The Lutheran Hymn-Book.—The introduction of a German Hymn-book on the lower shelf of the table, near George de Selve, tends to confirm the belief that the Bishop of Lavaur had already been sent to Germany in a diplomatic capacity as early as 1529, and had there probably attended the Diet of Spires.⁠[457] Certainly, no two hymns could better exemplify his views regarding religious reunion than those selected in the picture.

On the left-hand page is seen the “Veni Creator Spiritus” in Luther’s German rendering: on the right, Luther’s “Shortened Version of the Ten Commandments.”⁠[458]

Both these hymns are to be found in Johann Walther’s “Geystliche Gesangbüchlein,” published at Wittemberg in 1524.⁠[459] This, the first Lutheran Hymn-book containing music as well as words which was used in the Reformed Churches of Germany, was the basis of numerous later editions, chiefly published in South Germany. A distinguishing mark of Walther’s “Gesangbuch,” in which it is followed by all these South German reproductions, is the preservation of the old word “Glast,”⁠[460] instead of the more modern “Glantz,” in the hymn “Kom Heiliger Geyst.” This feature may be observed in Holbein’s copy. A slight difference in the termination of each verse suggests that the example he had before him may have belonged to one of the later editions referred to above. If so, that edition must have followed the original very closely; for the actual number XIX. placed by Walther over the second hymn, “Mensch wiltu leben seliglich,” is copied into the picture. Either by inadvertence, or because the first hymn, “Kom Heiliger Geyst,” was here intended to figure only as an antiphon,⁠[461] the number is however placed by the painter over “Kom Heiliger Geyst,” instead of over “Mensch wiltu.”

The following is the exact text of the two hymns, as given in the Chorale-book of the “Ambassadors”:

[On the opposite page:]

Coming now to the setting of the two hymns, it is to be remarked that while Walther preserved the old and familiar melody of “Kom Heiliger Geyst,” the music of “Mensch wiltu leben seliglich” first appeared in the “Gesangbuch” of 1524.⁠[463] The melody of the former hymn is in the treble part, that of the second in the tenor. As the book copied in Holbein’s picture is a tenor part-book, only the counterpoint sung by that voice is found to the hymn “Kom Heiliger Geyst”; while, to the second hymn, the melody is given, which in this instance resided in the tenor.⁠[464]

The reader who has followed the career of the Bishop of Lavaur through the earlier pages of this volume will have seen how large a part the hope of religious reunion between the Roman Catholic and Reformed Churches played in his life. To find means to promote that end was the object of his most earnest thought; to see it accomplished, the dearest wish of his heart. The healing of the schism, so the bishop held, could only be sought in a better endeavour, under guidance from above, to live in conformity with the divine teaching. When therefore it is found that the two hymns chosen in Holbein’s picture to emphasize this point are “Come, Holy Ghost” and the “Ten Commandments,” it is evident that a more telling selection could not have been made.

Had a Latin text of the “Veni Creator” and the Commandments been chosen, in accordance with the use of the Roman Catholic Church, they would have conveyed nothing to the spectator of the Lutheran schism and of efforts towards reunion. But the German version at once emphasizes the desired point.

The doctrine expressed by these two hymns belonged, moreover, to all Christian bodies, orthodox or the reverse. They therefore appeared singularly fitted to furnish the common ground so much desired.

The “Veni Creator Spiritus” was (and still is) the great hymn of Christendom for all specially solemn occasions. Selve must have heard it on the opening day of the Diet of Spires. Soon he would again listen to its strains, on the occasion of his own consecration as bishop.⁠[465] In the Lutheran churches it was sung on all Sundays and Festivals.⁠[466] Thus, no hymn had a more universal character.

It has been plausibly suggested that some of the German objects introduced into the picture may have been a loan from Nicolas Kratzer, the astronomer. In the present instance, however, this idea does not commend itself as probable. There does not seem any reason to suppose that Kratzer, an orthodox Catholic, who had no professional relationship with theology, was the possessor of a collection of Lutheran hymns. If not the property of the Bishop of Lavaur, the book may easily have belonged to Cranmer. Official ties had brought him into contact with the Bailly of Troyes;⁠[467] while the connections of the archbishop with the Protestants of South Germany are well known.⁠[468] But it is not necessary to push the question further, for the channels were multitudinous, both within and without the Steelyard, through which the Hymn-book might have been obtained.

