Bartolomé Page 13

  Pictures

  NOBODY thought to give Bartolomé dry clothes. Naked and shivering, he had to wait in Marie Barbola’s room until most of the wet had been wrung from his costume. Then he put on the damp, cold costume again. Hungry, he cowered on the sofa. He wished he had a nice cosy quilt.

  Later, a satisfied Marie Barbola came back from supper. Nicolasito’s amusing account of the story had been greeted with great applause.

  ‘Nicolasito is now the absolute favourite of the Infanta,’ she announced. ‘He wants you to be banished from court as a punishment for causing the princess anxiety. We’ll have to think of something that will make the Infanta forgive you.’

  ‘Marie Barbola, I’m hungry and I’m cold,’ Bartolomé ventured to interrupt. The dwarf woman wasn’t listening.

  ‘You will have to express your gratitude to Nicolasito for rescuing you, in front of the Infanta. That will charm her and soften her up.’

  Be grateful to Nicolasito! Never. Bartolomé couldn’t do it.

  ‘Well!’ Marie Barbola shrugged her shoulders. ‘As far as the Infanta is concerned, you were disobedient. And Nicolasito saved your life. That’s all that counts.’

  Why does nobody take my side? Bartolomé thought.

  The following day, he was sent to the studio.

  ‘You’re back very quickly,’ said Andrés, pleased. He looked into Bartolomé’s face, which was smeared with messed-up make-up.

  ‘Have you been swimming, or what?’ he joked.

  The story about the bullfight evidently hadn’t reached the studio. The painters kept themselves aloof from court gossip. Bartolomé lowered his gaze. What was the point of telling Andrés the truth? He couldn’t help him.

  Andrés hunkered down in front of him and took Bartolomé’s face in his hands. ‘Did they hurt you?’ he asked, concerned.

  ‘Nicolasito tried to drown me. He had me thrown into the water. He said that dogs can swim.’ Bartolomé looked beseechingly at Andrés. ‘But I’m not a dog.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Andrés said soothingly.

  He got a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth. He washed Bartolomé’s face carefully. The make-up had left flaky red blotches on his skin.

  If he has to go around much longer with a painted face, those are going to get inflamed, thought Andrés. He took a little nut oil and rubbed it carefully over the raw spots.

  ‘Do you know what?’ he suggested, ‘I won’t paint your face until the afternoon. You can stay here until then and …’ Andrés remembered his promise. He knew how to cheer the sad little creature up. ‘You can make your own picture.’

  He gave Bartolomé a small primed wooden board, a palette on which there was plenty of leftover paint, and an old paintbrush. Bartolomé hardly dared to start. For a while, his gaze hovered from palette to board, and around the studio. What should he do? He only had this one board, this one palette, and very likely only this one chance to make his own picture.

  ‘You’d better start,’ Andrés said. ‘The paints will dry out if you hesitate too long.’

  Bartolomé dipped his paintbrush into the dark green. He had no ink to make a preliminary sketch. He had to use the paints immediately. He thought of the pine trees when they had eventually reached the mill on the first day of their journey from the village. He started to paint. He tried to find the right colours.

  Never mix, but layer the paints on the picture. Andrés’ words came back to him. Bartolomé tried it and managed it. Slowly, a picture emerged. The mighty trees ranged, brownish black, against the evening sky. But if you looked carefully, you could see the green of the pines shimmering through. In the same way, the sky was not just black, but underneath, Bartolomé had painted the red of the setting sun, the white of individual clouds and a deep blue.

  Bartolomé wondered whether he should envelop the white mill in a twilight grey. He decided against it. Gleaming white, it shone out of the picture as if it had caught the last light of day and was not ready to release it. With a thin brush, he added details. The laden cart, the donkey, his parents and siblings. Even the chest, waiting, half-open, for him.

  He did not notice how often Andrés stood behind him and for how long he stood there and looked over his shoulder. Andrés had not thought that the crippled dwarf could really make a picture. Of course, there were lots of things wrong with it. The mill’s water wheel was too big and so crooked that it would fly off and bang against the wall of the house if it were set in motion. The donkey’s legs grew out of his body in the wrong places, and the cart stood with only one wheel touching the ground. But the light and the colours made an impression on him. He beckoned the other apprentices to come and look, and, as Bartolomé put the finishing touches to his work and looked up, he was surrounded by five young lads.

