CHAPTER IV
The Lure of Illumination
IV
THE LURE OF ILLUMINATION
Sitting one day in the librarian’s office in the Laurenziana Library, in Florence, the conversation turned upon the subject of illumination. Taking a key from his pocket, my friend Guido Biagi unlocked one of the drawers in the ancient wooden desk in front of him, and lifted from it a small, purple vellum case, inlaid with jewels. Opening it carefully, he exposed a volume similarly bound and similarly adorned. Then, as he turned the leaves, and the full splendor of the masterpiece was spread out before me,—the marvelous delicacy of design, the gorgeousness of color, the magnificence of decoration and miniature,—I drew in my breath excitedly, and bent nearer to the magnifying glass which was required in tracing the intricacy of the work.
This was a Book of Hours illuminated by Francesco d’Antonio del Cherico, which had once belonged to Lorenzo de’ Medici, and was representative of the best of the fifteenth-century Italian work (page [146]). The hand letters were written by Antonio Sinibaldi in humanistic characters upon the finest and rarest parchment; the illumination, with its beaten gold and gorgeous colors, was so close a representation of the jewels themselves as to make one almost believe that the gems were inlaid upon the page! And it was the very volume that had many times rested in the hands of Lorenzo the Magnificent, as it was at that moment resting in mine!
For the first time the art of illumination became real to me,—not something merely to be gazed at with respect and admiration, but an expression of artistic accomplishment to be studied and understood, and made a part of one’s life.
The underlying thought that has inspired illumination in books from its very beginning is more interesting even than the splendid pages which challenge one’s comprehension and almost pass beyond his power of understanding. To the ancients, as we have seen, the rarest gems in all the world were gems of thought. The book was the tangible and visible expression of man’s intellect, worthy of the noblest presentation. These true lovers of books engaged scribes to write the text in minium of rare brilliancy brought from India or Spain, or in Byzantine ink of pure Oriental gold; they selected, to write upon, the finest material possible,—sometimes nothing less than virgin parchment, soft as velvet, made from the skins of still-born kids; they employed the greatest artists of the day to draw decorations or to paint miniatures; and they enclosed this glorified thought of man, now perpetuated for all time, in a cover devised sometimes of tablets of beaten gold, or of ivory inlaid with precious jewels (page [112]).
CARVED IVORY BINDING
Jeweled with Rubies and Turquoises
From Psalter (12th Century). Brit. Mus. Eger. MS. 1139
(Reduced in size)
For centuries, this glorification was primarily bestowed upon religious manuscripts, and illumination came to be associated with the Church, but by the fourteenth century the art ceased to be confined to the cloister. Wealthy patrons recognized that it offered too splendid a medium of expression to permit limitation; and lay artists were employed to add their talents in increasing the illuminated treasures of the world.
There would seem to be no reason why so satisfying an art as that of illumination should not continue to be employed to make beautifully printed books still more beautiful, yet even among those who really love and know books there is a surprising lack of knowledge concerning this fascinating work. The art of Raphael and Rubens has been a part of our every-day life and is familiar to us; but the names of Francesco d’Antonio, Jean Foucquet, and Jean Bourdichon have never become household words, and the masterpieces of the illuminator’s art which stand to their credit seem almost shrouded in a hazy and mysterious indefiniteness.
I have learned from my own experience that even fragmentary study brings rich rewards:—the interest in discovering that instead of being merely decorative, the art of illumination is as definitive in recording the temporary or fashionable customs of various periods as history itself. There is a satisfaction in learning to distinguish the characteristics of each well-defined school:—of recognizing the fretted arcades and mosaics of church decoration in the Romanesque style; the stained glass of the Gothic cathedrals in the schools of England, France, Germany, or Italy; the love of flower cultivation in the work of the Netherlandish artists; the echo of the skill of the goldsmith and enameller in the French manuscripts; and the glory of the gem cutter in those of the Italian Renaissance. There is the romance connected with each great masterpiece as it passes from artist to patron, and then on down the centuries, commemorating loyal devotion to saintly attributes; expressing fealty at coronations or congratulations at Royal marriages; conveying expressions of devotion and affection from noble lords and ladies, one to the other. Illuminated volumes were not the playthings of the common people, and in their peregrinations to their final resting places in libraries and museums, they passed along a Royal road and became clothed with fascinating associations.
There was a time when I thought I knew enough about the various schools to recognize the locality of origin or the approximate date of a manuscript, but I soon learned my presumption. Illuminators of one country, particularly of France, scattered themselves all over Europe, retaining the basic principles of their own national style, yet adding to it something significant of the country in which they worked. Of course, there are certain external evidences which help. The vellum itself tells a story: if it is peculiarly white and fine, and highly polished, the presumption is that it is Italian or dates earlier than the tenth century; if very thin and soft, it was made from the skins of still-born calves or kids, and is probably of the thirteenth or fourteenth centuries.
The colors, too, contribute their share. Each old-time artist ground or mixed his own pigments,—red and blue, and less commonly yellow, green, purple, black, and white. Certain shades are characteristic of certain periods. The application of gold differs from time to time: in England, for instance, gold powder was used until the twelfth century, after which date gold leaf is beautifully laid on the sheet. The raised-gold letters and decorations were made by building up with a peculiar clay, after the design had been drawn in outline, over which the gold leaf was skilfully laid and burnished with an agate.
As the student applies himself to the subject, one clue leads him to another, and he pursues his search with a fascination that soon becomes an obsession. That chance acquaintance with Francesco d’Antonio inspired me to become better acquainted with this art. It took me into different monasteries and libraries, always following “the quest,” and lured me on to further seeking by learning of new beauties for which to search, and of new examples to be studied. Even as I write this, I am told that at Chantilly, in the Musée Condé, the Très Riches Heures of the Duc de Berry is the most beautiful example of the French school. I have never seen it, and I now have a new objective on my next visit to France!
