In seventeenth-century Europe, religious painting attained one of its inspirational high points. The celebrated studies of Emile Mâle, Hermann Voss and Roberto Longhi B as well as more recent research by Francesco Zeri and Jacques Thuillier B have called attention to the remarkable flourishing of sacred art in this period. It is true that between the last canvases of Caravaggio and Rubens' enormous retable compositions, between the monastery paintings of the Spanish school and the interiorised images of Rembrandt or Georges de la Tour, there is no lack of examples testifying that this was indeed a "golden age" of religious painting.

Once this has been pointed out, however, it is still not easy to define the creative processes of the painters with regard to the religious themes they illustrated. The past forty years have seen the publication of a profusion of monographs on artists. Numerous exhibitions have provided the occasion for stimulating confrontations and have led to the rediscovery of several hundred religious paintings. And yet specialists on Nicolas Poussin are scarcely any further ahead in their knowledge of the artist's true feelings regarding Christian doctrine. It is still no easier to identify with accuracy Rembrandt's thoughts on the beliefs of the Mennonites B or those of Velázquez with regard to the devout milieu of Seville. Recent research on Stoskopff has been unable to resolve the question as to whether or not he was connected to the libertine movement: [1] concerning one of the greatest masters of the still life in the seventeenth century B that is, a creative genre bound up with moral and religious connotations B that constitutes a somewhat gaping lacuna as far as understanding his stance on the silent contemplation of objects is concerned. This difficulty B often the impossibility B experienced by the historian in endeavouring to penetrate the spiritual thoughts of artists of the past constitutes one of the major limits of art-historical discourse. All the more so as the seventeenth century, to restrict ourselves to it, was rather averse to "confessions" of the soul: the great painters always maintained a distance between the subjects they had to illustrate B particularly the sacred ones B and their own sentiments.

It is thus unsurprising that the study of their reactions toward the cruel events of the Thirty Years' War and the consequences they were to draw from it in a "reflective" style of painting B work linked to religious themes, for instance B remains sketchy to say the least. It must, moreover, be acknowledged that only very few of the religious compositions appear directly linked to the episodes which shook the old structures of Europe. Many works have, of course, disappeared B often in the course of the destruction and pillaging of the day. It nevertheless remains the case that the painters never sought to evoke too directly the meditations that such twists and turns in the course of history may have inspired in them. This, of course, by no means inhibited them from fulfilling the prestigious commissions intended to celebrate some of the war's fundamental phases: one of Velázquez's masterpieces remains, after all, The Surrender of Breda. But in this case, it was a genre touching on allegory and on the pages of a glorious history. The artist's job was to find the lyrical inspiration to celebrate the grandeur of victorious battles as well as the virtue of the victors: he was not expected to give account of his own thoughts. Nothing is known, in truth, of Velázquez's impressions of the Breda episode B even if he does appear to have portrayed himself amongst the various characters present at the surrender. [2]

And yet, in some cases, painters came into very close contact with the goings-on of the period. Some were close to the chief actors of the day: Velázquez, for instance, made the acquaintance of Spínola ("keeping an eye on him" perhaps) when, in 1629, they set out together for Italy. [ 3] Other artists were themselves prominent personalities: the case of Rubens B negotiator for Catholic Spain at the courts of the greatest sovereigns B is well known. Still others were present at B or participated in B events of considerable importance: toward 1639, one of the Le Nain brothers, Mathieu, seems to have served as a military engineer during the siege of several citadels B notably that of Hesdin; [4] Laurent de La Hyre, the Paris painter who was particularly interested in mathematics, also seems to taken part in preparations for a famous siege B that of La Rochelle: his engraving, intended to celebrate the defeat of the English troops who arrived in support of the Protestants besieged on the Isle of Ré, reveals a knowledge of the facts whose degree of accuracy it can be accounted for only by his presence on location. [5] A great many artists, on the other hand, suffered the most negative consequences of the long war. In Lorraine, Bohemia and in the Palatinate, in northern Germany and in the Champagne region, they bore witness to the decline of flourishing cities where active intellectual circles had been implanted since the beginnings of the Renaissance. This was also the case for Prague: as the promising young painter Karel Skréta was forced into to leave the city in 1627, he must have felt he was watching many years of stimulating creative activity which had led to the emergence of Emperor Rudolf grind to a halt. It was the case as well in Lunéville, Nancy and Langres, where an entire milieu of sculptors, engravers and painters was broken up through epidemics and the fear of pillages. Georges de La Tour, Claude Deruet, Richard Tassel B above and beyond fearing for their lives B all doubtless came to understand that ancient customs were collapsing around them. This feeling must have been all the stronger insofar as many of these cities had managed to escape the drama of the religious struggles of the sixteenth century. Artists could not but react in the face of these happy worlds suddenly afflicted with such torment.

