The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  “What reason did you give for the switch of studios?”

  “Circumstances!” Willem was glaring.

  Hendrick did not probe. He suspected that neglect of tuition had tipped the scales. “That’s it, then.”

  “What are you saying?” Willem looked as if he might explode. “I haven’t told you before, but Vermeer wasn’t enamored with the idea of having a pupil. I had to do a deal of talking about Francesca before he would consider taking her. Now that he has agreed, giving her a golden chance at moderate terms such as you’d never get anywhere else, you have to sabotage everything! Don’t you realize he could either sue you for her nonappearance or—worse still for her—take this opportunity, and be within his rights, to declare her indentures with him to be null and void! Where is she now?”

  “Upstairs being fitted for new garments.”

  “Send for her.”

  Hendrick, as ever when knowing himself to be in the wrong, became belligerent. “I’m not having her upset by you in your present temper.”

  “Then I’ll seek her out myself.”

  Willem strode from the room and took the stairs two at a time. These upper regions were unknown to him, but he would shout for her. The landing branched curiously, as happened in so many Dutch houses, his own included, and another narrow staircase wound upward while a long corridor with closed doors lay to his right. Only the one at the end stood half open and from it came a buzz of female chatter.

  “Francesca!”

  There was a moment of surprised silence and then Francesca herself appeared in the doorway attired in a gown of tawny velvet that was partly held together by white tacking stitches. Astonishment and amusement blended in her face at the sight of him. “Have you lost your way, mijnheer?” she asked with laughter in her voice.

  “I have to speak to you. It’s most important.”

  Her smile fled at the sternness of his request. She spoke to the seamstress in the sewing room and then left to go to her own room. “We can talk in here.”

  In her bedchamber, on the cushioned bench, he explained the situation. “I can’t say what action—if any—Vermeer might make. He is an amiable man and might be persuaded to overlook a delay, although that’s impossible to guarantee.”

  She sat very straight, absently lifting her left sleeve occasionally, for it was slipping away from its tacking at the shoulder. “Whether he would or would not is beside the point. An agreement has been made in good faith on both sides and not to abide to it is breaking one’s word. Similarly a bond has been agreed in my accepting van Deventer’s commission.”

  “Could you finish the portrait in five weeks?”

  “I could if I had the studio to myself, but Father is working on his painting of the tax collector. When he’s in the mood for work he has to paint. It’s like breathing to him. I daresay I could share Aletta’s studio-parlor, but I’m not sure that she would want me there and there’s scarcely room for two of us in any case.” She tilted her chin. “But there are other rooms in the house and I will fulfill my obligations somehow.”

  “You have to consider the possibility that van Deventer’s engagements might keep him from coming for sittings as often as you would wish. But I’ve a suggestion. I could ask him if you could use one of the rooms in his house as a studio. Then he would be able to sit for you whenever he has five minutes.”

  Her face cleared. “That would be the solution to everything!”

  “I’ll go straight from here to his house. When everything is explained to him I feel sure he will agree.”

  She smiled gratefully. “You are such a good friend.”

  He returned her smile. “I’ve known your father too many years not to want to help whenever I can and I was fond of your good mother.”

  “I can’t find enough words to thank you.”

  In the sewing room again, as Francesca stood having the new garment readjusted here and there by the seamstress, she thought of the meeting she had arranged with Pieter. If she was to go daily to the van Deventer house it might not be possible to meet him as planned, but at least she knew he would be at the same house on Friday morning and she could tell him then if it proved impossible.

  Early that evening one of Ludolf’s servants delivered a letter to Hendrick. In it Ludolf wrote that a room had been converted already into a studio for Francesca and it had been fully equipped with an easel and canvas, oils and brushes and everything else she might need. This meant she could keep the appointment already arranged on the morrow for his first sitting. He would be sending his coach for her. All this information was somewhat overwhelming, for she had planned for a man with a handcart to take what she would need.

  “It’s too much,” she said uneasily to Hendrick. “I only expected space with a good light, a chair for van Deventer and a side table for the model of the ship.”

  “It goes to show what a considerate man he is,” he replied. “After all, he sent his coach for me last night for that evening at cards at his house. Naturally he would do the same for you.”

  It had been a most gratifying evening for Hendrick. Three of his paintings were hung prominently in the card room and the fourth in the supper room of that splendid house. After a slight setback, he had won handsomely from Ludolf and his two friends. Never had he drunk better wine or seen gentlemen lose with such good grace. They had congratulated him at the night’s end and expressed their pleasure when he had invited them to his house to play again, giving them the chance to win their money back. But he had been laughing to himself. He knew from long experience that when his luck was in full spate it would carry him through many such games yet. A few more such wins and he would be able to send Aletta to Delft too.

  When Sybylla heard that Francesca was to ride in the van Deventer coach she insisted on going with her. “Do let me! I’ll be very quiet and not disturb you when you’re painting.”

  “When have you ever been quiet!” Francesca teased.

  Sybylla became frantic. “Don’t begrudge me this chance to see inside that house!”

  Francesca relented. “You can come, but any foolishness and you will have to leave.” She shook a warning finger.

