“It’s pretty.” Francesca seated herself in the chair opposite Maria. “Is it for a collar?”
Maria gave her a direct look. “A bridal bodice, I hope.”
“It’s useless to have me in mind and don’t pin your hopes on Aletta, because she’s as ambitious as I am!” Francesca’s tone was firm. “Sybylla is the one most likely to wear it.”
Maria sighed in exasperation. “I don’t understand you. Suppose your heart should run away with you one day.”
“I’ll not let it.” Francesca spoke confidently, leaning back against the cushions in her chair and resting her hands on the rounded ends of its arms. “The prospect of marriage is specter enough for me to keep my head. The state of matrimony would stamp me into waiting on a husband and into motherhood as well as countless social duties that I can avoid now. Once a ring was on my finger I’d have no time to paint.”
“Fiddlesticks! Of course there would be.”
“Only if I married an artist.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he would understand and cooperate.”
“Then look for one.”
“I’m not sufficiently interested.”
Maria tried another angle. “But what of children? You’re so fond of them and so maternal toward everyone in the household when the need arises.”
Francesca turned her head and gazed into the fire. The glow of the flames flickered over her face, but her lashes shadowed her eyes and hid the expression in them. “I would like to have a child. Maybe when I have established myself as an artist there will be time before I’m too old to have a family of my own. But for the foreseeable future I’ve dedicated myself to an aim that will give me no peace until I have achieved it.” She pushed back the cuff of her sleeve with a half smile and regarded her wrist. “I think there must be a mixture of oil and pigment flowing in these veins.”
“More’s the pity,” Maria muttered under her breath. When it was a choice between paintings and babies she would have chosen a third generation to watch over any day.
Francesca heard her, but made no comment. Maria could never comprehend the creative force in her that made it impossible to follow any other path. It was how it had been for her father and now it was the same for Aletta and for her. A beacon that was forever beckoning.
The sound of someone crossing the reception hall caused her to spring to her feet in relief. “Father is home!” But when she went to see for herself it was Griet coming from the kitchen. She had been spending the evening with a friend and was on her way up to her room. Francesca bade her good night and returned to the fireside. Not long afterward Maria went to bed too.
Francesca settled down to wait awhile longer, angry and disappointed that her father should have failed to keep his word yet again. Why was she always taken in by his promises? It was one of the many times when she had wanted to stamp her foot at his fecklessness, but she knew that if he should come staggering in now, displaying that shamefaced bravado that he adopted at such times, it would be hard not to let pity for him overwhelm her exasperation.
When the clock was well past midnight she left a lamp burning for him and took a candle to light the way upstairs. Ascending the flight, she pondered on the most tactful way to break the news to Willem in the morning that the Flora painting was not ready. Many times he had shown himself on the brink of refusing to handle Hendrick’s work any longer and had issued a warning to that effect on his last visit. She feared that when he came on the morrow and found the long-promised painting unfinished, he would turn on his heel and go from the house forever. No other art dealer of repute would tolerate Hendrick’s erratic ways. If her father should fall into the hands of rogue dealers he would never get a fair price for a painting again.
In the run of her thoughts she was gripped again by the sense of foreboding that had afflicted her earlier in the day, the same dread sweeping over her, and she gripped the handrail. In the glow of the candle fear was stark in her eyes.
Chapter 4
ON THE STROKE OF HALF PAST ELEVEN THE NEXT MORNING, Griet opened the door to Willem de Hartog. He greeted her courteously and stepped indoors onto the long Persian rug that was always laid down to honor expected visitors. He handed her his cloak and gloves but not his large hat, since headgear was worn by men as much indoors as out. He doffed it to Francesca as she came across the stair hall and through the archway into the brightness of the reception hall. A silver-framed Venetian mirror reflected her approach. He was struck anew by the unusual beauty of the girl with her blazing hair, gold earbobs in her lobes, and her simple gown of russet wool.
“Good day, mijnheer. Welcome to our home again,” she said.
He observed her serious smile and was alerted to things not being quite as they should be. It could only mean what he feared. “I thank you, Francesca. You’re looking well. I trust it is the same with Hendrick and your sisters.”
“They are in good health. Please sit down. Griet has gone to fetch refreshment for you.”
He remained standing and a frown gathered his brows together ominously. “Is the painting not finished?”
“If you will just sit for a few moments, I will tell you about it.” She sat down herself by the large stone-canopied fireplace that was inset with blue Delft tiles patterned with dancing figures and where peat burned with a cheerful flicker of flame. Her hope that he would take the chair opposite her came to nothing, for he did not move from where he stood.
“Do you mean that Hendrick is not even here to receive me?” His voice held a rising note of rumbling anger.
“I’m hoping for his return at any moment.”
“What time did he go out?”
She drew in a deep breath. “Yesterday afternoon.”
“Bah!” He threw up his hands in exasperation, his complexion tinged red with annoyance. In his own mind he took a guess as to how those hours of absence had been spent by this errant artist. There would be gaming with cards, but something more as well. He was not setting himself up as a moralist, but he thought marriage a great deal tidier for such matters. But Hendrick would never marry again and the reason was obvious. No second wife must ever enter Anna’s home and domain. It would continue to be hers in Hendrick’s eyes until the end of his days.
