Rembrandt's Mirror Page 13

  A warning? ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘I mean, I would not trust him as a man.’

  And this from Samuel, who’d never said a bad word about his master. But before I could question him further, he kissed my forehead and was out of the door.

  I knew things would not be the same without him. He’d kept us all in balance.

  You would think that having been made a gift of a drawing I would have sat contemplating it, but instead that evening I lay in my bed still thinking about the other drawing. I wanted to see it again so I lit the candle and made my way up to the studio, as quietly as the creaking stairs allowed and past his room where all was quiet for once.

  I entered the studio, which was cast in starlight, and placed my candle by the drawing. It was composed of only a few flowing lines, each capturing perfectly a fold in the blanket. The folds themselves combined to give a sense of the body beneath; its profound repose suggested a serenity I did not know I possessed. Each line had been drawn with a dizzying combination of delicacy and speed. I could not help feeling that the brush had cherished the subject, had enfolded it like the blanket did the sleeper. I stood cradling the paper in my hands for a long while.

  I did not consider it a flaw that the artist had failed to register that not only had I been wide awake but terrified. Instead I revelled in the picture’s beauty and chose to believe that his eyes had perceived some greater truth about me.

  I gently returned it to the desk and descended the stairs. My candle was almost burned down, illuminating only the next one or two uneven steps.

  When I reached the peep-hole into his room I could not resist having a look. His room was also steeped in starlight. It was peaceful. I continued down and reached his door. How easy Geertje found it to lift that latch. The candle spluttered. I did not want to be stranded without light so I hurried back to my room.

  As sleep claimed me, I imbued the soft weight of the blanket with the touch of his gaze; lines applied by his hand brushed on to my leg, my hip, my arm and neck. Had I given birth to them or they to me?

  The lull of sleep was not to last for long. The loud creaks told me that Geertje was on her way to his room. Oh, not tonight, I thought, something would die in me to hear them at their game. But I got up, driven by the need to know how they would be with one another. I took a glass with me, so that I could press it against the wall to listen.

  Geertje had placed her candle on a small console table. She stood in front of Rembrandt’s bed and was in the process of taking off her nightshift. I assumed from her artless movements that he was asleep. Why did she have to disturb him every night? She removed every last item of clothing. Everything except for the ring that sparkled on her finger.

  For a moment she stood, pondering what to do. Then she walked to the window, looking at her own reflection and smiled. She is more happy naked than dressed, I thought. And how she moves, as if she was royalty. I’d always thought of her as ugly, but not anymore.

  She finally disappeared into the box bed. I put my glass to the wall and heard him groan and say, ‘Get off, leave me to slumber.’

  Geertje was back in sight in front of the bed, now trying to look coquettish, running her fingers through her hair like a young girl at a fair. All this while she was naked as an eel. I was alternating between looking and listening with the glass.

  His voice complained, ‘Go to your bed – the bull cannot tend to his cow tonight. He can only think of the pasture of his dreams.’ And then, ‘Let a man have his rest!’

  She put her hands on her hips for a moment, pondering her next move. Then she disappeared into his bed and immediately there were shuffling sounds and then something emerged from the bed: his feet with their soles pointing at the ceiling, followed by his legs. It was a strange sight, as if his legs and feet were levitating. Next came his behind, clearly visible as his nightshirt had ridden up. I wanted to look away but it was too late. His white buttocks gleamed much like the ring had done.

  Now his feet were grappling for a foothold against the floorboards but an invisible force was still holding on to his right arm and shirt from inside the bed. So he employed his left arm to advance ownership over his nightshirt, but to no avail; the tug of war over the shirt continued with neither party gaining more than an inch or two until he finally found a foothold and dragged not only his shirt but also Geertje out of the bed.

