Beauharnais, in the church of St. Michael. It is by Thorwaldson, and one
of his most celebrated works. It is finely placed, and all the parts are
admirable: but I think it wants completeness and entireness of effect,
and does not tell its story well. Upon a lofty pedestal, there is first,
in the centre, the colossal figure of the duke stepping forward; one hand
is pressed upon his heart, and the other presents the civic crown--(but
to whom?)--his military accoutrements lie at his feet. The drapery is
admirably managed, and the attitude simple and full of dignity. On his
left is the beautiful and well-known group of the two genii, Love and
Life, looking disconsolate. On the right, the seated muse of History
is inscribing the virtues and exploits of the hero; and as, of all the
satellites of Napoleon, Eugene has left behind the fairest name, I
looked at her, and her occupation, with complacency. The statue is,
moreover, exceedingly beautiful and expressive--so are the genii; and
the figure of Eugene is magnificent; and yet the combination of the
whole is not effective. Another fault is, the colour of the marble,
which has a grey tinge, and ought at least to have been relieved by
constructing the pedestal and accompaniments of black marble; whereas
they are of a reddish hue.
The widow of Eugene, the eldest sister of the king of Bavaria, raised
this monument to her husband, at an expense of eighty thousand florins.
As the whole design is classical, and otherwise in the purest taste and
grandest style of art, I exclaimed with horror at the sight of a vile
heraldic crown, which is lying at the feet of the muse of History.
I was sure that Thorwaldson would never voluntarily have committed
such a solecism. I was informed that the princess-widow insisted on
the introduction of this piece of barbarity as emblematical of the
vice-royalty of Italy; any royalty being apparently better than none.
I remember that when travelling in the Netherlands, at a time when the
people were celebrating the _Fete-Dieu_, I saw a village carpenter
busily employed in erecting a _reposoir_ for the Madonna, of painted
boards and draperies and wreaths of flowers. In the mean time, as if
to deprecate criticism, he had chalked in large letters over his work,
"_La critique est aisee, mais l'art est difficile_." I could not help
smiling at this application of one of those undeniable truisms which
no one thinks it necessary to remember. When I recall the pleasure I
derived from this noble work of Thorwaldson, all the genius, all the
skill, all the patience, all the time, expended on its production, I
think the foregoing trifling criticisms appear very ungrateful and
impertinent; and yet, as a friend of mine insisted, when I was once upon
a time pleading for mercy on certain defects and deficiencies in some
other walk of art, "Toleration is the nurse of mediocrity." Artists
themselves, as I often observe,--even the vainest of them--prefer
discriminating admiration to wholesale praise. In the Frauen Kirche,
there is another most admirable monument, a _chef d'oeuvre_, in the
Gothic style. It is the tomb of the Emperor Louis of Bavaria, who died
excommunicated in 1347; a stupendous work, cast in bronze. At the four
corners are four colossal knights kneeling, in complete armour, each
bearing a lance and ensign, and guarding the recumbent effigy of the
emperor, which lies beneath a magnificent Gothic canopy. At the two
sides are standing colossal figures, and I suppose about eight or
ten other figures on a smaller scale, all of admirable design and
workmanship.[13] It should seem, that in the sixteenth century the art
of casting in bronze was not only brought to the highest perfection in
Germany, but found employment on a very grand scale.
In the evening there was a concert at the Salle de l'Odeon--the third
I have attended since I came here. This concert room is larger than any
public room in London, and admirably constructed for music. Over the
orchestra, in a semi-circle, are the busts of the twelve great German
composers who have flourished during the last hundred years, beginning
with Handel and Bach, and ending with Weber and Beethoven. On this
occasion the hall was crowded. We had all the best performers of Munich,
led by the Kapelmeister Stuntz, and Schechner and Meric, who sang
_a l'envie l'une de l'autre_. The concert began at seven, and ended
a little after nine; and much as I love music, I felt I had had enough.
They certainly manage these social pleasures much better here than in
London, where a grand concert almost invariably proves a most awful bore,
from which we return wearied, yawning, jarred, satiated.
Count ---- amused me this evening with his laconic summing up of the
rise, progress, and catastrophe of a Polish amour;--se passioner, se
battre, se ruiner, enlever, epouser, et divorcer; and so ends this
six-act tragico-comico-heroico pastoral.
