Wings over Delft (4 page)

‘Ja, ja, ja, the old man has gone too far this time. I see it on your face. You reproach me. You are angry, but inside you are smiling at the old fool. God forgive me!’ the old
man declared. ‘But now, for the first time child, you look beautiful. Aach, it hurts!’ His hand had found a piece of charcoal, but it was shaking so much that Pieter wondered if he would ever be able to draw with it. ‘Even if it turns you into stone, don’t move, don’t change.’ He took the trailing end of his painter’s sleeve and hurriedly wiped his eyes. ‘Mijn Gott, look, you have me weeping …’

Pieter was staring at the girl, open-mouthed. ‘Pieter!’ he yelled without turning. ‘You have stopped grinding. I must hear you! Nothing must change.’ The boy glanced at the blue powder in the hollow of the grinding block.
Ultramarine
, their most expensive pigment, and soon it would be too fine. If it got too fine the colour would deaden and he would be in trouble. He dropped some more chips of
precious
lapis into the hollow and recommenced grinding. The stone moved rhythmically,
Crish
…
crish
… but he, like the Master, was in the grip of the moment. Some magic,
emanating
from that girl, possessed them both. He forgot about the world, the studio, and even the summer sun outside.
Crish
…
crish
, and the sound of his grinding became wing-beats of the angel that seemed to hover over their heads. The carillon on the Nieuwe Kerk chimed, and then chimed again. Still she held her pose. His eyes moved back and forth: to the girl – Miss Louise Eeden – the name didn’t mean anything to him then, and then to the Master, hunched over his sketchbook, working … failing … turning the page … working.

Pieter examined her pose. She was leaning slightly
forward
. Yes! The Master was right; she had been about to get
up, to walk out and leave at the moment when he called on her not to move. Her body was like a spring ready to be released. But it was when Pieter looked at her face that he felt a stab of that pain that had caused the Master to cry out. Yes, there was reproach there, but behind that there was something more, laughter perhaps, something that made him long to be the subject of that look, to pass the barrier and be accepted. Love was too sweet a word and
compassion
was too grand. His grinding faltered as strange
emotions
filled his mind, but then Pieter thought of the Master, pinned like a moth under her gaze, and realised that the old man was out there on his own. Pieter was his apprentice and they both needed the soothing sound of his grinding stone.

Slowly the intensity of the vision faded – he could not have borne it if it had gone on much longer – and the face of the young girl re-emerged. He reckoned she would be sixteen years of age, about two years his junior. At last the Master was working steadily. He had thrown down his sketching book and was drawing directly on to the canvas with bold, deft lines. Pieter’s stone circled in the now ruined blue and her name repeated itself again and again in his mind: ‘Louise … Louise … ’. He wasted more than three guilder’s worth of lapis by over-grinding that morning, though the Master never reproved him.

Time passed, but still the Master continued to draw. Pieter knew that the painter was exhausted, but he guessed too that he didn’t know how to stop. He began to laugh. The girl looked up at him. He raised an eyebrow at her, a
smile flickered across her face. The magic faded; the sitting was over.

Louise straightened painfully. She had held the pose for an hour or more and every muscle protested at the unnatural strain. As she relaxed, Pieter saw her put her hand over her mouth to hide the look that she had preserved so long for the Master. It was a childlike gesture that tore at Pieter as he hurried to help the Master rise. Louise noticed that the old man was in difficulties and she reached out to lend a hand. Together they pulled the Master to his feet. Then they held hands in a circle, smiling at each other, like dancers in a set, holding on to that special moment before the music starts again. The Master was the first to break away, shuffling and growling as he padded off towards the window, scrubbing at his face with his hat.

‘Pieter!’ he said. ‘Escort Miss Eeden home.’ Pieter looked at her, but she was watching the old man as he hunched against the light, and smiling to herself.  

Pieter helped Louise on with her cloak, handed her the linen head-cloth, and opened the door for her. But when he gestured for her to precede him down the stairs, she hesitated, and then asked him to go ahead.

