Rembrandt's Mirror Read online

  Finally, his footsteps moved away. I heard him go to Geertje’s room, hesitate at the threshold and then she must have woken for both of them tiptoed their way upstairs to resume their inevitable ministrations to one another.

  *

  When I opened the door in the morning to pour away the slops, the sky looked grey. I was standing with the bucket in my hand. The street was unusually quiet; maybe everyone expected a downpour. I watched the dark green water of the canal undulating in soft-bellied bumps, bringing with them the images of trees and then abandoning them for a window, a door or a piece of sky. The visual world was a disjointed affair. Only the water itself was continuous.

  I looked at the house. I did not want to go back inside. The reflections skipped lightly across the waves. If only I could partake in life’s joys with such ease or otherwise reach beyond them and be with God as only blessed souls could. I poured the dirty water into the canal.

  ‘Morning, Hendrikje,’ said Samuel behind me.

  I turned around and greeted him.

  ‘There’s a dance next Sunday at The Mennonite Wedding. You know, the music hall. Would you like to go?’

  I was without grace in dance but it had to be better than being stuck in the house with Rembrandt and Geertje on a Sunday.

  On the night of the dance we made our way to the music hall. So many people were out on the streets: sailors, travellers, servants, country folk and gentlefolk, all clothed in their best garments. I’d concluded Samuel did find me appealing – a dizzying thought.

  He was dressed so differently from his usual drab attire: white stockings, red puffy trousers and a white shirt with sleeves so voluminous that one had to search for him amongst the swathes of linen. I had ample time to regard him properly as we walked. His face still retained too much of its boyish softness but his hair was thick and vigorous and his limbs were long.

  From the outside the hall was not much more than a door in the side of a house but once we’d passed through it we were assailed by the sound of reckless gaiety. The low-ceilinged space was large enough to hold at least a hundred people. Chairs and tables were lined up along the walls of the long, rectangular hall. There was a fine wooden floor and ornate beams on the ceiling. The dance floor was still empty but couples milled around the sides. I was surprised by the women’s dresses; there wasn’t a brown or black garment in sight, only blues, reds, greens and whites. I should have worn more colourful attire. You could never tell in Amsterdam whether to be modest or gay. We put our things on chairs and Samuel went off to buy some wine. There were many couples but also plenty of old folk and children. Everyone seemed to be determined to derive as much pleasure from this brief suspension of life’s duties as they possibly could.

  At the end of the room was a small raised area where the musicians were getting ready: two fiddlers, a bagpiper and a drummer. They started to play just as Samuel returned with the wine. He held out his hand and together we joined the lines of dancers. To my dismay I did not recognize the dance at all, but Samuel with a big grin and his flag of a sleeve motioned where to go next. It was so endearing and enjoyable that I was almost glad to be ignorant of the steps.

  There was much spinning and vigorous movement and soon sweat was running down my spine, tickling me. This was what I’d needed: to feel happy, giddy and carefree.

  There were quieter moments too, when the couples would lift their arms to form an arched aisle for other couples to process through, reminding me of the sanctity of marriage and the purpose of a woman’s life.

  After this we sat down and watched the dancers for a while. He sat beside me sipping his wine. I was glad for a chance to catch my breath and tempted to stretch out my legs the way Rembrandt liked to do under the table.

  ‘Why is the place called The Mennonite Wedding?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Samuel, ‘maybe Mennonite weddings are particularly gay affairs.’ Then he added, ‘You’re a lovely dancer.’

  ‘But I don’t know any of them.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter, does it?’

  I smiled at him. ‘No.’

  The fiddler announced that the next dance would be something quite new from France and that it was already popular in England and Germany. ‘It is called La Volta,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. He would teach us. Samuel got up, offering me his hand. I took it and got to my feet.

  The fiddler had a lady with him on the platform. ‘This is how you hold each other,’ he said, putting his hand on her hip, pulling her towards him. There were giggles in the room – no one was used to such proximity.

  I looked at Samuel, his expression uncertain as he placed his hand above my hip, still maintaining a good gap between us. I was worried where the fiddler would be taking us and it was strange to feel Samuel’s hand on my side.

