“I think so.”
The Master continued.
“Then it won’t surprise you that once this method was perfected, it became a well-guarded secret that passed from civilization to civilization, especially since it allowed messages and complex bodies of knowledge to be transmitted in secret, completely hidden from the uninitiated.”
“Let me see if I have this right.” I said. “If, for example, I connect some mathematical formula to one of the skeletons in this painting, then anytime in the future that I see or recall that skeleton, I’ll remember the formula, no matter how much time has passed? And then also if I divulge the details of this link to someone else, it will work for them as well?”
“Yes, that’s more or less how it works,” Fovel agreed calmly. “You should also know that the last people to use this method lived during the time that Brueghel painted The Triumph of Death. As I said before, once printing came along, the art of memory lost a great deal of its usefulness. No one needed to store great quantities of information with images anymore, nor write with them, except . . .”
“Except?”
“Except that a code still needed to be used to store and protect certain knowledge that only a few were privy to.”
“Like who?”
“Well . . . I can think of a few. The alchemists, for example. Have you ever seen their texts? Mutus Liber, for example—The Silent Book? This is an alchemical manual—a textbook—without words! Just images, full of encrypted information that can be decoded by a select few. Alchemy has always aroused greed, and so practitioners of that ‘sacred art’ created a whole universe of pictures and exotic symbols with which to keep their secrets safe. Of course, these images appeared incomprehensible to the uninitiated—a lion devouring the sun, a phoenix rising from ashes, a three-headed dragon, or a creature that is half man and half woman—but in fact these held the complex chemical formulas, instructions, quantities, elements that were needed to create the magical compounds.”
“I suppose they must have kept these things secret because of the Inquisition,” I said. “Though, what do I know? Brueghel wasn’t an alchemist, too, wasn’t he?”
Fovel seemed amused and answered swiftly.
“Come now, Javier; what painter isn’t? Don’t you realize that every great painter must mix his own colors and create his own textures and tones? These are among the things that differentiate one master from another. And wouldn’t you agree that that is very similar to what we suppose alchemists do?
“But then Brueghel did betray a certain familiarity with the art and its pitfalls, as he showed in one of his most popular engravings. It shows a man in his laboratory having spent every last penny on his pursuit of the legendary philosopher’s stone while a lunatic stirs the fire and his wife has nothing to feed his children.”
“That’s not very strong evidence, Doctor.”
“No,” replied Fovel, “but there’s more. For example, I recall a letter written by Brueghel’s eldest son, Jan, in 1609 to Cardinal Federico Borromeo, in which he complains that the Holy Roman emperor Rudolf II’s craze for collecting his father’s paintings has left him without any himself. And if there was one thing that Rudolf II was known for, it was for his patronage of the occult arts. Everyone called him the ‘Alchemist Emperor,’ so that should give you an idea of why he had such a passion for Brueghel’s work.”
“Was Brueghel the only one he felt that way about?”
“Not at all. Bosch, too. What I haven’t yet told you is that Rudolf was Philip II’s nephew. And it was the king of Spain, a collector in his own right of Bosch and Brueghel, who educated him between the ages of eight and eighteen at El Escorial.”
Pieter Brueghel the Elder, The Alchemist (1558). Engraving. Kupferstichkabinett, Berlin.
“Hmm . . . I suppose you’ll say that anecdotes like this prove that Brueghel, the secret alchemist, was well versed in the art of memory, right?”
Fovel nodded. “It’s obvious. But it wasn’t just alchemists who used the art of memory. Members of other unorthodox cults also mastered the art so that they could disguise their ideas using Catholic imagery. Not unlike The Triumph of Death.”
“What was it that Brueghel was trying to hide here?”
“The same thing as Bosch!” Fovel replied emphatically.
“Wait—you mean he was an Adamite as well? A member of the Brethren of the Free Spirit?”
