to take care of serious business, made Isabelle the Governor of Burgundy in his absence. It was a turbulent era in which men hardly had time to rest. As soon as Philip the Good left, the sound of a trumpet, the noise of arms, and the neighing of horses rang out in the dukedom: the discontented men and adversaries of the prince believed they would have better luck with a woman. Isabelle immediately convened every last one of her subjects, who rode into the countryside and forced the rebels to surrender. Such a brilliant debut inspired the duke with full confidence in the talents of the princess, whom he employed thereafter as an elite agent, especially in negotiations, in which she demonstrated great dexterity.
She had a sober beauty that conveyed her spirit: the noble, intelligent, and serious character of her figure left an impression on her listeners, increasing the eloquence and the subtlety of her discourse. In 1436 the women of Bruges implored her for help in resolving disputes with their husbands. During the year 1435 she contributed to the Arras Congress specifications which saved the monarchy from a perilous situation. Around 1437 she ruled on the marriage of the heir of Penthièvre, which ended the long quarrel between the older and younger branches of the house of Brittany. The Duke of Orleans, prisoner of the English since the battle of Azincourt in 1415, was freed after twenty-five years of exile, and had a happy union with Marie of Clèves, princess of Burgundy. A special biography of Isabelle by De Barante, too often overlooked and almost forgotten, inspires the deepest interest in its readers. Practical medicine, following the usage of the era, was one of her family occupations. Very charitable, she took care of the poor and the sick herself through her many pious works. When age lessened her strength, she moved to the chateau of Nieppe, near Hazebrouck, which she had decorated in advance, and where she stayed until her death in December 1471, at nearly seventy-five years of age. She had been born in Evora, in Portugal, on 21 February 1397. In the absence of information about her character, we could be led to believe that she communicated her ardour and her elation to her only son, but this seems not to be true. But by what odd whim of nature did such a wise and practical couple give birth to Charles the Bold?
Perhaps Philip the Good and Isabelle asked Memling for the triptych that Margaret of Austria owned, which, in the central panel, depicts the Virgin and her Son, Adam and Eve on the sides, and Saint John and Saint Barbara on the other flap.[9]
Hans Memling, The Canon Gilles Joye, 1472. Oil on wood, 37.3 × 29.2 cm. Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute, Williamstown.
Jan Van Eyck, Portrait of Jan de Leeuw, 1436. Oil on panel, 25 × 19 cm. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.
Hans Memling, Portrait of a Man, c. 1480. The Royal Collection, London.
Jan Van Eyck, Portrait of a Man (Self-Portrait?), 1433. Oil on wood panel, 26 × 19 cm. The National Gallery, London.
The portrait of a young man, which first adorned M. Aders’ collection, and then that of the poet Rogers, and which is now found in the National Gallery in London, for many centuries passes as Memling’s effigy. A critic from the Outer Rhine having hazarded this guess, everyone else repeated it by faith alone. It is an admirable work. We see a half-dressed figure in a relatively poor unfurnished room; his head is lost in the shadow that enters the room at an angle through the window pane, which is outlined behind him. He is still young and has badly-combed blond hair. He does not squint, unlike the engraving published by Passavant, but looks straight in front of him, with the expression of a man who is dreaming; his hands are humbly posed one on top of the other. The features of the stranger also have a plebian form, which designates him as a son of the people, as one born in the gloomy streets where the lower classes congregate. His large, regular brow, his pensive air, suit a man of talent, but his nose is a vulgar design, his cheekbones are prominent, and his large mouth with dull lips, a bony jaw and an unrefined chin compose an ensemble that classes his figure amongst inferior stock. His outfit corresponds to these indications also. This alleged Memling wears simple dress of fairly common material and the colour of wine sediment; a hat of the same fabric covers his head, while his straight and poorly-fixed hair seems without oil or fragrance.
There is, however, a charm that surrounds him. What is he thinking about in these evening shadows? Is he looking at the pale, sad landscape with the nuances of autumn, that the viewer discovers through the window? He seems to see nothing, not even the empty room where he is seated; one could say that his imagination is travelling further away, lost in his own thoughts. The man who gave him this dreamy expression so perfectly was, without the slightest doubt, a poet from the same era as the artist. And it deserves an equal account of the delicacy of its inspiration. The brush is fine, clean, and yet rich: the colour only has sweet and soft tones. A natural light envelops the objects. The great masters from Holland did not draw anything more exquisite, even two centuries later.
Does this painting truly show us Memling’s portrait? The extract given by historian Johann David Passavant (1787–1861) about the figure depicted is interesting: “This young man,” he says, “seems a little sickly and wears an outfit from St John’s Hospital in Bruges. His hair is chestnut brown, the hat and outfit a dull purple; the sleeve on the right arm is split. On the right, in the upper corner, one sees the number 1462. This must be the portrait of Memling himself, and he must have been at St John’s hospital.” The work is certainly painted in Memling’s style and is worthy of him. If one admits “that it represents himself, his injured arm and the vintage will indicate the era when he was staying at the hospice. One knows that two paintings by his hand, owned by the former establishment, date from 1479, that is to say, that they were executed seventeen years later.”[10]
What free assumptions, what errors and contradictions in so few lines!
Firstly, the mysterious young man is not wearing hospital garb, but the outfit and the cone-shaped hat truncated in the style of Philip the Good; his robe is even of a beautiful material and an elegant colour.
Hans Memling, Tommaso di Folco Portinari (1428–1501), estimated date 1470. Oil on wood, 44.1 × 33.7 cm. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
Rogier Van der Weyden, Philippe de Croy, Seigneur de Sempy. Oil on panel, 49 × 30 cm. Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten, Antwerp.
Hans Memling, Two Donors (fragments of an altarpiece with the Virgin and Child), c. 1475–1480. Oil on wood, 44.7 × 32.4 cm; 44.5 × 32 cm. Muzeul National Brukenthal, Sibiu.
If there is a slit in the right sleeve, a button closes it: this was another custom of the time, as we will soon prove. The position of the figure hides the opening on the other sleeve. One could have hardly cut the right sleeve to care for a wound.
Even though Memling worked in the hospice in 1479, as Passavant clumsily recalls, he would not have been wearing a patient’s gown in 1462; one cannot believe that he suffered from an injury for seventeen years and lived so long on public charity.
Finally, the young man has a calm air about him, but does not seem at all sick.
This portrait, then, must not represent Memling and must not be at Saint John’s hospital, as affirmed by the former director of the Frankfurt Museum.[11] It cannot show us Memling’s image, for the excellent reason that it is Pieter Van der Weyden that we are seeing. Passavant himself published
“Ung aultre tableau de Nostre-Dame, à deux feulletz, esquelx sainct Jehan et saincte Barbe, Adam et Eve sont paincts; fait de la main de maistre Hans.” (“Another painting of Our Lady, with two leaves, on which Saint John and Saint Barbara, Adam and Eve are painted; made by the hand of master Hans”)
I stated in the first edition of my
