I thought you might go to Madrid. There you will find men of your
stamp."
His mother was dead; his father was still in the blacksmith shop, and
when he saw him come home with several duros, the pay for portraits he
had made, he looked on this sum as a fortune. It did not seem possible
that anyone would give money in exchange for colors. A letter from Don
Rafael convinced him. Since that wise gentleman advised that his son
should go to Madrid, he must agree.
"Go to Madrid, my boy, and try to make money soon, for your father is
old and will not always be able to help you."
At the age of sixteen, Renovales landed in Madrid and finding himself
alone, with only his wishes for his guide, devoted himself zealously to
his work. He spent the morning in the Museo del Prado, copying all the
heads in Velasquez's pictures. He felt that till then he had been blind.
Besides, he worked in an attic studio with some other companions and
evenings painted water-colors. By selling these and some copies, he
managed to eke out the small allowance his father sent him.
He recalled with a sort of homesickness those years of poverty, of real
misery, the cold nights in his wretched bed, the irritating
meals--Heaven knows what was in them--eaten in a bar-room near the
Teatro Real; the discussions in the corner of a cafe, under the hostile
glances of the waiters who were provoked that a dozen long-haired youths
should occupy several tables and order all together only three coffees
and many bottles of water.
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