“More or less,” Fovel said. “There are historians who think that like Bosch, Brueghel the Elder was a member of a secret millennial cult that believed in and was preparing itself for the imminent end of the world.2 He tipped his hand when he painted The Triumph of Death.”
“But Brueghel painted plenty of other paintings with different themes!” I objected. “Paintings full of vitality, showing the customs of life in his village. The celebrations, the nights of drinking . . .”
“Very true,” said Fovel, gesturing with his big hands. “But all of those he painted for money. Believe me, this one was different; this was not just any commission. And just like The Garden of Earthly Delights, there’s not a definitive piece of evidence to tell us who commissioned it. Nor why in 1562 Brueghel painted another two paintings the same size in the same tones and with the same apocalyptic themes: Dulle Griet, which is also known as Greta the Mad or Mad Meg, and The Fall of the Rebel Angels. Some people believe that the three works were ordered together, but it’s impossible to be sure. However, what I am sure about is that The Triumph of Death was critical for Brueghel. For him, it was unlike any other. Unique.”
“In what way?”
“In the only biography of Brueghel from his time, published as early as 1603, Karel van Mander3 claims that Brueghel always considered The Triumph of Death his magnum opus. Moreover, it became so famous in its time that Brueghel’s sons made copy after copy of it, even well beyond the paterfamilias’s own death, and that was not the case with any of the other paintings you mentioned.”
“Touché, Doctor,” I said. “But I still don’t see where this is leading.”
“Open your ears, son! What I’ve been saying is that The Triumph of Death was not just any painting. There’s a very celebrated art historian, Charles de Tolnay, who is also one of the world-renowned experts on Flemish art, and back in the 1930s, he put forth the theory that Brueghel was part of an obscure Christian sect.4 Based more on his excellent instincts than on any hard evidence, he labeled Brueghel a ‘religious libertine’ and left the door open for further investigation.”
“What was the final conclusion?” I asked, intrigued.
Fovel took a deep breath. “Well . . . Brueghel appears to have been very well connected, with friends in the highest intellectual circles of the time. After a long educational journey through much of France and Italy—typical for painters of his era—Brueghel befriended the cartographer Abraham Ortelius, a disciple of the brilliant Mercator and author of the very first world atlas, printed in 1570. He also visited the humanist Justus Lipsius, who had his portrait painted by both Rubens and Van Dyck. And he knew Andreas Masius, the noted orientalist; Christophe Plantin, the most important printer of his era; and even Philip II’s personal librarian, that most erudite priest, Benito Arias Montano. At the time, Montano was in Antwerp overseeing Plantin’s production of the famed Biblia Regia—the polyglot bible. Montano had spent years in the Low Countries directing this enormous project that had so captivated Philip. During this time he also traveled across much of Europe, infusing a number of select painters with his unorthodox ideas.”
“Did they all know each other?”
“They did,” the Master acknowledged, “thanks to their discreet involvement in the Familia Caritatis—or Family of Love—sect, whose existence we can confirm. The sect was founded in about 1540 by Hendrik Niclaes, a respectable Dutch merchant, and it left its mark on the central European elites of their day.”
“What did this group believe in?”
“Well, first of all the Familists, as their enemies label
ed them, believed that the end of the world was imminent. They accepted that only Jesus Christ could save them but they were suspicious of the church, which they considered corrupt. Their principal idea was the belief that at the beginning of time humans had been one with God, but that this had ended when Adam ate of the forbidden fruit. However, Niclaes believed that even this fall had not dimmed our divine brilliance, and he preached to whoever would listen that we all have within us the potential to talk directly to the Eternal Father. He wrote fifty-one books expounding this idea and detailing various instructions, methods, and ideas for confronting what he referred to as ‘the Last Era.’ He signed all his books with the initials ‘H. N.’ ”
“Hendrik Niclaes,” I added.