  They had kept silent as long as he was painting. But now they started to discuss the picture. They crouched down to Bartolomé, clapped him on the back and praised him.

  ‘Andrés says you’ve never painted a picture before?’ one of them asked.

  Bartolomé nodded, embarrassed.

  ‘Then you have talent, a lot of talent,’ he said.

  The others supported him.

  ‘Don’t waste it,’ counselled Léon, the eldest among them, who was himself working on his master project, which he was planning to submit to Don Velázquez and the representatives of St Luke’s Guild, the guild of painters, which upheld the highest standards.

  Bartolomé looked from one to the other. They stood around him in their paint-spattered smocks as if he were their equal. Did none of them notice that he was a dwarf, a cripple in a crumpled doggy costume? Even Andrés seemed to have forgotten that. He was discussing with Léon the best varnish for Bartolomé’s picture. All the same, Andrés himself had admitted that Bartolomé could never become a painter.

  ‘The varnish must protect the picture, and it needs a frame so that it can be hung,’ Andrés was saying, thinking aloud.

  Bartolomé interrupted him. ‘Andrés, stop. I can’t own a picture.’

  ‘Of course you can. If I give it to you, nobody can take it away from you. You can hang it in your room.’

  ‘Andrés, I haven’t got a room. I sleep mostly in Marie Barbola’s room on the floor beside the sofa. Sometimes on a cushion in the Infanta’s room. And when Nicolasito is punishing me, I have to spend the night in some dark box-room or cupboard.’

  Shocked, Andrés said nothing. The other apprentices had suddenly found other things to do.

  ‘You must think me stupid and heartless,’ Andrés finally said, embarrassed.

  Before Bartolomé could answer him, Juan de Pareja came bursting into the studio.

  ‘Quick, quick!’ he commanded. ‘Master Velázquez has an idea for a new picture of the Infanta. The king has given his warm approval. There’s going to be a sitting immediately. The king himself will be present.’

  His eyes fell on Bartolomé.

  ‘What’s he doing here? Andrés, make him up quickly and get rid of him.’

  In all haste, the apprentices prepared the studio. Half-finished pictures were shoved into the next room. Primed boards and stretched canvases of various sizes were stood up against the wall or propped against pieces of furniture. Léon laid out ink and fine paintbrushes on a high table so that Don Velázquez could make his initial sketch. In the middle of all the fuss, Andrés quickly made up Bartolomé’s face with leftover brown paint.

  ‘You’ll have to disappear from here now,’ he warned Bartolomé when he was finished.

  But it was too late. The door was thrown open and a chamberlain announced the king.

  ‘Find yourself a corner to hide in. Make yourself invisible!’ whispered Andrés to Bartolomé.

  The dwarf crept obediently under a table, against which a large canvas in a rough frame had been propped. Hidden behind it, nobody could see him.

  A Masterpiece

  THE king’s deep voice echoed through the room.

  ‘An extraordinary idea, Velázquez
. The little Infanta surrounded by her retinue, visits the studio in which her royal parents are just being painted.’

  ‘Your Majesty, no other European ruler will possess such a picture,’ answered Don Velázquez in a quiet voice.

  The king wandered through the studio, looking at the completed and half-finished paintings. Don Velázquez followed him. Juan de Pareja and the apprentices stood humbly against the walls. It was a great honour that Philip the Fourth was personally discussing the painting of a new picture with Don Velázquez.

  ‘Is Margarita not coming?’ asked the king impatiently after a while.

  ‘Your Majesty, the Infanta is on her way. She’ll be here at any moment,’ a secretary declared.

  And indeed, the doors were thrown open for a second time and the chamberlain announced the Infanta. Margarita ran wildly towards her father. But she stopped short in front of him and curtsied. She was old enough to know that the Spanish Infanta does not throw herself into her father’s arms.

  But the king had little patience with stiff court procedure. He pulled Margarita into his arms.

  ‘Master Velázquez is going to paint a special picture of you. Will you be a good girl and keep still?’ he asked tenderly.

  Margarita nodded.

