From the Oak to the Olive Part 14

The little painted crucifixes by the wayside indeed afflict one by their impotence and insignificance. Not thus shall Christ be recognized in these days. In some places their frequency reminded me of the recurrence of the pattern on a calico or a wall paper. Yet, as a whole, one feels that Switzerland is a Protestant power.

For specials, I must have recourse to the insufficient pages of the diary, which give the following:--

August 13. Museum at Zurich. Lacustrine remains, in stone, flint, and bronze; fragments of the old piles, cut with stone knives. Hand-mill for corn, consisting of a hollow stone and a round one, concave and convex.

Toilet ornaments, in bone and bronze; a few in gold.--The Library. Lady Jane Grey's letters, three in number; Zwingle's Greek Bible.--The Armory. Zwingle's helmet and battle-axe; three suits of female armor; curious shields, cannon, pikes, and every variety of personal defence.

August 14. Left Zurich at half past six A. M. for Lucerne, reaching the latter place at half past eight. Visited Thorwaldsen's lion, whose majestic presence I had not forgotten in twenty-three years. Yet the Swiss hireling under foreign pay is a mischievous inst.i.tution. At two P.

M. took the boat for Hergeswyl, intending to ascend from that point the Mount Pilatus. At half past three began this ascension. The road is very fine, and my leader was excellent; yet I had some uncomfortable moments in the latter part of the ascent, which was in zigzag, and very steep.

Each horse cost ten francs, and each leader was to have a _trink-geld_ besides. We stopped very gladly at the earliest reached of the two hotels which render habitable the heights of the mountain. We learned too late that it would have been better to proceed at once to that which stands nearly on the summit. We should thus have gained time for the great spectacle of the sunrise on the following morning. Our view of the sunset, too, would have been more extended. Yet we were well content with it. Near the hotel was a very small Catholic chapel, through whose painted windows we tried to peep. A herd of goats feeding near by made music with their tinkling bells. Swiss sounds are as individual as Swiss sights. Voices, horns, bells, all have their peculiar ring in these high atmospheres.

We lay down at night with the intention of rising at a quarter of four next morning, in order to witness the sunrise from the highest point of the mountain. Mistaking some sounds which disturbed my slumbers for the guide's summons, I sprang out of bed, and having no match, made a hasty toilet in the dark, and then ran to arouse my companions. One of these, fortunately, was able to strike a light and look at his watch. It was just twelve, and my zeal and energy had been misdirected. When I again awoke, it was at four A. M., already rather late for our purpose. We dressed hastily, and vehemently started on the upward zigzag. As the guide had not yet appeared, I carried our night bundle, but for which I should have kept the lead of the party. Small as was its weight, I felt it sensibly in this painful ascent, and was thankful to relinquish it when the tardy guide came up with us. In spite of his aid, I was much distressed for breath, and suffered from a thirst surpa.s.sing that of fever. My ears also ached exceedingly in consequence of the rarefaction of the atmosphere. The last effort of the ascent was made upon a ladder pitched at such an angle that one could climb it only on hands and knees. We reached the last peak a little late for the sunrise, but enjoyed a near and magnificent view of the snow Alps. The diary contains no description of this prospect. I can only remember that its coloring and extent were wonderful. But a day of fatigue was still before us.

Breakfasting at six o'clock, we soon commenced the painful downward journey. No "_facilis descensus_" was this, but a climbing down which lasted three full hours. We had kept but one horse for this part of our journey, but this was such an uncertain and stumbling beast that we gladly surrendered him to our chief, who, in spite of this a.s.sistance, was found more than once lying on a log, a.s.suring us that his end was at hand. We had little breath to spare for his consolation, but gave him a silent and aching sympathy. A pleasant party of English girls left the hotel when we did, one on horseback and three on foot. The hardships of the way brought us together. I can still recall the ring of their voices, and the freshness and sparkle of their faces, which really encouraged my efforts. The pleasures of this descent were as intense as its pains. The brilliant gra.s.s was enamelled with wild flowers, exquisite in color and fragrance. The mountain air was bracing and delightful, the details of tree and stream most picturesque. For some reason, which I now forget, we stopped but little to take rest. At a small chalet half way down, we enjoyed a gla.s.s of beer, and were waited upon by a maiden in white sleeves and black bodice, her fair hair being braided with a strip of white linen, and secured in its place by a large pin with an ornamented head. We reached Alpenach in a state of body and of wardrobe scarcely describable. But our minds at least were at ease.

