Before proceeding to the succeeding rooms of the

French School,

you had better form some conception of the circumstances and conditions

under which that school arose. The artists whom François I^{er} invited

to Fontainebleau had little influence on French art, except in sculpture

(where we shall see their spirit abundantly at work when we come to

examine the Renaissance sculpture in this collection). Primaticcio and

his followers, however, left behind them in France, as regards painting,

scarcely more than the sense of a need for improvement. Succeeding

French artists took up the Italian Renaissance in the stage represented

by the later decadents and the eclectic Caracci. Nicolas Poussin

(1594–1665) is the first Frenchman to attain distinction in this line;

he throws something of French sentimentality into the affected

mythological scenes of contemporary Italy. Claude of Lorraine, again, is

almost an Italian by training and style; his artificial landscapes, not

copied direct from nature, but built up by arbitrary and often

impossible conjunctions, represent the prevailing tendencies of Italian

art in the 17th century. On the other hand, the influence of Rubens,

many of whose greatest works were painted for French kings, or came

early to France, and still more of Philippe de Champaigne, a Brussels

master who settled in Paris and painted much for Richelieu and Marie de

Médicis, introduced into France a strain of Flemish influence. On these

two schools—decadent Italian and later Flemish—then, modern French art

at first based itself; the final outcome is a resultant of the two,

transmuted and moulded in spirit and form by the innate, though at first

unrealised, French tendencies.

Also, before you proceed to examine the subsequent specimens of the

development of French art, you had better return to the Salon Carré to

inspect the portraits by Philippe de Champaigne, as well as the

Jouvenet, the Rigaud, and other French works there, which I purposely

passed by on our previous visit, as out of harmony with the Italian

masterpieces. On your way back, glance at the later Italian pictures in

the First Compartment of the Long Gallery (particularly at Bronzino’s

odiously vulgar Christ and Mary Magdalen, and Rossi’s Doubting Thomas,

both skied, on your R) as conspicuous examples of the sort of thing

admired at the time when the French School took its first flights and

made its earliest experiences. Then observe once more the works of the

School of Fontainebleau; and, finally, inspect the pictures in

Baedeker’s Room IX; after which, you will be in a position to start fair

in Room XIII, with the French School in the 17th century.

This Small Room beyond the St. Brunos contains more favourable specimens

of _Le Sueur’s_ faculty (such as 559, 556, and 551), in which a

distinctive French tendency still more markedly announces itself. The

Ganymede, in 563, in particular, faintly foreshadows at a distance the

classic painters of the Empire. We see in this room, in a very vague

way, an early stage in the evolution of a David.

Passing through the Landing, at the head of the staircase (with

interesting terra-cotta Etruscan sarcophagi) we arrive at the Great

Gallery of =French paintings of the 17th century=. These may be examined

somewhat in the mass, exhibiting, as they do, rather the courtly

tendencies of the age of Louis XIV than any great individual artistic

faculty. We must understand them in the spirit which built Versailles

and conducted the wars on the north-eastern frontier. They are painted

for the most part by the command of His Majesty. Only here and there

does a faintly individual work, like _Le Sueur’s_ Christ and the

Magdalen, and Bearing of the Cross, or _Lebrun’s_ Crucifixion, arrest

for a moment one’s passing attention. The crudeness of the colour, and

the insufficiency of the composition, will be the chief points, in a

general survey, to strike the spectator. (On a screen in the centre, out

of proper place among its contemporaries, hangs at present _Paul

Delaroche’s_ famous Christian Martyr.)

The student who has courage to attack this mass of uninteresting art in

detail, should observe particularly the works of _N. Poussin_, as

forming the point of departure for the School in general. His Bacchanal

and other mythological works set the fashion of those dreary allegorical

scenes which cover so many yards of ceilings in the Louvre. Observe the

mixture of religious themes, like _Lebrun’s_ Martyrdom of Stephen, and

_N. Poussin’s_ Holy Family, with classical pictures like the Rescue of

Pyrrhus, and the Alexander and Porus, as well as the close similarity of

treatment in both cases. Among the best of the lot are _Jouvenet’s_

Raising of Lazarus, and _Lesueur’s_ Paul Preaching at Ephesus (partly

after Raphael). =*_Poussin’s_= “Et in Arcadia ego,” a rustic morality,

is also famous, and is regarded as the greatest achievement of this

artificial School. _Claude’s_ landscapes, often with a small inserted

mythological story by another painter, deserve attention. (Note that

landscape has hardly yet vindicated its claim to independent existence.)

On the whole, it may be said that this room represents the two

prevailing influences in French art of the purely monarchical period of

Louis XIV,—either the pictures are quasi-royal and official, or else

they are religious, for church or monastery. The mythological scenes,

indeed, have often a royal reference—are supposed parallels of

contemporary events; and even the religious scenes, wholly destitute of

spiritual feeling, are painted in a courtly, grandiose manner. They are

saints as conceived by flunkeys. Not till the Revolution swept away the

royal patron did the French spirit truly realise itself. This room

=reveals the Court=, not the nation.

The next room, in the Pavillon Denon, a connecting passage, contains

=Portraits of Painters=, chiefly by themselves, a few of which are

worthy of attention. Among them is the famous and touching =**=portrait

by =Mme. Lebrun= of herself and her daughter, which, in spite of some

theatrical sentiment here and there obtruded, is a charming realisation

of maternal feeling amply reciprocated.

Beyond it we come to the =French Gallery of the 18th century=,

reflecting for the most part the spirit of the Regency and the Louis XV

period. Much of it is meretricious; much of it breathes the atmosphere

of the boudoir. The flavour of Du Barry pervades it almost all. It

scents of musk and powder. The reader will pick out for himself such

works as he admires in this curious yet not wholly unpleasing mass of

affectation and mediocrity. Indeed, as opposed to the purely official

work in the preceding French room, the growth of the =rococo= spirit, to

be traced in this gallery, is by no means without interest. The one set

of works sets forth the ideal of monarchy as a formal institution; the

other displays its actual outcome in royal mistresses and frivolous

amusements. Here too the ornate French taste—the Dresden china and

Sèvres taste—finds its first faint embodiment. _Greuze’s_ famous

=*=Cruche Cassée (263), is the chief favourite with visitors to this

room. It has about it a certain false simplicity, a pretended virginal

innocence, which is perhaps the highest point of art this school could

attain. _Drouais’s_ child portraits (187), are more entirely

characteristic, in their red-and-white chubbiness, of the ideas of the

epoch. The pastoral scenes by _Watteau_ and _Vanloo_, represent nature

and country life, as they envisaged themselves to the painted and

powdered great ladies of the Trianon. _Coypel’s_ Esther before Ahasuerus

is a not unfavourable specimen of the inflated quasi-sacred style of the

period. Some good portraits redeem the general high level of mediocrity

in this room, but do not equal those of the daintily aristocratic

English School of the end of the 18th century. Two _Greuzes_ (267 and,

still more, 266), reveal the essentially artificial methods of this

superficially taking painter. Most observers begin by admiring him and

end by disliking his ceaseless posing. _Boucher’s_ artificial

pink-and-white nudities (as in 24 and 26), have the air of a man who

painted, as he did, in a room hung round with rose-coloured satin. He is

perhaps the most typical of these rococo artists: he imitates on canvas

the coquettish ideals of the contemporary china-painters. _Fragonard_,

again, throws into this school the love of display and bravado of a

southern temperament. At the far end of the room we find in _Greuze’s_

later moralising pictures faint indications of the altered and somewhat

more earnest feeling which produced the revolutionary epoch, still

closely mixed up with the ineradicable affectation and unreality of the

painter and his period. Two little stories of a Prodigal Son and his too

late return, on either side of the doorway, with their violent

theatrical passion and their excessive expression of impossible emotion,

illustrate well this nascent tendency. They are attempts to feel where

feeling was not really present. _David’s_ Paris and Helen introduces us,

on the other hand, to the beginnings of the cold classicism which

prevailed under the Empire.

In order to continue the chronological examination of the French School

the visitor must now return to the Salon Carré and traverse the vulgarly

ornate Galerie d’Apollon by its side (which contains objects of more or

less artistic interest in the precious metals and precious stones, many

of which, especially those in the two last cases, deserve careful

inspection. A morning should, if possible, be devoted later to this

collection).

A short connecting room beyond (with gold Etruscan jewelery) gives

access next to the =Salle des Sept Cheminées=, which contains many stiff

but excellent works of the period of the =Empire=. The most noticeable

of these are by _David_, whose formal classicism (a result of the

revolutionary revolt from Christianity, with its reliance upon Greek,

and still more Roman, morality and history) is excellently exemplified

in his large picture of the =*=Sabine Women Intervening between their

Husbands and their Fathers. This is considered his masterpiece. Its

frigid style, not very distantly resembling that of a bas-relief, and

its declamatory feeling do not blind us to the excellence of its general

technique and its real advance on the art of the 18th century. _David_

imitated the antique, but was always sculpturesque rather than pictorial

in treatment. Among other fine examples of this =classic period=—the

transitional stage between the 18th century and the distinctively modern

spirit—attention may be called to _Gérard’s_ Cupid and Psyché, and to

his fine portrait of the Marquis Visconti. =*_Mme. Lebrun’s_= charmingly

animated portrait of Mme. Molé-Raymond, the comedian, is full of real

vigour. Two good portraits by _David_, of himself and Pius VII, deserve

close inspection. _Gros’s_ Bonaparte at Arcola, is also interesting.

=_Mme. Lebrun’s_= earlier portrait of herself and her daughter is less

beautiful than the one we have already examined. Several military

portraits, such as Gros’s Fournier-Sarlovèze, reflect the predominant

militarism of the epoch. _David’s_ huge canvas of the Coronation of

Napoleon I in Notre-Dame is typical of another side of the great

artist’s development. Gradually, the frigidity of the early

revolutionary period gave way to the growing =romanticism= of 1830.

_Géricault’s_ Raft of the Medusa (sighting a sail after twelve days

out), strikes the first keynote of the modern romantic movement. It

created a great sensation in its own day, and gave rise to endless

discussion and animadversion. It marks the advent of the =emotional= in

modern art. _Gros’s_ Bonaparte Visiting the Plague-stricken at Jaffa,

also indicates in another way a marked modernising tendency. The school

of blood and wounds, of the morbid and the ghastly, has here its

forerunner. All the works in this room (which modernity forbids me to

treat at adequate length) should be carefully studied in detail and

comparison by those who wish to understand the various steps which led

to the evolution of modern French painting. _Guérin’s_ Return of Marcus

Sextus, and _Girodet’s_ Burial of Atala, in particular, mark special

phases of transition from the coldly classical to the romantic tendency.

This room, in one word, begins with the =severe=; it ends with the

=melodramatic=.

The room beyond, known as the =Salle Henri II=, is so nearly modern in

tone that the reader may be safely trusted to inspect it on his own

knowledge. _Giraud’s_ Slave-dealer and _Chassériau’s_ Tepidarium are its

most popular pictures. It lies outside the scope of the present

handbook.

