VENETIAN SCHOOL (_Continued_)

“She holds the flower to heaven, and by his power Brings heaven to the flower.”

We must hurry along looking at the representative pictures only of each painter. Oh! the beauty of that long room, the beauty of all the canvases hanging on these walls, the splendour of Titian, the gentle peace of Bellini, the impetuosity of Tintoretto, the magnificence of Veronese. All Venice seems to be here! There is joy in the sense of loveliness—the loveliness of colour, of subject; it creeps into our hearts. It is a splendid company we are amongst—Bellini, Titian, Giorgione, Tintoretto.

Here is “St. Jerome in his Study” (694). The picture was long ascribed to Giovanni Bellini; now critics universally agree that it is by another painter. It is believed to be by Catena, who formed his style and colouring on those of the master. How delightful is this picture. Could we not spend hours in studying it? We see that it is a lovely day full of sunshine. The serene and limpid atmosphere comes through the open windows, and we catch a glimpse of the country beyond. It is Italy, but the painter wishes us to imagine that we are in Bethlehem where St. Jerome had built a monastery. How dignified is the appearance of the saint as he sits in his study absorbed in reading the Scriptures. There is not a grain of dust anywhere. The doors of the cupboard are open; we see his books inside, his candlesticks, all his homely belongings. The old lion is dozing at the saint’s feet, gentle and docile, and there is the little brown partridge that he cared for looking at his old slippers. His hat also is there. What a quaint and dainty scene it is, the picture of a holy life serene and prayerful.

Now let us look at “A Warrior Adoring” (234). The painter is unknown, but it is believed to be by Catena; and if you look at this picture and compare it with “St. Jerome in his Study,” you will see that there is much resemblance in the scheme of colour. How full of worship is the figure of the adoring knight, prostrating himself before the infant Saviour sitting on the knee of the Virgin. Joseph, the knight’s squire, even the horse—all seem under a spell of peace. This picture is filled with a sentiment of adoration. Catena died 1531.

Now let us pass to and pause before the immortal picture, “Bacchus and Ariadne” (35), by Titian (1477–1576). It is a glorious poem in paint—a poem of the joy of life. Theseus, who had loved Ariadne, has abandoned her, and she is on the sea-shore watching the sail that has borne her false love away. Presently there comes through the wood the sound of cymbals, of hurrying footsteps, of merry laughter. There dashes in the god Bacchus on his car driven by leopards, a train of revellers behind him. They are led by a satyr child stepping high on furry legs; his roguish eyes look out full of mirth, his head is crowned with white flowers that catch the light. One blossom has fallen at his feet and shines whitely there. I have said there are many beautiful children in the National Gallery, and this is pre-eminently one of them. He is the incarnation of childish life and joy. How full of animation is the picture, how full of colour; all the dancing figures are golden brown. We seem to hear the turmoil of the merry crew. The blue sea, the blue sky, the blue distance show up the glowing colour of the crowd of revellers. Look at the grace of the figure of Bacchus as he steps from his car to greet Ariadne. It is a picture full of the rare union of poetry and painting. And here is another lovely scene—the “Madonna and Child with St. John the Baptist and St. Catherine” (635). This saint is embracing the little one with rapture. See how charming is the face of the Madonna and of the kneeling and adoring St. Catherine, who is taking the Babe in her arms. Look at the beautiful landscape behind, woodland and plain, sky and water. It is believed to be a picture of Cadore, the birthplace of Titian.

“BACCHUS AND ARIADNE” (35)

BY TITIAN

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Of Titian’s portraits it has been said by Vasari, “There is no lord of note, or prince, or great lady who has not been painted by Titian.” The National Gallery possesses but one undoubted portrait by him—it is that of the “divine Ariosto,” as his countrymen loved to call the poet who wrote the “Orlando Furioso.” He was Titian’s beloved friend, and, in his poem, he speaks of the “honoured Cadore,” the little town among the hills where the painter was born. One portrait—“Portrait of a Poet” (636)—was first ascribed to Titian, then to Palma Vecchio; now some say it is by Giorgione. It is the portrait of a languid, suffering, intellectual looking man gazing out of the canvas; his whole pose expresses fatigue. Behind his head is a laurel tree, the leaves of which form a background to the sad and weary countenance.

