[CHAPTER III.]
In painting, the wealth of Rome surpasses that of the rest of the world. Only one point of discussion can exist on the effect which her pictures produce—does the nature of the subjects selected by Italy's great masters admit the varied originality of passion which painting can express? The difference of opinion between Oswald and Corinne on this point, as on others, sprung but from the difference of their countries and creeds. Corinne affirmed that Scripture subjects were those most favorable to the painter; that sculpture was the Pagan's art, and painting the Christian's; that Michael Angelo, the painter of the Old, and Raphael, that of the New Testament, must have been gifted with sensibility profound as that of Shakspeare or Racine. "Sculpture," she said, "can present but a simple or energetic life to the eye, while painting displays the mysteries of retirement and resignation, and makes the immortal spirit speak through the fleeting colors. Historical facts, or incidents drawn from the poets, are rarely picturesque. One had need, in order to understand them, to keep up the custom of writing the speeches of their personages on ribbons rolling from their mouths. But religious pieces are instantly comprehended by the whole world; and our attention is not turned from the art, in order to divine their meaning.
"The generality of modern painters are too theatrical. They bear the stamp of an age in which the unity of existence and natural way of life, familiar to Andrew Mantegne, Perugin, and Leonardo da Vinci, is entirely forgotten. To this antique repose they were wont to add the depth of feeling which marks Christianity. For this I admire the compositions of Raphael, especially in his early works. All the figures tend towards the main object, without being elaborately grouped to create a sensation—this honesty in the arts, as in all things else, characterizes true genius; for speculations on success usually destroy enthusiasm. There is a rhetoric in painting as in poetry; and those who have it not seek to veil the defect in brilliant but illusive auxiliaries, rich costume, remarkable postures, while an unpretending virgin, with her infant at her breast, an old man attending the mass of Bolsena, a young one leaning on his staff, in the school of Athens, or Saint Cecilia raising her eyes to heaven, by the mere force of expression, act most powerfully on the mind. These natural beauties grow on us each day, while of works done for effect our first sight is always the most striking."[1] Corinne fortified these reflections by another—it was the impossibility of our sympathizing with the mythology of the Greeks and Romans, or inventing on their ground. "We may imitate them by study," she said; "but the wings of genius cannot be restrained to flights for which learning and memory are so indispensable, and wherein it can but copy books or statues. Now, in pictures alluding to our own history and faith, the painter is personally inspired; feeling what he depicts, retracing what he has seen, he draws from the life. Portraitures of piety are mental blessings that no others could replace; as they assure us that the artist's genius was animated by the holy zeal which alone can support us against the disgusts of life and the injustice of man."
Oswald could not, in all respects, agree with her; he was almost scandalized at seeing that Michael Angelo had attempted to represent the Deity himself in mortal shape; he did not think that we should dare embody Him; and could scarcely call up one thought sufficiently ethereal thus to ascend towards the Supreme Being, though he felt that images of this kind, in painting, always leave us much to desire. He believed, with Corinne, that religious meditation is the most heartfelt sentiment we can experience, and that which supplies a painter with the grandest physiognomical mysteries; but as religion represses all movements of the heart to which she has not given birth, the faces of saints and martyrs cannot be much varied. Humility, so lovely in the sight of Heaven, weakens the energy of earthly passion, and necessarily monotonizes the generality of scriptural subjects. When the terrible Angelo dealt with them, he almost changed their spirit, giving to his prophets that formidable air more suitable to heathen gods than to saints. Oft, too, like Dante, he mixed Pagan attributes with those of Christianity. One of the most affecting truths in its early establishment is the lowly station of the apostles who preached it, the slavery of the Jews, so long depositaries of the promise that announced the Saviour. This contrast between insignificance of means and greatness of result is morally beautiful. Yet in painting, where means alone can be displayed, Christian subjects must needs prove less attractive than those derived from the times of heroic fable. Of all arts, none save music can be purely religious. Painting cannot be content with an expression indefinite as that of sound. It is true that a happy combination of colors, and of clair-obscure, is harmony to the eye; but as it shows us life, it should give forth life's strong and varied passions. Undoubtedly, such passages of history ought to be selected as are too well known to be unintelligible: facts must flash on us from canvas, for all the pleasures the fine arts bestow are thus immediate; but with this equality provided, historical pictures have the advantage of diversified situation and sentiments. Nevil asserted, too, that a preference should be given to scenes from tragedies, or the most touching poetic fictions, so that all the pleasures of imagination might thus unite. Corinne contended