People of Pleasure
by Marina J. Neary
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 4 5 |
part 3
Madrid, 1680
¡Mira! La mariposa. ¡Pobre mariposa! Se la va a comer la araña.
The children giggled with a mixture of pity and fascination as they watched a spider devour a butterfly. That age of innocence and cruelty!
The Spanish they were speaking was not the Spanish I was used to hearing in the Golden Block of north Philly. It was the Castilian version. Oddly enough, I understood every word. It was my native language, too. It was still me, Rupert Irwin, but in the body of... Juan Carreño de Miranda, the court painter of King Charles II of Spain. I was standing in my spacious, sun-flooded workshop in Madrid. So that was where the cherry-flavored gummy took me!
Along with fluency in Castilian Spanish, I inherited all of Carreño’s painting skills that had been cultivated under the auspice of Pedro de Cuevas and Bartolomé Román. I owed my rise to fame to the legendary Diego Velázquez, who noticed my frescoes in the cloister of Doña María de Aragón and in the Church of Our Lady of the Rosary.
I remembered my mentors and patrons very vividly, though they had been dead for decades. I was in my mid-sixties, and my recently completed self-portrait showed every bit of my age. I ran my hand over my face, feeling the shaggy sideburns, drooping cheeks and bushy eyebrows.
Capturing my own likeness on the canvas was a rare indulgence, one I could finally afford after putting it off for so long. It seemed frivolous to spend my time on something that was not a paid commission. For the past nine years, I had been painting portraits of the Spanish royal family.
My privileged position gave me insight into the psychology of the most inbred dynasty in Europe: the Spanish Habsburgs. Over the course of my tenure at the court, I’d been commissioned to paint some very odd-looking, borderline deformed people.
You may have heard about the famous Habsburg jaw and lip. Well, I was the one who captured those features. The Habsburgs were proud of their facial peculiarities. They did not consider themselves ugly. Far from it. That meant I could work freely and honestly, without having to glaze over the reality too much. You could call my depiction of the royal family almost a documentary.
Being of aristocratic birth myself, I could appreciate, to some extent, limpieza de sangre, or “blood purity.” Consanguinity was a common practice within royal dynasties, but the Habsburgs took it to the extreme.
Charles, my king and benefactor, was a product of an avuncular marriage. That’s right, his parents were niece and uncle. And, let me tell you, it showed. The king’s jaw was so prominent that he could not chew properly and swallowed his food whole, which led to stomach spasms and vomiting.
The dysfunctional jaw was just one of the many health issues plaquing the monarch. As a child, he had survived measles, smallpox and rickets. His mental state could be described as fragile at best. Between bouts of depression, Charles hunted and hosted lavish parties.
I could not complain about his treatment of me. He had been nothing but generous and respectful. When it came to art, he was not very discerning. Someone must have told Charles that I was the best painter in Spain, and he took it at face value. Every piece that came off my easel was met with unconditional praise.
The king’s patronage allowed me to work with the best materials and tools in the world. I tried to stay humble and made my studio available to other painters in Madrid. One of them was my pupil, José Jiménez Donoso, eighteen years my junior. Our relationship was a complicated one, strained by his ambition and resentment.
I knew that José coveted my status. He had made many attempts to secure a position as court painter to King Charles II but was unsuccessful. The failure had left him bitter, despite his other achievements. His signature skill was the Italian technique of quadratura. He had spent a number of years in Rome, learning how to paint frescoes.
“Maestro,” he said to me, kneading his sombrero.
Maestro. I loved the sound of it. I wished my students at UArts had called me that.
“Maestro, why do you keep refusing knighthood?”
He was referring to the invitation to the Order of Santiago, a religious and military brotherhood dating back to the twelfth century. I am sure you have seen the cross of St. James. The insignia is particularly recognizable and abundant in Western art. Truthfully, I did not see any benefit in belonging to any order, especially so late in life. Those affiliations limit personal freedom that is so necessary for an artist. My pupil had a different point of view.
“Painting needs no honors,” I answered elusively, “it can give them to the whole world.”
