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The qualities which distinguished his talent and manner are found to nearly the same extent in all his work. As examples, however, peculiarly expressive of his delicate yet powerful talent, we may mention the hunting "St. Hubert" – or, more probably, St. Eustace – kneeling before a stag with a miraculous crucifix on its head, the "St. Jerome in his Cell," the print called the "Knight and Death," and lastly the subject known as "Melancholia," which should rather be called "Reflection," but reflection in its gravest, darkest, one might almost say its most despairing, attitude. This piece, which even Vasari allows to be "incomparable," represents a woman seated, her head resting on one hand, whilst she holds in the other a compass with which she is trifling mechanically. As though to suggest the limitations and nothingness of human knowledge, an hour-glass and various scientific instruments are scattered about; whilst in the middle distance a child, doubtless an image of youthful illusions, is attentively writing, and contrasts in its serenity with the troubled countenance and despairing attitude of the principal figure. Had Dürer only engraved this one extraordinary plate, had he only produced this one work, as strikingly original in execution as in intention, it would be enough to mark his position for ever in the history of art, and to commend him to everlasting honour. But there are many other works from the same hand which might be also mentioned to confirm or to increase our admiration. There are many, besides the "Melancholia," where the almost savage energy of the style is allied to an extraordinary manipulative delicacy in the expression of details. Sometimes, indeed, his energy degenerates into violence and his precision into dryness; sometimes – as a rule, in fact – the general effect is impaired by a too detailed insistence on subordinate forms, while the beauty of these forms is at least affected by the minute care with which they have been separately studied and expressed. But these imperfections, or, if you like, these faults, may be attributed in part to the tendencies and prejudices of the period, and in part to that national taste for excessive analysis which has been a characteristic of the German mind in every age. That Dürer's merits, on the other hand, are entirely his own, may easily be seen by comparing his works not only with those of former engravers, but with those of foreign contemporary masters. Neither in Italy, nor anywhere else, is it possible to find in the sixteenth century an engraver of such original inspiration and possessing so much knowledge and technical skill. Even Marc Antonio, superior though he may be in sentiment and majesty of style, cannot dispossess Dürer of his lawful renown, nor take from his art its peculiar virtue and authority.

Marc Antonio Raimondi was born at Bologna, where he studied in the school of the painter-goldsmith Francesco Francia, and was still only an unknown worker in niello, and the author of some rather indifferent plates engraved from his own or his master's designs²³ when a journey to Venice and the careful study of Albert Dürer's engravings showed him the inmost possibilities of an art of which he had till then known little more than the mere mechanical processes. Unfortunately, as we have seen, the young engraver was not content with copying these, the best models of the day, for his own improvement, but, to secure a double profit, pushed his imitation a step further, and copied the signature with as much care as the style.

Some years later he went to Rome, where Raphael, on the recommendation of Giulio Romano, allowed him to engrave one of his own designs, the "Lucretia." Other originals from Raphael's pencil were afterwards reproduced by Marc Antonio with so much success that these fac-similes of the ideas of the "divine Master" were soon in everybody's hands, and the best judges, even Raphael himself, were fully satisfied.

The nobility of feeling, and the purity of taste and execution, which shine in these now classic plates have never been surpassed. These are the qualities, and these only, which we must look for and admire unreservedly; to seek for more, as to regret its absence, would be superfluous. To complain of the absence of colour and of aërial perspective would be as unjust as to expect from Rembrandt the style and types of the Italian school. Rembrandt's prints are impregnated with poetry in their tone and in the harmony of their effects; those of Marc Antonio are models of beauty, as regards line and dignity of form. The two great masters of Bologna and of Leyden, so opposed to each other in the nature of their aspirations and the choice of their methods, have yet, each in his own way, proved their case and carried their point; and to each must be allotted his own peculiar share of glory.

