VII THE HERMITAGE
The curious conception of Tolstoï's as to the severing and injurious influence of art that does not strive directly to make people more noble, can perhaps be understood only when the collections in the St. Petersburg Hermitage and Alexander Museum are examined. Striking proof will there be found that the enjoyment of art—nay, the understanding of it—need not necessarily go hand-in-hand with humane and moral sentiments. Antiquity and the Renaissance prove that, under certain conditions, inhumanity and scandalous immorality can harmonize very well with the understanding of art, or with, at least, a great readiness to make sacrifices for the sake of it. The inference that the greater refinement of the taste for art is the cause of moral degeneration is not far from the truth. It is quite conceivable from the stand-point of an essentially revolutionary philosophy, framed for the struggle against the demoralizing, violent government of St. Petersburg, since everything that is apparently entitled to respect in this St. Petersburg is unveiled and damned in its nothingness. Thus it is with science—that is to say, a university that does not begin its work by denouncing a despotism only seemingly favorable to civilization; so it is with a fancy for art, which possibly may convince czars and their servants that they also have contributed their mite towards the welfare of mankind.
The stranger who does not see things with the eyes of the passionate philanthropist and patriot, and who when gazing at the master-works of art, does not necessarily think of the depravity of the gatherers of these works, is surely permitted to disregard the association of ideas between art and morality, and to give himself over unconstrainedly to the enjoyment of collections that can hold their own with the best museums of the world. To be sure, Catherine II. was not an exemplary empress or woman, yet by her purchases for the Hermitage she rendered a real service to her country, a service that will ultimately plead for her at the judgment-seat of the world's history. Alexander III. and his house were misfortunes for his country, but the museum that bears his name will keep alive his memory and will cast light of forgiveness on a soul enshrouded in darkness. Besides, it has nowhere been shown that without the diversion of expensive tastes for art, slovenly empresses would have been less slovenly or dull despots less violent. But in the Hermitage one may forget for a couple of hours that he is in the capital of the most unfortunate and the most wretchedly governed of all countries.
On the whole, it is impossible to give in a mere description an adequate conception of the great mass of masterpieces here gathered together. I shall attempt, in the following, to seize only a few meagre rays of the brightest solitaires.
Borne by the one-story high—entirely too high—naked Atlas of polished black granite, there rises the side roof of the Hermitage over a terrace of the "millionnaya" (millionaires' street). We enter the dark, high entrance-hall, from which a high marble staircase, between polished walls, leads to a pillared hall, already seen from below. The attendants, in scarlet uniforms, jokingly known at the court as "lobsters," officiously relieve us of our fur coats, and we hasten into the long ground floor, where await us the world-famous antiquities from Kertch, in the Crimea. Unfortunately, there awaits us also a sad disappointment. The high walls are so dark, even in the middle of the gray winter day, that the beauty of the many charming miniatures must be surmised rather than felt. We could see scarcely anything of the great collection of vases. We breathe with relief when we at last enter a hall that has light and air, now richly rewarded for our Tantalus-like sufferings in the preceding rooms. Here glitter the gold laurel and acorn crowns that once adorned proud Greek foreheads; there sparkles the gold-braided border with which the Greek woman trimmed her garments, representing in miniature relief lions' and rams' heads. The gold bracelets and necklaces, ear-rings and brooches tell us that there is nothing new under the sun. Before the birth of Christ there were worn in Chersonesus the same patterns that are now designed anew by diligent artistic craftsmen—nay, even vases and tumblers, the creations of the most modern individualities, had already lain buried under the rubbish of thousands of years. Our attention is drawn to a vase in a separate case, which gives an excellent representation of the progress of a bride's toilet from the bath to its finishing touches ready for the bridegroom's reception. Who knows what scene of domestic happiness was involved in the presentation of this gift thousands of years ago! Sensations which one experiences only in the streets and houses of Pompeii are renewed here while looking at the glass cases with their collections of ornaments and of articles of utility that tell us of the refined pleasures and the exquisite taste of times long gone by. The waves of the Black Sea played about Greek patrician houses where to-day the rugged Cossack rides with the knout in his hand. A great hall shows us finally the Olympian Zeus with the eagles at his feet, also with the soaring Nike in his right hand. Klinger's "Beethoven" reminds us involuntarily of this lofty work without attaining its majesty. A torch-bearer, a mighty caryatid of Praxiteles with a truly wonderful draping of the garments, a