“EL GRECO”

Large or small, there has been a Greco cult ever since the Greek-Spanish painter died, April 7, 1614, but during the last decade it has grown into a species of worship.  One hears the names of Velasquez and El Greco coupled.  His profound influence on the greatest of the realists is blithely assumed, and for these worshippers, Ribera, Zurbaran, Murillo are hardly to be ranked with the painter of the Burial of the Count of Orgaz.  While this undiscriminating admiration may be deplored, there are reasons enough for the canonisation of El Greco in the church of art.  Violent to exaggeration in composition, morbidly mystic, there are power and emotional quality revealed in his work; above all else he anticipated Velasquez in his use of cool gray tones, and as a pupil or at least a disciple of Titian he is, as his latest biographer, Senor Manuel B. Cossio, names him, “the last epigone of the Italian Renaissance.”  But of the man we know almost nothing.

We read his exhaustive study, a big book of over seven hundred pages fortified by a supplementary volume containing one hundred and ninety-three illustrations, poor reproductions of El Greco’s accredited works (El Greco, por Manuel B. Cossio).  Senor Cossio has so well accomplished his task that his book may be set down as definitive.  A glance at the bibliography he compiled shows that not many writers on art have seen fit to pay particular attention to El Greco.  A few Spaniards, Senor Beruete heading them; Max Boehm, Carl Justi (in his Diego Velasquez); Paul Lafond, William Ritter, Arthur Symons, William Stirling, Signor Venturi, Louis Viardot, Wyzewa, Havelock Ellis, and the inimitable Théophile Gautier whose Travels in Spain, though published in 1840, is, as Mr. Ellis truthfully remarks, still a storehouse of original exploration.  But the Cossio work, naturally, tops them all.  He is an adorer, though not fanatical, of his hero, and it is safe to assert that all that is known to-day of El Greco will be found in these pages.  The origins of the painter, his visit to Italy, his arrival at Toledo, are described with references to original documents few as they are.

Then follows a searching and vivid exposition of the pictures in Madrid, Toledo, and elsewhere, a technical and psychological analysis which displays vast research, critical acumen, and the sixth sense of sympathy.  No pictures, sketches, sculptures, or retablos escape Cossio.  He considers El Greco in his relations to Velasquez and modern art.  He has all the authorities at his tongue’s tip; he views the man and artist from every angle.

“Domenico El Greco died at Toledo two years before his contemporary Cervantes,” says Cossio.  Domenicos Theotocopoulos was his original name, which was softened into Domenico Theotocopuli which, no doubt proving too much of a tongue-twister for the Spaniards, was quickly superseded by a capital nickname, “The Greek.”  His birthplace was the island of Crete and his birth-year between 1545 and 1550.  Justi was the first to demonstrate his Cretan ancestry, which was corroborated in 1893 by Bikelas.  In 1570, we learn through a letter written by Giulio Clovio to Cardinal Farnese, El Greco had astonished Roman artists by his skill in portraiture.  He was said to be a pupil of Titian, on Clovio’s authority.  Why he went to Spain has not been discovered.  He had a son, Jorge Manuel Theotocopuli, a sculptor and architect.  Who the mother was history does not say.  The painter took up his abode in Toledo and is not known to have left Spain thereafter.  Pacheco visited him at Toledo and reported him to be as singular as his paintings and of an extravagant disposition.  He was also called a wit and a philosopher.  He wrote on painting, sculpture, and architecture, it is said.  He made money; was, like most of his adopted countrymen, fond of litigation; lived well, loved music and at his meals! and that is all we may ever record of a busy life; for he painted many pictures, a careful enumeration of which makes Cossio’s book valuable.

There are Grecos scattered over Europe and the two Americas.  Madrid and Toledo boast of his best work, but as far as St. Petersburg and Bucharest he is represented.  In the United States there are eleven examples, soon to be increased by Mr. Archer M. Huntington’s recent acquisition from the Kann collection.  In Boston at the Museum there is the portrait of Fray Paravicino, a brilliant picture. (The worthy monk wrote four sonnets in glorification of the painter, whom he calls “Divino Griego.”  Quoted in one of the Cossio appendices.) There is an Assumption of the Virgin in Chicago at the Art Institute, and an Apostle, belonging to Charles Deering.  In Philadelphia Mr.  “J.  Widner” (read P.A.B.  Widener) owns a St. Francis, and at the Metropolitan Museum, hanging in Gallery 24, there is The Adoration of the Shepherds, a characteristic specimen of Greco’s last manner, and in excellent condition.  The gallery of the late H.O.  Havemeyer contains one of the celebrated portraits of the Cardinal Inquisitor D. Fernando Nino de Guevara, painted during the second epoch, 1594 to 1604.  It furnishes a frontispiece for the Cossio volume.  The same dignitary was again painted, a variant, which Rudolph Kann owned, and now in the possession of Mrs. Huntington.  The cardinal’s head is strong, intellectual, and his expression proud and cold.  Mr. Frick, at a private club exhibition, showed his Greco, St. Jerome, a subject of which the painter was almost as fond as of St. Francis (of Assisi).  The National Gallery, London, owns a St. Jerome, Madrid another.  Mr. Frick’s example belongs to the epoch of 1584 to 1594.  Mr. Erich in New York possesses three pictures, St. Jerome, a portrait of St. Domingo de Guzman and a Deposition.  El Greco is a painter admired by painters for his salt individualism.  Zuloaga, the Spaniard, has several; Degas, two; the critic Duret, two; John S. Sargent, one a St. Martin.  Durand-Ruel once owned the Annunciation, but sold it to Mrs. H.O.  Havemeyer, and the Duveens in London possess a Disrobing of Christ.  At the National Gallery there are two.

Gautier wrote that El Greco surpassed Monk Lewis and Mrs. Radcliffe in his pell-mell of horrors; “extravagant and bizarre” are the adjectives he employs (said of most painters whose style is unfamiliar or out of the beaten track).  In the Baptism of Christ he finds a depraved energy, a maleficent puissance; but the ardent colours, the tonal vivacity, and the large, free handling excite the Frenchman’s admiration.  Justi avers that Greco’s “craving for originality developed incredible mannerisms.  In his portraits he has delineated the peculiar dignity of the Castilian hidalgos and the beauty of Toledan dames with a success attained by few.”  R.A.  Stevenson devotes to him a paragraph in his Velasquez.  Referring to the influence of El Greco upon the greater painter, he wrote:  “While Greco certainly adopted a Spanish gravity of colouring, neither that nor his modelling was ever subtle or thoroughly natural...  Velasquez ripened with age and practice; Greco was rather inclined to get rotten with facility.”  Mr. Ricketts says that “his pictures might at times have been painted by torchlight in a cell of the Inquisition.”  Richard Ford in his handbook of Spain does not mince words:  “Greco was very unequal...  He was often more lengthy and extravagant than Fuseli, and as leaden as cholera morbus.”  Ritter speaks of his “symphonies in blue minor” (evidently imitating Gautier’s poem, Symphony in White-Major).  In Havelock Ellis’s suggestive The Soul of Spain there is mention of Greco see chapter Art of Spain.  Ellis says:  “In his more purely religious and supernatural scenes Greco was sometimes imaginative, but more often bizarre in design and disconcerting in his colouring with its insistence on chalky white, his violet shadows on pale faces, his love of green. [Mr. Ellis finds this ‘predilection for green’ significant as anticipating one of the characteristics of the Spanish palette.] His distorted fever of movement the lean, twisted bodies, the frenzied, gesticulating arms, the mannerism of large calves that taper down to pointed toes usually fails to convince us.  But in the audacities of his colouring he revealed the possibilities of new harmonies, of higher, brighter, cooler keys.”  The Count Orgaz burial scene at Toledo Mr. Ellis does not rank among the world’s great pictures.

There is often a depressing morbidity in Greco; Goya is sane and healthy by comparison.  Greco’s big church pieces are full of religious sentiment, but enveloped in the fumes of nightmare.  Curious it was that a stranger from Greece should have absorbed certain not particularly healthy, even sinister, Spanish traits and developed them to such a pitch of nervous intensity.  As Arthur Symons says, his portraits “have all the brooding Spanish soul with its proud self-repression.”  Senor Cossio sums up in effect by declaring that Venice educated Greco in his art; Titian taught him technique; Tintoretto gave him his sense of dramatic form; Angelo his virility.  But of the strong personality which assimilated these various influences there is no doubt when confronted with one of his canvases, every inch of which is signed El Greco.

