MUNICH (CONTINUED).
Tuesday.—M. de Klenze called this morning and conducted me over the whole of the new palace. The design, when completed, will form a vast quadrangle. It was begun about seven years ago; and as only a certain sum is set apart every year for the works, it will probably be seven years more before the portion now in progress, which is the south side of the quadrangle, can be completed.
The exterior of the building is plain, but has an air of grandeur even from its simplicity and uniformity. It reminds me of Sir Philip Sydney's beautiful description—"A house built of fair and strong stone; not affecting so much any extraordinary kind of fineness, as an honourable representing of a firm stateliness; all more lasting than beautiful, but that the consideration of the exceeding lastingness made the eye believe it was exceeding beautiful."
When a selfish despot designs a palace, it is for himself he builds. He thinks first of his own personal tastes and peculiar habits, and the arrangements are contrived to suit his exclusive propensities. Thus, for Nero's overwhelming pride, no space, no height, could suffice; so he built his "golden house" upon a scale which obliged its next possessor to pull it to pieces, as only fit to lodge a colossus. George the Fourth had a predilection for low ceilings, so all the future inhabitants of the Pimlico palace must endure suffocation; and as his majesty did not live on good terms with his wife, no accommodation was prepared for a future queen of England.
The commands which the king of Bavaria gave De Klenze were in a different spirit. "Build me a palace, in which nothing within or without shall be of transient fashion or interest; a palace for my posterity, and my people, as well as myself; of which the decorations shall be durable as well as splendid, and shall appear one or two centuries hence as pleasing to the eye and taste as they do now." "Upon this principle," said De Klenze, looking round, "I designed what you now see."
On the first floor are the apartments of the king and queen, all facing the south: a parallel range of apartments behind contains accommodation for the attendants, ladies of honour, chamberlains, &c.; a grand staircase on the east leads to the apartments of the king, another on the west to those of the queen; the two suites of apartments uniting in the centre, where the private and sleeping rooms communicate with each other. All the chambers allotted to the king's use are painted with subjects from the Greek poets, and those of the queen from the German poets.
We began with the king's apartments. The approach to the staircase I did not quite understand, for it appears small and narrow; but this part of the building is evidently incomplete.
The staircase is beautiful, but simple, consisting of a flight of wide broad steps of the native marble; there is no gilding; the ornaments on the ceiling represent the different arts and manufactures carried on in Bavaria. Over the door which opens into the apartments is the king's motto in gold letters, Gerecht und Beharrlich—Just and Firm. Two Caryatides support the entrance: on one side the statue of Astrea, and on the other the Greek Victory without wings—the first expressing justice, the last firmness or constancy. These figures are colossal, and modelled by Schwanthaler in a grand and severe style of art.
I. The first antechamber is decorated with great simplicity. On the cornice round the top is represented the history of Orpheus and the expedition of the Argonauts, from Linus, the earliest Greek poet. The figures are in outline, shaded in brown, but without relief or colour, exactly like those on the Etruscan vases. The walls are stuccoed in imitation of marble.
II. The second antechamber is less simple in its decoration. The frieze round the top is broader, (about three feet,) and represents the Theogony, the wars of the Titans, &c. from Hesiod. The figures are in outline, and tinted, but without relief, in the manner of some of the ancient Greek paintings on vases, tombs, &c. The effect is very classical, and very singular. Schwanthaler, by whom these decorations were designed, has displayed all the learning of a profound and accomplished scholar, as well as the skill of an artist. In general feeling and style they reminded me of Flaxman's outlines to Æschylus.
The walls of this room are also stuccoed in imitation of marble, with compartments, in which are represented, in the same style, other subjects from the "Weeks and Days," and the "Birth of Pandora." The ornaments are in the oldest Greek style.
III. A saloon, or reception room, for those who are to be presented to the king. On this room, which is in a manner public, the utmost luxury of decoration is to be expended; but it is yet unfinished. The subjects are from Homer. In compartments on the ceiling are represented the gods of Greece; the gorgeous ornaments with which they are intermixed being all in the Greek style. Round the frieze, at the top of the room, the subjects are taken from the four Homeric hymns. The walls will be painted from the Iliad and Odyssey, in compartments, mingled with the richest arabesques. The effect of that part of the room which is finished is indescribably splendid; but I cannot pause to dwell upon minutiæ.
IV. The throne-room. The decorations of this room combine, in an extraordinary degree, the utmost splendour and the utmost elegance. The whole is adorned with bas-reliefs in white stucco, raised upon a ground of dead gold. The compositions are from Pindar. Round the frieze are the games of Greece, the chariot and foot-race, the horse-race, the wrestlers, the cestus, &c. Immediately over the throne, Pindar, singing to his lyre, before the judges of the Olympic games. On each side a comic and a tragic poet receiving a prize. The exceeding lightness and grace, the various fancy, the purity of style, the vigour of life and movement displayed here, all prove that Schwanthaler has drank deep of classical inspiration, and that he has not looked upon the frieze of the Parthenon in vain. The subjects on the walls are various groups from the same poet; over the throne is the king's motto, and on each side, Alcides and Achilles; the history of Jason and Medea, Castor and Pollux, Deucalion and Pyrrha, &c. occupy compartments, differing in form and size. The decoration of this magnificent room appeared to me a little too much broken up into parts—and yet, on the whole, it is most beautiful; the Graces as well as the Muses presided over the whole of these "fancies, chaste and noble;" and there is excellent taste in the choice of the poet, and the subjects selected, as harmonizing with the destination of the room: all are expressive of power, of triumph, of moral or physical greatness.[ 1] The walls are of dead gold, from the floor to the ceiling, and the gilding of this room alone cost 72,000 florins.
V. A saloon, or antechamber. The ceiling and walls admirably painted, from the tragedies of Æschylus.
VI. The king's study, or cabinet de travail. The subjects from Sophocles, equally classical in taste, and rich in colour and effect. In the arch at one end of this room are seven compartments, in which are inscribed in gold letters, the sayings of the seven Greek sages.
Schwanthaler furnished the outlines of the compositions from Æschylus and Sophocles, which are executed in colours by Wilhelm Röckel of Schleissheim.
VII. The king's dressing-room. The subjects from Aristophanes, painted by Hiltensberger of Suabia, certainly one of the best painters here. There is exquisite fantastic grace and spirit in these designs.
"It was fit," said de Klenze, "that the first objects which his majesty looked upon on rising from his bed should be gay and mirth-inspiring."
VIII. The king's bedroom. The subjects from Theocritus, by different painters, but principally Professor Heinrich Hess and Bruchmann. This room pleased me least.
No description could give an adequate idea of the endless variety, and graceful and luxuriant ornament harmonizing with the various subjects, and the purpose of each room, and lavished on the walls and ceilings, even to infinitude. The general style is very properly borrowed from the Greek decorations at Herculaneum and Pompeii; not servilely copied, but varied with an exhaustless prodigality of fancy and invention, and applied with exquisite taste. The combination of the gayest, brightest colours has been studied with care, their proportion and approximation calculated on scientific principles; so that the result, instead of being gaudy and perplexing to the eye, is an effect the most captivating, brilliant, and harmonious that can be conceived.