It would be idle to point out with regret, as some have done, what is lacking in the masterpieces of Marc Antonio, or to say that greater freedom in rendering colour or in managing light and shade would have lent them an additional charm.²⁴ Such qualities should be looked for elsewhere than in subjects engraved – not, it must be remembered, from pictures – but from pen or chalk drawings. In sixteenth century Italy they could scarcely come from the burin of one of Raphael's pupils: an epic burin, so to speak, and one contemptuous of qualities then considered of secondary importance. Moreover, the hand of him who held it was bold rather than skilful, vigorous rather than patient. To model a body in shadow, he employed unevenly crossed or almost parallel hatchings, drawn at different widths apart, and in subordination to the larger feeling of the form and movement he wished to express. Then lighter strokes led up to the half-light, and a few dots at unequal distances bordered on the light.

What could be simpler than such a method? Yet what more exact in its results, and what more expressive in drawing? The exact crossing of lines mattered little to Marc Antonio. What he was taken up with and wanted to make visible was neither the manner nor the choice of workmanship: that might be simple indeed, and he was satisfied if only the beauty of a head or the general aspect of a figure were striking at a first glance, if only the appearance of the whole was largely rendered and well defined. Sometimes one outline is corrected by a second, and these alterations, all the more interesting as we may suspect that they were ordered by Raphael himself, prove both the engraver's passion for correct drawing and his small regard for mere niceties of craftsmanship. The time was yet distant when, in this same Italy, the trifling search after common technicalities should take the place of such wise views; when men should set to work to reproduce the shadows of a face or a piece of drapery by lozenges containing a semicircle, a little cross, or even something resembling a young serpent; when engravers like Morghen and his followers should see, in the reproduction of masterpieces of the brush, only an opportunity for assembling groups of more or less complicated lines and parading their dexterity, and should gain by these tricks the applause of all men and the name of artists.

The school founded by Marc Antonio soon became the most numerous and active of all. We have seen that the Germans themselves crowded to Rome, and surrounded the master who had caused them to forget Albert Dürer. Engravers came to learn or to perfect their knowledge in the same school from every part of Italy. There were Marco da Ravenna, Agostino Veniziano, Giovanni Caraglio da Verona, Il Vecchio da Parma, and Bonasone da Bologna. Some years later came the family of the Mantovani, a member of which, Diana Scultori, more often called Diana Ghisi, presented perhaps the first example, so common afterwards, of a female engraver. Many others, whose names and works have remained more or less celebrated, descend from Marc Antonio, whether they received his teaching directly or through his pupils.

He, whilst so much talent was being developed under his influence, continued the kind of work in which he had excelled from the beginning of his stay in Rome, confining himself to the engraving of Raphael's compositions: that is, as we have already said, of his drawings. It is this which explains the difference, at first sight incomprehensible, between certain prints by Marc Antonio and the same subjects as painted by Raphael. The painter often submitted to the engraver pen or pencil sketches of subjects which he afterwards altered with his brush when transferring them to walls or panels: the "St. Cecilia," the "Parnassus," the "Poetry," for instance, which are so unlike in the copy and in what wrongly appears to have been the original. Raphael often drew specially for engraving: as in the "Massacre of the Innocents," the "Judgment of Paris" the "Plague of Phrygia," &c.; but in either case Marc Antonio had but to find the means of faithfully rendering given forms with the graver, without troubling himself about those difficulties which the luminous or delicate qualities of colour would certainly have introduced.

Raphael's death, however, deprived the engraver of an influence which, to the great advantage of his talent, he had obeyed submissively for ten years. Marc Antonio would not continue to work from the drawings of the master who could no longer superintend him; but he still continued to honour him in the person of his favourite pupil, Giulio Romano, to whom he attached himself, and whose works he reproduced almost exclusively.