“VELASQUEZ”

Why so well-known and authoritative a work as Velasquez, by Aureliano de Beruete, should have been so long in reaching America is a puzzle when you consider the velocity with which the Atlantic Ocean is traversed by so many mediocre books on art.  The first Spanish edition of the Beruete monograph appeared about 1897; the same year saw it in French, and from the latter tongue it was translated into English by Hugh E. Poynter in 1906.  Senor Beruete is considered with reason as the prime living authority on the great Spanish realist, though his study is not so voluminous as that of Carl Justi.  The Bonn professor, however, took all Spain for his province.  Velasquez and His Times is the title of his work, the first edition of which came out in 1888, the second in 1903.  Beruete (whose portrait by Sorolla was one of that master’s most characteristic pictures at the recent Hispanic Society exhibition in New York) is not at odds on many points with Justi; but more sceptical he is, and to R.A.M.  Stevenson’s list of Velasquez pictures, two hundred and thirty-four, Beruete opposes the comparatively meagre number of eighty-nine.  He reduces the number of sketches and waves away as spurious the Velasquez “originals” in Italy, several in the Prado, the very stronghold of the collection; and of the eleven in that famous cabinet of the Vienna Imperial Museum to which we went as to a divine service of eye and soul he allows only seven as authentic.  The portrait of Innocent X in the Doria palace, Rome, is naturally a masterpiece, as is the bust portrait of the same subject at the Hermitage, St. Petersburg; but the Boston Museum full-length of Philip IV is discredited as a copy, only the Prince Don Baltasar Carlos Attended by a Dwarf being admitted in the company of the true Velasquezes.

Of the “supposed portrait of Cardinal Pamphili,” a real Velasquez, now hanging in the Hispanic Society, 156th Street, Beruete writes:  “In the winter of 1902 there appeared in Paris a bust portrait of a cardinal brought from Italy by Messrs. Trotty & Co., which had been alluded to by Professor A. Venturi of Rome in L’Art.  It is life size, representing a person about thirty years of age in the dress of a cardinal, with smiling face and black hair, moustache and pointed beard, good carriage and a touch of levity not in keeping with the dignity and austerity of a prince of the Church.  The beretta and cape, of a fine red colour, the latter painted in a uniform tone and without a crease, harmonise with the roseate hue of the features, and the plain gray background.  Every detail reveals the hand of Velasquez, and it can be classed without hesitation among the characteristic works of his second style.  It is on that ground that I make mention of it here.  However, in Rome, at the house in which this picture was found, it was held to be the portrait of Cardinal Pamphili, nephew of Innocent X, who according to Palomino was painted in Rome by Velasquez at the same time as the Pontiff, that is in 1650.”

Beruete believes Palomino was wrong in declaring that Velasquez painted the young cardinal in Rome; Madrid was the likelier city.  The style proves an earlier date than 1650.  The cardinal withdrew from the cardinalate after three years, 1644-47 > and married.  The portrait was acquired by the American artist the late Francis Lathrop.  Stevenson grants to the Metropolitan Museum a fruit-piece by Velasquez.  Not so Beruete.  J. H. McFadden of Philadelphia once owned the Dona Mariana of Austria, second wife of Philip IV, in a white-and-black dress, gold chain over her shoulder, hair adorned with red bows and red-and-white feather, from the Lyne-Stephens collection in the New Gallery, 1895 and is so quoted by Stevenson; but he sold the picture and Beruete has lost track of it.

Whereas Stevenson in his invaluable book studies his subject broadly in chapters devoted to the dignity of the Velasquez technique, his colour, modelling, brushwork, and his impressionism, Beruete follows a more detailed yet simpler method.  Picture by picture, in each of the three styles he adopts Justi’s and Stevenson’s classification he follows the painter, dealing less with the man than his work.  Not that biographical data are missing on the contrary, there are many pages of anecdotes as well as the usual facts but Beruete is principally concerned with the chronology and attribution of the pictures.  He has dug up some fresh material concerning the miserable pay Velasquez received, rather fought for, at the court of Philip, where he was on a par with the dwarfs, barbers, comedians, servants, and other dependants of the royal household.

The painter has been criticised for his attachment to the king; but as he was not of a religious nature and did not paint religious pieces with the gusto of his contemporaries, the court was his only hope of existence; either court or church.  He made his choice early, and while we must regret the enormous wasting of the hours consequent upon the fulfilment of his duties as a functionary, master of the revels, and what not, we should not forget how extremely precarious would have been his lot as a painter without royal favour in the Spain of those days.  He had his bed, board, house, and though he died penniless his good wife Juana only survived him seven days he had the satisfaction of knowing that he owed no man, and that his daughter had married his pupil Mazo.  Velasquez was born at Seville in 1599; died at Madrid, 1660.  His real name was Diego Rodriguez de Silva y Velasquez.  He was a Silva for the “de” was acquired from the king after much pettifoggery on the part of that monarch with the prognathic jaw and he was of Portuguese blood.  He signed Velasquez a magic grouping of letters for the lovers of art though born as he was in Spain his forefathers came from Portugal.  The mixed blood has led to furious disputes among hot-headed citizens of the two kingdoms.  As if it much mattered.  Velasquez’s son-in-law, by the way, Juan Mazo, was the author of a number of imitations and forgeries.  He was a true friend of the picture-dealers.

Velasquez belonged to that rare family of sane genius.  He was eminently the painter of daylight and not a nocturnal visionary, as was Rembrandt.  Shakespeare, who had all the strings to his lyre, had also many daylight moments.  Mozart always sang them, and how blithely!  No one, not Beethoven, not Raphael, not Goethe to name three widely disparate men of genius saw life as steadily as the Spaniard.  He is a magnificent refutation of the madhouse doctors who swear to you that genius is a disease.  Remember, too, that the limitations of Velasquez are clearly defined.  Imagination was denied to him, asserts Beruete; he had neither the turbulent temperament of Rubens nor possessed the strained, harsh mysticism of El Greco a painter of imagination and the only painter allowed by Beruete to have affected the Velasquez palette.  In a word, Velasquez was a puzzling comminglement of the classic and the realist.  He had the repose and the firm, virile line of the classics, while his vision of actuality has never been surpassed.  The Dutch Terburg, Vermeer, Van der Helst, Frans Hals saw as vividly the surfaces of things material; the last alone was the match of Velasquez in brushwork, but not Rembrandt recorded in his Anatomy Lesson the facts of the case as did Velasquez.

Senor Beruete wittily remarks that Los Borrachos (The Topers) of Velasquez is the truer anatomy lesson of the two.  A realist, an impressionist, as Stevenson has it, the Spaniard was; but he was also something more.  He had a magic hand to define, the rendering of the magical mystery of space and atmosphere.  Grant that he was not a colourist in the sense the Venetians were, or Rubens, yet how much more subtle, more noble, more intellectual, is his restricted tonal gamut.  Those silver-grays, resonant blacks, browns, blues, and reds sing in your memory long after you have forgotten the tumultuous golden waves breaking upon the decorative coasts of Rubens.  We are constrained to question the easy way Beruete and other critics deny the attributes of imagination and poetry to Velasquez.  There is, perhaps, a more sublimated poetry in his pictures than in the obvious religious and mythological and allegorical set pieces of Rubens, Murillo, and how many others.  His realism did not run to seed in the delineation of subject.  He was as natural as Cervantes the one great man of Spain who may be compared to him and he saw the larger patterns of life, while never forgetting that the chief function of a painter is to paint, not to “think,” not to rhapsodise, not to be “literary” on canvas.  His cool, measuring eye did more than record sordid facts.  He had a sort of enraptured vision of the earth as beautiful, the innocence of the eye we encounter in children only.  Stevenson rages at those who say that Velasquez was not a colourist and Beruete is of them, though he quotes with considerable satisfaction the critical pronouncement of Royal Cortissoz (in Harper’s Magazine, May, 1895) that Las Meninas is “the most perfect study of colour and values which exists.”

The truth is, Stevenson, Cortissoz, and Beruete are all three in the right.  That Velasquez, when in Rome, studied the pictures there; that he didn’t care for Raphael; that he had very much admired the Venetians, Titian, Tintoretto; that he had admired Rubens, with whom he associated daily on the occasion of the Flemish master’s visit of nine months to Madrid these are truths not to be denied.  Beruete claims that the Rubens influence is not to be seen in Velasquez, only El Greco’s.  Every object, living or inanimate, that swam through the eyeballs of the Spaniard surely the most wonderful pair of eyes in history was never forgotten.  His powers of assimilation were unexcelled.  He saw and made note of everything, but when he painted his spectators saw nothing of any other man, living or dead.  Was not the spiritual impulse missing in this man?  He couldn’t paint angels, because he only painted what he saw; and as he never saw angels he only painted mankind.  Life, not the “subject,” appealed to him.  He had little talent, less taste, for the florid decorative art of Rubens and the Venetians; but give him a simple, human theme (not pretty or sentimental) and he recreated it, not merely interpreted the scene; so that Las Meninas, The Spinners (Las Hilanderas), the hunting pictures, the various portraits of royalty, buffoons, beggars, outcasts, are the chronicles of his time, and he its master psychologist.

Beruete says that Ribera more than Zurbaran affected Velasquez; “El Greco taught him the use of delicate grays in the colouring of the flesh.”  Hot, hard, and dry in his first period (Borrachos), he becomes more fluid and atmospheric in the Breda composition (The Lances), and in the third period he has attained absolute mastery of his material.  His salary at the court was two and sixpence a day in 1628.  Even Haydn and Mozart did better as menials.  Yet some historians speak of the liberality of Philip IV.  An “immortal employee” indeed, as Beruete names his idol.  Luca Giordano called Las Meninas the “theology of painting.”  Wilkie declared that the Velasquez landscapes possessed “the real sun which lights us, the air which we breathe, and the soul and spirit of nature.”  “To see the Prado,” exclaims Stevenson, “is to modify one’s opinion of the novelty of recent art.”  To-day the impressionists and realists claim Velasquez as their patron saint as well as artistic progenitor.  The profoundest master of harmonies and the possessor of a vision of the real world not second to Leonardo’s, the place of the Spaniard in history will never be taken from him.

