VENETIAN SCHOOL (_Continued_)
“She holds the flower to heaven, and by his power
Brings heaven to the flower.”
We must hurry along looking at the representative pictures only of each
painter. Oh! the beauty of that long room, the beauty of all the
canvases hanging on these walls, the splendour of Titian, the gentle
peace of Bellini, the impetuosity of Tintoretto, the magnificence of
Veronese. All Venice seems to be here! There is joy in the sense of
loveliness—the loveliness of colour, of subject; it creeps into our
hearts. It is a splendid company we are amongst—Bellini, Titian,
Giorgione, Tintoretto.
Here is “St. Jerome in his Study” (694). The picture was long ascribed
to Giovanni Bellini; now critics universally agree that it is by another
painter. It is believed to be by Catena, who formed his style and
colouring on those of the master. How delightful is this picture. Could
we not spend hours in studying it? We see that it is a lovely day full
of sunshine. The serene and limpid atmosphere comes through the open
windows, and we catch a glimpse of the country beyond. It is Italy, but
the painter wishes us to imagine that we are in Bethlehem where St.
Jerome had built a monastery. How dignified is the appearance of the
saint as he sits in his study absorbed in reading the Scriptures. There
is not a grain of dust anywhere. The doors of the cupboard are open; we
see his books inside, his candlesticks, all his homely belongings. The
old lion is dozing at the saint’s feet, gentle and docile, and there is
the little brown partridge that he cared for looking at his old
slippers. His hat also is there. What a quaint and dainty scene it is,
the picture of a holy life serene and prayerful.
Now let us look at “A Warrior Adoring” (234). The painter is unknown,
but it is believed to be by Catena; and if you look at this picture and
compare it with “St. Jerome in his Study,” you will see that there is
much resemblance in the scheme of colour. How full of worship is the
figure of the adoring knight, prostrating himself before the infant
Saviour sitting on the knee of the Virgin. Joseph, the knight’s squire,
even the horse—all seem under a spell of peace. This picture is filled
with a sentiment of adoration. Catena died 1531.
Now let us pass to and pause before the immortal picture, “Bacchus and
Ariadne” (35), by Titian (1477–1576). It is a glorious poem in paint—a
poem of the joy of life. Theseus, who had loved Ariadne, has abandoned
her, and she is on the sea-shore watching the sail that has borne her
false love away. Presently there comes through the wood the sound of
cymbals, of hurrying footsteps, of merry laughter. There dashes in the
god Bacchus on his car driven by leopards, a train of revellers behind
him. They are led by a satyr child stepping high on furry legs; his
roguish eyes look out full of mirth, his head is crowned with white
flowers that catch the light. One blossom has fallen at his feet and
shines whitely there. I have said there are many beautiful children in
the National Gallery, and this is pre-eminently one of them. He is the
incarnation of childish life and joy. How full of animation is the
picture, how full of colour; all the dancing figures are golden brown.
We seem to hear the turmoil of the merry crew. The blue sea, the blue
sky, the blue distance show up the glowing colour of the crowd of
revellers. Look at the grace of the figure of Bacchus as he steps from
his car to greet Ariadne. It is a picture full of the rare union of
poetry and painting. And here is another lovely scene—the “Madonna and
Child with St. John the Baptist and St. Catherine” (635). This saint is
embracing the little one with rapture. See how charming is the face of
the Madonna and of the kneeling and adoring St. Catherine, who is taking
the Babe in her arms. Look at the beautiful landscape behind, woodland
and plain, sky and water. It is believed to be a picture of Cadore, the
birthplace of Titian.
[Illustration:
“BACCHUS AND ARIADNE” (35)
BY TITIAN
page 90
]
Of Titian’s portraits it has been said by Vasari, “There is no lord of
note, or prince, or great lady who has not been painted by Titian.” The
National Gallery possesses but one undoubted portrait by him—it is that
of the “divine Ariosto,” as his countrymen loved to call the poet who
wrote the “Orlando Furioso.” He was Titian’s beloved friend, and, in his
poem, he speaks of the “honoured Cadore,” the little town among the
hills where the painter was born. One portrait—“Portrait of a Poet”
(636)—was first ascribed to Titian, then to Palma Vecchio; now some say
it is by Giorgione. It is the portrait of a languid, suffering,
intellectual looking man gazing out of the canvas; his whole pose
expresses fatigue. Behind his head is a laurel tree, the leaves of which
form a background to the sad and weary countenance.
