every one realizes how extraordinary. He and I have corresponded ever
since I became President, and I tell you that if his letters were ever
published they would bring on a world war. Thank God I don’t have to
leave them behind when I retire. That’s one prerogative the President
has, at any rate.”
I often thought of these comments after the World War broke out. An
echo of them came while the desperate struggle was in full force.
Ernest Harold Baynes, nature-lover and expert on birds, was visiting
at my house, having dined with the ex-President at Oyster Bay the week
before. In speaking of the dinner, Baynes said that Roosevelt declared
that had he been President, Germany would never have forced the war at
the time she did. When pressed to explain, Roosevelt said:
“The Kaiser would have remembered what he outlined to me in some
letters he wrote while I was President. Bill knows me, and I know Bill!”
From the library we extended our examination to the family living-room,
where there were other volumes of interest on the tables or in the
bookcases. From these, the President picked up a hand-lettered,
illuminated manuscript which he had just received as a present from
King Menelik of Abyssinia. Some one had told him that it was a
manuscript of the twelfth or thirteenth century, but to a student
of the art of illumination it was clearly a modern copy of an old
manuscript. The hand lettering was excellent, but the decoration
included colors impossible to secure with the ancient pigments, and the
parchment was distinctly of modern origin.
“You are just the one to tell me about this,” Mr. Roosevelt exclaimed.
“Is it an original manuscript?”
He so obviously wished to receive an affirmative reply that I
temporized by asking if some letter of description had not come with it.
“Oh, yes,” he replied, immediately divining the occasion of my question
and showing his disappointment; “there was a missive, which is now in
the archives of the State Department. I saw a translation of it, but
it is only one of those banal expressions similar to any one of my
own utterances, when I cable, for instance, to my imperial brother,
the Emperor of Austria, how touched and moved I am to learn that his
cousin, the lady with the ten names, has been safely delivered of a
child!”
The President was particularly interested in the subject of
illustration, and he showed me several examples, asking for a
description of the various processes. From that we passed on to a
discussion of the varying demand from the time when I first began to
make books. I explained that the development of the halftone plate
and of the four-color process plates had been practically within this
period,--that prior to 1890 the excessive cost of woodcuts, steel
engravings, or lithography confined illustration to expensive volumes.
The halftone opened the way for profuse illustration at minimum expense.
The President showed me an impression from one of Timothy Cole’s
marvelous woodcuts, and we agreed that the halftone had never taken the
place of any process that depends upon the hand for execution. The very
perfection to which the art of halftone reproduction has been carried
is a danger point in considering the permanence of its popularity.
This does not apply to its use in newspapers, but in reproducing with
such slavish fidelity photographs of objects perpetuated in books
of permanent value. It seemed paradoxical to say that the nearer
perfection an art attains the less interesting it becomes, because the
very variation incidental to hand work in any art is what relieves the
monotony of that perfection attained through mechanical means. Since
then, a few leading engravers have demonstrated how the halftone may be
improved by hand work. This combination has opened up new possibilities
that guarantee its continued popularity.
With the tremendous increase in the cost of manufacturing books
during and since the World War, publishers found that by omitting
illustrations from their volumes they could come nearer to keeping the
cost within the required limits, so for a period illustrated volumes
became limited in number
There is no question that the public loves pictures, and the
development during recent years of so-called newspapers from which
the public gleans the daily news by means of halftone illustrations,
is, in a way, a reversion to the time before the printing press, when
the masses received their education wholly through pictorial design.
The popularity of moving pictures is another evidence. I have always
wished that this phase had developed at the time of our discussion,
for I am sure Mr. Roosevelt would have had some interesting comments
to make on its significance. I like to believe that this tendency will
correct itself, for, after all, the pictures which are most worth while
are those which we ourselves draw subconsciously from impressions made
through intellectual exploits
IV
THE LURE OF ILLUMINATION
Sitting one day in the librarian’s office in the Laurenziana Library,
in Florence, the conversation turned upon the subject of illumination.