The connection of the two artists resulted in the publication of some fine engravings, amongst others the "Hercules and Antæus," but it unfortunately terminated in a disgraceful business. Giulio Romano, following the dissolute manners of the day, rather than the example and traditions of the noble leader of the school, stooped to design a series of boldly licentious subjects. Marc Antonio consented to engrave them, and Pietro Aretino helped still further to degrade the undertaking by composing an explanatory sonnet to be printed opposite to each plate. The result was a book whose title is still infamous. In publishing it the two artists took care not to sign their names. They were, however, discovered by the boldness of the style and the firmness of the line; for, surprising as it may seem, neither took the trouble to alter his usual manner: they merely profaned it. Here, assuredly, their wonted dignity of form and energy of workmanship appear somewhat incongruous qualities.²⁵ The culprits were soon discovered; and Clement VII. issued a warrant to pursue them, ordering, at the same time, that every copy of the work should be destroyed. Aretino fled to Venice, Giulio Romano to Mantua, and the only sufferer was the engraver. He was imprisoned for several months, and only set at liberty, thanks to frequent requests made by Giulio de' Medici and the sculptor Baccio Bandinelli, from whose original, to prove his gratitude, he executed the beautiful "Martyrdom of St. Lawrence," one of the masterpieces of Italian engraving.

The rest of Marc Antonio's life is only imperfectly known. It is said that he was wounded and left for dead in the streets when Rome was sacked by the Spanish under the Constable de Bourbon; that he was then taken prisoner, and only recovered his liberty at the cost of a ransom large enough to ruin him; and that he then took refuge at Bologna, where it would appear he soon afterwards died: not, as has been alleged, murdered by the lawful possessor of one of his plates, which he had himself forged, but, so says Vasari, "nearly reduced to beggary" ("poco meno che mendico"), and at any rate completely forgotten.

Marc Antonio's death did not bring with it the ruin of line engraving in Italy. The numerous pupils he had educated, and in turn the pupils of these, handed down to the beginning of the seventeenth century the master's manner, and propagated his doctrines in neighbouring countries. We have spoken of the revolution which their works produced in German art; we shall presently see French art submitting in its turn to Italian influences. Meanwhile, and even during Marc Antonio's life, a particular sort of engraving was making rapid progress in Italy. It consisted in the employment of a process, popularised by Ugo da Carpi, for obtaining from several wooden blocks proofs of engravings in camaïeu: that is, as we explained at the beginning of this book, proofs in two, three, or four tones, offering almost the same appearance as drawings washed in with water-colour: a process which Ugo did not really invent, but only improved from the first attempts made at Augsburg in 1510 by Jobst Necker, which were destined to be still further improved by Nicolò Vicentino, Andrea Andreani, Antonio da Trento, and many others.

A great number of pieces, executed in the same manner from Raphael and Parmigiano, prove the skill of Ugo da Carpi, who unfortunately took it into his head to introduce into painting even more radical changes than those he had first promoted in engraving. He conceived the strange idea of painting a whole picture with his finger, without once having recourse to a brush, and, the proceeding appearing to him praiseworthy, he perpetuated the recollection of it in a few proud words at the bottom of the canvas. Michelangelo, to whom the picture was shown as a remarkable curiosity, merely said that "the only remarkable thing about it was the folly of the author." What would he have thought of Luca Cambiaso, the Genoese, whose talent consisted in painting with both hands at once?

The practice of engraving in camaïeu was not continued in Italy and Germany beyond the last years of the sixteenth century. Even before then wood engraving, properly so called, had reached a stage of considerable importance in both countries; and it had distinguished itself by decided enough progress to cause engraving in camaïeu to lose much of the favour with which at first it was welcomed.

We said at the beginning of this chapter that a real regeneration in wood engraving took place in Germany under the influence of Albert Dürer. We have plates from the drawings of the master, engraved, if not entirely by himself, at any rate to a certain extent with his practical co-operation; we have others – for instance, the "Life of the Virgin" and the "Passion," to which we have referred in speaking of Marc Antonio's copies of them with the burin. But, in addition to these, we have a number of wood engravings, earlier than the second half of the sixteenth century, which prove the progress made in the art at this time in Germany, and the ability with which it was practised by the successors of Wolgemut. Wood engraving was no longer, as in the time of Wolgemut, a mere mode of linear imitation, and only fit to represent form by outlines; it was now capable of suggesting modelling and effect, not of course with that finished delicacy and freedom which can only be produced in true line engraving, but with an energetic exactness quite, in accordance with the special conditions and resources of the process. The "Triumphal Arch of the Emperor Maximilian," by Hans Burgkmair and to some extent by Albert Dürer; the "Theuerdannck," an allegorical history of the same prince by Hans Schaüfflein; the "Passion of Jesus Christ;" and the "Illustrium Ducum Saxoniæ Effigies," by Lucas Cranach, as well as many other collections published at Nuremberg, Augsburg, Weimar, or Wittenberg, deserve mention as remarkable examples of the peculiar skill of the German artists of the time. Indeed, when, a little later, the "Dance of Death," by Lützelburger, from Holbein, made its appearance, this masterpiece in wood engraving closed the period of progress which had gone on in Germany from the beginning of the sixteenth century, and marked in its general history the time when the art itself had told its last secret, and attained perfection.

