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never wrote her lonely masterpiece at all, and that her sister's heartrending preface to its later edition was therefore but a clever literary fraud.
The fragile mother died young, her prim sister watching over the delicate brood, and supplementing the father's Spartan treatment with "endless tasks of sewing." He "wished to make them hardy and indifferent to eating and dress"; but, though his system easily produced the indifference, the health never came with it. He gives a picture of their uncanniness startling enough when he tells us of an examination conducted by himself when the eldest child was but ten. He asked the tiny Anne, aged four, what she most needed, and the poor mite's answer was, "Age and experience"! Charlotte, a little older, pronounced "The Bible the best book in the world, the next best the book of Nature." Maria, the little martyr at Cowan Bridge, thought the best way to spend time was "by laying it out in preparation for a happy eternity"; and the stern Emily, on being questioned as to the right punishment for a naughty child, said, “First reasoning, and then, if useless, whipping."
What they all needed was tenderness, indulgence, and these the solemn father had no power to give. Self-control was his fetish, and when we hear of his "desolation" after Charlotte's death we feel impatient at his obstinate reserve when the passionate woman beside him was pining for sympathy and affection. "The solitude of my position fearfully aggravated its other evils." "Some long stormy days and nights there were when I felt such craving for support and companionship as I cannot express."
Did he dine with her even on the terrible night when she returned after the death of her last sister, when the dogs came about her with "strange The Fortnightly Review.
ecstacy," as if they believed their loved mistresses sure to follow, and the agony "that had to be endured" possessed her soul in torment? If he had broken his inviolable rules, surely she would have thankfully recorded it. Yet, when they were alone in dreary Haworth, they neither walked nor ate together, and it did not seein to dawn on the adamantine old man that the bird in its cage was drooping for lack of freedom.
What wonder that Charlotte at last rewarded her faithful lover? But what cruelty did her father inflict upon her before the day when, in her soft muslins, she "looked like a snowdrop" at the altar? Even when his reluctant consent had been wrung from him, at the last agitated moment on the wedding morning he "announced his intention of not going to church," and a nervous old governess gave away the bride who was the most famous woman in England.
"Qu'en dites-vous?" Thackeray's quick question to her as she moved so timidly through an admiring crowd so eager to behold the writer of Jane Eyre that it forgot for a moment even the writer of Vanity Fair recurs to the mind. Clearly he cared more for praise from her than from all the intellect and rank present on that memorable occasion, yet at Haworth she was of such small account.
Mr. Brontë lived to a great age, respected by all, and loved by none as by the submissive daughter whose fiery spirit was held in such stern check by her strong sense of duty. We may wonder if he was ever haunted by a vision of a pale, slender form clinging to the husband of a few short months with the cry of des
pair to God: "I am not going to die, am I? He will not separate us. We have been so happy." Did he regret that he might have let her be happy so much sooner?
MODERN DUTCH PAINTING.*
"The word 'school' as applied to painting," writes J. Henry Middleton sub voce in the Encyclopædia Britannica, is used with various more or less comprehensive meanings. In its widest sense it includes all the painters of one country of every date-as, for example, the Italian school. In its narrower sense it denotes a group of painters who all worked under the influence of one man-as, for example, the "school of Raphael." In a third sense it is applied to the painters of one city or province, who for successive generations worked under some common local influence and with general similarity of design, color, and technique-as, for example, "the Florentine school," "the Umbrian school." And the writer concludes, "The existence of defined schools of painting is now almost wholly a thing of the past."
It is interesting to consider how far the recent history of Dutch art confirms or infirms this judgment. Those enthusiasts who reverence Whistler the critic equally with Whistler the painter would have to go much farther than Professor Middleton, and maintain that rightly considered there never were schools of painting, and that even in its widest significance Middleton's use of the phrase is a nonsense. "Learn," wrote Whistler, "that there never was such a thing as English art. You might as well talk of English mathematics. Art is art, and mathematics is mathematics." The italics are ours. means, if it means anything, that painting is as impersonal, as independent of temperament and individuality as are mathematics-an art as science. A proposition which we may merely dismiss as absurd.
"Dutch Painting in the Nineteenth Century." By G. Hermine Marius. Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos. London: De La More Press, George St., Hanover Square. 1908. 2315
LIVING AGE. VOL. XLIV.
If there are individual temperaments to be reckoned with, there must be national temperaments also. Nowhere do we seem to run up against this last more distinctly than in the history of the art of the Low Countries: a temperament which in a certain plodding sobriety it displays seemingly appeals to a strain of like character in us; for which reason probably Dutch painting has almost always been popular in England, though not perhaps generally the highest order of Dutch paintings, nor with the higher order of English intellects. In English taste, however, more especially in matters of art, there are so many contradictions that it would be rash to attempt to account for them. It is safer to take refuge behind a dictum of Richard Muther, the chief historian of contemporary art in Europe, who, apropos of Charles Keene, writes that in him the English "reveal that complete singularity which distinguishes them from all other mortals."
