Come to the New Gallery. We shall pass out of sight of flat dreary
London, drab-coloured streets full of overcoats, silk hats, dripping
umbrellas, omnibuses. We shall pass out of sight of long perspectives
of square houses lost in fine rain and grey mist. We shall enter an
enchanted land, a land of angels and aureoles; of crimson and gold,
and purple raiment; of beautiful youths crowned with flowers; of
fabulous blue landscape and delicate architecture. Know ye the land?
Botticelli is king there, king of clasped hands and almond-eyed
Madonnas. It was he who conceived and designed that enigmatic Virgin's
face; it was he who placed that long-fingered hand on the thigh of the
Infant God; it was he who coiled that heavy hair about that triangle
of neck and interwove it with pearls; it was he who drew the graceful
lace over the head-dress, and painted it in such innumerable delicacy
of fold that we wonder and are fain to believe that it is but the
magic of an instant's hallucination. Know ye the land? Filippo Lippi
is prince there, prince of angel youths, fair hair crowned with fair
flowers; they stand round a tall throne with strings of coral and
precious stones in their hands. It was Filippo Lippi who composed that
palette of grey soft pearly pink; it was he who placed that beautiful
red in the right-hand corner, and carried it with such enchanting
harmony through the yellow raiment of the angel youth, echoing it in a
subdued key in the vesture which the Virgin wears under her blue
garment, and by means of the red coral which decorates the tall throne
he carried it round the picture; it was he, too, who filled those
angel eyes with passion such as awakens in heaven at the touch of
wings, at the sound of citherns and cintoles.
Know ye the land where Botticelli and Filippo Lippi dreamed immortal
dreams? Know ye the land, Italy in the fifteenth century? Exquisite
angel faces were their visions by day and night, and their thoughts
were mystic landscapes and fantastic architecture; aureoles, roses,
pearls, and rich embroideries were parcel of their habitual sense; and
the decoration of a surface with beautiful colour was their souls'
desire. Of truth of effect and local colour they knew nothing, and
cared nothing. Beauty for beauty's sake was the first article of their
faith. They measured a profile with relentless accuracy, and followed
its outline unflinchingly, their intention was no more than to produce
a likeness of the lady who sat posing for her portrait, but some
miracle saved them from base naturalism. The humblest, equally with
the noblest dreamer, was preserved from it; and that their eyes
naturally saw more beautifully than ours seems to be the only
explanation. Ugliness must have always existed; but Florentine eyes
did not see ugliness. Or did their eyes see it, and did they disdain
it? Do they owe their art to a wise festheticism, or to a fortunate
limitation of sight? These are questions that none may answer, but
which rise up in our mind and perplex us when we enter the New
Gallery; for verily it would seem, from the dream pictures there, that
a time once existed upon earth when the world was fair as a garden,
and life was a happy aspiration. In the fifteenth century the world
seems to have been made of gold, jewellery, pictures, embroidered
stuffs, statues, and engraved weapons; in the fifteenth century the
world seems to have been inhabited only by nobles and prelates; and
the only buildings that seem to have existed were palaces and
cathedrals. Then Art seemed for all men, and life only for
architecture, painting, carving, and engraving long rapiers; and
length of time for monks to illuminate great missals in the happy
solitude of their cells, and for nuns to weave embroideries and to
stitch jewelled vestments.
The Florentines loved their children as dearly as we do ours; but in
their pictures there is but the Divine Child. They loved girls and
gallantries as well as we do; but in their pictures there are but the
Virgin and a few saints.
History tells us that wars, massacres, and persecutions were frequent
in the fifteenth century; but in its art we learn no more of the
political than we do of the domestic life of the century. The Virgin
and Child were sufficient inspiration for hundreds of painters. Now
she is in full-face, now in three-quarter face, now in profile. In
this picture she wears a blue cloak, in that picture she is clad in a
grey. She is alone with the Child in a bower of tall roses, or she is
seated on a high throne. Perhaps the painter has varied the
composition by the introduction of St. John leaning forward with
clasped hands; or maybe he has introduced a group of angels, as
Filippo Lippi has done. The throne is sometimes high, sometimes low;
but such slight alteration is enough for a new picture. And several
generations of painters seem to have lived and died believing that
their art was to all practical and artistic purposes limited to the
continual variation of this theme.
Among these painters Botticelli was the incontestable master; but
about him crowd hundreds of pictures, pictures rather than names.
