pleased me most. The Virgin is seated on a throne, holding the sacred
Infant, who extends his arms and smiles out upon the world he has come
to save. On the right stands St. George, his foot on the dragon's head;
behind him St. Peter Martyr; on the left, St. Geminiano and St. John the
Baptist. In the front of the picture two heavenly boys are playing with
the sword and helmet of St. George, which he has apparently cast down
at the foot of the throne. All in this picture is grand and sublime,
in the feeling, the forms, the colouring, the expression. But what,
says a wiseacre of a critic, rubbing up his school chronology, what have
St. Francis, and St. George, and St. John the Baptist, to do in the same
picture with the Virgin Mary? Did not St. George live nine hundred years
after St. John? and St. Francis five hundred years after St. George?
and so on. Yet this is properly no anachronism--no violation of the
proprieties of action, place, or time. These and similar pictures,
as the St. Jerome at Parma, and Raffaelle's Madonna, are not to be
considered as historical paintings, but as grand pieces of lyrical and
sacred poetry. In this particular picture, which was an altarpiece in the
church of Our Lady at Parma, we have in St. George the representation
of religious magnanimity; in St. John, religious enthusiasm; in St.
Geminiani, religious munificence; in St. Peter Martyr, religious
fortitude; and these are grouped round the most lovely impersonation
of innocence, chastity, and heavenly love. Such, as it appears to me,
is the true intention and signification of this and similar pictures.
But in the "Notte" (the Nativity) the case is different. It is properly
an historical picture; and if Correggio had placed St. George, or St.
Francis, or the Magdalene, as spectators, we might then exclaim at the
absurdity of the anachronism; but here Correggio has converted the
literal representation of a circumstance in sacred history into a divine
piece of poetry, when he gave us that emanation of supernatural light,
streaming from the form of the celestial Child, and illuminating the
extatic face of the virgin mother, who bends over her infant undazzled;
while another female draws back, veiling her eyes with her hand, as if
unable to endure the radiance. Far off, through the gloom of night, we
see the morning just breaking along the eastern horizon--emblem of the
"day-spring from on high."
This is precisely one of those pictures of which no copy or engraving
could convey any adequate idea; the sentiment of maternity (in which
Correggio excelled) is so exquisitely tender, and the colouring so
inconceivably transparent and delicate.
I suppose it is a sort of treason to say that in the Madonna di San
Francisco, the face of the virgin is tinctured with affectation; but
such was and _is_ my impression.
If I were to plan a new Dresden gallery, the Madonna del Sisto and the
"Notte" should each have a sanctuary apart, and be lighted from above;
at present they are ill-placed for effect.
When I could move from the Raffaelle room, I took advantage of the
presence and attendance of Professor Matthai, (who is himself a painter
of eminence here,) and went through a regular course of the Italian
schools of painting, beginning with Giotto. The collection is extremely
rich in the early Ferarese and Venetian painters, and it was most
interesting thus to trace the gradual improvement and development of the
school of colourists through Squarcione, Mantegna, the Bellini, Giorgione,
Paris Bordone, Palma, and Titian; until richness became exuberance, and
power verged upon excess in Paul Veronese and Tintoretto.
Certainly, I feel no inclination to turn my notebook into a catalogue;
but I must mention Titian's Christo della Moneta:--such a head!--so pure
from any trace of passion!--so refined, so intellectual, so benevolent!
The only head of Christ I ever entirely approved.
Here they have Giorgione's master-piece--the meeting of Rachel and
Jacob; and the three daughters of Palma, half-lengths, in the same
picture. The centre one, Violante, is a most lovely head.
There is here an extraordinary picture by Titian, representing Lucrezia
Borgia, presented by her husband to the Madonna. The portraits are the
size of life, half-lengths. I looked in vain in the countenance of
Lucrezia for some trace, some testimony of the crimes imputed to her;
but she is a fair, golden-haired, gentle-looking creature, with a feeble
and vapid expression. The head of her husband, Alphonso, is fine and
full of power. There are, I suppose, not less than fourteen or fifteen
pictures by Titian.
