The Golden Tulip (13 page)

“What!” Sybylla was as outraged as their father would have been. “As a family we’ve been in low straits more times than I care to remember, but never has a painting or drawing or etching signed with the name of Visser been displayed over a shop counter!”

“Maybe if it had, life would have been easier for Mama without all the scrimping and saving she had to do and which Francesca has had to carry on doing ever since!” Aletta’s eyes flashed like streak lightning. “I’ve no false pride. I want money for a reason of my own and if my painting becomes covered with flour and sultanas until it looks like a bun I shall not care in the least.”

Sybylla gave a gurgle of laughter. “I think you would!”

An unwilling smile came to Aletta’s lips and she inclined her head in agreement. “You’re right,” she said more calmly, “but it makes no difference to my wanting the sale to go through. I asked a good price and had to hide my surprise when the woman agreed without hesitation to pay it.” Abruptly she gripped Sybylla’s arm. “Don’t tell Father or Francesca about this, will you?”

For once Sybylla did not taunt or tease as she liked to do whenever an opportunity presented itself. From personal experience she understood the importance of money to those who had never had any, since she could number herself among them. “I won’t say anything,” she promised, “but isn’t it a rule of the Guild that anything painted by pupils in a studio belongs to the master in charge?”

“Yes, it is, but I don’t consider myself to be Father’s pupil any longer!” Aletta spoke fiercely. “It’s many weeks since he last made a remark about my work and it was neither helpful nor constructive. So I’m taking the risk. He need never know.”

“But why are you doing this? Do you want to buy something fine to wear?”

Aletta smiled again. “Nothing like that! What I want costs far more than a garment. When I’ve saved enough I’ll tell you what it’s for.”

“It’s quite a while since we shared a secret. Last time was when I told you Jacob wanted to marry me.”

“And I told you not to raise your hopes.”

Sybylla made a rueful little grimace. “You were right, of course. But I’ll not tell you the same, because I’m sure the baker’s wife is going to be pleased with what you’ve done. I’ll fetch your hot chocolate now.”

“No, wait!” Aletta removed her painting smock. “I’ll come with you. If Father should look in here before leaving for Haarlem he would see that I’ve almost finished and insist on my going too.”

“Yes, he would.”

Companionably, the two girls went from the studio together. Half an hour later Aletta stood with Maria to wave her father and sisters on their way in the sporting cart. Griet rose from her knees where she was scrubbing the stoop and waved in a shower of soapsuds white as snow.

The recent cold, dry weather had made the rutted road hard and the wheels of the sporting cart sped along. Francesca and Sybylla shrieked and held on to each other with laughter as they were almost bounced off the seat at times. The October sun was pale in a sky atumble with clouds, for the wind was strong and the great sails of the windmills were all turning. It did not matter that the countryside was totally flat as far as the eye could see, for it was a lush green and there was always a gleam of water as if large opals had been sprinkled everywhere. With much of the land below sea level it was a constant battle to save it from flooding and the huge dikes, built of earth and rock, were sometimes overcome by exceptionally rough tides, which resulted in the loss of life and livestock. Here and there little bridges gave access across canals and waterways, the wooden passageways being constructed so each could be raised to allow laden barges and small boats to pass underneath.

There was plenty to see on the road itself. People trudged along on foot, and they passed farm carts filled with produce. Now and again Hendrick would draw aside to let the lumbering coaches of the wealthy burghers go by, the paintwork agleam. He had to give way again whenever they met a stage wagon racing along at full speed, for the coachmen took a pride in keeping down the time taken from one destination to another, no matter that the passengers were tossed about like dice in a box. These vehicles raised a small sail as soon as they were out of town, if the wind was in the right direction, which allowed the horses to maintain a full gallop as if the load they were pulling was weightless. It was not uncommon for accidents to happen on the rough roads. The highlight of the journey for Sybylla was when she and Francesca received waves from two young officers of the Guard on horseback, handsome in their huge black hats and velvet and lace, white teeth flashing between thin mustaches and arrow-sharp beards. She looked after them wistfully as they disappeared ahead into the distance.

At Haarlem, Hendrick drove through the fourteenth-century gate with its helm roofs and octagonal towers, smiling to be entering the territory of his youth again. He looked about him whenever the traffic allowed, memories of petticoat chasing and carousals coming back to him. Frans Hals had been strict enough in the studio, but he still had such weaknesses himself in those days and turned a blind eye to the lusty activities of his apprentices as long as they were sober and on time in the morning and worked hard under his tuition.

