PAUL VERONESE, SEBASTIAN DEL PIOMBO, AND THE GREAT PORTRAIT PAINTERS

“The rich heritage, the milder life. Of nations fathered by a mighty Past.”

Let us now look at the works of Paolo Veronese, the artist who, with Tintoretto, carried on the traditions of the Venetian school, to the dawn of the seventeenth century. Paolo Veronese was above all things a painter. What I want you to understand by this is that he was a master of expression in a difficult and complex language. He had the gift of colour and the gift of line. And what did he say in that strange tongue, how did the world appeal to him? It appealed to him through its wonder, through the dignity of its men and the beauty of its women, through the stateliness of its architecture, and the glory of its sunlight. He did not care for exactitude. He treated correctness with superb indifference. He dressed his women in the splendid brocades woven in the looms of Venice, he clothed his men in the armour of his time. The last born of the greatest painters of Italy (1528–1588), he was the most gloriously ornate of them all.

Look at his great picture, “The Family of Darius at the feet of Alexander” (294) after the battle of Issus, 333 B.C. These magnificently dressed women are imploring for the body of their loved husband and father. They mistake Hephæstion for Alexander. The conqueror is a simple and dignified figure in armour. The palace in which the widowed wife and the fatherless daughters are kneeling is the hall of an Italian palace; perhaps it is that of the Pisani family, for whom Veronese painted this immortal work. Among the princesses, in their laced bodices and flowing gowns, is the daughter of Darius, whom Alexander later wedded. Bucephalus, the splendid war-horse, is here, and here also is a monkey, and all the accessories of pomp and state.

And now let us pass from that scene of splendour to No. (1041). It is the picture of a single figure—of St. Helena seeing the vision of the cross. The saint is sleeping on a marble window-seat in the limpid sunshine of Venice. She rests her head upon her right hand, and behold the heavens have opened and angels are descending holding aloft the cross. See the look of rapture that is stealing over her slumbering face as she beholds the holy symbol by which her son Constantine will conquer. Look how charming is the modelling of the figure, the disposition of the folds of her crimson gown, how tranquil and exalted is the atmosphere about her. When she wakes she will set forth for the Holy Land; she will visit the hill of Calvary, searching there for the implements of torture that were buried in the spot where our Lord was martyred.

“THE VISION OF ST. HELENA” (1041)

BY PAOLO CALIARI (CALLED PAOLO VERONESE)

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There are many other pictures by Veronese in the Gallery, but if you study these two you will know how to appreciate his genius. With our eyes filled with the splendour of Venetian colour, let us look at “The Raising of Lazarus” (1) by Sebastian del Piombo. It is a picture very interesting in the history of art, but I think it is disappointing. Its emotion is remote with that curious remoteness that comes when our hearts do not throb as we look at a moving scene. Sebastian del Piombo was a laborious painter; he worked hard, but painting did not come easily to him. Vasari tells us that “The Raising of Lazarus” was painted in rivalry to the “Transfiguration” of Raphael, and that Michael Angelo helped Sebastian with the drawing. Raphael’s “Transfiguration” and Sebastian’s “Raising of Lazarus” were exhibited together. The two pictures received great applause from all who saw them, and some people preferred Sebastian’s work.

There are two drawings at the British Museum of the figure of Lazarus by Michael Angelo, showing that he had helped his friend in this picture. The moment chosen for the subject is the one when Lazarus comes forth bound hand and foot in his grave clothes. Christ is in the centre of the picture pointing to heaven; Lazarus is looking eagerly towards Him. Pharisees, disciples, men, and women are about. Mary is sitting at the feet of the Saviour; Martha is behind her brother. It is a grim, realistic picture, filled with repulsive details. Sebastian soon after, on entering the monastic life, became keeper of the leaden seal, a well-paid appointment that he obtained from the Pope. He gave up painting; he took life easily henceforth, and never troubled any more about work. His friends would remonstrate with him. Why had he lost all ambition? Why did he not set to work and achieve great things with his brush?

