# The Pictures/III

— We shall have a little party to dinner today, said counsellor Walther to his daughter.
— Indeed! said Sophia. And will young Edward come too?
— No, answered her father. How comes he into your head?
— I was only thinking, said Sophia, " that you might perhaps wish to make him some amends, by an invitation, for the disagreeable scene which he was forced to go through against your will in your house.
— To-day, replied the old gentleman, would of all days be the least suitable, for the very man by whom the youth was affronted is to dine with us.
— Ay! he? said the maid, with a lengthened tone.
— It looks as if you had a dislike to this stranger.
— An exceeding one, cried Sophia; for in the first place, I cannot bear any body when one does not know exactly who he is; this incognito is a dear pleasure in a strange place, to make a man pass for something extraordinary when he has precisely nothing at all to conceal; and such is no doubt the case with this Unknown, who has all the appearance of a chamberlain or secretary out of place, and gave himself yesterday in your gallery the airs of a superintendent-general of all the missionary institutions.
— You said, in the first place; now then in the second place? asked the father smiling.
— In the second place, said she laughing, he is a horrid creature; and in the third place, he is intolerable; and in the fourth place, I hate him heartily.
— That is indeed first and last with you women, said the old man. There will be besides my friend Erich, and the young painter Dietrich, and that strange creature Eulenböck.
— There we have all ages together, cried Sophia, all kinds of taste and modes of thinking! Does not young Von Eisenschlicht come too, to spoil completely the comfort of my life?
The father raised his forefinger threateningly; however she would not be put out, but went on volubly and pettishly:
— It is true, I have no enjoyment of my life in their company; there is such chattering and ogling, such gallantry and false compliments, each making the other more intolerable, that I should like a three days' fast better than such meals. These innamoratos set my teeth on edge like unripe currants; every word they say leaves a tart taste in my mouth for a week, and spoils my palate for all better fruit. I like the old crook-nosed copper-faced sinner the best of them all, for he at least has no thoughts of transferring me like a piece of furniture into his study.
— This humour of yours, said the father, is a defect in yourself that annoys me, indeed really concerns me; for, considering the stubbornness of your temper, I can see no chance of an alteration in you. You know my sentiments on the subject of marriage and love as it is called, how happy you would make me if you would subdue your will—
— I must see to the kitchen, cried she suddenly: I must do you honour to-day; only do not you forget your good wines, that Eulenböck may not give your cellar a bad name.
So saying she ran out, without waiting for an answer.
The old gentleman went to look after his affairs while his daughter superintended the preparations for the table. She had broken off the conversation so suddenly, because it was her father's wish, with which she was but too well acquainted, to marry her to his friend Erich, who, though no longer a young man, was not so far advanced in years as to render the scheme ridiculous. Erich had acquired a considerable fortune in his business; he was at this moment in possession of a collection of first-rate pictures of the Italian schools, and Walther proposed that, if his daughter could be brought to consent to the match, Erich should then retire from business, and incorporate these first-rate pictures into his gallery, that his son-in-law might possess and preserve it, distinguished as it would thus become, after his death: for he dreaded the thought of this excellent collection being some time or other again dispersed, perhaps even sold at an under-price, and thrown away on men in whose hands, from want of judgment, the pictures might go to ruin. His passion for painting was so great, that he would at all events have bought his friend's pictures at a very high price, had not the purchase of a considerable estate and a large garden, which he wished to leave to his daughter, prevented him, and rendered any outlay, but especially to such an amount, impracticable. As he was writing his letters these thoughts were continually diverting his attention. He then bethought himself of the young painter Dietrich, a handsome light-haired youth; and though his style of practising his art was as little to his taste as that of his dress, he would still have been glad to embrace him as his son-in-law, because he was convinced that the young man would cherish the highest reverence for his intended bequest. Old Eulenböck could not enter into his thoughts with a view to his plans; but since the day before he had viewed the stranger connoisseur with an eye of paternal affection, and hence the petulant answer in which his daughter had expressed herself about him gave him so much dissatisfaction. He would not own it to himself, but his thoughts, when he looked into futurity, were bent much more towards the preservation of his gallery than the happiness of his child. Even young Von Eisenschlicht, the son of an usurer, would have been acceptable to him as a son-in-law, for the young man's taste had been tolerably cultivated in his travels; and as he possessed at the same time his father's propensities, there was good ground to expect that he would, from every consideration, treat so valuable a collection with respect.
