Full text of "How to study pictures by means of a series of comparisons of the painters' motives and methods .."

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

DOROTHY
AND

FREDA

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HOW TO STUDY
PICTURES

BY MEANS OF A SP^RIES OF COMPARISONS OF
PAINTINGS AND PAINTERS FROM CIMAliUE TO
MONET, WITH HISTORICAL AND BIOGRAPH-
ICAL SUMMARIES AND APPRECIATIONS OF
THE PAINTERS' MOTIVES AND METHODS

CHARLES H. CAFFIN

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NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.

1906

THE NEW YORK

^STOR, LENOX AND
TILO N FOUNDATIONS.

1S13

Published October, 1905

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• • • « •

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• • •

THE DE VINNE PRESS

CONTEXTS

CHAPTER PAGE

Author's Note xiii

I Introduction 3

II CiMABUE — Giotto 8

in Masaccio — Mantegna 20

IV Fra Angelico — Jan van Eyck 37

V Botticelli — Memling 52

VI Perugino — Giovanni Bellini 68

VII Raphael — Wolgemuth 85

VIII Da Vinci — Durer 109

IX Titian — Holbein the Younger 125

X CoRREGGio — ^Michelangelo 142

XI ^'ERONESE — Tintoretto 159

XII Rt'bens — Velasquez 177

XIII Van Dyck — Frans Hals 195

XIV Rembrandt — Murillo 209

XV Jacob van Ruisdael — Poussin 228

XVI Hobbema — Claude Lorrain 242

XVII Watteau — Hogarth 255

[vii]

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

XVIII Reynolds — Gainsborough 272

XIX Constable — Turner 287

XX David — Delacroix 304

XXI Rousseau — Corot 322

XXII Breton — Millet 339

XXIII COURBET — BOECKLIN 353

XXIV ROSSETTI — HOLMAN HuNT 371

XXV PiLOTY — FORTUNY . 391

XXVI Manet— Israels 404

XXVII Puvis DE Chavannes — Gerome 423

XXVIII Whistler — Sargent 441

XXIX Monet — Hashimoto Gaho 457

Concluding Note 479

Bibliography 481

Glossary of Terms 484

Index 493

[viii]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Madonna Enthroned

St. Peter Baptizing

. Cimabue
. . Giotto
. Masaccio

GoNZAGA Welcoming his Sons . Mantcgna
The Annunciation Fra Angelico

^'IRGIN AND Donor

Madonna Enthroned

Jan von Eyck .

Alessundro Botticelli

Virgin Enthroned Hans Memling

Triptych from the Pavia Al-

tar-piece

From a photograpli by Emery Walki-r, London.

Perngino

TniPTYCH Altar-piece .
Madonna degli Ansidei
Death of the Virgin

A'lUGIN OF THE RoCKS

Visit of the INIagi

Giovanni Bellini

Raphael Sanzio

Michael Wolgemuth

Leonardo da Vinci

. Alhrccht Diirer .

Man with the Glove .... Titian

From a photograph by Braun, Clement & Cie.

[ix]

PAGE

15
26
27
42
43
58
59

114

115

134

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

POKTBAIT or Geokg Gvze . . . Holbein the Younger
Mystic Marriage of St. Cath-

erine
Jeremiah

. Correggio .
Michelangelo
Paolo Veronese

The Glory of Venice . • •

From a photograph by Giraudon.

The Miracle of St. Mark . . Tintoretto

PAGE

135

150
151
, 166
. 167
. 186
. 187
. 202
. 203

Descent from the Cross . . • Rubens . •

From a photograph by Braun, Cle'ment & Cie.

Las Meninas (Maids of Honor) Velasquez .

From a photograph by Braun, Clement & Cie.

Marie Louise von Tassis . • • Anthony van Byclc

From a photograph by Franz Hanfstaengl.

Portrait of a Woman . . . • Frans Hals . .

From a photograph by Franz Hanfstaengl.

Sortie of the Banning Cock

Company Rembrandt . .

From a photograph by Franz Hanfstaengl.

Children of the Shell . • • Murillo . . •

The Waterfall J^^ob van Ruisdael . 234

218
219

Shepherds in Arcady . • ■

The Avenue, Middelharnis,
Holland . . •

Nicolas Poussin

Meindert Hobbema

The Landing of Cleopatra at

Tarsus

Claude Lorrain

The Embarkation for Cythera Antoine Watteau

From a photograph by Braun, Clement & Cie.

The Marriage Contract . • • WilVuun Hogarth

[X]

235'

246

247
262
263

LIST OF ILLISTKATIONS

]\Irs. Siddons as the Tragic 'age

Muse Sir Joshua lieynolds . 278

From a photoprapli by N'alentine & Son.

Portrait of Mrs. Siddons . . . Thomas Gainsborough 279

Valley Farm (Willy Lott's

House) John Constable . . . 294

,, -r^ -r. f Joseph Mallord 1

Ulysses Deriding Polyphemus J ,,,.,/• rr, r ■ 295

1 TT illiam 1 urner J

Oath of the Horatii .... Jacques Louis David . 310

Dante and Virgil Eugene Delacroix . . 311

Edge of the Forest of Fon-

tainkbleau Rousseau .... 330

From a pliotopraph by Braun, Clement & Cie.

Dance of the Nymphs .... Corot 331

From a photograph by Braun, Clement & Cie.

The Gleaner Jules Breton . . . 346

The Gleaners Jean Francois Millet . 347

Funeral at Ornans Courbct 362

From a photograph by Braun, Clement & Cie.

The Isle of the Dead .... Boecldin 363

From a pliotogravure by Bruckmann.

The Blessed Damozel .... Dante Gabriel Rossctti 378

From a pliotograph by Utrlin Phulo Co.

Light of the World .... Holman Hunt . . . 379

Thusnelda at the Triumph of (Karl Theodor ro« 1
Germanicus ]^ Pilot i/ J

From a photograph by Pach Bros.

Spanish Marriage Mariano Fortuny . . 395

From a photograpli by Laurent °i Cie.

[xi]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

Girl with a Parrot Edouard Manet . . 414

The Old Scribe Jozef Israels . . . 415

From the collection of Dr. Leslie D. Ward, by permission.

Inter Artes et Naturam . . . Puvis de Chavannes . 430

From a photograph by Braun, Clement & Cie.

PoLLicE Verso Gerovie 431

By permission of Manzi, Joyant & Cie.

Portrait of the Artist's i James A. McNeill )

Mother ( Whistler j '

From a photoprraph by Braun, Clement & Cie.

Portrait of the Misses Hunter John S. Sargent . . 447

By permission of Mr. Charles E. Hunter.

Old Church at Vernon . . . Claude Monet . . . 466
Sunrise on the Horai .... Hashimoto Gaho . . 467

[xii]

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Some ejoperience in lecturing has impressed upon me
several points. In the first place, the majority of stu-
dents have not the time to make an exhaustive study;
while those who intend to do so ultimately, still need to
begin tcith a si tuple summary that shall spread before
them the salient features of the subject and afford a firm
groundwork on which to build. Instead, therefore, of
multiplying names, I have confined myself to ffty-sicc,
which are pivotal ones by reason of what these artists ac-
complisJied or of their influence upon others. The selec-
tion must not be regarded as an attempt to pick out a list
of the most famous names in painting; my real aim being
to unfold the gradual progress of the art, to show how
various motives have from time to time influenced artists,
and hoxv the scene of vital progress has shifted from
country to country. I have tried to present a survey of
the whole field of painting, not to write a history of
artists or schools.

jlgain, while the student is buried in the history of one
school, it is difficult for him to bear in mind what is being

[ xiii ]

AUTHOR'S NOTE

done htj contemporary artists in other schools. Accord-
ingly, as often as possible, I have treated side by side con-
temporary men of different nationalities, trying to show
in each case somethifig of the differences of environment
and personality, and of motive and method. In this way
also, I hope, the jxinoramic character of the story is in-
creased.

Lastly, " by their works ye shall know them." An
artist desires to be known and estimated by his works.
Also it may be more useful to study pictures than lives of '
artists, because an appreciation of one picture leads to
that of many. Therefore I have tried to combine with
the historical aspects of the subject the matter which is
usually treated separately in books of " How to study
pictures.''

I have adopted the jjarallel method: ''Look on this
picture and on this." Not, as a rule, to suggest that one
is more admirable than another; but to stimulate interest
and the faculty of observation, and to show how various
are the motives which have prompted artists and the
methods which they have adopted. In the sum total of
comparisons I have tried to include as many as possible of
the motives and methods which have from time to time
prevailed, so that the student may gain a basis of appre-
ciation from which to eoctend his observations with under-
standing and enjoyment.

For the object of study should be to put oneself in

[ xiv ]

AUTHOR'S NOTE

touch Kith each artist in turn, to enter into his point of
view, to see as far as possible with his eyes, and to esti-
mate his work, not for what it does not contain, hut for
what it does. In this way only can our appreciation of
painting become catholic and intelligent. Then, we are
no longer content to say 'I know what I like," but " I
know wliy / like " ; and our likings are multiplied.

As we discover more and more of the diverse ways in
which artists have put a portion of themselves, of their
own lives, into their pictures, our appreciation becomes
indefinitely enlarged, our sympathies continually broad-
ened, our enjoyment jwrpetuaUy increased. Thus may
we enter into the life of the artist and reinforce our own
lives.

CHARLES H. CAFFLX.

Mamaroneck, N. Y.

[xv]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCTION
" Having eyes, see ye not ? "

THE world is full of beauty which many people
hurry past or live in front of and do not see.
There is also a world of beauty in pictures, })ut it
escapes the notice of many, because, while they wish to
see it, they do not know how.

The first necessity for the proper seeing of a picture
is to try and see it through the eyes of the artist who
painted it. This is not a usual method. Generally peo-
ple look only through their own eyes, and like or dislike
a picture according as it does or does not suit their par-
ticular fancy. These people will tell you: " Oh! I don't
know anything about painting, but 1 know what I like ";
which is their way of saying: " If I don't like it right off,
I don't care to be bothered to like it at all."

Such an attitude of mind cuts one off from growth
and development, for it is as much as to say: " I am very
well satisfied with myself, and quite indifferent to the
experiences and feelings of other men." Yet it is just
this experience and feeling of another man which a i)ic-
ture gives us. If you consider a moment yon will un-
derstand why. The world itself is a vast panorama, and

[3]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

from it the painter selects his subject: not to copy it ex-
actly, since it would be impossible for him to do this, even
if he tried. How could he represent, for example, each
blade of grass, each leaf upon a tree? So what he does
is to represent the subject as he sees it, as it appeals to his
sympathy or interest; and if twelve artists painted the
same landscape, the result would be twelve different pic-
tures, differing according to the way in which each man
had been impressed by the scene ; in fact, according to his
separate point of view or separate way of seeing it, in-
fluenced by his individual experience and feeling.

It is most imjDortant to realize the part which is played
by these two qualities of experience and feeling. Expe-
rience, the fullness or the deficiency of it, must affect the
work of every one of us, no matter what our occupation
may be. And if the work is of a kind which appeals to
the feelings of others, as in the case of the preacher, the
writer, the actor, the painter, sculptor, architect or art-
craftsman, the musician or the dancer, it must be af-
fected equally by the individual's capacity of feeling and
by his power of expressing what he feels.

Therefore, since none of us can include in ourselves
the whole range of possible experience and feeling, it is
through the experience and the feeling of others that we
deejoen and refine our own. It is this that we should look
to pictures to accomplish, which, as you will acknow-
ledge, is a very different thing from offhand like or dis-
like. For example, we may not be attracted at first, but
we reason with ourselves: " No doubt this picture meant
a good deal to the man who painted it ; it embodies his
experience of the world and his feeling toward the sub-

[4]

IXTKODUCTION

ject. It represents, in fact, a revelation of the man him-
self; and, if it is true that ' the nohlest study of mankind
is man,' then possihly in the study of this man, as re-
vealed in his work, there may be interest for me."

I am far from wishing you to suppose that all pictures
will re])ay you for such intimate study. We may get
inside the man to find that his experience of life is mea-
ger, his feeling commonplace and paltry. There are
not a few men of this sort in the occui)ation of art, just
as in every other walk of life, and their pictures, so far
as we ourselves are concerned, will he disappointing.
But among the pictures which have stood the test of time
we shall always find that the fruits of the artist's expe-
rience and feeling are of a kind which makes lasting ap-
peal to the needs of the human heart and mind, and that
this fact is one of the causes of their being held in so high
esteem. There is also another cause.

If only experience and feeling were necessary to make
an artist, many of us would be better artists than a con-
siderable number of those who follow the i)rofession of
art. But there is another necessity — the power of ex-
pressing the experience and feeling. This, by its deri-
vation from the Greek, is the primary meaning of the
word " art ": the capacity to " fit " a form to an idea.
The artist is the " fitter " who gives shape and construc-
tion to the tenuous fabric of his imagination ; and this
method of " fitting " is his technic.

So the making of a picture involves two processes: a
taking in of the im])ression and a giving of it out by visi-
ble expression; a seeing of the subject with the visual
and mental eye, and a communicating of what has been

[5]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

so seen to the visual and mental eyes of others ; and both
these processes are influenced by the experience and feel-
ing of the artist and make their appeal to our own. And,
I think, it should be clear from what we have been saying
that the beauty of a picture depends much less upon its
subject than upon the artist's conception and treatment
of it. A grand subject will not of itself make a grand
picture, while a very homely one, by the way in which it
has been treated, may impress us profoundly.

The degree of beauty in a picture depends, in fact,
upon the feeling for beauty in the artist and upon his
power to express it. I have spoken of these two quali-
fications as if they influenced the picture separately ; but,
as a matter of fact, conception and technic are blended
together in a picture, and as we pursue our study, we
shall find ourselves embracing them simultaneously.

But at the outset we must proceed step by step, alter-
nately studying the conception and the technic; and, in
order that we may discover how variously, at successive
times and in diverse countries, difi'erent men have con-
ceived of life and have expressed their feeling and ex-
perience in pictures, I propose that we shall study them
through a series of comparisons.

Our plan, therefore, will be :

' ' Look here, upon this picture, and on this '' "" ;

not to decide off'hand which we like the better, for in
some cases perhaps we may not like either, since they
were painted in times so remote from ours as to be out-
side our habit of understanding; but in order that we
may get at the artist's way of seeing in each case, and

[6] .

INTRODUCTIOX

reach sonic appreciation of his methods. In tliis way I
liope that we may be able to piece togetlier tlie story of
modern painting; beginning with its rebirth in the tliir-
teenth century, when it emerged from tlie (Uu'kness of
the middle ages, and following it through its successive
stages in different countries down to our own day.

It will very much increase the usefulness of this
method if the student can obtain rei)roductions of other
w^ork by each artist, so as to test, by a particular study
of them, the general principles that are being discussed.

[7]

CHAPTER II

GIOVANNI CIMABUE GIOTTO DI BONBONE

1-240 (?)-1302 (?) 1266 (?)-1331

Italian School of Florence Italian School of Florence

FOR the first comparison I invite you to study the
two examples of TJie Madonna Enthroned—
one by Cimabue, the other by his pupil Giotto.
Both are painted on wooden panels in distemper — that is
to say, with colors that have been mixed with some gelat-
inous medium, such as the white and the yolk of an egg
beaten up together; for it was not until the fifteenth
century that the use of oil as a medium was adopted.
The colors used in Giotto's panel are tints of blue and
rose and white ; in Cimabue's the blues and reds are deep
and dusky ; the background in each case being golden.

We notice at once a general similarity between these
two pictures, not only in choice of subject, but in the
manner of presentation: Madonna, the queen of hea-
ven, upon a throne; her mantle drawn over her head;
her right hand resting on the knee of the infant Saviour,
who has two fingers of his right hand raised in the act
of blessing; kneeling angels at the foot, and figures in
tiers above them; all the heads being surrounded by the
nimbus, or circular cloud of light, symbolic of their
sacred character.

[8]

CIMABUE-GIOTTO

The reason of this general similarity is, that the choice
of subject and the manner of its presentation were fixed
by tradition; and long before this thirteenth century the
tradition of Greek art had ])een lost, and in place of it
was the Byzantine tradition, interpreted and enforced
by the Christian church.

Briefly, the cause of the change was this. Greek art
and Greek religion were indissolubly connected. The
gods and goddesses were represented as human beings
of a higher order; physical perfection was the ideal alike
of religion and art. Therefore Christianity, in waging
war upon heathenism, could not help attacking its art.
INIoreover, as the morals of the Kmpire became baser and
baser, Christianity was driven more and more toward
asceticism; meeting the ideal of physical perfection with
the spiritual ideal of mortifying tlie flesh. So that pa-
gan art, which itself had grown grosser as morals de-
clined, !5ecame an object of exceeding hatred to the
church. But some form of pictorial representation was
needed to bring the truths of religion before the eyes of
the faithful, and the church found what it required in the
art of Byzantium.

This city was the gateway between the eastern and
the western world, and the original Greek character of
its art was speedily influenced by artists from the Orient.
Now the ideals of the East and West are very different.
Briefly, the longing of the East is for the Ultimate and
Universal, while the West loves to dwell on the Particu-
lar, and to dwell upon the means rather than the end.
While the Greek artist carved or painted some particular
form, striving to give it perfection of shape in every

[9]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

part, so that through a series of means he might express
his ideal of physical and spiritual perfection, the artist
of the East reached his ideal through the abstract per-
fection of beautiful lines, of beautiful patterns of form
and color. Thus, the one art is represented most charac-
teristically by the sculpture on the Parthenon, the other
by a decorated porcelain vase.

The arrival therefore, at Byzantium, of this art, so far
removed from the Greek and Roman study of the human
form, so beautifully decorative, was hailed by the church,
both for the decorating of its sacred buildings and for
the illuminating of the sacred manuscripts ; and it was as
decorators and illuminators that the Byzantine artists
did their finest work. But, as the study of the nude
figure had been abandoned, the ignorance of the artists
regarding the real character of the human form in-
creased; their types of figure became less and less like
nature, and more and more according to a convention es-
tablished by the church. Asceticism was preached, so the
figure must be thin and gaunt, the gestures angular, the
expression of the emaciated faces one of painful ecstasy.
Moreover, there were certain dogmas to be enforced, and
the church gradually dictated the manner of their repre-
sentation ; so that in time all that was required of or per-
mitted to a painter was to go on producing certain con-
ventional subjects in a purely conventional way. The
divorce of art from nature was complete, and the inde-
pendence of the artist lost in the domination of the
church.

The story of the Italian Renaissance, which com-
menced at the end of the thirteenth century, relates how

[10]

CIMABUE-GIOTTO

the artist gradually emancipated himself and his art,
giving new life to the latter by inoculating it with nature
and with something of the classic spirit.

Xow, therefore, we can understand why these two pic-
tures of The Madonna Enthroned by Cimabue and
Giotto are so similar in arrangement. They followed
the tradition prescribed by the church. Yet the Floren-
tines of Cimabue's day found his picture so superior to
anything they had seen before, so much more splendid
in color, if not much nearer to the true representation
of life, that when it was completed they carried it in a
joyous procession from the artist's home through the
streets of Florence, and deposited it with ceremony in
the Cappella de' Rucellai in the Church of Santa ]Maria
Xovella. The English artist Lord Leighton, in his pic-
ture commemorating the event, has represented Cimabue
walking in front of the ^Madonna, with his pupil Giotto
at his side; and in the procession appears Dante, who
left this mention of the two :

Cimabue thought
To laud it over painting's field ; and now
The cry is Giotto's, and his name eclipsed.

PuRGATORio, XI, 94. {Canj.)

The stor}^ is that Cimabue had chanced upon the boy as,
like David of old, he watched his flock upon the moun-
tain ; and he found him drawing the form of one of the
goats upon a rock with a sharp piece of slate. The mas-
ter must have found some hint of genius in the work, for
he straightway asked the boy if he would like to be his
pupil; and, having received a glad assent and the fa-

[11]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

ther's permission, carried him off to Florence to his hot-
tegha. This, the artist's studio of that period and for
long after, was rather what we should call a workshop,
in which the pupils ground and prepared the colors
under the master's direction; and it was not until they
had thoroughly mastered this branch of the work — a
procedure which in Giotto's time was supposed to oc-
cupy about six years— that they were permitted to use
the brushes. How often, as he worked in the gloom of
the hottegha, must the shepherd boy have peeped wist-
fully at the master standing in the shady garden, before
a great glory of crimson drapery and golden back-
ground, and wondered if he should ever himself acquire
such marvelous skill.

He was destined to accomplish greater things, for
his young mind had not been tutored to traditions, nor »
his young eyes constrained to admire the conventional. •
In the free air of the mountains the boy's spirit had wan-
dered where it listed, and the eager eyes had learned to
love and study nature. It was the love of form that
had set him to try and picture a goat upon the surface
of the rock; it was the actual appearance of objects that
he sought to render when, in due time, he learned to use
the brush.

If you turn again to a comparison of his Madonna
with that of Cimabue, j^ou will see what strides he had
already made toward natural truth. Observe how the*
figure of the Virgin is made real to us, notwithstanding
that it is covered, as in Cimabue's, with drapery; and
while the Christ-child in each picture is represented
in a similar garment, the form in Cimabue's does not

[12]

t ^ ^ r .. : I A'nX' ;;'■?"

MADONNA ENTHRONED CIMABUE

RUCELLAI CHAPEL, SANTA MARIA NOVELLA, FLORENCE

M ADON \ A 1:NTI I UOX V. I )

ACAUKMY. FLOKKNCE

cnoTTo

CIMABUE — GIOTTO

appear to be as strong and firm and lite-like as in
Giotto's. And if you examine the other fifrures in his
picture you will find the same suggestion of substantial
form that could be touched and grasped in the arms.
Notice, further, how Giotto's feeling for truth has af-
fected his arrangement of the forms. The throne aetu-
ally occu})ies space of three dimensions — length, breadth,
and thickness; so do all the figures, and they rest firmly
upon the ground; the artist has called in the aid of
perspective to enforce the reality of his group.

Now, how has he accom})lished this appearance of
reality? By the use of light and shade, and by making
his lines functional — expressive, that is to say, of the
structure and character of the object. Compare, for
example, the figure of the infant Saviour in the two pic-
tures. In Cimal)ue's the drapery is scored with lines
which vaguely hint at folds and obscure the shape of the
limbs beneath ; ])ut in Giotto's certain parts of the figure
are made to jiroject by the use of high lights, and others
are corres^jondingly depressed by shade, while the lines
of the drapery serve to indicate the shape of the form
beneath.

This use of light and shade by Giotto, while it marks
a distinct advance from the flat pattern-like painting of
the Byzantine school, is still rudimentary; and, as if
conscious of the fact, the artist has selected the most sim-
ple arrangements of drapery. Indeed, breadth and sim-
plicity are characteristic of the whole ])icture. It was
painted probably during the years of his a])prenticeship
to Cimabue, or, at any rate, under his influence, and
shows much less freedom and assurance than the works

[17]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

of his maturity. These are to be found in frescoes upon
the walls of the Upper and Lower Churches at Assisi;
the Arena Chapel, Padua; the Bardi and Peruzzi
Chapels, S. Croce; and the Chapel of the Bargello,
Florence. Giotto was the first to introduce the faces of
contemporaries into his pictures, and the Paradise on
the walls of the Bargello contains the famous portrait
of Dante in his early manhood. It had remained cov-
ered with whitewash for two hundred years, until once
more brought to light in 1840. All these paintings were
executed in fresco — that is to say, on the plaster before
it was dry, with water-colors mixed in a glutinous me-
dium, so that as the surface hardened the colors became
incorporated in it. While the technical knowledge dis-
played in them is rudimentary, they are so simple and
unaffected, so earnest and large in feeling, and tell the
story with such dramatic effect, that they command the
interest and enthusiasm of the modern student.

In his own day Giotto's fame as a painter was su-
preme ; he had numerous followers, and these Giotteschi,
as they were styled, perpetuated his methods for nearly
a hundred years. But, like all the great men of the Flor-
entine school, he was a master of more than one craft.
" Forget that they were painters," writes Mr. Berenson,
"they remain great sculptors; forget that they were
sculptors, and still they remain architects, poets, and
even men of science." The beautiful Campanile, which
stands beside the Cathedral in Florence, and represents
a perfect union of strength and elegance, was designed
by Giotto and partly erected in his lifetime. Moreover,

[18]

CIxMABUE-GIOTTO

the sculptured reliefs which decorate its lower part were
all from his designs, tliough he lived to execute only two
of them. Thus, architect, sculptor, painter, friend of
Dante and of other great men of his day, Giotto was the
worthy forerunner of that galaxy of brilliant men who
thronged the later days of the Italian Renaissance.

[19]

CHAPTER III

TOMMASO MASACCIO ANDREA MANTEGNA

1401 (?)-142S (?) 1431-1506

Italian School of Florence Italian School of Padua

SIXCE the death of Giotto nearly a hundred
years have elapsed, during which his followers in
Florence and certain j)ainters in Siena, notably
the brothers Lorenzetti, have been continuing the effort
to emancipate painting from the flat formalism of By-
zantine art. But, although they have learned something
more about expressing the roundness of form, have
studied more closely the action of light upon objects
and the expression and character of faces, and have be-
gun to acquire some insight into the principles of fore-
shortening and perspective, they are inferior to Giotto
in originality of feeling and grandeur of design. He
had been a solitary genius.

However, at the beginning of the fifteenth century,
there arose in Florence a new genius, who became to this
century what Giotto l^iad been to the fourteenth. At a
bound he leaped above all competitors, set painting free
from its shackles, and continued to be a stimulus to hosts
of other painters, including Michelangelo and Raphael.
This new genius was Masaccio; and he, after his short
life of twenty-seven years, was followed by the Paduan

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MASACCIO-.AIAXTECxXA

•

Mantegna; this man, too, a genius, whose influence was
wide-spread. By these two men painting was com-
pletely emancipated and set upon that sure and certain
path along which it marched with gathering splendor
toward the climax of the High Renaissance of the six-
teenth century.

The great achievement of both these men, the original
force from which all other improvements followed, was
to realize for themselves and to impress upon others the
independent dignity of painting as an art. Hitherto it
had been regarded as the handmaid of religion, its higli-
est function to set before the eyes of men the doctrines
of the church. We have seen to what a condition it had
thus been brought under Byzantine influences. Nor was
Giotto able to do more than accept this secondary use of
painting and then try to infuse more life into it. A
century had to drag its lengtli before JNIasaccio and
Mantegna could say, in effect: "Before everything else
we are painters; practisers of an art that, like sculpture,
but much more than it, can make the external appear-
ances of things visible to the eye. The invisible things
of the spirit we will embody in oiu' pictures if we can,
but it is not with them that painting is first concerned.
Its first duty is to develop that which belongs exclusively
to itself. The teaching of doctrine, the telling of sacred
stories and legends, we share with the men who use
spoken or written words, and their power in this respect
is fuller than ours ; the suggestion of beautiful tlioughts
is quite as much, and more, within the power of the nni-
sician ; but the representation of tlie external appearance
of things, and especially of humanity, tlie crown of

[ -^1 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

things, is the one point in which painting excels all other
modes of expression. This is its special province; and
our aim as painters must be, first and foremost, to rep-
resent the external appearances of things. This is at
once our peculiar province and delight."

The joy of the painter in external things, we shall
find, was shared at this time by thousands who were not
painters. It was a symptom of the age. But, before
discussing it, let us turn to the two pictures : Masaccio's
St. Peter Baptizing the Heathen and Mantegna's
Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua, Welcoming Home from
Rome his Son, the Cardinal Francesco. The former
is religious in subject; but is it not clear that what
chiefly occupied Masaccio's mind was to represent the
incident as it may actually have occurred, with real men
conducting themselves as they naturally might do un-
der the circumstances? Observe especially the young
man on the right with his arms crossed. In the first
place, it is an enormous advance on Byzantinism that
the artist, in this figure and the kneeling one, has repre-
sented the nude. Giotto had made a tentative step in
this direction when, in his picture of the Entombment,
he painted the figure of Christ nude as far as the waist.
But here the baptism justified a nude representation
of the whole of the figure, and Masaccio made full use
of the opportunity. Note also in each case with what
a regard for character as well as correctness of form;
with an intent to make the nude a vehicle of expression.
Compare the reverential composure of the young man
who kneels with the trembling attitude of the other who
stands on the bank shivering and nervously waiting his

[22]

MASACCIO-MAXTEGXA

turn. ^Moreover, in each case, note the truth to nature
represented in the pose: the shoulders, being drawn
forward, are bahuiced by the bending of the knees and
the drawing back of the body. For the present it will
be sufficient to contrast with these nude figures the grand
figure of St. Peter. The drapery is broadly and simply
treated, as in Giotto's paintings, but with still greater
ease and fluency of lines and masses that more thor-
oughly suggest the attitude and bulk of form of the
figure. Lastly, observe the dignity of the saint's head,
and the character and individuality portrayed in all the
faces. It is humanity for its own sake, as separately rep-
resented in the individual, not the use of form for sym-
bolical purposes, that interested INIasaccio. With him
painting became emancipated finally from B'yzantinism.
When we turn to the JNlantegna, it is probably again
the character and individuality of the heads w^hich first
arrest our attention. They are portraits of the marquis,
his sons, and courtiers : not beautiful, except perhaps in
the case of the youth in the foreground. He is already
a prothonotary of the holy see at Rome, one of the twelve
ecclesiastical clerks who keep a record of the pontifical
proceedings, and is destined to be a bishop. The gravity
of life has weighed his young face with seriousness; in
remarkable contrast to his elder brother, the Cardinal
Francesco. The latter is soft and fleshly, as if fond of
easy living; we are not surprised to learn that he is a
lover of music, a connoisseur and collector of works of
art, a man of refined and comfortable tastes. The faces
of these two sons are cin-iously reflected in the stern,
strong, but not untender head of the old father on the

[23]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

left, while the two little children have a strange infantile
resemblance to the other members of the family. The
remainder of the group consists of courtiers, men of pro-
nounced character, shrewd and masterful. Throughout
the whole there is a tendency toward stiff attitudes and
liny draperies, at first sight not agreeable; but there is
no mistaking- the reality of these people ; and we shall
better appreciate the picture when w^e have discovered
the influence that helped to form Mantegna's style.

It was through the lessons learned from sculpture that
painting recovered its independent force. Both INIasaccio
and JNIantegna displayed their genius by making these
lessons so completely their own that they themselves be-
came the models for succeeding painters. Being a Flor-
entine, Masaccio must have been familiar from child-
hood with the bronze doors of the Baptistery by Andrea
Pisano, the finest sculptural work of the fourteenth cen-
tury in Italy; and, before he began the painting of St.
Peter, Ghiberti had finished the first pair of his doors
for the same Baptistery, and Donatello had executed,
among other works, his statue of St. George. The
last-named is remarkable for its naturalistic and at the
same time elevated treatment of the human figure in
the complete round, while Ghiberti's pictorial panels,
which INIichelangelo thought worthy of decorating the
Gates of Paradise, no less naturalistic than the St.
George, are richly elaborate compositions containing
numerous figures — in some cases as many as a hundred
— associated with architecture and landscape. The St.
George is an example of the grandeur of form in
the round ; Ghiberti's work, of the illusion which can be

[24]

PUBUO

tluii^HV

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ST. PETER BAPTIZING

MASACCIO

BRANCACCI CHAPEL, CHURCH OF THE CARMINE, FLORENCE

GOXZAGA WKLCO.MINC; HIS SON'S .MAMia.NA

CAMKHA DKdlJ SI'OSI, CASTKM.O 1)1 COKIK, MANTIA

MASACCIO-MANTEGNA

produced by varying the elevation of the surfaces, so
that, although nothing is in the round, everything has
the appearance of being; and also by regulating the
direction of lines and the gradations of planes, so that
the scene depicted seems to extend back in a distant
perspective.

This latter quality is conspicuous in ^Nlasaccio's as
compared with earlier work. There is no longer a
stretching of the figures across the picture in a flat band,
almost on the same plane, with other figures placed
above them, whose position in a further plane is only in-
dicated by a diminution of their size; instead, a natural
and concentrated grouping, in which the figures and
landscape occupy in a natural way their several planes
in the receding s})ace. For this pictiu-e is no longer flat,
but hollow and fllled with air. Whatever INIasaccio may
have learned from the sculptors, this he gained from a
direct study of nature. He jiroved himself a true painter
by the skill with which he surrounded his figures with air
and represented the varying effects of light upon the
different objects. And these qualities, added to his
knowledge of the human form and his strong, sincere
treatment of it in composition and drawing, are the se-
crets of his greatness.

His chief works arc the frescoes in the Brancacci
Chapel of the Church of the Carmine in Florence, of
which this St. Peter is one: a series finished later by
Filippino. In 1428 he .was summoned to Kome, and
all further knowledge of " Careless Thomas " (for that
is the meaning of his name) ceases. It was nearly fifty
years before a worthy successor to him appeared in Flor-

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ence, and meanwhile the story shifts to Padua and to
Mantegna.

In 1305 Giotto had gone to that city and commenced
the series of thirty-eight frescoes in the Chapel of the
Arena, which are among his most famous works. But
they bore no immediate fruit in Padua. ]More than a
hundred years afterward, however, one Squarcione, a
tailor and embroiderer, began to take an interest in art.
Having considerable means, he proceeded to make a col-
lection of pictures; and, traveling through Italy and,
some say, Greece, made drawings and took casts of an-
cient marbles. Returned to Padua, he placed these on
exhibition and opened a school of art. The most famous
of his pupils was Andrea Mantegna, the son of a small
farmer. The master had thought so highly of the boy
that he adopted him as a son, thereby securing additional
control over his labors. His shrewdness was justified,
for at the age of twenty-one the young man was already
executing important work on behalf of his master. The
latter, in time, received a commission to decorate the
chapel of the Ovetari family in the Church of the Ere-
mitani; and here, quite close to the garden inclosing
Giotto's chapel, Squarcione's pupils painted a series of
frescoes, which became to the painters of North Italy
what those by Masaccio in the Brancacci Chapel were to
Florence.

At the commencement of this series, which was de-
signed to represent incidents in the lives of St. Christo-
pher and St. James, the master's best pupil was Niccolo
Pizzolo, whose most promising career was cut short in
a street brawl; but before the work's completion it was

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clear that the greatest of all was ^Nlantegna. While
the latter was still engaged upon this work, he made the
acquaintance of the Venetian painter Jacopo Bellini,
who, with his two sons, later to be so famous in the annals
of Venetian painting, Gentile and Giovanni, was then
sojourning in Padua. The acquaintance ripened into a
close attachment, which was cemented by ^Nlantegna's
marriage to Jacopo's daughter.

His growing reputation caused him to be summoned
to Verona, and while he was working in that city there
came an invitation, frequently repeated, from Lodovico
Gonzaga, ^larquis of ^lantua. For, by this time, the
municipal authority of the free cities, which had flour-
ished during the fourteenth century, had been usurped
by powerful families.

•

The Communes, the Republics of Italy, after their period of
self-assertion, of glory, of intense localized energy and furious
internecine rivalry, began to get exhausted, to decay, to become
weaker and weaker, by degrees to disappear altogether. And
in their j)lace there sprang up everywhere the great princely
houses — the Medici of Florence, the Visconti and the Sforza
at Milan, the Este at Ferrara, tlie Bentivogli at Bologna, the
Montefeltri at Urbino, the Baglioni at Perugia, the Malatesta
at Rimini and Cesena, and tlie Gonzaghi at INIantua.^

These despots intrenched themselves in castles to over-
awe the cities which they ruled, continually threatened
by the outward attacks of one another, and by attempts
at poisoning or assassination from enemies within. Yet
they maintained magniflcent courts, surrounding them-
selves with scholars, poets, and painters.

^ Selwyn Brinton.

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In the strange and frightful isolation in which the Italian
despot often lived, ever plotting himself to keep his insecure
throne, ever watching against plots within the city and without,
this brilliant society of dependants became his solace and his
highest pleasure. Traverse that wonderful palace of the house
of Este — intact, surrounded by its moat, dominating with its
insolent pride the old city of Ferrara. Into the upper galleries
and banquet-halls the sunlight pours. We seem to hear the mu-
sical laughter, the rustle of the rich old cinque-cento costumes ;
the walls are hung with paintings by Dosso Dossi or Titian —
naked wrestlers, figures running, and the radiant deities of the
old reawakened mythology. And below, beneath even the moat,
lies the other side of the picture: the horrible dungeons, dark,
noisome, shadowy, where the political conspirator, the inconve-
nient relative, the too outspoken citizen, the suspected wife, were
thrust, and— soon forgotten.

Yet within some such courts this life must often have been
very brilliant and wonderful. At Mantua the marquis had
brought from Padua the great Greek and Latin scholar, Vit-
torino da Feltre, to be tutor to his children. A villa was allotted
• to the household, and a system of education commenced which
deserved the admiration and fame it soon gained. Besides
the rich and noble youths who thronged to Vittorino, no less
than sixty poor scholars were fed, clothed, and taught at his own
expense. Plain living and high thinking were there the rule;
diet and physical exercises — wrestling, fencing, swimming, rid-
ing — were carefully considered; the highest classic authors,
Virgil and Homer, Cicero and Demosthenes, were revered as
the supremest masters of style. ^

Into this refined society of scholars and courtiers was
Mantegna summoned, and in the service of this marquis
and of three of his successors he remained, with the

^ Selwyn Brinton,

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MASACCIO-MAMEGNA

exception of two years spent in Rome, until the end of
his hfe.

In the atmos})here of such a court he was completely
at home, for here were focused into a brilliant epitome
tlie great forces which, during this century, were leaven-
ing the whole of Italy and were also at work in INIan-
tegna himself. These were, first of all, the moral (juali-
ties of self-assertion, belief in the dignity of man and
in the grand possibilities of life, intense earnestness
and eager seriousness ; secondly, the mighty influence of
the rediscovered Latin authors, and particularly of the
Greek, the consequent admiration and worship of the
antique, and the conviction that in it ^vas to be found
the key to unlock all the glorious possibilities of the
modern life.

INIantegna, as we have seen, had been nourished upon
antique sculpture; from his own standpoint as an artist,
he was the equal of the classic scholars ; they could learn
from him, as he from them ; he could share tlie eff'ort of
all to enlighten the present by the past. Therefore, if
we turn again to this picture, still surviving on the wall
of one of the rooms in the castle of JNIantua, where all
those people actually lived their proud, high-seeking,
dignified, and, at times, terrible lives, we may he able
perhaps to see it with truer eyes, and find it extraordi-
narily fascinating. We shall understand that it was
with deliberation that Mantegna made the figures of the
marquis and his sons particularly immobile, their dra-
peries notably stiff. 15y thus emphasizing the resem-
blance of this portion of his picture to anticpie low-relief
sculpture, he singled out these figures from the others

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for particular honor. That the whole group stretches
across the composition with a general resemblance to an
ancient bas-relief, is a tribute to the classic ideals which
he and all those people worshiped. But that he was also
a student of nature may be seen in the fine perspective
of the landscape. A still finer example of perspective
adorns the ceiling of this same room, which he decorated
in such a way that one seems to be looking up at the sky
through a circular opening, as we may see it actually
through the eye of the Pantheon's dome. Around the
circle is a balustrade, upon which stand a peacock and
a basket of fruit; and leaning upon it are a girl with
jeweled head-dress and a negress, who look down with
laughing faces, while a band of winged boys play on
the edge of the stone-work. Vasari relates what admira-
tion this excited. Nothing so daring or so scientific had
previously been accomplished in Italy.

The work, however, which seems to have pleased Man-
tegna himself best was his series of panels, painted on
canvas, in all eighty feet long, representing the Triumph
of Ccesar. Into this long procession he crowded the
fruits of the study he most loved— as Vasari says:

the perfumes, the incense-bearers, tlie priests, the oxen crowned
for sacrifice, the prisoners, the booty seized by the soldiers, the
well-ordered squadrons, the elephants, the spoils of art, the vic-
tories, cities, and fortresses imitated on different cars, together
with an infinitude of trophies, hehnets, corselets, and arms of all
kinds borne aloft on spears, with ornaments, vases, and rich ves-
sels innumerable.

Of these paintings, marvelous exhibitions of knowledge,
invention, and skill, Mantegna, who was most self -ex-

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MASACCIO-MANTKGXA

acting and severe in the judgment of himself, said: " I
really was not ashamed of having painted them." In
1628, two years before the sack of Mantua by the Aus-
trians, they were sold to Charles I of England, and now
are in Hampton Court Palace, irreparably damaged by
"restoration." Fortunately they can still be studied in
the magnificent series of wood-engravings made from
tliem by Andrea Andreani at the close of the sixteenth
century. Of portions also of the Triumiuli jNIantegna
himself made engravings upon copper.

Foi- this profound student of the antique, of nature,
and of the scientific principles of drawing and painting,
found time, in the midst of his work with the brush and
pencil, to execute many engravings, among the most
famous of which are an Entoinhment of Christ and a
Judith with the Head of Holof ernes. The prints of
his engravings, traveling broadcast through Europe as
well as Italy, helped to teach others and to draw many
students to Mantua to build up their own knowledge by
study of the great master's paintings.

I wish it were possible to illustrate here the two en-
gravings mentioned above, for they throw a strong light
upon ^lantegna's genius. They prove, on the one hand
his extraordinary intensity of feeling, on the other his
extraordinarily dispassionate self-control, and also his
power over line to make it express emotion. In the
Kntomhment the lifeless, expressionless body of the
Saviour is surrounded with dramatic energy: the bearers
straining on the burden, the mourners weeping or toss-
ing their hands in anguish, the Virgin in collapse, St.
John standing erect witli clenched hands and open

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mouth, shrieking in utter horror that such a thing should
be ! It is the work of a man whose imagination has been
filled with the terribleness of suffering. Yet, when he
draws Judith, he represents her as a beautiful Vestal
virgin, a visionary, like Joan of Arc, dreamily and
daintily passing her hand over the head of the mur-
dered general who would have enslaved her nation. No
sight of blood, nothing of sensationalism ; he himself be-
trays no feeling, looks at the matter quite objectively,
sees only in the horror of the situation a chance for most
exquisite beauty of expressional line.

Could you compare it with our present picture, it
would help you to understand that the severity of the lat-
ter was deliberate. Yet, even without the comparison, a
study of the accompanying illustration will reveal how
the intentional severity of the upright lines of figures,
tree, and column has been counteracted and assuaged by
the curving line, like a loop of links, formed hj the ten-
der figures in the group, the young ecclesiastic and the
little children ; and, further, by the diagonal lines of the
beautiful landscape.

The stern old Paduan expressed the intense energy
of his age, tempered only occasionally with the softer
sense of beauty.

[36]

CHAPTER IV

FRA ANOELICO JAN VAN EYCK

1387-1455 (?)-lU0('O

Italian School of Florence Flemish School of Bruges

BEFORE proceeding along the path which jNIa-
saccio and ]Mantegna have struck out, we must
pause to consider a painter who, althougli a con-
temporary of theirs, helongs more to the past. He was
the last inheritor of the Giottesque tradition, and the last
of the painters whose work is thoroughly religious.

I invite you to turn aside into a little quiet garden, as
it were, secluded within cloister walls, where Fra An-
gelico, painter and monk, a hrother of the hlack-and-
white order of the Dominicans, devoted his life to re-
ligious paintings. Choosing, as an example of his work,
The ^innunciation, I have placed it in comparison with
The Virgin and Donor by Jan van Eyck, who shares
• with his brother Hubert the honor of founding the
Flemish School.

One reason for this comparison is that we are trying
to gain a bird's-eye view of the story of painting; not
allowing oiu'selves to become absorbed in any one spot
to the exclusion of others, but scanning the whole field
and noting the great movements as they spring up, now
here, now there, sometimes related to one another, some-

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times separate, but all of them features in the general
progress of European civilization. Surely it is interest-
ing to realize that at the commencement of this fifteenth
century, when Italy was waking up to its second and
greatest activity, the Flemish also were waking up to
art, the first among the Northern nations. Again, I
have selected this comparison, because it was religious
subjects that chiefly occupied the Flemish painters, and
Fra Angelico is the most remarkable example in Italian
art of a religious painter of religious subjects. JNIore-
over, he worked in a beautiful seclusion, and secluded
also was the art of Flanders, a choice garden in the
northern wilderness. It was an art, too, of minute per-
fection of finish, and such was Fra Angelico's.

There is in both these pictures a minute finish of de-
tail which suggests — what is indeed the case — that each
artist owed something to the miniature-painters who
decorated with tiny scenes the pages of the manuscripts.
But in Fra Angelico's there is a greater simplicity and,
as the artists call it, a greater breadth of style; for this
picture was executed when he was about fifty years old ;
by which time he had been painting for thirty years
and had come, as we shall see, under many influences
that did not reach the Flemish artist.

So let us begin by studying the latter's picture. It
was painted for presentation to a church, and the por-
trait of the donor, the Canon Roslin, was introduced.
This was a common practice in the Renaissance days.
The picture was intended to serve the double purpose of
being " to the glory of God and in memory of the
donor." Clad in a dark robe brocaded with flower-forms

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FRA AXGELICO-VAX EYCK

of a bronze hue that catch the hght, now richly, now
dehcately, hke the body and wings of a May-bug, the
canon is kneehng in an attitude of prayer, but gazes
upon the Virgin with a piercing look of scrutiny. In
this strong face we feel sure that the artist has painted
an extraordinarily faithful portrait; and from the fact
that the expression of the face does not correspond with
the humble and devout gesture of the hands, we learn
that although Van Eyck painted religious pictures, he
was not a religious j^ainter in the way that Fra Angelico
was.

Note also the greater elaboration of Van Eyck's pic-
ture. After he had secured a dignified composition, in
which the principal figures should count as large and
handsome spots and the background be broken up by
contrast into a more complicated fretwork of decoration,
he then set himself to carry each separate part to the
finest possible degree of accurate and perfect workman-
ship. Here appears the Flemish spirit, with its patient,
tireless pursuit of minute beauty, such as produced a
nation of craftsmen, skilled in illumination, in miniature-
j)ainting, in jewelry and the working of gold and silver,
in embroidery and the making of tapestries and stained-
glass windows. But Jan van Eyck and his elder brother
Plubert, although they had this love of minute perfec-
tion, had also large ideas, and never allowed the little
details to detract from the grand general significance of
the whole work.

We may examine, for example, the figure of the
Christ; it is ])ainted with the precise daintiness of a min-
iature and is very baby-like, yet it has also remarkable

" [39]

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character, an air of seriousness, as if it were conscious
of being more than its httle form would indicate. The
Virgin's robe is crimson ; her face is not beautiful, being
of the heavy, wholesome, practical type of the women
of the country; but she has a wealth of golden hair,
painted with wonderful realism, and over it a little angel
holds a golden crown of exquisite workmanship deco-
rated with pearls. Or you may study with interest the
patterning of the marble floor; the elegant arcade of
arches and columns, with the glimpse of a leaded win-
dow on each side ; or the little garden beyond, where lilies
are growing in the borders, magpies strut on the paths,
peacocks sun themselves upon the balustrades, and two
little boys are looking out over the distant landscape.
Here is a far-stretching scene in miniature: level coun-
try, characteristically Flemish, threaded by a river over
which is a bridge connecting the town on the one bank
with that on the other. People are passing over the
bridge, or crossing the water in boats, or walking the
streets, with an appearance of reality, although their
stature is almost microscopic. Indeed, there is a great
deal in the picture that it is impossible to discover in the
black-and-white reproduction, which also gives little idea
of the textures — that is to say, of the rendering of the
different surfaces of marble, fabric, flesh, or metal and
the rest, each according to its special quality — and none
of the rich, full, firm coloring, brilliant as agate or
precious stones.

This wonderful color is another reason of the fame of
the Van Eycks. Artists came from Italy to study their
pictures, to discover what they themselves must do in

[40]

)— I
I— I

El!
O

S
o

<
Z
O

FRA AXGELICO-VAX EYCK

order to paint so well, with such brilliance, such full and
firm effect, as these two brothers. For the latter had
found out the secret of working successfully with oil-
colors. Before their day attempts had been made to mix
colofs in the medium of oil, but the oil was slow in
dryinfi^, and the varnish added to remedy this had
blackened the colors. The Van Kycks, however, had hit
upon a transparent varnish which dried quickly and
without injiny to the tints. Though they guarded the
secret jealously, it was discovered by the Italian xVnto-
nello da ^Messina, who was working in Bruges, and by
him published to the world. The invention made pos-
sible the enormous development in the art of painting
which ensued.

Little is known of the two brothers; even the dates of
their birth being uncertain. Their most famous work,
begun by Hubert and finished by Jan, is the altarpiece.
The ^Idoration of the Lamb. Jan, as perhaps also
Hubert, was for a time in the service of Philip the Good,
Duke of Burgundy. He was entered in the liousehold
as " varlet and painter " ; but acted at the same time as
confidential friend, and for his services received an an-
nual salary of one hundred livres (almost twenty-five
dollars) , tA\'o horses for his use, and a " varlet in livery "
to attend on him. The greater part of his life was spent
in Bruges.

In these two brothers the grand art of Flanders was
born in a day. Like " the sudden flowering of the aloe,
after sleeping through a century of suns," this art,
rooted in the native soil, nurtured by the smaller arts of
craftsmanship, reached its full ripeness, and expanded

[45]

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into blossom. Such further development as it experi-
enced, we shall find, came from Italian influence ; but the
distinctly Flemish art, born out of local conditions in
Flanders, was already full grown. The great French
painter and critic, Fromentin, says of it: "Imagine a
collection of the creations of the goldsmiths, executed in
paint, in which one feels the handiwork of the enameler,
the glass-worker, the graver, and the illuminator. Its
sentiment is grave, for it is inspired by the sentiment of
the monasteries ; but it is under the patronage of princes,
and its general character is resplendent."

And now let us turn back to Fra Angelico. Little is
known of his early life except that he was born at Vic-
chio, in the broad fertile valley of the Mugello, not far
from Florence, that his name was Guido, and that
he passed his j^outh in Florence, probably in some bot-
teglia, for at twenty he was recognized as a painter.
But he had already come under the influence of the
great preacher and scholar, Giovanni Dominici, who
traveled up and down the length and breadth of Italy,
exhorting all men to a holier life and founding the order
of Dominican monks. At the door of their convent on
the slopes of Fiesole, just above Florence, Guido and
his brother Benedetto, an illuminator, sought admit-
tance. They were welcomed by the monks, and, after
a year's novitiate, admitted to the brotherhood, Guido
taking the name by which he was known in after life,
Fra Giovanni da Fiesole; for the title of " Angelico,"
the " Angel," or " II Beato," " The Blessed," was con-
ferred on him after his death.

Henceforth he became an example of two personali-

[46]

FRA AXGELICO-VAN EYCK

ties in one man: he was all in all a painter, all in all a
devout monk; his subjeets were ever religious ones and
represented in a deeply religious spirit, j'^et his devotion
as a monk was no greater than his absorption as an ar-
tist. Consequently, though his life was seeluded within
the walls of the monastery, he kept in touch with the art
movements of his time and continually developed as a
])a inter. His early work shows that he had learned of
the illuminators who inherited the Byzantine traditions,
and had been affected by the simple religious feeling of
Giotto's work. Then he began to learn of that brilliant
band of sculptors and architects who were enriching
Florence by their genius. Ghiberti was executing his
])ictures in bronze upon the doors of the Baptistery;
Donatello, his famous statue of St. George and the
dancing children around the organ-gallery in the Cathe-
dral; and Luca della Robbia also was at work upon his
frieze of children, singing, dancing, and playing upon
instruments. jNIoreover, Masaccio had revealed the dig-
nity of form in painting. Tlu'ough these artists the
beauty of the human form and of its life and movement
was being manifested to the Florentines and to the
other cities, M'hither their fame spread.

Among the rest, Angelico catches the enthusiasm and
gives increasing reality of life and movement to his fig-
ures. Furthermore, from the convent garden he could
see the marvelous dome, designed by Brunelleschi, stead-
ily rising above the Cathedral. What wonder that his
imagination was fired and that he ])ecame, like other cul-
tivated men of the day, an earnest student of architec-
ture! At length, in the summer of 1435, the brethren

[47]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

moved into Florence and took up their abode in the mon-
astery of San JNIarco. The original house was being
added to, at the expense of Duke Cosimo de' JNIedici, by
his favorite architect, iNIichelozzo. Can you not im-
agine with what joy Angelico must have watched the
work, moved alike by the devout pride of a brother in
his order and by an artist's sympathy with beauty? For
he was to decorate the refectory and the corridors and
cells; and close indeed must have been the bond between
the painter and the architect.

If you turn again to the Aniiunciation that he
painted later on the waW. of the upper corridor, you will
see how large a part the architecture plays in the com-
position of the picture.

The arcaded loggia is clearly inspired by the one
down-stairs in the courtj'^ard, and the two Ionic columns
are careful copies of those which JNIichelozzo had just
completed. Moreover, the vaulted ceilings, the round
arch and slender columns with an adaptation of the Co-
rinthian capital, are all characteristic of the elegant dig-
nity of the arcades which this architect and Brunelleschi
were introducing into the interior courts of their build-
ings, while leaving the outside grave and often stern
and massive, like a fortress.

And from this we may glean two points of interest:
first, how the different kinds of artists of this period
learned from one another, working together in a newly
awakened enthusiasm for beauty; and, secondly, that
Angelico himself, by contact with these outside influ-
ences, had broadened and strengthened his own style.
He was now about fifty years old, and this picture, rep-

[48]

FRA AXGELICO-VAX EYCK

resenting his maturity, is far in advance of the earher
ones. They were apt to be crowded witli figures and
decorative details. 'J'liis one is so open and spacious,
freely letting in the quiet warmth of the twihglit; and so
simple in general plan and therefore decorative in a big
way. Instead of a multiplicity of objects counteracting
the effect of one another, a few^ leading features are en-
forced by re])etition: the curved lines of the arches and^
ceilings, for exam})lc, and the upright ones of the col-
umns and fence. And, in addition to the interlaced pat-
tern formed by the contrast of these two sorts of lines,
there is the massed contrast of the garden, interspersed
as it is with little features, and of the broad, plain sur-
faces of the masonry, enlivened only by a few choicely
selected details.

How this arrangement of beautiful simplicity, so ele-
vated in its general design, so tender in its parts, accords
with the character of the two figures and with the scene
they are enacting! In the cool of the evening ^Nlary has
been surprised by God's messenger, Gabriel. He has
but this moment alighted; his wings still glisten with
tlie iridescence of the sky, and his body thrills yet with
the rapidity of his flight, as he drops on one knee with
bowed head and folded hands in adoration of her who is
to be the mother of the Saviour. And at this apparition,
flashing so suddenly across the quiet tenor of her days,
Mary's face is troubled ; but, as she barkens to the divine
message, she too bows her head and folds her arms in
adoration and in meek acceptance. '' And Mary said.
Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me ac-
cording to thy word."

[49]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

Fitly corresponding to the sentiment of the occasion
is the tender purity of the color-scheme. The angel's
robe is pale rose-color edged with gold ; Madonna's robe
is a paler pink, and her mantle deep blue ; while, beyond
the whiteness of the architecture, the grass is starred
with daisies, and above the fence peep clusters of roses
backed by dark-green cypresses.

And fitly corresponding too is the habitation of the
picture. You pass out of the traffic of the streets into
the quiet retreat of Michelozzo's court, some afternoon,
perhaps, when the sloping sun plays lovingly over a few
of the arches and columns, while the rest are drowsing
in various gradations of shadow. A door in the cloisters
leads into the chapter-house, adorned with Fra Angel-
ico's Crucifixion; a second opens into the refectory,
where the brethren took their meals in presence of an-
other of their brother's pictures; and when you have
mounted the stairs you pass along the corridor, out of
which open the little private cells, where the black-and-
white-habited monks worked and slept and meditated:
in one of them Fra Bartolommeo— after Angelico's
time, but, like him, a painter — and in another Savona-
rola, a later prior of the order, who stirred Florence to
the depths by his denunciations of sin, and was hanged
by his enemies, his body being burned and its ashes
thrown into the Arno. You pass along beside the cells,
each with its little window and its sacred painting on the
Avail done by Angelico, until at the end of the corridor
you come face to face with this Annunciation.

Stilled is the busy life of the place, the monks are
gone, their habitation now a show-place trod by the steps

[50]

FRA AXGELICO-VAX EYCK

of visitors from all ])arts of the world. But the spirit of
peace and piety still haunts the spot and finds its sweet-
est expression in this picture.

C()ni})arc{l with it, Van Eyck's The Virgin and Donor
is mundane, of the world, worldly; it is the work of a
great painter luxuriating in the opportunities which
tlie sacred suhject offered. Fra Angelico was no less
ardent a painter, hut his painting was saturated with
the feeling also of devout religion. In the complete
luiion of the artist and the devotee he stands alone in
the history of painting. Ilis gentle art and life repre-
sent, as I have said, a quiet back-water, secluded from
the river of achievement that was gathering force and
about to plunge on in full might through the fifteenth
century.

[51]

CHAPTER V

ALESSANDRO BOTTICELLI HANS MEMLING

1446-1510 .1425(?)-1495(?)

Italian School of Florence Flemish School of Bruges

WE have seen that the revival of painting be-
gan with the study of the appearances of
objects and an attempt to represent them
as real to the senses of sight and touch ; that the painters
learned from the sculptors, who themselves had learned
from the remains of antique sculpture; and that the re-
sult was a closer truth to nature, in the representation
both of the human form and of its movement. We have
also seen how in Flanders Jan van Eyck developed a
grand school of painting out of the national skill of
craftsmanship in the minor arts of decoration, — gold-
smith's work, stained glass, embroidery, tapestry, and
the like, — and that to the truth of natural form he added
also a true appearance of textures. Further, we have
seen how in Fra Angelico appeared the most perfect
flower of that old religious feeling which for centuries
had been a light in the darkness of the world.

We have now to consider the effect produced upon
painting by the revival of the study of Greek, which re-
vealed to Italy of the fifteenth century a new light, in
the joy of which the older light was dimmed. Botticelli
typifies this new inspiration. I have coupled with him

[52]

BOTTICELLI-MEMLIXG

the Flemish painter Meniling, in order to continnc our
study of the Flemish School, and also because both tliese
artists, though they worked apart and under very differ-
ent conditions, had one quality in common. A certain
naivete of mind appears in each, an unaffected sim-
plicity, frank and artless, fresh and tender like the cliild-
mind or tlie opening buds of spring flowers. In Mem-
ling's case it is tinctured with gentle sentiment; in that
of Botticelli, with a wistful yearning toward the light of
old Hellas which was just beginning to dawn on the
world of his time.

If you visit the Campo Santo at Pisa, you will see
some frescoes which were painted in the fourteenth cen-
tury, perhaps by Orcagna, or, as others think, l)y the
brothers Lorenzetti. Their subjects are, The Triumph
of Death, The Judgment, and Hell. They are terri-
ble in their tragic intensity. A party of ladies and
knights are going a-hawking; but their horses start back,
sniffing at three open coffins in which half-decayed
corpses are lying. For one of those awful ])lagues which
periodically devastated Europe is stalking through the
land. In another part of tlie picture appears a throng
of youths and maidens dancing in a rose-garden,
whom Death is mowing down with a scythe; elsewhere
wretched creatures, mutilated by torture, are im])loring
Death in vain to ease them of their anguish; good and
evil spirits struggle for the souls of men ; and apart from
these grisly liorrors are hermits, living their lives of ab-
negation with the birds and beasts among the rocks.

These frescoes de])ict with horrible directness the dark
turmoil of soul and body in the middle ages; the cruelty

■ [ 53 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

of man to man ; the ever-present dread specter of death ;
the judgment of God, inexorable, inevitable; the soli-
tude of the monkish life, as the only refuge from a
sinful and doomed world; lurid fire, and blackness
hanging like a thick pall above it, and no escape ex-
cejDt in the renunciation of the world and of the joy of
living.

But a glimmer of light was trembling on the horizon.
The possibility of beauty in the living of this life was
beginning to swallow up the horror of death; the soul
of man, so long pent up and imprisoned in savage dark-
ness, had been suddenly liberated; for what is called
" The New Learning " had unlocked the dungeons of
thought.

The newness consisted in two things: first, that the
learning concerned itself with new subjects; secondly,
that the knowledge of Greek was recovered by the west-
ern world.

Dante's poems were the swan-song of the middle ages.
Seventeen years before his death, Petrarch was born;
nine years later Boccaccio; and the poetrj'^ of both and
the stories of the latter are the evangel of the modern
world. Instead of speculating on the mysteries that lie
beyond the grave, their theme is the present life and liv-
ing humanity.

Moreover, both of them were inflamed with a longing
to know all that was to be known of the older classic
authors of Italy, and of the Greek classics upon which
the Roman were founded. They ransacked Italy for
manuscripts, and procured from a certain Leontius Pi-
latus, a native of Greece, a rude translation of Homer

[54]

BOTTICELLI-MEMLIXG

into Latin; for with the Greek tongue itself they had no
acquaintance.

The intnuhietion of tliis into Itahan culture dates
from 139G, when ^Manuel Chrysoloras, a Byzantine
scholar, was a])pointed professor of Greek at Florence.
From him and from his pupils the knowledge of Greek
literature spread rapidly over Italy, accompanied by an
extraordinary enthusiasm for the antique: for Roman
and Cxreek art, and for Greek thought and Greek ideals.
Hence the artist's devotion to the beauty of the human
form, the scholar's admiration of Plato's ])hilosophy.
Artists and scholars thronged the court of Duke Lo-
renzo de' jNIedici — Lorenzo the ^Magnificent, patron of
arts and letters; and among the brilliant throng none
was more highly honored than Sandro Botticelli.

He was the son of a citizen in comfortable circum-
stances, and had been " instructed in all such things as
children are usually taught before they choose a calling."
But he refused to give his attention to reading, writing,
and accounts, continues Vasari, so that his father, de-
spairing of his ever becoming a scholar, apprenticed him
to the goldsmith Botticello: whence the name by which
the world remembers him. In those days, as we have
noted before, men were masters of more than one craft.
Among Sandro's contemporaries, for instance, Polla-
juolo was painter as well as goldsmith, and Verrocchio
goldsmith, painter, and sculptor. Botticello's Sandro, a
stul)born-featured youth with large, quietly searching
eyes and a shock of yellow hair,— he has left a portrait
of himself on the right-hand side of his picture of the
Adoration of the Ma^i,— would also fain become a

[55]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

painter, and to that end was placed with the Carmelite
monk Fra Lippo Lippi.

Read for yourself Browning's poem " Fra Lippo
Lippi," and discover the friar's discontent at being
obliged to represent religious subjects according to the
conventions prescribed by his patron, the church. For
he was a realist, as the artists of his day had become, satis-
fied with the joy and skill of painting, and with the ac-
tual study of the beauty and character of the human
subject. Sandro made rapid progress, loved his master,
and later on extended his love to his master's son, Filip-
pino Lippi, and taught him to paint. But the master's
realism scarcely touched him, for Sandro was a dreamer
and a poet.

You will feel this, if you refer to the two pictures
and compare his Madonna Enthroned with Memling's.
The latter's is much more realistic. It is true that it does
not, as a whole, represent a real scene, for the Virgin's
throne with its embroidered hanging or dossal, the can-
opy or baldachin above it, and the richly decorated arch
which frames it in, are not what you would expect to
see set up in a landscape. These are the conventional
features, repeated with variations in so many Madonna
pictures intended for altarpieces. But how very real
are the two peeps of landscape, drawn, we may feel sure,
from nature: a great man's castle and a water-mill, two
widely separated phases of life, suggesting, perhaps,
that the Christ came to save rich and poor alike. This
would be a touch of symbolism ; another may appear in
the introduction of the apple, intended to remind us of
the circumstances of the fall of man, which the Saviour

[56]

THE N:
PUBLIC

ASTO'», Lr^)Or AND
TILD -

MADONNA ENTHRONED ALESSANDRO BOTTICELLI

BERLIN GALLERY

Aiuc.ix i:n'iiih()N1-,i)

HANS Mi:.Ml,I\G

IKKI/I (lAr.M-.KV. l-I.OKKNCli

THE

PIT

ARY

X AND
TILDN FOUNDATIONS.

botticelli-:memi.ixg

came into the world to redress. But ]\Iemling was satis-
fied merely to suggest the symbohsm; and then devoted
himself to rendering with characteristic naivete a little
scene of realism. The angel on the left is simply an
older child, playfully attracting the baby's attention
with an apple; the Christ is simply a baby attracted
by the colored, shining ()])ject; and the pretty scene is
watched intently by the other angel. On the ^Madonna's
face, however, is an abstracted expression, as if her
thoughts were far awav; and indeed thev are, vet not in
pursuit of any mystical dream, but following that quiet,
ha])py pathway along which a young mother's thoughts
will roam. She is, in fact, only a girl-mother whom the
artist has surprised, while she sits, unconscious of every-
thing around her, wrapped up in the inward peace and
joy of motherhood.

So we find in jNlemling's picture, despite the religious
conception of its arrangement, a preoccupation with the
natural appearances of persons and things, a close study
of the way in which facts present themselves to the eye.
This is ap])arent equally in the landscape, in the carved
and embroidered ornament, in the character of the fig-
ures, and in the little story which they are enacting. As
I have said, the spirit of the picture is realistic.

But turn to Botticelli's. Here the spirit is allegorical.
He was fond of allegorical subjects, especially of
mythological ones treated in a vein of allegory. His
Birth of Venus and Allegory of Spring are the most
famous examples. In the ])resent case the subject
is religious, but we may doubt if the Bible version of the
story was in the artist's mind. He was commissioned

[61]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

to paint a JMadonna and Child with attendant angels,
and, poet and dreamer that he was, took the familiar
theme and made it the framework of an imagery of
his own. This imagery, it may be fairly safe to believe,
had less to do with the old Gospel story than with the
later gospel of the New Learning. In the figure of the
Child-Christ there is a grave dignity, an assertion of
authority; and not improbably the artist meant it to be
symbolic of the wonderful new birth of classic culture.
The only gesture of infancy is in the left arm and in the
hand groping for the mother's breast. And she has the
same kind of face, bowed in timid meekness, A^ery sad in
expression, which Botticelli gave to his Venus. JNIother
of love, mother of God, — he blends the Christian and
the pagan worship to represent the mother of the " De-
sire of all nations." The cult of the Virgin, partly at
least, had grown out of the ancient cult of Venus; and
Botticelli, working in an age that was looking back to
the classic past and trying to adjust the present to it,
felt in INIadonna and in Venus the twin expressions of a
single sentiment — worship of the highest beauty in the
person of woman. But beauty of face, as some may
think, he does not give to his queen of love ; she is meek
and timid, as I have said, oppressed with gentle sadness;
too frail as yet for a world still full of violence and con-
fusion ; sadly conscious that she is not yet at home in her
new habitation. ' And in the faces of the angels also, the
young, fair creatures that stand around the throne, there
is a similar expression of wistful and unsatisfied yearn-
ing. It was so that Botticelli's own spirit peered
through the still lingering darkness of the medieval

[62]

BOTTICELLI-MEMI.TXG

times toward that IiL>lit i'roiii Hellas which was begin-
ning to (lawn, but of which he himself never expected
to see the noonday. Hence the strain of sadness in all
his j)ictures; they have the note of infinite but ineffec-
tual desire. So, when we understand this, we forget
the homeliness of many of his faces, and find in them a
spiritual significance which, we learn to feel, is a very
touching and beautiful expression of the artist's own
mind, of his 2)articular way of looking at the world of
his own time.

He looked at it as a poet, moved alike by the love of
beautv and bv the beautv of love; and out of the world's
regalities he fashioned himself dreams, and these he pic-
tured. So his pictures, as I have said, are not records of
fact, treated with a very pleasing fanci fulness and rev-
erence, as in this ^ladonna of JNIemling's; but visions,
the beauty of. which is rather spiritual than material.
He tried, as it were, to paint not only the flower, but also
its fragrance; and it was the fragrance that to him
seemed the more precious quality.

So now, perhaps, we can begin to understand the dif-
ference between his technic— that is to say, his manner
of setting down in paint what he desired to express —
and ^lemling's. The latter, serene and happy, had all
a child's delight in the appearances of things, attracted
by them as the infant in this ])icture is attracted by the
apple, and offering them to us with the same winning
grace and certainty that they will ])lease as the angel
in the picture exhibits. So it is the facts, obvious to the
senses of touch and sight, that he presents, with a loving,
tender care to make them as obvious to us as possible,

[03]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

elaborating even the smallest parts. You have examined
the beautiful workmanship in the ornamentation of the
arch and in the garlands suspended by the charming lit-
tle baby forms; but have you observed the tiny figures
in the landscape? The castle drawbridge is down, and
a lady on horseback passes over it, following a gentle-
man who may be riding forth to hunt, since a greyhound
courses along behind him. From the mill is issuing a
man with a sack of flovir on his shoulders, which he will
set upon the back of the donkey that waits patiently
before the door ; while a little way along the road stands
a dog, all alert and impatient to start. These incidents
illustrate Mending's fondness for detail and elaboration
of finish, and his delight in the representation of facts
as facts: traits which were characteristic of this early
Flemish School. But observe that these minutely fin-
ished distant details illustrate also the naivete of Mem-
ling. From where he stood to paint the foreground
group, the figures in the background would appear sim-
ply as little spots of color. He did not paint the facts
as they appeared to his eye, but as in his mind he knew
them to be — the child's way of drawing.

By comparison with Memling, Botticelli is a painter
not of facts, but of ideas; and his pictures are not so
much a representation of certain objects as a pattern of
forms. Nor is his coloring rich and lifelike, as Mem-
ling's: it is subordinated to form, and often rather a
tinting than actual color. In fact, he is interested in the
abstract possibilities of his art rather than in the con-
crete. For example, his compositions, as has just been
said, are a pattern of forms; his figures do not actually

[64]

BOTTICELLI-MEMLING

occupy well-defined places in a well-defined area of
space ; they do not attract us by their suggestion of bulk,
but as shapes of form, suggesting rather a flat pattern
of decoration. Accordingly the lines which inclose the
figiH'cs are chosen with the primary intention of being
decorative. You will appreciate this if you will turn to
tlie two })ictures and compare the draperies of the angels.
Those of ]Memling are commonplace in their prosy re-
aHsm, compared with the fluttering grace of Botticelli's.
But there is more in this flutter of draperies than mere
beauty of line: it expresses a lively and graceful move-
ment. These angels have alighted like birds, their gar-
ments still buoyed up with air and agitated by their
speed of flight; each body being animated with its in-
dividual grace of movement. Compared with the spon-
taneousness and freedom of these figures, those of ]M em-
ling seem heavy, stock-still, and posed for effect.

Xow, therefore, you are in a position to appreciate the
force of the remark that Botticelli, " though one of the
worst anatomists, was one of the greatest draughtsmen
of the Renaissance." As an example of false anatomy
vou mav notice the impossible way in which the ]Ma-
donna's liead is attached to the neck, and other instances
of faulty articulation and of incorrect form of limbs
may be found in Botticelli's pictures. Yet he is recog-
nized as one of the greatest draftsmen, because he gave
to " line " not only intrinsic beauty but significance; that
is to say, in mathematical language, he resolved the
movement of the figure into its factors, its simplest
forms of expression, and then combined these various
forms into a pattern which, by its rhythmical and harmo-

[65]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

nious lines, produces an effect upon our imagination, cor-
responding to the sentiments of grave and tender poetry
that filled the artist himself.

This power of making every line count both in signifi-
cance and beauty distinguishes the great master-drafts-
men from the vast majority of artists who use line
mainly as a necessary means of*^ representing concrete
objects. To distinguish it from the latter use we may
call it the abstract use of line.

Yet, although unique, Botticelli's art was but a link in
the gradual development of Italian painting; whereas
Memling's, like the Van Eycks', represented a growth
complete in itself. Little is known of Memling's life.
It is surmised that he was a German by descent and born
in Mayence; but the definite fact of his life is that he
painted at Bruges, sharing with the Van Eycks, who
had also worked in that city, the honor of being the lead-
ing artists of the so-called " School of Bruges." He
carried on their method of painting, and added to it a
quality of gentle sentiment. In his case, as in theirs, the
Flemish art, founded upon local conditions and em-
bodying purely local ideals, reached its fullest expres-
sion.

His contemporary, Rogier van der Weyden, who
worked in Brussels and was the chief exponent of what
is called the " School of Brabant," represented religious
subjects with dramatic and emotional intensity; but his
color was pale and thin, and his drawing angular and
often extravagant in gesture. The sentiment of his pic-
tures is Gothic: a term which sums up in a general way
the religious feeling of the Northern races, more gloomy,

[ 66 ]

BOTTICELLI-MEMLIXG

intense, and painful than tlie Christianity of the South;
pr()(hicing tlie solemn, mysterious, intrieate grandeur of
the Gothie cathedral instead of the simpler, sunnier,
and more elegant form of church huilt in the Roman-
esque style, which was a mingling of the Roman and the
Byzantine methods of construction.

We shall have to say more about the Gothic feeling
when we come to the consideration of the early German
painting. INIeanwhile the thing to note is that the Van
Eycks and INIemling, though living in an age that was
influenced by this Gothic intensity, worked in an atmo-
sphere of quiet and sunniness, cultivating, as it w^ere, a
little garden stocked with the simple flowers native to
their coimtry, and bringing it to perfection of develop-
ment; so that this Flemish painting of the fifteenth cen-
tury represents a little separate chapter in the history of
art. At the beginning of the following century stands
out the name of Quentin INIassys (1460-1. 530), but his
work has alreadv ceased to be distinctivelv Flemish, and
shows the influence of Italy. For as commercial rela-
tions increased between the two countries, the artists of
Flanders lost their national characteristics and became
imitators, at a very great distance, of the Italian mas-
ters. As we are treating in this little book only of the
vital periods and ])hases of art, the art of Flanders will
disappear from our horizon for nearly a hundred years,
to reappear in colossal shape, in the person of Rubens,
at the beginning of the seventeenth century.

Italy's yearning toward the antique, to which Botti-
celli gave expression, we shall find satisfied in the work
of Giovanni Bellini and of Raphael.

[67]

CHAPTER VI

PIETBO VANNUCCI (called PERUGINO) GIOVANNI BELLINI

1U6-1534 1438 (?)-1516

Italian School of Umbria Italian School of Venice

AT the end of the previous chapter we touched on
/_\ the Gothic intensity which characterized the art
^ A. of the North, in the midst of which the Flemish
art of the fifteenth century, that culminated in the Van
Eycks and Mending, was like an oasis of repose and
rich pleasantness. For these artists escaped the rigor-
ous influences around them, chiefly through their j)ure
delight in the actual presentation of objects, which made
them first and chiefly painters, and only in a secondary
way interpreters of the Christian dogma and religious
zeal.

You will remember that a similar painter-like love of
presentation distinguished the contemporaries of Botti-
celli in Florence, and we spoke of them as realists, while
Botticelli, as we noticed, was a poet and a dreamer. The
two artists who now demand our attention, Perugino
and Giovanni Bellini, were also contemporaries of Bot-
ticelli; and in them too the painter-like point of view
was pronounced, but tempered with — perhaps we should
rather say, subordinated to— a very high purpose of
sentiment. '

They were among the first artists in Italy to perfect

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PERUGIXO-BELLINI

the use of the oil inediiiiii, the secret of which liad heen
(Hscovered from tlie Van Eycks and hrouglit into Italy
by Antonello da JNIessina. It permitted a fullness and
richness of color and a fusing of all the colors into an
atniosi)here of golden warmth — qualities that corre-
sponded with the sentiments that each of them desired
to express.

Let us try to understand the sentiment which is ex-
Jiihited in these pictures, l^erug^ino's is different to
Bellini's, and yet both have something in common. In
each of these two triptychs you will feel the presence of
a wonderful calm. It has been said of Perugino that he
is the painter "of solitude; of the isolated soul, alone,
unaffected by any other, unlinked in any work, or feel-
ing, or suffering with any other soul — nay, even with
any ])hysical thing." You will realize the truth of this,
I think, if you study the Pavia altarpiece. Xot only
in the expression of each face, but also in the gesture
and carriage of the body, there is an absolute uncon-
sciousness of surroundings, a complete absorption in
some inward spiritual ecstasy. The archangel ^Michael,
the Virgin, and the archangel Raphael, who holds the
young Tobit by the hand, are beings without sin or sor-
row or even joy; fillecKwith the " peace that ])asseth un-
derstanding," that peace which comes of complete de-
tachment from the world and of rapt communion with
God. Nor is the type of the male figures masculine — it
is said that Perugino's wife was the model for Raphael.
Yet the pose of the jNIichael is not that of a woman;
indeed, it would seem as if the artist's intention was to
create a being who should be without thought or sugges-

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

tion of sex ; the embodiment, with as httle bodily hin-
drance as possible, of a soul engaged in the beatitude of
contemplation. His figures, then, do not represent Vir-
gin, saints, and angels as such, but as personifications
of intense soul-rapture. They are the souls and soul-
saturated bodies which Perugino saw around him. For
in the dying years of the fifteenth century Italy was
torn with factions, a prey to sack and massacre at the
hands of licentious bands of soldiers. Perugia itself, the
little town on the hills of Umbria, where Perugino
worked, was governed by treacherous and ferocious
captains ; its dark and precipitous streets were filled with
broil and bloodshed, and its palaces with evil living. Yet
it was one of the most pious cities in all Italy. INIen and
women sought refuge from the horrors of actual life in
strange spiritual solitude, in life removed from all ac-
tivities, steeped in devotion, passively contemplating a
far-off ideal of purity and loveliness.

This was a very different thing from the active re-
ligious feeling of Fra Angelico : simple and childlike in
its sunny faith; a product, as it were, of the open day-
light; the lovable expression of a man who, as we have
seen, entered humbly and intelligently into the activities
aroimd him. Yet Perugino's art, like Fra Angelico's,
had its roots in the old Byzantine tradition of painting.
You remember that the latter had departed farther and
farther from any actual representation of the human
form, until it became merely a symbol of religious ideas.
Perugino, working under the influence of his time, re-
stored body and substance to the figures, but still made
them, as of old, primarily the symbols of an ideal. In

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PERUGIXO-liKLLIM

liiin tilt' liy/antinc inspiration, so far as it was an expres-
sion of religion, reached its highest point of develop-
ment.

It also reached a final development in Giovanni Bel-
lini, though in another direction. This artist was the
son of Jacopo Hcllini, a Venetian painter, who, however,
was settled in I'adua during the time that Giovanni and
liis elder hrother, Gentile, were in the period of student-
shi}). Here, as we have seen, they came under the in-
fluence of ]Mantegna, who was also hound to them h}'-
the ties of relationship, since he married their sister. To
his brother-in-law Bellini owed much of his knowledge
of classical architecture and perspective, and his broad
and sculptural treatment of draperies. ^Moreover, dur-
ing these years Verrocchio was working on his equestrian
statue of BartoJommeo Colleoni, "the most magnificent
equestrian statue of all time";' and Giovanni's father
had been a pupil of ^lantegna's master, Stiuarcione,
with opportunities of studying the remains of antique
sculpture that he had collected. So sculpture and the
love of the antique played a large part in Giovanni's
early inq)ressions, ai'id left their mark in the stately dig-
nity of liis later style. This developed slowly; indeed,
during his long life of eighty-eight years he was con-
tinually developing; and the masterpiece, reproduced
here, was executed when he was about sixty years old
and Titian was one of his pupils.

The calm which ])ervades this picture is of a different
kind from that which appears in Perugino's. Its sug-
gestion is of stateliness, of tlie nobility of grand types of

1 Dr. Bode

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

humanity. These figures have the ample quietude of
strength in repose that belongs to those of Phidias upon
the pediments of the Parthenon. Bellini, of course,
kneAv nothing of these; but his study of such antique
sculpture as had come within his observation, influ-
enced by his own particular bent of mind, led him to
a point of view very similar to that of the great Athe-
nian. The latter 's purpose had been to represent, not
individuals, but types of humanity, ideally perfect, god-
like beings, whose mental and ph5''sical powers were
in complete poise. Hence his work is distinguished by
grandeur of mass rather than by finish of detail. The
successors of Phidias, on the other hand, showed an
increasing tendency to individualize their figures by
making them expressive of sentiment and emotion.* A
similar difference distinguishes Bellini from his suc-
cessors in the Venetian School.

He is ranked as the greatest of the Venetian School
of the fifteenth century — nay, more than that, as the
greatest painter of the period — by no less an authority
than Diirer, who, during his visit to Venice in 1494,
wrote to a friend in a letter still preserved: " He is very
old, but yet the best in painting." It must be remem-
bered that at this date Titian was in his prime; so we
may well ask upon what Diirer based his judgment. He
knew his art theoretically and practically, so that he was
able to appreciate the perfect mastery over the brush
that was displayed alike by Titian and by Bellini; and,
if he preferred the latter, it must have been because he
himself was a very intellectual man and accordingly was
in sympathj^ with the grave and elevated conceptions of

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O
Q

I— I

y
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PERUGIXO-BELLINI

Bellini rather than with the more sensuous and emotional
art of Titian.

For this is the distinction between the two great Vene-
tians. Bellini worked in a great calm, removed from
passion. Swayed by intellectuality, serene and lofty and
a little severe, he stands to the glowing, eager spirits that
followed him as Phidias to Scopas and Praxiteles. In
one respect, however, he shows the influence of his time.
Observe the noble character in the heads of the four
saints. He lived in an age when the portrayal of char-
acter was an important aim of art, and was himself a
great portrait-painter — witness his noble portrait of
Doge Leonardo Loredano in the National Gallery.
During his long life he saw no fewer than eleven doges,
and was state painter during the reigns of four.

