CASTLE BY THE RIVER E-Book

Christoph Werner

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 195

Beschreibung

Always the canvas recoils when he tries to apply the brush. How can hope be made apparent if he doesn't succeed in putting the white dove into the painting? Brentano's smile was so friendly when he, Schinkel, had made a sketch in his notebook of Brentano's impromptu story even while it was being told. And now, in oil, almost ready on the easel, he can't reach the painting with his brush … In his feverish dreams, Schinkel struggles to complete his painting "Castle By The River"; on his sick bed, he relives his fulfilled life marked by an overwhelming sense of duty and the tragedy of the architect and artist who became a servant of his king.

Leseprobe

For Helga

Christoph Werner

CASTLE BY THERIVER

The Life and Death of Karl Friedrich SchinkelPainter and Master Builder

A Novel

Editor Michael Leonard

German Edition:

Schloss am Strom. Die Geschichte vom Leben und Sterben des Baumeisters Karl Friedrich Schinkel. Bertuch Verlag GmbH Weimar 2004

Editor: Michael Leonard

Layout: Helga Dreher

© Bertuch Verlag Gmbh Weimar 2004

English edition 2020 by kind permission of Bertuch Verlag GmbH Weimar

Published by tredition GmbH, Hamburg, Halenreie 40-44, 22359 Hamburg

978-3-347-04274-2 (Paperback)

978-3-347-04276-6 (eBook)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilog

About the Author

Also by Christoph Werner

Books by Christoph Werner

CHAPTER 1

On September 11th of 1840, a small crowd of onlookers had gathered in front of the portal of Berlin’s Bauakademie, the Academy of Architecture. Normally, any build-up of Berliners wouldn’t come together without noise and coarse jokes, but today people were quiet. They looked at the two carriages that had stopped in front of the Academy. The few who were still talking fell silent and glanced at each other bleakly. The carriages belonged to two doctors, the Privy Councilors Dr. Horn and Dr. von Stosch, who had been summoned by Dr. Pätsch to help him in the treatment of his patient, Privy Councilor Schinkel.

The crowd waited hoping to learn something about the state of health, or rather the illness of their beloved Director of the Königliche Technische Oberbaudeputation, the Royal Office of Works.

Suddenly there was movement among the young Berliners sitting on the lower steps in front of the portal. They quickly got on their feet and stepped aside because the heavy door was opened from inside, and the three doctors walked out solemnly. Dr. Pätsch accompanied his two elder colleagues deferentially to their carriages, and the bystanders could understand some words that were exchanged between the gentlemen. They heard fever, renewed turgescence of the blood towards face and head, but couldn’t make sense of it. But then, when Dr. Horn entered his carriage, closed the door and through the window turned once more to his colleague Dr. Pätsch, one could hear him saying loudly and clearly, “Well, dear colleague, don’t hesitate to take the measures we’ve spoken about. A renewed seizure could mean the exitus letalis.” With this he signaled to his coachman, and the carriage drove off through the milling crowd, following Dr. von Stosch, who had started before him. Pätsch returned to the building and the care of his patient.

… Always the canvas recoils when he tries to apply the brush. How can hope be made apparent if he doesn’t succeed in putting the white dove into the painting? Brentano’s smile was so friendly when he, Schinkel, had made a sketch in his notebook of Brentano’s impromptu story even while it was being told. And now, in oil, almost ready on the easel, he can’t reach the painting with his brush. The canvas recoils, he can’t get at it, somebody is holding him from behind, embracing him with his arms, not letting him go. Ah, Herr von Bülow, Your Excellency—has long since died, the minister—the sphere of the artistic, which alone appeals to me, is of such a limitless extent that a man’s life is much too short for it. I feel, with great regret, that in other circumstances I could have achieved more, but that I’m being inwardly torn apart by work that drags me away from my true calling.

