Departed. Master Thaddeus drew near
From the opposing side, pretending that
The search for mushrooms drew him to the spot;
And in the same direction came the Count
Now slowly forward. Hidden by the trees,
While Telimena and the Judge disputed,
The Count had stood, much wondering at this scene.
At length he drew out from his pocket paper
And pencil, implements he always carried
Along with him; and spreading out the paper,
Over a tree-trunk bending, sketched the picture,
Saying unto himself: “As though they were
Thus grouped on purpose; he upon the stone,
She on the grass; a group most picturesque!
Characteristic heads, the contrast marked.”
He came up, stopped, and put his eyeglass on;
He rubbed the lenses, and looked more and more.
“Will this miraculous, this lovely sight
Perish, or be transformed if I approach?
This velvet grass be only beet and poppies?
And in this nymph shall I but recognise
Some housekeeper?” Although the Count had often
Seen Telimena in the Judge’s house,
Where pretty often he had been, he little
Had her esteemed; and most astonished was
To find in her the model of his picture.
The beauty of the place, and her position,
The charming, tasteful dress had so transformed her,
She scarcely might be recognised. There yet
Shone unextinguished anger in her eyes.
Her face, enlivened by the wind’s fresh breeze,
Discussion with the Judge, and by the sudden
Arrival of the young men, deeply blushed,
More deeply than her wont. “Madam,” the Count
Said, “Deign my boldness to forgive. I come
At once to ask your pardon and to thank you.
Pardon, for that I tracked your steps by stealth;
To thank you that I have been witness of
Your meditation. Much as I offended,
So much am I your debtor. Interrupting
An hour of meditation, unto you
I owe an hour of inspiration, and
A blessèd moment. Be the man condemned;
The lover of the arts awaits your pardon.
Much I have ventured; I will venture more.
Judge.” And he knelt, and offered her his landscape.
Then Telimena gave, in courteous strain,
Her judgment on the attempt, but spoke as one
Who understood the art; of praises sparing,
But sparing not encouragement. “Bravo!”
She said; “I compliment you; not a little
Of talent. Only this forget not; most
’Tis needful to seek out the fairest nature.
O happy skies of Italy! the Caesars’
Gardens of roses! classic waterfalls
Of Tivoli! and fearful rocky tunnels
Of Posilipo! There, Count, is the land
Of painters. But in ours the Muses’ child,
Put out to nurse in Soplicowo, must
Die certainly. I’ll frame that picture, Count,
Or place it in my album, with a number
Of drawings, which I have from everywhere
Collected; I have many in my bureau.”
So they began to talk of those blue heavens,
Murmurs of seas, and sweet winds, rocky heights,
Commingling here and there as travellers wont,
Laughter and railing at their native land.
Yet round them the Litvanian forests stretched,
So full of beauty and of dignity;
The cherry-tree with garland of wild hops,
Woven around it, and the service-tree,
Fresh-blushing like a shepherdess; the hazel,
Like maenad, with green thyrsis, decked about
As by a garland, with its pearly nuts.
And lower grew the forest children; blackthorn
In the embraces of the briony;
Aspen, whose black lips pressed the raspberries;
The trees and bushes joined their leaves like hands,
Like youths and maidens standing for the dance,
In circle of the married pairs. There stands
One couple, raised o’er all the forest crowd,
By slenderness of shape, and charm of colour,
The white birch, bride-like, with her spouse the hornbeam;
And further, like old people looking on
Their children and grandchildren, silent sitting,
Here reverend beech-trees; there the matron poplars;
And oak with mosses bearded, with the weight
Of five long ages on his humpy back,
Leaning, as though on columns of a grave,
On fossil trunks of oaks, his forefathers.
Thaddeus was restless, not a little tired
Of this long conversation, in which he
Could take no share. But soon as they began
To celebrate the woods of foreign lands,
And count in turn all species of their trees,
The orange, cypress, olive, almond-tree,
Cactus, and aloe, and mahogany,
Sandal and citron, ivy, walnut, figs,
Exalting all their forms, and shapes, and stalks,
More restless still was Thaddeus, and at last
No longer could restrain himself from rage.
Simple he was, but strongly could he feel
The charms of nature; on his native forest
Looking, he spoke with inspiration full:
“I have seen those celebrated trees at Wilna,
In the botanic garden, those that grow
In the east, and south, and in that beautiful
Italian land. But which of them can be
Compared with our trees? Can the aloe, with
Long rods, like a conductor? or the citron,
A dwarf with golden balls, with lacquered leaves,
A short and dumpy thing, like a short woman,
Ugly, but rich? or can that much-praised cypress,
Long, thin, and lean? It does not seem the tree
Of sadness, but of weariness. They say
That it looks very sad upon a grave.
’Tis like a German lackey in court mourning,
Who dares not lift his hands, or turn his head,
Lest he should sin against court etiquette.
“Is not our honest birch-tree fairer far,
Like peasant-woman weeping for her son,
Or widow for her husband; wringing hands,
While the long streams of her dishevelled hair
Fall o’er her shoulders down unto the ground?
Mute with her sorrow, yet how speakingly
Her form seems sobbing. Wherefore then, Sir Count,
If you love painting, paint you not our trees,
Among which you are sitting? In plain truth,
The neighbours will make jest of you, that while
You live upon the fertile Litvin plain,
You only paint some sort of rocks and deserts.”
“My friend,” the Count replied; “fair nature is
The form, the background, the material part;
But inspiration is the soul, which, borne
Upon the wings of the imagination,
By taste is polished, and by rules supported.
Nature is not sufficient, nor sufficient
Enthusiasm; the lover of the arts
Must fly into the sphere of the ideal;
Not all things beautiful are fit to paint.
All this from books you’ll learn in your own time.
As to what touches painting; for a picture,
Are necessary points of view, and grouping,
Ensemble, and atmosphere; the atmosphere
Of Italy! And therefore in the art
Of painting Italy is, was, and shall be,
The fatherland of painters. For this reason,
Excepting Breughel, but not Van der Helle,99
The landscape painter, for there are two Breughels,
And Ruisdael, where is there, in all the north,
A landscape-painter of the highest power?
The sky, the sky is necessary.”—“Our
Painter Orlowski,”100 broke in Telimena,
“Had
