However, from the portrait of Isabelle, painted in 1450, to the triptych executed by Memling in unison with his master, we know nothing positive about his life and works; this date of 1470 appears to us vaguely in the fog, as a mysterious number. What events coloured the existence of this soft colourist, like the shadows which passing clouds throw on a forest? What works did his paintbrush consecrate? We do not know. As carefully as we search for him, we lose sight of him for thirty years. Did he reside in Brussels, near Rogier Van der Weyden, his master, until he died in 1464? Because the early registers of the Corporation of Saint Luke, in the administrative centre of Brabant, have been destroyed through unfortunate circumstances, this precious source of information has dried up. And the accounts of the Dukes of Burgundy, who certainly gave Memling work, do not mention him anywhere! A quarto register of the bishop’s archives in Bruges, where payments were recorded, gives a reason to believe, however, that he lived as a tenant, in 1466 and 1467, in a house that later became his property, on Pont-Flamand Street, then named Lupanar Street (Wulhuustrate). Here is the article translated exactly:

      John Goddier (or Goudier) was the owner of the residence, which he later sold to the famous painter. This administrative note proves, then, that Memling resided in the town of Bruges. His biography nonetheless becomes a little clearer much later in 1477, and from this moment, legend mixes with history; even better, history and legend do not contradict each other on any point. History begins the biography, legend continues it, and when legend quietens down, history takes over again; it seems to have waited until its poetic rival completed its story. Whether we like it or not, we must follow this order. Popular tradition is much more interesting when it mixes with the sort of painter bound to the Netherlands.

      A historian with the name of Kämmerer expressed the possibility that an artist from Cologne, known under the name of “Master of the Glorification of the Virgin”, could have been the young Memling. Raising a question that he affirmed in his thesis, the historian leans on the principal work by the Master, Brigittenkirche, preserved at the Cologne Museum after which it was named. According to Kämmerer, several saints and, more specifically, Saint Ursula, had a certain resemblance to Memling’s type of figures.

      The discussion around its attribution started with the detailed treatment of four canvases by the anonymous artist: the work already mentioned, the high altar of Saint Goar, The Adoration of the Child of God by Mary, Joseph and the Angels in Berlin, The Adoration of the Magi, and a Madonna and Child, surrounded by angels playing music. The most interesting and strangest work is that of the high altar of Saint Goar: in the centre the cavalry are depicted, on the left the delivering of the keys, on the right Saint Sebastian and Saint Catherine, and, on the outside, the Annunciation.

      Hans Memling, Portrait of a Young Woman (“Sibylla Sambetha”), 1480. Oil on wood, 46.5 × 35.2 cm. Hospitaalmuseum, Bruges.

      Hans Memling, Portrait of an Old Woman, c. 1470–1472. Oil on wood, 35 × 29 cm. Musée du Louvre, Paris.

      Rogier Van der Weyden, Portrait of a Woman, c. 1460. Oil on panel, 34 × 25.5 cm. National Gallery of Art, Washington, D. C.

      II. Memling between History and Legend

      Hans Memling, Virgin and Child, c. 1475–1480. Oil on wood, diam.: 17.5 cm. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

      Popular Traditions

      The House of Burgundy, so powerful and so brilliant since the end of the fourteenth century, slid towards its ruin, when it could have consolidated itself forever. Charles the Bold succeeded the prudent and wise Philip the Good. This unfortunate prince portrayed himself as a poet turned away from his path. Noble instincts, signs of human greatness, which one does not find in Louis XI, that cunning and perfidious monarch, one finds in his antagonist. As a young man, he liked the view of the ocean; he walked on abandoned beaches, dreaming of the murmur of tides and breeze: the divine image of infinity exalted his heroic soul. Fishermen frequently saw him follow their dinghies, full of secret thoughts. In order not to be disturbed from his reading he had a high tower constructed at Gorcum. There, in the presence of Wahal, near this location by an arm of the sea, he devoured stories of fearless men and old books of chivalry. In his studies he showed great promise; he was then courteous and gentle, because his intelligence did not yet have excessive strength, and he was intoxicated with the ideal and with contemplation; the depths of his spirit carried themselves on the depths of immensity. In his dreams there mixed pious sentiments and a particular devotion to the Virgin. One notes, said one of his biographers, that he had angelically clear eyes.

      Later, when he lived in the mountains, he became passionate about them. It was another infinity. His imagination enjoyed following the clouds and the limitless blue of the sky over the white mountain peaks, domes a-glittering. The colossal size and the majestic forms that they unfurled matched his enthusiasm and the spirit of his heart. Music must have also charmed him: the obscure and gentle magic of calm sounds puts even the strongest souls to sleep. When Luther could not master his restlessness, he played his flute; he played a soft and tranquil harmony, whose notes appeased the storm of his thoughts. Charles the Bold needed this placid influence. He naively let himself by nurtured by melodious accords, and the tempest stilled in his breast.

      His body was as robust as his spirit. He had strong arms, long hands, solid legs, vigourous kidneys: he struck down the roughest jousters and seemed indefatigable. He spoke smoothly, debating for long periods and ending as the firm champion in battles of logic.

      A man made like this must have been naturally brave. Where did the fear come from? It was more proper to defy peril than to avoid it. Also, he never gave any indication of fear; he despised death, and he cried out, like Caesar in Shakespeare: “Danger knows full well / That Caesar is more dangerous than he: / We are two

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