by Mary Shelley
Our eager love of Italy has struck a spark and lighted a similar flame in the breast of our friend. He intended repairing to Vienna in the winter. He now proposes taking Venice in his way; so that, if we will remain a month at Dresden, he will accompany us at least so far on our southern journey. It is thus arranged; not, perhaps, for the best — for, if the heats continue, any town must be disagreeable — still we have come so far into the heart of Germany, that there can be no harm, though it be not the town season, in lingering a few weeks in one of its most celebrated cities. We have accordingly taken convenient lodgings in the Alt Markt; and here we are.
Already, you may be sure, we have visited the Gallery — a labyrinth of lofty halls, adorned by a very mine of painted canvas, which thoroughly to explore would indeed be difficult. Some, of its chief gems are in one room. Entering this, we are at once commanded and awed by the “Madonna di San Sisto,” the Virgin bearing the Infant God in her arms, by Raphael. As a painting, technically speaking, I believe there are faults found with it: worst of all, it has been retouched and restored; but no criticism can check the solemn impression it inspires. The Madonna is not the lowly wife of Joseph the carpenter: she is the Queen of Heaven; she advances surrounded by celestial rays, all formed of innumerable cherubim, from whose countenances beam the glory that surrounds her. The majesty of her countenance, “severe in youthful beauty,” demands worship for her as the mother of the Infant Saviour, whom she holds in her arms. And he, the Godhead (as well as feeble mortals can conceive the inconceivable, and yet which once it is believed was visible) sits enthroned on his brow, and looks out from eyes full of lofty command and conscious power. With one hand, he makes the sign of blessing, as in Catholic countries this is bestowed. Below are two angels — both lovely; one inexpressibly so — who are looking up. I have seen copies and engravings from this picture; I have seen these angels well imitated, but never the mother and child. In some, the angelic beauty is sacrificed in the endeavour to portray the majestic glance, which thus becomes stern; or the dignity fades, that the beauty, which thus becomes inexpressive, may be preserved. In truth, copies are very inefficient things; prints are often better; but if you look at the originals, such weak types fade into insignificance.
There are four large Correggios in this room; all among his earlier pictures. As paintings, I am told that they rank higher than the Raphael. They gain by being looked at and studied; the art of painting has never, nor can ever be carried further than the Chiaro Oscuro of this admirable artist; and the attitudes of the figures — the expression of some of the faces — especially of St. Sebastian, in one of them, thrills the frame. Now, the sense of adoration is cold in men’s breasts, and painters can neither see in others, nor conceive within their own breasts, a passion as absorbing as love, while it elevates and purifies those who feel it till their features shadow forth an angelic nature. A fifth Correggio is also here — the Magdalen, a small cabinet picture. It is well-known. I am told that Correggio only painted it once; but Allori, a good painter, but whose conceptions, whose types (to use the word of the author of “La Poésie Chrétienne”) are not noble, has made many most admirable copies; it has thus been multiplied; some of the copies are generally said to be by the hand of Correggio himself; yet, in the most celebrated of them, I have not seen the mixed expression which is so wonderful in the face of the original. She is lying on the earth, in a cavern, supporting her head with her hand, reading the blessed promises of the Gospel. Her eyes are red with recent and much weeping; her face expresses earnest hope — or rather scarcely hope yet, but a yearning which will soon warm into satisfied faith; and she is eagerly drinking in the sublime consolations that speak peace to her heart. Her face is not clouded by grief, though you see that she has grieved with bitterness; nor does it express joy, though you see that she anticipates happiness. Is not this the triumph of art? You must add to this inimitable delicacy in shadowing forth expression, an execution quite unrivalled. The word Chiaro Oscuro, as applied to Correggio’s paintings, is familiar to every one. This picture teaches more than any other what it means. With other artists, the flesh in shade, is the flesh darkened — blackened: here — look at the arms, the throat of the Magdalen; they are fair as alabaster — or rather, as the fair skin of woman, and the shadow that obscures them, conceals it in the painting not more than it would do in reality.
