by Aubrey Flegg
‘You’ve been watching her!’ he accused. ‘You’ve seen her – and you’re scared silly!’
‘Of course I’ve seen her!’ snapped his master. ‘If you could see beyond the length of your nose I’d make you paint her yourself.’ Then he became conspiratorial, ‘Tell you what … we’ll scare her off! Watch me.’
‘No, you –’
Just then there was a knock on the door. It opened, and Mistress Kathenka came in and stepped to one side.
‘Master,’ she said, ‘Miss Eeden.’ She bobbed a curtsy towards him. The girl followed her into the room, looking around to see where the Master was. Then she curtsied too, but deeper, an obeisance almost. Out of the corner of his eye, Pieter was aware of Kathenka, first glaring at the Master and then shooting a warning glance at him. He looked at the girl with interest. Her dress was covered by an unadorned cloak, her face was plain. She had dropped her eyes – demure – he thought. He had seen a dozen rich girls and fine ladies come in that door; this was just another. The Master would do a competent job and get a fat fee for it. There was nothing here for the Master to be agitated about at any rate. The Mistress closed the door and Pieter dropped a chip of lapis lazuli into the hollow of his grinding block. Work had to go on.
Perhaps it was the flash of blue from the precious stone that caught her eye, but the girl looked around. Her glance lasted only a second, for as long as it takes lightning to cross the sky, but in that second Pieter understood what it was that had the Master in a state of agitation. Later he would say that she thrilled and shimmered, as if a sudden light had fallen on blowing silk. At other times he would say that it was as if her whole body had suddenly become transparent – a shell revealing a hidden girl within – someone full of wild wonder, pulsing with life. But by then he was in love with her. At this moment, however, he was realising why the Master had been behaving so strangely.
Two years ago, Jacob Haitink had given Pieter an exercise to do; his challenge was to draw an empty glass, and it nearly killed him.
‘Pieter,’ the Master had said when at last he had succeeded, ‘I have one great fear, and that is that one day someone will walk in that door who is completely without conceit. Someone who is as transparent as your empty glass there. That is a portrait I must never paint, because you see, Pieter, people’s conceits are what we paint. We caricature them, we expose their little vanities, we flatter them. But someone who is without conceit is as intangible and as illusive as your empty glass. Truly, if such a person comes in you must stop me, because if I try, it will destroy me.’ Pieter looked at the girl again now; the vision had passed. How do you paint something that has no apparent form, no outline, but just exists in numerous reflections and refractions of imagined light? Could this girl really be the Master’s nemesis, his end?
Stepping into the studio from the dark stairway, Louise was dazzled by the light. The room was longer and larger than she had expected. It must be a single attic spread over two adjoining houses. The ceiling was arched, following the line of the supporting timbers of the roof. She felt as if she had walked into the inside of an upturned boat. Suffused light from dormer windows on the north side filled the room. The windows to the south were curtained, except for one, through which a blaze of morning sun was streaming. She noticed that the Mistress was curtsying, but couldn’t, for the moment, see to whom. Then she saw him, the Master, in the very centre of the stream of sunlight. His pose was dramatic, one arm raised as if to make a proclamation. Her first impression was of a rather squat mediaeval herald in a tabard; all he lacked was a trumpet. When he was sure that she had seen him, he plucked a ridiculous, floppy, white beret from his head, swept it across his chest, and bowed. Louise was delighted and responded with the deepest curtsy she could achieve without actually falling over.
As she rose, she heard Mistress Kathenka close the door behind her. So, she was on her own now, and the Master was hurrying in her direction, swinging his hat across the floor as if sweeping a path for her with it.
