I Am Rembrandt's Daughter

by Lynn Cullen

  “You?” I stop. “You ordered the family portrait of the van Roops?”

  “Surprised?” He laughs. “Forgive me, but I had to see what your vader was selling these days.” He sighs. “I wish it were something closer to what I am collecting.”

  “I feared it would be too rough,” I murmur.

  “Truly, he has gotten a bit carried away with his paint.” “Too bad, seeing him squander it all away.”

  I find myself bristling. “His pictures have a depth you cannot find in other artists’ work. He uses the paint for texture.”

  He regards me for a moment. “I’m sorry, that was thoughtless of me. I should not speak to his daughter in such a way.”

  I wince. I have spoken out to an important man. What is to become of me? God help me, I am truly my vader’s child.

  “I just happen to prefer his earlier work,” Mijnheer Bruyningh says. “I was hoping he was selling something from his older holdings. Does he keep much stock at home?”

  I think of the unsold gallery of paintings crowding the walls of our front room. “Some.”

  “He used to have all manner of art hanging around his house during the months I came to sit for him,” he says. “Mostly his own work, though in his cabinet upstairs he kept copies of the great ones.”

  Titus had told me Vader was forced to sell everything he owned when he went bankrupt—everything, that is, except for a few precious paintings that he hid from the creditors. It was the collecting of great paintings, rich materials, and natural rarities that drove Vader to bankruptcy, Titus said.

  “He’s got some pictures,” I say.

  “Well, if he should ever wish to unload one of his own older biblical scenes, I would be willing to pay a great deal—if it is the right one for me. I understand that you deal for him now.”

  I draw back. Because I am a girl and young, I had not thought of myself as Vader’s dealer. Perhaps taking the van Roop family portrait to van Uylenburgh qualified me as such. If I am never to paint, maybe I should look into being Vader’s dealer. Someone has to take care of our family.

  Just then I hear my name being called. I look up.

  Carel pushes aside a bunch of herbs and waves from an open window. “Cornelia—is it really you? Hallo!”

  My insides leap. The joy and shock and sheer delight on his face is everything I hoped it would be. “Carel!” I wave madly.

  “Wait! I shall be right down.”

  He pops back through the window. Grinning, I remain gazing up at the fine tall house with its rows and rows of freshly painted green shutters. There is a bunch of lavender hanging in every window. So this is where Carel lives. I shrink back in embarrassment when I find Nicolaes Bruyningh watching me.

  “Well, now we won’t have to fetch the lad, will we?” he says, ignoring my peasant behavior. He bows gallantly. “It was a pleasure speaking with you, my dear.”

  Suddenly, it comes to me. Before I give it another thought, I put my finger to my mouth and, eagerly watching Nicolaes Bruyningh’s hard face, tap my lips three times.

  Other than a blink of golden lashes, his face is coolly blank.

  Heat leaps to my cheeks. He must think me mad, tapping away at myself like a monkey with an itch. “Excuse me, mijnheer. I thought—It’s just that …”

  He smiles, but there is a chill in it that warns me to continue at my own risk.

  I want to slump to the bricks. How had I ever thought Mijnheer Bruyningh could be the Gold Mustache Man? The Gold Mustache Man disappeared with the plague—probably one of its victims, like so many others. And now here I am, ruining any chance of the good opinion of Carel’s esteemed uncle. I sink into miserable silence until Carel comes bounding out the door and breaks our awkward quiet. Still, as Carel leads me away, chatting about events in his day, I cannot but wonder how much damage I have done.

  Chapter 26

  The July sun beats down upon us as we walk along the Street That Is the Name of Money. Though people crowd the spotless brick walkways, it is strangely quiet. Ladies, sniffing silver pomander balls filled with rose petals and herbs, stroll by with a faint swish of silks, their barefoot African servant boys waving ostrich-feather fans behind them. Into their rose-scented wakes stride men in groups of two and three, speaking in hushed tones. Meanwhile the water in the canal discreetly laps the stone banks as boats, filled with money-making cargoes, sail solemnly by. Only a man in daffodil satin breaks the hush, with the spritely clopping of his dapple gray mount. My street on the Rozengracht, with its oily smell of pancakes and its din of jolly organ music and shouting people, though less than a mile off as the rook flies, is a world away.

