Diminutive dramas

Scene.—Velasquez’s studio. Dona Sol, a beautiful dark-haired lady, elaborately dressed in stiff farthingale, is sitting for her portrait. Velasquez is standing in front of an easel, vehemently throwing paint on to the canvas with a large, long brush. In the corner of the studio is an open virginal.

Velasquez. Are you getting tired?

Dona Sol. No, I never get tired of sitting; I’m so used to standing up at Court.

Velasquez. Would you mind turning your head a shade to the left? Yes, that’s right.

Dona Sol. You will be careful about the nose, won’t you?

Velasquez. Ah! you’ve a very wonderful nose from the painter’s point of view.

Dona Sol. They always exaggerate my nose—and I do so hate exaggeration, don’t you?

Velasquez (absently). Yes.

Dona Sol. Shall I be able to see the picture to-day?

Velasquez. I think so. It’s practically finished now. I have only got to finish that piece of lace on your left wrist.

Dona Sol. Shan’t you want another sitting?

Velasquez. No—I——

Dona Sol. But Donna Anna had a dozen sittings.

Velasquez. But she’s fair—I find fair people more difficult to paint.

Dona Sol. I can’t see what there was to paint in her at all. She’s all bones.

Velasquez. That’s just it. I can’t get that lace right. Do you mind if I play a tune on the virginal?

Dona Sol. No; please do.

[Velasquez goes to the virginal and plays a wild, rhythmic dance.

Dona Sol. Is that Moorish?

Velasquez. No. English. Quaint, isn’t it? It’s what they call a Morris-dance. Isn’t it charming?

Dona Sol. Yes. I love English music. It’s so uncivilised and fresh.

Velasquez. Yes, they are a wonderfully musical people. (He breaks off in the middle of tune.) I’ve got it. (He runs to the canvas and flings a piece of white paint on to it.) Ah, that’s it. It’s finished.

Dona Sol. What, the whole picture?

Velasquez (with a sigh of relief). Yes, the whole picture.

Dona Sol. May I look?

Velasquez. Certainly.

[Dona Sol gets down from the platform and walks to the easel.

Dona Sol. It’s wonderful, Velasquez; quite wonderful. I like it enormously. You haven’t quite finished the hands yet, have you?

Velasquez. Yes, I think the hands will do like that. You don’t quite get the light where you’re standing. If you come here you’ll see better.

Dona Sol (moving). I think it’s wonderful. Only I should like the hands to be a little more distinct. The dress is beautiful, and so is the necklace. But you’ve made my blue ribbon look green.

Velasquez. That’s the sun on it.

Dona Sol. But it isn’t green. It’s blue. Look at it. No amount of sun will make this blue into green.

Velasquez. You see, the sun was full on it yesterday.

Dona Sol. I think it’s all perfect, except the nose. My nose is tip-tilted, and you’ve given me a nose like a potato. You must alter that. I know my nose is difficult.

Velasquez (slightly darkening a shadow on the face). Is that better?

Dona Sol. Yes, that’s better. But it’s still a little too heavy. You see, my nose is my best feature. I don’t mind what you do to my hair and my mouth. I don’t want to criticise. I never do criticise my own portraits. In fact, I think it’s quite absurd for the sitter to criticise a picture. But I do think I’m a rather good judge of noses. Couldn’t you make it just a shade more delicate?

Velasquez (giving the nose a touch with the brush). Is that better?

Dona Sol. Yes, that’s better. I think that really is better. (A pause.) Don’t you think you could make the eyebrows a little darker? You’ve made them so faint. And then I think the hair ought to be a little brighter, and the expression a shade less severe. I don’t think you’ve quite got my smile. I look cross. Of course I suppose I look like that sometimes—when everything goes wrong. Every one does look cross sometimes—but that’s not what I usually look like.

Velasquez (making a few imperceptible alterations). Is that better?

Dona Sol. Yes, that’s much better. I think it’s perfect. May I look at some of the other pictures?

