LAST WORKS AND DEATH: HIS INFLUENCE ON ART, 1500-1506.
During more than forty years Andrea had now lived at Mantua in the
service of the Gonzagas. Both at their court and throughout Italy he
was held in the highest honour, and enjoyed a degree of favour and
consideration which, but few artists have known in their lifetime. His
children were, with the one exception of Gian’ Andrea, grown up and
well provided for; he had lands and possessions of his own both in
town and country and what he valued even more—a collection of precious
antiquities. Behind him lay a whole lifetime of great works, and although
now in his seventieth year his powers as yet showed no trace of weakness
or failing. We have seen how rich in works of every branch of art was
this last decade of the fifteenth century; how untiring was his activity,
and how fresh and inexhaustible the treasures of his imagination.
Everything seemed to foretell an old age of honour and prosperity, in
which the great master should still charm men by the creations of his
brain and hand, and yet as his bodily powers grew weaker should enjoy
more of the repose to which he was so well entitled. But this was not
to be, and the last few years of Mantegna’s lifetime are a weary record
of sorrows and misfortune. Again we find him involved in pecuniary
difficulties, brought on by his own extravagance, and very probably
by that of his son, Francesco; in order to meet his liabilities he was
compelled to part with the beautiful house which he had decorated with
his own hand, and to live in lodgings, which he disliked extremely. Yet,
with the strange recklessness that formed part of his character, we find
him entering into new and imprudent engagements. In March, 1504, he made
a will, leaving a sum of money to his son Francesco and the chief part
of his fortune to Lodovico, together with the charge of bringing up
the child Gian’ Andrea, in whose favour he afterwards altered certain
provisions. At the same time he left two hundred ducats for the endowment
of the chapel of San Giovanni, in Alberti’s large church of Sant’ Andrea,
as a burial-place for himself and his family. Special mention is made
of his wife, Niccolosia, who had died some years before; and masses are
ordered to be said for the repose of her soul. In August of the same
year (1504) he obtained possession of this chapel by a contract with
Sigismondo Gonzaga, Bishop of Mantua, and the canons of the church. Its
decoration now became his favourite scheme, and it was his intention to
paint the walls in fresco and to erect a family monument there. He bought
a piece of ground outside to prevent the windows from being blocked up
by building, and announced his intention of turning it into a garden,
where he could spend his time in summer, and build a small room, where
he might keep himself warm in winter, “in order,” he adds touchingly,
“that I may take a little rest in my old age.” But all this expenditure
became the cause of fresh difficulties, and added to the burdens under
which Andrea already groaned. Other trials came to sadden his old age.
His son Francesco incurred the displeasure of the Marquis by some grave
misconduct, and neither Andrea’s tears nor the intercession of Isabella
could prevent his banishment from Mantua in 1505. This disgrace was a
heavy blow to Andrea, who owned that his son had offended grievously,
but thought that his fault might have been overlooked in consideration of
his own services. “Messer Andrea,” wrote Isabella to her husband, “has
just now been to see me, so full of tears and so altered in countenance
that he seemed to me more dead than alive.”
But his activity was undiminished, and, heavy as his heart might be,
brain and hand were still the same as ever. We find him returning to a
favourite subject of earlier days in the “St. Sebastian,” originally
ordered by the Bishop of Mantua, but now in possession of the Scarpa
family at La Motta, in Friuli. The life-sized figure, lean in proportions
and suffering in expression, has a grandeur of its own. At the feet of
the saint is a lighted candle, which sends a thin blue smoke upwards, and
makes us wonder at its meaning, until we read the words on the scroll
which hangs to the coral string above—_Nil nisi divinum stabile est,
cætera fumus_.
This, then, was the conclusion to which he had come at the end of that
long life full of works and honour; this the conviction that old age and
gathering troubles were forcing upon the mind of the great painter, who
had seen so clearly and felt so keenly the beauty and the joy of life.
In that same sad year of his son’s banishment he commenced another of
the classic friezes which he loved to paint. This was the splendid
composition known as the “Triumph of Scipio,” now in the National
Gallery, which a wealthy Venetian named Francesco Cornaro ordered and
paid for in part in 1505, but which, to his great indignation, was still
in Andrea’s studio at the time of his death, when it was seized upon by
creditors nearer at hand.
The real subject of this work, executed in chiaroscuro on a background
painted to imitate red marble, is the reception of Cybele among the
deities of Rome. A colossal bust of the Phrygian goddess is borne in
state into the presence of Scipio, who receives the messenger in
consular array; while Claudia Quinta, a Roman lady, kneeling at his feet,
welcomes the image with outstretched arms. Every gradation of movement is
represented here, from the swift tread of the bearers on whose shoulders
the goddess advances, to the motionless forms of the Roman soldiers who
stand grouped around Scipio; and nothing is more striking than the skill
with which the artist brings this rapid action by degrees to a complete
pause. The general character of the piece, its costumes, figures, and
draperies, all recall the “Triumphs.” It is, as it were, a last echo of
the great composition whose harmonies still lingered on in Mantegna’s
ears.
Before the end of the year Andrea, tired of a wandering life, had again
bought a house, this time in the Contrada Unicorno, and settled himself
there for the winter, promising to pay the owner three hundred and forty
ducats in three instalments. It was an unwise venture, as the issue
too soon proved. A plague drove the wealthier Mantuans from the city,
provisions became scarce, and his own health began to give way. Still
he remained in Mantua and painted on manfully, endeavouring to finish a
mythological picture of Comus, which Isabella had ordered. But it was in
vain. He could not work fast enough to satisfy his creditors, and when
pressed to pay the stipulated sum for his house he was compelled to apply
to the Marchioness for help.
Isabella was then at a villa near Cavriana, and Andrea wrote to her in
pathetic terms, telling her of his distress, and offering to her for
sale the one of all his antiques which he most valued, “_la mia cara
Faustina_.” Often in brighter days great masters and connoisseurs had
wished to buy this bust, but he had refused all their offers, and now
since part from it he must, the Marchioness is the only person to whom he
can bear to give it up.
Strange as it seems, Isabella did not answer this letter, and with a
meanness unworthy of her wrote to her servant, Jacopo Calandra, telling
him to bargain with Andrea and obtain the Faustina at the lowest price
possible.
This unkindness cut Mantegna to the heart, and when Calandra communicated
Isabella’s answer to him, he refused angrily to part with the bust for
less than the hundred ducats which had been offered him in former days.
Isabella, however, was determined to have it, and on the 1st of August
Calandra was able to write:—“Your Excellency will be glad to hear that I
have at last obtained possession of Andrea Mantegna’s Faustina. He gave
the bust into my hands with great reluctance, recommending it to my care
with much solicitude, and with such demonstrations of jealous affection
that if he were not to see it again for six days I feel convinced he
would die.” The words were to come true sooner than Isabella or Calandra
had expected. Andrea could bear to part with houses and lands, but the
marble was dear to him as his own flesh and blood, and the parting with
it broke his heart.
He was already ill at the time, and six weeks later he died, on Sunday,
the 13th of September, 1506. To the last the old spirit of loyalty to the
Gonzagas did not leave him, and his son Francesco, writing to inform the
Marquis of the sad event, describes how a few minutes before his death he
asked for his master, and grieved much to think that he should never see
him again.
Francesco was at that time at Perugia, whither he had gone to meet Pope
Julius II., and had little time or thought for the great painter who
had just passed away. Isabella scarcely troubled herself more, and in a
letter full of joyous congratulations to her husband on his entry into
Perugia, merely alludes to Mantegna’s death:—“You know Messer Andrea
died suddenly a few days after your departure.” There were others who
felt more deeply and judged more rightly of the loss which the world
had sustained in Mantegna’s death. Albrecht Durer was at that time in
Venice, on his way to visit the great Lombard artist whose engravings had
filled him with admiration, and from whom he had learnt perhaps more than
from any other master. His purpose was frustrated by the news of Andrea’s
sudden death, and in later years he was often heard to say that he looked
upon this as the saddest event of his whole life. Another graceful
tribute to Mantegna’s memory was paid by a certain Lorenzo di Pavia, a
collector of antiquities and objects of art, who had known Mantegna at
the court of Mantua, and who, on hearing of his unexpected death, wrote
to Isabella in these terms:—“I grieve deeply over the loss of our Messer
Andrea Mantegna, for in truth a most excellent painter, another Apelles,
I may say, is gone from us. But I believe that God will employ him
elsewhere on some great and beautiful work. For my part, I know that I
shall never see again so fine an artist and designer. Farewell.”
The melancholy history of Mantegna’s difficulties did not end with his
death, and his sons had a hard task to satisfy his creditors. One hundred
ducats were still owing to the bishop and canons for the mortuary chapel,
and Cardinal Gonzaga, Bishop of Mantua, laid an embargo on the contents
of his studio. Francesco Mantegna had to obtain the permission of the
Marquis to sell the pictures that still remained there, among which he
names the “Triumph of Scipio,” which Cornaro had never received, the “St.
Sebastian,” now at La Motta in Friuli, and the famous _Cristo in scurto_.