  The fiddler said, ‘Now it’s for the lady to place her hand on her gallant gentleman’s back . . .’ I wished he’d drop his leering tone; he probably thought himself funny.

  ‘Her other hand – her left hand – in case you’re already getting confused, is there to rein in the fabric of her dress in case it flies too high.’ The next sentence was punctuated with more excessive eyebrow action: ‘Ladies, it is entirely up to your discretion how high is too high.’

  More laughs, but not from me. I put my hand on his shoulder. If only we could start dancing quickly. It was awkward standing like this.

  ‘Do not be shy,’ said the fiddler, ‘go on, move closer. To dance La Volta you should be as close together as two babes in a crib.’

  No one moved.

  ‘I’ve never done this dance before,’ said Samuel.

  ‘I wonder if everyone will join in.’

  ‘Would you prefer to sit down?’ said Samuel.

  I wanted out of this but I also wanted to enjoy myself. ‘No,’ said I. ‘Let’s try.’

  Samuel gave me a warm smile and as I looked into his eyes, my hand settled more easily on to his shoulder.

  The fiddler had pulled his partner so close that they were touching all along their legs, with their upper bodies somewhat leaning away from each other. The hall had become very still – from fright, I assumed. No one left the dance floor. But nobody dared emulate the fiddler either, until a couple close to us adopted the wringer pose. Then, like a herd of sheep, everyone followed – except for me and Samuel.

  ‘Well done, boys and girls,’ said the fiddler, who ought to be put in the stocks. Now he placed his left hand just below the bosom of his partner. ‘Put your hand there on the busk, if the lady is wearing one,’ he chuckled. ‘Otherwise it may be prudent to place it on your partner’s hip, for you will be lifting her in a minute.’

  I was not wearing a busk. Samuel probably had no idea if I was or wasn’t, for they were stiff plates entirely hidden by clothing. What would it be like to have a hand placed there?

  ‘Ha, ha,’ said Samuel, ‘trust the French to come up with something like this.’ But he did not move and we were still the only couple standing a foot apart – or so it seemed to me.

  I took a step towards him, narrowing the gap somewhat. It was only a dance. And in response he put his hand where my ribs joined beneath my breast. His fingers were tentative and light. It was enlivening, a thrill even but then, after a mere breath or two, the thrill grew frightful. My breathing brought my flesh firmly into his palm with nothing but the thinnest fabric between my skin and his.

  I wished I could withdraw like a snail into its shell. Curiosity was insufficient preparation for being touched in that soft place. I was just about to push away – faux pas or not – when the music started and Samuel removed his hand and placed it on my hip instead.

  The scrawny fiddler demonstrated lifting his lady in big swooping movements and everyone else started emulating him. With the relief of movement came a childish delight at being swung through the air. Samuel lifted me higher and higher until I laughed out loud, only just managing not to scream.

  And as we danced to a slower part Samuel returned hi
s palm once more to my upper belly. I resolved to give my weight into his hand, if nothing else than to make our dancing easier but my back stiffened no matter how I tried to relax. I carried on with the required steps but, like a bad puppet master, I was unable to call forth graceful moments from my wooden limbs. All I could do was to try and keep up with his movements but still I lagged behind. He probably hated dancing with me by now. Flushed faces surged in waves around me. I was closer to a man’s body than I had ever been – and yet utterly apart from him and from my own soul. Loneliness in company was the worst kind.

  No, you’re not giving up so easily, I told myself. That hand of mine on his shoulder was an inanimate lump. I moved it to bring some feeling into it. I will embrace him like I mean it. This was Samuel, who’d cared and helped me. Rembrandt’s main assistant, already a promising artist in his own right. Letting go of my skirts, I placed both my hands on his back. He put both of his on my hips and pulled me closer. It was no use. I wanted out of his embrace but I could not be so rude. I had to endure until the music stopped. Ill-begotten fiddler, why won’t you tire? I held my feelings in a tight grip, like the throats of hens before slaughter. How could I have explained my tears to him? I thought of Rembrandt telling Geertje that he could not sleep in the presence of another, how he seemed so reluctant to be with her and yet he carried on. Perhaps he needed something but there always was a price to pay.

