FLYING FOOTSTEPS.
The journey which we now commenced was too rapid to allow of more than the briefest record of its route. The breathlessness of haste, and the number of things to be seen and visited, left no time for writing up on the subjects suggested by the meagre notes of the diary. To the latter, therefore, I am forced to betake myself, piecing its fragmentary statements, where I can do so, from memory.
Tuesday, August 6. Started with vetturino for Innspruck, via Brenner pass. A splendid day's journey. Stopped to dine at a pretty village,—name forgotten,—at whose principal inn a smart, bustling maid-servant in costume, very clean and civil, came to the carriage, helped us to alight, and carried our travelling bags up stairs to a parlor with a stout bed in it, upon which our chief threw himself and slept until the cutlets were ready. This old-fashioned zeal and civility were pleasant to contemplate once more, probably for the last time. For a railroad has been built over the Brenner pass, the which will go into operation next week. Then will these pleasant manners insensibly fade away, with the up-to-time curtness of modern travel. The porter who helps you to carry your hand luggage from the car to the depot will sternly demand his fee for that laborious service. All officials will grow as reticent of doing you the smallest pleasure as if civility were a contraband of war. And it does indeed become so, for the railroad develops the antagonisms of trade. Its flaming sword allows of no wanderings in wayside Paradises. Its steam trumpet shrieks in your ear the lesson that the straight line is the shortest distance between two points. It swallows you at one point and vomits you at another, with extreme risk of your life between. And it vulgarizes every place that it touches. The mixed stir and quiet of the little town become concentrated into fixed crises of excitement. For the postilion's horn and whip, and the pleasant rattling of the coming and going post-chaise, you will have, three or four times in the day, those shrill bars whose infernal symphony is mercifully allowed to proceed no farther; and a cross and steaming crowd; and a cool and supercilious few in the first or second class wart-saal; and then a dull and dead quiet in the little town, as if steam and stir came and went together, and left nothing behind them.
The buxom maid-servant mourned over the impending ruin of the small tavern business, as she showed us the curious arrangements of the old house. It had formerly been a convent of nuns, and was very solidly put together. The back windows commanded a lovely view of the mountains. In the garden we found a pleasant open house, no doubt formerly a place for devout assemblages and meditations, but now chiefly devoted to the consumption of beer.
After dinner we walked to the church near by, and looked at the curious iron crosses and small mural tablets which marked the final resting-place of the village worthies. Their petty offices and cherished distinctions were all preserved here. All of them had received the "holy death sacrament," and had started on the mysterious voyage in good hope. Through this whole extent of country, the crucifixes by the wayside were numerous. Resuming our journey, we reached Mittelwald, a picturesque hamlet, composed of a small church, a stream, a bridge, and a short string of houses. Here we defeated the future machinations of all officers of customs, by causing the two offending dress-patterns, already twice paid for, and treated at length in various printed and written documents, to be cut into breadths, which we hastily managed to sew up, reserving their fuller treatment for the purlieus of civilized life.
Our two days' drive over the mountains was refreshing and most charming. Our vetturino was not less despondent than the maid-servant before alluded to. In our progress we were much in sight of the scarcely completed railroad, whose locomotive and working cars constantly appeared and disappeared before us, plunging into the numerous tunnels that defeat the designs of the mountain fortresses, and mocking our slow progress, as the money-getting train of success and sensation mocks the tedious steps of learning and the painful elaboration of art.
"This is my last journey," said the vetturino; "the railway opens on Monday of next week."
"What will you do thereafter?" I inquired.
"Sell all out, and go to work as I can," he answered; adding, however, "In case you should intend going as far as Munich by carriage, I beg to be honored,"—of which the Yankee rendering would be, "I shouldn't mind putting you through."
This, however, was hardly to be thought of, and at Innspruck we took leave of this honest and polite man, whose species must soon become extinct, whether he survive or no. Here recommenced for us the prosaic chapter of the railroad. Our route, however, for a good part of the way, lay within sight of the mountains. The depots at which we took fiery breath were in the style of Swiss châlets, quite ornamental in themselves, and further graced by vines and flowers. The travellers we encountered were not commonplacely cosmopolite. The young women were often in Tyrolese costume, wearing gilt tassels on their broad, black felt hats. We encountered parties of archers going to attend shooting matches, attired in picturesque uniforms of green and gold. At the depots, too, we encountered a new medium of enlivenment. We were now in a land of beer, and foaming glasses were offered to us in the cars, and at the railway buffets. Mild and cheerful we found this Bavarian beverage,—less verse-inspiring than wine,—and valuable as tending to reduce the number of poets who tease the world by putting all its lessons into rhymes, chimes, and jingles. Whatever we ourselves may have done, it is certain that our companions of both sexes embraced these frequent opportunities of refreshment, and that the color in their cheeks and the tone of their good-natured laughter were heightened by the same. One of these, a young maiden, told us how she had climbed the mountain during four hours of the day before, visiting the huts of the cowherds, who, during summer, pasture their cows high up on the green slopes. The existence of these people she described as hard and solitary in the extreme. The rich butter and cheese they make are all for the market. They themselves eat only what they cannot sell, according to the rule whereby small farmers live and thrive in all lands. The young girl wore in her hat a bunch of the blossom called edelweiss, which she had brought from her lofty wanderings. It is held in great esteem here, and is often offered for sale.
