PAUL VERONESE, SEBASTIAN DEL PIOMBO, AND THE GREAT PORTRAIT PAINTERS
“The rich heritage, the milder life.
Of nations fathered by a mighty Past.”
Let us now look at the works of Paolo Veronese, the artist who, with
Tintoretto, carried on the traditions of the Venetian school, to the
dawn of the seventeenth century. Paolo Veronese was above all things a
painter. What I want you to understand by this is that he was a master
of expression in a difficult and complex language. He had the gift of
colour and the gift of line. And what did he say in that strange tongue,
how did the world appeal to him? It appealed to him through its wonder,
through the dignity of its men and the beauty of its women, through the
stateliness of its architecture, and the glory of its sunlight. He did
not care for exactitude. He treated correctness with superb
indifference. He dressed his women in the splendid brocades woven in the
looms of Venice, he clothed his men in the armour of his time. The last
born of the greatest painters of Italy (1528–1588), he was the most
gloriously ornate of them all.
Look at his great picture, “The Family of Darius at the feet of
Alexander” (294) after the battle of Issus, 333 B.C. These magnificently
dressed women are imploring for the body of their loved husband and
father. They mistake Hephæstion for Alexander. The conqueror is a simple
and dignified figure in armour. The palace in which the widowed wife and
the fatherless daughters are kneeling is the hall of an Italian palace;
perhaps it is that of the Pisani family, for whom Veronese painted this
immortal work. Among the princesses, in their laced bodices and flowing
gowns, is the daughter of Darius, whom Alexander later wedded.
Bucephalus, the splendid war-horse, is here, and here also is a monkey,
and all the accessories of pomp and state.
And now let us pass from that scene of splendour to No. (1041). It is
the picture of a single figure—of St. Helena seeing the vision of the
cross. The saint is sleeping on a marble window-seat in the limpid
sunshine of Venice. She rests her head upon her right hand, and behold
the heavens have opened and angels are descending holding aloft the
cross. See the look of rapture that is stealing over her slumbering face
as she beholds the holy symbol by which her son Constantine will
conquer. Look how charming is the modelling of the figure, the
disposition of the folds of her crimson gown, how tranquil and exalted
is the atmosphere about her. When she wakes she will set forth for the
Holy Land; she will visit the hill of Calvary, searching there for the
implements of torture that were buried in the spot where our Lord was
martyred.
[Illustration:
“THE VISION OF ST. HELENA” (1041)
BY PAOLO CALIARI (CALLED PAOLO VERONESE)
page 96
]
There are many other pictures by Veronese in the Gallery, but if you
study these two you will know how to appreciate his genius. With our
eyes filled with the splendour of Venetian colour, let us look at “The
Raising of Lazarus” (1) by Sebastian del Piombo. It is a picture very
interesting in the history of art, but I think it is disappointing. Its
emotion is remote with that curious remoteness that comes when our
hearts do not throb as we look at a moving scene. Sebastian del Piombo
was a laborious painter; he worked hard, but painting did not come
easily to him. Vasari tells us that “The Raising of Lazarus” was painted
in rivalry to the “Transfiguration” of Raphael, and that Michael Angelo
helped Sebastian with the drawing. Raphael’s “Transfiguration” and
Sebastian’s “Raising of Lazarus” were exhibited together. The two
pictures received great applause from all who saw them, and some people
preferred Sebastian’s work.
There are two drawings at the British Museum of the figure of Lazarus by
Michael Angelo, showing that he had helped his friend in this picture.
The moment chosen for the subject is the one when Lazarus comes forth
bound hand and foot in his grave clothes. Christ is in the centre of the
picture pointing to heaven; Lazarus is looking eagerly towards Him.
Pharisees, disciples, men, and women are about. Mary is sitting at the
feet of the Saviour; Martha is behind her brother. It is a grim,
realistic picture, filled with repulsive details. Sebastian soon after,
on entering the monastic life, became keeper of the leaden seal, a
well-paid appointment that he obtained from the Pope. He gave up
painting; he took life easily henceforth, and never troubled any more
about work. His friends would remonstrate with him. Why had he lost all
ambition? Why did he not set to work and achieve great things with his
brush?
