The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  “What made you think the young woman lived here?” he questioned, still curious about the coincidence of the name.

  “I’d been told she was seen going into a house in this street. When I asked a passerby where I might find an artist he pointed to your door.”

  “I fear you’re on a wild-goose chase here, ma’am.”

  She bobbed politely. “I’m truly sorry to have troubled you.”

  Hendrick closed the door and returned to his work. Veldhuis was not a particularly uncommon name, but it was a strange coincidence that it should have been spoken again on the threshold of his home.

  He could not be sure why the incident of the woman calling at the house should have stayed with him, but every now and again in the days that followed he thought of it. He supposed it was the aftermath of a flicker of hope he had experienced in thinking he was to see someone who had known Anna in days gone by. Those who had never been harshly bereaved had no realization of what a comfort it was to engage in talk of the one who had gone. Too often people refrained from talk from misplaced good intent, not knowing that whenever he heard Anna’s name spoken she lived for a few seconds again.

  He was in the process of a self-portrait. A mirror had been placed at the right height by his easel and he glanced in it as he painted. He was in a rich-looking costume from one of the atelier chests with a velvet hat on which a long feather was fastened with a jeweled clasp in the style of a hundred years earlier. To be thus grandly dressed was to emphasize his standing as a successful artist, which Rembrandt had done in his heyday. To Hendrick it was an act of defiance against his hated patron as if it might show that he was not dependent on any one man’s munificence. Aletta should have been in the studio to paint him in these robes while the opportunity was hers instead of sketching scenes of the city to paint afterward in that room upstairs.

  His brush suddenly hovered between palette and canvas as a twinge of suspicion dawned. A young woman painter! Aletta could fit that description. Then there were the names—Anna Veldhuis and Aletta Visser—linked by the same initials. There was also a witness to a young artist coming into a house that might, or might not, have been his. He wanted to dismiss out of hand a growing conviction that there was some connection between his daughter and the family portrait that had been mentioned, but it persisted. Finally, his concentration shattered, he went from the studio to mount the stairs at an increasing pace until he reached the bedchamber that his two younger daughters shared. The door into the studio-parlor was locked, but with a hefty shove from his broad shoulders it swung inward with a crash.

  For a few moments he stood glaring around at the paintings propped against the walls. He picked up the first one, which was painted on oak that was not from his supplies. His eyes threatened to start from his head when he saw it was signed “A.V.” How dare Aletta sign her work without his authority! All doubts began to fall away and the hot color surged up his neck to flood his face, rage making his hands shake. He threw the painting down to snatch up the next within range. Then he went from one to another, certain now that his daughter and the young painter who had been inquired about were one and the same. These roughly executed works, showing a talent debased by speed, careless perspective and too hasty use of color, were all in the east and south of the city, where craftsmen and ordinary traders lived, none in the west, where the wealthy burghers and merchants had their grand residences. A half-finished painting on the easel of a family grouped in a simply furnished room was the final, conclusive evidence in his eyes. All the anxiety and misery he had endured, his whole mental torment of the past months since that disastrous card game, finally took its toll. Something seemed to snap. All self-control vanished.

  With a thundering roar of rage he dashed to the window and threw it wide. Then he gathered up the paintings, breaking some across his knees, and hurled them down into the courtyard. Maria, sitting outside in the sun shelling peas, gave a cry of alarm as the paintings descended to smash and splinter on the cobbles. She was out of harm’s way, but fright made her start in her chair, causing the bowl to slip from her lap and all the green peas went bouncing and dancing away.

  “What’s happening?” she cried out in a quavering voice. “Has Aletta gone mad?”

  Griet had come running to see what was happening and she put a reassuring hand on Maria’s shoulder. “It can only be the master! Juffrouw Aletta went out a while ago.”

  The last painting had descended. Griet moved forward cautiously to look up at the third-floor window, but Hendrick was already on his way downstairs. He appeared in the back doorway. Out of the setting of the studio he was an incongruous figure in his fanciful robes and feathered hat.

  “Where’s Aletta?” he demanded loudly.

