As Above, So Below Page 14

  Leaning against the wall behind Franckert were two great oak panels, nearly five feet across and four feet high, each of them painted with hundreds of little figures, too many to count. Bruegel and his patron Nicolas Jonghelinck called them wemel paintings. The word wemel meant “seethe” or “boil” it was the word they’d used in Bruegel’s village to describe the motion of a mass of insects: like ants, like the roly-poly bugs found under a rotten log, or like the springtails in a wet pile of duckweed at the river’s edge.

  One of the wemel pictures was the Low Lands Proverbs, the other was The Battle of Carnival and Lent. Although the panels belonged to Jonghelinck, he’d returned them to Bruegel for safekeeping while his wife had their villa renovated. Nicolas had been made a tax collector, and he was making more money than ever.

  Ever since getting the pictures back last month, Bruegel had been spending most of his mornings lying in bed looking at them. He was in the process of starting a third one, an encyclopedic picture of children’s games. In some ways it was relaxing not to have Anja around all the time. She’d grown more and more demanding over the years. What it came down to was that she wanted Bruegel to marry her, while he wanted to wait for young Mayken. So she was looking elsewhere. Understandable, but it was a hard thing to be known as a cuckold.

  “Ah yes,” said Franckert, examining the Low Lands Proverbs. “Here’s the woman draping the blue cloak over her man’s face. A doddering fool with a cane. What a sly hussy she is. And look at her breasts—say, she’s the very image of Anja, isn’t she?”

  “The very,” said Bruegel, collapsing onto his back with an exaggerated groan. It was good to have his companion here to complain to.

  “What wonderful pigs you paint,” said Franckert, leaning closer to study the Proverbs details. “One man shears a sheep, the other shears a pig. I love the way you paint the varken, Peter. Their ears look so alert. The pig is an intelligent animal. My father’s tenant farmer kept several of them. He could never keep them in the pen. And see, here you have one pulling the bung out of a barrel. Clever varken. And here’s a man feeding roses to them.”

  “Like me showing you my pictures,” said Bruegel, rising up on one elbow. He enjoyed teasing Franckert; it dulled the edges of his saturnine humors. And Franckert seemed willing to tolerate almost any insult from his volatile artist friend. But it was best not to go too far. Casting about for a different topic, Bruegel picked up the worn little leather book from the table by his bed.

  “Have you read Erasmus’s In Praise of Folly?” asked Bruegel. “Ortelius gave me this copy, back when we were friends. Listen to this. It’s like he’s describing these two pictures.” He slowly read a passage aloud.

  “ ‘If you could look down from the moon, as Menippus once did, on the countless hordes of mortals, you’d think you saw a swarm of flies or gnats quarrelling amongst themselves, fighting, plotting, stealing, playing, making love, being born, growing old, and dying. It’s hard to believe how much trouble and tragedy this tiny little creature can stir up, short-lived as he is.’“ It felt good to be reading Erasmus; it made Bruegel feel like a scholar, like a man of the world. Not for the first time, he regretted having alienated Ortelius.

  “Who’s Menippus?” demanded Franckert rhetorically. “I detest classical allusions. They make me feel stupid.” Loyally he gestured towards the Low Lands Proverbs. “You’ve got the spirit of Erasmus here, Peter, without the pedantry. A kneeling man making his confession to a devil! That’s worth ten of the late Brother’s sly digs at Greek philosophers. What a masterpiece.”

  Bruegel set down the book and got out of bed.

  “I wish I could afford one of your paintings,” continued Franckert, looking away from his friend’s nakedness. “But business hasn’t been good at all. The Spanish taxes are crushing us. Every twentieth penny of every exchange goes to them. I think you told me you’re working on a third wemel picture? Where is it?”