To return to our picture. These bishops and monks
have the bronzed, sunburned faces that may still be seen
among the boatmen of Venice; the Virgin's complexion
has the pure carnation tones of girls reared in a moist
atmosphere; the cherubs, with their naked legs, recall
the children that may still be seen fishing for crabs at
sunset. In fact, the picture, as the French critic Taine
remarked, " is full of local truth, and yet the apparition
is one of a superior and august world. These per-
sonages do not move ; their faces are in repose, and their
eyes fixed like those of figures seen in a dream."

Here again is the symbol of an idea, as in the Byzan-
tine pain-tings; but this time the symbol itself is founded
on truth to actual local facts, and the idea is the eleva-
tion of these well-known facts into a lofty and emiobling
type. It is not, as in Perugino's work, an escape from

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

human nature into the abstract sechision of the soul, but
an assertion of the grandeur that may be inherent in
humanity itself. Thus in Bellini's pictures the influence
of the new learning of Greek culture and Platonic phi-
losophy, tov/ard which Botticelli groped tentatively, is
seen in its highest and purest form.

And now let us try to discover something of the tech-
nical means by which Perugino and Bellini have ex-
pressed in these pictures their ideals. In one we have
a notable example of Perugino's skill in combining fig-
ures with landscape; in the other, a hint of the dignity
given to a composition by the introduction of architec-
tural forms.

It was not until the seventeenth century that artists
began to paint landscape for its own sake. By the Ital-
ians of the Renaissance it was treated as a background
for figures; and while many artists — Perugino, for ex-
ample, and the Venetians — made a close stud}^ of nature,
they always kept inanimate nature subordinated to the
human subject. The landscape in Perugino's triptych
is a representation of Umbrian scenerj^ a beautiful vista
of hills and river-threaded plain, stretching away to a
low, distant horizon, with the delicate foliage of slender
trees sprayed against the melting tenderness of the sky.
To this beautiful effect of receding distance and of open
sky, in the representation of which Perugino excelled, is
largely due the impression that the picture produces.
Just as the expression of the faces tells us that the
thoughts of these beings are far away from the actual
present, absorbed into infinite contemplation, so our
gaze wanders on and on through the landscape, and

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PERUGIXO-BELLIXI

finallv loses itself in the liiininous infinitude of tlie skv.
The landseape, in faet, puts our own minds in tune with
those of the persons in the pieture. If it were not there;
if, for exani])le, the haekground were of gold, as in
the old Byzantine pietures, I suspect that we should
find these figures excessively sentimental; as, indeed,
many of Perugino's pictures are, for it is only occasion-
ally that he rises to the spirituality of this one. But, as
it is, the sentiment of the figures is enlarged upon and
interpreted by the setting, just as in a Greek play the
emotions of the actors are explained by the chorus. i/

However, it is not only in interpreting such sentiment
as Perugino seeks to express that this union of landscape
and figures counts so much. One of the secrets of noble
composition is the balancing of what artists call the full
and empty spaces. A composition crowded with figures
is apt to produce a sensation of stuffiness and fatigue;
whereas the combination of a few figiu-es with ample
open spaces gives one a sense of exhilaration and repose,
"^'ou may think there is a contradiction in the idea of
being at the same time rested and exhilarated, unless you
know the sensation of mountain-walking, when the zest
of the upper air fills you with desire to exert yourself,
and yet there is no fatigue in exertion ; while the broad
sweeps of the sky above you and of plain and valley
l)elow open lungs and imagination equally, and you feel
full of peace and, simultaneously, of eagerness. And
this illustration is not far-fetched, since it is a fact that
a picture reaches our imagination through our ordinary
experience of j)hysical sensation. We know, for exam-
])le, how soft and warm and caressing is the skin of a

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

little child; and if, in the picture of a child, the flesh is
painted in such a way as to suggest this lovely texture,
it will stimulate our imagination with pleasure. And
it is in the degree that an artist stimulates our imagina-
tion through our physical experiences, that he seizes and
holds our interest.

I have spoken of the effect produced by a combina-
tion of full and empty spaces, but this may be nothing
more than a fine pattern. When, however, besides giv-
ing us a pattern of flat ornament in two dimensions, the
artist can make us realize the third dimension of nature,
— distance, — he so much the more kindles our imagina-
tion. For how many of us, as children, have looked at
that hill which bounded the horizon of our home and
longed to know what lay beyond it ? And, in after years,
the sight of the ocean, or of peak ranged beyond peak
in the mountains, or of a summer sky at night, or of
many other distant prospects, allures our imagination to
travel on and on and lose itself in space. Now the mere
suggestion of distance in a picture, secured by accurate
perspective, will not afl*ect us in this way ; the artist him-
self must have this sort of ranging imagination, and
then he will not only make you feel the distance, but the
existence of every successive plane of intervening space,
inviting your own imagination to range. Perugino pre-
eminently had this feeling and the gift of expressing it:
a mastery of what has been called by Mr. Bernard
Berenson the art of " space-composition." There are
many other technical points in the pictures that we
might dwell on; but as our purpose in this little book
is to proceed step by step, one thing at a time, we will

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PERUGIXO-BELLINI

limit our consideration to this one point, — the more so
as some of the others will he met with later in the work
of Perugino's most illustrious pupil, Raphael.

So, too, in the case of Bellini we will consider only a
single technical point — the value of architectural acces-
sories in adding dignity to the composition. These three
panels are inclosed in a gilt frame which itself is a very
handsome example of Renaissance design and crafts-
manship. You will ohserve that the character of the
design is architectural, and that the pilasters, the cornice,
and the arch repeat, and therefore enforce, the architec-
tural features of the picture. The general effect of this
architectural setting is a mingling of force and grave
distinction and of richness.

If you carefully compare this triptych with Peru-
gino's, you will get an insight into the different effects
])roduced, according as the hackground is landscape or
architecture. In the former the lines are irregular,
softly undulating, and distance melts into further dis-
tance; in Bellini's picture, however, the lines are firm
and exact, the background has structural weight and
stability. In one case the imagination spreads and
finally loses itself in conjecture; in the other it is con-
tracted and concentrated. Perugino's conception is very
wooing; Bellini's, more monumentally impressive.

Let us pause for a moment on this word "monu-
mental," since it expresses a quality which will con-
stantly confront us in our study of art. In one sense it
is the antithesis of nature: it belongs to a structure
reared by the hand of man. Instead of being the result
of natural laws working invisibly and over great periods

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of time, it is the result of formal laws invented by man
(sometimes, perhaps, through a hint from nature) and
compressed into a well-defined compass. A structure
must necessarily be smaller than nature, yet it may im-
press us with a greater sense of dignity and grandeur.
Nature's grandeur, as seen, for example, among the
peaks and canons of the mountains, fills us with awe;
we are in the presence of stupendous forces ifncon-
trolled by visible laws. Whereas a great building, as St.
Peter's, for example, is a triumph of law over disorder ;
everj^thing has been planned, calculated, regulated; in
the presence of it man is not crushed down into awed
insignificance, but, realizing that all this grandeur
around him is the work of man's hand and brain, he is
lifted up into glorious enthusiasm, filled with pride in
the grandeur of humanity and in the consciousness of
having a share in it. A building which can impress us
in this way we call monumental. It is worth while to
look a little more closely and discover by what means this
impression is produced.

Architecture is the most original of the fine arts, not
being an imitation of nature, as painting and sculpture
are, but an invention of man's own, founded first of all
upon necessity, and then made to contribute to the as-
pirations that filled his soul. Yet its principles are based
upon qualities which man learned to admire in nature:
stability, for example, height, and breadth, and spacious-
ness. The prophet Habakkuk, wishing to bring home to
man the awful power of God, says that in his presence
" the everlasting mountains were scattered, the per-
petual hills did bow." He knew that it was the stability,

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PERUGIXO-BELLIXI

the permanence of the mountains and hills which im-
pressed his hearers. Again, man in all ages has lifted
liis eyes from the earth to the height and immensity of
the sky; he piled stone on stone to reach this majesty
of height, and spanned his columns with arches, and then
assemhled his arches into the mimic wonder of a dome.
Trees taught him the aspiring grandeur of vertical lines;
the level horizon, the cjuiet dignity of the horizontal;
distance and space, the beauty of long vistas and of spa-
ciousness. After much experimenting he discovered the
proportion of height and breadth and length that would
best produce a harmonious whole, and then added orna-
ment which should enrich without impairing the struc-
tural dignitv and stabilitv of the mass.

Learning from architecture, the sculptors— who, as
you remember, in early times w^ere quite frequently
architects as well— applied these principles, and some-
times so successfully that their compositions are monu-
mental. Upon these principles also the painter based
his compositions; but, as the lines of nature and of the
human figure are not formal and rigid, he recognized
how much his picture would gain in force and stability
if he actually introduced some architectural features.
This was a common practice wdth the artists of the Re-
naissance, and is one of the causes of the noble dignity
of their pictures.

Bellini, in this one, has not only introduced architec-
ture, but has adapted the character of the figures to it.
I low large and simple in mass are those of the bishops
and monks, in which again appears the quiet grandeur
of upright lines! Even in the figures of the Virgin and

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

Child there is a strongly sculptural suggestion : her pose
is so firm and still, the cloak arranged in such simple and
resolute folds. And the statuesque character of this
figure in blue is enhanced by the open spaces around it
of crimson and gold, which isolate it and increase its
suggestion of everlasting stability and calm. Immobile
and permanent as the everlasting hills, she sits there
through the changes of time, guarded by men of the
people ennobled into types of physical and mental
grandeur, perpetual symbol of Bellini's intellectual
elevation.

After filling the whole of the north of Italy with his
influence and preparing the way for the giant colorists
of the Venetian School, Giorgione, Titian, and Vero-
nese, Bellini died of old age in his eighty-eighth year,
and was buried, near his brother Gentile, in the Church
of SS. Giovanni e Paulo. Outside, under the spacious
vault of heaven, stands the Bai^toloinmeo Colleoni, Ver-
rocchio's monumental statue, w^hich had been among the
elevating influences of Bellini's life and art.

Verrocchio's influence must have been exerted also
upon Perugino, if it is true, as Vasari asserts, that when
he left Perugia to complete his education in Florence he
M^as a fellow-pupil of Leonardo da Vinci in the sculp-
tor's hottegha. If he gained from the master something
of the calm of sculpture, he certainly gained nothing of
its force. It is as the painter of sentiment that he ex-
celled; though this beautiful quality is confined mainly
to his earlier works. For with popularity he becam'e
avaricious, turning out repetitions of his favorite types
until they became more and more affected in sentiment.

[84]

CHAPTER VII

RAPHAEL SAN Z 10

l/fS3-1520

Italian School of Urnbria,
Florence, and Home

MICHAEL WOLOEMUTII

14.3/f-irjl'j

German School of
Nuremberg

BY the beginning of the sixteenth century tlie
Renaissance in Italy had ripened into a golden
harvest. I^eonardo da Vinci, ^Michelangelo,
and Titian were in their prime, and within the long lives
of these older men blossomed Raphael's comparatively
brief life of thirty-seven years.

My reason for introducing him into our story a little
before his chronological ])lace is that now I wish to bring
into comparison with Italian art the contemporary art
of Germany. It seemed necessary to couple Leonardo
and Diirer; therefore I took advantage of the fact that
although Leonardo was older than Ra])hael he survived
him, in order to join the latter with Wolgemuth, who
was Diirer's master. For it is in Diirer, and later in
Hans Holbein the Younger, that German art in the six-
teenth century reached so high a point. Y<j\ we may
well study AVolgemuth, the better to appreciate tlie
greatness of Diirer and Holbein, and also because his
work is characteristic of the general art of Germany
before tliese two great masters.

How it differs from Raj)haers! The difference is

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wide and high as the Alps which separated the two civiU-
zations of which these two painters were, respectively, a
product. At this point, when Italy is approaching the
zenith of her Renaissance, and that of Germany is about
to dawn, it is well to glance back over the history of
the two countries, which for over a thousand years had
been acting and reacting upon each other.

Since the days -of Julius Caesar the German tribes had
been in conflict with Rome, but upon the outskirts of
the Empire. In the fifth century they began to crowd
down upon Italy itself.

In 410 Alaric, at the head of his Visigoths, penetrated
to the gates of Rome, took it, and subjected it to a six
days' pillage. Then Italy was ravaged successively by
Attila and his Huns, by Ostrogoths and Lombards,
until the genius of Charlemagne welded all the conflict-
ing elements of the western world into the Holy Roman
Empire (800 a.d.). But after his death the unwieldy
structure succumbed to its own bulk; his descendants
strove among themselves for supremacy, and the power
of •the feudal nobles was established. There followed
a century and a half of domestic war, in which unhappy
Italy was desolated by nobles and by invasions of Huns
and Saracens, and filled with corruption and barbarism.
At last, in 962, Otho the Great of Germany, having re-
vived in his person the title of Emperor of the Holy
Roman Empire, set himself to curb the power of the
nobles and of the church by encouraging the growth of
the cities and giving them free municipal authorit3\
The result was a long period of fighting between the
Papacy and the Empire, out of which arose the factions

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RAPIIAEL-WOLGE.MUTH

of Guelplis and (ihibellines, wlio, under pretense of fa-
voring, respectively, the chin-ch or emperor, committed
every sort of atrocity. After two hundred years of
social chaos, the destruction of ^lilun by the Emperor
Frederick Barbarossa so enraged the Guelph cities of
the north that they formed a league, defeated his army,
and at the Peace of Constance (1183) secured their
recognition as free cities, each with its council and chief
magistrate, or podcstd. But again the lull was only
brief. The maritime cities fought with one another for
the supremacy of the sea ; while everywhere the lack of
military spirit in the cities and their domestic jealousies
made it possible for the leading family of the city, or
for the captains of fortune, to usurp the power of the
people and establish themselves as despots. We have
already noted how the Gonzaga family so established
itself at JNIantua, and the Medici family at Florence,
glossing over their tyranny by the patronage of art and
letters. Italy, crushed, was again at the mercy of all
comers : of the rival des])ots, of the foreign mercenaries
that they hired, and of bands of condottieri who sold
their savagery to the highest ])idders. Finally even her
commercial ])ower was menaced and ruined. The cap-
ture of Constantinoi)le by the Turks in 1453 cut off her
trade with the Orient; in 1497 the Portuguese Vasco da
Gama discovered the passage to India around the Cape ],
of Good Hope; five years previously the Genoese Co-
lumbus had opened up the New World ; and the subse-
quent discoveries and conquests of Cortez, Pizarro, and
others diverted the stream of commerce, depriving Italy
of her supremacy and giving it to the western nations.

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In the sixteenth century nothing remained to Italy but
the glory of arts, of letters, and of science, which in this
period* of national and civic humiliation reached its high-
est jjoint of splendor: a terrible example, once more, of
the truth that the finest culture will not save a nation,
unless it is allied to the hardier virtues of manly courage
and morality.

We have seen in previous chapters how people sought
refuge from the turmoil in religion; how others turned
from the horrors of the present to the beauties of the
past, unearthing the remains of classic sculpture, recov-
ering the manuscripts of the Roman authors, and drink-
ing deep of the "New Learning " through the study
of Greek literature. It is because the work of Raphael,
apart from its technical skill and charm, combines so
admirably the religious and the pagan feeling, — the
personal intensity and reverence of the one and the im-
personal serenity and haj^piness of the other, — that he
holds a place distinct from any other artist. But, before
pursuing this subject, let us turn to the conditions in
Germany which produced a Wolgemuth as the fore-
runner of the greater Diirer and Holbein.

As each successive wave of Gothic invasion into Italy
retired back behind the Alps, it carried with it some in-
fusion of the civilization that it had destroyed. From
this mingling of ancient culture with the untutored sim-
plicity of the North sprang the modern world, with
Christianity for its nurse. Art was the faithful hand-
maid of religion ; and, as the northern world progressed
toward civilization, the two worked together as mistress
and servant. Germany, which at first was the country

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MADONNA DEGLI ANSIDEI RAPHAEL SANZIO

NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON

DEATH OF TIIK VIIUUX MICHAKL WOLGEMUTH

MLSKLM Ob- 1-1 NK AIMS, liOSTUX

RAPHAEL- WOLGEMUTH

now known as Bavaria, did not escape the rigors of war;
it kept the I Inns at bay and extended its rule to the
shores of the Baltic. As the vast tracts of land were
opened up, population increased, people began to con-
gregate in towns and cultivate the arts of peace. A
steady flow of commerce set in from south to north and
back again ; the main arteries of traffic being the Rhine
and the Elbe, by which the products of eastern and south-
ern countries were transported from Venice or Genoa
to Bruges and Antwerp and the growing Hanse towns
of the north. So, while the country at large was torn
with strife, there grew up along the banks of the rivers
or their connecting landways settlements of commercial
people; towns, no longer centering round the castle of
the local tyrant, but independent communities of peace-
loving burghers, intent on their purses and ledgers
rather than on swords and fighting. ^Midway in the
path of commerce arose the famous cities of Nuremberg
and Augsburg. Granted special favors by the emperors,
they were free imperial cities, almost the only homes of
liberty at that period; and they produced the two men
who at that period rose to the highest rank in Germany
as artists — Diirer and Holbein. Wolgemuth also was a
native of Nuremberg.

This city was noted as early as the beginning of the
fifteenth century for great mechanical activity and im-
provement in all kinds of machinery. She could boast
the first German paper-mill and the celebrated print-
ing-])ress of Antonius Koburger. In every branch of
industry were men of skill and renown: watch- and
clock-makers, metal-^^■orkers, and organ-builders, and

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

particularly workers in gold. Nuremberg had the repu-
tation of being the best-governed city in Europe; her
merchants were nobles who extended their influence into
every country, until it was said of her that her " hand is
in every land." During the fifteenth century her prog-
ress in civilization was rapid; and the wealth of her
citizens began to be spent more and more on things of
beauty.

The German desire of the beautiful had first of all
expended itself in the architecture of the cathedrals
and churches. These differed from the ones of the
South, first of all, as the vertical line differs from the
horizontal; the aspiration of the eager, striving people
of the North finding expression in soaring towers
and spires, in high-pitched roofs supported upon lofty
pillars.

This departure from the lower and more level lines
of Southern architecture led to greater profusion and
intricacy of the parts; to the multiplication and elabo-
ration of details ; to long-drawn-out naves and the addi-
tion of side aisles, producing in every direction vistas
solemn and mysterious; to the enlargement of the
window-spaces and the dividing of them by elegant
traceries filled in with stained glass. These Gothic
cathedrals differ from the Italian somewhat as the for-
ests of Germany differ from the broadly sweeping
plains and hills of Italy. And the German love of pro-
fusion and detail was exhibited also in the habit of deco-
rating the exterior with sculpture and the interior with
wrought metal-work and carved wood. Even to this
day the dwellers in the Black Forest, like those who in-

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RAPHAEL-WOLGEMUTII

liabit tlie forest regions of Norway and Sweden, spend
tlie long days of winter in carving objects in wood.
Wood-carving was one of the earliest of the arts in Cier-
niany ; gradually it was sui)i)leniented by the sculpture in
stone of floral or foliage designs, or of figures to deco-
late the cathedrals and churches — figures of saints, lean
and angular, or of terrible and grotesque creatures.
For the ancient religion from which Christianity had
weaned the Northern tribes was that of Asgard, savage
and cruel, believing in giants and dragons, and blending
the fierceness of a wild beast with the imagination and
ignorance of a child. So the Christianity of medieval
(xermany inherited what was terrible and grotesque.
This is reflected in the sculpture, and thence passed into
])ainting; for, at first, the latter was only a helpmate to
the architecture and learned its first lessons from the
sculi)tors. The early painters represented in their pic-
tures what they were familiar with in wood and stone;
so that not only are the figures dry and hard, but in the
groups they are packed one behind another, heads above
heads, without really occu])ying space, in imitation of
the method ado])ted in the carved relief.

And this un])ainterlike way of painting continued
even to the middle of the fourteenth century, by which
time, however, the painters began to take a more ])romi-
nent ])ositi()n. For people who wished to show their re-
spect to the church and at the same time to perpetuate
their own memory found they could get a more pleasing
efl'ect, and probably at a less cost, in paint than in wood
or stone. So there grew uj) a demand for votive pic-
tm-es, to be set up over the altar or hung upon a pillar,

[ 9-' ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES ^^^

and these represented sacred scenes, often with portraits
of the donor and his family introduced.

The principal pictures of this- character executed at
Nuremberg in the last thirty years of the fifteenth cen-
tury issued from the workshop of Wolgemuth. At first
he was in partnership with Hans PleydenwurfF, and
upon the latter's death married the widow and carried
on the business in his sole name. For a business it really
was; the workshop being rather like a factory than a
studio. A number of assistants were maintained, and
they were apportioned certain specific parts of the same
picture ; it being the duty of one to fill in the architectu-
ral features, of another to paint the hands and heads, of
others to put in the ornamental portions or the various
objects introduced, and so on. The work, indeed, was
carried on like any other commercial enterprise.

We have seen something of the same kind of thing in
Perugino's bottcgha: assistants multiplying the master's
types, and turning out a quantity of indifferent pic-
tures, apparently for no higher purpose than to make
money. Raphael, also, during his sojourn in Rome,
when the demand upon his genius was taxed beyond his
power of personally executing every commission, main-
tained his corps of assistants. But he never lost his high
ideals as an artist; and, although a large portion of his
famous decorations in the Vatican were actually painted
by his pupils, the designs were his. Moreover, his genius
for design was so extraordinary, inexhaustible in inven-
tion, always beautiful in plan, and the influence of his
own elevated spirit so strong over his assistants, that
even their work bears the impress of his creativeness.

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RAPHAEL- WOLGEMUTH

The ISIadoiina wliicli illustrates this chapter is called
'• degli Ansidei," hecause it was painted for the yVnsidei
family, as an altarpiece to adorn the chapel dedicated
to S. Nicholas of Bari in the church of S. Fiorenzo at
Perugia. It is dated 1500, and belongs therefore to the
end of the first of the three periods into which Raphael's
life may be divided. For he worked successively in
Perugia, Florence, and Rome, and is, in a measure, rep-
resentative of the Umbrian, Florentine, and Roman
schools. •

The house in Urbino still stands where he was born in
1483. His father, Giovanni Santi (or Sanzio in the
Italian form), was a painter of considerable merit; so
Raphael's art education began in early childhood and
was continued uninterruptedly through the remainder
of his life, for to the very end he was learning, being
possessed of an extraordinary capacity for absorbing
and assimilating the ideas of others. He was only eight
years old when his mother, JNIagia, died; but the father's
second wife, Bernardina, cared for him as if he had been
her own son; and her tenderness and his love for her
may surely have helped to inspire the beautiful concep-
tion of motherhood which he portrayed in his Madonnas.
In 1494 his father also died, leaving the boy, now eleven
years old, to the care of an uncle, who, it is supposed, ar-
ranged for him to continue his studies under the painter
Timoteo Vite, who was then living in Urbino. At about
the age of sixteen he was sent to Perugia and entered
in the renowned bottc^Jia of Perugino.

This Madonna degli Ansidei, painted in his twenty-
third year, is full of recollection of the master's influ-

^° ' [97]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

ence. We may note the low-lying landscape with the
vault of sky above it, and the union with these of solemn
architecture; moreover, the " sweet Umbrian sentiment "
in the expression of the faces ; and that each figure seems
alone with itself in spiritual contemplation. Even the
rather awkward and affected attitude of S. John betrays
the influence of Perugino.

But already the pupil has outstripped the master.
The figure of S. Nicholas is nobler than anything that
Perugino painted, and more full of character. With
what truth it depicts the pose and bearing of an absorbed
reader, while the character of the head gives a foretaste
of those portraits by Raphael in later years, which, it
has been said, have no superiors as faithful renderings
of soul and body.

- But in another respect he has already outstripped his
master ; namely, in the noble serenity of the composition.
Perugino, as we have seen, in combining the figure and
architecture and landscape, was a master of space com-
position, but never with so firm an instinct for grouping
and arrangement that the masses shall be not only dig-
nified in themselves, but perfectly balanced. For this
is Raphael's supreme distinction. The Venetians sur-
passed him in color, the Florentines in drawing, but few,
if any, have equaled him in his mastery over the filling
of a space, whether it be inside a frame or on the larger
surface of a wall.

Let us briefly consider this matter of composition,
which is the artist's way of building up his effects.
Much of om' previous study has been occupied with the

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RAPHAEL- WOLGEMUTH

gradual approacli of artists toward a more trutliful rep-
resentation of nature; so at this point we do well to
remember that, although nature is the basis of art, art
is not nature. Tlie latter is a vast field from whieh the
artist seleets certain items, afterward arranging them in
a certain way, so as to produce a certain impression on
the spectator's mind through his eyes. Selection and
arrangement, therefore, are the principles of compo-
sition.

Now the method of arrangement may either follow
nature's, as in the case, for example, of a landscape; or
it may be an artificial arrangement, based upon conven-
tions, such as in this picture of Kaphael's. But even in
the case of the landscape the artist must select. He
must decide, in the first place, how much to include in
his canvas, and then how he will place it according to the
size and shape of his picture, leaving out, very likely,
some of the objects of the natural landscape, since their
introduction would interfere with the balance and unity
of his picture.

If you stand a little distance from the open window
and look out, it is improbable that what you see of the
landscape will have either of these qualities. Proba-
bly the, view will appear what it really is— a fragment
of the landscape, its details, more than likely, confused
or crowded. Or, if you approach nearer to the window,
the view will widen out, but still you will feel that your
gaze is hindered by the window-frame. On the other
hand, you look through a picture-frame, and you shoidd
be able to feel that what you see is a scene complete in

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

itself, that it has unity. Again, if you examine some
particular tree, — say, for example, an elm, especially
when the leaves are off, — you may note how the limbs
and branches, for all their diversities, seem to compose
together to make a balanced whole. Its parts are so bal-
anced, and their relation to the whole mass so perfectly
adjusted, that you exclaim, " What a beautiful tree! "
This principle of organic unity, which appears in all
nature's tree and plant forms, the artist borrows to give
unity and balance to the artificial arrangement on his
canvas.

This arrangement, in the language of the studios, is
made up of full and empty spaces. In a landscape, for
example, the sky A\'ould be an empty space, though a
sheet of water in the foreground, or even a stretch of
meadow or distant hills, might be treated so. For it is
in the way an object is treated that it becomes a full or
an empty space; the full ones being those which are in-
tended to assert themselves most. Thus, in Raphael's
picture which we are studying they consist of the figures
and the throne; the arch, which under some circum-
stances might be treated as a full space, here uniting with
the sky and landscape to form the empty ones. And it
is partly the equilibrium established between these and
the full ones that makes the picture yield such a sugges-
tion of wonderful composure. Another reason is the
direction of the lines.

If you study them, you will find they present a con-
trast of vertical, horizontal, and curved lines; and will
grow to discover that it is the predominance of the ver-
tical direction — aided somewhat, it is true, by the dignity

[ 100 ]

RAPHAEL-VVOLGE.AIUTII

of the arcli— -^vhicli produces such an impression of ele-
vated grandeur. Do not fail to notice what a share the
repetition of hne plays in this effect. It was by repeti-
tion that the predominance of the vertical lines was built
up. But there are repetitions of horizontal lines also;
for example, in those of the steps and the canopy, the
cornice of the arch, and S. John's arm, as well as of the
broken level line of the landscape. JNIoreover, there are
repetitions of the curved lines, especially in the moldings
of the arch. But these are repeated also in a subtler
way; for example, in the nimbus of the Virgin, and in
the arched dome of each of the heads.

Lastly, observe that the imity of the composition is
made additional 1}^ sure by everything being adjusted to
one point. The book on the Virgin's lap is the focus of
the whole. The diagonal lines of the canopy, those of
the cornice and of the steps, lead toward this spot; so
do the direction of the Virgin's head and the downward
glance of her eyes, the Child's gaze, the bisho])'s book,
and S. John's right arm and its index-finger. W^hile all
these are radiating lines, they are inclosed — locked in,
as it were — by the arch, the continuation of which into
a circle is suggested by the direction of S. John's left
arm.

All this is the reverse of natural arrangement, being
the result of a most carefully calculated plan, ])ased
upon the knowledge that the actual directions of lines,
their contrasts and their repetitions, exert upon the mind
certain definite influences. You will observe that the
basis of this design is geometric, as are nearly all the
compositions of the old masters and of most modern

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

painters; a continual shuffling and reshuffling of vertical,
horizontal, and curved lines; a building of them up, so
as to approximate to various geometric figures, such as
the circle, the angle, the triangle, and the various forms
of the quadrilateral, or any or all in combination. For
some psychological reason, perhaps because these forms
are rudimentary and elemental, they are instantly satis-
factory to the eye, and when played upon by such a
master of composition as Raphael produce the highest
kind of esthetic enjoyment.^

By this time it should be apparent that the beauty of
Raphael's picture does not depend primarily upon the
expression of the faces, which is the first thing that many
people look at, nor, indeed, upon any or all of the figures,
but upon what artists call the " architectonics " of the
composition; that is to say, upon the way in which the
parts of the composition are built up into a unified struc-
tural design. This, apart from anything to do with the
subject or with the actors in it, moves our emotion in that
abstract, impersonal way that the sight of mountains,
skies, and valleys, or the roar of the ocean or the tinkle
of a brook, may do. " The play 's the thing," said Ham-
let; and so we msiy say of composition, that " composi-
tion is the thing." It is the framework, the anatomj'',
upon w^hich the artist subsequently overlays his refine-
ments and embellishments of color and expression.

If you will study the Madonna degli Ansidei, you
will find that the tenderness of the Madonna's face, the

^ The student would do well to study, in the light of what we have been
considering, every illustration in this book, for the sole purpose of trying
to discover in each case the part which composition plays in the impression
of the whole picture.

[ 102 ]

RAPHAEL- WOLGEMUTH

rapture of S. John's, and the nohle sweetness of S.
Nieholas's are all of them eciioes of the same qualities
expressed in the whole composition; hut that it is the
actual direction of the lines, the shapes of the full and
empty spaces, and their relation to one another, which
make the chief impression, and that the expression of
the faces is only a suhsidiary detail, just as you are im-
j)ressed hy the total structure of some great huilding
hefore you hegin to apprehend its details.

Perhaps you will hest understand the meaning and
value of perfect composition by contrasting Raphael's
picture with Wolgemuth's Death of the Virgin. In the
latter there is no composition in the sense that we are
using the word— that is to say, of an arrangement care-
fully planned to impress us by its abstract qualities. It
presents only a crowd of figures more or less naturally
disposed. Our attention is not engrossed by the whole,
hut scattered over the parts.

And this characteristic, we shall find, appears to a
considerable degree in all German art. The German
race has an instinctive appetite for detail. Its scholars
and scientists are renowned for minute, patient, and
thorough research; its artists, for accurate rendering of
details. Rut this often leads to profuseness, in the in-
tricacy and abundance of which the structural dignity of
the whole is a])t to be swallowed up. For you will find,
as you continue your studies, that there is even more art
in knowing what to leave out than in knowing what to
])ut in; that simplification of the parts and unity of the
whole are the characteristics of the greatest artists.

Among the various contrasts which are presented by

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

the two pictures, one may be singled out. Wolgemuth
has tried to represent the scene naturally, as it may have
happened, and has introduced around the Virgin figures,
studied from the actual men who walked the streets of
Nuremberg in his day; while Raphael's persons are
idealized types adapted from the real people to express
the idea which was in his mind. It is the same with his
arrangement of throne and arch and landscape. The
scene is not a real one; it is made up of things selected
in order to build up a structure of effect that would
suggest to our mind the idea which was in his. Here is
a sharp distinction in the way of seeing the facts of na-
ture. One artist sees in them something to be rendered
as accurately as possible; the other extracts from them
a suggestion on which he may found some fabric of his
own imagination. From the one we get an impression
of reality which is apt to go no further than the mere
recognition of the facts; from the other, a stimulus to
our own imagination. One form of art chains us to
earth, the other aids us to take flight as far as our ca-
pacity permits us.

What helped to form Raphael's ideal? First of all,
the spirituality of Perugino's pictures. Then he visited
Florence: at first only for a short time, but before he
painted the 3Iadonna degli Ansidei. During his second
and longer visit he became intimate with the work of
Leonardo da Vinci and Fra Bartolommeo. The in-
fluence of the former can be seen in the mysterious
beauty of the face in the Madonna Gran Duca; that
of the latter, in the supremely beautiful composition of
La Belle Jardiniere; while he gained also a freedom and

[104]

RAPHAEL- WOLGEMUTH

greater naturalness in the drawing of his figures, and,
through his friendsliip with tlie famous architeet Bra-
niante, a higher skill in the rendering of architeetural
forms and a deeper feeling for their grandeur. In faet,
Raphael's eapaeity for heing influenced hy other artists
was so remarkahle that he has been called the " Prince
of Plagiarists." Rut we must remember that the re-
proach which nowadays attaches to a man's making use
of the motives of otiiers cannot be extended to Raphael.
The artists of the Renaissance freely borrowed from one
another, and multiplied certain types of picture; the
innumerable varieties, for example, of ^ladonna En-
throned having a family resemblance. Similarly in
Japan, when an artist had mastered the rendering of
a certain object, such as a bird's wing, other artists
adopted his convention. Why should every one go back
to the beginning and study for himself what had been
already mastered? JNIuch better to start with the accu-
mulated capital of previous experience and knowledge,
and, if the student has any originality of his own, draw
from it a heightened dividend.

It was so with Ra])hael. To whatever he took from
another he added something of himself; so that, though
his borrowings were continuous and varied, he enriched
the world with something ])ersonal and new. We have
seen already how this ])rescnt picture, while recalling
Perugino, represents a distinct advance on that artist's
capacity; and when he went to Rome, begged by Pope
Julius II to decorate tlie stanze, or official chambers, of
the Vatican, the com])osition of his first mural painting,
the Disputd, is based upon a previous design of his

" [105]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

master, yet surpasses in its completeness of decorative
effect anything of Perugino's. In Rome, too, he had
for models the ampler type of women which belongs to
the south of Italy. Consequently his work becomes dis-
tinguished by still greater freedom and bigness of style.
And, as he mixes with the world of great men who
thronged the Eternal City, two other things are notice-
able: his pictures become more human: the JNIadonnas
embrace the infant Christ with the love of human mother-
hood ; and, secondl}^ he is filled more and more with ardor
for the antique.

He intersperses religious with classic subjects, and
treats both in a classic spirit. It is as if Virgil had come
to life again, but this time as a painter, whose aim was
to link the later glories of the Renaissance with the early
ones of Hellas; to make the legends of Hellas live again
in the soul of the Renaissance; and to interpret the
stories of the Hebrew Bible in Hellenic guise. The
beautiful myths of Galatea, of Psyche and Venus, once
more become realities visible to mortal eyes; Parnassus
is again revealed; but now amid the constellation of
Olympus appear the stars of Italian culture, Dante,
Petrarch, and Boccaccio; and in silent companionship
M'ith them are the mighty ones of Athenian thought,
Plato, Aristotle, Pythagoras, Socrates, and others, once
more returned to earth and assembled beneath the arches
of a noble building of the Renaissance. Through him
the beauty of the antique world is recovered to the sight
and soul of the modern.

But even more remarkable is what Raphael did with
that other great volume of thought which had taken the

[ 106 ]

RAPHAEL- WOLGEMUTH

place of the Hellenic. He not only started afresh the
sprin«4S of Hellas, but that vast stream, derived from the
Hebrews, which had flooded Christian Europe he con-
ducted into Hellenic channels. He represented the
Bible stories in Hellenic settings, retold them, as I have
said, in the manner that a Virgil might.

When you remember that the New Learning was a re-
volt from the darkness and superstition of the middle
ages; that in the beauty of pagan thought the beauty
of the Christian was being neglected; and that, conse-
quently, a clash between the two might have ensued in
M-hich one would have perished, you will understand
the importance of what llaphael did. As a gardener
will blend the pollen of two kinds of flowers and produce
a third which unites the beauties of the two, so Raphael
blended the Hellenic and the Christian in his religious
pictures; and this new ideal so captivated the imagina-
tion of the world that for over three hundred years
men pictured the religious story to their eyes and minds
through the Hellenic atmosphere in M'hich Ra])hael had
placed it. It was not until painters had begun to value
realism overmuch, to be more concerned with represent-
ing the appearance of things than the spirit enshrined
in them, that they protested against the " incongruity "
of clothing a Jewish flsherman in Hellenic draperies.

But Raphael himself and the people of his day felt
no incongruity in this. They had become acquainted
with the ideal beauty of anti(iue sculpture, and of the
serene elevation of Greek thought; crude ideas realisti-
cally represented were intolerable to them. Yet there
was a beauty in this Christian thought at least as ele-

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

vated and far more vital, because it touched the human |
heart of man in its relation both to this life and the i
future. How could it be made manifest? |

We have noted already Raphael's method and its
effect upon the world of his time, continuing to our own.

[108]

CHAPTER VIII

LEONARDO DA VINCI ALBRECIIT DURER

1452-1519 1471-1528

Italian School of Florence German School of Nuremberg

HOW instantly these two masterpieces, Leo-
nardo's Virgin of the Hocks and Diirer's Ado-
ration of the Magi, seize our attention; yet
iiow differently each claims our interest! In a general
way, the difference consists in this, that the one is full
of mystery, the other of clear statement. Leonardo has
imagined a scene which appeals to our own imagination;
Diirer has invented one that delights our understanding.
The former's is a dream-picture, the latter's a wonder-
fully natural representation of an actual incident. In a
w'ord, while Diirer has tried to make everything plain
to our eyes and understanding, Leonardo has used all
liis effort to make us forget the facts and realize the
spirit that is embodied in them.

This contrast would alone make it worth while to com-
pare the two pictures; hut there are other reasons.
These two men were contemporaries: Diirer, the great-
est of German artists, most representative of the Teu-
tonic mind ; I^eonardo, the most remarkable example of
the intellect and imagination of the Italian Renaissance.
It has been said of him that " he is the most thoughtful

[ io^> ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

of all painters, unless it be Albrecht Diirer." So the
fitness of comparing these two is evident.

Leonardo's early life was spent in Florence, his ma-
turity in Milan, and the last three years of his life in
France. Diirer, except for a visit of two years to Venice
and of one year to the Netherlands, remained faithful
to Nuremberg, the city of his birth.

Leonardo's teacher was Verrocchio — first a goldsmith,
then a painter and sculptor: as a painter, representative
of the very scientific school of draftsmanship ; more fa-
mous as a sculptor, being the creator, as we remember,
of the Colleoni statue at Venice. Diirer received his
first lessons from his father, who was a master-gold-
smith; his subsequent training, as an apprentice in the
studio-workshop of Michael Wolgemvith.

Both Leonardo and Diirer were men of striking phys-
ical attractiveness, great charm of manner and conver-
sation, and mental accomplishment, being well grounded
in the sciences and mathematics of the day, while Leo-
mardo was also a gifted musician. The skill of each in
draftsmanship was extraordinary; shown in Leonardo's
case by his numerous drawings as well as by his compar-
atively few paintings, while Diirer is even more cele-
brated for his engravings on wood and copper than for
his paintings. With both, the skill of hand is at the
service of most minute observation and analytical re-
search into the character and structure of form. Diirer,
however, had not the feeling for abstract beauty and
ideal grace that Leonardo possessed ; but instead, a pro-
found earnestness, a closer interest in humanity, and a
more dramatic invention.

[110]

DA VIXCI-DURER

This sums up the vital difference between tliem; and
it is worth while to consider, first, some of the causes of
this difference, and, secondly, the effects of it as illus-
trated in their work, in respect both of choice of subjects
and method of representing them.

No doubt it is true that genius is born, not made. But
while it is a mistake to try and discover reasons for a
man being a genius, it is proper and most interesting
to note how his genius has taken on a certain shape and
direction as a result of his environment.

Now, Diirer was born a German; I^eonardo an Ital-
ian. A great deal of the difference between the waj's in
which the genius of these two men manifested itself may
be summed up in this statement. The Italian race,
under its sunny skies, has an ingrained love of beauty.
The German, in a sterner climate—" How I shall freeze
after this sun," wrote Diirer during his stay in Italy to
a friend in Nuremberg — retains to this da}^ the energy
that carved its wa}" through the vast forests of his coun-
try, and some of the gloomy romance that haunted their
dark shadows. The German spirit is characterized by a
" combination of the wild and rugged with the homely
and tender, by meditative depth, enigmatic gloom, sin-
cerity and energy, by iron diligence and discipline."
Very remarkable qualities these, and to be foimd in
Diirer's work, w'hich is the reason that we describe him
as being so representative of the Teutonic race.

But it was not only the difference of race that helped
to mold the genius of these two men differently; each
was a manifestation of the Renaissance of art and learn-
ing which was spreading over Europe: Leonardo of

[111]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

that form of it which aj)peared in Italy, and Diirer of
that which was beginning to appear in Germany. Had
Diirer been born in Italy and reared up under Italian in-
fluences, and Leonardo's life been associated with Ger-
many, who shall say what a difference would have re-
sulted to the work of each? For the aim and character
of these two branches of the Renaissance were very dis-
similar.

The Italian, as we have seen, began by seeking a
return to truth of natural form; but was soon influ-
enced by the classic remains, which abounded in Italy
and were so eagerly searched for and studied, that a
worship of the antique, the Roman and Greek, absorbed
men's minds. Raphael, as we have noted, clothed the
story of the Bible in classic garb; classic myths, classic
thought and literature, filled the imagination of the ar-
tists and thinkers; religion and a revived paganism
skipped hand in hand. I use the word " skipped," be-
cause of the joy which possessed the Italians of the fif-
teenth and early sixteenth centuries in the new realiza-
tion of their racial love of beauty. Painter after painter
before Leonardo's time had tried to give expression to
it; he was the heir of their endeavors and the contem-
porary 'of a number of gifted men, who gathered at
Florence and under the patronage of the Medici made
it a reflection of what Athens had been under Pericles.

The difl"erent character of the German Renaissance
we shall best appreciate by noting that it was a part of
the great movement which produced Luther and the
Reformation. It was first and foremost an intellectual
and moral revival ; in time to be the parent of that civil

[112]

VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS LEONARDO DA VINCI

LOUVRE, PARIS

VISIT OF THK .MA(;i ALBRECIIT DIKKU

IKFIZI CAI.I.KRV. KLORKNCK

■V8.

DA VIXCI-DURER

and religious liberty which was to reshape a large portion
of the world. xVnd intimately identified with this move-
ment was the printing-]jress.

Diirer was a great admirer of Luther; and in his own
work is the equivalent of what was'might}'' in the Re-
former. It is very serious and sincere; very human, and
addressed to the hearts i\nd understandings of the masses
of the people. And he had a particular chance of reach-
ing them, for Nuremberg under the enterprise of Ko-
burger, a " prince of booksellers," as one of his contem-
poraries called him, had become a great center of
printing and the chief distributer of books throughout
Europe. Consequently the arts of engraving upon
wood and copper, which may be called the pictorial
branch of printing, were much encouraged. Of this
opportunity Diirer took full advantage. He outdis-
tanced all his predecessors in the art and brought it, at
one bound, to such a pitch of perfection that his work
was eagerly welcomed even in Italy, where pirated
editions of his prints were published, and to-day he ranks
first among wood-engravers and by the side of Rem-
brandt in engraving upon copper. Let us note the prac-
tical result of this upon his work as an artist.

Engraving as compared with painting is a popular
art; many printings can be made from one plate or block
and at comparatively slight cost, so that the artist's work
reaches a great number of persons. It is easy to see
how this might affect the character of his work: leading
him to choose subjects with which the people were fa-
miliar; to treat them in a way that should secure their
interest— that is to say, with simple directness and pre-

[117]

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cision, and with dramatic earnestness that should appeal
at once to the intelhgence and the heart. That these
quahties are characteristic of all Diirer's work, his paint-
ings and engravings alike, may well have been due, in
part at least, to his experience in the latter medium. But
probably it would be more true to say that because these
qualities were inherent in his personal character, they
were reflected in his work and drew him particularly
toward engraving.

It is quite possible, however, for pictures to be simple,
precise, direct, and even dramatic, yet very common-
place. This Diirer's work never was; and that he con-
trived to make it so homely and natural and j^et always
dignified is because he was a genius, which is no more
to be explained and accounted for in his case than in
Shakspere's.

That he did not possess, as well, the gift of ideal
beauty is due partly to the fact we have already noticed,
— that the Renaissance in Germany was more a moral
and intellectual than an artistic movement, — and partly
to Northern conditions. For the feeling for ideal grace
and beauty is fostered by the study of the human form ;
and this has been most flourishing in those Southern
countries, such as Greece and Italy, where the climate
favors a free, open-air life. In the Northern countries,
clothes, being more necessary, assume a greater impor-
tance. They are a very important feature in this picture
of Diirer's, and recall the elaborate costumes in those
which we have examined by Van Ej'^ck and ISIemling.
Nuremberg, as we have remarked, was on one of the
highways of travel between Italy and the cities of the

[118] "

DA VIXCI-DURER

North Sea, but, while commerce was passing freely in
both directions, the influence upon painting came to
Germany chiefly from Flanders. As there, so in Ger-
many, painting was closely allied with the decorative
crafts, and the painters delighted in the portrayal of
fabrics, metal, and woodwork. In this Adoration of the
Magi we can detect at once the same fondness for de-
picting stuffs, embroidery, and objects of curious and
beautiful workmanship as in Van Eyck's Virgin and
Donor; and in tlie originals there is apparent, not only
a siniihir skill in minute and elaborate details, })ut also
a corresponding use of strong, rich coloring. But, while
it was from Flanders that Diirer derived his style in
painting, he passed beyond his exemplars in the variety
and scope of his skill and in mental and moral force.

In the first place, no one has excelled him in delineat-
ing textures. You may see in this picture w ith what truth
the different surfaces of wood, stone, hair, fur, feather,
metal-work, embroidery, and so on are represented.
This skill in textures is even more wonderfully exhibited
in the black and white lines of his engravings. But the
point particularly to be noted is that his genius does not
stop short wuth the skill; back of it is a great force of
intellectual and moral intention. He has the artist's love
of the appearance of things, but he uses every object,
not merely for its own sake and for the pleasure of rep-
resenting it, but that it may enhance and intensify the
main motive of his subject. On this occasion it is to
contrast the splendor of the visitors from the East with
the lowliness of the INIother and Child, and with the
meanness of their surroundings; to contrast the harsh-

[119]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

ness of the ruins with the dignity of the INIother, the
innocent sweetness of the Babe, and the profound rever-
ence of the Wise INIen. He makes the scene impress
us so deeply: in the first place, because he realized it
himself so deeply, tenderly, reverentially, and power-
fully in his own mind; and, secondly, because he has
given to each figure and to every object its own quality
and degree of character. He felt, and could convey to
others, the significance of form; by which term I am
trying to express two things.

First there is in the character of objects — their color,
shape, hardness or softness, dullness or brilliance — a ca-
pacity to arouse our enjoyment. They excite especially
what has been called our "tactile " sense; that is to say,
the pleasure we get from actually handling things, or
from having them represented to us in so real a way
that we can imagine what would be the pleasurable sen-
sation of touching them. But there is another way in
which objects may be significant. For example, the
things in our houses mean more to us than they would
if we saw them set on a shelf in a shop window. In the
latter case we enjoy only their appearance; in the other
they are a part of our lives. Just in the same manner
objects may be arranged in a painting so as to interest
us only by their appearance, or in such a way that they
are an actual part of the life of the picture.

This is a distinction that it is worth while to grasp,
and no one can better help us to do so than Diirer.
We know at once that this Adoration of tJie 3Iagi im-
presses us, and, when we study it, we discover that the
secret of its impressiveness is the extraordinary sig-

[120]

DA VIXCI-UURER

nificance which the artist lias given to external ap-
pearances.

Here is the point at which the genius of Diirer and
that of Leonardo, similar in many respects, hranch out
hke a Y into separate directions. It is not with the ex-
ternal significance of objects, but with their inward and
spiritual significance, that I^eonardo was occupied. A
glance at the Virgin of the Rocks ' is sufficient to make
us feel that the artist is not trying to impress us with ex-
ternal appearances. The outlines of his figures are not
emphasized as in Diirer's picture; the cavern curiously
formed of basaltic rock, and the little peep beyond of
a rocky landscape and a winding stream, the group of
figures in the foreground by the side of a pool of water
—all are seen as through a veil of shadowy mist. They
may be real enough, but far removed from the touch of
man ; less visible to eye-sight than to soul-sight. It was
the passion of Leonardo's existence to peer into the mys-
teries and secrets of nature and life. He was at once
an artist and a man of science; turning aside, for a time,
from painting to build canals, to contrive engines of war,
to make mechanical birds which flew and animals which
walked; while the range of his speculations included a
foresight of the possibilities of steam and of balloons, a
discovery of the law of gravitation, and a rediscovery of
the princi])les of the lever and of hydraulics. Mathe-
matician, chemist, machinist, and physiologist, geologist,
gcograj)her, and astronomer, he was also a supreme ar-

1 This illustration is reproduced from the picture in the Louvre. There is
another example of the subject in the National Gallery, which is regarded
by the majority of critics as a replica of the Louvre picture executed by
another hand, probably under Leonardo's supervision.

[ 121 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

tist. And always it was the truth, just beyond the
common experience of man, hidden in the bosom of na-
ture or dimly discerned in the mind of man, that he
strove to reach. Partly he grasped it, partly it eluded
him ; much of his life was spent in restless striving after
the unattainable ; so to him life presented itself as a com-
promise between certainty and uncertainty, between
fact and conjecture; between truth that is clearly seen
and truth that is only felt. And in his pictures it was
this mingling of certainty and elusiveness that he sought
to express.

The means he employed were, first, extreme delicacy
and precision in the study and representation of form,
and then a veiling of all in a gossamer web of chiaros-
curo. He did not invent the principles of light and
shade in painting, but he was the first to make them a
source of poetical and emotional effect. Others had used
chiaroscuro to secure the modeling of form by the con-
trast of light upon the raised parts with shadow on those
farther from the eye; but Leonardo was the first to no-
tice that in nature this contrast is not a violent one,
but made up of most delicate gradations, so that the
light slides into the dark and the dark creeps into the
light, and even the darkest part is not opaque, but loose
and penetrable. In making this discovery he discovered
also that the general tint of an object — the " local "
color, as the artists call it — gradually changes in tone
as the object recedes from the eye, owing to the increase
in the amount of intervening atmosphere. By repre-
senting in paint these delicate gradations of light and
shade he succeeded in obtaining a subtlety of modeling

[122]

DA VI\CI-DrKP:R

that has never heen surpassed ; while, at the same time,
the successive layers or planes of tone reproduce in his
pictures the effect of nature's atmosphere.

Nature's, observe; because other artists of his time
introduced an atmosphere of their own, bathing the fig-
ures, very often, in a golden glow which they obtained
i)y washing a glaze over the whole or parts of the pic-
ture; very beautiful, but (juitc arbitrary and conven-
tional. I^eonardo, however, like jNIasaccio, imitated the
effects of real atmosphere, in which he anticipated, as
we shall see, the nature study of Velasquez.

How subtle Leonardo's effects were may be noted in
this picture; for example, in the modeling and fore-
shortening of the limbs of the two infants, so exquisitely
soft as well as firm, and in the lovely mvsterv of the
faces of the A^irgin and Angel. The latter belong to the
same type as his portrait of Monna Lisa: oval faces
with broad, high foreheads; dreamy eyes beneath droop-
ing lids; a smile very sweet and a little sad, with a sug-
gestion of .conscious superiority. For as he searched
nature for her mysteries, so he scanned the face of wo-
man to discover the inward beauty that was mirrored in
the outward. lie made woman the symbol of what
beauty and the search for beauty meant to himself, add-
ing that infinitesimal touch of scornfulness, in acknow-
ledgment that, after all his strivings to know and capture
beauty, its deepest secret eluded him. ^luch of his life
was s])ent in the search after what eluded him; he loved
more to reflect and study than to put his ideas into
actual shape.

So, while he and Diirer were alike in moral and intcl-

[12.3]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

lectual greatness, in their eager study of nature and in
the elevation of their art, each had a different ideal which
led them very far apart in the final character of their
work. Diirer's'is full of the meaning of appearances,
Leonardo's of the mystery that lies behind them; the
former is vigorous, direct, and powerfully arresting, the
latter sensitive, strangely alluring, but baffling and
elusive.

[124]

CHAPTER IX

TIZIANO VECELLI (TITIAN) HANS HOLBEIN THE YOUNGER

1477-1576 1497-1543

Italian School of Venice German School of Augsburg

I'V is because of the difference between these two
wonderful portraits— Titian's Man zvifh the Glove
and Portrait of Georg Gijze by Hans Holbein the
Younger— that it is interesting to compare them. In
doing so we shall contrast not only the difference in the
personalities of these two artists, and the conditions
under which they worked, but also the difference of their
j)oints of view and consequently of their methods. Let
us begin by studying the second difference, to an under-
standing of which the pictures themselves will direct us.
If we should try to sum up in one word the impression
j)roduced by each, might we not say, " How noble the
Titian is; the Holbein how intimate'''^ Both the origi-
nals are young men: Titian's unmistakably an aristo-
crat, l)ut with no clue given as to who or what he was;
Holbein's a German merchant resident in London,
whose name is recorded in the address of the letter in
his hand, and who is surrounded by the accompaniments
of his daily occupation. Presently we shall find out
something about the nature of his occupations; mean-
while we have surprised him in the privacy of his office,

" [ 125 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

and are already interested in him as an actual man, who
hved and worked over three hundred years ago, and
very interested also in the objects that surround him.
We note already that the flowers in the vase are just
like the carnations of our own day, but that the character
of his correspondence is very different. Evidently he is
a prosperous man, but compare the fewness of his letters
with the packet which one morning's mail would bring
to a modern merchant. Each is fastened with a band
of paper, held in place by a seal ; he has j ust broken the
band of the newly arrived letter; his own seal is among
the objects that lie on the table. But I interrupt the
fascinating examination of these details to ask whether
we do not feel already that we are growing intimate with
the man.

Can we feel the same toward the Man with the Glove?
Certainly, when we have once possessed ourselves of the
appearance of this man's face, we shall not forget it.
But that is a very different thing from knowing the man
as a man. There is something, indeed, in the grave, al-
most sad, expression of the face which forbids, rather
than invites, intimacy. He, too, seems to have been sur-
prised in his privacy; but he is occupied, not with his af-
fairs, as Georg Gyze is, but with his thoughts. It is
not the man in his every-day character with whom we
have become acquainted; indeed, it is not with the man
himself that we grow familiar, but with some mood of a
man, or, rather, with some reflection in him of the artist's
mood at the time he painted him.

For Titian found in the original of this portrait a sug-
gestion to himself of something stately and aloof from

[126]

TITIAX-HOLBEIN THE YOUNGER

common things; he made his picture interpret this mood
of feehng; he may have been more interested in this
than in preserving a hkeness of the man; we may even
doubt whether the man was actually like this. Certainly,
this could not have been his every-day aspect, in which
he appeared while going about whatever his occupation
in life may have been; it is one abstracted from the usual,
an altogether very choice aspect, in which what is noblest
in his nature is revealed without the disturbance of any
other condition.

It is, in fact, an idealized portrait, in which everything
is made to contribute to the wonderful calm and dignity
of the mood. The name of the original has not been
handed down ; there is no clue to who or what this man
was — only this wonderful expression of feeling; and, as
that itself is so abstract, exalted, idealized, baffling de-
scription, posterity has distinguished this picture from
others by the vague title, Man with the Glove.

Here, then, is another distinction between these pic-
tures of Titian's and Holbein's. The treatment of the
former is idealistic, of the other realistic. Both these ar-
tists were students of nature, seeking their inspiration
from the world of men and things that passed before
their eyes. But Holbein painted the thing as it appealed
to his eye, Titian as it appealed to his mind; Holbein
found sufficient eniovment in the truth of facts as thev
were, Titian in the suggestion that they gave him for
creating visions of his own imagination; the one viewed
the world objectively and was a realist, the other sub-
iectivelv and idealized.

This, of course, is a distinction not confined to these

[127]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

two artists. Indeed, all the comparison we have been
making between their respective points of view is of
general application. The distinction between the sub-
jective, universal, and idealistic on the one hand, and the
objective, particular, and realistic on the other, repeat-
edly confronts us in the study of art. In fact, every
artist illustrates either one or other of these points of
view, or, more usually, a combination of the two: hence,
to appreciate the work of various men, it is necessary to
grow to a clear understanding of these contrasts and of
the innumerable degrees to which they may shade into
each other. So large a subject cannot be exhausted by
the comparison of any two pictures; yet from these
by Titian and Holbein a considerable insight may be
gained.

In what respect was Holbein a realist? In our study
of art we should be very distrustful of words. We can-
not do without them, but must remember that they have
no value of themselves; that they are only valuable as
far as they provide a shorthand expression of some idea.
The idea, and not the word in which it is clothed, is the
important thing; but unfortunately a word cannot have
the completeness and finality of a mathematical formula.
In arithmetic, for instance, 2X2=4 is universally true;
but in the world of ideas there are so many " ifs and
ans " that the exact statement is impossible. So beware
of words, and, instead of being satisfied with phrases,
try to think into and all around the thought that is be-
hind the phrase.

What, then, is a realist? Naturally, one who repre-
sents things as they really are. But can anybody do

[128]

TITIAN-HOLBEIN THE YOUNGER

that? If ten men the equals of Holbein in observation
and skill of hand had sat down beside him to paint the
portrait of Georg Gyze and his surroundings, would
their pictures have been identical ? Could even any two
men, working independently, have painted the ink-pot
alone so that the two representations would be identical ?
Have any two men exactly similar capacity of eyesight ;
and, if they have, will they also have exactly identical
minds? The fact is, a man can draw an ink-stand only
as its appearance physically affects his eye and makes a
mental impression on his brain. In other words, objects,
so far as we are concerned, have no independent reality;
you cannot say, " This is what an apple really looks
like," but only, " This is how it presents itself real to
me." The personal equation intervenes; that is to say,
the personal limitation of each individual.

So, in the strict sense of representing an object as it
really is, no painter can be a realist; while, in the general
sense of representing an object as it seems real to his
eye and brain, every painter may be called a realist.
Then how shall we discover the meaning of the word
"realist" as used in painting? Let us look for an ex-
planation in the two pictures.

Both painters represented what seemed real to them;
but do we not observe that, while Titian was chiefly oc-
cupied with the impression produced upon his mind, it
was the impression made upon the eye which gave
greater delight to Holbein? No man who did not love
the appearances of things would have painted them with
so loving a patience. While to Titian the thing which
appeared most real about this man, the thing most worth

[ 129 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

his while to paint, was the impression made upon his
mind, so that what he painted is to a very large extent a
reflection of himself, a mood of his own subjectivity,
Holbein concentrated the whole of himself upon the ob-
jects before him. His attitude of mind was objective.
His intention was simply to paint Georg Gyze as he was
known to his contemporaries — a merchant at his office
table, with all the things about him that other visitors to
the room would observe and grow to associate with the
personality of Gyze himself.

We may gather, therefore, that realism is an attitude
of mind ; one that makes the painter subordinate himself
and his own personal feelings to the study of what is
presented to his eye; which makes him rejoice in the ap-
pearances of things and discover in each its jDcculiar
quality of beauty; which makes him content to paint life
simply as it manifests itself to his eye, to be indeed a
faithful mirror of the world outside himself.

It is not because Holbein was a realist that he is cele-
brated, but because of the kind of realist he was. You
will find that reahsm often runs to commonplace ; a man
may see chiefly with his eye because he has little mind to
see with ; may take a delight in the obviousness of facts
because he has no imagination; the material appeals to
him more than the spiritual. But Holbein was a man of
mind, who attracted the friendship of Erasmus, the
greatest scholar of his age; and he brought this power
of mind to the enforcing of his eye. The result is that
the number and diversity of the objects in this portrait
do not distract our attention from the man, but rather
seem to increase our acquaintance with his character and

[130]

TITIAN-HOLBEIN THE YOUNGER

disposition. We recognize the order and refinement
w liieh surround liim, and find a reflection of them in his
face. On the other hand, when we examine the details,
wc find eacli in its way exquisitely rendered; for, as I
have said, Holbein loved things of delicate and skilful
workmanship, and left many designs for sword-scab-
bards, dagger-sheaths, goblets, and goldsmith's work.

Yet compared with the elaborated detail of Holbein's
portrait, how large, simple, and grand is the composition
of Titian's! The aim of the one artist was to put in
everything that was possible xcithout injury to the total
effect; of the other to leave out everything but what was
essential. Holbein's picture is a triumph of well-con-
trolled elaboration; Titian's of simplification. I hope to
show further that this distinction is characteristic of the
personality of these two men; but, for the present, let
us notice how completely each method suits the character
of the subject: the man of affairs, calm and collected
amid a quantity of detail, the man of contemplation,
aloof from every distraction.

That Holbein painted all these details because he felt
them to be really part of the personality of Gyze may
])e inferred from the fact that, though he loves to intro-
duce little objects of clioice workmanship, his treatment
of the portrait of a scholar like Erasmus is very large
and simple. Yet even then there is a minuteness of fin-
ish in the modeling of the fiesh and in the painting of
the hair and costume, which might easily be niggling
and trivial, but that in Holbein's case it is only part of the
singular penetration of his observation and extraordi-
nary manual delicacy, brought to the rendering of some-

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

thing which he has studied with all the strength of his
manhood. •

Yet the breadth and simplification of Holbein are not
like Titian's, being simply and sweetly dignified, where
Titian's are majestically grand. Turn again to the Man
with the Glove. Shut out with your fingers, first one of
the hands, then the other, and then the sweep of shirt,
and notice each time how the balance and dignity of the
composition are thereby destroyed ; for its magic consists
in the exact placing of the lighter spots against the gen-
eral darkness of the whole. By this time we realize that
the fascination of this portrait is not only in the expres-
sion of the face and in the wonderful eyes, but also in
the actual pattern of light and dark in the composition.
Then, taking the face as the source and nucleus of the
impression which the picture makes, we note how the slit
of the open doublet echoes the piercing directness of the
gaze; how the expression of the right hand repeats its
acute concentration, while the left has an ease and ele-
gance of gesture which correspond with the grand and
gracious poise of the whole picture.

Grand and gracious poise! Not altogether an unapt
characterization of Titian himself. At once a genius
and a favorite of fortune, he moved through his long life
of pomp and splendor serene and self-contained. He
was of old family, born at Pieve in the mountain district
of Cadore. By the time that he was eleven years old his
father, Gregorio di Conte Vecelli, recognized that he
was destined to be a painter and sent him to Venice,
where he became the pupil, first of Gentile Bellini, and
later of the latter's brother, Giovanni. Then he worked

[132]

MAN WITH THE GLOVE

TITIAN

LOUVRE, PARIS

i'OUTUAIT Ol C;i.()UG GYZE HULliKlN THE YOUNGEU

BKRLIN OALLKRV

xTi'E HEW YOR!'
PUliUC UBRftR^

^=;TOR, LENOX AND

TITIAN-HOLBEIN THE YOUNGER

with the great artist Giorgione. From the first, indeed,
he enjoyed every privilege tliat an artist of his time could
desire. The Doge and Council of Venice recognized his
ahihty ; the Dukes of Ferrara and Mantua followed suit;
and, as the years went on, kings, popes, and emperors
were his friends and patrons. In his liome at Biri, a
suhurb of Venice, from which in one direction the snow-
clad xVlps are visible and in the other the soft luxuriance
of the Venetian I^agoon, he maintained a princely house-
hold, associating with the greatest and most accom-
plished men of Venice, working on until he had reached
within a year of a century of life. Even then it was
rio ordinary ailment, but the visitation of the plague,
that carried him off; and such was the honor in which he
was held, that the law against the burial of the plague-
stricken in a church was overruled in his case and he was
laid in the tomb which he had prepared for himself in the
great Church of the Frari.

No artist's life was so completely and sustainedly su-
perb ; and such, too, is the character of his Mork. He was
great in portraiture, in landscape, in the painting of re-
ligious and mythological subjects. In any one of these
departments others have rivaled him, but his glory is that
he attained to an eminence in all; he was an artist of uni-
versal gifts, — an all-embracing genius, equable, serene,
majestic.

The genius of Holbein also blossomed early. His
native city of Augsburg was then at the zenith of its
greatness; on the highroad between Italy and the North,
the richest commercial city in Germany, the frequent
halting-place of the Emperor Maximilian. His father,

[ 137 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

Hans Holbein the Elder, was himself a painter of
merit, and took the son into his studio. A book of
sketches made during this period by the young Hans,
preserved in the Berlin Museum, shows that he was al-
ready a better draftsman than his father. In 1515, when
he was eighteen years old, he moved to Basel, the center
of learning, whose boast was that every house in it con-
tained at least one learned man. Here he won the
friendship and patronage of the great printer Froben
and the burgomaster Jacob Meyer. For the former's
books he designed woodcuts ; for the latter he painted a
portrait, and, later, the famous Meyer Madonna. In this
the Virgin is represented as standing, and the Meyer
family kneeling: the father and his two sons on the right,
and opposite to them his deceased first wife and his then
hving second wife and only daughter. In 1520, the year
of Luther's excommunication, he was admitted to citi-
zenship at Basel and to membership in the painters'
guild : sufficient testimony, as he was only twenty -three,
to his unusual ability.

In that same year Erasmus returned to Basel, and
accepted the post of editor and publisher's reader to his
friend Froben. Erasmus spoke no modern language
except his native Dutch, and Holbein seems to have been
ignorant of Latin, yet a friendship sprang up between
the two, and the artist designed the woodcuts for the
scholar's satirical book, " The Praise of Folly," and
painted his portrait. About this time he made the fa-
mous series of designs of the Dance of Death; the draw-
ings of which were so minute and full of detail that when
Hans Liitzelberger, their engraver, died in 1527, it was

[ 138 ]

TITIAN-HOLBEIN THP: YOUNGER

ten years l)efore another wood-engraver could [)e found
sufficiently skilled to render the action and expression of
tlie tiny figures.

But book illustration was poorly paid and the times
were lean ones for the painter, since the spread of the
Reformation had cut off the demand for church pic-
tures. Holbein found himself in need of money, and
accordingly, by the advice of Erasmus, set out for Lon-
don with a letter of introduction from the scholar to Sir
Thomas IMore, the King's Chancellor.

" JNIaster Haunce," as the English called him, arrived
in England toward the close of 1.52G. The London of
that day presented some crude contrasts. Side by side
with buildings of Gothic architecture had arisen later
ones of Renaissance design, but the average houses were
still of wood and mud, huddled together in very narrow
streets, the rooms small and the flooring of the lowest
story merely the beaten earth. The houses of the upper
class lined the bank of the Thames, and it was in one of
these, situated in what was then the village of Chelsea,
that Sir Thomas More lived. Here Holbein was wel-
comed, and made his home during this first visit to Eng-
land. He painted portraits of many of the leading-
men of the day, and executed drawings for a picture
of the family of his patron, which, however, was never
])ainted; for, two years later, in consequence of an out-
break of the plague, he returned to Basel.

But Basel was no longer what it had been: Froben
was dead; Erasmus, INIeyer, and others of the cultivated
class had abandoned the city, which was in the clutches
of the Reformers, who showed their zeal for religion by

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a crusade against art. Consequently, in 1531, Holbein
returned to England. But here, too, had been changes;
More was in disgrace, so that Holbein, cut off from
court patronage, attached himself to the merchants of
the Steelyard.

These were the London representatives of the Han-
seatic League, a combination of commercial cities, at the
head of which were Liibeck and Hamburg. It had been
formed as early as the thirteenth century, for mutual
protection against piracy and to promote the general
interests of trade, and had established factories, or
branches, in various places, as far removed as London
and Novgorod. These, under special privileges derived
from the respective governments, gradually absorbed
the main business of the import and export trade.
Georg Gyze was a member of the London factory, a
merchant of the Steelyard, and in his portrait the steel-
yard or scale for the weighing of money, the symbol also
of the merchant guild, hangs from the shelf behind his
head.

By 1537 Holbein had come to the notice of Henry
VIII, and was established as court painter, a position
which he held until his death. This seems to have oc-
curred during another visitation of the plague in 1543;
for at this date knowledge of the great artist ceases.
When he died or where he was buried is not known.

What a contrast between his life and Titian's! One
the favorite, the other the sport, of fortune. For
though the greatness of both was recognized by their
contemporaries, Titian lived a life of sumptuous ease in
the beautiful surroundings of Venice, while Holbein,

[ 140 ]

TITIAN-IIOLBEIX THE YOUNGER

often straitened for money, never wealthy, experienced
the rigor of existence; more or less a victim to the
religious convulsions of the time, forced by need and
circumstances to become an alien in a strange land,
dying unnoticed and unhonored. The world to Titian
was a ])ageant, to Holbein a scene of toil and pilgrimage.
Titian viewed the splendor of the world in a big,
healthful, ample way; and represented it with the glow-
ing brush of a supreme colorist. On the other hand,
Holbein is eminent in Germa!i art because he finally
emanci])ated it from Gothic thraldom. He was the
foremost artist of the German Renaissance, beside whom
Durer seems to belong to the middle ages. Yet the lat-
ter's art must be joined with his to produce a complete
representation of the genius of the race. In both are
manifested the decorative feeling, the eager curiosity,
the love of elaborate detail that distinguish German
art. But, while Holbein reflected the conscientiously
earnest, matter-of-fact spirit, Diirer reflected also the
romantic temperament that underlies it. After these
two, if we except Lucas Cranach, no painter in German
art demands the student's attention until the nineteenth
century.

[Ul]

CHAPTER X

ANTONIO ALLEORI (called MICHELANGELO BUONARROTI

CORREGGIO)

im(?)-i534 u^4-im

Italian School of Parma Italian School of Florence

IT would be impossible to imagine a greater contrast
than the one presented by these two pictures — Cor-
reggio's Mystic Marriage of Saint Catherine and
the Jeremiah by JNIichelangelo. And the difference is
all the more worth studying because these artists are the
most typical representatives of two very different phases
of that wonderful outburst of energy which we call the
Renaissance.

We have seen how tw® currents of striving united in
Raphael's work ; how he satisfied the old religious yearn-
ing as well as the newly aroused passion for the antique ;
how he reclothed the Bible story in classic guise. We
have seen, too, that in Leonardo da Vinci were revealed
the subtlety of his time, its eagerness for perfection, the
dawn of the spirit of scientific inquiry, which, re-
awakened by the study of Aristotle and Plato, was
searching into the mystery of the universe and man's
relation to it; and that in this peering forward Leonardo
anticipated some of the facts of science rediscovered
and established by later philosophers and scientists.

We can now study in Correggio that element in the

[142]

corrp:ggio-miciielangelo

Renaissance conveniently called "pagan"; which, for
the present, may be briefly summarized as a tendency to
look back further than the beginning of the Christian
religion, further, even, than the classic times, to that
dream of a golden age, of perfect peace and happiness
and innocence, when men and women lived a natural life,
an^l shared the woods and streams, the mountains and
the fields, with satyrs, nymphs, and fauns. Correggio
has been called the " Faun of the Renaissance."

Rut in those splendid yet terrible days of the Renais-
sance peace was continually disturbed by wars and civil
strife; innocence crept to shelter from the wickedness
which shamelessly prevailed; and happiness went hand
in hand with anguish. Italy of that day was like a huge
caldron into which all the human passions, good and evil,
had been flung, while underneath it was the fire of an
impetuous race, that after long smoldering had now
leaped up with volcanic force. The seething tumult of
these contending passions is reflected in the work of
^Michelangelo.

While Correggio represents the exquisite fancifulness
(jf that period, ]Michelangejo_is an embodiment of its
soul.

Compare again these two j^ictures. Correggio has
here taken for his subject one of the beautiful legends
of the church. Catherine was a ladj^ of Alexandria who,
living about 300 a.d., dared to be a Christian, and even-
tually died for her faith by the torment of the wheel,
which latter appears as an emblem in many of her pic-
tures. She had a vision in wliich it was made known to
her tliat she should consider herself the bride of Christ;

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

and the theme of this mystic marriage was a favorite one
in the turbid times of the Renaissance, when women
sought the cloister as a refuge from the wickedness and
tyranny of the world.

But how has Correggio treated this subject? Does
he make you feel the sacrifice of Catherine; or suggest
to you anything of the religious fervor and devotion with
which the vision must have inspired herself? In the
background are little figures, scarcely to be seen in the
illustration, which, if you search into them, tell of suffer-
ing; but they do not really count in the impression which
the picture makes upon us. What we get from it as a
whole is a lovely, dreamy suggestion, as of very sweet
people engaged in some graceful pleasantry. The mo-
ther is absorbed in love of her child, wrapped up in the
consciousness, common to young mothers, that her child
is more than ordinarily precious. The baby itself is a
little, roguish love, a brother of the little Cupids and
putti that abound in Correggio's pictures, eying with
the watchful playfulness of a kitten the hand of Cathe-
rine. The latter plays her part in the ceremony with
little more feeling than that of any other child-wor-
shiper; while the St. Sebastian, with his bunched locks
reminding us of ivy and vine leaves, has the look of
the youthful Dionysos, the arrow recalling the thyrsus
which the young god used to carry.

There is not a trace of religious feeling in the picture,
or of mystic ecstasy — only the gentle, happy peace of
innocence. There may be violence out in the world, but
far away; no echo of it disturbs the serenity of this little
group, wrapped around in warm, melting, golden atmo-

[ 144]

CORRECxGIO-MICHELAXGELO

sphere. Elsewhere may be Iiearts that throb with pas-
sion, consciences sorely eager to do right or stricken with
the memory of sin; but not in this group. These beings
are no more troubled with conscience than the iambs
and fawns; their hearts reflect only the lovableness of
their sunny existence, as the placid })ool reflects the sun-
light. They are the creatures of a j)oet's golden dream.

Compare with them the Jeremiah. Here, instead of
delicate gracefulness, are colossal strength, ])onderous
mass, profound impresslveness; back and legs that have
carried the burden, hands that have labored, head bowed
in vast depth of thought. And what of the thought?

More than two thousand years had passed since Jere-
miah hurled his denunciations against the follies and
iniquity of Judah, and in his Lamentations uttered a
prophetic dirge over Jerusalem, hastening to become the
prey of foreign enemies. And to the mind of INIichel-
angclo, as he painted this figure of Jeremiah, sometime
between 1.508 and 1512,— that is to sav, between his
thirty-fourth and thirty-eighth years, — there was pres-
ent a similar s])ectacle of his own beloved Italy reeling
to ruin under the weight of her sins and the rivalries
of foreign armies, and perhaps also a prophetic vision
of how it would end. As Jeremiah lived to see the fall
of Jerusalem, so INIichelangelo lived to see the sacred
city of Rome sacked in 1527 by the German soldiery^
under the French renegade Constable Bourbon.

It is the })rofundity of Michelangelo's own thoughts
that fills this figure of Jeremiah. Like the Hebrew
prophet's life, his own was a protest against the world.
Jeremiah fled to Egypt; ^Michelangelo into the deepest

'" [ 145 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

recess of his own soul. In this figure of Jeremiah he has
typified himself.

Whether consciously or unconsciously, who shall say?
Always the artist puts into his work a portion of himself,
and of this feeling in himself that he is striving to ex-
press he is of course conscious. But this feeling is the
sediment left in him from many experiences, some — the
most of them, probably — forgotten; so, as he labors to
express it in his painting or statue, he very likely is not
conscious of its personal application to himself, being
absorbed by the work before him. And still more likely
is this unconsciousness in the case of great artists; for
in them there is more than memory and experience, more
even than knowledge and imagination: something inex-
plicable to us, not to be understood by themselves ; what
we vaguely call soul, and the ancients, more vaguely
still, but with nearer approach to truth, called " afflatus "
—divine inspiration.

The French philosopher Taine wrote: " There are
four men in the world of art and literature so exalted
above all others as to seem to belong to another race —
namely, Dante, Shakspeare, Beethoven, and Michelan-
gelo."

They are of the race of the Titans, the giant progeny
of heaven and earth. The old race warred with heaven,
but was finally subdued and sent down to Tartarus.
Three, at least, of these modern Titans, Dante, Bee-
thoven, and Michelangelo, were at continual war in their
souls with conditions that environed them, and found
hell on earth. Not that the world treated Michelangelo
worse than many others: but, as Taine says, " suffering

[146]

CORREGGIO-MICHELANGELO

must be measured by inward emotion, and not by out-j!
ward eircunistances; and, if ever a spirit existed vvbich/'
was capable of transports of enthusiasm and passionate
indignation, it was his." Such a man as IMichelangelo
could not escape from the tempest of the world by wrap-
ping himself up in dreams of a " golden age," as Cor-
reggio did.

Once more compare the two pictures, to observe the
difference of their technic. One reason of difference
is that Correggio's is painted in oil on canvas, Michel-
angelo's in fresco on the plaster of the ceiling. The
meaning of the word " fresco " is " fresh," and the pecu-
liarity of the method consisted in painting on the plaster
while it was still damp, so that the colors, which were
mixed with water, in the process of drying became in-
corporated with the plaster. The wall or ceiling to be
so decorated was coated with the rough-cast plaster and
allowed to dry thoroughly; after which a thin layer of
smooth finish was spread over as large a portion of the
surface as the artist could finish in one day. INIeanwhile
he had prepared his drawing, and, laying this against
the surface, went over the lines of it with a blunt instru-
ment, so that, when the drawing or cartoon was removed,
the outline of the figures appeared, incised in the damp
plaster. Then he applied the color, working rapidly,
with a full assurance of the effect which he wished to
produce, since correction, or working over what had al-
ready been })ainted, was not easy.

On the contrary, with oil jjaints the artist can work at
his leisure, allowing his canvas time to dry, working over
it again and again, and finally toning it all together by

[147]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

brushing over it thin layers of transparent colors, called
glazes. It was by the use of these latter that Correggio
obtained the warm, melting atmosphere in which his fig-
ures are bathed, and which is one of the distinguishing
characteristics of his style. We can realize at once how
this method was suited to the dreamy luxuriance of his
imagination; while, on the contrary, more in harmony
with the genius of Michelangelo was the immediate,
smiting method of the fresco. For in the strict sense of
the word he was not a painter; that is to say, he was not
skilled in, and probably was impatient of, the slower,
tenderer way in which a painter reaches his results. He
was not a colorist, nor skilled in the rendering of
j light and atmosphere; but a great draftsman, a great
I sculptor, and a profound thinker. He labored with his
subject in his brain, and then expressed it immediately
wdth pencil or charcoal, or more gradually by blows of
the mallet upon the chisel. But in either case it was the
thought, straight out from himself in all the heat of kin-
dled imagination, that he set upon the paper, or struck
out with forceful action of the tool.

He used to say that he had suCked the desire to be a
sculptor from his foster-mother, the wife of a stone-
cutter; and in his later life, when sore oppressed, he
would retreat to the marble-quarries of Carrara under
color of searching for material. To him each block of
marble, rugged, hard, and jagged, held a secret, needing
onl}'^ the genius of his chisel to liberate it;, and in the
same way his own soul was imprisoned in a personality
eternally at odds with the world, that to the seven popes
whom he successively served during his long life of
eightj^-nine years seemed very hard and unyielding.

[ 148]

MYSTIC MARRIAGE OF ST. CATHERINE

LOUVRE, PARIS

CORREGGIO

JEUEMIAH

MICHKLANGKLO

SISTINK (IIAl'l.I.. KOMK

CORREGGIO-MICHELANGELO

It is the feeling of the sculptor that we recognize in'
this painting of Jeremiah; the feeling for solidity and
weight of mass, for stability of pose; a preference for
simple lines and bold surfaces, arranged in a few planesi
To appreciate this distinction, compare Correggio's pic-
ture: its intricacy of lines, the distance of its receding
planes, but more particularly the character of its com-
position, consisting of so many varieties of lighted and
shadowed parts, and the absence of suggestion that the
figures are firmly ])lanted. While Correggio has relied
upon beautiful drawing, upon exquisite expression of
hands and faces, and on color, light, and shade, and his
golden atmosphere that envelops the whole, jNIichelan-
gelo relied solely upon form— the form of the figure and
of the draperies. This is to admit that, judged from
the standpoint of painting, he was not a great painter.
lie himself told Pope Julius II, when the latter re-
quested him to j)aint this ceiling of the Sistine Chapel at
Rome, that he was not a painter, but a sculptor; yet,
after he had shut himself up for four years, and the
scaffold was removed, a result had been achieved which
is without parallel in the world.

Very wonderful is the profusion of invention spread
over this vast area of ten thousand square feet. The
fact that there are three hundred and forty-three prin-
cipal figures, many of colossal size, besides a great num-
ber of subsidiarj^ ones introduced for decorative effect,
and that the creator of this vast scheme was onlv thirtv-
four when he began his work — all this is wonderful,
prodigious, but not so wonderful as the variety of ex-
pression in the figures.

[153]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

If there is one point more than another in which Mi- !
chelangelo displayed his genius it is in this, that he dis- ,
covered the capabihty of the human form to express \y
mental emotions. While the ancient Greeks sought, inf
their rendering of the human form, an ideal of physical
perfection, and the later Greeks, as in the group of Lao--
coon and his sons attacked by serpents, sought to express
the tortures of physical suffering, INIichelangelo was the
first to make the human form express a variety of mental '
emotions. In his hands it became an instrument, upon ,
which he played, like a musician on his organ, extracting
themes and harmonies of infinite variety. And just as
it is within the power of music to call up sensations,
which we feel deepty and yet cannot exactly put into
words, which elude us and merge themselves in the ab-
stract and the universal, so jNIichelangelo's figures carry -,
our imagination far beyond the personal meaning of the \
names attached to them. We know, for example, who \
Jeremiah was, and what he did; but this figure, buried in
thought, of what is he thinking? To each one of us,
thoughtfully considering the picture, it has a separate
meaning.

