The Golden Tulip: A Novel Part 5

Suddenly he felt overwhelmingly tired, the previous night's lack of sleep catching up with him. He poured water from a pewter jug into a bowl of the same metal and washed his hands carefully, not sure whether the cold water eased or aggravated the aching. After drying them on a linen towel, he bent to pick up his smock and place it on his peg. Then he went from the studio.

Sybylla must have been waiting for him, because when he crossed the reception hall to the parlor she came darting after him.

"Father! I must speak to you."

"Does it have to be now?" he asked tolerantly, not sending her away as he would have done anyone else who had approached him at this particular time. He had planned to have a peaceful, uninterrupted doze before dinner and sank down into a leather chair by the fire to stretch out his long legs and close his eyes. "I have been working all the afternoon."

She did not take the hint and leave. Instead she shut the door after her and came to kneel by his chair. "I know, but it's most important."

He felt the familiar tug at his heartstrings. This was the baby of the family, the apple of his eye, coming to him with some pretty notion in her head and he must listen to her. At least he did not think it would be about some madcap betrothal. He shifted his large body into a less relaxed position and gave her his full attention. "What is it, little one?"

She was encouraged by his pet endearment for her. From Aletta she had heard, almost with disbelief, that he had come home with plenty of money in his purse, but without the gifts normal to such occasions, rare though they were these days. She came straight to the point, seeing no need to offer to sit for him after all.

"Father, I do need a new cloak for this coming winter. I'd like one with a fur-lined hood, which I've never had before."

He was able to picture exactly what she was requesting, for if he had not expected Willem to be at the house that morning he would have bought one for her and loaded himself with gifts for the others too. But it had suited his mood to face Willem in a spirit of independence, which was why, for the first time ever, he had allowed the full clearance of debts to take priority. He had made up his mind to be as lavish with the remaining bounty on the morrow as he had been in the past, but those few extraordinary seconds when Anna had seemed to look at him out of his eldest daughter's eyes had changed that arrangement. He had never listened in the past when Anna had begged him to be more practical and less extravagant, and it was satisfying to know he was pleasing her over that matter at last.

"You have at least two warm cloaks, Sybylla," he said with a firmness directed as much at himself as at her. Not even his dearest child could compete with the wishes of the beloved wife he had lost.

"Neither of them have fur and I feel the cold so badly," she wheedled, her gaze aimed to be beguiling, her expectations high. "I also need silk for a new gown to be made up in time for St. Nicholaes's Day. I've seen the loveliest material in gillyflower pink-"

"The cloak and the silk must wait for another time."

"Why?" She pouted prettily, not yet taking him seriously. "You can afford a few luxuries for every one of us again now."

He smiled, shaking his head. "Far from it. As a matter of fact I haven't as much as a stiver in my pockets. All the money I brought home with me is under lock and key for housekeeping expenses under your elder sister's jurisdiction."

Sybylla was aghast, but all was not lost yet. "There's still the painting. You are going to sell it, aren't you, Father?"

"Yes, but that won't be tomorrow. I know Willem. He'll hang back for a week or two, thinking to make me fret for a sale. It'll be his way of getting even with me for not making him a promise this morning that it shall be his to offer whenever he likes."

"Suppose he doesn't come back?" She was anxious, thinking of the funds for her new garments lying dormant in that painting on the studio easel.

"He'll be back, never fear." Hendrick closed his eyes again, sleep dragging at him. Sybylla leapt up from her knees and darted away as quickly as she had come. The cloak and the silk were practically hers! It was exasperating having to wait, but if her father and Willem were engaged in a battle of wills, she would have to be patient somehow.

NEXT MORNING FRANCESCA made sure Hendrick had enough money when he left the house to buy a new supply of pigments. She wanted no more accounts run up to high figures that became so difficult to meet; in future cash was to be paid for all purchases, whether for the household or for the atelier. Hendrick did not demur at her ruling. He had quarreled too often with every artist's supplier over denial of credit at various times not to enjoy the rare experience of slapping down coins on their counters as if casting pearls before swine.

