PICTURES AND PALACES.
Before we go away from Rome I should like to say a few words on two
subjects which hitherto I have avoided. A large part of the time of
most travellers in Europe is spent in wandering through palaces and
picture galleries, but descriptions of the former would be tedious by
their very monotony of magnificence, and of the latter would be hardly
intelligible to unprofessional readers, nor of much value to anybody,
unless the writer were, what I do not profess to be, a thorough critic
in art. But I have certain general impressions, which I may express
with due modesty, and yet with frankness, and which may perchance
accord with the impressions of some other very plain, but not quite
unintelligent, people.
One who has not been abroad--I might almost say, who has not _lived_
abroad--cannot realize how much art takes hold of the imagination of a
people, and enters into their very life. It is the form in which
Italian genius has most often expressed itself. What poetry is in some
countries, art is in Italy. England had great poets in the days of
Elizabeth, but no great painters, at a time when the churches and
galleries of Italy were illuminated by the genius of Raphael and
Titian and Leonardo da Vinci.
The products of such genius have been a treasure to Italy and to the
world. Works of art are immortal. Raphael is dead, but the
Transfiguration lives. As the paintings of great masters accumulated
from century to century, they were gathered in public or private
collections, which became, like the libraries of universities,
storehouses for the delight and instruction of mankind. Such works
justly command the homage and reverence which are due to the highest
creations of the human intellect. The man who has put on canvas
conceptions which are worthy to live, has left a legacy to the human
race. "When I think," said an old monk, who was accustomed to show
paintings on the walls of his monastery, "how men come, generation
after generation, to see these pictures, and how they pass away, but
these remain, I sometimes think that _these are the realities, and
that we are the shadows_."
But with all this acknowledgment of the genius that is thus immortal,
and that gives delight to successive generations, there are one or two
drawbacks to the pleasure I have derived from these great collections
of art.
In the first place, there is the _embarrassment of riches_. One who
undertakes to visit all the picture galleries, even of a single city
like Rome or Florence, soon finds himself overwhelmed by their number.
He goes on day after day, racing from one place to another, looking
here and there in the most hurried manner, till his mind becomes
utterly confused, and he gains no definite impression. It is as
impossible to study with care all these pictures, as it would be to
read all the books in a public library, which are not intended to be
read "by wholesale," but only to be used for reference. So with the
great collections of paintings, which are arranged in a certain order,
so as to give an idea of the style of different countries, such as the
Dutch school, the Venetian school, etc. These are very useful for one
who wishes to trace the history of art, but the ordinary traveller
does not care to go into such detail. To him a much smaller number of
pictures, carefully chosen, would give more pleasure and more
instruction.
Further, it has seemed to me that with all the genius of the old
masters (which no one is more ready to confess, and in which no one
takes more intense delight), there is sometimes a _worship_ of them,
which is extended to all their works without discrimination, which is
not the result of personal observation, nor quite consistent with
mental independence. Indeed, there are few things in which the empire
of fashion is more absolute, and more despotic. It is at this point
that I meekly offer a protest. I admit fully and gratefully the
marvellous genius of some of the old painters, but I cannot admit that
everything they touched was equally good. Homer sometimes nods, and
even Raphael and Titian--great as they are, and superior perhaps to
everybody else--are not always equal to themselves. Raphael worked
very rapidly, as is shown by the number of pictures which he left,
although he died a young man. Of course, his works must be very
unequal, and we may all exercise our taste in preferring some to
others.
In another respect it seems to me that there is a limitation of the
greatness even of the old masters, viz., in the range of their
subjects, in which I find a singular _monotony_. In the numberless
galleries that we have visited this summer, I have observed in the old
pictures, with all their power of drawing and richness of color, a
remarkable sameness, both of subject and of treatment. Even the
greatest artists have their manner, which one soon comes to recognize;
so that he is rarely mistaken in designating the painter. I know a
picture of Rubens anywhere by the colossal limbs that start out of the
canvas. Paul Veronese always spreads himself over a large surface,
where he has room to bring in a great number of figures, and introduce
details of architecture. Give him the Marriage at Cana, or a Royal
Feast, and he will produce a picture which will furnish the whole end
of a palace hall. It is very grand, of course; but when one sees a
constant recurrence of the same general style, he recognizes the
limitations of the painter's genius. Or, to go from large pictures to
small ones, there is a Dutch artist, Wouvermans, whose pictures are in
every gallery in Europe. I have seen hundreds of them, and not one in
which he does not introduce a white horse!
