I, Juan de Pareja: Chapters 11–15

A sudden snowstorm caused us to remain several days in an old town, Cremona by name, where Master amused himself by searching out a family of renowned makers of violins. He had heard about them and their instruments from travelers who spoke about the tradition of woodworking and of secret varnishes these families had kept to themselves through generations.

His hand had been his livelihood since he was young; in it was all the knowledge, all the skill, all the art he had learned in almost thirty years of steady labor.

I did all I could for him and tried to persuade him to call in one of the skillful Italian surgeons, but he would not, as he had a mortal fear of them. I was at my wit’s end, and Master would not speak at all but lay in a kind of despairing stupor.

I implored her help, and I promised that if she would turn her eyes in mercy on Master and heal him, I would confess my wickedness in painting secretly and make all amends and bear all punishments, on our return to Spain.

He began to worry about his ability to do portraiture any more. And this had always been the foundation and mainstay of his art.

“God would not have tormented you with the pain and trouble if He were not planning your reward,” I assured him staunchly.

There is no doubt that both Don Rodrigo and his lady were intimates of the Pope and of his Vatican officials, for it was only a matter of days before a special emissary arrived with gifts and greetings and Master was invited to a special audience with Pope Innocent X.

I knelt a long time, for I had much to offer up to God, and I placed before Him countless thoughts, so that He might winnow them like a thresher, leaving me the wheat and blowing away the chaff with the breath of His mercy.

I knelt a long time, for I had much to offer up to God, and I placed before Him countless thoughts, so that He might winnow them like a thresher, leaving me the wheat and blowing away the chaff with the breath of His mercy.

A rather insolent house servant in livery came to ask me my business at the door, and I told him that I must speak to the Duke; I had a message from Don Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez, who was engaged to paint a portrait of His Holiness.

That very afternoon the Duke of Ponti arrived resplendent in violet silk brocade figured with gold threads and shoes with golden buckles.

At all events, Master’s portrait of the Pope was a resounding success.

Almost immediately he had to paint the Pope’s nephew, Cardinal Pamphili, a strikingly elegant man, and before we left Rome he had done many more.

“What will Master do when she is gone?”
“What they all do,” she said, cynically. “Marry again as fast as he can.”

“Don’t then!” she cried, pettishly, and slapped at me.

“You will confer a title on someone after he is dead,” she told me, in a wondering voice, “and you too, will have honors heaped upon you after you are laid in earth.”

His Majesty was indisposed and remained in his apartments.

He smiled amiably at Master, who smiled back warmly, affectionately, and then went on with his accounts.

His Majesty stood transfixed; he had never seen that canvas before.

“The painting is mine. I have been working secretly all these years, with bits of canvas and color, copying the works of Master, to learn from them, and trying some original subjects by myself. I know very well that this is against the law. Master has never even suspected and has had nothing to do with my treachery. I am willing to endure whatever punishment you mete out to me.”

We waited, Master and I, side by side, bowing, as the King sailed down the corridor, his dressing gown billowing out behind him.

“I have come to be fond of her, Juan. And soon we will have to give her some opium to stop the awful paroxysms of coughing. The King could get it for Master. It will be a sad time now, Juan, until God calls her.”

If you will hand me the paper and pen and inkpot, I will write the letter of manumission now.

So soon I was to thank God most fervently that he had given me my tender companion before all our sorrow came upon us, for without her I do not think I could have stood it.

At first we did not dare to tell Mistress, and our misgivings were based on truth, because when at last she had to know, she went into her final decline.

The bridegroom would not appear, but was to be married by proxy.

It was a beautiful island in the middle of the River Bidassoa, but it was marshy and somewhat low. At night a miasma covered those green meadows, and early in the morning swarms of mosquitoes rose from them in clouds.

We were certain rain would not fall, and Master had arranged for light lattices to be laid between the arches, and around and between them grew vines, blossoming with fragrant small white flowers.

All along the route of the wedding procession, he placed paintings of tall white urns of flowers, alternating these with urns of flowers themselves, and behind each was a mirror.

The effect was that of being inside a great bower of blooms, but Master’s paintings and mirrors saved the atmosphere from becoming too cloyingly sweet with the flowers’ fragrance.

Despite everything, all our nursing and prayers, and all Dr. Méndez’s nostrums, the fever lasted for twenty-one days, and at the end of it Master was a skeleton.

The fever was broken. Master would get well. The convalescence was slow, of course.

Almost there he tottered, put out his hand to grasp something, and fell prone.

I, who had always had facile tears, could not shed one.

She advised the King, who came and kept vigil all night at Master’s bier.

I was overwhelmed with gifts—all his clothes, his easel and a goodly sum of money.

All his household effects were left to Paquita’s husband, and the house, where we had all lived so long and so many happy years, was for Paquita’s eldest child, the little granddaughter Master had loved so much and painted so often.

For I too have been remiss and tardy. Many a time it crossed my mind that I should name Don Diego a Knight of Santiago, but I never took the steps to do so.

He was the same—rotund, dark and smiling, full of good humor and kindness.

“I will go and bring Lolis,” I told him, and as I went away toward the inn I thought about Bartolomé’s generosity and candid comradeship.