Many years after he presented it to the academy, I wrote it down and hid it in my copy of Saint Teresa’s Way of Perfection, one of the few books I’m allowed to have here. I look down at my withered hands, gnarled and splotched with brown, and weep for my lost beauty and that of the rose, my flower, the flower of Venus. Like her, I am withered. Like hers, my face is framed by snow, although you can hardly see it beneath the wimple.
Pacheco read a few paragraphs of his treatise, The Art of Painting, and began a long defense of painting as a liberal art. “Painting is one of the highest expressions of man’s creativity,” he said, “as lofty an enterprise as poetry or philosophy. Painters should no longer be considered mere artisans, but true creators.”
Velázquez had heard Pacheco’s righteous harangue many times before. What held his attention on this day were not his father-in-law’s impassioned words or even Rioja’s extravagant metaphors, but the extraordinary creature Pacheco had invited to the gathering. The man wore an elaborately embroidered jacket of the most audacious colors: gold stitching on black panels trimmed in red, which alternated with white fluted insets. His voluminous lace collar spilled over his back, chest, and shoulders, a motif continued on his ample, flowing cuffs. On his breast hung an ornate gold medallion decorated with a reclining Venus accompanied by Cupid, attached to a heavy gold chain. His hair, ample and dark, was arranged in ringlets covered by a wide-brimmed hat with a large blue feather. He did not look Sevillian—he did not even look Spanish.
Rodrigo Caro, the academy historian, introduced him as Gaspar de Guzmán, the Count of Olivares. Velázquez had met counts before, even dukes, but this man was different. Guzmán had an air of cheerful superiority that drew people to him. He was arrogant and naughty, good-natured, but with a persistent hint of ruthlessness. He had been born in Rome, where his father was an ambassador, and had grown up among foreigners and foreign ideas. He wasn’t wedded to the retrograde notions that bound Sevillians in unsophistication. He knew about art and philosophy, fashion and manners. And he knew about politics. Felipe III had appointed him to the household of his son, the heir apparent, and so at only thirty-two, Guzmán was accustomed to dealing with powerful people. He was an expert at backroom and boudoir politics, and he knew how to get his way at Court. He didn’t namedrop because he didn’t have to. Everyone knew he hobnobbed with men of influence. He was the prince’s constant companion, advisor, and go-between. He was the sun that blinded all who looked upon him.
In my mind I can see how that afternoon, Velázquez’s perceptive artist’s eye never wavered far from Guzmán as the courtier nibbled on tidbits served by Pacheco’s servant; lifted his goblet with a sure but delicate hand; and smiled slyly under his wide, waxed, upturned mustache. As he studied the beautiful Venus medallion rising and falling on Guzmán’s breast, Velázquez suddenly saw his future clearly for the first time. All at once, he knew what he wanted. He longed to be what Guzmán already was: a courtier. But how could a mere painter, a mere artisan such as he was, get to the Alcázar of the king? How could he even approach a man like Guzmán de Olivares? Velázquez observed Pacheco’s exotic guest in silence, too awestruck to venture a word.
Finally, Pacheco spoke: “Don Gaspar, my son-in-law, Diego Velázquez, the finest painter in Seville.”
Velázquez bowed low. “At your service, Your Grace. If ever Your Grace needs a portrait …”
But Don Gaspar was already making his way to the door.
After the academicians had gone, Velázquez took off on foot toward the city’s lively center, where brothels, gaming houses, theaters, and street musicians distracted men from their daily routine. As he walked through the narrow cobbled streets, Velázquez sensed the houses crowding in on him. He saw nothing quaint or picturesque about the weary façades and cracking stucco. Foreigners swooned over the Moorish arches that adorned doorways and gateways and praised the geometrical designs, elaborate tile, brickwork, and woodcarving. They loved the ornamental metals and the fancy plaster bas-reliefs. But in the diffuse night light, Velázquez saw no charm in the jumbled streets and alleys. To him, everything looked dingy. The crammed parade of wrought iron balconies was suffocating, and Seville’s beloved courtyards seemed straggly and minuscule. As he crossed the plaza, a whiff of orange peels and human excrement reached his nostrils. The moon hung low and threatening over a turret, as if in mere moments, it would tumble from the sky and crush him. Tonight he realized something he hadn’t known before: Seville was too small for him. He had to get out. He had to leave behind the ominous moon, the labyrinth of uneven, winding streets, and the boorishness and superstition of the people who trod them.
