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José Martí |
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APÉNDICE 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.
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 meagre sustenanceuna 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 pies 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 passers by, and holds out the hat with one hand 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 bolds conceptions, the heart is moved and the ear charmed. Mas is famous and recalls in his vehement manner the Hungarian gypsy Bíhary, 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. 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 meagre 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. 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 Munkacsy; Spain by Fortuny, Madrazo, Díaz and Ferrándiz; and the honor of France is upheld by Fromentín, 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 Fromentín, 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. "Off Guard," by Alvarez, in 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 too 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 in 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 lights 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. The winner of the first prize at this year's exhibition of paintings 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 accidents 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 drawing, 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 groupthe wounded man, the Samaritan and the assthe 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. N. Dagnan Bouveret, N. Henry Leroux and N. Paul Adolphe, were all entitled from the excellence of their work to the reward of a medal. N. 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. 134135. 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 and 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 ill-fated 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 loss 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 col 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 mystic 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 "Dičte 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 results of the coup d'état which it depicts. The great central figurea lord of high degree, battling against treachery, with broken heart and in tattered garmentsis 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 Leys 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 an 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 offeredan 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 defeata page of Polish life, setting forth the triumphs and pangs of humanity on a canvas brillantly 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 his unsheathed sword, apparently awaiting the hour of combatfor 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, is an interior of sculptural harmony, preside over the benediction of a clock covered with images and inscriptions. 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 and by his astonishing accuracy in delineating this struggling mass of human beings. 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 possesses, in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, one picture of this remarkable artista 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.182183. 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 characteristcs are especially remarkable among the painters of Spainthose children of fairy-land 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 Cerveceria Inglesathe 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 Cerveceria 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 laugh of Mephistopheles, and when he talks he talks voluminously; but, usually, he is silent. His oaths, when he does burst into eloquence, are so profound, so numerous and so fierce that one rejoices at the absence of the other sex. The Cerveceria is the resort of young orators, young painters, young actors, young writersof everything that is young. It is there that they begin to make their own reputation by venomously assailing the reputation of everybody else. Happily, there is none of this rancor in the wholesome, loyal heart of Ribera, whose chief weakness is his passion for tobacco, with the smoke of which he loves to blind his neighbors in the brewery. 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 counselfor with that he can dispensebut 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 hardness 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'sthe boldest and proudest genius of his age"La Maja," a woman painted with such vigorous originality that after a few minutes one almost persuades himself that he recognizes a sweetheart, and the other a portrait of that great actress of the time of Charles the Fourth, who won, by her talents and her beauty, the title of "The Tyrant Maria Fernandez." At .the Academy also, are Alonzo Cano's "Christ," Domenichino's figures of gold, and that tranquil masterpiece of human art, the "St. Elizabeth" of Murillo. Fortunately, the custodian who protects these treasures from the gnawing teeth of time is Federico Madrazo. To equip himself for his ungrateful task of restoration, he has taught himself all the secrets of colors to be found on the palettes of the great masters. His exquisite taste has for its only rival his amazing knowledge. No one is as familiar as he with the favorite colors, the peculiar touch or the most subtle idiosyncrasy of each painter. He is, moreover, a great genius in respect to portraiture. Fabulous prices are paid for the work which he accomplishes in his vast studio, dark and cold as the classic art to which he devotes himself. As he paints, there smiles upon him the portrait of his daughter, the widow of Fortuny. Close by are the "Mariposa" and the "Coming from Church" of his son-in-lawthe one a flood of light, the other a powerful sketch. There also is a dark alley, through a hole in which blazes a scene of life and motiona court peopled with figures and full of sunshine. This bold effect is the work of Raimundo Madrazo, a young genius who adores, but does not imitate, the older one, his father. It is a Carnival, with no Ash Wednesday. The only trait which he inherits is the marvellous patience with which he delights to finish the cheeks, wigs, petticoats and feet of his Marquises and Pierettes. 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 artistsstrength. Scorning that which the century lovesthe littlehe 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 QueenIsabella 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 KingPhillip 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 deaths-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 chesshis 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-fightthe gay picadores, the mules dragging off the dead bull, the women wreathed in smiles of salutation, the air full of up-thrown hatsall 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 chulillathe 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. 45. |
