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José
Martí Letras y Huellas Desconocidas Carlos Ripoll |
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ORIGINALS IN ENGLISH THE SPANISH STUDENTS Nobody
believes the Spanish Students performing at Booth’s Theatre to be
a genuine article. Spanish students are gone forever. You could not
find them any longer even in Spain, except in Quevedo’s books, in
Vierge’s illustrations, or in Gil
Blas. The ancient capa
looking like a garden of flowers, all patched with pieces of
various colors, has forever disappeared. La capa del estudiante Spanish
universities have lost their picturesque and poetical character, and
Salamanca, where Fray Luis de
Leon’s chair is shown to travelers, as
well as Alcala de Henares, the alma mater of Cervantes, are now
miserable, melancholy places. Stormy revolutions have passed over
them. Young Spaniards, dressed like the students of any other
country, study Roman laws or medicine in modern school halls. There
are no more duels, no swords, no three-cornered hats, no spoons
stuck behind the hat band. They no longer wait for the soup,
quarreling and jesting at the door of old convents. They take their
meals now in gloomy boarding-houses, where they pay for a meager
sustenance--una triste peseta. Convents, during the republican
government, became barracks, refectories were converted into
stables. Only
one of their old customs still survives. When carnival approaches,
the medical students dust their bandores, guitars and violins. The
nights are beautiful at that season, the stars shed their pale light
all over Madrid. The students, in marching order, pass nightly
through the calm streets, playing the soft, gay, sensuous melodies
inherited from dreamy Arabs. There is a great charm in these fantastic marches. They are true revivals of
the customs of the most original century of the middle ages. These
romantic amusements are a rehearsal of the airs which the students
will play during the carnival. In the daytime, they sing, dance,
court the young ladies, pursue the robust maids, and lay in a stock
of cuartos, a Spanish
copper piece. During the night they gaily spend all the money they
collected in the daytime. All pockets are opened for them. The
windows are filled with smiling women; shining pieces of money are
thrown down; merry and witty thanks go up from the
students. A restless vanguard traverses the streets in all
directions, stops the passerby, and holds out the hat
with one band and shakes the noisy tambourine with the other.
The begging part of the custom does not take away any of its charm
and poetry. "La jota de Aragon" and another jota from
"El Molinero de Subiza" are always the most applauded. The
harmonious songs of Malaga’s daughters are mingled with the
jotas. The hymn of Riego, the Spanish national hymn of liberty,
moves and maddens the people. The
students in carnival time
and the guitarists are two of the special attractions of Spain.
There are many virtuosi of the guitar. Mas, Tarrega and Arcas are
the most famous. When Tarrega plays Chopin's "Funeral
March" all eyes are full of tears. When Arcas gives his bold
conceptions, the heart is moved and the ear charmed. Mas is famous
and recalls in his vehement manner the Hungarian gypsy Bihary, that
daring courtier of the Empress Maria Theresa. Guitar concerts are
often given in Madrid, and King Alfonso is extremely fond of this
kind of music. The Hour, I, 9, February 28, 1880, p. 133. ART
NOTES A
singular collection of old paintings is now on exhibition in one of
the Broadway picture stores; the "Ecce Homo" by Correggio
and a Virgin by Murillo. A joyful anxiety impels artists to see
these works; but the joy flies away on looking at the picture. Where
does this Correggio come from? Who could believe in the authenticity
of that unexpressive and meager Virgin? Even the "Ecce
Homo," which is generally believed to be the real painting of
Correggio, is supposed by the best critics not to be genuine. It
lacks his morbid outlines, his graceful postures and his flesh
tints. This doubtful picture belongs to the English "National
Gallery," by which it was bought, together with another
painting by the same master, for the fabulous price of 11,000
guineas. Ludovico Carracci made a copy of it, considered to be
better than the original. Augustin Carracci made a remarkable
engraving. A crowd of copyists is always around the canvas. The
Divine Infant seated on the knees of the Virgin, presenting a rosary
to some Dominicans, is the subject of the alleged Murillo. The
subject, indeed, might have been selected by the great master. The
style in which the original could have been painted is also correct.