In this quest, covering many years, I have come to single out certain manuscripts as signifying to me certain interesting developments in the art during its evolution, and I study them whenever the opportunity offers. It is of these that I make a record here. Some might select other examples as better illustrative from their own viewpoints; some might draw conclusions different from mine from the same examples,—and we might all be right!
There is little for us to examine in our pilgrimage until the Emperor Justinian, after the conflagration in the year 532, which completely wiped out Constantinople with its magnificent monuments, reconstructed and rebuilt the city. There are two copies of Virgil at the Vatican Library in Rome, to be sure, which are earlier than that, and form links in the chain between illumination as illustration and as book decoration; there is the Roman Calendar in the Imperial Library at Vienna, in which for the first time is combined decoration with illustration; there is the Ambrosiana Homer at Milan, of which an excellent reproduction may be found in any large library,—made under the supervision of Achille Ratti, before he became Pope Pius XI; there are the burnt fragments of the Cottonian Genesis at the British Museum in London,—none more than four inches square, and running down to one inch, some perforated with holes, and almost obliterated, others still preserving the ancient colors of the design, with the Greek letters clearly legible after sixteen centuries.
These are historical and interesting, but we are seeking beauty. In the splendor of the rebirth of Constantinople, to which all the known world contributed gold, and silver, and jewels, medieval illumination found its beginning. Artists could now afford to send to the Far East and to the southern shores of Europe for their costly materials. Brilliant minium came from India and from Spain, lapis lazuli from Persia and Bokhara, and the famous Byzantine gold ink was manufactured by the illuminators themselves out of pure Oriental gold. The vellum was stained with rose and scarlet tints and purple dyes, upon which the gold and silver inks contrasted with marvelous brilliancy.
Gorgeousness was the fashion of the times in everything from architecture to dress, and in the wealth and sumptuous materials at their command the artists mistook splendor for beauty. The Byzantine figure work is based upon models as rigid as those of the Egyptians, and shows little life or variety ([opp. page]). Landscapes and trees are symbolic and fanciful. Buildings have no regard for relative proportions, and are tinted merely as parts of the general color scheme. The illuminators adhered so closely to mechanical rules that the volumes lack even individuality.
PSALTER IN GREEK. Byzantine, 11th Century
Solomon, David, Gideon, and the Annunciation
(Brit. Mus. Add. MS. 19352. 9¼ × 8 inches)
There are comparatively few of these extravagant relics now in existence. Their intrinsic value made them favorite objects of pillage, and hundreds were destroyed for their jewels and precious metals. In many of those that have endured, like the Codex Argenteus, at Upsala, in Sweden, the silver letters have turned black, the gold ink has become a rusty red, and the stained vellum now supplies a tawdry background.
After passing the early stages of the art, there are ten examples I particularly like to keep fresh in my mind as showing the evolution of that insatiable desire on the part of booklovers of all ages to enrich the book. Four of these are in the British Museum in London, four in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, one in the Library of San Marco in Venice, and one in the Laurenziana Library in Florence. In each of these storehouses of treasure there are many other manuscripts worthy of all the time a pilgrim can spare; but these ten represent different schools and different epochs, and in my own study have combined to make illumination a living art and a romantic history.
The Lindisfarne Gospels is where I start my illuminated pilgrimage. It takes me back to the seventh century, when the world was shrouded in darkest ignorance, and is a reminder that except for the development in the Irish monasteries, as typified by early illuminated volumes such as this, knowledge of books might have almost wholly disappeared. It recalls the asceticism of those early Irish monks carried even to a point of fanaticism; their toilsome pilgrimages to Rome, visiting the different monasteries and collecting, one by one, the manuscripts to bring back to form those early libraries that kept alive the light of learning.
The Irish school of writing and painting passed over to England through the monasteries established by the Irish monks in Scotland, and the earliest of the English settlements was Lindisfarne. It was here that the Gospels, one of the most characteristic examples of the Celtic School, as translated to northern England, was produced. Such knowledge of its date and origin as exists rests upon a colophon added at the end of the manuscript, probably in the tenth century, which would seem to place the date of the execution of the work at about the year 700. For nearly two centuries it remained as the chief treasure of Lindisfarne. In 875, so the tradition runs, in order to escape from the invasion of the Danes, it was decided to remove the body of Saint Cuthbert and the most valued relics to the mainland, and the Gospels was included. When the attempt was made to cross over to Ireland, according to the legend, the ship was driven back by storm, and the chest containing the precious volume was lost overboard. Here is the quaint chronicle:
In this storm, while the ship was lying over on her side, a copy of the Gospels, adorned with gold and precious stones, fell overboard and sank into the depths of the sea. Accordingly, after a little while, they bend their knees and prostrate themselves at full length before the feet of the sacred body, asking pardon for their foolish venture. Then they seize the helm and turn the ship back to the shore and to their fellows, and immediately they arrive there without any difficulty, the wind blowing astern.… Amidst their lamentations in this distress, at length the accustomed help of their pious patron came to their aid, whereby their minds were relieved from grief and their bodies from labor, seeing that the Lord is a refuge of the poor, a helper in time of trouble. For, appearing in a vision to one of them, Hunred by name, he bade them seek, when the tide was low, for the manuscript…; for, perchance, beyond the utmost they could hope, they would, by the mercy of God, find it.… Accordingly they go to the sea and find that it had retired much farther than it was accustomed; and after walking three miles or more they find the sacred manuscript of the Gospels itself, exhibiting all its outer splendor of jewels and gold and all the beauty of its pages and writing within, as though it had never been touched by water.… And this is believed to be due to the merits of Saint Cuthbert himself and of those who made the book, namely Bishop Eadfrith of holy memory, who wrote it with his own hand in honor of the blessed Cuthbert; and the venerable Æthelwald, his successor, who caused it to be adorned with gold and precious stones; and Saint Billfrith the anchorite, who, obeying with skilled hands the wishes of his superior, achieved an excellent work. For he excelled in the goldsmith’s art.
