Even before he left for Madrid, Velázquez had enchufe—connections. Pacheco had influential friends, so the requisite letters guaranteeing safe conduct were easy to acquire. And then there was the count-duke Olivares, who had promised to introduce him to the right people and look after him. Velázquez made his plans carefully, consulting travel books with routes and names of inns, and although many of the roads were terrible, he was ready for the challenge. The long days of plodding along on the back of a mule and the long nights in flea-ridden dormitories were a small price to pay, he thought, for the rewards that awaited him. He knew—or thought he knew—that as soon as he got to Court, he would be basking in elegance.
And so it was that on a warm spring day redolent with orange blossoms, the artist set out for El Escorial. He knew that even Pacheco’s generosity wasn’t enough to allow him to travel abroad to see world’s greatest paintings, but El Escorial was the next best thing. Felipe II had built El Escorial as a royal hunting lodge near the monastery of San Lorenzo, in the outskirts of Madrid, and then expanded it into a vast complex that included a mausoleum, palace, retreat, and seminary. For weeks, Velázquez had thought of nothing but this place and its treasures, but when he saw the huge, forbidding compound, excitement turned to fear. This wasn’t a hideaway, but a monastery-fortress with massive gray granite walls pierced at each corner by a huge tower—an elegant complex, perhaps even noble, yet far too austere to be called beautiful.
Of course Velázquez hadn’t come to marvel at the building and its belfries, or the quadrangle with its crisscrossing passageways. He was here for the paintings—paintings by Spaniards, naturally, but also by Italians and Germans, by Flems and Venetians, by Lombards and Ligurians. This was his first foray into the world of art beyond Pacheco’s school—the first step, he thought, in what would be his brilliant career. For a moment, he was too awestruck even to set foot inside. However, his anxiety was short-lived. He had come to see paintings, and see them he must.
What lay inside did not disappoint him. Felipe II had been a passionate collector, and he had decorated his complex with the works of Zuccaro, Tibaldi, Cambiaso, and Luca Giordano. Velázquez saw Titian’s Last Supper in the sacristy and a Rubens in the gallery. He gazed upon magnificent frescoes and sculptures—brilliant pieces at every turn. Most remarkable of all was Bellini’s Christ, which the artist had carved from a block of the purest white marble, naked and exposed to all the wickedness of mankind.
The toll of the campanile announced 14:00. Guests were gathering in the patio—Pacheco’s academicians, their wives, local dignitaries, neighbors, and those of Pacheco’s disciples who were from respectable families. The fresh winter air made it an ideal afternoon for an outside meal. Juana greeted each new arrival with a smile and a curtsy, but from time to time, she cast a furtive glance at her father. Velázquez still hadn’t emerged from his rooms.
The guests chattered pleasantly. The ladies, their hair done up in fancy combs and their figures distorted by enormous farthingales, gossiped about the escapades of the handsome new king, whose chief counselor was reputedly also his chief procurer. Felipe IV had been married at ten to Doña Isabel de Borbón, but that didn’t prevent him from prowling around shadowy corridors in search of fresh pleasures. The ladies flashed their golden rings and crucifixes and tossed their scented locks as they giggled and snickered. The men mostly wore black, with tight-fitting jackets, stiff white collars and lacy cuffs, short pantaloons, and velvet capes. They chatted about the recent controversies in the world of astronomy, most of them agreeing that the theories of those renegade foreigners, Copernicus and Galileo, were thoroughly harebrained. The Church had been absolutely right to forbid the notion of a sun-centered universe, said the majority, although a few thought that the Church should keep its nose out of science.
The opposing groups squabbled good-naturedly, while the ladies twittered over the young king’s exploits.
“They say Olivares takes him to back-alley brothels! Imagine!”
“I heard that this Galileo once wanted to be a priest. Imagine!”
“The king of Spain! In public with a …”
“The earth spins around the sun, according to this clown.”