But we search in vain for the ecstatical appearance of Murillo’s
saints, the charming smile of his infants, the happy expression of
his Virgins, and that vaporous coloring enveloping his pictures as
in a cloud. At first sight, the painting appears as if a profusion
of white spots has been thrown on the canvas. None of Murillo’s
pictures are so poor in expression, so badly proportioned. The
name of William Unger is widely known among amateurs of engravings.
When he published his first collection of reproductions of the
highest works of ancient and modern painters, he was saluted as a
thorough master of his art. A new collection is now ready,
sumptuously edited, with literary notes. The success of this second
part exceeds that of the first. The different styles of the art of
engraving are admirably mastered by Unger. His burin runs softly in
"The Valak Train" of Mr. Schreyer, or fixes itself deeply
in ""A Portrait of Wagner, by Leubach. He knows the secret
of clear clouds as well as that of the dark abyss. Unger
combines all the aptitudes, sweetness of coloring, diversity of
tones of the black tint, a complete domination of drawing, and an
astonishing power to assimilate the work of others. All the German
artists are represented in Unger’s collection. The engraver
preserves the original character of the painter. The coloring is
replaced by a skillful employment of different shades. His burin
assumes the power of a brush. Mackart, Munkacsy, Schreyer, Passini,
Kaulback, Richter, Leubach, all the new German artists, are as well
understood as are Rembrandt, Van Dyck and all the old masters. The
Hour, I,
10, March 6, 1880, p. 151. ART
NOTES Mr.
Abner Harper’s gallery of paintings, now being sold by auction, is
a second-class collection of first class masters. Germany is
represented by Schreyer and Munkacay; Spain by Fortuny, Madrazo, Díaz
and Ferrándiz; and the honor of France is
upheld by Fromentin, Gérôme , Bouguereau, Corot, Neuville,
Detaille and Vibert. The most striking painting is "The Studio
of the late Fortuny," by Ferrándiz, a pupil of Fortuny. The
style of the teacher is faithfully preserved; the perspective is
admirable, and the colors are bright without being too loud; but the
figures are badly grouped in exaggerated positions. "The
Hunt," of Fromentin, shows all the excellent aptitudes of that
painter. "The Haymaking", of Munkacsy reveals,
notwithstanding its incorrectness and want of finish, a powerful
touch. Bouguereau’s two delicate paintings are remarkable for his
usual softness of flesh—tints and pure expression. "Scenes
near Tangier" does not add anything to Fortuny’s fame.
"A Landscape," by Díaz, is remarkable for perspective and
truthfulness to nature. Neuville and Detaille compete in their
military figures, and Neuville wins with his conscientious
"Vedette," in which the drawing is as fine as the
coloring. Meissonnier has a water-color, the drawing of which is, of
course, irreproachable; but the sky is hard, the grass unfinished,
the coloring rough. "0ff Guard," by Alvarez, is a
remarkable study of the nude. Worm’s conspicuous water-color is
"A Serenade," "A Landscape and Sheep" commands
attention, though the sheep are poorly painted, but the forest is
very well touched. Vibert’s "Burgomaster's Portrait" is
a fine water-color, but the idea is more graceful than the execution
is correct. "Going to the Bath" is to close an imitation
of Fortuny. Schreyer’s "Wallachian Scene and "An Advance
Guard," are worthy of good buyers. Leserel, a pupil of Gérôme,
is represented in the collection with a delicate and pretty
"Courtier." Mr.
