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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.
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.
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.
That turn of her neck always seemed to him a little too showy, and in the "Queen of all I survey" manner not quite distinguished. He watched them walk along the path at the bottom of the garden. A young man in flannels joined them down there a Sunday caller no doubt, from up the river. Soames went back to his Goya.
Half the world's starvin'. I feed a small lot of babies out in my mother's country; but what's the use? Might as well throw my money in the river." Soames looked at him, and turned back toward his Goya. He didn't know what the fellow wanted. "What shall I make my cheque for?" pursued Monsieur Profond.
The historic pictures are a tissue of horrors, patriotic as they are meant to be; they suggest the slaughter-house. Goya has painted a portrait of Villanueva, the architect of the museum; and there is a solidly constructed portrait of Goya by V. Lopez.
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." 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.
His picture had portions that were like Velásquez, fragments worthy of Goya, corners that recalled El Greco; there was everything in it, except Renovales, and this amalgam of reminiscences was its chief merit, what attracted general applause and won it the first medal. A magnificent debut it was.
Their faces are turned on the spectator, who may forget them if he can. I had the help of a beautiful face there which Goya had also painted: the face of Moratin, the historian of the Spanish drama whose book had been one of the consolations of exile from Spain in my Ohio village.
"And you say that she used to live in Cuco's hostelry?" "Yes, sir." "I know somebody who lives there," murmured the second-hand dealer. "Yes, that's so," said Encarna. "That man with the monkeys. Didn't he live there?" asked Senor Zurro. "No; he lived in la Quinta de Goya," answered his daughter. "Well, then.... Just wait a moment, young man. Wait a moment."
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