The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  Constantijn heard returning footsteps and the faint clink of the lip of the flagon against the glass, followed by the sound of pouring. Still with his eyes closed, he held out his hand for the glass to be put into it. Then he took a gulp of the contents. Astonishment made him swallow the water and as he sat forward, propping himself on one hand, he saw a young woman crossing to the nearest window and opening it onto the balcony.

  “You need some fresh air in here,” she said, her back to him as she thrust a curtain back to let the spring-scented air enter unhindered.

  For no more than a second he had the impression that he knew her, but it passed in the same instant as he yelled at her. “Who the devil are you? You’ve no right to be here!”

  She turned regarding him calmly, and answered as she strolled past to the door. “My name is Aletta Visser and I have every right to be here. I’m the new maidservant. It’s of no importance to me whether you have legs or not. My artist father, for all his faults, is an enlightened man in many ways. My sisters and I were brought up to accept the sight of the naked human body in all its forms. When I was ten years old I was set to draw an almost nude man born without legs, which neither frightened nor disgusted me. My only terror in childhood was of my father’s temper. So don’t suppose that, having lost a couple of limbs, you’re in any way unique. What’s more, the model I told you about normally had to beg for his living on the streets of Amsterdam. He couldn’t lie on velvet swilling wine.”

  She was gone from the room. White-lipped with fury, Constantijn realized he was still holding the glass of water and he hurled it at the closed door, where it burst into a silvery shower of sparkling shards. Then he reached for the bellpull and tugged it hard.

  Outside the apartment Aletta was leaning against the wall of the landing, and she had shuddered at the impact of the glass against the inner door. Her palms were pressed flat against the paneling for support. Had she gone too far in speaking to him in such a manner? It had not been her intention to mention the beggar who had propelled himself about the streets on a wheeled board, but comparison between his pitiable circumstances and those of Constantijn had sprung the words from her before she could stop them. Shakily she moved away from the wall. Halfway down the stairs she met Sara ascending pathetically at a slow and weary pace, a flagon of wine in one hand. The woman spoke accusingly.

  “I told you he wouldn’t accept water instead of wine! He must be swinging on the bellpull if the clangor in the kitchen is anything to judge by.”

  Aletta felt her strength surge back. She had to do whatever she could for Constantijn while she was here. Sara was indulging him now as she had done when he was a child and probably it had been as wrong for him then as it was now. Deliberately she blocked the woman’s way.

  “Don’t take the wine to him! Can’t you see how he will end his days if he isn’t stopped now? My father would have gone down the same path after my mother died if my sister hadn’t found a means to force him to take up life as a painter again.”

  “But your father had legs! That’s the difference. There’s no future for that poor lad up in his room. He lost the young woman he wanted to marry and all that mattered most to him. He has a right to anything that gives him solace.”

  “I won’t let you help him to become a senseless drunkard!” Aletta grappled with Sara and wrenched the flagon from her. “Now go in and tell him that I’ve taken the wine! You’ll also inform him that I’m staying!” She swept away down the stairs.

  Sara stood dithering, not knowing whether to go after her or continue on her own way empty-handed. Then the authoritative tone that Aletta had used weighed the balance. Since first entering domestic service at the age of twelve, Sara had always had someone in authority over her to direct her at all times. In spite of having to face her master’s wrath, she felt no resentment that Aletta was obviously set on usurping her command and, in fact, had already done so. Sara knew well enough that she herself had no ability to organize. It gave her a welcome feeling of security to know that the burden of this house would no longer rest entirely on her shoulders. That was, if the master allowed Aletta to stay.

  Praying in her heart that he would, she stepped over the mess of glass and water in his room and went to stand before him. To her surprise he did not ask why she had not brought wine and, although his speech was not entirely articulate, his encounter with Aletta seemed to have sobered him up. He was glowering at her.

  “What’s your explanation for introducing a young woman into my house instead of a child?”

  “She’s all I could get,” Sara pleaded, “and she is more than willing to stay.” It was beyond her meek nature to quote Aletta’s dictatorial statement.

  “Did you know she refilled the silver flagon with water?”

  Sara nodded nervously. “She says you will be allowed wine with meals and grape brandy after dinner.”

  His jaw throbbed. “The devil she did!” Then his eyes narrowed fiercely. “In future she is to be at my beck and call. Whenever I ring she is to come, no matter how many times a day. Is that understood?”

  Sara felt enervated by relief that Aletta was to be allowed to stay. She could hardly answer him, but finally managed to say, “Yes, indeed.” Then she looked troubled. “Surely not the double rings too?”

  “No. Josephus will still help me bathe, and since he made me that conveniently low closestool in the closet, he will continue to attend to it.”

  Sara moved toward the scattered glass and the water. “I’ll clear this up before I go downstairs again.”

  “Let Aletta do it.”

  “I haven’t shown her yet where I keep my upstairs supply of cloths for such accidents.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, Sara,” he taunted, “and you know it. I threw the glass deliberately.”

  “If you say so, master.”

  When the task was done he told her to take the flagon of water away. “Tell Aletta to fill it up with grape brandy and bring it to me. I doubt if she ever saw anyone drunk at the orphanage and I intend to expand her education.”

