Landseer Part 4

PEACE

A flock of sheep and goats are pasturing on the meadowland above some cliffs which rise abruptly from the sea. To those familiar with the scenery of England the place recalls at once the white cliffs of Dover. The caretakers are a lad and his sister, who have brought with them a younger child. A shepherd dog is their a.s.sistant, one of those intelligent animals trained to keep the flock together and to lead it about.

It is noontide of a bright summer day. The sea lies blue and still under the clear sky. The flock no longer graze industriously, but rest in scattered groups. The young people amuse themselves quietly on the gra.s.s, and the dog has stretched himself for a nap. Overhead two large sea gulls take their flight through the air.

There is a single reminder here of a time when all was not so peaceful,--the rusty old cannon in the midst. From these uplands a battery once frowned across the Channel, threatening destruction to the approaching enemy. The booming of guns resounded where now is heard only the lowing of cattle and the laughter of children. Happily the cannon has now so long been out of use that it has become a part of the cliff, like one of the rocks. The flock gather about it as a rallying place, and in its black mouth grow tender herbs for the lambs to crop.

No cottage is in sight, and we judge that our young people have brought their flock from a little distance. Two st.u.r.dy goats act as beasts of burden in the family, both equipped with saddle and bridle.

As they rest now at one side they are the impersonations of docility and dignity, but a hint of mischief lurks in their complacent expressions. One feels decidedly suspicious of the old fellow with the long beard. Twin lambs lying at the cannon's mouth are the softest and daintiest little creatures of the flock. So, evidently, thinks the sheep beside them, gently nosing the woolly back of the one nearest.

The children are of the best type of English villagers, with fresh, sweet, happy faces. All three are well dressed and have the tidy appearance which is the sign of family thrift and prosperity. The girl has her hair brushed back smoothly from her forehead and knotted at the back like a little woman's. She bears herself with a pretty air of motherliness toward her brothers. Like other English village maidens, she is skilled in all sorts of domestic duties and has few idle moments through the day. Her sewing-basket lies beside her on the ground, and while the dog looks after the sheep, she busies herself with her work.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Fr. Hanfstaengl, photo. John Andrew & Son, Sc.

PEACE _National Gallery, London_]

Evidently she has some knitting under way, and the work comes to a pause while she winds a new skein of yarn. The little toddler may now make himself useful by holding the skein. He is proud of the honor and watches the rapidly moving thread with fascinated eyes. So deftly do the fingers untangle the snarls that the task is converted into a game as absorbing as a cat's cradle puzzle. Even the older lad, of the manly age to feel himself superior to such amus.e.m.e.nts, peers over the little one's shoulder with genuine curiosity. In the excitement of their occupation, the little knitter's straw bonnet has slipped from her head far down her back, leaving the plump neck exposed to the sun.

The full significance of the picture is best understood in contrast with the companion subject, War. The two pictures have been called by a critic "true poem-pictures." The painter means to show here that the choicest blessing of Peace is the prosperity of the humbler cla.s.ses, who are the bulwark of the nation. Agricultural pursuits can flourish only when arms are laid down. Happy is the land where innocent children and dumb beasts can roam in safety over the country.

The long level stretch of land and sea adds much to the impression of tranquillity in the picture. The imagination has a delightful sense of liberty in great s.p.a.ces. Ruskin has told us that this is because s.p.a.ce is the symbol of infinity. However we may explain it, we certainly have here a pleasant sense of looking across illimitable s.p.a.ce over a world flooded with suns.h.i.+ne.

The picture recalls the stories of Landseer's first lessons in drawing in the pastures near his boyhood home. Here he practised all day on sheep, which are the best subjects for the beginner, because they keep still so long! In later years his preference was for animals of livelier action, but in this exceptional instance, as if in reminiscence of his youth, he painted a pastoral scene with much artistic feeling.

There are a good many more figures in the picture than are usual with our painter, and he therefore had a more difficult problem in bringing all the parts into harmonious relations. It is interesting to contrast it with the altogether different kind of composition in the companion picture of War.

VIII

WAR

In the exigencies of war a stone cottage seems to have been used as a part of some rudely improvised earthworks. A detachment of cavalry has made a charge against this rampart, and the place now lies in ruins.