Ruskin's criticism must have tended to turn his generation away from Dutch art; and Ruskin knew little or nothing of the latest developments of the latter: the work of what the author of "Dutch Art in the Nineteenth Century" calls the "Hague school" and its successors. Yet the painters of Holland have never lacked nor lack today admirers here, as the collection of the late Sir John Day bore witness, and not less the prices obtained at the sale thereof. Another great collector of modern Dutch art was Mr. Staats Forbes, from whose collection several pictures are reproduced in the work before us. At this moment some fine and representative works of Josef Israels, Anton Mauve, and of Jacob and Matthew Maris are on loan at the National Gallery; and a larger number
of Israels and Matthew Maris are ou view at the French Gallery in Pall Mall. The visitor whose associations with Dutch art-abstraction made of the great names of Rembrandt and of Franz Hals-were with the minute and terre-à-terre painting which delighted our grandfathers, the painting of the Maeses, the Metsus, the Terburgs, the Teniers, would find it difficult to believe that the modern "Hague school" had its birth in the same country. But if he wished to be more "modern" still he would go on to watch the imaginative vein which distinguished Dutch painting in the sixties and the seventies toppling over into pure fantasy in the later work of Matthew Maris, and at last into something like insanity in Vincent van Gogh. He might be tempted then to conclude that imagination was too dangerous a merchandise for the land of dunes and canals, were it not that the same type as Van Gogh's, of halfinsanity in art, is nowadays very fully represented by other names, is common in certain Paris exhibitions, and is in no way a stranger to some of our own. As certain as that the influenza found its way into Western Europe in '89, the year of the French Exhibition, is it that within the last ten years whole classes or schools of artists have been attacked by an epidemic of fantasy, an itch to outrival one the other in extravagance which seems not compatible with mental equilibrium.
With this latest phase, the Van Gogh phase of Dutch art, we need not at present concern ourselves. We turn to Mr. Marius' pages first to find traces of a natural transition from the painters of the seventeenth or early eighteenth century and those who are our contemporaries, or who have but lately left us. There are not many such signs. The latest of the older Dutch "masters," meaning by that
painters of whom the world knows aught, died before the middle of the eighteenth century. When Mr. Marius' book opens on the art of the nineteenth we find that English influence counts for a great deal in the painting of Holland. Charles Howard Hodges, whom Mr. Marius speaks of as a "painter of great importance" in Holland at the beginning of this century, was himself an Englishman by birth. His work bears most resemblance to that of Lawrence, of whom, if he has not the charm, he is almost the equal in the "easy, fluent modelling" which Lawrence inherited from his greater predecessors. Another Dutch painter was as well known here as in Holland in the first quarter of the nineteenth century. This was Jan Willem Pieneman, who painted a Battle of Waterloo in 1819-22. During the greater part of this period he was the guest of the Duke of Wellington and made in England studies for most of his figures. If this picture makes a concession to Dutch sentiment in that in the foreground we see the Prince of Orange borne wounded from the battlefield, the glory of the work falls on the Duke, the central figure, who looks "like an equestrian statue" rather than a commander in the thick of a battle. Engravings of this picture were very frequently to be seen in England half a century ago. "It would be impossible," says Mr. Marius, "to write the history of Dutch painting in the nineteenth century without naming Jan Willem Pieneman as its founder, even though it were only because he was the valued master of Josef Israels." These last words, however, show where in the author's opinion lies the chief interest of the book before us. We may therefore pass over the respectable if commonplace portraits of the two Pienemans (Jan Willem the father and Nicolas the son) and the hardly respectable religious pictures of
Cornelis Kruseman (much on a level with our Herberts and Eastlakes), the pretty romances of Jan Kruseman and his portraits, which are much more meritorious, to arrive at the "new movement" of the sixties and seventies in Holland, which has so close a resemblance to that other new and mighty movement in French art implied in the name of the "Barbizon school."
