Chapter 2

The costume interests us as a study of bygone fashions, and is painted with exquisite care for detail. The pointed bodice is as stiff as a coat of mail, like that so long in vogue at the court of Spain. Perhaps the Spanish occupation of the Netherlands may have brought the corset with it. Certainly it is not conducive to an easy carriage; only a graceful figure like this could wear it without awkwardness. The slashed sleeves are made full, and tied at the elbows with bows. The wide collar and cuffs are edged with beautiful Flemish lace points. The feather fan and the strings of pearls about the throat and wrists might form a part of any modern costume. It strikes us, however, as a very singular fashion for a lady to wear a large seal ring on the thumb.

We notice how simply the hair is dressed, brushed loosely from the face and knotted at the back, with a jewel gleaming at one side. Compared with the elaborate coiffures worn by great ladies in some historical periods, this style is delightfully artistic. Altogether the entire manner of dressing is perfectly suited to the wearer.

II

THE REST IN EGYPT

We often read in history of the rejoicing throughout a kingdom over the birth of a prince: messengers are sent from place to place to proclaim the glad news, congratulations and gifts follow, every possible care is taken for the nurture and protection of the precious young life.

The story of the childhood of Jesus reads somewhat like that of a prince, in spite of his lowly surroundings. Though he was born in a manger, a herald angel announced the glad tidings of his coming. Though the people of Bethlehem took no note of the event, a multitude of the heavenly host sang "Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace, good-will to men." Wise men from the East made a long journey to find the young child. The lore of the stars had taught them that he was a king, and they brought gifts worthy of royalty, gold, and frankincense, and myrrh.

It was these visitors who were the innocent cause of the child's first danger. In seeking him out they had gone to King Herod at Jerusalem, asking, "Where is he that is born King of the Jews?" These inquiries made the monarch very uneasy. He had no mind to lose his crown. To prevent the appearance of any possible rival he determined upon summary measures. "He sent forth and slew all the children that were in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof, from two years old and under." By this terrible massacre he thought to do away with the child Jesus.

But the Prince of Peace was protected by stronger guards than ever surrounded the cradle of an earthly prince. A warning message was sent to save the child from the impending danger. "The angel of the Lord appeareth to Joseph in a dream, saying, Arise, and take the young child and his mother, and flee into Egypt, and be thou there until I bring thee word: for Herod will seek the young child to destroy him."

"When he arose, he took the young child and his mother by night, and departed into Egypt."[1] The journey was long and wearisome, but the mother Mary was young, and strong in courage, and Joseph was a sturdy defender. As for the babe, what mattered it to him whether he slept in a manger, or under the trees by the wayside? He was safe in his mother's arms.

[Footnote 1: St. Matthew, chapter ii., verses 13, 14.]

What adventures befell them by the way we do not know, but we like to imagine the incidents of the journey. There is a tradition that angel play-fellows came from time to time to amuse the child Jesus. When Mary and Joseph were forced to pause a little while for food and rest, the lonely places were filled with these glad presences.

This is the legend illustrated in our picture. Under the spreading branches of a great tree, Mary has found a comfortable seat on a grassy bank, and Joseph rests behind her. The little child stands on his mother's knee, clinging to her dress for support, while her arms hold him firm. A band of infant angels play on the flower-strewn grass in the open space in front. With joined hands they circle about as in the figure of a dance or game. The music for their sport is furnished by a heavenly choir, hovering in the upper air and singing the score from an open book.

The leader of the dance is evidently the beautiful angel who pauses opposite the Christ-child. Resting on the right foot he draws back the left, poising on his toe, in an attitude of exquisite grace. With his left hand he waves a salute to the infant Christ. His right hand clasps that of a companion angel to form an arch beneath which troop the whole jocund company. It is good sport, and the players scamper gleefully along. A single angel stops to gaze ardently towards the Christ-child.

The mother looks on at the game with queenly dignity. A smile hovers on her lips, as if the eagerness of the little leader pleased her. As for Joseph, his glance is directed towards the tree-tops. Perhaps his senses are not fine enough to discern the spirit company, but he is well content with the happiness of mother and child.

From the safe pedestal of his mother's knee the child Jesus watches every motion of the angels with breathless interest. The angel leader seems to beckon him to join them, and he is almost ready to go. Yet the firm hands hold him back, and he is glad to cling to his mother's dress. A circle of light about his head is the halo, or symbol of his divine origin.

The picture is an important record of our painter's travels in Italy. It was here he imbibed from the old Italian masters the tender and devotional spirit which animated their sacred works. Titian was the special object of his admiration, and he painted a number of Madonna pictures which show the influence the Venetian painter had upon his art. The circle of dancing angels recalls the cherub throng of Titian's Assumption.[2]

[Footnote 2: See Chapter XII. in volume on Titian in the Riverside Art Series.]

