There is a nameless young girl in the Old Testament whose joyful dancing results in an unimaginable tragedy. I am, of course, referring to the daughter of Jephthah. Jephthah’s story is related in the Book of Judges. The tale is intricate but fundamentally involves the mighty warrior, Jephthah, who, just before going to war against the Ammonites, makes a vow to God. If he triumphs in battle, Jephthah promises the Lord to sacrifice the first individual he encounters upon returning home. Jephthah triumphs, and on his return, he is greeted by his only child, his adolescent daughter. She dances jubilantly, playing the timbrel. The moment he sees his daughter, Jephthah realises the horrific consequences of his imprudent vow. The biblical story continues, describing the daughter’s wish to exile herself in the mountains in anticipation of her impending sacrifice. (1)

Artists have portrayed various facets of the story, from the battle scenes to the sacrifice, but this post will solely concentrate on the dramatic scene when Jephthah, overwhelmed by inner torment, sees his innocent daughter dancing. This pivotal moment intrigued artists over time, culminating in an extensive selection of works by 16th- and 17th-century Dutch and Flemish artists.

The Flemish Baroque artist Pieter (Peeter) van Lint (1609–1690), who had travelled to and worked in Rome, situates the triumphant return of Jephthah in a classical setting. His painting is divided into two emotionally charged sections. On the right side, the young daughter welcomes her father. She dances joyfully, accompanying herself on the timbrel. Opposite her is Jephthah, on horseback. He immediately recognises the implications of his vow. He is devastated. Jephthah is shown rending his garments, an ancient symbol denoting grief and intense sorrow. Everyone, including the beautifully adorned horse, is astonished, but the daughter appears unaware of the dramatic implications of her spontaneous actions.

Hieronymus Francken III (1611–after 1661), son of Frans Francken II, was a well-known Flemish artist, a member of the Francken dynasty. His approach to the biblical tale appears to follow the same line as Pieter van Lint: on one side, the astounded Jephthah, and on the other side, the dancing daughter. The background, however, tells a different story. The ominous dark clouds are a clear indication of the girl’s approaching fate. Francken illustrates an event that may take place months after Jephthah and his daughter’s inopportune meeting. In the vista, between the protagonists, the artist has depicted the gruesome sacrifice of the daughter.

Francken III depicts the daughter as a charming adolescent. She dances barefoot, and judging from the swirl of her silky skirt, her movements are light and buoyant. She, as stated in the scriptures, dances with a timbrel. In the Old Testament, the timbrel, an instrument similar to a tambourine, denotes joy and jubilation. Miriam, for example, plays a timbrel as she leads the women in song and dance after they cross the Red Sea; in Samuel, women play timbrels to welcome the victorious King Saul; and Jephthah’s daughter plays the timbrel in celebration of her father’s homecoming.

Similar to his peers, David Vinckboons (1576–1632), a Flemish artist who settled in Amsterdam, highlights Jephthah’s anguish at the sight of his daughter. Jephthah’s demeanour is stunning. His distraught posture, his sharply tilted head, and the awkward placement of his lower limbs are highly theatrical. The intense movement on the right side of the panel —Jephthah, his horse, and the animated actions of his soldiers—contrasts with the relative calmness of the daughter and her companions. The youthful daughter is not actually moving. She appears to have abruptly stopped dancing upon seeing her father’s reaction. Her angelic — or perhaps better said, dumbfounded — expression leads me to wonder if she diverted her face to evade her father’s unexpected response.

In terms of format, size, and colour, Pieter Isaacsz’s (c.1568–1625) artwork resembles that of Vinckboons. The two works also share an exceptionally long descriptive title. However, that is the point where the comparison ends. Isaacsz—a painter, art dealer, court painter to King Christian IV of Denmark, and diplomat—captures the dancers in a fragility of movement often associated with Italian Renaissance art.