Haarlem followed the layout of most Dutch towns in having a large central square with the church facing the town hall across it. Medieval buildings flanked the two remaining sides and brightly painted signs were suspended over the doors of those that had been put to commercial use. A busy market was at its height and Sybylla looked at it eagerly as Hendrick drove past and into the old vegetable market alongside the Church of St. Bavo, where small shops were set against its walls. Vertical shutters had been lowered to form counters on which were piled fabrics and lace and other fancy wares that caught her eye. Hendrick tied up the horse and helped his daughters alight from the sporting cart. Sybylla would have darted across to the little shops if Francesca had not restrained her, for Hendrick was waiting for them to follow him into the church. He removed his hat as he entered.

Within it was a place of light with its double rows of immensely high windows of clear glass and almost every slab of the great floor was a memorial stone to those interred beneath.

Hendrick located the last resting place of Frans Hals in the choir by the high gilded screen. As he stood with his daughters, looking down at the plain black stone inscribed with his late master’s name, he bowed his head in respect, memories flooding back. He remembered that merry, drink-raddled face, the hearty laugh that had rocked the whole of the man’s broad frame and the generous praise freely given when a pupil’s work was well done.

The wealthiest and the grandest of Haarlem’s citizens had commissioned their portraits from Hals, whose work had blazed with life and wit and sometimes irony. Not for him the quiet landscape or the history painting. He had liked to paint people from all walks of life: the topers he got drunk with, the tavern maids who fought his hand up their skirts, the jokers who told a jolly tale and anyone else who reminded him that life was for living to the full. And always those stately and often self-satisfied faces of the rich, some of whom never suspected he had painted them with his tongue in his cheek!

Hendrick wiped a tear from his eye and took out a kerchief to blow his nose vigorously. In the end this genius of a man had had to beg for a charity stipend from the city to keep him and his wife from starvation in their old age. Finally, the bill for his funeral had, through necessity, been on the city’s accounts—he who had given Haarlem more in his lifetime than any other man who had ever been born there. Francesca, who had brought a small bunch of foliage and a few late flowers from home, laid the bouquet on the tomb.

As soon as they emerged from the church, Sybylla made a beeline for the stalls selling fripperies. Hendrick followed his daughters around quite amiably, although with the bored expression common to men while their womenfolk shop. Several purchases were made, including a blue shawl for Maria and a string of colored beads for Griet, gifts to be kept for St. Nicholaes’s Day. They ate their picnic on a bench by a canal and afterward Hendrick showed his daughters Hals’s old house, where he had served his apprenticeship, narrowly missing being run down by horses and a wagon when he stepped into the street to point out which windows had been those of the studio.

Nearby was the house where he had had accommodation and with his face full of anticipation he knocked on its door, Francesca and Sybylla standing at his side. A maidservant answered the door and showed them into a drawing room. A few minutes later a gray-haired woman in a dark red silk gown came to meet them. She was the eldest daughter of the couple with whom he had lodged and was of his own age.

“Joan!” Hendrick exclaimed on a roar of delight.

In spite of the passing of time she recognized him at once. “Mercy! It’s Hendrick Visser!” She made them welcome and refreshment was served. Her good-looking son was at home and he and Sybylla were taken with each other from the start. The only sad note was when Hendrick learned that Joan’s parents had died. They had taken him into their home when, after meeting him with Hals one day, they heard he needed somewhere to lodge.

Then it was time to leave if they were to make a short detour on the way home to visit van Doorne’s place of business before dark. Joan gave them directions. Sybylla and the young man were in close conversation until the last minute, and he walked with them to where Hendrick had left the horse and sporting cart. Francesca noticed that Sybylla had a satisfied smile on her lips when she took her seat in the sporting cart. It was easy to guess she had had plenty of flirtatious compliments.

A lane led in a southwesterly direction to the van Doorne bulb fields, bare now in November with nothing to hint at the glory that would come in the spring. They came to what must have been a farm building at some time, its walls of stone and its dark brown thatch as neatly clipped as a head of hair. A sign proclaimed it was the van Doorne office. Hendrick and Sybylla stayed in the sporting cart while Francesca alighted to knock on the door and enter. A middle-aged man with a quill pen stuck behind one ear came from a desk to bow.

“Good day,
mejuffrouw.”

“Am I addressing Heer van Dorne?”

“No, I’m his clerk. He is here if you should wish to see him, either at Haarlem Huis—that’s his home just beyond the trees, although it can’t be seen from this office or the lane—or else somewhere near at hand.”

“No, I don’t wish to speak to him. I’ve only come to pay a bill.”

“Certainly. Such an intention is always good news.” His jovial air showed that it was not the first time he had made that particular jest.