  Griet, stooping over the mess of painted wood to see if any picture had survived, straightened quickly. “Out for the day at her sketching, master!”

  Maria, outraged by what had happened, had hauled herself out of her chair. “You can’t expect Aletta to paint as well as you!” she hissed, totally misinterpreting his destruction of the paintings. “When did you last give her any tuition? Have you no conscience about what you have done to her work?”

  He glared at her, his eyes narrowed and glinting dangerously. “I’ve put it where it belongs, old woman! Ready as fuel for the fire.” Then he pointed an authoritative finger at Griet. “You will burn every scrap of the rubbish strewn about this courtyard! There must be only ashes when I return home. Where can I find Aletta?”

  “I’ve no idea. She doesn’t tell me where she’s going.”

  He turned his demanding gaze on Maria, but her face set stubbornly. “If I knew I wouldn’t tell you when you’re in this mood!”

  “Then I’ll find her for myself!” He swung back into the house, pulling the velvet hat from his head and shedding the brilliant robes, leaving them in a trail behind him. Clad in only his shirt and breeches, he hastened back to the studio, took his hat from a peg and snatched up his jacket to plunge his arms into it as he went from the house, taking swift strides.

  He made first for those streets and corners that he had recognized in Aletta’s work. It was not hard to deduce that she had been painting to sell, not only to individuals who had commissioned work from her, but in the case of views of Dam Square, the Town Hall, the various churches and the harbor, to offer for sale generally. He looked in every picture shop as he went by, but saw nothing of hers and neither did he expect to, for a girl offering her work would have to be an exceptional artist if she was to be given serious consideration. That only left the market or a fair for output.

  He came into Dam Square from a street that opened into it from the opposite side to where the market stalls were clustered. He shouldered his way through the crowds and when he reached the stalls he wound his way in and out, ignoring those selling fruit and vegetables, pottery, stacked cheeses, clogs and old clothes. At each picture stall he scanned through the work there with such thoroughness that he was taken as a potential customer and forced himself to voice the question that was abhorrent to him.

  “Have you anything painted by—Anna Veldhuis? She signs her work with her initials.”

  The answer was always in the negative, which was a tremendous relief each time. It was doubtful whether he would have seen that there were paintings at the end of a flower stall if he had not caught sight of a face he recognized. It was that of Griet’s married sister, Helena, who had come often to his home to give a helping hand domestically whenever it was needed. It crossed his mind she might have seen Aletta that morning and there was no harm in asking. As he drew nearer he saw she was assisting at the stall from which he had bought tulip bulbs, long before its owner had become known to him. With all flowers being expensive, it was one of only two stalls selling them, but there was a fine show and well-dressed folk were making purchases.

  To his astonishment Helena was at the far end of the extended stall on which was arrayed a number of paintings. Even from where he was he recognized t
he work. So Pieter van Doorne and Helena and Aletta were all in a conspiracy together! He thought he would explode with fury. Purposefully he charged to the end of the stall. When Helena saw him standing in front of the paintings she turned a guilty scarlet.

  “Master Visser,” she stammered. “It’s a fine day, is it not?”

  His bellow made heads turn several stalls away and with a sweep of his powerful hand he sent his daughter’s pictures crashing to the cobbles. People stared in amazement to see him snatch up those that remained to hurl them after the rest. Then he leaned across the stall to seize Helena by the shoulders and shake her in his temper.

  “Who put you up to this? Was it Aletta? Or van Doorne? I want the truth!”

  The two stall women selling the flowers had come dashing to Helena’s aid. “Let her go!” one of them shouted angrily. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “See the mess you’ve made!” shrieked the other, throwing up her hands at the strewn pictures.

  He ignored them. “Answer my question, Helena!”

  She was badly frightened, for his congested face was only inches from her own and his fierce grip on her shoulders was bruising her. “Ask your daughter! Not me! I’m only working here. There’s nothing wrong in that!”

  “There is when you’re selling work with an unauthorized signature!”