We had done something to make a note of. We had been to the top of Mons Pilatus.

Of Interlaken the diary preserves nothing worth transcribing. The great beauty of the scenery made us reluctant to leave it after a few hours of enjoyment. The appalling fashionable and watering-place aspect of the streets and hotels, on the other hand, rendered it uncongenial to quiet travellers, whose strength did not lie in the _clothes_ line. Our brief stay showed us the greatest mixture and variety of people; the hotels were splendid with showy costumes, the shops tempting with onyx, amethyst, and crystal ornaments. We saw here also a great display of carvings in wood. The unpaved streets were gay with equipages and donkey parties. A sousing rain soon made confusion among them, and reconciled us to a speedy departure.

Of Berne and Fribourg I will chronicle only the organ concerts, given to exhibit the resources of two famous instruments. At both places we found the organ very fine, and the musical performance very trashy. No real organ music was given on either occasion, the _piece de resistance_ being an imitation of a thunderstorm. Both instruments seemed to me to surpa.s.s our own great organ in beauty and variety of tone. The larger proportions of the buildings in which they are heard may contribute to this result. Both of these are cathedrals, with fine vaulted roofs and long aisles, very different from the essentially civic character of the music hall, whose compact squareness cannot deal with the immense volume of sound thrown upon its hands by the present overgrown inc.u.m--bent.

THE GREAT EXPOSITION.

It would be unfair to American journalism not to suppose that all possible information concerning the Great Exposition has already been given to the great republic. There have doubtless been quires upon quires of brilliant writing devoted to that absorbing theme. Columns from the most authentic sources have been commanded and paid for.

American writing is rich in epithets, and we may suppose that all the adjective splendors have been put in requisition to aid imagination to take the place of sight. Yet, as the diversities of landscape painting show the different views which may be taken of one nature, even so the view taken by my sober instrument may possibly show something that has escaped another.

I here refer to the pages of my oft-quoted diary. But alas! the wretch deserts me in the hour of my greatest need. I find a record of my first visit only, and that couched in one prosaic phrase as follows: Exposition--valet, six francs.

Now, I am not a Cuvier, to reconstruct a whole animal from a single fossil bone; nor am I a German historian, to present the picture of a period by inventing the opposite of its records. Yet what I can report of this great feature of the summer must take as its starting-point this phrase: Exposition--valet, six francs.

This extravagant attendance was secured by us on the occasion of our first visit, when, pa.s.sing inside the narrow turnstile, with ready change and eager mind, we encountered the great reality we had to deal with, and felt, to our dismay, that spirit would help us little, and that flesh and blood, eyes and muscles, must do their utmost, and begin by acknowledging a defeat. Looking on the diverse paths, and flags and buildings, we sought an Ariadne, and found at least a guide whom Bacchus might console. Escorted by him, we entered the first great hall, with ma.s.sive machines partially displayed on one side. A _coup d'oeil_ was what we sought on this occasion, and our movements were rapid. The Sevre porcelains, the magnificent French and English gla.s.ses, the weighty majolicas, the Gobelin tapestries, and the galleries of paintings, chiefly consumed our six francs, which represented some three hours.

Magnificent services of plate, some in silver, and some in imitation of silver, were shown to us. In another place the close cl.u.s.tering of men and women around certain gla.s.s cases made us suspect the attraction of jewelry, which may be called the sugar-plummery of aesthetics.