Taking a key from his pocket, my friend Guido Biagi unlocked one of the
drawers in the ancient wooden desk in front of him, and lifted from it
a small, purple vellum case, inlaid with jewels. Opening it carefully,
he exposed a volume similarly bound and similarly adorned. Then, as he
turned the leaves, and the full splendor of the masterpiece was spread
out before me,--the marvelous delicacy of design, the gorgeousness of
color, the magnificence of decoration and miniature,--I drew in my
breath excitedly, and bent nearer to the magnifying glass which was
required in tracing the intricacy of the work.
This was a _Book of Hours_ illuminated by Francesco d’Antonio
del Cherico, which had once belonged to Lorenzo de’ Medici, and was
representative of the best of the fifteenth-century Italian work
(_page 146_). The hand letters were written by Antonio Sinibaldi
in humanistic characters upon the finest and rarest parchment; the
illumination, with its beaten gold and gorgeous colors, was so close a
representation of the jewels themselves as to make one almost believe
that the gems were inlaid upon the page! And it was the very volume
that had many times rested in the hands of Lorenzo the Magnificent, as
it was at that moment resting in mine!
For the first time the art of illumination became real to me,--not
something merely to be gazed at with respect and admiration, but an
expression of artistic accomplishment to be studied and understood, and
made a part of one’s life.
The underlying thought that has inspired illumination in books from
its very beginning is more interesting even than the splendid pages
which challenge one’s comprehension and almost pass beyond his power of
understanding. To the ancients, as we have seen, the rarest gems in all
the world were gems of thought. The book was the tangible and visible
expression of man’s intellect, worthy of the noblest presentation.
These true lovers of books engaged scribes to write the text in
_minium_ of rare brilliancy brought from India or Spain, or in
Byzantine ink of pure Oriental gold; they selected, to write upon,
the finest material possible,--sometimes nothing less than virgin
parchment, soft as velvet, made from the skins of still-born kids; they
employed the greatest artists of the day to draw decorations or to
paint miniatures; and they enclosed this glorified thought of man, now
perpetuated for all time, in a cover devised sometimes of tablets of
beaten gold, or of ivory inlaid with precious jewels (_page_ 112).
[Illustration: CARVED IVORY BINDING
_Jeweled with Rubies and Turquoises_
From _Psalter_ (12th Century). Brit. Mus. Eger. MS. 1139 (Reduced in
size)]
For centuries, this glorification was primarily bestowed upon religious
manuscripts, and illumination came to be associated with the Church,
but by the fourteenth century the art ceased to be confined to the
cloister. Wealthy patrons recognized that it offered too splendid
a medium of expression to permit limitation; and lay artists were
employed to add their talents in increasing the illuminated treasures
of the world.
There would seem to be no reason why so satisfying an art as that of
illumination should not continue to be employed to make beautifully
printed books still more beautiful, yet even among those who really
love and know books there is a surprising lack of knowledge concerning
this fascinating work. The art of Raphael and Rubens has been a part of
our every-day life and is familiar to us; but the names of Francesco
d’Antonio, Jean Foucquet, and Jean Bourdichon have never become
household words, and the masterpieces of the illuminator’s art which
stand to their credit seem almost shrouded in a hazy and mysterious
indefiniteness.
I have learned from my own experience that even fragmentary study
brings rich rewards:--the interest in discovering that instead of
being merely decorative, the art of illumination is as definitive in
recording the temporary or fashionable customs of various periods as
history itself. There is a satisfaction in learning to distinguish
the characteristics of each well-defined school:--of recognizing the
fretted arcades and mosaics of church decoration in the Romanesque
style; the stained glass of the Gothic cathedrals in the schools of
England, France, Germany, or Italy; the love of flower cultivation in
the work of the Netherlandish artists; the echo of the skill of the
goldsmith and enameller in the French manuscripts; and the glory of the
gem cutter in those of the Italian Renaissance. There is the romance
connected with each great masterpiece as it passes from artist to
patron, and then on down the centuries, commemorating loyal devotion to
saintly attributes; expressing fealty at coronations or congratulations
at Royal marriages; conveying expressions of devotion and affection
from noble lords and ladies, one to the other. Illuminated
volumes were not the playthings of the common people, and in their
peregrinations to their final resting places in libraries and museums,
they passed along a Royal road and became clothed with fascinating
associations.
