The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  “Do you intend to court her?”

  “I do.”

  “Others have wanted to,” she warned, “but Father has shown them all the door at her wish.”

  He laughed under his breath. “I’m not easily discouraged.”

  “You’d be wiser to look elsewhere. There must be plenty of pretty girls in Haarlem and wherever else you go.”

  “Plenty,” he agreed, the creases appearing at the corners of his smiling eyes causing her to guess he had explored that discovery to the full.

  “Are you saying there’s only one Francesca?”

  “That’s it.” Again he laughed quietly. “I’ll take my chance with her just as you are going to take yours at my stall.”

  “I wish you well,” she said genuinely, suppressing whatever might have arisen within her at the moment.

  “As I do you, Aletta.”

  She reached for her gloves, it being time to leave. “Shall you be able to come home with me to see my hyacinth painting today?”

  “I’ve been looking forward to it.”

  On the way she told him of the commission Francesca had received from Ludolf van Deventer the previous evening and how it had all come about. “I don’t envy her having that man as a sitter,” she said thoughtfully, “but maybe all will go well for her.”

  “Is there any reason why it shouldn’t?” He had his own reservations about Ludolf van Deventer. Nobody in Amsterdam appeared to know where he had come from and there was talk at the Exchange that not all his business dealings were quite aboveboard.

  Aletta meditated for a few moments. “He has an interesting face, but it’s like a mask, never showing much feeling. With people like that it can often be very difficult for an artist to bring character to the face. It’s almost as if there’s a shield behind which they are protecting their private selves from the world.” She shrugged, slightly embarrassed. “I’m not trying to sound profound. It’s just that a painter learns to observe people in this way.”

  “I’m impressed. I know van Deventer by sight. You say he bought a painting of Francesca as Flora?” It galled him to think of such a man possessing a likeness of her. “Do you know anything about his roots or his background?”

  “No. He talked a lot at dinner, but now that I think about it he rarely mentioned himself in any situation. All we know at home is that he’s rich and a ship broker and has traveled extensively.”

  “That’s all anyone seems to know. I’ve wondered about his origins, where he made his money and so forth. From what I’ve heard he has only lived in Amsterdam for about ten years, although he gives the impression he has owned the business he has now for much longer elsewhere.”

  “Probably he moved to Amsterdam when he married. He is starting a collection of paintings for his house now.”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as odd? Why should a wealthy man only be collecting now?”

  “He told Father that he had never had time before. Business has occupied him completely.”

  “I suppose that’s logical,” Pieter admitted.

  “He may still be at my home when we get there. Father planned to show him every single painting in the studio this morning.”

  When they arrived at her home a red-and-gold coach was drawn up outside. “I can see he is still here,” Aletta remarked. Once indoors she asked Griet the whereabouts of the visitor in the house.

  “He’s still in the studio with the master and Juffrouw Francesca,” Griet replied. “They’ve been there for ages. When I went past the door just now I saw that pictures were ranged all around the studio for Heer van Deventer’s inspection.”

  “That probably means they will be there a while longer.” Aletta turned to Pieter. “Sit down by the fire. I’ll go upstairs and fetch my painting.”

  She hastened away. Left alone, Pieter did not sit down, preferring to remain standing. He wondered if he would see Francesca before he had to leave again.

  In the studio there had been a few tense minutes for Hendrick and Francesca when Ludolf had first entered with them and had seen the painting of Anna on the wall. He had strode across to it immediately, gesturing toward it with his fashionably long cane.

  “I’ll take that! It’s magnificent! There’s one of the same model in your reception hall. I’ll have that too.”

  “Your pardon,” Hendrick had replied stiffly. “Neither is for sale.”

  Ludolf turned sharply to him with a frown of displeasure. “You brought me in here to show me your work, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but that is my late wife.”

