by Lynn Cullen
I feel my face burn with embarrassment. “I don’t know,” I mumble.
“Forgive me for speaking out,” he says. “I did not mean to trouble you.” He turns to go.
“No, not at all.” I rise to my feet. I am so used to talking about other people’s painting, it is a new sensation to be in the spotlight, an agreeable one.
He starts to walk away.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To the courtyard door,” he says over his shoulder.
“Why?” Oh, why doesn’t he stop?
He turns and smiles at me gently. “So as to not soil your clean steps.”
After he is gone, I slowly return to my scrubbing. Neel is right—why do I not paint? As he says, I have been brought up in the studio—whether Vader liked it or not—and know enough to try my craft. And if Neel is right about the successful woman painter Judith Leyster, my sex shouldn’t hold me back. If she can sell her work, so could I. But what if I try and am awful? What if people laugh at the poor doodlings of foolish Rembrandt’s foolish daughter?
“Hallo, my little housemaid.”
When I look up, Carel is beaming down upon me. “Drop your brush. Let’s go for a walk.”
Chapter 28
I secretly smooth my hair and skirt as Carel and I stand along the Bloemgracht, the Flower Canal, just to the north of my canal, waiting for the death bells of the Westerkerk to finish their solemn tolling. We have run there from my house—” to get away from prying eyes,” as I told him. Now seagulls wheel over the step-gabled houses. A man rows by in a boat stacked with hides. At a shallow place in the canal made by a ramp into the water, a crane wades, carefully searching for fish.
At last the bells stop. “That is the first the death bells have rung this week,” Carel says into their echo. “Over by my house, the funeral bells of the Old Church have sounded just once in the past two days. Do you know, Cornelia, I think the contagion is loosening its grip.” He throws a stone at the crane. It lifts elegant wings and flies off, unconcerned.
“Touch wood,” I say, then rap on a barrel at the canal’s edge for luck.
“You told me not to worry,” Carel says. “I should have listened to you.”
“What good does worry do? Has it ever changed the course of anything?” I frown at my words. I am beginning to sound like Vader.
“You’re right, as usual. How did you ever get such a good head on your shoulders? The girls Vader has introduced me to—” He stops when I make a face. “Don’t worry. It is just at church. He is always trying to force some girl upon me. This week it was Hendrik Trip’s niece, Amalia. All the silly thing could do was laugh.”
“Oh.”
“You, you never laugh like a fool. You’re serious.”
I think of Neel’s solemn face. “Hardly attractive.”
“I find it so.” He kisses my fingertips. I sigh with happiness.
He frowns at something over my shoulder. “Your cat has followed us again.”
I turn around. Tijger is rubbing himself against a barrel. I grin, pleased at my dear pet’s devotion.
Carel pushes him with his foot. “Shoo.”
Tijger leaps out of kicking distance, then sits down. My heart goes out to him.
“Are you sure you should keep that old cat?” Carel says. “Maybe the contagion is lessening, but still, as a precaution …”
“None of us have gotten sick yet,” I say, hurt, in Tijger’s defense. I think, with a twinge, of my moeder. It is true, I did have Tijger when she fell ill. Still, none of the rest of us had caught the contagion, as Titus had pointed out not long ago, and we remain healthy now.
Carel crosses his arms. The tassels of his perfectly white shirt ride on his strong chest as he heaves a sigh. “I am having trouble with my self-portrait.”
“What is the matter?” I say, glad that the subject has changed.
“My nose. I cannot get it right. It looks like a wedge of cheese.”
“Noses must be hard to do—they are all shadow.” I give it a moment’s thought. “I would think you need to keep in mind the source of light in your picture at all times.”
“Yes, of course. You are absolutely right.” He laughs. “Light is always the key, isn’t it?”
“That’s what they say.” I float a tentative look his way. “Maybe I should try painting and see for myself.” I pause. “I’ve never actually tried it, you know.”
“Really?”
I shake my head.
