I drove with my kind-hearted friends, M. and Madame Stuntz, to Thalkirchen, the country-house of the Baron de Freyberg. The road pursued the banks of the rapid, impetuous Isar, and the range of the Tyrolian alps bounded the prospect before us. An hour"s drive brought us to Thalkirchen, where we were obviously quite unexpected, but that was nothing:--I was at once received as a friend, and introduced without ceremony to Madame de Freyberg"s painting-room. Though now the fond mother of a large _little_ family, she still finds some moments to devote to her art. On her easel was the portrait of the Countess M---- (the sister of De Freyberg) with her child, beautifully painted--particularly the latter. In the same room was an unfinished portrait of M. de Freyberg, evidently painted _con amore_, and full of spirit and character; a head of Cupid, and a piping boy, quite in the Italian manner and feeling; and a picture of the birth of St. John, exquisitely finished. I was most struck by the heads of two Greeks--members, I believe, of the deputation to King Otho--painted with her peculiar delicacy and transparency of colour, and, at the same time, with a breadth of style and a freedom in the handling, which I have not yet seen among the German portrait painters. A glance over a portfolio of loose sketches and unfinished designs added to my estimation of her talents. She excels in children--her own serving her as models. I do not hesitate to say of this gifted woman, that while she equals Angelica Kauffman in grace and delicacy, she far exceeds her in _power_, both of drawing and colouring. She reminded me more of the Sofonisba,[12] but it is a different, and, I think, a more delicate style of colour, than I have observed in the pictures of the latter.
We had coffee, and then strolled through the grounds--the children playing around us. If I was struck by the genius and accomplishments of Madame de Freyberg, I was not less charmed by the frank and n.o.ble manners of her husband, and his honest love and admiration of his wife, whom he married in despite of all prejudices of birth and rank.
In this truly German dwelling there was an extreme simplicity, a sort of negligent elegance, a picturesque and refined homeliness, the presiding influence of a most poetical mind and eye every where visible, and a total indifference to what we English denominate _comfort_; yet with the obvious presence of that crowning comfort of all comforts--cordial domestic love and union--which impressed me altogether with pleasant ideas, long after borne in my mind, and not yet, nor ever to be, effaced. How little is needed for happiness, when we have not been spoiled in the world, nor our tastes vitiated by artificial wants and habits! When the hour of departure came, and De Freyberg was handing me to the carriage, he made me advance a few steps, and pause to look round; he pointed to the western sky, still flushed with a bright geranium tint, between the amber and the rose; while against it lay the dark purple outline of the Tyrolian mountains. A branch of the Isar, which just above the house overflowed and spread itself into a wide still pool, mirrored in its clear bosom not only the glowing sky and the huge dark mountains, and the banks and trees blended into black formless ma.s.ses, but the very stars above our heads;--it was a heavenly scene!--"You will not forget this," said De Freyberg, seeing I was touched to the heart; "you will think of it when you are in England, and in recalling it, you will perhaps remember us--who will not forget _you_! Adieu, madame!"
Afterwards to the opera: it was Herold"s "Zampa:" noisy, riotous music, which I hate. I thought Madame Schechner"s powers misplaced in this opera--yet she sang magnificently.
Spent the morning with Dr. Martius, looking over the beautiful plates and ill.u.s.trations of his travels and scientific works. It appears from what he told me, that the inst.i.tution of the botanic garden is recent, and is owing to the late king Max-Joseph, who was a generous patron of scientific and benevolent inst.i.tutions--as munificent as his son is magnificent.
One of the most interesting monuments in Munich, is the tomb of Eugene Beauharnais, in the church of St. Michael. It is by Thorwaldson, and one of his most celebrated works. It is finely placed, and all the parts are admirable: but I think it wants completeness and entireness of effect, and does not tell its story well. Upon a lofty pedestal, there is first, in the centre, the colossal figure of the duke stepping forward; one hand is pressed upon his heart, and the other presents the civic crown--(but to whom?)--his military accoutrements lie at his feet. The drapery is admirably managed, and the att.i.tude simple and full of dignity. On his left is the beautiful and well-known group of the two genii, Love and Life, looking disconsolate. On the right, the seated muse of History is inscribing the virtues and exploits of the hero; and as, of all the satellites of Napoleon, Eugene has left behind the fairest name, I looked at her, and her occupation, with complacency. The statue is, moreover, exceedingly beautiful and expressive--so are the genii; and the figure of Eugene is magnificent; and yet the combination of the whole is not effective. Another fault is, the colour of the marble, which has a grey tinge, and ought at least to have been relieved by constructing the pedestal and accompaniments of black marble; whereas they are of a reddish hue.