Lippincott, an American artist, has just sent from Paris a new work
which will soon be exhibited in the Academy. Mr. Lippincott is a
pupil of Bonnat. There can be no question that Mr. Lippincott has
talent, but he is still a pupil. The picture just sent here is a
study of the nude, too often neglected. In the background, dark
mountains rise, crowned with a narrow band of sky; at the foot of
the mountains a fresh and full light plays upon the yellow sand, and
a group of boys are preparing to take a bath. There is a certain
charm about the group; the positions have been well studied; the
contrast of light is agreeable but the coloring is unfinished; the
flesh tint is conventional; and the anatomic proportions are not
strictly observed. An evident distrust of his own ability must have
troubled the hand of Mr. Lippincott. The
Hour, I,
11, March 13, 1880, p. 17. ART:
FRENCH
SALON The
winner of the first prize at this year’s exhibition of painting in
Paris is a young man named Aimé Nicolas Morot. Three candidates
seemed entitled by the verdict of popular opinion to gain the proud
distinction. Cormon, through the merits of his "Cain; Bastien
Lepage, through his "Jeanne d’Arc," and the laureat,
Morot, whose picture of the “Good Samaritan" is fairly
entitled to its award of honor. The
"Jeanne d’Arc" of Bastien Lepage is lacking in the
mystic force which should be the basis of this subject. The faith
which animates the works of this character is wanting. Belief in
Christianity has inspired the "Last Judgment" and the
"Madonna della Sedia," but to a man who lacks the first
conviction in regard to visions, the absurdity of dealing with them
is manifest. This is the weak side of this artist, in other respects
so admirable, so conscientious, and with such aspirations for
perfection in his art. In devoting himself too assiduously to
difficulties of expression, he has possibly neglected the accident
of perspective and surroundings, which go so far to give life and
movement to figures. Freedom and space seem wanting in the treatment
of this grand subject. But on the other hand, praise should be
awarded to M. Lepage for the simplicity and sobriety of his style,
for his contempt of petty subjects, and for his endeavor to rescue
French art from the Japanese tendencies, which threaten it in the
present day, and to lead it back to the more dignified manner of
David and Poussin. Cormon’s
picture of "Cain" is a powerful work, which to Spaniards
would suggest the vigorous hand of Rosales. The crude force, the
brutality even belonging to the earliest periods of the world’s
history, is preserved in the treatment of this theme. The ferocious
wolf-like expression of the human family, the bits of raw flesh torn
from a bleeding animal, the stone hatchet, the massive chariot, all
contribute to define the period of this picture, as well as the
horrible nature of the subject. There are in nature such
monstrosities as animal flowers, which with their roseate petals
devour human flesh; there are vegetable masses which before our eyes
are changed to living, glistening worms, and there are also men who
illustrate the transition from the inferior order of animal
instincts to the superior desires of the soul. This man, still
lingering on the confines of animal brutality, is the
"Cain" of Cormon. Why
then has this powerful and truthful conception failed to receive the
reward of merit? Because the imagination of the artist, however
vivid, is not sufficient to determine the excellence of his
production. A thorough harmony of effect in drawing and coloring is
equally necessary for the success of a picture, and the defects of
"Cain" are unhappily apparent in the faulty drawing of the
limbs and the hard tone of coloring. The
merits of the "Good Samaritan" are precisely those wanting
in the case of "Cain." The subject is simple and the
treatment equally so. In fact, the most perfect symmetry exists
between the idea and the execution of this beautiful picture. The
exquisite drawign, the finished coloring and the blue warm sky of
Samaria glowing in tranquil beauty above the wounded man abandoned
on the plain below, are the principal features which impress one in
studying the work. A certain harmonious proportion is preserved in
adapting the clear purity of the sky and general surroundings to the
simple act of mercy which forms the subject of the picture. The
charitable soul of the good man illumines and animates the whole
work. Morot has departed from the traditional treatment of biblical
themes in the coloring of the soil and general atmospheric effect.
The tone of nature, thankless as she seems in these inhospitable
lands, is ardent without being too parched and burning. If this
picture of the Samaritan were transformed into a marble group—-the
wounded man, the Samaritan and the ass--the purity and grandeur of
the design would be found fully equal to the demands of sculptural
art. The
new direction of M. Morot’s, so different from the expectations
formed from his preceding works, has astonished even his most
enthusiastic admirers. M.
Dagnan Bouveret, M. Henry Leroux and M. Paul Adolphe, were all
entitled from the excellence of their work to the reward of a medal. M.
