Kitabı oku: «Midnight Blue: A gripping historical novel about the birth of Delft pottery, set in the Dutch Golden Age»
TRANSLATED BY JENNY WATSON
Copyright
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
The News Building
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in the Netherlands by Ambo Anthos 2016
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Dutch Foundation for Literature.
Copyright © Simone van der Vlugt
Translation copyright © Jenny Watson
Map of Delft: De Agostini / Biblioteca Ambrosiana / Getty Images
Simone van der Vlugt asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books
Source ISBN: 9780008212100
Ebook Edition © April 2017 ISBN: 9780008212124
Version: 2017-01-19
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Glossary
Afterword
Suggested Further Reading
Reading Group Questions
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
1
De Rijp, March 1654
The funeral was a week ago and I still feel more relieved than anything else. I know that’s indefensible, that I should be grieving, but it’s impossible.
I stand with my arms folded, gazing out of the top half of the kitchen door at the fields and meadows surrounding the farm, but don’t really see them.
It should never have come to this. Looking back, I can’t understand what came over me that night. For years I’d thought of Govert as just another man from the village, not someone I paid any particular attention to. I never gave him much thought at all. Not that he wasn’t an attractive man, in a certain way he was. The first time I noticed him was at the village fair, when he pulled me up to dance and held me to him. I’d been drinking, of course I had been drinking, but not so much that I couldn’t hear his heavy breathing or feel his body pressing against mine, his muscular arms clasping me so tentatively.
With every turn our hips brushed and the grip with which he steered me through the other dancing couples tightened. It was an exciting feeling. I realised he was in love with me. The off-putting way he stared at me whenever we passed one another, with that furrowed brow of his, had been an expression of desire rather than disapproval.
Did I feel flattered by his attention? Had I turned down too many potential suitors in the hope of something better? Was I afraid of being a spinster all my days? Or was I in love at that moment?
When he took my hand in his and led me outside to a quiet corner of the orchard I didn’t protest.
Govert was happy when I finally told him, four months later, that I was pregnant, all set to marry me and start a family. As a widower of around forty and not without means, he was a fair prospect, even if he wasn’t what I’d pictured.
Not that there was much choice. One moment of madness at the fair, one moment of total lunacy, and my future was set. Gone was the chance to someday leave the village and begin a new life, gone were my dreams.
The worst thing was that I wondered what I’d even seen in him that night. Whatever it had been, the next morning it was gone too.
We were married a month later, and six weeks after that my pregnancy ended in a premature birth. The child, a boy, was stillborn. That was over a year ago too.
And now Govert himself is lying beneath the cold, dark earth. The only mirror in the house is turned to the wall and the shutters have been closed for weeks. Today I’m opening them again. I let the morning light stream in with a feeling of utter pleasure. The living room, which was packed with visitors for days, is eerily quiet. I’ve lived in De Rijp all my life, and the support of relatives, neighbours and friends is heart-warming. My in-laws were notably absent. They probably find it hard to accept that I’m about to inherit all of Govert’s property after one year of marriage. It’s understandable, but there’s nothing I can do about it. And God knows I earned that inheritance.
I allow my gaze to wander around the room, from the round table next to the window to the fireplace and the furniture I painted myself. Sunlight falls on the flagstone floor and brings a little warmth. Not much, it’s only the beginning of March. The smoke drifts along the beams hung with sausages and bacon and up into the loft, which is still half full of winter stores.
It’s strange to have the house to myself, but I have no time to take it in. There’s work to be done and now that Govert’s gone there’s even more than usual.
Although I have a maid and a farmhand, there’s plenty left for me to do. Every day’s the same. I milk the cows, feed the pigs and chickens, tend the vegetable patch, churn the butter and make the cheese. I use the remaining time to wash and mend clothes, spin and weave and, very occasionally, to paint.
Now and then, when I glance at the shiny surface of a copper kettle, I catch a glimpse of my mother, her braided hair under a white cap. She’s always busy, always tired. I’m twenty-five but I feel much older.
Just keep going, I think as I head to the barn to check on the animals. The mourning period is only six weeks, not so long.
Jacob, the farmhand, has already started the milking. He greets me with a slight tilt of his chin. I nod by way of an answer.
‘I might be able to go and work for Abraham Goen,’ he says as I sit down on my stool.
‘That’s good.’
‘Now it’s only Jannet who has to find a job.’
‘It’ll all work out. If there’s nothing for her here, she’ll find something in Graft.’
‘When are you leaving?’ Jacob asks.
‘As soon as everything’s sold. The auction’s next week.’
Jacob nods. ‘Jannet would like to take the churn. Then she can make her own butter.’
‘I can’t give it to her. I’ve promised it to my mother.’
‘Oh. That’s a shame.’ Jacob pulls the full pail out from under the cow and stands up. The way he stands there makes me think he has something else to say, and I look at him expectantly.
‘About the boss …’
‘Yes?’
‘His brother’s been telling tales around the village.’
I stop milking. ‘What kind of tales?’
He hesitates.
‘What is it, Jacob?’ I say, a little too sharply, sounding impatient.
‘I think you know,’ he says, and walks away.
Yesterday I made buttermilk curds. Today, for lunch, I smear some of the sour leftovers onto a slice of rye bread. Jacob and Jannet are sitting at the table too. We don’t say much, all three of us are deep in thought.
After the meal, I leave the work to them. I pull on a pair of clogs and set off along the dyke towards De Rijp. The farm backs onto the circular canal around the Beemster polder, which is surrounded by marshy lowlands. My parents’ farm is on the far side of the village, and the quickest way there is to walk through it. I walk along Kralingergracht and onto the main street, where the shabby buildings give way to grand homes with green and red painted gables. Closer to the centre of the village there are even a few stone houses with stepped gables, which look like they’ve been left here by accident.
On the way, I say hello to people I know, who reply somewhat reluctantly. Are they avoiding me? Are people staring at me?
By the time I get to the Kleine Dam and the bustle around the weighing-house, I can no longer dismiss my concerns. People are throwing curious glances my way and whispering behind my back. Only one person comes up to ask how I am and whether it’s true that I’m leaving.
The people here are proud of their village, their families have lived here for generations. Leaving is unheard of, practically a betrayal. But the villagers always thought I was a bit odd, so my plans should come as no surprise.
‘Are you getting rid of that dresser as well? The one you painted so nicely?’ says Sybrigh the wholesaler. ‘I’d be happy to take that off your hands.’
‘The auction’s next week,’ I answer, and keep on walking with an apologetic smile.
I turn into narrow Church Street and leave the village. I can see my parents’ farm in the distance. When I reach the muddy track that will take me there, I quicken my pace.
‘Mart was just here.’ My mother is rinsing out milk churns under the pump. In the pale winter light her face looks thin and old, and when she straightens she presses a hand to her back. ‘He came to speak to you but he was yelling so much that I sent him away.’
I grab a milk churn and shove it under the pump.
‘He’d heard you were leaving. He was furious, Catrin.’
‘Why? Isn’t that up to me?’
‘Of course, but now? So soon after the funeral? Lots of people find it strange. You’ve got a farm, cattle, everything, and it’s all yours now. Men are lining up for you. Take Gerrit, if you got together you’d both be rich.’
‘I’m moving to the city.’
‘To go and work as a housekeeper. Even though here you’re completely free.’
I sigh. ‘We’ve been over this so many times, Mother. I’m not planning to be a housekeeper forever. I want to save up, remarry and make a new life in town.’
‘Yes, I suppose that is what you’ve always wanted. As a little girl, you were always desperate to come along when we took the cheese to market. I never understood why; the others weren’t like that. Four hours on a barge to get to town and another four back.’