On the other hand, we could come very near to a
mutual understanding of the emotions aroused by Cor-
reggio's picture; although he too, as we have seen, was
intent upon representing, not the concrete fact of a mar-
riage, but the abstract ideas of peace, happiness, and
innocence. Therefore, the difference between the ways
in which these two pictures affect us is not one of kind,
but of degree. Both detach our thoughts from the con-
crete and carry our imagination away into the world of

[ 154]

CORREGGIO-MICHELAXGELO

abstract emotions; hut wliile Correggio's appeals to us
like a pastoral theme by Ilaydn, ^lichelangelo's is to
he compared to the grandeur and soul-searching im-
})ressiveness of Beethoven.

JNlichelangelo, therefore, compels us to enlarge our
conception of what is beautiful. To the Greeks it was
])hysical perfection; to Correggio ])hysical loveliness
joined to loveliness of sentiment; but jNIichelangelo,
except in a few instances, such as his painting of ^Idain
on the Sistine vault, and his sculptures of the Pieta
and of the figure of the Thinker over the tomb of
Lorenzo de' jNledici, cared little for physical beauty.
As far as we know, he reached the age of sixty- four
years without ever being attracted by the love of wo-
man ; then he met the beautiful Vittoria Colonna, widow
of the Marquis of Pescara. They were mutually
drawn together by the bond of intellectual and spiritual
sympathy; their communion was of soul with soul; and
jNIichelangelo, now moved by love to be a poet, expressed
his soul in sonnets, as beforetime he had done in sculp-
ture and painting.

The beauty, therefore, of his sculpture and paintings
consists finallv in the elevation of soul which thev em-

* •

i)ody and the power they have to elevate our own souls.
Their beauty is elemental; for example, the picture we
are studying is not so much a representation of Jere-
miah, as a typal expression of a great soul in labor
with heavy thoughts. Accordingly, in Michelangelo's
figures, lines of grace are for the most part replaced by
lines of power — the power of vast repose or of tremen-
dous energy, even of torment, either suppressed or des-

[155]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

perate. Though a master of anatomy and of the laws
of composition, he dared to disregard both if it were
necessary to express his conception: to exaggerate the
muscles of his figures, and even put them in positions
which the human body could not assume. In his latest
painting, that of the Last Judgment on the end wall of
the Sistine, he poured out his soul like a torrent. What
were laws in comparison with the pain within himself
which must out? Well might the Italians of his day
speak of the terribilita of his style : that it was, terrible !

In a brief study of so great a man it is possible to al-
lude to only one more feature of the picture — namely,
its architectural details. These, real as they look, are
painted on the level surface of the vault. It is character-
istic of Michelangelo that, having this vast space to deco-
rate, he should begin by subdividing it into architectural
spaces, since he was architect as well as sculptor, painter,
and poet. For a time the building of St. Peter's was in-
trusted to his care, and in the last years of his life he
prepared plans for it and made a model of its wonderful
dome. There was much dispute as to whether the ground-
plan of the building should be of the design of a Greek
or of a Roman cross. Bramante had urged the former
and IMichelangelo adhered to it, intending the dome to
be its crowning feature. Unfortunately, in the begin-
ning of the seventeenth century the nave was length-
ened, and this change from the Greek to the Roman
cross has interfered with the view of the dome from
nearby and otherwise diminished its effect.

Michelangelo died in Rome, February 18, 1564, after
dictating this brief will: " I commit my soul to God, my

*[156]

CORREGGIO-MICIIELAXGELO

body to tlie eartli, and my property to my nearest rela-
tions." His remains were conveyed to Florence, and
given a pul)lic funeral in the Church of Santa Croce.

Compared with this long and arduous life, Correg-
gio's seems sim})le indeed. Little is known of it, whicli
would argue that he was of a retiring disposition. He
was born in the little town of Correggio, twenty- four
miles from Parma. In the latter city he w^as educated,
but in his seventeenth year an outbreak of the plague
drove his family to ^lantua, where the young painter
had an opportunity of studying the pictures of ]Man-
tcfirna and the collection of works of art accumulated
originally by the Gonzaga family and later by Isa})ella
d'Este. In 1514. he was back at Parma, where his talents
met with ample recognition; and for some years the
story of his life is the record of his work, culminating
in that wonderful creation of light and shade, The ^ido-
ration of the Shepherds, now in the Dresden Gallery,
and the master])iece of the Parma Gallery, Madonna
and Child icith St. Jerome and the Magdalene.

It was not, however, a record of undisturbed (juiet,
for the decoration which he made for the dome of the
cathedral was severely criticized. Choosing the subject
of the liefiurreetion, he projected upon the ceiling a
great numl)er of ascending figures, which, viewed from
below, necessarily involved a multitude of legs, giving
rise to the hon mot that the painting resembled a " fry
of frogs." It may have been the trouble which now en-
sued with the chajiter of the cathedral, or depression
caused by the death of his young wife, but at the age of
thirtv-six, indifferent to fame and fortune, he retired to

[157]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

the comparative obscurity of his native place, where for
four years he devoted himself to the painting of mytho-
logical subjects: scenes of fabled beings removed from
the real world and set in a golden arcady of dreams.
All that is known regarding his death is the date, March
5, 1534.

[ 158]

CHAPTER XI

PAOLO CATJARl (called

VHRO.\ESE)

1528-1588

Italian School of Venice

JACOPO RODUSTT (railed
TINTORETTO)
1518-1594
Italian School of Venice

THE art of Venice, it has been said, " ^vas late in
its appearance, the last to come, the last to die,
of all the great Italian schools." It reached its
culmination in Titian, whom we have already consid-
ered, and in Paul Veronese and Tintoretto, his contem-
l)oraries. ]Most characteristically, perhaps, in the last
two.

For the grandeur of Venetian art does not consist in
its representation of the motives which exercised the
other schools of Italian art. 'It was not saturated with
the religious motive, or with the classical; nor intent on
realistic representation. It combined something of each,
but only as a means to its purpose of making art con-
tributor}' to the joy and pageantry of life. AVhile the
searching spirit of the Renaissance was reflected in Da
Vinci, its soul in Michelangelo, and the Christian faith
and classical lore united in Raphael, the motive of the
Venetians was the pride of life: pride i)articularly in the
comniunal life of Venice, in her institutions, in her un-
surpassed beauty, in her royal magnificence as the
Queen City of the East and West.

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

Eleven hundred years before the birth of Paul Vero-
nese, A.D. 421, a handful of Roman Christians, driven
out of Aquileia by the Lombards, had taken refuge upon
Torcello, one of the sandy islands amid the lagoons. In
time they spread to other islands, jNIalamocco and Ri-
valto, from which they repelled an attack made by
Pepin, the son of Charlemagne, thus throwing off the
yoke of the Eastern emperors. Rivalto was then selected
as the seat of government ; Venice was founded, and in
A.D. 819 the doge took up his residence on the spot still
occupied by the Ducal Palace. Nine years later a Vene-
tian fleet brought from Alexandria the body of St.
Mark ; he was adopted as the city's patron saint ; his em-
blem, the lion, became the symbol of the Venetian gov-
ernment; and a church was erected in his honor, where
now stands the great cathedral, adjoining the palace of
the doges.

Henceforth these two structures became the embodi-
ment of the city's spiritual and temporal life ; the asser-
tions of her proud independence and superb ambitions;
the visible expressions of her strongly personal religion
and intense patriotism. From the first she set her face
to the sea, and by her geographical position became the
entrance-port through which the wealth of the East
poured into Europe. So, when she planned her great
church of St. JNIark's in the eleventh century, it was to
Byzantium that she turned for craftsmen and artificers,
and the edifice, which rose through this and the following
centuries, was Oriental both in stvle and in the lavishness
of its decoration. It came to be like a colossal casket, the
outside and inside of which was being embellished con-

[ 160 ]

VERONESE-TINTORETTO

tinually with more precious and sumptuous disj^lay.
Some architects will tell you it is a monstrosity, because
it lacks the dignity of form, the harmony between the
whole and its parts, that are essential to a great compo-
sition.

It is not, however, on the score of form that it chal-
lenges the admiration of the world, but as an example,
the most superb in Europe, of applied decoration. Its
exterior is incrusted with carven work, brilliant with
gold, sumptuous with columns of most precious marbles :
with costly marbles, also, its interior is veneered; its
\'aultings covered with glass mosaics, its windows filled
with colored glass — the glass-work fabricated on the
island of jMurano, originally by Byzantine artists. The
interior is a miracle of color, seen under every conceiva-
ble variety of lights and shadows; l)y tiu'ns gorgeous,
tender, stupendous, or mysteriously lustrous, impreg-
nated everywhere with an atmosphere of infinite sub-
tlet3\ Not form, as I have said, but color, light and
shade, and atmosphere; and these are the qualities that
])revail in Venetian painting. They are a heritage from
the Byzantine influence, reinspired continually by the
waters and skies of Venice; and they were the only ade-
quate means of representing pictorially the variegated
opulence of Venetian life.

Let us glance for a moment at the growth of the
power of Venice. In the thirteenth century, — namely,
1204, — under her Doge Dandolo, she took Constanti-
no})le and planted her colonies on the shores of the
peninsula of Greece and on the adjacent islands. Dur-
ing the fourteenth century she waged war with her naval

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rival, Genoa, conquered her, and extended her own
power over the neighboring cities of Vicenza, Verona,
and Padua, until the whole district of Venezia was under
her sway, while her colonies extended along the shores
of the Adriatic and Mediterranean as far as Trebizond,
on the northeast coast of Asia Minor. By the com-
mencement of the fifteenth century her glory was in its
zenith. The French ambassador, De Commvnes, writ-
ing to his sovereign, describes Venice as the " most tri-
umphant city I have ever seen, and one which does most
honor to ambassadors and strangers; which is most
wisely governed, and in which the service of God is most
solemnly performed."

But the wave, having reached its summit, was already
beginning to decline. In 1453 the conquest of Constan-
tinople by the Turks began the undermining of the
commerce of Venice with the Levant; and, following
the voyage of Vasco da Gama round the Cape of Good
Hope, the trade with India gradually passed into the
hands of the Portuguese. Then, in 1508, the Pope, the
German Emperor, and the King of France conspired
against Venice in the League of Cambrai ; and although
she " remained herself untouched upon the waters of the
Lagunes, she lost her possessions on the mainland";
while through the years which followed, almost single-
handed, she held the Turks at bay. Yet it was in the
long-drawn-out decline of her power that her art reached
its supreme height. With Titian, whose long life
bridged the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, it is still
magnificently poised; with Tintoretto and Paul Vero-
nese, both of whom belonged entirely to the latter cen-
tury, it is an art of display and some exaggeration.

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Peculiarly characteristic of Venetian art was the pa-
geant picture re})rescnting some great religious or state
function redounding to tlie glory of Venice. The most
heautiful city in the world, her own external life was a
continual pageant, but on frequent occasions her canals
and piazza were the scenes of officially regulated cere-
monials. The arrival and departure of ambassadors
were events of particular magnificence; the church's
j)rocessions, such as those of Corpus Christi, were con-
ducted with a splendor that was only surpassed in the
great state pageant wherein Venice was annually wed-
ded to the Adriatic.

The Doge's Palace, embodiment of her power as a
state, under the rule of its doge and Council of Ten, was
five times damaged by fire, and after each catastrophe
repaired with greater magnificence. In the fire of 1576
the ])aintings by Bellini, Alvise Vivarini, and Carpaccio
which had adorned the interior were consumed; and
those which now' decorate its walls and ceilings are the
work of the later artists, notably of Titian, Tintoretto,
and Veronese. With very few exceptions, the subjects
of the pictures set forth the glory and power of Venice,
which find their highest expression in the Hall of the
Great Council, that body of one hundred nobles, nomi-
nally the government, but actually superseded by the
inner Council of Ten. The walls are covered with large
mural paintings, representing triumphal incidents of
war and diplomacy. Around the frieze are j^ortraits by
Tintoretto of seventy-six doges, a black tablet with the
inscription Ilic est locus Marini Falethri dccapitati pro
criminihus hanging where should be the portrait of Doge
JNIarino Faliero, a traitor to the terrible Council of Ten.

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The splendor of the whole culminates in the center of the
eastern ceiling, in the Glory of Venice by Paul Vero-
nese.

The illustration of it here reproduced should be held
above the head, in order that the angle of vision may cor-
respond with that at which the original is viewed. Then
it becomes apparent with what wonderful skill the archi-
tecture and the figures have been made to conform to the
conditions of seeing ihe picture. High up against the
magnificent architectural setting, of that imposing kind
with which the architect Palladio was delighting his con-
temporaries, between pillars of Oriental design, such as
adorn the Beautiful Gate of the Temple in Raphael's
cartoon of Peter and John curing the lame man, Ve-
nezia sits enthroned. She is robed in ermine and blue
silk, gold embroidered, and above her fair-haired head a
winged figure, poised in air, suspends a crown, while an-
other, higher up upon a cloud, blows through a trumpet.
Grouped at the foot of the throne, and resting upon
clouds, are five female figures, symbolizing, from the
right. Justice, Agriculture, Peace, Commerce, and Vic-
tory, and beside the last sits the male figure of a soldier,
holding a branch of laurel. From a balcony beneath
them men and women in beautiful attire look up with
faces of radiant happiness and devotion, while down be-
low, two horsemen appear among a crowd of persons.

" This picture," writes the artist E. H. Blashfield, " is
so rich and so silvery in its color " — the latter appearing
in the architectural parts — " that it may be called mag-
nificent in its technic as in its motive. As a subject, it is
exactly what Veronese loved best to treat, and among

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THE GLORY OF VENICE PAOLO VERONESE

HALL OF THE GREAT COUNCIL, DUCAL PALACE, VENICE

VEROXESE-TIXTORETTO

his works only The Marrias^e at Cana and The Family
of Darius can rival it. . . . No picture shows a more
masterly arrangement: a style at once so sumptuous yet
elevated, figures whose somewhat exuberant loveliness is
saved from vulgarity by an air of pride and energy,
magnificent material treated with such ease and sin-
cerity.

We should particularly remark the last words, " ease
and sincerity." As to the ease of Veronese, I quote from
various sources: " His facility of execution has never
l)een equaled." " Every one of his canvases, replete
with life and movement, is a feast for the eye." " Vero-
nese was supreme in representing, without huddling or
confusion, numerous figures in a luminous and diffused
atmosphere, while in richness of draperies and transpa-
rency of shadows he surpassed all other Venetians or
Italians." " He is of all painters, without a single ex-
cc[)tion, the one whose work shows most unity."

As to his sincerity, it arose from the fact that he was
simply what he was — a j^ainter. He does not appeal to
our intelligence, as Titian, or to our sense of dramatic
])oetry, as Tintoretto. His is the Kingdom of the
World, the pride of strong and beautiful bodies, the
s])]en(l()r of external appearances; and he gave himself
to it with the single purpose of representing what ap-
pealed to the eye. " Joyous, free, proud, full of health
and vigor, Veronese is the very incarnation of the Italian
Renaissance, that happy time when under smiling and
])ropitious skies painters produced works of art with as
little effort as trees put forth their blossoms and bear
their fruit."

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" These being the prominent features of his style, it
remains to be said that what is really great in Veronese
is the sobriety of his imagination and the solidity of his
workmanship. Amid so much that is distracting, he
never loses command over his subject, nor does he de-
generate into fulsome rhetoric." In the exuberance of
his fancy and the facility of his brush, moreover in the
skill with which he " places crowds of figures in an atmo-
spheric envelope, bathing them, so to speak, in light," he
resembles Rubens. " But he does not, like Rubens,
strike us as gross, sensual, fleshly; he remains proud,
powerful, and frigidly materialistic. He raises neither
repulsion nor desire, but displays with the calm strength
of art the empire of the mundane spirit." Equally in
this quality of sober restraint he differs from Tintoretto.
" Where Tintoretto is dramatic, Veronese is scenic."

This distinction is well worth analyzing. It may seem
for a moment as if the two ideas were identical; but
" scenic " has to do with the things apparent to the eye,
" dramatic " with the unseen workings of the mind, as
expressed in word or gesture. A pageant is scenic ; but
the attempt to reproduce the thought, which moves each
individual to separate expression of his feehngs, would
bring it into the category of dramatic. The distinction
is made clear by a comparison of the Glory of Venice
with Tintoretto's Miracle of St. Mark. We feel a desire
to know the story represented in the latter. This in
itself is to admit a difference. Veronese being, as I have
said, simply what he was— a painter— needs no commen-
tary. The purport of his picture is at once self-evident.
You will be told by some that this self -evidentness is the

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VEROXESE-TIXTORETTO

proper scope of painting; that "art for art's sake'*
should he tlie sole ohject of the painter; that tlie repre-
sentation of anything else hut what is apparent to the
eye is going outside the province of the art; and that the
])reference which so many i)eople have for a picture
M hich makes an ajjpeal not only to the eye, but to the
intellect or the poetic and dramatic sense, is a proof of
vulgar taste which confuses painting with illustration.
The best answer to this is that not alone laymen, but ar-
tists also in all periods, — artists of such personality that
they cannot be ignored, — have tried to reinforce the
grandeur of mere appearances with something that shall
appeal to the mind and soul of men.

Tintoretto was one of them; not by overt intention,
but because the poetic and dramatic fervor was in him
and it had to find utterance. The points of main impor-
tance are the value of the story that he represents and
his manner of representing it. Now, to the Venetians,
any incident connected with their patron saint was of
extreme interest, recognized at once and enjoyed. The
one pictured here has reference to the legend, that a
Christian slave of a pagan nobleman had persisted in
worshiping at the shrine of St. Mark; whereui)()n his
master haled him before the judge, who condemned him
to be tortured. But as the executioner raised his ham-
mer, St. ^Nlark himself descended from heaven and the
weapon was shattered. We see the saint, hovering above
the crowd; the executioner in his turban, turning to the
judge to show the broken hammer; the judge leaning
forward in his seat, and the various individuals in the
crowd pressing round with dilFerent expressions of

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amazement. Following a custom of the time, Tinto-
retto has introduced the portrait of himself three times:
in the bearded man who leans forward between the col-
umns on the left, in the figure immediately to the right
of the executioner, and again in the face that appears
beneath the judge on the extreme right of the picture.
No Venetian of Tintoretto's time could be unresponsive
to such a theme, so realized ; any more than an American
of to-day could fail to be impressed, were there an artist
capable of representing some incident in the life of
Washington in such a way as to involve all that the idea
of Washington presents to the American imagination.

Now as to the manner of presentment: Tintoretto,
when a youth, wrote upon the wall of his studio as an
ideal to be reached: " The drawing of Michelangelo, the
coloring of Titian." His father being a dyer of silk
(tintore) , the lad at first assisted in the work, hence his
nickname, " II Tintoretto," " The Little Dyer." How-
ever, as he showed an aptitude for drawing and painting,
the father obtained permission for him to work in Ti-
tiah's studio ; but for some reason his stay with the great
master lasted only a few days. For the rest, he was his
own teacher, studying and copying the works of Titian
in the churches and palaces ; and, having obtained casts of
Michelangelo's figures upon the Medicean tombs, draw-
ing them from every possible point of view. It is said
that he also made little figures in clay, and suspended
them by a string from the rafters in his studio, that he
might learn how to represent them in mid-air, and as
they appeared when viewed from underneath.

It was very difficult even in Venice for a young un-

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VEROXESE-TIXTORETTO

tried painter to obtain recognition; but at last an oppor-
tunity occurred. In the Church of Santa Maria del
Orto there were two bare spaces nearly fifty feet high
and twenty broad; he offered to paint them for nothing
but the price of the materials; and, the offer being ac-
cepted, ]:)roduced The Last Judginent and The Golden
Calf. lie was now about twenty-eight years old. So
great was the impression ])roduced by these works that
lie was shortly after invited to paint four pictures for
the Scuola di San Rocco, one of which was the picture
we are studying. There were many of these schools in
A^enice, and they vied with one another in securing the
services of painters to decorate their walls. The brothers
of the Confraternity of San Rocco gave Tintoretto a
commission for two pictures in their church, and then
invited him to enter a competition with Veronese and
others for the decoration of the ceiling in the hall of their
school. When the day arrived, the other painters pre-
sented their sketches, but Tintoretto, being asked for his,
removed a screen from the ceiling and showed it already
painted. " We asked for sketches," they said. " That
is the way," he replied, " I make my sketches." They
still demurred, so he made them a present of the picture,
and by the rules of their order they could not refuse a
gift. In the end they promised him the painting of all
the pictures they required, and during his lifetime he
covered their walls with sixty large compositions. After
the fire of 1577 in the Ducal Palace he shared with Vero-
nese the larger ])art of the new decorations.

Among his pictures there is the 3Iarria^^e of Bacchus
and Ariadne, described by .John Addington Symonds

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as "that perfect lyric of the sensuous fancy"; with
which the same writer couples his Martyrdom of St.
Agnes J, " that lamb-like maiden with her snow-white
lamb among the soldiers and priests of Rome," as an
illustration " that it is not only in the region of the vast,
the tempestuous, and the tragic, that Tintoretto finds
himself at home ; but that he has proved beyond all ques-
tion that the fiery genius of Titanic artists can pierce
and irradiate the placid and the tender secrets of the
soul, with more consummate mastery than falls to the
lot of those who make tranquillity their special prov-
ince."

Yet it is his phenomenal energy and the impetuous
force of his work that are particularly characteristic of
Tintoretto and earned for him the sobriquet among his
contemporaries, " II Furioso." He painted so many pic-
tures, and on so vast a scale, that some show the effects
of over-haste and extravagance, which caused Annibale
Carracci to say that, " while Tintoretto was the equal of
Titian, he was often inferior to Tintoretto."

But the Miracle of St. Mark is one of his grandest
pictures; admirable alike in the dramatic movement of
the figures, the beauty of the coloring, and the emotional
use that has been made of light and shadow. If we com-
pare it with Veronese's we shall discover the difference
between the dramatic and the scenic. The figures in the
latter have a sumptuous repose, finely adjusted to the
general strain of triumph that resounds from the whole
picture; but in Tintoretto's the wonderfully foreshort-
ened body of St. Mark plunges through the air with the
impetuosity of an eagle. " There is not a figure in the

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VEROXESE-TIXTORETTO

])ictiire that does not act, and act all over; not a fold of
drapery nor a tone of Hesh that does not add to the uni-
versal dash and brilliancy." The coloring of the cos-
tumes includes saff'ron, blue, gold, and deep crimson;
the sky is of greenish hue passing to a golden haze over
the horizon; while the body of the slave is a center of
hmiinousness. For the chief characteristic of the pic-
ture is Tintoretto's use of light and shade.

He uses it with dramatic and emotional effect;" with
him," as has been said, " it is the first and most powerful
of dramatic accessories; he makes light an actor in his
vast compositions." We shall see how Rubens, fresh
from Italy, used light and shadow in this emotional way
in his Descent from the Cross; but usually, like Vero-
nese, he enveloped his figures in clear full light; while
Tintoretto makes his emerge into light from darkness.
Some of his ^^ictiu'cs, whether from efi^ects of time or
the manner of their painting, are to-day black and
coarse-looking; but in the best and well-preserved ones,
as in our present example, the shadows themselves are
luminous with color.

While his life was a tranquil one, spent for the most
part in his studio, his mind teemed with ideas; his con-
ceptions came to him in lightning bursts of inspira-
tion, the whole scene vividly clear; rapidly and without
hesitation transferred to the canvas. Hence some of his
work is exaggerated in force and confused in compo-
sition. Such, at least in its present condition, is the vast
canvas of Paradise in the Ducal Palace, the largest oil-
painting in the world, measuring thirty ])y seventy-four
feet, upon which he painted during the last six years of

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

his life. He lies buried in Santa JNIaria del Orto, the
church in which his first important work was done forty-
eight years before. Veronese, the younger man, had
been dead six years.

With these men died the last of the giants of the Ital-
ian Renaissance. That mighty movement had run its
course, and was succeeded by decline. The vital force
of painting now reappeared in other lands.

[176]

I I

CHAPTER XII

PETER PAUL RUBENS
1577-1640

Flemish School

DIEGO RODRIGUEZ DE
SILVA VELASQUEZ

1590-lGGO

Spanish School

THE student of art, when he reaches the period of
the seventeenth century, turns a sharp corner.
He has been travehng for three centuries in
Italy, with brief visits at long intervals to Flanders and
Germany, the second of his trips to the latter including
a visit to England. But, as he turns the corner of the
seventeenth century, Italy is left behind, Spain attracts
his attention to the west, while far to the north Holland
and, a second time, Flanders beckon him.

For in Italy the last of the great artists passed away
with Tintoretto. The country itself had become the
prey of despots who were in the hire of foreign rulers;
and the loss of political liberty was accompanied by
lower social standards, by intellectual and artistic de-
cline. There were still clever painters, but they were
little men, without originality, content to reproduce the
manner of their great predecessors; copying chiefly
their weaknesses; trying by extravagances to disguise
the absence of originality in themselves.

At this period, to find something vital in art,— some-
thing, that is to say, that grows and ripens because of the

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independent force of life within itself, — we must turn
to Spain and to the North. Immediately three of the
greatest names in art rise to our notice: Rembrandt,
Rubens, and Velasquez. It is with the last two that we
are concerned at present.

The pictures selected as a basis for the study of these
two giants are The Descent from the Cross by Rubens
and The Maids of Honor (Las Meninas in the Spanish)
by Velasquez. The former was painted when Rubens
was thirty-five. He had completed his education by a
sojourn of eight years in Italy, where, in the service of
the Duke of Mantua, he had had special opportunities
of study, being employed during part of the time in
making copies of masterpieces for his j^atron.

He was now returned to Antwerp, and one of the
first works in which he declared himself to be a master
was The Descent from the Cross. It shows him to be
under the Italian influence, and not yet the original ar-
tist that he became. The Maids of Honor, on the con-
trary, was painted by Velasquez only four years before
he died, and represents the finest flower of his maturity.

Possibly our first impression of the Rubens picture
will be, "How beautiful! "—of the Velasquez, "How
curious! " In the one case the figures almost fill the can-
vas and are grouped so as to decorate it with an imposing
mass of light and shade and a beautiful arrangement of
lines; whereas in the other the figures are all at the bot-
tom of the canvas, and do not present a similarly beau-
tiful pattern of lines and masses. The one looks like a
magnificent picture ; the other seems to be rather a real
scene, as indeed it was.

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RUBENS-VELASQUEZ

The story of Las iMcnhms is that Velasquez was paint-
ing a i)ortrait of the king and queen, who sat where the
spectat(n- is as he looks at the pieture, and their little
daughter, the infanta ^Margarita, came in with her maids
ol' luHior, her dog, and her dwarfs, accompanied by her
duenna and a courtier. The little princess asks for a
drink of water; the maids of honor hand it to her with
the elaborate etiquette prescribed by the formalities of
the most rigidly ceremonious court in Europe. The
scene presented so charming a picture, that the king de-
sired Velasquez to paint it. The artist has included
himself in the group at work upon a large canvas, on
which it is supposed he was painting the portraits of the
king and queen when the interruption occurred. Their
reflection appears in the mirror at the end of the room,
and the chamberlain, Don Jose Nieto, stands outside the
door, drawing a curtain. The scene is indeed repre-
sented with such extraordinary realism that the French
critic Gautier writes, " So complete is the illusion that,
standing in front of Las Mcninas, one is tempted to ask,
' Where is the picture? ' "

It is the mature work of a painter whose motto was,
"Verdad no pintura " ("Truth, not painting"). By
comparison, the principle which Rubens followed is
" Painting and truth." Let us see how the two ideas are
illustrated in the respective pictures.

The Descent from the Cross arouses one's feeling of
awe and pity to an extraordinary degree. This is ])ju-tly
due to the actual moment in the great tragedy of the
Redemption which the artist has seized. The^ terrible
anguish of the Crucifixion is past; to it has succeeded

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the pathetic nothingness of death; the poor, hmp body
is being tenderly cared for by the faithful few who have
come, under the cover of night, to render the last office
to the Dead. Joseph of Arimathasa is superintending
the lowering of the precious burden; young John, the
beloved disciple, supports its weight; Peter has mounted
the ladder with characteristic eagerness, but the memory
of his denial is with him, and, fixed in contemplation of
the divine face, he lends no hand ; and the three JNIarys
are there, the one stretching out her arms with a mother's
yearning for embrace, the Magdalene grasping the foot
that she had once bathed with her tears. Each attendant
figure, though so different in its individual expression
of feeling, joins with the others to complete a unity of
deepest reverential tenderness. Then in contrast to
these strong forms, so full of life and feeling, is the re-
laxed, nerveless body of the Dead. I wonder if ever the
pitiful helplessness of death, or the reverent awe that
the living feel in the presence of their beloved dead, has
been more beautifully expressed.

Let us try to discover by what actual resources of the
painter's art Rubens has achieved this result. We have
mentioned the contrast between the bodies of the Dead
and the living figures. It is an illustration of the paint- *
er's power to stimulate what has been called the " tactile
imagination"; that is to say, to suggest the physical
sense of touch and the feelings in the mind aroused by
it. A lesser artist might have conceived this way of
presenting the scene and drawn all the figures in the
same positions, making, in fact, the same appeal to our
eye, and yet not affected us in the same way, because he

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RUBENS-VELASQUEZ

Mould make no appeal to that other sense of touch,
which really in most people is the more easily roused.
For people more readily appreciate hard and soft, rough
and smooth, stiff and limp, hot and cold, than the colors
and shapes and grouping of objects. It is this sense of
touch which llubens had so wonderful a skill in suggest-
ing. Look, for example, at the modeling of the shoul-
ders and head of Peter. AVhat strength and bulk and
sudden tightening of the muscles, as he turns and holds
himself still ! The line of the shoulders and the direction
of the eyes point us to the Saviour's head. It has
dr()p])ed of its own weight, as the hand of the man above
let go of it. The left arm is still grasped by the other
man — at the elbow, observe, so that his hand not only
helps to sustain the weight of the body, but keeps the
forearm stiff*. We feel that, when he lets go, it too will
fall lifelessly. Compare also the huddled, actionless po-
sition of the Saviour's form with the strong body of
John, braced so firmly by the legs. So, one by one, we
might examine the figures, feeling in our imagination
the physical firmness and nmscular movement that each
would present to the touch, coming back again and
again to the feeling, How limp and flaccid is the dead
body !

This last feeling might produce in us either disgust
or pity. Rubens has insured the latter, partly by depict-
ing in the living figures a reverence and tenderness in
which we instantly participate; also, by the persuasive
beauty of the com])osition.

Let us study the latter, first in its arrangement of line,
secondly in its arrangement of light and shade, though

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the two are really blended. Every figure in the compo-
sition has either the beauty of grace or that of character ;
and the most beautiful is the Saviour's, which has the
elongated, pliant grace of the stem and tendrils of a
vine. And the drooping flower upon it is the head, to
which all the principal lines of the composition lead.
Start where you will and follow along the direction of
the figures, your eye finally centers upon the Saviour's
head. It is the focus-point. And note that on the edges
of the group the lines begin by being firm and strong in
character, gradually increasing in suppleness and grace
as they draw near the sacred figure, until finally all the
dignity and sweetness of the picture come to an inten-
sity in the Head. Lest the central figure should be lack-
ing in impressiveness as a mass, its effect has been broad-
ened by the winding-sheet, against the opaque white of
which its own whiteness of flesh is limpid and ashy in
tone. Apart from the flesh-tints, the other hues in the
picture are black, almost black-green, and dull red.
Thus by its color as well as by the lines the figure of
the Saviour is made the prominent spot in the composi-
tioUo Moreover, placed as it is upon the most brilliantly
lighted part of the picture, its own tenderer lighting is
made more emphatic.

The figure is being lowered, as it were, down a cata-
ract of light which leaps up in a wave at the bottom, and
scatters flakes of foam around it. These alight on the
faces, hands, and sometimes on an arm or foot, in every
case just those parts of the composition which are im-
portant in the expression of gesture or sentiment.

In this distribution of light, as well as in the arrange-

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RUBENS- VELASQUEZ

' ment of tlie lines, there has been a careful building up
of effect, everything calculated to arouse the emotion
and make at once a magnificent spectacle and a pro-
found imi)ression. Painted as an altarpiece to be viewed
from a distance, it is an example of the " grand style,"
belonging to that " high-bred " family of pictures repre-
sented most nobly in Italian art. Compared with it, Tlic
Maids of Honor may appear to have little grandeur,

\Vhile the Kubens presents a beautiful pattern of
decoration, the Velasquez seems barren, more than half
the canvas being given up to empty space. The figures
in the former have a grand flow of line, those in the
hitter seem stiff and awkwardly grouped. The Rubens
excites our emotion, the Velasquez our curiosity.

Before studying closely The Maids of Honor, we
must recall the fact that in 1628 Rubens visited the court
of S])ain for nine months; that Velasquez watched him
paint and came under the fascination of his personality;
that he saw Rubens's admiration for the great Italian
])ictures which hung in the king's gallery; that by the
advice of Rubens he shortly afterward visited Italy, and
studied in Venice, Milan, and Rome. In fact, Velas-
(jucz was well acquainted with the grandeur of Italian
painting; and in the middle period of his life, between
1645 and 1648, had an o])])ortu!iity to execute a grand
exam])le of decorative j)ainting. The king commis-
sioned him to decorate the walls of the new summer pal-
ace, Buen Retiro, whereupon Velasquez painted the
famous Surrender of Breda. It represents Justin of
Nassau handing the keys of the city to his conqueror,
Spinola, the last of the great Spanish generals. It is a

[183]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

noble decoration and at the same time one of the finest
historical j)aintings in the world, contradicting the as-
sertion made by some painters that the two ideas are
incompatible.

Some years before it was painted Rubens had com-
j)leted a series of historical decorations, which are now
in the Louvre, to celebrate events in the life of JNIarie
de Medicis, queen of Henri IV of France, and mother
of Louis XIII. Here again is shown the difference
between Rubens and Velasquez; for these pictures by
Rubens present a blaze of color, a profusion of sumptu-
ousness, a pageant of imagination in which gods and
goddesses and allegorical figures mingle with the actual
personages. Velasquez, on the contrary, while keeping
in mind the decorative necessities of the canvas, kept
himself also to the simple and very touching circum-
stances of the incident. Even in the enthusiasm of
painting a great decoration, he preserved his regard for
"truth."

/ So it was not because of ignorance of what other great
painters had done, or of what he himself could do to
rival them on their own ground, — for The Surrender of
Breda could hang without loss of dignity beside a Titian,
— that he turned his back upon all traditions of the Ital-
ian grand style, and in the years of his maturity pro-
duced The Maids of Honor, a new kind of picture. It
was new because it was the product of a new kind of
artist's eyesight; of a new conception of realism.

We have seen in Holbein's Portrait of Georg Gyze
an example of that kind of realism which is solely occu-
pied in giving a faithful representation of the figure and

[ 184 ]

DESCENT FROM THE CROSS

ANTWKRP CATHEDRAL

RUBENS

\S .Mi;.\lNAS (MAIDS OF HONOK)

I'KADO (iALl.l.KV. MADllll)

VELASQUEZ

RUBEXS-VELASQUEZ

its surrounding objects. But if you compare that por-
trait with Vehiscpiez's j)ieture, you will feel, I think, that
tlie attention is scattered over Holbein's picture, while
in the case of Velasquez's the eye immediately tikes it
in as a whole. The little princess is the center of the
scene, the light being concentrated on her, as it is around
the principal figure in Kubens's picture; but, though our
attention is centered on the child, it revolves all round
her and immediately embraces the scene as a whole. The
realism of this picture is a realism of unity. ^Moreover,
it gives us a single vivid impression of the scene, such
as the king received; so we may call it also a realism of
impression.

To illustrate what is meant by realism of impression
let us contrast an example of the extreme opposite: 1807
-Fricdland, by .Aleissonier, in the .Aletropolitan ]Mu-
seum, New^ York. It is not necessary to have seen it to
appreciate the difference; enough to know that it repre-
sents a regiment of cavalry galloping past Napoleon,
saluting him as they charge the enemy; and that the
armor and weapons and accoutrements of all these men
are painted with the finish and exactness of a miniature.
Xo eye in the world could have seen the bridles and bits
and spurs and buttons, and the thousand other shai-ply
defined details, as those soldiers galloped by. AVhile
each detail represents realism, their sum total is, from
the point of view of the painter or of the s])ectator, false.
The reason is that :\reissonier has i)ainted, not what he
could see, but what his mind informed him must be
there.^ And what is the result? The picture does not

' See the chapter on Memling, page 64.

[ 180 1

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affect us as a whole; but people study over it, moving
their eyes, as if from word to word or from line to line
on the page of a book; and then, because every item
looks so real, they exclaim, "How wonderful!"

Velasquez's picture, on the other hand, makes an in-
stant and complete impression, because he has included
in it only as much of detail as the eye could embrace at
one glance; more, however, than a less gifted and an
untrained vision could encompass. But it was Velas-
quez's distinction that he had a marvelous power of re-
ceiving a full impression and of vividly retaining it in
his mind until he had rendered it vivid upon the canvas.

If we turn back again to a comparison of The De-
scent from the Cross and The Maids of Honor, do we
not realize a much more instantaneous and vivid impres-
sion in the Velasquez? The Rubens, also, is a noble ex-
ample of unity, but it is a unity of effect produced
chiefly by the balance of the dark and light parts; yet
the method adopted is arbitrary, as compared with the
Velasquez. To state it briefly: Rubens has put the light
where he needed it for his composition; Velasquez has
taken it as he found it. Streaming through the window,
it permeates the whole room, not striking the figures
simply on one side and leaving the other dark, but en-
veloping them and penetrating to the remotest corners
of the ceiling. Even in the reproductions, you can see
how much more real the light is in the Velasquez; how
it is bright on the parts of the figures that lie in its direct
path; less bright in the half-lights, where it strikes the
figure less directly ; reflected back, as for example from
the dress of the little princess on to that of the maid on

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RUBENS- VELASQUEZ

her left; how it steals round everytliing and penetrates
everywhere. For Velasquez reeognized that light is
elastie and illuminates the air. Also he notieed that the
Hglit was whiter on ohjects near tlie eye, grayer and
grayer on ohjeets farther and farther haek, owing to the
intervening planes of atmosphere hanging between like
veils.

Ilenee he was the first to discover a new kind of per-
spective. JNlen long ago had learned to make the lines
vanish from the eye; to make the figures diminish in size
and shape as they recede from the front; and to explain
the distance by contrasts of light and shade. But he
])erfected what had been anticipated by Leonardo— the
perspective of light. By the most delicate and accu-
rate rendering of the quantity of light reflected from
each and every part of the room and the figin-es and
objects in it, and by recognizing the veils of atmosphere,
lie gave to the figures the reality of form and to the
room its hollowness and distance.

Painters distinguish between the color of an object
and its color as acted upon by light. Thus, in the case
of a white dress, they would say that white was its " local
color." But it is not white like a sheet of pa})er; it varies
in degrees of whiteness according to the quantity of
liglit reflected from its various parts. And these vary-
ing quantities of light reflected from the various ])lanes
of the objects, they call " values." Velasquez excelled
in the rendering of " values."

This attention to values, or the truthful rendering of
light, involved other truths: for example, that the out-
lines of objects are not, except in special cases, sharply

[191]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

defined, — the light plays round their edges and thereby
softens and melts them; and the objects themselves do
not appear as if they were cut out in paper and pasted
on the canvas, but are masses of more or less illuminated
color, merged in the surrounding atmosphere. Conse-
quently, Velasquez gave to the contour-lines of his fig-
ures an elusiveness; sometimes they are strong and
assertive, at other times they melt into the atmosphere.
And as light shows itself to our eyes by being reflected
from the infinite molecules of the air, so Velasquez's
rendering of light introduced an appearance of real
atmosphere into his pictures. You have only to com-
pare this one of his with Rubens's to be sure this is so.

Having thus briefly (and therefore inadequately, I
am afraid; for it is a large and diflScult subject) glanced
at the things that Velasquez tried for, we are in a better
position to understand how his realism was a realism of
impression. Firstly, he saw his subject at a single
glance, eye and hand instantaneously cooperating; and
he confined his impression to what a less keen eye, as-
sisted by him, could also take in as a single impression.
Secondly, by his marvelous penetration into the action
of light, and his skill in rendering it, he set upon the
canvas the scene as he had received the impression of it,
with such subtle fidelity that our omu observation is
stimulated, and we receive the impression vividly.

By this time the picture should no longer appear to be
empty; nor the figures crowded at the bottom. We
should feel that the background and ceiling are con-
nected, by that vertical strip of light up the edge of the
canvas, with the figures in the foreground, so as to make

[192]

RUBENS- VELASQUEZ

a unified composition ol' balanced masses of light and
less light. In the wonderful truth to life of the figures
—the exquisite daintiness of the little princess, the affec-
tionate reverence of the maids, the grotescjueness of the
dwarfs, and the courtly sensitiveness of the artist's figure
— we should have entered into the intimate human feel-
ing of the whole group and ceased to he troubled by the
curious style of the costumes.

These costumes, more than likely, and the fact that
Velasquez lived in the ])alace painting courtly scenes
and portraits, had much to do with his striking out a
new style. How could he introduce such hooped skirts
into a picture in the grand manner of Italian painting?
His great genius was therefore compelled to find an-
other outlet, and did so in directions which were new and
permanent additions to the art of painting.

Rubens, on the other hand, not less original, took
from the Italian style what could be of use to him, and
then built uj)on it a stj'le of his ow7i. It is distinguished
by a wonderful mastery of the human form and an
amazing wealth of s})len(li(lly lighted color. He was a
man of as much intellectual poise as Velasquez, and, like
the latter, was accustomed to court life. Rut while
Velasquez, bound to the most punctilious, ascetic, and
superstitious court in Europe, was driven in upon him-
self, and became more and more acutely sensitive, —
Rubens, traveling from court to court with pomp as a
trusted envoy, had the exuberance of his nature more
and more developed. As an artist, he had the wonderful
faculty of being hal)itually in a white heat of imagi-
nation, while perfectly cool and calculating in the con-

[ li>'3 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

trol of his hand. Hence the enormous output of his
brush. It might be said that he was as proHfic in the
representation of the joy and exuberance of hfe as
JNIichelangelo was in the representation of the hfe of
the emotions.

Velasquez, for nearlj^ two centuries, was forgotten
outside of Spain. Itahan art continued to be the model
to imitate ; and even when a return to the truth of nature
was made at the beginning of the nineteenth century,
sixty years passed before this great example of " Truth,
not painting" was "discovered." Then a few painters
visited the museum of the Prado at JNIadrid, which con-
tains most of his pictures; others followed, and the
world became gradually conscious that in these pictures
of Velasquez, especially in the wonderful series of por-
traits of the king and members of the court, which he
made during forty years of royal intimacy, there was
revealed a great and solitary genius. Since then he
has exercised, as we shall see, such an influence upon
modern painting that he has been called " the First of
the ]Moderns."

[194]

CHAPTER XIII

A.\TOyy VAN DYCK FRANS HALS

1599-1641 1584 (?)-1666

Flemish School Dutch School

THE commencement of the seventeenth century-
witnessed the birth of a new nation and of
a new art— the Dutch. When the emj)eror
Charles V abdicated in 1555, he allotted Austria and
Germany to Ferdinand I, Spain and the Netherlands
to his son Philip II. The rule of Spain was in one way
beneficial to the Netherlands, or Low Countries (Hol-
land and Eelgium), since it opened to them the trade
with the New World and the West Indies. Antwerp
rose to greatness. " No city except Paris," says JNIr.
JNIotley, " surpassed it in population or in commercial
splendor. The city itself was the most beautiful in Eu-
Tope. Placed upon a ])lain along the bank of the
Scheldt, shaped like a bent bow with the river for its
string, it inclosed within its walls some of the most
splendid edifices in Christendom. The world-renowned
Church of Notre Dame, the stately Exchange, where
five thousand merchants daily congregated — prototype
of all similar establishments throughout tlie world — the
capacious mole and port — were all establishments which
it would have been difficult to rival iy any other part of
the globe."

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

Such it was before the " Spanish Fury." In 1567 the
Duke of Alva arrived with ten thousand veterans for the
purpose of stamping out the Reformed faith; estab-
hshed his " Council of Blood " ; beheaded the Counts of
Egmont and Horn after a mock trial; and commenced
a reign of terror and bloodshed. In the six years of
his governorship he boasted that he had put to death
eighteen thousand persons besides those killed in battle;
for the people had risen under William the Silent, and
the war for independence was begun. In 1579, by an
agreement at Utrecht, the seven northern provinces
united for mutual defense; the southern holding back,
because they adhered to the Roman Catholic form of
faith. Antwerp, however, though not in the League of
United Provinces, became a focus-point of the struggle,
and in 1585 capitulated to the Duke of Parma.

Thirty-one years later the English ambassador paid
a visit to the place, and wrote home to a friend:

This great city is a great desert, for in ye whole time we spent
there I could never sett my eyes in the whole length of the streete
uppon 40 persons at once; I never mett coach nor saw man on
horseback ; none of our own companie (though both were workie
da3'es) saw one pennievvorth of ware either in shops or in streetes
bought or solde. Two walking pedlars and one ballad-seller will
carry as much on their backs at once, as was in that ro\'all ex-
change either above or below, — and the whole countrey of Bra-
bant was suitable to this towne; faire and miserable.

When Philip II died in 1598, Spain was exhausted
almost to prostration, and his successor was glad to
conclude an armistice of twelve years with the United

[ 196 ]

VAX DYCK-HALS

Provinces. But at its conclusion war was resumed, and
it was not until 1G48 that by the peace of Westphalia
the independence of the northern provinces of Holland
was finally assured.

Meanwhile, during those seventy years of conflict in
which a new nation was in the forming, a new art had
been born. While the northern provinces were fighting
for their liberties, a number of painters came to man-
hood, whose work was of such originality as to constitute
a new school of painting— the Dutch School; " the last,"
as Fromentin says, " of the great schools, perhaps the
most original, certainly the most local."

It was original because it was local. Across the
Scheldt in Antwerp, Rubens was in the prime of his
powers (among his retinue of pupils was Van Dyck) ;
but, though his fame must have crossed to the Dutch, his
influence did not. That people, stubborn against for-
eign domination, was stubbornly fashioning a kind of
art of its own. Its artists were independent of Rubens,
of the great Italian traditions, of everything but what
concerned themselves. By their religious views they
were separated from the chance of painting altarpieces
or mythological subjects, and by their revolt they were
cut off from viceregal patronage, such as the Flemish
enjoyed. A nation of burghers, busy with war and com-
merce, they developed, out of their own lives, their love
of country, and ])ri(le in themselves, a new art.

In one word, the Dutch art was an art of portraiture.
It began with the painting of portraits of persons, and
then proceeded to the painting of lan(lsca])es and of the
outdoor and indoor occupations of the people, and to

^ [107]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

the painting of still-life, — all with such simple intention
to represent the things as they appeared, and with such
fidelity to the truth, that the whole range of subjects
may be classed as portraiture. It was not " grand art,"
but it was intimate and sincere.

The first of the great men, chronologically, was
Frans Hals, whose Portrait of a Woman we are com-
paring with Van Dyck's Marie Louise von Tassis.
There is a story related by Houbraken, which may or
may not be true, that Van Dyck passing through Haar-
lem, where Hals lived,^ desired to see the painter; but,
though he called several times, he could not find him at
home. So he sent a messenger to seek him out and tell
him that a stranger wished to see him; and, on Hals
putting in an appearance, asked him to paint his por-
trait, adding, however, that he had only two hours to
spare for the sitting. Hals finished the portrait in that
time; whereupon his sitter, observing that it seemed an
easy matter to paint a portrait, requested that he be al-
lowed to try and paint the artist. Hals soon recognized
that " his visitor was well skilled in the materials he was
using; great, however, was his surprise when he beheld
the performance ; he immediately embraced the stranger,
at the same time crying out, 'You are Van Dyck; no
person but he could do as you have now done.' "

Assuming the story to be true, how interesting it
would be if the two portraits existed, that one might see
what Frans Hals, accustomed to the heavier type of the

' He was born in Antwerp, whither his family moved for a time in con-
sequence of the war. They seem to have returned to Haarlem about
1607.

[198]

VAX DVCK-HALS

Dutch biirglicrs, made of the dchcately refined features
of Van Dyck, and how the latter, who always gave an
air of aristocratic elegance to his portraits, acquitted
himself with the bluff, jovial Hals, who was as much at
home in a tavern as in a studio! For no two men could
he more different, both in point of view and method,
though they were alike in one particular, that each was
a most facile and skilful painter.

Let us turn to the two portraits, which are very char-
acteristic examples of these two masters. First of all,
examine the hands. You have recognized, no doubt,
that hands are very expressive of character. In good
portraits there is always a correspondence of feeling and
cliaracter between the hands and the head. Hals was a
master in this respect. There is also an absolute unan-
imity between the expression of the hand and that of
the face in the Van Dyck, even to the curl of the fore-
finger, which echoes with extraordinarv subtlety the
curious slanting glance of the eyes.

But when we learn that this artist kept servants in
his employment whose hands he used as models for the
hands of his sitters, we begin to wonder where this ideal-
izing of nature stopped, and whether the face and car-
liage of the figure also may not have come in for a share
of it. As we know, too, that it was his habit to make a
rapid study of his sitters in black and white chalk upon
gray paper, and to hand it to his assistants for them to
paint the figure in its clothes, which were sent to the
studio for that purpose, after which he retouched their
work and painted in the head and hands, we feel a sus-
})icion that Van Dyck was as much interested \u illustrat-

[199]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

ing his owii ideas of elegance and refinement as in repro-
ducing the actual characteristics of his sitters.

We shall hardly feel this in the Portrait of a Woman
by Hals. Of the fact that the woman looked in the flesh
just as he has represented her on the canvas, we are as
sure, as if we had looked over his shoulder and watched
her grow to shape beneath his brush. He has put in
nothing but what he saw, left out nothing that could
complete the veracity of the record..

We turn back to the Van Dyck, and have ceased to
wonder if JNIarie Louise were really like this. Her por-
trait is an exquisitely beautiful picture — let it go at that;
and then again we turn to the Hals, and again we have
forgotten that it is a j^ortrait. It is a real woman that
we face, one of stout and wholesome stock, whose hus-
band may have had a hand in the shaping of the new
republic, who may have been the mother of sons who
fought in the long struggle for freedom. Those hands !
— one loves them; strong hands, coarsened by their share
in the work of life, now folded so unaffectedly in the
calm and peace of living, which right good doing has
won. When you look at them, and, still more, when you
read their fuller storj^ in that high, broad forehead, with
the strong, big skull beneath it, as indicative of steadi-
ness of purpose as the wide-apart eyes; in that resolute
nose, with its lift of energy in the nostril; and in the
firm, kindly, wise mouth, you realize how it was that
Holland, having by its energy and patience set a barrier
to the ocean, could keep at bay the power of Spain, and
achieve for itself, after long waiting, liberty of life and
thought.

[ 200 ]

MARIE LOUISE VOX TASSIS ANTHONY VAN DYCK

LIECHTENSTEIN GALLERY, VIENNA

rOHTlJ Air OK A WOMAN"

NAIIONAI. (i.\l.l.i:i;V, LONDON

KKAXS HALS

VAN DYCK-HALS

Tliis portrait, while self-sufficient as a record of a
woman who actually lived, is more than that: it is a
type of the race to which she helonged. It is a type, too,
of the whole school of Dutch painting; so straight-
forward, intimate, and sincere. INIoreover, such a mar-
\el of painting!

The Dutchmen of the seventeenth century, having
abandoned the large field of decorative composition, set-
tled down in the small space of their canvases to a per-
fection of craftsmanshi]) that has never been surpassed
in modern art. From the standpoint of pure painting,
they formed a school of great painters; differing among
themselves in motives and manner, but alike in being
consummate masters of the brush.

Hals set his figures in clear light, so that the modeling
is not accomplished by shadows, but by the degree of
light which each surface of the flesh or costume re-
flected. In this respect he worked like Velasquez, but in
a broader way. He distributed the lights and painted
in the colors in great masses, each mass containing its
exact (juantity of light; and so great was his skill in the
rendering of values that he could make a flat tone give
the suggestion of modeling. Thus in the almost unin-
terrupted flat white tone of this woman's ruff we do
not miss the absence of many lines to indicate the folds
of muslin.

Compare the treatment of the ruff in Van Dyck's
portrait; indeed, the explicit w^ay in which the whole of
the elaborate costume is rendered. Nothing is left to
the imagination. Everything is told with rhetorical elab-
oration. The contrast of the Hals portrait offers an in-

[ -^05 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

structive example of what painters mean by the word
" breadth," and a lesson also in the effect of breadth on
our imagination; for we get from the broad simplicity
of this portrait a strong invigoration, whereas from Van
Dyck's a pleasant intoxication. Yet, while we miss the
breadth in the Van Dyck, do not let us overlook the
freedom with which it is painted, so that there is nothing
small or niggling in all these details ; they are drawn to-
gether, like the drops of water of a fountain, into one
splendid burst of elegance.

In the latter, however, the character of the woman is
considerably smothered. Perhaps it was the case that
she had little character, that she was simply a fine lady
of fashion; or it may be that that aspect of her was the
one which chiefly interested the artist. He seems to have
been particularly impressed with her eyes, which indicate
at least a trait of character; and in a very subtle way
he has made the attitude of the figure and the gesture of
the hands and head correspond to it. So in a limited way
the picture is representative of a type.

Hals, on the other hand, did not fix upon any par-
ticular trait or feature: he broadly surveyed all the ex-
ternals of his sitter, and represented them as a whole;
and with such clear seeing that, although he never pene-
trates into the mind of his subject, — as we shall find
Rembrandt did, — he does get at the heart of it, and, in
his straightforward characterization of what he sees,
suggests that character lies beneath it.

In this respect his work is very like the man himself.
He must have had fine qualities of mind ; else how could
he have seen things so simply and completely, and ren-

[ 206]

VAN DYCK-IIALS

(lered them witli such force and expression, inventing
for the purpose a method of his own, wliich, as we have
seen, was distinguished by phicing liis subject in the
clear hglit and by working hu-gely in Hat tones? To get
at the essential facts of a subject, and to set them down
rapidly and precisely, so that all may understand them
and be impressed by them, represent great mental power,
and place Hals in the front rank of painters. Yet, as a
man, he allowed himself to appear to the world an idle
fellow, over-given to jollification, and so shiftless that
in his old age he was dependent upon the city govern-
ment for support. That he received it, however, and
that his creditors were lenient with him, seem to show
that his contemporaries recognized a greatness behind
his intemperance and improvidence; and, when in his
eighty-second year he died, he was buried beneath the
choir of the Church of St. Bavon in Haarlem.

In great contrast to Hals's mode of living was Van
Dyck's. He w-as early accustomed to Rubens's sumptu-
ous establishment; and, when he visited Italy with letters
of introduction from his master, lived in the palaces of
his patrons, himself ado])ting such an elegant ostenta-
tion that he was spoken of as " the Cavalier Painter."
After his return to Antwerp his })atrons belonged to the
rich and noble class, and his own style of living was mod-
eled on theirs; so that, when at length in 1632 he re-
ceived the appointment of court painter to Charles I of
England, he maintained an almost princely establish-
ment, and his house at Blackfriars was the resort of
fashion. The last two years of his life were spent in
traveling on the Continent with his young wife, the

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daughter of Lord Gowry, Lord Ruthven's son. His
health, however, had been broken by excess of work, and
he returned to London to die. He was buried in St.
Paul's Cathedral.

He painted, in his younger days, many altarpieces,
"full of a touching religious feeling and enthusiasm";
but his fame rests mainly upon his portraits. In these
he invented a style of elegance and refinement which be-
came a model for the artists of the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries, corresponding, as it did, to the
genteel luxuriousness of the court life of the period.

On the other hand, during the latter century Hals was
thought little of, even in Holland, whose artists forsook
the traditions of their own school and went astray after
other gods — to wit, those of the Italian " grand style."
It was not until well on in the nineteenth century that
artists, returning to the truth of nature, discovered that
Hals had been one of the greatest seers of the truth and
one of its most virile interpreters. To-day he is honored
for these qualities, and also for the fact that, out of all
the Dutch pictures of the seventeenth century now so
much admired, his are the most characteristic of the
Dutch race and of the art which it produced.

[208]

CHAPTER XIV

REMBRANDT VAN RUN BARTOLOME ESTEBAN MURILLO

1606-1669 1618-1682

Dutch School Spanish School of Andalusia

AS remarkable as the sudden uprising of a native

/% art in Holland is the fact that it almost imme-
1 .m. diately reached its maturity, and, in the person
of Rembrandt, produced one of the foremost artists of
the world. He is one of the few great original men who
stand alone. You cannot trace his genius to the influ-
ence of his time or to the work of other men who pre-
ceded him; nor, although he had followers, could any
of them do what he did. He shines out in solitary big-
ness.

So it is not so much for comparison as for convenience
in continuing our method of study, that I couple his
name with ^lurillo's. Yet, having done so, we may find
that they have something in common ; a common center
round which ]Murillo makes a small circle, Rembrandt
an infinitely larger one. Each was a realist as well as an
idealist; both ])ainted light, and both translated religious
themes into the dialect of the common people.

In his Children of the Shell, ^Nlurillo chose for subject
the infancy of the Christ and St. John; the latter re-
presented with a stafF-like cross in token of his future
career as preacher and pilgrim, while the application of

^' [ 209 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

the legend upon the scroll, " Ecce Agnus Dei," to the
little Saviour is further illustrated by the introduction
of a lamb. These symbols were prescribed by the
church's tradition; Murillo put them in partly because
his patrons demanded them, and partly because he him-
self was a devout Christian; but in other respects he is
influenced by a man's love of little children and an ar-
tist's desire to create a beautiful picture. He takes for
his type the warm-skinned, supple, brown-eyed children
that played half-naked in the bright sunshine of
Seville; their beauty of limb and grace of movement
being characteristic of their free, open-air life. This
part of the picture is real enough ; a bit of nature trans-
lated into paint. But the act in which they are engaged,
and the way in which it is represented, suggest an ideali-
zation of the facts ; and this ideal feeling is increased by
the soft vaporous light in which the little bodies are
bathed; a kind of light " that never was on sea or land,"
a product of the artist's imagination.

The people of Murillo's own day loved his work be-
cause they could enter into it and understand it, for it
portrayed in its virgins, children, and saints the type of
figures with which they were familiar, with the sweet
gentleness of sentiment that reflected the dispositions
of this Southern race. For by that time the darkness of
the Inquisition had cleared away; the Jesuits were win-
ning the devotion of the people by beautifying the
churches; monks and nuns had abandoned the rigor of
self-inflicted torture, and were seeking by lives of kind-
liness and by holy contemplation to have visions of the
divine love. Pictures were demanded that should repre-

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RE.AIBRAXDT-M JRILI.O

sent this happier change. ILhzabeth, the saintly Queen
of Hungary, engaged in doing acts of mercy to the sick
and poor; St. ^Vnthony of l^adua, the holy Franciscan
monk, blessed with an ecstatic vision of the Child-Christ
in the midst of a choir of infant angels; the Holy Fam-
ily, ])()or peasant folk, but radiant with heavenly light
and love — these, and the like, Murillo jjainted, and in
such a ^^•ay that the people of his day could recognize the
counterparts of themselves, men and women and chil-
dren, familiar to their daily experience, and yet lifted up
above them in a light far lovelier than that of their own
l)eautiful sunshine — a spiritual light. So they loved his
work; and for the same reason — that it is of earth and
yet above it, humanly natural and yet spiritually ideal —
it has continued to be loved.

Rembrandt's picture, on the other hand. The Sortie
of the Banning Cock Company, did not satisfy the men
for whom it was painted. It is one of the kind known as
a "corporation picture": an aggregation of portraits.
Sometimes it was the council of one of the trade guilds ;
sometimes the governing body or the surgical force of
a hos2)ital ; very often one of the numerous militia com-
panies, that wished to be commemorated. Franz Hals
painted many of these pictures; so also did another
popular Dutch painter, Bartholomeus van der Heist.
Roth these artists gave great satisfaction to their pa-
trons; for they took care that each member, who had
paid his quota toward the expense gf the picture, should
ha\c his portrait clearly delineated. It was, after all,
a correct concession to a quite reasonable vanity. Be-
sides, the whole tendency of l^utch art, as we have seen,

■[••ill]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

was toward direct and intimate portraiture, and the
racial tendency of the Dutch mind toward straightfor-
wardness and clarity and precision in all things. The
people, on the one hand fighting against the encroach-
ments of the ocean and the invasion of the Spaniard,
and on the other extending their trade over the world,
were living very real lives, and their artists as a body
were realists.

Rembrandt had proved himself a realist when he
painted, in his twenty-sixth year. The Anatomy Lesson,
in which the famous Dr. Tulp is represented conducting
a lecture in dissection before a class of surgeons. It was
a work of marvelous realism, and immediately secured
for the young painter a number of commissions from
those who Avished to have their portraits painted, and
caused his studio to be sought by students eager to learn
from him. It made him famous.

Ten years later he was asked to paint this picture
of Captain Banning Cock's company of musketeers.
With the assurance of genius, he dared to depart from
the usual way of representing such a subject. Instead
of grouping the company in their guild-house, he rep-
resents them issuing from it, as if the occasion were a
shooting-match. The captain, dressed in black with a
red scarf, is giving directions to his lieutenant, whose
costume is yellow with a white scarf around his waist;
the drummer is sounding the call, which arouses the
barking of a dog; tlie ensign shakes loose the big flag;
a sergeant stretches out his arm as he gives an order;
picket-men are hurrying out, a musketeer is loading his
gun, a boy running beside him with the powder-horn;

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REM13RAXDT-MURILLO

and in the midst of the group, " as if," says Mr. John
La Farge, " to give a look of chance and suddenness
to the scene, is the figure of a httle girl, strangely
enough with a dead fowl strung from her waist." She
appears to be engaged in some form of play with a boy,
who has a leaf-crowned helmet on his head and is turn-
ing his back so that it is liis leg which is chiefly visible.

Rembrandt, in fact, chose an instant of sudden and
general animation, and by his genius made it thrill
with the appearance of actual life. The picture, as
originally painted, was larger than at present; but when
it was removed to the Amsterdam town hall it did not
fit the space on the wall and was cut down in size, a
slice being taken off the right side and the bottom. This
barbarous treatment has particularly interfered with the
relation of the two front figures to the rest of the group,
giving them too much an appearance of stepping out
of the i)icture, whereas in its original size we may be sure
the balance of the composition was complete.

To draw its various parts into one supreme impression
Rembrandt abandoned the custom of setting all the fig-
ures in a clear, even light, and welded the whole together
in an elaborate pattern of light and shade. This had
become darkened by dirt and smoke, so that the picture
was taken by French writers of the eighteenth century
for a night scene, and styled Patrouille de Nuit, and
Sir Joshua Reynolds followed their error by calling it
The Night Watch. Subse(|uent cleaning, liowever, has
proved that, notwithstanding some darkening of the
color as the result of time, the picture represents a day-
light scene. The company streams out of the dark door-

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

way into bright sunlight, which plays upon it with in-
numerable accidental effects.

In such action of light, with its glints of surprise and
manifold variations, there is joy to the artist, especially
to one whose mind was so alive to what is momentary
and unusual as Rembrandt's ; a mystery, also, and abun-
dance of mental and artistic suggestion, in the varying
depths of shadow. JNIoreover, it may have seemed to
him the most effectual way of securing the unity and
momentariness of the impression. If every part had
been shown with equal distinctness, it would have been
impossible for the spectator to receive from it the instan-
taneous shock of wonder and surprise that he now ex-
periences. His attention, instead of being immediately
focused, would have been scattered over a hundred de-
tails. As it is, he sees the picture as a whole, and, be-
fore he begins to consider the parts, receives a single,
profound impression.

This original treatment, so entirely at variance with
traditions of corporation pictures, cost Rembrandt the
patronage of the civic guards, and his commissions fell
off from that time forward.

That Rembrandt was wrong to paint this particular
picture in this way is also the opinion of the great
French critic and artist, EfUgene Fromentin, because the
occasion was not a suitable one for putting into practice
this peculiar method of lighting. Fromentin's argu-
ment, briefly summarized, is as follows:

Rembrandt was compact of two natures: one, the re-
alist ; the other, the idealist. At times he was impressed
with the facts of things — the main^ essential facts of a

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REMBRANDT- MIRILLO

landscape or of a human personality; and, whether he is
j)ainting with the hrusli or drawing on copper with the
etching-needle, the result is a wonderful synthesis or
summary of the truth of actual appearance. At other
times it is the truth heneath the surface, the invisible
truth, that fascinates him; and in his attempts to ex-
press this he discovered for himself a new treatment of
light. It was something different from the chiaroscuro,
or arrangement of light and shade, which other artists
used for the threefold purpose of giving substance to
form, of ])roducing an effect of aerial perspective, and
of making the picture brilliant and impressive in pat-
tern. He, too, used this method of chiaroscuro, but he
carried it much farther than any other artist before or
since, so that it is called, after his name, the Rembrandt-
esque treatment. lie immersed everything in a bath of
shadow, plunging into it even the light itself; he sur-
rounded centers of light with waves of darkness. The
darkness itself in his pictures is transparent; you can
peer into it and discover half-concealed forms; every-
thing })rovokes curiosity; there is mystery; and it acts
u])on the mind, so that the real and the imaginary become
mingled. It is at once reality and a dream.

Rembrandt discovered for himself this power of
making chiaroscuro a source of emotional feeling; but
he went even farther. Light exists independent of the
objects it shines upon, and he tried to ])aint only with
the help of light, to draw only with light, to make the
light itself express ideas and emotions. To succeed it
was necessary to make great sacrifices; to relincjuish
much that was dear to his other self, the realist: the

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strong drawing and firm modeling, the magnificent cer-
tainty of effect. These are quahties that might be
looked for in a picture of citizen-soldiers, such as The
Sortie of the Banning Cock Company, but are absent
from it. It was required of him by the circumstances
that he should paint a reality; what he produced was
a vision of light glimmering like phosphorescence on
darkness.

This picture was Rembrandt's first big effort to em-
body his new conception of the possibilities of painting,
and his whole after life was a struggle to reconcile the
two sides of his nature, culminating in 1661, eight years
before his death, in that triumph of mingled realism
and idealism, The Syndics of the Cloth-workers' Guild.
And in many single portraits are revealed the wonderful
resources of this treatment of light and shade for the
purpose of expression. The heads are enveloped in
darkness, out of which emerge the features, the eyes
especially arresting the attention. Through the depth
and poignancy of their gaze one seems to look into the
very soul of the subject. This faculty of profound sug-
gestion, the power of a man who sees into the heart of
things and makes others partakt of his imagination, ap-
pears also in his etchings.

Rembrandt is recognized as the Prince of Etchers,
by reason both of the range and quality of his prints,
which include landscapes, portraits. Biblical subjects,
and studies of beggars and of other picturesque speci-
mens of poverty. Sometimes they are executed with
extraordinary economy of means, a few lines in oppo-
sition to the spaces of paper giving the impression of a

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REMBRAXDT-MURILLO

far-reacliing lan(lscai)e flooded with sunshine; some-
times they are worked up into rieliness of texture, or
again are ehihorate creations of light and shade.

Etching l)eing an art which demands certainty of
brain and liand and yet admits of so mucli ilhision, we
n:ay understand why throughout his hfe Rembrandt,
reahst and ideahst, was so fond of it. The method is
briefly this. A pohshed copper plate is covered with a
film of melted wax, which is then blackened with smoke
by holding it over a lamp or candle. The artist with a
needle, or any correspondingly sharp-pointed instru-
ment, draws his design in the wax; thus baring the cop-
per where the lines appear. He then plunges his plate
into a bath of nitric acid, which bites into the parts ex-
posed, the siu'faces still covered with the wax resisting
the eating in of the acid. When the plate has been
bitten and the wax removed, a roller, covered with ])rint-
ing-ink, is passed over it, that the ink may settle into
the cliannels. The surface is then cleaned, and damp-
ened paper is laid over it and pressed down in a printing-
press, so that the paper sucks up the ink from the
hollows of the lines. This actual process of printing is
the same as is used in the case of steel-engravings; l)ut
in the latter the lines have been dug out by a sharp in-
strument in the hard metal ; whereas in the case of etch-
ing the hand moves freely and easily through the soft
wax; and, further, instead of the groove in the metal
being sharp and hard from the tool, it is soft and furred
by the insinuating tooth of the acid. An etching, there-
fore, is richer in its blacks, with a more generous contrast
of light and shade, and at the same time, if the artist

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chooses to make it so, more delicate. It is, of all the
methods of art, the one which responds most immedi-
ately to the volition of the artist; it is preeminently the
artist's art. That Rembrandt should have practised it
throughout his life, and have attained in it a proficiency
which no other artist has surpassed, is of itself sufficient
to place him in the foremost rank of art. The artist
who has most nearly approached him in scope and ex-
cellence as an etcher is Whistler.

We started with a comparison of Murillo and Rem-
brandt, and have discovered, if I have told the story
right, that the smaller thing, which Murillo attempted,
he did to the satisfaction of his contemporaries and of
posterity; whereas Rembrandt, striving for something
infinitely greater, had his successes and his failures, was
misunderstood by the people of his day, and during the
century which followed, when the influence of Italian
painting, spreading over Europe, had penetrated even
into Holland, was neglected. The story of their work
corresponds with the story of their lives.

Murillo's proceeded smoothly and pleasantly. He
was born in Seville, the birthplace also of Velasquez.
At the age of eleven he was apprenticed to an uncle
who was a painter, and his gentle nature and diligence
soon made him a favorite with his master and his fellow-
students. He managed to live by painting little pic-
tures of sacred subjects on linen; ofl*ering them for sale
at the feria, or weekly market. It was the custom to
bring paints and brushes to the fair, so that patrons
could have the pictures altered to suit their taste; and,
as he sat among the stalls, he had plenty of opportunity

[222]

RE.MBRAXDT-MURILLO

of studying- and sketching the city urchins and beggar
boys that hiy or I'rohcked in the sunshine, lie after-
ward painted many of these, and they are among his
l)est work, so true to Hfe and vigorously executed. In
this way two years passed.

Then there returned to Seville a fellow-student of
iMurillo's, who had exchanged painting for soldiering
and been with the army in Flanders. But the sight of
the works of Rubens and Van Dyck had revived his
love of painting, and he had visited London to study
under the latter artist. lie was now back in Seville with
some copies of A^'an Dyck's work, and with so many sto-
ries of what he had seen, that JNIurillo was stirred with
the ambition to go to Rome. He trudged on foot to
Madrid, and called on his fellow-townsman, Velasquez,
to secure letters of introduction. The great artist re-
ceived him kindly, and, being struck with his earnest-
ness, invited him to stay in his own house. Velas(juez
was called away in attendance on the king, and during
his absence INlurillo made copies of paintings in the royal
galleries by Ribera, Van Dyck, and Velasquez himself.
The latter, on his return, was so pleased with the prog-
i-ess the young man had made, that he advised him to
go to liome; but by this time Murillo had no desire to
leave his country. He stayed in Madrid for further
study, and then returned to Seville after three years'
absence.

One of the mendicant brothers of the little Francis-
can monastery had collected a sum of money, which the
friars determined to expend upon some paintings for
their cloister. The amount was too small to attract the

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

well-known artists of the city, so with much compunc-
tion they gave the commission to the young, untried Mu-
rillo. It was the opportunity he wanted; and he made
such good use of it that his reputation was at once es-
tablished. Henceforth his time was fully occupied in
decorating churches and in painting for private indi-
viduals; he was admitted into the best society, made a
rich marriage, became the head of the School of Seville,
and all the time was beloved of the people.

A fall from a painter's, scaffold cut short his activity.
Incapacitated from work, he lingered for two years,
spending much of his time in prayer in the church of
Santa Cruz, beneath Campana's painting of The De-
scent from the Cross; and beneath this, by his request,
he was buried.

The date of Rembrandt's birth is doubtful, being va-
riously assigned to 1606, 1607, and 1608. His father,
Harmen van Rijn (Harmen of the Rhine), owned a
mill on the banks of the Rhine at Leyden. When quite
young the boy was sent to the Latin school in order that,
as Orless, the best authority upon his early life, puts it,
" he might in the fullness of time be able to serve his
native city and the Republic with his knowledge."
However, his inclination toward drawing was so marked
that his father placed him with Jacob van Swanen-
burch. Three years later he went to Amsterdam to
study under Lastman, who had spent many years in
Rome. But with him Rembrandt stayed only six
months, and then returned to Leyden, " resolved," as Or-
less says, " to study and practise painting alone in his own
fashion." He stayed at home six years, working much

[224]

REMBRANDT- MLRILI A)

from the members of his family, and fre(iuently etch-
ing his own head, with various kinds of facial expression.

In IG.'JO he moved to xVmsterdam, which henceforth
was to be the scene of his life. The city at that time had
recovered from the shock of war and was rapidly grow-
ing in commercial prosperity and liberally encouraging
the fine arts. For a time all went well with Rembrandt.
The Anatomy Lesson, painted in 1632, had made him
famous; commissions poured in and students flocked to
his studio. Two years later he married a young lady of
propei-ty, Saskia van Uyl-enborch, to whom he was
deeply attached, and whose portrait he painted or etched
eighteen times, besides using her as a model in various
])ictures. He was able now to indulge his taste for
beautiful things; was a generous buj'er of other artists'
work, and filled his handsome house in the Breedstraat
with treasures. Ten years of domestic happiness and
magnificent production followed his marriage, and then,
in 1G42, the clouds gathered.

In that year he was involved in disjjutes, as we have
seen, over Tlie Sortie of the Bannhii^ Cock Com pan i/;
but, worse than that, his beloved Saskia died, leaving an
infant son, Titus. In the emptiness of his home and
heart, the great artist buried himself with ever deeper
j)urj)ose and grander energy in his work. It is charac-
teristic of this sad time that his portraits of himself cease
for six years. Then appears an etching, in which he no
longer represents himself in splendid clothes, with fierce
mustache and flowing hair; but as a simple citizen. His
hair and mustache are trimmed; a large hat covers his
head, his tunic is unadorned; he is seated at a window,

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drawing, but lifts his head and gazes full at the spectator
with his piercing eyes. During this time he owed much
to the sj^mpathy of the burgomaster Jan Six, a scholar
and connoisseur; and now the burgomaster's mansion,
the celebrated Six Gallery at Amsterdam, owes much
of its fame to the examples which it contains by Rem-
brandt.

In 1656 he was overtaken by financial troubles, due
to legal disputes wath the trustees of his wife's will, to
his liberality toward his family in Leyden, and to his
own love of buying works of art and his lack of business
ability. He M^as declared a bankrupt, his house was sold,
and his treasures w^ere dispersed at auction; and, by the
time that his creditors were satisfied, there was nothing
left for him. But his devotion to his art was unabated;
the years which followed were distinguished by a series
of noble paintings and etchings, among them The
Syndics. It is good to know that he had friends, and
that his last years, though contracted in means, were
comfortable. In the last portrait of himself, painted
a year before his death, he has dejDicted his face wrinkled
by time and care, but laughing heartily. It sums up the
triumph of the man and the artist over evil fortune.

After his death he was soon forgotten. Through the
eighteenth century Dutch painters, like those of other
countries, turned to Italy for inspiration; Rembrandt's
homely naturalism, representing, for example, the Bible
scenes, peopled with rude peasants instead of fine men
and graceful women in classic robes, was scorned as vul-
gar; his marvels of light, condemned for the " slovenly
conduct of his pencil " ; his portraits, that search into the

[226]

RKMBRAXDT-MURILLO

souls of his subjects, despised for their " laborious, igno-
rant diligence." He was neglected, while Murillo con-
tinued to be abundantly admired.

Xow, however, when painting has shaken itself free
from conventional traditions and once more turned to
nature, ]\Iurillo is esteemed less highly, and Rembrandt
has been restored to his place among the giants.

[ 227 ]

CHAPTER XV

JACOB VAN RUISDAEL NICOLAS POUSSIN

1625 (?)-1682 1593-1665

Dutch School Classical School of France

AT this point of our survey of the field of painting
/% France swings into the hne of vision. There
^ .^ had been other French painters before Poussin,
but the latter was the greatest up to his time, and has
had so important an influence upon subsequent French
art, that in our selection of prominent names he comes
first.

When we compare his Et Ego in Arcadia with Ruis-
dael's Waterfall^ we are conscious at once of a vast dif-
ference of feeling, both in the attitude of each painter's
mind toward nature and in the impression produced
upon our own. We experience before Ruisdael's a
sense of strenuousness and sadness, very different to the
serenity and idyllic sweetness of Poussin's. We are face
to face, in the one case with the realities of life, in the
other with the pleasant dream of a world that only ex-
ists in the imagination. Yet Poussin composed the sur-
roundings of his figures from real landscape — that of
Italy; probably, however, not from one scene, but with
a selection from many; while Ruisdael's landscape,
which has such an air of stern reality, was actually bor-

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RUISDAEL-POUSSIN

rowed— in its general character, at any rate— from tlie
work of another painter, iVlhirt van Kverdingen.

It will occur to you, perhaps, as strange that a Dutch
painter of tlie seventeenth century should liave borrowed
from any one instead of studying straight from nature;
just as it may have struck you that the scenery of the
Waterfall is not suggestive of IloUand.

The fact is that Kuisdael, during his first and, as
many consider, his best period, painted pictures thor-
oughly Dutch in character, studies of the landscape
round his native city of Haarlem, showing a marked
fondness for massed clouds and warm sunshine. But
they met with little encouragement from his own coun-
trymen, and he moved to Amsterdam. In the latter city
was established Allart van Everdingen, who had begun
as a painter of the sea, taking trips on the Baltic for the
))etter study of his subject. But on one occasion the
\ essel had been driven by storm on to the coast of Nor-
way; and, while he waited for a cliance of getting liome,
he made a number of sketches of the country, with its
rocky shore and pines and waterfalls. Returned to
Ilolhuul, he used this material for pictures, which, partly
because of their unusualness, were very popular. Ruis-
(hiel, then, finding his own work neglected, determined
to give the i)ublic what they seemed to want, and out of
his own head invented huidscapes similar in character
to Everdingen's. Their very wildness and sternness
may have attracted him, fitting in with the sadness and
gloom tliat were gathering over liis own spirit; for tliis
picture and all the ])roductions of his later life are im-
printed with melancholy. i\nd well they might be; for

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he was evidently of so little account in his own day, that
the date of his birth is doubtful, and scarcely more is
recorded of his life than that, after working unsuccess-
fully in Haarlem, he moved to Amsterdam, and thence
returned to his native city in poverty, to die in an alms-
house.

In respect of sadness he is akin to Rembrandt, who
also lived in the company of sorrow; and these two ar-
tists strike the only note of intense feeling in the Dutch
art of the seventeenth century, which, as a whole, is dis-
tinguished by its equable and contented attitude toward
life. Yet in the intensity of Rembrandt there is no bit-
terness ; and even in this landscape of Ruisdael's we may
discover a strain of tenderness. For, contrasted with
the inhospitable wildness of the coast and the restless
tumult of water are the quiet composure of the little
spire nestling amid the trees, and the gentle evidences
of quiet life in the string of cattle passing down to drink.
But the noblest feature of the scene is the fine sky with
its masses of cloud. The mountainous land and water-
fall may have been invented or borrowed; but this at
least has been studied by Ruisdael from the nature of
his own land. And the skies of Holland are proverbi-
ally grand, partly because the prevailing course of
clouds is from the west, so that huge volumes of vapor
come continually rolling in from the North Sea, and
partly because the land, being uniformly level, affords
least obstruction to the vast appearance of the sky and
to the gathering and passage of the clouds. None of
the Dutchmen of the seventeenth century had been so
impressed with the vastness and buoyant force and f ree-

[230]

RUISDAEL-POUSSIX

(lom of the sky as Ruisdael; in which respect he antici-
pated the achievements of modern Dutch artists, wlio
have found ui the skies of Holland an inexhaustible
tlieme.

I think it is capable of demonstration that every
landscape-painter of powerful imagination and serious
poetic feeling has reveled in the representation of the
sky. It is as if his spirit leaps from the definiteness and
circumscribed limits of the earth into the limitless, un-
explorable vastness of the air. The ground is local,
tethering him by the foot to what man can examine and
know; the sky, however, at some point ceases to be
merely an envelope to the earth and mingles with that
ether in which the whole universe swims. ^lay we not
believe that Ruisdael, compelled to fashion an unreal,
or, at least, an alien land, to tempt his customers, satis-
fied both his love of country and the sincerity of his
study of nature by the ardor with which he threw him-
self into the representations of the skies? Xor is there
anything unduly sentimental in such a belief, for the
artist is also human, and has his pride in himself and his
preferences, and does best what best he loves.

And now let us turn again to the picture by Poussin.
" I too have been in Arcadia "; in that sweet spot, undis-
turbed by nature's violence or the tumult and clant»' of
human life. It exists nowhere, and yet everj'where is
to be found. It was Poussin's fortune to discover it.

He was born of a noble but poor family in Xormandy,
that hardy country from which \Villiam went forth to
confjuer Kngland, and, some eight hundred years later.
Millet, to conquer, after a long-drawn-out conflict, the

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appreciation of his own countrymen. Poussin learned
painting in the local town of Les Andelys, and then pro-
ceeded to Paris, where he spent much of his time in
drawing from casts and in copying prints after Raphael
and the latter's pupil, Giulio Romano. By the time that
he was able to visit Rome, he was in his thirtieth year, a
man of matured mind, nourished upon the antique and
upon the suave, balanced style of Raphael ; with a stan-
dard, therefore, fixed, and a mind capable of doing its
own thinking.