The material used is the encaustic painting, which has been revived by M. de Klenze. He spent four months at Naples analysing the colours used in the encaustic paintings at Herculaneum and Pompeii, and by innumerable experiments reducing the process to safe practice. Professor Zimmermann explained to me the other day, as I stood beside him while he worked, the general principle, and the advantages of this style. It is much more rapid than oil painting; it is also much less expensive, requiring both cheaper materials and in smaller quantity. It dries more quickly: the surface is not so glazy and unequal, requiring no particular light to be seen to advantage. The colours are wonderfully bright: it is capable of as high a finish, and it is quite as durable as oils. Both mineral and vegetable colours can be used.
Now to return. The king's bedchamber opens into the queen's apartments, but to take these in order we must begin at the beginning. The staircase, which is still unfinished, will be in a much richer style of architecture than that on the king's side: it is sustained with beautiful columns of native marble.
I. Antechamber; painted from the history and poems of Walther von der Vogelweide, by Gassen of Coblentz, a young painter of distinguished merit.
Walther "of the bird-meadow," for that is the literal signification of his name, was one of the most celebrated of the early Suabian Minnesingers,[ 2] and appears to have lived from 1190 to 1240. He led a wandering life, and was at different times in the service of several princes of Germany. He figured at the famous "strife of poets," at the castle of Wartsburg, which took place in 1207, in presence of Hermann, landgrave of Thuringia and the landgravine Sophia: this is one of the most celebrated incidents in the history of German poetry. He also accompanied Leopold VII. to the Holy Land. His songs are warlike, patriotic, moral, and religious. "Of love he has always the highest conception, as of a principle of action, a virtue, a religious affection; and in his estimation of female excellence, he is below none of his contemporaries."[ 3]
In the centre of the ceiling is represented the poetical contest at Wartsburg, and Walther is reciting his verses in presence of his rivals and the assembled judges. At the upper end of the room Walther is exhibited exactly as he describes himself in one of his principal poems, seated on a high rock in a melancholy attitude, leaning on his elbow, and contemplating the troubles of his desolate country; in the opposite arch, the old poet is represented as feeding the little birds which are fluttering round him—in allusion to his will, which directed that the birds should be fed yearly upon his tomb. Another compartment represents Walther showing to his Geliebte (his mistress) the reflection of her own lovely face in his polished shield. There are other subjects which I cannot recall. The figures in all these groups are the size of life.
II. The next room is painted from the poems of Wolfram of Eschenbach, another, and one of the most fertile of the old Minnesingers; he also was present at the contest at Wartsburg, "and wandered from castle to castle like a true courteous knight, dividing his time between feats of arms and minstrelsy." He versified, in the German tongue, the romance of the "Saint-Greal," making it an original production, and the central point, if the expression may be allowed, of an innumerable variety of adventures, which he has combined, like Ariosto, in artful perplexity, in the poems of Percival and Titurel.[ 4] These adventures furnish the subjects of the paintings on the ceiling and walls, which are executed by Hermann of Dresden, one of the most distinguished of the pupils of Cornelius.
The ornaments in these two rooms, which are exceedingly rich and appropriate, are in the old gothic style, and reminded me of the illuminations in the ancient MSS.
III. A saloon (salon de service) appropriated to the ladies in waiting: painted from the ballads of Bürger, by Foltz of Bingen. The ceiling of this room is perfectly exquisite—it is formed entirely of small rosettes, (about a foot in diameter,) varying in form, and combining every hue of the rainbow—the delicacy and harmony of the entire effect is quite indescribable. The rest of the decorations are not finished, but the choice of the poet and the subjects, considering the destination of the room, delighted me. The fate of "Lenora," and that of the "Curate's Daughter," will be edifying subjects of contemplation for the maids of honour.
IV. The throne-room. Magnificent in the general effect; elegant and appropriate in the design.
On the ceiling, which is richly ornamented, are four medallions, exhibiting, under the effigies of four admirable women, the four feminine cardinal virtues. Constancy is represented by Maria Theresa; maternal love, by Cornelia; charity, by St. Elizabeth, (the Margravine of Thuringia;[ 5]) and filial tenderness, by Julia Pia Alpinula.
And there—O sweet and sacred be the name!
Julia, the daughter, the devoted, gave
Her youth to Heaven; her heart beneath a claim
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave.
Lord Byron.
"I always avoid emblematical and allegorical figures, wherever it is possible, for they are cold and arbitrary, and do not speak to the heart!" said M. de Klenze, perceiving how much I was charmed with the idea of thus personifying the womanly virtues.
The paintings round the room are from the poems of Klopstock, and executed by Wilhelm Kaulbach, an excellent artist. Only the frieze is finished. It consists of a series of twelve compartments: three on each side of the room, and divided from each other by two boys of colossal size, grouped as Caryatides, and in very high relief. These compartments represent the various scenes of the Herman-Schlacht; the sacrifices of the Druids; the adieus of the women; the departure of the warriors; the fight with Varus; the victory; the return of Herman to his wife Thusnelda, &c.
Herman, or, as the Roman historians call him, Arminius, was a chieftain of the Cheruscans, a tribe of northern Germany. After serving in Illyria, and there learning the Roman arts of warfare, he came back to his native country, and fought successfully for its independence. He defeated, beside a defile near Detmold, in Westphalia, the Roman legions under the command of Varus, with a slaughter so mortifying, that the proconsul is said to have killed himself, and Augustus to have received the news of the catastrophe with indecorous expressions of grief. It is this defeat of Varus which forms the theme of one of Klopstock's chorus-dramas, entitled, "The Battle of Herman." The dialogue is concise and picturesque; the characters various, consistent, and energetic; a lofty colossal frame of being belongs to them all, as in the paintings of Caravaggio. To Herman, the disinterested zealot of patriotism and independence, a preference of importance is wisely given; yet, perhaps, his wife Thusnelda acts more strongly on the sympathy by the enthusiastic veneration and affection she displays for her hero-consort.[ 6]
V. Saloon, or drawing-room. The paintings from Wieland, by Eugene Neureuther, (already known in England by his beautiful arabesque illustrations of Goethe's ballads.) The frieze only of this room, which is from the Oberon, is in progress.
VI. The queen's bedroom. The paintings from Goethe, and chiefly by Kaulbach. The ceiling is exquisite, representing in compartments various scenes from Goethe's principal lyrics; the Herman and Dorothea; Pausias and Glycera, &c., intermixed with the most rich and elegant ornaments in relief.
VII. The queen's study, or private sitting-room. A small but very beautiful room, with paintings from Schiller, principally by Lindenschmidt of Mayence. On the ceiling are groups from the Wallenstein; the Maid of Orleans; the Bride of Corinth; Wilhelm Tell; and on the walls, in compartments, mingled with the most elegant ornaments, scenes from the Fridolin, the Toggenburg, the Dragon of Rhodes, and other of his lyrics.
VIII. The queen's library. As the walls will be covered with book-cases, all the splendour of decoration is lavished on the ceiling, which is inexpressibly rich and elegant. The paintings are from the works of Ludwig Tieck—from the Octavianus, the Genoneva, Fortunatus, the Puss in Boots, &c., and executed by Von Schwind.