‘Crying because I wanted to stay.’
We look at each other and smile.
‘Well, you should do what you want to do. You’re not a little girl any more, I can’t stop you,’ my mother says after a short pause. ‘It’s just …’
In the silence that follows, I study her expression. ‘What is it?’
‘People are talking.’
‘People in villages always talk, that’s another reason I want to leave. I’ve had more than enough of all the gossiping and meddling.’
A look of resignation appears on my mother’s face. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she says. ‘But maybe it is better that you go.’
2
A week later everything is sold. Govert and I had been renting the farmhouse and land but the animals and furniture belonged to us. During the auction, which takes place on the farm’s threshing floor, I see my possessions pass into other people’s hands. The proceeds – around a hundred guilders – are welcome. They’re enough to keep me going for a while and maybe set up a business. Perhaps painting pottery. That has always been a dream of mine. As a little girl I decorated furniture with beetroot juice. Later on, when I was given commissions by rich farmers and important people from the village and started decorating dressers and foot warmers for them, I used real paint.
‘It reminds me of those colourful pieces they make up in Hindeloopen,’ Cornelis Vinck, the notary said one day. ‘You’ve got talent, Cat. You should try selling a few things up in town.’
‘I can’t, sir. I’m not a member of the guild,’ I said.
‘At the annual fair in September out-of-towners are allowed to sell whatever they like. As long as they don’t set up their own business.’
In my scarce free time I started painting plates and footstools, which I did end up managing to sell quite easily at the fair.
From that day on I longed for the city.
I’ve only known a few villagers leave De Rijp and they were boys who signed on for VOC ships or went off to become whalers. In the neighbouring village of Graft, there was a girl who found a job as a housemaid in Alkmaar and that seemed like a good idea for me too. Of course, life as a housemaid is hard work, but at least I wouldn’t be stuck here with nothing but reeds and mud as far as the eye can see. Town is where things happen, there are amusements and diversions, the people there really live and I long to be part of it. I heard from Emil and Bertha, friends who live in Alkmaar, that a rich resident of the city was in need of a housekeeper. A few weeks ago, when I had to go into town for the cheese market, I walked over to Oudegracht to offer my services. To my astonishment and delight, I was hired on the spot.
I look around the barn, at the early morning light that falls on the packed earth floor. The possessions which had been piled up here have been taken away by their new owners. The only things I still have are a few trinkets and some clothes.
Outside in the farmyard, my parents and brothers stand waiting in the morning mist. As the only surviving daughter, I could always rely on their care and protection and I see from the boys’ faces that they’re not happy I’m leaving. There’s a big age gap between Dirk, my eldest brother, and Laurens, left by a number of miscarriages and brothers and sisters who died young. Maybe that’s why Laurie is the one I’m most attached to; we’re the ones who had to make up for those losses.
Our parting is brief. I hug everyone, my parents the longest. Laurie has to go to Alkmaar too and will be accompanying me. A good idea now that I’m carrying so much money.
‘We’ll see each other again soon,’ says my father. ‘I’m bringing a load up to Alkmaar next week.’
‘See you then, Pa. You know where I’ll be.’
Another kiss, a hug, and we set off. Laurie takes the bundle with my things under his arm and we walk along the East Dyke, which leads to the quay. I look back a couple of times and wave to my family. My heart is full but I have no regrets.
It’s a long journey to Alkmaar. Squashed in between the cargo, huddled together for warmth, we watch the polder landscape of flat, neatly laid-out fields and ditches go by. The barge doesn’t go particularly fast, but I’m used to that. I’ve made this journey many times. I know every bend in the canal, every hamlet we pass. On some stretches there’s hardly any wind and we make so little progress that the bargee has to use his pole. He leans on the bargepole with his whole weight, works it into the mud at the bottom and levers the boat forward.
I sit next to my brother and point out things I notice in the landscape. I don’t get much response.
‘So you’re not coming back then?’ says Laurie, just as I’m about to give up my efforts to start a conversation.
‘Of course I will. Now and again.’
‘If I were you, I wouldn’t stay in Alkmaar. Mart is turning the whole village against you.’
‘Do they believe him?’
‘I don’t know.’ He’s quiet for a moment, then says: ‘You could go to Haarlem or Amsterdam instead.’
Now it’s my turn to pause. ‘So far away?’ I say quietly.
‘It isn’t that far really. What I mean to say, Cat, is that you mustn’t let us hold you back. If another town is … better for you, that’s where you have to go. We know what’s being said about you is nonsense, but not everyone is convinced.’
‘I should have stayed in mourning for longer, cried more.’ I look up at my brother. ‘Is it a sin to be glad someone’s dead?’
Laurie puts his arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. ‘No,’ he says, ‘in this case I’d say it’s only human.’
We sail along the shore of Alkmaar Lake and pass the lock at Akersloot. Rays of sunlight pierce the mist, breaking up the grey haze and bringing a little warmth. A stiff breeze fills the sails and drives the boat through the waves. In the distance, the towers and city walls of Alkmaar are visible, and the gallows field.
A shudder goes through me when I see the sinister posts with their dangling corpses. I quickly turn my gaze to the hustle and bustle of the port further up by the Customs Tower, where incoming goods are weighed and taxed by the city authorities.
The broad expanse of the River Zeglis stretches out glistening in the sun ahead of us. On the banks on either side, swarms of people are walking towards the city, a man is driving a couple of pigs in front of him. Carts lurch and crash over the potholes, a beggar narrowly manages to jump out of the way of their wheels.
The barge moors up just outside the city walls. Laurie and I struggle to our feet and pay the skipper. A few minutes later, we cross the small wooden bridge leading to Tree Gate. We say goodbye at the Customs Tower. Laurie has an appointment in an inn on Brewer’s Quay.
He hesitates, as if he wants to say something but can’t find the right words. ‘Well, Sis, good luck. I’ll come and look you up next time I’m in town.’ He hugs me. ‘Think about what I said.’
I kiss Laurie on the cheek and take my bag of clothes from him. We look each other in the eye for a moment, then smile and part ways. When I glance back, I see my brother watching me. I wave and turn right.
Stiff from sitting so long, I walk up River Street, clutching my bag. The canal is full of little barges and flat-bottomed boats, goods are being loaded and unloaded everywhere.
I make a beeline through the familiar streets to the other side of the city, where the cathedral towers over the rooftops. I enter the church through the door on Choir Street and wander through the gigantic apse with its pillars and stained-glass windows to the front, right up to the altar. I sit down on the front pew and close my eyes. For a while I sit like that, listening to my own breathing and the irregular beating of my heart.
It is only when everything inside me has quieted down that I open my eyes again. The silence hanging between the white walls and arches has a calming effect.
I clasp my hands together. The content of my prayers is no different than at the village church in De Rijp but here it feels different – as if here, among the massive stone vaults, I will be heard more clearly. I don’t know whether my entreaties make any difference. I don’t feel any relief yet. With my head still bowed, I leave the church. Outside, I blink at the sunlight and stand dazed for a moment before allowing myself to be swallowed up once more in the bustle of the city.
Near the cathedral is the inn and tavern, the Thirteen Beams, which is run by friends of mine. Bertha and her husband Emil do a roaring trade because their inn is the first one travellers come to when they enter the city from the west through Goblin Gate. It’s a large building with a stepped gable and a wrought-iron sign that swings merrily in the wind.
My hands are so cold they’re almost frozen; I open the door and let out a sigh of relief as the warm air washes over me. The small taproom is full to the rafters. I make my way through the mass of people standing and sitting between me and the bar. Emil is pouring beer. Bertha is just walking off with two foaming tankards in her hands.