By this means his debts were paid, and a settlement of his affairs
concluded. Francesco Gonzaga seems to have behaved kindly, and both
Andrea’s sons continued in his service, Lodovico as agent, while
Francesco succeeded to his father’s place, and painted by turns in the
palaces of Mantua, Gonzaga, and Marmirolo.
The remains of the great master were buried in his own chapel of Sant’
Andrea, where half a century later his grandson placed a bronze bust,
supposed to have been the work of the medallist Sperandio, and which,
after being taken to Paris in 1797, has been restored to its place on
Mantegna’s tomb.
The chapel itself is bare and dingy, its walls are whitewashed, rubbish
heaps are allowed to litter the floor, and the general aspect is of the
most cheerless description. But the gloomy surroundings only serve to
heighten the imposing grandeur of the bust.
The sculptor has caught the spirit which animated the great master, and
has represented Mantegna, after the manner of an old Roman, wearing
a laurel wreath on the thick clusters of hair that shade the deeply
furrowed brows and massive features with which more than one portrait in
his own frescoes has made us familiar. We seem to feel the fiery flashes
of that piercing eye bent upon us, and to realise the iron strength and
unbending force of the genius which no difficulty could dismay, and no
labour exhaust.
* * * * *
Sperandio’s bust is almost the only thing in Mantua which still speaks
of Andrea. The perishing frescoes are still to be seen in the deserted
palace, and the walls of the house in which he once lived are standing;
but in this city, where he painted for nearly fifty years, his name
is forgotten, and while every child in the streets will talk to you
of Giulio Romano and the Hall of the Giants, scarcely a creature in
the place has ever heard Mantegna’s name. His Faustina is preserved
among other antiques in the public museum, where visitors can see for
themselves the classic outline of the features which he loved so well;
but the custodian, who unlocks the hall, and has much to say of the many
statues, passes by this one in silence, or wonders why it is we linger
before this bust, unmindful of the tragic story which has invested the
marble with so deep an interest.
[Illustration: THE CRUCIFIXION. BY MANTEGNA.
_In the Louvre, Paris._]
The name of Mantegna, however, is not one that depends on local fame, and
there can be no difference of opinion as to the important place which
he holds in the history of the Renaissance. We have only to consider
how great and widespread was the influence which his works exercised on
contemporary art both in Italy and Germany. If we examine the different
schools of North Italy we shall find that there is scarcely one which did
not receive some new impulse from his powerful genius.
His son Francesco followed in his father’s steps, and worked in the
same lines without ever rising above the level of mediocrity. The few
scholars and assistants he had in Mantua imitated his example, and
whatever remnants of art were still to be found in Padua bore the stamp
of Andrea’s earliest style.
In Venice we recognise his vigour and precision of outline, and
the classical tendency of his types, not only in the works of his
brothers-in-law, the Bellini, but in those also of the rival Murano
painter, Luigi Vivarini. Montagna and Buonconsiglio at Vicenza, Ercole
Grandi and Cosimo Tura at Ferrara, alike formed their style upon his,
while the best Veronese masters were all either his followers or
imitators.
We know that Caroto and Bonsignori assisted him in the execution of his
later works, while his influence is even more apparent in the works of
Liberale, Girolamo dai Libri, and Francesco Morone. The masterpiece of
the last-named artist, the frescoes on the walls and ceiling of the
sacristy of Santa Maria in Organo, at Verona, are indeed exact imitations
of the style of decoration adopted by Mantegna in the Camera degli Sposi.
We trace the same all-prevailing Mantegnesque in the works of Lorenzo
Costa, who spent some years of his life in Mantua, and if we are to
believe Vasari it is to the stimulus of Mantegna’s example that we owe
the inspiration which made a painter of Francia.
The link which binds Mantegna to the Umbrians is as yet uncertain,
but even if Melozzo da Forli in his Roman frescoes derived no help or
suggestion from Andrea, Giovanni Santi’s stanzas remain to show us how
intimate was his acquaintance with the Paduan master’s works.
If from contemporary art we pass to the culminating period of the
Renaissance, we find Raphael taking him as his model in more than one
instance. The likeness of the boy-angels of the Camera degli Sposi to
the famous cherubs of the “Madonna di San Sisto” has been frequently
remarked, and in the bearers of the dead Christ, who walk backwards in
the Borghese “Entombment,” we find a distinct reminiscence of Andrea’s
great engraving.
Again, in the treatment of antique themes, Raphael often approaches
Mantegna, and we have little doubt that both he and Leonardo had closely
studied the works of their illustrious predecessor.
Perhaps the actual connection between Mantegna and Michelangelo is less
capable of demonstration, but the strength and energy of expression
which were so remarkable features in the genius of both men, as well as
a certain resemblance in their characters, form a link which binds them
together.
A very different artist, Correggio, who married a Mantuan wife, owes his
knowledge of the laws of perspective and composition in a large measure
to the study of Mantegna’s works, and, whether or not he visited Mantua
himself, probably derived the first idea of the dome-painting for which
he became famous from the ceiling of the Camera degli Sposi.
But this is not all. The engravings of Mantegna spread his influence
beyond the limits of Italy into countries north of the Alps. There was
a robustness, vigour, and grave earnestness of purpose, as well as a
fantastic element in his art, which attracted the Teutonic mind, and it
is perhaps not too much to say that he influenced German art more than
any other Italian painter.
We have already alluded to Albrecht Dürer’s admiration for his works and
anxiety to become personally acquainted with him. A further proof of the
fascination which drew him to Mantegna appears in the highly-finished
copies of the “Bacchanalia” and “Battle of the Sea Gods,” which Dürer
executed with his own hand, and in the St. John of “The Entombment”
which, unable to forget, he introduced in his own “Crucifixion” of 1508.
Professor Colvin has pointed out how much he learnt from the Italian
master in the delineation of passionate movement, and how close is the
affinity between the avenging angels of Dürer’s “Apocalypse” and the
angry Tritons of Mantegna’s engraving.
Nor is Dürer alone among northern painters in his adoption of
Mantegnesque motives. Holbein repeatedly availed himself of those
episodes of the “Triumphs” which he knew from Andrea’s own engravings in
his works at Busle and Lucerne; and a portfolio of Mantegna’s works was
numbered among the treasures of art in Rembrandt’s possession.
More singular is the admiration which Rubens conceived for an artist
with whom he can have had few points in common, yet we find him visiting
Mantua in order to study Andrea’s works, and reproducing a scene from the
“Triumphs” after his own fashion.
We have already seen the great honour in which Andrea was held during
his lifetime. That he was equally esteemed by the succeeding generation
we learn from the verses of Ariosto, who places him next to Leonardo in
his “Orlando.” High as the praise is, we cannot think it excessive, for
Mantegna stands half-way between those men who first brought art to life
again, and those who carried it to the highest degree of perfection, and
he occupies the foremost place among the artists of the mid-Renaissance,
who saw how much was wanting before farther progress could be attained,
and allowed no difficulties to stop them in their endeavour to acquire
knowledge.
With this end in view no research was dull, no toil wearisome. He
embraced the driest studios with the passionate ardour of his nature, and
gave life to the scientific problems which he attempted to solve by the
very force of his great zeal.
At the same time he brought to the task a degree of culture rare
among the men of his class, and both his friendship with scholars and
antiquarians and his own classical studies were productive of the most
important results for Italian painting. He is the chief representative
in art of that revival of learning which was the leading intellectual
impulse of the age; and, by bringing this influence to bear upon
painting, he won a great step in the History of its development. First
among the artists of the Renaissance, he saw with unerring instinct the
path by which art would attain her final triumphs. Early in his career
the conviction had forced itself upon his soul that the most perfect
models of beauty are to be sought in antique art, but that this very
perfection can only be reached by a minute and faithful study of nature.
To reconcile anew these two principles, to combine in his work classic
grace and human action, became the aim of his life, the task which he
most nearly achieved in the “Triumphs”—although even there he is not
always successful.
“We are conscious,” wrote Goethe, “of a sense of conflict, but this
conflict is surely the highest in which ever artist was engaged.” The
perfect union of the two principles was to be effected by artists of the
next generation, and where Mantegna had sown Raphael and Leonardo were to
reap.
It is this sense of conflicting elements, this occasional antagonism
between the ideal form after which he strove and the actual fact present
before his eyes, which has given rise to so much mistaken criticism of
Mantegna’s work. By some critics of the very first rank he is called a
mere realist, while on the other hand the old reproach that he neglected
the study of real life to copy statues has been repeated till it has
grown wearisome.
Although it is easy to trace their origin, both charges are equally
unjust. No man had ever a more thorough knowledge of nature, or was
more keenly alive to the minutest details of everyday life around him.
But something he felt was needed to lift this changeful scene, with its
seething throng of human thought and action, into the atmosphere of
perfect art.
It is just that touch of grace, that power to ennoble and refine which
the Greeks understood so well, that Mantegna felt and sought after in
days of long and arduous toil. If at times a certain rigidity of form, a
carelessness of desire to please, is visible in his work, it is because
in his anxiety to obtain his end he occasionally omitted these minor
matters. But to say that Mantegna was alike destitute of feeling for
beauty and of spiritual perception appears to us simple blindness.
In knowledge and mastery of the human form, in skill and finish of
workmanship, in wealth of imagery and creative thought, few have ever
surpassed him.
