[PARIS, which spread rapidly Southward at first, was somewhat slower in its Northward development. Nevertheless, by the time of Philippe Auguste, the Town La Ville — the commercial portion N of the river — more than equalled the learned district on the S side. This central northern region, however, containing the Hôtel de Ville, St. Eustache, and some other important buildings, I purposely postpone to the consideration of the Louvre and its neighbourhood, which, though later in date, form the heart and core of Renaissance Paris — the Paris of François Ier and his splendour-loving successors.
Most of the buildings we have hitherto considered are mediæval and Gothic. The Louvre introduces us at once to a new world — the world of the Renaissance. The transition is abrupt. In Italy, and especially in Florence, the Renaissance was a natural growth; in France it was a fashion. It came in, full-fledged, without history or antecedents. To trace its evolution, one must follow it out in detail in Florence and Venice. There, it grows of itself, organically, by gradual stages. But in France, Gothic churches and mediæval châteaux give place at once, with a bound, to developed Renaissance temples and palaces. The reason for this fact is, that the French kings, from Charles VIII onward to Henri IV, were thoroughly Italianate. They fought, travelled, and married in Italy, to parts of which they laid claim; and being closely allied with the Medici and other Italian families, — husbands of Medici wives, sons of Medici mothers, — they introduced at once into France the developed products of the Italian Renaissance. At the same time the increased and centralized power of the Crown enabled them to build magnificent palaces, like the Louvre and Fontainebleau; and to this artificial impulse is mainly due the sudden outburst of art in France under François Ier and his immediate successors.
It is impossible to characterize the Renaissance in a few short sentences. In one aspect, it was a return from Gothicism to Classical usage, somewhat altered by the new conditions of life. At first you will probably only notice that in architecture it substituted round arches for pointed, and introduced square doors and windows; while in other arts it replaced sacred and Christian subjects and treatment by mythological and secular. But, in contrast with mediævalism, it will reveal itself to you by degrees as essentially the dawn of the modern spirit.
The Louvre is the noblest monument of the French Renaissance. From the time of St. Louis onward, the French kings began to live more and more in the northern suburb, the town of the merchants, which now assumed the name of La Ville, in contradistinction to the Cité and the Université. Two of their chief residences here were the Bastille and the Hôtel St. Paul, both now demolished — one, on the Place so called, the other, between the Rue St. Antoine and the Quai des Célestins. But from a very early period they also possessed a château on the site of the Louvre, and known by the same name, which guarded the point where the wall of Philippe Auguste abutted on the river. François Ier decided to pull down this picturesque turreted mediæval castle, erected by Philippe Auguste and altered by Charles V. He began the construction in its place of a magnificent Renaissance palace, which has ever since been in course of erection. Its subsequent growth, however, is best explained opposite the building itself, where attention can be duly called to the succession of its salient features. But a visit to the exterior fabric of the Louvre should be preceded by one to St. Germain l’Auxerrois, the parish church, and practically the chapel, of the old Louvre, to which it stood in somewhat the same relation as the Ste. Chapelle to the home of St. Louis. Note, however, that the church was situated just within the ancient wall, while the château lay outside it. The visitor will doubtless be tolerably familiar by this time with some parts at least of the exterior of the Louvre; but he will do well to visit it now systematically, in the order here suggested, so as to gain a clear general idea of its history and meaning.]
A. THE FABRIC
Go along the Rue de Rivoli, past the Palais Royal, till you reach the Rue du Louvre. Turn down it, with the Louvre on your right. To your left stands a curious composite building, with a detached belfry in the centre, and two wings, as it seems, one on either side. The southernmost wing is the old church of St. Germain l’Auxerrois, the sole remnant of the earliest Louvre; the northernmost wing is the modern Mairie of the 1st Arrondissement, unhappily intended to “harmonize” with it. The real result is, that the modern building kills the old one. The belfry was designed to fill up the gap between the two. Its effect is disastrous.
The church is older than the oldest Louvre. St. Germanus, Bishop of Auxerre (A.D. 430), was almost one of the first generation of Gallic saints, celebrated for his visit to Britain, where he assisted in gaining the Hallelujah victory over the heathen invaders. A church on this site is said to have been erected in his honour as early as the days of Chilperic. Sacked by the Normans, it was re-erected in something like its present form in the 12th century, but received many subsequent additions.
The beautiful porch, which we first examine, is of much later date, having been added in 1431 by Jean Gaussel, at a time when the old château of the Louvre had become one of the principal residences of the French kings, in order to give greater dignity, and to afford a covered approach for the royal worshippers to what was practically their own chapel. It therefore contains (restored) statues, in niches, relating especially to the royal and local Saints of Paris, whose names are beneath them: — St. Cloud, the Princess Ste. Clotilde, Ste. Radégonde of France, St. Denis, St. Marcel, St. Germain himself, St. Landry, Ste. Isabelle, Ste. Bathilde, St. Jean de Valois, and others. The saints of the royal house are distinguished by crowns or coronets. Two of these statues are old: St. Francis, at the south end, and St. Mary of Egypt, nude, with her long hair, and the three loaves which sustained her in the desert, on the second north pillar. The modern frescoes, destroyed, are by Mottez.
Observe the congruity of all these saints to the church and the château. St. Landry or Landeric, an early Frankish bishop of Paris, was buried within, and his shrine was a place of pilgrimage. St. Marcel was also a bishop of Paris. St. Cloud was a holy anchorite whose cell was in the wood which occupied the site of the palace (now destroyed) that bears his name. All these saints are therefore closely bound up with the town of Paris and the royal family. You must never forget this near alliance in France between the church and the crown: it colours all the architecture of the early period.
Within the porch, we come to the main façade, of the 13th century. R and L, two sainted bishops of Auxerre, successors of St. Germain. Central portal, a queen, a king (probably Childebert and Ultrogothe, the original Frankish founders), St. Vincent; then St. Germain himself, and Ste. Geneviève, with the usual devil and candle, and her attendant angel, etc. On the pier, Madonna and Child, under a canopy. The tympanum had formerly the usual relief of the Last Judgment, now destroyed, and replaced by a fresco. Reminiscences of its subject still remain in the quaint figures to R and L on the arch, at its base, representing respectively, with childish realism, the Jaws of Hell and Abraham’s Bosom, to which the wicked and the just were consigned in the centre.
In this church, and in that of St. Germain-des-Prés (see later), St. Vincent ranks as a local Parisian saint, because his tunic was preserved in the great abbey church of the other St. Germain beyond the river. He bears a martyr’s palm and is habited as a deacon; whence he is often hard to distinguish from his brother deacon, St. Stephen: both are often put together in Parisian churches. It is probable that St. Germain of Paris consecrated this church to his older namesake and St. Vincent — for his connection with whom you had better wait till you visit St. Germain-des-Prés.
The interior is low, but impressive. The R aisle is entirely railed off as a separate church or Lady Chapel. It contains an interesting 14th-century Root of Jesse, seldom accessible. Pretty modern font, by Jouffroy, after Mme. de Lamartine, in the South Transept. Walk round the Ambulatory (behind the Choir), and observe the stained glass and other details, which the reader may now be trusted to discover unaided. A mass of the detail is well worthy of notice. The Gothic pillars of the Choir were converted in the 18th century into fluted columns. Over the Sacristy, in the South Ambulatory, is a modern fresco of St. Germain and St. Vincent. Note many other memorials of the latter. When you leave, walk to the south side of the church to inspect the exterior and the square tower, from which, as parish church of the Louvre, the bell rang for the massacre of St. Bartholomew, to be answered by that in the Palace on the island.
On emerging from the church, contrast its Gothic quaintness and richness of detail with the cold, classical façade of that part of the Louvre which fronts you. This façade, known as Perrault’s Colonnade, with its classical pediment and Corinthian columns, was erected by Claude Perrault for Louis XIV, whose LL and crown appear on every part of it. Nothing could better illustrate the profound difference between Gothic and Classical architecture than this abrupt contrast.
The portion of the palace that faces you is the real front door of the Louvre. Notice the smaller barred windows on the ground floor, and the upper story converted into a loggia. Now pass in through the gateway, under the Chariot of the Sun — an Apotheosis of Louis — into the First Court, known distinctively as the Cour du Louvre. For all that follows, consult the excellent coloured map in Baedeker, page 86. I advise you to cut it out, and carry it round in your hand during this excursion.
Begin by understanding distinctly that this court (le vieux Louvre) is the real and original Louvre: the rest is mere excrescence, intended to unite the main building with the Tuileries, which lay some hundreds of yards to the west of it. Notice, first, that the Palace as a whole, seen from the point where you now stand, is constructed on the old principle of relatively blank external walls, like a castle, with an interior courtyard, on which all the apartments open, and almost all the decoration is lavished. Reminiscences of defence lurk about the Louvre. It can best be understood by comparison with such ornate, yet fortress-like, Italian palaces as the Strozzi at Florence. Notice the four opposite portals, facing the cardinal points, which can be readily shut by means of great doors; while the actual doorways of the various suites of apartments open only into the protected courtyard. This is the origin of the familiar French porte-cochère.
Again, the portion of the building that directly faces you as you enter the court from St. Germain is the oldest part, and represents the early Renaissance spirit. It is the most primitive Louvre. Note in particular the central elevated portion, known as a Pavillon, and graced with elegant Caryatides. These Pavillons are lingering reminiscences of the mediæval towers. You will find them in the corners and centres of other blocks in the Louvre. They form a peculiarly French Renaissance characteristic. The Palace is here growing out of the Castle. The other three sides of the square are, on the whole, more classical and later.
Now cross the square directly to the Pavillon de l’Horloge, as it is called, from the clock which adorns it. To your L, on the floor of the court, are two circular white lines, enclosed in a square. These mark the site of the original Château of the Louvre, with its Keep, or donjon. François Ier, who began the existing building, originally intended that his palace should cover the same area. It was he who erected the L wing, which now faces you, marked by the crowned H on its central round gable, placed there by his successor, Henri II, under whom it was completed. To the same king are also due the monograms of H and D (for Diane de Poitiers, his mistress), between the columns of the ground floor. The whole of the Pavillon de l’Horloge, and of this west wing, should be carefully examined in detail as the finest remaining specimen of highly decorated French Renaissance architecture. (But the upper story of the Pavillon, with the Caryatides, is an age later.) Observe even the decoration lavished on the beautiful chimneys. Pierre Lescot was the architect of this earliest wing; the exquisite sculpture is by Jean Goujon, a Frenchman, and the Italian, Paolo Ponzio. Examine much of it. The crossed K’s of certain panels stand for Catherine de Médicis.
The R wing, beyond the Pavillon, was added, in the same style, under Louis XIII, who decided to double the plan of his predecessors, and form the existing Cour du Louvre.
The other three sides, in a more classic style, with pediments replacing the Pavillons, and square porticoes instead of rounded gables, are for the most part later. The S side, however, as far as the central door, is also by Pierre Lescot. It forms one of the two fronts of the original square first contemplated. The attic story of these three sides was added under Louis XIV, to whom in the main is due this Cour du Louvre. A considerable part of Louis XIV’s decorations bear reference to his representation as le roi soleil.
Now, pass through the Pavillon de l’Horloge (called on its W side Pavillon Sully) into the second of the three courts of the Louvre. To understand this portion of the building, again, you must remember that shortly after the erection of the Old Louvre, Catherine de Médicis began to build her palace of the Tuileries, now destroyed, to the W of it. She (and subsequent rulers) designed to unite the Old Louvre with the Tuileries by a gallery which should run along the bank of the river. Of that gallery, Catherine de Médicis herself erected a considerable portion, to be described later, and Henri IV almost completed it. Later on, Napoleon I conceived the idea of extending a similar gallery along his new Rue de Rivoli, on the N side, so as to enclose the whole space between the Louvre and the Tuileries in one gigantic double courtyard. Napoleon III carried out his idea. The second court in which you now stand is entirely flanked by buildings of this epoch — the Second Empire. Examine it cursorily as far as the modern statue of Gambetta.
Stand or take a seat by the railing of the garden opposite the Pavillon Sully. The part that now faces you forms a portion of the building of François Ier and Louis XIII, re-decorated in part by Napoleon I. The portions to your R and L (consult Baedeker’s map) are entirely of the age of Napoleon III, built so as to conceal the want of parallelism of the outer portions. Observe their characteristic Pavillons, each bearing its own name inscribed upon it. This recent square, though quite modern in the character of its sculpture and decoration, is Renaissance in its general architecture, and, when looked back upon from the gardens of the Tuileries, affords a most excellent idea of that stately style, as developed in France under François Ier. The whole of this splendid plan, however, has been rendered futile by the destruction of the Tuileries, without which the enclosure becomes wholly meaningless.
Now, continue westward, pass the Monument of Gambetta, and take a seat on the steps at the base, near the fine nude figure of Truth. In front of you opens the third square of the Louvre, known as the Place du Carrousel, and formerly enclosed on its W side by the Palace of the Tuileries, which was unfortunately burnt down in 1871, during the conflict between the Municipal and National authorities. Its place is now occupied by a garden terrace, the view from which in all directions is magnificent. Fronting you, as you sit, is the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, erected under Napoleon I, by Percier and Fontaine, in imitation of the Arch of Septimius Severus at Rome, and once crowned by the famous bronze Roman horses from St. Mark’s at Venice. The arch, designed as an approach to the Tuileries during the period of the classical mania, is too small for its present surroundings, since the removal of the Palace. The N. wing, visible to your R, is purely modern, of the age of the First and Second Empire and the Third Republic. The meretricious character of the reliefs in its extreme W. portion, erected under the Emperor Napoleon III, and restored after the Commune, is redolent of the spirit of that gaudy period. The S. wing, to your L, forms part of the connecting gallery erected by Henri IV, but its architecture is largely obscured by considerable alterations under Napoleon III. Its W pavillon — known as the Pavillon de Flore — is well worth notice.
Having thus gained a first idea of the courtyard fronts of the building, continue your walk, still westward, along the S wing as far as the Pavillon de Flore, a remaining portion of the corner edifice which ran into one line with the Palace of the Tuileries (again consult Baedeker’s map). Turn round the corner of the Pavillon to examine the S, or River Front of the connecting gallery — one of the finest parts of the whole building, but far less known to ordinary visitors than the cold and uninteresting Northern line along the Rue de Rivoli. The first portion, as far as the gateways, belongs originally to the age of Henri IV; but it was entirely reconstructed under Napoleon III, whose obtrusive N appears in many places on the gateways and elsewhere. Nevertheless, it still preserves, on the whole, some reminiscence of its graceful Renaissance architecture. Beyond the main gateway (with modern bronze Charioteer of the Sun), flanked by the Pavillons de la Trémoille and de Lesdiguières, we come upon the long Southern Gallery erected by Catherine de Médicis, which still preserves almost intact its splendid early French Renaissance decoration. This is one of the noblest portions of the entire building. The N here gives place to H’s, and the Renaissance scroll-work and reliefs almost equal those in that portion of the old Louvre which was erected under François Ier. Sit on a seat on the Quay and examine the sculpture. Notice particularly the splendid Porte Jean Goujon, conspicuous from afar by its gilded balcony. Its crowned H’s and coats-of-arms are specially interesting examples of the decorative work of the period. Note also the skill with which this almost flat range is relieved by sculpture and decoration so as to make us oblivious of the want of that variety usually given by jutting portions. The end of this long gallery is formed by two handsome windows with balconies. We there come to the connecting Galerie d’Apollon, of which these windows are the termination, and finally reach once more a portion of Perrault’s façade, with its double LL’s, erected under Louis XIV, and closely resembling the interior façade of the Cour du Louvre.
(The N side you can examine any day as you pass along the Rue de Rivoli. You will now have no difficulty in distinguishing its various factors — first, on the E, a part of Perrault’s façade of the Old Louvre; then, where it begins to bend outward, a portion of Napoleon the Third’s connecting link; finally, beyond the main carriage way, westward, a part reconstructed under the Third Republic.)
Sit awhile on the adjacent Pont des Arts to gain a general conception of the relations of the Louvre, the Île de la Cité, the Hôtel de Ville and other surrounding buildings.
This first rough idea of the Louvre should be filled in later by detailed study. The Renaissance portions, in particular, you should look at again and again, every time you enter piecing out your conceptions at a later stage by visiting the Renaissance Sculpture Gallery in the Cour du Louvre, and comparing the works inside it and outside it. Thus only can you gain a connected idea of Renaissance Paris, to be further supplemented by frequent visits to St. Étienne-du-Mont, St. Eustache, and Fontainebleau.
B. THE COLLECTIONS
[The Collections in the Louvre have no such necessary organic connection with Paris itself as Notre-Dame and the Sainte-Chapelle, or even those in the rooms at Cluny. They may, therefore, be examined by the visitor at any period of his visit that he chooses. I would advise him, however, whenever he takes them up, to begin with the paintings, in the order here enumerated, and then to go on to the Classical and Renaissance Sculpture. The last-named, at least, he should only examine in connection with the rest of Renaissance Paris. Also, while it is unimportant whether he takes first Painting or Sculpture, it is very important that he should take each separately in the chronological order here enumerated. He should not skip from room to room, hap-hazard, but see what he sees systematically.
At least six days — far more, if possible — should be devoted to the Louvre Collections — by far the most important objects to be seen in Paris. Of these, four should be assigned to the Paintings, and one each to the Classical and Renaissance Sculpture. If this is impossible, do not try to see all; see a little thoroughly. Confine yourself, for Painting, to the Salon Carré and the Salle des Primitifs, and for Sculpture, to a hasty walk through the Classical Gallery and to the three Western rooms of the Renaissance collection.
The object of the hints which follow is not to describe the Collections in the Louvre; it is to put the reader on the right track for understanding and enjoying them. It is impossible to make people admire beautiful things; but if you begin by trying to comprehend them, you will find admiration and sympathy grow with comprehension. Religious symbolism is the native language of early art, and you cannot expect to understand the art if you do not take the trouble to learn the language in which it is written. Therefore, do not walk listlessly through the galleries, with a glance, right or left, at what happens to catch your eye; begin at the beginning, work systematically through what parts you choose, and endeavour to grasp the sequence and evolution of each group separately. Stand or sit long before every work, till you feel you know it; and return frequently. Remember, too, that I do not point out always what is most worthy of notice, but rather suggest a mode of arriving at facts which might otherwise escape you. Many beautiful objects explain themselves, or fall so naturally into their proper place in a series that you will readily discover their meaning and importance without external aid. With others, you may need a little help, to suggest a point of view, and that is all that these brief notes aim at. Do not be surprised if I pass by many beautiful and interesting things; if you find them out for yourself, there is no need to enlarge upon them. Should these hints succeed in interesting you in the succession and development of art, get Mrs. Jameson and Kugler, and read up at leisure in your rooms all questions suggested to you by your visits to the galleries. My notes are intended to be looked at before the objects themselves, and merely to open a door to their right comprehension.
The galleries are open, free, daily, except Mondays. Painting from 9, Sculpture from 11. For details, see Baedeker.]
I. PAINTINGS.
Take Baedeker’s Plan of the Galleries (1st Floor) with you. Enter by the door in the Pavillon Denon. (Sticks and umbrellas left here; tip optional.) Turn to L and traverse long hall with reproductions of famous antiques in bronze (Laocoon, Medici Venus, Apollo Belvedere, etc.), which those who do not intend to visit Rome and Florence will do well to examine. Observe, in passing, in the centre of the hall, a fine antique sarcophagus, with figures in high relief, representing the story of Achilles. Begin on the furthest side of the sarcophagus: (1) Achilles, disguised as a woman, among the daughters of Lycomedes, in order to avoid the Trojan war; (2) is discovered by Ulysses as a pedlar, through his choice of arms instead of trinkets; (3) arming himself for the combat; and (4, modern) Priam redeeming the body of Hector. (The work originally stood against a wall, and had therefore three decorative sides only.) Further on, fine sarcophagus from Salonica, Roman period, with Combat of Amazons, representing on the lid husband and wife, couched, somewhat after the Etruscan fashion.
Mount the staircase (Escalier Daru). Near the top is the famous Nikè of Samothrace, a much-mutilated winged figure of Victory, standing like a figure-head on the prow of a trireme. It was erected by Demetrius Poliorcetes, in commemoration of a naval engagement in B.C. 305. Attitude and drapery stamp the work as one of the finest products of Hellenic art. Victory alights on the vessel of the conqueror.
Turn to your L just before reaching the last flight, and pass several Etruscan sarcophagi and sarcophagus-shaped funereal urns, many with the deceased and his wife on the lid, accompanied in some cases by protecting genii. The early Etruscans buried; the later often burned their dead, but continued to enclose the ashes in miniature sarcophagi. At the top, on the L, a fresco by Fra Angelico, the Dominican painter, St. Dominic embracing the Cross, with the Madonna and St. John Evangelist: not a first-rate example of the master. End wall, R of door, a fresco by Botticelli, Giovanni Tornabuoni receiving the Muses. Opposite it, L of door, another by the same, Giovanna his wife receiving the Graces, and accompanied by Cupid. These two frescoes stood in the hall of the owner’s villa, and gracefully typify the husband entertaining Literature, Science, and Art, while the wife extends hospitality to Love, Youth, and Beauty. Descend one flight of staircase again, passing yet other Etruscan sarcophagi (which examine), and, mounting opposite stairs, pass the Nikè and turn to your R. Traverse the photograph-room and the Salle Duchâtel beyond it, as well as the Salon Carré. Enter the Long Gallery, and, taking the first door to your R, you arrive at once in Room I (Baedeker’s VII), the
Salle des Primitifs.