The dining-room is magnificently painted with subjects from Anacreon, intermixed with ornaments and bacchanalian symbols, all in the richest colouring. In the compartments on the ceiling, the figures are the size of life—in those round the walls, half-life size. Nothing can exceed the luxuriant fancy, the gaiety, the classical elegance, and amenity of some of these groups. They are all by Professor Zimmermann.
One of these paintings, a group representing, I think, Anacreon with the Graces, (it is at the east end of the room,) is usually pointed out as an example of the perfection to which the encaustic painting has been carried: in fact, it would be difficult to exceed it in the mingled harmony, purity, and brilliance of the colouring.
M. Zimmermann told me, that when he submitted the cartoons for these paintings to the king's approbation, his majesty desired a slight alteration to be made in a group representing a nymph embraced by a bacchanal; not as being in itself faulty, but "à cause de ses enfans," his eldest daughters being accustomed to dine with himself and the queen.
Now it must be remembered that these seventeen rooms form the domestic apartments of the royal family; and magnificent as they are, a certain elegance, cheerfulness, and propriety have been more consulted than parade and grandeur: but on the ground-floor there is a suite of state apartments, prepared for the reception of strangers, &c., on great and festive occasions; and these excited my admiration more than all the rest together.
The paintings are entirely executed in fresco, on a grand scale, by Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld, certainly one of the greatest living artists of Europe: and these four rooms will form, when completed, the very triumph of the romantic school of painting. It is not alone the invention displayed in the composition, nor the largeness, boldness, and freedom of the drawing, nor the vigour and splendour of the colouring; it is the enthusiastic sympathy of the painter with his subject; the genuine spirit of the old heroic, or rather Teutonic ages of Germany, breathed through and over his singular creations, which so peculiarly distinguish them. They are the very antipodes of all our notions of the classical—they take us back to the days of Gothic romance, and legendary lore—to the "fiery Franks and furious Huns"—to the heroes, in short, of the Nibelungen Lied, from which all the subjects are taken.
To enable the merely English reader to feel, or at least understand, the interest attached to this grand series of paintings, without which it is impossible to do justice to the artist, it is necessary to give a slight sketch of the poem which he has thus magnificently illustrated.[ 7]
"This national epic, as it is justly termed by M. Von der Hagen, has lately attracted a most unprecedented degree of attention in Germany. It now actually forms a part of the philological courses in many of their universities, and it has been hailed with almost as much veneration as the Homeric songs. Some allowance must be made for German enthusiasm, but it cannot be denied that the Nibelungen Lied, though a little too bloody and dolorous, possesses extraordinary merits." The hero and heroine of this poem are Siegfried, (son of Siegmund, king of Netherland, and of Sighelind his queen,) and Chrimhilde, princess of Burgundy. Siegfried, or Sifrit, the Sigurd of the Scandinavian Sagas, is the favourite hero of the northern parts of Germany. His spear, "a mighty pine beam," was preserved with veneration at Worms; and there, in the church of St. Cecilia, he is supposed to have been buried. The German romances do not represent him as being of gigantic proportions, but they all agree that he became invulnerable by bathing in the blood of a dragon, which guarded the treasures of the Nibelungen, and which he overcame and killed; but it happened that as he bathed, a leaf fell and rested between his shoulders, and consequently, that one little spot, about a hand's breadth, still remained susceptible of injury. Siegfried also possesses the wondrous tarn-cap, which had the power of rendering the wearer invisible.
This formidable champion, after winning the love and the hand of the fair princess Chrimhilde, and performing a thousand valiant deeds, is treacherously murdered by the three brothers of Chrimhilde, Gunther, king of Burgundy, Ghiseler, Gernot, and their uncle Hagen, instigated by queen Brunhilde, the wife of Gunther. Chrimhilde meditates for years the project of a deep and deadly revenge on the murderers of her husband. This vengeance is in fact the subject of the Nibelungen Lied, as the wrath of Achilles is the subject of the Iliad.
The poem opens thus beautifully with a kind of argument of the whole eventful story.
"In ancient song and story marvels high are told
Of knights of bold emprize and adventures mani-fold;
Of joy and merry feasting, of lamenting, woe, and fear;
Of champions' bloody battles many marvels shall ye hear.
A noble maid and fair, grew up in Burgundy,
In all the land about fairer none might be;
She became a queen full high, Chrimhild was she hight,
But for her matchless beauty fell many a blade of might.
For love and for delight was framed that lady gay,
Many a champion bold sighed for that gentle May;
Beauteous was her form! beauteous without compare!
The virgin's virtues might adorn many a lady fair.
Three kings of might had the maiden in their care,
King Gunther and king Gernot, champions bold they were,
And Ghiselar the young, a chosen peerless blade:
The lady was their sister, and much they loved the maid."
Then follows an enumeration of the heroes in attendance on king Gunther: Haghen, the fierce; Dankwart, the swift; Volker, the minstrel knight; and others; "all champions bold and free;"—and then the poet proceeds to open the argument.
"One night the queen Chrimhild dreamt her as she lay,
How she had trained and nourished a falcon, wild and gay;
When suddenly two eagles fierce the gentle hawk have slain—
Never, in this world felt she such cruel pain!
To her mother, Uta, she told her dream with fear.
Full mournfully she answered to what the maid did spier,
'The falcon, whom you cherished, a gentle knight is he:
God take him to his ward! thou must lose him suddenly.'
'What speak you of the knight? dearest mother, say!
Without the love of Champion, to my dying day,
Ever thus fair will I remain, nor take a wedded fere
To gain such pain and sorrow—though the knight were without peer!'
'Speak not thou too rashly!' her mother spake again.
'If ever in this world, thou heart-felt joy wilt gain,
Maiden must thou be no more; Leman must thou have.
God will grant thee for thy mate, some gentle knight and brave.'
'O leave thy words, lady mother; speak not of wedded mate,
Full many a gentle maiden hath found the truth too late:
Still has their fondest love ended with woe and pain;
Virgin will I ever be, nor the love of Leman gain.'
In virtues high and noble that gentle maiden dwelt,
Full many a night and day, nor love for Leman felt.
To never a knight or champion would she plight her virgin truth,
Till she was gained for wedded fere by a right noble youth.
That youth, he was the falcon, she in her dream beheld,
Who by the two fierce eagles, dead to the ground was fell'd:
But since right dreadful vengeance she took upon his foen;
For the death of that bold hero, died full many a mother's son."
After this exordium the story commences, the first half ending with the assassination of Siegfried.
Some years after the murder of Siegfried, Chrimhilde gives her hand to Etzel, (or Attila,) king of the Huns, in order that through his power and influence she may be enabled to execute her long-cherished schemes of vengeance. The assassins accordingly, and all their kindred and followers, are induced to visit King Etzel at Vienna, where, by the instigation of Chrimhilde, a deadly feud arises; in the course of which almost the whole army on both sides are cruelly slaughtered. By the powerful, but reluctant aid of Dietrich of Bern,[ 8] Hagen, the murderer of Siegfried, is at last vanquished, and brought bound to the feet of the queen, who at once raises the sword of her departed hero, and with her own hand strikes off the head of his enemy. Hildebrand instantly avenges the atrocious and unhospitable act, by stabbing the queen, who falls exulting on the body of her hated victim.