_23rd._--To-day went over the Pinakothek (the new grand national picture
gallery) with M. de Klenze, the architect, and Comtesse de V----. This
is the second time; but I have not yet a clear and connected idea of the
general design, the building being still in progress. As far as I can
understand the arrangements, they will be admirable. The destination of
the edifice seems to have been the first thing kept in view. The situation
of particular pictures has been calculated, and accurate experiments
have been made for the arrangement of the light, &c. Professor Zimmermann
has kindly promised to take me over the whole once more. He has the
direction of the fresco paintings here.
* * * * *
Society is becoming so pleasant, and engagements of every kind so
multifarious, that I have little time for scribbling memoranda. New
characters unfold before me, new scenes of interest occupy my thoughts.
I find myself surrounded with friends, where only a few weeks ago I had
scarcely one acquaintance. Time ought not to linger--and yet it does
sometimes.
Our circumstances alter; our opinions change; our passions die; our
hopes sicken, and perish utterly:--our spirits are broken; our health
is broken, and even our hearts are broken; but WILL survives--the
unconquerable strength of will, which is in later life what passion
is when young. In this world, there is always something to be done
or suffered, even when there is no longer any thing to be desired or
attained.
The Glyptothek is, at certain hours, open to strangers _only_, and
strangers do not at present abound: hence it has twice happened that
I have found myself in the gallery alone--to-day for the second time.
I felt that, under some circumstances, an hour of solitude in a gallery
of sculpture may be an epoch in one's life. There was not a sound, no
living thing near, to break the stillness; and lightly, and with a
feeling of awe, I trod the marble pavements, looking upon the calm,
pale, motionless forms around me, almost expecting they would open their
marble lips and speak to me--or, at least, nod--like the statue in Don
Giovanni: and still, as the evening shadows fell deeper and deeper, they
waxed, methought, sadder, paler, and more life-like. A dim, unearthly
glory effused those graceful limbs and perfect forms, of which the
exact outline was lost, vanishing into shade, while the sentiment--the
_ideal_--of their immortal loveliness, remained distinct, and became
every moment more impressive: and thus they stood; and their melancholy
beauty seemed to melt into the heart.
As the Graces round the throne of Venus, so music, painting, sculpture,
wait as handmaids round the throne of Poetry. "They from her golden urn
draw light," as planets drink the sunbeams; and in return they array the
divinity which created and inspired them, in those sounds, and hues, and
forms, through which she is revealed to our mortal senses. The pleasure,
the illusion, produced by music, when it is the _voice_ of poetry, is,
for the moment, by far the most complete and intoxicating, but also
the most transient. Painting, with its lovely colours blending into
life, and all its "silent poesy of form," is a source of pleasure more
lasting, more intellectual. Beyond both, is sculpture, the noblest, the
least illusive, the most enduring of the imitative arts, because it
charms us not by what it seems to be, but by what it is; because if the
pleasure it imparts be less exciting, the impression it leaves is more
profound and permanent; because it is, or ought to be, the abstract idea
of power, beauty, sentiment, made visible in the cold, pure, impassive,
and almost eternal marble.
It seems to me that the grand secret of that grace of repose which we
see developed in the antique statues, may be defined as _the presence_
_of thought, and the absence of volition_. The moment we have, in
sculpture, the expression of will, or effort, we have the idea of
something fixed in its place by an external cause, and a consequent
diminution of the effect of internal power. This is not well expressed,
I fear. Perhaps I might illustrate the thought thus: the Venus de Medici
looks as if she were content to stand on her pedestal and be worshipped;
Canova's Hebe looks as if she would fain step off the pedestal--if she
could: the Apollo Belvedere, as if he could step from his pedestal--if
he would.
Among the Greeks, in the best ages of sculpture, and in all their very
finest statues, this seems to be the presiding principle--viz. that in
sculpture the repose of suspended motion, or of subsided motion, is
graceful; but arrested motion, and all effort, to be avoided. When the
ancients did express motion, they made it flowing or continuous, as in
the frieze of the Parthenon.
ALONE.
IN THE GALLERY OF SCULPTURE AT MUNICH.
