On the 8th of July, 1843, Washington Allston died. Twenty-one years have
since gone by; and already his name has a fine flavor of the past added
to its own proper aroma.
In twenty-one years Art has made large advances, but not in the
direction of imagination. In that rare and precious quality the works of
Allston remain preëminent as before.
It is now so long ago as 1827 that the first exhibition of pictures at
the Boston Athenæum took place; and then and there did Allston first
become known to his American public. Returned from Europe after a long
absence, he had for some years been living a retired, even a recluse
life, was personally known to a few friends, and by name only to the
public. The exhibition of some of his pictures on this occasion made
known his genius to his fellow-citizens; and who, having once felt the
strange charm of that genius, but recalls with joyful interest the happy
hour when he was first brought under its influence? I well remember,
even at this distance in time, the mystic, charmed presence that hung
about the "Jeremiah dictating his Prophecy to Baruch the Scribe,"
"Beatrice," "The Flight of Florimel," "The Triumphal Song of Miriam on
the Destruction of Pharaoh and his Host in the Red Sea," and "The
Valentine." I was then young, and had yet to learn that the quality that
so attracted me in these pictures is, indeed, the rarest virtue in any
work of Art,--that, although pictures without imagination are without
savor, yet that the larger number of those that are painted are
destitute of that grace,--and that, when, in later years, I should visit
the principal galleries of Europe, and see the masterpieces of each
master, I still should return to the memory of Allston's works as to
something most precious and unique in Art. I have also, since that time,
come to believe, that, while every sensitive beholder must feel the
charm of Allston's style, its intellectual ripeness can be fully
appreciated only by the aid of a foreign culture.
Passing through Europe with this impression of Allston's genius, in the
Venetians I first recognized his kindred; in Venice I found the school
in which he had studied, and in which Nature had fitted him to study:
for his eye for color was like his management of it,--Venetian. His
treatment of heads has a round, ripe, sweet fulness which reminds one
of the heads in the "Paradiso" of Tintoretto,--that work which deserves
a place in the foremost rank of the world's masterpieces. The great
praise implied in this comparison is justly due to Allston. The texture
and handling of his work are inimitable. Without any appearance of
labor, all crudeness is absorbed; the outlines of objects are not so
much softened as emptied of their color and substance, so that the light
appears to pass them. The finishing is so judicious that the spectator
believes he could see more on approaching nearer. The eye searches the
shade, and sees and defines the objects at first concealed by it. The
eye is not satiated, but by the most artful means excited to greater
appetite. The coloring is not so much harmonious as harmony itself, out
of which melodies of color play through the picture in a way that is
found in no other master but Paul Veronese. As Allston himself expressed
it, he liked to echo his colors; and as an echo is best heard where all
else is silence, so the pure repose of these compositions gives
extraordinary value to such delicate repetitions of color. The effect
is, one might say, more musical than pictorial. This peculiar and
musical effect is most noticeable in the landscapes. They are like odes,
anthems, and symphonies. They run up the scale, beginning with the
low-toned "Moonlight," through the great twilight piece called "After
Sunset," the "Forest Scene," where it seems always afternoon, the gray
"Mountain Landscape," a world composed of stern materials, the cool
"Sunrise on the Mediterranean," up to the broad, pure, Elysian daylight
of the "Italian Landscape," with atmosphere full of music, color, and
perfume, cooled and shaded by the breezy pines, open far away to the
sea, and the sky peopled with opalescent clouds, trooping wide on their
celestial errands.
Of this last landscape the poetic merit is as great as the artistic
excellence is unrivalled. Whoever has made pictures and handled colors
knows well that a subject pitched on a high key of light is vastly more
difficult to manage than one of which the highest light is not above the
middle tint. To keep on that high key which belongs to broad daylight,
and yet preserve harmony, repose, and atmosphere, is in the highest
degree difficult; but here it is successfully done, and again reminds us
of the Paul Veronese treatment. Though a quiet picture, it is full of
brilliancy. It represents a broad and partly shaded expanse, full, also,
of light and sweet sunshine, through which the eye travels till it rests
on the distant mountain, rising majestically in grand volcanic forms
from the horizon plains. The sky is filled with cloudy veils, floating,
prismatic; some quiet water, crossed by a bridge which rests on round
arches, is in the middle distance; and a few trees near the foreground
form the group from which rises the stone-pine, which is the principal
feature in the picture, and gives it its character. As I write this, I
fear that any reader who has not seen the picture to which I refer will
immediately think of Turner's Italian landscapes, so familiar to all the
world through engravings, where a stone-pine is lifted against the sky
as a mass of dark to contrast with the mass of light necessarily in the
same region of the picture. But such effects, however legitimate and
powerful in the hands of Turner, were not in Allston's manner; they
would ruin and break the still harmony which was the law of his mind and
of his compositions. Under this tree, on the path, fall flickering spots
of sunshine, in which sit or stand two or three figures. The scarlet and
white of their dresses, catching the sunshine, make the few high notes
that cause the whole piece to throb like music.