The Book of Arithmetic.—If a satisfactory reason is forthcoming for the representation of the Hymn-book in the German tongue, what can be said to account for the fact that the book of Arithmetic is couched in the same language?

The question brings the reader to one of the collective meanings of the picture. The language of this book, significantly kept open by a square, was probably a matter of indifference, being introduced, so far as can be seen, only to symbolize Arithmetic as one of the Seven Liberal Arts. The interest centred on the numbers, not on the nationality of the book. Any well-known manual of arithmetic, in any language, would have attained this object.

Some separate significance, which it has not been possible to fathom, may of course attach to the book beyond the one here specified; many of the objects of the mise-en-scène being made to do duty two or three times over, first singly, and then in varied combination.

It may be noted also that the Bailly of Troyes shared, to the fullest extent, the love of his time and country for setting such riddles deep. The whole picture is conceived in that spirit of the devise which was “assumed for the purpose of mystification” and contained “a hidden meaning.” If the use of the German language, with which both ambassadors were probably familiar, would complicate the problem of interpretation, Dinteville would have been likely to prefer it for that very reason.

The “Merchant’s Arithmetic Book” selected to represent one branch of the Seven Liberal Arts, was a widely disseminated manual at the period under consideration, and was therefore eminently representative of the subject of which it treats.⁠[469] The exact title is: “Eyn Newe unnd wolgegründte underweysung aller Kauffmannss Rechnung in dreyen büchern ... durch Petrum Apianū von Leyssnick u. Astronomei zu Ingoldstat Ordinariū verfertiget.” (A new and well-grounded Instruction in all Merchant’s Arithmetic, in three books ... compiled by Peter Apian of Leisnig, Astronomer in Ordinary at Ingoldstadt.) The colophon reads; “Gedrückt und volendt zu Ingoldstadt durch Georgium Apianum von Leyssnick im Jar nach der Geburt Christi 1527 am 9. tag Augusti.” (Printed and completed at Ingoldstadt by George Apian of Leisnig, in the year after the birth of Christ 1527, on the 9th day of August.)⁠[470] The page copied by Holbein is in Book III., Q 8, verso.⁠[471]

This manual of arithmetic may have been borrowed from one of the merchants of the Steelyard, or possibly from Kratzer.

Some of the Geometrical Instruments.—Several of these instruments are repetitions of those introduced by Holbein into his portrait of Nicolas Kratzer, painted in 1528.⁠[472] Such are the compasses, seen on the lower portion of the wooden stand; and the columnar dial, the astrolabe, and the decagon, placed upon the upper shelf.

It has been suggested that the torquetum which occupies a conspicuous position on the top of the table, represents an instrument invented by Apian, of which an illustration is given by him in a book published this very year (1533).⁠[473] Variations of this instrument, however, are not, it appears, uncommon at about this period. Nevertheless, the attribution to Apian does not seem improbable, bearing in mind that he was also the author of the book of Arithmetic and was a compatriot of Kratzer’s.

A curious question arises in connection with the hands of some of the instruments, the shadows from which fall perplexingly at cross-purposes, pointing sometimes one way, sometimes another. The reader must please himself in deciding whether this was done to bring out special numbers and indicate definite, though now inexplicable meanings, or whether it was merely the result of carelessness on the part of assistants who probably executed some of the mechanical details. In the case of the Death’s-head, the divergence of the shadow was too remarkable to be attributed to accident, and was, moreover, accounted for by having been painted from a reflection. But in the minutiæ of some of the mathematical instruments, such lapses from strict science may be due to chance, and are not unknown to Holbein’s practice. In the series of the Seven Liberal Arts, these instruments help to symbolize Astronomy and Geometry.

The Mosaic Pavement.—It is an easy step from these illustrations of mathematical science to the further symbol of Geometry, the beautiful floor of “Opus Alexandrinum,” unique in Holbein’s performance, and perhaps in the annals of pictorial art. And it is surely a point of high interest to observe that this design is an accurate copy of the well-known mosaic pavement in the Sanctuary of Westminster Abbey, for the construction of which marbles and workmen were brought from Italy by Abbot Richard Ware in the reign of Henry III. Nothing brings the English sojourn of the great painter more closely home to us, than to fancy him wandering through the aisles of the venerable Abbey—venerable even then—to sketch the outlines of the historic pavement trodden by so many generations before and since that time.

