The enchanted island; the Venice of Titian, and other studies in art

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Preface

TT is not difficult to surmise how England became -*- The Enchanted Island. The hardy fishermen pushing out from the western shores of the great continent of Europe would see our white cliffs, at dawn flushed with roseate light, at night-fall glorified by the setting sun. Such a line on the horizon — beautiful to look upon, perhaps dangerous to approach, certainly unexplored — might well be the land of which even Heine dreamed.

Myth first ; then History ; then Religion ; always the struggle going on between good and evil. Now Science with its clear eyes ; and the common-place work-a-day world with its dull eyes ; and Nature with eyes as of a god — a sun-god — so bright. And over all the spell of an Enchanter's wand. That is the subject of this little book.

To " The Enchanted Island " I have added some viii. PREFACE.

further Studies of Books. They should be read with the Studies which have preceded them in *' The Witness of Art " and '* The Higher Life in Art." Kissing Carrion, Men and Angels, Landscape Art in Poetry, Launcelot Lictor, Hobgoblins by the Great Masters, The Painter's Reward, are chapters of the same series. If I have seemed to bear hardly upon the pessimist literature of the day, it is because I believe it to be a serious and growing evil.

The " Studies for Pictures " have been my companions during many happy hours of labour. They are leaves from my sketch-book — notes in pen and pencil of subjects which have grown into pictures. Separated from the paintings for which they have hitherto spoken, they must now learn to speak for themselves.

Contents

I. THE ENCHANTED ISLAND.

1. The Island 13

2. Anno Domini ig

II. Anno Domini

OW long does the morning last? Till Odin's time ? or Merlin's ? When may the myths be said to end, and history fairly to begin ? While Merlin was flirting with Vivien on the Breton sands Arthur — in the Enchanted Island — was still marking time by the Roman calendar, having heard very little of Christ, and absolutely nothing of " Anno Domini." Yet the worship of Odin — who ceased to be the Prince of Denmark and was discovered to be a god about the year when Christ was born — had flared its course through our heavens, and was already fading into darkness. How swiftly the hours move ! Since Odin came there has been time for three or four religions such as that he gave us. How slowly the hours move ! Since Christ came we have not found time to shake off all the myths that shroud our morning in a blinding mist. Surely it is only sunrise with us still.

And then, how many mornings history has seen — and

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND.

evenings, too. The first faint flushings in the East that broke over India and Persia ; the meridian splendour that made Athens for a time the acropohs of the world; the darkness that fell upon Rome just when day was beginning to dawn upon Britain. So many and so varied are the lights that one cannot always discern precisely the direction in which the shadows lie. To read history is like recalling the scenes of our childhood. Much is forgotten, much is exaggerated, or confused, or has taken a new shape or colour in our minds. Not until we actually revisit the long-deserted home do we realise its true proportions. Then, though familiar faces may be missing, though landmarks may have disappeared, and the fields where we gathered buttercups may have become hideous with brick and mortar, yet the little that does remain possesses a reality strong enough to correct our dreams of the past, to awaken dormant memories, and to give cohesion and substance to associations that were otherwise but fragmentary and elusive.

It is thus with History and Art. In History we read the record of the event ; in Art we revisit the scene. History may tell us more than Art can show us — just as memory may recall things which have ceased to exist and incidents which have left no visible trace. But what Art does show us is not a shadow, it is the substance itself, of which History is only the word-picture. The artist is, indeed, a historian, and the historian is an artist. For the vanishing point of History is found in mythology — which is the creation of the imagination ; and the vanishing point of Art is found in hieroglyph — which is the earlist record of fact. If History is the living soul of the past. Art is its visible incarnation.

But the definition I seek is not one that shall divide myth from history, or picture-writing from picturepainting; it is rather one that shall differentiate the motive underlying two representations of the same thing. Take for instance, the ninth book of the " Odyssey," where Ulysses recounts his adventures in the land of the Cyclops.

" Now off at sea, and from the shallows clear, As far as human voice could reach the ear, With taunts the distant giant I accost. Hear me, O Cyclop ! hear, ungracious host ! Thy barbarous breach of hospitable bands, The god, the god revenges by my hands.

These words the Cyclop's burning rage provoke; From the tall hill he rends a pointed rock ; High o'er the billows flew the massy load. And near the ship came thundering on the flood. It almost brush'd the helm — "

That is the story, as Ulysses tells it to Alcinoiis and his court. Compare it now with Turner's great painting in the National Gallery of the same scene. The

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND.

poem is a drama recited in our ears ; the picture is the same drama acted before us in dumb show. But the reciter speaks as one whose eyes are filled with visions of beauty or terror ; and the actor's face is a revelation of his voiceless passion.