There is also a large Swiss landscape, possessing in an extraordinary
degree the pure, keen atmosphere, as well as the grand mountain forms,
of the Alpine spaces. To look on this piece exhilarates as does the
sight of the Alps themselves; and it strikes the eye as a shrill
trumpet sound the ear. This landscape, a grand antithesis to the last
described, marks a great range of power in the mind that produced them
both.
But Allston was not a landscape-painter. His landscapes are few in
number, though great in excellence. They are poetic in the truest sense;
they are laden with thought and life, and are of "imagination all
compact." They transport the beholder to a fairer world, where, through
and behind the lovely superficies of things, he sees the hidden ideal of
each member,--of rock, sea, sky, earth, and forest,--and feels by a
clear magnetism that he is in presence of the very truth of things.
We now come to a class of Allston's pictures which are known chiefly,
perhaps only, in Boston. They are justly prized by their owners as
possessions of inestimable value; they are the works that more than
others display his peculiar genius. I allude to certain ideal heads and
figures called by these names: "Beatrice," "Rosalie," "The Bride," "The
Spanish Girl," "The Evening Hymn," "The Tuscan Girl," "Miriam," "The
Valentine," "Lorenzo and Jessica," "The Flight of Florimel," "The Roman
Lady," and others; and I shall give a short description of the most
important of these, sometimes in my own words, and sometimes in those of
one who is the only writer I can find who has said anything distinctive
about the works of Allston. I refer to William Ware, who died in the act
of preparing a course of lectures on the Genius of Allston,--a task for
which he was well qualified by his artistic organization, his long study
of Art, and his clear appreciation of Allston's power.
In these smaller ideal pieces Allston seems to have found his own
genius, so peculiar are they, so different from the works of all other
masters, and so divine in their expressive repose. I say divine in their
repose with full intention; for this is a repose, not idle and
voluptuous, not poetic and dreamy, but a repose full of life, a repose
which commands and controls the beholder, and stirs within him that
idealism that lies deep hidden in every mind. These pieces consist of
heads and figures, mostly single, distinct as individuals, and each a
heaven of beauty in itself.
The method of this artist was to suppress all the coarser beauties which
make up the substance of common pictures. He was the least _ad
captandum_ of workers. He avoided bright eyes, curls, and contours,
glancing lights, strong contrasts, and colors too crude for harmony. He
reduced his beauty to her elements, so that an inner beauty might play
through her features. Like the Catholic discipline which pales the face
of the novice with vigils, seclusion, and fasting, and thus makes room
and clears the way for the movements of the spirit, so in these figures
every vulgar grace is suppressed. No classic contours, no languishing
attitudes, no asking for admiration,--but a severe and chaste restraint,
a modest sweetness, a slumbering intellectual atmosphere, a graceful
self-possession, eyes so sincere and pure that heaven's light shines
through them, and, beyond all, a hovering spiritual life that makes each
form a presence.
Perhaps the two most remarkable and original of the pieces I have named
above are the "Beatrice" and the "Rosalie." Of the "Beatrice" there has
been much discussion whether she could have been intended to represent
the Beatrice of Dante. To me it appears that there is nothing like that
world- and heaven-renowned lady in this our Beatrice. She sits alone:
one sees that in the expression of her eyes. Her dress is of almost
conventual simplicity; the colors rich, but sober; the style flowing and
mediæval. She has soft brown hair; soft, velvet-soft, brown eyes;
features not salient, but rounded into the contours of the head; her
whole expression receptive, yet radiant with sentiment. The complexion
of a tender rose, equally diffused, gives an indescribable air of
healthful delicacy to the face. The expression of the whole figure is
that of one in a very dream of sentiment. Her twilight eyes see without
effort into the very soul of things, as other eyes look at their
surfaces. The sentiment of this figure is so powerful that by its gentle
charm it fastens the beholder, who gazes and cannot withdraw his eyes,
wondering what is the spell that can so hold him to that face, which is
hardly beautiful, surely without surface beauty. I once heard a person
who was unaccustomed to the use of critical terms say of these creations
of Allston, "Here is beauty, but not the beauty that glares on you"; and
this phrase, so odd, but so original, well describes the beauty of this
Beatrice, who, though now transfigured by sentiment and capable of being
a home-goddess, does not seem intended to shine in starry circles.
But for the beauty of execution in this picture, it is unsurpassed. It
is in this respect like the most beautiful things ever painted by
Raphael,--like the Madonna del Cardellino, whose face has light within,
"_luce di dentro_," as is the expressive Italian phrase,--and is also
like another picture that I have seen, attributed to Raphael, in the
collection of the late Baron Kestner at Rome.