Dionysus of the fourth century, an Omphale clad in the attributes of Hercules, sarcophagi with masterly reliefs, a divine Augustus, portrait busts of satyrs, entitle this collection to rank with that of the Vatican, not in numbers, but in the great worth of single works. But our wonder and admiration become greater when we enter the splendid halls of the picture-gallery. We hasten past Canova and Houdon, however; the graceful figures of the one and the characteristic "Voltaire" of the other had attracted us at other times. On to Murillo, Rembrandt, Rubens, Titian, to be presented to us in unusual completeness. Twenty-two Murillos, the finest of them carried away by the French from Madrid, wrapped around flag-staffs. I must confess that I had not hitherto fully comprehended Murillo's fame, for I am not acquainted with the Spanish galleries. It was only in St. Petersburg that the full greatness of the master dawned upon me. No description can give an adequate idea of the charm of the Virgin Mother in the two gray-walled pictures of "The Conception" and "The Assumption." What distinguishes it from the famous Louvre picture is, above all, the childlike expression of the sweet girl's head. A Mignon as Mary! The dark eyes looking up to heaven with such inspired enthusiasm; the full cheeks delicately tinted; the light garment of the maiden, almost a child, enfolding it chastely; the entire figure, to the blue, loosely fluttering cloak bathed in light; the cupids crowding about the knees and carrying her heavenward; sweet rogues on the cloud wall, a part still in the light radiated by her, and a part already immersed in the deep darkness of space—the whole sublime, as on the first day of creation, no note failing in the Spaniard's full glow of color.
No less splendid and inspired is "Repose During the Flight to Egypt," where the mother of the Lord again awakens the most fervent sensations. She is no longer the half-childlike virgin of the Conception and the Assumption; she is the mother, tenderly and rapturously gazing at the sleeping child surrounded by a halo of heavenly light. Angels crowd forward in naïve curiosity; the saintly Joseph looks with emotion on the contented infant; the thick foliage gives to the entire group shade and coolness. Even the ass looks comfortable and pious. The color and composition are entirely beyond comparison.
A painting brimful of roguishness is "Jacob's Ladder," where angels ascending and descending, making up the dreams of the sleeper, amuse themselves in most innocent fashion. Well known is the charming Christ-Child in the painting of "St. Joseph," and the charming little "John" often fondly painted by him, his arms entwined about his lambkin. Hardy peasant types are not wanting; and that the inspiration of the great Spaniard may not exceed all bounds, there are a few pictures which, with all their artistic excellence make us realize what a chasm separates us from the passionate Catholic Murillo. We believe that full artistic justice may be done to the poetry of Biblical legend without being obliged to glorify a Peter Aubry. However, other lands, other customs!
Of Velasquez's work there should be mentioned, in the first place, his paintings of Philip IV. and the Duke of Olivarez, both of striking characterization in their grotesque ugliness—the master will survive even the one-sided and exclusive cult of which he has been made the victim. We will not set our minds against Velasquez's or Leonardo's "Mona Lisa" just because they are to be found in all the exercises of enraptured modern goslings.
I will not say anything about the "Madonna Conestabile," the "St. George," and the wonderful "Madonna Alba" of Raphael, for I consider it entirely superfluous to combat the affected underestimates of the master of Urbino, which is insisted upon as a matter of party obligation by every imitator of fashion. If Herr Muther prescribes the Botticelli cult for the last years of one century, the rediscovery of the joyous Andrea del Sarto for the first years of a new century, he will, if we live to see the day, prescribe for the century noonday the return to the master of perfection, Raffaelo Sanzio, as the inevitable requirement of fashion, and his disciples will add here their solemn amen. But the eternal masters are above the gossip of salons and fashions.
Sebastiano del Piombo is represented here by a most extraordinary "Descent from the Cross," Correggio by the "Madonna del Latte," Leonardo da Vinci by the light blonde "Madonna Litta," which, like all the works of this master, is questioned, but which bears his imprint as much as any of his works. Of Botticelli there is a very well-preserved "Adoration of the Magi," similar to the Florentine painting. Likewise, here in all the minor figures of the kneeling kings and shepherds, and even of the horses, there is a perfection in the mastery of drawing, the Madonna archaically overslender, with the thin neck of the Primitivists, which, out of respect for sacred tradition, the otherwise bold master did not dare meddle with. Naturally, the modern art mockery sees in this defect of Botticelli's, accounted for by respect for tradition, his chief superiority, and goes into affected raptures at the sensitive figures of his "Primavera," and imitates the studied gestures of those foolish airs which our higher bourgeoisie affect in order to resemble the decadent nobility. But Botticelli really deserves a better fate than to be the fashion painter of the snobs.