There was a time when I thought I knew enough about the various schools
to recognize the locality of origin or the approximate date of a
manuscript, but I soon learned my presumption. Illuminators of one
country, particularly of France, scattered themselves all over Europe,
retaining the basic principles of their own national style, yet adding
to it something significant of the country in which they worked. Of
course, there are certain external evidences which help. The vellum
itself tells a story: if it is peculiarly white and fine, and highly
polished, the presumption is that it is Italian or dates earlier than
the tenth century; if very thin and soft, it was made from the skins
of still-born calves or kids, and is probably of the thirteenth or
fourteenth centuries.
The colors, too, contribute their share. Each old-time artist ground
or mixed his own pigments,--red and blue, and less commonly yellow,
green, purple, black, and white. Certain shades are characteristic of
certain periods. The application of gold differs from time to time:
in England, for instance, gold powder was used until the twelfth
century, after which date gold leaf is beautifully laid on the sheet.
The raised-gold letters and decorations were made by building up with a
peculiar clay, after the design had been drawn in outline, over which
the gold leaf was skilfully laid and burnished with an agate.
As the student applies himself to the subject, one clue leads him
to another, and he pursues his search with a fascination that soon
becomes an obsession. That chance acquaintance with Francesco d’Antonio
inspired me to become better acquainted with this art. It took me into
different monasteries and libraries, always following “the quest,” and
lured me on to further seeking by learning of new beauties for which
to search, and of new examples to be studied. Even as I write this,
I am told that at Chantilly, in the Musée Condé, the _Très Riches
Heures_ of the Duc de Berry is the most beautiful example of the
French school. I have never seen it, and I now have a new objective on
my next visit to France!
In this quest, covering many years, I have come to single out certain
manuscripts as signifying to me certain interesting developments in the
art during its evolution, and I study them whenever the opportunity
offers. It is of these that I make a record here. Some might select
other examples as better illustrative from their own viewpoints; some
might draw conclusions different from mine from the same examples,--and
we might all be right!
There is little for us to examine in our pilgrimage until the Emperor
Justinian, after the conflagration in the year 532, which completely
wiped out Constantinople with its magnificent monuments, reconstructed
and rebuilt the city. There are two copies of _Virgil_ at the
Vatican Library in Rome, to be sure, which are earlier than that,
and form links in the chain between illumination as illustration
and as book decoration; there is the _Roman Calendar_ in the
Imperial Library at Vienna, in which for the first time is combined
decoration with illustration; there is the _Ambrosiana Homer_ at
Milan, of which an excellent reproduction may be found in any large
library,--made under the supervision of Achille Ratti, before he
became Pope Pius XI; there are the burnt fragments of the _Cottonian
Genesis_ at the British Museum in London,--none more than four
inches square, and running down to one inch, some perforated with
holes, and almost obliterated, others still preserving the ancient
colors of the design, with the Greek letters clearly legible after
sixteen centuries.
These are historical and interesting, but we are seeking beauty. In the
splendor of the rebirth of Constantinople, to which all the known world
contributed gold, and silver, and jewels, medieval illumination found
its beginning. Artists could now afford to send to the Far East and to
the southern shores of Europe for their costly materials. Brilliant
_minium_ came from India and from Spain, _lapis lazuli_ from
Persia and Bokhara, and the famous Byzantine gold ink was manufactured
by the illuminators themselves out of pure Oriental gold. The vellum
was stained with rose and scarlet tints and purple dyes, upon which the
gold and silver inks contrasted with marvelous brilliancy.
