Rembrandt's Mirror Read online

  I’d have to answer the door. I was right next to it. And there was the knock already. He looked surprised, but greeted me cordially and introduced himself as ‘Jan Six to see Rembrandt’. I’d never seen such a well-dressed gentleman. Even the collar of his shirt spilled over the doublet in such a smooth fashion that it had to be silk. His movements, too, were trailing, elegant, refined. He headed for the anteroom as though he knew his way around.

  Rembrandt burst in and embraced Six with so much vigour that I thought he might break the dainty creature. Both men patted each other’s backs as if it was a competition. Then they settled into the seats in the anteroom and I resumed my work in the hall. The intervening door remained open.

  ‘It’s been too long, old friend,’ said Rembrandt.

  ‘I know, I know. However, given the numbers you sell of these counterfeits of your visage, it’s as if I see you everywhere I go.’

  Rembrandt laughed and Six continued, ‘I must say it was a nice surprise not to be confronted with Geertje’s omelette features but a far more pleasant and, if I may add, appetizing sight. It’s just as well she’s not working for me as I might get myself into trouble.’

  Did he not realize I could hear every word? How dare he speak in this way? But most unsettling of all, he was of the opinion that I possessed some kind of appeal. Maybe men’s tastes in Amsterdam were different from those in Bredevoort?

  ‘Get to it,’ Rembrandt said. ‘Something is on your mind?’

  ‘’Tis true enough, dear friend. I am very concerned for you.’

  ‘What? I’ve not done anything, have I?’

  ‘You have.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Windmills.’

  ‘Windmills?’

  ‘Yes, you’ve been doing a great many windmills. It is said that you’ve fallen prey to some kind of excessive humour that has you painting them all day, every day.’

  At this Rembrandt and Six both burst into uncontrollable laughter, then Six resumed his normal tone of voice. ‘Seriously, my friend, certain esteemed and important burghers are getting disgruntled that you’ve been turning down their generous portrait commissions.’

  ‘Windmills are much prettier than their corm-nosed faces.’

  ‘Yes, but windmills are not in a position to return your affection for them with important and lucrative commissions.’

  ‘That is true but I wouldn’t want one or two patrons, no matter how important, to think they had marital rights over my brush.’

  Six chuckled. ‘I think there’s little danger of that as long as you make yourself and your brush widely available.’

  ‘You’ll be my teacher,’ said Rembrandt.

  More giggling. I could not believe the rudeness of their talk or the childishness. Six, while being much younger than Rembrandt, was not a youth anymore. Still, I could see the attraction of having a friend like Six.

  Six said, ‘I want you to do a portrait etching of me.’

  There was a pause, then Rembrandt said, ‘What kind?’

  ‘Whatever setting pleases you but I want it to be the epitome of sprezzatura.’

  ‘Still trying to be the perfect gentleman courtier, are we?’

  Silence from Six, then Rembrandt said, ‘All right, remind me of the qualities involved. As you can see, I’m a little out of practice myself.’ I thought of Rembrandt sprawling on the chair during lunch.

  ‘The usual, you know, attributes of both a contemplative life—’

  ‘A pamphlet . . .’ interjected Rembrandt.

  ‘. . . and an active and courageous one.’

  ‘A sword, scabbard, dagger, cape, maybe a dog.’

  ‘A dog?’ Six almost yelped.

  ‘Well, let’s say a hound, to signify the qualities of loyalty and friendship and that you are a member of the hunting classes.’

  ‘I see. All of this must seem effortless, as if we’ve put no thought into it at all.’

  ‘We’ll have you casually leaning against something, your nose stuck in one of your manuscripts.’

  ‘When can we start?’

  ‘Come by next week.’

  ‘I’m not sure about the dog, though,’ said Six.

  ‘Hound!’

  ‘All right, the hound,’ Six said.

  ‘Just bring it. I’ll do a quick sketch first.’

  ‘Do you realize that you’re the only painter in town who has his clients cater to him rather than him catering to his clients?’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  Six laughed and said, ‘You ought to draw her. She’d be a better cure for your windmill habit.’

  Thankfully, Geertje came in with some beer. As soon as she’d left, Six remarked, ‘There goes the true owner of your brush.’

  I expected more laughter but there was only silence, then Rembrandt got up and closed the door.