Is not the motive the same, then, in each ? By no means. In the poem it arises in the narrative and springs to the event. Will the huge rock hurled by the Cyclops sink Ulysses' ship ? In the painting it is purely aesthetic, and asks for no event beyond the perfect correlation of light and darkness and colour in a splendid sunrise.

But now turn from this picture of Ulysses' ship to

ANNO DOMINI.

one that hangs side by side with it — " The Fighting Temeraire tugged to her Last Berth." The motive, so far as Art is concerned, is the same in the two pictures — it is aesthetic : it is the perfect correlation of light and darkness and colour in a splendid sunset. But there is something in the picture of the "Temeraire" which we do not discover in the " Ulysses," and which goes far beyond it ; something not founded on imagination, or tradition, or research. It is the witness of an epoch in our national life — of the passing away of the old order and the bringing in of the new. While the picture of Ulysses' ship is only a historical painting the picture of the " Temeraire " is Historic Art.

These definitions are indeed somewhat defiant of the old traditions, which lay down that " historical painting is that highest branch of the art which can embody a story in a picture and invest it with the warmth of poetry," and that " histrionism " is "stage-playing." But I am not afraid of breaking away from old traditions, if by so doing I can give to the terms in which my subject must be stated clearer and truer values. The closer the alliance between History and Art, the more necessary it is that these values should be clear and true. History, Historic Art, and Histrionic Art are three things as distinct from each other as three children of one family bearing the same name.

I have said that History is the living soul of the past, and that Art is its visible incarnation.

Now this, which is the primary, is also the noblest relationship that can exist between the two. They are co-ordinate and complemental to each other ; and Art thus related to History is Historic Art.

But there is also a secondary relationship existing between them, in which Art, abandoning its higher function of speaking with original, independent, undivided authority, from one age to another, accepts the humbler role of emphasising or illustrating the speech of the historian. A historical painting (as the term is generally understood) is not a real voice speaking to us ; it is only the echo of a voice. Art thus related to History is Histrionic Art.

This is a distinction of which very little has been

said by writers upon Art ; but it is one we should do

well to consider. In the light of it the old lines of

classification disappear, as of small account. Here are

two pictures by the same painter — the one claims to

be historical, but it is only histrionic ; the other claims

simply to be landscape, but it is historic. See now

how this distinction touches sculpture. The beautiful

statuary which enriches the west front of Lichfield

Cathedral is an epitome of the history of Christianity

for eighteen hundred years ; but it has no historic

value ; and that, not because it is modern — for the last

treasure added to the cathedral, the recumbent figure

of Bishop Selwyn — being the actual portrait of the

man — is, and will remain for ever, true Historic Art.

It has no historic value because it is not contemporary

with the events of which it is the chronicle. See also

how the same distinction touches architecture. The

new Law Courts, though built upon lines of the purest

Gothic, are a histrionic semblance only of a past age.

But the Temple Church, hard by, is not a semblance

at all — any more than the rainbow is a semblance of

the rain, or snow the semblance of cold. The rainbow

is the rain falling in drops ; and the Temple Church

is the passion of an age crystallised into a beautiful shape — just as under certain conditions of the atmosphere the water which is in it crystalHses into a snowflake.

See, last of all, how this distinction between Historic and Histrionic Art touches the drama. We call " Coriolanus " a historical play, " Romeo and Juliet " a tragedy, and " The Merry Wives of Windsor " a comedy. But which of them is really historic? Which of them stands co-ordinate with history ? Which of them shows us the thing itself of which history is the word-picture ? Surely not the one we call historical. The play of " Coriolanus " adds nothing to our knowledge of the Roman nobles, or the tribunes of the people. If there is in it a touch of true historic art it is where it shows us the mutinous, vacillating crowd of citizens : " Let us kill him and we will have corn at our own price.'' Shakespeare may have actually heard these words — in the streets of London. And then, in " Romeo and Juliet," just so far as the art of it hangs upon history it is not historic. The story, may indeed be true. Narrated at first by an Italian novelist, it was repeated by many poets and story-tellers of Italy and France. At last it was translated into English, and from this translation Shakespeare seems to have taken not the plot only, but many of the vsentiments and expressions. How small a residue of actual fact remains when the record is sifted. Only a tomb in the

Vicolo Franceschino, and an old house in the Via- Capello. But when Shakespeare makes old Capulet say to his daughter : —

