Part 8

Seraph of Heaven! too gentle to be human, Veiling beneath that radiant form of woman All that is insupportable in thee, Of light, and love, and immortality! Sweet Benediction in the eternal curse! Veil'd Glory of this lampless universe! Thou Harmony of Nature's art! I measure The world of fancies, seeking one like thee, And find--alas! mine own infirmity![32]

On the first morning I spent in the gallery, a most benevolent-looking old gentleman came up to me, and half lifting his velvet cap from his grey hairs, courteously saluted me by name. I replied, without knowing at the moment to whom I spoke. It was Boettigar, the most formidable--no, not _formidable_--but the most erudite scholar, critic, antiquarian, in Germany. Boettigar, I do believe, has read every book that ever was written; knows every thing that ever was known; and is acquainted with every body, who is _any body_, in the four quarters of the world. He is not the author of any large work, but his writings, in a variety of form, on art, ancient and modern,--on literature, on the classics, on the stage, are known over all Germany; and in his best days few have exercised so wide an influence over opinion and literature. It is _said_, that in his latter years his criticism has been too vague, his praise too indiscriminate, to be trusted; but I know not why this should excite indignation, though it may produce mistrust; in Boettigar's conformation, benevolence must always have been prominent, and in the decline of his life--for he is now seventy-eight--this natural courtesy combining with a good deal of vanity and imagination, would necessarily produce the result of extreme mildness,--a disposition to see, or try to see, all _en beau_. The happier for him, and the pleasanter for others. We were standing together in the room with the Madonna, but I did not allude to it, nor attempt to express by a word the impression it had made on me; but he seemed to understand my silence; he afterwards told me that it is ascertained that Raffaelle employed only three months in executing this picture: it was thrown upon his canvas in a glow of inspiration, and is painted very lightly and thinly. When Palmeroli, the Italian restorer, was brought here at an expense of more than three thousand ducats, he ventured to clean and retouch the background and accessories, but dared not touch the figures of the Virgin and the Child, which retain their sombre tint. This has perhaps destroyed the harmony of the general effect, but if the man mistrusted himself he was right: in such a case, however, he had better have let the background alone. In taking down the picture for the purpose of cleaning, it was discovered that a part of the original canvas, about a quarter of a yard, was turned back in order to make it fit the frame. Every one must have observed, that in Mueller's engraving, and all the known copies of this Madonna, the head is too near the top of the picture, so as to mar the just proportion. This is now amended: the veil, or curtain, which appears to have been just drawn aside to disclose the celestial vision, does not now reach the boundary of the picture, as heretofore; the original effect is restored, and it is infinitely better.

As if to produce a surfeit of excellence, the five Correggios hang together in the same room with the Raffaelle.[33] They are the Madonna di San Georgio; the Madonna di San Francisco; the Madonna di Santo Sebastiano; the famous Nativity, called La Notte; and the small Magdalene reading, of which there exist an incalculable number of copies and prints. I know not that any thing can be added to what has been said a hundred times over of these wondrous pieces of poetry. Their excellence and value, as unequalled productions of art, may not perhaps be understood by all,--the poetical charm, the something more than meets the eye, is not perhaps equally felt by all,--but the sentiment is intelligible to every mind, and goes at once to every heart; the most uneducated eye, the merest tyro in art, gazes with delight on the Notte; and the Magdalene reading has given perhaps more pleasure than any known picture,--it is so quiet, so simple, so touching, in its heavenly beauty! Those who may not perfectly understand what artists mean when they dwell with rapture on Correggio's wonderful chiaro-scuro, should look close into this little picture, which hangs at a convenient height: they will perceive that they can look through the shadows into the substance,--as it might be, into the flesh and blood;--the shadows seem accidental--as if between the eye and the colours, and not incorporated with them; in this lies the inimitable excellence of this master.

The Magdalene was once surrounded by a rich frame of silver gilt, chased, and adorned with gems, turquoises, and pearls: but some years ago a thief found means to enter at the window, and carried off the picture for the sake of the frame. A reward of two hundred ducats and a pardon were offered for the picture only, and in a fortnight afterwards it was happily restored to the gallery uninjured; but I did not hear that the frame and jewels were ever recovered.