The heat is very great; the hours of the gallery excessively inconvenient — from nine to one, when it is inexorably closed, that the attendants may dine at the universal German hour; and they do not open again. I am convinced that one of the reasons that there is heaviness in the Germans, is this early hour for their principal, their interminable meal. Who can be fit for anything, after sitting for two or three hours at mid-day to a plentiful dinner? After such an act, life must be extinct in all the nobler functions for some hours; but, as they go to bed at ten, they do not give scope for the mind to recover itself. To be sure, they rise at five, and therefore their great men have been able to achieve so much.
With regard to the gallery, special permission may be obtained, if sought and paid for, to visit it at other hours. If we were only here for a day or two, it would be worth while to obtain this; but then an attendant would accompany us all the time; now we are free to roam at will. So we shall content ourselves with the public hours.
We are to remain the whole of this month at Dresden; before the end of it, I hope the heat will diminish. It is so excessive that I mean to escape for a few days to Rabenau.
LETTER VIII.
Rabenau. — The Gallery. — The Terrace of Bruhl. — The Grosse Garten. — The great Heat.
DRESDEN, AUGUST 12.
THY mountain tonnent and thy narrow vale,
With every pine and fir that grow thereby;
The air that passes thee with gentle wail,
That it may not amidst thy thickets die;
Thine evening’s quiet, and thy morning’s gale,
And thy hot noon-day’s mossy luxury;
Thy crags, whose legend says, “Each rugged rock
An altar is to Him who framed the block.”
IN such and other verse has the “valley of beauty, sunny Rabenau,” been celebrated by one of my friends, who visited it with us, and whose ardent and poetic imagination was warmed by inspiration in this lonely spot. I am sorry to say, that, secluded and beautiful as is the narrow dell, I did not quite share his transports; I obtained no refuge from the heat, from which I had endeavoured to escape. Truly we enjoyed the shade of woods and cliffs, and the refreshing murmur of the stream; but deep down and shut in as is the ravine, we found it close and breezeless. Besides, to my misfortune, I am more fastidious than a traveller ought to be. During the day I sought for a cool spot, and even though I found it not, yet as I loitered among the woods, every object charmed the eye; and evening came at last, bringing relief and enjoyment. But at night it was otherwise. The mill is a very rustic cot; and the Germans are not, as far as I can judge, a cleanly people. At Kissingen we were obliged to exert ourselves vehemently to get the floors (which, being of white smooth deal, to use a servant’s phrase, show dirt) washed. Water had never touched the boards of my room at Rabenau, and in vain I pleaded for a little scouring. Then German beds, especially in the north of Germany, are uncomfortable. Feather-beds everywhere are disagreeable; but here they are constructed on the most odious principle. They are a quarter filled with feathers: so when you He down, they inclose you on all sides, as a half-empty bladder does your finger if you press it. Usually there are mattresses besides, and one can discard the annoying softness; but at Rabenau there was only a loose straw palliasse, and one of these disastrous beds, which threw me into a state of nervous agitation, that turned the night into a period of pain.
In short, after enduring the annoyance for three nights, P — and I quitted it, leaving our poet and musician behind, to indulge, for a few more days, in the inspirations of the rocky dell. An old woman stowed carpet-bag, cloaks, and books, int
o a basket, and putting a weight I could scarcely lift on her back, walked briskly on before. Like gnomes, we emerged from the inner recesses of the earth, and ascended to its outer edge; and again descending the hill side, we reached the high road, where we hoped to find a carriage sent to meet us. We were disappointed; but after a perplexing half hour, during which we expected to have to walk to Dresden, we secured a return britska, and gladly took our way to our temporary home. Could I have foreseen the heat, I had not fixed to remain at Dresden so long, but have gone on to wait for our friend at Toplitz. There is no help now, and I console myself by recollecting that I am in a city I have long desired to see, and can store my mind with the memory of a thousand objects, which hereafter I shall look back on as my choicest treasures.
