The Old Masters in New York

WHAT must be the sensations of one who has never stood before a portrait by Van Dyck, Rembrandt, Hals, or Velasquez, a landscape by Ruysdael, Turner, or Constable, — one who, perchance, has never given a thought to the old masters save as a subject of derision, — what must be his sensations when he steps from the noisy streets of New York into the sacred little corner gallery where these canonized saints of the painter’s paradise confront him with their immortal works! Let us hope that there may be some visitors to the Metropolitan Museum who can paraphrase William Hazlitt’s rhapsody, and say : “ I was staggered when I saw the works there collected, and looked at them with wondering and with longing eyes. A mist passed away from my sight; the scales fell off. A new sense came upon me; a new heaven and a new earth stood before me. I saw the soul speaking in the face, hands that the rod of empire had swayed in mighty ages past, — a forked mountain or blue promontory,

Old Time had unlocked his treasures, and Fame stood portress at the door. We had all heard of the names of Rembrandt, Ruysdael, Van Dyck, Rubens, but to see them face to face, to be in the same room with their deathless productions, was like breaking some mighty spell, was almost an effect of necromancy! From that time I lived in a world of pictures. Congress, Wall Street, presidential elections, seemed mere idle noise and fury, signifying nothing, compared with those mighty works and dreaded names that spoke to me in the eternal silence of thought.”

Until lately the untraveled and unlettered American citizen has not been without some excuse for regarding the old masters as humbugs, and admiration of them as affectation. When the Metropolitan Museum was opened, not so very long ago, there was a queer assortment of Things in one of the galleries, dark mysteries, without form or color, which purported to be pictures, and which the catalogue coolly asked us to believe were painted by the greatest artists in the world. Of course no one was deceived unless he wished to be. No doubt the exhibition of such hoaxes leads many people to suppose that what they call high art is an occult affair, or, worse yet, to conclude that it is an organized system of pretense and hypocrisy. But whatever may be said of the American people, they are always open to conviction by evidence ; and since Mr. Henry G. Marquand’s noble gift of thirty-five old paintings was made to the museum, no one who lives in New York or who can afford to go thither has any excuse for ignorance relating to the old masters. At least it is no longer necessary to go to England and Holland to see the best that those two countries can produce. Mr. Marquand’s gift is of signal importance in its bearing upon the history of the art of painting on this continent, and will cause his name to be indissolubly associated with the elevation of the museum in Central Park to a position of eminence among the great galleries of the world. For though museums of art usually have been plants of slow growth, the Metropolitan is a remarkable exception ; and no Old World monarch ever created a vast public collection with a rapidity equal to that with which the New York institution has sprung into maturity within a few years.