‘Miss Eeden, you are so welcome!’ he boomed, bowing again. ‘Come and sit down, you can take your clothes off later; it is still cool … ’ Louise blinked – perhaps she did need a chaperone after all? She thought of poor, fussy little Annie below and all her worst fears, but somehow she didn’t feel in immediate danger. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a flash of blue, like a glimpse of a kingfisher, skimming fast and low over the water of the Schiekanaal. She turned and found herself staring at a boy, a little older than herself, standing by what looked like a tree stump in the corner of the studio. There was that gleam of blue again! It came from a piece of stone he held in his hand. Of course, an apprentice, the Master would have an assistant. As Louise turned, she caught the boy staring, grim-faced, at his master. But when he saw her looking at him, he smiled, and his smile was big and generous. Her first impression was that he was most wonderfully ugly. He looked as if he had been whittled out of a piece of wood by someone using a blunt penknife. Her heart opened to him in a sudden affinity. She wanted to smile back, but shyness overcame her. Blushing, she turned away, to find the Master busily dusting a chair for her with his hat.
‘Sit down, my dear and we will have a little chat.’
As Louise settled herself, she could feel the unaccustomed slip and movement of her dress, as the silk protested beneath her cloak. There were strange and exciting scents. The studio, or this corner of it, had obviously been set up for her portrait. There was an easel with a canvas on it; the wooden stretchers at its back were turned to her. Beyond this was a chair, for the Master, presumably, and a table. She craned to see what was on it: a blue Delft-ware jug containing brushes of various lengths and thicknesses, some green bottles filled with liquids, pottery jars, and what looked like small bladders, all neatly tied at their tops.
‘I’ll need more white lead, Pieter,’ said the Master, fussing with the brushes and poking at the little bladders. He put his floppy hat on, took it off, shook it, and put it back on again. He gave the impression of constant motion. Now he was searching for something.
‘Pieter, what have you done with my palette?’
Suddenly, as if remembering his manners, he said, ‘Miss Louise, this is my apprentice, Mr Kunst.’ The boy with the kingfisher stone bowed. Louise had a smile ready prepared for him this time.
‘Well … ’ the Master pursued. ‘My palette?’
‘It’s hanging on the table in its usual place,’ the boy replied in a resigned tone. His voice was deep and resonant. ‘But, Master, you don’t paint on a first day,’ he added.
‘Of course I do.’
It was difficult for Louise to say at first if the artist was clowning or serious. At the moment he was glaring angrily at his thumb as he tried to fit his palette over it. The thumb emerged and he smiled. ‘Now for a brush,’ he said, selecting a long slender one from the jug and making a pass with it in the air like a fencer. Louise wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to smile or not. His moods seemed to change like quicksilver. Without warning, he turned to her, and spread his arms wide as if pleading.
‘Miss Eeden, surely you don’t want to be cooped up in here with a mad old painter and his imbecile apprentice! Look, the sun is splitting the skies.’ He made a vague gesture with his palette. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to be out there? Come back some other day when – ’ A sharp cough from the boy in the corner cut him short; the Master turned and glared at the him and then snapped: ‘Get on with your work.’
‘Oh no, I want to be here,’ Louise assured him. ‘I really do. This is far more interesting.’ Her answer appeared to surprise the painter, and his eyebrows shot up, nearly disappearing under his hat.
‘Oh indeed? Interesting. Do you hear that, Pieter?’ he said, turning to where the boy was working, jutting a defiant chin at him. ‘And there was you wanting a day off so you could go chasing young maidens through the meadows. Here is a lesson for you, a young lady who is actually interested in our work!’
Louise felt a blus
h mounting. She hadn’t meant to get the boy into trouble. But the Master was smiling now, as if he had settled a small score. He pretended to flex the paintbrush in his hand like a rapier. Then, in another sudden change of mood, he put down his palette, dropped the brush into the jug, and turned to her. She noticed that his smile crinkled his eyes into a thousand bright lines.
‘So, I am to paint a portrait of Miss Louise Eeden?’
‘Yes, Master, please. That is my father’s wish.’
‘But it is not yours?’
‘Oh yes, it is,’ she said.
He bowed in acceptance. Louise was relieved that he was being serious; it made it easier. She had rehearsed this bit, because she had her own ideas of how she wanted her portrait painted. ‘Master,’ she said, ‘I am familiar with your pictures. That is why I wanted to come to you. I am no grand lady, nor do I have the looks to … to be admired. I just want to be painted as I am.’
