The Golden Tulip (56 page)

“My model playing the virginal in the companion painting will be as grandly gowned,” he had said to Francesca as well as to Catharina, who was in the studio at the time. “I see her in dark blue silk, the skirt of deep yellow.”

Catharina gave Francesca a little wink. They both knew she had such a gown in her closet and that Jan would want to borrow it for his model. Since the model would probably be his daughter Maria, who now sat for him at times, it would present no problem.

“On the wall behind the model,” Jan had continued, “I’ll hang van Baburen’s
Procuress
and in contrast to the clear daylight flooding the first painting, I’ll have subdued light and much shadow.” On the surface it would be just another painting, wonderfully executed, of a lovely female at her music, but with a different tale to tell.

In the stage wagon Francesca looked out contentedly at the passing countryside with the neat farmhouses and the meadows where sheep and cows and horses kept one another company. No hedges were needed when narrow channels, gleaming with water, separated one field from another. Now and again the road passed close enough to a windmill to enable her to hear the unique “whomp” of the great sails as they turned majestically, grinding flour or keeping the land drained. She felt her heart expand with love for Holland, even as it did at the thought of Pieter when the tulip fields blazed gloriously into sight. There were many areas where the heads had already been snapped off their stalks and canal barges were constantly to be seen carrying away the multicolored blooms, bright as jewels in the sun, for disposal. Yet another sight to see was the doorways and windows, wagons and carts and even the barges themselves adorned with garlands of tulip heads wherever children or patient adults had found time to string them together.

Francesca realized only too well that this was a frenziedly busy season of the year for Pieter and far from the best time for her to expect visits from him in Amsterdam. Then her heart leapt as a solution came to her. She would not let him know that she was home, but she would spend a day with him on her way back to Delft, having first ascertained from his housekeeper, Vrouw de Hout, that he was at Haarlem Huis. It would not matter how occupied with work he might happen to be, because she would be happy to be near him and even to help in any way possible. She had promised him once that she would visit Haarlem Huis at tulip time and here was a way of fulfilling the promise.

Since she was not expected at home there was nobody to meet her when she arrived in Dam Square. The noisy, seafaring atmosphere of Amsterdam was a blare of welcome in itself and made her realize how much she had missed the place of her birth. She had brought only one piece of hand baggage with her, for she knew she had all else she would need at home, and with it in one hand and her linen-wrapped painting under the other arm, she hurried homeward. Finally she ran the last yards and darted down the side passage to the courtyard. She sent the back door crashing open, skidded on the blue tiles of the corridor and burst into the kitchen. Only Griet was there and she almost dropped a copper pan in wide-eyed astonishment.

“Juffrouw Francesca!” she shrieked. “You’ve come home for my wedding!”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything!”

Laughing, they embraced one another like sisters. Griet was overjoyed to be the first to give family news. Everyone was well in the house, Hendrick and Sybylla were dining that night with Adriaen and his parents and Maria was asleep in the family parlor. As for Griet herself, she would be going home in the morning to prepare for her marriage the following day. Then she would have three days on her own with her new husband before returning to her employment.

“Sijmon will be allowed to stay here with me until he sails again,” she concluded. Then, in case Francesca might suppose it would mean yet another mouth to feed, she added, “He’s a ship’s carpenter and is going to repair a leak in the roof and make new furniture for eating outside in the courtyard and will complete many more tasks that I have lined up for him.”

“I know you could never have chosen an idler for a husband! I’m sure I speak for the whole family when I say that I hope he’ll be here for a long time with you before he goes back to sea.”

Griet was not optimistic about their having very long together, but stated cheerfully that they would make the most of whatever time they were granted. Then Francesca went to wake Maria, but at her footsteps the old woman opened her eyes and knew immediately who was there.

“You’re home, child!” she cried out joyfully.

Griet set another place at the kitchen table, where she and Maria always had a simple supper when the two demanding members of the family were out.

