towards Christ. Michael delivers up his scales and sword. He
is followed by the Thrones and Principalities of the Earth; so
inscribed--Throni--Principatus. The Spirits of the Thrones bear scales
in their hands; and of the Princedoms, shining globes: beneath the wings
of the last of these are the four great teachers and lawgivers, St.
Ambrose, St. Jerome, St. Gregory, St. Augustine, and behind St.
Augustine stands his mother, watching him, her chief joy in Paradise.
Under the Thrones are set the Apostles, St. Paul separated a little from
the rest, and put lowest, yet principal; under St. Paul, is St.
Christopher, bearing a massive globe, with a cross upon it: but to mark
him as the Christ-bearer, since here in Paradise he cannot have the
child on his shoulders, Tintoret has thrown on the globe a flashing
stellar reflection of the sun round the head of Christ.
All this side of the picture is kept in glowing colour--the four Doctors
of the church have golden mitres and mantles; except the Cardinal, St.
Jerome, who is in burning scarlet, his naked breast glowing, warm with
noble life,--the darker red of his robe relieved against a white glory.
Opposite to Michael, Gabriel flies towards the Madonna, having in his
hand the Annunciation lily, large and triple-blossomed. Above him, and
above Michael equally, extends a cloud of white angels, inscribed
"Serafini;" but the group following Gabriel, and corresponding to the
Throni following Michael, is inscribed "Cherubini." Under these are the
great prophets, and singers, and foretellers of the happiness or of the
sorrow of time. David, and Solomon, and Isaiah, and Amos of the
herdsmen. David has a colossal golden psaltery laid horizontally across
his knees;--two angels behind him dictate to him as he sings, looking up
towards Christ; but one strong angel sweeps down to Solomon from among
the cherubs, and opens a book, resting it on the head of Solomon, who
looks down earnestly, unconscious of it;--to the left of David, separate
from the group of prophets, as Paul from the apostles, is Moses,
dark-robed;--in the full light, withdrawn far behind him, Abraham,
embracing Isaac with his left arm, and near him, pale St. Agnes. In
front, nearer, dark and colossal, stands the glorious figure of Santa
Giustina of Padua; then a little subordinate to her, St. Catharine, and,
far on the left, and high, Saint Barbara leaning on her tower. In front,
nearer, flies Raphael; and under him is the four-square group of the
Evangelists. Beneath them, on the left, Noah; on the right, Adam and
Eve, both floating unsupported by cloud or angel; Noah buoyed by the
Ark, which he holds above him, and it is _this_ into which Solomon gazes
down, so earnestly. Eve's face is, perhaps, the most beautiful ever
painted by Tintoret--full in light, but dark-eyed. Adam floats beside
her, his figure fading into a winged gloom, edged in the outline of
fig-leaves. Far down, under these, central in the lowest part of the
picture, rises the Angel of the Sea, praying for Venice; for Tintoret
conceives his Paradise as existing now, not as in the future. I at first
mistook this soft Angel of the Sea for Magdalene, for he is sustained by
other three angels on either side, as the Magdalen is, in designs of
earlier time, because of the verse, "There is joy in the presence of the
angels over one sinner that repenteth." But the Magdalen is on the
right, behind St. Monica; and on the same side, but lowest of all,
Rachel, among the angels of her children gathered now again to her for
ever.
I have no hesitation in asserting this picture to be by far the most
precious work of art of any kind whatsoever, now existing in the world;
and it is, I believe, on the eve of final destruction; for it is said
that the angle of the great council-chamber is soon to be rebuilt; and
that process will involve the destruction of the picture by removal,
and, far more, by repainting. I had thought of making some effort to
save it by an appeal in London to persons generally interested in the
arts; but the recent desolation of Paris has familiarized us with
destruction, and I have no doubt the answer to me would be, that Venice
must take care of her own. But remember, at least, that I have borne
witness to you to-day of the treasures that we forget, while we amuse
ourselves with the poor toys, and the petty, or vile, arts, of our own
time.
The years of that time have perhaps come, when we are to be taught to
look no more to the dreams of painters, either for knowledge of
Judgment, or of Paradise. The anger of Heaven will not longer, I think,
be mocked for our amusement; and perhaps its love may not always be
despised by our pride. Believe me, all the arts, and all the treasures
of men, are fulfilled and preserved to them only, so far as they have
chosen first, with their hearts, not the curse of God, but His blessing.