The pictures in this room consist for the most part of those by early followers of Giotto, and by members of the schools which sprang from him, till the moment of the Renaissance. As these earliest pictures strike the key-note of types, continued and developed later, it is absolutely necessary to examine them all very closely. In most cases, subject and treatment were rigorously prescribed by custom; scenes recur again and again, almost identically. Where saints are grouped round the Madonna, they were ordered by the purchaser, and oftenest represent his own patrons. In order to obtain a chronological view, begin at the centre of the end wall. Most of these pictures are altar-pieces. I follow the small numbers below, the only ones for which a detailed catalogue is yet published.
*153. Cimabue (the point of departure for Tuscan art); Madonna and Child with six angels. Almost a replica of the great picture in Santa Maria Novella at Florence; gold ground; the Madonna’s face still strongly Byzantine in type, with almond-shaped eyes; the Child, draped, after the earlier fashion. Later, he is represented nude. Observe, however, the greater artistic freedom in the treatment of the attendant angels, where Cimabue was slightly less hampered by conventional precedents. Do not despise this picture because of its stiffness and its archaic style. It is an immense advance upon the extremely wooden Byzantine models which preceded it: and in the angels it really approaches correctness of drawing.
225. (Skied) Don Lorenzo Monaco. A Tabernacle for an altar of St. Lawrence; centre, St. Lawrence, enthroned on his gridiron; L, St. Agnes with her lamb; R, St. Margaret with her dragon, all on gold grounds. A poor example. This Saint is usually represented in deacon’s robes. The other saints are probably those who shared the chapel with him. See the much later St. Margaret by Raphael as an example of Renaissance treatment of the same figure.
*192. Giotto. St. Francis receiving the Stigmata. A genuine picture, painted for the saint’s own church of San Francesco at Pisa; one of the earliest representations of this subject, often afterwards copied. Christ, as a six-winged seraph, red-feathered, appears in heaven to the Saint; rays proceed from his five wounds to the hands, feet, and side of St. Francis, which they impress with similar marks. A mountain represents La Vernia; two tiny buildings, the monastery. Compare with this subject two smaller treatments in the same room, both on the lowest tier: one, to the L as you go towards the door, 431, of the school of Perugino, where an attendant Brother (Leo) is seen astonished at the vision; the second on the R, 287, attributed to Pesello, and closely similar in treatment. Careful comparison of these pictures will serve to show the close way in which early painters imitated, or almost copied one another. The base (or predella) of the Giotto also contains three other subjects: Innocent III, asleep, is shown by St. Peter the falling church sustained by St. Francis; he confirms the Franciscan order; St. Francis preaches to the birds. All very spirited. Notice these little pictures for comparison later with others painted in the Dominican interest by Fra Angelico.
Continuing along L wall are some small pictures of the Sienese school, which should be carefully examined. (Do not suppose that because I do not call attention to a picture it is necessarily unworthy of notice.) Most of these little works breathe the pure piety and ecstatic feeling of the School of Siena.
* *426. Perugino. Tondo, or round picture; the Madonna Enthroned; L, St. Rose with her roses; R, St. Catherine with her palm of martyrdom; behind, adoring angels. An exquisite example of the affected tenderness, delicate grace, and brilliant colouring of the Umbrian master, from whose school Raphael proceeded. An early specimen. Observe the dainty painting of the feet and hands, which is highly characteristic.
Beneath it, 1701, Gentile da Fabriano. Presentation in the Temple. Look closely into it. A delicate little example of the Umbrian rival of Fra Angelico. The arrangement will explain many later ones. Every one of the figures and their attitudes are conventional.
427. Perugino. Madonna and Child, with St. John Baptist and St. Catherine. The introduction of St. John shows the picture to have been probably painted for a Florentine patron. Not a pleasing example.
Beneath it, Vittore Pisano, characteristic portrait of an Este princess, in the hard, dry, accurate manner of this Veronese medallist, who borrowed from his earlier art the habit of painting profiles in strong low relief, with a plastic effect.
Perugino. St. Sebastian. One of the loveliest examples of the Umbrian master’s later manner. Contrasted with the Madonna and St. Rose it shows the distance covered by art during the painter’s lifetime. Observe its greater freedom and knowledge of anatomy. St. Sebastian, bound as usual to a pillar in a ruined temple, is pierced through with arrows. Face, figure, and expression are unusually fine for Perugino. Sebastian was the great saint for protection against the plague, and pictures containing him are almost always votive offerings under fear of that pestilence. Many in this gallery. The face here is finer than in any other presentation I know, except Sodoma’s in the Uffizi at Florence.
258. Lombard or Piedmontese School. Annunciation. An unusual treatment; the Madonna, as always, kneels at a prie-dieu, and starts away, alarmed and timid, at the apparition of the angel Gabriel. The action, as usual, takes place in a loggia, but the angel is represented as descending in flight through the air, an extremely uncommon mode of depicting him. He bears the white lily of the Annunciation. The other details are conventional. Contrast with this subsequent Annunciations in this Gallery. L, are St. Augustin and St. Jerome; R, St. Stephen, bearing on his head, as often, the stones of his martyrdom, accompanied by St. Peter Martyr the Dominican, with the knife in his head. Both saints carry palms of martyrdom. A good picture in a hard, dry, local manner.
Now cross over to the opposite side of the room, beginning at the bottom, in order to preserve the chronological sequence.
196. School of Giotto. Madonna in Glory, with angels. Compare this treatment carefully with Cimabue’s great picture close by, in order to notice the advance in art made in the interval. The subject and general arrangement are the same, but observe the irregularity in the placing of the angels, and the increased knowledge of anatomy and expression.
Close by are several other Giottesque pictures, all of which should be closely examined; especially 425, Vanni, the same subject, for comparison. The little Giottesque Death of St. Bernard, in particular, is a characteristic example or type of a group which deals in the same manner with saintly obsequies. All of them will suggest explanations of later pictures. In all these cases, the saint lies on a bier in the foreground, surrounded by mourning monks and ecclesiastics. The key-note was struck by Giotto’s fresco of the Death of St. Francis at Santa Croce in Florence.
187. Agnolo Gaddi. Annunciation; a characteristic example. Note the loggia, and the angel with the lily; the introduction of a second angel, however, is a rare variation from the type. In the corner is the Father despatching the Holy Spirit. Attitude of the Madonna characteristic; study carefully. No subject sheds more light on the methods of early art than the Annunciation. It always takes place in an arcade: the Madonna is almost always to the right of the picture: and prie-dieu, book, and bed are frequent accessories.
666. Quaint little Florentine picture of St. Nicolas, throwing three purses of gold as a dowry inside the house of a poor and starving nobleman.
Next to it, unnumbered, Gregory the Great sees the Angel of the Plague sheathing his sword on the Castle of St. Angelo, so called from this vision.
494. St. Jerome in the Desert; lion, skull, crucifix, rocks, cardinal’s hat, all characteristic of the subject. In the foreground, a Florentine lily; in the background, Christ and the infant Baptist, patron of Florence; background L, St. Augustine and the angel who tries to empty the sea into a hole made with a bucket — a well-known allegory of the attempt of the finite to comprehend the Infinite. Look out elsewhere for such minor episodes.
Fra Angelico. Martyrdom of Sts. Cosmo and Damian, the holy physicians and (therefore) patron saints of the Medici family; a characteristic example of the saintly friar’s colouring in small subjects. These two Medici saints are naturally frequent in Florentine art.
662. Fra Angelico. Story of the death of St. John Baptist. Three successive episodes represented in the same picture. The lithe figure of the daughter of Herodias, dancing, is very characteristic.
166. Battle scene, by Paolo Uccello. Showing vigorous efforts at mastery of perspective and foreshortening, as yet but partially successful. The wooden character of the horses is conspicuous. Paolo Uccello was one of the group of early scientific artists, who endeavoured to improve their knowledge of optics and of the sciences ancillary to painting.
199. Benozzo Gozzoli. Glory of St. Thomas Aquinas, the great Dominican teacher. This is an apotheosis of scholasticism, in the person of its chief representative. R and L stand Aristotle and Plato, the heathen philosophers, in deferential attitudes, recognising their master. Beneath his feet is Guillaume de St. Amour, a vanquished heretic. Below, the entire Church — pope, cardinals, doctors — receiving instruction from St. Thomas. Above, the Eternal Father signifying His approval in a Latin inscription, surrounded by the Evangelists with their symbols — angel, winged lion, bull, eagle. The inscription imports, “Thomas has well spoken of Me.” The style is archaic: the council is supposed to be that of Agnani, presided over by Pope Alexander IV. Among the celestial personages, notice St. Paul, Moses, and others. Pictures of this double sort, embracing scenes in heaven and on earth, are common in Italy.
Beneath it (287), part 2. Pesello. St. Cosmo and St. Damian affixing the leg of a dead Moor to a wounded Christian, on whom they have been compelled to practise amputation. The costumes are the conventional ones for these saints. Remember them. This astounding miracle is often represented at Florence: the dead man’s leg grew on the living one.
* *182. Fra Angelico. A Coronation of the Virgin, painted for a Dominican church at Fiesole. In the foreground, St. Louis of France, with a crown of fleur-de-lis; St. Zenobius, Bishop of Florence, with the lamb of the Baptist on his crosier (indicating his see); St. Mary Magdalen, in red, with long yellow hair (so almost always), and (her symbol) the box of ointment; St. Catherine with her wheel; St. Agnes with her lamb, and others. Above St. Louis stands St. Dominic, founder of Fra Angelico’s order, recognisable by his robes, with his red star and white lily (the usual attributes); beneath him, a little to the R, St. Thomas Aquinas, with a book sending forth rays of light, to signify his teaching function. Near him, St. Francis. Other Saints, such as St. Lawrence with his gridiron, and St. Peter Martyr, the Dominican, with his wounded head, must be left to the spectator. In the background, choirs of angels. Beneath, in the predella, the history of St. Dominic (marked by a red star); Pope Innocent in a dream sees him sustaining the falling Church (a Dominican variant of the story of St. Francis in the Giotto, at the end): he receives his commission from St. Peter and St. Paul; he restores to life the young man Napoleon, killed by a fall from a horse (seen to left); he converts heretics and burns their books; he is fed with his brethren by angels in his convent at Rome; and his death and apotheosis. This picture deserves most careful study — say two hours. It is one of Fra Angelico’s finest easel paintings (his best are frescoes), and it is full of interest for its glorification of the Dominicans. Compare the St. Thomas Aquinas with Benozzo Gozzoli’s: and remember in studying the predella that St. Dominic founded the Inquisition. The tender painting of this lovely work needs no commendation.
222. School of Filippo Lippi. Madonna and angels, characteristic of the type of this painter and his followers.
Above it, Neri di Bicci. Madonna, very wooden. He was a belated Giottesque, who turned out such antiquated types by hundreds in the 15th century.
School of Benozzo Gozzoli. Madonna and Child. L, St. Cosmo and St. Damian, with pens and surgeons’ boxes; St. Jerome, with stone, lion, and cardinal’s hat; his pen and book denote him as translator of the Vulgate. R, St. John Baptist (representing Florence); St. Francis with the Stigmata; St. Lawrence. The combination of Saints shows the picture to have been painted in compliment to Lorenzo de’ Medici. Minor subjects around it are worthy of study.
Now cross over the room again. You come at once upon four pictures of nearly the same size, painted for the Court of the Gonzaga family at Mantua. Allegorical subjects, intended for the decoration of a hall or boudoir. Most of those pictures we have hitherto examined have been sacred: we now get an indication of the nascent Renaissance taste for myth and allegory.
429. Perugino. Combat of Love and Chastity. A frequent subject for such situations, showing Perugino at his worst. Compare it with the other three of the series.
253. Mantegna. Wisdom conquering the Vices. A characteristic but unpleasing example of this great Paduan painter. Admirable in anatomy, drawing, and perspective: poor in effect. Observe the festoons in the background, which are favourites with the artist and his school.
*252. Mantegna. The amours of Mars and Venus discovered by (her husband) Vulcan. A beautiful composition. The guilty pair, with a couch, stand on a mountain, representing Parnassus, accompanied by Cupid. Below, exquisite group of the Nine Muses dancing (afterwards imitated by Guido). To the L, Apollo with his lyre, as musician. R, Mercury and Pegasus. In the background, the injured Vulcan discovering the lovers. This splendid specimen of early Renaissance art is one of Mantegna’s finest. Study it in detail, and compare with the other three which it accompanies. Observe the life and movement in the dancing Muses: also, the growing Renaissance love for the nude, exemplified in the Venus.
154. Costa. The Court of Isabella d’Este. The meaning of the figures is now undecipherable, but the general character indicates peace, and devotion to literature, science and art. A fine example of the Ferrarese master.
Between these four, * *Mantegna; (251), Madonna della Vittoria, a most characteristic picture, painted for Giovanni Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua, to commemorate his victory over Charles VIII of France. The Madonna is enthroned under a most characteristic canopy of fruit and flowers, with pendents of coral and other decorative adjuncts. L, Gonzaga himself, kneeling in gratitude — a ruffianly face, well-painted. R, St. Elizabeth, mother of the Baptist, with St. John Baptist himself, representing the Marquis’s wife. Behind, the patron Saints of Mantua, who assisted in the victory: St. Michael the Archangel (the warrior saint — a most noble figure), St. Andrew (Mantegna’s name-Saint), St. Longinus, who pierced the side of Christ, and St. George. The whole is exquisitely beautiful. The detail deserves long and attentive study. The reliefs on the pedestal are characteristic. From the church of the same name, erected in commemoration of the victory (of the Taro). I will return hereafter at greater length to this lovely picture.
Above, to the L (*418), Cosimo Tura. Pietà, or body of Christ wept over by the Madonna and angels. In drawing and colouring, a characteristic example of this harsh, but very original and powerful, Ferrarese master. You will come hereafter on many Pietàs. Compare them all, and note the attitude and functions of the angels.
Cross over again to the opposite side. (183), Botticelli. Round Madonna and angels, very characteristic as to the drawing, but inferior in technique to most of his works.
221. Filippo Lippi. Madonna in Glory, with angels. The roundness of the faces, especially in the child angels, is very characteristic. At her feet, two Florentine patron saints. The absence of symbols makes them difficult to identify, but I think they represent St. Zenobius and St. Antonine. Very fine.
184. Botticelli. Madonna and Child, with St. John of Florence. The wistful expressions strike the key-note of this painter. Compare with nameless Florentine Madonna of the same school above it.
220. Fra Filippo Lippi. Nativity. Worthy of careful study, especially for the accessories: St. Joseph, the stall and bottle, the saddle, ox and ass, and wattles, ruined temple, etc., which reappear in many similar pictures. Not a favourable example of the master. Beneath it, little fragments with St. Peter Martyr, Visitation, Christ and Magdalen, meeting of Francis and Dominic, and St. Paul the Hermit. An odd conglomeration, whose meaning cannot now be deciphered. The ruined temple, frequently seen in Nativities and Adorations of the Magi, typifies the downfall of Paganism before the advance of Christianity.
Beside it, Ghirlandajo. Portrait of bottle-nosed man and child. Admirable and characteristic.
* *202. Ghirlandajo. Visitation. Probably the master’s finest easel picture. Splendid colour. Attitudes of the Madonna and St. Elizabeth characteristic of the type. The scene habitually takes place in front of a portal, as here, with the heads of the main actors more or less silhouetted against the arch in the background. At the sides, Mary Salome, and “the other Mary.” Such saints are introduced merely as spectators: they need not even be contemporary: they are included in purely ideal groupings. At Florence, in a similar scene, the as yet unborn St. John the Baptist stands by as an assessor.
185. Venus and Cupid, of the school of Botticelli. Very pleasing.
347. Cosimo Rosselli. Madonna in an almond-shaped glory (Mandorla) of red and blue cherubs. L, the Magdalen; R, St. Bernard, to whom she appeared, writing down his vision; about, adoring angels. A characteristic example of this harsh Florentine painter.
156. We come at once upon the High Renaissance in Lorenzo di Credi’s beautiful Virgin and Child, flanked by St. Julian and St. Nicholas. Observe the three balls of gold in the corner by the latter’s feet, representative of the three purses thrown to the nobleman’s daughters. Notice also the Renaissance architecture and decorations. In pictures of this class, the saints to accompany the Madonna were ordered by the person giving the commission; the artist could only exercise his discretion as to the grouping. Notice how this varies with the advance of the Renaissance: at first stiffly placed in pairs, the saints finally form a group with characteristic action. The execution of this lovely work shows Lorenzo as one of the finest artists of his period.
70. Bianchi, a rare Ferrarese master. Madonna enthroned, with Saints. The angel on the step is characteristically Ferrarese, as are also the reliefs and architecture.
467. Ascetic figure of San Giovanni di Capistrano.
435. School of Perugino. Little Madonna, in an almond-shaped glory of cherubs. The shape belongs to Christ, or saints, ascending into glory.
Next it, front of a chest, containing the story of Europa and the Bull. Several episodes are combined in a single picture. To the extreme L, the transformed lover, like the prince in a fairy tale. Most gracefully treated.
61. Bellini. Madonna and Child, between St. Peter and St. Sebastian; a plague picture. These half-length Madonnas are very characteristic of Venetian art of the period. The Madonna’s face and strong neck also very Venetian. Observe them as the type on which Titian’s are modelled. Look long at this soft and melting picture. The gentle noble face, the dainty dress, the beautiful painting of the nude in the St. Sebastian, are all redolent of the finest age of Venetian painting.
Above it, a good Tura. Compare with previous one.
60. School of Gentile Bellini. Venetian ambassador received at Cairo. Oriental tinge frequent at Venice. This gate can still be recognised at Cairo. The figures are all portraits, and the painter probably accompanied the ambassador, Domenico Trevisano.
Beneath it (59), two fine portraits by Gentile Bellini.
664. Characteristic little Montagna; angels at the base of a Madonna now destroyed. Compare the Bianchi almost opposite. Such angels are frequent in the school of Bellini.
152. Attributed to Cima. Madonna Enthroned, with St. John Baptist and the Magdalen. These lofty thrones and landscape backgrounds of the Friuli country are frequent with Cima and Venetian painters of his period.
113. Carpaccio. Preaching of St. Stephen. One of a series of the Life of St. Stephen, now scattered. The saint is in deacon’s robes, as usual; oriental costumes mark the intercourse of Venice with the East. Observe the architecture, a graceful compound of Venetian and oriental.
Over the doorway, Fresco of God the Father, in an almond-shaped glory, from the Villa Magliana. Purchased as a Raphael, probably by Lo Spagna.
Return frequently to this room, and study it deeply. It will give you the key to all the others.
Now traverse the Salon Carré and enter the
Salle Duchâtel.
On the R wall are two exquisite frescoes by Luini, removed entire from walls in Milan. To the L, the Adoration of the Magi, exquisitely tender and graceful; study it closely as an example both of painter and subject, noting the ages and attitudes of the Three Kings, the youngest (as usual) a Moor, and the exquisite face and form of the Madonna. To the R, a Nativity, equally characteristic. Look long at them. Between, Christ blessing, not quite so beautiful; and Genii with grapes, an antique motive. Above are three other frescoes of the school of Luini, not so fine. Centre, Annunciation, the Madonna separated (as often) from the angel by a lily. The Madonna never approaches the angel, and is usually divided by a wall or barrier.
On the screen by door, good portraits by Antonio Moro.
Other side of door (680), Madonna and Child, with the donors of the picture, by Hans Memling. This beautiful Flemish picture well represents the characteristics of Flemish as opposed to Italian art. Notice the want of ideality in the Virgin and Child, contrasted with the admirable portraiture of the donors, the chief of whom is introduced by his namesake, St. James, recognisable by his staff and scallop-shell. The female donors, several of whom are Dominican nuns, are similarly introduced by their founder, St. Dominic, whose black-and-white robes and star-like halo serve to identify him. Observe the exquisite finish of the hair and all the details. Study this work for the Flemish spirit.
At the far end of the room are two pictures by Ingres, marking the interval covered by French art during the lifetime of that great painter. L, Œdipus and the Sphinx, produced in the classical period of the master’s youth, while he was still under the malign influence of David. R, La Source, perhaps the most exquisitely virginal delineation of the nude ever achieved in painting.
After having traversed these two rooms the spectator will probably be able to attack the
Salon Carré,
which contains what are considered by the authorities as the gems of the collection, irrespective of period or country (a very regrettable jumble). Almost all of them, therefore, deserve attention. I shall direct notice here chiefly to those which require some explanation. Begin to the L of the door which leads from the Salle Duchâtel.
Close to the door, Apollo and Marsyas: a delicate little Perugino, attributed to Raphael. Good treatment of the nude, and painted like a miniature. Renaissance feeling. Compare it with the St. Sebastian in the Salle des Primitifs.
Above it, Jehan de Paris. Madonna and Child, with the donors; a characteristic and exceptionally beautiful example of the early French school. Contrast its character with the Italian and Flemish. Extremely regal and fond of tinsel ornament.
20. Correggio. Jupiter and Antiope, a good example of his Correggiosity and marvellous arrangement of light and shade. Very late Renaissance. Perfection of art; very little feeling.
*446. Titian. Entombment. A fine but faded example of the colour and treatment of the prince of the Venetian Renaissance.
231. Luini. Virgin and Child. Not a pleasing example.
*419 and * *417. Two admirable portraits by Rembrandt.
* *250. Mantegna. Crucifixion, predella or base of the great picture in San Zeno at Verona. Notice the admirable antique character of the soldiers casting lots for Christ’s raiment. The rocks are very Mantegnesque in treatment. One of the artist’s finest pictures. Spend some time before it. We will return again to this fine painting.
381. Andrea del Sarto. Holy Family. Showing well the character of this master’s tender and melting colour: also, the altered Renaissance treatment of the subject.