This quotation from Mr. Eric George Millar’s Introduction to the facsimile reproduction of this famous manuscript, published by the British Museum, is given at such length to emphasize at the very beginning of this pilgrimage the important place given to these manuscripts in the communities for which they were prepared. The fact that such a legend exists at all attests the personality the manuscript had assumed. It was my very great pleasure, the last time I studied the Gospels, to have Mr. Millar, who is an Assistant in the Department of Manuscripts at the British Museum, explain many things in connection with it which could not be gleaned without the exhaustive study which he has given to it.
The Gospels includes 258 leaves of heavy vellum, measuring about 13 by 10 inches. The Latin text is written in beautifully designed, semi-uncial characters. These differ from the capital letters only by their relatively greater roundness, inclination, and inequality in height. This style of lettering obtained until the eighth or ninth century, when the semi-uncial character became the transition to the minuscule. There are five full pages of decoration, in cruciform design of most extraordinary elaboration; six pages of ornamented text; four full-page miniatures of the Evangelists, in which the scribes are drawn in profile, seated, with cushion, desk, and footstool; sixteen pages of Canon tables, decorated in pure Celtic style; and numerous initials of various sizes.
The great interest in this manuscript lies in the cruciform pages. When I first saw them I thought the work a marvelous example of the amount of intricate design an artist could devise within a given area of space. Then, as I studied them, came the realization that, complicated as they were, there was a definite plan the artist had established and followed which preserved the balance of coloring and design.
In the illustration here given (page [124]), Mr. Millar showed me how he has ingeniously unraveled the knots. It is peculiarly interesting as it demonstrates the methods by which the expert is able to understand much that the casual observer fails to see. He pointed out that the background of the page is occupied by a design of no less than 88 birds, arranged in a perfect pattern, with 7 at the top, 7 at the bottom, 9 on each side, 12 in the gaps between the outer panels, four groups of 10 surrounding the rectangular panels, and 4 single birds in the gaps between the points of the cross and the T panels. The necks and the bodies are so cleverly balanced that even when at first the scheme seems inconsistent, further examination shows that the artist adhered religiously to his plan. The color arrangement is carried out with equal thought and care.
THE LINDISFARNE GOSPELS. Celtic, about A.D. 700
(Brit. Mus. Cotton MS. Nero. D. iv. 12½ × 10 inches)
The four miniatures of the Evangelists show Byzantine influence, but in the features, and the hair, and in the frames, the Celtic style prevails. Gold is used only on two pages.
The Lindisfarne Gospels cannot be called beautiful when compared with the work of later centuries, but can we fully appreciate the beauty we are approaching without becoming familiar, step by step, with what led up to it? In this manuscript the precious Gospels were enriched by the labor of devoted enthusiasts in the manner they knew best, and with an ingenuity and industry that staggers us today. Taking what the past had taught them, they gave to it their own interpretation, and thus advanced the art toward its final consummation and glory.
Taken merely as an example of illumination, few would share my interest in the Alcuin Bible, a Carolingian manuscript of the ninth century; but to any one interested in printing, this huge volume at the British Museum cannot be overlooked. In the eighth century the Irish and Anglo-Saxon missionary artists transplanted their work to their settlements on the Continent, out of which sprang the Carolingian School in France,—so named in honor of Charlemagne. Sacred compositions, derived largely from Latin and Byzantine sources, were now added to the highly ornamental letters. Solid backgrounds were abandoned, and handsome architectural designs were used to frame the miniatures.
If you will examine the Alcuin Bible with me, you will note what a tremendous advance has been made. The manuscript is a copy of the Vulgate said to be revised and amended by Alcuin of York to present to Charlemagne on the occasion of that monarch’s coronation. Some dispute this tradition altogether; some claim that a similar Bible, now in Rome, is entitled to the honor; but the controversy does not detract from the interest in the book itself. This Alcuin of York was the instrument of Charlemagne in establishing the reform in hand lettering, which has been of the utmost importance in the history of printing. Starting with the foundation of the School of Tours in 796, the minuscule, or lower-case letter, which is the basis of our modern styles, superseded all other forms of hand lettering. By the twelfth century the clear, free-flowing form that developed from the Caroline minuscule was the most beautiful hand ever developed, and was never surpassed until the humanistic scribes of the fifteenth century took it in its Italian form as their model and perfected it.
The volume is a large quarto, 20 by 14¼ inches in size, splendidly written in double column in minuscule characters with uncial initials ([opp. page]). There are four full-page illuminations, and many smaller miniatures, with characteristic architectural detail that show Roman influence, while the decorations themselves are reminiscent of the Byzantine and the Celtic Schools.
ALCUIN BIBLE. Carolingian, 9th Century
Showing the Caroline Minuscule
(Brit. Mus. Add. MS. 10546. 20 × 14¼ inches)
It is the hand lettering rather than the illumination or the decoration that particularly interests me. When I first began my work in designing my Humanistic type, I was amazed that the humanistic scribes of the fifteenth century, upon whose letters I based my own, could have so suddenly taken such a stride forward. The mere fact that there was a greater demand for their work did not seem to explain the phenomenon. Then I discovered that these fifteenth-century artists, instead of adapting or copying the Caroline minuscule, set about to perfect it. They mastered the principles upon which it was based, and with the technical advantages that had come to them through the intervening centuries, brought the design to its fullest beauty.
