Shakespearean force, a painting that is red on red. Ivan the Terrible
holds in his arms the son he has just stricken to death with his heavy
staff. It is a horrible scene from which one turns because of the almost
unbearable misery depicted there, and yet you return to it again and
again. So great is the conception, so wonderful the insight, so
incomparable the technique. The madman, whom a nation of slaves endures
as its master, is at last overtaken by Nemesis, and he is truly an
object for pity as he crouches on the ground with the body of his dying
son in his arms. He would stanch the blood that is streaming from the
gaping wound to the red carpet. He kisses the hair where but a moment
before his club had struck. The tears flow from his horrified eyes, and
their terror is augmented, for at this last and perhaps first caress of
the terrible father a happy smile plays on the face of the dying son. He
had killed his son! Nothing can save him! He the Czar of Moscow, the
master of the Kremlin, can do nothing. He draws his son to himself,
presses him to his breast, to his lips. What had he done in his anger,
that anger so often a source of joy to him when he struck others less
near to him and for which he had been lauded by his servile courtiers,
since the Czar must be stern, a terrible and unrelenting master?
Shakespeare has nothing more thrilling than this single work, its effect
so tragic because the artist has succeeded in awakening our pity for
this fiend, pity which is the deliverance from hatred and resentment.
The pity that seizes us is identical with the awe of the deepest faith,
the feeling of Christian forgiveness. We can have no resentment towards
this sorrow-crushed old man with the torn, thin, white hair. And we can
never quite forget the look in these glassy old eyes from which the
bitter tears are gushing, the first that the monster had ever shed. And
how the picture is painted, the red of the blood contrasting with the
red of the Persian rug and the green-red of the tapestry. Nothing else
is seen on the floor except an overturned chair. The figures of the
father, and of the son raising himself for the last time, alone in all
the vast space, hold the gaze of the spectator. With this painting
hanging in the ruler's palace the death-sentence would never be signed
again.
Still another ghastly picture shows that the artist, like all great
masters, is not held back by affectation and feels equal to any
emergency. It represents Sophia, the sister of Peter the Great, who from
her prison is made to witness the hanging of her faithful "streltzy"
(sharp-shooters) before her windows. It was a brotherly mark of
consideration shown her by the Czar. The resemblance of the princess to
her brother is striking; but the expression of pain, anger, and fear on
the stony face turned green and yellow is really terrifying. But it is
also characteristic of the great master to have chosen just that
incident in the life of the great Czar.
In general it must be said that for a professor in the imperial academy
the choice of historical subjects is curious enough. It certainly does
not indicate loyalty.
I could not if I would discuss in detail the fruits of thirty years of
the artist's activity. Besides, mere words cannot give an adequate idea
of the beauty of his works. But there is one thing that may be
accomplished by the description of his most important painting--namely,
the refutation of the absurd notion that the artist and his art can
become important only when they are entirely indifferent to the joys and
sorrows of their fellow-men and concern solely the solution of artistic
problems. The doctrine of art for art's sake has no more determined
opponents than the great artists of our time, and among them also Ryepin
in the front rank. He is willing to subscribe to it just as far as
every artist must seek to influence only by means of his own peculiar
art; yet he rejects the absurdity that it is immaterial for the
greatness of the artist whether he depicts the essence of a great, rich,
and deep mind or only that of a commonplace mind. According to him only
a great man that is a warm-hearted, upright, and courageous man can
become a great artist; and he regards it as the first duty of such to
share the life of their fellow-men, to honor the man even in the
humblest fellow-being, and to strengthen with all their might the call
for freedom and humanity as long as it remains unheeded by the powerful.
Just like Tolstoï, he has only a deep contempt for the exalted decadents
who, with their exclusive and affected morality, would attack nations
fighting for their freedom. Like every independent thinker, he is
disgusted with the modern epidemic of individualism, and his sympathies
belong to the progressive movement derided by the fools of fashion. To
be sure, that does not make him greater as artist, for artistic
greatness has absolutely nothing to do with party affiliations; neither
does it make him less, for his artistic achievements are not at all
lessened by his giving us sentiments as well as images. But if a humane,
altruistic, cultured man who finds joy in progress stands ethically
higher than the exclusive, narrow-minded reactionary or self-sufficient,
surfeited decadent, then Ryepin is worth more than the idols of snobs.