In dramatic energy and intensity of expression he stands unrivalled by
any but Michelangelo. Every variety of emotion, every passion that can
swell the breast of man is included within the range of his experience.
He knew where to seek the purest springs of joy, and in darker hours
his strong soul had fathomed the lowest depths of the most unutterable
anguish. The sportive dances of laughing cherubs and nymphs, the
pleasures and pains of such mythical creatures as Tritons and Nereids,
satyrs and sea-monsters, the sublime and rapt devotion of a Magdalen,
the heroism of a Sebastian, were all familiar to him. He enters in the
fullest manner into the exultant joy of the victors returning with their
long array of spoils and captives from the fight, and yet in the midst of
the mighty triumphal procession he pauses to show us the innocent child
stretching out its little arms to its mother.
But more than all he loved to paint the rage of violent passion, the wild
gestures of uncontrollable grief. There are certain figures into which he
seems to have concentrated either the tempest of the most ungovernable
fury or the agony of the bitterest despair. Once seen, these creations of
his brain refuse to loose their hold on our imaginations, and remain to
haunt us with their terrible forms, just as the wailing St. John of “The
Entombment” was ever present to Albrecht Dürer’s mind.
The very greatness of Mantegna’s genius, its immense strength and power,
may in itself be the cause that he is not strictly speaking a popular
artist. His works have never been, perhaps they will never become, the
enthusiastic object of general worship. But within the last few years the
number of his admirers has increased steadily, and his high merit has
received the fullest recognition from some of our most cultured writers.
That this circle will widen year by year, as a larger number of students
are drawn to examine for themselves those works of Mantegna which are
fortunately within the reach of us all, we feel confident. It is scarcely
necessary to add the expression of our conviction that to those who
attentively consider them, no works yield a more genuine and lasting
pleasure, while assuredly there are none that better repay the devotion
of a life-long study.
FRANCESCO RAIBOLINI
CALLED
FRANCIA
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
FRANCIA.
CHAPTER I.
EARLY ART IN BOLOGNA, A.D. 1300-1450.
From the earliest days of the revival of Italian painting the city of
Bologna was distinguished for the cultivation of art, and could boast a
regular succession of native painters. The names of several of these men
have been preserved by old writers, and we hear of a Guido, a Ventura,
and Ursone, who flourished in the thirteenth century. But the honour of
having been the real founder of the school is ascribed by the historian
Malvasia to a miniaturist known by the name of Franco Bolognese, who
lived in the time of Dante and Giotto. Since, however, none of his works
have come down to the present day, we have no opportunity of studying his
style, and all that we know is that he was a pupil of the miniaturist
Oderisio da Gubbio, and is said by Dante to have eclipsed his master in
the same way that Giotto surpassed Cimabue.
[Illustration: FRANCESCO RAIBOLINI.]
When Virgil and Dante meet Oderisio expiating the sin of pride in
purgatory, he tells them mournfully that the pictures which Franco now
paints are fairer than his own, and that the honour once his now belongs
to his scholar. So it has been in Dante’s own city of Florence, where
once Cimabue held undisputed possession of the field, and now the fame is
all Giotto’s. For what after all is the voice of earthly fame? Nothing
but an idle breath of wind that blows first from one quarter, then from
another, ever fitful and inconstant.
But if Franco Bolognese’s only hope of immortality rests on Dante’s
noble lines, the works of his pupils are still to be seen in Bologna,
and afford us some idea of native art in these early times. Chief among
them was Vitale, who painted in the first half of the fourteenth century,
and whose few remaining pictures are marked by a softness and delicacy
of workmanship which reveal the Umbrian origin of the school of Gubbio.
A “Madonna and Angels,” painted by him in the year 1320 for the ancient
church of the Madonna del Monte, and now preserved in the Gallery of
Bologna, has a sweetness and humility of expression which approaches
contemporary Sienese art, and the faces of his virgins are not unworthy
precursors of Francia’s Madonna. The same manner was further developed in
the paintings of his best scholar, Lippo Dalmasii, whose virgins acquired
so wide a reputation as to win for him the surname of “Lippo delle
Madonne.”
This artist, who lived at the close of the fourteenth century, and
painted between 1376 and 1410, was held in universal respect for the
holiness of his life and character. His devout habits are recorded by
Malvasia, who tells us that, before commencing a picture of the Virgin,
he invariably spent the night in prayer and fasting, and received
communion on the morning of the day itself. In his lifetime he was the
most popular artist of Bologna, and his pictures were so much in request
that he could scarcely paint fast enough to supply the demand. “No family
was considered rich in Bologna,” says Malvasia, “which did not possess
one of his Madonnas.”
After Lippo’s death his Madonnas were revered as sacred images, and were
only uncovered on festivals dedicated to the Virgin. Several are still to
be seen in the ancient churches of Bologna, and a lunetto of the “Virgin
between St. Sixtus and St. Benedict” over the portal of San Procolo, is
pointed out as the very picture which excited the admiration of Pope
Clement VIII. On returning from the conquest of Ferrara, he is said to
have paused before Lippo’s “Virgin,” and, saluting it with the utmost
devotion, to have exclaimed that no other images ever touched him as
deeply as those painted by the old Bologna master. In later days, Guido
professed an extraordinary veneration for Lippo’s Madonnas, and often
declared that some supernatural influence must have guided the artist’s
pencil, since no modern painter could ever succeed in designing a figure
of so much purity and holiness.
In spite of these enthusiastic expressions it is impossible to give Lippo
a high place among his contemporaries, and this Fra Angelico of Bologna
is as far below the friar of St. Marco as the school of his native city
is inferior to that of Florence.
One of Lippo’s pictures, originally in the Ercolani Palace at Bologna, is
now in the National Gallery, and may be taken as a fair specimen of his
style. The Virgin, embracing her child, appears in mid-air surrounded by
a circular glory, angels hover above, and a flowery meadow lies below.
There is a good deal of religious feeling and maternal tenderness in the
Madonna’s face, and some attempt at rendering natural movement, without
either beauty of type or skill of workmanship.
Side by side with the mystic traditions of the Madonna painter we trace a
more vigorous vein in the early school of Bologna, and see decided proofs
of the Giottesque influences which had already reached its artists.
This Florentine tendency is prominent in the works of both Simone dai
Crocifissi and Jacopo degli Avanzi, the only two other Bolognese
painters of this period who deserve mention.
According to Malvasia, Simone executed nothing but crucifixes, and
although other paintings at Bologna are attributed to him, this was no
doubt the chief branch of art in which he was engaged. The best of his
crucifixes are those in San Giacomo Maggiore, and in the fourth of the
seven churches belonging to the ancient pile of San Stefano, in both of
which he to a great extent follows Giotto’s example, but retains much of
the bad taste of Byzantine art in the emaciation of the figure and the
grimace of the attendant saints.
Much of the same ugliness of type, accompanied by greater truth and
character, is visible in the curious “Crucifixion” on gold ground,
ascribed to Jacopo degli Avanzi, in the Colonna Gallery at Rome, and in
the other altar-pieces which bear his name at Bologna. The personality of
this artist has been a cause of endless controversy, but at least it has
been shown that Vasari is clearly wrong in confusing him with d’Avanzo
of Verona, who assisted Altichieri in painting the chapel of St. George
at Padua. Whether Avanzi of Bologna is identical with the Jacobus Pauli
who painted the “Coronation of the Virgin” in San Giacomo Maggiore, is
a matter of small importance; but what we know for certain is, that a
Bolognese painter by name Jacopo, whom Vasari probably rightly calls
Avanzo, was the best of all the different artists who painted in that
most interesting of all Bologna churches, the Madonna della Mezzaratta.
This small chapel, called by Lanzi the Campo-Santo of Bologna, was built
in the twelfth century outside the Porta San Mammolo, and decorated with
frescoes in the fourteenth by a succession of native painters. Vasari
alludes to it more than once in his “Lives” as the _Casa di Mezzo_,
and speaks of the series painted there by Jacopo d’Avanzo, Cristofano,
Simone, and at a later period by Galassi of Ferrara.
The frescoes of the Mezzaratta were no doubt the most important works of
art achieved by early Bolognese painters, and—although their execution
is too rude, and their present condition too imperfect to allow of
comparison with the productions of Giotto and his scholars at Padua and
Assisi—the scanty fragments that remain are still of the deepest interest
to the student.
The most celebrated artists of later ages who had the advantage of seeing
these frescoes in a comparatively good state of preservation are said
to have held them in the highest esteem. Michelangelo himself visited
the chapel and praised its paintings in the warmest terms, while the
Carracci exerted themselves strenuously to save them from destruction.
Unfortunately, later generations have been less mindful of their
condition. The roof of the church was taken off some years ago and the
upper part used as a granary, while most of the frescoes were whitewashed
and many entirely obliterated.
At the present moment the chapel of Mezzaratta is attached to a villa,
which was for many years the property of the Italian Minister, Cavaliere
Minghetti. This accomplished statesman took every possible means to
save these relics of early art from further destruction, and by his
care several frescoes were recovered from the coat of whitewash which
concealed them.