Our Earth is now encumbered with ruin, our Heaven is clouded by Death.
May we not wisely judge ourselves in some things now, instead of amusing
ourselves with the painting of judgments to come?
_The Relation Between Michael Angelo and Tintoret_ (London, 1872).
AURORA
(_GUIDO RENI_)
CHARLOTTE A. EATON
On the roof of the summer-house of the Palazzo Rospigliosi, is painted
the celebrated fresco of Guido's _Aurora_. Its colouring is clear,
harmonious, airy, brilliant--unfaded by time; and the enthusiastic
admirer of Guido's genius may be permitted to hope that this, his
noblest work, will be immortal as his fame.
[Illustration: AURORA.
_Guido Reni_.]
Morghen's fine engraving may give you some idea of the design and
composition of this beautiful painting; but it cannot convey the soft
harmony of the tints, the living touches, the brilliant forms, the
realized dream of the imagination, that bursts, with all its magic, upon
your enraptured sight in the matchless original. It is embodied poetry.
The Hours, that hand-in-hand encircle the car of Phoebus, advance with
rapid pace. The paler, milder forms of those gentler sisters who rule
over declining day, and the glowing glance of those who bask in the
meridian blaze, resplendent in the hues of heaven,--are of no mortal
grace and beauty; but they are eclipsed by Aurora herself, who sails on
the golden clouds before them, shedding "showers of shadowing roses" on
the rejoicing earth; her celestial presence diffusing gladness, and
light, and beauty around. Above the heads of the heavenly coursers,
hovers the morning star, in the form of a youthful cherub, bearing his
flaming torch. Nothing is more admirable in this beautiful composition,
than the motion given to the whole. The smooth and rapid step of the
circling Hours as they tread on the fleecy clouds; the fiery steeds; the
whirling wheels of the car; the torch of Lucifer, blown back by the
velocity of his advance; and the form of Aurora, borne through the
ambient air, till you almost fear she should float from your sight; all
realize the illusion. You seem admitted into the world of fancy, and
revel in its brightest creations.
In the midst of such youth and loveliness, the dusky figure of Phoebus
appears to great disadvantage. It is not happily conceived. Yet his air
is noble and godlike, and his free commanding action, and conscious
ease, as he carelessly guides, with one hand, the fiery steeds that are
harnessed to his flaming car, may, perhaps, compensate in some degree
for his want of beauty; for he certainly is not handsome; and I looked
in vain for the youthful majesty of the god of day, and thought on
Apollo Belvedere. Had Guido thought of it too, he never could have made
this head, which is, I think, the great and only defect of this
exquisite painting; and what makes it of more importance, is, that
Apollo, not Aurora, is the principal figure--the first that catches the
eye, and which, in spite of our dissatisfaction, we are to the last
obliged to contemplate. The defects of his Apollo are a new proof of
what I have very frequently observed, that Guido succeeded far better in
feminine than in masculine beauty. His female forms, in their
loveliness, their delicacy, their grace and sweetness are faultless; and
the beauty and innocence of his infants have seldom been equalled; but
he rarely gave to manly beauty and vigour a character that was noble.
From the _Aurora_ of Guido, we must turn to the rival _Aurora_ of
Guercino, in the Villa Ludovisi. In spite of Guido's bad head of Apollo,
and in spite of Guercino's magic chiaroscuro, I confess myself disposed
to give the preference to Guido. In the first place, there is not the
same unity of composition in Guercino's. It is very fine in all its
parts; but still it _is_ in parts. It is not so fine a _whole_, nor is
it so perfect a composition, nor has it the same charm as Guido's.
Neither is there the same ideal beauty in the Aurora. Guercino's is a
mortal--Guido's a truly ethereal being. Guercino's Aurora is in her car,
drawn by two heavenly steeds, and the shades of night seem to dissipate
at her approach. Old Tithonus, whom she has left behind her seems half
awake; and the morning star, under the figure of a winged genius bearing
his kindled torch, follows her course. In a separate compartment, Night,
in the form of a woman, is sitting musing, or slumbering, over a book.
