The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  “Yes, of course.” She looked inquiringly at Hendrick. “You’ll join us, Father, won’t you?”

  “What? Yes.” Hendrick felt uneasily that he had been manipulated in some way and sought to assert himself. “I’m not a fellow unable to forgive an error of judgment. You were both at fault, but I’ll overlook it this time.”

  “That’s most generous of you.” Willem’s voice held a dry note that Hendrick missed but which was not lost on Francesca. She went ahead of the two men to pour the wine.

  After Willem’s departure she returned to the studio and picked up all the money, putting it into one of her father’s spare leather purses. When she handed it to him he thanked her cheerfully as if nothing amiss had occurred, all his ill temper completely forgotten.

  He finished the painting that same afternoon. Perhaps he realized he would be at a permanent disadvantage with Willem if he failed to do as was wished of him this time. He knew his old friend could not wait to get his hands on the painting. They could judge each other well enough in that respect, just as Willem would have known he had every intention of selling, no matter what he had said in anger. When finally he put his brushes away at the hour of four o’clock, Francesca sprang from the rostrum to hug him exuberantly.

  “You’ve done well, Father! This evening we are to have a special dinner to celebrate the completion of The Goddess of Spring.”

  He grinned. “What is it to be?”

  “Your favorite dish! No other!”

  “What a treat!” He could not spoil her pleasure by telling her that only the evening before he had dined on that same deliciously spicy concoction of capon and sausages cooked with several good meats and vegetables in wine, all served garnished with boiled chestnuts. He had sat down to it at her table. With her big soft body and welcoming arms, she was the only one able to assuage in any way the loneliness that gnawed at him in his darker moments. It was in the house of a woman named Margretha that his luck had turned at the cards, although it had worried her when he had settled to those high stakes.

  “Sybylla has also been busy making a special pudding with eggs and cream,” Francesca told him happily as she helped him off with his linen smock. Then, instead of hanging it on its wooden peg, she was overcome by what she had to say to him and unknowingly clutched the smock to her. The intense appeal in her face prepared him for what she was about to request.

  “Don’t take such dangerous risks with the cards again,” she implored. “Because if they had gone against you yesterday it could have meant ruin. I know how you miss Mama and need a social life with people other than family. But you have the taverns where artists gather, the skittle alleys, the homes of friends who invite you to table, the art auctions you like to attend and a host of other diversions from watching the sailing races in summer to the ice sports in winter.” She threw aside the smock and caught up his hand to press it to her cheek in an almost childlike plea. “I’m not asking you to give up cards altogether, but please play only with those who can afford to lose no more than you.”

  She looked exactly like her mother across the eyes at that moment, almost as if Anna had chosen to endorse their daughter’s urging that he should turn over a new leaf. He was deeply moved. Whenever he listened to his sluggish conscience he did avoid tables with fierce stakes, but there were times when the siren call that gamblers hear in an inner ear promised a winning streak and was impossible to resist, no matter that it sometimes proved false. “I’ll be more careful in future,” he promised, swayed by the moment. It had brought a note to his voice that rang true.

  Francesca drew back with her face bright with hope. “I believe you!”

  Again he saw Anna in the girl’s eyes and he shifted uncomfortably. Such expectations were a burden on him, but he should do something about them. Exactly what, he did not know, for he was aware of his own weaknesses, his good intentions having fallen by the wayside so often, but he should take some action now while the mood was still with him. He knew Anna wished it.

  On sudden impulse he pulled the purse of silver from his belt again and thrust it into Francesca’s hands. “Take this into your charge. Keep it in a safe place and spend it on household needs. I want no part of it.”

  It was a moment or two before she found her voice. “I shall use it wisely,” she vowed emotionally, thinking thankfully that there would be no more bills mounting up and she could go shopping for weeks to come without facing the ire of honest tradesmen who had not been paid.

  “I know you will.” He was smiling at her.

