VENETIAN SCHOOL

“Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee; And was the safeguard of the West: the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth— Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.”

Let us now enter the long room of the National Gallery, the largest of all the rooms. There we shall see the pictures of the Venetian school—Venice, the Republic, whose merchants were princes, whose people were free born, and whose doges rank with the highest potentates of the world, is here. Rich, luxurious, and powerful, she was the bride of the Adriatic. Every year her doges wooed the sea and wedded it with the marriage ring that they threw into its waves.

The Venetian school of painting was a school of colour, of light; it pictures a free, joyous, opulent life. As you stand in this room, you have a great sense of splendour—splendour of drapery, splendour of architecture, splendour of physical beauty; it is the happy noon-tide of art. Lovely women, blonde, red-haired, of massive types, surround us. They contrast with the slender forms, the more intellectual and spiritual physiognomies portrayed by Leonardo da Vinci, by Botticelli, by Raphael. Never has colour been used so boldly and successfully; never has light and shadow produced more dramatic effects. Religion was the source of the art of Venice as it has been the source of every art.

In the early half of the fifteenth century the Vivarinis were a family of painters; natives of the island of Murano, they heralded the foundation of the Venetian school. Murano is an island of the lagoons on the north of Venice; it lies so close to the city “Queen of the Adriatic,” that the gondolas congregate there at holiday time. The Vivarinis lavishly inlaid their pictures with gold, so that they look half goldsmith’s work, half that of painters. Antonio Vivarini was a native of Murano, and he had for partner a German named Johannes; but in 1450 he sundered his partnership and associated himself with his younger brother Bartolommeo. They had a younger kinsman, the most gifted of the family, Luigi or Alvise. We have in the National Gallery two panels of saints by Antonio Vivarini which I want you to look at (768 and 1284). They are panels embossed with gold; the gold is inlaid with precious stones. The transparent colour is very beautiful, and the work is altogether serious and dignified.

The Vivarinis were the only rivals Giovanni Bellini had to encounter when he came and settled in Venice, about 1460, with his brother Gentile. Both were pupils of their father Jacobo, who belonged to the Paduan school, and who was a man of some distinction.

Before looking at Bellini’s pictures I should like you just to glance at the “Annunciation” by Carlo Crivelli, an artist who was born in Venice about 1430. He was a link between the old school that was very much under Byzantine influence and the new school of which Giovanni Bellini was the leader. Crivelli employed gold and silver as did the Byzantines; he painted in transparent and brilliant colour, using gold so skilfully that it seems to be part of his palette. He delighted in lovely and gorgeous details, in splendid masses of colour, in magnificent stuffs, in rare ornaments. We have in his pictures a foretaste of the colouring of Paul Veronese, of the opulent effects attained by the use of flowered brocades. There are eight pictures from the hand of Crivelli, but we shall look at one only—“The Annunciation” (739). It is an exquisite little work, very naïf in sentiment. Through an open door we see the Virgin kneeling in a sumptuously furnished room. From a window above hangs a carpet, a rich medley of tints such as the looms of Venice alone could weave. A peacock of iridescent hues stands on the ledge above. The angel of the “Annunciation” is kneeling in the street outside the window at which the Virgin is praying, and by the angel’s side is St. Emilius, carrying a model of the city of Ascali. A ray of light pierces the roof of the house, and a dove descends upon the Virgin’s head. Many figures are in the street; some are aware of the ray of dazzling light, and are scared and troubled at the phenomenon. A little child from a balcony opposite is peeping timidly, wondering what is happening in the house over the way. It is a delightful picture, full of story, most perfect in all its details, full also of interest in human beings.

And now let us look at some of Giovanni Bellini’s works. He is the real founder of the Venetian school, the school that revels in the glory of the world. Let us first look at “Christ’s Agony in the Garden.” (726) It is a very early picture by Bellini; it was painted nearly fifty years before he painted the superb portrait of the Doge Leonardo Loreano. The sun is setting, the sky is suffused with rosy radiance: this is said to be the first painted sunset in the National Gallery. How beautiful is the quiet twilight descending on the hills, contrasting with the splendour of light in the sky. Christ is kneeling somewhat apart from His disciples, who have been overcome by sleep. In the distance we see Judas approaching with a crowd of Jews. Our Lord is praying in His mysterious agony, and lo! the heavens have opened and an angel is descending bearing a cup. The picture is full of peace. We feel that Bellini was a true Christian, and that, as he painted, in his heart was a passionate love for our Saviour.

The portrait of the Doge Leonardo Loreano in his state robes (189) next claims our attention. What a portrait that is! The power of differentiating individuals is the secret of portraiture, and the Venetian school excels in portraiture. We seem to see the Doge as he was in life, fearless, astute, the representative of a mighty Republic against whom the great powers of Europe had formed a league—the league of Cambrai. Look at his wise, challenging eyes, at his resolute jaw, at the dignity of his carriage, at the courage breathed by his whole personality. He is secure in his own wit and bravery and in the faith of his people. Do you not seem to know the Doge wearing that curious peaked cap, that white and gold brocaded mantle? The picture is painted in oil. Bellini was one of the first to adopt the discovery of a new medium by Van Eyck. He had painted in tempera, now he abandoned it and took to the pellucid and golden oil.

It is believed that he was taught by a Sicilian painter named Antonello da Messina, who had learnt the secret of oil painting from Jan Van Eyck. When I come to the Flemish school I will tell you more of Van Eyck’s discovery. Let us look at the “Madonna and Child,” often called “Madonna of the Pomegranate” (280), one of the loveliest Madonnas in the National Gallery, with her shrouded head and eyes full of sorrow. She holds her Babe, a noble boy with auburn curls and dark eyes like His mother’s eyes. There is also from Bellini’s palette, “The Blood of the Redeemer” (1233), a pathetic and appealing picture, full of mystic teaching. Every detail seems put there to emphasise its meaning that Christ died for man. “The Death of St. Peter Martyr” (812) is a noble landscape; heavy intricate masses of foliage glow in the light of afternoon, and in a glade of the wood takes place the murder of Peter, the general of the Dominicans. He was a fanatic, and he was hated for his cruelty. On that day he was going in search of an enemy of the Church, and men waylaid him, cleft his skull, and left him dead on the spot. Strange it is to see how undisturbed are the woodcutters, the dogs and all the people about. “There must be serenity for perfect beauty,” says Mr. Ruskin. Perhaps it is for this that nothing disturbs the sense of peace and of labour. There is not a drop of blood upon the robe of Peter or upon the weapon of the assassin. All is sunshine and quiet about the violent deed. Splendid as is the painting of this picture, we ask is not reality too much sacrificed to the claims of art? There are other pictures by the founder of the Venetian school, among them a portrait of St. Dominic (1440) wearing the black and white habit of his order, carrying a lily in his hand. It is a fine and serene portrait.

Bellini died November 24, 1516.