The Golden Tulip (16 page)

He released her hand only to let her applaud and then regained it, even though she tried to keep it from his reach. When he took it from her lap she gave up the contest.

As soon as the concert was over she sprang to her feet. “I must check now to see that everyone gets more refreshment.”

He grinned as she flew from him to busy herself among the guests. Sybylla had vacated the chair on which she had been playing and he took it to speak to Aletta, who sat sideways to the virginal, thanking people for their compliments. When they had moved off, he added his own.

“You play so well. I admire such musical talent.”

“I thank you,” she said shyly. “Are you traveling all the way back to Haarlem tonight?”

“No. I’ve a house here in Amsterdam,” he answered, “which I bought two years ago. I shall be staying there.”

“It’s as well you have two homes in this case. I peeped out of a window before Sybylla and I sat down to play and I was going to warn you that it is snowing hard. I’m still marveling over the hyacinth you brought us.”

“It was an experiment in culture and some interpollination that I’ll not make public again. Several people here were at pains to point out to me that a house is no place for plants of an experimental nature or otherwise.”

“Nevertheless, the hyacinth will be appreciated by my family. I shall make it the subject of a painting before it fades.”

“Francesca intends to do the same.”

“I thought she would, because she loves flowers so much.”

“She has promised that I shall see her painting when it is finished. May I see yours too?”

“Yes, indeed you may. Please tell me more about your plants and bulbs and flowers. Do you have stalls other than the one here in Amsterdam where my father ordered the bulbs?”

“Yes, I have another stall at Haarlem and at a couple of towns within easy reach. I take every outlet I can for my produce.” He smiled slowly, his eyes narrowing. “I’m as ambitious as you and Francesca. I leave no stone unturned to get my name known.”

Sybylla had returned to pull up another chair and sit on his other side. “You’re aiming to be a rich man, are you?” she asked with a giggle, having just caught the tail end of what he had said.

He gave her a dancing glance. “I intend to be successful and if riches come with that state of affairs I’ll be well satisfied.”

She tossed her head provocatively. “That’s too long for me to wait. Plants and flowers can’t be hurried out of the ground.”

“So you wouldn’t want to invest in my venture, Sybylla?” he joked.

“No!” she squealed back delightedly. “Or to be your wife either! Whoever you marry will have to help you weed and sow and snip off the tulip heads. I want an idle life where I’m waited on hand and foot.”

He laughed, entertained by her. Normally Aletta would have checked her sister severely for her behavior, but something Pieter had said seemed to offer a solution to a certain problem that somehow she had to solve. It had come like a ray of light, but she could not talk about it here.

“How often do you have your stall in Amsterdam?” she inquired.

“Not at all now until the spring.” He saw disappointment pass across her face and wondered what lay behind her question, but she gave no clue and let her sister dominate the conversation.

Guests had begun to rise to their feet to leave and Pieter did the same. Outdoor garments were fetched and donned. Aletta seized the chance to speak to Pieter more privately.

“Is there somewhere in Amsterdam where I might find you one day soon? I can’t make it any more definite than that. I should like to seek your opinion on a certain business venture.”

He looked at her searchingly. Since she obviously intended to come on her own he could not invite her to his home, but must keep the rendezvous to some public place. “I go to the Exchange at noon on the last Wednesday of every month.”

She nodded gratefully. “I’ll remember that.”

Francesca stood at Hendrick’s side to bid each guest good night. Farewells were quickly said and there was no lingering on the stoop outside, because each time the door was opened the snow swirled in. Pieter stood ready to depart.

“May this evening have seen the first of many such hours that we shall spend in conversation together, Francesca.”

She shook her head slightly. “Although it will always be a pleasure to see you at my home, I have to say again that my time is completely taken up.”

“Nevertheless, I remain hopeful. Good night to you.” He moved on to thank Hendrick for his hospitality and gave a last long look in Francesca’s direction before he clapped on his hat and went out into the swirling snow.

