The Golden Tulip

by Rosalind Laker

  “Which are your father’s works?” Hendrick asked her.

  “There are none here.”

  He expressed his disappointment and wandered along until he stopped in front of a painting that he recognized instantly as being by Francesca. It was of a woman possessed of a sweet dignity in a rose-red gown, coming with a smile of welcome toward the man who stood with his back to the viewer, movement and repose faultlessly balanced. It was entitled The Homecoming. Hendrick could not take his eyes from the painting. He was aware of trembling at the beauty of the work, scarcely able to believe that out of his loins and Anna’s womb had come such talent.

  Maria, seeing how fixed his gaze was on the work, came to stand beside him. “My father travels as an art dealer and this shows my mother, Catharina, greeting him after an absence.”

  “It’s very fine,” he said huskily.

  “It’s not for sale,” she said apologetically, thinking he had become tempted to buy.

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s for Guild submission by an apprentice artist in the spring, but meantime my father has it here in the hope of future commissions for her. There are a few etchings on the table by the same hand, if you would like to see them.”

  He studied each one. All were scenes of Delft, with a single exception that was of his own studio with windows open to the street. Still he hesitated to leave. “I’ve heard so much of Master Vermeer’s work. I was told that after the death of Carel Fabritius in Delft it was declared here that your father had filled the gap, being as great an artist.”

  Maria gave a nod, intrigued that her father’s name should be known by anyone outside Delft. “Locally he is held in very high regard. His advice is sought constantly by the Guild and other civil dignitaries in the valuing and purchasing of works of art. Recently he was asked by them to assess on their behalf a whole batch of so-called Italian masters that are to be auctioned and he will be exposing them as fakes, which will be much to the ire of the villains concerned!” She paused. “May I ask where you are from, mijnheer?”

  “Amsterdam.”

  “So far away! In that case, since you are so interested in my father’s work, I’m sure I’m permitted to show you just one of his.”

  “I’d be honored.”

  She opened the door into the living quarters and took him into a rather grand anteroom where he supposed special customers were received. The painting was hung in solitary splendor. Hendrick knew it immediately from Francesca’s description. Remembering what she had said of her master’s looks, he noted the slightly frizzy hair of the man depicted in the work and took a guess at his identity. It was most surely Jan Vermeer himself and showed him in a studio seated with his back to the viewer, dressed in a costume fashionable a hundred years ago, undoubtedly from an atelier chest, with a flat velvet cap slightly at an angle. His brush was momentarily poised as he glanced toward his model while painting the wreath of laurel leaves, symbolically eternal, that adorned her lovely head. Illumined most marvelously by window light, she was robed in blue and ivory silk, posing as the Muse of history, Clio. She held a golden trumpet and a book in her arms. On the wall behind her was an ancient map of the Netherlands before the present boundaries existed. In all it was a totally allegorical tribute to the art of history painting, even the trumpet symbolizing paeans of praise to the painter’s craft.

  Hendrick beamed his approval. Master Vermeer was a man of his own heart. He was almost sure he recognized the model as being the woman in Francesca’s painting when slightly younger. “Is that Vrouw Vermeer as the Muse?” he asked Maria Vermeer.

  She gave a musical little laugh. “Father says that is his secret. How could the model be his wife when the painting is set back in time, any more than he could be the painter seated at the easel? But that is just his joke. He will never say yes or no to any questions put to him about this work. All I may say to you is that my mother cherishes it above all else that he has ever painted and therefore it must hold something special for them that is unknown to the rest of us.”

  Hendrick smiled to himself reminiscently. This girl was too young and virginal to understand those private moments that existed between a painter and his subject deeply in love with each other and that could lead to artistic creation. His own years with Anna had taught him that. A session of passionate lovemaking, the confirmation of the conception of a wanted child or the spiritual communication of tender feelings could well result in inspirational work. The atmosphere of this painting was full of it.

  “This is surely called An Allegory of Painting,” he remarked.

  “Nothing is really settled on that point. Sometimes it is referred to by the title you’ve just given, but at others it is The Art of Painting or even An Artist in His Studio. Since it will never go out of our family’s hands the title is of no particular importance in this house.”

  “I thank you most sincerely for allowing me to view it.”

  When Hendrick left the gallery he turned up his collar against the cold wind and pulled his hat well down. Yet he stopped to look through the small panes of a certain shop window. Anna was uppermost in his mind, memories strongly reawakened through the painting he had just viewed, and he was uncomfortably aware that she would have wanted him to send their daughter a marriage gift, whatever the circumstances. He knew in his heart what he should send even though his pride fought against it. The contents of the shop window might have been arranged by Anna specially for this moment, almost as if showing him the error of his ways. Well, he never had been able to hold out against her when she made a special appeal to him, even if his good resolutions seldom lasted. Doggedly, he opened the shop door. There he paid far more than he could spare for an order of goods to be sent anonymously to the bridal couple. Only in giving his name would he hold back.

  Coming out again, he went to the stage wagon, which was almost ready to leave. Soon afterward he was borne out of Delft as unobtrusively as he had come. He had only two small coins left in his pocket. Not enough for food and beer at halts on the long journey. He sighed resignedly. At least he felt more at ease with himself, and Anna would have been pleased with what he had done.