against this opinion, seducing as it was; convinced that the encroachment of one art upon another would be mutually injurious. For sculpture loses by attempting the groups that belong to painting; painting, by aspiring to dramatic animation. The arts are limited, not in their powers but in their means. Genius seeks not to vanquish the fitness of things which its glory consists in guessing. "You, my dear Oswald," said Corinne, "love not the arts for themselves, but as they accord with your own feelings; you are moved merely when they remind you of your heart's afflictions. Music and poetry better suit such a disposition than those which speak to the eye, however ideally; they can but please or interest us while our minds are calm and our fancy is free. We need not the gayety which society confers in order to enjoy them, but the composure born of soft and radiant climes. We ought, in the arts that represent exterior objects, to feel the universal harmony of nature, which, while we are distressed, we have not within ourselves."—"I know not," answered Oswald, "if I have sought food for my sorrows in the arts, but at least I am sure that I cannot endure their reminding me of physical suffering. My strongest objection against Scripture pictures is the pain I feel in looking on blood and tortures, however exalted the faith of their victims. Philoctetus is, perhaps, the only tragic subject in which such agonies can be admitted; but with how much of poetry are his cruel pangs invested! They are caused by the darts of Hercules; and surely the son of Esculapius can cure them. His wounds are so associated with the moral resentment they stir in that pierced breast, that they can excite no symptom of disgust. But the Possessed, in Raphael's 'Transfiguration' is disagreeable and undignified. We would fain discover the charm or grief, or fancy it like the melancholy of prosperity. It is the ideal of human fate that ought to appear. Nothing is more revolting than ensanguined gashes or muscular convulsions. In such pictures we at once miss and dread to find exactitude of imitation. What pleasure could such attempted fidelity bestow? it is always either more horrible or less lovely than nature herself."—"You are right, my Lord," said Corinne, "in wishing that these blots should be effaced from Christian pictures; they are unnecessary. Nevertheless, allow that soul-felt genius can triumph over them all. Look on the death of St. Jerome, by Dominichino; that venerable frame is livid, emaciated; but life eternal fills his aspect; and the miseries of the world are here collected but to melt before the hallowed rays of devotion. Yet, dear Oswald, though I am not wholly of your mind, I wish to show you that even in differing, we have always some analogy. I have attempted a realization of your ideal in the gallery to which my brothers in art have contributed, and where I have sketched a few designs myself; you shall see the advantages and defects of the styles you prefer in my house at Tivoli. The weather is fine; shall we go there to-morrow?"—"My love, can you doubt my reply?" he exclaimed. "Have I another blessing in the world but you? The life I have too much freed from other occupations is now filled by the felicity of seeing and of hearing my Corinne!"
[1] From a journal called "Europe," I have derived many valuable observations on painting—an inexhaustible subject for their author, M. Frederic Schlegel, and for German reasoners in general.
[CHAPTER IV.]
Oswald himself drove the four horses that drew them next day towards Tivoli; he delighted in their rapid course, which seemed to lend fresh vivacity to the sense of existence—an impression so sweet when enjoyed beside those we love. He was careful, even to fear, least the slightest accident should befall his charge—that protecting air is such a link betwixt man and woman! Corinne, though less easily alarmed than the rest of her sex, observed his solicitude with such pleasure as made her almost wish she could be frightened, that she might claim the reassurances of Oswald. What gave him so great an ascendency over her, was the occasional unexpected contrasts with himself, that lent a peculiar charm to his whole manner. Every one admired his mind and person; but both were particularly interesting to a woman at once thus constant and versatile. Though occupied by nothing but Corinne, this same interest perpetually assumed a new character: sometimes reserve predominated; then he abandoned himself to his passion; anon, he was perfectly amiable and content; as probably, by a gloomy bitterness, betrayed the sincerity of his distress. Agitated at heart, he strove to appear serene, and left her to guess the secrets of his bosom. This kept her curiosity forever on the alert. His very faults set off his merits; and no man, however agreeable, who was devoid of these contradictions and inconsistencies, could thus have captivated Corinne: she was subdued by her fear of him. He reigned in her heart by a good and by an evil power—by his own qualities, and by the anxiety their ill-regulated state inspired. There was no safety in the happiness he bestowed. This, perhaps, accounts for the exaltation of her love; she might not have thus adored aught she did not fear to lose. A mind of ardent yet delicate sensibility may weary of all save a being whose own, forever in motion, appears like a heaven, now clear and smiling, now lapped in threatening clouds. Oswald, ever truly, deeply attached, was not the less often on the brink of abjuring the object of his tenderness, because long habit had persuaded him that he could find nothing but remorse in the too vivid feelings of his breast.