III

THE SO-CALLED PORTRAIT OF RICHARDOT AND HIS SON

A gentleman has brought his little boy to our painter's studio for a portrait sitting. Father and son are close friends and understand each other well. On the way they have talked of the picture that is to be made, and the boy has asked many questions about it. It is rather a tedious prospect to an active child to have to sit still a long time. But his father's companionship is his greatest delight, and it is a rare treat to both to have a whole morning together. Besides, they have a book with them, a new publication from the Plantin printing press, and the father has promised to read something to him.

The two are richly dressed for the event, the father in black with a fur mantle, and the boy in white satin embroidered with gold. The man wears the stiff quilled ruff of the period, the boy a round collar of soft lace. It is not every day in the year that a little boy is allowed to wear his best satin doublet, and the child feels the gravity of the occasion. We may suppose that these are people of distinction, and that on certain great occasions the boy accompanies his father to court. Perhaps, too, as the eldest son of the house, he is sometimes given a seat at a great banquet, or is brought into the tapestried hall to meet an honored guest. It is at such times that he would be dressed as in the picture. In our own day a child's finery brings to mind dancing classes and parties, but in these far away times it is associated only with stately ceremonies.

The painter has led his guests to a place near a window, where, looking over their shoulders, one sees a bit of pleasant country. The man draws the boy towards him and lays one hand on the child's shoulder. At the painter's bidding, the little fellow puts his right arm akimbo, imitating the attitude in some of the portraits of the studio. The pose suits perfectly the quaint dignity of the little figure.

It is a proud moment for the boy. It makes him almost a man to be treated as an equal by his father. Not for worlds would he do anything to spoil the picture; he feels the responsibility of carrying out his part well. He regards the painter with solemn eyes, watching intently every motion of the pencil.

There is a gleam of humor in the father's eyes as he too looks in the same direction. He is a man of large affairs, we are sure. His high forehead shows rare mental powers, and he has the judicial expression of one whose counsel would be worth following. Yet there is that in his face which shows the quiet tastes of the scholar. With his boy beside him and a book in his hand, he is content to let the great world go its way. Nevertheless he is something of a courtier, as his station in life requires, a distinguished figure in any great company. The face is one of striking nobility of character. He is a man in whom we could place great confidence.

Two qualities of the portrait give it artistic value, life-likeness, and character. The figures almost seem to speak to us from the canvas, and we feel a sense of intimacy with them, as if we had actually known them in real life. Indeed there is very little in the picture to make it seem foreign to our own surroundings. The stiff ruff is the most distinctly old-fashioned feature. The man's closely cut pointed beard is such as has long been called the "Van Dyck beard." The painter wore his own trimmed in the same way, which seems at one time to have been equally the fashion in England and on the continent.

We remark in the picture the excellent characterization of the hands. In later days when the painter was busier, he often assigned this part of the work to assistants. They did not try to reproduce the hand of the portrait sitter, but painted this feature from a model. Now this man's hand is plainly his own; it is of a character with the face, strong and sensitive.

The landscape view is an important element in the picture. If we compare our illustration with others which have no such setting, we shall better understand its value. An enclosed space sets a more or less definite limit to the imagination. A glimpse of the country, on the other hand, suggests wide spaces for the fancy to explore. It will also be noticed that this light spot in the upper right corner balances well the white costume of the boy in the lower left corner.

The portrait group of our illustration has long borne the title of Jean Grusset Richardot and his Son. This Richardot was a celebrated Flemish diplomat of the sixteenth century, and president of the Privy Council of the Low Countries. As he died in Van Dyck's boyhood, his portrait could not have been made by our painter directly from life. Nor can we believe with some that years after the diplomat's death Van Dyck copied from some old picture the likeness seen here. A portrait painted in this way would not have the vitality of our illustration. We are therefore obliged to consider the picture nameless; but our enjoyment of its good qualities is by no means less keen.

IV

THE VISION OF ST. ANTHONY

St. Anthony of Padua was a Franciscan friar of the thirteenth century, celebrated for his piety and eloquence. He was a Portuguese by birth, and early in life determined to be a Christian missionary. His first labors were in Africa, but being seized by a lingering illness, he returned to Europe and landed in Italy. Here he came under the influence of St. Francis of Assisi, who was just establishing a new religious order. The rules were to be very strict: the members could possess nothing of their own, but were to beg their food and raiment of fellow Christians. They were to mingle with the people as brothers, hence _friars_,[3] ministering to their bodily needs, and advising, comforting, and admonishing in higher concerns. What sort of a habit they wore we may see in our picture. There was a long dark brown tunic made with loose sleeves, and having a sort of hood attached. The garment was fastened about the waist with a knotted rope. By this strange girdle the wearer was continually reminded that the body is a beast to be subdued by a halter.

