by Nina Siegal
I breathed a long sigh at last, hiding in that pitch-black warren, for dawn was just about rising and I’d easily have been given away. I lay there until an hour later, when I was awakened by something tossing the canal waters about my skiff.
You know the rest, Your Honor. How the night watchman climbed down my gondolier’s pole to find me. How I dunked him in the canal. I got as far as the Sint Agnieten monastery, where your civic guards were waiting, muskets aimed. It was panic that encouraged me to swim—I thought I still had both my hands; I could feel them paddling in the water. But one hand is all I have and I cannot swim with just one—nor swim at all, truth be told—so I was thankful the civic guards trawled me with the net. I was sputtering when they got me to the bank.
This I do admit, Your Honor. We were wrong to try and snatch a coat off the lame New Town burgher. The attempt was made worse still when I tried to stifle the man’s screams. But it was Hendrick hit him with that stone. I swear I wanted nothing from that burgher other than the source of his warmth.
Yes, Your Honor, you’re right. I have gone astray. I could have been a sheath maker with my training. Yet I am a coat thief. I steal and I cavort with violent thieves. But I swear I am not violent. I’m not ripe for hanging, sire. What could the public want with my body? I am nothing. No one. I’m no more harmful than a crow that comes down into the farmer’s field and plucks away the grain. They don’t kill crows in the fields in Leiden. They scare them off with sticks.
Can you loosen the weights now, sire? I have told you my accomplices; I have confessed to my deeds. I’m sorry for the burgher and glad to hear that he is now well. I’m a stupid and useless man, Lord Schout, but there is no evil in my breast.
At least one drop of water, then, Your Honor? With a little moisture on my tongue I can go on. I will answer all your questions. I will convince you of the purity of my soul. Only the mercy of a raindrop …
Flora left my studio with a note in her hand for Fetchet: he could give her the item I’d purchased from him that afternoon—Kindt’s arm—and he could also keep my coins. But as I was placing the note in her hand, I said one thing:
“I have another way to make him whole again. You must give me time, and I will summon you again when I’m done. Stay in Amsterdam, and perhaps things will turn out all right.”
Paint, I thought to myself, once Flora had departed the studio. You must, at last, paint. It is only crushed minerals and oils. What can it do to reverse cruelty or reveal truth or transform life into something more sacred? I wasn’t sure yet. But I wanted to see if I could try to make something more powerful of this painting. Something I’d never done yet.
He was a man, and he was flesh and bones and mind and soul. She had loved him, Fetchet bought him, Dr. Tulp had claimed him for science, and I had wanted him for art. All of us sought his flesh. All of us have wanted to make something of this man’s body. But he did not belong to any of us. He was only Aris the thief.
I turned toward my easel and once more addressed the canvas. I saw my own brushstrokes, the loose curves at the hand for the stump, the hole I’d outlined in his chest. Before Flora’s visit, I had envisioned depicting Adriaen as he was when I’d seen him: his skin scarred and beaten, his lopped hand, the mark of the rope still visible on his neck. I had planned to show him mid-dissection, with his whole body cavity open, and perhaps with his organs removed. It would be an image of an anonymous body, marked as such by all his brandings, stripped bare, supine, and subdued under the intelligent gaze of the surgeons.
But would it satisfy Flora? And would it satisfy me?
Now that I had heard Flora’s tale, I regarded the figure in the center of the frame differently. Yes, a destroyed body would be too literal. It would only elicit discomfort and shock from anyone who saw the picture. People would not see a man. He would remain a body, a poor convict taken apart. Flora was right: people didn’t mind seeing other people’s suffering.
I thought again about Emmaus, and how Christ walked among his disciples for a while before he revealed himself to them. They walked in the dark, on a path through the forest, and finally came upon an inn. They went inside to sup, and still he did not reveal himself to them. It was only once they had reclined at the table, and received their sustenance, that his image became manifest. A single candle illuminated his face, and his identity was revealed.