Thus passed the forenoon, and the guests dropped in one after the other. First of all the youngest, Dietrich, in what is called the old German costume, his flaxen hair flowing down his shoulders, and with a short light beard which did not disfigure his ruddy transparent face. He immediately made anxious inquiry after the daughter, and she appeared, in a dress of green silk, which gave a surprising relief to the brilliance of the face and neck. The young man, with a manner at once embarrassed and pressing, immediately began a conversation with Sophia, which grew the more dry, the more transcendent he endeavoured to make it. They were interrupted, to the comfort of both, by the appearance of old Eulenböck, whose brown-red visage peered oddly out of a pea-green waistcoat and whitish frock, he being, as is often the case with decidedly ugly men, fond of dressing in glaring colours. The young folks could hardly stifle a laugh at seeing him wheel awkwardly in, pay his respects with a grimace, and stumble in an unsuccessful attempt at politeness, while his gestures rendered his wry face, little sharp eyes, and twisted nose, the more conspicuous in their oddity. The stranger made the company wait for him a long while, and Sophia again rallied his presumption in playing the man of consequence, till at last he appeared, plainly dressed, and enabled the party to proceed to the dining-room, where they found Erich, who had been hanging a picture there which the stranger and the painters were to inspect. Sophia sat between Erich and the stranger, though Dietrich had made an unavailing attempt to wedge himself in by her side. Eulenböck, who observed every thing, and was never so well pleased as when he could wrap his malice in the disguise of good-nature, squeezed the young man's hand, and thanked him with seeming emotion for having cruised about so long merely to sit by the side of an old man who, it was true, also loved and practised the art, but still with his declining powers could no longer emulate the flight of the new school, though its enthusiasm rekindled his old fire, and warmed his chilled spirits. Dietrich, who was yet young enough to take all this in earnest, did not know how to express gratitude enough, nor to put forth modesty sufficient to counterbalance this humility. The old rogue was delighted with the success of his irony, and continued to open the heart of the good-natured youth, who already fancied he saw a scholar of his own in this old tyro, and thereupon began secretly to calculate how he should employ his practical knowledge for higher ends, without letting the veteran perceive that his new teacher was at the same time his scholar.
While these two were thus trying to deceive each other, the conversation of the stranger and his host had fallen, accidentally on the one side, and by judicious management on the other, on the topic of matrimony; for old Walther seldom let slip an opportunity of delivering his sentiments on that subject.
— I have never, said he, been able to coincide with the views which for now nearly half a century have become a general fashion. I call them a fashion, because, though I too have been young in my time, I could never convince myself that they were founded in nature. Is it possible to deny that some men are liable at times to passionate moods and excesses? We have but too frequently been forced to perceive the evil consequences of anger, drunkenness, jealousy, and rage. So it cannot be denied that a variety of mischief and strange catastrophes have sprung from those exaggerated feelings to which we give the name of love. The only question is as to the absurdity of which men are guilty when they avoid all other distractions, and seek to wean themselves from their subjection to sudden impulses of passion, while nevertheless for some time past it has become a common boast, and has been considered even as necessary to life, to have experienced love, and its wild moods and passionate distractions.
The stranger looked at his host seriously and nodded assent, whereupon the old gentleman proceeded with a raised voice:
— Should one after all be disposed to make some degree of concession, and admit that there is something natural in the moods of these lovers, in which, as they tell us, the whole world appears to them in a more beautiful light, and they are conscious of their powers being heightened and multiplied (though in general during that waking dream they are sluggish and incapable of labour), what, I ask, avails all this, supposing it even to take the happiest turn, towards concluding a rational good marriage? I would never give my consent were I to have the misfortune to observe this sort of infatuation in my daughter.
Sophia smiled; young Dietrich looked at her with a blush, and Eulenböck kept drinking with great satisfaction, while the stranger gravely listened to the old man, who, sure of his point, went on with so much the more zeal:
— No; happy the man who, a total stranger to this preposterous passion, conceives the rational resolution of entering into the wedded state; and blest the maid who decorously finds a husband without having ever acted with him those scenes of frenzy; for then results that content, that quiet, and blessedness, which was not unknown to our forefathers, but which the modern world thinks beneath its notice. In those marriages, which were contracted after rational deliberation in humility and quiet resignation, the men of former days experienced, in growing confidence, in increasing tenderness, and reciprocal indulgence for each other's infirmities, a happiness which appears too trivial to the present arrogant generation, and it therefore rears in the garden of life no fruits but wretchedness and want, discontent and misunderstanding, discord and contempt. Early habituated to the intoxication of passion, they seek the same in wedlock, and despise the necessary duties of ordinary life, renew their love-tricks at every turn in reiterated variations which have constantly less and less of novelty, and so are lost in worthlessness and self-delusion.
— Very bitter, but true, said the Unknown, with a thoughtful air.
— It is with this as with all bitters, whispered Sophia, they fall too heavy on the palate; one cannot rightly distinguish whether it is a taste, or whether it only deadens all taste; such things are of course true for one who likes them.