Whilst this regeneration in wood engraving was being accomplished in Germany, the art continued to be practised in Italy, and especially in Venice, with a feeling for composition, and that delicate reticence of handling, of which the cuts in the "Hypnerotomachia Poliphili," published before the end of the fifteenth century (1499), and in other books printed some years later, are such striking examples. The Italian wood engravers of the sixteenth century, however, did not limit themselves so entirely to the national traditions as to stifle altogether any attempt at innovation. They had already tried to enliven even the execution of the illustrations intended to accompany letterpress by more decided suggestions of light and shade and general effect. This is the reason of the successful first appearance, and the present value, of so many beautiful volumes from the printing presses of Marcolini da Forli, Giolito da Ferrari and other printers established at Venice.

Little by little, however, the domain of wood engraving widened, or rather the object which wood engravers set themselves to attain was changed. Instead of confining themselves, as in the past, to the part of commentators of authors and illustrators of books, they set to work, like the line engravers, to publish, in larger dimensions than the size of a book, prints reproducing separate drawings and sometimes even pictures. The works of Titian specially served as models to skilful wood engravers, some of whom, Domenico delle Greche and Nicolò Boldrini amongst others, are said to have worked in the studio, even under the master's own eye. According to the careful testimony of Ridolphi, confirmed by Mariette, Titian gave more than mere advice. He seems, more than once, to have sketched with his own hand on the wood the designs to be reproduced by the wood engravers; and amongst the prints thus begun by him, several "Virgins" in landscapes and a "Triumph of Christ" may be mentioned: the last "a work," says Mariette, "drawn with fine taste, in which the hatchings forming the outlines and shadows … produce a softness and mellowness understood by Titian alone."

However brief the preceding observations on the progress of engraving in the sixteenth century in Germany and Italy may appear, they will perhaps be sufficient to indicate the reciprocal influence then exercised by the engravers of both countries. Without ceasing to be Italian in their real preferences, their tastes, and their innate love of majesty of style, Marc Antonio and his disciples understood how to improve their practical execution by Albert Dürer's example, exactly as Dürer's pupils and their followers, while continuing to be German as it were in spite of themselves, tried to become Italianised as best they might.

But it is time to speak of the school of the Low Countries, which appeared to stand aloof, as much from the progress in Germany initiated by Martin Schongauer and Albert Dürer, as from the more recent advance in Italy. Apparently unaffected by external influences, it was content to rely on its own powers, and to make use of its own resources, whilst awaiting the time, now close at hand, when it should in its turn supply example and teaching to those who had till then believed themselves to be the teachers.

CHAPTER V.
LINE ENGRAVING AND ETCHING IN THE LOW COUNTRIES, TO THE SECOND HALF OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

The history of engraving in the Low Countries really dates but from the early years of the sixteenth century: that is, from the appearance of the prints of Lucas van Leyden (1494–1533). Before that time certain line engravers, such as the so-called Maître aux Banderoles, the "Master of the Streamers," and those other anonymous artists of the fifteenth century who composed the group called "the Dutch primitives," had attempted to widen the domain of the art, till then confined to the wood-cutters who were the contemporaries or successors of the xylographists of the "Speculum Salvationis" and the "Biblia Pauperum." But, whilst the German and Italian engravers were distinguishing themselves by the brilliancy of their achievement, their contemporaries in the Low Countries were producing works little fitted to compete with those of the foreign masters. They only succeeded in showing themselves more or less able artisans. Lucas van Leyden was the first to use the burin artistically, or at least to handle it with a boldness and knowledge never foreshadowed in the timid essays of his predecessors.