When she heard him reenter the house only a few minutes after leaving it, she supposed he had forgotten something and expected him to go into the studio to collect whatever it was before going out once more. Then, when the front door did not open and close again, she went to see if anything was the matter. She found him sitting in one of the chairs in the reception hall, staring unseeingly before him.

"Are you not well?" she inquired anxiously.

Slowly he raised his head to look at her, his mouth jerking with anguish. "I heard some sad news in the street. Rembrandt died yesterday."

Involuntarily she cried out in distress. "Oh! Can it be true?"

He answered her in a voice heavy with grief. "He is to be buried in the Westerkerk. It is not just our country that has been bereaved. The world has lost the greatest painter who has ever lived."

She took up his hand and cradled it against her cheek, sharing his sorrow. One of her earliest memories was of being taken by him to see Rembrandt's painting of the Militia Company of Captain Frans Banning Cocq that was hung in the wing of that same militia's headquarters. The scene had been captured at a busy moment when all were getting ready in good time for the Night Watch. She had stood awed, staring up at the vast painting where diffused sunlight and shadow played across a scene throbbing with activity, and Hendrick, who never took account of her extreme youth, spoke to her as he might have done to an adult. He explained that this group painting was entirely at variance to the conventional static settings normally used in this type of commissioned work in which every face was turned in the direction of the viewer. The explanation had meant little to her then. She was only aware of the teeming life on that canvas where all the militia were going about their affairs, the foreground dominated by the captain in black and a fellow officer in yellow. She seemed to hear the clatter of arms, the rattle of drums, the barking of the dog and all the tumult of the men's voices. Best of all at that time, she had liked the presence of the small girl in the painting, whose gown was similar to her own that day. She supposed the child to be with her father just as she was with hers, except that Hendrick was an artist and not a wearer of armor and military sashes. One thing about the little girl had puzzled her.

"Why has she a chicken with golden claws hanging from her belt, Papa? Has she brought it for their supper?"

"Maybe she has and maybe she hasn't. The significance of it lies in the fact that the escutcheon of this company bears golden claws and so Master Rembrandt has introduced the emblem. See how he has applied highlights of thick white impasto to the yellow, all against a darker ground, to achieve the shimmering effect of the feathers as well as the rich fabric of the little girl's skirt. Can you spot somebody you know in the painting?"

"Who?"

"Master Rembrandt."

She knew it was a long-established tradition, going back to the great Italian painters, that an artist frequently included a likeness of himself in a populated painting. Slowly she let her gaze pa.s.s along the faces of those more in the background than the rest, each person there having paid according to the amount of s.p.a.ce on the canvas individually occupied.

"There's Master Rembrandt!" She laughed and clasped her hands with delight. "He is just behind the man in armor! One day I'm going to do that! Paint myself showing part of my face as he has done."

In retrospect, looking back now to that moment, Francesca was certain it was when the spark had been kindled in her to follow the path of a painter to the exclusion of all else.

"I should like to offer Cornelia a home with us, Father."

Hendrick nodded willingly. "That should be done without delay."

"I'll go to Rozengracht at once!" She took a step toward the stair hall.

He stirred in his chair. "I'll not come with you. I've no wish to go out again today." Wearily he rose to his feet. "I'd like to spend the rest of the day quietly in my studio."

She understood. There was no better place in which to mourn a fellow artist than in one's own studio. When she arrived at Rozengracht it was to learn that Cornelia had already been taken into the care of kind relatives and a good home for her was a.s.sured.

Four days later Hendrick attended the funeral at Westerkerk and saw Rembrandt laid to rest beside t.i.tus and Hendrickje Stoffels. Throughout the following weeks Hendrick was as cast down as if it had been his own knell that he had heard. The painting of t.i.tus drew him as though it were a new acquisition and had not graced his home for a long time. The depth and meaning of the work, combined with its beauty and harmony, moved him till his throat ached, so great was the admiration that swelled his heart. He also began pausing to look at the Hals painting that he owned: a toper with the drunken flush to his cheeks, merriment in his eyes and a tankard in hand. Hendrick marveled anew at the glittering brushwork, the pulse of life created by those gashlike strokes of color. It was inevitable that his own technique should have been influenced by such a tutor, whose temperament had been so much like his own and to whom laughter, alcohol and good company had also been all-important. Three years ago Hals, an old man in his eighties, had died and now Rembrandt, only sixty-three, had followed him. Both had ended their days in abject poverty, virtually forgotten by society. Was that to be his own fate too?