Eulenböck, who had also heard this remark, laughed, and the father, who had only half caught what had passed, addressed himself gaily to his unknown guest:
— We are agreed then that none but marriages of convenience, as they are called, can be prosperous; and I shall never hesitate to give my only daughter, who will not be portionless or poor, to a man, whatever be his rank, whose character I esteem, and whose acquirements, particularly on the subject of the arts, I have reason to respect, that my grandchildren may still reap the fruits of my industry, and that the treasures which have been collected in this mansion by love for the arts, self-denial, study, and indefatigable diligence, be not scattered to the four winds, and over the houses of the ignorant.
He looked at the stranger with a complacent smile; but the latter, who till now had graciously met his advances, put on something like a scowl, and said after a short pause:
— The collections of private persons can never subsist long; a lover of the arts, if he has made a collection, should sell his treasures at a fair price to some prince, or embody them by his will in some great gallery. For this reason I cannot approve of your plan with regard to your daughter, though I agree with you in your views of matrimony. And in any case marriage is an affair full of risk. If I were not engaged, and compelled by a thousand urgent motives not to break my word, my inclination would lead me never to marry.
The old gentleman coloured and hung his head, and soon after began a conversation with his neighbour on another topic.
— The late auction of engravings, said the picture-dealer, has not turned out so productive by a great deal as the owner anticipated.
— That is frequently the case with auctions, said the daughter, briskly throwing in her word; no man therefore ought to meddle with them who is not driven to it by extreme necessity.
Dietrich was yet too inexperienced to perceive the connexion of this dialogue; he declaimed sincerely and warmly on the barbarism of auctions, in which the most precious rarities are often overlooked, many works damaged by the gapers and understrappers, and the reputation of great masters, as well as the feelings of their genuine admirers, receive painful shocks. By this he won the good opinion of the father, who brightened up and gave him a gracious assent. Sophia, afraid perhaps that a new proposal was to be brought forward under cover of enthusiasm for the arts, hastily asked the young painter whether he should soon have finished his picture of the Virgin, or whether he meant first to complete his Descent from the Cross.
— You too then paint subjects of this pathetic kind? asked the stranger, casting across at the young man a somewhat oblique glance from beneath half-closed eyelids. I can never overcome my surprise that men in their best and most cheerful years can waste their time and imagination on such subjects. We have I should think Holy Families enough in our galleries, it is a field in which there is no room for a new invention; and those corpses and distortions of agony are so wholly repugnant to all grace and enjoyment of sense, that I can never help turning my eyes away from them. It is the business of the arts to heighten and cheer our existence, to make all its wants and all the wretchedness of the world vanish at their approach, and not to vex and rack our fancy with their productions. The sensible world ought to play in a fresh cheerful light, and with its gentle attraction soothe, and in that way elevate us. Beauty is joy, life, vigour. The man who seeks night and gloomy feelings has acquired yet small knowledge of himself. But you perhaps are one of those who, at the sight of pictures of this sort, force their religious faith into raptures, and require a species of devotion to be kindled in us, that we may understand the subject and appreciate it with christian feelings?
— And would that then, cried Dietrich with a degree of haste and vehemence, be a thing so unheard-of, or even singular? In the beautiful, when in its appearance the idea is realized, the attraction of the sensible world assumes a higher, a divine character, and thus the awe and pity which in uninspired souls want a voice and an interpreter, are exalted by the mediation of art into heavenly devotion. It is to be sure absurd, though excusable, when a wretched picture enraptures the believing spectator, merely on account of its pious subject; but it is to me perfectly inconceivable how a feeling heart at the sight of the Maria di Papa Sesto at Dresden can resist an impression of faith and devotion. I am well aware that the recent efforts of modern artists, among whom I own myself enlisted, have given great offence to many excellent people, but it is time to let passion subside, and to admit that the old track is quite broken up and become impassable. What in fact was the object of those who first revived the modern doctrine but to rekindle the feelings, which had long been considered as quite superfluous in all productions of art? And has not this new school already produced much that is respectable? A spirit, it cannot be denied, is manifesting itself, which will strengthen and improve. A new road has been discovered, which will, it is true, as is the case in every period of enthusiasm, be trodden by many uncalled aspirants, whose productions will be exaggerated, offensive, and in every respect censurable. But is then the bad of this age worse than the creations which some time ago raised Casanova to celebrity? or the empty emptier than that cold copying of the misunderstood antique, which gives the whole of the last age the appearance of one great botch in the history of the arts? Were not quaint mannerists even then the phenomena of promise? And could the Association in aid of the arts, respectable as were its founders, bring forth one vigorous production?
— Young man, said the stranger with the most cutting coolness, I ought to be ten years younger, or yourself older by some few, to engage in dispute on a subject of such importance. This new fantastic dream has taken possession of the age, that indeed cannot be denied, and must now be slept off to the waking. If those whom you find fault with were perhaps too sober, the men who are now extolled are on the other hand labouring under a morbid excitement, from a little weak beverage having mounted into their heads.
— You would not dispute, cried the young painter, and you do more, you are bitter. Passion at all events takes from a man his freedom of judgment. Whether the party for which you contend with such weapons will gain by it, the future must decide.
