DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.48088#0112
90 BLINDMANSBUFF.
purchased valuable Italian and French pictures, thus adorning the private apartments of the
monarch and of a citizen whose noble public spirit could hardly be excelled.”
Herr Gotzkowsky patiently followed John’s dull polar star, and at last accomplished his
journey to the topmost story. The servant pointed out a door, surrounded on the right and left
by crockery, empty barrels, broken chairs and such lumber, and then gazed in astonishment at
the half gulden, which the stranger pressed into his hand. Gotzkowsky entered a long, low,
narrow room, much overheated by a small stove. The stove stood near an old sofa, on which
the possessor was reclined, and from which, by the help of his stove-hook of unusual length or
in case of need of his maul-stick, he contrived to reach all his most important surroundings, and
to drag towards him paper, books, a packet of tobacco or matches, without being obliged to get
up—and interrupted himself in his work—which just then consisted in painting. The young
man, who was leaning over the table, rose directly he heard Gotzkowsky’s greeting, caught the
shade off the lamp, and seemed to lose all self-control, in welcoming his guest.
“Do not disturb yourself, Herr Chodowiecky,” Gotzkowsky said in a confidential tone. “As
you have ceased to visit me, I have no choice left, but to search for you. I see that you are
working industriously, and that you have not indolently abandoned drawing and painting, and
am come to remind you, that you have never given me an answer to my proposal.”
Daniel Chodowiecky was young, with engaging features and bright dark eyes, he wore no
wig, and his short-clipped hair was black and curly, in spite of its shortness. He wore a
flowered dressing gown, and held a paint-brush in his thin, delicate hand.
“I pray you, Sir, to take my seat,” Chodowiecky said, in confusion, “I have no better to
offer you.”
“Oh! I shall easily make myself comfortable.”
But that was not so easy, for on all sides lay sheets of paper, rolls, books, manuscript, or
glass and porcelain plates. At last Gotzkowsky was persuaded to take one corner of the sofa.
“Now, Herr Chodowiecky, how does the matter stand between us?” asked the merchant.
“Permit me to facilitate your answer.”
He bent over the table, and drew towards himself a few pencil drawings.
“Excuse me, those are unsuccessful attempts.”
“These drawings? If these are unsuccessful, the successful must indeed be incomparable!
Look, here is Lady Macbeth, at the moment when she takes the light in her hand, and mutters
‘To bed, to bed.’”
“The bookseller lent me Shakespeare’s dramatic works.”
“And you have tested your eminent talent by one of the most difficult scenes, which a
painter could choose.”
“Here is Hamlet, when he sees the ghost—it is even in better order than the first drawing.
I need not see more, effectually to silence your modesty, Herr Chodowiecky.”
The young man sighed.
“And here, it seems, are some scenes out of a novel. A duel, the composition is superb...
A poor, intellectual starveling, an old fisherman, and a hard fanatical preacher.”
“How life-like and characteristic this is, and how expressive. Have you not attempted
painting on enamel?”
Gotzkowsky became suddenly excited.
4<Yes, but all has failed.”
purchased valuable Italian and French pictures, thus adorning the private apartments of the
monarch and of a citizen whose noble public spirit could hardly be excelled.”
Herr Gotzkowsky patiently followed John’s dull polar star, and at last accomplished his
journey to the topmost story. The servant pointed out a door, surrounded on the right and left
by crockery, empty barrels, broken chairs and such lumber, and then gazed in astonishment at
the half gulden, which the stranger pressed into his hand. Gotzkowsky entered a long, low,
narrow room, much overheated by a small stove. The stove stood near an old sofa, on which
the possessor was reclined, and from which, by the help of his stove-hook of unusual length or
in case of need of his maul-stick, he contrived to reach all his most important surroundings, and
to drag towards him paper, books, a packet of tobacco or matches, without being obliged to get
up—and interrupted himself in his work—which just then consisted in painting. The young
man, who was leaning over the table, rose directly he heard Gotzkowsky’s greeting, caught the
shade off the lamp, and seemed to lose all self-control, in welcoming his guest.
“Do not disturb yourself, Herr Chodowiecky,” Gotzkowsky said in a confidential tone. “As
you have ceased to visit me, I have no choice left, but to search for you. I see that you are
working industriously, and that you have not indolently abandoned drawing and painting, and
am come to remind you, that you have never given me an answer to my proposal.”
Daniel Chodowiecky was young, with engaging features and bright dark eyes, he wore no
wig, and his short-clipped hair was black and curly, in spite of its shortness. He wore a
flowered dressing gown, and held a paint-brush in his thin, delicate hand.
“I pray you, Sir, to take my seat,” Chodowiecky said, in confusion, “I have no better to
offer you.”
“Oh! I shall easily make myself comfortable.”
But that was not so easy, for on all sides lay sheets of paper, rolls, books, manuscript, or
glass and porcelain plates. At last Gotzkowsky was persuaded to take one corner of the sofa.
“Now, Herr Chodowiecky, how does the matter stand between us?” asked the merchant.
“Permit me to facilitate your answer.”
He bent over the table, and drew towards himself a few pencil drawings.
“Excuse me, those are unsuccessful attempts.”
“These drawings? If these are unsuccessful, the successful must indeed be incomparable!
Look, here is Lady Macbeth, at the moment when she takes the light in her hand, and mutters
‘To bed, to bed.’”
“The bookseller lent me Shakespeare’s dramatic works.”
“And you have tested your eminent talent by one of the most difficult scenes, which a
painter could choose.”
“Here is Hamlet, when he sees the ghost—it is even in better order than the first drawing.
I need not see more, effectually to silence your modesty, Herr Chodowiecky.”
The young man sighed.
“And here, it seems, are some scenes out of a novel. A duel, the composition is superb...
A poor, intellectual starveling, an old fisherman, and a hard fanatical preacher.”
“How life-like and characteristic this is, and how expressive. Have you not attempted
painting on enamel?”
Gotzkowsky became suddenly excited.
4<Yes, but all has failed.”