Rembrandt's Mirror Read online

  ‘I extend my good wishes to you and Mijnheer van Dorsten.’ My mouth formed the words well enough but they were so loud, spoken like this against the glass.

  ‘Thank you,’ I heard her say behind me. ‘It will be good for everyone.’

  One of the little girls outside was bending over with laughter. Had she heard what my mother had said? Then I started to see where the threads crossed over; he was a widower with three children under the age of five and she was a widow. My brothers and sister had all found occupations near Bredevoort; but there was a single thread left, useless on its own: me.

  I turned to face her, trying not to lose my balance on the wobbly footstool. She was still speaking to me. ‘I’m sorry, Hendrickje, but it’s time for you to leave home. You’re twenty-one and we will need the space, especially with three little ones to look after. Not right away, but you should make plans to depart for Amsterdam and find work within a few months.’

  Then her mouth opened and closed again as if she might say something else. After a few ticks of the clock she turned and left.

  I climbed down from the footstool, sat on it and looked at the dirty water in the bucket. Let van Dorsten deal with his windows.

  The Supper at Emmaus

  Rembrandt’s house, Sint-Anthonisbreestraat, July 1647

  I arrived at the imposing house with its many windows and red shutters. I ran up the few steps to the front door, lifted the knocker and held it. Once I let it hit the plate there’d be no turning back from my new life. I gave three determined knocks.

  The housekeeper, a woman of sturdy frame and resolute airs, opened the door and almost dragged me inside by my elbow. In the entrance hall there were two gentlemen seemingly waiting.

  Geertje grumbled, ‘Might as well take the lot of you up now. I doubt he’ll welcome the interruption.’ At the same time she was stripping me of my coat as you would a child. Then she gestured at a tray of mugs and a jug of beer on a side table, but as I made to lift the tray, she told me, ‘Wait,’ and handed me the jug only. Then she waved her arms, herding us up the stairs like errant sheep.

  She followed close behind with the clippety-clop of her clogs and the clanking of mugs on the tray. When we reached the door the gentlemen hesitated and looked at each other. Geertje huffed at the delay and pointed with her chin at the door. One of the gentlemen took a deep breath, lifted his hand and rapped the door so gingerly that he barely produced a sound.

  ‘Enter!’ a voice called from inside.

  I feared that all eyes would be on me, but instead our arrival was utterly ignored. Everyone in the big room was motionless, as if we’d walked into a religious tableau of wooden figurines. Three young men were seated around a table, which stood on a little platform. The one on the left had a pale complexion and short brown hair, while the one on the right had long trailing locks and a pointy nose. Our preacher at home always said long hair was a sinful pleasure in a man.

  Between them sat a boyish-looking youth who appeared modest despite his long brown hair, perhaps because of his air of quiet seriousness. The other two were gazing at him as if transfixed, while the boy was looking straight ahead at a man who I assumed was the master. He sat a few feet away, leaning forward in his chair. He was wearing a broad-rimmed hat, which partially shaded his face but did not conceal his furrowed brow. I’d never seen eyes so still and intent. He held the boy’s gaze as if his life depended on it, or was it the boy who held his?

  I moved further into the room and around them so I could see better. The table was decked with pewter dishes, tablecloth, wine and some bread and there were also a few scrunched-up napkins. It was not too difficult to surmise that they were posing for a picture but if they were models why were they wearing grubby working garb and why were the boy and master locked in wordless communion?

  The boy was holding the broken bread and there was wine on the table so it had to be a scene from the Bible and I guessed that he was Jesus and this was the Last Supper, where Jesus breaks the bread and says This is my body, which is given for you. I’d always thought it very good of Jesus to atone for everyone’s sins.

  There was something so beautiful about the boy’s face that I too could not take my eyes off him; perhaps it was his expression, so understanding and so feeling.

  I prised my eyes away and looked again at Rembrandt. I’d imagined him so differently, but his face was entirely ordinary: broad with a biggish nose. The eyes as alive as the boy’s, but the rest of his face was slack, lifeless – as if some part of him was absent. And the boy? His face was replete with what his master’s lacked – faith and hope.