Of the twenty-five artists represented in the Marquand collection, fifteen are Dutchmen and Flemings, six are Englishmen, two are Spaniards, one is an Italian, and one is a Frenchman. The Dutch and Flemish painters are Jan Van Eyck, Hals, Van Hoogstraten, Jansen, Lucas Van Leyden, Jan Van der Meer, Netscher, Ovens, Rembrandt, Rubens, Ruysdael, Teniers, Terburg, Van Dyck, and Zorg. The English painters are Bonnington, Constable, Crome, Gainsborough, Reynolds, and Turner. The Spaniards are Velasquez and Zurbaran. The Italian is Masaccio, and the Frenchman Prud’hon. The gallery which contains this collection also contains three portraits by Rembrandt belonging to Mr. Henry O. Havemeyer. In an adjoining gallery there are some old pictures, among which an important example of Sir Joshua Reynolds and a Rubens claim our attention. The portraits predominate, as may be inferred from the list of names. That prince of art critics, Eugène Fromentin, mentions eight great portrait painters, — Titian, Rembrandt, Raphael, Holbein, More, Sebastian del Piombo, Van Dyck, and Velasquez, — and three of these masters, with Frans Hals besides, are represented here by characteristic canvases. The portraits by Van Dyck and Rembrandt are of the first importance and quality; those by Velasquez and Hals are of secondary importance, but of sterling quality. In contemplating these works the persistent old question comes to mind, What is it that constitutes the immeasurable superiority of the old portrait painters over the new ? Is it their method of execution? Is it their inspired good taste? Or is it a combination of qualities, both inherent and cultivated, of sense and sensibility, of skill, intelligence, and true feeling for the art ? When we compare the best modern portraits with those of Van Dyck and Velasquez, I do not think that we find so much difference in the external as in the internal characteristics of the work. The conception of a Van Dyck is even a more wonderful thing than its execution. That ease, repose, and air of gentleness, that unspeakable refinement, dignity, and grace, — is it not harder to match these essentials than to rival a felicitous touch, a good harmony of tints, or the movement of a supple hand ? The conclusion, then, must be that the old masters were greater men, as well as greater painters, than our esteemed contemporaries. Their superiority is an affair of temperament as well as of training, and is not wholly due to the artistic age in which they lived. Marvelous as Hals and Rubens and Velasquez were, considered simply as craftsmen, we must surely look deeper than the surface of their paintings for the qualities that insure their immortality. They were men of exceptional powers of mind, who would have made their mark in any profession. We remember Rembrandt, not so much as a past master of the craft of painting, but as the creator of a new kind of poetry, — one whose hand, whether slow, timid, and heavy, or swift, free, and superbly confident, obeyed constantly the inspirations of a mighty imagination, and expressed the aspirations of a lofty spirit.

Of all the portraits painted by Rembrandt, that of the unknown man with the hat, from the Marquis of Lansdowne’s collection, is the most pathetic. Stern, manly, and dignified as is this face, there is not a line in it which speaks of the faintest hope of joy or consolation in this life or in the life to come. The expression is of a habitual, lifelong, and ingrained sadness, bravely and uncomplainingly borne, as a valiant soldier bears a mortal hurt. In this afflicting vision Rembrandt displays his knowledge of and sympathy for the sorrows of men. No biography is needed to tell us that he had himself suffered. The catalogue assures us that this portrait represents a man about thirty-six years old, but he looks older than that. He is at all events a personage of a very memorable appearance, whose history must have been extremely interesting, and whose severe countenance is a fascinating study. The more celebrated portrait called The Gilder, and the portraits of the Burgomaster of Delft and his wife, offer a complete and almost startling contrast to the foregoing dismal unknown. Nothing could be more real, more absolutely lifelike, than these three portraits, which are not so much paintings as living and breathing individuals. Christian Paul Van Beeresteyn and Volkera Nicolai Knobert are perfect types of the well-fed, comfortable, contented, and phlegmatic Dutch folk, enjoying excellent appetites, irreproachable digestions, sufficient incomes, good clothes, cheerful dispositions, and even tempers. Respectability is written all over their plump bourgeois figures, seen at half length on canvases forty-three by thirty-three inches in dimensions. The Gilder, painted a few years after The Night Watch, is a three-quarterslength painting of a man who wears a black hat, a ruff, and a suit of brown cloth. The light, falling from one side, produces a strong contrast between the illuminated and the shaded sides of the head. As a perfectly sound specimen of Rembrandt’s art, this is a work of the highest value. It was painted when he was painting his best, and is a splendid illustration of his mature genius. The reality of life in the head, the reality of light and atmosphere around it, are perpetual subjects of marvel, yet the breadth and simplicity of the workmanship are complete. The colors are few and pure, the tone is exquisite, the characterization absolutely truthful and profound. A small night, scene by Rembrandt, The Adoration of the Shepherds, is similar to the picture of the same name in the National Gallery, London. In the darkness of the stable interior a bright light radiates from the infant Saviour, as in the Notte of Correggio. The greatness of Rembrandt is amply indicated in the live works alluded to. On the one hand, we perceive his strong, direct, and robust manner of presenting the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth of nature, in a manner marked by great learning and sincerity ; on the other, we cannot fail to recognize his unequaled moral grandeur among artists, his insight, his true feeling, his exalted taste for spiritual nobility,—in a word, his magical command of expression.

