RUBENS

I was admitted to the Duke of Lerma's presence, and took part in

the embassy. The Duke exhibited great satisfaction at the

excellence and number of the pictures, which surely have acquired

a certain fair appearance of antiquity (by means of my

retouching), in spite even of the damage they had undergone. They

are held and accepted by the King and Queen as originals, without

there being any doubt on their side, or assertion on ours, to

make them believe them to be such.

--_Letter From Rubens at Madrid, to Chieppo, Secretary of

the Duke of Mantua_

[Illustration: RUBENS]

The father of Peter Paul Rubens was a lawyer, a man of varied attainments

and marked personality. In statecraft he showed much skill, and by his

ability in business management served William the Silent, Prince of

Orange, in good stead.

But Jan Rubens had a bad habit of thinking for himself. The habit grew

upon him until the whisper was passed from this one to that, that he was

becoming decidedly atheistic.

Spain held a strong hand upon Antwerp, and the policy of Philip the

Second was to crush opposition in the bud. Jan Rubens had criticized

Spanish rule, and given it as his opinion that the Latin race would not

always push its domination upon the people of the North.

At this time Spain was so strong that she deemed herself omnipotent, and

was looking with lustful eyes towards England. Drake and Frobisher and

Walter Raleigh were learning their lessons in seafaring; Elizabeth was

Queen; while up at Warwickshire a barefoot boy named William Shakespeare

was playing in the meadows, and romping in the lanes and alleys of

Stratford.

All this was taking place at the time when Jan Rubens was doing a little

thinking on his own account. On reading the history of Europe, Flanders

seems to one to have been a battle-ground from the dawn of history up to

the night of June Eighteenth, Eighteen Hundred Fifteen, with a few

incidental skirmishes since, for it is difficult to stop short. And it

surely was meet that Napoleon should have gone up there to receive his

Waterloo, and charge his cavalry into a sunken roadway, making a bridge

across with a mingled mass of men and horses; upon which site now is a

huge mound thrown up by the English, surmounted by a gigantic bronze lion

cast from the captured cannon of the French.

Napoleon belonged to the Latin race: he pushed his rule north into

Flanders, and there his prowess ended--there at the same place where

Spanish rule had been throttled and turned back upon itself. "Thus far,

and no farther." Jan Rubens was right. But he paid dearly for his

prophecy.

When William the Silent was away on his many warfaring expeditions, the

man who had charge of certain of his affairs was Jan Rubens. Naturally

this brought Rubens into an acquaintanceship with the wife of the silent

prince. Rubens was a handsome man, ready in speech, and of the kind that

makes friends easily. And if the wife of the Prince of Orange liked the

vivacious Rubens better than the silent warrior (who won his sobriquet,

they do say, through density of emotion and lack of ideas), why, who can

blame her!

But Rubens had a wife of his own, to whom he was fondly attached; and

this wife was also the close and trusted friend of the woman whose

husband was off to the wars. And yet when this dense and silent man came

back from one of his expeditions, it was only publicly to affront and

disgrace his wife, and to cast Jan Rubens into a dungeon. No doubt the

Prince was jealous of the courtly Rubens--and the Iagos are a numerous

tribe. But Othello's limit had been reached. He damned the innocent woman

to the lowest pit, and visited his wrath on the man.

Of course I know full well that all Northern Europe once rang with shrill

gossip over the affair, and as usual the woman was declared the guilty

party. Even yet, when topics for scandal in Belgium run short, this old

tale is revived and gone over--sides being taken. I've gone over it, too,

and although I may be in the minority, just as I possibly am as to the

"guilt" of Eve, yet I stand firm on the side of the woman. I give the

facts just as they appear, having canvassed the whole subject, possibly a

little more than was good for me.

Republics may be ungrateful, but the favor of princes is fickle as the

East Wind.

We make a fine hullabaloo nowadays because France or Russia occasionally

tries and sentences a man without giving him an opportunity of defense;

but in the Sixteenth Century the donjon-keeps of hundreds of castles in

Europe were filled with prisoners whose offense consisted in being feared

or disliked by some whimsical local ruler.

Jan Rubens was sent on an official errand to Dillenburg, and arriving

there was seized and thrown into prison, without trial or the privilege

of communicating with his friends.

Months of agonizing search on the part of his wife failed to find him,

and the Prince only broke the silence long enough to usurp a woman's

privilege by telling a lie, and declaring he did not know where Rubens

was, "but I believe he has committed suicide through remorse."

The distracted wife made her way alone from prison to prison, and

finally, by bribing an official, found her husband was in an underground

cell in the fortress at Dillenburg. It was a year before she was allowed

to communicate with or see him. But Maria Rubens was a true diplomat. You

move a man not by going to him direct, but by finding out who it is that

has a rope tied to his foot. She secured the help of the discarded wife

of the Prince, and these two managed to interest a worthy bishop, who

brought his influence to bear on Count John of Nassau. This man had

jurisdiction of the district in which the fortress where Rubens was

confined was located; and he agreed to release the prisoner on parole on

condition that a deposit of six thousand thalers be left with him, and an

agreement signed by the prisoner that he would give himself up when

requested; and also, further, that he would acknowledge before witnesses

that he was guilty of the charges made against him.