  An answering smile curled the corners of her mouth and her eyes twinkled. “But don’t expect meat twice a day.”

  He guffawed. It was, and had been, a joke in every respect, for few people in Holland ate meat more than once a week, because, apart from this time of year when animals were slaughtered before the winter, there was little fresh meat to be had. Fish, morning-caught from the sea, was cheap and in abundance, as were vegetables, preferable in any case to salted meat, and there was no country anywhere that had a better choice of good cheeses.

  “Just let me have a plate of fried herrings once a week and I’ll make no complaint,” he teased.

  “You shall have them,” she promised merrily. “I’ll go and put this money away now. After I’ve changed and put on an apron I’ll come back and clean your brushes.”

  As soon as she had gone from the studio he looked at his hands and eased his painful fingers. The knuckles had ached so much during the afternoon that once he had dropped his brush. Fortunately Francesca had not suspected the reason or else she would not have caught his hand in hers as she did. He had almost winced.

  Suddenly he felt overwhelmingly tired, the previous night’s lack of sleep catching up with him. He poured water from a pewter jug into a bowl of the same metal and washed his hands carefully, not sure whether the cold water eased or aggravated the aching. After drying them on a linen towel, he bent to pick up his smock and place it on his peg. Then he went from the studio.

  Sybylla must have been waiting for him, because when he crossed the reception hall to the parlor she came darting after him.

  “Father! I must speak to you.”

  “Does it have to be now?” he asked tolerantly, not sending her away as he would have done anyone else who had approached him at this particular time. He had planned to have a peaceful, uninterrupted doze before dinner and sank down into a leather chair by the fire to stretch out his long legs and close his eyes. “I have been working all the afternoon.”

  She did not take the hint and leave. Instead she shut the door after her and came to kneel by his chair. “I know, but it’s most important.”

  He felt the familiar tug at his heartstrings. This was the baby of the family, the apple of his eye, coming to him with some pretty notion in her head and he must listen to her. At least he did not think it would be about some madcap betrothal. He shifted his large body into a less relaxed position and gave her his full attention. “What is it, little one?”

  She was encouraged by his pet endearment for her. From Aletta she had heard, almost with disbelief, that he had come home with plenty of money in his purse, but without the gifts normal to such occasions, rare though they were these days. She came straight to the point, seeing no need to offer to sit for him after all.

  “Father, I do need a new cloak for this coming winter. I’d like one with a fur-lined hood, which I’ve never had before.”

  He was able to picture exactly what she was requesting, for if he had not expected Willem to be at the house that morning he would have bought one for her and loaded himself with gifts for the others too. But it had suited his mood to face Willem in a spirit of independence, which was why, for the first time ever, he had allowed the full clearance of debts to take priority. He had made up his mind to be as lavish with the remaining bounty on the morrow as he had been in the past, but those few extraordinary seconds when Anna had seemed to look at him out of his eldest daughter’s eyes had changed that arra
ngement. He had never listened in the past when Anna had begged him to be more practical and less extravagant, and it was satisfying to know he was pleasing her over that matter at last.

  “You have at least two warm cloaks, Sybylla,” he said with a firmness directed as much at himself as at her. Not even his dearest child could compete with the wishes of the beloved wife he had lost.

  “Neither of them have fur and I feel the cold so badly,” she wheedled, her gaze aimed to be beguiling, her expectations high. “I also need silk for a new gown to be made up in time for St. Nicholaes’s Day. I’ve seen the loveliest material in gillyflower pink—”

  “The cloak and the silk must wait for another time.”

  “Why?” She pouted prettily, not yet taking him seriously. “You can afford a few luxuries for every one of us again now.”

  He smiled, shaking his head. “Far from it. As a matter of fact I haven’t as much as a stiver in my pockets. All the money I brought home with me is under lock and key for housekeeping expenses under your elder sister’s jurisdiction.”

  Sybylla was aghast, but all was not lost yet. “There’s still the painting. You are going to sell it, aren’t you, Father?”