Then, before he even started sketching, friend Brentano unwaveringly contended that the poet is by his very nature superior to the draftsman and painter since he can express himself more easily and in greater detail than the latter. And, to give his thesis argumentative force, he told his story to those present, among them Arnims and Rungenhagen, in as complicated and abstract a way as possible.

Nature takes possession of a manorial hunting lodge. A proud stag enters the courtyard that had been left by the lordly owners. Gropius was present, as he was often at those soirées in No 99 Friedrichstrasse and—as he was a painter, too, supported the idea from the start. There was no doubt that Brentano wanted to particularly show the outdatedness of a nobility long petrified, of a world where there was not even a place to bury the castle’s last resident, the old head forester, because the ground was all rocks. Therefore, the painter let the boat with the coffin cross the river to the other river bank, to a world of hope and renewal under the sign of the cross, symbolized by the vines and the dove.

That was ANNO DOMINI 1815, when the usurpator had finally been defeated. As a reminiscence of the dictator’s destructive intentions the castle looks similar to Heidelberg Castle, which had been cruelly made a ruin, as had been the cities of Worms and Speyer during the War of the Grand Alliance, started by Louis XIV of France.

Then, after his interests had long been directed towards other things, namely towards real landscapes and their description by means of the art of painting, Consul Wagener had urged him to paint Castle by the River in oil and thus led him once again into the world of romantic-poetical phantasies. Though he had to admit that he had never lost touch with the medieval world even when deeply immersed in Greek classicism. Too strong, too belle et triste is the longing for the past and the belief in the oneness of man and stone and tree and God, prevailing in the olden times. A witness of this is the Friedrichwerdersche Kirche, the church on the Werderscher Markt in Berlin. Royal Architect Schlaetzer and archeologist Alois Hirt had handed in first drafts. But Schinkel, at that time head of the aesthetic department in the Oberbaudeputation, had rejected their designs in favor of his own.

His Royal Highness the Crown Prince had wanted a church in the manner of the English Gothic chapels, a wish that had corresponded with Schinkel’s innermost ideas at that time, as the Prussian National Monument for the Liberation Wars on the Kreuzberg Hill in Berlin, made of cast iron, bears witness to with its Gothic tapering turret, whose foundation stone was laid in 1818 in the presence of His Imperial Majesty the Russian Czar. But he had often tried to adapt the Gothic style, the medieval architectural forms and elements to modern times, to give them a more objective, even factual character. For example, his drafts for the cathedral in memory of the Wars of Liberation, though never carried out, shows his efforts to rid the Gothic forms of their tendency to reach upward toward the sky; and what is even more, the building has not a steep, but a flat roof as the Friedrichwerdersche Kirche has. But still, early Gothic architecture revealed something one could call modern in that it kind of opened up the buildings, displayed the forces active within the walls and roofs and vaults, thus involving the observer and making him a participant in the work of the architect. One only needed to look at how the vault thrust is visibly accommodated by well-designed inside and outside structures. The vaults themselves are supported by cross ribs and flying buttresses, hidden in older architecture, all allowing the creation of the high-ceilinged Gothic churches.

When painting “Castle by the River”, he had long departed from his medieval phase and felt ready, within himself, to paint the Rugard from nature, because he felt he had to serve the present and the tasks produced by it. The Rugard, the highest elevation of the island of Rügen, was of special interest to him because it was like a bridge between the present and the ancient past, as there had been a castle there in which princes of the Slavic tribe of the Rani resided, from which the name Rugard was derived. Schinkel felt he had to pay his tribute to this fact because it showed the continuity of man’s activity within, not against, nature, a thought that had always been close to his heart and which he wished to make his contemporaries aware of.