“Perhaps; perhaps not,” cautioned Fovel. “If Niclaes was hiding behind those initials it was to protect himself from persecution by the Inquisition’s holy office, and with good reason. He claimed that his writings were the ‘last call’ for Christians, Muslims, Jews, and followers of all other religions to come together as a single faith, with him as its messiah. When that happened, we would recall that we were all sons of Adam, created in the image of God.”
I frowned. “Now you’re going to tell me that this Niclaes of yours had something to do with Bosch’s Adamites, right?”
The Master’s face lit up. “The ultimate aim of Niclaes’s faith was man’s return to paradise. The Familists wanted us to return to our original state as sons of Adam so that we could be once again face-to-face with God. They promoted the appearance of a Homo Novus—H.N. And among other things, this would involve the return to the naked state that we saw in The Garden of Earthly Delights. As you see—none of these ideas are terribly different from the basic credo of the Brethren of the Free Spirit.”5
“But are you sure that Brueghel was also a . . . Familist?”
“Quite sure. He also illustrated one of Niclaes’s treatises, Terra Pacis, in which, through allegory, he narrates his journey from the ‘Land of Ignorance’ to that of ‘Spiritual Peace.’ In fact, it’s worth noting that Brueghel’s most cherished themes, the ones that appear repeatedly in his work—death, judgment, sin, eternity, and the rejection of religious bonds—were, without a doubt, also Niclaes’s favorite themes.”
The Master paused. It was clear to me how seriously he took all this. He went on to explain to me in solemn tones how this Hendrick Niclaes would have had a great deal in common with the prophets we had talked about when we were viewing the paintings by Raphael and Titian, and especially that Niclaes’s ideas derived from the same source as those of Joachim of Fiore or Savonarola—trances. And even though Niclaes had experienced his first trances when he was nine years old, it would be another thirty years before he decided to form his own bastion of the faithful. Thanks to his elevated position both socially and economically, Niclaes was able to befriend intellectual and other influential people and to convince them that he was a kind of messianic minister, sent to this world to continue Christ’s work. Like Joachim of Fiore and Savonarola, Niclaes had an answer ready for every question and an interpretation for every event or situation of the time. He had followers in Paris and most of all in London, where his books—under the name Henry Nicholis—remained in print more than a hundred years after his death.”
After hearing all this, I ventured, “But how did Niclaes influence The Triumph of Death, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Hah!” Fovel gave a little laugh, seeming to realize how much he had gotten off track. “Right! Well, if you’re familiar with the Familist credo, this painting takes on a rather special meaning. If we accept that The Triumph of Death was Brueghel’s favorite work, and that he was active in Niclaes’s sect, then we would expect the painting to tell the apocalyptic, end-of-the-world story much as Brueghel would have heard it from the sect leader’s mouth. In other words, how one era was ending and another beginning.”
“But all I see in that work is the end . . .” I objected.
“That is indeed what it seems!” the doctor agreed.
“So then . . .” my voice trailed off.
“Brueghel is tricking the uninitiated, non-cult viewer with a vision totally lacking in hope. Armies of cadavers are marching on the planet’s last city to devastate it. There’s no room for even the wish for a better life. Have you realized what the skeletons’ overriding intent is?”
I looked back at the painting trying to make sense of the chaos that stretched out before me.
“Their intent?”
“Yes, Javier. It looks as if the skeletons’ goal is to push all the mortals into that enormous container on the right-hand side of the scene. That’s a very direct metaphor for the gates of hell. It’s a representation of a portal to the beyond, with the difference that unlike The Garden of Earthly Delights, which Philip II sought so ardently and which led to heaven, here we see only confusion and horror waiting for us on the other side.”
“I . . . I’m not sure I understand,” I muttered.
Fovel shrugged, and prepared to explain more fully.
