The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  “May good fortune attend you, Juffrouw Francesca.”

  “I thank you, Griet.” Francesca felt choked. Then, as if physically tearing herself away from home, she went at such speed out of the house that Pieter, carrying her hand casket and already on the doorstep, just managed to catch her hand in his as she darted by. He squeezed it in understanding and she gave him a grateful little smile, slowing her pace to let her sisters catch up with them.

  It was a windy morning and their cloaks billowed out like colorful tulip petals when they reached the square where the stage wagon was waiting. Francesca’s traveling chest was already aboard the long open wagon, the roof of waxed cloth stretched over hoops of iron. She had a few last words with Pieter, telling him of the change in her accommodation in Delft.

  “Why was it rearranged?” Pieter asked her.

  She gave a little shrug, still puzzled herself. “It appears it was no longer convenient for the first family to have me, but on thinking it over I am sure Father really has another reason for making the change. He had become nervous of my being away from home in a new town among strangers. He thinks I will be better cared for by a widow glad of my company. Her name is Vrouw Geetruyd Wolff.”

  “I’m sure you will. Shall you have time to write to me?”

  She answered in a gentle jest. “My evenings will be my own unless I get lessons in the tonal light of lamps and candles after dark.”

  He surveyed her teasingly. “Is that so? Somehow I don’t think that will happen very often.”

  “We want letters!” Sybylla declared firmly.

  Aletta gave a laugh. “It won’t be a one-way correspondence, I promise you, Francesca.”

  Pieter became more serious. “What of your studies, Francesca? All jesting aside, I’ll take no time away from you in letter writing to me that should be spent on your art.”

  She gave back her reply with equal seriousness. “If ever I should find some conflict arising between our friendship and my work I would tell you.”

  “That’s a promise?”

  “It is.”

  An increasing bustle of activity around the stage wagon showed that it was about to leave. For a few seconds more they looked deeply at each other before he kissed her with such intensity that Aletta and Sybylla stared in astonishment. Then she embraced her sisters in turn, cheeks kissed and last-minute advice and instructions given and returned. Pieter helped her up into the wagon by the steps placed alongside it. She took a seat where enough space had been left by the waxed roof covering for passengers to see out. With a shout from the coachman and the crack of the whip the high wheels rolled forward over the cobbles, bearing her away. Aletta and Sybylla both ran a few steps along to keep level with her, although Pieter remained where he was. All three waved to her. “Farewell! Take care! God speed you!”

  She waved back until the stage wagon rumbled over a bridge and a row of warehouses blocked off her view of them. Her first action then was to find a safe place for her violets and there was a crevice by her seat in which she was able to wedge the stalks in their ribbon binding. It was as well that she took such a precaution, because, as she had expected, it was a bone-shaking journey. The high wheels thundered along as the little leather sails were raised on the roof to catch the wind and aid the speed of the four galloping horses. Passengers cried out in alarm and were tossed against one another whenever the stage wagon tipped dangerously in a deep rut. All the time the madman with the whip drove on his horses and yelled in triumph when he passed another stage wagon going in the opposite direction, a sign that he was keeping up to time and maybe even surpassing it on this particular journey.

  Occasionally there was a much needed halt at a hostelry when horses were changed and some passengers disembarked while others came aboard. For those making the full journey from Amsterdam to Delft there would be just time to snatch some refreshment at the hostelry or use the privy, but rarely both. The coachman would blow his horn as a signal he was about to depart again and he did not wait for latecomers. It became a common sight to see men almost choking themselves to down the last drop from a tankard or come running to scramble back onto the stage wagon still tying the strings of their breeches.

  Francesca had a packet of food wrapped in a white napkin to sustain her on the journey, together with some of the fruit that friends had brought as farewell gifts, most of which she had left behind for the family. She had a change of fellow passengers beside her three times throughout the journey and each time they chatted, which helped to pass the hours.