‘Emil!’ I shout, leaning across the bar.
‘Cat! Hello! Lovely to see you. It’s a bit busy right now but I’ll catch up with you in a minute!’ he shouts.
I nod and whip around as someone puts their hand on my shoulder. It’s Bertha. Her dark curls have worked their way out from under her cap to frame her face. ‘There you are! Do you want something to eat?’
‘Yes, please.’
Bertha disappears into the kitchen and comes back a moment later with a hearty-looking soup and a hunk of bread. I quickly find somewhere to sit. By the time I’ve finished eating, it’s a bit quieter in the inn and Bertha comes to join me. She asks how the journey has been.
‘Long and cold, but Laurie came with me,’ I say. ‘Can I sleep here tonight? I don’t need to be at my boss’s house until tomorrow.’
Bertha’s expression turns solemn.
‘What is it? Are you full? It doesn’t matter, I’m sure I can go to the Morien’s Head,’ I say.
‘You can stay here as long as you want, but I have bad news. The gentleman who wanted you to be his housekeeper, Willebrand Nordingen, died two days ago. He fell ill – something to do with his lungs. Of course he was quite old, but his death still took us by surprise.’
For a moment I’ve no idea what to say. This is bad news. Not only for Nordingen, who seemed like a kind man, but for me too.
‘What do I do now? I’ve sold all my things, given up my lease.’
‘Then buy or rent a house here and find another job.’
‘There’s nothing else I can do. And I can’t go back to De Rijp.’
‘We’ll help you,’ says Bertha. ‘You can stay here until you get a place of your own and we’ll ask around about a job for you. An inn is the perfect place to do that.’
It’s reassuring to know I’m not alone, but it takes a while for me to accept that everything isn’t going to go as planned. It’s a good job I’ve got enough money to pay my way for the time being.
Emil comes and puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘You’ll find something,’ he says. ‘There’s plenty of work in Alkmaar.’
3
I spend all week searching for work. I crisscross the whole city, from the grand houses along Mient Canal, the fanciest thoroughfare in town, to the salt works on Oudegracht and the brewery on Dove Lane. I try my luck at the city orphanage on Doelen Street and the adjoining silk-weaving workshop, then at Saint Catherine’s Cloister and various inns and taverns. I don’t care what I have to do – cleaning, fetching and carrying, nursing the sick – as long as I have a job.
The end of the week finds me sitting across from Bertha in the inn, utterly disillusioned.
‘I didn’t think it would be so hard to find work,’ I say. ‘There are jobs for men, but it’s much harder for women.’
‘You could set up on your own. A small business of some kind.’
‘Selling what? Pots and pans? The city’s full of those already.’
‘But you paint them so beautifully. And now that you’re a resident of Alkmaar, you’re allowed to set up a business.’
I shake my head. ‘You know it’s not that easy. I’d have to serve an apprenticeship, pay fees to learn and pass an exam to become a master. And that’s assuming a guild would even take me on.’
‘A woman joined the Guild of Saint Lucas a while ago – Isabella Bardesius. Now she’s a painter with her own studio.’
‘Then she’s almost certainly from a rich family that paid for her education. They don’t let you in without training, Bertha.’ I stare into space, thinking. ‘Perhaps I should take that job in the infirmary after all. That’s the only offer I’ve had.’
‘In the pest house? Are you insane?!’
‘There’s no plague. The people in there have other diseases.’
‘Yes, and they’re just as infectious and just as deadly. That would be my last resort.’
‘It is my last resort. If I don’t find something soon, I’ll have to go back to De Rijp.’
Next to us, someone clears their throat. A man of around thirty with mid-length dirty blond hair is standing by the table. ‘Hello, Bertha. Sorry for interrupting, but I couldn’t help overhear your conversation.’
‘Matthias, it’s good to see you. How are you?’ Bertha’s face breaks into a broad smile.
‘Very well, thanks,’ says the man. ‘I’m passing through on my way to Den Helder and I’ve got a few bits of business to take care of in Alkmaar.’
‘Mister Van Nulandt is one of our regular guests,’ Bertha tells me.
The man takes off his hat and bows slightly. ‘A pleasure to meet you,’ he says with a winning smile.
I nod and tell him my name. Matthias sits down on the stool opposite us.
‘It’s not a complete coincidence I was listening to your conversation,’ he tells Bertha. ‘Emil mentioned the situation. He told me a few things about your friend here and asked whether I could help.’
‘And?’ Bertha asks.
‘As it happens, I can. My brother is in need of a housekeeper. Would that suit you?’ Matthias asks, turning to me.
‘I don’t know. I mean, yes, I think so. But you don’t know me,’ I say, astounded.
‘Emil and Bertha know you, that’s good enough for me. And Emil speaks very highly of you.’
A wave of excitement bubbles up inside me. ‘A housekeeper … that would be wonderful. Who is your brother and where does he live?’
His name is Adriaan van Nulandt,’ Matthias says, ‘and he lives in Amsterdam.’
Amsterdam! The shock obviously shows on my face because Matthias asks, ‘Is that a problem?’
‘It’s so far away. I don’t know anyone there …’
‘Matthias shrugs this off. ‘It’s not that far, and once you’re there you’ll soon get to know people.’
I exchange glances with Bertha, who looks a bit flabbergasted. ‘It is an opportunity for you, Cat,’ she says. ‘And since there’s no job for you here, it’s Amsterdam or De Rijp.’
I don’t have to think for long. Even though I’m not keen on the idea of leaving everyone I love behind, I have no choice. What’s more, this is a better move for me. I would never have gone to Amsterdam on my own initiative. Perhaps it’s fate.
While I’m thinking, Matthias goes out to settle his business affairs. When he returns that evening, I go and talk to him.
‘I’ve decided to do it. I’d be very grateful if you would recommend me to your brother.’
‘Of course, I’ll write a glowing recommendation. But for that I reckon we need to get to know each other a little better. Will you join me for a drink?’
We draw up two chairs at a table in the corner and Matthias orders a jug of wine. ‘So tell me,’ he asks as he fills my cup, ‘why did you leave your village?’
I tell him everything. About my longing for the city and how that one night at the dance sent my life in a different direction. About my stillborn son and Govert’s unexpected death. Matthias listens attentively.
‘So you’re a widow,’ he says when I’ve finished. ‘A very young widow. I’m sorry about that.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t a happy marriage.’ I stare into the distance, thinking of the life I would have had if Govert hadn’t died. ‘He hit me. From the moment we were married, and more and more as time went on. I don’t know why. There was no reason for him to do it. We never argued, I didn’t answer him back, I worked hard.’ I laugh wryly. ‘I purposely made sure we didn’t argue and I never answered him back, but he hit me anyway.’ My voice betrays the bitterness I always feel when I think of all that violence.
‘Some men are like that,’ Matthias says gently. ‘But not all of them.’
‘No …’ I sigh. ‘The problem is, you can’t tell by looking whether they are or not. You only know when it’s too late, when you’re already married.’
‘Next time, if it ever happens to you again, have the rascal up before the judge. It’s illegal to beat your spouse, did you know that? It is not what God intended between man and wife.’
‘Are you married?’
‘No, and I don’t plan to be. I want to travel, see the world. I work for my brother’s company. He’s a trader and one of the directors of the East India Company. He has no desire to go off gallivanting so I do it for him.’
‘Where do you go?’
‘Italy and Norway for the most part, no long voyages. I wish I could go further. To the East, to China and the Indies. Don’t you ever wonder what’s on the other side of the world? What it looks like and how people live there?’
‘Finding out what the world outside De Rijp and Alkmaar is like is good enough for me,’ I say, and he laughs.