Visiting the extremely curious and valuable gallery of this gentleman,
the Hanoverian Minister at Rome, after making us begin at the beginning,
among the very early masters, he led us on with courteous determination
through his specimens of all the schools, and made us observe the
characteristics of each school and each master, till at last we rested
in the last room, where hung a single picture covered with a silken
curtain. This at last, with sacred and reverent ceremony, was drawn
aside, and revealed a portrait by Raphael,--the portrait of a lady,
young and beautiful, and glowing with a tender sentiment which recalled
to my remembrance these heads by Allston, not alone in the sentiment,
but in the masterly beauty of the painting. M. Kestner told us he
supposed the picture to be a portrait of that niece of Cardinal Bibbiena
to whom Raphael was betrothed. The picture had come into his possession
by one of those wonderful chances which have preserved so many valuable
works from destruction. At a sale of pictures at Bologna, he told us he
noticed a very ordinary head, badly enough painted, but with very
beautiful hands,--hands which betrayed the work of a master; and he
conjectured this to be some valuable picture, hastily covered with
coarse work to deceive the emissaries of a conqueror when they came to
select and carry off the most valuable pictures from the galleries of
the conquered city. He gave his agent orders to purchase it, and when in
his possession a little careful work removed the upper colors and
discovered one of the most beautiful heads ever painted even by Raphael.
Though it may and will seem extravagant, I am satisfied that there are
several heads by Allston that would lose nothing by comparison with this
admirable work. Indeed, though M. Kestner's picture is a portrait, it is
a work so entirely in the same class with the "Beatrice," the "Rosalie,"
the "Valentine," and some other works of Allston, in sentiment and
execution, that the comparison is fairly challenged.
"Rosalie" is different from "Beatrice." She seems listening to music;
and so the little poem written by the author, and recited by him when
showing the picture newly finished to his friends, describes her. The
face indicates, not a dream of sentiment, like that of "Beatrice," but
rather a rapture. She is "caught on a higher strain." She is a creature
as passionate as tender; more like Juliet than like Miranda; fit to be
the love of a poet, and to reward his song with the overflowing cup of
love. In this figure also beauty melts into feeling. The composition of
color is masterly; in the draperies it is inlaid in opposing fields, by
which means the key of the whole is raised, and the rising rapture of
expression powerfully seconded. Did I not fear to insist too much on
what may be only a private fancy, I should say that these colors
reverberate like some rich orchestral strain of music.
"The Roman Lady reading." This Roman lady might be the mother of the
Gracchi, so stately and of so grand a style is she. But she is a modern,
for she reads from a book. She might be Vittoria Colonna, the loved of
Michel Angelo, so grave, so dignified is her aspect. The whole figure is
reading. A vital intelligence seems to pass from the eyes to the book.
Nothing tender in this woman, who, if a Roman, takes life after the
"high Roman fashion." The beauty and perfect representation of the hands
should be noticed here, as well as in the "Rosalie" and "Beatrice."
"Triumphal Song of Miriam on the Destruction of Pharaoh and his Hosts in
the Red Sea." This is a three-quarter length figure. She stands singing,
with one hand holding the timbrel, the other thrown aloft, the whole
form up-borne by the swelling triumphal song. I hardly know what it is
in this picture which takes one back so far into the world's early days.
The figure is neither antique nor modern; the face is not entirely of
the Hebrew type, but the tossing exultation seems so truly to carry off
the wild thrill of joy when a people is released from bondage, that it
is almost unnecessary to put the words into her mouth,--"Sing ye to the
Lord, for He hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider hath He
thrown into the sea." This figure is dramatically imaginative. In
looking at it, one feels called on to sing triumphal songs with Miriam,
and not to stand idly looking. The magnetism of the artist at the moment
of conception powerfully seizes on the beholder.
"The Valentine" is described by William Ware[A] as follows.
"For the 'Valentine' I may say, though to some it may seem an
extravagance, I have never been able to invent the terms that would
sufficiently express my admiration of that picture,--I mean, of its
color; though as a whole it is admirable for its composition, for the
fewness of the objects admitted, for the simplicity and naturalness of
the arrangement. But the charm is in the color of the flesh, of the
head, of the two hands. The subject is a young woman reading a letter,
holding the open letter with both the hands. The art can go no further,
nor as I believe has it ever gone any further. Some pigments or
artifices were unfortunately used, which have caused the surface to
crack, and which require the picture now to be looked at at a further
remove than the work on its own account needs or requires; it even
demands a nearer approach, in order to be well seen, than these cracks
will permit. But these accidental blemishes do not materially interfere
with the appreciation and enjoyment of the picture. It has what I
conceive to be that most rare merit,--it has the same universal hue of
nature and truth in both the shadows and the lights which Nature has,
but _Art_ almost never, and which is the great cross to the artist. The
great defect and the great difficulty, in imitating the hues of flesh,
lies in the shadows and the half-shadows. You will often observe in
otherwise excellent works of the most admirable masters, that, the
moment their pencil passes to the shadows of the flesh, especially the
half-shadows, truth, though not always a certain beauty, forsakes them.