The =Salle La Caze=, however, still beyond, contains a collection kept

separately apart by the express desire of the donor, and includes many

works both of earlier schools and of the French 17th and 18th century,

worthy of the greatest attention. It is especially rich in works of the

=rococo= painters, better exemplified here than in the main collection.

Beginning on the L, I will merely enumerate a few of the most important

works. An excellent _Hondekoeter_, skied. A noble portrait by

_Tintoretto_ of a Venetian magnate. A most characteristic _Fragonard_,

full of the morganatic sentiment of the 18th century. Portraits by

_Nattier_, affording more pleasing examples of the early 18th century

style than those we have hitherto examined. Above it, a mediocre

_Tintoretto_ of Susanna at the Bath, not good in colour. Centre of the

hall, =*=_Watteau’s_ Gilles, an excellent embodiment of the innocent

fool of traditional French comedy. =*=_Frans Hals’s_ sly figure of a

Gipsy Woman is a fine piece of vulgar character-painting. A good

_Greuze_, etc. Examine more particularly the works by _Watteau_,

_Fragonard_, and other boudoir painters, whose pictures on this wall

give a more pleasing and fuller idea of the temperament of their school

than that which we obtained in other parts of the collection. R wall

returning—several good _Watteaus_, _Bouchers_, _Greuzes_, etc.

Excellent small Dutch pictures. Fine portrait by _Rembrandt_.

Rembrandt’s Woman at the Bath is a characteristic example of his

strikingly original conception of the nude. _Ribera’s_ Club-footed Boy

is a Spanish pendant to Frans Hals’s Gipsy. This room, containing as it

does very mixed examples of all the schools, should only be visited

after the spectator has obtained some idea of each in other parts of the

collection. Its Dutch works, in particular, are admirable. I do not

enumerate them, as enumeration is useless, but leave it to the reader to

pick out for himself several fine examples.

Now traverse the Galerie d’Apollon, Salon Carré, and Long Gallery till

you arrive at the

Hall of Painters of the 19th Century,

(Room VIII in Baedeker’s plan). This hall contains for the most part the

works of artists of the period of Louis Philippe and the early Second

Empire—almost our own contemporaries. I will therefore only briefly

call attention here to the pictures of the =romantic historical school=,

then so prevalent in France, of which _Delaroche’s_ Death of Queen

Elizabeth and Princes in the Tower and _Delacroix’s_ Capture of

Constantinople by the Crusaders are conspicuous examples. _Devéria’s_

popular Birth of Henri IV belongs to the same category. These

“picturesque” treatments of history answer in painting to the malign

influence of Walter Scott and Victor Hugo in literature. Contrasted with

them are such semi-classical works of the school of David, softened and

modernised, as _Ingres’s_ Apotheosis of Homer—the great poet crowned by

Fame, with the Iliad and Odyssey at the base of his pedestal, and

surrounded by a concourse of ancient and modern singers. It is cold but

dignified. _Lethière’s_ Death of Virginia, and _Couture’s_ Romans of the

Decadence, represent to a certain extent a blending of these two main

influences. I will not, however, particularise, as almost every picture

in this room deserves some study from the point of view of the evolution

of contemporary art. I will merely ask the reader not to overlook

_Flandrin’s_ famous nude figure, the typical landscapes by _Rousseau_

and _Millet_, and _David’s_ exquisite portrait of Mme.

Récamier—sufficient in itself to immortalise both artist and sitter.

The electric influence of a beautiful and pure-souled woman has here

galvanised David for once into full perception and reproduction of truth

and nature. Even the severe Empire furniture and background exactly

accord with the character of the picture. Ary Scheffer’s religious

works, in his peculiar twilight style, on a solid blue background, will

strike every observer. _Millet’s_ Gleaners and _Troyon’s_ group of oxen

strike each a new note in art at the period when they were painted. As a

whole this Gallery represents all the various strands of feeling which

have gone to the production of modern painting. It attains to the

threshold of cosmopolitanism in its Arabs, its negroes, and its Algerian

women: it is bloodthirsty and sensuous; it is calm and meditative; it

dashes with Courbet; it refines with Millet; it oscillates between the

world, the flesh, and the devil; it is pious and meretricious; it sums

up in itself the endless contradictory and interlacing tendencies of the

Nineteenth Century. As regards chronological sequence, one may say

pretty fairly that it begins with classicism, passes through

romanticism, and ends for the moment in religious reaction.

Come back often to the pictures in the Louvre, especially the Salle des

Primitifs, the Salon Carré, and the first two bays of the Long Gallery.

Further Hints on the Paintings in the Louvre.

The reader must not suppose that these brief notes give anything like an

adequate idea of the way in which pictures in such a gallery as the

Louvre ought to be studied. My object in these Guides being mainly to

open a door, that the tourist himself may enter and look about him

carefully, I have given first this connected account of _all_ the rooms

in chronological order, for the use of those whose time is very limited,

and who desire to go through the collection seriatim. But for the

benefit of others who can afford to pay =many successive visits=, I will

now take one or two particular pictures =in detail=, suggesting what

seem to me the best and most fruitful ways in which to study them. Try

for yourself afterwards to fill in a similar scheme, as far as you can,

for most of the finest works in this Gallery.

I will begin with No. 251, in the Salle des Primitifs—Mantegna’s

beautiful and glowing =Madonna della Vittoria=. And I take Mantegna

first, because (among other reasons) he is a painter who can be fairly

well studied by means of the pictures in this Gallery alone, without any

large reference to his remaining works in Italy or elsewhere.

Now, first, who and what was =Mantegna=, and what place does he fill in

the =history of art= in Italy? Well, he was a =Paduan= painter, born in

1431, died in 1506—about the time when Raphael was painting the Belle

Jardinière, in this collection. He was a contemporary and brother-in-law

of Giovanni and Gentile Bellini: and if you compare his work with that

of the two Bellinis, even as very inadequately represented here, you

will see that their art has much in common—that they stood at about the

same level of historical evolution, and painted in the same careful,

precise, and accurate manner of the second half of the fifteenth

century. Contrast them, on the one hand, with their immediate

predecessors, such as Filippo Lippi and Benozzo Gozzoli (juniors by

roughly about 20 years), in order to mark the advance they made on the

art of those who went just before them; and compare them, on the other

hand, with their immediate successors, such as Raphael, and even their

more advanced contemporaries, like Leonardo, in order to see what place

they fill in the development of painting.

Again, Mantegna was a pupil of =Squarcione of Padua=, who practically

founded the Paduan school. Now Squarcione had travelled in Greece and

formed a collection of antiques, from which his pupils made drawings and

studies. Also =Donatello= (the great Florentine sculptor of the early

Renaissance, of whose work you can find some beautiful examples in the

Renaissance Sculpture rooms of this museum) had executed several bronzes

in the church of Sant’ Antonio, the great local saint of Padua; and

these likewise Mantegna studied; so that much of his work bears traces

of the influence of sculpture and especially of bas-relief. He is

particularly fond of introducing reliefs, festoons of fruit or flowers,

and classical detail into the accessories of his pictures: and these

peculiarities are well marked in the Mars and Venus, the Crucifixion,

and the Madonna della Vittoria in this collection. Compare all these

closely with one another till you think you have formed a fair idea of

Mantegna’s powerful drawing, strong realism, love of the antique,

solemnity and dignity, clear-cut style, and perfect mastery of anatomy

and technique. Notice his delicate, careful, conscientious workmanship;

the precision and perfection of his hands and feet; the joy with which

he lingers over classical costume and the painting of armour. Everything

is sharp and defined as in the air of Italy, yet never hard, or crude,

or angular. Observe, also, the sculpture-like folds of his carefully

arranged draperies, and his love for shot colours and melting tints on

metal or marble. The St. Michael in this picture, and the Roman soldiers

in the Crucifixion, are admirable examples of this tone in his

colouring. If you wished to characterise Mantegna in a single phrase,

however, you might fairly say he was the most =sculpturesque= of

painters.

As to date, the =Crucifixion= (in the Salon Carré) which formed one

piece only of the =predella=, or series of small pictures at the base of

the great Madonna in the Church of San Zeno at Verona, is the earliest

example of Mantegna’s work here. It displays the delicate and exquisite

finish of his youthful period: but it is much more mediæval in tone—has

far less freedom and conscious artistic power—than the Madonna della

Vittoria, which belongs to the latest epoch of the great painter’s

development. Observe the early severity of the figures in the

Crucifixion, and the firmness of the drawing: each personage stands out

with statuesque distinctness. But note, too, that at this early stage,

Mantegna’s expression of emotion was still inadequate: in his striving

to be powerful, he overdid the passions, sometimes almost to the verge

of grotesqueness. On the other hand, do not overlook the dramatic force

of the picture, as shewn, for example, in the vivid contrast between the

anguish of the Madonna, with her attendant St. John, &c., and the

callous carelessness of the soldiers casting lots for the Redeemer’s

raiment. The Mars and Venus, once more, of his middle period, represents

an intermediate stage between the two styles. What is meant by a

=predella=, again, you can see by looking at Fra Angelico’s Coronation

of the Virgin, and other similar pictures in this room—the little

figures of St. Dominic and his miracles beneath the main altar-piece

being examples of this adjunct. The Crucifixion formed the central

picture of three such minor episodes: the Agony in the Garden and the

Ascension, to right and left of it, are now in the Museum at Tours.

Napoleon I had carried off the entire work from Verona: at the

Restoration, the Madonna was returned to San Zeno, but the three pieces

of the predella were retained in France and thus distributed. If you go

to Tours or Verona, recollect the connection of the various fragments.

Next, what was the =occasion= for painting this Madonna della Vittoria?

You will remember that in 1494, Charles VIII of France, invited by

Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan, invaded North Italy, and conquered a

large part of it, including Florence, Pisa, and Rome itself. Marching

then on Naples, the boy king achieved a further success, which turned

his own head and that of his army. (Read up all this episode in any good

French history.) But Venice, trembling for her supremacy, formed a

league against him; and soon after, all Italy, alarmed at his success,

coalesced to repel the invader. The little Republics united their forces

under Giovanni Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua, and met Charles, on

the 6th of July, 1495, at the pass of Fornova, on =the Taro=. The French

king, it is true, forced his way through the hostile army, and made good

his retreat: but the allies, though baffled, claimed the victory, and,

as a matter of fact, Charles immediately concluded a treaty of peace and

returned to Lyons. In commemoration of this event, the Marquis Gonzaga

in gratitude erected a church at Mantua as a votive offering to the

Madonna, and dedicated it under the name of =Santa Maria della

Vittoria=.

At that time and for some years previously Mantegna had been in the

service of the =Gonzaga= family at =Mantua=, where he lived for the

greater part of his artistic life. In the Castello of that town, he

executed several frescoes, illustrating domestic events in the history

of the Gonzagas, which are still among the most interesting objects to

be visited in Mantua. It was natural, therefore, that he should be

invited by Giovanni Francesco Gonzaga to paint the altar-piece for the

high altar of the church to commemorate this victory. The picture must

have been finished about the year 1498 or 1500. It stood in the building

for which it was painted till Napoleon I brought it from Italy to Paris,

where it has ever since remained.