Even the greatest of the old masters seem to have exercised their
genius upon a limited number of subjects. During the Middle Ages art
was consecrated almost wholly to religion. Some of the painters were
themselves devout men, and wrought with a feeling of religious
devotion. Fra Angelico was a monk (in the same monastery at Florence
with Savonarola), and regarded his art as a kind of priesthood, going
from his prayers to his painting, and from his painting to his
prayers. Others felt the same influence, though in a less degree. In
devoting themselves to art, they were moved at once by the inspiration
of genius and the inspiration of religion. Others still, who were not
at all saintly in their lives, yet painted for churches and convents.
Thus, from one cause or another, almost all the art of that day was
employed to illustrate religious subjects. Of these there was one that
was before all others--the Holy Family, or the Virgin and her Child.
This appears and reappears in every possible form. We can understand
the attraction of such a subject to an artist; for to him the Virgin
was _the ideal of womanhood_, to paint whom was to embody his
conception of the most exquisite womanly sweetness and grace. And in
this how well did the old masters succeed! No one who has a spark of
taste or sensibility can deny the exquisite beauty of some of their
pictures of the Virgin--the tenderness, the grace, the angelic purity.
What sweetness have they given to the face of that young mother, so
modest, yet flushed with the first dawning of maternal love! What
affection looks out of those tender eyes! In the celebrated picture of
Raphael in the Gallery at Florence, called "The Madonna of the Chair,"
the Virgin is seated, and clasps her child to her breast, who turns
his large eyes, with a wondering gaze, at the world in which he is to
live and to suffer. One stands before such a picture transfixed at a
loveliness that seems almost divine.
But of all the Madonnas of Raphael--or of any master--which I have
seen, I prefer that at Dresden, where the Virgin is not seated, but
standing erect at her full height, with the clouds under her feet,
soaring to heaven with the Christ-child in her arms. When I went into
the room set apart to that picture (for no other is worthy to keep it
company), I felt as if I were in a church; every one spoke in
whispers; it seemed as if ordinary conversation were an impertinence;
as if it would break the spell of that sacred presence.
Something of the same effect (some would call it even greater) is
produced by Titian's or Murillo's painting of the "Assumption" of the
Virgin--that is, her being caught up into the clouds, with the angels
hovering around her, over her head and under her feet. One of these
great paintings is at Venice, and the other in the Louvre at Paris. In
both the central figure is floating, like that of Christ in the
Transfiguration. The Assumption is a favorite subject of the old
masters, and reappears everywhere, as does the "Annunciation" by the
Angel of the approaching birth of Christ, the "Nativity," and the
coming of the Magi to adore the holy child. I do not believe there is
a gallery in Italy, and hardly a private collection, in which there
are not "Nativities" and "Assumptions" and "Annunciations."
But if some of these pictures are indeed wonderful, there are others
which are not at all divine; which are of the earth, earthy; in which
the Virgin is nothing more than a pretty woman, chosen as a type of
female beauty (just as a Greek sculptor would aim to give _his_ ideal
in a statue of Venus), painted sometimes on a Jewish, but more often
on an Italian, model. In Holland the Madonnas have a decidedly Dutch
style of beauty. We may be pardoned if we do not go into raptures over
them.
When the old masters, after painting the Virgin Mary, venture on an
ideal of our Lord himself, they are less successful, because the
subject is more difficult. They attempt to portray the Divine Man; but
who can paint that blessed countenance, so full of love and sorrow?