While still a child Lucas van Leyden had already attracted the attention of his countrymen by his talent as a painter, and his sketch in distemper, the "Story of St. Hubert" – done, it is alleged, at the age of twelve – placed him at once amongst artists of repute. Some years later the publication of his prints brought him to the first rank. He maintained his place till the end of his life; and if, after his death, the Dutch and Flemish engravers still further perfected the art he had practised, they did but follow in his footsteps and draw more abundantly from the source he had discovered.

The principal feature of the works of Lucas van Leyden, and in general of all those belonging to his school, is a keen feeling for the phenomena of light. Albert Dürer, and even Marc Antonio, despised or misunderstood this essential quality of art. In their works there is hardly any gradation of tone to suggest atmospheric distance, and we might mention engravings of theirs where objects consigned to the background are almost as distinct as those in the foreground. It was Lucas van Leyden who conceived the idea of perceptibly diminishing the values according to their distance, of giving to the shadows more or less of transparency or depth, as the case might be, and of endowing the lights and half-lights with relatively greater force or delicacy. Reasoning so valid – based as it was on the real appearances of nature – was the principal cause of the young Dutch master's success. In his numerous engravings, however, qualities of another order are added to the merit of this innovation. The variety of facial expression, the truth of attitude and gesture, are no less remarkable than the harmony of effect, and the attempts at what we may venture to call naturalistic colour.

Considered only from the point of view of execution the pieces engraved by Lucas van Leyden are far from possessing the same largeness of design and modelling, and the same simplicity of handling, which the works of Marc Antonio exhibit, and, in a word, have none of that masterly ease in the rendering of form which characterises the Italian engraver. Nor do they exhibit the determination to pursue the truth even in minute details, and to sternly insist on the portrayal of such truth when recognised, which distinguishes the work of Albert Dürer. They are to be specially praised for delicacy of handling, and for the skilful application of the processes of engraving to the picturesque representation of reality. Thus, instead of surrounding with an invariably firm outline objects or bodies at a distance from one another, instead of treating alike the contour of a figure in the foreground, and that of a tree, or group of trees, in the background, Lucas van Leyden altered his work to suit the degree of relative clearness or uncertainty presented in nature by the forms of objects at different distances from the eye. An unbroken line is his method for giving the required boldness to such contours as, from the place they occupy, must be strongly defined and dominate the rest. When, on the contrary, he wishes to reproduce the half-veiled lines of a distant landscape, and to imitate that tremulous and floating aspect assumed by an object in proportion to its remoteness and the amount of intervening atmosphere, he changes his touch; and, instead of bounding by a single continuous line the object reproduced, employs a series of small broken lines, superimposed in a horizontal or oblique direction; and thus, instead of a dry definition of outline, he renders with deliberate hesitation that floating quality which is to be observed in nature.

Lucas van Leyden was the first amongst engravers who took into account with any measure of success the assumed distances of his models, in order to organise in their representation a varying value of tones and a general gradation of force. This important change he introduced from the beginning: that is to say, from 1508, the year of his first dated print, "The Monk Sergius Killed by Mahomet" (which, by the way, might be more appropriately entitled "Mahomet before the Body of a Hermit Murdered by One of his Servants").²⁶ Here, as in the master's other prints, the backgrounds are treated with so light a touch that their distance can be felt; the handling becomes less energetic, the burin ploughs the copper less heavily, as the objects recede from the front of the composition. Moreover, every subordinate form is observed and rendered with singular delicacy; every face and every detail of drapery bear testimony, by the way they are engraved, to the clear insight of the artist and his extraordinary skill of hand. His work is strictly realistic, his style precise and clear rather than loftily inspired; and we look almost in vain to him for taste, properly so called, the feeling for the beautiful, in fact, the understanding of the ideal conditions of art.