“You should try it. You’d be good.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Of course. Anyhow, Uncle Nicolaes says my painting goes well. He asks when you are going to come and see it.”
“He does?”
“You act surprised.”
“I did not think he liked me.”
“Of courses he does. Who wouldn’t?” He squeezes my hand. “Besides, he is a good man. It is just like him to let me paint in his attic. Sometimes I think he is more of a vader to me than my real vader is.”
“You are lucky to have him,” I say, then sigh. Perhaps my painting is not such a good idea after all. Perhaps I am lucky he didn’t ask any more about it. As Maidenly Virtues says, women of breeding do not exert themselves unduly. Still…
The carillon bells of the Westerkerk jangle merrily in the distance. “Three o’clock,” Carel says as a seagull splashes into the canal. “Vader will be waking. I need to go.” He kisses my fingers again, then pulls back to look at them. “Rough. What have you been doing to your hands?”
I am still rubbing my fingers against my lips, wondering what ointment I can make to smooth them now that daily scrubbing has coarsened them, when I trudge up the stairs to the studio. There, Neel mixes pigment into linseed oil while watching over the shoulder of Vader, who is working on his own self-portrait. Vader had started it just days ago, and unlike the Portrait of Tenderest Love, it comes along quickly. Already the face of a stubborn old man stares proudly out of the canvas.
“You capture yourself well,” I say, nodding toward the picture.
Vader looks in the mirror, then transfers a dab of paint from his palette to the canvas. “Every decent painter can portray himself well. In fact, he puts himself in every painting, whether he likes it or not. It is really amusing when he strikes upon the creature that resembles him best. My student Carel Fabritius looked exactly like a finch he painted, and young Bol was the spitting image of the spaniel he’d done.”
“I have heard of this sort of thing,” says Neel, stirring his mixture. “Some say that Leonardo da Vinci’s famous portrait of the mysterious lady is actually a painting of himself. He gave her his features.”
“Hmm.” Vader places another spot of paint. “Perhaps he thought of himself as a woman.”
“So that is why Vader painted that carcass of beef when I was little,” I say. “He paints himself.”
Vader and Neel turn in unison to look at me. Vader bursts into a laugh.
“Cornelia,” Neel says. “Be kind.”
“No,” Vader says. “She’s got a point. At the time I was painting it, I did feel rather like a butchered carcass. It was at the time of my bankruptcy, when my creditors were coming at me from all quarters.”
I wince and glance at Neel to gauge his disapproval at Vader’s poverty, but he only tips the pot he is stirring toward Vader.
Vader peers inside it. “Put in more thinner.”
Neel lifts his chin when he sees me watching. “So, Cornelia, how would you see me? As what creature should I paint myself?”
I look into his solemn face and find myself smiling.
“As a crane.”
“Sorry, boy,” Vader says with a laugh.
Neel looks away with a small, pained smile.
“It’s not an insult,” I say in a rush. “Cranes are noble in their movement and they show great patience while hunting fish. They move unmolested by other birds or beasts, and they have beautiful”—I notice them both staring—” wings.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
Neel lowers his head. But when he looks up, and our eyes connect, it is I who must look down. What has gotten into me?
Vader looks between Neel and I, then presses back a smile. “Well, Neel, how is the work coming along on your Prodigal Son?”
Neel breathes in. “Slowly, mijnheer.”
Even though I dare not look at Neel, I can feel something in the air between us. Confused, my gaze seeks something safe—his unfinished painting, propped against its easel. One shadowy figure is kneeling, another standing over it, another looking on.
Vader is studying it, too. “Where is the scene supposed to take place? I have no sense of it.”
Neel lets out a breath. “I had thought a rich palace.”
“You don’t say,” Vader says. “I can’t see it. Maybe some props would help get you going. Cornelia—go look in the attic. See if there’s something in there that will inspire him.”
I leave, grateful to get out of the room. What is wrong with me, babbling about Neel and cranes? Neel is boring, dull, and serious. I do not find him attractive. Just because he had suggested that I paint, I make too much of him.
