As Above, So Below Page 22

  “A gift for Her Highness,” said William. “The liver is an excellent physic.”

  Meerman put the words into Italian for the Regent. Margaret talked in Italian for quite some time, finally gesturing dismissively at William and saying something sharp. As she talked, one of her retainers took the heron and carried it off towards the kitchens.

  “The Regent says her health would be best served by your absence, William the Sly,” said Meerman, enjoying himself. “And it pains me to tell your lordship that the Regent says you’re as persistent as shit on a boot sole.” Meerman grinned and made some fluid, mollifying hand gestures. “The Regent is of course grateful for your faithful attendance, but she requests that you not stay on after dinner. She has important matters to discuss in private with the Cardinal.”

  As if conjured up by the mention of his name, Cardinal Granvelle popped out of a darkened doorway in the hall’s paneled wall.

  “Behold the voice and the eye of the Low Lands,” he said, seeing William and Bruegel. “I was a bit concerned when I heard you’d left the city walls.”

  “Like a well-trained falcon I return to Your Worship’s glove,” said Bruegel. Over his months here he’d learned to adopt the manners that covered over the essentially hellish nature of life at court. “I have good news. My two new paintings are finished, one for you and one for the Regent. I pray that my patrons might view them in the day’s remaining light.”

  Granvelle spoke to Margaret in Italian. She nodded curtly, held out her silver cup for a refill, then turned and stumped up the great staircase, with the rest of them following along. Bruegel rushed to get up ahead of the pack, wanting to put his studio in readiness. But when he drew even with Margaret, Meerman lightly caught hold of his elbow, lest Bruegel precede the Regent. In his eagerness for the coming climax, Bruegel had nearly forgotten protocol.

  “Careful there, Peter,” said Meerman. “Her Royal Highness is choleric. That’s why she’s walking so fast.” Meerman was puffing a bit for breath and he made a show of swinging his arms. As always, his breath was sweetened by a clove. “You look quite used up, poor lad. I’m very keen to see your two new paintings. I’ve told you before how I admire your Fall of the Rebel Angels. You have such a refined way with surface textures. I’ve heard some call your work vulgar, but when all is said and done, we’re Flemings, not Italians, eh? You show the world as we see it. You’re worth any ten classicists.”

  “That’s good to hear, Gustav,” said Bruegel. To speak of art in Flemish here was like drinking water in a desert. When would he have his dream of a real studio in Brussels with a wife, children, an apprentice, and fellow artists all around? “You know, I thought of you while I was working last week. I added two chained monkeys to one of the paintings. You and me.”

  “How very true,” said Meerman, quickly taking the meaning. “But unlike you, I find that chains agree with me.” They were almost even with Bruegel’s open studio door.

  “Please bid the Regent to wait out here for a moment,” said Bruegel, all but trembling in his excitement. “I’d like to turn my pictures to the light for the best effect.”

  “Very well,” said Meerman.

  So Margaret, Meerman, Granvelle, William, Grauer, and Margaret’s court waited in the long palace hallway while Bruegel stepped into his studio and closed the door.

  Alone in the studio for the last time with his new pictures, he felt a mixture of sorrow, relief, and exhaustion. These two paintings had been his life for these last few months and now—now they were to be handed over to a cold intriguer and to a royal ninny. Well, at least he’d be free of them. The paintings were, after all, windows upon an unhappy world, a place to be well out of. Not that the images were really what stuck in his mind. His sense of the pictures was rather a feeling of color and line and craft, a memory of ten thousand and ten careful decisions made. Although the pictures would go, the craft would travel with him.

  He pulled the easels into place so that the setting sun would fall upon the great painted oak panels. There was another good-bye to say—not to these pictures but to the spirit of Hieronymus Bosch.

  Although he hadn’t mentioned it to Prince William, back in that high attic in s’Hertogenbosch Bruegel had sometimes had the feeling of being with Bosch’s shade—and this feeling had been with him again for the past months. Yes, Master Bosch had been at his side, helping him paint The Triumph of Death and Dulle Griet. The Master was a dry, cool spirit, more passionate about edges and hues than about the affairs of men. In his long life, Master Bosch had come to know the folly of the world so fully that the knowing had turned his blood as cold and gray as watered ashes.

