Rembrandt's Mirror

by Devereux, Kim

  ‘But none of this is a cure; it only makes the symptoms more bearable. I’m afraid it is very much a matter of chance and good care who survives. You should look out for further signs which will alert you if the end is coming. Those who have soft and puffy white swellings, rather than red ones, especially if they appear suddenly, very rarely live. Some never get any swellings at all, the disease overtakes them so quickly. Also if tokens appear, little hard spots like flea bites, this is a sign that death is near.’

  Rembrandt nodded, wondering what the point was of telling him all this. Perhaps if the time were to come, it would be better not to know.

  ‘You must now mark your house.’

  Tulp made to leave but Rembrandt held him back by the arm.

  Again their eyes met. ‘What do you think?’ said Rembrandt.

  ‘She may well live.’

  ‘How long, if she doesn’t?’

  ‘Between three and five days,’ said Tulp. ‘If she’s still here after seven it’s a good sign.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Tulp was standing by the door. He dipped into his bag and produced a small bottle with a yellow-brown liquid.

  ‘Have you heard of laudanum?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  He handed it to him. ‘The pain can be very bad, so bad that some are killed because their heart gives out or they are driven to lunacy. But you must not tell her this as it will only frighten her. If the pain is unbearable, put three drops of this on to her tongue, but use it sparingly for too much of it will cause a delirium and difficulty breathing. No more than twelve drops per day, with at least a three-hour gap between doses. It’s an opium tincture but not all laudanum is the same. Most of it is little more than a cough suppressant. But this works. I’ve tried it. It’s a powerful analgesic. I had it shipped from England, before the quarantine, for my own use.’

  Rembrandt thanked him as profusely as he could.

  After Tulp had gone he held the bottle tightly, the most valuable possession he’d ever owned.

  He went up to the studio, and poured chalk, some lead white and linseed oil on to the mixing block. He used a spatula to fold it all together and then scraped the thick paint on to an old palette. He picked out one of his students’ brushes, then he went back downstairs and out of the front door. He could not help looking up and down the street, like a furtive criminal. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Not that it made any difference whether he was observed or not. The letter he was about to paint would bring a whole string of consequences on their heads: no more callers to the house, no business, no money and eventually no food. He loaded the brush with paint. It took only a few seconds. He stood back. His ‘P’ gleamed whiter than all the others. Of course, they had not gone to the trouble of using proper pigment. He shrugged his shoulders.

  From the adjacent bedroom she could probably hear him cleaning the palette, brush and mixing block; he’d have to go back before too long. Surely she would live. Unlike him, she was still in the midst of life and strong. The notion of her dying within three to five days was absurd. When he reached the door, he put his hand on the latch – maybe not quite yet. He sat back down on a chair in the studio, to collect himself. He thought of the many who had fled the plague; children had left parents behind, husbands their wives, and gone as far as England. It was all down to him now. Why hadn’t he asked Tulp for another nurse?

  It was time to get up and go back in, but something kept him in the chair. He commanded his legs to walk through the door. He couldn’t fail her, as he’d failed Saskia.

  She lay curled up, clutching her middle.

  ‘What took you so long?’ she said.

  ‘Just thanking Tulp,’ he lied. ‘He’s been very kind.’

  ‘Now we know for sure it is the plague,’ she said between gasps, ‘you must take me to the plague house. It’s for the best.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Rika.’

  She tried to say something but was prevented by a cramp. She pointed at the bucket. He fetched it and held her as she vomited. He could feel every convulsion, draining her of strength. The retching did not stop for a long time, in the end bringing up nothing but bile. When it was finally over he gave her a drink to rinse her mouth. She spat all of it back out.

  She sank back on to the pillow, catching her breath. He wiped her face and saw that around her eyes a network of purple lines had sprung up; burst capillaries from the retching.

  ‘Don’t you want to drink?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’ll just be sick again.’

  Her lips and skin were dry. She needed to drink. ‘Are you not thirsty?’ he tried.