Bronzino's picture of a young woman, with quite modern bronze-colored hair and exceptionally small hands, might well be substituted, if fashion chose, for "Mona Lisa" in the modern feuilletons. A Renaissance could easily dedicate a piquant novel to her dreamy, roguish eyes, her soft chin, and her sensual mouth, which would not be contradicted by the rich pearl ornaments in her hair and ears. There is a Judith by the highly beloved master Giorgione, which is far superior in the majesty of her bearing and the beauty of her head to her sisters of earlier and later times. By the side of this noble and historical figure the other Judith, the creation of the wanton and diseased fancy of Klimt—the otherwise prominent but misguided master—appears absolutely odious.
VIII THE HERMITAGE—CONTINUED
A crown of shining jewels is the Titian room, with the Christ, the Cardinal Pallavicini, the Danaë, the Venus, Magdalene, and the Duchess of Urbino. It is a small cabinet, scarcely measuring five square metres, in which is gathered more shining beauty than in many an entire museum. Prominent, however, is the fair daughter of Parma, forerunner of the "Mona Vanna," as Venus dressed, or rather undressed, naked, in a velvet cloak that kindly fulfils its duty only from the hips downward. The goddess gazes at herself in a mirror held by a cupid, while another chubby little fellow is trying to place a crown on her head. She deserves it, this prize of beauty. There radiates from her eyes, her mouth, her shoulders, arms, and hands a splendor such as even this prince but seldom gave to his creations. The curves of the breast, only half covered by the left hand, the navel, and the hips are as soft as if painted with a caressing brush. The heavy velvet cloak intensifies even the remarkable brightness of the body. The Danaë, languidly outstretched on the cushions of her luxurious couch, shuddering under the golden harvest that falls into her lap, is much superior to her rivals in Naples and Vienna. It is the only original that does not disappoint the expectations created by the widely distributed reproductions, for it also is perfectly preserved. The line of the back from the shoulder to the bent knee of the resting young body is of a unique softness; the transition from the thigh to hip is like velvet in the softness of the body; the feet and toes are of classic beauty. The Magdalene again is all feeling. The tears flowing from her eyes, reddened by sorrow, are as real as her contrition; the heavy braids, pressed with the right hand to the full bosom, enable us to understand her sins; but the penitential garment and the desert, where we find her alone with a human skull, compel us to believe in her repentance. The artist's model was, as in the similar work in Florence, his daughter Lavinia.
The school of Leonardo da Vinci is not as well represented; but mention should be made here of "St. Catherine of Luini," if only for the sake of the saint herself, that is fashioned after the same model as "St. Anne," by Leonardo. Somewhat better represented is the Venetian school with a few Tintorettos and Paolo Veroneses. Of the later Italians, we find especially of note, "Mary in the Sewing-School," "St. Joseph with the Christ-Child," and "Cleopatra," by Guido Reni.
