repulsive creature in spectacles—­Goya spectacles; the pattern hasn’t varied since his days—­these ladies and their companions, especially that anonymous one in a hood, coupled with the desperate dreariness of the background, a country dry and hard as a volcanic cinder, make a formidable ensemble.  Zuloaga relates that the beldames screeched and fought in his studio when he posed them.  You exclaim while looking at them:  “How now, you secret black and midnight hags!” Hell hovers hard by; each witch of the unholy trio has the evil eye.

As a painter of dwarfs Zuloaga has not been surpassed by any one but Velasquez.  His Gregorio, the monster with the huge head, the sickening, livid, globular eye, the comical pose—­you exclaim:  What a brush!  The picture palpitates with reality, an ugly reality, for the tall old couple are not prepossessing.  The topography of the country is minutely observed.  But this painter does not wreak himself in ugliness or morbidities; he is singularly happy in catching the attitudes and gestures of the peasants as they return from the vintage; of picadors, matadors, chulos, in the ring or lounging, smoking, awaiting the signal.  The large and celebrated family group of the matador Gallito—­which is to remain permanently in the Hispanic Society’s museum—­is a superb exemplar of the synthetic and rhythmic art of the Spaniard.  Each character is seized and rendered.  The strong silhouettes melt into a harmonious arabesque; the tonal gamut is nervous, strong, fiery; the dull gold background is a foil for the scale of colour notes.  It is a striking picture.  Very striking, too, is the portrait of Breval as Carmen, though it is the least Spanish picture in the collection; Breval is pictured on the stage, the lights from below playing over her features.  The problem is solved, as Besnard or Degas has solved it, successfully, but in purely personal manner.  It is the picture in the Metropolitan Museum that is bound to attract attention, as it is a technical triumph; but it is not very characteristic.

We saw dark-eyed, graceful manolas on balconies—­this truly Spanish motive in art, as Spanish as is the Madonna Italian—­over which are thrown gorgeous shawls, smiling, flirting; with languorous eyes and provocative fans, they sit ensconced as they sat in Goya’s time and centuries before Goya, the Eternal Feminine of Spain.  Zuloaga is her latest interpreter.  Isn’t Candida delicious in green, with black head-dress of lace—­isn’t she bewitching?  Her stockings are green.  The wall is a most miraculous adumbration of green.  Across the room is another agent of disquiet in Nile green, Mercedes by name.  Her aquiline nose, black eyes, and the flowers she wears at the side of her head bewilder; the sky, clouds, and landscape are all very lovely.  This is a singularly limpid, loose, flowing picture.  It has the paint quality sometimes missing in the bold, fat massing of the Zuloaga colour chords.  The Montmartre Cafe concert singer is a sterling specimen