He Is Naked To The Waist To Show The
Plump White Arms And Shoulders And The Satiny Skin Of The Voluptuary;
One Of Those Men Whose Heads And Whose Stomachs Are Too Loyal Ever To
Give Them Katzenjammer Or Remorse.
The others are of the commoner type
of haunters of wine-shops, - with red eyes and coarse hides and grizzled
matted hair, - but every man of them inexorably true, and a predestined
sot.
We must break away from Velazquez, passing by his marvellous portraits
of kings and dwarfs, saints and poodles, - among whom there is a dwarf of
two centuries ago, who is too like Tom Thumb to serve for his twin
brother, - and a portrait of Aesop, which is a flash of intuition, an
epitome of all the fables. Before leaving the Spaniards we must look at
the most pleasing of all Ribera's works, - the Ladder-Dream of Jacob.
The patriarch lies stretched on the open plain in the deep sleep of the
weary. To the right in a broad shaft of cloudy gold the angels are
ascending and descending. The picture is remarkable for its mingling the
merits of Ribera's first and second manner. It is a Caravaggio in its
strength and breadth of light and shade, and a Correggio in its delicacy
of sentiment and refined beauty of coloring. He was not often so
fortunate in his Parmese efforts. They are usually marked by a timidity
and an attempt at prettiness inconceivable in the haughty and impulsive
master of the Neapolitan school.
Of the three great Spaniards, Ribera is the least sympathetic. He often
displays a tumultuous power and energy to which his calmer rivals are
strangers. But you miss in him that steady devotion to truth which
distinguishes Velazquez, and that spiritual lift which ennobles Murillo.
The difference, I conceive, lies in the moral character of the three.
Ribera was a great artist, and the others were noble men. Ribera passed
a youth of struggle and hunger and toil among the artists of Rome, - a
stranger and penniless in the magnificent city, - picking up crusts in
the street and sketching on quiet curbstones, with no friend, and no
name but that of Spagnoletto, - the little Spaniard. Suddenly rising to
fame, he broke loose from his Roman associations and fled to Naples,
where he soon became the wealthiest and the most arrogant artist of his
time. He held continually at his orders a faction of bravi who drove
from Naples, with threats and insults and violence, every artist of
eminence who dared visit the city. Car-racci and Guido only saved their
lives by flight, and the blameless and gifted Domenichino, it is said,
was foully murdered by his order. It is not to such a heart as this that
is given the ineffable raptures of Murillo or the positive revelations
of Velazquez. These great souls were above cruelty or jealousy.
Velazquez never knew the storms of adversity. Safely anchored in the
royal favor, he passed his uneventful life in the calm of his beloved
work.
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