varnish, all that ground covered with rapid strokes of the brush lightly
laid on with a delicate touch. Notice that green of the trees shot
through with red tones, penetrated with quivering air, and the vaporous
light of autumn. Notice the delicate water-colour effect of thick oil,
the general smoothness of the canvas, the relief of this pouch or hood;
notice the full modelling of the little faces with their glances in the
confused outlines of the eye and their smiles in the suggested outlines
of the mouth. The beautiful and flowing sweep of the brush over those
_décolletages_, the bare flesh glowing with voluptuous rose among the
shadows of the wood! The pretty crossings of the brush to round a neck!
The beautiful undulating folds with soft breaks like those which the
modeller makes in the clay! And the spirit and the gallantry of touch of
Watteau's brush in the feminine trifles and headdresses and
finger-tips,--and everything it approaches! And the harmony of those
sunlit distances, those mountains of rosy snow, those waters of
verdurous reflections; and again those rays of sunlight falling upon
robes of rose and yellow, mauve petticoats, blue mantles, shot-coloured
vests, and little white dogs with fiery spots. For no painter has
equalled Watteau in rendering beautifully coloured objects transfigured
by a ray of sunlight, their soft fading and that kind of diffused
blossoming of their brilliancy under the full light. Let your eyes rest
for a moment on that band of pilgrims of both sexes hurrying, beneath
the setting sun, towards the galley of Love that is about to set sail:
there is the joyousness of the most adorable colours in the world
surprised in a ray of the sun, and all that haze and tender silk in the
radiant shower involuntarily remind you of those brilliant insects that
we find dead, but with still living colours, in the golden glow of a
piece of amber.
This picture, the _Embarquement de Cythère_, is the wonder of wonders of
this master.
_L'Art du Dix-huitième Siècle_ (3d ed., Paris, 1880).
THE SISTINE MADONNA
(_RAPHAEL_)
F.A. GRUYER
Raphael seemed to have attained perfection in the _Virgin with the
Fish_; however, four or five years later, he was to rise infinitely
higher and display something superior to art and inaccessible to
science.
It was in 1518 that the Benedictines of the monastery of St. Sixtus
ordered this picture. They had required that the Virgin and the Infant
Jesus should be in the company of St. Sixtus and St. Barbara. This is
how Raphael entered into their views.
Deep shadows were veiling from us the majesty of the skies. Suddenly
light succeeds the obscurity, and the Infant Jesus and Mary appear
surrounded by a brightness so intense that the eyes can scarcely bear
it. Between two green curtains drawn to either side of the picture, amid
an aureole of innumerable cherubin, the Virgin is seen standing upon the
clouds, with her son in her arms, showing him to the world as its
Redeemer and Sovereign Judge. Lower down, St. Sixtus and St. Barbara are
kneeling on the clouds on either side. Nothing is visible of the earth,
but it is divined by the gestures and glances of the two saints, who are
pointing to the multitude for whom they are imploring the divine mercy.
Two angels are leaning on a kind of balustrade whose horizontal line
forms a solid plane at the base of the composition. Nothing could be
more elementary than the idea of such a picture; the ancient symmetry
and the most rigid parallelism are scrupulously observed. Raphael
becomes almost archaic, and, while returning to the simplicity of
primitive traditions, by the force of genius he confounds the scientific
exaggeration that is already so close to decadence. Doubtless he had
raised his eyes high every time he had taken antiquity as a model, but
he raised them much higher still by becoming exclusively Christian
again, and by comprehending that the humblest way is not only the
surest, but also the most sublime. Why is such simple means so highly
successful in exalting our feelings? Why is it, when looking at this
picture, we have moments of divine oblivion in which we fancy ourselves
in Heaven? That is what we must try to penetrate and comprehend.
[Illustration: THE SISTINE MADONNA.
_Raphael_.]
