The painter stood absorbed in his own reflections.
“Berthold,” I exclaimed, “what has all this to do with your art? I do not think that any one can deem it presumption to present the human form, either by painting or sculpture.”
“Um, ha,” laughed Berthold, in wild derision; “child’s play is no presumption. It is all child’s play with those folks, who comfortably dip their pencils into colour-pots, and daub a canvass with the veritable desire of producing human beings; but it always turns out as if some drudge of nature had undertaken to make men, as it stands in that tragedy, and had failed. Such as those are no presumptuous sinners, but poor innocent fools. But if one strives to attain the highest, not the mere sensual, like Titian—no, the highest in divine nature, the Promethean spark in man—that is a precipice—a narrow edge on which we stand—the abyss is open! The bold sailor soars above him, and a devilish deceit lets him perceive that below, which he wished to see above the stars.” The painter uttered a deep sigh, passed his hand over his forehead, and then looked upwards. “But why do I talk all this mad stuff to you, comrade, and leave off painting? Look here, mate, this is what I call well and honestly drawn. How noble is the rule! All the lines combine to a determined end—a determined, clearly conceived effect. Only that which is done by measure is purely human;—what is beyond, is of evil. Can we not conceive that the Deity has expressly created us, to manage for his own good purpose that which is exhibited according to measured, appreciable rules;—in a word, the purely commeasurable, just as we, in our turn build saw-mills and spinning-machines, as the mechanical superintendents of our wants? Professor Walter lately maintained, that certain beasts were merely created to be eaten by others, and that this in the end, conduced to our own utility. Thus, for example, cats, he said, had an innate propensity to devour mice, that they might not nibble the sugar placed ready for our breakfast. And the professor was right in the end;—animals, and we ourselves are but well-ordered machines, made to work up and knead certain materials for the table of the unknown king.—Come, come, mate, hand me up the pots. I prepared all the tones yesterday by daylight, that this candlelight might not deceive us, and they all stand numbered in yonder corner. Hand me up No. 1, young friend. Gray with gray!—What would dry, weary life be, if the Lord of Heaven had not put so many motley playthings into our hands. He who demeans himself well does not, like the curious boy, try to break the box from which the music comes when he turns the handle. It is just natural, they say, that it sounds inside, for I turn the handle. Because I have drawn this intellective correctly according to the point of view, I know that it will have the effect of actual sculpture on the spectator.—Now, boy, reach me No. 2, now I paint in colours that are toned down according to rule, and it appears receding five yards. All that I know well enough—oh, we are amazingly clever! How is it that objects diminish in the distance? This one stupid question of a Chinese could put to confusion Professor Eytelwein himself; but he could help himself out with the music-box, and say he had often turned the handle, and always experienced the same result.—Violet, No. 2, youngster! Another rule, and a thick washed-out brush! Ah, what is all our striving and struggling after the higher, but the helpless, unconscious act of an infant who hurts the nurse that feeds him. Violet, No. 2! Quick, young man! The ideal is an evil, lying dream, produced by fermented blood. Take away the pot, young man, I am coming down. The devil lures us with puppets, to which he glues angel’s wings.”
I am unable to repeat literally, what Berthold said, while he went on painting rapidly, and treated me only as his fag. He went on in the tone in which he had begun, scoffing at the limited nature of every human effort. Ah, I was inspecting the depth of a mind that had received its death-wound, and that only uttered its complaints in bitter irony. Morning dawned, and the glimmer of the taper grew pale before the entrance of sunlight. Berthold painted on zealously, but he became more and more silent, and only single sounds—ultimately, only sighs—escaped his burdened breast. He had planned the entire altar with all its gradation of colour, and even now the picture stood out quite prominently.
“Admirable! admirable!” I cried out with delight.
“Do you think,” said Berthold, faintly, “that I shall make something of it? I at least took great pains to make my drawing correct, but now I can do no more.”
“No, no, not a stroke more, dear Berthold,” I exclaimed, “it is almost incredible how you have made so much progress in such a work within a few hours. But you exert yourself too much, and are quite lavish of your power.”
“And yet,” said Berthold, “these are my happiest hours. Perhaps I talked too much, but it is only in words that the pain which consumes my vitals finds a vent.”
“You seem to feel very unhappy, my poor friend,” said I, “some frightful event has had an evil influence on your life.”
The painter slowly took his materials into the chapel, extinguished the lights, and coming up to me, seized my hand, and said, in a faltering voice, “Could you be cheerful, nay, could you have one quiet moment, if you were conscious of a fearful, irreparable crime?”