Insinuating ourselves among the human bees, we, too, fed our eyes on these sweets. Diadems, necklaces, earrings, sufficient, in the hands of a skilful Satan, to accomplish the d.a.m.nation of the whole female s.e.x, were here displayed. I was glad to see these dangerous implements of temptation restrained within cases of solid gla.s.s. I myself would fain have written upon them, "Deadly poison." There are enough, however, to preach, and I practised by running off from these disputed neighborhoods, and pa.s.sing to the contemplation of treasures which to see is to have.

Among the Gobelins I was amazed to see a fine presentation of t.i.tian's Sacred and Profane Love, a picture of universal reputation. The difficulty of copying so old and so perfect a work in tapestry made this success a very remarkable one. Very beautiful, too, was their copy of Guido's Aurora, and yet less difficult than the other, the coloring being at once less subtile and more brilliant.

I remember a gigantic pyramid of gla.s.s, which arose, like a frost-stricken fountain, in the middle of the English china and gla.s.s department. I remember huge vases, cups as thin as egg-sh.e.l.l, pellucid crystals in all shapes, a glory of hard materials and tender colors. And I remember a department of raw material, fibres, minerals, germs, and grains, and a department of Eastern confectionery, and one of Algerine small work, to wit, jewelry and embroidery. An American soda fountain caused us to tingle with renewed a.s.sociations. And we hear, with shamefaced satisfaction, that American drinks have proved a feature in this great phenomenon. Machines have, of course, been creditable to us.

Chickering and Steinway have carried off prizes in a piano-forte tilt, each grudging the other his share of the common victory. And our veteran's maps for the blind have received a silver medal. Tiffany, the New York jeweller, presents a good silver miniature of Crawford's beautiful America. And with these successes our patriotism must now be content. We are not ahead of all creation, so far as the Exposition is concerned, and the things that do us most credit must be seen and studied in our midst.

Our longest lingerings in the halls of the Exposition were among the galleries of art. Among these the French pictures were preeminent in interest. The group of Jerome's paintings were the most striking of their kind, uniting finish with intensity, and both with ease. In his choice of subjects, Jerome is not a Puritan. The much admired Almee is a picture of low scope, excusable only as an historic representation. The judgment of Phryne will not commend itself more to maids and matrons who love their limits. Both pictures, however, are powerfully conceived and colored. The "Ave Cesar" of the _morituri_ before Vitellius is better inspired, if less well executed, and holds the mirror close in the cruel face of absolute power.

Study of the Italian masters was clearly visible in many of the best works of the French gallery. I recall a fine triptych representing the story of the prodigal son in which the chief picture spoke plainly of Paul Veronese, and his Venetian life and coloring. In this picture the prodigal appeared as the lavish entertainer of gay company. A banquet, shared by joyous _hetairae_, occupied the canvas. A slender compartment on the right showed the second act of the drama--hunger, swine-feeding, and repentance. A similar one on the left gave the pleasanter _denouement_--the return, the welcome, the feast of forgiveness. Both of the latter subjects were treated in _chiaro-scuro_, a manner that heightened the contrast between the flush of pleasure and the pallor of its consequences. Rosa Bonheur's part in the Exposition was scarcely equal to her reputation. One charming picture of a boat-load of sheep crossing a Highland loch still dwells in my memory like a limpid sapphire, so lovely was the color of the water. The Russian, Swedish, and Danish pictures surprised me by their good points. If we may judge of Russian art by these specimens, it is not behind the European standard of attainment. Of the Bavarian gallery, rich in works of interest, I can here mention but two. The first must be a very large and magnificent cartoon by Kaulbach, representing a fancied a.s.semblage of ill.u.s.trious personages at the period of the Reformation. Luther, Erasmus, and Melanchthon were prominent among these, the whole belonging to a large style of historical composition.

