distinguished by any vast or striking architectural decorations, if we
except the Italian church, which, with all its thousand faults of style,
pleases from its beautiful situation and its exceeding richness. This
is the only Roman Catholic church in Dresden: for it is curious enough,
that while the national religion, or, if I may so use the word, the
state religion, is Protestant--the court religion is Catholic; the royal
family having been for several generations of that persuasion;[26] but
this has caused neither intolerance on the one hand, nor jealousy on the
other. The Saxons, the first who hailed and embraced the doctrines of
Luther, seem quite content to allow their anointed king to go to heaven
his own way; and though the priests who surround him are, of course,
mindful to keep up their own influence, there is no spirit of proselytism;
and I believe the most perfect equality with regard to religious matters
prevails here. The Catholic church is almost always half full of
Protestants, attracted by the delicious music, for all the corps d'opera
sing in the choir. High mass begins about the time that the sermon is
over in the other churches, and you see the Protestants hurrying from
their own service, crowding in at the portals of the Catholic church,
and taking their places, the men on one side and the women on the other,
with looks of infinite gravity and devotion: the king being always
present, it would here be a breach of etiquette to behave as I have
often seen the English behave in the Catholic churches--precisely as
if in a theatre. But if the good old monarch imagines that his heretic
subjects are to be converted by Cesi's[27] divine voice, he is
wonderfully mistaken.
The people of Dresden have always been distinguished by their love of
music; I was therefore rather surprised to find here a little paltry
theatre, ugly without, and mean within; a new edifice has been for some
time in contemplation, therefore to decorate or repair the old one may
seem superfluous. That it is not nearly large enough for the place is
its worst fault. I have never been in it that it was not crowded to
suffocation. At this time Bellini's opera, _I Capelletti_, is the rage
at Dresden, or rather Madame Devrient's impersonation of the Romeo, has
completely turned all heads and melted all hearts--that are fusible. The
Capelletti is only the last of the thousand-and-one versions of Romeo
and Juliet, and though the last, not the best of Bellini's operas; and
Devrient is not generally heard to the greatest advantage in the modern
Italian music; but her _conception_ of the part of Romeo is new and
belongs to herself; like a woman of feeling and genius she has put
her stamp upon it: it is quite distinct from the same character as
represented by Pasta and Malibran--_character_ perhaps I should not say,
for in the lyrical drama there is properly no room for any such gradual
development of individual sentiments and motives; a powerful and graceful
sketch, of which the outline is filled up by music, is all that the
artist is required to give; and within this boundary a more beautiful
delineation of youthful fervid passion I never beheld: if Devrient must
yield to Pasta in grandeur, and to Malibran in versatility of power and
liquid flexibility of voice, she yields to neither in pathos, to neither
in delicious modulation, to neither in passion, power, and originality,
though in her, in a still greater degree, the talent of the artist is
modified by individual temperament. Like other gifted women, who are
blessed or cursed with a most excitable nervous system, Devrient is a
good deal under the influence of moods of feeling and temper, and in
the performance of her favourite parts, (as this of Romeo, the Armida,
Emmeline in the Sweitzer Familie,) is subject to inequalities, which are
not caprices, but arise from an exuberance of soul and power, and only
render her performance more interesting. Every night that I have seen
her since my arrival here, even in parts which are unworthy of her, as
in the "Eagle's Nest,"[28] has increased my estimate of her talents;
and last night, when I saw her for the third time in the Romeo, she
certainly surpassed herself. The duet with Juliet, (Madlle. Schneider,)
at the end of the first act, threw the whole audience into a tumult of
admiration; they invariably encore this touching and impassioned scene,
which is really a positive cruelty, besides being a piece of stupidity;
for though it _may_ be as well sung the second time, it _must_ suffer in
effect from the repetition. The music, though very pretty, is in itself
nothing, without the situation and sentiment; and after the senses and
imagination have been wound up to the most thrilling excitement by tones
of melting affection and despair, and Romeo and Juliet have been finally
torn asunder by a flinty-hearted stick of a father, with a black cloak
and a bass voice--_selon les regles_--it is ridiculous to see them come
back from opposite sides of the stage, bow to the audience, and then,
throwing themselves into each other's arms, pour out the same passionate
strains of love and sorrow. As to Devrient's acting in the last scene,
I think even Pasta's Romeo would have seemed colourless beside hers;
and this arises perhaps from the character of the music, from the very
different style in which Zingarelli and Bellini have treated their
last scene. The former has made Romeo tender and plaintive, and Pasta
accordingly subdued her conception to this tone; but Bellini has thrown
into the same scene more animation, and more various effect.[29] Devrient,
thus enabled to colour more highly, has gone beyond the composer.