And not as man only; he also stands higher as artist, for he gives
expression with at least the same mastery, and, in truth, with an
incomparably greater mastery, to the ideals of a more noble, greater,
and richer mind. The belief that participation in the struggles and
movements of the day affects the artist unfavorably is ridiculed by him;
the contrary is true in his case. It has given him an abundance of
striking themes as well as the duel and nihilist cycles.
I will pass by the duel cycle culminating in the powerfully portrayed
suffering of the repenting victor. For us the nihilist cycle is more
interesting, more Russian. "Nihilist" is, by-the-way, an abominable name
for those noble young men and women who, staking their lives, go out
among the common people to redeem them from their greatest
enemies--ignorance and immorality. The real nihilists in Russia are
those of the government who are not held back even by murder when it is
of service to the system, the cynics with the motto, "Après nous le
déluge"; surely not these noble-hearted dreamers who throw down the
gauntlet to the all-powerful Holy Synod and to the not less powerful
holy knout.
At the time when the "well-disposed" portion of Russian society had
turned away in honor from the Russian youth because a few fanatics had
believed that they could more quickly attain their aims by the
propaganda of action than by the fully as dangerous and difficult work
among the people, Ryepin painted his cycle which explains why among the
young people there were a few who resorted to murder. Who does not know
from the Russian novels those meetings of youths who spent half the
night at the steaming samovar discussing the liberation of the people
and the struggle against despotism, in debates that have no other result
than a heavy head and an indefinite desire for self-sacrifice? The cycle
begins with such a discussion. Men and women students are gathered
together, unmistakably Russian, all of them, Slavic types, the women
with short hair, the men mostly bearded and with long hair. In the smoky
room, imperfectly lighted by the lamp, they are listening to a fiery
young orator. We find this young man again as village teacher in the
second picture. He had gone among the people. In one of the following
pictures he has already been informed against, and the police search
through his books and find forbidden literature. The police spy and
informer, who triumphantly brings the package to light, is pictured to
his very finger-tips as the gentleman that he is. In still another
picture the young martyr is already sitting between gendarmes on his way
to Siberia; and in the last he returns home old and broken, recognized
with difficulty by his family, whom he surprises in the simple room. One
may see this cycle in the Tretyakov Gallery, and copies of it in the
possession of a few private individuals, persons in high authority, who
are above fear of the police; and one is reminded of the saying so
often heard in Russia, "We are governed by the scoundrels, and our
upright men are languishing in the prisons." The nihilist has the
features of Dostoyevski who was so broken in Siberia that he thanked the
Czar, on his return, for his well-deserved punishment, and who had
become a mystic and a reactionary. In another picture a young nihilist
on his way to the scaffold is being offered the consolation of religion
by the priest, but he harshly motions him back.
All these pictures are homely in their treatment. The poverty of the
interior, the inspired faces of the noble dreamers, and the brutal and
stupid faces of the authorities speak for themselves clearly enough, and
no theatrical effects of composition are necessary to impart the proper
mood to the observer. On the contrary, it is just this discretion, the
almost Uhde-like simplicity that is so effective. Yet Pobydonostzev and
Plehve will scarcely thank the artist for these works that for
generations will awaken hatred against the system among all
better-informed young men. However, their reproduction is prohibited.
