his productions are essential to the idea expressed by the work as a
whole, then undoubtedly Reynolds wrought these minor parts almost
wholly, if not entirely, with his own brushes.
Few, if any, of Reynolds's family groups equals in beauty, variety, and
spirit, the famous _Cornelia and her Children_, or rather _Lady Cockburn
and her three Infants_,--a work so charming, that we can well conceive
the feelings of the Royal Academicians of 1774, that long-past time,
when it was brought to be hung in the Exhibition, and received with
clapping of hands, as men applaud a successful musical performance, or
the fine reading of a poem. Every Royal Academician then present--the
scene must have been a very curious one--stepped forward, and in this
manner saluted the work of the President; they did so, not because it
was his, but on account of its charming qualities. Conceive the
painters, each in his swallow-tailed coat, his ruffles and broad cuffs,
his knee-breeches, buckles, long waistcoat, and the rest of his garments
of those days, thus uniting in one acclaim. The reader may judge whether
or not such applause was deserved by the picture, which tells its own
story. The parrot in the background was occasionally used by Reynolds;
see the portrait of Elizabeth, Countess of Derby, and the engraving from
it by W. Dickinson.[29] It has been said that the only example of
Reynolds's practice in signing pictures on the border of the robes of
his sitters appears in _Mrs. Siddons as the Tragic Muse_; nevertheless,
this picture of _Cornelia_ shows at least one exception to that asserted
rule. The border of Lady Cockburn's dress in the original is inscribed
in a similar manner thus:--"1775, Reynolds _pinxit_." The picture was
begun in 1773, and is now in the possession of Sir James Hamilton, of
Portman Square, who married the daughter of General Sir James Cockburn,
one of the boys in the picture. It is noteworthy that all these children
successively inherited the baronetcy; one of them--the boy who looks
over his mother's shoulder--was Admiral Sir George Cockburn, Bart., on
board whose ship, the _Northumberland_, Napoleon was conveyed to St.
Helena. Sir James, the eldest brother, was afterwards seventh baronet;
Sir William, the third brother, was eighth baronet of the name, was Dean
of York, and married a daughter of Sir R. Peel. The lady was Augusta
Anne, daughter of the Rev. Frances Ascough, D.D., Dean of Bristol,
married in 1769, the second wife of Sir James Cockburn, sixth baronet of
Langton, in the county of Berwick, M.P. She was niece of Lord Lyttleton.
For this picture in March, 1774, Reynolds received £183 15s. This was
probably the whole price, and for a work of no great size, but wealthy
in matter, the amount was small indeed. It includes four portraits.
After comparison of the facts that the engravings, by C.W. Wilkin, in
stipple, and by S.W. Reynolds, mezzotint, are dated, on the robe as
aforesaid, "1775," and its exhibition in 1774, the year in which it was
paid for, we may guess that the signature and date were added by the
painter after exhibiting it, and probably while he worked on it, with
the advantage of having compared the painting with others in the Royal
Academy. The landscape recalls that glimpse of halcyon country of which
we caught sight in _The Infant Academy_--its trees, its glowing sky, are
equally adaptable to both subjects. The picture was exhibited at the
British Institution in 1843, and was then the property of Sir James
Cockburn, Bart., whose portrait it contains.
_English Children as painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds_ (London,
1867).
FOOTNOTES:
[29] Rather we should say, see the engraving only. The picture is one of
the very few prime works by Reynolds which has disappeared without
records of its loss.
ST. CECILIA
(_RAPHAEL_)
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
I have seen a quantity of things here--churches, palaces, statues,
fountains, and pictures; and my brain is at this moment like a portfolio
of an architect, or a print-shop, or a common-place book. I will try to
recollect something of what I have seen; for indeed it requires, if it
will obey, an act of volition. First, we went to the Cathedral, which
contains nothing remarkable, except a kind of shrine, or rather a marble
canopy, loaded with sculptures, and supported on four marble columns. We
went then to a palace--I am sure I forget the name of it--where we saw a
large gallery of pictures. Of course, in a picture gallery you see three
hundred pictures you forget, for one you remember. I remember, however,
an interesting picture by Guido, of the Rape of Proserpine, in which
Proserpine casts back her languid and half-unwilling eyes, as it were,
to the flowers she had left ungathered in the fields of Enna.
