The Golden Tulip (14 page)

“We’ll let her be,” Anna had said to him. “In time she will come to realize that it was extreme ill fortune that caused her to suffer and she need not go through life fearing it will happen again.”

Since there had been no recision of the vow Aletta had apparently made to herself about keeping her hair covered, a history painting with her as a model was out of the question. In any case she was rarely in the studio these days, always off somewhere on her own when she should have been at hand, as Francesca was, for those moments when he chose to give tuition. Aletta’s chance of an apprenticeship would have to wait. There was no hurry since she was a year younger. At some time in the future, if funds were in hand again, her work could be assessed and the situation reconsidered.

With his mind easily settled, Hendrick reentered the studio, where he was assailed by the stench of the beggar’s rags. He saw that the fellow had taken an orange from Francesca’s recent still-life arrangement and had dripped juice, the peel scattered. Hendrick went to the window and opened it wider to fill his lungs with fresh air.

“There’s a draft,” the beggar grumbled.

“You should be used to that,” Hendrick replied heartlessly, although he did draw the window in slightly. “Resume your pose.”

He took up his palette and brush again as well as his maulstick, the ball-topped stick on which a painter rested his hand. There were spells when the pain in his knuckles made it difficult for him to paint without it.

A
LETTA WENT OUT
every day except Sundays to sketch in the city. Although she often showed her drawings to Francesca she preferred to paint upstairs in a side room with a communicating door that led off the bedchamber that she and Sybylla shared. Previously it had been a little parlor where either of them could read or entertain friends on their own. Aletta took whatever materials she needed from the studio and Sybylla with Griet had helped her carry up a spare easel. There was nothing unusual about this move to work alone, because it was known that Aletta liked solitude and her concentration was always disturbed in the studio when Hendrick was there too. Working on her own there with Francesca was a different matter.

“Why do you never show anyone except Sybylla your finished paintings?” Francesca asked one day. “Your eye for perspective is so good. I’d like to see them.”

“They’re not up to your standard and Father would tear them to pieces with his criticism. When I paint one that satisfies me I will show you.”

“Is that a promise?”

“It is indeed.”

Francesca was reassured. She knew how it was to feel full of doubt about a project in hand and sometimes one needed to work out difficulties on one’s own.

At Martinmas in November, Hendrick took his three daughters to see Amsterdam’s great sailing event of the year on the river Ij. Aletta had made her usual excuses about work, but Hendrick had swept them aside.

“This is a day for families to be together and enjoy themselves,” he insisted. “Everything else must take second place to the racing at this time of year.”

She had no choice but to obey and then gladly joined in the spirit of the occasion, realizing how long it was since she had allowed herself any relaxation. Enormous crowds massed along the banks, but by arriving early the Visser family secured good places at the front near one of the winning posts, the distance varying according to the type of race. The day was cold, but the girls were wrapped in warm cloaks and their hoods protected them. The wide brim of Hendrick’s hat flapped in the wind, but he had jammed it on well before leaving home. It was a splendid sight to see the hundreds of little sailboats and rowboats gathering for the various competitions. Everyone was in a merry mood and peddlers did good business in selling sweetmeats and fairings and sticks with streamers to wave. Sporting rivalry was intense among the competitors and this gave spice to the atmosphere. All were excited and there was plenty of wagering among the spectators.

A pistol shot started the first race. Cheers roared out as a host of brown, yellow and cream sails billowed in the lively wind and the light craft went skimming along the water, the bows veiled in spray.

Pieter van Doorne was among the competitors, but he did not see the Visser family until a couple of hours later when he and a friend entered a rowing race and took their craft first past the finishing post. As they leaned over their oars, gasping breath into their blown lungs, he happened to glance up through a tangle of his hair and saw the family cheering and applauding him. Francesca’s vivacious face, framed by her hood, was full of laughter, her cheeks nipped pink by the cold air, and he felt the same attraction that he had experienced when he had first seen her in her home, and again that day when she had paid his bill. She was making it clear that she and those with her were rejoicing over his win, her clapping hands raised to signal her congratulations. He was too far away to hear what she was saying, and in any case it would have been impossible in the din, but he could tell she was calling, “Well done!”

