The picture is unbelievably complex, a kind of exercise in
dexterity that only an established painter would attempt in order
to prove that he could do it. The various planes are indicated by
perpective, the interplay of light and dark, and a clever use of
colors. The figures are well done and breathe vitality, but the
essential mystery of this work lies outside such considerations. It
is a moment of family life caught in suspension, and the groups
represented are as real today as when Velázquez painted them.
For visitors interested in modern painting, that is to say the
work of artists like Cézanne, Manet and Van Gogh, two small
pictures in one of the lesser Velázquez rooms attract most
attention. The two unimportant landscapes show the gardens of
the Villa de’ Medici in Rome and were done in one of Velázquez’s
scouting expeditions to Italy. The first landscape appears finished
and shows simply the façade of a wall of some kind, tall cypresses,
a hedge and two male figures. The second, and more important
shows a comparable scene except that the wall is replaced by an
archway beyond which rocks and landscape can be seen. Three
male figures populate this picture, which might seem unfinished
except that this was the way Velázquez intended it.
It is an extraordinary work. It could have been done by any of
the modern artists mentioned above, or by Renoir or Pissaro. The
subtle brushwork, the spare use of color, the impressionistic
drawing and the manner in which space and planes are indicated
combine to make this small canvas one of the gems of the
collection. It speaks directly from the age of Velázquez to the
present, reminding us that all artists face similar problems.
As one would expect, the Prado contains superior works by a
host of other important Spanish artists like Ribera (1588-1652),
Zurbarán (1598-1664) and El Greco (1541-1614), but it is the
paintings by Goya (1746-1828) that astonish. So rich is the
museum in works by this artist that a major room on the second
floor is given over to them, plus a series of rooms on the first. In
the former is found that intriguing pair of portraits which we
discussed when visiting the Coto Donaña, ‘Maja desnuda’ and
‘Maja vestida.’
It is in the downstairs rooms that Goya’s work seems most
impressive, for only here can one see this virile, tough artist at his
best: his etchings on the horrors of war, the bullfight series, the
famous black paintings. Here also are those exquisite scenes of
picnics and parties in the outskirts of Madrid, and the little
landscapes that seem to be from another artist, so delicate and
poetic are they.
The most famous of the Goyas are those showing the brutality
of life, and none excels ‘The Third of May,’ in which soldiers are
shooting down unarmed citizens against a leaden sky showing
the spires of a nearby town. This powerful work might almost be
termed a summary of Goya’s social philosophy, but it is also a
masterful work of art.
Concerning the black Goyas, I am embarrassed. On my first
visit to the Prado, years ago, I was repelled by this series of
fourteen gloomy works in which dark paint predominates. I had
not heard of them before and was unprepared for their power.
On my second and third visits I also failed to appreciate them,
but then I read an essay by Dr. Sánchez Cantón (this was one of
the things I had wanted to speak with him about) and I began to
understand why experts praised these works so highly; today a
painting in comparable style, ‘El Coloso o El Pánico,’ has become
one of my favorite Goyas. It shows a brooding landscape with
turbulent sky, a low mountain range flecked by purple clouds,
and a valley down which cattle and covered wagons and people
are fleeing in obvious panic, driven onward by a terrifying
apparition. At the head of the valley, his legs hidden behind the
mountains, rises a colossal nude figure, bearded and with
enormous arms which he brandishes boxer-style. He is thousands
of feet high and is obviously infuriated by some unseen thing
which has attacked him. With one hand he could crush all the
fleeing people. The total scene is so bizarre and the flight so
headlong that the picture remains a masterpiece of terror, as
psychologically bewildering as it is artistically exciting.
There are many such Goyas in the Prado, some so revolting as
to repel the average viewer, but when one is surfeited with them
he finds a small painting, perhaps the last that Goya did, a
beautiful work in grays and blues depicting the young French
woman who used to deliver milk to his home when he was living
at Bordeaux. It was painted, the signature states, when Goya was
eighty-one, and like the ‘Medici Gardens’ of Velázquez seems as
modern as any work by Cézanne or Renoir. It is a marvelous
thing, a true portrait of one real milkmaid, yet an evocation of
all the women Goya loved throughout his life.
