one battalion after
another filed off. I expected that the crowd would have rushed in, but
the people seemed completely chilled and disgusted. Only a few appeared.
In about half an hour the obelisk was left alone in its solitude.
I spent the rest of the day with Madame de V----, and returned home quite
tired and depressed.
I understand this morning (Saturday) that the king has ordered a
gratuity and dinner to be given to the disbanded soldiers. I hope it is
true, King Louis! You ought at least to understand your _metier de Roi_
better than to degrade the "pomp and circumstance of _glorious_ war" in
the eyes of your people, and make them feel for what a poor recompence
they may fight, bleed, die--be made at once victims and executioners in
the contests of royal and ambitious gamblers!
I saw to-day, at the house of the court banker, Eichthal, a most
charming picture by the Baroness de Freyberg, the sister of my good
friend, M. Stuntz. It is a Madonna and child--loveliest of subjects for
a woman and a mother!--she is sure to put her heart into it, at least;
but, in this particular picture, the surpassing delicacy of touch, the
softness and purity of the colouring, the masterly drawing in the hands
of the Virgin, and the limbs of the child, equalled the feeling and the
expression--and, in truth, _surprised_ me. Madame de Freyberg gave this
picture to her father, who is not rich, and, unhappily, blind. Of him,
the present possessor purchased it for fifteen hundred florins, (about
140_l._) and now values it at twice the sum. In the possession of her
brother, I have seen others of her productions, and particularly a head
of one of his children, of exceeding beauty, and very much in the old
Italian style.
In the evening, a very lively and amusing _soiree_ at the house of Dr.
Martius. We had some very good music. Young Vieux-temps, a pupil of De
Beriot, was well accompanied by an orchestra of amateurs. I met here
also a young lady of whom I had heard much--Josephine Lang, looking
so gentle, so unpretending, so imperturbable, that no one would have
accused or suspected her of being one of the Muses in disguise, until
she sat down to the piano, and sang her own beautiful and original
compositions in a style peculiar to herself. She is a musician by
nature, by choice, and by profession, exercising her rare talent
with as much modesty as good-nature. The painter Zimmermann, who has a
magnificent bass voice, sung for me Mignon's song--"Kennst du das Land!"
And, lastly, which was the most interesting amusement of the evening,
Karl von Holtei read aloud the second act of Goethe's Tasso. He read
most admirably, and with a voice which kept attention enchained,
enchanted; still it was genuine reading. He kept equally clear of acting
and of declamation.
_Oct. 20th. Sunday._--I went with M. Stuntz to hear a grand mass at the
royal chapel.
* * * * *
_21st._--It rained this morning:--went to the gallery, and amused myself
for two hours walking up and down the rooms, sometimes pausing upon my
favourite pictures, sometimes abandoned to the reveries suggested by
these glorious creations of the human intellect.
'Twas like the bright procession
Of skiey visions in a solemn dream,
From which men wake as from a paradise,
And draw fresh strength to tread the thorns of life!
While looking at the Castor and Pollux of Rubens, I remembered what the
biographers asserted of this most wonderful man--that he spoke fluently
seven languages, besides being profoundly skilled in many sciences, and
one of the most accomplished diplomatists of his time. Before he took
up his palette in the morning, he was accustomed to read, or hear read,
some fine passages out of the ancient poets; and thus releasing his soul
from the trammels of low-thoughted care, he let her loose into the airy
regions of imagination.
What Goethe says of poets, must needs be applicable to painters. He
says, "If we look only at the principal productions of a poet, and
neglect to study himself, his character, and the circumstances with
which he had to contend, we fall into a sort of atheism, which forgets
the Creator in his creation."
I think most people admire pictures in this sort of atheistical fashion;
yet next to loving pictures, and all the pleasure they give, and revelling
in all the feelings they awaken, all the new ideas with which they enrich
our mental hoard--next to this, or equal with it, is the inexhaustible
interest of studying the painter in his works. It is a lesson in human
nature. Almost every picture (which is the production of mind) has
an individual character, reflecting the predominant temperament--nay,
sometimes, the occasional mood of the artist, its creator. Even portrait
painters, renowned for their exact adherence to nature, will be found to
have stamped upon their portraits a general and distinguishing character.
There is, besides the physiognomy of the individual represented, the
physiognomy, if I may so express myself, of the picture; detected
at once by the mere connoisseur as a distinction of manner, style,
execution: but of which the reflecting and philosophical observer might
discover the key in the mind or life of the individual painter.
In the heads of Titian, what subtlety of intellect mixed with sentiment
and passion! In those of Velasquez, what chivalrous grandeur, what
high-hearted contemplation! When Ribera painted a head--what power of
sufferance! In those of Giorgione, what profound feeling! In those
of Guido, what elysian grace! In those of Rubens what energy of
intellect--what vigorous life! In those of Vandyke, what high-bred
elegance! In those of Rembrandt, what intense individuality! Could Sir
Joshua Reynolds have painted a vixen without giving her a touch of
sentiment? Would not Sir Thomas Lawrence have given refinement to a
cook-maid? I do believe that Opie would have made even a calf's head
look sensible, as Gainsborough made our queen Charlotte look picturesque.
