DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.62133#0242
226
AN ART-STUDENT IN MUNICH.
of dark green, orange, ruddy chocolate-brown, sea-green,
pale yellow, and deep blue and grey vessels of all forms and
sizes—all quaint, all odd—jugs, flagons, pipkins, queer pots
with huge lids, queer tripods, for which I know no name
—things which always seem to me to come out of a witch’s
kitchen, but by means of which I suspect that my own
dinner is cooked every day. All these heaps of crockery
lie about the doors, and load the windows of the wooden
booths, and hue shelves and shelves within the gloom of
the little shops themselves. When I first came here, these
old crockery shops were a more frequent study to me than
anything else in the old town.
We ascended a steep, narrow staircase leading out of this
arcade into one of the houses above it, from which we were
to witness the leaping into the fountain.
It was a clean, old-fashioned, dreary sort of a house, with
its crucifixes surrounded with artificial flowers hanging upon
the white-washed walls of the staircase, and with heavy dark
oaken doors with quaint hinges and clumsy locks. One of
these doors opened, and we were kindly welcomed by an
old man, a carpenter, who had promised us the use of his
window to see the sight.
The room was meagrely furnished, but the white-washed
walls were adorned with several very tolerable prints after
Raphael,—all of them religious subjects of course ; there
was a neat bed in one corner, a huge black earthenware
stove in another, a crucifix, several pipes, and a cage con-
taining a canary-bud hanging near the windows, which
looked gay with their rolls of fresh green moss laid along
the sills. At one of three windows the old carpenter was
at work; he soon moved all his tools away, and brought
out a singular piece of wood, which at first considerably
puzzled me.
“ May I ask,” said I, “ what you are making there ?”
“An organ, gnddiges Fraulein, for my little grandson
AN ART-STUDENT IN MUNICH.
of dark green, orange, ruddy chocolate-brown, sea-green,
pale yellow, and deep blue and grey vessels of all forms and
sizes—all quaint, all odd—jugs, flagons, pipkins, queer pots
with huge lids, queer tripods, for which I know no name
—things which always seem to me to come out of a witch’s
kitchen, but by means of which I suspect that my own
dinner is cooked every day. All these heaps of crockery
lie about the doors, and load the windows of the wooden
booths, and hue shelves and shelves within the gloom of
the little shops themselves. When I first came here, these
old crockery shops were a more frequent study to me than
anything else in the old town.
We ascended a steep, narrow staircase leading out of this
arcade into one of the houses above it, from which we were
to witness the leaping into the fountain.
It was a clean, old-fashioned, dreary sort of a house, with
its crucifixes surrounded with artificial flowers hanging upon
the white-washed walls of the staircase, and with heavy dark
oaken doors with quaint hinges and clumsy locks. One of
these doors opened, and we were kindly welcomed by an
old man, a carpenter, who had promised us the use of his
window to see the sight.
The room was meagrely furnished, but the white-washed
walls were adorned with several very tolerable prints after
Raphael,—all of them religious subjects of course ; there
was a neat bed in one corner, a huge black earthenware
stove in another, a crucifix, several pipes, and a cage con-
taining a canary-bud hanging near the windows, which
looked gay with their rolls of fresh green moss laid along
the sills. At one of three windows the old carpenter was
at work; he soon moved all his tools away, and brought
out a singular piece of wood, which at first considerably
puzzled me.
“ May I ask,” said I, “ what you are making there ?”
“An organ, gnddiges Fraulein, for my little grandson