  ‘I’ll send Moonface away, so she won’t make me laugh.’ She pointed at Marie Barbola, who had accompanied her.

  The king shook his head. ‘No. For this picture, we need your retinue too. Everyone has to think you’ve just dropped by the studio by chance with your courtiers.’

  Margarita looked around. Maria Augustina de Sarmiento and Isabel de Velasco, her two ladies-in-waiting, Doña Marcela de Ulloa, her first lady-in-waiting, a soldier of her guard of honour, Marie Barbola and, of course, Nicolasito had accompanied her.

  ‘Are they all to be in the picture?’ she asked, disbelievingly.

  The king gave a happy laugh. ‘Exactly, and Don Velázquez himself and José Nieto, your chamberlain, too. Even your mother and I will be visible.’

  Margarita pulled a face. ‘Then it’s not a picture of me.’

  ‘It is, darling. Because you are the focus. We’re all just there to support you.’

  The little girl pouted. ‘I don’t want to be painted,’ said Margarita to Don Velázquez and she stamped her foot.

  Before he could think up an answer, however, Maria Augustina intervened. ‘If Master Velázquez paints the Infanta next to Moonface, she will be even more beautiful.’ She looked pointedly at Don Velázquez.

  He coughed. ‘In a way, you are right. In the same way that dark colours make light colours near them seem even brighter …’ He hesitated. ‘So the beauty of the Infanta will be even more radiant by comparison with the other people in the picture.’

  ‘You see,’ laughed the king, ‘because your Papa is so ugly, he has to be in the picture too, so that you are even prettier.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re ugly,’ said Margarita seriously.

  The king kissed her long blond curls tenderly. ‘It is very sweet of you to say so.’

  Margarita turned to Don Velázquez. ‘Marie Barbola is to stand right next to me,’ she ordered. ‘She is the ugliest.’

  It was the king himself who chose the canvas for the painting. He went around the studio, looking. Finally his gaze fell on the canvas that was propped against Bartolomé’s table. Andrés and Léon hurried over to lift up the canvas for the king. Light fell under the table.

  ‘There’s my human doggy!’ cried Margarita in joyful surprise.

  Nicolasito’s face darkened with anger. He had hoped that the Infanta would forget about Bartolomé if he disappeared from view for a while. ‘We still have to punish him, Infanta,’ he reminded her, for all to hear.

  ‘Oh, no,’ pleaded Margarita. ‘Look how he’s crept so guiltily under the table. Come to me. All is forgiven.’

  She crouched down and stretched out her arms to the dwarf. Ashamed, Bartolomé crept out from under the table. It was terrible that Andrés and Léon, who had just been admiring his picture, could see now how he had to act as the Infanta’s human dog. Margarita gave Bartolomé a big hug. He barked, as he had been told to. His bark was soft and hoarse.

  ‘You’ve caught a cold,’ cried the Infanta.

  Bartolomé shook his head. The Infanta dragged him to Don Velázquez.

  ‘My doggy must be in the picture,’ she decreed. ‘He is the sweetest thing I have.’

  From the corner of his eye, Bartolomé caught sight of Nicolasito’s face. It was contorted with anger.

  Skilfully and courteously Don Velázquez moved the little group around until the king, happy with the arrangement, left the studio. The Infanta was the focal point. To her right and left stood the two ladies-in-waiting and behind her, the first ladyin-waiting and the guardsman. Marie Barbola and Nicolasito were placed to the side. Bartolomé had to lie on the floor in front of Nicolasito. The Infanta gave a loud snort when Nicolasito playfully rested his leg on Bartolomé’s crooked back. Don Velázquez frowned but said nothing, and Nicolasito remained, all bluster, in this pose.

  ‘If the Infanta would just keep still for a moment,’ Don Velázquez requested politely, ‘then I can draw a sketch.’

  The first sitting did not take long. After a few minutes, Don Velázquez had drawn the outline and the most important details in Indian ink on the canvas. He thanked the little Infanta, and praised her pretty behaviour. Then she left the studio with her retinue.

  Bartolomé had to go too. Marie Barbola, who had watched with pleasure how the Infanta had fussed over Bartolomé, pulled him along behind her.

