Part 8

National schools of art can at this present time hardly be said to exist, at least not in the sense in which they existed 300 years ago. In those times the attributes and characteristics of each school were sharply defined. The Roman, the Venetian, the Spanish, the German, and the Flemish, were as distinct in character as it was possible to be. Now, however, the national characteristics are very slight, and in many countries there seem to me to be none. The French and the German are the two great Continental schools from which the others spring. England, Austria, Spain, and perhaps Holland, have certain features of their own; that is, speaking generally, one would know an English, Austrian, Spanish, or Dutch picture at once.

The Scandinavian and Danish schools are feeble offshoots of the German.

The Belgian is a vigorous branch of the French, and the Swiss is a less robust child of the same parent.

The Italian seems to me to be a mixture of French and Spanish, with a little of the old Italian element surviving. By the old Italian element I do not mean a reminiscence of Raffaelle, Michael Angelo, or Titian, but rather of Carlo Dolce or Sassoferrato.

Russian and especially American art are of a nondescript character, and the reasons are sufficiently obvious.

A young American or Russian artist goes to Paris or Rome, and puts himself to school under a certain master. After a time he will paint pictures more or less like his master’s; he will exhibit them, and may get rewards and medals for them; but he can hardly be called a representative of the American or Russian school. No American thinks of studying art in New York or Boston, and no Russian artist dreams of finishing his artistic education in St. Petersburg or Moscow. There can, therefore, be no American or Russian school properly so called.

I shall begin my lecture with a few words about our noble selves. I will give you rather the opinion of the best French artists than my own. As this opinion was expressed with perfect sincerity, and came from competent and independent judges, I think we may derive a lesson from it.

It has, I know, often been remarked that French artists appreciate best whatever is most unlike their own work, and it was a feeling of this kind which consoled the Belgians for the favor with which the English galleries were regarded. I confess that there is a good deal of truth in the remark.

English painting is so unlike French that there can be no direct rivalry between the two schools, whereas in Belgian work the rivalry is unpleasantly close.

I may, perhaps, be allowed to add, that for the same reason those English painters who approximate most to the French school were precisely those who were the least appreciated. Novelty has a great charm, particularly to a Frenchman. If you ask a Parisian to dinner and wish to please him, do not give him delicate little French dishes, with light claret to drink. Give him half a codfish followed by a sirloin of beef, with plenty of bitter ale to wash it down with, and he will bless you and afterward cherish the memory of these _alimens vraiment Britanniques_.

Novelty of treatment was, however, certainly not the only reason of the success of the English school.

In the first place, it was noticed that there was a certain refinement and elegance about the English galleries which was very pleasant to the jaded juror who had just been wading through long rows of coarse imitations of French art.

The English school was thought very highly of not on account of its color, still less on account of its drawing, but chiefly for the sake of the refined thought and invention shown in some of the pictures.

Then, again, in some cases, the novelty of the mode of execution, or the delicacy of the color, pleased our foreign judges; but I am quite sure that the popularity which English art has undoubtedly gained in Paris is due more to our brains than to our brushes.

The remarks and criticisms I heard in Paris all tend to confirm the opinion I have often expressed about the importance of originality in painting; of every artist, in short, thinking out his subject for himself, with nature as his only guide. Of course, novelty of treatment, unless combined with truth, is valueless. It would not be difficult to mention some novelties about which the remarks of my French friends would be the reverse of complimentary.

The first quality in the pictorial rendering of a subject must be truth, the second novelty or originality, and the third feeling or poetry. Where these three qualities are combined in a picture, it will more than hold its own in the eyes of competent judges against works far more brilliantly executed.

It must not, however, be supposed that foreign artists were delighted with _all_ they saw in the British galleries. Our old faults--namely, indifferent drawing, and feeble, scratchy execution--were often noticed, but were not nearly so prominent as twenty-three years ago. I have no doubt we have improved in these respects, but I also think that our foreign judges are apt to be much more lenient than of old as regards drawing.

Their own drawing is not what it used to be in the days of Ingres and Flandrin. They have acquired other qualities, but they seem to me to have lost the art of expressing beautiful form. Of course, in my remarks to-night I shall speak of the _general_ tendency of the schools. In every school there are exceptions to the rule, and amongst the French painters of the day there are at least one or two striking exceptions to the general decline of drawing power.

To return to the English galleries. It would be impossible to retail to you the unfavorable remarks that were made without becoming disagreeably personal. This adverse criticism of a few pictures gave perhaps more value to the verdict that, speaking generally, the English school was distinguished by its intellectual, refined, and, above all, thoroughly national character.