The latter clause was to justify the Prince of Orange in his actions

toward him.

Rubens refused to plead guilty, even for the sake of sweet liberty, on

account of the smirch to the name of the Princess.

But on the earnest request of both his wife and the "co-respondent," he

finally accepted the terms in the same manner that Galileo declared the

earth stood still. Rubens got his liberty, was loyal to his parole, but

John of Nassau kept the six thousand thalers for "expenses."

So much for the honor of princes; but in passing it is worthy of recall

that Jan Rubens pleaded guilty of disloyalty to his wife, on request of

said wife, in order that he might enjoy the society of said wife--and

cast a cloud on the good name of another woman on said woman's request.

So here is a plot for a play: a tale of self-sacrifice and loyalty on the

part of two women that puts to shame much small talk we hear from small

men concerning the fickleness and selfishness of woman's love. "Brief as

woman's love!" said Hamlet--but then, Hamlet was crazy.

Jan Rubens died in Cologne, March Eighteenth, Fifteen Hundred

Eighty-seven, and lies buried in the Church of Saint Peter. Above the

grave is a slab containing this inscription: "Sacred to the Memory of Jan

Rubens, of Antwerp, who went into voluntary exile and retired with his

family to Cologne, where he abode for nineteen years with his wife Maria,

who was the mother of his seven children. With this his only wife Maria

he lived happily for twenty-six years without any quarrel. This monument

is erected by said Maria Pypelings Rubens to her sweetest and

well-deserved husband."

Of course, no one knew then that one of the seven--the youngest son of

Jan and Maria--was to win deathless fame, or that might have been carved

on the slab, too, even if something else had to be omitted.

But Maria need not have added that last clause, stating who it was that

placed the tablet: as it stands we should all have known that it was she

who dictated the inscription. Epitaphs are proverbially untruthful; hence

arose the saying, "He lies like an epitaph." The woman who can not evolve

a good lie in defense of the man she loves is unworthy of the name of

wife.

The lie is the weapon of defense that kind Providence provides for the

protection of the oppressed. "Women are great liars," said Mahomet;

"Allah in his wisdom made them so."

Hail, Maria Rubens! turned to dust these three hundred years, what star

do you now inhabit? or does your avatar live somewhere here in this

world? At the thought of your unselfish loyalty and precious fibbing, an

army of valiant, ghostly knights will arise from their graves, and rusty

swords leap from their scabbards if aught but good be said against thee.

"Ho, ho! and wasn't your husband really guilty, and didn't you know it

all the time?" I'll fling my glove full in the face of any man who dare

ask you such a question.

Beloved and loving wife for six-and-twenty years, and mother of seven,

looking the world squarely in the eye and telling a large and beautiful

untruth, carving it in marble to protect your husband's name, I kiss my

hand to you!

* * * * *

In the doorpost of a queer little stone house in Cologne is carved an

inscription to the effect that Peter Paul Rubens was born there on June

Twenty-ninth, Fifteen Hundred Seventy-seven. It is probably true that the

parents of Rubens lived there, but Peter Paul was born at Siegen, under

the shadow of a prison from which his father was paroled.

After a few years the discipline relaxed, for there were new prisoners

coming along, and Maria and Jan were given permission to move to Cologne.

Peter Paul was ten years of age when his father died. The next year the

widow moved with her little brood back to Antwerp, back to the city from

which her husband had been exiled just twenty years before. Five years

previous the Prince of Orange, who had exiled her husband, was himself

sent on a journey, via the dagger of an assassin. As the chief enemy of

Jan Rubens was dead, it was the hope of the widow to recover their

property that had been confiscated.

Maria Rubens was a good Catholic; and she succeeded in making the

authorities believe that her husband had been, too, for the home that

Royalty had confiscated was returned to her.

The mother of Peter Paul loved the dim twilight mysteries of the Church,

and accepted every dogma and edict as the literal word of God. It is

easier and certainly safer to leave such matters to the specialists.

She was a born diplomat. She recognized the power of the Church and knew

that to win one must go with the current, not against it. To have doubts,

when the Church is willing to bear the whole burden, she thought very

foolish. Had she been a man she would have been a leader among the

Jesuits. The folly of opposition had been shown her most vividly in her

husband's career. What could he not have been had he been wise and

patient and ta'en the tide at its flood! And this was the spirit that she

inculcated in the minds of her children.

Little Peter Paul was a handsome lad--handsome as his father--with big,

dark brown eyes and clustering curls. He was bright, intelligent, and

blessed with a cheerful, obliging disposition. He came into the world a

welcome child, carrying the beauty of the morning in his face, and form,

and spirit.

No wonder is it that the Countess de Lalaing desired the boy for a page

as soon as she saw him. His mother embraced the opportunity to let her

favorite child see court life, and so at the early age of twelve, at a

plunge, he began that career in polite diplomacy that was to continue for

half a century.

The Countess called herself his "other mother," and lavished upon him all

the attention that a childless woman had to bestow. The mornings were

sacred to his lessons, which were looked after by a Jesuit priest; and in

the afternoon, another priest came to give the ladies lessons in the

languages, and at these circles young Peter Paul was always present as

one of the class.