  “It’s next door in my studio,” said Bruegel, washing himself off with a rag and a basin of water. “Children’s Games. I’m painting it for my old Master Coecke’s widow. Mayken Verhulst. I went to visit her in Brussels last month. Her and young Mayken. The daughter’s fifteen now. A little woman, very nearly. But she’s—”

  Bruegel broke off, discouraged, as always, by the difficulty of his long-held plan of trying to form a liaison with young Mayken. She was in truth still a girl, and any romantic thoughts she had were most certainly not of Bruegel. The old Mayken was doing well at managing Master Coecke’s estate; the four stories of their solid brick house were filled with activity. Yes indeed, mother Mayken made a good business painting miniatures and designing tapestries. And as for Bruegel, the old Mayken was impressed with his progress as an artist. The engravings of his Bosch-style Seven Sins were well-known and had sold widely. And, in Nicolas Jonghelinck, Bruegel had found a loyal patron for his oils. But when he’d tried to steer the conversation around to the old plan of having him marry into the family, old Mayken had only asked if he was still “living in sin with that peasant serving maid.”

  “Young Mayken’s not interested in you?” coaxed Franckert.

  “No.” Bruegel sighed. “I’ve known her since she was born, and she thinks of me as a family retainer, or at best an uncle. That odd, paint-smeared fellow who always worked with her father. A suitor fit for her mother. To little Mayken I’m as exciting as yesterday’s potatoes. It will take some effort to spark her interest. So I thought I’d give her and her mother a Children’s Games.”

  “Little Mayken likes games?” asked Franckert.

  “Well, it’s something that came up last month,” said Bruegel, drying himself off. “I often saw her at play as a child, of course. And on my last visit, young Mayken and I got to talking about games, seeing how many we could remember. Even though she says she’s outgrown them, she has fond memories. So I put forth the idea of making a picture with all the games in it. Old Mayken gave me a nod and said she’d buy the picture. just like that. But I’m insisting on making it a gift.”

  “Shrewd business,” said Franckert mockingly. “The Bruegel style.” He’d tried, unsuccessfully, to counsel Bruegel about financial matters in the past, but Bruegel never listened to him. So he contented himself with digs.

  As Bruegel pulled on his undergarments, Franckert’s attention turned to the second painting in Bruegel’s bedroom, The Battle of Carnival and Lent. “What is this?” he cried. “That fat oaf riding a barrel—the spirit of Carnival? You’ve painted him to look like me!”

  “That’s the risk of befriending me, Hans.” Bruegel glanced uneasily at Franckert, trying to gauge the big man’s reaction. “I draw what I see—with changes. I hope you don’t mind.” He hadn’t really meant for Franckert to ever see this painting at all. People were sometimes annoyed or embarrassed to find themselves in one of Bruegel’s pictures.

  It was in fact one of Bruegel’s engravings that had cast the final pall over his relations with Ortelius. Angered by the maid Helena’s role in leading Anja astray, Bruegel had created an allegorical image of Ortelius as a foolish, bent dotard who compulsively searches with a lantern in broad daylight through sacks and barrels and hampers, greedy for goods and for knowledge, his face set into a self-absorbed, avaricious frown. The engraving, successfully published with the title Everyman, had so upset the normally mild-mannered Ortelius that he’d broken off relations not only with Bruegel but with the printer Jerome Cock.

  So Bruegel was greatly relieved to see Franckert’s surprise turn into laughter.

  “You’re a good friend, Hans, and I’m grateful that you came for me today,” gushed Bruegel. “I sorely need an outing. Explain again how you’re going to get us into this peasant wedding?”

  “The bride’s a distant cousin of one of my teamsters,” said Franckert. “Max Wagemaeker. You’ve met him, a loud fellow with a weathered face? He’s not going, he’s off hauling a load of imitation Bosch paintings to Germany, but I’ll say I’m Max’s half brother fro
m down on the farm. Hans Hoiberg. That’s good, no? Hoiberg for haystack. And you’ll be my landlord; you’re just coming along for the fun. Look, here’s a gold piece you can give the bride. Everyone will love us.”

  “I thought you said business was bad,” said Bruegel, taking the coin.

  “I always have money for a celebration,” said Franckert.

  Bruegel smiled. Franckert wasn’t peeved at him, and they were going out for some fun. Enough of lying around here brooding over Anja and working himself half-mad on the latest painting. He was smiling now, and began picking out the best clothes in his wardrobe: light gray stockings, black knee breeches, a lace-trimmed doublet, and a round black felt cap like a walnut shell. He peered at himself in his good old convex mirror, assessing the effect of the costume. In the glass, Franckert hovered behind him like a merry patron saint.

  “What should your name be?” asked Franckert.