On the other hand, the drawings which Ryepin made for popular Russian
literature are circulated by hundreds of thousands among the people. It
is an undertaking initiated by Leo Tolstoï with the aid of several
philanthropists, for combating bad popular literature. It is under the
excellent management of Gorbunov in Moscow. There are annually placed
among the people about two millions of books, ranging in price from one
to twenty kopeks. It may be taken for granted that the men who enjoy
Tolstoï's confidence will not be a party to barbarism. The foremost
artists supply the sketches for the title-pages, among them Ryepin, the
fiery Tolstoïan. Ryepin's admiration for the great poet of the Russian
soil is also evident from his numerous pictures of Tolstoï. He has
painted the saint of Yasnaya Polyana at least a dozen times--at his
working-table; in the park reclining under a tree and reading after his
swim; a bare-footed disciple of Kneipp; or following the plough, with
flowing beard, his powerful hand resting on the plough-handle. All are
masterly portraits, and, above all things, they reflect the
all-embracing kindness that shines in the blue eyes of the poet--eyes
that one can never forget when their kindly light has once shone upon
him.
Public opinion in Russia has been particularly engrossed with a recent
picture which furnishes much food for reflection. Two young people, a
student clad in the Russian student uniform and a young gentlewoman with
hat and muff, step out hand-in-hand from a rock right into the raging
sea. What is the meaning of it? The triumphant young faces, the
outstretched arms of the student exclude the thought of suicide. It has
been suggested that it is an illustration of the Russian saying, "To the
courageous the sea is only knee-deep." But in that case it would mean,
"Have courage, young people; do not fear the conflict; for you the sea
is only knee-deep." But it could also be interpreted, "Madmen, what are
you doing? Do you not see that this is the terrible, relentless sea into
which you would step?" In that case it would be a warning intended for
the Russian youth, revolutionary throughout, who would dare anything.
This much is certain: the greatest Russian painter, and one of the
greatest of contemporary painters, is on the side of these young people,
and his heart is with them even though he may doubt, as many another,
the success of the heroic self-sacrifice. The noble ideals of youth
cannot conquer this sea of ignorance and slave-misery. Great and
immeasurable as is the Russian nation, nothing can help the country. It
must and will collapse within itself, and then will come the hour of
release for all, whether noble or poor, to whom the Ryepins and the Leo
Tolstoïs have dedicated their incomparably great works. Perhaps this
hour is nearer than is suspected. Russian soil is already groaning under
the March storms which precede every spring.
VII
THE HERMITAGE
The curious conception of Tolstoï's as to the severing and injurious
influence of art that does not strive directly to make people more
noble, can perhaps be understood only when the collections in the St.
Petersburg Hermitage and Alexander Museum are examined. Striking proof
will there be found that the enjoyment of art--nay, the understanding of
it--need not necessarily go hand-in-hand with humane and moral
sentiments. Antiquity and the Renaissance prove that, under certain
conditions, inhumanity and scandalous immorality can harmonize very well
with the understanding of art, or with, at least, a great readiness to
make sacrifices for the sake of it. The inference that the greater
refinement of the taste for art is the cause of moral degeneration is
not far from the truth. It is quite conceivable from the stand-point of
an essentially revolutionary philosophy, framed for the struggle against
the demoralizing, violent government of St. Petersburg, since everything
that is apparently entitled to respect in this St. Petersburg is
unveiled and damned in its nothingness. Thus it is with science--that
is to say, a university that does not begin its work by denouncing a
despotism only seemingly favorable to civilization; so it is with a
fancy for art, which possibly may convince czars and their servants that
they also have contributed their mite towards the welfare of mankind.
The stranger who does not see things with the eyes of the passionate
philanthropist and patriot, and who when gazing at the master-works of
art, does not necessarily think of the depravity of the gatherers of
these works, is surely permitted to disregard the association of ideas
between art and morality, and to give himself over unconstrainedly to
the enjoyment of collections that can hold their own with the best
museums of the world. To be sure, Catherine II. was not an exemplary
empress or woman, yet by her purchases for the Hermitage she rendered a
real service to her country, a service that will ultimately plead for
her at the judgment-seat of the world's history. Alexander III. and his
house were misfortunes for his country, but the museum that bears his
name will keep alive his memory and will cast light of forgiveness on a
soul enshrouded in darkness. Besides, it has nowhere been shown that
without the diversion of expensive tastes for art, slovenly empresses
would have been less slovenly or dull despots less violent. But in the
Hermitage one may forget for a couple of hours that he is in the capital
of the most unfortunate and the most wretchedly governed of all
countries.