It was well for him that it was so, since the Italy of
his time was in its decadence. The last of the great mas-
ters had died Mdth Tintoretto. They had been succeeded
by many clever painters, but by none of commanding
genius. On the one hand were Guido Reni and Carlo
Dolci, saturated with sentimentality; on the other, Sal-
vator Rosa, following Caravaggio in depicting what
was impetuously powerful, and yet again Tiepolo, a
brilliant and vivacious decorator. Poussin, amid this
uncertain flux of energy, attached himself to Domeni-
chino, a painter of much strength but poor as a colorist.
Meanwhile he pursued his study of sculptured low-
reliefs, practising modeling as well as drawing.

The effect of this is apparent in the grouping and
drawing of the figures in this picture, for they are ar-
ranged as in a low-relief : the woman slightly in advance
of the two stooping figures, while the fourth figure is
only slightly behind these. The three planes in which
the figures stand are flattened as far as possible into one ;
and the figures are relieved by the contrasts of light and
shade, instead of being detached in their separate en-

[232]

RUISDAEL-POUSSIN

velopes of atmosphere. The method, in fact, is a sculp-
tor's rather tliaii a })ainter's.

This is the first ])oiiit to notice; and the second is the
influence of Raphael. The latter can be traced in the
serene composure of the whole composition, obtained by
the perfect balance of the full and empty spaces, and
by the harmonious grace of the lines that oppose and
repeat one another with studied calculation, as well as
by the grace of gesture and suave refinement of expres-
sion that characterize the figures. Both these influences
combined to make the rendering of the subject an ideal
one; and, except in the superior tact of taste displayed
by Poussin, do not distinguish his pictures radically
from those of the many other followers of Raphael and
the anticjue. But here steps in a third influence, that of
the Italian landscape; and, by combining the latter with
the other two, Poussin originated something new, and
became a model for other painters, establishing a prin-
ciple of perfection that has served as a standard for
French painting down-to the present day.

Before his time the landscape was subordinated to the
figures; even Titian, whose landscapes are so beautiful,
felt them primarily as backgrounds. But in this picture
of Poussin's it would be hard to decide whether the
landscape accompanies the figures or the figiu'cs the
landscape. In fact, both ingredients are of equal im-
portance.

The love of landscape is particularly characteristic of
nortliern nations, and it would seem that Poussin had it,
but not in the way in which the Dutchmen felt it. They
loved the landscape for its own sake; Poussin, for the

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way it could be made to contribute to the feeling of his
figures. The latter were mostly classical in feeling ; and
thus he became the father of the so-called " classical " or
"heroic" landscape. We can understand how it hap-
pened.

The visitor to Italy is apt to find that the Italian lands-
cape makes a unique appeal. In every direction it seems
to suggest pictures, presenting itself to the eye in ready-
made compositions; moreover, it is continually a picto-
rial setting to the towns and villas, and, in the neighbor-
hood of Rome especially, to the antique ruins. Many of
us must have felt this ; and, also, that there is a curious
relation between the pictures in the Italian galleries and
the landscape outside; that the latter, in fact, with its
inexhaustible suggestion of stately compositions, must
have had a great influence upon the imagination of
Italian artists in the direction of helping to suggest the
" grand style " of Italian painting.

To this Italy, then, of pictorial landscape came Pous-
sin, already full of the spirit of -Raphael and of classic
sculpture, and with a fresh eye that recognized a kin-
ship of feeling between the landscape and the style of
figure-work which he had learned to admire. He had
discovered a country in which the classical figures and
those of Raphael could move and have their being. If
we turn to the picture we shall feel, I think, how com-
pletely the persons belong to the scene in which we find
them: they are naturally at home in it; they are part
of it; it is Arcady, and they are Arcadians.

Strolling along in the pleasant sunshine, the woman
and the three shepherds have chanced upon a tomb.

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RUlSDAKL-rOLSSlX

There are traces of an inscri])tion on it; and the father,
stooping to ruh away the helRii and moss, reveals tlic
words, " Et Kgo in Arcadia." I too, a nameless one,
crumbling forgotten within these stones, 1 too have
lived and loved in this region of innocent delight, where
man is in perfect accord with his surroundings; rising
and lying down with the sun, and nourished upon the
bosom of mother earth; mind and body healthy, since
conduct and desire are in conformity with nature. It is
the comitry of youth, eternally young in an old world,
wherein the children sport and happy lovers stray, and
even the aged may hnger if they have kept some fresh-
ness in their souls. Correggio and Raphael had Hved
there; and it is the latter, maybe, who calls from the
tomb to welcome Poussin to the charmed spot.

We have thus examined the character and feeling of
Poussin's work, and found that it was not originally in-
spired by nature, but founded on a direct study of the
anticjue and upon Kaphael's interpretation of the same;
and that, when it did receive an inspiration direct from
natin'C, the latter was not used naturally, but to harmo-
nize with the ideal conce})tion of the figures. Let us now
inquire how it was that his work became the source of
what is called the " classic " and " academic " in French
art.

We must remember that the French race has a strong
infusion of Latin blood, and that it had been brought
under the influence of the legal and social system of the
Romans. At the break-uj) of the empire Italy was over-
run with foreigners, and the character of its ])eo])le be-
came changed, the continuity of its institutions and tra-

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

ditions broken. These, however, survived in France;
and the French, much more even than the ItaHans, are
the inheritors of those quahties and ideals which made
up the greatness of the Roman people.

Briefly, they comprised a fondness for system and a
capacity for organization; a tendency to skilful adap-
tation rather than to originality; less regard for ideas
than for fundamental principles, and especially for
those of construction, for what is technically called the
" architectonics." The Romans were great builders, and
reduced the art of construction to a system, so that the
major part of it could be carried out by unskilled labor.
With this intention, they laid special stress upon form,
logical relationship between the parts and the whole,
and the dignity of the mass.

Let us see how the inheritance of these qualities by the
French affected the history of their painting. In Pous-
sin's time the throne of France was occupied by Louis
XIV, whom the court painter Lebrun was flatteringly
depicting in his paintings and tapestries as a Roman
conqueror. Full of the Roman spirit, he played the
?^dle of an organizer. To perpetuate the purity of
the French language, he established the Institute of
France, composed of forty members. To this day the
selection of these " Immortals " is determined less by
their contribution to thought than by the perfection of
their style, — by their mastery, in fact, of the architec-
tonics of their craft. With the same zeal for system and
organization, Louis founded an academy of painting
and sculpture and an academy in Rome for the instruc-
tion of French artists. These, being official institutions,

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RUISDxVEL-POUSSIN

needed a system of principles. This was discovered in
the art of Poussin.

In it was exempHfied a diligent regard for the archi-
tectonics; a careful huilding up of parts so as to pro-
duce a balanced and harmonious whole; a preference
for ideal or abstract perfection of line and form and
spacing over the representation of character or senti-
ment; an avoidance of what is original in favor of a
tactful reproduction of ancient models ; and, in general,
the preeminence of style over subject-matter. Poussin's
color was a weak point; but that mattered little, for
color — both the skill in it and the appreciation of it —
is an affair of individual temperament, whereas line and
form and composition are fundamental. It was on the
side where painting touches sculpture and architecture,
not in its special province of color, light, and atmo-
sphere, that a standard of excellence could be estab-
lished.

Granted the usefulness of establishing a standard, no
better one could have been devised. For, although, as
we shall discover, the existence of a fixed official stan-
dard will tend toward dry formalism, and almost every
painter that achieves greatness will do so by breaking
awav from the rigiditv of the academic stvle, vet the
advantage of the system will continue. Its maintenance
will be justified by the very high general average of
skill that it insures.

It is Poussin's title to a place in history that lie was
the father of this classic or academic svstem, which has
made the Ecole des Beaux Arts in Paris the greatest
training-school of art in the modern world.

[ 241 ]

CHAPTER XVI

MEINBERT HOBBEMA CLA UDE GELLEE (called LORRAIN)

16SS (?)-1709 1600-1682

Dutch School Classical School of France

THE village of Middelharnis is one of the places
that lay claim to be the birthplace of Hobbema,
the town of Koeverden and the cities of Haar-
lem and Amsterdam being the others. This picture,
The Avenue, gives us a clear idea of the approach to it,
as it appeared in 1689, when Hobbema is supposed to
have painted it. It is a bit of portraiture of nature,
whereas Claude's picture — you might guess it from the
title, Landing of Cleopatra at Tarsus — illustrates the
use of nature to build up a classic composition ; the bor-
rowing from many sources, and the arrangement of the
details to produce a scene which the artist's imagination
has conceived to be ideally beautiful.

We ought to be able to enjoy the one and the other,
but we do not feel toward both in the same way. It is
very probable that we shall begin by preferring the
Claude. If so, it is largely because the lines and masses
of its composition are more seductive. The hulls, masts,
and spars of the shipping on one side balance the lines
of the architecture on the other, and between them is a
gently dipping curve of faint forms, which separate the
luminous quiet of the open sky from the glittering move-

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IIOmJEMA-CLAUDE LORRAIN

ment of tlie water and the busy animation of the figures.
Resides tlie aetnal heauty of bahuice between tlie i'ull
and empty spaees of the composition, we get the added
enjoyment of contrast between a sense of activity and
a still deeper one of permanence and repose. Every-
thing has been nicely calculated to stir our imagination
pleasurably. We find ourselves thinking that if there
is no spot on earth like this, it is a pity; that there ought
to be one, and that the artist has made it possible. In
fact, he has created it ; and thereby we are the happier.

We are little concerned with Cleopatra, and scarcely
care to distinguish which of the figures is INIark An-
tony's. The feeling is that a shore which was once a
ragged ending of the land, where the sea began, has been
made a stately approach of terraces, leading up to noble
buildings; that in these, as in the shipping, man's crea-
tive power is apparent; that the scene is an improvement
upon nature.

Now we turn to the Hob})ema. It is a composition of
vertical lines contrasted with horizontal; a much harsher
arrangement of spaces— of nature unadorned, we might
almost say; or, at any rate, taken as the artist found it.
We are disposed to feel, perhaps, that he was lacking in
imagination, and that his work, as compared with the
ideal beauty of Claude's, is homely and uninteresting;
that, to use an expression of the eighteenth century,
when writers and artists prided themselves on having a
" pretty fancy," it is " pedestrian " ; that it does n't soar,
but walks afoot like the common people.

Certainly Ilobbema was not inventive, like Claude;
he did not devise or try to construct an ideal Holland out

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of his imagination. But imagination may display itself
also by its sjanpathy with, and insight into, things as
they are ; and it was this kind of imagination that Hob-
bema possessed. He loved the country-side, studied it
as a lover, and has depicted it with such intimacy of
truth, that the road to JNIiddelharnis seems as real to us
to-day as it did over two hundred years ago to the artist.
We see the poplars, with their lopped stems, lifting their
bushy tops against that .wide, high sky which floats over
a flat country; full of billowy clouds, as the sky near
the North Sea is apt to be. Deep ditches skirt the
road, which drain and collect the water for purposes of
irrigation, and later on will join some deeper, wider
canal, for purposes of navigation. We get a glimpse on
the right of patient perfection of gardening, where a
man is pruning his grafted fruit-trees; farther on, a
group of substantial farm-buildings. On the opposite
side of the road stretches a long, flat meadow, or " pol-
der," up to the little village which nestles so snugly
around its tall church tower ; the latter fulfilling also the
purpose of a beacon, lit by night, to guide the wayfarer
on sea and land : a scene of tireless industry, comfortable
prosperity, and smiling peace, snatched alike from the
encroachments of the ocean and from the devastation of
a foreign foe, by a people as rugged and aspiring as
those poplars, as buoyant in their self-reliance as the
clouds. Pride and love of country breathe through the
whole scene; and we may be dead to some very whole-
some instincts if we ourselves do not feel drawn, on the
one hand, toward its sweet and intimate simplicity, and,
on the other, toward the fearless matter-of-factness of
its composition.

[ 244 ]

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IIOBBEMA-CLALDE LOURAIN

Indeed, if we have entered into tlie spirit of it, we may
find that this pieture, as well as Claude's, has its ideal
heauty: if by this term we understand that kind of
beauty whieh is distin"uished bv the idea revealed in it.
In other words, it is not only imaginary subjeets whieh
may be ideal: there may also be an idealization oi' faets.
Their outward appearance may be so rendered as to
make us feel also their underlying signifieance, the soul,
as it were, within them. In tliis way a portrait may be
idealized. I am not thinking for the moment of the kind
of idealization indulged in by Van Dyck, who gave to all
his sitters, men and women, an elegant refinement cor-
responding to the idea of elegance and refinement in
himself. That is more like the kind of idealization in
Claude's picture. But let us take the case of a portrait
of your own mother. One painter may paint it so that
anybody, comparing it with the original, will say it is
a good likeness ; whereas another may have the imagina-
tion to penetrate beneath the exterior of the woman and
reproduce something of what you know of her as a mo-
ther. He gets at the soul of the face.

Similarly the portrait of a landscape may reproduce
the sentiment whieh attracts one to the country-side; the
love of the painter for it, the attachment of those who
live in it, what it is to them as part of their lives. Such
a landscape is in a measure ideal. The modern French
have coined a phrase for it—paijmge ititimc; for which
I can find no better translation than " the well-known,
well-loved coimtry-side." They coined it to describe the
kind of landsca])e that was ])ainted by Rousseau, l)u])re,
Corot, and some other French artists who made their
headquarters at the little village of Rarbizon on the bor-

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ders of the forest of Fontainebleau ; and these men, as
we shall see, were followers of Hobbema and the other
Dutch artists who had lived two hundred years before.

Very little is known of Hobbema's life. He appears
to have been born at Amsterdam in 1638, but, as we
have seen, other towns claim to be his birthplace. It is
probable that he was the pupil of his uncle, Jacob van
Ruisdael, and certain that he lived in Amsterdam. He
died poor; his last lodging being in the Roosegraft, the
street in which Rembrandt, also poor, had died forty
years before. His works were little appreciated in Hol-
land until nearly a hundred years after his death, and
most of them found their way to England.

Claude, on the contrary, enjoyed in his lifetime a Eu-
ropean reputation. Yet his early life was modest
enough. He was born of poor parents in the little vil-
lage of Chamagne, near the right bank of the INIoselle,
in what is now the department of Vosges, but in 1600
was the duchy of Lorraine. His real name was Claude
Gellee, but from his native country he received the name
of Claude le Eorrain, or, more shortly, Claude Lorrain.
It is supposed that as a child he was apprenticed to a
pastry-cook, and, when the years of his apprenticeship
were completed, set off with a party of pastry-cooks to
Rome. The Lorrainers were famous in this capacity,
and the young Claude had no difficulty in finding em-
ployment. He was engaged by a landscape-painter,
Agostino Tassi, as cook and general housekeeper, with
the privilege of cleaning his master's brushes. He
gained from him, however, instruction in painting, and
seems to have become his assistant. When he was

[250]

IIOBBEMA-CLAUDE I.ORRAIX

twenty-five years old he revisited France and stayed
two years, returning then to Italy, where the rest of his
life was s])ent. On tlie journey hack he fell in with
Charles Errard, who was one ol' the original twelve
members of the French Academy and was later em-
ployed in establishing the famous French school at
Home, and in 1G66 was appointed its first director.

For manv years Claude worked on diligently in a
modest way, until, about his fortieth year, he attracted
the attention of Cardinal Bentivoglio, who not only
gave him commissions, but introduced him to the Pope,
Urban VI II. The latter, intent on maintaining the
temporal power of the church, was continually erecting
fortifications, in ^\ hich he did not spare the most precious
monuments of antiquity. Hence arose a joke which
played upon his name— he was a member of the famous
Florentine family of the Barberini— " Quod non fece-
runt barbari, fecerunt Barberini." But he w^as an ex-
cellent scholar and fond of pictures, and became very
much attached to Claude. The rest of the artist's life is
one of fame. The three popes who succeeded Urban
were liis patrons, as were the noblest families of Italy,
while commissions came to him from his native land,
from the Netherlands, Germany, Spain, and even far-
off England.

Besides his paintings he left forty-four etchings. He
also executed two hundred sketches in pen or pencil,
washed in with brown or India ink, the high lights being
brought out with touches of white. On the backs of
them the artist noted the date on which the sketch was
develoi)ed into a picture, and for whom the latter was

[ "1 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

intended. The story is that his popularity produced
many imitators, and that he adopted this means to es-
tabhsh his proprietorship of the subject in each case.
But the more probable theory regards these sketches as
a record which the artist made in a general way of his
work. He collected them into a volume, which, known
as the Libej' Veritatis, has been for more than a hundred
years in the possession of the Dukes of Westminster.
It was in rivalry of this book that the English painter,
Turner, as we shall find, produced his book of drawings,
which he called Liber Studiorum.

Claude, like that other French artist, Nicolas Poussin,
who was seven years his senior, belonged to Italy rather
than to France. Both introduced something new into the
field of subject. Like Poussin, also, Claude conceived
the idea of giving ideal or heroic beauty to the land-
scape, that it might correspond to the heroic incidents in
which his figures were engaged. But he went a step
further in the direction of pure landscape; making his
figures of comparatively little importance, and concen-
trating his effort upon the ideal or heroic character of
the landscape, into which also he incorporated the
beauty of architecture. He was a close student of na-
ture, sketched and painted in the open air, and, like his
Dutch contemporary Cuyp, filled his skies with the ap-
pearance of real sunshine. But the use that he made of
nature was unnatural.

Instead of being satisfied to paint it as it is, for its own
sake, as Hobbema was, he felt, like Poussin, that the
province of art was to improve upon it. So Poussin, more
particularly through his figures, and Claude, through

[252]

HOBBEMA-CLAUDE LORRAIN

landscape, were the founders in French art of wliat is
called the classic or academic motive, which would reject
everything that is "common" or "vulgar," and paint
only types as near as possihle to perfection. In order
to secure tliis in the case of a figure suhject, it will he
necessary to paint the head from one model, the hody
from another, the hands from another, and so on ; or, at
any rate, to copy any single model only in the parts
which seem beautiful, while the others must be brought
to perfection by the painter's skill. So, in the case of a
landscape, the painter selects a morsel from this place,
and others elsewhere, and puts together out of his head
a composition that shall present an ideally beautiful ar-
rangement of lines and masses. This exactly suited the
taste of the times, in which Racine was writing classical
tragedies and Le Notre was laying out the gardens of
Wn-sailles with combinations of grottoes, fountains, ar-
chitecture, and landscape. The result was that Claude's
pl-tures had an extraordinary popularity, which ex-
tended on into the eighteenth century and far into the
following one. He was regarded as the greatest of
landscape-painters.

When, however, Frenchmen, following the example
of Constable in England, began to turn to nature di-
rectly, they, as he, discovered what Hobbema had done,
and made his work the foundation of their own efforts;
carrying, however, the truth to nature for its own sake
even farther than he did. For, although Ilobbema de-
])icted the natural forms of trees and the appearances of
the sky and of light, he did not reproduce the varied
coloring of nature, confining his ])alette mostly to grays

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

and browns and a certain sharp green. Nor had he the
skill to paint real atmosphere or to make the trees move
in it. Even in his pictures, close to nature as they are,
there is visible a conventional method of representation ;
that is to say, a habit of painting according to a plan
which he had discovered for himself rather than with a
continually fresh eye for the various manifestations of
nature. It was reserved for the painters of the nine-
teenth century to be the truer nature-students of the
jjaysage intime.

[254]

CHArXER XVII

JEAN ANTOINE WATTE AU WILLIAM IIOOARTH

1GS4-1721 lC97-170/f

E'lghtccnth-Ccntury School of France Early English School

WxVTTEAU has been called the first French
painter; Hogarth was certainly the first
Enghsh one. The previous painters in Eng-
land had been foreigners, such as Holbein, Rubens, Van
Dyck, Lely, Kneller, visiting the country for a longer or
shorter stay. Those preceding Watteau, while French
])y birtli, were altogether foreign in their art. We have
seen how the greatest of them, Nicolas Poussin and
Claude, lived in Italy and based their respective styles
on the study of classic and Italian art and landscape.
On the other hand, Lebrun, a pupil of Vouet who had
studied in Italy, occupied the position of painter in or-
dinary at the court of Louis XIV, elaborating vast
compositions and designs dictated by the monarch's
vanity and intended to extol his fame, representing him
as a classic hero and always in the act of conquest. De-
spite the size of his canvases, Lebrun was not a great
painter, and there was nothing distinctively French or
original about liis work. On the contrary, both these
([ualities appeared in Watteau, hence the assertion that
he is the first of French painters. And this notwitli-
standing the fact that he was really of Flemish birth, a

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native of Valenciennes, which had recently, however, be-
come a part of the French dominions.

In his case, as in Hogarth's, a new kind of art sprang
into existence, full-grown almost from its birth; both
eminently characteristic of their times ; the one distinctly
French, the other as unmistakably English. Also, it is
extremely interesting to note that each artist was, in a
greater or less degree, influenced by the sister art of
the drama.

Let us try to get an understanding of these two men
by first examining the examples of their work. The
Emharkation for Cythera— the island near which Venus
was fabled to have risen from the sea, especially dedi-
cated to her worship— was painted by Watteau upon his
admission to full membership in the French Academy
when he was thirty- three years old. It caused a great
sensation, being entirely different from the official clas-
sic standard maintained by the Academy,— "a rainbow-
hued vision of beauty and grace, such as had not been
seen since the golden days of the Venetian Renais-
sance,"— j^et strangely in touch with the French spirit
of its own day. For the Grand ^lonarch had been dead
two years, succeeded by his great-grandson Louis XV,
a child now seven years old; and under the regency of
Philip, Duke of Orleans, the dreary formahty of the old
court had been replaced by the gaiety of the new. True,
the country was plunged in misery, and the shadow of
the terrible Revolution which was to burst in the next
reign was already drawing near. But at court the peo-
ple frisked and frolicked, like lambs unmindful of the
butcher; pleasure and love-making were their occupa-

[256]

WATTE AU- HOGARTH

tions, and Watteau's picture represents the graceful side
of all this, detached from its wickedness and inhumanity.

Look at the picture— the trees, the water, and the sky
all seem real; so, too, the ladies and gentlemen in their
rainbow-tinted silks and satins. Vet the scene is also
unreal; part of a world in which there is no ugliness,
no hunger, no need of work or self-denial; a dream of
the poets of old Greece reclothed in the semblance of
tlie eighteenth century. Nor is it only the presence
of the cupids that touches this strain of unreality;
wreathed, as they are, in joyous circles in mid-air, cling-
mg about the masts of the vessel, or winging their flight
through the shrubbery as they summon the human vo-
taries of pleasure. For the gilded vessel is ready to set
sail to the isle of happiness, lying somewhere in that
dreamy distance; lovers are already aboard, and the rest
are being urged to follow. A statue of Venus adorns
the woodland spot; yet it is but a symbol of the joy that
awaits these pleasure-seekers in the island of dreams—
when they reach it.

For it is the beauty of what is not yet attained, of the
unattainable, expressed in this picture, that is one of the
sources of its poetic unreality ; and another is the exqui-
site pattern of its composition — the spacing of the fore-
ground and the trees against the sky ; the rhythmic curv-
ing line of moving figures; the delicate varieties of
light and shade; and in the original the brilliant harmony
of color. All is too absolutely attuned to what is only
beautiful to be real; and yet, to repeat what has been
said above, its poetry is based on realism. For " Wat-
teau has this note of a great artist, that as a foundation

[257]

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for his poetrj^ his dream, his ideahsm, he lays a constant
and minute study of nature."

When Watteau was a lad in Valenciennes he was con-
tinually filling his mind with the appearances of things
and practising his hand in drawing; especially absorbed
on the occasion of the fairs, when the market-place was
gay with booths, and mountebanks and actors vied with
one another in their antics and gestures. He reached
an extraordinary facility in representing figures in ac-
tion. To this he added from his studies in the Louvre a
perfection of coloring derived from Rubens, Titian, and
Veronese.

During those days of the Regency the light French
comedies were again in favor, and the Italian comedies,
which had been banished from the old monarch's court,
had been invited back. Once more in the salons and
gardens of the Luxembourg sported Gilles (the Italian
equivalent of Pierrot), Columbine, Harlequin, Panta-
loon, the doctor of Bologna on his donkey, and Polichi-
nello, — characters evolved by Italian wit out of their
prototypes as played by the Roman mimes. Sometimes
the players acted in dumb-show, at other times from
written plays, and often with words improvised by them-
selves, but always with their Italian skill of expression
by gesture and facial play, in which they have been ri-
valed only by French actors and by the Chinese and
Japanese. Watteau on some occasions derived his sub-
jects directly from the Italian comedy, as in his famous
picture of Gilles in the Louvre; but in all his work the
indirect influence is plainly visible.

His figures move through the scene as if they were

[258]

WATTEAU HOGARTH

enacting a comedy: in tlie case of our present picture, a
very elaborate spectacle, but of lightest touch; no emo-
tion, only the daintiest play of fancy; yet in its artistic
aspect most serious and accomplished. For Watteau
was no trifler; an earnest and indefatigable worker;
serious even to sadness, a man of frail physique; ner-
vous, irritable, not fond of company; a looker-on at life,
not a sharer in its joys, except in the joy of his own art;
and when he painted this vision of loveliness he was al-
ready dying of consumption. Note also with regard to
iiis figures that, on the one hand, except in the case of
the GillcH, they are small. Therefore we are not con-
cerned with them individually and intimately, but only
in relation to the Avhole scene, in which they play like
puppets, creatures of exquisite grace, of easy movement,
detached from us, inside the proscenium ojDcning of the
gilt frame. On the other hand, note the actual relation
of those figures, ih point of size, to the landscaj^e. The
latter is not subordinated to them, as in the Italian paint-
ings, nor are they mere spots of accent in the sin*-
roundings, as in Claude's pictures and in the Dutch
landscapes; but the two elements are so adjusted to each
other, that, to use a theatrical expression, the mise-en-
sccne is perfectly balanced. It was this balance, coupled
with the dramatic vivacity of the figures, which made
Watteau's pictures a new thing in art.

Its newness is linked to that of Hogarth's by the in-
fluence that the drama exerted over both ; otherwise there
is no similarity between the two men in motive, though
in their craftsmanship they were alike in being both ac-
complished painters. But while Watteau, as we have

[ -'59 ]

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said, was a sad, retired man, who found inspiration for
his landscape studies in the beautiful gardens of the
Luxembourg palace, which he peopled with the crea-
tures of his own imagination, though having all a re-
alist's feeling for, and knowledge of, nature and the
human figure; Hogarth, a jovial little man, fond of his
London and thoroughly acquainted with its aspects and
the life of its people, laid his scenes in the streets, the
drawing-rooms, churches, attics, madhouses — always in
some scene thronged with the rich, the poor, the actual
people living in his day. He neither extenuated, " nor
set down aught in malice." But, added to this painter's
joy of representing what he saw (and with what minute-
ness of detail you can see from this picture, remember-
ing, as you study its extreme finish, that Hogarth began
life as apprentice to an engraver, and that in after life
he engraved a large proportion of his pictures) — added,
I say, to this purely pictorial motive is that of telling a
story, and one, too, which has a moral.

First of all let us read the story of this picture; or,
rather, this Act I of a very serious comedy of six tab-
leaux, entitled Marriage a la Mode. The scene is the
drawing-room of Viscount Sc .anderfield (note the alle-
gorical significance of the name) ; on the left his lord-
ship is seated, pointing with complacent pride to his
family tree, which has its roots in William the Con-
queror. But his rent-roll has been squandered, the
gouty foot suggesting whither some of it has gone ; and
to restore his fortunes he is about to marry his heir to
the daughter of a rich alderman. The latter is seated
awkwardly at the table, holding the marriage contract,

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a
^

WATTEAU-HOGARTII

duly sealed, signed, and delivered; the priee paid for it
being sho\N n by the pile of money on the table and the
l)uneh of canceled mortgages which the lawyer is pre-
senting to the nobleman, who, as you observe, refuses to
soil his elegant fingers with them. Over on the left is his
weakling son, helping himself at this critical turn of his
affairs to a pinch of snuft*, while he gazes admiringly at
his own figure in a mirror. The lady is equally indiffer-
ent: she has strung the ring on to her handkerchief and
is toying with it, while she listens to the compliments
being })aid to her by Counselor Silvertongue. Through
the open window another lawyer is comparing his lord-
ship's new house that is in course of building with the
plan in his hand. A marriage so begun could only end
in misery; and the successive stages of it are represented
in the following five pictures of this famous series, which
was issued in engraved form in 1745.

Of this masterpiece of Hogarth's, considered as the
gradual unfolding, tableau by tableau, of a dramatic
story, Austin Dobson writes: " There is no defect of in-
vention, no superfluity of detail, no purposeless stroke
in the ^^•hole tale. From first to last, it progresses stead-
ily to its catastrophe by a forward march of skilfully
linked and fully developed incidents, set in an atmo-
sphere that makes it as vivid as nature itself, decorated
with surprising fidelity, and enlivened by all the re-
sources of the keenest humor." This is very high praise;
but, observe, there is not a word in it which would be
inapplicable if it were a play or a novel and not a series
of pictures, that Mr. Dobson were criticizing. As Ho-
gartli was not a dramatist or novelist, but a painter, we

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

need some further indorsement. Let Gautier, the
French critic, speak: "Throughout the Marriage a la
Mode series Hogarth perfectly merits the name of a
great painter." Compare with this an extract from the
writings of the American critic, Mr. John C. Van Dyke:
" There can be no doubt that Hogarin's instincts were
those of a painter. His feehng for color, air, values, his
handling of the brush, his sense of delicacy and refine-
ment in the placing of tones, all mark him as an artist
whose medium of expression was necessarily pigment.
The fact that his audience applauded him for his satires
rather than for his painting does not invalidate the ex-
cellence of his art." And many other judgments to the
same effect could be quoted.

So it is because Hogarth was distinguished by these
qualities, which are among the hall-marks of painting,
that he is reckoned a great painter; and because he was
the first of Englishmen to be thus distinguished, and the
subjects of his pictures are character studies of life in
England, that he is considered the first of the English
painters. For similar reasons, Watteau is called the
first of the French painters.

The difference between the art of these two contem-
poraries, each representative of his race and period, is
most interesting. The Gallic genius, influenced by in-
tellectuality, seeks in each branch of art its separate
special perfection; while the Anglo-Saxon, like the Ger-
man, mixes sentiment with his abstract love of beauty:
a sentiment either of emotions or imagination, of mo-
rality or religion. The Frenchman does not, as a rule,
confuse his mediums of expression: that is to say, what

[266]

WATTEAU-IIOGARTH

can best be said in words, he leaves to literature; and,
when through painting or sculpture he makes an ap-
peal to the eye, it is to the eye, as far as possible, ex-
clusively, that he is wont to appeal. There are many ex-
ceptions to this in French painting, the very popular
Greuze being one; but, as a rule, the racial genius of the
French is displayed in bringing to the highest point of
perfection the special capabilities of the medium, whe-
ther in words, or paint, or what not. On the other hand,
the Anglo-Saxon and the German, moved by sentiment,
are apt to use their art to get at the sentiment of their
fellow-men; quite as intent upon what the}^ wish to say
as upon their mode of saying it; sometimes more so.
They will borrow, therefore, from other arts, as Ho-
garth did from those of the satirist and dramatist, and,
^ve may add, of the preacher and the moralist.

To this ruling difference between the genius of these
races tliere are numberless excerptions, yet the essential
difference remains and must be grasped by all who
would appreciate fairly the merits of both. Nor need
we try to discover which is the better motive. To the
French, their own undoubtedly, because it is fashioned
out of their ow^n characteristics. A heritage from Pous-
sin, it has resulted in a very high average of accomplish-
ment ; so that no writers are more clever in writing than
the French; no painters so generally skilled in painting;
no sculptors, as a body, so expert in their particular
craft.

On the contrary, while individual painters of the Ger-
man and Anglo-Saxon races have regarded themselves
primarily as painters and reached a high degree of accom-

[ -^<57 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

plishment in their technic, there has been a tendency to
think the subject of the picture of more importance than
the way in which it is painted, and the latter has suffered
in consequence. Hogarth, as we have seen, was not one
of these; yet the admiration given to the story-telhng
and moral aspects of his work has done much to lead
other painters to overlook the proper scope of painting,
its true possibilities and limitations.

He himself was a perfectly typical product of his
time, reflecting at least four very vital influences : Puri-
tan morality ; the power and independence of the middle
classes; the love of the drama, and the rise of English
prose.

The first two are closely interwoven. At the com-
mencement of the eighteenth century there was this
great difl'erence between the conditions of England and
France, that while in the latter the opposite extremes of
the aristocracy and the proletariat stood wide apart, in
England there was a powerful and independent middle
class. It had its origin in the fifteenth century, when
the mutual destruction of the nobles in the Wars of the
Roses " gave honest men," as the saying was, " a chance
to come by their own." It grew in numbers and in
wealth, eagerly identifying itself with freedom of
thought and speech, until by the seventeenth century it
had developed that Puritan conscience which made a
stand at once for morality and for religious and civil lib-
erty. It was temporarily triumphant and then super-
seded in the matter of government by the Restoration,
when lower moral standards and indiff'erence to religion
came to be in vogue. But the Puritan conscience sur-

[268]

WATTE AU- HOGARTH

vived, as it still does to-day; and in Hogarth's time made
itself felt in a variety of ways. In a religious guise it
reapj)eared in the preaching of John Wesle}', and the
rise of the Methodists; in literature, in the satirical writ-
ing of Swift, Addison, Steele, and Pope.

But the great event of literature during the latter part
of the eighteenth century was the development and
gro\\th of English prose, particularly, in connection
with our present study, of the modern novel. There
sprang up a group of story-tellers: De Foe, Richardson,
(ioldsmith, Fielding, Sterne, and Smollett. Literature,
seriously, humorously, or satirically, was interested in
human life. The Puritan conscience, the sturdy middle-
class common sense, the novelist's keen observation of
life, tinged sometimes with bitterness, but always with
humor — these are the influences to be detected in Ho-
garth's work.

Its affinity to the drama is no less evident. The fig-
ures are grouped in a scene rather than composed with
the empty spaces of the background. They are strung
across the scene, almost in the same plane, and are illu-
minated as if from footlights, the light of which does not
explore the background. To appreciate this artificial
form of grouping and lighting, the })icture should be
compared with Velasquez's Iais Meiiiuas. In a moment
we perceive that one is natural, and the other stagy.

In his portrait of himself, in the National Gallery in
I^ondon, Hogarth has introduced a palette, on which is
drawn a curved line. This is what he called the line of
beauty and of grace. One may possibly trace his use of
it in this picture: in the gesture of the right arm and

[ -209 ] .

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

hand of the heir; in the curve of the lady's pocket-hand-
kerchief; more subtly through the line of her head and
the hands of the Counselor Silvertongue ; with a certain
broken humility in the head and left arm of the lawyer
who hands the mortgages, and with a pompous stiffness
in the head and left arm of his lordship.

In his early efforts at painting, Hogarth produced
miniature "Conversation Pieces"; that is to say, little
subjects of figures grouped in the act of conversation:
a style of picture which, as he said, had novelty. It was
akin to the genre pictures, those subjects of real life
which had occupied the Dutch of the seventeenth cen-
tury. But there was this difference. The Dutch artists,
depicting scenes of real life in the home, or streets, or
taverns, w^ere concerned almost entirely with the picto-
rial aspect of the subject; they did not include, as a rule,
any study of character, much less any story-telling or
dramatic motive. They looked at the outside, not the
inside, of life. Hogarth was the first of the painters to
do the latter. In his objective realism he is related to
Dutch seventeenth-century art; but, under the influ-
ence of English literature of the eighteenth century, he
went further and originated a new motive in painting.
While Italian art in the eighteenth century was vari-
ously reproducing a faint recollection of its past, Hol-
land itself aping the Italian, and Watteau shrinking
from the present in a golden vision of dreams, Hogarth
attacked the real. He is the father of modern realism
in painting.

The great difference, then, between him and Watteau
is that his pictures represent a study of character which

[270]

WATTE AU- HOG AKTII

analyzes the causes and results of human actions, while
the French artist floats upon the heautiful surface of
tilings. The one is terrihle, seeing the world so clearly
as it was; the other, altogether lovable in his disregard
of what is gross and horrible, in his imagined perfection
of beauty. But, in relation to the respective conditions
of their countries at the time, Watteau's art was as a
tangle of flowers, covering pleasantly a bottomless pit
of destruction; Hogarth's, a rude awakening to a whole-
somer condition; the one, a sad and sick man's craving
after ideal beauty; the other, a healthy recognition of
what was wrong.

[ 271 ]

CHAPTER XVIII

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS THOMAS GAINSBOROUGH

1723-1792 1727-1788

Early English ScJiool Early English School

IN the same year, 1784, that Sir Joshua Reynolds's
picture, Mrs. Siddons as the Tragic Muse, was ex-
hibited at the Royal Academy, the famous actress
sat for her portrait to his rival, Gainsborough. Sarah
Siddons was then in her twenty-ninth j^ear, in the prime
of her beauty, and in the first flush of that popularity
which was to make her the queen of the English stage
for thirty years. She was the eldest daughter of a coun-
try actor, Roger Kemble, three of her brothers, John
Philip, Stephen, and Charles, and one sister, Elizabeth,
being also distinguished on the stage; while Charles's
daughter, Fanny Kemble, carried on the theatrical tra-
ditions of the family until 1893. As a girl, Sarah acted
in her father's companies; at eighteen married an actor
named Siddons ; and made her first appearance at Drury
Lane Theatre in 1775, when she played Portia with
Garrick. But on this occasion she failed to make a good
impression, and retired in disappointment to the prov-
inces, where she worked hard for seven years. Upon
her reappearance in London in 1782, as Isabella in
" The Fatal Marriage," her success was instantaneous.
She became identified with parts of tragic pathos and

[272]

REVXOLDS-GAIXSBOROUGII

queenly dignity, her favorite ones l)eing Tiady Maebeth,
Queen Constance, Queen Katliarine, Jane Sliore, Isa-
bella, Opbelia, Imogen, Portia, and Desdemona. Her
power seems to have consisted not so much in the deliv-
ery of the words as in her "presence, mien, attitude,
expression of voice and countenance, and in her intense
concentration of feeling, which lifted and dilated her
form, transporting her audience as well as herself."
Her last appearance. on the stage was in 1818. Thence-
forth until her death, in 1831, she lived in retirement, as
honored as a woman as she had been as an actress.

We can compare the two aspects of her personality in
these pictures. Sir Joshua's exhibits her in an attitude
of rapt contemplation, as if gazing into the world of the
imagination and listening for the voice of inspiration;
dressed in a costume which at the end of the eighteenth
century passed for heroic. In Gainsborough's picture
she appears as she may have done when Fanny Burney
met her, in 1782, while paying an afternoon call at a
friend's house. JNIrs. Siddons had just become famous.
She was on everybody's tongue, and jNIiss Burney makes
this entrv in her diary: "We found JNIrs. Siddons, the
actress, there. She is a woman of excellent character,
and therefore I am very glad she is thus patronized.
She behaved with great ])ropriety; very calm, modest,
(juiet, and unaffected. She has a fine countenance, and
her eyes look both intelligent and soft. She has, how-
ever, a steadiness in her manner and deportment by no
means engaging. JNIrs. Thrale, who was there, said:
'Why, this is a leaden goddess we are all worshipping!
however, we shall soon gild it.' "

[ '^7'S ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

Her hair is frizzled and powdered after the fashion
of the time, and surmounted by a large black, feathered
hat ; she wears a blue-and-gray-striped silk dress, with a
buff shawl hanging from her arm, and holds a brown
muff. The curtain at her back is red. On this arrange-
ment of colors hangs a tale.

Sir Joshua, in the eighth of the discourses which, as
president of the Royal Academy, he delivered to the stu-
dents in 1778, laid down the principle that the chief
masses of light in a picture should always be of warm,
mellow color, and that the blue, gray, or green colors
should be kept almost entirely out of these masses, and
" be used only to support and set off these warm colors ;
and for this purpose a small proportion of cold colors
will be sufficient. Let this conduct be reversed," he
added; " let the light be cold and the surrounding colors
warm, as we often see in the work of the Roman and
Florentine painters, and it will be out of the power of
art, even in the hands of Rubens or Titian, to make a
picture splendid and harmonious."

It is said that Gainsborough took up the challenge
and produced the Mrs. Siddons portrait; though others
assert that it was in another famous portrait, The Blue
Boy, that he did this. Whether or not it is true that he
deliberately painted these pictures to refute his rival's
theory, matters very little beside the fact that they do re-
fute it. For one of the chief charms of Gainsborough's
work is the delicacy of his color-harmonies, in which he
was entirely original. But this story brings out very
sharply the difference between these two artists: Rey-
nolds regulating his art and life on safe and arbitrary

[274]

REYXOLDS-CxxVIXSBOROUGH

principles; Gainsborough, an original student of nature,
inliuenced by a dreamy, poetic temperament; the one,
also, a man of tiie world ; tiie other, simply an artist.

Sir Joshua was born at Plympton, four miles from
Plymouth, in Devonshire, in 17'23. His father, rector
of the grammar-school, early trained him in classical
studies, intending his son to be an apothecary; but he
displayed such an inclination for drawing, diligently
copying the prints which fell in his way, that the father
yielded and sent him to I^ondon as a pupil of Hudson,
then popular but now held in little esteem. After two
years he returned to Devonshire and established himself
as a portrait-painter in Plymouth, where he was taken
up by Commodore Keppel, who, being appointed to the
^Mediterranean station, invited the young painter to ac-
company him on his ship, the Centurion. Thus he was
able to visit Rome, spending two years there in very
close study, especially of the works of Raphael and ^li-
chelangelo. It was while painting in the corridors of the
Vatican that he contracted a cold, which brought on the
deafness which afflicted him during the rest of his life.
Leaving Rome, he visited Parma, where he fell under
Correggio's influence; then Florence and Venice, in the
latter city studying the works of the great colorists. On
his way home he stopped in Paris, making accjuaintance
with the work of Ru])ens. Arrived in London, he settled
in St. Martin's I^ane, and painted a portrait of his pa-
tron. Commodore (by that time Lord) Keppel, which
laid the foundation of his fortunes. Later he established
himself in I^eicester S(}uare, where his house. No. 47,
may still be seen opposite the site of Hogarth's.

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Van Dyck had been dead a hundred years. Though
his memory was a great tradition in England, no Eng-
hshman had succeeded to his fame, and yet portraiture
was the trend of painting that chiefly interested the
Enghsh. Reynolds, coming back from his travels with
well-considered rules which he would follow if it were
possible for him to paint historical or ideal subjects, im-
mediately adapted himself to circumstances and applied
these rules to portrait-painting. Every portrait should
be a picture as well as a rendering of the features of the
original. He had learned how Michelangelo made the
attitude and gestures of his figures so full of expression ;
what triumphs of light and shade were produced by Cor-
reggio ; the dignity and sumptuousness of Venetian col-
oring ; the decorative splendor of Rubens's pictures ; the
exquisite sentiment of Raphael's women and children,
and the dignity that this artist gave to his heads of men.
He had learned all this and much more, and set himself
to combine as much of these different qualities in his
portraits as he could. " No one," said James Northcote,
a pupil of Reynolds, who wrote his life, " ever appropri-
ated the ideas of others to his own purpose with more
skill than Sir Joshua. The opinion he has given of
Raphael may with equal justice be applied to himself:
' His materials were generally borrowed, but the noble
structure was his own.' "

For example, in the M?s. Siddons the pose of the fig-
ure, especially in the carriage of the head and left arm
and hand, recalls Michelangelo's painting of Isaiah on
the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel; while in the latter's
Jeremiah may be seen the suggestion for the attendant

[276]

■>

MRS. SIDDONS AS THE
TRAGIC MUSE

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS

GROSVENOR HOUSE, LONDON

I'OKTKAIT Ol' MRS. SIDDONS THOMAS CIAlNSliOKOLGIl

NAIIONAI, (;.\1.I,KK^ , LONDON

REYXOI.DS-GAIXSBOROUGH

figures, Crime and Remorse, in the Reynolds picture.
If you compare the SiiUlons and tlie I.saiaJi, you will be
conscious at once of |)articular similarities and yet of
general difrerencc. Each figure is represented as being
under the influence of inspiration, as if listening to a
voice. The latter in tlie case of tlie Inaiah is near, in that
of the Siddons afar oft'; the prophet is taking it into
liimself to write it in the book; the actress, with her right
arm extended, looks as if she may spring from her seat
and impetuously give out of herself what she feels.
Then note the dift'erent treatment of tlie draperies: in
the IsaiaJi it is sculi)tural, the drapery is felt as part of
the figure; in the Siddons it is arranged so as to make
you forget the figure in the amplitude and superbness
of its garniture, just as the actual personality of a great
actress is enlarged and made magnificent by the atmo-
sphere of emotion which surrounds it. It was so that
Reynolds, intimate friend of the great actor Garrick
and of the brilliant orator Burke, tried to represent the
mighty impressiveness, the emotional grandeur, and in-
tellectual sj)lcndor of the nobly spoken word. Through-
out all Reynolds's work there is a strong inclination
toward the dramatic representation: even the children—
and none ever painted sweeter ones than he— uncon-
sciously play some little i)art. Moreover, Reynolds lived
in the grand world, and painted all the great and the
fashionable people of his time; and sought to apply
to portraiture the ])rinci])les of the "grand style" of

painting.

Look back to Gainsborough's Mrs. Siddons, and see
how free from anything dramatic or "grand " it is; how

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simple and straightforward; true and sure in the draw-
ing, so that one can enjoy the suggestion of vigorous,
alert body and soft, firm flesh. It gives enjoyment to
our tactile sense, which is much less excited by the Rey-
nolds picture. On the other hand, quite as noticeable is
the delicacy of the picture : its delicate refinement of ex-
pression and the delicate rendering of the face and hair ;
while we have already alluded to the choice and original
beauty of the scheme of color-harmony. Altogether
there is a rare quality of distinction in this picture which
we shall not find in the Reynolds, for all its grandeur.
It is also a much finer kind of distinction than appears
in Van Dyck's pictures; and I think we may discover
why.

This quality of distinction in a picture is not so much
a reproduction of something in the subject as of some-
thing in the artist ; else we might expect to find it as evi-
dent in Reynolds's picture as in Gainsborough's. No,
you may find this quality also in a painted landscape; it
is an expression of the mind and imagination of the ar-
tist, even as the touch of a musician is an interpretation
not only of the music, but of the way in which the music
affects him — an expression of himself, in fact.

Now Van Dyck, as we have seen, was very fond of the
grand world and fashionable life, and, having great per-
sonal refinement, gave an air of exceptional refinement
to his portraits; but it is very largely a refinement of
beautiful clothes and elegant manners. We can hardly
imagine Van Dyck condescending to paint a picture of a
Girl and Pigs, as Gainsborough did; and he certainly
did not paint landscapes, — whereas Gainsborough, while

[282 ]

REYNOLUS-GAINSBOROIK;!!

pointing portraits for a livin«>-, painted landscapes for
his own pleasure, and lived at IIani])stead durin<»' the
suninier, that he might be constantly in i'ellowship with
nature.

It was this love of nature and of simple things, and
the facidty of seeing beauty in them, that gave such a
choice distinction to his work, because it was the expres-
sion of his own simple, lovable personality. He had
beauty in himself, and all his life it fed on simple de-
lights—the joy of nature, of domestic happiness, of
music, and of his own art.

He was born in the little town of SucHnny, on the river
Stour, in the beautiful county of Suffolk, not far from
East Eergholt, the birthplace, some fifty years later, of
the great landscape-painter Constable. As a boy, he
loved to ramble in the country, sketching; and showed
so much inclination for it, and so little for any other
kind of study, that when he was fifteen he was sent to
London and placed under tlie care of a silversmith, who
procured him admission to the St. ^Martin's Lane Acad-
emy. Here he worked for three years under the painter
Frank Hayman, who was distinguished by being ad-
dicted more to wine and pugilism than to art. Gains-
borough's eighteenth year was an eventful one. First,
he hired three rooms in Ilatton (rardens and set uj) as a
l)ainter on his own account;" then, meeting with little
encouragement, returned to Sudbury; there fell a victim
to the charms of a young lady of seventeen, ^Nliss jNIar-
garet Burr, who had an amiuity of one thousand dollars;
married her, and esta})lished himself in the country town
of Ipswich. After this eventful year, he worked on

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for fifteen years happily and quietly, continually study-
ing in the open air and executing such small commissions
for portraits as came to him, until he had succeeded in
discovering for himself a manner of painting suited to
his needs, and had developed an extraordinary facility.
In 1760, by the advice of a friend and patron named
Thicknesse, he moved to Bath, at that time the most

fashionable city outside of London. Its hot medicinal
waters had been famous in Roman times, and still the
gay world congregated there to drink them and to dance
and talk scandal in the Pump-room, where Beau Nash
reigned as an autocrat among the wits and macaronis.^

Gainsborough's success was immediate, but with in-
creasing wealth there was no alteration in his simple
method of living. He worked four or five hours a day,
and devoted the rest of his time to the society of his wife
and a few friends who were musical. For music now
became a passion of his life, so that it was said he painted
for business and played for pleasure, constantly master-
ing some fresh instrument.

So passed fourteen years, when, in 1774, Gainsbor-
ough moved to London, was commissioned by George
III to paint a portrait of himself and the queen, and
became the rival of Reynolds. He died in 1788, having
contracted a chill while attending the trial of Warren
Hastings, and was buried by his own request in Kew
churchyard. On his death-bed he sent for Reynolds.
There had been misunderstanding and estrangement be-
tween the two. It was now forgotten. Reynolds caught
his last dying words, " We are all going to heaven, and

^ Slang word for the fashionable dandies of the day.

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REVNOLDS-GAIXSBOROUGH

Van Dyck is of the party"; acted as one of the pall-
bearers at his funeral; and subsequently })ron()unced a
eulogy. In it he said: "If ever this nation should pro-
duce genius enough to acquire to us the honorable dis-
tinction of an Knglish school, the name of (Tainsborough
will be transmitted to posterity in the history of the art,
among the very first of that rising name."

Reynolds himself only survived Gainsborough four
years. He was buried with much pomp in St. Paul's
Cathedral, near to the grave of its architect, Sir Chris-
topher Wren.

The contrast between these two artists is almost the
difference between art and artlessness. Reynolds was
learned in what other painters had done, and had re-
duced his own art to a system ; he was a man of the world,
and represented his subjects with a well-bred conscious-
ness of good manners. (Gainsborough found out almost
everything for himself; never lost the simple, natural
way of looking at things and people, and painted, not
according to rule, but at the dictates of what he felt.
Reynolds ])lanned out his effects; Gainsborough ])ainted
on the S])ur of the impression which the sub ject aroused.
Reynolds's art was based on safe general principles;
(Tainsborough's was the fresh and spontaneous expres-
sion of his temperament, — depending, that is to say, on
feeling rather than on calculation. His temperament,
or habit of mind, was dreamy and poetic, gentle and re-
tiring, including a small range of experience. Rey-
nolds, on the other hand, was a man of large ex])erience
and of business capacity; ijitimate with Samuel .John-
son, Oliver Goldsmith, and other celebrities of the day;

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

a man of knowledge and clever conversational power,
whose pictures by their variety prove his versatility.
Consequently, when the Royal Academy was established
in 1768, he was elected president by acclamation, and
was knighted by George III, an honor that has ever
since been bestowed on the holder of this office.

These two men were at the head of the group of por-
trait-painters who, in the latter part of the eighteenth
century and early years of the succeeding one, added
luster to the new growth of art in England. Foremost
among the other names in the group are Romnej^ at
times quite as able as Reynolds or Gainsborough; Sir
Henry Raeburn, a Scotchman; John Hopj^ner; and Sir
Thomas Lawrence.

[286]

CHAPTER XIX

JOUS CONSTABLE JOSEPH MALLORD WILLIAM TURNER

1776-18S7 1775-1851

English School English School

WHAT a contrast these pictures present of
splendid audacity and serene simplicity!
The one an amazing vision of the imagina-
tion; the other, a loving record of something intimately
familiar. Turner's was painted in 1829; one of the fin-
est works of this master, who is a solitary figure in land-
scape art, unapproached hy others, although, as we shall
see, he comhined several motives that others had been or
would be seeking after. Constable's picture appeared
six years later, an excellent example of the painter who
may be regarded as the father of modern landscape.

The Valley Farm, known also as Willy Lott's House,
is on the little river Stour in the county of Sussex, Eng-
land, near the mill at East Bergholt where Constable
was born; for he, like Rembrandt, was a miller's son. It
is a characteristic bit of English scenery, not grand or
romantic; just a tiny bit of a little country, the conspicu-
ous features of which are its verdure and rich cultiva-
tion; so homelike that tliose who love it, as Constable did,
get to have a companionship with every detail, learning
to know the line of its liills, tlie winding of its streams,
and the position and character of every tree and object

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

in the familiar scene. It was along the banks of this
little river that he strayed in boyhood; and to it that he
came back, after a stay in London where he studied
at the schools of the Royal Academy, and copied the
pictures in the galleries, especially those of Hobbema
and Ruisdael. But he soon tired of looking at nature
through the eyes of other men. " There is room enough,"
he wrote to a friend, " for a nature-painter. Painting is
with me but another name for feeling; and I associate
my careless boyhood with all that lies upon the banks of
the Stour; those scenes made me a painter and I am
thankful." This is the kind of spirit which, we have
seen, actuated the Dutch landscape-painters of the sev-
enteenth century; and, indeed, their love of nature was
reincarnated in (Constable. For in the lapse of time their
contribution to art had been forgotten; the Dutchmen
themselves had followed after strange gods, and, like
the painters of France and England, had forsaken the
direct study of nature for an attempt to reproduce the
grandeur of the classic landscape. Reynolds, who drew
his inspiration from Italy, had set its stamp upon Eng-
lish portraiture; and Claude, the Italian-Frenchman,
was the landscape-painter most admired.

If we compare this picture of Constable's with the
Landing of Cleopatra at Tarsus by Claude (page
247) , we shall note how wide apart they are. Beside the
formal stateliness of the latter, wherein everything, care-
fully selected from various sources, has been arranged
so as to produce a noble effect, The Valley Farm seems
huddled and formless, homely. For Constable rejected
the rules of composition then in vogue, to build up an

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CONSTABLE-TURNER

artificial stateliiiess, painting the scene as he saw it, with
a native instinct for bahmce of the full and empty spaces.
Again, if we compare it witli Ilobbema's Tlie Avenue,
MiddeUianiis (page 240), we shall note that, wliile both
are simple records of the natural countrj'-side, tliere is
a difference. We can detect a movement of the foliage
of the trees in Constable's which is not in Hobbema's
picture; we perceive more than the actual forms of the
trees, they are alive, trembling in the air. Further, we
may observe more suggestion of atmosphere in the later
tlian in tlie earlier picture; the sky is less a background
tlian a canopy, the air of wliicli pervades the whole scene.
Once more, there is a marked difference between tlie
feeling of these two pictures; that is to say, we may note
a difference in the attitude of mind with which Hob-
bema and Constable, respectively, approached their sub-
ject. We have no doubt that each was in love with his
subject, and painted it because he was; but Hobbema
did not think it necessary to say so in his picture. He
viewed his subject objectively, as something outside
himself; whereas Constable, with whom "painting was
another name for feeling," has put his love into the pic-
ture, has made the scene interpret his own mood. His
picture is subjective.

He was not satisfied with a copying of iiature. It was
to him so real and personal a companion, that, in the first
place, he tried to make it live in his pictures; that the
clouds might move and overhang the spot, that its atmo-
si)here might penetrate every part of the scene, and that
trees and water, and the very ])lants by the roadside
might move and have their being in it; and secondly, he

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

put his own personal affection into his representation.
Then, too, in the matter of color, which cannot be gath-
ered from the reproduction, he dared to paint nature
green, as he saw it, and the skies blue, with the sunshine
either yellow or glaring white. This scandalized the
people of his day. " Where are you going to place your
brown tree? " said a patron of his, speaking of an unfin-
ished picture. For the older men, even Gainsborough to
some extent, transposed the hues of nature into browns
and grays and gold, producing a very charming har-
mony of tone, but one that was arbitrary; not true to
nature's facts, but adopted as a pictorial convention.

It is, then, because of this closer fidelity to the hues
of nature, and to the effects of movement, of atmosphere
and of light, which are the manifestations of its life and
moods, and because he interpreted nature according to
his own mood, — was, in fact, the first of the tempera-
mental landscape-painters, — that Constable is called the
father of modern landscape. For these are the qualities
that particularly have occupied the artists of the nine-
teenth century, and have caused the most original and
vital branch of painting at the present time to be that
of landscape.

On the threshold of this new movement stood Turner,
alone among his fellow landscape-painters, the most im-
aginative of them all, who was less concerned with the
truth of nature than with her splendors and magic. No
one has equaled him in suggesting the mystery of nature
in its sublime forms. One turns to the Uli/sses Deriding
Polyphemus, not to be drawn toward it and made to
feel at home, as in the case of the Constable, but to be

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CONSTABLE-TURNER

lifted up and filled with wonder of its strangeness and
mysterious grandeur.

The ineident depieted in it is from Homer's Odyssey.
The hero, Ulysses, in his voyage from Troy to his home
in Ithaea, stopped at the isle of the Cyclops, and with
his followers approached the cave of Polyphemus. The
monster devoured six of the crew; but the hero plied
him with wine, brought from his vessel, and, while he
slept, put out his single eye by gouging it with a red-hot
stake. The mariners then escaped to their ship, while
Polyphemus in his pain and impotent rage flung rocks
in the direction of their voices. We see his huge form
Asrithing on the top of the cliff; the sailors scrambling
up the masts to loosen the sails; the red oars flashing
upon the water; a bevy of sea-nymphs around the ])row
drawing the ship to safety through the green water; the
latter, gilded with the reflections of the rising sun, that
paints with gold and crimson the little clouds, floating
in the vaporous sky, wherein are rifts which reveal fur-
ther depths of blue.

But really the incident was of very little account to
Turner, except as it furnished him with a peg upon
which to hang the splendors of his own imagination; far
enough away from our actual experience to permit him
a perfect liberty of treatment. Fourteen years earlier
he liad })ainte(l Dido huildiii^' Cartilage, in which he
emulated the liberties that Claude had taken with nature.
It lacked the purity of coloring of the latter's work, yet
its composition revealed Claude's mannered elevation of
style, and served to show that, if he were so minded.
Turner could compete with the landscape-artist then

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

held in highest repute. But his mind was set upon fur-
ther things; having proved that he could rival Claude,
he would now be Turner— himself . At this time he paid
the first of three visits to Italy, and the picture we are
studying, painted after his return, reveals a heightened
sense of color, and the magnificence of his imagination,
probably, at its highest point.

A man may shut himself up in his house and lead a
very solitary life, as Turner did, and yet unconsciously
be a part of the influences of his time. And those early
years of the nineteenth century were a period of reac-
tion against the eighteenth century reign of prose, its
cold calculation and small and elegant precision. The
spirit of Romanticism was in the air. It is not usual,
however, to regard Turner as a Romantic painter, yet
his work combines qualities which reappear more dis-
tinctly in other men. We shall consider the Romantic
movement in painting in another chapter; meanwhile
here are two definitions of it, that will include Turner, as
having, at least, romantic tendencies. Walter Pater says,
"It is the addition of strangeness to beauty that consti-
tutes the romantic character in art"; again. Dr. F. H.
Hedge, " The romantic feeling has its origin in wonder
and mystery. It is the sense of something hidden, of
imperfect revelation."

The mystery of this picture, its spaces of light and
darkness, that the eye explores but cannot fathom, we
are conscious of at once. Moreover, when we think
about it, we are sure that, if our eye could pierce the
shadows and closely discern the formation of the rocks,
definitely learn the structure of the ship and the appear-

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(1h

CONSTABLE-TURXER

ance of its sailors, peer into the distance and discover
exactly how each mass of cliff succeeds another— if, in a
word, our eye could grasp everything and convey the
facts distinctly to our understanding, we should not en-
joy the picture as we do. It is the sense of something
hidden, of imperfect revelation, that is one of the sources
of its enjoyment.

And then the strangeness of the picture,— that arch
of rock, an actual aspect of nature, though an unusual
one; the huge, roughly hewn figure of Polyphemus; a
sky, full of surprises to people who seldom see the daily
pageantry of sunrise, — but it is less in detail than in gen-
eral character that the picture is strange. The artist has
taken a theme of old times, when the world was young
and things loomed very big to its unformed imagination.
For to the ancient child-mind the world seemed very big,
and its empty, unexplored spaces, peopled with shapes
and fancies that were vague and large. \Vhether it was
the myths of old Greece, or those of the Norse moun-
tains, or German forests— the earliest ones are concerned
with personages vast in size, only half formed in shape,
vague and elementary; and it is the suggestion of this
vastness and shapelessness, of the early beginning of
things, this great strangeness, in a word, that helps to
make the present picture sf) impressive.

Once more comj)are it with Constable's. One is part
of a vast new world; the other, a little spot that for ages
tlie hand and heart of man have shaped.

Whether Turner felt toward nature the wonder which
his pictures ins])ire in us, may be doubted. His life was
a strange contradiction to the splendor and imagination

■-'« [ 297 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

of his work. Like many other great landscape-artists he
was city-bred. The son of a barber in London, he early
showed a talent for drawing, and the father hung the
child's productions on the wall of his shop and sold them
to his customers. By degrees the boy obtained employ-
ment in coloring architectural designs, and at fourteen
was entered as a pupil in the schools of the Roj^al Acad-
emy. The following year he exhibited his first picture.
He worked with indefatigable energy, and during vaca-
tions went on walking tours, sketching continually and
painting in water-colors; so that, by the time he was
twenty-four and admitted as an associate to the Acad-
emy, he had exhibited pictures which ranged over
twenty-six counties of England and Wales. During
this early period his most conspicuous success was made
in water-color, in which medium he developed an extra-
ordinary facility and skill. He would brook no rivalry.
Girtin was at that time the most admired artist in water-
color; he set to work to surpass him. Having done so,
he practically abandoned this medium for oil-colors, and
then threw down, as we have already noted, a gauntlet to
the popular admiration for Claude. That artist had
published a " Liber Veritatis." Turner would outrival
him with a " Liber Studiorum," though the drawings,
engraved under the artist's supervision, were not studies
but finished water-color pictures. In fact, this collec-
tion of seventy-one out of the hundred plates originally
planned, while a monument to Turner's genius, is also
the assertion of a rivalry that, in itself unworthy, was
conducted in a spirit scarcely fair. For Claude's " Liber
Veritatis " is simply a sketch-book, and the sketches were

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CONSTABLE-TURNER

engraved after their autlior's death, indeed, not until
Turner's day. Hut the hitter's finished produetions were
issued under his own eye.

Turner's rule of con(hiet, in faet, was " aut Cajsar aut
iiulhis." Having estahhshed liis supremacy over rivals,
at least to his own satisfaetion, he set himself to concpier
a universe of liis own. During a period of twelve years,
heginning with this picture of Ulysses and ending witli
that of a tug-hoat towing to a wrecker's yard a ship of
tlie line, The Fighting Tcmeraire, and The Burial of
Wilkie at Sea, he did his greatest work. For then
his imagination was at its ripest and richest; displayed
]iartieuhu-ly in the majesty of moving depths of water,
in skies of vast grandeur, and in the splendor of his
color-schemes; moreover, the workmanship of his pic-
tures was solid, and he still based his imagination on
the facts of nature. But, as time went on, the need of
continual experimenting — which every genius feels —
seemed to take undue possession of him, so that the study
of nature became constantly less and the independent
invention more and more. It was no longer the forms
of nature tliat interested him, but her impalpable quali-
ties of light and atmosi)here, and {)erhaps even more the
intoxication of the actual skill in using paint, until one
may suspect tliat he was more enamoin-ed of the magic
of liis brush and paints than of the qualities of nature
wiiicli lie was supposed to be representing. So daring,
almost to the point of recklessness, were his ex])eriments,
that his latci- pictures have deteriorated, until their
original appearance can only be guessed. On the other
hand, in his fondness for atmospheric effects, and par-

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

ticularly in his eif orts to raise the key of hght in his pic-
tures, he was anticipating, as we shall see, some of the
most interesting developments of nineteenth-centm'y
painting.

And during all these years, while as an artist he was
absorbed in the pageants, the mystery, and the subtlety
of light and atmosphere, his life as a man was morose
and mean; his house in Queen Anne Street dirty and
neglected; and, finally, it was in a still more squalid
haunt in a wretched part of London, which he fre-
quented by his own choice, that he was found dead.
When his will was opened, the curious contradiction that
he was fond of hoarding money and yet refused to sell
the majority of his pictures, was explained. He had
left his works to the National Gallery, his money as a
fund for the relief of poor artists. A strange mingling
of greatness and sordidness, of boorish manners and
kindly humanness!

Constable, on the other hand, led a happy, simple life
in the village of which he wrote in one of his letters, pub-
lished by his friend, the painter Leslie, " I love every stile
and stump and lane." It was an out-of-door life, for he
painted, as he expressed it, " under the sun "; observing
the big clouds as they rolled inland from the North Sea,
with their attendant effects of light and shadow. For it
is these shadow effects of the northern countries that
have made them the home of the natural landscape. In
sunny Italy, where the air is for the most part bright and
clear, the landscape makes an appeal of lines and masses ;
the artist finds in it suggestion for composition, hence
the stately pictures by Nicolas Poussin and Claude, who

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CONSTABLE -TURNER

lived in Italy, and of the Eii<jrlish \ViIson, who visited
Italy and saw nature throu<4h the Italian influence.

But in a country where the sunshine is comparatively
rare, Constable learned to appreciate the value of it; the
ani})le comfort of its occasional breadth, the subtle charm
of its brief gleams, piercing the rain-cloud and sparkling
upon the grass and leafage. The sky, not spread with
an undisturbed ceiling of light, but built high with
clouds, that shift continually and change their as])ects,
taught him to observe the varying luminosity of the at-
mosphere ; not to take light for granted, or to represent
it by some uniform recipe for glow, but to study the
infinite variety of its manifestations — with what degrees
of strength or faintness it saturates the air, and how it
colors the objects upon the ground.

Constable became, in fact, the first of the modern
school of open-air painting. Some of his pictures were
exhibited at the Paris Salon during the years 1822 to
1827, and the interest that his work aroused and the im-
pression j)ro(luce(l by it are to be reckoned, as Delacroix
himself affirmed, a powerful influence in the creation of
the French school of pat/sage intimc. The Englishmen,
however, of that date, paid Consta})le little honor. It is
true he was made an associate of the Royal Academy in
1819, after which he moved from Suffolk and estab-
lished himself in what was then the village of Ilani})-
stead on the northern outskirts of London; but it was
not until he had been honored with a gold medal by the
French that the Academy admitted him to full member-
ship. Nor did this increase the public's a])])reciation;
he died at Ilampstead in very meager circumstances, but

[ 'JOl ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

with the happy expectation that some day his pictures
would be understood and valued. The expectation has
been fully realized.

Such tardy recognition has been the lot of many paint-
ers great enough to create something new. Turner
would not have been so highly esteemed in his own gen-
eration, but that Ruskin, the most admired writer upon
art in his time, was his enthusiastic advocate, extolling
him, indeed, with an extravagant enthusiasm that has
been followed by a reaction. Ruskin claimed for him
every virtue of a painter; and the later discovery, that
he was not so great as his advocate claimed, has some-
what obscured how great he was.

Moreover, the world has now become so persuaded of
the beauty of the natural style of landscape-painting,
that it is distrustful of the imaginative. In its praise of
Constable it pooh-poohs Turner.

This is a foolish and ignorant attitude of mind. The
proper one for the genuine student is to recognize that
in art, as in any other department of life, a man should
be judged, not by standards of measurement, but by
what he himself is. Now to a man who loves nature
Constable must appeal ; but where is the man whose love
of nature, being simple and real, has not, once or twice
or oftener, felt taken out of himself, so that the facts of
sky and earth seemed little to him beside the wonderful
exaltation of spirit that the same suggest? It may be
on some mountain, or in the presence of a sunset, or be-
side a little brook, anywhere, at any time, but some time
or other to the lover of nature will come a moment in
which the facts of the landscape are swept into forget-

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COXSTABLE-TURXER

fulness, and all he is conscious of is a sense of his soul
l)C'in^' stren<4thene(l, [)urifie(l, exalted. It is so that
Turner's hest pictures may affect him.

As we approach the development of modern art, we be-
come more and more involved in the question of nature-
study. lUit let us realize that nature is practically the
same to-day, yesterday, and forever; it is our own atti-
tude toward it which is variable. X^ature is a mirror in
which the artist and ourselves are reflected. Therefore,
it would be just as foolish to affirm that a mirror should
reflect only sucli and such objects, as to limit our a])])re-
ciation to particular kinds of artistic motive. The
])roper attitude of mind is one of being actively ready
to receive impressions of all kinds.

[303]

CHAPTER XX

JACQUES LOUIS DAVID FERDINAND VICTOR EUGENE

1748-1825 DELACROIX

1799-1863

Classical School of France Romantic ScJiool of France

EACH of these pictures— David's Oath of the
Horatii and Delacroix's Dante and Virgil — rep-
resents a breaking away from what had gone
before. David's was a protest against the art of Wat-
teau and his successors, Van Loo, Boucher, and Frago-
nard; Delacroix's, in turn, a protest against the art of
David. The one was an attempt to revive the purity of
Classic style by going even further back than Poussin,
namely to the ancient Roman sculpture itself ; the other,
to express the fervor of modern life through the medium
of romance. David's picture is cold, calculated, and self-
conscious; Delacroix's impassioned, less formal in ar-
rangement, the characters being absorbed in their va-
rious emotions.

Compare the two pictures, first of all, from the stand-
point of their subjects, in each case a dramatic one:
David's drawn from the early days of the Roman Re-
public, Delacroix's from Dante's " Inferno." And, first,
the David. Jealous of the growing power of the young
city, the neighboring tribe of Curiatii has invested it;
Rome's very existence is imperiled. There are three bro-

[304]

DxVVlD-DELxVCROIX

tliers in the ranks of the enemy who, like Gohatli in the
]}ihle story, march up and down in front of their com-
rades, challenging any three Romans to fight with them.
Let a comhat of tliree against three decide the issue.
Now within the walls is one Horatius, who has three
stout sons. He will give them uj), sacrifice tiiem if need
be, as champions of the Rei)uhlic. They are eager for
the honor, notwithstanding that their own sister is be-
trothed to one of the three Curiatii. But between their
loyalty to country and to sister they have no hesitation.
They will fight for country; and to this highest of all
purposes the father with prayer and blessings devotes
them.

Rut observe the three brothers in the picture. Their
attitudes are almost identical, like those of well-drilled
supers on the stage. Let us admit that this device ex-
presses the unanimity of their feeling; they are moved
as one man, with a single patriotism, and, as we may
judge from the hand of one encircling another's waist,
by a single bond of brotherly affection. Yet still there
is more than a suspicion of staginess in their pose. Per-
ha])s David had seen Corneille's tragedy of the lioratii,
written one hundred and forty-five years before; at any
rate, its representation became very popular in Paris
after the ai)pearance of this ])icture, influenced by which
the great actor. Talma, played the part, no longer in a
periwig and court-clothes, but in the Roman costume.
Again observe the secondary group of women. Do we
feel convinced that the elder daughter betrays real grief,
or her sister genuine sympathy, or that the mother's act
of enfolding the little children in her arms is more than

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HOW TO STUDY PICXURES

a bit of maternal conventionalism? In a word, are we
really stirred by all this representation of pathos and
heroism ?

Now let us study, from the point of view of subject,
the Dante and Virgil. The incident depicted may be
read in Dante's " Inferno," Canto III, though the de-
tails are not closely followed in the picture. The poet
of Florence, escorted by him of Mantua, has reached the
shores of Acheron, that lake encircling the city of Dis
(Pluto), against which leap up the fiery waves of
Phlegethon. Upon the shore linger the souls of those
who lived in life without praise or blame, moaning to be
taken across the water, even if it be to hell. But Charon
drives them back with cruel words and blows of his oar,
as he takes the shade of Virgil and the living man into
his crazy boat. To its gunwale cling the unhappy shades,
one convulsively gripping it with his teeth ; another has
lost hold and sinks into the water, in which two more
flounder, clutching each other as the living will when
drowning. Above these writhing forms stands Dante,
aghast with horror, leaning toward the Mantuan, who
alone is calm, serenely fixed amid the tumult, eternally
poised and youthful. f

In this picture Delacroix has attempted to seize and
convey by an immediate representation all the anguish
and the tumult that the poet's song renders by separate
stages. It was the work of a youth of twenty-three, al-
ready a master. David, a veteran of seventy-four years,
when he saw it, exclaimed, "Where does it come from?
I do not recognize the style."

For it does not depend upon line as David's picture,

[306]

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]

DAVID-DELACHOIX

l)ut ii})on colored masses. It is true that the figures in
the water are arranged so as to produce a certain wild
rhythm of movement, like agitated waves; but none of
the figures are inclosed in hard lines, the contours having
neither the assertion nor the precision of David's. To
rei)eat, it is an arrangement of colored masses: of dark
greenish-blue sea, the pallid ivories of flesh tints, Virgil's
drabbisli-green robe, and Dante's drab one; his crimson
becchetto, and the echo of its color in the fainter distant
glow of fire, — a turbid harmony of color, wherein the
nude bodies appear as a motif of pain and the crimson
is a crash of wrath. It is the work of a man who feels
in color, as a musician does in sounds, and who plays
upon the chromatics of color, somewhat as the musician
upon the chromatics of sound. It is the work, not of one
who uses color merely to increase the reality of appear-
ances, as the majority of painters do, but of one of that
smaller band, headed by the Venetians and Rubens, who
make the color itself a source of emotional appeal.
Delacroix was a colorist; and David, drilled in the Aca-
demic school which says line and form are the chief es-
sentials, seeing the picture, asked, " Where does it come
from? "

It came, in the first place, out of the imagination of
a colorist, who conceives his pictures in color; sees them,
I mean, in his mind's eye, as a composition of color, be-
fore he begins to resolve the whole into its parts, and
work out the separate details of form. Indirectly it
came out of the heart of the Romantic movement which
had spread over Kurope. Delacroix was ins])ire(l by the
influence of Goethe, Scott, Ryron. Victor Hugo, and the

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other poets and writers who had broken away from the
coldly intellectual viewpoint of the eighteenth century,
and its study of manners, to explore the passions of the
human soul, and the variegated colorful life of the emo-
tions.

David was a part, Delacroix a product, of the French
Revolution, which opened a new chapter in the history
of the world and also in that of painting. It had begun
in protest against an extravagant and wanton court and
an impotent monarch; had passed through a period of
madness and horror, and culminated in an extraordinary
outburst of national enthusiasm and individual energy.
France, as a nation, was reborn, and — which had more
influence upon the world at large— out of this Revolu-
tion, and the American one which preceded it, was born
anew the idea of individualism. David represented the
protest, and had no small share in promoting it; Dela-
croix, the fervor of personal feelings, let loose by indi-
vidualism.

It was in 1784, in Rome, after he had completed his
studies at the French Academy, that David produced the
picture of Brutus and this Oath of the Horatii. In
them he went back to the original Roman models upon
which the Classic style of Poussin, then the model of the
Academic school, had been founded. Here are the semi-
circular arches and the vaulting, which were the most
characteristic developments of Roman architecture, and
columns such as the artist may have copied from the
Baths of Marcellus. And against this background the
figures are set as if carved in low relief, like those on
the column of Trajan, of which David was so fond. By

[308]

^\^

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^^KA

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1' ■*^*-

Ai3

l^mm^

p-^i -(

DAVID-DELACROIX

comparison with Italian painting and witli that of
France during the seventeenth and eigliteenth centuries,
tliis picture of tlie Iloratii was severely simple. Then,
too, what a simple severity of lofty patriotism it rep-
resented !

Its success in France was immediate. The people,
tired of the voluptuous insi])iditics of Boucher and the
others, welcomed its severity; while the princi])les of
freedom and lo\c of country that it inculcated gave at
once a definite voice to the floating theories of the time.
Kepul)licanism, the old Koman hrand of it, simple, un-
selfish, frugal, began to be considered the j)anacea for
all the ills from which the French branch of the Latin
race was suffering. David proved to be the strong man,
fitted to tiie hour, and his inliuence, first asserted in this
picture, played a big part in the subsetjuent Revolution.
When the latter commenced he was forty years old. He
was elected a deputy in the Convention, and appointed
Minister of Fine Arts. In this cai)acity he was a des-
potic dictator; imposing his Roman taste even ujion the
costumes of the deputies and ministers, and from these
upon the peo])le, and organizing public fetes in the man-
ner of Repul)lican Rome. " He a})])lied art to the hero-
ism of the day, gave it the martial attitude of ])atriotism,
and inspired it witli the s])irit of Robespierre, Saint
Just, ^larat, and Danton. Robespierre is said to have
si)oken from the tribune slowlv, rhvthmicallv, artistic-

I » • •

ally. Lender the same starched methodical precision
David concentrated the volcanic force of his a])])eal to
patriotism." In the first consciousness of individualism,
everybody was strutting and posturing self-consciously,

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like actors upon a stage. The times were artificial and
theatrical.

And how greatly this man was penetrated by the
spirit of his age is illustrated in his manner of presenting
to the Convention his portrait of Marat. The people
asked for their murdered man back again, longing to
look once more on the features of their truest frien^d.
" They cried to me : ' David, take up your brush, avenge
Marat, so that the enemy may blanch when they perceive
the distorted countenance of the man who became the
victim of his love for freedom.' I heard the voice of the
people, and obeyed." ^

His portraits, however, are free from this sort of rho-
domontade, intensely direct and real. " In them, he is
neither rhetorical nor cold, but full of fire and the fresh-
ness of youth. Before any face to be modeled, he forgot
the Greeks and Romans, saw life alone, was rejuvenated
in the youthgiving fount of nature, and painted — almost
alone of the painters of his generation — the truth.

" David was one of the first of the men of the Revo-
lution to come beneath the spell of the Little Corporal.
One day while he was working at his studio at the
Louvre, a pupil rushed in breathlessly : ' General Buona-
parte is outside the door.' Napoleon entered in a dark-
blue coat ' that made his lean yellow face look leaner
and yellower than ever.' David dismissed his pupils,
and drew in a sitting of barely two hours the stern head
of the Corsican. Thus he passed into the service of
Napoleon." ^

He was appointed Imperial Court Painter, and

1 Richard Muther: History of Modern Painting. ,

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DAVID-DELACROIX

executed that colossal picture which has handed down to
posterity a true presentation of the ceremonial pageant
that took place in Notre Dame on Decemher 2, 1804.
The moment selected is that in which Napoleon, already
crowned, is placing the crown upon the head of the em-
press. The Coronation was the great work of his im-
perial, as the Marat had been of his revolutionary period.
He had been so intimately identified with both that, after
Napoleon's final fall in 1815 and the succession of Louis
XVI II, he was banished and sought refuge in Brussels,
where he died in 1825. He left behind a legacy of so-
called " classicalism," carrying on that of Poussin, which
under various modifications has been preserved by the
official Academy, as the })asis of instruction in and the
proper aim of painting. These, academic principles,
however, no longer confine the student to an imitation of
Roman subjects and models. But, even as David per-
mitted himself to be a naturalist in his portraits and in
other subjects, such as the Death of Marat and the Coro-
nation, so the Academy encourages still the study of
nature, but within certain limitations.

It lays especial stress u])on what it calls the ideal line,
and ideal beauty of form and composition. Nature must
be corrected to conform with the ideal representations
handed down to us from Greek and Roman scul])ture,
and the paintings ui)on Greek vases. As Delacroix,
mocking at these princii)les, said: "In ordei- to present
an ideal head of a negro, our teachers make him resemble
as far as j)ossible the profile of Antinous, and then say,
'We have done our utmost; if, nevertheless, we fail to
make the negro beautiful, then we ought not to introduce

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

into our pictures such a freak of nature, the squat nose
and thick hps, which are so unendurable to the eyes.' "

This extreme view, which would exclude any subject
that is not capable of being idealized, is no longer main-
tained by the Academy. Yet it still insists upon the
prime importance of the line ; and, as a result, the figures
in academic pictures are usually in graceful poses and
inclosed by sharp outlines. A comparison of the Iloratii
with Delacroix's Dante and Virgil will show the distinc-
tion very clearly. But, as a matter of fact, in nature the
forms of objects are not sharply outlined. Even when a
dark tree cuts against a light sky, the atmosphere that
intervenes between it and our eyes tends to blur its
edges. Now these effects of light and atmosphere de-
pend not so much upon the way the picture is drawn
as upon the way it is painted, and this again is connected
with problems of color.

Accordingly, the Academician, precise about form,
disregards problems of light and atmosphere and color;
while the colorist, who cares most for these qualities, and
sees nature as an arrangement of colored forms in har-
monious relation, very often disregards the beauty of
form, and, because of what he aims at, cannot make the
lines of his objects so precise and ideally perfect. On
the other hand, it is the little irregularities and indistinct-
ness of line that give character to forms and suggest
that they have the capacity of movement and are alive.
The academic figure, notwithstanding its beauty, is by
comparison inert and rigid. You may realize this point
by a reference to these two pictures we are studying.
The figures of the men in the Horatii have come to ges-

r 310 1

DAVID-UKLAC UOIX

tures and positions of energy, and hold them as if cast in
hronze. Tlie women have Ixien phieed in pretty attitudes
of amiahle sentiment, and remain as if modeled in wax.
But in the Dante (ind J'"ir^il there are life and move-
ment: terrific action, put forth and sustained in the
figures of Charon and of the two men wlio grip the gun-
wale; action of another kind in the Dante, as he gazes
with horror and halances himself in the rolling hoat ; even
the latter moves, and the shades, although exhausted to
im])otence, are moving.

