FLORENTINE SCHOOL (_Continued_)

“And mark through the winter afternoons, By a gift God grants me now and then, In the mild decline of those suns like moons, Who walked in Florence, besides her men.”

Filippino Lippi (1457–1504) was Fra Filippo’s son, the “little Filippo,” and he too was a painter of genius. He was a very young man when his father died—too young to have learned much from him—and he became the pupil of Sandro Botticelli. His pure and excellent life made him greatly beloved. Vasari, the chronicler of the painters of the close of the fifteenth and of the opening of the sixteenth centuries, whose contemporary he was, tells us “that he was loved by all who had known him, not only for the excellence of his life, but for the courtesy and the amiability of his disposition.”

“St. Francis with the Stigmata” (598) is a very characteristic picture by this artist. In it we see the saint, whose bride was Poverty, whose heart overflowed with love for humanity and for all created things, receiving the stigmata. The stigmata is the trace of the wounds that our Lord had borne—his lacerated hands and feet, his “riven side.” It is a tradition of the Catholic Church that St. Francis meditated so constantly upon the Saviour’s sufferings, prayed so incessantly, wept such bitter tears over them, that the Lord himself appeared to him and touched his hands and feet and side. From henceforth St. Francis bore in his person the wounds that his Saviour had borne. Here we see him standing in glory against a gold background, contemplating a small crucifix above. On each side of him are angels playing musical instruments, singing anthems exhorting others to follow the example of the saint. It is a strange picture full of a great fervour.

Let us now look at “An Angel Adoring” (927), a somewhat battered fragment from a large picture. A faded halo is round the angel’s head; we can see the trace of wings on the shoulders. How tender is the expression of the face bent in prayer, how tender also is the clasp of the finger tips. Seldom has the expression of adoring prayer been more beautifully rendered; adoration is the note of this painter’s work. We have in the National Gallery three pictures of “The Adoration of the Magi” (592), (1033), (1124), by Filippino Lippi. In these pictures we see his love for splendour of costume. According to Vasari he introduces figures in antique garments, in armour, swords, togas; all the paraphernalia of classic antiquity appear in his works. Note especially (in 1124) the heralds blowing their trumpets, the ample robes of the three Magi offering gifts. The garments Filippino paints are of superb brocade and velvet, his jewels are gems of rare colour, yet as we look we forget all the splendour and remember only the sweet and rapt expression of the adoring faces. The love of the classics touched Filippino, as I have told you it had seized all Italy at the time of the Renaissance. Legends of saints, scenes from the biblical story, formed still the subject of the artist’s inspiration, but he clothed his conceptions in the worldly splendour that was so dear to his generation.

I must speak to you of the art of composition that he so skilfully employed; in the “Adoration of the Magi” (1124) that art enabled him to fill his canvas and yet to allow no sense of crowding. Group balances group, and we are surprised to find that there are over seventy figures introduced into a comparatively small picture. Of Filippino’s works I should say that they reflect his own nature—so pious, so serene, so interested in the world’s spiritual beauty and its progress. I can imagine him with his courteous manner, noted by Vasari, his gentle address, painting these pictures of prayer and of divine love. His art differed very much from that of his father; it differed also from that of his master Botticelli, although it was much influenced by it. We recognise little of his father’s care of all the dear humble things of the world—the flowers, the sunlight, the beauty of the lilies of the field—nor does he show intimate appreciation of the meaning of gesture; we see none of Botticelli’s vehemence. Filippino’s art, it seems to me, is all contained in the word “worship.” It is detached from the world, while appreciating its glory; it is exalted, pure, and expressive. He died at Florence in April 1504, and the inhabitants of the city, in order to show their affection for his gentle and gifted personality, closed their shutters all along the route of the funeral procession.

Let us pause for a moment before the picture, “The Battle of Sant’ Egidio” (583), by Paolo Uccello (1397–1479). The painter is called Uccello—the Italian for bird—because of his love for the feathered creation. His family name was Dono. “He filled his home,” says Vasari, “with a number of painted birds, cats, and dogs.” He loved them all—he loved all animals—but he was poor and he could not keep any.

You have all heard of perspective—the science of foreshortening, of representing things as they look, differently from what they are. It was Uccello who discovered its rules. He was so interested that he would sit up all night drawing perspective plans, intricate circles, and squares. His wife could not get him to bed. “What a sweet thing perspective is,” he would say regretfully when she urged him to come. Vasari thinks that Uccello would have been the most original genius since Giotto, but for that love of perspective—“if he had studied figures and animals instead of wasting his time over perspective; although it is a fine science,” he says, “yet he who is devoted to it out of measure wastes his time.”

