Cardinal Pallavicini, the Danaë, the Venus, Magdalene, and the Duchess
of Urbino. It is a small cabinet, scarcely measuring five square metres,
in which is gathered more shining beauty than in many an entire museum.
Prominent, however, is the fair daughter of Parma, forerunner of the
"Mona Vanna," as Venus dressed, or rather undressed, naked, in a velvet
cloak that kindly fulfils its duty only from the hips downward. The
goddess gazes at herself in a mirror held by a cupid, while another
chubby little fellow is trying to place a crown on her head. She
deserves it, this prize of beauty. There radiates from her eyes, her
mouth, her shoulders, arms, and hands a splendor such as even this
prince but seldom gave to his creations. The curves of the breast, only
half covered by the left hand, the navel, and the hips are as soft as if
painted with a caressing brush. The heavy velvet cloak intensifies even
the remarkable brightness of the body. The Danaë, languidly outstretched
on the cushions of her luxurious couch, shuddering under the golden
harvest that falls into her lap, is much superior to her rivals in
Naples and Vienna. It is the only original that does not disappoint the
expectations created by the widely distributed reproductions, for it
also is perfectly preserved. The line of the back from the shoulder to
the bent knee of the resting young body is of a unique softness; the
transition from the thigh to hip is like velvet in the softness of the
body; the feet and toes are of classic beauty. The Magdalene again is
all feeling. The tears flowing from her eyes, reddened by sorrow, are as
real as her contrition; the heavy braids, pressed with the right hand to
the full bosom, enable us to understand her sins; but the penitential
garment and the desert, where we find her alone with a human skull,
compel us to believe in her repentance. The artist's model was, as in
the similar work in Florence, his daughter Lavinia.
The school of Leonardo da Vinci is not as well represented; but mention
should be made here of "St. Catherine of Luini," if only for the sake of
the saint herself, that is fashioned after the same model as "St. Anne,"
by Leonardo. Somewhat better represented is the Venetian school with a
few Tintorettos and Paolo Veroneses. Of the later Italians, we find
especially of note, "Mary in the Sewing-School," "St. Joseph with the
Christ-Child," and "Cleopatra," by Guido Reni.
But the pride of the collection is the Rembrandt gallery. The so-called
"Mother of Rembrandt" is somewhat inferior to the incomparable Vienna
painting. But, on the other hand, there are among the thirty-nine
authentic works of the master such gems as the "Descent from the Cross,"
with its singular lights and shadows, and "David and Absalom," with
astonishing boldness of sketching and wonderful softness of coloring.
But far beyond the technique we are struck in this picture by the almost
tragic power of expression. It is the moment of conciliation between
father and son. How the young prince with luxurious hair hides his
trembling hand on his father's breast; how the father, who very
strangely has the features of the master himself, draws to his breast
the newly found son, and breathes to Jehovah a prayer for blessing. It
is treated with such overpowering mastery as dwells only in the greatest
scenes of fatherly passion in all literature and art. The second
treatment of the same theme, "The Prodigal Son," is transplanted from
the princely to the common. The returning son is not a prince; the
father is not a be-turbaned sultan; but the intensity of the embrace is
the same; the same thrill comes to us out of this as out of the
brilliant "Absalom" picture, the two songs of the forgiving father's
love. The counterpart of these two is the painting of the great father's
sorrow that seizes the old Jacob when his sons bring to him the bloody
garment of his beloved Joseph. The terror and amazement of the
patriarch, distinctly marked in the hands of the sage uplifted as if
warding off a blow, are strongly impressed on the mind of the beholder.
The famous "Sacrifice of Isaac" is to me of slighter value than the
preceding, notwithstanding all the dramatic force of the moment
depicted. It is really too difficult for us to look into the soul of an
old fanatic who is ready to slay his own son at the command of God; yet
the foreshortening of the recumbent Isaac, and the angel sweeping down
on him like a tempest, to seize just at the right moment the hand of the
old man, are brought out again with really wanton mastery. The so-called
Danaë is not to every one's taste, its universal fame notwithstanding.
Bode takes it as Sarah, the daughter of Raguel, awaiting her betrothed.