Sophia had the malice to cast an encouraging look at the young man. Walther was by this time uneasy; but Erich joined in the conversation as mediator, and said:
— Whenever a violent controversy stirs itself in the age, it is a sign that some truth lies midway between the parties, of which a contemporary, if he would be impartial, ought not to be entirely ignorant. The arts had long withdrawn from the business of life, and had become a mere article of luxury; it was in the mean time forgotten that they had ever been connected with the church and the world, with devotion and the spirit of enterprise, and all that was left to produce them was cold connoisseurship, partiality for petty details and the common-place natural, and an artificial enthusiasm. I well remember the time when the finest works of a Leonardo were pointed out only as remarkable and singular antiquities; Raphael himself was admired only with a qualifying criticism, and people shrugged their shoulders at still more ancient great masters, and never viewed the paintings of the earlier German and Flemish artists without laughter. This barbarism of Ignorance at least is now gone by.
— If only no new and worse barbarism had arisen to supply its place! cried Eulenböck, purpling deep with wine, as he threw a fiery glance at the stranger. I never cease to regret that in our days the language of a genuine connoisseur is scarcely any longer to be heard; enthusiasm drowns the voice of judgment; and yet nothing is so instructive for the artist as a conversation with a genuine lover of the arts, to inform and animate him, though it is an advantage which for years together he may not be fortunate enough to enjoy.
The stranger, who seemed to be losing his temper and growing violent, became after these words again cheerful and mild.
— Artists and lovers of art, he answered, ought always to court each other's society, in order to be constantly learning of one another. So it was in former times; and this was another cause of the flourishing state of painting. The imagination of every inventor is confined, and flags if it be not refreshed and enriched from without, and this can only be done by means of judicious friendly suggestions, not to mention what is gained in point of correctness, gracefulness in the management, and taste in the selection of subjects.
— You have chosen, answered the old painter, for the principal object of your study, an artist whom I myself love in a measure above all others.
— I confess, said the stranger, that I have devoted my heart to him perhaps somewhat too exclusively. It was my good fortune early in life to become acquainted with and to understand some distinguished works of Julio Romano; in Mantua, on my travels, I met with an opportunity of studying him, and since then I think I am able to justify my predilection.
— Undoubtedly, rejoined the old man, your stay there will have been one of the brightest epochs of your life. I have been forced of late years, to my intense disgust, to hear a great deal of blame thrown upon that great genius, chiefly for not treating sacred subjects with a due degree of fervour. All is not given to every one; but the sublimation of a vigorous animal life, the free range of frolic wantonness, the play of the liveliest of imaginations, were things reserved for him. And if the heart of the youthful pilgrim is still closed against the exuberance of this brilliant genius, let him bend his steps to Mantua, there, in the Palazzo del T., to learn I might almost say all the glories heaven and earth comprize in them; how radiant amid the terrors of the fall of the Titans is yet the revelry of joy and mirth, how glorious, in the saloon of Cupid and Psyche, amid the drunkenness of rapture, the heavenly appearance of perfect beauty.
Young Dietrich had for some time past been opening his eyes at their full stretch upon his apostate adherent; he could not comprehend this defection, and determined in a familiar moment to come to an explanation with the old man upon the subject; for though he might let the admiration of Julio pass, yet the first half of the conversation seemed to him to be in direct contradiction to Eulenböck's previous language, who however gave himself no concern about these trifles, but with the stranger amateur talked himself into so lively an enthusiasm, that for a long time they neither listened to the rest nor allowed them to put in a word.
Erich thought he observed a likeness between the stranger and a relative of Walther; this led them into the chapter of likenesses, and the strange way in which certain forms repeat themselves in families, often most distinctly in the most remote ramifications.
— It is singular too, said the host, that nature often proceeds just in the manner of art. If a Netherlander and an Italian of the elder school had to paint the same portrait, they would both seize the likeness, but each would produce quite a different portrait and quite a different likeness. So in my youth I knew a family consisting of several children, on all of whom was stamped the physiognomy of their parents, and a single leading form, but under different modifications, as clearly and distinctly as if the children had been portraitures of the same subject drawn by different great masters. The eldest daughter was as if painted by Correggio, with delicate complexion and slender form; the second was the same face, only larger and fuller, as if from the Florentine school; the third looked as if Rubens had painted the same portrait in his manner; the fourth like a picture of Dürer; the next like a work of the French school, showy and full, but indistinct; and the youngest like one painted in the liquid style of Leonardo. It was delightful to compare these faces, which with the same forms were so different again in expression, colouring, and lineaments.
— Do you remember that singular portrait, asked Erich, which your old friend possessed in his collection, and which with so many other things has been lost in so inexplicable a manner?
