VELAZQUEZ AND MURILLO
“He did God’s will; to him all one
If on the earth or in the sun.”
Velazquez was born in Seville in 1599 of well-to-do parents. They soon
discovered that their son had a native talent for art, and he entered
the studio of the elder Hirara, a man whose brutal ways soon drove the
young artist away. Velazquez was then placed under the tuition of
Francisco Pacheco, who appreciated his pupil’s character and genius. The
teacher was of a timid disposition, gifted for letters rather than for
art, and Velazquez soon chose Nature for his guide. He copied birds,
beasts, and fishes with scrupulous fidelity; he then began to paint man,
studying the human form with the same extraordinary care. He was
twenty-three years of age when he married Pacheco’s daughter. Then
Velazquez went to Madrid to copy the masterpieces of the royal
collections; there he attracted the attention of the minister Olivarez.
After he had returned to Seville, the minister called him back to court
and introduced him to the King. He was commissioned to paint Philip
IV.’s portrait, and this was the turning-point of Velazquez’s career.
The portrait of the King was an immense success, so great that, by royal
command, all other portraits were destroyed, and Velazquez was appointed
Philip IV.’s private painter. He became also the King’s intimate friend,
but this exalted friendship did not affect Velazquez’s nature. There was
in him a certain austerity of soul that kept him devoted to work and
remote from all the pleasures of the court. His kindness to the men of
his craft never wavered. When he went to Italy, sent thither by the King
to buy pictures, he visited Ribera. At another time he attracted
Zurbaran to Madrid, and influenced the King in his favour; later he
befriended Murillo. The contrast between Velazquez’s magnanimous soul
and that of Ribera is like the contrast between the glow of sunshine and
the gloom of night.
There are two portraits by Velazquez of Philip IV. One (1129) is a
slender, stately figure dressed in silvery brocade. Look at the
wonderful painting, at the fine modelling of the face, at the
intellectual brow, at the weak despotic mouth; look at the shimmering
stuff done with unerring precision of touch. The King, his cold
impassive countenance, his air of refinement and of high breeding,
stands before you in all the remoteness of rank. Then let us look at the
sovereign (745) in middle life. We seem to see the story of the years
that have elapsed. Once more we recognise Philip IV., careless, weak,
art-loving, indolent, singularly impassive, with his cold physiognomy,
expressive of his talent for freezing silence. His dress is black and
gold. In both portraits is conveyed the dignity of bearing, the graceful
carriage that distinguished Philip. He is more impassive in his middle
life than he was in his youth. He was not a great ruler, but he was an
enlightened patron of the arts, and he had friendship for Velazquez.
[Illustration:
“PORTRAIT OF THE SPANISH ADMIRAL PULIDO PAREJA” (1315)
BY VELAZQUEZ
page 117
]
Then let us look at that searching portrait of the Spanish Admiral,
Pulido-Pareja (1315). He stands against a luminous grey background, and
we seem to see him in the flesh. His doublet and breeches are of black
velvet, his dark hair falls over his lace collar, his rugged face is
alight with sombre eyes, his mouth is about to speak. The portrait is
very living; it is one of the living portraits of the world. It has been
said of Velazquez that he painted by his will alone, that he made no
effort to hamper it.
“Venus and Cupid” (2057); this newly acquired picture seems to have been
blown on the canvas, so light is the touch with which it has been
painted. The goddess of beauty is lying on a couch, turning away from us
to look into a mirror held by a Cupid. The colour is so fresh it might
have been laid on the canvas yesterday. The figure seems moulded in
light. Contrasting with the loveliness of this picture and the joy of
its beauty is “Christ at the Column” (1148). Our Saviour has been bound
by the wrists to a pillar; no object distracts the spectator’s attention
from the woeful theme. His hands are swollen by the tightness of the
cords. The blood is trickling down His shoulder, yet He looks round with
ineffable compassion upon the little child who is kneeling in prayer to
Him. The adoration of the fair-haired little one is beautifully
conveyed. Pushed forward by his guardian angel, he kneels half-shrinking
in awe from the God-man. It is a painful and dramatic scene. We see the
influence of the Inquisition in the representation of the angel. She
looks a woman but for the wings fastened to her shoulders. There are
other pictures by the great painter in the room, marked by the same
fidelity of brush work, by the same wonder of colour. Some deny to
Velazquez the higher gifts of imagination, but all admit that he loved
above all things nature and truth. I want you to study all the pictures
that you can of Velazquez, and in them you will find that reality is the
great characteristic of his art.