Bouveret’s picture, entitled "An Accident," has been
purchased by Mr. Avery and will soon be exhibited in New York, where
its merits will doubtless receive the appreciation which they failed
to enjoy at the Salon. The
Hour, II,
9, June 26, 1880, pp. 134-135. ART:
A
POLISH PAINTER The
pride of Poland has been gratified in the possession of a great
poet, Mickiewicz; a great thinker, Tornowsky, and a great painter,
Matejko. The nationality of Matejko is undoubted. It is not merely
the accident of birth in this land, where the bones of martyrs are
as plentiful as leaves on the trees, which confirms the question of
nationality, nor that the painter lays at the feet of Poland his
laurels easily gained by painting a few attractive Arabs on fiery
steeds with mousquetaires with imposing moustaches. It is the
peculiar quality of the artist’s genius which springs into life
through the wrongs and anguish of his illfated land and is fostered
by the sacrifices and proud despair of his compatriots, that makes
him a true son of Poland. Other
painters have achieved through self-love what Matejko has through
love of his country. But no painter lives in posterity merely on his
artistic capability. He lives chiefly through the undying interest
of the great subjects which he illustrates. In confining himself to
remote ages in his choice of subjects, an artist risks the lost of
contemporaneous interest, which demands perpetual novelty; but, like
a historian, he is sure to remain embalmed in the memories of
mankind. History,
as represented by Matejko, is not cold and theatrical, lacking the
movement and grace of real life. His personages are not lay figures
whose affected poses betray artificial habits. They live a life of
suffering, the record whereof is a plaintive hymn, almost a solemn
psalmody, consecrated by priestly chanting. To depict a subject in
all its amplitude does not insure success; but to feel its salient
points, to live the life of the heroes placed on canvas and to die
their ennobling deaths, is a power given only to rare and great
artists. Poles
are, perhaps with reason, given to a fanatical worship of their own
history, with its mystique religion, its legends, both tender and
ferocious, and its implacable prejudices. As Matejko recalls it, one
would gladly see life again in this extinguished nationality; in
this land of the north, with its weird, harsh beauty, where the
snows of winter are blinding in their fierce glare and flowers of
summer are fragrant to suffocation. Liberty there is a passion for
which one dies, sword in hand and with a smile on the lips. The men
have assimilated themselves with nature and are lofty and enduring.
The women are heroic, in a calm and pure sense. The breath which
animates the virile and mystic literature of Poland is Homeric, and
the gigantic wars and heroic incidents of which it treats have
inspired the works of Matejko. "The
Battle of Grünwald" is the chef
d’oeuvre of this celebrated painter; but in 1867 the "Diète
de Varsovie" gained the medal and the plaudits of the public
for the then youthful débutant.
This latter work is fresh and original, as is, indeed,
everything produced by Matejko. The drawing is daring in spite of
its correctness, and reveals in bold touches the fatal result of the
coup d’état which it
depicts. The great central figure—a lord of high degree, battling
against treachery, with broken heart and in tattered garments—is
not merely a tableau vivant
of those days of storm and death, but is at the same time the
fitting symbol of a dying people. Poland has been at last
dismembered and torn in shreds, like the tattered mantle clinging to
the doomed nobleman in Matejko’s picture. Why cannot all great
artists endow creative thought with the form which renders it
incarnate? Why, in giving color to a face bathed in tears, can they
not bring tears as well to the eyes which behold it? Matejko has
rivaled the Flemish painter Ley in his faculty of giving a voice to
historical subjects and giving life to the figures representing
them. But the age of the Flemish artist will scarcely permit him to
keep pace with the turbulent youth of the Pole. Matejko,
in the choice of a historical theme, usually selects the occasion
when the most conflicting passions may with reason agitate the
numerous figures which he crowds on a canvas. When he exhibited the
"Submission of Ivan the Terrible," astonishment and
admiration were elicited by the impression of force and majestic
repose which it offered—an effect produced by cautious and
