Tulip Fever

by Deborah Moggach

  I hurry down a side street. My path is blocked by a man pushing an ox carcass on a trolley. I press against the wall to let it pass—billowing yellow fat, the stench of it. Behind me I hear footsteps. I wait, me and my beating heart. And then he is beside me.

  “I had to see you,” Jan says, catching his breath. “All yesterday, when you were sitting there—I am quite undone.”

  “Please go away.”

  “You don’t want me to.”

  “I do! Please.”

  “Say you don’t want me to.” He stands there, panting. “You want to return to that living tomb?”

  “Don’t you dare speak like that.”

  “I can’t sleep, I can’t work, all I see is your sweet face—”

  “Don’t—please—”

  “I have to know if you, too, are feeling—”

  “I’m a married woman. I love my husband.”

  The words hang in the air. We stand there breathlessly. Above us, somebody closes a window. The alley smells of drains.

  Jan gazes at me and says: “You have stolen my heart.” He takes my hand and looks at it, as if it is a thing of wonderment. He lays it against his cheek. “I cannot live without you.” He presses my fingers to his lips.

  I snatch my hand away. “You mustn’t talk to me like this. I have to go.”

  “Don’t go.”

  I pause. “When are you coming again to the house?”

  “Next week.”

  I hurry away. My skin burns; my ears are roaring. When I reach the end of the alley I look back. With all my heart I will him to be there.

  The alley is empty. Washing is strung between the houses. The bedsheets billow in the wind, as if trying to attract people’s attention. Look what’s happening! Stop it before it’s too late.

  10

  Jan

  What a loss it was for art that such a master hand Did not use its native strength to better purpose. Who surpassed him in the matter of paintings? But oh! The greater the talent, the more numerous the aberrations When it attaches itself to no principles, no rules, But imagines it knows everything of itself.

  —ANDRIES PELS ON REMBRANDT, 1681

  Back in his studio Jan sits down heavily on a chair. He gazes at a chicken bone, lying on the floor among a scattering of walnut shells. He cannot remember when he dropped them; the bone, with its tattered flesh, is gray with dust.

  Jan sits there, thinking about love. He has had many women—foolish virgins, foolish wives. For a man who devotes his life to beauty he hasn’t been fussy. There’s no such thing as an ugly woman, just not enough brandy. Of course he has loved them, after his fashion. He is a passionate man. He has whispered hot words into their ears and been sensually grateful to their bodies for responding to his. But afterward he wishes they would go home. If they stay there, sleeping, he inches his way out of bed, pulls on his breeches and gets back to work.

  It is his habit to paint at night while the city sleeps. In the silence his paintings—involuntary insomniacs—confide in his brush as it brings them to life. To see what he is doing, however, he has to light many expensive candles, and this sometimes wakes up the occupant of his bed. Just knowing that a woman is watching him, of course, breaks his concentration. Sometimes they whisper to him, come back here. Sometimes they chastise themselves for their lapse into sin. Sometimes, worst of all, they urge him to make an honest woman of them. If only women were not so irresistible. How much simpler to suck out the flesh from an oyster and drop the shell on the floor.

  Sometimes he works right through the night and falls asleep at dawn. In the morning light his painting surprises him as if it is caught unawares. How exposed it looks, with its crude colors. He has to do some repainting. If a woman stayed the night she will have left by now, in a fluster of remorse. Only his true mistress remains—badly daubed, surprised, but surrendering herself again to his brush.

  Jan gets up. For once he has no appetite for work. He paces up and down and leans his head against the chimneypiece. Did Sophia Sandvoort mean it when she pushed him away? Were her protestations sincere? Maybe he has made a terrible mistake. He could not stop himself; he had to see her. It is out of his control.

  The first visit it was simply lust. Sophia was a challenge but not an insurmountable one. A young woman married to a pompous old man—they were usually conquered in the end. They are a traded commodity, like a bale of flax, and though they are dutiful they don’t truly love their husbands; how could they? A painter seems a romantic proposition, and though they fear damnation they finally surrender themselves, as long as the rules are observed.