In the afternoon we turned our back upon the mountains. A flat land lay before us, green and well tilled. And long before sunset we saw the spires of Munich, and the lifted arm of the great statue of Bavaria. Our arrival was prosperous, and through the streets of the handsome modern city we attained the quiet of an upper chamber in a hotel filled with Americans.
MUNICH.
Our two days in Munich were characterized by the most laborious sight-seeing. A week, even in our rapid scale of travelling, would not have been too much for this gorgeous city. We gave what we had, and cannot give a good account of it.
My first visit was to the Pinakothek, which I had thoroughly explored some twenty-three years earlier, when the galleries of Italy and the Louvre were unknown to me. Coming now quite freshly from Venice, with Rome and Florence still recent in my experience, I found the Munich gallery less grandiose than my former remembrance had made it. The diary says, "The Rubenses are the best feature. I note also two fine heads by Rembrandt, and a first-rate Paris Bordone—a female head with golden hair and dark-red dress; four peasant pictures by Murillo, excellent in their kind, quite familiar through copies and engravings; some of the best Albert Dürers. The Italian pictures not all genuine. None of the Raphaels, I should say, would be accepted as such in Italy. The Fra Angelicos not good. Two good Andrea del Sartos; a Leonardo da Vinci, which seems to me a little caricatured; a room full of Vander Wertes, very smooth and finely finished; many Vandycks, scarcely first rate."
The afternoon of this day we devoted to the Glyptothek, or gallery of sculpture. Here our first objects of interest were the Æginetan marbles, whose vacant places we had so recently seen on the breezy height of the temple from which they were taken.
We found these rough, and attesting a period of art far more remote than that of the Elgin marbles. They are arranged in the order in which they stood before the pediment of the temple, a standing figure of Minerva in the middle, the other figures tapering off on either side, and ending with two seated warriors, the feet of either turned towards the outer angle of his side of the pediment. All seemed to have belonged to a dispensation of ugliness; they reminded us of some of the Etruscan sculptures.
This gallery possesses a famous torso called the Ilioneus, concerning which Mrs. Jamieson rhapsodizes somewhat in her Munich book. The Barberini Faun, too, is among its treasures. As my readers may not be acquainted with the artistic antecedents of this statue, I will subjoin for their benefit the following narration, which I abridge from the "Ricordi" of the Marquis Massimo d' Azeglio, recently published.
At the time of the French domination in Italy, the Roman nobles were subjected to the levying of heavy contributions. The inconvenience of these requisitions often taxed the resources of the wealthiest families, and led to the sale of furniture, jewels, and the multifarious denomination of articles classed together as objets d'art. Among others, the Barberini family, in their palace at the Quattro Fontane, exposed for sale various antiquitties, and especially the torso of a male figure, of Greek execution and in Pentelican marble, a relic of the palmy days of Hellenic art.
A certain sculptor, Cavalier Pacetti, purchased this last fragment, sold at auction for the sum of seven or eight hundred dollars. The arms and legs were wholly wanting—the narrator is uncertain as to the head. Pacetti had made this purchase with the view of restoring the mutilated statue to entireness. He proceeded to model for himself the parts that were wanting, and in time produced the sleeping figure known as the Barberini Faun.
This work was esteemed a great success. Besides the value of its long and uncertain labor must be mentioned the difficulty of matching the original marble. To effect this the artist was obliged to purchase and destroy another Greek statue, of less merit, whose marble supplied the material for the restoration.
In the mean time the Napoleonic era had passed away; the pope had returned to Rome. Foreigners from all parts now flocked to the Eternal City, and to one of these Pacetti sold his work for many thousands of dollars. Before it could be packed and delivered, however, a governmental veto annulled the sale, directing the artist to restore the statue to the Barberini family, under the plea of its being subject to a fidei commissa, and offering him the sum of money expended by him in the first purchase, together with such further compensation for his labor and materials as a committee of experts should award.
The unfortunate Pacetti resisted this injustice to the extent of his ability. He demonstrated the sale of the torso to have been made without reserve, the money for its purchase to have been raised by him with considerable effort. The further expense of the secondary statue was a heavy item. As an artist, he could not allow any one but himself to set a price upon his work.
In spite of these arguments, the Barberinis, remembering that possession is nine points of the law, managed to confiscate the statue by armed force. Before this last measure, however, a mandate informed the artist that the pitiful sum offered to him in exchange (not in compensation) for his work, had been placed in the bank, subject to his order, and that from this sum a steady discount would mark every day of his delay to close with the shameful bargain.
Pacetti now fell ill with a bilious fever, the result of this bitter disappointment. His recovery was only partial, and his death soon followed. His sons commenced and continued a suit against the Barberini family. They obtained a favorable judgment, but did not obtain their property, which the Barberinis sold to the King of Bavaria.
I have thought it worth while to quote this history of a world-renowned work of art. I do not know that a more perfect and successful combination of modern with ancient art exists than that achieved in this Munich Faun. The mutilated honor of the Barberini name is, we should fear, beyond restoration by any artist.
The Glyptothek closed much too soon for us. With the exception of the sculptures just enumerated, it possesses nothing that can compete in interest with the noted Italian galleries, or perhaps with the Louvre. But the few valuables that it has are first rate of their kind, and it contains many duplicates of well-known subjects. The building and arrangements are very elegant, and seem to cast a certain pathos over the follies of the old king, to whom it owes its origin, making one more sorry than angry that one who knew the Graces so well should not have fraternized more with the Virtues. The Æginetan Minerva is stern and hideous, however, and may have exercised an unfortunate influence over her protegé.