The second was already familiar to us through a photograph seen and admired in Munich. It is called Ste. Julie, and represents a young Christian martyr, dead upon the cross, at whose foot a young man is depositing an offering of flowers. The pale beauty and repose of the figure, the ma.s.sive hair and lovely head, the modesty of att.i.tude and attire, are very striking. The sky is subdued, clear, and gray, the black hair standing out powerfully against it. The whole palette seems to have been set with pure and pearly tints. One thinks the brushes that painted this fair dove could never paint a courtesan. A single star, the first of evening, breaks the continuity of the twilight sky. This picture seemed as if it should make those who look at it thenceforward more tender, and more devout. Among the English pictures, the Enemy sowing Tares, by Millais, was particularly original--a malignant sky, full of blight and destruction, and a malignant wretch, smiling at mischief, and scowling at good,--a powerful figure, mighty and mean.

This picture makes one start and shudder; such must have been its intention, and such is its success.

Among sculptures, the most conspicuous was one called the Last Hour of Napoleon--a figure in an invalid's chair, with drooping head and worn countenance, the map of the globe lying spread upon his pa.s.sive knees.

Every trait already says, "This _was_ Napoleon," the man of modern times who longest survived himself, who was dead and could not expire. Wreaths of immortelles always lay at the foot of this statue. It is the work of an Italian artist, and the only sculpture in the whole exhibition which I can recall as easily and deservedly remembered.

Our American part in the art-exhibition was not great. William Hunt's pictures were badly placed, and not grouped, as they should have been, to give an adequate idea of the variety of his merits. Bierstadt's Rocky Mountains looked thin in coloring, and showed a want of design. Church's Niagara was effective. Johnston's Old Kentucky Home was excellent in its kind, and characteristic. Kensett had a good landscape. But America has still more to learn than to teach in the way of high art. Success among us is too cheap and easy. Art-critics are wordy and ignorant, praising from caprice rather than from conscience. It would be most important for us to form at least one gallery of art in which American artists might study something better than themselves. The presence of twenty first-rate pictures in one of our great cities would save a great deal of going abroad, and help to form a sincere and intelligent standard of aesthetic judgment. Such pictures should, of course, be constantly open to the public, as no private collection can well be. We should have a t.i.tian, a Rubens, an Andrea, a Paul Veronese, and so on. But these pictures should be of historical authenticity. The most responsible artists of the country should be empowered to negotiate for them, and the money might be afforded from the heavy gains of late years with far more honor and profit than the superfluous splendors with which the fortunate of this period bedizen their houses and their persons.

Among American sculptures I may mention a pleasing medallion or two by Miss Foley. Miss Hosmer's Faun is a near relative in descent from the Barberini Faun, and, however good in execution, has little originality of conception. And these things I say, Beloved, in the bosom of our American family, because I think they ought to be said, and not out of pride or fancied superiority.

I am ashamed to say that I have already told the little I am able to tell of the Exposition as seen by daylight--the little, at least, that every one else has not told. But I visited the enclosure once in the evening, when only the cafes were open. Among these I sought a beer-shop characterized as the Bavarian brewery, and sought it long and with trouble; for the long, winding paths showed us, one after the other, many agglomerations of light, which were obviously places of public entertainment, and in each of which we expected to find our Bavarian brewery, famous for the musical performances of certain gypsies much spoken of in Parisian circles. In the pursuit of this we entered half a dozen buildings, in each of which some characteristic entertainment was proceeding. Coming finally to the object of our search, we found it a plain room with small tables, half filled with visitors. Opposite the entrance was a small orchestral stage, on which were seated the wild musicians whom we sought. A franc each person was the entrance fee, and we were scarcely seated before a functionary authoritatively invited us to command some refreshment, in a tone which was itself the order of the day. In obedience, one ordered beer, another _gloria_, a third cigars--all at extortionate prices. But then the music was given for nothing, and must be paid for somehow. And it proved worth paying for.

At first the body of sound seemed overpowering, for there was no pianissimo, and not one of the regular orchestral effects. A weird-looking leader in high boots stood and fiddled, holding his violin now on a level with his eyes, now with his nose, now with his stomach, writhing and swaying with excitement, his excitable troupe following the ups and downs of his movement like a track of gaunt hounds dashing after a spectre. The cafe gradually filled, and orders were asked and given.