  There was an impatient knock on the studio door. Though inspiring, Bruegel’s months with Bosch’s ghost at his side had been anything but pleasant. He was ready to get out and live again. Bruegel swung the door open and let his rulers in. “This is for Your Worship,” he said to Granvelle, “The Triumph of Death.” He turned to Meerman. “And this one is for Her Highness. It’s called Dulle Griet.”

  Dulle was Flemish for “dull,” or “slow-witted,” while Griet was a nickname for Margaret. The picture was five feet by four feet, just like the Triumph of Death. It showed a fantastic Hell landscape with a large female figure in the foreground: a greedy dullard, face blank with stupidity, carrying a great basket of stolen treasure under her arm, and marching across the panel in search of more. Following in her wake was a small army of henchwomen, pillaging Hell and tormenting the demons. Though Bruegel had managed to stop himself short of making Dulle Griet look precisely like the Regent Margaret, everyone in the studio seemed to divine his intended meaning.

  The hubbub was extreme; for a moment it felt almost as if the demons, rampaging skeletons, and plundering women had tumbled out of the paintings into the room. The Regent was shouting in Italian, and it was taking Granvelle and little Giulia’s best efforts to keep her from striking Dulle Griet with a poker that she’d pulled out of the fireplace. Though Bruegel dared do nothing, to see this filled him with anger. What a common, witless lout is Margaret beneath her robes, he thought, standing by. What rash thing might I do if she succeeds in striking my picture?

  William the Sly was doubled over with glee, and many of the Regent’s courtiers were laughing as well. Margaret’s rage veered now from the picture towards the artist himself. Gesturing savagely with the poker, she shouted a phrase at Bruegel over and over again. Meerman’s face floated up to Bruegel like the apparition of an urbane, satisfied demon.

  “She says something like, ‘Kwaad ei, kwaad kuiken,’ ” drawled Meerman. The Low Lands proverb he quoted meant “Bad egg, bad chicken.” The Dulle Griet was a bad egg, and Bruegel was a bad chicken. Or maybe it was the other way around.

  “Ask her if I can leave Mechelen now,” said Bruegel coldly. This was what he’d been planning for. To so madden Margaret with anger that she’d throw him out. The delicate thing was, of course, not to be hanged. If only he could keep his temper and not push things too far.

  The Regent’s answer was quick and to the point. She wanted Bruegel out of her palace right away and forever.

  “Ask her if I can have my fee,” snapped Bruegel, his pulse pounding. It seemed that he himself was in a state of rage. These fools had imprisoned him for nearly a year, working like a slave with never a rest, and this ignorant scarecrow dared to threaten him and his painting with a poker?

  “I’m not going to ask her that,” said Meerman. “I’d as soon stick my prick into a meat grinder. Talk it over with the Cardinal. Whoops, it looks like Dulle Griet’s about to leave. Good-bye for now, Bruegel. I’m looking forward to studying these magnificent works. But I didn’t have time yet to find our two monkeys.”

  “Right there,” said Bruegel, pointing to a little barred round window in a Hell castle in the Dulle Griet. Behind it were a pair of monkeys, one staring out the window at the viewer, and the other holding up a glass.

  “That’s me,” said Meerman, raising his hand in a w
orld-weary drinking gesture that was also a farewell salute. And then Margaret and her retinue swept out of the room.

  Bruegel, William, Grauer, and Granvelle remained. William had flopped down on the cushions of Bruegel’s bed, and Granvelle was attentively examining The Triumph of Death. Grauer stood quietly off to one side, his rough face as unreadable as a leather shoe. As for Bruegel, he simply tried to catch his breath.

  “A masterpiece,” the Cardinal pronounced after a few minutes. “The figures, the landscape, the deviltry. Ah, how brief indeed is our earthly span. I’m going to ship this one to the imperial court in Madrid. King Philip will be very pleased. He loves executions. Yes, perhaps we should hang you, Bruegel.” The last sentence was delivered in the same level tone as the others. Bruegel’s stomach dropped. Granvelle showed his black teeth in a grimace that was far from being a smile. Now he turned his attention to Dulle Griet.