Velasquez is more modern than all the moderns; more modern than to-morrow.  That sense of the liberation of the spirit which Mr. Berenson is fond of adducing as the grandest attribute of the Space Composers, Raphael and the rest, may be discovered in Las Meninas, or in The Spinners, space overhead, with mystery superadded.  The brumous North was the home of mysticism, of Gothic architecture.  The note of tragic mystery was seldom sounded by the Italians.  Faith itself seems more real in the North.  It remained for Rembrandt to give it out in his chords of chiaroscuro.  And is there more noble, more virile music in all art than The Surrender of Breda?

Mr. Berenson refers only once to Velasquez and then as an “impersonal” painter.  As a counterblast to his theory of impersonality let us quote a few lines from R.A.M.  Stevenson’s Velasquez (that most inspiring of all art monographs):  “Is it wonderful,” he asks, “that you can apply Morelli’s principles of criticism to the Pre-Raphaelite Italian schools; that you can point to the thumbs, fingers, poses of the head, ovals of the face and schemes of colour that the painters learned by heart, and can even say from whom they learned?  The later Venetians broke away, and when you come to Velasquez the system holds good as little as it can in our own day.”  But this charge holds good for many painters of the Renaissance, painters of patterns.  Velasquez, like the great prose-master of France, Gustave Flaubert, is always in modulation.  No two canvases are rhythmically alike, except in the matter of masterfulness.  He, too, was a master of magnificent prose painting, painting worth a wilderness of makers of frozen mediaeval patterns.  Mr. Henry B. Fuller, the author of the Chevalier di Pensieri-Vani, once spoke of the “cosy sublimity” in Raphael’s Vision of Ezekiel; one might paraphrase the epigram by describing the pictures of Velasquez as boxed-in eternities.  Dostoievsky knew such a sensation when he wrote of “a species of eternity within the space of a square foot.”  But there are many connoisseurs who find evidences of profounder and more naïve faith in the angular loveliness of the Flemish Primitives than in all the religious art of Italy or Spain.

GOYA

I

Goya was a Titan among artists.  He once boasted that “Nature, Velasquez, and Rembrandt are my masters.”  It was an excellent self-criticism.  He not only played the Velasquez gambit in his portraits, the gambit of Rembrandt in his sombre imaginative pieces, but he boldly annexed all Spain for his sinister and turbulent art.  He was more truly Spanish in the range and variety of his performances than any Spanish-born painter since Velasquez.  Without the sanity, solidity, nobility of Velasquez, whose vision and voice he never possessed; without the luscious sweetness of Murillo, whose sweetness he lacked, he had something of El Greco’s fierceness, and much of the vigour of Ribera.  He added to these influences a temperament that was exuberant, fantastic, morose, and pessimistic yet humorous, sarcastic, sometimes melting, and ever masterful.  He reminds one of an overwhelming force.  The man dominates the painter.  A dozen comparisons force themselves upon you when the name of Goya is pronounced:  comets, cataracts, whirlwinds, and wild animals.  Anarch and courtier, atheist and decorator of churches, his “whole art seems like a bullfight,” says Richard Muther.  One might improve on this by calling him a subtle bull, a Hercules who had read Byron.  “Nature, Velasquez, and Rembrandt!” cries MacColl in a too brief summary.  “How inadequate the list!  Lucifer, Beelzebub, and Legion had a hand in the teaching.”

Goya incarnated the renaissance of old Spain and its art.  Spanish art has always come from without, for its foundations were northern and Flemish.  The Van Eycks and Van der Weyden were studied closely; Jan Van Eyck visited Madrid.  The Venetian influence was strong, and El Greco his life long, and a pupil of Titian as he was, this gloomy painter with the awkward name of Theotocopoulo endeavoured to forget his master and became more Spanish than the Spanish.  Ribera, emotional, dramatic, realistic, religious, could sound the chords of tenderness without the sentimentalism of Murillo.  Goya stems more from Caravaggio and Salvator Rosa than from any of his predecessors, except Velasquez.  The presence of Tiepolo, the last of the Venetians, in Spain may have influenced him.  Certainly Raphael Mengs, the “Saxon pedant,” did not Mengs associated with Tiepolo at Madrid.  It is in company with the bravos of the brush, Caravaggio and Rosa, that Goya is closely affiliated.  We must go to Gustave Courbet for a like violence of temperament; both men painted con furia; both were capable of debauches in work; Goya could have covered the walls of hell with diabolic frescoes.  In music three men are of a like ilk:  Berlioz, Paganini, Liszt.  Demoniacal, charged with electric energy, was this trinity, and Goya could have made it a quartet.

But if Spain was not a country of original artists as was Italy, for example she developed powerful and astounding individualities.  Character is her leit motiv in the symphony of the nations.  The rich virility and majestic seriousness of her men, their aptitudes for war, statesmanship, and drama, are borne out in her national history.  Perhaps the climate plays its part.  Havelock Ellis thinks so.  “The hard and violent effects, the sharp contrasts, the strong colours, the stained and dusky clouds, looking as if soaked in pigment, may well have affected the imagination of the artist,” he writes.  Certainly the landscapes of Velasquez could not be more Spanish than they are; and, disagreeing with those who say that he had no feeling for nature, the bits of countryside and mountain Goya shows are truly peninsular in their sternness.  It may be well to remark here that the softness of Tuscany is not to be found in the lean and often arid aspects of Spain.  Spain, too, is romantic but after its own fashion.  Goya revived the best traditions of his country’s art; he was the last of the great masters and the first of the moderns.  Something neurotic, modern, disquieting, threads his work with devilish irregularity.  He had not the massive temper of Velasquez, of those men who could paint day after day, year after year, until death knocked at their ateliers.  As vigorous as Rubens in his sketches, Goya had not the steady, slow nerves of that master.  He was very unequal.  His life was as disorderly as Hals’s or Steen’s, but their saving phlegm was missing.  In an eloquent passage somewhere in his English Literature Taine speaks of the sanity of genius as instanced by Shakespeare.  Genius narrowly escapes nowadays being a cerebral disorder, though there was Marlowe to set off Shakespeare’s serene spirit, and even of Michael Angelo’s mental health and morals his prime biographer, Parlagreco, does not speak in reassuring terms.  Goya was badly balanced, impulsive, easily angered, and not slow to obey the pull of his irritable motor centres when aroused.  A knife was always within reach.  He drove the Duke of Wellington from his presence because the inquisitive soldier asked too many questions while his portrait was being blocked out.  A sword or a dagger did the business; but Wellington returned to the studio and, as Mr. Rothenstein tells us, the portrait was finished and is now at Strathfieldsaye.  A sanguine is in the British Museum.  His exploits in Rome may have been exaggerated, though he was quite capable of eloping with a nun from a convent, as is related, or going around the top of the Cecilia Metella tomb supported only by his thumbs.  The agility and strength of Goya were notorious, though in a land where physical prowess is not the exception.  He was picador, matador, banderillero by turns in the bull ring.  After a stabbing affray he escaped in the disguise of a bull-fighter.

If he was a dompteur of dames and cattle, he was the same before his canvas.  Anything that came to hand served him as a brush, an old brown stick wrapped up in cloth, a spoon with the latter he executed that thrilling Massacre, May 2, 1808, in the Prado.  He could have painted with a sabre or on all fours.  Reckless to the degree of insanity, he never feared king or devil, man or the Inquisition.  The latter reached out for him, but he had disappeared, after suffering a dagger-thrust in the back.  When on the very roof of his prosperity, he often slipped downstairs to the company of varlets and wenches; this friend of the Duchess of Alba seemed happier dicing, drinking, dancing in the suburbs with base-born people and gipsies.  A genre painter, Goya delighted in depicting the volatile, joyous life of a now-vanished epoch.  He was a historian of manner as well as of disordered souls, and an avowed foe of hypocrisy.

Not “poignantly genteel,” to use a Borrovian phrase, was he.  Yet he could play the silken courtier with success.  The Arabs say that “one who has been stung by a snake shivers at a string,” and perhaps the violence with which the painter attacked the religious may be set down to the score of his youthful fears and flights when the Inquisition was after him.  He was a sort of Voltaire in black and white.  The corruption of churchmen and court at this epoch seems almost incredible.  Goya noted it with a boldness that meant but one thing friends high in power.  This was the case.  He was admired by the king, Charles IV, and admired who knows how much! by his queen, Marie Louise of Parma, Goya painted their portraits; also painted the portraits of the royal favourite and prime minister and Prince de la Paz, Manuel Godoy favourite of both king and queen.  Him, Goya left in effigy for the scorn of generations to come.  “A grocer’s family who have won the big lottery prize,” was the witty description of Théophile Gautier when he saw the picture of the royal family.

