Picturesque London

by Percy Fitzgerald

CHAPTER VII.
THE NATIONAL GALLERY.

THIS great collection really holds the first position among the galleries of Europe, not for the number of pictures, but for their choiceness and value. The building which contains the collection has been assumed to be rather a failure, and many a jest has been made upon what are called its “pepper casters,” an article which its cupolas suggest. Yet upon the whole it is a classical, well-proportioned building, with a fine, imposing façade. Of late years a new gallery has been added in the rear, whose Italian campanile rears itself awkwardly, and is inconsistent with the Grecian style of the rest. Sir Frederick Leighton has spoken with just severity of this incongruity. The new rooms are stately and lofty, united by imposing central halls, floridly decorated, contrasting oddly with the low and shabby chambers beside it. Still, the smaller area is more effective for the display of pictures; they are brought closer to the eye, are seen more comfortably, and there is the feeling of being in a private gallery. The small but beautiful collection at The Hague has its peculiar charm from these conditions. Within the last few years the great entrance hall has been remodelled and treated sumptuously, laid out with flights of stairs, pillars of costly African and other marbles, profuse gilding and painting. But the effect is scarcely satisfactory: the pillars are thin, and ill proportioned to this work, and seem more ornamental than serviceable, while the complicated umbrella and stick arrangements seem to do violence to the natural construction of the building.

The Gallery owes much to its accomplished director, Sir F. Burton, who is an artist of the Academic school, with much fine taste and feeling, and power of drawing. The days when men were trained in the schools, and when studies of the human figure (on one of which Mulready would expend months) were labours of love, are unhappily passed away. To Sir F. Burton’s admirable judgment we owe the real development of the collection, and its almost universal character. If we might make an objection, it would be that there is almost a surfeit of works of the earlier Italian school of the Pre-Raphaelite time, and there is something monotonous in the innumerable altar-pieces and sacred pieces set off with richly gilt and carved architectural framings. On the other hand, it is admitted that the English school is imperfectly represented. At the same time nothing could be more difficult than to form a really representative gallery of English works, owing to the shiftings of taste and criticism. This can be seen by considering the once-admired Vernon collection, where figure all the “Augustus Eggs” and “Redgraves,” and which seem scarcely worthy of a place in a public gallery. At the Academy Exhibitions we find every school imitated—French, German, Dutch. Still it would not be difficult to apply some principles in the selection, and to define what might be considered a purely English character in landscape, portraits, or genre.

A serious difficulty is what to do with the accepted bequests which for half a century or so have held possession. These keep their place by virtue of law and Acts of Parliament, and as they entered in company with works of real value, there would be an ungraciousness in rejecting them. The pigments of this era seem to have faded: the pictures are flat, stiff, and, in some cases, seem the work of amateurs. One instance of this “white elephant” sort of donation is the picture of Rembrandt’s “Night Watch,” said to be a copy of no startling merit, which is yet allowed a conspicuous place.