Its meaning might well be a subject of discussion. The old woman who
draws back the heavy drapery over the couch, with the honest
match-maker's joy on her face and the purse in her hand, indicates a
mythological incident and not the legitimate joys of Sarah. On the other
hand, there is lacking here the indispensable golden shower by which the
Danaë pictures are really characterized. Besides, the profile of the
joyously surprised naked dame is not all antique. I take the liberty
humbly to suggest that the young woman with the rather mature body is,
to judge by the ornaments on her arms and in her hair, as well as by the
attributes of her luxurious bed and the unceremoniousness with which she
allows the light to play on her naked body through the open portières
without making use of the cover lying near by, to be considered a
professional beauty, who is receiving with more than open arms some very
welcome and generous guest. When once freed from the not exactly
pleasing impression which the fidgety impatience produces on the none
too pretty face, we cannot but admire the play of light on the nude
body. Nothing is flattered in this painting, and that makes more
striking the indelible impression of the shimmering light in all the
depressions and curves of the not especially attractive figure.
It would be much beyond the limits of the present sketch to mention even
by name the works of the first rank in the Rembrandt gallery. Suffice it
to state that there are among them a so-called Sobieski, the portrait of
the calligrapher Coppenol, almost breathing before one's eyes, the
"Parable of the Workmen in the Vineyard," "Abraham's Entertainment of
the Angels," a "Holy Family" of such loveliness as can scarcely be
accredited to the forceful realist, the "Workshop of Joseph," the
"Incredulity of St. Thomas," full of restless movement, a splendid
heroic "Pallas," portraits of men and women, all of them works of the
first rank, gems in the art of all time. To say anything of the master
himself is, thank Heaven, unnecessary. He has thus far escaped untouched
from the constant revolution of values, the propelling force of which is
usually unknown to its satellites. Of him alone can it be said, that
even an approximate conception of the range of his mastery is
impossible without familiarity with his paintings in the Hermitage.
Rubens, too, is represented here in all his astonishing versatility. I
do not know what value is placed nowadays on this omniscience. Yet even
the termagant tongue of impotency must become dumb before this splendid
collection. Mythological and Biblical themes, portraits and landscapes,
are almost throughout of equal perfection and beauty. His exuberant
fancy is nowhere revealed to better advantage than in the fascinating
sketches in which the Hermitage is so rich. They must be termed
veritable orgies of the draughtsman and the colorist, and bear to a
certain extent the imprint of perennial genius and happy inspiration,
which the painting, often completed by his pupils, cannot quite show.
But where the master's own hand has worked it has given life to the
imperishable. If a prize were to be awarded to any one of the
forty-seven masterpieces it would surely belong to the portrait of
Helene Fourment, on which the artist worked with undivided love. The
roguish beauty is painted life-size. She is standing in a
flower-bedecked meadow, and in the background heavy clouds pass over the
landscape. But they serve only to bring out in greater relief the
delicate lace collar around the bare neck of the woman in a low-necked
gown. She has on her blond, curly head a black, soft, Rembrandt hat,
ornamented with feathers, and adorned with a violet-blue ribbon. Her
heavy, black satin dress with the airy white lace sleeves shows the
still youthful, slender figure in a swaying, graceful pose. The delicate
hands are crossed over the waist. The right is holding, fanlike and with
refined ease, a long, white heron's feather. The dress and ornaments,
the ear-rings and the bejewelled brooch and chain, are treated with such
care as was seldom shown by the busy master. The main charm of the
painting lies, however, in the roguish, spirited face with the large,
clever eyes and the smiling little mouth. The neck and bosom show,
however, that the name Helene is not inappropriate.
Of the mythological pictures the "Drunken Silence," variations on which
in the Munich Pinakothek are well enough known to make a more detailed
description superfluous, is to my taste the most wonderful. But the St.
