Midnight Blue

by Simone van der Vlugt

  ‘Mister Van Rijn, Mistress Van Nulandt.’ Rembrandt van Rijn turns, wipes his paint-covered hand on his shirt and makes a half bow.

  ‘It’s so nice to meet you,’ says Brigitta, blushing.

  Van Rijn smiles faintly and a silence falls. Just as it’s getting awkward, Adriaan points to the canvas on the easel. ‘I see you are busy.’

  ‘I’m always busy, Mister Van Nulandt. Always. This is a commission. It has to be ready in four weeks’ time.’ Van Rijn glances at the canvas with a look that suggests he’d rather carry on painting.

  ‘We shan’t keep you long.’ Adriaan waves me over from where I’m standing by the door. I give Adriaan the jug of wine and he presents it to Van Rijn with a bow.

  An exchange of pleasantries follows, but I pay no attention to what’s being said. I only have eyes for the painting Rembrandt is working on. A young woman looks up out of the canvas with such lifelike eyes it seems she can really see me. How is it possible for someone to paint something so realistic? It’s unbelievable.

  Van Rijn obviously notices my fascination because he turns to me and asks, ‘Do you like it?’

  I’m struck dumb for a second by this direct question but I recover quickly. ‘The woman is looking straight into my soul, as if she knows me. It’s almost unnerving,’ I say, full of awe. ‘And the way the light falls, and the colours! It is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’

  A smile spreads over Rembrandt’s face. ‘Do you like art?’

  I nod fervently before noticing my employers’ faces.

  I hastily shuffle backwards. As Adriaan and Brigitta take over the conversation, I wander around the messy studio, watching as the apprentices grind pigment, wash brushes, or sit and paint. Then I stand for a long time in front of the paintings by the master himself, which are dotted about the studio.

  Much too soon, Adriaan and Brigitta are making their farewells. I’m the last to leave the studio and turn back for a final look. Van Rijn is smiling at me and I smile back.

  ‘Really!’ says Brigitta once we’re back in the coach, ‘I expected more than that. What a surly man. He didn’t even offer us a drink.’

  ‘I got the impression we were disturbing him. He was busy,’ says Adriaan.

  ‘So what? We’ve commissioned a painting, he should have made more time for us.’

  Brigitta turns to me. ‘What did you think of him? He was rude, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He should have offered you something to drink, madam. On the other hand, when you’re busy painting you don’t like being disturbed either.’

  Brigitta looks thoughtful. ‘There is that. True artists can’t bring themselves to waste time with chitchat. But he had no cause to be so surly. I don’t know whether I like Mister Van Rijn.’

  As I stare out at the hustle and bustle on the street, I can still feel the warmth of Rembrandt’s smile.

  8

  A few days later Matthias leaves for Antwerp. Despite my resolution to keep my distance, I miss him. The house is quiet. There’s no laughter or whistling, and days go by where I only speak to Greta and Brigitta, and Brigitta only says the bare minimum. Since her lessons started, she’s working even harder. Nicholas Maes comes twice a week to instruct her. He’s a nice boy, still very young. One day when I let him in and Brigitta keeps him waiting, we get to talking. He says he’s twenty and comes from Dordrecht. However much he likes Amsterdam, he still plans to go back to his hometown later this year, once he’s finished his master work.

  ‘I’ll always be a Dordrechter at heart,’ he says with an apologetic smile. ‘I’m homesick.’

  ‘That I understand all too well.’ I smile back and let him into the studio.

  From my corner, where I sit with a pile of mending that never seems to get any smaller, I have a good view of the painting Brigitta and Nicholas are working on. Because I’m sitting behind them, they have no idea I’m watching the lessons with such interest.

  Sometimes, when I have time to stop and take stock, I think back on my reluctance to come to Amsterdam and smile. I couldn’t have made a better decision. From the first moment I set foot on the quayside, I felt the heart of the city beating and sensed her lust for life.