Ye pale and glorious forms, to whom was given
All that we mortals covet under heaven--
Beauty, renown, and immortality,
And worship!--in your passive grandeur, ye.
There's nothing new in life, and nothing old;
The tale that we might tell hath oft been told.
Many have look'd to the bright sun with sadness,
Many have look'd to the dark grave with gladness;
Many have griev'd to death--have lov'd to madness!
What has been, is;--what is, will be;--I know,
Even while the heart drops blood, it must be so.
I live and smile--for O the griefs that kill,
Kill slowly--and I bear within me still
My conscious self, and my unconquer'd will!
And knowing what I have been--what has made
My misery, I will be no more betray'd
By hollow mockeries of the world around,
Or hopes and impulses, which I have found
Like ill-aim'd shafts, that kill by their rebound.
Complaint is for the feeble, and despair
For evil hearts. Mine still can hope--still bear--
Still hope for others what it never knew
Of truth and peace; and silently pursue
A path beset with briers, "and wet with tears like dew!"
* * * * *
To-day I devoted to the Pinakothek--for the last time!
Just before I left England our projected national gallery had excited
much attention. Those who were usually indifferent to such matters were
roused to interest; and I heard the merits of different designs, so
warmly, even so violently discussed in public and in private, that for
a long time the subject kept possession of my mind. On my arrival here,
the Pinakothek (for that is the designation given to the new national
gallery of Munich) became to me a principal object of interest. I have
been most anxious to comprehend both the general design and the nature
of the arrangements in detail; but I might almost doubt my own competency
to convey an exact idea of what I understand and admire, to the
comprehension of another. I must try, however, while the impressions
remain fresh and strong, and the memory not yet encumbered and distracted,
as it must be, even a few hours hence, by the variety, and novelty, and
interest, of all I see and hear around me.
The Pinakothek was founded in 1826; the king himself laying the first
stone with much pomp and ceremony on the 7th of April, the birthday of
Rafaelle.
It is a long, narrow edifice, facing the south, measuring about five
hundred feet from east to west, and about eighty or eighty-five feet
in depth. At the extremities are two wings, or rather projections. The
body of the building is of brick, but not of common brickwork: for the
bricks, which are of a particular kind of clay, have a singular tint,
a kind of greenish yellow; while the friezes, balustrades, architraves
of the windows, in short, all the ornamental parts, are of stone, the
colour of which is a fine warm grey; and as the stone workmanship is
extremely rich, and the brickwork of unrivalled elegance and neatness,
and the colours harmonize well, the combination produces a very handsome
effect, rendering the exterior as pleasing to the eye, as the scientific
adaptation of the building to its peculiar purpose is to the understanding.
Along the roof runs a balustrade of stone, adorned with twenty-four
colossal statues of celebrated painters. A public garden, which is
already in preparation, will be planted around, beautifully laid out
with shady walks, flower-beds, fountains, urns, and statues. I believe
the enclosure of this garden will be about a thousand feet each way, and
that it will ultimately be bounded (at least on three sides) with rows
of houses forming a vast square, of which the Pinakothek will occupy
the centre. It consists of a ground-floor and an upper-story. The
ground-floor will comprise, 1st, the collection of the Etruscan vases;
2ndly, the Mosaics, ancient and modern, of which there are here some
rare and admirable specimens; 3rdly, the cabinet of drawings by the old
masters; 4thly, the cabinet of engravings, which is said to be one of
the richest in Europe; 5thly, a library of all works pertaining to the
fine arts; lastly, a noble entrance-hall: a private entrance; with
accommodations for students, and other offices.
The upper-story is appropriated to the pictures, and is calculated to
contain not less than fifteen hundred specimens, selected from various
galleries, and arranged according to the schools of art.
We ascend from the entrance-hall by a wide and handsome staircase of
stone, very elegantly carved, which leads first to a kind of vestibule,
where the attendants and keepers of the gallery are in waiting. Thence,
to a splendid reception-room, about fifty feet in length: this will
contain the full-length portraits of the founders of the gallery of
Munich--the Palatine John William; the Elector, Maximilian Emanuel of
Bavaria; the Duke Charles of Deuxponts; the Palatine Charles Theodore;
Maximilian Joseph I., king of Bavaria; and his son, (the present
monarch,) Louis I. The ceiling and the frieze of this room are
splendidly decorated with groups of figures and ornaments in white
relief, on a gold ground, and the walls will be hung with crimson
damask.
