After studying the detailed document carefully for ten minutes Dr. Peter rejoined the others and said that he fully understood the terms of his mission. Cromwell was pleased and smiled at him encouragingly. After all, the whole idea of the Anglo-Cleves union had been his idea and he had vested interests in its success. He knew that his royal master was not very tolerant, to say the least, of anyone who failed him. Several rotting and decapitated heads on spikes at the southern end of London Bridge confirmed this fact. Just as Cromwell was mulling over the chances of his success or failure, his somewhat morbid thoughts were interrupted by the king.
“Thomas, I think we should send Dr. Peter and Master Holbein and everyone off as soon as possible. Tempus fugit and remember, I’m not getting any younger.”
“Most certainly, Your Majesty. I’ll tell everyone to be ready to travel by the beginning of next week. We should have everything ready by then.”
Urged on by an impatient king and his hard-working chancellor, the diplomats, the court-painter together with their guards and assistants left London a few days later for the Rhineland duchy.
Using the best horses that the Master of the Horse could provide, they made good time to Dover where a specially commissioned ship stood waiting to take them over to Calais. Fortunately, the weather was favourable and they soon arrived in France. From Calais they continued through the flat, featureless Flanders countryside until they reached Antwerp. There they were hosted by a group of English wool merchants. Early next morning, the party rose and continued travelling eastward to Guelderland where they were greeted by an army of windmills whose impressive sails whirled around against the clear skies. They then journeyed further east, their horses’ hooves noisily striking the cobblestones as they clattered through the small Rhineland towns and villages.
Although nothing of note happened on the journey, by the time they reached the castle at Düren in Cleves the speed of the journey with its sense of urgency had thoroughly exhausted them. As soon as they were able to excuse themselves, after being introduced to the duke, the English party left their hosts and departed to the rooms assigned to them. The social and diplomatic niceties would have to wait for the morrow.
Chapter Five - Portrait of a Lady
The next morning when Anne walked into the room set aside for Holbein to paint his portraits, she found that he had already organized himself. Anne’s chair was arranged so that she would catch the best light and that now he was preparing his brushes and colours. In fact, he was so intent on mixing a crimson tint that he jumped back when Anne coughed quietly as a sign to show she had entered the room.
“Milady,” he spluttered. “I did not know you were here,” he said, and bowed immediately.
“That’s all right,” Anne said quietly. “I was just standing here and watching you. I find it fascinating to watch people work at what they are interested in. And from what I’ve heard about you, Master Holbein, you’re certainly interested in your work.”
Holbein blushed, but only for a moment. He was not sure whether Anne had noticed this as, at that moment, she was concentrating on the colours that he had prepared. She looked up and faced him, taking in his sharp brown eyes and high forehead. She noted his kindly expression and pointed to the chair to his right.
“You may be seated, Master Holbein,” she said. “I do not want these meetings to be very formal.”
The court-painter sat himself down as Anne continued. “Yes, Master Holbein, even though I live in this quiet area of Europe far from the centres of population such as Hamburg, Paris or Amsterdam, I am aware that you’ve painted some very fine portraits of Erasmus and Sir Thomas More. I must also admit that your double portrait, ‘The Ambassadors,’ which I like is also very well-known and appreciated.”
Holbein half-rose from his seat and bowed as Anne moved another wooden chair from near the wall and sat down to face him. “But now,” she said, “I believe you have a commission to paint portraits of me and my sister, Amalia for your royal master.”
Holbein half-bowed again and then stood up in order to move his easel. As the sun had moved since he had first organized his new studio, he decided to move Anne’s chair so that the angle of the canvas would allow him to paint the portrait in a stronger light than before.
“Please, milady, could you look at me directly from where you are sitting so that I might see you more clearly?” What he saw pleased him. In front of him sat a pleasant-faced young woman who seemed to be comfortable within herself. She was not nervous as several of his other subjects had been and her smooth complexion meant that his portrait would not have to disguise any unsightly scars and marks. Her dark eyes reflected a simple honesty and she held her head up straight in an unaffected manner. He did not like the way her nun-like pale brown headdress covered all of her hair, not allowing a wisp or tendril to escape, but he had been commissioned to paint the lady in the clothes that she had chosen. He noted however, that the headdress matched the style of the front panel of her bodice and that her complexion was complemented by the red of her velvet sleeves.
Above all, despite her aristocratic gown and sparkling jewellery, the lady projected an air of modesty. Perhaps the small cross worn just below her collar helped to give that impression. This portrait with its jeweled cross and two simple chains at her breast would certainly find favour with the king. Holbein knew that his master was looking for a quiet and modest wife to replace his ‘dear Jane.’ He did not want another forceful or argumentative woman like Anne Boleyn to share his kingdom and his bed.
Holbein’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted when Anne asked, “Will you be painting a single portrait of each of us, or a double portrait which will include both me and Amalia?”
“I will be painting two separate portraits, milady. First I will paint yours and then I will paint your sister’s. I also hope, if I have enough time, to paint some pictures of this castle and the surrounding scenery. It is so different from what I’m used to in London or where I used to live in Basel.”
