Page:Once a Week June to Dec 1863.pdf/36

26 in the vilest taste, and the roofs of large coarse brown tiles give them a rustic appearance.

In front of the palace is a large shady square, in the centre part of which, surrounding the equestrian statue of Philip IV., is a small enclosed garden. To this the nurses and children who haunt the place have no admission, but gaze wistfully at the flowery oasis. The children solace themselves for their exclusion by endless gyrations round and round in little carts, drawn by stupid merino sheep, while, as usual, soldiers in plenty are sauntering about, ever ready to amuse the nurses, the most picturesque of the female population of Madrid. Round their heads are tied gay handkerchiefs, knotted at the back with a butterfly bow, another of a different colour adorns their shoulders, and their bright petticoats are striped with black velvet. Their aprons, which have long ends tied behind, bordered with lace, look particularly well when worn with a black dress. Only a few of the wide streets have the glory of trees, for trees in such a dry country involve much care and attention. Round their roots is a carefully-bricked little well, about a foot deep, intended to retain the water, with which they are daily supplied; when full, a little channel conducts the precious fluid to the next tree, and so on till the whole avenue is refreshed. The Prado is the most disappointing place in Madrid. Part of it is a kind of Sahara, with mere saplings on either side. It is inferior to the public promenade of every other great capital city. Here may be seen all the beau monde, differing but little from the same species in every other capital in Europe, save, perhaps, that the ladies’ costumes are more gaudy than a negress’s on a Sunday, and that small by degrees and beautifully less, are the dandies who saunter beside them. Hardly a mantilla is to be seen; all-omnipotent Fashion has decreed that Paris bonnets are the mode. The children strut about in outré French fashions, the little mannikins of two or three supremely ridiculous in manly attire. Comfortable-looking matrons prefer remaining in their carriages, and, if they do get out for a stroll, their small feet (or excessive corpulence) cause them to waddle like ducks. Of beauty there is not much to be seen. The Spanish ladies have lost immensely by giving up the black dresses and mantillas, which won them the rapturous admiration of Englishmen in the days of the Peninsular War. Compared with the hideous dresses then worn in the rest of Europe, the Spanish costume must have been charming. The gauzy setting of the mantilla lends beauty even to the homeliest features, and causes the Parisian bonnet even of “Varennes,” or “Laure,” to appear a grotesque monstrosity; how much more striking, then, must have been the contrast in the days our grandmothers wore hats the size of a millstone, with towering plumes, scanty petticoats, and waists close up under their arms! Save for a few carriages drawn by sleek, shaven mules, the tout ensemble is much the same as Hyde Park or the Champs Elysées. Let us leave the fashionable world and turn into the Museum, which is close at hand.

Polite little officials, with cocked hats on, receive your canes and parasols, and lend you a copy of the catalogue, which is out of print and can no longer be bought. As you stand in the rotunda, filled with daubs, both old and new, you see on either side doors, with the inscription, “Escuela EspanolEspañol [sic];” you go in, and introduce yourself to the shades of Velasquez and Murillo.

Diligently all morning, and for many previous days, you have studied Murray’s “Handbook,” Stirling’s “Spanish Painters,” and Viardot’s “Musées d’Espagne.” You are prepared to go into fits of enthusiasm, and rave about the great Velasquez. Why, is this a Velasquez? this drowsy, sulky Virgin? these dauby equestrian portraits?—where the original faulty drawing, unpainted out, gives each horse at least six legs.

“Mon Dieu, Adolphe,” says a spruce little French artist beside me, mounted on a ladder, for the purpose of investigating more closely the beauties of the picture; “c’est l’art de badigeonner.”

Oh! heretic, how dare you disbelieve all the great authorities! Viardot tells you he is the greatest master in the world: you unbelieving infidel, out upon you!

Look at those faithful believers. With eyes fixed on a well-known red book, they wander arm-in-arm through the gallery, stopping where Ford desires them, in his imperative way; they shock no one by rash opinions, but devoutly adhere to conventional belief.

Though at first a disappointment, Velasquez’ pictures gain upon one. The most part are really mere sketches, which the great artist, rendered lazy by court favour and success, never gave himself the trouble to finish. Surrounded by empty-headed fops, who followed the cue given by royalty, and praised indiscriminately, no wonder that he succumbed to the paralysing influence of court life. Most of his pictures require to be seen from a great distance. When you stand close to them, they sadly resemble scene-painting. In two or three, one sees what Velasquez could accomplish when he chose to exert himself. The well-known “Borrachos,” or “Drinkers,” is an example of this. It represents a dozen peasants jollifying after the completion of the vintage; the Bacchic king, half naked, is seated on a barrel, and is crowning with vine-leaves the most jocular of his boon companions, who kneels to receive this honourable distinction. Another of the crew, with a broad grin on his countenance, holds a bowl of new wine, which seems literally to tremble in his shaky hands, and as you gaze, you momentarily expect to see it flow over the kneeler. It is, after all, only a Teniers the size of life; and it is amusing to hear the critics, who despise the low realities of the Flemish school, wax eloquent over this and a tribe of pictures of grinning beggars, because they are the work of a Spanish hidalgo.

The poor Flemings have got a bad name; they are ever branded as coarse and boorish, and unideal; even in the descriptions of the great chef-d’œuvre of Velasquez, “The Surrender of Breda,” they come in for a slap in the face, and we are told to admire the grave, dignified Spaniards, in contradistinction to the heavy, dull Dutch boors. I beg to differ: the Dutch seem to me to have far the best of it; they have honest,