The principal figure of the picture is the Infant Jesus. He is no longer
the graceful _Bambino_ that we have so often seen in the arms of
Raphael's Madonnas, gentle and encouraging to the eyes of mankind, or
again he who, erewhile, in the _Virgin with the Fish_, leaned towards
the young Tobit; it is the God himself, it is the God of Justice and of
the Last Day. In the most humble state of our flesh, beneath the veil of
infancy, we see the terrifying splendour of infinite majesty in this
picture. The divine Infant leaves between himself and us a place for
fear, and in his presence we experience something of the fear of God
that Adam felt and that he transmitted to his race. For attaining such
heights of impression the means employed by Raphael are of an
incomprehensible simplicity. The Infant Jesus nestles familiarly in his
mother's arms. Sitting on a fold of the white veil that the Virgin
supports with her left hand, he leans against the Madonna's right arm;
his legs are crossed one above the other; the whole of the left arm
follows the bend of the body and the left hand rests upon the right leg;
at the same time, the right shoulder being raised by Mary's hand, the
right arm is bent at the elbow and the hand grasps the Virgin's veil.
This attitude, so natural, so true, so unstudied, expresses grandeur and
sovereignty. Nothing can be more elementary nor more powerful. The light
rests calmly upon every part of this beautiful body and all its members
in such fine repose. Humanity was never seen under such radiance. The
Son of God, in transporting to Heaven the terrestrial form of his
infancy, has made it divine for all eternity. Raphael doubtless owed to
antiquity something of the power that enabled him spontaneously to
create such a masterpiece; but in this case he has far surpassed his
models, and we should search vainly in antique art for a more ideal and
grand figure than that of this marvellous infant. However, hitherto we
have only examined the body, what shall we say about the head to give a
true idea of it? In fact, that is perhaps the most extraordinary and
most indescribable part of the whole picture. The Infant Jesus seems to
recoil from the spectacle of human shame; he lovingly presses against
the Virgin's breast, softly rests his forehead against his Mother's
cheek, and darts towards the world one of those flaming and terrible
glances at which, it is said, everything in heaven, on earth, and in
hell trembles. His disordered hair stands upright and quivers as in the
breath of the tempest, and sombre clouds pass across the widely modelled
forehead; the brows are frowning, the pupils dilate and the flame is
ready to dart forth; the eyes, profound and terrible, are preparing to
flash with lightning; they still withhold it, but we feel that it may
break forth, and we tremble. This glance is truly splendid; it
fascinates you, attracts you, and, at the same time, fills you with
terror. The lips are quivering, and, from the point of view of line,
that is the great mystery, I think; the upper lip, visibly lifted on the
left side, assumes a strange accent of anger and indignation. This
deviation of a single feature is materially a small matter, and yet it
suffices to stamp the whole countenance with irresistible action. The
Infant Jesus assumes a formidable aspect; we recognize in him the
Sovereign Judge; his power is infinite and one act of his will be
sufficient to condemn or absolve. The _Virgin of the Chair_ had given us
a presentiment of this image in 1516; the _Virgin of St. Sixtus_ shows
it to us in 1518, in its eternal grandeur and sublime reality. But the
Word of God would scarcely leave room for anything but fear, if the
Virgin did not immediately come to shed hope in the soul terrified at
the idea of justice.
In fact, the Virgin remains calm and serene beside her enraged son, and
reassures our heart also with her confidence. If she presents the Son of
God to the world under a terrifying aspect, at the same time she presses
him so tenderly against her breast, and her features, under the
splendour of the divine radiance, shine with such purity that we feel
the flame that purifies all passing within ourselves. The Virgin
appears here like the dawning light. She advances from right to left,
beautiful as the skies, light as the cloud that bears her. Her gait, or
rather her flight through the air, is stamped with royal nobleness and
dignity. Her right hand, raised as high as the shoulder, holds the body
of Jesus under his right arm, and the Saviour lies back against his
Mother's right arm, while Mary's left arm is placed under the Infant's
body to support and carry him. The Virgin of St. Sixtus, like every
Madonna, wears a red robe and a white mantle; and Art has never done
greater things with drapery with such simple elements. The mantle falls
with a beautiful movement over the lower part of the body and floats in
wide folds, which, while sharply defining the form and movement of the
lower limbs, reveals the bare feet which are of admirable form and
colour. The robe, ornamented only with a little gold embroidery on the
sleeve, is of a purple tint in the shadows and becomes rose in the
light; it is girdled below the breast like the antique statues, and
reveals the neck as well as the top of the shoulders, which are
surrounded by a veil of white gauze. A long scarf of the same colour as
the veil but tinted with bistre, is placed on the crown of the head,
and, distending like a sail above the left shoulder, returns to the left
hand to serve as a support for the Infant, and runs along the body of
Jesus, who grasps it with his right hand. The Virgin's head appears in
full illumination without any artifice, and glows solely with its own
beauty. It is three quarters left, indeed almost full face, in a similar
position but in opposition to the Saviour's head, which, as we have
seen, is three quarters right and almost full face also. The hair, a
light chestnut, is arranged simply in smooth and flat bands lightly
waved above the brow, leaving the ears, cheeks, and temples completely
uncovered, and not interfering in any way with the outlines of the face.