“In Basel?” Anne said. “I didn’t know that. I thought you were originally from the Low Countries or from the Rhineland. Certainly not Switzerland.”
“No, milady. I was born in Augsburg, a small town near Munich, but then I moved to London and Basel looking for commissions.”
“And I understand you were very successful there.”
“Yes, milady,” he answered, picking up a short bristled brush. “And now I work for His Majesty, King Henry, as his court painter.”
Anne was just about to say something when Holbein said, “If it please you, milady, I would like to start working now as I hope to catch the sunlight before those clouds to the west move over here.”
Anne nodded and Holbein asked her to stand in such a position that the light from the window lit up her face.
“And what about my clothing and headdress?” Anne asked. “Will they be good enough for your portrait? Are they of the right colour and style?”
“Fear not, milady. I will deal with that question later. First of all I wish to make a sketch of you and then I will concentrate on the details later.”
Anne nodded and moved to where Holbein had told her to stand. For the next twenty minutes she did her best not to move and not talk to him as he sketched the outline features of his portrait - the one that would be known hundreds of years later as the iconic portrait of Henry the Eighth’s fourth wife.
The only time the painter said anything was when Anne developed a cramp in her right leg and she had to bend down and rub and shake it vigorously. “Please do not move, milady. I am trying to make the basic sketch for the final portrait. As you know, His Majesty wishes me to paint the best likeness of you as is possible.”
Anne gave her leg one last shake and resumed her position directly looking at the painter. She stood up straight, her head held straight and held her hands together just below her waist. Some time passed before Holbein spoke again. “I think you may now rest awhile, milady,” he said, stopping to
stretch his back. “I also need to drink something. Is it possible for me to have a beaker of ale?”
Feeling somewhat relieved that she was allowed to move, Anne left the room to tell a servant to bring a tray of drinks and sweet pastries.
“And in the meanwhile, Master Holbein,” Anne said on returning, “while we’re having this little rest, please tell me something more about yourself. I always like to know something about the people with whom I work. All I know about you is that you are an excellent court painter and that you can speak English and German. I’m pleased about this last point because my own English is not very good and I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to talk much with you. Do you ever have the opportunity to speak German in the king’s court today?”
Holbein shook his head. “Hardly any, milady. There is almost no-one there who speaks the language. Sometimes I talk to Christopher Mont, the diplomat, or he asks me about a word or phrase but no, I speak very little of my mother-tongue today in England. And of course, milady, you must remember, the English do not like to learn or speak foreign languages. They are convinced that their language is the language. If they had their way, the whole world would speak English. But come, I’ve been talking enough. I’ve come here to paint your portrait, not to talk about me.” And wiping some paint off his hands with a rag, he asked Anne to return to where she had been standing before. The light on her face was just right and he was anxious to begin.
He worked without speaking for the next ten minutes and then stopped to clean a couple of brushes. Anne took the opportunity to ask him to tell her more about himself.
“As I told you, milady, I was born in Augsburg near Munich. My father was a painter as well as a draughtsman and my brother Ambrosius was also a painter.”
“Ah, a family of painters.”
“That’s right, and so too was my father’s brother, Sigmund. We all worked in our family workshop in Augsburg. Then in 1515, my brother and I moved to Basel where we worked as journeymen and practised more of our art…”
“And craft.”
“Yes, milady, I suppose you could call it a craft as well. We were apprenticed to Herr Hans Herbster who was the most famous painter in Basel at the time. Not only did we learn more about our profession, but we also worked as designers of wood- and-metal cuts. We did this for a local printer. It was during this period that we were invited by a preacher called Oswald Myconius to illustrate the margins of Erasmus’ essay, The Praise of Folly. Have you heard of it?”
Anne shook her head. She was not well read and she certainly had not studied Erasmus’ work on the Protestant Reformation. She asked Holbein to continue.
“I think we must have pleased him because shortly afterwards we began to receive many commissions. These included painting murals in Lucerne as well as decorating large wall panels in rich merchants’ houses. And at the same time I also began studying the works of Andrea Mantegna, an Italian painter who was very good at engraving and painting frescoes. Then I moved back from Lucerne to Basel where I got married.”
“To whom?”
“To Elsbeth Shmid, milady, a widow who was then running her late husband’s business. But come, I’m talking too much and not painting enough. If I don’t finish my work in time, my master will chop off my head.”
Anne held her hands up to her face. “Would he really do that?”
“No, milady, at least, I hope not, but I must continue, so please ask your questions later.” He took up his brush again and continued with his work for another half-hour during which they hardly exchanged a word. Occasionally he asked Anne to move a hand or leg slightly, but that was all. Then, just as he was about to start mixing some colours to reflect the tone of Anne’s cheek, the room grew dark.
Muttering an oath in German, he looked out of the window and saw that a bank of dark grey clouds had moved in, covering the sun.
“Milady,” he said turning to face his subject, “I see that we’ll have to stop for a little while until those clouds move away.”
“Oh, good! So now you can tell me about your wife, your Elsbeth Shmid.”