Francesca paid the monies owing and left immediately, Hendrick having already turned the equipage in readiness for departure. She took a backward look at the old thatched building. Its centuries-old form and its setting would make a fine landscape. She registered the scene in her memory, something at which she had become an expert.

Then the trees slid across her view of it and as she turned back in her seat they were passing an orangery. In the same instant a tall young man emerged from a doorway and he and Francesca looked right into each other’s eyes. For an extraordinary moment the excitement she sensed in him seemed to course through her. She saw astonishment and recognition in his gaze, which she was at a loss to understand, and she was sure there must be bewilderment in hers, for to the best of her knowledge she had never seen him before. If she had she would have remembered. A grin spread across his face, his teeth as white as the keys of a virginal. To her further amazement, he dashed forward, leapt over a low fence and took a couple of running paces to catch the horse’s bridle and cause Hendrick to draw up.

“Your pardon!” he exclaimed to Hendrick. “I’m Pieter van Doorne. I didn’t want to see you leave without a word. You are Master Visser of Amsterdam?”

“I am.”

“I trust the bulbs delivered to you were satisfactory.”

Hendrick regarded him with amusement. “I can scarcely tell until they flower.”

Pieter laughed. “I didn’t mean that question to be as foolish as it sounded. It was whether the condition of the bulbs themselves was up to your expectations.”

“It’s pointless to ask me. I’m no gardener.” Hendrick glanced over his shoulder into the sporting cart. “Francesca, you are the one to give judgment.”

She smiled reassuringly at Pieter, who had come to stand looking up at her. “I have no fault to find. I’m looking forward to the blooms.”

Sybylla spoke up, not wanting to be left out of this conversation. “So am I. We came here specially to pay your bill after being in Haarlem for the day.”

Pieter turned again to Hendrick. “Before you start on your journey home allow me to offer you some refreshment at my house before you leave.”

Hendrick shook his head. “I thank you, but I want to go most of the way before darkness sets in. The evenings close in early at this time of year. Good day to you.”

With a flick of Hendrick’s whip in the air, the horse moved forward. Pieter held Francesca’s eyes with his demanding stare. “Another time, then,” he said as if to her father, but the message in his gaze was for her.

The horse went trotting on its way. Before the lane curved to the road, Francesca felt herself compelled to look back and saw that Pieter was watching them out of sight. He raised his arm and waved to her. She responded and then he was lost from view.

Chapter 5

T
HREE WEEKS HAD GONE BY SINCE THE TRIP TO
H
AARLEM WHEN
Hendrick received Willem in his studio. It pleased him that the art dealer should find him at work. On the rostrum was a scrawny beggar in rags, whom he had sighted pleading for alms near the steps of the Exchange. He was painting him in the act of reaching a clawlike hand for a large jewel that was to be depicted in a watery gutter. Like the azure earbobs that Francesca had worn in the Flora painting, the jewel was only a worthless fairing from one of the trinket boxes in the storeroom.

Willem stood back to view the painting. Like Hals, Hendrick rarely made a preliminary drawing, but sketched in paint straight onto the canvas, his loosely applied brushstrokes giving spontaneity to his work. This painting looked as if it might be a worthy successor to his Flora, although the subject would not be to everyone’s taste.

“A silver florin would be more plausible than a jewel of that size,” Willem remarked. “Half of Amsterdam would have sighted that gaudy geegaw from a mile away.”

“Why do you assume that the setting for my painting is in this city?” Hendrick growled belligerently. “There are beggars in every land. Maybe it’s in a slum alley in London.”

“Has a thief dropped the jewel, then? The wearers of such gems as that piece of glass is supposed to represent don’t usually wander about in dubious areas.”

Hendrick paused in his painting and glared. “Don’t jest with me! You know well enough that the jewel in this particular context symbolizes the world’s wealth that is out of reach of the poor everywhere. And that includes artists whose agents never sell their work at a good price!”

Willem breathed deeply and let the matter rest. There was no one more bullheaded than Hendrick when his temper turned. Allegoric paintings and symbolic touches were more popular than ever, but symbols had to be a natural part of the picture, further enhancing its subject or theme. The jewel in Hendrick’s painting jarred the eye, as did so many touches that he had persisted in adding to his pictures over the years, always surprised when one or another of his works fetched abysmally low prices. “I’ve come for
The Goddess of Spring.
”

Hendrick resumed his painting. “Have you a buyer?”

“Better than that. I have several potential buyers, but I want to speak about that to you in private.”