The forehead, of a medium height, presents a widely developed surface,
in the centre of which glows a light that is continued down the bridge
of the nose. The eyes, of irreproachable shape, are full of brilliance,
and their gaze sheds over all it illumines an infinite softness mingled
with an indefinable exaltation. The mouth trembles with divine emotion
and seems to quiver with celestial bliss.
Another remarkable thing in this supreme manifestation of genius is that
in the Virgin and the Infant, of such different, we might almost say
such opposite expressions, the same features are noticeably repeated.
Raphael has been faithful to the last to the system he adopted in almost
his earliest pictures, and to make this intentional resemblance more
noticeable here he has placed the two heads close together, and shown
them almost full face, so that there shall be no distracting element;
and has opposed them to each other by turning them in different ways so
that they may complement each other and be reflected in one another as
in a mirror. Therefore, as the same glory surrounds both Mother and Son
at the same time, so the same character of beauty is found faithfully
reproduced in each. The skulls of both have the same general
conformation, the same intelligence shines upon the two brows, although
the Saviour's is dark and menacing whilst the Virgin's remains radiant
and clear; the eyes have also the same shape and are full of the same
fire, though the glance of the one is terrible and of the other,
reassuring; the mouth has the same lines, the same nobility, and the
same quiver that has the power of alternately inspiring terror and
tranquillity; and the cleft in the chin is identical. The colour also
helps to make an almost perfect unity of these two figures--we have the
same white and solid flesh tints, strong and delicate; the same warm and
always luminous shadows. Indeed, Jesus is confounded with Mary, so to
speak, so that the two forms together make one and the same body, and,
moreover, the Saviour at need may get rid of his majestic nakedness
beneath the veil and in the mantle of Mary.
This Virgin, in which Raphael has surpassed himself, was painted in a
moment of veritable exaltation of genius. It was not laboriously
conceived; it was born of itself, spontaneously complete, like the
antique Minerva, with its perfect form and beauty, and it was the
recompense for an entire life consecrated without intermission to the
search after nature and truth, to the study of the masters and all the
traditions, to the cult of the ideal and especially of the Virgin.
After having produced so many rare masterpieces, his love and faith were
carried to such a pitch of power and enthusiasm that he seemed to be
borne up by them, and, suddenly penetrating into a sphere superior to
all he had hitherto visited, he painted a Virgin incomparably more
beautiful than all the admirable Virgins he had painted before. Not a
single design, nor preparatory study, puts us on the trace of any
bringing forth of any of the parts of this picture.
However, if the image of this Virgin was traced on the canvas by a hand
suddenly inspired, I think that at the same time Raphael confronted his
inspiration with nature, and that, whilst resolutely springing towards
the infinite, he yet set himself face to face with reality. Perhaps,
strictly, he would have had no need of that; he had amassed so much, his
memory placed such numerous, varied, and exact documents at the service
of his will, that he had only to remember in order almost immediately to
produce an accomplished whole. Moreover, he had the model he wanted,
possessing without dominating it; and without losing sight of his ideal,
it was to this model that he applied himself for the embodiment of his
idea. Thus, in the Virgin of St. Sixtus, we recognize, not the image of
La Fornarina, but the transfiguration of her image. None of her features
are left and yet it is she, but so purified that no trouble nor shadow
comes to dim the radiant and virginal brightness of the picture. In
every human creature there is a divine germ that cannot flourish on
earth and whose blossoming is only in the skies; this is the flowering,
the splendour of which is shown in the Virgin of St. Sixtus. We care
very little about Raphael's private life; we only affirm in the presence
of his work that as a painter he did not love for this life only, and
that from the beginning to the end of his career he had the respect and
the taste for eternal love. Since the day when the Virgin appeared
transfigured to the seer of the Apocalypse, she had never revealed
herself in such effulgence. Before this picture, we lose every memory of
earth and see nothing but the Queen of Heaven and of the angels, the
creature elect and blessed above all creatures. In thus painting the
Virgin, Raphael has almost reached the confines of divinity.