Gorgeousness was the fashion of the times in everything from
architecture to dress, and in the wealth and sumptuous materials at
their command the artists mistook splendor for beauty. The Byzantine
figure work is based upon models as rigid as those of the Egyptians,
and shows little life or variety (_opp. page_). Landscapes and
trees are symbolic and fanciful. Buildings have no regard for relative
proportions, and are tinted merely as parts of the general color
scheme. The illuminators adhered so closely to mechanical rules that
the volumes lack even individuality.
[Illustration: PSALTER IN GREEK. _Byzantine_, 11th Century
_Solomon, David, Gideon, and the Annunciation_
(Brit. Mus. Add. MS. 19352. 9¼ × 8 inches)]
There are comparatively few of these extravagant relics now in
existence. Their intrinsic value made them favorite objects of pillage,
and hundreds were destroyed for their jewels and precious metals. In
many of those that have endured, like the _Codex Argenteus_, at
Upsala, in Sweden, the silver letters have turned black, the gold ink
has become a rusty red, and the stained vellum now supplies a tawdry
background.
* * * * *
After passing the early stages of the art, there are ten examples I
particularly like to keep fresh in my mind as showing the evolution of
that insatiable desire on the part of booklovers of all ages to enrich
the book. Four of these are in the British Museum in London, four in
the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, one in the Library of San Marco
in Venice, and one in the Laurenziana Library in Florence. In each of
these storehouses of treasure there are many other manuscripts worthy
of all the time a pilgrim can spare; but these ten represent different
schools and different epochs, and in my own study have combined to make
illumination a living art and a romantic history.
The _Lindisfarne Gospels_ is where I start my illuminated
pilgrimage. It takes me back to the seventh century, when the world was
shrouded in darkest ignorance, and is a reminder that except for the
development in the Irish monasteries, as typified by early illuminated
volumes such as this, knowledge of books might have almost wholly
disappeared. It recalls the asceticism of those early Irish monks
carried even to a point of fanaticism; their toilsome pilgrimages to
Rome, visiting the different monasteries and collecting, one by one,
the manuscripts to bring back to form those early libraries that kept
alive the light of learning.
The Irish school of writing and painting passed over to England through
the monasteries established by the Irish monks in Scotland, and the
earliest of the English settlements was Lindisfarne. It was here that
the _Gospels_, one of the most characteristic examples of the
Celtic School, as translated to northern England, was produced. Such
knowledge of its date and origin as exists rests upon a colophon added
at the end of the manuscript, probably in the tenth century, which
would seem to place the date of the execution of the work at about the
year 700. For nearly two centuries it remained as the chief treasure
of Lindisfarne. In 875, so the tradition runs, in order to escape
from the invasion of the Danes, it was decided to remove the body of
Saint Cuthbert and the most valued relics to the mainland, and the
_Gospels_ was included. When the attempt was made to cross over to
Ireland, according to the legend, the ship was driven back by storm,
and the chest containing the precious volume was lost overboard. Here
is the quaint chronicle:
_In this storm, while the ship was lying over on her side, a
copy of the_ Gospels, _adorned with gold and precious
stones, fell overboard and sank into the depths of the sea.
Accordingly, after a little while, they bend their knees and
prostrate themselves at full length before the feet of the
sacred body, asking pardon for their foolish venture. Then
they seize the helm and turn the ship back to the shore and
to their fellows, and immediately they arrive there without
any difficulty, the wind blowing astern.... Amidst their
lamentations in this distress, at length the accustomed help of
their pious patron came to their aid, whereby their minds were
relieved from grief and their bodies from labor, seeing that
the Lord is a refuge of the poor, a helper in time of trouble.