" Look to't, think on't, I do not use to jest. An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend; An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die i' the streets, For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee" —

and Juliet to her mother — that first and last refuge of the child-soul in distress —

"Is there no pity sitting in the clouds ? O, sweet my mother, cast me not away ! "

— here Art becomes at once the revelation of the spirit of an age. As to Justice Shallow, and the Welsh Parson, and Mistress Anne Page — "sweet Anne Page," " who has brown hair and speaks small like a woman " it matters very little that their names are not written in the books of the chronicles of the Kings of England. If the people, and not the camp or court alone, are the nation, and if History is the record of a nation's life, then the Art which brings us face to face with generations that have passed away — that makes us laugh with them, and weep with them, and think their thoughts — the Art that does this, whether it be landscape or figure, painting or architecture, sculpture or the drama, tragedy or comedy, is before all things and above all things Historic Art.

I note then (ist) that Art to have historic value must be Contemporary Art. If we would realise the degradation to which King Solomon sank in worshiping the goddess of the Zidonians, we should look, not at the Aphrodite of the Greek sculptors, but at the Astarte of the Assyrians. There we see, not the transcendentalism of an exalted ideal of human beauty, but the incarnation of real human lust. If we care to know what the early Christians thought of the Master, we must look, not at the " Crucifixions " and " Holy Families " of the Renaissance, but at the rude frescoes on the walls of the catacombs. There we never see Him either as a baby or as a dead man, but always as the living Christ.

I note (2nd) that though the Art which is historic possesses a worth apart from, and altogether incommensurate with, its artistic merits, yet there is no splendour of genius, or refinement of knowledge, or mastery in craftsmanship that the artist can bring to his labour that does not add its full value to his work. There are in the Museum of the Vatican, small medallions of the first century, engraved with slender outlines of the likenesses of three of the Apostles — St. Peter, St. John, and St. Paul. Comparing these outlines with the cartoons of Raphael, we perceive how very closely the great painter followed them. Slight as they are, they were sufficient to control his

ANNO DOMINI.

,(S. Peter f S. jfohn &> S. Paul, from Relics found in the Catacombs.)

imagination. He was content to learn from them. It is much to possess even these faint records of men, of whom we wish in vain to know more now, but whose faces were once familiar enough in the streets of Athens and Rome. What might we not have possessed if those little medallions had been engraved by the hand of a Raphael ?

I note (3rd) the extreme reticence of true Historic Art. The fine painting which deHghted London a few years ago of a Babylonian marriage market is a poem, a satire, a fable — what you will — but it is not historic. Like the play of " Coriolanus," it is based on our knowledge of History, but it adds nothing to that knowledge, nor can it correct it in the least particular. We know so much of the past — if we believe all that History tells us. We know so little of the past — if we believe only what we know. " The land where now the Sultan rules " has seen many dynasties, since the time when it was governed by a woman. — What was she like ? — that " Empress of many languages." Look at the walls of the royal palace of the " Great City." There we shall see Art — again rude in draughtsmanship, but Historic — Semiramis by the side of Ninus, her husband, she killing a panther, he piercing a lion with his dart. Of Semiramis herself the Poets and Historians — Herodotus, Diodorus, Ovid — have much to tell us, and each tells us a different story : — that she was born of a goddess, that she became a goddess after her death, that she was nurtured by doves, that she was metamorphosed into a dove — with many other minutiae, even to such trifling details as the dressing of her beautiful hair, and the murder of her husband. Dante knows exactly where to find her in Hell ; where, indeed, with Virgil, he saw her, in that long line of shadowy forms, castigated by the black air, uttering wild cries of lamentation ; where —

*' The infernal hurricane that never rests Hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine, Whirling them round and smiting.'

Compared with all this, how reticent is Art ! It tells us only that Semiramis was a woman, and that, like many a sweet-eyed English girl, she followed the chase and loved to be in at the death.

Not of her husband — Art says nothing about that — but of the panther. Perhaps Semiramis never killed Ninus after all. If she did, however, it is not likely that she would have commissioned her Court painter to portray the deed upon the walls of her palace ; so the silence of Art must not be taken to contradict the utterance of History. Art does not deny that Semiramis slew her husband and was a goddess. It only affirms that she was a woman. And we believe it. If a woman can be both human and divine, then we may believe History too. Otherwise we are tempted to think that History has dealt with Semiramis very much as Mr. Richard Swiveller dealt with the " small servant " at Bevis Marks — when he said, trimming the candle and depositing his stake of sixpence in the saucer, " To make things seem more real and pleasant I shall call you the Marchioness — Do you hear ? "