But the pride of the collection is the Rembrandt gallery. The so-called "Mother of Rembrandt" is somewhat inferior to the incomparable Vienna painting. But, on the other hand, there are among the thirty-nine authentic works of the master such gems as the "Descent from the Cross," with its singular lights and shadows, and "David and Absalom," with astonishing boldness of sketching and wonderful softness of coloring. But far beyond the technique we are struck in this picture by the almost tragic power of expression. It is the moment of conciliation between father and son. How the young prince with luxurious hair hides his trembling hand on his father's breast; how the father, who very strangely has the features of the master himself, draws to his breast the newly found son, and breathes to Jehovah a prayer for blessing. It is treated with such overpowering mastery as dwells only in the greatest scenes of fatherly passion in all literature and art. The second treatment of the same theme, "The Prodigal Son," is transplanted from the princely to the common. The returning son is not a prince; the father is not a be-turbaned sultan; but the intensity of the embrace is the same; the same thrill comes to us out of this as out of the brilliant "Absalom" picture, the two songs of the forgiving father's love. The counterpart of these two is the painting of the great father's sorrow that seizes the old Jacob when his sons bring to him the bloody garment of his beloved Joseph. The terror and amazement of the patriarch, distinctly marked in the hands of the sage uplifted as if warding off a blow, are strongly impressed on the mind of the beholder. The famous "Sacrifice of Isaac" is to me of slighter value than the preceding, notwithstanding all the dramatic force of the moment depicted. It is really too difficult for us to look into the soul of an old fanatic who is ready to slay his own son at the command of God; yet the foreshortening of the recumbent Isaac, and the angel sweeping down on him like a tempest, to seize just at the right moment the hand of the old man, are brought out again with really wanton mastery. The so-called Danaë is not to every one's taste, its universal fame notwithstanding. Bode takes it as Sarah, the daughter of Raguel, awaiting her betrothed. Its meaning might well be a subject of discussion. The old woman who draws back the heavy drapery over the couch, with the honest match-maker's joy on her face and the purse in her hand, indicates a mythological incident and not the legitimate joys of Sarah. On the other hand, there is lacking here the indispensable golden shower by which the Danaë pictures are really characterized. Besides, the profile of the joyously surprised naked dame is not all antique. I take the liberty humbly to suggest that the young woman with the rather mature body is, to judge by the ornaments on her arms and in her hair, as well as by the attributes of her luxurious bed and the unceremoniousness with which she allows the light to play on her naked body through the open portières without making use of the cover lying near by, to be considered a professional beauty, who is receiving with more than open arms some very welcome and generous guest. When once freed from the not exactly pleasing impression which the fidgety impatience produces on the none too pretty face, we cannot but admire the play of light on the nude body. Nothing is flattered in this painting, and that makes more striking the indelible impression of the shimmering light in all the depressions and curves of the not especially attractive figure.
It would be much beyond the limits of the present sketch to mention even by name the works of the first rank in the Rembrandt gallery. Suffice it to state that there are among them a so-called Sobieski, the portrait of the calligrapher Coppenol, almost breathing before one's eyes, the "Parable of the Workmen in the Vineyard," "Abraham's Entertainment of the Angels," a "Holy Family" of such loveliness as can scarcely be accredited to the forceful realist, the "Workshop of Joseph," the "Incredulity of St. Thomas," full of restless movement, a splendid heroic "Pallas," portraits of men and women, all of them works of the first rank, gems in the art of all time. To say anything of the master himself is, thank Heaven, unnecessary. He has thus far escaped untouched from the constant revolution of values, the propelling force of which is usually unknown to its satellites. Of him alone can it be said, that even an approximate conception of the range of his mastery is impossible without familiarity with his paintings in the Hermitage.
Rubens, too, is represented here in all his astonishing versatility. I do not know what value is placed nowadays on this omniscience. Yet even the termagant tongue of impotency must become dumb before this splendid collection. Mythological and Biblical themes, portraits and landscapes, are almost throughout of equal perfection and beauty. His exuberant fancy is nowhere revealed to better advantage than in the fascinating sketches in which the Hermitage is so rich. They must be termed veritable orgies of the draughtsman and the colorist, and bear to a certain extent the imprint of perennial genius and happy inspiration, which the painting, often completed by his pupils, cannot quite show. But where the master's own hand has worked it has given life to the imperishable. If a prize were to be awarded to any one of the forty-seven masterpieces it would surely belong to the portrait of Helene Fourment, on which the artist worked with undivided love. The roguish beauty is painted life-size. She is standing in a flower-bedecked meadow, and in the background heavy clouds pass over the landscape. But they serve only to bring out in greater relief the delicate lace collar around the bare neck of the woman in a low-necked gown. She has on her blond, curly head a black, soft, Rembrandt hat, ornamented with feathers, and adorned with a violet-blue ribbon. Her heavy, black satin dress with the airy white lace sleeves shows the still youthful, slender figure in a swaying, graceful pose. The delicate hands are crossed over the waist. The right is holding, fanlike and with refined ease, a long, white heron's feather. The dress and ornaments, the ear-rings and the bejewelled brooch and chain, are treated with such care as was seldom shown by the busy master. The main charm of the painting lies, however, in the roguish, spirited face with the large, clever eyes and the smiling little mouth. The neck and bosom show, however, that the name Helene is not inappropriate.