  The late-afternoon sun was shining when the stage wagon eventually rumbled into Delft and Francesca looked out eagerly. The prosperity of this charming old town was founded on its cloth, its breweries and its shipping, being connected by canals with ports on the river Maas. Over the past hundred years there had been such a growth in its potteries producing Delft tiles and every kind of domestic utensil, ornamental and practical, that there were now thirty establishments in the town.

  She thought that Delft with its innumerable bridges appeared to be more webbed by canals than Amsterdam, and whichever side of a street she looked at there were gray-or rust-red-roofed mediaeval, Gothic and Renaissance buildings unchanged by the passing of centuries. Leaded panes winked in the sun and ancient doorways lurked in the shadows while shutters shone blue or green or brown and sometimes crimson. Trees, misty with blossom or sharp with new green, combined with flowering plants and brilliant tulips to bring added beauty to the old town. Surely there was no better time to come to Delft than on a sunny May day!

  There was a bustle of activity outside the hostelry in the street where she alighted, her posy of violets in one hand and her casket in the other. She had ensured that her traveling chest had been unloaded and set down beside her before she saw in the milling throng of people the middle-aged woman whom she guessed to be Vrouw Wolff. The widow spotted her in almost the same instant and came forward. Although soberly dressed in a short cape over a white-collared black gown and a plain hat without plume or ribbons, she had a certain style that belied her prim attire. In her early forties with a fine figure, she was not an uncomely-looking woman, her face triangular, her brow wide, her chin sharp. She was smiling in welcome, but her gray eyes were as hard and bright as glass in her assessing scrutiny of the new arrival.

  “I believe I’m addressing Juffrouw Visser,” she said, her black silky brows raised inquiringly.

  “My greetings, Vrouw Wolff. Please call me Francesca.”

  “Since I am to guard you as if you were my own child that would be appropriate. Is this all your baggage?” She looked somewhat disparagingly at the old and much battered traveling chest on the ground and the single hand casket that Francesca held in one hand, her beribboned posy in the other.

  “Yes. I’ll hail a porter.”

  “No need. I already have one standing by.” Vrouw Wolff half turned to signal with a raised hand to a youth waiting with a handcart. When the baggage was loaded she made him go ahead of them, suspecting that he might try to tamper with the contents if he was behind their backs. It would not have occurred to Francesca to doubt his honesty, but later she was to discover that Geetruyd Wolff rarely trusted anyone.

  It was only a short distance to the narrow crooked street called Kromstraat, where Geetruyd lived. Her house was five stories high and at some time in the past it had been tarred to protect the bricks from corrosion by the damp climate, which made the sandstone ornamentation stand out attractively. Across the casement windows at street level the ochre-colored half-shutters were closed to give privacy while allowing light to penetrate through the upper halves. The entrance door, with its iron knocker, when opened by Geetruyd, was thick enough to have done justice to a church porch. Inside the effect was of gloominess, partly through the light being reduced by the shutters and also a choice of dark wall paneling, but there were some pieces of particularly fine furniture and a display of beautiful Delftware.

  A maidservant named Weintje guided the por
ter, who had hoisted the traveling chest onto his back, up a precipitous staircase that rose from an inner stair hall as in Francesca’s own home, although here it was L-shaped, which hid the flight from the view of anyone in the reception hall. Geetruyd led the way for Francesca, who followed her up the staircase, which was handsomely carved, in the wake of the maidservant and the porter.

  “These old houses,” Geetruyd said over her shoulder, “have many rooms, and some years ago, in order to improve my modest circumstances, I started giving accommodation to travelers when the hostelries were full. Since then I have built up a clientele of merchants, who travel regularly and always come here, because they can be sure of a quiet night in respectable surroundings with a good bed and an ample breakfast in the morning.” She had reached an upper floor and was nimbly ascending the next flight.

  “Are there many guests staying at any one time?”