Only three classes of intermediate Dutch art may claim a moment's attention. The first is the work of Ary Scheffer, a painter so celebrated in his day. so slightly esteemed in ours. Scheffer was German by origin, and his work and fame lay chiefly in Paris. Heine's saying that Scheffer "painted with snuff and green soap" is now the thing best remembered about him, but in fact this phrase appears in the midst of a highly laudatory notice. "His enemies say that he paints only with snuff and green soap: I do not know how far they do him an injustice." That is of course a characteristic touch of Heine's sly malice. But there is no doubt that Scheffer excited a genuine enthusiasm in this critic. In the "Allgemeiner Augsburger" of 1831 Heine devoted a chapter to the praise of "Gretchen at the Spinningwheel," Scheffer's most celebrated picture, and his "Faust." The large "Gretchen at the Fountain" and the certainly beautiful "Paolo and Francesca" by Scheffer are in the Wallace Collection. The National Gallery possesses his "Augustine and Monica," the gift of Mrs. Robert Hollond. Marius says that the women so doted on Scheffer that it became an act of courage to publish any hostile comment on his work. This work is at once so purely literary and so ultrasentimental as to be out of sympathy with our realistic age. Yet it has its place alongside of, and on the whole superior too, the product of the Munich
painters, Scheffer's contemporaries. In this case we have a curious example of blood, of national character, determining the "school" to which a painter really belongs. In catalogues Scheffer is often spoken of as of the "French school"; but he was German to the finger-tips. He was deficient "in that pictorial quality which," says our author, "we Dutch regard as the one and only essential of good painting." and which, be it said, the Germans have rarely so regarded. For in the most notable of their modern artists, Böcklin, that is still the quality most lacking.
The two other classes of Dutch pictures intermediate between the earliest nineteenth-century work and The Hague school, which cannot be passed over, both seem inspired directly by the work of the seventeenth century. One is a series of landscapes of varying but distinguished merit, in which much of the old tradition survives. There are landscapes with cows by H. van de Sande Bokhuizen, seascapes by Schotel and Meijer, trees by B. C. Koekkoek and Bilders the elder (John). In one case, "The Old Mill," by Nuyen, we seem to light upon original genius; but Nuyen died in his twenty-seventh year and the hopes which he raised were unfulfilled. Behind him, but still more, much more, behind all the others seem to stand greater shades, the Hobbemas, the de Konincks, the Van der Veldes, the Cuyps, the Van Goyens. In like manner the de Hooghs, the Metsus, the Terburgs stand behind the pictures of another modern school (our third class) of small genre subjects and interiors, the doorkijkjes, to use the name given to a special type of vista picture showing two open doors and the court between. The names associated with this ancient-modern genre art in Holland are Hubert van Hove, Petrus Franciscus Grieve, and David Bles. An earlier
production, ranging from the beginning of the century, came from a large family, the Van Os, whose work extends into the sixties. With Auguste Allebé (1838-80), especially in his "Well-watched Child," we seem suddenly to awake in a new era.
We have seen that the author of "Dutch Art in the Nineteenth Century" not only, as every patriot is bound to do, attributes a distinctive character to the painting of his countrymen, forming out of it a "school" in Professor Middleton's widest acceptation of the term; but that even in recent years he distinguishes "The Hague," "the Amsterdam," and other schools within the narrow limits of his country. He is half conscious that there seems hardly room for such "in our little Holland," but urges that in general Amsterdam and The Hague differed so greatly in their methods of painting that the distinction is justified. And then he goes on to claim for this Hague school, and to claim justly, that its name expresses "the loftiest point reached by Dutch painting since the seventeenth century." We have in England played with the name of "school" even in recent years: we have had our St. John's Wood school and such like. Almost the only legitimate application of the term with us is to the Norwich school-that is, if really distinctive character and influence be demanded. And that takes us back to the beginning of last century. In France, however, in the fifties and sixties had come into being an artistic movement and a body of production which more than any others of this century seem to justify the use of the word school as applied to their authors. This it need not be said is the Barbizon school. What is not easy to determine is whether Mr. Marius' "Hague school" is to be regarded as a movement by itself, or whether it were not really an outgrowth from Barbi
zon, an offshoot of the one great and distinctive school of modern France.
The great men of the revival of a high art in Holland are Josef Israëls, the three Marises, Anton Mauve (all these names are well known in England), and the less known Bosboom and the younger (Albert) Bilders, who are also less distinctly "Haguean" in their workmanship. But the last of these (he died at twenty-four before he had time to realize his ambition) was perhaps the earliest to stretch out toward that new tone of coloring, that point of departure which definitely turned its back upon the brown-sauce tradition of ancient Dutch art: "he gave the formula" for a quality of coloration which had not yet come into existence." "I am looking" (Bilders wrote) "for a tone which we call colored gray, that is a combination of all colors, however strong, harmonized in such a way that they give the impression of a warm and fragrant gray." And again: "To preserve the sense of the gray in the most powerful green is amazingly difficult, and whoever discovers it will be a happy mortal." This indeed was written in 1860; and as Corot was at the time sixty-five years of age it sounds no remarkable discovery. But there seems no reason to suppose that Bilders knew Corot's work. For in the same year the painter speaks of the revelation which were to him a group of French painters (including several of the Barbizon school) whose work had just been exhibited at Brussels, "a revelation," adds our author, "which the painters who came after him received in the same manner":
"I have seen pictures," he wrote, speaking of Brussels, "of which I had never dreamed and in which I found all that my heart desires, all that I nearly always miss in the Dutch painters. Troyon, Courbet, Diaz, Dupré, Robert Fleury have made a great im