DUTCH ART—ITS RISING AND ITS SETTING SUN
“How fair a lot to fill
Is left to each man still.”
Van Dyck’s contemporary in Holland was Frans Hals of Haarlem, born about
1581, died 1666. With this painter begins the century of great art in
Holland, a century that closed suddenly and completely with the death of
Rembrandt. It was the Renaissance of Holland, the time immediately
following her liberation from the shackles of Spain. She feared no more
the terrors of the Inquisition, she shook herself free from Catholicism,
and in her new-found liberty she opened wide her doors and became an
asylum for the boldest thinkers. She founded a national school of
painting. All the great painters of the Dutch school flourished between
1584 and 1683, the year of the birth of Van Huysen. Frans Hals, whose
portraits have the look of arrested life, began the school. Rembrandt,
the magician, whose wand was light, closed it.
Frans Hals was the merriest, the most clearsighted of all the Dutch
portrait painters. The stroke of his brush was swift and sure, his
colour was brilliant; he moulded his faces in light. He is very poorly
represented in our National Gallery; there are but two heads by him—the
“Portrait of a Woman” (1021), which is not at all characteristic of his
free, jovial, and vigorous method, and “Portrait of a Man” (1251). I
want you to look at this portrait. The original is a man of about forty
years of age. He wears a simple satin doublet and an ample ruffle round
his neck; his face is kindly, scrutinising, slightly amused. It is a
strong, thoughtful countenance, full of good sense and of life. In all
Hals’ portraits you will see the same animation, the same splendid
spontaneity. None of his people seem to be posing for a likeness.
Frans Hals was the rising sun, Rembrandt the setting of the new era.
Many are the painters grouped about these two supreme artists. I shall
first speak to you of Rembrandt van Rhyn, thus called because he was
born on the banks of the Rhine, the poet painter of light and shade.
Born at Leyden in 1606, he was the son of a miller. He was never
book-learned: he possessed a Bible, Josephus (the great historian of the
Jews), and Albert Dürer’s book on proportion. In later life eight more
volumes were added to his collection. You see he did not read much, but
he studied life at first hand; he observed everything, and, most of all,
he observed the play of light and shade in the dusky corners of his
father’s mill. He was a pupil of Lastman, a man of importance, but in
truth he learned of no man; he taught himself everything. He simply
worked patiently and passionately from morning to night. He had his
models at hand—his father, his mother above all, whom he was always
painting or drawing at work, at rest; every wrinkle of her face, every
expression of her wise and patient eyes grew familiar to him. There was
his sister Lizbeth; above all there was himself. Rembrandt’s self
portraits are extraordinarily numerous. We see him in youth when his
face was still unlined, in his triumphant manhood when he surmounted
every obstacle, in his weary old age after he had experienced
disappointment and sorrow. These self portraits are the record of his
life. He studied humanity first by studying himself.
In our National Gallery we possess Rembrandt (672) in the flower of his
life, aged thirty-two, a calm and purposeful man. He is dressed in rich
velvet and heavy fur. We have Rembrandt aged sixty-three (221). Years
and suffering have lined his face, tears have furrowed his cheeks and
dimmed his troubled eyes. A whole lifetime lies between these two
portraits—between Rembrandt in the prime of his years and Rembrandt old
and sorrowful. The tragedy of grief and disappointment, of desperate
straits was enacted. Rembrandt was undone by his love of collecting. He
loved beautiful things not wisely but too well—gems, armour, rich
brocades, pictures, etchings, carved furniture; he was always buying
them. So long as his wife, his beloved Saskia lived, he would purchase
jewels and rare stuffs with which to deck her. She died, and, in his
wretchedness and loneliness, he devoted himself more than ever to his
art, and bought these things the loveliness of which entranced him, and
the collecting of which was ultimately to prove his ruin. He has been
called miserly; far from that he was extravagant. He had the artist’s
passion for beauty and he could not control his bent.
It is by his treatment of light and shade that Rembrandt gained
immortality. It was a peculiar and personal treatment. He sought after
effects that are beyond the range of colour to give, and which he strove
to express by his management of light. In the British Museum you will
find many marvellous etchings signed by him, and you must look at them
all, seeking for that strong and subtle power of working in light and
its attendant shade. There is one of “The Last Supper at Emmaus.” Christ
has broken the bread and given the wine to His two disciples, who still
do not recognise Him, and as they look He vanishes; a great light alone
tells where He has been.
In “The Adoration of the Shepherds” (47) you will see what I mean by
Rembrandt’s personal treatment. The scene is a dark stable, and all the
illumination comes from the light emanating from the Child. That
glorious light quenches all others; a lantern held by one of the
shepherds sends but a feeble ray, the kneeling figure in the foreground
is in deep shadow. In Rembrandt’s portraits he makes light and shade
play a transfigurating part. There are several portraits in the National
Gallery besides those I have mentioned (51, 166, 190, 237, 243, 775,
850, 1674, and 1675). His portraits of old ladies are peculiarly
touching. He had a great sympathy for age for his mother’s sake, all its
wrinkles are dear to him, pathetic eyes tell him a tale of wise prudence
and tenderness. He died in poverty and loneliness in 1669.