Republic voted to entrust the binding to one Alessandro Vittoria. The
cover is of crimson velvet, largely hidden by ornaments of silver
gilt. On one side are the arms and the medallion of Cardinal Domenico
Grimani, and on the other those of his father, the Doge Antonio. Both
covers contain further decorations and Latin inscriptions, relating in
the first case to the gift, and in the other to its confirmation. In
the small medallions in the border one sees a branch of laurel, the
emblem of vigilance and protection, crossed by a branch of palm,--the
symbol of the religious life. The dove typifies purity, and the dragon
stands for defense.
The volume itself contains 831 pages about 10 by 9 inches in size.
There are the usual Calendar pages, containing the signs of the Zodiac,
and further decorated with small miniatures (_opp. page_),
alternating with twelve superb full-page illuminations (_page
142_), showing the occupations of the months. Following these, come
the Prayers, with sixty additional full-page miniatures based on Bible
history or the lives of the Saints. At the end are eighteen pages with
smaller miniatures assigned to the saints of special devotion, placed
at the beginning of the office dedicated to each.
[Illustration: GRIMANI BREVIARY. _Flemish_, 15th Century
_Text Page showing Miniature and Decoration_
(Biblioteca San Marco, Venice. 10 × 9 inches)]
The marginal decorations throughout the book are wonderfully wrought.
Some pages are adorned with perpendicular bands, with constantly
varying color combinations. Arabesques of all kinds are used, and
interspersed among the ornamentation are flowers and fruits, animals,
birds, fishes, and all kinds of natural objects. In addition to
these, one finds little buildings, landscapes, architectural ornaments,
statues, church ornaments, frames, vases, cameos, medals, and scenes
from Bible history and from every-day life as well,--all showing the
genius of the artists who put themselves into the spirit of their work.
When the old Campanile fell in 1902, one corner of the Library of
San Marco was damaged. Immediately telegrams poured in from all over
the world, anxiously inquiring for the safety of the _Grimani
Breviary_. Fortunately it was untouched. The last time I saw this
precious manuscript was in 1924. Doctor Luigi Ferrari, the librarian,
courteously took the volume from its case and laid it tenderly on a low
table, extending to me the unusual privilege of personal examination.
Thus I could turn the pages slowly enough to enjoy again the exquisite
charm of its miniatures, the beauty of its coloring, and to assimilate
the depth of feeling which pervades it throughout. My friends at the
British Museum think that in the Flemish pages of the _Sforza Book
of Hours_ they have the finest example of the Flemish School. They
may be right; but no miniatures I have ever seen have seemed to me more
marvelously beautiful than those in the _Grimani Breviary_.
Whenever I examine a beautiful manuscript, and take delight in it, I
find myself comparing it with the Italian masterpiece of Francesco
d’Antonio del Cherico. It may be that this is due to my dramatic
introduction to that volume, as recorded at the beginning of this
chapter. Its date is perhaps half a century earlier than the _Hours
of Anne of Brittany_; it is of the same period as the _Grimani
Breviary_ and the _Antiquities of the Jews_; it is fifty years
later than the _Bedford Book of Hours_, and a century and a half
later than _Queen Mary’s Psalter_. Which of all these magnificent
manuscripts is the most beautiful? Who would dare to say! In all
there is found the expression of art in its highest form; in each
the individual admirer finds some special feature--the beauty of the
designs, the richness of the composition, the warmth of the coloring,
or the perfection of the execution--that particularly appeals.
[Illustration: BOOK OF HOURS. _Italian_, 15th Century
By Francesco d’Antonio del Cherico
(R. Lau. Bibl. Ashb. 1874. 7 × 5 inches)]
When one considers the early civilization of Italy, and the heights
finally attained by Italian illuminators, it is difficult to understand
why the intervening centuries show such tardy recognition of the art.