Maybe it’s the familiar way he talks to me, the way the skin around his eyes crinkles when he laughs or the sound of his voice that make me edge closer to him. He’s nice. Really nice. Apparently, he thinks the same of me because he keeps leaning towards me and touching me now and again as we talk. His face is alive with enthusiasm and I can’t stop looking at him. A tingling feeling spreads through my body, like little bubbles of air under my skin.
As the evening draws on, the world shrinks until all that exists is the table we’re sitting at, lit by a flickering candle. It’s long after midnight when I make a move to go to bed. Matthias walks me upstairs. On the landing he gives me a long look. The wine has weakened my resolve and when his mouth finds mine, I let him kiss me. His lips are firm yet gentle. Desire wells up in me and I throw my arms around his neck. He caresses my back in response, before letting his hand descend to my bottom and then up along my side.
It’s only when he tries to undo the laces of my bodice that I push him away, gently but firmly. He smiles regretfully.
‘I like you, Catrin.’ His mouth is by my ear. ‘A lot. I’m glad I met you. Hopefully we’ll meet again in Amsterdam.’
‘Yes, I hope so too.’
‘If my brother is so stupid as to decide not take you on, be sure to tell the maid where I can find you.’
I nod and promise that I will. We kiss again, at first softly and then with more and more feeling. I feel my body respond again, so much so that I put an end to it by stepping smartly back and opening my door. I smile at Matthias and go inside. Before I shut the door he blows me a kiss.
‘See you in Amsterdam,’ he says.
The next morning, I go down to the taproom, but to my disappointment, Matthias has already left.
‘He had an early appointment in Den Helder. Asked me to give you this.’ Emil hands me a roll of paper.
The letter of recommendation. I turn it over in my hands a couple of times. ‘Did he say anything else?’
‘That the house is on the first part of Keizersgracht and he hopes he’ll see you soon.’
I can read a bit, the pastor in De Rijp set up a class when I was little. He thought it was important to teach girls to read so they could give their children Bible lessons. I can remember enough of it that I’d be able to tell what is in the letter, but the roll is sealed.
‘You two got on well last night.’ There’s a note of enquiry in Emil’s voice.
‘Yes,’ I say with a smile. ‘Very well.’ I pretend not to notice Emil’s curiosity and choose a table at the window.
After a light breakfast of bread and cheese, I take leave of my friends.
‘My family will be shocked when they hear I’m not in Alkmaar any more,’ I say as I give Bertha a hug.
‘We’ll explain. Send word when you’ve found a job, won’t you?’
I promise I will, say goodbye to Emil and set off. I walk along Lang Street to Mient Canal and past the fishmongers’ stalls, where everything is busy and messy. Taking pains not to slip on the fish guts, I buy myself a couple of herrings. After that I head up River Street and it comes as a relief when at last I reach the River Zeglis. Much as I love the city’s liveliness, it takes some getting used to.
After asking around, I find a boat I can travel on.
‘I don’t go any further than Haarlem, mistress,’ says the captain. ‘But getting to Amsterdam from Haarlem isn’t difficult, you can just take the water coach.’
I’ve heard of water coaches, though I’ve never been on one because they don’t run as far as Alkmaar. According to the captain, they work perfectly. From Midway they’ve dug a long, straight ditch alongside the water for the horses pulling the barges. ‘All the way to Amsterdam,’ he says.
I pay him the required coins, allow my bag to be carried on board and climb aboard myself. I find a spot among the baskets and crates and settle down on the blanket laid out by the captain for passengers to sit on.
Wrapped in my cloak with the hood up over my head, I watch as the city gets smaller. I’ve never been further than Alkmaar before and have no idea what awaits me in Amsterdam. The only thing I do know is that I will have to face whatever it is entirely alone.
4
The journey to Haarlem takes all day. It’s only once we pass Beverwyck and are on Wyck Lake that we start making decent headway. Once we get to Spaarndam we rely on locks and canals again, but by then Haarlem is in sight. It’s almost dark and I’m exhausted. When the boat moors at Gravestone Bridge I get up stiffly and clamber onto the quay. I’m so tired I stagger into the first inn I see. Fortunately, there’s still a bed free. I don’t care that I have to share a room.
In the taproom, sitting beside the fire and with a hot meal in front of me, I come round a little. Out of the corner of my eye I see men staring at me. I make sure I avoid eye contact and appear as unapproachable as possible, which isn’t difficult, given how tired I am. To my relief, they leave me in peace. As the evening wears on, the mood gets rowdy, but by then I’m already in bed. Despite the long day I’ve had, it takes a while to fall asleep. I lie with my eyes closed and listen to the snores and breathing of my roommates and the racket from the taproom. My thoughts turn to my family and suddenly I find myself thinking back to when I was little.
I nearly drowned once as a child. During a violent winter storm, the dykes protecting Waterland from the sea burst, followed by the ring of canals protecting the Beemster. Many people and animals died, and mud-built farms with thatched roofs were washed away. The somewhat higher centre of De Rijp was spared, even if the well-to-do people there didn’t manage to keep their respectable feet entirely dry.
I was five when the flood came. I only know the details of the disaster from stories. But I still remember the feeling of powerlessness as the roof my family and I were sitting on collapsed and the water carried me away. I couldn’t swim, but it wouldn’t have made much difference anyway. As soon as the sea began to ebb, the flood carried everyone with it. Anyone who couldn’t manage to hold onto something was lost. I was fished from the waves by one of our neighbours and pulled into a boat. My parents and brothers managed to save themselves. Allie and Johanna, my two older sisters, drowned.
In the grey light of dawn, I lie and think about my family. Meanwhile, the other guests start to emerge from their beds. People yawn and mumble good mornings. Some begin chatting quietly. I get up too but don’t make the effort to talk to anyone.
I take my time getting dressed, putting on a linen blouse, skirt, apron, fichu, bodice, jerkin and cap. Now and then I glance out of the window. Outside, the quay is busy, despite the hour. Freight and passenger ships both set out at first light.
I pack my things. The letter from Matthias is among my clothes and I smile. If I get this job, I’ll see him again. A little more certain now about my decision to go to Amsterdam, I square my shoulders. If I hurry, I can still make the first barge.
Compared to yesterday’s voyage, the journey to Amsterdam is as nothing. The pleasingly short distance remaining is encouraging, and the comfort of the horse-drawn barge couldn’t be more different from the open boat that brought me from Alkmaar. There’s a deck house complete with benches where passengers can take shelter from the elements. Since we’re not dependent on the wind, we travel at an even pace. There are inns along the route where passengers can get off for a meal and the barge can take on fresh horses. The Haarlem Ship Canal stretches in a straight line through the polders past windmills and farms to Amsterdam.
From time to time, I leave the deck house to feel the wind and sun on my face and admire the beauty of the wide, cloudy skies and green meadows. Milkmaids, pedlars and travellers on horses or in carts pass by on the dyke along the canal. Occasionally, someone waves. I smile and wave back.
My nervousness only resurfaces when we reach Amsterdam. I’ve heard a lot about the city, about its size, how busy it is, and with a touch of trepidation I ask myself whether a country mouse like me belongs in such a place.
My uncertainty gives way to excitement when I see the high walls looming ahead. I gaze in awe at the windmills atop the bastions, their sails spinning at top speed.
It’s busy at the entryways and on the water, as if the whole world is on its way to Amsterdam. The mighty IJ bay, an arm of the sea reaching far inland, is clogged with cranes, flat-bottomed barges, market boats and fishing vessels. Just beyond the pales that fence off the harbour, merchant ships lie at anchor, sterns gleaming in the sunlight. The last leg of our journey follows the shore of the IJ and we moor at Herring Merchants’ Gate.
