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Updated: June 15, 2025
Upon the summit of a hill within these gardens, sat a youth and maiden engaged in most earnest conversation. The maiden was exceedingly beautiful, with a face which reminded one of the Madonna of Murillo, so gentle, so tender, and so bewitchingly lovely.
"Then you think that my guests are" "Charming. Only, they are of two kinds: those whom I esteem, and who do not amuse me often; and those who amuse me, and whom I esteem never." "I suppose you will not come any more to the Rue Murillo, then?" "Certainly I shall to see you."
These Mehudins were fish-girls, it seemed; the older one was a magnificent creature, while the younger one, who sold fresh-water fish, reminded Claude of one of Murillo's virgins, whenever he saw her standing with her fair face amidst her carps and eels. From this Claude went on to remark with asperity that Murillo painted like an ignoramus.
After that the boy was found to be painting upon the walls of his schoolroom, and making sketches upon the margins of his books, though he did little else at school. He had one sister, Therese, and they were left without father or mother before the artist was eleven years old. It was at that time that he received the name of "Murillo" by which he is known.
At twenty-two, however, Claire, in the midst of her carp and eels, was, to use Claude Lantier's expression, a Murillo. A Murillo, that is, whose hair was often in disorder, who wore heavy shoes and clumsily cut dresses, which left her without any figure.
To recognize the esthetic side of your friend's nature, when your friend is secretly not quite sure but that he is more worldly than spiritual, is a stroke of diplomacy. Spain was not really artistic, but there were stirrings being felt, and Velasquez and Murillo were soon to appear.
But the man was there in the flesh, grinning at them in a malicious, triumphant manner. Greg Carker smothered an exclamation of amazement. "Evidently you were mistaken in thinking the man drowned," said Frank quietly. "We've had all this trouble for nothing." "Oh, eet ees not so easee to keel Jose Murillo!" sneered the rascal. "Where he fall in the lake the water ees not so deep.
Beyond, dark night is seen and a turbulent sea, the dark night of the soul of which the mystics write, and the troublous sea of life whereon there is no refuge for the weary and the sick at heart. Then, if you would study yet another phase of the religious sentiment, go to the Museo, where are the fine pictures that Murillo painted for the Capuchin Monastery.
Here were specimens, and worthy ones, of many masters; amongst others a Murillo, indisputably genuine, and, although a little faded in colour, still worth a wilderness of most other productions. The subject was a painful one too, being the agony of Christ on the Mount of Olives.
"Nor are these Netherlanders the sole objects of my dislike: I hate particularly that Spaniard Murillo on that account, and even a great number of your Italians.
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