Even as late as the twelfth century, with other countries turning
out really splendid examples, the Italian work is of a distinctly
inferior order; but by the middle of the thirteenth century, the
great revival in art brought about by Cimabue and Giotto stimulated
the development in illumination. During the next hundred years the art
became nationalized. The ornament diverged from the French type, and
assumed the peculiar straight bar or rod, with profile foliages, and
the sudden reversions of the curves with change of color, which are
characteristic of fourteenth-century Italian work. The miniatures,
introducing the new Tuscan manner of painting, entirely re-fashioned
miniature art. The figure becomes natural, well-proportioned, and
graceful, the heads delicate in feature and correct in expression. The
costumes are carefully wrought, the drapery folds soft, yet elaborately
finished. The colors are vivid but warm, the blue being particularly
effective.
The vine-stem style immediately preceded the Classic revival which
came when the Medici and other wealthy patrons recognized the artistic
importance of illumination. In this style the stems are coiled most
gracefully, slightly tinted, with decorative flowerets. The grounds
are marked by varying colors, in which the artists delicately traced
tendrils in gold or white.
The great glory of Italy in illumination came after the invention
of printing. Aside from the apprehensions of the wealthy owners of
manuscript libraries that they would lose prestige if books became
common, beyond the danger to the high-born rulers of losing their
political power if the masses learned argument from the printed
book,--these true lovers of literature opposed the printing press
because they believed it to cheapen something that was so precious as
to demand protection. So they vied with one another in encouraging the
scribes and the illuminators to produce hand-written volumes such as
had never before been seen.
Certainly the _Book of Hours_ of d’Antonio is one of the marvels
of Florentine art. The nine full-page miniatures have never been
surpassed. No wonder that Lorenzo de’ Medici, lover of the beautiful,
should have kept it ever beside him! The delicate work in the small
scenes in the Calendar is as precise as that in the larger miniatures;
the decoration, rich in the variety of its design, really surpassed
the splendor and glory of the goldsmith’s art (_page 146_). Some
deplore the fact that England lost this treasure when the Italian
government purchased the Ashburnham Collection in 1884; but if there
ever was a manuscript that belongs in Florence, it is this.
You may still see d’Antonio’s masterpiece at the Laurenziana
Library, but it is no longer kept in the ancient wooden desk. The
treasures of illumination are now splendidly arrayed in cases, where
all may study and admire. There are heavy choir-books, classic
manuscripts, books of hours, and breviaries, embellished by Lorenzo
Monaco, master of Fra Angelico; by Benozzo Gozzoli, whose frescoes
still make the Riccardi famous; by Gherado, and Clovio, and by other
artists whose names have long since been forgotten, but whose work
remains as an everlasting monument to a departed art that should be
revived.
* * * * *
Experts, I believe, place the work of Jean Foucquet, in the
_Antiquities of the Jews_, ahead of that of Jean Bourdichon
(probably Foucquet’s pupil) in the _Hours of Anne of Brittany_;
but frankly this sixteenth century manuscript at the Bibliothèque
Nationale, in Paris, always yields me greater pleasure. Perhaps this
is in compensation for not knowing too much! I will agree with them
that the decorative borders of Foucquet are much more interesting than
Bourdichon’s, for the return of the Flemish influence to French art
at this time was not particularly fortunate. In the borders of the
_Grimani Breviary_ realism in reproducing flowers, vegetables,
bugs, and small animal life, would seem to have been carried to the
limit, but Bourdichon went the _Grimani_ one better, and on a
larger scale. The reproductions are marvelously exact, but even a
beautifully painted domesticated onion, on which a dragon-fly crawls,
with wing so delicately transparent that one may read the letter it
seems to cover, is a curious accompaniment for the magnificently
executed portraits of Anne and her patron saints in the miniature
pages! Here the artist has succeeded in imparting a quality to his
work that makes it appear as if done on ivory instead of vellum (see
_page 148_). The costumes and even the jewels are brilliant in
the extreme. The floral decorations shown in the reproduction opposite
are far more decorative than the vegetables, but I still object to the
caterpillar and the bugs!