Indeed, the earliest accomplishment of Peter Paul was his polyglot

ability. When he arrived at Antwerp, a mere child, he spoke German,

Flemish and French.

Such a favorite did little Peter Paul become with his "other mother," and

her ladies of the court, that his sure-enough mother grew a bit jealous,

and feared they would make a hothouse plant of her boy, and so she took

him away.

The question was, for what profession should he be educated? That he

should serve the Church and State was already a settled fact in the

mother's mind: to get on in the world you must cultivate and wisely serve

those who are in power--that is, those who have power to bestow. Priests

were plentiful as blackberries, and politicians were on every corner, and

many of the priests and officeseekers had no special talent to recommend

them. They were simply timeservers. Maria knew this: To get on you must

have several talents, otherwise people will tire of you.

In Cologne, Maria Rubens had met returned pilgrims from Rome and they had

told her of that trinity of giants, Michelangelo, Raphael and Leonardo;

and how these men had been the peers of prince and pope, because they had

the ability to execute marvelous works of beauty.

This extraordinary talent called attention to themselves, so they were

summoned out of the crowd and became the companions and friends of the

greatest names of their time.

And then, how better can one glorify his Maker than by covering the

sacred walls of temples with rich ornament!

The boy entered into the project, and the mother's ambition that he

should retrieve his father's fortune fired his heart. Thus does the

failure in life of a parent often give incentive to the genius of a son.

Tobias Verhaecht was the man who taught Rubens the elements of drawing,

and inculcated in him that love of Nature which was to be his lifelong

heritage. The word "landscape" is Flemish, and it was the Dutch who

carried the term and the art into England. Verhaecht was among the very

first of landscape-painters. He was a specialist: he could draw trees and

clouds, and a winding river, but could not portray faces. And so he used

to call in a worthy portrait-painter, by the name of Franck, to assist

him whenever he had a canvas on the easel that demanded the human form.

Then when Franck wanted background and perspective, Verhaecht would go

over with a brush and a few pots of paint and help him out.

At fifteen, the keen, intuitive mind of Rubens had fathomed the talents

of those two worthies, Verhaecht and Franck. His mind was essentially

feminine: he absorbed ideas in the mass. Soon he prided himself on being

able to paint alone as good a picture as the two collaborators could

together. Yet he was too wise to affront them by the boast. The bent of

his talent he thought was toward historical painting; and more than this,

he knew that only epic art would open the churches for a painter. And so

he next became a pupil under Adam van Noort. This man was a rugged old

character, who worked out things in his own way and pushed the standard

of painting full ten points to the front. His work shows a marked advance

over that of his contemporaries and over the race of painters that

preceded him. Every great artist is the lingering representative of an

age that is dead, or else he is the prophet and forerunner of a golden

age to come.

When I visited the Church of Saint Jaques in Antwerp, where Rubens lies

buried, the good old priest who acted as guide called my attention to a

picture by Van Noort, showing Peter finding the money in the mouth of the

fish. "A close study of that picture will reveal to you the germ of the

Rubens touch," said the priest, and he was surely right: its boldness of

drawing, the strong, bright colors and the dexterity in handling all say,

"Rubens." Rubens builded on the work of Van Noort.

Twenty years after Rubens had left the studio of Van Noort he paid

tribute to his old master by saying, "Had Van Noort visited Italy and

caught the spirit of the classicists, his name would stand first among

Flemish artists."

Rubens worked four years with Van Noort and then entered the studio of

Otto van Veen. This man was not a better painter than Van Noort, but he

occupied a much higher social position, and Peter Paul was intent on

advancing his skirmish-line. He never lost ground. Van Veen was Court

Painter, and on friendly terms with the Archduke Albert, and Isabella,

his wife, daughter of Philip the Second, King of Spain.

Van Veen took very few pupils--only those who had the ability to aid him

in completing his designs. To have worked with this master was an

introduction at once into the charmed circle of royalty.

Rubens was in no haste to branch out on his own account: he was quite

content to know that he was gaining ground, making head upon the whole.

He won the confidence of Van Veen at once by his skill, his cheerful

presence, and ability to further the interests of his master and patrons.

In Fifteen Hundred Ninety-nine, when Rubens was twenty-two, he was

enrolled as a free master at the Guild of Saint Luke on the nomination of

Van Veen, who also about this time introduced the young artist to Albert

and Isabella.

But the best service that Van Veen did for Rubens was in taking him into

his home and giving him free access to the finest collection of Italian

art in the Netherlands. These things filled the heart of Rubens with a

desire to visit Italy, and there to dive deeply into the art spirit of

that land from which all our art has sprung.

To go abroad then and gain access to the art treasures of the world was

not a mere matter of asking for a passport, handing out a visiting-card,

and paying your way.

Young men who wished to go abroad to study were required to pass a stiff

examination. If it was believed that they could not represent their own

country with honor, their passports were withheld. And to travel without

a passport was to run the risk of being arrested as an absconder.

But Rubens' place in society was already secure. Instead of applying for

his passports personally and undergoing the usual catechization, his

desires were explained to Van Veen, and all technicalities were waived,

as they always are when you strike the right man. Not only were the

passports forthcoming, but Albert and Isabella wrote a personal note to

Viccuzo Gonzaga, the Duke of Mantua, commending the young painter to the

Duke's good offices.