Of the mythological pictures the "Drunken Silence," variations on which in the Munich Pinakothek are well enough known to make a more detailed description superfluous, is to my taste the most wonderful. But the St. Petersburg original is, if possible, even richer in its coloring, and the grotesque humor of the fine company is altogether irresistible. We also find an excellent variation in "The Pert Lover's Happy Moments," the brown shepherd attacking a young woman with the features of Helene Fourment. The liberation of Andromeda by the victorious Perseus is a work with all conceivable merits. The dead monster that had guarded the brilliantly beautiful maid lies outstretched with gaping jaws; the white-winged steed that had carried the victor is stamping the ground, but easily held in check by a little cupid. The victor, still in his glittering armor, with the gorgon shield in his left hand approaches the fair maid and softly touches her. Another little cupid has removed his helmet so that the emerging Fame may place the wreath on his locks. But the youth sees only the glorious beauty at whose draperies three or four little rogues are busily tugging to pull away from the white body even the last vestige of covering. Of the splendid composition, "Venus and Adonis," only the wonderful heads were drawn by the master; the rest was done in his studio, but it is quite respectable.
Of the religious works, the "Descent from the Cross" is akin to the famous painting in the Dome of Antwerp. The large painting, "Christ Visiting Simon the Pharisee," was completed with the aid of his pupils. The figures of Christ and of Magdalene, who is drying the feet of the Saviour with her hair, were drawn by the master himself. The head of the penitent is particularly striking. It has something leonine in it, and the fervor with which she seizes the foot and draws it to herself has also something of the passion that may have led to her sin.
Of Van Dyck, the cleverest and most prominent of Rubens's pupils, who aspired to aristocratic refinement—perhaps only to free himself from the overpowering influence of the robust genius of his teacher, perhaps also because of his inherently more tenacious nature—the Hermitage possesses the largest and most valuable collection. The "Holy Family" is still influenced by Rubens, although it is somewhat softer. It is a charming composition, full of peace and cheerfulness. Mary is sitting under a shady tree holding the Christ-Child, who is standing on her lap so that he may bend over to look at the dancing ring of little angels. St. Joseph is comfortably seated in the background. The play of the angels is unmistakably conceived after Rubens's festoon, and yet possesses great beauty of its own. In its color effects the picture is among the best. The artist is seen in complete self-dependence in the numerous portraits of his English period as well as in the cabinet piece of "The Snyder Family." The English impress us especially by the expression of self-conscious gentility, aristocratic exclusiveness, peculiar to themselves as well as to the master. We cannot escape the charm of these somewhat decadent faces, just as we would enjoy equally a Beethoven sonata and a Chopin nocturne. Without the exuberant imagination and the universality of his teacher, Van Dyck possesses, none the less, a personality of his own, shining with a light of its own; he is one of the psychologists among the painters.
Another psychologist, though not with delicate hands, but sturdy and creative, with exuberant genius, is Franz Hals, who is represented here by four strikingly lifelike portraits. Of him, too, nothing more need be said, though one may add he is a splendid fellow.
The Dutch miniature painters have here some dainty pieces. Of Van der Helst's we see his renowned "Introduction of the Bride," a scene from Dutch patrician life, with somewhat strongly exaggerated respectability and affluence. The bridegroom's parents, themselves still young, are seated on a garden terrace clad in their holiday attire, and with gloves in their hands; the youngest son, stylishly dressed, with a parrot in his hand, is looking with strained attention towards the bridal couple, who are ceremoniously ascending the terrace; two greyhounds by the side of the parents, a lap-dog by the bride's side, take part in the performance; and loudest of all is the parrot, whom the master is obliged to call to order by an indignant "Keep still!" Notwithstanding its size (it has a width of more than three metres), the picture is painted with a minuteness of detail, from the frills of the mother to the rustling silk of the bride's dress and the thin foliage of the poplars in the background of the garden, that would do honor to any miniature painter. To be sure, our impressionist creed of the present day does not allow the recognition of such painstaking elegance and neatness in the execution of details. However, doctrines pass away, but, thank Heaven, the pictures remain.
The numerous domestic genre pictures, Terborch's famous "Glass of Lemonade," Jan Steen's "Drunken Woman," held up to derision by her husband, and the "Visits of the Physician," who is feeling the pulse of a young woman, evidently embarrassed, while the doctor, with a significant smile, is exchanging remarks with an old woman, by Metzu, as well as certain physicians' examinations, by Gerhard Dou, that cannot further be described, are all notable, not only for the execution of the velvet and silk fabrics, of the glasses and the interiors, but even more for the unfailing firmness of characterization in movement and physiognomy. Certainly these are great painters, and their works are true cabinet-pieces. Composition must always swing between painstaking accuracy and bold impressionism. Yet nothing could be more foolish than the contempt for miniaturists in a period of impressionism and the contempt for impressionists in a period of painful detail. "In my Father's house are many mansions."
