Bartolomé Page 12

  OVER the next few days Bartolomé got used to the routine of the Infanta’s court. It was of no interest to the many ladies-inwaiting, chamberlains and teachers and tutors who surrounded the Infanta that he was being worn down by Nicolasito’s educational torments on the one hand and Marie Barbola’s efforts on the other to teach him more and more exciting tricks in order to retain the interest of the Infanta.

  Every time Infanta Margarita showed too much favour to her doggy, Bartolomé was punished afterwards by Nicolasito. He spent hours locked up and hungry in dark rooms and had to put up with being beaten. Nicolasito had requested, and got, a little whip for just this purpose.

  And when Nicolasito got fed up with him, Marie Barbola was standing by. She was Maria Augustina de Sarmiento’s loyal assistant. The imaginative lady-in-waiting kept thinking up new dramatic sketches for Bartolomé to perform. He had to climb over obstacles and carry little baskets with sweets or flowers for the Infanta.

  One day, when a knife-thrower came to perform at court, it was Bartolomé, rigid with fear, who had to act as his target. With a cloth covering his eyes, the performer threw his long, pointy knives at the wooden board in front of which Bartolomé sat stock-still. The Infanta clapped her hands delightedly as the knives landed in the wood to the right and left of Bartolomé. Afterwards, she rewarded the knife-thrower with a coin and Bartolomé with a sticky sweetmeat. For the rest of the evening, he had to lie at her feet and was constantly praised and petted for his bravery. When the Infanta finally let him go, Nicolasito locked him into a cupboard.

  The only nice part of Bartolomé’s routine were his visits to the artists’ studio. Every time his make-up needed touching up, he was taken to Andrés, the apprentice painter. Andrés seemed to understand how much Bartolomé looked forward to this. He dawdled on purpose and found excuses to keep Bartolomé waiting, so that the dwarf had time to have a good look around and recover from all the little cruelties that had been inflicted on him since his last visit to the studio.

  The studio consisted of a suite of rooms in Quarto del Principe, that part of Alcázar in which the king resided with his court. Philip the Fourth was very interested in painting and he quite often looked in on Master Velázquez. The court painter had a whole lot of painters and apprentices working for him. Painting was a skill that had to be acquired according to very exact specifications.

  There was a lot to be done before a picture could be painted. Canvas had to be stretched and prepared, paintbrushes had to be made and paint powders ground. All this was work for apprentices like Andrés. After these preparations, the master made a sketchy drawing in Indian ink on the greyish-white canvas. His models needed to sit only briefly at this stage, because Don Velázquez had the gift of being able to keep the details of facial features and clothing as an image in his head.

  After that, he left the next stages of the work to his apprentices. They painted light and shadows and all the undertones that would not be visible in the final picture but which nevertheless influenced the coloration of the picture. Juan de Pareja, the master’s personal assistant, was allowed to paint the draperies and clothes. But since he did not have the master’s gift for memorising clothes, wooden models were dressed in the royal family’s gorgeous outfits and surrounded by draperies. Juan de Pareja then painted them. Andrés was at his side and it was his job to prepare the required paints.

  ‘He can distinguish shades that I can’t see,’ Andrés complained to Bartolomé. Juan de Pareja, irritated, had given the apprentice back a palette with shades of red tones, because the differences between the shades of paint were, in his opinion, not graduated finely enough.

  Bartolomé was happy. For the next hour, Andrés would have no time to make him up. Swearing softly, Andrés cleaned the palette of smeared paint and started again from scratch.

  Bartolomé watched with interest as Andrés ground the various red pigments, one at a time, on the grinding glass and used a spoon to mix them to a thick paste with linseed oil, spirit gum and Venetian turpentine. Red ochre, Spanish red, Persian red, terra cotta, raddle, cinnabar, carmine – he had a whole range of red pigments at his disposal. As he worked, Andrés kept looking at the dark red draperies embroidered in light red, over which played sunlight and shade from the large windows and which glowed in constantly changing shades of red. According to the amount of pigment he used, the shade of red was deeper or paler. He added a little white lead to each paint.

  ‘That makes them glow more,’ he explained.

