Light of Her Own

by Callaghan, Carrie

  The sound was coming from a large room off to the right of the entryway, and Judith lingered at the entrance. She did not want to hesitate, but anxiety swept over her. Frans Hals, Dirck Hals, Paulus van Beresteyn, and two others stood clustered in a group, their tall black hats bobbing as they encouraged one another. Paulus was a magistrate, not a painter, and she was surprised to see him there. He had a winged brown mustache, sprinkled with gray above his finely trimmed goatee, and he nodded as the other men spoke. Even Jan Miense Molenaer was there, talking to another of the younger masters as the soft daylight sprinkled down upon them from the window. His curled hair framed his round face, and his leather-brown eyes glowed, even from a distance.

  Forbidding portraits of Haarlem’s leading men from last century gazed into eternity, past the artists below, some of whom were probably the sons of the men who had painted and donated the portraits to the Guild. The paintings were as dark and dusted with age as many of the men in the room, layered in somber black and brown.

  Judith took a deep breath and strode inside. Her heavy underskirts thumped against her legs as she walked up to Jan Bouchorst. He had lost weight recently, leaving his cheeks hollow beneath his cheekbones, and his fingertips palpitated against her shoulder when he bent to kiss her in greeting. He was not very old, maybe fifty, and Judith was surprised to see him in such low health.

  “I’m honored to have the opportunity to present myself today,” she said, more stiffly than she had imagined while practicing on her walk over. “Am I the only one?”

  He looked over her head at the closed door.

  “Michiel Jansen was supposed to be coming too. We’ll wait a few more minutes for him.”

  Next to Jan Bouchorst was Hendrik Pot, a man with small, warm eyes and a pointed, fallow-colored beard. He tapped the deacon’s elbow.

  “I’m afraid,” he said with a nervous cough, “that the other candidate had a conflict.” He glanced at Judith.

  “He didn’t want to present at the same time as me, did he?” She stood up straight.

  “I don’t know,” Hendrik said and looked away. He traced his lustrous mustache with his finger and thumb, and kept his eyes to the rest of the murmuring group. He was smaller than the rest, Judith noticed for the first time. It came to her suddenly that the painters had a ranking among themselves, unspoken perhaps, but consequential. There were not simply masters and apprentices, but rather masters with more commissions than others, masters with greater influence than the rest. The jostling was never finished. She squeezed her eyes shut then opened them. She would have to pay more attention.

  Jan Bouchorst shook his head. “All men have their preferences. Understandable. In any case, we can begin.” He cleared his throat and walked over to a long table. “Gentlemen!” He pounded the table with his fist, and grimaced at the pain. “Take your seats.”

  “Do we wait for her sponsor?” someone asked.

  “No. Frans de Grebber sent word he could not come,” Jan Bouchorst said in his soft voice, without looking at Judith.

  Judith knew she was to remain standing in front of the table, and she was glad to, since indignation now sent a righteous fire up her back. How could Frans have left her here alone, if tradition suggested otherwise? Chairs scraped and fabric rustled as the men settled into their seats, adjusting the pillows that propped them in the straight-backed chairs. Paulus van Beresteyn, the magistrate, departed. A row of beards faced her, and Judith, for a moment, felt soft and vulnerable, with her smooth cheeks and rounded chest, even if her body was concealed in four layers of clothing to ward off the cold. She straightened her starched collar and plucked at the matching lace adorning her cuffs. She lifted her chin and waited.

  “Judith Leyster, you can rest your exemplar upon the display,” the pale Jan Bouchorst said in a tone that suggested she should not have needed the instruction. She flushed and turned away from the men to face an easel that she had not seen earlier. Behind her, someone tried to suppress a coughing fit.