I brought my lantern close to the easel again. What if I were to illuminate Adriaen, to bring him into light? If he were not sliced open and degraded but instead elevated and lit? What if I did not show the power of the men over him but his own power over them? All the other guild members would be like Cleopas, each in a different way, observing the effect of the body, learning something from it, expressing that discovery through their faces. But each would be discovering it in his own way. One would be awed, another frightened, another confused, another repelled. Each face would reflect part of the experience of facing death.
I knew at the time, of course, that if I took this course I might be upsetting Tulp or the other members of the Surgeons’ Guild by creating an allegory on their commemorative canvas. I knew that if the praelector didn’t appreciate this, did not like the portrait, he might withdraw his payment or refuse to hang it in the guildhall. I did think about that at the time. However, I knew that I needed to make a painting that meant something. Too many events had transpired that told me there was weight here. There was importance in this image. It was a kind of test.
I drew my brush out of the pincelier again and started to work on the thief’s body. I added details, colors, to the flesh, I added texture and substance to the skin. I worked all the way across the torso and down the arm until I got to the stump.
My instinct told me to replace it—to restore the hand. I cannot say it was a conscious choice. My own hand simply continued to dab my paintbrush into the paints and to add details. The cut went away, and in its place stood a fine, manicured, gentleman’s hand. Then it occurred to me that I had a certain power in creating this image, to replace what had been taken from him.
I thought about Tulp’s search for the soul in the body, and how we all go looking for the soul in different parts. But what if the soul can’t be found in the organs or the limbs? What if the soul of a man is found in his very life? What if the soul is not material but active? What if it’s somehow connected to how we make use of our gifts? If I could restore the stolen limb, I could also unscar the body, remove the exterior signs of his malfeasance. He would no longer be Aris Kindt, criminal and evildoer; he would be like any man who was deserving of dignity in death.
I could close up his chest, so no one would try peering into his organs to detect evidence of his soul’s corruption. I could restore his human form so that he was a man again and not a patient. I would allow Tulp to dissect his functioning arm, to see the mechanism of that graceful limb, which allows a man to point and reach.
As I continued to dab my paintbrush into the Kassel earth and bone black, I recognized what was possible through this portrait. I could make a broken man whole. I added some lead white to my palette and painted on, adding details to the skin fold, until the hand was whole, moving on to adding color to the flesh so that it was pristine.
But there would be a sense of clear sacrifice in this image. The man has given up part of his serenity to serve scientia. No, to serve understanding, to provoke compassion.
As I was restoring Adriaen to his former shape, I realized that I was not painting a Christ figure at all. I was painting a Lazarus of Bethany, resurrected from death after four days in the tomb. Christ had not come soon enough. Flora had not come soon enough. Adriaen was already dead, and there was no way to save him. But we could raise him, in a way, from his deathbed and give him something else: immortality.
You hear me speak and this is one further heresy, is it not? I have not only claimed to be able to paint a Christ figure, I have claimed to be a Christ figure. I believe that with my crushed minerals and my linseed oil and my ground and
my canvas and brush, I have the power to resurrect. This is why I should not go before that panel, why it will be difficult to state my case. Because it’s true that I am arrogant and it’s possible that this is what I’ll say.
There is a nuance here, though, which I know that you can understand. I do not believe that I have the power to restore, the authority to resurrect. I am not a miracle maker, not I myself. No. It is art that has the power to do that job. It is art that can restore a broken body, return a dead man to life. It is the fiction created by the paintbrush, the pigments, the mathematical structure, the capacity to shine light.…
My job is to serve the art, to be the hand that wields the paintbrush, the eye that is capable of seeing what needs to be presented in paint. I am a mere conduit—through which art can accomplish its aims. A few crushed minerals with oil and turpentine, some strokes of a brush, and an artist has that extraordinary ability to stop time, to reverse time, to immortalize and resurrect.