  Then, suddenly, Rembrandt clapped his hands, saying, ‘That’s it, boys,’ and turned to us. He greeted the two gentlemen and I prepared myself to speak, but he just nodded at me with a smile and I curtseyed, something I’d never done before, but a nod did not seem enough. Geertje stood grinning at me, apparently finding my curtsey very funny.

  The boy playing Jesus looked strangely moved, almost to the point of tears. I wondered why and warmed to him, because his every emotion was displayed on his face.

  ‘Now take turns and sketch the scene and don’t introduce a mountain of objects, like fruit and tableware – they’ll only distract from what’s important,’ Rembrandt told the boys.

  Then he instructed the gentlemen to swap places with the boys at the table, calling the one with the locks Johann Ulrich, the one with the short hair Dirck and the Jesus-one Samuel. I made sure to remember their names.

  The boys settled themselves with their sketching utensils on footstools either side of Rembrandt.

  Geertje was gesturing to me to fill the mugs with beer, which I did on a side table. She watched me as if she feared I’d spill it. I piled the empty mugs on the tray, still observing the goings-on. Rembrandt got up and paced around as he spoke.

  ‘Well, boys, what are we going to do?’

  ‘Choose the most powerful moment of the story,’ said Dirck.

  ‘Yes, we want the viewer to hang with his eyes on the painting like a baby on his mother’s nipple.’

  The boys groaned at the metaphor.

  Rembrandt asked them, ‘So which moment would you choose?’

  ‘When they finally recognize Jesus at Emmaus,’ said Johann Ulrich.

  ‘With their hearts,’ added Dirck.

  So, it had not been the Last Supper – I should have realized, I thought.

  ‘Why that moment and no other?’ asked Rembrandt.

  ‘Because that’s when we can show the very strongest emotions on the disciples’ faces and by seeing these intense feelings the viewer will be moved the most,’ said Dirck.

  ‘Quite right,’ said Rembrandt, ‘perhaps even be changed by what he sees. That’s how you conquer the viewer’s attention and keep it.’

  They all nodded.

  Rembrandt seated himself again and he and the boys started drawing. I could not fit any more empty mugs on the tray, nor were there more to fill, but I remained, hoping no one would notice my idleness. Rembrandt sat in his chair, legs crossed, a wooden tablet with drawing paper on his thigh, wearing a well-worn tabard. There was nothing about his appearance or his demeanour that suggested he was a master, rather his authority was bestowed on him. It showed in the way each pupil worked with perfect single-mindedness and in how they glanced over his shoulder, as if his drawing contained all the answers.

  Not quite every person shared in this veneration, for when Geertje saw that I now occupied myself distributing the filled-up mugs, she said loudly, ‘They’ll help themselves if they’re thirsty.’

  So I made to leave, bending down to pick up the tray of used mugs. I felt the distinct brush of a hand against the side of my leg. When I looked up, Johann Ulrich’s eyes were staring at me with a curious expression, as if he’d posed a question to which he half knew the answer. It was that strange look more than the touch which alarmed me. I turned away and left quickly so he would not notice the heat in my face.

  When we we
re in the kitchen Geertje said, ‘Never mind Johann.’ Did she have eyes in the back of her head? ‘If you don’t encourage him, he’ll soon tire of it, unless you want to encourage him?’

  This was not said accusingly but with a smile. I shook my head.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘these boys are not the pick of the crop, drawing and painting all day. If you’d been here when Carel Fabritius was about, now there was a man worth looking at – despite being a painter. Come, it’s time to get cooking.’

  I was more than content with scrubbing carrots and leeks – they at least were familiar to me.

  Geertje started laying the table with delicate porcelain bowls which had blue dragons snaking around their rims. I’d never eaten out of anything other than pewter, let alone had my soup embroidered with dragons.

  ‘I know,’ Geertje said. ‘He bought them at a knock-down price. People order china decorated with flowers but the Chinese keep on shipping dragons.’ She shrugged her shoulders.