This })icture of Delacroix's has been called "in a pic-
torial sense the first characteristic picture of the cen-
tury." That is to say, while the art of David and his f ol-
lowers was virtually a translation of sculpture into
painting, Delacroix's once more asserted the indepen-
dence of ])ainting, and its possession of certain qualities
and possibilities which no other art possesses in the same
degree. For, in the place of the tinted forms of the
Academicians, Delacroix had introduced the wonder of
coloi', used for purposes of expression by such masters
as the \'enetians and Rubens.

Delacroix, in fact, was one of the greatest colorists of
the nineteenth century, using the word in the sense of
one who thinks and feels and expresses himself by means
of color. lie nurtured himself upon the works of the
colorists in the Louvre, es])ecially upon Rubens. Every
morning before his work began, it is said, he drew an
arm, a hand, or a piece of dra])ery after Rubens. It was
from Rubens also, and Titian, tliat Watteau, the great
|)oet-painter of the eighteenth century, had drawn inspi-
ration. A\\(\ Delacroix, like him, was proud, self-re-

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liant, delicate from his youth up, and for many years
sick in soul and body. But, whereas Watteau drew from
the licentiousness of the Regent's court the food for his
dreams of poetry, Delacroix into his closed studio ad-
mitted the mighty impulses which had been let loose by
the Revolution.

Liberty had given larger bounds to individualism, and
the first of the arts to reflect this was literature. The
measured prose, conventionally correct verse, and some-
what pedantic rhetoric of the eighteenth century had
been succeeded by an outburst of the imaginative fac-
ulty. The movement began in Germany with Goethe;
in England with Wordsworth and Scott, Coleridge,
Byron, Shelley, and Keats; and in France with Victor
Hugo. During a visit to London, in 1825,, Delacroix
saw the opera of Goethe's " Faust " performed in Eng-
lish, while he had already discovered Shakspeare, Byron,
and Scott to be his favorites. His own romantic na-
ture flamed up by contact with theirs ; he was possessed
with their souls and became the first of the Romantic
painters. He took many of his subjects from the poets
of his preference, not to translate into literal illustra-
tions, but to make them express in his own language of
painting the most agitated emotions of the human heart.

But the representation of agitated emotions necessi-
tated the introduction of a good deal that was horrible
to those who swore by the ideal line and perfect balance
of composition. "How can ugliness," they cried, "be
beautiful?" Victor Hugo produced his play of "Her-
nani" in 1829; and around him and Delacroix was
waged the battle between the Classicists and the Roman-

[318]

DAVID-DELACROIX

ticists. Poussin's phrase was repeated by the Classi-
cists — " Painting is notliing more than drawing." " Had
(iod intended to phiee color at the same height as form,"
wrote Charles Blanc, "he would not have failed to
clothe his masterpiece man with all the hues of the hum-
ming-hird." And this "critic" called Delacroix "the
tattooed savage who paints with a drunken broom."

To these and similar denunciations, continued for
many years, Delacroix himself in one of his writings has
contributed a reply. It pleads for a wider conception of
the idea of beauty. Winckelmann, the great German
archtcologist of the eighteenth century, had asserted,
" The sole means for art to become, aye, if possible, in-
imitably great, is the imitation of the ancients." " The
marble manner only requires a little animating." " The
highest beauty is that which is proper neither to this nor
to that person " — that is to say, not individual. This
was practically the doctrine of the Classicists. To it
Lessing, another German, replied that truth to nature
was the first condition of beauty ; and Goethe expanded
it by saying that everything natural was true as far as
it was beautiful. The English Keats chimed in, " Truth
is beauty, beauty is truth." Delacroix's words are:
"This famous thing, the Beautiful, must be— every one
says so— the final aim of art. B-ut if it be the only aim,
what are we to make of men like Rubens, Rembrandt,
and, in general, all the artistic natures of the North,
who jjref erred other (jualities belonging to their art?
. . . There is no reci])e by which one can attain to
what is ideally beautii'ul. Style depends absolutely
and solely upon the free and original expression of

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

each master's peculiar qualities " — upon individuality,
in fact.

There are, among others, some important considera-
tions in these views of the Romanticists, which may be
put in the following familiar way. It is quite possible
for an exceedingly pretty girl to be very stupid; there
is also such a thing as the beauty of character; we enjoy
the beauty of the slimness of the silver birch, and the
rugged stanchness of an oak; there is a charm about
a Gloucester fisherman as well as an Apollo Belvedere.
On the whole, we do well to be interested in people for
what they are rather than for what they might be ; indi-
vidual character is always worth studying ; when it is ex-
hibited under the stress of powerful emotion, it is con-
spicuously so. The artist himself may be a man of
marked individuality of character; it is better for the
world that he should express himself freely, instead of
within the tight groove of some conventional method.

The Classicists were intrenched in the official fortress
of the Academy, and for long years resisted the attempts
of Delacroix to obtain entrance. Indeed, it was not until
twenty-two years after his death, wdien a great collection
of his works was exhibited, that France realized how
grand an artist it had lost. Before he died, other men
with other motives, as we shall see, rose up to challenge
the official standard of excellence; for the history of
painting in the nineteenth century, centering in Paris,
has been one of continually new assertions of individu-
alism. Our sympathies, quite possibly, will be with the
rebels, but that should not blind us to the value of the
academic principles of painting.

[320]

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DAVID-DKLACROIX

If there is to be an official and permanent standard,
the C'hissic is the best for the jjurpose. The standard
to be serviceable must be one that can be reduced to a
reasonable certainty. In })ainting', composition and line
are the elements which can most readily be formulated;
and, when founded upon the canons of antique art, are
established upon a basis that the continuin<>' judgment of
the world has approved, (iiven this central body, there
is the perpetual inducement for independent spirits to fly
off at a tangent from it, which is ])roductive of vitality.
The classical ideal })rovides at once firm groundwork for
the average student and a starting-point for indepen-
dent genius. Permanence and progress are alike in-
sured.

[321]

CHAPTER XXI

THEODORE ROUSSEAU JEAN BAPTISTE CAMILLE COROT

1812-1867 1796-1875

F ontainehleau-Barhizon F ontainehleau-Barhizon

School of France School of France

THREE miles from the landscape- forest which
adjoins the Palace of Fontainebleau lies the little
village of Barbizon. After 1832 it became the
headquarters of a group of painters whose school and
studio were the forest. They were the second protest
of the nineteenth century against the formalism of aca-
demical teaching, and, though the artists varied individu-
ally, they were all united in their first-hand study of
nature, so that they are distinguished as the Fontaine-
bleau-Barbizon School.

Once before there had been a Fontainebleau School,
the term being applied to that group of Italian artists
— among them Leonardo da Vinci, Andrea del Sarto,
and Cellini — whom Francis I invited to decorate his
palace. With these men the subject had been the human
figure, used with the artificial intention that decoration
permits ; whereas the group that appeared three hundred
years later was concerned with nature, represented natu-
rally. It comprised Rousseau, the acknowledged leader,
Jules Du^^re, Corot, Diaz, and Daubigny ; the sheep and
cattle painters, Troyon, Van Marcke, and Jacque; and

[ 322 ]

ROUSSEAU— COROT

Millet, the painter of the peasant. This new grouj) was
related to the Duteh Sehool of lan(lseape-j)ainters of tiie
seventeenth eentury, through the English Constahle.

The latter, learning of the Dutehnien, had revived tlie
natural study of landseape and earried it further than
they, introdueing into his pietures the greens of nature,
truer effects of air and light, and the suggestion of
movement in the foliage. During the years from 1822
to 1827 Constable's pietures had been appearing at the
Salon, and had been awarded a gold medal. Delacroix,
the colorist, was attracted by them; and other painters,
tired of the frigid unreality of the classic school, wel-
comed these nature-studies, and through them were
induced to study also the works of the old Dutch land-
scapists in the Louvre. Among the many, thus influ-
enced, was Rousseau, who had worked in the studio of
the classicist Lethiere, but, dissatisfied with the hitter's
grandiloquent canvases, had taken to wandering about
the plain of ^Nlontmartre with his paint-box, and in 1826
had produced his first little picture.

But another influence played its part in shaping the
future of the new school. Romanticism was in the air;
Delacroix and others were making their pictures the
medium of emotional expression. Accordingly, by tlie
time that the Barbizon men had found themselves, their
art was distinguished not only by truth to nature but
also by poetic feeling. Of the two whom we are consid-
ering, we may say that Rousseau was the epic poet of/
the grou]); Corot. the lyric. /

Of this lyric (juality in Corot's work we may be con-
scious if we turn to Dance of the X/jniphn. It yields a

[ .32.*i ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

suggestion of music and of songfulness; exactly how,
it may be hard to explain; but, perhaps, the reason is
that there was constant music in the heart of the man
who painted it. He sang as he worked, played the vio-
lin at intervals, and regularly attended the opera. Com-
paring himself with Rousseau, he once said, " Rousseau
is an eagle. As for me, I am only a lark, putting forth
some little songs in my gray clouds."

On the other hand, the epic quality in Rousseau's pic-
ture may not be so immediately recognizable; we shall
better appreciate it when we have examined the motives
of his work more closely. Comparing the example here
reproduced with the one by Corot, we note this great
difference, that Rousseau's shows a solidity of form and
a power of clear decision in the lines inclosing the forms,
whereas Corot's masses are by comparison dreamy and
unsubstantial, the outlines blurred. Rousseau insists
upon the form of objects and the character of their
forms, while Corot escapes as far as possible from the
actual things and renders the effect which they produce
upon the senses. He sought to represent the essences
of things; the fragrance, as it were, rather than the
flower.

Both these men were city-bred. So, indeed, have been
most of the great landscape-painters; a fact which may
seem strange, until we remember how apt we all are
to long for that which is farthest away from our actual
life. Corot's parents were court dressmakers in the days
of the first Napoleon, in comfortable circumstances, so
that their son never wanted for money. Rousseau's fa-
ther was a tailor, living up four flights of stairs; and

[324]

ROUSSExVU— COROT

Rousseau liimsclf was well on in iiiauliood before he
eeased to know the bite of poverty. Corot received the
usual classic training and then went to Italy; but it was
not until he had paid three visits to that country, and
had reached the age of forty-six, that he came under
the intiucnce of Rousseau and the course of his art was
changed. Even then some ten years elapsed before he
perfected that style upon which his fame chiefly rests.
Rousseau, on the other hand, found his true bent early.

The critic, Burger-Thore, writing in 1844, asks a
question of Rousseau. " Do you remember," he says,
" the years when we sat- on the window-ledges of our
attics in the Rue de Taitbout and let our feet dangle
at the edge of the roof, looking out over the chaos of
houses and chimneys, which you, with a twinkle in your
eye. Mould com])are to mountains, trees, and outlines of
the earth:' ^'ou were not able to go to the Alps, into
the cheerful country, and so you created picturesque
landscapes for yourself out of those horrible skeletons
of walls. Do you still recall the little tree in Rothschild's
garden ^hich we caught sight of between two roofs?
It was the one green thing that we could see; every fresh
shoot of the little poplar wakened our interest in spring,
and in autumn mc counted the falling leaves," " From
this mood," as INIuther says, " sprang modern landscape-
painting, with its delicate reserve of subject, and its
vigorously heightened love of nature."

Notwithstanding this natiu'c-love in his heart, the
vouna- Rousseau at first devoted himself to mathematics,
aiming to become a student at the Polytechnic Institu-
tion. The fact is interesting as showing that he com-

3- [ 325 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

bined the instincts of an artist and a scientist, a point
we shall return to later. INIeanwhile, as we have seen,
he entered Lethiere's studio, and watched him paint such
subjects as The Death of Brutus and The Death of
Virginia. But there was nothing in them to satisfy the
youth's love of nature, and he began his wanderings
with his paint-box in the country round Paris. The year
1833 found him for the first time in the forest of Fon-
tainebleau, and the following year, at the age of twenty-
two, he painted his first masterpiece. Cotes de Gratid-
vilJe. It was accepted at the Salon, and awarded a medal
of the third class.

No further concession, however, could be allowed to
a young man so dangerously independent from the aca-
demical standpoint, and for thirteen years, indeed until
after the Revolution of 1848 and the fall of the " Bour-
geois King," Louis Philippe, his pictures were excluded
from the official exhibitions. Even then, officialdom, al-
though it could not ignore this leader of a new move-
ment, slighted him by singling out his followers, Dupre,
Diaz, Troyon, for the Legion of Honor in preference
to himself. It is true they were older men, but what
Diaz thought of the slight to Rousseau may be gathered
from the words in which he responded to the courtesies
tendered him at the official banquet. Rising on his
wooden leg, he gave the toast, " Here 's to our master
who has been forgotten." In the following year, 1852,
Rousseau himself was admitted to the Legion. At the
Universal Exposition of 1855, the world discovered how
great an artist he was; but by this time other shadows
were beginning to creep over his life.

[ 326 ]

KOUSSExVU— COROT

Pie liad niarricd a poor, unfortunate ereature, a mere
eliikl of the forest, the only feminine heing he had found
lime to love during his toilsome life. After a few years
of marriage she was seized with madness; and, while he
tended her, Kousseau himself heeame the vietim of an
aifeetion of the hrain, whieli darkened his last years.
'IMie end eame in 18(>7, the year of another Universal
l^x])()sition. lie had served as one of the heads of de-
partments on the jury, and in the natural routine should
have been awarded the higher rank of officer in the
Legion of Honor; instead of which it was given to a
man twelve years his iunioi% Gerome. It was the cli-
max to the tragedy of his life, and he survived it only
a few weeks. In the churchyard of Chailly, near Bar-
bizon, his body rests beneath a stone erected by JNIillet —
a simple cross upon an unhewn block of sandstone, which
bears a brass tablet with the inscription, " Theodore
Kousseau, Peintre."

What a contrast the happy peace of Corot's life pre-
sents! His father had apprenticed him to a linen-draper,
but after eight years consented to his becoming a painter.
"You will have a yearly allowance of twelve hundred
francs," he said, "and if you can live on that you may
do as you please." Twenty-three years later, anIicu the
son was elected to the I^egion of Honor, this allowance
was doubled, " for," as the father remarked, " Camille
seems to have some talent after all."

We have already alluded to his beginnings as a
painter, how he went through the usual course of study
of the figure and attempts at classical landsca])es after
the manner of Poussin. When he paid his first \isit

[ 327 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

to Italy, he was so attracted by the moving hfe on the
streets of Rome and Naples that he longed to transfer
it to his sketch-book. But the figm-es would not remain
still long enough to be treated methodically, as he had
learned to draw ; so he set himself to try and obtain with
a few strokes the general effect of the moving picture,
and with such success that after a time he could rapidly
suggest the appearance of even so intricate a scene as
a ballet. This skill was to stand him in good stead,
when he should seek to represent the tremble of foliage
in the morning or evening air. It taught him also, by
degrees, the value of generalization ; of not representing
details so much as of discovering the salient qualities of
objects, and of uniting them into a whole that will sug-
gest rather than definitely describe.

But all this time the inspiration of his work was Italy
and the Italian landscape; it was not until he had re-
turned from his third visit thither, and was forty-six,
that the landscape of France began to appeal to his
imagination. He became acquainted at last with Rous-
seau, and with the aim of the Barbizon artists to repre-
sent nature as surrounded by air and light, and he set
to work to learn the method of painting these qualities,
reaching finally a style that is peculiar to himself.

It is so closely a result of his personal attitude toward
nature, particularly toward the dawn and evening, which
were his favorite moments, that a letter to Jules Dupre,
in which he describes his sensations at these moments,
gives one an understanding of his style.

One gets up early, at three in the morning, before the sun ;
one goes and sits at the foot of a tree ; one watches and waits.

[ 328 ]

5
<

r-r

\ pUiJ'-'

„ , ENOX AND

ROUSSEAU— COllOT

One sees nothing much at first. Nature resembles a whitish can-
vas on which are sketched scarcely the profiles of some masses;
everything is perfimied, and shines in the fresh breath of dawn.
Bing ! The sun grows liright, but has not yet torn asunder the
veil behind wliich lie concealed the meadows, the dale, and hills
of the horizon. The vapors of night still creep, like silvery
flakes, over the numbed-green vegetation. Bing! Bing! — a
^ first ray of sunlight — a second ray of sunlight — the little
flowers seem to wake up joyously. They all have their drop of
dew which trembles — the chilly leaves are stirred with the breath
of morning — in the foliage the birds sing unseen — all the
flowers seem to be saying their prayers. Loves on butterfly
wings frolic over the meadow and make the tall plants wave —
one sees nothing — yet everything is there — the landscape is en-
tirely behind the veil of mist, which mounts, mounts, sucked up
by the sun; and, as it rises, reveals the river, plated with silver,
the meadows, trees, cottages, the receding distance — one dis-
tinguishes at last everything that one had divined at first.

How spontaneous a commentary upon his j)ictures
of early morning — nature in masses, fresh and fragrant,
the " numbed-green " of the vegetation, the shiver of
leaves, and the twinkling of flowers, the river plated with
silver, and the sky suffused with misty light!

In the same letter he describes the evening:

Nature drowses — the fresh air, however, sighs among the
leaves — the dew decks the velvety grass with pearls. The nymphs
fly — hide themselves — and desire to be seen. Bing! — a star in
the sky which pricks its image on the pool. Charming star,
whose brilliance is increased by the quivering of the water, thou
watchest me — thou smilest to me with half-closed eye ! Bing! —
a second star appears in the water, a second eye opens. Be the
harbingers of welcome, fresh and charming stars. Bing ! Bing !

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Bing ! — three, six, twent}' stars. All the stars in the sky are
keeping tryst in this happy- pool, Everjthing darkens, the pool
alone sparkles. There is a swarm of stars — all yields to illusion.
The sun being gone to bed, the inner sun of the soul, the sun of
art, awakes. Bon ! there is my picture done !

This expresses the dreaming of a poet, and during the
last twenty-five years of his life, when his best work was
done, it was in this way that he worked. Years ago his
father had given him a little house in Ville d'Avray, near
Paris, and thither during the summer the old bachelor
repaired with his sister. The time was spent in filling
his soul with visions of nature, which, when he returned
to Paris, were transferred to canvas. This picture that
we are studying was painted in 1851, before Corot had
reached his final stjde. It still shows some traces of
classic feeling, particularly in the introduction of fig-
ures; but also a taste of what was to follow in the soft
blur of foliage that tips the slender stems in the center.
Later on he generalized even more freely; his trees be-
come masses of softly blurred leafage, silhouetted ten-
derly against the delicate vibration of the sky, trembling
indistinctly as in a dream-picture, while here and there,
like the introduction of the word " Bing " in his letter,
are little accents of leaves or bits of tree-trunk, vibrat-
ing sharply like the twang of a violin string.

Rousseau's advice, on the contrary, to his pupils was,
" Form is the first thing to observe." The point to be
noted is that, whereas Corot had begun by observing
form and had then escaped as far as possible from it,
Rousseau, first and always, based his art upon it. In-
deed, at the middle period of his life the scientific in-

[334.]

ROUSSEAU- COUOT

stiiK't asserted itself, and for a while he sank tlie larger
feeling for the whole in too exact a representation of de-
tail. But, dui-ing.his great periods, he exhihited a mas-
tery in the delineation of the inipressivenessof form that
has never been surpassed. His favorite tree was the oak,
witli sturdy arms supporting its weight of leaves and
branches, and strong roots, in between the rocks, grasp-
ing the firm earth. The strengtii of nature, her deep
embedded force, putting itself forth in stout and histy
growth, continuously vigorous; the mighty force of
clouds that replenish the earth; the vastness and gran-
deur of the sky in the full glory of midday, or the superb
pageant of the sunset, as in this picture ; in a word, the
perennial strength of nature, as contrasted with the
little lives of men — such was the theme upon which he
spent his life. While Corot drank in nature, nature
to Rousseau was entirely outside himself. He was in
love with her for her own sake.

This was a grander attitude toward nature than that
of Corot. The latter, in modern phraseology, was a tem-
peramental artist; that is to say, he chose from nature
what suited his moods and painted her with a certain
invariableness of manner, as if there were nothing in
nature except what lie felt about her. All that he did
was lovely, but it was limited in scope; whereas Rous-
seau, with his broad impersonal vision searching nature
for what she had to tell liim, painted in every picture
a different subject. It was the ])hases of her inexhaust-
ible story, a story as old as mankind and that will out-
live the last of humanity, that he treated; and it is for
this reason, because he suggested the continuity of her

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elemental forces, even while depicting a certain phase,
that one may rightly describe him as the epic poet of the
Barbizon School.

The truth of this would be more evident if we had the
opportunity of seeing a number of Rousseau's pictures
alongside of a number of Corot's; but even from the
comparison of these two examples I think it may be
gathered. The Dance of the Nymphs is a morning
poem; breathing the freshness of a world that, despite
of time, is forever innocent and young. The creatures
that enliven it, nymphs and satyrs, are the effervescence
of fancy, removed very far from the responsibilities and
daily experiences of life. The figures which Corot in-
troduces in his landscapes are always embodiments of
the spirit of the scene, like the Dryads, Naiads, and
Oreads of the old Greek imagining. But in Rousseau's
Sunset Scene another day of labor is finished; rest is
brooding down upon the tired earth; creatures nearer
to nature than beings in the shape of humanity are
taking their fill of water before they too settle down
upon the earth, that mighty bosom from which all things
draw nourishment and on which all rest. Those same
cows— or others like them— will inhabit the same scene
to-morrow ; those sturdy trees and branches will survive
another and another day, as they have weathered many ;
that boulder will defy the effort of time to remove it.
The scene, as Rousseau painted it, is typical and ele-
mental; not alone a spot on the edge of the forest of
Fontainebleau, but a poem of universal import, whose
theme is the ever-present one of earth's enduring
strength, and of recurring toil and rest. Rousseau

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ROUSSEAU— COROT

reached tliis power of elemental ex])rcssion by contin-
ually concentrating his great faculty of observation
upon the fundamental (jnalities of nature, which as
compared with man's moods and changes are the same
yesterday, to-day, and forever. Corot, on the contrary,
nourishing his moods on nature, ended by interpreting
these moods of his own rather than nature herself.
lie is not the great descriptive, epic poet, alive to the
mighty forces that underlie the vastness of his subject,
but the sweet, lyric singer of a few choice moments. As
he said himself: he is the lark; Rousseau, the eagle.

For Corot recognized Rousseau's superiority not only
in wider sweep of vision but in his mastery over^fpxm;
and form is the foundation of all great painting, whe-
ther of the human figure or landscape. It is with the
close study of forms of nature that all great landscape-
painters have begun, even if, like Corot, they subse-
quently try to merge the form in the expression of the
sentiments which the objects of the landscape arouse.
For the painter cannot represent spirit to the mind,
except by representing to the eye a real suggestion of
the form in which it is embodied. This is the lesson of
all the landscape-])ainting which has followed upon the
new movement of the Fontainebleau-Rarl)izon artists.

Landscape to-day is the most living branch of paint-
ing; nowhere more so than in our own country. Ameri-
can painters have continued the nature-study and poetic
feeling of the Rarbi/on men, and often have gone far-
ther than they in the rendering of light and air and of
the manifold variety of nature's coloring. Hut when-
ever we come upon men of commanding talent, such as

^ [ 337 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

George Inness, Alexander Wyant, and Homer JMartin
among those who are dead, and such as Tryon, Murphy,
Horatio Walker, Winslow Homer, and very many
others among the living, we shall find that while often
they prefer tp subordinate form to poetical impression,
it is with the precise and patient study of form that they
first began. Upon this firm foundation they have sub-
sequently erected the spiritualized fabrics of their poetic
fancies. They have not builded castles in the air, but
delicate structures planted firmly upon the facts of
earth. Hence the hold they take upon the perceptive
faculty; for they reach us first through our experience,
and then delight our imagination.

[338]

CHAPTER XXII

JULES BRETON JEAN FRANCOIS MILLET

1814-1875
1827—

Fontainebleaii-Barbizon

French School School of France

HERE are two pictures of peasant subjects, and,
as it liappens, with similar titles : Jules Breton's
The Gleaner, and The Gleaners by Jean
Fran(;ois JNIillet.

AVith what a proud carriage Breton's girl strides
through the field! How painfully ^Millet's women are
stooping! Their figures are clumsy, uncouthly clad,
and you cannot see their faces. This girl, however, is
dressed in a manner that sets off her strong and sui:)ple
form ; her face is handsome and its expression haughtily
independent. As the meek women stoop, each carries
one of her hands behind her back. If you imitate for
yourself the action of leaning down and extending one
hand, you will find that the other has an involuntary
tendency to go back in order to maintain the balance.
This natural tendency of the human body to secure its
balance by opposing direction of its parts is a principle
that the best artists rely u})()n to produce a perfect poise
of rest or movement in their figures.

Xow study the arms in Breton's ])icture. The left
one— with what a gesture of elegant decision it is placed

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upon the hip! — while the right has the elbow thrown out
with an action of freedom and energy. Evidently the
girl is not tired, or the elbow would seek support against
the chest. Her hands, too, are finely shaped, and the
fingers spread themselves rather daintily. I wonder if
so light a grasp as that of the right hand on a few ears
of wheat would really hold the sheaf in place upon her
shoulder. I wonder, also, how her bare, shapely feet
withstood the pricks of the stubble. I notice that Mil-
let's women have prudently kept on their clumsy wooden
sabots.

But now turn the inquiry toward your own experi-
ence. If you went into a wheat-field where peasants
were gleaning, would you expect to see a beautiful,
proud girl like Breton's, unfatigued by her toil, or
homely women like Millet's? I fancy you would be
more likely to meet the latter, and I doubt if anywhere
in France you might come across such a tj^De as Breton's,
which is rather that of the women of the Roman Cam-
pagna, a noble remnant of the classic times. She is un-
questionably a beautiful creature.

But beauty does not consist only in what is pleasing to
the eye ; there is a beauty also which appeals to the mind.
" Truth is beauty, beauty is truth." Perhaps if we
study Millet's picture we shall find that it has a beauty
of its own in its truth to nature. His women are not
posing for their picture. Quite unconscious of any-
body's gaze, they are absorbed in their toil, doing what
they are supposed to be doing in the simplest and most
natural way. They are very poor, these peasants ; work-
ing early and late, and despite all their labor keeping

[340]

BRP:T0N- MILLET

body and soul to<^ether witli difriculty; a meek, God-
fearing race, roughened and drawn out of shape by toil.

With what an intimate insight into the lives of these
people as well as into their occupation ^Millet represents
them ! He paints them, not as if he were a city gentle-
man visiting the country, but as if he belonged to their
own class. And, as a fact, he did. He was the son of a
small farmer, and had bent his own back under the
scorching sun and felt the smell of the earth in his nos-
trils. 15ut an uncle, who was a priest, had taught him
as a boy, so that in his manhood he read Shakspeare and
Virgil in the original texts. Therefore, although he
was of the peasant hfe, he was greater than it, and
l)rought to the interpretation of its most intimate facts
a largeness of view and depth of sympathy which make
his i)ictures much more than studies of peasants. Thej^
are types. He painted a picture of a sower that is now^
in the Metropolitan jNIuseum, New York ; and when we
have once grasped the fullness of its sufficiencj', it be-
comes to us the type of The Sower; so that we could not
look on another picture of similar subject without in-
stinctively comparing it in our mind with Millet's.

Breton, on the other hand, had never toiled in the
fields ; he pursued the usual routine of study through
the art schools, whereas Millet, " wild man of the woods,"
as the other students called him, tried them only to aban-
don them. He could not master, or bring himself to
care about, the elegancies and refinements of drawing as
])ractised in the schools. In these Breton is proficient ;
he has also written very creditable poetry, so that, when
he went into the fields for subjects, he had the teaching

[ 3*1 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

of the schools in mind and the sentiment of a poet in his
heart. Accordingly he freely translated the peasant
into both.

Note, then, these two ways of reaching a poetical re-
sult : Breton had beautiful ideas and used the peasant
as a peg on ^vhich to hang them ; Millet, with no direct
thought of being poetical, sought only to portray the
truth as he saw and felt it. But he has represented the
dull, homely facts with such an insight into the relation
which thej^ bear to the lives of the people engaged in
them, that he has created — and this is the great accom-
plishment of the poet — an atmosphere of imagination
around the facts.

Which of these two methods of poetic creativeness is,
per se, the better, — whether the starting-point shall be
from the imagination, which uses the facts merely as a
string to thread its beads upon, or from the facts them-
selves as the groundwork or justification of the web of
imagination woven over them, — is not to be determined
here or, probably, anywhere. It is better worth while
to regard these two methods as periodically asserting
themselves. Thus in the splendid days of the Italian
Renaissance the Breton point of view was the one in
vogue. In our own era, however, that of Millet has
prevailed both in literature and painting. The present
is an age of naturalism, and one of the master-minds
which helped to make it so was JNIillet.

His early life was very close to nature. His father's
farm was at Gruchy, in the hilly department of Manche,
which juts out like a promontory into the English Chan-
nel. In that narrow strip the sea is nowhere far off.

[ 342 ]

BRETOX-:\IILLET

lie grew up witli the air of tlie hills and of the sea in liis
nostrils, hoth eondueive to sturdiness of charaeter and to
the devel()i)nient of imagination, if a bo}' ehanees to have
any. And the young Millet had. lie knew nothing of
art or artists, hut he had the desire to represent what he
saw, and in the interims of work u})on the poor farm he
would copy the engravings in the family liihle, or take
a piece of charcoal and draw upon a white wall. By the
time he was*eighteen, a family council was held, and it
was decided that the father should take him into Cher-
bourg and consult a local painter as to Jean's prospects.
The painter advised his studying art, and undertook to
teach him. However, he worked in Cherbourg only two
months, for then his father died and he had to return
home to resume his work as a farm laborer. Five more
years he labored, until the municipality of Cherbourg
provided a subsidy to enable him to go to Paris to study.
He was now twenty-three, a broad-chested Hercules,
awkward and shy, his l)ig head covered with long fair
hair; with nothing to denote intellectual force except a
])air of piercing dark-blue eyes. Delaroche, to whose
studio he attached himself, was kind to him, but he him-
self could not understand the large classical pictures
that the master painted. To him they seemed artificial,
with no real sentiment. Kinging in his ears, even then,
as he used to say in later life, was the " cry of the soil ";
memories of his home life, that in some way he wanted
to learn to paint. Delaroche's studio was no place for
him, and after a little while he left it.

Then followed eight years of beating the air. He
married, and had to bestir himself for a living. He

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

tried to paint what the people seemed to hke — pretty ht-
tle figure subjects ; but prettiness was not in his Hne, and
the attempt to seek it disgusted him. Suddenly he
made the great resolve to paint what he wished to and
could paint, and, in 1848, produced The Winnower. It
represented a clumsy peasant, in uncouth working-
clothes, stooping over a sieve as he shakes it to and fro.
From the academic standpoint, a shockingly vulgar
picture! Yet it sold for five hundred francs ($100) !
Millet now had the courage of his convictions.

His friend Jacque, afterward the celebrated painter
and etcher of sheep and poultry, told him of a little
place with a name ending in " zon," near the forest of
Fontainebleau, where they could live cheaply and
study from nature. The two painters, with their wives
and children, rumbled out of Paris in a cart, which took
them to the town of Fontainebleau. Thence they pro-
ceeded on foot through the forest. It was very wild in
those days. "How beautiful!" was Millet's constant
exclamation. Arrived at Barbizon, they were welcomed
at Ganne's Inn by Rousseau, Diaz, and the other artists
M ho lived in the village, "^and invited to the evening meal.
When a fresh painter came into the colony, it was the
custom to take down from the wall a certain big pipe,
that, as the newcomer puffed at it, the company might
judge from the rings of smoke whether he was to be
reckoned among the "classicists" or "colorists." Jacque
was proclaimed a colorist, but, some uncertainty being
expressed concerning Millet, the latter exclaimed, " Ah!
well, if you are embarrassed, put me in a class of my
own." " A good answer," cried Diaz, " and he looks

[344]

•\-

THE GLEANER

JULES BRETON

r.
y.

BRETOX-MILLET

strong and big enougli to hold his own in it." The httle
j)leasantrv was prophetic.

But its fulfihnent was deferred for many years, dur-
ing whicli Millet worked on in poverty; pictures that
now would bring large sums of money being refused at
the exhibitions of the Salon and finding no purchasers.
A hint of his condition is contained in a letter to his
friend Sensier, acknowledging the receipt of twenty
dollars : " I have received the hundred francs. They
came just at the right time. Neither my wife nor I had
tasted food for twenty-four hours. It is a blessing that
tlie little ones, at any rate, have not been in want."

It was only from about his fortieth year that his pic-
tures began to sell at the rate of from two hundred and
fifty to three hundred francs each. Rousseau, wlio had
hinvsclf known the extremes of poverty, "was the first to
give him a large sum, buying the Wood-cutter for four
thousand francs, under the pretense that it was for an
American pinx-haser. It was resold at the Hartmann
sale in 1880 for 133,000 francs. By the beginning of
the sixties, however, iVlillet's reputation was no longer in
(juestion. At the World's Exposition of 1867 he was
represented by nine pictures and received the grand
medal. In the Salon of 18()0 he was on the hanging
committee! But he still continued what has been liaj)-
pily called his " life of sublime monotony "; his sojourn
in Barbizon being interru})ted only during the war in
1871, when he retired to Cherbourg, painting tliere some
fine pictures of the sea. He died in 1875, at the age of
sixty, and was buried in the little churchyard of Chailly,
overlooking tlie forest. A rock in the latter bears a

'' [ 349 ]

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bronze tablet on which the sculptor has represented side
by side the bust-portraits of Rousseau, the father of
modern French landscape, and Millet, the artist of the
people who work in the fields.

In his own words. Millet tried to depict " the funda-
mental side of men and things." His subject was the
23easant life: not the representation of it such as one
sees in opera, nor the pretty, sentimental aspect of it;
but the actual drama of labor year in and year out pro-
ceeding through the four seasons; the " cry of the soil,"
echoing in the hearts of the patient, plodding, God-
fearing toilers. Everything was typical. We have
spoken of his Sower. Of another picture the critic, Cas-
tagnary, wrote: "Do you remember his Reaper? He
might have reaped the whole earth! "

The secret of it is twofold. Firstly, IVIillet conceived
of his subject as if it were an Epic of Labor ; he himself
gave to a series of his drawings the title The Epic of the
Fields; so that all he did was imbued with a deep seri-
ousness and high sincerity. In one of his letters he ex-
plains what w^as in his mind as he painted The Water-
Carrier,^ which is now in the possession of IVIr. George
W. Vanderbilt and at present on exhibition in the
Metropolitan Museum, New York.

In the woman coming from drawing water I have endeavored
that she shall be neither a water-carrier nor a servant, but the
woman who has just drawn water for the house, the water for
her husband's and her children's soup; that she shall seem to be
carrjang neither more nor less than the weight of the full buckets ;
that, beneath the sort of grimace which is natural on account of

' Thfe original title was Femme qui vient puiser de Veau.

[350]

BRETON-MILLET

the strain on Irm- anus, and the blinking of her eyes caused by the
li<;lit, one may see a look of rustic kindliness on her fi\ce. I
have always shunned with a kind of horror everything approach-
ing the sentimental.^ I have desired, on the other hand, that
this woman should perform simply and good-naturedly, without
regarding it as irksome, an act which, like her other household
duties, is one she is accustomed to perform every day of her life.
Also I wanted to make people imagine the freshness of the foun-
tain, and that its antiquated appearance should make it clear that
many before her had come to draw water from it.

Secondly, in the representation of a subject, as may
be gathered from his letter, he looked only for the essen-
tial, the fundamental thing in the gesture or character-
ization. In another letter he sa^'S : "I have been re-
proached for not observing the detail; I see it, but I
prefer to construct the synthesis, which as an artistic
effort is higher and more robust." This gift of his can
be more readily studied in his drawings and etchings, in
which with a few lines he gives the whole character of a
pose or gesture. He never was a facile painter, so that
liis greatness as an artist is perhaps more discernible in
the black-and-white than in the colored subjects. Cer-
tainly in his crayon drawings, lithographs, and etchings
he proved himself to l)e one of that limited number of
artists who may be reckoned master-draftsmen. Few
have displayed in an equal degree the rare gift of ex-
pressing the maximum of character with a minimum
of lines. Moreover, the character that he expresses is

* The only picture of his that can possibly be suspected of sentinieiitalism is
'I'lie ylngeluM, the weakness of which is that the point on which it larjfely de-
pends for its motive is not to be gathered from the picture, but has to be
learned from the title.

[Sol]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

of that grand and elemental quality which places him,
despite the difference of subject-matter, in the neighbor-
hood of Michelangelo.

Millet's influence produced a host of painters of the
peasant, among whom the strongest are the French-
man Lhermitte, and Israels the Dutchman. These,
like him, have represented their subject with sympathy
and with understanding also. Breton, with whom we
have contrasted Millet, did not.

[352]

CHAPTER XXIII

OUSTAVE COURBET ARNOLD BOECKLIN

1819-187S 1827-1901

Realistic School of France Modern German School

A GLANCE at these two pictures— Boecklin's
Isle of the Dead and Courbet's Funeral at
Oruans — reveals at once a great contrast.
In Boecklin's composition the horizontal line is subor-
dinated to the vertical ones; these spire up or tower in
bastion-like masses, lifting our imagination with them.
In Courbet's, however, the almost level line of the land-
scape shuts down like a lid upon the parallel horizontal
group of figures; the only vertical line that detaches it-
self is that of the crucifix; but this is too slight to over-
come the impression that the composition holds our
thoughts to the ground.

These differences of composition correspond to the
differences of the artists' motives. Boecklin sought to
])r()duce an effect of solemn grandeur, of trancjuil isola-
tion, not unmixed with awe; of contrast between the
monumental permanence of the island and the frailty*
and insignificance of the boat, which carries the mourner
and the dead over the shifting water to the dead's long-
home. On the other hand, in Courbet's picture there is
no grandeur either of sentiment or ap])earance; none of
the awe that belongs to isolation nor much of the solem-

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

nity that attaches to a funeral, for even the ecclesiastical
ceremoniousness is offset by the grave-digger in his
shirt-sleeves and by the presence of a dog. As for the
crowd, some few are mourners, but the rest, drawn thither
only by curiosity, or in some cases, as we may judge from
their costumes, in an official capacity; all very ordinary
every-day people, going through with the business ac-
cording to the usual routine. For, while Boecklin's pic-
ture is a vision of the imagination, Courbet's is a record
of facts, the fact of committing a corpse to the ground,
as the artist had seen it in his native town of Ornans; a
record, so entirely prosaic, that very likely it repels us
at first, though it may end by fascinating us for the very
reason of its uncompromising truth to reality.

Courbet, in fact, was a realist; Boecklin, a painter-
poet. The two ideas, although wide apart, are not abso-
lutely sej^arated, for we shall see presently that the Ger-
man's poetry was based upon reality and that the
Frenchman's realism could yield a measure of poetry.
Yet, for a while, it will be better to study the two sepa-
rately.

We have noted how the classic motive, under the influ-
ence of David, marked the beginning of the nineteenth
century, and was carried on by his followers, particularly
by Ingres. Also that it was attacked, on the one hand
Tjy the Romanticists, under the leadership of Delacroix,
and on the other by the group of artists at Barbizon who
made the study of nature their motive; and that amid
this group of naturalists JNIillet was the great naturalist
painter of the peasants, representing them exactly as
they appeared in the pursuit of their daily employments.

[354]

COUUBET-BOKCKLIN

But in 1850, wlit'ii C'oiirhct painted the Funeral at
Ontan.s, Millet was known only to a few beyond the lim-
its of l{arl)i/on; none of those Barhizon men had as yet
inHueneed the world; Paris itself, the eenter of the arts,
was the eitadel of Classieism. If it was to l)e stormed, it
must he by a personality more robust and with more love
of giving and taking hard blows. Sueh a one was
C"ourl)et.

Ornans, his birthplace, is near the beautiful valley of
the Doubs, close to the western boundary of Switzerland,
and it was here as a boy, and later as a man, that he ab-
sorbed the love of landscape, of streams and waterfalls,
overhung with rocks and trees, and of quiet pools where
the deer steal down to drink; subjects that often occu-
pied his brush. That they did so, in itself marked his
difference from classic ])ainters of his time, who cared
nothing for landscape; but his main difference w'as of
a much more positive kind.

He was by nature a revolutionary, a man born to op-
pose existing order and to assert his inde])endence. Of
massive build, with a s])rinkling of German blood in
his veins, broad-shouldered, thick-necked, with a face
framed in black hair, and features that might have been
modeled from an Assyrian l)as-relief , he had that amount
of ])luster and brutality which makes the revolutionary
count in art as well as in politics. And in both directions
his spirit of revolt manifested itself.

He started for Paris with the purpose of studying
law; but, being arrived there, began to study art. Yet
he did »iot attach liimself to the studio of any of the
promineiit masters. ^Vlready in his country home he

r 3oo ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

had had a httle instruction in painting, and now turned
for more to the masterpieces of the Louvre. Even in
front of these, however, he did not play the part of a
submissive student. He looked them over to see what
he could gain from them, and gradually discovered a
method of painting that would best serve his purpose to
be independent of everybody, to see with his own eyes
and to paint just what he saw. At first his pictures were
not sufficiently distinctive to arouse any opposition, and
were admitted to the Salon. So, too, was The Stone-
Breakers, in which he first displayed his characteristic
self. This picture, representing two laborers in uncouth
costumes by the roadside, one kneeling as he breaks the
stones, the other planting his figure firmly to sustain the
weight of a basketful of stones which he is moving, — a
picture in which there is no grace of composition, but the
strongly painted rendering of an actual episode in the
lives of the poor, — declared itself amid the classical sur-
roundings in the Salon of 1851 as, " a rough, true, honest
word, spoken amid elaborate society phrases."

Then followed the Funeral at Ornans, which the crit-
ics violently assailed: " These burlesque masks with their
fuddled red noses, this village priest who seems to be a
tippler, and the harlequin of a veteran who is putting on
a hat which is too big for him " ; "A masquerade funeral,
six metres long, in which there is more to laugh at than
to weep over"; " The most extravagant fancy could not
descend to such a degree of triviality and hideousness " ;
" He means to sneer at the religious ceremony, since the
picture has a defiant and directly brutal vulgarity. He
has taken pains to expose the repulsive, ludicrous,

[ 3.56 ]

COURBET-BOECKLIX

and orotesqiie elements in the members of the funeral
party."

It will discount the force of these so-called criticisms,
to remember tliat The S tone-Breakers, such a subject as
jMillet nii«4ht have chosen, was slighted because it repre-
sented mere hd)()rers in ragged and dirty clothes, " an
excessively commonplace subject," — and that INIillet's
pictures at that time ^yere being rejected by a public ac-
customed only to the peasants of the comic-opera stage.

Indeed the real offense of Courbet's pictures was that
they represented live flesh and blood ; men and women as*
they really are, and as really doing the business in which
they are engaged, — not men and women deprived of
personality and idealized into a type, posed in positions
that will decorate the canvas; frigid, marbleized figures
like those of Ingres, or tinted and china-like, such as
those of Bouguereau. Among these classical and semi-
classical painters, whose art was built on formulas, this
huge peasant pushed his way, elbowing them roughl3%
treading intentionally on their toes. They winced at the
realities of life— very well, he would give them the re-
alities as strongly, and, if need be, as disagreeably as
possible. He s])ent his evenings at a restaurant where
younger artists and the young writers of the school of
Balzac congregated. " I am a democrat," he would tell
them; and this too, mind you, in the days of Napoleon
III. " Bv doino; away with the ideal we shall arrive at
the emancipation of the individual. I admire Velas-
(juez, because he saw things with his own eyes, but these
imitators of Raphael and Pheidias — pah! It is the
>Teatest impudence to wish to ])aint things one has never

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seen, of the appearance of which one cannot have the
shghtest conception. Better paint railway stations, the
views of places through which one travels, the likenesses
of great men, engine houses, mines and manufactories,
for these are the saints and miracles of the nineteenth
century." He advocated painting things as they are,
and proclaimed that la verite vraie must be the aim of
the artist. So at the Universal Exposition of 1855 he
withdrew his pictures from the exhibition grounds and
set them in a wooden booth, just outside the entrance,
•with a big lettering over the door, " Courbet— Reahst."

Like every revolutionary, he was an extremist. He
ignored the fact that to every artist the truth of nature
appears under a different guise according to his way of
seeing and experience ; and he chose to assert that art is
only a coj^ying of nature and not a matter also of selec-
tion and arrangement. But in periods of deadness and
insincerity, the mute appeal of a ^lillet living afar off
in the quiet woods is unheeded ; it needs a big combative
fellow, with self-advertisement and beat of drum and
loud-voiced blustering exaggeration, to get a hearing
and compel a following. It was this part to which nature
had fitted Courbet, and which he played with gusto, to
the dismay of the academical painters, but attracting
the younger men to a fresh study of nature and compel-/^
ling older men, like Bouguereau and Gerome, to infusa
some semblance of life into their pictures; giving a
death-blow also to the idea that prettiness is beauty.

In his contempt for prettiness he often chose subjects
which may fairly be called ugly ; but that he had a sense
of beauty may be seen in his landscapes ; and that min-

[ 358 ]

COrKBET-EOECKIJX

gled with it was a capacity for deep emotion, appears in
his marines, these last heing liis most impressive work.
^Moreover, in all his works, whether attractive or not to
the student of mere subject, he proved himself a power-
ful painter, painting in broad, free manner, witli a fine
feeling for color, and with a firmness of pigment that
made all his representations very real and stirring.
Since his day, and in consequence of his pounding influ-
ence, painting has to a considerable extent broken loose
from the shackles of conventional formulas, and the sick-
liness of mere prettiness and sentimentality.. The
painter, instead of being satisfied to tint his pict/ui'es, has
learned the lesson of painting, and gone again to nature
for his motives and instruction. ^Modern art thereby is
more vigorous and wholesome.

AMiile recognizing this, however, we must not forget
that Courbet went too far in condemning the Classicists,
just as the latter exceeded reason in their wholesale con-
denmation of him. We cannot agree with them that to
rejjresent life as it really ap])ears, is vulgar and common-
place ; nor with him that painting needs no formulas, that
it can ignore, for example, rules of composition ; that it is
impudence to paint what one has never seen, and foolish
to learn of the great masters of the past; that " imagina-
tion is rubbish and reality the one true muse."

For while art should draw continual nourishment from
nature, we must remember that nature is not art. For
art disj)lays itself in selecting from nature and arranging
what it has borrowed in such a way as to produce a bal-
anced harmonious ensemble. Thus, the wide landsca})e
spread out before us, as we sit on a hilltop, may seem, as

[ ;359 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

is so often the case in nature, a perfectly balanced whole ;
yet, if the artist selects a portion of it suitable for the
size of his canvas, he will have to adjust the parts of this
part, add to them, or leave out some details, if he would
make his picture balanced and harmonious. There is no
doubt that Courbet himself did this in the case of his
marines and landscapes, notwithstanding his assertions
that he painted only just what he saw. In a word, he had
the artist's instinct of selection, however much he may
have kicked against the restrictions of rules.

And now that we realize something of the man and
of his motives as a painter, let us turn again to his
Funeral at Ornans. " A masquerade funeral," the crit-
ics called it; "a sneer at the religious ceremony,"— but
surely the bearers are performing their task with a simple
sense of responsibility; the coffin is not sensationally
forced into prominence, but, on the contrary, introduced
into the picture with much reserve; priest and crucifer
may display no emotion, but they are showing ordinary
attention to their duties; one of the little acolytes, as
a boy will, is showing inattention, but throughout the
rest of the group, the persons are exhibiting different
varieties of feeling from deep affliction to almost com-
plete indifference, just as one may observe to-day on any
occasion of a largely attended funeral.

A sensationalist would have emphasized every point
that could extract our sympathies— the coffin, the beauty
of the service, the grief of the mourners, the yawning
grave. Everything would have been keyed up to a dra-
matic intensity. But Courbet, with a wider vision, and
perhaps a larger sympathy, has viewed the incident in its

[ 360 ]

id,

o
o

CL,

o
1-1

O
<

COURBET-BOECKLIN

real relation to life. "Loss," as Tennyson says, "is
coninioii to the race"; death plunges a little circle of
near and dear ones into grief, and causes a slight stir of
respectful interest in a somewhat larger circle of social
or husiness acquaintances: hut the world, outside of
them, goes on its way of woi-k and pleasure, and nature,
as typified in that level line of landscape, is ahsolutely
indifferent. When you come to think of it, this picture,
hy merging the i)oignancy of grief in surroundings of
mere respect, and by framing the little incident in the
vast indifference of the world outside of it, has struck a
deeper note of human tragedy than any highly-wrought-
up spectacle of mere sorrow could have done. It also
])roves how much greater than his theories was Courbet
himself. The reason is, that he had the faculty of great
])ortrait-painters of seizing the character of his subject;
not so much on the few occasions that he really painted
portraits, but in a more general way in all his work.
\Vhether it was landscape, marine, or men, women, or
animals, that he painted, he represented the physical as-
pect of the subject with such force and actuality, that
every one of his subjects suggests an actual individu-
ality. Vou may note this in the faces and figures of the
people round the grave. They are all real people, who
for a few minutes have left their real concerns in a real
world to pay their respects to the reality of death.

And now let us turn to Boecklin's Isle of the Dead.
AVhile Courbet stands firm and steady on the earth, the
German painter-poet lifts our imagination into the u])per
region of the spirit. The little boat with tlrc uj)right
figure, robed in white (not in black, observe), is the

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

focus-point to which the composition is adjusted, and to
which our eyes are drawn in preparation for the start of
our imagination. Compare this ferry-boat with that of
Charon's in Delacroix's picture of Dante and Virgil, the
agony of writhing forms, Charon's terrific energy, and
in the distance the flames of Phlegethon. Here the boat
with its quick and dead is isolated ; an inexpressible calm
broods over it; its littleness approaches noiselessly a
greater calm, a vaster isolation. Its frailty upon the
shifting water bears the chances and changes of mor-
tality to a resting-place that has the suggestion of imme-
morial permanence. I find myself thinking of that soli-
tary peak above Vailima, where what is mortal of Robert
Louis Stevenson reposes. Far down below upon the
island shore is the lapping of ocean that to human eye
stretches shoreless ; around and above the bed of rest, the
sky's infinity; not " earth to earth, dust to dust," but the
atom of spirit united to the Universal Spirit. So
Boecklin has pictured the entrance of the Dead into the
infinite seclusion from all we call the world, into com-
munion with the immensity of the Elements.

It is characteristic of him that he has not attempted to
lift our imagination to such heights by representing the
island in a purely imaginary way, as a spot that the ele-
ments unaided have fashioned out of nature. Men have
been here before ; living, vigorous men, who have walled
off the encroachments of the ocean, set up piers of hewn
stone; possibly planted the cypresses, certainly honey-
combed the rocks and builded up tombs. An island such
as this may exist somewhere ; it is not geologically impos-
sible, and might have been wrought to its purpose of a

[ 366 ]

COURBET-BOECKLIX

])urial-i)lace, as this has heen. Thus, always, Boeeklin's
inia^iuation is l)asc(l ii]K)n facts; and from tliesc facts of
knowledge wc can proceed, step by step, to the i)oint
where knowledge ceases and nnagination makes a leap
into the beyond.

To appreciate this, let us glance at the process of
Boecklin's own development as a painter. The son of a
Swiss merchant, he was born in Basel, " one of the most
prosaic towns in Kurope." At nineteen he entered the
art school at Diisseldorf, then the center of the school of
sentimental and anecdotal pictures, but was advised by
his master to proceed to Brussels, where he copied the
old Dutch masters. In this way he learned the actual art
of ])ainting, which in Germany had been neglected, the
subject being held of more importance than the method
of rei)resenting it. From Brussels he passed to Paris,
and studied in the Louvre, whence he made his way to
Borne. Though he returned for a time to Germany and
after 188(5 lived until his death in Zurich, the country
which affected his life, where he lived during that period
in which his ])articular genius unfolded itself, was Italy.
It was from the Roman Campagna, sad and grand, with
its vast stretches, broken by ruins; from the fantastic
rocks of Tivoli, wliere the Anio plunges down in cata-
racts, overhung with luxuriant growth of trees and
slu-ubs and vines; from the smoothly sloping hills near
Florence, dotted with villas and olive orchards, overlook-
ing the valley and the winding of the Arno, that he drew
the inspiration for his landscapes.

Like the Frenchmen, Poussin and Claude Lorrain, in
the seventeenth centurv, and manv other German artists

[307]

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of his own time, he introduced into his pictures " a har-
monious blending of figures with the landscape." But,
unlike these other painters, he does not depict some his-
torical, mythical, or Biblical subject and then make his
landscape conform to the action and sentiment of the
figures. With him the love of landscape was first and
foremost; whereupon, having conceived the mood and
character which his landscape should express, he put in
figures to correspond with them. This, as we have seen,
is what Corot did, whose figures are embodiments of the
spirit of the scene. But Boecklin went much further
than he in this direction.

In the first place, in the range and variety of the
moods of nature which he interpreted, so that his figures,
the offspring of his landscapes, touch deeper and more
varied notes. Here in the narrow solitude of rocks and
trees, a hermit is scourging his bare back, before a rude
cross, while a raven hovers overhead; elsewhere on a
rocky hillside the silence is broken by the cry of Pan, who
grins to see how he has startled the goatherd and his
goats; or again, robed figures move in a stately single
line through a sacred grove, while others bow before a
smoking altar. Further, as the Greeks peopled their
streams and woods and waves with creatures of their im-
agination, so Boecklin makes the waterfall take shape as
a nymph, or the mists which rise above the water-source
wreathe into forms of merry children; or in some wild
spot hurls centaurs together in fierce combat, or makes
the slipperj^ moving wave give birth to Nereids and Tri-
tons. Yet even here his imagination works with origi-
nality. These sea-creatures, lolling on the rocks or float-

[368]

COL KBET-BOEC KLIN

ing lazily on the water, are full of sensuous enjoyment;
there is eruelty in their faces as there is beneath the
surface of the smiling sea. Nor are his centaurs shapely,
with grand heads, like the Cxreek ones; they are shaggy
and shambling with primitive savagery, creatures of a
fierce time while the world was still in the making.

Boeeklin's imagination went even further; he invented
new forms, as in ^l liockif Chasm, where there issues
from a crevice a kind of dragon, web-footed, with long
craning neck and a })ointed feeble head, a creature as
eerie as the dim abyss in which it harbors.

lie was, in fact, a Greek in his healthv love of nature
and his instinct for giving visible expression to her
voices; a modern in his feeling for the moods of nature;
and in his union of the two, unique. Moreover, he was
a great colorist. " At the very time," writes INluther,
" when Richard Wagner lured the colors of sound from
nnisic, with a glow of light such as no master had kindled
before, Boecklin's symphonies of color streamed forth
like a crashing orchestra. uNIany of his pictures have
such an ensnaring brilliancy that the eye is never weaiy
of feasting upon their floating splendor. Indeed, later
generations will probably honor him as the greatest
color-poet of the century."

Boecklin as well as Courbet was a man of fine phy-
sique and wholesome robustness; but, whereas the (Ger-
man's mind was as sane as his body, the Frenchman's
hicked this admirable poise. lie had always been a revo-
lutionary in art, and lost no ojjportunity of being one
in politics. From the consequences of his share in the
Revolution of 1848 he was shielded by some influential

'" [ 309 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

friends; but, when the French army had been defeated
by the Germans at Sedan in 1871 and the terror of the
Commune had been estabhshed in Paris, he threw him-
self into the turmoil, and received from the self -consti-
tuted government the position of JNIinister of Fine Arts.
He managed to save the Louvre and the Luxembourg
from the fury of the mob, but in order to do so had to let
it wreak its madness on the Vendome column. Never-
theless, when order was restored, he was held accountable
for the destruction of the latter, and was fined a large
sum which more than swallowed up his fortune, and
in addition he was banished. Broken in spirit, he re-
tired to Vevay on the Lake of Geneva, to die.

[370]

CHAPTER XXIV

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI WILLIAM HOLM AN HUNT

lSi'8-lSS:i IS^l-

rri-l{(iphacUtc Brothcrhuod, Prc-Uaphaelitc Brotlurhood,

Enghdul Engl (Hid

IX 1850, the year in which Courbet's Funeral at Or-
nans aroused the anger of the French critics, Lon-
don was amused by the appearance of Rossetti's
Ecce Ancilla Domini ("Behold the Handmaid of the
Lord") and Hohnan Hunt's A Converted British
Famihi Sheltering a Christian Missionary. It was not
only the pictures, but even more the pretensions of their
authors that excited ribaldry. A year before, these two
young men, Rossetti being then twenty-one and Hunt
twenty-two, had joined with another young painter,
.lohn ^Nlillais, and with three young sculptors, James
C'ollinson, Frederick George Stephens, and Thomas
Woolner, and with Rossetti's younger brother, William
M. Rossetti, in forming a society. They had taken to
themselves the title of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,
and were in the habit of affixing to their signatures the
letters, P. R. B.

The object of the Brotherhood was revolt against ex-
isting views and conditions of art; in its original inten-
tion not unlike the revolt of Courbet, a ])lea for realism.
Pie was ridiculing the dry formalism -of the Classicists,

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and scoffing at the way in which j)ainters allowed them-
selves to be bound by the " worn-out " traditions of Ra-
phael; advocating instead a representation of nature as
it actually appears to the eye of the painter. In like
manner the Brotherhood protested against the cult of
Raphael, which, since its introduction into England by
Sir Joshua Reynolds, had reduced the teaching of art
to arbitrary rules about lines of grace and stately com-
positions, flowing draperies, and artificial poses, substi-
tuting a cast-iron system for the free and truthful ren-
dering of nature. But while the sturdy Courbet flung
all traditions aside and found his motives in the present,
the Brotherhood, under the dominating influence of
Rossetti, who, as we shall see, was already a deep student
of Dante and filled with the spirit of the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries, sought the impulse of a new tra-
dition in the painters who preceded Raphael: Fra An-
gelico, for example, and Botticelli.

These " Primitives " belonged to the springtime of
the Renaissance, looking out upon the world with fresh
young eyes; even their lack of skill in drawing and
their nciive sentiment were refreshing in comparison with
the stilted, pompous insincerity and soullessness of the
modern followers of Raphael. Even the latter himself
was attacked by Ruskin, who had stepped forward as
the expounder and champion of the Brotherhood's ideals.
After citing with what truth to the facts of nature the
great masters, and especially Titian, rendered every de-
tail of the foregrounds of their landscapes with most
laborious fidelity, he proceeded to contrast the unreality
of Raphael's conceptions, taking, as a text, his cartoon
of Christ Walking upon the Water.

[372]

D. G. ROSSETTI — HOLMAX HUNT

Note [he says] the Imndsomcly curled hair and neatly tied
sandals of the men who have been out all night in the sea mists
and on sliiiiy decks. Note their convenient dresses for going
a-fishing, with trains that lie a yard along the ground, and
goodly fringes — all made to match, an apostolic fishing cos-
tume. Note how Peter especially (whose chief glory was in
his wet coat girt about him, and naked limbs) is enveloped in
folds and fringes, so as to kneel and hold his keys with grace.
Xo fire of coals at all, nor lonely mountain shore, but a })leasant
Italian landscape, full of villas and churches, and a flock of
sheep to be pointed at ; and the whole group of apostles, not
around Christ, as they would have been naturally, but strag-
gling away in a line, that they may all be seen. The simple
truth is, that the moment we look at the picture we feel our belief
in the whole thing taken away. There is visibly no possibility
of that group ever having existed, in any place or on any occa-
sion. It is .ill a mere mythic absurdity, and faded concoction
of fringes and muscular arms, and curly heads of Greek philoso-
phers. Now the evil consequences of the acceptance of this kind
of religious idealism for true, were instant and manifold. So
far as it was received and trusted in by thoughtful })eople it
only served to chill all the conceptions of sacred history which
thev might otherwise have obtained. Whatever they could have
fancied for themselves about the wild, strange, infinitely stern,
infinitely tender, infinitely varied veracities of the life of Christ,
was blotted out by the vapid fineries of Raphael. The rough
(ialikan pilot, the orderly custom-receiver, and all the ques-
tioning wonder and fire of uneducated apostleshi]), were obscured
under an antique mask of philosophic faces and long robes.

And having made a stand for truth to nature and the
probabilities of fact. Kiiskin concludes with the state-
ment of liis ))elief that in modern times, and especially
in nortliern climes wlierc pe()])le are so much dressed u])
ill clothes, the representation of physical strength and

[373]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

beauty can no longer be the highest aim of art; and in
an age which is before all things intellectual, painting
should make spiritual expression, instead of form, the
object of its most serious study. The art of the new age
must be religious, mystic, and thoughtful, and at the
same time true to nature. And it was because the Pre-
Raphaelite Brotherhood seemed to recognize this, that
he asserted it was going to be epoch-making.

Probably no critic of art ever had such a knowledge
and love of nature as Ruskin, and few have equaled him
in the intuitive appreciation of what is fine in art. But
he was so much bigger a man than a mere art critic, —
a moralist, a scientist, instinctively religious, versed in
literature, and possessed of rare literary gifts, — that
he could not help looking at painting, as it were, through
these different-colored glasses and wishing to have it
conform to the color of each. He could not, at any rate
he did not, recognize the independent status of paint-
ing: that it is not primarily a means of inculcating
morals, of teaching religion or science, or of playing
second fiddle to the more elaborately explanatory pos-
sibilities of literature; but that it is first and foremost
a visible expression of material things, just as music is
of immaterial ideas. The latter is independent of mor-
als, religion, and of descriptive or dramatic story, al-
though it may contribute very forcibly to all of them.
So painting may; yet this is not its primary function.
It is an independent art, whose chief concern is with ex-
ternal appearances.

Moreover, though Ruskin was as earnest an advocate
of truth to nature as Courbet, he did not understand

[ 374 ]

D. G. ROSSETTI IIOLMAX HUNT

the meaning of artistic triitli. While Coiirhet soii<^lit
a ]K)werful generalization of the whole subject, ex-
pressed hy means of a broad and large technic, Kuskin
taught that the artist should render every characteristic
detail with minute exactness. If he painted rocks, for
example, he must show unmistakably to what particular
geological species they belonged ; and in his foregrounds
must render the blades of grass and the flowers with
" the most laborious botanical fidelity." The artist,
whose ])roi)er function is to reveal to eyes less sensitive
and trained than his own " a new heaven and a new
earth," lie would have had pother over nature with a
microscope, emulating the patient investigations of the
botanist and geologist. In fact, he preached — for he
was even more a preacher than an art critic — a sort of
religion of truth, that tended to enslave the artist's free-
dom of vision and imagination still more than the re-
quirements of the church had done in the days of the
Early Renaissance. The result was for a long time dis-
astrous to p],nglish })ainting and to English ])ublic taste;
for it established as a standard of excellence a petty ren-
dering in smooth, precise manner of the little insignifi-
cances, at the expense of the larger truth of the whole.
Ruskin was fond of (juoting from the Bible, but missed
the a])])lication of one text — "Woe unto you, scribes
and l^harisees, hypocrites! for ye pay tithe of mint and
anise and cummin, and have omitted the weightier mat-
ters of the law. Ye blind guides, which strain at a gnat
and swallow a camel."

The Rrotherhood, as a com])act group, bound toge-
ther by a common regard for sincerity and high pur-

[ 375 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

pose, lasted only a short time. Its members drifted
into separate lines of work, yet its influence upon art
both in England and on the Continent was far-reach-
ing. However, the direction which it took may better
be considered after we have studied the two men,
Rossetti and Holman Hunt, who proved to be the
most distinctively original members of the disbanded
Brotherhood.

Rusldn's contention that modern art must be con-
cerned with spiritual expression was realized in Rossetti ;
that it must be religious in motive and truthful to the
minutest detail, in Holman Hunt. This will be appar-
ent in a study of the two pictures here reproduced. In
The Blessed Damozel our interest is drawn toward the
face of the woman looking down; everything else is con-
tributory to the impression that it arouses ; even the title
excites our wonder. Who is she, and why that expres-
sion of her face? In The Light of the World, however,
it is the matter-of-factness of the picture that first at-
tracts us. Its title, even if we have not immediately
noticed the crown of thorns, makes us aware that the
figure is Christ. But there is here no grandeur of dra-
pery, or noble pose, or elevated type of countenance.
The last is that of a man of the people ; only the splen-
dor of the gold-embroidered cloak and its jeweled clasp
suggest that the man is more than ordinary. He knocks
at a door, overgrown with vines and weeds, a door,
therefore, that has remained long shut. Every spray
and leaf and flower is lighted sharply by the lantern.
Behind the figure, forming a halo round the head, ap-
pears the full moon. We remember the text, " The

[ 376 ]

7 YORK
PUCLiG L13RARY

ASTOR, LPNOX AND
TILDEN FOUNii/ATIONS.

THE BLESSED DAMOZEL

DANTE GABRIEL
ROSSETTI

OWNED BY THE HON. MRS. O'BRIEN

I.ICIIT ()|- 'rill-: WOIJI.I) HOI.M \N HINT

Ki.ui.i: (oi.i.Kdi:, oxKoKi)

D. G. ROSSETTl — HOLMAN HUNT

foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests;
but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head."

Tlie appearanee of this pieture in 1854- had a peeuliar
timeliness. For many years a great awakening had
been going on in the Chureh of England, eorresponding
to the politieal, soeial, and industrial awakening that was
spreading over the eountry as a result of the extension
of the franchise by the first Reform Act, and of the
introduction of steam and railroads. As a set-off to
what seemed to many minds only a material revival,
began a religious one, the nursery and stronghold of
which was the University of Oxford, so that it became
known as the Oxford Movement. Its aims were three-
fold : to uphold the direct descent of the Church of Eng-
land from the days of the Apostles, to promote religious
])ietv, and to bring back to public worship the beauty
of ritual that it had had prior to the Reformation.
Everywhere throughout the land the clergy and people
had been asleep, the cathedrals and churches had fallen
into decay, but the new spirit of devotion aroused a
longing to revive the outward beauty of the past, and
one of the most important phases of the movement be-
came the Gothic Revival. The consequence was that,
w liile the most energetic movement in French art at that
tiuK' was toward a true representation of the world of
to-day, the English one devoted itself to a renewal of
the past; and not of the classic traditions, but of those
of the Middle ^Vges.

One can now understand how this })icturc. The IJi^Jit
of the Jforld, appealed to the religious feeling of its
day. People saw in the doorway overrun with vines

^' [ 381 ]

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and blocked with weeds, an allegory of what had been
the condition of the churches and their congregations
before the awakening; until Christ, with the lantern of
truth, had stolen in upon the night of spiritual sleep,
and aroused the sleepers with his knock. After its ex-
hibition in London it went on a pilgrimage throughout
the country, and hundreds of thousands of copies were
sold in engravings.

In the first place it represented Christ, not in the con-
ventional classic draperies, but in his capacity of priest,
in the revived vestments of the church — the alb and cope ;
moreover, not with a head like a Greek philosopher's,
but with the features of a man of the people and the
expression of a visionary. In the second place, the
picture was full of highly wrought detail; beautiful
plant-forms that recalled the delicate traceries of Gothic
decoration: metal- work and jewelry and embroidered
needlework, the crafts which were being revived in the
service of religion. Furthermore, the very exactness
with which all these were rendered gave pleasure to a
public, that under Ruskin's instruction had learned to
look for two qualities in a picture — a beautiful story,
preferably a religious one, and a patiently accurate
representation of detail.

The success of the picture determined the future
course of Hunt's work; which has remained religious
in subject and minutely realistic. He visited the Holy
Land, that he might study the type and characteristics
of the descendants of the Bible personages, the appear-
ance of the sacred landscape, the customs of the people,
their mode of life, and the implements and utensils of

[382]

D. G. ROSSETTI — IIOLMAX IIUXT

daily use. Accumulating the results of his researches,
he sought hy means of exact rendering of modern con-
ditions to get as near as possible to tlie probable con-
ditions of the past.

The most remarkable example is The SJtadotc of the
Cross, in which he represents Christ in the carpenter's
shop in Nazareth. lie not oidy gave him the homely
appearance of an ordinary artisan, but carried the truth
to facts so far as to paint him naked except for a
leather apron; a strong brown-skinned man, with the
nmscles shown and even the hair upon the breast and
legs. In front of him is the bench at which he has been
planing, and shavings of wood cover the floor. lie has
paused for a moment's rest and is stretching his arms,
and the evening sun streaming through the window
throws the shadow of his body upon the wall in the form
of a cross. This suggestion is so solemn, and the in-
tensely religious conviction of the artist so apparent in
the picture, that, what might have been merely a dry
archaeological inventory, is lifted up to unmistakable no-
bility. And this, notwithstanding the harshness of col-
oring, the abrupt lines of the composition, the lack of
atmosphere, and the baldness and metallic glitter of the
textures. In fact, despite the absence of those (jualities
whicli one looks for in good painting. Hunt's pictures
are strangely impressive.

Indirectly tlie\' gave rise to a new motive in religious
painting. Touched by the human as well as the spir-
itual beauty of the Saviour's life, artists, such as Fritz
von Uhde in Germany, and Lliermitte in France, liave
represented him as once more visibly moving among

[ 383 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

men. The former, for example, has interpreted the
subject of Let the Little Children come unto Me, by a
scene in a village school in the Bavarian Alps. From
tlie sunshine outside the Saviour has stepped in, and
the peasant children are gathered round with looks of
wonder, drawn to him by the sweetness of his invita-
tion. Lhermitte, on his part, among other kindred
subjects, pictured a family of peasants at their lunch,
bowing their heads, while Christ himself, seated at the
humble board, pronounces a blessing on the food. Re-
ligion to these people is the chief solace of their lives of
toil, and so unquestioning is their simple faith, that the
miraculous appearance of the Christ, treated with
utmost reverence, as it is, seems to have a touching and
beautiful naturalness.

And now let us turn to Rossetti. His father, an Ital-
ian patriot, who had sought refuge in London, where
he became professor of Italian at King's College, was
a distinguished Dante scholar. His children were all
gifted. ]VIaria Francesca, the elder daughter, wrote a
critical work, entitled, " The Shadow of Dante "; Chris-
tina, the younger, became celebrated as a poet ; and their
younger brother, William INIichael, is a well-known
writer and critic. Dante Gabriel, the subject of our
present study, was poet as well as painter.

Pie was extraordinarily precocious, very early ac-
quainted with Scott and Shakspeare, and the author at
six years old of a drama in blank verse. But the chief
influence of his childhood was the worship of Dante.
He knew the poems by heart. " The mystical poet
became his guide through life and led him to Fra An-

[ 384 ]

D. G. ROSSETTI — IIOLMAX IILXT

gelico, the mystic of painting." lie attended Cary's
drawing-school and the schools of the Royal Academy;
hut could not find in their systematic methods the help
he wanted; therefore he soug-lit the advice of Ford
Madox Rrown, and eventually of Ilolman Hunt. He
was impatient to paint the pictures that thronged his
brain, and impatient of the dry routine of steady in-
struction, and in consequence never acquired a com-
plete command of drawing. Perhaps he was encour-
aged not to try for it, in consequence of his fondness for
sub jects from Dante and his instinctive feeling that they
must be represented with the almost childlike simplicity
of feeling, the mystic dreaminess and sweetly embar-
rassed manner of Fra Angelico and the other "Primi-
tives " who adorned the early garden of the Renaissance.
For in his heart he belonged to that time; it was as if
the spirit of those children of painting had, after many
transmigrations, become reincarnated on the banks of
the Thames.

And while he persevered in painting, he was contin-
ually exi)erimenting in poetry. The exquisitely beauti-
ful poem, afterward pictured in The Blessed Daniozel,
was written in his nineteenth year. The picture was
not })ainted till 1870, when he was fifty-one. In the
interval he had known the woman who became to his
life and art what Saskia had been to Rembrandt's. In
18.50 he met Miss Elizabeth Siddal, a milliner's assis-
tant, who was introduced to him as a model. Accord-
ing to ^Villiam M. Rossetti she was " tall, finely formed,
with a lofty neck, and regular, yet somewhat uncommon
features, greenish blue, uns])arkling eyes, large perfect

[ 385 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

eyelids, brilliant complexion, and a lavish wealth of
coppery golden hair." She satisfied at once his concep-
tion of a perfectly balanced soul and body, of soul-
beauty shining through the beauty of form, which was
his ideal of woman. She became also his ideal of Bea-
trice, and as such he painted her many times. He
loved her, but for some reason marriage was postponed
for ten years, and then after scarcely two years of
married life she died. But the memory of her abided
with him, and almost all his subsequent painting was
a representation, in one character or another, of his
Beloved. And, with the years, her type of beauty ex-
panded, losing its girlishness in richer ampleness, be-
coming more glorified in his imagination.

By the time that he painted ^lie Blessed Damozel, he
was broken in health, old before his time, and not far
from death. In 1870 the volume of his poems had been
published, and attacked violently by Robert Buchanan
under the title of, "The Fleshly School of Poetry."
Suffering from the loss of his wife, and being the vic-
tim of insomnia, he was wounded out of all proportion
to the circumstances, fancied that a conspiracy had been
formed against him, and became a prey to the most
morbid sensibility. In his misery he grew more ad-
dicted to the use of chloral, which he had taken to alle-
viate insomnia. Only at intervals, encouraged by his
friends, who clung to him, could he work.

There is, therefore, a great tragedy embodied in this
picture. Read the poem, written in the springtime of
his life, when yet he was only dreaming of what love
might be. Is it not strangely prophetic, that even then,

[386]

D. G. ROSSETTI — PIOL.MAX IILXT

it was not the possession, but the loss of the Beloved,
that filled his thoughts?

Tlie blessed damozcl leaned out

From the gold bar of heaven ;
Her eyes were deeper than the depth

Of waters stilled at even.

• • • • •

Herseenied she scarce had been a day

One of God's choristers ;
The wonder was not yet quite gone

From that still look of hers ;
Albeit, to them she left, her day

Had counted as ten years.

• • • • «

It was the rampart of God's house
That she was standing on ;

• • • • •

So high, that looking downward thence
She scarce could see the sun.

• • • • •

" I wish that he were come to me,
For he will come," she said.

Since tliose lines were written, she had come to him,
])ossesse(l him, been taken from him, and become his
forever.

Devotion to this one woman was the source at once
of strcngtii and of weakness to his art. Of strength,
because, in the first place, it attracted him to outward
aj)pearances and gave form and substance to his dreams,
and taught him to express the invisible tlu'ougli the
visible, while enabling him to realize the conceptions with

[ .-387 j

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

which his mind was stored and suggesting others to his
imagination. On the other hand, it was a source of
weakness, because it narrowed him to one type on which
he perpetually harped with variations, so that masses
of coppery golden hair, heavy-lidded dreamy eyes, a
mouth with curling lips, and a long full throat appear
and reappear with various degrees of exaggerated em-
phasis; while his imagination, absorbed in the contem-
plation of one idea, gives birth continually to one
slightly varying form of highly wrought sentiment.
He retreats from the manifold sensations of the open,
sun-cleansed world, into a hothouse, whose air is laden
with the fragrance of the orchid.

Yet we should remember that this single devotion to
one type, while it limited his art, may have been neces-
sary to it, the only thing that could have ripened the
fruit of which, it was capable. We have seen how Dante,
and especially the poet's mystic love for Beatrice, filled
his early thoughts. When he met Elizabeth Siddal, he
met his own Beatrice; henceforth she was to be to him
the incarnation of his own spiritual life, the inspiration
of his art as the Florentine damozel had been to Dante's.
Nor, while she was the companion and nourishment of
his spiritual solitude, is it to be assumed that but for
her he would have gone outside himself and nourished
his art with the rains and sunshine of the actual world.
As we have said, he did not belong to our own age, but
to Dante's.

By the latter, and the poets of his time, who followed
the " sweet new style " that had been derived from Bo-
logna, love was regarded as the- mark of the gentle heart

[388]

D. G. ROSSETTI — IIOLMAX HUNT

and tlic service of love as the means of realizing the
ideals of the spirit, so that the particular woman was
rather a visihle enihodinient of these ideals than a heing
to he loved and possessed in a human way. If, as seems
well-nigh certain, this was also Kossetti's conception of
art and lii'e, it is clear he could have found the hest
within him only hy this exclusive devotion to one type.

He lived in a dream-world, thronged with emotions.
These soul-thoughts, too deep, too wide, too vague and
infinite to be captured by brush or pen, being inexpres-
sible, he yet tried, as far as possible, to express, some-
times in poems, sometimes in j)ictures. The latter are
brilliant in color, glowing with brightly hued fabrics,
])reci()us stones, and flowers; a world of glorious fancy,
in which the figures live as in a trance. Never since
Perugino had there been figures so wrapped in spiritual
solitude as these. But Rossetti's are fuller of expres-
sion, suggesting not only mystic ecstasy but a wide range
of spiritual expressiveness. Yet, like the Umbrian ar-
tist's, they are calm in attitude and slow in gesture, and
through this very immobility express the most vivid
intensity of inner life.

Though courting seclusion in his London home, at
Cheyne Walk, Chelsea,^ Rossetti nevertheless became
the center of a group of men whose influence on art has
been wide-spread. Among them were William Morris,
Rurne-Jones, Walter Crane, George Frederick AVatts,
Swinburne, the poet, and the novelist and poet, George
INIeredith. Through ^I orris and Walter Crane a new
impulse was given to decorative art. Sick of the tedious,

iThe home of artists, also, so wide apart as Holbein and Whistler.

'' [ 389 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

soulless repetition of Renaissance ornament, these men
went farther back to a study of Gothic and Celtic orna-
ment, which led them to a study of nature's plant- and
flower- forms as motives for decoration. Out of this
arose a new spirit of invention, which spread over Eu-
rope and to some extent has appeared in America,
resulting in the revival of a desire for beauty in objects
of art-craftsmanship, and in an increase of original
creative skill on the part of the designers, until decora-
tive art has once more become a live one.

That phase of Pre-Raphaehsm which is represented
by Rossetti, " the painter of the soul," was continued
by Burne-Jones and was welcomed in France by some
artists who were tired of the long series of pictures deal-
ing with the external life of peasants and social func-
tions. They too began to try and express the subtle
emotions of the spirit; and from France the new move-
ment extended to Germany, Switzerland, Belgium, and
Austria. The Brotherhood, in its beginning, had started
a magazine, called the "Germ." Only four numbers
appeared; but the seed, scattered, after long years
brought forth flowers, the blue flowers of ideaUsm.

[390]

CHAPTER XXV

KARL TIfEODOIl VON PILOTY MARIANO FORTUNY

ISJO-ISSG IS.iS- lS7/f

Munich School of Germany Spanish-Parisian School

IX the SpanisJi Marriage there is a profusion of beau-
tiful detail to gladden the eye ; in the canvas by
Piloty, a great deal to stimulate our appetite for his-
torical incidents. We already feel a curiosity to become
accjuainted with this particular one; we reach for a his-
tory to discover who these people are and how they haj)-
pen to find themselves in the circumstances represented ;
and, having read the story, we shall proceed to search
tlie picture to identify the persons and see how the inci-
dent has been portrayed. All of which has, strictly
speaking, nothing to do with the appreciation of the
])ainting, as a painting. On the other hand, to appre-
ciate the Spanish Marriage, we need no help from the
outside; the incident depicted explains itself. We note
the moment selected is the signing of the register; and,
having done so, we are free to enjoy witliout any inter-
iii))tini) tlie brilliant groups of figures and the ex(juisite
delicacy of the rococo screen and tlie other details of the
sacristy ; or, if we were facing the original, would step
backward, so that the sparkle and luster of its coloring
might affect us as a whole.

Furtlier, let us contrast the two pictures from the point

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

of view of composition. In Fortuny's the figures are
sprinkled like gay flowers across the canvas, and sur-
rounded by open spaces ; the impression produced being
one of spaciousness and dignity, united to elegant
sprightliness. In that of Piloty, however, the figures,
following the line of a letter S, occupy almost all the
composition. Except for the little piece of ground in
front and the view beyond the arch, there are no quiet
spaces in the picture, and both these, j^ou will observe,
are cut into by crossing lines. Moreover, Fortuny has
massed his shade beyond the screen, giving a depth and
mystery to the distance that lend additional piquancy
to the figures in the foreground, while helping to unite
them into one composition. Piloty's composition, how-
ever, with its scattered light and shade, is arranged to
give prime importance to the center group composed of
Thusnelda and her child and handmaids, and a some-
what slighter prominence to the emperor, Tiberius, and
the bevy of court ladies. Below the latter are the lighted
figures of the old bard and the German soldier to whom
he is bound, which form, as it were, a prelude to the cen-
tral mass of light.