  It’s infectious. The fact that I have to work hard for long hours doesn’t bother me. Whether I’m walking along Keizersgracht as the spring sun’s glittering on the water, diving into the hustle and bustle of the market, or looking around the harbour at the VOC ships, I savour every moment, revelling in the bustle around me. The weeks pass and it’s May before I know it.

  On my day off, I walk out of the city to the countryside with its polder meadows and vegetable gardens. Whenever I see farmers sailing towards Amsterdam with barges full of milk cans and cheese, it brings a stab of homesickness.

  I wrote a letter home and received a couple of words back, just the once. I will have to be satisfied with that.

  On Sundays we go to church. The master and mistress sit in special pews reserved for patricians. The lower orders have to stand. Not that I mind. However painful my feet and knees, I stand motionless, my eyes fixed on the pulpit, and sing and pray.

  Adriaan praises my piety. ‘You have to stand through the entire service, yet you’re always the last to leave the church. Many people would do well to follow your example.’

  He and Matthias are originally from Delft, where their elder brother Evert still lives. Their parents had a pottery in Delft and did a fair trade. It was a smart move on the part of Conrad van Nulandt to invest in the first voyage to the East. The expedition hadn’t done that well but a second voyage brought enormous profits. The pottery was expanded to a second site, which also did brilliantly. After the death of their parents, Evert took over the largest pottery and the younger brothers sold the second one. Adriaan left for Amsterdam with his share of the inheritance and worked his way up to become one of the masters of the East India Company. Matthias, not yet twenty when his parents died, rapidly ran through a large portion of his fortune and went to work for his brother.

  One windy day in June, Adriaan announces he’s going to Delft to pay a visit to his oldest brother.

  ‘I’ll be gone for a week. Take good care of my wife, will you?’ he says.

  ‘Of course, sir. There’s no need to worry.’

  ‘How are her painting lessons going?’

  ‘Young Master Maes gives useful advice.’

  ‘So it’s going well. Is he satisfied with her progress?’

  ‘Her work is getting better and better.’

  ‘Good. You may go, Catrin. Thank you.’

  I rush up to the living room, which is in need of a good clean. Greta can wash the furniture and scrub the floor, but she has to steer clear of the porcelain.

  I take dusting cloths and move all the objects arranged on the dresser onto the table. Then I wipe away the dust, polish the silver and clean the pair of porcelain decorative vases. They aren’t as big as the vases in the parlour but they are just as beautiful. Relieved not to have damaged anything, I take a step back. As always, I allow myself a minute or two to admire the cobalt-blue motifs.

  Looking at the vases is like looking into another world. Every time I find myself hypnotised by the tiny figures with their long, pointed beards and baggy robes, the landscapes with mountains and birds I don’t recognise and the strange buildings.

  All the patterns are painted with such hair-fine lines I almost can’t believe they were made by a human hand. You’d need a steady brush to work with such precision. The lines, curves and loops are exactly the same all over. Nowhere has the line been broken or applied too thickly; these are masterpieces. It’s strange to think that someone on the other side of the world sat hunched over these vases and that they spent months after that in the hold of a ship before winding up here on the dresser.

  ‘Catrin?’

  I jump and turn around. Brigitta is standing at the door, her hair sticking up around her head. She has a weary expression on her face. ‘Will you help me mix some pain
t? I’m up to my ears.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I finish my work first, madam?’

  Brigitta flaps her hand impatiently. ‘This room isn’t important, I need you.’

  ‘I’ll just give Greta her instructions and then I’ll be right there, madam.’

  Grinding pigment. As if I have time for that. With a sigh I go to the kitchen and tell Greta what she needs to do, then walk to the studio.

  Brigitta stands waiting at a table of little bowls.

  ‘I’ll show you how to do it.’ She holds up a pestle and a piece of ivory.

  ‘I know how to make paint, madam. I’ve done it before.’

  ‘Very good. I only need blue and black. Go steady with the lapis lazuli, it’s expensive. Don’t knock over the bowl.’

  ‘No, madam.’