We closed the labors of this day by visiting the colossal statue of Bavaria, who, with a strange hospitality, throws open her skull to the public. The external effect of the figure is not grandiose, and the sudden slope of the ground in front makes it very difficult to get a good view of it. With the help of a lamp, and in consideration of a small fee, we ascended the spinal column, and made ourselves comfortable within the sacred precincts of phrenology. The circulation, however, soon became so rapid as to produce a pressure at the base of the brain. Calling to the guardian below to impede for the moment all further ascent, we flowed down, and the congestion was relieved. Of this statue an artist once said to us, "As for such a thing as the Munich Bavaria, the bigger it is, the smaller it is"—a saying not unintelligible to those who have seen it.
Our remaining day we devoted, in the first place, to the new Pinakothek. Here we saw a large picture, by Kaulbach, representing the fall of Jerusalem. Although full of historical and artistic interest, it seemed to me less individual and remarkable than his cartoons. A series of small pictures by the same artist appeared quite unworthy of his great powers and reputation. They were exceedingly well executed, certainly, but poorly conceived, representing matters merely personal to artistic and other society in Munich, and of little value to the world at large.
Here was also a holy family by Overbeck, closely imitated from Raphael. The diary speaks vaguely of "many interesting pictures, the religious ones the poorest." I remember that we greatly regretted the limitation of our time in visiting this gallery. In the vestibule of the building we were shown a splendid Bavaria, in a triumphal car, driving four lions abreast, the work of Schwanthaler. This noble design so far exists only in plaster; one would wish to see it in fine Munich bronze. Apropos of which I must mention, but cannot describe, a visit to the celebrated foundery in which many of the best modern statues have been cast. Here were Crawford's noble works; here the more recent compositions of Rogers, Miss Stebbins, and Miss Hosmer. An American naturally first seeks acquaintance here with the works of his countrymen. He finds them in distinguished company. The foundery keeps a plaster cast of each of its models, and the ghosts of our heroes appear with tie-wig princes and generals of other times, as also with poets and littérateurs. The group of Goethe and Schiller, crowned and hand in hand, suggests one of the noblest of literary reminiscences—that of the devoted and genuine friendship of two most eminent authors, within the narrow limits of one small society. The entireness and sincerity of each in his own department of art alone made this possible. He who dares to be himself, and to work out his own ideal, fears no other, however praised and distinguished.
We visited the new and old palaces in company with a small mob of travellers of all nations, whose disorderly tendencies were restrained by the palace cicerones. These worthies did the honors of the place, told the stories, and kept the company together. In the new palace we were shown the frescos, the hall of the battlepieces, the famous gallery of beauties, and the throne-room, whose whole length is adorned with life-size statues of royal and ducal Bavarian ancestors in gilded bronze. The throne is a great gilded chair, cushioned with crimson velvet, the seat adorned with a huge L in gold embroidery.
Of the gallery mentioned just before, I must say that its portraits are those of society belles, not of artist beauties. However handsome, therefore, they may have been in their ball and court dresses, there is something conventional and unlovely in their toute ensemble, as a collection of female heads. I would agree to find artists who should make better pictures from women of the people, taken in their ordinary costume, and with the freedom of common life in their actions and expressions. An intangible armor of formality seems to guard the persons of those great ladies. One imagines that one could understand their faces better, were they translated into human nature.
In the old palace, which has now rather a deserted and denuded aspect, we still found traces of former splendor. Among these, I remember a state bed with a covering so heavily embroidered with gold, that eight men are requisite to lift it. The valet de place astonished us with the price of this article; but having forgotten his statement, I cannot astonish any one with it. Of greater interest was a room, whose walls bore everywhere small brackets, supporting costly pieces of porcelain, cups, flacons, and statuettes. Beyond this was a boudoir, whose vermilion sides were nearly covered by miniature paintings, set into them. Many of these miniatures were of great beauty and value. Clearly the tastes of the Bavarian family were always of the most expensive. They looked after the flower garden, and allowed the kitchen garden to take care of itself. Of this sort was the farming of Otho and Amalia. But peace be to them. Otho is just dead of measles, Amalia nearly dead of vexations.
Our two days allowed us little time for the churches of Munich. The Frauenkirche has many antiquities more interesting than its splendid restorations. On one of its altars I found the inscription, "Holy mother Ann, pray for us." I suppose that ever since the dogma of the immaculate conception has become part of church discipline, the sacred person just mentioned has found her clientele much enlarged. The new Basilica is quite gorgeous in its adornments, but I have preserved no minutes of them.
We had the satisfaction of seeing a number of Kaulbach's drawings, among which were his Goethe and Schiller series, very fine and full of interest.
One of the last of these represents Tell stepping from Gessler's boat at the critical moment described in Schiller's drama. One of the newest to me was a figure of Ottilie, from the Wahlverwandtschaften, hanging with mingled horror and affection over the innocent babe of the story. The intense distress of the young girl's countenance contrasts strongly with the reposeful attitude of the little one. It made me ponder this ingenious and laboriously achieved distress. The very exuberance of Goethe's temperament, I must think, caused him to seek his sorrows in regions quite remote from common disaster. The miseries of his personages (vide Werther and the Wahlverwandtschaften) are far-fetched; and the alchemy by which he turns wholesome life into sentimental anguish brings to light no life-treasure more substantial than the fairy gold which genius is bound to convert into value more solid.
