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Now, in Flanders, the first man whom this research revealed to himself was a peasant type whose unexpected manner of speech, whose bizarre and powerful humor have caused him to be looked on too often as merely a comic primitive, perhaps a trifle ridiculous. He was a man of free and bold mind, of great and radiant soul, whose name was Peter Breughel. He had made the trip to Italy, without undue haste, I imagine, not oversupplied with money—on foot, very likely, loitering, retracing his steps, going roundabout ways in order to walk through the villages nestling among the hollows which he discovered off his road, stopping to draw a clump of trees, a herd, a group of workmen in the fields, the gesture of a child, or the form of a sky. He must have understood Italy. Instead of bringing back from it calligraphic formulas and worn-out generalizations, he returned to Flanders to consider the image—apart from all traditional custom, from every preoccupation of a symbolic or religious nature, from all desire to relate his visions to the great collective and confused ideal which was dying, little by little, among the masses of people—an image very true and pure, but well thought out, very human, entirely personal, which Flanders had implanted in his heart.
Now, in Flanders, the first man whom this research revealed to himself was a peasant type whose unexpected manner of speech, whose bizarre and powerful humor have caused him to be looked on too often as merely a comic primitive, perhaps a trifle ridiculous. He was a man of free and bold mind, of great and radiant soul, whose name was Peter Breughel. He had made the trip to Italy, without undue haste, I imagine, not oversupplied with money—on foot, very likely, loitering, retracing his steps, going roundabout ways in order to walk through the villages nestling among the hollows which he discovered off his road, stopping to draw a clump of trees, a herd, a group of workmen in the fields, the gesture of a child, or the form of a sky. He must have understood Italy. Instead of bringing back from it calligraphic formulas and worn-out generalizations, he returned to Flanders to consider the image—apart from all traditional custom, from every preoccupation of a symbolic or religious nature, from all desire to relate his visions to the great collective and confused ideal which was dying, little by little, among the masses of people—an image very true and pure, but well thought out, very human, entirely personal, which Flanders had implanted in his heart.
He
discovered that intimacy of the landscape toward which the painters of Flanders
had been tending since the time of Pol de Limbourg, but to which not one of
them, save Pol de Limbourg himself, van der Goes, and Patinir, had really
penetrated; also Jerome Bosch, whose clownlike humor barely masks a profound
and familiar sense of the good peasant soil, of harvests, haymaking, seed-time,
and plowing. The van Eycks, indeed, had shown how the plains recede behind the
processions and the cavalcades which defiled before their eyes, and Dirk Bouts
and Memling had perceived, to be sure, that the undulations of the landscape
lose themselves in blue mists the farther away they appear in the distance. But
not one among these artists, not even Jan van Eyck, had dared really to confess
to himself that the cavaliers, the soldiers, and the prophets were scarcely
more than a pretext for them and that the trees and the skies made a stronger
appeal to them. And perhaps they cared too much for the heavy draperies, the
tapestries, and the robes of green or black velvet or of red cloth really to
search out in the countryside, attracted toward it as they were, anything else
but harmonies corresponding with their subject—a sumptuous and fraternal
accompaniment for the scenes in the foreground.
With
Breughel, everything changes, or rather everything matures. He places himself
in the center of the plains, and it is the plain itself that lives; the man
crossing it does not live with a life any different from its own; he shares in
all its changes and all its dramas; he has its habits, its desires, and its
needs. With equal interest, the painter demands of men and trees that they
commune with him. They are his friends by the same right as the others, he
retells the confidences which he has received from inanimate and animate nature
with the same simple lyricism, spontaneous, but patient, and perhaps a bit mischievous.
Or rather, nothing among all earthly things is inanimate for him—nothing, not
even the soil, not even the chips of dead wood, not even objects manufactured
by the hand of man, not even the little stones along the road. All of that
speaks to him at the same time, discreetly, chatting with him, whispering to
him all about its little personal life, modest, but determined to lose none of
its rights.
How is
it that from this accumulation of little facts so powerful a life comes forth?
Whether he is walking through the street or the square of a village, or whether
he happens to be standing alone amid the fields, he sees everything, even to
the tiniest things, and he pictures them all, suffusing the whole with such
animation that the universal poetry of the crowd and of the earth flows over
one like a strong, slow wave. How is it that one can count the hundreds of
children whom he shows at play, distinguish their little toys, take part in
their games; how is it that one can listen to the wrangling and gossiping of
the housewives gathered into groups or wiping the noses of their children or
sweeping in front of their door; how is it that with a sympathetic glance our
eye follows the poor people who come and go with their carts and their tools
and that at the same time one can grasp the main idea of the scene, the
disordered swarming of all this humble humanity and recognize, in the confused
murmur, laughing and weeping, all the cries, all the calls, and all the
whispered tales? How can he perceive all the leaves of the trees, all their
slender branches against the white sky, all the blades of grass, distinguish
all the birds that flutter and that hop, describe one after another all the
windows of the houses and yet withal give to the whole of nature that collective
life in which nothing is isolated, but which envelops and covers all things
with the same air and the same sky? How is it that he does not forget, when he
tells some little story in all its petty details, that he is a painter, and
that he is to sustain, from one end of the canvas to the other, the subtlest,
the densest, the most discreet harmonies, making the tones work together with a
minute science to which his tenderness gives a quality as moving as a singing
voice?