Once inside the attic, the dusty air brings me back down to earth. I scan the shrouded piles before me, my nose adjusting to the smell of tar and mold and my eyes to the quiet gloom.
A loud bong vibrates the room. I jump.
I pat my chest, calming myself. It is just the hateful death bells. So they ring again today. Well, that signifies nothing. Carel is right, the contagion is abating, I tell myself, then try to remember where I’d once seen a vermilion and gold carpet among this mess. Perhaps the kneeling figure in Neel’s Prodigal Son can rest upon the rug, suggesting the rich palace Neel mentioned.
I inch past a pile of rotting trunks to prod a rolled-up length of material with my toe. When it does not open, I bend down and lift an edge. It is not the carpet, but a canvas. I unroll it until I am greeted by the one-eyed stare of Mijnheer Gootman.
I smile to myself.
Gently, I roll the canvas back up, then stand, bumping my head. I whirl around and see an empty birdcage swinging from the rafters like a tolling death bell. In its arc I see a painting from which a drape has fallen.
I squeeze my eyes shut but it is too late. I can see the painting as clearly as if my eyes were open. I can see the dark shadow between her legs. Her uncovered breasts. The red ribbon winding down her neck like a snake. The string of red beads in her hair. Moeder’s face is turned to the side.
Why did you let Vader paint you like this? He spared you nothing, not a ripple or blemish, not your belly, not the sorrow on your face. He left you exposed for anyone to see, and you let him. You let him.
“Bird?”
Titus is in the doorway.
“What are you doing here?” I bolt to him before he can see the painting. She is not his moeder. He has no right.
“Well, I can always count on a warm welcome from my little sister.”
I herd him out the doorway and shut the door. “What are you doing here?”
“That’s not much more hospitable, Bird. But never mind. Magdalena waits downstairs. We have some news to share.”
He steps down onto the landing and opens the studio door. “Vader? Oh, hallo, Neel.”
Soon all but Neel have gathered in the front room, where Magdalena sits on the chair with the lion’s-head arms, her silvery hair looped high on her head like a crown, the peach silk of her dress pouring down her lap in shimmering folds. With pale almond eyes she looks down upon us crowded before the printing press and worktable, smiling as at small children.
Titus says, “We wanted you to be the first to know—”
“After my mother,” Magdalena says.
“—that Magdalena is with child.”
Vader springs forward and hugs Titus, then Magdalena, then Titus again. “Oh, this is excellent news!”
Magdalena receives my embrace with a patient smile.
“According to the physician,” Titus says, wheezing in Vader’s renewed hug, “the baby is due in March. It will be a boy.”
“You know all this?” Vader says.
“We have the very best physician in Amsterdam,” Magdalena says. “Hendrik van Roonhuysen. Johanna de Geer recommended him. He has delivered her of all her children.”
“But how do you know it’s a boy?” I ask.
“Because,” Titus says with a grin, “in my bones I feel lucky.”
Vader shakes Titus’s hand. “May your child bring you the happiness you’ve brought me.”
I frown at Titus. Sweat clings to his brow and upper lip. “You look hot. Are you well?”
“It is the end of August,” Magdalena says. “Everyone is hot. He is not the one carrying a child.”
Titus reaches over and pats her hand. “That is right. I will not complain.”
We chat for a few minutes, discussing names for the baby until Magdalena states it will be named Jan after her vader, period; then we listen in detail to how Magdalena is feeling. At last she rubs her belly, which has not begun to round, and says, “We must be off, Titus sweet. I shall need a nap soon. We were on our way to the lacemaker’s shop,” she explains. “I am working on our son’s christening gown.”
I cast a look of sympathy to Titus but he does not catch it. He wipes his forehead with the back of his arm. “I am sorry, Magdalena, but I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I am so very hot.”
“Sympathy pains,” Magdalena says lightly. She kisses his hand, then draws back with a not entirely playful smile. “You are a sweaty beast!”