  She landed with a thump and a vexed screech on the floor and let go of him. The shirt was almost entirely over his head, depriving him of sight and the mobility of his arms, but his modesty was preserved by the shadows. He took the opportunity to arrange the garment somewhat more traditionally about his body. Geertje had no such concerns. She stood stark naked, howling like a fury, ‘It is her. You want her!’

  He mouthed something like, ‘What?’

  She screamed, ‘That sly, half-faced innocent!’

  I was so desperate to hear his response that I made sure the glass was well against the wall. His wits must have undergone restoration at the same time as his dignity for his response was calm, almost forgetful. ‘Oh, you mean the maid. God, no.’

  I could imagine the bored expression on his face. But then to my complete shock he added, as if by the by, ‘Geertje, you know we cannot go on living like this. People are . . .’

  ‘It’s never bothered you before.’

  ‘Yes, I don’t care but Six says it’s affecting our business – to the point where it’s untenable.’

  ‘Our business?’

  ‘It sustains you too,’ he said.

  ‘There is one way to stop them talking. Marry me. You promised.’

  At this, I quickly peeked through the peep-hole again. Geertje stood like a battlement, holding up the ring in front of his face. It was impressive that she could hold her own in an argument without so much as a thread on her.

  He raised his voice. ‘I did not.’

  ‘You did!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You liar!’

  ‘You knew that I was not in a position to . . .’

  She interrupted, ‘You cannot dispose of me like this, now that you’ve had what you wanted.’

  ‘You also wanted it,’ he pointed out.

  She opened her mouth but no further words came.

  He too remained silent. I shifted my position again in anticipation of lowered voices. I needn’t have, for she spoke with force. ‘But that’s not right. It’s just not right. Where would I go, how can I live? Think of everything I have done for you. Think of Titus. I am the only mother the boy has ever known.’

  No response from him.

  They both stood unmoving. Then he went to Geertje’s nightdress which still lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. He picked it up and gently straightened it as if he cared for the garment. Geertje sank into the armchair; for once she was stock-still. He knelt and gathered the sides of the shift as you would for a child and presented it to her. All she had to do was put her arms through. She did not move, and so he threaded it over each arm in turn and then slid the garment over her head.

  She leaned against his chest, closing her eyes and resting her head on his shoulder. I’d never seen them so close. He put one arm around her and then the other and then whispered something into her ear.

  I no longer felt like an innocent bystander. I’d caused this. The only moral action was to leave – I had to think of poor Titus.

  Rembrandt detached himself from Geertje and looked at her. He was still kneeling and took her hands into his. I pressed my ear to the glass as if my life depended on it. ‘You won’t be without means,’ he said. ‘I’ll see to that. We will come to an arrangement that you are happy with.’

  She looked at him and slowly stood. ‘All you want is to get rid of me so you can move on to her. The only person you truly care about is Rembrandt van Rijn. Everyone knows it but no one wants to believe it.’

  She paced across the room a few steps and he got to his feet. She turned to him again. ‘I know something
of the law and I will see to it that you pay what you owe me.’

  With that she walked from his room closing the door with deliberate quiet. I would have been less worried for him if she had slammed it shut.

  Autumn

  The next day I thankfully had time off, so I could stay out of Geertje’s way while her wrath was still fresh. I doubted she’d believe Rembrandt’s insistence that I had nothing to do with his decision. In the grey dawn I dressed quickly, packed some bread and cheese and slipped from the house. The greengrocers were already setting up their stalls and deliveries were in progress on both sides of the canal. The place was swarming. It was uncommonly warm and sunny for October so I headed towards the south-east, where on a previous outing I had come across a woodland strewn with streams and pools. In less than half an hour I arrived, sweating and panting. When I saw an opening in the fringe of thick undergrowth I delved into the forest. I soon came across a clump of majestic oaks. They towered above me, their thick trunks sprouting into many arms, which fingered into branchlets. Some still held red or yellow autumn leaves, trembling softly in the breeze. Dappled light played on the leaf-littered ground as if the entire forest was decked with the finest lace.

