Cousin-hunting in Scandinavia

by Mary Wilhelmine Williams

My dear Cynthia:

You have probably noticed that I have not as yet mentioned the art museums of Copenhagen. That fact is due to the modesty of the amateur in the presence of the professional. However, as I know that you will want my “reaction,” I confess to having visited two museums of art. Thorwaldsen’s I visited yesterday. It is a huge, ugly, tomb-shaped building, constructed at the expense of the city of Copenhagen as a permanent home for the works of the greatest of Danish sculptors. And it is really a tomb as well as a museum, for Bertel Thorwaldsen, in whose honor it was erected, lies buried in the court under a great mass of dark ivy. As in ancient classical tombs, a frescoed border around the outside wall depicts scenes from the life of the entombed one. Among other events connected with Thorwaldsen’s successes is represented his triumphal return to Copenhagen in 1838, after the long, hard years of apprenticeship to his art in Rome. Above the main entrance is the gift of the late King Christian—a Victory reigning in her quadriga. This beautiful piece of bronze was designed by Thorwaldsen himself, but was executed by another Danish sculptor, Herman Bissen.

What impressed me most of all about the museum was the tremendous amount of work which Thorwaldsen turned off. There are scores and hundreds of sculptures, drawings and paintings by him. As you know, most of his subjects are classical—as would be expected of the founder of the neo-classical school. But there are really very few of his works for which I care. Thorwaldsen’s people do not look as if they had ever accomplished anything; they bear too few marks of life’s battles; they are too passive, too gentle, too restful. The “Christ,” I admit, possesses a benignance and serenity which is overmastering; and the bas-reliefs of “Night” and “Morning” are exquisite. But the draperies of some of his Greeks do look painfully like wash-boards. Judging from the “Lion of Lucerne,” Thorwaldsen was more successful with animals. The “Lion” is my favorite. He has kept his trust, has fought a good fight, and is dying grandly—but in anguish of mind because even the sacrifice of life itself was insufficient to save the lilies of France. However, I do not consider the “Lion” characteristic of Thorwaldsen’s work. Do you?

Unlike Thorwaldsen’s Museum, the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, which I also visited, had its origin in individual generosity. Its founder was Captain Carl Jacobsen, “Ph. D., Brewer,” who is the Carnegie and Rockefeller of Denmark. He is a great lover of art, and his country has profited accordingly. Jacobsen money has paid for the New and Old Glyptoteks, two of the finest art museums in Scandinavia. Probably you are shocked at the idea of the love of art being fostered by “beery” money. I was at first, I acknowledge, and I still wish that the “wherewithal” had been secured in some other way; but I have been assured that the Carlsberg brew is of a particularly pure quality—as beers go—and that the Jacobsens are really patriotic, public-spirited Danes.

The New Glyptotek is a handsome building occupying a whole city block. The interior is beautifully decorated with rare woods, colored marbles, and frescoes. And it contains collections of paintings and sculptures representing most of the countries of Europe. As you well know, I was never orthodox in my preferences among works of art—especially paintings. It was probably in consequence of this peculiarity that I was drawn to a canvas which most people would, I suppose, pass by. The picture is “Denmark,” by Elizabeth Jerichau-Baumann, and was painted more than sixty years ago. Denmark is represented by a young woman, strong, determined, and fearless, standing amidst sheaves of rye; in her left hand she bears Dannebrog, the red-and-white crusaders’ flag of the Danes, which she is prepared to defend with the two-edged sword grasped in her right.

“Denmark” by Elizabeth Jerichau-Baumann

Grave Monument by Rudolph Tegnér

The sculptures in the New Carlsberg are, I think, finer than the paintings. The French collection is the most complete to be found outside of France itself. It is not necessary to tell you that in plastic art France is far ahead of Denmark. Yet there were several Danish pieces for which I cared very much—some by Herman Bissen, and particularly some by Jens Adolf Jerichau. I was much attracted by the latter’s “Little Girl with a Dead Bird.” It is in white marble. The little girl, barefooted and simply dressed, is sitting upon a rock with the bird tenderly held between her hands; and upon her face is an expression of gentle pity which gives a peculiar charm to the whole figure. But, to me, the most pleasing of all the Danish sculptures was a grave monument by an obscure young artist, Rudolf Tegnér. It represents the mourning figure of a young woman, whose face is left buried in the original mass of white marble. There is an exquisite delicacy about the slender, drooping form to which no picture that I might send you could do justice. A similar figure, in bronze, marks the grave of the artist’s mother at Elsinore.