Petersburg original is, if possible, even richer in its coloring, and
the grotesque humor of the fine company is altogether irresistible. We
also find an excellent variation in "The Pert Lover's Happy Moments,"
the brown shepherd attacking a young woman with the features of Helene
Fourment. The liberation of Andromeda by the victorious Perseus is a
work with all conceivable merits. The dead monster that had guarded the
brilliantly beautiful maid lies outstretched with gaping jaws; the
white-winged steed that had carried the victor is stamping the ground,
but easily held in check by a little cupid. The victor, still in his
glittering armor, with the gorgon shield in his left hand approaches
the fair maid and softly touches her. Another little cupid has removed
his helmet so that the emerging Fame may place the wreath on his locks.
But the youth sees only the glorious beauty at whose draperies three or
four little rogues are busily tugging to pull away from the white body
even the last vestige of covering. Of the splendid composition, "Venus
and Adonis," only the wonderful heads were drawn by the master; the rest
was done in his studio, but it is quite respectable.
Of the religious works, the "Descent from the Cross" is akin to the
famous painting in the Dome of Antwerp. The large painting, "Christ
Visiting Simon the Pharisee," was completed with the aid of his pupils.
The figures of Christ and of Magdalene, who is drying the feet of the
Saviour with her hair, were drawn by the master himself. The head of the
penitent is particularly striking. It has something leonine in it, and
the fervor with which she seizes the foot and draws it to herself has
also something of the passion that may have led to her sin.
Of Van Dyck, the cleverest and most prominent of Rubens's pupils, who
aspired to aristocratic refinement--perhaps only to free himself from
the overpowering influence of the robust genius of his teacher, perhaps
also because of his inherently more tenacious nature--the Hermitage
possesses the largest and most valuable collection. The "Holy Family" is
still influenced by Rubens, although it is somewhat softer. It is a
charming composition, full of peace and cheerfulness. Mary is sitting
under a shady tree holding the Christ-Child, who is standing on her lap
so that he may bend over to look at the dancing ring of little angels.
St. Joseph is comfortably seated in the background. The play of the
angels is unmistakably conceived after Rubens's festoon, and yet
possesses great beauty of its own. In its color effects the picture is
among the best. The artist is seen in complete self-dependence in the
numerous portraits of his English period as well as in the cabinet piece
of "The Snyder Family." The English impress us especially by the
expression of self-conscious gentility, aristocratic exclusiveness,
peculiar to themselves as well as to the master. We cannot escape the
charm of these somewhat decadent faces, just as we would enjoy equally a
Beethoven sonata and a Chopin nocturne. Without the exuberant
imagination and the universality of his teacher, Van Dyck possesses,
none the less, a personality of his own, shining with a light of its
own; he is one of the psychologists among the painters.
Another psychologist, though not with delicate hands, but sturdy and
creative, with exuberant genius, is Franz Hals, who is represented here
by four strikingly lifelike portraits. Of him, too, nothing more need be
said, though one may add he is a splendid fellow.
The Dutch miniature painters have here some dainty pieces. Of Van der
Helst's we see his renowned "Introduction of the Bride," a scene from
Dutch patrician life, with somewhat strongly exaggerated respectability
and affluence. The bridegroom's parents, themselves still young, are
seated on a garden terrace clad in their holiday attire, and with gloves
in their hands; the youngest son, stylishly dressed, with a parrot in
his hand, is looking with strained attention towards the bridal couple,
who are ceremoniously ascending the terrace; two greyhounds by the side
of the parents, a lap-dog by the bride's side, take part in the
performance; and loudest of all is the parrot, whom the master is
obliged to call to order by an indignant "Keep still!" Notwithstanding
its size (it has a width of more than three metres), the picture is
painted with a minuteness of detail, from the frills of the mother to
the rustling silk of the bride's dress and the thin foliage of the
poplars in the background of the garden, that would do honor to any
miniature painter. To be sure, our impressionist creed of the present
day does not allow the recognition of such painstaking elegance and
neatness in the execution of details. However, doctrines pass away, but,
thank Heaven, the pictures remain.