Whenever I visit the Prado I am tantalized by the fact that in
1870, during a troubled period, some dozen top-quality Goyas
were stolen from the museum. They have never been recovered,
but Spanish experts believe they are in existence somewhere. So
at any time some lucky seeker, rummaging through old stacks of
paintings may discover one of the missing Goyas and find himself
half a million dollars richer.
I end each visit to the Prado by going to a remote room on the
ground floor which houses a mysterious statue. It shows a young
woman, handsome rather than beautiful, wearing a curious
headdress, and was found in 1897 buried on a farm near Elche in
eastern Spain. In some way that has not been explained to me it
reached the Louvre, where it was recognized as a major work of
art, probably the best statue ever carved in Spain, but remained
unidentified. When was it carved? Not a clue, but it seems
unquestionably old. Who carved it? Not a clue, but guesses have
oscillated between a pre-Roman artist and a pre-Renaissance.
Who is the woman? Not a clue, but she must have been a person
of rank, for the headdress is extraordinary. The statue found its
way back to Spain as part of that deal in which the Louvre traded
its Soult Murillo for a Velázquez, and as the significance of this
statue becomes recognized, critics begin to modify their earlier
objections: ‘It’s still true that to swap a Velázquez for a Murillo
is insanity, but if you get the Dama de Elche thrown in, it’s not
so bad.’
Present judgment inclines toward a theory that this enigmatic
statue was carved by Iberians either a few centuries before Christ
or a few after, and I have inclined toward the former, but I was
startled by the most recent speculation: ‘Probably not a woman
at all. More likely a young king dressed in ritual battle gear.’ When
you’re next in the Prado, judge for yourself. It will be worth the
effort, for this is one of the world’s most compelling statues.
In my wanderings about Madrid I kept running into a
gentleman who intrigued me. I did not know who he was, but at
the bullfights there he would be. In the cafés, at the theater,
strolling along the promenades he appeared, always grave, bald,
handsome. He looked like a Spanish Charles Boyer and conducted
himself in the same courtly manner. He never seemed to make
noise but he did exert an authority which was acknowledged by
those who came within his circle. I often wondered who he was,
for in his combination of studied dress and casual manner he
seemed to me Madrid’s essential man-about-town, and I knew I
would enjoy meeting him.
I did so in a curious way. Front-row tickets for the special series
of bullfights held in May were impossible to get, but a Spanish
friend showed me how to butter up one of the attendants—fifty
pesetas a day, whether anything happened or not—and this fellow
would keep an eye on the front row and slip me into any seat left
vacant. Some days it worked; some days it didn’t; but at one
important fight there were two seats vacant and I was summoned
to one of them. The man who got the other was this gentleman
I’d been seeing about the city.
‘I am Manolo Torres,’ he said quietly. So this was he, Madrid’s
legendary bon vivant, a man with a most unusual reputation.
Everyone knew him. I’d read three or four long newspaper stories
telling how he was held in affection by different strata of Madrid’s
society, but the thing that all remembered best was that he made
flan (egg custard).
‘I read about your flan,’ I said.
He smiled with genteel embarrassment. ‘I do most things
poorly,’ he said, ‘but flan I make as only the angels do.’
It had become a custom in Madrid for Don Manolo to make
up a large batch of his special flan each noontime, and there were
many important figures who had developed the superstition of
never making a significant decision before having had a good-luck
flan with Don Manolo. Was a bullfighter flying to Mexico for six
fights? Better share a flan with Don Manolo. Was the impresario
opening a new musical comedy? Better ensure good reviews by
taking a cup of Don Manolo’s flan. Cartoonists, politicians,
athletes and especially those in the theater relied on Don Manolo’s
magic to bring them luck.
‘How do you make it?’ I asked between fights.
Don Manolo’s face became ecstatic, one of the few times I was
ever to see him betray enthusiasm. ‘If when you return to América
del Norte you wish to make true Spanish flan, proceed in this
manner. In each of six molds put a spoonful of sugar and melt it
over the fire until it covers the bottom and almost reaches the
point of caramel. Take it off the fire. In a bowl beat three whole
eggs and the yolks of three more. Grate some lemon rind. Mix
one soup spoon of sugar, not too full, for each of the egg yolks,
in this case six. Add milk sufficient to fill the molds, which you
now put in the Mary’s bath.’