— Ay, to be sure, cried old Walther; if it was not from the hand of Raphael, as some assert, it was at least by a first-rate master, who had successfully studied the art after his model. When some moderns talk of the art of portrait-painting, as if it were something trivial or even degrading to a painter, they need only be taken to this admirable work to be shamed out of their opinion.
— How say you, inquired the stranger, addressing himself with animation to the old Counsellor; were other remarkable pictures lost beside this excellent piece? In what way?
— Whether they are lost, said Walther, it is impossible precisely to say; but they have disappeared, and have perhaps been sold and transported far away abroad. My friend. Baron von Essen, the father of the young man whom you lately met in my saloon, as he advanced in life grew humorsome and eccentric. Love of the arts was the basis of our friendship, and I may say I enjoyed his entire confidence. Our great pleasure was in our collections, and his at that time far surpassed mine, which I have been enabled to enlarge so considerably only by the thoughtlessness of his son. Whenever we wished to give ourselves a real treat, we seated ourselves in his cabinet, in which his choicest works were collected. He had set them in particularly splendid frames, and ingeniously arranged them in the most advantageous light. Beside that portrait there was an incomparable landscape of Nicholas Poussin, of which I have never seen the fellow. In a soft evening light, Christ is sailing with his disciples on the water. The lovely reflection of the houses and trees, the clear sky, the transparency of the waves, the noble character of the Redeemer, and the heavenly repose that hung over the whole, and almost dissolved the soul in melancholy and peaceful aspiration, are not to be described. By its side hung a Christ with the crown of thorns, by Guido Reni, of an expression such as since then I have never seen again. My old friend, among his oddities, would in general allow that excellent artist perhaps too little merit. But this picture always threw him into raptures; and indeed one seemed every time one saw it to see it for the first time; a familiar acquaintance with it did but heighten the enjoyment, and still discover new and more refined beauties. That expression of mildness, of patient resignation, of heavenly goodness, and forgiveness, could not but penetrate the most stubborn heart. It was not that state of intense passion which one sees in other similar pictures of Guido, and which, in spite of the excellent treatment of the subject, is rather repulsive than attractive, but on the contrary the sweetest while it was the most painful of pictures. Through the delicate fleshy parts beneath the cheek, chin, and eye, one saw and felt the whole skull, and this expression of suffering only enhanced its beauty. Opposite was a Lucretia, by the same master, plunging the dagger with a strong full arm into her beauteous bosom. In this picture the expression was great and vigorous, the colouring incomparable. A Holy Mother withdrawing the cloth from the naked body of the sleeping child, and Joseph and John gazing on the sleeper; the figures, large as life, were represented by an old Roman master, so nobly and gracefully as to baffle all description. But well might I seek words to give but a faint conception of that matchless Van Eyck, an Annunciation, which was perhaps the crown of the collection. If colour ever appeared in its glory as a daughter of heaven, if there ever was a play of light and shade, in which the noblest emotions of the soul were awakened; if delight, inspiration, poetry and truth and dignity of character, were ever fixed in figures and colouring upon canvas, it was done in that picture, which was more than painting and enchantment. I must break off, not to forget myself. These pictures were the principal; but a Hemling, a magnificent Annibal Carracci, a little picture of Christ among the soldiers, a Venus, perhaps by Titian, would have been well worth mentioning, and there was not a piece in this cabinet which would not have made any lover of the arts a happy man. And, imagine, conceive the singularity of the old gentleman; a short time before his death all these pieces disappeared, disappeared without leaving a trace behind. Did he sell them? He never answered this question, and his books must have afforded evidence of the fact after his death, but they contained no reference to it. Did he give them away? But to whom? One cannot help fearing, and the thought is heart-rending, that in a sort of raving melancholy, because he would not resign them to any other man on earth, shortly before his death he destroyed them. Destroyed them! Can you conceive, is it possible for a man to form an idea of so dreadful a distraction, if my conjecture is well founded?
The old man was so agitated that he could not restrain his tears, and Eulenböck drew an immense yellow silk handkerchief out of his pocket, to dry his dark red face with theatrical pathos.
— You no doubt remember, he began, sobbing, that singular picture of Quintin Messys, in which a young shepherd and a girl were represented in a strange dress, both admirably executed, and of which the old gentleman used to maintain that the figures looked like his son and your daughter.
— The likeness was at that time striking, answered Erich; but you have still forgotten to mention the St. John, which might at least vie with the Guido. It was perhaps a picture of Dominichino, or at least was extremely like his celebrated one. The eye of the youth upraised towards heaven, the inspiration, the longing, and at the same time the melancholy, that he had already seen the divine person on earth, had embraced him as a friend and understood him as a teacher, this reflexion of a past epoch on the mirror of his noble countenance was affecting and elevating. Ah! a few of these pictures might save the young man, and restore him to opulence.