  I was still being whirled about by Samuel.

  Finally the music stopped and we walked to our chairs.

  ‘That was fun,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  Samuel accompanied me back to the house. ‘Thank you for dancing with me,’ he said as a way of leave-taking.

  ‘Thank you,’ I answered.

  He bent forward as if to kiss me on the mouth but I turned my head away and he kissed my cheek. Then he looked at me for a moment, and bade me goodnight.

  As soon as the door was shut, I mopped the remains of the kiss from my cheek. Back in my room I quickly undressed, discarding my smelly clothes in a pile on the floor. It was always the same with me. No suitable man suited me. Samuel would probably be walking home now thinking that he’d had some first-hand experience of what I’d told him about my prickly reputation in Bredevoort. Maybe he had not even noticed. I just hoped things would not be too awkward between us now.

  I would let sleep wash away the filthy dregs of the day. I closed my eyes. But the smell of stale smoke and Samuel’s sweat still crept into my nostrils.

  Saskia Lying in Bed

  The next morning was bright and fresh so I decided to clean the dusty kunstkammer. I entered it armed with a bucket of water, cloth and feather-headed duster. Every available wall space was covered with shelves carrying sea shells, pieces of armour, costumes, marble busts and books of etchings and drawings. As I wondered where to start, I noticed a book on the floor. Drawings were spilling out from between the blank pages that were supposed to hold and protect them. All the other books of drawings were neatly and systematically arranged on the shelves. Their spines read: women and children, nudes, figure studies, landscapes, animals, and so on.

  I picked the book up from the floor. It had no description on its spine but I set to work re-homing the escaped drawings. I did not pay much attention to them, until I picked up a depiction of a woman sitting up in bed. She looked as if she had given up on the world. Perhaps she had been bed-ridden for a long time. I heard someone enter. It was him. He stood and stared at the drawing in my hand. I got to my feet. We stood facing each other in the narrow, rectangular room. He was by the door, but it was as if the drawing was holding him captive.

  ‘Who is this?’ I asked.

  Silence.

  ‘Looks like someone who’s given up the fight?’ I said.

  A nod.

  I was on the verge of asking if the woman had died when I realized it must be Saskia. How could I have been so blind? I let my arm and the drawing sink. He stared at nothing now and I too was hostage to the paper in my hand.

  ‘I’ll file it away again, Master, shall I?’

  He did not respond.

  ‘This book is not labelled,’ I said. ‘Is it all right for the drawing?’

  His hand gave a twitch and then a tremor went through him. Whatever moment he inhabited now, I did not share it, and he could not leave it. I studied his face and then I understood more of his plight as his darkness settled upon me too. It was like a weight on the chest that made every breath an effort until one wished one did not have to draw another. I wanted to be back in the kitchen helping Geertje.

  I shoved the drawing between two pages and closed the book, then added it to the volumes on the shelf. His eyes had followed the drawing every step of the way.

  ‘I will leave now, Master,’ I said, pressing myself against the door frame to avoid brushing against him. His eyes were still on the book.

  *

  The day wore on. I worked, sweeping and mopping the floors, all the time wishing I had not shown him the drawing and unable to forget the look on his face. I was afraid, not for myself but for him.

  When Geertje returned from lighting the evening fires, she said, ‘He’s in his bedroom, hasn’t left it since this morning. I hope we’re not going back to how things were.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said.

  ‘After the mistress died, he wouldn’t touch a brush. For weeks he stayed in his room with the shutters closed. Losing the mistress was only the last cruel lick of fate. In the half-dozen years before that, they lost each of their little ones. Rumbartus lived for two months. A few years later, Cornelia lived only three weeks. Then they had a second girl, whom they also named Cornelia. The mistress once told me she was a sweet baby, full of good cheer. But she also died after only a single month of life. And then at last Titus survived. But then the mistress went. Did him in, it did.’

