The Triumph of Death. Jean-Louis Claret. Prague, 2011.
Peter Brueghel (1525-1569), The Triumph of Death, around 1602. (117 x 162). Museo del Prado, Madrid.
People have always unremittingly tried to make sense of death: the idea that one
day everything might stop for good, that our lives might lead irresistibly to oblivion and
nothingness is unbearable. It is unbearable because the meaninglessness of death
contaminates life: if death leads nowhere, life appears as nothing but “a tale told by an
idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” (Macbeth, V,5). Making sense of death is
therefore a way to preserve and to assert the meaning of life. This endeavour is the
constant concern of religions that people putative heavens with hierarchies of unearthly
creatures and of philosophers who, like Montaigne in his Essays, declare that death is
“the aim of life”. But even those who lend an attentive ear to the comforting sounds of
religion and ancient wisdom still stand in awe of the moment when their eyes will close
for ever. Cicero’s students, whom their master convinced that “death is either the
sovereign good or the absence of evil”, probably secretly dreaded the moment when
they would have to pass away. Making sense of death is therefore a matter of faith or of
intellectual strain. Making sense of dying seems to be a more difficult exercise because of the
deep terror that accompanies that “expected unexpected moment” (Jankelevich). Yet
playwrights and painters are fond of focusing the viewers’ attention on the dreadful passage
from life to death. And the viewers masochistically enjoy the representation of pain. For
example, Shakespeare gives his Cleopatra a full act to perform her dramatic dissolution,
“nothing in (Cawdor’s) life / Became him like the leaving it” Malcolm says in Macbeth (I,4,
7-8) and The Tempest, opens on what is interpreted as a fatal shipwreck. This is probably due
to the fact that, as Vladimir Jankelevich declared, “the separation that brings about absence is
the essence of tragedy”. The Triumph of Death by Peter Brueghel must have something tragic
about it since it represents the victory of an army of skeletons over helpless human beings. I
propose to describe this terrifying painting and to account for the conventional interpretations
of it. Then I will focus your attention on a few puzzling details and, by so doing, I’ll try to get
to a more complex approach to dying and death that the painting shows and hides at the same
time. “The true mystery of the world,” Oscar Wilde said, “is the visible, not the invisible”.
The surface message.
Brueghel’s painting is neither signed nor dated but the Flemish painter’s style in
unmistakable and specialists agree that it was made in the early or late 1560’s 1. Forty-one
paintings are identified as works by Peter Brueghel the Elder – the latest attribution of a
picture to Droll Peter dates back to 2010. This painting can be seen in the Museo del Prado in
Madrid. We have no idea who the painter made it for and little information concerning its
various owners. Yet it looks disquietingly like an echo of a prophecy made by Leonardo da
Vinci: “The dead will spring from the underworld” he said, “and, with wild gestures, will lead
numerous humans away from this world.” (B.M. 42. v)
Right in the middle of it stands a strange black cart that cannot fait to attract our
attention. It is a decoy that keeps us from seeing the skinny reddish horse mounted by a
skeleton who is scything his way through the crowd. This horse is a mare. The scene is a
night/mare. It is ruled over by a mysterious hooded creature on top of the cart who has raised
its left arm, the way a chief-conductor could have done. He’s standing by a wire cage from
which birds – or are they souls – have escaped. But they are heading straight into the fire of
Hell – which typically does not cast any light. The cart is moving towards a truck-like trap, a
huge mousetrap2, into which the skeletons are herding the crowd which consists of a huddle
of tumbling bodies: we can make out a naked woman who may stand for Eve, a few Turks
with they turbans, monks, peasants and a second horse going in the other direction. On either
side of the trap are rows of coffin-lids that the skeletons stole from the gaping graves and that
they are playfully using as protective shields. Two of them probably stole shrouds to make
togas for themselves. The whole scene is unfolding to the sound of drums, trumpets, bells and
a hurdy-gurdy which is probably out of tune.
The background presents shipwrecks, burning houses, torture instruments, graves that
are being dug up and a series of details – a huge fish and monstrous insects - that put one in
mind of Hieronymus Bosch’s earlier works. Another battle is being fought in the distance but
it is partly screened by the smoke of Hell. The humans are clearly outnumbered. They are
doomed. The army of death is massive, disciplined, and of course relentless. These elements
enable us to consider this nightmarish vision as a scene of Apocalypse. No one will be spared
and no hope is allowed. But the apparent chaos in the background scenes contrasts with the
carefully constructed encounters that stand out in the foreground, especially in the corners of
the painting: on the left is a king raising a listless arm to prevent a skeleton from stealing his
gold and silver while another enemy is, conventionally, holding out a sandglass. Close by, a
cardinal is being helped along to the trap by a creature who has put on the same red hat. Lying
on the ground are probably Clotho and Atropos, two of the ancient Graces. One is about to be
1 In the late 60’s according to Peter Thon, « The Triumph of Death Reconsidered », Renaissance Quarterly, Vol. 21, N°. 3
(Autumn, 1968), p. 294.