Hendrick put aside his palette and brushes, telling the beggar to take a rest. Then he and Willem left the studio. In the parlor the art dealer explained he had let the word spread that he had an exceptional work, which he was reluctant to sell, partly because he saw it as an investment, but more for the beauty of the model herself who had posed as Flora. Already he had had keen inquiries, but he had acted mysteriously and evasively, not saying whether he would let it be viewed by the public or not.

“I need hardly say that the curiosity of certain people is almost more than they can bear. I’ve had offers for it unseen and when I let this be known more demands for the first right to buy came in.”

“So what is to happen next?” This stratagem appealed to Hendrick.

“I shall have it veiled in a room in my house and that will intrigue still more. When I have the right buyer and the right moment, I shall reveal the painting of Francesca and settle the deal.”

Hendrick laughed exuberantly. “Well done, old friend!”

Willem remained sober-faced. “I’m doing this as much for Francesca as for you.”

Hendrick frowned. “What has my daughter to do with this?”

“I want to see the sum that you get for this painting put to the best possible use. Let it pay for her tuition in the studio of an artist who would teach her well and release the fount of talent that’s ready to burst forth.”

Hendrick’s gaze shifted and he half turned away. “Do you think I haven’t wanted that? My own patience has run out and, although I have tried to carry on instructing my daughters, it’s as if a wall has come between them and me in that respect. Teaching was never my forte and now I seem to have lost whatever ability I had in that direction.”

“Then do as I say!” Willem urged. “You’ll have it in your hands to give Francesca the apprenticeship she deserves.”

“But whatever I receive from the sale of the portrait would never run to her tuition and keep for the necessary six years.”

“She doesn’t need six! Two years at the most would combine with the instruction she has already received from you.”

Hendrick faced him again. “I’m not sure that you realize the difficulties involved. I don’t know a single artist of my acquaintance who would take a woman pupil. It’s not through prejudice against the weaker sex, but the sheer mechanics of finding space elsewhere for them to draw and paint plaster figures of classical origin when there’s a nude model on the rostrum. My daughters have been brought up to accept nudity in the studio and had their first lessons in life drawing almost from the start, although my male models have always kept their genitals covered at my instruction whenever the girls were present. No, it will not be easy to find a master willing to take Francesca as his apprentice.”

Willem’s confident expression had not changed. “I know of someone,” he stated firmly. “He’s of the school of Delft.”

Hendrick considered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Each of the seven states of Holland had local schools of painting attached to their main towns, and he would have preferred the Guild of Amsterdam for his daughter. Admittedly Delft was a good choice in that Rembrandt’s pupil Carel Fabritius had gained fame there before his untimely death, and it could boast of the presence of Jan Steen and other painters.

“What is the name of the artist you have in mind?”

“Johannes Vermeer.”

Hendrick looked at Willem blankly. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Don’t be surprised by that. Few people have, outside of Delft. On the whole he paints very little and his favorite model is his wife, to whom he is devoted. They have several children.”

“How does he support them, then?”

“For a short while he ran his late father’s tavern, but he has now rented it out. These days he deals in paintings, which is how I first met him.”

“A tavernkeeper!” Hendrick’s tone was so outraged that a stranger might have supposed him to be one who had never crossed a threshold where alcohol was sold.

“An artist of the highest merit,” Willem corrected. No need to add that he had met no one yet outside Delft who shared this view. It was simply his own personal conviction that Vermeer was a great painter. “He would be the ideal choice as a tutor for Francesca,” he continued. “He is easy-tempered, a conscientious man of thirty-eight years who has no other pupils and will devote time to her. You need not fear that he’ll make any immoral advances, because, as I’ve already said, he has eyes only for his wife.”

“Hmm. Nobody can be sure of that.” Hendrick reflected that no man could love a woman more than he had loved Anna, but that did not mean he had not strayed from time to time.

“Then be sure of Francesca instead. She has a head not easily turned.”

“Agreed.” Hendrick spoke proudly and then his voice took on a sarcastic edge. “What qualifications does this Vermeer have besides being able to fill tankards with beer?”

“Don’t grind on about that short period in his life. He is a master of the Guild of St. Luke, having served his six years’ apprenticeship in Delft, the city of his birth.”

“So I should expect.”

Willem ignored the gibe. “There are two other important reasons why you should consider Vermeer as a tutor for Francesca,” he pressed on. “Both she and Aletta have developed their own individual style, which pays tribute to the teaching you gave them in their early years, and there’s something about Francesca’s work that reminds me each time of Vermeer’s. I’m certain the two would work in harmony.”

“How do you know he would take Francesca as a pupil?”

