DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.53068#0299
THE LAST FIVE YEARS OF THE PAINTER
size—all of them, in the proximity of the region of the Holiest, distinctly visible
in their gestures, whilst there below, the teeming throng of the common people
has the effect of a troubled stranger on the dark earth.
1<Tst er in Werdelust
Schaffender Freude nah
Ach an der Erde Brust
Sind wir zum Leide da!”
How indispensable this radiance of Grace appears, above the confused, gloom-
encircled human throng; a chasm of impotence and misunderstanding cleaves
them into two sections, both pitifully helpless, one in agony of soul, the other
marked by physical suffering. Their repose interrupted, as they wait and
meditate, the gathering of Apostles meets in alarmed sympathy the multitude
pressing forward with the maniac, just as in ancient tragedy the Chorus bear
the sufferings of the people before the steps of the royal palace. The parents
have brought down their boy; at the very moment of a seizure, they present
him, half entreating help, half reproachfully. The father simply holds up his
son, who is torn asunder by the convulsion; his roaming look seems to be
changing into one of terror. Here also no help is forthcoming, at the moment
of this fresh access of horror; once more the case is merely referred to one who
is away! The sister stooping forward in entreaty pleads for the sufferer, Is what
you see not enough to call for your help? And her eyes are ready to fill with
tears. The young woman in the foreground—surely she must be the mother!—
is already on her knees, beside the child and his father, to support the tottering
boy. Now she turns round almost ferociously, in a fresh access of alarm and
wrath; merely to be put off with consolation, her eyes rolling, she points with
both hands to the epileptic: “See, this is what we live through daily—and you
wish to turn aside!” Slightly frowning, in the act of drawing herself haughtily
up, she looks like a leader of the Chorus, menacing rather than suppliant. In
her, personal participation is expressed at its utmost intensity; in the others,
there is only a fullness, an excess, of entreaty, lamentation, weeping, crying.
This foremost group has an effect of isolation, for now a storm has broken
among the Apostles; utterly shaken, the old man in the centre seeks to ward it
off with terrified hands; as if fascinated by the eye of a serpent, the young man
beside him approaches, clutching his bosom, giving way to his feelings of sym-
pathy almost like a woman. A kindly man with long hair and beard—wearing
like Paul a red cloak over a green robe—feels himself called upon to speak; and
1 “Be he, in bliss of birth,
Nigh to creative joy,
Ah, woe! on breast of earth
Bide we to our annoy!”
281
size—all of them, in the proximity of the region of the Holiest, distinctly visible
in their gestures, whilst there below, the teeming throng of the common people
has the effect of a troubled stranger on the dark earth.
1<Tst er in Werdelust
Schaffender Freude nah
Ach an der Erde Brust
Sind wir zum Leide da!”
How indispensable this radiance of Grace appears, above the confused, gloom-
encircled human throng; a chasm of impotence and misunderstanding cleaves
them into two sections, both pitifully helpless, one in agony of soul, the other
marked by physical suffering. Their repose interrupted, as they wait and
meditate, the gathering of Apostles meets in alarmed sympathy the multitude
pressing forward with the maniac, just as in ancient tragedy the Chorus bear
the sufferings of the people before the steps of the royal palace. The parents
have brought down their boy; at the very moment of a seizure, they present
him, half entreating help, half reproachfully. The father simply holds up his
son, who is torn asunder by the convulsion; his roaming look seems to be
changing into one of terror. Here also no help is forthcoming, at the moment
of this fresh access of horror; once more the case is merely referred to one who
is away! The sister stooping forward in entreaty pleads for the sufferer, Is what
you see not enough to call for your help? And her eyes are ready to fill with
tears. The young woman in the foreground—surely she must be the mother!—
is already on her knees, beside the child and his father, to support the tottering
boy. Now she turns round almost ferociously, in a fresh access of alarm and
wrath; merely to be put off with consolation, her eyes rolling, she points with
both hands to the epileptic: “See, this is what we live through daily—and you
wish to turn aside!” Slightly frowning, in the act of drawing herself haughtily
up, she looks like a leader of the Chorus, menacing rather than suppliant. In
her, personal participation is expressed at its utmost intensity; in the others,
there is only a fullness, an excess, of entreaty, lamentation, weeping, crying.
This foremost group has an effect of isolation, for now a storm has broken
among the Apostles; utterly shaken, the old man in the centre seeks to ward it
off with terrified hands; as if fascinated by the eye of a serpent, the young man
beside him approaches, clutching his bosom, giving way to his feelings of sym-
pathy almost like a woman. A kindly man with long hair and beard—wearing
like Paul a red cloak over a green robe—feels himself called upon to speak; and
1 “Be he, in bliss of birth,
Nigh to creative joy,
Ah, woe! on breast of earth
Bide we to our annoy!”
281