  Yesterday, however, during the second sitting, something happened. The old man was droning on . . . tulip bulbs . . . de Heem . . . How ponderously Jan’s countrymen hold forth. She sat there, as modest as the Madonna in her blue dress. Suddenly they had looked at each other with such complicity. Her face spoke to him—merriment, exasperation. And something darker, something that pierced his heart.

  He has astonished himself. For the first time in his dealings with women he spoke the truth. He is undone. Sophia has unknotted the ropes around his heart and he is entirely hers. He has never unclosed himself in this way before; there is a certain voluptuousness to his surrender. It is a new sensation. On the way home he passed a boy playing a pennywhistle; the music filled his eyes with tears. What is he to do? Can she possibly love him?

  There is a tattoo of knocks at the door. Jan freezes. It is Sophia! He breaks into a sweat. No. It is her husband. She has told him about this morning’s impertinence and he has come round to kill him. He is accompanied by twelve members of the Civic Guard and they will blow his head off.

  Jan opens the door. His friend Mattheus strides into the studio. “The usual pigsty, I see,” he says cheerfully.

  “Gerrit has disappeared.”

  “Your servant is a drunk. You should kick him out.”

  “When I can find him. The trouble is, he’s never here.”

  Mattheus flings himself into a chair. “I’ve brought the boy.”

  A youth comes in. He is pale, with long yellow hair.

  “His name is Jacob.”

  Jan gathers his wits. He has forgotten about this. Jacob is his new apprentice; he is due to start work today. Mattheus has arranged it because he already has three pupils of his own and no room for any more. Mattheus is a generous man—big heart, big appetites. He earns a good living painting low-life scenes: taverns and brothels. His clients find them amusing and there is usually some moral instruction somewhere, to make them feel improved. His energy is prodigious; he churns them out.

  Jan searches for some glasses and wipes them on his paint rag. Mattheus unstacks canvases and leans them against the wall. He shows them to the boy.

  “Look at the brushwork—look how fine it is—those clouds, that foliage. Look at the sheen on that dress, what perfection! You can almost touch it. This man can paint anything”—he chuckles—“if they pay him enough.”

  “Look who’s talking,” says Jan.

  Mattheus gulps down some brandy and indicates Jan. “My old friend here knows the first rule of painting.”

  “What’s that?” asks the boy.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere—”

  “Oh, yes?” says Jan.

  “Dress ’em up in their finery, the poor vain fools.” Mattheus points to a preliminary sketch of Sophia. “This woman, for instance—look at that face. I’ll wager you she’s a dog in real life—”

  “She’s not!” says Jan.

  “That beautiful, eh?” He snorts.

  “She is beautiful—”

  Mattheus guffaws. “Only because you want to put your hand up her rok.” He turns to the boy. “That’s another technique our master here will be teaching you—”

  “Curb your tongue,” says Jan. “He’s just a boy.”

  Mattheus lights his pipe and blows out a cloud of smoke. “My dearest friend, you are a highly competent painter. You’ll teach this boy everyt
hing he needs to know. Except how to be truly great.” He jabs his pipe stem at Jan. “You’re so skillful, you’ll get away with what you’re doing all your life. You’ve had it too easy.” He lifts up a paintbrush. “Know what this is?”

  “It’s a paintbrush,” says the boy.

  “It’s a paint remover.”

  “Have some more brandy,” says Jan.

  “Our friend Rembrandt, he understands. The more he lays on the paint, the more he strips away to reveal the truth. Do you follow me?”

  The boy nods dumbly.

  “The suffering, the humanity . . .” Mattheus turns to Jan. “But you have to be courageous, my friend, and unafraid of pain. For only through pain will the beauty of the world be revealed.” He gets up and kisses Jan on both cheeks. “I’m only saying this because I know I’ll never do it myself. Underneath all this I’m a coward—just a crowd pleaser. And it’s too late to change.”

  Mattheus drains his glass, ruffles the boy’s hair and leaves.

  The boy looks at Jan. “Aren’t you angry that he talks to you like that?”

