Prince Charles was all for it, but when he saw that the marriage negotiators were dragging their heels, he decided to take matters into his own hands. Twenty-three years old and full of himself, he set off incognito for Spain with his pal the duke of Buckingham. I can imagine the two of them crossing the border in the dead of night, capes drawn over their eyes like characters in a play by Calderón. The night is dark and starless. Their carriage rolls over the bumpy cobblestones of the Calle de las Infantas, curtains drawn, Buckingham shuddering at the noise, the prince giddy with excitement. They send a servant to awaken the English ambassador and plead for lodgings. The poor man, kneeling at his prayers in his nightshirt, is alarmed by the thumping at his door and astonished to learn that he has visitors at such an ungodly hour. Sleepily, he patters behind a servant carrying a candle, forgetting to don his dressing gown. In the vestibule, two men wait in silence, their faces concealed. Suddenly, the prince throws off his cloak and bursts into giggles.
“Your Royal Highness,” hiccups the duke of Bristol, Ambassador from the Court of King James to the Court of King Felipe IV. He bows until his nose is parallel to the floor.
Charles nods carelessly. “A b … b … bolt from the blue, eh, duke?” If he is self-conscious about his stuttering, he doesn’t show it.
“Your Grace,” whispers Buckingham conspiratorially, “we have come to get a look at the princess before the official presentation. His Royal Highness is hoping to woo her on his own rather than leaving it all to … you know …”
“Diplomats, Your Grace?” Bristol, still stunned, stands there before the royal party in his nightshirt, which is embarrassingly transparent in the candlelight.
“Gaston,” he whispers to the servant, “run and get my dressing gown for me, will you?”
“His Royal Highness wishes for a more spontaneous, sincere relationship with his bride, you see. One that isn’t, uh, pure business.” Buckingham winks. “The representatives of both governments are dawdling. His Royal Highness prefers to see the negotiations concluded post haste and believes our presence here can hurry things along.”
The next day, Bristol reported to the Spanish monarch that the illustrious trickster, Prince Charles of England, was on Spanish soil. The count-duke ordered that the cuarto viejo of the Monastery of San Jerónimo, which was reserved for royal visitors, be sumptuously appointed for the guests. Soon afterward, the prince’s entourage arrived and the galas began.
The moment King Felipe was informed of Charles’s presence on Spanish soil, he suspended the sumptuary laws so that Madrileños could dazzle his guest with the opulence of their palaces, their carriages, and their costumes. In fact, he was so anxious to impress his future brother-in-law that that he lent thousands of ducats to his noblemen so that they could put on the best show possible. In order to convince the Prince of England that he had Spain’s support, Felipe let scores of prisoners out of jail and paid them to cheer and scream with enthusiasm as Charles rode through the streets.
As soon as Charles had settled into San Jerónimo, every commission, council, and committee in the realm processed to the monastery to show its respects. The Englishman sat upon a dais in the courtyard as bailiffs, constables, scribes, secretaries, lawyers, accountants, magistrates, advisers, and guards paraded before him, each one on horseback and bedecked in his very best clothes. Next came German and Spanish military ranks preceded by flutists and drummers; then officers of the municipality of Madrid marching to the rhythm of clanging cymbals; followed by countless nobles and their escorts in velvet, gold, and jewels. Finally, servants accompanied Charles to an intimate salon, where His Majesty and Olivares, who had entered through a secret door, regaled him with delicacies and conversation the rest of the afternoon.
Charles spent spring and summer bowing and smiling and wooing the princess at parades, receptions, banquets, masked balls, bullfights, cañas, hunting parties, tournaments, and religious festivals. He was reputedly charming, witty, gallant, and a bit childish. I imagine him smirking and winking at Doña María, in that impudent way Englishmen have, while she, with customary Spanish hauteur, turns away, chin raised, eyes narrowed. And Velázquez? Velázquez was just an aspiring Court painter, more or less forgotten amid the parties and parley. But then, one day as he was finishing up a sketch of a palace cook to be used someday—the painter wasn’t sure when—as a character in some religious painting, a page appeared in the atelier.
“Don Diego,” the boy said deferentially, “the count-duke requests that your mercy follow me.”