Jephthah, positioned high in a chariot, speeds toward his unsuspecting daughter. While the two stallions propel the warlord forward, he pulls back. It is as if his body language shouts retreat. The young women on the opposite side of the panel move with effortless elegance. I am most impressed by the subtlety of the sinuous movements of the girl holding the drum. Her delicate, curvy motions sway gently in harmony with her sweeping skirt. Equally noteworthy are the playful movements of the girl holding the timbrel. This beautiful young dancer is the only figure in the painting that acknowledges the viewer. Is she the daughter of Jephthah? The grace with which she swirls her torso away from the viewer and the flowing quality of the fabrics evoke images of Italian artists like Botticelli and Mantegna; their angels and muses appear to dance as if carried by the breeze. (2)

The following work, attributed to Pieter Lisaert IV (1595–1629), is a graphic representation of the moment Jephthah encounters his daughter. Lisaert’s painting divides the artwork into two opposing sections, with Jephthah and his army on the right and his daughter and her companions on the left. A myriad of practically undecipherable figures surround the central figures. Slightly less obvious is the second, more macabre narrative that is underway in the distant valley. The mountainous landscape and the vast expanse of sky partially camouflage the inevitable sacrifice.

In Lisaert’s version, Jephthah’s daughter is accompanied by two musical companions. The daughter, who wears a small golden crown, plays a timbrel, while her two companions accompany her on the harp and the lute. The three young ladies are barefoot. Observe how gently the daughter and the harpist rotate their shoulders and torsos. Their delicate sways form a stark contrast to the crowd of stationary young girls positioned directly behind them. The daughter’s joyful dancing clearly distresses the victorious Jephthah. His horse, incidentally, also looks surprised. Jephthah jerks frantically backward, aghast at the sight of his daughter. Of the other characters, I find the drummer standing in the lower right-hand corner fascinating. This unsavoury chap, with a large red plume embellishing his beret, looks straight at the viewer. Has the artist placed him there to balance the painting, or does he have another purpose?

Jacob Savery the Elder (1566–1603), a Flemish artist who moved to the Northern Netherlands, approached the story of Jephthah’s daughter from a totally different perspective. He drew inspiration from Joachim Patinir (c. 1480-1524), the pioneer of Flemish landscape painting. Patinir created imaginary panoramic landscapes invariably viewed from an elevated position. These landscapes, the “world landscape“, depicted high cliffs and rugged mountains juxtaposed against meandering rivers, extensive fields, flowing meadows, distant castles, and faraway villages. The figures, customarily placed in the foreground, were constantly dwarfed by their overwhelming surroundings.

Jacob Savery the Elder composed a world landscape, allotting a small amount of space in the lower left corner for Jephthah, his daughter, her companions, and some soldiers. Jephthah, who resembles a comic-strip figure, is shown approaching the portal. Unlike the figure of Jephthah depicted in the above paintings, this warlord shows little temperament. The only detectable drama is a slight inclination of his upper body. The three young women, of whom two are bare-breasted, meet Jephthah at the archway. Jephthah’s daughter dances, but she and her companions show little energy or enthusiasm. The narrative, I suspect, is of lesser importance, considering that the imposing archway overshadows them. In fact, the awe-inspiring landscape completely upstages the entire scene. And then, when you realise the size of the painting (18.5 cm x 31 cm), you can imagine how tiny the figures are in relation to the surrounding panorama.

In my introductory paragraph, I wrote that it was genuinely my intention to only discuss paintings that featured the dancing daughter. But as I explored the internet, I stumbled upon a curious painting by an artist unknown to me, Rombout van Troyen (1605–after 1657). The work, The Daughter of Jephthah, is not a dance image. It is, however, a highly enigmatic work. Troyen, born in Amsterdam, painted biblical and mythological subjects, often situating them in fantastical worlds. The bizarre image, depicting the sacrifice of the daughter, feels Boschian. The scene is inhabited by extraordinary personages and creatures, all set in a perplexing setting. Amid the fanciful illusion, the daughter moves serenely, not unlike a refined dancer, to her place of offering.

The scriptures relate the tale of Jephthah’s daughter in a few sentences. Her fate, along with the circumstances and consequences of Jephthah’s vow, has raised constant discussions. To this very day, exegetes study the biblical text in search of answers. The questions and emotions raised by the tale have inspired visual artists, composers, playwrights, and choreographers throughout Europe and beyond. George Frideric Handel composed an oratorio based on Jephthah’s tale in 1751. The famous Dutch playwright Joost van der Vondel wrote Jeptha of Offerbelofte in 1659. Shakespeare mentions Jephthah in Hamlet, and more recently (2020), an episode of the English detective series Father Brown was loosely based on Jephthah and his daughter. What an astonishing heritage for a nameless girl.

_{(1) The complete tale of Jephthah can be found in the Old Testament; Judges 11}

_{(2) I could not complete this post without sharing a magnificent sketch by Leonardo da Vinci. Study of Three Dancing Figures (c .1515) embodies the very essence of movement and dance.}