— All would certainly be lost upon him, cried Eulenböck. He would only squander it away again. What warnings have I not given him! But he does not listen to an old friend and the voice of experience. Now at last that the waters perhaps have come into his soul, his spirits sink within him; he saw that I was affected even to tears at his misfortunes, and solemnly promised me to amend forthwith, to work, and to become a regular man. When upon this I clasp him in an affectionate embrace, he tears himself from me laughing, and cries; but it is only from Twelfth-night that this resolution is to hold good, till then I am determined to be merry, and to go on in the old course! Say what I would, all was in vain: he threatened, if I did not let him have his will, to give up the reforming scheme altogether. Well, well: the holiday will come in a few days; the delay is but short; but at all events you may see from this how little his good resolutions are to be built on.
— He has always, said Sophia, been too closely surrounded by pious people; from a spirit of contradiction he has turned himself to the other side, and thus indeed his wilfulness has prevented his intercourse with the virtuous from being of service to him.
— You are right in some degree, cried the old painter. Has he not for some time past suffered himself to be besieged in a manner by the puritan, that tiresome old musical director Henne? But I assure you, that man's dry sermons cannot possibly take a hold on him; besides, the old fellow grows fuddled at his third glass, and so travels out of his text.
— He has carried things too far, observed the host: men of this sort, when irregularity and extravagance have once become their way of life, can never right themselves again. A life of order, one that deserves the name of life, appears to them trivial and unmeaning; they are lost.
— Very true, said Eulenböck: and merely to give you a striking instance of his madness, hear how he went to work with his library. He inherited from his worthy father an incomparable collection of books; the most magnificent editions of the classics, the greatest rarities of Italian literature, the first editions of Dante and Petrarch, things which one inquires after in vain, even in great cities. It comes into his head now that he must have a secretary to keep this library in order, to enter newly purchased books in a catalogue, to arrange the works systematically, and so forth. A young libertine proposes himself for this important office, and is immediately accepted, because he can chatter. There is not much to write, but he must learn to drink; and the loose companion takes his lessons kindly. Presently begins a mad life; day after day wild and wasteful, balls, masquerades, water-parties, open house kept for half the town. So by the end of half a year, when the young bibliologist comes to beg his salary, there is a lack of cash. The expedient they hit upon is, that he should take out his first year's salary in books at a fair rate. Neither master nor servant however know the value of the articles, which are indeed valuable only for connoisseurs, and these are not to be found in every street. The most precious works therefore were abandoned to him at a ridiculously low rate, and, the expedient once discovered, the same game is played again and again, and the oftener, because the new favorite had sometimes occasion to make disbursements for his patron in ready money, which were then repaid him in books. So that I am afraid nothing is left of the library but the bookcases.
— I know better than any one, said the counsellor, in what an inexcusable manner the books were disposed of.
— These are all frightful stories, said Sophia; who would tell them again in such a way even of his enemy?
— The worst of all though, proceeded Eulenböck, was his passion for the celebrated beauty Betsy; for she accomplished on a large scale the destruction of his fortune, which his other follies could only partially injure. She too utterly ruined his character, which was originally well inclined. He has a good heart, but he is weak, so that every one who gains his favour can make what he will of him. My well-meant words died away upon the winds. I have sometimes sat up till midnight talking with him in the most pressing manner, but all my admonitions were merely thrown away. She had him so fast in her snares, that he was capable even of ill-treating his sincerest and oldest friends for her sake.
As the company rose from table, and during the exchange of compliments, Sophia took the opportunity, as she held out her hand to the old painter, who politely kissed it, to whisper distinctly in his ear:
— O you most detestable of all detestable sinners, you ungrateful hypocrite! How can your perverse heart find in itself publicly to calumniate the man by whose benefits you have been enriched, and of whose thoughtlessness you take advantage, in order with your helpmates to plunge him into misery? Hitherto I have only taken you to be absurd, but good-natured; but I see it is not without a cause that you have the very physiognomy of a fiend! I abhor you!
She pushed him back with vehemence, and then hurried out of the room.
The company proceeded to the picture-saloon, where coffee was handed round.
— What was the matter with my daughter? the counsellor asked the painter: she seemed so hasty, and had tears in her eyes.
— A dear good child, answered Eulenböck with a sneer; you are truly fortunate, Mr. Privy Counsellor, in a daughter with such a sensitive heart. She was so kindly solicitous about my health; she thinks she sees an inflammation in my eyes, and imagined I might be in danger of losing my sight. That was the cause of her emotion.
— Excellent child! exclaimed the father; if I could but see her well settled, that I might die in peace!
The stranger had stayed behind to inspect the new picture which Erich was shewing him in the dining-room; they now rejoined the company, and Dietrich followed. They were all engaged in very animated conversation: the stranger blamed the subject of the picture, which Dietrich chose to defend.
— If Teniers, and the other Flemish masters, said the latter, have represented the temptation of St. Anthony in a comic and grotesque manner, it is a fancy which we must excuse, considering the mood in which they painted, and indulgence must be shown to the subordinate talent which was incapable of creating a lofty work. But the subject requires a serious treatment, and the old German master there has undoubtedly succeeded. If the spectator can but be impartial, he will feel himself attracted and gratified by that picture.