I grab my things and allow someone to help me ashore. Much as I would like to go directly to Keizersgracht and search for Van Nulandt’s house, I’m too tired and hungry. Having decided to go and have something to eat first, I order a simple meal at City Inn on a jetty in the IJ.
I wolf down the fish and bread, pay at the counter and carry on up the quay.
So this is Amsterdam, the centre of the world. What a crowd, what a commotion! Boat masts loom up into the sky as far as the eye can see; the quay is covered in bales, crates and baskets that have been unloaded and people calling and shouting out over each other.
Curious to explore the rest of the city, I turn right, walk over the quayside known as Damrak and reach a large square with a wooden town hall and a weighing-house. There are traders everywhere, I hear all kinds of languages. An outlandishly dressed man with a scarf around his head and a little monkey on his shoulder walks past me, magnificently dressed women greet each other and exchange pleasantries. I breathe it all in. Far from scaring me, the cacophony fills me with joy. This is where it is all happening, this is where different worlds meet.
I stand in the middle of the square, drinking in the bewildering new world around me, and know I will never go back to my hometown.
In contrast to Damrak, Keizersgracht appears brand new. The gaps between the paving stones have yet to be touched by dirt, the paint on the doors and window frames is gleaming and the cobblestones look like they’ve not long been cut. Young linden trees have been planted along the canal. One day I’m sure they will lend Keizersgracht even more grandeur, but for now the saplings droop a little sadly against their supports.
I’ve asked around to find out where the Van Nulandt family lives and now find myself gazing up at the gable of their enormous house. Somewhat nervous, I ascend the front steps and let the knocker fall against the door. A young girl opens it and regards me with undisguised curiosity.
‘I’m Catrin Barentsdochter and I have a letter for Mister Van Nulandt from his brother.’
The girl puts her hand out for the letter but I shake my head. ‘I would prefer to give it to him myself.’
‘I’ll tell the master.’ She lets me in and disappears into the passage.
While I’m waiting, my eyes wander around the hall, taking in the carved wood winding staircase, the paintings on the walls and the expensive vases on the side tables.
A door opens and a man of around forty dressed in sombre black approaches me. I curtsy and repeat my message.
‘A letter from my brother? Why, has something happened?’ asks Adriaan van Nulandt in alarm.
‘No, don’t worry,’ I say. ‘We met in Alkmaar, where he was staying overnight, and got to talking. I said I was looking for a job and your brother said he might know of something for me.’
Adriaan van Nulandt takes the letter, breaks the seal and reads it. Halfway through he takes his eyes from the letter, sizes me up, and then carries on reading. ‘So you’re hoping for a position as a housekeeper,’ he says once he’s finished.
‘Yes, sir.’
I come under his scrutiny once more, for longer this time. ‘Follow me,’ he says.
He leads me into a beautifully decorated chamber. There’s an oak table with six chairs, but he makes no move to sit down. Instead he perches on the edge of the table and leaves me to stand. With my head held high, I endure Van Nulandt’s appraisal.
‘Give me one good reason why I should employ you,’ he says finally.
‘I’m no stranger to hard work, sir.’
‘My brother writes you’re a farmgirl. You don’t look like one.’
By way of reply, I show him my raw, calloused hands. He spares them only a cursory glance before looking me directly in the eye for a long time. His penetrating gaze makes me nervous, even though I don’t let it show. I return his gaze as calmly as possible, only to cast my eyes down when it becomes unbearable.
Finally, Mister Van Nulandt breaks the silence. ‘Tell me about yourself. What brings you to Amsterdam?’
‘I’m a widow, sir. I could have remarried, but I always wanted to live in the city. Friends found me a situation in Alkmaar but it didn’t go through. I had resigned myself to returning to De Rijp when I was fortunate enough to meet your brother. It was as if God steered me into his path.’
This last addition is a nice touch; it emphasises my piety. The paintings around me are all of religious subjects so it should please Van Nulandt. I look up to meet his eyes and see a glimmer of respect. That gives me courage.
‘You could try me out for a few days,’ I say.
His face betrays no emotion. ‘You’re not shy, Catrin Barentsdochter.’
‘I know what I’m capable of, sir.’
Van Nulandt skims the letter again, then sets it aside. ‘I need someone who can keep house and manage the maid. I can give you a monthly salary of twenty stivers with room and board. You’ll have a day off every two weeks. When can you start?’
‘At once, sir.’
‘Good, then I’ll give you a chance, Catrin,’ Adriaan says. ‘I shall introduce you to my wife. Follow me.’
5
Adriaan van Nulandt leads the way into the passage and walks into a room at the front of the house. Daylight streams in, along with the sounds of the street and the water.
Next to the window a woman is standing at an easel in an attitude of intense concentration. She glances up, annoyed.
‘Brigitta, I’ve come to introduce the new housekeeper. This is Catrin Barentsdochter,’ Adriaan says.
I take a couple of steps into the room and curtsy. Mistress Van Nulandt is still young, around the same age as me, and glances at me without much interest.
‘A pleasure to meet you, madam,’ I venture, when no one says anything.
‘Is she starting today?’ Brigitta asks her husband. Adriaan nods and she smiles contentedly. ‘Good, then Greta will stop coming to disturb me. If you two will excuse me, I have work to do.’ She peers intently at the painting she’s working on and dips her brush in the paint.
Adriaan motions for me to follow him and shows me the house. It is huge. Upstairs are bedrooms and the attic where beds are made up for servants. Downstairs are the reception rooms, along with the entrance hall and parlour, and the private rooms, including the living, breakfast and dining rooms, and the kitchen. Adriaan tells me the parlour is only used to receive guests and that it’s my job to clean it. The maid is not allowed to set foot in there.
‘Be especially careful with these.’ He points to two blue-and-white vases on the floor either side of the hearth. ‘Don’t move them, just work around them. And whatever you do, don’t knock into them. These vases are extremely valuable.’
I gaze at them in wonder. ‘I can understand that, sir. They are magnificent.’
‘They are imported from China and made of porcelain. That’s a special kind of pottery.’
‘Can I have a closer look?’
‘As long as you don’t touch them.’
I make sure I’m careful. Reverentially, I bob down next to one of the vases and look at the exotic scenes painted in different shades of blue on the brilliant white background. I have never seen pottery so white.
‘China,’ I say. ‘That must be a long way away.’
‘On the other side of the world. Come with me.’
I stand up and follow him. It’s strange to be given instructions by the man of the house and not his wife. Brigitta van Nulandt obviously has no interest whatsoever in household matters.
As the master shows me around, I listen closely and stare in wonder at the house. So this is how the rich folk of Amsterdam live: in houses full of paintings, oriental porcelain and silver. The furniture is oak with fine carvings, the bedsteads are hung with velvet curtains, the floor is covered in black and white tiles and the walls are decorated with panelling or more tiles.
Even the kitchen comes as a surprise. It’s much larger than anything I’m used to and has a scullery. There are cupboards for crockery and pans rather than shelves along the walls. The hearth takes up much of the wall and there’s a long table down the middle of the room. A door with the top half propped open leads to a small courtyard.
Adriaan goes outside and I follow him. A girl is hanging out washing and turns to face us.
‘Greta, this is Catrin, the new housekeeper. She’s starting today. I trust you will show her the ropes.’
The girl nods shyly.
Without saying another word, Adriaan walks off, leaving me and Greta to stand in silence.
‘Right then, let’s get to work,’ I say. ‘When you’ve finished hanging out the washing, Greta, come and help me in the kitchen. Then we can get to know each other.’
I smile encouragingly at the girl, turn around and go inside.