These circumstances sufficiently explain the =collection of saints= who

figure in the picture. In the centre is the =Madonna of Victory=

herself, to whom Gonzaga vowed the church in case he should be

successful. She is enthroned, as usual. The garlands of flowers and

fruit, and the coral over her head, are favourite accessories with

Mantegna: they occur again in the (much earlier) Madonna at San Zeno,

Verona, of which the Crucifixion here formed part of the predella. The

figures of Adam and Eve, in imitation of relief, on the pedestal, are

thoroughly characteristic of Mantegna’s style, and recall the Paduan

school of Squarcione, and the master’s dependence on the work of

Donatello. The overloading of the picture with flowers, festoons and

architectural decoration is also a Paduan feature of the same school: it

comes out equally in the works of Carlo Crivelli—not well seen in this

collection. On his knees in the foreground is _Gonzaga_ himself, with

his villainous Italian Renaissance face, as of a man who would try to

bribe Our Lady with presents. And indeed Our Lady stretches out her

friendly hand towards him, as if to assure him of favour and victory.

Notice that the Marquis wears his armour: he is giving thanks, as it

were, on the field of battle.

As often with Mantegna, the minor characters and saints are fuller of

life than the two central divine personages: his Madonnas have

frequently a tendency to be insipid. On the left of the picture,

flanking the Virgin, stands =St. Michael the Archangel=, the “warrior of

God,” as representing the idea that the Lord of Hosts fought on the side

of the Italian confederacy. This beautiful figure, clad in refulgent

heavenly armour, is one of the noblest and loveliest that Mantegna ever

painted. Compare it with the two St. Michaels by Raphael, the early one

in the Long Gallery: the later in the Salon Carré: note the general

similarity of type, with the divergence in treatment. A little behind,

again, half seen, stands =St. Andrew=, who was both Andrea Mantegna’s

own namesake, and also one of the patrons of Mantua. He has an important

church dedicated in his honour in that town—a Renaissance church, by

Leon Battista Alberti: and in this church of his patron, Mantegna

himself is buried. For the altar-piece of this same church, which he had

doubtless selected beforehand for his own last resting-place, the great

artist also painted a representation of the risen Saviour, with St.

Andrew holding the cross of his martyrdom on one side, and St. Longinus

(of whom more shortly) with his spear on the other. Thus there was every

reason both why St. Andrew should be represented in a picture painted

for the Marquis of Mantua, and why he should more particularly appear in

a work by Andrea Mantegna. As one of the patron saints of town and

painter, he naturally had his share in the thanksgiving for the victory.

His features in this picture and in the one at Mantua are closely

similar. Mantegna, indeed, imitated an older type, which he made his

own, and reproduced like a portrait. Note that St. Andrew bears a cross

as his symbol.

On the other side of the Madonna, =St. Elizabeth= kneels in the

foreground, representing, I think, the patron saint of the Marchesa,

Gonzaga’s wife, who was Isabella d’Este, sister of Duke Alfonso of

Ferrara. (Isabella and Elisabeth are always regarded as variants of the

same name.) Now in the chapel of St. Longinus in the church of St.

Andrea at Mantua, aforesaid, where Mantegna is buried, he also painted a

Madonna, with this same St. Elizabeth, holding the infant St. John

Baptist, while the child Christ blesses him: no doubt a votive offering

from Isabella. Here again we have a type of St. Elizabeth repeated in

this picture. Behind St. Elizabeth stands the exquisitely wistful =St.

George=, the patron saint of the Venetian territory, representing the

part borne by Venice and her dependencies in the war of expulsion: the

patron receives the thanks of his faithful votaries. (Mrs. Jameson

thinks this figure is St. Maurice, another military saint, and patron of

Mantua: comparison with various St. Georges and St. Maurices elsewhere

makes me disagree with her. Besides, St. George’s lance is often broken,

as here: you can note it so in the Raphael of the Long Gallery.) In the

background stands =St. Longinus=, a Roman soldier, distinguishable by

his lance and antique helmet. According to tradition, Longinus was the

centurion who pierced the side of Christ: you see him so in the famous

Rubens (called the Coup de Lance) at Antwerp, and in almost every

mediæval Crucifixion or Calvary. (Look out for him in future.) When he

saw the wonders which accompanied the Passion, we are told in scripture

that he exclaimed, “Truly this man was the Son of God.” Later legend

made him be converted, after being afflicted with sudden blindness, and

undergo a singular voluntary martyrdom. His relics were brought to

Mantua in the 11th century, and he has ever since been the chief patron

saint of that city. Mantegna painted him often, and sometimes made a

type of him. In the picture already described in the chapel of St.

Longinus, he answers, as here, to St. Andrew, and wears a classical

costume, on which the painter has lavished his usual care and minute

accuracy of drawing. Notice him also in the foreground of Mantegna’s

Crucifixion in the Salon Carré, bearing his spear—where, however, the

type is not followed as usual. Thus not one of the characters grouped

around the Madonna in this exquisite picture is without its full

relevancy and meaning.

Do not overlook in this military votive offering the preponderance of

soldier saints, and their appearance under arms, to commemorate the

victory.

Observe also the way in which St. George and St. Michael hold the

=Madonna’s mantle=, so as to enclose or embrace Gonzaga and his wife’s

patroness, St. Elizabeth. This is a symbol of the Madonna’s protection:

in what is called a Madonna della Misericordia Our Lady’s robe thus

shelters numerous votaries. So, at Cluny, you will find a sculptured St.

Ursula (in Room VI) sheltering under her mantle as many of the 11,000

Virgins as the sculptor could manage—as she also does in the Memling at

Bruges.

On the =æsthetic side=, note once more the marked distinction which

Mantegna draws between the historical portrait of the kneeling

Gonzaga—a most ruthless ruffian—and the ideal figures of saints by

whom he is surrounded. Remark, again, the angelic sweetness of the

round-faced St. Michael, contrasted with the purely human look of

longing and strife, and the guarded purity in the countenance of the St.

George—who almost foreshadows Burne-Jones and Rossetti. Observe, too,

how this romantic saint serves as a foil to the practical Roman

Longinus, with his honest and sober face, and his soldierly sense of

duty. Study the melting tones of colour throughout, and contrast the

simple devotional calm of this religious work with the rapidity and

movement of the mundane Mars and Venus beside it. Do not overlook a

single detail; every hand and foot, every surface of metal, every fruit

and flower is worthy of attention.

As always, I have only tried here to =explain= this picture, not to make

you =admire= it. But the longer you look at it the more you will be

charmed by its wonderful colour, its poetic grace, and the exquisite

beauty of its drawing and composition.

Now, still in the same connection, go on into the Long Gallery, and

look, near Andrea del Sarto’s Holy Family, at a mannered and theatrical

picture of the =Nativity= by =Giulio Romano=. This is not a Nativity

simple, but one with selected saints looking on: it was painted for the

altar-piece of the altar of the Chapel of St. Longinus in Sant’ Andrea

at Mantua—the same in which Mantegna had earlier painted the Longinus

pictures noted above. The central portion of this altar-piece consists

of a tolerably conventional Nativity, with the adoring shepherds,

Raphaelized by Giulio Romano (who was Raphael’s favourite pupil) in

accordance with the ideas of the early 16th cent. (It is interesting to

note, by the way, the nature of these modifications.) In the background

is the herald angel appearing to the shepherds: this scene, prior in

time to the other, was often so represented in the same picture or

carving: look out for it elsewhere, and also for such

non-contemporaneous episodes in general. But the attendant saints, to

right and left, looking on at the sacred scene, are St. John the

Evangelist (known by his chalice and serpent) and =St. Longinus=. The

last-named holds in his hands a crystal vase—a pyx or reliquary,

containing the sacred blood of Christ, which Longinus caught as it fell,

and which was brought with the rest of the relics to =Mantua=, and

preserved in the very chapel for which this picture was intended.

Compare this dull Longinus with the two by Mantegna in this collection:

and when you visit Mantua, remember that these pictures came from these

two churches. By thus interweaving your facts, you will get a far

clearer conception in the end of =the connection of art= than you can

possibly do if you regard the various works in pure isolation.

But what was =Giulio Romano= doing at Mantua? After Raphael’s death, his

pupils were dispersed; and this his favourite follower settled down in

the service of Duke Federigo Gonzaga (the first Duke—the earlier lords

were Marquises), for whom he decorated the Palazzo del Tè, with its

grotesque Titans. =Primaticcio= and =Niccolo dell’ Abbate=, pupils again

of Giulio’s, were educated at Mantua, and afterwards summoned by

François I^{er} to France, where they became the founders of the =School

of Fontainebleau=. They thus passed on the Raphaelesque traditions into

the French capital. It is partly for this reason that I have selected

for my first examples this particular Mantuan group of paintings, in

order that you may realise the close interaction of French and Italian

politics, and the continuity of the Italian with the French Renaissance.

It is worth while, too, to enquire =how= the different pictures =came

into this collection=. The Madonna della Vittoria, we saw, was brought

as a trophy of war from Italy by Napoleon. The Giulio Romano, after

hanging for some time in the chapel at Mantua, for which it was painted,

was shortly annexed by the Duke of Mantua, who sold it to Charles I of

England. That king formed a noble collection of Italian and Flemish

works, which, after his execution, was sold by the Commonwealth for a

very small price to a dealer named Jabach, who in his turn disposed of

most of the pictures to Louis XIV; they formed the nucleus of the Louvre

collection. Look out for these works of which Puritan England thus

deprived herself, and see how considerable a portion they form of the

earlier treasures of this Gallery.

Lastly, return once more to the Mantegnas in the Salle des Primitifs,

and notice that the so-called Parnassus—that is to say, the Mars and

Venus discovered by Vulcan—as well as the Vices conquered by Wisdom,

and the companion pieces by Perugino and Costa, were all painted for

=Isabella d’Este-Gonzaga=, to decorate her boudoir at Mantua. Of these

works, I think Mantegna’s are the oldest, and struck the keynote for

figures and treatment. For after Mantegna’s death, the Ferrarese

painter, Costa, was invited from Isabella’s home to become court-painter

at Mantua: and the Perugino is one in that master’s latest manner, most

tinged with the Renaissance. Giulio Romano, again, succeeded Costa. If

you will now compare Mantegna’s two works in this series with his others

in this Gallery, you will be able to form a clearer conception of his

admirable fancy, his unvarying grace, and his perfect mastery of

execution: while if you contrast them with those by the two contemporary

artists—the Umbrian Perugino and the Ferrarese Costa—you will be

enabled to observe what was the common note of these early Renaissance

masters, and what their distinctive individual characteristics. In

particular, you may notice in these works, when looked at side by side

with those of earlier painters, the enormous advance Mantegna had made

in anatomy and in perspective. He is the =scientific painter= of Upper

Italy, as Leonardo is the scientific painter of Florence.

These four pictures again made their way to the Louvre by a different

route. They were captured at the sack of Mantua in 1630, and originally

came to France to decorate the _château_ of Cardinal Richelieu.

Once more, =Duke Alfonso d’Este=, Isabella’s brother, is the person whom

you see in the portrait by Titian in the Salon Carré, together with his

mistress Laura Dianti, painted about 1520. Familiarity with such facts

alone can give you any adequate idea of the extraordinary rapidity in

the development of art and the modernization of Italy in the 16th

century.