This it is which constitutes the principal difference, and clearly marks the distance, between the talent of Lucas van Leyden and that of Mantegna, of Marc Antonio, or of any other Italian engraver of the fifteenth or sixteenth centuries. Besides, neither the defects nor the merits of the master are entirely the result of his inclinations or his personal habits. The very spirit of Dutch art and the instinctive preferences of the future school of the seventeenth century are to be found in embryo in his works, which tend less to initiate us into the mysteries of the invisible, than to place before us the faithful image of what really exists. "It was the fate of Holland," as Eugène Fromentin has well said²⁷ "to like ce qui ressemble, to return to it one day or other, to outlive all besides, and to survive and be saved itself by portraiture." Taking the word in its widest acceptation, Lucas van Leyden is already engraving "portraits." It is by the careful imitation of living nature or still-life that he means to interest us: even when his models are in themselves of little worth, or, as is sometimes the case, are the reverse of beautiful.

In representing, for example, "David Calming the Fury of Saul," with what simple good faith he makes use of the first type he comes across – a stout clodhopper whom he has picked up in the street or at the tavern! No more is wanted save a harp under his arm and a slashed doublet on his body; just as in picturing the most tragical scenes of the "Passion" – the "Ecce Homo," or the "Crucifixion" – he thinks it enough to surround his Christ with the Jew peddlers or the home-keeping citizens of his native town, without altering in any way their appearance or their dress. What could be more contrary to the traditions of Italian art and the principles which have governed it, from Giotto down to Raphael? What less unusual in the history of Dutch art? Later on Rembrandt himself was to work in the same way; but with what mighty powers of invention! What a startling expression of the inner meaning, the philosophy of a subject, is united in his fashion of treatment with the realistic ideals of the national genius! In truth, it is not merely the peculiar characteristic of an individual – the indifference to, or aversion from, conventional beauty of form which is apparent in this great master, so far-reaching in moral vision, so pre-eminently sagacious and profound among painters of the soul; it sums up and reveals the innate disposition and æsthetic temperament of a whole race.

In his brief career Lucas van Leyden had the happiness to see his efforts rewarded and his credit universally established, and of this authority and influence he ever made the noblest use. Looked upon as a leader by the painters of his country; in friendly relations with the German engravers, who, like Albert Dürer, sent him their works, or came themselves to ask advice; possessing greater wealth than usually fell to the share of the artists of his time; he never employed his riches or his influence except in the interest of art, or of the men who practised it. He refused no solicitant of merit, however slight. The worthy master was careful to disguise his aid under pretext of some advantage to himself: he was always requiring drawings of some building or some artistic object, and thus he spared the self-respect of the person whom he wished to help, and whom he entrusted with the commission. More than once he went journeying through the Low Countries to visit engravers and painters far inferior to himself, whom he yet modestly called his rivals. He complimented them with words of praise and encouragement; gave entertainments in their honour; and did not leave them without exchanging his works for theirs, which were thus paid for a hundred times over.

It was in one of these journeys, that to Flushing, that Lucas van Leyden was attacked with the disease which was destined to carry him to the grave. Some people have attributed to poison the suddenness of the attack; but of this there is no proof. Once back in his native town, he lingered on some time, worn out and sinking, yet refusing to condemn himself to idleness. Too feeble to rise, he yet continued to draw and engrave in bed, remaining faithful till the end to the noble passion of his life, to the art he had dignified, and to that nature which he had questioned more closely, and, in certain respects, perhaps better understood than any of his predecessors. It is said that a few hours before his death he desired to be taken up to a terrace of his house, that he might once more admire the setting sun; and there, absorbed in silent contemplation, surrounded by friends and pupils, he for the last time gazed on the place of his birth, and on that heaven from which the light was fading, even as life was ebbing from his bosom. It was a proper conclusion to so pure a life – to one, indeed, of the most irreproachable careers in the history of art. Lucas van Leyden died at thirty-eight, an age fatal to more than one great artist, and which was scarcely attained by three men with whom he seems linked by a similarity of genius, at least as regards early fertility and sincerity of inspiration: Raphael, Lesueur, and Mozart.