DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.48088#0082
MURILLO.
63
But now, influenced by love to her country, Donna Beatrix had emphatically condemned
this style of painting, and thus Murillo had lost the ground, on which he had based his hopes of
a longer residence in the Triana.
Pedro de Moya also understood, on observing Murillo’s sudden depression, how entirely
unfavourable Donna Beatrix’s sharp criticism was to the success of his own suit. He looked
attentively at the lady, in the hope of discovering whether her object in pronouncing such severe
judgment had been less to criticise the pictures, than to deprive Murillo of every excuse respecting
his journey. He observed the glances which she cast, when she thought herself unobserved, on
his friend, and though well acquainted with the language of the eyes, he could only discern in
Donna Beatrix the severe mistress, resolved to make her slave into a renowned artist, but willing
to aid him only by her commands. And yet this obedient slave was beautiful and attractive, and
was possessed of such intelligence, with such feeling and genius for art, that Donna Beatrix’s
interest in him could not be only an unmeaning caprice.
The conversation of the ladies with de Moya and the Count of Villamanrique—(Murillo
stood sunk in thought, and did not utter a syllable)—turned uponEngland and English affairs,
and Pedro had an excellent opportunity of displaying his conversational powers in the most
favourable light. He told of his master, Van Dyck; related piquant or affecting anecdotes
respecting the campaign in the Netherlands, and had the satisfaction of observing that Donna
Beatrix,—though not so enthusiastic as Donna Blandina—listened to him with undisguised
pleasure. She seemed to become pensive, and sighed involuntarily several times, as she glanced
at Murillo, and doubtless compared him, who had seen nothing beyond Seville and the Triana,
with the travelled and experienced de Moya—a parallel which, to all appearances, must have
tended greatly to the advantage of the latter. By the side of this perfect cavalier, poor Don
Bartolome, who stood like an untrained school-boy, could only excite pity.
The ladies Clara and Blandina rose from their seats, as Donna Beatrix observed that she
was much indebted to Pedro de Moya for the sight of his pictures, as well as for his hospitality.
“Adieu, Don Bartolome!” Beatrix said, as she lightly turned her head, and made a sign to
the young man.
Murillo appeared to have gained new life from this glance, for he blushed, and his features
gave expression to his inward happiness. He hastily seized his hat and took his leave, while
Pedro de Moya, and the Count of Villamanrique with his two daughters, accompanied their
guest to the foot of the stairs, in accordance with the strictest rules of etiquette. De Moya
watched his friend depart, and was not a little surprised, when Murillo, instead of following as
might have been anticipated, the lady’s litter, whistled a merry song, and turned in another
direction.
Pedro did not know that Beatrix, in turning round, had cast a glance on Murillo, which
he had rightly interpreted. When he reached the door of the Palace Villamanrique, he saw on
the ground a small, half trampled rose tied with a green ribband; this he picked up, and placed
in his bosom. As soon as he was alone by the stream, he pressed the flower into its original
shape, and then took from its centre a narrow scrap of parchment.
“I wish to see you at my house this evening, at eight o’clock,” the happy man read, and
danced on the grass, so that the passers by came to the conclusion that either the young man
had been reading Don Quixote, or was seized with a sudden fit of madness.—
At the appointed time Don Bartolome was to be found in the palace of Donna Beatrix,
63
But now, influenced by love to her country, Donna Beatrix had emphatically condemned
this style of painting, and thus Murillo had lost the ground, on which he had based his hopes of
a longer residence in the Triana.
Pedro de Moya also understood, on observing Murillo’s sudden depression, how entirely
unfavourable Donna Beatrix’s sharp criticism was to the success of his own suit. He looked
attentively at the lady, in the hope of discovering whether her object in pronouncing such severe
judgment had been less to criticise the pictures, than to deprive Murillo of every excuse respecting
his journey. He observed the glances which she cast, when she thought herself unobserved, on
his friend, and though well acquainted with the language of the eyes, he could only discern in
Donna Beatrix the severe mistress, resolved to make her slave into a renowned artist, but willing
to aid him only by her commands. And yet this obedient slave was beautiful and attractive, and
was possessed of such intelligence, with such feeling and genius for art, that Donna Beatrix’s
interest in him could not be only an unmeaning caprice.
The conversation of the ladies with de Moya and the Count of Villamanrique—(Murillo
stood sunk in thought, and did not utter a syllable)—turned uponEngland and English affairs,
and Pedro had an excellent opportunity of displaying his conversational powers in the most
favourable light. He told of his master, Van Dyck; related piquant or affecting anecdotes
respecting the campaign in the Netherlands, and had the satisfaction of observing that Donna
Beatrix,—though not so enthusiastic as Donna Blandina—listened to him with undisguised
pleasure. She seemed to become pensive, and sighed involuntarily several times, as she glanced
at Murillo, and doubtless compared him, who had seen nothing beyond Seville and the Triana,
with the travelled and experienced de Moya—a parallel which, to all appearances, must have
tended greatly to the advantage of the latter. By the side of this perfect cavalier, poor Don
Bartolome, who stood like an untrained school-boy, could only excite pity.
The ladies Clara and Blandina rose from their seats, as Donna Beatrix observed that she
was much indebted to Pedro de Moya for the sight of his pictures, as well as for his hospitality.
“Adieu, Don Bartolome!” Beatrix said, as she lightly turned her head, and made a sign to
the young man.
Murillo appeared to have gained new life from this glance, for he blushed, and his features
gave expression to his inward happiness. He hastily seized his hat and took his leave, while
Pedro de Moya, and the Count of Villamanrique with his two daughters, accompanied their
guest to the foot of the stairs, in accordance with the strictest rules of etiquette. De Moya
watched his friend depart, and was not a little surprised, when Murillo, instead of following as
might have been anticipated, the lady’s litter, whistled a merry song, and turned in another
direction.
Pedro did not know that Beatrix, in turning round, had cast a glance on Murillo, which
he had rightly interpreted. When he reached the door of the Palace Villamanrique, he saw on
the ground a small, half trampled rose tied with a green ribband; this he picked up, and placed
in his bosom. As soon as he was alone by the stream, he pressed the flower into its original
shape, and then took from its centre a narrow scrap of parchment.
“I wish to see you at my house this evening, at eight o’clock,” the happy man read, and
danced on the grass, so that the passers by came to the conclusion that either the young man
had been reading Don Quixote, or was seized with a sudden fit of madness.—
At the appointed time Don Bartolome was to be found in the palace of Donna Beatrix,