She has much of the character of a Sibyl. Her dark cave is broken open,
and the blue sky and the coming light break beautifully in upon her and
her companions, the sullen owl and flapping bat, which shrink from its
unwelcome ray. The Hours are represented under the figure of children,
fluttering about before the goddess, and extinguishing the stars of
night--a beautiful idea; but one, perhaps, better adapted to poetry than
painting. The Hours of Guercino are, however, infinitely less poetic
and less beautiful than the bright female forms which encircle the car
of day in Guido's _Aurora_. Yet it is a masterpiece of painting; and but
for the _Aurora_ of Guido, we could have conceived nothing beyond the
_Aurora_ of Guercino.
_Rome in the Nineteenth Century_ (5th edition, London, 1852).
AURORA
(_GUIDO RENI_)
JOHN CONSTABLE
Although no distinct landscape is known by the hand of Guido, yet in a
history of this particular branch it may not be improper to notice its
immense importance as an accessory in his picture of _Aurora_. It is the
finest instance I know of the beauty of natural landscape brought to aid
a mythological story, and to be sensible of its value we have only to
imagine a plain background in its stead. But though Guido has placed us
in the heavens, we are looking towards the earth, where seas and
mountain-tops are receiving the first beams of the morning sun. The
chariot of Apollo is borne on the clouds, attended by the Hours and
preceded by Aurora, who scatters flowers, and the landscape, instead of
diminishing the illusion, is the chief means of producing it, and is
indeed most essential to the story.
Leslie, _Life and Letters of John Constable, R.A._ (London, new
ed., 1896).
THE ASSUMPTION OF THE VIRGIN
(_TITIAN_)
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER
The pearl of the Museum at Madrid is a Raphael; that of Venice is a
Titian, a marvellous canvas, forgotten and afterwards recovered, which
has its legend also. For many long years Venice possessed this
masterpiece without knowing it. Relegated to an old and seldom
frequented church it had disappeared under a slow coating of dust and
behind a network of spider-webs. The subject could scarcely be made out.
One day, Count Cicognora, a great connoisseur, noticing that these rusty
figures had a certain air, and scenting the master under this livery of
neglect and misery, wetted his finger and rubbed the canvas, an action
which is not one of exquisite propriety, but which an expert on pictures
cannot help doing when he is face to face with a dirty canvas, be he
twenty times a count and a thousand times a dandy. The noble picture,
preserved intact under this layer of dust, like Pompeii under its mantle
of ashes, appeared so young and fresh that the count never doubted but
that he had discovered the canvas of a great master, an unknown
_chef-d'oeuvre_. He had the strength of mind to control his
excitement, and proposed to the _curé_ to exchange this great
dilapidated painting for a beautiful picture, quite new, perfectly
clean, very brilliant, and well framed, which would do honour to the
church and give pleasure to the faithful. The _curé_ joyfully accepted
it, smiling to himself at the eccentricity of the count, who gave new
for old and demanded nothing in return.
When relieved of its dirt and stains, Titian's _Assunta_ appeared
radiant as the sun when it bursts through the clouds. Parisian readers
may form an idea of the importance of this discovery by going to see the
beautiful copy, recently made by Serrur and placed in the Beaux Arts.
The _Assunta_ is one of Titian's greatest works, the one in which he
attains his highest flight: the composition is balanced and distributed
with infinite art. The upper portion, which is arched, represents
Paradise, Glory, as the Spanish say in their ascetic language: garlands
of angels floating and submerged in a wave of light of uncalculable
depth, stars scintillating in the flame, and brighter glints of the
everlasting light form the aureole of the Father, who arrives from the
depths of the infinite with the action of a hovering eagle, accompanied
by an archangel and a seraph whose hands support the crown and the
nimbus.
This Jehovah, like a divine bird appearing head-foremost and with body
horizontally foreshortened beneath a wave of drapery flying open like
wings, astonishes us by its sublime boldness; if it is possible for the
brush of a human being to give a countenance to divinity, certainly
Titian has succeeded. Unlimited power and imperishable youth radiate
from that white-bearded face that need only nod for the snows of
eternity to fall: not since the Olympian Jove of Phidias has the lord of
heaven and earth been represented more worthily.
