Joseph Wright, An Experiment on
a Bird in the Air Pump (detail), 1768.

Oil on canvas, 183 x 244 cm.

The National Gallery, London.

 

 

But, what portraits! And to which could we decide to give the preference? Which one is more attractive than another? Is it the young and noble Marquis of Hastings, so perfectly at ease in his scarlet uniform, his sword at his side, his finger on his lip, in the attitude of one in a doubtful meditation – a sort of indecision just about to terminate and resolve itself into action; is it that wild little maiden, or that other, the Age of Innocence, calmly and quietly reposing on the breast of beneficent Nature? Or, again, the little Princess Sophia Mathilda, rolling on the greensward of a park with a puppy? Would it not rather be the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, playfully struggling against the attacks of her little half-clothed daughter, whose destructive hand threatens to disturb the symmetry of her mother’s coiffure; or the actress, Kitty Fisher, as Cleopatra, with languishing eyes, up-turned nose; and amorous lips, dropping a pearl, with a charming air of coquetry, into a carved goblet, too heavy for her hand; or Mrs Robinson, the actress at Covent Garden, with whom the Prince of Wales was so violently in love; or the tragedian, Mrs Siddons?

What life and spirit there is in the picture of Lady C. Spencer as an Amazon, with red over and under petticoats, and a white bodice, embroidered with gold and red; the position of the head, spirited, defiant, resolute; the face animated by the chase; the eyes wide open and full of fire; the short, curly hair as wild as a young boy’s! With her gloved hand she strokes caressingly the head of her horse, which, but a moment ago, was bounding under his light and charming burden among the trees of the forest, where the noble lady halts for a moment. In fact, among all these female portraits one cannot tell which is the best.

Yes; there is a masterpiece – the picture of Nelly O’Brien, which I have not named before.

I have sought and seen many others of Reynolds’ pictures – the beautiful portraits that I have just mentioned: The Exile, a dramatic figure; a Holy Family, somewhat commonplace – but among all the works of this artist I have found nothing to compare with this marvellous face. In it, Reynolds incontestably asserts his claim to rank among the great masters, and if he had not painted any other picture than this one, he would thereby have certainly acquired a lasting fame.

From the executive point of view the picture shows no sign of weakness; nay, far from it. One remarks with what consummate skill the artist has blended, alternately shaded, and brought into relief, the whites, neutral colours, and reddish tints, of which the picture is exclusively composed. Let me observe, by the way, that Reynolds always avoids using a great number of colours in his paintings; three or four tints – or even less – indefinitely varied and blended, are enough for him; he has a great predilection for red, but in the portrait of Nelly O’Brien he has, in great measure, denied himself his favourite colour.

This masterpiece of Reynolds, which constitutes his greatest claim to glory, could only have been produced by the hand of an artist who had seen and studied, both in the North and South, so many of the sublime realisations of the great masters in every country where the genius of Art has planted her divine foot. Everything in this excellent painting belongs entirely to Reynolds, or, rather, he claimed all the ideas that he borrowed in his travels, from Leonardo da Vinci, Antonio da Correggio, Diego Velázquez, and Rembrandt.

But judging impartially this exquisite face, it must be said that, in comparison to any Italian masterpiece, Nelly O’Brien is an unhealthy work, produced by a deteriorated mind and a corrupted art. It is the result of an ultrarefined civilisation, forced in the temperature of a hot-house; a creation that Gainsborough, a son of the soil, strengthened by the freshening fragrance of the woods, could never have imagined, and was, fortunately, never able to understand.

Gainsborough[3] has also his masterpiece, The Blue Boy, and other great works which I rank, in order, above those of Reynolds. But how can one possibly resist the powerful and mysterious attraction which holds one spellbound before the Nelly? Gainsborough has only painted a boy; why has he not also painted a woman? Then, no doubt, we should render the full justice due to him, maybe we should rank him with Reynolds, perhaps even consider him the superior.

Gainsborough, indeed, did not limit himself to rivalling Reynolds in depicting the haughty features of the English aristocracy; he was also a great landscape painter.

In spite of the demands on his time caused by a rapidly earned fame, once he decided to return to London, and even though he was scarcely able to satisfy the orders of his aristocratic clients, Gainsborough never forgot Nature, his earliest teacher. He frequently managed to secure leisure for country rambles. We shall by-and-by study him as a landscape painter, but it may as well here be said that he was the originator, the father, of modern landscape. Contented with the beauties that he discovered in his country home, he studied them in all their simplicity, which was more helpful to him than the finest inventions of academic geometry.

It is well to pay attention to this fact, as it shows in what respects Gainsborough as a portrait painter differs from his rival. Their dissimilarities are scarcely perceptible in their results; they are not of the kind which strike every eye, so as to place the artists in antagonism to one another.