To the smoke of battle is added the smoke of burning timbers rising in a dense cloud, which shuts out the surrounding scenes as with an impenetrable curtain. Below the breach, in a confused heap amidst the debris, lie some of the victims of the disaster. There are two dragoons, vigorous men in the prime of life, and their two splendid horses.

The man lying most plainly in sight has the appearance of an officer, from the sash worn diagonally over his steel coat. He has fallen backward on the ground beside his horse, one booted leg still resting across the saddle. His face, well cut and refined, is turned slightly away, and the expression is that of a peaceful sleeper.

On the other side of his horse, his comrade lies in a trench hemmed in by heavy beams. Both men are already apparently quite dead: it is too late for the army surgeon or nurse. Death has come swiftly in the midst of action, and the tide of battle has swept on, leaving them behind. The horse belonging to the man in the trench has died with his rider; we see only his fine head.

The other horse, though unable to rise, is still alive. As he lies stretched on the ground, we see what muscular strength he had,--a beautiful creature whose glossy hide and sweeping mane and tail show the pride his owner took in him. The two have shared together all the hards.h.i.+ps of the campaign,--long journeys, short rations, extremes of cold and heat, fatigue and privation. The horse has learned to listen for the familiar voice, so strong in command, so rea.s.suring in danger.

Now even in his dying agony he turns with touching devotion to his master. Not a sound comes from the closed lips, not a flutter of the eyelids disturbs the calm of the face.

Lifting his head for a last effort, the splendid creature sends forth a prolonged whinny. This must surely arouse the sleeper, and he fixes his eyes on the impa.s.sive countenance with an almost human expression of anxiety and entreaty. All in vain, and in another moment the flames and smoke will envelop them, and soon nothing will remain to show where they fell.

This is the story we read in our picture of War. There is nothing here to tell us whether the fallen riders are among the victors or the vanquished. We do not care to know, for in either case their fate is equally tragic. It was England's iron duke who said "Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Fr. Hanfstaengl, photo. John Andrew & Son, Sc.

WAR _National Gallery, London_]

Various small touches in the composition add to the significance of the scene. Fresh flowers among the heaps of stones show how recently there was a smiling garden where now all is so ghastly. On the ground lie an embroidered saddle-cloth, a bugle, and a sword, emblems of the military life.

It is said that the horrors of war have never yet been faithfully portrayed. Those who have lived through the experience are unwilling to recall it, while those who draw upon their imaginations must fall short of the reality. Whenever any powerful imagination comes somewhere near the truth, people turn away shocked, unable to endure the spectacle.[17] Even this picture is almost too painful to contemplate, yet it selects only a single episode from a battlefield strewn with scenes of equal horror.

[Footnote 17: As when the exhibition of Verestschagin's pictures was forbidden.]

Landseer had himself seen nothing of war. The Napoleonic wars had ended in his childhood and the Crimean war was still ten years in the future. It was in the quiet interim of the early reign of Victoria when the picture was painted. The object was to emphasize by contrast the blessings of peace ill.u.s.trated in the companion picture. As in Peace we have a delightful sense of light, s.p.a.ce, and liberty, in War we have a suffocating sense of darkness, limitation, and horror.

Of the many tragedies of the battlefield, naturally the sort which would most appeal to Landseer's imagination would be the relations between horses and their riders. Always in close sympathy with animal life, he had a keen sense of the suffering which the horses undergo in the stress of conflict. The real hero of our picture is the horse.

In an artistic sense also the dying horse dominates the composition, his great bulk lying diagonally across the centre of the foreground, and his lifted head forming the topmost point of the group. All the other figures are subordinated, both literally and in point of sentiment. Their conflict is over and they are at rest, but the suffering animal is even now at the climax of his agony, his terror increased by a desolate sense of loneliness. The pathos of the situation is the deeper because of the animal's inability to understand his master's silence.

The sentiment is one common with Landseer, as we see in other pictures of our collection. It is the favorite animal's love for his master made manifest in some great trial. Like the bloodhound in the picture of Suspense, and like The Highland Shepherd's Chief Mourner, the horse is raised by the dignity of suffering to the level of human emotion.