We saw besides one picture of Raphael--St. Cecilia; this is in another
and higher style; you forget that it is a picture as you look at it; and
yet it is most unlike any of those things which we call reality. It is
of the inspired and ideal kind, and seems to have been conceived and
executed in a similar state of feeling to that which produced among the
ancients those perfect specimens of poetry and sculpture which are the
baffling models of succeeding generations. There is a unity and a
perfection in it of an incommunicable kind. The central figure, St.
Cecilia, seems rapt in such inspiration as produced her image in the
painter's mind; her deep, dark, eloquent eyes lifted up; her chestnut
hair flung back from her forehead--she holds an organ in her hands--her
countenance, as it were, calmed by the depth of its passion and rapture,
and penetrated throughout with the warm and radiant light of life. She
is listening to the music of heaven, and, as I imagine, has just ceased
to sing, for the four figures that surround her evidently point, by
their attitudes, towards her; particularly St. John, who, with a tender
yet impassioned gesture, bends his countenance towards her, languid with
the depth of his emotion. At her feet lie various instruments of music,
broken and unstrung. Of the colouring I do not speak; it eclipses
nature, yet has all her truth and softness.
_Letters from Italy. The Prose Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley_,
edited by Harry Buxton Forman (London, 1880).
[Illustration: ST. CECILIA.
_Raphael._]
THE LAST SUPPER
(_LEONARDO DA VINCI_)
JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE
We will now turn to _The Last Supper_, which was painted on the wall of
the refectory of St. Maria delle Gratie in Milan.
The place where this picture is painted must first be considered: for
here the knowledge of this artist is focussed. Could anything more
appropriate, or noble, be devised for a refectory than a parting meal
which the whole world will reverence for ever?
Several years ago when travelling we beheld this dining-room still
undestroyed. Opposite the entrance on the narrow end on the floor of the
hall stands the prior's table with a table for the monks on either side,
all three raised a step above the ground, and now when the visitor turns
around he sees painted on the wall, above the not very high doors, a
fourth table, at which are seated Christ and His disciples, as if they
also belonged to this company. It must have been an impressive sight at
meal times when the tables of Christ and the prior looked upon each
other like two pictures, and the monks found themselves enclosed between
them. And, for this very reason, the artist's judgment selected the
tables of the monks for a model. Also the table-cloth, with its creased
folds, embroidered stripes, and tied corners, was taken from the
linen-room of the monastery, while the dishes, plates, drinking-vessels,
and other utensils are similarly copied from those used by the monks.
Here, also, no attempt was made to depict an uncertain and antiquated
custom. It would have been extremely unsuitable in this place to permit
the holy company to recline upon cushions. No! it should be made
contemporary. Christ should take His Last Supper with the Dominicans in
Milan.
In many other respects also the picture must have produced a great
effect. About ten feet above the floor the thirteen figures, each one
half larger than life-size, occupy a space twenty-eight Parisian feet
long. Only two of these can be seen at full length at the opposite ends
of the table, the others are half-figures, and here, too, the artist
found great advantage in the conditions. Every moral expression belongs
solely to the upper part of the body, and the feet, in such cases, are
always in the way; the artist has created here eleven half-figures,
whose laps and knees are hidden by the table and table-cloth under which
the feet in the deep shadow are scarcely visible.
Now, let us transport ourselves to this place and room, imagine the
extreme moral repose which reigns in such a monastic dining-hall, and
marvel at the strong emotion and impassioned action that the painter has
put into his picture whilst he has kept his work of art close to nature,
bringing it immediately in contrast with the neighbouring actual scene.