But Uccello was “bitten with it,” as they say, and he persisted in his studies, growing every day more solitary and more eccentric in his tastes. He died in great poverty. Look at this picture, “The Battle of Sant’ Egidio” (583). In this battle, Carlo Malatesta, Lord of Rimini, and his nephew Galeazzo, were taken prisoners by Braccio di Montone. Malatesta is depicted on his white horse. He has in his raised hand the stick of command with which he apparently is giving the signal of battle. He is covered with mail, over which he wears a red mantle embroidered with gold. On his head he has a large biretta worked with flowers in gold. Galeazzo is behind him, seen in profile. He has a beautiful face marked by a peaceful expression; his blonde and abundant hair flows about his neck, and he is attentively following the manœuvres of the combatants. Look at the spirit of the horses as they close in the fight; they seem to tear the ground in their energy; the order has gone forth and the battle is raging in earnest. Behind is a hedge of wild roses—roses bloom notwithstanding the tumult of the fray. In the foreground a knight has fallen wounded. His figure lies prone on the earth, and is an example of Uccello’s skill in foreshortening. It is a somewhat grotesque picture, but it is full of movement and spirit. Its importance is to show a new development in art—a new thing brought into the world by the genius of man, and this new thing is the union of science with art. Scientific perspective joined to the emotional side of art.

“The Death of Procris” (698), by Piero di Cosimo (1462–1521), is a quaint and interesting picture, full of wonder and full of beauty. I must tell you something of the painter, for he was a singular man. The son of a goldsmith, he was placed by his father to study under a painter named Cosimo, who grew to love him dearly, and whose name he took. Piero di Cosimo, as a youth, was very absent-minded and dreamy. “He was so fond of solitude,” says Vasari, “that he had no greater pleasure than to go by himself to solitary places, there to weave visions and to build castles in the air.” When his master died, to whom he was greatly attached, Piero would let no one see him. “He lived more like a wild beast than a man,” says Vasari. “He would never let his room be swept, or his garden dug or his fruit trees pruned.” He loved to see things wild as was his own nature. He ate when he was hungry only. He brought himself to live upon hard boiled eggs, which he would cook by fifties, keeping them in a bag to consume by degrees. Later, when you are older, you will read the noble novel “Romola,” by George Eliot, and there you will get to know the painter in his old age; you will understand his genius and his eccentricity, his patriotism, his tender love for some people, his aversion to others. Poor Cosimo, as he grew older, he grew more singular and fantastic. He loved animals dearly. He used to spend hours watching them, but he loved solitude most of all. He became more morose as the shadow of years gathered about his tormented soul. A terrible misfortune overtook him in his old age; he was struck with paralysis, and Vasari tells us of his misery, how he would try to keep his hands steady, how he would force himself to hold a maul stick and brushes, but it was all in vain; his grasp grew feebler, and things would drop from his fingers. Then he would rage, and, in his despair, he would talk wildly. It was very pitiful to watch him, but peace came at last, and one morning the grim old man was found lying dead at the foot of his stairs.

“THE DEATH OF PROCRIS” (698)

BY PIERO DI COSIMO

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“The Death of Procris” is a beautiful picture. See how charming is the wide effect of light in the sky; how charming also are the flowers in the foreground. All the tenderness underlying Cosimo’s rough exterior is apparent here. We must think of that picture painted in the untidy studio by the solitary artist. Do you know the story of Procris? She was a nymph; she ran, oh! so lightly, she was glad and free, and she fell in love with Cephalus, the young huntsman; she loved him so much that she was jealous of whoso approached him. She made herself miserable fancying that Cephalus loved another nymph. One day, when he was gone hunting, she followed him secretly and hid behind a bush, and there she heard his voice. He was only saying, “Oh air, how sweet thou art,” or something of that kind, but she was sure he was addressing another nymph. She shivered with pain; she pushed forward to see to whom he was speaking, and the leaves of the bush that hid her moved. Cephalus, thinking a wild animal was hiding behind the tree, sent his arrow whizzing in its direction, and the arrow hit Procris and killed her. There you see her lying on the ground with the cruel wound in her throat, a long-eared fawn is gazing wonderingly and sadly down upon her, and her dog Lelaps is watching her. He seems to be saying, “Why is she so still, why do not her nimble feet run as they used?” Poor Procris, poor silly Procris!

You must note how Piero di Cosimo uses gold. He was the son of a goldsmith. See how tenderly he has placed it in Procris’ sandals, in her beautiful waving hair. Every bit of this picture is full of charming colour. Over four hundred years have passed since it was painted, and still it is bright as on the day it left Piero di Cosimo’s studio, and it is quaint, as were its painter’s imaginings.