2 Jean Giono’s words in Le Triomphe de la vie, Paris, Livre de Poche. Grasset, 1992 (1942), p. 49-50.
trampled by the plodding horse and the other by the two cardinals. Lachesis, the one who
measures the thread of life, is nowhere to be found.
If we look to the right, we come across a group of 4 knights trying desperately – and
unwisely - to kill the dead creatures. They have formed a line but one of them – with a red
shirt - has already fallen over backwards. They are disbanding. Behind them is a table with a
white cloth on it against which the figure of a gentleman is standing out. He’s dressed in red,
he has put his hand on the hilt of his sword and terror is visible on his ghastly pale face. A fool
in motley is – wisely – crawling for refuge beneath the table while in the extreme right corner
a couple are playing the lute and singing. In the middle, a corpse in its coffin is being pulled
away while another one is being mutilated by a skeleton who stole his purse. The clothes and
the staff that stand out on the sandy-coloured earth make clear that the man was a pilgrim on
his way to St James of Compostela.
The overcrowded middle ground is a scene of massive destruction that critics often
connect with Italian art. The haunting image of the skeleton on the red horse in the centre was
probably inspired by a similar image Brueghel might have seen in Palerma, in the Palazzo
Sclafani, during his stay in Italy, from 1552 to 1553. As for the foreground it operates as a
conventional Northern Dance of Death. Every single character is doubled by a skeleton: an
armoured creature, a mock-cardinal, a jester (dressed in green), a musician, pilgrims and
knights. Though they refer to different traditions, the two planes make it clear that the end is
near and that no one will survive. The combination of the two worlds makes sense and death
appears as a relentless mirror-image of life.
The viewers may feel that the lesson to be drawn from this painting results from the
combination of the various scenes depicted. So their gaze moves from one spot to another to
make up the overall message. The despondent king, for instance, is, like the viewers, invited
to reflect upon the passing of time (sandglass). Here the focus is on the brevity of life. Far
from the ongoing tumult, a blindfolded man holding a crucifix is about to be executed on top
of a hill in the background. We are made to feel that death is always an intimate experience.
The foreground scenes make it clear that no one is spared: neither the rich, nor the potent, nor
the religious, nor the courageous, the wise or the foolish. Death has a levelling effect.
But this piecemeal lesson had already been taught by the medieval danses macabres.
As Peter Thon noticed, it just “repeats the warnings of medieval Christianity”3. Most
interpretations of Brueghel’s painting are based on such surface analyses. The overall
impression of irresistible chaos is usually connected with catastrophes that hit Flanders in the
late 16th century or that were still branded in the memories: the presence of the cart filled with
skulls on the left hand side is conventionally regarded as an allusion to the Plague since,
during epidemics, such carts used to rumble the streets, loaded with corpses. Commentators
never fail to remind their readers that, within a few weeks, the 1348 epidemic had killed one
third of the whole population of Europe. At the end of the 16th century, the Black Death
continued to unleash rampages of death across Europe. It was still an active threat. As for the
historians, they are positive that this painting is “Brueghel’s undisguised vision of his land
under Spanish tyranny”4 (Peter Thon) and more precisely a denunciation of the cruelty of the
Duke of Alba that Spain sent over to Flanders in 1567 to crush the revolts of the Protestant
heretics. Some commentators also suggest that The Triumph of Death refers to the 1565
famine that caused thousands of people to starve to death. Or that it gives an account of the
Apocalyptic visions that haunted the sermons of the Protestant preachers. Jean Delumeau
demonstrates that “the fear of the Antichrist and of the catastrophes that were supposed to
3 Peter Thon, “The Triumph of Death Reconsidered”, Renaissance Quarterly, vol. 21, N°3 (Autumn 1968), p. 295.
4 Peter Thon, p. 291.
punctuate its reign on earth were more firmly rooted in Protestant lands than in Catholic
countries”5. He declares that in England, for example, between 1560 and 1660, it was
politically dangerous not to identify the pope with the Antichrist and the Catholic Church with
the “Great Prostitute”. For them, the Day of Reckoning was at hand.
The approaches I have just presented correspond to what may be regarded as the
“surface message” of the painting which is encapsulated by the vanishing point of the whole
structure. It is a sort of chapel surrounded by a small circular wall that stands out against the
greyish sea. The precinct is packed with skeletons: they are all staring at the viewers and
saying hello with a wave of their right hands. They are there for us too. Though the
background and the foreground concur to signify the inevitability and irresistibility of death, a
close scrutiny of the picture may give access to a more complex and an unwieldy dimension
that may be regarded as a lesson that, as Peter Thon says, “threatens to obscure the
conventional Christian message of this theme.”
