by Aubrey Flegg
‘Father says that all the colours in the world are hidden in a single beam of light. That a rainbow isn’t painted onto the sky but is made from the way light shines on the rain.’ She was beginning to enjoy herself. Men – other than Father, that is – never talked to her like this. She wanted to ask him about the other colours, but then she realised that he had backed away from her. She looked up; he was observing her with his head cocked to one side. The look went on and on. Then he said, almost to himself:
‘I see you, child. You are like a sneeze that will not come.’ In a normal voice he said: ‘Tell me about your father. There are some in town that are suspicious of people who delve into mysteries like the nature of light. Some people believe that we should leave the heavens to God and let him paint the rainbows in the sky. Your father is a freethinker?’
Louise nodded enthusiastically. ‘Father says we must question everything. He plans to introduce philosophy in the school if he is elected to the Town Council.’
‘Does he, indeed?’ The Master was looking at her again; his eyes were narrowed this time. He picked up a slender paintbrush and idly fingered the bristles as if they made the point of a sword. ‘You say he is building a telescope?’
‘We both are!’ Louise corrected, but added, a little lamely, ‘Well, actually the cooper from the pottery is making the tube for us.’
‘Your honesty is commendable, my dear, but that will not protect you from error.’ He dropped the brush back into its jug and squared up to her, hands on hips. ‘I suppose you support this newfangled idea that the earth spins about the sun?’
Louise was taken aback. Did anyone still believe that the earth stood stationary, and that the sun moved around it? She glanced across at the apprentice; he half-smiled and dropped his gaze. The Master, who had seen her look, growled. ‘Get on with your work, Pieter, you won’t understand our learned discussion here.’ She felt indignant for the young man; there was nothing she could do for him, but she could challenge the Master.
‘Can it really be, sir, that you think that the sun spins about the earth?’ she asked.
‘Of course it does. Use the evidence of your eyes. The sun rises in the east – or it did when I last looked – it traverses the heavens, and then it sinks in the west. It doesn’t achieve this by standing still, my dear.’
‘But, Galileo –’
‘Galileo be damned,’ he interrupted rudely. ‘If the sun did not move, then the earth would have to spin like a top to compensate. You, my dear, would be thrown off it, so too would every movable object. Pigs would fly; even Pieter would be snatched from his just deserts at the gates of hell. Look what happens!’ To Louise’s alarm, the artist began to spin. ‘Watch my sleeves,’ he shouted as he flashed around. ‘See how they fly out! You, my dear, would be spun off the globe and would crack your head on the floor of heaven before you could say lapis lazuli.’ Here he lost balance and collapsed onto the low chair behind his easel where Louise could only see his legs. ‘Give up, my dear. You may not have heard of Aristotle, the Greek philosopher, but he got it right; we have no authority to change our minds … ’ Then he groaned, ‘Lord how the room swims.’
Louise smiled. Serve you right, she thought, but she was relieved that he hadn’t done himself an injury. Nevertheless, she resented his presumption that she had not heard of Aristotle.
‘You mean Aristotle’s crystalline spheres, I presume?’ she said, and cocked her head, waiting for his response. Slowly his head appeared around the edge of the canvas. ‘Pieter,’ he said humbly. ‘Miss Eeden knows her Aristotle. We must look to our laurels.’
‘Eight spheres,’ Louise said, conscious that she was showing off. The Master rose carefully, holding on to the edge of the canvas to steady himself. He began to incant, his voice taking on a dreamy, inward sounding tone.
‘At the centre lies the earth, changeable and corruptible; about this circles the moon, a celestial orb, perfect and incorruptible. This is the divine plan. Then come the eight crystalline spheres slipping past each other, each with its own heavenly burden: one for the sun, and seven for the planets. Then comes the outer firmament, in which are embedded the fixed stars, the stars that do not change.’ As the Master spoke he used his hands, eloquently describing the spheres for Louise in the air in front of him. She was moved, and a little ashamed at having shown off. It was indeed a beautiful concept, and it had a divine simplicity, but she had to respond.
‘Master, I would like to think that you were right, but with our telescope we will see things that I’m afraid prove beyond doubt that these beautiful crystal spheres cannot in fact exist. How will you explain the movements of the four moons that circle Jupiter? How can these circle the planet if Jupiter is set in crystal – frozen as if in ice?’
‘The answer, my dear, is simple; they cannot, therefore there is no point in looking!’
‘But –’
He held up his hand. ‘No but, my dear. You have described it perfectly. If you look through the clear ice of a canal in winter you will often see a fish that has become frozen into it. If I were to tell you that smaller fishes could be seen swimming through the ice about it, you would dismiss me for a fool because fish can’t swim in ice, no more can moons orbit in crystal. It is therefore a waste of God’s time to look.’
Louise was dumbfounded. She shook her head; he really meant what he had said! Speaking as clearly and precisely as she could, she said: ‘On the contrary, Master, I would look and, if they did move, I would tell you that you were mistaken. That the fish could not be frozen in the ice as you thought, just as I tell you now, Jupiter cannot be set in crystal.’
‘But, child, what arrogance! Don’t you know in your heart that supreme concepts are greater than mere facts? That the sacred Aristotle’s model of the universe must outweigh the observations of a sixteen-year-old girl with a telescope? Your telescope lies.’ Louise’s head was beginning to swim. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry. What made it worse was the realisation that she liked this cantankerous old man. She wanted his approval more than anything, but he belonged in the past. What could she do? She felt the blood surging into her face, a sure sign of danger. When she flared like this with Annie she usually said something that she regretted. But truth would out.
‘Sir, how can a telescope lie?’ she demanded. ‘When we get our lenses I will show you, and you will see with your own eyes.’ She looked up at him. She was pleading, but it was no use; he had clapped his hands over his eyes.
‘No, I will not look. There is no need. It is not for me to change; it is your belief in your instrument that is at fault.’
Louise had had enough. She gathered herself for a final thrust, then she would go. ‘If Aristotle had had a telescope, Master,’ she said, ‘he would have looked, but unlike you, he would have changed his mind. Respectfully sir, you are two thousand years out of date.’ She leant forward, preparing to rise and leave this place. She was bitterly disappointed. She had won the argument, but at what price? She even felt the victor’s burst of compassion for the vanquished. It was then that she looked up.
Everything in the studio seemed to have changed. The apprentice was bent towards her, gripping the sides of his grinding block. The Master had his hands held out to stop her, freezing her in her place. In one all-encompassing instant Louise Eeden realised that the victory was not hers, but his. She had fallen into a trap. She could hear him shouting as he scrabbled for a stick of charcoal. His voice seemed to come from a distance.
‘Nay, nay child, don’t move!’ But he had opened her like an oyster, she had no wish or mind to move. She froze for him, and she held that pose, it seemed forever.
Pieter hadn’t been listening, his mind had wandered; their argument meant little to him. For a while he had tried to see in the girl the look that had so intrigued him when she came in, but it was gone. He concentrated on scrutinising each chip of lapis for traces of the grey limestone from which it had been chipped. The smallest trace would cause the paint to s
icken and fade. He began the cautious business of grinding. Then suddenly he heard the Master shouting, and looked up, startled.
‘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.
Reynier
Chapter 4
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 st
epped 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.