And this was all of Munich, a place of polite tastes surely, in which life must flow on, adorned with many pleasantnesses. Neither would business seem to be deficient, judging from the handsome shops and general air of prosperity. Our view of its resources was certainly most cursory. But life is the richer even for adjourned pleasures, and we shall never think of Munich without desiring its better acquaintance.
SWITZERLAND.
Travelling in Switzerland is now become so common and conventional as to invite little comment, except from those who remain in the country long enough to study out scientific and social questions, which the hasty traveller has not time to entertain in even the most cursory matter. I confess, for one, that I was content to be enchanted with the wonderful beauty which feasts the eye without intermission. I was willing to believe that the mountains had done for this people all that they should have done, giving them political immunities, and a sort of necessary independence, while the hardships of climate and situation keep stringent the social bond, and temper the fierceness of individuality with the sense of mutual need and protection. It would be, I think, an instructive study for an American to become intimately acquainted with the domestic features of Swiss republicanism. It is undoubtedly a system less lax and more carefully administered than our own. The door is not thrown open for beggary, ignorance, and rascality to vote themselves, in the shape of their representatives, the first places in outward dignity and efficient power. The old traditions of breeding and education are carefully held to. Without the nonsense of aristocratic absolutism, there is yet no confusion of orders. The mistress is mistress, and the maid is maid. Wealth and landed property persevere in families. Great changes of position without great talents are rare.
To our American pretensions, and to our brilliant style of manœuvring, the Swiss mode of life would appear a very slow business. It seems rather to develop a high mediocrity than an array of startling superiorities. It has, moreover, no room for daring theories and experiments. It cannot afford a Mormon corner, a woman's-rights platform, an endless intricacy of speculating and swindling rings. Whether we can afford these things, future generations will determine. There is a great deal of moral and political fancy-work done in America which another age may put out of sight to make room for necessary scrubbing, sweeping, and getting rid of vermin. Meantime the poor present age works, and deceives, and dawdles, hoping to be dismissed with the absolving edict, "She hath done what she could."
Hotels, railways, and depots in Switzerland are comfortable, and managed with great order and system. The telegraph arrangements are admirable, cheap, and punctual, as they might be here, if they were administered for the people's interest, and not for the aggrandizement of private fortunes. Living and comfort are expensive to the traveller, not exorbitant. Subordinates neither insult nor cringe. Churches are well filled; intelligent and intelligible doctrine is preached. Education is valued, and liberal provision is made for those classes in which natural disability calls for special modes of instruction. I dare not go more into generals, from my very limited opportunity of observation. Everything, however, in the aspect of town and country, leads one to suppose that the average of crime must be a low one, and that the preventing influences—so much more efficient than remedial measures—have long, been at work. It is Protestant Switzerland which makes this impression most strongly. In the Catholic cantons, beggary exists and is tolerated as a thing of course; yet the Protestant element has everywhere its representation and its influence.
Swiss Catholicism has not the slavish ignorance of Roman Catholicism. The little painted crucifixes by the wayside indeed afflict one by their impotence and insignificance. Not thus shall Christ be recognized in these days. In some places their frequency reminded me of the recurrence of the pattern on a calico or a wall paper. Yet, as a whole, one feels that Switzerland is a Protestant power.
For specials, I must have recourse to the insufficient pages of the diary, which give the following:—
August 13. Museum at Zurich. Lacustrine remains, in stone, flint, and bronze; fragments of the old piles, cut with stone knives. Hand-mill for corn, consisting of a hollow stone and a round one, concave and convex. Toilet ornaments, in bone and bronze; a few in gold.—The Library. Lady Jane Grey's letters, three in number; Zwingle's Greek Bible.—The Armory. Zwingle's helmet and battle-axe; three suits of female armor; curious shields, cannon, pikes, and every variety of personal defence.
August 14. Left Zurich at half past six A. M. for Lucerne, reaching the latter place at half past eight. Visited Thorwaldsen's lion, whose majestic presence I had not forgotten in twenty-three years. Yet the Swiss hireling under foreign pay is a mischievous institution. At two P. M. took the boat for Hergeswyl, intending to ascend from that point the Mount Pilatus. At half past three began this ascension. The road is very fine, and my leader was excellent; yet I had some uncomfortable moments in the latter part of the ascent, which was in zigzag, and very steep. Each horse cost ten francs, and each leader was to have a trink-geld besides. We stopped very gladly at the earliest reached of the two hotels which render habitable the heights of the mountain. We learned too late that it would have been better to proceed at once to that which stands nearly on the summit. We should thus have gained time for the great spectacle of the sunrise on the following morning. Our view of the sunset, too, would have been more extended. Yet we were well content with it. Near the hotel was a very small Catholic chapel, through whose painted windows we tried to peep. A herd of goats feeding near by made music with their tinkling bells. Swiss sounds are as individual as Swiss sights. Voices, horns, bells, all have their peculiar ring in these high atmospheres.