When Gunther's arms, and those of his brothers and champions, are brought to Worms, Brunhilde repents too late of her treachery to Siegfried, and the old queen Uta dies of grief. As to King Etzel, the poet professes himself ignorant, "whether he died in battle, or was taken up to heaven, or fell out of his skin, or was swallowed up by the devil;" leaving to his reader the choice of these singular catastrophes;—and thus the story ends.[ 9]
The rivalry between Chrimhilde and her amazonian sister-in-law, Brunhilde, forms the most interesting and amusing episode in the poem; and the characters of the two queens—the fierce haughty Brunhilde, and the impassioned, devoted, confiding Chrimhilde—(whom the very excess of conjugal love converts into a relentless fury,) are admirably discriminated. "The work is divided into thirty-eight books, or adventures; and besides a liberal allowance of sorcery and wonders, contains a great deal of clear and animated narrative, and innumerable curious and picturesque traits of the manners of the age. The characters of the different warriors, as well as those of the two queens, and their heroic consorts, are very naturally and powerfully drawn—especially that of Hagen, the murderer of Siegfried, in whom the virtues of an heroic and chivalrous leader are strangely united with the atrocity and impenitent hardihood of an assassin.
"The author of the Lay of the Nibelungen has not been ascertained. In its present form it must have existed between the twelfth and thirteenth centuries;—this is proved by the language; but the manners, tone, thoughts, and actions, which are all in perfect keeping, bear testimony to an antiquity far beyond that of the present dress of the poem."
Here then was a boundless, an inexhaustible fund of inspiration for such a painter as Julius Schnorr; and his poetical fancy appears to have absolutely revelled in the grand, the gay, the tragic subjects afforded to his creative pencil.
In the first room, immediately over the entrance, he has represented the poet, or presumed author of the Nibelungen—an inspired figure, attended by two listening genii. On each side, but a little lower down, are two figures looking towards him; on one side a beautiful female, striking a harp, and attended by a genius crowned with roses—represents song or poesy. On the other side, a sybil listening to the voice of Time, represents tradition. The figures are all colossal.
Below, on each side of this door, are two beautiful groups. That to the right of the spectator represents Siegfried and Chrimhilde. She is leaning on the shoulder of her warlike husband with an air of the most inimitable and graceful abandonment in her whole figure: a falcon sits upon her hand, on which her eyes are turned with the most profound expression of tenderness and melancholy; she is thinking upon her dream, in which was foreshadowed the early and terrible doom of her husband.
It is said at Munich, that the wife of Schnorr, an exquisitely beautiful woman, whom he married under romantic circumstances, was the model of his Chrimhilde, and that one of her spontaneous attitudes furnished the idea of this exquisite group, on which I never look without emotion. The depth and splendour of the colouring adds to the effect. The figures are rather above the size of life.
On the opposite side of the door, as a pendant, we have Gunther, and his queen, Brunhilde. He holds one of her hands, with a deprecating expression. She turns from him with an averted countenance, exhibiting in her whole look and attitude, grief, rage, and shame. It is evident that she has just made the fatal discovery of her husband's obligations to Siegfried, which urges her to the destruction of the latter. I have heard travellers ignorantly criticise the grand, and somewhat exaggerated forms of Brunhilde, as being "really quite coarse and unfeminine." In the poem she is represented as possessing the strength of twelve men; and when Hagen sees her throw a spear, which it required four warriors to lift, he exclaims to her alarmed suitor, King Gunther,
"Aye! how is it, King Gunther? here must you tine your life!
The lady you would gain, well might be the devil's wife!"
It is by the secret assistance of Siegfried, and his tarn-cap, that Gunther at length vanquishes and humbles this terrible heroine, and she avenges her humiliation by the murder of Siegfried.
Around the room are sixteen full-length portraits of the other principal personages who figure in the Nibelungen Lied—portraits they may well be called, for their extraordinary spirit, and truth of character. In one group we have the fierce Hagen, the courteous Dankwart, and between them, Volker tuning his viol; of him it is said—
Bolder and more knight-like fiddler, never shone the sun upon,
and he plays a conspicuous part in the catastrophe of the poem.
Opposite to this group, we have queen Uta, the mother of Chrimhilde, between her sons, Gernot and Ghiselar: in another compartment, Siegmund and Sighelind, the father and mother of Siegfried.
Over the window opposite to the entrance, Hagen is consulting the mermaids of the Danube, who foretell the destruction which awaits him at the court of Etzel: and lower down on each side of the window, King Etzel with his friend Rudiger, and those faithful companions in arms, old Hildebrand and Dietrich of Bern. The power of invention, the profound feeling of character, and extraordinary antiquarian knowledge displayed in these figures, should be seen to be understood. Those which most struck me (next to Chrimhilde and her husband) were the figures of the daring Hagen and the venerable queen Uta.
On the ceiling, which is vaulted, and enriched with most gorgeous ornaments, intermixed with heraldic emblazonments, are four small compartments in fresco: in which are represented, the marriage of Siegfried and Chrimhilde, the murder of Siegfried, the vengeance of Chrimhilde, and the death of Chrimhilde. These are painted in vivid colours on a black ground.
On the whole, on looking round this most splendid and interesting room, I could find but one fault: I could have wished that the ornaments on the walls and ceiling (so rich and beautiful to the eye) had been more completely and consistently gothic in style; they would then have harmonized better with the subjects of the paintings.
In the next room, the two sides are occupied by two grand frescos, each about five-and-twenty feet in length, and covering the whole wall. In the first, Siegfried brings the kings of Saxony and Denmark prisoners to the court of king Gunther. The second represents the reception of the victorious Siegfried by the two queens, Uta and Chrimhilde. This is the first interview of the lovers, and furnishes one of the most admired passages in the poem.
"And now the beauteous lady, like the rosy morn,
Dispersed the misty clouds; and he who long had borne
In his heart the maiden, banish'd pain and care,
As now before his eyes stood the glorious maiden fair.
From her embroidered garment, glittered many a gem,
And on her lovely cheek, the rosy red did gleam;
Whoever in his glowing soul had imaged lady bright,
Confessed that fairer maiden never stood before his sight.
And as the moon at night, stands high the stars among,
And moves the mirky clouds above, with lustre bright and strong;
So stood before her maidens, that maid without compare:
Higher swelled the courage of many a champion there."
Between the two doors there is the marriage of Siegfried and Chrimhilde. The second of these frescos is nearly finished; of the others I only saw the cartoons, which are magnificent. The third room will contain, arranged in the same manner, three grand frescos, representing 1st. the scene in which the rash curiosity of Chrimhilde prevails over the discretion of her husband, and he gives her the ring and the girdle which he had snatched as trophies from the vanquished Brunhilde.[ 10] 2ndly. The death of Siegfried, assassinated by Hagen, who stabs the hero in the back, as he stoops to drink from the forest-well. And 3rdly. The body of Siegfried exposed in the cathedral at Worms, and watched by Chrimhilde, "who wept three days and three nights by the corse of her murdered lord, without food and without sleep."
The fourth room will contain the second marriage of Chrimhilde; her complete and sanguinary vengeance; and her death. None of these are yet in progress. But the three cartoons of the death of Siegfried; the marriage of Siegfried and Chrimhilde; and the fatal curiosity of Chrimhilde, I had the pleasure of seeing in Professor Schnorr's studio at the academy; I saw at the same time his picture of the death of the emperor Frederic Barbarossa, which has excited great admiration here, but I confess I do not like it; nor do I think that Schnorr paints as well in oils as in fresco—the latter is certainly his forte.