“No, no,” Sebastian would answer laughing; “there are so many clever
fellows about, I am well out of the struggle. They can do in a month
what would take me a year to achieve. It is a good thing that some
people should do nothing,” and he remained quite firm in his resolve. He
never painted again. When you look at that large canvas of “The Raising
of Lazarus” you must think of Sebastian del Piombo, who became a monk
and who retired so early from the life of struggle. I think that through
the centuries I hear him laugh as he answers his friends, “No, no; there
are so many clever fellows about, I am well out of the struggle.”
Now let us look at the portraits—the lifelike portraits that bring the
men and women of Venice and its neighbourhood before us to-day. Truth
and beauty are the two considerations the artist must keep before him in
painting a portrait. The earlier portrait painters aimed at fidelity to
nature more than do the painters of a later period. Here, in this great
Gallery, we see the men and women as they took part in the life of
Venice in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.
There are two great portraits by Il Moretto (1498–1555), who was a
native of Brescia, close to Venice. His father was a merchant. Il
Moretto painted almost entirely for his native town. His nickname of
“Blackamoor” is very inappropriate to his work. He chose a cool, tender,
and harmonious scheme of colouring. His two portraits are of Italian
noblemen. They have the noble bearing, the dignity and grace of the
grandees of Italy. The first Count Sciarra Cesaresco (299) shows us a
magnificently attired man in satin and ermine, with a plumed hat,
resting his head on his hand. There is something melancholy and aspiring
in his attitude. The second (1025) is probably the portrait of a member
of the Fenariola family. In this portrait, the cool and splendid colour,
the depth of expression, the ease and grace of carriage are marvellously
depicted. They make us understand the spell that Il Moretto exercised as
a portrait painter.
Moroni, his pupil (1525–1578), was not so successful with the noblemen
of Italy, but he shows himself eminently gifted to represent the
character of the men and women who have lower claims of birth. His
lawyer (742), so alert and inquisitive looking; his ecclesiastic (1024),
so important; and, best of all, his tailor (697)—are all masterpieces.
We seem to know them all. The lifelike attitude of the tailor, as he
stands scissors in hand, looking towards us with an enquiring
expression, makes us realise that the men of the sixteenth century were
very like the men of to-day.
“Tagliapanni”—for this is the tailor’s name—I think I hear one of you
boys say, “how much cloth will I want for a jerkin?”
And Tagliapanni, looking as he looks in the picture, scissors in hand,
answers, “That depends, little sir, upon the fashion of the jerkin you
want.”
Another remarkable portrait painter is Lotto (1476–1555). He gives us
the likeness of the “Prothonotary-Apostolic Juliano” (1105).
Prothonotary means the chief of what may be called the Record Office of
the Church. His business is to draw up reports on all important Church
functions, such as the enthronement of new popes and other public
functions. If we remember that the artist impresses his personality on
the portraits he paints, we shall recognise how charming was the inner
self of the painter Lotto. He has given a great elegance to this
portrait of a scholar. How charming and cool is the colour, how
beautiful is the drawing, the calm and thoughtful brow, the wise and
weary eyes, weary with much reading—
“The low man seeks a little thing to do,
Sees it and does it:
This high man with a great thing to pursue
Dies ere he knows it.”
Lotto was a pupil either of Bellini or of Vivarini. He was a gentle,
earnest man, passing most of his long life among the Dominican monks.
Thus the peaceful inwardness of his life was reflected in his works.
There are many more portraits here that I cannot write to you about. Of
the beautiful women I can single out but one—the golden-haired, bright,
and sinister-eyed beauty by Paris Bordone (674). It is a portrait that
makes us shudder as we look at it. The eyes are hard as jewels; there is
something ruthless about them. A story is told about this woman, who
lived a treacherous and a cruel life in a treacherous and cruel age. One
day she wandered into a church; looking towards the altar, she beheld a
picture of herself painted when she was young and innocent. She was an
angel there playing on a lute and singing. The memory of what had been
overcame her, and she sank fainting on the floor. Tradition says that
she entered a nunnery, and that she became a holy woman.
Bordone was born 1500 and died 1571.
And now we must leave this entrancing room of the school of Venice. As
we leave it we seem to be going out of the sunshine, out of an
atmosphere of gaiety and colour.