To supplement my study of the Alcuin Bible, I turn to the masterpiece of the Carolingian School in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris. The Golden Gospels of Saint Médard belongs to the same period as the Alcuin Bible, and its hand letters are of the same beautiful design, but more brilliant in that they are written throughout in gold. In spite of the crude and unnatural figures, I am always impressed with a feeling that the artist is, for the first time, making a definite effort to break away from past tradition toward more natural design. The Byzantine atmosphere still clings to the work as a whole ([opp. page]), but in the frames and the backgrounds there is an echo of the ivory carving and the architecture of the new Church of San Vitale at Ravenna, and the powerful influence of the early Christian symbolism asserts itself in the miniatures.
GOLDEN GOSPELS OF ST. MÉDARD.
Carolingian, 9th Century
(Bibl. Nat. MS. Lat. 8850. 12 × 7½ inches)
The hand-lettered pages are enclosed in plain borders of green or red tint, with outside rules of gold. Each picture page covers the entire leaf. Every now and then, superimposed upon the solid background of the margins, are tiny figures so far superior in freedom of design to the major subjects as to make one wonder why the more pretentious efforts are not farther advanced than they are. Yet why should we be surprised that an artist, under the influence of centuries of precedent and the ever-present aversion to change, should move slowly in expressing originality? As it is, the pages of Saint Médard give us for the first time motivation for the glorious development of the art to come in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.
The rise of Gothic influence forms the great dividing line between the old, or ecclesiastic, and the new, or naturalistic, spirit in monastic art. The Psalter of Saint Louis, a Gothic manuscript of the thirteenth century, in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, is an example of this transition that I like to study.
By the beginning of the thirteenth century the initial—which in the Celtic style had dominated the entire page—was losing its supremacy, becoming simply one factor in the general scheme. A delicate fringe work or filigree of pen flourishes, which had sprung up around the initial as it became reduced in size, was later to be converted into a tendril or cylindrical stem, bearing a succession of five leaves and leaflets of ivy, usually entirely filled with burnished gold. Small figures, and, later, groups of figures, take the place of the linear ornament in the interior of the letter, and calligraphy and miniature painting become successfully fused. An exact date cannot be assigned, as it was the result of a slow and gradual growth.
From certain references made in the Calendar pages of the Psalter, it is evident that the manuscript was copied and illuminated between the year 1252, when Queen Blanche of Castile died, and the death of Saint Louis in 1270. What a story this book could tell! Written in French in red ink on one of the front end leaves is this inscription:
This Psalter of Saint Louis was given by Queen Jeanne d’Evreux to King Charles, son of King John, in the year of our Master, 1369; and the present King Charles, son of the said King Charles, gave it to Madame Marie of France, his daughter, a nun at Poissy, on Saint Michel’s Day, in the year 1400
The Psalter contains 260 leaves of parchment, 8½ by 6 inches. Of these, seventy-eight are small, beautiful miniatures, depicting the principal scenes in the early books of the Old Testament, and eight are illustrations to the Psalms (page [132]), the remaining leaves being occupied by the text. In these miniatures is shown a refinement and delicacy of treatment combined with unusual freedom in execution. Here is one of the best examples of the reflection of the stained-glass windows of the Gothic cathedrals ([opp. page]), to which reference has already been made. There is no shading whatever. The body color is laid on the design in flat tints, finished by strokes of the pen.
PSALTER OF SAINT LOUIS. Gothic, 13th Century
Abraham and Isaac
(Bibl. Nat. MS. Lat. 10525. 8½ × 6 inches)
PSALTER OF SAINT LOUIS. Gothic, 13th Century
Psalms lxviii. 1–3
(Bibl. Nat. MS. Lat. 10525. 8½ × 6 inches)
All this is interesting because this period marks the end of the needless limitations illuminators placed upon themselves. Working on vellum as a medium instead of in glass with lead outlines, should be a much simpler operation! Still, one can’t help reveling in the bright scarlet and the rich blue of the stained glass, and would be loath to give it up.
The volume is bound in old boards, covered with blue and rose material embossed with silver and reinforced with velvet. The clasps are gone.
The style of illumination in the thirteenth century shows no distinct national characteristics, for, even in England, some of the work was executed by French artists. The initial is usually set within a frame shaped to its outline, the ground being either of gold, slightly raised or burnished, or of color, especially dark blue and pale tints of salmon, gray, or violet, sometimes edged with gold.
Queen Mary’s Psalter, a superb example of the English School in the early fourteenth century, is a landmark in our pilgrimage because, in addition to its surpassing beauty, it is an example of illumination sought for its own artistic value instead of being associated wholly with devotional manuscripts. No one can examine the charming series of little tinted drawings in the margins of the Litany without being convinced that the artist, whoever he may have been, was quite familiar with the world outside the Church (see [frontispiece]).
The earliest note of ownership in this manuscript is of the sixteenth century:
This boke was sume tyme the Erle of Rutelands, and it was his wil that it shulde by successioun all way go to the lande of Ruteland or to him that linyally suceedes by reson of inheritaunce in the saide lande.
How fascinating these records are, made by different hands as the precious manuscripts are passed on down the ages! Even though we have no absolute knowledge of which Rutland is meant, an added personality is given to the pages we are now permitted to turn and to admire. In this manuscript there is also a second note, written in Latin on the fly leaf at the end, paying a tribute to a certain Baldwin Smith, “an honest customs officer,” who frustrated an attempt to ship the volume out of England, and presented it to Queen Mary. It is now in the British Museum.
