The Arts in the Middle Ages and at the Period of the Renaissance

by P. L. Jacob

With regard to the latter, his works are characterised not only by the number of figures in them, but also by the striking brilliancy of the mise en scène. Although he multiplies his actors, they are grouped in perfect order; although he paints a multitude, he knows how to avoid a crowd. Notice how a feeling of life profusely pervades the whole of his vast pictures of important events; an idea of space is everywhere given; everywhere light plays a powerful part, and imagination has full scope. He is the painter par excellence of feasts and ceremonies: at once pompous and natural, his copiousness is only equalled by his dazzling facility; and we are compelled to forgive the errors with which he mingles on the same canvas the religious ideas of sacred subjects and the profane splendour of modern times.

What shall we say about Correggio? There is no methodical scale by which to measure grace; and there is no formula laid down of delicious softness. But if, at the Louvre, we examine his “Antiope asleep,” we shall not soon forget the fascinating power of the old Allegri (Correggio).

From Correggio to Parmigianino the distance is of the kind that admiration can easily fill up. It was said of the latter that he had more the appearance of an angel than of a man; and the Romans of his own day used to add that the spirit of Raphael had passed into his body. In more than one instance his genius was kindled by the sun of Correggio, and ripened in the studios of Michael Angelo and Raphael; but in addition to this, his flexible and varied talent enabled him to find a place by himself between these two masters. “St. Francis receiving the Stigmata,” and “The Marriage of St. Catherine,” which he painted before he had attained his eighteenth year, are still regarded as equal to the chefs-d’œuvre signed by Allegri. It is well known that a “St. Margaret,” executed by Parmigianino fifteen years later for a church at Bologna, was placed by Guido in the same rank as the “St. Cecilia” of Raphael.

By the side of, or after, these famous men, in whom the glory of Italian painting seems to have brilliantly culminated, how many noble names still remain to be cited; how many remarkable names are there still to mention, even among those who, in following the glorious path opened out for them by the great masters, began to show glimpses of the earliest symptoms of decay, exhaustion, and lassitude! It does not form a part of our plan to dwell upon the various phases of this decadence; but before we glance at the last sparks of light which were shed forth, we must not forget the fact that the Italian pleiades were not exclusively privileged to illumine the artistic horizon.

It is certainly the case that all over Europe the Byzantine tradition had been the sole possessor of the throne of art since the earliest centuries of the Middle Ages. In Germany as in Italy, in France as in the countries bounding it on the north, we find nothing but the same school displaying the dead level of its inflexibility. At various epochs, however, certain feeble attempts at independence were here and there manifested; but these aspirations were at first generally isolated, and therefore transient in their character. Finally, however, as if the hour of revival had been simultaneously agreed upon at all points of the intellectual world, these desires for emancipation manifested themselves in a corresponding effort to reject the former too absolute form, and to substitute the element of life for the principle of conventionality.

In Spain a strange combat was waging on the soil itself, for the possession of which two hostile races, two irreconcilable faiths, were in fierce contention. The Mahometan built the Alhambra, the halls of which were destined to be subsequently adorned by a Christian pencil. In the paintings that enliven the arches of this marvellous edifice an art is manifested which is both simple and grand in its character; but in this one undertaking it appears to have exhausted the share of vitality time had awarded to it; for immediately afterwards it seems to have died away. If, however, any fresh masters of the art of painting appeared on the Iberian soil, they had sought in Italy the flame of inspiration, or some mighty art-pilgrim visited their country. We must come down to a later epoch, from the consideration of which we are now precluded, in order to meet with an Herrera, a Ribera, a Velasquez, or a Murillo, the glory of whom, although comparatively late, may perhaps hold its own by the side of the great Italian schools, but cannot pretend to eclipse them. Among the predecessors of these real and distinct individualities, we will, however, mention the following:—Alonzo Berruguete, born in 1480, at once painter, architect, and sculptor; he was a pupil of Michael Angelo, in whose works he often took a share; Pedro Campagna, born in 1503, who studied under the same master—his chef-d’œuvre is still admired in the Cathedral of Seville; Luis de Vargas, born in 1502, who was able in many points to appropriate the secrets of Sanzio, from whom he appeared to have received lessons; Morales, whose paintings are still admired for the harmony of their lines and the delicacy of their touch; Vicente Juanes, whose purity of design and sober vigour of colouring obtained for him the title (certainly by some exaggeration of praise) of the “Raphael of Valencia;” lastly, Fernandez Navarette, born in 1526, who, perhaps less hyperbolically, was surnamed the “Spanish Titian;” and Sanchez Coello, born about 1500, who, excelling in portraits, has handed down the likenesses of some celebrated personages of his time.