Van Veen further explained to Rubens that to know the Duke of Mantua

might mean either humiliation or crowning success. To attain the latter

through the Duke of Mantua, it was necessary to make a good impression on

Annibale Chieppo, the Duke's Minister of State. Chieppo had the keeping

of the ducal conscience as well as the key to the strong-box.

The Duke of Mantua was one of those strange loaded dice that Fate

occasionally flings upon this checkerboard of time: one of those

characters whose feverish faculties border on madness, yet who do the

world great good by breaking up its balances, preventing social

ankylosis, and eventually forcing upon mankind a new deal. But in the

train of these vagrant stars famine and pestilence follow.

The Duke of Mantua was brother in spirit to the man who made

Versailles--and making Versailles undid France.

Versailles is a dream: no language that the most enthusiastic lovers of

the beautiful may utter, can exaggerate the wonders of those acres of

palaces and miles of gardens. The magnificence of the place makes the

ready writer put up his pencil, and go away whipped, subdued and

crestfallen to think that here are creations that no one pen can even

catalog. Louis the Grand, we are told, had thirty-six thousand men and

six thousand horses at work here at one time. No wonder Madame De

Maintenon was oppressed by the treasures that were beyond the capacity of

man to contemplate; and so off in the woods was built that lover's

retreat, "The Trianon." And out there today, hidden in the forest, we

behold the second Trianon, built by Marie Antoinette, and we also see

those straw-thatched huts where the ladies of her Court played at peasant

life.

Louis the Fourteenth builded so well that he discouraged his successor

from doing anything but play keep-house, and so extensively that France

was rent in twain, and so mightily that even Napoleon Bonaparte was

staggered at the thought of maintaining Versailles.

"It's too much for any man to enjoy--I give it up!" said the Little Man,

perplexed, and ordered every door locked and every window tightly

shuttered. Then he placed a thousand men to guard the place and went

about his business.

But today Versailles belongs to the people of France; more, it belongs to

the people of earth: all is free and you may carry away all the beauty of

the place that your soul can absorb.

Now, who shall say that Louis the Fourteenth has not enriched the world?

The Duke of Mantua was sumptuous in his tastes, liberal, chivalrous,

voluptuous, extravagant. At the same time he had a cultivated mind, an

eye for proportion, and an ear for harmony. He was even pious at times,

and like all debauchees had periods of asceticism. He was much given to

gallantry, and his pension-list of beautiful women was not small. He was

a poet and wrote some very good sonnets; he was a composer who sang, from

his own compositions, after the wine had gone round; he was an orator who

committed to memory and made his own the speeches that his secretary

wrote.

He traveled much, and in great state, with a retinue of servants, armed

guards, outriders and guides. Wherever he went he summoned the local

poet, or painter, or musician, and made a speech to him, showing that he

was familiar with his work by humming a tune or quoting a stanza. Then he

put a chain of gold around the poor embarrassed fellow's neck, and a

purse in his hands, and the people cheered.

When he visited a town, cavalcades met him afar out, and as he

approached, little girls in white and boys dressed in velvet ran before

and strewed flowers in front of his carriage.

Oh, the Duke of Mantua was a great man!

In his retinue was a troop of comedians, a court fool, two dwarfs for

luck, seven cooks, three alchemists and an astrologer. Like the old woman

who lived in a shoe, he had so many children he didn't know what to do.

One of his sons married a princess of the House of Saxony, another son

was a cardinal, and a daughter married into the House of Lorraine. He had

alliances and close relations with every reigning family of Europe. The

sister of his wife, Marie de Medici, became "King of France," as

Talleyrand avers, and had a mad, glad, sad, bad, jolly time of it.

Wherever the Duke of Mantua went, there too went Annibale Chieppo, the

Minister of State. This man had a calm eye, a quiet pulse, and could

locate any man or woman in his numerous retinue at any hour of the day or

night. He was a diplomat, a soldier, a financier.

You could not reach the Duke until you had got past Chieppo.

And the Duke of Mantua had much commonsense--for in spite of envy and

calumny and threat he never lost faith in Annibale Chieppo.

No success in life is possible without a capable first mate. Chieppo was

king of first mates.

He was subtle as Richelieu and as wise as Wolsey.

When Peter Paul Rubens, aged twenty-three, arrived at Venice, the Duke of

Mantua and his train were there. Rubens presented his credentials to

Chieppo, and the Minister of State read them, looked upon the handsome

person of the young man, proved for himself he had decided talent as a

painter, put him through a civil-service examination--and took him into

favor. Such a young man as this, so bright, so courtly, so talented, must

be secured. He would give the entire Court a new thrill.

"Tomorrow," said the Minister of State, "tomorrow you shall be received

by the Duke of Mantua and his court!"

* * * * *

The ducal party remained at Venice for several weeks, and when it

returned to Mantua, Rubens went along quite as a matter of course. From

letters that he wrote to his brother Philip, as well as from many other

sources, we know that the art collection belonging to the Duke of Mantua

was very rich. It included works by the Bellinis, Correggio, Leonardo da

Vinci, Andrea del Sarto, Tintoretto, Titian, Paoli Veronese, and various

others whose names have faded away like their colors.

