Midnight Blue

by Simone van der Vlugt

  ‘She got married and then she had even less time.’

  We look at each other.

  ‘I know what you’re trying to say, Catrin. I realise how lucky I am to come from a rich family and have a husband who doesn’t mind me sitting in my studio all day. But painting is more than a hobby for me. The fact that I don’t have to earn a living doing it doesn’t mean I should lower my standards. Have you heard of Rembrandt van Rijn? We have a couple of his canvases in the house. Artworks admired by everyone, but he himself was critical when he saw them again. A true artist is never satisfied with his own work.’

  ‘That’s true, madam. And we can’t all be Rembrandt van Rijn. I think we should be satisfied with the talent we’ve been given and take pleasure in it.’

  Brigitta says nothing and stares out through the leaded windows.

  ‘What I mean is that you should paint for yourself, madam. For the pleasure it gives you, even if it means setting your standards slightly lower.’

  Brigitta turns slowly to face me. For a moment I’m afraid I’ve gone too far. She holds my gaze for a few seconds then stands up.

  ‘If you’ll tidy up my studio, Catrin, I’ll take a turn in the garden. I need to think.’

  I nod and stoop to gather the paint pots up off the floor. Brigitta leaves the room with rustling skirts and a pleasant silence falls. I open the top part of the window to let in some fresh air and get to work. Once everything is tidy, I clean the brushes. I stroke the soft hairs with my fingertips. What would it be like to dip such a beautiful paintbrush into some paint and put it to a canvas? No doubt very different from my homemade brushes made from pigs’ bristles. I carefully pat them dry and lay them neatly next to each other on the table.

  6

  During the day everything is fine. I get up at daybreak to start my chores and don’t go to bed until late in the evening. The work distracts me from the thoughts I don’t want to have and the silence I don’t want to hear. But everything that allows itself to be pushed into the background during the day returns at night, and it’s even stronger for having been repressed. Regardless how cold the nights get, I always leave the doors of my box bed open. When I close them I feel as though I’ve been buried alive. Often I jerk awake from a nightmare, thrashing around, struggling to breathe. When that happens, I leap out of bed and go to stand at the window to cool off and calm down. The deep blue of the night always has a calming effect on me. At home I used to sit at the window and gaze at the stars when I couldn’t sleep, wondering what was up there. Heaven? What do you have to do to get in? And how easily do you go to hell?

  Back then, I didn’t concern myself with questions like that. Now, they keep me awake for hours.

  ‘Have you settled in here a bit now?’ Adriaan van Nulandt has summoned me to his office and is looking at me from behind his desk.

  ‘Yes, sir. Greta has been a great help.’

  ‘Good. And your mistress?’

  ‘Oh yes. She is most kind.’

  ‘Kind.’ Adriaan stares out the window onto Keizersgracht, absorbed in thought. ‘Yes, she is. But not always. Not to herself, at any rate.’

  ‘She’s rather harsh on herself when it comes to her painting.’

  Adriaan sighs. ‘She shouldn’t take it so seriously. I mean, it’s a wonderful pastime and I would happily fill the house with her work, but that isn’t enough for her. She wants praise in artistic circles and to sell her work. But if she keeps on destroying her paintings, that’s not going to happen.’

  ‘May I ask what kind of medicine your wife takes?’

  ‘Laudanum. It’s a spiced wine containing opium. Opium eases the pain, soothes the nerves and stimulates creativity. Maybe too much; all she does is paint.’

  ‘In Alkmaar one woman was allowed to join the Guild of Saint Lucas. She was given training and now works as a master painter in her own studio.’

  Adriaan pulls at his goatee and leans back. ‘I know what you’re driving at, but there is no way my wife can start an apprenticeship as a master painter.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant, sir. I just meant to say that nowadays painting is becoming more than a hobby for women. I was wondering …’ I hesitate.

  ‘What were you wondering? Speak your mind, I have no objection.’

  ‘She could take lessons to improve her technique. There are many great painters in Amsterdam who could help her get better. I think then she wouldn’t need those draughts any more.’

  A pause follows and I wonder whether I’ve been too free with my opinions. But Adriaan’s expression is more thoughtful than annoyed and eventually he says, ‘I shall have to think about it.’