That brow, heavy with care, that eye so tender? I have seen hundreds
of Ecce Homos, but not one that gave me a new or more exalted
impression of the Saviour of the world than I obtain from the New
Testament.
But if it seems almost presumption to attempt to paint our Saviour,
what shall we say to the introduction of the Supreme Being upon the
canvas? Yet this appears very often in the paintings of the old
masters. I cannot but think it was suggested by the fact that the
Greek sculptors made statues of the gods for their temples. As they
undertook to give the head of Jupiter, so these Christian artists
thought they could paint the Almighty! Not unfrequently they give the
three persons of the Trinity--the Father being represented as an old
man with a long beard, floating on a cloud, the Spirit as a dove,
while the Son is indicated by a human form bearing a cross. Can
anything be more repulsive than such a representation! These are
things beyond the reach of art. No matter what genius may be in
certain artistic details, the picture is, and must be, a failure,
because it is an attempt _to paint the unpaintable_.
Next to Madonnas and Holy Families, the old masters delight in the
painting of saints and martyrs. And here again the same subjects recur
with wearying uniformity. I should be afraid to say how many times I
have seen St. Lawrence stretched on his gridiron; and youthful St.
Sebastian bound to a tree, and pierced with arrows; and old St.
Anthony in the desert, assaulted by the temptations of the devil. No
doubt these were blessed martyrs, but after being exhibited for so
many centuries to the gaze of the world, I should think it would be a
relief for them to retire to the enjoyment of the heavenly paradise.
Is it not, then, a just criticism of those who painted all those
Madonnas and saints and martyrs, to say, while admitting their
transcendent genius, that still their works present _a magnificent
monotony_, both of subject and of treatment, and at last weary the eye
even by their interminable splendors?
Another point in which the same works are signally defective, is in
the absence of _landscape painting_. It has been often remarked of the
classic poets, that while they describe human actions and passions,
they show a total insensibility to the beauties of nature. The same
deficiency appears in the paintings of the old masters. Seldom do they
attempt landscape. Sometimes a clump of trees, or a glimpse of sky, is
introduced as a background for figures, but it is almost always
subordinate to the general effect.
Here, then, it seems to me no undue assumption of modern pride to say
that the artists of the present day are not only the equals of the old
masters, but their superiors. They have learned of the Mighty Mother
herself. They have communed with nature. They have felt the ineffable
beauty of the woods and lakes and rivers, of the mountains and the
meadows, of the valleys and the hills, of the clouds and skies, and in
painting these, have led us into a new world of beauty. As I am an
enthusiastic lover of nature, I feel like standing up for the Moderns
against the Ancients, and saying (at the risk of being set down as
wanting in taste) that I have derived as much pleasure from some of
the pictures which I have seen at the Annual Exhibitions in London and
Paris, and even in New York, as from any, _except a few hundred of the
very best_ of the pictures which I have seen here.
I am led to speak thus freely, because I am slightly disgusted with
the abject servility in this matter of many foreign tourists. I see
them going through these galleries, guide-book in hand, consulting it
at every step, to know what they must admire, and not daring to
express an opinion, nor even to enjoy what they see until they turn to
what is said by Murray or Baedeker. Of course guide-books are useful,
and even necessary, and one can hardly go into a gallery without one,
to serve at least as a catalogue, but they must not take the place of
one's own eyes. If we are ever to know anything of art, we must begin,
however modestly, to exercise our own judgment. While therefore I
would have every traveller use his guide-book freely, I would have him
use still more his eyes and his brain, and try to exercise, so as to
cultivate, his taste.
Is it not time for Americans, who boast so much of their independence,
to show a little of it here? Some come abroad only to learn to despise
their own country. For my part, the more I see of other countries,
while appreciating them fully, the more I love my own; I love its
scenery, its landscapes, and its homes, and its men and women; and
while I would not commit the opposite mistake of a foolish conceit of
everything American, I think our artists show a fair share of talent,
which can best be developed by a constant study of nature. Nature is
greater than the old masters. What sunset ever painted by Claude or
Poussin equals, or even approaches, what we often see when the sun
sinks in the west, covering the clouds with gold? If our artists are
to paint sunsets, let them not go to picture galleries, but out of
doors, and behold the glory of the dying day. Let them paint nature as
they see it at home. Nature is not fairer in Italy than in America.