“You know,” he began, “I tried for years to resolve the apparent contradiction in this work, until I realized that the artist had to be very careful not to leave clues about his faith. Niclaes was persecuted by the Inquisition, and his writings were on the Index Librorum Prohibitorum—the List of Forbidden Books. It was no joke. But if Brueghel was part of a secret faith that hid and protected the existence of a higher kind of life, how could he then paint something like The Triumph of Death? Why did he consider it his favorite? The whole thing didn’t make sense. The answer had to be that there was some thing hidden there that I hadn’t seen—some puzzle, or hidden image. Whatever it might be.”
“And did you find it?” I asked.
“Yes! Tell me, have you ever heard of the Alphabet of Death?”
Unprepared for this, I stared, gaping at him.
Fovel clicked his tongue disdainfully and walked over to peer at one area of the Brueghel.
Hans Holbein, Alphabet of Death (ca. 1538).
“Pay attention, now. A few years before Brueghel painted this, Hans Holbein the Younger—a notable painter and a friend of Erasmus who was highly regarded by the circle of intellectuals around Niclaes—created a kind of alphabet of twenty-four capital letters, each about one inch square, adorned with skeletons. As part of this alphabet Holbein had created something seemingly terrible—each of the letters was surrounded by ‘soldiers of death,’ very similar to the skeletons that Brueghel would paint not long after. They gave the impression of being creatures devoid of souls, who liked to hunt mortals in order to carry them off to their graves.
“Holbein’s A, for example, is intertwined with two musically inclined skeletons who appear to be playing the eternal Dance of Death. This is followed by skeletons pursuing babies and young damsels, and others chasing their victims on horseback, until it all culminates in the Z, in which Christ oversees the Last Judgment.”
“Ah!” I cried, “A whole alphabet!”
“Much more than that, Javier, from what I have gathered.” Fovel let that last hint just hang there.
“What do you mean, Doctor?”
“It wasn’t that Brueghel was inspired by Holbein—Brueghel deliberately used specific images of Holbein’s in his painting. It’s almost as if he actually traced them! And he thoroughly employed that old idea from the art of memory that you can write using images. Now do you understand?”
But all I could do was look at him quizzically, much to his irritation.
“For God’s sake, Javier! By taking images from Holbein’s typography and putting them in his painting, Brueghel was surreptitiously inserting letters into the work. He wrote a message using Holbein’s skeletons! Using the art of memory! Let me show you.”
From the same pocket in his coat where he’d previously extracted the book on Bosch, Fovel removed a sheet of paper with Holbein’s alphabet on it. He unfolded it and handed it to me, inviting me to examine it more closely.
I rubbed my eyes and focused on The Triumph of Death. It took me a little over a minute to locate the small groups of skeletons on the horizon, where I thought I would find what the Master had referred to. But I was wrong.
Letter A of Holbein’s alphabet and detail of The Triumph of Death.
Nothing in the background remotely resembled a musical skeleton. There were only lancers, defilers of tombs, executioners, and two bell ringers. But when I switched my attention to the foreground, in the lower-right corner of the painting I came across a skeleton playing his lute next to a pair of lovers, consorting, oblivious to the death all around them. Another skeletal figure more in keeping with Holbein’s style sat atop the container of hell banging maniacally on two drums. Below him, the skull-littered ground evoked Holbein’s alphabet.
“Is that it?” I asked, hesitantly.
“Excellent!” cried Fovel. “Now just imagine that that image represents the letter A. Hold that thought right there, hovering near the door to hell, and see if you can find more scenes in the painting that correspond to letters in Holbein’s alphabet. What else do you see?”
Paper in hand, feeling like I was playing a rather strange version of Where’s Waldo?, I began to scour the Brueghel with all my senses at the ready. It took ages for me to find links between the painting and the alphabet, and the ones I did find were tenuous, or incomplete. From time to time I drew a circle in the air above the painting with my finger when I thought I had something, and glanced at the Master out of the corner of my eye to see if I was right. He shook his head each time until, on my fourth or fifth attempt, my finger hovered over a figure near the geometric center of the composition—a fierce skeleton astride an emaciated nag wielding a gigantic scythe.
The Master of the Prado Page 19
