Tulip Fever (13 page)

So Jan sets his pupil down in front of the double portrait and tells him to finish painting Cornelis—the hands, the spindly, old-man’s shins. Jan cannot bring himself to paint the legs that have lain between Sophia’s thighs. He has painted the old man’s face, but he has only sketched in the rest; he doesn’t want anything else to do with him.

Sophia is finished, but she is a Sophia who is long since gone. Forever she will sit demurely beside her husband, but the real woman, like a ghost, has since risen and come to him. For the first time in his life Jan’s professionalism has deserted him. He cannot bear to carry on; the painting is dead. He will help the boy with the background and then it will be finished.

For he is absorbed in another painting. It is called
The
Love Letter.

Describe the room where you read my letter,
he asked her.

In the bedchamber . . . paneled walls, waxed and polished cabinet.A tapestry behind me,
Orpheus in the Underworld
. . .
the bed
—no, he’s not going to paint the bed.

What were you wearing?

My violet silk dress, you have not seen it. Black bodice stitched
with velvet and silver.

What were you thinking?

I was thinking: the world has stopped . . . my heart is going to
burst. . . .

With happiness?
he asked.

With fear.

Don’t be afraid, my love.

I was thinking: all my life I have been asleep and now I have
opened my eyes. I was thinking: he loves me too! I felt as if my
body had turned to water.
(How is he going to paint that?)
I
was thinking—do I dare? I kept leaving the house and then stopping. I didn’t dare.

Ah, but you did,
he said, kissing her fingers.

He loves Sophia for her recklessness—a maid’s disguise! He loves her for her spirit and ingenuity. She is a woman after his own heart.

I was thinking what it would be like to kiss you
, she said.
And
I hated you for making me mock my husband—oh, I am all confused!

Sophia is here in his studio. She is always with him; he talks to her in his head. He sees her standing at the window reading the letter. All painting is illusion. Sophia, though absent, stands here more breathingly real than the solid sitters he has painted in the past. Art lies, to tell the truth. Flowers from different seasons bloom impossibly together. Trees are shifted around in the landscape to frame the composition. Rooms are created like stage sets, furnished with the artist’s own possessions, where models are arranged in a speechless moment of drama. Even straight portraits are only an approximation, filtered through the painter’s eye. Their realism, down to the tiniest detail—this, too, is a deception.

In the foreground, on the table, Jan has arranged a still life from his own collection—goblets and jewelry he keeps in the chest for this purpose. They are not hers, just as this room is not hers, but in the painting they will belong to her. Nor do they have any moral message—no skull, no empty mussel shells, no open lantern lying on the floor. They are simply things of beauty that will exist for this moment, in this painting. They are simply there to celebrate his love.

LATER THAT DAY Sophia visits. She slips in for an hour, on her way home from doing some errands. She wears the violet dress for him; he has asked her to do this. They don’t kiss—Jacob is here, whistling as he paints. Gerrit is banging around in the kitchen.

It’s a sunny afternoon. Sophia stands at the window. The light bathes her face. Jan gives her another letter to read, for they cannot speak openly.

She looks at the paper.
You are my life. Come to me and
spend the night. I want to hold you in my arms and feel you
dreaming. I will love you until I die
.

As she reads it she stiffens. He sketches her quickly, with charcoal. She reads it again and turns to him.

“Don’t look at me,” he says. “Read it again—your head, just like that.”

Jacob stops whistling. He is listening to them.

Sophia’s lips twitch. She says: “I’ll read it aloud.”

Jan stares at her. “Is that wise?”

She reads:
“Dear Cornelis Sandvoort, your picture is nearing
completion. It will be ready for delivery this Tuesday next. I trust
it will meet with your approval and look forward to the final settlement of my fee at your pleasure.”

Behind his hand, Jan snorts with laughter. Sophia remains gazing out of the window.

Jacob asks: “What is this painting to be called?”

“The Love Letter,”
replies Jan.

“
Love
letter?” says his pupil. “It doesn’t sound like one to me.”

“All painting is deception,” says Jan. “Haven’t you learned that yet?”