Curiously enough, this Goya, who from the first plucked success from its thorny setting, was soon forgotten, and until Gautier in 1840 recorded his impressions in his brilliant Voyage en Espagne, critical literature did not much concern itself with the versatile Spaniard.  And Gautier’s sketch of a few pages still remains the most comprehensive estimate.  From it all have been forced to borrow; Richard Muther in his briskly enthusiastic monograph and the section in his valuable History of Modern Painting; Charles Yriarte, Will Rothenstein, Lafond, Lefort, Conde de la Vinaza all have read Gautier to advantage.  Valerian von Loga has devoted a study to the etchings, and Don Juan de la Rada has made a study of the frescoes in the church of San Antonio de la Florida; Carl Justi, Stirling Maxwell, C.G.  Hartley should also be consulted.  Yriarte is interesting, inasmuch as he deals with the apparition of Goya in Rome, an outlaw, but a blithe one, who, notebook in hand, went through the Trastevere district sketching with ferocious rapidity the attitudes and gestures of the vivacious population.  A man after Stendhal’s heart, this Spaniard.  And in view of his private life one is tempted to add and after the heart, too, of Casanova.  Notwithstanding, he was an unrivalled interpreter of child-life.  Some of his painted children are of a dazzling sweetness.

GOYA

II

Francisco Jose de Goya y Lucientes was born March 30 (or 31), 1746, at Fuentetodos, near Saragossa, Aragon.  He died at Bordeaux, France, where he had gone for his health, April 16, 1828 Calvert, possibly by a pen slip, makes him expire a month earlier.  He saw the beginnings of French romanticism, as he was himself a witness of the decadence of Spanish art.  But his spirit has lived on in Manet and Zuloaga.  Decadent he was; a romantic before French romanticism, he yet had borrowed from an earlier France.  Some of his gay Fêtes Champêtres recall the influence of Watteau a Watteau without the sweet elegiac strain.  He has been called a Spanish Hogarth not a happy simile.  Hogarth preaches; Goya never; satirists both, Goya never deepened by a pen stroke the didactic side.  His youth was not extraordinary in promise; his father and mother were poor peasants.  The story of his discovery by a monk of Saragosela Father Felix Salvador of the Carthusian convent of Aula Dei is not missing.  He studied with Jose Martinez.  He ran away in 1766.  He remained, say some, in Italy from 1769 to 1774; but in 1771 he appeared in Saragossa again, and the year 1772 saw him competing for the painting about to be undertaken in the cathedral.  He married Josefa Bayeu, the sister of the court painter.  He has told us what he thought of his jealous, intriguing brother-in-law in a portrait.  In 1775 he was at Madrid.  From 1776 he executed forty-six tapestry cartoons.  In 1779 he presented to the king his etchings after Velasquez.  His rise was rapid.  He painted the queen, with her false teeth, false hair, and her infernal simper, and this portrait was acclaimed a masterpiece.

His religious frescoes, supposed to be ad majorem Dei gloriam, were really for the greater glory of Goya.  They are something more than secular, often little short of blasphemous.  That they were tolerated proves the cynical temper of his times.  When the fat old scoundrel of a Bourbon king ran away with all his court and the pusillanimous Joseph Bonaparte came upon the scene, Goya swerved and went through the motions of loyalty, a thing that rather disturbs the admirers of the supposedly sturdy republican.  But he was only marking time.  He left a terrific arraignment of war and its horrors.  Nor did he spare the French.  Callot, Hell-Breughel, are outdone in these swift, ghastly memoranda of misery, barbarity, rapine, and ruin.  The hypocrite Ferdinand VII was no sooner on the throne of his father than Goya, hat in hand but sneer on lip and twinkle in eye, approached him, and after some parleying was restored to royal favour.  Goya declared that as an artist he was not personally concerned in the pranks of the whirligig politic.  Nevertheless he was bitterly chagrined at the twist of events, and, an old man, he retired to his country house, where he etched and designed upon its walls startling fancies.  He died disillusioned, and though nursed by some noble countrymen, his career seemed to illustrate that terrifying picture of his invention a skeleton lifts its gravestone and grinningly traces with bony finger in the dust the word Nada Nothing!  Overtaxed by the violence of his life and labours he left a prodigious amount of work behind him soured by satiety, all spleen and rage, he was a broken-down Lucifer, who had trailed his wings in the mud.  But who shall pass judgment upon this unhappy man?  Perhaps, as he saw the “glimmering square” grow less, the lament of Cardinal Wolsey may have come to a brain teeming with memories.  Goya had always put his king before his God.  But in his heart he loved the old romantic faith the faith that hovered in the background of his art.  Goya is not the first son of his mother church who denied her from sheer perversity.  What a nation!  Cervantes and Lope da Vega, Teresa de Cepeda y Ahumada most glorious of her sex, saint and genius and Goya!  Spain is the land of great and diverse personalities.  But with Calderon we must now say:  “Let us to our ship, for here all is shadowy and unsettled.”

Goya, as Baudelaire pointed out more than half a century ago, executed his etchings by combining aquatint and the use of the dry point.  A few years before his death he took up lithography, then a novelty.  His Caprices, Proverbs, and Horrors of War may outlive his paintings.  His colour scheme was not a wide one, blacks, reds, browns, and yellows often playing solo; but all modern impressionism may be seen on his canvases harsh dissonances, dots, dabs, spots, patches, heavy planes, strong rhythmic effects of lighting, heavy impasto, luminous atmosphere, air, sunshine, and vibrating movements; also the strangeness of his material.  Manet went to him a beginner.  After studying the Majá desnuda at the Prado Museum he returned to France and painted the Olympe, once of the Luxembourg, now in the Louvre.  The balcony scenes of Goya, with their manolas old-fashioned grisettes must have stirred Manet; recall the Frenchman’s Balcony.  And the bull-fights?  Oh! what an iron-souled master was there Goya when he slashed a bull in the arena tormented by the human brutes!  None of his successors matches him.  The same is the case with that diverting, devilish, savoury, and obscene series he called Caprices.  It is worth remembering that Delacroix was one of the first artists in Paris who secured a set of these rare plates.  The witch’s sabbaths and the modern version of them, prostitution and its symbolism, filled the brain of Goya.  He always shocks any but robust nerves with his hybrid creatures red in claw and foaming at mouth as they fight in midair, hideous and unnamable phantoms of the dark.  His owls are theologians.  The females he often shows make us turn aside our head and shudder.  With implacable fidelity he displayed the reverse of war’s heroic shield.  It is something more than hell.

Sattler, Charlet, Raffet, James Ensor, Rethel, De Groux, Rops, Edvard Muench (did you ever see his woman wooed by a skeleton?), and the rest of these delineators of the morbid and macabre acknowledge Goya as their progenitor.  He must have been a devil-worshipper.  He pictures the goat devil, horns and hoofs.  Gautier compares him to E.T.W.  Hoffmann Poe not being known in Paris at that time but it is a rather laboured comparison, for there was a profoundly human side to the Spaniard.  His perception of reality was of the solidest.  He had lived and loved and knew before Flaubert that if the god of the Romantics was an upholsterer the god of eighteenth-century Spain was an executioner.  The professed lover of the Duchess of Alba, he painted her nude, and then, hearing that the Duke might not like the theme so handled, he painted her again, and clothed, but more insolently uncovered than before.  At the Spanish museum in New York you may see another portrait of this bold beauty with the name of Goya scratched in the earth at her feet.  Her attitude is characteristic of the intrigue, which all Madrid knew and approved.  At home sat Mrs. Goya with her twenty children.

Goya was a man of striking appearance.  Slender in youth, a graceful dancer, in middle life he had the wide shoulders and bull neck of an athlete.  He was the terror of Madrilenan husbands.  His voice had seductive charm.  He could twang the guitar and fence like ten devils.  A gamester, too.  In a word, a figure out of the Renaissance, when the deed trod hard on the heels of the word.  One of his self-portraits shows him in a Byronic collar, the brow finely proportioned, marked mobile features, sombre eyes the ideal Don Juan Tenorio to win the foolish heart of an Emma Bovary or a bored noblewoman.  Another, with its savage eye it is a profile and big beaver head-covering, recalls Walt Whitman’s “I wear my hat as I please, indoors or out.”  A giant egoist, and as human, all too human, a fellow as Spain ever begot, Goya is only hinted at in Baudelaire’s searching quatrain beginning:  “Goya, cauchemar plein de choses inconnues.” Fleurs du Mal would be a happy title for the work of Francisco Goya if to “The Flowers of Evil” were added “and Wisdom.”  Goya is often cruel and lascivious and vulgar, but he is as great a philosopher as painter.  And to offset his passionate gloom there are his visions of a golden Spain no longer in existence; happy, gorgeous of costume, the Spain of sudden coquetries, of fans, masques, bull-fights, and fandangos, of a people dancing on the rim of a fire-filled mountain, pious, capricious, child-like, romantic, and patriotic the Spain of the eighteenth century.  Goya is its spokesman, as is Velasquez the mirror of Philip’s more spacious times.  Velasquez Goya! poles asunder, yet both born to the artistic purple.  And the stately aristocrat who signed himself Velasquez is not more in tune with the twentieth-century Zeitgeist than that coarse-fibred democrat of genius, Francisco Goya.