  At the marriage celebrations the feasting was over when Constantijn was told of a delivery that had come from the town. He escorted Aletta away from the company to see what had come and she asked Francesca to go with them. Set up in an anteroom was an easel and beside it several boxes of artist’s supplies. At first Aletta drew back hesitantly.

  “Who would think of sending all this?” she queried uneasily.

  “I wish I had,” Constantijn said, opening a box that held brushes and a pestle and mortar. “It’s just what you should have, Aletta.”

  Francesca provided the explanation. “It can only have been ordered by Father from Amsterdam.” She was thankful he had made such a conciliatory gesture. “You have already received gifts from anyone at home likely to think of it, even Pieter. Remember that it’s only Constantijn and I in this whole area, Aletta, who know that you ever wanted to be an artist.”

  Aletta moved forward to the open box and her hands hovered over the brushes. “Such luxury! I’ve never used a brush I haven’t made myself.” Then she bit her lip. “It will mean starting all over again. I admit to having hoped one day to paint a little once more, but this has taken me so much by surprise.”

  Francesca picked up a brush and thrust it into her hand. “There! That doesn’t feel strange, does it?”

  Aletta’s smile was tremulous. “No, I admit to that.”

  “I’ve a suggestion to make,” Constantijn said to her. “How would you like me to ask Master Vermeer if he would be prepared to take on another pupil when Francesca leaves? By that time you would have done enough painting with all that is here for you to be ready for tuition again.”

  Aletta’s love for him shone out of her eyes. “I’d like that more than I can say.”

  “That’s settled then. Now we should return to our guests.”

  As they le
ft the room together Aletta looked back over her shoulder at Francesca, who was following. “I have accepted Father’s olive branch, because that is what I’ve taken his gift to be, and when the time comes I’ll present my own to him and then maybe he and I can be father and daughter again.”

  Maria Vermeer told Jan about showing his painting to an inquirer. He did not reprove her, but told her not to do it again. Nobody mentioned the matter to Francesca since the visiting stranger from Amsterdam had not given his name.

  GRADUALLY THE SNOW and ice thawed as winter retreated again before the coming of spring. Although Constantijn and Josephus kept constant guard no further deliveries of arms were made to the cellar. Heer and Vrouw de Veere, who were at a loss to understand why no extra staff were being employed at their son’s home, brought half a dozen of their own most trusted servants to relieve the burden of domestic chores from the shoulders of their daughter-in-law. Since Constantijn knew them all, he allowed them to stay, certain that he would have loyal support in any emergency.

  “But don’t usurp Aletta’s authority in domestic matters, Mother, at least not again,” he advised.

  “I only did it out of love for you both,” his mother replied, “and she was pleased and thanked me most sincerely. Your father and I owe her so much. If it hadn’t been for Aletta you wouldn’t be smiling at me from your good height just as you used to.”

  Aletta had entered the room in time to hear the last remark. “Oh, he would! He made his own decision to walk again before I suggested it.”

  Vrouw de Veere did not intend to discuss the matter anymore, having made up her own mind about it. “Constantijn tells me that Francesca is painting your marriage portraits.”

  “She is portraying us together in one painting,” Aletta replied. As yet her own efforts were still tentative in the studio she had fixed up in one of the upper rooms and only Constantijn and Francesca were welcome there. Jan Vermeer was willing to consider her as a pupil providing her work reached a certain standing. As yet she had nothing worthy enough to show him. “Francesca will submit her painting of us to the Guild on her special day and we shall have it afterward.”

  FRANCESCA HAD BEEN delighted to receive the commission. The payment for it would go to Jan, but she would be able to add her own signature to it as soon as she had gained her mastership. She had never forgotten her mother standing in front of Rembrandt’s marriage portrait of an acquaintance and his wife. Tears had trickled down Anna’s cheeks, for she had been so moved by the tender embrace in which the groom held the bride as they stood side by side in specially chosen costumes of red and gold, adoring love in his face, sweet contentment in hers.

  “Rembrandt said that a man and a woman in love should never be separated, not even by a picture frame,” Anna had said gently. “How right he was.”

  Francesca had never forgotten those words or that moment. Her memory was standing her in good stead now as she captured the youth and happiness of her sister and brother-in-law on canvas in Jan’s studio. Both had been for several sittings and she had done preliminary sketches before their marriage. Aletta was in peach silk with silver lace, Constantijn in gray-green velvet. Her fairness and his dark good looks made a splendid contrast.

  When Truyd called her for the noon meal, Francesca paused by the studio window to look out at the square. Pieter had reopened his market stall there now and she could see him talking to a customer while two women assistants sold early-spring flowers, some arranged in posies with ribbons. The March wind was whipping his curly brown hair and flapping the flat brim of his hat. He had gained more business at his office than he would have wished, for that was far from the main purpose of his coming to Delft, but somehow he was managing to deal with everything. When the customer turned away without making a purchase she saw it was the local whip maker. Had he given some information to Pieter? She knew all about the special whip from Pieter’s description and kept an eye open for it herself.

