The Ambassadors, by Hans Holbein

The Ambassadors, by Hans Holbein the Younger (1497-1543) may on the face of it appear to be a magnificent near-life-size double portrait, but closer inspection reveals a whole host of hidden messages.

Hans Holbein, born in Augsburg, was the son of an artist and he was therefore able to develop his skills from an early age. He spent some years working as a professional artist in Basel before arriving in England, initially at the invitation of Sir Thomas More. In 1536 he became court painter to King Henry VIII, and it is Holbein’s portraits of Henry and his circle that come to mind today when we think about that era.

However, Holbein spent some years actively trying to get himself noticed, and The Ambassadors was one of the show pieces, painted in 1533, that he hoped would do the job.

The ambassadors in question were Jean de Dinteville, the French ambassador in London, and Georges de Selve, the Bishop of Lavaur in southern France who also performed diplomatic duties. The two men were friends, and it is possible that Dinteville had asked Holbein to include de Selve in the portrait as he was paying a visit to London at the time. Both men were in their 20s, and had done very well for themselves at a young age.

They are portrayed standing proudly, either side of a display stand (with a lower shelf) on which a number of objects have been placed. The men rest an arm each on top of the stand, thus signifying their ownership of the objects and what they stand for.

Dinteville, on the left as we look, stands with feet apart and wears a robe that is trimmed with a copious quantity of fur, on top of a shirt made from the finest silk. He may not be particularly tall, but he has broad shoulders and appears to be powerful in more ways than one. In later years Holbein was to portray King Henry in a similar pose.

The bishop appears to be dressed more modestly, in a full-length brown robe that he holds closed with one hand. This would have been appropriate dress for a bishop, but it is also clear that this is by no means a cheap robe, as it too is made from thick fur and intricately patterned.

The objects with which the two men are associated are designed to indicate their depth of knowledge and their interest in matters of science and art as well as of worldly affairs and religion. There are therefore a terrestrial and a celestial globe, mathematical and navigational instruments, a lute, several books, and various other bits and pieces.

The detail of these objects is fascinating, because virtually all of them have a secondary meaning that might quite possibly have escaped the notice of the subjects of the portrait. For example, the mathematical instruments show the exact time that the portrait is intended to capture, namely 10.30 am on 11^th April. Time has been frozen, thus symbolising that the opulence enjoyed by these men is only of the moment and what the future holds may be very different. A string on the lute is broken, which is a symbol of disharmony as the lute cannot now be played.

One wonders whether the Catholic bishop ever noticed that the open hymnal next to the lute was a German protestant one, containing hymns written by Martin Luther, the arch-enemy of Catholicism?

Holbein had, some eight to ten years previously, completed a set of woodcuts on the theme of the “Dance of Death” in which a number of figures representing all strata of society are seen to be accompanied by a skeleton who symbolises Death. The clear message is that Death comes for us all, from the ploughman to the Pope, and we would all do well to remember this.

In The Ambassadors, there are a number of “memento mori”, most of them quite subtle, but one of them not subtle at all. On the extreme left of the painting, a crucifix hangs on the wall. It is hard to spot, but it is there none the less. Dinteville proudly wears the Order of St Michael around his neck, but on his hat is a badge decorated with a skull.

However, the object that is impossible to miss, and which is the greatest talking point of this remarkable painting, is spread diagonally across the foreground, linking the feet of the two men. Centrally placed, its length is about half the width of the canvas, but it is quite narrow and the observer cannot see what it is supposed to be.

That is, unless they stand to one side (the right) and look again! The object then resolves itself into a skull and we are back to the “Dance of Death”. It cannot be missed and, if the painting had been hung on a staircase as has been surmised was originally intended, the owner would have had this reminder of his mortality every time he glanced sideways at it as he descended to start his day’s work.

(Another suggestion that has been made is that the name Holbein means “skull” in the artist’s local German dialect, and that this is therefore his signature, but this does sound a little far-fetched).

One wonders if Holbein really had a lot of time for his patron when he was painting this work. He clearly went to an enormous amount of trouble to put in so much detail, and that alone would have impressed anyone who was looking around for a candidate to be the next court painter. However, what did Dinteville make of it? Did he get the message that he wasn’t regarded by the artist as being as wonderful as he clearly considered himself to be? Those sideways glances on the staircase must surely have told him something!

The painting is housed in the National Gallery, London.

© John Welford