HE Leuchtenberg Gallery at St. Petersburg has lately yielded up some of those treasures which it has long and jealously guarded. In 1852 Passavant published a catalogue raisonné of the pictures, with illustrations in outline, and to many this large volume has been the sole medium of introduction to the collection. Several of the originals have now found their way to London, among them two which bear the great name of Giorgione—an Adoration of the Shepherds, and a Madonna and Child. Both appear in outline in Passavant’s book, under the name of Barbarelli, the supposed cognomen of Giorgione, to which, however, as modern research has shown, he is not entitled.[43] ¶ The Madonna and Child picture has now passed into the rich collection of Mr. George Salting, of which assuredly it will not be one of the least ornaments; here moreover it will hang in company with another picture from the same hand, each admirably illustrating two different phases of Cariani’s art. For to Cariani, the Bergamesque painter, must be ascribed the authorship of this Madonna and Child, which reveals him in a mood no less characteristic than does the fine Portrait of one of the Albani Family, which Mr. Salting has generously placed on loan at the National Gallery. It would be a fitting complement to see the new Cariani hung near the other, if only to prove how charming an artist he can be at times, and how far superior these examples are to the two which the nation actually possesses at Trafalgar Square. ¶ Like all artists not absolutely in the first rank, Cariani varies considerably in quality of workmanship; indeed, owing to the peculiar local characteristics of Bergamesque art Cariani is exceptionally protean in form, appearing now in Venetian guise, now in Brescian, now in his own native awkwardness. For by nature he was not gifted with great refinement, or with a strong individuality, and when the temporary influence of Lotto, or of Palma Vecchio, or even of Previtali, was withdrawn, he easily lapsed into a slovenliness which repels, or into a tastelessness which betrays his provincial origin. Fortunately this is not the mood we feel in Mr. Salting’s Madonna. There is a homely strain indeed, which makes the subject simply Mother and Child; a conception which we find exactly paralleled in another charming work of his known as La Vergine Cucitrice, or The Sempstress Madonna, in the Corsini Gallery in Rome (see illustration). But the homeliness of conception is in each case relieved by the exquisite setting; the landscape background and especially the decorative foliage being treated with a rare feeling for beautiful effects. Girolamo dai Libri’s lemon trees and the leafy arbours of Lotto and Previtali do not make more charming bowers than do Cariani’s rose hedge and his hanging limes. Add, moreover, a certain fullness of form, a softness of expression, and a harmony of colour, which can be traced to the direct influence of Palma Vecchio in Venice, and you have in Mr. Salting’s picture probably the most attractive Madonna and Child which Cariani ever painted. Can there be better evidence of appreciation on the part of some bygone owner than that he considered it worthy of the great Giorgione himself, and that up to now it has borne this courtesy title?
The second ‘Giorgione’ which comes from the Leuchtenberg Gallery is an Adoration of the Shepherds, now in the possession of Mr. Asher Wertheimer, by whose kind permission it is reproduced here. No excuse need be offered for its publication in The Burlington Magazine, inasmuch as it bears directly on one of the lesser problems in our National Gallery, where, in the Venetian Room, has hung for some years a similar painting ascribed to Savoldo. That this ascription is erroneous is admitted in the large illustrated edition of the catalogue, published a year or two ago by Sir Edward Poynter, the director, and it seems a pity to keep the old label with Savoldo’s name still attached to the frame. The National Gallery is a place of public resort, and the public believes in the labels it reads; for what does the public know of Savoldo? Those, however, who have studied his work at Venice, Milan, Verona, and elsewhere know that our National Gallery picture is only in a remote degree akin to him in style, and anyone who will take the trouble to make a comparison with the Magdalen in the same room (which is a genuine example), and also with the two pictures by him at Hampton Court, will be able to convince himself that Sir Edward Poynter is right in removing the Brescian master’s name from the catalogue, and more wisely substituting ‘Venetian School.’ Now comes the Leuchtenberg picture, a comparison with which proves that such likenesses exist as to exclude all theory of chance resemblance, yet such differences also exist as to dispel any suspicion that the one may be a copy of the other. In such cases a common original can usually be inferred, a deduction which modern archaeologists habitually make in similar circumstances; and rightly, for a common idea, or conception, underlies the outward divergencies of detail, so that when the highest common factor can be found we can reconstruct in idea what such an original must have been like. Now it is curious that Giorgione’s name is attached to the Leuchtenberg picture, for anyone at all familiar with Venetian painting must see at a glance that the style proclaims a period at least a decade after his death in 1510. It is more than probable that both this picture and that in the National Gallery date from about 1530 or so. Giorgione cannot possibly have produced either the one or the other: but is it