  “Yes, but that won’t be tomorrow. I know Willem. He’ll hang back for a week or two, thinking to make me fret for a sale. It’ll be his way of getting even with me for not making him a promise this morning that it shall be his to offer whenever he likes.”

  “Suppose he doesn’t come back?” She was anxious, thinking of the funds for her new garments lying dormant in that painting on the studio easel.

  “He’ll be back, never fear.” Hendrick closed his eyes again, sleep dragging at him. Sybylla leapt up from her knees and darted away as quickly as she had come. The cloak and the silk were practically hers! It was exasperating having to wait, but if her father and Willem were engaged in a battle of wills, she would have to be patient somehow.

  NEXT MORNING FRANCESCA made sure Hendrick had enough money when he left the house to buy a new supply of pigments. She wanted no more accounts run up to high figures that became so difficult to meet; in future cash was to be paid for all purchases, whether for the household or for the atelier. Hendrick did not demur at her ruling. He had quarreled too often with every artist’s supplier over denial of credit at various times not to enjoy the rare experience of slapping down coins on their counters as if casting pearls before swine.

  When she heard him reenter the house only a few minutes after leaving it, she supposed he had forgotten something and expected him to go into the studio to collect whatever it was before going out once more. Then, when the front door did not open and close again, she went to see if anything was the matter. She found him sitting in one of the chairs in the reception hall, staring unseeingly before him.

  “Are you not well?” she inquired anxiously.

  Slowly he raised his head to look at her, his mouth jerking with anguish. “I heard some sad news in the street. Rembrandt died yesterday.”

  Involuntarily she cried out in distress. “Oh! Can it be true?”

  He answered her in a voice heavy with grief. “He is to be buried in the Westerkerk. It is not just our country that has been bereaved. The world has lost the greatest painter who has ever lived.”

  She took up his hand and cradled it against her cheek, sharing his sorrow. One of her earliest memories was of being taken by him to see Rembrandt’s painting of the Militia Company of Captain Frans Banning Cocq that was hung in the wing of that same militia’s headquarters. The scene had been captured at a busy moment when all were getting ready in good time for the Night Watch. She had stood awed, staring up at the vast painting where diffused sunlight and shadow played across a scene throbbing with activity, and Hendrick, who never took account of her extreme youth, spoke to her as he might have done to an adult. He explained that this group painting was entirely at variance to the conventional static settings normally used in this type of commissioned work in which every face was turned in the direction of the viewer. The explanation had meant little to her then. She was only aware of the teeming life on that canvas where all the militia were going about their affairs, the foreground dominated by the captain in black and a fellow officer in yellow. She seemed to hear the clatter of arms, the rattle of drums, the barking of the dog and all the tumult of the men’s voices. Best of all at that time, she had liked the presence of the small girl in the painting, whose gown was similar to her own that day. She supposed the child to be with her father just as she was with hers, except that Hendrick was an artist and not a wearer of armor and military sashes. One thing about the little girl had puzzled her.

  “Why has she a chicken with golden claws hanging from her belt, Papa? Has she brought it for their supper?”

  “Maybe she has and maybe she hasn’t. The significance of it lies in the fact that the escutcheon of this company bears golden claws and so Master Rembrandt has introduced the emblem. See how he has applied highlights of thick white impasto to the yellow, all against a darker ground, to achieve the shimmering effect of the feathers as well as the rich fabric of the little girl’s skirt. Can you spot somebody you know in the painting?”

  “Who?”

  “Master Rembrandt.”

  She knew it was a long-established tradition, going back to the great Italian painters, that an artist frequently included a likeness of himself in a populated painting. Slowly she let her gaze pass along the faces of those more in the background than the rest, each person there having paid according to the amount of space on the canvas individually occupied.

  “There’s Master Rembrandt!” She laughed and clasped her hands with delight. “He is just behind the man in armor! One day I’m going to do that! Paint myself showing part of my face as he has done.”