[Illustration: THE ASSUMPTION OF THE VIRGIN.
_Titian._]
The centre of the picture is occupied by the Virgin Mary, who is lifted
up, or rather who is surrounded by a wreath of angels and souls of the
blessed: for she has no need of any aid to mount to Heaven; she rises by
the springing upward of her robust faith, by the purity of her soul,
which is lighter than the most luminous ether. Truly there is in this
figure an unheard-of force of ascension, and in order to obtain this
effect Titian has not had recourse to slender forms, diaphanous
draperies, and transparent colours. His Madonna is a very true, very
living, and very real woman, with a beauty as solid as that of the Venus
de Milo, or the sleeping woman in the Tribune of Florence. Large, full
drapery flows about her in numerous folds; her flanks are wide enough to
have contained a God, and, if she was not on a cloud, the Marquis du
Guast might have put his hand on her beautiful bosom, as in the picture
in our Museum. Yet nothing is of more celestial beauty than this great
and strong figure in its rose-coloured tunic and azure mantle;
notwithstanding the powerful voluptuousness of the body, the radiant
glance is of the purest virginity.
At the base of the picture, the apostles are grouped in
happily-contrasted attitudes of rapture and surprise. Two or three
little angels, who link them to the intermediary zone of the
composition, seem to be explaining to them the miracle that is taking
place. The heads of the apostles, who are of various ages and
characters, are painted with a surprising force of vitality and reality.
The draperies are of that fullness and abundant flow that characterize
Titian as the richest and at the same time the simplest of all
painters.
In studying this Virgin and mentally comparing her with other Virgins of
different masters, we reflected what a marvellous and ever new thing is
art. What Catholic painting has embroidered with variations upon this
theme of the Madonna, without ever exhausting it, astonishes and
confuses the imagination; but, in reflecting, we comprehend that under
the conventional type each painter conveyed secretly, at the same time,
his dream of love and the personification of his talent.
The Madonna of Albrecht Dürer in her sad and somewhat constrained
gracefulness, with her tired features, interesting rather than
beautiful, her air of a matron rather than a Virgin, her German and
_bourgeoise_ frankness, her tight garments and her symmetrically broken
folds, almost always accompanied by a rabbit, an owl, or an ape, through
some vague memory of Germanic pantheism, may she not be the woman whom
he would have loved and preferred to all others, and does she not also
exceedingly well represent the very genius of the artist? As she is his
Madonna, she might easily be his Muse.
The same resemblance exists in Raphael. The type of his Madonna, in
whom, mingled with old memories, the features of the Fornarina are
always found, sometimes suggested, sometimes copied, most frequently
idealized, is she not the most perfect symbol of his talent,--elegant,
graceful, and penetrated throughout with a chaste voluptuousness? The
Christian nourished on Plato and Greek Art, the friend of Leo X., the
dilettante Pope, the artist who died of love while painting the
_Transfiguration_, did he not live entirely in these modest Venuses
holding on their knees a child who is Love? If we wished to symbolize
the genius of every painter in an allegorical picture, would it be any
other than the angel of Urbino?
The Virgin of the _Assunta_, big, strong, highly-coloured, with her
robust and beautiful grace, her fine bearing, and her simple and natural
beauty,--is she not Titian's painting with all its qualities? We might
carry our researches still further; but we have said enough as a
suggestion.
Thanks to the dusty shroud which covered it for so long, the _Assunta_
glows with a quite youthful brilliancy; the centuries have not elapsed
for it, and we enjoy the supreme pleasure of seeing a picture of
Titian's just it came fresh from the palette.
_Voyage en Italie_ (new ed., Paris, 1884).
THE NIGHT WATCH
(_REMBRANDT_)
EUGÈNE FROMENTIN
We know how the _Night Watch_ is hung. It faces the _Banquet of
Arquebusiers_ by Van der Helst, and, no matter what has been said, the
two pictures do not hurt each other. They oppose each other like day and
night, like the transfiguration of things and their literal imitation,
slightly vulgar and clever. Admit that they are as perfect as they are
celebrated and you will have before your eyes a unique antithesis, what
La Bruyère calls "opposition truths that illuminate one another."
