I Saw, Now, Those
Atmospheric Traits, Those Reproductions Of The Mysteries Of Air, And
Of Light, Which Are Called So
Wonderful, and for which all admire
Claude, but for which so few admire Him who made Claude, and who every
Day creates around us, in the commonest scenes, effects far more
beautiful. How much, even now, my admiration of Claude was genuine, I
cannot say. How can we ever be sure on this point, when we admire what
has prestige and sanction, not to admire which is an argument against
ourselves? Certainly, however, I did feel great delight in some of
these works.
One of my favorites was Rembrandt. I always did admire the gorgeous
and solemn mysteries of his coloring. Rembrandt is like Hawthorne. He
chooses simple and everyday objects, and so arranges light and shadow
as to give them a sombre richness and a mysterious gloom. The House of
Seven Gables is a succession of Rembrandt pictures, done in words
instead of oils. Now, this pleases us, because our life really is a
haunted one; the simplest thing in it is a mystery, the invisible
world always lies round us like a shadow, and therefore this dreamy
golden gleam of Rembrandt meets somewhat in our inner consciousness to
which it corresponds. There were no pictures in the gallery which I
looked upon so long, and to which I returned so often and with such
growing pleasure, as these. I found in them, if not a commanding, a
drawing influence, a full satisfaction for one part of my nature.
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