It is why people sit for portraits in the first place, isn’t it? So that they can be captured at the height of their fame or youth or wealth. A portrait can freeze time, prevent aging, remove wrinkles and imperfections, and even dispense with death altogether if the sitter manages to live on in paint. Tulp knows this. That is why he has commissioned this portrait to commemorate his lesson. But we do not choose to use this art for vanity, for superficial fixes of a man’s skin. The power of our art is wasted if we use it to subtract from reality or erase a part of life.
It was not Adriaen I wanted to preserve, restore, resurrect. He was no saint, no man of terrific honor. He was, it was true, a common thief, who lived by the laws of the street and stole what he needed to get by. But I also saw that, if Aris Kindt the thief could be given a reprieve, if he was restored with beauty and love and light, then we could all be reprieved. All of us would be resurrected, forgiven, illuminated in his flesh.
This idea enlivened me, excited me, and I painted on, thrilled and busy with the incredible sense of purpose it contained. This work. It was not just painting, it was making art.
I could hear the sounds of the festival in the streets getting more riotous as I relaxed into the freedom of painting what I wanted to paint. Outside in the street I could hear a lute player. The slurred song of a drunken singer trying desperately to remember the words.
I worked on the guild figures, creating the expressions in each face, giving them variety and simplicity, but singularity. One awed, one frightened, one philosophical, one full of hope. I continued to work more diligently on Adriaen’s left hand—the one I needed to represent with its anatomy revealed—adding a few details to the arm based on what I could still remember from Tulp’s lesson.
Tulp’s hand needs to apply the forceps to demonstrate the movement of Adriaen’s muscles and tendons. So I began to outline his hand, leaving the rest of his figure merely in sketch. It was an extraordinary feeling to paint one man’s hand using an instrument to operate another man’s hand.
I thought of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel and God’s hand reaching out to Adam. There is irony in letting a pair of forceps intervene between the surgeon’s hand and the hand he will animate through his touch. But just when I thought this, I looked down and saw my own hand, holding the paintbrush, and the brush itself, like the forceps, was an instrument of reanimation as well.
I wish I could tell you that a kind of fire burned through my hand just then, feeling my mother’s benediction on my skin, but I can’t. All I can say is that I knew it was the right thing. That, right there, would be the center of the painting. The artist’s invisible hand presents the surgeon’s living hand, to reanimate the hand of the dead convicted thief. And in that way, to resurrect all humanity.
I heard the singing grow louder outside my windows as the parade took shape along my street. I knew that I had finally found my way into this painting, and that it would be no mere portrait but one of my greatest works. I would illuminate Adriaen’s body. I would cast the damned man into light.
Watch your step as you climb the stairs and hold the rope fast. Come, then, let me take your mind off your daily worries, and step, instead, into my chamber of wonders.
Now that the Waag is an attraction, I get hundreds of visitors each day. Like you, they want to see that portrait by Van Rijn—I still can’t manage to call him what they call him, just “Rembrandt”—and the anatomy theater depicted in his painting. It’s inside the theater that I keep my chamber of wonders when the anatomy isn’t in session. I’ve got such rarities there as no man’s ever seen.
Oh, yes, I am the only one—apart from Tulp—who has the keys to the chamber where the painting now lives. I could not possibly let anyone in there, seeing as I’d run a great risk of losing my position as famulus anatomicus if it were discovered.
Come, now, don’t press ahead. The stairs can be slippery when they’re wet. Oh, yes, I’ve seen it many times. Perhaps more than even Tulp. And of course I know the painter; he is one of my best clients. One of my true connoisseurs. Indeed, he is a brusque sort. Not at all like dear Professor Tulp. That’s why he has caused such a controversy for the guild. He prefers to call his work “art,” and seems to forget it is a commission.
Oh, yes, it is praised! I have heard some say it is greater than Raphael’s paintings. That our very own Amsterdam master has outdone the Italian greats. I am no liefhebber, so I cannot give you my own opinion. A shame they don’t take it out of that storage chamber behind that door right there and let the public see. Then every man and woman could make up their own mind.
