The Magazine

The Connoisseur

Bernard Berenson and the appreciation of art.

Feb 17, 2014, Vol. 19, No. 22 • By JAMES GARDNER
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Like certain wines that lose their flavor beyond the region in which they were produced, Bernard Berenson (1865-1959) makes sense only in the context of the Belle Époque, which formed him and which he was destined or doomed to outlive by half-a-century. A dandy and an aesthete, he was a contemporary of Oscar Wilde, whom he knew, and a disciple of John Ruskin and Walter Pater, whose injunction—“to burn always with this hard, gemlike flame”—he took thoroughly to heart. As he wrote at the age of 92, “I wanted to become and be a work of art myself.”

Bernard Berenson (ca. 1955)

Bernard Berenson (ca. 1955)


Certainly Berenson retained an air of relevance to the very end of his long life, and streams of fellow aesthetes paid him elaborate court in his Tuscan villa, I Tatti, where he lived for 60 years. By that time, he had achieved such celebrity that even people who couldn’t distinguish a predella from a breakfast tray understood that he was somehow important. To this day, Berenson remains famous—if not exactly relevant—and he may well be the only expert on Old Master painting to be known, or to have ever been known, beyond the hierophantic precincts of his profession.

As proof of this enduring consequence, a new biography has just appeared in Yale’s Jewish Lives series. Its author, Rachel Cohen, teaches creative writing at Sarah Lawrence. This brief book does not pretend to break new ground or to divulge the fruits of original research. Rather, it depends on the more thorough biographies that came out in the 1970s and ’80s by Meryle Secrest and Sylvia Sprigge, as well as the business records and correspondence, only recently made available, of Lord Duveen, who was, in essence, Berenson’s employer.

Basing her efforts on these earlier works, Cohen has forged a pleasing and readable synthesis. On balance, she appears to admire and even to like Berenson, though not without reservations, which is hardly a foregone conclusion among the more recent writers to have examined his career.

Many of them are suspicious of his success, both intellectual and monetary, even as they are put off by his posturings. By all accounts, he was a compelling figure in person; but such qualities as he had rarely shine forth from his writings, which tend to be marked more by the mannerisms of the Edwardian age than by the acuity of his judgment. As a result, few people read his books today, and the age he embodied—notwithstanding the marketable appeal of Downton Abbey and the like—tends to be dismissed as an effete prelude to something better.

A greater source of ill-will is the subject of his religious convictions, which are surely relevant to a book published under the rubric of “Jewish Lives.” Born Bernhard Valvrojenski in Butrimonys, a small town in Lithuania, Berenson was originally a Jew, but converted to Episcopalianism at age 20, and to Roman Catholicism soon after settling in Italy about 10 years later. It does not appear, however, that he was especially religious, certainly not in any conventional way. He went from being an assimilated Jew in Boston to being a tepid Protestant and then a noncommittal Catholic. But what has proved most damning to his reputation is one of his earliest writings, a survey of contemporary Yiddish literature published in the Andover Review when he was 23. 

It is only through the study of Jewish institutions and literature that we shall begin to understand the puzzling character of the Jews. Begin to understand, I say, for comprehend them we never shall. Their character and interests are too vitally opposed to our own to permit the existence of that intelligent sympathy between us and them which is necessary for comprehension.

This passage has been widely quoted, and it would be difficult to catch a man in a more damning act of posturing. But there are mitigating circumstances. Berenson majored in Hebrew at Harvard, and his final thesis was titled “Talmudic-Rabbinical Eschatology.” The fact that he was inclined to write about Yiddish literature at all, and that he read it in the original language, attests to no ordinary interest in Judaica. And yet, in the overwhelmingly anti-Semitic society in which he lived, he felt, as Heine and Disraeli had, that conversion was the only path to success. Furthermore, he rarely tried to conceal his Jewish roots, and you may be sure that all who knew him—anti-Semites most of all—were fully aware of those roots.