I shall not astonish anyone in saying that the _Night Watch_ possesses
no charm, and the fact is without example among the fine works of
pictorial art. It is amazing, it is disconcerting, it is imposing, but
it absolutely lacks that insinuating quality that convinces us, and it
almost always fails to please us at first. In the first place, it shocks
our logical sense and that habitual visual rectitude that loves clear
forms, lucid ideas, and clearly formulated boldness; something warns us
that our imagination as well as our reason will be only half satisfied
and that even the mind that is most easily won over will not submit till
the last and will not surrender without dispute. This is due to various
causes that do not all arise from the picture,--the light is
detestable; the frame of dark wood in which the painting is drowned
spoils its middle values, and its bronze scale of colour, and its force,
and makes it look much more smoked than it is; and, lastly and above
all, the exigencies of the place prevent the picture from being hung at
the proper height, and, against all the laws of the most elementary
perspective, oblige you to look at it from the same level.
[Illustration: THE NIGHT WATCH.
_Rembrandt._]
You are aware that the _Night Watch_, rightly or wrongly, passes for an
almost incomprehensible work, and that constitutes its chief prestige.
Perhaps it would have made far less noise in the world, if for two
centuries people had not kept up the habit of trying to find out its
meaning instead of examining its merits, and persisted in the mania of
regarding it as a picture enigmatical above all.
Taking it literally, what we know of the subject seems to me sufficient.
In the first place, we know the names and quality of the personages,
thanks to the care with which the painter has inscribed them on a plate
at the bottom of the picture; which proves that if the painter's fancy
has transfigured many things, the chief idea at least deals with the
customs of local life. It is true that we cannot tell for what purpose
these men are going out armed, whether they are going to practise
shooting, or on parade, or what; but, as there is no matter here for the
deeper mysteries, I am persuaded that if Rembrandt has failed to be more
explicit it is because either he did not wish or he did not know how to
be, and there is a whole series of hypotheses that might be very simply
explained by some such matter as inability or intentional reticence. As
for the time of day (the most vexed question of all and the only one,
moreover, that could have been settled when first it arose), for fixing
that we have no need to discover that the Captain's outstretched arm
casts a shadow upon the skirt of his coat. It suffices to remember that
Rembrandt never treated light otherwise; that nocturnal obscurity is his
habit; that shadow is the ordinary form of his poetic feeling and his
usual means of dramatic expression; and that in his portraits, in his
interiors, in his legends, in his anecdotes, in his landscapes, and in
his etchings, as in his paintings, it is generally with night that he
makes day.
It is agreed that the composition does not constitute the principal
merit of the picture. The subject had not been selected by the painter,
and the manner in which he intended to treat it did not allow of its
first sketch being very spontaneous, nor very lucid. Therefore the scene
is indecisive, the action almost null, and, consequently, the interest
is greatly divided. From the very beginning is betrayed an inherent vice
in the first idea, and a kind of irresolution in the manner of
conceiving, distributing, and placing it. Some men marching, others
standing still, one priming his musket, another loading his, another
firing, a drummer who poses for the head while beating his instrument, a
somewhat theatrical standard-bearer, and, finally, a crowd of figures
fixed in the requisite immobility of portraits,--so far as action is
concerned, these, if I am not mistaken, are the sole picturesque
features of the painting.
Is this indeed sufficient to give it the facial, anecdotal, and local
feeling that we expect from Rembrandt when he paints the places, things,
and men of his time? If Van der Helst instead of seating his
arquebusiers had made them move in any manner whatever, do not doubt
that he would have given us the truest if not the finest indications of
their ways. And as for Frans Hals, you may imagine with what clearness
and order, and how naturally he would have disposed the scene; how
piquant, lively, ingenious, abundant, and magnificent he would have
been. The idea conceived by Rembrandt then is one of the most ordinary,
and I would venture to say that the majority of his contemporaries
considered it poor in resources; some because its abstract line is
uncertain, scanty, symmetrical, meagre, and singularly incoherent;
others, the colourists, because this composition, so full of gaps and
ill-occupied spaces, did not lend itself to that broad and generous
employment of colours which is usual with able palettes....
Thus there is no truth and very little pictorial invention in the
general disposition. Is there more in the individual figures?