The numerous domestic genre pictures, Terborch's famous "Glass of
Lemonade," Jan Steen's "Drunken Woman," held up to derision by her
husband, and the "Visits of the Physician," who is feeling the pulse of
a young woman, evidently embarrassed, while the doctor, with a
significant smile, is exchanging remarks with an old woman, by Metzu,
as well as certain physicians' examinations, by Gerhard Dou, that cannot
further be described, are all notable, not only for the execution of the
velvet and silk fabrics, of the glasses and the interiors, but even more
for the unfailing firmness of characterization in movement and
physiognomy. Certainly these are great painters, and their works are
true cabinet-pieces. Composition must always swing between painstaking
accuracy and bold impressionism. Yet nothing could be more foolish than
the contempt for miniaturists in a period of impressionism and the
contempt for impressionists in a period of painful detail. "In my
Father's house are many mansions."
What shall we say of the works of Ostade, Teniers, Wouwerman, Pottes,
and Ruysdael? The Hermitage not only contains an inexhaustible abundance
of their productions, but includes their very best works. Potter has a
wolf-hound and dairy farm, an animal group of the highest plasticity,
and a quite modern transparency of atmosphere. Tenier has pieces that
show him to have been not only a grotesque humorist but also a great
landscape-painter; and of Ruysdael there are true pearls like the "Sand
Road" and the "Bay Lake."
Rarities, valuable as such not alone to the art-lover, are the "Healing
of the Blind," by Lucas van Leyden, the "Maid under the Apple-Tree," by
Lucas Cranach, a triumphant Madonna, by Quentin Massys--faithful,
honest works which the pious masters laid with devotion on the golden
ground. No sensible person will deride them, for they are still governed
in their conceptions by the carefully obeyed rules of symmetry. In the
_attachement_ there is such depth of characterization, such affection
and warmth, that many a masterpiece must be placed much below them. For
enthusiasm of conception and conscientious execution are, after all, of
deciding moment in every unbiased judgment. But the technique belongs to
the time and not to the individual.
The French of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries conclude the
group. The Germans have never succeeded in placing themselves in a true
relation to this art that is rhetorical and theatrical rather than
really poetical. Yet we shall never be wanting in respect to others,
especially to the masters Poussin and Claude Lorrain. The landscapes of
a heroic-mythological character that represent them in the Hermitage are
monuments of respectable ability.
Of real charm, however, are the piquant genre masters Fragonard and
Watteau, who were held in such deep contempt in the virtuous years of
the Revolution, that no one dared to pay even fifty francs for their
frivolous paintings. They are represented by excellent pieces, as well
as the more serious master Greuze, whose "Death of an Old Man" would do
honor even to our good Knaus. Boucher and Lancret justly deserve our
attention. But Marguerite Gerard, the sister-in law of Fragonard, and
Jean B. Chardin, have quite inconspicuously realized a goodly portion of
the impressionist programme without devoting themselves merely to
problems of light and shade. The "Mother's Happiness" of the former does
full justice to the charming scene and easily solves a problem in
interiors. The same is true of Chardin's "Washerwomen." There is
positively nothing new under the sun. It is only the one or the other
side of the universal knowledge of the great masters acclaimed as an
entirely new discovery. Then follow actions and reactions, and thus the
so-called art history is formed, the rise and fall among a few high
peaks and nothing more.
One day we found a whole row of rooms closed, just those that contained
our favorites of the Rembrandt gallery. What was the cause of it?
Preparations were being made for the Czar's dinner. A great court dinner
is given every Friday in the splendid halls of the Hermitage, and
suitable preparations are made on the previous day. Flowers are placed
everywhere, dishes and silver are brought and kept under special watch.
The Czar's table is placed in the large Italian hall; the courtier's
tables in the adjoining halls. The conservatories and prominent artists
have already petitioned for the abolition of this barbaric custom, for
the vapors from the viands do not in any wise contribute to the
preservation of the costly paintings. But how are exhortations of
warning to reach the Czar's ear? They are derided by the servile
courtiers, and held up to scorn as professional fancies of but little
significance when compared with the wish of princes to dine among the
finest works of art in the world. The consciousness that great works of
art are merely kept in trust by their passing owners, kept for their
true owner, progress-making humanity, has perhaps reached the better
class, but has not been awakened in the autocracy, where even the
conception of humanity has not yet been attained. They own pictures as
they own crown jewels, and consider themselves at liberty to treat them
as they please. But on such a matter the subject must remain silent; and
he does. It is the environment that influences princes, whether for good
or for evil. But the injury to a few paintings, however expensive, is
not the worst that rests on the conscience of the ring in the Czar's
court, just as the Hermitage is not the most objectionable feature of
St. Petersburg. When the Russian empire shall have overcome the phase of
barbarian mistrust for strangers and of oppressive police management,
when it shall have really opened its gates, the Hermitage will become a
true centre of attraction with few equals in the universe. Then will
become common property those wonder works that to-day are still beyond
the reach of common knowledge. In the Russia of to-day a treasury of
culture like the Hermitage is almost an anachronism.
