"The Hapsburgs? Bah, who'd want to paint their ugly mugs, what with their inbred chins! Or perhaps you thought I'd paint Adonis, or David bathing beside Bathsheba, complete with glistening skin and sculpted abdomen. Nay, nay, nay! Know my name boy, ‘Brueghel!' Hear the gruffness in the central consonants, which stand like crossbeams in a sturdy cottage? That's no dainty Florentine name—nay, my boy, it is Dutch! Coarse, guttural, beautiful Dutch, as crisp as a breeze off the channel, fresh as wheat and rye, potent as the soil of loam and peat ye stand on—and no better mannered than the arse of a bull wandering down the Ardennes, hah!
"Come along lad, let's to Liège, following the calm, green waters of the Maas, that supple muse. Keep right now—let the boys pass—and watch them as they bound down the river-line, vaulting over trunk and branch and every obstacle! Over the hills then, through thicket and forest, now along the rock ridge, slow now, watch your step. Wait, here's a clearing, just up this path here—and look out:
"Ah, what a pleasant breeze. Watch how the pastures below us stretch like great carpets of crop-yield, how the cows wait and pass at random, and, looking closely—not too close, my boy, and keep a good foothold—the serfs working in the fields, digging, sowing, hoeing, reaping, sheafing... keep your eyes open, lad, ‘tis important. For in the words of Solomon and Hesiod there is but one moral life for man: the cultivation of the craft, the building of the barn! For as the leaves fall in yellow in red so shall men, with all their passions and fashions and tastes and tongues, but two things shall remain: the sun, and the labor which goes on down under it.
"And yet here our vantage is too distant; I see you sketching the figures, but you cannot make out the fine details, and you have no eye for their movements, or their customs, or the color of their clothes. Let us get a closer look. Where's the path? Here, we'll follow this hunting troop, but stay well behind—the dogs bite.
"Here pup, some jerky for ya. Good pup, good—not too rough with the tongue. Aye, watch the beard! Humbug! Anyhow we're nearing the hilltop; below's the village, soon as we get there. Come along lad, catch your breath but don't dawdle, for it gets cold as the sun sets. Careful now, plant your steps wisely, for through the snow crunch may be slippery ice, such as often coats the slopes of this wet and fertile landscape. Ah, and look, the village, the village!
"Over there they're busying over the furnace. Let's give them a good ‘hallo' and warm our hands over the fire. Come along, lad, no need to be shy! You're fingers are turning deep blue, it's not worth getting frostbit over an icy heart. Warm up lad! What, are ye worried they'll detect the noble on your tongue? That they'll trace your Latinate language to your tutor, ye spoiled aristocrat! Ah, don't look so glum, I'm just teasin' ye! Here, I know just the thing to tickle your tongue—aye, schnaps, that'll do the trick!
"Now that we've warmed up, once more to sketching. Take notice of everything lad, even the ravens on yonder tree, even the prick of the branch they sit on. Good, good! Now, just as much attention to the children skating down below. Ah, and those men bowling, and them, with their hockey sticks, and even that old couple—yes, the old fart dragging his wife out onto the ice.
"Now down to the canal. Mm, how well the smell of fresh baked bread mixes with manure! Good gracious God I'm famished. Let's find some good company. Hey, mind your step, there's a drunk sleeping in the gutter. And this one's loaded with crap! Hey, wench, mind where you empty your chamber pot! Yes, and a kind evening to you as well.
"Don't mind her, hysterical woman. Ah, here's a good place. I hope you've got coin on ye. Coin, I said, coin! Speak up lad, ‘tis a busy company. Ah, humbug. Grab a chair.
"Good God, what delicious grub! Grab a cake as they pass again, you'll never taste a thing like it! Ah, and here comes the brew. Good lord, ‘tis the golden Batavian brew of which I spoke. There's nothing like it, in all the monasteries in Germany! Sip slowly, my boy, and let the foam bubble down your throat. Ah, how good to drink good bready beer of fine grained oats, kept crisp in a cellar under the earth, straight out of the pot! Not too quickly though, lad. See the fools dancing? It'll be you after a few sips of that fresh brew. A quick sketch here? Aye m'lad, why not? It'll be good practice at this vantage. Just careful not to dirty the parchment.
"Good, good! But perhaps too much time on the peasant maid across the table, aye. Yes, I see you stealing glances at her. But don't shack up, or it'll be bloody murder when her pa finds out! Aye, and make sure to get the feather-capped boy in the corner. Look, old Jonas has taken out his toot! Oh lord, what a smell, worse than all the brimstone in hell! Aye, and make sure to get the roosters.
"~~Ho, hum, rye and millet on a drum/Fiddly twiddle the fiddler's thumb/Round the back, give it a smack/Ho-hum hare on a skillet~~
"Good lord in his high castle above, what a hangover. It'll be one foot firmly in front of the other today. Here's some water lad, with just a drop of liquor—it'll cure your spirits. Ah, not on the floor laddy! Here's the chamber pot, there, there, out she goes...
"There ya go. Now, what's all that racket outside? Oh dear Mary and Joseph and Christ—away from the window boy, you'll not want to see this. Eh, but then again—‘tis life, true as anything ye've seen in these past days. C'mere, and keep your eyes peeled. Though it shall be hard, I'll not allow ye to look away for none of it.
"See, your Hapsburgs have come to town, arrayed in shining armor and pikes, and fitted with dark, brooding stallions. What've they come for? Aye, that I cannot say lad, but it cannot be good, for armed men never serve any good purpose. Lord, they're beating town the door! And seizing the old townsman—but he resists! He's drawn his saber, what will come of it? Ak, slain, his neck slashed, his blood staining the freshly settled snow. Nothing but murder, bloody murder! Now they turn on the rest of the townsfolk—don't dare look away lad—see, they've got your fair maiden by the sleeve. Oh, misery!
"Woah there! Sit down lad—this is nothing to get involved with. Down, down boy! I suppose ye'll strike down those men at arms with your painters' wrist? What do you expect to do, against men armed with blade and pike and musket! Settle down boy, it'll only cause trouble. Now listen up: as wisest Solomon once said there is a time for all things under heaven; a time for peace, a time for war, a time to kill, a time to die. This is their time, not yours. And worry not—for the Good Book says also, ‘for the meek is the Kingdom of Heaven.'
"Hear lad, wipe the tears from your face. Ah, ‘tis no good for a boy of your age and caste to have a face so hard pressed by worry. But, if ye cannot purge the red from your eyes, than ye can at least put your rage to work. Here, boy, take the brush, and grant your hate to God. Paint judgement, fierce, brutal judgement—for this, only your imagination will serve, the shards of images left in your subconscious. Let no figment of reality stay your mind; paint all that burns in your heart, but paint nothing untrue."