Rubens had long been accustomed to the ways of polite society. The

magnificence of his manner, and the fine egotism he showed in his work,

captivated the Court. The Duke was proud of his ward and paraded him

before his artistic friends as the coming man, incidentally explaining

that it was the Duke of Mantua who had made him and not he himself.

It was then the custom of those who owned masterpieces to have copies

made and present them to various other lovers of the beautiful. If an

honored guest was looking through your gallery, and expressed great

pleasure in a certain canvas, the correct thing was to say, "I'll have my

best painter make a copy of it, and send it to you"--and a memorandum was

made on an ivory tablet. This gracious custom seems to have come down

from the time when the owners of precious books constantly employed

scribes and expert illuminators in making copies for distribution. The

work done in the scriptoriums of the monasteries, we know, was sent away

as presents, or in exchange for other volumes.

Rubens set diligently to work copying in the galleries of Mantua; and

whether the Duke was happier because he had discovered Rubens than Rubens

was because he had found the Duke, we do not know. Anyway, all that the

young painter had hoped and prayed for had been sent him.

Here was work from the very hands of the masters he had long worshiped

from afar. His ambition was high and his strong animal spirits and

tireless energy were a surprise to the easy-going Italians. The galleries

were his without let or hindrance, save that he allow the ladies of the

Court to come every afternoon and watch him work. This probably did not

disturb him; but we find the experienced Duke giving the young Fleming

some good advice, thus: "You must admire all these ladies in equal

portion. Should you show favoritism for one, the rest will turn upon you;

and to marry any one of them would be fatal to your art."

Rubens wrote the advice home to his mother, and the good mother viseed it

and sent it back.

After six months of diligent work at Mantua we find Rubens starting for

Rome with letters from the Duke to Cardinal Montalto, highly recommending

him to the good graces of the Cardinal, and requesting, "that you will be

graciously so good as to allow our Fleming to execute and make copies

for us of such paintings as he may deem worthy."

Cardinal Montalto was a nephew of Pope Sixtus, and the strongest man,

save the Pope, in Rome. He had immense wealth, great learning, and rare

good sense in matters of art. He was a close friend of the Duke of

Mantua; and to come into personal relations with such a man was a piece

of rare good fortune for any man. The art world of Rome now belonged to

Rubens--all doors opened at his touch. "Our Fleming" knew the value of

his privileges. "If I do not succeed," he writes to his mother, "it will

be because I have not improved my opportunities." The word fail was not

in his lexicon. His industry never relaxed. In Walpole's "Anecdotes of

Painting," an account is given of a sketchbook compiled by Rubens at this

time. The original was in the possession of Maurice Johnson, of Spalding,

England, in Eighteen Hundred Forty-five, at which time it was exhibited

in London and attracted much attention.

I have seen a copy of the book with its hundred or more sketches of the

very figures that we now see and admire in the Uffizi and Pitti galleries

and in the Vatican. Eight generations of men have come and gone since

Rubens sketched from the Old Masters, but there today stand the chiseled

shapes, which were then centuries old, and there today are the "Titians"

and the "Raphaellos" just as the exuberant Fleming saw them. Surely this

must show us how short are the days of man! "Open then the door; you

know how little while we have to stay!"

The two figures that seemed to impress Rubens most, as shown in the

sketchbook, are the Farnese "Hercules" and Michelangelo's "David." He

shows the foot of the "Hercules," and the hand of the "David," and gives

front, back and side views with comments and criticisms. Then after a few

pages have been covered by other matter he goes back again to the

"Hercules"--the subject fascinates him.

When we view "The Crucifixion," in the Cathedral at Antwerp, we conclude

that he admired the "Hercules" not wisely but too well, for the muscles

stand out on all the figures, even of the Savior, in pure Farnese style.

Two years after that picture was painted, he did his masterpiece, "The

Descent From the Cross," and we behold with relief the change that had

come over the spirit of his dreams. Mere pride in performing a difficult

feat had given place to a higher motive. There is no reason to suppose

that the Apostles had trained to perform the twelve labors of Hercules,

or that the two Marys were Amazons. But the burly Roman forms went back

to Flanders, and for many years staid citizens were slipped into classic

attitudes to do duty as Disciples, Elders, Angels--all with swelling

biceps, knotted muscles, and necks like the Emperor Vespasian.

The Mantuan Envoy at Rome had private orders from Chieppo to see that the

Fleming was well treated. The Envoy was further requested to report to

the Secretary how the painter spent his time, and also how he was

regarded by Cardinal Montalto. Thus we see the wily Secretary set one

servant watching another, and kept in close touch with all.

The reports, however, all confirmed the Secretary in his belief that the

Fleming was a genius, and, moreover, worthy of all the encouragement that

was bestowed upon him. The Secretary sent funds from time to time to the

painter, with gentle hints that he should pay due attention to his

behavior, and also to his raiment, for the apparel oft doth proclaim the

man.

The Duke of Mantua seems to have regarded Rubens as his own private

property, and Rubens had too much sense to do anything by word or deed

that might displease his patron.