Whether or not this was Queen Mary’s first acquaintance with the manuscript is not known, but from the binding she put on it she surely considered it a highly prized personal possession. It would naturally be of special interest to her because of its connection with the old liturgy she was so anxious to restore. The silver-gilt clasp fittings are missing now. The crimson velvet with the pomegranate, the Queen’s badge, worked in colored silks and gold thread on each cover, are worn and shabby; but on the corner plates the engraved lion, dragon, portcullis, and fleur-de-lys of the Tudors are still triumphant.
The manuscript, executed upon thin vellum, and consisting of 320 leaves about 11 by 7 inches, opens with a series of 228 pen and ink drawings. In most cases there are two designs on each page, illustrating Bible history from the Creation down to the death of Solomon (page [134]). With the drawings is a running description in French, sometimes in prose, sometimes in rhyme, which in itself is interesting, as the story does not always confine itself strictly to the Biblical records but occasionally embodies apocryphal details.
The drawings themselves are exquisite, and in the skill of execution mark another tremendous advance in the art of illumination. They are delicately tinted with violet, green, red, and brown. The frame is a plain band of vermilion, from each corner of which is extended a stem with three leaves tinted with green or violet.
Following the series of drawings comes a full page showing the Tree of Jesse, and three other full pages depicting the Saints,—one page of four compartments and two of six. The text, from this point, represents the usual form of the liturgical Psalter, the Psalms being preceded by a Calendar, two pages to a month, and followed by the Canticles, including the Athanasian Creed, and then by the Litany. In the Psalter, the miniatures show incidents from the life of Christ; the Canticles depict scenes from the Passion; while in the Litany are miniatures of the Saints and Martyrs. The initials themselves are elaborate, many containing small miniatures, and all lighted up with brilliant colors and burnished gold. In the Litany, in addition to the religious subjects, there are splendid little scenes of every-day life painted in the lower margins which make the manuscript unique,—illustrations of the Bestiary, tilting and hunting scenes, sports and pastimes, grotesque figures and combats, dancers and musicians. The manuscript ends with the Miracles of the Virgin and the Lives and Passions of the Saints.
In Queen Mary’s Psalter, and in manuscripts from this period to those of the sixteenth century, we find ourselves reveling in sheer beauty. “Why not have started here?” asks my reader. Perhaps we should have done so; but this is a record not of what I ought to do, but of what I’ve done! To see one beautiful manuscript after another, without being able to recognize what makes each one different and significant, would take away my pleasure, for the riotous colors and gold would merge one into another. Is it not true that there comes greater enjoyment in better understanding? We admire what we may not understand, but without understanding there can be no complete appreciation. In this case, familiarity breeds content!
QUEEN MARY’S PSALTER. English, 14th Century
From the Life of Joseph
(Brit. Mus. Royal MS. 2B vii. 11 × 7 inches)
After studying the best of fourteenth-century English illumination in Queen Mary’s Psalter, I like to turn to the Bedford Book of Hours, to make comparison with one of the most beautiful French manuscripts of a century later. This is also at the British Museum, so in the brief space of time required by the attendant to change the volumes on the rack in front of me, I am face to face with the romance and the beauty of another famous volume, which stands as a memorial of English domination in France.
Fashions change in illuminated manuscripts, as in all else, and books of hours were now beginning to be the vogue in place of psalters. This one was written and decorated for John, Duke of Bedford, son of Henry IV, and was probably a wedding gift to Anne, his wife. This marriage, it will be remembered, was intended to strengthen the English alliance with Anne’s brother, Philip of Burgundy. On the blank page on the back of the Duke’s portrait is a record in Latin, made by John Somerset, the King’s physician, to the effect that on Christmas Eve, 1430, the Duchess, with her husband’s consent, presented the manuscript to the young King Henry VI, who was then at Rouen, on his way to be crowned at Paris. Such notes, made in these later illuminated volumes, are interesting as far as they go, but there is so much left unsaid! In the present instance, how came the manuscript, a hundred years later, in the possession of Henri II and Catherine de’ Medici, of France? After being thus located, where was it for the next hundred years, before it was purchased by Edward Harley, 2d Earl of Oxford, from Sir Robert Worsley’s widow, to be presented to his daughter, the Duchess of Portland? These are questions that naturally arise in one’s mind as he turns the gorgeous pages, for it seems incredible that such beauty could remain hidden for such long periods. Now, happily, through purchase in 1852, the manuscript has reached its final resting place.
BEDFORD BOOK OF HOURS. French, 15th Century
Showing one of the superb Miniature Pages
(Brit. Mus. Add. MS. 18850. 10¼ × 7¼ inches)
Like other books of hours, the Bedford opens with the Calendar pages, combining the signs of the Zodiac with beautifully executed scenes typical of each month. Then follow four full-page designs showing the Creation and Fall, the Building of the Ark, the Exit from the Ark, and the Tower of Babel. The Sequences of the Gospels come next; then the Hours of the Virgin, with Penitential Psalms and Litany; the Shorter Hours; the Vigils of the Dead; the Fifteen Joys; the Hours of the Passion; the Memorials of the Saints; and various Prayers. Throughout the 289 leaves, a little larger than 10 by 7 inches, are thirty-eight full-page miniatures that are masterpieces,—particularly the Annunciation, with which the Hours of the Virgin begin. Every page of text is surrounded by a magnificent border, rich in colors and gold, with foliage and birds, and with the daintiest little miniatures imaginable. While these borders are based upon the ivy-leaf pattern, it resembles the style that carries the illumination through the leaf, bud, and flower up to the fruit itself, which one associates more with the Flemish than the French School. The work is really a combination of the French and Flemish Schools, but is essentially French in its conception and execution.
