when flemming awoke the next morning he saw the sky dark and lowering. from the mountain tops hung a curtain of mist, whose heavy folds waved to and fro in the valley below. over all the landscape, the soft, summer rain was falling. no admiring eyes would look up that day at the staubbach.
a rainy day in switzerland puts a sudden stop to many diversions. the coachman may drive to the tavern and then back to the stable; but no farther. the sunburnt guide may sit at the ale-house door, and welcome; and the boatman whistle and curse the clouds, at his own sweet will; but no foot stirs abroad for all that; no traveller moves, if he has time to stay. the rainy daygives him time for reflection. he has leisure now to take cognizance of his impressions, and make up his account with the mountains. he remembers, too, that he has friends at home; and writes up the journal, neglected for a week or more; and letters neglected longer; or finishes the rough pencil-sketch, begun yesterday in the open air. on the whole he is not sorry it rains; though disappointed.
flemming was both sorry and disappointed; but he did not on that account fail to go over to the ashburtons at the appointed hour. he found them sitting in the parlour. the mother was reading, and the daughter retouching a sketch of the lake of thun. after the usual salutations, flemming seated himself near the daughter, and said;
"we shall have no staubbach to-day, i presume; only this giessbach from the clouds."
"nothing more, i suppose. so we must be content to stay in-doors; and listen to the soundof the eves-dropping rain. it gives me time to finish some of these rough sketches."
"it is a pleasant pastime," said flemming; "and i perceive you are very skilful. i am delighted to see, that you can draw a straight line. i never before saw a lady's sketch-book, in which all the towers did not resemble the leaning tower of pisa. i always tremble for the little men under them."
"how absurd!" exclaimed mary ashburton, with a smile that passed through the misty air of flemming's thoughts, like a sunbeam; "for one, i succeed much better in straight lines than in any others. here i have been trying a half-hour to make this water-wheel round; and round it never will be."
"then let it remain as it is. it looks uncommonly picturesque, and may pass for a new invention."
the lady continued to sketch, and flemming to gaze at her beautiful face; often repeating to himself those lines in marlow's faust;
"o thou art fairer than the evening air,
clad in the beauty of a thousand stars!"
he certainly would have betrayed himself to the maternal eye of mrs. ashburton, had she not been wholly absorbed in the follies of a fashionable novel. ere long the fair sketcher had paused for a moment; and flemming had taken her sketch-book in his hands and was looking it through from the beginning with ever-increasing delight, half of which he dared not express, though he favored her with some comments and bursts of admiration.
"this is truly a very beautiful sketch of murten and the battle-field! how quietly the land-scape sleeps there by the lake, after the battle! did you ever read the ballad of veit weber, the shoe-maker, on this subject? he says, the routed burgundians jumped into the lake, and the swiss leaguers shot them down like wild ducks among the reeds. he fought in the battle and wrote the ballad afterwards;--
'he had himself laid hand on sword,
he who this rhyme did write;
till evening mowed he with the sword,
and sang the song at night.' "
"you must give me the whole ballad," said miss ashburton; "it will serve to illustrate the sketch."
"and the sketch to illustrate the ballad. and now we suddenly slide down the alps into italy, and are even in rome, if i mistake not. this is surely a head of homer?"
"yes," replied the lady, with a little enthusiasm. "do you not remember the marble bust at rome? when i first beheld that bust, it absolutely inspired me with awe. it is not the face of a man, but of a god!"
"and you have done it no injustice in your copy," said flemming, catching a new enthusiasm from hers. "with what a classic grace the fillet, passing round the majestic forehead, confines his flowing locks, which mingle with his beard! the countenance, too, is calm, majestic, godlike! even the fixed and sightless eyeballs do not mar the imageof the seer! such were the sightless eyes of the blind old man of chios. they seem to look with mournful solemnity into the mysterious future; and the marble lips to repeat that prophetic passage in the hymn to apollo; 'let me also hope to be remembered in ages to come. and when any one, born of the tribes of men, comes hither, a weary traveller, and inquires, who is the sweetest of the singing men, that resort to your feasts, and whom you most delight to hear, do you make answer for me. it is the blind man, who dwells in chios; his songs excel all that can ever be sung!' but do you really believe, that this is a portrait of homer?"
"certainly not! it is only an artist's dream. it was thus, that homer appeared to him in his visions of the antique world. every one, you know, forms an image in his fancy of persons and things he has never seen; and the artist reproduces them in marble or on canvass."
"and what is the image in your fancy? is it like this?"
"no; not entirely. i have drawn my impressions from another source. whenever i think of homer, which is not often, he walks before me, solemn and serene, as in the vision of the great italian; in countenance neither sorrowful nor glad, followed by other bards, and holding in his right hand a sword!"
"that is a finer conception, than even this," said flemming. "and i perceive from your words, as well as from this book, that you have a true feeling for art, and understand what it is. you have had bright glimpses into the enchanted land."
"i trust," replied the lady modestly, "that i am not wholly without this feeling. certainly i have as strong and passionate a love of art as of nature."