There was a flush of poetry and passion, a heartbreaking struggle
of love and life against an overwhelming destiny, which thrilled me.
Never did I hear any one sing so completely from her own soul as this
astonishing creature. In certain tones and passages her voice issued
from the depths of her bosom as if steeped in tears; and her countenance,
when she hears Juliet sigh from the tomb, was such a sudden and divine
gleam of expression as I have never seen on any face but Fanny Kemble's.
I was not surprised to learn that Madame Devrient is generally ill after
her performance, and unable to sing in this part more than once or twice
a week.
* * * * *
Tieck is the literary Colossus of Dresden; perhaps I should say of
Germany. There are those who dispute his infallibility as a critic;
there are those who will not walk under the banners of his philosophy;
but since the death of Goethe, I believe Ludwig Tieck holds undisputed
the first rank as an original poet, and powerful writer, and has
succeeded, by right divine, to the vacant throne of genius. His house
in the Altmarkt, (the tall red house at the south-east corner,)
henceforth consecrated by that power which can "hallow in the core of
human hearts even the ruin of a wall,"[30] is the resort of all the
enlightened strangers who flock to Dresden: even those who know nothing
of Tieck but his name, deem an introduction to him as indispensable
as a visit to the Madonna del Sisto. To the English, he is particularly
interesting: his knowledge of our language and literature, and especially
of our older writers, is profound. Endued with an imagination which
luxuriates in the world of marvels, which "dwells delightedly midst fays
and talismans," and embraces in its range of power what is highest,
deepest, most subtle, most practical--gifted with a creative spirit, for
ever moving and working within the illimitable universe of fancy, Tieck
is yet one of the most poignant satirists and profound critics of the
age. He has for the last twenty years devoted his time and talents, in
conjunction with Schlegel, to the study, translation, and illustration
of Shakspeare. The combination of these two minds has done perhaps what
no single mind could have effected in developing, elucidating, and
clothing in a new language the creations of that mighty and inspired
being.
It is to be hoped that some translator will rise up among us to do
justice in return to Tieck. No one tells a fairy tale like him: the
earnest simplicity of style and manner is so exquisite that he always
gives the idea of one whose hair was on end at his own wonders, who was
entangled by the spell of his own enchantments. A few of these lighter
productions (his Volksmaerchen, or popular Tales) have been rendered into
our language; but those of his works which have given him the highest
estimation among his own countrymen still remain a sealed fountain to
English readers.[31]
It was with some trepidation I found myself in the presence of this
extraordinary man. Notwithstanding his profound knowledge of our
language, he rarely speaks English, and, like Alfieri, he _will not_
speak French. I addressed him in English, and he spoke to me in German.
The conversation in my first visit fell very naturally upon Shakspeare,
for I had been looking over his admirable new translation of Macbeth,
which he had just completed. Macbeth led us to the English theatre and
English acting--to Mrs. Siddons and the Kembles, and the actual
character and state of our stage.