It was the custom, in these specially created manuscripts, to immortalize the heads of the family by including them with other, and, perhaps in some cases, more religious subjects. In this Book of Hours, the Duke of Bedford is depicted, clad in a long, fur-lined gown of cloth-of-gold, kneeling before Saint George, and the portrait is so fine that it has been frequently copied. The page which perpetuates the Duchess is reproduced here (at page [136]). Clad in a sumptuous gown of cloth-of-gold, lined with ermine, she kneels before Saint Anne; her elaborate head-dress supports an artificial coiffure, rich in jewels; on her long train, her two favorite dogs are playing. The Saint is clad in a grey gown, with blue mantle and white veil, with an open book in front of her. At her left stands the Virgin in white, with jeweled crown, and the infant Christ, in grey robe. His mother has thrown her arm affectionately about Him, while He, in turn, beams on the kneeling Duchess. In His hand He carries an orb surmounted by a cross. Saint Joseph stands at the right of the background, and four angels may be seen with musical instruments, appearing above the arras, on which is stamped the device and motto of the Duchess.
Surrounding the miniature, worked into the border, in addition to the Duke’s shield and arms, are exquisite smaller pictures, in architectural backgrounds, showing Saint Anne’s three husbands and her sons-in-law. The pages must be seen in their full color, and in their original setting, to be appreciated.
The manuscript is bound in red velvet, with silver-gilt clasps, bearing the Harley and the Cavendish arms, and dates back to the time of the Earl of Oxford.
ANTIQUITIES OF THE JEWS. French Renaissance, 15th Century
Cyrus permits the Jews to return to their own Country, and to rebuild the Temple of Jerusalem
(Bibl. Nat. MS. Français 247. 16¼ × 11½ inches)
In the Antiquities of the Jews, Jean Foucquet’s masterpiece at the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, we find the French Renaissance School. This manuscript interests me for several and different reasons. In the first place, Foucquet was one of the founders of the French School of painting, and had his masterpieces been painted on canvas instead of on vellum, his name would have been much more familiar to art lovers than it is today. The high degree attained by the art at Tours, which had become the center of the Renaissance in France, demanded a setting for the miniatures different from the Flemish type of decoration that had so dominated illumination in general. This it found in the Italian style, which at that time was first attaining its glory.
The book itself was originally bound in two volumes, being a French translation by an unknown writer of Flavius Josephus’ Antiquities and War of the Jews, the subject being the clemency of Cyrus toward the captive Jews in Babylon. It is in folio (a little larger than 16 by 11 inches), written in double column, and contains superb initials, vignettes, and miniatures (page [138]). The work was begun for the Duc de Berry, but was left unfinished at his death in 1416. Later it came into the possession of the Duc de Nemours. Can one imagine a more aristocratic treasure for a cultured gentleman to own! It was probably begun very early in the fifteenth century, and completed between the years 1455 and 1477. A note at the end of the first volume (which contains 311 leaves) by François Robertet, secretary of Pierre II, Duc de Bourbon, states that nine of the miniatures are “by the hand of that good painter of King Louis XI, Jean Foucquet, native of Tours.”
For over two hundred years this first volume, containing Books I to XIV of the Antiquities of the Jews, has been in the Bibliothèque Nationale. It is bound in yellow morocco, and bears the arms of Louis XV. The second volume was considered lost. In 1903 the English collector, Mr. Henry Yates Thompson, purchased the missing copy in London, at a sale at Sotheby’s. This contained Books XV to XX of the Antiquities of the Jews and Books I to VII of the War of the Jews; but it was imperfect in that a dozen pages of miniatures had been cut out. Two years later, Sir George Warner discovered ten of these filched leaves in an album of miniatures that at some time had been presented to Queen Victoria, and were in her collection at Windsor Castle.
As soon as Mr. Thompson heard of this discovery, he begged King Edward VII to accept his volume, in order that the leaves might be combined. The English monarch received the gift with the understanding that he, in turn, might present the restored manuscript to the President of the French Republic. This gracious act was accomplished on March 4, 1906, and now the two volumes rest side by side in the Bibliothèque Nationale, reunited for all time after their long separation. If books possess personalities, surely no international romance ever offered greater material for the novelist’s imagination!
Now our pilgrimage takes us from Paris to Venice, to study that priceless treasure of the Library of San Marco, the Grimani Breviary, the gem of the Flemish School (which should properly be called “Netherlandish”). This style overlapped, distinctly, into Germany and France, and further complicated any certainty of identification by the fact that the number of Netherlandish illuminators was large, and they scattered themselves over Europe, practising their art and style in France, Germany, and Italy. They all worked with the same minute care, and it is practically impossible to identify absolutely the work even of the most famous artists. There has always been a question whether the chief glory of the Grimani Breviary belonged to Hans Memling or to Gerard Van-der-Meire, but from a study of the comparative claims the Memling enthusiasts would seem to have the better of the argument.
Internal and external evidence place the date of the execution of the Grimani Breviary at 1478 to 1489,—ten years being required for its completion. It is believed that the commission was given by Pope Sixtus IV. The Pontiff, however, died before the volume was finished, and it was left in the hands of one of the artists engaged upon it. Antonello di Messina purchased it from this artist, who is supposed to have been Hans Memling, and brought it to Venice, where he sold it for the sum of 500 ducats to Cardinal Domenico Grimani, whose name it bears.