What shall we say of the works of Ostade, Teniers, Wouwerman, Pottes, and Ruysdael? The Hermitage not only contains an inexhaustible abundance of their productions, but includes their very best works. Potter has a wolf-hound and dairy farm, an animal group of the highest plasticity, and a quite modern transparency of atmosphere. Tenier has pieces that show him to have been not only a grotesque humorist but also a great landscape-painter; and of Ruysdael there are true pearls like the "Sand Road" and the "Bay Lake."
Rarities, valuable as such not alone to the art-lover, are the "Healing of the Blind," by Lucas van Leyden, the "Maid under the Apple-Tree," by Lucas Cranach, a triumphant Madonna, by Quentin Massys—faithful, honest works which the pious masters laid with devotion on the golden ground. No sensible person will deride them, for they are still governed in their conceptions by the carefully obeyed rules of symmetry. In the attachement there is such depth of characterization, such affection and warmth, that many a masterpiece must be placed much below them. For enthusiasm of conception and conscientious execution are, after all, of deciding moment in every unbiased judgment. But the technique belongs to the time and not to the individual.
The French of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries conclude the group. The Germans have never succeeded in placing themselves in a true relation to this art that is rhetorical and theatrical rather than really poetical. Yet we shall never be wanting in respect to others, especially to the masters Poussin and Claude Lorrain. The landscapes of a heroic-mythological character that represent them in the Hermitage are monuments of respectable ability.
Of real charm, however, are the piquant genre masters Fragonard and Watteau, who were held in such deep contempt in the virtuous years of the Revolution, that no one dared to pay even fifty francs for their frivolous paintings. They are represented by excellent pieces, as well as the more serious master Greuze, whose "Death of an Old Man" would do honor even to our good Knaus. Boucher and Lancret justly deserve our attention. But Marguerite Gerard, the sister-in law of Fragonard, and Jean B. Chardin, have quite inconspicuously realized a goodly portion of the impressionist programme without devoting themselves merely to problems of light and shade. The "Mother's Happiness" of the former does full justice to the charming scene and easily solves a problem in interiors. The same is true of Chardin's "Washerwomen." There is positively nothing new under the sun. It is only the one or the other side of the universal knowledge of the great masters acclaimed as an entirely new discovery. Then follow actions and reactions, and thus the so-called art history is formed, the rise and fall among a few high peaks and nothing more.
One day we found a whole row of rooms closed, just those that contained our favorites of the Rembrandt gallery. What was the cause of it? Preparations were being made for the Czar's dinner. A great court dinner is given every Friday in the splendid halls of the Hermitage, and suitable preparations are made on the previous day. Flowers are placed everywhere, dishes and silver are brought and kept under special watch. The Czar's table is placed in the large Italian hall; the courtier's tables in the adjoining halls. The conservatories and prominent artists have already petitioned for the abolition of this barbaric custom, for the vapors from the viands do not in any wise contribute to the preservation of the costly paintings. But how are exhortations of warning to reach the Czar's ear? They are derided by the servile courtiers, and held up to scorn as professional fancies of but little significance when compared with the wish of princes to dine among the finest works of art in the world. The consciousness that great works of art are merely kept in trust by their passing owners, kept for their true owner, progress-making humanity, has perhaps reached the better class, but has not been awakened in the autocracy, where even the conception of humanity has not yet been attained. They own pictures as they own crown jewels, and consider themselves at liberty to treat them as they please. But on such a matter the subject must remain silent; and he does. It is the environment that influences princes, whether for good or for evil. But the injury to a few paintings, however expensive, is not the worst that rests on the conscience of the ring in the Czar's court, just as the Hermitage is not the most objectionable feature of St. Petersburg. When the Russian empire shall have overcome the phase of barbarian mistrust for strangers and of oppressive police management, when it shall have really opened its gates, the Hermitage will become a true centre of attraction with few equals in the universe. Then will become common property those wonder works that to-day are still beyond the reach of common knowledge. In the Russia of to-day a treasury of culture like the Hermitage is almost an anachronism.