  Judith propped the stretched canvas upon the display easel, then slowly unwrapped the painting. The dark background at the top showed first, nothing interesting, but then, as she continued, the portrait became visible. Her elbow, the back of the chair, the delicate lace of her wide, starched collar, and her face. The self-portrait exuded confidence, with her arm resting on the back of the chair and a brush in that same hand. In it, she wore her best clothes, the same garnet-hued sleeves with gold buttons, white collar, and fine, nearly transparent linen cuffs as today. Her figure sat in front of a painting in progress, as though she had lifted her brush from the scene of the smiling, cerulean-suited fiddle player. Her image regarded the viewer directly, with her lips slightly parted. As if to say, “I am worthy.”

  The room was silent as Judith worked. Up close, the painting’s shading in the buttons on her sleeve and the graceful curve of her hand holding the brush pleased her. Judith stood straight, swept a hand over the canvas as if to give it one final gloss, and she turned to face the group.

  At first, in her nervousness, the men only registered as a dark blur, but after a moment, their faces began to resolve into clarity. Jan Bouchorst squinted at the portrait as though he was trying to see it in the distance; Hendrik Pot looked instead at Judith and leaned forward on his elbows, his expression encouraging; and Frans Hals ran a finger down his sparse goatee— Judith had always thought his loose brushstrokes were an inspired extension of his unkempt appearance, with his brown hair falling to his shoulders in messy waves. Of the Guild leadership, only Outgert Aris von Akersloot was frowning. In his early fifties like the rest of them, Outgert had a bald pate beneath his hat and the remaining ring of blond hair well on its way to white. His pale face was pinched around a sharp nose, as though he had swallowed something sour. Judith reminded herself that he was a silversmith, a representative of one of the many less influential professions grouped under St. Luke’s broad auspices. But still, he was an officer. And he leaned to whisper into Jan Bouchorst’s ear. Beyond them all sat the rest of the artists.

  “Would you like to speak about the work?” Hendrik Pot asked. His soft voice did not break the silence so much as ease it away. Yet Judith had not anticipated having to explain herself, and she felt her breath flutter in her chest. She had assumed the painting would speak for itself.

  She coughed in an attempt to summon her voice and clenched her fists. “Starting with the pose of the subject, I chose a casual posture here, echoing a pose favored by both Frans and Dirck Hals, to evoke a lightness and familiarity. The positioning of the easel in the image, in turn—”

  “No, Judith,” Jan Bouchorst interrupted her. He sounded weary. “On more of a technical level please.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” She thought of the absent Michiel and stood up straight. “Let’s see. I started with a flesh-colored grounding, also similar to Frans Hals’s work. Chalk and glue, of course, followed by a thin layer of lead white and umber. I chose that grounding to highlight the lighter tones.”

  She spoke for a few minutes. Once she lost herself in the recitation of her process, it was easy to speak about the painting. Easier, in fact, than trying to explain what it meant, as she had first thought she must.

  When she finished, the room was quiet. Hendrik Pot wrote a note in the record book he regularly carried with him, and then gave her an encouraging half smile. No one said anything, and Judith opened her mouth to fill the silence. But she had no idea what the situation called for. In the street outside, someone walked past while delivering an angry tirade, and the barrage rumbled through the closed windows.

  “That is sufficient, Judith,” Jan Bouchorst said. He gingerly twisted himself in his chair to look behind him. “Does anyone have any questions?”

  Frans Hals pulled at his hat and asked her a question about shading, which she answered easily.

  Outgert van Akersloot coughed. “Judith Leyster, tell us, is it true you have your own workshop? Without having yet earned the t
itle of Master?”

  Judith sucked in a sharp breath. “I—Yes, I do have a workshop. But, wait, no, not like you mean. It’s a little private space to paint. I have no students, and I don’t sell paintings from there. I still live in Frans de Grebber’s house, where I also work.”

  A low murmur of voices spread across the room.

  “You don’t sell them from there? But you are selling them, then. On your own?” Outgert arched one eyebrow.

  “No, of course not.” She tried not to think of the painting of Peecklhaering, the one painting that made her a liar. Or two, if she counted the profits from the one Lachine had taken. He did pay her for that as well, albeit indirectly. She focused her thoughts on the portrait to her left and tried to keep from flushing. It was terrible, having to lie, but she couldn’t confess what she had done. And she couldn’t have done differently, not if she wanted to wrench herself into independence.