It would be impossible to select a single portrait by Van Dyck which should give a better idea of his style than the full-length portrait of James Stuart, Duke of Richmond and Lennox. On a canvas seven feet high by four feet and one inch wide, this typical aristocrat is represented standing, with his elegant left hand on his hip, the right resting on the upturned head of a handsome and equally aristocratic greyhound. The left side of the figure is turned towards the spectator, but the nobleman’s face is turned front, and his waving blonde hair falls on his shoulders, which are almost covered with a broad and richly worked frill; his dress is of black figured silk, with white silk stockings and large bows on the shoes. A medal attached to a blue ribbon is hung at his breast, and his mantle is embroidered with a sumptuous decoration in the form of a star. This portrait was bought by Mr. Marquand in 1886 from Lord Methuen, is described in Smith’s Catalogue Raisonné and has been engraved in mezzotint by Earlom and in line by Houbraken. Van Dyck never had a subject more congenial to him than the Duke of Richmond, nor did he ever execute a full-length figure with more entrancing ease and aplomb. The Duke of Richmond, in fact, was one of those born gentlemen, who so naturally take their social superiority for granted that nothing can shake their serene consciousness of their own excellency. It goes without saying that no one could paint such a gentleman in such a high-bred way as Van Dyck ; his own instincts enabled him to read the patrician heart. Now that I think of it, all Van Dyck’s portraits have a certain resemblance to himself. His fine band was incapable of painting an awkward or ugly hand. If he had posed for a full-length picture, is it not more than probable that he would have placed one hand on his hip, in the same way that the Duke of Richmond and Charles I. do, and that he would have turned his head thus also? The painter inevitably expresses himself.

The Duke of Richmond had a handsome and mobile face, which indicated an amiable, sensitive, and refined character. perhaps a trifle inclined to effeminacy. His hearing reveals his familiarity with a life of leisure, of elegance, and of pleasure. The relationship between a man and his clothes is a subject which has ever interested philosophers ; and to be supremely well dressed and then to forget it, as this chevalier succeeds in doing, is almost a lost art among males. There is even a slight touch of carelessness in the wrinkled hose which is the very essence of modish elegance. How nicely the style of the painting is suited to the style of the thing painted ! The carriage, the allure, of a Van Dyck figure is a lesson in manner. It is impossible to dissect or analyze this sort of picture. How shall we find the dividing line between the technique and the sentiment of the thing ? That is a waste of effort and a vain splitting of hairs. A masterpiece is a unit, and all its elements are congruous.

Near the great Van Dyck there hangs a half-length portrait of two gentlemen, probably brothers, by Frans Hals, a painter who is vastly admired by all painters, and not without reason. The coloring is sober and very rich at the same time, the style suave and distinguished, the expression of life and character incomparably vivid and natural. Any one would be glad to know these two persons, who are about forty years of age, and are dressed alike, wearing linen collars with embroidered edges and tied with tassels, falling over their black habits. Black mantles cover their shoulders. The slight gesture made by the man on the right with his left hand is indescribably graceful. This excellent painting, forty-three by thirty-six inches, was formerly in the Gsells collection. There is another example of Hals, a rapidly painted, loose sketch of The Smoker, of no great value. The portraits by Hoogstraten, Jansen, and Ovens have the merits of their school, — substantial merits, which would be more keenly relished were they not overshadowed by Rembrandt’s. The landscape by Ruysdael is not one of his best, and strikes the observer at first as rather tame ; but it is after all a genuine Ruysdael. in subject, design, and sentiment, even if it does not give as adequate an idea of the man as could be desired. Teniers is represented only by a small landscape and a couple of his copies.