  “Are you telling me that you keep what is surely a splendid likeness of her in this untidy place?” Ludolf’s tone had a sarcastic edge and his contemptuous sweep of the arm encompassed the whole studio. It was clear that he doubted the truth of what Hendrick had said, almost as if suspecting the painting of Anna was being withheld for another patron.

  Francesca explained. “My mother was so often in this room with my father that all of us in the family like her to be here still.”

  His frown disappeared. “My apologies are due.”

  After that all went well. Francesca helped Hendrick to show a number of his history paintings that had remained unsold. Ludolf chose a scene following the conquest of Troy with a Greek commander looming over a deep-breasted Trojan woman on her knees before him. She was pleading for the lives of her household, including her children, who huddled in the background, and was offering food and wine in appeasement. The dish in her hands held oysters, one of the many erotic symbols that were instantly recognizable.

  His second choice was a naked Venus, wet from the sea, which again had its own connotations. The third was an imaginary landscape, harsh with rocks and cliffs, which he said reminded him of a foreign land he had once visited.

  Hendrick was inwardly jubilant at these sales, from which Willem could not expect a percentage. When the business was done Francesca entered into a discussion with Ludolf about her forthcoming painting of him. It had to be decided how his pose should be, portrait sitters always having definite ideas about how they wished to be shown. She suggested it would be appropriate to include the model of a ship in his portrait and Hendrick promptly fetched one from a shelf of various objects. It was a delicately made replica of a merchantman with sails of parchment curved as if in full sail and the rigging and all else accurately reproduced to scale. When Ludolf gave his approval, Hendrick lifted a small table of the right height onto the rostrum beside the chair. After Francesca had swung some drapery over it, she placed the vessel in position. Then she sat down herself in the chair beside it and demonstrated a pose, her elbow on the chair arm, her fingers supporting her chin.

  “I’m not sure about the hand,” Ludolf said uncertainly, tilting his head as he viewed her. “Perhaps I should hold the ship.”

  Obligingly she held it. When he shook his head again she replaced the model on the table and changed her pose. “Does this please you?”

  Everything about her pleased him. He was keeping her on the move for the sheer enjoyment of watching her. There was the soft movement of her breasts beneath her bodice as she turned, the cling of her skirts to her hip or her knee, and the milky whiteness of her skin against the rich color of her hair hinted tantalizingly at the further beauty that her clothes concealed.

  “I do believe the first pose was best after all,” he said, again indecisive.

  But Francesca had seen what he was about and rose quickly from the chair. “I agree,” she said, giving him no further chance of making an exhibition of her. “Have you decided what you will wear? I need to know, because of the background drapery that I shall arrange.”

  There was no hesitation about that. He would be in black and gold. At this point she was free to leave him with her father and she was thankful to escape. She had loathed the way Ludolf had looked at her, stripping off her clothes with his eyes. At least during the sittings she would be in her painting smock, the most concealing of garments, and with the pose she had s
ettled for him his gaze would be directed away from her.

  Entering the stair hall, she was caught off guard by the unexpected sight of Pieter standing in that eternal male stance with his back to the fire, hands linked behind him and feet apart, a proud tilt to his head on the strong neck and broad shoulders.

  “I’ve been hoping to see you,” he exclaimed.

  “Pieter!” She went across to him, her footsteps light in her happiness that he should be back in her own home again. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I’ve just arrived at your sister’s invitation.”

  “Did you meet Sybylla somewhere?”

  “No. It was Aletta who asked me. I’m to see her hyacinth painting.”

  “It’s very good. Is she fetching you some refreshment?”

  “I have no need of any. She and I had some at the new coffeehouse not far from the Exchange.”

  She wondered why Aletta had been in that part of the city and supposed it was for another of those street scenes her sister claimed to find especially interesting. “I’ve heard of it, but I haven’t been there.”

  “Let me take you one day soon. We should celebrate this news of your forthcoming apprenticeship.”

  “I don’t know when that could be arranged,” she said truthfully. “I’ve received my first commission and that must take priority in order that it may be completed before I leave for Delft.”