* * * * *

For my next example I will take a quite obscure and unnoticed picture,

also in the Salle des Primitifs, =Giovanni Massone’s altar-piece= in

three compartments, number 261.

Savona is an unimportant little town between Nice and Genoa, chiefly

noteworthy at the present day as the junction for a branch line to

Turin. But in the 15th and 16th centuries it was a flourishing place,

which gave employment to many distinguished Piedmontese and Lombard

artists, the most famous of whom were Foppa and Brea. It also gave birth

to two famous popes, Sixtus IV and Julius II, the latter of whom is

familiar to most of us from the magnificent portrait by Raphael, three

replicas of which exist, in the Uffizi and the Pitti Palace in Florence,

and in the National Gallery in London. Sixtus IV erected for himself a

superb sepulchral chapel in his native town of Savona: go and see it, if

you pass by there, as well as the modern statue of the pope erected by

his fellow-citizens. From that chapel this picture, by an otherwise

unknown artist, has been abstracted and brought here. We know its author

merely by the signature he has placed on a _cartellino_ or strip of

paper in the picture itself: Joh[ann]es Mazonus de Alex[andri]a

pinxit—shewing that he was born in the Piedmontese town of Alessandria.

For the rest, he is a mere name to us.

The picture itself, by no means a masterpiece, has in its centre the

Nativity, designed in the usual conventional fashion, and in a somewhat

antiquated Lombard style. The Madonna and St. Joseph have very solid

haloes: the action takes place in a ruined temple, as often, symbolising

the triumph of Christianity over heathendom. In the background are a

landscape, and some pleasing accessories. But the lateral subjects give

it greater interest. In the compartment to the L stands St. Francis of

Assisi, in his usual brown Franciscan robe, as protector of Sixtus IV,

who kneels beside him. Notice this way of marking the name of a donor,

for the pope was Cardinal Francesco della Rovere. Observe too the

stigmata, as far as visible, and compare this much later figure of St.

Francis with those in the picture by Giotto and its two imitators. On

the R stands a second Franciscan saint, also in the coarse brown garb of

his order—the same in whose church Andrea Mantegna studied Donatello,

and whom we have seen more than once during our Parisian excursions

holding in his arms the infant Christ—St. Antony of Padua. He lays his

hand on the shoulder of a second votary—the Cardinal della Rovere,

afterwards the stern and formidable pope, Julius II. If you know the

National Gallery and the Vatican, see whether you can recognise an

earlier stage of the same features which occur in the famous portrait,

and also in the figure of the pope, borne on the shoulders of his

stalwart attendants into the temple at Jerusalem, in a corner of the

famous fresco of the Expulsion of Heliodorus.

Recollect, again, that it was for the tomb of this same Pope Julius II

that Michael Angelo produced the two so-called Fettered Slaves, which

you have seen or will see in the Renaissance Sculpture Room of this

collection. Weave your knowledge together in this way, till it forms a

connected whole, which enables you far better to understand and

appreciate.

I call your special attention to this picture, among other things, for

its historical rather than its artistic value. But I want you also to

realise that the man who was painted in this rude and antiquated style

in his middle age was painted again in his declining years by Raphael at

the summit of his powers, and was a patron of the mighty Michael Angelo

at the zenith of his development. This will help to impress upon you

better than anything else the necessity for carefully =noting

chronology=, and will also supply a needed caution that you must not

regard any work as necessarily early on no better ground than because it

is comparatively archaic in style and treatment.

* * * * *

Next inspect the two little companion pictures of =St. George and St.

Michael= by =Raphael=, on the R wall of the First Compartment in the

Long Gallery. These two small works are rare examples of Raphael’s very

earliest pre-Peruginesque manner. Morelli has shewn that the great

painter was first of all a pupil of Timoteo Viti at Urbino, his native

town. If you have not visited Bologna and Milan, however, this will tell

you little; for nowhere else can you see Timoteo to any great advantage;

and I may observe here that the best time to visit the Louvre is _after_

you have been in Italy, where you ought to have formed a clear

conception of the various masters and their relations to one another.

But you can see at least, on the face of them, that these two simple and

graceful little works are quite different in style and manner even from

the _Belle Jardinière_, and certainly very unlike the much later St.

Margaret which hangs close by them. They are still comparatively

mediæval in tone: they have a definiteness and clearness of outline

which contrasts strongly with the softer melting tones of Raphael’s

later work: they show as yet no tinge of the affected prettinesses which

he learned from Perugino—still less of his later Florentine and Roman

manners. They are painted on the back of a chess or draught board, and

were produced for Duke Guidobaldo of Urbino about the year 1500.

Look first at the =St. George=. The subject here is the Combat with the

Dragon; and Raphael, in representing it, has strictly followed the

conventional arrangement of earlier painters. No earlier picture for

comparison with his treatment exists in this Gallery, though there are

plenty elsewhere: but if you will look downstairs at the majolica relief

of the same subject in the Della Robbia Room of the Renaissance

Sculpture Gallery, you will see how closely Raphael’s work corresponds

with earlier representations of the same pretty myth. As you will now

have learned, there is always a regular way to envisage every stock

subject: whoever produced a Combat of St. George with the Dragon was

compelled by custom and the expectations of his patron to include these

various elements—a St. George in armour, on horseback, the horse

usually white, as here: a wounded dragon, most often to the right: the

Princess running away in terror in the distance, or at least crouching

abjectly. There is a Tintoretto of this subject, indeed, in the National

Gallery, where some critics have blamed the great Venetian painter for

making the Princess look away in terror, instead of turning with

gratitude to thank her brave preserver. But the conventional

representation _demanded_ that the Princess should flee or cower: people

were accustomed to that treatment of the theme, and expected always to

see it repeated. It was their notion of a St. George. We must set down a

great deal in early art to this sense of expectation on the part of

patrons. Tintoretto, who came much later than Raphael, after the mighty

Renaissance painters had accustomed the world to put up with, or even to

look for, novelty of composition, often ventured very largely to depart

from traditional motives. In his picture, therefore, the Princess

occupies the foreground—a most revolutionary proceeding—while the

action itself is relegated somewhat to the middle distance. But if you

compare the three representations of this scene to be found in the

Louvre—this picture and the two reliefs by Della Robbia and Michel

Colombe respectively—you will see that the Princess in earlier times is

always represented quite small in the distance, and is usually running

away, or at best kneeling with clasped hands in abject terror.

In the Raphael, the dragon is already wounded: but he has broken the

saint’s lance, with part of which he is transfixed, while the remainder

lies in fragments on the ground behind him. St. George on his prancing

steed is drawing his sword to finish off the monster. In the Michel

Colombe, on the other hand (downstairs in the French Renaissance

Sculpture), the dragon is biting at the lance, which explains why it is

broken here, and also why the St. George in Mantegna’s Madonna holds a

broken shaft as his emblem or symbol. Observe, however, that while the

French sculptor, with questionable taste, makes the dragon occupy the

larger part of the field, so as somewhat to dwarf St. George and his

steed, the Italian sculptor, and still more the Italian painter, have

shewn greater tact in treating the dragon as a comparative accessory,

and concentrating attention upon the militant saint, combating with

spiritual arms the evil demon. In this picture, as Mrs. Jameson well

observes, the conception is on the whole serenely allegorical and

religious in spirit. But Raphael himself painted a second St. George, at

a later date, for the Duke of Urbino to present to Henry VII of England.

In this other picture, which is now in the Hermitage at St. Petersburg,

St. George is treated rather as the patron saint of England than as the

Champion of Right—to mark which fact he wears the Order of the Garter

round his knee, with its familiar motto. As Champion of England, he is

rushing on the monster with fiery energy: the picture is in this case

more military than spiritual. The moment chosen is the one where he is

just transfixing the dragon with his lance: the rescued Princess is here

again in the background.

Note once more that these various works are pictures of the =combat= of

St. George with the Dragon. In =devotional pictures= of the Madonna, St.

George frequently stands by Our Lady’s side, in accordance with the

wishes of the particular donor, as patron saint of that person himself,

or of his town or family. In Venetian pictures, as we have seen, he is

very frequent, being one of the patron saints of Venice, and more

particularly of the Venetian army and the conquered territory. You will

find it interesting, after you have finished the examination of the two

Raphaels, to go round the devotional Italian pictures in the Salle des

Primitifs, the Long Gallery, and the Salon Carré, in order to note his

various appearances. He is usually marked by his lance and his armour:

the absence of wings (a point not always noticed by beginners) will

enable you at once to discriminate him from St. Michael—as man from

angel. The more you learn to look out for such recurrences of saints,

and to account for the reasons for their appearance, the more will you

understand and enjoy picture galleries, and the more will you throw

yourself into the devotional mediæval atmosphere which produced such

pictures.

Now turn to the second little Raphael. This represents the closely

cognate subject of =St. Michael and the Dragon=—the angelic as opposed

to the human counterpart. The two ideas are at bottom identical—the

power of good overcoming evil; the true faith combating heathendom. It

is a world-wide myth, occurring in many forms—as Horus and Typhon, as

Perseus, as Bellerophon. Hence Michael and George, the superhuman and

the human soldier of right, often balance one another, as in these two

pictures: you have seen them doing so already in the Madonna della

Vittoria: look out for them elsewhere in this conjunction. Both are

knights; both are in armour; but one is a man and the other an angel. In

this second little picture, St. Michael is seen, clad in his usual

gorgeous mail, treading on the neck of the dragon and menacing it with

his sword. The dark and lurid landscape in the background contains many

fearful forms of uncertain monsters: condemned souls are plagued in it

by demons, while a flaming town flares murkily towards heaven in the far

distance, the details being taken, as in many such works, from Dante’s

Inferno. Or rather, they and the Inferno represent the same old

traditional view of Hades. (The figures weighed down with leaden cowls

are the hypocrites, while the thieves are tormented by a plague of

serpents.) Close comparison of these two little works will give you a

good idea of Raphael’s earliest Urbino manner. This fantastic picture,

however, though full of imagination, is by no means so pleasing as the

dainty St. George beside it.

Go straight from this combat to the =Great St. Michael=, also by

Raphael, in the Salon Carré. It bears date 1518. Pope Leo X commissioned

Raphael to paint this picture as a present for François I^{er}: the

painter—to whom he left the choice of subject—chose St. Michael, the

military patron of France, and of the Order of which the king was Grand

Master. (You will find a bronze bust of François, wearing the collar and

pendant of St. Michael, in the Renaissance Sculpture.) He chose it also,

no doubt, because it enabled him to show his increased mastery over life

and action. This great and noble picture, one of the finest as regards

dramatic rapidity ever painted by Raphael, is celebrated for the

instantaneous effect of its movement. (Compare the demoniac boy in the

Transfiguration at the Vatican.) The warrior archangel has just swooped

down through the air, and, hovering on poised wings, is caught in the

very act of setting one foot lightly on the demon’s shoulder. The

dragon, writhing, tries in vain to lift his head and turn on his

conqueror. The noble serenity of the archangel’s face, the perfect grace

of his form and attitude, the brilliant panoply of his celestial armour,

the sheen of his wings, the light tresses of his hair floating outward

behind him (as of one who has traversed space on wings of lightning)

cannot fail to be remarked by every spectator. This is Raphael in the

fulness of his knowledge and power, yet far less interesting to the

lover of sacred art than the boy Raphael of Urbino, the dreamy Raphael

of the Sposalizio at Milan, the tender Raphael of the Gran Duca at

Florence, or of the Belle Jardinière in this same apartment. Notice that

with the progress of Renaissance feeling the demon is now no longer a

dragon but a half-human figure, with horns and serpent tail, and swarthy

red in colour. He is so foreshortened as not to take up any large space

in the composition, which is mainly filled by the victorious figure of

the triumphant archangel. The more classical armour bespeaks the High

Renaissance. The longer you compare these two extreme phases of

Raphael’s art, the more will you note points of advance between

them—technical advance, counterbalanced by moral and spiritual

retrogression.