‘But, my dear, that is what a portrait is.’
She felt panicky now; it was difficult to explain. She knew what everyone expected – it was part of the conspiracy – the portrait of an heiress on the eve of her marriage. She couldn’t tolerate that, but how could she say this without giving offence?
‘Of course, Master, but, how can I put it … I don’t want to be painted like a grand lady – looking as if I had a lemon in my mouth.’ His eyebrows were rising again, so she hurried on. ‘You remember your portrait of the Beggar at the Begijnhof gate? That old man, I love him, he lives. I want to live in my portrait, too. Let me be painted playing my lute, or looking through the telescope Father and I are building. Nobody wants to look at Miss Louise Eeden sitting stiff as a stuffed parrot. Let me just be “Girl in a green dress”.’ Louise was running out of words. He had to understand. But he was laughing at her.
‘No, no, no, my child. That’s not a portrait you are talking about; it is a tronie. It’s the sort of picture we paint when funds are low. Pieter and I painted that picture of the beggar together, didn’t we? What did we pay him, Pieter? A few stuivers to sit for us in the studio here, and then we hunted his fleas for a fortnight. The people who buy tronies want the beggar without the fleas. Your father is the finest potter in Delft,’ he bowed, ‘a member of the Guild of St Luke. He would never accept a mere tronie of his daughter. There is custom and practice in these things. We all know why a father wants his daughter painted at a time like this. This is a moment to stop the world, to show it that he has brought up a girl of beauty and fashion. Can you imagine him accepting a picture showing, “Miss Eeden dressed as a bargee’s daughter on the occasion of her engagement to –”’
‘No!’ Louise shouted, surprised at herself. ‘On the occasion of nothing!’ She half rose, taking breath. She had to kill this off once and for all. But a change had taken place in the Master; he was leaning forward, one hand held out as if to stop her. The paintbrush, which he had been holding, went skittering across the floor. She wondered if he was ill, having a seizure? But he was whispering at her, a hoarse, urgent sound.
‘Stop! Don’t move!’ She realised that he was trying to prevent her getting up. She deflected her protest by swivelling away from him. She looked up and found herself staring straight into the eyes of the boy with the blue stone. For what seemed like an eternity, none of them moved.
Tap tap … tap tap. Tap tap … a pigeon had landed on the windowsill and was pecking at the glass. The sound broke the spell. The bird cocked its head sideways and peered into the studio expectantly. The Master sighed.
‘Pieter, feed our friend, will you.’ Louise watched the boy cross to the window, open it and shake some grain on to the windowsill. There was a soft froo froo and the hollow peck of a beak on the wood. Louise stared at the bird, her thoughts confused. What had she said? You don’t argue with a master of his trade. You don’t tell him how to do his job. He was coming towards her now, a polite handshake and it would be over. To her surprise she felt his fingers, gentle on her cheek, and he turned her face towards him.
‘Come, my love. I will paint you as you wish.’
‘Like the beggar at the Begijnhof gate?’
‘So that you live, my heart, and will live as long as paint and canvas last.’ She looked up into the old man’s face, a creased conflict of lines. ‘It will hurt us both, you know. You don’t become a beggar from sleeping in a feather bed.’
‘And you, Master?’ She asked, worried at the pain in those deep-etched lines. He smiled, but as he turned away she caught the words: ‘Me? … me it could destroy.’
He bent to pick up the brush he had dropped. ‘In a moment, Miss Louise Eeden,’ he said as he straightened up, ‘we will begin again. I have seen the beggar in you, but I will have to wake him. Listen to me now, because we have just one chance to find him. If I call out for you to hold your pose again you are to do so, and you will not move an inch nor twitch a muscle. If you move once it will be over and I will paint you with eleven lemons in your mouth and marry you off to Pieter here!’ He flexed his brush and made a pass at the boy; the clown had returned.
Galileo
Chapter 3
‘So, I am to paint Miss Louise Eeden as we painted the beggar at the Begijnhof gate,’ the Master said, gazing up at the ceiling. ‘It makes me itch just to think of him. But how about your father? If his daughter refuses to sit for me as the young lady he might expect, will he approve of her as a beggar, and more importantly, will he pay?’