The exciting means which the artist employed to agitate the tranquil
and holy Supper-Table are the Master's words: "There is one amongst you
that betrays me." The words are spoken, and the entire company falls
into consternation; but He inclines His head with downcast looks; the
whole attitude, the motion of the arms, the hands, and everything repeat
with heavenly resignation which the silence itself confirms, "Verily,
verily, there is one amongst you that betrays Me."
[Illustration: THE LAST SUPPER.
_L. da Vinci._]
Before going any farther we must point out a great expedient, by means
of which Leonardo principally animated this picture: it is the motion of
the hands; only an Italian would have discovered this. With his nation
the whole body is expressive, all the limbs take part in describing an
emotion, not only passion but also thought. By various gestures he can
express: "What do I care?"--"Come here!"--"This is a rascal, beware of
him!" "He shall not live long!" "This is a main point. Take heed of
this, my hearers!" To such a national trait, Leonardo, who observed
every characteristic with the greatest attention, must have turned his
searching eye; in this the present picture is unique and one cannot
observe it too much. The expression of every face and every gesture is
in perfect harmony, and yet a single glance can take in the unity and
the contrast of the limbs rendered so admirably.
The figures on both sides of our Lord may be considered in groups of
three, and each group may be regarded as a unit, placed in relation and
still held in connection with its neighbours. On Christ's immediate
right are John, Judas, and Peter.
Peter, the farthest, on hearing the words of our Lord, rises suddenly,
in conformity with his vehement character, behind Judas, who, looking up
with terrified countenance, leans over the table, tightly clutching the
purse with his right hand, whilst with the left he makes an involuntary
nervous motion as if to say: "What may this mean? What is to happen?"
Peter, meanwhile, with his left hand has seized the right shoulder of
John, who is bending towards him, and points to Christ, at the same time
urging the beloved disciple to ask: "Who is the traitor?" He
accidentally touches Judas's side with the handle of a knife held in his
right hand, which occasions the terrified forward movement upsetting the
salt-cellar, so happily brought out. This group may be considered as the
one first thought of by the artist; it is the most perfect.
While now on the right hand of the Lord a certain degree of emotion
seems to threaten immediate revenge, on the left, the liveliest horror
and detestation of the treachery manifest themselves. James the Elder
starts back in terror, and with outspread arms gazes transfixed with
bowed head, like one who imagines that he already beholds with his eyes
what his ears have heard. Thomas appears behind his shoulder, and
approaching the Saviour raises the forefinger of his right hand to his
forehead. Philip, the third of this group, rounds it off in the most
pleasing manner; he has risen, he bends forward towards the Master, lays
his hands upon his breast, and says with the greatest clearness: "It is
not I, Lord, Thou knowest it! Thou knowest my pure heart, it is not I."
And now the three last figures on this side give us new material for
reflection. They are discussing the terrible news. Matthew turns his
face eagerly to his two companions on the left, hastily stretching out
his hands towards the Master, and thus, by an admirable contrivance of
the artist, he is made to connect his own group with the preceding one.
Thaddæus shows the utmost surprise, doubt, and suspicion; his left hand
rests upon the table, while he has raised the right as if he intended to
strike his left hand with the back of his right, a very common action
with simple people when some unexpected occurrence leads them to say:
"Did I not tell you so? Did I not always suspect it?"--Simon sits at the
end of the table with great dignity, and we see his whole figure; he is
the oldest of all and wears a garment with rich folds, his face and
gesture show that he is troubled and thoughtful but not excited, indeed,
scarcely moved.
If we now turn our eyes to the opposite end of the table, we see
Bartholomew, who rests on his right foot with the left crossed over it,
supporting his inclined body by firmly resting his hands upon the table.
He is probably trying to hear what John will ask of the Lord: this whole
side appears to be inciting the favourite disciple. James the Younger,
standing near and behind Bartholomew, lays his left hand on Peter's
shoulder, just as Peter lays his on John's shoulder, but James mildly
requests the explanation whilst Peter already threatens vengeance.
