Never so little have I understood Thy speech; for surely in all artists' work The living spirit is thus manifest. How therefore doth thy friend, Thomasius, Differ from other masters in his art?
Ne'er have I doubted that the spirit shows Itself in man, who none the less remains Unconscious of its nature. He creates Through this same spirit, but perceives it not. Thomasius however doth create In worlds of sense what he in spirit-realms Can consciously behold; and many times Hath he assured me, that, for men like him, No other method of creation serves.
Thomasius is a marvel unto me, And freely I admit this picture here Hath first revealed to me in his true self Capesius, whom I thought I knew full well. In thought I knew him; but his work doth show How little of him I had really known.
How comes it, doctor, that thou canst admire The greatness of this work so much, and yet Canst still deny the greatness of its source?
What hath my wonder at the artist's work In common with my faith in spirit-sight?
One can indeed admire a work, e'en when One hath no faith in that which is its source; Yet in this case there would be naught to rouse Our admiration, had this artist not Trodden the path that led to spirit-life.
Yet still we must not say that whosoe'er Doth to the spirit wholly give himself Will consciously be guided by its power. The spirit power creates in artists' souls, E'en as it works within the trees and stones: Yet is the tree not conscious of itself. And only he, who sees it from without, Can recognize the spirit's work therein. So too each artist lives within his work And not in spiritual experience. But when mine eyes now on this picture fall, I do forget all that allures to thought; The very soul-force of my friend doth gleam From out those eyes, and yet--they are but paint! The seeker's thoughtfulness dwells on that brow; And e'en his noble warmth of words doth stream From all the colour-tones with which thy brush Hath solved the mystery of portraiture. Ah, these same colours, surely they are flat! And yet they are not; they seem visible Only to vanish straightway from my sight. The moulding too doth seem like colour's work; And yet it tells of spirit intertwined In every line, and many things besides, That are not of itself.--Where then is that Whereof it speaks? Not on the canvas there, Where only spirit-barren colours lie. Is it then in Capesius himself? But why can I perceive it not in him? Thomasius, thou hast so painted here That what is painted doth destroy itself, The moment that the eye would fathom it. I cannot grasp whereto it urgeth me. What must I grasp from it? What should I seek? I fain would pierce this canvas through and through To find what I must seek within its depths; To find where I may grasp all that which streams From this same picture into my soul's core. I must attain it.--Oh--deluded fool! It seems as though some ghost were haunting me, A ghost I cannot see, nor have I power Which doth enable me to focus it. Thou dost paint ghostly things, Thomasius, Ensnaring them by magic in your work. They do allure us on to seek for them, And yet they never let themselves be found. Oh--how I find your pictures horrible!