“Are you pleased, maestro, with the work you’ve been doing?”
“I miss working inside churches,” I confessed. “Wouldn’t mind doing another altarpiece.”
“Then why don’t you, maestro? That’s the work you were meant for. I’ve known you long enough, so I can speak bluntly. At your age, you should be more selective about the type of commissions you take on. You should think of your soul. If you were to stand before God tomorrow, what would you say to Him? Have you been applying your talent for a holy purpose?”
I truly had no idea where this was going. My pupil was calling me out for something. I could smell the beef simmering between us.
“Maestro, you have sold out,” José continued. “This friendship with the royals has ruined you. You should spend your days painting angels and martyrs. Instead, you are painting freaks.”
Freaks? That was a very disparaging way to talk about the Spanish royal family.
“My dear José, you should watch your tongue. It will land you in trouble. Our king is no Apollo, but—”
“I speak not of his appearance. His soul is far more hideous than his face, steeped in decadence and perversion. And you, maestro, keep indulging his vice. The monster is here.”
Now I was genuinely curious. “What monster?”
“Don’t play innocent now, maestro. You know of whom I speak: the fat peasant girl from Burgos. She’s back in Madrid, on king’s demand. She’s waiting outside with her mother.”
Now it was coming back to me. Sweet Eugenia Martinez Villejo! She was born in a village of Merindad de Montija to a family of poor farmers. Since birth, she had been plagued by a titanic, insatiable appetite, which led to rapid weight gain. Too young to work in the fields, Eugenia ate her parents and siblings out of the house. Sometimes she would wander off and knock on neighbors’ doors in search of buttered rolls. The villagers had no heart to refuse her. Perhaps they were a little afraid of the colossal child. Her size must have stirred some superstitious fear in them.
News of her peculiar condition had spread beyond her humble village and reached Madrid. After hearing about the glutton child, the king summoned her to the court where she joined the corps of entertainers, dwarves and hunchbacks, known as gente de placer, or people of pleasure.
King Charles enjoyed the company of people more deformed than himself. The obese six-year old fascinated him so that he commissioned several portraits of her. A special formal dress of red taffeta with golden flowers had been sewn for her.
It certainly helped that Eugenia was a very pleasant, sweet-tempered child, who loved singing and dancing... as gracefully as her frame allowed. Whatever fondness the king may have felt for Eugenia did not stop him from referring to her as la monstrua. In his eyes, she was a pampered pet, not quite a human being.
So, yes, I could see why José objected to my recent royal commissions, apart from the fact that he wanted my job. He could not openly admit to being jealous, so he played the lofty morals card.
In my defense, I was not the first to paint deformed jesters. My revered predecessor, Velázquez, must have painted ten portraits of dwarves under King Philip IV. His depiction of the court freaks was dignified, even flattering. Their eyes exude more intelligence and dignity than those of the royals. It is quite obvious whose side Velázquez took.
Hopefully, I could do Eugenia the same justice. She was my first jester, you see. I had already painted her once in that fancy dress that took up so much taffeta fabric. The king was thrilled with my work, as usual. He wanted more. So, he ordered for the girl to be brought back to my studio.
“I hope you have food on hand,” José muttered. “That creature eats every hour.”
“Be nice. She’s just a little girl.”
“Who looks like she swallowed a whole village. You better stock up on fruit and cake. Otherwise, she won’t sit still for you. Last time she gobbled up the whole cheese platter.”
José had more snark remarks under his tongue, but I did not engage with him any further. I had work to do.
Eugenia and her mother were waiting for me outside. The coachman who brought them to my studio was inspecting the wheels on the carriage. I heard him grunt and murmur under his breath about the monstrous child bending the axle.
It surprised me that mother and daughter were wearing very rustic peasant clothes, the same kind they wore on the first trip to Madrid. One would expect the king’s new pet to be sporting fancier garb.
“Hello, Eugenia,” I said, bowing down to her level, as far as my arthritic knees allowed. “It’s so nice to see you again. Do you still have that beautiful red dress?”
The girl’s pillowy cheeks flushed, as she stooped and leaned her head against her mother’s hip.