Francesca did not mind having a few quiet hours on her first night at home. After supper Maria went early to bed and Griet’s betrothed, a ruddy-faced, tow-haired young man with a ring in his ear, came to spend an hour with her in the kitchen. Francesca renewed her contact with her home and took note of any changes that had been made. There were new cream curtains in the dining hall and the Delft pot in which Pieter had brought the hyacinth had been added to a display of Delftware behind glass in the drawing room. In the reception hall she lifted the lid of the virginal, the inside of which was decorated with a Dutch scene of windmills and dancing children, which had so enchanted her as a small child when Anna had first shown them to her. It had always seemed to her that the little figures were dancing to the sound of the tinkling music. She closed the lid again after playing a few bars of a remembered piece.

In her bedchamber she found waiting for her the gold bracelet that Aunt Janetje had sent for the last feast of St. Nicholaes and she put it on, admiring the delicate Florentine craftsmanship and treasuring it equally for its donor’s sake. Then she unpacked the two gowns she had brought with her, one for Griet’s wedding and the other for Sybylla’s betrothal party. When she had removed her painting from its wrappings she took it down to the studio, where she gazed once again on the portrait of Anna before going to look at Hendrick’s latest work on the easel. It was covered with a cloth, which she flicked back to reveal a half-finished landscape with some magnificent trees. It was doubtful if he had found them growing together like that. He had probably sketched them individually at different places, a common practice among landscape artists, who would leave out a wall if it blocked a view and cut out a building or anything else that did not enhance their composition. It was highly likely the sky would not be the one seen over the scenery chosen. Once when out walking with Hendrick, she had admired a particularly beautiful sky that was a clear blue with the right amount of cloud to capture an artist’s eye. He had snapped his fingers contemptuously at it. “My skies are much better,” he had said conceitedly. But it had always been his boast that on canvas he could improve on nature. What did surprise her was that the paint was hard and dry. Several days must have passed since he last put a brush to it.

Hendrick and Sybylla arrived home in a van Jansz coach, escorted by Adriaen, shortly before eleven o’clock. Francesca went into the reception hall to meet them and saw instantly that in looks and appearance Adriaen was everything her sister had ever wished for. Hendrick gave a shout of pleasure at the sight of her and Sybylla a delighted cry. Warm family greetings were exchanged and then her future brother-in-law was presented to her. He bowed in the flowery French way, watched by an entranced Sybylla.

“I’m honored to meet you at last, Francesca,” he said. “Sybylla is very proud of you as an artist and as her sister. Is Aletta here too?”

“No. That was not possible. I came home alone.”

Sybylla pouted, but not enough to spoil the line of her mouth. “How disappointing. I so wanted her to be here for the party.” She looked up sadly at Adriaen, who made suitable consoling remarks. Had they been alone she would have conjured up tears and he would have kissed them away. She knew how to choose her moments.

Francesca was well able to tell that Sybylla, in spite of the show she had made, had held little real hope that their sister would come. As for Hendrick, his clamped-up expression showed he was glad that Aletta had stayed away. It was time to pass on to Sybylla the message that had been given at the gates of the de Veere house. “Aletta sends you her love and best wishes.”

Not long afterward good nights were said and Adriaen left. No sooner had he gone than Sybylla, elated and radiant, flung out her hands to Francesca.

“Well? What do you think? Isn’t he the handsomest man you’ve ever seen?”

Francesca smiled. “I believe he is.”

“There! I knew you’d adore him! Every woman does, but he’s mine! Mine! I’m so happy, aren’t I, Father?” She darted to Hendrick and hugged his arm.

“Yes, and I’m happy for you, little one.” He patted her head as if she were seven instead of seventeen. “Go to bed now. It’s late and I want a few words with Francesca, although she must be tired too.”

On their own in the family parlor, Francesca asked him first about his hands. He flexed his fingers to show her all was well. “They did trouble me again in the winter, but were not nearly as painful as before.”