End by comparing this St. Michael with Mantegna’s, and with the playful

Leonardesque archangel in the _Vierge aux balances_, the last point in

the degeneracy of a celestial conception.

Raphael is one of the painters who can best be studied at the Louvre,

with comparatively little need for aid from elsewhere.

* * * * *

Pay a special visit to the Louvre one day in order to make a =detailed

study of Madonnas=. Before doing so, however, read and digest the

following general statement of principles on the subject.

[People who have not thrown themselves, or thought themselves,

or read themselves into the mental attitude of early art, often

complain that Italian picture galleries, and museums like Cluny,

are too full of merely sacred subjects. But when once you have

learnt to understand and appreciate them, to know the meaning

which lurks in every part, you will no longer make this

causeless complaint. As well object to Greek art that it

represents little save the personages of Greek mythology. As a

matter of fact, though the Louvre contains a fair number of

Madonnas, it does not embrace a sufficient number to give a

perfectly clear conception of the varieties of type and the

development of the subject—not so good a series in many

respects as the National Gallery, though it is particularly well

adapted for the study of certain special groups, particularly

the Leonardesque-Lombard development.

The simplest type of Madonna is that where =Our Lady= appears

=alone= with the Divine Infant. This modification of the subject

most often occurs as a half-length, though sometimes the Blessed

Virgin is so represented in full length, enthroned, or under a

canopy. Several such simple Madonnas occur in the Gallery. In

the earliest examples here, however, such as Cimabue’s, and the

cognate altar-piece of the School of Giotto, the Madonna is seen

surrounded by angelic supporters. This forms a second

group—=Our Lady with Angels=. Very early examples of this

treatment show the angels in complete isolation, as a sort of

framework. (See several parallels in sculpture in Room VI,

ground floor, at Cluny.) Grouping as yet is non-existent. No

specimen of this very original type is to be found in the

Louvre; but in the Cimabue of this Gallery the angels are

superimposed, so to speak, while in the Giottesque example close

by an elementary attempt is made at grouping them. In later

works, the angels are more and more naturally represented, from

age to age, singly or in pairs, or else grouped irregularly on

either side of Our Lady. You will note for yourself that as the

Renaissance developes, the nature of the grouping, both of

angels and saints, deviates more and more from the early strict

architectural symmetry.

A slight variant on the simple pictures of the Madonna and Child

are those, of Florentine origin, in which the =infant St.= =John

Baptist=, the patron Saint of the City of Florence, is

introduced at play with the childish Saviour. This class—the

=Madonna and Child, with St. John=—is well represented in the

_Belle Jardinière_, and several other pictures in the Louvre.

Most often, however, the Madonna is seen enthroned, in the

centre of the altar-piece or composition, and surrounded by one,

two, or three pairs of saintly personages. The =Madonna with

Saints= thus forms a separate group of subjects. These saints,

you will by this time have gathered, are _never_ arbitrarily

introduced. They were selected and commissioned, as a rule, by

the purchaser, and they are there for a good and sufficient

reason. Often the donor desired to pay his devotion in this

fashion to his own personal patron; often to the patron of his

town or village, of the church in which the picture was to be

deposited, or of his family or relations. Frequently, again, the

picture was a =votive offering=, as against plague or other

dreaded calamity: in which case it is apt to contain figures of

the great plague saints, Roch and Sebastian. Ignorant people

often object that such sets of saints are not contemporary. They

forget that this is the Enthroned Madonna, and that the action

takes place in the Celestial City, where the saints surround the

throne of Our Lady.

As regards =grouping=, in the earlier altar-pieces the selected

saints were treated in complete isolation. Most often the

Madonna and Child occupy in such cases a central panel, under

its own canopy; while the saints are each enclosed in a separate

little alcove or gilded tabernacle. Reminiscences of this usage

linger long in Italy. Later on, as art progressed, painters

began to feel the stiffness of such an arrangement: they placed

the attendant saints at first in regularly disposed pairs on

either side the throne, and afterwards in something approaching

a set =composition=. With the High Renaissance, the various

figures, instead of occupying mere posts round the seat of Our

Lady, and gazing at her in adoration, began to indulge in

conversation with one another, or to take part in some more or

less animated and natural action. This method of arrangement,

which culminates for the Florentine school in Fra Bartolommeo,

degenerates with the Decadence into confused and muddled groups,

with scarcely a trace of symbols—groups of well-draped models,

in which it is impossible to see any sacred significance. The

=Florentine= painters preferred, as a rule, such rather complex

grouping: the =Venetians=, influenced in great part by the

severer taste of Giorgione and of Titian, usually show a more

simple arrangement.

Any one of these various types of Madonna may also be modified

by the introduction of a =kneeling donor=. Thus, Van Eyck’s

glowing picture of the Chancellor Rollin adoring Our Lady is an

example of the simple Madonna and Child, enthroned, accompanied

by the donor; though in this case, the composition is further

slightly enriched by the dainty little floating angel in the

background, who places an exquisitely jewelled crown of the

finest Flemish workmanship on the head of the Virgin. The

Madonna della Vittoria, again, which we have so fully

considered, is essentially a Madonna and Saints, with the

kneeling donor. In very early pictures, you will observe that

the donors are often painted grotesquely small, while Our Lady

and the Saints are of relatively superhuman stature, to mark

their superiority as heavenly personages. In later works, this

absurdity dies out, and the figure and face of the donor become

one of the recognised excuses for early portrait painting.

Indeed, portraiture took its rise for the modern world from such

kneeling figures.

Another point of view from which it is interesting to compare

these various Madonnas is that of the =Nationality= or =School

of Art= to which they belong. The =early Italian=

representations of Our Lady are usually more or less girlish in

appearance, refined in features, and comparatively simple in

dress and decoration. The Flemish type is peculiarly insipid,

one might often say, even with great artists, inane and

meaningless; in the hands of minor painters, it becomes

positively wooden. The face here is long and rather thin; the

features peaky. The Madonna of Flemish art, indeed, like the

Christ of all art, is a sacred type which is seldom varied.

=Early French= Madonnas, once more, are regal and ladylike,

sometimes even courtly. They wear crowns as queens, and are

better observed in the Louvre in sculpture than in painting.

This Gallery hardly suffices to note in full the peculiarities

of the =sub-types= in various =Italian schools=; but they may

still be recognised. Of these, the =Florentine= are spiritual,

delicate, and strongly ideal; the =Lombard=, intellectual, like

well-read ladies; the =Venetian=, stately and matronly

oligarchical mothers, degenerating later into the mere

aristocratic nobility, soulless and materialised, of Titian and

his followers. The =Umbrians= and =Sienese= are distinguished

for the most part by their pure and saintly air of fervent

piety.

Do not confound with any of these =devotional Madonnas=, with or

without select groups of saints, various other classes of

picture which somewhat resemble them. Each of these has in early

art its own proper convention and treatment: it was a recognised

species. A =Holy Family=, for example, consists, as a rule, of a

Madonna, the Infant Christ, St. Joseph, St. Elizabeth, and the

child Baptist. Like the other subjects, it is sometimes

complicated by the addition of selected Saints as spectators or

assessors. A =Coronation of the Virgin=, again, is an entirely

celestial scene, taking place in the calm of the heavenly

regions. The Madonna is usually crowned by her Son, but

sometimes by angels or by the Eternal Father. (Several

interesting examples of this, for comparison, occur in Room VI,

ground floor, at Cluny.) =Nativities=, of course, belong rather

to the group of pictorial histories, such as the Life of Christ,

or the Seven Joys of Mary. The sculptures in the ambulatory at

Notre-Dame give one a good idea of such continuous histories.

One interesting set of Madonnas, largely exemplified here, to

take a particular example, is the later Lombard type of the

=School of Leonardo=. This type, well distinguished by its

regular oval features, its gentle smile of inner happiness, and

its peculiar waving hair with wisps over the shoulders, is

usually regarded as essentially belonging to Leonardo himself

and his immediate followers. It is foreshadowed, however, by

Foppa, Borgognone, and other early Lombard painters, specimens

of whom are not numerous in the Louvre. Leonardo, when he came

to Milan to Ludovico Sforza, adopted this local type, which he

transfused with Florentine grace and with his own peculiar

subdued smile, as one sees it already in the Mona Lisa. From

Leonardo, again, it was taken, with more or less success, by his

immediate pupils, Beltraffio, Solario, Cesare di Sesto, and

others, as well as by Luini, who was not a pupil of Leonardo

himself, but who was deeply influenced by the master’s methods

and his works in Milan. The number of these Leonardesque

Madonnas in the Louvre is exceptionally great, while Leonardo

himself can here be better estimated than in Italy. Nowhere else

perhaps, save possibly at Milan, can this type as a whole be

compared by the student to so great advantage.

While the Madonna herself usually occupies the central panel of

votive pictures, it sometimes happens that some =other saint=

is, on his own altar-piece, similarly enthroned; and in that

case he is flanked by brother saints, often more important in

themselves, but then and there subordinated to him. This special

honour under special circumstances is well seen in the case of

the St. Lawrence at the far end of the Salle des Primitifs.

Particular local saints often thus receive what might otherwise

appear undue recognition. For the same reason, minor saints in

the group surrounding a Madonna often obtain local brevet-rank

(if I may be allowed the simile) over others of far greater

general dignity, which they could not lay claim to in any other

connection. Thus, in the Nativity by Giulio Romano, to which I

called attention in connection with Mantegna’s Madonna, St.

Longinus (with his crystal vase) stood on Our Lady’s R, while

St. John was relegated to her L—a subordination of the greater

to the lesser saint which would only be possible in a chapel

actually dedicated to St. Longinus, and where he receives

peculiar honour. I now propose to escort you round a few rooms

of the Louvre, again calling attention very briefly, from this

point of view, to certain special Madonna features only.]

* * * * *

Now, go to the Louvre and test these remarks. Begin at the far end of

the Salle des Primitifs. The Cimabue and the Giottesque of the Madonna

and Angels we have already considered. Compare them again from our

present standpoint. Close to them on the R, beneath the large Giotto of

St. Francis, are two pretty little Madonnas, 1620 (I now give the large

upper numbers alone) and 1667. The first of these exhibits below two

tiny votaries—the small-sized donors—a Franciscan monk and a Dominican

nun, with the robes of their orders; the centre consists of St. Paul and

St. Catherine, as the attendant saints on the large Enthroned Virgin.

