The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  Someone was hammering the knocker on the front door. Perhaps it was a tradesman expecting money, a pattern that never changed. If Hendrick had not called her she would have answered the door herself. Now she must leave it to Griet, who was equally well used to dealing with creditors. Her thoughts invariably went to her mother as she descended the second flight and turned by the newel post. She had no idea why, but she liked to believe she was being warned not to trip, for the last flight down to the stair hall was precipitous with barely enough room for two people to pass. By the time she reached the bottom tread the hammering had stopped. She sped from the stair hall, skipped two steps leading down from an archway into the corridor and hurried along it to reach the studio.

  “I’m here!” she announced as she entered.

  At the front door a tall, straight-backed young man in his mid-twenties had stepped from the stoop to regard the house with a frown. Was nobody at home? He had a shock of dark brown curly hair that grew fashionably to his shoulders and was kept temporarily in order by a black hat with a wide brim cocked at the side. His knee-length red coat was of good cloth, fitting well across his broad shoulders, and his bucket-topped boots were of fine leather. Under his arm he carried a lidded box. He had no wish to leave without fulfilling his mission and he looked upward to see if a window was opening in response to his knocking, but nothing happened.

  With no sign of life at the front of the Visser house, Pieter van Doorne decided he must try the back and went to the slatted wooden door at the side. Painted blue like the shutters and the main door of the house, it opened as he lifted the latch. His footsteps rang along the flags of the passageway within. The back door of the house was not the correct place to hand over the bulbs of a beautiful new tulip he had grown himself, they being worthy of a little ceremony, but there seemed no alternative. Normally he did not deliver his own wares, being far too busy and not through any sense of inflated pride, for he had built up his horticultural business the hard way and there was no humble task he had not carried out himself to establish it and ensure its success. It had happened today that he had found the staff on his market stall shorthanded due to illness and he had decided to do the delivery himself.

  From the passageway he emerged into a sizeable and pleasant courtyard with trees, a trellis-shaded alcove for summer eating at a table, benches set by it, and borders of well-tended flowers. A broom propped against the table and the piles of swept-up leaves suggested that someone had left the task to go indoors and would shortly return. The back door stood slightly ajar. Going across to it, he intended this time to give a shout, since knocking had failed to bring any response. The door swung back easily on its much-used hinges to reveal a long shadowy corridor, doors and archways on each side, which ran the considerable length of the house to a room at the front. Within the frame of an open doorway, he could see a rostrum draped with a Persian rug, showing that it was Master Visser’s studio. Illumined by its windows, it held the look of a stage set for a performance. All this he took in at a second and then in the next moment a slender girl with flowers in her copper-bright hair, her green satin skirts swirling, came into sight from another part of the room. The curious acoustics of the long corridor funneled her clear voice to him as she addressed somebody else in the room whom he could not see.

  “Aunt Janetje’s letter arrived only ten minutes ago. I knew you’d enjoy reading it. How far have you got? Oh yes, you’ve come to the last part, where she describes a reception at the Pitti Palace. One day I’m going to visit her and see the splendors of Florence for myself!”

  She flung back her head in ecstasy at the prospect, hugging her arms with her back arched. Pieter caught his breath at her unconsciously sensuous stance. He hoped she would look down the corridor and see him at the door. Instead she responded to some quip made by a man with a deep voice, whom Pieter guessed to be Master Visser himself. The girl’s laugh was full-throated and merry. Twirling round, she stepped lightly up onto the rostrum, picking up a foliage-trimmed staff and a bunch of flowers lying there, and then stood in a graceful pose. “I’m ready, Father,” she said, her gaze directed toward another part of the studio. Then, to his disappointment, the door of the studio swung closed, shutting off his sight of her as if her father had given it a push from where he stood by his easel.

  Pieter grinned, shaking his head that he should have remained standing on this spot as if he had lost his power of speech at the tantalizing glimpse of that delicious girl. He did not think she would have been the one sweeping the courtyard and he would try his luck again.