We lay down at night with the intention of rising at a quarter of four next morning, in order to witness the sunrise from the highest point of the mountain. Mistaking some sounds which disturbed my slumbers for the guide's summons, I sprang out of bed, and having no match, made a hasty toilet in the dark, and then ran to arouse my companions. One of these, fortunately, was able to strike a light and look at his watch. It was just twelve, and my zeal and energy had been misdirected. When I again awoke, it was at four A. M., already rather late for our purpose. We dressed hastily, and vehemently started on the upward zigzag. As the guide had not yet appeared, I carried our night bundle, but for which I should have kept the lead of the party. Small as was its weight, I felt it sensibly in this painful ascent, and was thankful to relinquish it when the tardy guide came up with us. In spite of his aid, I was much distressed for breath, and suffered from a thirst surpassing that of fever. My ears also ached exceedingly in consequence of the rarefaction of the atmosphere. The last effort of the ascent was made upon a ladder pitched at such an angle that one could climb it only on hands and knees. We reached the last peak a little late for the sunrise, but enjoyed a near and magnificent view of the snow Alps. The diary contains no description of this prospect. I can only remember that its coloring and extent were wonderful. But a day of fatigue was still before us. Breakfasting at six o'clock, we soon commenced the painful downward journey. No "facilis descensus" was this, but a climbing down which lasted three full hours. We had kept but one horse for this part of our journey, but this was such an uncertain and stumbling beast that we gladly surrendered him to our chief, who, in spite of this assistance, was found more than once lying on a log, assuring us that his end was at hand. We had little breath to spare for his consolation, but gave him a silent and aching sympathy. A pleasant party of English girls left the hotel when we did, one on horseback and three on foot. The hardships of the way brought us together. I can still recall the ring of their voices, and the freshness and sparkle of their faces, which really encouraged my efforts. The pleasures of this descent were as intense as its pains. The brilliant grass was enamelled with wild flowers, exquisite in color and fragrance. The mountain air was bracing and delightful, the details of tree and stream most picturesque. For some reason, which I now forget, we stopped but little to take rest. At a small châlet half way down, we enjoyed a glass of beer, and were waited upon by a maiden in white sleeves and black bodice, her fair hair being braided with a strip of white linen, and secured in its place by a large pin with an ornamented head. We reached Alpenach in a state of body and of wardrobe scarcely describable. But our minds at least were at ease. We had done something to make a note of. We had been to the top of Mons Pilatus.
Of Interlaken the diary preserves nothing worth transcribing. The great beauty of the scenery made us reluctant to leave it after a few hours of enjoyment. The appalling fashionable and watering-place aspect of the streets and hotels, on the other hand, rendered it uncongenial to quiet travellers, whose strength did not lie in the clothes line. Our brief stay showed us the greatest mixture and variety of people; the hotels were splendid with showy costumes, the shops tempting with onyx, amethyst, and crystal ornaments. We saw here also a great display of carvings in wood. The unpaved streets were gay with equipages and donkey parties. A sousing rain soon made confusion among them, and reconciled us to a speedy departure.
Of Berne and Fribourg I will chronicle only the organ concerts, given to exhibit the resources of two famous instruments. At both places we found the organ very fine, and the musical performance very trashy. No real organ music was given on either occasion, the pièce de resistance being an imitation of a thunderstorm. Both instruments seemed to me to surpass our own great organ in beauty and variety of tone. The larger proportions of the buildings in which they are heard may contribute to this result. Both of these are cathedrals, with fine vaulted roofs and long aisles, very different from the essentially civic character of the music hall, whose compact squareness cannot deal with the immense volume of sound thrown upon its hands by the present overgrown incum—bent.
THE GREAT EXPOSITION.
It would be unfair to American journalism not to suppose that all possible information concerning the Great Exposition has already been given to the great republic. There have doubtless been quires upon quires of brilliant writing devoted to that absorbing theme. Columns from the most authentic sources have been commanded and paid for. American writing is rich in epithets, and we may suppose that all the adjective splendors have been put in requisition to aid imagination to take the place of sight. Yet, as the diversities of landscape painting show the different views which may be taken of one nature, even so the view taken by my sober instrument may possibly show something that has escaped another.
I here refer to the pages of my oft-quoted diary. But alas! the wretch deserts me in the hour of my greatest need. I find a record of my first visit only, and that couched in one prosaic phrase as follows: Exposition—valet, six francs.
Now, I am not a Cuvier, to reconstruct a whole animal from a single fossil bone; nor am I a German historian, to present the picture of a period by inventing the opposite of its records. Yet what I can report of this great feature of the summer must take as its starting-point this phrase: Exposition—valet, six francs.
This extravagant attendance was secured by us on the occasion of our first visit, when, passing inside the narrow turnstile, with ready change and eager mind, we encountered the great reality we had to deal with, and felt, to our dismay, that spirit would help us little, and that flesh and blood, eyes and muscles, must do their utmost, and begin by acknowledging a defeat. Looking on the diverse paths, and flags and buildings, we sought an Ariadne, and found at least a guide whom Bacchus might console. Escorted by him, we entered the first great hall, with massive machines partially displayed on one side. A coup d'œil was what we sought on this occasion, and our movements were rapid. The Sèvre porcelains, the magnificent French and English glasses, the weighty majolicas, the Gobelin tapestries, and the galleries of paintings, chiefly consumed our six francs, which represented some three hours. Magnificent services of plate, some in silver, and some in imitation of silver, were shown to us. In another place the close clustering of men and women around certain glass cases made us suspect the attraction of jewelry, which may be called the sugar-plummery of æsthetics. Insinuating ourselves among the human bees, we, too, fed our eyes on these sweets. Diadems, necklaces, earrings, sufficient, in the hands of a skilful Satan, to accomplish the damnation of the whole female sex, were here displayed. I was glad to see these dangerous implements of temptation restrained within cases of solid glass. I myself would fain have written upon them, "Deadly poison." There are enough, however, to preach, and I practised by running off from these disputed neighborhoods, and passing to the contemplation of treasures which to see is to have.
