In Paradise. Paul Heyse
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invisible. I myself have already had the honor of introducing myself to you as such a dual being; not that the ground is unsteady under my feet--I quitted the service of my own accord from personal motives--but the dryness up there on the surface became unbearable for me; I am one of the malcontents, of whom you see so many here, who have slammed the door in the face of so-called good society, partly because it is insipid, partly because it is base, and who now, in paradisaic freedom, are trying to find their world in their friends. But your glass is still full! Come! You must do our Jordan more honor."
"A Jordan in Paradise? My geography does not go so far as that, or perhaps new discoveries have--"
Schnetz had just began to explain to him that this noble wine came from the vineyard of Herr Jordan at Deidesheim, and that for this reason they had agreed to transfer the river of the promised land into India on their maps, when Elfinger rose and informed them that it was "his turn" to-night, and that he had prepared something, but that first some sketches would be exhibited.
Upon this a number of studies were passed around the table, landscape sketches, and plans and designs of all kinds--among others the drawings of a young architect for the building of a special hall for the Paradise Club, which excited great applause, and called forth the most amusing propositions as to the manner in which funds should be raised to cover the cost of this most timely work.
In the mean while an insignificant-looking, lean man, with an awkward manner, and wearing a threadbare coat that was buttoned tight to conceal the absence of a waistcoat, had taken a large gray sheet of paper from a portfolio, had fastened it with tacks to the window-shutter, so that the lamps on the wall threw a pretty strong light upon it, and had then stepped back in order to invite an inspection of his work. It was a pen and ink sketch, full of figures, the lights touched up with white, but done with so complete a disregard of effect that the composition appeared, at the first glance, to be a strangely-confused swarm, in which it was impossible to make out either the details or the plan as a whole.
"Our Cornelian, Philip Emanuel Kohle!" growled Schnetz. "Another of those unlucky erratic bowlders in the midst of the flat common of our modern art, torn from the summit of some heaven-aspiring mountain, and then rolled, a strange intruder, into the fertile plain of mediocrity, where no one knows what to do with it. Let us go nearer. These outline fanatics scorn to produce an effect at a distance."
"I have taken for my subject," explained the artist, "a poem of Hölderlin's--you undoubtedly all know it--Hyperion's song of fate--or, if it has escaped your recollection--I have brought the text with me."
Upon this he drew from his pocket a very dog'seared little book and read the verses, although he knew them by heart. As he proceeded his cheeks flushed, his eyes sparkled, and his whole meagre figure appeared to grow in height; and when he finished there was silence for a while in the group that was examining the drawing.
The artist still seemed to have an explanation to make, but he did not utter it: as if, after such words of genius, any prosaic paraphrase would be a desecration. And, indeed, the singular composition now sufficiently explained itself.
A mountain, whose base covered the whole lower breadth of the large sheet, rose up in jagged tiers like a tower, and ended in a smooth plateau, on which were seen reclining, veiled in a light cloud, the figures of gods assembled about a banquet table, while others, with winged feet, either strolled about singly or arm-in-arm, or amused themselves with dance and song. All seemed a dreamy, floating whirl of forms, heightened here and there by abrupt foreshortenings of the long limbs and by angular effects of drapery. Among these Olympian figures, but separated by an impassable barrier of cloud and storm, could be seen the races of mankind, in the most various and spirited groups, suffering all the woes of mortals. Nearest the gods, and hallowed as it were by their proximity, children were playing and lovers were whispering; but the paths that branched off soon led to scenes of suffering and misery, and certain symbolical figures, which were scattered in among the human forms at the principal passes of the mountain, made manifest the intention of the designer to represent both the effects and power of vice and passion, while the division into seven stages pointed to the seven deadly sins. A solemn, unbending earnestness, and a certain loftiness in their submission to this downfall--
"Through long years into the uncertain depths below"--
gave to this somewhat unwieldy composition a great depth of feeling which animated even what was grotesque, and impressed upon the stronger parts the unmistakable stamp of a great mind.
The mere number of the figures occupied the attention for a long time; then followed all sorts of criticism, which the designer bore without contradiction--no one knew whether from defenselessness or secret obstinacy. For Jansen's opinion only did he watch with eagerness, who, after his usual fashion, allowed the others to talk, while he merely pointed now and then with an eloquent finger to some defective spot.
The only one who had remained quietly seated, and who had looked at the sheet across the table and down the whole length of the hall, through a little ivory opera-glass, was Edward.
At length Rosenbusch, whose high tenor had rung out in enthusiastic expressions of praise above all the confusion of voices, turned to him.
"What!" he cried, in a hearty tone of challenge, "will not the blessed gods rouse themselves this once from their reclining-place, and cast a gracious look upon this work of a mortal?"
"Pardon me, my dear Rosebud," replied Fat Rossel, lowering his voice so that he should not be heard by Kohle; "you know I like to have what is beautiful come to me, instead of having to run painfully after it; and the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel made the most profound impression upon me, because a man can only enjoy it thoroughly lying on his back. Concerning this 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