  When I’d finished with that great big window, I’d had quite enough of working near the main door and dealing with callers. I wanted to be alone. I grabbed the pile of sheets that Geertje had said needed darning and headed for the linen store. It was perfect – not so much for darning but for hiding. It was up one flight of stairs from the ground floor and was accessed from the mezzanine landing. In the left and right walls of the landing were little viewing windows or peep-holes that looked down into the double-height entrance hall on one side and into Rembrandt’s bedroom on the other. And straight ahead was the linen room. I went in, closing the door behind me. The smell of freshly washed linen welcomed me to my sanctuary. It was quite small and lit by only one window at the far end. I shoved the linen on to the table and took off my cap because I could never get used to the pressure of its ear irons against my temples. I settled into the high-backed wooden chair. If I’d had my foot-warmer, I would have felt just as comfortable as back at home. I sat close to the window to get as much light as possible on to the frayed hole. Soon I found a rhythm, bridging the edges with a lattice of thread. I missed the ticking of my father’s clock but at least my new surroundings were already beginning to feel familiar. This morning I’d put a candle by my bed in preparation for the second night.

  What had Six meant? There goes the true owner of your brush. Geertje certainly seemed to be in charge. None of this concerned me. I turned my attention to my own situation. I was twenty-one; it was getting late in the day. I needed to register with the church and involve myself in social activities. They spoke of marriage as a safe harbour after the treacherous straits of maidenhood but I viewed it differently. Maidenhood had been quite lacking in peril and I fervently hoped that marriage would prove to be my voyage of discovery. But what if I didn’t like anyone, not even in all of Amsterdam? And I always offended people, especially men. Despite what Six had said to Rembrandt, the truth was that I wasn’t pretty; I wasn’t tall and I wasn’t fair. I was as dark as a witch.

  The back of the chair had a vertical piece of wood down the middle which was now making itself felt. Stupid chair. I stood up and pushed it away and sat on the floor, stuffing some sheets behind my back. Much better. The door opened and in walked Rembrandt, nearly falling over my stretched-out legs. ‘Oh, Hendrickje.’

  ‘Forgive me, Master, I am just mending some linen.’ I couldn’t decide whether to stay on the floor or stumble to my feet in the small space.

  ‘It’s no bother to me, but can you see in this light?’

  ‘Erm yes, thank you, Master. I’m sorry, Master.’

  He gestured at the paper he had tucked under his arm. ‘I need to get some chalks. They are in the cupboard.’

  I mumbled further apologies and tried to get my legs out of his way.

  ‘No, no, don’t trouble yourself, I can get there.’

  He stepped around me and retrieved a small box. When he reached the door he suddenly stared at the top of my head as if I’d grown horns. He took the paper out from under his arm as if he meant to use it. What was he thinking? This was Six’s doing. I pulled the linen up to my shoulders as if it was a blanket. He breathed in
and then out with a little sigh. Then he tucked the paper back under his arm and left. ‘Forgive the disturbance,’ he said.

  Maybe he’d not thought of drawing me at all. I got up quickly and sat on the chair. Or he’d seen something behind me? I held the linen where he had looked and a beam of sunlight shone on that very spot; revealing a glowing forest of tiny fibres. My hair, without the cap, must have produced a similar effect. I probably looked as though I had a halo.

  Then I remembered the blackbird. The beautiful things I generally missed, how obvious they were to him, while I went about the world with my eyes half shut. I sat down again in the chair trying to find the hole I’d been working on.

  But I could not be at peace no matter how good the linen smelled. I gathered up the sheets once more and set off for the kitchen. Geertje was out and it would be warm and quiet there – at least until Titus returned from school.

  The next morning Samuel came into the kitchen. Geertje was scrubbing a pan and bubbles were rising up into the air. Samuel was lingering by the door and I thought again of the way he and his master had looked at one another.

  ‘Geertje, we need a model for class,’ said Samuel.

  A preposterous thought presented itself before it could be stifled. He wanted me as a model.

  Geertje turned and looked at me. ‘You’ll have to get one. I must be off to market.’

  ‘Oh,’ I replied. I had no idea what was involved.

  ‘Don’t stand there gawping, go out and find a body.’

  ‘A body?’ I said.

  ‘We’d hardly send you to fetch a proper lady from a mansion on the Herengracht,’ said Geertje.

  Both of them sniggered. Then she explained, ‘It’s for the life-drawing class. You go to the harbour – that’s where the street walkers are. Make sure you speak to one that you think the master would like the look of and offer her ten stuivers. That’s more than enough for a morning’s work.’

  ‘But how will I know a working woman from an ordinary one?’