‘The what?’
‘Baño de María. It means you don’t put the molds directly
against the heat but with their feet in water. And the flame mustn’t
be too strong. It should be low. When the mixture seems to have
become like gelatin, that is, after about an hour, put the molds
in the oven or even better in a little electric stove so you can brown
the crust. Then move them to the refrigerator, but don’t eat them
until you have a guest who has a delicate palate. Estupendo!’
It was a strange thing. I came to know Don Manolo and also
read a lot about him but never discovered what he did for a living.
It was known that from the age of twenty-four he had gone to the
theater every night save when kept in bed by illness. ‘Cinema,
opera, comedies, tragedies,’ he said. ‘It’s been all the same to me.
I am afflicted with the theater. But especially zarzuela.’
I caught my breath. Ever since that first night in Castellón de
la Plana, when the man working the barges had taken me to the
theater during feria and I had seen my first zarzuela, I had wanted
to talk with some expert who knew something of this unique
musical form, but in all the years of casual inquiry in both Mexico
and Spain, Don Manolo was the first I had met. It was not possible
that day to speak with him as much as I would have wished, but
later I was able to do so, and I will share his comments in a
moment.
The Spanish zarzuela was one of four distinct yet comparable
theatrical forms which grew up spontaneously during the last half
of the nineteenth century, only to subside in the twentieth, and
each seems to have arisen in response to a similar need, even
though the four audiences voicing the need were dissimilar.
In England it was the evening of music-hall acts which
developed, with its broad mixture of comedy, dance and song.
In Vienna the same impulse gave birth to the operetta, which
utilized the above three ingredients but added a story. In the
United States the best we could do with these ingredients was the
sui generis minstrel show. It was in Madrid that this type of
popular art found its artistic apex in the zarzuela, which was a
playlet, half spoken, half sung, with dancing, comedy and
delightful music.
I have often tried to find the name of that first zarzuela I saw
in Castellón, but with no luck. All I know is that it had a lasting
effect. When the curtain opened and a costumed chorus sang
about how pleasant it was to live in Madrid, I settled back for a
typical evening of Viennese operetta, but soon a soprano sang an
aria of startling dimension, and she was followed shortly by a
contralto and a tenor who sang a duet that could have been written
by Verdi. But just as quickly the chorus took over to chant
something about taking a walk in the park, and I heard no more
opera. In other words, in each of the best zarzuelas two or three
operatic numbers will explode through the theater for several
minutes, after which things subside to routine comedy or folk
tragedy.
Most Americans who enjoy good music remain ignorant of the
zarzuela, and that is a pity, because Spain today offers more than
eighty different zarzuelas in recordings, including some in stereo
if preferred. There are also a few records of high quality offering
anthologies of choral numbers, the best duets or the best solos
for various voices, and these are excellent. For example, if one
heard fifteen or twenty of the best duets he would be confused as
to their origin; they are equal in intensity, drama and vocalization
to the best of Italian or French opera. It is difficult to convince
Americans of this, but two summers ago when André Kostelanetz
wanted to introduce some sparkle into his series with the New
York Philharmonic he offered a soprano singing selections from
La revoltosa
, and the New York audience was delighted. The
singers of zarzuela are also of top operatic quality. One year I
heard Pilar Lorengar doing zarzuela in Madrid, the next year
Don
Giovanni
in Tel Aviv. The tenor Alfredo Kraus has made a similar
jump. Not long ago in a zarzuela in Toledo, I heard a soprano
who was eligible for work in any opera house in Italy or Germany.
It is in the lack of scope and sustained musical narration that
zarzuela suffers when compared to opera, and this deficiency
takes some explaining. The composers demonstrated that they
could write as good music as their competitors in other nations;
the librettists often wrote better; and the performers were as good.
I suppose it was the public that was defective, preferring the brief
and incidental to the sustained and generic. There is also a
noticeable lack of mature dramatic themes—all Donizetti and no
Wagner—so that today the typical zarzuela seems as old-fashioned
as an antimacassar.