IX

A DISTINGUISHED MEMBER OF THE HUMANE SOCIETY

In his walks about the city and in the country Landseer's eye was always quick to catch sight of a fine animal of any kind. To his remarkable habits of observation is due the perfect fidelity to nature which we find in all his work. One day, in a street in London, he met a Newfoundland dog carrying a basket of flowers. He was struck at once with the singular beauty of the dog's color. Newfoundland dogs of various colors were at that time common about London, red, brown, bronze, black, and black and white. Landseer had already painted a black and white one in the picture of The Twa Dogs, which we have examined.

Here, however, was a dog of a beautiful snowy white with a head quite black save the muzzle. The painter was not long in making his acquaintance, and learned that he was called Paul Pry. Permission being obtained to make the dog's portrait, our beautiful picture was the result. It is probably this picture which gave rise to the later custom of calling the white Newfoundland dog the Landseer Newfoundland, to distinguish it from the black.

The Newfoundland dog is a general favorite for his many good qualities. He is very sagacious and faithful, and unites great strength with equal gentleness. He is at once an excellent watchdog and a companionable member of the household. Children are often intrusted to his care: he makes a delightful playmate, submitting good-naturedly to all a child's caprices and apparently enjoying the sport. At the same time he keeps a watchful eye against any danger to his charge, and no suspicious character is allowed to molest.

It is possible to train such dogs to all sorts of useful service. In their native country of Newfoundland they do the work of horses, and harnessed to carts or sledges draw heavy loads. They learn to fetch and carry baskets, bundles, and letters, and are quick, reliable messengers.

Perhaps their most striking peculiarity is their fondness for the water; they take to it as naturally as if it were their proper element. They are not only strong swimmers, but also remarkable divers, sometimes keeping their heads under the surface for a considerable time. Nature seems specially to have fitted them for the rescue of the drowning, and in this humane calling they have made a n.o.ble record.

Innumerable stories are told of people, accidentally falling from boats, bridges, or piers, who have been brought safely to land by these dog heroes. The dog seizes the person by some part of the clothing, or perhaps by a limb, and with the weight dragging at his mouth, makes his way to the sh.o.r.e. He seems to take great pains to hold the burden as gently as possible, keeping the head above water with great sagacity. Some one has told of seeing a dog rescue a drowning canary, holding it so lightly in his mouth that it was quite uninjured.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Fr. Hanfstaengl, photo. John Andrew & Son, Sc.

A DISTINGUISHED MEMBER OF THE HUMANE SOCIETY _National Gallery, London_]

It is in his capacity as a life saver that the Newfoundland dog of our picture is represented, called by the pleasant jest of the painter, A Distinguished Member of the Humane Society. Surely no member of the honorable body could be more efficient than he in that good cause. He lies at the end of a stone jetty, his fore paws hanging over its edge a little above water level. Nothing can be seen behind him but the gray sky, with sea gulls flying across: against this background the ma.s.sive head stands out grandly. He seems to look far out to sea, as if following the course of a distant vessel. A gentle lifting of the ears shows how alert is his attention; he is constantly on duty, ready to spring into the water in an instant.

His att.i.tude shows his great size to full advantage,--the splendid breadth of his breast and the solidity of his flank. The open mouth reveals the powerful jaw. A sense of his strength is deeply impressed upon us. The pose suggests that of a couching lion, and has the same adaptability to sculpture, as we may see by comparing it with the bronze lion of the Nelson monument.

As the dog lies in the full sunlight, the picture is an interesting study in the gradations of light and shadow, or of what in technical phrase is called _chiaroscuro_. A critic calls our attention to "the painting of the hide, here rigid and there soft, here s.h.i.+ning with reflected light, there like down; the ma.s.ses of the hair, as the dog's habitual motions caused them to grow; the foreshortening of his paws as they hang over the edge of the quarry."[18]

[Footnote 18: F. G. Stephens.]

Other Newfoundland dogs are known to fame through epitaphs written in their honor by distinguished men, such as Lord Byron, Lord Grenville, and the Earl of Eldon. Never has dog had a n.o.bler monument than this Distinguished Member of the Humane Society, whose portrait ranks among Landseer's best works.

The owner of the dog, Mr. Newman Smith, became likewise the owner of the picture, and by him it was bequeathed to the English National Gallery, where it now hangs.