Let us hope that as years roll on we may gain more power in drawing and more manliness of execution, without losing any of those national qualities which have carried us so creditably through the ordeal of an International Exhibition.

We will now leave the British section, and proceed to the French galleries. French art seems to me to be in a transition state. Public taste has been unsettled by the enormous success of Fortuny, Regnault, Corot, Daubigny, and other still more eccentric painters. Eccentricity is too often mistaken for genius, and coarseness for power. The last Salon (or annual exhibition) was the worst I ever saw. Of course, the French section of the International was rich both in quantity and quality, but I did not notice a single really fine picture that had been painted within the last three years. To what are we to attribute this unsatisfactory state of things? Although it has often been said that republicanism is fatal to art, it is difficult to believe that the present French Government can have any influence either for good or evil on artists’ studios. Indeed, French sculpture, which is certainly improving, is there to negative any such theory.

The reason of the decline of the _older_ men is obvious enough. They have ceased to paint for fame; they paint for money. Country-houses, carriages, horses, and last, but perhaps not least, madame’s toilette, must be paid for, and the consequence is the production of what in a humbler sphere of art would be called pot-boilers. These inferior works are eagerly purchased at very high prices, and the artist, finding he can coin as much money as he likes, takes less and less pains, till finally decadence sets in, and the men who from their age ought to be in the zenith of their artistic power, find themselves quite incapable of rivalling the productions of their youth.

The cause for the manifest dearth of rising talent amongst the younger men must be looked for elsewhere. That this dearth really exists there can be no doubt. The French themselves allow it. Medals which used to be given at the close of the Salon for painting are now given for sculpture. There must be some reason for this marked decline. My old friends shrug their shoulders and say: “Oh, the kind of teaching which we had in our youth is now voted rococo. Sensational art” (by which they mean art that will produce a sensation) “is now the fashion.” The press has great power in France, and French critics, with few exceptions, like what is strange and eccentric. There are symptoms, however, that this quackery in art has had its day. The last two Salons have been too queer even for the new school of critics, and we may therefore hope that the sensational fit is over, and that the school may return again to the sound principles of design and drawing for which it has hitherto always been distinguished. I wish it understood that the deterioration I have been mentioning was not very noticeable on the walls of the International Exhibition. We had there the cream of all that had been painted in France for the last ten years; and although the pictures bearing the greatest names were rather disappointing, there was evidence of abundance of talent in all departments of oil-painting.

The last years of the Empire and the first years of the Republic seem to have been particularly prolific in good work. The portraits of that period, the battle episodes, the nude figures, the still-life pictures, are all characterized by a solidity and thoroughness which we rarely find now. The most unsatisfactory feature in the work of this period is, to my mind, the landscape. I confess to a want of appreciation of either Corot or Daubigny; and as almost every landscape-painter is an imitator of either one or the other, as a matter of course I cannot like their pictures.

The landscape school of which I am speaking appears to me never to get beyond a sketch, and _le culte du laid_ (the worship of ugly subjects) is carried too far.

The greatest modern landscape-painters France ever had were Marillat and Theodore Rousseau, and I think they are much better models to follow than Corot or Daubigny.

As I am criticising, I may observe that much as I admire French pictures of a few years back, I must say that I think the key in which these works are painted too low; and there is another more serious fault which I have often noticed; namely, the want of _naïveté_. The colors are simple enough, but the execution is obtrusive. In the portraits especially, one thinks more of the artist than of the sitter, whereas in certain portraits of the Belgian and German galleries at the International, the artist and his execution were completely forgotten, so life-like and natural were the heads.

In speaking of French painting it is as difficult to generalize as it would be of English. One man paints his whole picture in a low key, another paints white figures on a black background, one plasters his color on with a trowel, another models it rather thin. Still I think I may safely say that the majority of French pictures are painted with thick, opaque color and in a very low key.

Mannerism is perhaps the rock on which most rising reputations are shipwrecked, not only in France but everywhere else. A clever young artist paints a really fine picture, full of feeling, originality, and poetry, but rather low in tone. He has an immense success; a success which he too often ascribes to the wrong cause. The consequence is that his next picture will probably be less poetical, but still darker in color. His friends and admirers, instead of pulling him up sharp, are more prodigal than ever in their praise. He gets a higher price for the second picture than he did for the first. It is, therefore, not surprising that our promising artist paints lower and lower in color every year, until at last he becomes a confirmed mannerist.

