Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William Lovett) vol.1 #18 (01 May 1847).
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| Wilhelm von Kaulbach's painting 'Lotte' depicting Charlotte cutting bread for the children |
In a late letter I told you how I had become acquainted with Bailiff S—, and that he had besought me to visit him in his hermitage, or rather in his kingdom. I neglected to do so, and probably never might, had not accident discovered to me the jewel which was hidden in this quiet region.
The young men about here had got up a ball, in which I consented to take part. I invited a young girl of our neighbourhood, a kind-hearted and pretty, but otherwise insignificant, girl, to be my partner; and it was arranged that I should hire a carriage, and take my partner and her aunt to the ball, and that on our way we should call on Charlotte S—, and take her with us.
"You will make the acquaintance of a lovely young lady," said my partner, as we drove down the broad road which had been opened through the wood on our way to the hunting-lodge.
"Take care," said the aunt, "that you don't fall in love with her!"
"How so?" said I.
"She is already engaged," returned the other, "to a very excellent man, who is now away from here in order to look after his affairs, as his father is lately dead, and has left him a handsome property."
All this was a perfect matter of indifference to me.
The sun was still about a quarter of an hour from the mountains, as we drove up to the gate, The air was very sultry, and the ladies were full of anxiety lest we should have a storm, as the heavy grey clouds which were gathering on the horizon seemed to threaten. I pacified their alarm by prognosticating fair weather, although I must confess that I myself began to fear that our merriment would have to experience a shock.
I alighted from the carriage, and a maid-servant who came from the door begged us to wait a moment, and Ma'amselle Lottchen would come immediately. I walked through the court towards the handsome house; and when I had ascended the steps and looked in at the open door, I saw the most charming scene I ever beheld. In the entrance-hall a throng of six children, of from two to eleven years old, were crowding around a young lady of about middle size, but of most graceful figure, who was dressed in white, with bows of pink ribbon on her sleeves and breast. She held a loaf of brown bread, and was cutting from it for the little ones around her, each one his piece proportioned to his age and appetite. These she distributed, with an inexpressible air of affection, and each one received, with such an artless "Thank you," his share into his little hands, which had been long held up to receive the gift while it was cutting, and then bounded joyfully away with his evening meal; or else, if his quiet disposition inclined him that way, stole softly to the gate to see the strangers and the carriage which was to carry off their Lotte.
"I beg your pardon," said she, "for giving you so much trouble, and for keeping the ladies waiting. In dressing, and making the needful household arrangements, I had forgotten to give my little ones their supper, and they will not allow any one to cut their bread but myself."
I paid her some insignificant sort of compliment; my whole soul was arrested by her figure, her voice, and her manner; and I had just time to recover myself as she went into the parlour to fetch her fan and gloves. The little ones looked askance at me from a distance. I went up to the youngest of them, who was a child with the most lovely countenance, but he drew himself back.
"Louis, give his cousin a hand!" said Charlotte, who that moment re-entered the hall; and the little fellow did it willingly, in return for which I gave him a hearty kiss.
"Cousin?" said I, as I offered her my hand—"Do you think that I have the happiness of being related to you?"
"Oh," said she, with a merry laugh, "our cousins are very numerous, and I should be very sorry if you were the worst of them."
In going out, she charged Sophie, the eldest sister after herself, a girl probably of eleven, to have oversight of the children, and to greet papa from her, when he came home after his ride. To the little ones she said that they must obey their sister Sophie all the same as if it were herself; and this several of them promised. A little wilful, fair girl, however, of about six, said, "But she is not thou, Lottchen! We love thee a deal better."
The two eldest boys had mounted upon the carriage, and at my request she allowed them to go with us till we came to the wood, on condition that they sate still, and held fast.