  The day passes with all manner of small chores. I’m scrubbing a kettle when Brigitta comes into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m hungry, is there any cheese?’ she asks.

  ‘Of course, madam. Should I cut a piece for you?’

  ‘No need, I’ll do it myself.’ Brigitta picks up the pewter plate the cheese is kept on. She cuts a slice, pops it straight into her mouth and looks around. ‘It’s clean in here. Much cleaner than before.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re a good housekeeper, Catrin. We’re very happy with you.’ She walks to the window that overlooks the garden and stands with her back to me, gazing out. ‘Where are you from originally?’

  ‘De Rijp, madam.’

  ‘That’s quite a distance away. Why did you come to Amsterdam?’

  ‘My husband died two months ago, madam.’

  Brigitta turns around. ‘How dreadful. But surely that’s no reason to leave your village?’

  ‘I wanted to leave. I’ve always wanted to live in the city.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ She looks at me, consumed in thought. ‘Did you marry for love, Catrin?’

  The question makes me uneasy. I don’t answer straightaway and Brigitta sighs sympathetically. ‘You didn’t, did you? People seldom marry for love. I’m jealous of everyone who does.’

  It doesn’t seem fitting for me to respond.

  ‘So your husband died? What of?’

  ‘One day he was dead in his bed.’

  ‘Wasn’t he sick?’

  I shake my head and add, ‘But he drank a lot. Ever such a lot.’

  ‘Then you can count yourself lucky you’re rid of him. It’s no good having a drunk as a husband.’

  The ease with which she reaches this conclusion and skips over my feelings doesn’t surprise me. Rich people have a habit of doing that, as if their employees aren’t made of flesh and blood. I smile noncommittally and say nothing.

  Brigitta is about to say something else when the knocker on the front door sounds. I wipe my hands on my apron and rush into the hall. Brigitta follows me and waits by the stairs to see who the visitor is.

  As soon as I open the door I am hit by a jolt of happiness. It’s Matthias. He’s standing there talking to a passing acquaintance and turns to face me. For a split second I think the broad smile on his face is for me. Then I notice he’s looking over my shoulder: Brigitta has appeared behind me. She throws her arms around Matthias’s neck.

  ‘And here we have the most beautiful woman in Amsterdam! Are you still her?’ He holds her at arm’s length and inspects her. ‘Yes, you’re still her. Always a pleasure to see you, my beautiful sister-in-law.’

  Brigitta laughs and gives him a tap on the arm. ‘You’ve barely been gone a week.’

  ‘A lot can happen in a week.’ Matthias turns to me and takes off his hat. I expect him to make some kind of sweeping gesture with it and bow to me, but instead he presses it into my hands.

  ‘This is Catrin, our new housekeeper,’ says Brigitta.

  ‘I know, I recommended her to Adriaan myself. Welcome, Catrin.’

  Our eyes meet for a few seconds longer than necessary. I think I can see a somewhat warmer greeting in his gaze but as he walks into the hall with Brigitta that feeling disappears again.

  ‘Bring cheese and wine to the living room, Catrin,’ says B
rigitta over her shoulder. She links arms with her brother-in-law and leads him off.

  I return to the kitchen, where the kettle is still waiting for me on the table. I scrub as hard as I can. I let Greta take in the cheese and wine.

  I keep to the kitchen all afternoon. Brigitta and Matthias are sitting in the living room, their laughter ringing through the house. I work even harder than usual and give myself a good talking to. I’m the housekeeper. Unless I want to find myself unmarried and pregnant for the second time, I’d do well to remember that.

  Late that evening, by the time I check the locks and cover the fire with a basket, I’ve got a grip on myself again.

  But even so, I jump when Matthias comes strolling into the kitchen. By the light of the moon and the candle in my hand I can see little more than his silhouette.

  ‘Catrin, I’ve been waiting to catch you on your own.’ His voice sounds soft and warm.

  I consider politely asking whether I can be of any service but opt instead for a blunt, ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t very well say hello the way I wanted when I arrived.’ He walks over to me slowly.