When the door was finally closed on the last departing guest, Francesca’s thoughts turned to the clearing up, but Griet’s married sister had been hired to be in the kitchen that evening and once the glasses had been gathered up from tables and ledges there was little left to be done. Maria was persuaded to go straight to bed and Hendrick followed shortly afterward, reeling slightly and having difficulty in placing his feet on the stairs. By the time Griet’s brother-in-law arrived to escort his wife home there was hardly any sign that a party had been held. Francesca locked up while her sisters and Griet went yawning to bed.

Alone in the warm kitchen, having brought a sketchbook and pencils from the studio, Francesca settled down to draw by the rosy glow of the firebox. She did not feel in the least tired, too stimulated by all the happenings of the evening. An image of Pieter persisted in coming between her and her drawing, as if he had gained a mental and physical grasp on her. Eventually she stopped what she was attempting to do and deliberately sketched him instead. Her pencil seemed released, almost as if it were following familiar lines by its own volition, and the result was a startling likeness. She covered the drawing over quickly, knowing she would never be able to complete what she had intended to do with it in front of her, still more vivid now than he had been in her mind’s eye. Then she found that having exorcised his haunting, she was able to finish her sketch of her sisters to her satisfaction.

Then suddenly she was tired. She blew out the kitchen candle lamp and took an extra candlestick that had been left for her to light her way to bed. At the foot of the stairs she hesitated, feeling herself drawn to look once more at the plant that had been forced into growth especially for her. She retraced her steps into the side room. This time she took notice of the pattern on its Delft pot. She saw that it depicted sailboats and rowboats on a river.

Chapter 6

A
S THE DAYS WENT BY
F
RANCESCA TENDED THE PLANT AND
called everyone in the house to see each stage of advancement as the budding flower thrust strongly through the waxy leaves. Maria had distrusted it from the start.

“It’s a heathenish growth,” she muttered, but her curiosity was such that she still viewed it daily. Griet also never missed, her work taking her into the room each day in any case. On her own she would regard the plant wistfully, wishing it had come as a personal gift for her instead of to the family. She had her share of beaux, but the only one she cared anything for was at sea and there was no knowing when he would be home again.

There were few special Christmas preparations in the house apart from an extra-thorough cleaning from cellar to attic with every curtain and all bed drapery freshly laundered. With all the jollity and giving of gifts having taken place at the Feast of St. Nicholaes, the Holy Day of Christmas was a quiet family occasion with church attendance and Bible reading at home.

The hyacinth flowered fully on Christmas Day. It was short and small-sprayed, but of a deeper blue than anyone had expected and with a sweet scent. Maria was won over in spite of herself.

“I must admit it is lovely to behold,” she said, inhaling the perfume and deciding it had absolved itself from its unnaturalness by giving forth its beauty for the Holy Day. It was her suggestion that it be placed in the reception hall, where it could be admired by all in a place of honor.

Francesca had begun her painting of her sisters the morning after she had made her sketch, but that was put aside for the priority painting of the hyacinth once Christmas Day was over. It had to be painted while it was still in its prime. She placed it on a stand in the studio while Aletta arranged some drapery of green and gray behind it. The snow-bright light through the window heightened the bloom’s sapphire brilliance. In silence both girls began to paint.

By now the weather was bitterly cold. Since before Christmas ice had closed the river. Small boats rested at odd angles along the banks, cushioned in the snow with their masts and rigging lacing the skyline. Sleigh bells jingled everywhere and people of all ages skimmed along on long wooden skates, twice the length of their feet, the metal runners curling up in the front like ships’ prows. Speedy traffic on runners had turned many of the canals into fast highways, and quieter areas were chosen by those wishing to play ice golf and other such sports.

Sybylla skated at every opportunity. It was exhilarating to speed away from Maria’s watchful eye, although even then she had to stay with approved friends. Sometimes Francesca would join them and they would form a snake, one behind the other, and have a merry time. Aletta never came with them. Often she was absent for hours at a time, carrying a linen bag full of her sketching materials, but when her mittened hands were so cold that she could barely grasp a pencil, all outdoor sketches were rapidly and roughly executed and she would return home to paint in the warmth of her studio-parlor. Since Hendrick never went to his daughters’ private rooms and had made it a rule never to be bothered with any domestic details, he knew nothing of this pattern of work Aletta had set for herself.