  “Hey!” he shouted, rapping the back door with his knuckles at the same time. “I’ve some bulbs here that I don’t intend to leave on the doorstep!”

  Down in the cellar, Griet, hunting for a sack in which to pack the leaves she had swept up in the courtyard, paused. Sighing with exasperation at the interruption, she shouted in reply as she mounted the stairs, “All right! I’ve heard you!”

  Her irritability melted away as soon as she saw him. It was not often that anyone as personable came to the back door and his height and the breadth of his shoulders seemed to fill the whole doorway. Aware of being comely herself, she thrust out her breasts and smoothed her apron as she sauntered toward him, glad now that she was not trailing an old sack behind her.

  “Good day to you, mejuffrouw,” he said with a wide smile, holding a box out to her. “These are tulip bulbs for Master Visser. He ordered them at my market stall in the spring and asked for them to be delivered when it was time for planting. It was agreed there would be payment when they were delivered.”

  She took the box from him, knowing through long experience how to deal with those optimistic enough to expect ready cash for their goods, although she wished in this case she could have seen his account settled and gained a still wider smile from him. She liked the chiseled look of his facial bones that gave him such a striking countenance, the nose large, the jaw well set, and there was a tan to his complexion that came from the open air and the sunshine of the summer past.

  “What is your name, mijnheer?” she asked, as much out of her own curiosity as the need to convey it to her master. Then, when he had told her, she added, “The master is at work in the studio and can’t be disturbed.” It was a phrase that came glibly to her lips whether it happened to be true at the time or not. “I will tell him you were here.”

  This was the point when those who had had to wait overlong for payment in the past began to show aggressiveness and set a foot squarely in the door. This young man merely shrugged, his lively, clear brown eyes under the straight brows holding a twinkle she did not understand, for it was not directed flirtatiously at her, which she would have liked.

  “Very well,” he said casually. “I can’t call back today, but the account is in with the bulbs and I will collect the money next time.”

  She felt a sense of shame that she could not warn him he would probably have to come several times before he saw as much as a stiver. When creditors became ruthlessly demanding she could retaliate forcefully, seizing the first opportunity to slam the door in their faces, but she was certain that Pieter van Doorne was going to be a problem. He would remain polite but persistent, making it harder each time to turn him away without his just dues. Knowing the master, she was sure the most expensive bulbs to be had were in the box she had received. Although it was his personal debt, eventually it might prove to be a matter for Juffrouw Francesca to handle. Usually it was best to try to keep her out of it, because she would empty her own purse of whatever money she had, and it was always little enough.

  “I thank you for calling. Good day to you, mijnheer.”

  As Pieter left by the way he had come, he smiled to himself. The maidservant had no idea how pleased he had been when she had not fetched a purse to pay him. If luck was with him he would meet the artist’s daughter the next time he called at the house.

  As he retraced his steps along the street, he felt stimulated by the first breath of October
, which had left September behind only the day before. The linden trees by the canal were golden and some late blooms still persevered in the flower beds that ran parallel with the water. He had been born in Haarlem and his tulip fields lay southwest of the old town, but recently he had bought a house in Amsterdam. He had always felt at home in the city’s hustle and bustle, its salty atmosphere with ships in the harbor making a forest of masts as far as the eye could see. Trade had caused the city to explode with wealth, and a political crisis in the Spanish Netherlands had brought an influx of Jewish diamond merchants, making Amsterdam the diamond center of the world. The Hague was still the capital and the seat of government, but it was overshadowed by flourishing Amsterdam. It was here that the Dutch East and West India Companies had established rich trade routes to every corner of the globe. Holland, with its fleet of three hundred thousand ships, was the master mercantile nation, respected by all her rivals, even England, with whom there had been two recent short, sharp naval wars. Every merchant ship was heavily armed to meet with any skirmish involving old enemies or the privateers that plagued the seas. This defense ensured less risk also for those who invested in cargoes, something he had done himself to great advantage through the city’s Exchange. He would later this very day plow some of his profits back into the same stream.