“The dress no longer fits her, maestro,” the woman replied, combing her fingers through Eugenia’s curls. “She’s grown fatter since then. I’m sure the king will be pleased.”
“I have no doubt.”
“We pray for His Majesty’s health. It’s such a blessing, such an honor for our daughter. Her sisters envy her. Life is dull on the farm. When will the king let her move into the palace for good? Eugenia would like that very much. She befriended all the dwarves. Take her, maestro. She’s all yours.”
The woman seemed anxious to hand the child over to me. As for Eugenia, she had an air of sad resignation about her. She knew better than to cling to her mother indefinitely. The purpose of the trip had been explained to her.
“Remember me, little one?” I said, taking her moist, puffy hand. “You’ve been to this place before. I have treats for you.”
Eugenia opened her mouth, releasing a stream of thick saliva onto her tiered chin. Yes, she was hungry. She was also eager to escape the stares of the children on the street.
I escorted her inside the studio and seated her down on the sofa. The frail piece of furniture creaked beneath the weight of her body.
José was busy mixing paints. As my pupil, he had access to my tools and supplies. On occasion, he volunteered to assist me.
I had nothing to offer Eugenia except for a withered yellow apple. She snatched it from my hands and immediately bit into it, spraying sweet juice.
“We’ll get more food if you get hungry,” I said to her. “I’m sure a new dress is coming for you. Even prettier than the one you had before. Sapphire blue... Emerald green... What do you think? Once the king sees your new portrait, he’ll surely invite you to live in the palace. You’ll have all the pastries and sausages in the world. There will be small dogs for you to play with, monkeys and peacocks—”
José, who had been ignoring Eugenia’s presence all this time, interrupted me: “Maestro! You’re babbling.”
“Was I?”
“Listen to yourself.” José was not looking at me. His paint-splattered hands curled into fists. “Don’t you know what the king wants this time?”
“It wasn’t made clear to me.”
“Then I’ll make it clear. This time there won’t be a fancy dress for the monster girl. Any kind of dress for that matter. The king wants her painted nude, with a crown of grapes on her head. Tell her to finish her apple and strip. Better start working while the lighting is good. King’s orders.”
Oof! I admit, I did not see that one coming. I knew Charles had his peculiar whims, and I was ready to indulge most of them. But this? I guess, I did not know my royal benefactor all that well. The Habsburg imagination is a dark, musty well. My twenty-first century ideas about human dignity and the inviolability of a child’s body seemed too silly and out of place in this seventeenth-century Spanish court.
The voice of Rupert Irwin in me was growing louder. Perhaps, the effects of the gummy were wearing off. In my world, you can go to prison for such artistic endeavors, and you cannot expect sympathy from fellow inmates. Asking a six-year old to... No way.
Eugenia stopped chewing for a moment. Her jaws froze, tears running down her fat cheeks, mixing with saliva and apple juice. If only I could grab her and bring her into my world, away from inbred monarchs. Then, where I live, people are not exactly kind, despite the blah-blah about acceptance and human dignity. A girl like her would be mocked and tormented anyway. Perhaps, Eugenia was better off living most of her life in isolation, either in her parents’ cottage or within the walls of the royal palace. Perhaps, being a Habsburg pet was not the most demeaning fate for her.
José must have sensed my hesitation, because I saw the corners of his mouth curl in a predatory smile.
“Maestro, if you won’t do the job, I will. You taught me well. I can do flesh tones. The king expects the painting. Look, if this is too much for you...”
Yes, it was too much for me. And yet, I had to do it. Not because I feared for my position at the court. I was ready to give it to José, who wanted it more than anything. I didn’t care if I would never paint another royal portrait for the rest of my life. I could go back to painting altars. But I could not entrust my sweet Eugenia to José. I knew he would make her look grotesque. In his hands, she truly would become la monstrua. He would capture every fold of fat on her belly, but not the tears in her eyes.
“Thank you for mixing my paints,” I said to José. “I shall take it from here. Fetch us some fruit and bread.”
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Copyright © 2025 by Marina J. Neary
