THE GERMAN SCHOOL
“Here, where art was still religion,
With a simple, reverent heart,
Lived and laboured Albrecht Dürer,
The evangelist of art.”
Two supreme masters cast a glory over the German school—Albert Dürer and
Holbein. Dürer is a far more typical German than is Holbein. He was very
much impressed with the Lutheran teaching, and pure and high ideals
moulded his art and moulded his character. Holbein was a complete
contrast to him. He was not prone to theories; he was not steeped in
speculation; he did not dream as did Dürer of mysteries in heaven and
earth; he had no passion, but he was full of joyous fancies. A less
powerful personality than Dürer, Holbein was a far superior painter.
From the unfathomable mind of Dürer came strong thoughts. He has
expressed them in his art, especially in his wood engravings. One is a
knight riding out, pressing onwards, looking neither to the right nor to
the left, surrounded by the foul fiend and the terrors of death. His
cheek does not blanch, his eyes do not wander, he keeps gazing straight
before him. Another is Melancholia—a strange woman pondering over the
secrets of life and death. These two woodcuts express all Dürer’s soul.
Of Dürer we know something from his own journal. He lets us into his
life. We know that his father was a goldsmith, that he was born at
Nuremburg (1471), and that his master was Michel Wolgemut, an artist who
is unrepresented in the National Gallery. Dürer was the intimate friend
of the fiery Luther, the gentle Melancton, the learned Erasmus.
Melancton said of him, “The least of his graces was that he was a
painter.” Dürer told Melancton towards the end of his days that nature
had not unfolded herself to him when young, that he had only learned the
charm of simplicity too late, and that he mourned over his early
pictures.
Dürer was realistic in form, but he was ideal in thought. We have one
portrait by him in our National Gallery—that of his father (1938); it
was painted when Dürer was twenty-six years of age in 1497. It is most
animated in conception, light and spirited in execution. The old face is
seamed with wrinkles; the curly hair, which is scarcely grizzled, falls
from under a black cap. He looks forth seriously with patient anxiety on
his brow. It is an excellent portrait, painted with love.
Dürer lived in Nuremburg, and in that city of dreams we still see the
gabled house in which he toiled. I hope that you will see it yourselves
and that you will think of the steadfast and earnest painter at his
work. Of Dürer, his friend, the painter Birkheimer, said, that he
“united every virtue in his soul, genius, uprightness, purity, energy
and prudence, gentleness and piety.”
Germany was miserably poor, and Dürer, to live, had to devote himself to
wood-engraving. Venice offered him two hundred ducats a year if he would
settle in her midst, but he would not leave his beloved country. His
death occurred on the 5th April 1528. He left many treatises behind him,
including one on “proportion.”
Lucas Cranach, his contemporary (1472–1553), had much of Dürer’s genius.
He was a great friend of Luther, whose rugged face he painted often; and
it is said that he brought about the marriage of the stern reformer with
the nun Catherina Bora. “Portrait of a Young Lady” (291) is a very good
specimen of his portrait painting; the tone of colour is warm and
luminous, and the head is altogether pleasantly conceived.
Now let us pass to the artist who is the glory of the school of
Augsburg, Hans Holbein the younger (1497–1543), son of a painter of
eminence. Surrounded from his childhood by artistic influences, Hans
Holbein soon became the king of portrait painters; yet it was not only
as a portrait painter that he excelled but in all branches of art. Let
us remember the beautiful Madonna at Darmstadt. This gracious and lovely
woman with her golden crown is a true Protestant Madonna. She has laid
aside her halo and shines forth in her perfect womanhood. Holbein, above
all things, represented men and women as they were, painting what was
noblest in them, their souls and their intellect. He came over to
England bearing a letter of introduction from Erasmus to Sir Thomas
More, to whom he brought a portrait of the great theologian which was
more like Erasmus than the one done by Albert Dürer. The friendship of
the great Chancellor kept Holbein in England, and we may often think of
him at More’s house by the river, wandering in the beautiful garden. He
painted the portrait of More’s wife, of More’s beloved daughter,
Margaret Roper, and of the other children. We know that Holbein sent a
drawing of More’s family to Erasmus, for there is a letter still extant
thanking him for the gift.
At Hampton Court there are twenty-seven portraits by Holbein, and they
resume his whole life. At first we find him the cold, correct
draughtsman, then by degrees his manner becomes softer, his colouring
more transparent and brilliant. He painted the picture of “The
Ambassadors” (1314) in 1533. It was at first thought that Sir Thomas
Wyatt, the most accomplished gentleman of the time in England, was the
original of the figure wearing the order of St. Michael. But now we know
that the portrait is of Jean de Dinteville, who was ambassador from
France to England in 1533, and that the other portrait is of George de
Selve, his friend, Bishop of Lavaur. Holbein’s insight into character,
the force united with delicacy of his colouring, the certainty of his
line carved as by a chisel have made this portrait-group one of the
wonders of the art-world. You must study it yourselves and get to know
the meaning of all its marvellous detail—the varied mathematical
implements, the globe, the compasses, the wind instruments, everything
expressing the calling and the tastes of the two men.
Henry VIII. had the greatest admiration for Holbein. “I can make a lord
of any one,” he used to say, “but I cannot make a Holbein.” It was one
of the painter’s duties to take the portraits of the ladies the King
proposed to wed. We know with what disastrous results he had painted
Anne of Cleves, making, as Henry VIII. said, “A Venus of her who was
nothing but a Dutch frau.” The widowed Duchess of Milan, daughter of
Christian II. of Denmark, and niece of the Emperor Charles V., was very
much admired by the King, and he sent Holbein to paint her portrait. It
is here lent by the Duke of Norfolk. Look at her as she stands in her
black student’s gown and cap, with her pretty hands, wearing a big
cornelian ring, crossed in front of her. How piquant she looks! She is
only sixteen years of age and she is a widow already. She gave a sitting
of three hours only to Holbein, but refused to give more. We seem to see
the big dimple in her cheek as she sends a message to Bluebeard. Some
doubt that she ever did send it, but I feel certain that she did; as I
look at her animated face, her bright eyes, I seem to hear her say,
“Tell his Majesty of England that if I had two heads I would willingly
put one at his disposal; having one only I prefer to keep it for
myself.”
“The Duchess of Milan” is lent to the National Gallery, and so you had
better go and look at the portrait and feel the centuries roll away as
you gaze at the speaking countenance.
I cannot tell you more of Holbein. He died of the plague, aged
fifty-four, an unparalleled genius. After his death Germany was so
distraught with the horrors and miseries of the Thirty Years’ War that
she could no longer encourage art, and art died away.