The shadows are true in their degree of dark, but false in tone and hue.
They are true shadows, but not true flesh. You see the form of a face,
neck, arm, hand in shadow, but not flesh in shade; and were that portion
of the form sundered from its connection with the body, it could never
be told, by its color alone, what it was designed to be. Allston's
wonderful merit is, (and it was Titian's,) that the hue of life and
flesh is the same in the shadow as in the light. It is not only shadow
or dark, but it is flesh in shadow. The shadows of most artists, even
very distinguished ones, are green, or brown, or black, or lead color,
and have some strong and decided tint other than that of flesh. The
difficulty with most seems to have been so insuperable, that they cut
the knot at a single blow, and surrendered the shadows of the flesh, as
an impossibility, to green or brown or black. And in the general
imitation of the flesh tints the greatest artists have apparently
abandoned the task in despair, and contented themselves with a correct
utterance of form and expression, with well-harmonized darks and lights,
with little attention to the hues of Nature. Such was Caravaggio always,
and Guercino often, and all their respective followers. Such was Michel
Angelo, and often Raffaelle,--though at other times the color of
Raffaelle is not inferior in truth and glory to Titian, greatest of the
Venetian colorists: as in his portraits of Leo X., Julius, and some
parts of his frescos. But for the most part, though he had the genius
for everything, for color as well as form, yet one may conjecture he
found color in its greatest excellence too laborious for the careful
elaboration which can alone produce great results, too costly of time
and toil, the sacrifice too great of the greater to the less. Allston
was apparently never weary of the labor which would add one more tint of
truth to the color of a head or a hand, or even of any object of still
life, that entered into any of his compositions. Any eye that looks can
see that it was a most laborious and difficult process by which he
secured his results,--by no superficial wash of glaring pigments, as in
the color of Rubens, whose carnations look as if he had finished the
forms at once, the lights and the darks in solid opaque colors, and then
with a free, broad brush or sponge washed in the carmine, lake, and
vermilion, to confer the requisite amount of red,--but, on the contrary,
wrought out in solid color from beginning to end, by a painful and
sagacious formation, on the palette, of the very tint by which the
effect, the lights, shadows, and half-shadows, and the thousand almost
imperceptible gradations of hue which bind together the principal masses
of light and shade, was to be produced."
Here Mr. Ware undoubtedly errs in attributing the success of Allston's
flesh tints to the use of solid color alone. Such effects are not
possible without the aid of transparent colors in glazing; but it is the
judicious combination of solid with transparent pigments, combined not
bodily on the palette, but in their use on the canvas, that gives to
oil-painting all its unrivalled power in the hands of a master. Allston
was accustomed to inlay his pictures in solid crude color with a medium
that hardened like stone, and to leave them months and even years to dry
before finishing them with the glazing colors, which worked in his hands
like magic over such a well-hardened surface. By this method of working
he was able to secure solidity of appearance, richness of color, unity
of effect, and atmospheric repose and tenderness enveloping all objects
in the picture. Many of his unfinished works are left in the first stage
of this process, showing precisely how far he relied on the use of solid
color; and by comparing the works left in this state with his finished
pictures, one may see how much he was indebted to the use of transparent
glazes for the beauty, tenderness, and variety of color in the last
stages of his work.
In 1839 there was an exhibition in Boston of such of the works of
Allston as could be borrowed for the occasion. This was managed by the
friends of the artist for his benefit. The exhibition was held in
Harding's Gallery, a square, well-lighted room, but too small for the
larger pictures. It was, however, the best room that could be procured
for the purpose. Here were shown forty-five pictures, including one or
two drawings. There was something peculiarly happy in this exhibition of
works by a single mind. On entering, the presence of the artist seemed
to fill the room. The door-keeper held the door, but Allston held the
room; for his spirit flowed from all the walls, and helped the spectator
to see his work aright. This accompaniment of the artist's presence,
which hangs about all truly artistic works, is disturbed in a
miscellaneous collection, where jarring influences contend, and the
worst pictures outshine and outglare the best, and for a time triumph
over them. But in this exhibition no such disturbance met one, but
rather one was received into an atmosphere of peace and harmony, and in
such a temper beheld the pictures.
The largest picture on the walls was "The Dead Man restored to Life by
touching the Bones of the Prophet Elisha." This is a great subject,
greatly treated, full of power and expression.