  I hold the candlestick in front of me so he can’t come too close. Without another word, Matthias takes the candlestick, sets it down on the table and pulls me to him. All my good intentions vanish. The sound of his voice alone is enough to make them dissolve. All my senses cry out for his touch and as soon as his lips brush mine, there is no more controlling them. One moment our kiss is cautious, the next it’s forceful and urgent. Suddenly I come to my senses. I push Matthias away and we look at each other, out of breath.

  ‘This isn’t a good idea,’ I say.

  ‘No, you’re right. I’m sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry, but …’ He runs his fingers through his hair so it looks even more dishevelled. ‘I’ve been thinking about you a lot, Catrin.’

  ‘So that’s why you ignored me when you came to the door this afternoon.’

  ‘What was I supposed to do? Give you the kind of greeting I just gave you?’

  Despite everything, I’m forced to laugh, which gives him the courage to take me in his arms again. ‘If I’d said hello to you properly before, Brigitta would have fired you. I couldn’t pay too much attention to you. I was desperate to do this the moment you opened the door.’ He kisses me at length and I let him. After a while I break free and look at him earnestly.

  ‘We can’t go on like this, Matthias. This can’t go any further. I’m a servant and I’d like to keep my job.’

  ‘But we can make it work.’

  ‘No, we can’t. You’re from a distinguished family, what would you want with someone like me?’

  ‘My family isn’t that distinguished. My parents had a pottery and had to work hard for their money. If my father hadn’t bought shares in a VOC expedition, I would have probably ended up a potter and we wouldn’t be having this discussion.’

  I like the way he looks at things but I can’t dismiss the differences between us so easily. ‘This can’t happen any more,’ I say, quietly but firmly. ‘You don’t stand to lose anything here, but I could lose everything.’

  ‘You’re right.’ The light-hearted tone in his voice makes way for seriousness. ‘I don’t want to cause you any trouble. As long as you work here, I’ll keep my distance. In a month I’m going away again to Antwerp, and when I come back we’ll talk. Agreed?’ He puts his hand on my cheek and looks deep into my eyes.

  ‘We’ll see,’ I say.

  7

  Over the next few days we have only brief moments of contact. Though we must restrict ourselves to the occasional wink, a fleeting touch, or a couple of whispered words, it’s enough. No matter how attracted I feel to Matthias, my job is more important. And whatever he says, I’m not so naive as to believe a man of such high standing could ever have a serious interest in me. I’m too often confronted with the effects of his charm on other women to believe that. Even Greta is smitten with him. What is it about that man? Is it the genuine interest on his face when he looks at you and listens to you, his sunny disposition, his handsome face? He knows he’s attractive. I see it in the way he preens in front of the mirror and the elegant grey and light brown suits he favours over the old-fashioned black ones most Amsterdam businessmen wear. Perhaps it’s a legacy of his travels in Italy. No ruff for him but rather a fine lace collar that covers only the shoulders; no tall, black hat but a smart little one, complete with a feather.

  ‘He doesn’t need to take any more interest in his appearance than he already does,’ says Brigitta from behind her easel. ‘If Adriaan dressed like that, it would seem odd. But it suits Matthias.’

  I’ve prepared the midday meal and set the table in the studio. As I pour a cup of milk, there’s a note in Brigitta’s voice that makes me look up.

  ‘Master Matthias is very modern. All the women look at him,’ I say.

  ‘Yes. I’m curious to see who will finally manage to snag him.’

  ‘Doesn’t the master plan to marry?’

  Brigitta bursts out laughing. ‘Oh no, why should he? He enjoys his freedom. Can you picture Matthias living a regular life?’

  ‘Not really, madam.’

  ‘Me neither. And that is precisely why I married his brother and not him.’

  I hold my breath, shocked. ‘Did Master Matthias want to marry you?’

  ‘He never formally proposed, but it was clear enough. Have you seen the way he looks at me? He’s never been able to accept the fact that I chose Adriaan.’

  I look down at her with the milk jug clutched to my chest. ‘What does your husband think of that?’

  Brigitta shrugs, unconcerned. ‘No idea. It annoys him, I think. But I married him, so he has no need to worry. He’s a good man and I care for him a great deal. Have you heard what he’s arranged for me?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I’m to have painting lessons! From Nicholas Maes, one of Rembrandt van Rijn’s apprentices.’