  ‘I told you. It’s not worth the effort.’

  Nothing more was said. He was grateful when she drifted off, whether into sleep or a swoon he could not tell.

  He went down to the kitchen and there were Titus and Cornelia sitting at the table. Cornelia jumped up. ‘Pappie!’

  She came running towards him. He put out his hand as if to stop her but thankfully Titus had already caught her around the waist and now was holding on to her because she continued to struggle.

  ‘I’m so sorry, my sweet,’ said Rembrandt. ‘Pappie would love to hold and kiss you but we have to be careful not to make you ill.’

  She started crying, still pushing with her arms against Titus’s chest. Rembrandt felt himself on the point of breaking, so he stepped into the corridor, closing the door, but still he had to listen to Titus trying to calm Cornelia as she sobbed angrily. He stood with his back against the wall and then slid down to sit on the floor and buried his face in his hands. He made sure not to produce any sounds as despair overtook him.

  After a while Cornelia fell silent. Titus opened the door and Rembrandt looked up at him, realizing as if for the first time that his son was a grown man.

  ‘She’s gone to sleep,’ said Titus.

  Rembrandt nodded.

  Titus held out his hand to help him up but then remembered and withdrew his arm. Rembrandt pushed himself up, holding on to the wall. His legs had gone to sleep; he felt like an old man wobbling back into the kitchen. On the bed by the fire lay Cornelia, sleeping. He walked over. Her face was still wet with tears. He sat down at the table. Titus put beer in front of him.

  ‘Some bread and cheese?’

  Rembrandt nodded.

  For a while he ate in silence.

  ‘If there’s anything that needs fetching just write it down for me. Or anything else I can do.’

  Rembrandt nodded.

  ‘How is she?’ said Titus.

  ‘In pain, cramps, vomiting,’ said Rembrandt, looking again at his grown-up son. The fact of which, for some reason, made him feel even more helpless.

  When he’d finished eating he wanted nothing more than to sit with Titus, to talk about the relative merits of nut over linseed oil or where the best herring could be bought, but he took himself off to the makeshift bed in the corridor. He must sleep now so he could be of use to her.

  *

  Titus must have roused him not long after. Hendrickje was screaming, his son said. Rembrandt found her doubled over. He felt panic. He was so ill-equipped, so lacking in experience. How much pain was considered bearable? When should he give the laudanum? Tulp had said to hold off for as long as possible as there was a limited amount and whether she lived or died, it had to last a few days. But how was he supposed to know how many? He resolved to wait.

  She was still suffering bouts of agonizing cramps and vomiting, with only very brief periods of respite in between. Like labour, he thought, but without anything to show for it in the end. He’d watched the midwife when Cornelia was being born, calm and efficient. Perhaps that’s what he had to become: a midwife helping his wife into the next world. He applied poultices of saffron, pigeon droppings and mustard as instructed by Tulp. They were meant to take the heat out of her body but how inadequate these measures were.

  Some time in the morning she cried out, ‘The bed’s on fire, I’m burning. Help me.’


  ‘It’s the fever, my love.’

  ‘No, quick, Rembrandt, put it out. Help me.’

  She screamed so violently that he had no doubt that she suffered the sensation of burning. He pulled the bedclothes off her and lifted her out of the bed on to the floor but she was still writhing as if being burned alive. He touched her back; the skin was very hot. Using a jug he sprinkled some water over her hair and chemise. It helped. Her panic subsided.

  ‘There is no fire, is there?’ she said. ‘My body is burning itself up. I wish it was over. How long do you think until I can be dead? My body, it’s too strong. It will go on for many a day yet.’

  Her body was strong. It was a good thing.

  ‘Don’t give up, Rika, you’ll come through this.’

  But the words had left behind a great hole where his faith used to be.