  Ludolf paid spasmodic visits to Delft. Francesca never knew when he would appear. She had no idea what private conversation had passed between Geetruyd and him when he made his first visit after the woman had learned of the betrothal, but there was no apparent animosity between them, she very gracious and he obviously relieved. It was Francesca herself who bore the brunt of his ill temper when he learned that she had left the betrothal ring at home in Amsterdam. He made a special trip to fetch it and came back again immediately. This time he put the hateful ruby on her finger in front of Geetruyd, whose smiling expression did not change even if her eyes were icy. Francesca wondered why Ludolf could not see that the woman’s enmity was directed equally toward them both, but then nothing about him surprised her anymore.

  FRANCE DECLARED WAR on Holland and its states on the seventh day of April. Already Louis XIV’s great army was on the march against its small, poorly armed adversary, which was still torn by political strife and dissent. The Dutch border towns and fortresses began to fall like ninepins before the French advance, some offering no resistance. Pieter and Gerard knew it was only a matter of time before the treacherous attack on The Hague took place, and as not all the arms caches had been located, a force of the Prince’s men were wary as they waited for the first move to be made.

  Not long after the outbreak of war, Weintje was agitated when she met Francesca at the studio in the late afternoon. “Would you mind hurrying as fast as you can with me to Kromstraat today,” the maidservant requested, already striding out. “I’ve so much to do. Seven travelers are staying overnight.”

  Francesca was immediately alert. “Did they arrive together?”

  “No. One came fairly early and then another. Two arrived later and I admitted the last three into the house just as I left to fetch you. Why do you ask?”

  “What a rush it must have been for you to make up all those beds.”

  “Luckily for once, Vrouw Wolff knew ahead that they were coming and she has been helping me with the beds and other work since early this morning.”

  Francesca’s blood tingled. Something was most surely in the air. Had she needed confirmation it was awaiting her the moment she entered Geetruyd’s house. Propped against the tall carved cupboard in the reception hall were three whips, one with ornamentation such as Pieter had described to her. The rumble of voices behind the door of the bedchamber that faced the street caused her to guess that, to her good fortune, all seven men had gathered there, which was not surprising, as it was the largest of the rooms that led off the reception hall.

  She sped up to her own room, threw off her light cape and rushed to take the paint rags from the aperture in the fireplace. Disappointingly, she could not hear as well as she had hoped, but, as always when people talked together in a group, voices were slightly raised in volume. Since the company there would not expect to be overheard behind the security of a thick door, quite apart from Weintje being too busy, Clara too deaf and herself an unsuspecting innocent upstairs, they were talking freely.

  She could hear from a feminine tone intermingling now and again that Geetruyd was with them. Her voice came through again.

  “As I said at the time, there’s nothing to worry about…Can’t run fast on stumps…Five women servants, including old Sara, and two men, both over fifty and no threat…No, I wasn’t including him…Leave the silencing of that fellow and the dogs to me. I’ve already made arrangements.”

  Francesca, her ear pressed to the aperture, was full of fear for the safety of those at the de Veere house. It must mean that there was to be a raid on the cellar this very night and that violence would be used to get the arms away. None of those conspirators, three in charge of vehicles, would be here to delay for a day or two. She had to let Pieter know! She must slip out of the house immediately before she was called for dinner. If luck was with her it would be served late this evening, with Weintje so overworked and Geetruyd finalizing plans with her fellow traitors.

  Not risking being seen in any outdoor garment, she planned to slip out into the mild
, light evening, see Pieter at either his office or the Mechelin tavern and then get back before her absence was noticed. But as she reached the hall and was on the point of turning for the main door, Geetruyd emerged from the conference.

  “Ah, you’re down in good time for dinner, Francesca. I was about to call you. We are dining slightly earlier this evening, for a little social gathering of my fellow regents and regentesses will take place here later upstairs in the east parlor. You shall join us as you have done on previous occasions.”

  Francesca could not help but be amazed by the woman’s iron nerves. Geetruyd was carefully establishing her own respectable alibi while violence and most probably murder, planned under her own roof, would soon be taking place.

  “Will the company stay late?” Francesca inquired conversationally.

  “Until midnight at least. We are to have poetry reading, some singing and a little talk on a visit to Amsterdam from Heer van Golpen. Now come to the table. Clara is already there.”

  Francesca had never felt more trapped or frustrated. She dare not let Geetruyd suspect for one moment that she was desperate to get away, but somehow it had to be done. Never had a meal seemed longer. There was a hitch between courses when Clara, who was always excited when a social event was imminent, knocked over a glass of wine, which spread all over the fine lace-trimmed cloth. It had to be removed immediately and plunged into cold water to avoid staining, Geetruyd doing it herself while Weintje wiped the table, spread a fresh cloth and reset the dinner service. Francesca, looking at the clock, saw that the slim chance of carrying out her wish to slip out before the regents and regentesses arrived had gone.

  When dinner ended she began clearing the table and Geetruyd did not object, well aware there was a lot for Weintje to do that evening, even though she herself had supervised the cooking. Francesca, putting down some dirty dishes to be washed, just had time to speak into the maidservant’s ear.