Along the south front of the building from east to west runs a gallery
or corridor about four hundred feet in length, and eighteen in width,
lighted on one side by twenty-five lofty arched windows, having on the
other side ten doors, opening into the suite of picture galleries, or
rather halls. These occupy the centre of the building, and are lighted
from above by vast lanthorns. They are eight in number, varying in
length from fifty to eighty feet, but all forty feet in width and fifty
feet in height from the floor to the summit of the lanthorn. The walls
will be hung with silk damask, either of a dark crimson or a dark
green--according to the style of art for which the room is destined.
The ceilings are vaulted, and the decorations are inexpressibly rich,
composed of magnificent arabesques, intermixed with the effigies of
celebrated painters, and groups illustrative of the history of art, &c.,
all moulded in white relief upon a ground of dead gold. Mayer, one of
the best sculptors in Munich, has the direction of these works.
Behind these vast galleries, or saloons, there is a range of cabinets,
twenty-three in number, appropriated to the smaller pictures of the
different schools: these are each about nineteen feet by fifteen in
size, and lighted from the north, each having one high lateral window.
The ceilings and upper part of the walls are painted in fresco, (or
distemper, I am not sure which,) with very graceful arabesques of a
quiet colour;--the hangings will also be of silk damask.
Of the principal saloons, the first is appropriated to the productions
of modern and living artists, and has three cabinets attached to it.
The second will contain the old German pictures, including the famous
Boisseree gallery, and has four cabinets attached to it. The third,
fourth, and fifth saloons (of which the central one, the hall of Rubens,
is eighty feet in length) are devoted, with the nine adjoining cabinets,
to the Flemish and Dutch schools. The sixth, with four cabinets, will
contain the French and Spanish pictures; and the seventh and eighth,
with three cabinets, will contain the Italian school of painting. All
these apartments communicate with each other by ample doors; but from
the corridor already mentioned, which opens into the whole suite, the
visitor has access to any particular gallery, or school of painting,
without passing through the others: an obvious advantage, which will
be duly estimated by those who, in visiting a gallery of painting,
have felt their eyes dazzled, their heads bewildered, their attention
distracted, by too much variety of temptation and attraction, before
they have reached the particular object or school of art to which their
attention was especially directed.
To this beautiful and most convenient corridor, or, as it is called
here, _loggia_, we must now return. I have said that it is four hundred
feet in length, and lighted by five-and-twenty arched windows,--which,
by the way, command a splendid prospect, bounded by the far-off
mountains of the Tyrol. The wall opposite to these windows is divided
into twenty-five corresponding compartments, arched, and each surmounted
by a dome; these compartments are painted in fresco with arabesques,
something in the style of Rafaelle's Loggie in the Vatican; while
every arch and cupola contains (also painted in fresco) scenes from the
life of some great painter, arranged chronologically: thus, in fact,
exhibiting a graphic history of the rise and progress of modern
painting--from Cimabue down to Rubens.
Of this series of frescos, which are now in progress, a few only are
finished, from which, however, a very satisfactory idea may be formed,
of the whole design. The first cupola is painted from a poem of A. W.
Schlegel "Der Bund der Kirche mit den Kuensten," which celebrates the
alliance between religion (or rather the church) and the fine arts.
The second cupola represents the Crusades, because from these wild
expeditions (for so Providence ordained that good should spring from
evil) arose the regeneration of art in Europe. With the third cupola
commences the series of painters. In the arch, or lunette, is
represented the Madonna of Cimabue carried in triumphal procession
through the streets of Florence to the church of Santa Maria Novella;
and in the dome above, various scenes from the painter's life. In the
next cupola is the history of Giotto; then follows Angelico da Fesole,
who, partly from humility and partly from love for his art, refused to
be made Archbishop of Florence; then, fourthly, Masaccio; fifthly,
Bellini: in one compartment he is represented painting the favourite
sultana of Mahomet II. Several of the succeeding cupolas still remain
blank, so we pass them over and arrive at Leonardo da Vinci, painting
the queen Joanna of Arragon; then Michael Angelo, meditating the design
of St. Peter's; then the history of Rafaelle: in the dome are various
scenes from his life. The lunette represents his death: he is extended
on a couch, beside which sits his virago love, the Fornarina "in disperato
dolor;" Pope Leo X. and Cardinal Bembo are looking on overwhelmed with
grief;--in the background is the Transfiguration.