The simile is a bold one — but it is not without

c 2 justification : and it will even bear to be carried a little further. To make things more real — that is the purpose of History : to make things more pleasant — that is the purpose of Art. The Queen of Babylon and the "small servant" stand very far apart. Not so far, however, but that Art can lay its hand upon both. And Art deals with both in the same way. For whether it is Dante who shows us the one in the Second Circle of Hell, or Dickens, who shows us the other in Miss Brass's back kitchen — whether we move, that is to say, in a great arc with the stars, or are tethered in the narrowest field — the circumference of our circle will always bear the same ratio to its radius. See how easily the phantasmagoria of History fall into order with the longer procession of the phantasmagoria of Art. Mr. Swiveller, knowing nothing of the child's parentage, called her " the Marchioness." When it became necessary to designate her by a proper name he was content for her to be known as " Miss Sophronia Sphynx," that being, as he said, euphonious and genteel, and, furthermore, indicative of mystery; but he himself called her " the Marchioness " to the last. And so History. It begins, for example, by telling us precisely when England became converted to Christianity ; it presently discovers that we are not exactly followers of Christ — but it calls us Christians still. This is not being real. And Art goes on making statues to be placed in the streets of London, and to get smoked there, as black, and as surely, as a flitch of bacon gets smoked in a farm-house chimney. Surely this is not making things pleasant. Can nothing be done to make History more true and Art more lovely ?

If the day has not fully dawned there is yet light enough to show us our path ; and the light is brightening. If Christianity has still a little more to accomplish in us before it has quite conformed us to the pattern of Christ, we are, nevertheless, a nation with high aspirations, ready and strong to do great deeds which shall be worth recording. And we have an Academy capable of drawing pictures on a wall. Let the nation, through its representatives, choose the event, and the artists choose from among themselves the man who shall paint it. One picture every year — of the chief event of the year, or the most noble deed done, or the highest good achieved. In the choice of subjects there should be no boastfulness of petty princes blazoning their puny exploits. Nothing should be recorded that had not stirred the heart of the people. In the choice of painters there should be no voluntary display of raw ambition, or fashionable frivolity, or senile declension ; they should be chosen by the suffrages of their fellowpainters, in their prime — so that their work would become in itself a true historic record, not only of the executive power, but of the collective judgment of a living school of Art. There is no genius of which the nation is proud that would be waste material, or might not take its share in such an enterprise. The pencil of Leighton would not be too refined, nor that of Watts too serious, nor that of Millais too robust. Landscape — the glory of English Art — would find its place, as we have seen in the picture of " The Temeraire." Even the sculptor need not stand idly by, for the sequence of glowing canvasses might well be varied by a group or a bas-relief in bronze or marble. The selected subject, and the name of the artist chosen, might be announced annually with the opening of the Exhibitions of the year, and the artist should be allowed one year in which to produce the cartoon or study of his picture. At the next Academy this cartoon should be exhibited, to bear the criticisms of the people. Few errors of historical importance would escape such an ordeal. Then the work should be completed by the artist, under no control save the influence those criticisms may have wrought upon his mind. There would be no risk of failure in such an enterprize. The events will come — the Nation may be trusted for that. The men will come — some are with us even now ready to begin the work. This would indeed be Historic Art : — the true marriage of Art with History. And think what would be the issue — in ten years, in fifty years, in a century 1

We look with wistful eyes into the future, and what do we see ? Unless the future altogether belie the past, we see such scenes as these : —

The hospital at Scutari — the sick and wounded of our soldiers on their pain-stricken beds, and then —

" Lo ! in this house of misery A lady with a lamp we see

Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room.

And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss

Her shadow as it falls

Upon the darkening walls."

It is " Santa Filomena." It is Florence Nightingale — herself — not an imaginary suggestion of what she might have been, but she herself —

"As if a door in heaven should be Opened, and then closed suddenly."

And then we see the interior of a class-room in London, with a few grave men and thoughtful women, and the pale faces of many children — large-eyed, wondering children — who shall grow up to see themselves in this picture, and to know that they were painted there because the opening of the first Board School was a revolution — a revolution mightier in its results and more far-reaching than any that has yet been chronicled in England. And then we see the Senate House at Cambridge, and the first " girl-graduate " receiving her degree, that shall acknowledge her to be as wise as Merlin himself, and leave her still as beautiful as Vivien.

We look for scenes like these, because, although the past returns no more, yet the future shall be like it. Do we look for them in vain ? That is a question that can only be answered by a nation.