The next in size was "Jeremiah dictating his Prophecy to Baruch, the
Scribe." This picture contains two figures, both seated. It is a picture
the scale of which demands that it be seen from a distance, though its
perfect execution makes a nearer view desirable also. If it were seen at
the end of some church aisle, through arches, and with a good light upon
it, the effect would be much enforced. It is a picture of extraordinary
expression. The Prophet, the grandest figure among the sons of men, with
those strange eyes that Allston loved to paint,--eyes which see
verities, not objects,--is looking not upward, but forward, not into
space, but into spirit; with one hand raised, as if listening, he
receives the heavenly communication, which the beautiful youth at his
feet is writing in a book. The force and beauty of this work are
unsurpassed. It is a perfect picture: grand in design, perfect in
composition, splendid in color, successful in execution, and the figures
full of expression,--for the inspiration of the Prophet seems to
overflow into the Scribe, whose attitude indicates enthusiastic
receptiveness; it is, indeed, in every pictorial quality that can be
named, admirable.
The other pictures in this collection, with the exception of the large
Swiss landscape, were of cabinet size. Some of them have been already
described in this paper. I will give Mr. Ware's description of "Lorenzo
and Jessica," and of "The Spanish Girl." Mr. Ware says:--
"But perhaps the most exquisite examples of repose are the 'Lorenzo and
Jessica,' and 'The Spanish Girl.' These are works also to which no
perfection could be added,--from which, without loss, neither touch nor
tint could be subtracted. We might search through all galleries, the
Louvre or any other, for their equals or rivals in either conception or
execution. I speak of these familiarly, because I suppose you all to be
familiar with them. The first named, the 'Lorenzo and Jessica,' is a
very small picture, one of the smallest of Allston's best ones; but no
increase of size could have enlarged its beauty or in any sense have
added to its value. The lovers sit side by side, their hands clasped, at
the dim hour of twilight, all the world hushed into silence, not a cloud
visible to speck the clear expanse of the darkening sky, as if
themselves were the only creatures breathing in life, and they absorbed
into each other, while their eyes, turned in the same direction, are
turned upon the fading light of the gentle, but brilliant planet, as it
sinks below the horizon: the gentle brilliancy, not the setting, the
emblem of their mutual loves. As you dwell upon the scene, your only
thought is, May this quiet beauty, this delicious calm, never be
disturbed, but may
'The peace of the scene pass into the heart!'
In the background, breaking the line of the horizon, but in fine unison
with the figures and the character of the atmosphere, are the faint
outlines of a villa of Italian architecture, but to whose luxurious
halls you can hardly wish the lovers should ever return, so long as they
can remain sitting upon that bank. It is all painted in that deep,
subdued, but rich tone, in which, except by the strongest light, the
forms are scarcely to be made out, but to which, to the mind in some
moods, a charm is lent, surpassing all the glory of the sun.
"'The Spanish Girl' is another example to the same point. It is one of
the most beautiful and perfect of all of Mr. Allston's works. The
Spanish girl gives her name to the picture, but it is one of those
misnomers of which there are many among his works. One who looks at the
picture scarcely ever looks at, certainly cares nothing for, the
Spanish girl, and regards her as merely giving her name to the picture;
and when the mind recurs to it afterwards, however many years may have
elapsed, while he can recall nothing of the beauty, the grace, or the
charms of the Spanish maiden, the landscape, of which her presence is a
mere inferior incident, is never forgotten, but remains forever as a
part of the furniture of the mind. In this part of the picture, the
landscape, it must be considered as one of the most felicitous works of
genius, where, by a few significant tints and touches, there is unveiled
a world of beauty. You see the roots of a single hill only, and a remote
mountain-summit, but you think of Alps and Andes, and the eye presses
onwards till it at last rests on a low cloud at the horizon. It is a
mere snatch of Nature, but, though only that, every square inch of the
surface has its meaning. It carries you back to what your mind imagines
of the warm, reddish tints of the Brown Mountains of Cervantes, where
the shepherds and shepherdesses of that pastoral scene passed their
happy, sunny hours. The same deep feeling of repose is shown in all the
half-developed objects of the hill-side, in the dull, sleepy tint of the
summer air, and in the warm, motionless haze that wraps sky, land, tree,
water, and cloud. It is quite wonderful by how few tints and touches, by
what almost shadowy and indistinct forms, a whole world of poetry can be
breathed into the soul, and the mind sent rambling off into pastures,
fields, boundless deserts of imaginary pleasures, where only is warmth
and sunshine and rest, where only poets dwell, and beauty wanders abroad
with her sweeping train, and the realities of the working-day world are
for a few moments happily forgotten."