  Carel is spreading his hands in disbelief. “Vader lost the whole stake he put into my apprenticeship. Two hundred fifty guilders—and he did not bat an eye! He told Bol I was joining the family business and that was that, no matter what I said. I told him, ‘Very well, Vader, but why did you not say this before I’d spent three years learning the craft?’”

  I pull my gaze away from a small African boy struggling to keep a fan nearly as large as he is aloft over a pinch-faced old woman in a wagon-wheel ruff. Though slaves are not allowed in Amsterdam, Africans still find their way into households as servants. I think of the several thousand African slaves Carel said were lost at sea on his family’s ships. With a sigh, I force the terrible image away. Carel no more represents his vader than I do mine.

  Carel looks at me expectantly. It is my turn to add to his conversation. “Why did your vader change his mind about your painting all of a sudden?” I ask.

  “He said he thought I’d grow out of my whim to be a painter, and now that they need another hand in the business, he wasn’t waiting any longer. It was time I did something practical.”

  I could not argue with that. How many times did I feel the pinch of Vader following his art? But if Carel gave up painting, would he also give up me?

  “What if you practiced painting in your spare time?” I ask.

  “What spare time? Vader’s worse than Bol. He works me to a nub—without pay.” He looks over his shoulder. “Just you wait—he’ll send his man out after me in a moment. I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to walk you home.”

  “No matter, I can find the way.”

  He sees my face and laughs. “Don’t look like that—I want to walk you! I just can’t.”

  “I know,” I murmur, though I cannot help but doubt him. I look back over my shoulder at the banks of green shutters on his princely house. Why has he never taken me there? Even now, he leads me away from it. I pull him away from my house because I am ashamed of Vader, but does Carel pull me away from his because he is ashamed of me?

  “There must be some way you can keep painting,” I say, ignoring the hollowness in my gut. “It is your dream.” And his only tie to me.

  He touches my hand. “Only you acknowledge that. What would I do without you?”

  When I search his eyes, he will not look away.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, “I’m still coming to see you, no matter what they say. Vader sends me on errands—I’ll sneak out then.”

  “If you do come—”

  “Not if. When.”

  “When you do come, you can paint at my house. We have everything you need. You don’t have to give it up, Carel.” Nor me.

  He kisses my hand. “This is why you are so special to me.”

  My head seems to be floating as I gaze at the golden down above his upper lip, then up into his laughing blue eyes. I will do anything to keep you, Carel Bruyningh. Anything.

  Though almost suppertime when I return home, everything is as it was when I left, except that Vader’s cheeks are already peppered with white. He is in his studio, standing before his would-be portrayal of Tenderest Love.

  “Hallo, Vader.” I try to hide the smile that has been on my face since I left Carel.

  He glances over his shoulder, then back at the painting. He doesn’t ask where I’ve been.

  “I’ve been out ge
tting some cheese for supper.” I put the tray I had quickly made up for him on his worktable then retreat toward the window. “Eat.”

  He lifts his hands. “Why do you abandon me, God? I studied Titus and Magdalena all afternoon and still you gave me no sign. Where were you leading me when you gave me this idea? I am lost now.” He goes to the table, tears off a chunk of bread, and chews absently.

  I scan his table with its clutter of pig bladders filled with paint, hog-bristle brushes standing in jars, and dirty paint-knives. It would be easy for me to tuck a few things in my apron for Carel to paint with when he next comes. Maybe I should start collecting things gradually—a bladder of bone-black paint here, a paintbrush there. Then I would be ready when Carel comes, giving him a reason to return, for surely his family will not make it easy for him to visit. Just the thought of Nicolaes Bruyningh’s cool face when I tapped my lips makes me cringe. He will not encourage his nephew to mix with me. Whatever made me make that silly sign? Now I will never be able to prove to him that I am good enough for Carel.