If I should whisper that since I came to Germany I have not seen one
really fine modern portrait, the Germans would never forgive me; they
would fall upon me with a score of great names--Wach, Stieler, Vogel,
Schadow--and beat me, like Chrimhilde, "black and blue." But before they
are angry, and absolutely condemn me, I wish they would place one of
their own most admired portraits beside those of Titian or Vandyke,
or come to England, and look upon our school of portraiture here! I
think they would allow, that with all their merits, they are in the
wrong road. Admirable, finished drawing; wonderful dexterity of hand;
exquisite and most conscientious truth of imitation, they have; but they
abuse these powers. They do not seem to feel the application of the
highest, grandest principles of art to portrait painting--they think too
much of the accessories. Are not these clever and accomplished men aware
that imitation may be carried so far as to cease to be nature--to be
error, not truth? For instance, by the common laws of vision I can
behold perfectly only one thing at a time. If I look into the face
of a person I love or venerate, do I see _first_ the embroidery of the
canezou or the pattern on the waistcoat? if not--why should it be so in
a picture? The vulgar eye alone is caught by such misplaced skill--the
vulgar artist only ought to seek to captivate by such means.
These would sound in England as the most trite and impertinent
remarks--the most self-evident propositions: nevertheless they are
truths which the generality of the German portrait painters and their
admirers have not yet felt.
* * * * *
I drove with my kind-hearted friends, M. and Madame Stuntz, to
Thalkirchen, the country-house of the Baron de Freyberg. The road
pursued the banks of the rapid, impetuous Isar, and the range of the
Tyrolian alps bounded the prospect before us. An hour's drive brought
us to Thalkirchen, where we were obviously quite unexpected, but that
was nothing:--I was at once received as a friend, and introduced
without ceremony to Madame de Freyberg's painting-room. Though now the
fond mother of a large _little_ family, she still finds some moments
to devote to her art. On her easel was the portrait of the Countess
M---- (the sister of De Freyberg) with her child, beautifully
painted--particularly the latter. In the same room was an unfinished
portrait of M. de Freyberg, evidently painted _con amore_, and full
of spirit and character; a head of Cupid, and a piping boy, quite
in the Italian manner and feeling; and a picture of the birth of
St. John, exquisitely finished. I was most struck by the heads of two
Greeks--members, I believe, of the deputation to King Otho--painted with
her peculiar delicacy and transparency of colour, and, at the same time,
with a breadth of style and a freedom in the handling, which I have not
yet seen among the German portrait painters. A glance over a portfolio
of loose sketches and unfinished designs added to my estimation of her
talents. She excels in children--her own serving her as models. I do not
hesitate to say of this gifted woman, that while she equals Angelica
Kauffman in grace and delicacy, she far exceeds her in _power_, both
of drawing and colouring. She reminded me more of the Sofonisba,[12] but
it is a different, and, I think, a more delicate style of colour, than
I have observed in the pictures of the latter.
We had coffee, and then strolled through the grounds--the children
playing around us. If I was struck by the genius and accomplishments
of Madame de Freyberg, I was not less charmed by the frank and noble
manners of her husband, and his honest love and admiration of his wife,
whom he married in despite of all prejudices of birth and rank.
In this truly German dwelling there was an extreme simplicity, a sort of
negligent elegance, a picturesque and refined homeliness, the presiding
influence of a most poetical mind and eye every where visible, and a
total indifference to what we English denominate _comfort_; yet with
the obvious presence of that crowning comfort of all comforts--cordial
domestic love and union--which impressed me altogether with pleasant
ideas, long after borne in my mind, and not yet, nor ever to be,
effaced. How little is needed for happiness, when we have not been
spoiled in the world, nor our tastes vitiated by artificial wants and
habits! When the hour of departure came, and De Freyberg was handing
me to the carriage, he made me advance a few steps, and pause to look
round; he pointed to the western sky, still flushed with a bright
geranium tint, between the amber and the rose; while against it lay the
dark purple outline of the Tyrolian mountains. A branch of the Isar,
which just above the house overflowed and spread itself into a wide
still pool, mirrored in its clear bosom not only the glowing sky and
the huge dark mountains, and the banks and trees blended into black
formless masses, but the very stars above our heads;--it was a heavenly
scene!--"You will not forget this," said De Freyberg, seeing I was
touched to the heart; "you will think of it when you are in England,
and in recalling it, you will perhaps remember us--who will not forget
_you_! Adieu, madame!"
Afterwards to the opera: it was Herold's "Zampa:" noisy, riotous music,
which I hate. I thought Madame Schechner's powers misplaced in this
opera--yet she sang magnificently.
Spent the morning with Dr. Martius, looking over the beautiful plates
and illustrations of his travels and scientific works. It appears from
what he told me, that the institution of the botanic garden is recent,
and is owing to the late king Max-Joseph, who was a generous patron of
scientific and benevolent institutions--as munificent as his son is
magnificent.