  If there was any cloud on the horizon it was in the threat that France represented to Holland’s peace and prosperity. It was obvious to many that Louis XIV had set his greedy eyes on the richest prize in Europe and it was impossible to dismiss the conviction that sooner or later he would pounce. It was odd how powerful men never learned from history. The Spanish had tried for eighty years, from the previous century into the early years of this one, to make Holland their own, using cruelty to captives that stunned the mind, but in the end it was mighty Spain that had weakened itself by widespread wars and its struggles against a little country where so much of the land had to be protected from the sea by dikes.

  When Pieter arrived again at Dam Square, he checked that all was well at his stall. From there he set off to a coffeehouse where he had made an appointment to meet a merchant in order to discuss some business before they both went on to the Exchange. He was aware of smiling to himself again, thoughts of that vivacious girl dancing in his head.

  In the studio on the rostrum Francesca now had a parchment map of Italy to look at. Janetje had sent it as a gift to Hendrick one St. Nicholaes’s Day, telling him she wanted to be sure her nieces knew exactly where she was living. Francesca’s gaze always lingered on Florence, Rome and Venice, the three cities she most wanted to see one day.

  It was as well that the request she had once made to have the portrait of Titus hanging there had never been granted, for no matter what expression Hendrick might have wanted, her face could have shown only sadness when looking at it. In September last year Titus had died of a fever after only six months of marriage, just knowing that his wife, Magdelena, was pregnant with the baby they had both wanted. Again Rembrandt had found solace in work, but this bereavement had finally broken him and he had become a very old man, his hair completely white and his health failing. At least Cornelia was a devoted daughter and he, at the age of sixty-three, could never have managed in that humble little house on Rozengracht, forgotten and ignored, if she had not been there to take care of him.

  “If we hadn’t gone out to sketch those spring flowers in April and May when we did,” Hendrick said from the easel, “those silk flowers you’re holding and those on your head would have made a poor Flora of you.”

  “I’m sure they would, Father!” She had dropped her babyhood name of Papa for him on the day she had shouldered the responsibilities of the household.

  “Now your garlands look freshly picked, even to a touch of dew.”

  “Is this the final sitting?” Her tone was hopeful. It was always hard not to be the one with brush and palette in hand.

  “No. There’ll be one more. I’ll not finish by midday.”

  “I could sit again this afternoon.” She spoke purposefully. “Then it would be finished.”

  “I have an appointment,” he answered in a falsely self-important tone that did not deceive her, merely confirming that he was set on pleasure. It was one of those times when he had decided to reward himself with a break from work.

  “You have another appointment with Willem tomorrow morning at eleven-thirty. Wouldn’t you like to have the painting ready to show him? I’m sure he’s expecting it to be finished.”

  “Willem can wait another day.”

  She breathed deeply. “Father! You try his patience to the limit. He’s one of the best art dealers in Amsterdam and all too often you treat him like a peddler!”

  “He knows me well enough to realize I mean him no offense,” Hendrick answered jovially. “He’s my oldest friend.”

  “All the more reason why you should respect him and his efforts to sell your work.” She chose not to remind him of Willem’s constant and well-meant persuasion that he should paint subjects that would be easier to sell, because this matter, as well as Hendrick’s whim in leaving work on the point of completion, were sore points between the two men. Nevertheless, it hung unspoken in the air and might as well have been said.

  Hendrick changed one brush for another, taking a rich sienna onto its tip, and gave her a warning frown. “Don’t nag me, Francesca. Your mother never did and I’ll not take it from you. If you don’t watch out you’ll end up with a shrew’s tongue.” Then he grinned maliciously as angry color flooded into her cheeks. “Your temper is spoiling your complexion. Fortunately I have finished your face,” he concluded smugly.