“Don Diego will be able to tell us if Olivares …”
“The Holy Father did the right thing …”
“Well, Don Felipe is only nineteen …”
“I hear the palace is crawling with gorgeous young women of the kind that are, well, anxious to please …”
“He says the earth is just a planet like Mars or Venus …”
“Queen Margarita, his poor mother, would roll over in her grave …”
“False and contrary to scripture …”
“His poor wife, sweet little Queen Isabel.”
“ … what Father Mariana must think of heliocentrism …”
“Velázquez can tell us if …”
“And, by the way, where is Velázquez?”
Juana chewed her lip and fidgeted. She scanned the men’s caucus, and when she finally caught her father’s gaze, mouthed something imperceptible.
Pacheco slipped out of the patio and went to look for his son-in-law.
About fifteen minutes later he reappeared, followed by a man who looked nothing like what the company expected. Like his father-in-law, Velázquez usually dressed in black and carried himself with dignity in public. He wore his long, upturned mustache waxed and carefully groomed, as he had seen the count of Olivares wear his. He was not given to grandiose displays of emotion, but there was a playfulness in his eyes that revealed a mischievous, even rebellious streak. That day, though, Velázquez’s shoulders slumped underneath his full-sleeved black coat. His eyes, usually bright and intense, were puffy and pink as though he had been drinking, although there was no wine on his breath. His hair wilted over his forehead and his mustache drooped shapelessly over his lip. He greeted the guests with a bowed head.
“Tell us about the Court!” urged the ladies. “Did you see the queen?” “Is she as clever as they say? Does she wear French lace?”
Velázquez remained taciturn while the callers whirled around him like dervishes, hurling questions whenever they spun to face him.
“Did you attend a banquet? The king is known for his sumptuous banquets!”
“Is it true he keeps dozens of dwarfs around the palace for his amusement?”
“Is it true …”
Velázquez felt his jaw tense. He knew that eventually someone would ask the dreaded question, and he could not sulk his way through the afternoon and allow people to suspect his trip was a failure. After all, Velázquez was a Sevillian through and through. He had a keen sense of self-worth and of family honor. To discredit himself in front of Pacheco’s friends would be unpardonable. He lifted his chin and squinted slightly.
“Of course,” he said. “It’s all true.”
The guests grilled him during the comida’s many courses. He deflected their questions by describing his journey across the Andalusian countryside. It was spring when he and Melgar set out, accompanied by two muleteers who carried saddle packs full of painting supplies. They passed through fragrant orchards of citrus, olive, and fig trees. The landscape was a patchwork of greens, lime upon olive, emerald upon jade. Greens dotted with yellow, orange, and tan. Music filled the air, as farmers sang as they planted. New shoots climbed trellises in the vineyards, and graceful cypresses reached upward, their tapering branches forming dark green flames against the blue sky. He drew out the narrative as long as he could, using words to draw pictures as vivid as those he created with paint. He reported that in Córdoba, after consulting his guidebooks, he had finally found decent lodgings. He sent Melgar to the marketplace to buy some meat and parsnips to give to the innkeeper’s wife to prepare for them, and fortunately, she was a good cook. He dwelled on the beauty of the vegetables and the filth of the taverns. “One tavern keeper watered down the wine so much that …”
“But what happened when you got to Court?�
� demanded Father Pineda, Pacheco’s persistent Jesuit friend. “Were you well received?”
Velázquez rambled on about the guide they had hired in Córdoba to lead them through the rugged passes to the north, where the land was sterile and sparsely populated.
“It was almost impossible find a place to spend the night. The few beds we found were flea-ridden and lumpy.”
“But what happened at Court?” insisted Father Pineda. “Were you invited to the Alcázar?”
“Ah … the Alcázar … the royal palace,” mused Velázquez.
“Let him tell his story in his own way,” interrupted Pacheco.
Velázquez took a breath. It was clear he was not going to be able to put them off much longer.
“I would like to know, though,” said Pacheco, in spite of his remark to Pineda, “if Juan de Fonseca was kind to you.”