[Footnote 3: From the French frere.]

On account of his learning, St. Anthony became a teacher of theology. He was connected successively with the universities of Bologna, Toulouse, Paris, and Padua, and with this last city his name has ever since been associated. At length, however, he forsook all other employments and devoted himself wholly to preaching among the people.

These were troublous times in Italy, when the poor were cruelly oppressed by the rich. St. Anthony espoused the cause of those who were wronged, and denounced all forms of tyranny. His influence was a great power among the people, and many stories are told of his preaching. It is related that one day, as he was explaining to his hearers the mystery of the Incarnation, the Christ-child appeared to him as in a vision.

It is this story which the painter had in mind in our picture: St. Anthony kneels before the mother and babe in an ecstasy of devotion. An open book lies on the ground beside him, as if he had been conning its pages when the vision broke upon him. The landscape surroundings are especially appropriate, for St. Anthony was fond of out-of-door life. His sermons were often given in the open air, and it is said that he sometimes preached to the fishes. He delighted to point out to his hearers the beauties of nature, the whiteness of the swan, the mutual charity of the storks, and the purity and fragrance of the lilies.

The poetic refinement of his nature is indicated in his face. He is young and handsome, with the gentle expression which used to win the hearts of his hearers. There is little here to show the more forcible elements of his character. The tonsured head is the common mark of membership in religious orders.

The Christ-child bends forward to caress the saint's face with his tiny hand. He is a loving little fellow, not particularly pretty, except in his infantine plumpness, yet the face is full of innocent sweetness. A mysterious light shines above his head, the emblem of divinity. The good friar does not presume to touch the holy child, but folds his hands reverently across his breast. His eyes are lifted with the rapt look of the visionary.

St. Anthony's biographers tell us how he loved to recite the old Latin hymn by St. Fortunatus, beginning,--

O Gloriosa Domina Excelsa super sydera. [O most glorious Lady Exalted above the stars.]

We may fancy that in the ecstasy of this vision these lines now rise to his lips. The last stanza expresses the sum of his adoration:--

Gloria tibi Domine Qui natus es de Virgine Cum Patre et sancto Spiritu In sempiterna saecula. [Glory to thee, O Lord, Who wast born of a Virgin, With the Father and Holy Spirit For eternal ages.]

It is easy to see from a comparison of this picture with the Rest in Egypt that it was painted at about the same time. We at once recognize the mother and child of the other illustration, and note the similarity in pose. We may imagine the Madonna bending forward and holding the babe a little lower on her lap, and we should have the grouping as it is here.

In their pictures of the Madonna, the old painters tried to express their highest ideals of womanhood. The mother Mary represented to them all that is strongest and sweetest in a woman's character. So this Madonna by Van Dyck is a gracious and queenly figure modelled upon the stately Virgin of Titian.

The linear composition of the picture is carefully planned; the basis is the pyramidal form. From the top of the Virgin's head diverge the two oblique lines which enclose the diagram. The mantle fluttering behind the mother's shoulder balances the part of St. Anthony's tunic which lies on the ground.

We may well believe that the painter took especial pleasure in working on this picture, because he himself bore the name of the good St. Anthony.

V

MADAME ANDREAS COLYNS DE NOLE AND HER DAUGHTER

In the time of Van Dyck there was living in Antwerp a family of ancient lineage who bore the name of Colyns de Nole. For three centuries there had been sculptors among the men of this name. The talent had been handed down from father to son through the several generations, and sometimes there were two or three of the family working together in the art. The old churches of Antwerp contained some fine specimens of their work.[4]

[Footnote 4: A full account of the several members of this family is given in the _Biographie Nationale_, published by the Royal Belgian Academy of Science, Literature and Fine Arts, Brussels, 1899.]

Andreas Colyns de Nole was of nearly the same age as Van Dyck, and a worthy representative of his famous family. He was the sculptor of the beautiful monument of Henry van Balen in the Church of St. Jacques, and of a Pieta in the Church of Notre Dame. The sculptor and the painter became good friends, and it was a natural consequence that the latter should paint the portrait of his friend and of his family. He made two companion pictures, one of the sculptor, and the other of his wife and the little daughter.

The lady is seated in an arm-chair, letting her placid glance stray across the room. There is a little touch of weariness in her manner, as if she were glad to sit down for a few moments' rest. She is a busy housewife and mother, with many domestic duties on her mind. In her strong, capable way she has long borne the family burdens. The face is full of motherly sweetness; the expression is patient and serene, as of one well schooled in the lessons of life. This is indeed the "virtuous woman" whose price the wise man of old set "far above rubies."