It would be futile, however, to look for any direct reference to this painful reality in their religious paintings. In 1636, the Lorraine master Rémond Constant received a commission from the priest connected to the Saint Sebastian Church in Nancy to do a large ex-voto dedicated to the Vierge de Lorette. [6] It was intended that the work should put an end to the ravages of a terrible plague epidemic brought on by famine and the constant passage of troops. The composition did not fail to show a broad view of Nancy and its surrounding countryside: the tiny silhouettes of the plague victims and their shelters can scarcely be made out. The traditional presence of the anti-plague saints and of the Virgin are given far more emphasis than is the depiction of the nonetheless very real misfortune (fig. 1). Doubtless there was, both on the part of those who commissioned the work and on the part of the artist, a desire to respect traditional iconography dominated above all by the determinant figures of the Catholic religion. It nevertheless remains the case that such a subject obviously afforded the painter the opportunity to refer fairly directly to the dramatic consequences of the Thirty Years' War B and to echo what had been brought to light in a certain number of series of engravings and several works of literature. But no religious composition seems to have ever gone so far as the powerful images of Jacques Callot's Miseries and Misfortunes of War or the dreadful descriptions of The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissmus. On the other hand, of course, it must also be pointed out that recent historiography has shown the extent of the use of "artifices" in Callot's series and in Hans Jacob Grimmelshausen's work: though meditations on the spectacles of the war, these creative works also belonged to a highly fashionable satirical genre based on the theme of the life of the hired assassin. [7] A theme to which a certain number of painters were also sensitive. And it is occasionally this sort of warlike and picturesque celebration that can be found on their religious canvases.

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On this point, it only makes sense to turn to the noteworthy text Yves-Marie Bercé published as an introduction to the recent acts of a Jacques Callot symposium. [8] Any reading of the grand episodes which shook seventeenth-century Europe has to be wary of overly contemporary interpretations which are liable to apply a ready-made vision of drama and grief. But in such moments, there was always a sort of "warlike euphoria" B hence a fairly substantial development of depictions of battles as well as both burlesque and heroic portrayals of soldiers and mythological allusions on the convenient theme of Venus and Mars. There were of course artists who specialised in these types of subjects, but Rubens, Terbrugghen and Rottenhammer are all known to have worked on them to some extent. Painters reputed for their guarded and thoughtful compositions tackled them with true gusto: the famous Mars Victorious that Lievens did in about 1664 as part of the interior decor for the palace of the Estates General in The Hague remains one of the most lyrical and disquieting portrayals of the war-god whose unfettered reign seems beyond contest. [9 ]It thus comes as no surprise to see figures who have far more to do with warring "knighthood" than with Christian contrition turn up in a variety of religious paintings. It was as a young and proud knight, apparently fresh off the battlefield, that Karel Skréta depicted Saint Martin Sharing his Coat with a Beggar in the painting he executed for the Franciscans in Prague, [10] in 1639 or thereabouts (fig. 2). It was even as a triumphant warrior, adopting the posture of conqueror on his rearing horse, that one of the leading masters working in Paris during the 1630s, Georges Lallemant, [11] chose to represent the saint as he accomplished his generous act (fig. 3). But Skréta had been forced into exile in the aftermath of the first events of the war, and Georges Lallemant, though set up in Paris since 1601, was born in Lorraine and maintained numerous contacts with the war-torn region. Despite their knowledge of the hardships, the painters were able to follow smoothly the fashionable themes of the day.

The "heroic and warlike" genre nevertheless went well beyond the simple phenomenon of fashion painting. The episodes of the Thirty Years' War found their source in the pursuit of religious quarrels. Although the interests of the various warring parties were of foremost importance B and led to intriguing and diplomatic manoeuvering B the events themselves could be thought of as a logical follow-up to the opposition between Catholics and Protestants. Hence the unflagging demand for demonstrative religious painting in service of the doctrine supported by one side or the other. From the paintings Rubens did for Jesuit altars to Lievens' much-demanded compositions, coveted by a certain Calvinist bourgeoisie, there was an undeniable notion of "propaganda painting". In this way, the sacred allegories could be linked up to celebrations of great military exploits. A great number of religious paintings were carried out on the theme of the victory at the Battle of the White Mountain B the turning point in the war which marked the beginning of the Catholic reconquest of southern Germany and Bohemia. The Triumph of the Virgin, set already in 1620 in the major retable of the Frauenkirche in Munich, painted by Pieter de Witte (Pietro Candido), was the most illustrious example. [12] But in terms of the battle's actual commemoration, the idea had undoubtedly been put forth to bring all the victorious heroes as well as the religious symbols they had defended into a single representation: Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann has published a drawing done by an artist near Bohemia (perhaps Matthias Mayer), in preparation for a vast composition in which Catholic leaders are shown parading at the head of a procession of a combination of soldiers and saintly figures (fig. 4). [13] With the ups and downs of the Thirty Years' War B linked to the more general rhythm of the religious reforms and counter-reforms B painters had a convenient and virtually inexhaustible source of production at their disposal.