The mosaic pavement of Westminster consists of a square centre filled with interwoven circles, and flanked on either side by oblong strips, which complete the width of the Sanctuary.⁠[474] The square centre contains the portion copied by Holbein in the floor of the “Ambassadors.” Range upon range of beautiful patterns adorn the interlacing circles of the Westminster mosaic. The reduced scale and perspective view necessary for the picture, has obliged Holbein to simplify some of these to a certain extent. Occasionally he has borrowed smaller patterns from the narrower strips of mosaic on either side of the central figure. But in several instances the patterns are copied with undeviating precision; while the main lines of the great central figure itself, in reversed order, are reproduced in the painting with the utmost fidelity. The colouring is slightly varied to meet the exigencies of another art.

In the presence of so much that is accurate, one notable deviation strikes the eye. The central circle of the Westminster mosaic is filled, at the present day, with a plain round slab of marble, somewhat similar to those which Holbein has placed in the angles of his reproduction. The central circle of the mosaic of the “Ambassadors,” on the other hand, contains a six-pointed star: that double triangle which in a thousand applications played so large a part in the emblematic art of the Middle Ages. A famous figure of Geometry, it was equally well known as the symbol of the Trinity and as the mystical “Solomon’s Seal” of the alchymists.

The first question that arises when considering this discrepancy is whether any alteration has taken place in the central ornament of the Westminster mosaic since the painter sketched it?

Probably this has been the case. The pavement has been much patched and repaired at various times, and, in the judgment of the late Sir Gilbert Scott, “the eye of the great centre circle has a very modern look.”⁠[475] If the six-pointed star once adorned that centre, Holbein’s picture has preserved for us an interesting record of the appearance it then presented.

If, on the other hand, the further surmise of Sir Gilbert Scott is correct, that the centre was “probably originally occupied with an engraved plate of brass,” an unsuitable subject for the painter, the latter would not have had far to seek for the star he has introduced. That ornament was to be seen in abundance, on a small scale, in the mosaics of the Shrine of Edward the Confessor and elsewhere in the Abbey.

The Lute.—Balancing the terrestrial globe on the lower shelf of the table, a ten-stringed lute divides the two books already described.⁠[476]

Taken in its most obvious application, this instrument serves as an illustration of Music in the Seven Liberal Arts.

Closer inspection reveals, however, that one string of the lute is broken—a discovery which yields some further curious results.

It is hardly necessary to dwell on the universally accepted interpretation of a broken string as an emblem of Death. In the lute we have thus a further insistence on those melancholy symbols which play so large a part in the composition of the picture.

But, beyond this, another more specialized meaning may perhaps have been intended, which, remembering the political import of the terrestrial globe and book of chorales, seems worth consideration.

In the first known edition of Alciati’s “Emblems,”⁠[477] there is one inscribed “Fœdera Italorum.”⁠[478] It is composed, as usual, of two parts: the pictorial device and explanatory text. In this instance the former is a lute⁠[479] and the accompanying Latin poem expounds the author’s meaning in selecting that symbol. The significance is wholly political. The latest commentator of Alciati believes that this emblem was composed to commemorate the League of Cognac of 1526,⁠[480] which, as already explained, united the princes of Italy in a common bond with France and England against the Emperor. Italian patriots anticipated from this league a cessation of those internecine feuds by which their unhappy country had been rent no less than by the intrigues and invasions of foreigners. It was this hope of peace which inspired the choice and composition of the emblem presented by Alciati to his sovereign, the Duke of Milan.

It is easy to see how striking is the application of this emblem to the events which took place in the summer of 1533 at Milan, the actual centre for which it was composed. Nothing could more aptly illustrate Alciati’s metaphor of the broken string than the sudden secession of the Duke of Milan from his alliance with France—an alliance which was a leading feature of that very League to celebrate which the emblem is believed to have been composed. The startling manner of Sforza’s defection, proclaimed by the ruthless murder of the French envoy, Merveilles, emphasizes the point.⁠[482] The very hand in which Alciati had placed his exhortation to peace had roughly snapped the string of the lute. In a moment the face of French politics was changed. The clash of arms in the near future seemed the only possible reply to the affront. The jangle of discord was all that remained of the fair promise of harmony.

