Farther on, amongst this embarras of gems, which includes a long array of pictures any single one of which would add to a city's fame, hangs a noble Titian. Mounted (life-size) on his sturdy Flemish charger, is a grand old mediæval knight, dressed in chased and damascened armour. His round, dogged-looking head is thrust well into a simple morion, and his beard of a week's growth shows a disregard of personal foppery not unbecoming in those who make war a business, and perhaps unavoidable in the life of the camp. With stern and steady look, his long lance grasped in his nervous hand, ready to place in rest at a moment's need, he gallops towards the fray.
A San Sebastian of Guido, is a painting which it would be impossible to match, except by that in the capitol at Rome, by the same hand. This is, indeed, a noble picture of the young martyr. One can see by the ecstatic expression of the countenance that he is exulting in a hope that carries him, on the wings of faith, beyond the persecutions and sufferings of this world, and reveals to him the dawn of a higher, better, and purer life. What to him are the arrows burying themselves one after the other deep in his fair flesh? His soul is above, far away from pain, and in the joy of opening immortality is no longer sensible of the agonies of its earthly body.
There is a beautiful picture by Barbalunga of a dying girl. The dull grey of twilight is gradually deepening to night in the lonely chamber, and the film of death is slowly gathering on the flickering eye, symbolising the end of all that is beautiful on earth. We particularly noted one fine production by Guercino. Some wicked-looking old men are stealthily approaching Susanna bathing, creeping onward from behind with outstretched hands, as if they were going to catch a butterfly. Two naked ladies, by Titian, in his most untrammeled style, are distinctly of the flesh, fleshy; but they are splendid specimens of that great master's proficiency in delineating the human form—of his consummate fidelity to truth in colouring and expression.
The vast picture by Rubens of the Adoration of the Magi shows plainly—with many hundred others, however—how Art, longa as it may be, must, like all things mortal, have a limit. This limit, in the present instance, is where, the mirror being held up to Nature, Nature herself cries out with delight at her own reflection, mistaking it for another self. The limitation here attained is Perfection. We suppose that expression of adoration, as seen in the fifty faces delineated, is beyond imitation. Then how admirable is the grouping, how gorgeous the colouring, how perfect the arrangement of light and shade, never surpassed, or perhaps equalled, either by the master himself or by Titian. What an advantage to modern art it would be if we could gain some insight into the chemistry of the colours used in past centuries! Why should our Reynolds and Lawrences fade away, in some cases into mere outlines filled up with pale tints, when the paintings of the sixteenth century still retain the hues on their canvas in all their pristine splendour? The crimson drapery of one of the Magi in the picture in question seems as fresh and as brilliant as it was on the day when it was painted by the master's hand.
Of course it appears something like presumption in us to add our feeble commentaries upon the numerous gems in this matchless collection to those of the great judges who have preceded us; yet, perchance, in his simple worship of art, a little outburst of enthusiasm upon the subjects which strike a sympathetic chord within the humbler pilgrim as he passes, may be pardoned.
The great picture by Velasquez called Las Meniñas—The Favourites—is worthy of the distinguished reward bestowed on its painter by his patron, Philip IV. On the left, as one views the work, the great artist is seen at his easel taking the portrait of the Infanta Margarita, daughter of the king, as she stands amidst her attendant meniñas. The depth of the background, on which is painted the distant wall of the great oaken chamber, with a mirror in which is seen reflected the faces of Philip and his consort, is admirably given, although we are rather mystified in endeavouring to explain how persons are to be reflected in a glass when nobody is in front of it except those who are not reflected. The sombre air of the interior of the old room is truth itself. Monotony in the effect of the brown tones is saved by the distant light streaming in through an open door. On the right, in the foreground, two favourite dwarfs are toying with a large dog. The picture is a noble rendering of the domestic arrangements of Spanish royalty in the seventeenth century.
When it was finished, Velasquez inquired of the king whether anything was wanting in the work. "Yes, there is one thing, and one only," replied Philip; and, taking a brush from the artist, he traced with his own hand the red cross of Santiago, the highest order in Spain, on the painter's breast.
There are, of course, as in all galleries, no end of dead Christs and live Apostles; and also very vivid productions in the horror-line by one Goya, whose life appears to have been, besides that of an artist, court favourite, and bull-fighter, a mixture of that of Don Juan and Baron Munchausen. It would take volumes to describe half of the works worthy of high admiration contained in this richest of collections; for it holds, besides the general mass of its treasures, ten Raphaels, sixty-two Rubens', forty-six Murillos, fifty-three Teniers', sixty-four Velasquez', forty-three Titians, thirty Tintorettos, twenty-two Vandycks, fifty-four Breughels, nineteen Poussins, ten Claudes, twenty-three Snyders, fifty-five Giordanos, fifty-eight Riberas, ten Wouvvermans, cum multis aliis. They have been collected chiefly from the palaces of La Granja, the Escorial, and El Pardo. When it is said it is the finest collection in the world, the expression alludes more particularly to the number of actual gems and masterpieces contained therein, than to any complete chronological series of schools gradually developed before the eye.
The exterior of the gallery, or Real Museo de Pinturas, as seen from the Prado, is elegant and classic, but not too pure; and it is decidedly too long for its height.
Of course in every continental town there is always that architectural black-dose, the Cathedral, to be done. But, praise be to the divinity presiding over the weary Cockney, there is none at Madrid. There is nothing nearer to a cathedral than a dirty, big church in the Calle de Toledo, where we were regaled with the sight of various delectable relics: such as a saint's toe in pickle and a martyr's tooth on a velvet cushion. This church is amongst the quartiers of the poorer classes. It was natural, consequently, that we, poor benighted foreigners, should be supposed to be able to see, do, or understand nothing without assistance. We were, therefore, escorted all over the building by a sickly-looking old hag of a lady, who, with the one remaining tusk sticking out of her jaw like a dilapidated milestone, created sad havoc in her attempts to articulate "la lingua dulce de España." What she said no pronouncing dictionary could have enabled us to interpret. She seemed particularly enthusiastic about the saint's toe, and, as she pointed it out, smiled sweetly on the side of her mouth where the one tooth was. Now, when we are shown such things as saints' toes in pickle, or the bottled tears of martyrs, we make a point of never appearing to doubt the authenticity of the same for a moment. Firstly, we assume an appearance of credulity from motives of good taste; secondly, for the reason that if the old lady who exhibits them sees one is interested in the articles brought to notice, there is no knowing what may not be eventually produced for one's delectation, even to a phial of ink which was once shown to one of our friends, in a church in Italy, as "some of the darkness which covered Egypt." We never came across anyone yet whose tongue so fairly bolted with her as this yellow old lady, who followed us like a shadow into the very streets, scratching herself with one hand, while with the other she tried to arrange into a round knot the stubble on the top of an otherwise bald head.