One morning as he stood in front of the painting of the toper, Francesca came and stood beside him. She was wearing her gardening ap.r.o.n, and gloves were tucked in the pocket. She comprehended the mood that was depressing him and slipped her arm through his.

"You know," he said in a voice torn by regret, "I should have gone to see old Hals before he died. I kept meaning to make the trip to Haarlem, but somehow I never did. I suppose, having heard he was still painting, I thought he would go on forever, but of course none of us do."

"Why not make the trip to Haarlem one day and pay your respects at his last resting place?" Francesca suggested. "If you went by pa.s.senger boat on the ca.n.a.ls you could either stay the night or be home again by midnight."

He gave a nod but did not commit himself. "I'll think about it."

She continued on her way out to the courtyard. It was a fine morning on which to plant the tulip bulbs that had come from a field somewhere near Haarlem. Griet had told her about the delivery, the order for which Hendrick had forgotten to mention, and said that the tulip grower would call for payment another day. It was only the previous week that she had replanted the bulbs she had taken up in June, but she enjoyed gardening and was always content at it, even when engaged in the more monotonous ch.o.r.es of digging and weeding. Aletta shared her interest and would have helped her with the bulbs if she had not gone out to sketch a view of the Amstel by one of the old bridges.

Kneeling down on a folded rug, Francesca dug holes in the sandy soil at regular intervals and set in the new bulbs, which were of excellent quality, being hard with skins that were a good rusty color. When they came into bloom she might gather some to take indoors and begin a floral arrangement for her canvas, painting other flowers as they blossomed in turn, until a huge bouquet from the different seasons was completed, a not unusual procedure.

The tulip would always be her favorite flower, its long-stemmed grace and elegance surpa.s.sing to her eyes even the beautiful centiflora rose that presented such an abundance of tinted petals as to resemble a confusion of petticoats. Maybe the romantic in her had been irrevocably drawn to the tulip when long ago she had heard how supposedly it had first come into being. According to the Persian legend, it was when Fernad had pined in anguish for his love, the exquisite Shirin, that the wild tulip had sprung up from where his tears had dyed the sand, its petals blood red. She could never look at tulips without remembering their a.s.sociation with tender love and deepest pa.s.sion.

It seemed strange to her that although they had been cultivated in the exotic gardens of Persia and Turkey, it was not until just over a hundred years before her birth that the tulip had reached Europe. An amba.s.sador to Turkey from the Court of the Holy Roman Emperor had been so impressed by the tulip that when he returned home to Vienna he took with him some seeds and bulbs, which he presented to Ferdinand I. These grew and flourished until soon other countries were transplanting this new flower shaped like an eastern turban. There were many tales as to how it eventually came to Holland, but the most likely was that a cargo of bulbs arrived by ship in Amsterdam. Whatever its means of travel, the tulip took to Dutch soil as if Holland were its natural habitat and it had always belonged there.

Red, yellow and also white tulips, as well as some striped ones, had grown in the Visser garden for as long as Francesca could remember. She had no real preference in color, finding something to admire in every one, but she looked forward to the bloom that would be produced by the recently delivered bulbs. It was to be a shaded crimson with feathered petals, and was more expensive than any she would have chosen. At least it did not come into the category of the rare hues that commanded top prices and had made many a horticulturist extremely prosperous. Yet never again would bulbs fetch the exorbitant prices they had done some years ago when what had become known as "tulipomania" had swept the country. People from all walks of life became speculators in bulbs expected to bring forth new patterns or exceptional colors and that might soon become worth their weight in gold. Houses with all their contents were exchanged for a single bulb; livestock from farms, tools of trade and premises and family heirlooms all went in the general madness as fortunes were made overnight. Often a bulb changed hands figuratively several times, the buyers and the sellers never seeing the actual product, exactly as financial deals were carried out at the Exchange in Amsterdam, and at those in London, Paris and elsewhere.