altogether beyond possibility that some idea of his may have served as basis for later artists to work up? Strictly speaking, neither picture is Giorgionesque, except by reflection, for the dazzling personality of the young Castelfrancan shed lustre even on the succeeding generation in Venice. In neither does the painting show much trace of that mysterious glamour which the master, above all Venetian painters, knew how to impart. Yet in the romantic rendering of the subject, and in the picturesque treatment of landscape, we may trace an ultimate connexion with the art of Giorgione. In neither is the handling so unmistakably individual as to warrant a positive opinion as to authorship. It is true that several competent judges profess to recognize the hand of Calisto da Lodi in the National Gallery picture,[44] but further research is needed before certainty of judgement is reached; and as to the Leuchtenberg example—well, it matters little whether Beccaruzzi or some other imitator of better things be the author. Two separate painters have taken a common theme, they have treated the group of St. Joseph and the two Shepherds practically alike, and have laid down the outlines of landscape and architecture in the same way. Each has shown his independence in the treatment of the Madonna and Child and in the minor accessories. One of these details in the Leuchtenberg picture shows the sort of man the painter was, for he has calmly appropriated the idea of the boy angel playing at the trough, a motive which Titian first introduced in the world-famous Sacred and Profane Love. He seems also prone to introduce non-significant detail, such as the dog (very wooden, by the way) and the elaborate accessories of the ruined stable, the architecture of which baffles analysis. The Magi also appear in procession, thus distracting attention from the simple theme of the Adoration of the Shepherds. Yet as a colourist this painter is worthy of praise, though not such a master of chiaroscuro as his fellow-artist of the National Gallery. We may say then that the Leuchtenberg picture adds to the interest attaching to the other, and raises the question whether some Giorgionesque motive is not at the bottom of the composition.
HERBERT COOK.
HE two bas-reliefs reproduced were not only known but also celebrated before they came to the Louvre. The first, a bust and profile, represents a juvenile figure, almost feminine, clothed in shining armour, wearing a helmet decorated with a surprising dash and fantasy, round which may be read this unexpected and rather unusual inscription: ‘P. Scipioni.’ It is not known under what circumstances this was acquired by M. Paul Rattier, an amateur of Paris. On his death he bequeathed it to the Louvre with reserve of usufruct on behalf of his brother. The latter has just died, and the museum thus enters into absolute possession of the legacy. In the various exhibitions where this bas-relief has been displayed it has not failed, as may be imagined, to attract the attention and excite the curiosity of students and critics. As it recalls by the expression of the face a great number of Leonardo’s figures and, in the decoration of the armour and the helmet, motives frequent in the work of the master, notably the celebrated warrior in the Malcolm collection, we think firstly and very naturally of Leonardo da Vinci. We know, too, that he was a sculptor as well as a painter; he himself says expressly in his treatise on painting that, having practised the two arts with equal care, he has a good foundation for pronouncing on the difficulties of both. But we know of no authentic sculpture from his hand which could serve as a starting-point or as a means of comparison for the purpose of making a decisive attribution. Is the St. John the Baptist in the South Kensington Museum, which came from the Gigli Campana collection, really from his hand? No one can prove it. And of the busts of children and women which, according to Vasari, he executed in clay (‘Facendo nella sua giovanezza di terra alcune teste di femine che ridono, che vanno formate per l’ arte di gesso, e parimente teste di putti che parevano usciti di mano d’ un maestro’), none have come down to us. ¶ Bode, who was the first to pronounce the name of Leonardo in connexion with the Scipio of the Rattier collection, proposed, afterwards, that of his master Verrochio. The reasons which prompted him are as follows: Vasari has told us that Verrochio had made ‘due teste di metallo; una d’Alessandro Magno in profilo; l’ altro d’ un Dario, a suo capriccio, pur di mezzo rilievo, e ciascuno da per se, variando l’ un dall’ altro ne cimieri, nell armadura od in ogni cosa; le quali amendue furono mandate dal magnifico Lorenzo vecchio de’ Medici al re Mattia Corvino in Ungharia, con molte altre cose....’ Why should not the Scipio belong to the same series? The ornamentation of the helmet, the design of the streamers which decorate it, especially the modelling of the mouth, do they not recall other works of Verrochio, and notably the execution of the mouth of his David? These arguments, no matter on what authority we have them, are not decisive. Courajod, Muntz, Muller-Walde, and the latest historian of Verrochio, M. Mackowsky, incline rather towards maintaining the name of Leonardo da Vinci or of his school. All that can be said with certainty is, that the sculptor who turned out this brilliant piece of work must have been a very skilful decorative artist, and that he was evidently inspired by the achievements and the spirit of the master. But it would be very rash to assert that the hand of Leonardo himself worked this marble.