  She looked at him, as if wanting to believe him. But what good was there in giving her false hope? Perhaps the kindest thing would be to encourage her to forgo drink, to hasten things along as was her wish. He even considered for a moment offering her all of the laudanum. She would die instantly and without pain – but this he could not do. Only God knew if there was still hope.

  But given her intense pain and his despair, it seemed time to start administering the laudanum. ‘Tulp gave me this,’ he said. ‘It will help with the pain.’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked and already opened her mouth to receive the drops.

  ‘It’s made from opium.’

  ‘Why did you not tell me about it before? I was in agony,’ she said.

  ‘We have a limited amount of it and I did not want us to run out too early, with the pain getting worse all the time.’

  ‘What if one takes more than the allotted dose?’

  Was her mind bent the same way as his or was she merely wondering about the dosage? ‘Tulp said it would cause delirium and great difficulty in breathing,’ he told her.

  ‘I just hope each dose lasts for a good while. To know it’s there and not be able to take it would only be another kind of torture.’

  How bitter she sounded, but she was speaking more easily; perhaps the laudanum was already effective. Her chemise was soaked so he helped her take it off, and that’s when he saw the swelling in her armpit. The monstrous thing was sticking out half an inch. It looked as if a bone was poking out, stretching the skin and making it appear white and hard. Was it one of the deadly swellings Tulp had described? It was hard to remember his words. He dared not touch it and anyway it was better not to tell her while she was in such despair. She was shivering so he heaped on the blankets.

  ‘Lie with me,’ she said.

  ‘By Jove,’ he replied, ‘the lady is feeling better.’

  She smiled. ‘Consorting with a plague victim will easily make you the talk of the town once again; whether you’d get much custom afterwards is another question.’

  He laughed, wondering what to do. He was exposed to the disease anyway, so why not lie with her? He’d continue to be strict about keeping a good distance between himself and Titus and Cornelia. He slipped under the blankets. It had been three days now and she was still alive, and what a miracle the few drops of laudanum had worked. He’d discovered a swelling and yet he was feeling hopeful. He had to remember that the laudanum was no cure. It was only masking the pain.

  He closed his eyes, lying on his side. She lay facing away from him so he stroked her back and down her arms. He could feel all her ribs, so much of her flesh was gone. Then he held her frail little body against his. He wanted to protect her but all he could do was to look on.

  He woke to the sound of chattering teeth. ‘Please, more medicine,’ she begged.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rika, but three hours have not passed since the last dose, not even two.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘We’ll have to wait until the clock strikes five. We’ll manage till then.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something to keep your mind off things.’

  ‘That will have to be some tale,’ she said between spasms of chattering. ‘Tell it to someone on the rack – more chance it’ll distract them.’

  ‘Just listen,’ he said. ‘We’re in the forest, you know, the one you like.’

  She groaned, sounding angry, but he continued. ‘It smells of summer grasses and flowers. We are by the pool where I painted you. Remember the big oaks, sheltering us from wind and rain?’

  ‘Shut up and give me the laudanum.’ Her body was shaking ever more violently. But he carried on. Maybe he only kept talking to stop himself from fleeing the room. He focused on the tone of his voice, making it deeper, to try and penetrate through her pain, to let her know that there was still this world for her to return to. His voice resonated in his chest. The sensation made him feel less panic-stricken.

  ‘The surface of the lake is smooth, a mirror, not a breath of wind. A few leaves are floating there on the water. The sky, trees and shrubs reflected in it.’

  She cried out in pain, unmasking the futility of his efforts. Maybe he could ask Titus to sit with her for a little while. No, he could not expose Titus.

  Her eyes were closed, face muscles stretched taut. He closed his eyes to see better, to beat a path to her somehow.

  ‘Rika, can you hear me?’

  There was no answer. Then he thought of something he’d heard the midwife do. ‘When the next cramp comes I’ll count so you’ll know when it will be over.’

  She screamed and he counted, ‘Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four.’ She relaxed. He stopped counting. ‘There, now it’s over. You can rest a while.’

