In Paradise (Musaicum Must Classics). Paul Heyse

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СКАЧАТЬ last heaven-towering monument of thought, that my godfather has set up"--for so he had persisted in calling him ever since he had aptly, though ironically, christened one of his unnamed, thoughtful drawings, and Kohle had accepted the title in sober earnest--"concerning this I am not gymnast enough to follow his motives up seven stories high without growing giddy. However, when you have all finished, I will draw up a chair in front of it and go to work; or, to tell the truth, I should prefer to do it tomorrow alone with him."

      "I should be very glad, Rossel, if I might bring you the sketch to-morrow," stammered the pale man, who had probably overheard the scoffing words, and had blushed deeply.

      "Would you really like it, godfather?" said Edward, with a shake of the head. "No, my good friend, if my heresies have reached your ears after all, let us come to an honorable understanding; and here in Paradise, at all events, let us wear no cloaks. You know that all paintings that represent thought make my head ache; that, to my mind, a single thoughtless Venus of Titian outweighs a whole Olympus full of spiritual motives, such as swarm about like ants over your big pound-cake of an allegorical mountain. Yes, we are old antipodes, my dear godfather; which fact, by-the-way, does not lessen our friendship. On the contrary, when I see how you and your creations are losing flesh through pure intellect, I feel a hearty compassion mingled with my esteem. You should try a milk-cure, my good godfather, at the full breasts of our old mother Nature; you should follow the flesh for a year or so, instead of high ideas--"

      "It is not every tree that has its bark full grown," interposed Kohle, meekly.

      "True. But a tree that has no bark at all!--and, you see, that's just how your whole style appears to me, you mighty disciple of Cornelius! We see the complicated structure of your thoughts, we see how the sap of your ideas circulates through it; all of which is very remarkable and edifying, but anything rather than artistic. For ought not true art to work upon us like a higher Nature, without putting forth much ingenuity and subtilty, without all that complication of poetical affinities and philosophical finesse? No, it should be simple and plain, but purified by the flame of genius from all weakness, all defects, and every kind of wretchedness. For instance, in the contemplation of a beautiful woman, lying there so quietly, or of a stately senator, or of an 'Adoration of the Kings,' how much does one think about the ingenuity of the thing? Either it conveys no meaning, or an incomprehensible one, or even an unprofitable one. And yet it charms us, even across the whole width of the hall, merely by its silhouette, or its wealth of color, or its simple and majestic sensuous beauty, such as we seldom or never find in Nature without some vulgar adjunct. On the other hand, take a poem in picture like the one before us--I invariably find myself searching at the foot of the frame to see whether the draughtsman has not added some notes that may serve to explain the text. A printed paper answers the whole purpose quite as well, something entitled 'The picture and its description;' and the dear Philistine who talks about the 'arts of culture'--because he thinks it is with his own special culture that they have to do--is only too happy if he can imagine that he is going through some connected process of thought while he looks at it. But I say, long live the art that leaves no room for thought! And, now, give me something to drink!"

      Schnetz filled his glass for him, which he drained at one draught as if he were exhausted by his long oration. A painful silence had ensued; the depreciatory tone in which the words had been spoken had depressed even those who were of Rossel's way of thinking. At length a mild and somewhat husky voice was heard proceeding from the upper end of the table, and they saw that old Schöpf had taken upon himself to defend the cause of the party attacked.

      "You are undoubtedly right in the main, Herr Rossel," said he. "In the great epochs of art--among the Greeks, and the Italians of the cinque-cento--mind and Nature were inseparably united. But, unfortunately, they have quarreled since then, and it is quite as rare to find a painter of the so-called fleshly school who knows how to give soul to his form as it is to find a poet among draughtsmen who succeeds perfectly in incorporating his conceptions. In fact it is a period of extremes, of specialties, and of strife. But is not strife the father of things? Shall we not hope that from this chaos a new and beautiful world will crystallize? And, until then, should we not give every one a chance who fights with honest weapons and open visor? What if there are artists who have more to say than can be shown? Who cannot look upon their inner life in such a spirit of tranquil beauty, but see in it a tragedy which must work itself out in discords? And, indeed, the life of man, as it is to-day, has passed out of the idyllic stage; on every side we see intellect leading the van, and enjoyment and pleasure limping after. An art that shows no traces of this, would that still be our art?"

      "Let it be whatever it liked," cried Fat Rossel, leisurely rising; "it would be my art at all events. But, naturally, that need matter little to you. And by the way--I have not once shaken hands with you this evening, my lord and creator. I do so now, and at the same time I thank you for so bravely dragging my excellent godfather Kohle from out the fray. He himself likes to keep his best thoughts in his own breast, unless he has a chance to sketch them on a sheet of paper. And here in Paradise no one ought to fall upon his fellow-man in the murderous fashion that I just did. Kohle, I esteem you. You are a character, and have the courage of your convictions, in defiance of all the lusts of the flesh. I thank you, especially, for that poem of Hölderlin's, that I confess I did not know, and that is very fine; how does it go? … "

      He seated himself with the greatest good-nature by the side of his "godfather," and began to go thoroughly over the sketch, and to make a number of keen criticisms of its details. In the mean time the young Greek had placed in position a large sketch in colors, dashed off in bold, strong lines; and now this took its turn of criticism.

      It had for its subject, as the artist explained in broken German, in a soft, musical voice, a scene from Goethe's "Bride of Corinth." The youth had sunk back upon his couch, and his ghostly bride had thrown herself vampire-like upon him, "eagerly drinking in the flame of his lips," while the mother, standing outside the door, seemed to be listening to the suppressed voices, just ready to burst in and disturb the pair.

      Over this work also criticism held its breath for a time, though for a very different reason. The whole picture breathed such a stifling spirit of sultry passion that even the members of the Paradise Club, who most certainly were not prudish, seem to feel that the bounds of what was permissible had been overstepped.

      Once more Rosenbusch was the first to speak.

      "There he sits over yonder in the realm of pure spirit," he cried to Fat Rossel, who was still studying Kohle's work, "while we here are dealing with pure flesh. Holla! You man of the silhouette and the beautiful decorative form, come over here and exorcise this demon!"

      Edward nodded without looking round; he seemed to know the work already, and to have no desire to express himself concerning it.

      As none of the others uttered a single word, the artist finally appealed directly to Jansen, and begged for his judgment.

      "Hm!" growled the sculptor, "the work is full of talent. Only you have christened it wrongly--or have forgotten the two veils."

      "Christened it wrongly?"

      "In the name of Goethe; Saint Priapus stood godfather to it."

      "But--the two veils!" stammered the youth, who had cast down his eyes.

      "Beauty and horror. Only read the poem. You will see how artistically everything immodest in it is veiled by these two. And yet--a decidedly talented work. It will find admirers fast enough."

      He turned away and went quietly back to his seat. At the same instant the young man tore the picture from the wall, and, without saying a word, held the gilt frame in which it was enclosed over the nearest lamp.

      Perhaps he had expected that some one would seize him by the arm; but no one stirred. СКАЧАТЬ