With all these demands on him, Velázquez found no time to write to his wife and father-in-law. However, at the end of October Fonseca took pen to paper. I saw his letter myself—Pacheco kept it for years folded between two pages of the manuscript of his book, El arte de la pintura. It was found among his papers when he died.
My dear and esteemed friend,
May Christ be with you and give you strength. I was deeply saddened to learn of the passing of your little granddaughter. Know that she rests with God and with the Holy Virgin, our beloved mother, who will hold the child in her loving bosom for all eternity.
Since I know you are anxious to learn news of Don Diego, I hasten to inform you that your son-in-law has indeed acquitted himself nicely at Court. On the 6th day of October of this year of our Lord 1623, he was named royal painter with a stipend of twenty ducats a month. He will be paid an additional sum for any painting he produces. This last entitlement is a sign of His Majesty’s favor, for it has not been granted to other Court painters. More significant still, Don Diego has been given the exclusive right to paint His Majesty. Furthermore, he has been provided with comfortable lodgings on the Calle de Convalecientes, which are probably worth some two hundred ducats a year. The house is ample enough for the whole family and is located near the Plaza Mayor and the Alcázar, in the vicinity of the count-duke’s own palace, so you can imagine how well-positioned it is.
Regarding the longed-for union between the Prince of England and our own Infanta María Ana, I must apprise you of the failure of the negotiations. His Majesty’s sister quite rightly refuses to compromise her faith and marry a Protestant, even to avoid war. His Majesty and the count-duke had entertained the illusion that Prince Charles would embrace Catholicism upon his marriage to the infanta, but that was never his intention. When one thinks of His Majesty’s extravagant expenditures, Prince Charles’s rejection of the one true faith seems all the more treacherous. The greatest scandal of all is that the prince intended to make off with the entire collection of Titian’s “Poésie” and had the canvasses all packed and ready to be shipped to England. It took considerable diplomatic intervention to get them returned.
In spite of this diplomatic setback, the mood at Court is optimistic. Olivares is so devoted to the king, rumor has it that he once kissed the prince’s chamber pot as a sign of submission. Although we are still feeling the collective melancholia produced by the loss of our armada to the English more than three decades ago, the count-duke is determined to rebuild both national morale and the military. In the Low Countries, our troops continue to struggle to reclaim our hold on the Northern Netherlands. Last year the Dutch repelled our attack on the important fortress town of Bergen op Zoom, but the tide is certain to turn in our favor very soon, for Spain has always been the Almighty’s most beloved nation. Money remains a problem, as the colonies are producing diminishing quantities of silver and the outlying provinces of the realm are beginning to rebel against the high taxes required of them.
There is also growing alarm here over Richelieu’s recent rise to the rank of Cardinal. His influence in affairs of both Church and State makes him a formidable adversary for Olivares. His premier objective is clearly to challenge the supremacy of the Austro-Spanish Habsburg dynasty, and, although a Prince of the Church, he does not hesitate to forge alliances with Protestant states in order to achieve that end.
So you can see, my dear Don Francisco, that life here is full of challenges. I can assure you, nevertheless, that your precious son-in-law is advancing nicely in the favor of His Majesty.
I pray you remember me to your daughter Juana and granddaughter Francisca. May God make you holy and protect you and your family from the Enemy, who lurks everywhere.
I humbly kiss your hands and feet,
Juan de Fonseca,
Sumiller de Cortina
Of His Majesty, our Most Holy Catholic King, Felipe IV de Habsburgo
There were a number of things Fonseca had refrained from mentioning to Don Francisco. One was the jealousy of Velázquez that was already brewing among the older Court painters. Another was a scene he had observed from his window the evening before: a chestnut-haired doncella had stepped into an elegant carriage and rode away, followed a few moments later by a young man on horseback in a dark suit, a black cape, and a wide-brimmed, feathered hat—a young man who looked very much like Velázquez.
7
ALTERATIONS
1623–1624
JULIA HELD UP A BURGUNDY DRESS WITH WHITE LACE AROUND the décolletage. “This one, señora?”
