DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.62133#0051
THE STUDIO OF WILHELM VON KAULBACH.
35
smoke, not the spiritual forms descending upon it, encircle
the altar in a mad war-dance with clashing swords and
flying plumes. Yet the strains of Homer resound above
the clash of arms, and echo through these warriors’ souls ;
two already have left the war-dance and have drawn near
to the margin of the bay, where they listen, with the rest
of Greece, in a trance of amazement, to the mighty voice of
poetry, which is here summoning as to a vast assembly the
inhabitants of heaven, earth, and ocean.
And now, whilst our imaginations are still peopled with
these noble creations, let us quietly pass out of the studio,
cross the pleasant grass and flowers of the field, follow the
windings of the mill-stream as it rushes through the royal
wood-yard, and enter the bowery English Garden, beneath
whose fine trees the great artist daily goes to and fro from
his beautiful studio to his no less beautiful home. Here,
amidst the budding trees and upspririging weeds and flowers,
let our hearts thank God, not alone for His gifts of poetry
and art, but also that He gives us ever and anon a transient
realization of what the artist’s life may become when he
remains nobly true to himself, in harmony with God, his
own soul, and, ennobled through his art, ennobling hu-
manity !
Since commencing this sketch of Kaulbach’s studio, a
sad change has fallen upon the pleasant field in which the
studio stands. King Max is turning it into a rose-garden.
A rose-garden ! This sounds very poetical, but the reality
is not very attractive. At all events, the English visitor
will no longer have to quarrel with docks and darnels.
Straight gravel walks, formal flower-beds, and rows and
rows of hot-houses, will meet his eye. The mosaic of
35
smoke, not the spiritual forms descending upon it, encircle
the altar in a mad war-dance with clashing swords and
flying plumes. Yet the strains of Homer resound above
the clash of arms, and echo through these warriors’ souls ;
two already have left the war-dance and have drawn near
to the margin of the bay, where they listen, with the rest
of Greece, in a trance of amazement, to the mighty voice of
poetry, which is here summoning as to a vast assembly the
inhabitants of heaven, earth, and ocean.
And now, whilst our imaginations are still peopled with
these noble creations, let us quietly pass out of the studio,
cross the pleasant grass and flowers of the field, follow the
windings of the mill-stream as it rushes through the royal
wood-yard, and enter the bowery English Garden, beneath
whose fine trees the great artist daily goes to and fro from
his beautiful studio to his no less beautiful home. Here,
amidst the budding trees and upspririging weeds and flowers,
let our hearts thank God, not alone for His gifts of poetry
and art, but also that He gives us ever and anon a transient
realization of what the artist’s life may become when he
remains nobly true to himself, in harmony with God, his
own soul, and, ennobled through his art, ennobling hu-
manity !
Since commencing this sketch of Kaulbach’s studio, a
sad change has fallen upon the pleasant field in which the
studio stands. King Max is turning it into a rose-garden.
A rose-garden ! This sounds very poetical, but the reality
is not very attractive. At all events, the English visitor
will no longer have to quarrel with docks and darnels.
Straight gravel walks, formal flower-beds, and rows and
rows of hot-houses, will meet his eye. The mosaic of