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Updated: May 8, 2025
"But before we ride on let us see who the fellows are, for, 'pon my soul, they have not the looks of a patrol from Caracas." As he spoke, Carmen dismounted and closely examined the prostrate men's facings. "Caramba! They belong to the regiment of Irun." "I remember them. They were in Murillo's corp d'armée at Vittoria." "I wish they were at Vittoria now. Their headquarters are at La Victoria!
The peasants were much more respectful to our cloth, and, as to appearance, looked like figures from Murillo's canvases. The foliage, the wine, the language, the manners of the people everything was changed. This interested me, and my morbidness vanished. The Director was delighted with my improved condition.
Murillo's "Ecstasy of Saint Anthony" is a picture of rare sweetness and power. In one room are five of Raphael's Madonnas, but only one of them is in his better style.
I am called Heliobas. A strange name? Oh, not at all! It is pure Chaldee. My mother as lovely an Eastern houri as Murillo's Madonna, and as devout as Santa Teresa gave me the Christian saint's name of Casimir also, but Heliobas pur et simple suits me best, and by it I am generally known. "'You are a Chaldean? I inquired. "'Exactly so.
Notwithstanding Murillo's obvious faults, as you walk through the museum at Seville all Andalusia appears before you. Nothing could be more characteristic than the religious feeling of the many pictures, than the exuberant fancy and utter lack of idealisation: in the contrast between a Holy Family by Murillo and one by Perugino is all the difference between Spain and Italy.
Many artists have painted this saint, but Murillo's is the best picture of all. When the nephew of his first master, Murillo's cousin, saw that work he said: "It is all over with Castillo! Is it possible that Murillo, that servile imitator of my uncle, can be the author of all this grace and beauty of colouring?"
Afterwards I again beheld the eyes with which, gazing into vacancy, she tried to conjure up before my soul these visions of hope from the realm of her fairest dreams they were those of Raphael's Saint Cecilia in Bologna and Munich. I also saw them long after Nenny's death in one of Murillo's Madonnas in Seville, and even now they rise distinctly before my memory.
But few of Murillo's paintings had at this time found their way out of Spain; national and regal pride had preserved them with jealous care; but Mr. Montenero had inherited some of Murillo's master-pieces.
He was small and square of frame, his rich brown face relieved by the whitewash of teeth and the most brilliant black eyes, and his face beamed with a merry, yet roguish expression, like that of the Spanish, or rather Moorish, boy, in Murillo's well known masterpiece, with whom he was probably of cognate blood.
I knew not how true to nature are the angels in the pictures of Raffaelle and Murillo. Thou knowest the print of Murillo's Assumption; the picture is in the Louvre. If thou canst remember that picture, dear mother, thou hast but to recall the face of one of the cherubim about the feet of our Lady, and thou hast the portrait of my boy. He opens his eyes, and looks at me as I write.
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