This horticultural madness came about through the cultivated tulip's unique way of producing its own variations through a natural breaking down of the bulb into new forms, the colors of the offsets staying virtually steadfast. Those who had never gambled in their lives before threw caution aside and the wild speculation was maintained throughout every month of the three years that the fever lasted, giving opportunities to tricksters and swindlers in a whirlwind of fraud. When the market crashed many were left without a roof over their heads. Hendrick had been in the first years of his apprenticeship, but he had gambled a small inheritance and, with the good luck that rallied to him at certain times, he had emerged from the chaos with a thousand florins more than the sum with which he had started.

Francesca rose from her knees, brushed dirt from her ap.r.o.n and picked up the rug. Her task was done. In the early spring she would come out each day to watch the first shoots emerge. She went back indoors with a lighthearted step.

When Aletta returned home she had made several detailed sketches. Francesca looked at them with interest. "You have worked hard, Aletta."

She did not notice the gleam of excitement in her sister's eyes. "I'm going to have no time for anything else except work now," Aletta said as she took the sketches from Francesca and carried them away upstairs.

To Francesca's surprise Hendrick had taken more note of her suggestion about making a trip to Haarlem than she had supposed. As his spirits recovered once more, he made the announcement at breakfast one morning that there was to be a family outing to the old city of his apprenticeship.

"We'll go tomorrow to pay our respects at my old master's tomb and then take a look around. It will be Sat.u.r.day, so there'll be lots to see. I'll borrow a horse and sporting cart to get us there. Its owner owes me a favor." It was not the most comfortable form of transport, being much like a wooden tub on wheels, and pa.s.sengers were rocked about, but it was much quicker than the ca.n.a.l boat and it was free.

Sybylla clapped her hands excitedly. "An outing! What a treat!"

Aletta looked uncertain. "It's getting colder every day. Suppose it should snow and hinder our return."

Francesca thought it was unusual for Aletta to make such a comment. It was almost as if she were seeking any sort of excuse to prevent the trip. "I don't think we need worry about that," she said firmly.

"Indeed not!" Hendrick endorsed. In any case, once he had decided on a course of action that suited him personally he could rarely be persuaded otherwise. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at Francesca. "We can afford it, can't we?"

"Oh! Yes!" she replied with a laugh, excited herself at the prospect. It was the custom at the week's end for families to pour out of the towns and cities for picnics in summer, or to country taverns and the entertainments provided there when the weather was colder. As a family in the past there had been many such expeditions, but since Anna had died there had been none. Hendrick had not been able to endure any avoidable occasion that emphasized her absence. Francesca was sure that this outing would be good for him and for all of them. Neither she nor her sisters had ever been to Haarlem, although it was only thirteen miles away. "We'll take a picnic!"

"Be sure you include a bottle of wine with the food," Hendrick insisted jovially.

Francesca had another thought. There was only one outstanding debt in her household ledger and that was for the bulbs. "Do you happen to know whereabouts near Haarlem I could find the premises of the tulip grower van Doorne, who supplied the new bulbs?"

Hendrick shook his head, puzzled as to why she should have asked. "I ordered them at the market here in Amsterdam. Do you need more?"

"No, there are plenty, but I would like to pay him."

Hendrick's gesture tossed such an unimportant matter aside. "He'll be back for his money soon enough."

That was what she hoped to avoid. By making direct payment at van Doorne's premises it would be a way of erasing all those distressing times when she and all the household, except Hendrick, who usually managed to disappear, had been pestered for money. At least van Doorne's location should not be hard to discover once she was in Haarlem.

Maria sighed. "My old bones won't allow me to go on this outing."

Francesca sympathized and then Aletta spoke up defensively. "I won't be going tomorrow either."

They all looked at her in surprise. "Why not?" Hendrick asked.

"I want to finish my painting of the bridge over the Amstel."