  Aletta, who had her sleeves rolled up and her arms covered with suds, was washing up the dirty dishes and shook her head when his order was repeated to her. “He shall have a glass or two after dinner, as I said, and not before.”

  After the dishes were done she kept them stacked in a clean place until she had washed all the cupboards and shelves. Then she started work on the Delft-tiled walls, the furniture and the doors, finishing off by scrubbing the checkered floor until it shone. All the time the jangling bell of Constantijn’s room did not cease its clangor until she stood on a chair and wedged its clapper with a linen cloth. Sara prepared the noon meal. She was a good cook and happiest to deal only with food. She could see it would be easy to get along well with Aletta. When the whole kitchen was spotless and the noon meal was ready, Aletta replaced her borrowed apron for a clean one supplied by Sara. Then she picked up the silver tray on which Sara had arranged Constantijn’s noon meal of asparagus soup with a delicious aroma, crusty bread, cheese, salad, fruit and a small flagon of wine.

  Constantijn greeted her caustically. “So you’ve deigned to come at last!” Then he scowled as he saw her balance the edge of the tray on a side table while she put the flagon on it before bringing his noon meal to him.

  “I’ve been making a start on putting the house to rights,” she said, making sure the tray, which she had set down on a low table, was within his reach for everything. “How Sara has managed here at her age I just don’t know. It’s far too great a burden for one elderly woman on her own. This afternoon I shall fetch my immediate belongings and hope to find a porter willing to bring my traveling box here as soon as possible.”

  “Wait a moment! I expect the domestic staff to answer my bell promptly and you appear to be deaf when it comes to hearing it and in obeying orders. Unless you are prepared to change your attitude over that matter I shall instruct Josephus to lock the gates after you and not to admit you again.”
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  She had unfolded a starched linen napkin and she spread it deftly in front of him. “That would be your loss,” she commented crisply.

  He eyed her curiously and watched as she went to pour the wine into a glass only a little distance from him, but too far to allow him to grab the flagon. Since she was not afraid of him, and was not repelled by his being an amputee, it might have been possible to read a sexual promise in her words, but he could tell that had not been her intent. She had a cool, touch-me-not attitude like an invisible shield and in that head-hugging white cap looked what she was, as virtuous as a nun. When she handed him the glass of wine he raised it to her with a taunting air.

  “To your shrewish tongue.”

  “The master of the house doesn’t raise his glass to a maidservant unless present at her wedding.”

  “You’re too uppish ever to have been a servant. What are you doing here?”

  “If you mean why am I in Delft, there is a simple answer. My father in Amsterdam wished to be rid of me. Secondly, I’m here in your house for the work and a roof over my head. I’ve already been a nursemaid to the Vermeer family and a teacher to their neighbor’s two children.”

  “I thought you were from the orphanage.”

  “So did Sara. But the regentesses wouldn’t send anyone to the house of a recluse.”

  “Ah!” he exclaimed bitterly. “So you can be tactful when you choose. Why didn’t you say it was because without my legs I’m a sight to frighten children?”

  Her composed expression did not change. “Enjoy your soup before it gets cold and stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “You’re going too far!” he yelled at her dangerously. Then he saw she had picked up the flagon to take it with her from the room. “Give me that wine!”

  She answered without turning her head. “You’ll not drink yourself to death while I’m in this house. I’ll be back to pour you a second glass.”

  Outside the door she held her breath, afraid that this time he might throw the bowl of soup. It was worse. A thunderous crash told her that he had hurled the whole tray and everything on it in the direction of the door. The echoes reached every corner of the house.

  Josephus had come indoors for the noon meal in the kitchen and both he and Sara stared at Aletta when she set the flagon down on the table. She was very pale. They did not have to ask what had happened.

  “I promised him another glass,” Aletta said firmly, “so I’ll have to go back with it soon. I fear he’ll bar me from the house this time. I’d better prepare a second tray.”

  “You sit down and have some soup,” Sara insisted, getting up herself. “I’ll see to the tray and take it up to him this time. He’ll be in a dreadful mood.”

  “No.” Aletta was adamant. “I’ll go. I won’t let him intimidate me!”

  Constantijn’s hostile silence greeted her. Aletta was aware of his cold, hard gaze on her as she set the tray beside him once again. She poured him a glass of wine and, when he made no attempt to take it from her, she put it down on the tray. Not a word was spoken as she went about the clearing up of the debris. Her final task was to wipe up the spilt soup and wine. It was when she was leaving the room that he spoke in icy tones.

  “Send Josephus up here. I have certain instructions for him with regard to the gates.”

  Her step almost faltered, but her inherited pride would not allow him to see what a blow he had dealt her. Her chin jerked higher until she was outside his apartment. Then she stood, hands clasped, struggling not to break down. She had failed. He had banished her. His life and hers were both doomed. At least she was thankful she had never mentioned the times she had seen him before this day.

  Sara burst into tears when Aletta told Josephus that his master wished to see him about the gates. “I know what that means! He’s given you the boot!”