The site of the chapel itself is so picturesque, and the views from
the hill of Mezzaratta are so full of beauty, that no traveller should
leave Bologna without making a pilgrimage to this shrine. A steep ascent
along a path lined with acacias leads from the gate of San Mammolo to
the garden of Villa Minghetti, and on a summer’s day, when nightingales
are singing in the acacia thicket and the air is sweet with myrtle
and orange-blossom, there is not a pleasanter spot in all Bologna.
Below, the domes and spires of the ancient city rise above its arcaded
streets, and the eye is at once arrested by the quaint forms of the
twin leaning towers, Garisenda and Asinelli, which were already old in
Dante’s lifetime. All around the plains stretch their vast expanse,
softly shadowed by passing clouds, far away towards Ferrara and Modena,
excepting where some rocky spur descends from the Apennines, and looking
up an opening valley we catch a glimpse of a jagged peak crowned with
snow. Mezzaratta itself has an additional claim on our interest from
having been the favourite resort of the Franciscan monk, Bernardino da
Siena, whose religious revival at Bologna was one of the most important
events in the early part of the fourteenth century, and who frequently
preached in this humble sanctuary, which could scarcely hold the crowds
that flocked to hear him.
Bernardino’s preaching and his affection for the spot may have been one
cause of the celebrity which the church of Mezzaratta acquired in those
days, but the oldest painting on the walls takes us back a whole century
before his time. It is a large “Nativity” painted over the door by
Vitale and signed with his name. The composition chiefly adheres to the
Byzantine type, with a few variations, as in the action of Joseph, who is
represented pouring water into the bowl for the washing of the Child. Its
execution is feeble, as is the case with most early Bolognese paintings,
but in the graceful type of the Virgin’s head and in the kneeling angels
we recognise Vitale’s striving after a more ideal form.
On the southern wall an artist named Cristofano, whose style as far as it
is possible to judge more resembles that of the Ferrara school, painted
scenes from the book of Genesis. Below these we have a series of subjects
from the history of Joseph, Moses, and the Life of Christ, all painted
by the same hand, and bearing in one corner the name of Jacobus, and the
date 1404.
Of these the two most striking are the “Miracle of the Pool of Bethesda”
and the “Healing of the Paralytic.” In the former, a sick man stands
in the middle of the pool lifting his hands in prayer, and the cripple
who sits up in bed by the side of the healing waters looks towards
Christ with an air of helpless entreaty. In the latter, the roof of the
house in which the Saviour is teaching his disciples is uncovered, and
the sick of the palsy is being let down by cords. To the right he is
seen, walking away healed, bearing a mattress on his shoulders. In both
of these scenes—indeed all through the series—the head of Christ is
strikingly noble and dignified, while not even the artist’s ignorance
of the simplest elements of drawing and colouring can detract from the
originality and life of the representations. Each head is individual in
expression and character, and the whole composition is marked by the
pleasing naïveté of very early art, and an evident anxiety to shake off
the fetters of conventional types.
Simone is said by Vasari to have painted the later scenes of the Passion
below Jacopo’s frescoes, and may have been the artist of the “Last
Supper,” which is still visible, but most of his work has perished,
and whatever else has escaped destruction belongs to the middle of the
fifteenth century, and owes its existence to Galasso Galassi, or other
Ferrarese painters.
The most remarkable point in the frescoes of Mezzaratta, and the real
cause of their value, is that, in spite of all the injury they have
sustained, they are decidedly superior in merit to the contemporary
panel-pictures in the Gallery and churches of Bologna, and thus enable
us to form a better judgment of early Bolognese art. Here we see it
inferior, it is true, in every respect to the schools then flourishing at
Florence and Siena, but still possessing a force and individual character
which inspires interest and promises well for the future.
During the greater part of the fourteenth century no native painter of
any genius arose, and the pictures of this date in the Bologna Gallery
are principally by unknown followers of Lippo Dalmasii. The only names
preserved there are those of Pietro Lianori and Michele di Matteo
Lambertini, who painted between 1450 and 1470, and in whose work we trace
some likeness to the contemporary Siena school, as well as a marked
difference from Avanzi’s manner. The same may be said of the picture of
“St. Ursula and her Companions,” a weak but not unpleasing work, painted
by Santa Caterina Vigri, a Bolognese nun, chiefly remarkable as the only
woman-artist who over attained the honours of canonization.
Towards the middle of the fifteenth century a new element was introduced
into Bolognese art by the Ferrarese masters, whom the patronage of the
Bentivoglio family attracted from the neighbouring city. The court of
the Este princes was already one of the most brilliant in Italy, and had
become a favourite centre for artists, who were employed to decorate the
different palaces of the ducal house in the same way that Mantegna was
engaged on the castles of the Gonzagas at Mantua.
Piero della Francesca had himself painted in Duke Borso’s Schifanoia
(Sans-Souci) palace, and both his presence and the all-pervading
influence of Mantegna, who had known several of the best Ferrarese
artists, had contributed in a large measure to mould the school of
native artists. These different elements were now imported to Bologna by
the Ferrara painters who migrated there. One of the first was Galasso
Galassi, who painted the later scenes from the Passion in the church of
Mezzaratta about the year 1450, and who may have been the painter of
the graceful “Sposalizio,” which is one of the best-preserved frescoes
still to be seen there. About the same time an artist of greater merit,
Francesco Cossa, was commanded by Giovanni Bentivoglio to restore an
ancient picture of Lippo known as the “Madonna del Baraccano,” and Ercole
Grandi was employed on the frescoes of the Garganelli chapel in the
church of San Pietro.
With these Ferrara masters came a Paduan artist, also one of the painters
of the Schifanoia, who had been trained in the school of Squarcione
and had worked with Mantegna in the Eremitani. This was Marco Zoppo,
who moved to Bologna in 1471, and remained there twenty years, during
which period he painted many of his principal works, and probably became
acquainted with the goldsmith, Francia, whose first master he is said, by
some, to have been.[4]
But the most important of all the painters who came to Bologna from
Ferrara was Lorenzo Costa, whose friendship with Francia was productive
of rich results, and with whom he lived for many years in a constant
interchange of artistic ideas. Born at Ferrara in 1460, Costa came as
a young man to Bologna and entered the service of Giovanni Bentivoglio
II., who employed him to decorate his palace with scenes from the Iliad.
During the next twenty years Costa was actively engaged in Bologna. In
1488 he finished an altar-piece for the chapel of the Bentivogli in
the church of San Giacomo Maggiore, and a few years later painted the
allegorical compositions representing “The Triumph of Life and Death,”
and various other works in the great Basilica of San Petronio.
In many of those we already see signs of new and higher qualities which
were the direct fruit of Francia’s influence, although in technical
acquirements the Bologna master was at that time still inferior to Costa.
* * * * *
We have so far traced the rise of early Bolognese art throughout the
fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and watched the gradual development
of a school of painters who remained far behind their contemporaries in
Florence and Siena, and at the best never rose above mediocrity. But in
Francia, Bologna was for the first time to have an artist of the highest
order, and who would take his place among the best Florentines of the
day, rivalling even Perugino’s genius, and winning the praise of Raphael;
an artist not indeed of great inventive faculty or wide range of powers,
but who, in pure and tender feeling, in elevation of aim and thought, in
the expression of the deepest religious emotion, was to find few equals
in the history of art.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
EARLY LIFE AND WORKS, A.D. 1450-1500.
Francesco di Marco Raibolini, commonly called Il Francia, was born at
Bologna in the year 1450. His father was a carpenter, but although
belonging to the artisan class his family was highly respected and
owned lands in the neighbourhood. After the practice of many Florentine
painters, Francia began life in the goldsmith’s shop, but unlike
Botticelli and Pollaiuolo, did not turn his attention to art until he had
reached middle age and had acquired considerable reputation in his own
trade.
Several writers have asserted that he took his surname from the goldsmith
under whom he served his apprenticeship, but it seems more probable
that Francia was merely the popular abbreviation of Francesco, and the
supposition is confirmed by documents recently found in the archives of
Bologna.
His talents soon attracted attention and before long he became skilled in
cutting dies, designing medals, working in _niello_ and every department
of the goldsmith’s art. At the same time the charms of his person and
character won general favour and greatly contributed to the success of
his career. Contemporary writers describe him as strikingly handsome in
appearance, and gifted with a sweetness of disposition and rare eloquence
which could not fail to captivate his hearers. The wit and liveliness
of his conversation had the power to drive away the saddest moods and
brighten the darkest hours. In this manner he became a general favourite,
and he numbered members of the noblest families of Bologna among his
intimate friends.
At the time Francia grew up the power of the Bentivogli family was
supreme in Bologna. This proud house claimed descent from King Enzio,
the unfortunate son of the Emperor Frederico II., whose long captivity,
vain attempts at escape, and loves with the fair Lucia di Viadogolo have
thrown a romantic charm over the grim walls of the Palazzo del Podestà.
Nothing less than the attainment of sovereign power could content the
Bentivogli in the fifteenth century, and after a long struggle with the
Popes, who claimed the supremacy of Bologna, they finally succeeded
in accomplishing their object. The reigning prince was now Giovanni
Bentivoglio II., who had assumed the reins of government in 1463, and
was undisputed master of the city. Although his tyranny became hateful
to the people, and ultimately proved the cause of his ruin, he was a
liberal and munificent patron of Francia, and rivalled the princes
of the house of Este by the encouragement which he gave to the fine
arts. He soon discovered the rising genius of the young goldsmith, and
appointed him Master of the Mint, an office which, in spite of many
vicissitudes in public affairs, Francia retained to the end of his life.