But little disturbance did these give either to the band or its hearers.

They played various wild airs and symphonies (not technical ones), being partially advised therein by an elegant male personage who sat leaning his head upon his jewelled hand, absorbed in attention. These melodies were obviously compositions of the most eccentric and accidental sort.

Not thus do great or small harmonists mate their tones and arch their pa.s.sages. But there was a vivacity and a pa.s.sion in all that these men did which made every bar seem full of electric fire; and these must be, I thought, traditional vestiges of another time, when music was not yet an art, but only nature. Here Dwight's Journal has no power. Beethoven or Handel may do as he likes; these do as they please, also. This is the heathendom of art, in which feeling is all, authority nothing; in which rules are only suspected, not created. After an hour or more of this entertainment, we left it, not unwillingly, being a little weary of its labyrinthine character and unmoderated ecstasy. Yet we left it much impressed with the musical material presented in it. Our civilized orchestras have no such enthusiasts as that nervous leader, with his leaping violin and restraining high boots. And this, with the lights and shadows, and broken music of the outside walks, is all that I saw of evening at the Exposition.

PICTURES IN ANTWERP.

As you cannot, with rare exceptions, see Raphael out of Italy, so, I should almost say, you cannot see Rubens and Vandyck out of Belgium.

This is especially true of the former; for one does, I confess, see marvellous portraits of Vandyck's in Genoa and in other places. But one judges a painter best by seeing a group of his best works, which show his sphere of thought with some completeness. A single sentence suffices to show the great poet; but no one will a.s.sume that a sentence will give you to know as much of him as a poem or volume. So the detached sentences of the two great Flemish painters, easily met with in European galleries, bear genuine evidence of the master's hand; but the collections of Antwerp and Bruges show us the master himself. Intending no disrespect to Florence, Munich, or the Medicean series at the Louvre, I must say that I had no just measure of the dignity of Rubens as a man and as an artist, until I stood before his two great pictures in the Cathedral of Antwerp. One of these represents the Elevation of the Cross. Mathematically it offends one--the cross, the princ.i.p.al object in the picture, being seen diagonally, in an uneasy and awkward posture. On the other hand, the face of the Christ corresponds fully to the heroism of the moment; it expresses the human horror and agony, but, triumphing over all, the steadfastness of resolve and faith. It is a transfiguration--the spiritual glory holding its own above all circ.u.mstances of pain and infamy. A sort of beautiful surprise is in the eyes--the first deadly pang of an organism unused to suffer. It is a face that lifts one above the weakness and meanness of ordinary human life. This soul, one sees, had the true talisman, the true treasure. If we earn what he did, we can afford to let all else go. The Descent from the Cross is better known than its fellow-picture. It had not to me the wonderful interest of the living face of Christ in the supreme moment of his great life; for I shall always consider that the Christ represented in the Elevation is a true Christ, not a mere fancy figure or dramatic ghost. The Descent is, however, more grand and satisfactory in its grouping, and the contrast between the agony of the friendly faces that surround the chief figure and the dead peace of his expression and att.i.tude is profound and pathetic. The head and body fall heavily upon the arms of those who support it, and who seem to bear an inward weight far transcending the outward one. The pale face of the Virgin is stricken and compressed with sorrow. Each of the pictures is the centre of a triptych, the two smaller paintings representing subjects in harmony with the chief groups. On the right of the Descent we have Mary making her historical visit to the house of Elisabeth; on the left, the presentation of the infant Christ in the temple. On the right of the Elevation is a group of those daughters of Jerusalem to whom Christ said, "Weep not for me." The subject on the left is less significant.

With these pictures deserves to rank the Flagellation of Christ, by the same artist, in the Church of St. Paul. The resplendent fairness of the body, the cruel reality of the bleeding which follows the scourge, and the expression of genuine but n.o.ble suffering, seize upon the very quick of sympathy, weakened by mythicism and sentimentalism. This fair body, sensitive as yours or mine, endured bitter and agonizing blows. This great heart was content to endure them as the penalty of bequeathing to mankind its priceless secret.