‘You can catch me if I fall,’ she said, but he noticed her stop and look anxiously out of the landing window on the way down. Then, when they reached the bottom of the stairs, she touched his arm. ‘Mr Kunst, there is someone I… wish to avoid. She may be here still. Could you look for me?’ Pieter sauntered into the taproom and looked around. There was nobody there, but in the partitioned-off snug he could see Kathenka talking to an elderly woman. He
wandered
back and said in a low voice.

‘Yes, there is an old woman … brown dress, apron, severe-looking coif? She has her back to us. She’s talking to the Mistress.’

‘Thank you,’ the girl smiled. ‘Come on, quickly!’ She slipped past Pieter, ran lightly to the open door, picked up her clogs, and stepped outside with them. Pieter looked towards Kathenka as he followed. To his surprise she winked at him.

‘We will go this way,’ the girl said, turning away from the
Town Hall towards the Nieuwe Kerk. The Markt was busy now. Stalls had been set up and she threaded her way through the throng. It was bright and busy after the shade and quiet of the studio. Pieter followed, feeling shy and
ill-at
-ease. He realised that his presence had been imposed on her and that she might not want to be seen with him as a consort. He was not good in a crowd. God had blessed him with too many bones and, in company, they just seemed get everywhere. His confidence tended to desert him once he left the studio. In school they had called him ‘Pieter the Puppet’, the little ones imitating his walk to a T. The trouble was that this was just how he felt: as if he was hung on strings manipulated by a not very competent puppeteer.

One day, when Pieter had made a mistake in spelling the word ‘horse’, the teacher had called him up and told him to draw a horse on the blackboard. It was meant as a
punishment
. Snorts and titters followed him as he ricocheted off the desks on the way to the board. Then his fingers touched the chalk and a change came over him; for once he no longer feared what his body might do. He just knew that the horse of his dreams was waiting for him inside that board. He reached high; the chalk swept across the black surface, and there was the horse, springing out at him in that one streaming line. Five more lines and an almond eye, to reveal the rest of the horse to the class, and he was walking back to his desk. They didn’t laugh at him for a whole day. That night his mother had said that St Luke, patron saint of artists, had held his hand, but that he was never to mention it. They were Catholics, and
Catholics
were barely tolerated in the town of Delft.

Pieter was woken from his daydream by nearly colliding with the girl as she halted in front of him. He stopped in a flap of arms and legs. A young man, smartly dressed in the clothes of a gentleman apprentice, had stepped gracefully into her path. He was bowing to her and holding her hand. He heard the young mistress exclaim, ‘But I thought you had departed!’

Pieter backed away so as not to eavesdrop on their
conversation
. He recognised the young man. They had been at school together. Reynier was his name and he was
everything
that Pieter was not. For a start he was wealthy and was heir to the largest of the town’s many potteries, but the chief difference was that he was gloriously assured and at ease with himself, as well as being outwardly charming and personable. Pieter retreated further. They looked well
together
, the young man of fashion and the poised girl with her modish head-cloth, but Pieter had private reasons to be disturbed.

All at once there was a break in the apparent harmony ahead; he heard the girl’s voice rise.

‘… Mr Kunst is seeing me home, thank you, Reynier.’ She turned. ‘Mr Kunst, have you met Reynier DeVries?’ Pieter stepped forward and jerked his hand out. For a brief second Reynier seemed put out, but his manners reasserted themselves.

‘Of course I have!’ he said pleasantly. ‘How do you do, Pieter.’ He shook Pieter’s hand as if it were loose. ‘We were at school together,’ he told the girl. ‘Pieter drew a wonderful horse.’ It was gallantly said, but Pieter wondered
why it was that his beautiful horse suddenly seemed mean and insignificant now.

‘Yes, I have seen Mr Kunst’s work!’ the girl said
pointedly
. ‘Now, we should be getting on. I wish you the very best for your journey.’ The young man stepped back,
bowing
, but still holding her hand. Then he drew her towards him. It was a graceful movement, a kiss on the cheek? It looked like an accident, but at that moment the girl turned her head and the man’s lips met her head-cloth instead. Pieter saw a flash of anger cross Reynier DeVries’s face before it was replaced by an easy laugh.