The same danger exists in every department of the art. A young portrait-painter will perhaps have exhibited a full-length, distinguished by great character and breadth, but coarsely painted. The praise which he justly earns for this portrait prompts him to paint his next still more coarsely, and he too degenerates into a mannerist.

Mannerisms of various kinds are rampant in the present French school, and are in the present state of public opinion too strong for the more sober truthful work, which I am happy to say is not yet altogether extinct.

Unfortunately the encouragement given to these mannerists (or “impressionists” as they love to be called) is not wholly derived from their friends of the press; it proceeds also from artists of real talent who ought to know better.

This seems to me the gravest symptom in the present condition of the French school. It is of little importance how enthusiastic the various literary or dilettanti cliques may be about their favorites. These are mere fashions, which sooner or later die a natural death, but when artists of standing give in to the prevailing delusions, the mischief becomes serious.

I can hardly believe that these artists of talent really admire the productions of which I am speaking, but they are afraid of going against the stream of journalism, or else they wish to appear liberal in approving what is so diametrically opposed to their own practice. At any rate they acquiesce, and humbug flourishes. Before leaving the French painters, I ought, perhaps, to say something about the subjects principally affected by them.

No one can go through a French exhibition without being struck by the number of ghastly and horrible subjects which meet the eye on every side, and which seem to vie with each other in cruelty and brutality.

Death and suffering in every form have always been favorite subjects with French artists. Delaroche was continually painting murders and executions, but the comparatively mild form of horrors affected by him is not sensational enough for the modern school.

“Scene of the Inquisition--A man being Tortured to Death”; “Rizpah Driving away the Vultures from the Bodies of her Seven Sons, who are Swinging in the Wind”; “Roman Conspirators Drinking the Blood of a Slave whom they have just Murdered for this Festive Purpose”; “Nero Experimentalizing with Poison on his Slaves”; “Apollo Flaying Marsyas alive,”--are a few of the many pretty subjects which were conspicuous in the French galleries of the International Exhibition. One artist (and a very distinguished one too) has improved even upon these subjects, and delights in painting not only death but decomposition.

At the Ecole des Beaux Arts the subject given last year to the students for their diploma pictures was “Augustus Causes the Tomb of Alexander the Great to be Opened, and Places a Crown of Gold on the Head of the Corpse.”

When we reflect that Alexander had been dead some three hundred years, it will easily be understood that his body was in that half-putrid, half-mummified condition which is apparently so attractive to the artistic world in France.

Another marked characteristic of a French exhibition is the number of nude female figures. This is notoriously very objectionable to many English visitors, but for my part I would rather see a dozen nude nymphs than a decapitated figure or a putrid corpse. Many of these figures are done by young painters as a kind of supplement to their art education; and instead of being offended at their frequency, I am always glad to see so much laudable ambition. I only wish we had a few more similar efforts in our English exhibitions. The Hanging Committee would, of course, eliminate those which were objectionable either from want of technical skill or from any other cause, and the remainder might be allowed to hang on our walls and irritate Mrs. Grundy.

A third characteristic of a French exhibition is the general excellence of what are called rustic pictures. The peasants are real peasants, and not models dressed up as such.

There is almost always in this class of subjects an honest attempt to give a truthful version of nature. There is a completeness about them that is very charming.

The pictures of flowers, fruit, fish, and every thing coming under the head of _nature morte_, seem to me equally good. In fact, one hardly ever sees a bad still-life picture in a French exhibition. I suppose the jury is more strict about fruit, oysters, and copper kettles than about humanity, and particularly female humanity.

Pictures of animal life are, I think, less common than in English exhibitions. Dogs especially are seldom painted. This may be partly owing to the currish aspect of French dogs. Our bloodhounds, mastiffs, newfoundlands, deerhounds, and all the aristocracy of the canine race, are hardly ever seen in France; and it must be confessed that a stumpy-tailed mongrel or a clipped poodle is not a very tempting model. The French are not a doggy nation. A well-off Parisian will often keep a couple of ugly pointers, but it is always understood that “Stop” and “Komeer” are indispensable “pour la chasse,” and not to be regarded as pets or companions.

Finally, in every modern French exhibition the influence of Fortuny is very perceptible; I believe, however, that almost all the disciples of this school are Spaniards or Italians residing in Paris, and that the French artists who devote themselves to microscopic painting have the good taste to follow the lines of Meissonier rather than those of Fortuny.

We will now examine the Belgian pictures.