"She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness. She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness. Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her."[5]

[Footnote 5: Proverbs, chapter xxx., verses 26-28.]

The child is as like the mother as possible in features. Her round face is quaintly framed in a close lace-trimmed cap. She is a shy little creature, and is rather afraid of the strange painter. So she keeps as far as possible in the shelter of her mother's big sleeve. The hour drags wearily by. The studio is a dull place, and the sunshine without very inviting. The child pulls impatiently at her mother's arm, and, as the painter speaks, she looks timidly around, wondering what he will think of such a rude little girl.

The artist is secretly much amused by the small young lady's behavior. He has a shrewd insight into children's thoughts, and sympathizes with their moods. He does not try to persuade her to sit for him, but he catches her pose just as she stands here. The mother, too, is wise enough to let the child alone, and the picture is made as we see it.

As we compare it with the former illustration of the man with his little boy, it is amusing to see the contrast between the two children. The boy has such a grave sense of responsibility, while the girl cares nothing for the portrait. She would doubtless think the boy very tiresome.

We are apt to think of the children of past centuries as altogether different beings from those of our own day. With few toys and books and pictures such as we have now, they must have been, we fancy, very sedate little creatures. A child portrait like this in our illustration dispels these false ideas. This little daughter of a seventeenth-century sculptor is as full of life and spirits as any child of to-day. Barring her quaint dress and foreign tongue she would be at home with children of her own age in any period or country.

The lady's dress is in a style similar to that which we have already studied in the portrait of our first illustration. The stiff bodice, with the long pointed front and square neck, the broad lace-trimmed collar, the large sleeves, and the wide cuffs turned back from the wrist, are details common to the two pictures. This costume, however, is somewhat less elegant than that of the English lady and more suggestive of every-day wear in the home. The collar is less elaborate, and not stiff; the neck is entirely covered with soft white material, fastened at the throat with a small brooch. A seal ring adorns each hand, worn on the index finger.

We recognize the pillar in the background as a common setting in Van Dyck's portraits. The taste of this time was rather artificial in such matters, and inclined to stateliness. There is here no vista beyond the pillar, no glimpse into another apartment, but the space is, as it were, completely walled in.

VI

DAEDALUS AND ICARUS

In the distant past which we call the age of fable lived the cunning craftsman Daedalus of Athens. One of his most curious inventions was a labyrinth which he constructed for Minos, the king of Crete. Having at length displeased this king he resolved to flee from the island with his son Icarus. It was impossible to escape by way of the sea without detection, but Daedalus was not discouraged.

"Land and wave, He cried, deny me way! But Heaven above Lies open! Heaven shall bear me home!"[6]

So saying he began to fashion some wings with which he might fly away. Feathers of different lengths were bound together with thread and wax, and shaped into arched pinions like those of a bird. As he worked, the boy Icarus stood by watching his father, and sometimes handling the feathers with his meddlesome fingers.

[Footnote 6: All the quotations are from Ovid's _Metamorphoses_, Book viii., translated by Henry King.]

At last the final touch was given, and Daedalus, fastening the wings to his body with wax, made a short trial flight. The invention was a success; the artist rose triumphant in the air. Then he taught his boy the use of the wings, warning him of every possible mishap:--

"'Midway keep thy course, he said, My Icarus, I warn thee! if too low, The damps will clog thy pinions; if too high, The heats relax them. Midway hold thy flight.

* * * * *

By mine Thy course direct.' And many a precept more He gave, and careful as he bound the wings Upon the shoulders of the boy, his cheeks Were wet with tears, and in the task his hands Paternal trembled."

Our picture illustrates this point in the story. Daedalus has just fastened the wings upon his son and is giving the final directions. The old man's face is full of anxiety, as he implores the lad not to fly too high. Icarus listens to the advice with a shade of impatience, pouting a little, like a wilful child who chafes under restraint. He points forward, as if to show that he understands his orders. Already the slender figure is poised for flight; he is eager to be off. In another moment he will rise into the air, dropping his garment as he ascends. A light breeze flutters the soft plumes of the wings and blows the loose curls about the boy's head. His youthful beauty, almost feminine in type, contrasts finely with the strong furrowed countenance of the father.

The story goes on to tell how the two started off together, the father leading the way.

"And, as the mother bird When first her offspring from the nest essays The air, he hovered anxious, cheering on The boy to follow, and with fatal art Enjoining thus or thus his wings to ply As he example gave."

For a while all went well, and they had covered a long distance, when Icarus,--