When he had gotten all that Italy could give, or more properly all he

could absorb, his intent was to follow his heart and go straight back to

Flanders.

Three years had passed since Rubens had arrived in Venice--years of

profit to both spirit and purse. He had painted pictures that placed him

in the rank of acknowledged artists, and the Duke of Mantua had dropped

all patronizing airs. With the ducal party Rubens had visited Verona,

Florence, Pisa and Padua. His fame was more than local. The painter

hinted to Chieppo that he would like to return to Antwerp, but the

Secretary objected--he had important work for him.

* * * * *

Rubens was from Flanders, and Flanders was a Spanish possession: then the

Fleming knew the daughter of the King of Spain. No man was so well fitted

to go on a delicate diplomatic mission to Spain as the Flemish painter.

"You are my heart's jewel," said the Duke of Mantua to the Prime

Minister, when the Minister suggested it.

The Duke wished private information as to certain things Spanish, and was

also preparing the way to ask for sundry favors. The Court at Madrid was

artistic in instinct; so was the Mantuan Court. To recognize the esthetic

side of your friend's nature, when your friend is secretly not quite sure

but that he is more worldly than spiritual, is a stroke of diplomacy.

Spain was not really artistic, but there were stirrings being felt, and

Velasquez and Murillo were soon to appear.

The Duke of Mantua wished to present the King of Spain with certain

pictures; his mind was filled with a lively sense of anticipation of

future favors to be received--which feeling we are told is gratitude. The

entire ceremony must be carried out appropriately--the poetic unities

being fully preserved. Therefore a skilful painter must be sent with the

pictures, in order to see that they were safely transported, properly

unpacked, and rightly hung.

Instructions were given to Peter Paul Rubens, the artistic ambassador, at

great length, as to how he should proceed. He was to make himself

agreeable to the King, and to one greater than the King--the man behind

the throne--the Duke of Lerma; and to several fair ladies as well.

The pictures were copies of the masters--"Titians," "Raphaellos,"

"Tintorettos" and "Leonardos." They were copied with great fidelity, even

to the signature and private marks of the original artist. In fact, so

well was the work done that if the recipient inclined to accept them as

originals, his mind must not be disabused. Further, the envoy was not

supposed to know whether they were originals or not (even though he had

painted them), and if worse came to worst he must say, "Well, surely they

are just as good as the originals, if not better."

Presents were taken for a dozen or more persons. Those who were not so

very artistic were to have gifts of guns, swords and precious stones. The

ambassador was to travel in a new carriage, drawn by six horses and

followed by wagons carrying the art treasures. All this so as to make the

right impression and prove to Madrid that Mantua was both rich and

generous. And as a capsheaf to it all, the painter must choose an

opportune moment and present his beautiful carriage and horses to the

King, for the belief was rife that the King of Spain was really more

horsey than artistic.

The pictures were selected with great care, and the finest horses to be

found were secured, regardless of cost. Several weeks were consumed in

preparations, and at last the cavalcade started away, with Rubens in the

carriage and eleven velvet suits in his chest, as he himself has told us.

It was a long, hard journey to Madrid. There were encounters with

rapacious landlords, and hairbreadth escapes in the imminent deadly

custom-house. But in a month the chromatic diplomat arrived and entered

Madrid at the head of his company, wearing one of the velvet suits, and

riding a milk-white charger.

Rubens followed orders and wrote Signor Chieppo at great length, giving a

minute account of every incident and detail of the journey and of his

reception at Madrid. While at the Court he kept a daily record of

happenings, which was also forwarded to the Secretary.

These many letters have recently been given to the public. They are in

Italian, with a sprinkling here and there of good honest Dutch. All is

most sincere, grave and explicit. Rubens deserved great credit for all

these letters, for surely they were written with sweat and lamp-smoke.

The work of the toiler is over all, but we must remember that at that

time he had been studying Italian only about a year.

The literary style of Rubens was Johnsonese all his life, and he made his

meaning plain only by repetitions and many rhetorical flounderings. Like

the average sixteen-year-old boy who sits himself down and takes his pen

in hand, all his sprightliness of imagination vanished at sight of an

ink-bottle. With a brush his feelings were fluid, and in a company grace

dwelt upon his lips; but when asked to write it out he gripped the pen as

though it were a crowbar instead of a crow's-quill.

But Chieppo received his reports; and we know the embassy was a

success--a great success. The debonair Fleming surprised the King by

saying, "Your Majesty, it is like this"--and then with a few bold strokes

drew a picture.

He modestly explained that he was not much of a painter--"merely used a

brush for his own amusement"--and then made a portrait for the Minister

of State that exaggerated all of that man's good points, and ignored all

his failings. There was a cast in the Minister's eye, but Rubens waived

it. The Minister was delighted, and so was the King. He then made a

portrait of the King that was as flattering as portraits should be that

are painted for monarchs.

Among his other accomplishments the Fleming was a skilful horseman; he

rode with such grace and dash that the King took him on his drives,

Rubens riding by the side of the carriage, gaily conversing as they rode.