Of Correggio's larger pictures, I think the Madonna di San Georgio pleased me most. The Virgin is seated on a throne, holding the sacred Infant, who extends his arms and smiles out upon the world he has come to save. On the right stands St. George, his foot on the dragon's head; behind him St. Peter Martyr; on the left, St. Geminiano and St. John the Baptist. In the front of the picture two heavenly boys are playing with the sword and helmet of St. George, which he has apparently cast down at the foot of the throne. All in this picture is grand and sublime, in the feeling, the forms, the colouring, the expression. But what, says a wiseacre of a critic, rubbing up his school chronology, what have St. Francis, and St. George, and St. John the Baptist, to do in the same picture with the Virgin Mary? Did not St. George live nine hundred years after St. John? and St. Francis five hundred years after St. George? and so on. Yet this is properly no anachronism--no violation of the proprieties of action, place, or time. These and similar pictures, as the St. Jerome at Parma, and Raffaelle's Madonna, are not to be considered as historical paintings, but as grand pieces of lyrical and sacred poetry. In this particular picture, which was an altarpiece in the church of Our Lady at Parma, we have in St. George the representation of religious magnanimity; in St. John, religious enthusiasm; in St. Geminiani, religious munificence; in St. Peter Martyr, religious fortitude; and these are grouped round the most lovely impersonation of innocence, chastity, and heavenly love. Such, as it appears to me, is the true intention and signification of this and similar pictures.

But in the "Notte" (the Nativity) the case is different. It is properly an historical picture; and if Correggio had placed St. George, or St. Francis, or the Magdalene, as spectators, we might then exclaim at the absurdity of the anachronism; but here Correggio has converted the literal representation of a circumstance in sacred history into a divine piece of poetry, when he gave us that emanation of supernatural light, streaming from the form of the celestial Child, and illuminating the extatic face of the virgin mother, who bends over her infant undazzled; while another female draws back, veiling her eyes with her hand, as if unable to endure the radiance. Far off, through the gloom of night, we see the morning just breaking along the eastern horizon--emblem of the "day-spring from on high."

This is precisely one of those pictures of which no copy or engraving could convey any adequate idea; the sentiment of maternity (in which Correggio excelled) is so exquisitely tender, and the colouring so inconceivably transparent and delicate.

I suppose it is a sort of treason to say that in the Madonna di San Francisco, the face of the virgin is tinctured with affectation; but such was and _is_ my impression.

If I were to plan a new Dresden gallery, the Madonna del Sisto and the "Notte" should each have a sanctuary apart, and be lighted from above; at present they are ill-placed for effect.

When I could move from the Raffaelle room, I took advantage of the presence and attendance of Professor Matthai, (who is himself a painter of eminence here,) and went through a regular course of the Italian schools of painting, beginning with Giotto. The collection is extremely rich in the early Ferarese and Venetian painters, and it was most interesting thus to trace the gradual improvement and development of the school of colourists through Squarcione, Mantegna, the Bellini, Giorgione, Paris Bordone, Palma, and Titian; until richness became exuberance, and power verged upon excess in Paul Veronese and Tintoretto.

Certainly, I feel no inclination to turn my notebook into a catalogue; but I must mention Titian's Christo della Moneta:--such a head!--so pure from any trace of passion!--so refined, so intellectual, so benevolent! The only head of Christ I ever entirely approved.

Here they have Giorgione's master-piece--the meeting of Rachel and Jacob; and the three daughters of Palma, half-lengths, in the same picture. The centre one, Violante, is a most lovely head.

There is here an extraordinary picture by Titian, representing Lucrezia Borgia, presented by her husband to the Madonna. The portraits are the size of life, half-lengths. I looked in vain in the countenance of Lucrezia for some trace, some testimony of the crimes imputed to her; but she is a fair, golden-haired, gentle-looking creature, with a feeble and vapid expression. The head of her husband, Alphonso, is fine and full of power. There are, I suppose, not less than fourteen or fifteen pictures by Titian.

The Concina family, by Paul Veronese, esteemed his finest production, is in the Dresden gallery, with ten others of the same master. Of Guido, there are ten pictures, particularly that extraordinary one, _called_ Ninus and Semiramis, life size. Of the Carracci, at least eight or nine, particularly the genius of Fame, which should be compared with that of Guido. There are numerous pictures of Albano and Ribera; but very few specimens of Salvator Rosa and Domenichino.

On the whole, I suppose that no gallery, except that of Florence, can compete with the Dresden gallery in the treasures of Italian art. In all, there are five hundred and thirty-four Italian pictures.

I pass over the Flemish, Dutch, and French pictures, which fill the outer gallery: these exceed the Italian school in number, and many of them are of surpassing merit and value, but, having just come from Munich, where the eye and fancy are both satiated with this class of pictures, I gave my attention principally to the Italian masters.

There is one room here entirely filled with the crayon paintings of Rosalba, including a few by Liotard. Among them is a very interesting head of Metastasio, painted when he was young. He has fair hair and blue eyes, with small features, and an expression of mingled sensibility and acuteness: no power.