  ‘Now we’re back in her good books,’ she whispered excitedly. ‘You’re even going to be in the picture. Imagine that! There will be a painting of us.’

  Nicolasito was walking behind them, listening to what Marie Barbola was saying. ‘You two are only included,’ he said maliciously, ‘because you are so unbelievably ugly.’

  DON VELÁZQUEZ guarded his work jealously. It was going to be a masterpiece – perhaps his last, for he had begun to notice the first indications of old age: a more hesitant step, a stiffening in the joints and a decline in the sharpness of his eyesight. Unlike the other paintings, for which the apprentices and assistants did the necessary preparatory work and were allowed to paint in the less important parts, this painting would belong to him alone.

  After the first sitting, the Infanta and her noble ladies-in-waiting made no further appearances in the studio. The three dwarves, however, had to be present. They posed for long hours while wooden forms which had been draped with gorgeous garments stood in for the Infanta and her companions.

  Marie Barbola put up with all the standing around with an expressionless face. Behind this mask, however, she hid her satisfaction. For the painting, she’d got a new gown of black velvet with silver embroidery and white lace. She was also allowed to wear a precious amber necklace around her neck.

  Nicolasito, dressed as a page, was extraordinarily pleased with the pose he had struck for himself. But the longer he had to stand, the more heavily his shoe pressed down on Bartolomé’s back. Don Velázquez noticed this sly cruelty and put an end to it. Nicolasito was given a low wooden stool on which he could rest, as Don Velázquez remarked mildly, his foot as heavily as he wished. Nicolasito stared angrily at the court painter, but he didn’t dare to say anything.

  Don Velázquez turned to Bartolomé. ‘You can go. I’ll paint you separately. When I need you, I’ll send for you.’

  Bartolomé gathered up all his courage. ‘May I stay and watch?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘You’ll be bored. It’s not interesting for a child.’

  ‘But I really would like to stay,’ Bartolomé whispered miserably.

  Andrés overheard. He stepped forward and said, ‘Master Velázquez, with your permission, he can help me to prepare the paints. He won’t be in the way.’

  Don Velázquez nodded. As long as the dwarf child didn’t get under his feet, and Andrés did not neglect his dut
ies, it was fine with him.

  He turned towards the canvas. He couldn’t really have been listening. Otherwise, he’d have found it very strange that a dwarf knew how to make paints.

  Sittings

  DON VELÁZQUEZ needed four sittings to get Marie Barbola and Nicolasito down on the canvas. The sittings took many hours. Hours that Bartolomé was allowed to spend in the studio to his heart’s content, as long as he did not get in Master Velázquez’s way. Andrés, Léon and the other apprentices accepted him as part of their circle.

  There was no fear that he would be summoned to the Infanta’s side because, immediately after the first sitting, she had gone with her parents to their country castle, Torre de la Parada, which was situated in the holm oak forest. The hunting season had started and this created an excuse for excursions, drives and rowdy parties.

  The apprentices showed Bartolomé how paintbrushes were made out of the fine hairs of pine martens or squirrels, how boards were glued and how canvases were primed with gesso, made from a mixture of chalk, zinc white and limewash. They taught him the difference between oil paints and the tempera with which he was made up.

  The best part of all, though, was that he was able to wash his face and take off his dog costume. He got an old painter’s smock from Andrés. Hidden from curious eyes behind a canvas, he quickly changed his clothes. The smock covered him completely. Laughing, Andrés cut the sleeves shorter and with a cord, he tied the shirt around Bartolomé’s crooked legs to make a pair of baggy trousers of it. Dressed like this, Bartolomé felt like a proper apprentice painter.

  He made eager efforts to see, to understand and to learn everything. Even Juan de Pareja, who always kept himself a bit apart from the apprentices, was touched by Bartolomé’s thirst for knowledge. When the apprentices could not answer Bartolomé’s questions, it was he who crouched down to him and gave him the information he required.

  During the third sitting, Bartolomé plucked up the courage to show Juan de Pareja his own painting. Juan de Pareja looked at it for a long time. He could easily have pointed out all the mistakes. But, like the apprentices, he was struck by Bartolomé’s choice of colour, by the glowing white mill and by the dark evening landscape through which the shades of day still glimmered.