This feeling, he could now see, had been growing in him for a long time. In the taller the young artists had begun to whisper among themselves. Pacheco might be more open-minded than other art theorists, but to his students his ideas seemed hopelessly old-fashioned. How could they progress, they asked, painting only Virgins and saints from sketchbooks? A few months earlier, Zurbarán, one of the master’s most promising students, had left the school to study on his own because he wanted to learn perspective. In Italy, Zurbarán argued, artists had been developing perspective for years, but Pacheco’s students continued to paint flat images of the same old biblical subjects. Even as he himself branched out in new directions, Velázquez had defended his father-in-law. But now he realized that Zurbarán was right: the master was holding them back.
And then there was Juana and her jealous fits. How could he develop as an artist with a stodgy old man tying his wrists and a resentful wife telling him who could and couldn’t model for him?
Velázquez imagined Guzmán’s medallion dangling eerily from invisible fingers, catching the moonlight, gleaming blindingly. His temples began to throb, and a sharp pain like a jab with a burning needle seared his right eye. He leaned against the wall of a crumbling building and wept. How could he leave Pacheco? How could he leave the man who had raised him, the man who had taught him everything he knew? He loved Pacheco like a father. And he loved Juana, too. She was plain, of course, and she could be silly and petty, but she was a solid, loyal wife. She had already born him a daughter, and who knew how many more children would come? They had been playmates since childhood and they understood one another. And she would do anything for him.
Reeling, Velázquez turned around and headed home.
By the end of the month, Juana knew she was pregnant again. As the weeks wore on, she grew progressively fidgety and cross.
“How could this happen?” she snapped at Arabela. “Nursing women don’t get pregnant!”
“It happens, niña,” said Arabela calmly. “It’s rare, but it can happen.”
Juana fretted and whimpered. She pursed her lips and shook her head when Ángeles brought food from the kitchen. She felt woozy and ugly, and she refused to see Pacheco or Velázquez. Nor would she climb into the carriage to go to the convent, in spite of the anxious notes Sister Inmaculada sent inquiring about her health.
One night a jagged pain awakened Juana. It felt as though a serrated knife were pressing against the inner walls of her womb. Her bedsheets were drenched. She slipped her finger under her shift, and then brought it to her nose. Even before the smell reached her nostrils, she knew that she was lying in a pool of blood. She cried out wildly to Julia, who was sleeping on a low cot in the corner.
“What is it, señora?” whispered the groggy maid.
“Get Arabela! I need her!”
“She’s sleeping,” spluttered Julia stupidly.
“Then wake her up!”
In the morning Arabela sent a message to Pacheco that Doña Juana had miscarried. She herself had attended the señora and could assure him that this daughter would be fine. These things happened all the time. There was no need for alarm.
Pacheco lit a candle and knelt before the statue of Jesus in his study. He thanked God for not taking his daughter in childbirth and then went to comfort Juana.
In the afternoon, Velázquez ap
peared by his wife’s bedside. Arabela was spooning broth into Juana’s mouth and making soothing sounds. “La la la la, mi niña. You’re going to get well. You’re going to get well.”
Velázquez took Juana’s hand and massaged it gently. He couldn’t think of what to say.
“I know you’re upset, Don Diego,” murmured Arabela to help him along. “But think of the beautiful baby that Doña Juana has already given you.”
“Was it …” Velázquez finally stammered. “Was it a boy?”
Arabela stared at him in angry disbelief. Of course it was vital to a man to produce a son, but this was hardly the time to mention the sex of a miscarried child. “It wasn’t anything,” she said coldly. “Just a lifeless glob of blood.”
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “It was a clumsy question.”