"but does it not often offend you to hear people speaking of art and nature as opposite and discordant things? surely nothing can be more false. nature is a revelation of god; art a revelation of man. indeed, art signifies no more than this. art is power. that is the original meaning of the word. it is the creative power by which the soul of man makes itself known, through some external manifestation or outward sign. as we can always hear the voice of god, walking in the garden, in the cool of the day, or under the star-light, where, to quote one of this poet's verses, 'high prospects and the brows of all steep hills and pinnacles thrust up themselves for shows';--so, under the twilight and the starlight of past ages, do we hear the voice of man, walking amid the works of his hands, and city walls and towers and the spires of churches, thrust up themselves for shows."
the lady smiled at his warmth; and he continued;
"this, however, is but a similitude; and art and nature are more nearly allied than by similitudes only. art is the revelation of man; and not merely that, but likewise the revelation of nature, speaking through man. art preëxists in nature, and nature is reproduced in art. as vaporsfrom the ocean, floating landward and dissolved in rain, are carried back in rivers to the ocean, so thoughts and the semblances of things that fall upon the soul of man in showers, flow out again in living streams of art, and lose themselves in the great ocean, which is nature. art and nature are not, then, discordant, but ever harmoniously working in each other."
enthusiasm begets enthusiasm. flemming spake with such evident interest in the subject, that miss ashburton did not fail to manifest some interest in what he said; and, encouraged by this, he proceeded;
"thus in this wondrous world wherein we live, which is the world of nature, man has made unto himself another world hardly less wondrous, which is the world of art. and it lies infolded and compassed about by the other,
'and the clear region where 't was born,
round in itself incloses.'
taking this view of art, i think we understand more easily the skill of the artist, and the differencebetween him and the mere amateur. what we call miracles and wonders of art are not so to him who created them. for they were created by the natural movements of his own great soul. statues, paintings, churches, poems, are but shadows of himself;--shadows in marble, colors, stone, words. he feels and recognises their beauty; but he thought these thoughts and produced these things as easily as inferior minds do thoughts and things inferior. perhaps more easily. vague images and shapes of beauty floating through the soul, the semblances of things as yet indefinite or ill-defined, and perfect only when put in art,--this possible intellect, as the scholastic philosophers have termed it,--the artist shares in common with us all. the lovers of art are many. but the active intellect, the creative power,--the power to put these shapes and images in art, to imbody the indefinite, and render perfect, is his alone. he shares the gift with few. he knows not even whence nor how this is. he knows only that it is; that god has given him the power, which has been denied to others."
"i should have known you were just from germany," said the lady, with a smile, "even if you had not told me so. you are an enthusiast for the germans. for my part i cannot endure their harsh language."
"you would like it better, if you knew it better," answered flemming. "it is not harsh to me; but homelike, hearty, and full of feeling, like the sound of happy voices at a fireside, of a winter's night, when the wind blows, and the fire crackles, and hisses, and snaps. i do indeed love the germans; the men are so hale and hearty, and the fräuleins so tender and true!"
"i always think of men with pipes and beer, and women with knittingwork."
"o, those are english prejudices," exclaimed flemming. "nothing can be more--"
"and their very literature presents itself to my imagination under the same forms."
"i see you have read only english criticisms; and have an idea, that all german books smell, as it were, 'of groceries, of brown papers, filled withgreasy cakes and slices of bacon; and of fryings in frowzy back-parlours; and this shuts you out from a glorious world of poetry, romance, and dreams!"
mary ashburton smiled, and flemming continued to turn over the leaves of the sketch-book, with an occasional criticism and witticism. at length he came to a leaf which was written in pencil. people of a lively imagination are generally curious, and always so when a little in love.
"here is a pencil-sketch," said he, with an entreating look, "which i would fain examine with the rest."
"you may do so, if you wish; but you will find it the poorest sketch in the book. i was trying one day to draw the picture of an artist's life in rome, as it presented itself to my imagination; and this is the result. perhaps it may awaken some pleasant recollection in your mind."
flemming waited no longer; but read with the eyes of a lover, not of a critic, the following description, which inspired him with a new enthusiasm for art, and for mary ashburton.
"i often reflect with delight upon the young artist's life in rome. a stranger from the cold and gloomy north, he has crossed the alps, and with the devotion of a pilgrim journeyed to the eternal city. he dwells perhaps upon the pincian hill; and hardly a house there, which is not inhabited by artists from foreign lands. the very room he lives in has been their abode from time out of mind. their names are written all over the walls; perhaps some further record of them left in a rough sketch upon the window-shutter, with an inscription and a date. these things consecrate the place, in his imagination. even these names, though unknown to him, are not without associations in his mind.
"in that warm latitude he rises with the day. the night-vapors are already rolling away over the campagna sea-ward. as he looks from his window, above and beyond their white folds he recognises the tremulous blue sea at ostia. over soracte rises the sun,--over his own beloved mountain; though no longer worshipped there, asof old. before him, the antique house, where raphael lived, casts its long, brown shadow down into the heart of modern rome. the city lies still asleep and silent. but above its dark roofs, more than two hundred steeples catch the sunshine on their gilded weather-cocks. presently the bells begin to ring, and, as the artist listens to their pleasant chimes, he knows that in each of those churches over the high altar, hangs a painting by some great master's hand, whose beauty comes between him and heaven, so that he cannot pray, but wonder only.