So, in 1821 he had traveled to Rügen, then immediately continued to Bergen, where he rested at a place that was recommended to him by one of his friends in Berlin. It was the former home for widows of Lutheran ministers, called the Pfarrwitwenhaus, and there he was served an excellent meal of rosefish with potatoes and various kinds of vegetable. But he didn’t stay long because his imagination was captivated by the portal of the Church of St. Mary, but even more by a stone there the picture on which, some people believed, represented Swantevit, a Slavic deity of war, fertility and abundance. But the parish priest said that it is more probable that the stone was put there in 1168 as a sign of the final victory of Christendom over Paganism. Victory over the heathens, really. Since his adulthood he couldn’t find any sense in such a memorial. Had Jesus Christ wanted his followers to fight and kill others in his name? Though it may be possible that myths and legends were invented inside the warm houses without regard to historical facts while outside winter storms raged.

In the same vein people were still talking about the maid jump on the Rugard. Long ago a hard and evil Junker lived on the hill. His serfs groaned under his rule, because he demanded their hard labor without regard to the work on their own fields. But worst was his preferred pastime activity. The villain was not content with the body of his own wife to satisfy his lust. His mind was set on something else, namely the maids and young women on his fiefdom. So once it happened that a young and chaste maid went for a walk on the Rugard to enjoy the view and fresh air there. Why she did that, knowing like everybody that the land around the Rugard was the favorite hunting ground of the evil Junker, nobody knows. Should she not have been working on the farm where she was a servant? But maybe she had heard the rumor that sometimes, seldom enough, the Junker had acknowledged the fruit of his sinful exercises and compensated the maids with money.

But even if the girl had had that in mind, she quickly thought better of it, when suddenly the Junker galloped up to her and got so near that she could smell his breath reeking of cabbage, venison and wine. Also, he stank abominably of sweat from under his leather things. He attacked her with false pledges of love and tried to kiss her. Finally, the poor girl couldn’t think of another escape than with her last ounce of strength to wrench herself from his arms, run to the abyss and jump into the ravine. There her foot made a deep imprint into the stone. The Junker was mad with rage, directed his horse down into the ravine on a passable path and, the maid being gone, lashed his whip with all his strength on the stone. The imprint of the whip and the trace of the girl can still be seen and, in the eyes of the simple folk, bear witness to the truth of the story.

Schinkel loved this tale of courage and sadness and tragedy, though at the same time had to smile about the naivety and imagination of the people.

It was this smile that caused Dr. Pätsch, the family doctor, who stood bent over the sick man, to recoil; it almost frightened him off. For weeks the patient had lain unconscious, had then slightly recovered and now lay with open empty eyes, not speaking, not answering questions, nor moving a limb or uttering a need whatsoever. Though the need to relieve himself, soiling his bed, particularly in the presence of others, caused him great agitation. He looked around, breathed more quickly, moved hand and foot back and forth and finally satisfied his need with visible energy without demanding a chamber pot or afterwards indicating that he wanted to be cleaned.

Now he smiled, and Dr. Pätsch feared that the symptoms which had so worried his family before he became bed-ridden would return.

It was a loud, almost hysterical laughter into which he broke out without any reason, quite unusual for him. And he couldn’t stop it whatever he tried. Once Pätsch had observed, when a sad message was brought about the death of a friend, something in the manner of the teller made Schinkel laugh, almost convulsively. He had to turn away from the party, stand in a corner and let the strong vibrations of his diaphragm have their way until he managed, after quite a time, to calm down. Thank God, this time his face relaxed, and only a faint smile, as if he remembered something pleasant, remained.

Footprints in rocks. In the Harz mountains near the town of Thale Schinkel had seen the Rosstrappe massif with the impression of a horse hoof which, folks believe, is proof of an old legend. Bodo, a giant knight, once followed the king’s beautiful daughter named Brunhilde, whom he wanted to marry against her will. Brunhilde fled on her white stallion or Ross, but suddenly arrived at a deep ravine. Her brave mount leaped in a huge bound to the rocks on the other side, while Bodo the knight fell into the ravine. The impression of the stallion’s hoof can still be seen, and Bodo gave his name to the small river, the Bode.

Sceptics, however, think that the impression in the rock is the remnant of a Germanic sacrificial basin.