If There does not seem any possibility for doubt or difference of opinion with regard to the attribution of the other bas-relief which, only a few days after the arrival of the Scipio, was acquired by the museum. To him who has seen the interior decoration of the temple of Rimini, the front of San Bernardino at Perugia, and the Madonna of the Opera di Duomo at Florence, the name of Agostino di Duccio invincibly presents itself. This bas-relief was found framed, over an altar, in the wall of a little church in the department of the Oise, a dependent of the commune of Neuilly-sous-Clermont. This rural church was originally the chapel belonging to the chateau of Auvillers, which belongs to the family of Bonnières-de-Wierre. One of the general officers of Bonaparte’s army was a member of this family, and brought this precious bas-relief home with him (the archives of the family might possibly reveal to us the place and the circumstances under which he found it), and he placed it in the chapel belonging to the chateau. It was thence that the Louvre, with the consent of the members of the family of Bonnières and of the commune, acquired it. A former lamented head of the department of Mediaeval and Renaissance Sculpture, Louis Courajod, published, in 1892, in the Gazette des Beaux-Arts, an account of this charming piece of sculpture, and, to put it out of the reach of any attempts that might be made by collectors or merchants, he had it placed on the list of historical monuments. Events have proved that this was not an unnecessary precaution; however, the admission of this bas-relief into the Louvre puts a stop to all competition.
ANDRÉ MICHEL.
HESE two remarkable and curious pictures appear to us likely to interest students of mediaeval painting. They are painted on thin panels measuring 12⅛ ins. by 7⅞ ins. The wood has first been covered with a rather coarse canvas, over which the usual gesso ground has been laid; directly on this, and without the usual preparation of bole, gold leaf was laid over the whole surface. The gold is elaborately tooled in the halos and crowns. The pictures are painted in tempera over the gold ground. The handiwork is of exceptional fineness, the hatchings being extremely minute, and the whole is wrought to an enamelled surface of extreme beauty. I can recall only one other work in which quite the same minuteness and perfection of surface quality are attained, and that is the Richard II diptych at Wilton House, which indeed surpasses the present examples. Unfortunately the tempera has not adhered perfectly to the gold, and in many places only a trace of colour is left; the faces are, however, for the most part intact. ¶ This somewhat lengthy description of the methods employed in these pictures may not be without value in view of the attempt to determine the origin of these curious and unusual works. Many characteristics of the pictures seem to point to a Siennese origin, such, for instance, as the tooling of the halos, which may be almost be matched in the works of Ceccharelli and Vanni; the Madonna’s face seems like a vulgarized version of Simone Martini’s type, while the treatment of the hair by separate, rather thick, continuous, and parallel lines of light is such as we find frequently in Siennese art. The seated figures in the Dormition of the Virgin, again, if not distinctly Siennese are decidedly Italian, and are among the common properties of Giotto’s heirs. Italian, again, is the appearance of the inlaid woodwork of the bed-stand. The use of a canvas basis for the gesso ground is, too, in Italy, a peculiarly Siennese tradition, though it is there only a late survival of what was probably a universal practice. On the other hand the absence of a bole