‘Oh he will pay, and I’m sure he never meant it to be a formal portrait. I think he only thought about a picture of me when he bought the silk for my dress.’
‘Ah! The famous silk dress. Come, let us see it. Your father told me, and I’m afraid my heart sank.’ He came over to her. ‘Your cloak … if I may help?’ Louise stood up. She loosened the clasp and he lifted the cloak from her shoulders and stepped back. The captive silk cascaded around her with a whisper.
‘Aah!’ The Master sighed, and the sound of grinding stopped. He walked around her, breathing heavily through his nose. ‘Green silk from China … silk of Cathay! Bought from the very ship, your father says. Do you see it, Pieter? A challenge, eh! Your father did not exaggerate. But do you know how difficult it is for us to paint in green? There is no such thing as a green paint to match this, no green that we can pound up and smear on our palette. The colours in this dress will have to be built up layer upon layer. Pieter, bring over a piece of the lapis lazuli you are grinding.’ He waited while the boy came across the room and opened his hand. There it was – the brilliant blue she had seen that moment when she had come into the room.
‘Beautiful,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t you ask why we use blue and not green?’ the Master queried.
‘You have already said, Master, that there is no green paint you can use, so that means you must use blue and yellow. But to grind up jewels is beyond belief, and how do you mix them? The yellow that you use must be clear and translucent for the blue to shine through.’
‘Listen to her, Pieter.’ Master Haitink said with unfeigned surprise. ‘The young lady knows more about our business than is safe. Perhaps she is a spy sent by that rogue Fabritius to learn our secrets. We must take care.’
‘You forget, Master,’ reminded his apprentice, ‘that you have not told even me how you compound your yellows. It is your last secret.’ The boy tossed the blue stone in the air and walked back to his corner.
‘Last secret indeed! The day you get your indentures back, Pieter, I will tell you.’ He stepped back, looking at Louise in admiration. ‘Oh, Miss Eeden let me paint you standing there. I will put a crown on your head and a sceptre in your hand.’
‘And all eleven lemons in my mouth?’ laughed the girl.
‘Sit, child. Let me prepare you; I have a vision to capture again.’ Louise sat, while his hands flew over her, detached and professional, arranging the folds of the dress, fluffing out the white linen sleeves of her blouse where they emerged from the stiff, half-sleeved bodice. ‘So this is
the latest fashion?’ he said, as he lifted the white linen cloth from her head and explored where Annie had rolled her hair at the back. She had bound the roll of hair with a double strand of seed pearls. ‘With your permission …’ he undid one of the strands so that it could hang free. ‘Now, see, it frames your face.’ He stood back then and frowned.
‘Pieter,’ he said. ‘We have too much light in here.’ He tapped his foot impatiently while the boy crossed the room and drew the curtains against the morning sun. The stream of yellow light was snipped off and the room darkened. The boy joined his master, and they both stood staring at the dress.
‘Surely you want all the light you can get?’ asked Louise, disappointed and uncomfortable under their joint scrutiny.
‘Oh no, it is not quantity, but quality of light that we need. Look down at your dress, to where I am pointing, and you will understand what I mean. Tell me, what colours do you see?’
Louise looked and was puzzled. ‘Colours…? Well, green …?’
‘Ah yes, green, but what green? How many greens? Look, here within the folds.’ He pointed to a deep fold that opened from her right knee. ‘See … down in here, where the light is less, the green is darker. Now we rise towards the light.’ As Louise followed his finger, it was as if she was watching a magic brush trailing a continuum of different shades of green behind it.
‘Yes, Master, I see!’ she said delightedly. ‘Why did I never notice? There are thousands of greens here.’
‘Ah ha! People just don’t see. And look, where the light from the crest of this fold is reflected into the almost black shadow of the fold next to it? Here we have reflected light. That is why Pieter closed the curtains. Now, with light coming just from the windows facing north, no one colour dominates. Each colour, while subdued, is correct in relation to the colours around it.’