A MORNING WITH MORITZ RETZSCH.
BY MRS. S.C. HALL.
At Dresden we enjoyed the advantage of friendly intercourse with one who is honored as much for his virtues as his talents, and whom it is a gratification to name—Professor Vogel von Vogelstein, whose latest work decorates a new church at Leipzig, designed by the estimable and highly gifted Professor Heidelhoff of Nuremberg. The simplicity of life of the great German masters, is very striking; they care nothing for display, except that upon their canvas, or their walls. One of the great secrets of their success is their earnestness of purpose. Professor Vogel seldom leaves his studio except to render courtesy to friend or stranger: and it is happy for those who have the privilege of his acquaintance, to know that such labors of love draw him frequently forth. As yet, years have not diminished the ardor with which he works—respected and beloved by all who know him. It was a true pleasure to sit in his studio, and converse with him; not only about Art, but about England; where he spent some time in communion with Wilkie, and Callcott, and Lawrence, and others, who, though passed away, have left immortalities behind them.
While conversing with Professor Vogel one morning we expressed an earnest wish to see Moritz Retzsch—who had so wonderfully embodied the conceptions of Goethe, of Shakspeare, and of Schiller; his extraordinary powers of invention and description, with a few strokes of his pencil, had rendered him an object of the deepest interest to us, many years ago when an artist friend, now dead and gone, first made him known to us; and although he resided we had been told, "a long way out of Dresden," we resolved, if we could, to visit him at his home. It was therefore very pleasant when Professor Vogel offered to accompany us himself, and present us to the great artist. In the evening, as we stood on the noble bridge that spans the rapid Elbe, a summer-house crowning one of the distant vine-clad hills, was pointed out to us as belonging to him whom we so much desired to know.
"His dwelling," said our friend, "is directly below that hill, and he resides on his paternal acres; his father's vineyards are as green as ever; and the artist's love of nature, is fostered amid its beauties." Nothing could be more charming than the scene. We had left the Bruhl Terrace crowded with company, driven away from its music and society by the clouds of tobacco smoke which wrap the Germans in an elysium peculiarly "their own;" but the music was softened by distance, into sweeter harmony. The sun was setting, warming the pale green of the vineyards into autumnal richness, and casting delicious tints upon the undulating waters; the atmosphere was so pure, so free from what sad experience teaches us to consider the natural vapors of city life, that the spires and public buildings looked as if carved in ivory; the mighty river swept freely on, its strong current hopelessly contending with the massive masonry of the bridge; one or two steamers were puffing their way from some of the distant villages; and a party near the shore were moving their oars, rather than rowing, singing what sounded to us like a round and chorus, in that perfect tune and time, where the voices seem as one; twilight came down without any haze, so that the range of hills was still visible, and still we fancied we saw the Pavilion of Moritz Retzsch. Our friend told us he was born at Dresden in 1779, and had never visited the distant schools, nor wandered far from his native city; in early childhood he manifested a talent for Art; modeling in clay, carving in wood, and exercising his imitative, as well as his imaginative powers, by drawing with any thing, or upon any thing, whatever he saw or fancied. He never intended to become an artist; he had not received what is called "an artistic education." He looked at and loved whatever was beautiful in nature, and copied it without an effort. At that period, the profession of Art would have been all too tranquil a dream for his boyhood to enjoy; nay, his "hot youth," ardent and desiring excitement, full of visions of adventure and liberty, had, at one time, nearly induced him to become a huntsman, or forester—(one of the jägers made familiar to us on the stage, in green hunting dress and buckskin, with belt and bugle)—in the Royal service; a little consideration, a few speaking facts, however, taught him that this project would not have secured him the freedom he coveted so much; and, most fortunately, when he entered his twentieth year, he determined on the course which has given both to himself and to the world, such delicious pleasure. He abandoned himself to Art, and has ever since exercised it with a devotion and enthusiasm, a sacred freedom, that, despite his excitable temperament, has rendered him happy. Such was our friend's information concerning the author of those wonderful "outlines" which have been the admiration of the world for nearly half a century, and are scarcely better known in Germany than they are in England.