The widow of Eugene, the eldest sister of the king of Bavaria, raised this monument to her husband, at an expense of eighty thousand florins.
As the whole design is cla.s.sical, and otherwise in the purest taste and grandest style of art, I exclaimed with horror at the sight of a vile heraldic crown, which is lying at the feet of the muse of History.
I was sure that Thorwaldson would never voluntarily have committed such a solecism. I was informed that the princess-widow insisted on the introduction of this piece of barbarity as emblematical of the vice-royalty of Italy; any royalty being apparently better than none.
I remember that when travelling in the Netherlands, at a time when the people were celebrating the _Fete-Dieu_, I saw a village carpenter busily employed in erecting a _reposoir_ for the Madonna, of painted boards and draperies and wreaths of flowers. In the mean time, as if to deprecate criticism, he had chalked in large letters over his work, "_La critique est aisee, mais l"art est difficile_." I could not help smiling at this application of one of those undeniable truisms which no one thinks it necessary to remember. When I recall the pleasure I derived from this n.o.ble work of Thorwaldson, all the genius, all the skill, all the patience, all the time, expended on its production, I think the foregoing trifling criticisms appear very ungrateful and impertinent; and yet, as a friend of mine insisted, when I was once upon a time pleading for mercy on certain defects and deficiencies in some other walk of art, "Toleration is the nurse of mediocrity." Artists themselves, as I often observe,--even the vainest of them--prefer discriminating admiration to wholesale praise. In the Frauen Kirche, there is another most admirable monument, a _chef d"oeuvre_, in the Gothic style. It is the tomb of the Emperor Louis of Bavaria, who died excommunicated in 1347; a stupendous work, cast in bronze. At the four corners are four colossal knights kneeling, in complete armour, each bearing a lance and ensign, and guarding the rec.u.mbent effigy of the emperor, which lies beneath a magnificent Gothic canopy. At the two sides are standing colossal figures, and I suppose about eight or ten other figures on a smaller scale, all of admirable design and workmanship.[13] It should seem, that in the sixteenth century the art of casting in bronze was not only brought to the highest perfection in Germany, but found employment on a very grand scale.
In the evening there was a concert at the Salle de l"Odeon--the third I have attended since I came here. This concert room is larger than any public room in London, and admirably constructed for music. Over the orchestra, in a semi-circle, are the busts of the twelve great German composers who have flourished during the last hundred years, beginning with Handel and Bach, and ending with Weber and Beethoven. On this occasion the hall was crowded. We had all the best performers of Munich, led by the Kapelmeister Stuntz, and Schechner and Meric, who sang _a l"envie l"une de l"autre_. The concert began at seven, and ended a little after nine; and much as I love music, I felt I had had enough.
They certainly manage these social pleasures much better here than in London, where a grand concert almost invariably proves a most awful bore, from which we return wearied, yawning, jarred, satiated.
Count ---- amused me this evening with his laconic summing up of the rise, progress, and catastrophe of a Polish amour;--se pa.s.sioner, se battre, se ruiner, enlever, epouser, et divorcer; and so ends this six-act tragico-comico-heroico pastoral.
_23rd._--To-day went over the Pinakothek (the new grand national picture gallery) with M. de Klenze, the architect, and Comtesse de V----. This is the second time; but I have not yet a clear and connected idea of the general design, the building being still in progress. As far as I can understand the arrangements, they will be admirable. The destination of the edifice seems to have been the first thing kept in view. The situation of particular pictures has been calculated, and accurate experiments have been made for the arrangement of the light, &c. Professor Zimmermann has kindly promised to take me over the whole once more. He has the direction of the fresco paintings here.
Society is becoming so pleasant, and engagements of every kind so multifarious, that I have little time for scribbling memoranda. New characters unfold before me, new scenes of interest occupy my thoughts.