GRIMANI BREVIARY. Flemish, 15th Century
La Vie au Mois de Janvier
(Biblioteca San Marco, Venice. 10 × 9 inches)
This Cardinal Grimani was a man noted not only for his exemplary piety but also as a literary man of high repute, and a collector of rare judgment. When he died, the Breviary was bequeathed to his nephew, Marino Grimani, Patriarch of Aquileia, on the condition that at his death the precious manuscript should become the property of the Venetian Republic. Marino carried the Breviary with him to Rome, where it remained until his death in 1546. In spite of his precautions, however, this and several other valuable objects would have been irretrievably lost had not Giovanni Grimani, Marino’s successor as Patriarch at Aquileia, searched for it, and finally recovered it at great cost to himself.
In recognition of his services, Venice granted Giovanni the privilege of retaining the manuscript in his possession during his lifetime. Faithful to his trust, Giovanni, fearing lest the volume be again lost, on October 3, 1593, sent for his great friend, Marco Antonio Barbaro, Procurator of Saint Mark’s, placed the treasure in his hands, and charged him to deliver it to the Doge Pasquale Cicogna in full Senate. This was done, and the volume was stored in the Treasury of the Basilica for safe keeping. Here it remained through the many vicissitudes of Venice, and even after the fall of the Republic, until the librarian Morelli persuaded the authorities to allow its removal to the Library of San Marco, whither it was transferred October 4, 1797.
When the Breviary was delivered to the Doge Pasquale, the Republic voted to entrust the binding to one Alessandro Vittoria. The cover is of crimson velvet, largely hidden by ornaments of silver gilt. On one side are the arms and the medallion of Cardinal Domenico Grimani, and on the other those of his father, the Doge Antonio. Both covers contain further decorations and Latin inscriptions, relating in the first case to the gift, and in the other to its confirmation. In the small medallions in the border one sees a branch of laurel, the emblem of vigilance and protection, crossed by a branch of palm,—the symbol of the religious life. The dove typifies purity, and the dragon stands for defense.
The volume itself contains 831 pages about 10 by 9 inches in size. There are the usual Calendar pages, containing the signs of the Zodiac, and further decorated with small miniatures ([opp. page]), alternating with twelve superb full-page illuminations (page [142]), showing the occupations of the months. Following these, come the Prayers, with sixty additional full-page miniatures based on Bible history or the lives of the Saints. At the end are eighteen pages with smaller miniatures assigned to the saints of special devotion, placed at the beginning of the office dedicated to each.
GRIMANI BREVIARY. Flemish, 15th Century
Text Page showing Miniature and Decoration
(Biblioteca San Marco, Venice. 10 × 9 inches)
The marginal decorations throughout the book are wonderfully wrought. Some pages are adorned with perpendicular bands, with constantly varying color combinations. Arabesques of all kinds are used, and interspersed among the ornamentation are flowers and fruits, animals, birds, fishes, and all kinds of natural objects. In addition to these, one finds little buildings, landscapes, architectural ornaments, statues, church ornaments, frames, vases, cameos, medals, and scenes from Bible history and from every-day life as well,—all showing the genius of the artists who put themselves into the spirit of their work.
When the old Campanile fell in 1902, one corner of the Library of San Marco was damaged. Immediately telegrams poured in from all over the world, anxiously inquiring for the safety of the Grimani Breviary. Fortunately it was untouched. The last time I saw this precious manuscript was in 1924. Doctor Luigi Ferrari, the librarian, courteously took the volume from its case and laid it tenderly on a low table, extending to me the unusual privilege of personal examination. Thus I could turn the pages slowly enough to enjoy again the exquisite charm of its miniatures, the beauty of its coloring, and to assimilate the depth of feeling which pervades it throughout. My friends at the British Museum think that in the Flemish pages of the Sforza Book of Hours they have the finest example of the Flemish School. They may be right; but no miniatures I have ever seen have seemed to me more marvelously beautiful than those in the Grimani Breviary.
Whenever I examine a beautiful manuscript, and take delight in it, I find myself comparing it with the Italian masterpiece of Francesco d’Antonio del Cherico. It may be that this is due to my dramatic introduction to that volume, as recorded at the beginning of this chapter. Its date is perhaps half a century earlier than the Hours of Anne of Brittany; it is of the same period as the Grimani Breviary and the Antiquities of the Jews; it is fifty years later than the Bedford Book of Hours, and a century and a half later than Queen Mary’s Psalter. Which of all these magnificent manuscripts is the most beautiful? Who would dare to say! In all there is found the expression of art in its highest form; in each the individual admirer finds some special feature—the beauty of the designs, the richness of the composition, the warmth of the coloring, or the perfection of the execution—that particularly appeals.
BOOK OF HOURS. Italian, 15th Century
By Francesco d’Antonio del Cherico
(R. Lau. Bibl. Ashb. 1874. 7 × 5 inches)
When one considers the early civilization of Italy, and the heights finally attained by Italian illuminators, it is difficult to understand why the intervening centuries show such tardy recognition of the art. Even as late as the twelfth century, with other countries turning out really splendid examples, the Italian work is of a distinctly inferior order; but by the middle of the thirteenth century, the great revival in art brought about by Cimabue and Giotto stimulated the development in illumination. During the next hundred years the art became nationalized. The ornament diverged from the French type, and assumed the peculiar straight bar or rod, with profile foliages, and the sudden reversions of the curves with change of color, which are characteristic of fourteenth-century Italian work. The miniatures, introducing the new Tuscan manner of painting, entirely re-fashioned miniature art. The figure becomes natural, well-proportioned, and graceful, the heads delicate in feature and correct in expression. The costumes are carefully wrought, the drapery folds soft, yet elaborately finished. The colors are vivid but warm, the blue being particularly effective.