  I draw in a breath. “Vader, you knew Nicolaes Bruyningh. What was he like?”

  Vader swims out of his fog. “Bruyningh?” His pale green eyes bore into mine. “Why do you want to know?” he says sharply.

  Blood rushes painfully to my cheeks. “He’s Carel’s uncle.”

  Vader crosses his arms. “Oh, this is about the nephew, is it?”

  I dust off the windowsill with a corner of my apron.

  “I had hoped this would resolve itself on its own, but evidently it has not. I am going to have to ask you to stay away from the nephew, Cornelia. I know he’s been lurking around here off and on for the past few months, but I can no longer cast a blind eye to it. If he comes, you aren’t to see him, do you understand?”

  I gape at him in disbelief. After years of neglect, he advises me now? “You cannot tell me this!”

  “Oh, yes, I can. You are to have nothing more to do with that clan.”

  “Why?” I demand. “Because they’re rich?”

  He scowls.

  My voice drips with disdain. “I happen to know that they are very nice. Even Nicolaes.”

  “‘Nicolaes?’ “The alarm in Vader’s voice startles me. “Have you spoken with him?”

  I am glad I have changed back into my everyday clothes. If I’d been in my good dress and with my guilty, furious face, he would be sure to know the truth, that I am fresh from the Street That Is the Name of Money.

  “Tell me, Cornelia, how do you know him?”

  “I must go wash the linen now.” I start away from him, rattled by his rapid change in moods and my own anger.

  “Cornelia!”

  I shrug bitterly. “He is just Carel’s uncle.”

  “I’m telling you!” he calls after me. “Stay away from those Bruyninghs.”

  Something in Vader’s voice makes me turn around. Even in my anger, his anxious face frightens me, and then I am all the more angry for having been frightened. “Why?” I exclaim. “Moeder would want me to be part of such a rich family. She hated being poor.”

  He blinks as if slapped. Slowly, he lowers himself onto his cross-legged chair. “She did, didn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  His shoulders sag. “I would like to think that is not the same as hating me.”

  “I’ll come back for your tray,” I say, then escape to the kitchen, where a pile of soiled linens and dirty pots awaits me. I snatch up a bucket, march out to the courtyard, and throw myself into pumping. Why does Vader wish to keep me from Carel? Instead of wanting me to be happy, he tries to make me miserable, and he succeeds, oh, he succeeds. It is so very like him to not consider my feelings.

  But, as I continue to murder the pump handle, my arms aching and my lungs burning, the image comes to my mind of the nervous, almost-frightened expression on Vader’s face when he ordered me away from the Bruyninghs. Something about them upsets him greatly, more than just Carel courting his daughter. Since when does Vader care that much about me? If anything, he should be delighted a rich boy has taken an interest in me. He was certainly proud when Titus wed Magdalena and her money.

  I watch the water spouting into the almost full bucket. Whatever it is that troubles Vader about the Bruyninghs, there will be no asking him. Vader is as a closed book to me. He will remain upstairs, abandoned by his God and me, an old man with his paints, and I will stay downstairs with my washing, my books, and my cat. We will exist in the same dwelling but will live alone, though nothing separates us but some damp walls, our pride, and our past.

  I wipe my eye on my shoulder, then, with a sigh, haul the splashing bucket into the house.

  Chapter 27

  More than a month has passed since Vader banished Carel, and it is a warm afternoon in late August. I sit back on my heels at the base of our stoop and wipe the sweat from my forehead as soapsuds drip from my scrub brush and down my arm. How the other housewives on our street can stand scouring their stoops each day just for the purpose of getting them clean is beyond my reckoning—even without the ordinance to keep one’s housefront clear of debris to prevent the sickness, it is Dutch custom to do so. However, until five weeks ago, it was not my custom. Our stoop could have been three feet deep in duck drek for all I cared; I have taken up scrubbing it only in case Carel has snuck away from the family business.