A painter cannot simply drop everything in the middle of a session, yet a summons from the count-duke of Olivares was not to be ignored. Velázquez straightened up as best he could, dismissed his model, doused his smudged hands in a basin of water, and followed the page through labyrinthine corridors to an antechamber. The wide double doors were open. A lesser courtier appeared and escorted Velázquez into another room, where he was met by one of Olivares’s personal servants, who in turn led him to an office where a secretary sat writing at a heavy wooden desk ornately carved with vines and grapes.
“Please be kind enough to wait here,” said the secretary coldly. “His Lordship will be with you shortly.”
Velázquez remained standing. He had not been invited to sit down. He fidgeted with a silver chain in his pocket, a good-luck gift from his father-in-law. Was the count-duke going to dismiss him? Had the king changed his mind about his portrait? Had the Committee of Works decided that there was simply not enough money to replace Rodrigo de Villandrando, the Court portraitist who had died? Everyone said that cash was tight. Eugenio Cajés, one of the senior painters, hadn’t been paid in months. Suddenly, an interior door opened and a servant in royal livery swept in.
“Don Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez? Please follow me.” Another series of hallways, and then a massive, ornately carved door. The servant introduced Velázquez into an exquisite salon with furniture upholstered in velvet. The wall hangings were breathtaking—finely stitched Belgian tapestries depicting knights and ladies romping in a field. Olivares was standing next to one of them.
“A fifteenth-century Flemish piece,” he was explaining to a guest. “A gift from Archduke Albert of the Netherlands.”
Velázquez took in the scene and bowed low, as much to give his stomach time to settle as out of courtesy. He stood, he realized, before two of the most powerful men in the world. His mouth felt dry, and he felt a strong urge to urinate. Olivares turned to the painter and greeted him as breezily as if he had been talking to an equal. “His Royal Highness, Prince Charles Stuart of England,” he announced by way of introduction.
Velázquez tried to swallow, but his throat tightened, leaving him momentarily mute. “Your Highness,” he breathed finally. He bowed once more. Three of the most powerful men in the world! King Felipe IV of Spain, the count-duke of Olivares, and Prince Charles.
“Don Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez,” Olivares continued, “one of the finest young painters in Spain.”
Velázquez didn’t blush. He knew it was true.
The prince let out a playful snort. “Get to see a lot of nice t … t … titties in your line of work, eh, V … Ve … Velázquez?”
Velázquez stared at the floor, at once stunned and amused, unsure of whether to be offended or flattered by the intimacy.
“I don’t know whether it was his stammer or his impudence,” Velázquez later told me, “but it was hard to take the man seriously.”
“You’ll have to t … t … take him with you when you m … m … ma … make the rounds,” chortled Charles, looking at the king, whose facial muscles seemed fixed in wax. “He seems a little g … green.”
A tallish young man with a narrow face and a high forehead, the prince wore a permanent smirk between his upturned mustache and his short, pointed beard. He was just Velázquez’s age, but looked older. He wore a tight-fitting doublet of gold and black horizontal stripes and calf-length britches of the same pattern. Instead of a
ruff, a wide collar decorated with saffron-colored lace graced his neck—that was the English style—and a floor-length white cloak embroidered with gold threads lay across his shoulders. He oozed wealth and power, even though he had the voice of a dwarf.
“I am escorting the prince to the king’s private art collection,” said Olivares. “I thought you’d enjoy seeing it, too.”
Nothing Velázquez had ever seen before could compare to this assemblage of paintings, not even the collection at El Escorial. There were many beautiful Titians, and none more impressive than the “Venus of El Pardo.” Velázquez stood before it awestruck.
I should say that I could never have posed for a painting like that one, not in a thousand years. Even if I didn’t get caught, I would surely roast in hell for all eternity, and so would Velázquez. But those Venetians have no morals … and no fear of God. Titian’s painting is so sexually charged—a reclining female nude in a landscape full of figures. As she sleeps—fully exposed—a satyr approaches, ready to pounce. I wonder who posed for that painting. Whoever she is, I’m telling you she has no shame and no fear of God because you can see everything. She’s enticing, all right, luscious and enticing. My Venus is discreet. I’m facing the back wall, rather than the spectator, and I invite him to admire me from a distance, nothing more. But that Venus …
There were other beautiful Titians in the collection as well—a whole series of mythological paintings created for Felipe II called Poésie, many of which featured magnificent nudes. Charles wanted them all, and in fact got a lot of them. He played that old trick, complimenting the host until he feels compelled to give you what you want out of courtesy. Felipe not only gave him some of the nudes but also Titian’s portrait of Carlos V with a hound as a token of imperial power. Charles grabbed as much as he could.