And as Peter behind Judas, so James the Younger stretches out his hand
behind Andrew, who, as one of the most prominent figures expresses, with
his half-raised arms and his hands stretched out directly in front, the
fixed horror that has seized him, an attitude occurring but once in
this picture, while in other works of less genius and less reflection,
it is too often repeated....
It is sad to reflect that unfortunately even when the picture was
painted, its ruin might have been predicted from the character and
situation of the building. Duke Louis, out of malice or caprice,
compelled the monks to renovate their decaying monastery in this
unfavourable location, wherefore it was ill-built and as if by forced
feudal labour. In the old galleries we see miserable meanly-wrought
columns, great arches with small ill-assorted bricks, the materials from
old pulled-down buildings.
If then what is visible on the exterior is so bad, it is also to be
feared that the inner walls, which were plastered over, were constructed
still worse. This is saying nothing of weather-beaten bricks and other
minerals saturated with hurtful salts which absorbed the dampness of the
locality and destructively exhaled it again. Farther away stood the
unfortunate walls to which such a great treasure was entrusted, towards
the north, and, moreover in the vicinity of the kitchen, the pantry, and
the scullery; and how sad, that so careful an artist, who could not
select and refine his colours and clear his glaze and varnish too
carefully, was compelled by the circumstances, or rather by the place
and situation in which the picture had to stand, to overlook the chief
point upon which everything depended, or not to take it sufficiently to
heart!
However, despite all this, if the monastery had stood upon high ground,
the evil would not have been so great. It lies so low, and the Refectory
lower than the rest of the building, that in the year 1800, during a
long rain, the water stood to a depth of three palms, which leads us
also to believe that the frightful floods of 1500 also extended to this
place. It is to be remembered that the monks did their best to dry out
this room, but unfortunately there remained enough humidity to penetrate
it through and through; and they were even sensible of this in
Leonardo's time.
About ten years after the completion of the picture, a terrible plague
overran the good city, and how could we expect that the afflicted monks,
forsaken by all the world and in fear of death, should think of the
picture in their dining-room?
War and numerous other misfortunes which overtook Lombardy in the first
half of the Sixteenth Century were the cause of the complete neglect of
such works as the one we are speaking of; the white-washed wall being
especially unfavourable: perhaps, indeed, the very style of painting
lent itself to speedy destruction. In the second half of the Sixteenth
Century a traveller says that the picture is half spoiled; another sees
in it only a tarnished blot; people complain that the picture is already
lost, assuredly it can scarcely be seen; another calls it perfectly
useless, and so speak all the later authors of this period.
But the picture was still there, even if it was the shadow of its former
self. Now, however, from time to time fear arises lest it be lost
entirely; the cracks are increasing and run into one another, and the
great and precious surface is splitting into numberless small flakes and
threatening to fall piece by piece. Touched by this state of affairs,
Cardinal Frederick Borromeo had a copy of it made in 1612, and we are
grateful for his forethought.
Not only did it suffer by the lapse of time, in connection with the
above-mentioned circumstances, but the owners, themselves, who should
have kept and preserved it, wrought its greatest ruin and therefore have
covered their memory with eternal shame. It seemed to them necessary to
have doors that they might pass in and out of the Refectory; so these
were cut symmetrically through the wall upon which the picture stood.
They desired an impressive entrance into the room which was so precious
to them.
A door much larger than was necessary was broken through the middle,
and, without any feeling of reverence either for the painter or the holy
company, they ruined the feet of several apostles, indeed, even of
Christ. And from this, the ruin of the picture really dates. Now, in
order to build an arch, a much larger opening had to be made in the wall
than even for the door; and not only was a large portion of the picture
lost, but the blows of hammers shook the picture in its own field, and
in many places the crust was loosened and some pieces were fastened on
again with nails.