Beyond the doorway, two dainty little Memlings. Marriage of St. Catherine (the Alexandrian princess) to the Infant Christ; and, the Donor with St. John Baptist and his lamb. When a saint places his hand on a votary’s shoulder, it usually indicates the patron whose name the votary bears.
Near it, graceful little St. Sebastian of the Umbrian school. Compare with others. This plague-saint is one of the few to whom mediæval piety permitted nudity.
*370. Raphael. The great St. Michael, painted for François Ier. Admirable in its instantaneous dramatic action. This picture may be taken, in its spirit and vigour, as marking the culminating point of the Italian Renaissance as here represented.
Near it, Titian. The Man with the Glove: a fine portrait.
* *19. Correggio. The Marriage of St. Catherine. This is a characteristic treatment, by the great painter of Parma, of this mystical subject. St. Catherine is treated as an Italian princess of his own time, on whose finger the infant Christ playfully places a ring. The action has absolutely no mystic solemnity. Behind, stands St. Sebastian, with his arrows to mark him (without them you would not know him from a classical figure), looking on with amused attention. His smile is lovely. In the background, episodes of the martyrdom of St. Sebastian, proving this to be probably a plague picture. But the whole work, though admirable as art, has in it nothing of religion, and may be aptly compared as to tone with the Education of Cupid by the same artist in the National Gallery. Nothing could surpass the beauty of the light and shade, and the exquisite colouring. Study it as a type of the last word of the humanist Renaissance against mediæval spirituality. Compare it with the Memling close by: and, if you have been at Milan, with the exquisitely dainty Luini in the Poldi-Pezzoli Museum.
Above it, a Holy Family by Murillo. Spanish and theatrical.
The greater part of this wall is taken up by an enormous canvas (95), by Paolo Veronese, representing the Marriage at Cana of Galilee, from the refectory (or dining-hall) of San Giorgio Maggiore at Venice. Pictures of this subject, or of the Last Supper, or of the Feast in the House of Levi, were constantly placed as appropriate decorations to fill the end wall of monastic refectories (like the famous Leonardo at Milan), and were often therefore gigantic in size. This monstrous and very effective composition (proudly pointed out by the guides as “the largest oil-painting in the world”) contains nothing of sacred, and merely reflects with admirable skill the lordly character of the Italian Renaissance. In the centre of the table, one barely notices the figures of the Christ and the Madonna. Attention is distracted both from them and from the miracle of the wine by the splendid architecture of the background, the loggias, the accessories, and the gorgeous guests, many of them representing contemporary sovereigns (among them François Ier, Eleanor of Austria, Charles V, and Sultan Soliman). The group of musicians in the centre foreground is also composed of portraits — this time of contemporary painters (Titian, Tintoretto, etc.). As a whole, a most characteristic picture both of the painter and his epoch, worth some study, and full of good detail.
* *39. Giorgione. Pastoral scene, with nude figures. One of the few undoubted pictures by this master, whose genuineness is admitted by Morelli, though much repainted. Should be studied as an example of the full flush of the Venetian Renaissance, and of the great master who so deeply affected it. Notice the admirable painting of the nude, and the fine landscape in the background. Contrast with the Bellinis in the Salle des Primitifs, in order to mark time and show the advance in technique and spirit. Giorgione set a fashion, followed later by Titian and others. Compare this work with Titian’s Jupiter and Antiope in the Long Gallery.
Above it (*427) Rubens. Adoration of the Magi. A splendid picture. Interesting also as showing how far Rubens transformed the conceptions of the earlier masters. Compare it with the Luini in the Salle Duchâtel, and other Adorations in this gallery. Full of gorgeousness, dash, and certainty of execution.
37. Antonello da Messina. Characteristic hard-faced portrait by this excellent Sicilian artist.
* *459. Leonardo. St. Anne and the Virgin. This great artist can be better studied in the Louvre than anywhere else in the world. This picture, not perhaps entirely by his own hand, is noticeable for the beautiful and very Leonardesque face of St. Anne, the playful figure of the infant Christ, and the admirable blue-toned landscape in the background. The smiles are also thoroughly Leonardesque. Notice the excellent drawing of the feet. The curious composition — the Virgin sitting on St. Anne’s lap — is traditional. Two or three examples of it occur in the National Gallery. Leonardo transformed it. He is the great scientific artist of the Florentine Renaissance.
208. Hans Holbein, the younger. Admirable portrait of Erasmus. Full of character. Note carefully. The hands alone are worth much study. How soft they are, and how absolutely the hands of a scholar immersed in his reading and writing.
108. Clouet. Elizabeth of Austria. A fine example of the early French school, marking well its hard manner and literal accuracy. It shows the style in vogue in Paris before the School of Fontainebleau (Italian artists introduced by François Ier) had brought in Renaissance methods.
* *162. Van Eyck. Madonna and Child, with the Chancellor Rollin in adoration. Perhaps Van Eyck’s masterpiece. Notice the comparatively wooden Flemish Madonna and Child, contrasted with the indubitable vitality and character in the face of the Chancellor. This picture is a splendid example of the highest evolution of that type in which a votary is exhibited adoring the Madonna — the primitive form of portrait: “paint me in the corner, as giving the picture.” Every detail of this finished work deserves long and close inspection. Notice the elaboration of the ornaments, and the delicious glimpse of landscape through the arcade in the background. Compare with the Memlings; also, with contemporary Italian work in the Salle des Primitifs.
* *362. Raphael. Madonna and Child, with infant St. John, known as La Belle Jardinière. To the familiar group of the Madonna and Child, Florentine painters and sculptors early added the infant Baptist, as patron of their city, thus forming a graceful pyramidal composition. This exquisite picture, by far the most beautiful Raphael in the Louvre, belongs to the great painter’s Florentine period. It should be compared with the very similar Madonna del Cardellino in the Uffizi at Florence. For simplicity of treatment and beauty of colouring this seems to me the loveliest of Raphael’s Madonnas, with the exception of the Granduca. Look at it long, for colour, design, and tender feeling. Then go back to the St. Michael, and see how, as Raphael gains in dramatic vigour, he loses in charm.
407. Rembrandt. Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus. A fine study in light and shade, and full of art, but not a sacred picture. Compare with other pictures of the scene in this gallery. The feeling is merely domestic.
433. Rubens. Tomyris, Queen of the Scythians, with the head of Cyrus. A fine, vigorous painting, with the action frankly transferred to the court of Henri IV. Dash and colour and all the Rubens attributes.
365. Raphael. Small Holy Family.
364. Raphael. Holy Family, known as the “Sainte Famille de François Ier”: Joseph, Madonna, infant Christ, St. Elizabeth and the Baptist, and adoring angels. Belongs to Raphael’s Roman period, and already vaguely heralds the decadence. Admirable in composition and painting, but lacking the simplicity and delicacy of colour of his earlier work. Compare it with the Belle Jardinière. It marks the distance traversed in art during his lifetime. The knowledge is far greater, the feeling less.
* *142. Van Dyck. Charles I. A famous and splendid portrait, with all the courtly grace of this stately painter.
* *462. Leonardo. Portrait of Mona Lisa. Most undoubted work of the master in existence. Has lost much of its flesh tints by darkening, but is still subtly beautiful. Compare with any of the portraits in the Salle des Primitifs, in order to understand the increase in science which made Leonardo the prince and leader of the Renaissance. The sweet and sphinx-like smile is particularly characteristic. Observe the exquisite modelling of the hands, and the dainty landscape background. Do not hurry away from it.
363. Raphael. Madonna with the infant St. John, known as “La Vierge au Voile.” A work of his early Roman period, intermediate in style between the Belle Jardinière and the François Ier. Compare them carefully.
Above it (379) Andrea del Sarto. Charity. A fine example of Andrea’s soft and tender colouring.
*523. Portrait of a young man. Long attributed to Raphael. More probably Franciabigio. Pensive and dignified.
452. Titian. Alphonso of Ferrara and his Mistress. A fine portrait, with its colour largely faded.
Above it, 154. Good portrait by Van Dyck.
539. Murillo. The Immaculate Conception. Luminous and pretty, in an affected showy Spanish manner. Foreshadows the modern religious art of the people. An immense favourite with the inartistic public.
* *121. Gerard Dou. The Dropsical Woman. A triumph of Dutch painting of light and shade and detail. Faces like miniatures. The lamp and curtain like nature. Illuminated on the darkest day. Examine it attentively.
293. Metsu. Officer and Lady. Another masterpiece of Dutch minuteness, but far less fine in execution.
526. Ter Borch. Similar subject treated with coarse directness.
* *551. Velasquez. The Infanta Marguerite — a famous portrait.
A little above it (229), Sebastiano del Piombo. Visitation. Compare with the Ghirlandajo in the Salle des Primitifs. A very favourable example of this Venetian master, painted in rivalry with Raphael. It well exhibits the height often attained, even by minor masters, at the culminating point of the Renaissance.
Above, occupying a large part of the wall, *Paolo Veronese. Christ and the Magdalen, at the supper in the house of Levi. Another refectory picture, treated in Veronese’s large and brilliant manner, essentially as a scene of lordly Venetian life. The Pharisee facing Christ is a fine figure. Notice the intrusion of animals and casual spectators, habitual with this artist. The sense of air and space is fine. The whole picture is instinct with Venetian feeling of the period; scenic, not sacred. A lordly treatment. Earlier painters set their scene in smaller buildings: the Venetians of this gorgeous age chose rather the Piazza of some mighty Renaissance Italian city. Here, the architecture recalls the style of Sansovino.
This room also contains many good works of the 17th century, justly skied. Examine them by contrast with the paintings of the best ages of art beneath them. Return to them later, after you have examined the works of the French artists in later rooms of this Gallery.
Now proceed into the
Long Gallery
which contains in its First Compartment works of the High Renaissance masters, transitional from the conventionality of the 15th, to the freedom of the 16th, and the theatrical tendency of the 17th centuries. Begin on the L, and follow that wall as far as the first archway.
Francia. Crucifixion, with Madonna and St. John, and Job extended at the feet of the cross, probably indicating a votive plague offering. A tolerable example of the great Bolognese painter, from the church of San Giobbe, patriarch and plague-saint, at Bologna.
Ansuino(?) Adoration of the Magi. Note coincidences with others.
308. Francia. Madonna. A fair example.
168. Dosso. St. Jerome in the Desert. Interesting as showing a later treatment of this familiar subject.
230. Luini. Holy Family. A good specimen of Luini’s easel work. Compare with the frescoes in the Salle Duchâtel. The hair is characteristic, also the oval face and cast of features.
Near it, two works by Marco da Oggiono, a pupil of Leonardo. His work and Luini’s should be compared with that of the founder of the school. The differences and agreements should be observed. Notice also the survivals from earlier treatment.
354. Sacchi. The Four Doctors of the Church, attended by the Symbols of the Four Evangelists. This is a composition which frequently recurs in early art. L, St. Augustine, holding his book “De Civitate Dei,” with the Eagle of St. John. Next, St. Gregory, inspired by the Holy Spirit as a dove, and accompanied by the Bull of St. Luke. Then, St. Jerome, in his Cardinal’s hat, with the Angel of St. Matthew. Lastly, St. Ambrose with his scourge (alluding to his action in closing the doors of the church at Milan on the Emperor Theodosius after the massacre of Thessalonica), accompanied by the winged Lion of St. Mark. An interesting symbolical composition, deserving close study.
232. Luini. The daughter of Herodias with the head of St. John Baptist. A favourite subject with the artist, who often repeated it. Compare it with his other works in this gallery, till you feel you begin to understand Luini.
Above it, Borgognone. Presentation in the Temple. In the pallid colouring peculiar to this charming Lombard master. Observe the positions of the High Priest and other personages.
85. Borgognone. St. Peter Martyr introducing or commending a Lady Donor to the Madonna. One panel of a triptych; the rest of it is wanting. Look out for similar figures of saints introducing votaries. St. Peter Martyr has usually a wound or a knife in his head, to indicate the mode of his martyrdom.
Beneath, a quaint little Leonardesque Annunciation.
Solario. Calvary, characteristic of the School of Leonardo.
Beneath it, 394, *Solario. Madonna with the Green Cushion. His masterpiece, a graceful and tender work, exhibiting the growing taste of the Renaissance.
458. Attributed to Leonardo. The young St. John Baptist. Hair, smile and treatment characteristic; but possibly a copy. You will meet with many similar St. Johns in Florentine sculpture below hereafter.
465. School of Leonardo. Holy Family. St. Michael the Archangel oddly introduced in order to permit the Child Christ to play with the scales in which he weighs souls — a curious Renaissance conception, wholly out of keeping with earlier reverential feeling.
*460. Leonardo. “La Vierge aux Rochers.” A replica of the picture in the National Gallery in London. Much faded, but probably genuine. Examine closely the rocks, the Madonna, and the Angel.
395. Solario. Good portrait of Charles d’Amboise, a member of the great French family who will frequently crop up in connection with the Renaissance.
461. Attributed to Leonardo, more probably Bernardino de’ Conti. Portrait of a Lady. Compare with the Mona Lisa, as exhibiting well the real advance in portraiture made by Leonardo.
463. Attributed to Leonardo, but probably spurious; Bacchus, a fine youthful figure, begun as a St. John Baptist, and afterwards altered. Compare with the other St. John Baptist near it.
*Beltraffio. The Madonna of the Casio family. A characteristic Leonardesque virgin, attended by St. John Baptist and the bleeding St. Sebastian. (A votive picture.) By her side kneel two members of the Casio family, one the poet of that name, crowned with laurel. Intermediate Renaissance treatment of the Madonna and donors.
78 and 79. Good Franciscan saints, by Moretto.
Between them, 298. Charming Girolamo dai Libri.
We now come upon a magnificent series of works by Titian, in whom the Venetian School, ill-represented in its origin in the Salle des Primitifs, finds its culminating point.
* *440. Titian. The Madonna with the Rabbit. This is one of a group of Titian’s Madonnas (several examples here) in which he endeavours to transform Bellini’s type (see the specimen in the Salle des Primitifs) into an ideal of the 16th century. The Madonna is here attended by St. Catherine of Alexandria, marked as a princess by her coronet and pearls. The child, bursting from her arms, plays with the rabbit. Once more a notion far-removed from primitive piety. Notice the background of Titian’s own country. Landscape is now beginning to struggle for recognition. Earlier art was all figures, first sacred, then also mythological.
445. Titian. The Crown of Thorns. A powerful but very painful painting. The artist is chiefly occupied with anatomy and the presentation of writhing emotion. The spiritual is lost in muscular action.
* *443. Titian. The Disciples at Emmaus. Treated in the contemporary Venetian manner. This is again a subject whose variations can be well traced in this gallery.
451. Titian. Allegory of a husband who leaves for a campaign, commending his wife to Love and Chastity. Finely painted.
450. Titian. Portrait of François Ier. Famous as having been painted without a sitting — the artist had never even seen the king. He took the face from a medal.
448. Titian. Council of Trent. Very much to order.
Above it, *Titian. Jupiter and Antiope. Charming Giorgionesque treatment of the pastoral nude. Compare with the Giorgione in the Salon Carré, in order to understand how deeply that great painter influenced his contemporaries.
453. Titian. Fine portrait.
439. Titian. Madonna with St. Stephen, St. Ambrose, and St. Maurice the soldier. Observe the divergence from the older method of painting the accompanying saints. Originally grouped on either side the Madonna, they are here transformed into the natural group called in Italian, a “santa conversazione.” Look at the stages of this process in the Salle des Primitifs and this Long Gallery.
442. Titian. Another Holy Family. Interesting from the free mode of its treatment, in contrast with Bellini and earlier artists.
* *455. Titian. Magnificent portrait.
Above these are several excellent Bassanos, worthy of study. Compare together all these Venetian works (Bonifazio etc.), lordly products of a great aristocratic mercantile community; and with them, the Veroneses of the Salon Carré, where the type attains a characteristic development.
Now return to the door by the Salon Carré and examine the R Wall.
Poor Pinturicchio, and two inferior Peruginos.
403. Lo Spagna. Nativity. Characteristic example of this scholar of Perugino and fellow-pupil of Raphael. Notice its Peruginesque treatment. Examine in detail and compare with the two other painters. As a Nativity, it is full of the conventional elements.
189. Raffaellino del Garbo. Coronation of the Virgin, beheld from below by four attendant saints of, or connected with, the Vallombrosan order — St. Benedict, Saint Salvi, San Giovanni Gualberto, and San Bernardo degli Uberti. These were the patrons of Vallombrosa; and the picture comes from the Church of St. Salvi, at Florence.
246. Manni. Baptism in Jordan. Observe, as usual, the attendant angels, though the simplicity of early treatment has wholly disappeared. The head-dresses are characteristic of the School of Perugino. Compare with Lo Spagna’s Nativity.
Above it (496) Florentine Madonna, with St. Augustine, St. John Baptist, St. Antony and St. Francis. Observe their symbols. I do not always now call attention to these; but the more you observe them, the better you will understand each picture as you come to it.
390. Luca Signorelli. Adoration of the Magi. A fine example of the mode of treatment of this excellent anatomical painter, the forerunner of Michael Angelo. It needs long looking into.
289. Piero di Cosimo. Coronation of the Virgin, with St. Jerome, St. Francis, St. Louis of Toulouse and St. Bonaventura. Compare with Raffaelino del Garbo, close by, for the double scene, on earth and in heaven. Notice the crown which Louis refused, in order to embrace the monastic profession. This is a Franciscan picture; you will find it casts much light on assemblages of saints if you know for what order each picture was painted. The grouping always means something.
16. Albertinelli. Madonna on a pedestal, with St. Jerome and St. Zenobius. Scenes from their legends in the background. A characteristic example of the Florentine Renaissance. The grouping is in the style then fast becoming fashionable. Compare with Lorenzo di Credi in the Salle des Primitifs.
144. Pontormo. Visitation. Showing the older Renaissance tendencies. Compare with the Ghirlandajo, and note persistence of the arch in the background.
*57. Fra Bartolommeo. Marriage of St. Catherine of Siena. This is a variant on the legend of the other St. Catherine — of Alexandria. The infant Christ is placing a ring on the holy nun’s finger. Around are attendant saints — Peter, Vincent, Stephen, etc. The composition is highly characteristic of the painter and his school.
380. Andrea del Sarto. Holy Family. Exquisitely soft in outline and colour.
372. Doubtful. Attributed to Raphael. Charming portrait of a young man.
Beyond it,* two most delicate little pictures of St. George (a man) and St. Michael (an angel, winged) of Raphael’s very early period. Note the princess in the St. George; you will come upon her again. Simple and charming. Trace Raphael’s progress in this gallery, by means of Kugler.
Beyond them, again, two portraits by Raphael, of which 373 is of doubtful authenticity.
*366. Raphael. The Young St. John: a noble figure.
* *367. Raphael. St. Margaret: issuing triumphant from the dragon which has swallowed her. A figure full of feeling and movement, and instinct with his later science. It was painted for François Ier, out of compliment to his sister, Queen Margaret of Navarre.
All these Raphaels should be carefully studied. The great painter began with a certain Peruginesque stiffness, through which nevertheless his own native grace makes itself felt at once; he progressed rapidly in knowledge and skill at Florence and Rome, but showed a tendency in his last works towards the incipient faults of the later Renaissance. By following him here, in conjunction with Florence and Rome, you can gain an idea of the course of his development.
The Second Compartment of the Long Gallery, which we now enter, though containing several works by Titian and other masters of the best period, is mainly devoted to painters of the later 16th and 17th century, when the decline in taste was rapid and progressive. Notice throughout the substitution of rhetorical gesture and affected composition for the simplicity of the early masters, or the dignity and truth of the High Renaissance. Begin again on the L wall, containing finer pictures than that opposite.
441. Titian. Another Holy Family, with St. Catherine. Both women here are Venetian ladies of high rank and of his own period. Observe, however, the persistence of the Madonna’s white head-covering. Also, the playfulness introduced in the treatment of St. Catherine’s palm of martyrdom, and the childish St. John with his lamb. These attributes would have been treated by earlier painters with reverence and solemnity. Titian transfers them into mere pretty accessories. Characteristic landscape background. (The female saint in this work is usually described as St. Agnes, because of the lamb: I think erroneously. The lamb is St. John’s, and the St. Catherine merely plays with it.)
88. Calcar. Fine portrait of a young man.
38. Attributed (very doubtfully) to Giorgione. Holy Family, with St. Sebastian, St. Catherine, and the donor, kneeling. A good example of the intermediate treatment of saints in groups of this character.
Above it (92) Paolo Veronese. Esther and Ahasuerus. Treated in the lordly fashion of a Venetian pageant. Try now to understand this Venetian ideal in style and colour.
91. Paolo Veronese. Similar treatment of Susanna and the Elders, a traditional religious theme, here distorted into a mere excuse for the nude, in which the Renaissance delighted.
* *274. Palma Vecchio. Adoration of the Shepherds. A noble example of this great Venetian painter. Observe how he transforms the traditional accessories in the background, and employs them in the thorough Venetian spirit.
Beyond it, several small Venetian pictures. Self-explanatory, but worthy of close attention; especially 94, a delicate Paolo Veronese, on a most unusual scale — a Venetian Dominican nun presented by her patroness, St. Catherine, and St. Joseph to the Madonna. Also, 93, by the same artist, St. George and St. Catherine presenting a Venetian gentleman to the Madonna and Child. These two saints were the male and female patrons of the Venetian territory; hence their frequency in Venetian pictures.
99. The Disciples at Emmaus. Another characteristic transformation by Veronese of a traditional scene. The pretence of sacredness is very thin.
98. Paolo Veronese. Calvary. Similarly treated.
*335. Tintoretto. Susanna at the Bath. Admirable example of this artist’s bold and effective method. In him the Venetian School attains its last possible point before the decadence.
Beneath it, two good Venetian portraits.