But everything in this picture is food for admiration, even the
atmosphere that envelops it and those innumerable and endless legions of
cherubin that gravitate around the Virgin and the Word of God. The
aureole that encircles the divine group shows nothing at first but
dazzling and golden light; then, as it recedes from the centre, this
light gradually pales and insensibly merges from the most intense gold
into the purest blue, and is filled with those heads, chaste, innocent,
and fervent, that spring beneath the brush of Raphael like the flowers
at the breath of Spring. These aërial creatures throng to contemplate
the Virgin, and their forms recall those radiances in the shape of
crowns that fill the Dantesque Paradise, making the name of Mary resound
with their praises. Our eyes and mind lose themselves in the immense
multitude of these happy spirits. "Number if you can the sands of the
sea or the stars in the sky, those that are visible and invisible, and
still believe that you have not attained the number of the angels. It
costs God nothing to multiply the most excellent things, and it is the
most beautiful of which he is most prodigal." We cannot keep our eyes
away from that sky; we gaze at it and love to dazzle and weary our eyes
with it.
On either side of the Virgin, kneel St. Sixtus and St. Barbara. Placed
also amid the clouds, but below the Madonna, they are near the sovereign
mediatrix, as mediators also between the world and the Sovereign Judge.
St. Sixtus is seen on the right in profile, his head is raised towards
the Infant Jesus, his left hand is placed devoutly on his breast while
his right is foreshortened and points towards the spectator. He wears a
white rochet tied by a girdle with golden tassels, a white amice around
his neck, a magnificent pallium woven with gold falling to his feet, and
a long chasuble embroidered with gold and lined with red enveloping his
shoulders and arms, the wide folds of which are lost amid the clouds.
His head is bare, and his white tiara, adorned with the triple crown, is
placed on the balustrade that runs horizontally across the base of the
picture. It is impossible to find a representation of pontifical
sovereignty of greater fervour, grandeur, and truth. His cranium is bald
and has only a crown of grey hair remaining. His emaciated face is full
of ardour and power: his eyes penetrate straight into the splendour of
God; and his mouth, although partially hidden by the grey beard that
covers the lower part of his face, is praying with extraordinary
fervour. His gesture, so resolute and respectful, is in itself an act of
love and charity, and his very hands, so true in drawing and so bold in
action, have their special eloquence. It seems impossible that the
divine justice will not allow itself to be swayed by such intercession.
St. Barbara is opposite St. Sixtus. Her body is in left profile, towards
the Virgin, while her head, turned over her left shoulder towards the
spectator, appears almost in full face. Only her left arm and hand are
visible, pressed against her breast. Her left knee, directly resting
upon the cloud, sustains the weight of her body; her right leg, which
is raised, only touches the clouds with the foot. Her head is as
beautiful, youthful, and fresh as the action of her whole figure is
easy, elegant, and noble. Then where did Raphael find this serenity if
not in himself? The saint, gently bending towards the earth, seems to
want to receive our hopes and vows to bear them to Heaven. She is one of
those virgins who are created in the image of the Virgin par excellence.
Nevertheless, here she affects certain worldly appearances which, beside
the severe simplicity of the Mother of the Word, establish a hierarchy
between the two figures and a sort of line of demarcation that cannot be
crossed. The higher we soar the more is grandeur simplified in
everything.
St. Barbara's hair is arranged with a certain elegance; it is very
abundant, of an ash blonde, and forms thick waving bands that are
gathered off the temples and are crossed by two white fillets, one of
which crosses the top of the forehead like a diadem. Her eyes, lowered
towards the earth, are perfectly beautiful; her mouth is calm and sweet;
and purity shines in all her features. Her shoulders are bare, only
covered with a veil of white gauze which falls down her back, passes
under her arm and returns to her breast where her left hand holds it.