At a later period, by a new form of bad taste, the picture was obscured,
inasmuch as a national escutcheon was fastened under the ceiling, almost
touching the forehead of Christ; thus by the door from below, so now
from above also, the Lord's presence was cramped and degraded. From this
time forward the restoration was again spoken of which was undertaken at
a later period. But what real artist would care to undertake such a
responsibility? Unfortunately, in the year 1726, Bellotti presented
himself, poor in art, but at the same time, as is usual, with an
abundant supply of presumption. He, like a charlatan, boasted of a
secret process with which he could restore the picture to its original
state. By means of a small sample of his work he deluded the ignorant
monks who yielded to his discretion this treasure, which he immediately
surrounded with scaffolding, and, hidden behind it, he painted over the
entire picture with a hand shaming to art. The little monks wondered at
the secret, which he communicated in a common varnish to delude them,
and gave them to understand that with this they would be able to save it
from spoiling for ever.
Whether, on the clouding of the picture after a short time, the monks
made use of this costly remedy or not, is unknown, but it certainly was
freshened up several times, and indeed with water-colours in certain
parts.
Meanwhile the picture had become constantly more decayed, and again the
question arose how far it could still be preserved, but not without much
contention among artists and directors. De Giorgi, a modest man of
moderate talent, but intelligent and zealous and with a knowledge of
true art, steadfastly refused to set his hand forward where Leonardo had
withheld his own.
At last, in 1770, on a well-meaning order but one void of discretion,
through the indulgence of a courtly prior, the work was transferred to a
certain Mazza, who botched it in a masterly manner. The few old original
spots remaining, although twice muddied by a foreign hand, were an
impediment to his free brush; so he scraped them with iron and prepared
bare places for the free play of his own impudent daubing, indeed,
several heads were handled in this way.
Friends of art were now aroused against that in Milan, and patrons and
clients were openly blamed. Enthusiasm fed the fire and the fermentation
became general. Mazza, who had begun to paint on the right of the
Saviour, had by this arrived at the left, and only the heads of Matthew,
Thaddæus, and Simon remained untouched. He thought to cover Bellotti's
work and to vie with him in the name of a hero. But Fate willed
otherwise, for the pliant prior having been transferred, his successor,
a friend of art, did not delay to dismiss Mazza forthwith; through which
step three heads were so far saved that we can accordingly judge of
Bellotti. And, indeed, this circumstance probably gave rise to the
saying: "There are still three heads of the genuine original remaining."
In 1796, the French host crossed the Alps triumphantly, led by General
Bonaparte. Young, crowned with fame and seeking fame, he was drawn by
the name of Leonardo to the place that has now held us so long.
He immediately gave orders that no encampment should be made here lest
other damage should happen, and signed the order on his knee before he
mounted his horse. Shortly afterwards another general disregarded these
orders, had the doors broken in, and turned the hall into a stable.
Mazza's coating had already lost some of its freshness and the horse
steam which was worse than the steam from viands on monkish sideboards
lastingly impregnated the walls, and added new mould to the picture;
indeed, dampness collected so heavily that it ran down leaving white
streaks. Later, this room was used for storing hay, and sometimes for
other purposes connected with the military, by whom it was abused.
Finally the Administration succeeded in closing the place, and even
walling it in, so that for a long time those who wished to see _The Last
Supper_ were obliged to climb a ladder leading to the pulpit from which
the Reader discoursed at meal times.
In the year 1800, a great flood produced still more dampness. In 1801,
on the recommendation of Vossi, who took it upon himself to assume the
Secretaryship of the Academy, a door was built and the board of
governors promised more care in the future. Finally, in 1807, the
Viceroy of Italy gave orders that the place should be renovated and duly
honoured. Windows were put in and scaffolding was erected in some parts
to examine if there was anything more that could be done. The door was
transferred to the side, and since then no considerable changes have
been noticed, although to the minute observer its dullness varies
according to the state of the atmosphere. Although the work itself is as
good as lost, may it yet leave some slight trace to the sad but pious
memory of future generations!
_Werke_ (Stuttgart and Tübingen, 1831), Vol. XXXIX.
THE CHILDREN OF CHARLES I.
(_VAN DYCK_)
JULES GUIFFREY