  “That’s easy. Peter de Hoorne. De Hoorne like the Graaf of my old village. Who knows, he may really have been my father. Anja used to think so, though she doesn’t see much noble about me anymore. We’ll say we come from there, too. Grote Brueghel.” There was actually a Klein Brueghel village as well. With a flourish, Bruegel produced a splendid black coat, subtly patterned and lined with white fur that peeked out from the cuffs of the velvet-trimmed sleeves. It had been a gift from Nicolas Jonghelinck.

  “At your service, my Lord de Hoorne,” said Franckert miming a peasant’s awkward bow. He made sure to bend his head forward so far that his hat fell off, and then he stepped on it while picking it up. One reason Bruegel enjoyed Franckert’s company was that Franckert was so good at miming buffoonery. Though his speech was a bit ordinary, his motions were eloquent.

  Hearing himself referred to as Lord de Hoorne gave Bruegel a shiver of pleasure. Though he rarely admitted it out loud, he was indeed fond of the notion that the old Graaf might be his father. Those who didn’t know Bruegel well thought of him as a mad, vulgar peasant—they mistook his recent images of the Sins for his essence. Little did they know that Bruegel was an educated man and quite likely a son of nobility. He nodded his head in grave acknowledgment of Franckert’s bow.

  “I’m ready, my lord, are you?” asked Franckert.

  “Let me take a look next door into my studio. Wait here.” Again the reckless desire to tease his friend came bubbling forth. “Point your snout at the Low Lands Proverbs and The Battle of Carnival and Lent. Count the pigs.”

  “I’d think you’d keep these pictures in your studio for inspiration,” said Franckert imperturbably. He was inured to Bruegel’s reckless teasing.

  “Jonghelinck made me promise not to. He was worried I might change something. Not that I would. They’re perfect. I’ll be right back.”

  Bruegel had half hoped to find Anja asleep in the studio’s corner, but her featherbed was smooth and cool. He missed the days when he’d find her there every morning, often as not in a humor for some amorous play. There was little of that anymore, thanks to Ortelius’s Helena and Williblad Cheroo. It had all gone sour about a year ago. Though Williblad was no likelier to marry Anja than Bruegel, he seemed to fascinate her as much as he fascinated Ortelius. Damn the man. Bruegel’s heart could only stand so many blows. For the hundredth time he told himself to end his relationship with Anja. Yet he knew that, once she returned, she’d use her wiles to win him back over. He sighed and shook his head. Enough thoughts of Anja for now.

  The studio smelled of paint and walnut oil. Bruegel took a good long look at his Children’s Games. It was always interesting to see his pictures fresh in the morning, easier to judge their qualities. He wasn’t fully fond of this one. He’d used the same odd perspective as in his other two wemel pictures, setting it up as if he were looking down on the scene from a rooftop or a high attic window. But the angles weren’t working so well in this one. And what a dull, dun background he’d given the Children’s Games. Anja’s sneaking and lying was upsetting him, there was no doubt about it.

  It struck him now that hardly any of his playing children bore smiles. Children were, on the whole, quite serious about their play, but a few more cheerful faces wouldn’t have been amiss. Could it be that his unhappiness was showing through? That was the thing about art: your fingers spilled the secrets of your soul before you knew them yourself.

  The other day, for instance, he’d found himself adding to the panel a little image of a girl with her skirts hiked up, squatting to piss and looking at herself. An idle kind of play. Was this a fitting thing to have in his presentation picture for the Maykens? Perhaps not, but it was droll, and it cheered Bruegel to see it. With so many figures upon the great panel to choose from, who needed to focus upon this particular child and wave the finger of academic taste? Bruegel’s goal was, after all, to show life as a whole, from the high to the low. He liked the figure, and he wasn’t going to rub it out.

  In any case, the figure that he hoped young Mayken would most attend to was the girl at the very center of the picture, the one playing at being a bride. She had her hair unbound and she wore a crown. Her pleasant face gazed demurely down. Bruegel had in fact modeled the lass’s features after those of young Mayken. It was meant to be a suggestion to her, something for her to keep in mind as she grew towards her marriageable years. The dream of joining the prosperous Brussels studios of Mayken’s family was never far from his thoughts. To have a wife, and a house, and then some babies.