[Illustration: HOURS of ANNE of BRITTANY. _French Renaissance_,
16th Century
_The Education of the Child Jesus by the Virgin and Saint Joseph_
(Bibl. Nat. MS. Lat. 9474. 12 × 7½ inches)]
[Illustration: HOURS of ANNE of BRITTANY. _French Renaissance_,
16th Century
_Page showing Text and Marginal Decoration_
(Bibl. Nat. MS. Lat. 9474. 12 × 7¼ inches)]
In 1508 there is a record that Anne of Brittany, Queen of Louis XII,
made an order of payment to Bourdichon of 1050 _livres tournois_
for his services in “richly and sumptuously historiating and
illuminating a great Book of Hours for our use.” This consists of
238 leaves of vellum, 12 by 7½ inches in size. There are sixty-three
full pages, including forty-nine miniatures, twelve reproductions for
the various months, and a leaf containing ornaments and figures at
the beginning and end of the volume. Of the text, there are some
350 pages surrounded by borders. The Italian influence shows in the
architectural and sculptural decorations, just as the Flemish obtains
in the borders.
The manuscript is bound in black shagreen, with chased silver clasps.
* * * * *
The question naturally arises as to the reason for the decline and
practically the final extinction of the art. I believe it to be that
which the princely Italian patrons foresaw. Their apprehensions, though
selfish in motive, have been confirmed by history. The invention of
printing did make the book common, and as such, its true significance
came to be forgotten because of greater familiarity. The book as the
developer of the people in science and in literature crowded out the
book as an expression of art.
I wonder if it is too late to revive illumination. Never has there
existed in America or England a keener appreciation of beautiful books;
never have there been so many lovers of the book blessed with the
financial ability to gratify their tastes. There are still artists
familiar with the art, who, if encouraged, could produce work worthy
of the beautifully printed volumes the best Presses are capable of
turning out. What is lacking is simply a realization that illumination
stands side by side with art at its best. In America, the opportunities
for studying illumination are restricted, but a student would have
no difficulty in finding in certain private collections and in a few
public libraries more than enough to establish his basic understanding
of the art. The great masterpieces are permanently placed now, and
strictly enforced laws prevent national monuments from being further
transferred from one country to another; but even of these, excellent
facsimile reproductions have been made and distributed throughout the
world
No true lover of art visits Europe without first preparing himself by
reading and study for a fuller understanding and more perfect enjoyment
of what he is to find in the various galleries. Assuming that no one
can be an art lover without also being a lover of books, it is perhaps
a fair question to ask why he should not make an equal effort to
prepare himself to understand and enjoy those rich treasures in the art
of illumination which are now so easily accessible
[Illustration: HOURS OF ANNE OF BRITTANY
Order of payment of 1050 _livres tournois_ to Jean Bourdichon, 1508]
V
FRIENDS THROUGH THE PEN
Maurice Hewlett combined to an unusual degree those salient
characteristics that go to make the great writer: he was a discerning
observer, and had formed the habit of analyzing what he observed; his
personal experiences had taught him the significance of what he had
seen and enabled him to assess its valuation. Beyond all,--having
observed, analyzed, and understood,--he possessed the power to
interpret to others.
At the time I first met him, _The Queen’s Quair_ was having a
tremendous run, and the volume naturally came into the conversation.
“In spite of its success,” he said with much feeling, “I am
disappointed over its reception. I have always wanted to write history,
but not the way history has always been written. There are certain
acts attributed to the chief characters which, if these characters are
studied analytically, are obviously impossible; yet because a certain
event has once been recorded it keeps on being repeated and magnified
until history itself becomes a series of distortions. Mary, Queen
of Scots, has always been my favorite historical figure, and I know
that in _The Queens Quair_ I have given a truer picture of her
character than any that at present exists. But alas,” he added with a
sigh, “no one accepts it as other than fiction.”
After this statement from him I turned again to my copy of _The
Queen’s Quair_ and re-read the author’s prologue, in which I found:
_A hundred books have been written and a hundred songs sung; men
enough of these latter days have broken their hearts over Queen
Mary’s; what is more to the point is that no heart but hers was
broken at the time. All the world can love her now, but who
loved her then? Not a man among them. A few girls went weeping;
a few boys laid down their necks that she might fall free of
the mire. Alas, the mire swallowed them up and she needs must
conceal her pretty feet. This is the note of the tragedy; pity
is involved, rather than terror. But no song ever pierced the
fold of her secret, no book ever found out the truth because
none ever sought her heart. Here, then, is a book which has
sought nothing else, and a song which springs from that only._
I wonder if every writer in his heart does not feel the same ambition.
