UMBRIAN SCHOOL (_Continued_)
“Teach me my God and King
In all things Thee to see,
And what I do in anything
To do it as for Thee.”
We now come to one of my favourite pictures, “The Nativity” (908), by
Piero della Francesca (1416–1492). A choir of wingless angels is its
chief beauty. The minstrels are singing the praises of the Babe lying on
the ground at their feet, accompanying themselves on stringed
instruments. Never has singing been represented more beautifully or more
realistically. We ask ourselves are they heavenly minstrels or are they
mortal maidens singing? Each mouth differs from the other as it utters
the words of glory and praise addressed to the divine child. The bodies
seem to swing in rhythm to the canticle—
“Answering the stringed noise
All their souls in blissful rapture took.”
The Virgin is a charming figure kneeling before and adoring her Babe.
The landscape is very simple, but what we remember are these delightful
songsters half human, half divine.
Francesca was a pupil of Uccello, the discoverer of perspective. If you
look at “The Baptism of Christ in the river Jordan” (665) you will see a
foreshortened street in the middle distance that leads up to a fortified
town. The street is admirably drawn; it may be a street in Perugia, the
city on the hill.
Now look especially at his pupil Luca Signorelli’s works (1441–1523).
Famous beyond other painters, the precursor of Michael Angelo,
Signorelli was the first who studied “the human form for its own sake.”
His pictures here are “The Triumph of Chastity” (910), “The
Circumcision” (1128), “The Nativity” (1133), and each is a masterpiece.
In “The Circumcision” especially you must note the splendour of colour,
the animation and restraint of the figures, the firmness of the drawing,
the harmonious grouping. Look at St. Simon behind the Virgin, at the
ecstasy of his expression as he sings, “Lord, now lettest Thou Thy
servant depart in peace”; look at the nobility and refinement of the
women. Signorelli is best known by his altarpieces, some of which were
executed ten years before Michael Angelo had begun to paint the Sistine
Chapel. A poet has called him the “morning star of Michael Angelo.”
Vasari tells us that Signorelli was so devoted to art that when his son
died, a lad of seventeen years of age, beautiful in face and form,
Signorelli mastered his grief, laid the dead body on a bed, and, seizing
his brushes, began to paint. He painted all day, “firm and dry eyed
before the lordly canvas,” until the dead seemed to have come to life.
Vasari gives us a glimpse of Signorelli in his old age kindly and
courteous. He stayed at Arezzo where the Vasaris were. “I was then a
little boy of eight years old,” he says, “and I remember how the good
old man, who was very courteous and gracious, having heard from the
master who gave me my first instruction that I attended to nothing at
school but drawing figures—I remember how he turned to Antonio my father
and said, “Antonio, let Giorgio learn to draw by all means, for even if
later he takes to literature drawing will still be of use and honour and
profit to him as it is to all men.” Then, turning to me, as I was
standing in front of him, he said, ‘Study, little kinsman.’” Signorelli
ended his days at Cortona, where, says Vasari, he lived splendidly—more
like a grand signor than a painter. He died in 1523.
Let us now look at some of the remaining pictures of the Umbrian school.
Here is a picture in three panels, “The Story of Griselda” (912, 913,
914), which I am sure will interest you. Griselda, called the patient
Griselda, is as you know the type and pattern of the woman of the old
ideals. The story of the wrongs she endured from her husband, the
recompense she won at last by being restored to his favour, is told in
these panels. I must admit that the patience of Griselda strikes me as
anything but praiseworthy. In the first panel we see her in her home.
She is a rustic maid, and the high lord of the district is out hunting
with a splendid retinue. He sees her and falls in love with her; he
takes her home and has her dressed in brocade and gold; he makes her sit
by his side at a great banquet. In the second panel we come to a sad
scene. Griselda’s two children, a boy and a girl, are being carried off,
and she is told that they have perished. The high lord, her husband, has
grown tired of her, and without any ado he divorces her and sends her
back to her father. Griselda patiently goes, puts on her rustic dress,
and returns to guard the flocks. It is interesting to note how the
servants seem disgusted by the harsh treatment inflicted on their
mistress, whilst two gallants, in curiously twisted attitudes, look on
half superciliously, half pityingly. The third panel tells the sequel of
the tale. The noble lord has sent for Griselda. She appears wearing her
peasant’s clothes expecting another lady to preside at the feast, and
she is ready to submit to this last indignity. But when Griselda comes
she is hailed by her long lost son and daughter. The children had not
perished, but had been cared for and had grown up in beauty and
learning. All ends happily, and we see Griselda, once more splendidly
attired, sitting by her lord and master’s side dispensing hospitality.
She has won the reward of virtue—his good pleasure. The hall where the
feast is given is the hall of one of the great palaces of the
Renaissance.
This picture is usually ascribed to Pinturicchio, “the little painter”
(1454–1513). Some dispute about the authorship exists, however. There is
so much vivacity in the manner of presenting the story, such a charming
_naïveté_ that I incline to believe it is by Pinturicchio. His undoubted
works are “St. Catherine of Alexandria with her Attributes” (693), “The
Madonna and Child” (703), and “The Return of Ulysses to Penelope” (911).
This last picture illustrates Pinturicchio’s wonderful _naïveté_ of
manner. The faithful wife of Ulysses is seated at her loom, on which is
placed the tapestry that never gets finished. Four suitors in gay attire
have entered the room, and, in the background, we see Ulysses, who has
just returned. His big bow and his quiver of arrows are hanging above
the head of his faithful wife. Through the open window is seen the ship
in which Ulysses was bound to the mast, while the sirens sang to him
tempting him to come to them. The palace of Circe is on the island hard
by. In this curious picture is shown the manner in which two events were
often presented, as happening at the same time. We see here Ulysses
passing by the island of the sirens, and his return home.
Pinturicchio’s pictures are very quaintly drawn, but the colour is full
of charm, and there is a pleasing _naïveté_ in the conception. He was
very much under the artistic influence of Perugino, and he entered into
partnership with him. Vasari tells many stories of Pinturicchio’s love
of money; among others is that of Pinturicchio’s death. He was
commissioned to paint “The Birth of the Virgin” for the church of St.
Francesco in Siena. The friars gave him a large room and emptied it of
all furniture except of a chest which they could not move. Pinturicchio
made so much ado about this piece of furniture being left that at last
the friars made a desperate attempt to move it away. As they pushed and
pulled it a plank fell out from the bottom and revealed a hoard of
golden sequins; there were at least five hundred. The find was a
glorious treasure trove for the poor monks, but, says Vasari,
“Pinturicchio was so dismayed at their good fortune that he went home,
took to his bed, and died of chagrin.”