"Nothing," he added, "could surpass the ardor with which the young artist labored. His soul was animated by the grand conceptions of Goethe and Schiller; his ears drank in the beauty and sublimity of their poetry; and he lived in the mingled communion of great men, and the lovely and softened beauty of Saxon fatherland." In 1828, he was nominated Professor of Painting in the Dresden Royal Academy; but fame, much as he sought and loved it, did not fill his soul. The older he grew, the more his great heart yearned for that continuous sympathy with some object to comprehend and appreciate his noble pursuit, and to value him, as he believed he deserved. He coveted affection as much as fame.
One of the dwellers near his father's vineyard was rich in the possession of a little daughter of extraordinary grace and beauty. She inspired the artist with some of his brightest conceptions of that peculiar infantine loveliness which his pencil has rendered with such eloquent fidelity.
The child crept into his heart—the young girl took possession of it. The poet-painter made no effort to dispossess her; on the contrary, he increased her power by giving her an excellent education; and when she had arrived at the age of womanhood, he made her his wife. Their married years have numbered many. One may be considered old, the other is no longer young; but their happiness has been, as far as it can be, without a shadow. Although they have no children, they do not seem to have desired them. Some gallant husbands pen a sonnet to a wife on her birth-day, or the anniversary of her marriage, but Moritz Retzsch sketches his birthday ode, in which the beauty and worth of his cherished wife, his own tenderness and happiness, their mingled hopes and prayers, are penciled in forms the most poetic and expressive. From year to year these designs have enriched the album of Madame Retzsch; and never was a more noble tribute laid at the feet of any lady-love, even in the times of old romance!
Professor Vogel had promised that Moritz Retzsch should show us his drawings; and we were full of hope that we should also have the privilege of seeing this Album. The sunset had given promise of—
"A goodly day to-morrow."
And it was with no small delight that, on our return to our hotel, we found an hour had been fixed for our visit to the village, or Weinberg, and that Professor Vogel would be ready to accompany us at the time appointed.
We were prepared to expect allegorical designs; and Mrs. Jameson has long since converted us to a belief in the great power and benefit of symbolic painting, particularly on the minds and imaginations of the young. "To address the moral faculties through the medium of the imagination," says this distinguished lady, "for any permanent or beneficial purpose, is the last thing thought of by our legislators and educators. Fable, except as a mere nomenclature of heathen gods and goddesses, is banished from the nursery, and allegory in Poetry and the Fine Arts is out of fashion;" and then she mingles her ink with gall, and adds, "it is deemed the child's play of the intellect, fit only for the days of Dante, or Spenser, or Michael Angelo."
Wearied with pleasure, we slept; but what we had seen and what we anticipated rendered repose impossible. The morning was bright, and warm, and sunny; and when our kind friend entered the carriage, we felt assured of a day's enjoyment. We soon skirted the city, and found ourselves rolling in sight of the river; the road was overshadowed by trees, which had not yielded a leaf to the insidious advances of autumn; the villas—not certainly with shaven lawns and carefully-tended gardens, were picturesque and charming from the novelty of their construction, and not the less striking because the foliage was left to twine about them in unconstrained luxuriance. We had become accustomed to the wicker wagons, and the heavy oxen, and slow paces of men and horses; but there is something always to admire in the broad faces of the well-built Saxons, and the frank and kindly expression of their clear blue eyes.
We soon reached the narrow roads that wound along the base of the vine-clad hills, rising so abruptly as to form terrace after terrace, until they achieved the topmost height. Nothing can be more delightful than the situation of the houses at the foot of these hills, commanding, as they do, the whole of the rich valley in which Dresden is placed. "They call it Paradise," said our kind companion; "and truly it deserves the name."
