I went the other day to the secularised Convent of San Marco,
paid my franc at the profane little wicket which creaks away at
the door--no less than six custodians, apparently, are needed to
turn it, as if it may have a recusant conscience--passed along
the bright, still cloister and paid my respects to Fra Angelico's
Crucifixion, in that dusky chamber in the basement. I looked
long; one can hardly do otherwise. The fresco deals with the
pathetic on the grand scale, and after taking in its beauty you
feel as little at liberty to go away abruptly as you would to
leave church during the sermon. You may be as little of a formal
Christian as Fra Angelico was much of one; you yet feel
admonished by spiritual decency to let so yearning a view of the
Christian story work its utmost will on you. The three crosses
rise high against a strange completely crimson sky, which deepens
mysteriously the tragic expression of the scene, though I remain
perforce vague as to whether this lurid background be a fine
intended piece of symbolism or an effective accident of time. In
the first case the extravagance quite triumphs. Between the
crosses, under no great rigour of composition, are scattered the
most exemplary saints--kneeling, praying, weeping, pitying,
worshipping. The swoon of the Madonna is depicted at the left,
and this gives the holy presences, in respect to the case, the
strangest historical or actual air. Everything is so real that
you feel a vague impatience and almost ask yourself how it was
that amid the army of his consecrated servants our Lord was
permitted to suffer. On reflection you see that the painter's
design, so far as coherent, has been simply to offer an immense
representation of Pity, and all with such concentrated truth that
his colours here seem dissolved in tears that drop and drop,
however softly, through all time. Of this single yearning
consciousness the figures are admirably expressive. No later
painter learned to render with deeper force than Fra Angelico the
one state of the spirit he could conceive--a passionate pious
tenderness. Immured in his quiet convent, he apparently never
received an intelligible impression of evil; and his conception
of human life was a perpetual sense of sacredly loving and being
loved. But how, immured in his quiet convent, away from the
streets and the studios, did he become that genuine, finished,
perfectly professional painter? No one is less of a mere mawkish
amateur. His range was broad, from this really heroic fresco to
the little trumpeting seraphs, in their opaline robes, enamelled,
as it were, on the gold margins of his pictures.
I sat out the sermon and departed, I hope, with the gentle preacher's blessing. I went into the smaller refectory, near by, to refresh my memory of the beautiful Last Supper of Domenico Ghirlandaio. It would be putting things coarsely to say that I adjourned thus from a sernlon to a comedy, though Ghirlandaio's theme, as contrasted with the blessed Angelico's, was the dramatic spectacular side of human life. How keenly he observed it and how richly he rendered it, the world about him of colour and costume, of handsome heads and pictorial groupings! In his admirable school there is no painter one enjoys--pace Ruskin--more sociably and irresponsibly. Lippo Lippi is simpler, quainter, more frankly expressive; but we retain before him a remnant of the sympathetic discomfort provoked by the masters whose conceptions were still a trifle too large for their means. The pictorial vision in their minds seems to stretch and strain their undeveloped skill almost to a sense of pain. In Ghirlandaio the skill and the imagination are equal, and he gives us a delightful impression of enjoying his own resources. Of all the painters of his time he affects us least as positively not of ours. He enjoyed a crimson mantle spreading and tumbling in curious folds and embroidered with needlework of gold, just as he enjoyed a handsome well-rounded head, with vigorous dusky locks, profiled in courteous adoration. He enjoyed in short the various reality of things, and had the good fortune to live in an age when reality flowered into a thousand amusing graces--to speak only of those. He was not especially addicted to giving spiritual hints; and yet how hard and meagre they seem, the professed and finished realists of our own day, with the spiritual bonhomie or candour that makes half Ghirlandaio's richness left out! The Last Supper at San Marco is an excellent example of the natural reverence of an artist of that time with whom reverence was not, as one may say, a specialty. The main idea with him has been the variety, the material bravery and positively social charm of the scene, which finds expression, with irrepressible generosity, in the accessories of the background. Instinctively he imagines an opulent garden--imagines it with a good faith which quite tides him over the reflection that Christ and his disciples were poor men and unused to sit at meat in palaces. Great full-fruited orange-trees peep over the wall before which the table is spread, strange birds fly through the air, while a peacock perches on the edge of the partition and looks down on the sacred repast. It is striking that, without any at all intense religious purpose, the figures, in their varied naturalness, have a dignity and sweetness of attitude that admits of numberless reverential constructions. I should call all this the happy tact of a robust faith.
On the staircase leading up to the little painted cells of the Beato Angelico, however, I suddenly faltered and paused. Somehow I had grown averse to the intenser zeal of the Monk of Fiesole. I wanted no more of him that day. I wanted no more macerated friars and spear-gashed sides. Ghirlandaio's elegant way of telling his story had put me in the humour for something more largely intelligent, more profanely pleasing. I departed, walked across the square, and found it in the Academy, standing in a particular spot and looking up at a particular high-hung picture. It is difficult to speak adequately, perhaps even intelligibly, of Sandro Botticelli. An accomplished critic--Mr. Pater, in his Studies on the History of the Renaissance--has lately paid him the tribute of an exquisite, a supreme, curiosity. He was rarity and distinction incarnate, and of all the multitudinous masters of his group incomparably the most interesting, the one who detains and perplexes and fascinates us most. Exquisitely fine his imagination--infinitely audacious and adventurous his fancy. Alone among the painters of his time he strikes us as having invention. The glow and thrill of expanding observation-- this was the feeling that sent his comrades to their easels; but Botticelli's moved him to reactions and emotions of which they knew nothing, caused his faculty to sport and wander and explore on its own account. These impulses have fruits often so ingenious and so lovely that it would be easy to talk nonsense about them. I hope it is not nonsense, however, to say that the picture to which I just alluded (the "Coronation of the Virgin," with a group of life-sized saints below and a garland of miniature angels above) is one of the supremely beautiful productions of the human mind. It is hung so high that you need a good glass to see it; to say nothing of the unprecedented delicacy of the work. The lower half is of moderate interest; but the dance of hand- clasped angels round the heavenly couple above has a beauty newly exhaled from the deepest sources of inspiration. Their perfect little hands are locked with ineffable elegance; their blowing robes are tossed into folds of which each line is a study; their charming feet have the relief of the most delicate sculpture. But, as I have already noted, of Botticelli there is much, too much to say--besides which Mr. Pater has said all. Only add thus to his inimitable grace of design that the exquisite pictorial force driving him goes a-Maying not on wanton errands of its own, but on those of some mystic superstition which trembles for ever in his heart.
[Illustration omitted: THE GREAT EAVES, FLORENCE]