  In retrospect, looking back now to that moment, Francesca was certain it was when the spark had been kindled in her to follow the path of a painter to the exclusion of all else.

  “I should like to offer Cornelia a home with us, Father.”

  Hendrick nodded willingly. “That should be done without delay.”

  “I’ll go to Rozengracht at once!” She took a step toward the stair hall.

  He stirred in his chair. “I’ll not come with you. I’ve no wish to go out again today.” Wearily he rose to his feet. “I’d like to spend the rest of the day quietly in my studio.”

  She understood. There was no better place in which to mourn a fellow artist than in one’s own studio. When she arrived at Rozengracht it was to learn that Cornelia had already been taken into the care of kind relatives and a good home for her was assured.

  Four days later Hendrick attended the funeral at Westerkerk and saw Rembrandt laid to rest beside Titus and Hendrickje Stoffels. Throughout the following weeks Hendrick was as cast down as if it had been his own knell that he had heard. The painting of Titus drew him as though it were a new acquisition and had not graced his home for a long time. The depth and meaning of the work, combined with its beauty and harmony, moved him till his throat ached, so great was the admiration that swelled his heart. He also began pausing to look at the Hals painting that he owned: a toper with the drunken flush to his cheeks, merriment in his eyes and a tankard in hand. Hendrick marveled anew at the glittering brushwork, the pulse of life created by those gashlike strokes of color. It was inevitable that his own technique should have been influenced by such a tutor, whose temperament had been so much like his own and to whom laughter, alcohol and good company had also been all-important. Three years ago Hals, an old man in his eighties, had died and now Rembrandt, only sixty-three, had followed him. Both had ended their days in abject poverty, virtually forgotten by society. Was that to be his own fate too?

  One morning as he stood in front of the painting of the toper, Francesca came and stood beside him. She was wearing her gardening apron, and gloves were tucked in the pocket. She comprehended the mood that was depressing him and slipped her arm through his.

  “You know,” he s
aid in a voice torn by regret, “I should have gone to see old Hals before he died. I kept meaning to make the trip to Haarlem, but somehow I never did. I suppose, having heard he was still painting, I thought he would go on forever, but of course none of us do.”

  “Why not make the trip to Haarlem one day and pay your respects at his last resting place?” Francesca suggested. “If you went by passenger boat on the canals you could either stay the night or be home again by midnight.”

  He gave a nod but did not commit himself. “I’ll think about it.”

  She continued on her way out to the courtyard. It was a fine morning on which to plant the tulip bulbs that had come from a field somewhere near Haarlem. Griet had told her about the delivery, the order for which Hendrick had forgotten to mention, and said that the tulip grower would call for payment another day. It was only the previous week that she had replanted the bulbs she had taken up in June, but she enjoyed gardening and was always content at it, even when engaged in the more monotonous chores of digging and weeding. Aletta shared her interest and would have helped her with the bulbs if she had not gone out to sketch a view of the Amstel by one of the old bridges.

  Kneeling down on a folded rug, Francesca dug holes in the sandy soil at regular intervals and set in the new bulbs, which were of excellent quality, being hard with skins that were a good rusty color. When they came into bloom she might gather some to take indoors and begin a floral arrangement for her canvas, painting other flowers as they blossomed in turn, until a huge bouquet from the different seasons was completed, a not unusual procedure.

  The tulip would always be her favorite flower, its long-stemmed grace and elegance surpassing to her eyes even the beautiful centiflora rose that presented such an abundance of tinted petals as to resemble a confusion of petticoats. Maybe the romantic in her had been irrevocably drawn to the tulip when long ago she had heard how supposedly it had first come into being. According to the Persian legend, it was when Fernad had pined in anguish for his love, the exquisite Shirin, that the wild tulip had sprung up from where his tears had dyed the sand, its petals blood red. She could never look at tulips without remembering their association with tender love and deepest passion.