Now, while the composition of each picture is regu-
lated with deliberate artifice, Fortuny's is so tactful
that the scene appears real and impresses us at once as
a single harmonious whole, in comparison with which
Piloty's seems artificial and confused and broken up.
Perhaps the confusion is intentional, the artist seeking in
this way to create a suggestion of stupendous impressive-
ness, corresponding to the strange, variegated, tumult-
uous spectacle that the actual incident must have pre-

[392]

-1

:?:

K-»

l-H

i<;

*-<

k^H

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Q
►J

CL,
X

PILOTY-FOUTCXV

sented. If so. In order to attain his object, he has sacri-
ficed tlie unity ol" his ])ictin"e, wliich, as it now stands, is
really a combination of several compositions, — the group
with the bear in the front ; the group of women ; the
emperor's gronj), and that of the senators at the back
welcoming (rcrmanicus, the conqueror, — a distribution
of separate incidents ingeniously linked together.

And now examine more closely the individual figures.
Those in the SpanisJi Marriage, how they brim with life
and character! Note the attitude of the priest, as he rises
from his chair and leans over the table while the bride-
groom signs his name. AVhat an elderly fop the latter
is, arrayed in a delicate lilac costume! The bride is in a
white gown, trimmed with flowered lace, and has a
wreath of orange-blossoms in her luxuriant black hair.
She is toying with a fan, enjoying its pretty decorations,
while she listens to the talk of a girl friend, wdio leans
forward with a most delightful gesture of dainty grace.
IIow^ cleverl}^ the artist has suggested in the conduct of
all the people present, that this union of age and youth
is not an affair of the heart! Observe particularly the
indifference which the couple sitting on the right display
to what is going on ; while an old man has removed to a
far corner, and sits with his hat on his head, as if in con-
tempt of the whole jiroceeding.

Nor in Piloty's picture is there any lack of character-
istic gestures and poses ; every figure enacts some sep-
arate part in the drama ; each is drawn with correctness
and power. Yet, I suspect, the sum total of the imi)res-
sion that we receive is not so much of lil'e and reality as
of an elal)()rate spectacle, such as one may occasionally

[ 397 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

see on the stage of a theater. We can scarcely escape
the suspicion of artificiahty. The tableau has been ar-
ranged by an ingenious stage-manager, who has packed
it with stirring situations and piled effect upon effect.
The scene-painter and costumier having done their share,
he has drilled the crowd of supernumeraries until every
one of them knows what he is expected to do and does it
with all his might, as if the success of the whole depended
upon his individual efforto The result is magnificent,
but overpowering, unreal, stagy. It is too ambitious
and self-important, too suggestive of the high-sounding
programme, announced by a German historian of the
period. "We stand," he wrote, "with our knowledge,
culture, and insight, on a summit from which we over-
look the whole past. The Orient, Greece, and Rome,
the Middle Ages, the Reformation and Modern times,
spread like a universal panorama before us. . . . To
bury one's self in the past, to get at the most essential
meaning of its life, to awaken what is dead by knowl-
edge, to renew what has vanished by art . . . such is the
vivifying work of our time."

But is this picture vivifying ? It may succeed in wak-
ening knowledge of the past, but does it renew its life?
Certainly it is interesting as an illustration to that page
of history which relates how Thusnelda, the wife of Har-
minius, a German prince, was betrayed by her own fa-
ther, Segestes, into the hands of the Romans, in order to
curry favor with Germanicus. The latter general's suc-
cess had aroused the jealousy of Tiberius. Roman em-
perors lived in constant fear of the ascendancy of a
yictorious general, so Germanicus was recalled and al-

[398]

piLOTY-ioinrxv

lowed a triumpli, wliich the (jiieen is conii)elled to adorn.
Her Iniiiiiliation the miserable Segestes is foreed to wit-
ness, as he stands, a butt for the gibes of the senators on
the emperor's right. In the hitter's bowed head may
well be brooding a dread of Germanicus, and of the
nienaee to Rome, if these magnifieent Barl)arians should
ever discover their own strength and the Romans' grow-
ing weakness.

In my last sentence, you will observe, I have obtruded
an idea of my own. You will not find it recorded in the
brief account by Tacitus of this episode ; it can only be
guessed at by inference from this picture. But I ob-
trude it intentionally, to suggest how much more effec-
tively a writer could represent this scene. lie would
make you realize, not only the outward appearance of the
spectacle, but also the inward emotions that are stirring
in the individual actors. lie would fathom, not only
the thoughts in the brain of Tiberius, but those of the
woman who proudly marches past him ; those of the
Roman ladies; of tliat bard and the German warrior
to whom he is bound; of that woman on the left who
darts her arm and imprecations at the captive queen ; of
the people vociferously applauding the victorious gen-
eral ; and of what lies concealed in the mind of the con-
(}ueror, calndy uplifted against the lighted distance.

The fact is that a picture of this sort, by attempting
to represent so much, i)asses beyond the point at which
it can be a single unified whole; steps outside of its own
special province as a record of what the eye can grasp
without assistance from other sources, and challenges
rivalry with literature, on tlie latter's own ground, and,

[ '^^^ ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

therefore, naturally is worsted. A clever writer could
represent this scene to your imagination, and move your
emotions, much more vividly than this picture does.

This is true of most so-called " historical " pictures.
There have been exceptions, notably the Surrender of
Breda by Velasquez, to which we have alluded in another
chapter. But in that everything is made subordinate to
one episode and to one moment in it, — namely, that in
which the Vanquished hands the key of the city to the
Victor. On the part of the one is exhibited noble resig-
nation ; on that of the other, an equally noble magnan-
imity ; in this most trying ordeal each proves himself a
hero. For our enjoyment of the picture we do not need
to know their names or the circumstances that lead up to
the incident. Although the event commemorated oc-
curred in Velasquez's lifetime, he passed beyond the
local and temporary and gave his representation a typal
significance.

But this is precisely what Piloty has not done. Like
most of the "historical" painters, he has selected a sub-
ject, that would yield opportunity for striking con-
trasts and for display of skill in drawing and archaeolog-
ical research ; and then, by crowding the canvas with
learned details, cleverty represented, seeks to impose
upon the spectator an impression of something grander
than the ordinary— heroic. For, as a rule, the "histor-
ical " painter thinks that the representation of life of his
own day is " vulgar " ; he has learned to draw the human
form and draperies after classic models, idealizing na-
ture ; and then rummages amid the dust of antiquity, to
find subjects that will demonstrate his skill in represent-

[ 400 ]

PILOTY-FORTUXY

in^- the draperies and the nude. Turn to Piloty's pic-
ture and note the old bard on tlie riglit of the fore-
ground. Tile figure is typical of the whole attitude of
mind of these classical, historical, heroical painters. The
body is represented partly nude, and the (lra])ery is so
arranged that the old man could not possibly walk.
What could be more obviously di-agged in for effect?

Most of these j^ainters are able draftsmen, although
their figures are generally coldly correct and formal, or
stilted and bombastic ; but few of them are good paint-
ers. Piloty, however, was an exception. He received
his education at the Munich Academy, undei^ men who
were inclined to boast that they were not painters and to
look down on the " colorers," just as the Classicists of
the French School proclaimed that " form is everything."
But after he had visited Venice, Antwerp, and Paris, he
came back a skilful painter, who could render correctly
the color appearance of any object he represented.
INIunich was ripe for something new, and his po])ularity
was immediate. In 18.V2 he was appointed professor at
the Academy, and by the great number of pupils who
flocked to him and the influence that lie extended
througliout (rermany, revived in that country the art of
painting.

^Moreover, his work, though academical, abounds in
sentiment and dramatic characterization ; (jualities that
found a ready response in German taste. For the Ger-
mans, like the Knglish, are disposed to prefer a j)ieture
which tells a story. I'iloty's, as we liave seen, were his-
torical in theme ; but a very large part of modern (ier-
man painting has been occuj)ied with the little genre

'' [ 401 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

picture. These are of social or peasant life, in which the
personages, generally set in an interior, are enacting
some pretty sentimental scene. They are for the most
part cleverly painted, so far as representing the color ap-
pearance of the objects is concerned, but usually, like
Piloty's pictures, without any suggestion of real atmo-
sphere or of the subtleties of light. It is in this respect
that Piloty is not a " painter," compared with Fortuny.

The latter, after receiving the usual academical train-
ing at the School of Fine Arts in Barcelona, won the
Prix de Rome. But while he was studying the old mas-
ters in Rome, war broke out between Spain and the Em-
peror of iNIorocco. Fortuny, now twenty-three years old,
received a commission from the Town Council of Barce-
lona to proceed to Africa and paint the exploits of the
army. This experience of a few months changed the
whole current of his life. The brilliance of Southern
sunshine, the glowing colors of the scenery, the richness
of the costumes, and the splendor of decorated trappings
and weapons, the glittering movement of the life of the
people— all these things fascinated him and drew his
imagination into the direction of light and color. Other
j^ainters before him had been attracted bj^ the charms of
the South and the Orient, but none up to that time had
so absorbed the inspiration of the color splendors, or the
variegated movement of the life.

At first he introduced these qualities into a series of
Moroccan subjects; then passed on to pictures, like our
present one, with which his memory is particularly iden-
tified. They represent interiors decorated profusely in
the style of I^ouis XV, known as Rococo, because the or-

[402]

PILOTY-FOKTrXV

nanieiitatioii iiic'ludcd iniital^oii of rock work, sliclls, foli-
age, and intricacies of scrollwork, elaborate and profuse.
These countless irregularities of surface, and the gay silk
and lace and velvet costumes of the period, offei-ed the
fullest scope for color and reflected light.

Painting with an extraordinary dexterity, with a deli-
cate sense of color-harmony, and with an impetuosity of
fancy that is truly astounding, he split the light into a
thousand particles, till his pictures sparkle like jewels
and are as brilliant as a kaleidoscope. When he went
to Paris he made a great sensation and became attached
to the circle of which ]Meissonier was the leader. The
hitter's pictures are like his in the minuteness and elabor-
ateness of their craftsmanship, but do not show the same
exquisite color-sense, or skill in representing the diversi-
ties of light and atmosphere. In fact, Fortuny himself
became the vogue.

He set the fashion for a class of pictures, filled with
silks and satins, hric-a-hrac and elegant trifling, dis-
tinguished by deftness of hand, but possessing no higher
aim than to make a charming bouquet of color with glanc-
ing cai)rices of sunshine. Because they were cleverly
painted they attracted extravagant admiration ; but
now that clever painting has become more general, their
reputation has declined. »

[ t();3 ]

CHAPTER XXVI

EDOUABD MANET JOZEF ISRAELS

1833-1883 1824-

Impressionistic School of France Modern Dutch School

WHAT a contrast these two pictures present!
Their very titles indicate the different point
of view in the two artists. TJie Old Scribe
has in it the ring of an appeal to our sympathy and in-
terest ; Girl with a Parrot, on the contrary, is barren of
any sympathetic suggestion. Manet, in fact, had no
feeling for his subject, except in so far as it contributed
to a purely artistic intention ; but Israels added to an in-
tention, equally artistic, the further one of entering into
the humanness of his subject. He has been through his
long career the painter of the Dutch poor, as Millet was
of the French peasants;. a painter whose work always
echoes a clear note of poetry. At the same time he has
been the chief influence in the modern revival of Dutch
art. On the other hand, while the influence of Manet
upon modern art has been even greater, his hold upon
the imagination of the layman has been very slight. He
was essentially a " painter's painter."

We will consider him first ; because an understanding
of what he did will help also to a fuller appreciation of
Israels, since the latter, like all modern artists who are

[ 404]

MANET- ISRAELS

really j)aintcrs and not inere tintt-rs, was to some extent
inlliieneed l)y him.

Manet's great work was to earry further and com})lete
the teaeliing of realism hegun by Courhet. The hitter's
realism eonsisted mainly in his ])oint of view, in his hal)it
of seleeting subjeets from nature and treatin*^- them as
naturally as he eould, witli the sole purpose of represent-
ino- the person or thing as it appearetl to his eye. But
while his subjects were realistic, his rendering of them
in many respects was not. lie painted realistic subjects
with a reci])e that he had invented for himself by study-
ing the old masters. For example, he enveloped his
pictures in what has been irreverently called " brown
sauce"; moreover, his figures, rocks, waves, and trees,
were real enough in form, but apt to be of a uniform
riiiiditv of texture. Manet's further contribution was
to add to realism of subject a realism of representation;
to render the particular texture of each object and to
surround all with nature's light and air. He restored to
painting a knowledge of the truths which had been dis-
covered by Velasque/.

This great artist had been forgotten during nearly
two centuries. At length in 18.57, on the occasion of
the Manchester Exhil)ition, he was revealed to the Eng-
lish. The biogra})hy of him by Sir W^illiam Stirling was
translated into French; Paris began to I)e aware of his
j)ictures in the Louvre, and from them to be directed to-
ward the Prado at Madrid, where the bulk ol' his work
exists. Planet was the first to become a pupil ol" the
Spanish master.

Now we may remember that Wlasquez proved him-

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

self original, both in the way of looking at a subject and
in his way of representing it; each distinguished bj^ ex-
traordinary realism, his motto being, " Truth, not
Painting." He represented only what could be em-
braced by one comprehensive glance, subordinating
everything to a vivid impression; and then represented
what he saw as he really saw it. And the secret of that
reality was that he saw everything through and in the
light which surrounded it. Velasquez, like Rembrandt,
painted light. But the latter, under his gray Northern
sun, painted with light for the purpose of expressing
the inward meaning of things, whereas the Spaniard re-
tired from the glowing Southern sunshine out of doors
into the gray light of his studio, for the purpose of repre-
senting realistically the externals of his subjects. He
discovered that the subject, viewed under these condi-
tions, appeared much flatter than it was usually repre-
sented; that form, so viewed, does not stand out with
sharp contrasts of light and shade, but that it is really
composed of a series of planes, reflecting more or less
of light; and that the appearance of color also is the
result of various degrees of light reflected. Moreover,
he discovered that distance from the eye afl'ects the
prevailing or " local " color of objects, the atmosphere
which intervenes introducing successive veils of gray;
so that the accurate rendering of those variations re-
sulted in a new manner of representing distance, —
namely, not by lineal, but by atmospheric perspective.

Manet for some years had been studying the old mas-
ters, learning from tliem their diff'erent tricks of paint-
ing and producing pictures somewhat after their like-

[ 406]

MANET- ISRAELS

ness. But all that lie had learnecl was a knowledge of
iiianuerisnis. Until he became acciuainted with the work
of Velascjuez, he had discovered no <;iii(liiio- j)rineij)le or
firm basis. lie was modern to the finger-tips; and the
Paris of his day, under the infiuence of I^alzac, was vi-
brating with the realistic S])irit. CourlK't had demanded
that i)ainting also should be realistic in subject and point
of view. But what about the method and technic of
painting-;' Was it satisfactory to serve up a modern sub-
ject in the old brown sauce of the Bolognese? If not,
iiow could a technic be found that would express in
painting the modern spirit of analysis and subtlety that
had been developed in modern literature? The answer
was found in the art of Velasquez.

He had been dead just two hundred years; yet,
strange fact, in his point of view he had anticipated tlie
modern artistic tendencies toward realism, and, what was
still more wonderful, had discovered for himself truths
in nature that could be applied to painting so as to pro-
duce truth of artistic representation. The key-note of
liis discovery had been light; the study, the analysis, and
the ))ainting of light in all its different manifestations
upon the surfaces of objects. To ]\Ianet, rediscovering
the truth through Velas(iuez, and to the men who were
drawn with Manet to this new-old source of inspiration,
the watchword became " Fiat Lux," " Let there be
Light." The subse(juent story of modern pi'ogress in
painting may be sunmied up in the one word — light. The
rendciing of values has become the chief technical aim of
the j)ainter; nature is being studied afresh, in order to
search out and record the infinite manifestations of light;

[ m ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

in place of a pompous grandiloquent style of meaning-
less painting, there has grown up one that is distin-
guished by keen observation, subtle discriminations, and
delicate truth of rendering.

The two artists, whom w^e are considering in this chap-
ter, represent pretty well the two streams into which this
new energy of nature-study has flowed. INIanet was sat-
isfied with the joy of painting; content to be simply and
purely a painter ; but Israels has used his knowledge and
his skill as a means to body forth the poetic sentiments
aroused by his interest in human and phj'sical nature.

At Nadar's gallery, in 1871, Parisians flocked to see
the work of INIanet and the other men of this new group.
The catalogue contained a great deal about "impres-
sions " — for instance, Impressions of my Pot on the Fire;
Impressions of a Cat Walking. In his criticism Clare-
tie summed up the impressions and spoke of the exhibi-
tion as the " Salon des Impressionistes." Thus was
started the name " Impressionists," which unfortunately
has stuck. For it is misleading, the distinguishing ami
of the so-called Impressionist School having been to
study light, so that they might fitly be called " Lumi-
narists."

The object of the new group was to teach, that the
first requisite of a painter is to be able to paint. This, of
course, was an attack once more on the academical and
classical school, w^hich says the first requisite is to be able
to draw. It tried to enforce its point b}^ saying it did not
matter what was painted so long as it was painted well:
subject was of little account; the first consideration was
the painter's ability to paint. This new creed was

[ 408]

MANET- ISRAELS

.Slimmed up in tlie phrase " Art for Art's sake." The
eonflict over tliesc eatelnvords stirred u}) a ^reat deal of
dust, wliich, liowever, hy tliis time has eleared away, so
tliat we can better understand the matter at issue.

Remember, in the first place, it was a battle-cry, the
rally of this new school of realism, against the insuffi-
ciency of Courbet's realism on the one hand, and the dry
formalism, on the other, of the Academy. Now, as we
have had occasion to remark before, men, when they get
to the fighting mood, are not troubled overmuch about
logic and reasonableness. It is not the well-weighed
statement, recognizing both sides of the question, that
will stir their blood; but a catchword, exaggerating their
own side of it, to be flung at the adversary with a cer-
tainty that, when it reaches him, it will make him dance
with fury. Such was this " Art for Art's sake," shouted
and reshouted, partly because it involved a great truth,
perhaps even more, however, jiour enrager les bour-
geois, or, as we say in English, to make the Philistine
squirm ; the Philistine being that person, either artist or
layman, who is perfectly satisfied with mediocrit}', and
above all things does not want to have his pet notions
disturbed.

Now, over in England, at the period we are consider-
ing, Ruskin was contending that the highest aim of art
is to teach, to uplift, especially to teach religion; which,
stated in an exaggerated way, implied that the subject
is the main thing. Across the water from Paris came
the retort, A has le sujet, I'art pour I'art. Neither was
altogether right, neither altogether wrong.

Will an art, that is based only on a keen eye and nhn-

" [ 409 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

ble fingers, satisfy men and women who have minds and
souls?

On the other hand, will painting, based on beautiful
ideas, satisfy us if it does not make its chief appeal to us
through the eyes? if it does not reach our brain through
the medium of enjoyment of the sense of sight?

Has not every art its medium of expression; the
poet reaching our capacity for the highest through
the medium of words; the musician, through that of
sound ?

But the painter, who cannot help approaching us
through our sense of sight — will he, on the one hand, be
wise in paying less attention to what he sees and the ren-
dering of it than the poet does to his words, the musician
to his sounds and harmonies? On the other hand, should
he be satisfied to appeal only to our eyesight and leave
our brains and souls untouched ?

From the point of view of the layman he should not
be; and those artists, who limit their appeal to the eye-
sight and the enjoyment derived from the sense of see-
ing, will have a limited following. But let us try to
understand that the point of view of the layman and of
the artist, however much they may draw together, must
always be separate.

For what is the layman ? He is the man who does not
happen to be a specialist on the subject that is under dis-
cussion. If the subject is the buying and selling of silks,
then the artist is among the laymen; but if painting,
then, the buyer and seller of silks. Now, since the latter,
if he is to be a good buyer and seller of silk, must find
his occupation very absorbing,— so much so, perhaps, as

[410]

MANET-ISUAKLS

to make otlicr things seem of secoudarv iin|)oi-taiice, —
can we not understand how the i)aintei- may l)eeome ah-
sorhed, even exehisively, in the rendering of hglit and at-
mosj)here, and in tlie power of discriminating with most
(lehcate assurance hetween dilferent vahies:' It is the
tiling lie can do better than a great many others; it tliere-
i'ore exercises the keenest activity of his brain, and fills
him with that stimulating joy which a man gets in doing
\vliat he knows he can do well. lie may even not trouble
himself about the effect his work will have upon other
])eople; but if so, he differs from the buyer and seller of
silk, N\lio has to be concerned with the effect that his com-
modity will produce, when it is made up into a dress and
worn by a lady at some social function. The able mer-
chant is skilled in the values of silk and gives value to his
])ublic. It may be the better for the artist and for his
public, if he can do the same.

( )nce more, then, I ask you to look at a picture through
the eyes of the artist who })ainted it. In no other way
can you be interested in this Girl rcitJi a Parrot by Ma-
net. I might have selected for illustration that other
picture by him in the Metropolitan Museum, TJic Boif
icitli a Sicord, one of his best works, in which he came
nearest to the power of liis master, Velascjuez. But, be-
sides being beautil'ully painted, it has a winsome charm
of subject, which is not usual with Manet, so that the
selection would have given a wrong im])ression of his
work. The latter, as a rule, is quite uninteresting in sub-
ject, not infre(juently downright unpleasant; what we
must exiiect to find in it ordinarilv is onlv the technical
charm, the refined taste disj)layed in the color-scheme,

[411]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

and the subtle skill with which light and values, atmo-
sphere and textures, are depicted.

The light in this jDicture is dull, uniform, and perva-
sive. The photograph has falsified the effect by making
the background appear dark. In the original it is a
drabbish gray, a slightly yellower gray than the dove-
gray on the wings of the parrot, whose head, on the con-
trary, is a whitish gray. Again, the glass of water at
the top of the stand is gray, but a much lower tone in the
darker parts, and a much more sharply whitish tone in
the high lights ; while, still again, the pan on the floor is
of dull pewter, a lighter gray than that of the wall and
less hght than the parrot's head. So far, you observe, the
artist has played upon grays. As a musician might ex-
plain it, he has given several modulations of the chord
of gray, including the major and minor, the augmented
and diminished. In other words, he has made a color-
harmony of slightly differing tones of gray; taking
pleasure in observing and rendering those slight distinc-
tions, and also in noting how differently the light is re-
flected from the different surfaces, — in a sort of dull and
smothered way from the plaster on the wall; deep and
lustrous from the bird's wing; more softly broken up
from the feathers on the head ; sharp and pellucid from
the glass, and with duller luster from the pan. The re-
sult is, that by careful discrimination between the various
actions of light, he has given us a real appreciation of
the textures of the different objects— a refinement of
realism in the way of painting that is far beyond the
realism of Courbet.

The color of the gown is that of faded rose-leaves ; that

[412]

GIRL WITH A PARROT EDOUARD MANET

MF.TROPOLITAN MUSEUM, NEW YORK

-r^

MAXET-ISKAKLS

is to say, very pale rose in the sliadows, a pale straw-color
where it catches tlie li^ht. The modeling- has heen oh-
taiiied l)y varying these two tones, accordino- to the
amount of light contained in the various parts of the silk;
the only a])proach to shadows heing some dove-gray
tones, where you see the dark s])ots round the edge of
the right arm, and under the hand and cuff of the left.
Xotwitlistanding that the artist limited himself to these
few tones, and chose a gown whicli hangs from the shoul-
ders with very few folds, he has made us realize the bal-
loon-like roundness of the garment, and, moreover, the
existence of a figure underneath it. Again the expres-
sion, faded rose-leaves, describes the prevailing hue of
the face and hands; the latter are practically of the same
color as the gown; yet we shall have no doubt, especially
in the original, that the texture of the one is silk, of the
others flesh, because of the method of the brushwork.
U])on the dress it was laid on in sweeps; upon the flesh-
j)arts, in circular strokes and dabs.

So far, then, as we have examined the color-scheme of
the picture, it is a harmony of faded rose-leaves and
gray; but to prevent it from being tame, to make it reso-
nant and vibrant, certain notes of ])ositive color were in-
troduced; for example, the black velvet band round the
neck, a crimson tail to the bird, and the yellow rind of the
orange. I mav add that this clear note of yellow receives
a dull echo in the drabbish-yellow sand, mingles with the
rich brown of the wooden j)edestal, and i-eap])ears more
noticeal)ly in the lighter brown of the girl's hair.

By this time I ho))e we have entered sufficiently into
the {)oint of view of Manet, when he painted this picture,

[417]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

to discover that the problem, as it presented itself to him,
was not one of a girl or a parrot, but purely a painter-
problem— to render by means of paint the real appear-
ance of objects as revealed by light. By limiting the
range of his palette, he increased the difficulty of the
problem and thereby his own joy in solving it; and,
moreover, produced a very delicate harmony of color,
which to a sensitive eye gives somewhat the kind of plea-
sure that the ear receives from a delicate harmony of
sound.

We are now in a position to understand the value of
Manet's contribution to modern painting. Guided by
the example of Velasquez, he once more introduced real
light into pictures ; sometimes bright light, sometimes, as
in this example, subdued light, but light as it illumines
space and is contained on the different surfaces of ob-
jects. To reenumerate: he rediscovered the natural
truth, that objects in light appear flatter than they do
when placed in a dark studio, with light shot down on
them from only one direction ; that in the light there are
scarcely any shadows, and that modeling, therefore, is
not to be obtained by lights and shadows, but by careful
rendering of the planes of more and less light ; and that
by means of this careful study of values, the textures also
of objects could be best expressed. Lastly, he rediscov-
ered the subtleties of nature's color-harmonies as re-
vealed by light.

These principles and practices were almost simultane-
ously adopted by other painters, among whom Whistler
was one, and are now generally accepted, so that modern
art is distinguished by a great number of men who are

[ 418]

:\rAXKT-ISUAi:LS

clever in tlic tcchnic of tlie brush. It is not diffieiilt to
iiiulerstand what a fascination it must be to a painter to
he able to reach such subtlety of observation and render-
in^-; nor that, in the early days of the movement espe-
cially, when few attained to it, those few should })e dis-
posed to feel that it was all that a painter need strive
for. " Art for Art's sake," however, will never satisfy
those who have something to say, something witliin
themselves that they nuist express; and such a one was
Israels.

He was born in Groningen, and at first destined for a
ral)bi. ]5ut, after leaving school, he entered the small
banking business of his father, and often went to the
big bank of the ^Nlesdags to deposit money. The rich
l)anker's son, II. W. ^lesdag, became the famous painter
of the sea ; the poor banker's son, the greatest all-round
painter in Holland, foremost in restoring modern Dutch
art to the high position it had occupied in the seventeenth
century. For during the subse(|uent centmy, and until
the middle of the nineteenth, Dutch artists had forsaken
the nature-study of their own land and people, and had
gone after the Italian grand style, turning out his-
torical })ictures or classic landscapes, cold, inanimate, and
conventional.

It was in tlie hard, dry, nnatmospheric, academical
manner that Israels learned to paint; first at Amsterdam
and later at Paris, where he worked under a ])U])il of
David's and then entered the studio of Delaroche, just
as Millet was leaving it in (les])air. For, like the latter,
Israels, the " Dutch M illet," as he is often called, was shy
and awkward, and he, too, starved in Paris. Then he re-

[ ^1» ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

turned to Amsterdam, took a room, and tried to paint as
Delaroche had taught him; such pictures as Prince Mau-
rice of Nassau Beside the Body of his Father being the
first he sent to exhibitions.

But the circumstance of a severe illness changed the
current of his life. To recover his health he went to the
little village of Zandvoort, near Haarlem; and there
lodged with a ship's carpenter. Buried away among the
sand-dunes, far from the pretenses and contentions of
the studios, with sea and sky stretching away into the
distance and simple fisher- folk around him, he began to
see with his own eyes and to feed his imagination upon
the realities. As ^lillet at Barbizon, so he at Zandvoort
began to discover artistic material for his brush in the
big-framed men and women, uncouth from the daily
repetition of hard toil ; to enter with sympathy into their
lives of patient endurance; and to include in his study
of humanity what was so intimately associated with it,
the sea and sky and land and the interiors of the homes.

He could not at once shake off the effects of academic
training, and his early peasant pictures still betraj^ a de-
sign to make the spectator smile or weep by telling a
pretty, moving story, assisted by little accidents of ges-
ture or facial expression. Gradually, however, his work
became broader and bigger, dealing, as Millet's did, with
the essentials; for the expression of sentiment he relied
more and more upon the emotional suggestion of color,!
light, and atmosphere. Living in Amsterdam, he learned '
from Rembrandt the spiritual significance of light ; and,
like Manet, he learned to paint with light. While he has
painted landscapes and marines, his most characteristic

[420]

MAXET-ISRAELS

pictures represent dim interiors, w itli the liglit entering
from a small window, stealing throu<»h()Mt the room, and
subtly detaching certain olgects into faint relief.

Such a one is The Old Scribe. The light is concen-
trated on the palHd face, the white beard, and the scroll;
these being the main features of the sul)ject; the soul,
as it were, of the fact. I..ess prominently it touches
the accessory features: a bunch of pens, the ink-pot,
a glass water-pitcher, and — a pair of crutches. Lame,
tiierefore shut off from active life; pallid, because
cribbed in a little attic — the brightness of the outer
world only a means to an end of his close life-work —
" A\''ork, while it is yet day," for at night the tired eyes
cannot work. High forehead, as of a man of intellect;
mobile mouth expressive of deep emotions; intellect
and emotions narrowed down to the endless transcribing
of texts. The head of a dreamer— the hands big like
those of a laborer, yet full of sensitiveness; note how the
left is spread ui)on the parchment, not only keeping it
down, but corresponding also in feeling to the delicate
and tender expression of the other one. This hand, yes,
even the movement of the ^Jen which it guides — how they
correspond with the expression of the face! Then the
iiide, rough-hewn manner of the drawing, joined to the
su})tle delicacy of the silvery light — this latter more ap-
parent in the original than in the reproduction — what a
suggestion they yield of the " simple annals of the j)oor,"
the unflinching, patient facing of the necessities and re-
alities; the. grayness of the existence and the heroism!

But it is neither the gray, monotonous life nor the
tragedy of the poor that Israels always depicts. He has

[421]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

represented also the hardy vigor of the fishermen at
work; the coyness of young lovers, as in The Bashful
Suitor of the INIetropolitan ^luseum; the tenderness of
motherhood, and the gladsomeness of little children. It ,
is in this wider range of sympathy that he is bigger than/
^lillet; and, as a painter, using the resources of light
and atmosphere, he excels him ; so also in his renderings
of the ocean and in his freer use of landscape. It was
one of the regrets of ]\Iillet, at the end of his life, that
he had not made as much of landscape as he might have
done.

Under the influence of Israels and the Barbizon ar-
tists, the Dutch have learned once more to find the inspi-
ration for their painting in their own country and among
their own people. Guided by the teaching of Planet and
the other " luminarists," they have found a new motive
in the study of local nature. Nowhere are such soft
and tender effects of atmosphere, such a freshness of
moist and vivid coloring as in Holland; and between
these two extremes of mistiness and freshness her mod-
ern painters have produced a range of art that is char-
acterized by dignified simplicity and by the charm of
profound intimacy and heartfelt tenderness.

[422]

CHAPTER XXVII

PIERRE PUVIS DE CIIA VANNES JEAN LEON GEROME

1S24-1904
1S24-1898 ■ r^i ■ 1% J i

oemi-Llassical school

French Mural Painter . of France

PUVIS was a lover of Virgil; Gerome, very par-
tial to subjects derived from ancient Rome. Yet,
despite their classical tendencies, no two men
could have been more different in their motives and
methods; so that a comparison of the two will help to
bring out very sharply the characteristics of each. Let
us approach them first of all through the examples here
illustrated.

Gerome's reproduces that moment in the gladiatorial
s}X)rts of the Colosseum when one of the combatants has
been defeated and the victor looks toward the galleries.
The vestal virgins turn down their thumbs ; if the cm-
])eror follows suit, woe to the vancjuished! Roth the
title and the manner of re])resentation record very
clearly a precise incident of actual fact. Rut in Ruvis's
neither title nor treatment has a definite i-eference to
facts ; the j)ainting is concerned with an idea, namely,
the relation of the arts to nature. Its subject is an
ideal one ; its rendering idealized.

Let us examine the two more closely. Cierome's pic-

[ 423 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

ture represents only the fragment of a scene. We might
not have noticed this, since there is enough included to
explain and complete the meaning of the incident, were
we not comparing it with the Puvis. But the composi-
tion of the latter is complete and sufficing, and it does
not occur to us to imagine anything outside the limits
of the canvas. The reason is that the parts are so beau-
tifully balanced as to create a feeling of perfect har-
moniousness in the whole; every figure is placed with a
scientific precision just where it needs must be in order
to secure this effect of poise, and with an equal precision
the various features of the near and distant landscape
have been adjusted to the figures. The whole is an ar-
rangement of full and empty spaces, regulated by the
severest logic of cause and effect.

Again we notice that the total result in Puvis's canvas
is one of exquisite placidity, while that of the other is as-
sertiveness and turmoil. It is not sufficient explanation
of the difference to say that the two subjects are essen-
tially different; or to add that Gerome had a preference
for subjects of dramatic intensity, and that the work of
Puvis is always marked by calm. Let us discover the
deeper reason of the difference. It lies in the way in
which each of the two artists, respectively, has ap-
proached his subject.

If we examine the faces of the spectators in the Col-
osseum, we shall find that each is strongly individual-
ized with its particular character of strong emotion ; but
the faces in the other picture seem like those of persons
moving in a dream. An even stronger note of con-
trast is represented by the two men, in Puvis's painting,

[ 424 ]

PUVIS DE CHAVAXXES-GEUOME

who are moving a large stone. Here is an operation
demanding exertion; yet, if we compare the amount
of muscular force which they are exerting even with
that displayed in the arms of the vestal virgins, not
to mention the action of the gladiator, we are inclined
to think it will take them a long time to place that stone
finally. Their movements are such as the circumstances
demand, hut so controlled that the operation will he
I)rolonged until the color fades from the canvas. ^Vnd
neither they nor the other figures grouped near them
can be thought of as having to go home presently to sup-
per; as the full-fed ])e()ple in Gerome's picture, we feel
sure, will do as soon as the butchery is despatched. His
scene is momentarii, incidental; that of Puvis's perma-
nent and elemental. We feel, in fact, that the Puvis
figures have not been brought here, but that they belong
here; that they belong to the landscape, as the landscape
does to them; that while the one endures, the other will.
INIoreover, just as the winding river, though it is really a
scene near Rouen, is typical of all such river scenes, and
as the apple-trees, though they differ, all represent a cer-
tain type of tree, so the figures are ty])ical. Some are
nude, others in classic dra})eries, still others — the group
of the three women on the left, for exam])le, and that op-
posite one of the architect, sculptor, and painter — in
costumes reasonablv modern ; vet by this unusual mix-
ture no feeling of incongruity is aroused. They all seem
to be of the same race, mingling quite naturally ; a race
by itself, not belonging to any particular time or place ;
a race resembling our own, yet not to be found anywhere
on earth. To repeat: it is the elemental and the perma-

[ 425 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

nent that Puvis sought to express; the incidental and
the mome7itary that occupied the attention of Gerome.

By this time it is fitting to mention, what you have
probably perceived ah*eady, that while the Pollice Verso
is an easel-jDicture, intended to be studied in detail, Pu-
vis's is a mural decoration, designed for the embellish-
ment of a certain architectural space in the Rouen JNIu-
seum. I did not mention this at first, because you might
then have assumed that the contrasts we have noted re-
sulted from this difference in the intention of the two
paintings. But it is not so. If Gerome had been com-
missioned to make a decoration based upon the Puvis
subject, he would not have conceived or carried it out in
the same way as Puvis has done. In the Pantheon at
Paris several great painters have contributed so-called
decorations ; yet, compared with the decorations of Puvis
in the same building, that really decorate it, their paint-
ings are huge illustrations. And so, we may be sure
from the character of his work, would a decoration by
Gerome have been. But mural decoration is a thing
apart from other painting.

Just what the proper characteristics of mural painting
are, and what they are not, may be learned by a visit to
the Boston Public Library. The walls of the staircase
hall have been decorated by Puvis de Chavannes ; the
frieze of the delivery-room by Edwin A. Abbey; and
four spaces in an upper hall by John S. Sargent. Now
it is very likely that one who visits the Library for the
first time, if he is not a student of mural decoration, will
glance at the Puvis panels with a mild sort of interest,
but will not find his attention forcibly arrested or de-

[426]

PUVIS DE CIIAVAXXES-GEKUME

tallied. lie knows, perhaps, that they represent in alle-
gorical fasliioii the eontrihutions made to civilization hy
Pliilosuphij, .Istronoiny, Ilistor/j, Chemistry, PJii/.sics,
and hy Pastoral, Dramatic, and Kj)ic Poetry, while the
large space contains a representation of the Xiiie Mii.ses
Rising- from the Earth to ^reet Genius. But the gen-
eral effect seems unassertive, the symholism a little
vague, the figures unsuhstantial, and the coloring tliin
and tame.

wSo, passing on, the visitor enters Ahhey's room. Ah!
knights in armor ; beautiful women ; strange old in-
teriors of church and castle; a fight of six against one;
a weird scene of a sick man upon his couch, and filing
])ast him a procession of men and women carrying cu-
rious objects; a boat rocking on the waves; a flower-
eyed maiden whom a youth a])pears to be forsaking—
these and much more flash forth from the wall in strong
and brilliant colors and prick the visitor's interest. What
are they all about? Good fortune! Here is a printed
(kserii)ti()n of the various scenes! It appears they are
taken from one of the oldest legends of our race, the
Quest of the Holy (irail. Here is fodder a-plenty for
the mind! Eagerly the visitor reads the printed matter
and identifies the various scenes, and has his views of how
they do or do not correspond with his understanding of
the story.

As he leaves this room and passes again through the
hall, I wonder whether he sj)ares a moment for another
glance at the Puvis panels; and, if so, whether he notes
how reposeful they seem after the various excitements
of the Abbey series. rerha])s not— yet. He mounts the

[ 427 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

stairs to the Sargent room, so that his eyes are raised and
catch sight first of a panel in the center of which kneels
a huddled mass of men and women, bowed in prayer or
lifting up their hands in supplication. Over them stand
in threatening attitudes the figures of an Efgyptian and
an Assyrian king, and round about the group are flashes
of crimson wings, the Egyptian sphinx, the goddess
Pasht with black and gold pinions, a bird-headed god, a
lion, and other objects.

A second time: "What is it all about?" a question
fortunately answered by the printed explanation. The
latter is invaluable, especially when the visitor proceeds
to examine the bewildering labyrinth of symbolic forms,
taken from Egyptian mythology, which fill the ceil-
ing space. How tired his neck becomes, and possibly his
brain, by the alternate reference to the book and to the
ceiling! He experiences quite a relief when his eyes
come down to a lower level and are greeted by a row of
stately figures, prophets of the Old Testament, as he
sees by the name written under each. How pleasant to
be able to enjoy them without laborious study of a
printed page ! Very likely the visitor is already familiar
with them, for their photographs have appeared in great
numbers throughout the country. The popular taste,
not always right in such matters, has justly singled them
out as the best feature of Sargent's earlier decoration.
For there is a later one ; as the visitor turns, it greets
him from the other end of the hall. Here again is a row
of figures, this time of archangels ; but most noticeable
is the treatment of the upper part, where figures, sym-
bolizing the Persons of the Trinity, sit enthroned. Their

[428]

'Jl
Zi

<
>

a
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IHiP^

■T.

PUVIS DE CIIAVANXES-GEKUME

forms are enveloped in ample draperies, flatly painted
with little or no modeling, large expanses of rieh dusky
eoloring, against whieh the heads and hands, some orna-
mented horders, and forms of doves, make spots of ani-
mation. Hut the general imj)ression is oi' flatness and
simplieity, forming a haekground of subdued grandeur
to the central group of the Crucifixion. Flatness of
j)ainting and simple ample masses — these qualities Sar-
gent l)orrowed from the Bvzantine artists who deco-
r itr- 1 with paintings and mosaics the walls of churches in
t)...- ^diddle Ages. They were poor draftsmen, unskilled
^ a'/so, as we have noticed earlier, in the actual craft of
Tainting ; yet their designs were so impressive in their
large simplicity, that to this day their work, from the
'standpoint of decoration, wins the admiration of artists.
Flatness of painting, simple ample masses, large sim-
plicity of design — as the visitor descends the great stair-
case, will he notice, I wonder, that these are character-
istics also of the Puvis ^^anels ; that what contributed so
much to the grandeur of Sargent's latest work is in a
technical sense the fundamental (juality of Puvis's^ Per-
haps it was because of their flatness, their lack of elab-
orate modeling, the large simplicity, or, if you will, the
comparative emptiness — of their design, that he had paid
little heed to them before. Now, if he has the curiosity
to l(K)k into the Abbey room, he will observe in the hit-
ter's ])aintings the very opposite (jualities — elaborate
modeling, exuberance of parts in the design, a general
contradiction of orderly (juiet. Then possibly, since he
is no longer curious about their subjects, nor dividing
his observation between them and the printed key, but

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

looking at them solely as decorations, he may miss some-
thing of the suave, stately calm that distinguishes the
work of Puvis.

The fact is that Abbey is an illustrator on a grand
scale; Puvis, on a grander scale, a decorator. Abbey's
work is grand because he has taken one of the noblest
themes in literature, and with much archgeological know-
ledge, and upon large canvases, has represented the story
with considerable dramatic and poetic feeling. Puvis's,
on the other hand, is grander because his work joins
hands with what is bigger and grander than itself,
—namely, the architecture,— and by union with it has
been lifted up.

This is the point to which we have been slowly travel-
ing : Puvis had what neither of the other painters pos-
sesses, at least to anything like the same extent,— the true
instinct of the decorator. This instinct reasons the mat-
ter out in the following way. The part must be less than
the whole ; therefore the painted panel cannot compete
with the total effect of the architecture, of which it is
only a detail ; to try to make it stand out conspicuously
is to excite an invidious comparison, whereas to make it
blend harmoniously with the architecture is to secure
from the latter a reinforcement of the painting. INIore-
over, the space to be decorated, except in the case of a
curved ceiling, is a flat solid mass, which terminates the
vision ; therefore, while the decoration is introduced as
a pleasing variety to the general effect of masonry, it
should not interfere with the intentions of the latter;
it should not, as the artists express it, " make a hole in the
wall"; give, that is to say, an impression that you are

[ 434 ]

PUVIS DE CHAVANNES-GEKUMK

looking tlirouf^h the wall at some scene beyond, l)iit
should preserve the essential condition of the wall: its
solidity and flatness. Once more, since the paintin*^- is to
decorate a certain wall space, its composition of lines and
masses should be chosen with })articular reference to the
shape of the space ; some of the lines, for example,
should repeat, while others should be in contrast to, the
contours of the space, and the masses slum Id be arranged
so as to present a perfect balance within the space.
Moreover, the lines of a building arc generally simple,
the wall spaces spots of quiet strength; therefore the
composition of the painting will do well to imitate this
siinplicity of line and quietness of masses, so as to give
the idea of structural arrangement; to be what artists
call " architectonic " in character.

To sum up, the decorator should recognize that his
work is subordinate to the architecture ; should make it
harmonize with the latter in composition and color, j)re-
serve the flatness of the wall space, and have a distinctly
structural or architectonic character. Let us examine
how Puvis, to whom is due the credit of having revived
in the nineteenth century the true princij)les of mural
painting, exenq)lifled them in his work. It should l)e
mentioned, in passing, that, unlike the Boston Library,
some of the buildings in which his work ap])ears are infe-
rior specimens of architecture, but that did not deter him
from sticking to the theory of subordination.

We will consider his work under the two heads of his
choice of subject and method of painting. Puvis de
Chavannes came of an aristocratic family which had re-
sided for three hundred years in Burgundy, so that, as

[435]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

a French writer says, he inherited the racial tendency
toward poetry and the enjoyment of nature. On the
other hand, his father was an engineer of bridges and
roads in Lyons, and the son, after receiving a classical
and mathematical education in that city, proceeded to the
Polytechnic in Paris, with a view to adopting his father's
profession. But, his health breaking down, he made a
trip to Italy and came back determined to be a painter.
He started, then, with an acquired taste both for the
classics and for mathematics, with logical as well as
poetical tendencies. It was not until he was thirty-five
years of age that the accident of some vacant panels in a
new house, belonging to his brother, drew his attention
to mural decoration. Of one of the drawings he made
an enlarged copy and sent it to the Salon. Its accep-
tance encouraged him to go on in the same vein, and two
years later he exhibited the decorative canvases, War
and Peace. One of them was purchased by the govern-
ment ; when Puvis, not willing that the two should be
separated, made a present of the other. They are now
in the museum at Amiens, and mark the beginning of his
public career as a mural painter.

The conception of their subjects is the reverse of real-
istic. In the Peace, for example, many of the figures
are nude ; they are grouped with the regard for beauty
of line that distinguishes the work of the classicists, but,
unlike them, Puvis already shows his love of landscape.
Yet in three important respects this work differs from
his later ones. In the first place, the figures are massed
one behind the other ; secondly, their forms are ample
and roundly modeled; and, thirdly, the eye is detained

[ 436 ]

PUVIS DE CIIAVAXNES-CiKKOMK

])V the beauty or character of individual fmurcs. y\s the
French say, tlicre are tine morceaiLr in the j)aintin^\ and
it was api)Iau(le(l hy tlie autliorities.

l?ut Puvis's logical mind argued, not immediately hut
hy degrees, that anything which distracts attention from
the whole must be avoided ; that the massing of figures,
necessitating contrasts of light and shade, interfered
u ith the flatness of the design ; that in every way perfec-
tion was to be reached through simplification. Accord-
ingly lie reconsidered even the character of his subjects.
The allegory must be rendered in a manner as abstract
as possible, so that the mind of the spectator may be in
no wise occupied with " AVhat is it all about ^ " nor drawn
away for a moment from the first and final thought that
this is a decoration.

The conception having been reduced to abstract ex-
pression, it followed that the method of painting, also,
must be as unobtrusive as possible. Therefore Puvis
i-educed the amount of modeling ; relied more and more
upon the contour-lines of his figures and their position
in the composition ; distributed them in successive
planes, sprinkled over the landscape, and flattened tlie
bulk and distance of the latter into a simple patterning
of colored forms ; reducing also the strength of the
color, heightening continually the key of it, and relying
more and more upon subtle rendering of values. His
progress became a constant search for what was essen-
tial, and a leaving out of everything that might possibly
distract attention from the whole and disturb the abso-
lute sim})licity of effect which it was his growing i)urpose
to attain.

[437]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

It was charged against him that this increasing ten-
dency to leave out rather than to put in resulted in large
barren spaces and in carelessness of drawing ; and that
his color, becoming paler and paler, was anemic. No
doubt there is some justification for the criticism ; in-
deed the panels at Boston show instances of imperfect
drawing. But there never was a prophet yet crying in
the wilderness that did not fall into exaggerations; it
is by them that he compels a hearing ; and Puvis, by his
attack upon the kind of historic fiction that was being
made to do duty as decoration, perhaps had need to run
into extremes. As to his color, he proved himself a
modern of the moderns. Not even Manet himself could
juxtapose his flat tones with more precise discrimination
of their relative values. Puvis's skill in this respect is
manifested particularly in the landscape parts. He se-
lects for the sky a tone of blue that has more light in it
than the greens of the earth, and varies the tones of the
latter by almost imperceptible gradations of light and
less light tones. In this management of values and
knowledge of forms and construction, he is the equal of
the best professional landscape-painters ; and the result
is that, while his landscapes give an impression of space
and seem filled with air that surrounds the figures, they
also give the impression of being flat to the wall.

The truth of this is apparent, I think, even in the re-
production of Inter Artes et Naturam, though we miss
the efl'ect of the color. But try to imagine the color of
the grass to be tender green, such as in early April, sprin-
kled with pale-yellow flowers, while a bunch of purple
iris grows beside the water-basin ; that the costumes of the

[ 438 ]

PUVIS DE CHAVAXXES-GEKOME

women include pale rose and lilac and silvery white;
those of the men, «»"ray and hlue ; that the distant land-
scape is veiled in luminous hluish haze, and the whole
scene bathed in a soft glow. In this landscajje, whose
tran(juillity is not marred by a single flutter of disturb-
ance,— an abstract expression of nature's calm, — the
figures move and have their being, abstracts of human-
ity, suggesting by their jiositions and gestures the ab-
stract ideals of the artist. In the original they are not
as prominent as in the l)lack-and-white reproduction, the
colors tending to blend them M'ith the landscape, so that
the spectator is less inclined to examine them separately.
They dwell apart from him, creatures of his own like-
ness, but purged of materialism ; embodied spirits, in a
scene that is of the earth, but not earthly, breathing the
spirit of nature as she reveals lierself in moments of
exalted calm to the contemplation of the painter and the
poet.

And poet by instinct, as well as painter, was Puvis
himself; moreover, a vigorous, red-blooded man, with
healthy enjoyment in the good things of life, and an ad-
miration of what is strong and bounteous in human and
j)hysical nature. Yet in his art the instinct of the
decorator, as we have seen, led him to avoid these (jual-
ities, as being too assertive for the province of mural
decoration, until by a process of severely logical experi-
ments he was able to depict not form, but its essence and
abstract suggestion. The result is that his decorations
do not impress upon us the idea of paint ; they seem
rather to have grown upon the wall like a delicate efHo-
rescence.

[ 439 J

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

In the case of Gerome's pictures, however, one does
not lose the recollection of paint. Throughout it is the
cleverness of drawing and skill of representation that
divide our attention with the subject. He belonged to
the family of the classicists, was learned in composition
and drawing as they are taught in the schools, and fond
of classical and drapery subjects. But he also borrowed
of the realists and gave his men and women something of
individual character; he borrowed also of the romantic
and anecdotic painters, so that his pictures tell exciting
stories ; moreover, he had traveled in Egypt and brought
back a certain feeling for glowing light and color. In
consequence, therefore, of his touching so many varie-
ties of popular taste, he was a most popular painter
and received every honor that the French nation be-
stows upon success. But, being so accomplished in
many directions, he was really master in none, and the
artistic judgment of the world has already turned its
thumb down upon his excessive reputation.

[440]

CHAPTER XXVTII

JAMES ABBOTT McNElLL WHISTLER JOHN SINGER SAJiG'ENT

1S34-1003 ISoG-

American American

THESE pictures, like their respective authors,
|)reseut a strange contrast. Tlie Sargent, so
hiilhantiy assertive, is the work of a reticent
personahty; while the Whistler, so tenderly reticent, is
the creation of an artist who was hrilliant and assertive.

There is an antithesis in these two cases between the
man and his work that is by no means uncommon in
the history of art. Without attempting an ex])lanation
of this, we may note, as helping toM-ard it, that an artist
puts into his work what there is of best and strongest
ill himself; also that some artists, holding their art very
sacred, erect around it a barricade, and adopt a })ersonal
manner that, as it were, shall throw the world oft' the
scent; somewhat as the plover wheels around in the air
with noisy cry, in order to distract attention from her
lust, which is tucked away remote from disturbance in
a dift'erent direction.

The work of both these men lias an original force,
that has influenced countless other painters, and yet its
insj)iration was borrowed. 15oth owe much to the lesson
of Velasquez; Sargent also to that of Franz Hals and

« [ 441 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

Raeburn, while Whistler gleaned from INIanet and the
Japanese. The originality of each consists in adapting
what he has derived to the spirit of his own age and sur-
roundings, and in giving his own work an independent
vitality, that has become, as I have said, an example
to others.

This statement may serve as a useful definition of
originality. The latter is rarely, if ever, doing some-
thing new, but giving to a thing that has been done
before some new force and meaning. Now that we are
reaching the end of our survey of painting, we may
look back and see that the progress has been for the
most part a series of renewals, of men carrying forward
and farther what they had received from others. The
most notable example of this in the whole story is that
of Raphael, who has been called " the Prince of Plagiar-
ists," and yet his work is unique. It is not the search
after or discovery of new ideas that makes an original
man, so much as his ability to reclothe the old with some
newness of appearance or meaning out of his own stock
of individuality.

When Sargent entered the school of Carolus-Duran
he was much above the average of pupils in attainment.
He had been born in Florence, in 1856, the son of cul-
tivated parents; his father, a Massachusetts gentleman,
having practised medicine in Philadelphia and retired.
The home life was penetrated with refinement, and out-
side of it were the beautiful influences of Florence, com-
bining the charms of sky and hills with the wonders of
art in the galleries and the opportunities of intellectual
and artistic society. Accordingly, when Sargent ar-

[ 442 ]

WITISTLER-SARGENT

rived in Paris, he was not only a skilful draftsman and
})aintc'r, the result of his study of the Italian masters,
hut also, — whieh has had perhaps an even greater influ-
ence upon his career, — young as he was, he already had
a refined and cultivated taste. This at once stood liiin
in good stead, for his new master, tliough a very skil-
ful painter and excellent teacher, was otherwise a man
of rather showy and su])erflcial qualities. lie too had
studied in Italy, hut later in Spain, and it was chiefly
upon the lessons learned from Velas(piez that he had
founded his own hrilliant metliod. This method Sar-
gent, heing a youth of remarkable diligence with an
unusual faculty for receiving impressions, soon ab-
sorbed. He painted a portrait of his master, wliich
proved he had already acquired all that the latter could
give him. Then he went to iSIadrid and saw the work
of Velasquez with his own eyes; subsequently visiting
Holland, where he was greatly impressed with the por-
traits by Franz Hals. Let us see how these various
influences are reflected in his work.

In the accompanying picture we may trace the in-
fluence of Velasquez in the noble simplicity of tlie lines,
in the ample dignity of the masses, in the single im-
pression which the whole comi)osition makes and the
quiet sumptuousness o])tained by the treatment of the
])lack and white costumes, a treatment at once grand
and subtle. ^Moreover, the whole picture has tlie liigh-
bred feeling and stateliness of manner, the powerful di-
rectness and at the same time self-restraint, that Sar-
gent had found in the old Italian portraits. Vet the
suggestion of the picture is thoroughly modern; not

[ 443]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

only do the ladies belong to to-day and vibrate with life,
but in the actual technic of the painting there is vitality
of brushwork: now a long sweep of a full brush, now
a spot of accent, a touch-and-go method, brilliantly
suggestive, terse, quick, vivacious, and to the point,
qualities that are best summed up in the French word
esprit. They are peculiarly French; and in his posses-
sion of them Sargent shows the influence of his train-
ing and life in Paris, and proves himself a modern of
the moderns.

Yet in his case this esprit is rarely carried to excess;
and when it may seem to be, as in some of his portraits
of ladies, one may guess that he took refuge in this
pyrotechnic display of brushwork because he could find
nothing else in the picture to interest him. Usually, he
seems to have received an almost instantaneous im-
pression of his subject, vivid and distinct, to the setting
down of which are directed all his subsequent efforts;
and they are often long and patiently repeated. It is
not a deep impression; as a rule, takes little account
of the inward man or woman, but represents with amaz-
ing reality the visible exterior, illumined by such hints
of character as a keen observer may discover in man-
ner or speech and general appearance. Sometimes,
however, it would appear that he had been unable to es-
tablish a sympathetic accord with his subject; and these
are the few occasions when he seems mainly preoccupied
with the technic, or the still fewer ones in which there
are evidences of tiredness or fumbling in the brush-
work.

In the acquirement of the latter a strong influence was

[444]

PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST'S MOTHER JAMES A. McNEILL WHISTLER

LUXEMBOURG GALLERY, PARIS

I'oKiUAir oi' riiK MissKS niNri:i{ .loiix s. saucuat

in I'l.UMISSION OI-' MK. ( II AKI.l.S I . I H \ IKK

1^-^^ V

.i-e

^.^"^

WHISTLER-SARGENT

Franz Hals. From him Sargent caught the skill of
modeling the faces in quiet, even light, of l)uil(ling them
up by placing side by side firm, strong patches of color,
each of which contains the exact amount of light the
part of the face reflected, and of giving to flat masses
of color the suggestion of roundness and modeling.
AVhile French esprit is noticeable in his portraits of
ladies, his male ones recall rather the manly gusto of
the old Dutch painter. ^loreover, in his plachig of the
figiu-es in the composition, and in the pure, luminous
tones of his flesh-tints, he often reminds one of the
Scotch artist, Raeburn.

In addition to j^ortraits, he has executed some mural
decorations for the Boston Public Library, the theme
of which is the Triumph of Religion — illustrating cer-
tain stages of Jewish and Christian history. One por-
tion presents in an intentionally complicated comjjo-
sition the confusion of gods and goddesses of Egypt;
another, also with deliberate intricacy of arrangement,
the persecution of the Jews under Egyptian and As-
syrian tyrants. Then in the frieze below stand the
Prophets of the Old Testament, those of Hope and
those of Lamentation; large and simple forms, follow-
ing one another in beautiful, simple lines of rhythmic
gravity. Upon the wall at the opposite end of the room
appears a symbolic representation of the Redemption
of Man, treated in the spirit of l^yzantine decoration,
but without the Byzantine formahsm and unnatural-
ness in the representation of the figures. This ])anel,
the latest executed, is the best, being a remarkable ex-
ample of grafting the skill of modern painting upon

[449]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

the old stock of Byzantine mural decoration, which
still remains, by reason of its flatness of treatment, its
general simplicit}^ of design and occasional elaboration
of parts, the most distinctly mural form of color decora-
tion that has ever been aj^plied to a wall. The
Prophets share this simplicity of design, but the other
two panels, partly because of the confusion of their de-
sign, — although there is no reason why a pattern should
not be elaborate and intricate, — still more because of the
immense amount of literary allusion that they contain,
and without a knowledge of which they are unintelli-
gible, may be reckoned the least successful.^

These decorations exhibit a very beautiful side of
Sargent's mind that has been only partially developed;
a deeper insight into the significance of the subject than
his portraits suggest. The latter are distinguished
rather by an audacious vivacity of method, and an ex-
traordinary appreciation of the value of the things which
lie upon, or only a little below, the surface. In this re-
spect he offers a great contrast to Whistler.

If you turn to the latter's Portrait of the Artist's
31 other, you will recognize at once that " audacious "
and "vivacity" are terms that cannot be applied to it;
also, that the interest it arouses is a much deeper one
than you feel in Sargent's picture. For Whistler, not
a brilliant brushman, was interested most in what could
not be presented to actual sight, but suggested only.
Here it is the tenderness and dignity of motherhood and
the reverence that one feels for it ; not the first blossom-

^ For the point of this criticism the reader may compare the chapter on

Puvis de Chavannes.

[ 450]

WITTSTLKK SARCiKXT

ing of motherhood, as in liapliael's Madonnas, hut the
ripened form of it. What tlie man himself is eonseious
of owing to it and feehng for it, w hat the mother her-
self may feeh as she looks haek with traveling gaze
along the ])ath of hopes and fears, of joy and pain,
that she has trodden. This miraele of ^lotherhood, most
holy and pure and lovely of all the many miraeles of
life, continually repeated in millions of experiences,
Whistler has represented once for all in such a A\ay that
this picture will remain forever a type of it.

I?y what means did he produce this universal, typal
significance? Ultimately, of course, by the way in
which he has com])osed and painted the picture; hut,
before that, through the attitude of mind with which
he aj)])roached the task. If we succeed in understand-
ing this attitude, we shall have learned a clue to all this
artist's work.

You remember that Leonardo cared less for the ap-
pearance of things than for the spirit or essential mean-
ing that was concealed behind the veil of the outward
appearance. He was in this respect the opposite of
Diirer, just as Whistler was of Sargent. lie shunned
the obvious, however brilliantly ])ortraye(l. Now the
least obvious of the arts is music. Music steals into the
soul of a man and fills it with imi)ressions; into the soul
of another man with imi)ressions, varying aeeonling to
his experience and feeling: and so on into the souls
of countless others, with always varying im])ressi(ms.
Moreover, the imi)ression reeei\ed by each individual
is not a definite one, or limited except by the individual's
capacity. The iitii)ression grows and grows until it loses

[ 4.51 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

itself in a distance that we can seek toward but never
reach ; it passes into the universal.

Why has not painting the power to affect us so in-
definitely? Because it must begin by representing con-
crete things: figures and objects that we can see and
touch, and to which we have given names. Therefore
much of our attention is distracted by voluntarily or in-
voluntarily identifying these things which have names,
so that the general impression, the essence of the artist's
conception, of which these names are unavoidable acci-
dents, is clogged and circumscribed by them. Accord-
ingly, if the painter desires, as Whistler did, to raise his
own art toward the abstract and universal appeal of
music, it must be by diverting attention as far as possi-
ble from the means that he is obliged to employ.

At one period of his career Whistler almost com-
pletely discarded form and objects, relying, as far as
possible, entirely upon the effects of color to produce
the impression ; calling these canvases, in which different
tones of one or more colors would be blended, "noc-
turnes," "symphonies," "harmonies": terms borrowed
from the art of music, the abstract significance of which
he was striving to emulate. The public, being addicted to
names and to being interested in concrete things, asked,
"What are they all about?" and, receiving no answer,
scoffed.

But even to Whistler these canvases were only in the
nature of experiments. The pictorial artist cannot get
away from the concrete; visible and tangible objects
must engage his attention ; he must found upon them his
abstract appeal. Let us see how Whistler did it, inter-

[452]

UIIISTLER-SAIIGEXT

rupting for a moment our study of his paintings by a
glance at his work in etching, for all through his career
he was etcher as well as painter. Among his early works
with the needle is a series of views of the Thames: the
row of picturescjue old houses that lined the water at
Chelsea, where he lived for many years, the wharves, the
shi])ping, boat-houses, and bridges. In the suggestion
they give of constructive reality, of detail, and of the
actual character of the objects represented, they are
marvelous. Not even a man exclusively in love with
the appearances of things could render them more con-
vincingly. Then, having mastered the character of
form, he set to work to make the objects in his etchings
subordinate to the general impression he wished to con-
vey; giving more and more attention to the evanescent
(|ualities of light and atmosphere. Having learned to
put in, he became learned in leaving out; and in his later
series of Venetian etchings confined himself to a few
lines contrasted with large spaces of white paper. But
the lines are used with such comprehension and discre-
tion, that they are sufficient to suggest the character of
the objects, while the chief meaning is given to the
empty s])aces. These cease to be mere paper; they con-
vey the impression of water or sky under the diverse
effects of atmosphere and luminousness, and by their
vague suggestiveness stimulate the imagination.

Remembering Whistler's preference f'oi- suggestion
rather than actual statement, one can understand his
fondness for etching, since the latter demands an effort
of imagination, fii-st of all uj)on the artist's part to
translate the various hues of nature into black and white,

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HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

and then upon the spectator's to retranslate these into
hues of nature. And while this is so in the case of color,
it is much more so when it comes to the point of creating
an illusion of atmosphere sim^Dly by means of a few
lines on a sheet of white paper. And a correspondingly
keener imagination is demanded of the spectator, which
may be a reason why many people prefer the master's
earliest Thames Series.

In the Portrait of the Artist's Mother black and white
again form important ingredients, combined with the
gray of the wall and the very dark green of the curtain ;
the grave harmony being solely relieved by the soft
warmth of the face. Is it necessary to say that this
prevailing gravity, so choicely reserved, and this accent
of tenderness, contribute very largely to the emotion
aroused in our imagination ? Reserve, if it is deliberate,
is a quality of force and may be one of dignity. That
it shall be so here is assured by the contrast between
the upright line of the curtain and the diagonal curving
line of the lady's figure, and by the quiet assertion of
these two masses. Observe how the latter are painted
so that they shall count as masses, with only enough
suggestion of modeling to make us feel in one case the
folds of the curtain and in the other the figure beneath
the dress. The severit}^ of these masses is assuaged by
the two gathering-points of intimate expression, the
hands and the head. The former are laid one above the
other with a gesture of exquisite composure, their color
rendered more delicate and tender by being shown
against the white handkerchief.^ The gray wall behind

^ Compare how Rubens placed the dead body on a white cloth
in his Descent from the Cross. See page 182.

[ 454 ]

WIIISTLER-SARGEXT

the head assists in creating an illusi(jn of atni()S])licre,
enveloping the liead in tenderness, while the little ac-
cents of dainty snggestiveness that ai)i)ear in the white
cap soften the ininiohility of the face. In this is con-
centrated tlie calm and tender dignity to which every
other part of the canvas has contrihuted. I s})eak of
"calm and tender dignity," but who shall capture into
exact words the (jualities of mind and feeling which lie
behind that searching gaze? That face speaks to each
and every mother's son with different appeal; it speaks
in a universal language, that each can understand but
no man can fully comprehend. Yet, once again, let us
note that the expression of the face is not an isolated
incident, but the center and climax of a corresponding
expression that in a more general way pervades the
whole canvas; the result of the exquisite balance of the
full and empty spaces and of the tender dignity of the
color-scheme of black and gray.

^N'^histler's fondness for gray, which even caused him
to keep his studio dimly lighted, just as the Dutch artist
Israels does, may be traced to his study of \'elas(]uez,
as also his subtle use of black and white, and the prefer-
ence he shows for sweeping lines and ample im})osing
masses. Often in the apparently haphazard arrange-
ment of the masses and s])aces there is a suggestion
of the Ja})anese influence, as well as in the introduction
of a hint of something outside the j)ieture. Note, for ex-
ample, the apparently accidental s})()tting of the picture
on the wall, and the portion of another frame, pee})ing
in, as it were, from outside. From both Velasquez and
the Japanese he learned the power of sinq)li('ity and
subtlety; the value of leaving out rather than of putting

[ 455 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

in; the charm of dehcate harmonies, the fascination of
surprise, and the abiding joy of suggestiveness. They
helped him to give expression to the preference, which
he shared with Leonardo, for the elusive rather than the
obvious.

Whistler and Sargent belong to America, but are
claimed by foreigners as, at least, citizens of the world,
cosmopolitans. Sargent, with the exception of a few
months at distant intervals, has spent his life abroad;
Whistler, since about his twentieth year, was a resident
of Paris and I^ondon, occasionally visiting Holland.
The artistic influences which affected both were those
of Europe, Yet their Americanism may be detected in
their extraordinary facility of absorbing impressions, in
the individuality evolved by both, and in the subtlety and
reserve of their methods, qualities that are characteristic
of the best American art.

I4i56]

CHAPTER XXIX

CLAUDE MONET HASHIMOTO (J A HO

I840- IS.l/f-

Impressionist School of France Modern School of Japan

WE touched upon Oriental art at tlie very be-
ginning of our story. Then it was the
Byzantine offshoot of it that we were con-
sidering, and the efforts of Giotto to hberate painting
from the sliackles of its traditions. Now, however, it is
the art of Japan that claims our attention, and it does so
because, as we saw in the previous chapter, it has been a
source of some fresh inspiration to Western ])ainting.
The latest phase of the latter is represented in Monet,
while Gaho is the foremost living artist in Ja])aii. They
are both landscaj)e-painters.

We have seen that Manet was the founder of the mod-
ern impressionism, yet in the minds of the public Monet
stands forth as the most cons})icuous impressionist: and,
as his later pictures are painted not in masses of color
but with an infinity of little dabs of paint, the public is
apt to suppose that this method of j)ainting is what is
meant by impressionism. Now Monet, like Manet, is an
impressionist, in that what he strives to lender is the ef-
fect vividly ])n)duced upon the eye by a scene; and,
working always out of doors, he goes further than this,

[457]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

in trying to represent the exact effect of a scene at a cer-
tain hour of the day. It is the fleeting, transitory mood
of nature that he represents. For this reason he was one
of the first to be attracted by the Japanese paintings and
colored prints which began about the sixties to be
brought over in considerable numbers to Paris. For one
of the characteristics of the Japanese work is, that it
catches the fugitive gesture or movement in the elastic-
ity of its momentary appearance.

But the method which lionet uses to render his ef-
fects is a totally different matter from his way of seeing
nature, and of itself has nothing to do with impression-
ism. Nor was he the originator of the method of paint-
ing in dots or dabs. The first to practise it was a French
painter but little known, named Seurat, who had studied
very closely the experiments in light and color made by
certain scientists, among others by Professor Rood of
Columbia University, and then applied the theory to the
practice of painting. Seurat was followed by Pissarro,
and then by INIonet, and later by many others, among
them our own American painter, Childe Hassam. But,
since Monet stands out from all of them as the big orig-
inal man, this innovation in the handling of pigments
will be identified with him.

Let us trace the train of causes which led to this re-
sult. Though a Parisian by birth, Monet's early years
were spent at Havre, where Boudin, the painter of har-
bors and shipping, frequently resided. It was he who,
attracted by the young lionet's taste for drawing, ad-
vised him to go out of doors and study nature. The
young man did so, but was interrupted in his studies by

[ 458 ]

MOXET-GAllO

beiii^' drawn as a conscript and drafted to Algeria.
Here he came under the spell of the brilliant Southern
sunshine. To his study of nature was added a special
enthusiasm for the effects of sunlight. This was in-
creased when he visited England during the disturbed
period of the Franco-Prussian War, and became ac-
quainted with the experiments in the painting of light
that had been made by Turner. Thus, a second time, an
English influence affected the course of French jjaint-
ing. Forty years earlier the appearance at the Salon of
pictures by Constable had stimulated " the men of 1830 "
to go out to liarbizon and study nature ; and now Turner
gave the stimulus to Monet to supplement and advance
the study which they had achieved. The rendering of
light became the problem of his artistic endeavors. Then
it was that on his return to France he became ac(juainted
with the principles of Seurat and Fissarro, and found in
them a practical means of fulfilling what was to be his
particular role in art as the leader of the " luminarists."

His aim was to render the appearance of nature as
seen in out-of-door light, — ;;/f/// air, as the French
call it, — and especially the various effects of sunlight.
Aided by the experiments of the scientists and by his
own keen observation, he discovered certain facts which
had escaped the notice of less keen eyes unaided by
science; for example, that green, seen under strong sun-
shine, is not green, but yellow; that the shadows cast by
sunlight upon snow or uj)on brightly lighted surfaces
are not black, but blue; and that a white dress, seen under
the shade of trees on a bright day, has violet or lilac tones.
Science had proved that these are facts, and the keen,

[ 459]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

cultivated eye of the artist corroborated them. Here
was a new insight into reahsm.

Thus far, however, science had only opened up a new
faculty of seeing; could it also suggest a method of re-
producing in paint the eiFects thus seen? Professor
Rood had made experiments by covering disks with va-
rious colors, and then revolving them and noting the
color produced while the disk was in motion. This sug-
gested a new way of applying the pigments to the can-
vas. Instead of blending them upon the palette, the ar-
tist placed them separately side by side upon the canvas,
so that the blending might be done by the eye of the
spectator, standing at the required distance from the
picture. As Pissarro himself said, the idea was " to sub-
stitute the optical mingling for the mingling of pig-
ments, the decomposition of all the colors into their con-
stituent elements; because the optical mingling excites
much more intense luminosity than the mingling of pig-
ments."

If you stand close to a picture by Monet, you see only
a confusion of dabs of different-colored pigments laid
on the canvas with separate strokes of the brush-point, in
consequence of which this method of painting has been
called the pointilliste method. But, if you step fur-
ther back, these dabs begin to mingle, until they no
longer appear separate but merged into a single harmo-
nious eiFect.

Let us refer to the illustration of the Old Church at
Vernon. It reproduces pretty well the effect of the
separate dabs — the points, or stippling, as they are also
called ; but, unless you are familiar with some of the

[ 460 ]

MOXET-GAITO

originals of lionet's pictures, it will hardly suggest to
you the blending of these dabs. The searching eye of
the camera has reduced the effect of distance and me-
chanically registered the multii)licity of pahit spots, so
that the picture looks somewhat as it would if we were
standing where we ought not to stand to view it prop-
erly—namely, close by. Accordingly we receive an im-
pression of a gritty, confused surface, and of a very wab-
bly, unsoh(l-l(M)king church, rising up into a sky tliat
seems veiled in crape. For here again, and in the water
of the foreground, the camera has played us false. It
did so, you may remember, in the drab-gray background
of ^Manet's Girl tcitJi a Parrot, making it appear too
dark; and here the darkness of sky and water is even
more exaggerated, since in the original they are a very
delicate dove-gray.

For the hour represented is early on a summer's morn-
ing, when the vapors that have been sleeping over mea-
dows and river are touched by the "rosy-fingered dawn"
and, ])al])itating in the growing warmth, begin to float
skvward and disi)erse. All the air is a-tremble with silkv
opalescent mist, through which trees and buildings glim-
mer scarcely more substantial than their reflections.
You can now appreciate why the outlines of the church
are rendered so uncertainly, A\hy its mass presents so
little of the solidity of architecture. The church, like
everything else in the scene, appears to be trembling in
the soft, quivering atmosphere. If you have witnessed
such an early sunrise, and could see the original of this
picture, you would not need my word to recognize the
trutii with wliich the phenomenon is represented.

« [ 401 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

We may discover here a clue to the kind of motive
which interested lionet, as well as to the method he
adopted to realize it. It was not the church as a specimen
of architecture that for the time being interested him,
but its aspect under the influence of a certain evanescent
mood of nature. With the same end in view, he painted
his famous series of the West Front of Rouen Cathe-
dral: under varying light-eff*ects of early morning, of
full sunlight, of fog, of the last rays of the sun, of after-
noon, and so on. The venerable pile is represented with
sufficient hint of shape and construction to make us re-
alize its presence, yet it is not its material reality that
affects us, but something quite as real, possibly even
more so : namely, the influence upon our spirit of its pres-
ence when bathed in the tenderness, or glory, or mystery
of light. The pictures will not give you the actual ap-
pearance in its whole or detail of the architecture as a
photographic print would do. But imagine yourself
dispensing with a lens and wooden box and a sensitized
plate inside it, and receiving the impression of the lighted
cathedral through your eyes on to the sensitized plate of
your imagination, and so securing a spiritual impression,
a spirit picture. It would be somewhat like what Monet
has produced in these cathedral pictures, and in a host of
others, including the one we are studying.

It was indeed a higher kind of impressionism that
Monet originated, one that reveals a vivid rendering, not
of the natural and the concrete facts, but of their influ-
ence upon the spirit when they are wrapped in the infi-
nite diversities of that impalpable, immaterial, universal
medium which we call light, when the concrete loses

[ 462 ]

MOXET-GAIIO

itself in the abstract, and what is of time and matter
impinges on the eternal and the universal.

This is the seeret also of the spiritual imj)ression pro-
duced by Corot's pictures of the dawn and evening;
everything trembles on the edge of those gray skies of
his through which the eye travels forward, until imagi-
nation takes its place and the spirit dips into the illimit-
able. For Corot could make us feel that the bit of sky
which he reveals to us is a part of the infinite ocean of
light. Eut ^Monet's range of expression is much wider
than Corot's; partly because his sensitiveness to color is
keener and more embracing, partly because he has found
a new way of rendering the color impressions by means
of paint. For this reason he has gone farther in the rep-
resentation of light than Rembrandt, Velas(piez, or
Turner. lie does not have to stimulate the appearance
of light by surrounding it with shadows as Rembrandt
did; nor is he bound to the tangible, visible objects of his
subject, as \vas Velasquez, in representing their values or
the amount of light which each contained; nor, again,
tempted to escape from the tangible appearances, as
Turner grew to be. The secret of his freer, fidler power
is that he uses a method of ])ainting which, while it is
clumsy and gross com])ared with the tenuous medium of*
light that he is rejjresenting, yet enables him to suggest a
higher key of light and more nearly to suggest the essen-
tial characteristic of light, namely, its vibrative (juality.

For let us remember that light is a form of energy that
travels in waves through space, until it reaches us, when
it floods the sky and pours over all the earth, swimming
through transparent objects, turned from its direction,

[ 4.G3 ]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

as it is refracted in its course through objects of varying
transparency, tossed in a shimmer of luminous reflec-
tions from the surfaces of opaque objects; an energy
that streams, or throbs, and darts in and out, pulsating
continually with vibrations.

It is an approximation toward this suggestion of
movement that the pointilUste method of painting per-
mits. When we try to read from a book whose print is
too small for our eyesight, the little dots of black are apt
to irritate our brain, until the whole page presents an
unsteady, quavering blur, very painfully fatiguing be-
cause it oppresses us with a sense of feebleness. But
suppose that, instead of dots of black, we are looking at
dabs of color, which, when they blend, suggest a mass of
foliage quivering with light ; then the sensation is pleas-
ant. Instead of the eye being distressed by the sense of
feebleness, it has been gladdened by a surj^rise of new
perception ; and as our eye has had a share in creating the
surprise, our imagination receives so much the pleasanter
stimulation. We are not gazing helplessly at a blur, but
likely to enjoy a sensation of vibrafing color; color, that
is to say, with all the stir of light about it.

The artist in another way also has made it possible for
«s to see more sensitively. For example, to our unaided
sight a stretch of sea may appear to have a prevailing hue
of blue, or, more definitely, perhaps, a greenish blue.
INIonet, on the other hand, with an eye that is by nature
keener and trained to an exquisite sensitiveness, sees the
blue and paints in blue dabs, notes the greenish blue and
adds dabs of green. But he sees much more; the pres-
ence of yellow it may be, or white in the strong sunshine,

[ 464 ]

o
>

§1

MOXET-GAHO

and of pink and rose and violet. All these constituent
colors he })laces side by side in minute patches, and imme-
diately the latter be<;in to act and react on one another,
as a number of l)ri»4ht people will do upon one another,
when assembled together in a room. I will mention only
one recognized fact: red, yellow, and blue, being re-
garded as the primary colors, and the combinations of
any two of these — namely, red + yellow = orange, yel-
low + blue = green, blue + red = purple — being re-
gai'ded as secondary colors, it has been demonstrated that
the juxta])()sition of any secondary with the remainder
primary will heighten the brilliancy of each. Thus,
orange and blue are mutually enforcing; so green and
red, and yellow and purple. ^Vhile this law applies
everywhere in painting, it applies with more subtlety and
vivacity when the coloi- spaces, instead of being big, are
split up into an infinite number of tiny fragments; for
the result may be likened to an intricate web, scintillating
with numberless dewdrops. And there is yet another
source of vivacity in this method of painting; namely,
that the light is not reflected in broad masses from the
canvas, but from each one of these separate patches
dart reflections, which melt and mingle like the play of
light upon minute threads of gossamer.

In this way ^Monet and his followers have based their
method of painting u])on the facts discovered by scien-
tists in their study of light, and have thus made great
advances in the rendering of light by means of pigments.
It must be remembered, however, that the latter are poor
substitutes for the colored light which they try to rei)ro-
duce. White paint, for example, which represents the

[4G9]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

lightest or highest note of color in pigments, is infinitely
inferior in luminosity to white light. So, while it is often
said that these artists have raised the key of color, it
would be more correct to say that they have raised the key
of the shadows. By substituting for black and brown
or red shadows delicate blue and violet ones, they have
increased the general appearance of lightness, and by the
increased vivacity and subtlety due to the imintiUiste
method of laying on the paint, have more nearly ap-
proximated to the effect produced upon the eye by the
vibrations and the brilliancy of sunlight.

In this necessarily brief account of Monet's work I can
add only one more particular — that it is absolutely ob-
jective. Corot was a poet at heart, seeking through na-
ture to express his own subjectivity — himself; and this
is the attitude of the majority of landscape-painters.
Monet, on the contrary, is an eye, analyzing what it sees ;
the brain behind it is filled with passion, but with a pas-
sion aroused and satisfied entirely from without. The
result is that, while most painters interpret through na-
ture a mood of their own, Monet interprets those of
nature purely ; and through the frame of his picture we
gaze, as through an open window, at nature herself
appealing to us, if we have eyes to see, directly.

Yet many people are honestly unable to admire his
pictures. The eyes of some are physically incapable of
blending into one the separate patches. Others, again,
by their temperament have so marked a preference for
the solidity and facts of nature, that this spiritualized
suggestion of it troubles them. I think one is to be con-
gratulated if one can appreciate both the tremendous

[470]

MOXET-GAIIO

reality of Uousscau, tlu' s])iritiiality of Corot, and also
the marvelous siio-gestioii to one's spirit and inia<^iiiation
that may be found in Monet.

Now it is the sug«>estiveness to spirit and imagination
that is the key-note of the Japanese motive, l^uddhism
teaches the impermanency and unreality of matter; that
matter is but a limited symbol of the universal soul.
The Japanese laugh at our Western art, that tries to
re])resent the human form and the forms of nature ex-
actly. Our artists, they think, in the first place are feed-
ing themselves upon what is not real, but an illusion;
and, in the second place, are trying to make the specta-
tor believe that what he sees on the canvas is a real man,
or fish, or mountain. He is trying to prop up an illusion
with a lie.

Now this is an idea not very dissimilar to the teach-
ing of our own philosophers, from Plato to Herbert
Spencer, but so far removed from our ordinary way of
regarding this world and our relation to it, that I mention
it only to get a starting-point for trying to understand
how the Ja|)anese feci toward art. We may state it
briefly in tlie following way.

Maiter is impermanent, the forms in 'which it appears
to the cife are temporar//. We ourselves were taught at
school that the extent and shape of our earth are contin-
ually changing ; and in Japan these changes are very
frecjucnt and remarkable, owing to the volcanic nature
of the islands and to the almost daily occurrence of
eartlKpiakes. "Rivers shift their courses," writes Laf-
cadio Hearn, "coasts their outline, plains their level;
volcanic peaks heighten or crumble ; valleys are blocked

[471]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

by lava floods or landslides ; lakes appear or disappear.
Even the matchless shape of Fuji, that snowy miracle
which has been the inspiration of artists for centuries, is
said to have been slightly changed since my advent to the
country ; and not a few other mountains have in the
same short time taken totally new forms. Only the gen-
eral lines of the land, the general aspects of its nature,
the general character of the seasons, remain fixed. Even
the very beauty of the landscape is largely illusion, — a
beauty of shifting colors and moving mists." This was
written in 1895, after the author had been living in
Japan for about ten years.