He was eager to know about her work and Vermeer’s, questioning her keenly and forgetting the time. When she asked him about the landscape in the studio he explained that he had left it while working on a large commissioned painting of the Civil Guard, which had been set up in a corner of the Zuider Church. “It will not interfere much with my studio time, because I’ve taken on a young artist, Hans Roemer, to do almost everything except the faces and certain details. He’s just out of his apprenticeship and is of the school of Haarlem, but he’s come to Amsterdam to make his fortune!” He chuckled at such a wild dream for a painter.

“Did you decide on him because you are both of the same Guild?”

“I daresay that had something to do with it and I liked the samples of his work that he showed me.”

“I’ll take a look at the painting tomorrow.”

Hendrick cleared his throat. “Pieter brought me that commission.”

She could not keep back the rush of hope in her voice. “Have you and he mended your differences over what he did for Aletta?”

“We have.”

“I’m so glad. Does this mean that you would welcome Aletta home again?”

“No! That’s a separate matter.”

She let the subject rest. At least one step forward had been made through his reconciliation with Pieter. She was sure that with time Hendrick would soften toward her sister. “Pieter didn’t mention to me in his last letter that he had met you again. To be blunt, Father, you are a man of such uncertain temper that I presume he didn’t want me to be disappointed if trouble had flared up again before he could discuss it with me.”

He was looking at her under his brows. “So you have been corresponding?”

“We’ve seen each other too.”

“That was forbidden.”

“Would anything have stopped you from seeing Mama when you first fell in love with her?”

“That was a different case altogether. Nobody stood between us.”

“Vrouw Wolff did her best to carry out your extraordinary instructions. You mustn’t blame her. I understand that you were melancholic when I left home and your concern for my well-being was out of all proportion, but those arrangements you made on my behalf were quite unnecessary. Pieter hasn’t been a barrier to my painting.” Her words throbbed. “He has inspired me. I can date the upturn in my work from the moment I began to fall in love with him. It was on the feast of St. Nicholaes. Surely you saw the improvement in my technique when I painted that hyacinth?”

He had been clenching and unclenching his hands on his knees and now he slammed his fists on the arms of his chair, making her jump. “Enough! No more talk of Pieter! At least not yet! Let’s see Sybylla married first.”

She smiled. “Don’t get upset. There’s no question of Pieter and me wishing to marry yet. I have to finish my apprenticeship first in any case. I’ve brought home one of my paintings and I’ll show it to you tomorrow.”

“Good. Now you must get some sleep after your long day.”

“There’s one more question I’d like to ask before I go to bed. How are you managing to give Sybylla a suitable dowry for this forthcoming marriage to a van Jansz?”

“Adriaen’s father was most considerate and understanding. We had the usual meeting and I said straightforwardly that I could not offer anything but the smallest dowry, which would be, as you know, that little sum of money that your mother left for each of you. He graciously accepted it as a token dowry and everything was settled.”

“What a relief that Heer and Vrouw van Jansz were prepared to put their son’s happiness before money.”

S
OME DISTANCE AWAY
, in a great house on Heerengracht, that same couple were discussing their son’s forthcoming betrothal. Heer van Jansz, tired and wanting to get to bed after entertaining his future daughter-in-law and her father to dinner, came close to exasperation that his wife should be in tears again.

“Why did he have to choose her?” she wailed, echoing a parental cry that had sounded down the centuries.

“Well, he has and that’s that.”

“But Adriaen could have had the choice of many fine young women within our own circle.”

“Listen to me, my dear. We have gone over this again and again. Nobody hated the scandal over his long-standing affair more than you. Did you want him to stay a hamstrung lover to that married bitch forever?”

“No!” She was shocked at his blunt words. “But why a craftsman’s daughter? Whatever can he see in her?”

Heer van Jansz knew exactly what his son could see in Sybylla, but it was not the kind of explanation he could give his wife. “There’s no questioning a young man’s fancy. Sybylla is the only one who has been able to entice him out of an unsavory association we’ve both long condemned, which is why I waived a dowry. Be thankful that one day you’ll be getting grandchildren, hopefully a grandson to carry on the van Jansz name and business, which you would never have done otherwise. Now I’m going to bed.”