In the evening I visited the Adelphi Theatre, where a juggler exhibited his feats of art in a very new manner, under the title of ‘Conversazioni.’ He stood surrounded by various tables and machines on the stage, and began with a history of his journey in the Diligence: into this he introduced various characters and anecdotes, sang songs, and interspersed his narrative with tricks, or optical deceptions, or phantasmagoria, as appropriate incidents,—a good idea enough, which increases the interest of such exhibitions. His dexterity and certainty as a juggler were moreover as remarkable as his good dramatic acting and his memory. He concluded with playing on the musical glasses; not only in the harmonica style, but waltzes and the like; and even introduced long shakes, which he executed admirably.
March 9th.
The season already asserts its prerogative. The streets swarm with elegant equipages; the shops spread forth fresh treasures; all the houses are full, and all prices raised doubly and trebly. Mr. Peel the Minister gave a brilliant soirée this evening to the Duchess of Clarence. His house is decorated with many fine pictures, among which is Rubens’ famous ‘Chapeau de paille.’ Mr. Peel gave fifteen thousand reichsthalers for this picture—a half-length.
I went with Prince E—— yesterday to see the small private collection of a clergyman (Mr. Carr,) which consists of not above thirty pictures, has cost him twenty thousand pounds, and is quite worth it. There are as many master-pieces as pictures,—the only true sort of collection for a private man, who does not use his gallery for instruction in the art, but for enjoyment.
Here is a Garoffolo, of such unearthly transparency and brightness, of so holy and deep a poetry, that you think you behold a picture of Eden, not of this earth; and a large Claude, also of the highest order of beauty, in which the smallness of the means employed are as wonderful as the extraordinary effects produced. In an adjoining room were some beautiful landscapes by Domenichino and Annibal Caracci. The richness of composition, the deepness and freshness of invention, were adorned with such a fantastic charm and such variety of details, that I could have lost myself all day long in these strange regions, with their broad watery mirrors; their islands, groves and pretty huts; their deep blue mountains, and forests of spectral darkness. In a third room you reach the crown of the whole collection, a picture by Leonardo da Vinci, in which he has represented, in the three persons of the Saviour, Peter and John, the Ideal of youth, manhood, and old age; all of a beauty, truth, and perfection, which leaves nothing to desire. It is the only head of Christ, of all I ever saw, which fully satisfies me; it is as strikingly expressive of grandeur and force of mind, as of purity and meekness; while at the same time it unites this speaking expression with perfect ideal beauty. The grouping of the whole, too, is so satisfactory to the eye; the colouring so brilliant and so fresh; the execution, down to the smallest details so masterly,—that one feels a fulness of delight such as few works of art bestow.[82] But nothing remains of the exquisite pleasure of contemplating such a work, save a cold dissection of it by words. I will therefore quit the subject; only I wish to make connoisseurs better acquainted with this choice collection.
There is an exhibition of battles by Generat Lejeune, which he first fought, and then painted. They show great talent and power. In the battle of the Moskwa, the theatrical Murat and his suite form the principal group; he, streaming with feathers, ringlets, fringe, and embroidery,—standing, with his self-satisfied air, under a fire of musketry; he is in the act of giving the order to the French and Saxon cuirassiers for that murderous attack, and the storming of a battery of forty guns, which cost so many their lives, and among them my beloved friend H——. The King is just about to put himself at the head of them. Who could then have predicted that he would so soon be ignominiously beaten by a mob, and shot as a criminal?
Deeply affecting, though too horrible for art, is the figure of an Austrian staff-officer at the battle of Marengo, who has been shot through the belly, so that the bowels are lying on the ground. The unfortunate wretch, to escape from his insufferable torture, has entreated a French ‘gens d’arme’ to lend him his pistol, which he is putting to his mouth with a look of despair, while the owner of the weapon turns away shuddering.
In another picture is the onslaught of a party of Spanish guerillas on a French detachment. You see a most romantic pass in the mountains of Catalonia, remarkable for four stone oxen, the erection of which is ascribed to Hannibal. At their feet lie two or three skeletons of French cuirassiers, still in full armour. Not a soul escaped this slaughter except General Lejeune himself, and this only by a half-miracle;—three of the guns aimed at him missed, which the Empecinado superstitiously took for a warning, and commanded the men not to fire at him again. You see General Lejeune stripped naked; one murderer has caught him by the hair, another is treading on his body, and the arms of the others are pointed against him; while his servants and a soldier, pierced through and through by pikes and swords, breathe their last at his side.
The battle of the Nile,—where the Mamelukes, in half-frantic flight, spur their noble Arabian horses from a high hill down into the river, whence but a few reach the opposite bank,—has also a very romantic effect.
March 13th.