  “You’re certain?”

  Judith looked at the men sitting at the table. A bored Frans Hals picked at his fingernail, and Jan Bouchorst looked at her without giving the impression that he saw her. But the others were listening.

  “I’m certain. I’ve sold works through Master de Grebber’s workshop, as is appropriate.” She squeezed her hands together at her waist and gave a silent prayer that God would understand.

  Outgert laughed. “That’s reassuring. Our most flagrant violator can vouch for you. And he’s not even here.”

  “Now, Outgert, I appreciate your concern for our sales controls,” Jan Bouchorst said. “But Judith is not making silver-works. I think the painters in the room are satisfied with her behavior.” His tone was neutral, but the insult was unmistakable. Van Akersloot’s cheeks flamed scarlet, and he sunk back into his chair. The light sharpened in reflection off his forehead. He narrowed his eyes at Judith as though she had been the one to slight him.

  “No further questions on my part then, Deacon.” He emphasized the title and appeared to be suppressing a grimace.

  “Very good. Judith, you have the requisite fee? Place it here, please.” He tapped the table, and she dropped the coins onto the dark wood. She exhaled as she did and hoped he wouldn’t notice the half-moons of sweat under her arms, surely visible even with all her layers. “Thank you. Now you may step out while the Guild considers the merits of your application.”

  Judith gave a quick nod and walked out. She waited in the hallway, first fidgeting then pacing. She was not sure if the deliberation was a formality. By allowing her to present her masterwork, as they called it, they had certainly implied she was worthy. But maybe anyone who had completed an apprenticeship was entitled to present a painting. Maybe the deliberation was when the true decision was made. Her lie about the sales weighed on her. But what could she have done? She repeated the question as she paced. After a few minutes, she paused in front of the closed door, but the muffled sound of her name made her stomach wrench, and she kept walking. She would identify the shades in the plaster along the walls to give her something to think about.

  One of the younger masters opened the door and stepped out.

  “You haven’t seen the servants, have you?”

  She exhaled and noticed her hands were trembling. “No, I haven’t.”

  “If you do, could you send them inside? We could use some drink.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  He nodded and shut the door before she could try to divine the tenor of the discussion from his expression. After he disappeared back into the room, she moved down the hallway, away from the door. She did not want to be caught eavesdropping.

  Surely the Guild would not bring her here to scorn her. But then there was Daan Pietersz, an apprentice at Frans de Grebber’s house some four years ago. He was more confident of his own talents than his master was. Still, he wasn’t a bad painter, and Judith had admired his bold coloring, even if his forms needed refinement. When he brought his masterwork to the Guild, he chose a relatively subdued painting, an Old Testament scene rendered in layers of olive, moss, and emerald greens. They rejected him. She never saw the young man again, though Frans de Grebber claimed the boy had merely moved to Den Haag to paint for the royal court and their rainbow of courtiers. She was not sure she believed him.

  Still, rejection must be unlikely. It was more probable they would tell her she was not quite ready. That she needed to spend more time as an apprentice. She grew cold at the thought of extending her dependency upon the De Grebber house and workshop. The Guild would certainly scrutinize her sales and attempt to prevent her from making any independent money. She would be shackled.

  A young woman with an apron covering her yellowed dress and a broom clasped in her hand stepped into the hallway from an adjacent room, and Judith relayed the request for ale. The woman nodded and swept half of the hallway before putting the broom down. She returned with a bucket of sand, accompanied by another servant carrying a small barrel of beer on his shoulder. When the door opened, a soft swell of voices spilled out. Judith wondered if they were still talking about her. Could the decision be that difficult? In spite of the chill, her sweat trickled down her ribs.

  Outside, a group of boys enjoying the start of their midday break from school yelled and bantered between themselves as they ran by. In the distance, the clang of a blacksmith’s workshop sounded.