— The subject, replied the stranger, is not one for painting. The tormenting dreams of a doting old man, the spectres which he sees in his solitude, and which by delusive charms or horrors endeavour to divert him from his melancholy contemplation, can only fall within the range of grotesque phantoms, and only be exhibited fantastically, if it be permitted to exhibit them at all; whereas the female figure there, which is meant to be noble and at the same time alluring, a naked beauty in the bloom of youth, and which nevertheless is but a spectre in disguise, the wild shapes around rendered the more conspicuous by the abruptness of the contrast, the horror of the old man who is seeking, with the confidence of finding himself again, this medley of the most contradictory feelings is utterly senseless, and it is to be lamented that talent and art should be lavished and ruined in labouring upon such a subject.
— Your dislike, said Dietrich, carries with it the picture's best praise. Is not then all that tempts man a spectre, only wrapped in the alluring form of beauty, or arming itself with an empty show of horror? May it not be thought that a representation like this has acquired in these latter days a double import? This temptation comes to all who are not quite conscious what their hearts are made of; but in that holy man we see the steady and pure eye, which is raised above fear, and has been long enough acquainted with the real invisible beauty to spurn horrour and trivial desire. The truly beautiful leads us into no temptation; that which we ought to fear does not appear to us in an ugly mask and distorted shape. The attempt therefore of the old master admits of a justification before the tribunal of a refined taste—not so Teniers and his fellows.
— The quality of that which we call mad, foolish, and absurd, cried the stranger, is boundlessness; it is that which it is, precisely because it does not admit of being confined within bounds, for by its limit every thing rational becomes what it is—the Beautiful, the Noble, the Free, Art and Enthusiasm. But because in these there is a mixture of something unearthly and inexpressible, the fools suppose, it is unlimited, and in their assumed mysticism outrage nature and imagination. Do you see this mad Höllenbreughel here on this pillar? It is precisely because his eye had not a look left for truth and taste; because he had entirely renounced nature, and extravagance and madness supplied the place of inspiration and judgment with him; for this very reason do I like him the best of all the host of grotesque painters, for he shut the door without ceremony, and left the understanding on the outside. Look at Julio Romano's Hall of the Titans at Milan, his strange scenes with beasts and centaurs, and all the monsters of fable, his bacchanals, his bold mixture of the Human, the Beautiful, the Brutal, and the Wanton; dive deep into these studies, and you will then learn what a real poet can and may make of these strange and indistinct moods of our soul, and how it is in his power, even in this dream-woven net, to catch beauty.
— In this way, said Dietrich, we shall soon have despatched every subject, if we adopt a single square and rule, and dazzled by passion, transfer all the divinity of genius to a single name, and from a partial knowledge of one man, reject all that he has not performed, or could not perform; who, after all, was but a single mortal, whose eye pierced not all depths, and from whom, at all events, death took away the palette, had even his powers been such that a universe of forms might have issued from his hand. A limit there must be; who doubts that? But the grave wisdom which one often sees priding itself on the observance of its rule, always reminds me of that singular property of the cock, who, whatever swashing and martial airs he may give himself, if he is laid on his side, and a chalk line is drawn from his beak along the ground, remains motionless as if in a fit of devotion, believing himself chained by God knows what natural necessity, philosophical rule, or indispensable limit of art.
— You grow presuming, my young antiquarian, said the stranger, in a somewhat high tone. Good breeding will indeed soon have to be reckoned among the lost arts.
— To make up for it, however, rejoined Dietrich, good care is taken that arrogance do not fail, and that conceit flourish in full vigour.
He made a hasty bow to the master of the house and left the company.
— I do not know how I come to be treated in this way, said the stranger. An evil destiny seems to reign over this saloon, that I always meet giants here who want to trample me in the dust.
Old Walther was exceedingly vexed at the occurrence of such scenes in his house. As he had been obliged already at table to give up the Unknown, so he now gave up the thought of ever proposing the young painter as his son-in-law. He addressed himself in a pacifying tone to the stranger, who in his anger was bestowing a greater degree of attention on the Höllenbreughel than he would otherwise have done.
— Is it not, he began, an excellent picture of its kind?
— The finest of this master I ever saw, answered the young man, out of humour. He took his glass to his assistance to examine it more accurately. What is this? cried he, suddenly. Do you see, where the legs of the two devils and the fiery tail of the third come together, there is formed a face, a truly strange expressive profile, and, if I am not mistaken, a striking likeness of your old friend the worthy artist?
All crowded to the place; no one had remarked this singular device. The rogue, Eulenböck, acted surprise most to the life.
— That a memorial of me, said he, should be preserved in this singular remembrancer, I could never have dreamt; if the spiteful painter had a presentiment of my profile, it was too cruel to make this fiery tail just form my nose, though it has a reddish tinge.