“A stupid question,” snapped Arabela. She knew that as a servant, she had no right to speak to him like that, but her concern for Juana had overwhelmed all sense of decorum.
“Yes, a stupid question,” he agreed.
By the end of following year the young couple had put this unhappiness behind them. Doña Juana gave birth to a second daughter, whom they named Ignacia after Ignacio de Loyola, the founder of the Society of Jesus. Instead of a male midwife, the neighborhood partera delivered the baby. Another exciting thing happened that year as well: Felipe IV ascended to the throne, and at only sixteen years old, he was desperate for guidance, which Gaspar de Guzmán was delighted to provide. The dashing young man with the Venus medallion had acquired a new title, count-duke of Olivares, and, as the king’s new minister, he was now the most powerful man in Spain. Velázquez was breathless with excitement. He hoped that the new minister had not forgotten his visit to the Seville academy, and especially Pacheco’s promising son-in-law.
4
SECRETS
1622–1623
JUANA SCURRIED THROUGH THE HOUSE LIKE A MOUSE IN A brushfire. Everything had to be perfect. The patio tiles had to be scrubbed so that the brightly colored birds and flowers glistened in the winter sun. The exterior walls had to be sponged and the brass door ornaments had to gleam. Juana ordered Lidia to wash every piece of pottery in the house. Cooking pots, barber bowls, inkwells, flower pots, chamber pots—nothing was too insignificant to escape Juana’s attention.
“And see that you don’t chip anything!” she barked at the maid.
Juana herself mopped the marble interior floors. Then she convinced Pacheco to enlist one of his pupils to sweep and dust the sala and fluff the cushions. She gave Julia her frilliest night shift to launder and asked Arabela to bathe the children and perfume Paquita’s hair, which had grown long enough to braid.
While Arabela hung a pot over the fire to heat water for the washbasin, Ángeles, who ran the kitchen like a field commander, called out orders to the two slave girls. Pacheco had acquired both of them the year before from a Tunisian trader who was passing through Seville, and they had proven an excellent investment. There are thousands of slaves in Seville—some say over six thousand. Pacheco had been lucky to find two who were industrious and also good-natured. Both girls worked like demons, and Zulima, the younger one, had a lovely voice. Pacheco treated them kindly and was quite fond of them. “Give us music!” Pacheco would entreat Zulima. “It enlivens the house!” And melodies full of trills and algarabías that nobody understood would burst from the girl’s lips.
“Zoraída, lay out the mayólica bowl,” barked Ángeles. “Not that one! The one with the red and blue flowers painted on it! And Zulima, shell these peas and then pick the stones out of those lentils!”
Ángeles had purchased the peas and the lentils—and the onions and the garlic and the bacon and the hens and the rabbits—many hours earlier. The markets were open from six to ten in the morning for the midday meal, and they reopened at three so that purchases could be made for supper. In our grandparents’ day, the world wasn’t so finicky about the hour, but by the time I was a child, people were already beginning to live by the clock. Church bells told you not only when to pray matins and vespers, but also when to go to market, eat your dinner, and go to bed.
In the Seville sun, nothing lasted more than a few hours, which was why two trips a day were essential. The night before the big day, Juana told Ángeles to leave early for the butcher’s to buy a nice piece of mutton. Beef was fine for the everyday stew, but for special occasions, Juana had to have mutton.
So at exactly a quarter to six in the morning (you knew by the peal of the campanile), when daylight was but a hint of orange in the darkened sky, Ángeles and Zoraída left for the marketplace. In her blouse the kitchen maid carried the pouch of money Juana had given her. Seville was full of pickpockets, so you couldn’t be too careful. She haggled with the butcher and the green grocer, but managed to get everything the señora demanded for a decent price. She sent the packages home with Zoraída, then headed for the cheeses to find a nice manchego to be served with olives for afterward. Next she headed to the confitería, where creative candy-makers satisfied Sevillians’ passion for sweets with extraordinary confections. Such indulgences were expensive, but this, after all, was a special occasion. Ángeles found some nice turrones—an irresistible nougat toffee made of honey, sugar, egg whites, and toasted almonds.