Often have I walked up and down these superb rooms, looking up at Schnorr and his assistants, and watching intently the preparation and the process of the fresco painting—and often I thought, "What would some of our English painters—Etty, or Hilton, or Briggs, or Martin—O what would they give to have two or three hundred feet of space before them, to cover at will with grand and glorious creations,—scenes from Chaucer, or Spenser, or Shakspeare, or Milton, proudly conscious that they were painting for their country and posterity, spurred on by the spirit of their art and national enthusiasm, and generously emulating each other!" Alas! how different!—with us such men as Hilton and Etty illustrate annuals, and the genius of Turner shrinks into a vignette!
I should add, before I throw down my weary pen, that every part of the new palace, from the ensemble down to the minutest details of the ornaments (the paintings excepted) has been designed by De Klenze, who executed seven hundred drawings with his own hand for this palace alone, without reckoning his designs for the Glyptothek and the Pinakothek.
This has been a busy and exciting day. Then in the evening a soirée—music—
O quite tired in spirits, in voice, in mind, in heart, in frame!
Oct. 14th.—Accompanied by my kind friend, Madame de K——, and conducted by Roekel, the painter, I visited the unfinished chapel adjoining the new palace. It is painted (or rather painting) in fresco, on a gold ground, with extraordinary richness and beauty, uniting the old Greek, or rather Byzantine manner, with the old Italian style of decoration. It reminded me, in the general effect, of the interior of St. Mark's at Venice,—but, of course, the details are executed in a grander feeling, and in a much higher style of art. The pillars are of the native marble, and the walls will be covered with a kind of Mosaic of various marbles, intermixed with ornaments in relief, in gilding, in colours—all combined, and harmonizing together. The ceiling is formed of two large domes or cupolas. In the first is represented the Old Testament: in the very centre, the Creator; in a circle round him, the six days' creation. Around this again, in a larger circle, the building of the ark; the Deluge; the sacrifice of Noah; and the first covenant. In the four corners, the colossal figures of the patriarchs, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. These are designed in a very grand and severe style. The second cupola is dedicated to the New Testament. In the centre, the Redeemer: around him four groups of cherubs, three in each group. We were on the scaffold erected for the painters—near enough to remark the extreme beauty and various expression in these heads, which must, I am afraid, be lost when viewed from below. Around, in a circle, the twelve apostles; and in the four corners, the four evangelists, corresponding with the four patriarchs in the other dome. In the arch between the two domes, as connecting the Old and New Testaments, we have the Nativity and other scenes from the life of the Virgin. In the arch at the farthest end will be placed the Crucifixion, as the consummation of all.
The painter to whom the direction of the whole work has been entrusted, is professor Heinrich Häss, (or Hess,) one of the most celebrated of the German historical painters. He was then employed in painting the Nativity, stretched upon his back on a sort of inclined chair. Notwithstanding the inconvenience and even peril of leaving his work while the plaster was wet, he came down from his giddy height to speak to us, and explained the general design of the whole. I expressed my honest admiration of the genius, and the grand feeling displayed in many of the figures; and, in particular, of the group he was then painting, of which the extreme simplicity charmed me; but as honestly, I expressed my surprise that nothing new in the general style of the decoration had been attempted; a representation of the Omnipotent Being was merely excusable in more simple and unenlightened times, when the understandings of men could only be addressed through their senses—and merely tolerable, when Michael Angelo gave us that grand personification of Almighty Power moving "on the wings of the wind" to the creation of the first man. But now, in these thinking, reasoning times, it is not so well to venture into those paths, upon which daring Genius, supported by blind Faith, rushed without fear, because without a doubt. The theory of religion belongs to poetry, and its practice to painting. I was struck by the wonderful stateliness of the ornaments and borders used in decorating these sacred subjects: they are neither Greek, nor gothic, nor arabesque—but composed merely of simple forms and straight lines, combined in every possible manner, and in every variety of pure colour. One might call them Byzantine; at least, they reminded me of what I had seen in the old churches at Venice and Pisa.
I was pleased by the amiable and open manners of professor Hess. Much of his life has been spent in Italy, and he speaks Italian well, but no French. In general, the German artists absolutely detest and avoid the language and literature of France, but almost all speak Italian, and many can read, if they do not speak, English. He told me that he had spent two years on the designs and cartoons for this chapel; he had been painting here daily for the last two years, and expected to be able to finish the whole in about two years and a half more: thus giving six years and a half, or more probably seven years, to this grand task. He has four pupils, or assistants, besides those employed in the decorations only.
Oct. 15th.—After dinner we drove through the beautiful English garden—a public promenade—which is larger and more diversified than Kensington Gardens; but the trees are not so fine, being of younger growth. A branch of the Isar rolls through this garden, sometimes an absolute torrent, deep and rapid, foaming and leaping along, between its precipitous banks,—sometimes a strong but gentle stream, flowing "at its own sweet will" among smooth lawns. Several pretty bridges cross it with "airy span;" there are seats for repose, and cafés and houses where refreshment may be had, and where, in the summer-time, the artisans and citizens of Munich assemble to dance on the Sunday evenings;—altogether it was a beautiful day, and a delightful drive.
In the evening at the opera with the ambassadress and a large party. It was the queen's fête, and the whole court was present. The theatre was brilliantly illuminated—crowded in every part: in short, it was all very gay and very magnificent; as to hearing a single note of the opera, (the Figaro,) that was impossible; so I resigned myself to the conversation around me. "Are you fond of music?" said I, innocently, to a lady whose volubility had ceased not from the moment we entered the box. "Moi! si je l'aime!—mais avec passion!" And then without pause or mercy continued the same incessant flow of spirituel small-talk while Scheckner-Wagen and Meric, now brought for the first time into competition, and emulous of each other,—one pouring forth her full sostenuto warble, like a wood-lark,—the other trilling and running divisions, like a nightingale—were uniting their powers in the "Sull' Aria;" but though I could not hear I could see. I was struck to-night more than ever by the singular dignity of the demeanour of Madame Scheckner-Wagen. She is not remarkable for beauty, nor is there any thing of the common made-up theatrical grace in her deportment—still less does she remind us of queen Medea—queen Pasta, I should say—the imperial syren who drowned her own identity and ours together in her "cup of enchanted sounds;"—no—but Scheckner-Wagen treads the stage with the air of a high-bred lady, to whom applause or censure are things indifferent—and yet with an exceeding modesty. In short, I never saw an actress who inspired such an immediate and irresistible feeling of respect and interest for the individual woman. I do not say that this is the ne plus ultra of good acting—on the contrary; though it is a mistake to imagine that the moral character of an actress or a singer goes for nothing with an audience—but of this more at some future time. Madame Scheckner's style of singing has the same characteristic simplicity and dignity: her voice is of a fine full quality, well cultivated, well managed. I have known her a little indolent and careless at times, but never forced or affected; and I am told that in some of the grand classical German operas, Gluck's Iphigenia, for instance, her acting as well as her singing is admirable.
