DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.62133#0259
Kaulbach’s “ mad-house.” 243
a small barred window looking out of it, and a piece of
door, the heavy hinges of which and the very bell-handle
have a harsh, prison-like ah’. A piece of blank wall
stretches along from this corner of the madhouse: it
is crested with a few dreary tufts of weeds, and above
the wall you can catch a dreary sweep of low hills, with
a dreary tuft or two of bushes and a dreary stretch of sky
above. The yard itself is full of weeds and stones, dreary
yet more, if possible, than is the glimpse of the external
world.
Two figures which as yet I have not referred to add
strongly to the strange spirit of the scene. One is an
old mad-woman pacing rapidly up and down—up and
down—beside this wall -, she paces like a caged beast before
the bars of its den : the carriage of her stooping head, the
swing of her gown, the position of her slovenly feet, tell of
her restless pacings to and fro, and the lower portion of her
stern old face, as it is partially revealed by her hood-like
drapery, excites the imagination extraordinarily. I can
scarcely account to myself for the impression always pro-
duced upon me by this especial figure, which is by far the
most insignificant, as regards size, in the design. It is a
vague horror,—to me she is the maddest of all the maniacs,
and the most terrible in her madness.
The other figure is—the jailor, I was about to say—the
keeper, though jailor 'would truly be the fitter term for such
a man as this appears to be; short and very stout, and
hard and cruel. Would that in charity his cruelty might
be pronounced madness ! There he stands, with feet dog-
gedly planted before the door of the prison-house •, his arms
are folded behind him, and in his hands he holds a great
bunch of keys, the very number suggesting the many cells
which he has to lock ■, his hard, coarse, cruel face is turned
towards the group, the eyes half concealed by a furred night-
cap, which is drawn down over them, and with a pipe in
a small barred window looking out of it, and a piece of
door, the heavy hinges of which and the very bell-handle
have a harsh, prison-like ah’. A piece of blank wall
stretches along from this corner of the madhouse: it
is crested with a few dreary tufts of weeds, and above
the wall you can catch a dreary sweep of low hills, with
a dreary tuft or two of bushes and a dreary stretch of sky
above. The yard itself is full of weeds and stones, dreary
yet more, if possible, than is the glimpse of the external
world.
Two figures which as yet I have not referred to add
strongly to the strange spirit of the scene. One is an
old mad-woman pacing rapidly up and down—up and
down—beside this wall -, she paces like a caged beast before
the bars of its den : the carriage of her stooping head, the
swing of her gown, the position of her slovenly feet, tell of
her restless pacings to and fro, and the lower portion of her
stern old face, as it is partially revealed by her hood-like
drapery, excites the imagination extraordinarily. I can
scarcely account to myself for the impression always pro-
duced upon me by this especial figure, which is by far the
most insignificant, as regards size, in the design. It is a
vague horror,—to me she is the maddest of all the maniacs,
and the most terrible in her madness.
The other figure is—the jailor, I was about to say—the
keeper, though jailor 'would truly be the fitter term for such
a man as this appears to be; short and very stout, and
hard and cruel. Would that in charity his cruelty might
be pronounced madness ! There he stands, with feet dog-
gedly planted before the door of the prison-house •, his arms
are folded behind him, and in his hands he holds a great
bunch of keys, the very number suggesting the many cells
which he has to lock ■, his hard, coarse, cruel face is turned
towards the group, the eyes half concealed by a furred night-
cap, which is drawn down over them, and with a pipe in