That is not to say that a certain number of them did not feel particularly concerned by the developments of the war and the conflicting conceptions of religion. In depicting such triumphant-looking Saint Martins, painters like Skréta or Lallemant were clearly seeking to give their support to the Catholic camp. Indeed, Lallemant seems to have always been close to devout circles in Lorraine and to their Parisian representatives: it is a distinct possibility, in fact, that he received the commission for the painting through their influence. [14] As for Karel Skréta, he had only just converted to Catholicism when he did his painting, thereby obtaining the right to again take up residence in Prague: his works thus had to be brought into line with his new orientations. [15] The Le Nain brothers' unswerving attachment to the Catholic faith also played a role in their being chosen to execute a large religious painting celebrating the victory of the French troops at Leucate, in September 1637 (fig. 5). But their painting, Saint Michael Dedicating his Arms to the Virgin, carried out for a chapel of Notre-Dame in Paris, referred to a victorious battle over the Spanish armies. [16] Its point, in other words, was to emphasise the political success of a country rather than the triumph of a religion. Here again one encounters one of the fundamental motivations of the Thirty Years' War: the struggle of empires and the affirmation of nationalities.

The painters, obviously, had never had any illusions to the contrary. For the most part, they had no real problem aligning themselves with the fates of the countries where they had been born. The family roots of the Le Nain brothers, to return to that example, attached them to the Laon region. They belonged to a real French entity which they seem to have upheld without fault. It should be pointed out that one of them served as a "military engineer" during the sieges mounted by the French troops in Spanish Flanders. His participation was apparently not negligible. It even seems to have played an important part in the distinction B highly rare and immediately controversial B attributed to him in 1662: in addition to his being knighted, Mathieu Le Nain received the necklace of Saint Michael from the king. It is understandable that he and his brothers managed to obtain the commission for the Notre-Dame painting. And that they were able to come up with a powerful illustration of the divine protection of French interests: the admirable figure of Saint Michael paying homage to his arms no doubt recalls that the decisive moments of the battle had taken place on the saint's day and, what is more, that the leader of the divine militia had chosen to set himself at the head of France's armies. The greatest masters were of course quick to catch on to the advantages to be drawn from images in the service of the glory of one of the parties. Rubens' monumental and suggestive effigies are well known: his Joan of Arc, executed at the time of the first Imperial and Spanish victories in 1619-20, provides powerful testimony of the inspired and militant nature of all these figures (fig. 6). [17] Other artists preferred to devote themselves to subtle and complex subjects B to the point of combining contemporary personalities with the heroes of religious stories. In Bartholomeus Strobel's strange work, Herod's Banquet, the Polish Catholic painter B protected from 1619 on by the Habsburgs and later acknowledged by Ladislaus IV Vasa as the principal master at his court B it was doubtless the diplomats who took part in the Torun negotiations [18] in July 1635 who were included in the painting of the legendary episode (fig. 7). In the work, there is clearly the idea of a symbolic meditation on the basis of the more or less sincere tractations of several ambassadors. Nevertheless, the complex vision of many of the characters did nothing to facilitate the work's interpretation. The work's exact meaning could be grasped only by those who possessed the key. Such paintings could therefore only be understood by those who had been in proximity to the events alluded to. And this must have been what was strived for by the artists who painted them: beyond their striking technical prowess in the execution of these highly ambitious compositions, they had to demonstrate the refinement and feeling for symbol which was required to satisfy the most erudite circles.