Of course, I only know these things because Velázquez told me. And another thing I know: Charles’s enthusiasm for Felipe’s collection galvanized Velázquez. He began to realize just how much art was valued by great men. He began to understand what a treasure he possessed in his ability to create beautiful images. He also grasped, as he never had before, the power of this new kind of art, which men like Titian were producing. These weren’t the staid and static paintings of Pacheco’s workshop—this was fluid, dynamic, energetic art. Art that could offend, art that could inspire.
I realized something, too. I realized that the men in power, even our revered Felipe who ruled by divine mandate, were phonies, absolute hypocrites. I hope I die before anyone reads these pages because I’d surely burn at the stake for saying this. And yet, I just have to write it down and get this rage out of my heart. The powerful men at the palace that day—and their successors and all of the successors that will follow—they’re all frauds. They make a public spectacle of their devotion to Catholic moral principles, even breaking the penises off of Roman statues and placing aprons over the loins of poor Jesus, naked and suffering on the cross. And then, in their private quarters, they pant over fleshy Venuses and Daphnes.
On August 18, all of Madrid celebrated the birthday of the infanta and future queen of England at an enormous party the king held on the palace grounds. The heat was so oppressive that your sweat boiled as it emerged from your pores. The Devil would have stayed away, preferring the cooler climes of hell, if his presence weren’t required at the event.
But Velázquez was indifferent to the temperature. Some of the most important men in Europe were at this fete, and some of the most elegant women. Velázquez watched the goings-on with greedy eyes. Everywhere men in elaborately embroidered jerkins discussed the invasion of Lombardy by papal troops and the afternoon’s bullfight in the same animated tones. The Spaniards wore mostly black or navy, although some of the younger men preferred a continental palette. The foreigners sported an array of hues, especially the Frenchmen, whose frilly shirts and pink, lilac, and baby blue suits elicited snickers from their Spanish cousins. Gorgeous young girls moved like inverted umbrellas over the grass or sat in groups, fanning themselves and giggling. Among the merrymakers wandered dwarfs, midgets, jesters, and clowns who somersaulted, juggled, gestured, and sang songs in high-pitched voices. His Majesty was particularly fond of monsters and kept scores of them for the amusement of his friends and children.
Velázquez fiddled with his mustache as his eyes darted from one spectacle to the other.
“It’s so hot the eggs popped out of the hen hard-boiled.”
The painter glanced around. A girl who looked to be about fifteen or sixteen, but had the bearing of a mature woman, was looking right at him.
“Are you speaking to me?”
“Who else would I be speaking to?”
Velázquez was not accustomed to such audaciousness in women. At home in Seville, girls were spirited, but no decent young lady would ever address a man in such a forward manner.
“Who are you?” she asked. “You don’t look like a count or a duke.”
Velázquez felt ashamed—was it so obvious from his attire and his conduct that he was a nobody? “I am Don Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez,” said the painter as haughtily as possible. “Who are you?”
She ignored his question. “What is your position at Court?”
“I am a painter.” He began to fidget. It was bad enough that “painter” conferred practically no status at all, but worse still that he didn’t even know if he had a position at Court. He had not yet received an appointment. “I hope to be named to the royal corps very soon.”
“I see. You hope to be, but you’re not sure you will be.”
Velázquez pursed his lips and didn’t answer.
