tolerant of the painter’s familiarity with Paula. I notice that the model herself doesn’t seem to mind.
The monk hurries forward to give Weddesteeg his palette and brushes. The painter acknowledges me for the first time and Father Rastro makes a belated introduction. Weddesteeg nods acceptingly when I tell him how remarkable I find his penitent woman. ‘You’re a painter too? Oh, in that case…‘ And he takes a much greater interest in my compliments.
The figures are taking up their positions for the dramatic narrative—Rastro lifts the cloth to Paula’s soiled feet, Paula inclines her face, and the painting begins without delay. They’re keeping to a regular schedule it seems.
I stand behind Weddesteeg, feeling a bit out of place. I haven’t had a chance to ask him about the human cavity and, more importantly, a question of technical interest, about how he’s made the light shine so radiantly on the three figures, and on the horse with its majestic, springy tail.
The shrieking chicks are proving tiresome. What possessed Father Rastro to bring the nest up here? Perhaps Weddesteeg wants them in his painting. Good humouredly, I tell Weddesteeg about my goldfinch, and how I like topaint to its musical accompaniment. When I forget to take the cage to work, I don’t paint so well.
Weddesteeg listens respectfully then blurts out: ‘Oh, drown the pathetic things and be done with it!’
Rastro, a little flustered, gets up from his genuflection. Retrieves the nest from the table and brings it over to me, holding it out like it’s the Eucharist. I open my mouth to protest, but I needn’t have worried.
‘Diego Velázquez, you can help us out. Find Luis de Pareja. He’ll be in the refectory. Get the resident boys digging up worms. Tell them to shake a water can over the birds’ beaks.’
This suits me, as I’d intended spending more time with the Morisco boy. Departing the round tower with the nest under my wing, I head down to the refectory. Luis looks surprised to see me carrying the nest. He introduces me to his friends, Benito, Remi and Camilo. These three Moriscos are a good deal shorter and younger than Luis, and they appear to look up to him. Well Remi and Benito obviously do. Camilo seems to exist in a world of his own. He’s reading a book as he comes out of the refectory, and he continues to read as we go about our business, holding the words up close to his eyes, as elderly scholars do. A priest has given the boys over into my care and we head for the courtyard to search for grubs in the flowerbeds. After we’ve fed and watered thechicks as best we can, we lie on the grass beneath some foliage and look up at the sky for a while, (this will pass for siesta, the boys tell me). Little Remi falls asleep in the heat and I cover his face with my handkerchief to protect it from the sun. While we’re waiting for him to wake, Benito, Luis and I play knucklebones with the backbones of small animals in a shady cloister. I used to love playing this game with my younger brothers. I forget about the bells, I forget about the painting in the round tower, I forget I ever had another reason for being in the convento than visiting Luis. Camilo continues to read Virgil but he’s listening to us with one ear. I know, because he smiles weakly when we laugh. An amazing little chap, Camilo. Later on we discuss The Aeneid together as I might do with boys my own age in Latin school.
Luis has come up with what I think is a good idea and, when Remi wakes, the five of us head off in the direction of the orchard. (The boys are supposed to be fruit picking this afternoon.) I carry the nest and Luis and his friends carry two tin pails each. Camilo continues to read as we traipse through the vegetable gardens, surrounded by a flock of white butterflies. Long-legged Luis clambers up an apricot tree with the nest in his arms, securing it beside another nest he’s been keeping an eye on. He’s hoping against wisdom that the
The monk hurries forward to give Weddesteeg his palette and brushes. The painter acknowledges me for the first time and Father Rastro makes a belated introduction. Weddesteeg nods acceptingly when I tell him how remarkable I find his penitent woman. ‘You’re a painter too? Oh, in that case…‘ And he takes a much greater interest in my compliments.
The figures are taking up their positions for the dramatic narrative—Rastro lifts the cloth to Paula’s soiled feet, Paula inclines her face, and the painting begins without delay. They’re keeping to a regular schedule it seems.
I stand behind Weddesteeg, feeling a bit out of place. I haven’t had a chance to ask him about the human cavity and, more importantly, a question of technical interest, about how he’s made the light shine so radiantly on the three figures, and on the horse with its majestic, springy tail.
The shrieking chicks are proving tiresome. What possessed Father Rastro to bring the nest up here? Perhaps Weddesteeg wants them in his painting. Good humouredly, I tell Weddesteeg about my goldfinch, and how I like topaint to its musical accompaniment. When I forget to take the cage to work, I don’t paint so well.
Weddesteeg listens respectfully then blurts out: ‘Oh, drown the pathetic things and be done with it!’
Rastro, a little flustered, gets up from his genuflection. Retrieves the nest from the table and brings it over to me, holding it out like it’s the Eucharist. I open my mouth to protest, but I needn’t have worried.
‘Diego Velázquez, you can help us out. Find Luis de Pareja. He’ll be in the refectory. Get the resident boys digging up worms. Tell them to shake a water can over the birds’ beaks.’
This suits me, as I’d intended spending more time with the Morisco boy. Departing the round tower with the nest under my wing, I head down to the refectory. Luis looks surprised to see me carrying the nest. He introduces me to his friends, Benito, Remi and Camilo. These three Moriscos are a good deal shorter and younger than Luis, and they appear to look up to him. Well Remi and Benito obviously do. Camilo seems to exist in a world of his own. He’s reading a book as he comes out of the refectory, and he continues to read as we go about our business, holding the words up close to his eyes, as elderly scholars do. A priest has given the boys over into my care and we head for the courtyard to search for grubs in the flowerbeds. After we’ve fed and watered thechicks as best we can, we lie on the grass beneath some foliage and look up at the sky for a while, (this will pass for siesta, the boys tell me). Little Remi falls asleep in the heat and I cover his face with my handkerchief to protect it from the sun. While we’re waiting for him to wake, Benito, Luis and I play knucklebones with the backbones of small animals in a shady cloister. I used to love playing this game with my younger brothers. I forget about the bells, I forget about the painting in the round tower, I forget I ever had another reason for being in the convento than visiting Luis. Camilo continues to read Virgil but he’s listening to us with one ear. I know, because he smiles weakly when we laugh. An amazing little chap, Camilo. Later on we discuss The Aeneid together as I might do with boys my own age in Latin school.
Luis has come up with what I think is a good idea and, when Remi wakes, the five of us head off in the direction of the orchard. (The boys are supposed to be fruit picking this afternoon.) I carry the nest and Luis and his friends carry two tin pails each. Camilo continues to read as we traipse through the vegetable gardens, surrounded by a flock of white butterflies. Long-legged Luis clambers up an apricot tree with the nest in his arms, securing it beside another nest he’s been keeping an eye on. He’s hoping against wisdom that the
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