  “I’m sorry that the Regent doesn’t like her picture,” said Bruegel deciding that the only thing for it was to press on. Surely Granvelle had no real plan to execute him. Best to ignore the unpleasant remark about hanging and to play his own game as hard as he could. “Do you think you could pay me for both the paintings?”

  From the bed, William let out a whoop of laughter.

  “Dulle Griet is a good painting,” persisted Bruegel, his importuning voice sounding strange to his ears. “Her Highness should like it. But I’m afraid she’s taken it personally. Which of course is not at all what—”

  “Money is the Devil’s excrement,” said Granvelle sententiously. He was looking at a demon in the Dulle Griet who was spooning gold out of his ass to rain it down upon the marauding band of women. He gave Bruegel a cold look. “Yes, I suppose I could pay for this one as well. I could keep it myself or perhaps send it east to the imperial court in Vienna. Or to Prague. Certainly the Regent doesn’t want it in her palace. No more than she wants you here, Bruegel. It seems you’ve set yourself free.” Granvelle opened the silk purse that hung from his waist and began counting out coins.

  “I can leave?” said Bruegel. “I can travel?”

  “Leave right away and travel far,” said Granvelle, glancing up from the money. The act of counting out coins seemed to be making him more annoyed. “Good riddance to you. I granted you mercy and a measure of hospitality, and in return you chose to insult our Regent. If you linger here, I’ll have you flogged. Stay away for six months at least, and by then the Regent Margaret will forget. She and her brother, King Philip, have more pressing concerns than the insolence of an artist. It would be too ridiculous to hang a clown.”

  “Thank you, Your Worship,” said Bruegel in a small voice as Granvelle handed over the coins. He was stung to hear Granvelle speak so coldly. Somehow he’d expected quite a bit more praise. Yes, even though he’d knowingly been as outrageous as possible, deep down Bruegel had unreasoningly expected that Margaret and her courtiers would love his new works purely for their craft and beauty, with all quibbles about proprieties and meanings set to one side. It was painful to grasp his folly. The insides of his stomach felt blazing hot. “I’ll leave the paintings here for you,” he said wretchedly.

  “One more thing,” said the angry Cardinal. “Although I may continue to buy your work, you should harbor no illusion that we’re friends. I wish that you continue to paint—but only so that I can collect your pictures. I have no interest in seeing you prosper or be happy. Far from it.” His growing fury made the Cardinal’s French accent stronger than usual.

  “I meant no disrespect, Your Worship—” began Bruegel, hating the wheedling tone in his voice.

  Granvelle cut him off with an abrupt gesture. “One last word of advice. When you do return, don’t move back to Antwerp. The place is a quagmire of sedition and heresy, with many of the conspirators your close friends. I won’t indulge you for a third time. Mock us again and, rather than the pomp of a public execution, you can expect the ignominy of an assassin’s knife.” And with that, the Cardinal left the room.

  “What a sack of shit he is,” exclaimed William from Bruegel’s bed. “Why don’t you paint a picture of me killing him? Like David and Goliath.” From the corner of the room, Grauer gave a low chuckle.

  “Are you offering me a commission, Prince William?” asked Bruegel, struggling to regain his wits. A true artist was always ready for business.

  The proposal seemed to strike William by surprise. He’d been speaking rhetorically. “Me buy a painting? My palace is already full of them. I told you I inherited a masterpiece by Bosch. Buy a new painting? It’s my wife who’s the art lover; her taste runs to miniatures. Me, I’ve more of a head for practical things.” Nevertheless, Bruegel could see that William was tempted. If nothing else, the scene with Margaret and Granvelle had leant Bruegel some glamour.

  “But could you really paint David slaying Goliath?” mused William. “I’d like to see David wearing my colors and Goliath in a bishop’s miter. Or perhaps the giant should be the Foreigner.”

  “That’s too much like a lampoon,” said Bruegel. “Weren’t you listening to the Cardinal just now? He’s on the point of hiring a footpad to slit my throat. Let me paint you something subtler, Prince William, with nothing so overt as to put either of us into danger.” Bruegel paused, and inspiration struck. How wonderfully the recent fracas had stimulated his mind. “I’ll paint you a picture of David victorious, yet with no David in it. But, never fear, should Granvelle see or hear of this new work, he’ll feel most unwell.”