“And if you were appointed Court painter, would you paint me?” Velázquez gazed at his tormentor. She was a delicate-looking girl, with porcelain skin and flirtatious eyes. She wore her soft brown hair twisted into a high knot, elegantly fixed with wires and adorned with a jeweled coif. She wore a cream-colored dress with mutton sleeves, puffed at the top and tight from elbow to wrist, and a wide farthingale covered by a cream-colored skirt and a black overskirt scalloped at the hem. At her throat, smooth and white as alabaster, hung a heavy rope of pearls fastened by a diamond clasp and garnished by a medallion inset with rubies and sapphires that sparkled in the sunlight. Her waist was so slender that Velázquez thought he could encircle it with his two hands. She was sassy and bold, but she looked like an angel. The painter caught his breath.
“No,” he said coldly.
“I am Doña Constanza Enríquez y Castro, and you would be wise to be nice to me. I am in the service of the queen.” A French courtier in a pastel blue jacket and a billowing ruff strolled by. She paused. “I must go, but you will see me again.”
She is fixed in my mind, this beautiful child. I see her soft white hands, two fluttering doves. I see her firm chin, her flushed cheeks, her smooth chestnut hair. I look down at my own withered fingers, gnarls like walnuts, splotches like mildew. I run my fingers under my own chin and feel the slack flesh of my jowl.
A moment later Velázquez felt the hot breath of Fonseca on his neck.
“I see that you are quickly mastering the art of the galanteo,” murmured the chaplain.
Again, Velázquez was caught off guard. There was an uncomfortable pause. “I’m not … I’m not trying to woo anyone. I’m a married man.”
“They’re all married men. They’re here at Court all alone, without their wives, so what’s to keep them from seeking a bit of company to fill the lonely nights?”
Velázquez stared at the king’s spiritual guide in disbelief.
“Besides,” Fonseca went on, “it’s expected. The Court is full of damsels and widows as well as married ladies who are only too happy to be ‘served’ by a gentleman. For example, Doña Constanza will desire you to follow behind on horseback when she accompanies the queen in her carriage to the Church of Nuestra Señora de Antocha. She will expect you to send her gifts—flowers, a tasty delicacy, a bauble, that sort of thing.”
“But peo
ple will talk.”
“At Court no one thinks anything of such trifles. People will be more apt to talk if you refrain.”
“Are you advising me to …”
“I’m not advising you to woo anyone. After all, I’m a priest.”
Three days later, on August 21, King Felipe IV hosted another party—this one in honor of the betrothal of Prince Charles Stuart and the Infanta María Ana. It was the most sumptuous celebration most Madrileños had ever seen. In the late afternoon, more than twelve thousand persons gathered in the Plaza Mayor to witness a juego de cañas, in which the participants—Christians all, but dressed as Moors—attack each other on horseback with light reeds. Each quadrille sported its own livery, which consisted of cloaks and hoods of dazzling colors, silk upon silk, sequins upon sequins, jewels upon jewels. They wore no armor, only brocade doublets and short wide pants, their arms and legs bare. Scimitars hung from their shoulders in gorgeously tooled casings. It was a windstorm of colors—reds and greens, turquoises and magentas, yellows and azures.
Velázquez was captivated by the brilliance of the spectacle. I can imagine him drinking in the luscious colors, the luminosity of sweat-drenched arms, the muscular gallop of the horses, the shifting forms of quadrilles that, like the specks in a kaleidoscope, gather, transform, and disengage. And perhaps he was also scanning the crowd for the brown-haired Constanza.
During the weeks following the betrothal party, Velázquez worked at a frenzied pace, and on August 30 he rapidly executed a small portrait of the king. To Don Felipe’s delight, he reduced the royal head in length, thereby minimizing the obtrusive jaw. He also made portraits of Charles Stuart and the infante Fernando’s favorite dwarf, Calabazas, as well as three or four sketches of minor courtiers and another of the infante Carlos’s dog.
But more important, he learned the ways of the Court, for Court etiquette was no laughing matter. Any gaffe could be fatal. You had to know when to don your hat and when to remove it, how low to bow to a duke and how to address a count, the role of the mayordomo mayor and that of the camarero mayor. The king and queen kept separate households with parallel structures and staffs, and you had to learn who was who. You also had to know the order of things—who ate when, who preceded whom. Which dishes, which glasses, which knives. Which ruffs, which gloves, which feathers. You had to remember to yell and cheer at the Court theater as though it were a corral. And you had to perfect the galanteo, a practice the pleasure-seeking young king held in high regard.
I am Venus Page 7