DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.62133#0033
THE STUDIO OF WILHELM VON KAULBACH.
17
CHAPTER II.
THE STUDIO OF WILHELM VON KAULBACH.
The studio of Kaulbach is situated in the St. Anna suburb, a
suburb resembling rather a quaint country town than the
suburb of a smart little capital. It is altogether a somewhat
out-of-the-way sort of place. It is a region of stone-masons’
yards, mills, and timber-yards. If you approach from the
old part of Munich, you probably pass beneath some
gloomy gateway, and emerging among gardens and pleasure-
grounds, cross some rapidly-running branch of the green
Isar, which turns many a noisy mill, and is the resort of
washerwomen, who, leaning over the pleasant water from
low plank balconies, wash their linen, picturesquely and
merrily, the whole summer through.
On bright summer mornings, these women, in their gay-
coloured boddices and petticoats, furnish forth a succession of
beautiful pictures as they wash then- linen, which shines
dazzlingly white in the shower of sunshine and amid the
luxuriant grass and large-leaved plants, which droop their
sprays into the stream. Across a wooden bridge you see
passing an old Franciscan friar. He stops and speaks to
that merry group of urchins rushing away from morning
school; and now he says a word to that demure little fair-
haired damsel, who knits as she walks along. The Fran-
ciscan comes from that white convent with its many rows
of windows, and with its church rising up in the centre,
adorned with a gay figure of the Madonna, standing in a
sky-blue niche, and shaded by tall poplars. Those are
vol. i. c
17
CHAPTER II.
THE STUDIO OF WILHELM VON KAULBACH.
The studio of Kaulbach is situated in the St. Anna suburb, a
suburb resembling rather a quaint country town than the
suburb of a smart little capital. It is altogether a somewhat
out-of-the-way sort of place. It is a region of stone-masons’
yards, mills, and timber-yards. If you approach from the
old part of Munich, you probably pass beneath some
gloomy gateway, and emerging among gardens and pleasure-
grounds, cross some rapidly-running branch of the green
Isar, which turns many a noisy mill, and is the resort of
washerwomen, who, leaning over the pleasant water from
low plank balconies, wash their linen, picturesquely and
merrily, the whole summer through.
On bright summer mornings, these women, in their gay-
coloured boddices and petticoats, furnish forth a succession of
beautiful pictures as they wash then- linen, which shines
dazzlingly white in the shower of sunshine and amid the
luxuriant grass and large-leaved plants, which droop their
sprays into the stream. Across a wooden bridge you see
passing an old Franciscan friar. He stops and speaks to
that merry group of urchins rushing away from morning
school; and now he says a word to that demure little fair-
haired damsel, who knits as she walks along. The Fran-
ciscan comes from that white convent with its many rows
of windows, and with its church rising up in the centre,
adorned with a gay figure of the Madonna, standing in a
sky-blue niche, and shaded by tall poplars. Those are
vol. i. c