I ramble in the morning in the Gallery: the heat, indeed, is almost insupportable; but still I cannot tear myself away. There is a lovely picture of Rebecca at the well, by Giorgione. There is a fine one, by Annibal Caracci, of the Angel of Fame. He is springing upwards; wreaths of laurel hang from his arm; one hand bears a crown, the other holds a trumpet, and a halo of flame plays round his head. There is something living and spirit-stirring in this picture, though its colouring is not pleasing. There are the portraits of his three daughters by Palma Vecchio: one of them in particular is very beautiful. The women of this painter resemble those of Titian — the same full feminine form, the same voluptuous repose, joined to queen-like dignity.
One of the gems of the gallery is the Cristo della Moneta, of Titian, which Mrs. Jamieson eulogizes with much taste and judgment. It is among the earliest, and is one of the best of the works of this artist. It is but a small half-length, containing two figures. The Jew shows a coin to our Saviour, and asks to whom tribute should be paid. The questioner looks full of cunning — Jesus, suffering, patient, dignified. As with all these great painters, the countenance expresses many mingled feelings, and you read the thoughts of the martyr, revealed by his searching eye and the sad composure of his mien. “This is a snare. You think to entrap me. You will not succeed. With a word, I brush away the flimsy web of evil. But it will not always be thus; the time will come when I shall be your victim; yet I bear the present insult and future death with resignation for your sake — for the sake of all mankind.
My path is before me; I tread it patiently and resolutely, though you strew it with thorns.” All this you read in that face; all gentleness, resignation, love, and suffering. A connoisseur here objects, that the countenance of Christ wants dignity; perhaps it does; yet, methinks, it has as much as the human face, in sorrow, can express. I told you that the gallery shuts at one. I linger to the last. At a quarter before this hour, the men come round, and draw down the blinds, leaving the gallery nearly in darkness. I was in the room containing the Correggios when they did this. The Notte of that painter is among them: The Shepherds visiting Jesus in the manger by night, and the only light emanates from the cradle of the divine child, spreading its halo over the Virgin’s face, which is bent over the babe, while the shepherds veil their eyes with their hands from the dazzling effulgence. When, by the drawing down of the blinds, we were left nearly in darkness, the effect on this picture was miraculous. The child lay in living beams, which seemed to emanate from a focus, and spread rays of light around. I could not have believed that any coloured canvas could have shown such glowing radiance. The intention of the master becomes more clear, and his wonderful art more admirable. No doubt the picture was painted for some niche that favoured the peculiar distribution of light and shadow.
There are some very beautiful specimens of the Dutch school in the gallery; but I do not, of course, send you a mere catalogue; and in mentioning those that gave me most pleasure, you know my preference for Italian pictures.
One day, while wandering about the gallery, I saw a well-known face. It was more than a pleasure; it was indeed a gain to meet the accomplished Author of “La Poésie Chrétienne” in the very spot where his knowledge and taste would inform my ignorance and correct my judgment; still more agreeable it is to learn that he is also bound for Italy. His animated conversation and refined society will add more than I can express of interest and pleasure to our rambles, I drag myself painfully home from the gallery! but find no shade, and short repose.
We have here only a woman who “ does for us,” preparing our breakfast and attending to our rooms. Our dinner is another affair. Not far from us there is a Tratoria, kept by a Milanese, well known in Dresden as a good cook, and where we can obtain food not germanized in its preparation. We either go and dine there, or have our dinner sent to us; his prices are exceedingly reasonable. The ceremony of our dinner over, I repose as well as the son will let me, which has by this time left one part of our house and invaded another, making every portion, beyond conception, sultry. I never found any heat so oppressive. This arises from Dresden being so inland; and no rain having fallen for six months, the dryness of the atmosphere renders its high temperature penetrating, subtle, burning, intolerable.