But the undoubted portrait of Ariosto (1944) by Titian shows the poet looking over his right shoulder with a somewhat supercilious and sceptical expression. His hair, his beard, are of ruddy brown; he is splendidly attired in grey brocade, and the doublet is cut low at the throat. We seem to see Ariosto before us, aloof of bearing, observant, sensitive. When you read the “Orlando Furioso” you must think of that portrait painted by his friend Titian, the greatest painter of his age, as Ariosto was accounted one of its greatest poets.

Titian was very much influenced by Giorgione, who had been his fellow-pupil in Giovanni Bellini’s studio. Giorgione went to Florence, met Leonardo da Vinci, studied his works, imitating his manner of modelling in light and shade, of melting the colours together, and throwing the objects in greater relief. It was Giorgione’s habit to draw with his brush; he used no cartoon for his pictures, and he influenced Titian to adopt this method. It was a great revolution in the latter’s work. His last pictures are boldly painted in large masses of colour, his first were painted with extreme care and diligence.

Titian lived to ninety-nine years of age. He received princes and the learned and famous men, and he was greatly beloved, for his manners were “most pleasant and courteous.”

Giorgione (1477–1511), whom I have spoken of as influencing Titian, was born at Castelfranco. He was of low origin, but his manners were dignified and gentle. Brought up in Venice, he sang and played divinely, but it was to drawing that he devoted himself. He loved nature, and he would never draw but direct from her. I have told you that he went to Florence and imitated Leonardo da Vinci’s manner, giving great depth to his shadows, blending and softening them and concentrating his light. He was one of the greatest painters of a great age. His contemporaries, recognising his genius, called him, playfully, “George of Georges” (Giorgione). The influence that he exercised over Titian is still a living force, inspiring many painters of to-day. Giorgione understood the true language of the brush, each stroke of which was, as it were, a word in a poem, and his pictures were lyric poems of pleasant places, of summer sunshine, of the sound of running water, of luxuriant vegetation, of people indolently happy enjoying the scenes. Usually you will find tokens of his love of music in his pictures. Very often we see a shepherd or a knight piping to the girls about him. Musical instruments lie on the ground. Giorgione loved life; he loved the beautiful world, the brave and dignified men, the charming women in it; his spirit was attuned to pure and sweet emotions. With all his poetry he was a realist. He never sought inspiration outside this world. Men and women, fine scenery, were enough for him. His colour was glowing. No colour ever glowed as does that of Giorgione. It was the true Venetian colour, full of sunshine, full of the glamour of the ever-changing sea.

In the National Gallery we have but one picture that we can be certain is his—“The Knight in Armour” (269). It is a small, highly finished study, believed to be intended for San Liberale, one of the figures in the great altarpiece that he painted for his native village Castelfranco. It is a wonderful little painting; the bronze colour of the knight’s complexion, the extraordinary lustre of his armour are unapproachable. We cannot appreciate the genius of Giorgione from that study, and yet it makes us understand the reason of his influence over others. He was thirty-four when he died, dying in his prime, as if his buoyant genius could not face old age and the lassitude of life. Pictures belonging to his school are here. If we take “The Garden of Love” (930) we see a scene that might well have fascinated the master, but the painting is not his. If we look at “An Unknown Subject” (1173) we see a strong picture, captivating in its mystery. With “The Knight in Armour” and perhaps with “The Adoration of the Magi” (1160) we exhaust all that we have of Giorgione.

Tintoretto (1518–1584), who, with Titian, Paolo Veronese, Bellini, and Giorgione, resumes the genius of the Venetian school, is also very slightly represented in the National Gallery. He was the painter of impulse, vehement and unfettered. He flung the emotion of the scene on the canvas. His execution was so rapid that his contemporaries nicknamed him “Il Furioso.” He was very unequal in work; the Venetians said he had three pencils, “one of gold, one of silver, and one of iron.” Look at his picture of “St. George and the Dragon” (16). The story is dear to every English boy and girl, and it has never been presented as it is here presented. The earth, the sky, the very air seem charged with the tremendous energy of the moment. St. George, riding on a white horse, the emblem of purity, has attacked the loathly dragon, the emblem of the soul’s evil passions. From his mouth the dragon spits fire. Before the saint is the dead body of a man killed by the monster, and the princess, who was to have been sacrificed to the foul beast, has sunk on her knees, lifting her hands to heaven in supplication. There is the sense of a mighty storm passing over the face of the earth. In the other pictures by Tintoretto we have the same sense of mighty life. In “Christ Washing the Disciples’ Feet” (1130) and in “The Milky Way” (1313) we recognise his dominant force. He was sixty-five when he died.