336. Tintoretto. A characteristic Paradise (sketch for the great picture in the Doge’s Palace at Venice), whose various circles of saints and angels should be carefully studied. Gloomy glory.
Above it, 17. A Venetian gentleman introduced to the Madonna by St. Francis and a sainted bishop, with St. Sebastian in the background. Doubtless, a votive picture in gratitude for the noble donor’s escape from the plague.
Beyond these, we come chiefly upon Venetian pictures of the Decadence, among which the most noticeable are the Venetian views by Canaletto and Guardi, showing familiar aspects of the Salute, the Doge’s Palace, San Zaccaria, and other buildings.
Further on, this compartment contains Spanish pictures, — an artificial arrangement not without some real justification, since in the 16th and 17th centuries, Spain, enriched by her American possessions, became, for a short period, the material and artistic inheritor of Italy, and accepted in full the mature fruits of the Italian Renaissance. At the same time, she imbued the developed arts she received from Italy with Spanish showiness and love of mere display, to the exclusion of deeper spiritual feeling. The most famous among the few Spanish pictures of the Louvre are: —
552. * *Velasquez. Philip IV of Spain.
Beneath it, *Murillo. One of his favourite Boy Beggars, killing fleas. A curious subject, excellently rendered.
548. Ribera. Adoration of the Shepherds.
540. Murillo. Birth of the Virgin, where the transformation of the traditional element is even more marked than in the Italian Renaissance. The colouring splendid. St. Anne is always seen in bed; other points you could notice in the enamels at Cluny. With Murillo, they become mere excuses for display of art-faculty.
Further on, Murillo. The occupants of a poor monastery in Spain miraculously fed by angels, known as “La Cuisine des Anges.”
I do not recommend more than a cursory examination of these fine Spanish works, which can only be properly understood by those who have visited Madrid and Seville. It will suffice to note their general characteristics, and the way in which they render traditional subjects. The best point of view for the “Cuisine des Anges,” is obtained from the seat nearly opposite, beneath the archway, when the splendid luminous qualities of this theatrical picture can be better appreciated. From this point also, many of the other Spanish pictures are well seen with an opera-glass. They are not intended for close examination.
(The columns which separate these compartments have an interesting history. They first belonged to a classical temple in North Africa. They were brought thence by Louis XIV to support a baldacchino at St. Germain-des-Prés. Finally, the Revolution transferred them to the Louvre.)
Return again, now, to the last archway, and begin once more on the R side, which contains for the most part tawdry works of the Baroque period, which should, however, be studied to some extent in illustration of the decadence of art in the later 16th century, and also as examples of further transformation of the traditional motives.
53. Barocci. Madonna in Glory, with St. Antony and St. Lucy. A good example of the insipid style which took its name from this master.
Below it, 309. Bagnacavallo. Circumcision, with twisted pillars, showing the decline in architectural taste. The crowded composition may be instructively compared with earlier and simpler examples of this subject; also, with Fra Bartolommeo, whose fine but complex arrangements rapidly resulted in such confused grouping.
52. Barocci. Same scene. The tradition now entirely ignored, and an unpleasantly realistic, yet theatrical and mannered treatment, introduced.
304. After Primaticcio. Mythological concert, exhibiting the taste of the School of Fontainebleau (the Italian artists of Raphael’s group, scholars of Giulio Romano, introduced into France by François Ier).
349. Rosselli. Triumphant David, with the head of Goliath. Marking the advance of the histrionic tendency.
A very cursory examination of the rest of the works on this wall will probably be sufficient. Look them over in an hour. The most celebrated are two by Salvator Rosa: 318, Guido Reni’s Ecce Homo, full of tawdry false sentiment; and Domenichino’s St. Cecilia (often copied), with the angel reduced to the futile decorative winged boy of the period. 324, Guido’s St. Sebastian, may be well compared with Perugino’s, as marking the decline which art had suffered. It is on works like these that the Spanish School largely based itself.
This completes the Italian collection of the Louvre, to which the visitor should return again and again, until he feels he has entered somewhat into the spirit and tone of its various ages.
Between the next two archways, we come to a small collection of works of the Early French School, too few of which unfortunately remain to us.
Left Wall. Two portraits of François Ier, may be well compared with the Titian of the same king, as indicating the gulf which still separated France from the art-world of Italy. The hard, dry, wooden manner of these French works is strongly contrasted with the finished art of the Italian Renaissance. Recollect that these seemingly archaic portraits are painted by contemporaries of Raphael and Titian.
Between them, good miniatures, by Nicolas Froment, of King René and his Queen.
Above, 650. Admirable Dead Christ, with the Madonna, Magdalen, Joseph of Arimathea, etc. In the best style of the French School of the 15th century. Observe the action of the various personages: all are conventional.
Beyond it, several good small pictures of the early French Renaissance which should be carefully examined. Fouquet’s portrait of Charles VII is a capital example of the older method.
Above them, 875, characteristic 15th century Crucifixion, with Last Communion and Martyrdom of St. Denis. The executioner’s face is French all over. (Scenes from the Passion have often in French art such side-scenes from lives of saints. Several at Cluny.) This picture has been employed as a basis for the restoration of the reliefs in the portals at St. Denis.
Beyond again, portraits of the early Renaissance, exhibiting considerable advance in many cases.
On the R wall are some works more distinctly characteristic of the school of art which grew up round Primaticcio and his scholars at Fontainebleau. Among them are a Diana hunting (D. de Poitiers again), and a Continence of Scipio. They reflect the style of Giulio Romano. Beneath the first, two good portraits, with patron saints (John and Peter). All the works in this compartment should be examined carefully, as showing the raw material upon which subsequent French art was developed.
Beyond the next archway, we come to the pictures of the Flemish School, which deserve almost equal attention with the Italian, as individual works, but which, as of less interest in the general history of art, I shall treat more briefly. Begin here on the R side, for chronological order.
Among the most noticeable pictures are Adam and Eve, unnumbered, good specimens of the frank, unidealised northern nude.
595. An exquisite early Annunciation, the spirit of which should be compared with the early Italians. Notice the general similarity of accessories, combined with the divergence in spirit, the dwelling on detail, the Flemish love for effects of light and shade on brass-work, fabrics, glasses, etc. Notice that this charming picture gives us the early stage in the evolution of that type of art which culminates in the Gerard Dou in the Salon Carré.
Beside it, an exquisitely tender Dead Christ. Remarkable for the finish in the background.
The Quentin Matsys is not a worthy representative of the master.
Beside it, a quaint and striking group of Votaries, listening to a sermon. Probably a mere excuse for portrait-painting. The character in the faces is essentially Flemish.
Fine portrait of a young man with a pink, in a red cap.
Triptych, with the Madonna and Child (who may be well compared with those of the Memling in the Salle Duchâtel). On the flaps, the donor and his wife, introduced by their patrons, St. John and St. Christopher.
Now cross over to the L side.
*698. Rogier Van der Weyden. Excellent Deposition, with a touching St. John, and a very emaciated Dead Christ. These scenes of death are extremely common in Flemish and German art, and resulted in a great effort to express poignant emotion, as contrasted with the calmer ecstatic character of Italian art.
* *279. Quentin Matsys. Banker and his wife. An admirable and celebrated picture, with marvellous detail, of which there are variants elsewhere. Notice the crystal vase, mirror, leaves of book, and objects on shelves in background. The fur is exquisitely painted.
*288 and 289. Two beautiful little Memlings.
588. Most characteristic and finished Holy Family.
699. Memling. St. Sebastian, Resurrection, Ascension. Compare the first with Italian examples. Notice the extraordinarily minute work in the armour and accessories, contrasted with the blank and meaningless face of the Risen Saviour. Flemish art, perfect in execution, seldom attains high ideals.
277 and 278. Mabuse. Virgin and donor. Excellent.
* *596. Gerard David. Marriage at Cana. A splendid specimen of this great and insufficiently recognised painter. Background of buildings at Bruges. Every face and every portion of the decorative work, including the jars in the foreground, should be closely noticed. The kneeling donor is an admirable portrait. As a whole, what a contrast to the Paolo Veronese! The pretty, innocent face of the bride, with her air of mute wonder, is excellently rendered. I believe the donor in this work is a younger portrait of the Canon who appears in the glorious Gerard David in the National Gallery.
Skied above all these pictures on either side are several works by Van Veen, Jan Matsys, Snyders and others, mostly worthy of notice. Among them, 136, Van Dyck, good Madonna with the Magdalen and other saints.
We now come to the * *great series by Rubens narrating the History of Marie de Médicis, in the inflated allegorical style of the period. To understand them, the spectator should first read an account of her life in any good French history. These great decorative canvasses were painted hurriedly, with even more than Rubens’s usual dash and freedom, to Marie’s order, after her return from exile, for the decoration of her rooms at the Luxembourg (see Part V) which she had just erected. Though designed by Rubens, they were largely executed by the hands of pupils; and while possessing all the master’s exuberant artistic qualities in composition, they are not favourable specimens of his art, as regards execution and technique. It is to be regretted that most Englishmen and Frenchmen form their impressions of the painter from these vigorous but rapid pictures, rather than from his far nobler works at Antwerp, Munich, and Vienna. I give briefly the meaning of the series.
1. The Three Fates spin Marie’s destiny. A small panel for the side of a door.
2. Birth of Marie at Florence. Lucina, goddess of birth, with her torch, attends the mother. Genii scatter flowers; others hold her future crown. In the foreground, the River God of the Arno, with his stream issuing from an urn, and accompanied by the Florentine lion, as well as by boys holding the Florentine lily. This curious mixture of allegorical personages and realities is continued throughout the series.
3. Her Education, presided over by Minerva, with the aid of Mercury (to indicate her rapidity in learning), and Apollo, as teacher of the arts. Close by are the Graces, admirable nude figures. Among the accessories, bust of Socrates, painting materials, etc.
4. The Genius of France in attendance upon Henri IV, while Love shows him Marie’s portrait. The attitude of the king expresses delight and astonishment. In the clouds, Jupiter and Juno smile compliance. Below, little Loves steal the king’s shield and helmet.
5. Marriage of Marie by proxy. The Grand Duke Ferdinand represents the king. Hymen holds the torch.
6. Marie lands at Marseilles, and is received by France, while Tritons and Nereids give easy passage to her vessel. Above, her Fame. On the vessel, the balls or palli of the Medici family.
7. Consummation of the Marriage at Lyons. The town itself is seen in the background. In the foreground, the (personified) city, crowned with a mural coronet, and designated by her lions. Above, the King, as Jupiter, with his eagle, and the Queen, as Juno, with her peacocks.
8. Birth of her son, afterwards Louis XIII, at Fontainebleau. Health receives the infant. Fortune attends the Queen.
9. The King, setting out to his war against Germany, makes Marie Regent — allegorically represented by passing her the ball of empire — and confides to her their son.
Larger pictures: No. 10, the Coronation of the Queen, and No. 11, the Apotheosis of Henri, the painful scene of his death being avoided. He is represented as raised to the sky by Jupiter on one side, and Death with his sickle on the other. Beneath, the assassin, as a serpent, wounded with an arrow. Victory and Bellona mourning. Beyond, the allegorical figure of France presenting the regency to Marie, with the acclamation of the nobility and people.
12. The Queen’s government approved of by Jupiter, Juno, and the heavenly powers. In the foreground Apollo, Mars, and Minerva (the first copied from the antique statue known as the Belvedere), representing courage, art, and literature, dispel calumny and the powers of darkness.
Continue on the opposite side, crossing over directly.
13. Civil discord arises. Marie starts for Anjou, attended by Victory. Military preparations in the background.
14. The exchange of Princesses between allegorical figures of France and Austria — each intended to marry the heir of the other empire.
15. The Happiness of the Regency. The Queen bears the scales of justice. Plenty prevails. Literature, science, art, and beauty predominate over evil, slander, and baseness.
16. Louis XIII attains his Majority (at 14) and mans the ship of State in person, still attended by the counsels of his mother. The Virtues row it.
17. Calumny overcomes the Queen. By the advice of her counsellors, she takes refuge at Blois, escorted by Wisdom.
18. Mercury, as messenger, brings an olive branch to Marie, as a token of reconciliation from her son, through the intermediation of Richelieu and the Church party.
19. Marie enters the Temple of Peace, escorted by Mercury and Truth with her torch, while blind Rage and the evil powers stand baffled behind her.
20. Apotheosis of Marie and Louis: their reconciliation and happiness. Final overthrow of the demons of discord.
21. Time brings Truth to light. Louis recognises the good influence of his mother.
The history, as given in these pictures, is of course envisaged from the point of view of a courtier, who desires to flatter and please his patroness.
Beneath this great series of Rubens are a number of Dutch and Flemish Pictures, mostly admirable and well worthy of attention, but, so to speak, self-explanatory. They belong entirely to modern feeling. Dutch and Flemish art, in its later form, is the domestic development of that intense love of minute detail and accessories already conspicuous in Van Eyck, Memling, and Gerard David. Sacred subjects almost disappear; the wealthy burghers ask for portraits of themselves, their wives and families, or landscapes for their households. I would call special notice to the following among many which should be closely examined to show the progress of art: — 512, Teniers; 691, Rubens; 518, Teniers; 238 and 239, Van Huysum; *425, a charming Rubens, in his smaller and more delicate style; 147, admirable portrait by Van Dyck; 513, an excellent Teniers; *461, a good portrait by Rubens; 125, exquisite, luminous Gerard Dou; next it * *Van der Helst’s Four Judges of the Guild of Cross-bow-men deciding on the prizes, one of the most perfect specimens of this great portrait painter. Notice the wonderful life-like expressions. Then 123, another exquisite luminous Dou; 542, Van de Velde; 41, splendid portrait by Bol; 130, Gerard Dou by himself; * *404, Rembrandt, Raphael leaving the house of Tobias, a master-piece of the artist’s weird and murky luminosity — strangely contrasted with Italian examples; 205, a good Hobbema; 133, fine portrait by Duchâtel; 369, excellent family group by Van Ostade; next it, 126, a delicious little Dou. But, indeed, every one of these Dutch paintings should be examined separately, in order to understand the characteristic Dutch virtues of delicate handling, exquisite detail, and domestic portraiture. They are the artistic outcome of a nation of housewives.
On the opposite side the series is continued with admirable flower-pieces, landscapes by Van der Veldt and Karel du Jardin, and several noteworthy portraits, among which notice the famous *Van Dyck (143) of the children of Charles I., most daintily treated. Beyond the Rubenses, again, on this side, 144, two noble portraits by Van Dyck, and several excellent examples of Philippe de Champaigne, a Flemish artist who deeply influenced painting in France, where he settled. * *151, Van Dyck’s Duke of Richmond, perhaps his most splendid achievement in portraiture, deserves careful study. I do not further enlarge upon these subjects because the names and dates of the painters, with the descriptions given on the frames, will sufficiently enable the judicious spectator to form his own conceptions. Devote at least a day to Dutch and Flemish art here, and then go back to the Salon Carré, to see how the Rembrandts, Dous, and Metsus, there unfortunately separated from their compeers, fall into the general scheme of Dutch development.
Good view out of either window as you pass the next archway. Look out for these views in all parts of the Louvre. They often give you glimpses of the minor courtyards, to which the general public are not admitted.
The next two compartments contain further Dutch and Flemish pictures of high merit — portraits, still-life, landscape, and other subjects. The scenes of village life are highly characteristic. Notice in this connection the growing taste for landscape, at first with a pretence of figures and animals, but gradually asserting its right to be heard on its own account. In Italy, under somewhat similar commercial conditions, we saw this taste arise in the Venetian School, with Cima, Giorgione, and Titian; in Holland, after the Reformation put sacred art at a discount, it became almost supreme. And note at the same time how the Reformation in commercial countries has wholly altered the type of northern art, focussing it on trivial domestic incidents.
Among the many beautiful pictures in these compartments the spectator should at least not miss, on the L, the very charming * *Portrait by Rubens (not quite finished) of his second wife and two children, scarcely inferior to the lovely specimen at Munich. Near it, an admirable Crucifixion with the Madonna, St. John, and Magdalen, more reminiscent than is usual with Rubens of earlier compositions. On the R side, notice a portrait of Elizabeth of France (459), by Rubens, in his other, stiffer, and more courtly manner. We may well put down this peculiarity to the wishes of the sitter. His *Kermesse, near it, is an essay in the style afterwards popularized by Teniers, in which the great artist permits his Flemish blood to overcome him, and produces a clever but most unpleasant picture. The numerous admirable fruit and flower pieces, works in still-life, etc., which these compartments contain, must be studied for himself by the attentive visitor. In Rubens’ great canvas of the Triumph of Religion, painted for a Spanish commission, observe his curious external imitation of Spanish tendencies.
After having completed his examination of the Long Gallery, the visitor may next proceed to the five small rooms — IX, X, XI, XII, and XIII on Baedeker’s map — devoted to
The German, English and Early French Schools.
Among the early German works in the 2nd of these rooms, the visitor may particularly notice (*22), Hans Holbein’s portrait of Southwell, full of character. Above it, a quaint Venus by Cranach, instinct with the northern conception of the crude nude. Next, two good portraits by Holbein. In the centre of this wall, *a Descent from the Cross, of the School of Cologne, which should be compared with similar pictures of the Italian and Flemish Schools. The somewhat exaggerated expression of grief on all the faces is strongly characteristic of German tendencies. The figure of the Magdalen, to the R, strikes the German keynote; so does Joseph of Arimathea receiving the Crown of Thorns. Study this well, for coincidences with and differences from Italian treatment. Beyond it, two fine Holbeins, of the astronomer Kratzer, and *Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury, the latter a marvellous piece of painting. The opposite wall also contains good portraits and sacred pieces, among which an altar-piece by the “Master of the Death of the Virgin,” deserves careful study. (Most early German masters are unknown to us by name, and are thus identified by their most famous pictures.) The Last Supper in this work, below, is largely borrowed from Leonardo. Compare with the copy of Leonardo’s fresco at Milan in the Long Gallery, probably by Marco da Oggionno, which hangs near the Vierge aux Rochers. The Adoration of the Magi (597), should also be compared with the Italian examples; notice in particular the burgher character of the Three Kings, which is essentially German. The other works in this room can be sufficiently studied (for casual observers) by the aid of the labels.
The English Room contains a few examples of English masters of the last and present century, none of them first-rate. The most famous is the frequently reproduced Little Girl with Cherries by the pastellist John Russel. It is a pleasing work, but not good in colour.
The next room, with an admirable view from the window, begins the Modern French School (in the wide sense), and contains Le Sueur’s History of the Life of St. Bruno, painted for a Carthusian monastery near the Luxembourg — of which order the saint was the founder. They are characteristic examples of the French work of the early 17th century, and they exhibit the beginnings of the national tendencies in art. The legends are partially explained on the frames, and more fully in Mrs. Jameson’s “Monastic Orders.” On a cursory inspection, the observer will notice the marked French tendency in the 9th, 7th, 21st, and 22nd of the series. Cold and lifeless in design and colour, these feeble works have now little more than a historical interest.
Before proceeding to the succeeding rooms of the
French School,
you had better form some conception of the circumstances and conditions under which that school arose. The artists whom François Ier invited to Fontainebleau had little influence on French art, except in sculpture (where we shall see their spirit abundantly at work when we come to examine the Renaissance sculpture in this collection). Primaticcio and his followers, however, left behind them in France, as regards painting, scarcely more than the sense of a need for improvement. Succeeding French artists took up the Italian Renaissance in the stage represented by the later decadents and the eclectic Caracci. Nicolas Poussin (1594–1665) is the first Frenchman to attain distinction in this line; he throws something of French sentimentality into the affected mythological scenes of contemporary Italy. Claude of Lorraine, again, is almost an Italian by training and style; his artificial landscapes, not copied direct from nature, but built up by arbitrary and often impossible conjunctions, represent the prevailing tendencies of Italian art in the 17th century. On the other hand, the influence of Rubens, many of whose greatest works were painted for French kings, or came early to France, and still more of Philippe de Champaigne, a Brussels master who settled in Paris and painted much for Richelieu and Marie de Médicis, introduced into France a strain of Flemish influence. On these two schools — decadent Italian and later Flemish — then, modern French art at first based itself; the final outcome is a resultant of the two, transmuted and moulded in spirit and form by the innate, though at first unrealised, French tendencies.
Also, before you proceed to examine the subsequent specimens of the development of French art, you had better return to the Salon Carré to inspect the portraits by Philippe de Champaigne, as well as the Jouvenet, the Rigaud, and other French works there, which I purposely passed by on our previous visit, as out of harmony with the Italian masterpieces. On your way back, glance at the later Italian pictures in the First Compartment of the Long Gallery (particularly at Bronzino’s odiously vulgar Christ and Mary Magdalen, and Rossi’s Doubting Thomas, both skied, on your R) as conspicuous examples of the sort of thing admired at the time when the French School took its first flights and made its earliest experiences. Then observe once more the works of the School of Fontainebleau; and, finally, inspect the pictures in Baedeker’s Room IX; after which, you will be in a position to start fair in Room XIII, with the French School in the 17th century.
This Small Room beyond the St. Brunos contains more favourable specimens of Le Sueur’s faculty (such as 559, 556, and 551), in which a distinctive French tendency still more markedly announces itself. The Ganymede, in 563, in particular, faintly foreshadows at a distance the classic painters of the Empire. We see in this room, in a very vague way, an early stage in the evolution of a David.