While he spoke I could not help looking at his head, which is
wonderfully fine; the noble breadth and amplitude of his brow, and his
quiet, but penetrating eye, with an expression of latent humour hovering
round his lips, formed altogether a striking physiognomy. The numerous
prints and portraits of Tieck which are scattered over Germany are very
defective as resemblances. They have a heavy look; they give the weight
and power of his head, but nothing of the _finesse_ which lurks in
the lower part of his face. His manner is courteous, and his voice
particularly sweet and winning. He is apparently fond of the society of
women; or the women are fond of his society, for in the evening his room
is generally crowded with fair worshippers. Yet Tieck, like Goethe, is
accused of entertaining some unworthy sentiments with regard to the sex;
and is also said, like Goethe, not to have upheld us in his writings,
as the true philosopher, to say nothing of the true poet, ought to have
done. It is a fact upon which I shall take an opportunity of enlarging,
that almost all the greatest men who have lived in the world, whether
poets, philosophers, artists, or statesmen, have derived their mental
and physical organization, more from the mother's than the father's
side; and the same is true, unhappily, of those who have been in an
extraordinary degree perverted. And does not this lead us to some awful
considerations on the importance of the moral and physical well-being
of women, and their present condition in society, as a branch of
legislation and politics, which must ere long be modified? Let our lords
and masters reflect, that if an extensive influence for good or for evil
be not denied to us, an influence commencing not only with, but before
the birth of their children, it is time that the manifold mischiefs
and miseries lurking in the bosom of society, and of which woman is at
once the wretched instrument and more wretched victim, be looked to.
Sometimes I am induced to think that Tieck is misinterpreted or libelled
by those who pretend to take the tone from his writings and opinions: it
is evident that he delights in being surrounded by a crowd of admiring
women, therefore he must in his heart honour and reverence us as being
morally equal with man,--for who could suspect the great Tieck of that
paltry coxcombry which can be gratified by the adulation of inferior
beings?
Tieck's extraordinary talent for reading aloud is much and deservedly
celebrated: he gives dramatic readings two or three times a week
when his health and his avocations allow this exertion; the company
assemble at six, and it is advisable to be punctual to the moment; soon
afterwards tea is served: he begins to read at seven precisely, when the
doors are closed against all intrusion whatever, and he reads through a
whole play without pause, rest, omission, or interruption. Thus I heard
him read Julius Caesar and the Midsummer Night's Dream, (in the German
translation by himself and Schlegel,) and except Mrs. Siddons, I never
heard any thing comparable as dramatic reading. His voice is rich, and
capable of great variety of modulation. I observed that the humorous and
declamatory passages were rather better than the pathetic and tender
passages: he was quite at home among the elves and clowns in the Midsummer
Night's Dream, of which he gave the fantastic and comic parts with
indescribable humour and effect. As to the translation, I could only
judge of its marvellous fidelity, which enabled me to follow him, word
for word,--but the Germans themselves are equally enchanted by its
vigour, and elegance, and poetical colouring.
* * * * *
The far-famed gallery of Dresden is, of course, the first and grand
attraction to a stranger.
The regulation of this gallery, and the difficulty of obtaining
admission, struck me at first as rather inhospitable and ill-natured.
In the summer months it is open to the public two days in the week; but
during the winter months, from September to March, it is closed. In
order to obtain admittance, during this _recess_, you must pay three
dollars to one of the principal keepers on duty, and a gratuity to the
porter,--in all about half-a-guinea. Having once paid this sum, you are
free to enter whenever the gallery has been opened for another party.
The ceremony is, to send the laquais-de-place at nine in the morning to
inquire whether the gallery will be open in the course of the day; if
the answer be in the affirmative, it is advisable to make your appearance
as early as possible, and I believe you may stay as long as you please;
(at least _I_ did;) nothing more is afterwards demanded, though something
may perhaps be expected--if you are a _very_ frequent visitor. All this
is rather ungracious. It is true that the gallery is not a national, but
a royal gallery,--that it was founded and enriched by princes for their
private recreation; that Augustus III. purchased the Modena gallery for
his kingly pleasure; that from the original construction of the building
it is impossible to heat it with stoves, without incurring some risk,
and that to oblige the poor professors and attendants to linger benumbed
and shivering in the gallery from morning to night is cruel. In fact, it
would be difficult to give an idea of the deadly cold which prevails in
the inner gallery, where the beams of the sun scarcely ever penetrate.