foundation for the gilding is quite unlike the practice of any Italian painters. Again, the types with their heavily modelled features, their full round staring eyes and protruding noses, seem to suggest a northern origin for these works. No less distinctive is the colour. The chief characteristic of this is the extraordinary brilliance and purity of the local tints, combined with an absence of any feeling for a distinct colour scheme as opposed to the mere putting together of agreeable tints. The main notes are an ultramarine of quite astounding intensity and saturation, a pure deep rose, and a bright green midway between apple and myrtle green. The flesh is florid and full coloured without traces of a terra verte foundation being apparent. These qualities of colour are such as we might expect from a miniaturist, and other things point to the same conclusion; first, the extreme minuteness and the marvellous perfection of the workmanship, then the crowding of the composition, and the elegant but singularly unstructural disposition of the draperies. Finally, one may surmise that no artist who was accustomed to work on a large scale would have made so elementary a blunder in space construction as our unknown master has in the Adoration of the Magi. The Madonna is clearly intended to be seated beneath the thatched roof, yet the foremost support, instead of coming down in front of her knees, is placed behind her. Such a mistake would be possible, however, to an artist who was accustomed to the almost hieroglyphic symbolism of miniature painting. ¶ Taking all these points into consideration I think it most probable that we have here two of the rare and singularly beautiful works of the French school of painting of the fourteenth century. This is made probable most of all by the colouring. This intense ultramarine never occurs in Italian work, but is to be found in the paintings attributed to Jean Malouel in the Louvre. It indeed remained endemic in French art, for we find it in many miniaturists, and something not unlike it turns up again in the work of Ingres. There is, moreover, in the Louvre a small picture, No. 997, representing the Entombment, in which not only does the same blue appear, but united with the same deep rose and vivid myrtle green. It has also the same rare perfection of surface quality, the same even, hard smalto. This picture is no doubt rightly attributed to the French school of the end of the fourteenth century. But neither this nor any other French picture in the Louvre shows so strong an Italian influence as our panels do, and it is partly for their interest as yet another proof of the constant interchange of ideas between Italy and the North about this period that we give them publicity. Of such intercourse there are, of course, already many proofs in the work of painters like Enguerrand de Charenton, of Fouquet, and most remarkable of all in a miniature by Pol de Limbourg, which is a free copy of a fresco by Taddeo Gaddi in Santa Croce at Florence.
R. E. F.
ORN towards 1515, either at Paris or Loué, and dying only in 1590, Germain Pilon lived through a momentous century in the history of France. The native art, so prolific during the two preceding centuries, which commands our admiration to-day by its originality and simplicity, was essentially French in feeling and execution, but towards the close of the fifteenth century the all-powerful influence of the great Italians manifested itself, partly by the general spread of knowledge which noised abroad the fame of achievements in Italy to which the civilized world was then paying homage, and again by the migration of Italian artists to adjacent countries, which, in the majority of cases, received them with acclamation.