“I think I need to go home and lie down.”
“But we have come all this way,” Magdalena says plaintively. “I had my heart set on finding the perfect Flemish lace for Little Jan’s gown.”
“Neeltje,” Titus says, “could you go with her? Magdalena, would you mind?”
Magdalena scowls, then spreads her hands with generosity. “Of course not. Change quickly, Cornelia,” she says, eyeing my clothes. “I shall wait.”
Chapter 29
“Dear Titus!” Magdalena says as we stroll down the street on the far side of the Westermarkt, the peach silk of her skirt swishing. “He is such a child. I am supposed to be the queasy one.” She raises her sweet voice to a shout above the din of the peddlers and their haggling customers. “For several weeks I was so tired I thought I was sure to die—I had Titus fetch the minister, and Moeder was up nights brewing me potions—but I have since shaken that malaise and feel quite marvelous.” Her pale eyes flash at a carter who has gotten too close with his wagon heaped with hay. “Are you blind?” she shouts. “You almost killed us!”
The carter yanks on his reins, jerking back his horse’s head. Hay slides off the top and onto the street. I stop to pick it up.
Magdalena pulls me away by the arm. “I am the stronger one of Titus and I,” she says over the marketplace din. “Women are always the stronger sex.” She smiles to herself. “The trick is not appearing to be so.”
I falter as we walk. Have I been appearing to be too strong to Carel? I should have never, ever mentioned I wanted to paint to him. He will think me in competition with him. And I am always spouting off my opinions. Does he think me bossy?
The noise lessens as we leave the Westermarkt. As I worry about chasing Carel away with my pushiness, Magdalena continues to list Titus’s many faults as we journey down narrow streets and across humpbacked bridges. Soon we enter Dam Square, where the sounds of laughter and clopping hooves and the creaking of carts mercifully drown out Magdalena’s complaints. I gaze at the Town Hall, remembering, all of the sudden, going there with Moeder to look for Vader’s picture. I remember seeing the men come with the cart when we returned home, and Vader raising his knife—
“Cornelia?” Magdalena peers into my face. “Cornelia, are you listening?” She pulls back with a swish of silk when satisfied she has my attention. “Do you see that third building to the left of the Town Hall? The pretty o
ne, with the silver sign?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the Silversmith’s Guildhouse. When I was a child, my vader was the head of the guild. I imagine Little Jan shall be someday, too.”
“You don’t think Titus will want his son to deal in art with him—when he gets that business going better?”
“Oh, dear, no. It does not pay, does it? In fact—you mustn’t tell your vader, this is still a secret—Titus is taking silversmithing lessons from my uncle.”
“He is?”
“He seems to have quite a knack for it. He made me the sweetest candlesticks. He had engraved flowers on them. I keep them at our bedside.”
The candlesticks he had offered to me—dear Titus, had he tried to give them to me first?
She shades her eyes to look across the crowded square. “You will have to keep in mind this lacemaker when you next need lace. I know, I know, it is ladylike to make one’s own lace, but Johanna de Geer does not make hers. It is a waste of her good time, she says. A waste of mine, too. Goodness knows I have plenty of other things to do.”
Magdalena has a cook, a maid, and a moeder to jump to her every command. I wonder what those other things to do might be, besides to harry my brother.
“This woman makes lace far better than I can,” Magdalena says. “Of course she does. She is only a thousand years old. She has been at it so long she probably weaves all those threads as easily as breathing. Besides, Johanna has told me how to get a bargain from her.”
Magdalena trods near a legless beggar, who, quick on his hands, skitters crablike out of her way. “The secret, Johanna says, is to buy more than you need at a cut-rate price.”
I pull my apologetic gaze from the angry beggar.
“Later,” Magdalena says, “you bring back what you don’t need for a refund at the regular price. You come out ahead that way, you see.”
“But—isn’t that wrong?”
“No. The old woman builds a high profit into her price. I am just bringing it down to a reasonable rate. She should not charge so much in the first place.”