  Bartolomé tried to learn all the shades and their names and to keep the amounts and the method used to mix them in his head. When Andrés saw the light in Bartolomé’s eyes, he got another sheet of grinding glass and a pestle, and, unnoticed by Master Velázquez, Juan de Pareja and the others, Bartolomé ground paint under Andrés’ guidance. Together, they created a new palette. Juan de Pareja was satisfied.

  ‘Is he a good painter?’ Bartolomé dared to ask Andrés, as they washed the tools they had been using.

  ‘He is the third best in the studio. Only Don Velázquez and his son-in-law Juan Bautista Martínez del Mazo are more talented.’

  ‘Juan Bautista Martínez del Mazo?’

  ‘You don’t know him. He is working in Torre de la Parada, where he is putting a new varnish on a couple of Don Velázquez’s pictures. That’s why Juan de Pareja is allowed to do so much of the work on this picture in the studio. Otherwise, Don Mazo would be doing it.’

  ‘So are they not allowed to paint their own pictures?’ asked Bartolomé, watching Juan de Pareja, who was patiently painting the red embroidery with a fine paintbrush.

  ‘Sometimes, when things are quiet. But it is a much greater honour for them to work under the court painter. Especially for Juan de Pareja.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Have you not noticed his dark skin? He is a moor. In fact, he used to be a slave. Don Velázquez only gave him his letter of freedom a few years back.’

  ‘A slave can become a painter?’ Bartolomé could hardly believe it.

  ‘Why not? He has mastered the craft to the highest level and he is talented. That’s what counts. Don Velázquez even took him as his personal assistant on a study trip to Italy.’

  ‘Andrés,’ asked Bartolomé shyly, ‘could a dwarf like me also become a painter? I probably shouldn’t say so, but I have learned to read and write.’

  Andrés laughed merrily. What gave the little lad this strange idea? But then he looked at Bartolomé. His laughter had hurt the dwarf like Nicolasito’s whip. He bent down and put a comforting arm around Bartolomé.

  ‘It’s not impossible. But very difficult. It helps that you have already learnt to read and write, but an apprentice has very hard work to do. You have to make paper, you have to cover enormous wooden boards with gesso, prime canvases and, of course, keep the studio tidy, and sweep and clean.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ Bartolomé conceded sadly.

  ‘Would you like to be a painter?’ asked Andrés cautiously. He didn’t want to upset Bartolomé even more.

  ‘Before, in the village, I used to draw in the dust with my finger. In Madrid, I once drew on a sheet of paper with pen and ink. And now that I see all these paints, I wish I could paint with them.’

  Andrés smiled. Bartolomé was still a child, a sad child with a child’s dream. He wanted to make something colourful.

  ‘You don’t have to become a painter to do that, Bartolomé,’ Andrés assured him. ‘Recently, a primed board got a crack in it. It wouldn’t put anyone out if I take a piece of it. The next time you come, I’ll give you an old palette with nice bright colours. You can sit in a corner and you can paint a picture on the board.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s a promise! And now I’ll make you up quickly before one of those ladies-in-waiting comes looking for you, or maybe even the Infanta herself.’

  Bartolomé kept quite still while Andrés smeared a thick layer of brown paint on his face. From where he was sitting, he could see
Don Velázquez putting the finishing touches to a picture. The figure on the canvas, the gaunt face of which Bartolomé recognised as that of the king, had been painted in a grey outline. Now the master used light brushstrokes to layer the colour on. Bartolomé strained his eyes, but from this distance he couldn’t tell what shades the master used for the face of the king.

  ‘What kind of brown has Don Velázquez got on his palette?’ he asked.

  Andrés looked over briefly.

  ‘He hasn’t got any brown. For skin, we use red and white or yellow and white in alternating thin layers, and where a shadow falls, you have to use a little Veronese green. But it’s difficult. You mustn’t mix the colours, but instead you must put them on in layers and every layer must show through the one on top of it. It’s called catching the light.’

  White, yellow, red, even green, Bartolomé thought, that’s what a painter needs to make the colour of skin. And not mixed, but in layers over each other. How wonderful it would be if he could learn that – like Andrés!

  Instead, new humiliations awaited him in the chambers of the Infanta. Marie Barbola came running up to him in the corridor.