‘Goodbye Pieter!’ he said. ‘Don’t get your strings crossed.’

Pieter opened his mouth to say something, but a
forgotten
stammer tangled his tongue. His hands gestured vaguely, and Reynier was gone.

Pieter stood rooted, deep in thought. He saw Louise start off towards the Nieuwe Kerk. Could this be her intended? Reynier DeVries, who, despite all his easy charm, had made his school days a misery? It was Reynier who had first called him ‘The Puppet’and who had then gone out of his way to chide the younger boys who took up the name. ‘Now, now, come on lads, that’s not fair,’ he would say, putting his arm protectively over Pieter’s shoulder. The gesture seemed to say: I’m Pieter’s particular friend … Pieter’s protector. But, damn him, Pieter’s tormentor, too. For brief periods Pieter had loved Reynier with the all-forgiving love of a boy for a hero. But Reynier always found some subtle way to put him down.

Pieter broke out of his reverie. He clenched his fists.
‘He’s a bully… a bully!’ he said out loud, and a woman,
presiding
over a stall of spring onions, looked at him and shrieked:

‘Saying your prayers, Mr Kunst?’

Then, laughing uproariously at her own joke, she turned to repeat it to the woman on the next stall. Pieter, who hadn’t even realised he had said anything, looked at her in astonishment, then he hurried off after the vanishing girl.

Louise had felt the brush of Reynier’s attempted kiss as she turned from him in the Markt. If she had seen it coming she mightn’t have had the courage to fend him off, but now that she had, she felt a brief glow of satisfaction. She wove in and out of the market stalls, her long cloak and rustling silk incongruous on this sunny spring day. The heat and the constriction began to oppress her. She was thinking about Reynier. She hadn’t expected to see him. He had said a formal goodbye when he had told her of his intention to travel, ostensibly to help quench the rumours that had started about their engagement. If he wanted to quench rumours, kissing her in the Markt was not the way to do it. Ever since they were little, he’d been protective of her. He was two years older than she was, but he had always been prepared to play her games. When they were little, they had played at being married. Then, when she was old enough to feel uneasy, she’d got out of the game by making it a joke between them. There had been times when she had thought that she was in love with him, but it was a feeling
that never lasted long; there were always more interesting things to do.

She thought back to their last meeting, a week ago, when she first learned that there were rumours abroad. She had been at home. She heard a knock at the door but had ignored it. The C string on her lute had just snapped and was wrapped around her left wrist. It was her fault, she hadn’t played in a while and had tuned up too quickly. Voices came through from the hall as she was rummaging in her workbasket where she kept her spare strings. She found one, knotted the end, and levered out the tiny ivory peg that would hold it in the bar at the bottom of the lute. Next she turned her attention to unwinding the broken string from the tuning peg at the neck. She was totally absorbed in this endeavour when a man’s hand, encircled by a lace cuff, reached down and lifted the lute from her lap. It was Reynier.

‘Allow me,’ he said, with a smile. For a moment she was irritated; she liked to do things for herself. But Reynier had long claimed the right to rescue her whether she needed it or not.

‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ she said.

‘I was speaking to Annie in the hall, asking after your poor mother; I hear she has had a bit of a relapse.’ Louise was about to say something about her mother’s cough, but he swept on. ‘Annie is an ally of mine in the pursuit of Louise.’ This was the old game. Louise grimaced and watched as he made heavy work of unwinding the string. He soon got tired of it and put the lute down. ‘What’s this rumour I hear?’ he asked.

‘Rumour?’ Louise was indifferent to rumours; she wanted to get on with stringing her lute.

‘They are saying in town that Eeden’s and DeVries’s
potteries
may come together.’

‘Oh? I hadn’t heard. But then we are away from things here in the new house.’ Louise was surprised at the news. Her father had rather a poor opinion of the pots produced by DeVries, although she couldn’t very well say that. ‘It will just be a rumour,’ she said, indifferently, and reached out for her lute. But Reynier moved quickly and caught hold of her wrist.

‘Louise,’ he said reproachfully. ‘You are not thinking of your father.’ He loosened his grip and started caressing her hand.