This impermanent matter is the temporary manifesta-
tion of the Universal Spirit, which alone is eternal. In
every form of nature, great or small, resides for the
time being an atom of the Universal Spirit. It is this
atom of spirit that is the life of the form in which it re-
sides, determining its character. The Japanese speak
of this inward spirit as " kokoro."

The highest aim in art, says Hashimoto Gaho, is to
eocpress this kokoro. A picture that gives merely the
temporary appearance of the objects of nature is not
a work of art; it becomes such only if it manifests- an
expression of the "kokoro," or, in his own word, if it
manifests " kokoromochi." At first sight this might
seem like Corot's expression of the spirit of dawn and
evening ; but Corot put into his pictures what M^as in
himself, whereas with Gaho the " kokoro " is entirely
outside himself, residing in the object before him, ac-
tually there, whether Gaho himself were asleep or awake,
alive or dead, having nothing to do with himself. Rous-

[472]

MOXET-GAHO

sean, tlierefore, to wliom nature was an objective study,
wlio tried to rej^resent the strengtli that hes in \hv rocks
themselves, and the sinewy vigor that (hrects tlie giowth
of the oak, comes nearer to Gaho's idea of it; and Monet
also, who has been described as only an " eve." On
the other hand, we remember that the old Greeks also
believed that there was a spirit in the waterfalls, the
mountains, the trees; but in their art they repre-
sented it in human shape, as nymphs, naiads, oreads,
dryads. This aim, however, is the very opposite to that
of the Japanese artist, who strives to get away as far
as possible from the. accidents of impermanent form.
In his attempt to do so he simplifies, generalizes, and
conventionalizes.

So do AVestern artists, but not for the same purpose
or to the same extent. They want to represent the
human form or the landscape as its material form really
appears to the eyes ; but, not being able to imitate every
hair on the head or every leaf and blade of grass, they
are forced to give a general appearance of hair, of fo-
liage, or of grass,— they simplify and generalize. Then
they make marks on the canvas which are not like leaves,
but which we have all agreed to accept as suggesting
the appearance of leaves; in fact, they conventionalize:
but, observe, mostly with the intention of forcing u])on
us the material fact of these things being leaves. Some
of oiu* artists, however, say : " We do not care about
representing leaves, but only the impression produced on
our minds by them"; and these men whom we call im-
pressionists, because of tlieir going farther in generali-
zation and conventionalizing, a[)pr()ach nearer to Jap-

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

anese art, by the example of which, we must remember,
however, they have been largely inspired.

Now the Japanese artist, taught by his rehgion to
value spirit more than matter, portrays material form
only because he is obliged to make a material habitation
for its " kokoro "; but he does not dwell on form. On
the contrary, he tries to draw your attention away from
the fact of his subject being a woman or a tree ; he
eliminates as far as possible the aggressiveness of form,
and accordingly simplifies, conventionalizes, and gen-
eralizes more than the Western artists do.

In the first place, he does not use oil paints, by means
of which his Western brother gives solidity and elabora-
tion to his objects. The Japanese artist paints with
water-colors upon silk or paper, using thin transparent
washes of color, manipulating his brush with a delicacy
and decision that are superior to anything in Western
painting. With one stroke of his brush, moving freely
from the shoulder,— for he kneels on the floor and works
above his silk or paper,— he can render, for example,
a branch of a plum-tree, using the flat side and bearing
more heavily on one end so as to render the shadow at
the same time as the light part, and twisting the brush
on to its edge to indicate knots or joints or such like.
This in itself represents a wonderful skill in generaliz-
ing and simplification. It has led also to a wonderful
skill and expressiveness in the use of line.

This is the second point to be noted: Gaho himself
says that Japanese painting is founded upon line, that
by varieties of modulation of its breadth and of dark
and light the line itself may be made to manifest " ko-
koromochi."

[ 474 ]

MONET-GAHO

Tliirdly, the colors are laid on flat ; forming a pattern
of very subtle harmony.

Fourthly, the composition is not based on set forms
of balanced arrangement, but is distinguished rather by
irregularity, by its unexpectedness and surprises. Nor
is it designed to hold our attention entirely within the
frame. Often the spray of a flower, or a branch, be-
longing to some plant or tree that we cannot see, peeps
into the j)icture, as if to remind us that there are other
things beyond this tiny view, and that the latter is only
an atom of the universe. We have noted, in the pre-
vious chapter. Whistler's borrowing of this device in the
Portrait of the Artist's Mother.

Fifthly, conventionalization is carried to a point
where to Western eyes it seems strange. For exam])le,
we may look through a number of prints by difl'erent
artists, and the women's mouths will all be represented
by a similar arrangement of lines, which to us does not
convey the idea of a natiu'al mouth. To the Japanese,
however, it does ; and they would retort that many of
our conventions in painting seem to them equally unin-
telligible and unreasonable. For, remember, that con-
ventions are a sort of shorthand a])peal to memory and
experience ; wherefore, since there is so much in the
Japimese memory and experience that must remain un-
known to us, we can never fully appreciate the conven-
tions of their painting.

Every one of these characteristics of Ja])anese art
that I have enumerated has influenced modern West-
ern art. Space will not permit me to particularize, but
if vou will bear them in mind when vou examine ])ic-
tures by Degas and Whistler, the hitter's Venetian etch-

[475]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

ings especially and the work of many American and for-
eign illustrators, you will be able to discover the traces
of the influence unmistakably.

There is one other point among so many that might
be alluded to. A Buddhist text declares that he alone
is wise who can see things without their individuality.
And it is this Buddhist way of seeing, as Lafcadio
Hearn says, which makes the greatness of true Jap-
anese art. One might explain this by saying that the
Japanese artist discards the accident of individuality in
favor of the type, but it is even more than this— that in
the Particular he tries to express a portion of the Uni-
versal, regarding even his composition, for example,
not as a complete finite arrangement but as a fragment
of what he imagines as a universal geometry.

And now let us turn to Hashimoto Gaho's Sunrise on
the Horai. The Horaizan is the Japanese Earthly
Paradise ; the dream-place of peaceful and exalted con-
templation. Gaho, contrary to custom, has represented
it upon the mountain-tops and pictured it in the purest
hour of all, in the freshness of early sunrise. The sun
itself is veiled in the vapor that rises up from the steep
valley, at the bottom of which are the rice-fields, whither
the laborers are already wending for their day's toil.
Down there are the lives of men, their joys and sorrows,
the multiple units of the human hive. All below is
clouded in uncertain mists, but up here it is clear and
serene ; the foreground, a miniature panorama of moun-
tain scenery, with pines, the symbol of eternity, and
pagoda pleasure-houses of the soul ; further back, a
cone-like peak of spiritual desire and mountain ram-

[ 476 ]

MOXET-GAHO

parts, barring the approach as yet to the ultimate Be-
yond.

Study, first, the hncar arrangement: the ])roken level
lines of the foreground, tlie soaring lines of the })cak,
the lines as of longing piled upon longing of the moun-
tain mass, and then that diagonal line that fades into in-
visibility. Then from its gradual lifting up into height,
and from its flight into the immensity of distance, the
imagination settles back to the assured certainty of the
foreground and the intimacy of the pine-trees, those
familar objects of the Japanese landscape.

Study, secondly, the excjuisite gradations of tone, and
the way the darks and lights are distributed in the com-
position, the occasional accents of dark, and the value
of the empty spaces. There is perhaps nothing in
painting which may give so pure and rarefied a joy as
the way in which the Japanese artists give you the effect
of definition melting into indefiniteness, and this picture
of Gaho's is a fine example of the effect. It states just
enough to render the imagination active, and then leaves
it to its own wandering.

It is this suggestiveness to the imagination, moreover
the decorative beauty and expressiveness of the lines and
masses of the com})()sition, and the choiceness and origi-
nality of the color-harmonies, rich or delicate, as the case
may be, but always subtle, that are among the conspicu-
ous charms of Japanese painting. These may be en-
joyed, even when the subject refers to experiences that
we do not share or is represented by means of conven-
tions uni'amiliar to us. In the accompanying example
these limitations are scarcely to be felt.

[477]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

Japanese painting has already taught our Western
artists a good deal ; it has a further lesson for all of us,
if only in the matter of simplification. How little
there is in this picture, and yet how choice and meaning-
ful the details that are introduced! The same is char-
acteristic of the Japanese home life. The home is
simple, adorned by a few choice treasures, stored in the
little closet or tohonama, and taken out for the occa-
sional enjoyment of the family or to greet the visit of a
guest. The life, too, is outwardly simple. Though
Japan has adopted Western notions, and undertaken
the 7-6le of a first-class nation, with all the intricacies of
trade relations, the appearance of the cities and of the
outward life of the people is almost as simple as ever.
In fact, there has never been a nation, at any rate since
the great days of Athens, whose art so closely reflected
its outward life and the soul which it embodies.

[478]

COXCLUDING NOTE

We have come to the end of the study that we set out to
make. Ste]) ])y step, we have marked the evohition of
modern })aintiiig, from the Byzantine traditions which
prevailed before Cimabue down to the latest possibilities
introduced by the pointilliHtc method of ^Nlonet.

We have made the acquaintance of a majority of the
greatest artists ; of those who, being themselves men of
originality, exercised a wide influence on others. In
studying their points of view, and their methods of ren-
dering what they saw in the way they felt it, we have
gained a general insight into pictorial methods and
motives, that will enable us to appreciate the infinite
varieties of the same as they appear in other artists.

Turn by turn, we have visited different countries, ac-
cording as the art of painting flourished in them sinml-
taneously, or as it declined in one and reappeared with
vigor in another. And, doing so, we have found that the
manifestations of art have varied in response to the racial
and temporary conditions of each country; and, while
we have not attempted to explain genius as the result of
these, we have examined how they influenced it.

We have seen how one impulse of movement followed
another ; all of them involving truth, but none monop-
olizing tlie whole truth ; in fact, that the manifestations
and possibilities of painting are wide and various as

[479]

HOW TO STUDY PICTURES

human nature. From this study, also, we should have
discovered that the enjoyment to be derived from pic-
tures is not only the satisfaction of our own predilec
tions, oi^what most appeals to ourselves individually, bu
the interest to be gained from studying pictures as th
record of the feeling and experience of other minds.

We have gained a fairly comprehensive bird's-eye
view of the whole field of painting ; sufficient, if our
study must stop here, to enable us to recognize the land-
marks of the subject ; but offering, if we are able to
step down and pursue the study in detail, a convenient
groundwork for investigation.

It is not by the much, unavoidably omitted, that I
beg the usefulness of this book may be judged, but by
the value of what is included.

Orienta Point,

Mamaroneck, N. Y.

[480]

PAKALLET. CHRONOLOGY

CENTURY

ITAl.l.VN

FLEMISH

GERMAN

SPANISH 1

Xlllth

Ciniabue

(I2lo:'-I302?)

XlVth

Giotto

(128«:— 1.«7)

, ,. ... .

XVth

Ma.saccio

(14<Ji:-U28?)

Mantegna

(14.31-1506)

Fra Angelico

(1387-1455)

Botticelli

(1446-1.-.10)

Jan van Eyck . . .

( ? -144U)

Memling

(142,i?-U95?)

XVth

Perugino

(1416-1.524)

Giovanni Bellini . .

(1428?-1516)

and

XVIth

Raphael

(1483-1520)

Da Vinci

(1452-1519)

Titian

(1477-1576)

Michelangelo

(147 I -1564)

Correggio

(1494? -1534)

Veronese

(152S-1588)

Tintoretto

(1518-1504)

Wolgemuth .

(1494-1519)

DUrer

(1471-1528)

Holbein, the Younger

(1497-1543)

XVI Ith

Rubens

Velasquez

(1909-1000)

(1577-1640)

Van Dyck

(1599-I64I)

Murillo ^V

(1618-1682) ■

XVIIIth

XIX k

A inUEF Bim/TOORArrTV OF HOOKS
ON ART READILY PROCl RABLE

Italian Schools. — Bercnson, Bernard: The Florentine Painters of the
Renaissance; The Venetian Painters of tlic Renaissance; The
Central Italian Painters of the Renaissance (New York, 1897).
Blashfield, E. H. and E. W.: Italian Cities (New York, 190O).
Brinton, S. : Renaissance in Italian Art (London, 18.98). Crowe,
J. A., and Cavalcaselle, G. B.: History of Painting in Italy
(London, 1866). Morclli, G.: Italian Painters. Translated by
C. J. Ffoulkes (London, 1892-1893). Ruskin, John: Morn-
ings in Florence (Orpington, 1875); Modern Painters (Lon-
don, 1846, I860). Symonds, J. A.: Renaissance in Italy (Lon-
don, 1875) ; Sketches and Studies in Italy and Greece (London,
1874). Vasari, G. : Lives of the Painters. Edited by E. H. and
E. W. Blashfield and A. A. Hopkins (New York, 1897). Mod-
ern Painters. Muther, R. (See General Reference.) Willard,
A. R.: History of Modern Italian Art (New York, I9OO).

Flemish School. — Fromentin, E. : Les Maitrcs d' Autrefois (Paris,
1876). Kugler, F. T. : Handbook of Painting: The German,
Flemish, and Dutch Schools. Remodeled by Dr. Waagen, re-
vised and in part rewritten by J. A. Crowe (London, 1874).
Van Dyke, J. C. : Old Dutch and Flemish Masters. Engravings
by Timothy Cole (New York, 1895). Modern Painters.
Muther, R. (See General Reference.)

German School. — Alexandre, A.: Histoire populaire de la pcinturc:
Ecole Allemande (Paris, 1895). Colvin, A.: Diirer (Encyclo-
paedia Britannica, Edinburgh, 1883). Kugler, F. T. : Hand-
book of Painting: Tlie German, Flemish, and Dutch Schools.
Revised by J. A. Crowe (London, 1874). Woltman, A.: Holbein

481 ]

BIBLIOGRAPHY

and his Time. Translated by F. E. Bunnett (London, 1872).
Modern Painters. Muther, R.
Dutch School. — Bode, W. : Studien zur Geschichte der holland-
ischen Malerei (Brunswick, 1883); Rembrandt (Paris, 1898);
Franz Hals und seine Schule (Leipsic, 1871). Fromentin, E.:
Les Maitres d' Autrefois (Paris, 1876). Gower, R.: Guide to
Public and Private Galleries of Holland and Belgium (London,
1875). Kugler, F. T.: Handbook of Painting: The German,
Flemish, and Dutch Schools. Revised by J. A. Crowe (London,
1874). Van Dyke, J. C: Old Dutch and Flemish Masters.
Engravings by Timothy Cole (New York, 1895). Modern

Painters. Muther, R.

Spanish School. — Ford, R. : Handbook for Spain (London, 1855).
Justi, C. : Velasquez and his Times. Translated by A. H. Keane
(London and Philadelphia, 1889). Stevenson, R. A. M.: The
Art of Velasquez (London, 1895). Stirling-Maxwell, Sir W. :
Annals of the Artists of Spain (London, 1848); Velasquez and
his Works (London, 1855). Muther, R. (See General Refer-
ence.)

French School — Alexandre, A.: Histoire populaire de la peinture:
Ecole Fran9aise (Paris, 1893). Berger, G.: L'Ecole fran9aise
de peinture (Paris, 1879). Blanc, C: Les artistes de mon temps
(Paris, 1879). Brownell, W. C. (New York, 1901). Dilke,
Lady: French Painters of the Eighteenth Century (London,
1899). Duret, Theodore: Les peintres impressionistes (Paris,
1879); Histoire d'Edouard Monet (Paris, 1902). Gautier, T.:
L'Art moderne; Romanticism. Goncourt, E. and J. de: L'Art
du XVIII'"^ siecle (Paris, 1881-1882). Guibal: Eloge de Pous-
sin (Paris, 1783). Moore, G. : Modern Painting (New York,
1893). Pater, Walter: Imaginary Portraits; A Prince of Court
Painters (Watteau) (London, 1887). Sensier, Theodore: Rous-
seau (Paris, 1872); Life and Works of J. F. Millet (Paris,
1881). Stranahan, C. H.: History of French Painting (New
York, 1895).

English School— Armstrong, Sir W.: Gainsborough and his Place
in English Art (New York, 1898). Bate, P. H.: English Pre-

[ 482 ]

BIBLIOC;RAriIY

Rnpharlitc Painters (London, 1899). Chesneau, E.: The Eng-
lish School of Painting (London, 1885). Maccoll, D. S. : Nine-
teenth Century Art (Glasgow, 190'^). Phillips, C: Sir Joshua
Reynolds (London, 1891). Redgrave, S.: A Century of Paint-
ers of the English School (London, 1890). Rossctti, W. M.:
Ruskin, Rossetti ; Pre-Raphaelitisni (London, 1899)- Wedmore,
v.: Studies in English Art (London, 1876'); ^L•lsters of Genre
Painting (London, 1880). Muther, R. (See General Refer-
ence.)

Japanese Art. — Anisdcn, Dora: Impressions of Ukiyo-ye (San
Francisco, 1905). Fenollosa, F. E. : Review of the Chapter on
Painting in " L'Art Japonais," 1885. Gouse, Louis: L'Art
Japonais (Paris, 1883). Hearn, Lafcadio: Kokoro (Boston,
1896). Okakura-Kakuzo: Ideals of the East (New York, 190i).
Muthcr, R. (See General Reference.)

General Reference. — Bryan's Dictionary of Painters (New York,
1902). Champlin, T. D., Jr., and Perkins, Charles C: Cyclo-
pedia of Painters and Paintings (New York, 1887). Cox, Ken-
yon: Old Masters and New. La Farge, John: Great Masters of
Painting. Lubke's History of Art. Translated by Clarence
Cook. Masters in Art (Boston). 'Muther, R. : History of Mod-
ern Painting (New York, 1896). Van Dyke, J. C. : History of
Painting; Art for Art's Sake; How to Judge of a Picture. Wolt-
niann and Woermann : History of Painting.

American Painting. — American Art Review. Caffin, C. H. : American
Masters of Painting. Hartmann, S.: History of American Art
(Boston, 1902). Isham, Samuel: History of American Paint-
ing, (in press.) Mason: Life and Works of Gilbert Stuart.
Tuckerman: Book of the Artists.

[ 483 ]

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

Abstract : opposed to Concrete (q.v.) ; viewed apart from concrete form ; e.g., the abstract
beauty of a line, where the line not only serves to inclose a form but has an indepen-
dent beauty of its own (66). So also, abstract beauty of color, where color is inde-
pendently a source of esthetic enjoyment, apart from the object to which it may
belong. So, also, music is the most abstract of the arts, because it is entirely with-
drawn from the concrete and appeals directly to the esthetic sense, and thence to
the imagination (451,452). For further remarks on abstract, see Concrete.

Academic : having the qualities that characterize the official standards of excellence
maintained by the Academy of Painting and Sculpture, founded in France by Louis
XIV. These have varied from time to time in details, but are based upon a prefer-
ence for form over color; and upon an idealization of form, in imitation of the
purity of antique sculpture. Hence the synonym Classic. Perfection of line and
form is aimed at in preference to individuality and character.

Action : the gesture or attitude of a figure, expressive of character or sentiment. See
Expression, Movement.

Esthetic. See Esthetic.

Analysis : opposed to Synthesis {q.v.); the process of distinguishing between and study-
ing separately the ingredients of an object. Thus the analysis of an elm involves
an examination of its stem, the spread of its branches, the way in which the smaller
, are attached to the larger and the latter to the stem, the character of the foliage
both in masses and in individual leaves, the effect upon the color and form of the
foliage under the action of sunlight or of wind, and so on. Most of the great artists
have trained themselves at first by severe analysis, after which they render their
subject by means of synthesis. Having learned to put in, they become learned in
leaving out.

Architectonic : literally, of or pertaining to construction ; having the qualities of form
and structure deliberately built up to produce a desired effect upon the imagina-
tion : e.g., the architectonics of poetry — that is to say, the form and structure of ver-
sification. The architectotiics of a picture, in allusion to the formal arrangement of
its lines and masses, its full and empty spaces (.q.v.) ; more particularly of a com-
position planned to occupy and conform to a given space in connection with archi-
tecture — a mural painting (q.v.).

Arrangement : a principle of composition whereby the artist, having selected from a
variety of details the ones best adapted to his conception of the subject, arranges
them, with deliberate intent, to produce a certain impression on the spectator (99
et seq.). See Selection.

Art : by its derivation from a Greek word, " to fit," means primarily the fitting of form
to an idea.

Art for art's sake : a catchword adopted in the last quarter of the nineteenth century
by the followers of Manet, who asserted tliat the first requisite of a painter was to
be able to paint. They began by saying that the subject of a picture was of little
importance, the main thing for the artist being an opportunity of artistic expres-
sion ; and, in their disgust of the, so-called, story- telling picture, in which considera-
tions of painting as painting are sacrificed to mere attractiveness of subject, ended
by asserting that subject was of no importance at all. Now that the dust of argu-
ment is settled, it has established the truth that, as Professor John C. Van Dyke
says, " the art of a picture is not in the subject but in the manner of presenting it."

Articulation : the art of joining together ; for example, of correctly joining the branches

[484]

GLOSSARY OF TKK.MS

of a troo to itH trunk, the IcavcH to the braiirhes, thi- (lower ami leaves to the xtalk,
aiitl the latter to the stem; the aeeiirnte reiideriii*; of the Joints or artietilationH of
the human l)o(ly. Hoth the actor and the painter recoKuize the fact that the j(»int.s
are the Meats of exiirenslon.

Atmosphere. Tlie worhl, out of ilnors anil indoors, is filled with air, more or less illu-
mined witli li»;ht. It surrounds every ol>jeet, allectiiiK t)i)lli tlieir shape and eolor.
The outlines even of <il)ieets near to us are seldom sharp, and lieeome more hinrretl
and indistinet as tlie ohjcets lie furtlier from tlie eye. Tli<- colors, too, as they
recede, lieeome jfrayor in apjiearanec — seen, a.s it were, throuj;li interveiiinjr veils
of atmosphere. Many painters represent the tltrures and oliject.s with iinitorm
sharpness and distinctness ; there is no sugf^estion of atmosphere in their pictures.
Others, however, by rendering the etTect of lighted atmosphere upon the outliuen
and colors of the objects (see Valiie.i), make them appear to be surrounded, as iu
nature, by an encelojje of lighted air, and to occupy their proper plane in the depth
of atmosphere. Moreover, it is to be noted that, as atmosphere varies according to
time of day, locality, and season, it becomes to our imagination a source of expres-
sion in nature.

Breadth and simplicity: the results of a painter's ability to see the large siguiflcance
of things ; to view his subject, as it were from afar otl', .-o that it is seen apart fr(»m
its littlenesses of detail in its essential characti-r. Wlien a painter can so stand back
from his subject and see it in this broad, general way, and then by simple, efl'ective
brushwork suggest to us a similarly broad conjprehension of its essential character,
we speak of the breadth and simplicity of his work. See Hals, 195 et seq.

Chiaroscuro: derived from Italian cA/^ro = clear, + osci<;-o ^ oliscure; French equiv-
alent, rl(tir-obsriir ; English, light and shade. The distribution in a jiicture (>( light
and shade, introduced for one or more purposes: (1) the functional u.se, to sug-
gest the modeling of form, the raised parts catching \ariou.s quantities of light and
the depressed lieing in various degrees of shadow ; (2) the decorative use, to pro-
duce an agreeable jiattern by a contrast of lights and darks; (3i the expressional
use, to arouse l)y such variety an appeal to our emotions. As a method of model-
ing it is less true to nature than modeling by means of a rendering of the values
(f/.r.) ; as a method of cnKilioual expression, when used, for example, by Rem-
brandt, who made his lights emerge from a bath of darkness, or by Huljens in his
Dencent from Ihf Cross, its mingling of clearness and mystery has a wonderful ef-
fect upon the imagination.

Classic. See Academic.

Colorist : one who uses color not merely to increase the reality of appearances in his
picture, but as a means of emotional exjjressiou. He thinks and feels in color,
conceives his subject as an arrangement not so much of form as of color, and
moves us by his color- harmonies, as a musician by his harmonies of sound.

Colors, cold and warm : yelhtw suggests the color of sunlight and flames, auil red the
glow of a tire and of sunlight seen through moist atmosphere; we associate with
these colors and with their union, orange, the idea of warmth. On the other band,
blue suggests the color ot' the ocean, of the sky after rain, and of the evening sky
in the upper part removed from the sunset glow, and when blended with yellow,
it is the cooling ingredient in the resultant gre«'n. We associate with blue the idea
of coolness. Moreover, scii-nce, as well as the observation of artists, has proved
that in bright suidight the tint of shadows contains blue. See Reynolds's doctrine
about cold and warm colors, '27-t.

Composition; literally, the placing togethi'r of jiarts to jiroduce a whole ; in art, the
parts nuist be harmoniously related to one anotherand to the whole, and the latter
must be distinguished by balance and unity. It involves a twofold process of se-
lection and arrangement : the selection of parts best suite<l to one another and to
the whole, and the arrangement of them so as to produce by the actual direction
and chanicter of the lines and by the disiiosition of the masses atul spaces an im-
pression upon the esthetic sense, and, in higher works of arts, ujion the innigina-
tion. It cannot be too thoroughlv understoo<l that composition Is the structural
basis of painting, as it is of poetry and of music, ami that its appeal to sense or
imagination Is an abstract one — that Is to say, i>rimarily indei>endeDt of the sub-
Ject-matter. See i>8 et seq.

[ 485 ]

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

Concrete: opposed to Abstract; viewed as existing in connection with objects and
substances. Thus the picture of a landscape conveys a concrete iiupressiou of
trees, water, sky, ground, etc., and may do no more. On the other hand, it may
stimulate an abstract impression, for example, of exquisite restfulness, so that in
the enjoyment of this the actual shapes and appearances of objects aud substances,
perhaps even their very existence in the pictiu-e, may be forgotten. Again, a com-
position so harmoniously balanced and unified, such as that of Raphael's Dispula,
may so captivate the imagination that it is only upon a second visit one becomes
conscious of the concrete facts of the figures and what they represent. Remember,
the abstr.ict is as much a fact to the spirit and the imagination as the concrete is
to the senses of sight and touch. See Abstract.

Construction : the act or result of building up a structure — for example, the construc-
tion of the human figure, so that we are made to realize beneath the flesh its frame-
work of bones aud joints and muscles. In this sense we speak of the figure being
good or faulty in consti-uction. Similarly we examine the construction of a land-
scape: has the painter made us realize the firm earth or rocky foundation beneath
the grass of a meadow ; the special character of stoutness or suppleness in trees
and plant forms ; the actual quality of construction in waves and clouds, and so on '?
In a picture, as in a building, it is not the outside appearance which first meets the
eye that is of chief importance, taut the underlying, embedded, construction.

Contour : inclosing forms ; e.g., contour lines of the figure.

Convention, Conventionalization. If we grant, for example, that a painter cannot
represent absolutely all the leaves on a tree or all the hairs in a man's beard, it
follows he must adopt some method of suggesting to us the appearance of the mass
of leaves or hairs. He adopts some convention of representing it, some arrange-
ment which our memory and experience will immediately interpret to mean a
mass of leaves or hairs. It is to be noted that tbe artist takes advantage of mem-
ories and experiences, which in a general way we share with him, so that by asso-
ciation of ideas his convention is intelligible to us. But if the convention — as, for
example, the one employed by the Japanese to suggest the human mouth — is
founded upon memories and experiences foreign to our own, we shall probably
find it not immediately intelligible.

Distemper : a medium of painting used before the development of oU-paints. The
color ingredient was ground in water, and in order to give it substance,— or, as the
artists say, "body,"— so that it would not sink too much into an absorbent mate-
rial Uke canvas, and to fix it so that it would not, when dry, rub off a hard one like
wood, white of egg or some other glutinous ingredient was stirred in. As a me-
dium of picture-painting it was suiierseded by oil-painting, but, with glue as a
medium, is still used by scene-painters and, imder the name of calcimine, by house-
decorators.

Drawing : the manner of representing objects on a flat surface ; (1) specifically, as con-
trasted with painting, by means of pencil, pen, or crayon ; (2) in a general sense,
including painting, referring to the quality of the representation: e.g., the draw-
ing of that figure is good ; the other is weak in drawing.

Elemental : of or pertaining to first principles ; hence based upon what is fundamental
and essential, unimpaired by the details of individual difi'erences. Such, for exam-
ple, was the character of Millet's drawing, 251.

Elusive, Elusiveness : the suggestion, in a work of art, of what eludes the grasp of the
eye ; e.g., the elusive quality of Velasquez's contour line, partly definite, partly melt-
ing into indeflniteness, because he rendered the blurring effect of light creeping
round their edges (192). Also the suggestion of what even eludes the grasp of the
imagination ; thus Leonardo (121, 122) and Hashimoto Gaho (477) essayed to suggest
the mystery of humanity and nature.

Engraving : (1) the process of cutting a picture into steel or copper, or out of wood ;
(2) the result so obtained. It is to be observed that in the case of steel or copper
the picture is below the surface of the material, and the ink is forced by a roller
Into the grooves, out of which, in the process of printing, it is sucked up by the
damp paper driven down into the grooves under great pressure. On the other
hand, in wood-engraving the picture stands up above the rest of the block, just as
type is raised ; the ink adheres to the raised parts, and the paper, as in printing

[486]

(iLOSSARY OF TERMS

from tji»p, receives the Impression. The depressed kind of printing Is gometimeH
calliMl inltiylio; tin- raised, relirro or rtiniro.

Esthetic; litenilly, al)le to lie appieheiKiid l>y the senses; lience, witii speeial mean-
in;;, of or l)elonj^nf? to an appreciation of the beautiful : e.g., Ihe enllulie taslr.

Etching. Tills, lilie steel- and copper-eiigravin^', is (1) a prucess; Ci) the result of an In-
ta^'lio printing, only that the lines of the picture instead of Ijeing graved with u
" burin " are hilltii into the eoiipcr by ai-i<l. The copper plate having been covered
with a thin layer of melted wax and asphaltum and blackened with lamp-smoke,
the artist draws his picture on it witli a needle or similar instrument. This ea.'^ily
furrows its way through the soft wax, and discloses, wherever there is a line, the
bright copper. The jilate is then plunged into a bath of nitric acid, which bites
Jiito the exposed lines, leaving the wax-covered portions intact. Then, the wax
having been removed, ink is rolled into the grooves and a print taken, as in steel-
or copper-engraving. This is the bare statement of a process which involves many
moditlcatlons, and wliich is distinguished from that of engraving on steel or copper
by the greater freedom of drawing which it permits and l)y the ([ualities of the line
and t<iue oljtained ; for the action of the acid being somewhat uneven, the line in
etching is more sensitive, and the "black.s" can be made richer in tone than is
possible in line engraving.

Expression : the revelation of character and sentiment in a work of art. Thus we
siieak of the expression of a figure, meaning; that its pose and gesture are signifleaut
of character and that there is a suggestion in the figure of the life-spirit which
animates it. Similarly we may speak of Ihe expression of a Inndseape, referring to
the way in which the artist has expressed the character of rocks and trees, water,
and so fortli, or to the way in which he has made the landscape interpret a
mood of feeling, either his own or one that he conceives as existing in nature
itself.

Expressional : (if or pertaining to expression; e.g., the expressional use of line and
color — that is to say, their use not only for the purpose of representing the appear-
ances of objects, but also as an independent source of appeal to the emotions. Bee
A bstract.

Feeling: (1) a sympathetic comprehension; e.g., a feeling for form, implying both a
correct observation of form and also an appreciation of its characteristic qualities.
Similarly, a feeling for light and atmosphere. (2) The evidence of sympathetic
comprehension ; e.g., the figure is excellent in feeling. (3) As an equivalent for <Se/i-
liment (q.r.).

Flat painting : where the color is Itvid on with little or no indication of modeling by
means of Chiamsruro (q.r.).

Fore-shortening : the art of representing on a plane surface in true perspective objects
as tliey appear to the eye, especially those olijects or parts of objects which extend
toward the spectator on a line lietween his eyes and the center of the object.

Fresco: literally, "fresh"; painting in water-color upon the still damp jilastor of a
wall, so that the pla.ster and the pai)iting dry together and become inseparable.
The process is more fully de.scrilu'd, p. 147.

Full and empty spaces : used of composition, as a convenient term to distinguish
those forms in tlic design which are of jirimary importance to the delineation of
the subject, fmni those forms or open siia<-es which are of subsidiary importance
to the subject :ind are introduced chiefly to complete the harmony and balance of
the composition. (See p. 100.) That the empty sjiaces may also be of importance
t<i the subject, see " spaect-composition," p. HO.

Generalization : the process of discovering and rendering the essentials of a subject, so
as to rc]irescnt a summary <if its salient characteristics.

Genre: a kinil of iiicture rejircsenting ordinary in-door and out-door life; especially
the Dutch jiictures of the seventeenth century, which depicted domestic scenes and
the pastimes of the peasants. It is to be noted that while the.se were the subject
of the picture the design of the Dutch artists was not to i7iii«<rn/* them, but to
make them the basis of a pietorial treatment (</.r.).

Gesture : literally, the mode of carrying ; the carriage of a figure or of a part of it, as
the head, the nrjii, or hand, expressive of character or sentiment. Practically the
equivalent of Acliun {</.v.). Hee 2Iorement.

[487]

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

Glazes : thin layers of transparent color brushed over the whole or parts of a picture
in its final stages to produce a desired tone (q.v.).

Grand style : an imposing method of composition, embodying elevated feeling,
brought to perfection by the great Italians of the Renaissance (102). Long after
the death of Tintoretto, the last of the great Italians, its influence continued to
lead smaller men in all countries to imitate its manner without being able to
reproduce its spirit. Hence innumerable affectations and mannerisms.

Greek : the English equivalent of Graici, the name by which the Romans designated
the people who called themselves Hellenes, after a mythic ancestor, Hellen. Their
territory, which comprised a portion of the mainland (Thessaly and Epirus), the
Isthmus of Corinth, and the peninsula of the Peloponnesus and adjacent islands,
was known to themselves as Hellas, to the Romans as Grsecia, hence Greece.

Half-tone : a method of photographic reproduction by which it is possible to render
mechanicaUy not only the extreme darks and lights of a pictnre, but also the inter-
mediate tones ; hence the name. A picture or a photograph of it is set up before
the camera and photographed through an intervening glass screen, upon which a
series of parallel lines, vertical and horizontal, very close together, have been
graved. The effect of this is to split up the impression upon the negative into in-
numerable pin-point dots. The negative is then laid over a copper plate which
has been covered with a sensitized tilm, and is exposed to light in the usual way of
making a print. Where the negative is black (that is to say, in the lightest parts
of the original or final picture), the light does not penetrate through, and there-
fore the film remains intact, but in the successively less dark parts of the negative
(which in the positive are represented by the successively less light parts of the
picture), the light in varying degrees disintegrates the film. Consequently, when
the plate is plunged into a bath of acid, only these portions are bitten into in their
varying intensity. The result is a plate bristling with minute pin-points biggest in
the darkest parts, smaller in 'those less dark, and according to their size is the
amount of ink which they receive from the ink-roller as it passes over the plate.
Similarly, when the paper passes over the plate it receives its darkest impressions
from the biggest points and varying degrees of less dark from the smaller points.
This is the process used in the illustrations of this book, and the pin-points, if not
visible to the eye, may readily be detected through a magnifying-glass.

Harmony : an arrangement of diversities into a unity of effect, so as to produce an im-
pressiou of completeness and perfection ; e.g., a harmony of lines, a color-narniony.
It is to be noted that the impression is complete. Where a painter uses color, as
many do, only to increase the resemblance to real objects, the tints could, as it were,
be shuffled like a pack of cards, without impairing the completeness of the whole.
But if the painter is a colorist (q.v.) and plays with color as a musician does with
notes, then the least alteration, such as the subsequent fading out of parts of the
picture, disturbs the balance and unity of the color-composition as much as if notes
in a musical composition should be dropped out or transposed.

Hellas, Hellenic. See Greek.

Heroic : relating to something larger than life ; e.g., a statue of heroic size. Hence some-
thing presumed to be nobler than ordinary experience; e.g., Poussin's heroic treat-
ment of the human figure, Claude's heroic landscapes. Accordingly, it is used as a
s.vnonym for Classic (q.v.).

Hole in the wall : a tei'ui used in connection with mural painting iq.v.). It implies that
the painting, instead of preserving the impression of being upon a flat, solid surface,
makes one feel as if one wei'e looking through an opening to some scene beyond ;
we say of such that it makes a hole in the wall.

Ideal: (1) that quality in a picture which represents a mental or spiritual idea em-
bodied in the external form: cf. Titian's Man icith the Glove (127); (2) the assem-
bling into one single representation of the qualities of perfection which appear
separately in many individuals : e.g., an ideal treatment of the human figure, an
ideal landscape.

Imagination : the faculty of picturing the universal in terms of the particular. Boeck-
lin, for example, in his Isle of the Dead (365 et seq.), while adhering to the facts of
an island and a boat approaching it, makes one realize the vastness of the infinite
soul into which the atom of soul is received.

[488]

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

Impressionism : the faculty possessed by some painters, notably Velasquez, of recelv-
iii;f ail iuiiiiediate and vivid iinpiussloii of a subji-fl in a)l its ^^ali^•nt features, and
of rctaiiiini; tlie naiiio keenly in liis niinil, while lie painted, so tlial tin- rendering
of it prodiiees upon onrneiv<-8 a HJniilarly immediate and irresistibly vi\id impres-
sion. Hueli is the immediate vividness of Velasquez's Maiils of Honor, that (iantier
Kiinnned up liis admiration of its realism of appearaneo by oxclaiiuiug, " Where is
the pieture I" (17'J)

Infinite: our world with countless otliers swims in an ocean of ether, the limits of
which extend beyond our powers of comprehension. Human life is like chihlren
paddling in the shallow water of an ocean that stretches away and loses itself upon
an unattainable horizon. Some artists — Corot, for example, in his skies— 8U>:uest
that what he shows us is a part of this intinity. It is this suggestion of the intluite
or universal, which appears in the works of all artists who make a powerful appeal
to the imagination, and is a (luality that painting may share with poetry and music.

Kokoro: a .lapaueso term to express the life movement of the universal spirit, teui-
l»i)rarily manifested in iinpcrmnnenl matter (472).

Kokoromochi : the expression of kuKorn, without which a picture is not a work of art.

Legion of Honor: a French military and civil order of merit, lnstituU;d in 1M02 by
Napoleon I. It consists of several ranks: grand officers, grand crosses, comujau-
ders, and knights.

Light and shade. See Chidroscuro.

Local color : the prevailing color which belongs to an object, irrespective of the vari-
ations produced in it by light and shade, and by the reflections of neighboring
c()h)rs (I'Jl, 400).

Luminarists: a term first used in this country by Professor John C. Van Dyke as a
substitute for the name impressionists, to designate Manet and his followers, since
their chief motive was the study and rendering of light.

Medium : (1) the particular method of representation employed by the artist; e. g.,
painting, engraving, eti'hing, etc. ; (2) the material or tool so employed : e. g., oil-
paints, water-colors, the l)urin, needle, etc.; (3) the liquid in which the color ingre-
dient is dissolved : e. g., oil, water, or water mi.xed with a glutinous substance.

Monumental: having (lualities suggi-stive of structural grandeur and permanence, so
as to be conspicuously imi)re8sive, as a monument is; e.g., a iiionununlal statue, a
monumental composition.

Mural painting or decoration : a painting on a wall ; cue, however, that is not merely
applied to the wall or to some other surface space of a building, but is so planned
as to become an integral element of the architectural design (42G et seq.).

Naive (ni-eve'), French: artless, unafl'eetedly simple.

Naivete (ni evo-tay), French : the quality of artlessuess and of unaffected simplicity,
as of the child-mind.

Naturalistic : pertaining to or concerned with the study of nature's ai>pcarance8.

Nature : from the artist's standpoint, comprises the external appearances of all
things.

Neutral : neither black, which is the equivalent of darkness, nor white, the equivalent of
light, but the intermediate gray. Thus a neutral tint is one with a strong infusion
of gray; e.g., neutral yreen = a grayish frreen. So red may be neutralized into a
warm gray, blue into a cool gr:iy, and yellow into drab. Similarly, a neutral tone
(q.r. (1)) is applied to a color the luminosity of which is neither low nor bright, but
intermediate like the gray of dawn. In this respect we may sjieak of a picture as
boinK of warm or of cool noutriil tones.

New Learning, the : (1) the kiiowled^^e of Greek literature, difluscd by the Greek
scholars, who bi-caine scattered over Europe after ("onstanlinoi)Ie had been taken
by the Turks in 14,'>a; (2i the c(uiimencemeiit of the scientitlc spirit of inquiry, re-
sulting from the teaching of (.'opernieiis (i473-ir,4:t) that the sun was a tlxed body
and that the earth as well as the other planets moved round it.

Objective: of or belonging to the object studied; o])|iosed to .V(//y>r^"rr — of or bchuig-
ing to the mind of the subject who studies: e.g., the objeetire point of rieir, directed
towani the study of what the artist perceives iu the object, unbia.sed by any feel-
ings of his own (i;)0, 2H9i. Cf. Sulijeetive.

Pagan : V.Mxi pagunus ; literally, a dweller in a pagus (village), u rustic. These were

« [ 489 ]

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

the last to be reached by the spread of Christianity, so that the early Christians of
the Roman Empire used pagan as a general term for heathen, or idol-worshipers.
In our own time we rather use it, free of any religious significance, to describe
that tendency in the Italian Renaissance which resulted from the study of the an-
tique marbles and of Greek literature. Once more, though without any belief in
them, the artists and poets revived the ancient myths, and joyed in imagining a
young world, in -which the forces of nature VFere visibly embodied; wherein Pan
sported with fauns and satyrs, and the countryside was thronged with nymphs :
Oreads traversing the mountain slopes, Dryads and Hamadryads threading the
groves, and Naiads hovering in the mist of streams and fountains, while Tritons
and Nereids frolicked in the ocean (143).

Painter's painter : a studio-term used to signify that such and such a painter, because
he cares little for the subject of his picture as compared with the technical prob-
lems of painting, and in solving the latter displays unusual skill and facility of
brushwork, is likely not to interest the general public and can be properly appre-
ciated only by his fellow-painters (404).

Paintiness, painty : qualities in a picture that obtrude on us a consciousness of paint;
so that the painter seems to have been interested in the paint for its own sake,
rather than as a means only of representing truth of appearances.

Particular, opposed to Universal (q.v.) : of or belonging to the individual, the tempo-
rary, and the local.

Personal equation : an error common to all the observations made by some one per-
son ; especially in noting the exact moment of transit of a star across the thread
of his telescope. Hence, in a general sense, the particular, iiersonal impression
produced upon the eyes and mind of each individual, as a result of his peculiar
qualities of eyesight, and of mind, temperament, and experience.

Perspective : the act or result of representing on a plane surface the third dimension
of depth or distance ; so that the objects in the picture may be made to appear at
varying distances from the eye and to occupy varying planes in the distance. This
may be accomplished : (l) by decreasing the size of objects in proportion to their
distance from the fixed jjoint of sight of the artist, and by making all lines which go
back from it converge toward au imaginary vanishing-poitd, determined upon by
the artist either inside or outside of the limits of his canvas. Such, in brief, is lineal
persjiective. Atmospheric perspective, on the other hand, is obtained by the artist
noting and rendering accurately the diversities in the amount of light contained,
respectively, in all the colors of the objects, and the variations effected in the local
colors (q.v.) by the intervening planes of atmosphere (q.v.) (190, 191).

Pictorial : having qualities that properly and exclusively belong to a picture. It can-
not be too often stated that a picture in the ti-ue sense of the term is much more
than a mere representation of facts and objects. It is a completely independent
method of arousing the esthetic sensations. While in poetry the total impression
reaches us by degrees, a pictme flashes it upon our consciousness at once ; while
the sculptor is confined to form and to such color as light and shade may suggest,
the painter has at his disposal the whole gamut of color : moreover, he can repre-
sent his figures in all the charm and added force of their surroundings ; can choose
his own manner of lighting, and invest his subject with the magic of atmosphere.
When he recognizes in line and form and color, tone, light, and atmosphere, a
wealth of opportunity that behmgs only to his particular art, and relies mainly
upon these to impress us, we speak of the pictorial quality of his work.

Pigment, or paint : the coloring ingredient mixed in a medium of oil or water.

Placing : the act of making every object in a picture duly occupy its proper place in
the perspective, and of giving it a just amount of distinctness or indistinctness ac-
cording to its distance fi-om the front.

Pointilliste : a method of laying the paint on the canvas, originated by Seurat and devel-
oped by Monet. Instead of the colors being blended on the palette, they are laid on
the canvas pure, in minute points, or dots, or stipples, the eye of the spectator being
relied upon to blend them (460, 401, 464).

Polder : Dutch word for pasture-lands.

Quality : that which gives a thing distinction or characteristic charm. E.g., observe the
quality in that wave ; it has been painted in such a way as to shgw that the painter

[490]

(;lossarv of terms

comprohondtMl it« sf rnotiirt' anil inovcinoiit and has aiipni iati-d tliu ftubtlctic* of it«
loloi ami 111 tlif itl'iits i)f diifit, n-llt rU'd, and rcfraclrd UtsUt.

Realist : in painlinK', one wIiokc attitude of mind, luinj,' iMinly otijectlvp. loads lilm to
be HaliHiled to depict ol)Jeets as tliey ui>pear to exiht, indeiundently of pergonal
liias or of any attempt to iileaiize.

Rhythm : in a eomposition, tlie liarmonious ropetition of parts w hitli are related niiitii-
ally to one another as well as to Hie w liole. Thus in Sal>;enl'H Irirzr of l/if rro/ihtlx
there is a rhythm of form or rh.\tlimie How of lines and formw, followiuf; one another
with tliat ^'enenll rescmblauce and iudividiial differeuce which cburacterlze the
flow of oeean wave«.

Romantic: iiaintefs or writers; those whose motive is to idealize facta so that they
may he a means of exjdessin^ aud arousing emotions.

Scheme of color, or color-scheme : a systematic arrangement of the colors in a picture
with the nitention of jirodiieinf; a harmonious completeness of eft'ect. It corre-
sponds to the arraiiLCement of notes in a harmony of sound, and, like it, would he
disturbed by the disi»laeemeut or loss of any of the individual ncttes.

Selection : a principle of composition an<l drawini; whereby the artist selects from the
mass of possilile details such as are esseutial to the expression of his purpose (99
et se(i.). See ArriDiijeiiinil.

Sentiment : in a work of art, the expression of the feeling which the artist conceives
toward his sul)ject.

Simplification : a priiuiple of composition and drawing whereby the artist reduces the
representation of his sulyect to its simplest essential expression : d) either, as in
Millet's drawings, to enforce the essentials of the lif:ure and the gesture and action
of it ; or CJ), as in I'uvis's mural paintings, that they may not be too obtrusive aud
so distract att<Mition from the arcliitecture.

Subjective, oi)posed to O/yVr/av (q.r.) : of or belonging to the miud of the subject who
studies and represents au object; e.g., Ihr siihjrrlirf jjoini of eicw, which leads the
artist to care less abo\it representing tlit^ aiipearanee of the object than about
making his representation express some mood or feeling of his own (i;)0, 28'.t).

Subtle: literally, line-woven, like a spider's web ; hence involving flue discriminatious:
f.f;.,<iiii(bllc niKliriiiijofrnhirK, in which the delicate differences in the (luantities of
light liave been very sensitively noteil ; <i siihllc color-srhfitii', in w hich there is an
absence of strong contrasts and instead a play upon colors only slightly dltlei-ent
in lone iq.r.); a subtle conceplion, one distinguished by intricacy of motive and deli-
cate shades of thought.

Suggestion, suggestive: opposed to Obvious (1) in method, (2) in motive, .''argeut'.s
jiortraits, for example, represent the obvious appearances of his subjects, but with
a manner of brush work entirely the reverse of obvious, conveying an impression of
reality not by detailed imitation but by a summary of masterly sutrtrestions.
Leomirdo's method, on the other hand, was much more obvious, yet his Moiiini
Lim eludes our <lear comprehension, and subtly stimulates tlie ima-imition. In
the third jdacc, Whistler's J'orlniit oftlir Arlist's Mother is an example of sugges-
tiveness to the imauinatiou as regards both method and motive.

Symphony : literally, a harmonious blending of vocal or instrumental sounds ; hence a
blending of colors that appeals to the sensuous imagination : e.g., « »y»H/^Ao/iy ih
fjniy, a sj/in/ilioin/ in Ktlrrr and blue.

Synthesis, oppo.sed to Analysis (q. r.) : literally, the arrangement of dirterent parts
into a wtude; hence the lu-ocesa by which an artist, having analyzed his subject
and discovered its essential chaiacteristicH, makes a summary of these in siu-h a
way as to suggest fin- fundamental charactt-ristics. "I have been reproached,"
said Millet, "for not observing tUv dt toil : I see it, but I prefer to constrint the
syiitliisis. which, as an artistic etl'ort, is hii:her and more robust " (2.")1).

Tactile imagination: "the imagined sinsation of t<unh"; a term ori^rinated by Mr.
Dermird lieienson. " I'sychology," he writes, "has ascertnined that siirht alone

j^ives us iceurate sense of the third dimension. In our infamy, long before we

are conscious of the process, the sense of touch, helped on by muscular sensation
of movement, teaches us to appreciate depth, the third dinunsion, both in objects
and in space. . . . The esseutial in the art of painting is somehow to stimulate

[491 ]

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

our consciousness of tactile values, so that the picture shall have at least as much
power as the object represented to appeal to our tactile imagination."

Technic, or technique : the principles and practice of artistic craftsmanship.

Temperament : the individual temper, mental constitution, and disposition of a per-
son; hence, in a general way, a person's particular bias of feeling or peculiar
make-up of nervous sensibility. When an artist, as most modern ones of poetic or
imaginative tendency do, betrays this peculiar bias of feeling in his work, he is
spoken of as a temperamental artist, and his work, as being largely influenced by
temperament.

Texture : the surface of an object, represented in such a way that the substance of
which it is composed is made to appear real to the eye, and that through our tac-
tile imagination (q.v.) we may have an imagined sensation of the pleasure of its
feel to the touch.

Tone.: (1) the degree of luminosity in color ; e.g., a low-toned picture, in which there is
a prevailing absence of luminosity ; (2) the intensity or depth of a tint: e.g., a deep
tone of red, a delicate tone of gray ; (3) the existence in a picture of a prevailing
color: e.g., a tonal arrangement, signifying that, although many colors are intro-
duced, we are made to feel that they are subsidiary to one prevailing color.

Type : literally, one of a group of objects that embodies the characteristics of the
whole group to which it belongs. Hence we speak of The Sower by Millet as hav-
ing the significance of a type or as being typal in character, because it summarizes
the actions and gestures which more or less characterize the operations of all
sowers, who sprinkle the seed as they stride over the soil.

Universal, opposed to Particular (q.v.) : the quality in a picture which makes us look
beyond the personal, local, or temporary significance to a significance limited only
by the extent of our experience and imagination.

Value : the quantity of light contained in the color of an object and of parts of the
same. Thus a gown, the local color {q.v.) of which is pink, will show diversified
tones (q.v.) of pink, according to the amount of light on the exposed parts and the
amount of less light in the channels of the folds ; and by representing these values
accurately the painter without the use of shadow will obtain an efl"ect of modeling.
Cf. Manet's Girl with a Parrot, 412, 417. Again, a field, the local color of which is
green, will show grayer and grayer green as it recedes from the eye, owing to the
neutralizing (see Neutral) efiect of the successive planes of intervening atmosphere.
By rendering accurately the values of these greens a painter may suggest distance
and atmospheric perspective (q.v.).

[492]

INDEX

Abbey, Edwin A., iniiral (IccoratiouH of,
ill Jiostoii I'ulilic Lilirary, i'i('>, 4'J7 ; liis
work (■i»iiii)arL"Cl with Fiivis dc (havaii-
nes's, 433 ; au illustrator ou a grand scMe,
434
Abstract-concrete, qualities of painting,

f)0, 4.')'2. See Glossiiri/
Academic (oi- classic) in French i)aiuting,
tlic, I'oiiHsin the father of, 'jn'.i ; suited
to genius of French, inlierited from tlie
Komaiis, 240; cliaiacteristics and ett'ects
of, 241 ; in titcure and landscape seeks as
lu-araet posHihle to ucrlection, 253; Dela-
croix's criticism of, 31'); precise al>out
form, neglect.s c<dor, :Uf5; a translation
of sculpture into i)ainting, 317; henelit
of, as a stanilard, :i21. See (ilossdi-i/
Academy in Rome, French, founding of,

240
Academy of Painting and Sculpture,
French, origin of, J4(); priiu-iples jiud
advantage of, 241
Accessories in a picture, signitlcance of,
exhibited in Van Eyck's \'irf/in and
Honor, 119; in Ilollieiu's portrait of
Georg (iyz(!, 12(;, 131
Adam [Michtdangelo], 155
Adoration of tin- Lamb [the Van Eycks],

45
Adorntioti of the Miiqi (Botticelli], 55
Adoriitioii o/'lh<- Ma<ji | lJiirer|, lO'.t et secj.
.tttortition 1)/ thr .Shejiherd.i [Correggioj,

marvel of light and shade, 157
" Afflatus," ItC.
Allegorical subjects, 01, 02
Allrf/orii iif Sjitiiiy ( Hotticelli], fil
Amsterdam, Kemhrandt studies in, 224;
Hetties In, 22."); Kuisdael moves from
Haai'lcm to, 22'.i ; chiimslolie llohlienni's
birthplace, ii2; llobbcma dies in, 250;
Israels settled in. 420
Anntonii/ I^imsdii, Thr | Ilembranilt |, 212
Angelico, Fra (frah ahn-jay lee ko», 37 et
seq. ; llif Aiiinniritdiitn compared with
Van lOyck's \'irj/iii oiiil l>i>ii<>r,:\' : most
remarkable example of a religious
painter, 3S; the minute finish ami yet
breadth and simplicity of his sl.\le,3H;
Ills early life, 40 ; adiuilled to the Do-
ndnican monastery, 40 ; example of two
persiiualities — ]i;i inter ami <le von t monk,
47 ; iullueiici'd Ity the illuminal(U's and by
(ihilierii, Doiiatello, Ilrumileschi, 47 ; at
.^an Marco while Mu'helo/./.o eidartred it,
4H ; the an-aderl lotriria appi-ars in T/ir
Annuiu-iuliiin, 4H; this example of his

maturity examined, as to composition
and subject, 49; as to color, 50; the im-
pressioii received of his work in han
Marco, 50; complete union of the artist
and the devotee, 51; his influence ou
Kossetti, 372, 385

Aim<lus, The [Millet], title of, criticized,
351, note

Anuitnrititlon [Fra Augelico],37 et seq.

Antonello da Messina (an-tone-ayl'lo dah
niays-see'nah) discovers the Van Eycks'
secret of oil-painting, 45

Antwerp, 105

tpollu lielvedi re, 320

Architectonic quality in composition, ox-
I>lanatiou <d, 102; characteri/.es aca-
demic style, 241 ; inipoi-tant in mural
(lecoration, 435. Hee Uloxsnry

Architecture, intlueiice rd, on i>ainting, 47,
4H, K! ; \;due of, when intioduced into a
picture, Kl et seq. ; Noithern and t?outh-
ern kinds c((nii)art'd, !t4

Arena (ah-ray nab) chaiiel, Padua, 18

Art, luiniarv meaning of the word, 5

" Art for art's sake," it is said, should be
the painter's aim, 171 ; its value as a prin-
ciple considered, 409 et seq. Sec (llossunj

Art is not nature, 99

Art of portraiture, Dtltdl art an, 197

Artist, composition of an, 4, 5

Assisi (ahs-see'see). Upper and Lower
<'hurclies of, IS

Atmosphere in a picture, (/) arbitrary ami
conventional kind of, 123; Correggio's
use of, 144; suit* (1 to the dreamy luxuri-
ance of his ima»:ination, 148 ; (.') atmo-
sphere of nature, rendered by Masaccio,
29; by Leonardo. 122, 123; atmosphere
with'cohu- and light and texture the
(pialilies of Venetian painting, loi ;
Vclasi|uez Hiiggrsts perspective by ren-
dering it. 191, 192; varjing luminosity
of, studied by Constable, ;i01 ; suggested
in Wliistlcr's etchings, 454. See (iloKsnry

Augsburg, free imperial city, 93; birth-
jHaee of II(dbeili, 137

Amine, MiddelhiiriiiH, The [Hobbema],
242 et se(|. ; comparctl with The Valley
Farm, 2H9

Baglioni (bal-ye-owe'ni> family at Pe-
rugia (jiay-ruzliyah), 31

Balance and unity in composition ob-
tained by selei-tion ami arrangement,
99; oriranie uuit.x' in nature, 100; equi-
librium of full and empty spaces, 100;

[ 41)5 ]

INDEX

repetition and contrast of lines and
masses, 100, 101; everything focused to
a point, 101; geometric design, 102;
archltecbtonic or structural unity, 102 ;
beauty primarily dependent on balance
and unity, 102

Barberini (bar-bay-ree'nee) family, bon
mot about, 251

Bar'bizon, 249, 322 et seq.

Barcelona, birthplace and patron of For-
tuny, 402

Bardi (bah'dee) Chapel, S. Croce (san'-
tab croWchay), Florence, 18

Bargello (bah-jel'loh) Chapel, Florence,
18

Bartolommeo Colleoni (bah-tol-ome-may'-
oh col-lay-oh'nee) statue, 71, 84

Bartolommeo, (bah-tol-ome-may'oh) Fra,
50, 104

Basel, Holbein, Erasmus, and Froben at,
138; in clutch of the Reformers, 139;
birthplace of Boecklin, 367

Bashful Suitor, The [Israels], 422

Bath, Gainsborough settles in, 284; Beau
Nash leads the fashion in, 284

Beautiful Gate of the Temple [Raphael],
164

Beauty, what is it? as expressed by the
Greeks, Correggio, Michelangelo, 155 ;
views of Winckelmann, Lessiug, Keats,
Delacroix, 319; may exist in character
of subject and individuality of artist,
320 ; in truth, 340

Beauty in a picture, what produces, 6

Belle Jardiniere, La (lah bel jah-dee'nee-
air) (Raphael], 104 •

Bellini, Gentile (jayn-tee'lay bayl-lee'-
nee), 31, 71,132

Bellini, Giovanni (jo-vahn'nee), 68 et seq.;
his debt to Manteg-na, Verrocchio, and
Squarcione, 71 ; the sculptural calm of
his figures, 72; Diirer's judgment of
him, 72 ; his workcomparedwith Titian's
and that of Phidias, 77 ; in it Byzautinism
reached its highest truth to local facts,
77 ; the influence of Greek culture is
seen in it at its highest point, 78 ; his in-
troduction of architectural forms, 81-84 ;
Titian worked with him, 132

Bellini, Jacopo (yah-ko'poh), 31, 71

Bentivogli (bayn-tee-volil'ye) family at
Bologna (bo-lone'yah), 31

Bentivoglio (bayn-tee-vohl'yoh). Cardinal,
patron of Claude, 251

Berenson, Bernard, quoted: Florentines
masters of several crafts, 18 ; space-com-
position, 80 ; on " tactile " sense, 120

Blashfield, Edwin H., quoted re Vero-
nese, 164

Blessed Daniozel, The [Rossetti], 376 et
seq.

Bltie Boy, The [Gainsborough], a chal-
lenge to Reynolds (?), 274

Boccaccio (bok-kahcli'yo), his stories the
evangel of the modern world, 54 ; por-
trait in Raphael's Parnassus, 106

Boecklin, Arnold, 353 et seq.; his Isle of the
Dead a composition in which the nori-
zontal is subordinated to the vertical,
a work of imagination, 353 ; compare the
boat with Charon's in Delacroix's Dante

and Virgil, 366 ; a sense of infinite seclu-
sion, yet the isle has been modified by
man, 366, 367 ; he introduces a harmoni-
ous blending of figures and landscape
like Poussin, Claude, and Corot, and has
a Greek faculty of interpreting land-
scape by creatures of like nature, 368 ;
but invents new forms, 369; greatest
color-poet of the century, 369 ; born at
Basel, enters Diisseldorf, but advised
to go to Brussels ; thence to Paris and
Rome; the latter the great influence
upon his career, 367

Bologna (bo-lone'yah), 31

Boston Public Library, decorations in, 426
et seq., 449, 450

Bottegha (bot-tay'gah), the studio-work-
shop of early Italian artists, 12, 96

Botticelli, Alessandro (ah-lays-sahn'dro
bot-ti-chel'lee), 52 et seq.; inspired by the
new study of Greek, 52, 53 ; pupil of the
goldsniith Botticelli, 55 ; at the court of
the Medici, 55; pupil of Fra Lippo, a
realist, but himself a poet and dreamer,
56 ; fond of allegorical subjects, 61, 62 ;
his Venus and Madonnas, 62 ; his compo-
sitions, decorative patterns, 64,65 ; poor
anatomist, but a great draftsman, 65;
abstract beauty of his line, 66 ; his yearn-
ing fulfilled in Giovanni Bellini and Ra-
phael, 67

Boucher, Francois (frahn'swahbou'shay),
successor to Watteau, 304; voluptuous
Insipidities of, 313

Boudin (bou-dan), Eugene Louis, influ-
ence on Monet, 458

Bouguereau (bou-gair-roh), W. Adolphe,
affected by Courbet, 358

Boy with a Sword [Manet] nearest of his
works to Velasquez, 411

Brabant, Flemish school of, 66

Bramante (brah-mahn'tay), design of, for
St. Peter's, 156

Brancacci(bran-karch chee),Chapelof the.
Church of the Carmine (kah'mee-nay),
Florence, 29

Breadth and simplicity, illustrated in
Giotto, 17; in Hals, 205, 206; result of
mental power, 207. See Olossaty

Breton, Jules (zhool bray'ton), 339 et seq.;
his Oleaner examined, 339, 340; she is
type of woman of Roman Campagna,
340; uses peasant as a peg to hang his
own poetry upon, 342 ; represents his
subject without sympathy or under-
standing, 352

Brinton,Selwyn,quoted re princely houses
of Italy, 32

" Brown sauce " of Courbet, 405, 407

" Brown tree " in a picture, 290

Bruges, Flemish school of, 37-67

Brunelleschi (broo-nayl-lays'key), 47

Burger-Thore, quoted re early life of Rous-
seau, 325

Burial ofWilhie at Sea, TheyT:nxv\QV],'i!i9

Burne-Jones, Sir Edward, intimate with
Rossetti, 389 ; aj" painter of the soul," 390

Burney, Fanny, her first impressions of
Mrs. Siddons, 273

Byron, Lord, influence on Delacroix, 307 ;
one of the leaders of romanticism, 318

[496]

INDEX

Byzantine influence: Byzantium friitcway
of East and Wi-Mt, 9; lucotiuv'-place of
Oriental and (Jrcck art, lo; l{y/.antiuc
art of illuminators and decorators, char-
acter of, as cucoura^rcd liv the cliurcli,
10; reaches its highest point as exjires-
sion of relijrion in I'erutjino, 70,71; jis
expression of truth to facts in (iiovanni
Bellini, 77; Ht. Mark's a triuuiph of
Byzantine art, ItJO, Kil ; Har^eut mflu-
enced by Byzantine art, 433, 449

• Campanile (kam-pnh-necray), Florence, 81
Caravaggio (kali-rah-vaj'iyo), 232
Carlo DoTci (kali lo dohlchee), 232
Carolus-Duran, Charles Auguste, teacher

of .Sarnent, 442
Carpaccio (kar-parch'chvot, 1C3
" Cavalier Painter, the," Van Dyck, 207
Cellini, Benvenuto (bane-vay-noo'to chel-

lee nee), 322
Cesena (ehay-zay'nah), 31
Charles I of England bought Mantegna's

Triumph, 3")
Chelsea, Ilolbeiu welcomed in, 139; Ros-
setti lived there, 389; scene of much of
Whistler's sojourn and work, 453
Chiaroscuro (kce-ah"rolis-koo'roli) (see
Lij/ht (ind mat/e), Giotto's elementary
use of, for nuKlelinp, 17 ; Leonardo, by
subtlety of, secures noetic and emotional
effect, 122; one of the prevailing quali-.
ties of Venetian painting. 161; Tinto- '
retto's use of, 175 ; emotional expression
of, in Rubens's Descent from the Cross,
182, 183, 190; Velasquez substitutes for,
study of values, 190, 191 ; unifyiufr efTeet
of, in Rendjrandt'fi Sortie of lianuiug
Cock Company, 213; Rembrandt's use
of, 214, 215, 216; Fortnny's treatment of,
compared with Piloty's, 392; Manet re-
vives Velasquez's stiidv of values, 407;
api>earance of light and shade in open-
air light, 459. 8ee (Hossary
Children of the Shell [Murijlo], 209 et seq.
ChriHt Wulkinfj on the Water [Raphael],

Ruskin's criticism of, 372, 373
Chrysoloras, Manuel, fireek scholar, 55
Church, influence <»f the, on i>ainting: in-
sists on types to express dogmas, 10;
Masaccio and Mantegna break away
from the flat formalism encouraged by
the church, 21 : conventional ide:is still
determine charaeterof eomi>ositioiis, 5C ;
Miirillo, a iiaiuter for the church, 210
Cimabue (cnee-mah-booay), 8 et seq. ;
Madonna Kntlironed, reason of similar-
ity to (iiotto's, 9; his picture carried in
procession, 11; adopts Ciiotto as jtupil,
12; his treatment of fonn and drai>ery,
12, 17
Classicists versus Romanticists, 318, 819,
320; versus Rousseau and Millet, 32fi,
349; versus realists. 355-358 ; versus Im-
pressionist.s, 40h, 40'.i
Classic in French Painting. See .4 f flrffwi ic
Classic or heroic landscape, Poussin the
father of, 238 ; suggested by Italian land

scape, 238 ; principles of, 241 ; illustrate
in Claude's Lundiitg of CUopatra, 242,
243 ; Claude a<lvances it beyond Poussin,
252; the cause of its po"i)ularitv, 253;
Constable's revolt from it, 288 el seq.;
Turuci's rivalry of Claude, 291, 292;
Corot's early jirefereuce for, 327, 328
Claude GelUe, called Lorrain, 243 et aeq. ;
his classic comjiareil with Hobbenia's
natural treatment, 242-249; his early
life and Journey to Home, 2.'')0; first cook,
then assistant to the painter Agostino
Tassi,2.50; revisits France for two years,
251 ; returns to Rome in company of
Charles Errard, 251; attracts notice of
Cardinal Bentivoglio and wins Euro-
pean fame, 251 ; left forty-four etchings,
also two hundred sketches now owne<l
by the Duke of Westminster, and called
" Liber Veritatis," 251, 252; his concep-
tion of the ideal or heroic landscape. 252 ;
his study of sunshine, 252; helped to
found the academic or classic in French
art, 253; his work suited the taste of the
time and remained popular all through
the eight^'cnth century, 253
Clothes, Intluence of, on i)ainting, 118
Color and music compared : Delacroix felt
in color as a musician does in sounds,
307; Boeckliii and Wagner likened, 369;
Manet's modulation of a chord of gray,
412; Whistler's eflbrt to reach the ab-
stract ai>peal of music, 451, 452
Colored forms, nature seen as an arrange-
ment of, 316
Colorists and color : Van Eyck'8 brilliant,
rich color, 4O, 45; MemUug's rich and
life-like, 64; Bellini anticijiates the other
great Venetian colorists, (iiorgione, Ti-
tian, and Veronese, 84: Rubens's splen-
dor of color, 184; local color, 191, 406;
color weak point of Poussin and classic
school, 241; Watteau studies thecoloring
of Rubens and the Venetians, 258 ; splen-
dor of Turner's color-schemes, 299;
Delacroix felt in color, and roatle it a
means of emotional appeal, 307, 317 ;
academic school disregard color, 316;
Charles Blanc's extraordinary state-
ment, 319; Boecklin greatest color-poet
of the century, 3t'.9; Manet's delicate
color-schemes," 412, 417, 418; Whistler's
colfirharmonies, 452, 454, 456; Professor
Rood's experiments in light mid color
studied by Peurat, I^issarro, and Mouet,
458; effect of strontr sunshine on colors,
459; decomposition of cf>lors and ojitical
mingling instead of niintrling of pig-
ments, 4r,o : Mimet's rante of color wider
than Corot's, advantages of the poinlil-
liste method of laying on color, 463;
vibrating color, 464"; jirimary and sec-
ondary {'olors, and height«'ned effect by
combination, 469; colored pigments in-
ferior In luminosity to colored light, 469;
raising the key of color, 470; flat col-
oring and subtle harmonies of the Jap-
anese, 475, 477. Hee alossary
Comedies, French and Italian, 258
Communes, or Republics, of Italy, 31
Composition : Van Eyck's combluoa large

[ 4-1)7 ]

INDEX

spotting and minute elaboration, 39 ; the
balancing of full and empty spaces, 79 ;
effect of suggesting the third dimension,
"space-composition," Pei'ugino's mas-
tery of it, 80 ; strengthening of composi-
tion by introducing architectural forms,
81; monumental quality of Bellini's, 81;
character of the latter's figures in keep-
ing with the architectural settings, 83 ;
Raphael's mastery of composition. 98 ;
nature seen through a window will lack
composition, 99 ; composition analyzed,
98-10'^; selection and arrangement, 99;
balance and unity, 99 ; natural or conven-
tional arrangement, 99 ; f uU and empty
spaces, MK>; the equilibrium of them in
Raphael's Madonna degli AnsidH yields
suggestion of wonderful composure, 100 ;
vertical, horizontal, and curved lines
contrasted and repeated, 100, 101 ; a focus
point of whole, lOl ; basis of design geo-
metric, 101, 102 ; architectonics of compo-
sition, and affect of on the imagination,
102; in Madonna deffli Ansidei the ex-
pression of faces is only a refinement of
the qualities already expressed in the
composition, lOa ; ttiis picture contrasted
with Wolgemuth's Death of the Virgin,
103 ; German preference for detail over
structural dignity, 103; Raphael's, buUt
up to affect the imagination, 101 ; noble
spotting of light and dark in Titian's
Mamoiththe Glove, 13'2; composition of
line and of light and shade in Rubens's
Descent from the Gross, 181, 182, 183;
Poussin's composition of figures and
landscape in Et Ego in Arcadia, 237 ; se-
ductive charm of the same in Claude's
Landing of Cleopatra, 242; Hobbema's
harsher arrangement, 243; exquisite
pattern of forms and sky space in VVat-
teau's Embarkation, 257 ; composition of
Boecklin's Isle of the Dead and Courbet's
Funeral at Ornans compared, 353 et
seq. ; study of arrangement of masses in
Whistler's Portrait of the Artist s Mother,
454 ; Japanese arrangement of line and
tone, 474, 475 ; illustrated in Hashimoto
Gaho's Sunrise on the Rorai, 476, 477. See
Cdossarii

Composition of light and less light, 193

Composition of light and shade, 182

Conception of subject, 6

Concrete-abstract, how far painting ex-
presses, 452. See Glossary

Constable, John, Hobbenia set the path
for, 253; Gainsborough born near his
birthplace, East Bergholt, Sussex, 283 ;
287 et seq.; a miller's sou brought up
near The Valley Farm, or Willy LotVs
House, 287 ; studied at Royal Academy
schools and from works of Hobbema and
Ruisdael, love of nature ledliim back to
the river Stow, 288 ; The Valley Farm com-
pared with Claude's Landing of Cleo-
patra and Hobbema's Are»i(«c, 288, 289;
"Painting is with me another name for
feeling " 288, 289 ; " Where are you going
to place your brown tree I " 290 ; his tidei-
ity to nature and interpretation of his
own mood make him the father of mod-

ern landscape, 290; his simple life in
Sussex and at Hampstead, 300, 301 ; stud-
ied the varying luminosity of the atmo-
sphere, 301 ; his landscapes exhibited in
Salon, 1822-1827, attracted Delacroix and
influenced Rousseau, 323

Constantinople taken by the Turks, 162

Contrast and repetition in composition, 100
et seq.

Conventionalization of Western and Ori-
ental artists compared, 473 et seq. See
Glossary

"Conversation Pieces," Hogarth's, 270

Coronation of Napoleon I at Notre
Dame [David], 315

Corot, Jean Baptiste Camille (zhahn bah-
teest' cah-mee'yel coh'roh), one of the
painters of the jmysage inlime, 249 ; 323
et seq.; the lyric poet of the Fontaine-
bleau-Barbizon School, 323 ; suggestion
of music and songfuliiess in his Dunce of
the Nymphs, 323, 324; his escape from
form to render the effect of form upon
the senses, 324 ; his parents, 324 ; father
makes him allowance, 327 ; his flrst visit
to Italy, 328; masters the skill in drawing
moving objects and learns to generalize,
328 ; after third visit to Italy'comes un-
der influence of Rousseau, 328 ; describes
the sensations produced upon him by
early morning and evening, 328, 333, 334;
his final style, 334; his attitude toward
nature compared with Rousseau's 335,
336, 337 ; the figures in his landscapes
compared with Boecklin's, 368 ; his ren-
dering of skies, 463 ; his attitude toward
nature compared with Monet's, 470 ; his
expression of nature's spirit compared
with the Japanese idea of " kokoro," 472

"Corporation picture," 211

Correggio (cor-r;ige'jyO), Antonio Allegri
(ahl-lay'gree), 142 et seq.; represents the
pagan element of the Renaissance, 142,
143 ; his Marriage of St. Catherine, with-
out religious fervor, a poet's golden
dream, 143, 144, 145; his use of glazes,
148; his Marriage compared with Mi-
chelangelo's Jeremiah, 153; his type,
physical loveliness Joined to loveliness
of "sentiment, 155 ; sketch of his life, 157 ;
his trouble over the "fry of frogs" and
his wife's death, 157 ; his triumph of light
and shade in the Adoration of the Shep-
herds, 157 ; retires from Parma to Cor-
reggio, 157, 158 ; his influence upon Rey-
nolds, 276

Cdt^sde Grandville, Rousseau's flrst mas-
terpiece, 326

Courbet, Gustave (goo'stahve coo'ur-bay),
353 et seq. ; his Funeral at Ornans com-
pared with Boecklin's Isle of the Dead,
353, 354 ; realist and revolutionary, 355 ;
avoids the studios and studies in the
Louvre, 355, 356 ; his flrst work. The Stone-
Breakers, 35(i; Funeral at Or/! a ws criti-
cized, 356; advocates "la v^rit^ vraie,"
358; his broad, firm manner of painting,
359; the Funeral seriously Judged, 360,
365 ; his share in the Revolution of 1848.
369; in the Commune, his banishment
and death, 370; his truth to nature com-

[498]

INDEX

narcd with RuBkin'fl tenrhinfr, 37-;, 375;

niH " brown Hiiucf," 405; hm U;a<-hiiif; of

realism carritd fiirtlurr by Manet, 405, 407
Cranach, Lucas, 141
Crane, Walter, iiitluence of, on decorative

art, 3k;i, ;r.io
" Cry of the soil " {Le cri de la terre) Leard

by Millet, 343
Curved lines contrasted with vertical and

horizontal, KM) et seq.
Cuyp tkipe), Aelbert, 252

Dance of Death [ITolbeln], 138

Dnttre of the Syuiphn (Corot), 323 Pt seq.

Dante (daiiii tay), (iiolto's portrait of, IH;
swan-Hun^c <>i' the Middle Axes, 54; his
portrait ui IJaphael's J'tiriiass-us, IOC;
Taiuc'H estimate of, 14G ; Kossetfi a stu-
dent of, 384 ; the idealH of his spirit real-
ized through Beatrice aud the service

of love, 388, 389

DaiiteniKt lirgil [Delacroix], 304etseq.;
compared with Boeckliu's Isle of the
Dftui, 3r.(i

Daubigny, Charles Francois (sharl frahu'-
swali (low bccnye , 32'2

David, Jacques Louis izhack looee dah'-
veedi, 30d et seq. ; liis art Ji protest
ajraiiist tliat of Watteau's sueeessor.s,
304; his Od'li of I III' //<>/(///» cold, calcu-
lated, and self-conscious, ;}04 ; its sub-
ject considered, 304 ; a susjiieion of stajji-
neBs,30r>; Davidapart <if the Kcn'ulution,
308; his Jloralii, founded upon l\omau
models, incites to Koman Itepnlilican-
isni,308, 313 ; David, appointed iMinister
of Fine Arts, imposed his Uoman taste
on public and ))rivate life ; it suited the
spirit of the time, 313; the naturalism of
liis port raits of Marat and Napoleon, 314 ;
and of his f'orointtion, 315; his banish-
ment to and death in Brussels, 315; his
legacy of classicism, 315; his lloriilii
compared with Delacroix's Dnnlv and
Vin/il, 316. 317

Death of the Virgin [Wolgeniuth], 103,
104

Decline of Italian art, 177, 232

Decomposition of colors into their con-
stituent elements, 460 et sef|.

Definition melting into indefiniteness,192,
477

Degas (dny'ffas), Edgard, 475

Delacroix, Ferdinand Victor Eugine (ewe'-
zhane ilay lali-crwali), 304 et seq.; his
art a pi'otnst against D.iviil's, his Ihiiitr
(iiid Viri/il examined, its subject, :)(m; ;
its coloi- schem<', 307 : jirodiu'l of the
Romanlic movenu-ut, 307, 308; he reiire-
seiits the fervor of individualism, 308;
ridicules the Academy's scai'ch for ideal
l>eauty, 315 ; his Dante unit Vin/il coni-
jtared with David's lloraiii, 3ir., ;ii7; a
great ccdorist, :U7; inllucuriMl by the
Uonianlic writers, 318; Blanc's "criti-
cism" iif liim, 319; Ins assertion that
beauty is not the only end of art, 319;
the Academy's opposition to him, 320

Delaroche (<lay-lah-roh'she), Hippolyte,
teacher of Millet, 343; of Israels, 419

Descent from tite f 'ro«« [Cam pana), 224

Descent from the Cross [KubeusJ, 175, 178
et seq.

Despots, Italian, brilliant and terrible life
of, 3J

Detail, Flemish skill in, illustrated by Van
Eyek, 39, 40; by Mending, r,4 ; (ie'rman
taste for, 103; Diirer's skill in rendering
detail and in giving it signitlcance, 119,
120; Holhcin'sclaboration of, to suggest
character of his subject, 131; Meisso-
nier's untruthful truth of, 189; Van
Dyek's rhetorical treatment of, 205, 2O6 ;
Hogarth's anecdotal, 2t',o, 261 ; Corot es-
capes fnun. 324; freely generalizes, 334;
Rousseau for a perio(i too exact in rep-
resenting, 335; Western and Jajianese
generalization and convcntioiuilization
of, comiJared, 473 et se(i.

Diaz (deeahz) de la Pena, Narciso Vir-
gilio, 322, 326, Mi

Dido building Carthage, Turner emu-
lates Claude in, 291

Dimensions, the three, 17

Disputh ((lees-i)oo-iah') [Raphael], its
design ba.scd upon one of Perugino's,
105

Distance, effect of, upon the imagination,

Distemper, the medium of, 8. See Glossary

Distinction, quality of, 2«2

Dobson, Austin, (luotcd on Marriage a la
Mtii/r, 'Ji;5

Doge Leonardo Loredano (doje lay-o-nah'-
do lorav-dah'uo), portrait of [Giovanni
Bellini], 77

Doge's Palace, Venice, embodiment of
the temporal Life of Venice, 160; it* dec-
orations, 1(13

Domenichino (do-may-nee-kee'no), Poiis-
sin studies with, 232

Dominici, Giovanni (jo-vahnneo do-mee-
noe (bee), founder of tlie order of Do-
miuuMiis, 46

Donatello (doh-nahtayl'loh), influence on
Miisiiecio, 24 ; on Fra Angclico, 47

Dosso-Dossi idbs so dos see), 32

Dramatic and scenic contrasted, 170. 174

Drapery, treatment of; (Jiotto's rmlimen-
tary luit functional use of, r>, 17; supe-
ri(M' character and fluency of Masaccio'R,
23: Mantegna's liny andstiff, 24; origin
and explanation of this treatment, 33,
;i4; sculjitural and nu)nuniental charac-
ter of (;io\aiMii Hellini's, 84 ; Reynolds's
treatuu-nl in the Mrs. .siddons, 281

Drawing, the child's way of, tU

Ducal Palace, N'eiiice. See l>i>i/e's I'dlare

Dupre, Jules (zhool doo-pray'), 249, 322,
326

DUrer (dooer-rer'). Albrecht, his opinion of
(iiovanni Belliid, 72; Wolgeumth hia
master, 85; log et seq.; nuist rejircsenta-
tivo of the (Jerman race, lO*.!; his skill of
draftsmanship, (|milities of his work,
110; Diirer's geidus characterized by the
genius of the (iermans. 111; his admira-
tion of Luther and wiuk in engravings
for the publisher Koburger, 117,118; did

[ 499 ]

INDEX

not possess tbe gift of ideal beauty, due
to influence of German Renaissance be-
ing moral and intellectual rather tbau
artistic, 118 ; liis skill in suggesting tex-
tures and the significance of appear-
ances, 119, 120; difference between his
work and Leonardo's summarized, 124 ;
his art must be ioined with Holbein's to
represent completely the genius of the
German race, 141
Dutch art an art of portraiture, 197
Dutch School, 195-254, 404-422
Dutch war of independence, 195 et seq.

