Almost all the stories of the lives of the painters which we have been
listening to, until now, have clustered round Florence, the City of
Flowers. She was their great mother, and her sons loved her with a
deep, passionate love, thinking nothing too fair with which to deck her
beauty. Wherever they wandered she drew them back, for their very
heartstrings were wound around her, and each and all strove to give her
of their best.
But now we come to the stories of men whose lives gather round a
different centre. Instead of the great mother-city beside the Arno,
with her strong towers and warlike citizens, the noise of battle ever
sounding in her streets, and her flowery fields encircling her on every
side, we have now Venice, Queen of the Sea.
No warlike tread or tramp of angry crowds disturbs her fair streets,
for here are no pavements, only the cool green water which laps the
walls of her marble palaces, and gives back the sound of the dipping
oar and the soft echo of passing voices, as the gondolas glide along
her watery ways. Here are no grim grey towers of defence, but fairy
palaces of white and coloured marbles, which rise from the waters below
as if they had been built by the sea nymphs, who had fashioned them of
their own sea-shells and mother-of-pearl.
There are no flowery meadows here, but instead the vast waters of the
lagoons, which reach out until they meet the blue arc of the sky or
touch the distant mountains which lie like a purple line upon the
horizon. Here and there tiny islands lie upon its bosom, so faint and
fairylike that they scarcely seem like solid land, reflected as they
are in the transparent water.
But although Venice has no meadows decked with flowers and no wealth of
blossoming trees, everywhere on every side she shines with colour, this
wonderful sea-girt city. Her white marble palaces glow with a soft
amber light, the cool green water that reflects her beauty glitters in
rings of gold and blue, changing from colour to colour as each ripple
changes its form. At sunset, when the sun disappears over the edge of
the lagoon and leaves behind its trail of shining clouds, she is like a
dream-city rising from a sea of molten gold--a double city, for in the
pure gold is reflected each tower and spire, each palace and campanile,
in masses of pale yellow and quivering white light, with here and there
a burning touch of flame colour. She seems to have no connection with
the solid, ordinary cities of the world. There she lies in all her
beauty, silent and apart, like a white sea-bird floating upon the bosom
of the ocean.
Venice had always seemed separate and distinct from the rest of the
world. Her cathedral of San Marco was never under the rule of Rome, and
her rulers, or doges, as they were called, governed the city as kings,
and did not trouble themselves with the affairs of other towns. Her
merchant princes sailed to far countries and brought home precious
spoils to add to her beauty. Everything was as rich and rare and
splendid as it was possible to make it, and she was unlike any other
city on earth.
So the painters who lived and worked in this city of the sea had their
own special way of painting, which was different to that of the
Florentine school.
From their babyhood these men had looked upon all this beauty of
colour, and the love of it had grown with their growth. The golden
light on the water, the pearly-grey and tinted marbles, the gay sails
of the galleys which swept the lagoons like painted butterflies, the
wide stretch of water ending in the mystery of the distant skyline--it
all sank into their hearts, and it was little wonder that they should
strive to paint colour above all things, and at last reach a perfection
such as no other school of painters has equalled.
As with the Florentine artists, so with these Venetian painters, we
must leave many names unnoticed just now, and learn first to know those
which shine out clearest among the many bright stars of fame.
In the beginning of the fifteenth century, four hundred years ago, when
Fra Filippo Lippi was painting in Florence, there lived in Venice a
certain Jacopo Bellini, who was a painter, and who had two sons called
Gentile and Giovanni. The father taught his boys with great care, and
gave them the best training he could, for he was anxious that his sons
should become great painters. He saw that they were both clever and
quick to learn, and he hoped great things of them.
'Never do less than your very best,' he would say, as he taught the
boys how to draw and use their colours. 'See how the Tuscan artists
strive with one another, each desiring to do most honour to their city
of Florence. So, Gentile, I would have thee also strive to be great;
and thou, Giovanni, endeavour to be even greater than thy brother.'
But though the boys were thus taught to try and outdo each other, still
they were always the best of friends, and there was never any unkind
rivalry between them.
Gentile, the eldest, was fond of painting story pictures, which told
the history of Venice, and showed the magnificent doges, and nobles,
and people of the city, dressed in their rich robes. The Venetians
loved pictures which showed forth the glory of their city, and very
soon Gentile was invited to paint the walls of the Ducal Palace with
his historical pictures.