"There'll be other days."

"No." She had her obstinate look. "If I'm to be a serious artist I can't drop everything for a day of frivolity."

Sybylla looked at her pityingly. Aletta was becoming as old in her ways as Maria. She herself was not interested in visiting Hals's tomb, but she was in seeing the shops and whatever Haarlem had to offer, particularly in its young men. Maria kept far too close an eye on her at home and it would be wonderful to be free of her for once.

"You're becoming more of a stick-in-the-mud every day, Aletta," she gibed.

"Better that than to think of nothing else except ogling anything in breeches that walks along the street!" Aletta countered fiercely.

Sybylla's face flushed a guilty scarlet. "Listen to that viperish tongue! Can I help it if men look at me and not at you?"

It was not entirely true, for it was only Aletta's natural hauteur that discouraged advances. At the moment there was a flush of angry pink in her cheeks. "I'm not interested in riffraff, Sybylla!"

Hendrick had become exasperated. He had no tolerance of quarrels that he himself had not instigated. "Be silent both of you! Aletta shall stay at home if that is what she wishes. I'll not discourage anyone from work." His faintly pious note might have led a stranger to suppose he was never away from his easel himself. "At least Aletta will be here if Willem can't hold back any longer from collecting the painting."

It was decided that an early start should be made. Even so, Aletta was up before anyone else in the morning and already in the studio at work when breakfast was served.

"Aren't you coming to eat?" Sybylla asked, looking in at the door. She had Hendrick's virtue in never sulking and, again like him, she quite enjoyed a clash of temperaments, feeling invigorated by it. This morning she would willingly have embraced her sister in reconciliation if it had been necessary, but Aletta had already forgotten their tiff.

"I've eaten." Aletta did not glance away from her canvas, but continued to paint steadily. "I told you yesterday that I wanted to get this painting finished."

Sybylla noticed a half-eaten slice of bread and cheese on a plate that must have forced a s.p.a.ce for itself on the cluttered side table. Whatever drink had been left in a cup was now cold and soaked up into a carelessly cast-aside paint rag that had landed across it. "I'll fetch you a fresh drink anyway. There's hot chocolate this morning." She went across to pick up the cup and then stood to study the painting of the bridge and neighboring buildings. "What's so vital about this one? Why the rush? Have you a buyer for it?" Her words had been intended as a jest, but Aletta looked so startled that Sybylla paused, grinning triumphantly at her. "So that's it!"

Aletta rushed to the door and closed it to avoid anyone overhearing before she came back to where her sister stood. "I think I have. That day I was sketching at the bridge I included a row of property with a bakery in the foreground. The baker's wife came by, looked over my shoulder as people do, and offered to buy my sketch. I told her it was for a painting and she became quite excited and said if it was good she would buy it as a surprise gift for her husband's fiftieth birthday. He would be so proud to have such a painting to hang in his shop."

"What!" Sybylla was as outraged as their father would have been. "As a family we've been in low straits more times than I care to remember, but never has a painting or drawing or etching signed with the name of Visser been displayed over a shop counter!"

"Maybe if it had, life would have been easier for Mama without all the scrimping and saving she had to do and which Francesca has had to carry on doing ever since!" Aletta's eyes flashed like streak lightning. "I've no false pride. I want money for a reason of my own and if my painting becomes covered with flour and sultanas until it looks like a bun I shall not care in the least."

Sybylla gave a gurgle of laughter. "I think you would!"

An unwilling smile came to Aletta's lips and she inclined her head in agreement. "You're right," she said more calmly, "but it makes no difference to my wanting the sale to go through. I asked a good price and had to hide my surprise when the woman agreed without hesitation to pay it." Abruptly she gripped Sybylla's arm. "Don't tell Father or Francesca about this, will you?"

For once Sybylla did not taunt or tease as she liked to do whenever an opportunity presented itself. From personal experience she understood the importance of money to those who had never had any, since she could number herself among them. "I won't say anything," she promised, "but isn't it a rule of the Guild that anything painted by pupils in a studio belongs to the master in charge?"