  “No. Usually only two or three or four at the most. I accommodate only those gentlemen who are known to me, although I do oblige the landlord of the Mechelin tavern by providing a room sometimes, because I know he would never send me anyone unsuitable, which is important. You will hardly know when there are guests in the house, because I have four large bedchambers downstairs with wall beds dating from the days when people often lived and slept in the same room, as they still do in parts of the countryside till this day. Breakfast is always served in the rooms, so none come into my dining hall, which leads off the kitchen on the ground floor.”

  “I noticed through two open doors that we passed on the first floor that you have upstairs parlors.”

  “Yes, there are three and also an office where I keep my books and deal with paperwork linked with my charity work. I am a regentess on the committee of several almshouses for the elderly and other charitable institutions.”

  It was a declaration of the high respect with which she was regarded in the town. Having reached the second floor, she went trotting off along a corridor to where the porter was emerging from a doorway after setting down the traveling chest. Francesca went to him, loosening the ring of her stocking purse with the intention of paying him, but Geetruyd held up a restraining hand and paid him herself.

  “I have received a fund out of which to pay sundry expenses,” she explained. Then to Weintje, who was hastening out of the room to let her mistress and the new arrival enter, she said, “Bring a vase for Juffrouw Visser’s violets.”

  Francesca was pondering over this fund and could only suppose that Willem had suggested to her father that a little extra cash should be provided, because she could not believe that Hendrick would have thought of it by himself. He certainly hadn’t mentioned it when he had given her a bag of money for her purse, saying that it included her share of what was due to her from Ludolf’s portrait. She had noticed that the bag was heavy and had expected to find a number of stivers in it, but on opening it only seconds ago she had been amazed to see that it contained quite a number of florins.

  Her paneled room with its brocade-curtained four-poster did not have much light, for it had only one window and that looked down into the street. Yet it was furnished with all she would need, including a silver-framed mirror and the luxury of a Persian rug on the floor by the bed.

  Geetruyd was eyeing her speculatively. “I was told you are a responsible young woman dedicated to art and, if I was not misled, I think you and I should get on well together.” She moved across to the door and paused there to look back over her shoulder. “I’m leaving you to unpack. Weintje will bring you a cup of tea to refresh you after your journey. When you are ready you will find me in an east-facing parlor that is directly below this bedchamber. We shall have a talk before supper and I’ll outline my duties toward you. I have undertaken to become your chaperone throughout your time in Delft, and it will be to our mutual advantage if we erase any possible difficulties from the start.”

  Half an hour later Francesca went in search of the east-facing parlor. She looked closely at every picture on the way. Mostly they were etchings of Delft, including one of Willem I’s magnificent tomb in the New Church, the high tower of which she had seen on her way from the final stage post. Clearly depicted at the feet of the effigy of the Prince of Orange was his faithful dog, who had pined for him, refusing to eat, and who had died soon after his master. If ever she should be directed to paint a picture of that man it would be with his dog frisking along at his side.

  The talk with Vrouw Wolff did not consist of an exchange of views, for Francesca had to listen to a number of stipulations laid down by her father in a letter to which the widow referred. Among everything else she was amazed to hear that she was not to associate socially with any male. Vermeer’s home and studio were only a short walk away, but in the mornings and at the end of the day she would be escorted by Geetruyd’s cousin and companion, Clara Huys.

  “You’ll be meeting Clara at dinner,” the widow said in conclusion after adding that she herself would accompany Francesca to any social gatherings she deemed suitable. “Is all that understood?”

  “Indeed it is!” Francesca was thoroughly displeased by what had been dictated to her, although upon reflection she saw now that her father had really not been quite sane over these past weeks, for he would never have set down these rigid rules in a normal frame of mind. Regretfully, it was also typical of him that he should have avoided telling her all this directly, but had left the unpleasant task to somebody else. “Since this is how my father has mapped out everything for me at the present time, I must abide by his wishes. However, I’m sure that after I’ve been here for a while and he has become used to my being away from home, he will relax these absurd rules.”