The novelist is a story-teller who recites bed-time stories to his
audience of grown-up children, while the humorist plays the clown; but
in writing history one is dealing with something basic. Within a year
a volume has been published containing alleged documentary evidence to
prove that Mary, Queen of Scots, was innocent of the charge of treason.
What a triumph if an author through character analysis could correct
tradition! It was a loss to the world that Hewlett permitted himself to
be discouraged by unsympathetic critics from carrying out a really big
idea.
To meet Maurice Hewlett at his home at Broad Chalke, a little English
village nearly ten miles from a railroad station, and to walk with
him in his garden, one might recognize the author of _The Forest
Lovers_; but an afternoon with him at a London club would develop
another side which was less himself. Instead of discussing flowers
and French memoirs and biography in a delightfully whimsical mood,
Hewlett’s slight, wiry figure became tense, his manner alert, his eyes
keen and watchful. In the country he was the dreamer, the bohemian,
wholly detached from the world outside; in the city he was confident
and determined in approaching any subject, his voice became crisp and
decisive, his bearing was that of the man of the world.
His early life was more or less unhappy, due partly to his
precociousness which prevented him from fitting in with youth of his
own age. This encouraged him to reach beyond his strength and thus find
disappointment.
“I was never a boy,” he said once, “except possibly after the time when
I should have been a man. As I look back on my youth, it was filled
with discouragements.”
The classics fascinated him, and he absorbed Dante. Then Shelley and
Keats shared the place of the Italian poet in his heart. Even after
he married, he continued to gratify his love of Bohemia, and his wife
wandered with him through Italy, with equal joy; while in England they
camped out together in the New Forest,--the scene of _The Forest
Lovers_.
The peculiar style which Hewlett affected in many of his volumes
resulted, he told me, from his daily work in the Record Office in
London, as Keeper of Land Revenue Records and Enrolments, during which
period he studied the old parchments, dating back to William the
Conqueror. In this respect his early experience was not unlike that of
Austin Dobson’s, and just as the work in the Harbours Department failed
to kill Dobson’s poetic _finesse_, so did Hewlett rise above the
deadly grind of ancient records and archives. In fact it was during
this period that Hewlett produced _Pan and the Young Shepherd_,
which contains no traces of its author’s archaic environment.
One point of sympathy that drew us closely together was our mutual
love for Italy. My first desire to know Maurice Hewlett better was
after reading his _Earthwork Out of Tuscany_, _Little Novels
of Italy_, and _The Road in Tuscany_. I have always preferred
these volumes to any of his later ones, as to me they have seemed more
spontaneous and more genuine expressions of himself. We were talking
about Italy, one day, when he made a remark which caused me to suggest
that what he said was the expression of a modern humanist. Hewlett was
obviously surprised yet pleased by my use of this expression.
“I don’t often meet any one interested in the subject of humanism,” he
said. “It is one of my hobbies.”
I explained my association with Doctor Guido Biagi, librarian of the
Laurenziana Library at Florence, and the work I had done there in
connection with my designs for a special face of type, based upon the
beautiful hand letters of the humanistic scribes (see _page 16_).
With that introduction we discussed the great importance of the
humanistic movement as the forerunner and essence of the Renaissance.
We talked of Petrarch, the father of humanism, and of the courageous
fight he and his sturdy band of followers made to rescue the classics.
We both had recently read Philippe Monnier’s _Le Quattrocento_,
which gave additional interest to our discussion.
“Monnier is the only writer I have ever read who has tried to define
humanism,” Hewlett continued. “He says it is not only the love of
antiquity, but the worship of it,--a worship carried so far that it is
not limited to adoration alone, but which forces one to reproduce.”
“And the humanist,” I added, picking up the quotation from Monnier,
which I knew by heart, “is not only the man who knows intimately the
ancients and is inspired by them; it is he who is so fascinated by
their magic spell that he copies them, imitates them, rehearses their
lessons, adopts their models and their methods, their examples and
their gods, their spirit and their tongue.”