There, the door to my chamber of wonders is unlocked. Come in, come into my cabinet. Within my cabinet are some of the most singular objects and relics ever known to the world, and yet very few men are aware of my holdings. Only the truly curious—and the truly deserving—are given an opportunity to tour my finds. Typically, I charge a fine fee for access to these chambers. You, however, have won over my trust to such a degree that I no longer seek your coinage. Come, if you will, join me within.
To the left you will find my naturalia, all the wonders of nature’s kingdom: dried herbs to cure any worldly ills and a rare assemblage of shells from the farthest earthly shores. A conch shell dotted so evenly with brown freckles along its curves one imagines a painter has taken his brush to this surface.
To the right, I’ll show you my animalia: birds and mammals of sea, land, and sky, from here to the Australasias and as far as the New World. Farther into the room, you’ll find the pride of my collection: preservations of human flesh, including mummies from ancient Egypt I was able to purchase from Heurnius’s troves.
Above, you’ll see my armadillo and crocodile, a boar’s head and sea monkey. See spears from tribal Africa on this wall, and horns and antlers from more than twenty different species. There you have seats made out of bones and cowhide; here there are drinking cups made of ivory. See my whole elephant tusks, too, and here a coat made of leopard pelts.
Earlier, I told you of a marvelous creature, the bird of paradise, that true rarity of rarities, which inspires awe through its beauty and through the fact that it, alone among winged creatures, can never alight upon the earth. One can only assume that this constant need for flight is a burden to this ethereal fowl. And yet even flight, this eternal flapping of wings, is essential to its soul. For when caught, it soon dies, so well does it love the free air. The great wonder hunters of all Europe have tried, and failed, to capture one alive. But it will not be snared, nor tethered to earth. For the paradiseus, its form is its destiny.
Here, then, feast your eyes on this true wonder. This marvelous creature that evades earthly captivity. This one is, of course, dead, but from its incredible plumage you can imagine how it must’ve looked while it was alive.
Oh, yes. There’s the door there, yes. Right behind that door is the Rembrandt portrait. And it’s true, I do have the key. As I mentioned, it would be a serious risk to my position as the famulus anatomicus to allow anyone past that door.… It woul
d have to be something very interesting to make it worth the risk.
Oh, well, maybe. I might be able to consider a donation … for my collecting. Yes, in the interest of science … I could maybe allow you in for just a moment, if you promise not to tell.…
Right this way, then, right this way.
You know I had a hand in the conception of that masterpiece? It’s a long tale, but I’ll tell it for an extra stiver if you’d truly like to hear.
Well, yes, I know that Van Rijn personally. Ask any burgher in Amsterdam and he’ll tell you: if there’s an oddity or rarity you seek, I can put it into your hands. I’m a barterer, a trader, and a broker in God’s great bounty. Should you desire a clawless otter from the Cape of Good Hope or a bull’s horn to be played like a trumpet, merely inquire here. Maybe you want a tortoise shell worn as a German helmet in our roiling Spanish wars? Just say my name: Jan Fetchet …
The whole city around them celebrates. As Flora and the boy head toward the skiff the boatman has tied to the edge of the canal, they must push their way through the rowdy masses. Flora takes the boy’s hand and elbows her way to the canal edge. She drops and seats herself on the bank, then draws the boy onto her lap and passes him along to the boatman. He carefully guides them down.
Revelers troll the streets, bearing lanterns and long wood poles wrapped with cloth and set aflame. As they begin to drift slowly among the other boats in the water, Flora watches the celebrants, thinking this must be a foretaste of hell, the grotesque figures dancing and laughing and drunk with vengeance. Adriaen, she thinks, I hope the man was right and that you are already long gone.
The church bells are sounding out the final hour of 31 January 1632, and these bells are subdued and kind, like a hand gently caressing a wound. Each chime from the towers overhead drives another shovel into the ground, burying the day bit by bit. Bong, bong, bong. No melody to the chimes this time, only a slow and steady ringing of finality. Adriaen’s day has ended.