It Was, Then, With A Thrill Almost Of Awe That I Approached The
Louvre.
Here, perhaps, said I to myself, I shall answer, fully, the
question that has long wrought within my soul, What is art?
And what
can it do? Here, perhaps, these yearnings for the ideal will meet
their satisfaction. The ascent to the picture gallery tends to produce
a flutter of excitement and expectation. Magnificent staircases, dim
perspectives of frescoes and carvings, the glorious hall of Apollo,
rooms with mosaic pavements, antique vases, countless spoils of art,
dazzle the eye of the neophyte, and prepare the mind for some grand
enchantment. Then opens on one the grand hall of paintings arranged by
schools, the works of each artist by themselves, a wilderness of
gorgeous growths.
I first walked through the whole, offering my mind up aimlessly to see
if there were any picture there great and glorious enough to seize and
control my whole being, and answer, at once, the cravings of the
poetic and artistic element. For any such I looked in vain. I saw a
thousand beauties, as also a thousand enormities, but nothing of that
overwhelming, subduing nature which I had conceived. Most of the men
there had painted with dry eyes and cool hearts, thinking only of the
mixing of their colors and the jugglery of their art, thinking little
of heroism, faith, love, or immortality. Yet when I had resigned this
longing; when I was sure I should not meet there what I sought, then I
began to enjoy very heartily what there was.
In the first place, I now saw Claudes worthy of the reputation he
bore. Three or four of these were studied with great delight; the
delight one feels, who, conscientiously bound to be delighted,
suddenly comes into a situation to be so. 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.
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