[She walks round the studio till she finds several canvases turned face backwards against a heavy piece of furniture.

Velasquez. Let me help you. (He turns several pictures round.)

Dona Sol. Ah, that’s the King. It’s quite excellent. And that’s the dear old Admiral. It’s exactly like him. Oh, and that’s Dona Elvira—how like, but how cruel! How could you do that? Didn’t she mind dreadfully? And what a dear little girl! That’s not finished, I suppose? Oh, and I do love that seapiece. It’s a storm, I suppose?

Velasquez. I’m afraid it’s meant to be a man riding in a field. It’s just a study.

Dona Sol. Of course it is. How stupid of me. I couldn’t see properly. It’s wonderful—quite wonderful. And what’s that large picture on an easel over there with a curtain over it?

Velasquez. Oh, that’s nothing. It’s only a sketch—it’s not finished.

Dona Sol. Do let me see it.

Velasquez. I’m afraid I can’t, really.

Dona Sol. But I insist on seeing it. I’ve been such a good sitter. Now I’m going to pull the curtain off.

Velasquez. It’s not my picture at all. It’s not by me. It’s by one of my pupils. It’s by Mazo.

Dona Sol. Then of course I can see it. (She pulls away the curtain, revealing a picture of Venus looking into a glass.) Oh, but that’s my head! How dared you do such a thing? No wonder you didn’t want me to see it. Oh, how could you do such a thing?

Velasquez. But I assure you you’re mistaken. In the first place, I never painted the picture. I never touched it. It’s Mazo’s work. And he did it out of his head. At least, he did it from a model. It’s meant to be Eros and Psyche or Venus, I’ve forgotten which.

Dona Sol. How could you put my head on such a hideous body? I call it mean, odious, and cowardly, and quite unpardonable. I shall burn my picture.

Velasquez. But, my dear lady, do listen to me for one moment. The picture’s not my work. I flatter myself really that I can draw a little better than that. That’s mere apprentice work. Just compare it with my pictures. I never use those hot reds and those dull, lifeless greys. Just compare it with the other pictures.

Dona Sol (crying). How can I compare it with the others? You’ve never dared paint any one else like that.

Velasquez. And then the face in the glass is no more your face than it is mine. It’s not the least like you. It’s a model’s face. Mazo may have got a hint, a suggestion, quite unconsciously from seeing my picture, but nothing more. He’s never set eyes on you.

Dona Sol. I don’t believe it’s by Mazo. I believe it’s by you—or else you wouldn’t have been so anxious for me not to see it.

Velasquez. Well, I promise you that Mazo painted that picture from a model—a flower-girl. I saw him do it. But to satisfy you, he shall get another model and paint in a different face.

Dona Sol. That’s the least you can do.

Velasquez. It shall be done to-day. Mazo’s coming here this morning.

Dona Sol. Will you promise me that the face will be quite, quite different?

Velasquez. On my word of honour as a Spaniard and as a painter.

Dona Sol (drying her eyes). Very well, I will forgive you—on one condition.

Velasquez. What is it?

Dona Sol. That you will change the nose in my picture and make it less like a potato.

Velasquez. Of course I will.

Dona Sol. Very well then. Good-bye. I shall come back to-morrow morning and see—but, oh! what a shame!

[Velasquez makes a low bow and leads her out. He comes back and, opening a door into a room adjoining the studio, he calls: Mazo!

Enter Mazo

Velasquez. The “Venus” is by you. Do you hear me? You painted it. And you must change the face.

Mazo. I don’t understand—change it in what way?

Velasquez. You must change it altogether. Paint in any face you like. And you must say you painted the whole picture. Do it at once, and put your signature somewhere in the picture too.

Mazo. But, master, it’s one of your greatest triumphs.

Velasquez. I know that as well as you do—nevertheless, that picture must go to the King and be known to all the world as a Mazo, and not as a Velasquez.

Curtain.