The second has the choir of angels, both surrounding and beneath the

throne, with St. Peter (keys), St. Paul (sword), St. John Baptist

(camel-hair) and St. Stephen or St. Vincent (robed as deacon). St. Peter

and St. Paul in 1625 are similar figures, once surrounding a central

panel, with the Madonna now missing. Compare with this 1666, with its

Enthroned Madonna of the early almond-eyed type, its group of angels

round the throne, and its two saints at the base, John Baptist and

Peter. Observe that the types of these also can be recognised. Each

saint has regular features of his own, which you can learn to know quite

as well as the symbols.

Higher up, 1664, another Madonna and Child, Enthroned, with similar

angels, but with the addition of the figure of St Catherine of

Alexandria, on whose finger the Christ is placing a ring. This is an

early intermediate type of the Marriage of St. Catherine, hardly yet

characterized. Most of these Madonnas have the characteristic softness

and peculiar cast of countenance of the early School of Siena.

1279, Gentile da Fabriano, is almost a simple Madonna and Child, but for

the addition of the smaller donor, Pandolfo Malatesta, Lord of Rimini.

This picture shows the bland and round-faced Umbrian type which is

closely allied to that of Siena. Both Schools are remarkable for the

fervent pietism which blossomed out in full in St. Francis of Assisi and

St. Catherine of Siena.

In the beautiful Perugino above, 1564, note the complete transformation

in the later Umbrian school of the adoring angels into a graceful pair,

and the beginning of an attempt to group in comparatively natural

attitudes the accompanying saints, Rose and Catherine.

This feature is still more marked in 1565, also Perugino, (but later)

where the Baptist and St. Catherine, well composed, are thrown into the

background behind the Madonna. Observe that while earlier piety drapes

the Child, in Gentile and still more in Perugino, the growing love for

the nude begins to exhibit itself. A study of haloes is also

interesting.

On the opposite or R side, 1315 is a good example of the simple

Enthroned Madonna of the School of Giotto. Compare it with that next it,

1316, where the angels are grouped with some attempt at composition.

1397, by Neri di Bicci, is also a characteristic half-length simple

Madonna, with the Child still draped after the earlier fashion affected

by this belated follower of Giottesque models.

1345, beneath it, by Filippo Lippi or his school, shows a characteristic

type of features which this painter introduced,—a modification of the

older Florentine ideal: the face is said to be that of his model

Lucrezia Buti, the nun with whom he eloped and whom he was finally

permitted to marry. The angels in the background show well the rapid

advance in the treatment of these accessories. Observe, as you pass,

their Florentine lilies. Their features are like those of the Medici

children, as seen in numerous works at Florence.

In 1295, by Botticelli, we get that individual painter’s peculiar

mystical and somewhat languid type, while the angels are again like

Medici portraits. Study these Botticellis for his artistic personality.

1344, by Filippo Lippi, next to it, exhibits Filippo’s very rounded

faces, both in Madonna and angels. The type is more human. Here, again,

we have the Florentine lily borne by the adoring choir, whose position

should be compared as a faint lingering reminiscence of that in the

Giottesques and the great Cimabue. Observe, at the same time, the

division of the painting as a whole into three false compartments, a

suggestion from the earlier type of altar-piece. At the Madonna’s feet

are two adoring saints, difficult to identify—Florentine and local,

probably. Do not fail to gaze close at the characteristic baby cherubs,

perhaps Lucrezia’s. This picture should be compared in all its details

with earlier pictures of angel choirs. It is a lovely work. Its delicate

painting is strongly characteristic. The relief of the faces should be

specially noted.

The Botticelli next it, 1296, introduces us to the infant St. John of

Florence whom we meet again in the _Belle Jardinière_ of Raphael’s

Florentine period. Another young St. John close by is full of

suggestions of Donatello in the Sculpture Gallery.

493, above the last but one, is a very characteristic Madonna of the

Florentine school, closely resembling the type of Botticelli. This once

more is a simple Madonna and Child, without accessories.

In 1662, the sanctity has almost disappeared and we get scarcely more

than a purely human mother and baby.

On the opposite side, 4573, is a half-length by Perugino, the affected

pose of whose neck and the character of whose face you will now

recognise; the Madonna floats in an almond-shaped glory of cherubs,

which indicates her ascent to heaven. Several similar subjects exist in

sculpture at Cluny.

1540, Lo Spagna, is again a simple half-length Madonna, whose purely

Umbrian type recalls both Perugino and the earlier examples. Compare the

Peruginos, Raphaels, and Lo Spagnas here, and form from them some

conception of the Umbrian ideal.

Of the Bellini beside it I have already spoken sufficiently. Observe,

here, the absolute nudity of the Child, and the reduction of the angels

to sweet little cherub heads among clouds in the background. The

graceful arrangement of the attendant saints strikes a Bellini keynote:

it was followed in later developments of this subject by Venetian

painters. Such half-lengths are common among the School of Bellini.

The treatment by Cima, 1259, introducing landscape, and the peculiarly

high Venetian throne, is one of a sort also very frequent for

full-length Madonnas at Venice and in the Venetian territory. The

grouping of the saints, also, is here transitional. Compare it with the

exquisite Lorenzo di Credi opposite.

On the opposite wall, 1367, by Mainardi, shows us a Florentine face, the

St. John of Florence, and the typical sweet-faced Florentine angels,

holding lilies; in the background, a view of the city.

Cosimo Rosseli’s, 1482, has again the almond-shaped glory of cherubs,

the nude Child, the typical Florentine face (which you may now

recognise) and also characteristic Florentine angels; but its St.

Bernard and the Magdalen are introduced on clouds after a somewhat novel

fashion. The St. Bernard is writing down his vision of the Madonna.

I have already called attention to the beautiful grouping in 1263 by

Lorenzo di Credi; but observe now that the exquisite attendant saints,

almost statuesque in their clear-cut isolation, still show a

reminiscence of the earlier arrangement in tabernacles by the

Renaissance archways at their back, combined with the niche in which the

Madonna is enthroned. Only by the light of Giottesque examples can we

understand the composition of this glorious picture. We do not know the

circumstances under which it was produced: but St. Julian was the patron

saint of Rimini, as St. Nicolas was of Bari. Both these towns were great

Adriatic ports: and I believe it was painted for a merchant of the

neighbourhood.

Do not be content in any of these cases with observing merely the points

to which I call definite attention; try to compare each work throughout

in all its details with others like it. The evolution of the grouping,

in fact, will give you endless hints as to the history and development

of the art of composition. This picture of Lorenzo’s may be regarded as

exemplifying the finest stage in such works: those of later date are

less pure and severe—show a tendency to confusion.

This will be quite enough to occupy you for one day. Another morning,

proceed into the Long Gallery, where you can similarly compare the High

Renaissance types and the Leonardesque Madonnas of the later School of

Lombardy.

In the little Madonna of the School of Francia, 1437, observe the

position of the attendant saint, the new type of face proper to the art

of Bologna, and the way in which, as often, the infant Christ is poised

on a parapet.

1553, by Garofalo, shows a later and softer development of a somewhat

similar (Ferrarese) type; but the Child, instead of blessing with his

two fingers as in most early cases, here displays the growing

Renaissance love of variety and novelty: he is asleep in his cradle.

Observe his attitude in this and other instances. With all these

changes, however, you cannot fail to be struck by the fairly constant

persistence of the red tunic and the blue mantle of the Madonna, as well

as by the nature of her head-dress in each great School. Never fail to

observe the characteristic head-dresses in the various Schools of

Italian art. They will help you, like the faces, to form types for

comparison.

1353, by Luini, introduces us at once to the Lombard-Leonardesque class

of face and hair. Compare it closely with the Madonnas in the frescoes

in the Salle Duchâtel. The introduction of Joseph makes this in essence

a Holy Family. Note Luini’s development of the halo of Christ, cruciform

in early cases, or composed of a cross inscribed in a circle, into a

cross-like arrangement of rays of light.

The two works by Marco da Oggiono, close by, betray similar types, far

inferior to Luini’s, with further loss of primitive reverence.

In 1181, Borgognone’s Presentation, an earlier Lombard work, the Madonna

faintly foreshadows this Leonardesque type, though the Leonardesque

features are far less markedly present than in many other examples by

this silvery painter.

1530, by Solario, the famous Madonna of the Green Cushion, may be

compared with those by Marco da Oggiono, which it resembles in motive.

In 1599, La Vierge aux Rochers, we get Leonardo’s own personal type,

which is also seen in the Madonna and St. Anne of the Salon Carré.

Compare all these with the Mona Lisa, for touch and spirit. Then

continue your examination through the rest of this room with the

Leonardesque types: after which, turn to the School of Venice, beyond

them, and note the evolution of the Titianesque types from the primitive

Venetians.

On the opposite side of the same room, observe, once more, how Fra

Bartolommeo and his School arranged their extremely complex groups of

saints into a composition resembling a state ceremonial. From this point

on in the evolution of the Santa Conversazione you will see that the

arrangement of the saints entirely loses all sense of sacred meaning.

Artificial ecstasies replace natural piety. An attempt to be artistic,

and a desire to introduce a mode of treatment fitter for the theatre

than for the church, at last entirely obscure the original meaning of

these groups, which are so full of ardour in Fra Angelico, so full of

stateliness in Lorenzo di Credi.

Another day may well be devoted to the quaintly girlish Madonnas of the

=Flemish School=. Begin by observing carefully the Van Eyck of the Salon

Carré, which is a Madonna with donor, and the Memling of the Salle

Duchâtel, which is a Madonna with donors, not one with saints; the

patrons here being merely brought in to introduce the votaries to Our

Lady’s notice. From these, proceed to the Early Flemish section of the

Long Gallery, and note in detail the evolution of the type in later

pictures. I need hardly call attention to the Flemish love for crowns,

jewellery, and costly adjuncts. These reflect the wealthy burgher life

of Bruges, Ghent, and Antwerp. The translucent colour of the Flemish

painters, too, lends itself well to these decorative elements.

The best example of an =Early French Madonna= is the beautiful one which

hangs by the R hand side of the door in the Salon Carré, leading into

the Salle Duchâtel. This exquisite figure, a true masterpiece of its

School, should be compared with later French developments in painting,

as well as with the admirable collection of plastic works of this School

in the Renaissance Sculpture Gallery down stairs. With these may also be

mentioned, as a typical French example, the famous miracle-working

Notre-Dame-de-Paris, a statue of the thirteenth or fourteenth century,

which stands under a canopy against the pillar by the entrance to the

choir in the south transept of Notre-Dame, and is popularly regarded as

the statue of Our Lady to which the church is dedicated. The close

connection between royalty and religion in France, well exemplified in

the number of saints of the royal house at St. Germain l’Auxerrois, St.

Germain-des-Prés, St. Denis, and elsewhere, is markedly exhibited in the

extremely regal and high-bred character always given to French Madonnas.

The Florentine, which form in this respect the greatest contrast, are

often envisaged as idealised peasant girls, full of soul and fervour,

but by no means exalted.