  “You’re hurting me!” In her struggling to be free of his grasp she caused the stall to shake. The section on which the pictures had been lying knocked against the main one and the vibration caused a tub of roses to topple. Both stall women cried out in dismay.

  “Help! There’s a madman here!” they shouted as they tried to save other tubs from disaster.

  Spectators, drawn to the scene, moved back as three burly men left their own stalls to grab Hendrick by the arms. “Leave that woman alone, you!”

  Hendrick was jerked back, his hold on Helena broken. In his blind rage he swung about to give one man a full punch in the face while a second man received a thrust in the chest that sent him staggering back against some bystanders, adding to the confusion. Before the third man could seize him, Hendrick took hold of the picture section of the stall to send it hurtling onto its side and out of his path. Helena began to scream hysterically as he came lunging through at her, but those whom he had struck aside had recovered their balance and with the third man they leapt forward to grab him. He whirled out again with his fists and in the resulting melee the main stall tilted and fell, causing the cobbles to become slippery underfoot from water and crushed flowers as he fought to free himself of those attempting to restrain him. A shout had gone up for the Civil Guard to be fetched.

  ALETTA, WHO HAD completed a full day’s work, arrived home at five o’clock to be met by grave faces, filling her with a rush of apprehension. Willem was there and he broke the news to her.

  “Prepare yourself, Aletta. Your father has been arrested and charged with causing a breach of the peace.”

  “Oh no! What happened?”

  Before Willem could reply, Sybylla, who was red-eyed from tears, cried out accusingly, “You may well ask! It was all through your wretched paintings! He smashed them up here and at the market stall!”

  Aletta did not hear Sybylla burst into further sobs, for shock had caused her to faint. She would have fallen on the marble-tiled floor if Willem had not caught her in time.

  HENDRICK LANGUISHED for six weeks in a prison cellar in one of the city’s oldest gatehouses. He, who loved freedom of the spirit, body and mind, thought he would soon lose his reason and die. Weight fell away from him. He shared his dismal confines, the only light coming through a small barred window, with twenty other men awaiting trial for various offenses. He had nothing for his comfort except a thin layer of straw. Food had to be purchased from the guards. It was of poor quality and, as he had no appetite, he would hand it on, after a couple of mouthfuls, to poorer prisoners, who gobbled it up. When his purse was empty, food continued to come to him, which meant that his family, or perhaps Willem, was paying for it. He hoped it was not Ludolf, for that would have turned what little he did eat to ashes in his mouth. He thought constantly of the chained goldfinch in the Fabritius painting that Francesca had described, but he no longer saw her as the captive, for it was he who was learning the true meaning of the word. She was still able to paint each day while he sat on the straw-strewn floor, chained at the ankle, his hands dangling from his updrawn knees. He no longer had pity for anyone except himself.

  It was no consolation that Pieter had not pressed charges for the damage done at the stall, for it was enough that the three stall holders had accused him of assault and battery, which could combine with the new harshness of the law against rioters to earn him a ghastly punishment. He might be exposed in a pillory in front of the Town Hall for all Amsterdam to see with his head sticking out of a wooden bell and his misdemeanor emblazoned on a placard. Or he might be paraded through the streets with a smashed painting around his neck or in a ludicrous flowered hat as a symbol of his wrongdoing. There was no telling what humiliation and degradation he would have to face. He might even receive a long prison sentence as well. If that happened madness would be his fate. He was so full of dread he was in an almost permanent state of nausea.

  It was a hot September day and the sky over Amsterdam was a clear Delft blue when Hendrick was taken from the cellar and conveyed to court for his trial. He sat in the cart with his face hidden in his arms, wanting no one to recognize him. The previous morning Willem had gained permission to see him and to bring a lawyer and, equally welcome, a razor and a change of clothes, or else a beard and unkempt hair would have disguised him.

