Tulip Fever (7 page)

He has astonished himself. For the first time in his dealings with women he spoke the truth. He is undone. Sophia has unknotted the ropes around his heart and he is entirely hers. He has never unclosed himself in this way before; there is a certain voluptuousness to his surrender. It is a new sensation. On the way home he passed a boy playing a pennywhistle; the music filled his eyes with tears. What is he to do? Can she possibly love him?

There is a tattoo of knocks at the door. Jan freezes. It is Sophia! He breaks into a sweat. No. It is her husband. She has told him about this morning’s impertinence and he has come round to kill him. He is accompanied by twelve members of the Civic Guard and they will blow his head off.

Jan opens the door. His friend Mattheus strides into the studio. “The usual pigsty, I see,” he says cheerfully.

“Gerrit has disappeared.”

“Your servant is a drunk. You should kick him out.”

“When I can find him. The trouble is, he’s never here.”

Mattheus flings himself into a chair. “I’ve brought the boy.”

A youth comes in. He is pale, with long yellow hair.

“His name is Jacob.”

Jan gathers his wits. He has forgotten about this. Jacob is his new apprentice; he is due to start work today. Mattheus has arranged it because he already has three pupils of his own and no room for any more. Mattheus is a generous man—big heart, big appetites. He earns a good living painting low-life scenes: taverns and brothels. His clients find them amusing and there is usually some moral instruction somewhere, to make them feel improved. His energy is prodigious; he churns them out.

Jan searches for some glasses and wipes them on his paint rag. Mattheus unstacks canvases and leans them against the wall. He shows them to the boy.

“Look at the brushwork—look how fine it is—those clouds, that foliage. Look at the sheen on that dress, what perfection! You can almost touch it. This man can paint anything”—he chuckles—“if they pay him enough.”

“Look who’s talking,” says Jan.

Mattheus gulps down some brandy and indicates Jan. “My old friend here knows the first rule of painting.”

“What’s that?” asks the boy.

“Flattery will get you everywhere—”

“Oh, yes?” says Jan.

“Dress ’em up in their finery, the poor vain fools.” Mattheus points to a preliminary sketch of Sophia. “This woman, for instance—look at that face. I’ll wager you she’s a dog in real life—”

“She’s not!” says Jan.

“That beautiful, eh?” He snorts.

“She
is
beautiful—”

Mattheus guffaws. “Only because you want to put your hand up her
rok
.” He turns to the boy. “That’s another technique our master here will be teaching you—”

“Curb your tongue,” says Jan. “He’s just a boy.”

Mattheus lights his pipe and blows out a cloud of smoke. “My dearest friend, you are a highly competent painter. You’ll teach this boy everything he needs to know. Except how to be truly great.” He jabs his pipe stem at Jan. “You’re so skillful, you’ll get away with what you’re doing all your life. You’ve had it too easy.” He lifts up a paintbrush. “Know what this is?”

“It’s a paintbrush,” says the boy.

“It’s a paint remover.”

“Have some more brandy,” says Jan.

“Our friend Rembrandt, he understands. The more he lays on the paint, the more he strips away to reveal the truth. Do you follow me?”

The boy nods dumbly.

“The suffering, the humanity . . .” Mattheus turns to Jan. “But you have to be courageous, my friend, and unafraid of pain. For only through pain will the beauty of the world be revealed.” He gets up and kisses Jan on both cheeks. “I’m only saying this because I know I’ll never do it myself. Underneath all this I’m a coward—just a crowd pleaser. And it’s too late to change.”

Mattheus drains his glass, ruffles the boy’s hair and leaves.

The boy looks at Jan. “Aren’t you angry that he talks to you like that?”

“Angry?” Jan shakes his head vigorously. “Of course not. He talks to me like that because he loves me.”

In fact, he feels deeply uncomfortable. Hurt too. Feigning indifference, he spreads his legs and leans back in his chair. He looks up at the ceiling; the beams are festooned with cobwebs. Near the window he has hammered up a sagging white sheet to catch the light. Sophia is standing there, her hand on the window latch. She flings open the window and breathes deeply, inhaling the morning air. Even imagining her makes the latch dear to him. Then she turns to him, closes the window and smiles.

Jan says: “Pass me that piece of paper, will you?”

“Are you going to give me a drawing lesson?” the boy asks.

Jan shakes his head. “I’m going to write a note.”

11

Maria

A kitchen maid must have one eye on the pan and the other on the cat.

—JOHAN DE BRUNE, 1660

Maria sits beside the kitchen fire, plucking a duck. The bird is wedged between her thighs; its head hangs down as if it is inspecting the floor for crumbs. But it is dead and she suddenly wants to cry. She wants it to be alive so she can tell it her secrets. This is ridiculous. She must have plucked hundreds of ducks. Back in the country, where she grew up, she cheerfully wrung their necks too. Lately, however, she has been overcome with pity for those that suffer, even dumb creatures. It is like her love for Willem— “Willem . . . Willem . . .” she whispers his name. She feels peeled and whimpery.
If you peel an onion you’ll cry
, said her grandmother. Now she knows what she was talking about. Her granny was full of wise sayings. Maria remembers her churning butter. Sleeves rolled up, she leaned over the barrel, vigorously pumping the pole, twisting it this way and that.
Only from commotion comes the fat
, she said.
Hard
work will be rewarded
. When Maria grew older her grandmother said that the cream was the spirit and the whey was fleshly pleasure. Maria didn’t understand her then.

The cat watches the duck. Its tail twitches. Maria is superstitious. If the cat scratches itself, Willem will knock at the door. The cat has fleas; it won’t be long now.

There is a knock at the door. Maria jumps up, dumps the duck on the table and hurries out.

She unlatches the door. A youth stands there. He hands her an envelope. “Please give this to the mistress of the house,” he says.

Maria, disappointed, takes the letter and closes the door. She walks upstairs to the bedchamber. Since their shopping trip this morning, her mistress has been feeling unwell and has shut herself in her room.

Downstairs in the kitchen the cat jumps onto the table. It sinks its claws into the duck’s flesh.

12

The
Letter

Thy wife shall be as a fruitful vine upon the walls of thy house; thy children like the olive branches around thy table. Lo, thus shall man be blessed that feareth the Lord.

—PSALM 128

Sophia stands at the window. She is reading the letter. Through the glass, sunlight streams onto her face. Her hair is pulled back from her brow. Tiny pearls nestle in her headband; they catch the light, winking at the severity of her coiffure. She wears a black bodice, shot with lines of velvet and silver. Her dress is violet silk; its pewtery sheen catches the light.

Behind her a tapestry is strung along a wooden rail. Paintings can be glimpsed in the shadows. The green velvet curtains around the bed are pulled back to reveal an opulent bedcover. The room is bathed in tranquil golden light.

She stands there, motionless. She is suspended, caught between past and present. She is color, waiting to be mixed; a painting, ready to be brushed into life. She is a moment, waiting to be fixed forever under a shiny varnish. Is this a moment of decision? Will she tear up the letter or will she steal away, through the silent rooms, and slip out of the house? Her face, caught in profile, betrays nothing.

Outside, the street is busy. Two regents, sitting in a carriage, rattle over the bridge. They nod to each other; what they say is of importance to them. A barrel is winched down from a warehouse door, high in a building, and rolled onto a barge; when painted into the background, its contents will forever be unknown. A group of Mennonite men huddle like crows on the corner; children brush past them, yelling.

Outside all is bustle. Indoors a heart stands still.

The letter says:
It is too late. We both know that. I must see
you, my love. Come to my studio tomorrow at four.

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