The Story of Seville

by Walter M. Gallichan

Francisco Pacheco, the father-in-law and devoted teacher of Diego Velazquez, claims our attention as an individual, rather than as an artist. He painted innumerable pictures, which may still be viewed in the Cathedral, the churches and the Museo, but none rise above the level of mediocrity. They are carefully executed and rarely offend the rules of drawing, but they are all hopelessly 'mannered,' and entirely devoid of individual imagination.

We owe a debt of gratitude to Pacheco for his Arte de la Pintura, a treatise upon the principles of art, and the lives of the artists of Spain, published in Seville in 1649. In style the work is pompous and prolix, and often very tedious, but as a record of the lives of the Sevillian artists it possesses great value. Pacheco was the Inquisitor of Art, or Familiar of the Inquisition. His authority under the Holy Office was great, and it was his duty to see that no indecorous or indecent pictures found their way into the churches. Here is a copy of the commission which was granted to him: 'We give him commission and charge him henceforward that he take particular care to inspect and visit all sacred subjects which may stand in shops or in public places; if he finds anything to object to in these he is to take the picture before the Lords, the Inquisitors.'

The degraded Italian taste was carried to its uttermost limits by Herrera El Mozo (the younger), 1622-1625, who, by a strange anomaly, was the son of the man, who was the first to break completely away from the trammels of the pseudo-Italian manner. His works may be viewed in the Cathedral and the Museo; they instance the degradation which had been brought upon the art of Seville, by the unintelligent adoption of an alien style.

It is a relief to revert to the work of those men, whose sturdy Spanish spirits refused to bend beneath the yoke of conventional tradition. The work of the cleric, Juan de la Roelas, 1560-1625, bears little, or no, trace of the degenerate pseudo-Italianism, although his pictures are not exempt from foreign influence. They are Venetian in colour, soft, yet free, in their drawing. They exhibit many of the features, afterwards amplified in the work of Murillo. His finest composition is the Death of San Isidore, in the parish church, dedicated to that saint. The theme of the picture is the transit of the holy man, Archbishop of Seville, during Gothic days. Many figures fill the canvas, but with true artistic unity, the interest is centralised upon the dying saint, who rests upon the ground, clad in dark mantle and finely-painted pontifical robes. Subtle discernment is manifested in the grouping of the figures. The aged fathers are thrown into distinct relief, by the youthful bloom of the children who kneel beside them. The shadowy forms of the worshippers, as they kneel in the receding aisles of the church, lend atmosphere to the study. The heavens are depicted above, and in the midst of a blaze of glowing light, the Virgin awaits with Christ, the coming of the saint.

San Santiago, destroying the Moors in the battle of Clavigo, which hangs in the Cathedral, affords another fine instance of the work of Roelas. Three more of his pictures may be seen in the University—The Holy Family, The Nativity, and the Adoration of the Shepherds, while several hang in the Museo. A figure of a black-robed kneeling saint, in the Holy Family, is said to be the portrait of Roelas.

Francisco de Herrera, 1575-1656, termed, el Viego (the Elder) to distinguish him from his son, possessed a character of unusual vigour. The traditions which have survived, reveal the temper of the man. His methods were eccentric. He worked with a dashing pencil, and it was his custom to employ any implement, which presented itself as convenient. It is reported that upon one occasion, when short of a brush, he painted a picture with a spoon. His fame induced numerous artists—the young Velazquez being among them—to seek his studio; but his irascibility was so great that few of them remained. He broke many a maul-stick across their shoulders, and frequently he was left without a single pupil to execute his mandates.

It is said that one day, when this had occurred, he rushed into the kitchen, and insisted upon the serving-maid becoming his attendant; and amidst oaths and blows, he forced the trembling girl to prepare a canvas for the composition he desired to execute. His turbulent spirit led him into difficulties, and he was accused—whether falsely or not it is now impossible to say—of coining money. To escape punishment he sought sanctuary in the College of the Jesuits, where he painted the Legend of St. Hermingild, now in the Museo. In the year 1624 Philip III. came to Seville, and visited the college. In common with all the house of Austria, the King had a fine appreciation of art, and when he saw the work of Herrera, he at once recognised its merits, and desired to see the artist. Herrera knelt at the King's feet, and told the reason of his confinement in the convent. 'What need of silver and gold has a man gifted with a talent like yours? Go, you are free,' was the answer of the King.

Such was the nature of the man, whose cogent individuality re-established a national Spanish style. His pictures are distinguished for their vigorous force. Sir W. Stirling-Maxwell calls him 'the most remarkable of the painters, who learnt their art solely in Andalusia'; while Palomino, often termed the Spanish Vasari, says that the boldness of his manner conveys to his figures the appearance of being painted in relief. Several of his pictures are now in the Museo; the Cathedral possesses none, but there is one in the Church of San Bernardo, which, in spite of dirt and dim lighting, affords a fine instance of the power of Herrera. In the upper portion the Lord is shown with a band of attendant angels, while below St. Michael divides the sinful from the righteous. The canvas is overcrowded; a fault in which the majority of the compositions of Herrera share, and the form of St. Michael is somewhat uncouth, but the picture is full of power, and many of the figures, especially among the hosts of the wicked, are drawn with a fine freedom of handling.

Francisco de Zurbaran, a peasant, born in Estremadura, in the year 1598, was the veritable follower of Herrera. His work more fully than that of any other artist typifies the genius of Spain. Lord Leighton speaks of him 'as a man of powerful personality, in whom more than any of his contemporaries, the various essential characteristics of his race were gathered up—its defiant temper, its dramatic bent, its indifference to beauty, its love of fact, its imaginative force, its gloomy fervour, its poetry, in fact, and its prose.'

He was the pupil of Juan de las Roelas, but his work soon eclipsed that of his master. From the very first he cast from him all mannered tradition, and determined unflinchingly to follow natural methods. He copied all objects directly from Nature, and while still a lad working in the studio of Roelas, he refused to paint drapery, without having it placed upon a lay figure to represent the living model. He has been termed the Spanish Caravaggio from his strict adherence to Nature, and his delight in breadth and strong contrasts of light and shadow. As he saw Nature thus he painted her, without desire to soften or to idealise. His one purpose was to portray conscientiously the exact impression of the objects he beheld. And for this reason he may be designated the herald of Velazquez. His pictures lack the facility, the charm and the impelling force of the great master; but in their adherence to Nature and strict nationality of style they are in nowise inferior. The Adoration of the Shepherds, the fine picture in our National Gallery, formerly ascribed to Velazquez, is now held to be the work of Zurbaran. His colour is above all praise; his tints, although sombre, have at times, as Sir W. Stirling-Maxwell justly remarks, 'the depth and brilliancy of Rembrandt.'