DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.62134#0197
ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE.
189
and a blue and gold embroidered tiara surmounts her blond
locks. She is a veritable Burg Fraulein. It is a Pro-
vencal troubadour, who, kneeling before her, presents a
fragrant mass of flowers ; his face is a gallant, poetical face;
his hair curls in thick clusters around his compact head.
His dress is of pink and white silk, pink and white alter-
nating ■ a little hood, pink one half, white the other, hangs
upon liis shoulders •, roses, pink and white, adorn him;
there are roses on his breast, roses upon his sleeves, roses
upon his hose and upon his shoes; roses encircle his
jerkin; his very face looks a rose! He seems the very
embodiment of romance, of the Romaunt of the Rose ; per-
haps he may be. But whether he is or not, he is, at all
events, a well-known historical painter, and an officer to boot.
Many were the picturesque groups, and that not alone dur-
ing the drawing of the lottery, which this evening produced.
I look down from the platform upon which I am now stand-
ing ; not, however, by any means because I am the lucky
drawer of a prize. And half hidden by the Painters^
Trophy, his figure shewing beneath the cluster of musical
instruments, sits crouching a Bedouin in his long, spectral
bernouse; he props his dark face upon a dark arm, and
looks up into the face—not of another Bedouin—that would
have been too real for so fantastic, delirious a night!—but
into the face of a Niebelungen hero—of Siegfried himself,
perhaps : the winged, ivy-encircled helmet, the orange fur-
trimmed doublet, the hunting spear glittering in his hand,
the huge, grey, silver-mounted hunting horn slung upon
his back, the short hunting-boots upon his feet, how
strangely they contrast with that dark Arab in his spectral
bernouse!
Everything is so genuine, so exquisitely beautiful and
appropriate in the costumes, so thoroughly artistic, that the
groups seem groups not of maskers, but of beings sum-
189
and a blue and gold embroidered tiara surmounts her blond
locks. She is a veritable Burg Fraulein. It is a Pro-
vencal troubadour, who, kneeling before her, presents a
fragrant mass of flowers ; his face is a gallant, poetical face;
his hair curls in thick clusters around his compact head.
His dress is of pink and white silk, pink and white alter-
nating ■ a little hood, pink one half, white the other, hangs
upon liis shoulders •, roses, pink and white, adorn him;
there are roses on his breast, roses upon his sleeves, roses
upon his hose and upon his shoes; roses encircle his
jerkin; his very face looks a rose! He seems the very
embodiment of romance, of the Romaunt of the Rose ; per-
haps he may be. But whether he is or not, he is, at all
events, a well-known historical painter, and an officer to boot.
Many were the picturesque groups, and that not alone dur-
ing the drawing of the lottery, which this evening produced.
I look down from the platform upon which I am now stand-
ing ; not, however, by any means because I am the lucky
drawer of a prize. And half hidden by the Painters^
Trophy, his figure shewing beneath the cluster of musical
instruments, sits crouching a Bedouin in his long, spectral
bernouse; he props his dark face upon a dark arm, and
looks up into the face—not of another Bedouin—that would
have been too real for so fantastic, delirious a night!—but
into the face of a Niebelungen hero—of Siegfried himself,
perhaps : the winged, ivy-encircled helmet, the orange fur-
trimmed doublet, the hunting spear glittering in his hand,
the huge, grey, silver-mounted hunting horn slung upon
his back, the short hunting-boots upon his feet, how
strangely they contrast with that dark Arab in his spectral
bernouse!
Everything is so genuine, so exquisitely beautiful and
appropriate in the costumes, so thoroughly artistic, that the
groups seem groups not of maskers, but of beings sum-