Evening comes, and though it does not bring with it sufficient coolness to banish lassitude and even pain, still the heat is diminished, and I go out to walk or drive. If on foot, we go usually to the Terrace of Brühl, to which you ascend by a wide flight of steps from the foot of the bridge. The view here is beautiful. I can imagine circumstances which would render it sublime. It overlooks the Elbe; and were that river in “its pride of place” — full — rushing — stormy — it would add movement and grandeur to the scene. But the waters have ebbed even as the Arno does, till the bathers almost walk across without any chance of getting out of their depth; the bed, as a river’s bed always does when the shrunken stream leaves it exposed, is a deformity to the landscape; and the extreme dryness of the season has caused the fields on the other side to resemble those seen by Charles Lamb from his retreat at Dalston. “Talk of green fields,” he said, “ every one has green fields; I have drab-coloured fields.” I look over the parapet and try to imagine the river full to the brim; the lower piles of the beautiful bridge bathed and hidden by tumultuous waves; the domes and spires of the city rising silent above a turbid, tempestuous, sea-like river: that would be the scene which is the glory and boast of Dresden; now all is slothful and stagnant. The same is to be predicated of the company assembled; all the beau monde of all the towns of Germany is assembled at various baths, and so I must not wonder that I not only saw no beauty, but nothing either well-dressed or elegant in the promenades. We have driven to the Grosse Garten, a large park, filled with fine trees, and were the lawns laid out in verdant sward, instead of being an incult growth of the coarsest grass, very uninviting, especially in its present arid state, the shady walks and glades would be pleasant. I may say the same of all the other gardens of which this capital boasts. They would be very delightful, only just now they are deficient in freshness and verdure. Do not think I say this as a fault-finder, except that they ought to learn from us what grass when cultivated for ornamental uses ought to be. I consider the gardens and terraces and pleasure-grounds that adorn Dresden more beautiful than those of almost any other capital.
The fault is ours, not theirs. The pleasure-grounds of a city ought to be, and in this case are, adapted to the seasons during which the inhabitants make use of them. But in the height of summer, Nature only in her free fresh beauty can afford enjoyment. We have no business to come here now in search of wood and stream and field, which alone can content our souls, athirst and wearied by the heat. The fault, as I have said, is ours; not that of Dresden, which really may be said in some degree to rival Florence in its pretensions to beauty, and which has of course an individual character of its own.
P — goes almost every night to the Opera, The heat is so very great, that I have only seldom ventured. The house is very pretty; and I had hoped, as there are some good singers, to hear some of the chef-d’œuvre of German composers. I am disappointed. At Berlin, we had Masaniello: here we have La Dame Blanche — Die weise Frau — instead of the Huguenots, wh
ich our musical friend considers the finest composition of modem times — inferior only to Mozart; superior to him, inasmuch as orchestral accompaniment is so wonderfully improved and extended since the day when Figaro and the Zauberjlaüte were brought out. I am much disappointed in not hearing this opera. The tenor is a young! good-looking man, with a very pleasing voice and good style. It is strange, indeed, how well German sings. Look at the language, with its accumulation of consonants, and it appears worse even than our own for singing; but in reality it is far better; ours being, from its peculiar accent, the worst, I believe, in the world; while the German is smoothed and vocalised and flowing in a manner which, till I heard it sung by natives, I could not have imagined. This same sdruccioli enunciation does not, however, make it pleasing to the ear when spoken.
Night comes at last. At ten o’clock, all Dresden goes to bed. If you stay out after, you must pay your porter four groschen. Night comes, but no cool breeze to calm and refresh. We live in a troisième, in the Alt Markt, and look upon its large square, our windows being turned to the east. Till a late hour, the people are employed removing the booths in which they expose their wares during the day, and the clatter they make prevents repose. Near us is a church tower, with a loud clock; and as I lie, courting sleep, with my windows of necessity wide open, the sound of the clock seems to enter my room. We are told, sounds are produced by vibrations of air, which beginning where the sound is bom, spread themselves further and further; and thus I hear — I feel it. I believe that I am aware of the moment when the clock strikes; on comes the sound, louder and louder, till my room is filled as with thunder — and the wounded sense of hearing would fain fly and escape — but cannot. You can form no idea what it is to have twelve o’clock thus walk up bodily to your pillow, in the otherwise deep silence of night.