“Hmm, perhaps.” The maid folded the frilly pink shawl she was holding and laid it on the dresser. “No, I’ve changed my mind … You can have that one, Julia. You love flounces more than I do.”
“Thank you, señora. What about this one?” The blue gown in Julia’s hands had a generous collar that billowed over the breast and wide sleeves trimmed with yellow braid.
“That trim …”
“I know, señora, but it’s impossible to find good embroidery since the Moriscos left. We used to be able to get such beautiful handwork, but now we have to settle for braid.”
Juana draped the dress over her left arm and squinted at the sleeve.
“Maybe once you get to Court, you can have a dress made in the French style,” said Julia. “Oh, but this one is lovely, señora. You should certainly take it with you.” She placed a gold silk gown with a long, pointed bodice and wrist-length puffed sleeves on the divan. The wide skirt billowed gracefully as it settled. “It hangs so nicely over a farthingale, and the rose-colored inner panel contrasts beautifully with the rest.”
Juana took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said with a sigh. “I suppose you’re right.”
The maid was delighted that Doña Juana was showing some interest in packing her trunks. In the months that followed little Ignacia’s death, she had lain in bed shrouded in melancholy during the day and floated through the hallways like a specter at night. When Fonseca’s letter arrived shortly before All Souls’ Day, 1623, Juana sank into a well of moroseness so black that Pacheco feared she would die. Almedina came by daily with exotic herbs from faraway places—myristica fragans, aquilaria agallocha—but nothing helped. Then, as Seville began preparations for Holy Week, Juana ventured out occasionally to visit Sister Inmaculada, sometimes hearing mass and taking her midday meal with the nuns.
“God bless the Carmelites,” murmured Pacheco. “They’re helping my poor child through this Calvary. And God bless Don Venturo Almedina and his magical herbs.”
Holy Week in Seville is a paradox—a simultaneous explosion of contrition and color. Each guild parades through the streets in penitential garb of a distinctive hue—carpenters in blue, masons in gray, cobblers in green, painters in magenta. Men wail in remorse for their sins as they carry figures called pasos set atop richly carved wooden floats. In their long robes and pointed hats they wind their way through the streets from their local churches toward the cathedral, a trek that can take four hours or fourteen. Most guilds carry three pasos. The first is a scene that depicts either Christ’s Passion or an aspect of His greatness, for example, the miracle of the loaves. The second consists of an image of Jesus himself, usually life-sized, with porcelain skin, blue-marble eyes, and human hair crowned with thorn branches. Last comes a figure of the Virgin, la Dolorosa, sorrowful but restrained, wearing the best dress the brotherhood can provide and adorned with garlands of flowers. After sundown, the three pasos are surrounded by candles that flicker and dance, casting an eerie glow on the figures as they move through the shadows.
As the painted sculptures float above the people lining the streets, they stare out with their glassy eyes and bless the crowd with their outstretched plaster hands. They sway to the rhythms of drums and trumpets beating out a joyous dirge, the sweet lamentation of communal suffering. I am a sinner, yes, but even so, I never fail to be moved, deeply moved, by the agony of Our Savior, and horrified by the wickedness of the m
en who nailed Him to the Cross.
During that Holy Week, Juana did not follow the procession on foot as she had in happier times, but instead sat by her window to watch it pass. “Oh, holy Mother,” she whispered as Mary glided by. “Hold my beloved baby close to your heart.” She wept silently into her handkerchief.
A few weeks after the pretty statues had been safely returned to their churches, Juana opened her eyes and blinked hard. Who was this little girl, this child of six with mutinous chestnut curls and heartbreaking eyes? Juana hardly recognized her. She remembered Francisca as a pudgy-cheeked toddler. But that had been half a year earlier, when her older daughter played by her side with a kitten and a ball of string while she, Juana, nursed Ignacia. The wise-looking child who stood before her now had a steady, unforgiving gaze. Her lips were pursed, as if holding back an accusation. Juana looked away.