Her robe of violet shading into a neutral tint, is only visible where it
covers her leg; for a green mantle, thrown over it, envelops the body,
only revealing the arm, the sleeve of which is blue on the upper arm,
yellow, and slightly puffed at the shoulder, and yellow also on the
forearm. All this is of a grand air and in exquisite taste. Thus draped,
the figure has a charming effect which, without detracting from the
religious idea, leaves room also for a more human sentiment.
Raphael, doubtless, had thought that the figures of the Virgin, the
Infant Jesus, St. Sixtus, and St. Barbara would alone be sufficient for
his picture; but the empty space remaining beneath the feet of the
Madonna was too considerable to be filled up simply by clouds: and
therefore he added that rigid and horizontal supporting bar on which two
angels lean upon their elbows, contemplating the glory of the Virgin
with such rapture. In fact, these angels seem to be painted as an
afterthought, for, laid in with a light brush, they scarcely cover the
clouds, but allow the underlying pigment to show through.
Little wings of vivid tint complete these aërial creatures, always
living around Raphael and always ready to come from his brush. Although
held to nature by the most intimate ties, although perhaps too familiar
in attitude and manner, they are yet supernatural by the clearness of
their intelligence and by the power of their admiration. We are
enchanted with their candour and beauty. They are full of zeal and
enthusiasm; they possess the grace of the Pagan Loves merged into
Christian innocence and chastity. Their faith is as beautiful as the
sky, and in loving them it is almost for God himself that we feel the
love.
Such are the various parts of this work; their union forms the most
sublime harmony, and each in particular brings a divine note to this
celestial concert. By what process was this picture produced? We can
scarcely say, so greatly does the inspiration predominate over the
technique.
Raphael aimed at the sublime; and the rest was given to him as increase.
The colour is just what it should be in such a subject; whilst keeping
to a sweet, calm, and peaceful scale, it is resplendent with light, and
we ask ourselves whether it is not the hand of an angel rather than that
of a man that has been able to realize such a marvel.
The _Virgin of St. Sixtus_ is the most beautiful picture in the world.
To copy this Virgin is to attempt the impossible. Study it a hundred
times and a hundred times it will reveal itself under a new aspect. It
was before this picture, it is said, that Correggio cried: "And I also,
I am a painter."
The _Virgin of St. Sixtus_ was immediately placed where it was meant to
be; it was present in triumph every day for two hundred and thirty-six
years at the divine sacrament; and never was a human work so worthy of
that signal honour.
In 1734 the degenerate monks of St. Sixtus preferred a little gold to
their inestimable masterpiece, and for a miserable sum of a hundred and
some thousands of francs (110,000 to 120,000), they sold their Virgin to
Augustus III., Elector of Saxony and King of Poland. That day the
barbarians were not those the Italians think....
At Dresden, the Madonna was received with great pomp. Augustus III. had
it brought in haste into the reception hall of his palace; as the place
of honour was occupied by the throne, he, himself, seized the royal
chair, and relegating it to a less conspicuous station, he cried: "Room
for the great Raphael." If this is historic, it does honour to the
prince; if legendary, it is to the glory of the people whose sentiment
it translates.
_Les Vierges de Raphaël_ (Paris, 1869).
THE DREAM OF ST. URSULA
(_CARPACCIO_)
JOHN RUSKIN
In the year 1869, just before leaving Venice I had been carefully
looking at a picture by Victor Carpaccio, representing the dream of a
young princess. Carpaccio has taken much pains to explain to us, as far
as he can, the kind of life she leads, by completely painting her little
bedroom in the light of dawn, so that you can see everything in it. It
is lighted by two doubly-arched windows, the arches being painted
crimson round their edges, and the capitals of the shafts that bear
them, gilded. They are filled at the top with small round panes of
glass; but beneath, are open to the blue morning sky, with a low lattice
across them; and in the one at the back of the room are set two
beautiful white Greek vases with a plant in each; one having rich dark
and pointed green leaves, the other crimson flowers, but not of any
species known to me, each at the end of a branch like a spray of heath.
[Illustration: THE DREAM OF ST. URSULA.
_Carpaccio._]