  When he noticed her body tensing again after a few minutes he counted again, this time from seven, so that the end of the count-down would coincide with the ending of the cramp. It did. She breathed out. They went on like this for the best part of an hour. They were ruled by the rhythm of the cramps; he had to keep pace with her pain, hoping she could use his voice as an anchor to keep her from insanity.

  Finally the cramps lessened of their own accord, which was probably just another stage of the illness. She lay still and he relaxed, relieved that things had eased for the moment.

  Then she whispered, ‘Open this. Undo the buttons, please!’

  But she was not wearing anything. Had her mind gone? He pulled away the cover to make her feel that she was unconstrained.

  To his surprise, she pushed herself up a little to a half-sitting position and then pointed at her stomach and legs. ‘This, look at this.’

  He could not comprehend her meaning. She continued in a very reasonable tone. ‘That body there – can you not see – it’s dying. We need to get rid of it. See? It stinks. Do something!’

  She looked at him, expectant and so sanguine. Then, with a speed he would not have thought possible, she grabbed the knife he’d left on the side table for chopping herbs for poultices. It was sharp. She held it to her stomach, the point digging into her.

  ‘I’m sewn into this thing; we need to cut it open so I can get out.’

  ‘No, my love, it’s your body. You can’t get out.’

  ‘What do you mean I can’t? You cannot expect me to stay in this cadaver.’

  He grabbed her wrist with one hand and wrested the knife from her. She screamed and struggled.

  He did not know what to do or say so he locked his arm around her until she tired. Then the clock struck five in the afternoon and he gave her more laudanum. As her body grew heavier and looser beside him he whispered, ‘I’m walking with you to the gate and if it opens we’ll go through it, together.’

  ‘Yes, my love,’ she replied, ‘to the invisible.’

  He played with the idea of drinking all the morphine as soon as she’d died, then perhaps they really could go together. It was such a comforting thought that he held on to it. The sensation of the glass vial against his lips, the liquid going down his throat, a soft nothing embracing him. And then he sang to her to help her into slee
p.

  I pray you may sleep until you are home.

  I pray you not suffer the tiniest storm.

  When we’re together we’ll sail once again

  The waves gently rocking, our two hearts to one,

  As vast as the ocean, till all else is gone.

  I’d never heard him sing before. And once I’d drifted off – not into the dullness of sleep but into a clear and present wakefulness – I was deep inside the forest, deeper than I had ever ventured before. The birds were singing, as if right by my ear, and the air was like balm. I let my wrap drop from my shoulders, not caring where it fell, skipping like a young girl ever further into the wood. After a while, I slowed to an ambling pace. My skirt seemed an encumbrance, so I undid it and left it behind, along with my cap and chemise. I could feel each blade of the soft grass brushing against my calves. When I reached a small clearing I stopped to contemplate the realm of green; the canopy above, the light-speckled grass, the network of branches and leaves that formed the undergrowth and grassy ground that led across the clearing to the other side. There was no path, only the glittering light which beckoned between the leaves, making me wish to reach it. I crossed the clearing and soon arrived at the shimmering waters of a round lake, as vividly blue as Rembrandt’s azurite. He always said to use it sparingly, for it likes to draw attention to itself.

  The air, thick with honeysuckle, roused me to walk on, along the bank through the tall grasses. Occasionally I climbed over a fallen tree or branches. There was no trace of anyone having set foot here – a virgin place. A heron stood on stalky legs poised to dart for fish.

  I looked at the water, smooth and alive. The entire lake a mirror, containing heron, shore, sky and overhanging trees. On a whim, I turned my back to the lake and looked at it through my legs. Everything was upside down, throwing what had previously seemed solid into question and making the fluid world seem tangible. As I righted myself I did my best to hang on to the illusion that the lake was the substantial world. I would dive into the impenetrable bank and find myself a pigment suspended in a fluid universe of countless things. Of course as soon as my foot touched the water a flurry of ripples passed through the syrupy green.