On June 5, 1625, Justin van Nassau led the defeated remnants of his Dutch army out of the strategically vital city of Breda. When they first came under siege, they had numbered 7,000 soldiers. Now only half remained. Another 10,000 Dutchmen and over 6,000 allied Englishmen had died—including civilians from the city and soldiers of armies which attempted to reinforce it.
The magnitude of the defeat made it easy to forget that it was not a disgrace. Breda’s garrison had faced 23,000 men of the Spanish army—then the most organized in Europe. Its enemy’s commander was Ambrogio Spinola, the age’s greatest master of siege warfare, and it held out against overwhelming odds for over nine months.
‘Honors of War’
Full of admiration for his enemy’s martial excellence, Spinola allowed the Dutch army to march out of Breda as though on parade—carrying their weapons, drums beating and flags flying. His men were strictly forbidden to gloat over the defeated force. When Justin van Nassau approached him on foot in a traditional symbol of submission, Spinola dismounted to meet him as an equal. As soon as they met, Spinola praised the Dutch commander and his men.
News of Spinola’s actions quickly spread. The privileges he granted to the defeated Dutch became a major precedent for the “Honors of War”—granted to besieged enemies who hold out against inevitable defeat as long as possible and surrender at the last moment to prevent needless death.
A Series of Painted Victories
Completed in 1635, “The Surrender of Breda” was part of a series of 12 works depicting the most notable victories of King Philip IV’s reign. Painted by eight different artists, the series decorated the Salón de Reinos (Hall of Realms) of the recently built Buen Retiro Palace.
Seven paintings conform to common stereotypes of military art. Victorious commanders—large and often mounted—fill the foreground. In the background are multitudes of soldiers, often fancifully arranged. An atmosphere of domination is typical. Two others paintings (one is now lost) focused on civilians freed from their conquerors.
The last painting in the series “The Surrender of Jülich,” by Jusepe Leonardo, was one of two depicting Spinola’s victories. Following the stereotype, it shows the general mounted as his defeated opponent kneels before him. His demeanor, however, is a model of gentleness. Rather than charging or rearing, his horse stands pacifically. Spinola doesn’t step down from his place as the victor but neither does he aggressively assert dominance. Often cited as an example of more conventional military art in contrast to Valezquez’s painting, “The Surrender of Jülich” departs from the convention without challenging it.
‘The Surrender of Breda’
At the center of the painting is the meeting of Spinola and van Nassau. Setting a standard for the rest of the work, their depiction accurately conveys the spirit of their encounter. But it does not pretend to capture their encounter’s physical appearance. Instead, it is based on Rubens’s “The Reconciliation of Esau and Jacob” —the two sons of Abraham’s son Isaac in the Book of Genesis.
Today, the significance of that reference can be missed or misunderstood. Some may see in Rubens no more than a convenient model. Others might assume the reference to a picture of brothers heightens the emphasis on Spinola’s magnanimity.
But that is only because we are used to thinking of the Netherlands and Spain as unrelated countries. In reality, in the early 16th century the countries had shared a monarch—Roman Emperor Charles V, son of Lord Philip the Fair of the Netherlands and Queen Joanna of Spain. Decades later, part of the Netherlands revolted against its monarch. Spanish forces were sent to help the Dutch loyalists in a civil war.
When Velazquez painted “The Surrender of Breda,” the Eighty Years’ War was still ongoing. Basing the meeting of Spinola and van Nassau on a painting of the reconciliation of two brothers would have had obvious implications: reconciliation of rebel and loyalist Netherlanders or reconciliation of the Netherlands with Spain—two countries of one monarch mirroring two sons of one man.
Behind each commander are two very different armies. To the left are a handful of Dutch soldiers. Aside from one with a musket, their weapons consist only of (relatively) short and largely ceremonial half-pikes and halberds. On the right are a dozen or so officers. Above their heads are about three dozen pikes—weapons more than twice as tall as the average man. Further in the background are a multitude of barely visible human heads and upright pikes, reaching from the center off to the right—part of the massive Spanish army. Just left of them—in the distance behind van Nassau’s head—a Dutch flag and handful of pike are being lowered in a salute to the victors. Behind them is a large cloud of smoke, a reminder of the destruction caused by the war.
Velesquez’s painting suggests both the inevitability of Spanish victory and the heroism of the Dutch who fought against the odds—not just at the siege but in the (ultimately false) expectation of the rebellion’s eventual defeat. Seen in this light, Spinola’s magnanimous treatment of the defeated becomes a metaphor for how the Dutch people can expect to be treated if the king’s authority is restored.