FORTUNY

Mariano Fortuny:  what a magic-breeding name!  The motto of this lucky Spanish painter might have been “Fortuny Fortunatus.”  Even his sudden death, at the early age of thirty-six, came after he had executed a number of masterpieces, an enormous quantity of water-colours, etchings, ceramics, damascene swords and chased ornaments; it followed on the heels of sudden glory.  His name was in the mouth of artistic Europe, and the sale of the contents of his studio at Rome in 1875 brought eight hundred thousand francs.  Yet so slippery is fame that Fortuny’s name to-day is seldom without a brace of epithets, such as “garish,” or “empty.”  His work is neither.  He is a virtuoso.  So was Tiepolo.  He is a Romantic; so the generation preceding him.  The Orientalist par excellence, he has somehow been confounded with Meissonier and Gerome, has been called glittering like the former, hard as was the latter.  It is true there are no emotional undertones in his temperament, the brilliant overtones predominating; but it is also true that when he died his manner was changing.  He had said that he was tired of the “gay rags” of the eighteenth century, and his Strand of Portici shows a new line of departure.  Edouard Manet made special appeal to Fortuny; Manet, who had derived from Goya, whose Spanish fond is undeniable.  Perhaps the thrice-brilliant Fortuny’s conscience smote him when he saw a Frenchman so successfully absorbing the traditions of Goya; but it was not to be.  He passed away at the very top of his renown, truly a favourite of the gods.  He was admired, imitated, above all parodied; though, jealously as are his pictures guarded, he has been put on the shelf like one of the amazing painted bibelots in his work.

The injustice of this is patent.  Between Fortuny and Meissonier there lies the gulf that separates the genius and the hard-working man of talent.  Nevertheless Meissonier’s statue is in the garden of the Louvre, Meissonier is extolled as a master, while Fortuny is usually described in patronising terms as a facile trifler.  The reverse is the truth.  No one has painted sunlight with more intensity; he was an impressionist before the word was coined.  He is a colourist almost as sumptuous as Monticelli, with a precision of vision never attained by the Marseilles rhapsodist.  His figures are as delicious as Watteau’s or Debucourt’s he recalls the latter frequently and as an Orientalist he ranks all but a few.  Gerome, Guillaumet, Fromentin, Huguet are not to be mentioned in the same breath with Fortuny as to the manipulation of material; and has Guillaumet done anything savouring more of the mysterious East than Fortuny’s At the Gate of the Seraglio?  The magician of jewelled tones, he knew all the subtler modulations.  His canvases vibrate, they emit sparks of sunlight, his shadows are velvety and warm.  Compared with such a picture as The Choice of a Model, the most laboriously minute Meissonier is as cold and dead as a photograph Meissonier, who was a capital fan painter, a patient miniaturist without colour talent, a myopic delineator of costumes, who, as Manet said, pasted paper soldiers on canvas and called the machine a battle-field.

The writer recalls the sensations once evoked by a close view of Fortuny’s Choice of a Model at Paris years ago, and at that time in the possession of Mr. Stewart.  Psychology is not missing in this miracle of virtuosity; the nude posing on the marble table, the absolute beauty of the drawing, the colouring, the contrast of the richly variegated marble pillars in the background, the eighteenth-century costumes of the Academicians so scrupulously yet so easily set forth, all made a dazzling ensemble.  Since Fortuny turned the trick a host of spurious pictures has come overseas, and we now say “Vibert” at the same time as “Fortuny,” just as some enlightened persons couple the names of Ingres and Bouguereau.  In the kingdom of the third rate the mediocre is conqueror.

Listen to this description of La Vicaría (The Spanish Wedding), which first won for its painter his reputation.  Begun in 1868, it was exhibited at Goupil’s, Paris, the spring of 1870 (some say 1869), when the artist was thirty-two years old.  Théophile Gautier whose genius and Theodore de Banville’s have analogies with Fortuny’s in the matter of surfaces and astounding virtuosity went up in the air when he saw the work, and wrote a feuilleton that is still recalled by the old guard.  The following, however, is not by Gautier, but from the pen of Dr. Richard Muther, the erudite German critic:  “A marriage is taking place in the sacristy of a rococo church in Madrid.  The walls are covered with faded Cordova leather hangings figured in gold and dull colours, and a magnificent rococo screen separates the sacristy from the middle aisle.  Venetian lustres are suspended from the ceiling, pictures of martyrs, Venetian glasses in carved oval frames hang on the wall, richly ornamented wooden benches and a library of missals and gospels in sparkling silver clasps, and shining marble tables and glistening braziers form part of the scene in which the marriage contract is being signed.  The costumes are those of the time of Goya.  An old beau is marrying a young and beautiful girl.  With affected grace and a skipping minuet step, holding a modish three-cornered hat under his arm, he approaches the table to put his signature in the place which the escribano points out with an obsequious bow.  He is arrayed in delicate lilac, while the bride is wearing a white silk dress trimmed with flowered lace and has a wreath of orange blossoms in her luxuriant black hair.  As a girl friend is talking to her she examines with abstracted attention the pretty little pictures upon her fan, the finest she ever possessed.  A very piquant little head she has, with her long lashes and black eyes.  Then, in the background, follow the witnesses, and first of all a young lady in a swelling silk dress of the brightest rose colour.  Beside her is one of the bridegroom’s friends in a cabbage-green coat with long flaps and a shining belt, from which a gleaming sabre hangs.  The whole picture is a marvellous assemblage of colours in which tones of Venetian glow and strength, the tender pearly gray beloved of the Japanese, and a melting neutral brown each sets off the other and gives a shimmering effect to the entire mass.”

Fortuny was a gay master of character and comedy as well as of bric-a-brac.  Still life he painted as no one before or after him; if Chardin is the Velasquez of vegetables, Fortuny is the Rossini of the rococo; such lace-like filigrees, fiorturi, marbles that are of stone, men and women that are alive, not of marble (like Alma-Tadema’s).  The artificiality of his work is principally in the choice of a subject, not in the performance.  How luminous and silky are his blacks may be noted at the Metropolitan Museum in his portrait of a Spanish lady.  There is nothing of the petit-maitre in the sensitive and adroit handling of values.  The rather triste expression, the veiled look of the eyes, the morbidezza of the flesh tones, and the general sense of amplitude and grace give us a Fortuny who knew how to paint broadly.  The more obvious and dashing side of him is present in the Arabian Fantaisie of the Vanderbilt Gallery.  It must be remembered that he spent some time copying, at Madrid, Velasquez and Goya, and as Camille Mauclair enthusiastically declares, these copies are literal “identifications.”  They are highly prized by the Marquise Carcano (who owned the Vicaría), Madrazo, and the Baron Davillieu the last named the chief critical authority on Fortuny.

In the history of the arts there are cases such as Fortuny’s, of Mozart, Chopin, Raphael, and some others, whose precocity and prodigious powers of production astonished their contemporaries.  Fortuny, whose full name was Mariano Jose Maria Bernardo Fortuny y Carbo, was born at Reus, a little town in the province of Tarragona, near Barcelona.  He was very poor, and at the age of twelve an orphan.  His grandfather, a carpenter, went with the lad on foot through the towns of Catalonia exhibiting a cabinet containing wax figures painted by Mariano and perhaps modelled by him.  He began carving and daubing at the age of five; a regular little fingersmith, his hands were never idle.  He secured by the promise of talent a pension of forty-two francs a month and went to Barcelona to study at the Academy.  Winning the prize of Rome in 1857, he went there and copied old masters until 1860, when, the war between Spain and Morocco breaking out, he went to Morocco on General Prim’s staff, and for five or six months his brain was saturated with the wonders of Eastern sunlight, exotic hues, beggars, gorgeous rugs, snake-charmers, Arabs afoot or circling on horseback with the velocity of birds, fakirs, all the huge glistening febrile life he was later to interpret with such charm and exactitude.

He returned to Rome.  He made a second trip to Africa.  He returned to Spain.  Barcelona gave him a pension of a hundred and thirty-two francs a month, which amount was kept up later by the Duke de Rianzares until 1867.  He went to Paris in 1866, was taken up by the Goupils, knew Meissonier and worked occasionally with Gerome.  His rococo pictures, his Oriental work set Paris ablaze.  He married the daughter of the Spanish painter Federigo Madrazo, and visited at Madrid, Granada, Seville, Rome, and, in 1874, London.  He contracted a pernicious fever at Rome and died there, November 21, 1874, at the age of thirty-six.  His funeral was imposing, many celebrities of the world of art participating.  He was buried in the Campo Varano.

In 1866 at Rome he began etching, and in fifteen months finished a series of masterpieces.  His line, surprisingly agile and sinuous, has the finesse of Goya whom he resembled at certain points.  He used aquatint with full knowledge of effects to be produced, and at times he recalls Rembrandt in the depth of his shadows.  His friend the painter Henri Regnault despaired in the presence of such versatility, such speed and ease of workmanship.  He wrote:  “The time I spent with Fortuny is haunting me still.  What a magnificent fellow he is!  He paints the most marvellous things, and is the master of us all.  I wish I could show you the two or three pictures he has in his hand or his etchings and water-colours.  They inspired me with a real disgust of my own.  Ah, Fortuny, you spoil my sleep!”