Among the Gobelins I was amazed to see a fine presentation of Titian's Sacred and Profane Love, a picture of universal reputation. The difficulty of copying so old and so perfect a work in tapestry made this success a very remarkable one. Very beautiful, too, was their copy of Guido's Aurora, and yet less difficult than the other, the coloring being at once less subtile and more brilliant.
I remember a gigantic pyramid of glass, which arose, like a frost-stricken fountain, in the middle of the English china and glass department. I remember huge vases, cups as thin as egg-shell, pellucid crystals in all shapes, a glory of hard materials and tender colors. And I remember a department of raw material, fibres, minerals, germs, and grains, and a department of Eastern confectionery, and one of Algerine small work, to wit, jewelry and embroidery. An American soda fountain caused us to tingle with renewed associations. And we hear, with shamefaced satisfaction, that American drinks have proved a feature in this great phenomenon. Machines have, of course, been creditable to us. Chickering and Steinway have carried off prizes in a piano-forte tilt, each grudging the other his share of the common victory. And our veteran's maps for the blind have received a silver medal. Tiffany, the New York jeweller, presents a good silver miniature of Crawford's beautiful America. And with these successes our patriotism must now be content. We are not ahead of all creation, so far as the Exposition is concerned, and the things that do us most credit must be seen and studied in our midst.
Our longest lingerings in the halls of the Exposition were among the galleries of art. Among these the French pictures were preëminent in interest. The group of Jerome's paintings were the most striking of their kind, uniting finish with intensity, and both with ease. In his choice of subjects, Jerome is not a Puritan. The much admired Almée is a picture of low scope, excusable only as an historic representation. The judgment of Phryne will not commend itself more to maids and matrons who love their limits. Both pictures, however, are powerfully conceived and colored. The "Ave Cesar" of the morituri before Vitellius is better inspired, if less well executed, and holds the mirror close in the cruel face of absolute power.
Study of the Italian masters was clearly visible in many of the best works of the French gallery. I recall a fine triptych representing the story of the prodigal son in which the chief picture spoke plainly of Paul Veronese, and his Venetian life and coloring. In this picture the prodigal appeared as the lavish entertainer of gay company. A banquet, shared by joyous hetairæ, occupied the canvas. A slender compartment on the right showed the second act of the drama—hunger, swine-feeding, and repentance. A similar one on the left gave the pleasanter dénouement—the return, the welcome, the feast of forgiveness. Both of the latter subjects were treated in chiaro-scuro, a manner that heightened the contrast between the flush of pleasure and the pallor of its consequences. Rosa Bonheur's part in the Exposition was scarcely equal to her reputation. One charming picture of a boat-load of sheep crossing a Highland loch still dwells in my memory like a limpid sapphire, so lovely was the color of the water. The Russian, Swedish, and Danish pictures surprised me by their good points. If we may judge of Russian art by these specimens, it is not behind the European standard of attainment. Of the Bavarian gallery, rich in works of interest, I can here mention but two. The first must be a very large and magnificent cartoon by Kaulbach, representing a fancied assemblage of illustrious personages at the period of the Reformation. Luther, Erasmus, and Melanchthon were prominent among these, the whole belonging to a large style of historical composition.
The second was already familiar to us through a photograph seen and admired in Munich. It is called Ste. Julie, and represents a young Christian martyr, dead upon the cross, at whose foot a young man is depositing an offering of flowers. The pale beauty and repose of the figure, the massive hair and lovely head, the modesty of attitude and attire, are very striking. The sky is subdued, clear, and gray, the black hair standing out powerfully against it. The whole palette seems to have been set with pure and pearly tints. One thinks the brushes that painted this fair dove could never paint a courtesan. A single star, the first of evening, breaks the continuity of the twilight sky. This picture seemed as if it should make those who look at it thenceforward more tender, and more devout. Among the English pictures, the Enemy sowing Tares, by Millais, was particularly original—a malignant sky, full of blight and destruction, and a malignant wretch, smiling at mischief, and scowling at good,—a powerful figure, mighty and mean. This picture makes one start and shudder; such must have been its intention, and such is its success.
Among sculptures, the most conspicuous was one called the Last Hour of Napoleon—a figure in an invalid's chair, with drooping head and worn countenance, the map of the globe lying spread upon his passive knees. Every trait already says, "This was Napoleon," the man of modern times who longest survived himself, who was dead and could not expire. Wreaths of immortelles always lay at the foot of this statue. It is the work of an Italian artist, and the only sculpture in the whole exhibition which I can recall as easily and deservedly remembered.