Rosalba Carriera, perhaps the finest crayon painter who ever existed, was a Venetian, born at Chiozza in 1675. She was an admirable creature in every respect, possessing many accomplishments, besides the beautiful art in which she excelled. Several anecdotes are preserved which prove the sweetness of her disposition, and the clear simplicity of her mind. Spence, who knew her personally, calls her "the most modest of painters;" yet she used to say playfully, "I am charmed with every thing I do, for eight hours after it is done!" This was natural while the excitement of conception was fresh upon the mind. No one, however, could be more fastidious and difficult about their own works than Rosalba. She was not only an observer of countenance by profession, but a most acute observer of character, as revealed in all its external indications. She said of Sir Godfrey Kneller, after he had paid her a visit, "I concluded he could not be religious, for he has no modesty." The general philosophical truth comprised in these few words is not less admirable than the acuteness of the remark, as applied to Kneller--a professed sceptic, and the most self-sufficient coxcomb of his time.

Rosalba was invited at different times to almost all the courts of Europe, and painted most of the distinguished persons of her time at Vienna, Dresden, Berlin, and Paris; the lady-like refinements of her mind and manners, which also marked her style of painting, recommended her not less than her talents. She used, after her return to Italy, to say her prayers in German, "because the language was so expressive."[34]

Rosalba became blind before her death, which occurred in 1757. Her works in the Dresden gallery amount to at least one hundred and fifty--principally portraits--but there are also some exquisite fancy heads.

Thinking of Rosalba, reminds me that there are some pretty stories told of women, who have excelled as professed artists. In general the conscious power of maintaining themselves, habits of attention and manual industry, the application of our feminine superfluity of sensibility and imagination to a tangible result--have produced fine characters. The daughter of Tintoretto, when invited to the courts of Maximilian and Philip II. refused to leave her father. Violante Siries of Florence gave a similar proof of filial affection; and when the grand duke commanded her to paint her own portrait for the Florentine gallery, where it now hangs, she introduced the portrait of her father, because he had been her first instructor in art. When Henrietta Walters, the famous Dutch miniature painter, was invited by Peter the Great and Frederic, to their respective courts, with magnificent promises of favour and patronage, she steadily refused; and when Peter, who had no idea of giving way to obstacles, particularly in the female form, pressed upon her in person the most splendid offers, and demanded the reason of her refusal, she replied, that she was contented with her lot, and could not bear the idea of living out of a free country.

Maria von Osterwyck, one of the most admirable flower painters, had a lover, to whom she was a little partial, but his idleness and dissipation distressed her. At length she promised to give him her hand on condition that during one year he would work regularly ten hours a day, observing that it was only what she had done herself from a very early age. He agreed; and took a house opposite to her that she might witness his industry; but habit was too strong, his love or his resolution failed, and he broke the compact. She refused to be his wife; and no entreaties could afterwards alter her determination never to accept the man who had shown so little strength of character, and so little real love. She was a wise woman, and as the event showed, not a heartless one. She died unmarried, though surrounded by suitors.

It was the fate of Elizabeth Sirani, one of the most beautiful women, as well as one of the most exquisite painters of her time, to live in the midst of those deadly feuds between the pupils of Guido and those of Domenichino, and she was poisoned at the age of twenty-six. She left behind her one hundred and fifty pictures, an astonishing number if we consider the age at which the world was deprived of this wonderful creature, for they are finished with the utmost care in every part. Madonnas and Magdalenes were her favourite subjects. She died in 1526. Her best pictures are at Florence.

Sofonisba Angusciola had two sisters, Lucia and Europa, almost as gifted, though not quite so celebrated as herself: these three "virtuous gentlewomen," as Vasari calls them, lived together in the most delightful sisterly union. One of Sofonisba's most beautiful pictures represents her two sisters playing at chess, attended by the old duenna, who accompanied them every where. When Sofonisba was invited to the court of Spain, in 1560, she took her sisters with her--in short, they were inseparable. They were all accomplished women. "We hear," said the pope, in a complimentary letter to Sofonisba, on one of her pictures, "that this your great talent is among the least you possess:" which letter is said by Vasari to be a _sufficient_ proof of the genius of Sofonisba--as if the holy Father's infallibility extended to painting! Luckily we have proofs more undeniable in her own most lovely works--glowing with life like those of Titian; and in the testimony of Vandyke, who said of her in her later years, that "he had learned more from one old blind woman in Italy than from all the masters of his art."