Standing aloof from the ideas and tendencies of his times and not a sweeper of the chords that stir in human nature the heroic or the pathetic, it is none the less uncritical to rank this Spaniard as a brainless technician.  Everything is relative, and the scale on which Fortuny worked was as true a medium for the exhibition of his genius as a museum panorama.  Let us not be misled by the worship of the elephantine.  It is characteristic of his temperament that the big battle piece he was commissioned by the Barcelona Academy to paint was never finished.  Not every one who goes to Rome does as the Romans do.  Dowered by nature with extraordinary acuity of vision, with a romantic, passionate nature and a will of steel, Fortuny was bound to become a great painter.  His manual technique bordered on the fabulous; he had the painter’s hand, as his fellow-countryman Pablo de Sarasate had the born hand of the violinist.  That he spent the brief years of his life in painting the subjects he did is not a problem to be posed, for, as Henry James has said, it is always dangerous to challenge an artist’s selection of subject.  Why did Goya conceive his Caprichos?  The love of decorative beauty in Fortuny was not bedimmed by criticism.  He had the lust of eye which not the treasures of Ormuz and Ind, or ivory, apes, and peacocks, could satisfy.  If he loved the kaleidoscopic East, he also knew his Spain.  We have seen at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts a tiny picture, the court-yard of a Spanish inn through which passes a blinding shaft of sunlight, which would make envious Senor Sorolla.  Fortuny has personal charm, a quality usually missing nowadays, for painters in their desire to be truthful are tumbling head over heels into the prosaic.  Individuality is vanishing in the wastes of an over-anxious realism.  If Fortuny is a daring virtuoso on one or two strings, his palette is ever enchanting.  Personally he was a handsome man, with a distinguished head, his body broad and muscular and capable of enduring fatigues that would have killed most painters.  Allied to this powerful physique was a seductive sensibility.  This peasant-born painter was an aristocrat of art.  Old Mother Nature is an implacable ironist.

SOROLLA Y BASTIDA

We might say of the Spanish painter Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida that he was one of those who came into the world with a ray of sunshine in their brains altering the phrase of Villiers de l’Isle Adam.  Senor Sorolla is also one of the half-dozen (are there so many?) great living painters.  He belongs to the line of Velasquez and Goya, and he seldom recalls either.  Under the auspices of the Hispanic Society of America there was an exhibition of his works in 1909, some two hundred and fifty in all, hung in the museum of the society, West 156th Street, near Broadway.  The liveliest interest was manifested by the public and professional people in this display.  Those who saw Sorolla’s art at the Paris Exposition, 1900, and at the Georges Petit Gallery, Paris, a few years ago need not be reminded of his virile quality and masterly brush-work.  Some art lovers in this city are aware of his Sad Inheritance, the property of Mr. John E. Berwind, which has been hung in the Sunday-school room of the Ascension Church, Fifth Avenue and Tenth Street.  It is one of the artist’s few pictures in which he feels the Weltschmerz.  His is a nature bubbling over with health and happiness.

He is a Valencian, was born in 1863 of poor parents, and by reason of his native genius and stubborn will power he became what he is the painter of vibrating sunshine without equal.  Let there be no mincing of comparisons in this assertion.  Not Turner, not Monet painted so directly blinding shafts of sunlight as has this Spaniard.  He is an impressionist, but not of the school of Monet.  His manner is his own, cunningly compounded as it is of the proceeds of half a dozen artists.  His trip to Rome resulted in nothing but a large eclectic canvas without individuality; what had this pagan in common with saints or sinners!  He relates that in Paris Bastien-Lepage and Menzel affected him profoundly.  This statement is not to be contradicted; nevertheless Sorolla is the master of those two masters in his proper province of the portrayal of outdoor life.  Degas was too cruel when he called Bastien the “Bouguereau of the modern movement”; Bastien academicised Manet and other moderns.  He said nothing new.  As for Menzel, it would be well here to correct the notion bandied about town that he discovered impressionism before the French.  He did not.  He went to Paris in 1867.  Meissonier at first, and later Courbet, influenced him.  His Rolling Mill was painted in 1876.  It is very Courbet.  The Paris Exposition, 1867, picture shows the influence of Monet who was in the Salon of 1864; and Monet was begat by Boudin, who stemmed from Jongkind; and Jongkind studied with Isabey; and they came from Turner, idolater of the Sun.  Remember, too, that Corot and Courbet called Eugene Boudin “roi des ciels.”  Monet not only studied with him but openly admitted that he had learned everything from him, while Boudin humbly remarked that he had but entered the door forced by the Dutchman Jongkind.  Doubtless Sorolla found what he was looking for in Bastien, though it would be nearer the truth to say that he studied the Barbizons and impressionists and took what he needed from them all.

He is a temperament impressionable to the sun, air, trees, children, women, men, cattle, landscapes, the ocean.  Such swift, vivid notation of the fluid life about him is rare; it would be photographic were it not the personal memoranda of a selecting eye; it would be transitory impressionism were it not for a hand magical in its manipulation of pigments.  Brain and brush collaborate with an instantaneity that does not perplex because the result is so convincing.  We do not intend to quote that musty flower of rhetoric which was a favourite with our grandfathers.  It was the fashion then to say that Nature capitalised took the brush from the hand of the painter, meaning some old duffer who saw varnish instead of clear colour, and painted the picture for him.  Sorolla is receptive; he does not attempt to impose upon nature an arbitrary pattern, but he sees nature with his own eyes, modified by the thousand subtle experiences in which he has steeped his brain.  He has the tact of omission very well developed.  After years of labour he has achieved a personal vision.  It is so completely his that to copy it would be to perpetrate a burlesque.  He employs ploys the divisional taches of Monet, spots, cross-hatchings, big sabre-like strokes a la John Sargent, indulges in smooth sinuous silhouettes, or huge splotches, refulgent patches, explosions, vibrating surfaces; surfaces that are smooth and oily surfaces, as in his waters, that are exquisitely translucent.  You can’t pin him down to a particular formula.  His technique in other hands would be coarse, crashing, brassy, bald, and too fortissimo.  It sometimes is all these discouraging things.  It is too often deficient in the finer modulations.  But he makes one forget this by his entrain, sincerity, and sympathy with his subject.  As a composer he is less satisfactory; it is the first impression or nothing in his art.  Apart from his luscious, tropical colour, he is a sober narrator of facts.  Ay, but he is a big chap, this amiable little Valencian with a big heart and a hand that reaches out and grabs down clouds, skies, scoops up the sea, and sets running, wriggling, screaming a joyful band of naked boys and girls over the golden summer sands in a sort of ecstatic symphony of pantheism.

How does he secure such intensity of pitch in his painting of atmosphere, of sunshine?  By a convention, just as the falsification of shadows by rendering them darker than nature made the necessary contrasts in the old formula.  Brightness in clear-coloured shadows is the key-note of impressionistic open-air effects.  W.C.  Brownell French Art puts it in this way:  “Take a landscape with a cloudy sky, which means diffused light in the old sense of the term, and observe the effect upon it of a sudden burst of sunlight.  What is the effect where considerable portions of the scene are suddenly thrown into marked shadow, as well as others illuminated with intense light?  Is the absolute value of the parts in shadow lowered or raised?  Raised, of course, by reflected light.  Formerly, to get the contrast between sunlight and shadow in proper scale the painter would have painted the shadows darker than they were before the sun appeared.  Relatively they are darker, since their value, though heightened, is raised infinitely less than the parts in sunlight.  Absolutely, their value is raised considerably.  If, therefore, they are painted lighter than they were before the sun appeared they in themselves seem truer.  The part of Monet’s pictures that is in shadow is measurably true, far truer than it would have been if painted under the old theory of correspondence, and had been unnaturally darkened to express the relation of contrast between shadow and sunlight.”

Like Turner, Monet forced the colour of his shadows, as MacColl points out, and like Monet, Sorolla forces the colour of his shadows but what a compeller of beautiful shadows forces the key to the very verge of the luminous abyss.  Senor Beruete, the Velasquez expert, truthfully says of Sorolla’s method:  “His canvases contain a great variety of blues and violets, balanced and juxtaposed with reds and yellows.  These, and the skilful use of white, provide him with a colour scheme of great simplicity, originality, and beauty.”  There are no non-transparent shadows, and his handling of blacks reveals a sensitive feeling for values.  Consider that black-gowned portrait of his wife.  His underlying structural sense is never obscured by his fat, flowing brush.

It must not be supposed that because of Sorolla’s enormous brio his general way of entrapping nature is brutal.  He is masculine and absolutely free from the neurasthenic morbidezza of his fellow-countryman Zuloaga. (And far from attaining that painter’s inches as a psychologist.) For the delineation of moods nocturnal, of poetic melancholy, of the contemplative aspect of life we must not go to Sorolla.  He is not a thinker.  He is the painter of bright mornings and brisk salt breezes.  He is half Greek.  There is Winckelmann’s Heiterkeit, blitheness, in his groups of romping children, in their unashamed bare skins and naïve attitudes.  Boys on Valencian beaches evidently believe in Adamic undress.  Nor do the girls seem to care.  Stretched upon his stomach on the beach, a youth, straw-hatted, stares at the spume of the rollers.  His companion is not so unconventionally disarrayed, and as she has evidently not eaten of the poisonous apple of wisdom she is free from embarrassment.  Balzac’s two infants, innocent of their sex, could not be less carefree than the Sorolla children.  How tenderly, sensitively, he models the hardly nubile forms of maidens.  The movement of their legs as they race the strand, their dash into the water, or their nervous pausing at the rim of the wet here is poetry for you, the poetry of glorious days in youth-land.  Curiously enough his types are for the most part more international than racial; that is, racial as are Zuloaga’s Basque brigands, manolas, and gipsies.

