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28 far away from the cares of mortality, and lifting the soul to heaven.

There is an excellent portrait of Murillo, by Tobar, his pupil; a kind thoughtful face it is, with a broader, more benevolent forehead, than that of Velasquez, and full, dreamy eyes. Tobar in part followed the style of his master. After the manner of the Roman Church, which attributes all that is endearing to the Virgin, he has represented her as feeding the lambs of the flock, and seated under a tree, with her hand on the head of a lambkin, while she holds out roses to the rest.

The Virgins of the Murillo school are certainly more celestial beings, and less conventional, than those of Raphael. Had that great artist only lived longer, he would assuredly have departed from the stiff monotony of his grouping, which has rendered it so easy to imitate him that doubts have arisen lately as to whether the much-prized “Perla” is truly an original. The art of imitation is indeed carried to extraordinary perfection, as the following authentic anecdote will show. The superintendent of one of the royal galleries, in a part of Europe I need not mention, bought a few years since a Raphael. He traced its history with the most satisfactory results, and summoned a conclave of the wise and learned in such matters to rejoice with him over the treasure he had found. With one accord they all pronounced it a perfect treasure; true, it was a “replica,” but that nowise diminished its value, and was a further proof of its authenticity. It was framed with reference to its great merits, and duly entered into the Royal Catalogue, other pictures being turned out to give it its due proportion of light, and every consideration paid to its claims to distinction. Hardly had it been a month installed with all these honours, when one morning the superintendent was disturbed at his breakfast by the servant announcing that an artist wished to speak to him.

“Let him come in.”

He came, and modestly asked for employment, and the good word of so well-known a connoisseur.

“Why, my good fellow, I can do but little for myself. I buy no pictures, and for the Musée, nothing that is modern is admitted.”

“But I thought monsieur would give me some commission, as I painted the Raphael.”

“The Raphael,” said the dignified official waxing wroth; “how dare you presume to tell such lies? The Raphael is beyond doubt authentic: it had the unanimous approval of the most celebrated ‘virtuosi’ in Europe.”

“Nevertheless, if monsieur will honour me so far as to accompany me to my studio, I will show him another copy, which my mother will certify has been done by me.”

The enraged and mortified critic was with shame compelled to eat up his own words, and to dispossess his treasure from its eminence; and I fear that, like poor Chatterton, the artist gained but little by his fraud.

The possession of forty pictures by Titian would of itself be sufficient to establish the reputation of the Madrid Museum. “The Presentation of Charles V. and his family to the Heavenly Father by the Virgin” shows how strangely ceremony mingled even with the Emperor’s religion. There are many pictures by the Bassanos. “The going into the Ark” is a delightful homely scene, where the sturdy wives of Shem, Ham, and Japhet are depicted on household cares intent, and bending under the weight of featherbeds fastened on to their backs. Juan de Joanes has a “Lord’s Supper,” considered by many to be equal to Leonardo da Vinci’s. In the golden halo surrounding each disciple’s head, the name is inscribed—a needless precaution as regards the loving features of St. John, and the griping, avaricious expression of Judas. One wearies of the endless studies of Ribera from emaciated skeletons writhing in anguish, and looking more like St. Simeon Stylites than Christian saints and martyrs. In damp and gloomy chambers are stowed away a perfect wealth of works of minor Dutch painters, all doomed to certain destruction from want of air and light.

After leaving the museum, it is a relief to the weary eyes and brain to wander among the shady acacia groves of the Buen Retiro gardens; in any other country they would not be highly esteemed, but here verdure of any kind is grateful. The long formal alleys are adorned with statues, arranged regardless of era, and you find the Cid and Madame du Barry side by side. Behind a high railing is a reserved garden, where royalty walks apart from the crowd. Just as we arrive, one of the royal Infantas, who has been there promenading, prepares to depart. The train of carriages, the dignity, the etiquette which surrounds the little creature, recalls the time of the state-loving Philips. A guard of mounted soldiers keep off the crowd, which, however, evinces no curiosity, and hardly a hat is raised to the Royal Highness, who is seated in a perambulator, propelled by bedizened lacqueys towards the state carriage drawn by four black horses. At the door of the carriage, on one side, stands an old gentleman in court dress, covered with orders, bowing, cocked hat in hand; on the other curtseys a fine old lady, arrayed in gorgeous brocade. The lacqueys lift in the pale baby, after it enter two smart nurses, arrayed in costumes of rose-coloured satin and black velvet; away drives the carriage, the tiny infant looking out of the window, and kissing its white hand to the passers-by. The pompous old lady and gentleman follow in another carriage drawn by four mules, behind them rolls an empty state carriage drawn by four bays, in case of any accident occurring to the equipage which has the honour of containing the royal infant. The perambulator is solemnly lifted into a fourgon, the guards close round it, and off they all set to the palace. Is it the nineteenth century, or do I dream? I rub my eyes and remember it is Spain, and, pitying the poor little baby so hedged in from infancy by ceremonial and conventionality, I wend my way to the monkeys, who jump and frisk no less blythely for me than for any crowned head. Poor little royal babies, how can they guess what human nature is like? What wonder they grow up proud and cold when from babyhood they have seen nothing but court ladies and chamberlains bowing to the dust before them!