I wish, if ever we have that charming Devrient-Schröeder, and her vocal suite, again in England, they would give us the Iphigenia, or the Armida, or the Idomeneo. She is another who must be heard in her native music to be justly appreciated. Madame Milder was a third, but her reign is past. This extraordinary creature absolutely could not, or would not, sing the modern Italian music; no one, I believe, ever heard her sing a note of Rossini in her life. Madame Vespermann is here, but she sings no more in public. She was formed by Winter, and was a fine classical singer, though no original genius like the Milder; and her voice, if I may judge by what remains of it, could never have been of first-rate quality.
Well—after the opera—while scandal, and tea, and refreshments were served up together—I had a long conversation with Count —— on the politics and statistics of Bavaria, the tone of feeling in the court, the characters and revenues of some of the leading nobles—particularly Count d'Armansberg, the former minister, (now in Greece taking care of the young King Otho,) and Prince Wallerstein, the present minister of the interior. He described the king's extremely versatile character, and his vivacités, and lamented his present unpopularity with the liberal party in Germany, the disputes between him and the Chambers, and the opinions entertained of the recent conferences between the king and his brother-in-law, the Emperor of Austria, at Lintz, &c. I learnt much that was new, much that was interesting to me, but do not understand these matters sufficiently to say any thing more about them.
The two richest families in Bavaria are the Tour-and-Taxis, and the Arco family. The annual revenue of the Prince of Tour-and-Taxis amounts to upwards of five millions of florins, and he lays out about a million and a half yearly in land. He seldom or never comes to Munich, but resides chiefly on his enormous estates, or at Ratisbon, which is his metropolis,—in fact, this rich and powerful noble is little less than a sovereign prince.
16th.—I went with Madame von A—— and her daughters to the 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 Phœbus 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 sensibilité—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 Holtëi's melo-drama of Lenore, founded on Bürger'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 pièces I have seen here—very tragical and dolorous of course. Madlle. Schöller 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. Holtëi 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 fête. 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'œil! 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 renvoyés. 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 fête. "Public fête!" he repeated with scornful bitterness; "Je vous demande pardon, madame! c'est une fête pour quelques uns, mais ce n'est pas une fête 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 Eugène Beauharnais,) was not present, neither as one of the royal cortège 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 cortège 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 140l.) 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 soirée 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.
One of the most interesting monuments in Munich, is the tomb of Eugene 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 Fête-Dieu, I saw a village carpenter busily employed in erecting a réposoir 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 aisée, 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'œuvre, 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 à 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, épouser, 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 Boisserée 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 Künsten," 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 Molière, 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 Zauberflöte, (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.
Fresco painting, or, as the Italians call it, buon fresco, had been entirely discontinued since the time of Raphael Mengs. It was revived at Rome in 1809-10, when the late M. Bartholdy, the Prussian consul-general, caused a saloon in his house to be painted in fresco by Peter Cornelius, Overbeck, and Philip Veith, all German artists, then resident at Rome. The subjects are taken from the Scriptures, and one of the admirable cartoons of Overbeck, (Joseph sold by his brethren,) I saw at Frankfort. These first essays are yet to be seen in Bartholdy's house, in the Via Sistina at Rome. They are rather hard, but in a grand style of composition. The success which attended this spirited undertaking, excited much attention and enthusiasm, and induced the Marchese Massimi to have his villa near the Lateran adorned in the same style. Accordingly, he had three grand halls or saloons, painted with subjects from Dante, Ariosto, and Tasso. The first was given to Philip Veith, the second to Julius Schnorr, and the third to Overbeck. Veith did not finish his work, which was afterwards terminated by Koch; the two other painters completed their task, much to the satisfaction of the Marchese, and to the admiration of all Rome.
But these were mere experiments—mere attempts, compared to what has since been executed in the same style at Munich. It is true that the art of fresco-painting had never been entirely lost. The theory of the process was well known, and also the colours formerly used; only practice, and the opportunity of practice, were wanting. This has been afforded; and there is now at Munich a school of fresco painting, under the direction of Cornelius, Julius Schnorr, and Zimmermann, in which the mechanical process has been brought to such perfection, that the neatness of the execution may vie with oils, and they can even cut out a feature, and replace it if necessary. The palette has also been augmented by the recent improvements in chemistry, which have enabled the fresco painter to apply some most precious colours, unknown to the ancient masters: only earths and metallic colours are used. I believe it is universally known that the colours are applied while the plaster is wet, and that the preparation of this plaster is a matter of much care and nicety. A good deal of experience and manual dexterity is necessary to enable the painter to execute with rapidity, and calculate the exact degree of humidity in the plaster, requisite for the effect he wishes to produce.
It has been said that fresco painting is unfitted for our climate, damp and sea-coal fires being equally injurious; but the new method of warming all large buildings, either by steam or heated air, obviates, at least, this objection.
26th.—The morning was spent in the ateliers of two Bavarian sculptors, Mayer and Bandel. To Mayer, the king has confided the decoration of the exterior of the Pinakothek, of which he showed me the drawings and designs. He has also executed the colossal statue of Albert Durer, in stone, for the interior of that building.
It appears that the pediment of the Glyptothek, now vacant, will be adorned by a group of fourteen or fifteen figures, representing all the different processes in the art of sculpture; the modeller in clay, the hewer of the marble, the caster in bronze, the carver in wood or ivory, &c. all in appropriate attitudes, all colossal, and grouped into a whole. The general design was modelled, I believe, by Eberhardt, professor of sculpture in the academy here; and the execution of the different figures has been given to several young sculptors, among them Mayer and Bandel. This has produced a strong feeling of emulation. I observed that notwithstanding the height and the situation to which they are destined, nearly one-half of each figure being necessarily turned from the spectator below, each statue is wrought with exceeding care, and perfectly finished on every side. I admired the purity of the marble, which is from the Tyrol. Mayer informs me, that about three years ago enormous quarries of white marble were discovered in the Tyrol, to the great satisfaction of the king, as it diminishes, by one-half, the expense of the material. This native marble is of a dazzling whiteness, and to be had in immense masses without flaw or speck; but the grain is rather coarse.
More than twenty years ago, when the king of Bavaria was Prince Royal, and could only anticipate at some distant period the execution of his design, he projected a building, of which, at least, the name and purpose must be known to all who have ever stepped on German ground. This is the Valhalla, a temple raised to the national glory, and intended to contain the busts or statues of all the illustrious characters of Germany, whether distinguished in literature, arts, or arms, from their ancient hero and patriot Herman, or Arminius, down to Goethe, and those who will succeed him. The idea was assuredly noble, and worthy of a sovereign. The execution—never lost sight of—has been but lately commenced. The Valhalla has been founded on a lofty cliff, which rises above the Danube, not far from Ratisbon.[ 14] It will form a conspicuous object to all who pass up and down the Danube, and the situation, nearly in the centre of Germany, is at least well chosen. But I could hardly express (or repress) my surprise, when I was shown the design for this building. The first glance recalled the Theseum at Athens; and then follows the very natural question, why should a Greek model have been chosen for an edifice, the object, and purpose, and name of which are so completely, essentially, exclusively gothic? What, in Heaven's name, has the Theseum to do on the banks of the Danube? It is true that the purity of forms in the Greek architecture, the effect of the continuous lines and the massy Doric columns, must be grand and beautiful to the eye, place the object where you will; and in the situation designed for it, particularly imposing; but surely it is not appropriate;—the name, and the form, and the purpose, are all at variance—throwing our most cherished associations into strange confusion. Nor could the explanations and eloquent reasoning with which my objections were met, succeed in convincing me of the propriety of the design, while I acknowledged its magnificence. The sculptor Mayer showed me a group of figures for one of the pediments of this Greek Valhalla, admirably appropriate to the purpose of the building—but not to the building itself. It represents Herman introduced by Hermoda (or Mercury) into the Valhalla, and received by Odin and Freya. Iduna advances to meet the hero, presenting the apples of immortality, and one of the Vahlküre pours out the mead, to refresh the soul of the Einheriar.[ 15] To the right of this group are several figures representing the chief epochs in the history of Germany.