But the undoubted portrait of Ariosto (1944) by Titian shows the poet
looking over his right shoulder with a somewhat supercilious and
sceptical expression. His hair, his beard, are of ruddy brown; he is
splendidly attired in grey brocade, and the doublet is cut low at the
throat. We seem to see Ariosto before us, aloof of bearing, observant,
sensitive. When you read the “Orlando Furioso” you must think of that
portrait painted by his friend Titian, the greatest painter of his age,
as Ariosto was accounted one of its greatest poets.
Titian was very much influenced by Giorgione, who had been his
fellow-pupil in Giovanni Bellini’s studio. Giorgione went to Florence,
met Leonardo da Vinci, studied his works, imitating his manner of
modelling in light and shade, of melting the colours together, and
throwing the objects in greater relief. It was Giorgione’s habit to draw
with his brush; he used no cartoon for his pictures, and he influenced
Titian to adopt this method. It was a great revolution in the latter’s
work. His last pictures are boldly painted in large masses of colour,
his first were painted with extreme care and diligence.
Titian lived to ninety-nine years of age. He received princes and the
learned and famous men, and he was greatly beloved, for his manners were
“most pleasant and courteous.”
Giorgione (1477–1511), whom I have spoken of as influencing Titian, was
born at Castelfranco. He was of low origin, but his manners were
dignified and gentle. Brought up in Venice, he sang and played divinely,
but it was to drawing that he devoted himself. He loved nature, and he
would never draw but direct from her. I have told you that he went to
Florence and imitated Leonardo da Vinci’s manner, giving great depth to
his shadows, blending and softening them and concentrating his light. He
was one of the greatest painters of a great age. His contemporaries,
recognising his genius, called him, playfully, “George of Georges”
(Giorgione). The influence that he exercised over Titian is still a
living force, inspiring many painters of to-day. Giorgione understood
the true language of the brush, each stroke of which was, as it were, a
word in a poem, and his pictures were lyric poems of pleasant places, of
summer sunshine, of the sound of running water, of luxuriant vegetation,
of people indolently happy enjoying the scenes. Usually you will find
tokens of his love of music in his pictures. Very often we see a
shepherd or a knight piping to the girls about him. Musical instruments
lie on the ground. Giorgione loved life; he loved the beautiful world,
the brave and dignified men, the charming women in it; his spirit was
attuned to pure and sweet emotions. With all his poetry he was a
realist. He never sought inspiration outside this world. Men and women,
fine scenery, were enough for him. His colour was glowing. No colour
ever glowed as does that of Giorgione. It was the true Venetian colour,
full of sunshine, full of the glamour of the ever-changing sea.
In the National Gallery we have but one picture that we can be certain
is his—“The Knight in Armour” (269). It is a small, highly finished
study, believed to be intended for San Liberale, one of the figures in
the great altarpiece that he painted for his native village
Castelfranco. It is a wonderful little painting; the bronze colour of
the knight’s complexion, the extraordinary lustre of his armour are
unapproachable. We cannot appreciate the genius of Giorgione from that
study, and yet it makes us understand the reason of his influence over
others. He was thirty-four when he died, dying in his prime, as if his
buoyant genius could not face old age and the lassitude of life.
Pictures belonging to his school are here. If we take “The Garden of
Love” (930) we see a scene that might well have fascinated the master,
but the painting is not his. If we look at “An Unknown Subject” (1173)
we see a strong picture, captivating in its mystery. With “The Knight in
Armour” and perhaps with “The Adoration of the Magi” (1160) we exhaust
all that we have of Giorgione.
Tintoretto (1518–1584), who, with Titian, Paolo Veronese, Bellini, and
Giorgione, resumes the genius of the Venetian school, is also very
slightly represented in the National Gallery. He was the painter of
impulse, vehement and unfettered. He flung the emotion of the scene on
the canvas. His execution was so rapid that his contemporaries nicknamed
him “Il Furioso.” He was very unequal in work; the Venetians said he had
three pencils, “one of gold, one of silver, and one of iron.” Look at
his picture of “St. George and the Dragon” (16). The story is dear to
every English boy and girl, and it has never been presented as it is
here presented. The earth, the sky, the very air seem charged with the
tremendous energy of the moment. St. George, riding on a white horse,
the emblem of purity, has attacked the loathly dragon, the emblem of the
soul’s evil passions. From his mouth the dragon spits fire. Before the
saint is the dead body of a man killed by the monster, and the princess,
who was to have been sacrificed to the foul beast, has sunk on her
knees, lifting her hands to heaven in supplication. There is the sense
of a mighty storm passing over the face of the earth. In the other
pictures by Tintoretto we have the same sense of mighty life. In “Christ
Washing the Disciples’ Feet” (1130) and in “The Milky Way” (1313) we
recognise his dominant force. He was sixty-five when he died.