  But this morning, thinking about Anja and the Maykens put an ache into his empty belly. It was indeed time for a day off. Looking around his dirty little studio, his eye lit upon a valuable sword that he had there for a studio prop; he’d borrowed it from Ortelius two years ago for his drawing of the sin of Anger, and, thanks to their falling out, he hadn’t yet given it back. It had an intricately engraved scabbard and a fine silver hilt. The sword would complete his costume. He strapped it to his belt on the left side, locked the door, and joined Franckert.

  Franckert had brought two horses. It was a sunny Saturday, and the streets were busy. Many of the farmers had brought their harvest wares to town. Bruegel rarely rode horseback; it was odd to have such a high view of the familiar city streets. He could see right into people’s windows. A woman was meticulously peeling and eating an apple, slice by slice; a merchant was counting his purse of coins; a youth and a maid were laughing and tossing an egg back and forth; a graybeard was reading a book held right up against his nose; two children were looking out a window, the bigger one staring at Bruegel, the smaller one gazing up at the deep blue sky. Seeing all this, Bruegel’s heart lifted. What a wonderfully full world it was.

  “Peter!” It was Anja. The sound of her voice sent Bruegel’s spirit plummeting from the heavens to the turbulent sea. She was on the arm of Martin de Vos, of all people. Even though Anja had been out all night, she looked quite fresh and tidy. Evidently she’d found a place to undress and have a bit of a wash. Before Bruegel could ask her any questions, she pressed one of her own. That was always her approach. “Where are you going, dressed up like that?”

  “I’m taking the Lord down to Berchem for my cousin’s wedding,” said Franckert in a thick peasant accent. “It’s good dancing on another man’s floor, eh, Martin?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Anja. “I’m sorry I didn’t come home last night, Peter. Fugger’s granddaughter Elise had the colic and I was sitting up with her. I’ve only met Martin at the market just now. Can I come along with you today?”

  “I’m sure you’re too tired,” said Bruegel coldly. It hurt a bit to see Anja’s disappointed expression. What if she were innocent, what if she were truly his friend? On the other hand, why give her a chance to ruin his day? It was a virtual certainty that, given the opportunity, she would. He hardened his heart.

  “How’s your work?” Bruegel asked de Vos to change the subject. De Vos had stayed on in Italy much longer than Bruegel; he’d only been back in Antwerp for a year. Their old friendship had never quite res
umed.

  “I’ve started painting clouds and cherubs for Frans Floris,” said de Vos. “It pays the rent. And on my own time I’m doing some drawings of real-life scenes. The jape is that I always have one of my people be Jesus, with a little halo. I’m going to engrave them and have Plantin make prints. Maybe they’ll catch on with the public like your Seven Sins series. How does it feel to be the second Bosch?”

  “Oh, Peter doesn’t like to be called that,” said Anja. For all her fickleness, she knew Bruegel’s feelings well. He didn’t want to be the second anything. He wanted to be the first Bruegel. Having Anja speak up for him made Bruegel feel bad about rejecting her. But he could see so well how the day would go if she came along. She’d chatter away to keep him from asking her questions, and then, once the dancing started at the wedding, she’d start turning on her charms to attract other men. And then she’d start a drunken argument with him on the way back home. The more he refused to marry her, the more she pestered him about other things. No, no, he needed his day off.

  “It’s ironic that Floris has me painting in the Italian style,” de Vos was saying. “It’s like that shit we hated so much in Rome.”

  “I didn’t hate all of it,” disagreed Bruegel. He had no desire to be a provincial artist who only admires his fellows’ work. And seeing de Vos with Anja made him more than willing to return the dig about Bosch. “Are you still scared of Michelangelo, then? Maybe working for Floris will finally teach you how to draw a human body.”

  “I know all about bodies,” snapped de Vos, making a show of slipping his arm around Anja’s waist. “Floris and I surround ourselves with beautiful women. Have fun with the peasants, Bosch the Younger.” Bruegel clenched his teeth, biting back his rage. He needed so badly to get out of this constrained little town and all its tiny doings.

  “Don’t be too late, Peter,” called Anja, pushing off from the crook of de Vos’s arm. Her face was a mask of guilelessness. But he wasn’t fooled. “Have fun,” sang Anja, putting on a wistful tone. “I’ll have a nice supper waiting for you.”