The Concina family, by Paul Veronese, esteemed his finest production,
is in the Dresden gallery, with ten others of the same master. Of Guido,
there are ten pictures, particularly that extraordinary one, _called_
Ninus and Semiramis, life size. Of the Carracci, at least eight or nine,
particularly the genius of Fame, which should be compared with that of
Guido. There are numerous pictures of Albano and Ribera; but very few
specimens of Salvator Rosa and Domenichino.
On the whole, I suppose that no gallery, except that of Florence, can
compete with the Dresden gallery in the treasures of Italian art. In
all, there are five hundred and thirty-four Italian pictures.
I pass over the Flemish, Dutch, and French pictures, which fill the
outer gallery: these exceed the Italian school in number, and many of
them are of surpassing merit and value, but, having just come from
Munich, where the eye and fancy are both satiated with this class of
pictures, I gave my attention principally to the Italian masters.
There is one room here entirely filled with the crayon paintings of
Rosalba, including a few by Liotard. Among them is a very interesting
head of Metastasio, painted when he was young. He has fair hair and blue
eyes, with small features, and an expression of mingled sensibility and
acuteness: no power.
Rosalba Carriera, perhaps the finest crayon painter who ever existed,
was a Venetian, born at Chiozza in 1675. She was an admirable creature
in every respect, possessing many accomplishments, besides the beautiful
art in which she excelled. Several anecdotes are preserved which prove
the sweetness of her disposition, and the clear simplicity of her mind.
Spence, who knew her personally, calls her "the most modest of painters;"
yet she used to say playfully, "I am charmed with every thing I do, for
eight hours after it is done!" This was natural while the excitement
of conception was fresh upon the mind. No one, however, could be more
fastidious and difficult about their own works than Rosalba. She was not
only an observer of countenance by profession, but a most acute observer
of character, as revealed in all its external indications. She said of
Sir Godfrey Kneller, after he had paid her a visit, "I concluded he could
not be religious, for he has no modesty." The general philosophical truth
comprised in these few words is not less admirable than the acuteness
of the remark, as applied to Kneller--a professed sceptic, and the most
self-sufficient coxcomb of his time.
Rosalba was invited at different times to almost all the courts of
Europe, and painted most of the distinguished persons of her time at
Vienna, Dresden, Berlin, and Paris; the lady-like refinements of her
mind and manners, which also marked her style of painting, recommended
her not less than her talents. She used, after her return to Italy, to
say her prayers in German, "because the language was so expressive."[34]
Rosalba became blind before her death, which occurred in 1757. Her
works in the Dresden gallery amount to at least one hundred and
fifty--principally portraits--but there are also some exquisite fancy
heads.
Thinking of Rosalba, reminds me that there are some pretty stories
told of women, who have excelled as professed artists. In general
the conscious power of maintaining themselves, habits of attention
and manual industry, the application of our feminine superfluity of
sensibility and imagination to a tangible result--have produced fine
characters. The daughter of Tintoretto, when invited to the courts of
Maximilian and Philip II. refused to leave her father. Violante Siries
of Florence gave a similar proof of filial affection; and when the grand
duke commanded her to paint her own portrait for the Florentine gallery,
where it now hangs, she introduced the portrait of her father, because
he had been her first instructor in art. When Henrietta Walters, the
famous Dutch miniature painter, was invited by Peter the Great and
Frederic, to their respective courts, with magnificent promises of
favour and patronage, she steadily refused; and when Peter, who had
no idea of giving way to obstacles, particularly in the female form,
pressed upon her in person the most splendid offers, and demanded the
reason of her refusal, she replied, that she was contented with her
lot, and could not bear the idea of living out of a free country.
Maria von Osterwyck, one of the most admirable flower painters,
had a lover, to whom she was a little partial, but his idleness and
dissipation distressed her. At length she promised to give him her hand
on condition that during one year he would work regularly ten hours a
day, observing that it was only what she had done herself from a very
early age. He agreed; and took a house opposite to her that she might
witness his industry; but habit was too strong, his love or his resolution
failed, and he broke the compact. She refused to be his wife; and no
entreaties could afterwards alter her determination never to accept the
man who had shown so little strength of character, and so little real
love. She was a wise woman, and as the event showed, not a heartless
one. She died unmarried, though surrounded by suitors.