Let them paint American landscapes, giving, if they can, the beauty of
our autumnal woods, and all the glory of the passing year. If they
will keep closely to nature, instead of copying old masters, they may
produce an original, as well as a true and genuine school of art, and
will fill our galleries and our homes with beauty.
From Pictures to Palaces is an easy transition, as these are the
temples in which works of art are enshrined. Many years ago, when I
first came abroad, a lady in London, who is well known both in England
and America, took me to see Stafford House, the residence of the Duke
of Sutherland, saying that it was much finer than Buckingham Palace,
and "the best they had to show in England," but that, "of course, it
was nothing to what I should see on the Continent, and especially in
Italy." Since then I have visited palaces in almost every capital in
Europe. I find indeed that Italy excels all other countries in
architecture, as she does in another form of art. When her cities were
the richest in Europe, drawing to themselves the commerce and the
wealth of the East, it was natural that the doges and dukes and
princes should display their magnificence in the rearing of costly
palaces. These, while they differ in details, have certain general
features in which they are all pretty much alike--stately proportions,
grand entrances, broad staircases, lofty ceilings, apartments of
immense size, with columns of porphyry and alabaster and lapis lazuli,
and pavements of mosaic or tessellated marble, with no end of
costliness in decoration; ceilings loaded with carving and gilding,
and walls hung with tapestries, and adorned with paintings by the
first masters in the world. Such is the picture of many a palace that
one may see to-day in Venice and Genoa and Florence and Rome.
If any of my readers feel a touch of envy at the tale of such
magnificence, it may comfort them to hear, that probably their own
American homes, though much less splendid, are a great deal more
comfortable. These palaces were not built for comfort, but for pride
and for show. They are well enough for courts and for state occasions,
but not for ordinary life. They have few of those comforts which we
consider indispensable in our American homes. It is almost impossible
to keep them warm. Their vast halls are cold and dreary. The
pavements of marble and mosaic are not half so comfortable as a plain
wooden floor covered with a carpet. There is no gas--they are lighted
only with candles; while the liberal supply of water which we have in
our American cities is unknown. A lady living in one of the grandest
palaces in Rome, tells me that every drop of water used by her family
has to be carried up those tremendous staircases, to ascend which is
almost like climbing the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Of course a bath is a
_luxury_, and not, as with us, an universal comfort. Nowhere do I find
such a supply of that necessary element of household cleanliness and
personal health, as we have in New York, furnished by a river running
through the heart of a city, carrying life, as well as luxury, into
every dwelling.
The English-speaking race understand the art of domestic architecture
better than any other in the world. They may not build such grand
palaces, but they know how to build _homes_. In country houses we
should have to yield the palm to the tasteful English cottages, but in
city houses I should claim it for America, for the simple reason that,
as our cities are newer, there are many improvements introduced in
houses of modern construction unknown before.
When Prince Napoleon was in New York, he said that there was more
comfort in one of our best houses than he found in the Palais Royal in
Paris. And I can well believe it. I doubt if there is a city in the
world where there is a greater number of private dwellings which are
more thoroughly comfortable, well warmed and well lighted, well
ventilated and well drained, with hot and cold baths everywhere:
surely such materials for merely physical comfort never existed
before. These are luxuries not always found, even in kings' palaces.
But it is not of our rich city houses that I make my boast, but of the
tens of thousands of country houses, so full of comfort, full of
sunshine, and _full of peace_. These are the things which make a
nation happy, and which are better than the palaces of Venice or of
Rome.
And so the result of all our observations has been to make us
contented with our modest republican ways. How often, while wandering
through these marble halls, have I looked away from all this splendor
to a happy country beyond the sea, and whispered to myself,
"Mid pleasures and palaces, wherever we roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home."