  For sneak here Carel does. He does not know that only a coincidence provided the means to keep us together. He does not know that the day after Vader laid his foot down about my seeing Carel, I was in the front room rereading Maidenly Virtues when I heard a blood-chilling scream just outside our door. When I ran to see who had been stabbed or possibly strangled or succumbed to the plague, I found Titus on the porch step with Magdalena, who was holding up her spaniel’s paw and shrieking as if it had been severed.

  “Ducks!” she accused at a shout.

  Upon quick examination of paw and porch, it became clear that the duck family had paid our stoop a visit and that Precious, the spaniel, had accidentally trod in their leavings. Sorry, Titus mouthed, when it also became clear that Magdalena would not be satisfied until I got down on my knees with bucket and suds and scoured the stoop that very instant. It was when Titus and she were inside comfortably visiting with Vader, that I looked up from my angry scrubbing and saw Carel coming down the street.

  With a jolt of joy, then guilt, then determination, I flung away my scrub brush, smoothed my hair, and ran to him before he could get within sight of our house. We stole away toward the Westerkerk, holding hands and laughing, he because he felt he was tricking his vader, and I because I felt I was tricking mine.

  Since then, learning that two in the afternoon is the hour of his vader’s nap and the time Carel is likely to steal off, my scrub brush and I have kept our appointment with the stoop. Carel does not always manage to escape to come to see me, but often enough to keep my dreams full of his luscious lips and dancing eyes. He has not yet asked me why I always run from the house to meet him—indeed, why I’ve become so enamored of scrubbing of late. Perhaps it has not occurred to him that a failure like Vader would disapprove of a rich man’s son like he. Perhaps that is for the better.

  Now, I am about to resume my irksome but possibly rewarding scrubbing when I see someone walking along the canal. I sit up, my pulse quickening, to peer closer, then slump back on my heels. It is only Neel, walking along the canal, his head down as if he thinks to solve the problems of the world. Even as he nears, he seems not to see the brilliant blue of the late-August sky this afternoon or the ducklings, now the size of their moeder, squabbling in the canal, or the brown edges that have appeared on the heart-shaped leaves of the linden tree. He walks as a man lost in thought …and then he sees me. His somber face brightens in a smile so dear I find that I am moved.

  “Hallo,” he calls.

  I am not being loyal to Carel, smiling like this. “Hallo.” I make myself frown.

  Neel’s smile falls, too.

  He stops
at the bottom step, then clears his throat. “I had hoped you might have some time to model for my picture today.”

  I look down the street. “I had better finish these steps.” I dip my brush into my bucket. I am so used to talking to Carel about his painting, which he carries on in secret in his uncle Nicolaes’s attic, that I ask, “Which picture?”

  “The Prodigal Son.”

  “Oh.” I think of the cast in the story—the vader, the young returning wayward son, the good older son who stayed at home. I cannot think of any girls in the story. “Who am I to be?”

  “The elder brother,” he says.

  “Flattering.”

  “I did not mean to imply you look like the elder brother, I only need you to hold his position.”

  “I know.” You cannot jest with the boy. “So it sounds like you have figured out where you want to place him in the picture now.”

  Neel looks pleased that I have remembered the point that has been troubling him in his picture. Truly, it is just that I am used to discussing work in progress with Carel. It is what Carel and I enjoy talking about. I know Carel’s favorite color: lapis lazuli (because it matches his eyes). I know his favorite painter: Ferdinand Bol (because so many of Bol’s paintings hang in the Bruyningh house and Bol was his teacher). I even know which dealer supplies the brushes he favors: Jan van Pelt, on the Spui. Carel had given me money to buy him three hog-bristle brushes there, which I did when he was setting up the studio his uncle so kindly provided for him.

  “When you get a chance,” Neel says, “I would welcome your opinion on where I am putting the brother in the composition.”

  I glance down the street. “Very well. When I come in.”

  “Of course.”

  I look up at him when he does not go away.

  “Cornelia, why is it that you never paint?”

  My mouth slides open. I wobble on my heels.

  “It just does not make sense to me,” he says, his forehead puckered in earnestness. “You have a wonderful eye, you know all there is to know about technique from watching your vader, and you obviously have a great passion for it. Why don’t you do it yourself?”