Art of the Day: "The Meeting on the Turret Stairs"

A Repost With a Bonus Poem of the Day

It’s been four long weeks since I moved to my new apartment and I am still getting settled in to my new apartment. I thought I would be able to keep up my pace of posting every couple of days or so here, but that fell by the wayside and the break from keeping up on my regular posting schedule of three posts or so a week has been ever so welcomed on my part.

I appreciate all who have indulged and will continue to indulge me as I continue to finish getting organized in my new apartment and then proceed to do what I can to help my daughter and her fiance move to their new apartment in the coming weeks.

I’m re-posting this Art of the Day post today. It was very popular when I first posted it and I hope you all enjoy it now!

Because I fit no specific niche here at Words and Pictures by Pamela Leavey, I like to mix things up with an Art of the Day post every once in a while.

Long ago, some 50 years actually, I used to paint—oils, and it is something I would love to take up again. I’ve been blessed to visit some fabulous museums in my life including: The Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, The Louvre, The Van Gogh Museum, LACMA, The Clark and the Peabody Essex.

My two favorite artists are Van Gogh and Monet.

I came across the stunning painting below a few weeks ago and I just love it. It is a gorgeous watercolor and gouache on paper by Irish painter, Frederic William Burton (1816–1900).

The 37⅗ x 24 inch painting, "The Meeting on the Turret Stairs" was done in 1864 and it hangs in the National Gallery of Ireland.

The colors are so rich and the detail is so astoundingly beautiful. There’s so much emotion in the composition. I hope you all enjoy as much as I do.

Sir Frederic William Burton RHA was a Victorian painter and curator from Ireland.

He served as the third director of the London’s National Gallery, 20 years beginning in 1874. Burton is best-known for his watercolors including “The Meeting on the Turret Stairs” and “The Aran Fisherman's Drowned Child,” both of which are on display in the National Gallery of Ireland.

About the Painting from the National Gallery of Ireland:

“The subject is taken from a medieval Danish ballad translated by Burton’s friend Whitley Stokes in 1855, which tells the story of Hellelil, who fell in love with her personal guard Hildebrand, Prince of Engelland. Her father disapproved of the relationship and ordered her seven brothers to kill the young prince. Burton chose to imagine a romantic moment from the story before the terrible end: the final meeting of the two lovers. Although he never painted in oils, the intensity of hue is similar to that of an oil painting. The precise layering of watercolor reflects his early training as a miniaturist.”

I found the story behind the painting so moving I searched for the Danish Ballard and found it.

Below is a copy of the ballad as translated from Danish by British poet William Morris. William Morris was a fascinating man, I will post about him as well, in the future.

Poem (Ballad) of the Day:

Hildebrand And Hellelil. Translated From The Danish. 
By William Morris

    Hellelil sitteth in bower there,
    None knows my grief but God alone,
    And seweth at the seam so fair,
    I never wail my sorrow to any other one.

    But there whereas the gold should be
    With silk upon the cloth sewed she.

    Where she should sew with silken thread
    The gold upon the cloth she laid.

    So to the Queen the word came in
    That Hellelil wild work doth win.

    Then did the Queen do furs on her
    And went to Hellelil the fair.

    "O swiftly sewest thou, Hellelil,
    Yet nought but mad is thy sewing still!"

    "Well may my sewing be but mad
    Such evil hap as I have had.

    My father was good king and lord,
    Knights fifteen served before his board.

    He taught me sewing royally,
    Twelve knights had watch and ward of me.

    Well served eleven day by day,
    To folly the twelfth did me bewray.

    And this same was hight Hildebrand,
    The King's son of the English Land.

    But in bower were we no sooner laid
    Than the truth thereof to my father was said.

    Then loud he cried o'er garth and hall:
    'Stand up, my men, and arm ye all!

    'Yea draw on mail and dally not,
    Hard neck lord Hildebrand hath got!'

    They stood by the door with glaive and spear;
    'Hildebrand rise and hasten here!'

    Lord Hildebrand stroked my white white cheek:
    'O love, forbear my name to speak.

    'Yea even if my blood thou see,
    Name me not, lest my death thou be.'

    Out from the door lord Hildebrand leapt,
    And round about his good sword swept.

    The first of all that he slew there
    Were my seven brethren with golden hair.

    Then before him stood the youngest one,
    And dear he was in the days agone.

    Then I cried out: 'O Hildebrand,
    In the name of God now stay thine hand.

    'O let my youngest brother live
    Tidings hereof to my mother to give!'

    No sooner was the word gone forth
    Than with eight wounds fell my love to earth.

    My brother took me by the golden hair,
    And bound me to the saddle there.

    There met me then no littlest root,
    But it tore off somewhat of my foot.

    No littlest brake the wild-wood bore,
    But somewhat from my legs it tore.

    No deepest dam we came unto
    But my brother's horse he swam it through.

    But when to the castle gate we came,
    There stood my mother in sorrow and shame.

    My brother let raise a tower high,
    Bestrewn with sharp thorns inwardly.

    He took me in my silk shirt bare
    And cast me into that tower there.

    And wheresoe'er my legs I laid
    Torment of the thorns I had.

    Wheresoe'er on feet I stood
    The prickles sharp drew forth my blood.

    My youngest brother me would slay
    But my mother would have me sold away.

    A great new bell my price did buy
    In Mary's Church to hang on high.

    But the first stroke that ever it strake
    My mother's heart asunder brake."

    So soon as her sorrow and woe was said,
    None knows my grief but God alone,
    In the arm of the Queen she sat there dead,
    I never tell my sorrow to any other one.

I hope you all enjoyed this Art of the Day post. Stay tuned for new posts ...

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