Copyright (C) 2011 by Michael John Wooff
The mysterious sketch
by Emile Erckmann (1822-1899) andAlexandre Chatrian (1826-1890)
I
Opposite the Saint Sebaldus Chapel in Nuremberg rises up a littleinn, tall and narrow, with a jagged gable, dusty windows and aplaster cast of Our Lady on top of its roof. It was here that I spentthe unhappiest days of my life. I had gone to Nuremberg to studythe old German masters, but, due to a lack of liquidity, I had topaint portraits…and what portraits they were! Fat purveyors oftittle-tattle with a cat on their knees, aldermen in wigs, burgomasterswearing a three-cornered hat and the whole thing set off by luminousochre and cinnabar by the bucketful.
From portraits I descended to sketches and from sketches to outlines.
Nothing can be worse, believe me, than to constantly have on yourback a head steward, tight-lipped, shrill, impudent-looking, who comesto you every day with: "So then! How soon will you be paying, sir?Have you any idea how much your bill is now? No. It doesn't botheryou, does it?… Sir eats, drinks and sleeps as he pleases… Does notour heavenly Father feed even the birds of the air? Sir's bill comes tofour hundred schillings and ten kreuzer… It's hardly worth mentioning,I know."
Those who have not heard this scale being sung can have no conceptof it - love of art, imagination, a sacred passion for the beautiful alldry up under the withering breath of such a browbeater… You growgauche and timid, all your energy dissipated along with any feeling ofpersonal dignity.
One night, penniless as usual, and threatened with debtor's prison bythat worthy steward Rap, I decided I would thwart his hopes of paymentby slitting my throat. With this pleasant thought in mind, sitting on mytruckle bed opposite the window, I gave myself up to a thousandphilosophical reflexions of varying degrees of cheerfulness. I did notdare to open my razor for fear that the irresistible force of myreasoning might well instil in me sufficient courage to do away withmyself once and for all. Having argued with myself in this way, I blewout my candle, deferring the conclusion to this line of thought to themorrow.
This abominable Rap had driven me completely round the bend. All Icould do now artistically was draw silhouettes and my only desire wasto have the money to rid myself of this awful man's odious presence.But that night my mind performed a singular about-turn. I woke upgoing on for one o'clock, relit my light and, wrapping around me mygrey smock, dashed down on paper a quick sketch reminiscent of anold Dutch master…something strange, bizarre and bearing noresemblance to my usual style.
Picture a dark courtyard hemmed in by high dilapidated walls…Thesewalls are furnished with hooks seven or eight feet from the ground.Even at a cursory glance we may guess that this is a shambles of somesort.
On the left there is a latticework made up of narrow strips. Through ityou can see a side of beef suspended from an enormous ceiling byenormous pulleys. Broad pools of blood run down over paving stonesand meet up in a drain full of undefined debris.
The light comes down from on high, from between chimneys, againstwhich weathervanes are silhouetted by a piece of sky only as big asyour hand and the roofs of neighbouring houses drop their shadowsdramatically from one floor to another.
At the end of this recess is a space. In this space is a woodshed, onthis woodshed ladders, a few bales of straw, rope, a hen-coop and anold rabbit hutch that has seen better days.