Other distinctions fell to his share. In 1483, and again in the year
1489, he was elected steward of the goldsmiths’ guild, a further proof
of the esteem and honour with which his countrymen regarded him. By this
time he was already married, since his sons Giacomo and Giulio were
born, the former before, and the latter in, 1487; but we hear no further
particulars and know nothing of his wife excepting that her name was
Caterina.
Besides coining money and designing medals for Giovanni Bentivoglio,
Francia showed his fine taste and artistic powers in many works both in
gold and silver enamels, and especially in _niello_, “often introducing
as many as twenty figures of excellent proportion and graceful design
into a space scarcely two fingers high.” Most of these precious works of
art perished in the destruction of the Bentivogli’s palace at the time
of their expulsion, and the famous silver _pax_, which Francia executed
at immense cost for the wedding of Giovanni Sforza and Lucrezia Borgia,
has disappeared, but two smaller ones are still preserved in the Gallery
of Bologna, and are interesting specimens of their kind. One bearing a
representation of the Resurrection, surrounded by a wreath of delicate
foliage, was executed on the occasion of the marriage of Bartolommeo
Felicini and Dorotea Ringhieri, as we learn by the arms of these families
which are engraved upon the work. The other is engraved with the Sforza
and Bentivogli arms and the letters M. Z., _Messer Zoane_, and was
probably a wedding gift from Giovanni Bentivoglio to his bride Ginevra
Sforza. The Crucifixion is worked in niello on this pax, and both in
the sorrowing angels hovering round the cross and in the saints below
we recognise the type of head which Francia’s Madonnas have rendered
familiar, while the landscape in the background shows the pictorial bent
of the goldsmith’s mind.
Andrea Mantegna’s visit to Bologna in 1472 is said to have first inspired
Francia with the wish to become a painter, but Vasari tells us in the
same breath that our master’s first painting was not executed until 1490,
when he was forty years old.
The actual honour of having first given Francia instruction in oil
painting has been assigned to different artists, principally to Marco
Zoppo and Lorenzo Costa, both of whom, we have seen, were living at
Bologna about 1480. Little affinity exists between the Squarcionesque
master’s style and that of Francia, but it is very possible that he may
have been acquainted with the goldsmith and have given him his first
lessons. Francia’s connection with Lorenzo Costa was of a much closer
kind, and Ferrarese models had a large share in his future development.
But his first essays in painting are so purely original in character and
so free from foreign influences that we need not seek for any cause to
explain the reason of their existence, or ask what master had a share in
their production. He probably acquired the rudiments of tempera and oil
painting from either Zoppo or another of the humbler men who frequented
his workshop, and immediately tried his hand on small panels before
venturing on the larger pictures in which his adoption of Costa’s method
is apparent. These early works are very rare, but one excellent instance
is to be seen in the “St. Stephen” of the Borghese Gallery, Rome. This
interesting little piece was evidently one of his first efforts executed
at a time when he was unskilled in the rules of composition and technical
knowledge. The hand of the worker in metal is plainly seen in the sharp
outline and polished surface of the panel, in the cold, hard brightness
of the deacon’s red dalmatic which St. Stephen wears, and in the
elaborate ornament of its embroideries. There is no attempt at rendering
physical agony in the form of the kneeling martyr quietly raising his
clasped hands as the stones fall heavily to the ground beside him. Even
St. Stephen’s countenance is marked by a certain absence of expression,
and is without the rapt devotion of Perugino’s faces, or the yearning
gentleness of Francia’s own Madonnas. Yet there is a calm devoutness in
the martyr’s bowed head, which seems to reflect the earnestness of the
prayer which the parted lips have just breathed, and which in its very
simplicity is full of touching beauty. Already we feel the presence of
that strong religious sentiment which had first animated the creations of
earlier masters, and of which Francia was to be almost the last exponent
in the art of Italy.
Another work belonging to this early period is the portrait of
Bartolommeo Bianchini, formerly in the Northwick collection, under the
name of Raphael. This personage was a Bolognese senator of considerable
culture, whose poetry earned some reputation in his days, and who wrote
flattering verses in praise of Francia’s genius. We have a further proof
of the friendship that existed between them in the small “Holy Family” at
Berlin, inscribed with the words, _Bartholomei sum(ptu) Bianchini maxima
matrom hic vivit manibus Francia picta tuis_. “Here—painted by thy hands,
O Francia, at the cost of Bartolommeo Bianchini—lives the greatest of
mothers.”
The Madonna holds the child erect on a parapet, while St. Joseph stands
behind, much in the same style of composition as countless Holy Families,
by Giovanni Bellini, a painter with whom Francia had more than one
feature in common. Here again we notice the same sharpness of outline,
high polish, and want of shadow that recall the goldsmith’s art, but the
general method of laying on colour and the red glow of the flesh-tints
which marks all Ferrarese work, point unmistakably to the influence of
Lorenzo Costa’s example. During the next twenty years these two men
worked side by side in Bologna, and profited by a mutual exchange of
ideas which has few counterparts in art history. While Costa gave Francia
the benefit of his wider experience and greater knowledge, he received
more than he could impart from the nobler aims and more refined feeling
of the Bologna artist. Before long the pupil was to surpass the master,
but we never hear of the intimacy between the two being marred by any
jealousy or ill-feeling, and the unbroken harmony in which they lived
reflects credit on both.
A great advance on the early works to which we have alluded is visible in
the large altar-piece of the “Madonna and Saints” which Francia painted
in 1490. The commission was given him by a wealthy Bolognese citizen,
Bartolommeo Felicini, who destined the picture for a chapel in the church
of the Misericordia, a confraternity of nobles for the assistance of
hospitals and other works of mercy. In this work, which Vasari calls his
first, Francia represented the Virgin seated on a marble throne with
six saints in the foreground, and a child-angel in a light blue robe
playing the violin at her feet. The architectural background and general
style of colouring are plainly the results of Costa’s teaching, but side
by side with these Ferrarese features we find another influence which
is altogether new. This is the Umbrian tendency, which appears here in
so marked a manner as to make us ask what was the link which brought
Perugino into connection with the great master of Bologna. Unfortunately
no historical evidence exists to satisfy our curiosity, and there is no
authority for the probable supposition that Francia visited Florence,
and thus became acquainted with the Umbrian painter. But there is every
reason to believe that works by Perugino had by this time found their
way to Bologna, and among them probably the beautiful altar-piece which
he painted for the church of San Giovanni in Monte, and which now hangs
in the Pinacoteca, almost side by side with Francia’s Madonna of the
Misericordia. It is worthy of mention that the same Umbrian character
appears in a small Madonna[5] at Berlin, the sole remaining work of
Antonio Crevalcore, a Bolognese artist chiefly known as a fruit and
flower painter, between 1480 and 1500, and whose name is preserved in
an epitaph by Francia’s friend, Girolamo Casio. Evidently Perugino’s
influence had in some form or other reached Bologna, and had touched a
responsive chord in Francia’s breast. For nowhere is this Peruginesque
vein more strongly present than in the fine head of the St. Sebastian, in
the Misericordia altar-piece, who is lifting his eyes to heaven with an
intensity of expression to which Perugino himself has rarely attained.
Henceforth this feature is constantly recurring in all Francia’s panels,
animating his less ideal types, his fresher and more vigorous conceptions
with a tender devotional feeling, and appealing to us in the peculiar
half-timid, half-reproachful gaze of those Madonnas which we know so well.
[Illustration: THE VIRGIN ENTHRONED, WITH SAINTS. BY FRANCIA.
_In the Pinacoteca, Bologna._]
* * * * *
The revelation of Francia’s powers as a painter was the cause of much
enthusiasm among his fellow-countrymen, who were never slow to applaud
the efforts of native artists, and Giovanni Bentivoglio immediately
commissioned him to paint an altar-piece for his family chapel in San
Giacomo Maggiore. All the religious communities of Bologna now pressed
Francia to decorate their altars, and Vasari says that by the end of
a few years there was scarcely a church in the city that could not
boast the possession of one of his paintings. The “Annunciation” of
the Brera, the “Madonna and Angels,” at Munich, the Pietà, still at
Bologna, in the Pinacoteca, followed each other in close succession.
For his goldsmith friend, Jacopo Gambaro, who is recorded to have stood
godfather with him to the child of a mutual friend, he painted the small
“Holy Family,” at Dudley House, and for the church of San Giobbe, in
Bologna, the “Crucifixion” of the Louvre. In this singular composition
the patriarch Job is represented wearing a crown and lying at the foot
of the cross, pointing upwards to a scroll on which we read the words:
_Maiora sustinuit ipse_. This fine and original conception is marred by
a hardness of drawing and colouring, which is a sufficient proof that it
was executed at an early period; its surface has suffered considerable
injuries which increase this unpleasant effect.