“Raphael and Tobias” (781), by Antonio Pollajuolo (1429–1498), is a delightful picture worthy to be studied. Some say it is by another person than by Antonio Pollajuolo, that it is by one of his school, and they give good reasons for their opinion. Anyhow it is a very fine example of the early Florentine school. Have you ever read the story of Tobias, the son of Tobit, in the Apocrypha? It tells how Tobit was a Jewish exile, and how he became blind and prayed for death. His son Tobias was to wed a rich kinswoman, Sarah by name, but she was haunted by an evil spirit, who had slain her seven husbands on their wedding night. To the household of Tobit came the angel of duty, Raphael, disguised as a menial. He left high heaven and came down in order to watch over Tobias. The time came when the youth must go forth to marry Sarah, and the angel went with him. We see them in the picture journeying together over the green country through which winds a river. The angel and the lad are conversing together, and, as they converse, they walk fast. The dust rises under their speeding feet. Tobias, like a young bridegroom, is hastening to see his love, and Raphael is his protector and adviser. Tobias’s dog goes before them—a grey, fluffy dog careering in front. The angel carries a small box, intended for gall, wherewith to cure Tobit of his blindness, and Tobias carries a fish, the heart and liver of which, pounded together, is to act like a charm and drive away the evil spirit that haunts his bride. Raphael’s wings are strong and sheeny pinions. The rapidity of his walk sends his garment in serried folds around his figure; his charming face is smiling down upon Tobias, who, dressed in fifteenth-century costume, is eagerly looking up. You must note the landscape background, which is very fresh and pleasant.

To Antonio Pollajuolo is ascribed the “Martyrdom of St. Sebastian” (292). Look at the wonderful drawing of that picture. The martyred saint stands pierced by many arrows, and all about are the executioners. Some are in the act of shooting, others are changing their cross-bows. One in the foreground is a perfect masterpiece of drawing. Pollajuolo was the first to study artistic anatomy—that is, the play of bones and muscles under the flesh. He was the first to dissect dead bodies for that purpose. Uccello, we have seen, established the rules of perspective, and here we find anatomy entering into the curriculum of the painter. This picture of St. Sebastian is a marvellous presentation of the human figure. The painter was celebrated as a sculptor in bronze, and he was famed for modelling. Yet the picture is lacking in what we find so pathetic in earlier pictures, where the genius of the painter is concentrated upon rendering the expression of the face, the divine look of prayer and exaltation. This St. Sebastian is a magnificently modelled figure, and all about him stand figures as nobly executed. And yet we look upon the cruel scene unmoved; it seems to me that the emotions of pity and repulsion are not conveyed by the artist.

The glory of Domenico Ghirlandajo (1449–1494) is to have been the master of Michael Angelo. He was accounted the greatest teacher in Italy, and to him for instruction went this genius of the Florentine school. Domenico Ghirlandajo’s work is very fine and true; and his fame rests upon portraiture. In all his pictures you will see painted the faces of his contemporaries—the men and women of his time. For a century after Giotto there was but one conventional facial expression. Every face was like another face. Then, very humbly, religious painters began to introduce into their work the portraits of the giver of the picture. Ghirlandajo developed this practice. He differentiated the countenances of the individuals, and under him the portrait became an independent branch of art. We have two portraits by him—(1230) that of a young girl in a red bodice; her face is characteristic, framed in by her long waving hair; the other (1299) is the portrait of a youth.

His son, Ridolpho (1483–1561), excelled also in portrait painting. He was a great friend of Raphael, who invited him to Rome to paint with him. But Ridolpho refused the invitation and remained in Florence, his native city, surrounded by friends and patrons, advancing in his art and in the estimation of other men. He had great ideas of composition, of forcible colouring, but what distinguishes him among his fellows is the earnestness and the character of the heads he painted. The “Procession to Calvary” (1143) is full of movement, full of character, and also full of pathos. The Saviour is wearily bearing His cross, followed by a company of soldiers and accompanied by a procession of weeping women. St. Veronica is among them, and she, her heart full of pity for the suffering Saviour, wipes with a napkin His brow, all bedewed with drops of agony. When the Saviour returns the napkin to her, lo! it bears a miraculous imprint of His features. It is a fine picture, full of a mystic spirit, notwithstanding the brightness of its colouring and the atmosphere surrounding the figures. In the crowd Ridolpho has painted many portraits, among others those of his father, Domenico, and of several friends.