DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.68745#0070
TINTORETTO
had not been a free agent, and comparatively untrammelled by
an employer.
The picture is so vast and faded, it contains such a medley
of figures, and is so suggestive of noise and movement, that
the first feeling it excites is one of bewilderment; but it is
worthy of resolute study, and once grasped, is not easy to forget.
The chaos, disciplined by the deep shade and shimmering light, at
length falls into order and divides itself into two parts. High up,
against a background of glory, a Gracious Figure bends forward,
not the inexorable Judge of the Florentine, but the Shepherd
welcoming his faithful flock to Paradise. Among the saints and
apostles stands a lovely figure of Charity, carrying her children.
Zones of fleecy clouds distribute the upper part into sections and
separate it, but naturally and not too decisively, from the scene
below; there still are left shining rays up which the Blessed may
find a passage, and where the clouds divide, forming a sort of gate-
way, Peter sits, leaning on his keys, looking down and half shielding
his eyes, as if unable to bear that sight of anguish. For no one,
in any conception of the scene, has ever painted such a flood and
such a shore. The River of Judgment is a cataract to haunt the
dreams. ‘ The river of the wrath of God, roaring down into the
gulf, where the world has melted with its fervent heat, choked
with the ruin of nations, and the limbs of the corpses tossed out
of it, whirling like water wheels.’
The ghastly rush of that torrent, in which bodies are drawn
headlong over a wide brink, and pass us with a flash, is lit up by
rays from above, and then goes down to everlasting darkness. A
boat, manned by heroic figures, vainly tries to stem the tide upon
which Charon’s bark swims with its struggling load. And the
shore of this resistless river is a weird and terrible one; from the
oozy marshes of its brink, beings struggle to light, forms of fair
women, fearful skeletons, half-clothed upon with flesh, those who
have long lain in earth, and have become part of its vegetation,
with branches growing out of hands and head. Some, as they
painfully free themselves and try to clear their heavy eyes, are
already seized by fiends, who hurry them to destruction; others
rise, dazed and helpless, yet full of the impulse to soar to the
light that streams from on high. Such forms there are floating
36
had not been a free agent, and comparatively untrammelled by
an employer.
The picture is so vast and faded, it contains such a medley
of figures, and is so suggestive of noise and movement, that
the first feeling it excites is one of bewilderment; but it is
worthy of resolute study, and once grasped, is not easy to forget.
The chaos, disciplined by the deep shade and shimmering light, at
length falls into order and divides itself into two parts. High up,
against a background of glory, a Gracious Figure bends forward,
not the inexorable Judge of the Florentine, but the Shepherd
welcoming his faithful flock to Paradise. Among the saints and
apostles stands a lovely figure of Charity, carrying her children.
Zones of fleecy clouds distribute the upper part into sections and
separate it, but naturally and not too decisively, from the scene
below; there still are left shining rays up which the Blessed may
find a passage, and where the clouds divide, forming a sort of gate-
way, Peter sits, leaning on his keys, looking down and half shielding
his eyes, as if unable to bear that sight of anguish. For no one,
in any conception of the scene, has ever painted such a flood and
such a shore. The River of Judgment is a cataract to haunt the
dreams. ‘ The river of the wrath of God, roaring down into the
gulf, where the world has melted with its fervent heat, choked
with the ruin of nations, and the limbs of the corpses tossed out
of it, whirling like water wheels.’
The ghastly rush of that torrent, in which bodies are drawn
headlong over a wide brink, and pass us with a flash, is lit up by
rays from above, and then goes down to everlasting darkness. A
boat, manned by heroic figures, vainly tries to stem the tide upon
which Charon’s bark swims with its struggling load. And the
shore of this resistless river is a weird and terrible one; from the
oozy marshes of its brink, beings struggle to light, forms of fair
women, fearful skeletons, half-clothed upon with flesh, those who
have long lain in earth, and have become part of its vegetation,
with branches growing out of hands and head. Some, as they
painfully free themselves and try to clear their heavy eyes, are
already seized by fiends, who hurry them to destruction; others
rise, dazed and helpless, yet full of the impulse to soar to the
light that streams from on high. Such forms there are floating
36