Viewed in this light, the lute of Holbein’s “Ambassadors” acquires a meaning which well agrees with the important position assigned to it in the picture and with the political significance of some of the surrounding objects.

It is of course neither possible nor desirable to press an interpretation of this kind too far. But, considering the enormous popularity of Alciati’s emblems, and the practical certainty that Dinteville was familiar with them, the suggestion can hardly be considered far-fetched or improbable.

It seems likely enough, indeed, that the ambassador was personally acquainted with Alciati. At the very time when the picture was being painted, that great jurisconsult was filling the Chair of Law at Bourges, which he held from 1529 to 1534. His fame was immense, and hearers flocked to his lectures. Francis I. himself was occasionally counted amongst his audience; and it seems tolerably certain that Dinteville, whose life, when in France, was spent almost entirely at Court, must have been present at one or other of these discourses.

Just at the same moment, the Augsburg edition of the “Emblems” was achieving popularity by leaps and bounds. The woodcuts that it contained were, however, very inadequate; and, anxious to remedy this defect, Alciati was now occupied in arranging with the printer, Christian Wechel, to bring out an improved and refined edition at Paris.⁠[483] In short, the threads which connected Alciati with France, and with the familiar surroundings of the Bailly of Troyes, were numerous, and appear to place beyond doubt the acquaintance of the latter with the “Book of Emblems.”⁠[484]

The Seven Liberal Arts occupy a considerable place in the scheme of the picture. Having been frequently alluded to in detail, their collective appearance shall now be briefly summed up.

It has already been stated⁠[485] that these were divided into two parts. The first group, comprising Grammar, Logic, and Rhetoric, had to do with the things of speech. The two ambassadors themselves, whose profession at that period was largely dependent on the dialectic skill of the negotiator, may be held to personify this division.

The second part was concerned with things of fact, and embraced Music, Arithmetic, Geometry, and Astronomy.

Music is represented by the Lute, the Hymn-book, and the Case of Flutes.

Arithmetic is symbolized by Apian’s “Kauffmannss Rechnung.”

Geometry is illustrated by the various mathematical instruments, including the Square and Compasses, and by the Mosaic Pavement.

Astronomy shares with Geometry many of the mathematical instruments, and is further represented by the two Globes, celestial and terrestrial.

The Silver Crucifix.—This is perhaps the most puzzling object of the whole elaborate mise-en-scène. Pushed away in the upper corner of the picture, as inconspicuously as possible, half-hidden half-revealed by the green drapery of the background, the very fact of its mysterious introduction in such varied surroundings announces some definite object to be attained by its presence. Was it placed there in allusion to the sacred calling of the Bishop of Lavaur? Was it intended as a further indication of the only means by which, in his opinion, the divisions of the Church could be healed and unity re-established?

The Crucifix hangs, however, above Dinteville, not above George de Selve. But there is no doubt that the Bailly of Troyes and the liberal Catholic party in France, led by the Du Bellay brothers, fully shared the bishop’s views. Reunion on the basis of the common grounds of faith formed the essence of their ecclesiastical policy—a policy which was just now reaching its climax. In secular diplomacy, these efforts towards a better understanding with the Protestants of Germany, corresponded with the anti-Imperial alliances which Dinteville so fervently upheld, and which he illustrated by his additions to the terrestrial globe.

The Occult Sciences.—Whether the picture contains, besides its more palpable meanings, any hint in the direction of alchemy and astrology, would seem to be a moot point. Votaries of occult science would probably claim the presence of the mystic “Solomon’s Seal” in the mosaic floor as evidence in their favour, and might further be disposed to deduce many things from the presence of the square and compasses, and from the choice and arrangement of the numbers indicated by the various instruments. On that abstruse path the writer cannot pretend to follow them.

It is a fact, however, that just at this period such pursuits were at the height of fashion, not only in France, but throughout the educated circles of Europe. Men of the highest intelligence, such, for instance, as Pirkheimer, at Nuremberg, still believed in them and set horoscopes;⁠[486] whilst the subject of the transmutation of metals claimed general attention. At the Court of France, where the protection afforded by the king to humanistic studies made all branches of learning, or quasi-learning, fashionable, the mediæval sciences were specially in vogue. “On s’applique surtout aux fausses sciences,” says M. Decrue de Stoutz, writing of the French Court at this period. “L’astrologie et l’alchimie ont plus de crédit que l’astronomie et la chimie.”⁠[487] The peculiar fashion of the Maison de l’Aûmonier at Polisy seems to suggest that the Dinteville brothers had not escaped some share of the general infection.