painstaking drawing. King Stephan, with haggard eye, receives, in
the midst of his haughty magnates, the trembling ambassadors of
Ivan. They bring on a golden plate the bit of bread, token of
alliance, offered by Ivan to his conqueror. What ferocious mistrust
gleams in the eye of Stephan, what tearful humility in the
countenances of the ambassadors and what insolent ease in the
bearing of the magnates! The brutal joy of conquest opposed to the
anguish of defeat—a page of Polish life, setting forth the
triumphs and pangs of humanity on a canvas brilliantly colored, is
here admirably disposed and soberly treated. At
the Universal Exposition of 1878 Matejko exhibited the "Union
de Lublin." Lithuania and Poland are signing the treaty of
union. A senator raises the crucifix and a white-haired patriarch
receives the oath of the assembly. The old King Sigismund,
surrounded by his courtiers, lays a wrinkled hand on the Bible. A
young man holds in his hand an unsheathed sword, apparently awaiting
the hour of combat—for this treaty was but the pretext for war,
and without abrupt transitions or forced effects, this idea is
delicately suggested to the imagination by the painter. In
the "Baptism of the Clock of Sigismund," the court,
sparkling in gold and precious stones, in an interior of sculptural
harmony, preside over the benediction of a clock covered with images
and inspirations. This picture is remarkable for its savage,
unrestrained mass of color. This is no gentle, caressing light of
southern climes, but rather a light concentrated, aggressive,
grasping and at times repulsive. A light, in fact, that strikes and
at the same time wounds. In the "Battle of Grünwald " the
genius of tempest and fury seems to have descended on earth. Wounded
horses are falling in every direction, broken armor encumbers the
earth and dismembered warriors lie prostrate in the ruins. But in
the midst of this scene of despairing confusion the eye seeks in
vain for free space, for a tranquil corner whereon to repose the
wearied vision. This defect, however, is partially counterbalanced
by his well-defined groups Still,
in this last picture Matejko has had less success than in his
preceding works. The "Battle of Grünwald " remains a
miraculous effort of execution rather than an inspired work of
genius, and has created the wonderment of beholders without gaining
their sympathies. New
York possess, in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, one picture of this
remarkable artist —a study of black horses, with fiery nostrils and
flashing eyes, exhausted and powerless in the midst of driving,
blinding snow. The
Hour, II,
12, July 17, 1880, pp. 182-183, SPANISH
ARTISTS There
is a good deal of the Gaul even in the most modern Frenchman. There
is possibly still more of the Goth in the Spaniard of all ages. The
Spanish character is a curious combination of the richest elements.
In all the Spaniard does the brilliancy is Andalusian; in all he
says the aptness is Gothic; while his love and his passion are still
those of the Arab. These characteristics are especially remarkable
among the painters of Spain —those children of fairyland who,
constantly face to face with nature, live more naturally than the
rest of mankind. They love, they suffer, they die of hunger or of
ruined hopes; but they are picked soldiers in the field of a
perpetual warfare. Madrid,
like any other capital, keeps its kindest aspect for men and things
that have the virtue of being foreign. To become a famous Spanish
painter, one must leave Spain; and to find anybody in Madrid, one
must go to the Café Suisse or the Cervecería Inglesa —the English
brewery. There it is that most of the artists gather on each side of
a long, narrow table, to lament, with tears of sincerity, some dead
comrade, and the next moment to burst into hearty laughter over the
droll adventures of a living one. Among the most prominent of the habitués
of the Cervecería is Luis Ribera, a daring innovator, who would
rather be loyal to truth than famous without it. He is a strange
compound of philosophy and blasphemy. He has the To
find Gonzalvo, the painter of perspectives, whose only rival is a
certain German baron, one must seek him under the sombre arches of
the Seo, the Mauro-Gothic church, with its brutally modernized
facade and its red and pointed Arabic cupola. In winter you must
search for him in Madrid, where he finishes with the patient
industry of Meissonnier the studies of the past Summer, as he
teaches his art to the students of the Academy of San Fernando, or