“Very kind,” said Velázquez truthfully, grateful to be able to give an honest answer. “He introduced me to many influential men.” Fonseca was an old friend of Pacheco’s. He was Canon of Seville and now occupied an important post at Court. As the sumiller de cortina, he was responsible for supervising arrangements for the king’s attendance at mass, seeing to his needs during religious services and opening or closing the curtain in front of him as needed to protect his privacy. Velázquez relaxed a bit. He even smiled as he recalled how the old priest had taken him under his wing and presented him to some of the officials—minor officials to be sure, but officials nonetheless—at the Alcázar.
“Did he introduce you to the king? Did you paint His Majesty’s portrait?” The color drained from Velázquez’s face.
Everyone had assumed Pacheco’s son-in-law would take the Court by storm. They all thought it would be a matter of months before he received invitations to paint the king, the queen, and the king’s sister María. After all, he was Pacheco’s best pupil, and the king’s chaplain himself had agreed to introduce him around. Fonseca was a Sevillian knowledgeable about art. It went without saying that he would secure a commission from the king for his countryman.
“The king is very busy now. Hostilities with the Protestants in the Low Countries have started up again. Besides, negotiations have begun for the marriage of Princess María and Charles, Prince of Wales.”
“And what about Olivares?”
How could he tell them he hadn’t even seen Olivares? He swallowed and tried to think of something to say. “They call him count-duke now,” he murmured. “His Majesty made him the duke of Sanlúcar. He didn’t want to give up his inherited title, count of Olivares, so he combined the two.” As he spoke, he knew that he was telling the guests something they already knew, but he had nothing else to say.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Everyone was staring at him. Pacheco sized up the situation, took a gulp of iced wine, and spluttered triumphantly, “He painted Góngora!” He announced it as though it were a coup, as though painting a poet were as important as painting a king. “I myself arranged for it! I wrote to Fonseca and told him to make it happen! And it did! He painted the great bard Luis de Góngora, the pride of Andalusia!”
Velázquez froze. He expected the guests to snicker and scoff. Instead, they roared their approval. Góngora was, after all, Andalusia’s greatest poet! Pineda burst into a recitation of Góngora’s sonnet to Córdoba:
¡Oh excelso muro, oh torres coronadas
De honor, de majestad, de gallardía!
By honor, by majesty, by grace!
Oh lofty ramparts, oh towers crowned
Somehow, Velázquez got through the meal, which dragged on until vespers. Some of the visitors stayed for the merienda and even for supper. It was after midnight before the last one left and Velázquez followed his wife upstairs.
His sullenness had returned. He mumbled something about having failed, about being ignored at Court, about never even seeing the king. Juana had no intention of allowing him to brood alone in his apartments that night. She was thrilled to have him back, and whether Velázquez had painted Don Felipe’s portrait or not was of no concern to her. She took him by the hand and led him to her chamber, where Arabela had laid out her frilly night shift, immaculate and perfumed.
Juana stretched out beside her husband and ran her fingers along his spine, then over his buttocks, his hip, his groin … Velázquez allowed her to fondle his sex until at last he awakened to her touch. He sank down into her, and they rose and fell to the rhythm of their breathing, as though caught in an irresistible dance, cadenced and sweet. There was no more grumbling then, no mention of disappointment or exclusion, just tender whisperings of gratitude, fidelity, affection, love. The air was as serene as slumbering angels.
At about four in the morning, Juana awoke with a start. She was certain she had heard a scream.
It was Arabela. “It’s the baby,” she wailed. “Something is wrong with the baby!”
5
THE LADY ON THE ORB
1623
JUANA CLOSED HER EYES AND LISTENED. SHE HEARD THE BABY whimpering softly in the nursery. A bubbly gurgle. A ripple like the rush of a stream over pebbles. Juana sharpened her ears. She could hear Arabela cooing: “Arrurrú, mi niña. Arrurrú.” The baby giggled and clucked.
Arabela squeezed her hand. Juana jolted back to reality and choked back a sob. Arabela was not in the nursery. She was sitting on a cushion next to Juana in the estrado. The nursery was brutally silent.
