One of Murillo’s splendid works was founded on the account of the pool at Bethesda, as given in John v., 2-8. This was a favorite subject for hospitals, and Murillo painted it for a hospital in Seville, from which it was stolen by Marshal Soult.
In the foreground are Christ, the lame man, and three Apostles; in the background is the pool with its fine porches, above which, in a glorious, dazzling light, the angel hovers, as if about to descend to stir the waters.
It is a magnificent example of the wonderful power of Murillo. The beauty and tenderness of the head of Christ, and the graciousness of his whole bearing, affect the beholder as do few representations of our Lord. The atmosphere is soft and translucent, the angel gently floats rather than flies, and the porches, while not too ornate, impart a dignified balance to the scene. The coloring is such as is peculiar to Spanish art, rich and subdued in contrast with that of the Italians. For example, the red robe and blue mantle, so familiar in pictures of Christ, are here replaced by a rich violet color, most harmonious with the sentiment of the scene.
There is an ancient picture of this subject in a church near Bologna, supposed to be the work of two artists, Jacopo Avanzi, and Lippo d’Almasio. In the same city, in the Church of San Giorgio, is the picture by Ludovico Caracci, which is, to say the least, very decorative, and has been generously praised by some writers on Art. Many representations of the pool of Bethesda are in hospitals,—as, for example, that by Sebastian Conca at Siena,—rather than in galleries; for this reason it is less familiar than are many other scenes in which angels are represented.
There are some subjects too sacred in their character and too spiritually subtle in their significance to be adequately pictured to the eye. One of these, to my mind, is the Agony in the Garden of Gethsemane. It has, however, appealed to many artists, and one must admit that the night scene, the sleeping disciples, the suffering Christ, the consoling angel, the approaching traitor, and the dimly discerned city of Jerusalem afford unusually picturesque elements for an effective picture. All these have been artistically treated, but The Divine, the central thought in the scene, can scarcely be satisfactorily expressed.
A most surprising error that has frequently been made in pictures of this subject, is that of giving undue prominence to the sleeping disciples. Their figures are often placed in the very foreground, as if the spectator should chiefly consider the unfortunate somnolence of
Sir Edward Burne-Jones.—Mary Magdalene at the Sepulchre.