The vine-stem style immediately preceded the Classic revival which came when the Medici and other wealthy patrons recognized the artistic importance of illumination. In this style the stems are coiled most gracefully, slightly tinted, with decorative flowerets. The grounds are marked by varying colors, in which the artists delicately traced tendrils in gold or white.
The great glory of Italy in illumination came after the invention of printing. Aside from the apprehensions of the wealthy owners of manuscript libraries that they would lose prestige if books became common, beyond the danger to the high-born rulers of losing their political power if the masses learned argument from the printed book,—these true lovers of literature opposed the printing press because they believed it to cheapen something that was so precious as to demand protection. So they vied with one another in encouraging the scribes and the illuminators to produce hand-written volumes such as had never before been seen.
Certainly the Book of Hours of d’Antonio is one of the marvels of Florentine art. The nine full-page miniatures have never been surpassed. No wonder that Lorenzo de’ Medici, lover of the beautiful, should have kept it ever beside him! The delicate work in the small scenes in the Calendar is as precise as that in the larger miniatures; the decoration, rich in the variety of its design, really surpassed the splendor and glory of the goldsmith’s art (page [146]). Some deplore the fact that England lost this treasure when the Italian government purchased the Ashburnham Collection in 1884; but if there ever was a manuscript that belongs in Florence, it is this.
You may still see d’Antonio’s masterpiece at the Laurenziana Library, but it is no longer kept in the ancient wooden desk. The treasures of illumination are now splendidly arrayed in cases, where all may study and admire. There are heavy choir-books, classic manuscripts, books of hours, and breviaries, embellished by Lorenzo Monaco, master of Fra Angelico; by Benozzo Gozzoli, whose frescoes still make the Riccardi famous; by Gherado, and Clovio, and by other artists whose names have long since been forgotten, but whose work remains as an everlasting monument to a departed art that should be revived.
Experts, I believe, place the work of Jean Foucquet, in the Antiquities of the Jews, ahead of that of Jean Bourdichon (probably Foucquet’s pupil) in the Hours of Anne of Brittany; but frankly this sixteenth century manuscript at the Bibliothèque Nationale, in Paris, always yields me greater pleasure. Perhaps this is in compensation for not knowing too much! I will agree with them that the decorative borders of Foucquet are much more interesting than Bourdichon’s, for the return of the Flemish influence to French art at this time was not particularly fortunate. In the borders of the Grimani Breviary realism in reproducing flowers, vegetables, bugs, and small animal life, would seem to have been carried to the limit, but Bourdichon went the Grimani one better, and on a larger scale. The reproductions are marvelously exact, but even a beautifully painted domesticated onion, on which a dragon-fly crawls, with wing so delicately transparent that one may read the letter it seems to cover, is a curious accompaniment for the magnificently executed portraits of Anne and her patron saints in the miniature pages! Here the artist has succeeded in imparting a quality to his work that makes it appear as if done on ivory instead of vellum (see page [148]). The costumes and even the jewels are brilliant in the extreme. The floral decorations shown in the reproduction opposite are far more decorative than the vegetables, but I still object to the caterpillar and the bugs!
HOURS of ANNE of BRITTANY. French Renaissance, 16th Century
The Education of the Child Jesus by the Virgin and Saint Joseph
(Bibl. Nat. MS. Lat. 9474. 12 × 7½ inches)
HOURS of ANNE of BRITTANY. French Renaissance, 16th Century
Page showing Text and Marginal Decoration
(Bibl. Nat. MS. Lat. 9474. 12 × 7¼ inches)]
In 1508 there is a record that Anne of Brittany, Queen of Louis XII, made an order of payment to Bourdichon of 1050 livres tournois for his services in “richly and sumptuously historiating and illuminating a great Book of Hours for our use.” This consists of 238 leaves of vellum, 12 by 7½ inches in size. There are sixty-three full pages, including forty-nine miniatures, twelve reproductions for the various months, and a leaf containing ornaments and figures at the beginning and end of the volume. Of the text, there are some 350 pages surrounded by borders. The Italian influence shows in the architectural and sculptural decorations, just as the Flemish obtains in the borders.
The manuscript is bound in black shagreen, with chased silver clasps.
The question naturally arises as to the reason for the decline and practically the final extinction of the art. I believe it to be that which the princely Italian patrons foresaw. Their apprehensions, though selfish in motive, have been confirmed by history. The invention of printing did make the book common, and as such, its true significance came to be forgotten because of greater familiarity. The book as the developer of the people in science and in literature crowded out the book as an expression of art.
I wonder if it is too late to revive illumination. Never has there existed in America or England a keener appreciation of beautiful books; never have there been so many lovers of the book blessed with the financial ability to gratify their tastes. There are still artists familiar with the art, who, if encouraged, could produce work worthy of the beautifully printed volumes the best Presses are capable of turning out. What is lacking is simply a realization that illumination stands side by side with art at its best. In America, the opportunities for studying illumination are restricted, but a student would have no difficulty in finding in certain private collections and in a few public libraries more than enough to establish his basic understanding of the art. The great masterpieces are permanently placed now, and strictly enforced laws prevent national monuments from being further transferred from one country to another; but even of these, excellent facsimile reproductions have been made and distributed throughout the world
No true lover of art visits Europe without first preparing himself by reading and study for a fuller understanding and more perfect enjoyment of what he is to find in the various galleries. Assuming that no one can be an art lover without also being a lover of books, it is perhaps a fair question to ask why he should not make an equal effort to prepare himself to understand and enjoy those rich treasures in the art of illumination which are now so easily accessible
HOURS OF ANNE OF BRITTANY
Order of payment of 1050 livres tournois to Jean Bourdichon, 1508