Francesca had told Aletta who he was and then forgot him, for another race had already started and she strained forward with everyone else to see who was in the lead. Yet the sight of him must have stayed with her, for the next morning she awoke remembering it was high time she put the usual mats of straw over the beds of tulip bulbs to protect them against the heavy frosts that had begun to sparkle the ground each morning. As she carried out her task she thought of him again. His eyes had seemed to pierce right into her.

Two days before the Feast of St. Nicholaes the first snow came and all blemishes in the city were masked. In the Visser household there was much jollity as final baking was done and the last gifts purchased or, if they were home-sewn, placed into bags of linen. Aletta and Sybylla had their final rehearsal together for the concert they would give on the evening of the saint’s day. Playing the virginal by candlelight after sunset, when it was impossible to paint, had become Aletta’s only relaxation. As children, she and her sisters had believed it was St. Nicholaes who filled their clogs with sweetmeats and novelties. Now that they were grown they themselves prepared a pair of large wooden clogs, which were painted with the saint’s emblem and into which they put crystallized fruit and other dainties for all the household to enjoy.

The awaited day dawned with a new layer of powdery snow. After gifts had been exchanged, the Visser family, with Maria and Griet, all went to see the street puppet shows, the stalls selling dolls and effigy candles and the jugglers and tumblers and the strolling players that entertained the crowds, all to the cheerful noise of lutes and drums and flutes and singing voices. Then Francesca and Griet returned home ahead of the rest to have the special dinner ready for the family.

Afterward there were the last-minute preparations for the party to be given that evening. When the time came to dress, Francesca chose a currant-red velvet gown, the rich color setting off her hair, which she wore in the style that fashion dictated. It was drawn smoothly back from her brow into a coil at the back of her head, leaving the neck prettily bare with falling curls over her ears. This evening she wound a string of small, bright beads into the coil, which gave a glittering effect.

At seven o’clock Hendrick stood ready to welcome guests in to Maria’s homemade wine and a barrel of beer. They began to arrive in a flood, but fortunately there were plenty of sweet cakes and other delicacies. Best of all was a long roll of almond paste shaped into an “S” for St. Nicholaes, baked within a crust of light pastry and served cut into short lengths.

The reception hall and the drawing room opening out of it presented a merry scene. All were in their best velvets or silks and sat chatting together or stood in small groups, the buzz of cheerful noise punctuated by the clink of glasses and tankards. Every sconce was alight and the central bronze chandelier, suspended from the cross-beamed white plastered ceiling, blazed with thirty candles.

When everybody who was expected had been in the house for an hour or more, there came another knock on the front door. Griet, giggly with wine, went to answer it. To her astonishment it was someone she had never thought to see again. Forgetting her training, she shouted back over her shoulder to make herself heard above the general conversation. “It’s the tulip grower from Haarlem! Heer van Doorne!”

Hendrick, always hospitable, boomed out a welcome to the young man on the stoop in the snow. “Come in,
mijnheer
! Griet, hold the door wider. Nobody stands on the threshold on the Feast of St. Nicholaes!”

All looked toward the door. Francesca smiled in wonderment at this unexpected surprise. Then Pieter made an unwittingly dramatic entrance in a flurry of snowflakes, stepping onto the strip of Persian carpet that had been laid down by the doorway for the evening. He seemed to loom into the room, for his big black hat, powdered with snow, added to his fine height. More snowflakes clung to his plum-colored cloak, which reached to the ankles of his white knee hose, his shoes silver-buckled. As Griet swiftly closed the door behind him to keep out the cold, he doffed his hat to bow first to Hendrick and then to the company, his keen eyes locating Francesca where she sat.

“My greetings, Heer Visser,” he said to Hendrick, “and to all here.”