  She knew it amused him to goad her whenever he had the chance to get back at her for trying to keep him at work longer than he wished. But how could she not when persistently he ignored unpaid bills and continued to live as nonchalantly as ever. Apart from the monetary side of it, there was the waste of his great talent. His debauchery was taking its toll on his eyesight and his hands. After a night’s carousal in a tavern his fingers shook too much to do a stroke of work, even if his aching head had permitted it.

  To let him know her displeasure she made no attempt at conversation again. He retaliated by whistling tunelessly under his breath, knowing it to be an irritating sound and one she could not tolerate when she was working at her easel in the studio with him. Not for the first time she thought what an overgrown, undisciplined boy he was at heart. He ignored his fifty years as if they had taken no toll on his looks and physique. Yet maybe that contributed to the unassailable charm he could exert whenever it suited him. Very soon now he would tire of his whistling prank and make some promise to win her good humor. He never liked to be on bad terms with anyone for long.

  “I’ll tell you what we’ll do to finish this painting in time,” he announced cheerily ten minutes later.

  “What’s that?” It had taken five minutes less than she had anticipated for him to have a change of conscience.

  “I’ll come home at a reasonable hour tonight, and early tomorrow morning we’ll start work again. Then, by the time Willem arrives, the painting will be done.”

  He looked so confident, his big smile enveloping her, that she wavered in his favor. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. It’s only a matter of final touches.”

  “May I see the painting now?” she asked. He never liked his work to be viewed before the final stages.

  “Yes,” he said, standing back to study it. Then, emerging from the grip of concentration, he realized suddenly how much time must have elapsed since her last rest period. He did not like to have a clock in the studio, finding it distracted him. “You’re overdue for relaxing in any case and I suppose it’s getting near the time for the noon-meal bell.”

  She had put down her bunch of flowers and the staff to stretch her arms out before her, flexing her fingers. “I’m sure it is. I feel quite hungry.”

  Shaking out her skirts, she stepped down from the rostrum, her face alig
ht with expectation. She had almost reached the easel when she swayed, all color draining from her face. Hendrick grabbed her in alarm. Since losing Anna any sign of illness terrified him.

  “You’ve modeled too long without a break! Let me help you to the couch and I’ll fetch Maria!”

  “No!” Almost desperately she thrust herself away from him, recovering herself. “It was nothing. Maria mustn’t be called—you know how she fusses.”

  He saw the rose was returning to her cheeks. In his thankfulness he was irritable. “You should have reminded me you needed a rest,” he said testily, shifting the blame from himself.

  “Yes, I should have,” she answered absently, confused by that inexplicable sense of dread that had assailed her as she approached the easel. She considered herself to be practical and levelheaded, not given to whims and fancies, but for a matter of moments it was as if the studio had turned icy and there was a terrible threat to her that lay in the painting itself. Yet it was the work of a man who loved his children. How could it possibly portend any danger? Even the subject was close to her heart, for she was a lover of spring and its flowers, especially the tulip. Lifting her chin resolutely, she went to the front of the painting to come face to face with herself as Flora.

  Instantly all her qualms fled. She uttered a little cry of relief and admiration. Before her was her father’s best work for a long time and it had nothing to do with her being the sitter. When Hendrick painted like this he could have made a superb picture with a wooden post as the subject. Here was his masterly technique at its height in the fluid flow of the impasto. Anna’s death had had a profound effect upon his work. His colors had become more somber and he had dropped the theatrical and overemphasized gestures of his figures to take up a more restrained and sensitive approach that had benefited his work enormously, enabling him to convey a whole new range of emotion. Here Flora gloried almost shyly in the gifts she was bringing, the shadows of winter falling away behind her, and a more subtle use of his beloved red and gold and hot orange caught the sun’s brilliance in her hair. His varied and expressive brushwork was at its peak, the sweet, fresh flowers tumbling from her arms seeming to emit their fragrance, the silks and satin of her robes almost to rustle.