  ‘This afternoon, the princess is going to a bullfight in the Park of Buen Retiro,’ she cried excitedly. ‘You are to accompany her. Nicolasito has something special planned for you. He wouldn’t tell me what it was.’ The dwarf woman made an angry face.

  Bartolomé was scared. If Nicolasito was keeping an idea secret from the others, it could only be something bad.

  ‘Do I have to go?’ he asked, though he had long since come to the realisation that he never had a choice.

  ‘I wish I could go,’ Marie Barbola admonished him. ‘You’re going to be allowed to travel in the royal coach and you’ll be able to see everything from the royal box. The king himself is even going to be present.’

  Bartolomé was carried by a guard to the coach, which was already standing in the inner courtyard. His father was sitting up on the coachman’s seat. Not even the smallest sign of recognition showed itself in Juan Carrasco’s stony demeanour as his son was lifted up into the coach. A little later, the Infanta climbed in, followed by Doña de Ulloa and Nicolasito. The coach set off with a lurch.

  Nicolasito smiled evilly at Bartolomé when the Infanta and Doña de Ulloa were not looking. In spite of the heat, Bartolomé shivered.

  ‘What have you planned for me today?’ Margarita asked her dwarf friend curiously.

  ‘If I tell you, then it won’t be a surprise for the Infanta,’ he said.

  ‘Just a little clue!’ wheedled the princess.

  ‘The human doggy,’ said Nicolasito. ‘It’s going to have a performance!’

  ‘Really?’ The little girl looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Yes. Perhaps he will soon be known as the bravest dog in Spain!’ laughed Nicolasito.

  Bartolomé pressed himself back into the cushions. Nicolasito bent over him and breathed, ‘Or the opposite!’

  Bartolomé wished he could disappear.

  The Bullfight

  THE Infanta Margarita sat beside her father in the gallery. She was so excited that she kept pulling at the pink tulle roses that decorated her dress. The courtiers had all taken their places. In front of Margarita lay a moat with a high wooden fence beyond it, so high that she couldn’t see over it. There was a steep wooden slide into the water, and the bellowing and stamping of bulls could be heard from the other side of the fence.

  King Philip loved this form of bullfighting. A bull would be driven up a ramp to the top of the slide, which had been rubbed with fat. The terrified animal would try in vain to find its footing on the top of the slide, and would slither helter-skelter down the slide and into the water, where the bullfighters would be waiting in little boats, ready to kill the bull with their knives and lances. Sometimes an animal would manage to make it to the bank, but the wooden fence prevented it from getting away, and bullfighters on horseback would force it back into the water, where it would die, either from its wounds or by drowning.

  The little Infanta had often watched bullfights with her father. He had told her about the nasty bulls and the brave toreadors, and Margarita was too small to understand the torment of the bulls. The blood just looked a nice shade of red to her, and the fearful bellowing of the animals sounded like fierce war cries.

  ‘When is it going to start?’ she asked impatiently.

  Philip the Fourth was proud of his pretty daughter. ‘I’ve heard that your dwarf has a surprise for you before the fight starts,’ he said.

  Margarita nodded, so that her blond hair fluttered about her head. ‘He’s got my little dog with him and it’s going to be really exciting, he promised.’

  The king gave a satisfied nod. Even though Nicolasito was only a dwarf, he came up with the most amazing ideas.

  Hidden by the wooden fence, Nicolasito was standing by the ramp that led up to the slide. Beside him sat Bartolomé, his crooked back leaning against a crate from which he could hear the snorting and snarling of a bull. Like a little general, Nicolasito outlined his plan to the lads who were standing around. ‘You are to drive it up the ramp, like a bull, till it’s up at the top.’

  Horrified, Bartolomé stared at Nicolasito. This ‘it’ he spoke of was him.

  ‘When I give you the nod, you give it a good hard push, and it will go sliding down into the water.’

  ‘Nicolasito, you mustn’t do that. I can’t swim!’ cried Bartolomé.

  Nicolasito gave an unconcerned laugh. ‘All dogs can swim. It comes naturally to them.’

  ‘I’m not a dog,’ protested Bartolomé. ‘I’ll drown.’

  ‘That’s your hard luck,’ said Nicolasito.