III. The World, The Flesh, & The Devil

T T NDER the influence of strong religious feeling ^-^ a man determines to devote a portion of his wealth to sacred uses. The church — that is the building in which he worships — is magnificent in the extreme ; it is itself a rriemorial of the piety and munificence of men who have felt as he feels, given as he is disposed to give, and now sleep quietly beneath its marble floor, or in high pomp within its stately mausoleums. But what shall his gift be ? He has fought such a hard fight with evil — against temptations from without, temptations from within, assaults of the wicked one — and yet, by the grace of God, his feet are still within the precints of the temple. He dare not approach the sanctuary to lay his gift upon the altar. Only at the door will he stand, and with humility and gratitude will place there a font, asking for himself no higher a position in the church than that of the little children. And the font shall bear the marks of his life, carved upon it in this fashion : — facing the sanctuary the figure of himself — behind him, the World, the Flesh, and the Devil.

The gift is tendered and accepted. The architect is consulted, and the design approved. It only remains for the sculptor to carry out the work. The sculptor is not a Flaxman or a Canova ; but he carved the corbels in the choir, and the gargoyles above the windows ; and the result is awaited with interest and satisfaction. The result is interesting — but whether it is satisfactory is another question. It may be seen, however, any day in Stafford Church, and I have made a sketch of it here.

The figure in the margin is one of three designed to represent the World, the Flesh, and the Devil — which of the three I will not pretend to determine. It is clearly intended for the figure of a woman. But as the companion figures are also women, that appears to be only a matter of ecclesiastical detail. It maybe noted, however, that "tentatio " is a noun feminine.

But the pious founder — was he satisfied ? If he lived to see the work completed, might he not have felt at least a misgiving as to whether his intention had been quite realised ? Was that the World which had been so hard to overcome ? Was that the Flesh that had allured him ? Was that

It is too late now to ask these questions ; we must take things as they are — and we note two facts. We note (i) that the font is exquisitely carved, its lines are laid out in beautiful proportions, it is as a work of art perfect — as perfect as the words of the priest, who administers the sacrament of baptism before it, are orthodox. We note (2) that Religion and Art say the same thing, " Listen," says the priest, " this infant must faithfully promise that he will renounce the devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the world, and the carnal desires of the flesh." " Look," says the sculptor, "it is not much to renounce — the world has a very sinister eye, and as to the flesh — see what the pretty face of a woman may become if the devil of an evil temper gets into it." What has happened is this. Religion, having a baby to baptize, asks for a font. Art supplies the font, and receives in return a motive. The alliance is voluntary and complete, and the font in Stafford Church is a true though of course limited expression of the relationship existing between Art and Religion.

A limited expression, because (i) Sculpture is only one of the many forms in which Art becomes associated with Religion. Painting, and Architecture, and Poetry, and Music, and Rhetoric, and the Drama, are copartners with Sculpture on equal terms. And (2) because the alliance between Religion and Art strikes far deeper than the occasional inspiration by the one, or application of the other to purposes of decoration. It is an alliance of two forces, moving in the same plane, to the same end, against a common enemy. The insignia of the two forces are, indeed, at times so similar and so intermingled that it is difficult to distinguish between them, and the question seems to arise whether " Religion " and " Art " are not two names for the same thing ; whether Religion is not Art — and Art, Religion.

It is true our gods are not now made in the artist's studio. They are for the most part made in the minister's library, or leap from the fervid imagination of extemporary rhetoricians as Minerva leaped from the brain of Jupiter. But still, in its ordinary, everyday alliance with Religion, Art finds enough to do. For Religion is the recognition of a relationship existing between ourselves and God, by which we owe to Him the performance of certain duties, and submission to His will. And do we not submit to that will, and perform those duties, in the most artistic manner? We are not quite sure, indeed, whether the sense of reverence that comes upon us when we enter a great cathedral, is reverence towards the Lord of the temple, or the temple itself, or the architect who built it — but at all events we are satisfied that the architect must have possessed fine religious feeling. And then, our dead await their resurrection beneath such finelychiselled marbles and polished brass ! Our children are baptized in fonts which are such miracles of beauty — or of humour — according to the bent of the artist's mind ! Our souls are ravished with such sweet music in the choir ! And though — when Whit-Sunday comes round — we miss the passion-play that used to be enacted in the nave, and the flight of a white pigeon from the little chink high up in the groining of the roof, to represent the " descent of the Holy Ghost " — yet we are still strong at stage drill, and march through the market-place pleasing our eyes and our ears by firing volleys of "Amens," and shouting "Hallelujahs" to the accompaniment of a brass band and the waving of red cotton pocket-handkerchiefs.