The deeper message.
One may feel that this bloodcurdling painting contains a deeper message, hidden
somewhere, maybe in a recess. This impression is reinforced by a series of mind-teasing
details that cause this work to propose an unconventional vision of Doom’s Day:
- The bottom right hand corner presents an amazing scene: a terror-struck young man is
playing the lute while his beautifully dressed girlfriend is patting gently on his right shoulder
while singing, as if to say: “Don’t worry. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” This reassuring
attitude of hers stands in contrast with the pervading terror and could be regarded as a lesson
aimed to the viewer. Her face is beautiful and calm. She looks amazingly peaceful. A close
analysis reveals the highly erotic dimension of the scene: as a matter of fact, the woman is
pressing her thighs against the man and the place of the hole in the lute makes comment
particularly embarrassing. It is tempting to connect this scene with childbirth. Yet the lovers
are doomed too since a grinning skeleton with a musical instrument is approaching
dangerously.
- Half-hidden by the huddle of tumbling bodies is an armoured soldier whose position is
puzzling. Lying prone, he seems to be drawing an invisible bow. In fact, one may suggest that
he is pointing at something. Indeed, if we look in that direction, we can see a candle, close by
the coffin. The surprising element is that the wick is burning. This detail is quite upsetting
since this is a conventional symbol of the presence of God.
- The presence of the candle with its golden candlestick causes us to realise that the picture
contains an important number of crosses (I have spotted 14): a huge one near the pond, on a
golden plinth; a big red one on the opposite bank that divides the twelve trumpeters into two
groups of six disciples wearing togas; three in the cemetery in the background (one is broken)
and another three behind the chapel; one on the trapdoor and another three painted on or
carved into the skeletons’ shields on the right. Not to mention the crucifix held by the
kneeling man about to be beheaded in the background.
- The fact that some corpses are dug up and mutilated by the skeletons is particularly puzzling
too. This urged Daniel Dobbels to declare that this painting represents “death gone mad and
5 Jean Delumeau, La Peur en occident, Paris, Pluriel Fayard, 1978, p. 299.
killing both the living and the dead”6. In other words, what death is doing here doesn’t make
sense at all… The fact that a baby is about to be devoured by a skinny dog doesn’t make sense
either since babies are supposed to be innocent and, provided they are baptised, due to go to
Heaven. Thought gives way to sheer terror. It is interesting to remember that being devoured
by one’s own dogs was the worst vision of death Priam could think of in the Iliad (XXII).
This bloodcurdling scene is echoed a scene in the background that represents a naked man
(Adam?) pursued by a pack of hungry hounds.
- What is particularly disquieting in the whole vision is the levity of the skeletons who seem
to be enjoying themselves. This is made clear by the attitude of the smiling creatures holding
the coffin-lid shields: they are teasing the terrified ladies dressed in black and red. The two
skeletons who are about to sink their spears into the chests of the desperate knights, close by,
are reaching out small lanterns they are using as decoys to dazzle their foolish opponents’
eyes. The skeletons are hunting game and having fun.
- The cynicism of death is best exemplified by a scene that takes place in the left hand side of
the painting: a skeleton is leaning his hollow head on his right hand, his elbow resting on his
knee. Critics consider it as a forerunner of Rodin’s thinker. Jean Giono even suggested that
this skeleton represents death’s idleness and boredom. Indeed when everyone is dead, death
will be unemployed, hence its melancholy, he says. Critics usually fail to notice the dead bird
close to the creature’s left foot. It is a partridge. Peter Brueghel knew the story of Daedalus by
Ovid as is indicated by his Landscape with the Fall of Icarus. He knew that when the engineer
pushed Perdix, his nephew, off the edge of a cliff out of jealousy for his precocious
intelligence, the boy was rescued by Pallas who turned him into a bird just before he hit the
ground. The first partridge was created on that day and it represents last hope. Here it is dead
too and a skeleton is pretending to be affected.
The secret.
Careful scrutiny of the painting causes the viewers to reconsider what the picture
seemed to be asserting right away. It is indeed difficult to make out a coherent moral
statement since all the scenes lead to a collapse of values and beliefs. This inquiry only builds
up a confused vision of the nightmare which leaves the viewers in total disarray. Is this
painting a denunciation of the Spanish tyranny, or a visual metaphor for the Plague or a mere
reflection on the inevitability of death? And how come the skeletons are such merry-makers?
Moreover, why do they mutilate the dead? One may turn to the young lovers in the right hand
corner again and linger on the woman’s peaceful face. The lesson might be there after all: if
death is inevitable and irresistible, one may enjoy the last minute to the full and turn one’s
back on the impending horror. After all, couldn’t hope lie in the present instant?