  “I’ll be so good! I promise.”

  The coach came for them at eight o’clock the next morning. Francesca carried her painting smock and the roll of draperies for the portrait’s background, while Sybylla held the model of the ship. Throughout the ride Sybylla was on the lookout all the time for anyone she knew. Then she would wave and dip her head graciously as if aping Prince Willem of Orange when he rode out from the palace at The Hague. Once she kicked her feet with delight after a girl she disliked intensely had gaped in envious amazement as she rode by.

  The mansion with the twin flight of steps faced the canal. Ludolf had mentioned that he had had it built on the site of an ancient property that had been torn down. It had a wider frontage than the older houses, although, as with them, there was little more than an inch between its walls and those of its neighbors on either side. Elaborate pilasters adorned the frontage, the sills and casements carved with twirling foliage. In the pediment up by the gables was the ship in full sail by which Pieter had been directed.

  Sybylla would not go up the same flight of steps as Francesca, but like a child at play took the other to arrive at the opened door at the same time. Ludolf himself met them in the reception hall, already resplendent in black velvet with gilt braid decorating his fashionable longish coat, loops of ribbons at the shoulders and bunches again on the garters of his hose meeting the full-gathered calf-length breeches. If anything his shoulder-length periwig was even more carefully curled than before. Francesca suspected he had donned a new one in readiness for his portrait. If he was surprised to see Sybylla as well, he did not show it.

  “Good day to you both and welcome to my home. What a splendid arrangement it is that you should have a temporary studio here, Francesca. I was told by Heer de Hartog that we have just five weeks before you leave for Delft. You may be sure
,” he insisted, “that I shall cooperate in any way I can.”

  “I think you have already shown that by your kindness.” She had to give him credit for being so obliging.

  Sybylla was wide-eyed at the size and splendor of the reception hall. A hundred people or more could have danced there with space to spare. There was so much gilt agleam, the walls silk-paneled, and huge crystal chandeliers were suspended from a ceiling depicting whales and vessels and stormy waves in the ornate plasterwork. Set into the blue marble floor was a circular design of dolphins with a ship in the middle, the twin of the one in the pediment outside. It added to her awe that two liveried menservants should attend them, their cloaks taken in one direction and her sister’s painting smock and the model of the ship borne away upstairs to the location of the studio. She had supposed the coach servants doubled up for work indoors, for a tax was levied by the state on employers of menservants, but that was not the case. The ship broker must have florins to throw away! She turned her enthralled gaze on him. Somehow she must do her part to ensure favor for her father and, at the present time, her sister with this Heer van Moneybags!

  “You needn’t fear Francesca will rush your portrait in any way just because she’s going to Delft at the end of April,” she volunteered.

  “Such a thought never entered my head,” he answered, intent on showing his goodwill. “Before we go upstairs to the studio I should like you both to meet my wife.”

  “That is what I hoped,” Francesca replied. Knowing that Amalia van Deventer was an invalid, she had brought with her a box of sugared sweetmeats that were her culinary speciality.

  As they turned into a corridor lined with tapestries Ludolf explained that his wife’s suite was on the ground floor to enable her to walk about a little sometimes without the exertion of the stairs. Yet when they entered Amalia’s dayroom and saw her lying against her cushions it seemed impossible to either Francesca or Sybylla that this woman could have the strength to rise from them. She looked so delicate, almost as if the embroidered silken quilt covering her legs might be too great a weight for her. Painted, coiffured and fully dressed in spite of an hour early for an invalid, she extended a hand, thin as a bird’s claw, to welcome the two girls to her side.

  “How kind of you to come and see me. I know you, Francesca, as Flora here in this house. And this must be Sybylla. Oh, what have you brought me? How prettily the box is decorated. Shall I peep inside now? These look delicious!”

  Francesca could see that this woman, who had every material benefit she could wish for, was genuinely touched and delighted by the unexpected gift. Ludolf waited until some conversation had been exchanged and then drew the sisters away, both of them promising to see her again before they went home.

  Francesca was amazed by the size of the room that had been allotted to her as a studio. A four-poster hung with embroidered curtains had been pushed back against a wall to give maximum space and was partly concealed by an Oriental screen. Four large windows gave her north light and the view was of the long garden that Pieter was to redesign. A large carved chair and a side table had been placed in the right position to benefit from the north windows, and an easel with a prepared canvas on it stood together with a stool. She went at once to a side table where much more than she would need was laid out.

  “Who mixed the oils and pigments?” she asked Ludolf.

  “The supplier. Has he done well?”

  “Indeed he has.” A manservant was waiting to see if she wanted anything changed and she asked for another screen to be set behind the carved chair on which she could arrange her drapery. When this was done she nodded approval to Ludolf. “Now let us begin!”

  He helped her on with her smock while Sybylla put the model ship on the table at the angle Francesca wanted. Then he took his hat from the chair and put it on. It was in the latest French mode for men, with a stiff and narrow brim and an ostrich plume that stood upright, the fronds dipping over a high crown. Then he sat down, his pose comfortable, with a relaxed air. Sybylla settled herself on a chair to watch at an angle from which she could see his likeness taking shape on the canvas. She had brought nothing to occupy the time, knowing in advance that she would be too excited by her surroundings to concentrate on anything else.