  “Angry?” Jan shakes his head vigorously. “Of course not. He talks to me like that because he loves me.”

  In fact, he feels deeply uncomfortable. Hurt too. Feigning indifference, he spreads his legs and leans back in his chair. He looks up at the ceiling; the beams are festooned with cobwebs. Near the window he has hammered up a sagging white sheet to catch the light. Sophia is standing there, her hand on the window latch. She flings open the window and breathes deeply, inhaling the morning air. Even imagining her makes the latch dear to him. Then she turns to him, closes the window and smiles.

  Jan says: “Pass me that piece of paper, will you?”

  “Are you going to give me a drawing lesson?” the boy asks.

  Jan shakes his head. “I’m going to write a note.”

  11

  Maria

  A kitchen maid must have one eye on the pan and the other on the cat.

  —JOHAN DE BRUNE, 1660

  Maria sits beside the kitchen fire, plucking a duck. The bird is wedged between her thighs; its head hangs down as if it is inspecting the floor for crumbs. But it is dead and she suddenly wants to cry. She wants it to be alive so she can tell it her secrets. This is ridiculous. She must have plucked hundreds of ducks. Back in the country, where she grew up, she cheerfully wrung their necks too. Lately, however, she has been overcome with pity for those that suffer, even dumb creatures. It is like her love for Willem— “Willem . . . Willem . . .” she whispers his name. She feels peeled and whimpery. If you peel an onion you’ll cry, said her grandmother. Now she knows what she was talking about. Her granny was full of wise sayings. Maria remembers her churning butter. Sleeves rolled up, she leaned over the barrel, vigorously pumping the pole, twisting it this way and that. Only from commotion comes the fat, she said. Hard work will be rewarded. When Maria grew older her grandmother said that the cream was the spirit and the whey was fleshly pleasure. Maria didn’t understand her then.

  The cat watches the duck. Its tail twitches. Maria is superstitious. If the cat scratches itself, Willem will knock at the door. The cat has fleas; it won’t be long now.

  There is a knock at the door. Maria jumps up, dumps the duck on the table and hurries out.

  She unlatches the door. A youth stands there. He hands her an envelope. “Please give this to the mistress of the house,” he says.

  Maria, disappointed, takes the letter and closes the door. She walks upstairs to the bedchamber. Since their shopping trip this morning, her mistress has been feeling unwell and has shut herself in her room.

  Downstairs in the kitchen the cat jumps onto the table. It sinks its claws into the duck’s flesh.

  12

  The Letter

  Thy wife shall be as a fruitful vine upon the walls of thy house; thy children like the olive branches around thy table. Lo, thus shall man be blessed that feareth the Lord.

  —PSALM 128

  Sophia stands at the window. She is reading the letter. Through the glass, sunlight streams onto her face. Her hair is pulled back from her brow. Tiny pearls nestle in her headband; they catch the light, winking at the severity of her coiffure. She wears a black bodice, shot with lines of velvet and silver. Her dress is violet silk; its pewtery sheen catches the light.

  Behind her a tapestry is strung along a wooden rail. Paintings can be glimpsed in the shadows. The green velvet curtains around the bed are pulled back to reveal an opulent bedcover. The room is bathed in tranquil golden light.

  She stands there, motionless. She is suspended, caught between past and present. She is color, waiting to be mixed; a painting, ready to be brushed into life. She is a moment, waiting to be fixed forever under a shiny varnish. Is this a moment of decision? Will she tear up the letter or will she steal away, through the silent rooms, and slip out of the house? Her face, caught in profile, betrays nothing.

  Outside, the street is busy. Two regents, sitting in a carriage, rattle over the bridge. They nod to each other; what they say is of importance to them. A barrel is winched down from a warehouse door, high in a building, and rolled onto a barge; when painted into the background, its contents will forever be unknown. A group of Mennonite men huddle like crows on the corner; children brush past them, yelling.

  Outside all is bustle. Indoors a heart stands still.

  The letter says: It is too late. We both know that. I must see you, my love. Come to my studio tomorrow at four.