Imagine a number of workmen anxious to know how they should learn to
paint well, to paint with brilliancy, with consistency, with ease, and
with lasting colours. Imagine a collection of gold ornaments, jewels,
and enamels, in which we can detect the skill of the goldsmith, of the
painter of stained-glass, of the engraver, and of the illuminator of
missals; the inspiration is grave and monastic, the destination a
palace or a cathedral, the effect dazzling; and out of this miraculous
handicraft Filippo Lippi is always distinct, soft as the dawn,
mysterious as a flower, less vigorous but more illusive than
Botticelli, and so strangely personal that while looking at him we are
absorbed.
To differentiate between the crowd of workmen that surrounded Filippo
Lippi and Botticelli were impossible. They painted beautiful things
because they lived in an age in which ugliness hardly existed, or was
not as visible as it is now; they were content to merge their
personalities in an artistic formula; none sought to invent a
personality which did not exist in himself. Employing without question
a method of drawing and of painting that was common to all of them,
they worked in perfect sympathy, almost in collaboration. Plagiarism
was then a virtue; they took from each other freely; and the result is
a collective rather than individual inspirations. Now and then genius
breaks through, as a storm breaks a spell of summer weather. "The
Virgin and Child, with St. Clare and St. Agatha", lent by Mrs. Austin
and the trustees of the late J. T. Austin, is one of the most
beautiful pictures I have ever seen. The temperament of the painter,
his special manner of feeling and seeing, is strangely, almost
audaciously, affirmed in the mysterious sensuality of the angels'
faces; the painter lays bare a rare and remote corner of his soul;
something has been said that was never said before, and never has been
said so well since. But if the expression given to these angels is
distinctive, it is extraordinarily enhanced by the beauty of the
colour. Indeed, the harmony of the colour-scheme is inseparable from
the melodious expressiveness of the eyes. Look at the gesture of the
hand on the right; is not the association of ideas strangely intimate,
curious, and profound?
But come and let us look at a real Botticelli, a work which convinces
at the first glance by the extraordinary expressiveness of the
drawing, by the originality of the design, by the miraculous
handicraft; let us look at the "Virgin and Child and St. John", lent
by Messrs. Colnaghi.
It is a panel some 36 by 25 inches, almost filled by a life-size
three-quarter-length figure of the Virgin. She is seated on the right,
and holds the Infant Saviour in her arms. In the foreground on the
left there is a book and cushion, behind which St. John stands, his
hands clasped, bearing a cross. Never was a head designed with more
genius than that strange Virgin, ecstatic, mysterious, sphinx-like;
with half-closed eyes, she bends her face to meet her God's kiss. In
this picture Botticelli sought to realise the awfulness of the
Christian mystery: the Mother leans to the kiss of her Son--her Son,
who is likewise her God, and her brain is dim with its ecstasy. She is
perturbed and overcome; the kiss is in her brain, and it trembles on
her lips. You who have not seen the picture will think that this
description is but the tale of the writer who reads his fancies into
the panel before him. But the intention of the painter did not
outstrip the power of expression which his fingers held. He expressed
what I say he expressed, and more perfectly, more suggestively, than
any words. And how? It will be imagined that it was by means of some
illusive line that Botticelli rendered the very touch and breath of
this extraordinary kiss; by that illusive line which Degas employs in
his expressions of the fugitive and the evanescent. How great,
therefore, is our surprise when we look into the picture to find that
the mystery and ecstasy of this kiss are expressed by a hard, firm,
dark line.
And the sensation of this strange ecstatic kiss pervades the entire
composition; it is embodied in the hand placed so reverently on the
thigh of the Infant God and in the eyes of St. John, who watches the
divine mystery which is being accomplished. On St. John's face there
is earthly reverence and awe; on Christ's face, though it is drawn in
rigid outline, though it looks as if it were stamped out of iron,
there is universal love, cloudlike and ineffable; and Christ's knees
are drawn close, and the hand of the Virgin holds them close; and
through the hand come bits of draperies exquisitely designed. Indeed,
the distribution of line through the picture is as perfect as the
distribution of colour; the form of the blue cloak is as perfect as
the colour, and the green cape falls from the shoulder, satisfying
both senses; the crimson vesture which she wears underneath her cloak
is extraordinarily pure, and balances the crimson cloak which St. John
wears. But these beauties are subordinate to the beauty of the
Virgin's head. How grand it is in style! How strange and enigmatic!
And in the design of that head Botticelli has displayed all his skill.
The fair hair is covered with delicate gauze edged with lace, and
overcoming the difficulties of that most rebellious of all
mediums--tempera!--his brush worked over the surface, fulfilling his
slightest thought, realising all the transparency of gauze, the
intricacy of lace, the brightness of crimson silk, the very gravity of
the embossed binding of the book, the sway and texture of every
drapery, the gold of the tall cross, and the darker gold of the
aureole high up in the picture, set against a strip of Florentine sky.