“Well, well!” he laughed; “we _have_ struck the same street,
haven’t we! But does that exactly express the idea to you? It isn’t
antiquity we worship, but rather the basic worth for which the ancients
stand.”
[Illustration: Autograph Letter from Maurice Hewlett]
“Monnier refers to the obsession that comes from constant contact
with the learning of the past, and the atmosphere thus created,” I
replied. “Only last year Biagi and I discussed that very point, sitting
together in his luxuriant garden at Castiglioncello, overlooking the
Gulf of Leghorn. The ‘basic worth’ you mention is really Truth, and
taking this as a starting point, we worked out a modern application of
Monnier’s definition:
_“The humanist is one who holds himself open to receive Truth,
unprejudiced as to its source, and, after having received
Truth, realizes his obligation to give it out again, made
richer by his personal interpretation.”_
“There is a definition with a present application,” Hewlett exclaimed
heartily. “I like it.--Did you have that in mind when you called me a
modern humanist, just now?”
“No one could read _Earthwork Out of Tuscany_ and think otherwise,” I
insisted.
Hewlett held out his hand impulsively. “I wish I might accept that
compliment with a clear conscience,” he demurred.
* * * * *
Meeting Austin Dobson after he became interpreter-in-chief of the
eighteenth century, it was difficult to associate him with his
earlier experiences as a clerk in the Board of Trade office, which
he entered when he was sixteen years old, and to which service he
devoted forty-five useful but uneventful years, rising eventually
to be a principal in the Harbours Department. With so quiet and
unassuming a personality, it seems incredible that he could have lifted
himself bodily from such unimaginative environment, and, through his
classic monographs, bring Steele, Goldsmith, Richardson, Fielding,
Horace Walpole, Fanny Burney, Bewick, and Hogarth, out of their hazy
indefiniteness, and give to them such living reality. Perhaps Dobson’s
very nature prevented him from seeing the coarseness and indecency
of the period, and enabled him to introduce, or perhaps reintroduce,
to England from France the _ballade_ and the _chante royal_, the
_rondeau_ and the _rondel_, the _triolet_, the _villanelle_, and other
fascinating but obsolete poetical forms in which he first became
interested through his French grandmother.
Dobson was the most modest literary man I ever met. I happened to be
in London at the time when the English government bestowed upon him an
annuity of £1,000, “for distinguished service to the crown.” When I
congratulated him upon this honor his response was characteristic:
“I don’t know why in the world they have given me this, unless it is
because I am the father of ten children. I have no doubt that would be
classified under ‘distinguished service to the crown.’”
One afternoon Austin Dobson and Richard Garnett, then Keeper of the
Printed Books at the British Museum, happened to come to my hotel in
London for tea at the same time. On a table in the apartment was a
two-volume quarto edition in French of _Don Quixote_, a prize I
had unearthed at a bookstall on the Quai Voltaire in Paris. It was
beautifully printed, the letterpress just biting into the paper, and
making itself a part of the leaf, which is so characteristic of the
best French presswork. The edition also contained the famous Doré
illustrations. Dobson picked up one of the volumes and exclaimed over
its beauty.
“This edition,” he said, “is absolutely perfect.”
“Not quite,” I qualified his statement. “It is lacking in one
particular. It requires your _Ode to Cervantes_ to make it
complete.”
Dobson laughed. “Send the book to me,” he said, “and I will transcribe
the lines on the fly leaf.”
When the volume was returned a few days later, a letter of apology came
with it. “When I copied out the _Ode_ on the fly leaf,” Dobson
wrote, “it looked so lost on the great page that I ventured to add the
poem which I composed for the tercentenary. I hope you won’t mind.”
My eleven-year-old son came into the reception room while our guests
were drinking their tea. Dobson took him on his lap, and after quite
winning his affection by his gentleness, he quietly called his
attention to Garnett, who was conversing with my wife in another part
of the room.
“Never forget that man, my boy,” Dobson said in a low voice. “We have
never had in England, nor shall we ever have again, one who knows so
much of English literature. If the record of every date and every fact
were to be lost by fire, Garnett could reproduce them with absolute
accuracy if his life were spared long enough.”