The Virgin and Child, by Jan Van Eyck, painted on a panel, twenty-one by eleven inches, came from the collection of the king of Holland, and is in perfect condition. The Virgin stands in a gothic niche richly ornamented with carvings. She wears a scarlet mantle, and, holding the Child against her breast, looks down at him tenderly. On a band of the canopy above her head are the words “ Domus Dei est et porta cœli; ” beneath is the inscription “ Ipsa est quam preparavit Domus filio Dei mei.” The bambino is a delicious little morsel. The quaint stillness of the painting is far from unpleasant, and the pure, dense, brilliant colors are solidly and smoothly laid on as in an enamel. The minute finish of all the details and its excellent state of preservation give to this bright little panel, now nearly five hundred years old, an immense value. Very piquant and interesting is the smaller of the two works by Lucas Van Leyden, a canvas eleven by eighteen inches, representing Christ Presented to the People, a replica or copy of which is in the Belvedere at Vienna. The large water-color by the same artist, from the Methuen collection, is dilapidated, but must have been handsome in its prime, and even now is decorative after the manner of an old tapestry. I pass by the two Rubens in the Marquand collection, and call attention to the Portrait of the Artist’s Wife, in the adjoining room, presented to the museum by F. E. Church, the artist. This very characteristic canvas also has its counterpart in the Vienna gallery. It represents a half-length figure, nude and fat. “ Il déshabille, d’un pinceau orgueilleux, le corps opulent de sa femme,” says M. Lucien Solvay, “ et la livre nue aux regards do tous, fière d’elle-même et provocante.” To be sure, she sits there as comfortable and unabashed as a tabby cat dozing in front of a good fire. The quality of the flesh tones is magnificent.

The two portraits by Velasquez in the Marquand collection are of Queen Mariana of Austria, the second wife of Philip IV., and of Philip’s son Baltasar Carlos, the adorable young prince whom Velasquez painted so often and in such a variety of poses. The latter is only a bust-length portrait, but we recognize in it at once the same expression of all that is most lovable in the boyish character as is seen in the equestrian portrait and in the full-length likeness of the prince in hunting costume. Baltasar Carlos was about ten years old when Velasquez painted him. He wore a wide stiff linen collar over a black garment embroidered with silver. The ingenuous and amiable look of this boy, who was probably fortunate in dying too young to ascend the throne of a decadent state, is preserved for us by Velasquez with all that simplicity and rectitude for which he is famous. The prince’s Austrian cousin, whom he was to have married, is represented in mourning dress, with silver ornaments, and wears one of those astonishing head-dresses, composed of her own hair arranged in ringlets and tied with red ribbon, — a huge and unbecoming coiffure, which may be seen in several of the Velasquez portraits in Madrid.

Among the English pictures, the pair of large upright landscapes by John Constable are conspicuous. The Valley Farm, four and a half feet high by about four feet wide, is a replica of the picture in the National Gallery, London, with some insignificant differences in the details. The central object in the composition is the farmhouse known as Willy Lott’s house, which stands on the bank of a stream called the Stour, very close to the water. Several cows are seen in the shallow part of the river, not far from the house, and at the right is a boat, in which are a man and a woman. A thick group of tall trees fills the right side of the foreground, and casts a deep shadow over the water. This subject was painted several times by Constable, whose father’s mill was situated a short distance from the Valley Farm, on the Stour, near the village of East Bergholt. This modest stream has been immortalized by the pencil of Constable, who loved it as Daubigny loved the Oise. One of his early friends and his first patrons, Sir George Beaumont, who was in his day regarded as an authority on the fine arts, had a theory that “ a good picture should be the color of a good fiddle, — brown ; ” and, though Constable rightly refused to be guided by any such inflexible dictum, it can be seen that he did not fail to appreciate the beauty of browns, for The Valley Farm is distinctly a brown picture. It reminds us also of an expression used by Constable in one of his letters: “ I have done a good deal of skying ” (making studies of skies). His conviction of the very great importance of the sky in a landscape needs no testimony apart from his paintings. The gray and moving sky which bends over the Valley Farm is the life of the picture, and is brushed in with amazing breadth and vigor. The foreground is roughly executed, and the whole composition has more rugged force than charm. It looks its best at some distance. Perhaps it is a bit disappointing at first, but it grows on the observer mightily, by its largeness and originality. Willy Lott, says Leslie, was born in this house, and “ passed more than eighty years without having spent four whole days away from it.” It must have been a great event for him when Constable set up his easel there. How placidly the years, like the silent Stour, must have glided by ! There is an aspect of permanency and peace about this rustic abode; the very trees have an uncommonly solid, enduring, English look. We feel that the spot is one that we have always known ; that it is rich in goodly human associations ; that it is a home, and not a mere house. " Intimate ” the French writers would call it. Constable’s affection for the familiar stiles, stumps, and lanes of his native village, which he vowed he would never cease to paint so long as he could hold a brush, was one of the characteristics which made him the most national of English landscapists, and it explains why the French artists of his time were among the first to recognize his genius. Ruskin upbraided him for the lowness of his subjects, but Leslie, with a truer instinct, pronounces him the most genuine painter of English cultivated scenery.

