From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn

by Henry M. Field

The products of such genius have been a treasure to Italy and to the world. Works of art are immortal. Raphael is dead, but the Transfiguration lives. As the paintings of great masters accumulated from century to century, they were gathered in public or private collections, which became, like the libraries of universities, storehouses for the delight and instruction of mankind. Such works justly command the homage and reverence which are due to the highest creations of the human intellect. The man who has put on canvas conceptions which are worthy to live, has left a legacy to the human race. "When I think," said an old monk, who was accustomed to show paintings on the walls of his monastery, "how men come, generation after generation, to see these pictures, and how they pass away, but these remain, I sometimes think that these are the realities, and that we are the shadows."

But with all this acknowledgment of the genius that is thus immortal, and that gives delight to successive generations, there are one or two drawbacks to the pleasure I have derived from these great collections of art.

In the first place, there is the embarrassment of riches. One who undertakes to visit all the picture galleries, even of a single city like Rome or Florence, soon finds himself overwhelmed by their number. He goes on day after day, racing from one place to another, looking here and there in the most hurried manner, till his mind becomes utterly confused, and he gains no definite impression. It is as impossible to study with care all these pictures, as it would be to read all the books in a public library, which are not intended to be read "by wholesale," but only to be used for reference. So with the great collections of paintings, which are arranged in a certain order, so as to give an idea of the style of different countries, such as the Dutch school, the Venetian school, etc. These are very useful for one who wishes to trace the history of art, but the ordinary traveller does not care to go into such detail. To him a much smaller number of pictures, carefully chosen, would give more pleasure and more instruction.

Further, it has seemed to me that with all the genius of the old masters (which no one is more ready to confess, and in which no one takes more intense delight), there is sometimes a worship of them, which is extended to all their works without discrimination, which is not the result of personal observation, nor quite consistent with mental independence. Indeed, there are few things in which the empire of fashion is more absolute, and more despotic. It is at this point that I meekly offer a protest. I admit fully and gratefully the marvellous genius of some of the old painters, but I cannot admit that everything they touched was equally good. Homer sometimes nods, and even Raphael and Titian—great as they are, and superior perhaps to everybody else—are not always equal to themselves. Raphael worked very rapidly, as is shown by the number of pictures which he left, although he died a young man. Of course, his works must be very unequal, and we may all exercise our taste in preferring some to others.

In another respect it seems to me that there is a limitation of the greatness even of the old masters, viz., in the range of their subjects, in which I find a singular monotony. In the numberless galleries that we have visited this summer, I have observed in the old pictures, with all their power of drawing and richness of color, a remarkable sameness, both of subject and of treatment. Even the greatest artists have their manner, which one soon comes to recognize; so that he is rarely mistaken in designating the painter. I know a picture of Rubens anywhere by the colossal limbs that start out of the canvas. Paul Veronese always spreads himself over a large surface, where he has room to bring in a great number of figures, and introduce details of architecture. Give him the Marriage at Cana, or a Royal Feast, and he will produce a picture which will furnish the whole end of a palace hall. It is very grand, of course; but when one sees a constant recurrence of the same general style, he recognizes the limitations of the painter's genius. Or, to go from large pictures to small ones, there is a Dutch artist, Wouvermans, whose pictures are in every gallery in Europe. I have seen hundreds of them, and not one in which he does not introduce a white horse!

Even the greatest of the old masters seem to have exercised their genius upon a limited number of subjects. During the Middle Ages art was consecrated almost wholly to religion. Some of the painters were themselves devout men, and wrought with a feeling of religious devotion. Fra Angelico was a monk (in the same monastery at Florence with Savonarola), and regarded his art as a kind of priesthood, going from his prayers to his painting, and from his painting to his prayers. Others felt the same influence, though in a less degree. In devoting themselves to art, they were moved at once by the inspiration of genius and the inspiration of religion. Others still, who were not at all saintly in their lives, yet painted for churches and convents. Thus, from one cause or another, almost all the art of that day was employed to illustrate religious subjects. Of these there was one that was before all others—the Holy Family, or the Virgin and her Child. This appears and reappears in every possible form. We can understand the attraction of such a subject to an artist; for to him the Virgin was the ideal of womanhood, to paint whom was to embody his conception of the most exquisite womanly sweetness and grace. And in this how well did the old masters succeed! No one who has a spark of taste or sensibility can deny the exquisite beauty of some of their pictures of the Virgin—the tenderness, the grace, the angelic purity. What sweetness have they given to the face of that young mother, so modest, yet flushed with the first dawning of maternal love! What affection looks out of those tender eyes! In the celebrated picture of Raphael in the Gallery at Florence, called "The Madonna of the Chair," the Virgin is seated, and clasps her child to her breast, who turns his large eyes, with a wondering gaze, at the world in which he is to live and to suffer. One stands before such a picture transfixed at a loveliness that seems almost divine.

But of all the Madonnas of Raphael—or of any master—which I have seen, I prefer that at Dresden, where the Virgin is not seated, but standing erect at her full height, with the clouds under her feet, soaring to heaven with the Christ-child in her arms. When I went into the room set apart to that picture (for no other is worthy to keep it company), I felt as if I were in a church; every one spoke in whispers; it seemed as if ordinary conversation were an impertinence; as if it would break the spell of that sacred presence.

Something of the same effect (some would call it even greater) is produced by Titian's or Murillo's painting of the "Assumption" of the Virgin—that is, her being caught up into the clouds, with the angels hovering around her, over her head and under her feet. One of these great paintings is at Venice, and the other in the Louvre at Paris. In both the central figure is floating, like that of Christ in the Transfiguration. The Assumption is a favorite subject of the old masters, and reappears everywhere, as does the "Annunciation" by the Angel of the approaching birth of Christ, the "Nativity," and the coming of the Magi to adore the holy child. I do not believe there is a gallery in Italy, and hardly a private collection, in which there are not "Nativities" and "Assumptions" and "Annunciations."

But if some of these pictures are indeed wonderful, there are others which are not at all divine; which are of the earth, earthy; in which the Virgin is nothing more than a pretty woman, chosen as a type of female beauty (just as a Greek sculptor would aim to give his ideal in a statue of Venus), painted sometimes on a Jewish, but more often on an Italian, model. In Holland the Madonnas have a decidedly Dutch style of beauty. We may be pardoned if we do not go into raptures over them.

When the old masters, after painting the Virgin Mary, venture on an ideal of our Lord himself, they are less successful, because the subject is more difficult. They attempt to portray the Divine Man; but who can paint that blessed countenance, so full of love and sorrow? That brow, heavy with care, that eye so tender? I have seen hundreds of Ecce Homos, but not one that gave me a new or more exalted impression of the Saviour of the world than I obtain from the New Testament.