It was the fate of Elizabeth Sirani, one of the most beautiful women, as
well as one of the most exquisite painters of her time, to live in the
midst of those deadly feuds between the pupils of Guido and those of
Domenichino, and she was poisoned at the age of twenty-six. She left
behind her one hundred and fifty pictures, an astonishing number if
we consider the age at which the world was deprived of this wonderful
creature, for they are finished with the utmost care in every part.
Madonnas and Magdalenes were her favourite subjects. She died in 1526.
Her best pictures are at Florence.
Sofonisba Angusciola had two sisters, Lucia and Europa, almost as gifted,
though not quite so celebrated as herself: these three "virtuous
gentlewomen," as Vasari calls them, lived together in the most
delightful sisterly union. One of Sofonisba's most beautiful pictures
represents her two sisters playing at chess, attended by the old duenna,
who accompanied them every where. When Sofonisba was invited to the court
of Spain, in 1560, she took her sisters with her--in short, they were
inseparable. They were all accomplished women. "We hear," said the pope,
in a complimentary letter to Sofonisba, on one of her pictures, "that
this your great talent is among the least you possess:" which letter is
said by Vasari to be a _sufficient_ proof of the genius of Sofonisba--as
if the holy Father's infallibility extended to painting! Luckily we have
proofs more undeniable in her own most lovely works--glowing with life
like those of Titian; and in the testimony of Vandyke, who said of her
in her later years, that "he had learned more from one old blind woman
in Italy than from all the masters of his art."
It is worth remarking, that almost all the women who have attained
celebrity in painting, have excelled in portraiture. The characteristic
of Rosalba is an exceeding elegance; of Angelica Kauffman exceeding
grace; but she wants nerve. Lavinia Fontana threw a look of sensibility
into her most masculine heads--she died broken-hearted for the loss of
an only son, whose portrait is her masterpiece.[35] The Sofonisba had
most dignity, and in her own portrait[36] a certain dignified simplicity
in the air and attitude strikes us immediately. Gentileschi has most
power: she was a gifted, but a profligate woman. All those whom I have
mentioned were women of undoubted genius; for they have each a style
apart, peculiar, and tinted by their individual character: but all,
except Gentileschi, were _feminine_ painters. They succeeded best in
feminine portraits, and when they painted history they were only admirable
in that class of subjects which came within the province of their sex;
beyond that boundary they became _fade_, insipid, or exaggerated: thus
Elizabeth Sirani's Annunciation is exquisite, and her Crucifixion
feeble; Angelica Kauffman's Nymphs and Madonnas are lovely; but her
picture of the warrior Herman, returning home after the defeat of the
Roman legions, is cold and ineffective. The result of these reflections
is, that there is a walk of art in which women may attain perfection,
and excel the other sex; as there is another department from which they
are excluded. You must change the physical organization of the race of
women before we produce a Rubens or a Michael Angelo. Then, on the other
hand, I fancy, no _man_ could paint like Louisa Sharpe, any more than
write like Mrs. Hemans. Louisa Sharpe, and her sister, are, in painting,
just what Mrs. Hemans is in poetry; we see in their works the same
characteristics--no feebleness, no littleness of design or manner,
nothing vapid, trivial, or affected,--and nothing masculine; all is
super-eminently, essentially feminine, in subject, style, and sentiment.
I wish to combat in every way that oft-repeated, but most false compliment
unthinkingly paid to women, that genius is of no sex; there may be
equality of power, but in its quality and application there will and must
be difference and distinction. If men would but remember this truth,
they would cease to treat with ridicule and jealousy the attainments and
aspirations of women, knowing that there never could be real competition
or rivalry. If women would admit this truth, they would not presume out
of their sphere:--but then we come to the necessity for some key to the
knowledge of ourselves and others--some scale for the just estimation of
our own qualities and powers, compared with those of others--the great
secret of self-regulation and happiness--the beginning, middle, and end
of all education.
But to return from this tirade. I wish my vagrant pen were less
discursive.