I wonder, if Rafaelle had survived this fatal illness, which of the
two alternatives he would have chosen--the cardinal's hat or the niece
of Cardinal Bibbiena? M. de Klenze gave us, the other night, a most
picturesque and animated description of the opening of Rafaelle's
tomb,--at which he had himself assisted--the discovery of his remains,
and those of his betrothed bride, the niece of Cardinal Bibbiena,
deposited near him. She survived him several years, but in her last
moments requested to be buried in the same tomb with him. This was at
least quite in the _genre romantique_.
"Charming!" exclaimed one of the ladies present.
"_Et genereux!_" exclaimed another.
The series of the Italian painters will end with the Carracci. Those of
the German painters will begin with Van Eyck, and end with Rubens. Of
many of the frescos which are not yet executed, I saw the cartoons in
professor Zimmermann's studio.
Though the general decoration of this gallery was planned by Cornelius,
the designs for particular parts, and the direction of the whole, have
been confided to Zimmermann, who is assisted in the execution by five
other painters. One particular picture, which represents Giotto exhibiting
his Madonna to the pope, was pointed out to my especial admiration
as the most finished specimen of fresco painting which has yet been
executed here; and in truth, for tenderness and freshness of colour,
softness in the shadows, and delicacy in the handling, it might bear
comparison with any painting in oils. We were standing near it on a high
scaffold, and it endured the closest and most minute consideration;
but when seen from below, it may possibly be less effective. It shows,
however, the extreme finish of which the fresco painting is susceptible.
This was executed by Hiltensperger, of Swabia, from the cartoon of
Zimmermann. At one end of this gallery there is to be a large fresco,
representing his majesty King Louis, introduced by the muse of Poetry
to the assembled poets and painters of Germany. Now, this species of
allegorical adulation appears to me flat and out of date. I well remember
that long ago the famous picture of Voltaire, introduced into the Elysian
fields by Henri Quatre, and making his best bow to Racine and Moliere,
threw me into a convulsion of laughter: and the cartoon of this royal
apotheosis provoked the same irrepressible feeling of the ridiculous.
I wish somebody would hint to King Louis that this is not in good taste,
and that there are many, many ways in which the compliment (which he
truly merits) might be better managed.
On the whole, however, it may truly be said that the luxuriant and
appropriate decorations of this gallery, the variety of colour and
ornament lavished on it, agreeably prepare the eye and the imagination
for that glorious feast of beauty within, to which we are immediately
introduced: and thus the overture to the Zauberfloete, (which we heard
last night,) with its rich involved harmonies, its brilliant and
exciting movements, attuned the ear and the fancy to enjoy the grand,
thrilling, bewitching, love-breathing melodies of the opera which
followed.
I omitted to mention that there are also on the upper floor of the
Pinakothek two rooms, each about forty feet square; one called the
_Reserve-Saal_, is intended for the reception of those pictures which
are temporarily removed from their places, new acquisitions, &c.
The other room is fitted up with every convenience for students and
copyists.
The whole of this immense edifice is warmed throughout by heated air;
the stoves being detached from the body of the building, and so managed
as to preclude the possibility of danger from fire.
It does not appear to be yet decided whether the floors will be of the
Venetian stucco, or of parquet.
Such, then, is the general plan of the Pinakothek, the national gallery
of Bavaria. I make no comment, except that I felt and recognised in
every part the presence of a directing mind, and the absence of all
narrow views, all truckling to the interests, or tastes, or prejudices,
or convenience, of any particular class of persons. It is very possible
that when finished it will be found by scientific critics not absolutely
_perfect_, which, as we know, all human works are at least intended and
expected to be; but it is equally clear that an honest anxiety for the
glory of art, and the benefit of the public--not the caprices of the
king, nor the individual vanity of the architect--has been the moving
principle throughout.
* * * * *