But only this?  Can’t he paint anything but massive oxen wading to their buttocks in the sea; or fisher boats with swelling sails blotting out the horizon; or a girl after a dip standing, as her boyish cavalier covers her with a robe you see the clear, pink flesh through her garb; or vistas of flower gardens with roguish maidens and courtly parks; peasants harvesting, working women sorting raisins; sailors mending nets, boys at rope-making is all this great art?  Where are the polished surfaces of the cultured studio worker; where the bric-a-brac which we inseparably connect with pseudo-Spanish art?  You will not find any of them.  Sorolla, with good red blood in his veins, the blood of a great, misunderstood race, paints what he sees on the top of God’s earth.  He is not a book but a normal nature-lover.  He is in love with light, and by his treatment of relative values creates the illusion of sun-flooded landscapes.  He does not cry for the “sun,” as did Oswald Alving; it comes to him at the beckoning of his brush.  His many limitations are but the defects of his good qualities.

Sorolla is sympathetic.  He adores babies and delights in dancing.  His babies are irresistible.  He can sound the Mitleid motive without a suspicion of odious sentimentality.  What charm there is in some of his tiny children as they lean their heads on their mothers!  They fear the ocean, yet are fascinated by it.  Near by is a mother and child in bed.  They sleep.  The right hand of the mother stretches, instinctively, toward the infant.  It is the sweet, unconscious gesture of millions of mothers.  On one finger of the hand there is just a hint of gold from a ring.  The values of the white counterpane and the contrast of dark-brown hair on the pillow are truthfully expressed.  One mother and babe, all mothers and babes, are in this picture.  Turn to that old rascal in a brown cloak, who is about to taste a glass of wine.  A snag gleams white in his sly, thirsty mouth.  The wine tastes fine, eh!  You recall Goya.  As for the boys swimming, the sensations of darting and weaving through velvety waters are produced as if by wizardry.  But you never think of Sorolla’s line, for line, colour, idea, actuality are merged.  The translucence of this sea in which the boys plash and plunge is another witness to the verisimilitude of Sorolla’s vision.  Boecklin’s large canvas at the new Pinakothek, Munich, is often cited as a tour de force of water painting.  We allude to the mermaids and mermen playing in the trough of a greenish sea.  It is mere “property” water when compared to Sorolla’s closely observed and clearly reproduced waves.  Rhythm that is the prime secret of his vitality.

His portraiture, when he is interested in his sitters, is excellent.  Beruete is real, so Cossio, the author of the El Greco biography; so the realistic novelist Blanco Ibanez; but the best, after those of his, Sorolla’s, wife and children, is that of Frantzen, a photographer, in the act of squeezing the bulb.  It is a frank characterisation.  The various royalties and high-born persons whose counterfeit presentments are accomplished with such genuine effort are interesting; but the heart is missing.  Cleverness there is in the portraits of Alphonse; and his wife’s gorgeous costume should be the envy of our fashionable portrait manufacturers.  It is under the skies that Sorolla is at ease.  Monet, it must not be forgotten, had two years’ military service in Morocco; Sorolla has always lived, saturated himself in the rays of a hot sun and painted beneath the hard blue dome of Spanish skies.

Sorolla is a painting temperament, and the freshening breezes and sunshine that emanate from his canvases should drive away the odours of the various chemical cook-shops which are called studios in our “world of art.”

One cannot speak too much of the large-minded and cultivated spirit of Archer Milton Huntington, who is the projector and patron of the exhibitions at the Hispanic Society Museum.  Sorolla y Bastida, through the invitation of Mr. Huntington, made this exhibition.

IGNACIO ZULOAGA

We are no longer with Sorolla and his vibrating sunshine on Valencian sands, or under the hard blue dome of San Sebastian; the two-score canvases on view in 1909 at the Hispanic Museum were painted by a man of profounder intellect, of equally sensual but more restrained temperament than Sorolla; above all, by an artist with different ideals a realist, not an impressionist, Ignacio Zuloaga.  It would not be the entire truth to say that his masterpieces were seen; several notable pictures, unhappily, were not; but the exhibition was finely representative.  Zuloaga showed us the height and depth of his powers in at least one picture, and the longer you know him the more secrets he yields up.

In Paris they say of Sorolla that he paints too fast and too much; of Zuloaga that he is too lazy to paint.  Half truths, these.  The younger man is more deliberate in his methods.  He composes more elaborately, executes at a slower gait.  He resents the imputation of realism.  The fire and fury of Sorolla are not his, but he selects, weighs, analyses, reconstructs in a word, he composes and does not improvise.  He is, nevertheless, a realist a verist, as he prefers to be called.  He is not cosmopolitan, and Sorolla is:  the types of boys and girls racing along the beaches of watering places which Sorolla paints are cosmopolitan.  Passionate vivacity and the blinding sunshine are not qualities that appeal to Zuloaga.  He portrays darkest let us rather say greenest, brownest Spain.  The Basque in him is the strongest strain.  He is artistically a lineal descendant of El Greco, Velasquez, Goya; and the map of his memory has been traversed by Manet.  He is more racial, more truly Spanish, than any painter since Goya.  He possesses the genius of place.

Havelock Ellis’s book, The Soul of Spain, is an excellent corrective for the operatic Spain, and George Borrow is equally sound despite his bigotry, while Gautier is invaluable.  Arsène Alexandre in writing of Zuloaga acutely remarks of the Spanish conspiracy in allowing the chance tourist only to scratch the soil “of this country too well known but not enough explored.”  Therefore when face to face with the pictures of Zuloaga, with romantic notions of a Spain where castles grow in the clouds and moonshine on every bush, prepare to be shocked, to be disappointed.  He will show you the real Spain the sun-soaked soil, the lean, sharp outlines of hills, the arid meadows, and the swift, dark-green rivers.  He has painted cavaliers and dames of fashion, but his heart is in the common people.  He knows the bourgeois and he knows the gipsy.  He has set forth the pride of the vagabond and the garish fascinations of the gitana.  Since Goya, you say, and then wonder whether it might not be wiser to add:  Goya never had so complicated a psychology.  A better craftsman than Goya, a more varied colourist, a more patient student of Velasquez, of life, though without Goya’s invention, caprice, satanism, and fougue.

Zuloaga was not born poor, but with genius; and genius always spells discontent.  He would not become an engineer and he would paint.  His family, artists and artisans, did not favour his bent.  He visited Italy, almost starved in Paris, and after he knew how to handle his tools he starved for recognition.  It is only a few years since he exhibited the portrait of his uncle, Daniel Zuloaga, and his cousins.  It now hangs in the Luxembourg; but Madrid would have none of him; a Spanish jury rejected him at Paris in 1900, and not possessing the means of Edouard Manet he could not hire a gallery and show the world the stuff that was in him.  He did not sulk; he painted.  Barcelona took him up; Paris, the world, followed suit.  To-day he is rich, famous, and forty.  He was born at Eibar, 1870, in the Basque province of Viscaya.  He is a collector of rare taste and has housed his treasures in a gallery at his birthplace.  He paints chiefly at Segovia, in an old church, though he wanders over Spain, sometimes afoot, sometimes in his motor car, often accompanied by Rodin in the latter, and wherever he finds himself he is at home and paints.  A bull-fighter in the ring, as was Goya perhaps the legend stirred him to imitation he is a healthy athlete.  His vitality, indeed, is enormous, though it does not manifest itself in so dazzling a style as Sorolla’s.  The demerits of literary comparisons are obvious, yet we dare to think of Sorolla and Zuloaga as we should of Théophile Gautier and Charles Baudelaire.  In one is the clear day flame of impersonality; the other is all personality, given to nocturnal moods, to diabolism and perversities, cruelties and fierce voluptuousness.  Sorolla is pagan; Gothic is Zuloaga, a Goth of modern Spain.  He has more variety than Sorolla, more intellect.  The Baudelairian strain grows in his work; it is unmistakable.  The crowds that went to see the “healthy” art of Sorolla (as if art had anything in common with pulse, temperature, and respiration) did not like, or indeed understand, many of Zuloaga’s magnificent pictorial ideas.