  Josephus sighed as he left the table and paused to speak kindly to Aletta. “Sara told me what you tried to do and it was high time somebody took the master in hand, but Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know. You should have taken your task in easy stages.”

  Sara, still full of sobs, drew Aletta to the bench at the table and sat her down. “Try to eat something before you leave,” she urged brokenly, ladling soup into a bowl. “I thought my troubles were over, but things can only get worse from now on. I could never stand up to the master as you have done.”

  Aletta took a spoon into her hand, but whether she drank the soup or not she did not know, too full of grief that she should have blundered so foolishly. She heard Josephus’s footsteps returning but did not look up until he spoke. Then she saw he was smiling broadly.

  “I’m to give you a key to the gates, Aletta. What’s more, the master said I’m to drive you into town to collect your traveling box and to bring you home here again.”

  Joy suffused her face. Sara hugged her and Josephus shook her by the hand. It was as if a battle had been won, even though the war remained.

  Josephus took her into town in a sporting cart and they were just drawing up outside the van Buytens’ house when she saw Willem de Hartog coming from the Vermeer gallery. She waved to him and he smiled in recognition, coming to help her down from the cart. As she had expected, he knew all about the rift with her father, having been told by Hendrick himself, but he had not known until coming to Delft and speaking to Francesca in the studio that she had turned her back on art.

  “I don’t like to think of you letting all these months go by without drawing or painting,” he said. “But it will come back to you once you start again.”

  “That was another life and I’ve put it behind me.”

  “Nothing can destroy talent when it’s only lying dormant. The day will come when you’ll not be able to hold back from painting once more. Whatever your father said about your work it was voiced in anger in the heat of the moment and not heartfelt.”

  “Has he said that to you?” she asked distantly.

  “No,” Willem admitted, “but you could prove yourself again.”

  “I think not. He condemned my meager talent all too vehemently.” She was full of pain at these reminders of a time in her life she wanted to forget.

  “It grieves me to know of this gulf between father and daughter.”

  “Why? Is he ailing?”

  “No, he is well and so is Sybylla. As for Maria, she looked just the same as usual when I saw her at your home only a few days ago. How shall I report back to them about you?”

  “My father won’t want to hear my name mentioned, but tell Sybylla and Maria that I’m in good health and have secured new employment.” She explained what she was doing and he noticed a rise of enthusiasm in her tone.

  “Francesca told me she intends to take a long-delayed visit home soon. Will you be accompanying her?”

  “No.” She was adamant. “It will be a long time—if ever—before I see Amsterdam again.”

  “Then I’ll hope to see you whenever I’m in Delft. In the meantime I wish you good fortune. Just remember one thing—once an artist, always an artist. I’ve dealt with enough painters to know that.”

  The old adage he had quoted lingered with her after they had said farewell, he to visit another gallery in Delft and she to go with Josephus into the master baker’s house. But, she thought, there were exceptions to every rule.

  When Aletta returned to her new place of employment she found that Sara had made ready a bedchamber and an adjacent parlor for her that had previously been occupied by the housekeeper. They were the two most comfortable rooms in the domestic quarters of the house, and her status had been established. On a table was a large bunch of keys on a ring.

  “These are yours now,” Sara said, gladly resigning all authority to her. “Josephus and I will call you ‘ma’am’ in future, as befits your position.”

  Thoughtfully Aletta picked up the keys. “I’m going to make changes.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “There will be no more meals served to the master on trays. He’s
not an invalid. His lolling on that day couch will have to stop. From now on he can eat buckled into an armless chair with the table in his room drawn close to his chest. There will be a clean damask cloth and napkin every time as well as the best silver and porcelain. Josephus can carry a tray with the heavy silver dishes of hot food under covers to that long side table in the anteroom and I will serve the master from there.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sara was smiling. This issuing of orders was like old times.

  “Before I unpack I want to make a tour of the whole house and the cellars.”

  “Only the wine cellar is open. The rest, taking up about two-thirds of the space under the house, have been locked up for many years.”

  As Aletta began her tour with Sara she thought how her family would have recognized her commanding tone. It would have prompted Sybylla to taunt again that she was destined to be a sharp-tongued spinster for the rest of her life. Going from room to room, Aletta found the dust sheets and shuttered windows depressing. “How long have these rooms been like this?”

  “Since after the house was opened up for the last party held here about three years ago. Previously the master always preferred living in Delft or in Amsterdam. That’s why only a skeleton staff was kept on here.”

  “It will take us time, Sara, but gradually we’ll work our way through all the rooms and make each clean and polished and habitable as we go. The master is never going to be tempted out of his own pleasant apartment if the rest of the house remains in shrouds.”

  “He ordered that they should be kept closed.”

  Aletta made no reply, only setting her chin more determinedly, and Sara saw at a glance there was to be a tussle of wills between the new housekeeper and the master.

  When viewing the wine cellar Aletta spared Sara any more stairs and went down alone. It was a large and square space with racks in a number of alcoves, two locked doors leading into the closed sections under the house. She tried the largest keys on the ring, but none opened the locks. As with most cellars, including that of her own home, sound was cut off from the rest of the house and she did not hear Sara call to her until the woman shouted from the top of the stairs.