In one way this had a beneficial effect upon the productions of the northern countries, for it incited a spirit of emulation laudable in the extreme, but it was also the cause of a decline in native resourcefulness and originality due to an unduly thorough assimilation of Italian methods and aims. The result of this was a strange co-mingling of Italian and native ideas and technique producing an eclecticism which robbed art somewhat of the virility apparent in the creations of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Still, side by side with this we have a growing tendency to tenderness and sympathetic treatment quite in keeping with the lofty aims of the sixteenth century, which compensates to some extent for the loss of robustness and impetuous energy. ¶ In such a condition did Pilon find art in France, when, leaving his father, also a sculptor, with whom he had hitherto collaborated, he came to Paris about 1550, and here we find him, in conjunction with Pierre Bontemps and Ambrose Perret, at work upon the tomb of François I, which had been designed by Philibert Delorme. After the designs of the latter Pilon was employed from 1560 to 1565 upon the well-known tomb at Saint-Denis of Henri II and Catherine de Médicis, which must be counted amongst his most important achievements. For the King and Queen he executed about this time the fine group of Les Trois Grâces in the Louvre, which represents, perhaps, the culminating point of his genius, and is manifestly superior both in elegance of contour and in technical qualities to Les Trois Parques ascribed to him which has found a permanent resting place in the Hôtel de Cluny. In Les Trois Grâces he presents to us the culmination of the French Renaissance in sculpture; the rhythm and balance of the composition is aided by the superb technique displayed in the modelling of the well-chosen figures, and a further beauty is added by the grace with which they support the urn. ¶ But quite equal to any single figure is the fine example of Pilon’s art which we illustrate this month by permission of Mr. E. Lowengard, its present owner. It represents as an emblematical figure of Charity a tall and dignified woman holding a child to her breast with the right hand, whilst the left, with protecting care, sustains another, which is clinging to her mantle; a third stands at her feet with a look of trustful assurance upon its upturned face. The head of Charity is crowned with laurel. The drapery is entirely characteristic of Pilon at his best; while not unduly severe, it does not err in being too florid, a failing of Pilon on many occasions. Moreover, it fully illustrates the French master’s profound knowledge of anatomy, a study in which he easily outstripped most of his contemporaries. It is open to question whether such an important and characteristic example of Pilon’s work has been seen in London before, and its presence at the moment furnishes an admirable opportunity of studying the style of this master.
HE lace of Mrs. Alfred Morrison at Fonthill House is of special interest among private collections. Mrs. Morrison has long interested herself in the exertions of M. M. Lefébure, the Honiton revival by the late Mrs. Treadwin of Exeter, and even the crochet work of Ireland, and has in many cases supplied designs, or suggestions for design, to these centres; hence, with her well-known collection of antique lace she has included the best of its modern derivatives and modern design. Among the specimens illustrated are:—
Plate I: (1) A curious example of a rare type of lace made in Russia, consisting of a scarf with arms worked upon either end. This lace was made in the early part of the nineteenth century (when needle-point was first introduced into Moscow) at a private lace school. The design, which is upon net, and very unlike the characteristic Russian vermiculate patterns with their oriental character and occasional colouring, consists of a chain of jours enclosing coarse, simple, and prominent fillings similar to those of provincial pillow-laces of England and France, and a semé of small sprigs. Although the workmanship is even throughout, the drawing is so naïve as to suggest that the lace-worker was unused to that type of lace. There is a border of similar jours alternating with small leaves and sprays.
(2) Gros point de Venise.—In the central strip of this lace very few brides have been introduced, and only so far as is necessary for strength, and those used are plain. The bride work forms no essential part of the design, the parts of the pattern being chiefly held together by being worked in contact with one another. In the joined border, which is of later date, the work, and especially the raised scallops, is of a superior evenness and regularity. Short brides, both plain and picotées, connect the design, which is closer and more florid, and remarkable for the compact, firm character which careful and precise workmanship has given to the piece, as it were scolpito in rilievo.
(3) Point de Venise.—Two long strips (3½ inches wide) of excellent and open scroll and floral design. The brides which connect the design are decorated with small stars and whirls. Upon some of the raised borders are set small scallops, or picots. Seventeenth century.
(4) Alençon lappet, a design of interlacing ribbons, filled in with light modes, enclosing a small ornament. Eighteenth century. Period, Louis XV.
(5) Modern Irish Needle-point lace, à brides picotées, specially made and designed for Mrs. Alfred Morrison [very much reduced]. Nineteenth century.
Plate II: (1) Brussels veil (three sides of which are ornamented, the fourth being plain), containing floral devices made in pillow, and applied to pillow-made mesh grounds. The softness of the grounds, the workmanship of the flowers, of which the cordonnets have little or no relief, the lightness of the fillings of the modes, place these Brussels points in a category quite distinct from any other lace. The design is of light leafy festoons of roses and forget-me-nots. In the corner is an urn-shaped ornament with lateral festoons. The border has a scalloped edge. Throughout the veil are pillow renderings of various modes, the réseau rosacé, star devices, etc. Eighteenth century.
(2) Honiton lace, made by the late Mrs. Treadwin of Exeter, from an old design. The pattern is connected by small brides covered with a number of small picots.