It is worth remarking, that almost all the women who have attained celebrity in painting, have excelled in portraiture. The characteristic of Rosalba is an exceeding elegance; of Angelica Kauffman exceeding grace; but she wants nerve. Lavinia Fontana threw a look of sensibility into her most masculine heads--she died broken-hearted for the loss of an only son, whose portrait is her masterpiece.[35] The Sofonisba had most dignity, and in her own portrait[36] a certain dignified simplicity in the air and attitude strikes us immediately. Gentileschi has most power: she was a gifted, but a profligate woman. All those whom I have mentioned were women of undoubted genius; for they have each a style apart, peculiar, and tinted by their individual character: but all, except Gentileschi, were _feminine_ painters. They succeeded best in feminine portraits, and when they painted history they were only admirable in that class of subjects which came within the province of their sex; beyond that boundary they became _fade_, insipid, or exaggerated: thus Elizabeth Sirani's Annunciation is exquisite, and her Crucifixion feeble; Angelica Kauffman's Nymphs and Madonnas are lovely; but her picture of the warrior Herman, returning home after the defeat of the Roman legions, is cold and ineffective. The result of these reflections is, that there is a walk of art in which women may attain perfection, and excel the other sex; as there is another department from which they are excluded. You must change the physical organization of the race of women before we produce a Rubens or a Michael Angelo. Then, on the other hand, I fancy, no _man_ could paint like Louisa Sharpe, any more than write like Mrs. Hemans. Louisa Sharpe, and her sister, are, in painting, just what Mrs. Hemans is in poetry; we see in their works the same characteristics--no feebleness, no littleness of design or manner, nothing vapid, trivial, or affected,--and nothing masculine; all is super-eminently, essentially feminine, in subject, style, and sentiment. I wish to combat in every way that oft-repeated, but most false compliment unthinkingly paid to women, that genius is of no sex; there may be equality of power, but in its quality and application there will and must be difference and distinction. If men would but remember this truth, they would cease to treat with ridicule and jealousy the attainments and aspirations of women, knowing that there never could be real competition or rivalry. If women would admit this truth, they would not presume out of their sphere:--but then we come to the necessity for some key to the knowledge of ourselves and others--some scale for the just estimation of our own qualities and powers, compared with those of others--the great secret of self-regulation and happiness--the beginning, middle, and end of all education.

But to return from this tirade. I wish my vagrant pen were less discursive.

In the works of art, the presence of a power, felt rather than perceived, and kept subordinate to the sentiment of grace, should mark the female mind and hand. This is what I love in Rosalba, in our own Mrs. Carpenter, in Madame de Freyberg, and in Eliza and Louisa Sharpe: in the latter there is a high tone of moral as well as poetical feeling. Thus her picture of the young girl coming out of church after disturbing the equanimity of a whole congregation by her fine lady airs and her silk attire, is a charming and most graceful satire on the foibles of her sex. The idea, however, is taken from the Spectator. But Louisa Sharpe can also create. Of another lovely picture,--that of the young, forsaken, disconsolate, repentant mother, who sits drooping over her child, "with looks bowed down in penetrative shame," while one or two of the rigidly-righteous of her own sex turn from her with a scornful and upbraiding air--I believe the subject is original; but it is obviously one which never could have occurred, except to the most consciously pure as well as the gentlest and kindest heart in the world. Never was a more beautiful and Christian lesson conveyed by woman to woman; at once a warning to our weakness, and a rebuke to our pride.[37]

_Apropos_ of female artists: I met here with a lady of noble birth and high rank, the Countess Julie von Egloffstein,[38] who in spite of the prejudices still prevailing in Germany, has devoted herself to painting as a profession. Her vocation for the art was early displayed; but combated and discouraged as derogatory to her rank and station; she was for many years _demoiselle d'honneur_ to the grand Duchess Luise of Weimar. Under all these circumstances, it required real strength of mind to take the step she has taken; but a less decided course could not well have emancipated her from trammels, the force of which can hardly be estimated out of Germany. A recent journey to Italy, undertaken on account of her health, fixed her determination, and her destiny for life.

In looking over her drawings and pictures, I was particularly struck by one singularity, which yet, on reflection, appears perfectly comprehensible. This high-born and court-bred woman shows a decided predilection for the picturesque in humble life, and seems to have turned to simple nature in perfect simplicity of heart. Being self-taught and self-formed, there is nothing mannered or conventional in her style; and I do hope she will assert the privilege of genius, and, looking only into nature out of her own heart and soul, form and keep a style to herself. I remember one little picture, painted either for the queen of England or the queen of Bavaria, representing a young Neapolitan peasant, seated at her cottage door, contemplating her child, cradled at her feet, while the fishing bark of her husband is sailing away in the distance. In this little bit of natural poetry there was no seeking after effect, no prettiness, no pretension; but a quiet genuine simplicity of feeling, which surprised while it pleased me. When I have looked at the Countess Julie in her painting-room, surrounded by her drawings, models, casts--all the powers of her exuberant enthusiastic mind flowing free in their natural direction, I have felt at once pleasure, and admiration, and respect. It should seem that the energy of spirit and real magnanimity of mind which could trample over social prejudices, not the less strong because manifestly absurd, united to genius and perseverance, may, if life be granted, safely draw upon futurity both for success and for fame.

* * * * *

I consider my introduction to Moritz Retzsch as one of the most memorable and agreeable incidents of my short sojourn at Dresden.