IX
THE CAMORRA--A TALK WITH A RUSSIAN PRINCE
Before I report here a significant conversation I had with a prince, the
friend and former confidant of the Czar, I would make an earnest appeal
to the public opinion of Europe, for which these lines are intended. I
have conversed with many men of the highest rank in Russia; I am
indebted to them for most valuable information about the land of
riddles, yet not a single interview was concluded without my informant
asking me to withhold his name. Only the prince whose views I report
here said to me, "If you need my name to prove the credibility of the
most incredible things I had to tell you, you may use it without
compunction. Possible suffering that may befall me because of this use
of my name is of no consideration where the enlightenment of Europe is
concerned." On mature deliberation I have preferred, however, not to
mention his name here. I thus renounce the weight of a name of European
repute and of unparalleled authority. Notwithstanding this, I still
consider it necessary to ask public opinion of Europe to watch with
redoubled care the fate of the few persons who have been my informants.
It would not be right for me to suppress this report, for I should thus
act in direct opposition to the wishes of the noble-minded prince.
Neither could I disguise him entirely, since there are, after all, but
few persons that could have made to me these disclosures on the
helplessness of even the eminent patriots. And so I must resort to an
appeal to the public opinion of Europe with proper caution. It can
protect the prince. For with all their wickedness the Russian rulers
still fear foreign public opinion. This and this alone has a certain
influence on the Czar. Let it be exerted in behalf of a man of the
greatest heroism, who makes appeal to it out of pure patriotism.
"Does your highness think," I asked, in the interview I am about to
report here, "that the discontent everywhere noticeable in all classes
of society is real and of political significance?"
"We must make distinctions," answered the prince; "of its reality there
is no doubt. But if you ask whether I consider it politically fruitful,
in the same sense that we may gain through this discontent some
necessary change in the present régime, I must answer, unfortunately,
no."
"Is this, then, only the chronic discontent present in western Europe as
well as in Russia, or is it now acute?"
"It is acute. As you have justly observed, the West has its discontented
element also; yet your Western discontent with all work of man may best
be compared with that frame of mind prevalent in our country, even under
a régime that is normal and well-intentioned, lacking only efficiency.
The restlessness that you, as a stranger, have noted here is quite
abnormal, and is due to the decided wickedness, not to say infamy, of
the existing system."
"Then it is stronger than usual?"
"Incomparably stronger. No entertainment however harmless, no scientific
congress, no meeting of any corporation can take place that will not end
in a political demonstration. All the prisons are filled with most
worthy people, deportations and banishments increase, yet other men and
women press onward to martyrdom."
"I admire this spirit of sacrifice in your intelligent classes."
"That is the difference between to-day and a few years ago. Ten years
ago our public opinion was weakened, resigned, crushed by the heavy hand
of Alexander III. and the serpent wiles of Pobydonostzev. With the
accession to the throne of the present Czar new hopes were awakened; but
now, thanks to the executioners Sipyagin and Plehve, disappointment and
exasperation have grown to such a vast extent that expression of them
can no longer be repressed, and thousands risk life and liberty unable
longer to bear this condition of grinding inward revolt."
"I witnessed the funeral of Mikhailovski. I must say that my ear
detected revolutionary tones, and such a procession of five or six
thousand men and women from among the highest classes, surrounded by
Cossacks, among a listening police, singing songs, making fiery,
freedom-breathing speeches, impressed me of all things as a foreboding
of revolution.