  ‘How wonderful, madam!’

  Brigitta glances up at me. ‘Yes,’ she says after a pause. ‘It seems Rembrandt has heard about my talent and made enquiries. He has no time to give me lessons himself, but he very much wants me to progress. That’s why he has recommended one of his best apprentices. Adriaan and I are going along to visit him at his studio this afternoon.’

  ‘Are you having your lessons there?’

  ‘Of course not, Catrin. We’re going to buy a painting from him. Nicholas will come here twice a week, to my studio. It wouldn’t be appropriate for the two of us to be alone, so you will have to sit in. Bring some of your mending, if you’re afraid you’ll be bored.’ Brigitta looks up at me and I hastily adopt the appropriate expression.

  ‘I’ll be fine, madam.’

  I’m going to meet an apprentice to Rembrandt van Rijn! Rembrandt, the greatest painter of the age, the name known by everyone with an interest in painting. Perhaps I’ll even get to meet him. And whatever happens, I’m definitely going to meet Nicholas Maes. I’ve never heard of him, but if he’s a student of the master, he must be good.

  ‘You look happy,’ says Matthias.

  I break off from hanging the washing and turn to him. ‘I’m going to meet one of Rembrandt van Rijn’s apprentices!’

  Matthias is smoking and takes his pipe out of his mouth. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘The apprentice? No. But I do know of Rembrandt. I’ve heard a lot about him.’

  ‘I thought he was only well known in Amsterdam. So you’ll like being there while Brigitta has her lessons?’

  ‘Oh, very much. Back home in De Rijp, I did a bit of painting myself.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. But not on canvas. I decorated furniture and plates.’

  Matthias laughs. ‘Well, that is rather different.’ He sticks his pipe back in his mouth and puffs on it. ‘Adriaan is going to buy a painting from Van Rijn this afternoon. Would you like to come along to the studio?’

  I stare at him in surprise. ‘Am I a
llowed?’

  ‘I’ll tell them they can’t possibly go visiting without taking a present, and you should go with them to carry it.’

  Adriaan has no objections to my accompanying him and Brigitta. According to him, everyone should have an opportunity to meet the greatest artist of the age, even servants. ‘But do try to remain inconspicuous,’ he says.

  That afternoon we drive up Keizersgracht in a hired coach, turning onto Bree Street where Van Rijn lives and works. The studio is on the western side of the city, which I’ve never visited. I’ve not seen much of Amsterdam yet; my life plays out in the immediate vicinity of the house I work in. Perhaps because of this I enjoy the trip all the more: the chaos of horses, coaches and pedestrians. At the end of Keizersgracht we come to the place where they’re digging a new canal ring. Diggers and carpenters are busy laying a foundation in the muddy bottom. Windmills are used to pump out the water and workmen are busily cutting the wood and stone to build up the banks in places where the foundation has been laid. The work is arousing no end of curiosity.

  ‘It would have been quicker to walk,’ says Brigitta when we eventually turn away from the building works and are able to carry on.

  ‘I don’t think so, it’s a bit too far for that. Too far for you in your dainty silk slippers, in any case. And you’d have had to throw them away afterwards,’ says her husband.

  It’s true that the streets are filthy now that we’ve left the chic new canal district. The fish market on the Dam has just closed for the day, and heads and scales stick to the wheels of the cart. The horse pushes its way on to Dam Street, where you can barely make your way through the stalls full of goods. At the end of Old Doelen Street we turn right and not long after that the coach rattles its way onto Bree Street.

  ‘We’re here.’ Adriaan climbs out and offers his wife a hand down.

  I get out too, the jug of wine we’ve brought as a gift clutched to my chest. I gaze up in wonder. The building we’ve come to is magnificent, with a gable covered in red and green tiles.

  The servant opens the door and shows us into a black-and-white-tiled hall with several doors. She leads the way up the stairs to the second floor. The workshop windows open out onto the street. It is a large, light room where five apprentices are at work. The artist himself is standing at his easel and doesn’t look up for a second. It’s only when his servant coughs that he puts down his paintbrush.