Finally, note as far as is possible with the few materials in this

collection, the round-faced, placid type of the =German Madonna=—placid

when at rest, though contorted (as the Mater Dolorosa) with exaggerated

anguish. The fine wooden statue in the room of the Limoges enamels at

Cluny will help to strike the key-note for this somewhat domestic

national ideal. The early German Madonna is as often as not just a

glorified housewife.

Many other subjects for similar comparative treatment may be found in

the Louvre. Pick out for yourself a special theme, such as, for example,

the Adoration of the Magi, the Nativity, the Presentation in the Temple,

or the Agony in the Garden, and try to follow it out through various

examples. Choose also a saint or two, and pursue them steadily through

their evolution. Do not think that to examine paintings in this way is

to be absorbed by the subject rather than by the art of the painter.

Only superficial observers fall into this error. You will find on the

contrary that the characteristics of each School and of each artist can

best be discovered and observed by watching how each modifies or alters

pre-existing and conventional conceptions. In order to thoroughly

understand any early picture, you must look at it first as a

representation of such-and-such =a given subject=, for which a

relatively fixed and conventional set of figures or accessories was

prescribed by tradition. The number and minuteness of the prescribed

accessories will grow upon you as you watch them. You have then to

observe how =each School as a whole= treats such works; what feeling it

introduces, towards what sort of modification in style or tone it

usually tends. Next, you must consider it relatively to =its age=, as

exemplifying a particular stage in the progress of the science and art

of painting. Last of all you must carefully estimate what peculiarities

are due to the taste, the temperament, the hand, and the technique of

the =individual artist=. For example, Gerard David’s Marriage at Cana is

thoroughly Flemish in all its details; while Paolo Veronese’s is

thoroughly Venetian. You may notice the Flemish and Venetian hand, not

merely in the figures and the composition as a whole, but even in the

extraordinarily divergent treatment of such details as the jars in the

foreground, which for David are painted with Flemish daintiness of

detail, though coarse and rough in themselves; while Veronese approaches

them with Venetian wealth of Renaissance fancy, both in decoration and

handling. But the David, again, is not merely Flemish: it has the

distinctive marks of that particular Fleming, and should be compared

with his lovely portrait of a kneeling donor with his three patron

saints in the National Gallery: while the Veronese is noticeable for the

voluptuousness, the over-richness, the dash and spirit, of that large

free master of the full Renaissance, the Rubens by comparison among the

Venetians of his time. So too, if you study attentively the Botticellis

in the Salle des Primitifs, you can notice a close similarity of type in

many of his faces with the types in certain pictures by Filippo Lippi

and still more in those by other Florentines of the same period; while

you are yet even more distinctly struck by the intense individuality and

refined spiritual feeling of this very original and soulful master.

In order to study the Louvre aright, in short, you must be =continually

comparing=. In a word, regard each work, first, as a representation of

such-and-such a subject, falling into its proper place in the evolution

of its series: second, as belonging to such-and-such a school or

nationality: third, as representing such-and-such an age in the

historical evolution of the art of painting: fourth, as exhibiting the

individuality, the style, the characteristics, the technique, and the

peculiar touch of such-and-such an individual painter. Only thus can you

study art aright in this or any other gallery.

Try this method on Van Eyck’s Madonna, on Titian’s Entombment, on

Sebastiano del Piombo’s Visitation, and on Memling’s little John

Baptist, which is one attendant saint from a triptych whose Madonna is

missing.

* * * * *

Some other time, consider in detail the two delicately luminous

=frescoes by Luini=, in the Salle Duchâtel. Before doing so, however,

read on the spot the following remarks.

I have spoken here for the most part from the point of view of those

visitors who have not travelled much in Italy or the Low Countries. And,

as a matter of fact, the Louvre is the first great picture gallery on

the Continent visited by nine out of ten English or Americans. In

reality, however, since this collection contains several isolated

masterpieces of all the great schools, together with several unconnected

pictures of minor artists, it requires, almost more than any other great

gallery, to be seen by the light of information acquired elsewhere. It

ought, therefore, to be examined _after_ as well as, and even more than,

_before_ visits to other countries. This collection, for example,

includes works by Van Eyck, by Memling, by Giotto, by Fra Angelico. But

Van Eyck can only be fully understood by those who have visited Ghent;

Memling can only be fully understood by those who have visited Bruges:

it is impossible really to comprehend Giotto unless you have seen his

great series of frescoes in the Madonna dell’ Arena at Padua: it is

impossible really to comprehend Fra Angelico unless you have examined

the saintly and ecstatic works at San Marco in Florence. Thus you have

to bear in mind that the works in the Louvre are only =stray examples=

of masters and schools with whom an adequate acquaintance must be

obtained elsewhere. It was for this reason that I began these notes with

special examples of Mantegna, because he is one of the very few artists,

other than French, of whom you can form some tolerably fair conception

in Paris alone, to be pieced out afterwards by observation in Italy.

Furthermore, it must be recollected that many artists can only be seen

to advantage under the =conditions amid which= their works were

produced. This is especially the case with the Italian painters of the

14th and 15th centuries. They were =a school of fresco-painters=. Their

altar-pieces and other separate panels give but a very inadequate idea

of their powers, and especially of their composition. Giotto and Fra

Angelico, in particular, cannot possibly be estimated aright by any of

their works to be seen north of the Alps. The altar-pieces, being more

especially sacred in character, were relatively very fixed in type: they

allowed of less variation, less incident, less action, than the

histories of saints which frequently form the subjects of frescoes. You

can judge of this to a slight extent in the Louvre itself, by comparing

the Madonnas at the far end of the Salle des Primitifs with Giotto’s St.

Francis which hangs by: for the Madonna was the most sacred and

therefore the most bound by custom of any type. You will at once observe

how much freer and more naturalistic is the treatment in the episode of

the Stigmata than in the comparatively wooden figures of Our Lady by

which it is surrounded. Still more is this the case when we come to

compare any of these altar-pieces with frescoes such as those of the

Arena at Padua, or Santa Croce at Florence. Similarly with Fra Angelico:

the little crowded works which he produced as altar-pieces give a

totally different conception of his character and powers than that which

we derive from the large and relatively spacious frescoes at San Marco,

or in Pope Nicolas’s Chapel at the Vatican. In such works, we see him

expand into a totally different manner. Now frescoes, by their very

nature, cannot easily be removed from the walls of churches without

great danger. Therefore, the school of fresco-painters—that is to say,

the Early Italian school—is ill represented outside Italy.

Now Luini, though he belongs to the 16th century, and though he produced

some of his most beautiful works as cabinet or panel pictures, was yet

almost as essentially a painter in fresco as Fra Angelico or

Ghirlandajo. He can best be appreciated in Milan and its neighbourhood.

And I will add a few notes here for the benefit of those who know Italy,

and who can recall the works they have seen in that country. At the

Brera in Milan, an immense number of his frescoes, cut out from

churches, can be seen and compared to great advantage. Everybody who has

visited that noble gallery must recall at least the exquisite figure of

St. Catherine placed in her sarcophagus by angels, as well as the lovely

Madonna with St. Antony and St. Barbara, where the face and beard of the

aged anchorite somewhat recall the treatment of the old bearded king in

the Adoration of the Magi in this gallery. Still better can Luini’s work

be understood by those who know the Sanctuary at Saronno, where a

splendid series of his frescoes still exists on the wall of the great

church in which they were painted. The two frescoes here in the Salle

Duchâtel are not quite so fine either as those at Saronno or as the very

best examples among the collection at the Brera. Nevertheless, they are

beautiful and delicately-toned specimens of Luini’s work, and, if

studied in conjunction with other pictures by the same artist in the

adjoining rooms, they will serve to give a tolerably just conception of

his style and genius.

Luini is essentially a =Leonardesque painter=. He was not actually a

pupil of Leonardo; but like all other Lombard artists of his time, he

was deeply influenced by the temperament and example of the Florentine

master. If you wish to see the kind of work produced by the Lombard

school _before_ it had undergone this quickening influence of

Leonardo,—been Tuscanised and Leonardised—look at the Borgognones in

the Long Gallery. These, again, are not at all satisfactory specimens of

that tender, delicate, and silvery colourist. To appreciate Borgognone

as he ought to be appreciated, however, you must have seen him at home

in the Certosa di Pavia: though even those who know only his exquisitely

spiritual altar-piece of the Madonna with the two St. Catherines (of

Alexandria and Siena) in the National Gallery will recognise how

inadequately his work is represented by the specimens in the Louvre.

Nevertheless, these examples, inferior though they be in style and

feeling, will serve fairly well to indicate the point to which art had

attained in Lombardy _before_ the advent of Leonardo. I need not point

out their comparatively archaic character, and their close following of

earlier methods and motives. Again, if you compare with Borgognone the

subsequent group of Leonardesque painters,—Solario and his

contemporaries,—whose works hang close by on the left-hand wall of the

Long Gallery, you will see how immense was the change which Leonardo

introduced into Lombard art. From his time forward, the Leonardesque

face, the peculiar smile, the crimped wisps of hair, the subtle tones of

colour, and as far as possible the touch and technique of the master,

are reproduced over and over again by the next generation of Milanese

painters. Among them all, Luini stands preeminently forward as the only

one endowed with profound original genius, capable of transfusing the

Leonardesque types with new vitality and beauty of his own conceiving.

The others are imitators: Luini is a disciple.

These attributes are well seen in the two beautiful frescoes of the

Salle Duchâtel. They came to Paris from the Palazzo Litta, that handsome

rococo palace in Milan which stands nearly opposite the church of San

Maurizio, itself a museum of Luini’s loveliest frescoes, including the

incomparable Execution of St. Catherine. The Adoration of the Magi is

the most satisfactory of the two. In it the kings,—Caspar, Melchior,

Balthasar,—representing, as ever, the three ages of man and the three

old continents,—are treated with a grace and soul and delicacy which

Luini has hardly surpassed even at Saronno. The eldest king, as most

often, kneels next to the Madonna, who occupies the conventional R hand

of the picture. He has removed his crown, also an habitual feature, and

is presenting his gift, while the others are caught just before the act

of offering theirs. The exquisite face of this eldest king is highly

typical; so is the gently-smiling Leonardesque Madonna. The youngest

king is represented as a Moor, as always in German, Flemish, and North

Italian art, though this trait is rarer, if it occurs at all, in the

Florentine and Central Italian painters. I take it that the notion of

the Moor was derived from Venice; for the Three Kings were great objects

of devotion in Lombardy and the Rhine country. Their relics, which now

repose at Cologne, made a long stay on their way from the East at Milan;

and it is to this fact, I fancy, that we must attribute the exceptional

frequency of this subject in the art of Northern Italy, as of the

Rhenish region. In the background, the usual caravans are seen

descending the mountain. Such long trains of servants and attendants are

commonly seen in Adorations of the Magi. Camels and even elephants

frequently form part of them. Recollect the charming procession in the

exquisite Benozzo Gozzoli in the Riccardi Palace. A study of this

subject, from the simple beginnings in Giotto’s fresco in the Arena at

Padua (where a single servant and a very grotesque camel, entirely

evolved out of the painter’s imagination, form the sole elements of the

cortège; beyond the Three Kings), down to the highly complex Ghirlandajo

in the Uffizi at Florence, (a good copy of which may be seen at the

École des Beaux-Arts,) and thence to Luini, Bonifazio and the later

Italians, forms a most interesting subject for the comprehension of the

historical evolution of art in Italy. Go straight from this picture to

the Rubens in the Salon Carré in order to observe the way in which the

theme has been treated, with considerable attention to traditional

detail, yet with highly transformed feeling, by the great and princely

Flemish painter.

