Mantegna

by N. D'Anvers

The taking of Milan by the French in 1499 and the triumphant entry into the conquered city of Louis XII.—who, the little dauphin having died shortly before his father, had become King of France on the death of Charles VIII.—with all the terrible consequences to the Sforza family, cast a gloom over the court of Mantua for the rest of the reign of the Marquis Francesco, and both he and Isabella found their best distraction from their many sorrows in watching their court painter at work. The “Madonna della Vittoria” was succeeded by the “Madonna with Saints and Angels,” now in the collection of Prince Trivulzio at Milan, painted for the monks of S. Maria in Organo, Verona, and the “Madonna and Child with St. John the Baptist,” now in the National Gallery, with the smaller but no less charming “Holy Family” of the Dresden Gallery. To about the same period are supposed to belong the designs for the frescoes in Mantegna’s mortuary chapel in S. Andrea, Mantua, of which only two—the “Holy Family with St. Elizabeth, Zacharias, and the Infant St. John” and the “Baptism of Christ,” the latter almost defaced—are from the hand of the master himself, the rest having been completed after his death by his pupils.

In 1500, when Andrea was already in his seventieth year, he was commissioned by the Marchesa to paint a series of allegorical subjects in what she called her “studio,” in the Castello of Mantua, on the decoration of which several other artists, including Perugino and Lorenzo da Costa, were also engaged. Mantegna was, unfortunately, the only one of the painters selected who approached the task with any enthusiasm, or attempted to realise the ambition of Isabella—that her sanctum should be a kind of epitome of intellectual and sensuous life, symbolising, as do the Trifoni of Petrarch in literature, the most ideal aspirations of humanity. The first of the compositions completed by Mantegna was the “Parnassus,” in which the conquest of Mars by Venus is celebrated, that is unique amongst the master’s works, generally characterised as they are by sobriety of expression, as an interpretation of light-hearted gaiety. The figures of the dancing-girls are full of vivacious grace, and that of the Goddess of Love of seductive charm, contrasting well with the virile and heroic form of her suitor, the stern God of War, whilst the minor actors in the idyllic scene—the neglected husband, Vulcan, working at his forge as if indifferent to what is going on, Apollo, Mercury, and Cupid—are all most happily rendered, the various groups combining to give the impression of a living drama, in which the artist, in the fulness of his creative power, for once succeeded in giving visible expression to his lifelong dream of the old Olympus, which he had previously seen only in his imagination.

It was not until some years after the execution of the “Parnassus” that the second of the “studio” pictures, the comparatively uninteresting “Triumph of Virtue over the Vices,” was finished. Though its details were evidently carefully studied, it shows a lamentable falling off in simplicity and effectiveness of design, Mantegna having been greatly hampered by the constant interference of Isabella, who insisted on the introduction of a bewildering number of allegorical figures. The third and last composition, an equally unpromising subject, the “Triumph of Erotic Love,” was only begun by Andrea, and completed by Lorenzo da Costa, who faithfully endeavoured to fulfil his predecessor’s intentions. All three paintings are now in the Louvre, where the “Parnassus” may be usefully compared with the earlier “Madonna della Vittoria” and the “Crucifixion,” the three works being very typical of the various periods of the master’s development.

To 1506 belongs the fine and characteristic monochrome decorative picture of the “Triumph of Scipio,” now in the National Gallery, one of the very latest of the master’s works, commemorating two important episodes of the second Punic War—the welcome given to the image of the goddess Cybele brought from Rome to Ostia by Publius Scipio, and the miracle wrought by the “Mother of the Gods” on her arrival, which proved the innocence of the Roman matron, Claudia Quinta, who had been falsely accused of immorality. Concerning this fine work, in which the artist tells the well-known classic story with dramatic directness, a very interesting correspondence has been preserved, between Isabella d’Este and the famous Venetian scholar, Pietro Bembo, who complained to the Marchioness that Mantegna had long ago pledged himself to paint certain pictures for his friend, Francesco Cornaro, who had paid twenty-five ducats on account. He begged the master’s patroness to induce him to fulfil his engagements, adding that “Messer Cornaro would not mind about a couple of hundred ducats; he would gladly leave the value of the pictures to her, but he would not allow himself to be jested with, and meant to stand upon his rights.” To this the great lady appealed to replied that “she would certainly speak for Cornaro to Mantegna when opportunity should occur, but that the aged artist was at the moment scarcely recovered from a serious illness, so that it was impossible yet to talk to him about business.” That she did intervene soon afterwards, or that Mantegna’s own conscience reproached him, is, however, proved by the fact that the completed “Triumph of Scipio” was found in his studio after his death.

PLATE VIII.—THE TRIUMPH OF SCIPIO

(In the National Gallery)

Painted in 1506, this fine decorative picture in monochrome, now in the National Gallery, is one of Mantegna’s latest works, and represents two incidents of the second Punic War—the arrival at Rome of the image of the goddess Cybele, and the supposed miracle wrought by it.

The picture is referred to by the painter’s son Lodovico in a letter to the Marchioness “as that work of Scipio Cornelio which was undertaken for Messer Francesco Cornaro, and which the Cardinal Sigismondo Gonzaga desired to retain for himself.” Vainly did Andrea’s second son protest against this, begging the Marquis Francesco to let him have it back, “for he wished to keep it as a memorial of his father and for purposes of study,” a plea delightfully suggestive of happy relations having existed between the writer and the great master. Francesco Mantegna added that he would gladly pay back the twenty-five ducats to Cornaro, and great was his disappointment when, after a long delay, he received as sole answer to his request a promissory note from the Cardinal for one hundred ducats, which in the end turned out to be no more than waste paper, for as long afterwards as November 1507 neither he nor his brother had been able to get the money. In the end, the descendants of Messer Cornaro got possession of the picture, which was bought from one of them by Lord George Vivian, whose son left it to the National Gallery in 1873.

With the “Triumph of Scipio” may justly be ranked the “Samson and Delilah,” also now in the National Gallery, that is evidently entirely from the hand of the master himself, and is a very realistic interpretation of the much-exploited incident of the betrayal of the strong man by the weak but cunning woman. Other typical drawings are the “Judgment of Solomon,” in the Louvre, and the three renderings of Judith placing the head of Holofernes in a sack that is held open by her handmaiden—one in the possession of Mr. John Taylor, one at Dublin, and the third in the Uffizi. The last, signed by the artist with his full name and dated 1491, is a truly admirable rendering of its subject, the shrinking horror felt by the beautiful and heroic girl of the ghastly trophy she is about to let fall, being vividly reflected in her attitude and expression as well as in those of her companion. Less satisfactory from a technical point of view are the “Mutius Scævola” of the Munich collection, commemorative of the noble deed of the young Roman who had been chosen by lot to slay the Etruscan invader, King Porsenna, and having failed was condemned to be burnt alive; the group of “Mars, Venus, and Diana,” in the British Museum; the “Vestal Virgin Tucia,” also known as “Autumn,” and the “Greek Woman drinking from a Cup,” sometimes called “Summer,” in the National Gallery. Even they, however, as well as the more important drawings, are eminently characteristic of their author, who from first to last was more pictorial in his sketches than in his finished compositions.