  Mercifully the trial was over quickly. The lawyer presented a strong defense of provocation caused to a master upon seeing unauthorized signed work by a pupil from his own studio. Willem also spoke on Hendrick’s behalf. Lastly Aletta took the witness stand and admitted that she had done work for sale without her father’s knowledge. The judge publicly condemned her as a wayward daughter, which caused her intense shame. The punishment imposed on Hendrick was restricted to a heavy fine, which Willem paid on his behalf. Hendrick was careful not to show his jubilation at how lightly he had got away. Once again good fortune had nudged a path through tribulation for him. But as he left the courtroom a free man again, the sobering realization came to him that his debts, now increased by a further six hundred florins, held him in thrall as securely as the prison bars he had left behind him. He would not be truly liberated until Francesca was married to Ludolf.

  As he went down the steps into the street, Willem and Sybylla with him, he saw Aletta standing there, but he ignored her. Without a glance in her direction he took a seat in Willem’s coach, which was waiting. His pride had suffered another almost insupportable blow and he could not forgive her. Had she used her own name and not gone about her clandestine painting under the name of her mother, he might have found it in his heart to forgive her, but to his mind she had insulted Anna’s memory. When he saw Sybylla hesitate as if she would go to Aletta he beckoned her fiercely.

  “Get in the coach!”

  She obeyed reluctantly. Her eyes, full of sympathy, were on her sister. Willem, wanting to bring Hendrick and Aletta together again, spoke to him persuasively.

  “Surely you would like both your daughters to ride home with you on this day?”

  “No!” Hendrick sat forward with a grimace that was almost a snarl. “Aletta shall never paint again under my roof! Or be welcome there! That is to be the punishment of a daughter who has offended against her father!”

  Willem sighed and took the seat beside him. As the coach moved forward Willem saw that Aletta stood with her head bowed in distress. It was to be hoped that before long Hendrick’s basic good nature would surface and there would be a reconciliation between them. Willem, having heard both sides of the story, thought that Aletta had erred, although he understood and sympathized with her reasons.

  As was to be expected, Hendrick was hungry f
or news as to what had been happening in Amsterdam and elsewhere, for little information about anything had reached the damp confines of the gatehouse tower. Then, as the talk in the coach turned to the trial, Willem spoke of Ludolf.

  “Had he not been away from Amsterdam on his business travels, I would have asked him to speak as well on your behalf. I wrote to tell him of your predicament, asking his clerk to see that the letter reached him. With the interest he has in your work and your well-being, I’m sure that upon his return he would have moved heaven and earth to get your release if the worse had come to the worst.”

  Hendrick gave a snort. “I’m sure you’re right. Naturally he wouldn’t want me to be incarcerated. It would undercut his plans.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Hendrick realized he had let slip too much and covered it quickly. “Only that he wants to fill his walls with my paintings without too much delay. Has word of my tribulation been kept from Francesca?”

  “It has. You asked me that yesterday.”

  “Did I? To have freedom again has set my head in a whirl.”

  Sybylla leaned toward him from the opposite seat. “All will be well when you’re home again, Father. Please try to forgive Aletta for being the cause of so much trouble.”

  Again his face contorted fearsomely, causing her to draw back in her seat, and he made a threatening gesture. “Don’t mention your sister’s name to me! Forgiveness was drained out of me in prison. I don’t know yet if it will ever return.”

  When Hendrick’s home was reached Willem remained in the coach, letting him go in on his own with Sybylla. Maria and Griet must have been watching out, desperately anxious to know the result of the trial, for the entrance door opened wide before they reached it.

  Maria wept with relief and happiness to see Hendrick home again and he suffered her kiss, prickly with whiskers, on his cheek. Then he went straight to his studio. The familiar aroma of chalk, oil, paint and ink had a reviving effect, almost as if his blood had been dormant and was now coursing through his veins again. His self-portrait was exactly as he had left it and he eyed it critically, able to see already where more work was needed. Then he looked in the mirror that was still in its position at the side of the easel and was shocked by the change in his appearance. His face had become thin, his jowls hanging in dewlaps and his eyes were sunken. As for his hair, that had become quite white, almost no trace left of its coppery color. He had been aware of his loss of bodily weight, but he had not realized that incarceration had also stamped old age into his features.