The campanile was clanging again. It was now half past nine, and Ángeles was growing nervous. Ahead of her lay hours of plucking, skinning, peeling, chopping, and stoking fires, and she cursed herself for having sent Zoraída home because she still had one more stop to make, and the package would be heavy. Spaniards—and especially Sevillians—had gone crazy for ices. Even in winter, people craved iced drinks made with juices and honey or sugar, so vendors scaled mountains for ice, which they stored in ice wells and sold to the public. The Pacheco household used about a sack of ice a day in the winter, but for today, Ángeles thought they would need much more.
Ángeles was a sturdy woman in her fifties. She had arms like corded tree trunks, and she was used to heavy lifting, but the package of ice was bulky and grew heavier as she trudged home. The day was cool and bright, a typical January day. Near San Elmo Church she turned into an alley that cut through a maze of lanes. Her arms ached and her mind began to wander. As soon as she got home, she’d have to peel the parsnips and chop the onions. Thank God there was plenty of aloja—the alcoholic drink made of carob, water, and a dash of sugar—fermenting in the pantry, but she would have to remember to chill it. And then in the afternoon, she would need to buy some fruit sherbet. It was expensive—two reales!—so if the señora said no, she wouldn’t buy the ambergris, but instead the cheaper kind made with jasmine or anis. And then, if there was time …
All of a sudden a mangy boy of about eight lunged at Ángeles from the shadows. Instinctively, she turned on her heel, but he was quick. He grabbed her from behind and punched her in the back, making her drop her packages. As he shoved her against a wall, an older boy grabbed the ice, the turrón, and the cheese. The ice, he knew, would bring a good price on the street.
“Thanks for lunch!” hissed the older thug. He was only about fifteen, but his teeth were already black from tobacco and disease. Ángeles slumped down against the wall, her back throbbing with pain.
“Idiota!” she hissed back. “Why didn’t you steal my money instead? You could have bought yourself a much bigger lunch at a tavern!”
The boy stopped and stepped back toward her. “Where is your money, old woman?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know! I keep it in a secret place!”
The thug squatted next to her, about to lift her skirt, but with a lightning-swift move Ángeles grabbed the ice out of his hand and thwacked him on the head with it. Seeing his friend toppled, the younger boy shot off like an arrow. Ángeles grabbed the cheese and sweets and ice and ran, leaving her assailant sprawled on the ground, dazed, blood trickling from a gash over his eyebrow.
As soon as she reached Pacheco’s kitchen, she got to work. She didn’t waste time telling her story. Pet
ty assaults were common in the lanes and alleys of Seville, and there was nothing special about this one. Zoraída had already cut the mutton into chunks and chopped the vegetables for the stew. Ángeles assembled the ingredients and placed them in the huge cast iron pot that the slave girls hung over the fire. It was a quarter past ten. She had less than four hours to prepare the meal for Don Diego’s welcome-home celebration.
No one had seen the man of honor that morning. On ordinary days the slave Melgar brought Velázquez an early breakfast, so that by half past ten, he would be at work in his studio. But the day before, the artist had arrived home exhausted by his twelve-day trek from Madrid on mule, and so he was probably still asleep. The trip from Court should have taken only ten days, but Velázquez and his men had run into snow and blocked roads in the Sierra Morena and they had spent an extra night in Córdoba.
Through the window, Ángeles caught sight of Julia in the courtyard and called to her. A moment later, the maid stuck her head through the door. As in most houses, the kitchen was separate from the main structure in order to prevent damage to the living quarters in case of fire.
“Still no sign of Don Diego?” asked Ángeles.
“No,” Julia said. “He must be worn-out from the trip.”
Velázquez had left for Madrid the previous April. He had told Pacheco that he had to get out of Seville and see the world beyond the art school’s dusty halls. That day at the academy, Don Guzmán had mentioned the dazzling collections of art at Court, and Velázquez wanted to discover it all for himself. At Court, he was certain, he would encounter staggering new ways of capturing light, color, and perspective—innovations so extraordinary that he couldn’t even imagine them.
I am Venus Page 4