Passing through the Landing, at the head of the staircase (with interesting terra-cotta Etruscan sarcophagi) we arrive at the Great Gallery of French paintings of the 17th century. These may be examined somewhat in the mass, exhibiting, as they do, rather the courtly tendencies of the age of Louis XIV than any great individual artistic faculty. We must understand them in the spirit which built Versailles and conducted the wars on the north-eastern frontier. They are painted for the most part by the command of His Majesty. Only here and there does a faintly individual work, like Le Sueur’s Christ and the Magdalen, and Bearing of the Cross, or Lebrun’s Crucifixion, arrest for a moment one’s passing attention. The crudeness of the colour, and the insufficiency of the composition, will be the chief points, in a general survey, to strike the spectator. (On a screen in the centre, out of proper place among its contemporaries, hangs at present Paul Delaroche’s famous Christian Martyr.)
The student who has courage to attack this mass of uninteresting art in detail, should observe particularly the works of N. Poussin, as forming the point of departure for the School in general. His Bacchanal and other mythological works set the fashion of those dreary allegorical scenes which cover so many yards of ceilings in the Louvre. Observe the mixture of religious themes, like Lebrun’s Martyrdom of Stephen, and N. Poussin’s Holy Family, with classical pictures like the Rescue of Pyrrhus, and the Alexander and Porus, as well as the close similarity of treatment in both cases. Among the best of the lot are Jouvenet’s Raising of Lazarus, and Lesueur’s Paul Preaching at Ephesus (partly after Raphael). *Poussin’s “Et in Arcadia ego,” a rustic morality, is also famous, and is regarded as the greatest achievement of this artificial School. Claude’s landscapes, often with a small inserted mythological story by another painter, deserve attention. (Note that landscape has hardly yet vindicated its claim to independent existence.) On the whole, it may be said that this room represents the two prevailing influences in French art of the purely monarchical period of Louis XIV, — either the pictures are quasi-royal and official, or else they are religious, for church or monastery. The mythological scenes, indeed, have often a royal reference — are supposed parallels of contemporary events; and even the religious scenes, wholly destitute of spiritual feeling, are painted in a courtly, grandiose manner. They are saints as conceived by flunkeys. Not till the Revolution swept away the royal patron did the French spirit truly realise itself. This room reveals the Court, not the nation.
The next room, in the Pavillon Denon, a connecting passage, contains Portraits of Painters, chiefly by themselves, a few of which are worthy of attention. Among them is the famous and touching * *portrait by Mme. Lebrun of herself and her daughter, which, in spite of some theatrical sentiment here and there obtruded, is a charming realisation of maternal feeling amply reciprocated.
Beyond it we come to the French Gallery of the 18th century, reflecting for the most part the spirit of the Regency and the Louis XV period. Much of it is meretricious; much of it breathes the atmosphere of the boudoir. The flavour of Du Barry pervades it almost all. It scents of musk and powder. The reader will pick out for himself such works as he admires in this curious yet not wholly unpleasing mass of affectation and mediocrity. Indeed, as opposed to the purely official work in the preceding French room, the growth of the rococo spirit, to be traced in this gallery, is by no means without interest. The one set of works sets forth the ideal of monarchy as a formal institution; the other displays its actual outcome in royal mistresses and frivolous amusements. Here too the ornate French taste — the Dresden china and Sèvres taste — finds its first faint embodiment. Greuze’s famous *Cruche Cassée (263), is the chief favourite with visitors to this room. It has about it a certain false simplicity, a pretended virginal innocence, which is perhaps the highest point of art this school could attain. Drouais’s child portraits (187), are more entirely characteristic, in their red-and-white chubbiness, of the ideas of the epoch. The pastoral scenes by Watteau and Vanloo, represent nature and country life, as they envisaged themselves to the painted and powdered great ladies of the Trianon. Coypel’s Esther before Ahasuerus is a not unfavourable specimen of the inflated quasi-sacred style of the period. Some good portraits redeem the general high level of mediocrity in this room, but do not equal those of the daintily aristocratic English School of the end of the 18th century. Two Greuzes (267 and, still more, 266), reveal the essentially artificial methods of this superficially taking painter. Most observers begin by admiring him and end by disliking his ceaseless posing. Boucher’s artificial pink-and-white nudities (as in 24 and 26), have the air of a man who painted, as he did, in a room hung round with rose-coloured satin. He is perhaps the most typical of these rococo artists: he imitates on canvas the coquettish ideals of the contemporary china-painters. Fragonard, again, throws into this school the love of display and bravado of a southern temperament. At the far end of the room we find in Greuze’s later moralising pictures faint indications of the altered and somewhat more earnest feeling which produced the revolutionary epoch, still closely mixed up with the ineradicable affectation and unreality of the painter and his period. Two little stories of a Prodigal Son and his too late return, on either side of the doorway, with their violent theatrical passion and their excessive expression of impossible emotion, illustrate well this nascent tendency. They are attempts to feel where feeling was not really present. David’s Paris and Helen introduces us, on the other hand, to the beginnings of the cold classicism which prevailed under the Empire.
In order to continue the chronological examination of the French School the visitor must now return to the Salon Carré and traverse the vulgarly ornate Galerie d’Apollon by its side (which contains objects of more or less artistic interest in the precious metals and precious stones, many of which, especially those in the two last cases, deserve careful inspection. A morning should, if possible, be devoted later to this collection).
A short connecting room beyond (with gold Etruscan jewelery) gives access next to the Salle des Sept Cheminées, which contains many stiff but excellent works of the period of the Empire. The most noticeable of these are by David, whose formal classicism (a result of the revolutionary revolt from Christianity, with its reliance upon Greek, and still more Roman, morality and history) is excellently exemplified in his large picture of the *Sabine Women Intervening between their Husbands and their Fathers. This is considered his masterpiece. Its frigid style, not very distantly resembling that of a bas-relief, and its declamatory feeling do not blind us to the excellence of its general technique and its real advance on the art of the 18th century. David imitated the antique, but was always sculpturesque rather than pictorial in treatment. Among other fine examples of this classic period — the transitional stage between the 18th century and the distinctively modern spirit — attention may be called to Gérard’s Cupid and Psyché, and to his fine portrait of the Marquis Visconti. *Mme. Lebrun’s charmingly animated portrait of Mme. Molé-Raymond, the comedian, is full of real vigour. Two good portraits by David, of himself and Pius VII, deserve close inspection. Gros’s Bonaparte at Arcola, is also interesting. Mme. Lebrun’s earlier portrait of herself and her daughter is less beautiful than the one we have already examined. Several military portraits, such as Gros’s Fournier-Sarlovèze, reflect the predominant militarism of the epoch. David’s huge canvas of the Coronation of Napoleon I in Notre-Dame is typical of another side of the great artist’s development. Gradually, the frigidity of the early revolutionary period gave way to the growing romanticism of 1830. Géricault’s Raft of the Medusa (sighting a sail after twelve days out), strikes the first keynote of the modern romantic movement. It created a great sensation in its own day, and gave rise to endless discussion and animadversion. It marks the advent of the emotional in modern art. Gros’s Bonaparte Visiting the Plague-stricken at Jaffa, also indicates in another way a marked modernising tendency. The school of blood and wounds, of the morbid and the ghastly, has here its forerunner. All the works in this room (which modernity forbids me to treat at adequate length) should be carefully studied in detail and comparison by those who wish to understand the various steps which led to the evolution of modern French painting. Guérin’s Return of Marcus Sextus, and Girodet’s Burial of Atala, in particular, mark special phases of transition from the coldly classical to the romantic tendency. This room, in one word, begins with the severe; it ends with the melodramatic.
The room beyond, known as the Salle Henri II, is so nearly modern in tone that the reader may be safely trusted to inspect it on his own knowledge. Giraud’s Slave-dealer and Chassériau’s Tepidarium are its most popular pictures. It lies outside the scope of the present handbook.
The Salle La Caze, however, still beyond, contains a collection kept separately apart by the express desire of the donor, and includes many works both of earlier schools and of the French 17th and 18th century, worthy of the greatest attention. It is especially rich in works of the rococo painters, better exemplified here than in the main collection. Beginning on the L, I will merely enumerate a few of the most important works. An excellent Hondekoeter, skied. A noble portrait by Tintoretto of a Venetian magnate. A most characteristic Fragonard, full of the morganatic sentiment of the 18th century. Portraits by Nattier, affording more pleasing examples of the early 18th century style than those we have hitherto examined. Above it, a mediocre Tintoretto of Susanna at the Bath, not good in colour. Centre of the hall, *Watteau’s Gilles, an excellent embodiment of the innocent fool of traditional French comedy. *Frans Hals’s sly figure of a Gipsy Woman is a fine piece of vulgar character-painting. A good Greuze, etc. Examine more particularly the works by Watteau, Fragonard, and other boudoir painters, whose pictures on this wall give a more pleasing and fuller idea of the temperament of their school than that which we obtained in other parts of the collection. R wall returning — several good Watteaus, Bouchers, Greuzes, etc. Excellent small Dutch pictures. Fine portrait by Rembrandt. Rembrandt’s Woman at the Bath is a characteristic example of his strikingly original conception of the nude. Ribera’s Club-footed Boy is a Spanish pendant to Frans Hals’s Gipsy. This room, containing as it does very mixed examples of all the schools, should only be visited after the spectator has obtained some idea of each in other parts of the collection. Its Dutch works, in particular, are admirable. I do not enumerate them, as enumeration is useless, but leave it to the reader to pick out for himself several fine examples.
Now traverse the Galerie d’Apollon, Salon Carré, and Long Gallery till you arrive at the
Hall of Painters of the 19th Century,
(Room VIII in Baedeker’s plan). This hall contains for the most part the works of artists of the period of Louis Philippe and the early Second Empire — almost our own contemporaries. I will therefore only briefly call attention here to the pictures of the romantic historical school, then so prevalent in France, of which Delaroche’s Death of Queen Elizabeth and Princes in the Tower and Delacroix’s Capture of Constantinople by the Crusaders are conspicuous examples. Devéria’s popular Birth of Henri IV belongs to the same category. These “picturesque” treatments of history answer in painting to the malign influence of Walter Scott and Victor Hugo in literature. Contrasted with them are such semi-classical works of the school of David, softened and modernised, as Ingres’s Apotheosis of Homer — the great poet crowned by Fame, with the Iliad and Odyssey at the base of his pedestal, and surrounded by a concourse of ancient and modern singers. It is cold but dignified. Lethière’s Death of Virginia, and Couture’s Romans of the Decadence, represent to a certain extent a blending of these two main influences. I will not, however, particularise, as almost every picture in this room deserves some study from the point of view of the evolution of contemporary art. I will merely ask the reader not to overlook Flandrin’s famous nude figure, the typical landscapes by Rousseau and Millet, and David’s exquisite portrait of Mme. Récamier — sufficient in itself to immortalise both artist and sitter. The electric influence of a beautiful and pure-souled woman has here galvanised David for once into full perception and reproduction of truth and nature. Even the severe Empire furniture and background exactly accord with the character of the picture. Ary Scheffer’s religious works, in his peculiar twilight style, on a solid blue background, will strike every observer. Millet’s Gleaners and Troyon’s group of oxen strike each a new note in art at the period when they were painted. As a whole this Gallery represents all the various strands of feeling which have gone to the production of modern painting. It attains to the threshold of cosmopolitanism in its Arabs, its negroes, and its Algerian women: it is bloodthirsty and sensuous; it is calm and meditative; it dashes with Courbet; it refines with Millet; it oscillates between the world, the flesh, and the devil; it is pious and meretricious; it sums up in itself the endless contradictory and interlacing tendencies of the Nineteenth Century. As regards chronological sequence, one may say pretty fairly that it begins with classicism, passes through romanticism, and ends for the moment in religious reaction.
Come back often to the pictures in the Louvre, especially the Salle des Primitifs, the Salon Carré, and the first two bays of the Long Gallery.
Further Hints on the Paintings in the Louvre.
The reader must not suppose that these brief notes give anything like an adequate idea of the way in which pictures in such a gallery as the Louvre ought to be studied. My object in these Guides being mainly to open a door, that the tourist himself may enter and look about him carefully, I have given first this connected account of all the rooms in chronological order, for the use of those whose time is very limited, and who desire to go through the collection seriatim. But for the benefit of others who can afford to pay many successive visits, I will now take one or two particular pictures in detail, suggesting what seem to me the best and most fruitful ways in which to study them. Try for yourself afterwards to fill in a similar scheme, as far as you can, for most of the finest works in this Gallery.
I will begin with No. 251, in the Salle des Primitifs — Mantegna’s beautiful and glowing Madonna della Vittoria. And I take Mantegna first, because (among other reasons) he is a painter who can be fairly well studied by means of the pictures in this Gallery alone, without any large reference to his remaining works in Italy or elsewhere.
Now, first, who and what was Mantegna, and what place does he fill in the history of art in Italy? Well, he was a Paduan painter, born in 1431, died in 1506 — about the time when Raphael was painting the Belle Jardinière, in this collection. He was a contemporary and brother-in-law of Giovanni and Gentile Bellini: and if you compare his work with that of the two Bellinis, even as very inadequately represented here, you will see that their art has much in common — that they stood at about the same level of historical evolution, and painted in the same careful, precise, and accurate manner of the second half of the fifteenth century. Contrast them, on the one hand, with their immediate predecessors, such as Filippo Lippi and Benozzo Gozzoli (juniors by roughly about 20 years), in order to mark the advance they made on the art of those who went just before them; and compare them, on the other hand, with their immediate successors, such as Raphael, and even their more advanced contemporaries, like Leonardo, in order to see what place they fill in the development of painting.
Again, Mantegna was a pupil of Squarcione of Padua, who practically founded the Paduan school. Now Squarcione had travelled in Greece and formed a collection of antiques, from which his pupils made drawings and studies. Also Donatello (the great Florentine sculptor of the early Renaissance, of whose work you can find some beautiful examples in the Renaissance Sculpture rooms of this museum) had executed several bronzes in the church of Sant’ Antonio, the great local saint of Padua; and these likewise Mantegna studied; so that much of his work bears traces of the influence of sculpture and especially of bas-relief. He is particularly fond of introducing reliefs, festoons of fruit or flowers, and classical detail into the accessories of his pictures: and these peculiarities are well marked in the Mars and Venus, the Crucifixion, and the Madonna della Vittoria in this collection. Compare all these closely with one another till you think you have formed a fair idea of Mantegna’s powerful drawing, strong realism, love of the antique, solemnity and dignity, clear-cut style, and perfect mastery of anatomy and technique. Notice his delicate, careful, conscientious workmanship; the precision and perfection of his hands and feet; the joy with which he lingers over classical costume and the painting of armour. Everything is sharp and defined as in the air of Italy, yet never hard, or crude, or angular. Observe, also, the sculpture-like folds of his carefully arranged draperies, and his love for shot colours and melting tints on metal or marble. The St. Michael in this picture, and the Roman soldiers in the Crucifixion, are admirable examples of this tone in his colouring. If you wished to characterise Mantegna in a single phrase, however, you might fairly say he was the most sculpturesque of painters.
As to date, the Crucifixion (in the Salon Carré) which formed one piece only of the predella, or series of small pictures at the base of the great Madonna in the Church of San Zeno at Verona, is the earliest example of Mantegna’s work here. It displays the delicate and exquisite finish of his youthful period: but it is much more mediæval in tone — has far less freedom and conscious artistic power — than the Madonna della Vittoria, which belongs to the latest epoch of the great painter’s development. Observe the early severity of the figures in the Crucifixion, and the firmness of the drawing: each personage stands out with statuesque distinctness. But note, too, that at this early stage, Mantegna’s expression of emotion was still inadequate: in his striving to be powerful, he overdid the passions, sometimes almost to the verge of grotesqueness. On the other hand, do not overlook the dramatic force of the picture, as shewn, for example, in the vivid contrast between the anguish of the Madonna, with her attendant St. John, &c., and the callous carelessness of the soldiers casting lots for the Redeemer’s raiment. The Mars and Venus, once more, of his middle period, represents an intermediate stage between the two styles. What is meant by a predella, again, you can see by looking at Fra Angelico’s Coronation of the Virgin, and other similar pictures in this room — the little figures of St. Dominic and his miracles beneath the main altar-piece being examples of this adjunct. The Crucifixion formed the central picture of three such minor episodes: the Agony in the Garden and the Ascension, to right and left of it, are now in the Museum at Tours. Napoleon I had carried off the entire work from Verona: at the Restoration, the Madonna was returned to San Zeno, but the three pieces of the predella were retained in France and thus distributed. If you go to Tours or Verona, recollect the connection of the various fragments.
Next, what was the occasion for painting this Madonna della Vittoria? You will remember that in 1494, Charles VIII of France, invited by Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan, invaded North Italy, and conquered a large part of it, including Florence, Pisa, and Rome itself. Marching then on Naples, the boy king achieved a further success, which turned his own head and that of his army. (Read up all this episode in any good French history.) But Venice, trembling for her supremacy, formed a league against him; and soon after, all Italy, alarmed at his success, coalesced to repel the invader. The little Republics united their forces under Giovanni Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua, and met Charles, on the 6th of July, 1495, at the pass of Fornova, on the Taro. The French king, it is true, forced his way through the hostile army, and made good his retreat: but the allies, though baffled, claimed the victory, and, as a matter of fact, Charles immediately concluded a treaty of peace and returned to Lyons. In commemoration of this event, the Marquis Gonzaga in gratitude erected a church at Mantua as a votive offering to the Madonna, and dedicated it under the name of Santa Maria della Vittoria.
At that time and for some years previously Mantegna had been in the service of the Gonzaga family at Mantua, where he lived for the greater part of his artistic life. In the Castello of that town, he executed several frescoes, illustrating domestic events in the history of the Gonzagas, which are still among the most interesting objects to be visited in Mantua. It was natural, therefore, that he should be invited by Giovanni Francesco Gonzaga to paint the altar-piece for the high altar of the church to commemorate this victory. The picture must have been finished about the year 1498 or 1500. It stood in the building for which it was painted till Napoleon I brought it from Italy to Paris, where it has ever since remained.
These circumstances sufficiently explain the collection of saints who figure in the picture. In the centre is the Madonna of Victory herself, to whom Gonzaga vowed the church in case he should be successful. She is enthroned, as usual. The garlands of flowers and fruit, and the coral over her head, are favourite accessories with Mantegna: they occur again in the (much earlier) Madonna at San Zeno, Verona, of which the Crucifixion here formed part of the predella. The figures of Adam and Eve, in imitation of relief, on the pedestal, are thoroughly characteristic of Mantegna’s style, and recall the Paduan school of Squarcione, and the master’s dependence on the work of Donatello. The overloading of the picture with flowers, festoons and architectural decoration is also a Paduan feature of the same school: it comes out equally in the works of Carlo Crivelli — not well seen in this collection. On his knees in the foreground is Gonzaga himself, with his villainous Italian Renaissance face, as of a man who would try to bribe Our Lady with presents. And indeed Our Lady stretches out her friendly hand towards him, as if to assure him of favour and victory. Notice that the Marquis wears his armour: he is giving thanks, as it were, on the field of battle.
As often with Mantegna, the minor characters and saints are fuller of life than the two central divine personages: his Madonnas have frequently a tendency to be insipid. On the left of the picture, flanking the Virgin, stands St. Michael the Archangel, the “warrior of God,” as representing the idea that the Lord of Hosts fought on the side of the Italian confederacy. This beautiful figure, clad in refulgent heavenly armour, is one of the noblest and loveliest that Mantegna ever painted. Compare it with the two St. Michaels by Raphael, the early one in the Long Gallery: the later in the Salon Carré: note the general similarity of type, with the divergence in treatment. A little behind, again, half seen, stands St. Andrew, who was both Andrea Mantegna’s own namesake, and also one of the patrons of Mantua. He has an important church dedicated in his honour in that town — a Renaissance church, by Leon Battista Alberti: and in this church of his patron, Mantegna himself is buried. For the altar-piece of this same church, which he had doubtless selected beforehand for his own last resting-place, the great artist also painted a representation of the risen Saviour, with St. Andrew holding the cross of his martyrdom on one side, and St. Longinus (of whom more shortly) with his spear on the other. Thus there was every reason both why St. Andrew should be represented in a picture painted for the Marquis of Mantua, and why he should more particularly appear in a work by Andrea Mantegna. As one of the patron saints of town and painter, he naturally had his share in the thanksgiving for the victory. His features in this picture and in the one at Mantua are closely similar. Mantegna, indeed, imitated an older type, which he made his own, and reproduced like a portrait. Note that St. Andrew bears a cross as his symbol.
On the other side of the Madonna, St. Elizabeth kneels in the foreground, representing, I think, the patron saint of the Marchesa, Gonzaga’s wife, who was Isabella d’Este, sister of Duke Alfonso of Ferrara. (Isabella and Elisabeth are always regarded as variants of the same name.) Now in the chapel of St. Longinus in the church of St. Andrea at Mantua, aforesaid, where Mantegna is buried, he also painted a Madonna, with this same St. Elizabeth, holding the infant St. John Baptist, while the child Christ blesses him: no doubt a votive offering from Isabella. Here again we have a type of St. Elizabeth repeated in this picture. Behind St. Elizabeth stands the exquisitely wistful St. George, the patron saint of the Venetian territory, representing the part borne by Venice and her dependencies in the war of expulsion: the patron receives the thanks of his faithful votaries. (Mrs. Jameson thinks this figure is St. Maurice, another military saint, and patron of Mantua: comparison with various St. Georges and St. Maurices elsewhere makes me disagree with her. Besides, St. George’s lance is often broken, as here: you can note it so in the Raphael of the Long Gallery.) In the background stands St. Longinus, a Roman soldier, distinguishable by his lance and antique helmet. According to tradition, Longinus was the centurion who pierced the side of Christ: you see him so in the famous Rubens (called the Coup de Lance) at Antwerp, and in almost every mediæval Crucifixion or Calvary. (Look out for him in future.) When he saw the wonders which accompanied the Passion, we are told in scripture that he exclaimed, “Truly this man was the Son of God.” Later legend made him be converted, after being afflicted with sudden blindness, and undergo a singular voluntary martyrdom. His relics were brought to Mantua in the 11th century, and he has ever since been the chief patron saint of that city. Mantegna painted him often, and sometimes made a type of him. In the picture already described in the chapel of St. Longinus, he answers, as here, to St. Andrew, and wears a classical costume, on which the painter has lavished his usual care and minute accuracy of drawing. Notice him also in the foreground of Mantegna’s Crucifixion in the Salon Carré, bearing his spear — where, however, the type is not followed as usual. Thus not one of the characters grouped around the Madonna in this exquisite picture is without its full relevancy and meaning.