It was as Francesca skated on her own one day, coming home from the fish market, that she happened to see Aletta coming out of the shop of an artist’s supplier with a roll of canvas under her arm. When Aletta arrived home some time later she found Francesca waiting to challenge her.

“Why are you buying your own canvas? I pay these days for everything that is needed for work and you have always been able to take whatever you wanted for your studio-parlor upstairs.”

“I want to be independent,” Aletta replied defiantly. “If it’s my own canvas I can use as much as I like and make my paintings the size I prefer.”

“I wish you’d show me your current work. You lock yourself away in that studio-parlor and nobody else ever enters it, not even Griet since you have taken to cleaning it yourself. I respect your wish for a sanctuary, but why are you so secretive? You painted the hyacinth still life at my side in the studio, and whenever you carry out any other work there you are open enough about it. I simply don’t understand.”

Aletta put her arms affectionately about Francesca and then stepped away again. “Please be patient with me. I’m set on a path of my own that is right for me at the present time. When I can share it with you I will.”

“I’m thankful to hear that. I should never want any kind of rift to come about through your cutting yourself away from the rest of us.”

“It never will,” Aletta promised fervently. “You have my word.”

“I’m so thankful to hear that.”

As Aletta continued on her way upstairs she was relieved that she had come through her sister’s questioning as well as she had. She had not wanted to spend any of her precious savings on canvas, but as she already had orders for commissioned pictures it would have been only a matter of time before someone noticed how quickly the studio rolls of canvas were diminishing. She could count herself lucky that Francesca’s suspicions had not been aroused, and the truthful cover of hard work had been her saving.

Her market had extended beyond any bounds she would have believed possible in so short a time. Housewives had spoken of her to one another and the word had passed around. She had painted many houses and little shops and now, wearied by drawing outside in this cold weather, she was concentrating mostly on interiors. She found that the people who commissioned her work were delighted to have paintings of their rooms. More often than not a family or a couple would group themselves in their kitchen or parlor to be included in the painting. These pictures were the most profitable, for she would charge per head above the basic price of the painting, which was the custom with any group portrait.

Since she dealt only with strangers in parts of the city where she had no acquaintances, she used her mother’s maiden name of Veldhuis as an extra precaution against being identified or linked in any way with her father.

Her patrons, all of them hardworking people of a lower order, but with money in their purses from their toil, thought her to be little more than a peddler of her artistic talents. She felt humiliated, for that was her true position, and also she knew the paintings she sold lacked the pure quality they would have had if she did not have to rush through her commissions. When asked to sign a painting she used a monogram of “AV” in a curling form, which impressed her patrons, who were never critical. She hated the deception of not being known by her own name, but consoled herself with the resolve that the day would come when, as a master of a Guild, she could put her full signature to her work.

W
ILLEM DE
H
ARTOG
called in mid-February, two days after Sybylla’s birthday, to collect the painting
The Beggar and the Jewel.
In the studio he happened to see Francesca’s painting of her sisters playing the virginal and the viol. It was propped against the wall where it had been placed when finished. After studying it, he left the studio to go in search of her and, finding her in the kitchen, he questioned her about her work.

“I made my original sketch after watching my sisters play by candlelight, on St. Nicholaes’s Day,” she told him. “I decided afterward to paint them in daylight. They gave me a sitting for that.”

“What title have you given it?”

She smiled. “I haven’t really thought. It was just an exercise.”

“Why not
The Sisters’ Concert
?”

She nodded. “I like that.”

He praised the painting, which pleased her, while privately he thought again how strange it was that at times her work should run so closely to that of Vermeer’s, which she had never seen and knew nothing about. Here was the same flooding of clear light and female forms in a quiet domestic setting, not with the same polished skill, but nevertheless with enchanting and brilliant results.

Hendrick, measuring a length of canvas, looked around when Willem came back into the studio, flourishing Francesca’s work.