For, appearing in a vision to one of them, Hunred by name, he
bade them seek, when the tide was low, for the manuscript...;
for, perchance, beyond the utmost they could hope, they would,
by the mercy of God, find it.... Accordingly they go to the
sea and find that it had retired much farther than it was
accustomed; and after walking three miles or more they find the
sacred manuscript of the_ Gospels _itself, exhibiting all
its outer splendor of jewels and gold and all the beauty of its
pages and writing within, as though it had never been touched
by water.... And this is believed to be due to the merits
of Saint Cuthbert himself and of those who made the book,
namely Bishop Eadfrith of holy memory, who wrote it with his
own hand in honor of the blessed Cuthbert; and the venerable
Æthelwald, his successor, who caused it to be adorned with gold
and precious stones; and Saint Billfrith the anchorite, who,
obeying with skilled hands the wishes of his superior, achieved
an excellent work. For he excelled in the goldsmith’s art._
This quotation from Mr. Eric George Millar’s Introduction to the
facsimile reproduction of this famous manuscript, published by the
British Museum, is given at such length to emphasize at the very
beginning of this pilgrimage the important place given to these
manuscripts in the communities for which they were prepared. The fact
that such a legend exists at all attests the personality the manuscript
had assumed. It was my very great pleasure, the last time I studied
the _Gospels_, to have Mr. Millar, who is an Assistant in the
Department of Manuscripts at the British Museum, explain many things in
connection with it which could not be gleaned without the exhaustive
study which he has given to it.
The _Gospels_ includes 258 leaves of heavy vellum, measuring about
13 by 10 inches. The Latin text is written in beautifully designed,
_semi-uncial_ characters. These differ from the capital letters
only by their relatively greater roundness, inclination, and inequality
in height. This style of lettering obtained until the eighth or ninth
century, when the semi-uncial character became the transition to the
minuscule. There are five full pages of decoration, in cruciform design
of most extraordinary elaboration; six pages of ornamented text; four
full-page miniatures of the Evangelists, in which the scribes are drawn
in profile, seated, with cushion, desk, and footstool; sixteen pages of
Canon tables, decorated in pure Celtic style; and numerous initials of
various sizes.
The great interest in this manuscript lies in the cruciform pages. When
I first saw them I thought the work a marvelous example of the amount
of intricate design an artist could devise within a given area of
space. Then, as I studied them, came the realization that, complicated
as they were, there was a definite plan the artist had established and
followed which preserved the balance of coloring and design.
In the illustration here given (_page 124_), Mr. Millar showed
me how he has ingeniously unraveled the knots. It is peculiarly
interesting as it demonstrates the methods by which the expert is able
to understand much that the casual observer fails to see. He pointed
out that the background of the page is occupied by a design of no less
than 88 birds, arranged in a perfect pattern, with 7 at the top, 7 at
the bottom, 9 on each side, 12 in the gaps between the outer panels,
four groups of 10 surrounding the rectangular panels, and 4 single
birds in the gaps between the points of the cross and the T panels.
The necks and the bodies are so cleverly balanced that even when at
first the scheme seems inconsistent, further examination shows that
the artist adhered religiously to his plan. The color arrangement is
carried out with equal thought and care.
[Illustration: THE LINDISFARNE GOSPELS. _Celtic_, about A.D. 700
(Brit. Mus. Cotton MS. Nero. D. iv. 12½ × 10 inches)]
The four miniatures of the Evangelists show Byzantine influence, but
in the features, and the hair, and in the frames, the Celtic style
prevails. Gold is used only on two pages.
The _Lindisfarne Gospels_ cannot be called beautiful when compared
with the work of later centuries, but can we fully appreciate the
beauty we are approaching without becoming familiar, step by step,
with what led up to it? In this manuscript the precious Gospels were
enriched by the labor of devoted enthusiasts in the manner they
knew best, and with an ingenuity and industry that staggers us
today. Taking what the past had taught them, they gave to it their own
interpretation, and thus advanced the art toward its final consummation
and glory.
* * * * *