Schinkel took all this in when he traveled in the Harz mountains, but his real interest was something different. He wanted to verify the natural or even scientific explanation that Johann Esaias Silberschlag, appointed by Frederick the Great, Royal Senior Consistory Councilor and Privy Councilor in the Prussian Office of Public Works, Section of Mechanical Engineering and Hydraulic Engineering had given for the Brocken specter. Curious, that this learned man had tried to reconcile theology and science, an impossible endeavor. But regarding the observation of a physical or rather meteorological phenomenon like the Brocken specter he was a real naturalist.

Schinkel, as Silberschlag had done, climbed the Brocken, the highest elevation in the Harz mountains, and, weather conditions being accommodating, observed the enormously magnified shadow his body cast upon the upper surfaces of clouds that were below the mountain on which he stood. He realized at once that this was an optical illusion created by the observer’s judging his shadow on relatively nearby clouds to be at the same distance as faraway land objects seen through gaps in the clouds.

His wandering memories took him back to Rügen where with his drawing materials he had walked up the stairs of the church-tower and turned his gaze to the Rugard. In the foreground he saw the last houses of the town, then there rose—woodless and dominant—the mountain; to the right and left in the hazy distance the bay could be seen. He felt driven to exactly draw everything with the crayon as nature seemed to order him to do, though at the same time, he was now convinced, he couldn’t avoid violating it by adding something of himself.

It seemed to him that their friendly dispute during that distant soirée was decided in his, the painter’s, favor. This was not groundless as words are fleeting and, moreover, can lead one to superfluous embellishments, to long-windedness or even to concealment. But painting, and, mutatis mutandis, architecture, are characterized by invariability, constancy and thus are open to verifiable truths. Through their different means they are more strongly forced to express the essence of the objective world.

Brentano and Gropius were the last to leave and both of them had the wish to ponder the evening over a glass of wine.

“Let’s go to old Heineken. The wine from the Palatinate that he serves tasted good when we were there last,” Gropius said and so broke the thoughtful silence between them. After a few steps they arrived at the inn and entered. Old Heineken, stout and red faced with a leather apron over his substantial belly waddled up to them immediately for they were welcome and precious guests in these difficult times.

After the victorious entry into Paris and the restoration of the kingdom of Prussia the economy was very slowly and with difficulty picking up, and not many Berliners could afford drinking wine outside of their houses. The innkeeper was an old hater of everything French and also knew that his two guests had kept their distance from the occupation power. But he had not followed the call of the Spenersche Zeitung to contribute to the fight against the foreign rule by sacrificing golden rings, chains and other jewelry. He was convinced that others in Berlin, who had not hated the French with such passion as he, should go ahead and take their precious things to the authorities. In the meantime, he would serve them with wine and thus make it easier for them to be drunk with the hope for victory. There had been quite a number, among them many women, particularly from the middle classes and nobility, who had made their peace with the French and had invited them to their parties, because they hoped to gain protection and business advantages.

Still other rumors and stories were told among the patriots and those who quickly discovered their love of the fatherland when their flattery didn’t produce enough concessions from the French. A certain Freifrau von der Goltz despite her high title didn’t think it a disgrace to offer her tender body and everything belonging to it to a French colonel while her husband wore himself out in the service of His Majesty the Prussian King at Königsberg. Well, the consequences were soon visible, and the memory of the much lauded ars armandi of the French did not help her much in overcoming the shame she had brought upon herself and her family.

“What can I get you, gentlemen?”

“Two glasses of the Palatinate wine we had the other day,” ordered Brentano, while Gropius found his tobacco pouch in his coat pocket and started to fill his pipe.

“Something to eat, too?” asked the keeper.

The friends, who were the only patrons at that late hour, looked at each other and groaned in comic desperation.

“God forbid,” Gropius answered for both of them.