And it may happen that only a chance visitor, or one or two strangers,
may ask admittance in the course of the day. But poor as Saxony now
is,--drained, and exhausted, and maimed by successive wars, and trampled
by successive conquerors, this glorious gallery, which Frederic spared,
and Napoleon left inviolate, remains the chief attraction to strangers;
and it may be doubted whether there is good policy in making admittance
to its treasures a matter of difficulty, vexation, and expense. There
would be little fear, if all strangers were as obstinate and enthusiastic
as myself,--for, to confess the truth, I know not what obstacle, or
difficulty, or inconvenience, could have kept me out; if all legal avenues
had been hermetically sealed, I would have prayed, bribed, persevered,
till I had attained my purpose, and after travelling three hundred
miles to achieve an object, what are a few dollars? But still it _is_
ungracious, and methinks, in this courteous and liberal capital these
regulations ought to be reformed or modified.
On entering the gallery for the first time, I walked straight forward,
without pausing, or turning to the right or the left, into the
Raffaelle-room, and looked round for the Madonna del Sisto,--literally
with a kind of misgiving. Familiar as the form might be to the eye and
the fancy, from numerous copies and prints, still the unknown original
held a sanctuary in my imagination, like the mystic Isis behind her
veil: and it seemed that whatever I beheld of lovely, or perfect,
or soul-speaking in art, had an unrevealed rival in my imagination:
something was beyond--there was a criterion of possible excellence as
yet only conjectured--for I had not seen the Madonna del Sisto. Now,
when I was about to lift my eyes to it, I literally hesitated--I drew a
long sigh, as if resigning myself to disappointment, and looked----Yes!
there she was indeed! that divinest image that ever shaped itself in
palpable hues and forms to the living eye! What a revelation of ineffable
grace, and purity, and truth, and goodness! There is no use attempting
to say any thing about it; too much has already been said and written--and
what are words? After gazing on it again and again, day after day, I feel
that to attempt to describe the impression is like measuring the infinite,
and sounding the unfathomable. When I looked up at it today it gave me
the idea, or rather the feeling, of a vision descending and floating
down upon me. The head of the virgin is quite superhuman: to say that
it is beautiful, gives no idea of it. Some of Correggio's and Guido's
virgins--the virgin of Murillo at the Leuchtenberg palace--have more
beauty, in the common meaning of the word; but every other female face,
however lovely, however majestic, would, I am convinced, appear either
trite or exaggerated, if brought into immediate comparison with this
divine countenance. There is such a blessed calm in every feature! and
the eyes, beaming with a kind of internal light, look straight out
of the picture--not at you or me--not at any thing belonging to this
world,--but through and through the universe. The unearthly Child is a
sublime vision of power and grandeur, and seems not so much supported as
enthroned in her arms, and what fitter throne for the Divinity than a
woman's bosom full of innocence and love? The expression in the face of
St. Barbara, who looks down, has been differently interpreted: to me she
seems to be giving a last look at the earth, above which the group is
raised as on a hovering cloud. St. Sixtus is evidently pleading in all
the combined fervour of faith, hope, and charity, for the congregation
of sinners, who are supposed to be kneeling before the picture--that is,
for _us_--to whom he points. Finally, the cherubs below, with their
upward look of rapture and wonder, blending the most childish innocence
with a sublime inspiration, complete the harmonious whole, uniting
heaven with earth.
While I stood in contemplation of this all-perfect work, I felt the
impression of its loveliness in my deepest heart, not only without the
power, but without the thought or wish to give it voice or words, till
some lines of Shelley's--lines which were not, but, methinks, ought to
have been, inspired by the Madonna--came, uncalled, floating through my
memory--
Seraph of Heaven! too gentle to be human,
Veiling beneath that radiant form of woman
All that is insupportable in thee,
Of light, and love, and immortality!
Sweet Benediction in the eternal curse!
Veil'd Glory of this lampless universe!
Thou Harmony of Nature's art!