Do not overlook in this military votive offering the preponderance of soldier saints, and their appearance under arms, to commemorate the victory.
Observe also the way in which St. George and St. Michael hold the Madonna’s mantle, so as to enclose or embrace Gonzaga and his wife’s patroness, St. Elizabeth. This is a symbol of the Madonna’s protection: in what is called a Madonna della Misericordia Our Lady’s robe thus shelters numerous votaries. So, at Cluny, you will find a sculptured St. Ursula (in Room VI) sheltering under her mantle as many of the 11,000 Virgins as the sculptor could manage — as she also does in the Memling at Bruges.
On the æsthetic side, note once more the marked distinction which Mantegna draws between the historical portrait of the kneeling Gonzaga — a most ruthless ruffian — and the ideal figures of saints by whom he is surrounded. Remark, again, the angelic sweetness of the round-faced St. Michael, contrasted with the purely human look of longing and strife, and the guarded purity in the countenance of the St. George — who almost foreshadows Burne-Jones and Rossetti. Observe, too, how this romantic saint serves as a foil to the practical Roman Longinus, with his honest and sober face, and his soldierly sense of duty. Study the melting tones of colour throughout, and contrast the simple devotional calm of this religious work with the rapidity and movement of the mundane Mars and Venus beside it. Do not overlook a single detail; every hand and foot, every surface of metal, every fruit and flower is worthy of attention.
As always, I have only tried here to explain this picture, not to make you admire it. But the longer you look at it the more you will be charmed by its wonderful colour, its poetic grace, and the exquisite beauty of its drawing and composition.
Now, still in the same connection, go on into the Long Gallery, and look, near Andrea del Sarto’s Holy Family, at a mannered and theatrical picture of the Nativity by Giulio Romano. This is not a Nativity simple, but one with selected saints looking on: it was painted for the altar-piece of the altar of the Chapel of St. Longinus in Sant’ Andrea at Mantua — the same in which Mantegna had earlier painted the Longinus pictures noted above. The central portion of this altar-piece consists of a tolerably conventional Nativity, with the adoring shepherds, Raphaelized by Giulio Romano (who was Raphael’s favourite pupil) in accordance with the ideas of the early 16th cent. (It is interesting to note, by the way, the nature of these modifications.) In the background is the herald angel appearing to the shepherds: this scene, prior in time to the other, was often so represented in the same picture or carving: look out for it elsewhere, and also for such non-contemporaneous episodes in general. But the attendant saints, to right and left, looking on at the sacred scene, are St. John the Evangelist (known by his chalice and serpent) and St. Longinus. The last-named holds in his hands a crystal vase — a pyx or reliquary, containing the sacred blood of Christ, which Longinus caught as it fell, and which was brought with the rest of the relics to Mantua, and preserved in the very chapel for which this picture was intended. Compare this dull Longinus with the two by Mantegna in this collection: and when you visit Mantua, remember that these pictures came from these two churches. By thus interweaving your facts, you will get a far clearer conception in the end of the connection of art than you can possibly do if you regard the various works in pure isolation.
But what was Giulio Romano doing at Mantua? After Raphael’s death, his pupils were dispersed; and this his favourite follower settled down in the service of Duke Federigo Gonzaga (the first Duke — the earlier lords were Marquises), for whom he decorated the Palazzo del Tè, with its grotesque Titans. Primaticcio and Niccolo dell’ Abbate, pupils again of Giulio’s, were educated at Mantua, and afterwards summoned by François Ier to France, where they became the founders of the School of Fontainebleau. They thus passed on the Raphaelesque traditions into the French capital. It is partly for this reason that I have selected for my first examples this particular Mantuan group of paintings, in order that you may realise the close interaction of French and Italian politics, and the continuity of the Italian with the French Renaissance.
It is worth while, too, to enquire how the different pictures came into this collection. The Madonna della Vittoria, we saw, was brought as a trophy of war from Italy by Napoleon. The Giulio Romano, after hanging for some time in the chapel at Mantua, for which it was painted, was shortly annexed by the Duke of Mantua, who sold it to Charles I of England. That king formed a noble collection of Italian and Flemish works, which, after his execution, was sold by the Commonwealth for a very small price to a dealer named Jabach, who in his turn disposed of most of the pictures to Louis XIV; they formed the nucleus of the Louvre collection. Look out for these works of which Puritan England thus deprived herself, and see how considerable a portion they form of the earlier treasures of this Gallery.
Lastly, return once more to the Mantegnas in the Salle des Primitifs, and notice that the so-called Parnassus — that is to say, the Mars and Venus discovered by Vulcan — as well as the Vices conquered by Wisdom, and the companion pieces by Perugino and Costa, were all painted for Isabella d’Este-Gonzaga, to decorate her boudoir at Mantua. Of these works, I think Mantegna’s are the oldest, and struck the keynote for figures and treatment. For after Mantegna’s death, the Ferrarese painter, Costa, was invited from Isabella’s home to become court-painter at Mantua: and the Perugino is one in that master’s latest manner, most tinged with the Renaissance. Giulio Romano, again, succeeded Costa. If you will now compare Mantegna’s two works in this series with his others in this Gallery, you will be able to form a clearer conception of his admirable fancy, his unvarying grace, and his perfect mastery of execution: while if you contrast them with those by the two contemporary artists — the Umbrian Perugino and the Ferrarese Costa — you will be enabled to observe what was the common note of these early Renaissance masters, and what their distinctive individual characteristics. In particular, you may notice in these works, when looked at side by side with those of earlier painters, the enormous advance Mantegna had made in anatomy and in perspective. He is the scientific painter of Upper Italy, as Leonardo is the scientific painter of Florence.
These four pictures again made their way to the Louvre by a different route. They were captured at the sack of Mantua in 1630, and originally came to France to decorate the château of Cardinal Richelieu.
Once more, Duke Alfonso d’Este, Isabella’s brother, is the person whom you see in the portrait by Titian in the Salon Carré, together with his mistress Laura Dianti, painted about 1520. Familiarity with such facts alone can give you any adequate idea of the extraordinary rapidity in the development of art and the modernization of Italy in the 16th century.
For my next example I will take a quite obscure and unnoticed picture, also in the Salle des Primitifs, Giovanni Massone’s altar-piece in three compartments, number 261.
Savona is an unimportant little town between Nice and Genoa, chiefly noteworthy at the present day as the junction for a branch line to Turin. But in the 15th and 16th centuries it was a flourishing place, which gave employment to many distinguished Piedmontese and Lombard artists, the most famous of whom were Foppa and Brea. It also gave birth to two famous popes, Sixtus IV and Julius II, the latter of whom is familiar to most of us from the magnificent portrait by Raphael, three replicas of which exist, in the Uffizi and the Pitti Palace in Florence, and in the National Gallery in London. Sixtus IV erected for himself a superb sepulchral chapel in his native town of Savona: go and see it, if you pass by there, as well as the modern statue of the pope erected by his fellow-citizens. From that chapel this picture, by an otherwise unknown artist, has been abstracted and brought here. We know its author merely by the signature he has placed on a cartellino or strip of paper in the picture itself: Joh[ann]es Mazonus de Alex[andri]a pinxit — shewing that he was born in the Piedmontese town of Alessandria. For the rest, he is a mere name to us.
The picture itself, by no means a masterpiece, has in its centre the Nativity, designed in the usual conventional fashion, and in a somewhat antiquated Lombard style. The Madonna and St. Joseph have very solid haloes: the action takes place in a ruined temple, as often, symbolising the triumph of Christianity over heathendom. In the background are a landscape, and some pleasing accessories. But the lateral subjects give it greater interest. In the compartment to the L stands St. Francis of Assisi, in his usual brown Franciscan robe, as protector of Sixtus IV, who kneels beside him. Notice this way of marking the name of a donor, for the pope was Cardinal Francesco della Rovere. Observe too the stigmata, as far as visible, and compare this much later figure of St. Francis with those in the picture by Giotto and its two imitators. On the R stands a second Franciscan saint, also in the coarse brown garb of his order — the same in whose church Andrea Mantegna studied Donatello, and whom we have seen more than once during our Parisian excursions holding in his arms the infant Christ — St. Antony of Padua. He lays his hand on the shoulder of a second votary — the Cardinal della Rovere, afterwards the stern and formidable pope, Julius II. If you know the National Gallery and the Vatican, see whether you can recognise an earlier stage of the same features which occur in the famous portrait, and also in the figure of the pope, borne on the shoulders of his stalwart attendants into the temple at Jerusalem, in a corner of the famous fresco of the Expulsion of Heliodorus.
Recollect, again, that it was for the tomb of this same Pope Julius II that Michael Angelo produced the two so-called Fettered Slaves, which you have seen or will see in the Renaissance Sculpture Room of this collection. Weave your knowledge together in this way, till it forms a connected whole, which enables you far better to understand and appreciate.
I call your special attention to this picture, among other things, for its historical rather than its artistic value. But I want you also to realise that the man who was painted in this rude and antiquated style in his middle age was painted again in his declining years by Raphael at the summit of his powers, and was a patron of the mighty Michael Angelo at the zenith of his development. This will help to impress upon you better than anything else the necessity for carefully noting chronology, and will also supply a needed caution that you must not regard any work as necessarily early on no better ground than because it is comparatively archaic in style and treatment.
Next inspect the two little companion pictures of St. George and St. Michael by Raphael, on the R wall of the First Compartment in the Long Gallery. These two small works are rare examples of Raphael’s very earliest pre-Peruginesque manner. Morelli has shewn that the great painter was first of all a pupil of Timoteo Viti at Urbino, his native town. If you have not visited Bologna and Milan, however, this will tell you little; for nowhere else can you see Timoteo to any great advantage; and I may observe here that the best time to visit the Louvre is after you have been in Italy, where you ought to have formed a clear conception of the various masters and their relations to one another. But you can see at least, on the face of them, that these two simple and graceful little works are quite different in style and manner even from the Belle Jardinière, and certainly very unlike the much later St. Margaret which hangs close by them. They are still comparatively mediæval in tone: they have a definiteness and clearness of outline which contrasts strongly with the softer melting tones of Raphael’s later work: they show as yet no tinge of the affected prettinesses which he learned from Perugino — still less of his later Florentine and Roman manners. They are painted on the back of a chess or draught board, and were produced for Duke Guidobaldo of Urbino about the year 1500.
Look first at the St. George. The subject here is the Combat with the Dragon; and Raphael, in representing it, has strictly followed the conventional arrangement of earlier painters. No earlier picture for comparison with his treatment exists in this Gallery, though there are plenty elsewhere: but if you will look downstairs at the majolica relief of the same subject in the Della Robbia Room of the Renaissance Sculpture Gallery, you will see how closely Raphael’s work corresponds with earlier representations of the same pretty myth. As you will now have learned, there is always a regular way to envisage every stock subject: whoever produced a Combat of St. George with the Dragon was compelled by custom and the expectations of his patron to include these various elements — a St. George in armour, on horseback, the horse usually white, as here: a wounded dragon, most often to the right: the Princess running away in terror in the distance, or at least crouching abjectly. There is a Tintoretto of this subject, indeed, in the National Gallery, where some critics have blamed the great Venetian painter for making the Princess look away in terror, instead of turning with gratitude to thank her brave preserver. But the conventional representation demanded that the Princess should flee or cower: people were accustomed to that treatment of the theme, and expected always to see it repeated. It was their notion of a St. George. We must set down a great deal in early art to this sense of expectation on the part of patrons. Tintoretto, who came much later than Raphael, after the mighty Renaissance painters had accustomed the world to put up with, or even to look for, novelty of composition, often ventured very largely to depart from traditional motives. In his picture, therefore, the Princess occupies the foreground — a most revolutionary proceeding — while the action itself is relegated somewhat to the middle distance. But if you compare the three representations of this scene to be found in the Louvre — this picture and the two reliefs by Della Robbia and Michel Colombe respectively — you will see that the Princess in earlier times is always represented quite small in the distance, and is usually running away, or at best kneeling with clasped hands in abject terror.
In the Raphael, the dragon is already wounded: but he has broken the saint’s lance, with part of which he is transfixed, while the remainder lies in fragments on the ground behind him. St. George on his prancing steed is drawing his sword to finish off the monster. In the Michel Colombe, on the other hand (downstairs in the French Renaissance Sculpture), the dragon is biting at the lance, which explains why it is broken here, and also why the St. George in Mantegna’s Madonna holds a broken shaft as his emblem or symbol. Observe, however, that while the French sculptor, with questionable taste, makes the dragon occupy the larger part of the field, so as somewhat to dwarf St. George and his steed, the Italian sculptor, and still more the Italian painter, have shewn greater tact in treating the dragon as a comparative accessory, and concentrating attention upon the militant saint, combating with spiritual arms the evil demon. In this picture, as Mrs. Jameson well observes, the conception is on the whole serenely allegorical and religious in spirit. But Raphael himself painted a second St. George, at a later date, for the Duke of Urbino to present to Henry VII of England. In this other picture, which is now in the Hermitage at St. Petersburg, St. George is treated rather as the patron saint of England than as the Champion of Right — to mark which fact he wears the Order of the Garter round his knee, with its familiar motto. As Champion of England, he is rushing on the monster with fiery energy: the picture is in this case more military than spiritual. The moment chosen is the one where he is just transfixing the dragon with his lance: the rescued Princess is here again in the background.
Note once more that these various works are pictures of the combat of St. George with the Dragon. In devotional pictures of the Madonna, St. George frequently stands by Our Lady’s side, in accordance with the wishes of the particular donor, as patron saint of that person himself, or of his town or family. In Venetian pictures, as we have seen, he is very frequent, being one of the patron saints of Venice, and more particularly of the Venetian army and the conquered territory. You will find it interesting, after you have finished the examination of the two Raphaels, to go round the devotional Italian pictures in the Salle des Primitifs, the Long Gallery, and the Salon Carré, in order to note his various appearances. He is usually marked by his lance and his armour: the absence of wings (a point not always noticed by beginners) will enable you at once to discriminate him from St. Michael — as man from angel. The more you learn to look out for such recurrences of saints, and to account for the reasons for their appearance, the more will you understand and enjoy picture galleries, and the more will you throw yourself into the devotional mediæval atmosphere which produced such pictures.
Now turn to the second little Raphael. This represents the closely cognate subject of St. Michael and the Dragon — the angelic as opposed to the human counterpart. The two ideas are at bottom identical — the power of good overcoming evil; the true faith combating heathendom. It is a world-wide myth, occurring in many forms — as Horus and Typhon, as Perseus, as Bellerophon. Hence Michael and George, the superhuman and the human soldier of right, often balance one another, as in these two pictures: you have seen them doing so already in the Madonna della Vittoria: look out for them elsewhere in this conjunction. Both are knights; both are in armour; but one is a man and the other an angel. In this second little picture, St. Michael is seen, clad in his usual gorgeous mail, treading on the neck of the dragon and menacing it with his sword. The dark and lurid landscape in the background contains many fearful forms of uncertain monsters: condemned souls are plagued in it by demons, while a flaming town flares murkily towards heaven in the far distance, the details being taken, as in many such works, from Dante’s Inferno. Or rather, they and the Inferno represent the same old traditional view of Hades. (The figures weighed down with leaden cowls are the hypocrites, while the thieves are tormented by a plague of serpents.) Close comparison of these two little works will give you a good idea of Raphael’s earliest Urbino manner. This fantastic picture, however, though full of imagination, is by no means so pleasing as the dainty St. George beside it.
Go straight from this combat to the Great St. Michael, also by Raphael, in the Salon Carré. It bears date 1518. Pope Leo X commissioned Raphael to paint this picture as a present for François Ier: the painter — to whom he left the choice of subject — chose St. Michael, the military patron of France, and of the Order of which the king was Grand Master. (You will find a bronze bust of François, wearing the collar and pendant of St. Michael, in the Renaissance Sculpture.) He chose it also, no doubt, because it enabled him to show his increased mastery over life and action. This great and noble picture, one of the finest as regards dramatic rapidity ever painted by Raphael, is celebrated for the instantaneous effect of its movement. (Compare the demoniac boy in the Transfiguration at the Vatican.) The warrior archangel has just swooped down through the air, and, hovering on poised wings, is caught in the very act of setting one foot lightly on the demon’s shoulder. The dragon, writhing, tries in vain to lift his head and turn on his conqueror. The noble serenity of the archangel’s face, the perfect grace of his form and attitude, the brilliant panoply of his celestial armour, the sheen of his wings, the light tresses of his hair floating outward behind him (as of one who has traversed space on wings of lightning) cannot fail to be remarked by every spectator. This is Raphael in the fulness of his knowledge and power, yet far less interesting to the lover of sacred art than the boy Raphael of Urbino, the dreamy Raphael of the Sposalizio at Milan, the tender Raphael of the Gran Duca at Florence, or of the Belle Jardinière in this same apartment. Notice that with the progress of Renaissance feeling the demon is now no longer a dragon but a half-human figure, with horns and serpent tail, and swarthy red in colour. He is so foreshortened as not to take up any large space in the composition, which is mainly filled by the victorious figure of the triumphant archangel. The more classical armour bespeaks the High Renaissance. The longer you compare these two extreme phases of Raphael’s art, the more will you note points of advance between them — technical advance, counterbalanced by moral and spiritual retrogression.
End by comparing this St. Michael with Mantegna’s, and with the playful Leonardesque archangel in the Vierge aux balances, the last point in the degeneracy of a celestial conception.
Raphael is one of the painters who can best be studied at the Louvre, with comparatively little need for aid from elsewhere.
Pay a special visit to the Louvre one day in order to make a detailed study of Madonnas. Before doing so, however, read and digest the following general statement of principles on the subject.
[People who have not thrown themselves, or thought themselves, or read themselves into the mental attitude of early art, often complain that Italian picture galleries, and museums like Cluny, are too full of merely sacred subjects. But when once you have learnt to understand and appreciate them, to know the meaning which lurks in every part, you will no longer make this causeless complaint. As well object to Greek art that it represents little save the personages of Greek mythology. As a matter of fact, though the Louvre contains a fair number of Madonnas, it does not embrace a sufficient number to give a perfectly clear conception of the varieties of type and the development of the subject — not so good a series in many respects as the National Gallery, though it is particularly well adapted for the study of certain special groups, particularly the Leonardesque-Lombard development.
The simplest type of Madonna is that where Our Lady appears alone with the Divine Infant. This modification of the subject most often occurs as a half-length, though sometimes the Blessed Virgin is so represented in full length, enthroned, or under a canopy. Several such simple Madonnas occur in the Gallery. In the earliest examples here, however, such as Cimabue’s, and the cognate altar-piece of the School of Giotto, the Madonna is seen surrounded by angelic supporters. This forms a second group — Our Lady with Angels. Very early examples of this treatment show the angels in complete isolation, as a sort of framework. (See several parallels in sculpture in Room VI, ground floor, at Cluny.) Grouping as yet is non-existent. No specimen of this very original type is to be found in the Louvre; but in the Cimabue of this Gallery the angels are superimposed, so to speak, while in the Giottesque example close by an elementary attempt is made at grouping them. In later works, the angels are more and more naturally represented, from age to age, singly or in pairs, or else grouped irregularly on either side of Our Lady. You will note for yourself that as the Renaissance developes, the nature of the grouping, both of angels and saints, deviates more and more from the early strict architectural symmetry.
A slight variant on the simple pictures of the Madonna and Child are those, of Florentine origin, in which the infant St. John Baptist, the patron Saint of the City of Florence, is introduced at play with the childish Saviour. This class — the Madonna and Child, with St. John — is well represented in the Belle Jardinière, and several other pictures in the Louvre.
Most often, however, the Madonna is seen enthroned, in the centre of the altar-piece or composition, and surrounded by one, two, or three pairs of saintly personages. The Madonna with Saints thus forms a separate group of subjects. These saints, you will by this time have gathered, are never arbitrarily introduced. They were selected and commissioned, as a rule, by the purchaser, and they are there for a good and sufficient reason. Often the donor desired to pay his devotion in this fashion to his own personal patron; often to the patron of his town or village, of the church in which the picture was to be deposited, or of his family or relations. Frequently, again, the picture was a votive offering, as against plague or other dreaded calamity: in which case it is apt to contain figures of the great plague saints, Roch and Sebastian. Ignorant people often object that such sets of saints are not contemporary. They forget that this is the Enthroned Madonna, and that the action takes place in the Celestial City, where the saints surround the throne of Our Lady.
As regards grouping, in the earlier altar-pieces the selected saints were treated in complete isolation. Most often the Madonna and Child occupy in such cases a central panel, under its own canopy; while the saints are each enclosed in a separate little alcove or gilded tabernacle. Reminiscences of this usage linger long in Italy. Later on, as art progressed, painters began to feel the stiffness of such an arrangement: they placed the attendant saints at first in regularly disposed pairs on either side the throne, and afterwards in something approaching a set composition. With the High Renaissance, the various figures, instead of occupying mere posts round the seat of Our Lady, and gazing at her in adoration, began to indulge in conversation with one another, or to take part in some more or less animated and natural action. This method of arrangement, which culminates for the Florentine school in Fra Bartolommeo, degenerates with the Decadence into confused and muddled groups, with scarcely a trace of symbols — groups of well-draped models, in which it is impossible to see any sacred significance. The Florentine painters preferred, as a rule, such rather complex grouping: the Venetians, influenced in great part by the severer taste of Giorgione and of Titian, usually show a more simple arrangement.
