Such Pictures
Are A Disgrace To The Artists That Painted, To The Age That Tolerates,
And To The Gallery That Contains Them.
They are fit for a bagnio
rather than a public exhibition.
Evening. Dresden is the home of Madame Jenny Lind Goldschmidt. H. sent
her card. This evening Mr. G. called to express regret that she was
unable to see any one, on account of her recent confinement. He kindly
offered us the use of his carriage and assistance in sightseeing. H.
discussed with him the catalogues of the gallery of paintings. As to
music, we learn, with regret, that it is out of season for concerts,
oratorios, or any thing worth hearing.
Wednesday, August 10. Dresden to Berlin. Drove to Charlottenburg, and
saw the monument of Queen Louisa.
Thursday, 11. Visited the Picture Gallery, and various stores and
shops.
Saturday, August 13. Berlin to Wittenberg, two hours' ride. Examined
the Schloss-Kirche, where Luther is buried, passing on our way through
the public square containing his monument.
At nine in the evening took cars for Erfurt. That night ride, with the
moon and one star hanging beautifully over the horizon, was pleasant.
There is a wild and thrilling excitement in thus plunging through the
mysterious night in a land utterly unknown. Reached Erfurt at two in
the morning.
Monday, August 15. Erfurt to Eisenach by eight. Drove to the Wartburg.
LETTER XLIII.
DRESDEN.
DEAR: -
I went to Dresden as an art-pilgrim, principally to see Raphael's
great picture of the Madonna di San Sisto, supposing that to be the
best specimen of his genius out of Italy. On my way I diligently
studied the guide book of that indefatigable friend of the traveller,
Mr. Murray, in which descriptions of the finest pictures are given,
with the observations of artists; so that inexperienced persons may
know exactly what to think, and where to think it. My expectations had
been so often disappointed, that my pulse was somewhat calmer.
Nevertheless, the glowing eulogiums of these celebrated artists could
not but stimulate anticipation. We made our way, therefore, first to
the _salon_ devoted to the works of Raphael and Correggio, and
soon found ourselves before the grand painting. Trembling with
eagerness, I looked up. Was that the picture? W. whispered to me, "I
think we have mistaken the painting."
"No, we have not," said I, struggling to overcome the disappointment
which I found creeping over me. The source of this disappointment was
the thin and faded appearance of the coloring, which at first
suggested to me the idea of a water-colored sketch. It had evidently
suffered barbarously in the process of cleaning, a fact of which I had
been forewarned. This circumstance has a particularly unfavorable
effect on a picture of Raphael's, because his coloring, at best, is
delicate and reserved, and, as compared with, that of Rubens,
approaches to poverty; so that he can ill afford to lose any thing in
this way.
Then as to conception and arrangement, there was much which annoyed
me. The Virgin and Child in the centre are represented as rising in
the air; on one side below them is the kneeling figure of Pope Sixtus;
and on the other, that of St. Barbara. Now this Pope Sixtus is, in my
eyes, a very homely old man, and as I think no better of homely old
men for being popes, his presence in the picture is an annoyance. St.
Barbara, on the other side, has the most beautiful head and face that
could be represented; but then she is kneeling on a cloud with such a
judicious and coquettish arrangement of her neck, shoulders, and face,
to show every fine point in them, as makes one feel that no saint
(unless with a Parisian education) could ever have dropped into such a
position in the _abandon_ of holy rapture. In short, she looks
like a theatrical actress; without any sympathy with the solemnity of
the religious conception, who is there merely because a beautiful
woman was wanted to fill up the picture.
Then that old, faded green curtain, which is painted as hanging down
on either side of the picture, is, to my eye, a nuisance. The whole
interest, therefore, of the piece concentrates in the centre figures,
the Madonna and Child, and two angel children gazing up from the foot
of the picture. These angel children were the first point on which my
mind rested, in its struggle to overcome its disappointment, and bring
itself _en rapport_ with the artist. In order fully to appreciate
their spiritual beauty, one must have seen an assortment of those
things called angels, which occur in the works of the old masters.
Generally speaking, I know of nothing more calculated to moderate any
undue eagerness to go to heaven than the common run of canvas angels.
Far the greater part are roistering, able-bodied fellows with wings,
giving indisputable signs of good living, and of a coarseness slightly
suggestive of blackguardism. Far otherwise with _these_ fair
creatures, with their rainbow-colored wings, and their serene,
upturned eyes of thought baptized with emotion. They are the first
things I have seen worthy of my ideas of Raphael.
As to the Madonna, I think that, when Wilkie says she is "nearer the
perfection of female elegance and grace than any thing in painting,"
he does not speak with discrimination. Mere physical beauty and grace
are not _the_ characteristics of the figure: many more perfect
forms can be found, both on canvas and in marble. But the merits of
the figure, to my mind, are, first, its historic accuracy in
representing the dark-eyed Jewish maiden; second, the wonderful
fulness and depth of expression thrown into the face; and third, the
mysterious resemblance and sympathy between the face of the mother and
that of the divine child. To my eye, this picture has precisely that
which Murillo's Assumption in the Louvre wants: it has an unfathomable
depth of earnestness. The Murillo is its superior in coloring and
grace of arrangement.
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