  “How do you mean no David?” asked William.

  “I’ll paint you the suicide of King Saul,” said Bruegel. “He was David’s greatest enemy.”

  “Will it be a picture with a fine great army in it?” asked William.

  “More soldiers than you’ve ever seen,” said Bruegel. “In a picture small enough to fit into my pouch. Your wife who loves miniatures will find it brilliant. And you can explicate the veiled meaning to your friends.”

  They worked out the terms of the commission for a miniature painting to be delivered in six months. Working at a small scale would be perfect, as Bruegel would be on the road. For his part, William the Sly undertook to give Bruegel some money and a horse from his Mechelen stables. As William was handing over the money, there was a knock on the door. Grauer opened it and let in young Bengt Bots.

  “Is this a good time to visit, Master Bruegel?” asked the fair-skinned boy.

  “The last chance,” said Bruegel jovially. His fear of Granvelle had evaporated during his pleasant negotiation with William. And, best of all, he was free to leave Mechelen. On a horse of his own! “It seems I’m leaving the palace today. Come in, my boy, and I’ll grant you a few quick words about how masterpieces are made.”

  “You painted that?” said Bengt, staring at the Dulle Griet in awe. “How long did it take? I’d give anything to learn to paint like you.” Bruegel beamed at him. The boy had a good head on his shoulders.

  “Easy there, Bengt,” said William. “I need you for my assistant falconer! Let’s go down to dinner, Grauer. I don’t want to miss the table talk. It’ll be rich. Bengt, when you’re done with your art lesson, you can take Bruegel over to my stables and let him pick out a horse. Farewell, Peter, come see me in Brussels when your exile’s done.”

  That evening, Bruegel rode north atop his new horse, with Waf walking along at the horse’s side, now and then veering off to smell something. Though he was tired and shaky from his ordeal, he had a fat purse and a heavy sack filled with sketches and the fine pigments left over from his three paintings of Hell. Yes, Hell was behind him now, and he wasn’t going to paint it again.

  Although Bruegel’s destination was Amsterdam, the road thither led right past Antwerp. Granvelle had warned him not to stop there, but as he approached his former home, he got the notion of spending a night. At first he wasn’t quite sure why.

  “Would you like to visit Antwerp, Waf?” Bruegel asked his dog. In his months of living alone with Waf, he’d picked up the
habit of trying ideas out by way of these one-sided conversations. It was a habit he knew he’d have to drop now that he was out in the world again. But right now it was just him, Waf and the horse on the road together. So he talked to his dog.

  “You answer, ‘Ja, Mijnheer’?” said Bruegel, cocking his head at the dog. “Very well then, if you insist, we’ll stop with Abraham. He has a nice back yard that you can lie in. And maybe I’ll find Anja and give her a good talking to? Eight months I’ve been locked up thanks to her. That little Helena will know where to find her. And, how about this, Waf, maybe Anja cries and takes off her clothes and gives me a roll in the hay to make up for what she did.” Saying all this out loud, Bruegel wasn’t sure if he meant it. It didn’t sound like a good idea. But even so, at dusk he found himself riding through the Antwerp town gate.

  The familiar smells and echoes of Antwerp’s streets brought back so many memories: of arriving here to apprentice for Master Coecke; of returning from Italy; of welcoming Anja from Grote Brueghel; of the Carnival evening when the robbers had attacked; of the time he’d walked home with Waf from the peasant wedding; of the Landjuweel. The sounds of his horse’s hooves echoed off the walls like the months flipping by. The past was over.

  Now he was approaching Ortelius’s house. With a mixture of surprise and relief, Bruegel realized that the thought of Anja left him cold. His future lay with young Mayken. There was a certain smell about the girl, a certain look—she was the field he wished to till. Yes, he’d stay away from Anja tonight, he’d do his six months of exile, and then he’d wing his way to Brussels.

  But, tying up his horse in Ortelius’s stable, Bruegel’s mind still wasn’t quite at ease. Even though he didn’t want to see Anja, he felt he had to do something for her. That no good de Vos would never marry her. Anja needed a sum to attract a man with a future.

  So that night Bruegel entrusted Ortelius with a third of his new-gotten money as a dowry for Anja’s use. And this was enough to free him from that particular Hell.