  Striding further into the wood, I heard rustling in the leaves and saw shiny black beetles crawling amongst them. Then I spotted a brown spider waiting in its web for prey – or perhaps a spider did not wait as man does. How dull waiting makes all things, how it narrows our view, obliterating most of the world while we drum our fingers in despair for the one thing we’ve set our heart on. Today I was not waiting.

  I sat down on a mossy rock next to the spider’s web. His long legs and body were in the centre of the web, where all the silken threads converged. If anything as much as brushed a far corner of his universe, he’d feel it instantly. My feet were on the soggy ground, my hands felt the springy moss on the stone.

  My eyes closed – the odd bird singing far and near, wind spreading through the leaves. And in between the sounds – an eternal quiet. A long breath out. Then silence.

  A flicker, a thought – of him. I smiled, brushing it aside, trying to regain my timeless bounty, but I could not. So I started walking again, drawn by the burbling water. I held my skirts up as I stepped over fallen branches, picking my way towards the sound. I found a glittering stream which meandered ever deeper into the forest. I followed it, balancing from rock to rock along its bank. After a good hour I came to a small grassy clearing beside the stream. The grass was not the familiar, thick-bladed kind but long and delicate; shocks of maidenhair sprouting from little mounds. My early rise caught up with me, and I wrapped myself into my coat and bedded down on the soft grass. Earthy perfumes soon carried me off.

  *

  When I woke again, I felt as if I’d slept in God’s own lap. And then I saw the figure of a man, sitting in the grass a few feet away. Him!

  I sat up; his entire demeanour was as if this place was his home and I should not be surprised to find him here.

  After a few moments he asked, ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘You have slept for a long time, very peacefully I think.’

  I could not believe he was here.

  ‘What an enchanting place this is,’ he said.

  He must have followed me, perhaps running even, for I’d been fast. I nearly laughed out loud at the thought. His eyebrows arched up and I attended to my dress, making sure all was where it should be.

  When I looked up again his eyes were still on me. I could not meet them so I got up and walked towards the stream and leant against a sturdy oak, to steady my trembling limbs.

  Our silence was filled by the gurgles and murmurings of the stream. It approached in a broad sway and then narrowed into a channel studded with rock. There it quickened, zipping and spilling across big boulders. He remained on the ground, resting his hands in his lap. I still could not look him in the face and yet I knew his eyes were on me by virtue of a kind of warmth; first on my legs, then my hips and arms and finally where my heart was beating. And with that my heart slowed and grew more restful.

  He rose and came to stand in front of me with a few feet between us. Still I kept looking at the water where it tumbled from a rock into a whirlpool. And then it was as if we met right there, within that gyre, for he was looking at it too. Our separate gazes – one.

  With two steps he brought himself closer, his body an inch or so from mine. I felt the warmth of him, his chest, his arms so close. My fingers on the furrowed bark behind.

  The bottom edge of his coat brushed against my stockinged leg. His breath quickened, as had mine. My fingers further tightened on the oak, to stop myself from touching him. My eyelids closed and in that dark I wished that he would close the gap between us, so I could feel his chest on mine. But he did not. He waited and waited until at last he moved, his arms reaching either side of me. Now he would cradle me – but no. He kept himself away, still braced against the oak.

  I wanted to un-buttress him. But I remained inert, afraid to reveal my wanting.

  Then soft and sudden, his hand on mine; pressing. And mine, turning, finding his fingers, wringing them for more. Our breaths one rhythm now. In, out, him, me, unfastening. My lips pressed tight from wanting more.

  And then he pulled his hand slowly from my grasp and brushed my face, with fingertips so feeling and minute in touching. I looked at him, saw eyes of grey, first smiling, then thinking. He stepped away from me but took my hand and helped me to the grass where we both lay down with a few feet between us. He did not touch me again.

  After a while he said, ‘What are we going to do?’

  I could not see the need to do anything ever again.