On the whole, it is impossible to give in a mere description an
adequate conception of the great mass of masterpieces here gathered
together. I shall attempt, in the following, to seize only a few meagre
rays of the brightest solitaires.
Borne by the one-story high--entirely too high--naked Atlas of polished
black granite, there rises the side roof of the Hermitage over a terrace
of the "millionnaya" (millionaires' street). We enter the dark, high
entrance-hall, from which a high marble staircase, between polished
walls, leads to a pillared hall, already seen from below. The
attendants, in scarlet uniforms, jokingly known at the court as
"lobsters," officiously relieve us of our fur coats, and we hasten into
the long ground floor, where await us the world-famous antiquities from
Kertch, in the Crimea. Unfortunately, there awaits us also a sad
disappointment. The high walls are so dark, even in the middle of the
gray winter day, that the beauty of the many charming miniatures must be
surmised rather than felt. We could see scarcely anything of the great
collection of vases. We breathe with relief when we at last enter a hall
that has light and air, now richly rewarded for our Tantalus-like
sufferings in the preceding rooms. Here glitter the gold laurel and
acorn crowns that once adorned proud Greek foreheads; there sparkles the
gold-braided border with which the Greek woman trimmed her garments,
representing in miniature relief lions' and rams' heads. The gold
bracelets and necklaces, ear-rings and brooches tell us that there is
nothing new under the sun. Before the birth of Christ there were worn in
Chersonesus the same patterns that are now designed anew by diligent
artistic craftsmen--nay, even vases and tumblers, the creations of the
most modern individualities, had already lain buried under the rubbish
of thousands of years. Our attention is drawn to a vase in a separate
case, which gives an excellent representation of the progress of a
bride's toilet from the bath to its finishing touches ready for the
bridegroom's reception. Who knows what scene of domestic happiness was
involved in the presentation of this gift thousands of years ago!
Sensations which one experiences only in the streets and houses of
Pompeii are renewed here while looking at the glass cases with their
collections of ornaments and of articles of utility that tell us of the
refined pleasures and the exquisite taste of times long gone by. The
waves of the Black Sea played about Greek patrician houses where to-day
the rugged Cossack rides with the knout in his hand. A great hall shows
us finally the Olympian Zeus with the eagles at his feet, also with the
soaring Nike in his right hand. Klinger's "Beethoven" reminds us
involuntarily of this lofty work without attaining its majesty. A
torch-bearer, a mighty caryatid of Praxiteles with a truly wonderful
draping of the garments, a Dionysus of the fourth century, an Omphale
clad in the attributes of Hercules, sarcophagi with masterly reliefs, a
divine Augustus, portrait busts of satyrs, entitle this collection to
rank with that of the Vatican, not in numbers, but in the great worth of
single works. But our wonder and admiration become greater when we enter
the splendid halls of the picture-gallery. We hasten past Canova and
Houdon, however; the graceful figures of the one and the characteristic
"Voltaire" of the other had attracted us at other times. On to Murillo,
Rembrandt, Rubens, Titian, to be presented to us in unusual
completeness. Twenty-two Murillos, the finest of them carried away by
the French from Madrid, wrapped around flag-staffs. I must confess that
I had not hitherto fully comprehended Murillo's fame, for I am not
acquainted with the Spanish galleries. It was only in St. Petersburg
that the full greatness of the master dawned upon me. No description can
give an adequate idea of the charm of the Virgin Mother in the two
gray-walled pictures of "The Conception" and "The Assumption." What
distinguishes it from the famous Louvre picture is, above all, the
childlike expression of the sweet girl's head. A Mignon as Mary! The
dark eyes looking up to heaven with such inspired enthusiasm; the full
cheeks delicately tinted; the light garment of the maiden, almost a
child, enfolding it chastely; the entire figure, to the blue, loosely
fluttering cloak bathed in light; the cupids crowding about the knees
and carrying her heavenward; sweet rogues on the cloud wall, a part
still in the light radiated by her, and a part already immersed in the
deep darkness of space--the whole sublime, as on the first day of
creation, no note failing in the Spaniard's full glow of color.