In the works of art, the presence of a power, felt rather than perceived,
and kept subordinate to the sentiment of grace, should mark the female
mind and hand. This is what I love in Rosalba, in our own Mrs. Carpenter,
in Madame de Freyberg, and in Eliza and Louisa Sharpe: in the latter
there is a high tone of moral as well as poetical feeling. Thus her
picture of the young girl coming out of church after disturbing the
equanimity of a whole congregation by her fine lady airs and her silk
attire, is a charming and most graceful satire on the foibles of
her sex. The idea, however, is taken from the Spectator. But Louisa
Sharpe can also create. Of another lovely picture,--that of the young,
forsaken, disconsolate, repentant mother, who sits drooping over her
child, "with looks bowed down in penetrative shame," while one or two of
the rigidly-righteous of her own sex turn from her with a scornful and
upbraiding air--I believe the subject is original; but it is obviously
one which never could have occurred, except to the most consciously pure
as well as the gentlest and kindest heart in the world. Never was a more
beautiful and Christian lesson conveyed by woman to woman; at once a
warning to our weakness, and a rebuke to our pride.[37]
_Apropos_ of female artists: I met here with a lady of noble birth and
high rank, the Countess Julie von Egloffstein,[38] who in spite of the
prejudices still prevailing in Germany, has devoted herself to painting
as a profession. Her vocation for the art was early displayed; but
combated and discouraged as derogatory to her rank and station; she was
for many years _demoiselle d'honneur_ to the grand Duchess Luise of
Weimar. Under all these circumstances, it required real strength of mind
to take the step she has taken; but a less decided course could not well
have emancipated her from trammels, the force of which can hardly be
estimated out of Germany. A recent journey to Italy, undertaken on account
of her health, fixed her determination, and her destiny for life.
In looking over her drawings and pictures, I was particularly struck
by one singularity, which yet, on reflection, appears perfectly
comprehensible. This high-born and court-bred woman shows a decided
predilection for the picturesque in humble life, and seems to have
turned to simple nature in perfect simplicity of heart. Being
self-taught and self-formed, there is nothing mannered or conventional
in her style; and I do hope she will assert the privilege of genius,
and, looking only into nature out of her own heart and soul, form and
keep a style to herself. I remember one little picture, painted either
for the queen of England or the queen of Bavaria, representing a young
Neapolitan peasant, seated at her cottage door, contemplating her child,
cradled at her feet, while the fishing bark of her husband is sailing
away in the distance. In this little bit of natural poetry there was no
seeking after effect, no prettiness, no pretension; but a quiet genuine
simplicity of feeling, which surprised while it pleased me. When I have
looked at the Countess Julie in her painting-room, surrounded by her
drawings, models, casts--all the powers of her exuberant enthusiastic
mind flowing free in their natural direction, I have felt at once
pleasure, and admiration, and respect. It should seem that the energy
of spirit and real magnanimity of mind which could trample over social
prejudices, not the less strong because manifestly absurd, united to
genius and perseverance, may, if life be granted, safely draw upon
futurity both for success and for fame.
* * * * *
I consider my introduction to Moritz Retzsch as one of the most
memorable and agreeable incidents of my short sojourn at Dresden.
This extraordinary genius, who is almost as popular and interesting in
England as in his own country, seems to have received from Nature a
double portion of the inventive faculty--that rarest of all her good
gifts, even to those who are her especial favourites. As his published
works by which he is principally known in England (the Outlines to
the Faust, to Shakspeare, to Schiller's Song of the Bell, &c.) are
illustrations of the ideas of others, few but those who may possess some
of his original drawings are aware, that Retzsch is himself a poet of
the first order, using his glorious power of graphic delineation to
throw into form the conceptions, thoughts, aspirations, of his own
glowing imagination and fertile fancy. Retzsch was born at Dresden in
1779, and has never, I believe, been far from his native place. From
childhood he was a singular being, giving early indications of his
imitative power by drawing or carving in wood, resemblances of the
objects which struck his attention, without the slightest idea in
himself or others of becoming eventually an artist; and I have even
heard that, when he was quite a youth, his enthusiastic mind, labouring
with a power which he felt rather than knew, his love of the wilder
aspects of nature, and impatience of the restraints of artificial life,
had nearly induced him to become a huntsman or forester (Jaeger) in the
royal service. However, at the age of twenty, his love of art became a
decided vocation. The little property he had inherited or accumulated
was dissipated during that war, which swept like a whirlwind over all
Germany, overwhelming prince and peasant, artist, mechanic, in one
wide-spreading desolation. Since that time Retzsch has depended on his
talents alone--content to live poor in a poor country. He has, by the
exertion of his talents, achieved for himself a small independence, and
contributed to the support of a large family of relations, also ruined
by the casualties of war. His usual residence is at his own pretty
little farm or vineyard a few miles from Dresden. When in the town,
where his duties as professor of the Academy frequently call him, he
lodges in a small house in the Neustadt, close upon the banks of the
Elbe, in a retired and beautiful situation. Thither I was conducted
by our mutual friend, N----, whose appreciation of Retzsch's talents,
and knowledge of his peculiarities, rendered him the best possible
intermediator on this occasion.