A great step in advance is marked by the Bentivoglio altar-piece
completed in 1499, and still occupying its original place in a chapel
of San Giacomo Maggiore. Here the metallic harshness of the tints has
given place to more harmonious tones and softer shadows, and the rich,
glowing colours show that the artist had by this time acquired complete
mastery of the means at his disposal. The saints are more vigorous and
manly in type, and the heads are distinguished by more actual beauty than
in any other of Francia’s pictures. St. Sebastian is again a prominent
figure, and was used as a model a century later by the Carracci, who
declared it to be one of the finest studies of human form in Renaissance
painting. The two angels crowned with roses and standing on the steps
of the Virgin’s throne are said to be portraits of children of the
Bentivogli family. Others hover about the Virgin, and one, the loveliest
of all, leans his head thoughtfully against a pillar and stretches out
his little arms in wistful yearning to the child-Christ. In the same year
Francia painted another Enthroned Madonna,[6] very similar to this one
in style and grouping, by desire of a lady of the Manzuoli family, for
the church of the Misericordia. Here the attendant saints are St. George
and the Baptist, who point upwards to the child, whilst St. Stephen gazes
mournfully at the stones of his martyrdom, which, rest on a book that
he holds before him, and another of Francia’s sweet child-angels clasps
a tall white lily between its folded hands, “with so much grace that it
seems to belong to Paradise.” [_Vasari._]
For the same church of the Misericordia, Giovanni Bentivoglio’s son,
Archdeacon of Bologna and papal protonotary, ordered the “Nativity,”
now removed to the Gallery,[7] where most of Francia’s masterpieces
are collected. In this picture the “Nativity” is treated not as an
historical event but as a Christian mystery, that is to say, the Virgin
and attendant saints are represented in the act of adoring the new-born
child, and celebrating his advent on earth. This class of composition,
always a favourite with religious painters, and much used both by
Perugino and Lorenzo di Credi, was especially adapted to Francia’s
genius. He never possessed the faculty of describing a scene in a vivid
and dramatic manner, or of rendering in quick succession all the varied
emotions of the human breast, but no one has excelled him in these groups
of rapt saints, without a thought beyond the object of their silent
adoration. And so we find him constantly moulding his subjects into
this form. The Annunciation, Pietà, Assumption, and Coronation of the
Virgin by turns took this shape in his hands. He conceived “these supreme
events as mysteries at which the successive ages were spectators, and
in relation to which the great souls of all periods became as it were
contemporaries.” [_George Eliot._]
In this instance Francia has introduced several portraits among the
worshippers. His masterly profile of Bartolommeo felicini in the first
Misericordia altar-piece had already proved his skill as a portrait
painter, and he now represented Antonio Galeazzo Bentivoglio, who had
lately returned from a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, in the mantle of
a knight of the Red Cross kneeling under a ruined arch to adore the
infant Christ. The youthful shepherd who stands opposite, wearing a
laurel wreath on his flowing locks, is a portrait of Francia’s intimate
friend, the poet jeweller, Girolamo di Casio, on whom the laurel crown
was bestowed by Clement VIII. This accomplished man had the greatest
admiration for Francia, whose epitaph he lived to compose, and whom he
addressed during his lifetime in a sonnet beginning:—
“Felice Italia che in se chiude,
Si sublime ingegno e si bella effigie
Che fanno al cielo e a natura guerra.”
“Happy Italy, which contains a genius so lofty and forms so
fair that they challenge heaven and nature.”
Lastly, in the regular features of the St. Francis in the background, we
have Francia’s own likeness (which he has here introduced in the form
of his patron saint), whose expressive face and refined air correspond
exactly with contemporary descriptions. Two angels kneel in lowly
adoration on either side of the child, who lifts his head and raises
his tiny hand in benediction, while a bullfinch perched on a twig at
his feet looks reverently towards him and almost seems to join in the
act of worship. As a rule Francia’s landscapes are simple in character,
generally consisting of a rocky foreground and broad valley opening
beyond, such as we often see in the Apennines near Bologna; sometimes
in his later works they are more distinctly Umbrian, but the background
of this “Nativity” is remarkable for an unusual degree of beauty and
variety. The rocky steep with its solitary pine-tree is still on our
right, but in the centre of the picture, above the heads of the kneeling
saints, a lovely expanse of park-like scenery unfolds itself before us.
There we see a broad sunny river winding its way between grassy glades
and forest avenues, cattle are feeding, and human life is stirring
on its banks, a church tower and cottage roofs peep out from among
the trees, and far away in the distance a line of blue hills rises in
soft undulating lines. The whole of this pastoral scene is charmingly
conceived and painted, and forms a poetic background to one of Francia’s
most graceful compositions. It was for this picture that Costa painted
his predella of the “Adoration of the Magi,” now in the Brera, one of the
many tokens of the friendship which continued to exist between the two
artists.
[Illustration: MADONNA AND CHILD WITH A BIRD. BY FRANCIA.
_In the Dresden Gallery._]
Besides these works for the Misericordia, Francia executed several
altar-pieces for other churches in Bologna—about 1500. The “Madonna and
Saints,” now at St. Petersburg, was originally painted for San Lorenzo,
and a similar subject resembling the Bentivoglio altar-piece is still
to be seen in San Martino of Bologna. With these larger subjects we may
mention the charming group of boy-angels playing on musical instruments
round an old picture of the Madonna in San Vitale, although their
Raphaelesque grace would seem to indicate a later date of production. The
Franciscan church of the Annunziata, outside the gate of San Mammolo,
also possessed two pictures, a “Madonna” and “Annunciation,” which have
been removed to the Gallery since that sanctuary has been used as a
barrack by the Italian Government. Both have been much damaged, but the
“Annunciation,” in spite of its bad state of preservation and unpleasant
rawness of colour, is singularly interesting. All three persons of the
Trinity assist at the celebration of the great mystery: the Father looks
down from heaven, the dove is seen descending to rest on the brows of
her who was blessed among women, and a vision of the Child appears
above in glory. The Angel of the Annunciation hovers in mid-air, and
on earth the lowly Virgin kneels with clasped hands and bent head, her
whole soul going forth in unutterable love and yearning as she listens
to his message. On either side, a little below this central figure,
stands a noble group of saints reverently pondering over the mystery
before our eyes; and foremost among them we recognise Bernardino, the
favourite saint of Bologna, whose memory was still fresh in the hearts
of the people, holding an open book, on the pages of which, the sacred
monogram and his motto, _In Nomine Gesu_, are inscribed. The birds
sing in the branches beside him, and a lizard crawls along the ground
bearing a scroll, on which are the arms of the Franciscans, a skull and
cross-bones, the date MCCCCC., and _Francia Aurifex pinxit_, a form of
signature which the goldsmith painter retained to the end of his life.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
THE FRIENDSHIP AND INFLUENCE OF RAPHAEL, 1500-1506.
Ten or twelve years had now elapsed since Francia had devoted himself to
painting, and in this comparatively short space of time he had produced
many important works and obtained a wide reputation. More than this,
his pictures during this period bear signs of a steady progress both in
technical skill and power of expression; the old hardness and want of
harmony had in a great measure disappeared, and his colouring had gained
that force and richness which give him so high a place among oil-painters.
But in the first years of the sixteenth century we see him develop a
new style, and paint in a manner altogether freer and grander than ever
before. This marked improvement is especially visible in the composition
of his pictures which, instead of depending on the expression of single
heads, now acquire a grace of line and completeness that bring them near
to the best Florentine works of the period.
The cause of this advance can only be ascribed to one influence—the
friendship which Francia had formed with Raphael. It is evident from
many of our master’s works at this time that he had studied Raphael’s
pictures; but beyond this, both the presence of this new element and
certain expressions which Raphael uses in his letter of September, 1508,
seem to imply the existence of a personal acquaintance between the two
masters.
He had formed, we know, the highest opinion of Francia’s merit, and gives
expression in emphatic terms to his conviction that no Madonnas are so
beautiful or so well calculated to inspire devotion as the creations of
the Bolognese master. And on receiving Francia’s portrait he declares it
to be so life-like that as he stands before it he feels himself in his
friend’s presence and seems to hear his voice.
Everything points to more than a mere intercourse by letter, and there
can be no reason to doubt the generally assumed fact that Raphael paid
a visit to Bologna on his way from Florence to Urbino in 1506. But long
before this they had a mutual object of interest in Timoteo Viti, a young
painter of Urbino, who became one of Francia’s favourite pupils and was
the first link between him and Raphael.
In July, 1490, Timoteo came to Bologna to perfect himself in the
goldsmith’s art in Francia’s workshop. The date is recorded in a register
kept by Francia, where we read the following entry:—
“Timoteo Viti da Urbino was taken into our shop. He will receive no
salary during the first year, and sixty-six florins for three months in
the second.”
In 1491 another entry records the settlement of accounts with Timoteo,
and mentions that as he is desirous to become a painter he will now pass
into the hall where the other artists work.
Four years later we find one more entry, which is as follows:—
“On the 4th day of April, 1495, my beloved Timoteo left us. God grant
that all blessing and good fortune may be with him.”
Timoteo returned to Urbino, where he became Raphael’s assistant, and
carried with him the fame of the master who remembered him so kindly.