It was positively refreshing to hear how Professor Vogel delighted in extolling Professor Retzsch. His eulogiums were so warm from the heart, and the desire to do his friend service so sincere, that we honored him more than ever. At last we paused at the garden-gate of the cottage-house of the illustrator of Faust, and entered. Wide-spreading trees overshadowed the path which led along the side of the house to a sort of stone verandah, formed by the upper story projecting over the lower, and supported by rude stone pillars. At the further end were stairs leading to the living-rooms; and down these stairs came a gentleman who must have riveted attention wherever seen. His figure was somewhat short and massive, and his dress not of the most modern fashion; yet the head was magnificent. His whole appearance recalled Cuvier to us so forcibly, that we instantly murmured the name of the great naturalist; but when his clear wild blue eyes beamed their welcome, and his lips parted into a smile to give it words, we were even more strongly reminded of Professor Wilson; in each, a large, well-developed head, masculine features, a broad and high forehead, a mouth strongly expressive of a combination of generosity and force, bespoke the careful thinker and acute observer; and in both, the hair, "sable silvered," seemed to have been left to the wild luxuriance of nature. He preceded us to the drawing-room—an uncarpeted chamber, furnished with old-fashioned German simplicity. Several birthday garlands were hung upon the walls. There were three doors opening into the apartment, and a long sofa extending along one of the sides; this sofa was canopied by ivy, growing in pots at either end, and entwined round a delicate framework. In Heidelhoff's house, at Nüremberg, we had seen wreaths of ivy growing round the window-curtains in a peculiarly graceful manner; and at Berlin, in the costly and beautiful dwelling of the admirable sculptor Wichmann, the door leading from the dining into the billiard-room—where Mendelssohn delighted to play while Jenny Lind sat by and sung, enjoying, as she always does, the enjoyment of others—that door is trellised with ivy, the trellis being formed of light bamboo, and the foliage contrasting charmingly with the color of the trellis. The dust of our carpets, perhaps, prevents the introduction of this charming ornament generally into our rooms; but it is difficult to conceive how much this simple loan from nature may be made to enrich the interiors of our dwellings.
Nothing can be more frank and cordial than Retzsch's manner, mingling, as it does, much simplicity with promptness and decision. After the lapse of a few minutes, the servant who had opened the gate brought in a couple of easels, and upon them the artist placed two paintings; both exquisitely drawn and designed, but so unlike what we had expected in color, that for a moment we felt disappointed. Our enthusiasm and admiration however, soon revived; and when, shortly afterward, he conducted us into an inner room, and, having seated us with due formality, in a great chair, opposite a little table, produced a portfolio of drawings, the kind face of Professor Vogel was illumined: "Ah!" he exclaimed, "now you will be delighted. I have brought many to my friend's studio; I have looked at these drawings over and over again, yet each time I see something to admire anew; there is always a discovery to be made—some allegory, half hidden under a rose-leaf; some wise and playful satire, peeping beneath the wing of a Cupid, or from the fardel of a traveler. What a pity you do not understand German, that you might hear him read those exquisite lyrics, beautiful as the sonnets of your own Shakspeare, or Wordsworth—but I will interpret—I will interpret."
And so he did—with considerate patience: there we sat turning over page after page of the most exquisite fancies; the overflowings not only of the purest and most brilliant imagination, but of the deepest tenderness and exalted independence. The allegories of Moritz Retzsch, are not of the "hieroglyphic caste," such as roused the indignation of Horace Walpole; there were no sentimental Hopes supported by anchors: no fat-cheeked Fames puffing noiseless trumpets; no common-place Deaths, with dilapidated hour-glasses; they were triumphs of pure Art, conveying a poetical idea, a moral or religious truth, a brilliant satire, brilliant and sharp as a cutting diamond, by "graphical representation;" each subject was a bit of the choicest lyric poetry, or an epigram, in which a single idea or sentiment had been illustrated and embodied, giving "a local habitation," a name, a history, in the smallest compass, and in the most intelligible and attractive form.
With what delight we turned over these matchless drawings, many of them little more than outlines, yet so full of meaning—pausing between each, to glance at the face of the interpreter; though so distinctly was the idea conveyed, that there needed none; only it was such a rare delight to hear him tell his meaning in his own full sounding tongue, his face expressing all he wished to say, before the words were spoken.