“The Dead Warrior” (741), called “The Dead Orlando,” was long ascribed
to Velazquez, but it is now held to be by one of his pupils. It shows a
dead knight lying full length in a cavern with a lamp at his feet; one
hand lies on his breast, the other is on the hilt of his sword. It is a
very impressive picture, which belonged to the Count of Pourtalès, and
was in his gallery in Paris. I remember my mother telling me that on the
day the works of art were exhibited previous to their sale, she went to
the Pourtalès gallery with Mr. Robert Browning, the poet. Together they
stood before this picture.
“That is my ideal of Roland who to the dark tower came,” said Mr.
Browning. They turned to the catalogue and lo! they saw inscribed the
name of Roland. Strange that a great painter and a great poet, divided
by nearly three hundred years, had had the same ideal of the peerless
knight of the Chanson de Roland.
Velazquez died in 1660. He had been appointed to a very onerous and a
very prosaic post—that of “quartermaster and purveyor to his Majesty.”
Wherever the King travelled the painter henceforth travelled too,
supervising the commissariat for the royal table. In the beginning of
1660 King Philip IV. accompanied his daughter, the Infanta, when she set
forth to meet her bridegroom, the French King, Louis XIV. Velazquez went
too, saw that all arrangements were on a magnificent scale for the
meeting of the two sovereigns. The work and anxiety were too much for
him, and he caught the seeds of the fever that was to kill him. He
sickened immediately on his return and died shortly after. His wife
followed him to the grave within a week. The sun of her life had set,
and she turned her face to the wall and died.
Bartholomé Estiban Murillo (1618–1682). Born in a humble condition of
life, Murillo passed an unhappy boyhood. A relation who knew something
of painting gave the lad some instruction in art, but, dying shortly
after, left him without guidance. Still Murillo painted. He covered
small bits of wood and of canvas with representations of the Madonna. He
sold these by dozens to the captains of American ships, who sold them
again to the recently converted Mexicans and Peruvians. He was
twenty-four years of age when his imagination was fired by the sight of
the painter Moya’s copies of Van Dyck. Murillo made up his mind to study
in some centre of art, and he set off for Madrid. There he found
Velazquez at the height of his fame, and he was received by him with
infinite kindness. Everything succeeded with Murillo. He got lessons,
protection, admittance to the royal palace; he was helped by Velazquez
in every way. When he returned to Seville two years later he was an
accomplished painter. He took his native town by storm when he exhibited
three little pictures illustrating the life of St. Francis. No one had
noticed Murillo’s absence until his return. He had left an obscure
member of society, he returned famous.
From that time he scarcely left Seville till the day of his death. For
thirty-seven years he painted, not always doing himself justice, for he
was loaded with commissions, and his many-sided industry impelled him to
accept everything that was offered. He had married a lady of fortune,
and his home had become a favourite resort of fashion and art.
The picturesqueness of low life attracted him, and his studies of beggar
boys are to be met with in every gallery—ragged and happy urchins
laughing in the sunshine. The glory of the Madonna worshipped by angels
entranced him, and his pictures of her Assumption are the glory of many
galleries. In the Louvre is one for which the government gave over
£23,000. The infinite pathos of the child Christ moved his soul. He was
profoundly religious, and he would pray for long hours in his parish
church. Murillo is a most popular painter, but he is unequal, and many
of his pictures are overcharged with sentiment. All, however, are full
of the glow of adoration. He died of a fall from a ladder while he was
painting a large altarpiece at Cadiz. During his fatal illness he used
to be brought every day to the church to spend hours in prayer.
There are many pictures in the National Gallery very characteristic of
his genius. “St. John and the Lamb” (176) is a charming work, very
popular with copyists. A brown curly-haired boy is clasping a lamb,
holding his head against its side. In “A Holy Family” (13) there is a
melting softness in the fusion of tones. The composition is rather
stagey, but there is a captivating sweetness in the face of the divine
Child. The chubby angels above are luminously painted. St. Joseph and
the Virgin below are rather set in their pose. We have a “Spanish
Peasant Boy” (74). He laughs in his rags, and his laugh has all the
gladsome carelessness of childish merriment.
After Murillo the glory of the art of Spain set. Velazquez and he died
without leaving a rival behind. Long years passed before another artist,
Goya (1746–1828), arose. He had no teacher and he had no pupil. Very
distantly he resembles the incomparable Velazquez. There is a certain
coarseness in his choice of subjects; his portraits are the best things
he has done. He has a kind of wit and much brilliancy of execution. We
have “The Portrait of a Spanish Lady” (1473) in pink satin covered with
black lace. It is full of vivacity, full also of a sense of beauty and
of character. The portrait “Dr. Peral” (1951) is also remarkable for its
delicate grey tones and for the life in the face.