— The thing, said Erich, is so singularly introduced, that one really cannot ascertain whether it be design or mere accident.
Walther examined the profile in the picture, then perused the physiognomy of his friend, shook his head, grew pensive, and made his bow with an absent air when the stranger took his leave with Eulenböck, who had begged his company to shew him his paintings.
— What is the matter with you? asked Erich, who had stayed behind with the old gentleman in the saloon. You seem out of humour at this curious sport of chance which extorted laughter from all of us; the sot is surely sufficiently punished by having his portrait so nicely formed by this devil's crew.
— Do you then really take it for chance? cried Walther, in a rage: Do you not see that the old rogue has fraudulently palmed this picture upon me? that it is his production? Only look here, I would not shame him before the rest; but not content with this sketch of himself he has also inscribed the name of Eulenböck in minute letters above there, in the enormous mustachio of the great devil, who is grinding the souls in a hand-mill. I discovered the scrawl a short time back; but I believed, as it was not very distinct, the painter or some one else meant to inscribe the name of Höllenbreughel: in this way the old scoundrel himself explained it to me when I shewed it him, and read it Ellenbroeg, and added that artists had never concerned themselves particularly with orthography. A light now dawns upon me, that it was only this profligate sot who seduced the young man to sell me the Salvator; that you have likewise had such another of him; and we have to fear withal that our own faces will some time or other be introduced, under God knows what horrible circumstances, in some degrading position, by way of a pasquinade.
He was so enraged that he raised his fist to dash the picture to pieces. But Erich restrained him and said:
— Do not destroy in a fit of spleen a remarkable production of a virtuoso, which will hereafter afford you entertainment. If it is the work of our Eulenböck, as I am myself now forced to believe, and if the two Salvators are likewise his, I cannot but admire the man's talent. It is a mad way in which he has drawn himself; at the same time, this freak can hurt no one but himself, since you and I, whom he would otherwise have lightened of many a dollar, will now be on our guard against buying of him. But there is something else preys on your spirits, I see it by your looks. Can I give you advice? Perhaps the old anxiety about your daughter?
— Yes, my friend, said the father; and how is it with you? Have you yourself reflected on what I said?
— Much and often, answered Erich; but, my dear visionary friend, though there may be happy marriages without passion, there must at least be a sort of inclination; now that I do not find, and I cannot be angry with your daughter for it,—we are too unlike each other. And it were pity the dear creature, with her lively feelings, should not be happy.
— Who is to make her so? cried the father; there is nobody to be found whom she likes, and who is fit for her; you withdraw altogether; my unknown high-minded guest offered me to-day a most mortifying affront with his consequential manners; young Dietrich would never make a sensible husband, for I see he cannot adapt himself to the way of the world, and of young Eisenschlicht I do not even venture to speak. Besides, the loss of those glorious pictures sunk with a new weight upon my heart. Into what hiding-place has the foul fiend carried them? I would not grudge them, look you, to my worst enemy, so long as they were but visible. And then—am I not in Edward's debt too? You know at what low prices I bought of him from time to time all that he found in his paternal inheritance. He had no knowledge of the articles, set no value on them; I never pressed him, never tempted him,—but still—if the young fellow would turn an orderly man, if he would strike into the better road, if I were only sure it would not spoil him again, that he would not squander it away, I would willingly pay him a considerable arrear.
— Bravo! cried Erich, and gave him his hand. I have never lost sight of the young man; he is not quite so bad as the town-talk makes him out; he may still become a respectable man. If we see an improvement in him, and you feel yourself inclined in his favour, perhaps your daughter may sooner or later think well of him too, possibly she may please him. What would there be then to prevent you from bestowing your property to make them a happy pair, from dandling your grandchildren on your knees, instilling into them the rudiments of the arts, and hearing them lisp in this saloon the illustrious names of your favourite masters?
— Never! cried the old man, and stamped the ground. How! my only child to such a worthless profligate? To him this collection here, to let him waste it in riot, and sell it for an old song? No friend can give me such advice.
— Be calm only, said Erich; deliberate on the proposal dispassionately, and endeavour to sound your daughter.
— No, no! repeated Walther aloud; it cannot, may not be! If indeed he could produce but one of those precious incomparable pictures, which are now lost for ever, there might be some better occasion for talking on this subject. But as it is, spare me in future all proposals of this sort.—And that infernal Breughel here! I will hang him aloft there, out of my sight, with the gallows physiognomy of the old reprobate, and all his devils.
He looked up, and again Sophia was peeping down from the little window, observing their conversation. She blushed, and ran away without shutting the window, and the old gentleman cried:
— That was still wanting! Now has the self-willed baggage overheard all, and very likely fills her little stubborn head with these notions.
The old friends parted, Walther dissatisfied with himself and all the world.
__________