  “Aletta told me about it, but Heer van Deventer won’t be coming every day. Why not—” He broke off as Aletta returned, carrying her painting turned toward herself. He guessed that she was anxious again in case he should think he was getting a bad bargain when he saw her work. He smiled at her encouragingly. “I’ve already heard from Francesca that your picture is good.”

  Aletta shot a grateful glance at her sister and then, somewhat nervously, she reversed the painting for his viewing. Immediately the hyacinth bloomed for him. It had been portrayed in meticulous detail and on the silk swathed about the pot an ant crawled as if attracted to the flower’s scent and perhaps set on ravishment, a typical symbol of the frailty and vulnerability of all living things. He knew enough about art to see Aletta’s talent shining through. Any doubts he had had about being drawn into her ambitious schemes were swept away. The girl should have her chance.

  “I like your painting. It is all I thought it would be.” His straightforward statement told Aletta what she wanted to know.

  Francesca observed the look they exchanged. It was almost as if there was some shared secret between them. Then there was no more time to think about it, because her father and Ludolf were coming from the studio. She saw that Hendrick was exuberantly good-humored and knew immediately that his new patron had bought an extra painting after all, there having been some hesitation by Ludolf over a particular one earlier. Sighting Pieter, Hendrick bellowed a hearty greeting and promptly presented him to Ludolf.

  “This is the tulip grower and designer gardener, Pieter van Doorne. You will remember I spoke of him to you yesterday at supper.”

  “I recall every word.” Ludolf was interested. He had mentioned that the layout of his garden was not to his satisfaction and the artist had told him of this young fellow with the extraordinary horticultural talent. Perhaps someone of such keenness could produce a design more unusual than those he had rejected from other gardeners, who had simply drawn variations of what he already had. Indicating Aletta’s painting, Hendrick explained that the girls had painted the famed hyacinth that had bloomed at Christmas.

  “You should see Francesca’s painting of the hyacinth too,” Hendrick said to both Pieter and Ludolf. He patted his daughter on the shoulder. “Go and fetch it, my dear.”

  “Not now, Father.” Francesca spoke firmly, determined not to spoil Aletta’s moment. Pieter, by the very timber of his voice, had shown such appreciation of her sister’s work that it had gladdened her to see Aletta so encouraged. His simple comment had meant far more than any number of gushing compliments. “I’ll show it another day.”

  Hendrick was, as always, irrepressible when his mind was made up. “This is no time for modesty. Aletta! You fetch it!”

  Aletta went willingly to the studio, where it had been put with other work by Francesca in a cupboard. Their father had not wanted any diverting of Ludolf’s interest by a chance sighting of anything done by anyone else until his own works were sold. He had never questioned why his second daughter had removed all her past work from the studio some time ago. Aletta’s guess was that he simply appreciated more room for his own canvases.

  She had to sort through a number of paintings before she came to the hyacinth. Never once had she felt the least jealousy toward her sister’s work, even though, as she had said to Pieter the previous week, it had recently surged ahead. Who was to say the hyacinth had not been a turning point? Perhaps the very surprise of it coming at such a time to a lover of flowers had proved to be a spark to tinder. Pieter had a right to see the results and he was too sensible a man not to expect Francesca’s version to be superior to hers.

  In the reception hall Ludolf took advantage of the few minutes of waiting for Aletta’s return to speak to Pieter about the growing of the hyacinth. “I’m most intrigued. How did you go about it?”

  “I’ve been experimenting for some time. I made several errors of judgment before I succeeded in getting roots by keeping the bulbs cold and moist under several inches of peat. Then, a year ago, I was fortunate enough to get a bloom about a week after the apex shoots had shown themselves. The whole experiment was simply to increase my knowledge in another field, but I’m well pleased that the hyacinth proved to be an inspiration to two artists.” Pieter glanced across at Francesca.