Hendrick, who had heaved himself out of his chair at the arrival of each guest, had done the same now and gone across to him. “On behalf of all present I give you ours in return and bid you welcome to my house.”

Then Pieter took from under his cloak, which Griet was waiting to take from him, a Delft pot filled with dark earth from which was sprouting a tall and strong-looking shiny green shoot. “As you are a new customer,” he said to Hendrick, “I’m taking the opportunity on this Feast of St. Nicholaes to bring a hyacinth to this house. It should bloom for Christmas.”

There were exclamations on all sides, those in the drawing room crowding in to see the plant, many startled by this aberration of nature. Nobody thought of witchcraft or knew fear. It was just that the hyacinth belonged to spring and had no place thus out of order. In any case, what could be expected of this shoot, healthy though it appeared, at a time when bulbs should be dormant?

But Hendrick always appreciated a good surprise. He held the potted plant high for everyone to see.

“Look at this miracle, my friends! The seasons are being reversed!”

Aletta nodded appreciatively and Sybylla darted to him, clapping her hands at such a gift. Francesca, who remained sitting on the bench, could feel that Pieter was as aware of her presence as she was of his. Incredulously for her, it was as if a fuse had been lit and was sizzling silently and invisibly between them.

He stood with a smile in his eyes and on his lips as he surveyed the room. His long green jacket fitted him well across his broad shoulders, while his hair, the curls too unruly to submit much to any comb, glinted with spangles of melted snow.

“Now you must meet everyone, my friend,” Hendrick declared, turning back to him. Still parading the plant, he led Pieter up and down the long room, making the presentations. Then they reached Francesca and suddenly she and Pieter were face to face as he took her hand and bowed over it.

“I’m honored to meet you again, Juffrouw Visser,” he said formally, although there was nothing stilted in his smile or in the look of pleasure that he gave her.

“May your time in this house be blessed,” she replied in the same formal tones, “and I thank you most sincerely for the gift you have brought us.” The color had risen to her cheeks, for she was momentarily unnerved by the forceful contact that seemed to exist between them, but she thought he would not notice anything amiss. There were so many people already pink-cheeked from the wine and the heat generated by so large a company. Hendrick was already drawing him away and out of the corner of her eye she watched him complete his tour of the room. A married couple who were present knew him already and, having met everybody else, he entered into conversation with them. Why then, Francesca asked herself, did she still feel that he was sending out invisible rays from his mind and his body toward her?

There came a tap on her shoulder to draw her attention and Sybylla bent her head to whisper in her ear. “What fun this should happen! I believe Pieter van Doorne has come to see you again more than anything else.”

“What nonsense!” Francesca replied forcibly.

“Not at all. I saw the way he looked at you in the sporting cart and again on the river.” With a laugh Sybylla went off with a swing of her hips to present her platter of almond delicacies to the newcomer and the two guests with him. All three of them took a piece and Pieter looked amused at whatever she said to him, making some riposte in return that obviously delighted her. It was clear there were to be no barriers in their getting to know each other. Francesca turned on her seat and joined in talk about lace making with the two women at her left-hand side. It was dull enough to be an antidote to Sybylla’s ridiculous suppositions.

As a result she failed to see Pieter return to her until he spoke, causing her to look up quickly. He was holding the plant. “Your father just gave me this back again to hand on to you. As with the bulbs, he says you’re the one with green fingers and you should take care of such a rarity.”

“I’ll do my best,” she said, taking the Delft pot from him. As she had expected, he sat down at her right side, where there was a vacant place.

“It’s always enjoyable to talk to a fellow gardener,” he said, although by the way he was smiling he appeared to have anything but gardening on his mind.

“I wouldn’t class myself in your category. Our garden consists of a few flower beds.”

“I know. I saw them when I delivered the bulbs at the beginning of October. But lack of space doesn’t mean that the flower beds there can’t produce in minor quantities anything as fine as I grow.”

“I’d like to think that. Gardening is a hobby of mine,” she admitted, “and I like producing flowers to paint.”