  We get to work, grinding chunks of black ivory and lapis lazuli to powder by crushing them with the pestle. Eventually a splash of linseed oil is added and mixed with the powder to make a smooth paste.

  When Adriaan comes to say goodbye, he finds his wife with a blue-and-black-powdered apron and hands. He laughs. ‘Are you sure you won’t come to Delft? Will you manage for the whole week on your own?’

  ‘Of course I’ll manage,’ says Brigitta sweetly. ‘Have you got the painting I did for Evert?’

  ‘It’s with my things. You’re not working too hard, are you, my dear? You look very pale.’

  ‘I feel fine. I’ll see you next week, darling.’ Brigitta stops grinding to give her husband a kiss, but not for long. As he goes out the door, Adriaan turns back. When Brigitta doesn’t look up, he leaves.

  9

  For most of the morning we work side by side in comfortable silence. After a while, Brigitta puts a canvas on the easel and wanders around the studio in search of objects to paint.

  ‘I don’t want flowers,’ she says. ‘Nicholas wants me to paint a single object with as little colour as possible.’

  ‘You could take one of those beautiful vases from the dresser.’

  Brigitta considers this and nods. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. Fetch one, will you?’

  I wipe my hands on my apron. In the kitchen I wash them thoroughly with soap and go to the living room. I pick up the vase with care and walk with it to the studio.

  ‘Put it down there.’ Brigitta nods towards a side table across from her easel. ‘Don’t drop it.’

  Delicately, I place the vase on the little table. ‘Hard to believe it’s come all the way from China. I don’t even know where that is.’

  ‘There’s a map of the world on the wall in the living room, have a look at it some time. It really is ludicrously far away. It would take a ship at least six months to get there.’

  The vase is stable and I take a step back. ‘How much is something like that worth, madam?’

  ‘That? I think about a hundred guilders. The two big ones next to the hearth in the parlour, easily double that.’ Brigitta laughs. ‘If my husband saw you walking around with them he’d have a fit.’

  I return to my post behind the work bench and carry on grinding blue pigment. It’s not a difficult task, but I’m worried about the shopping that still needs to be done today. Greta will struggle to carry everything on her own.

  My gaze wanders to Brigitta, who is holding on to the edge of the table. ‘Anything the matter, madam?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t feel very well.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I stare at her in concern.

  Brigitta never has much colour in her cheeks but now she’s deathly white and there are dark circles under her eyes. Suddenly she wobbles and I rush around the table to her side.

  ‘Are you all right, madam?’

  ‘Everything’s fine, I’m a little dizzy, that’s all.’

  ‘Perhaps you were bent over for too long.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps.’ Brigitta sinks onto a chair and groans.

  I squat down beside her, take in her pale face and feel her forehead. ‘You’ve got a fever! Madam, you’re ill.’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine. It’s nothing …’ Brigitta groans again and looks to me for help. ‘You’re right, I don’t feel well at all.’

  ‘You have to go to bed. I’ll help you.’

  ‘No, that’s impossible. That painting needs finishing. Nicholas is coming today and he’ll want to see whether I’ve made use of chiaroscuro, and …’

  ‘You can’t have your lesson if you’re sick. I’ll tell Mister Maes it’s cancelled.’ Fully resolved, I lead a weakly protesting Brigitta to the living room, to the box bed. Once there she gives up all resistance. She trembles as she lets me help her out of her clothes and into bed.

  ‘I’m cold,’ she whispers.

  ‘I’ll light the fire and fill the warming pans. Do you want an extra blanket?’ I leave the room and hurry to the kitchen. ‘Greta, the mistress is ill. Fill the warming pans with hot coals and fetch a blanket.’

  As Greta walks away I pour a flagon of watered beer, walk with it to the living room and set it on the table next to the bed. I touch Brigitta’s forehead again and am shocked to feel how warm she is. Even so, her teeth are chattering and she’s pulled the blanket right up.

  ‘I’ve put something to drink next to your bed. If you need me, just say so, I’ll stay close by. Try to sleep a little.’ I grab a chair, set it beside the box bed and sit down.

