ANDREA MANTEGNA. BATTLE OF THE SEA-GODS
Size of the original engraving, 11⅝ × 17 inches.
In the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston
(If supported click figure to enlarge.)
Technically, the plate plainly shows the hand of an engraver not yet master of his medium. It is marked with all the characteristics which we associate with Mantegna’s work: the strong outline, ploughed with repeated strokes of a rather blunt instrument into a plate of unbeaten copper or some yet softer metal; the diagonal shade lines widely spaced; and the light strokes blending all into a harmonious whole. In an impression of the first state, in the British Museum, there is a tone, similar to sulphur-tint, over portions of the plate, noticeably in the faces of the mother and child. How it was produced is still a matter of conjecture, but that it adds much to the beauty of the print is beyond question.
The Bacchanalian Group with Silenus and the Bacchanalian Group with a Wine-Press (which, like the Battle of the Sea-Gods, may be joined together so as to form one long, horizontal composition) show greater skill on the part of the engraver. Mantegna’s increasing passion for the antique is reflected in the standing figure to the left, who with his left hand reaches up towards the wreath with which he is about to be crowned, while resting his right hand upon a horn of plenty. This figure is obviously inspired by the Apollo Belvedere, while the standing faun, at the extreme right, filled with the sheer delight of mere animal existence, is a delightful creation in Mantegna’s happiest mood.
The two plates of the Battle of the Sea-Gods may be assigned, on technical grounds, to about the same period as the two Bacchanals. The drawing which Durer made of the right-hand portion, as also of the Bacchanalian Group with Silenus, both dated 1494, conclusively prove that these engravings antedate the completion of the Triumph of Cæsar. Though Mantegna borrowed his material from the antique, he has so shaped it to his ends, so stamped upon it the impress of his own personality, as to make of it not an echo of classic art, but an original creation of compelling force and charm. “These are not the mighty gods of Olympus but the inferior deities of Nature, of the Earth and the Sea, who acknowledge none of the higher obligations and who display unchecked their wanton elemental nature, giving a loose rein to all the exuberance of their joy in living.... These creatures of the sea frolic about in the water, turbulent and wanton as the waves.... The combat with those harmless-looking weapons is probably not meant to be in earnest; a vent for their superfluous energy is all they seek.”[9]
[9] Andrea Mantegna. By Paul Kristeller. London; Longman’s Green & Co. 1901. p. 395.
To a somewhat later period belongs the Entombment. There is nothing of the meek spirit of the Redeemer in this passionate plate. The hard, lapidary landscape is in accord with the figures, which might, not unfittingly, find a place upon some triumphal arch. Three crosses crown the distant hill. At the right stands St. John, a magnificent figure, giving utterance to his unspeakable grief, while the Virgin, sinking in a swoon, is supported by one of the holy women.
Here is none of that tenderness which we associate with the divine tragedy, none of that grace and beauty which inheres in the work of many of the Italian painters of the Renaissance. All is stark and harsh. It is not food for babes, but it is superb.
The Risen Christ Between Saints Andrew and Longinus is Mantegna’s last engraving. Christ towers above the two subsidiary figures, with a form and bearing which would better befit a Roman Emperor returning in triumph. In this plate, above all others, Mantegna’s technique shines forth as not only adequate, but as beyond question the best—perhaps the only one—to convey his message. Translated into another mode, one feels that it would lose much of its appeal. It has been suggested that the engraving was made as a project for a group of statuary—perhaps for the high altar of S. Andrea, in Mantua, raised above the most precious relic possessed by the city, the Blood of Christ, brought to Mantua by Longinus—a supposition borne out by the statuesque impressiveness of the group and by the fact that Christ gazes downwards, as though from a height.
Although 1480 is the earliest date to which we can assign the first of Mantegna’s original engravings, there were in existence, at least five years before that time, engravings by other hands after designs by the master, and it may have been either to protect himself from unauthorized and fraudulent copyists, or as an artistic protest against the incapacity of his translators, that Mantegna was compelled to take up the graver. There has come down to us a letter, dated September 15, 1475, addressed by Simone di Ardizone, of Reggio, to the Marquis Lodovico, of Mantua, complaining to the prince of Mantegna’s behavior towards him. His story was that “Mantegna, upon his arrival in Mantua, made him splendid offers, and treated him with great friendliness. Actuated by feelings of compassion, however, towards his old friend, Zoan Andrea, a painter in Mantua, from whom prints (stampe), drawings, and medals had been stolen, and wishing to help in the restoration of the plates, he had worked with his friend for four months. As soon as this came to Mantegna’s knowledge he proceeded to threats, and one evening Ardizone and Zoan Andrea had been assaulted by ten or more armed men and left for dead in the square.”