DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.62134#0198
190
AN ART-STUDENT IN MUNICH.
moned by an enchanter’s spell from far-off regions and
long-departed ages. One’s imagination bewilders itself in
a perplexing romance, so striking, fantastic, whimsical, are
the contrasts on every side !
The Cotillon is now being danced. From our position
upon the platform, the spectacle is very extraordinary. In
the centre rises that fairy pavilion with its flowers, its
swans, its heroic statues, its undulating radiation of silken
streamers, through which, looking upwards, your eye rests
upon the bright frescoed hues of the ceiling. The grey
marble columns of the hall, draped partly with crimson,
are our horizon. A mass of quaint, gorgeously-attired
human beings fills the hall; they rise in brilliant tiers
beneath the columns; they rise, a low, human pyramid,
upon the steps of the pavilion ; they fill as with waves of
scarlet, orange, violet, green, and crimson, the whole body of
the vast hall. An open, but narrow, space surrounds the
pavilion: here whirl the dancers in mad career. They are
dancing beneath tall hoops of blue and white, which are
held above their heads by the scarlet, and orange, and
parti-coloured fools, standing opposite each other, at
certain distances within the circle. The chandeliers, with
their hundreds of starry lights, gleam and fling down them
bright radiance over the gorgeous, glittering scene. The
music wildly peals and pants; and ever and anon some
merry laugh, some mad shout, rises above its harmonious
voices, and the voice of the whole assembly,—that murmur-
ing, strange, united voice of the crowd !
Was not the whole scene like the dream of a fevered
brain !—a scene likely enough to return, if ever one should
wander into the mysterious land of delirium.
But the Cotillon is over. Hark! a march bursts from
the orchestra ! Yes; and behold how through the crowd
winds a procession of hunters : they bear garlanded torches
AN ART-STUDENT IN MUNICH.
moned by an enchanter’s spell from far-off regions and
long-departed ages. One’s imagination bewilders itself in
a perplexing romance, so striking, fantastic, whimsical, are
the contrasts on every side !
The Cotillon is now being danced. From our position
upon the platform, the spectacle is very extraordinary. In
the centre rises that fairy pavilion with its flowers, its
swans, its heroic statues, its undulating radiation of silken
streamers, through which, looking upwards, your eye rests
upon the bright frescoed hues of the ceiling. The grey
marble columns of the hall, draped partly with crimson,
are our horizon. A mass of quaint, gorgeously-attired
human beings fills the hall; they rise in brilliant tiers
beneath the columns; they rise, a low, human pyramid,
upon the steps of the pavilion ; they fill as with waves of
scarlet, orange, violet, green, and crimson, the whole body of
the vast hall. An open, but narrow, space surrounds the
pavilion: here whirl the dancers in mad career. They are
dancing beneath tall hoops of blue and white, which are
held above their heads by the scarlet, and orange, and
parti-coloured fools, standing opposite each other, at
certain distances within the circle. The chandeliers, with
their hundreds of starry lights, gleam and fling down them
bright radiance over the gorgeous, glittering scene. The
music wildly peals and pants; and ever and anon some
merry laugh, some mad shout, rises above its harmonious
voices, and the voice of the whole assembly,—that murmur-
ing, strange, united voice of the crowd !
Was not the whole scene like the dream of a fevered
brain !—a scene likely enough to return, if ever one should
wander into the mysterious land of delirium.
But the Cotillon is over. Hark! a march bursts from
the orchestra ! Yes; and behold how through the crowd
winds a procession of hunters : they bear garlanded torches