‘Of course I think about Father.’ Louise’s face burned, what had she got wrong now? Reynier had a way of
wrong-footing
her. She wanted to withdraw her hand, but his grip, though loose, held her. What if she tried to pull back and he would not let go? It would precipitate something, she wasn’t sure what. He was speaking to her as if she were a child.

‘Just think, Louise, how it would be if the potteries joined. Your father is the finest painter of Chinaware in Delft. Humble old DeVries would continue to churn out tiles and cups and tableware, and he would be free to do the great vases and pieces of which he is the Master.’

So that was what it was about. Eeden’s pots were indeed the most beautiful in Delft, but the money came from the humbler tableware. The more cups and tiles they made, the less time poor Father had to do the really delicate work for
which he was justly famed. If the potteries joined, then DeVries’s could take over the routine work, and Father could concentrate on the decorative work he loved and which would bring honour and distinction to the venture. She was repentant now.

‘Do you think that it is possible? I … I just didn’t think …’ Reynier raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

‘Of course you didn’t, why would you?’ he said, releasing her hand. Louise was so tired of being in the wrong; Reynier was really a better person than she.

‘Do
you
believe that they can come to some
arrangement
? Father hasn’t mentioned it.’ Rather than answering straight away, Reynier turned and walked over to the window. His hair was long and swept down over the broad linen
collar
that spread out on to his cloak. When he replied he seemed to be measuring his words.

‘Louise … there is another rumour going around.’ He paused. She had started to reach for her lute again but stopped, gazing at his back. ‘I deplore it,’ he continued, ‘but yet again I wish it were true.’

A prickle of apprehension chased up the backs of Louise’s arms. Then Reynier turned and was striding towards her. He appeared to be about to kneel, but instead he clapped one fist into the palm of the other. ‘Louise,’ he said. ‘They are saying that … that this deal is contingent on our getting
married
.’ Louise looked up at him, thunderstruck. Her mouth opened in amazement. She wasn’t going to speak, but Reynier stopped her nonetheless. ‘No, no! Louise. You mustn’t say. I know your answer, and even if by some
miracle you said yes, I could not accept it as your true
inclination
. I will go away, it is time that I travelled.’ He waved an arm vaguely … ‘England, France?’ he paused, ‘Italy
perhaps
. Father can spare me. That is why I have come here
today
: to say goodbye. We must let this blow over; then I may come to you truly on my knees. It will be six months before I see you again. Oh Louise, how I will miss you’. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips, while she, out of sheer
bewilderment
, failed to snatch it away. ‘Don’t forget your father, Louise …’ He hit his chest as if in determination. ‘But I stand back! I must leave now.’ Then, with a swirl of his cloak, he turned and strode to the door so quickly that Louise’s
memory
was, not of him, but of Annie in startled retreat, as he swept past her and out into the street.

That had been a week ago. Louise had heard no more. She had presumed that he had left. It was then that she
realised
that the world was beginning to change about her. It started with Annie fussing over how Louise dressed, and scolding her for going out on her own. Then Father, all gruff and affectionate, came back from Amsterdam with the green silk for her dress. There were comments at home about the merging of the two potteries, but then the subject was dropped. Mother – pale and translucent in her illness – went about the house touching things, with a secret smile that Louise couldn’t fathom. The changes were subtle, more that unrelated things were beginning to orbit around her, instead of her orbiting around them. It was as if she had
become
a small sun, the centre of some invisible focus. Gradually it dawned on her that there really were rumours
about Reynier and her. But how these had come about, and who had spread them, she had no idea. Annie?, she asked herself. No, Annie was just a willing conspirator. Reynier, then? But Reynier was doing the honourable thing and
going
away specifically to dispel these rumours. She kept thinking about Father, and what it would mean to him to be free to do the work he loved, his business responsibilities shared. She thought of all those childhood games with Reynier, so innocent. Then, more recently, of his ardent proposals and her ambiguous replies. For all that he was gallant, she was sure Reynier did not love her; he could have the pick of the girls in town. Had she unintentionally woven a web, with her accessibility and – let’s face it – her fortune, and trapped the young man? The DeVries family were well off, but Reynier had always had an appetite for more.