extremity of the line, but with an unerring and yet
varied course—sometimes over spaces a foot
or more in extent—yet a course so determined
everywhere that either of these men could, and Veronese
often does, draw a finished profile, or any other
portion of the contour of the face, with one line,
not afterwards changed. Try, first, to realize
to yourselves the muscular precision of that action,
and the intellectual strain of it; for the movement
of a fencer is perfect in practised monotony; but
the movement of the hand of a great painter is at every
instant governed by direct and new intention.
Then imagine that muscular firmness and subtlety,
and the instantaneously selective and ordinant energy
of the brain, sustained all day long, not only without
fatigue, but with a visible joy in the exertion, like
that which an eagle seems to take in the wave of his
wings; and this all life long, and through long life,
not only without failure of power, but with visible
increase of it, until the actually organic changes
of old age. And then consider, so far as you
know anything of physiology, what sort of an ethical
state of body and mind that means!—ethic
through ages past! what fineness of race there must
be to get it, what exquisite balance and symmetry
of the vital powers! And then, finally, determine
for yourselves whether a manhood like that is consistent
with any viciousness of soul, with any mean anxiety,
any gnawing lust, any wretchedness of spite or remorse,
any consciousness of rebellion against law of God
or man, or any actual, though unconscious violation
of even the least law to which obedience is essential
for the glory of life, and the pleasing of its Giver.
It is, of course, true that many of the strong masters
had deep faults of character, but their faults always
show in their work. It is true that some could
not govern their passions; if so, they died young,
or they painted ill when old. But the greater
part of our misapprehension in the whole matter is
from our not having well known who the great painters
were, and taking delight in the petty skill that was
bred in the fumes of the taverns of the North, instead
of theirs who breathed empyreal air, sons of the morning,
under the woods of Assisi and the crags of Cadore.
It is true however also, as I have pointed out long
ago, that the strong masters fall into two great divisions,
one leading simple and natural lives, the other restrained
in a Puritanism of the worship of beauty; and these
two manners of life you may recognize in a moment
by their work. Generally the naturalists are the
strongest; but there are two of the Puritans, whose
work if I can succeed in making clearly understandable
to you during my three years[183] here, it is all
I need care to do. But of these two Puritans one
I cannot name to you, and the other I at present will
not. One I cannot, for no one knows his name,
except the baptismal one, Bernard, or “dear little
Bernard”—Bernardino, called from his
birthplace, (Luino, on the Lago Maggiore,) Bernard
of Luino. The other is a Venetian, of whom many
of you probably have never heard, and of whom, through
me, you shall not hear, until I have tried to get
some picture by him over to England.