“I could sell this painting many times over!” Willem announced enthusiastically, totally unprepared for Hendrick’s explosion of wrathful sarcasm.

“You would sell a daub!”

Willem regarded him sternly. “Be fair to your daughter’s work. Naturally, as yet all her paintings belong to you, but I see no harm in letting her work be seen at this stage by those with an eye to the future, especially those who keep a lookout for the work of any young and promising artist.”

“Has the renowned Willem de Hartog stooped to scraping up a florin or two where he can for substandard art?”

Willem was outraged. “Francesca’s work is exceptional and you know it! Why else did you agree that she should have an apprenticeship after you had admitted failing her in tuition?”

“Damnation to you!” Hendrick grabbed the painting from him. “Yes! She needs instruction! That’s why I’ve never allowed her yet to put a brush to anything of mine in the filling in of backgrounds and drapery!”

“Bah! Both she and Aletta could have carried out those straightforward tasks for you long ago, but everything you do has to be entirely your own. You were the same when you had full-time apprentices here. Never must anyone else put a brush to your work even in the humblest capacity. Rembrandt could allow it of his pupils, as did others of high repute, but not you! Your conceit would not allow it! Or was it that the day might come when their brushwork might be better than yours? Don’t condemn your daughter’s work to me!”

Hendrick’s color deepened horribly and he spluttered in his rage. “No painting bearing the name of Visser leaves this studio that doesn’t reach my standards! To the devil with yours!” He then hurled the painting away into a corner.

Willem went to snatch it up again and study it for damage. Fortunately there was none. He was fuming, but struggled to calm himself. “I’ll take this painting to show to the Guild of St. Luke in Delft. Has Francesca missed those sketches of hers that I have already?”

“No, but she’ll miss that.” Hendrick was still scowling.

“You can tell her I’ve taken it to get another opinion on the way her work is developing, which does happen to be the case.” Then, without another word, Willem took the picture of the beggar, which had been made ready, and carried both to his waiting sleigh. He was furious, but he was also amazed to think he had known Hendrick all these years without realizing the full extent of the jealous depths of his nature. Hendrick had been jealous over Anna, but that was understandable, for he had been stupid with love for her, but this new outburst was in another vein altogether. Willem shook his head in despair. Why were artists so troublesome?

F
RANCESCA KNEW NOTHING
of the clash between her father and Willem, having been out of the house at the time. It pleased her to know that the art dealer had taken her painting to be viewed by somebody he knew. Hendrick warned her that it could be a long time before she had the outcome passed on to her, but she was puzzled that Willem should not have given her a direct criticism himself. Yet it sounded promising. Was it possible that a sale might be in the offing? She hoped most sincerely that might be the case, for she had the butcher to face that afternoon with no more than a few stivers in her purse and until
The Goddess of Spring
and
The Beggar and the Jewel
were sold there would be no more money coming in. “Father, the housekeeping box is empty. How much can you spare me?”

It turned out that he had had a moderate win at faro the night before and she left the house later with enough in her purse to pay off the amount owed to the butcher and to get a piece of salted beef. She was about to leave the shop with a basket on her arm when there was some commotion at the far end of the street and the butcher came to the door to look out with her. They could see people running and shouting, some waving sticks, before disappearing around a corner into another street.

“It’s another demonstration against the French,” the butcher said phlegmatically. “Ever since Louis XIV marched into the Spanish Netherlands and took possession we’ve had trouble. Ordinary people are letting the burghers and the merchants know that we don’t intend to let the French be masters here.”

“That can never happen!” she protested. “Remember how Spain tried in vain to master us for eight decades!”

He wagged his head. “Things were different then. We didn’t want the Spanish Inquisition established on our good Protestant soil, or our own independence taken from us when we had fought so hard already against the sea for our low-lying land. No man or woman, be he or she Protestant, Catholic or Jew, need go in fear throughout the whole of Holland. Should Louis come it could be another matter.”

“I’ve heard that opinion voiced in my own home.”

“And rightly so. Nevertheless, take a route back to your house that keeps you away from the demonstration. There are always hotheads in any mob and innocent bystanders can be caught up in such events.”