The churches of Antwerp are rich in architecture, paintings, and marbles. In the latter the Church of St. Jacques excels, the high altar and side chapels being adorned with twisted columns of white marble, and with various sculptures. The Musee contains many pictures of great reputation and merit. Among these are a miniature painting of the Descent from the Cross, by Rubens himself, closely, but not wholly, corresponding with his great picture; the Education of the Virgin, and the Vierge au Perroquet, both by Rubens, in his most brilliant style.

Another composition represents St. Theresa imploring the Savior to release from purgatory the soul of a benefactor of her order. Rubens is said to have given to this benefactor the features of Vandyck, and to one of the angels releasing him those of his young wife, Helena Forman; while the face of an old man still in suffering represents his own.

This gallery contains three Vandycks of first-cla.s.s merit, each of which will detain the attention of lovers of art. The one that first meets your eye is a Pieta, in which the body of Christ is stretched horizontally, his head lying on the lap of his mother. The strongest point of the picture is the Virgin's sorrow, expressed in her pallid face, eyes worn with weeping, and outstretched hands. The second is a small crucifix, very harmonious and expressive. The third is a life-size picture of the crucifixion, with a very individual tone of color. The Virgin, at the foot of the cross, has great truth and dignity, but is rather a modern figure for the subject. But the pride of the whole collection is a unique triptych by Quintin Matsys, his greatest work, and one without which the extent of his power can never be realized. The central picture represents a dead Christ, surrounded by the men and women who ministered to him, preparing him for sepulture. The right hand of the Christ lies half open, with a wonderful expression of acquiescence. The faces of those who surround him are full of intense interest and tenderness; the Virgin's countenance expresses heart-break.

The whole picture disposes you to weep, not from sentimentalism, but from real sympathy. Of the side pieces, one represents the wicked women with the head of John the Baptist, the other the martyrdom of Ste.

Barbe. Add to these some of the best Teniers, Ostades, Ruysdaels, and Vanderweldes, with many excellent works of second-cla.s.s merit, and you will understand, as well as words can tell you, what treasures lie within the Musee of Antwerp.

Copy is exhausted, say the printers. Perhaps patience gave out first. My MS. is at end--not handsomely rounded off, nor even shortened by a surgical amputation, but broken at some point in which facts left no room for words. Observation became absorbing, and description was adjourned, as it now proves, forever. The few sentences which I shall add to what is already written will merely apologize for my sudden disappearance, lest the clown's "Here we are" should find a comic _pendant_ in my "Here we are not."

I have only to say that I have endeavored in good faith to set down this simple and hurried record of a journey crowded with interests and pleasures. I was afraid to receive so freely of these without attempting to give what I could in return, under the advantages and disadvantages of immediate transcription. In sketches executed upon the spot, one hopes that the vividness of the impression under which one labors may atone for the want of finish and of elaboration. If read at all, these notes may be called to account for many insufficiencies. Some pages may appear careless, some sentences Quixotic. I am still inclined to think that with more leisure and deliberation I should not have done the work as well. I should, perhaps, like Tintoretto, have occupied acres and acres of attention with superfluous delineation, putting, as he did, my own portrait in the corner. Rejoice, therefore, good reader, in my limitations. They are your enfranchis.e.m.e.nt.

Touching Quixotism, I will plead guilty to the sounding of various parleys before some stately buildings and unshaken fortresses. "Who is this that blows so sharp a summons?" may the inmates ask. I may answer, "One who believes in the twelve legions of angels that wait upon the endeavors of faithful souls." Should they further threaten or deride, I will borrow Elizabeth Browning's sweet refrain,--

"I am no trumpet, but a reed,"--

and trust not to become a broken one.

Conscious of my many shortcomings, and asking attention only for the message I have tried to bring, I ask also for that charity which recognizes that good will is the best part of action, and good faith the first condition of knowledge.