  The door opened again. The same young painter emerged, and this time he beckoned for Judith to enter. He held the door open for her, but his face was blank. Judith’s stomach twisted, even though she told herself she had nothing to worry about. She was a competent painter no matter what these men said. She examined their faces for any hints. Most of their expressions were neutral, though she thought she detected a glimpse of a smile beneath Hendrik Pot’s combed mustache. And Van Akersloot glowered. Her heart raced with hope.

  Jan Bouchorst cleared his throat and tapped the table, as if to call them to attention, but no one was speaking. His fingers trembled like twigs against a windowpane.

  “As many of you know, the work of painters, artists, has long been misunderstood. The ignorant have thought there was no difference between slapping paint upon the side of a house and capturing the image of a king. We know differently, however, and the craftsmen and artists in our guild deserve more recognition. Even those among us who do paint houses— none here today I assume? Even those deserve better than what they get now. So it’s important we take care when considering who we allow to join our ranks and represent the Guild. We face the world united, as artists, and we must show we all, as artists, produce only the best.

  “Judith Leyster.” Jan Bouchorst paused and held her gaze. “The St. Luke’s Guild has considered your application to be a master in said guild. In light of your apprenticeship and your work, we have decided to admit you. Your painting here will be hung, with those of the other masters, in the Guild Hall.” He coughed with a deep, wrenching sound. “When we finalize the location. In any case, congratulations, Master Judith Leyster.”

  Judith pressed her palms to her chest and fought back her tears. She gave a short bow of thanks toward the seated men. Master Leyster. She was as good as they were.

  After the meeting adjourned, Judith lingered, accepting the well-wishes of the friendlier Guild members. To her surprise, the older painters were more forthcoming than the younger ones. Jan Molenaer was the exception, congratulating her with a hearty smile and a warm kiss on the cheek. She squeezed his hand and wondered if he had advocated for her.

  As she stood talking to Jan and Hendrik Pot about the state of the art market and the best-selling subjects, three low voices behind her caught her attention.

  “Frans de Grebber. How could he not come?” asked one. Judith guessed, without looking, that it was Dirck Hals, with his distinctive baritone voice.

  “I’m certain he’s avoiding us. No, scorning us.”

  “Do you think so? That seems cowardly. Not like him.”

  “Not cowardly. Manipulative. He wants to
make us worry.”

  “Let him worry. And at least we have another one under our control now.”

  Judith shifted her stance a little so she could attempt a glance over her right shoulder at the speakers. A few paces away, in her peripheral vision, she saw Dirck Hals, as she had guessed, and with him was Pieter Molijn, judging by his English accent, and Salomon de Bray. As if sensing her attention, Salomon shrugged and turned his head of curled blond hair. He had a fine profile, almost Roman in the clarity of lines to his nose and jaw.

  “No matter. I’ll see you tonight, I imagine?”

  “Yes, of course. What’s the topic?”

  “Theatre recitation, I believe.”

  Dirck groaned. “I hate those.”

  Judith kept her eyes focused on the diminutive Hendrik Pot, who was telling the story of his own induction into the Guild. She wondered, now that she had crossed this one bridge, if she might have a chance at others—like joining the rhetoricians’ group Dirck and Salomon had mentioned. No. The Guild could not deny her skill, but ability had no meaning for those clubs. Entry was based on who you were, not what you could do. And even here, where only a few Guild members came to kiss her cheek in congratulations, she was no one important. Worse, she was a woman.

  Chapter 15

  APRIL

  THREE WEEKS INTO LENT, WHICH was a timetable only Haarlem’s Catholics kept, the Guild messenger returned to the De Grebber house. Again, Maria led him through the cool, dark house. She stood at the threshold of the workshop and did not conceal her interest when the messenger delivered the sealed letter. Her father had been examining the day’s work in the workshop, the brightest room in the house, and now he gnawed at the end of a brush while he read the missive. When he finished, he groaned.

  “What is it? Are they still asking about the relic?” Maria pinched the wool of her skirt between her fingers. The messenger crossed his arms and waited. De Grebber looked at him then stood and handed the man a coin.