“Aletta and Sybylla have been out an hour looking for him.” Francesca was disturbed by the way Willem was pacing up and down on the Persian rug, his fingers twitching as if he wished they were around Hendrick’s neck. He did not appear to have heard her.
“I gave the idler a last warning when he agreed to paint you as Flora! I said that if he disappointed me once more I’d wash my hands of him. Let him fall into the clutches of the thieves and charlatans of the art world if that is what he wants!” He halted in front of Francesca so abruptly that he rucked the rug under his heel. “I’ll have my cloak and gloves back again. It’s no fault of yours, but your father is impossible!”
She sprang to her feet again. “Please don’t go! The painting needs no more than a morning’s work. It’s the best thing he has done since Mama died. He’s calling it The Goddess of Spring. I’ll show it to you.”
That calmed him down, but still he hesitated. “I thought it was the rule in this house that only Hendrick showed his work for the first time.”
“In the present circumstances I’m breaking it!”
Slowly he smiled at her. “Are you indeed? Well, it’s time Hendrick discovered he can’t ride roughshod over us all.” Out of the corner of his eye he had seen the maidservant bringing a tray with homemade wine and cakes. “I’ll drink to that after I’ve seen the painting.”
Francesca led the way to the studio, Willem following her. He considered Hendrick to be a very good artist, equal to several whose names were better known, but his work always fell short of reaching the peak. In his painting of Anna that was hanging in the studio and into which he had put his whole heart, he had come close to genius, but he had kept the essence of his wife to himself, too possessive to share
what he had hidden in the tantalizing likeness of her. It had caused the painting to slip past greatness into a lesser mold. Rembrandt always withheld something of each person whose portrait he painted, intriguing the viewer and arousing the urge to discover more of that elusive, indefinable quality that lurked behind the faces captured, but he also gave generously and therein lay the difference. Not that Hendrick’s work came anywhere near Rembrandt’s extraordinary masterpieces. Neither did anyone else’s, to Willem’s mind, but in dealing with temperamental artists on one side and wealthy clients on the other, it was not politic for him to voice his own opinions.
They had come to the studio and Willem leaned forward in front of Francesca to open the door for her. She went in with swift steps to the painting on Hendrick’s easel. “Here it is!”
To reach it he had to pass the two still-life paintings that she and Aletta had left propped on their easels the previous day. Willem stopped to stand back and regard each in turn. He recognized the girls’ individual work instantly, having observed their progress since they were young children. Each still showed errors and weaknesses, which could be corrected under the right tuition, but the remarkable standard of their work set them far ahead of other rising young artists of their respective ages. Aletta, being the younger, was as yet less mature in her use of color and in composition, but Francesca’s still life had a jewel-like quality with tiny reflections of the objects and even of the window in the silver base of the nautilus.
He lifted the painting from the easel and took it to the window, where he scrutinized it closely. “Your work is coming on extremely well.”
She blushed at his praise, knowing he did not give it lightly. “Not fast enough for my choice.”
“How many hours’ tuition a week does your father give you?” When she did not answer immediately he looked up sharply at her. “None?”
“He guides and advises us sometimes when we’re in special need of assistance,” she replied staunchly.
“None,” he repeated caustically, undeceived, and returned his attention to her painting. “I’d like to keep an eye on your progress. Have you anything else you’ve done recently?”
“Yes, I have, and so has Aletta. But wouldn’t you prefer to look at my father’s painting first?”
“No. I’m concentrating on yours now.” He shot a smiling, half-teasing glance at her. “Never distract an art dealer who’s showing interest in your work. You’d better learn that lesson now.”
She laughed and went to a stack of paintings propped against the wall. Due to the necessary economy of linen canvas, all were small and she and her sister frequently painted over earlier work. She took four of Aletta’s pictures to him first, never supposing it was hers alone that he wished to see this time. He looked at each one, was struck again by the quality of the work and gave some helpful criticism to be passed on to her sister. Then she showed him three of her own.
He studied each in turn, taking his time. The first was of Griet in the courtyard, hanging up newly laundered sheets. The little picture throbbed with life and movement, making it possible to believe one heard the flapping of the damp, billowing linen. Then came a landscape with windmills, depicted on a warm day when a vaporous mist, sparkled through with sunshine, lay gently over water and fields. The third painting was of Maria at her lace making, her gnarled hands given a strange beauty at their delicate work. Dealing in the art world had made him cynical and blasé over the years, but he was pleased to discover he could still experience a sense of excitement at the promise of a new and dazzling talent, such as he saw in this girl’s work.
“I see that in each of these you have a flower,” he commented without showing expression. “There are wind-tossed tulips in the courtyard, a single wild iris showing in the landscape’s canal bank and Maria’s lace has a pattern of lilies.”