  Geertje stood, shaking her head, and then Samuel entered. She must have sent for him. I thought things would get awkward but he acknowledged me with a friendly nod.

  ‘Has he been down?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she replied.

  ‘I saw that the shutters are closed. Have they been like that all day?’

  Geertje gave him a look that said he knew the answer.

  ‘I wonder what brought it on?’

  ‘Brought it on?’ said Geertje. ‘You always make excuses for him. He’s probably decided that he would benefit from a little rest while you do his work for him.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a matter of his choosing.’

  Geertje just huffed, and all I could think was that it was my fault. The drawing had opened some kind of sluice gate in his mind that had held back the melancholy. I ought to tell them.

  ‘Mind,’ said Geertje, ‘it could be the grief still. Some folk jump right into the grave after their dear ones, or never marry again, and he just can’t shake it off even five years on.’

  ‘Will you stop talking like that,’ said Samuel.

  Geertje looked hurt. ‘I was only trying to . . . it’s not always easy to make sense of his majesty. What about you? You usually have all the answers.’

  Samuel sank into a chair, propped his elbows on the table, cradling his face in his hands. Geertje grabbed her basket with the words, ‘I’m going out now to see Trijntje. Not like there’s any point in getting dinner cooked.’ And to me, ‘There’s plenty left in the larder.’

  After she’d left, I also wanted to go, to avoid being alone with Samuel. But he pulled out a chair for me, so I joined him at the table. I needn’t have worried. We were both preoccupied with Rembrandt’s fate. I, for one, was consumed with my ill-fated actions and hoped that there might be some other explanation for Rembrandt not leaving his room.

  ‘Maybe he’s ill?’ I suggested. ‘Maybe we ought to knock on his door?’

  ‘He’d let us know about it if he was,’ Samuel mumbled into the heels of his hands. ‘The shutters are closed, just like when the mistress died. It’s a bad si
gn.’

  I could not blame him for being despondent. I’d seen it for myself: Rembrandt succumbing to an excess of black bile from one moment to the next.

  ‘It was me,’ I said.

  ‘What was you?’ said Samuel.

  ‘I showed him a drawing of Saskia ill in bed.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Samuel, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He looked stricken and then took to his bedroom.’

  ‘It would have happened sooner or later,’ said Samuel.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Like I told you, he’s not been himself for years.’

  ‘But why now?’ I asked. ‘And can he still be missing Saskia after all this time?’

  Samuel shrugged his shoulders. We sat in silence for a while.

  Then he said, ‘He lost his Beloved.’

  ‘Saskia.’

  ‘No,’ said Samuel, ‘not exactly.’

  Getting words out of him was like hunting down nits. ‘What then?’ I said. ‘If you’ve got it worked out, you might as well tell me, so I don’t have to feel it’s all my fault.’

  His eyes focused on me, as if deliberating over something. Then he said, ‘I could not understand it myself. Years ago, after Saskia died, he started talking to me about a farmer who’d had his leg cut open when he fell and the plough went over him. The wound turned gangrenous in a matter of days . . . They had to saw the leg off. But miraculously he survived. However, the farmer could not enjoy life anymore. And not only exertions that required two legs, but even having a beer or lying in bed was no longer the same without his leg. He ended up as a beggar outside our house – that’s how Rembrandt knew him.’

  I had no idea what Samuel was trying to tell me. ‘Hendrickje, what prevented the man from enjoying his dinner? Was it the loss of his leg or was it something else?’

  I shrugged my shoulders, imagining the beggar sitting all day in the street and Rembrandt wretched in his shuttered room. ‘Maybe he’s afraid? Maybe he fears he might lose something else? Or he thinks there’s an axe hanging over his head too.’

  Samuel smiled wistfully. ‘There is an axe hanging over all our heads. But I’m not sure if it’s that. I’ve watched him. It’s as if his hands and arms keep doing what they know how to do so well. But passion, joy, love . . .’ He paused for thought. ‘They were all amputated when the mistress died. The rest of him carries on, like a cart rolling down the hill without a horse.’