Greta has not long turned fifteen. She had to make do without a housekeeper for a while and is thus used to a lot of freedom, but also had double the amount of work.
‘Hester got sick and a couple of days later she was dead. She was getting on a bit, forty or so,’ Greta tells me as she accompanies me to the produce market on Prinsengracht that afternoon. ‘I’m happy you’re here, though. It was much too much work for me on my own.’
‘If there’s a problem, do you go to the master or the mistress?’ I ask.
‘To the master, even though he’s not home much. The mistress gets angry if I disturb her while she’s painting.’
‘She can’t paint all day, surely?’
‘No, but even when she’s finished, she doesn’t want to listen. She’s not interested in housekeeping. It always seems as if she’s only half there.’
I think about the absent way Brigitta looked at me and understand what Greta means. ‘But the master has a brother too, doesn’t he? Do you see much of him?’
‘Yes. When he’s not travelling, he stays with us. The bedroom at the back of the house is his. Master Matthias is ever so kind. He brought me a comb once. I don’t know where from, but it was far away.’
‘How nice. When is Master Matthias coming back?’
‘I think he should be back next week.’
‘Oh. And where are you from, Greta?’
‘From Sloterdijk. It’s a little village near here.’
‘Do you go home often?’
‘When I can. But since Hester passed away, I’ve not been home at all.’
I sneak a sidelong glance and see the girl’s sad face. ‘You’ll be able to go again soon. I’ll arrange it with the master.’
At once Greta cheers up. ‘That would be good! Look, there’s the market on the bridge. I always get vegetables there. And fish on the Dam, but the herring is better at Herring Merchants’ Gate. The dairy market is next to Droogbak. I get beer around the corner on Brewersgracht at Hasselar Brewery.’ There’s no trace left of her shyness; she talks and talks, telling me all about the crooked and reliable traders she knows.
When we return home with our heavy baskets, I pour two small glasses of beer and put them on the table. ‘Sit down for a minute, Greta, let’s have a drink.’
Surprised, the girl sits down.
’You see,’ I say. ‘There’s a time to work and a time to have a sit down. I reckon you’ve had a lot of work over the last few weeks.’
‘Hester gave me an earful if she caught me sitting down.’
‘I have no intention of giving you an earful,’ I say. ‘Not as long as the work gets done. And with the two of us that should be easy enough.’
We don’t sit for long. From the studio comes the sound of things being thrown, followed by hysterical crying. I look up in alarm.
‘That’s the mistress,’ says Greta. ‘She often has outbursts like that.’
‘I’ll go to her.’ I shove my chair back.
‘Take this.’ Greta stands up, grabs a tiny crockery jug and pours a goblet of wine from it. ‘Her medicine.’
‘What kind of medicine?’
‘I can never remember what it’s called. You put it in the wine.’
I nod, take the cup and walk to the hall. Noises are coming from Brigitta’s studio again. I quicken my pace and open the door without knocking.
Brigitta is standing at the window, her gown covered in paint and her hair a mess. She has torn off her cap and thrown it among the pots of paint and paintbrushes on the floor.
Her easel lies face down on the painting she was working on.
A couple of paint pots have been smashed against the wall, leaving a rather interesting still life on the wainscoting.
I take everything in at a glance. Deciding the mess isn’t important, I help Brigitta into a chair and give her the wine. ‘Here, drink this, madam. It’ll make you feel much better.’
As if suddenly robbed of all her energy, Brigitta slumps into the chair. She accepts the cup without enthusiasm. ‘It was going so well. I haven’t needed this for two days.’
‘Do you normally take it every day?’
‘My husband thinks it’s best. I would rather I didn’t, but if I don’t take it …’ Brigitta looks around as if she has only now realised what she’s done and bursts into tears.
Cautiously – I don’t know whether the gesture will be appreciated – I put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll have this cleared up in a jiffy. And your painting doesn’t seem to be damaged.’
Brigitta snorts contemptuously. ‘What does it matter? It’s rubbish. Everything I make is rubbish.’
‘Well, what I’ve seen was very pretty.’
‘You’re a servant – you have no grasp of art. You can’t come up with shoddy trash like this in the circles I move in.’
I don’t say anything more. I only caught a glimpse of the painting when I was introduced to Brigitta; I praised it because it seemed like the right thing to do. As Brigitta drinks her wine in tiny sips, I stand the easel back up. I put the painting on it and take a couple of steps back to have a proper look.
It’s nothing special. The flowers of the still life lack depth and the colours are unnatural.
‘See, you don’t like it either. I can see it on your face.’ Brigitta slams her goblet down on the table. She stares into space for a moment and begins weeping softly. ‘I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I didn’t paint. Sit inside all day, go to market now and again, play a bit of harpsichord and hope my husband won’t come home too late … What kind of life is that? I would be bored to tears.’
‘You don’t have to stop painting, madam. It’s not about the result, it’s about the enjoyment of doing it.’
‘Of course it’s about the result. You can’t think I’d want to spend days producing something worthless. It may be difficult for someone like you to understand, but I have ambition. It’s normal for me to be critical. Did you know artists are highly sensitive, emotional people?’
‘I have heard that, madam.’
‘Then you understand how hard life is if you’re a perfectionist. Making art is a process with ups and downs.’
I think carefully, weighing my words. ‘In the village I come from, there was a girl who really liked painting too. Everyone said she had talent. Lots of talent. But unfortunately it did her no good.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because there was work to do on the farm. When she had time, she painted with beetroot juice on wooden panels she’d sanded smooth. She thought about painting all the time. She looked at the world in paint, as she once put it. The sun that shone on the meadows and ditches, the farm amid all that green, even the milk churns in the farmyard – she saw a still life in everything. But there was no time or material to paint it.’
Brigitta dries her eyes on her sleeve. ‘What happened to her?’
‘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 Brigitta 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 allowed?’
‘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.
‘Mister Van Rijn, Mistress Van Nulandt.’ Rembrandt van Rijn turns, wipes his paint-covered hand on his shirt and makes a half bow.
‘It’s so nice to meet you,’ says Brigitta, blushing.
Van Rijn smiles faintly and a silence falls. Just as it’s getting awkward, Adriaan points to the canvas on the easel. ‘I see you are busy.’
‘I’m always busy, Mister Van Nulandt. Always. This is a commission. It has to be ready in four weeks’ time.’ Van Rijn glances at the canvas with a look that suggests he’d rather carry on painting.
‘We shan’t keep you long.’ Adriaan waves me over from where I’m standing by the door. I give Adriaan the jug of wine and he presents it to Van Rijn with a bow.
An exchange of pleasantries follows, but I pay no attention to what’s being said. I only have eyes for the painting Rembrandt is working on. A young woman looks up out of the canvas with such lifelike eyes it seems she can really see me. How is it possible for someone to paint something so realistic? It’s unbelievable.
Van Rijn obviously notices my fascination because he turns to me and asks, ‘Do you like it?’
I’m struck dumb for a second by this direct question but I recover quickly. ‘The woman is looking straight into my soul, as if she knows me. It’s almost unnerving,’ I say, full of awe. ‘And the way the light falls, and the colours! It is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’
A smile spreads over Rembrandt’s face. ‘Do you like art?’
I nod fervently before noticing my employers’ faces.
I hastily shuffle backwards. As Adriaan and Brigitta take over the conversation, I wander around the messy studio, watching as the apprentices grind pigment, wash brushes, or sit and paint. Then I stand for a long time in front of the paintings by the master himself, which are dotted about the studio.
Much too soon, Adriaan and Brigitta are making their farewells. I’m the last to leave the studio and turn back for a final look. Van Rijn is smiling at me and I smile back.