The Lock on the Stour, the companion piece to The Valley Farm, is as like it in color and style as it is in size and form. On the right is a heavy mass of old trees, beneath whose limbs a stream passes across the composition. The lock, an interesting object in a pictorial sense, is near the centre of the canvas, and two men are laboriously engaged in passing a boat through it. At the left we see a flat expanse of meadow land, and in the distance some low hills and the square tower of a village church. Both this painting and The Valley Farm were bought from Mr. Alfred Lucas, brother of the engraver who reproduced so many of Constable’s works.

By whom is this delicious amber-toned landscape Number 12, so smooth, warm, fluent, complete, and harmonious, setting forth a subject of such extraordinary picturesque charm ? Would not any one say that it must, be by a Dutchman, at all events? For what painter outside of Holland could ever endow the blank brown walls of an old tavern with such fat and luminous color? A glance at the catalogue reveals our error : Number 12 turns out to be Saltash, by Joseph M. W. Turner. It was painted about 1812, when Turner was under forty. Saltash quaintly sits on the banks of the Tamar in Cornwall, and is a subject ht to warm an etcher’s heart. In the foreground is the river’s edge, with a barge at a dock on the left, and on the right a boat half drawn up on the shore. A long, rambling building, with weatherstained walls, fills the centre of the composition, extending completely across the canvas. In one place on it is a laconic sign, “ Beer House.” and among the half-obliterated inscriptions scrawled on the outer walls by loafers are the words “ England expects every man to do his duty.” Through a square gateway or passage cut through the building is seen a market-place and the streets beyond ; and all about are figures of men and women and horses. This beautiful work was bought in 1886 by Mr. Marquand from a lady of Liverpool. Possibly it is not so well adapted to give to people unfamiliar with the National Gallery such a distinct notion of Turner’s genius as some of his later works, in which his use of color and his treatment of light were more peculiar to himself ; but, if less powerful, brilliant, and characteristic than the productions of his mature age, it is none the less a landscape of rare charm and of abiding interest.

Sir Joshua Reynolds’s bust portrait of Lady Carew in a white dress is a fairly representative work, delicate, refined, and a little soft. A much more important example is the large painting of the Hon. Henry Fane and his guardians, Inigo Jones and Charles Blair, in the next room. This canvas, which comes from the Duke of Westmoreland’s collection, having been presented to the museum by Mr. Junius S. Morgan in 1887, is as honestly and unaffectedly painted as any Reynolds in existence, and is in a good condition; the contrasts of color in the costumes are very effective. Gainsborough’s Girl with a Cat hardly does him justice ; in the Sea Coast, by Bonnington, there is little of the singular attractiveness of his personality which is felt in his best pictures ; and the Hautbois Common of OldCrome looks like a finished example of Rousseau.

William Howe Downes.