Belgian art is derived entirely from France. At the International Exhibition one passed from the French to the Belgian galleries without being aware of the change of nationality. I think, however, that the branch is at present in a healthier state than the parent stem. When I compare the recent mural paintings which have been executed in Belgium with similar work done in Paris, I am struck with the vast superiority of the Belgian. Again, in landscape the Belgians are far in advance of their neighbors. Comparisons are proverbially odious, so I will not incur odium by comparing English landscape with Belgian, but I should recommend those who think that we specially excel in this branch of the art to go and look at what the Belgians are doing. The great men of the Belgian school--the men whose names are familiar to every artistic circle in Europe--are declining in power even more rapidly than their colleagues in France, but there seems to me to be more hope about the younger men. The Belgian portrait-painters are, I think, inferior to the French as a rule, but there were one or two portraits in the Belgian galleries which attracted a great deal of attention from their unaffected simplicity, and in this respect contrasted very favorably with some more showy French work. The history pictures, again, were more careful and better drawn than analogous French work. There was less striving after effect and singularity, and much better composition. They reminded me more of what French painting used to be before the school became afflicted with what may be called “sentimental radicalism” in art.

I was glad to notice that Baron Leys, the painter of the strange mediæval pictures of the Antwerp town-hall, has not left a school of mediævalists behind him. The quaint ugliness of an old Flemish picture is interesting because it is real, but in these modern works the uncouth drawing and constrained stiff attitudes of the early Flemings are assumed, and therefore offensive. No doubt there are several excellent artists living who have studied under Leys, but they have all of them abandoned the affectation of their master.

The influence of Rubens and his school is not perceptible in modern Belgian work. This is rather curious when we consider the immense amount of Rubens-worship which is perpetually going on at Antwerp. Rembrandt, Franz Hals, and Vanderhelst have had much more influence on the Belgian school than Rubens, but the modern artists of Brussels are not a race of copyists. They evidently study nature a good deal, and this, it appears to me, is the secret of their strength. On the whole I have formed a very favorable opinion of the Belgian school, and when I recall to mind the excellent mural paintings at Ypres and Courtray, I must say that the old Parisian sneer about the “contrefaçon Belge” is quite inapplicable at the present day.

It is manifestly unfair to compare the German gallery of the Great Exhibition with the French, English, or Belgian section. The pictures sent by Germany were hastily got together at the eleventh hour, and were notoriously inadequate specimens of German art. Still they were interesting, as showing the tendency of the school.

The first impression on entering the German gallery was a favorable one. It was like entering a gallery of old masters after a surfeit of garish, crude modern pictures. A closer examination led one, however, to form a less favorable opinion of the peculiarities of German art. The imitation of the old masters is, in my opinion, carried too far. Reminiscences of Holbein and Albert Durer crop up everywhere, and many pictures which are not directly imitative of the old masters have a brown old-varnished appearance. There may not have been any thing offensively bad or ludicrously absurd in the German gallery, but on the other hand, with a few exceptions, there appeared to me to be a sad want of originality. These exceptional pictures were humble and unpretentious enough both in subject and dimensions, but full of truth and character.

The artist, Knaus, enjoys a great reputation both in Germany and Europe generally. His color, though true, is not very attractive. There is no great charm in his execution. The nature of his subjects precludes fine, classical drawing or noble composition. It may be asked, What, then, is his great merit? It is simply the intense realism of his figures. We always feel that we must have seen and known his peasants, his children, and his Jews. He has the same power of seizing types which John Leech so eminently possessed. Whether he quite deserves to be in the front rank of European painters is another question, but it is interesting to note the reputation such an artist has obtained in Germany, where art, though often learned, is seldom truthful or harmonious.

It has often been said that German art is never seen at its best in easel pictures, and that to express an opinion about it one ought to go to Germany, and study the mural paintings which abound there. It is more than twenty-five years since I visited either Munich or Berlin, and I am therefore not qualified to give an opinion about the _present_ state of art in Germany. I confess I was not favorably impressed with what I _then_ saw; and have often in the course of these lectures found fault with Kaulbach and his school for neglecting Horace’s well-known precept, “Artis est celare artem.”

The large mural works at Munich and Berlin used to be considered by Germans as the highest development of heroic painting. They asserted that their country was at the top of the ladder in high art, just as it undoubtedly was in music, and my criticisms on their great painters have always been provoked by this assertion. I have never stigmatized these decorative paintings as being absolutely bad or contemptible, but as being unworthy of the great esteem in which they were held.

I hear that at the present time other artists have in great measure superseded those of the school of Kaulbach, and that the highly artificial style of thirty years ago has been almost abandoned.