In Germany and the Low Countries we find similar traces of the feeling of regeneration actuating the minds of artists at a much earlier period. The first name which presents itself to us beyond the Rhine is that mentioned in the Chronicle of Limburg, of the date of 1380. “There was then at Cologne,” says the chronicler, “a painter named Wilhelm. According to the masters, he was the best in all the countries of Germany; he has painted men of every description as if they were alive.” We have nothing left of the works of this artist except some panels without signature, which, in consideration of the date they bear, are attributed to him; an examination shows that, considering the epoch at which he lived, Wilhelm might justly be looked upon as a creative genius. He was succeeded by his most talented pupil, Maître Stephan. A triptych of his work may be seen at the Cathedral of Cologne, representing “The Adoration of the Magi,” “St. Gereon,” “St. Ursula,” and “The Annunciation.” This work, which exhibits charming finish as well as harmonious simplicity, is sufficient evidence that its author was possessed of much natural ability as well as a certain extent of knowledge; and if we make it our study to seek out the relics of the artistic movement of the period, we can in no way feel surprise at seeing that the influence of this early master made itself felt in a very extended radius.

But at this epoch, that is, at the commencement of the fifteenth century, in a city of Flanders, a new luminary made its appearance, which was destined to eclipse the brilliancy of the somewhat weak German innovation. Two brothers, Hubert and John van Eyck, together with their sister Margaret, established themselves in the “triumphant city of Bruges,” as it is called by an historian; and very soon all the Flemish and Rhenish regions resounded with the name of Van Eyck, their works being the only representations which were admired and followed; and even in those early days it was a title of glory to form a part of their brilliant school.

John, the younger of the two brothers, was the one to whom renown more particularly attached ([Fig. 251]). He is reputed to have been the inventor of oil-painting; but all he did was to improve the methods employed. Nevertheless, tradition tells us that an Italian master, Antonello of Messina, made a journey to Flanders, with the object of finding out the secret of John Bruges (by which name Van Eyck is often called); and that he subsequently circulated it throughout the Italian schools. Be this as it may, John of Bruges, apart from any similarity in manner (for it was by the force of his colouring, as much as by his new theories of composition, that he succeeded in revolutionising the old school of painting), may be considered as the Giotto of the North; but we must add that the effects of his attempts were much more rapidly decisive. At one leap, so to speak, the somewhat cold painting of the Gothic school decked itself with a splendour which left but little for the future Venetian school to achieve beyond it; with one flight of genius, stiff and methodical conceptions became imbued with suppleness and vital action. Finally, we have the first notable sign of the true feeling of an art combining science and grace—a knowledge of anatomy is shown in the life-like flesh and under the brilliant draperies. There is, however, a considerable distance, which cannot fail to be remarked, separating the two reformers of art whose names we have just brought together. One, Giotto, desired to grasp the real in order to make it conduce to the triumph of the ideal; while Van Eyck only accepted the ideal because he had as yet been unable to apprehend the deepest secrets of the real. All the other masters are but as the fruit yielded by the school of the great Florentine, and by those which the descendants of the Flemish masters were destined to produce. At Ghent, we still have as an object of admiration, an altar-piece, a chef-d’œuvre of Van Eyck; it is an immense composition, some portions of which have been removed; but at first it did not contain less than three hundred figures, representing the “Adoration of the Paschal Lamb by the Virgins of the Apocalypse.”