He paints in large coups, but his broad, slashing planes are not impressionistic.  He swims in the traditional Spanish current with joy.  Green with him is almost an obsession a national symbol certainly.  His greens, browns, blacks, scarlets are rich, sonorous, and magnetic.  He is a colourist.  He also is master of a restrained palette and can sound the silver grays of Velasquez.  His tonalities are massive.  The essential bigness of his conceptions, his structural forms, are the properties of an eye swift, subtle, and all-embracing.  It seems an image that is at once solidly rooted in mother earth and is as fluctuating as life.  No painter to-day has a greater sense of character, except Degas.  The Frenchman is the superior draughtsman, but he is no more vital in his interpretation of his ballet girls, washerwomen, and grisettes than is Zuloaga in his delineations of peasants, dwarfs, dogs, courtesans, scamps, zealots, pilgrims, beggars, drunkards, and working girls.  What verve, what grip, what bowels of humanity has this Spaniard!  A man, not a professor of academic methods.  He has no school, and he is a school in himself.  That the more serene, poetic aspects and readings of life have escaped him is merely to say that he is not constituted a contemplative philosopher.  The sinister skein to be seen in some of his canvases does not argue the existence of a spiritual bias but is the recognition of evil in life.  It is not very pleasant, nor is it reassuring, but it is part of the artist, rooted deep in his Spanish soul along with the harsh irony and a cruel spirit of mockery.  He refuses to follow the ideals of other men, and he paints a spade a spade; at least the orchestration, if brutal, is not lascivious.  A cold, impartial eye observes and registers the corruption of cities small and great and the infinitely worse immoralities of the open country.  Sometimes Zuloaga’s comments are witty, sometimes pessimistic.  If he has studied Goya and Manet, he also knows Felicien Rops.

The only picture in the Zuloaga exhibition that grazes the border-land of the unconventional is Le Vieux Marcheur.  It is as moral as Hogarth and as bitter as Rops.  It recalls the Montmartre days of the artist when he was acquainted with Paul Gauguin and Toulouse-Lautrec.  Two women are crossing a bridge.  Their actuality is impressed upon the retina in a marvellous ly definite way.  They live, they move.  One is gowned in dotted green, the other in black.  There is a little landscape with water beyond the iron railing.  A venerable minotaur is in pursuit.  He wears evening clothes, an overcoat is thrown across his left arm, under his right he carries waggishly a cane.  His white tie and hat of sober silk are in respectable contrast with his air of fatuousness the Marquis of Steyne en route; the doddering hero of Mansfield in A Parisian Romance, or Baron Hulot.  The alert expression of the girls, who appear to be loitering, tells us more at a glance than a chapter of Flaubert, Zola, or De Maupassant.  Is it necessary to add that the handling takes your breath away because of its consummate ease and its realisation of the effects sought?  Note the white of the old party’s spats, echoed by the bit of stocking showing a low shoe worn by one of the girls; note the values of the blacks in the hat, coat, trousers, shoe tips of the man.  The very unpleasantness of the theme is forgotten in the supreme art of its presentation.

M. Alexandre, the French critic, may argue valiantly that Zuloaga must not be compared with Goya, that their methods and themes are dissimilar.  True, but those witches (Les Sorcieres de San Millan) are in the key of Goya, not manner, but subject-matter a hideous crew.  At once you think of the Caprichos of Goya.  The hag with the distaff, whose head is painted with a fidelity worthy of Holbein; the monkey profile of the witch crouching near the lantern, that repulsive creature in spectacles Goya spectacles; the pattern hasn’t varied since his days these ladies and their companions, especially that anonymous one in a hood, coupled with the desperate dreariness of the background, a country dry and hard as a volcanic cinder, make a formidable ensemble.  Zuloaga relates that the beldames screeched and fought in his studio when he posed them.  You exclaim while looking at them:  “How now, you secret black and midnight hags!” Hell hovers hard by; each witch of the unholy trio has the evil eye.

As a painter of dwarfs Zuloaga has not been surpassed by any one but Velasquez.  His Gregorio, the monster with the huge head, the sickening, livid, globular eye, the comical pose you exclaim:  What a brush!  The picture palpitates with reality, an ugly reality, for the tall old couple are not prepossessing.  The topography of the country is minutely observed.  But this painter does not wreak himself in ugliness or morbidities; he is singularly happy in catching the attitudes and gestures of the peasants as they return from the vintage; of picadors, matadors, chulos, in the ring or lounging, smoking, awaiting the signal.  The large and celebrated family group of the matador Gallito which is to remain permanently in the Hispanic Society’s museum is a superb exemplar of the synthetic and rhythmic art of the Spaniard.  Each character is seized and rendered.  The strong silhouettes melt into a harmonious arabesque; the tonal gamut is nervous, strong, fiery; the dull gold background is a foil for the scale of colour notes.  It is a striking picture.  Very striking, too, is the portrait of Breval as Carmen, though it is the least Spanish picture in the collection; Breval is pictured on the stage, the lights from below playing over her features.  The problem is solved, as Besnard or Degas has solved it, successfully, but in purely personal manner.  It is the picture in the Metropolitan Museum that is bound to attract attention, as it is a technical triumph; but it is not very characteristic.

We saw dark-eyed, graceful manolas on balconies this truly Spanish motive in art, as Spanish as is the Madonna Italian over which are thrown gorgeous shawls, smiling, flirting; with languorous eyes and provocative fans, they sit ensconced as they sat in Goya’s time and centuries before Goya, the Eternal Feminine of Spain.  Zuloaga is her latest interpreter.  Isn’t Candida delicious in green, with black head-dress of lace isn’t she bewitching?  Her stockings are green.  The wall is a most miraculous adumbration of green.  Across the room is another agent of disquiet in Nile green, Mercedes by name.  Her aquiline nose, black eyes, and the flowers she wears at the side of her head bewilder; the sky, clouds, and landscape are all very lovely.  This is a singularly limpid, loose, flowing picture.  It has the paint quality sometimes missing in the bold, fat massing of the Zuloaga colour chords.  The Montmartre Cafe concert singer is a sterling specimen of Zuloaga’s portraiture.  He is unconventional in his poses; he will jam a figure against the right side of the frame (as in the portrait of Marthe Morineau) or stand a young lady beside an ornamental iron gate in an open park (not a remarkable portrait, but one that pleases the ladies because of the textures).  The head of the old actor capitally suggests the Spanish mummer.  And the painter’s cousin, Esperanza!  What cousins he boasts!  We recall The Three Cousins, with its laughing trio and the rich colour scheme.  Our recollection, too, of The Piquant Retort, and its brown and scarlet harmonies; of the Promenade After the Bull-fight, which has the classical balance and spaced charm of Velasquez; and that startling Street of Love overbalances any picture except one in this exhibition, and that is The Bull-fighter’s Family.  The measuring eye of Zuloaga, his tremendous vitality, his sharp, superb transference to canvas of the life he has elected to represent and interpret are at first sight dazzling.  The performance is so supreme remember, not in a niggling, technical sense a half-dozen men beat him at mere pyrotechnics and lace fioritura that his limitations, very marked in his case, are overlooked.  You have drunk a hearty Spanish wine; oil to the throat, confusion to the senses.  You do not at first miss the soul; it is not included in the categories of Senor Zuloaga.  Zuloaga, like his contemporary farther north, Anders Zorn, is a man as well as a painter; the conjunction is not too frequent.  The grand manner is surely his.  He has the modulatory sense, and Christian Brinton notes his sonorous acid effects.  He paints beggars, dwarfs, work-girls, noblemen, bandits, dogs, horses, lovely women, gitanas, indolent Carmens; but real, not the pasteboard and foot-lights variety of Merimee and Bizet.  Zuloaga’s Spain is not a second-hand Italy, like that of so many Spanish painters.  It is not all bric-a-brac and moonlight and chivalric tinpot helmets.  It is the real Spain of to-day, the Spain that has at last awakened to the light of the twentieth century after sleeping so long, after sleeping, notwithstanding the desperate nudging it was given a century ago by the realist Goya.  Now, Zuloaga is not only stepping on his country’s toes, but he is recording the impressions he makes.  He, too, is a realist, a realist with such magic in his brush that it would make us forgive him if he painted the odour of garlic.

Have you seen his Spanish Dancers?  Not the dramatic Carmencita of Sargent, but the creature as she is, with her simian gestures, her insolence, her vulgarity, her teeth and the shrill scarlet of the bare gum above the gleaming white, His street scenes are a transcript of the actual facts, and inextricably woven with the facts is a sense of the strange beauty of them all.  His wine harvesters, venders of sacred images, or that fascinating canvas My Three Cousins before these, also before the Promenade After the Bull-fight, you realise that by some miracle of nature the intensity of Goya and his sense of life, the charm of Velasquez and his sober dignity are recalled by the painting of a young Spanish artist who a decade ago was unknown.  Nor is Zuloaga an eclectic.  His force and individuality are too patent for us to entertain such a heresy.  A glance at Jacques-Emile Blanche’s portrait of the Spanish painter explains other things.  There is the physique of a man who can work many hours a day before an easel; there are the penetrating eyes of an observer, spying eyes, slightly cruel; the head is an intellectual one, the general conformation of the face harmonious and handsome.  The body is that of an athlete, but not of the bull-necked sort we see in Goya.  The temperament suggested is impetuous, controlled by a strong will; it has been fined down by study and the enforced renunciations of poverty-haunted youth.  Above all, there is race; race in the proud, resolute bearing, race in the large, firm, supple, and nervous hands.  Indeed, the work of Zuloaga is all race.  He is the most Spanish painter since Goya.