East Bergholt, birthplace of Constable,

283, 287
Eastern and Western ideals, diflerence

between, 9, 471, 476
JEcce Ancilla Domini [Rossettl], 371
fecole des Beaux Arts (ay'cole day bohs

ahi-), 241
" Eighth Discourse, " Reynolds's, on warm

and cold colors, 274
Elemental and permanent compared with

incidental and momentary, 425
Elemental quality in painting, the : ele-
mental geometric figures, 102 ; the ele-
mental quality the secret of the eleva-
tion of Michelangelo, 155; Rousseau's
suggestion of it, 336, 337 ; Millet's, 352 ;
Puvis de Chavannes's, 425; Whistler's
search for it, 451, 452 ; Japanese idea of
" kokoro," 472, 473. See Glossary
Elusiveness in painting, Leonardo's love
of, 121, 124 ; Velasquez's appearing and
disappearing lines, 192 ; Whistler's pref-
erence for, 456; Japanese skill in, 477.
See Glossary
Einharkntio'n for Cythera [Watteau], 256,

257 258 259
English School, Early, 255-303
English Pre-Raphaelite School, 371-390
Engraving and painting compared, 117
Engraving on copper, 110, 260. See Olos-

sary
Engraving on wood, 110. See Glossary
Entombment, The [Giotto], 22
Entombmentof Christ [Mantegna], 35
Erasmus, friend of Holbein, 130; driven

from Basel by the Reformation, 139
Errard, Charles, one of the founders of

the French Academy in Rome, 251
Esprit (ays'pree) in brushwork, 444
Etching, process of, 221. See Glossary
Etchings, Whistler's, constructive reality
and detail of Thames series; economy
of line in Venetian series, 453 ; character-
istic of the artist's love of suggestive-
ness, 453, 454 ; betray the Japanese in-
fluence, 475
Et Ego in Arcadia [Poussin], 228, 238
Everdingen, Allart van, 229
Exaggeration of Michelangelo, 156 ; of

Tintoretto, 175
Experience and feeling, influence of, on the

artist, 4 et seq.
Externals, joy of the painter in, 21, 22

False realism, 189

Family of Darius, The [Veronese], 169
Father of modern landscape, the, Con-
stable, 287
Feeling and experience, influence of, on

the artist, 4 et seq.
Ferrara (fer-rah'rah), 31, 32
"Fiat Lux" (fee'at loox), "Let there be

Light," 407
Fighting Tem^raire, The [Turner], 299
Figure, rigidity of the academic, 316
Figures, placing of: heads above heads in
Byzantine painting, 8 ; Giotto begins to
suggest a third dimension, 17 ; Masaccio
to place his figures in air, 29 ; figures
treated as a pattern of forms by Botti-
celli, 64; figures stretched across in one
or two planes, as in low-relief sculpture,
by Mantegua. 34 ; by Wolgemuth, 95 ;
by Poussin, 232 ; by David, 308 ; seen as
through aveil, as In the case of Leonardo,
121 ; placed in melting atmosphere by
Correggio, 148; enveloped in light by
Velasquez, 190 ; an arrangement of col-
ored forms in harmonious relation, 316;
distributed by Puvis in separate planes,
to avoid contrasts of light and shade,
437
Filippino (fee-leep-pee'no) Lippi, 29
First of the moderns, the, Velasquez, 194
Flat painting, Byzantine, 17, 20; Hals's,
flat tones, 205; Puvis's, 433, 437. See
Glossary
Flemish art, one of choice perfection of

detail, 38
Flemish School, 37 et seq., 52 et seq., 177 et

seq., 195 et seq.
Florentine artists masters of several

crafts, 18
Fontainebleau, 322

Fontainebleau-Barbizon School, 322-352
Form, idealization of: Botticelli's ab-
stract beauty of line, 65, 66 ; Perugino's
forms expressive of " soul-solitude," 69,
70; Giovanni Bellini's grand type of
physical and mental perfection, 72 ;
Leonardo's forms expressive of the
mystery of inward beauty, 121, 122, 123 ;
Michelangelo's, of mental emotions,
154; Murillo's, of religious sentiment,
210 ; Rembrandt's expressive of the soul,
216; Poussin's poetic treatment, 239;
Watteau's idealism, 257 ; academic ideal-
ization, 253, 315, 316; Boecklin's idealiza-
tion founded upon facts, 366, 367 ; Ros-
eetti's, upon devotion to one woman,
387-389; Puvis de Chavannes's, upon
simplification, 437
Form, the rendering of: Giotto's advance
in, 12, 17, 18 ; Masaccio's further advance
in, 22, 23 ; the impulse given to, by
sculptors, 24, 29 ; Flemish love of, 39, 64;
influence of architecture on, 48, 81-84,
434-437; Diirer's mastery in, 119, 120;
Velasquez's skill in, by means of values,
191 ; flat modeling of, in clear light by
Hals, 205 ; Millet aimed at a synthesis of
form, 351 ; force of character in Cour-
bet's rendering of form, 365; Whistler

[500]

INDEX

shnnnod the ohvioiisncss of fonn, 4.'ii ct
8fq. ; JapaurHc licliff in llic iliipclliia-
iit'iict: (if iiiattor uuil tfiuporaiiiics.s of
fiiriii, 471

Form the first thing to observe, Rou«-
soaii'K ailvicc, 334

Fortuny, Mariano, 391 et seq. ; his Spatiis/t
ifnm'af/c ('(unparcd witli I'ihity'H T/iiis-
tieUla, Ml ; its coinpositiiiii, 3'J-^ ; the life
and i-liaractcr of ilic tl^'ur<-M, 3'.t7 ; bin
birtli and training in liaio'lona, 4(i'J ;
won the I'i'ix df lionic, then visited
Morocco and Ix'canic fascinated liyllic
liffht, color, and nio\ cnicnt of the Simih,
40*2 ; iiis Kococo sul)iei'tM characteristic,
403; skill in paintinjr, and vofrne in
Paris, 403 ; set tue fiishiou for bric-a-brac
l)ietiircs, 403

Fragonard, Jean Honorfe, 304

Francis I, 3j'i

Frari, Church of the, Titian l)ui'ied in, 137

French, the, inheritors of Koniun tradi-
tion, l!3'.i, 240

French schools, 228-271, 304-370; 404-440

Fresco, IH, 147. 8co (ilosstiri/

Froben, printcM- aud piihlisher, 138, 139

Fromentin (fro'nion-tan), French painter
and critic, quoted on Flemish art, 4r, ;
on the Dutch Hchool, 197 ; on Kenihrandt,
214

"Fry of frogs," lr,7

Fugitive gesture or movement, ir,X, 401

Full and empty spaces : balance of, in com-
position, ami its ellcct upon the iniaici-
uation, 79; explanation of, 1(K) (sec
(llossan/) ; I'uvis's treatment of, 4i4 ;
sp<>cial value of empty spaces in Whis-
tler's Venetian etchinj;s, 4.')3 ; Whistler's,
in the portrait of his niotlier, 4.'J4, 455;
ami in (iaho's Sunrisr on the Jlorai, 477

Fundamental side of men and things, the.
Millet tried to <lepict, 350

Funeral at Ornuun [Courhet], 353 et seci.

Gainsborough, Thomas, 272 et sea.; his
I'orlntit. of Mrs. Siililoiis compare(l with
Reynolds's, 273; refutes Reynolds's doc-
trine conceriiin;; cold anil wai in ccdors,
274 J not dramatic, l>ut simple and of
delicate retinemeiit, 2s2 ; his "dislinc-
tion " as an artist, love of imisie and
Blmple thiniJis, wi, 2H3 ; sketch ot his ca-
reer, 283, 284 ; eulogy on liini pronounced
l)y I{eyiiolds, 285; his art spontauj-ous
and poetic, 285

Gallic genius compared with German and
Anf;lo-Sax(»n, 2r.t!

Ganne's Inn, Rarlii/.on, 344

Generalization, to a certain extent inev-
itiihle, 4 ; Corot learns the value of, 328;
Western and Oriental methods com-
pared, 473, 474. See lilossdri/

Genius shaped by environment. 111 et seq.

Genre, Dutch, compared w ith Hotrarth's,
270. Hee (Itossdrif

Geometric forms in composition, 102

Oeorgf, Snhtt IDouutelloJ, iuUueucO ou
painting of, 24, 47

Georg Oijte, Portrait of [Holholn the

YonnLTcr), 125 et seq., 184

tit-rtn, Thf, 390

German and Italian Renaissance com-
pared ; the Italian priniarily an artistic
movement, the (icrimin an intellr'ctual
one, 112; (iernnin movement closely
identilied with the arts of printing and
engravint,', 117; owing to clinjale, Ital-
ians study human form, (iermans render
the character of clothes, IIH

German art, character of: jirofusion of
detail, 103; stern, tender, enigmatic, as
in Diiicr, 111; decorative feeling, eager
curiosity, elalioration, as in Ilolliein,
141; abounding in s(>ntiment and dra-
matic characterization, in Piloty aud
genre works, 401

German history, sumuniry of, 86-94

German School, 85-141, 353-370. 391-403

Gerome, Jean Leon (zhahn lay'on zhay-
rome), Rousseau sliirhted in' fav(M- of,
327 ; C'ourbet's influence on, 35H ; 423 et
seq.; his J'ollice Vfrso compared with
Puvis's hiler Artrsci .\(i(i(r(iw, 423, 424,
425; unlikely to have painted triu- deco-
ration, 426 ; great p(q»ularity, and causes
of it, 440

Ghiberti's (ghee-bare'tee) doors, influence
on painting of, 24, 47

(lillts (zhee-yeel') [Watteau], 258, 259

Giorgione (.jor-jo'nay), 84, 137

Giotteschi (.jot-tays'key), followers of
(;i(itio, 18

Giotto (jot'toh), 8 et seq.; ])Upil of CiuiOr
hiU', 11 ; his advance; toward natural
truth, 12; suggests the third dimension
and uses light and shade in a functional
way, 17; sculptor and architect as well
as i>ainter, 18
Oirt atiil I'iffs [(iainshoroughl, 282
t:irl irifli a Parrot [Mauetl, 404 et seq.,

4f;i
Giulio Romano (jool'yoh roh-mah'noh), 232
(Uraiirr, 'I he | jules" liretonl, 339 et seq.
illtaiiorH, The [Millet], 339 et seq.
(ilorif of Venire | Vt-rouese], 164 et seq.
Golden age, a, 143 et seq.
iiolden 1 olf The [Tintoretto], 173
Goldsmith, Oliver, friend of Reynolds, 285
tlonziKjii (gon-zah'gali) tt'eleontiny his

Sons [Maiitegna], 22 et se([.
Gothic feeling, charactelisfics of , 66, 67 ;
exiiressed its desire of beauty first iu
areliiteetnre. 94 ; deseeniled from the re-
ligion, savage and criu'l. of Asfiard, 95
Gothic revival in England, product of tlio
Oxfonl Movement. 3sl ; Ilidunin Hunt's
I.if/ht iif Ihc World imbued with I li<' sjiirit
of, 3S1,','IK2; effect of, on modern revival
of dec(M-atii>ii, 390
Greek art and Greek religion connected, 9
Greek culture and study, recoverv of. by
the Western world, .54, .55 ; Hotticelli iu-
s|)ired by, 5'_', 62; influence of, seen in
highest f(U'm in Ciovanid Bellini, 77,
78; united to f'liristiauity by Rajihael,
H8; he retells the ( iriek niytlis aud inter-
prets IJible story in Hellenic guise, IOC;
imjiorlaut <M)nsequeiu'es of this, 107;
Itnskin's criticism of it, 373

[ 501 ]

INDEX

Greek sculpture, Giovanni Bellini's work
compared to it, 72, 77 ; Michelangelo's
contrasted with, 154

Greuze, Jean Baptiste (zhahn bah-teest'
grooerz), 267

Gruchy (gi-oo'shee). Millet's hirthplace, 342

Guido Reni (ghee'do ray'nee), 232

Haarlem, scene of Hals's life, 198 and
note; and death, 207; birthplace and
early home and finally deathplace of
Ruisdael, 229, 230 ; one of the towns claim-
ing to be the birthplace of Hobbema, 242
Hals, Frans, 195 et seq. ; first of the great
Dutchmen, 198 ; his meeting with Van
Dyck, as told by Houbraken, 198 ; com-
parison of the two men, 198, 199; his
Portrait of a Woman contrasted with Van
Dyck's Marie Louise, 199,200; his mas-
tery of hands, 199, 200 ; his portraits typi-
cal of Dutch School, 205; his method of
painting, 205 ; broadly surveyed exter-
nals of his subject, 206 ; his work indica-
tive of fine qualities of mind, 206, 207 ;
for over a hundred years overlooked,
now esteemed highly, 208
Hampstead, Constable's later home, 301
Hands, expression of, 199, 200
Hanse towns : their trade with Venice
and Genoa, 93 ; their privileges and im-
portance, 140
Hashimoto Gaho (harsh-moh'toh gah-
hoh'), 457 et seq. ; foremost living artist
in Japan, 457 ; suggestiveness keynote of
Japanese motive, 471 ; based upon Bud-
dhist beliefs, 471-472 ; Gaho's doctrine of
" kokoromochi," 472 ; of Japanese paint-
ing being founded on line, 474 ; his Sun-
rise o}i the Horrti examined, 476 ; its linear
arrangement, 477 ; its tonal composition
and value of empty spaces, 477
Hassam, Childe, 458
Hayman, Frank, 283

Hearn, Lafcadio, quoted as to changing
character of Japanese landscape, 471,
472 ; and as to the source of true great-
ness in Japanese art, 476
Hedge, Dr. F. H.,his definition of Roman-
tic 292
Hell, in the Canipo Santo at Pisa, 53
Hellas, Hellenic, 53, los. See Glossary
Hellenic guise, Bible stories clothed in,

by Raphael, 106, 107
Heist, Bartholomeus van der, 211
Heroic landscape. See Classic or heroic

landscape, also (llossary
High Renaissance, 21
Historical painting and painters, 400
Hobbema (hob'bay-mah), Meindert, 242 et
seq.; three towns claim to be his birth-
place, 242 • his Avenue of Middelharnis
compared with Claude's Landing of
Cleopatra, 242; the composition of the
Avenue, 243; its subject studied, 244;
his landscapes represent the paysage
intime, 249; little known of his life, 250;
his truth to nature less than Constable's,
253, 254

Hogarth, 'William, 255 et seq.; the first
English painter, 255 ; his, a new kind of
pictures, 256 ; linked to Watteau's by the
influence of the drama, 259 ; personal
characteristics, 260 ; subject of the Mar-
riage a la Mode, 260, 265 ; Austin Dobson's
praise of it, 265 ; indorsement of his
qualities as a painter, 266 ; difference be-
tween him and Watteau partly racial,
266-268 ; he reflected four influences :
Puritiin morality, power of the middle
class, the drama, and rise of English
prose, 268, 269 ; his line of beauty, 269,
270 ; his " Conversation Pieces," how
they dift'er from Dutch genre, 270 ; sum-
mary of difference from Watteau, 270, 271
Holbein the Elder, 138

Holbein the Younger, and Diirer, grand
flgui-es in German art, 85 ; 125 et seq.;
his Portrait of Oeorg Gyze compared
with Titian's Man with tlie Glove, 125-127 ;
his enjoyment in the truth of facts, 127 ;
his art, objective, particular, realistic,
128; his attitude of mind made him a
realist, 129, 130 ; his elaborate detail com-
pared with Titian's sinipliflcation, 131 ;
minuteness of his modeling, 131; sketch
of his career, 137-140; its contrast to
Titian's, 140, 141 ; his place in German
art, 141
" Hole in the wall," 434. See Glossary
Homer, Winslow, 337, 338
Hooped skirts, eft'ect of, on Velasquez's

style, 193
Hoppner, John, 286

Horizontal lines, expression of, illustrated

in architecture of Southern Europe, 94;

contrasted with vertical, 100 ; effect of

excess of, 353, 365

Houbraken quoted concerning Hals and

Van Dyck, 198
Hugo, Victor, the leader of French Ro-
manticism, 307 ; production of his " Her-
nani," :U8
Hunt, William Holman, 371 et seq.; mem-
ber of Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, 371 ;
its motive and ideals, 371, 372; Ruskin
to the rescue, 373, 374 ; the hitter's con-
tention that modern art should be re-
ligious in motive and truthful to minut-
est detail realized in Hunt, 376; the
Light of the World examined as to sub-
iect, 376; it fltted in with the Oxford
Movement and Gothic Revival, 381, 382 ;
he visits the Holy Land, 382 ; the Shadow
of th£ Gross described, 382; his influ-
ence on foreign artists, 383, 384

Idealist and realist, Rembrandt a union of,

214
Idealization, examples of: Botticelli's Vir-
gin aud Venus, 62 ; Perugino's sexless,
soul-saturated flgures, 69, 70; Bellini's
elevation of local facts into noble types,
77 ; Raphael combined the intensity of
the religious feeling with the imper-
sonal serenity and happiness of the pa-
gan, 88; Leonardo's types elusive, less

[ 502 ]

IXDKX

visiblo to oj-e-siglit tliaii to soul-KiKlit,
Vll, rj;i; Titian's iilcalizatiini of a iiinod,
127; Vail Dyck'M itlcalizatioii of olfKunco
ami iiiamiiTs, I'jy ; ClaiitU-'s imitrovc-
iiu'iit upon uatme, 2-J2, 24;); tlic aca-
demic iiiiprovcincnt on the liniiiaii tli,'-
uro,'-'53; Wuttcaii'Hrainltow lined \ inions
of {Trace, •j.W, •jr>7 : Hoccklin's idi'uliza-
tioii liascd on facts. aOC, ^OT ; rnvissccliH
for the |icrinanrnt and elemental, 425,
4;n, 4;i','. see tHossKn/

Ideals of the West and' East different, 9

Illustrators intlucnccd l>y Jupaucso art,
47li

Imagination, the, effect of distance aixl
Kiiae<' upon, 7H; stiumlaled by cxjicri-
ence of physical seuHatioils, 79, HO; Mi-
clielanf^elo's ;ippeal to, l.')4, ir>5 ; Hein-
brandt's power of niovinfr, 214, 210 ; liow
tlii^ sk\ appeals lo, 2:!1 ; IJoeeklin bases
on fact's bis appi-al to, 3(;i;, ;ir)7 ; music's
abstract apjieal 10,451; the concrete ap-
peal of paiutin;; to, 452; Whistler's ap-
peal to, throufj:h siiKfrestiveuess, 452-450 ;
effect upon, of C'orot's skies, 463; sug-
j:t!stiveness to sjiirit and imajrinatiou
the keynote of .Japanese paintinj;,471,477

Imitation of Italian art, Flemish art loses
its identity in, f,7 ; (Jerman art also, in
seventeentli and eifjliteentli centuries,
141; caused Vehiscpiez to be f(U;.'otten,
194; also Hals, 208; Kembraiidt to be de-
8i)i8cd, 22ri. 227; Reynolds founded his
Htyle on, 27C; Constable broke away
fr!)m. 2HH

Immortals, the, 240

Impermanence of matter, Japivnese belief
of. 471, 472

Impressionism, modern : Manet revives
Velas(iue/.'s study of lii;lit, 407; oriffin
of name, which is a misnomer. 40s ; the,
in)i>n'ssionists should be called lumi-
narists, 40S; their cry of "Art for art's

sake," 404 et se(i. See (llossitri/

Impressionism of Monet, |>(>i>ular niisap-
I»rehension of, 457; ^oes further than
Manet and Velasquez, ami learns from
Japanese to seek the fleitinir mood of
nature, 457,458; his method of i)ainlinf.',
of itself, has uothiuK lo do with impres-
sioidsm. 45H

Impressionism of Velasquez, instatit and
coniplele, and vividly retained, I'JO; a
realism of vision, rendereil witli true
app<Mranee of lif,'ht. I'.io. I'.H. I'.U

Impression on the eye and on the mind
contrasted, 129

Incidental and momentary compared with
elemental and permanent, 425

Individuality. W'lnckelmanii savsthat the
highest beauty is devoid of. 319; Dela-
croix sa\s that st\le depenils upon in-
dividuality of artist, :il9, 320; Millet's
])easants iiot individual, but typal, 341,
350; I'uvis's avoidance of, 437 ; IJuddhist
text, "lie alone is wise who cuu see
thint^s without their individuality," 476

Ingres (an'Kur). Jean Auguste Dominique,
fiillower of David, 354; his frigid, mar-
bleized ttfTlires, 357

Inness, George, 337, 338

Institute of France, 24<1. 241

Intense feeling. ICenibrandt and Uiii-dael
the only notes <d', in Dutch art, 230

Inter Artett «■< .\iituraiii IPuvIh], 423 et
scij. Hee tllossiiri/

Ipswich. (iaiiis))orou^'h resided at, 283

Isiiitth I MichelaliKelol, -yHt

I.slr ,,/tlir Ihnil | lioecklin). 3.53 et seq.

Israels, Jozef, 404 et seq.; painter of the
Dutili poor, 4111 ; (h'stiiied for a rabbi,
then helped in his fathei's bank. 419;
schooled lirst in the aeadeiui<'al manner,
under Delaroche, 419; settled in Amster-
dam and tried to i)aint historical hu1>-
jeets, 420; ill-health took him to Zaiid-
voort, where he Im^mii to study nature
and the flsher-folk,420; back in Amster-
dam. he at first painted rather anecdotal
and sentimenlal iiietures, but v'radually
learned to make liirht the main source
<»f expression <»f sentiment. 420; illuH-
trated in I'liv Olil Sn-ihr, 421 ; its broad
yet dc'licately sensiti\-e treatment, 421 ;
more raiifre of motive than Millet, better
iciiiiter of lit,'lit ami atmosphere, and
makes more of landscape, 422 ; his iuHu-
enee on Dutch art. 422

Italian history, summary of, 80 et seq.

Italian influence. iSi'c Itnitation of Ituliun
art

Italian School, 8-176

Jacque, Charles (.sbarl zhack), 322, 344
Japan, art of, 471 el seq. ; ,Iapanese art

compared with Occidental, 471
Japanese art, inlluince of, on Whistler,

455 ; on Monet, 45m
Japanese art. related to life, 478
Ji-reiniah [Michelangelo], 142 et seq.;

compared with Reynolds's Mrs. Siddons,

270
Johnson, Samuel, friend of Reynolds, 285
f/^itlfinitnt. The, in the Campo Santo at

i'isa, 53
Jinlitii with the Head of Holo/'emea

|M,ilite},'lia|, .35
Julius II, Pope, summons Raphael to

Rome, 105; coiumissinns Michelangelo,

153

Keats quoted, 319

Kemblc. family of actors, 272

Keppel, Commodore, afterward Lortl, 275

Kneller. Sir Godfrey, 255

Koburger, Antonius, printer, 93, 117

Koeverden <lainis to be birthplace of
Ilobhema. 242

Ko koro. tlie .Japanese idea of, 472, 473.
See lilonsdry

Kokoromochi (ko'koro-uio"chee) the ex-
pression of " kokoro," 47'2. 8eo Ulottsary

Landing of t'leoptitra
[CTaiido], 242 et seq., 288

at Ttir»u»

[ 503 ]

INDEX

Landscape, a background to figures in
Italian art, Perugino's beautiful exam-
ple, 78 ; its expressional value, 79 ; the
Dutch painted it for its own sake, 237,
244; "classic" or "heroic," 237, 238:
equal balance of landscape and figures
in Poussin's pictures, 237 ; love of, par-
ticularly characteristic of Northern na-
tions, 237 ; influence of, upon the Italian
grand style, 238 ; Claude's rearrange-
ment of nature, addition of architecture,
and reduced importance of figures, 242,
243, 252, 253 ; Constable revives the nat-
ural landscape, 287 et seq.; Rousseau
founds the modern French school of
paysage intime, 325 et seq.; American
landscape, 337, 338

Las Mehinas (lahs mane-yeen'as). See
Mauls of Honor

Last Judgment [Michelangelo], 156

Last Judgment [Tintoretto], 173

Lastman, Pieter, 224

Lawrence, Sir Thomas, 286

Layman ? \Vhat is a, 410

Layman's point of view differs from ar-
tist's, 410

Leaving out and putting in, 131, 200, 453

Lebrun, Charles, 240, 255

Lely, Sir Peter, 255

Le ISlotre lays out the gardens at Ver-
sailles, 253

Leonardo da Vinci (lay-o-nah'do dah
veeu'chee) fellow-pupil of Perugiuo, 84;
Influence on Rapliael, 104 ; log et seq.;
his Virgin of the Bocks compared with
Diirer's Adoration of the Magi, 109, 120,
121 ; early life in Florence, maturity in
Milan, last three years in France, 110;
pupil of Verrocchii), 110; scienrist, mnsi
clan, and painter, 110, 121; peered into
the secrets of nature and life, 121, 122;
the first to make chiaroscuro yield po-
etic and emotional expression, 122; the
subtlety and delicacy of his method il-
lustrated in the Virgin of the Rocks and
the Monna Lisa, 123; his type of woman's
beauty, 123; his work full of mystery,
sensitive, strangely alluring, but baf-
fling and elusive, 124 ; recapitulation of
his qualities, 142; anticipated the per-
spective of light, 191 ; one of the Fon-
tainebleau School, 322 ; traits in him
shared by Whistler, 451

Lessing quoted : truth to nature first con-
dition of beauty, 319

Lethiere, Guillaume (gheel'yome lay'ti-
air), 323

Let the Little Children come unto Me
[Von Uhde], 384

"Let there be Light," "Fiat Lux," the
motto of modern painting, 407

Leyden, birthplace of Rembrandt, 224

Lhermitte, Leon Augustin (lay'on oh-
goos'tan lair'meet), 352, 383, 384

" Liber Studiorum," Tiu-ner's, 252, 298

" Liber Veritatis," Claude's, 252, 298

Life and movement, 65, 169, 328

Light, modeling by : Velasquez, 190, 191 ;
Hals, 205 ; Manet, 417

Light, Monet's rendering of, 463 et seq.

Light a form of energy, 463

Light and shade. See Chiaroscuro

Light of the World [Holman Hunt], 376
et seq.

Line, functional use of, 17 ; decorative use
of, 65, 66 ; compositional use of, 100, 101,
102 ; at the same time expressional use
of, 102 ; for another union of composi-
tional and expres.sional lines compare,
181, 182; Correggio's lines of grace, Mi-
chelangelo's of power, 155, 156 ; elusive-
ness of Velasquez's contour lines, 192 ;
Hogarth's line of beauty, 269 ; academic
ideal line, 315, 316; Millet's synthetic
line, 351; economy of line in Whistler's
etchings, 453 ; Japanese painting found-
ed on line : its subtlety of expression,
474; Japanese line melting into indefl-
niteness, 477

Lippo Lippi, Era (frah leep'po leep'pee),
56

Local color, 191, 406. See Glossary

Local truth idealized by Giovanni Bellini,
77

London in 1526, 139

Lord Leighton's Procession of Cimahue's
Madonna, 11

Lorenzetti (low-raynt-say'tee) brothers,
20, 53

Louis XIV, 240, 255, 256

Louis XV, 2.56

" Luminarists," 408, 422. See Glossary

Luther's influence on Diirer, 112, 117

Madonna and Child with St. Jerome
and the Magdalene [Correggio], 157

3Iadonna dcgli Ansidei (dail'ye ahn-see-
day'ee) [Raphael], 97 et seq.

Madonna. Enthroned [Ciniabue], 8 et seq.

Madonna Unthroned [Giotto], 8 et seq.

Madonna Gran iJuca (grahn doo'ca)
[Raphael], 104

Madrid, 223

Maids of Honor, The, "Las Meiiinas"
[Velasquez], 178 et seq., 269

Malatesta (mal-ah-taste'ah) family at
Rimini, 31

Manet (mah'nay). Edouard, 404 et seq.;
his Oirl with u Parrot compared with
The Old Scribe by Israels, 404; carried
further and completed the realism of
Courbet by realism of representation,
405; first studied and borrowed fi-oiu the
old Italian masters, then learned anew
the truths concerning light discovered
by Velasquez, 406, 407; "Let there be
Light " became new watchword, 407 ; the
"Salon des Impressionistes " in 1871,
408; the position of the Impressionists
considered, 408-411; in Boy icith Sword
approaches nearest to Vela.squez, 411 ;
his Gii-l with a Parrot examined : its
color-scheme, 412, 417, 418; enumeration
of his qualities, 418; his influence on
others, 418, 419

Mantegna, Andrea (ahu-dray'ah mahn-
tane'yahi, 20 et seq.; at Padua what
Masaccio had been at Florence, 21 ; es-
talilished the status of painting inde-

[504]

INDEX

pendent of the churoh, 21 ; his Gon:aga
Famitij fxaiiiined : cliarartiT ami iiiili-
vitliial'ity of tlir IhmiIs, ■_';(; atlilinlcn
stitf, ilr;ip( r\' liny, 'J4 ; lcaiiic<l of sculp-
ture, 24 ; of "(iKitto's frcscdt'H ill I'ailiia,
30; and of his tcaclit'r Scinarcione's casts
of anticiuc Hciilpturc, ;«); assisicil his
master in the Church of ICreniitaiii, jO ;
frieiiilship with the Uelliiiis, ;tl ; suiii-
nioiicd to Verona by Gon/.aKa, :U ; coiii-
jtanioii of scholars, :):) ; the inlhn-iice of
Bculptiire ill his picture of the (loii/.a^M
family, SA. M\ bis skill in pi^rspcctive,
'H; his iriuiituh of (tcsar, 34, :!"> ; his
entjravin^rs T/ir Kiilonibnuiit and J ii-
tlilfi discrihed, 35, 30

Man u-ith tin- Olore [Titian], 125 et BCq.

Marat, portrait of (David], 315

Marco, San (san mar ko), monastery of,
4H et seq.

Mark's, St., embodiment of the spiritual
life of Venice, IfiO, 101

Itlarie Louise von Tossis, portrait of,
[Van DyekJ, 198 et seii.

itliiirhif/f II III Moili- \ I lofrarth ), JOO et seq.

3Iiirriiiyc at Citua, The [Veronese], 109

Marriage Contract, The [Hogarth], 200,
2Gr)

]Uarria{/r of Itacchus and Ariadne [Tin-
toretto], 173

Martin, Homer, 33", ,338

Miirtin-ilotn of St. Agnes [Tintoretto], 174

Masaccio, Tommaso (toiiie-nialrso niah-
sahch cliyoi, 2o et seq. ; to tlie lifteenth
century what (iiotto had heen to the
fourteenth, '20; hniilly i'(rclaimed paint-
ing from IJyzanlinisiii, 21 ; his St.
I'eler lUtiili^inij examined: advance in
use of nude and in character au<l cor-
rectness of form, 22, 23 ; iuHnenced by
Donatello and (ihiberli. 24 ; but discov-
ered for himself the placing of llgurcsiu
attnosphere, 29; where his chief works
are, 2'.i; like Leonardo, he anticipated
the study of light by Velasquez, 123

Massys, Quentin, 07

Medici (may'dee-chee) family at Flor-
ence, 31, .iri, 87

Mediums not confused by the French, 200,
207

Mediums used by artists: distemper, 8;
Ircsco, 18, 147; oil, 4"), 147; engraving on
wood, 110; engraving on copper, 110;
etching. 221. See (UosHiiry

Meissonier (niice-own'yea), IH'.t, 403

Memling, Hans, 52 et seq. ; his naivoK''
tinctured with gentle scnliiiiciit. :u\\ his
Virgin Knlhronrit miiiL''ling of realism
and conventionalism with toui'lies of
symboli.'Ani.St;; a preoccniiatioii with the
natural appearances, 1.1 ; a reou'd of
facts treated with pleasing fancifiilness,
63; he presents the facts obvious to
touch anil sight, o;) : in tlie distant detail
he jiaints not as lie sees, but as he knows,
the child's way of drawing, 04; his fig-
ures, comjiared with IJotticelli's, heavy
and stockstill and uosed for effect, 6.5;
little known of his life, 00

Meredith, George, 389

Mesdag, H. W., 419

Meyer (mi er), Jacob, patron of Ilolbein,

138, 13'.l
Mrgrr Miiilontiii [Holbein], 138
Michelangelo Buonarroti (meek-el-ahn'-
jel bwone-ar-ro tec), 142 et seq.: intlu-
enced by Masaccio, •.;() ; the tumult of the
Kenaissaiice represented in him, he is an
emlxxlimeut of its soul, 143 ; his .Irrnniuh
tilled with the prcjfiindity of his own
thoughts, 145; ranked by 'I'aiiie with
Dante, ."^hakspeare, and licet lioveii, 140;
continually at war with the world, 146.
147; the Jiriiniiili painted in fresco, a
medium just suited to the mtist, 148 ; a
sculptor's fi>eling in the picture, 153; the
wonder of the .sistine Chaiiel, I5;t; with
him the human l<M-m made to express
mental emotions, 154 ; his sonl-com-
munmu with Viltoria (olonna, 1.55; the
elevation of soul in his work, lines of
power, tremendous energy, even tor-
ment, 155; dares to ignore anatomy
and exaggerate, 150; architect, sculptor,
painter, poet, his connection with the de-
sign of 8t. Peter's, his di'iit hand will, 156
Michelozzo (mee-kel-oht'so), architect of

San Marco, 48
Middle class, influence of, 268
Millet. Jean Fran90is (zhahu frahn'swah
mee'hiy), erects a tombstone to Hous-
seaii, 327; 339 et seq.; his T/ie (llcauers
com])ared w itli Ureton's Tlif Uliunrr, :i39;
the truth to nature in Millet's, 340, 341 ; a
peasant himself, but educated, 341 ; his
pictures are types : e.g.. The Sower, 341 ;
" Wild Man of the Woods," 341 ; Millet's
poetry compared with Breton's, 342; his
early life at (iruchy, 342, :t43 ; becomes a
pupil of Delaroche, 343 ; The W'iiinoinr is
sold and ti.xes his career, 344; sets out
with Jacque for Barbizim, 344 ; years of
poverty, tlnal recognition, 349 ; "tried to
depict the fundamental; his epic of
labor, 3."iO ; he himself describes his aim,
350, 351 ; a great draftsman, 351
Miniature painters of manuscripts, intlii-

eiice of, 38, 47
Miriirle of St. Mark [Tintoretto], 170 et

seq.
Mirror, nature a, 303
Momentary and incidental compared with

permanent and elemental, 425
Momentary appearance, 458
Monet (mo nay), Claude, 457 et seq. ; in the
eyes of the imblic the most c(uis])icuoiis
impressionist, 457 ; his iiiii)ressionisni, in
advance of Manet's and Velasciuez's, iii-
tlneuced by the .lapanese, 457, 458 ; his
method of painting, 458; his early life at
Havre, induced by Hondiii to study na-
ture, 458; as a siddier in Algiers, came
under the spell of sunshine, visited Lon-
don durinu the l"ranco-l»ru>sian War and
studied TuriK'r, Unlit became his study,
459 ; he learned the ettects of color under
open-air light , 459 ; Professor IJood's in-
vestigations suggest the application of
paint in separate dabs, 400; tlie eye min-
gles them, 400; his (till llnirrh at Vernon
examined, 400, 401 ; his /i'f)i(f;( Cul/irilral
pictures, 402; his higher kind of impres-

iti

[505]

INDEX

sioniem, 462; compared Avitli Corot,
Rembrandt, Velasquez, Turner, 463 ; bin
pointUlisle method of painting, 464, 469 ;
raising tbe key of shadow, 470; he is an
eye, 470; people honestly unable to ad-
mire his pictures, 470

Monna Lisa (mon'ua lee'zab) [Leonardo
da Vinci], 123

Montefeltri (mone-tay-fayl'tree) family at
Urbino, 31

Monumental, explanation of, 81, 82, 83.
See Glossary

Mood of the painter expressed, in Titian's
MuH with the tiloce, 120; in Corot, 335

More, Sir Thomas, patron of Holbein, 139,
140

Morris, William, 389

Motives, various, of Italian art, 159

Motley quoted regarding Antwerp, 195

Movement and life, 65, 169, 328

Mrs. Siddons as the Tragic Muse [Rey-
nolds], 272 et seq.

Mrs. Siddons, Portrait of [Gainsbor-
ough], 272 et seq.

Mural decorations, qualities of, consid-
ered, 434 et seq. See Glossary

Mural decorations, by Puvis, Abbey, and
Sargent, in Boston i?ublic Library, 426 et
seq., 449, 450

Murillo, Bartolome Esteban (bah-tol-o-
may' a-stay'bahn moo-reel'yoh), 209 et
seq.; his ChiUlrenof the Shell examined:
its subject and the models of the fig-
ures, 209, 210 ; very popular in his day
and since, 210, 211 ; his early life iu Sev-
ille, 222; visits Velasquez in Madrid,
223; his success, and death from a fall,
224

Murphy, J. Francis, 337, 338

Music and color compared. See Color and
music

Muther, Richard, quoted, on David, 314,
note ; on Boecklin, 369

Mystery in a picture, 292, 293

Mystic Mari'iage of St. Catherine [Cor-
reggio], 142 et seq.

Napoleon I, 314

Naturalism, the present an age of , 342

Nature a mirror, 303

Nature and nature study, 302, 303

Nature must be corrected, academic prin-
ciple, 315

Netherlands, the, 195

New Learning, the, 54 et seq., 107. See
Glossari/

Night Watch, The. See Sortie of the Ban-
yiing Cock Company

Northcote, James, quoted regarding Rey-
nolds, 276

Nude figure, 22, 118, 154

Nuremberg, free imperial city, 93; Diir-
er's birthplace, 110

Oath of the Horatii [David], 304 et seq.
Objective point of view, 127, 130. See
Glossary

Official standard, advantage and disad-
vantage of, 241

Oil-painting perfected by tlie Van Eycks,
45, 69

Old Church at Vernon (vair'none) [Mo-
net], 460 et seq.

Old Scribe, The [Israels], 404 et seq.

Open-air (2)lein air), 300, 301, 459

Optical mingling of color, 460

Orcagna (or-cahnvah), 53

Originality, 105, 276, 442

Orless quoted regarding Rembrandt, 224

Ornans loruon), birtliplace of Courbet,
354, 355

Outlines of objects in nature not sharp, 316

Ovetari (o-vay-tar'ee) family, 30

Oxford Movement, the, 381

Pagan feeling of the Renaissance, 88, 143.
See Glossary

Pageant pictures, 163

Painting, independence of, 21, 374

"Painting another name for feeling"
(Coustaltlo), 288

" Painting is nothing more than drawing "
(academic theory), 319

Paradise [Tintoretto], 175

Pater, Walter, definition of Romantic, 292

Pavia (par-veeah) altarpiece [Perugino],
69 et seq.

Paysage inlime (pay-ee-sahzh' an-teem')^
249, 254, 289, 322, 325

r<'aci' and ffar [Puvis], 436

Permanent and elemental compared with
momentary and incidental, 425

Perspective, lineal, 17, 34, 191; atmo-
spheric, 29, 191

Perugia (pay-ruge'yah), 31, 70, 97

Perugino. See, Pietro TaiDuirci

Perusing pictures with a printed key, 427,
428

Peruzzi (pay-root'see) Chapel, 8. Croce
(ean'tah crow'chay), Fhu-ence, 18

Peter Baptizing the Heathen [Masaccio],
20 et seq.

Petrarch (pay'trark), 54, lOG

Phidias (ti'dee-ahs), sculpture of, 72, 77, 357

Picture, proper way of seeing a. 3

Pieta (pce-ay-tab') [Michelangelo], 155

Pietro Vanniicci (pee-ay'tro vahn-nooch'-
cliee), called Perugino (pay-roo-gee'no),
68 et seq. ; his painter-like point of view
tempered with sentiment, 68 ; among
the first in Italy to perfect the use of
oils, 68, 69; the painter of soul-solitude
and spiritual ecstasy, 69; his figures
pei'sonification of soul-rapture, 70; he
represents the highest development of
Byzantinisni as an expression of reli-
gion, 70, 71 ; his type different from Bel-
lini's, 77, 78; his'use of landscape and
its effect on the imagination, 78, 79, 80;
his skill in "space-composition," 80; a
pupil of Verrocchio, 84; by repetition,
his type became affected and sentimen-
tal, 84

Piloty (pee-loh'tee), Karl Theodor von, 391
et seq.; composition of his Thusnelda

[ 506 ]

ixi)i:x

compared with Fortuiiy's SpfiNin/i Mar-
rinyf,.vyi,.v.>'\ its Hta^'c-likc chiliKi-.tlion,
3U7, 31)8; a ton aiiil)it iiiiis pro^nuniiif, w.m ;
the Mtory or the putiirc, :t'JH, icj'j; ii tu-
crouehea upon litoraturt', :J'J'J, Kki; roin-
pared with Sumitilrr i>f limln, 4()<i; hJH
practice the naiuf us tfmt of other his-
torical paiiittr.s, 100, 401; nulilve tin; iiia-
Joritv, a >;ood painter, 401 ; his <-arffr in
orini, 401 ; liiH worJc alionnils in sciiti
ment and characterization, «o related to
German domestic (.'enre, 401, Wi\ hiH
limitations as a painter, 402
Pisa (pee'zar), the t'anipo f<auto in, 53
Pisano, Andrea (ahndray'ah pee-zah'-

uoli). '24
Pissarro, Lucien (loo'see-an pees-sah'ro),

4.0H. 459

Pizzolo, Niccolo (Qcek'ko-lohpeetB'BO-loh),
30

Plagiarism, 105, 27G

I'Iriii (])Iain) (tir (open-air), 300, 459

Pleydenwurff, Hans (iili'den-viirf), 96

Poetic creativencss, methods of, 342

Poetic tendency, of the IJarbizou artists,
323 ; that of Millet and IJretou compared,
342

rointilUstr (pwiue'teel-yeest) method of
brush work, 400, 4C4. Hee (Hokhui-ij

Point of view, the artist's, 4; diflers from
the layniaii's, 410

rolliie li-iHo (pol'lee-kay vair'so) [G6-
rome), 42:i et seq. See oiossari/

Pnrtritit of thr .Irlist'n Mot lid- [Whis-
tler], 450 et seq., 475

Poussin (poos'san), Nicolas, 228 et seq. ; his
A7 Kgo in Arrddiii comi'ared witli Kuis-
dael's T/ie Witterf(tll,'l-M; horn in Nor-
mandy, 231 ; learns (Irawiof; from easts
and from iirints after Kai)hael, 232 ; f,'oes
to Italy and attadies himself to Domeni-
chino, 232; inlluenee of sculpture ajipa-
rent in A'/ Kijn, 232; and of Iiai))ia(l,
237 ; he bi;eomes intliteneeil l)\ the Italian
landscape, 237, 238; the subject of the
El Ego, 239; his work was the orijrin r>f
the " classic," or " academic, " in Krench
art, 239, 240; his weakness in color, 241

Prado, 194

" Praise of Folly," Erasmus's, illustrated

by Holbein, 138

Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,371,372et seq.

Primitives, the, 372

Princely families, rise of, 31

" Prince of Plagiarists," Kapliael, 105, 442

Prose, rise and inlluenee of JOuf^lish, 209

Puritan influence, 2f>M

Putting in and leaving out, 131, 20O, 4.53

Puvis de Chavannes, Pierre (jM-eair j>eu'-
veezderslia-valin ), 423 et SCO. ; liis Inter
Arira et Nutunun comparca with (i{'-
rome's J'niliir l>/-«o, 423; its tiuity and
completeness and placidity, 424 : itsCalm-
ncss due to the e.xpresfion of what is
permanent and elemental, 425; a mural
decoration, 42*; ; his coneeptionnf mural
decoration to be gained by enmpariiiK
his work at Hoston with Abbey's and

Sartrent's, 420-433; the (plalitU's" of his

work — llatuess of ])aintin»;, siin)ile am-
ple masses, larue simplicity of desiirn.

433, 434 : his theory of lo(rical subonlinn-

tion to the arellileetlire, 434, 43.i ; Ills orl-
»<in an<l ediieatioii involved a union of
lo;rieal and poetie lenileniies, 43t> : Ills
Will- iiinl t'liicf, \:u\\ ;.'radual simpliliea-
tion of theme and t<'clinic, 437 ; excessive
simplitleation, 4:18; his ^kill in Ibe land-
scape parts, illustr;it<(l in Inlrv Artix,
438,439 ; the abstrart (pialitiis of his art,
439 ; his decorations seem to have jrrown
upon the wall like a delicate elllores-
eeuce, 439

Racine, 253

Raeburn, Sir Henry, 28C ; influence on
Sar^'cnt, 442, 449

Raphael Sanzio (rah'fay-el sahnt'syidi),
iiillncuce of Masaccio on. 2o; iiotti-
celli's yearuinfj after the antique ful-
filled in, 67 : 85 et seq. ; contrast between
his art and Wolfreiiiuth's, 85; it com-
bines the religious and the pat'an feel-
ing, 88: his inlluenee over his assistants,
96; representative of the Umbrian,
Florentine, and Koman schools, 97; his
early life in Uriiino, and with l'erut.'ino
in Perutria, 97; his Mmlotma (Ict/li An-
sjV/ei betrays the inlluenee <d' the master,
but already surpasses his work, 98; its
composition studied, loo. 101 ; its beauty
primarily dependent ujion its '•archi-
tectonics," 102, 103; the composition of
th(y Death of the Vinjin contrasteil, 103;
Hai)liuers idealizatiiin, 104 ; the sources
from which he drew his composite tvpe,
104 ; the " Prince of Pla^narists." 105'; his
work in Konie, 10."., lor, ; retold t he le^'emls
of Hellas and clotliecl the IJible story in
Hellenic truise, lOO ; his influence u|)on
the tlioufrht of his own day and of pos-
terity, lf)6, 107, 108; his influence up<m
Poussin, 232, 237; on Keyiudds, 276; the
revolt fi-om it of Cour'bet, 3.".7 ; of the
Pre-Haphaelites, 372; of l{u<Kin, 373

Realism: iA\>\)i> Lipjii satistied with the
study of external form, .56, r.i ; \\'«»|pe-
inuth's prosai<- imitation, 104; an atti-
tude of mind, as shown in Holbein, 12.5-
130; Velas((iiez's realism of unity and
realism of impression, 189; Meiss(Uiier'8
false kind of realism: compare Mem-
liner's, 64, 189, 190; Velas(|uez's realism
of rcnderiiiL'' lijrlit, l'M>, 191 ; and ot ri'p-
resenting' form, surrounded by lighted
atmosphere, 192; realism of Dutch ;;enro
and of Hotrartln'ompared, 270; t'ourbel's
lit rrrite rraie, :J58 ; his Eimeral at (>r-
niius a tine exami>le of realism, :t60. 361 ;
Huskin's doctrine of exiict realism, 374,
375; the same illustrated in Holman
Hunt, 382, 38:^; to ( durbct's realisti<-
point of view and choice of subject
Manet adds a realistic truth of rendcr-
iuL', borrowed fi'r)m Velas(|ucz. 407. 412;
Monet's further insi^rht into realism of
apjiearaiicc, 459, 4W). See tilosxari/

Realist and idealist, Hcmbraudt a union
of, 214

Urapri; The [Millet], 350

[ '^07 ]

INDEX

Reformation in Germany, 112

Rembrandt, Van Rijn (rin), iog et seq. ;
one of the tew great original artists, 209 ;
a realist and idealist in one, 209, 214; his
Sortie of the Banning Cock Company did
not satisfy his clients, 211 ; had proved
himself a realist in the Anatomy Lesson,
212 ; the Sortie examined, 212 ; originally
called the Night Watch, 213; really a
study of light, 214; Fromentin consid-
ers the subject of the picture did not
warrant this treatment, 214; his esti-
mate of Rembrandt summarized, 214, 215;
Rembrandtesque treatment of light and
and shade, 215; a source of emotional
gestion, 215; finally tried to paint with
light alone, which involved sacrifices,
215, 216; the example of his Syndics of
the Oloth-u'orkers' Guild, 216; "Prince
of Etchers," 216, 221; his aim and
achievement as compared with Murll-
lo's, 222 ; sketch of his career, 224 ; early
life in Leyden, 224; settles in Amster-
dam, 225 ; success and marriage to 8as-
kia, ten years' happiness, 225; dispute
over the Sortie and death of Saskia, 225;
his friendship with Jan Six, 226; his
financial troubles, 226 ; his last portrait
of himself, 226 ; after his death soon for-
gotten, and iu the eighteenth century
his work despised, 226, 227 ; his restora-
tion to honor in the nineteenth century,
227 ; influences Israels, 420 ; his stimula-
tion of the effects of light by means of
shadow compared with Monet's pointil-
liste method, 463

Renaissance iu Italy and Germany com-
pared, 111 et seq., 118

Repetition and contrast in composition,
100 et seq.

Reserve, a quality of force, 454

Jtesurrection [Correggio], 157

Revolution, French, 256, 308

Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 272 et seq.; his Mrs.
Siddons compared with Gainsborough's,
272, 273, 274; his " Eighth Discourse " on
"warm and cold colors, 274; regulated his
art and life on safe principles, a man of
the world, 274, 275; birth and boyhood,
275 ; visit to Italy with Commodore Kep-
pel, 275 ; his deafness, 275 ; studied Ra-
phael, Michelangelo, Rubens, Correggio,
and the Venetians, 275, 276 ; his success in
combining for himself something of the
style of each, 276 ; the pose of the Mrs
Siddons recalls Michelangelo's Isaiah,
the attendant figures those in the Jere-
miah, 276; intimate with Garrick and
Burke, Samuel Johnson, Oliver Gold-
smith, and other celebrities of his day,
281, 285; strong inclination toward the
dramatic, 281

Ribera (ree-bair'rah), Roman, 223

Rimini (ree'mee-nee), 31

Robbia, Luca della(loo'kahdayl'lahrobe'-
byah), 47

Rocky Chnsm, A [Boecklin], 369

Rococo, etyleof Louis XV,402. See Glossary

Roman Empire, break up of, 86 et seq.

Romans, characteristics of, inherited by
the French, 239, 240

Romantic, romanticism, 292, 307, 318, 323.
See Glossary

Rome, sack of, 145

Romney, George, 286

Rood, Professor, his scientific investiga-
tions into light and color help Monet
and others, 458, 460

Rossetti (ros-set'tee), Dante Gabriel, 371 et
seq.; his Ecce Ancillu Domini appears
in 1850, 371 ; a member of the Pre-Ra-
phaelite Brotherhood, 371 ; a student of
Dante, he leads the other members back
to the "Primitives," 372; realizes Rus-
kiu's theory that modern art should be
concei'ned with spiritual expression,
376 ; The Blessed Dumosel, 376 ; his father,
an Italian patriot in refuge in London,
student of Dante, 384; extraordinarily
precocious, 384 ; Dante, his guide, leads
him to Fra Angelico, the mystic of paint-
ing, 884, 385 ; impatient of the routine of
art study, 385; poem of "The Blessed
Damozei" written in 1846, met Miss Sid-
dal in 1850, painted the picture in 1879,
385 ; her personal appearance described,
385; satisfied his conception of perfectly
balanced soul and body, 386 ; after ten
years of waiting married her, lost her
two years later, 386 ; sufl'ered from this
and from Buchanan's attack on his po-
etry and became victim to insomnia
and chloral, 386; the tragedy of The
Blessed Damozei, 380, 381; his single de-
votion to his wife's memory source of
strength and weakness to his art, 387,
388 ; his conception of woman like Dan-
te's, 388, 389; his life at Chelsea and in-
timates, 389; as a painter of the soul
succeeded by Burne-Jones, 390; his in-
fluence led to the revival of idealism in
foreign painting, 390

Rossetti, William M., member of the Pre-
Raphaelite Brotherhood, 371 ; his de-
scription of Miss Siddal's appearance,
385

Rousseau, Theodore (tay'o-dore roo'soh),
Hobbema the forerunner of, 249; 322 et
seq.; leader of the Fontainebleau-Bar-
bizon School, 322, 326 ; epic poet of the
group, 323 ; the eagle, 324 ; influenced by
the work of Constable and by the Dutch
landscapes in the Louvre, he leaves the
studio of Lethi^re and sketches about
the plain of Montmartre, 323, 326 ; his
Edge of the Forest of Fontainebleau com-
pared with Corot's Dance of the Nymphs,
323, 324 ; its solidity of form and clear de-
cision of line, 324; his early poverty,
325; boyhood dreams, 325; first a stu-
dent at the Polytechnic, 325; Cot^s de
Grandville, his lii'st masterpiece, award-
ed a medal, 326 ; then otflcialdom slighted
him, Diaz's protest, 326; sad domestic
life, 327 ; a final insult of the authorities
probably hastened his death, 327 ; the
oak, his favorite tree, characteristic of
himself and work, 335 ; based his art
on form, and during a period with too
exact detiiil, 335 ; broad impersonal vi-
sion that sought after the elemental in
nature, 335, 336, 337; his mastery of

[508]

INDEX

form — and form 1b the foundation of
jrrcat painting;, 3^7

Royal Academy established, 2h(',

Rubens, Peter Paul, cimiiiarcd with Vero-
ncHc, 170; 177 et seq. ; ruiik.s with Keiii-
braiidt and Vclasijuez hh anion;.' the
gTi'ateHt, 178; his Deticrnt from thr Cross
conii)arfd with VclaHqucz's Maids of
Honor, 178 ; L'xauiine<i as to HUbJect, 17'J,
180; its appeal to tlio "Uictile iiuaKiua-
tiou," 180, 181 ; its arrauj^eiuent of liiif,
181, 18'2; of li^Mit and uliade, IH'), 183; he
visits Madrid and iiifCts Velasquez, 183;
his Murif (Ic Mfilici series in the Louvre,
184; his treatment of li^ht conipared
^vith Velas(iin-z's, IIX); his mastery of
the human form and splendor of color,
193 ; and>assador from court to court,
193, 194 ; teacher of Van Dyck, 197 ; his
coloring stiulied by Watteau, 258 ; by
Reynolds, 276; his drawing and color by
Delacroix, 317

Ruisdael (rise'dale), Jacob van, 338 et seq.,
T/if Wulrr/dll compared with Poussiii's
Et Ego in Arcadia, 228; its character of
subject borrowed from Kverdingen, 229;
his early work in Haarlem his best, 229 ;
non-success drove him to Amsterdam,
where the popularity of Everdingen's
Norway scenes induced him to emulate
them, 229; their sternness akin to his
own sad life, 229 ; returned in poverty to
Haarlem and died in an almshouse, 2:i0;
in respect of sadness akin to Kemhrandt,
2;J0; the beauty of the skies in his pic-
tures, 230. 231 ; his works studied by Con-
stable, 288

Ruskin, John, his excessive praise of Tur-
ner has harmed the hitter's reputation,
302; champions the Pre-Raphaelite Bro-
therhood, 372 ; his criticism of Raphael's
Christ Walking upon the Water, ;\T.i: his
doctrine that modern paintiu;; should
make religious or spiritual expression
rather than form itsol)iect of study, 374 ;
could not or woidd not recoKiiizti inde-
pendent status of painting, 374; over-
looked the meaning of artistic truth,
374, 375

Sacrifices made by Rembrandt, 215
Sargent, John Singer, 441 et seq.; the an-
tithesis in work and personality of
Whistler, 441; his style borrowed from
Velas(iuez, Hals, and Rael)urn, yet hiis
original force, 441,442 ; early life in Flor-
ence, 442; already a skilful draftsman
and painter, luirtured on the Italian
masters, entered thi- studio of Carolus-
Duran, 442,443; a rellned and cnltivate<l
taste, 443; visited Madrid and then Hol-
land, 443; in the J'orlrail of the Missis
Hunter Velasquez's intbu-nce seen in line
and mass ancl unity of impression, 443 ;
also the intliu-nce of the stately direct-
ness of the old Italian portraits, 443 ; yet
thoroughly modern. 443; the es/>rit of
his brushwork I-"reneli, 444 ; esi)eeiiilly
notable in his female portraits, the in-

fluence of Hals and Raeburn more InthP
male ones, 44.") ; his impression eoullned
to what is on or near the siirfaci', 444 ;
his niund decorations in the Boston
Ful)lie Library described, 428, 449; inten-
ti<mal complexity in the ceiling and lu-
nette, need of printed ••lues, 428; the
frieze of the I'rophets immediately in-
telligible and flner as a decoration, 428;
the latest panel, the Redemplion of Man,
full of the Byzantine influence, tlie
grandest; flatness of painting, simple
am|ile spaces, and large simplicity of de-
sign, 433, 449 ; a background of subdued
splendor to the raisetl central group,
433; remarkable example of unison of
ancient and modern technic, 4.'>0

Sarto, Andrea del (ahn-dray'ah dail sar"-
to), 322

Saskia van Uylenborch, Rembrandt's love
for, 22.';; like Rossetti's for his wife, 386

Savonarola (sah-\one-ah-ro'lah), 50

Scenic and dramatic contrasted, 170, 174

Scholarship, Greek and Roman, revival
of, at (ionzaga's court, influencing Man-
tegna, 32, 33; Petrarch and Boccaccio's
zeal for, 54; Botticelli mingles with
scholars at the court of Lorenzo de'
Medici, 55; influence of, njton Giovanni
Bellini, 78; upon Raphael, 88

Science anticipated by Leonardo da Vinci,
120

Scott, Sir Walter, one of the leaders of
the Romantic movement which inspired
Delacroix, 307 ; one of the latter's favor-
ite authors, 318; also Rossetti's, as a
boy, 384

Sculpture, influence of, on painting: Ma-
saccio learns of Ghibei-ti and Donatello,
24; Mautegna from Squarcione'fl collec-
tion of antique casts, 30; so did <iio-
vanni Bellini, 71 ; Verrocchio, 8cHli)tor
more than painter, influenced (iiovanni
Bellini, taught Perugino and Leonanlo
da Vinci, 71, 84; early (ii-rman painters
imitated the Gothic sculpture, \i'>; the
feelintf of sculpture in Michelangelo's
Jeremiah, l^'i; Poussin's study of casts
and low-reliefs reflected in his A7 Ego
in Arcadia, 232; David went back to
Roman sculpture, as seen in the Oath of
the flornlii, 304, 308, 310, 317 ; "the marltle
manner only refpiires a little animat-
ing," Wincktdmann, 319

Scuola di San Rocco (squo'lah dee sahn
rokeko), 173

Seeing things without their individuality,
Buddhist text, 476

Selection and arrangement in composi-
tion, 99 et seq. He<' (ilossury

Sentiment expressed by color, light, and
atmosphere, in Israel's case, 420. Keo
(dossarij

Seurat (sen rail). George, origiimtor of the
jiointiUisle method of jtainting, 4.58, 459

Seville, birthplace of Murillo. '.'22

Sforza (sfort sah) family at Florence, 31

Shadow of the Croat, The [Holman
Hunt], 383

Shakspeare ranked by Taine with Dnnte,
Beethoven, and Michelangelo as the four

[ .50!) ]

INDEX

most exalted in art and literature, 146;
source of inspii-ation to Delacroix, 318 ;
read in English by Millet, 341 ; a favorite
author of Rossetti's boyhood, 384
Siddal, Miss Elizabeth, lover, wife, and

luspiratiou of Rossetti, 385-389
Siena (see-ay'nah), the brothers Loreu-

zetti iu, 20
Simplicity, simplification: everything but
essentials left out iu Titian's Man until
the Glove, 131; Puvis's large 8imi>licity
of design, 433 ; he reduced liis theme to
abstract expression, then simplitied his
techuic to insure no distraction from
the unity of effect and its relation to the
architecture, 437; the "leaving out" in
Whistler's etchings, 453 ; tender dignity
in the simple massing in tlie portrait of
his mother, 454; simplification of West-
ern and Japanese artists compared, 473,
474; the value of the empty space iu
Gaho's Sunrise on the Horu'i, 477. See
Qlossury
Sistine (sees'teen) Chapel, 153 et seq.
Six Gallery, Amsterdam, 226
Six, Jan, 226

Sky : Perugino's distance and space-com-
position, 78 ; enlargement and interpre-
tation of the sentiment of his figures, 79 ;
skies of Holland proverbially grand,
230; Ruisdael's flue skies, 231; painters
of powerful imagination and feeling
revel in the rendeVing of, 231 ; Turner's
skies of vast grandeur, 299; the cloud
effects of Northern countries make thera
the home of natural landscape paint-
ing, 300, 301 ; Corot'8 love of the, 333, 334,
463
Sortie of the Banning Cock Conipantf
(The Night Watch) [Rembrandt], 211 et
seq.
Soul-solitude, Perugino the painter of, 69
Sown; Thr [Millet], 341
Space-composition, Perugino's mastery
of, 80 ; Raphael's supreme distinction, 98
Spanish Marriage, The [iortuny], 391

et seq.
Spanish School, 177-194, 209-227, 391-403
Squarcione (squar-chee-owe'nay), his col-
lection of custs helps to educate Man-
tegua, 30; also Giovanni Bellini, 71
Stage, influence of, exlnbited by Watteau

and Hogarth, 256, 258, 259, 260, 261, 269
Stanze (stahu'zer) of the Vatican, 105
Steelyard, merchant of the, 140
St. IVIark's embodiment of the spiritual life
of Venice, 160; its beauty akin to the
qualities of Venetiau painting, 161
Stone- Breahers, The [Courbet], 356, 357
Story in a picture : Hogarth's anecdotal
with a moral, 260, 268 ; due partly to the
influence of the new literature of novel-
ists, 269; difference of Dutch genre,
which is mainly concerned with the pu-.-
torial aspect, 270 ; German fondness for
historical and story-telling genre, 401,
402; the literary element in Abbey and
Sargent's decorations in the Boston
Public Library, 427, 428, 450
St. Paul's Cathedral, 208, 285
St. Peter's, design of, 156

Subjective point of view, 127, 130. See

Olossary
Sudbury, birthplace of Constable, 283
Suggestiveness to one's imagination, 450

et seq., 471, 477. See Olossary
Sunrise on the Morai [Hashimoto Galio],

457 et seq.
Surrender of Breda [Velasquez], 183, 400
Swanenburch, Jacob van, a teacher of

Rembrandt, 224
Swinburne, Algernon, friend of Rossetti's,

389
Symonds, John Addington, quoted re-
garding Tintoretto, 173
Syndics of the Cloth-workers' Guild

[Rembrandt], 216

Tactile imagination, the stimulation of,
80, 120, 180. See Olossary

Taine quoted : of Giovanni Bellini, 77; of
Michelangelo, 146

Talma, French actor, first to act the Ho-
ratii in Ivomau costume, 305

Tassi, Agostino (ah-jose-tee'no tahs'see),
250

Technic. what it is, 5, 63. See Glossary

Temperamental attitude, the, 126, 127, 290,
335. See Olossary

Temporary appearance of objects wiU not
constitute a work of art, 472

Tcrribilita of Michelangelo, 156

Terrible side of Italian Renaissance, 32, 53,
54, 70, 143

Textures, eft'ect on the imagination of,
79, 80; Diirer's skill iu rendering, 119;
Manet renders them by rendering the
varying quantities of light, 412, 417; and
by manner of brushwork, 417. See Olos-
sary

Thinker, The [Michelangelo], 155

Thrale, Mrs., quoted, of Mrs. Siddons, 273

Tiepolo [tec-ay 'po-lo], 232

Tintoretto, 159 et seq.; he and Veronese
the most characteristic of Venetian art,
159; the motive of the latter partly
religious, classical, and realistic, but
chiefly the joy and pageantry of life
and pride of Venice, 159 ; bringing of
the body of St. Mark to Venice, 160;
St. Mark's and the Doge's Palace the
symbols of her spiritual and temporal
life, 160, 161; the decoration of St.
Mark's; its beauty of color, light, and
atmospliero also clmracteristic qualities
of Venetiau paiuting, 161 ; an art of dis-
play and some exaggeration, 162 ; Tinto-
retto's paintings in the Hall of the Great
Council, 163; his frieze of portraits of
seveuty-six doges, 163; his work has a
strain of dramatic poetry, 169 ; his Mir-
acle of St. Mark compared with Vero-
nese's Glory of Venice, 170; his is dra-
matic, the other scenic, 170 ; the value of
the story in his Miracle, 171, 172 ; the dra-
matic movement, beauty of color, and
emotional use of light aiid shade in the
treatment, 174, 175; sought to combine
the drawing of Michelangelo and the
coloring of Titian, 172; son of a dyer,

[510]

INDEX

henof liis naiiio, 172 ; eopioa tlio work of
Titian ami llu- castH (»l Ml(•ll(•lall^'^•lo'8
Miidii-caii tl^rmcs, 172; his utinly <il «u«-
pcmlctl llyuns, 172; lirst imimrtaiit
worlv, Tlif Lust .IikIi/iiiiiiI and The
(loliltn Ciilf, 17.1; lii« work in the Sciuila
ili Han K(ii-c(), I7:i; liis Murnnijc of Iltit-
cliKs ttitil Aniiihif and Mnrti/nloin <i/
SI. A(jii(s prove luH mastery of tcu-
(ItT, tVamiiul siil)ji-cts, 174; lii« usual
iuiin'tnous toici', "II Fiuioso," 174;
"wlijlti Tintoretto was tlu- ('(jual of
Titian, lio was often inferior to Tinto-
retto," 174; makes liis li^Mires emi'i^'n
fi'om darkness into lij-'lil. 17.'.; a mind
teemiii>; witli ideas, lif,'lil iiinylairsts of
inspiration, rapid nali/aliou on the
canvas, 17;'); liis colossal I'liniditir eon-
fused and e\af;^'eiated, 17".; luiried in
Hanta Maria del Orto, wliere liis lirst
■work was done, 17G

Titian (tisliyan). Hee Tiziano VeeelH

Tiziano Vecelli itit-zec-ali'no vay-( luO'lee),
called Titian, 125 et seq.; liis .!/"/( irillitfir
(Itorf compared with IloUiein's J'orlniil
of (Icorf/ (!;i:e, 1'2.'>; the mood of a man,
12G; atistriiet, exalted, idealized, 127;
reflection of the artist's self, a mood of
his own siihjeetivity, l;i(); composition
lar^'c, siniph'-. K'and, a triumph of sini-
plitleation, i:tl ; wonderful composition
of dark and linht, i;i2 ; horn at Pieve, of
an old family, iu the C'adore district of
the .Alps, i:i2; at eleven year.s of aj;e a
pupil of Gentile Uellmi, later of (iio-
vaiini, VA'l; worked with (iiorf,'ione, i:i7 ;
liis distiiifiuished patrons, l:i7 ; fircat
in portraits, landscape, reli;rit)us and
mythical subjects, 1;J7; luxurious home
at'liiri, l:i7 ; died at the a^^'e of ninety-
nine of the iilajjue, 137; the world was
to him a paAieant and lu^ represented it
with the luMisli of a supreme colorist,
141; the culmination of the art of Ven-
ice, l.5'.i ; Watteau learned color from
hini; 25H; Delacroix also, 317

Triu»ti)th of'l'n-sar [Mante^'lia], 34, 3.')

Trill III jih 1)/' Oriitli, in the C'aiupo .Santo at
I'isa, .■>;)

Troyon, Constant (troh'yon), 322, 321'.

Truth, not painting (Vn-ilait no phtturit),
said of \'elas(|ucz's W(ulc, 17'.*

Truth to nature the first condition of
beauty (Lessilij,'), 319

Tryon, Dwight W., 337, 33ft

Turner, Joseph Mallord William, 287 et
seq.; ciuitl'ast Itetwecn his I'li/ssrs /><■-
rilling l'iili//ilii'iiiiis and Constalile's \'<il-
ley F(iriti,im,l'M)\ most ima>jinalive land-
scape-painter, 2'.)0; sulijcct of the I'li/ssis
studied, 2'.il ; in his Piilo bnililiiif/ Cnr-
thdj/r he imitated Claude, 2'.il : then lie
Would he himself — Turni-r, 2!i2 ; after a
visit tti Italy lienan his tinest period of
twelve years, ending with The I'iiiliHiifi
Timfrnirf and Thr Iliiriiil of Will:ii at
.SV«, 2'.t2, 2'.i'J ; his work romanUc in so far
that it involved mystery, 2'.'2, 2;i7 ; and
strangeness, 2'.i7 ; theciuiiradicliou of his
life and art, 2'.t7,2'.i8; sketch of his life :
a barber'8 sou, precocious, pupil of the

Uoyal Aradoniy, oxliiliitod at tlfte«>n,
■i'.m"; unrivaled in watcr-iolor, his •■ laher
Htudioruni " an emulation of Claude, an
unfair ri\ airy, 2'.»h, 2'.i'.»; experimeiiied in
the reiiderin^c of li^'ht and atmosidiere,
tryinjc to raise the key of color, 2'.i'.i, :«mi;
his s([Ualid lif<- ami ;.'ciierous will, 31K);
Kiiskiirs e\ccs>i\e admiral ion, 3(»2

Typal expression in painting : Miclieluu-
m;\o'ii ■Ifmiiiiili, !:").">; Millet's J'/ir Sower,
341 ; Whistler's i'orlniii of llii- Artist's
Mollirr, 4.')1. See liloxxitry

Types of picture repeated by the Italians,
lo.-")

Uhde (oo'<ler), Fritz von, 383

Uli/MHta Viridiuy I'olyplietniia [Turner],

2'yo et seq.
Unity and balance in composition, 99 Ct

sefj.
Unity of impression, 189
Universal spirit manifested in matter, 472,

47i">. See (ilossari/
Urban VIII, a patron of Claude, 251
Urbino (lu-bee'uo;, Kaphacl's birthplace,

Valenciennes, birthplace of Watteau, 256,

258

VaUey Farm, The [Constable], 287 et seq.

Values : tlu; varyiiifr quantities of light
contained uixui varyiiiir iihiiies of ob-
jects, 191 ; Velasiiiie/.'s skill in rciideriiit.',
191 ; Hals's riMKlcrinu of, in broad. Hat
tones, 20.5; ISlanet rediscovers from Vel-
asquez the study of light and, 40<;, 407 ;
his (liii ii'ilh a I'ltrrot analyzed, 412, 417 ;
I'livis's skill in, 438. See Glossary

Van Dyck, Sir Anthony, 195 et seq. ; IIoil-
braken's anecdote of, and of Hals, 198;
his method of work, 199; eoniparisou of
his portrait of Marie Louise, with Hals's
portrait of a woman, 199, 200, 20.5, 20f.;
sketch of his career, 207,208; the oiiality
of his idealization, 2t9 ; the quality of
the distinction in his work, 282

Van Dyke, John C, (iiioted iijion Hogarth,
2iX. See (Jlossiiri/, under " Luuiinurists "

Van Eyck, Hubert, 39, 40, 45

Van Eyck, Jan (zlian van eyek), 37 et seq. ;
his Vin/iii (111(1 Donor compared with
The Ainnniridlioii by Fra Anu'clico, .37 ;
the art of each has a miniile perfection
of finish, inherited from the miniatun^-
painters, 38; the Viryin (iml /'«/»(»;• do-
scribed, 38, 39; its composition one of
large and haiidsome spots, wnuight
over with elaborate ornamentation. 39;
characteristic of Flemish sjiirit and the
national skill in craltsmaiiship, 39 ; but
with .Ian and Hubert van Fyck details
do not detract from a general grau<l sig-
nitlcance. 39; the elaboiation of the pic-
tiiri' studied, 4(1; ils ri'iidcring of tex-
tures and tine, brilliant c(doring, 40; tlio
brothers were the llrst to use oil-colors
successfully, 45; their secret discovered

[511]

INDEX

by Antonello da Messina, 45 ; their joint
work, Ths Adoration of the Lamb, 45 ; in
the two brothers Flemish art, born out
of handicrafts, reached full growth, 45,
46; Jan in the service of Philip the
Good, as " varlet and painter," 45 ; his
work grave in sentiment, resplendent
in character, 46

Van Loo, Jean Baptiste, 304

Van Marcke, Emil, 32'i

Varlet and painter, Jan van Eyck engaged
as, 45

Vasari (va-sah'ree) quoted, 55

Velasquez (vay-lahs'keth), Diego Rodri-
guez de Silva, 177 et seq. ; his Maids of
Honor compared with Rubens's Descent
from i}ie Cross, 178 ; the work of his ma-
turity, 178 ; the actual incident depicted,
179; "illusion so complete, where is the
pictiu'e i " 179 ; an illustration of his
motto, "Truth, not painting," 179; Ru-
bens visits the Spanish court for nine
months, 183 ; Velasquez visits Italy; his
decorative painting. The Surrender of
Breda, 183, 184 ; the difference between
its conception and treatment and Ru-
bens's series of Marie de Medicis, 184 ; the
Maids of Honor a new kind of picture,
product of a new kind of eyesight, of a
new conception of realism, 184 ; its real-
ism of unity a realism of impression,
189; Meissonier's lSu7—Friedland con-
trasted, 189; an instant and complete
impression, 190; its lighting compared
with that of the Descent from the Cross,
190; a study of natural light, direct light,
half-light, and reflections, 190, 191 ; of
the degrees of grayness of the atmo-
sphere as it recedes from the eye, 191 ;
a new kind of perspective, that of atmo-
sphere, auticipated by Leonardo, 191 ;
local color and values, 191 ; Velasquez's
study of light leads him to avoid sharp
outlines, 191, 192 ; the elusiveness of his
lines, 192; saw his subject at a single
glance, received a vivid impression of
it, and then rendered it as a single im-
pression, 192 ; the picture is a composi-
tion of light and less light, 192, 193 ; the
curious costumes may have influenced
him in avoiding the Italian grand man-
ner, and compelled to something new,
193 ; the constrained life of Velasquez,
the exuberant freedom of Rubens's, 193 ;
for two centuries forgotten, now hon-
ored as " the First of the Moderns," 194 ;
his influence upon Manet and modern
painting, 405-408; on Whistler and Sar-
gent, 441, 443, 455

Venetian art, motive of, combined some-
thing of religious, classic, and realistic
motives, but chiefly is concerned with
the joy and pageantry of life and the
pride of Venice, 159; qualities of, 161

Venice, sketch of the history of, 160 et seq.

Venus, cult of, 62

Verite vraie, la (lah vay'ree-tay vhray),
Courbet's motto, 358

Veronese, Paolo Caliari (pah'o-lo cal^ee-
ah'ree vay-ro-nay'zay), ranks with Gior-
gione andTitian as the greatest Venetian

colorists, 84 ; 159 et setj. ; he and Tinto-
retto most characteristic of Venetian
art, 159 ; the motive of that art concerned
chiefly with the joy and pageantry of life
and pride of Venice, 159 ; St. Mark's and
Doge's Palace symbols of her spiritual
and temporal power, 160, 161, 163; the
beauty of color, light, and shade, and
atmosphere in St. Mark's, characteristic
of the qualities of Venetian painting,
161 ; his Glorij of Venice described, 164 ;
magniticeut in balance as in motive, 164 ;
only rivaled by his Marriage at Cana and
Family of Darius, 169 ; its characteris-
tics : facility of execution, life aud move-
ment, unity of effect, luminous rich color
and transparent shadows, 169 ; his point
of view simply that of a painter rejoi-
cing in the splendor of external appear-
ances, the very incarnation of the Italian
Renaissance, 169 ; exuberant fancy and
facility, calm strength and restraint, 170 ;
the Glory of Venice compared with Tin-
toretto's Miracle of St. Mark, 170; the
former scenic and the latter dramatic,
170, 174; how he resembled Rubens, 170,
175

Verrocchio (vay-roh'kyo), goldsmith,
painter, and sculptor, 55 ; influenced
Bellini, teacher of Perugino and Leo-
nardo, 84

Versailles, 253

Vertical lines, expression of, characteris-
tic of the eager, soaring spirit of Gothic
architecture, 94; contrasted with hori-
zontal and curved in Raphael's compo-
sition, 100, 101 ; lifting up the imagina-
tion, as in Boecklin's Isle of the Dead, 353

Vibration of light and color, the jioititilliste
method of Monet suggests the, 463, 464

Vinci, Leonardo da. See Leonardo

Virgil, study of, by Millet, 341; by Puvis,
423

Virgin, cult of the, 62

Virgin and Donor [Jan van Eyck], 37
et seq.

Virgin Enthroned [Botticelli], 56 et seq.

Virgin Enthroned [MemUng], 56 et seq.

Virgin of the Rocks [Leonardo da Vinci],
109 et seq.

Visconti (vees-kone'tee) family at Milan,
31

Vite, Timoteo (tee-mo-tay'-o vee'tay), 97

Vittorino da Feltre (vee-tore-een'oll dah
fayl'tray), scholar, 32

Vivarini, Alvise (al-vee'zay vee-vah-ree'-
nee), 163

Votive pictures, 95

Vouet, Simon (see'mohn vou'ay), 255

Walker, Horatio, 337, 338
liar and Peace [Puvis], 436
Water-Carrier, The [MiUet], 350
Waterfall, The [Ruisdael], 228 et seq.
Watteau (in French, vaht-toli ; English,
wot^toh), Jean Antoine, 255 et seq.; the
first of French painters, 255; his work
distinctively French and original, 255 ;

[512]

INDEX

a native of Valencionnes, snc ; hla work,
like IIoiraitirH, a uew kiiul of picture,
266; iiitlucm-t'd by the drama. 2r>C; the
Knibarkiilion fur Cijthera a rainbow-
hued vinioii of beauty and >rra<-f, 'JSG ;
reiircHent.i the elianii of the court life
dui'inu the Kefjeucy with no hint of
8toriii impending, 'i.^G ; a niiiiKlinK of
riMility and unreality, .!">7 ; its dreamy
dlMtaiiee, ex(iuisite pattern of eom]>osi-
tion, delicate chiarosciu-o, and l>rilliaut
haiTuouy of colors, 257; his idealism, as
with all frreat artists, founded on na-
ture, 258 ; as a lad, drew th(^ autics and
gestures of the actors and mountebanks
In the market-place, 258; when he
reached Paris, added to skill of drawing
a study of the colorinj; of Uubens,
Titian, and Veronese, i5H ; Italian come-
dies in the salons and Kardens of the
Luxembourg, 258; his (lilies, 258; almost
all his work influenced by tin; stufly of
the comedians, 258, 25'.» ; fl^^ures and land-
scape adjusted to make a mise-cn-sreiic,
259; this and the dramatic vivacity
made his pictures new, 259 ; the serious-
ness of his art, his frail health, and sad,
retiring disixisition, 25>i, 200; ditl'ereuce
between him and Hogarth, 270, 271 ; the
voluiituouH insipidities of his followers.
Van Loo, Boucher, Frafronard, produced
the reaction of David's art, 304, 313
Watts, George Frederick, :iK9
Western and Eastern ideals, difference

between, 9
Went Front of Rouen Cathedral [Monet],

462
Weyden (vai'den), Roger van der, 66
" What is it all about ? ' 427, 428, 437
Whistler, James A. McNeill, nearest to
Itembrandt as an etcher, 222; one of the
first to accept Manet's lessons from Vel-
asqnez, 418 ; 441 et seq. ; his work and per-
sonality contrasted with Bargent's, 441 ;
borrowed of Velasquez and the Japan-
ese, yet ha<l oritrinal force, 442; inter-
ested most in what could not be actually
presented, but siigpested, 450; his por-
trait of his mother is a tyi»e of motlier-
hood, 451 ; tried to emulate the abstract,
universal appeal of music, 451, 452;
"nocturnes," "symphonies," " harmo-
nies," 452; his love of sntrtrestion made
bim etcher as well as painter, 453 ; the
sitniiflcanee of detail in his earlier
prints, in the later the si^'Tiitleanee of
economy, 453 ; the illusion of atmosphere
in the Venetian scries, 453, 454; I'ortruU
of the A r list's Mother vxnmhwil: the re-
serve and difjnity and tenderness of its

composition and color-Rrhemo, 454, 455 ;
traces in it of the influence of Velasquez
and the .lapanese, 455; his einiuelit
qualities: simplicity and subtlety, econ-
omy of means, delicate harmonies, the
fascination of surprise, and the Joy of
su),'{,'estiveness, 450

Willi/ Lott's llouHr. See Valley Farm

Wilson, Richard, 301

Winckelmann, (Jerman critic, his dictum
on the aim of art and on the highest
beauty, 319

Uiiinoirir, Ttir fMilletl, 344

Wolgemuth (vohl f,'e-moot), 85 et seq. ; the
master of Diirer, 85 ; the diflerence be-
tween his art and that of Raphael as
wide as that between the contemporary
German and Italian civilizations. 85, 8t; ;
art in (iermany the faithful handmaid
of religion, 88; began with cathedral
building, 94 ; characteristics of the
Gothic architecture, 94; stained glass,
metal-work, carved wood, and stone, 94 ;
the terrible and grotesque an inheritance
irom the religion of Asgard, 95 ; German
jiainters began by imitating the carved
Mork, gradually they learned from the
Flemish how to jiaiiit, 119; Nuremberg
on the main mad between Italy and the
North : its wealt h and importance, 93, 94 ;
Wolgemuth a native of the city, and
from his workshop issued the principal
pictures of the day, 96; in partnership
with Hans Pleydenwurfl", 96; after the
latter's death married his widow and
carried on the business, 96 ; a business
it really was, and the workshoj) a fac-
tory, 96"; compare the work in I'erugino's
bolteqha and in Itaijliael's, 96; Wolge-
mutli's Death of the Virtjin has no com-
position in the strict sense, 103; it has
the (Jerman characteristic of crowded
detail rather than structural dignity,
103 ; attempt to represent the scene nat-
urally, with the actual types of peoi)le
of the day, 104 ; the impression it makes
is little more than recognition of certain
facts, 104

Woman, to Leonardo the symbol of
beauty and of the search for beauty, 123

Mooil-cutter, The [Millet], 349

Words, be distrustful of, 128

Wren, Sir Christopher, 285

Wyant, Alexander, 337, 33a

Zandvoort, Israels first learned to study
nature at, 420

[51.3]

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