When considering the two lovers one may look slightly to the left and catch sight of a
character who goes almost unnoticed. A skeleton has put on a mask and is in the process of
tilting a golden bathtub in which are two jugs full of water. As this is the one and only
skeleton that is not paired with a living creature, no doubt it detains the truth the painter wants
to pass through to the viewers. It is particularly mind-teasing that this character corresponds
to the inverted process at work in the other skeletons. They all reveal the image of death that
lurks permanently under the flesh, what we are bound to become after we die. The skull is
indeed the truth that reaches the surface once the flesh is gone. The skeleton in the foreground
6 Daniel Dobbels, Brueghel, Paris, Maeght Editeur, 1994, p. 45.
is wearing a smiling mask of flesh. Death is mimicking the living. It has restored the layer of
skin that was missing. Moreover it is an actor, as is indicated by its unmistakable costume. No
doubt this actor is a “silent chorus” commenting upon the ongoing tragedy. The dramatic
dimension of the whole vision could have been suggested by the prop-like quality of the black
cart in the centre that looks like a theatrical representation of the mouth of Hell. Such property
was probably used in Miracles plays. The crosses and the candle may be treated as props too,
as being part and parcel of the drama of life. “The world is still deceived with ornament”
Bassanio says in The Merchant of Venice (III,2). Moreover, if we draw a line continuing the
pilgrim’s staff in the foreground we are made to look at a dark area partly screened by the
trumpeters. A few shoes sticking out on a ledge indicate that a series of dark spectators are
discreetly attending the performance. The actor in the foreground is therefore part of the
general performance that he helps interpret as such. “All the world’s a stage and all the men
and women merely players” Jacques says in As you Like it (II,7).
The stoic lesson inherited from Epictetus surfaces and causes us to reconsider the
whole painting. Then do we realise that though it is known as The Triumph of Death no one is
actually being killed in it. Not a single drop of fresh blood can be seen. The dead have been
dead for a long time. All the other characters are still alive. But they are about to die. In a
second, dozens of weapons will run through the victims’ bodies and the blood will spurt out.
But now the scene has frozen and what is represented is “the moment before the triumph of
death”; the very moment that Jankelevich calls “the tragic core of the tragedy of life.”7 This is
not a painting about death, it is about dying. It makes sense of dying. It is now clear that the
actor in the foreground is the key to the painting. Let’s consider what he is doing. In his gold
tub are two jugs. He has lifted one side of the tub and water is pouring out of the flasks. This
scene echoes a similar one that appears in The Netherlandish Proverbs of 1559 (also called
The Blue Cloak). It represents a man trying to scoop up the porridge he has just spilt on the
ground. It illustrates the proverb: “He who has spilt his porridge cannot scrape it all up again”.
Indeed you cannot scrape it up, unless you have spilt it in a tub, of course. This is the lesson
the actor seems to convey. The only way not to waste your life is to prepare the moment when
you will leave the world. The gold tub may stand for the pleasure you have shared with your
lover, singing and playing music. Isn’t the painting itself evidence that what remains is the
moment “before”? If what is not done cannot be done, what is done cannot be undone, as
Macbeth says (V,1, 64).
Conclusion.
The lesson comes from an actor, from a skeleton that mimics humanity to help men
understand that the supreme value of life lies in the instant. The equanimity that radiates from
the singer’s face is all the more fascinating as it seems to eradicate and make us forget all the
surrounding horrors. Even time seems to be defeated by the power of love and beauty, and the
present instant asserts their supremacy over the pervading chaos. After all, The Triumph of
Death consists of an anthropomorphic representation of the end of life, an effort to give a face
and a figure to what is certainly the final absence of shape. When death becomes really
frightening, that is at the end of the 18th and beginning of the 19th centuries according to
Philippe Ariès,8 it will no longer be represented. The acceptation of death as the total negation
of sense and presence will cause the rejection of its representation. However cruel and
terrifying, death in Brueghel’s painting is still a familiar character inherited from medieval art.
7 Vladimir Jankelevich, La Mort, Paris, Champs Flammarion, p. 326.
7
8 Philippe Ariès, Essais sur l’histoire de la mort en Occident du Moyen Âge à nos jours, Paris, Points Seuil, 1978, p. 112.
8
Peter Brueghel is demonstrating that dying and death can make sense in that they enable men
to reconsider their stay on earth and to make it valuable, like the water the masked actor
manages to preserve. Making death visible enables the Flemish painter to assert paradoxically
the triumph of life over the grinning playful skeletons whose massive attack is finally
defeated by the smile of a woman. “The battle is lost and won,” as Shakespeare could have
said (Macbeth, I,1, 4).