She felt as if she should apologize, but how do you apologize to a six-year-old? And why should she, a woman who had suffered a terrible loss, have to beg forgiveness from anyone? Juana felt the floorboards go wobbly under her feet.
“Paquita …” she began. “Paquita, I’ve been …”
In the days preceding her rediscovery of the existence of her first-born child, Juana would often press one of Ignacia’s soft blankets to her cheek. She would stroke a carefully hemmed diaper as though she were caressing the supple skin of the babe herself. She’d curl her fingers over its folds or hold the cloth to her nose as if searching for the pungent scent of baby pee.
But now, Juana realized, all that would have to stop. She had neglected Paquita. She had been looking to the Holy Mother for guidance, but she hadn’t been listening to the Holy Mother at all. With her joyful music and outstretched arms, the Virgin had been trying to tell her to stop sniveling and get on with her life. “Be grateful for what you have,” growled the Virgin in no uncertain terms. “I lost a child, too, and He was the son of God! Pull yourself together, woman!”
Juana resolved that from then on, she would rise early every day and head off to the Discalced convent, bringing Julia, Arabela, and Paquita with her. In the past, the sisters always cooed over the little girl, offering her sweets and lemonade. Now they would coddle her again. Francisca deserved to be coddled, thought Juana, and she deserved to be loved. Most of all, she deserved to be raised by a mother who did not ignore her.
Little by little Juana grew steady on her feet. She went to the kitchen and gave Ángeles instructions for dinner. She complimented Zoraída on her singing. She noticed a cobweb in a corner of the sala and ordered Lidia to dust the entire room. She inquired about Paquita’s reading lessons and taught the child to use an embroidery hoop. She learned to put one foot in front of the next and get through the day.
Temperatures were rising, and Seville was preparing for another hellish summer. Venturo Almedina approached Pacheco one day in his study. “Perhaps,” the doctor suggested cautiously, “a change of scenery would be good for Doña Juana.”
Pacheco thought about it a while. “Madrid, maybe. I think it would do her good to join her husband at Court.”
“What I had in mind was a trip to the country,” said the doctor. “I’d be cautious about making any radical change right now. It’s too soon after her loss.”
But Pacheco insisted. “They’ve been apart too long. It’s not healthy for either one of them.”
“Well,” said Almedina thoughtfully, “as she grows stronger, you could start sowing the seeds. What I mean is, you could mention the possibility of travel to see how she reacts. But please, Don Francisco, proceed slowly.” It occurred to Almedina that Pacheco’s motives weren’t wholly altruistic—as royal painter, Don Diego would be in a position to recommend his father-in-law for a position at Court. On this subject, however, the doctor kept silent. “Any abrupt alteration in Doña Juana’s routine could set her back,” he added. “Her health is still fragile.”
Pacheco rested his chin on his fist. “I understand, but a move to Madrid would require months of preparation. She’d have time to get used to the idea. Besides, the simple task of deciding what to take and what to leave behind would fill her time and distract her from her grief.
Almedina smiled. “Of course, Don Francisco.”
“And she looks much better. She seems more alert. I think she could handle it.”
To Pacheco’s delight, Juana did not brush off the possibility of relocating to Madrid. On the contrary, the idea sparked a flicker of enthusiasm in her eyes.
“You will have a big responsibility,” Pacheco explained, as though speaking to a four-year-old. “You will have to go through your wardrobe and decide which dresses to take. You should only take the essentials—we can have the rest sent later.”
While Julia fretted over her frocks, Pacheco pondered the big issues: what to do about the school, for example. Should he close it down temporarily or entrust it to one of the advanced students? There was still much to decide, but Pacheco went ahead and wrote to his son-in-law to inform him of the arrival—not imminent, but absolutely certain—of his family.
Packing would be complicated, since Juana and Francisca would be staying in Madrid permanently while Pacheco would return to Seville.
