We wandered about rather disconsolate and hungry till our friend appeared, who joyously welcomed us; and dinner was ordered, and ready in a trice. The fare was not very choice, nor delicately served; but very characteristic of what one has read of middle life in Germany. To this secluded bower families came—or students—or a fond pair stole hither from the crowd, to drink beer and smoke on the rustic seats beneath the trees. It was easy, however, to escape from these groups deeper into the ravine, or into other fissures of earth of a similar nature, which branched off; or, clambering up the cliffs, to find freer air on the hill-top. The daughter of the miller, not particularly pretty, but willing and good-humoured, waited on us. Snow-white table-cloths, and sparkling, inviting dinner apparatus, unfortunately, were not among the comforts; but the meats were eatable—the trout more than that; the whole not good enough to invite lingering over the meal; and again we sauntered beside the torrent, and reposed under the trees, and talked over our plans and a thousand other subjects, with the zest of people who found a new and willing listener after long seclusion.
Our eager love of Italy has struck a spark and lighted a similar flame in the breast of our friend. He intended repairing to Vienna in the winter. He now proposes taking Venice in his way; so that, if we will remain a month at Dresden, he will accompany us at least so far on our southern journey. It is thus arranged; not, perhaps, for the best—for, if the heats continue, any town must be disagreeable—still we have come so far into the heart of Germany, that there can be no harm, though it be not the town season, in lingering a few weeks in one of its most celebrated cities. We have accordingly taken convenient lodgings in the Alt Markt; and here we are.
Already, you may be sure, we have visited the Gallery—a labyrinth of lofty halls, adorned by a very mine of painted canvas, which thoroughly to explore would indeed be difficult. Some of its chief gems are in one room. Entering this, we are at once commanded and awed by the “Madonna di San Sisto,” the Virgin bearing the Infant God in her arms, by Raphael. As a painting, technically speaking, I believe there are faults found with it: worst of all, it has been retouched and restored; but no criticism can check the solemn impression it inspires. The Madonna is not the lowly wife of Joseph the carpenter: she is the Queen of Heaven; she advances surrounded by celestial rays, all formed of innumerable cherubim, from whose countenances beam the glory that surrounds her. The majesty of her countenance, “severe in youthful beauty,” demands worship for her as the mother of the Infant Saviour, whom she holds in her arms. And he, the Godhead (as well as feeble mortals can conceive the inconceivable, and yet which once it is believed was visible) sits enthroned on his brow, and looks out from eyes full of lofty command and conscious power. With one hand, he makes the sign of blessing, as in Catholic countries this is bestowed. Below are two angels—both lovely; one inexpressibly so—who are looking up. I have seen copies and engravings from this picture; I have seen these angels well imitated, but never the mother and child. In some, the angelic beauty is sacrificed in the endeavour to portray the majestic glance, which thus becomes stern; or the dignity fades, that the beauty, which thus becomes inexpressive, may be preserved. In truth, copies are very inefficient things; prints are often better; but if you look at the originals, such weak types fade into insignificance.
There are four large Correggios in this room; all among his earlier pictures. As paintings, I am told that they rank higher than the Raphael. They gain by being looked at and studied; the art of painting has never, nor can ever be carried further than the Chiaro Oscuro of this admirable artist; and the attitudes of the figures—the expression of some of the faces—especially of St. Sebastian, in one of them, thrills the frame. Now, the sense of adoration is cold in men’s breasts, and painters can neither see in others, nor conceive within their own breasts, a passion as absorbing as love, while it elevates and purifies those who feel it till their features shadow forth an angelic nature. A fifth Correggio is also here—the Magdalen, a small cabinet picture. It is well known. I am told that Correggio only painted it once; but Allori, a good painter, but whose conceptions, whose types (to use the word of the author of “La Poésie Chrétienne”) are not noble, has made many most admirable copies; it has thus been multiplied; some of the copies are generally said to be by the hand of Correggio himself; yet, in the most celebrated of them, I have not seen the mixed expression which is so wonderful in the face of the original. She is lying on the earth, in a cavern, supporting her head with her hand, reading the blessed promises of the Gospel. Her eyes are red with recent and much weeping; her face expresses earnest hope—or rather scarcely hope yet, but a yearning which will soon warm into satisfied faith; and she is eagerly drinking in the sublime consolations that speak peace to her heart. Her face is not clouded by grief, though you see that she has grieved with bitterness; nor does it express joy, though you see that she anticipates happiness. Is not this the triumph of art? You must add to this inimitable delicacy in shadowing forth expression, an execution quite unrivalled. The word Chiaro Oscuro, as applied to Correggio’s paintings, is familiar to every one. This picture teaches more than any other what it means. With other artists, the flesh in shade, is the flesh darkened—blackened: here—look at the arms, the throat of the Magdalen; they are fair as alabaster—or rather, as the fair skin of woman, and the shadow that obscures them, conceals it in the painting not more than it would do in reality.
The heat is very great; the hours of the gallery excessively inconvenient—from nine to one, when it is inexorably closed, that the attendants may dine at the universal German hour; and they do not open again. I am convinced that one of the reasons that there is heaviness in the Germans, is this early hour for their principal, their interminable meal. Who can be fit for anything, after sitting for two or three hours at mid-day to a plentiful dinner? After such an act, life must be extinct in all the nobler functions for some hours; but, as they go to bed at ten, they do not give scope for the mind to recover itself. To be sure, they rise at five, and therefore their great men have been able to achieve so much.
With regard to the gallery, special permission may be obtained, if sought and paid for, to visit it at other hours. If we were only here for a day or two, it would be worth while to obtain this; but then an attendant would accompany us all the time; now we are free to roam at will. So we shall content ourselves with the public hours.
We are to remain the whole of this month at Dresden; before the end of it, I hope the heat will diminish. It is so excessive that I mean to escape for a few days to Rabenau.
LETTER VIII.
Rabenau.—The Gallery.—The Terrace of Brühl.—The Grosse Garten.—The great Heat.
Dresden, August 12.
Thy mountain torrent and thy narrow vale,