DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.62134#0029
A LOVELY IDYL.
21
alone could give the answer ! It is this longing which is
so wonderfully embodied in a cast, after the antique, which
stands in Kaulbach’s studio—the head of Castor, the
brother who was mortal. Never have I seen this longing
and this mournfulness so fully expressed as in that beautiful
countenance. I had walked towards my favourite old
church with the pea-green tower. All was silent as a
dream. I sat down amid the fresh grass for a long time.
And now the clock tolled the four quarters, and then the
hour—two ; and through the silence the sound vibrated
again and again—ever gentler and gentler—with a strange
low music. The air was filled with the warm perfume of
incense lingering around the little old church, and with the
delicious breath of spring, which told of near beds of
violets and primroses. The trees were flushed with life;
some ruddy, others amber, others already faintly green.
I saw them rise in thick, distant masses above the low,
crumbling, white-washed wall of the church-yard. As I
looked upon the fresh burnished arum, hemlock, ficary,
and daisy-leaves and grass springing up around me, I felt
the peculiar beauty and aptness of Keats’s expression
when he speaks of the year “ growing lush in juicy
stalks.”
And now a little meek child wandered alone into the
churchyard, with large, pale oxlips wreathed into the
plaits of her hair. Soon people streamed into the church
for afternoon mass. And whilst the bell tolled from the
tower a group of young peasant-girls came with their
bright, old-fashioned costumes, and round arms, and rosy
faces, and clear eyes, and wandered arm in arm round the
church, sprinkling certain graves with holy water from the
vessels hung to the crosses.
Soon the young girls entered the church; and sitting
where I did, the voice of the priest praying came to me,
21
alone could give the answer ! It is this longing which is
so wonderfully embodied in a cast, after the antique, which
stands in Kaulbach’s studio—the head of Castor, the
brother who was mortal. Never have I seen this longing
and this mournfulness so fully expressed as in that beautiful
countenance. I had walked towards my favourite old
church with the pea-green tower. All was silent as a
dream. I sat down amid the fresh grass for a long time.
And now the clock tolled the four quarters, and then the
hour—two ; and through the silence the sound vibrated
again and again—ever gentler and gentler—with a strange
low music. The air was filled with the warm perfume of
incense lingering around the little old church, and with the
delicious breath of spring, which told of near beds of
violets and primroses. The trees were flushed with life;
some ruddy, others amber, others already faintly green.
I saw them rise in thick, distant masses above the low,
crumbling, white-washed wall of the church-yard. As I
looked upon the fresh burnished arum, hemlock, ficary,
and daisy-leaves and grass springing up around me, I felt
the peculiar beauty and aptness of Keats’s expression
when he speaks of the year “ growing lush in juicy
stalks.”
And now a little meek child wandered alone into the
churchyard, with large, pale oxlips wreathed into the
plaits of her hair. Soon people streamed into the church
for afternoon mass. And whilst the bell tolled from the
tower a group of young peasant-girls came with their
bright, old-fashioned costumes, and round arms, and rosy
faces, and clear eyes, and wandered arm in arm round the
church, sprinkling certain graves with holy water from the
vessels hung to the crosses.
Soon the young girls entered the church; and sitting
where I did, the voice of the priest praying came to me,