Now Venice carried on a great trade with her ships, which sailed to
many foreign lands. These ships, loaded with merchandise, touched at
different ports, and the merchants sold their goods or took in exchange
other things which they brought back to Venice. It happened that one of
the ships which set sail for Turkey had on board among other things
several pictures painted by Giovanni Bellini. These were shown to the
Sultan of Turkey, who had never seen a picture before, and he was
amazed and delighted beyond words. His religion forbade the making of
pictures, but he paid no attention now to that law, but sent a
messenger to Venice praying that the painter Bellini might come to him
at once.
The rulers of Venice were unwilling to spare Giovanni just then, but
they allowed Gentile to go, as his work at the Ducal Palace was
finished.
So Gentile took his canvases and paints, and, setting sail in one of
the merchant ships, soon arrived at the court of the Grand Turk.
He was received with every honour, and nothing was thought too good for
this wonderful painter, who could make pictures which looked like
living men. The Sultan loaded him with gifts and favours, and he lived
there like a royal prince. Each picture painted by Gentile was thought
more wonderful than the last. He painted a portrait of the Sultan, and
even one of himself, which was considered little short of magic.
Thus a whole year passed by, and Gentile had a most delightful time and
was well contented, until one day something happened which disturbed
his peace.
He had painted a picture of the dancing daughter of Herodias, with the
head of John the Baptist in her hand, and when it was finished he
brought it and presented it to the Sultan.
As usual, the Sultan was charmed with the new picture; but he paused in
his praises of its beauty, and looked thoughtfully at the head of St.
John, and then frowned.
'It seems to me,' he said, 'that there is something not quite right
about that head. I do not think a head which had just been cut off
would look exactly as that does in your picture.'
Gentile answered courteously that he did not wish to contradict his
royal highness, but it seemed to him that the head was right.
'We shall see,' said the Sultan calmly, and he turned carelessly to a
guard who stood close by and bade him cut of the head of one of the
slaves, that Bellini might see if his picture was really correctly
painted.
This was more than Gentile could stand.
'Who knows,' he said to himself, 'that the Sultan may not wish to see
next how my head would look cut off from my body!'
So while his precious head was still safe upon his shoulders he thought
it wiser to slip quietly away and return to Venice by the very first
ship he could find.
Meanwhile Giovanni had worked steadily on, and had far surpassed both
his father and his brother. Indeed, he had become the greatest painter
in Venice, the first of that wonderful Venetian school which learned to
paint such marvellous colour.
With all the wealth of delicate shading spread out before his eyes,
with the ever-changing wonder of the opal-tinted sea meeting him on
every side, it was not strange that the love of colour sank into his
very heart. In his pictures we can see the golden glow which bathes the
marble palaces, the clear green of the water, the pure blues and
burning crimsons all as transparent as crystal, not mere paint but
living colour.
Giovanni did not care to paint stories of Venice, with great crowds of
figures, as Gentile did. He loved best the Madonna and saints, single
figures full of quiet dignity. His saints are more human than those
which Fra Angelico painted, and yet they are not mere men and women,
but something higher and nobler. Instead of the angels swinging their
censers which the painter of San Marco so lovingly drew, Giovanni's
angels are little human boys, with grave sweet faces; happy children
with a look of heaven in their eyes, as they play on their little lutes
and mandolines.
But besides the pictures of saints and angels, Giovanni had a wonderful
gift for painting portraits, and most of the great people of Venice
came to be painted by him. In our own National Gallery we have the
portrait of the Doge Loredan, which is one of those pictures which can
teach you many things when you have learned to look with seeing eyes.
So the brothers worked together, but before long death carried off the
elder, and Giovanni was left alone.
Though he was now very old, Giovanni worked harder than ever, and his
hand, instead of losing power, seemed to grow stronger and more and
more skilful. He was ninety years old when he died, and he worked
almost up to the last.
The brothers were both buried in the church of SS. Giovanni e Paolo, in
the heart of Venice. There, in the dim quietness of the old church,
they lie at rest together, undisturbed by the voices of the passers-by
in the square outside, or the lapping of the water against the steps,
as the tides ebb and flow around their quiet resting-place.