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The first half of the seventeenth century B the period of the Thirty Years' War B was a period of rare intensity in terms of pictorial inventiveness and intellectual relations between artists and art-enthusiasts. From this perspective, the war itself did not play an entirely negative role. Over the last few years, a number of historians have questioned to some degree our perception of the period as a whole. Wilfrid Steinberg's studies, devoted to the Germanic provinces, have shown to what extent the difficulties B in some cases the collapse B of those regions hardest hit by the war, enabled other, less affected regions to come to play a preponderant role. [19] Often thanks to everything the displaced populations B forced to flee the areas of carnage B brought with them in their exile. Artistically speaking, it was obviously this forced exodus which led many painters to setting up in new centres or embarking on long journeys B in both cases, the source of exchanges and discoveries. In Cologne, an entire community of engravers and painters formed around such active publishers as Abraham Hogenberg and Gerhard Altzenbach. A similar phenomenon took place in Strasbourg, under the sway of Jacob van der Heyden. [20 ]In war-torn Europe, pictures continued to circulate, perhaps even at an accelerated pace. For this reason, the great works of the fifteenth- and sixteenth-century masters continued to be regarded as references, always influencing the greatest artists. A painter of the stature of Johann Heinrich Schönfeld B who resided in Stuttgart from 1627 to 1629, and maintained a contact with the Prague-based artist Wenzel Hollar B acquired an intimate and durable knowledge of Sadeler's work, which he recalled again in his late religious paintings. [21] This focus on works of the older masters, and particularly their religious works, can be explained all the better when it is remembered that they too had often been done in dramatic historical moments, during great epidemics or religious wars. In the various episodes of the Thirty Years' war, they enjoyed a sort of renewed relevance. This explains the fact that a painter such as Terbrugghen B influenced as he was by the art of Caravaggio during his long stay in Rome B devoted himself to an archaic style reminiscent of Grünewald, Lucas de Leyde or Dürer immediately upon his return to Utrecht. [22 ]To the point of creating one of the most stunning religious compositions of the entire seventeenth century: his large Crucifixion, today in the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art (fig. 8). [23]

Terbrugghen, however, had little direct experience with the torments of the war. No doubt, as a practising Catholic working in a city which remained of course deeply attached to the practice of its religion B yet isolated within the block of Calvinist provinces B he sought to affirm the ancient roots of a Christian art. It nevertheless remains the case that, working in an active artistic environment, he was able to give himself over with complete peace of mind to the finest resources of his art. But it is precisely due to this freedom of thought, and to continual artistic contacts, that it was possible for him B and for other Netherlandish artists, including perhaps Rembrandt [24] B to reflect upon the convulsions of war-torn Europe. His Crucifixion nevertheless reveals an anguished vision of human destiny. At this stage, it must be recalled that Terbrugghen had been deeply marked by Caravaggism. In other words, by a school of creative thought which looked exclusively to humankind as its source of truth and spiritual depth. This high and admirable lesson went well beyond simple formulae of style, pushing those who had understood it to do more than merely following a "Caravaggesque" fashion, but to consciously produce paintings illustrating the inner truth of human beings and the dramas they faced. How could Terbrugghen have been indifferent to human uncertainties in the whirlwind of the war?

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And how could those painters who were obliged to deal head-on with the destruction of war, no less sensitive to Caravaggio's fundamental teachings B whether or not they had had direct contact with them [25] B have lived through the events without reacting? One need only cite Georges de La Tour. None of his religious paintings seem to have anything to do with the war. And the periods when he had to flee his native Lorraine and look to Paris correspond to his attainment of a total mastery of style and the recognition of his work at the highest level. [26] But the supreme balance which he found at this time between his characters' inner soul and the refined elegance of their appearance seems to disappear immediately upon his return to live in a Lorraine occupied by the French armies: works such as Saint Peter Repenting in the museum in Cleveland (fig. 9) or the Renunciation of Saint Peter in the museum in Nantes (fig. 10), dutifully signed and dated, [27] show a nervous manner, a violent illumination of the figures and a flagrant imbalance in the way they are placed. In spite of a level of success which never wavered and a degree of upward social mobility which enabled his son to gain access to the nobility, La Tour felt he would never again be able to find the happy Lorraine of before the war. One understands the words of Anne Reinbold when she writes that "in the case of Georges (de La Tour), a sort of disaffection or exhaustion shows through in the rare texts which refer to his active presence. His deathY brutally closed off a reality from which he seemed to have retreated ever more". [28 ]It would, on the other hand, be futile to seek any direct reference to the tribulations of war in his last canvases.

With him, as is the case with the most inspired painters, self-restraint in terms of feelings was of utmost importance. The emotions felt during the Thirty Years' War may well have fostered and deepened the creation of works of a spiritual order. But these emotions had to be fused into the works, never compromising the general vision of a thought and the assuredness of a style. This is doubtless one of the essential lessons still to be drawn from the grand seventeenth century: in moulding their most powerful works B including their religious canvases B the painters brooked no disturbances, even from war itself. Of the dramas going on around them, there remained only the tears of hallowed love, or the heroic flight of saints.

FOOTNOTES