(3) Rose point à brides (Venetian), of close workmanship, in silk (natural-coloured). The free use of ornate picots clustering upon flying loops edging the scallops, as well as upon the brides, is noticeable. The brides are thickly ornamented with stars and whirls. [This sort of lace is sometimes called point de neige, probably on account of its snowy appearance.] The stems of the pattern are of light work, and not strengthened on the edge by an outer cordonnet or button-hole stitched work. Seventeenth century.
A very similar specimen of Venetian needle-point lace in silk is to be seen at the Victoria and Albert Museum [835–’68]. It is also square and of similar size and date, and is also remarkable for the series of scallops and picots upon the raised portions of the design. The design of this specimen ‘consists of a symmetrical distribution of floral forms grouped about an ornamental arrangement in the centre.’ It was probably a ‘pall’ or covering for a chalice or sacramental cup. Though Mrs. Morrison’s specimen is said to be of Jewish work, and used in the synagogue to cover the law, it is more probable that it is a ‘pall,’ like the above-mentioned example.
(4) Drawn thread-work [Turkish?].
(5) Point de Venise, period Louis XIII.—A conventional design somewhat resembling Italian Renaissance ironwork. The pattern and some of the short brides which connect it are ornamented with picots, giving lightness and variety to the work.
(6) Irish crochet lace, specially made for Mrs. Alfred Morrison, adapted from the above design, which it well reproduces. An experiment in improving the spiritless and confused effect of Irish crochet, where conventional motifs are fitted together without any pre-arranged design. In natural-coloured silk.
(7) Imitation point d‘Alençon.—The ground or réseau of this piece is a very wide-meshed knotted net of coarse thread. A stiff and simple flower issuing from a horn or vase is set in the centre of a waved diamond-shaped compartment. The flowers are filled in with small pieces of coarse linen, and are appliqué to the net by stitches which hold the twisted thread outlines—the substitute for the cordonnet of button-hole stitches in the Alençon it imitates—to the little bits of linen.
Plate III: (1) Embroidered Turkish drawn thread work.—An eight-pointed star within the centre of which is a circle of drawn-work, of which the threads are overcast with fine button-hole stitches.
(2) The old conventional cut-work of Italy; Reticella, with punto in aria vandykes attached. Reticella differs from cutwork in that, though it also is worked on a linen foundation, the linen has almost entirely disappeared. The threads left as the framework of the design, dividing it into square compartments, are closely covered with stitches. Into these squares are introduced geometrical forms (star-forms) set in circles and enriched with patterns in solid needlework. This lace is frequently called Greek lace, principally owing to the fact that a great deal was found during the occupation of the Ionian islands by the English. It is, however, undoubtedly Italian in origin. The lace is shown upon the linen on which it is made; most specimens have been cut off for sale from the original linen ground. The punto in aria vandykes developed from the reticella, and are made with the same geometrical designs. The pointed edge was worked on threads laid down in the required shape, and the spaces filled in various designs. Brides picotées were sparingly added to connect the various portions of the pattern.
(3) Venetian-made Alençon (Burano).—A design of small sprays upon mixed grounds. Along the lower portion of the design runs a twisting ribbon enclosing various à jours and diapered grounds. The scalloped border shows blossom modes set upon a large hexagonal mesh picoté, alternating with a scalloped ribbon, enclosing varieties of diaper-patterned grounds, similar to those to be seen in the modes of Venetian heavy point laces.
(4) Venetian-made Alençon, design of palm leaves, with straight-edged border of flowerets and leaves.
(5) Alençon bordering lace, eighteenth century. Period, Louis XVI.—Under Louis XVI it became the fashion to multiply the number of flounces to dresses and to gather them into pleats, or, as it was termed, to badiner them, so that ornamental motifs, more or less broken up or partially concealed by the pleats, lost their significance and flow. The spaces between the motifs, therefore, widened more and more, until the design deteriorated into semés of small devices, detached flowers, pots, larmes, or, as in the present design, a dot set within a rosette. Instead, also, of wreaths, ribands, or festoons undulating from one side of the border to another, we have a stiff rectilinear border of purely conventional design. Naturalistic patterns are not met with in lace of that period.
M. JOURDAIN.