"The Flight of Florimel" is an upright landscape. Florimel, on a white
horse, is rushing with long leaps through the forest. The horse and
rider are so near the front of the picture as to occupy an important
space in the foreground. The lady, in her dress of beaten gold, with
fair hair, and pale, frightened face, clings with both hands to her
bridle, and half looks back towards her pursuer. The color of this
picture is of exquisite beauty. The tender white and pale yellows of the
horse and rider show like fairy colors in a fairy forest. The whole is
wonderfully light and airy, flickering between light and shade. The
forest has no heavy glooms. The light breaks through everywhere. The
forms of the trees are light and piny; the red soil is seen, the roots
of the trees, the broken turf, the sandy ground. All the colors are
delightfully broken up in the mysterious half-light which confuses the
outlines of every object, without making them shadowy. Such a picture
one might see with half-shut eyes in a sunny wood, if one had more
poetry than prose in one's head, and were well read in the "Faërie
Queen."
"A Mother Watching her Sleeping Child." This is a very small picture,
remarkable only for its tender sentiment and delightful coloring. The
child is nude; the flesh tints of a tender rose, painted with that
luminous effect which leaves no memory of paint or pencil-touch behind
it.
"American Scenery." This is a small landscape, with something of the
Indian Summer haze; and a solitary horseman trotting across the
foreground with an indifferent manner, as if he would soon be out of
sight, wonderfully enhances the quietness of the scene.
"Isaac of York." This head of a Jew is powerfully painted, warm and
rich; as also are two heads called "Sketches of Polish Jews," which were
painted at one sitting.
"A Portrait of Benjamin West, late President of the Royal Academy," has
all the most admirable qualities that a simple portrait can have.
"A Portrait of the Artist, painted in Rome," is very interesting, from
the youthful sweetness of the face.
"Head of St. Peter" is a study for the head of St. Peter in a large
picture of the Angel delivering Peter from Prison. In this large
picture, lately brought from England to Boston, the head of the angel
is of surpassing beauty, and makes a powerful contrast with that of the
Apostle, whose strong Hebrew features are flooded with the light which
surrounds his heavenly deliverer.
"The Sisters." This picture represents two young girls of three-quarter
size, the back of one turned toward the spectator. In the Catalogue is a
note by the artist, who says,--"The air and color of the head with
golden hair was imitated from a picture by Titian, called the Portrait
of his Daughter,--but not the character or the disposition of the hair,
which in the portrait is a crop; the action of the portrait is also
different, holding up a casket with both hands. The rest of the picture,
with the exception of the curtain in the background, is original." Now
this is a very modest as well as honest statement of the artist; for
both the figures seem perfectly original, and do not recall Titian's
Daughter to the memory, except as an example of a successful study of
Titian's color, which I believe all are permitted, nay, recommended, to
imitate, if they can. It is, however, quite true, that this picture is
less Allstonian than the rest, which makes his explanation welcome. It
was undoubtedly painted as a study, and was not an original suggestion
of his own mind, as almost everything he has left evidently was,--if
internal evidence is evidence enough. Allston himself said, that he
never painted anything that did not cost him his whole mind; and those
who read his genius in his works can easily believe this statement.
"The Tuscan Girl." This is a very lovely little picture. It is not a
study of costume, but a picture of dreamy girlhood musing in a wood. The
sentiment of this charming little picture is best described in a little
poem with which its first appearance was accompanied, and which opens
thus:--
"How pleasant and how sad the turning tide
Of human life, when side by side
The child and youth begin to glide
Along the vale of years:
The pure twin-being for a little space,
With lightsome heart, and yet a graver face,
Too young for woe, but not for tears!"
I will not occupy any more space with describing the pictures in this
unique collection. All were not brought together that might have been.
One very remarkable small picture, called "Spalatro, or the Bloody
Hand," was not with these. Its distance from Boston probably prevented
its being risked on the dangers of a long journey.
There are several pictures by Allston in England. Of these I cannot
speak, as I have not seen them. Of one, however, "Elijah in the Desert,"
Mr. Ware gives so striking a description, that I will quote nearly the
whole of it.