I find myself surrounded with friends, where only a few weeks ago I had scarcely one acquaintance. Time ought not to linger--and yet it does sometimes.
Our circ.u.mstances alter; our opinions change; our pa.s.sions die; our hopes sicken, and perish utterly:--our spirits are broken; our health is broken, and even our hearts are broken; but WILL survives--the unconquerable strength of will, which is in later life what pa.s.sion is when young. In this world, there is always something to be done or suffered, even when there is no longer any thing to be desired or attained.
The Glyptothek is, at certain hours, open to strangers _only_, and strangers do not at present abound: hence it has twice happened that I have found myself in the gallery alone--to-day for the second time.
I felt that, under some circ.u.mstances, an hour of solitude in a gallery of sculpture may be an epoch in one"s life. There was not a sound, no living thing near, to break the stillness; and lightly, and with a feeling of awe, I trod the marble pavements, looking upon the calm, pale, motionless forms around me, almost expecting they would open their marble lips and speak to me--or, at least, nod--like the statue in Don Giovanni: and still, as the evening shadows fell deeper and deeper, they waxed, methought, sadder, paler, and more life-like. A dim, unearthly glory effused those graceful limbs and perfect forms, of which the exact outline was lost, vanishing into shade, while the sentiment--the _ideal_--of their immortal loveliness, remained distinct, and became every moment more impressive: and thus they stood; and their melancholy beauty seemed to melt into the heart.
As the Graces round the throne of Venus, so music, painting, sculpture, wait as handmaids round the throne of Poetry. "They from her golden urn draw light," as planets drink the sunbeams; and in return they array the divinity which created and inspired them, in those sounds, and hues, and forms, through which she is revealed to our mortal senses. The pleasure, the illusion, produced by music, when it is the _voice_ of poetry, is, for the moment, by far the most complete and intoxicating, but also the most transient. Painting, with its lovely colours blending into life, and all its "silent poesy of form," is a source of pleasure more lasting, more intellectual. Beyond both, is sculpture, the n.o.blest, the least illusive, the most enduring of the imitative arts, because it charms us not by what it seems to be, but by what it is; because if the pleasure it imparts be less exciting, the impression it leaves is more profound and permanent; because it is, or ought to be, the abstract idea of power, beauty, sentiment, made visible in the cold, pure, impa.s.sive, and almost eternal marble.
It seems to me that the grand secret of that grace of repose which we see developed in the antique statues, may be defined as _the presence_ _of thought, and the absence of volition_. The moment we have, in sculpture, the expression of will, or effort, we have the idea of something fixed in its place by an external cause, and a consequent diminution of the effect of internal power. This is not well expressed, I fear. Perhaps I might ill.u.s.trate the thought thus: the Venus de Medici looks as if she were content to stand on her pedestal and be worshipped; Canova"s Hebe looks as if she would fain step off the pedestal--if she could: the Apollo Belvedere, as if he could step from his pedestal--if he would.
Among the Greeks, in the best ages of sculpture, and in all their very finest statues, this seems to be the presiding principle--viz. that in sculpture the repose of suspended motion, or of subsided motion, is graceful; but arrested motion, and all effort, to be avoided. When the ancients did express motion, they made it flowing or continuous, as in the frieze of the Parthenon.
ALONE.
IN THE GALLERY OF SCULPTURE AT MUNICH.
Ye pale and glorious forms, to whom was given All that we mortals covet under heaven-- Beauty, renown, and immortality, And worship!--in your pa.s.sive grandeur, ye.
There"s nothing new in life, and nothing old; The tale that we might tell hath oft been told.
Many have look"d to the bright sun with sadness, Many have look"d to the dark grave with gladness; Many have griev"d to death--have lov"d to madness!
What has been, is;--what is, will be;--I know, Even while the heart drops blood, it must be so.
I live and smile--for O the griefs that kill, Kill slowly--and I bear within me still My conscious self, and my unconquer"d will!
And knowing what I have been--what has made My misery, I will be no more betray"d By hollow mockeries of the world around, Or hopes and impulses, which I have found Like ill-aim"d shafts, that kill by their rebound.
Complaint is for the feeble, and despair For evil hearts. Mine still can hope--still bear-- Still hope for others what it never knew Of truth and peace; and silently pursue A path beset with briers, "and wet with tears like dew!"