“No, no,” Sebastian would answer laughing; “there are so many clever fellows about, I am well out of the struggle. They can do in a month what would take me a year to achieve. It is a good thing that some people should do nothing,” and he remained quite firm in his resolve. He never painted again. When you look at that large canvas of “The Raising of Lazarus” you must think of Sebastian del Piombo, who became a monk and who retired so early from the life of struggle. I think that through the centuries I hear him laugh as he answers his friends, “No, no; there are so many clever fellows about, I am well out of the struggle.”

Now let us look at the portraits—the lifelike portraits that bring the men and women of Venice and its neighbourhood before us to-day. Truth and beauty are the two considerations the artist must keep before him in painting a portrait. The earlier portrait painters aimed at fidelity to nature more than do the painters of a later period. Here, in this great Gallery, we see the men and women as they took part in the life of Venice in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.

There are two great portraits by Il Moretto (1498–1555), who was a native of Brescia, close to Venice. His father was a merchant. Il Moretto painted almost entirely for his native town. His nickname of “Blackamoor” is very inappropriate to his work. He chose a cool, tender, and harmonious scheme of colouring. His two portraits are of Italian noblemen. They have the noble bearing, the dignity and grace of the grandees of Italy. The first Count Sciarra Cesaresco (299) shows us a magnificently attired man in satin and ermine, with a plumed hat, resting his head on his hand. There is something melancholy and aspiring in his attitude. The second (1025) is probably the portrait of a member of the Fenariola family. In this portrait, the cool and splendid colour, the depth of expression, the ease and grace of carriage are marvellously depicted. They make us understand the spell that Il Moretto exercised as a portrait painter.

Moroni, his pupil (1525–1578), was not so successful with the noblemen of Italy, but he shows himself eminently gifted to represent the character of the men and women who have lower claims of birth. His lawyer (742), so alert and inquisitive looking; his ecclesiastic (1024), so important; and, best of all, his tailor (697)—are all masterpieces. We seem to know them all. The lifelike attitude of the tailor, as he stands scissors in hand, looking towards us with an enquiring expression, makes us realise that the men of the sixteenth century were very like the men of to-day.

“Tagliapanni”—for this is the tailor’s name—I think I hear one of you boys say, “how much cloth will I want for a jerkin?”

And Tagliapanni, looking as he looks in the picture, scissors in hand, answers, “That depends, little sir, upon the fashion of the jerkin you want.”

Another remarkable portrait painter is Lotto (1476–1555). He gives us the likeness of the “Prothonotary-Apostolic Juliano” (1105). Prothonotary means the chief of what may be called the Record Office of the Church. His business is to draw up reports on all important Church functions, such as the enthronement of new popes and other public functions. If we remember that the artist impresses his personality on the portraits he paints, we shall recognise how charming was the inner self of the painter Lotto. He has given a great elegance to this portrait of a scholar. How charming and cool is the colour, how beautiful is the drawing, the calm and thoughtful brow, the wise and weary eyes, weary with much reading—

“The low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it: This high man with a great thing to pursue Dies ere he knows it.”

Lotto was a pupil either of Bellini or of Vivarini. He was a gentle, earnest man, passing most of his long life among the Dominican monks. Thus the peaceful inwardness of his life was reflected in his works.

There are many more portraits here that I cannot write to you about. Of the beautiful women I can single out but one—the golden-haired, bright, and sinister-eyed beauty by Paris Bordone (674). It is a portrait that makes us shudder as we look at it. The eyes are hard as jewels; there is something ruthless about them. A story is told about this woman, who lived a treacherous and a cruel life in a treacherous and cruel age. One day she wandered into a church; looking towards the altar, she beheld a picture of herself painted when she was young and innocent. She was an angel there playing on a lute and singing. The memory of what had been overcame her, and she sank fainting on the floor. Tradition says that she entered a nunnery, and that she became a holy woman.

Bordone was born 1500 and died 1571.

And now we must leave this entrancing room of the school of Venice. As we leave it we seem to be going out of the sunshine, out of an atmosphere of gaiety and colour.