  “Don’t count on that.”

  “Whether it happens or not, there is one person whom I will see on my own. I made that clear to my father and I had his agreement. The name is Pieter van Doorne.”

  Vrouw Wolff had Hendrick’s letter on her lap and now she unfolded it to glance at it again. “Yes, it is as I have told you. No exceptions are to be made.”

  “That’s not possible!”

  “See for yourself!”

  Francesca took the letter handed to her and saw in her father’s own hand exactly all that Geetruyd had said to her. “This letter is an expression of anxiety about me. He has not been himself recently. He will soon rescind these instructions.”

  The widow took the letter from her again. “Until that time—if it should ever come—I shall carry out all that has been requested of me to the best of my ability.”

  “You can’t stop me from seeing Pieter!”

  “You’re mistaken.” Geetruyd regarded her calmly. “It is obvious to me that the young man is an unsuitable suitor from whom your father wishes to protect you. Among the institutes and almshouses of which I am regentess is a home specially for wayward young women. I am the consultant on how they should be treated when special means are needed. If you should disobey me I would have you incarcerated as a disobedient daughter to let you cool your heels and come to your senses.”

  Francesca sprang furiously to her feet. “You’re mad! Punishment has been virtually unknown in my home. Father would never condone such an extreme and wicked penalty!”

  Now the widow became equally fierce, bounding to her feet and shaking a finger in Francesca’s face. “Don’t dare ever to insult me again! I’m your father’s representative and as such will do everything in my power to keep you on the path he wishes you to tread. Recall what you read in his letter. Did he not write that I was to have complete authority over you since he knew whatever decisions I made would be for your own good.”

  “You’ve misconstructed the whole situation. My relationship with Pieter is set on a course of friendship and nothing more!”

  “I’ve heard that before! You’re not the first young woman I’ve had to protect against her own foolishness. That is why you were sent to me.”

  Francesca made for the door. “I’m not spending a night under this roof! I’ll seek refuge wit
h the Vermeers and tomorrow I’ll make other arrangements for my accommodation.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” Geetruyd moved with surprising swiftness to slam shut the door that Francesca had been opening. “I will have the guards from that home of correction after you in no time at all. It’s located nearby. You’d miss the first day of your apprenticeship and perhaps a whole week, or a month, according to how long it might take you to become repentant. Should you ever try to see Pieter van Doorne after all the warnings I’ve given you I’ll have you shut away for a minimum of eight weeks. How will your training fare then?”

  Francesca had become ashen, unable to think immediately of any way out of this totally unreasonable state of affairs. “I’ll write to Pieter tonight telling him about this tyrannical rule you have imposed on me and I’ll send it in the morning.”

  “You may write that one letter to him, putting an end to meetings and any further correspondence, and I shall read what you have written before it is sealed.”

  “This is intolerable. If you think I’ll submit to censorship—”

  Geetruyd cut in. “It only applies to this one letter. I’ve no wish to act as a gorgon toward you. Everything can be perfectly harmonious during your time with me if you simply take notice of the rules I expect you to obey.”

  Angrily Francesca opened the door and hastened away up to her room. There she paced the floor, thumping her fist in fury against a bedpost and anything else that came into range as she struggled to come to terms with the conditions by which she was being forced to live. She felt trapped! Caged like an animal. All the joy with which she had approached this time of coming to Delft had evaporated. With everything falling to pieces around her would she find other setbacks waiting for her at Vermeer’s studio? What if he should prove to be as temperamental as her father? Suppose he had only taken her on as a pupil for the money and not because he believed her work had promise. He had had no experience as a tutor and might find it impossible to convey his knowledge through no fault of his own. Not once had she contemplated any of these aspects of her apprenticeship. Instead she had seen it as a blissful fulfillment of her dreams, never imagining that anything could go seriously wrong.