To-day I devoted to the Pinakothek--for the last time!
Just before I left England our projected national gallery had excited much attention. Those who were usually indifferent to such matters were roused to interest; and I heard the merits of different designs, so warmly, even so violently discussed in public and in private, that for a long time the subject kept possession of my mind. On my arrival here, the Pinakothek (for that is the designation given to the new national gallery of Munich) became to me a princ.i.p.al object of interest. I have been most anxious to comprehend both the general design and the nature of the arrangements in detail; but I might almost doubt my own competency to convey an exact idea of what I understand and admire, to the comprehension of another. I must try, however, while the impressions remain fresh and strong, and the memory not yet enc.u.mbered and distracted, as it must be, even a few hours hence, by the variety, and novelty, and interest, of all I see and hear around me.
The Pinakothek was founded in 1826; the king himself laying the first stone with much pomp and ceremony on the 7th of April, the birthday of Rafaelle.
It is a long, narrow edifice, facing the south, measuring about five hundred feet from east to west, and about eighty or eighty-five feet in depth. At the extremities are two wings, or rather projections. The body of the building is of brick, but not of common brickwork: for the bricks, which are of a particular kind of clay, have a singular tint, a kind of greenish yellow; while the friezes, bal.u.s.trades, architraves of the windows, in short, all the ornamental parts, are of stone, the colour of which is a fine warm grey; and as the stone workmanship is extremely rich, and the brickwork of unrivalled elegance and neatness, and the colours harmonize well, the combination produces a very handsome effect, rendering the exterior as pleasing to the eye, as the scientific adaptation of the building to its peculiar purpose is to the understanding.
Along the roof runs a bal.u.s.trade of stone, adorned with twenty-four colossal statues of celebrated painters. A public garden, which is already in preparation, will be planted around, beautifully laid out with shady walks, flower-beds, fountains, urns, and statues. I believe the enclosure of this garden will be about a thousand feet each way, and that it will ultimately be bounded (at least on three sides) with rows of houses forming a vast square, of which the Pinakothek will occupy the centre. It consists of a ground-floor and an upper-story. The ground-floor will comprise, 1st, the collection of the Etruscan vases; 2ndly, the Mosaics, ancient and modern, of which there are here some rare and admirable specimens; 3rdly, the cabinet of drawings by the old masters; 4thly, the cabinet of engravings, which is said to be one of the richest in Europe; 5thly, a library of all works pertaining to the fine arts; lastly, a n.o.ble entrance-hall: a private entrance; with accommodations for students, and other offices.
The upper-story is appropriated to the pictures, and is calculated to contain not less than fifteen hundred specimens, selected from various galleries, and arranged according to the schools of art.
We ascend from the entrance-hall by a wide and handsome staircase of stone, very elegantly carved, which leads first to a kind of vestibule, where the attendants and keepers of the gallery are in waiting. Thence, to a splendid reception-room, about fifty feet in length: this will contain the full-length portraits of the founders of the gallery of Munich--the Palatine John William; the Elector, Maximilian Emanuel of Bavaria; the Duke Charles of Deuxponts; the Palatine Charles Theodore; Maximilian Joseph I., king of Bavaria; and his son, (the present monarch,) Louis I. The ceiling and the frieze of this room are splendidly decorated with groups of figures and ornaments in white relief, on a gold ground, and the walls will be hung with crimson damask.
Along the south front of the building from east to west runs a gallery or corridor about four hundred feet in length, and eighteen in width, lighted on one side by twenty-five lofty arched windows, having on the other side ten doors, opening into the suite of picture galleries, or rather halls. These occupy the centre of the building, and are lighted from above by vast lanthorns. They are eight in number, varying in length from fifty to eighty feet, but all forty feet in width and fifty feet in height from the floor to the summit of the lanthorn. The walls will be hung with silk damask, either of a dark crimson or a dark green--according to the style of art for which the room is destined.
The ceilings are vaulted, and the decorations are inexpressibly rich, composed of magnificent arabesques, intermixed with the effigies of celebrated painters, and groups ill.u.s.trative of the history of art, &c., all moulded in white relief upon a ground of dead gold. Mayer, one of the best sculptors in Munich, has the direction of these works.
