I, Juan de Pareja: Chapters 1–2

Seville, where we lived, was seldom without fear of the plague, for so many ships from foreign ports sailed up the Guadalquivir to tie at our docks, and anyone who died of a mysterious malady was hastily buried, in fear and trembling and in the hope that he had not brought us the pest.

Even now that I am an old man, and have come through so much, I can close my eyes and hear her voice humming the songs I loved, feel her arms around me, warm save for the pressure of her golden bracelet, and enjoy for a fleeting moment that sense of safety and of love with which she surrounded me.

She was a tender creature, lavish with small caresses and kindnesses.

Mistress was kind but capricious, and she was often forgetful because she adored Master so much and he was always ailing, a constant worry to her.

I soon learned, with the fatalism of slave children, not to be surprised when she slapped me with her closed fan, a sharp rap that sent sudden pain along my hand and made tears sting under my eyelids.

Yet Mistress had a great deal of practical wisdom, and she knew many things because she trusted her judgment and cultivated her memory.

She was wearing a gauzy cool dress for, although she had drawn the curtains to keep out the sun and to preserve the colors of her Moorish carpet, the room was warm and her forehead was damp.

But I knew how impetuous she was, how changeable.

For the next day dawned cool and bright, the kind of weather when she loved to promenade and show off her fine clothes, made from the rich materials her husband brought from Turkey and Persia.

We swept off to Mass, I walking just a step behind her, carrying her sweetmeat box, her rosary, and a little switch with feather tufts, to be used for frightening away mangy dogs or dirty street urchins who might press too close.

I loved the melodious chanting of the priests, the beauty of their vestments, the glorious moment of the elevation.

“My liver cannot work until I have had a brisk walk,” he would tell Mistress when, in one of her imperious moods, she commanded him to have breakfast.

She liked very much to eat, and periodically she insisted that he take a coddled egg or a morsel of fish poached in wine, or some other tidbit.

Usually Master came back to the house about three in the afternoon to eat his frugal meal, and then Mistress would have rages of love and frustration, for he would not taste the dainty dishes she herself prepared for him, asking only for boiled vegetables and a crisp crust of bread.

“But you eat like a monk!” Mistress used to rail at him, though he seldom answered her, but only smiled and patted her hand to calm her.

I learned from remarks here and there that he was a painter of great talent, but taciturn, severe, and strange.

I determined somehow that I would one day worm my way, under some pretext, into Pacheco’s studio, for he was still working in Seville and had many pupils.

It turned out to be a sad day; I shall never forget it. That day portended much trouble and suffering for me, but I did not know it when I skipped out into the fresh early morning before the sun was high, to bring fresh bread from the baker’s.

As I came near I saw that a funeral cortege was forming; horses stood draped in black net, tossing black plumes on their heads.

I listened to the solemn dirge of many church bells.

In this I was prophetic, or intuitive; call it what you will, I have often had these flashes of news in advance of their happening.

I was ravenously hungry.

I was a soldier, going out to the Indies, when my ship foundered and went down with all hands, and only I was saved.

Brother Isidro was followed into the house next day by a magistrate, a tall, severe, middle-aged gentleman dressed in black velvet, who wore a heavy gold chain around his neck from which hung an imposing medal.

Behind him came a slave boy about my own age, who carried an inkpot and quill, and who rolled his eyes fearfully at every step as if he was terrified of stumbling and spilling the precious black India ink, and by a spindle-legged clerk who struggled along under the weight of a great leather-bound book into which the magistrate presently began to write his lists.

But he had been washed, and his small belly was distended with food.

Besides, the brothers were very poor, and what little they were given they spent prodigally on the forgotten, the sick and the abandoned of the city—any suffering creature, human or animal.

We broke the bread into chunks, and another brother held out to each pitiful derelict, a little wooden bowl full of broth.

We keep them for a few days and beg for them. God is good, and usually our sacks are full when we come back from asking alms in the city.

Busy as I was, sponging feverish little ones with cool cloths, helping the cripples to get about, persuading the querulous old ones to eat their crusts and to walk about in the sunshine instead of huddling in the dark, I began to send my thoughts forward to Madrid and to my new master.

He sat at a long carved table with his papers strewn about and his fingers all ink-stained.

He did not rise, but waved Brother Isidro to a seat and curtly directed me to stand outside in the corridor.

In the convent I had been ill and weak at first, but with duties, with a personality and responsibility. Now I was well, but once more a cipher—not a person but a slave.

My feet and legs grew tired from standing, but there was no place to sit. When I could bear it no longer I slumped down and sat on the floor, my back to the wall. And there, with my head lolling, I fell asleep.

I was awakened some time later with a sharp kick in the leg. I don’t suppose the fellow meant to hurt me, really, but the ignominy of it, the fact that I had fallen asleep in such a disrespectful position, my sudden conviction of being adrift and lonely, all upset me, and made me cry.

“Come along with me. The Master will give you your orders.”
I overcame my first nervousness and went along sullenly.

Now I had lived long enough and had heard enough from urchins my age and from other slaves, to distrust the person who calls himself merciful, or just, or kindly. Usually these are the most cruel, niggardly and selfish people, and slaves learn to fear the master who prefaces his remarks with tributes to his own virtues.

“A light in the street and darkness at home,” went the Spanish saying, and he was one of those who moved with dignity and decorum in public, but lived in penury and discomfort inside his fine shell of a house.

“A light in the street and darkness at home,” went the Spanish saying, and he was one of those who moved with dignity and decorum in public, but lived in penury and discomfort inside his fine shell of a house.

There were several fine, well-fed horses. The harness was shiny and supple with oil, and the brass decorations were brilliant.