His
world is a living being that remains living whether seen from near by or from
afar, living in the superior and imposing harmony of all its accumulated
elements, living in each one of the atoms whose obscure functioning assures
that harmony. He bears that life in himself; one would say that he was
independent of the meticulous poet who envelops his observation with so much
mystery, submitting simply to the rhythm of the seasons and to the irregular
flight of the winds and the clouds, and who yields himself, with the earth and
the sky, the vegetation, the crops, the beasts and the men, to the most
imperceptible tremor of the immense universe. There is not a blade of grass but
is affected when the air and the water are affected by the darkening of the
sky, not a wave of the river but knows that it is to strike against a
projection of the bank and turn from its course, not a cottage roof but changes
its expression when the clump of trees in which it hides is covered with leaves
or is stripped of them, not a man, not a dog, that walks with the same step on
snow-covered ground, on the muddy ground of spring and autumn, and on the
ground that is carpeted in summer with warm grass; there is not a tree which
does not cut clear and black against the great white landscape of the silent
winter, or which does not belong, through the vaporous foliage which it has in
August, to the vapors that rise from the earth. Spring quivers and murmurs.
Torpid summer has its odor of hay and of sweat; autumn is heavy with all the
herds that toss their heads, with its overladen trees, its full houses, its
swelling breasts. And now comes the wind; the branches are stripped and man
hastens to regain his dwelling. And in the clear air of winter or the darkened
air of winter, the sleeping earth no longer moves, and one hears no other sound
than that given forth by the vibration of water and ice. Into the almost dead
harmonies of the seasons, when everything is wet by the rain caught in the grip
of the cold, space absorbs the poor or blurred huts whose walls are rubbed down
with earth and whose roofs are brushed by the sky that they may have their
share in the all-embracing splendor of the world. When the winter is violent
and black, it is harder to bear, with its frozen soil that crackles to the tips
of the branches, than when the snow has covered its bare carcass and dulled all
its sounds, save the voices of men who are climbing a hillside, astonished to
find themselves alone.
The
great painter who has shown us all this is a man of good heart. That is why he
is willing to share the secret misery or the secret happiness of the water, the
earth, the foliage, the beasts, the soil, and the air. Like Jerome Bosch, who
influenced him greatly, he certainly knew the pain of his century. But he
quickly abandoned the exaggerated, unreal, and bizarre symbolism of Bosch, his
hell swarming with composite monsters and all the grotesque nightmares of his
weird and fantastic mind; as the younger man, Breughel could foresee the
approach of the horrible drama which was to drown the kind earth in blood and
veil with smoke the great sky of the Netherlands. Beginning about 1520, the
ideas of the Reformation had entered Flanders, and since Spain was master
there, the books are being burned, the apostles tortured, and the stake is
always ready for its victims. Perhaps Breughel knew Antonio Moro, an implacable
soul with the savage eyes of a Fleming completely dominated by Spain, such a
man as could give us the atrocious effigy of the Duke of Alba, that executioner
whose diseased mind was to express itself through boiling or crucifying the
"Beggars" or breaking them upon the wheel. Breughel suffers at the
sight of all of this, but as he has imbibed the sweetness of the countryside,
he says nothing, but contents himself with paraphrasing for the future the old
legends of the Bible. Always a lover of little children, he has portrayed in
the details and in the whole of his pictures—with the torrent-like verve of his
contemporary, Rabelais—all their games, leapfrog, sliding-ponds, rounders,
marbles, tops, stilts, "straight-oak" and playing at grown-ups; with
tender irony he has described their busy and serious little life, from the
older ones who play at war to the little ones who make mud pies or who gravely
rake their own excrement; here are all the games of the little children who
play at life. Always a lover of the poor little children grotesquely decked out
with patched trousers that are too long for them, with coarse shoes, with
skirts that are too big and that make them look bulky, and with women's handkerchiefs
so large that only their little numb fingers stick out from under them, he
placed the "Massacre of the Innocents" in a poor village, under the
snow; there are ten cottages surrounding a church spire, the pond and the brook
are frozen, and a squadron of men clad in iron shut off escape with their
raised lances. The soldiers do their work, the mothers struggle with pitiful
gestures, poor people surrounding the indifferent captains implore their mercy,
the little ones, knowing nothing and thinking perhaps that it is a game, allow
themselves be killed without even looking at the murderers; there are some dogs
playing about, a bird, some blood on the ground, a little body stretched out.
And that is all. Before his death, he saw the passing of the iconoclasts; he
may have seen them breaking the statues and slashing the images which he loved.
There is no difference between those who break the idol and those who have
unlearned how it must be adored. He already knew that perfectly well; he has
spoken his thought in the "Parable of the Blind Men" with its
indifferent landscape and the weak chain of men, the empty eye-sockets in their
faces upturned toward the sky as they totter along in the absolute darkness of
destiny and of reason.
The
Gothic men had introduced nature into the cathedral, but in fragments, as
decorative elements. The cathedral, from top to bottom, was a symbol, but a
symbol fixed by dogma, accepted by the crowd as a revelation of truth. If the
Flemings, at the end of the sixteenth century, have definitely consented to
enter the modern world, whose program had just been outlined by da Vinci,
Michael Angelo, Raphael, and Titian, it is with Peter Breughel and through
Peter Breughel, who has revealed to the soul of the North the entire body of nature
and who has brought eternal symbolism back to the appreciation of the spirit.
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