Behind these vast galleries, or saloons, there is a range of cabinets, twenty-three in number, appropriated to the smaller pictures of the different schools: these are each about nineteen feet by fifteen in size, and lighted from the north, each having one high lateral window.
The ceilings and upper part of the walls are painted in fresco, (or distemper, I am not sure which,) with very graceful arabesques of a quiet colour;--the hangings will also be of silk damask.
Of the princ.i.p.al saloons, the first is appropriated to the productions of modern and living artists, and has three cabinets attached to it.
The second will contain the old German pictures, including the famous Boisseree gallery, and has four cabinets attached to it. The third, fourth, and fifth saloons (of which the central one, the hall of Rubens, is eighty feet in length) are devoted, with the nine adjoining cabinets, to the Flemish and Dutch schools. The sixth, with four cabinets, will contain the French and Spanish pictures; and the seventh and eighth, with three cabinets, will contain the Italian school of painting. All these apartments communicate with each other by ample doors; but from the corridor already mentioned, which opens into the whole suite, the visitor has access to any particular gallery, or school of painting, without pa.s.sing through the others: an obvious advantage, which will be duly estimated by those who, in visiting a gallery of painting, have felt their eyes dazzled, their heads bewildered, their attention distracted, by too much variety of temptation and attraction, before they have reached the particular object or school of art to which their attention was especially directed.
To this beautiful and most convenient corridor, or, as it is called here, _loggia_, we must now return. I have said that it is four hundred feet in length, and lighted by five-and-twenty arched windows,--which, by the way, command a splendid prospect, bounded by the far-off mountains of the Tyrol. The wall opposite to these windows is divided into twenty-five corresponding compartments, arched, and each surmounted by a dome; these compartments are painted in fresco with arabesques, something in the style of Rafaelle"s Loggie in the Vatican; while every arch and cupola contains (also painted in fresco) scenes from the life of some great painter, arranged chronologically: thus, in fact, exhibiting a graphic history of the rise and progress of modern painting--from Cimabue down to Rubens.
Of this series of frescos, which are now in progress, a few only are finished, from which, however, a very satisfactory idea may be formed, of the whole design. The first cupola is painted from a poem of A. W.
Schlegel "Der Bund der Kirche mit den Kunsten," which celebrates the alliance between religion (or rather the church) and the fine arts.
The second cupola represents the Crusades, because from these wild expeditions (for so Providence ordained that good should spring from evil) arose the regeneration of art in Europe. With the third cupola commences the series of painters. In the arch, or lunette, is represented the Madonna of Cimabue carried in triumphal procession through the streets of Florence to the church of Santa Maria Novella; and in the dome above, various scenes from the painter"s life. In the next cupola is the history of Giotto; then follows Angelico da Fesole, who, partly from humility and partly from love for his art, refused to be made Archbishop of Florence; then, fourthly, Masaccio; fifthly, Bellini: in one compartment he is represented painting the favourite sultana of Mahomet II. Several of the succeeding cupolas still remain blank, so we pa.s.s them over and arrive at Leonardo da Vinci, painting the queen Joanna of Arragon; then Michael Angelo, meditating the design of St. Peter"s; then the history of Rafaelle: in the dome are various scenes from his life. The lunette represents his death: he is extended on a couch, beside which sits his virago love, the Fornarina "in disperato dolor;" Pope Leo X. and Cardinal Bembo are looking on overwhelmed with grief;--in the background is the Transfiguration.
I wonder, if Rafaelle had survived this fatal illness, which of the two alternatives he would have chosen--the cardinal"s hat or the niece of Cardinal Bibbiena? M. de Klenze gave us, the other night, a most picturesque and animated description of the opening of Rafaelle"s tomb,--at which he had himself a.s.sisted--the discovery of his remains, and those of his betrothed bride, the niece of Cardinal Bibbiena, deposited near him. She survived him several years, but in her last moments requested to be buried in the same tomb with him. This was at least quite in the _genre romantique_.
"Charming!" exclaimed one of the ladies present.
"_Et genereux!_" exclaimed another.
The series of the Italian painters will end with the Carracci. Those of the German painters will begin with Van Eyck, and end with Rubens. Of many of the frescos which are not yet executed, I saw the cartoons in professor Zimmermann"s studio.