The Nativity, in Luini’s second fresco, is also full of traditional

features,—a beautiful work in the peculiar spirit of this gentle

artist. Note every one of the accessories and details, observing how

they have come from earlier pictures, and also how completely Luini has

subordinated them to his own art and his delicate handling. Comparison

of these two with the other Luinis in other rooms will give you some

idea of his varying manners in fresco and oil-painting. Note that the

frescoes represent him best, and are fullest of Luini.

* * * * *

Another picture, which in a wholly different direction exemplifies the

need for knowledge of works of art elsewhere, and especially under the

conditions in which they were originally painted, is to be found in

Carpaccio’s =Preaching of St. Stephen=, on the R hand wall, shortly

after you enter the Salle des Primitifs. This is one of a series of the

Life of St. Stephen,—a form of composition of which the only good

example in the Louvre is Lesueur’s insipid and colourless set,

recounting the biography and miracles of St. Bruno. In Italy, such

histories of saints are everywhere common, as frescoes or otherwise.

Those who know Venice, for example, will well remember Carpaccio’s own

charming series of the Life of St. Ursula, now well arranged round the

walls of a single room in the Venice Academy. Still better will they

understand the nature of these works if they have seen Carpaccio’s other

delicious series of the Life of St. George, in San Giorgio dei

Schiavoni, where the pictures still remain, at their original height

from the ground, and in their original position, on the walls of the

church for which they were painted. Only in such situations can works of

this kind be properly estimated. That they can less easily be understood

in isolation, you can gather if you look at the four cabinet pictures

from the boudoir of Isabella d’Este, by Mantegna, Perugino, and Costa,

which hang not far from this very St. Stephen in the same room of the

Louvre. The size of the figures, in particular, is largely dictated by

the shape of the room, the distance from the eye, and the character of

the space which the painter has to cover.

This St. Stephen series, again, once existed entire as five pictures,

all by Carpaccio, in the Scuola (or Guild) of St. Stephen at Venice.

Similar sets of other saints still exist in the Scuola di San Rocco and

other Guilds in the city. The first of the group, which represents the

saint being consecrated as deacon by St. Peter, is now in the Berlin

Gallery. The second, the Preaching of St. Stephen, is the one before

which you are now standing. The third, St. Stephen disputing with the

Doctors, is at the Brera in Milan. The fourth, the Martyrdom of St.

Stephen, is at Stuttgardt. The fifth and last, St. Stephen Enthroned,

between St. Nicolas and St. Thomas Aquinas, has disappeared from sight,

or at least its present whereabouts is unknown to me. It is interesting

to look out for such companion works in widely separated galleries.

Rightly to understand this picture, once more, one should know

Carpaccio. And fully to know him one must have spent some time in

Venice. But even without that knowledge, it is pleasant here to remark

the familiar acquaintance with oriental life, which is equally visible

in the neighbouring picture of the School of Bellini representing the

reception of a Venetian Ambassador at Cairo. The mixed character of the

architecture and the quaint accessories are all redolent of Carpaccio’s

semi-mediæval and picturesque sentiment. The pellucid atmosphere, the

apparent realism, the underlying idealism, the naïveté of the innocent

saint in his deacon’s robes, counting his _firstly_, _secondly_, and

_thirdly_ on his fingers, irrespective of persecution, and the glow and

brilliancy of the Venetian colouring, here approaching its zenith, all

combine to make this daintily simple picture one of the most attractive

in this part of the Louvre. Recollect it when you go to Milan and

Venice, and let it fall into its proper place, in time, in your mature

conception of the painter and the epoch in which he lived.

Nor is this all. It must be borne in mind that while the Louvre is one

of the noblest collections of pictures in Europe, it differs from most

other fine collections in the fact that its most important and valuable

works are =not of native origin=, nor of one race, school, or period.

The pictures at Florence are almost all Florentine: the pictures at

Venice are almost all Venetian. At Bruges and Antwerp we have few but

Flemish works: at the Hague and Amsterdam, few but Dutch. In the Louvre,

on the contrary (as at Dresden and Munich), we get several masterpieces

of _all_ the great schools, with relatively few minor works of the

groups to which they belong, by whose light to understand them. In

short, this is a gallery of purple patches. The gems of the collection

are the Raphaels, the Titians, the Leonardos, an exquisite Van Eyck, a

splendid Memling, a few fine Murillos, a number of great Rubenses. To

understand all these, we must know something of Florentine art, Umbrian

art, Venetian art, Flemish art, Spanish art, and so forth. The finest

pictures of any in the collection are not French at all, and cannot

wholly be comprehended by the light of works in this gallery alone.

Therefore it is best, if possible, =to return to the Louvre= after

visiting every other great school of art in Europe. On the other hand, a

few great artists are here very amply represented; among them I may

particularise Raphael, Titian, Mantegna, Leonardo and the Leonardesque

school, Gerard Dou, and Rembrandt.

As a further example of the light cast by pictures elsewhere on those in

this Gallery, however, I prefer to take a single little subject from the

predella of =Fra Angelico’s= glorious =Coronation of the Virgin=: I mean

the compartment which represents St. Dominic and his brethren being fed

by angels in the monastery of St. Sabina at Rome. Anybody who looks at

Fra Angelico’s painting, even in these smaller works, can recognise at

once his tender, saintly, and devout manner. He is permeated by a spirit

of adoring reverence, which comes out in every one of his angels and

martyrs. Fewer people, however, note that the angelic friar was also a

loyal and devoted =Dominican=. Whatever he paints is to the glory of

God: but it is also to the glory of St. Dominic and of the order that he

founded. This beautiful altar-piece, for instance, was produced by the

Dominican painter of Fiesole for the Dominican church of St. Dominic at

Fiesole. The saint himself, with his little red star, is everywhere

apparent: and those who have visited Fra Angelico’s own Dominican

monastery of San Marco at Florence will recollect that the founder and

his red star similarly occur in almost every fresco in that beautiful

building. They will also recollect that this very subject of the

brethren fed by angels forms the theme for a beautiful but much later

fresco by Sogliani in the Great Refectory of the same monastery. Such an

episode is admirably adapted for one of those large pictures

representing a repast of some sacred character which it was usual to

place on the end wall of conventual dining halls. Compare it also with a

Spanish treatment of a similar miracle by Murillo, in the Cuisine des

Anges. Note the simplicity and sobriety of the Early Italian work, as

contrasted with the strained feeling and insistence upon mere effects of

luminosity and glory in the showy Spanish painting. The moral of all

such half-allegorical miracles is clearly this:—Our order is sustained

by God’s divine providence.

I have said already that a =German Last Supper= in this collection

(German Room) betrays the influence of Leonardo’s great fresco on the

wall of the monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie at Milan, of which an

early copy by a pupil of Leonardo’s exists in the Louvre (L wall of the

Long Gallery). But in order thoroughly to understand Leonardo’s Last

Supper, again, we must similarly compare it with many previous

representations of the same sacred scene. The type, in fact, was begun

among nameless Byzantine and early Christian artists, whose work can

best be studied in Italy. It found its first notable artistic expression

in Giotto’s fresco at Santa Croce at Florence, where the traditional

type is considerably transformed: and this Giottesque Last Supper was

repeated over and over again by many copyists, who each introduced

various modifications. Ghirlandajo once more transformed the type at San

Marco and the Ognissanti; and from Ghirlandajo, Leonardo borrowed part

of his arrangement, while transfusing it with an entirely new element of

life and action, at a dramatic moment, which marks this great painter’s

style, and is a distinct move forward in the art of composition. Each

work of art down to the end of the 16th century can thus only be fully

understood by considering it in its proper place, as one of a continuous

evolutionary series. Every painter took much from those who went before:

his individuality can best be gauged by observing how he transformed and

modified what he borrowed.

Now take =Ghirlandajo’s Visitation= in the Salle des Primitifs as an

example of a work which in quite a different way, requires to be

understood by light from elsewhere. Note how admirably the figures here

are balanced against the sky and the archway in the background. In

itself, this is a beautiful and striking picture; but it is also a good

illustration of those subjects which cannot adequately be understood by

consideration of works in this Gallery alone. The attitudes and costumes

of the two principal personages are strictly conventional: nay, if you

compare the St. Elizabeth in this Visitation with the same saint in the

Mantegna almost opposite, you will see that her dress and features

remain fairly typical, even in two such very distinct schools as the

Paduan and the Florentine. The relative positions of the Madonna and her

elder cousin have come down to Ghirlandajo from a very remote antiquity:

they were adopted, with modification, by Giotto, in his fresco of this

subject in the Madonna dell’ Arena at Padua. But Giotto also introduced

=an arch= in the background, which persists in almost all later

representations. His arch, however, is blind—you do not see the sky

through it. So is Taddeo Gaddi’s, in his closely similar Visitation at

Santa Croce in Florence: but the figures here still more nearly approach

the positions of the Ghirlandajo, and they stand more directly framed,

as it were, by the arch behind them. Skipping many intermediate

examples, each of which leads up to this picture, we come to this

beautiful embodiment of Ghirlandajo’s, which, while retaining the

simplicity of composition in the earlier examples, shows a fine artistic

instinct in the way in which the chief characters are silhouetted in the

gap of the archway. Ghirlandajo accepted the older tradition, while

transforming it with the skill and taste of the early Renaissance after

his own fashion. Those who have visited Florence will remember how

Pacchiarotto, in his admirable presentation of the same subject, now in

the Belle Arti in that town—which, like this one, is a Visitation with

selected saints as spectators—has closely followed Ghirlandajo’s

treatment with still further modifications: while the noble embodiment

of the same scene by Mariotto Albertinelli, in the Uffizi, consists of

the two central figures in the Ghirlandajo or the Pacchiarotto, cut out,

as it were, and presented separately with noble effect against a

background of sky seen through the archway. In such a case we see

distinctly how the individual work can only fairly be judged as a

development of motives borrowed from others which have preceded it, and

how in turn it gives rise later to still further modifications of its

own conception. If you have not yet visited Florence, bear in mind this

work when you see the Pacchiorotto and the Albertinelli. It is a good

plan for the purposes of such comparison to carry about photographs of

other pictures in the same series. You may go straight from the

Ghirlandajo here to the Sebastiano del Piombo in the Salon Carré; and

thence again to a copy of Pontormo’s Visitation in the Long Gallery (R

side, near the Fra Bartolommeo), which is interesting as showing a

survival of the arch, treated with far less effect, and thrown away as

an element in the composition. Here the attendant saints have become a

confused crowd, and the degradation of Fra Bartolommeo’s balanced

grouping is very conspicuous. Make one picture thus cast light upon

another.