Nothing can be more beautiful than this simple and characteristic scene, which contains in it so much of national manners. Of the Sorrows of the Young Werther we are not now intending to speak; the work, with all its faults, is one of the most extraordinary Goethe ever wrote; and, as a work of art, it is perfect. The effect of its publication, not only in Germany, but in England, was wonderful; it seemed to electrify the whole of society. Nothing was for the moment thought of or talked of but the Sorrows of Werther. We have heard old people describe it, and have seen them weep even over the remembrance of the sentimental sorrows which had thrilled them so in their youth. Magazines and pocket-books were filled with pictures from Werther; and many a one was framed and glazed, and may be found even now in parlours and bed-rooms of country houses. The manners of the book were also in some instances adopted, and that to the great sorrow of all parties; one imitation of it, however, remains to this day, although the origin of the custom has long been forgotten. It was the fascination of this very scene, which we have here given both from the work itself and from the truthful pencil of Kaulbach, which first introduced the loaf to the English tea-table. Till that time the bread and butter had been cut out of the room; Charlotte, however, cutting bread and butter for the children, had produced such a fascinating effect, not only on Werther, but on the English reader, that it immediately became the fashion, and all young ladies of England cut bread and butter for the family.
Of Kaulbach, one of the greatest, and unquestionably the most beautiful, painters of Germany, we will now say a word or two, as we wish particularly to recommend him to the favourable attention of our readers. In 1842 we ourselves visited his atelier, and of this visit we will speak, His painting-rooms—how unlike those of a world-renowned artist in London!—are in a large, half-neglected-looking building, standing in a wild sort of field, by which flows the river Iser, in the suburb of St. Anna at Munich. Here was the artist, in the midst of all those objects which render an artist's studio so interesting. We entered a large room, in which stood the works in progress, and the original sketches of those which are completed; amongst others were various portraits painted by him in Italy: a full-length of a fine-looking young noble, in the costume of the middle ages; and the portrait of an artist, in a masking dress. But the most attractive object of all was the cartoon of his great picture of The Destruction of Jerusalem, now purchased by the King of Bavaria. His magnificent picture, now at Berlin, called the Battle of the Huns, had prepared us for what we might expect in this second great work. It is of vast size, and the bold genius of the artist is at once visible in the characters and actions which it comprehends. Titus ascends into Jerusalem over its ruins; the abomination of desolation is in the Holy Place; terror and despair seize the women; frantic fury the leaders of the people; and demons drive the wandering Jew forth on his long pilgrimage through the world. Angels conduct the Christians safely out of the devoted place; other angels of vengeance descend with fiery swords from Heaven, to execute the long-menaced wrath of God; while the five great prophets of the Old Testament, who have been for ages the proclaimers of this judgment, behold from above the fulfilment of their words. One little touch in the subordinate part of the picture is extremely beautiful. As the angels escort the Christians forth, the Christian children, who, childlike, in the midst of public calamity have been playing in the streets, are collected, as they go on, from the children of the unbelievers: One child of this class, however, pleads powerfully with the angel near him to be taken with those of the Christians, and you see by the face of the angel that he will not plead in vain.
Hans Christian Andersen, speaking of this wonderful picture, says, "This was the first time, during my residence in Munich, that I felt myself really happy and penetrated by great and powerful thoughts; and it was this picture which diffused such a sunshine over my soul. Everything which I had lately seen, the works of other young painters, appeared to me now as mere sketches in comparison with this work. I had that sort of feeling which one has when, after having been occupied with some little farce, poem, or novel of everyday life, one turns to Dante's Divina Comedia, or to Goethe's Faust. And yet it was only in cartoon, and not at all finished, that I saw this great work, which assuredly in the end will have such a place assigned to it as the world has given to Michael Angelo's Last Judgment."
In the inner room, on an easel that a pupil might copy it, was his picture of Anacreon reading his poems to his mistress. The beauty of the figures, and the glow of the colouring, were perfectly astonishing, and justly place Kaulbach in the first rank of his art as a master of the expression of beauty, and for colouring which rivals that of Titian.
In this room were also pencil sketches of his inimitable illustrations of Reynard the Fox. On a door leading into a third room were painted a boy and girl, as if done in the very exuberance of fancy, of such loveliness that they would enrich the walls of any house whatever. In this room we heard one of his pupils amusing a leisure hour with singing and playing on the guitar, in a very superior style.
Kaulbach himself is very interesting in appearance; scarcely yet of middle age, he is of delicate constitution, and bears traces in his countenance of his frequent suffering. His great modesty and gentlemanly politehess were very attractive. He spoke with much enthusiasm of his sojourn in Italy; regretted that he had not time for more travelling; and when we asked whether he spoke English, he replied, "No; I speak no language but German, and—that!" said he, pointing to his painting; and, indeed, what more eloquent and universal language need he speak? The language of the arts is one of the highest and purest civilization.