begs from his friends, not counsel—for with that he can
dispense— but comfort and encouragement. It is hard to understand
how a nature so tender and sympathetic can adapt itself so admirably
to the painting of marble and granite. All the work he does is
excellent, and is paid for without stint by English connoisseurs. No
one else than Gonzalvo can measure distance with such an accurate
eye, can take from a straight line its hardiness and severity, or
can reproduce, almost with vivacity, the decorative beauties of the
ancient past. The Museo del
Prado contains an exquisite work by Gonzalvo—"El Patio de
las Infantas." His genius is fully represented in the United
States by his "Alhambra." It
is worth while visiting the Academy of San Fernando at Madrid, if
only to see two paintings of Goya’s Another
Spanish painter of note is Domingo, who has for years devoted
himself to the study of color in interiors. He travels constantly
through the provinces as did, once upon a time, that excellent
painter of the humorous, Valeriano Becquer, who "died of
living," as his brother the poet put it. At Saragossa, where
they preserve, with religious care, the first drawings in red crayon
of Goya, sweet and tender as the outlines of Raphael, there have
been visible for the last five years in the studios of certain
amateurs some small works, exquisitely painted by Pradilla, a young
man who, now, is famous. His chief characteristic is a rare one
among modern artists—strength. Scorning that which the century
loves—the little—he devotes himself to great figures and great
themes. The painter Rosales was decorated at the exposition of 1868
for a picture which effected a revolution in art by its grandeur,
its purity, its royal dignity and color. It was of a dying
Queen—Isabella the Catholic. Two years ago a first prize was
awarded to Pradilla for a work of equal breadth, sublimity and
execution. This time it was of a dead King—Phillip the Fair. His
widow, prostrate with grief, follows the bier on foot. The ladies of
the Court are shivering in the procession. The torches fill the air
with smoke, and, in the distance, is the famous Convent of Burgos,
in which Jeanne the Mad, jealous of the nuns, refused to stay
overnight. Just as he rivals Rosales in oils, Pradilla competes with
Fortuny in water-colors. His "Toiler of the Sea” has all the
solidity and durable appearance of a work in oils. A studio which
would be repulsive, if it were not for the courteous good humor of
its master and for some exquisite trifles which brighten its dreary
walls, is that of Nin y Tudio. Nothing is to be seen there but
death—heads, anatomical dissections, blanched faces, bodies bony
and rigid. He is the Court painter of King Death. At
the Café del Prado there used to be constantly visible two men
equally famous for their talents and their abuse of them. One was a
rare musician, with a wild, fantastic head, an empty purse and a
violin, pregnant with frantic rhapsodies. This was Fortuny. The
other was Perea, whose stammering tongue was always bewildered in
attempts to tell some outrageous story. But Perea draws infinitely
better than he talks or plays chess—his master passion. Like the
other draughtsman, Verga, Perea has his own place in a corner of an
illustrated paper, which he fills with brilliant jottings of some
bull-fight—the gay picadores, the mules dragging off
the dead bull, the woman wreathed in smiles of salutation, the air
full of upthrown hats—all the bustle and color of the fierce
festival. When he finds no money in his purse, Perea seeks the
houses of his friends, and for fifteen francs apiece dashes off a
dozen biting caricatures. But when he is in funds, you may hunt him
for months in vain. His rivals of the illustrated press are
Pellicer, the painter of battles; Luguc, whose tender pencil
expresses with delicious sympathy the love scenes of soldiers in
garrison. But, after all, Perea has no rival in the curious art of
sketching the chulilla—the poor,
depraved, picturesque match girl. Nor can anyone draw, as he can,
Calderon, the great picador, rising from a fall in the arena; or the arrogant figure of
Frascuelo, the matador of the day, the idol of women and the terror
of husbands. His is the only pencil which can faithfully depict the granuja,
the "hoodlum" of Madrid, or the poor wretch who, in
the shadows of the night, treads with weary feet the most frequented
streets of the capital. All that is malignant and striking and
grotesque finds its painter in Perea. The
Hour, IV,
1, January 1, 1881, pp. 4-5. |