  I wondered about a land where dragons were more desirable than flowers. The table was set for three: Rembrandt and the two gentlemen. I’d never served anyone at table before. Geertje lugged the huge hutspot we’d made on to the table. Shredded beef and vegetables were floating in the broth.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘He’s often late – no good letting the food go cold.’

  No serving then, I’d have to eat with him. I would not be able to swallow a thing. I remembered being in my teacher’s study in Bredevoort along with my brothers, looking at prints by Leonardo, Raphael, Rubens and Rembrandt. Our teacher had spoken with the same breathless tone that he normally reserved for the Holy Father: ‘Rembrandt – our greatest artist.’ Then his voice had dropped to a whisper as he described seeing a portrait by Rembrandt at the Burgomaster’s house. ‘It was as if there was another person in the room. Only by going right up to it could I convince myself that it was only paint on canvas.’

  Rembrandt walked in, tossed his tabard on a chair and let himself fall into his seat. He not so much sat as lay sprawled in his chair, arms and legs everywhere. Geertje ladled soup into his bowl, then placed it wordlessly in front of him. I sat with my hands in my lap. He leaned forward and sniffed the soup. ‘Mmm, hutspot, just what is needed.’

  Then he turned to me. ‘So what do you make of our city?’

  ‘It is a well-organized warren, Master,’ I said, immediately thinking how rude I was.

  ‘Ah yes, it is certainly expanding at the rate of a warren.’ He chuckled and I looked down. ‘And there’s no need to call me “Master”, you’re not one of my pupils.’

  I nodded, but what was I supposed to call him? At least I had not begun eating yet. It would have been mortifying without the prayers having been spoken. But he immediately started spooning soup into his mouth. How immoral not to thank the Lord for one’s food. There was nothing to be done about it except to say a little prayer in my mind. Then he and Geertje discussed what purchases to make as if they were at the market. How could they eat and talk at the same time? At home we’d always eaten in silence. I tried to keep my eyes off the contents of Geertje’s mouth.

  A little boy with golden locks, about six years of age, burst into the room holding something small and dead in his hand. Rembrandt picked him up and threatened to squeeze him flat as a pancake, much to the boy’s delight. ‘This is Titus,’ Geertje said, soup almost dribbling from her chops. ‘And this is Hendrickje,’ Rembrandt said, pointing at me with his index finger.

  Titus greeted me and said, ‘I found a dead bird on the way to school but they wouldn’t let me bring it in and show it to the other children.’ He shrugged his shoulders in incomprehension, the poor thing still dangling from his hand by its legs.

  ‘Oh.’ I was as usual at a loss for anything to say to a child.

  Geertje hugged and kissed him too and he seated himself next to her, putting the bird on the table by his bowl, which did not seem to bother Rembrandt or Geertje in the slightest. From then on she talked to Titus incessantly, captain of the voyages of his spoon through the soup. ‘Now that big chunk of carrot, no, not the beef again, now for the swede.’ Any sign of mutiny was quelled with a reminder that rice pudding awaited the successful captor of the floating vegetables.

  I kept my head down but could not help glancing at the master when I thought he would not notice. His hair was a light brown, slightly curly, and he had a moustache which was the only appealing feature he possessed. It was neither too slight nor fluffed out to ridiculous proportions. It was in truth just right.

  When he had finished, he declined the rice pudding, saying he’d better get on with things in the studio; the pupils were gone now and he could get down to proper work. On his way out he kissed his son again and turned to me. ‘Hendrickje, I hope you’ll soon feel at home.’

  ‘Thank you, Master,’ I said.

  He said to Titus. ‘I’m sure Hendrickje would love to see your bird.’ Was there a grin behind his innocent expression?

  Titus put his spoon down and enthusiastically grabbed the bird by the neck, holding it in front of my face. It was a sorry little thing, a young blackbird. I presented my cupped hands because, dead or not, I could not bear to see it being held by the neck like that. Titus laid the bird on my palms. Rembrandt came closer too.

  I said to Titus, ‘Look, it’s grown a lot of its proper feathers already but I don’t think it was ready to fly.’

  ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘It must have fallen out of the nest in a storm.’