  The only other words that passed between us were those of leave-taking. He was due to meet a client back at the studio and off he went.

  I remained, my eyes aimless, except that they kept returning to the spot where he had been. The waters were sparkling just as bright and yet the forest now was wanting. You are love’s fool, I told myself. My thoughts crept back to him and to the house. I had acted without thinking. I needed to know what had caused his tender actions. Love or lust? He had told Geertje to leave and then followed me into the forest. It seemed simple enough. He wanted rid of her so he could have me. Most likely he wanted to have me in the way he’d had Geertje, and what good had that done her . . . No, it was not the same as Geertje. It was different. But then I thought of Petronella’s warning, to preserve what I had and not be a fool.

  I could think of nothing better than to hurry back to the house. I slowed only at the threshold to the kitchen, remembering that Geertje might not be well pleased to see me. I heard Titus laughing in the yard and as I approached the kitchen window I saw him with Geertje, throwing a rolled-up piece of linen back and forth over the half-empty washing line. She was a child’s delight, always eager for a game. Her back was to me so I thought I would remain unnoticed. She launched the little parcel in the air with vigour but as it winged its way to Titus she suddenly turned and looked at me. Did the hairs on her neck announce my presence? I sat down at the table listening to their cheerful voices and waiting for the inevitable storm.

  I’d rather have had a tooth ripped from my jaw than endure Geertje’s wrath. I thought again about Titus. He was about to lose a mother – of sorts. I too had lost a mother when she made me leave our house. I had been twenty-one then and he was only six. I would have to be a mother to him. I remembered a farmer’s cow that had at first rejected her newborn calf but after a few minutes had started licking it and allowed it to suckle. There was no hope of me suddenly knowing what to do with a child. And the streets were littered with chicks, babes, puppies and infants crying out to be coddled, fed and soothed. The thought made me shudder.

  Titus came running past me on his way upstairs to his father. Geertje followed, poured herself some beer and fell into a chair. I would tell her how sorry I was, how truly sorry. I would offer to leave. What could be
simpler than that? I opened my mouth and then closed it again – the words did not come.

  Geertje stared at the table and said, ‘It’s no surprise. To be noticed by him is no small matter. Especially for women like you and me.’

  There, she had not been fooled by his denials. Whether through observation or deduction, she knew his eye was on me. But surely the sting in her words was yet to come.

  ‘We strive for a secure position, a good marriage – for the means to keep ourselves in comfort.’ She looked up, her eyes straining to make out some fact in her distant past. ‘I had a husband, mostly a good man, but then he died.’

  Perhaps she counted this amongst his failings. Her finger was tracing a knot in the wood grain; round and round it went.

  ‘I felt so very sorry for Rembrandt,’ she said. ‘After Mistress Saskia died he was in a pit of despair. Could not find his way out, poor soul. I don’t know why I cared,’ she added. ‘It was bad, you know. He needed me more than Titus.’ She looked at me for the first time. ‘What I did not know then is that he has a way with folk. Look at his patrons. They’re always ready to forgive what by rights ought to have ruined him: his whoring with me, his tricks to squeeze more money out of them, his shuffling of debts instead of paying them. He has paid hardly any of what he owes on this house. He’s been in contempt of the purchase agreement and it’s not for lack of funds, but he prefers to buy useless things instead. Any other man would be called a fraudster, certainly not be given work. But our Rembrandt, he can do as he likes.’ She paused. ‘It’s because the master’s other great gift is to make people love him.’

  This had the ring of truth. Even from what I’d seen he’d not conducted himself well.

  ‘It’s strange they don’t realize they are not even getting a foul egg in return. No, it’s stranger still. They do know it. I knew it too and still I had to help him.’

  Her speech had been delivered in a measured voice up to this point but now she spoke with vehemence. ‘He made me promises, you know.’ She was holding up her ring. ‘He gave me a marriage medal too, un-engraved, only a matter of time, he had me think.’