The Two Paths | Page 9

the middle
of the hands, and sharpens the thumbs, thinking to improve them. Here
you have the most pure type possible of the principles of idealism in all
ages: whenever people don't look at Nature, they always think they can
improve her. You will also admire, doubtless, the exquisite result of the
application of our great modern architectural principle of
beauty--symmetry, or equal balance of part by part; you see even the
eyes are made symmetrical--entirely round, instead of irregular, oval;
and the iris is set properly in the middle, instead of--as nature has
absurdly put it--rather under the upper lid. You will also observe the
"principle of the pyramid" in the general arrangement of the figure, and
the value of "series" in the placing of dots.
From this dead barbarism we pass to living barbarism--to work done by
hands quite as rude, if not ruder, and by minds as uninformed; and yet
work which in every line of it is prophetic of power, and has in it the
sure dawn of day. You have often heard it said that Giotto was the
founder of art in Italy. He was not: neither he, nor Giunta Pisano, nor
Niccolo Pisano. They all laid strong hands to the work, and brought it
first into aspect above ground; but the foundation had been laid for
them by the builders of the Lombardic churches in the valleys of the
Adda and the Arno. It is in the sculpture of the round arched churches
of North Italy, bearing disputable dates, ranging from the eighth to the
twelfth century, that you will find the lowest struck roots of the art of
Titian and Raphael. [Footnote: I have said elsewhere, "the root of all art
is struck in the thirteenth century." This is quite true: but of course
some of the smallest fibres run lower, as in this instance.] I go,
therefore, to the church which is certainly the earliest of these, St.

Ambrogio, of Milan, said still to retain some portions of the actual
structure from which St. Ambrose excluded Theodosius, and at all
events furnishing the most archaic examples of Lombardic sculpture in
North Italy. I do not venture to guess their date; they are barbarous
enough for any date.
We find the pulpit of this church covered with interlacing patterns,
closely resembling those of the manuscript at Cambridge, but among
them is figure sculpture of a very different kind. It is wrought with
mere incisions in the stone, of which the effect may be tolerably given
by single lines in a drawing. Remember, therefore, for a moment--as
characteristic of culminating Italian art--Michael Angelo's fresco of the
"Temptation of Eve," in the Sistine chapel, and you will be more
interested in seeing the birth of Italian art, illustrated by the same
subject, from St. Ambrogio, of Milan, the "Serpent beguiling Eve."
[Footnote: This cut is ruder than it should be: the incisions in the
marble have a lighter effect than these rough black lines; but it is not
worth while to do it better.]
Yet, in that sketch, rude and ludicrous as it is, you have the elements of
life in their first form. The people who could do that were sure to get on.
For, observe, the workman's whole aim is straight at the facts, as well
as he can get them; and not merely at the facts, but at the very heart of
the facts. A common workman might have looked at nature for his
serpent, but he would have thought only of its scales. But this fellow
does not want scales, nor coils; he can do without them; he wants the
serpent's heart--malice and insinuation;--and he has actually got them
to some extent. So also a common workman, even in this barbarous
stage of art, might have carved Eve's arms and body a good deal better;
but this man does not care about arms and body, if he can only get at
Eve's mind--show that she is pleased at being flattered, and yet in a
state of uncomfortable hesitation. And some look of listening, of
complacency, and of embarrassment he has verily got:-- note the eyes
slightly askance, the lips compressed, and the right hand nervously
grasping the left arm: nothing can be declared impossible to the people
who could begin thus--the world is open to them, and all that is in it;
while, on the contrary, nothing is possible to the man who did the
symmetrical angel--the world is keyless to him; he has built a cell for
himself in which he must abide, barred up for ever-- there is no more

hope for him than for a sponge or a madrepore.
I shall not trace from this embryo the progress of Gothic art in Italy,
because it is much complicated and involved