‘Really!’ says Brigitta once we’re back in the coach, ‘I expected more than that. What a surly man. He didn’t even offer us a drink.’
‘I got the impression we were disturbing him. He was busy,’ says Adriaan.
‘So what? We’ve commissioned a painting, he should have made more time for us.’
Brigitta turns to me. ‘What did you think of him? He was rude, wasn’t he?’
‘He should have offered you something to drink, madam. On the other hand, when you’re busy painting you don’t like being disturbed either.’
Brigitta looks thoughtful. ‘There is that. True artists can’t bring themselves to waste time with chitchat. But he had no cause to be so surly. I don’t know whether I like Mister Van Rijn.’
As I stare out at the hustle and bustle on the street, I can still feel the warmth of Rembrandt’s smile.
8
A few days later Matthias leaves for Antwerp. Despite my resolution to keep my distance, I miss him. The house is quiet. There’s no laughter or whistling, and days go by where I only speak to Greta and Brigitta, and Brigitta only says the bare minimum. Since her lessons started, she’s working even harder. Nicholas Maes comes twice a week to instruct her. He’s a nice boy, still very young. One day when I let him in and Brigitta keeps him waiting, we get to talking. He says he’s twenty and comes from Dordrecht. However much he likes Amsterdam, he still plans to go back to his hometown later this year, once he’s finished his master work.
‘I’ll always be a Dordrechter at heart,’ he says with an apologetic smile. ‘I’m homesick.’
‘That I understand all too well.’ I smile back and let him into the studio.
From my corner, where I sit with a pile of mending that never seems to get any smaller, I have a good view of the painting Brigitta and Nicholas are working on. Because I’m sitting behind them, they have no idea I’m watching the lessons with such interest.
Sometimes, when I have time to stop and take stock, I think back on my reluctance to come to Amsterdam and smile. I couldn’t have made a better decision. From the first moment I set foot on the quayside, I felt the heart of the city beating and sensed her lust for life.
It’s infectious. The fact that I have to work hard for long hours doesn’t bother me. Whether I’m walking along Keizersgracht as the spring sun’s glittering on the water, diving into the hustle and bustle of the market, or looking around the harbour at the VOC ships, I savour every moment, revelling in the bustle around me. The weeks pass and it’s May before I know it.
On my day off, I walk out of the city to the countryside with its polder meadows and vegetable gardens. Whenever I see farmers sailing towards Amsterdam with barges full of milk cans and cheese, it brings a stab of homesickness.
I wrote a letter home and received a couple of words back, just the once. I will have to be satisfied with that.
On Sundays we go to church. The master and mistress sit in special pews reserved for patricians. The lower orders have to stand. Not that I mind. However painful my feet and knees, I stand motionless, my eyes fixed on the pulpit, and sing and pray.
Adriaan praises my piety. ‘You have to stand through the entire service, yet you’re always the last to leave the church. Many people would do well to follow your example.’
He and Matthias are originally from Delft, where their elder brother Evert still lives. Their parents had a pottery in Delft and did a fair trade. It was a smart move on the part of Conrad van Nulandt to invest in the first voyage to the East. The expedition hadn’t done that well but a second voyage brought enormous profits. The pottery was expanded to a second site, which also did brilliantly. After the death of their parents, Evert took over the largest pottery and the younger brothers sold the second one. Adriaan left for Amsterdam with his share of the inheritance and worked his way up to become one of the masters of the East India Company. Matthias, not yet twenty when his parents died, rapidly ran through a large portion of his fortune and went to work for his brother.
One windy day in June, Adriaan announces he’s going to Delft to pay a visit to his oldest brother.
‘I’ll be gone for a week. Take good care of my wife, will you?’ he says.
‘Of course, sir. There’s no need to worry.’
‘How are her painting lessons going?’
‘Young Master Maes gives useful advice.’
‘So it’s going well. Is he satisfied with her progress?’
‘Her work is getting better and better.’
‘Good. You may go, Catrin. Thank you.’
I rush up to the living room, which is in need of a good clean. Greta can wash the furniture and scrub the floor, but she has to steer clear of the porcelain.
I take dusting cloths and move all the objects arranged on the dresser onto the table. Then I wipe away the dust, polish the silver and clean the pair of porcelain decorative vases. They aren’t as big as the vases in the parlour but they are just as beautiful. Relieved not to have damaged anything, I take a step back. As always, I allow myself a minute or two to admire the cobalt-blue motifs.
Looking at the vases is like looking into another world. Every time I find myself hypnotised by the tiny figures with their long, pointed beards and baggy robes, the landscapes with mountains and birds I don’t recognise and the strange buildings.
All the patterns are painted with such hair-fine lines I almost can’t believe they were made by a human hand. You’d need a steady brush to work with such precision. The lines, curves and loops are exactly the same all over. Nowhere has the line been broken or applied too thickly; these are masterpieces. It’s strange to think that someone on the other side of the world sat hunched over these vases and that they spent months after that in the hold of a ship before winding up here on the dresser.
‘Catrin?’
I jump and turn around. Brigitta is standing at the door, her hair sticking up around her head. She has a weary expression on her face. ‘Will you help me mix some paint? I’m up to my ears.’
‘Shouldn’t I finish my work first, madam?’
Brigitta flaps her hand impatiently. ‘This room isn’t important, I need you.’
‘I’ll just give Greta her instructions and then I’ll be right there, madam.’
Grinding pigment. As if I have time for that. With a sigh I go to the kitchen and tell Greta what she needs to do, then walk to the studio.
Brigitta stands waiting at a table of little bowls.
‘I’ll show you how to do it.’ She holds up a pestle and a piece of ivory.
‘I know how to make paint, madam. I’ve done it before.’
‘Very good. I only need blue and black. Go steady with the lapis lazuli, it’s expensive. Don’t knock over the bowl.’
‘No, madam.’
We get to work, grinding chunks of black ivory and lapis lazuli to powder by crushing them with the pestle. Eventually a splash of linseed oil is added and mixed with the powder to make a smooth paste.
When Adriaan comes to say goodbye, he finds his wife with a blue-and-black-powdered apron and hands. He laughs. ‘Are you sure you won’t come to Delft? Will you manage for the whole week on your own?’
‘Of course I’ll manage,’ says Brigitta sweetly. ‘Have you got the painting I did for Evert?’
‘It’s with my things. You’re not working too hard, are you, my dear? You look very pale.’
‘I feel fine. I’ll see you next week, darling.’ Brigitta stops grinding to give her husband a kiss, but not for long. As he goes out the door, Adriaan turns back. When Brigitta doesn’t look up, he leaves.
9
For most of the morning we work side by side in comfortable silence. After a while, Brigitta puts a canvas on the easel and wanders around the studio in search of objects to paint.
‘I don’t want flowers,’ she says. ‘Nicholas wants me to paint a single object with as little colour as possible.’
‘You could take one of those beautiful vases from the dresser.’
Brigitta considers this and nods. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. Fetch one, will you?’
I wipe my hands on my apron. In the kitchen I wash them thoroughly with soap and go to the living room. I pick up the vase with care and walk with it to the studio.
‘Put it down there.’ Brigitta nods towards a side table across from her easel. ‘Don’t drop it.’
Delicately, I place the vase on the little table. ‘Hard to believe it’s come all the way from China. I don’t even know where that is.’
‘There’s a map of the world on the wall in the living room, have a look at it some time. It really is ludicrously far away. It would take a ship at least six months to get there.’
The vase is stable and I take a step back. ‘How much is something like that worth, madam?’
‘That? I think about a hundred guilders. The two big ones next to the hearth in the parlour, easily double that.’ Brigitta laughs. ‘If my husband saw you walking around with them he’d have a fit.’