The professor received us in a room which appeared to answer many
purposes, being obviously a sleeping as well as a sitting-room, but
perfectly neat. I saw at once that there was every where a woman's
superintending eye and thoughtful care; but did not know at the moment
that he was married. He received us with open-hearted frankness, at
the same time throwing on the stranger one of those quick glances
which seemed to look through me: in return, I contemplated him with
inexpressible interest. His figure is rather larger, and more portly
than I had expected; but I admired his fine Titanic head, so large, and
so sublime in its expression; his light blue eye, wild and wide, which
seemed to drink in meaning and flash out light; his hair profuse,
grizzled, and flowing in masses round his head: and his expanded brow
full of poetry and power. In his deportment he is a mere child of nature,
simple, careless, saying just what he feels and thinks at the moment,
without regard to forms; yet pleasing from the benevolent earnestness
of his manner, and intuitively polite without being polished.
After some conversation, he took us into his painting room. As a
colourist, I believe his style is criticised, and open to criticism;
it is at least singular; but I must confess that while I was looking
over his things I was engrossed by the one conviction;--that while his
peculiar merits, and the preference of one manner to another may be a
matter of argument or taste, it is certain, and indisputable, that no
one paints _like_ Retzsch, and that, in the original power and fertility
of _conception_, in the quantity of _mind_ which he brings to bear upon
his subject, he is in his own style unequalled and inimitable. I was
rather surprised to see in some of his designs and pencil drawings, the
most elaborate delicacy of touch, and most finished execution of parts,
combined with a fancy which seems to run wild over his paper or his
canvas; but only _seems_--for it must be remarked, that with all this
luxuriance of imagination, there is no exaggeration, either of form or
feeling; he is peculiar, fantastic, even extravagant--but never false in
sentiment or expression. The reason is, that in Retzsch's character the
moral sentiments are strongly developed; where _they_ are deficient, let
the artist who aims at the highest poetical department of excellence,
despair; for no possession of creative talent, nor professional skill,
nor conventional taste, will supply that main deficiency.
I saw in Retzsch's atelier many things novel, beautiful, and interesting;
but will note only a few, which have dwelt upon my memory, as being
characteristic of the man as well as the artist.
There was, on a small pannel, the head of an angel smiling. He said he
was often pursued by dark fancies, haunted by melancholy forebodings,
desponding over himself and his art, "and he resolved to create an angel
for himself, which should smile upon him out of heaven." So he painted
his most lovely head, in which the radiant spirit of joy seems to
beam from every feature at once; and I thought while I looked upon it,
that it were enough to exorcise a whole legion of blue devils. It is
rarely that we can associate the mirthful with the beautiful and the
sublime--even I could have deemed it next to impossible; but the
effulgent cheerfulness of this divine face corrected that idea, which,
after all, is not in bright lovely Nature, but in the shadow which the
mighty spirit of Humanity casts from his wings, as he hangs brooding
over her between heaven and earth.
Afterwards he placed upon his easel a wondrous face, which made me
shrink back--not with terror, for it was perfectly beautiful--but
with awe, for it was unspeakably fearful: the hair streamed back from
the pale brow--the orbs of sight appeared at first two dark, hollow,
unfathomable spaces, like those in a skull; but when I drew nearer, and
looked attentively, two lovely living eyes looked at me again out of
the depth of shadow, as of from the bottom of an abyss. The mouth was
divinely sweet, but sad, and the softest repose rested on every feature.
This, he told me, was the ANGEL OF DEATH: it was the original conception
of a head for the large picture now at Vienna, representing the Angel
of Death bearing aloft two children into the regions of the blessed:
the heavens opening above, and the earth and stars sinking beneath
his feet.