"Yes, it is, but I don't consider myself to be Father's pupil any longer!" Aletta spoke fiercely. "It's many weeks since he last made a remark about my work and it was neither helpful nor constructive. So I'm taking the risk. He need never know."

"But why are you doing this? Do you want to buy something fine to wear?"

Aletta smiled again. "Nothing like that! What I want costs far more than a garment. When I've saved enough I'll tell you what it's for."

"It's quite a while since we shared a secret. Last time was when I told you Jacob wanted to marry me."

"And I told you not to raise your hopes."

Sybylla made a rueful little grimace. "You were right, of course. But I'll not tell you the same, because I'm sure the baker's wife is going to be pleased with what you've done. I'll fetch your hot chocolate now."

"No, wait!" Aletta removed her painting smock. "I'll come with you. If Father should look in here before leaving for Haarlem he would see that I've almost finished and insist on my going too."

"Yes, he would."

Companionably, the two girls went from the studio together. Half an hour later Aletta stood with Maria to wave her father and sisters on their way in the sporting cart. Griet rose from her knees where she was scrubbing the stoop and waved in a shower of soapsuds white as snow.

The recent cold, dry weather had made the rutted road hard and the wheels of the sporting cart sped along. Francesca and Sybylla shrieked and held on to each other with laughter as they were almost bounced off the seat at times. The October sun was pale in a sky atumble with clouds, for the wind was strong and the great sails of the windmills were all turning. It did not matter that the countryside was totally flat as far as the eye could see, for it was a lush green and there was always a gleam of water as if large opals had been sprinkled everywhere. With much of the land below sea level it was a constant battle to save it from flooding and the huge dikes, built of earth and rock, were sometimes overcome by exceptionally rough tides, which resulted in the loss of life and livestock. Here and there little bridges gave access across ca.n.a.ls and waterways, the wooden pa.s.sageways being constructed so each could be raised to allow laden barges and small boats to pa.s.s underneath.

There was plenty to see on the road itself. People trudged along on foot, and they pa.s.sed farm carts filled with produce. Now and again Hendrick would draw aside to let the lumbering coaches of the wealthy burghers go by, the paintwork agleam. He had to give way again whenever they met a stage wagon racing along at full speed, for the coachmen took a pride in keeping down the time taken from one destination to another, no matter that the pa.s.sengers were tossed about like dice in a box. These vehicles raised a small sail as soon as they were out of town, if the wind was in the right direction, which allowed the horses to maintain a full gallop as if the load they were pulling was weightless. It was not uncommon for accidents to happen on the rough roads. The highlight of the journey for Sybylla was when she and Francesca received waves from two young officers of the Guard on horseback, handsome in their huge black hats and velvet and lace, white teeth flashing between thin mustaches and arrow-sharp beards. She looked after them wistfully as they disappeared ahead into the distance.

At Haarlem, Hendrick drove through the fourteenth-century gate with its helm roofs and octagonal towers, smiling to be entering the territory of his youth again. He looked about him whenever the traffic allowed, memories of petticoat chasing and carousals coming back to him. Frans Hals had been strict enough in the studio, but he still had such weaknesses himself in those days and turned a blind eye to the l.u.s.ty activities of his apprentices as long as they were sober and on time in the morning and worked hard under his tuition.

Haarlem followed the layout of most Dutch towns in having a large central square with the church facing the town hall across it. Medieval buildings flanked the two remaining sides and brightly painted signs were suspended over the doors of those that had been put to commercial use. A busy market was at its height and Sybylla looked at it eagerly as Hendrick drove past and into the old vegetable market alongside the Church of St. Bavo, where small shops were set against its walls. Vertical shutters had been lowered to form counters on which were piled fabrics and lace and other fancy wares that caught her eye. Hendrick tied up the horse and helped his daughters alight from the sporting cart. Sybylla would have darted across to the little shops if Francesca had not restrained her, for Hendrick was waiting for them to follow him into the church. He removed his hat as he entered.

Within it was a place of light with its double rows of immensely high windows of clear gla.s.s and almost every slab of the great floor was a memorial stone to those interred beneath.