"I turn with more pleasure to another work of Mr. Allston, even though
but few can ever have seen it, but which made upon my own mind, when I
saw it immediately after it was completed, an impression of grandeur and
beauty never to be effaced, and never recalled without new sentiments of
enthusiastic admiration. I refer to his grand landscape of 'Elijah in
the Desert,'--a large picture of perhaps six feet by four. It might have
been more appropriately named an Asian or Arabian Desert. That is to
say, it is a very unfortunate error to give to either a picture or a
book a name which raises false expectations; especially is this the case
when the name of the picture is a great or imposing one which greatly
excites the imagination. What could be more so than this, 'Elijah in the
Desert, fed by Ravens'? Extreme and fatal was the disappointment to
many, on entering the room, when, looking on the picture, no Elijah was
to be seen; at least you had to search for him among the subordinate
objects, hidden away among the grotesque roots of an enormous
banyan-tree; and the Prophet, when found at last, was hardly worth the
pains of the search. But as soon as the intelligent visitor had
recovered from his first disappointment, the objects which then
immediately filled the eye taught him, that, though he had not found
what he had been promised, a Prophet, he had found more than a Prophet,
a landscape which in its sublimity excited the imagination as
powerfully as any gigantic form of the Elijah could have done, even
though Michel Angelo had drawn it. It is meant to represent, and does
perfectly represent, an illimitable desert, a boundless surface of
barrenness and desolation, where Nature can bring forth nothing but
seeds of death, and the only tree there is dead and withered, not a leaf
to be seen nor possible. The only other objects, beside the level of the
desert, either smooth with sand or rough with ragged rock, are a range
of dark mountains on the right, heavy lowering clouds which overspread
and overshadow the whole scene, the roots and wide-spread branches of an
enormous banyan-tree, through the tortuous and leafless branches of
which the distant landscape, the hills, rocks, clouds, and remote plains
are seen. The roots of this huge tree of the desert, in all directions
from the main trunk, rise upward, descend, and root themselves again in
the earth, then again rise, again descend into the ground and root
themselves, and so on, growing smaller and smaller as the process is
repeated, till they disappear in the general level of the plain, or lose
themselves among the rocks, like the knots and convolutions of a huge
family of boa-constrictors. The branches, which almost completely fill
the upper part of the picture, are done with such truth to general
Nature, are so admirable in color, so wonderful in the treatment of
their perspective, that the eye is soon happily withdrawn from any
attention to the roots, among which the Prophet sits, receiving the food
with which the ravens, as they float towards him, miraculously supply
him.... You forgot the Prophet, the ravens, the roots, and almost the
branches, though these were too vast and multitudinous to be overlooked,
and were, moreover, truly characteristic, and dwelt only upon the heavy
rolling clouds, the lifeless desert, the sublime masses of the distant
mountains, and the indeterminate misty outline of the horizon, where
earth and heaven became one. The picture was, therefore, a landscape of
a most sublime, impressive character, and not a mere representation of a
passage of Scripture history. It would have been a great gain to the
work, if the Scripture passage could have been painted out, and the
desert only left. But, as it is, it serves as one further illustration
of the characteristic of Mr. Allston's art, of which I have already
given several examples. For, melancholy, dark, and terrific almost, as
are all the features of the scene, a strange calm broods over it all, as
of an ocean, now overhung by black threatening clouds, dead and
motionless, but the sure precursors of change and storm; and over the
desert hang the clouds which were soon to break and deluge the parched
earth and cover it again with verdure. But at present the only motion
and life is in the little brook Cherith, as it winds along among the
roots of the great tree. The sublime, after all, is better expressed in
the calmness, repose, and silence of the 'Elijah,' than in the tempests
of Poussin or Vernet, Wilson or Salvator Rosa."
"Belshazzar's Feast." Any criticism of Allston's works would be very
imperfect which did not speak of his "Belshazzar's Feast,"--because,
though the picture was never finished, it occupied so large a part of
the life and thoughts of Allston, that it demands some mention. It had
been an object of great interest among Allston's friends before it had
been seen by one of them. It was intended by him to fulfil a commission
from certain gentlemen of Boston for a large picture, the subject of
which was to be chosen by himself. A sum of money was also placed at his
disposal with the commission, in order to secure to him leisure and
freedom from care, that he might work at his ease, and do justice to his
thought. This commission was the result of the confidence in him and his
genius which was felt by those friends who knew him best.
The picture was begun, went forward, and was nearly completed, when an
important change in the structure of the work was determined on, and
undertaken with great courage. As often unfortunately happens in such
cases, the interruption to the flow of thought was fatal to the success
of the picture. It was laid aside for many years, but was the work
actually in hand at the time of Allston's death. When, after that event,
his studio was entered by his nearest friends, and the picture so long
guarded with jealous reserve was first seen, it was found to be in a
disorganized, almost chaotic state. But though fragmentary, the
fragments were full of interest. Many passages were perfectly painted,
and the whole intention was full of grandeur and beauty. But a picture
left in that state should never have been publicly shown. Deeply
interesting to artists, and to those familiar with the genius of
Allston, it could be only a puzzling wonder to those who go to an
exhibition to see finished pictures, and who do not understand those
which are not finished. With this work such persons could have no
concern. Yet, by what appears a great error of judgement, this worse
than unfinished picture was made the subject of a public exhibition,
though in a state of incompleteness which the artist during life would
not permit his nearest friend to behold. And as if this violation of his
wishes were not enough, a stolen and travestied copy soon appeared, and
was heralded by placards, on which the words "Great Picture by
Washington Allston" were seen in letters large enough to be read across
the street, and on which the words "Copy of" were in such very small
type that they were unnoticed, except by those who looked for them. This
copy went to other cities, and gave of course a most erroneous
impression of the great painter's genius.
