Between these two masters, so equally endowed with power in their respective lines of art, the great Holbein takes his place, as if embodying the rather abrupt vigour of the one, and the sentimental delicacy of the other. This painter’s artistic career was carried out almost entirely in England, but the character of his genius belongs unquestionably to the country where he left behind him his “Dance of Death,” a piece of tragic raillery justly held to be the most wonderful among all the creations of fancy.
Albert Dürer, who died in 1528, and Lucas van Cranach, and Holbein, who died in 1553,[38] were destined to create a race of painters, and a host of successors were soon at work. But the movement, which was impeded by troubles of a religious character, died away in the terrible convulsions of the Thirty Years’ War, and was never again renewed.
The era in which German art seemed all at once to decline was that wherein the Italian school flourished in full splendour, and exercised an unrivalled influence over every European country occupied by the Latin races. France yielded all the more readily to this foreign influence, because the Papal court at Avignon had already given an asylum to Giotto in the first place, and afterwards to Simon Memmi; both of whom, and especially the last, have left master-like traces of their presence on French soil.
As a matter of fact, although French painting, regarded in the light of a national art, cannot boast of having spontaneously produced, as a thing of home-growth, any of those essays of complete independence of which Germany and Italy are so proud; the memorials of French art at least bear witness that, during the long reign of Byzantine tradition, it never ceased to struggle with some force under the yoke; at a time, indeed, when Italy and Germany themselves seemed, on the contrary, to bear the burden with the most submissive servitude.
The tenth century, in becoming subject to the influence of a foolish but heartfelt terror (the fear of the end of the world), marked a period of fatal obstruction to every kind of effort, and progress died away; but if we look beyond this we shall perceive that, from the earliest days of the monarchy, painting was held in honour, and painters themselves afforded proofs of power, if not of genius. We shall, for instance, find that the basilica of St. Germain-des-Prés, built by Childebert I., had its walls decorated with “elegant paintings.” We shall find Gondebaud, the son of Clotaire, himself handling the pencil and “painting the walls and roofs of oratories.” In the reign of Charlemagne, we discover the texts which the bishops and priests were compelled to paint on “the whole interior surface” of their churches, in order that the charm of the colouring and of the compositions might aid the fervour of faith in the congregations. But all this is but evidence recorded in the pages of the ancient chronicles. We have other testimony derived from works still existing, on which a judgment may be practically passed. Some frescoes discovered at St. Savin, in the department of Vienne, and at Nohant-Vicq, in the department of Indre, which must be attributed to the eleventh and twelfth centuries, attest, in all their rude simplicity, the efforts of a thoughtful art, and specially bear the stamp of a true spirit of independence.
The Sainte-Chapelle, in Paris, by its painted windows and the mural paintings of its crypt, asserts the real vitality of an artistic feeling, which only waited for the signal of a bolder spirit to rise to loftier things. Moreover, if other examples are wanting, there are manuscripts, on the ornamentation of which the most skilful painters have concentrated their powers, that would suffice to point out the tendencies and artistic standard of every succeeding age. (See the article on Miniature-Painting.) However little we may consult history, we scarcely ever fail to discover traces of certain groups of artists whose names or works have survived. Thus, a series of paintings preserved in the Cathedral of Amiens, as well as the “Sacre de Louis XII.” and the “Vierge au Froment,” in the museum at Cluny, prove to us the existence, at the end of the fifteenth century, of the school of Picardy, which possessed skill in composition, combined with a feeling for colour and a certain knowledge of handling. Thus, too, the researches of the learned have traced out the laborious career of the Clouet family, sung by Ronsard and others, but whose works are almost entirely lost; thus, also, we find the names of Bourdichon, Perréal, Foucquet, who worked for Louis XI. and Charles VIII., and that of the peaceful King René of Provence, who thought it not beneath his dignity to make himself the practical chief of a school whose nameless productions are still scattered over the south of France.
With the sixteenth century commenced the age of the great Italian painters. In 1515, Francis I. persuaded Leonardo da Vinci to come to France, and to afford the example of his wonderful genius. But the illustrious creator of “La Gioconda” (the famous portrait of Mona Lisa), burthened with years and worn out with work, visited France as if only to draw his last breath (1519). Andrea del Sarto, the graceful pupil of the severe Michael Angelo, came to France in 1517; but, after having painted for his royal protector a few pictures, among which was the magnificent “Charity” in the Louvre, he again repaired to the Italian soil, to which his unhappy marriage recalled him to his doom.
In 1520 Raphael died, at the age of only thirty-seven years. Giulio Pippi (called Giulio Romano), Francis Penni (called il Fattore), and Perino del Vaga, whom he named as his heirs and charged with the completion of his unfinished works, did their best to replace the illustrious dead. For a short time it might have been thought that the inspiration of the master still remained with his pupils; but soon a separation of this group of artists, who had found their principal power in unity of thought, took place; and, fifteen or twenty years after the tomb had closed on Raphael, the tradition of his school was nothing more than a glorious ruin.
Michael Angelo, who died in 1563, was destined to have a longer career; but it was only to become a witness of the rapid decadence of the great movement he had helped to call forth. After Daniele di Volterra, the painter of the “Descent from the Cross,” which is classed among the three most beautiful works that Rome possesses; after Vasari, who possessed a double title to celebrity as a skilful painter and the historian of the Italian schools; after Rosso, whose renown subsequently suffered at the court of France; and Bronzino, who sought success in taste and delicacy; the school of the great Buonarotti produced nothing but works which seemed to wander from exaggeration to bad taste. The dwarfs who attempted to walk in the footsteps of the giant were soon exhausted, and only succeeded in rendering themselves ridiculous.
The Venetian school, the great masters of which did not become extinct before the end of the sixteenth century, had its period of decadence at a later epoch; this will not come under our consideration. The Lombard school, which, by the deaths of Correggio and Parmigianino, had been left without its chiefs before the middle of this century (1534 and 1540), seemed for a moment as if it would disappear as it had risen. But in Michael Angelo Caravaggio ([Fig. 255]) it met with a powerful master, who was able for some time to arrest the progress of its decadence.