  He wasn’t going to let Bartolomé drown. On the contrary. His plan was that he himself would be waiting in a boat and would reach Bartolomé a helping hand. The Infanta would enjoy Bartolomé’s adventure, and would admire Nicolasito as a brave hero. But Nicolasito took care not to let Bartolomé know this. The human dog’s fear and confusion had to be genuine.

  He left Bartolomé in the charge of the lads, and went off to get into a boat.

  ‘Don’t pay any heed to him!’ pleaded Bartolomé.

  ‘And bring down the anger of the Infanta on us all, for the sake of a weird dog?’ said one, shaking his head.

  They all laughed and drove him up the ramp with their lances. Up on the wooden platform, Bartolomé tried frantically to hang on. In front of him lay the short steep slide, gleaming with fat. Below, the water was making little green waves. Bartolomé couldn’t see the boat, only the water. He couldn’t see or hear the seething crowd of spectators. He didn’t hear Margarita screaming shrilly, ‘That’s my little dog! Look, it’s climbed up! I hope it’s not going to fall in!’

  But that was exactly what happened. On a signal from Nicolasito, one of the lads gave Bartolomé a hard push with a wooden pole. Bartolomé went tumbling helplessly down the slide. He could find nothing to cling to. It was over before he could cry out. The dark water closed over his head. He trod water. An air pocket in his costume buoyed him up. Panting for air, he came back up to the surface.

  Rowed by an oarsman, the boat carrying Nicolasito came towards him. Nicolasito stretched out his hand. Bartolomé took hold of it. Nicolasito was almost pulled into the water himself. The crippled dwarf in his wet costume was much heavier than he had expected. With the help of the oarsman, he finally managed to pull Bartolomé on board, where he lay, gasping for air and spitting out water, between the benches.

  Beaming, Nicolasito raised his arms to take the applause. He was unaware that his little performance fooled nobody except the Infanta. In her eyes, he had performed a heroic deed. As Nicolasito brought her the streaming wet and shivering Bartolomé, she hugged him and kissed him on both cheeks. But she had no words of endearment for Bartolomé.

  ‘How could you have been so stupid as to run away and climb up there?’ she upbraided him. ‘I was so scared. If Nicolasito hadn’t been so brave, you’d have
drowned.’

  Bartolomé looked dumbly at Nicolasito, at Doña de Ulloa, even at the king. But nobody on the gallery thought it necessary to explain to the little Infanta what had really happened. Wet through, Bartolomé had to lie at her feet and wait till the whole bullfight was over. When the little company was finally accompanied to the coach, Bartolomé was not allowed to sit inside.

  ‘It’s dirty, wet and ugly,’ said the Infanta, wrinkling her nose. ‘All its colours have run. Let it sit outside with the coachman.’

  And so Bartolomé was lifted up to his father, who put a clumsy arm around him so that he wouldn’t be jostled from his seat by the swaying of the coach over the uneven ground. He had tried to forget Bartolomé, and he would have succeeded only that he was constantly aware of Isabel’s unspoken longing for this child. But this afternoon, when he saw the water closing over the little lad’s head, he would have climbed the wooden fence himself to save him, without so much as a thought for his job, if Nicolasito hadn’t got there first. Juan could feel Bartolomé shivering, and he held him close.

  ‘Papa,’ whimpered Bartolomé.

  ‘Oh, son, if only you had stayed at home in the village, you’d have spared yourself and all of us a lot of grief. Here you are tormented. And your mother sits at home and cries because she misses you. If I told her how they treated you, she would go mad.’

  The village, thought Bartolomé. It was so far away, it might as well be on the far side of the moon. It was like a half-forgotten dream. Would he really like to go back there? Even at that moment, when he felt so miserable, he couldn’t imagine himself sitting day in, day out, in front of the church, doing nothing.

  ‘There is nobody I can have a word with to make all this stop,’ said Juan softly. ‘Believe me, Bartolomé, I would do it if I could.’

  ‘Thank you, Papa,’ said Bartolomé. He closed his eyes to conjure up the image of his family: the sweet, soft face of his mother; Joaquín’s lively eyes; Ana’s slim form; Beatríz’s pouting mouth and Manuel’s rosy baby face. It was lovely, and at the same time sad, to know that his father wanted to take him home but could not do so.