Any one of these various types of Madonna may also be modified by the introduction of a kneeling donor. Thus, Van Eyck’s glowing picture of the Chancellor Rollin adoring Our Lady is an example of the simple Madonna and Child, enthroned, accompanied by the donor; though in this case, the composition is further slightly enriched by the dainty little floating angel in the background, who places an exquisitely jewelled crown of the finest Flemish workmanship on the head of the Virgin. The Madonna della Vittoria, again, which we have so fully considered, is essentially a Madonna and Saints, with the kneeling donor. In very early pictures, you will observe that the donors are often painted grotesquely small, while Our Lady and the Saints are of relatively superhuman stature, to mark their superiority as heavenly personages. In later works, this absurdity dies out, and the figure and face of the donor become one of the recognised excuses for early portrait painting. Indeed, portraiture took its rise for the modern world from such kneeling figures.
Another point of view from which it is interesting to compare these various Madonnas is that of the Nationality or School of Art to which they belong. The early Italian representations of Our Lady are usually more or less girlish in appearance, refined in features, and comparatively simple in dress and decoration. The Flemish type is peculiarly insipid, one might often say, even with great artists, inane and meaningless; in the hands of minor painters, it becomes positively wooden. The face here is long and rather thin; the features peaky. The Madonna of Flemish art, indeed, like the Christ of all art, is a sacred type which is seldom varied. Early French Madonnas, once more, are regal and ladylike, sometimes even courtly. They wear crowns as queens, and are better observed in the Louvre in sculpture than in painting. This Gallery hardly suffices to note in full the peculiarities of the sub-types in various Italian schools; but they may still be recognised. Of these, the Florentine are spiritual, delicate, and strongly ideal; the Lombard, intellectual, like well-read ladies; the Venetian, stately and matronly oligarchical mothers, degenerating later into the mere aristocratic nobility, soulless and materialised, of Titian and his followers. The Umbrians and Sienese are distinguished for the most part by their pure and saintly air of fervent piety.
Do not confound with any of these devotional Madonnas, with or without select groups of saints, various other classes of picture which somewhat resemble them. Each of these has in early art its own proper convention and treatment: it was a recognised species. A Holy Family, for example, consists, as a rule, of a Madonna, the Infant Christ, St. Joseph, St. Elizabeth, and the child Baptist. Like the other subjects, it is sometimes complicated by the addition of selected Saints as spectators or assessors. A Coronation of the Virgin, again, is an entirely celestial scene, taking place in the calm of the heavenly regions. The Madonna is usually crowned by her Son, but sometimes by angels or by the Eternal Father. (Several interesting examples of this, for comparison, occur in Room VI, ground floor, at Cluny.) Nativities, of course, belong rather to the group of pictorial histories, such as the Life of Christ, or the Seven Joys of Mary. The sculptures in the ambulatory at Notre-Dame give one a good idea of such continuous histories.
One interesting set of Madonnas, largely exemplified here, to take a particular example, is the later Lombard type of the School of Leonardo. This type, well distinguished by its regular oval features, its gentle smile of inner happiness, and its peculiar waving hair with wisps over the shoulders, is usually regarded as essentially belonging to Leonardo himself and his immediate followers. It is foreshadowed, however, by Foppa, Borgognone, and other early Lombard painters, specimens of whom are not numerous in the Louvre. Leonardo, when he came to Milan to Ludovico Sforza, adopted this local type, which he transfused with Florentine grace and with his own peculiar subdued smile, as one sees it already in the Mona Lisa. From Leonardo, again, it was taken, with more or less success, by his immediate pupils, Beltraffio, Solario, Cesare di Sesto, and others, as well as by Luini, who was not a pupil of Leonardo himself, but who was deeply influenced by the master’s methods and his works in Milan. The number of these Leonardesque Madonnas in the Louvre is exceptionally great, while Leonardo himself can here be better estimated than in Italy. Nowhere else perhaps, save possibly at Milan, can this type as a whole be compared by the student to so great advantage.
While the Madonna herself usually occupies the central panel of votive pictures, it sometimes happens that some other saint is, on his own altar-piece, similarly enthroned; and in that case he is flanked by brother saints, often more important in themselves, but then and there subordinated to him. This special honour under special circumstances is well seen in the case of the St. Lawrence at the far end of the Salle des Primitifs. Particular local saints often thus receive what might otherwise appear undue recognition. For the same reason, minor saints in the group surrounding a Madonna often obtain local brevet-rank (if I may be allowed the simile) over others of far greater general dignity, which they could not lay claim to in any other connection. Thus, in the Nativity by Giulio Romano, to which I called attention in connection with Mantegna’s Madonna, St. Longinus (with his crystal vase) stood on Our Lady’s R, while St. John was relegated to her L — a subordination of the greater to the lesser saint which would only be possible in a chapel actually dedicated to St. Longinus, and where he receives peculiar honour. I now propose to escort you round a few rooms of the Louvre, again calling attention very briefly, from this point of view, to certain special Madonna features only.]
Now, go to the Louvre and test these remarks. Begin at the far end of the Salle des Primitifs. The Cimabue and the Giottesque of the Madonna and Angels we have already considered. Compare them again from our present standpoint. Close to them on the R, beneath the large Giotto of St. Francis, are two pretty little Madonnas, 1620 (I now give the large upper numbers alone) and 1667. The first of these exhibits below two tiny votaries — the small-sized donors — a Franciscan monk and a Dominican nun, with the robes of their orders; the centre consists of St. Paul and St. Catherine, as the attendant saints on the large Enthroned Virgin. The second has the choir of angels, both surrounding and beneath the throne, with St. Peter (keys), St. Paul (sword), St. John Baptist (camel-hair) and St. Stephen or St. Vincent (robed as deacon). St. Peter and St. Paul in 1625 are similar figures, once surrounding a central panel, with the Madonna now missing. Compare with this 1666, with its Enthroned Madonna of the early almond-eyed type, its group of angels round the throne, and its two saints at the base, John Baptist and Peter. Observe that the types of these also can be recognised. Each saint has regular features of his own, which you can learn to know quite as well as the symbols.
Higher up, 1664, another Madonna and Child, Enthroned, with similar angels, but with the addition of the figure of St Catherine of Alexandria, on whose finger the Christ is placing a ring. This is an early intermediate type of the Marriage of St. Catherine, hardly yet characterized. Most of these Madonnas have the characteristic softness and peculiar cast of countenance of the early School of Siena.
1279, Gentile da Fabriano, is almost a simple Madonna and Child, but for the addition of the smaller donor, Pandolfo Malatesta, Lord of Rimini. This picture shows the bland and round-faced Umbrian type which is closely allied to that of Siena. Both Schools are remarkable for the fervent pietism which blossomed out in full in St. Francis of Assisi and St. Catherine of Siena.
In the beautiful Perugino above, 1564, note the complete transformation in the later Umbrian school of the adoring angels into a graceful pair, and the beginning of an attempt to group in comparatively natural attitudes the accompanying saints, Rose and Catherine.
This feature is still more marked in 1565, also Perugino, (but later) where the Baptist and St. Catherine, well composed, are thrown into the background behind the Madonna. Observe that while earlier piety drapes the Child, in Gentile and still more in Perugino, the growing love for the nude begins to exhibit itself. A study of haloes is also interesting.
On the opposite or R side, 1315 is a good example of the simple Enthroned Madonna of the School of Giotto. Compare it with that next it, 1316, where the angels are grouped with some attempt at composition.
1397, by Neri di Bicci, is also a characteristic half-length simple Madonna, with the Child still draped after the earlier fashion affected by this belated follower of Giottesque models.
1345, beneath it, by Filippo Lippi or his school, shows a characteristic type of features which this painter introduced, — a modification of the older Florentine ideal: the face is said to be that of his model Lucrezia Buti, the nun with whom he eloped and whom he was finally permitted to marry. The angels in the background show well the rapid advance in the treatment of these accessories. Observe, as you pass, their Florentine lilies. Their features are like those of the Medici children, as seen in numerous works at Florence.
In 1295, by Botticelli, we get that individual painter’s peculiar mystical and somewhat languid type, while the angels are again like Medici portraits. Study these Botticellis for his artistic personality.
1344, by Filippo Lippi, next to it, exhibits Filippo’s very rounded faces, both in Madonna and angels. The type is more human. Here, again, we have the Florentine lily borne by the adoring choir, whose position should be compared as a faint lingering reminiscence of that in the Giottesques and the great Cimabue. Observe, at the same time, the division of the painting as a whole into three false compartments, a suggestion from the earlier type of altar-piece. At the Madonna’s feet are two adoring saints, difficult to identify — Florentine and local, probably. Do not fail to gaze close at the characteristic baby cherubs, perhaps Lucrezia’s. This picture should be compared in all its details with earlier pictures of angel choirs. It is a lovely work. Its delicate painting is strongly characteristic. The relief of the faces should be specially noted.
The Botticelli next it, 1296, introduces us to the infant St. John of Florence whom we meet again in the Belle Jardinière of Raphael’s Florentine period. Another young St. John close by is full of suggestions of Donatello in the Sculpture Gallery.
493, above the last but one, is a very characteristic Madonna of the Florentine school, closely resembling the type of Botticelli. This once more is a simple Madonna and Child, without accessories.
In 1662, the sanctity has almost disappeared and we get scarcely more than a purely human mother and baby.
On the opposite side, 4573, is a half-length by Perugino, the affected pose of whose neck and the character of whose face you will now recognise; the Madonna floats in an almond-shaped glory of cherubs, which indicates her ascent to heaven. Several similar subjects exist in sculpture at Cluny.
1540, Lo Spagna, is again a simple half-length Madonna, whose purely Umbrian type recalls both Perugino and the earlier examples. Compare the Peruginos, Raphaels, and Lo Spagnas here, and form from them some conception of the Umbrian ideal.
Of the Bellini beside it I have already spoken sufficiently. Observe, here, the absolute nudity of the Child, and the reduction of the angels to sweet little cherub heads among clouds in the background. The graceful arrangement of the attendant saints strikes a Bellini keynote: it was followed in later developments of this subject by Venetian painters. Such half-lengths are common among the School of Bellini.
The treatment by Cima, 1259, introducing landscape, and the peculiarly high Venetian throne, is one of a sort also very frequent for full-length Madonnas at Venice and in the Venetian territory. The grouping of the saints, also, is here transitional. Compare it with the exquisite Lorenzo di Credi opposite.
On the opposite wall, 1367, by Mainardi, shows us a Florentine face, the St. John of Florence, and the typical sweet-faced Florentine angels, holding lilies; in the background, a view of the city.
Cosimo Rosseli’s, 1482, has again the almond-shaped glory of cherubs, the nude Child, the typical Florentine face (which you may now recognise) and also characteristic Florentine angels; but its St. Bernard and the Magdalen are introduced on clouds after a somewhat novel fashion. The St. Bernard is writing down his vision of the Madonna.
I have already called attention to the beautiful grouping in 1263 by Lorenzo di Credi; but observe now that the exquisite attendant saints, almost statuesque in their clear-cut isolation, still show a reminiscence of the earlier arrangement in tabernacles by the Renaissance archways at their back, combined with the niche in which the Madonna is enthroned. Only by the light of Giottesque examples can we understand the composition of this glorious picture. We do not know the circumstances under which it was produced: but St. Julian was the patron saint of Rimini, as St. Nicolas was of Bari. Both these towns were great Adriatic ports: and I believe it was painted for a merchant of the neighbourhood.
Do not be content in any of these cases with observing merely the points to which I call definite attention; try to compare each work throughout in all its details with others like it. The evolution of the grouping, in fact, will give you endless hints as to the history and development of the art of composition. This picture of Lorenzo’s may be regarded as exemplifying the finest stage in such works: those of later date are less pure and severe — show a tendency to confusion.
This will be quite enough to occupy you for one day. Another morning, proceed into the Long Gallery, where you can similarly compare the High Renaissance types and the Leonardesque Madonnas of the later School of Lombardy.
In the little Madonna of the School of Francia, 1437, observe the position of the attendant saint, the new type of face proper to the art of Bologna, and the way in which, as often, the infant Christ is poised on a parapet.
1553, by Garofalo, shows a later and softer development of a somewhat similar (Ferrarese) type; but the Child, instead of blessing with his two fingers as in most early cases, here displays the growing Renaissance love of variety and novelty: he is asleep in his cradle. Observe his attitude in this and other instances. With all these changes, however, you cannot fail to be struck by the fairly constant persistence of the red tunic and the blue mantle of the Madonna, as well as by the nature of her head-dress in each great School. Never fail to observe the characteristic head-dresses in the various Schools of Italian art. They will help you, like the faces, to form types for comparison.
1353, by Luini, introduces us at once to the Lombard-Leonardesque class of face and hair. Compare it closely with the Madonnas in the frescoes in the Salle Duchâtel. The introduction of Joseph makes this in essence a Holy Family. Note Luini’s development of the halo of Christ, cruciform in early cases, or composed of a cross inscribed in a circle, into a cross-like arrangement of rays of light.
The two works by Marco da Oggiono, close by, betray similar types, far inferior to Luini’s, with further loss of primitive reverence.
In 1181, Borgognone’s Presentation, an earlier Lombard work, the Madonna faintly foreshadows this Leonardesque type, though the Leonardesque features are far less markedly present than in many other examples by this silvery painter.
1530, by Solario, the famous Madonna of the Green Cushion, may be compared with those by Marco da Oggiono, which it resembles in motive.
In 1599, La Vierge aux Rochers, we get Leonardo’s own personal type, which is also seen in the Madonna and St. Anne of the Salon Carré. Compare all these with the Mona Lisa, for touch and spirit. Then continue your examination through the rest of this room with the Leonardesque types: after which, turn to the School of Venice, beyond them, and note the evolution of the Titianesque types from the primitive Venetians.
On the opposite side of the same room, observe, once more, how Fra Bartolommeo and his School arranged their extremely complex groups of saints into a composition resembling a state ceremonial. From this point on in the evolution of the Santa Conversazione you will see that the arrangement of the saints entirely loses all sense of sacred meaning. Artificial ecstasies replace natural piety. An attempt to be artistic, and a desire to introduce a mode of treatment fitter for the theatre than for the church, at last entirely obscure the original meaning of these groups, which are so full of ardour in Fra Angelico, so full of stateliness in Lorenzo di Credi.
Another day may well be devoted to the quaintly girlish Madonnas of the Flemish School. Begin by observing carefully the Van Eyck of the Salon Carré, which is a Madonna with donor, and the Memling of the Salle Duchâtel, which is a Madonna with donors, not one with saints; the patrons here being merely brought in to introduce the votaries to Our Lady’s notice. From these, proceed to the Early Flemish section of the Long Gallery, and note in detail the evolution of the type in later pictures. I need hardly call attention to the Flemish love for crowns, jewellery, and costly adjuncts. These reflect the wealthy burgher life of Bruges, Ghent, and Antwerp. The translucent colour of the Flemish painters, too, lends itself well to these decorative elements.
The best example of an Early French Madonna is the beautiful one which hangs by the R hand side of the door in the Salon Carré, leading into the Salle Duchâtel. This exquisite figure, a true masterpiece of its School, should be compared with later French developments in painting, as well as with the admirable collection of plastic works of this School in the Renaissance Sculpture Gallery down stairs. With these may also be mentioned, as a typical French example, the famous miracle-working Notre-Dame-de-Paris, a statue of the thirteenth or fourteenth century, which stands under a canopy against the pillar by the entrance to the choir in the south transept of Notre-Dame, and is popularly regarded as the statue of Our Lady to which the church is dedicated. The close connection between royalty and religion in France, well exemplified in the number of saints of the royal house at St. Germain l’Auxerrois, St. Germain-des-Prés, St. Denis, and elsewhere, is markedly exhibited in the extremely regal and high-bred character always given to French Madonnas. The Florentine, which form in this respect the greatest contrast, are often envisaged as idealised peasant girls, full of soul and fervour, but by no means exalted.
Finally, note as far as is possible with the few materials in this collection, the round-faced, placid type of the German Madonna — placid when at rest, though contorted (as the Mater Dolorosa) with exaggerated anguish. The fine wooden statue in the room of the Limoges enamels at Cluny will help to strike the key-note for this somewhat domestic national ideal. The early German Madonna is as often as not just a glorified housewife.
Many other subjects for similar comparative treatment may be found in the Louvre. Pick out for yourself a special theme, such as, for example, the Adoration of the Magi, the Nativity, the Presentation in the Temple, or the Agony in the Garden, and try to follow it out through various examples. Choose also a saint or two, and pursue them steadily through their evolution. Do not think that to examine paintings in this way is to be absorbed by the subject rather than by the art of the painter. Only superficial observers fall into this error. You will find on the contrary that the characteristics of each School and of each artist can best be discovered and observed by watching how each modifies or alters pre-existing and conventional conceptions. In order to thoroughly understand any early picture, you must look at it first as a representation of such-and-such a given subject, for which a relatively fixed and conventional set of figures or accessories was prescribed by tradition. The number and minuteness of the prescribed accessories will grow upon you as you watch them. You have then to observe how each School as a whole treats such works; what feeling it introduces, towards what sort of modification in style or tone it usually tends. Next, you must consider it relatively to its age, as exemplifying a particular stage in the progress of the science and art of painting. Last of all you must carefully estimate what peculiarities are due to the taste, the temperament, the hand, and the technique of the individual artist. For example, Gerard David’s Marriage at Cana is thoroughly Flemish in all its details; while Paolo Veronese’s is thoroughly Venetian. You may notice the Flemish and Venetian hand, not merely in the figures and the composition as a whole, but even in the extraordinarily divergent treatment of such details as the jars in the foreground, which for David are painted with Flemish daintiness of detail, though coarse and rough in themselves; while Veronese approaches them with Venetian wealth of Renaissance fancy, both in decoration and handling. But the David, again, is not merely Flemish: it has the distinctive marks of that particular Fleming, and should be compared with his lovely portrait of a kneeling donor with his three patron saints in the National Gallery: while the Veronese is noticeable for the voluptuousness, the over-richness, the dash and spirit, of that large free master of the full Renaissance, the Rubens by comparison among the Venetians of his time. So too, if you study attentively the Botticellis in the Salle des Primitifs, you can notice a close similarity of type in many of his faces with the types in certain pictures by Filippo Lippi and still more in those by other Florentines of the same period; while you are yet even more distinctly struck by the intense individuality and refined spiritual feeling of this very original and soulful master.
In order to study the Louvre aright, in short, you must be continually comparing. In a word, regard each work, first, as a representation of such-and-such a subject, falling into its proper place in the evolution of its series: second, as belonging to such-and-such a school or nationality: third, as representing such-and-such an age in the historical evolution of the art of painting: fourth, as exhibiting the individuality, the style, the characteristics, the technique, and the peculiar touch of such-and-such an individual painter. Only thus can you study art aright in this or any other gallery.
Try this method on Van Eyck’s Madonna, on Titian’s Entombment, on Sebastiano del Piombo’s Visitation, and on Memling’s little John Baptist, which is one attendant saint from a triptych whose Madonna is missing.
Some other time, consider in detail the two delicately luminous frescoes by Luini, in the Salle Duchâtel. Before doing so, however, read on the spot the following remarks.
I have spoken here for the most part from the point of view of those visitors who have not travelled much in Italy or the Low Countries. And, as a matter of fact, the Louvre is the first great picture gallery on the Continent visited by nine out of ten English or Americans. In reality, however, since this collection contains several isolated masterpieces of all the great schools, together with several unconnected pictures of minor artists, it requires, almost more than any other great gallery, to be seen by the light of information acquired elsewhere. It ought, therefore, to be examined after as well as, and even more than, before visits to other countries. This collection, for example, includes works by Van Eyck, by Memling, by Giotto, by Fra Angelico. But Van Eyck can only be fully understood by those who have visited Ghent; Memling can only be fully understood by those who have visited Bruges: it is impossible really to comprehend Giotto unless you have seen his great series of frescoes in the Madonna dell’ Arena at Padua: it is impossible really to comprehend Fra Angelico unless you have examined the saintly and ecstatic works at San Marco in Florence. Thus you have to bear in mind that the works in the Louvre are only stray examples of masters and schools with whom an adequate acquaintance must be obtained elsewhere. It was for this reason that I began these notes with special examples of Mantegna, because he is one of the very few artists, other than French, of whom you can form some tolerably fair conception in Paris alone, to be pieced out afterwards by observation in Italy.
Furthermore, it must be recollected that many artists can only be seen to advantage under the conditions amid which their works were produced. This is especially the case with the Italian painters of the 14th and 15th centuries. They were a school of fresco-painters. Their altar-pieces and other separate panels give but a very inadequate idea of their powers, and especially of their composition. Giotto and Fra Angelico, in particular, cannot possibly be estimated aright by any of their works to be seen north of the Alps. The altar-pieces, being more especially sacred in character, were relatively very fixed in type: they allowed of less variation, less incident, less action, than the histories of saints which frequently form the subjects of frescoes. You can judge of this to a slight extent in the Louvre itself, by comparing the Madonnas at the far end of the Salle des Primitifs with Giotto’s St. Francis which hangs by: for the Madonna was the most sacred and therefore the most bound by custom of any type. You will at once observe how much freer and more naturalistic is the treatment in the episode of the Stigmata than in the comparatively wooden figures of Our Lady by which it is surrounded. Still more is this the case when we come to compare any of these altar-pieces with frescoes such as those of the Arena at Padua, or Santa Croce at Florence. Similarly with Fra Angelico: the little crowded works which he produced as altar-pieces give a totally different conception of his character and powers than that which we derive from the large and relatively spacious frescoes at San Marco, or in Pope Nicolas’s Chapel at the Vatican. In such works, we see him expand into a totally different manner. Now frescoes, by their very nature, cannot easily be removed from the walls of churches without great danger. Therefore, the school of fresco-painters — that is to say, the Early Italian school — is ill represented outside Italy.
