NOTHING in Venice is more perfect than this, and we know of no work
of art more complete. The picture is in three compartments: the Virgin
sits in the central division with her child; two venerable saints,
standing close together, occupy each of the others. It is impossible to
imagine anything more finished or more ripe. It is one of those things
that sums up the genius of a painter, the experience of a life, the
teaching of a school. It seems painted with molten gems, which have
only been clarified by time, and it is as solemn as it is gorgeous, and
as simple as it is deep. John Bellini is, more or less, everywhere in
Venice, and wherever he is, he is almost certain to be first—first, I
mean, in his own line; he paints little else than the Madonna and the
saints; he has not Carpaccio's care for human life at large, nor
Tintoretto's, nor that of the Veronese. Some of his greater pictures,
however, where several figures are clustered together, have a richness
of sanctity that is almost profane. There is one of them on the dark
side of the room at the Academy, containing Titian's “Assumption,”
which, if we could only see it,—its position is an inconceivable
scandal,—would evidently be one of the mightiest of so-called sacred
pictures. So, too, is the Madonna of San Zaccaria, hung in a cold, dim,
dreary place, ever so much too high, but so mild and serene, and so
grandly disposed and accompanied, that the proper attitude for even the
most critical amateur, as he looks at it, seems to be the bended knee.
There is another noble John Bellini, one of the very few in which there
is no Virgin, at San Giovanni Crisostomo,—a St. Jerome, in a red
dress, sitting aloft upon the rocks, with a landscape of extraordinary
purity behind him. The absence of the peculiarly erect Madonna makes it
an interesting surprise among the works of the painter, and gives it a
somewhat less strenuous air. But it has brilliant beauty, and the St.
Jerome is a delightful old personage. The same church contains another
great picture, for which he must find a shrine apart in his memory; one
of the most interesting things he will have seen, if not the most
brilliant. Nothing appeals more to him than three figures of Venetian
ladies which occupy the foreground of a smallish canvas of Sebastian
del Piombo, placed above the high altar of San Giovanni Crisostomo.
Sebastian was a Venetian by birth, but few of his productions are to be
seen in his native place; few, indeed, are to be seen anywhere. The
picture represents the patron saint of the church, accompanied by other
saints, and by the worldly votaries I have mentioned. These ladies
stand together on the left, holding in their hands little white
caskets; two of them are in profile, but the foremost turns her face to
the spectator. This face and figure are almost unique among the
beautiful things of Venice, and they leave the susceptible observer
with the impression of having made, or rather having missed, a strange,
a dangerous, but a most valuable, acquaintance. The lady, who is
superbly handsome, is the typical Venetian of the sixteenth century,
and she remains in the mind as the perfect flower of that society.
Never was there a greater air of breeding, a deeper expression of
tranquil superiority. She walks like a goddess—as if she trod, without
sinking, the waves of the Adriatic. It is impossible to conceive a more
perfect expression of the aristocratic spirit, either in it's pride or
in it's benignity. This magnificent creature is so strong and secure
that she is gentle, and so quiet that, in comparison, all minor
assumptions of calmness suggest only a vulgar alarm. But, for all this,
there are depths of possible disorder in her light-coloured eye. I had
meant, however, to say nothing about her, for it is not right to speak
of Sebastian when one has not found room for Carpaccio. These visions
come to one, and one can neither hold them nor brush them aside.
Memories of Carpaccio, the magnificent, the delightful—it is not for
want of such visitations, but only for want of space, that I have not
said of him what I would. There is little enough need of it for
Carpaccio's sake, his fame being brighter to-day—thanks to the
generous lamp Mr. Ruskin has held up to it—than it has ever been. Yet
there is something ridiculous in talking of Venice without making him,
almost, the refrain. He and Tintoretto are the two great realists, and
it is hard to say which is the more human, the more various. Tintoretto
had the mightier temperament, but Carpaccio, who had the advantage of
more newness and more responsibility, sailed nearer to perfection. Here
and there he quite touches it, as in the enchanting picture, at the
Academy, of St. Ursula asleep in her little white bed, in her high,
clean room, where the angel visits her at dawn; or in the noble St.
Jerome in his study, at S. Giorgio degli Schiavoni. This latter work is
a pearl of sentiment, and I may add, without being fantastic, a ruby of
colour. It unites the most masterly finish with a kind of universal
largeness of feeling, and he who has it well in his memory will never
hear the name of Carpaccio without a throb of almost personal
affection. This, indeed, is the feeling that descends upon you in that
wonderful little chapel of St. George of the Slaves, where this most
personal and sociable of artists has expressed all the sweetness of his
imagination. The place is small and incommodious, the pictures are out
of sight and ill-lighted, the custodian is rapacious, the visitors are
mutually intolerable, but the shabby little chapel is a palace of art.
Mr. Ruskin has written a pamphlet about it which is a real aid to
enjoyment, though I cannot but think the generous artist, with his keen
senses and his just feeling, would have suffered at hearing his
eulogist declare that one of his other productions—in the Museo Civico
in Palazzo Correr, a delightful portrait of two Venetian ladies, with
pet animals—is the “finest picture in the world.” It has no need of
that to be thought admirable; and what more can a painter desire?