Nothing in Venice is more perfect than this, and we know of no work of
art more complete. The picture is in three compartments: the Virgin sits
in the central division with her child; two venerable saints, standing
close together, occupy each of the others. It is impossible to imagine
anything more finished or more ripe. It is one of those things that sum
up the genius of a painter, the experience of a life, the teaching of a
school. It seems painted with molten gems, which have only been
clarified by time, and it is as solemn as it is gorgeous, and as simple
as it is deep. John Bellini is, more or less, everywhere in Venice, and
wherever he is, he is almost certain to be first--first, I mean, in his
own line; he paints little else than the Madonna and the saints; he has
not Carpaccio's care for human life at large, nor the Tintoret's, nor
that of the Veronese. Some of his greater pictures, however, where
several figures are clustered together, have a richness of sanctity that
is almost profane. There is one of them on the dark side of the room at
the Academy, containing Titian's "Assumption," which, if we could only
see it--its position is an inconceivable scandal--would evidently be one
of the mightiest of so-called sacred pictures. So, too, is the Madonna
of San Zaccaria, hung in a cold, dim, dreary place, ever so much too
high, but so mild and serene, and so grandly disposed and accompanied,
that the proper attitude for even the most critical amateur, as he looks
at it, seems to be the bended knee. There is another noble John Bellini,
one of the very few in which there is no Virgin, at San Giovanni
Crisostomo--a St Jerome, in a red dress, sitting aloft upon the rocks,
with a landscape of extraordinary purity behind him. The absence of the
peculiarly erect Madonna makes it an interesting surprise among the
works of the painter, and gives it a somewhat less strenuous air. But it
has brilliant beauty, and the St. Jerome is a delightful old personage.
The same church contains another great picture, for which he must find a
shrine apart in his memory; one of the most interesting things he will
have seen, if not the most brilliant. Nothing appeals more to him than
three figures of Venetian ladies which occupy the foreground of a
smallish canvas of Sebastian del Piombo, placed above the high altar of
San Giovanni Crisostomo. Sebastian was a Venetian by birth, but few of
his productions are to be seen in his native place; few, indeed, are to
be seen anywhere. The picture represents the patron-saint of the church,
accompanied by other saints, and by the worldly votaries I have
mentioned. These ladies stand together on the left, holding in their
hands little white caskets; two of them are in profile, but the foremost
turns her face to the spectator. This face and figure are almost unique
among the beautiful things of Venice, and they leave the susceptible
observer with the impression of having made, or rather having missed, a
strange, a dangerous, but a most valuable, acquaintance. The lady, who
is superbly handsome, is the typical Venetian of the sixteenth century,
and she remains in the mind as the perfect flower of that society. Never
was there a greater air of breeding, a deeper expression of tranquil
superiority. She walks like a goddess--as if she trod, without sinking,
the waves of the Adriatic. It is impossible to conceive a more perfect
expression of the aristocratic spirit, either in its pride or in its
benignity. This magnificent creature is so strong and secure that she is
gentle, and so quiet that, in comparison, all minor assumptions of
calmness suggest only a vulgar alarm. But for all this, there are depths
of possible disorder in her light-coloured eye. I had meant, however, to
say nothing about her, for it is not right to speak of Sebastian when
one has not found room for Carpaccio. These visions come to one, and one
can neither hold them nor brush them aside. Memories of Carpaccio, the
magnificent, the delightful--it is not for want of such visitations, but
only for want of space, that I have not said of him what I would. There
is little enough need of it for Carpaccio's sake, his fame being
brighter to-day--thanks to the generous lamp Mr. Ruskin has held up to
it--than it has ever been. Yet there is something ridiculous in talking
of Venice without making him, almost, the refrain. He and the Tintoret
are the two great realists, and it is hard to say which is the more
human, the more various. The Tintoret had the mightier temperament, but
Carpaccio, who had the advantage of more newness and more
responsibility, sailed nearer to perfection. Here and there he quite
touches it, as in the enchanting picture, at the Academy, of St. Ursula
asleep in her little white bed, in her high, clean room, where the angel
visits her at dawn; or in the noble St. Jerome in his study, at S.
Giorgio degli Schiavoni. This latter work is a pearl of sentiment, and I
may add, without being fantastic, a ruby of colour. It unites the most
masterly finish with a kind of universal largeness of feeling, and he
who has it well in his memory will never hear the name of Carpaccio
without a throb of almost personal affection. This, indeed, is the
feeling that descends upon you in that wonderful little chapel of St.
George of the Slaves, where this most personal and sociable of artists
has expressed all the sweetness of his imagination. The place is small
and incommodious, the pictures are out of sight and ill-lighted, the
custodian is rapacious, the visitors are mutually intolerable, but the
shabby little chapel is a palace of art. Mr. Ruskin has written a
pamphlet about it which is a real aid to enjoyment, though I cannot but
think the generous artist, with his keen senses and his just feeling,
would have suffered at hearing his eulogist declare that one of his
other productions--in the Museo Civico in Palazzo Correr, a delightful
portrait of two Venetian ladies, with pet animals--is the "finest
picture in the world." It has no need of that to be thought admirable;
and what more can a painter desire?