  ‘Why did its parents not save it?’

  ‘They couldn’t get it back into the nest but they might have tried to feed it on the ground.’

  ‘So why did it die then?’

  I looked at Rembrandt for a clue as to whether to divulge the horrible truth. He nodded, so I said, ‘They need the warmth of their siblings. It probably died of cold.’

  ‘I have no brothers or sisters either,’ said Titus, and poked the nail of his finger into the beak, trying to prise it open. Then he asked hopefully, ‘Do you think it’s got maggots inside yet?’

  ‘Probably not yet,’ said Rembrandt and knelt down on one knee, so his face was level with the bird in my hand. His grey eyes set upon it, his irises moving only ever so slightly as he studied the bird, feather by feather. I hoped my hands wouldn’t tremble. His face looked different closer up, coarser. So many lines that I could not make sense of. Too many lines. He had lived too much, making him look more worn than he should. He approached the bird with his index finger. I thought he’d start poking it like Titus had but instead he brushed gently over the bird’s neck and shoulders, his eyes still fixed on it, as were mine. The feathers glistened where he’d smoothed them. And then I saw; they were not black or rather the black was made up of many colours. How had I not noticed until this moment? The blackbird might as well have been a bird of paradise for how it struck me now: a parade of amber, brown and black and countless shades in between were visible on each tiny featherlet.

  He glanced at me before rising, and I had the strange notion that I’d seen what he had seen and that he knew.

  I felt very tired when Geertje finally left the kitchen, which was where I slept. There was a box bed in the corner. From it I could see the embers still glowing in the hearth but the rest was darkness. Where did they keep the candles? I’d never be able to find the chamber pot in the dark. I hugged the pillow to my chest, thinking of my brother Harmen. If only I could talk to him now. When I was little he’d read bedtime stories to me. There was a sick feeling in my stomach. Why was I the one who had to leave? Martijne, being the oldest, had moved out but my mother and my brothers were all snug at home now with the van Dorstens – a merry lot.

  Still, I was working in the house of the greatest painter in Holland. That’s when it struck me as odd that I had been hired by Geertje so easily and swiftly. First she had stood frowning, clearly having no intention of letting me over the threshold. But then, after a moment’s thought, she started b
abbling as if we were to become the best of friends. She hailed from Gouda. Her name was Geertje. Where was I from? Did I have any experience?

  ‘None,’ I confessed.

  When could I start?

  ‘Immediately,’ I said as nonchalantly as I could, even though an offer of employment from her was the last thing I’d expected.

  She’d looked at me with her pale blue eyes, frowning again, and said she’d take me on.

  Perhaps she could see that I was young and strong. Perhaps she thought my inexperience meant I was not set in my ways and she could teach me. But why had she not presented me to the master of the house? It was most unusual for a housekeeper to be entrusted with hiring a maid.

  I closed my eyes but sleep would not come. The sights of the day pressed themselves upon me: the entrance hall with its towering walls, hung with oil paintings from floor to ceiling. Quite a few of them were portraits he had done of himself. I thought of the one with the fur collar and the fanciful hat. I noticed it each time. It was from 1640 so it depicted him in his mid thirties (Geertje had told me that he was now forty-one years of age). At first the face had seemed remote, haughty even, but when I’d looked at it again, after lunch, a sympathetic humour had appeared that lurked behind the serious expression. I was so close to sleep that impressions jumbled together. The black feathers of the bird that had suddenly revealed their colours. What it must be to see the world as he sees it. The oily ink smell that seeped from the print room. The knuckles of the gentleman, tapping so carefully on the door. The staircase winding on up to his studio and beyond into the dark unknown. And Geertje, the way she’d placed the bowl in front of him as if he were a dog.

  In the morning of my second day, Geertje charged me with cleaning the windows of the entrance hall. The glass was very dirty, but as soon as I wiped it, the obscuring veil was lifted from the merchants, carts and children playing on the street. A gentleman was approaching the house. He had light, curly, shoulder-length hair and wore a black doublet and breeches, so well-fitting they seemed to flow with him as he walked.