Soon Francia received commissions from the Duke of Urbino, for whom he
painted a Lucrezia in the act of plunging the dagger into her breast, and
a marvellous set of horse trappings decorated with gaily-coloured birds
and foliage.
From Timoteo’s lips Raphael also heard of Francia’s paintings, and
was perhaps first introduced by him to those Madonnas which inspired
so unfeigned an admiration in his breast. Afterwards we hear of an
exchange of pictures which passed between the two great masters, and at
Francia’s recommendation Giovanni Bentivoglio employed Raphael to paint
a “Nativity,” which has unfortunately perished. The Bolognese master
was of too generous and loyal a nature to entertain the least feeling
of envy towards the young painter, who had already surpassed all his
contemporaries, and showed his warm appreciation of Raphael’s genius
in the following sonnet, which he addressed to him in an outburst of
enthusiasm:—
“Non son Zeusi nè Apelle, e non son tale,
Che di tanti tal nome a me convegna;
Nè mio talento, nè vertudo è degna
Haver da un Raffael lodo immortale.
Tu sol, cui fece il ciel dono fatale,
Che ogn’ altro excede, e sora ogn’ altro regna,
L’excellente artificio à noi insegna
Con cui sei reso ad ogn’ antico uguale.
Fortunato garxon, che nei primi anni
Tant’ oltre passi; e che sarà poi quando
In più provecta etade opre migliori?
Vinta sarà natura; e, da’ tuoi inganni
Resa eloquente, dirà, te lodando,
Che tu solo il pictor sei de’ pictori.”
“I am not Zeuxis nor Apelles, neither do I deserve that fame
so great shall be mine, nor is my talent worthy to receive
immortal praise from a Raffael.
“Thou alone, on whom heaven has bestowed the fatal gift that
thou shouldest excel all others and reign over all, teachest
us the admirable art by which thou art become equal to the
ancients.
“Fortunate boy, who in thy earliest years hast already advanced
so far, what wilt thou not be when in maturer age thou shalt
achieve yet greater things? Then nature shall own herself
conquered, and rendered eloquent by thy charms, shall exclaim
in thy praise, that thou alone art the painter of painters.”
[Illustration: DEPOSITION FROM THE CROSS. BY FRANCIA.
_In the Accademia, Parma._]
The original manuscript of this sonnet was first published by the
historian Malvasia, who discovered it among the papers of a member of
the Lambertini family, and gave the accompanying inscription, which
proves Francia to have been its author. _All’excellente pictore Raffaello
Sanxio, Zeusi del nostro secolo. Di me Francesco Raibolini decto il
Francia._ Even without these convincing proofs of Raphael’s friendship
with Francia, it would have been difficult not to assume the existence
of some similar connection from the strong marks of the great painter’s
influence that meet us in Francia’s later works.
In the “Deposition,” painted soon after 1500 for the Benedictines of
Parma, his style is already powerfully affected by this contact with
Raphael, which can alone account for a vigorous action and dramatic
character here displayed. A deep emotion is visible on the faces of the
St. John, who supports the head, the Magdalen, who embraces the feet, and
the Virgin, who gazes at the dead face of her son with the grief-stricken
look which the “Pietà” of the National Gallery has stamped upon our
minds. Salome, who stands behind, flings aloft her arms in an energy of
despair unlike anything else that Francia ever conceived, while in the
background the cross lifts its gaunt form against the glowing tints of an
evening sky and a soft distance of cypress-grown rocks and far-away hills.
Not many years afterwards Francia was asked by a noble of Lucca to
supply an altar-piece for the church of San Frediano in that city, and
after painting a “Madonna and Saints” as the principal subject, took the
Pietà as the motive of the lunette below. This time he returned partly
to his former conception, and represented the Dead Christ laid in his
mother’s arms in the same attitude as in the larger Deposition at Parma,
but with two angels instead of attendant saints at the head and feet.
In later years the altar-piece passed into the Duke of Lucca’s hands, and
coming to England in 1840 with the rest of the collection, became one of
the chief ornaments of the National Gallery.
It is difficult to approach this Pietà in a critical spirit. We have
known it all our lives, every form, almost every line of the well-known
group is familiar. To many of us it is associated with memories of days
long ago when it formed a part of our earliest religious ideas; and when
much of the faith of childhood has undergone change, it still recalls all
that was purest and best in those first impressions.
[Illustration: THE VIRGIN AND TWO ANGELS WEEPING OVER THE DEAD BODY OF
CHRIST. A PIETÀ. BY FRANCIA.
_In the National Gallery._]
What is it, we ask, which touches us in this “Pietà,” that has appealed
to thousands in a way which no other picture has ever done? Surely,
not only the grace of its composition, the tender brightness of its
colouring, but more than all of these the deep human pathos which we
find there blended with a real and living hope. It is the contrast
between the mother mourning over her dead son with a grief that cannot
be comforted and the angels who fold their hands in lowly adoration,
and by their presence transform the saddest of all scenes into a divine
mystery full of hope and love. Mary, in the bitterness of her sorrow, is
unconscious of these heavenly attendants, her eyes, fixed on the dead
face of her son, are closed to that vision of angels, but we see them and
realise what Francia meant us to feel, all the promise of that horizon
which was opening beyond, all the great future that was to grow out of
the suffering and death which she mourned.
“The wave
Of love which set so deep and strong
By Christ’s yet open grave.”
[_Matthew Arnold._]
Unlike Mantegna and Gian Bellini, Francia has not attempted to give any
impression of the physical agony which has passed over the corpse, but
has concentrated all his force in the endeavour to give the deep repose
and peace of death without sacrificing anything of majesty of form.
There are other points in the drawing which might be criticised, and
a degree of stiffness in the position of the right arm has been often
observed, but no minor defects can prevent Francia’s Pietà from being,
in refinement of conception and tenderness of feeling, the highest ideal
representation of the subject in the whole range of art.
The other portion of this altar-piece, a Virgin enthroned with the
Child, St. Anna at her side between two arches, and the Saints Sebastian,
Paul, Lawrence and Romualdo below, hangs next to Perugino’s Certosa
altar-piece in the National Gallery. An excellent opportunity is thus
afforded of comparing the styles of the two painters, and Francia’s work
does not show to disadvantage even by the side of Perugino’s masterpiece.
In depth and richness of colour he is at least his equal, and although
his types are less ideal they are fresher and more natural, and there is
less affectation in the attitude of his figures.
For the same church of San Frediano at Lucca, Francia painted another
large altar-piece the “Coronation of the Virgin,” which is still to be
seen there. Here again he gives the subject a mystical character and
introduces the patriarchal ancestors of Mary and the chief advocates of
the dogma of the Immaculate Conception among the figures who stand below
in devout contemplation. Each bears a scroll in his hand: David points to
a verse of Psalm xxvii, “_In the secret of his tabernacle shall he hide
me_;” Solomon, a noble, kingly profile, gazes earnestly upwards, showing
us a text from his song, “_Thou art all fair, my love_;” while Anselm and
Augustine bear scrolls on which we read passages from their own writings
relating to the Virgin, and Antony of Padua kneels at the empty tomb
where lilies and roses have blossomed. This altar-piece, although less
known than Francia’s other masterpieces, yields to none of his works
in grandeur and finish. The kneeling Madonna who, robed in purple and
gold, receives her crown from the hands of the Eternal, retains the same
expression of sweet humility touched with sadness which marks all his
Virgins, and the scenes from the History of the Augustinian order on the
predella are painted with exquisite taste and delicacy.
Another large Coronation, commonly called the altar-piece of All the
Saints from the multitude of figures grouped below, is still in the Duomo
of Ferrara; while Cesena retains the “Presentation” mentioned by Vasari,
although the beauty of colouring to which he alludes has lost much of its
freshness.
A “Nativity,” painted for his intimate friend Paolo Zambeccaro at
Bologna, is now in the Picture Gallery of Forli, but the frescoes with
which he adorned Zambeccaro’s villa have all perished. The same fate has
been shared by the other frescoes which he painted in different palaces
of Bologna, and what is most of all to be regretted, the “Judith” and
“Dispute of Philosophers” which he executed for Giovanni Bentivoglio were
destroyed in the sack of the tyrant’s palace by the mob, on his expulsion
in 1507. Vasari, speaking from the testimony of eyewitnesses, declares
the Judith to have been the finest work which Francia ever painted, and
describes minutely the splendour of the surroundings introduced, the
horses, banners, and armed guards brought on the scene as belonging to
the camp of Holofernes. The fame of this fresco had also reached the ears
of Raphael, who begged for a sketch of the work, but unfortunately not
even a drawing remains to give us an idea of the manner in which Francia
treated a theme so unlike his usual objects.
A “Lucrezia” by his hand, perhaps the very panel which he painted for
Guido Baldo, Duke of Urbino, is now in England,[8] but has nothing
classical in character. The Roman matron raising her eyes to heaven as
she plunges the dagger into her breast is in feature and expression the
exact counterpart of Francia’s saints, and but for the uplifted hand
might be a St. Catharine or St. Agnes with perfect propriety. On the
other hand drawings in the style of ancient bas-reliefs by Francia, which
in type and character admit no doubt as to their genuineness, meet us
occasionally both in foreign galleries and London exhibitions, and show
a much truer appreciation of classical art. Such are the “Judgment of
Paris” in the Albertina collection, Vienna, and that beautiful group
of Greek youths before an altar exhibited by Mr. J. O. Robinson in
the Grosvenor Gallery of 1879, in which, the grace of antique art is
delicately blended with the yearning expression of Christian devotion.