“You’re very observant,” she said with a smile. “I admit I like to include flowers at any opportunity. When the day comes for me to sign my work for all the world to see, I shall include one in my signature.”
“Ah! As was done by the illustrators of manuscripts in past centuries. Keep to your notion. I like it.” He knew the presence of a flower would not sell a picture in itself, but it would catch the eye and be remembered when seen again. It might even make a direct appeal to a prospective buyer and in his business that could weigh the balance in a sale. He had no doubt at all that if Francesca’s talent was nurtured and brought to fruition she had it in her to rise to immeasurable heights in her work. “Do you wish to concentrate on being a flower painter?”
“No. I will say that my eye ranges much further than that.”
“It’s as well.” He had not taken his concentrated gaze from her still life that he held. Now he looked up with a quizzical smile. “Had you kept to a rose in your paintings I would have suspected you had love on your mind.”
Her eyes danced. Pure love between a man and a woman was symbolized in a picture by a rose held or pleasingly arranged, whereas a fallen one on the ground depicted either the pain of love or unchaste love, according to the subject of the painting. The rosebuds in her still life could be interpreted as the dawning of romantic love, but that had not been intended, although there was much that was symbolic in the picture. The nautilus represented wealth, exotic shells of all kinds being costly, while the fan was a symbol of extravagance. The hourglass warned of the passing of time and the foolishness of piling up riches on earth, while the pewter plate, poised precariously, told how easily life could be cut off. The grapes and the wine symbolized Holy Communion and Christ with the hope of resurrection. An artist’s choice of this vanitas, as it was called, was wide, with many more components that everyone recognized. Often a painting was not what it appeared to be at first impression, but either illustrated a proverb or was in the popular theme that Francesca and Aletta had used to make the observer contemplate his or her moral frailty, the swift passing of the years and the worthlessness of the sheer pursuit of pleasure.
“You can be sure,” Francesca said, carefully returning her paintings to where they had been stacked against the wall, “that love is the last thing on my mind at the present time.”
The little joke had been enjoyed by them both. Willem replaced her still life on the easel, noting again how much careful thought had gone into the selection of each item in the vanitas. “Now I’ll take a look at your father’s version of you as Flora.”
He strolled over to it. She drew near and watched him anxiously as he stood looking without expression at the painting for what seemed an interminably long time. At last she was unable to bear his silence any longer.
“What do you think?”
“I’ll speak frankly,” he replied meditatively, still studying the portrait. “I had not thought to see a painting as superb as this from Hendrick’s brush today. It’s one of his best! I’m full of praise. A morning’s work on it, did you say?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“Then try to keep him to that.” Some artists would go on adding touches forever if they could, never wholly satisfied. His immense pleasure in the painting was tinged by disappointment that, as with the painting of Anna, it did not reach the heights of greatness that it might have. Yet he continued to hope that would come about. Some artists painted better than ever in old age, but it had to be remembered Hendrick was unpredictable in all things. At least this picture would attract eager buyers. The sheer beauty of the girl’s expressive face would set it in high demand and her armful of flowers, held as if she was about to shield herself from the viewer’s gaze, added both sensual mystery and charm. “This painting will fetch a good price.”
Francesca clasped her hands together eagerly. “Four hundred florins?” she queried hopefully, daring to add a hundred more than the figure Hendrick would have in mind.
Willem did not look taken aback as she had feared. “If I should have the right buyer I would expect to double that figure and more.”
Neither of them had heard
Hendrick in his soft house shoes come through the studio door, which had been left ajar. His voice thundered out, reverberating against the walls. “What if I should decide not to sell?”
They turned to face him. Francesca straightened her shoulders and refused to back away before his furious expression. “Direct your anger at me, Father. I invited our guest in here.”
“I need nothing from him!” With a theatrical gesture Hendrick pulled his purse from his pocket, jerked the thong free and threw it to the floor. A shower of guilders sprang from it and rolled in all directions. In the silence that followed, Willem put out his foot and prodded a spinning coin to a standstill.
“So you’ve had a change of fortune on two fronts, Hendrick,” he remarked calmly. “You’ve painted a splendid Flora and in addition the cards and the dice have favored you. My felicitations on both. You must be a very happy man.”
Hendrick, mollified by the praise, stuck his thumbs into his belt and swaggered forward, highly pleased with himself, but still aggrieved that his showing of the painting had been forestalled. He was sober, but his color had a purplish tinge and his eyes were bloodshot and tired from lack of sleep. “The stakes last night were the highest I’ve known and I didn’t stop winning. I cleared my gambling debts and all the way home I’ve been ladling money out to greedy tradesmen in settlement of bills. Now I owe not a stiver to any man. What’s more,” he added boastfully, “there’s enough over to keep my family and myself in meat twice a day for months to come.” He was taking immense satisfaction in having the upper hand over Willem. “So you see, I’m in a position to keep the painting.”
“Indeed you are,” Willem agreed mildly and then stemmed any further discussion by bowing his head to Francesca. “My business being at an end here for the day, I should like to avail myself of that glass of wine you offered me.”
The Golden Tulip Page 8