This design wants unity; and it is a manifest incongruity to allude to the introduction of Christianity, where the mythological Valhalla forms the chief point of interest; notwithstanding, it gave me exceeding pleasure, as furnishing an unanswerable proof of the possible application of sculpture on a grand scale, to the forms of romantic or gothic poetry: all the figures, the accompaniments, attributes, are strictly Teutonic; the effect of the whole is grand and interesting; but what would it be on a Greek temple? would it not appear misplaced and discordant?
I am informed, that of the two pediments of the Valhalla, one will be given to Rauch of Berlin, and the other to Schwanthaler.
The sculptor Bandel, with his quick eye, his ample brow, his animated, benevolent face, and his rapid movements, looks like what he is—a genius.
In his atelier I saw some things, just like what I see in all the ateliers of young sculptors—cold imitations, feeble versions of mythological subjects—but I saw some other things so fresh and beautiful in feeling, as to impress me with a high idea of his poetical and creative power. I longed to bring to England one or two casts of his charming Cupid Penseroso, of which the original marble is at Hanover. There is also a very exquisite bas-relief of Adam and Eve sleeping: the good angel watching on one side, and the evil angel on the other. This lovely group is the commencement of a series of bas-reliefs, designed, I believe, for a frieze, and not yet completed, representing the four ages of the world: the age of innocence; the heroic age, or age of physical power; the age of poetry, and the age of philosophy. This new version of the old idea interested me, and it is developed and treated with much grace and originality. Bandel told us that he is just going, with his beautiful wife and two or three little children, to settle at Carrara for a few years. The marble quarries there are now colonised by young sculptors of every nation.
The king of Bavaria has a gallery of beauties, (the portraits of some of the most beautiful women of Germany and Italy,) which he shuts up from the public eye, like any grand Turk—and neither bribery nor interest can procure admission. A lovely woman, to whom I was speaking of it yesterday, and who has been admitted in effigy into this harem, seemed to consider the compliment rather equivocal. "Depend upon it, my dear," said she, "that fifty years hence we shall be all confounded together, as the king's very intimate friends; and, to tell you the truth, I am not ambitious of the honour, more particularly as there are some of my illustrious companions in charms who are enough to throw discredit on the whole set!"
I saw in Stieler's atelier two portraits for this collection: one, a woman of rank—a dark beauty; the other, a servant girl here, with a head like one of Raffaelle's angels, almost divine; she is painted in the little filagree silver cap, the embroidered boddice, and silk handkerchief crossed over the bosom, the costume of the women of Munich, to which the king is extremely partial. I am assured that this young girl, who is not more than seventeen, is as remarkable for her piety, simplicity, and spotless reputation, as for her singular beauty. I have seen her, and the picture merely does her justice. Several other women of the bourgeoisie have been pointed out to me as included in the king's collection. One of these, the daughter, I believe, of an herb-woman, is certainly one of the most exquisite creatures I ever beheld. On the whole, I should say, that the lower orders of the people of Munich are the handsomest race I have seen in Germany.
Stieler is the court and fashionable portrait painter here—the Sir Thomas Lawrence of Munich—that is, in the estimation of the Germans. He is an accomplished man, with amiable manners, and a talent for rising in the world; or, as I heard some one call it, the organ of getting-oniveness. For the elaborate finish of his portraits, for expertness and delicacy of hand, for resemblance and exquisite drawing, I suppose he has few equals; but he has also, in perfection, what I consider the faulty peculiarities of the German school. Stieler's artificial roses are too natural: his caps, and embroidered scarfs, and jewelled bracelets, are more real than the things themselves—or seem so; for certainly I never gave to the real objects the attention and the admiration they challenge in his pictures. The famous bunch of grapes, which tempted the birds to peck, could be nothing compared to the felt of Prince Charles's hat in Stieler's portrait: it actually invites the hat-brush. Strange perversion of power in the artist! stranger perversion of taste in those who admire it!—Ma pazienza!
The Duc de Leuchtenberg opens his small but beautiful gallery twice a week: Mondays and Thursdays. The doors are thrown open and every respectable person may walk in, without distinction or ceremony. It is a delightful morning lounge; there are not more than one hundred and fifty pictures—enough to excite and gratify, not satiate, admiration. The first room contains a collection of paintings by modern and living artists of France, Germany, and Italy. There is a lovely little picture by Madame de Freyberg of the Maries at the sepulchre of Christ; and by Heinrich Hess, a group of the three Christian graces—Faith, Hope, and Charity, seated under the German oak, and painted with great simplicity and sentiment; of his celebrated brother, Peter Hess, and Wagenbauer, and Jacob Dorner, and Quaglio, there are beautiful specimens. The French pictures did not please me: Girodet's picture of Ossian and the French heroes is a monstrous combination of all manner of affectations.
I should not forget a fine portrait of Napoleon, by Appiani, crowned with laurel; and another picture, which represents him throned, with all the insignia of state and power, and supported on either side by Victory and Peace. For a moment we pause before that proud form, to think of all he was, all he might have been—to draw a moral from the fate of selfishness.
He rose by blood, he built on man's distress,
And th'inheritance of desolation left
To great expecting hopes.[ 16]
Among the pictures of the old masters there are many fine ones, and three or four of peculiar interest. There is the famous head by Bronzino, generally entitled, Petrarch's Laura, but assuredly without the slightest pretensions to authenticity. The face is that of a prim, starched précieuse, to which the peculiar style of this old portrait painter, with his literal nature, his hardness, and leaden colouring, imparts additional coldness and rigidity.
But the finest picture in the gallery—perhaps one of the finest in the world—is the Madonna and Child of Murillo: one of those rare productions of mind which baffle the copyist, and defy the engraver,—which it is worth making a pilgrimage but to gaze on. How true it is that "a thing of beauty is a joy for ever!"
When I look at Murillo's roguish, ragged beggar-boys in the royal gallery, and then at the Leuchtenberg gallery turn to contemplate his Madonna and his ascending angel, both of such unearthly and inspired beauty, a feeling of the wondrous grasp and versatility of the man's mind almost makes me giddy.
The lithographic press of Munich is celebrated all over Europe. Aloys Senefelder, the inventor of the art, has the direction of the works, with a well-merited pension, and the title of Inspector of Lithography.[ 17]
The people of Munich are not only a well-dressed and well-looking, but a social, kind-hearted race. The number of unions, or societies, instituted for benevolent or festive purposes, is, for the size of the place, almost incredible.[ 18] I had a catalogue of more than forty given to me this morning; they are for all ranks and professions, and there is scarcely a person in the city who is not enlisted into one or more of these communities. Some have reading-rooms, and well-furnished libraries, to which strangers are at once introduced, gratis; they give balls and concerts during the winter, which not only include their own members and their friends, but one society will sometimes invite and entertain another.