In Madrid, the winter moon hung low in the sky, a frosty disk suspended like a hovering ice fairy. Under a shimmering firmament, three shadowy figures made their way down a nameless alley, hugging the walls and cloaking their faces. They were shabby-looking creatures. One wore a patched servant’s cape and a wide, featherless hat with a droopy brim. Another had boots so scuffed they were nearly worn through. The third revealed moth-eaten britches as he tiptoed along the façades of crumbling buildings. When they reached an unmarked wooden door at the center of a row of decrepit houses, the most portly of the three lifted his hand to rap softly.
“Ah de la casa,” he called in a gruff whisper. “Is anybody home? Cintia?”
In a moment the door opened and the face of a woman became visible behind a flickering candle. She looked to be in her forties and wore a flannel gown cut low on her ample breasts.
“Ah, count-duke,” she said. “We were waiting for you.”
“Shh!” whispered the man who had knocked. “Someone might hear you.”
“Forgive me,” whispered Cintia. “Come in!”
The three men slipped in through the door. Olivares threw off his cape to reveal an elegant suit of black velvet. He did not wear his customary symbols of power—the golden key and the golden spur that identified him as the sumiller de corps and the caballerizo mayor—but his bulk alone was enough to create an imposing figure. He had put on weight since Velázquez had met him in Seville, and his bloated trunk gave him an air of authority.
Cintia burst out laughing. “Quite a get-up, Don Gaspar! Your disguises get better every time!” The mole on her chin looked like a large tick.
“We left the carriage near the Plaza Mayor and came on foot to avoid being recognized, as usual,” said the man in the worn boots. “Aside from a few straggly beggars sleeping in the street, no one was around.”
Cintia sank into a low curtsy. “Your Majesty,” she murmured, “it is always a pleasure to receive you in my humble abode. May I offer you some refreshment? Of course, I have nothing comparable to what you’re used to, but I do have some fine Belgian beer.”
“It’s not your beer His Majesty is interested in, but yes, thank you, we’ll have some,” said Olivares with a snort.
“And this fine gentleman?” Cintia asked, gesturing toward the visitor with the threadbare britches.
“Don Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez, the royal painter,” said Olivares, as though announcing a luminary at a state dinner. “Give him a frisky whore. His wife is coming to join him in a month or two. We expect him to settle into domesticity then.”
“Marriage never stopped Don Felipe!” laughed the madam. “He’s been a regular here since he was a mere pup—all thanks to your expert guidance, Don Gaspar!”
Velázquez was astonished
at the familiarity with which Cintia treated the king. It’s true, of course, that they were in a brothel in a seedy street in Madrid, but still, she knew that a monarch was no ordinary mortal. He was the presence of God on Earth. And this particular monarch was Felipe IV, King of Spain, the Low Countries, and the Spanish colonies, great grandson of the exalted Carlos I, on whose realm the sun never set.
“The venerable Doña Isabel de Borbón is quite aware of His Majesty’s recreational activities, but she knows a man is a man,” responded the count-duke easily. “Who do you have for His Majesty tonight?”
Velázquez noted that the king remained silent.
“Anyone His Majesty wants. We reserved the house for His Majesty, since the count-duke was kind enough to send word in advance that His Majesty was coming. We have a few exotic dishes on the menu tonight—a beautiful Brazilian with breasts like porcelain teacups, for example. There is also a baptized African girl of about fourteen and a blond German of monumental proportions. And, of course, our usual assortment of Portuguese standbys—not particularly gorgeous, but well seasoned. Oh, and a Morisca …”
Don Felipe’s eyebrows contracted subtly.
“Oh, she’s not really a Morisca, of course. Don’t worry. What I mean is, she’s as swarthy as an Arab, but she’s actually Italian. Her family left her here when … because they couldn’t support her. To be honest, I can’t remember the details … I took her in out of Christian charity.” Cintia paused a moment, realizing she had taken a false turn down a dangerous road. But Cintia was a consummate businesswoman with a cool head. She paused, took a swig of beer, and collected herself. “Or would you prefer your usual girl, Fabia?” she added as if as an afterthought.
I am Venus Page 8