Sophia chuckles. Jan turns back to his drawing.

A smell of cooking drifts in from the next room. Just for a moment there is a feeling of domesticity—Jacob whistling, Gerrit in the kitchen. Gerrit is a terrible cook— Jan usually prepares food himself or goes out to eat—but today it smells delicious. It is all an illusion, of course. Sophia will not eat the
hutspot
; she will soon be gone. She should not be here in the first place—she has put herself at great risk by coming to his studio in broad daylight.

But what is reality? This feels utterly real and utterly right. Through lies, he is painting the truth. He has reassembled a life here for her, and look how radiant she is! She stands there rereading the letter. When she is gone the radiance will remain.

Jan works fast. He feels alive—thrilled to his fingertips— and it is not just desire, it is something more. So much of the time he feels that he is just putting paint onto canvas. Now he is truly working.

24

Sophia

Run not therefore East or West,
Home for girls is much the best.

—JACOB CATS, Moral Emblems, 1632

I feel absurdly joyful—carefree, in fact—as I step out of Jan’s studio. The street is empty; nobody has seen me. A pied cat streaks past. This, I decide, is a good omen. I create omens to suit myself; I am not like Maria, in thrall to the old superstitions. I am released from that, I have broken the rules, and look—nobody has found me out. Those loading doors, high up in that warehouse—I have stepped out of them and see, I didn’t fall. I flew! I have been given the airy immunity of an angel.

It is a glorious sunny afternoon; spring has truly arrived.
Come to me and spend the night
. I love Jan to distraction. I know I should feel guilty but I have shut down that part of myself. I am a carriage, being pulled by galloping horses even though my wheels are locked rigid. The wheels are my faith. I am powerless. Punishment awaits me but not yet, not now.

This is how I feel today as I walk past the flower seller (hyacinths; shiny blue in the sunshine), past the front doors (shiny green). I learned this locking-off technique when my father beat me. I shut myself off from my body and my spirit flew free; I could watch myself with detachment. It hurt, of course, but it did not matter.

I have not thought about my father for a long time; I have not thought about anybody. Love has made me self-absorbed. I loved my father and he loved me; he only hit me when he was drunk. He was a passionate man who, disappointed in life, took refuge in wine. When he died I was devastated. Maybe that was why I sought an older man, or allowed myself to be claimed. I was fourteen when he passed away. I thought—if God loves me, why does He give me such pain? It was God’s will, of course, that my father died, but why did it feel like a betrayal?

I couldn’t ask these questions aloud so I shut them away. Ours is a tolerant country; Catholics and Calvinists live together, as I live with my husband. Whatever our faith, however, it is deeply rooted; it is the very foundation of our existence. We live in the presence of God. The glory of this day—the sun, the bunches of hyacinths—belongs to Him, and our celebration of beauty is all in His name. I mock this at my peril.

For I am in mortal danger. The sun lulls me with its warmth; my heart sings. I truly believe I can keep my secret safe. On Saturday my husband is attending a banquet given by the Civic Guard; he will get drunk and come home late. I will slip away and spend the evening with my lover; he and I have planned it. If Maria is sleeping I will borrow her clothes again. She is sleeping a lot lately—dozing during the day, falling asleep as soon as her work is finished. I wonder, in a dreamy way, what is the matter with her. Then my dreams revert back to myself. How happy I am—how blindly happy.

For ahead of me lies the drop—and I really believed I could fly.

MARIA IS SITTING in the kitchen chopping onions. The place is a mess—the fire is dead, vegetable peelings and unwashed cooking pots lie on the floor. I have not entered the kitchen today—this morning I had a singing lesson and I have been out all afternoon.

Maria, too, must have left the house earlier. Her cloak lies in a heap on the floor. The cat sleeps on it, bathed in a pool of sunlight. Maria looks at me. Her face is streaming with tears. For a moment I think it’s caused by the onions.

“Have you finished the ironing?” I ask.

“Madam, I’ve got something to tell you.” Her face crumples. “I’m going to have a baby.”