And so with the aid of his many talents he won the confidence of the King

and Court and was initiated into the inner life of Spanish royalty in a

way that Iberta, the Mantuan Resident, never had been. The King liked

Rubens, and so did the Man behind the Throne.

Mortals do not merely like each other because they like each other; such

a bond is tenuous as a spider's thread. I love you because you love the

things that I love. One woman won my heart by her subtle appreciation of

"The Dipsy Chanty." Men meet on a horse basis, a book basis, a religious

basis, or some other mutual leaning; sometimes we find them uniting on a

mutual dislike for something. For instance, I have a friend to whom I am

bound by the tie of oneness because we dislike olives, and have a mutual

indifference to the pretended claims of the unpronounceable Pole who

wrote "Quo Vadis." The discovery was accidentally made in a hotel

dining-room: we clasped hands across the board, and since then have been

as brothers.

The more points at which you touch humanity the more friends you

have--the greater your influence. Rubens was an artist, a horseman, a

musician, a politician and a gourmet. When conceptions in the kitchen

were vague, he would send for the cook and explain to him how to do it.

He possessed a most discriminating palate and a fine appreciation of

things drinkable. These accomplishments secured him a well-defined case

of gout while yet a young man. He taught the Spanish Court how to smoke,

having himself been initiated by an Englishman, who was a companion of

Sir Walter Raleigh, and showed them how to roll a cigarette while engaged

in ardent conversation. And the Spaniards have not yet lost the art, for

once in Cadiz I saw a horse running away, and the driver rolled and

lighted a cigarette before trying to stop the mad flight of the frantic

brute.

In the Royal Gallery at Madrid are several large paintings by Rubens that

were doubtless done at this time. They are religious subjects; but worked

in, after the manner of a true diplomat, are various portraits of brave

men and handsome women. To pose a worthy senator as Saint Paul, and a

dashing lady of the Court as the Holy Virgin, was most gratifying to the

phrenological development of approbativeness of the said senator and

lady. Then, as the painter had pictured one, he must do as much for

others, so there could be no accusation of favoritism.

Thus the months passed rapidly. The Duke of Lerma writes to Chieppo, "We

desire your gracious permission to keep the Fleming another month, as

very special portraits are required from his brush."

The extra month extended itself to three; and when at last Rubens started

back for Mantua it was after a full year's absence.

The embassy was a most complete success. The diplomat well masked his

true errand with the artist's garb: and who of all men was ever so well

fitted by Nature to play the part as Rubens?

Yet he came near overdoing the part at least once. It was in this wise:

he really was not sure that the honors paid him were on account of his

being a painter or a courtier. But like comedians who think their forte

is tragedy, so the part of courtier was more pleasing to Rubens than

that of painter, because it was more difficult. He painted with such ease

that he set small store on the talent: it was only a makeshift for

advancement.

Don John, Duke of Braganza, afterward King of Portugal, was a lover of

art, and desired to make the acquaintance of the painter. So he wrote to

Rubens at Madrid, inviting him to Villa Vitiosa, his place of residence.

Rubens knew how the Duke of Mantua did these things--he decided to follow

suit.

With a numerous train, made up from the fringe of the Madrid Court, with

hired horsemen going before, and many servants behind, the retinue

started away. Coming within five miles of the villa of Don John, word was

sent that Rubens and his retinue awaited his embassy.

Now Don John was a sure-enough duke and could muster quite a retinue of

his own on occasion, yet he had small taste for tinsel parades. Men who

have a real good bank-balance do not have to wear fashionable clothes.

Don John was a plain, blunt man who liked books and pictures. He wanted

to see the painter, not a courtier: and when he heard of the style in

which the artist was coming, he just put a boy on a donkey and sent word

out that he was not at home. And further, to show the proud painter his

place, he sent along a small purse of silver to pay the artist for the

trouble to which he had been. The rebuke was so delicate that it was

altogether lost on Rubens--he was simply enraged.

* * * * *

In all, Rubens spent eight years in the service of the Duke of Mantua. He

had visited the chief cities of Italy, and was familiar with all the art

of the golden ages that had gone before. When he left Italy he had to

take advantage of the fact that the Duke was in France, for every time

before, when he had suggested going, he was questioned thus: "Why, have

you not all you wish? What more can be done for you? Name your desire and

you shall have it."

But Rubens wanted home: Antwerp, his mother, brothers, sister, the broad

River Scheldt, and the good old Flemish tongue.

Soon after arriving in Antwerp he was named as Court Painter by Albert

and Isabella. Thus he was the successor of his old master, Van Veen.

He was now aged thirty-two, in possession of an income from the State,

and a fame and name to be envied. He was rich in money, jewels and art

treasures brought from Italy, for he had the thrifty instincts of a true

Dutchman.

And it was a gala day for all Antwerp when the bells rang and the great

organ in the Cathedral played the wedding-march when Peter Paul Rubens

and Isabella Brandt were married, on the Thirteenth of October, Sixteen

Hundred Nine. Never was there a happier mating.

That fine picture at Munich of Rubens and his wife tells of the sweet

comradeship that was to be theirs for many years. He opened a school, and

pupils flocked to him from all Europe; commissions for work came and

orders for altar-pieces from various churches.