  “Naturally you would be.” Ludolf continued by asking, “Please name some persons of repute for whom you have designed gardens.”

  Pieter raised a chilly eyebrow. “I don’t give the names of those who have employed my skills. If they choose to recommend me, that is their affair and of great benefit to me.”

  Ludolf approved this. Here was a young man who knew how to keep whatever he saw or heard to himself. It was well never to let a gossiping tongue near one’s abode. Servants learned early in the van Deventer home not to discuss their master or anything that happened under his roof. Unpleasant things happened to those who did, always seemingly by accident, but the message went home and new servants were warned by their seniors to obey this special rule.

  “Come back with me now, van Doorne. I should like you to take a look at my garden with a view to redesigning it.”

  Pieter knew what would be wanted. Symmetrical parterres, some classical statuary, a fountain or two and, if space permitted, whatever would pass as an avenue of trees. With everything French having become so fashionable, all those who could afford it wanted their gardens to resemble the park of the palace of Versailles. His own rules were for color, fragrance and harmony, making house and garden complement each other in whatever he designed. Whether he took the commission being dangled like a carrot was another matter.

  “I can’t make any other calls today, Heer van Deventer,” he said, “because when I leave here I’ll be on my way back to Haarlem and my home nearby where I have my orangery and my bulb fields.”

  “Then let us make another appointment for two weeks from today at this hour.” It did not occur to Ludolf that he might get a second refusal and without waiting for a reply gave his address in Heerengracht, a street of exceptionally fine property facing a canal, and added that his house had a double flight of steps to the entrance and his name was above a ship molded in the pediment.

  Even if he had not mentioned that he lived in the area known as the Golden Bend, the description of his house would have been a testament to his riches. Well-to-do people had a flight of steps to the entrance of their homes, but the rich had twin flights. Pieter, who had done extensive garden work for the owners of such properties, would normally have welcomed this chance to gain another client, but his doubts about Ludolf va
n Deventer’s integrity put this possible commission in a different light. Early on in business he had been swindled by such a man over some landscaping, but it was a valuable lesson and he was a great deal wiser these days. He was almost on the point of saying he was too busy to handle extra work now that spring had come, which was virtually the truth, when he considered Francesca’s involvement with this ship broker. If he accepted work from van Deventer he could keep an eye on her interests at the same time.

  “I shall call on you, mijnheer,” he said, giving Ludolf the customary bow. If it was less deep than usual nobody noticed, for Aletta had returned with Francesca’s painting. Ludolf exclaimed over it.

  “What a splendid picture for a young artist on the road to achievement!” He knew enough about Hendrick now to be certain that praise for the work of others, particularly his daughters, should be moderated in his hearing. Ludolf wanted nothing to interfere with his getting a hold over the man, which was why he had let him win heavily during their game of cards the previous evening. It was far from the first time he had caught a fool in a net and Hendrick should be easier to trap than most. “So much talent in one house. From the mighty oak two saplings have sprung.” He bowed to Hendrick and then to the girls. “If I had wanted proof of how good my portrait is to be,” he added to Francesca, “it is here in this fine example of your art.”

  The difference in the quality of the two hyacinth pictures had been apparent to Pieter at once. In Francesca’s the flower positively glowed in its glory. Moreover, there was no symbolic ant or anything else to warn that nothing is perfect. The whole painting was a tribute to the flower itself.

  “My felicitations,” he said directly to her.

  Her face had become strained at Ludolf’s extravagant praise, but cleared at his words. This did not go unmarked by Ludolf, who was annoyed with himself for not having judged more accurately how she would receive flattery. Most women could not get enough of it. He covered his blunder by a few words about making his departure.

  Farewells had been said when Sybylla arrived on the step just as Ludolf went from the house. She bobbed a curtsy, giving him a twinkling glance that came from sheer exultation that he had returned as had been arranged, a visit that heralded anew the prosperity he was to bring to the house. Francesca seized the moment of diversion to speak to Pieter on his own.