  13

  Jan

  If you would have me weep, you must first of all feel grief yourself.

  —HORACE, Ars Poetica

  The sandglass has emptied. Jan turns it upside down for the second time. It is five o’clock. She is not going to come.

  How foolish, to think she would. Gerrit has swept the floor and tidied up the room. This morning his servant returned, chastened and purple-faced, from his drinking binge, but Jan was too distracted to be angry with him. Remorse always makes Gerrit punctilious; he has even rubbed clean the windowpanes, after his fashion. The table is laid for two: smoked meat, cheese, wine and marzipan tarts, powdered with sugar, that Jan bought this morning. Gerrit has been banished to the kitchen. The boy has been sent home.

  Sophia will not come. How mad he is to imagine, for a moment, that she might. Why should she risk everything for him? He can offer her nothing, only love.

  The sand, just a thread, falls through the pinched waist of the hourglass. So far just a pimple rests on the bottom. As Jan watches, it grows. He doesn’t even know Sophia. He feels he has known her all his life, she has made her home in his heart, but he is just a deluded fool. For a fleeting moment he is actually glad that she’s not coming, for if she stays away she will be saved from possible ruination. He is actually worried for her . This is not like him. But then none of this is.

  The heap of sand increases. The bigger it grows, the more his hopes fade. Outside in the street two men bellow drunkenly. Jan’s neighborhood, Jordaan, is too disreputable for a refined lady like Sophia. He looks around the studio and sees it through her eyes. The white sheet pinned saggingly to the ceiling; its accompanying cobwebs. The plinth, draped with cloth, where his models sit. On the walls hang curling prints; a large crack runs from floor to ceiling. Plaster casts—a hand, a leg—dangle from hooks. The whole place reeks of linseed oil.

  Jan comes from a family of craftsmen. His father is a silversmith and his two brothers are glass painters. He is used to living among the tools of his trade, but how could he have expected a gentlewoman like Sophia to gamble on her reputation for this? He has even had clean sheets put on his bed, in idiotic readiness.

  The sandglass is half filled. She is not coming. Jan sits down on the chest and pulls on his shoes. He gazes for the last time at the meal—the long-stemmed wineglasses, the bowl of fruit, the powdered tartlets. Like a still life they will sit there, stilled at four o’clock, forever unconsumed. They are objects pregnant with possibilities, with a futur
e that will now only exist in his imagination. He looks at them with an artist’s eye: the white cloth distorted through the twin glasses, the metallic gleam of knife and jug. Despite everything, this harmonious arrangement pleasures his senses.

  “Gerrit!” he calls. “Clear the table. I’m going to the tavern.”

  He hears a faint sound. At first he thinks it is the tree outside, tapping at the window. He gets up and puts on his cloak. His legs feel leaden, as if he has been wading through a bog.

  He hears the tapping again. It is at the door.

  Jan strides across and opens it.

  Sophia stands there. “It’s me,” she says.

  14

  Maria

  Love can neither be bought nor sold—its only price is love.

  —JACOB CATS, Moral Emblems, 1632

  Maria sits side by side with Willem on the back step. The sun is sinking; the high wall casts the courtyard into shadow. It is a small, enclosed yard and receives the sun only briefly at this time of year. Her broom leans against the wall like a sentry.

  Willem strokes her fingers one by one. “You should rub some fat into these, my lovely. Goose fat. That’ll make you a lady.”

  “It’ll take more than that,” Maria laughs.

  She leans against him. The stone step freezes her bottom but she doesn’t dare move with him into the house; she is not sure if her mistress is still at home. The letter seemed to have upset her; maybe it contained bad news from her family. Since yesterday her mistress has been acting strangely. Twice this afternoon she put on her cloak to go out and then took it off again. The last time Maria saw her she was sitting next to the front door twisting a tendril of her hair around her finger.

  “Maria, my darling, I’ve got something to ask you.”

  “What is it?”

  “I love you and you love me.” Willem puts his hand around her waist. “I think I’m right in saying that.”