The visitor is assisted by guides and guide-books of all kinds; one, a full, reformed one, in two volumes, has been issued recently. I always think that a model guide-book, such as the eager but uninformed public would desire, has yet to be devised. The usual system is after this pattern: The name and number is given, then the painter and school, say, “The Umbrian School”—with the size of the picture in inches, a few lines about the painter, his birth and death, and to what “school” he succeeded; then a rather banal description of what the figures are doing—which the spectator can discover for himself without assistance. These points, such as size in inches, and the description, are, of course, valuable for the Waagens and other critical persons, but are caviare to the visiting public. I venture to say that the questions every one puts to himself on seeing a “famous” picture are these: “Why is it that this work is so admired? What are the particular merits?” The effect is admittedly good and beautiful; but it seems so like many others that we have seen, excellent, pleasing; but it puzzles us to say why it exceeds in merit the others. How delightful, on the other hand, and improving is it, when it is our good fortune to be attended by some real critic and trained judge, who in a few words points out the merits, the contrast of colour, the drawing of that arm, the difficulty overcome in grouping in figures! Again, what is style? Corot, the French landscape painter, is deservedly admired, and the spectator, looking at his catalogue, will exclaim, “Oh! that is a Corot.” He sees, with wonder, a sort of marsh or fen with gloomy “furry”-looking trees. He is told of the enormous price this small work fetches in the market, and wonders again. It seems to him sketchy, blurred, and unfinished, perhaps meaningless, but it must be a great work from its price: he cannot puzzle it out, and he has to pass on to others. The critic, however, at his elbow, will draw him back and tell him, first, what the Corot theory was, viz., that nature has moods of humour, of feeling and passion, which can be noted, just as we note expression on the human countenance; that this often becomes so marked and absorbing that we do not observe mere details. The painter, who wished to seize the humour or expression, passes by all details of leaves, branches, etc., and even the outlines, so that the spectator, like the painter, will note only, say, the general sadness of the whole. This is roughly and, perhaps, broadly expressed, but it furnishes a sort of key. But we now look at our Corot with a different interest, and its meaning gradually grows upon us. So with the Dutch school. We pass from one to the other in the Peel collection, from Teniers and Van Steen to De Hooge, with a sense of sameness. There are the usual “Boors” and “Vrows” carousing or dancing; or there are “Interiors” by De Hooge; or Hobbema, with his alleys and trees, all great, clever, finished minutely, and curious. But we have no key, and there is a mystery beyond us. Here, again, we should reflect that this “style” is due to the conditions of climate and character. Dutch skies are sad and sombre, the country flat and bare, the long avenues of trees add to the mournful feeling; the interiors are dark. There is a wonderful, much-admired Hobbema, here a “grand piece,” as it is called; an alley of long bare trees stretching away from the spectator, a landscape spreading away beyond. The spectator as he gazes will feel a curious sense of melancholy, owing to the flat wastes, the trunks exposed to the sweeping winds, the earth redeemed by stern toil from the sea, the feeling of isolation, with a suggestion of the indomitable Dutch character, which has battled successfully for centuries with the ocean, and which finds a relief in scenes of carousal. They have no mountains or valleys, or woods to draw from. The houses in the cities are narrow, their rooms small and dark; hence everything is looked at in miniature; hence, too, the laborious finish. Hence, too, plenty of dark corners and shadows. All which explains Rembrandt’s traditional effects, his faces emerging from dark backgrounds. Hence, too, the costume of the Dutch portrait, with its white collar and black jerkin. In the small dark rooms, panelled with dark oak, the light falls only on the face; rich-coloured clothes would lose their lustre. So with De Hooge’s picture of the “Entrance to a Dutch Yard,” where there is a welcome but unexpected stream of light, and which is treated as light that enters into a dark place.

I have often thought, too, how interesting it would be if there were some critics to explain the treatment and manipulation adopted by different painters! Why did Gainsborough, for instance, deal in exquisite streaky greens and translucent blues; how is it that his faces are so delicate and tender? The fact is, different painters see things with different eyes, and the figure presents itself differently. One will note only the expression as worthy of representation, another the colours of the face, another will be struck by the attitude, the richness of the dress, etc. Denner saw nothing but lines and wrinkles. It is with painting exactly as it is with authorship. One will relate a fact exactly as it occurred, another in newspaper style, another with touches of character; another has a certain charm of description; yet another is poetical.

To give a more particular illustration of how enjoyment would be increased by some such critical aid as this, let us pause a moment before this fine full-length portrait of Lewis, the actor, which hangs in the vestibule of the hall—a smiling figure in a sort of Spanish dress. It is the character of “The Marquis” in “The Midnight Hour,” and is painted by Sir Martin Shee, erst President of the Academy. There is something effective and pleasing about the picture, but most persons content themselves with a glance and pass on. Now, suppose we inform him that Lewis was a comedian of the old “airy” school, was noted for his elegant style of representing people of rank—that is to say, personages gay and witty, without condescension—carrying themselves through difficult situations without embarrassment, and making love in a very irresistible way. Shee had seen Lewis many times on the stage, and knew him au bout des ongles; these gifts were present to him; so, selecting this favourite character, he embodied here an epitome of all its attractions. With these facts in view, we look again at the picture, and how different it appears! There is the delightful expression, half rallying, half of enjoyment, a general refinement, with a graceful carriage—in short, a regular bit of comedy is going on before us.

In some of the great “Gallery” pictures—such as Sebastian del Piombo’s “Raising of Lazarus”—the assistance of judicious criticism is really essential. We must be instructed how and why to admire. Otherwise, as in other kindred instances, such as with pictures of the Caraccis, we see only a number of Scriptural figures in robes, blue or scarlet, grouped together; no doubt large, dignified, impressive, but not by any means interesting. There is a general conventionality. Yet this “Raising of Lazarus” has been criticised by Hazlitt, Haydon, and others in a very interesting way, and our catalogues of the future might profitably have these inserted. Dr. Waagen thought this picture the most important of the Italian school that England possesses. He adds that the “first glance would teach us that the figure of Lazarus was drawn, though not painted, by Michael Angelo.” The figure of our Saviour he praises for its nobility, and “in Lazarus the transition from death to life is expressed with wonderful fidelity. In the other figures gratitude, astonishment, conviction, doubt are to be traced.” I fear there are few of the thousands passing who would gather this or anything from the first glance, or note any of these things.