Among the half-finished pictures found in the studio of Allston after
his death were several designs on canvas in chalk or umber. These seemed
so valuable, and their condition so perishable, that it was thought best
to have them engraved. This was undertaken by a friend and admirer of
the artist, Mr. S. H. Perkins, who arranged the designs and
superintended the engraving, and published the work with the aid of a
partial subscription and at his own risk. The brothers Cheney engraved
the outlines, and with peculiar skill and feeling imitated the broadly
expressive chalk lines by combining several delicately traced lines into
one. These outlines and sketches were published in 1850.
There are, first six plates of outlines from heads and figures in a
picture of "Michael setting the Watch." This picture must have been
painted in England, and in unknown here except by these outlines. From
these alone great strength of design might be inferred. There are,
besides, "A Sibyl," sitting in a cave-like, rocky place, the eyes
dilated with thought, the mouth tenderly fixed; the cave is open to the
sea. This design would have proved one of the most characteristic works
of Allston, had it been painted. "Dido and Æneas." Then four plates from
figures of angels in "Jacob's Dream." This is a picture painted in
England for Lord Egremont, and is mentioned in Leslie's Recollections,
by the editor of that work, in a minor key of praise. Then comes the
outline of a single figure, "Uriel sitting in the Sun." This picture was
also painted in England. As Allston was fond of referring to it, and
describing the methods he used to represent the light of the sun behind
the angel, as if he felt satisfied with the result, it may be inferred
that the effort to do so difficult a thing was successful. The sun was
painted over a white ground with transparent glazings of the primary
colors laid and dried separately, thus combining the colors
prismatically to produce white light. The figure of the sitting angle is
grandly original,--of the most noble proportions, and full of watchful
life, as of one conscious of a great trust.
Then come three compositions, with many figures,--"Heliodorus," "Fairies
on the Seashore," and "Titania's Court." These show as much power in
composition as the single figures do in design.
The "Fairies on the Seashore" is an exquisitely graceful design, both in
the figures and the landscape. It is a perfect poem, even as it stands
in the outline. A strip of sea, a breaking wave, a rocky island, and on
the beach begins a stream of fairies, diminishing as it curves up into
the sky. The last one on the shore seems lingering, and the next one to
her draws her upwards. The design when painted would have had the lower
part of the picture in the shadow of night, and the coming morn in the
sky, the light of which should be caught on the distant figures up among
the clouds.
"Titania's Court" is in a moon-lighted space in the forest. Six fairies
are dancing in a ring. More are coming out of the depths of the wood and
off its rocky heights, hand in hand,--a flow of graceful figures. On the
right side of the picture sits Titania, served by her Indian page, who
kneels before her, holding an acorn-cup. This page is delicately
differenced from the fairies by his straight hair, his features,
Asiatic, though handsome, his girdle and bracelets of pearls, and a
short striped skirt about his loins. The fairies all have flowing
drapery or none, and features regular as Greeks. Two little figures in
the air above Titania's head are fanning her with butterflies' wings;
others are bringing water in shells and flower-cups; others playing on
musical instruments. This is better than most pictures of this
often-painted subject, because in it fancy does not override
imagination, but helps and serves it.
Another design was in chalk, on a dark canvas, of a ship at sea in a
squall. This is wonderfully imitated in the engraving,--even all the
blotches and erasures are there. The curves of the waves in a rolling
sea were never better caught in all their subtle force. The clouds have
great suggestions.
There is a figure of "The Prodigal Son," from a pencil drawing; and a
"Prometheus," also from a pencil sketch.
Allston seemed equally at home in drawing powerful figures in action, or
delicate dreamy figures in repose. He had the true imaginative power
which realizes and understands all natural forms.
We have thus given a few words of description to some of these
remarkable pictures. We do not hope to convey any idea of them to those
who have not seen them, for a picture is by its very nature incapable of
being described in words. That which makes it a picture takes it out of
the sphere of words. Neither do we attempt to analyze the genius of this
great painter. We can enumerate some of his artistic qualities: his
power in color, so creative; the still, reposeful spirit of his
creations, reminding one of Beato Angelico; his grandly expressive
forms; his powerful color compositions; and above all, that greatest
crowning merit, that his works are, almost without exception, vitalized
by an imaginative force which makes them living presences. Such effects
are not produced by talent, however great, by culture, however perfect,
but by a mind which is a law to itself,--in other words, a genius. Such,
and nothing less, was Washington Allston.