Our American part in the art-exhibition was not great. William Hunt's pictures were badly placed, and not grouped, as they should have been, to give an adequate idea of the variety of his merits. Bierstadt's Rocky Mountains looked thin in coloring, and showed a want of design. Church's Niagara was effective. Johnston's Old Kentucky Home was excellent in its kind, and characteristic. Kensett had a good landscape. But America has still more to learn than to teach in the way of high art. Success among us is too cheap and easy. Art-critics are wordy and ignorant, praising from caprice rather than from conscience. It would be most important for us to form at least one gallery of art in which American artists might study something better than themselves. The presence of twenty first-rate pictures in one of our great cities would save a great deal of going abroad, and help to form a sincere and intelligent standard of æsthetic judgment. Such pictures should, of course, be constantly open to the public, as no private collection can well be. We should have a Titian, a Rubens, an Andrea, a Paul Veronese, and so on. But these pictures should be of historical authenticity. The most responsible artists of the country should be empowered to negotiate for them, and the money might be afforded from the heavy gains of late years with far more honor and profit than the superfluous splendors with which the fortunate of this period bedizen their houses and their persons.
Among American sculptures I may mention a pleasing medallion or two by Miss Foley. Miss Hosmer's Faun is a near relative in descent from the Barberini Faun, and, however good in execution, has little originality of conception. And these things I say, Beloved, in the bosom of our American family, because I think they ought to be said, and not out of pride or fancied superiority.
I am ashamed to say that I have already told the little I am able to tell of the Exposition as seen by daylight—the little, at least, that every one else has not told. But I visited the enclosure once in the evening, when only the cafés were open. Among these I sought a beer-shop characterized as the Bavarian brewery, and sought it long and with trouble; for the long, winding paths showed us, one after the other, many agglomerations of light, which were obviously places of public entertainment, and in each of which we expected to find our Bavarian brewery, famous for the musical performances of certain gypsies much spoken of in Parisian circles. In the pursuit of this we entered half a dozen buildings, in each of which some characteristic entertainment was proceeding. Coming finally to the object of our search, we found it a plain room with small tables, half filled with visitors. Opposite the entrance was a small orchestral stage, on which were seated the wild musicians whom we sought. A franc each person was the entrance fee, and we were scarcely seated before a functionary authoritatively invited us to command some refreshment, in a tone which was itself the order of the day. In obedience, one ordered beer, another gloria, a third cigars—all at extortionate prices. But then the music was given for nothing, and must be paid for somehow. And it proved worth paying for. At first the body of sound seemed overpowering, for there was no pianissimo, and not one of the regular orchestral effects. A weird-looking leader in high boots stood and fiddled, holding his violin now on a level with his eyes, now with his nose, now with his stomach, writhing and swaying with excitement, his excitable troupe following the ups and downs of his movement like a track of gaunt hounds dashing after a spectre. The café gradually filled, and orders were asked and given. But little disturbance did these give either to the band or its hearers. They played various wild airs and symphonies (not technical ones), being partially advised therein by an elegant male personage who sat leaning his head upon his jewelled hand, absorbed in attention. These melodies were obviously compositions of the most eccentric and accidental sort. Not thus do great or small harmonists mate their tones and arch their passages. But there was a vivacity and a passion in all that these men did which made every bar seem full of electric fire; and these must be, I thought, traditional vestiges of another time, when music was not yet an art, but only nature. Here Dwight's Journal has no power. Beethoven or Handel may do as he likes; these do as they please, also. This is the heathendom of art, in which feeling is all, authority nothing; in which rules are only suspected, not created. After an hour or more of this entertainment, we left it, not unwillingly, being a little weary of its labyrinthine character and unmoderated ecstasy. Yet we left it much impressed with the musical material presented in it. Our civilized orchestras have no such enthusiasts as that nervous leader, with his leaping violin and restraining high boots. And this, with the lights and shadows, and broken music of the outside walks, is all that I saw of evening at the Exposition.
PICTURES IN ANTWERP.
As you cannot, with rare exceptions, see Raphael out of Italy, so, I should almost say, you cannot see Rubens and Vandyck out of Belgium. This is especially true of the former; for one does, I confess, see marvellous portraits of Vandyck's in Genoa and in other places. But one judges a painter best by seeing a group of his best works, which show his sphere of thought with some completeness. A single sentence suffices to show the great poet; but no one will assume that a sentence will give you to know as much of him as a poem or volume. So the detached sentences of the two great Flemish painters, easily met with in European galleries, bear genuine evidence of the master's hand; but the collections of Antwerp and Bruges show us the master himself. Intending no disrespect to Florence, Munich, or the Medicean series at the Louvre, I must say that I had no just measure of the dignity of Rubens as a man and as an artist, until I stood before his two great pictures in the Cathedral of Antwerp. One of these represents the Elevation of the Cross. Mathematically it offends one—the cross, the principal object in the picture, being seen diagonally, in an uneasy and awkward posture. On the other hand, the face of the Christ corresponds fully to the heroism of the moment; it expresses the human horror and agony, but, triumphing over all, the steadfastness of resolve and faith. It is a transfiguration—the spiritual glory holding its own above all circumstances of pain and infamy. A sort of beautiful surprise is in the eyes—the first deadly pang of an organism unused to suffer. It is a face that lifts one above the weakness and meanness of ordinary human life. This soul, one sees, had the true talisman, the true treasure. If we earn what he did, we can afford to let all else go. The Descent from the Cross is better known than its fellow-picture. It had not to me the wonderful interest of the living face of Christ in the supreme moment of his great life; for I shall always consider that the Christ represented in the Elevation is a true Christ, not a mere fancy figure or dramatic ghost. The Descent is, however, more grand and satisfactory in its grouping, and the contrast between the agony of the friendly faces that surround the chief figure and the dead peace of his expression and attitude is profound and pathetic. The head and body fall heavily upon the arms of those who support it, and who seem to bear an inward weight far transcending the outward one. The pale face of the Virgin is stricken and compressed with sorrow. Each of the pictures is the centre of a triptych, the two smaller paintings representing subjects in harmony with the chief groups. On the right of the Descent we have Mary making her historical visit to the house of Elisabeth; on the left, the presentation of the infant Christ in the temple. On the right of the Elevation is a group of those daughters of Jerusalem to whom Christ said, "Weep not for me." The subject on the left is less significant.