Now Luini, though he belongs to the 16th century, and though he produced some of his most beautiful works as cabinet or panel pictures, was yet almost as essentially a painter in fresco as Fra Angelico or Ghirlandajo. He can best be appreciated in Milan and its neighbourhood. And I will add a few notes here for the benefit of those who know Italy, and who can recall the works they have seen in that country. At the Brera in Milan, an immense number of his frescoes, cut out from churches, can be seen and compared to great advantage. Everybody who has visited that noble gallery must recall at least the exquisite figure of St. Catherine placed in her sarcophagus by angels, as well as the lovely Madonna with St. Antony and St. Barbara, where the face and beard of the aged anchorite somewhat recall the treatment of the old bearded king in the Adoration of the Magi in this gallery. Still better can Luini’s work be understood by those who know the Sanctuary at Saronno, where a splendid series of his frescoes still exists on the wall of the great church in which they were painted. The two frescoes here in the Salle Duchâtel are not quite so fine either as those at Saronno or as the very best examples among the collection at the Brera. Nevertheless, they are beautiful and delicately-toned specimens of Luini’s work, and, if studied in conjunction with other pictures by the same artist in the adjoining rooms, they will serve to give a tolerably just conception of his style and genius.
Luini is essentially a Leonardesque painter. He was not actually a pupil of Leonardo; but like all other Lombard artists of his time, he was deeply influenced by the temperament and example of the Florentine master. If you wish to see the kind of work produced by the Lombard school before it had undergone this quickening influence of Leonardo, — been Tuscanised and Leonardised — look at the Borgognones in the Long Gallery. These, again, are not at all satisfactory specimens of that tender, delicate, and silvery colourist. To appreciate Borgognone as he ought to be appreciated, however, you must have seen him at home in the Certosa di Pavia: though even those who know only his exquisitely spiritual altar-piece of the Madonna with the two St. Catherines (of Alexandria and Siena) in the National Gallery will recognise how inadequately his work is represented by the specimens in the Louvre. Nevertheless, these examples, inferior though they be in style and feeling, will serve fairly well to indicate the point to which art had attained in Lombardy before the advent of Leonardo. I need not point out their comparatively archaic character, and their close following of earlier methods and motives. Again, if you compare with Borgognone the subsequent group of Leonardesque painters, — Solario and his contemporaries, — whose works hang close by on the left-hand wall of the Long Gallery, you will see how immense was the change which Leonardo introduced into Lombard art. From his time forward, the Leonardesque face, the peculiar smile, the crimped wisps of hair, the subtle tones of colour, and as far as possible the touch and technique of the master, are reproduced over and over again by the next generation of Milanese painters. Among them all, Luini stands preeminently forward as the only one endowed with profound original genius, capable of transfusing the Leonardesque types with new vitality and beauty of his own conceiving. The others are imitators: Luini is a disciple.
These attributes are well seen in the two beautiful frescoes of the Salle Duchâtel. They came to Paris from the Palazzo Litta, that handsome rococo palace in Milan which stands nearly opposite the church of San Maurizio, itself a museum of Luini’s loveliest frescoes, including the incomparable Execution of St. Catherine. The Adoration of the Magi is the most satisfactory of the two. In it the kings, — Caspar, Melchior, Balthasar, — representing, as ever, the three ages of man and the three old continents, — are treated with a grace and soul and delicacy which Luini has hardly surpassed even at Saronno. The eldest king, as most often, kneels next to the Madonna, who occupies the conventional R hand of the picture. He has removed his crown, also an habitual feature, and is presenting his gift, while the others are caught just before the act of offering theirs. The exquisite face of this eldest king is highly typical; so is the gently-smiling Leonardesque Madonna. The youngest king is represented as a Moor, as always in German, Flemish, and North Italian art, though this trait is rarer, if it occurs at all, in the Florentine and Central Italian painters. I take it that the notion of the Moor was derived from Venice; for the Three Kings were great objects of devotion in Lombardy and the Rhine country. Their relics, which now repose at Cologne, made a long stay on their way from the East at Milan; and it is to this fact, I fancy, that we must attribute the exceptional frequency of this subject in the art of Northern Italy, as of the Rhenish region. In the background, the usual caravans are seen descending the mountain. Such long trains of servants and attendants are commonly seen in Adorations of the Magi. Camels and even elephants frequently form part of them. Recollect the charming procession in the exquisite Benozzo Gozzoli in the Riccardi Palace. A study of this subject, from the simple beginnings in Giotto’s fresco in the Arena at Padua (where a single servant and a very grotesque camel, entirely evolved out of the painter’s imagination, form the sole elements of the cortège; beyond the Three Kings), down to the highly complex Ghirlandajo in the Uffizi at Florence, (a good copy of which may be seen at the École des Beaux-Arts,) and thence to Luini, Bonifazio and the later Italians, forms a most interesting subject for the comprehension of the historical evolution of art in Italy. Go straight from this picture to the Rubens in the Salon Carré in order to observe the way in which the theme has been treated, with considerable attention to traditional detail, yet with highly transformed feeling, by the great and princely Flemish painter.
The Nativity, in Luini’s second fresco, is also full of traditional features, — a beautiful work in the peculiar spirit of this gentle artist. Note every one of the accessories and details, observing how they have come from earlier pictures, and also how completely Luini has subordinated them to his own art and his delicate handling. Comparison of these two with the other Luinis in other rooms will give you some idea of his varying manners in fresco and oil-painting. Note that the frescoes represent him best, and are fullest of Luini.
Another picture, which in a wholly different direction exemplifies the need for knowledge of works of art elsewhere, and especially under the conditions in which they were originally painted, is to be found in Carpaccio’s Preaching of St. Stephen, on the R hand wall, shortly after you enter the Salle des Primitifs. This is one of a series of the Life of St. Stephen, — a form of composition of which the only good example in the Louvre is Lesueur’s insipid and colourless set, recounting the biography and miracles of St. Bruno. In Italy, such histories of saints are everywhere common, as frescoes or otherwise. Those who know Venice, for example, will well remember Carpaccio’s own charming series of the Life of St. Ursula, now well arranged round the walls of a single room in the Venice Academy. Still better will they understand the nature of these works if they have seen Carpaccio’s other delicious series of the Life of St. George, in San Giorgio dei Schiavoni, where the pictures still remain, at their original height from the ground, and in their original position, on the walls of the church for which they were painted. Only in such situations can works of this kind be properly estimated. That they can less easily be understood in isolation, you can gather if you look at the four cabinet pictures from the boudoir of Isabella d’Este, by Mantegna, Perugino, and Costa, which hang not far from this very St. Stephen in the same room of the Louvre. The size of the figures, in particular, is largely dictated by the shape of the room, the distance from the eye, and the character of the space which the painter has to cover.
This St. Stephen series, again, once existed entire as five pictures, all by Carpaccio, in the Scuola (or Guild) of St. Stephen at Venice. Similar sets of other saints still exist in the Scuola di San Rocco and other Guilds in the city. The first of the group, which represents the saint being consecrated as deacon by St. Peter, is now in the Berlin Gallery. The second, the Preaching of St. Stephen, is the one before which you are now standing. The third, St. Stephen disputing with the Doctors, is at the Brera in Milan. The fourth, the Martyrdom of St. Stephen, is at Stuttgardt. The fifth and last, St. Stephen Enthroned, between St. Nicolas and St. Thomas Aquinas, has disappeared from sight, or at least its present whereabouts is unknown to me. It is interesting to look out for such companion works in widely separated galleries.
Rightly to understand this picture, once more, one should know Carpaccio. And fully to know him one must have spent some time in Venice. But even without that knowledge, it is pleasant here to remark the familiar acquaintance with oriental life, which is equally visible in the neighbouring picture of the School of Bellini representing the reception of a Venetian Ambassador at Cairo. The mixed character of the architecture and the quaint accessories are all redolent of Carpaccio’s semi-mediæval and picturesque sentiment. The pellucid atmosphere, the apparent realism, the underlying idealism, the naïveté of the innocent saint in his deacon’s robes, counting his firstly, secondly, and thirdly on his fingers, irrespective of persecution, and the glow and brilliancy of the Venetian colouring, here approaching its zenith, all combine to make this daintily simple picture one of the most attractive in this part of the Louvre. Recollect it when you go to Milan and Venice, and let it fall into its proper place, in time, in your mature conception of the painter and the epoch in which he lived.
Nor is this all. It must be borne in mind that while the Louvre is one of the noblest collections of pictures in Europe, it differs from most other fine collections in the fact that its most important and valuable works are not of native origin, nor of one race, school, or period. The pictures at Florence are almost all Florentine: the pictures at Venice are almost all Venetian. At Bruges and Antwerp we have few but Flemish works: at the Hague and Amsterdam, few but Dutch. In the Louvre, on the contrary (as at Dresden and Munich), we get several masterpieces of all the great schools, with relatively few minor works of the groups to which they belong, by whose light to understand them. In short, this is a gallery of purple patches. The gems of the collection are the Raphaels, the Titians, the Leonardos, an exquisite Van Eyck, a splendid Memling, a few fine Murillos, a number of great Rubenses. To understand all these, we must know something of Florentine art, Umbrian art, Venetian art, Flemish art, Spanish art, and so forth. The finest pictures of any in the collection are not French at all, and cannot wholly be comprehended by the light of works in this gallery alone. Therefore it is best, if possible, to return to the Louvre after visiting every other great school of art in Europe. On the other hand, a few great artists are here very amply represented; among them I may particularise Raphael, Titian, Mantegna, Leonardo and the Leonardesque school, Gerard Dou, and Rembrandt.
As a further example of the light cast by pictures elsewhere on those in this Gallery, however, I prefer to take a single little subject from the predella of Fra Angelico’s glorious Coronation of the Virgin: I mean the compartment which represents St. Dominic and his brethren being fed by angels in the monastery of St. Sabina at Rome. Anybody who looks at Fra Angelico’s painting, even in these smaller works, can recognise at once his tender, saintly, and devout manner. He is permeated by a spirit of adoring reverence, which comes out in every one of his angels and martyrs. Fewer people, however, note that the angelic friar was also a loyal and devoted Dominican. Whatever he paints is to the glory of God: but it is also to the glory of St. Dominic and of the order that he founded. This beautiful altar-piece, for instance, was produced by the Dominican painter of Fiesole for the Dominican church of St. Dominic at Fiesole. The saint himself, with his little red star, is everywhere apparent: and those who have visited Fra Angelico’s own Dominican monastery of San Marco at Florence will recollect that the founder and his red star similarly occur in almost every fresco in that beautiful building. They will also recollect that this very subject of the brethren fed by angels forms the theme for a beautiful but much later fresco by Sogliani in the Great Refectory of the same monastery. Such an episode is admirably adapted for one of those large pictures representing a repast of some sacred character which it was usual to place on the end wall of conventual dining halls. Compare it also with a Spanish treatment of a similar miracle by Murillo, in the Cuisine des Anges. Note the simplicity and sobriety of the Early Italian work, as contrasted with the strained feeling and insistence upon mere effects of luminosity and glory in the showy Spanish painting. The moral of all such half-allegorical miracles is clearly this: — Our order is sustained by God’s divine providence.
I have said already that a German Last Supper in this collection (German Room) betrays the influence of Leonardo’s great fresco on the wall of the monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie at Milan, of which an early copy by a pupil of Leonardo’s exists in the Louvre (L wall of the Long Gallery). But in order thoroughly to understand Leonardo’s Last Supper, again, we must similarly compare it with many previous representations of the same sacred scene. The type, in fact, was begun among nameless Byzantine and early Christian artists, whose work can best be studied in Italy. It found its first notable artistic expression in Giotto’s fresco at Santa Croce at Florence, where the traditional type is considerably transformed: and this Giottesque Last Supper was repeated over and over again by many copyists, who each introduced various modifications. Ghirlandajo once more transformed the type at San Marco and the Ognissanti; and from Ghirlandajo, Leonardo borrowed part of his arrangement, while transfusing it with an entirely new element of life and action, at a dramatic moment, which marks this great painter’s style, and is a distinct move forward in the art of composition. Each work of art down to the end of the 16th century can thus only be fully understood by considering it in its proper place, as one of a continuous evolutionary series. Every painter took much from those who went before: his individuality can best be gauged by observing how he transformed and modified what he borrowed.
Now take Ghirlandajo’s Visitation in the Salle des Primitifs as an example of a work which in quite a different way, requires to be understood by light from elsewhere. Note how admirably the figures here are balanced against the sky and the archway in the background. In itself, this is a beautiful and striking picture; but it is also a good illustration of those subjects which cannot adequately be understood by consideration of works in this Gallery alone. The attitudes and costumes of the two principal personages are strictly conventional: nay, if you compare the St. Elizabeth in this Visitation with the same saint in the Mantegna almost opposite, you will see that her dress and features remain fairly typical, even in two such very distinct schools as the Paduan and the Florentine. The relative positions of the Madonna and her elder cousin have come down to Ghirlandajo from a very remote antiquity: they were adopted, with modification, by Giotto, in his fresco of this subject in the Madonna dell’ Arena at Padua. But Giotto also introduced an arch in the background, which persists in almost all later representations. His arch, however, is blind — you do not see the sky through it. So is Taddeo Gaddi’s, in his closely similar Visitation at Santa Croce in Florence: but the figures here still more nearly approach the positions of the Ghirlandajo, and they stand more directly framed, as it were, by the arch behind them. Skipping many intermediate examples, each of which leads up to this picture, we come to this beautiful embodiment of Ghirlandajo’s, which, while retaining the simplicity of composition in the earlier examples, shows a fine artistic instinct in the way in which the chief characters are silhouetted in the gap of the archway. Ghirlandajo accepted the older tradition, while transforming it with the skill and taste of the early Renaissance after his own fashion. Those who have visited Florence will remember how Pacchiarotto, in his admirable presentation of the same subject, now in the Belle Arti in that town — which, like this one, is a Visitation with selected saints as spectators — has closely followed Ghirlandajo’s treatment with still further modifications: while the noble embodiment of the same scene by Mariotto Albertinelli, in the Uffizi, consists of the two central figures in the Ghirlandajo or the Pacchiarotto, cut out, as it were, and presented separately with noble effect against a background of sky seen through the archway. In such a case we see distinctly how the individual work can only fairly be judged as a development of motives borrowed from others which have preceded it, and how in turn it gives rise later to still further modifications of its own conception. If you have not yet visited Florence, bear in mind this work when you see the Pacchiorotto and the Albertinelli. It is a good plan for the purposes of such comparison to carry about photographs of other pictures in the same series. You may go straight from the Ghirlandajo here to the Sebastiano del Piombo in the Salon Carré; and thence again to a copy of Pontormo’s Visitation in the Long Gallery (R side, near the Fra Bartolommeo), which is interesting as showing a survival of the arch, treated with far less effect, and thrown away as an element in the composition. Here the attendant saints have become a confused crowd, and the degradation of Fra Bartolommeo’s balanced grouping is very conspicuous. Make one picture thus cast light upon another.
II. SCULPTURE
[The Sculpture at the Louvre falls into three main divisions, each of which is housed in a separate part of the building. The Classical Sculpture is approached by the same door as the Paintings, and occupies the basement floor of Jean Goujon’s part of the Old Louvre, with the wing beneath the Galerie d’Apollon. The Renaissance Sculpture is approached by a separate door in the eastern half of the same side, and occupies the corresponding suite opposite the Classical series. The Modern Sculpture is also approached by a special door in the north wing of the W side in the old Cour du Louvre, and occupies the suite beyond the Pavillon de l’Horloge.
The importance of these three divisions is very different. Without doubt, the most valuable collection, intrinsically and artistically speaking, is that of the Classical or Antique Sculpture: and this should be visited in close detail by all those who do not contemplate a trip to Rome, Naples, and Florence. Nobody can afford to miss the “Venus of Milo,” the “Diana of Gabii,” or the Samothracian Nikè. On the other hand, these exquisite Greek and Roman works, models of plastic art for all time, including two or three of the greatest masterpieces which have come down to us from antiquity, have yet no organic connection with French history, or even, save quite indirectly, with the development of French art. At the same time, thoroughly to understand them is a work for the specialist: those who have little or no classical knowledge, and who desire to comprehend them, must be content to buy the new official catalogue (not yet issued), to follow closely the excellent labels, and also to study the subject in detail in the various excellent handbooks of antique sculpture, such as Lübke’s or Gardner’s.
The discrimination of the different schools, and the evidence (usually very inferential) as to the affiliation of the various works on the great masters or their followers, are so much matters of expert opinion that I do not propose to enter into them here. I shall merely give, for the general reader, a brief account of the succession and evolution of antique plastic art, as exemplified in the various halls of this gallery, referring him for further and fuller details to specialist works on the subject.
The Renaissance Sculpture, on the other hand, is largely French; and, whether French or Italian, it bears directly on the evolution of Parisian art, and has the closest relations with the life of the people. Every visitor to Paris should therefore pay great attention to this important collection, which forms the best transitional link in Western Europe between Gothic Mediævalism and the modern spirit.
The collection of Modern Sculpture, again, is both artistically and historically far less important. It may be visited in an hour or two, and it is chiefly interesting as bridging the lamentable gap between the fine Renaissance work of the age of the later Valois, and the productions of contemporary French sculptors.]
I. ANTIQUE SCULPTURE
[Few or none of the most famous masterpieces of the great classical artists have come down to us with absolute certainty. The plastic works which we actually possess are for the most part those which have been casually preserved by accidental circumstances. Almost all the greatest productions of the greatest sculptors have either been destroyed or else defaced beyond recognition. We therefore depend for our knowledge of ancient sculpture either upon those works which were situated on comparatively inaccessible portions of huge buildings like the Parthenon and other temples, and which have consequently survived more or less completely the ravages of time, the mischief of the barbarian, and the blind fury of early Christian and Mahommedan fanatics; or else upon those which have been preserved for us in the earth, under the débris of burnt and ruined villas and gardens, or in the ashes of buried cities like Pompeii. Under these circumstances, the wonder is that so much of beautiful and noble should still remain to us. This is mainly owing to the fact that in antiquity a fine model, once produced, was repeated and varied ad infinitum, — much as we have seen at Cluny and in the paintings upstairs each principal scene from the Gospels or the legends of the saints, once crystallized by custom, was reproduced over and over again with slight alterations by many subsequent artists. The consequence is that most of the statues in this department fall into well-marked groups with other examples here or elsewhere. We have not the originals, in most cases, but we have many copies; and few of these copies are servile reproductions: more often, they show some touch of the individual sculptor. The best antiques are therefore generally those which happen most nearly to approach in spirit and execution a great and famous original. (See later, for example, the Apollo Sauroctonus.) You must compare these works one with another, in this collection and elsewhere, in this spirit, recollecting that often even an inferior variant represents in certain parts the feeling of the original far better than another and generally finer example may happen to do. Nay, such splendid works as the so-called Venus of Milo itself must thus be regarded rather as fortunate copies or modifications of an accepted type by some gifted originator than as necessarily originals by the best masters. With the exception of the few fragments from the Parthenon by Pheidias and his pupils, hardly anything in this gallery can be set down with certainty to any first-class name of the very best periods. But many statues can be assigned to groups which took their origin from certain particular famous sculptors: we know the school, though not the artist. And several are judged by the descriptions of ancient writers to be copies or variants of works assigned to sculptors of the first eminence.
Many of the statues found in the Renaissance period, and up to the close of the eighteenth century, have been freely and often injudiciously restored: others have really antique heads, which do not however in every case belong to them. Not a few have been considerably altered and hacked about in the course of restoration, or of arbitrarily supplying them with independent faces. This reprehensible practice has not been followed in more recent additions such as the “Venus of Milo” and the Samothracian Nikè.]
Enter by the same door as for the paintings. Proceed along the corridor (Galerie Denon) and dive, right or left, under the great staircase. (Good new room to the R, containing excellent Roman mosaics from French North Africa.) Pass some good sarcophagi and other objects, and enter the Rotonde, which contains for the most part works of a relatively late period. In the centre, the *Borghese Mars (or, in Greek, Ares), a celebrated statue, less virile than is usual in figures of this god. Round the room are grouped many fairly good statues, not a few of them almost duplicates. Among them should be noticed (beginning from the door) on the R a fine Melpomène; then, the Lycian Apollo, with harmless serpent gliding from a tree-trunk; and especially the famous *Silenus nursing the Infant Bacchus, of the School of the great sculptor Praxiteles — perhaps the most pleasing of the many representations of Faun and Satyr life which antiquity has bequeathed to us. This work should be studied as showing that later stage of easy Greek culture when sculpture was not wholly religious and monumental, but when the desire to please by direct arts and graces was distinctly present. Close by are two or three good draped female figures; and another Lycian Apollo, which should be closely compared with the one opposite it, as indicating the nature of the numerous copies or replicas commonly made of famous works of antiquity. Beside this, a couple of Hermæ, or heads on rough bases, in later imitation of the archaic Greek style, with its curious stiff simper: the type was doubtless too sacred to be varied from: a portrait-statue of a lady with the attributes of Ceres; a charming Nymph, carrying an amphora; excellent figures of athletes, etc. Many of the statues in this and succeeding rooms are much restored, and in some cases with heads that do not belong to them. They are interesting as showing the general high level of plastic art among nameless artists of the classical period.