I measure
The world of fancies, seeking one like thee,
And find--alas! mine own infirmity![32]
On the first morning I spent in the gallery, a most benevolent-looking
old gentleman came up to me, and half lifting his velvet cap from his
grey hairs, courteously saluted me by name. I replied, without knowing
at the moment to whom I spoke. It was Boettigar, the most formidable--no,
not _formidable_--but the most erudite scholar, critic, antiquarian,
in Germany. Boettigar, I do believe, has read every book that ever was
written; knows every thing that ever was known; and is acquainted with
every body, who is _any body_, in the four quarters of the world. He
is not the author of any large work, but his writings, in a variety
of form, on art, ancient and modern,--on literature, on the classics,
on the stage, are known over all Germany; and in his best days few
have exercised so wide an influence over opinion and literature. It is
_said_, that in his latter years his criticism has been too vague, his
praise too indiscriminate, to be trusted; but I know not why this should
excite indignation, though it may produce mistrust; in Boettigar's
conformation, benevolence must always have been prominent, and in the
decline of his life--for he is now seventy-eight--this natural courtesy
combining with a good deal of vanity and imagination, would necessarily
produce the result of extreme mildness,--a disposition to see, or try to
see, all _en beau_. The happier for him, and the pleasanter for others.
We were standing together in the room with the Madonna, but I did not
allude to it, nor attempt to express by a word the impression it had
made on me; but he seemed to understand my silence; he afterwards told
me that it is ascertained that Raffaelle employed only three months in
executing this picture: it was thrown upon his canvas in a glow of
inspiration, and is painted very lightly and thinly. When Palmeroli,
the Italian restorer, was brought here at an expense of more than three
thousand ducats, he ventured to clean and retouch the background and
accessories, but dared not touch the figures of the Virgin and the
Child, which retain their sombre tint. This has perhaps destroyed the
harmony of the general effect, but if the man mistrusted himself he was
right: in such a case, however, he had better have let the background
alone. In taking down the picture for the purpose of cleaning, it was
discovered that a part of the original canvas, about a quarter of a
yard, was turned back in order to make it fit the frame. Every one must
have observed, that in Mueller's engraving, and all the known copies of
this Madonna, the head is too near the top of the picture, so as to mar
the just proportion. This is now amended: the veil, or curtain, which
appears to have been just drawn aside to disclose the celestial vision,
does not now reach the boundary of the picture, as heretofore; the
original effect is restored, and it is infinitely better.
As if to produce a surfeit of excellence, the five Correggios hang
together in the same room with the Raffaelle.[33] They are the Madonna
di San Georgio; the Madonna di San Francisco; the Madonna di Santo
Sebastiano; the famous Nativity, called La Notte; and the small Magdalene
reading, of which there exist an incalculable number of copies and
prints. I know not that any thing can be added to what has been said a
hundred times over of these wondrous pieces of poetry. Their excellence
and value, as unequalled productions of art, may not perhaps be understood
by all,--the poetical charm, the something more than meets the eye, is
not perhaps equally felt by all,--but the sentiment is intelligible to
every mind, and goes at once to every heart; the most uneducated eye, the
merest tyro in art, gazes with delight on the Notte; and the Magdalene
reading has given perhaps more pleasure than any known picture,--it is
so quiet, so simple, so touching, in its heavenly beauty! Those who may
not perfectly understand what artists mean when they dwell with rapture
on Correggio's wonderful chiaro-scuro, should look close into this
little picture, which hangs at a convenient height: they will perceive
that they can look through the shadows into the substance,--as it might
be, into the flesh and blood;--the shadows seem accidental--as if
between the eye and the colours, and not incorporated with them; in this
lies the inimitable excellence of this master.
The Magdalene was once surrounded by a rich frame of silver gilt,
chased, and adorned with gems, turquoises, and pearls: but some years
ago a thief found means to enter at the window, and carried off the
picture for the sake of the frame. A reward of two hundred ducats and a
pardon were offered for the picture only, and in a fortnight afterwards
it was happily restored to the gallery uninjured; but I did not hear that
the frame and jewels were ever recovered.