These and others that resemble them were designs for engravings probably
intended for the use of Marc Antonio Raimondi, who served his first
apprenticeship in Francia’s workshop, and engraved several of his
master’s pictures before he left for Venice in 1509.
More than one of this celebrated artist’s engravings bear marks of this
early training in the school of Francia, an influence soon to be effaced
by the very different associations and examples of the Roman world, in
the midst of which his later years were spent.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
THE FRESCOES OF ST. CECILIA’S CHAPEL, 1506-1509.
The only series of frescoes painted by Francia in Bologna of which some
traces still remain, are those in the Oratory of St. Cecilia, attached
to the church of San Giacomo Maggiore. This chapel, founded by Giovanni
Bentivoglio and erected by the architect Gasparo Nadi in 1481, was
decorated entirely by the hands of Francia and his scholars in the early
part of the sixteenth century. Costa’s fresco, which alone bears a date,
was executed in 1506, and the whole series was probably completed before
the exile of the Bentivogli in 1507.
Unfortunately this chapel, which is for the Bolognese school what the
chapels of the Carmine and Eremitani are for Florentine and Paduan art,
has been frequently turned to other uses, and during its occupation
by French soldiers the frescoes suffered great injury. All are much
damaged, and some mutilated in such a manner that the principal figures
are scarcely visible. But even in their present melancholy condition
Francia’s frescoes are full of interest, and it is easy to see how
superior they are in merit to any other works of the school. Of the
four remaining artists employed in the chapel—Lorenzo Costa, Giovanni
Chiodarolo, Amico Aspertini, and Giacomo Raibolini (or Tamaroccio)—the
Ferrarese master is the only one who approaches him in the excellence of
his style, and even Costa’s heads cannot compare with those of Francia
for beauty and expression. The subjects of the ten frescoes are all taken
from the history of St. Cecilia.
On the right of the altar:—
1. Marriage of Cecilia and Valerian. _Francia._
2. Valerian instructed in the Christian faith by Pope Urban. _Costa._
3. Baptism of Valerian. _Cesare Tamaroccio._[9]
4. Valerian and Cecilia crowned with roses by an Angel. _Chiodarolo._
5. Martyrdom of Valerian and his brother Tiburtius. _Aspertini._
On the left of the altar:—
6. The Burial of the Brothers. _Aspertini._
7. Cecilia before the Prefect. _Aspertini._
8. Cecilia condemned to the boiling bath. _Cesare Tamaroccio._[9]
9. Cecilia distributing her riches to the poor. _Costa._
10. Burial of Cecilia. _Francia._
The two frescoes by Francia are placed nearest to the altar, exactly
opposite each other, and are on the whole the best-preserved of the
series. Here Raphael’s influence is more apparent than in any of
Francia’s works, and it is highly probable that he visited Bologna while
the chapel was being painted. The fresco of the Marriage at once recalls
Raphael’s “Sposalizio” in the grouping of the figures, and is remarkable
for its grace of composition. The officiating priest stands between the
bride and bride-groom under the portal of a chapel which opens on to a
wooded valley. The bride shrinks timidly back and turns her face away as
one of her maidens holds her hand on which Valerian places the ring. On
either side are groups of youths and maidens who, by their intent gaze
and animated gesture, show their interest in the marriage that is being
celebrated. The action is simple, the heads noble and refined; those of
the maidens are especially remarkable for their beauty, while the grace
of line that marks the grouping is happily continued in the landscape
beyond, which harmonizes well with the scene before us. Evidently the
subject was exactly suited to Francia’s genius, and he has succeeded
admirably.
The same praise can scarcely be given as fully to the “Burial of St.
Cecilia,” wonderful as is the power of its simple pathos. There is a want
of dramatic action in the spectators, and at the same time a formality
in the arrangement of the groups on either side of the picture, which
gives the whole an air of stiffness and renders it inferior in point of
composition to the Marriage. But these defects are atoned for by the
beauty of the central portion, where four young men hold the lifeless
form of the martyred saint suspended in a winding-sheet above the
opening of the vault. A wreath of white roses crowns her gentle brows,
and the bystanders press forward to take a last look at the sleeping
face that is still so fair in death. As in the Christ of the Pietà all
trace of suffering has passed away, the hands are folded with exquisite
tenderness, and the sweet maiden seems to lie there wrapt once more in
the deep unconscious sleep of childhood. For a moment we wonder if this
happy slumber can be death, but—if we look a little further, beyond the
pale light just breaking into the valley, above the tall cliffs and the
topmost branches of the waving palm-trees—we shall see the dim form of an
angel who wings his flight upwards, bearing the soul of the martyr back
to God.
The frescoes of St. Cecilia were the last works which Francia painted for
his patron Giovanni Bentivoglio. In 1507, perhaps even before the chapel
was completed, the Bentivogli were driven out of Bologna by a popular
rising and forced to flee for their lives. Not only did Francia lose
their patronage and friendship, but he had the grief of seeing some of
his best works destroyed by an infuriated mob in the sack of their palace
in the Strada Donato.
The universal respect in which he was held by his countrymen saved him
from sharing in the ruin of his patrons, and he retained his office
at the head of the Mint under Pope Julius II. In this capacity he was
required to coin the money which the Pope threw to the populace on his
triumphal entry and which bore the inscription:—“Bononia per Julium a
tyranno liberata.” But although he was forced to lend his talents, as
Michelangelo did on another occasion, to the service of the victor, he
could not conceal the bitterness of his grief, and for a whole year after
the flight of the Bentivogli still lamented the loss he had suffered.
It was then that Raphael addressed his well-known letter to Francia,
begging him to take heart, and assuring him of his sympathy. The two
painters had, it appears, agreed to exchange portraits, and in this
letter Raphael thanks Francia for having sent him his likeness painted
by his own hand. We give a translation of this interesting document,
which was first discovered with Francia’s sonnet in the papers of the
Lambertini family, and brought to light by Malvasia:—
“My dear Messor Francesco,—
“I have this moment received your portrait, which Bazotto
brought me safely, without injury of any kind, and for which I
thank you exceedingly. It is very beautiful, and so life-like
that at times it deceives me. I seem to be with you and to
hear your voice. I pray you, pardon my delays, which arise
from the tasks in which I am incessantly engaged, and which
have been the cause why I have not yet painted the portrait
with my own hand, according to our agreement. Nor would I
allow it to be painted by one of my pupils and retouched by
myself, since this would not have been seemly, although I have
no hope of ever equalling your work. Have compassion on me, I
say, since you know by experience what it is to be deprived of
liberty and bound to patrons. I am sending you by this same
messenger, who returns in six days, another drawing, that of
‘The Nativity,’ somewhat different from the original, which you
were good enough to praise so highly, with the same kindness
with which you speak of my other works in a manner that causes
me to blush. I hope that you will accept this trifle, more
as a token of love and obedience than for any other reason,
and if in exchange I may receive a drawing of your ‘History
of Judith’ I will place it among my dearest and most precious
treasures. Monsignore il Datario awaits his ‘Madonella’ with
much impatience, and Cardinal Riario his large one, all of
which you will hear more particularly from the said Bazotto.
I, for my part, shall behold them with the same delight and
satisfaction with which I see and praise all your other works,
never having seen any images that are fairer or more devout and
well painted. In the meantime take courage, summon up all your
habitual wisdom, and be sure that I feel your afflictions as
keenly as if they were my own. Continue to love me as I love
you, with my whole heart.
“Ever your most obliged and devoted,
“RAFAELLE SANZIO.
“Roma, the fifth day of September, 1508.”
Few documents in art history are more interesting than this letter, which
breathes all the sunny gladness of Raphael’s nature, and proves how
sincerely he admired Francia as an artist and felt for him as a friend.
It is uncertain whether the portrait which he praises so warmly still
exists, but at the end of last century a half-length figure of Francia
holding a diamond ring, by his own hand, was in the Boschi collection at
Bologna, and a few years ago a similar work belonged to a private gallery
at Turin.[10]
As a portrait-painter Francia ranks high, and all the works of this class
by him which remain are marked by the same exquisite finish and life-like
fidelity. The Tribune of the Uffizi has a fine specimen in the head of
Evangelista Scappi, whose pleasant open face and bushy locks modern
copyists have rendered familiar. The Umbrian character of the landscape
and general style of the work resemble Perugino’s heads, while other of
Francia’s portraits are painted more in his Raphaelesque manner.
Such is the noble portrait of the Liechtenstein Gallery at Vienna long
ascribed to Raphael, but rightfully restored to Francia by Crowe and
Cavalcaselle, and probably the likeness of some Bolognese noble, since it
originally belonged to an old family of that city.
The poet Girolamo di Casio also alludes in one of his sonnets to two
female portraits by Francia remarkable for their beauty, but these have
perished, it is to be feared, since no portraits of women by his hand are
known to exist.