We could have lingered over that portfolio for hours, and like Professor Vogel have found something new at each inspection of the same drawing; but the artist seemed to grow gently impatient to show us his wife's Album—the book of which we had heard so much on the previous evening; there it was, carefully cased and covered—and before he opened it, he explained, with smiling lips, that on each of Madame Retzsch's birthdays, he had presented to her a drawing expressive of his devotion, his faith in her virtues, or the hopes or disappointments to which the destiny of life had subjected them. However delicate and endearing may be the love of youth, with it there is always associated a dread that it may not endure until the end—that the world may tarnish or destroy it; that,
"A word unkind or wrongly taken,"
may be the herald of harshness and of estrangement; but when, after a lapse of accumulated years, Cupid folds his wings without the loss of a single feather, and laughs at his arch-enemy "Time," the sunshine of the picture creates an atmosphere of happiness that excites the best sympathies of our nature. While he descanted on these results of his luxuriant and overflowing imagination and affection, never was genius more thoroughly love-inspired; never, as we had heard, did poet pen more exquisite birthday odes, than were framed by the tender and eloquent pencil of Moritz Retzsch on the birthdays of his wife.
We did not feel it to be a defect in the graphic allegories, so rich and varied in thought and expression, that they required, or rather received, the eloquent explanations, of their great originator; the scene around that little table was in exquisite harmony; Professor Vogel's expressions of delight were as enthusiastic as our own; he repeatedly said that a visit to his old friend was a renewal of his own youth; he hailed the precious Album with as much pleasure as ourselves, and reveled in the poetry and originality of its illustrations, with a freshness of feeling supposed only to belong to the early years of life.
We can not remember that Retzsch sat down once during our long visit; he was standing or moving about, the entire time, and frequently passed his fingers through the masses of his long gray hair, so that it assumed most peculiar styles; but nothing could detract from the picturesque magnificence of his noble head. His restlessness was certainly peculiar, he passed and repassed into the room where his precious drawings were scattered in such rich profusion, returning again and again to the window, enjoying our pleasure, the expression of his face varying so eloquently and honestly, that a young child could have read his thoughts: and then the indescribable brightness of that face; stormy, it no doubt could be at times, but the thunder would have been as nothing to the lightning.
The great artist seemed as curious about England as a country child is about London; indeed the mingling of simplicity and wisdom, is one of the strongest phases in his character; so gigantic, and yet so delicate, in Art; so full of the rarest knowledge; animated by an unsurpassable imagination; proud of the distinction his talents command, and yet of a noble and heroic independence which secures universal respect. The artist and his wife accompanied us to the gate which was soon to shut us out of "Paradise;" and, amply gratified as we were with our visit and its results, we felt that there was still so much more to say and to see, that the past hours appeared like winged moments, reminding us how—
"Noiseless falls the foot of time
That only treads on flowers."
It seemed as though the gate had closed upon an old friend, instead of upon one seen for so brief a space, and never perhaps to be met with again in this world. One of the dreams of a life-time had been fully realized. We had paid Moritz Retzsch the involuntary compliment, of forgetting the celebrity of the artist, in the warmth of our admiration of the man. The gate was closed, and we were driving rapidly toward Dresden—the scenery softened and mellowed by the gray and purply tone which follows a golden sunset. Yes, we felt as if we had parted from a friend; and surely the sacred lovingness we bear to those—honored though unseen—who have been as friends within our homes, dispersing by the power of their genius all trace, for a time, of the fret and turmoil of the busy world; soothing our sorrows; teaching us how to endure, and how to triumph; or enriching our minds by that Art-knowledge, which, in the holiness of its beauty, is only second to the wisdom "which cometh from above;"—surely a higher tribute than either gratitude or admiration, is that of placing them within our hearts, there to remain until the end; amid the good, the beautiful, the true, and the beloved of life itself.