An order was issued by the Archduke that he should not leave Holland, and

a copy of the order was sent to the Duke of Mantua, to shut off his

importunities.

Among the pupils of Rubens we find the name of Jordaens (whom he had

first known in Italy), De Crayer, Anthony Van Dyck, Franz Snyder and many

others who achieved distinction. Rubens was a positive leader; so

animated was his manner that his ambition was infectious. All his young

men painted just as he did. His will was theirs. From now on, out of the

thousands of pictures signed "P. P. Rubens," we can not pick out a single

picture and say, "Rubens did this." He drew outlines and added the

finishing touches; and surely would not have signed a canvas of which he

did not approve. In his great studio at Antwerp, at various times, fully

a hundred men worked to produce the pictures we call "Rubens."

Those glowing canvases in the "Rubens Gallery" of the Louvre, showing the

history and apotheosis of Marie de Medici, were painted at Antwerp. The

joyous, exuberant touch of Rubens is over all, even though the work was

done by 'prentice hands.

Peaceful lives make dull biographies, and in prosperity is small

romance.

We may search long before finding a life so full to overflowing of

material good things as that of Rubens. All he touched turned to gold.

From the time he returned to Antwerp in Sixteen Hundred Eight to his

death in Sixteen Hundred Forty, his life-journey was one grand triumphal

march. His many diplomatic missions were simply repetitions of his first

Spanish embassy, with the Don John incident left out, for Don John seems

to have been the only man who was not at home to the gracious Rubens.

Mr. Ruskin has said: "Rubens was a great painter, but he lacked that last

undefinable something which makes heart speak to heart. You admire, but

you never adore. No real sorrow ever entered his life."

Perhaps we get a valuable clue in that last line. Great art is born of

feeling, and the heart of Rubens was never touched by tragedy, nor the

rocky fastnesses of his tears broken in upon by grief. In many ways his

was the spirit of a child: he had troubles, but not sufficient to prevent

refreshing sleep, and when he awoke in the morning the trials of

yesterday were gone.

Even when the helpful, faithful and loving Isabella Brandt was taken away

from him by death, there soon came other joys to take the place of those

that were lost.

We have full fifty pictures of his second wife: she looks down at

us--smiling, buxom, content--from every gallery-wall in Europe. Rubens

was fifty-three and she was sixteen when they were married; and were it

not for a twinge of gout now and then, he would have been as young as

she.

When Rubens went to England on "an artistic commission," we see that he

captured Charles the First just as he captured the court of Spain. He

painted five portraits of the King that we can trace. The mild-mannered

Charles was greatly pleased with the fine portrait of himself bestriding

the prancing cream-colored charger.

Several notable artists, Sir Joshua Reynolds among them, have

complimented the picture by taking the horse, background and pose, and

placing another man in the saddle--or more properly, taking off the head

of Charles the First and putting on the head of any bold patron who would

furnish the price. In looking through the galleries of Europe, keep your

eye out for equestrian portraits, and you will be surprised to see on

your tab, when you have made the rounds, how many painters have borrowed

that long-maned, yellow horse that still rears in the National Gallery in

London, smelling the battle afar off--as Charles himself preferred to

smell it.

Rubens had a good time in England, although his patience was severely

tried by being kept at painting for months, awaiting an opportune time to

give King Charles some good advice on matters political.

English ways were very different from those of the Continent, but Rubens

soon spoke the language with fluency, even if not with precision.

Rubens spoke seven languages, and to speak seven languages is to speak no

one well. On this point we have a little comment from high authority.

Said Charles the First, writing to Buckingham, "The Fleming painter

prides himself on being able to pass for an Englishman, but his English

is so larded with French, Dutch and Italian that we think he must have

been employed on the Tower of Babel."

While painting the ceiling of the banqueting-room at Whitehall (where a

Dutchman was later to be crowned King of England), he discussed politics

with the Duke of Buckingham and the King, from the scaffold. Some years

after we find Buckingham visiting Rubens at his home in Antwerp,

dickering for his fine collection of curios and paintings.

The Duke afterwards bought the collection and paid Rubens ten thousand

pounds in gold for it.

Every one complimented Rubens on his shrewdness in getting so much money

for the wares, and Rubens gave a banquet to his friends in token of the

great sale to the Britisher. It was a lot of money, to be sure, but the

Englishman realized the worth of the collection better than did Rubens.

We have a catalog of the collection. It includes nineteen Titians,

thirteen Paul Veroneses, seventeen Tintorettos, three Leonardos, three

Raphaels and thirteen pictures by Rubens himself.

A single one of the Titians, if sold at auction today, would bring more

than the Duke paid for the entire collection.

James McNeil Whistler has said, "There may be a doubt about Rubens having

been a Great Artist; but he surely was an Industrious Person."

There is barely enough truth in Mr. Whistler's remark, taken with its

dash of wit, to save it; but Philip Gilbert Hamerton's sober estimate is

of more value: "The influence of Rubens for good can not be

overestimated. He gave inspiration to all he met, and his example of

industry, vivid imagination, good-cheer and good taste have had an

incalculable influence on art. We have more canvases from his hand than

from the hand of any other master. And these pictures are a quarry to

which every artist of today, consciously or unconsciously, is indebted."