"among these works of art he passes the day; but oftenest in st. peter's and the vatican. up the vast marble stair-case,--through the corridor chiaramonti,--through vestibules, galleries, chambers,--he passes, as in a dream. all are filled with busts and statues; or painted in daring frescoes. what forms of strength and beauty! what glorious creations of the human mind! and in that last chamber of all, standing alone upon his pedestal, the apollo found at actium,--in such a majestic attitude,--with such a noble countenance, life-like, god-like!
"or perhaps he passes into the chambers of the painters; but goes no further than the second. for in the middle of that chamber a large painting stands upon the heavy easel, as if unfinished, though more than three hundred years ago the great artist completed it, and then laid his pencil away forever, leaving this last benediction to the world. it is the transfiguration of christ by raphael. a child looks not at the stars with greater wonder, than the artist at this painting. he knows how many studious years are in that picture. he knows the difficult path that leads to perfection, having himself taken some of the first steps.--thus he recalls the hour, when that broad canvass was first stretched upon its frame, and raphael stood before it, and laid the first colors upon it, and beheld the figures one by one born into life, and 'looked upon the work of his own hands with a smile, that it should have succeeded so well.' he recalls too, the hour, when, the task accomplished, the pencil dropped from the master's dying hand, and his eyes closed to open on a more glorious transfiguration, and at length the dead raphael lay in his own studio, before this wonderful painting, more glorious than any conqueror under the banners and armorial hatchments of his funeral!
"think you, that such sights and thoughts as these do not move the heart of a young man and an artist! and when he goes forth into the open air, the sun is going down, and the gray ruins of an antique world receive him. from the palace of the cæsars he looks down into the forum, or towards the coliseum; or westward sees the last sunshine strike the bronze archangel, which stands upon the tomb of adrian. he walks amid a world of art in ruins. the very street-lamps, that light him homeward, burn before some painted or sculptured image of the madonna! what wonder is it, if dreams visit him in his sleep,--nay, if his whole life seem to him a dream! what wonder, if, with a feverish heart and quick hand, he strive to reproduce those dreams in marble or on canvass."
foolish paul flemming! who both admired and praised this little sketch, and yet was too blind to see, that it was written from the heart, and not from the imagination! foolish paul flemming! who thought, that a girl of twenty could write thus, without a reason! close upon this followed another pencil sketch, which he likewise read, with the lady's permission. it was this.
"the whole period of the middle ages seems very strange to me. at times i cannot persuade myself that such things could have been, as history tells us; that such a strange world was a part of our world,--that such a strange life was a part of the life, which seems to us who are living it now, so passionless and commonplace. it is only when i stand amid ruined castles, that look at me so mournfully, and behold the heavy armour of old knights, hanging upon the wainscot of gothic chambers; or when i walk amid the aisles of some dusky minster, whose walls are narrative ofhoar antiquity, and whose very bells have been baptized, and see the carved oaken stalls in the choir, where so many generations of monks have sat and sung, and the tombs, where now they sleep in silence, to awake no more to their midnight psalms;--it is only at such times, that the history of the middle ages is a reality to me, and not a passage in romance.
"likewise the illuminated manuscripts of those ages have something of this power of making the dead past a living present in my mind. what curious figures are emblazoned on the creaking parchment, making its yellow leaves laugh with gay colors! you seem to come upon them unawares. their faces have an expression of wonder. they seem all to be just startled from their sleep by the sound you made when you unloosed the brazen clasps, and opened the curiously-carved oaken covers, that turn on hinges, like the great gates of a city. to the building of that city some diligent monk gave the whole of a long life. with what strange denizens he peopled it! adam and eve standing under a tree, she, with the apple in her hand;--the patriarch abraham, with a tree growing out of his body, and his descendants sitting owl-like upon its branches;--ladies with flowing locks of gold; knights in armour, with most fantastic, long-toed shoes; jousts and tournaments; and minnesingers, and lovers, whose heads reach to the towers, where their ladies sit;--and all so angular, so simple, so childlike,--all in such simple attitudes, with such great eyes, and holding up such long, lank fingers!--these things are characteristic of the middle ages, and persuade me of the truth of history."
at this moment berkley entered, with a swiss cottage, which he had just bought as a present for somebody's child in england; and a cane with a chamois-horn on the end of it, which he had just bought for himself. this was the first time, that flemming had been sorry to see the good-natured man. his presence interrupted the delightful conversation he was carrying on "under four eyes," with mary ashburton. he reallythought berkley a bore, and wondered it had never occurred to him before. mrs. ashburton, too, must needs lay down her book; and the conversation became general. strange to say, the swiss dinner-hour of one o'clock, did not come a moment too soon for flemming. it did not even occur to him that it was early; for he was seated beside mary ashburton, and at dinner one can say so much, without being overheard.