No less splendid and inspired is "Repose During the Flight to Egypt,"
where the mother of the Lord again awakens the most fervent sensations.
She is no longer the half-childlike virgin of the Conception and the
Assumption; she is the mother, tenderly and rapturously gazing at the
sleeping child surrounded by a halo of heavenly light. Angels crowd
forward in naïve curiosity; the saintly Joseph looks with emotion on the
contented infant; the thick foliage gives to the entire group shade and
coolness. Even the ass looks comfortable and pious. The color and
composition are entirely beyond comparison.
A painting brimful of roguishness is "Jacob's Ladder," where angels
ascending and descending, making up the dreams of the sleeper, amuse
themselves in most innocent fashion. Well known is the charming
Christ-Child in the painting of "St. Joseph," and the charming little
"John" often fondly painted by him, his arms entwined about his lambkin.
Hardy peasant types are not wanting; and that the inspiration of the
great Spaniard may not exceed all bounds, there are a few pictures
which, with all their artistic excellence make us realize what a chasm
separates us from the passionate Catholic Murillo. We believe that full
artistic justice may be done to the poetry of Biblical legend without
being obliged to glorify a Peter Aubry. However, other lands, other
customs!
Of Velasquez's work there should be mentioned, in the first place, his
paintings of Philip IV. and the Duke of Olivarez, both of striking
characterization in their grotesque ugliness--the master will survive
even the one-sided and exclusive cult of which he has been made the
victim. We will not set our minds against Velasquez's or Leonardo's
"Mona Lisa" just because they are to be found in all the exercises of
enraptured modern goslings.
I will not say anything about the "Madonna Conestabile," the "St.
George," and the wonderful "Madonna Alba" of Raphael, for I consider it
entirely superfluous to combat the affected underestimates of the master
of Urbino, which is insisted upon as a matter of party obligation by
every imitator of fashion. If Herr Muther prescribes the Botticelli cult
for the last years of one century, the rediscovery of the joyous Andrea
del Sarto for the first years of a new century, he will, if we live to
see the day, prescribe for the century noonday the return to the master
of perfection, Raffaelo Sanzio, as the inevitable requirement of
fashion, and his disciples will add here their solemn amen. But the
eternal masters are above the gossip of salons and fashions.
Sebastiano del Piombo is represented here by a most extraordinary
"Descent from the Cross," Correggio by the "Madonna del Latte,"
Leonardo da Vinci by the light blonde "Madonna Litta," which, like all
the works of this master, is questioned, but which bears his imprint as
much as any of his works. Of Botticelli there is a very well-preserved
"Adoration of the Magi," similar to the Florentine painting. Likewise,
here in all the minor figures of the kneeling kings and shepherds, and
even of the horses, there is a perfection in the mastery of drawing, the
Madonna archaically overslender, with the thin neck of the Primitivists,
which, out of respect for sacred tradition, the otherwise bold master
did not dare meddle with. Naturally, the modern art mockery sees in this
defect of Botticelli's, accounted for by respect for tradition, his
chief superiority, and goes into affected raptures at the sensitive
figures of his "Primavera," and imitates the studied gestures of those
foolish airs which our higher bourgeoisie affect in order to resemble
the decadent nobility. But Botticelli really deserves a better fate than
to be the fashion painter of the snobs.
Bronzino's picture of a young woman, with quite modern bronze-colored
hair and exceptionally small hands, might well be substituted, if
fashion chose, for "Mona Lisa" in the modern feuilletons. A Renaissance
could easily dedicate a piquant novel to her dreamy, roguish eyes, her
soft chin, and her sensual mouth, which would not be contradicted by the
rich pearl ornaments in her hair and ears. There is a Judith by the
highly beloved master Giorgione, which is far superior in the majesty
of her bearing and the beauty of her head to her sisters of earlier and
later times. By the side of this noble and historical figure the other
Judith, the creation of the wanton and diseased fancy of Klimt--the
otherwise prominent but misguided master--appears absolutely odious.
VIII
THE HERMITAGE--_CONTINUED_