At the outset of their career, when Jean received his first appointment at Court, and his brother François was Almoner to Louise of Savoy, the famous Cornelius Agrippa, the “Great Agrippa” of our nursery rhymes, was physician to that princess. He soon lost his post at the French Court, having favoured the enterprise of the Connétable de Bourbon. But the Dinteville brothers were in all probability acquainted with his writings, which had achieved enormous celebrity, as well as with other literature of Hermetic art.⁠[488] Their favourite sciences, geometry and astronomy, were closely linked with occult science on their more abstract side.

Is any illustration of this obscure range of study to be found in the accessories of the picture? It is difficult to answer this question with any degree of certainty, the evidence appearing insufficient to afford definite proof of such an intention. But if for a moment the hypothesis be allowed, the presence of the Crucifix would gain additional point as an indication that only the higher forms of these pursuits, such as were countenanced by Churchmen, were here cultivated.⁠[489] Cornelius Agrippa, in explaining his Key to Occult Science, describes a mysterious kind of Death to all worldly affections as a necessary preliminary to the true understanding of philosophy. This was the common ground on which dignitaries of the Church and men of his type could meet. Agrippa specially illustrates his meaning by quoting the passage from St. Paul, Colossians iii., verse 3. Whatever is to be found in books, says Agrippa, concerning the virtue of magic, astrology, and alchemy, is false and deceitful when literally understood. A mystical sense is to be sought in those studies, and this sense can only be attained by means of the Death above alluded to. “This precious Death,” he continues, “is granted but a small number of people, beloved by God, or favoured with a propitious influence of the stars, or supported by their own merits, and the secret of the art.”⁠[490]

Ideas such as these seem to harmonize not ill with the Device of Death selected, in its more material sense, for representation in the picture, when taken in conjunction with the presence of the Crucifix. But the point leads into a region too abstruse to be further pursued here, and with these few general remarks the reader must be left to decide as he pleases on the presence or absence of intentional allusion to occult science.

Conclusion.—Enough has been said here to prove, with tolerable certainty, that while the general design and masterly realization of the whole subject is due to the genius of the artist, the peculiar train of thought expressed in the manifold details, is the outcome of the mind of Jean de Dinteville. From the simply pictorial point of view, the introduction and position of such objects as the foreshortened Skull and half-hidden Crucifix could not be accounted for. An extraneous influence has here been at work. The closer the examination of the picture, the more this conviction is brought home to the attentive spectator. The objects selected for illustration precisely represent the pursuits and occupations most in vogue at the time in France. Geometry and mechanics, the foundations of the builder’s art just then attaining classical expression in the lovely creations of the French Renaissance; Music, especially that of the lute, which was so fashionable that every Frenchman of exalted position carried a lutist in his train; the ingeniously contrived and artistically rendered devise; these, as the literature of the period abundantly testifies, were among the favourite studies and pastimes of the Court of France. When to these are added the personal touches arising from the special career and idiosyncrasy of each ambassador, the additions to the Terrestrial Globe, the choice of the Lutheran hymns, and the other striking details already enumerated, it becomes evident that only the active influence of the principal sitter could have produced so perfect an epitome of the lives of the two Frenchmen.

For, while the views of the Bishop of Lavaur receive their full meed of attention in the picture, it may certainly be reckoned to the credit of the Bailly of Troyes that such should be the case. The brief visit of George de Selve terminated so early that little, if any, progress can have been made with the minutiæ of the great composition before he took his leave.

To Jean de Dinteville, therefore, we owe a record, probably unique in the domain of art, of the thoughts and studies, the hopes and fears, which swayed his country and generation, and, through them, were reflected in his individual life.

But it is to the magnificent skill of the painter, Hans Holbein, that the preservation of that record is due in the interesting form we see to-day; and it is to him alone that we are indebted for having wrought the heterogeneous objects which accompany his noble presentment of the two Ambassadors into the abiding unity of a great work of art.