The meal they had been given at the Schinkels’ had been excellent and plentiful. Frau Schinkel was well-known for her good kitchen. Though Schinkel himself was no friend of rich meals, because he felt he couldn’t work well afterwards. This did not prevent him and his wife from entertaining their guests lavishly. That night Frau Schinkel had served their evening party her favorite baked pike.

Gropius read with pleasure Frau Schinkel’s recipe, which she had given him for the enrichment of his own kitchen.

When you cook a whole pike, it requires gutting and trimming. The best pike are those of about 4 pounds. Any larger and they are too coarse, any smaller and they will prove tasteless.

Scale the fish, take out the gills, wash, and wipe it thoroughly dry; stuff it with forcemeat, sew it up, and fasten the tail in the mouth by means of a skewer; brush it over with egg, sprinkle with bread crumbs, and baste with butter, before putting it in the oven, which must be well heated. When the pike is of a nice brown color, cover it with buttered paper, as the outside would become too dry. If 2 are dressed, a little variety may be made by making one of them green with a little chopped parsley mixed with the bread crumbs. Serve anchovy or Dutch sauce, and plain melted butter with it.

Time: According to size, 1 hour, more or less.

Average cost: Seldom bought.

Seasonable from September to March.

While Gropius was reading, Brentano amused himself by recalling an argument between Bettine, his sister, and Frau Schinkel. It concerned Schinkel’s thieving cook. “The Schinkel woman had a cook for three years,” Bettine had told him venomously, “and during that time the cook had found an opportunity to secretly open the desk and steal money, which was only discovered recently. The Schinkel woman was mean enough not to tell me this story when she recommended the cook to me. Now Schinkel, who had no idea of his wife’s recommendation, told me in her presence that I should think twice before hiring that cook. You should have seen and would probably have enjoyed the Schinkel woman’s embarrassment.” Brentano wasn’t so sure about the latter. He knew how gossipy his sister was and that she did not always knew truth from invention.

However, Schinkel’s new cook seemed to understand her craft; she had prepared the meal so well that even Brentano had had his hearty fill, though of late, Gropius thought, he often surrendered to mystical and spiritual moods and no longer harbored the happy and sometimes eccentric spirit of the times of the Christian-German Round Table Arnim and Brentano had founded. Obviously, tending to catholicism didn’t mean that one had to always and permanently renounce all physical pleasures, particularly if one was still in quest of salvation and the meal offered was so good and, what is more, even fish.

The host brought the wine, wishing them good health, as was the custom. The friends raised their glasses and sampled the wine.

“Did you notice today,” Brentano asked, “how friendly Karl was and how gratefully he spoke about all those who had stood by him, who had helped him in his life and especially in his fast rise in the Oberbaudeputation?”

“Here you have said nothing new,” Gropius answered. “There is something in our friend’s make-up that makes him talk well of everybody and praise their artistic achievement without the slightest hint of envy, sometimes, so it seems, more than they deserve. This must have to do with his own excellence in all questions of aesthetics, for which he is responsible in the Oberbaudeputation. It seems that such extraordinary talents make one either proud or modest, and if you are conditioned like Schinkel, modest.”

“Gropius, you are young and inclined to limitless admiration. Schinkel talked, I think, about everybody who had helped him and from whom he had profited, above all of course David and Friedrich Gilly, then Johann Langhans, his teacher in mathematics, Hirt, who taught history of architecture, Freiherr Karl Wilhelm von Humboldt, whom he had to thank that he could, in 1810, become assessor in the Prussian building administration and that he, at the relatively young age of 35, was made Privy Councilor. And of course, he thanked their Majesties the King and Queen. But now I’m asking you, whom did he not mention? And why did he not mention him?”

“What, friend, are you driving at?” Gropius asked with a reproachful look. He didn’t like it at all when even the slightest doubt was uttered about his friend and patron, whom he had been close to since Schinkel had moved in with the Gropius family in No 22 Breite Straße.

Brentano drank from his wine and leaned back.