Holbein smiled. “Yes, milady, as you wish. Well, as I told you, her late husband was in business. He had a tannery and was very successful. My wife is a few years older than me and we had a son in addition to the son she’d had from her first marriage. Then we had a second son and my life was going very well.”
“And isn’t it now?” Anne asked. She took a sweetmeat from a plate and offered one to the painter.
“Oh yes, milady. Certainly. I’m very happy to work at the king’s court. I meet and speak to so many interesting people there.”
“So tell me, how did you get there from Switzerland?”
“Oh, that was a piece of luck. I became quite friendly with the scholar, Erasmus, and he commissioned me to paint one or two portraits of him. These I did using oil paint and tempera.”
“What is tempera? I know what oil paint is.”
“Tempera is a form of paint which the artist makes by mixing the pigment with a liquid such as egg yolk. This sort of paint dries much more quickly than oil paint and it’s a very old way of making colours. Even the ancient Egyptians used it. But to get back to Erasmus, he liked my work so much that he told all his influential friends and I started to become well-known. Then in 1524 I moved to France – to the court of King Francis.”
“And did you learn to speak French there as well as paint?”
“Oui, Madame, je parle le français pas mal maintenant.”
Anne looked at him quizzically. It was clear that she had not understood him.
“I speak French quite well now.” Holbein translated.
“I don’t know many languages,” Anne admitted. “In addition to my German, I know a little English and I suppose that if I do ever go and live in England, I’ll have to learn to speak it better, especially after what you said about the English and what they think of foreign languages.”
Holbein smiled and then turned to look out of the window at the sky, but the clouds were still blocking out the sun.
“But please continue, Master Holbein. Your life and travels are so much more interesting than my own life here.”
Holbein nodded and continued.
“Well, again I have to thank my good friend, Erasmus. He recommended me to his friend, Sir Thomas More, the cleric who was a friend of King Henry.”
“Wasn’t he executed?”
“Yes, milady.” Holbein was quiet for a minute as he thought of how the king’s friend had stood up to his royal master and had paid for this with his head. Then Holbein looked up and saw that Anne was waiting for him to continue. For her, Sir Thomas More was just the name of a foreign courtier and advisor.
“So on Erasmus’ recommendation, I moved to England and spent two or three years there painting portraits. I painted several of Sir Thomas and his family as well as of other clerics, such as the Archbishop of Canterbury, William Warham. I enjoyed myself in England but then I had to return to Basel, otherwise I would have lost my Swiss citizenship. Of course my wife and children were very happy to see me again and while I was there, I painted a portrait of them as well.”
“But didn’t you return to England again?”
“Yes, milady. Again I was very lucky. Thomas Cromwell, an important man who was and still is the king’s chief minister commissioned me to paint a portrait of himself. And after that, several other important people wanted me to paint their portraits, too. I really enjoyed this but the portrait I really enjoyed painting was the double one that you talked about earlier.”
“‘The Ambassadors’?”
Holbein nodded. “I see that you’ve heard about me and my work.”
Anne smiled and Holbein continued.
“This portrait is of two important men: Jean de Dinteville, an ambassador, and Georges de Selve. He was the Bishop of Lavaur. I used both oil paint and tempera and I painted this portrait on a piece of oakwood.”
“Not canvas, like you’re using for m
e?”
“No, milady. But now, let me look outside and see what is happening with these clouds.” They both walked over to the window and saw that most of the clouds had moved away from the sun. However, there were still a few more moving in from the west. Holbein frowned slightly because he wanted to continue but Anne was quite pleased as she was very happy chatting to the painter. He was someone new in her life and, with his descriptions of the outside world he was quite different from the people she usually met in Cleves.
“Tell me, master painter, I heard that you also painted one or two portraits of the king’s second wife, Anne Boleyn.”
“Yes, milady, that is true, but I believe the king had them all destroyed after she was executed. I am not sure, but that is what I was told.”
Anne was silent for a moment. This King Henry had had his wife and one of his best friends and closest advisors executed and now maybe she would become his wife. She shuddered at the thought. Holbein noticed this.
“Are you cold, milady? I could close the window, if you wish.”
“No, it’s all right,” and Anne decided to change the topic of their conversation. She looked up. “Do you paint only portraits? Don’t you paint pictures of nature – of flowers and scenery?”
Holbein turned back to face Anne. He had been happily smelling the scented air outside the castle walls. The sweet smell here was completely different from the heavy and polluted air that he often smelt in London.
“I’m sorry, what did you ask me, milady? Ah yes, do I paint pictures of nature? Sometimes I paint pictures of flowers and trees and the like but to be honest, I prefer painting portraits. They’re far more interesting. The human face is so much more fascinating than say a tulip or a marigold, wouldn’t you say?”
Anne nodded in agreement and brushed a stray wisp of hair back into place under her headdress. “And now you are going to paint my portrait.”
“Yes, milady, if the sun and clouds outside will let me.” He walked over to the window and looked out. He then turned round and asked Anne to move back to her original position. He then asked her to make a few small changes in how she was standing, took up his brushes, moved his easel a little and started working again.
Anne of Cleves- Unbeloved Page 6