Juana opened her eyes and peered at the plum-colored shadows flickering on the wall. The brazier sputtered and danced. Behind the beaded curtain of the estrado she perceived a silhouette: Venturo Almedina. She didn’t want to see him. His very presence in her quarters made her feel violated, but her father had sent for him because he thought that if anyone could save baby Ignacia, it was the Moor. Almedina knew magic, medicinal magic of the East and the West, said Pacheco. But Juana feared the worst.
The strands of the curtain undulated in the dimness. Juana shivered.
Almedina stood before her with his head bowed. Juana focused on the hem of his cape, then on his doublet and the tip of his beard. Another frisson shot through her body. She dared not lift her gaze. She dared not look him in the eye.
Almedina stood in silence, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if he had to urinate. Juana sensed the tension in his body.
She knew she had to say something, but words stuck in her throat. She felt as though she had swallowed cupfuls of sand. Finally she rose to her feet. Arabela slid an arm around her waist to steady her, and Juana forced out an utterance. “My … my little daughter …”
Almedina pursed his lips. He clasped his hands together with such force that his knuckles shone white under his olive skin. “I’m sorry,” he whispered finally.
“You mean … there’s no hope?” Tears dripped onto her collar. Arabela held out a hankie, and Juana stared at it as though it were an exotic insect.
“God had already taken her … when I got here.” Almedina looked at the hankie as though he wanted it for himself.
Juana sank back down onto the cushion. “Oh, God,” she sobbed. “Oh, God, my baby. My precious, precious baby.”
Through her wet lashes Juana perceived the geometric patterns of the tiles. The rhomboids and stars seemed to float over the surface of the floor, swishing around Almedina’s shoes, high-heeled and pointy, and his heavy woolen stockings. She struggled to stifle memories of the previous night, when instead of attending to little Ignacia, she had taken Velázquez by the hand and led him to her bed. Her cranium throbbed and her shoulders tightened into rope knots.
“I suspect a weakness of the lungs,” Almedina said softly, “aggravated by a severe infection. Once it starts, there’s no way to control it.”
“She was delicate from the beginning,” murmured Arabela. Her hands were trembling.
Juana waited for Venturo’s indictment. “You insisted on nursing her yourself,” she expected him to say, “instead of calling in a proper wet nurse.” Instead he said, “There
’s nothing you could have done, señora. There’s nothing anyone could have done. The mysteries of the Lord …”
Juana felt the room spinning around her. She suddenly felt too weak to hold up her own head, and she laid it in her nursemaid’s lap, as she had so many times when she was a child. Arabela stroked Juana’s hair, and Juana dozed. When she opened her eyes—perhaps a moment later, perhaps an hour—she supposed the Moor would be gone, but he was still standing there by the brazier, stooped and miserable looking.
“Don Venturo …”
“May God hold your darling child in His loving embrace,” he murmured. Juana noticed that his voice cracked.
“Please give her some brandy and let her sleep,” he instructed Arabela. “I’m sorry, señora,” he sighed as he turned to leave. “I’m sorry I couldn’t …”
Juana saw his shoulders trembling and knew he would collapse in a corner the moment he was out of the room. She knew that Venturo Almedina would weep for the baby he could not save.
“He’s a good Christian,” murmured Arabela when he was gone.
“Yes,” said Juana, “he is. He really is.”
If it hadn’t been for the news the messenger brought from the Court only hours after Ignacia’s death, Velázquez would have surely mourned as deeply as his wife. But as soon as he unrolled the letter marked with the royal seal, the artist’s thoughts were fixed firmly in the future. Fortune, as everyone knows, is a lady. She stands on an orb that goes up and down as she walks. Lady Fortune had thrust Velázquez into the muck during his first visit to Madrid, but now, it seemed, she was about to pick him up and sluice him off.
In December, 1622, not long after Velázquez left the Court, Rodrigo de Villandrando, one of six royal painters, fell ill and died. Now there was an opening for a new Court painter. Pacheco’s friend, Juan de Fonseca, lost no time reminding the count-duke that back in Seville there was a promising young man who would be perfect for the post. Fonseca knew that Olivares had fond memories of his stay in Seville and admired the city’s writers and painters. It wasn’t hard to convince him to give Velázquez a chance.
I am Venus Page 5