I return to my post behind the work bench and carry on grinding blue pigment. It’s not a difficult task, but I’m worried about the shopping that still needs to be done today. Greta will struggle to carry everything on her own.
My gaze wanders to Brigitta, who is holding on to the edge of the table. ‘Anything the matter, madam?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t feel very well.’
‘What’s wrong?’ I stare at her in concern.
Brigitta never has much colour in her cheeks but now she’s deathly white and there are dark circles under her eyes. Suddenly she wobbles and I rush around the table to her side.
‘Are you all right, madam?’
‘Everything’s fine, I’m a little dizzy, that’s all.’
‘Perhaps you were bent over for too long.’
‘Yes, perhaps.’ Brigitta sinks onto a chair and groans.
I squat down beside her, take in her pale face and feel her forehead. ‘You’ve got a fever! Madam, you’re ill.’
‘No, no, I’m fine. It’s nothing …’ Brigitta groans again and looks to me for help. ‘You’re right, I don’t feel well at all.’
‘You have to go to bed. I’ll help you.’
‘No, that’s impossible. That painting needs finishing. Nicholas is coming today and he’ll want to see whether I’ve made use of chiaroscuro, and …’
‘You can’t have your lesson if you’re sick. I’ll tell Mister Maes it’s cancelled.’ Fully resolved, I lead a weakly protesting Brigitta to the living room, to the box bed. Once there she gives up all resistance. She trembles as she lets me help her out of her clothes and into bed.
‘I’m cold,’ she whispers.
‘I’ll light the fire and fill the warming pans. Do you want an extra blanket?’ I leave the room and hurry to the kitchen. ‘Greta, the mistress is ill. Fill the warming pans with hot coals and fetch a blanket.’
As Greta walks away I pour a flagon of watered beer, walk with it to the living room and set it on the table next to the bed. I touch Brigitta’s forehead again and am shocked to feel how warm she is. Even so, her teeth are chattering and she’s pulled the blanket right up.
‘I’ve put something to drink next to your bed. If you need me, just say so, I’ll stay close by. Try to sleep a little.’ I grab a chair, set it beside the box bed and sit down.
After a while Brigitta’s breathing becomes more regular and when I’m certain that she’s asleep I get up. I beckon to Greta, who is peeping around the door frame into the room, and tell her in a low voice, ‘I wanted to go to the market with you today but someone needs to stay with the mistress. Go on your own and get them to deliver anything you can’t carry. Come on, let’s see what we need.’
‘I have to clean upstairs.’
‘That can wait. No one but us will see that it’s dirty anyway. I’d like you to call at the doctor’s and ask whether he can come to see the mistress. That fever worries me.’
‘She’ll not have anything serious, though, will she? Or anything catching?’
‘I don’t think so. She hasn’t taken very good care of herself, that’s all. We’re going to make sure that changes from now on.’
‘And that draught, what’s it called again?’
‘Laudanum. I’m glad you brought it up, we’ve nearly run out. Go to the apothecary’s on Rokin and pick up a jug. And I know it’s a long way, but you need to go to Mister Maes as well and tell him the mistress’s painting lesson is cancelled.’
Greta casts a happy glance at the glorious weather outside, puts on her shawl and grabs a basket. The front door closes behind her and I look around. What should I do now? Greta has taken a lot of work off my hands by doing the shopping on her own and now that I don’t need to mix any paint I have some spare time. That makes me think of the layer of paint covering the table and floor of the studio.
A few minutes later I’m marching through the hall with a bucket of suds. In the studio I pause to inspect the painting Brigitta just started. She has outlined the contours of the vase and its decoration in pencil and part of the sketch is already filled in with paint.
As I scrub the floor around the table, my eye keeps being drawn to the canvas on the easel. Something is wrong with the placement of the light. I can’t say for certain what it is, but it’s not right. I study the painting closely. The blue is too dark, Brigitta should have used a lighter shade on the side. And she should have left the lightest bits white. Nicholas explained that the other day.
I take a couple of steps towards the easel and examine the brushstrokes close up. Maybe if Brigitta scratches off some of the blue and paints over the top she can still save the picture, even though it would be easier to start again and use the white of the canvas. I would have gone about the whole thing completely differently.
Sunlight falls in through the leaded windows and warms my fidgeting fingers. I could have a go. Not a complete picture, I don’t have time for that. Just a section. Just to know how it feels to paint with a real brush and a real canvas. I could use that little one Brigitta never chooses because she prefers to work on something bigger. I’d have to buy a new canvas later to replace it, but now that Brigitta is sick she’s not so likely to notice anything is missing.
Even as my head is screaming that I shouldn’t be so stupid, my hands are already busy. They grab Brigitta’s painting and set it against the wall, pick out a smaller canvas and place it on the easel. I’m trembling a little but I can’t bring myself to reverse my decision. Everything in me is longing to let a paintbrush glide across the linen. First I make a sketch. I make hair-fine lines with a piece of charcoal. The vase is soon on the canvas, but the figures on it are a little more complicated. In the end, I only draw the most important bits and miss some of the details.
I choose a paintbrush with care. My first brushstrokes are somewhat tentative but I soon gain confidence. What a difference, to be painting on canvas. Earthenware is porous and sucks up the paint, linen is much finer. And the brush! It caresses the canvas, as if it has a mind of its own. By changing the firmness of the brush stroke and the amount of water added to the paint, I make different shades of blue, creating the same light, whimsical effect as on the vase. The people and animals come to life with every stroke.
Absorbed, I keep on working and forget the time. It’s only when there’s a knock at the door that I finally look up. It can’t be Greta; the household staff use the servants’ entrance. I hurriedly put down the brush, make sure there’s no paint on my hands and walk into the hall. I open the door and find myself face to face with an older gentleman dressed in a black suit. He’s wearing a hat and a ruff.
‘I’m Doctor Geelvinck,’ he says. ‘I understand Mistress Van Nulandt is unwell.’
‘It’s good of you to come so quickly. I’ll show you to her.’ I close the door behind us and lead the way to the living room.
Brigitta wakes up when she hears our footsteps. ‘Catrin?’ she says hoarsely.
‘I’m here. And the doctor is with me.’
‘Good day, Mistress Van Nulandt, what seems to be the trouble?’ Geelvinck goes over to the bed and peers down at Brigitta.
She tries to sit up but falls back onto her pillows. ‘I’m dizzy and I have a headache.’
As the doctor examines Brigitta, I stand by with my arms folded. It would be unthinkable for me to leave the mistress alone with a man, even the doctor.
After Geelvinck has felt her forehead, looked at her tongue and asked her some questions, he leaves the room so Brigitta can use the chamber pot. When he comes back, he pours the urine into a glass beaker, holds it up to the light, scrutinises the liquid and sniffs it briefly.
‘Nothing serious,’ he says after a while. ‘The colour and smell is normal. I suspect you have exhausted yourself again, Mistress Van Nulandt. You work too hard and don’t spend enough time outdoors. It isn’t healthy to be amidst paint and turpentine fumes all day.’ He turns to me. ‘Make sure she rests and have her walk in the garden as soon as the fever has subsided.’ He bids farewell to Brigitta and allows me to lead him back into the hall.
‘Should I give her that draught, the laudanum?’ I ask.
‘Yes, of course. It relieves tension and settles the nerves. There are healing substances in it, as in opium. It even helps against the plague. I take it during every epidemic.’ Geelvinck glances into the studio through the wide open door. At first he only looks in absently, as if by chance, but then his eyes fill with interest. ‘Was she working on that canvas? That is a beautiful piece of work. A truly beautiful piece of work.’
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