  Francesca was rarely troubled by anything when she painted. Normally her cares fell away from her and it was only occasionally, such as when she found thoughts of Pieter persisting, that she was not able to give her whole attention to her work. Today she was fully concentrated. Nothing existed except her and her sitter. She was getting to know his features, noting how his nostrils curved, the way his brows met sparsely in a V above the bridge of his nose, and how his thick lower lip had a faint indentation as if once it had suffered a cut from a fist. There was also a scar by his left eye. As for his periwig, that would be an exercise in itself, all those gleaming highlights and curling shadows.

  Ludolf talked, which sitters usually did. Only professional models kept silent. The conversation was mostly between Ludolf and Sybylla, who was as garrulous as Hendrick, but Francesca did answer when necessary, one part of her mind alerted for it. She gave Ludolf a rest after twenty minutes, which was as much as most sitters, other than professionals, could take at a time. She continued working, seated on her stool, while he went across to the window to discuss his hopes for a new garden with her sister.

  The sitting had been resumed for only five minutes when Sybylla was unable to contain her enthusiasm any longer. “This is a beautiful place!” She sprang from her chair to almost dance about the room as she looked at paintings and porcelains, silver trinkets on a French toilet table, and was unabashed when she opened a cupboard to find a silver chamber pot inside.

  When she came into Ludolf’s line of vision again he watched her rapt face as she ran her hand over a carving and stroked a brocade hanging.

  “Why don’t you look at the rest of the house,” he invited expansively.

  “May I?” Sybylla pressed her palms together with delight.

  “If you should get lost there’s a bellpull in every room. One of the servants will come and find you.” As the door shut behind her he rose immediately from the chair. “I’ll take a rest now.” In the next moment he was viewing the beginnings of his portrait. It was still no more than a rough sketch in paint, but there were decisive strokes and already there was a masterly commitment to his likeness. “Should you leave my portrait at this stage all would know it was I!”

  She put down her brushes and rectangular palette to rise from the stool. “My father’s whim is that nobody should see his work until it is almost finished. I’m not as strict as that, but I’d prefer you didn’t look at this canvas again until I invite you.” She did not want him seeking any excuse to peer over her shoulder and this rest he was taking was far too soon.

  “It shall be as you wish.”

  “I thank you.”

  “I want only to please you.” His voice lowered slightly, shot through with meaning, and he moved closer to her. “Do you understand me, Francesca?”

  She thought her bile must rise. Did he suppose even for a moment that she might be flattered by the advances of an older man of wealth? Deliberately she misinterpreted his words. “Then when you return to your chair try to keep your gaze in the direction we arranged. It will be most helpful to me if you don’t turn your head during this first stage.”

  He gestured with a hand that came near to touching her, his eyes smiling. “Then try not to be a magnet to me.”

  She regarded him impatiently. “Please understand that here in the studio I’m a craftswoman wanting only to depict you as the man of property and position that you are. Don’t reveal to me a side of yourself that you would not wish others to see, because, whether I wanted it or not, it would show in the finished portrait.”

  He was taken aback. “Are you that sure of your talent?”

  “It’s not a question of skill. To me it is a flaw, because in portraiture I find I paint as much with the
inner eye as an outer one. How much better it would be not to reveal the blatant facts and leave whoever views the result wanting to know more of the nature and the thoughts of the person within the frame. So much given and so much held back. That’s how people are to one another in life. Nobody can ever know somebody else’s whole soul.”

  “You think deeply, don’t you?”

  “I’m not naïve about my fellow men and women.”

  He reflected that he had never been more neatly rebuffed. And twice over! She had put him in his place with a skillful warning over his advances and again in telling him clearly that she was not one to have her head turned. “So if a man was secretly in love you could portray it?”

  She saw the line he was following again. “It would probably surface just as hatred or greed or anything else that would show when the face of a sitter is studied long enough. If anyone should ask if there was one thing taught me by my father that I valued above all else, I would say it was the development of that inner eye, but I have yet to master it and bring it under my control.”

  “Is that what you expect to happen at Vermeer’s studio?”

  She relaxed and a look that was both meditative and joyous came into her face in her yearning to be there. “I hope for everything at Delft!”

  It was a further rebuff, whether she knew it or not. He could see that it was not going to be easy to win her, but that only incited further his resolve to make her his own. With an amiable remark and a show of good grace that was far from his true feelings, he returned to the chair and she took up her work again.

  Chapter 9

  AT LUDOLF’S HOUSE THERE WAS NO REPEAT OF THE INCIDENT of the first day. It was between Francesca and him as if it had not happened; his conversation with her was easy and friendly and devoid of any innuendo whether during the sittings or when she and Sybylla ate the noon meal with him. She reminded herself there were many men who could not resist an opportunity for seduction, and she judged him to be no better and no worse than most. It was to his credit that he had taken notice of her clear indication that she wanted none of it.