With these pictures deserves to rank the Flagellation of Christ, by the same artist, in the Church of St. Paul. The resplendent fairness of the body, the cruel reality of the bleeding which follows the scourge, and the expression of genuine but noble suffering, seize upon the very quick of sympathy, weakened by mythicism and sentimentalism. This fair body, sensitive as yours or mine, endured bitter and agonizing blows. This great heart was content to endure them as the penalty of bequeathing to mankind its priceless secret.
The churches of Antwerp are rich in architecture, paintings, and marbles. In the latter the Church of St. Jacques excels, the high altar and side chapels being adorned with twisted columns of white marble, and with various sculptures. The Musée contains many pictures of great reputation and merit. Among these are a miniature painting of the Descent from the Cross, by Rubens himself, closely, but not wholly, corresponding with his great picture; the Education of the Virgin, and the Vierge au Perroquet, both by Rubens, in his most brilliant style. Another composition represents St. Theresa imploring the Savior to release from purgatory the soul of a benefactor of her order. Rubens is said to have given to this benefactor the features of Vandyck, and to one of the angels releasing him those of his young wife, Helena Forman; while the face of an old man still in suffering represents his own.
This gallery contains three Vandycks of first-class merit, each of which will detain the attention of lovers of art. The one that first meets your eye is a Pietà, in which the body of Christ is stretched horizontally, his head lying on the lap of his mother. The strongest point of the picture is the Virgin's sorrow, expressed in her pallid face, eyes worn with weeping, and outstretched hands. The second is a small crucifix, very harmonious and expressive. The third is a life-size picture of the crucifixion, with a very individual tone of color. The Virgin, at the foot of the cross, has great truth and dignity, but is rather a modern figure for the subject. But the pride of the whole collection is a unique triptych by Quintin Matsys, his greatest work, and one without which the extent of his power can never be realized. The central picture represents a dead Christ, surrounded by the men and women who ministered to him, preparing him for sepulture. The right hand of the Christ lies half open, with a wonderful expression of acquiescence. The faces of those who surround him are full of intense interest and tenderness; the Virgin's countenance expresses heart-break. The whole picture disposes you to weep, not from sentimentalism, but from real sympathy. Of the side pieces, one represents the wicked women with the head of John the Baptist, the other the martyrdom of Ste. Barbe. Add to these some of the best Teniers, Ostades, Ruysdaels, and Vanderweldes, with many excellent works of second-class merit, and you will understand, as well as words can tell you, what treasures lie within the Musée of Antwerp.
Copy is exhausted, say the printers. Perhaps patience gave out first. My MS. is at end—not handsomely rounded off, nor even shortened by a surgical amputation, but broken at some point in which facts left no room for words. Observation became absorbing, and description was adjourned, as it now proves, forever. The few sentences which I shall add to what is already written will merely apologize for my sudden disappearance, lest the clown's "Here we are" should find a comic pendant in my "Here we are not."
I have only to say that I have endeavored in good faith to set down this simple and hurried record of a journey crowded with interests and pleasures. I was afraid to receive so freely of these without attempting to give what I could in return, under the advantages and disadvantages of immediate transcription. In sketches executed upon the spot, one hopes that the vividness of the impression under which one labors may atone for the want of finish and of elaboration. If read at all, these notes may be called to account for many insufficiencies. Some pages may appear careless, some sentences Quixotic. I am still inclined to think that with more leisure and deliberation I should not have done the work as well. I should, perhaps, like Tintoretto, have occupied acres and acres of attention with superfluous delineation, putting, as he did, my own portrait in the corner. Rejoice, therefore, good reader, in my limitations. They are your enfranchisement.
Touching Quixotism, I will plead guilty to the sounding of various parleys before some stately buildings and unshaken fortresses. "Who is this that blows so sharp a summons?" may the inmates ask. I may answer, "One who believes in the twelve legions of angels that wait upon the endeavors of faithful souls." Should they further threaten or deride, I will borrow Elizabeth Browning's sweet refrain,—
"I am no trumpet, but a reed,"—
and trust not to become a broken one.
Conscious of my many shortcomings, and asking attention only for the message I have tried to bring, I ask also for that charity which recognizes that good will is the best part of action, and good faith the first condition of knowledge.
| The following typogrphical errors were corrected by the etext |
| transcriber: |
| embarassment=>embarrassment |
| Minature=>Miniature |
| procesison=>procession |
| pivations=>privations |
| the shonlder of the garment=>the shoulder of the garment |
| fortutunate=>fortunate |
| Bronner pass.=>Brenner pass. |
| Pinakethek=>Pinakothek |
| antiquitties=>antiquities |
| Macchiavelli's Principe=>Machiavelli's Principe |