  After a while Brigitta’s breathing becomes more regular and when I’m certain that she’s asleep I get up. I beckon to Greta, who is peeping around the door frame into the room, and tell her in a low voice, ‘I wanted to go to the market with you today but someone needs to stay with the mistress. Go on your own and get them to deliver anything you can’t carry. Come on, let’s see what we need.’

  ‘I have to clean upstairs.’

  ‘That can wait. No one but us will see that it’s dirty anyway. I’d like you to call at the doctor’s and ask whether he can come to see the mistress. That fever worries me.’

  ‘She’ll not have anything serious, though, will she? Or anything catching?’

  ‘I don’t think so. She hasn’t taken very good care of herself, that’s all. We’re going to make sure that changes from now on.’

  ‘And that draught, what’s it called again?’

  ‘Laudanum. I’m glad you brought it up, we’ve nearly run out. Go to the apothecary’s on Rokin and pick up a jug. And I know it’s a long way, but you need to go to Mister Maes as well and tell him the mistress’s painting lesson is cancelled.’

  Greta casts a happy glance at the glorious weather outside, puts on her shawl and grabs a basket. The front door closes behind her and I look around. What should I do now? Greta has taken a lot of work off my hands by doing the shopping on her own and now that I don’t need to mix any paint I have some spare time. That makes me think of the layer of paint covering the table and floor of the studio.

  A few minutes later I’m marching through the hall with a bucket of suds. In the studio I pause to inspect the painting Brigitta just started. She has outlined the contours of the vase and its decoration in pencil and part of the sketch is already filled in with paint.

  As I scrub the floor around the table, my eye keeps being drawn to the canvas on the easel. Something is wrong with the placement of the light. I can’t say for certain what it is, but it’s not right. I study the painting closely. The blue is too dark, Brigitta should have used a lighter shade on the side. And she should have left the lightest bits white. Nicholas explained that the other day.

  I take a couple of steps towards the easel and examine the brushstrokes close up. Maybe if Brigitta scratches off some of the blue and paints over the top she can still save the picture, even though it would be easier to start again and use the white of the canvas. I would have gone about the whole thing completely differently.

  Sunlight falls in through the leaded windows and warms my fidgeting fingers. I could have a go. Not a complete picture, I don’t have time for that. Just a section. Just to know how it feels to paint wit
h a real brush and a real canvas. I could use that little one Brigitta never chooses because she prefers to work on something bigger. I’d have to buy a new canvas later to replace it, but now that Brigitta is sick she’s not so likely to notice anything is missing.

  Even as my head is screaming that I shouldn’t be so stupid, my hands are already busy. They grab Brigitta’s painting and set it against the wall, pick out a smaller canvas and place it on the easel. I’m trembling a little but I can’t bring myself to reverse my decision. Everything in me is longing to let a paintbrush glide across the linen. First I make a sketch. I make hair-fine lines with a piece of charcoal. The vase is soon on the canvas, but the figures on it are a little more complicated. In the end, I only draw the most important bits and miss some of the details.

  I choose a paintbrush with care. My first brushstrokes are somewhat tentative but I soon gain confidence. What a difference, to be painting on canvas. Earthenware is porous and sucks up the paint, linen is much finer. And the brush! It caresses the canvas, as if it has a mind of its own. By changing the firmness of the brush stroke and the amount of water added to the paint, I make different shades of blue, creating the same light, whimsical effect as on the vase. The people and animals come to life with every stroke.

  Absorbed, I keep on working and forget the time. It’s only when there’s a knock at the door that I finally look up. It can’t be Greta; the household staff use the servants’ entrance. I hurriedly put down the brush, make sure there’s no paint on my hands and walk into the hall. I open the door and find myself face to face with an older gentleman dressed in a black suit. He’s wearing a hat and a ruff.

  ‘I’m Doctor Geelvinck,’ he says. ‘I understand Mistress Van Nulandt is unwell.’

  ‘It’s good of you to come so quickly. I’ll show you to her.’ I close the door behind us and lead the way to the living room.