Artist: Sir Edward Burne-Jones (bûrn-jōnz).
Birthplace: Birmingham, England.
Dates: Born, 1833; died, 1898.
The story of the picture. The artist, Burne-Jones, was a student and a dreamer. As a small, motherless boy he had been left much alone in a home in which storybooks were considered wicked, so there were none for him to read. His father was a strong churchman and intended his son for the ministry. He was endeavoring as best he knew how to fit him for his high calling by a training which, though perfectly sincere and honest in purpose, was rather gloomy and severe for the delicate, sensitive boy. However, little Edward was naturally of an imaginative mind, so he made up his own stories. A relative sent him a copy of Æsop’s Fables, and this book he was permitted to keep. It seems to have brought the turning point in the boy’s life. From that time on he dwelt in a fairyland of his own making.
When he was sent away to school to prepare for the ministry, he carried his fancies with him, adding to them the many legends of Greek mythology; of literature, especially those wonderful stories of King Arthur’s court; and of the Bible. His desire to become an artist was aroused by another student, William Morris, the two spending all their spare time drawing and painting. Nevertheless, he was twenty-three years old before he saw any of the great masterpieces in painting.
From the very first, Burne-Jones chose subjects which were mysterious, fairylike, and unreal, but his pictures were so filled with music, beauty, and happiness that it was a delight to look at them.
His idea of a good picture was very different from that of the practical, painstaking Millet, who represented everything and everybody as they actually appeared before him in the very field or place he had found them.
Burne-Jones tells us: “I mean by a picture a beautiful, romantic dream of something that never was, never will be, in a light better than any light that has ever shone, in a land no one can define or remember, only dream.” And so when asked to paint a decoration for a hallway in one of the fine old London homes he thought at once of a stairway, and the painting of “The Golden Stairs” is the result. It would seem indeed a dream, this angel host descending from we know not where and halting at that mysterious closed door which leads we know not whither. But hush! the leader has half raised her hand, turning this way as if to ask for silence. Each figure stops instantly, holding herself motionless, while the musical instruments are slightly lowered that all may listen more intently. And yet, this is a joyous procession,—the gayly colored wreaths of flowers which most of them are wearing, the musical instruments, the happy faces, all tell us this is an errand of pleasure. Might it not be that this host of angels is descending upon the sleeping world to soothe the restless, worried ones, and smooth the puckered, aching brows in quiet slumber? Lulled by their gentle music, or the rustle of their approaching footsteps, the weary one would soon find refreshing sleep.
The light in the picture seems to come from above, yet is all about and around the figures, as if they were the source of the illumination. They come from a darkened doorway, and enter one quite as dark except for the light they bring to it.
The greater part of the picture is painted in shades of gray, but it is relieved by the flesh tints, and the gayly colored flowers worn in wreaths or scattered on the steps. Here is delicate, exquisite coloring, and figures drawn with such careful attention to details that each seems complete in itself, yet all are held together in one great harmony.