Willem smiled with compressed lips. “I’ve already paved the way. She would be his only pupil. Think what an advantage that should give her.”

“Yes, that is so.”

“There are only two things more. I shall want some of her recent drawings and at least one of her paintings to show the Guild committee. I shall also need the document of her indenture.”

“There isn’t one.”

Willem stared at him for a few moments. “I don’t believe this. Are you telling me you never indentured your daughters?”

Hendrick answered carelessly. “I suppose I never thought about it. They came into the studio at such an early age.”

Willem almost ground his teeth. “You realize that this will mean Francesca has to start from scratch. It will have to be the full six years.”

“I can’t afford that.”

Willem slammed his hands on the chair arms. “Then think! Rack your brains! Have you anything at all to show she has been painting for most of her life? A letter? A written entry anywhere? What about Anna’s papers? Would she have kept anything? Whatever comes to light may not prove enough, but I’ll have to present some documentation.”

Hendrick thought deeply, leaning his head forward. “I can’t think of anything, unless my sister-in-law, Janetje, ever commented in her letters on something Anna might have told her about our daughters’ progress. Anna kept all the correspondence, just as Francesca has ever since.”

“Then look through those letters! Now! Today! Let me have whatever you find. All this means that on no account must Francesca have an inkling of what we are trying to arrange. Neither of us wants her hopes to rise only to be dashed again. In any case it will be the New Year at the earliest before
The Goddess of Spring
is sold, and some time after that before I can visit Delft again and set my appeal on her behalf before the Guild members. I’ll take my leave of you and let you start your search.”

When Willem had left, Hendrick went upstairs to the bedchamber, where Anna still haunted him, and opened the lacquered box that held the only papers that had been hers. He had had to glance through them after her death to find the deed of trust that her late father had drawn up at the time of their marriage, securing the house and its effects to her for her lifetime, which in turn had saved it from being sold over their heads when at different times his creditors had become nasty about their unpaid dues. Anna had bequeathed everything to him, which was probably not what her father had expected, thinking it would pass to his grandchildren. Upon learning of the contents of her will Hendrick had immediately resolved never to take again the gambling risks on a grand scale as he had done before when he had been safe in the knowledge that whatever happened they would always have a roof over their heads. His father-in-law had not been a rich man, but Maurice Veldhuis had made a small investment for each of his daughters, enabling both Anna and Janetje to draw the interest in their lifetime, the capital to go to their offspring after them. On a sigh, Hendrick thought of how often what should have been Anna’s spending money had gone to settle mounting bills incurred through his selfishness.

Grief had been blinding him when previously he had had to look in this box, but now he was able to see exactly what Anna had treasured and kept locked away. Here were letters tied with ribbon that he had written to her during their courtship. Beside these was early correspondence from Maurice Veldhuis and his wife when Anna and Janetje had been sent to an aunt’s house in the country when plague was sweeping through Amsterdam. Taking up a great deal of space were the children’s first baby drawings with their later poems and birthday greetings. Then came a thicker package of Janetje’s letters, Francesca having added each new one as it came, and he thought it would be a long dull task to go through every one. As he lifted them out he saw that among a few minor items still left in the box was a thin roll of paper tied with ribbon. He took it out, removed the ribbon and unrolled it to find it consisted of three sheets, each indenturing one of his daughters to him, the script in Anna’s neat hand and bearing his own signature and those of the three girls. Anna had signed her own name on each indenture as a witness with the date clearly inscribed.

He had no idea how this had been done, having no recollection of the subject having been brought up, except on rare occasions and then only in passing. To the best of his knowledge Anna had never thought of the girls becoming his apprentices officially any more than he had. Yet with exceptional foresight she had done this for her daughters.

He put her signature to his lips and kissed it. Then he rested a hand across his eyes and sat for some time, letting memories of Anna flood over him. When he did move again it was to return Aletta’s and Sybylla’s indentures to the box with everything else, taking only Francesca’s downstairs with him.

When he had sealed it into a letter of explanation he gave it to Griet for immediate delivery to Willem’s home. No sooner had it gone than he was struck by an uneasy thought. How could he send one daughter for tuition and not the other? Maybe he should paint a portrait of Aletta as Ariadne, daughter of King Minos of Crete, but then he dismissed the idea. Aletta was such a modest, retiring girl and would never agree to removing her cap to reveal her beautiful hair, which had such an exceptional color, so pale and yet full of lights. She was unself-conscious about it if they met by night or morning on the landing when it was hanging loose down her back, but it was clear she had never forgotten that horrific experience in the passageway and still felt safer wearing a cap in public.