The young artists of Munich, who constitute a numerous body, formed themselves into an association, and gave very elegant balls and concerts, at first among themselves and their immediate friends and connexions; but the circle increased—these balls became more and more splendid—even the king and the royal family frequently honoured them with their presence. It became a point of honour to exceed in elegance and profusion all the entertainments given by the other societies of Munich. Every body danced, praised, and enjoyed themselves. At length it occurred to some of the most considerate and kind-hearted of the people, that these young men were going beyond their means to entertain their friends and fellow-citizens. It had evidently become a matter of great expense, and perhaps ostentation, and they resolved to put down this competition at once. An association was formed of persons of all classes, and they gave a fête to the painters of Munich, which eclipsed in magnificence every thing of the kind before or since. It was a ball and supper, on the most ample and splendid scale, and took place at the Odeon. Each lady's ticket contained the name of the cavalier, to whose especial protection and gallantry she was consigned for the evening; and so much tacte was shown in this arrangement, that I am told very few were discontented with their lot. Nearly three thousand persons were present, and it was the month of February; yet every lady on entering the room was presented by her cavalier with a bouquet of hot-house flowers; and the Salle de l'Odeon was adorned with a profusion of plants and flowering shrubs, collected from all the conservatories, private and public, within twenty miles of the capital. The king, the queen, their family and suite, and many of the principal nobles were invited, with, of course, a large portion of the gentry and trades-people of Munich; but, notwithstanding the miscellaneous nature of the assemblage, and the immense number of persons present, all was harmony, and good-breeding, and gaiety. This fête produced the desired result; the young painters took the hint, and though they still give balls, which are exceedingly pleasant, they are on a more modest scale than heretofore.
The Liederkranz (literally, the circle, or garland of song) is a society of musicians—amateurs and professors—who give concerts here, at which the compositions of the members are occasionally performed. One of these concerts (Fest-Production) took place this evening at the Odeon; and having duly received, as a stranger, my ticket of invitation, I went early with a very pleasant party.
The immense room was crowded in every part, and presented a most brilliant spectacle, from the number of military costumes, and the glittering head-dresses of the Munich girls. Our hosts formed the orchestra. The king and queen had been invited, and had signified their gracious intention of being present. The first row of seats was assigned to them; but no other distinction was made between the royal family and the rest of the company.
The king is generally punctual on these occasions, but from some accident he was this evening delayed, and we had to wait his arrival about ten minutes; the company were all assembled—servants were already parading up and down the room with trays, heaped with ices and refreshments—the orchestra stood up, with fiddle-sticks suspended; the chorus, with mouths half open—and the conductor, Stuntz, brandished his roll of music. At length a side door was thrown open: a voice announced "the king;" the trumpets sounded a salute; and all the people rose and remained standing until the royal guests were seated. The king entered first, the queen hanging on his arm. The duke Bernard of Saxe-Weimar, and his duchess,[ 19] followed; then the princess Matilda, leading her younger brother and sister, prince Luitpold and the princess Adelgonde;—the former a fine boy of about twelve years old, the latter a pretty little girl of about seven or eight: a single lady of honour; the baron de Freyberg, as principal equerry; the minister von Schencke, and one or two other officers of the household were in attendance. The king bowed to the gentlemen in the orchestra, then to the company, and in a few moments all were seated.
The music was entirely vocal, consisting of concerted pieces only, for three or more voices, and all were executed in perfection. I observed several little boys and young girls, of twelve or fourteen, singing in the chorusses, apparently much to their own satisfaction—certainly to ours. Their voices were delicious, and perfectly well managed, and their merry laughing faces were equally pleasant to look upon.
We had first a grand loyal anthem, composed for the occasion by Lenz, in which the king and queen, and their children, were separately apostrophized. Prince Maximilian, now upon his travels, and young king Otto, "far off upon the throne of Hellas," were not forgotten; and as the princess Matilda has lately been verlobt (betrothed) to the hereditary prince of Hesse-Darmstadt, they put the Futur into a couplet, with great effect. It seems that this marriage has been for some time in negociation; its course did not "run quite smooth," and the heart of the young princess is supposed to be more deeply interested in the affair than is usual in royal alliances. She is also very generally beloved, so that when the chorus sang,
"Hoch lebe Ludwig und Mathilde!
Ein Herz stets Brautigam und Braut!"
all eyes were turned towards her with a smiling expression of sympathy and kindness, which really touched me. As I sat, I could only see her side-face, which was declined. There was also an allusion to the late king Max-Joseph, "das beste Herz," who died about five years ago, and who appears to have been absolutely adored by his people. All this passed off very well, and was greatly applauded. At the conclusion the king rose from his seat, and said something courteous and good-natured to the orchestra, and then sat down. The other pieces were by old Schack, (the intimate friend of Mozart,) Stuntz, Chelard, and Marschner; a drinking song by Hayden, and one of the chorusses in the Cosi fan Tutte were also introduced. The whole concluded with the "song of the heroes in the Valhalla," composed by Stuntz.
Between the acts there was an interval of at least half an hour, during which the queen and the princess Matilda walked up and down in front of the orchestra, entered into conversation with the ladies who were seated near, and those whom the rules of etiquette allowed to approach unsummoned and pay their respects. The king, meanwhile, walked round the room unattended, speaking to different people, and addressing the young bourgeoises, whose looks or whose toilette pleased him, with a bow and a smile; while they simpered and blushed, and drew themselves up when he had passed.
As I see the king frequently, his face is familiar to me, but to-night he looked particularly well, and had on a better coat than he usually condescends to wear,—quite plain, however, and without any order or decoration. He is now in his forty-seventh year, not handsome, with a small well-formed head, an intelligent brow, and a quick penetrating eye. His figure is slight and well-made, his movements quick, and his manner lively—at times even abrupt and impatient. His utterance is often so rapid as to be scarcely intelligible to those who are most accustomed to him. I often meet him walking arm-in-arm with M. de Schenke, M. de Klenze, and others of his friends—for apparently this eccentric, accomplished sovereign has friends, though I believe he is not so popular as his father was before him.
The queen (Theresa, princess of Saxe-Hilburghausen) has a sweet open countenance, and a pleasing, elegant figure. The princess Matilda, who is now nineteen, is the express image of her mother, whom she resembles in her amiable disposition, as well as her person; her figure is very pretty, and her deportment graceful. She looked pensive this evening, which was attributed by the good people around me to the recent departure of the prince of Hesse-Darmstadt, who has been here for some time paying his court.
About ten, the concert was over. The king and queen remained a few minutes in conversation with those around them, without displaying any ungracious hurry to depart; and the whole scene left a pleasant impression upon my fancy. To an English traveller in Germany nothing is more striking than the easy familiar terms on which the sovereign and his family mingle with the people on these and the like occasions; it certainly would not answer in England: but as they say in this expressive language—Ländlich, sittlich.[ 20]
Munich, Oct. 28th, 1833.