  ‘Prostitutes look exceedingly gay and wear fine dresses, almost as gentlewomen do. But they don’t seem to know how to move in them with grace and their hands are coarse and marked.’

  ‘And how do I know which one to pick?’

  ‘So many questions from you today. You’ll have to guess. I grant you, it is difficult to know what suits his pencil – sometimes the more life’s left marks on them, the more he likes to draw them.’

  And with that and a chuckle, Geertje left.

  I was soon eyeing up the women and tried imagining them doing what they ordinarily got paid for. Being a model must be an infinitely more pleasant way to make money. They were all attractively attired, with low-cut dresses. When I got closer, I noticed that their cheeks and lips were painted with rouge, which gave them a lively appearance. I reminded myself that I was not choosing for a man but for an artist, for him. Were the two entirely separate? Which woman would he like to draw?

  I noticed a woman who looked far less pretty than the others. She was at least forty, of squat, voluminous build. While the others made a great show of giggling, waving, smiling and joking with one another, she stood there, looking bored. Every now and then she opened her jaws to indulge in an extended and noisy yawn, which revealed one of her canine teeth to be missing. Even Geertje would have appeared something of a beauty next to her.

  I had the power to bestow a favour – a giddying prospect for someone like me. I chose her. Lacking in attractiveness, she was more likely to be in need of money and therefore less likely to turn me down. And with her well-trodden looks she might well suit his purpose.

  I began by offering her less than the ten stuivers, like Geertje did when she haggled over a joint of lamb. When she answered, I was surprised how well spoken she was, and she had a foreign accent, possibly German. After a brief negotiation we were on our way back to Rembrandt’s studio. What a strange pair we must have made, her in a bright green dress and me in my brownish house wear. Like me, she was a fast walker. I thought again about her occupation. It was not only a crime in the eyes of the law, it was a cardinal sin that would be punished by God either in this life or the next and yet she continued in this way. It was unfathomable.

  I showed her into the studio, where she was greeted by Rembrandt and the pupils, Dirck, Nicolaes, Johann Ulrich and Samuel. Then I remained, for I was curious. Unfortunately, they were all looking at me – as if the commencement of their work depended on my leaving.

  As I descended the stairs, I imagined the street-walker taking off her clothes, revealing what I imagined to be folds of flesh. Would the men be watching while she did this? Then she would pose either lying down, sitting or standing up on the little platform by the stove. Try as I might, I could not picture her stark naked with Rembrandt and the boys all looking at her. And yet it was happening right now, a necessary part of a painter’s education.

  An hour or so later Dirck shouted down the stairs for refreshments. I took up a jug of beer and mugs and paused before the door, afraid to go in. I put the tray on the floor and knocked.

  Rembrandt shouted, ‘Enter!’

  I waited, still incapable of crossing the threshold and hoped someone would come and fetch the beer. No one came. I shouted through the closed door, ‘Will someone fetch the beer, if you please?’

  I heard laughter from inside. It enraged me. I picked up the tray and pushed the door open, bracing myself for their stares, but Rembrandt knocked with his knuckles on a nearby table and the boys returned their attention to the street walker. She was sitting on a low chair by the stove, with her legs drawn together and one hand in her lap, whether out of shyness or because the pose demanded it I could not tell, but seeing her bored expression I concluded that the preservation of her modesty was the least of her worries. She was all thighs, arms and two colossal orbs of flesh that hung like cowbells over her belly. I’d never seen a woman like her naked before – I’d never seen anyone naked. Her face was framed by a woollen mass of greyish brown hair which softened her features.

  The boys were engrossed in drawing, their heads hardly moving, perhaps to maintain a consistent angle while drawing the woman. What was he doing? As I looked at him, I was mortified to discover that he was looking at me. I started to gather up the empty mugs next to the students. He got up and addressed the group. ‘You may think that the world is divided into what you can see with your eyes and what is hidden from your eyes: the visible and the invisible. We are here to study the visible. Not what you can see in your head when you imagine something, no, you must study what you see right here.’

  He pointed at the model. ‘Can you see the indentations on her lower thighs from wearing garters? Don’t miss them out, or any other detail; don’t call it ugly or beautiful. Study her with the same care as you would search for a painful but tiny splinter of glass in your finger. Let each line of her body draw your attention, just as the nagging pain of the splinter compels you to look for it with the utmost attentiveness. You are a lot of lazy gawkers. Rouse yourselves, for if you miss one mark, one line, one shadow, one curve – you will miss out on knowing this particular woman, right here in front of you, and what have you got then? Nothing. And worse, whoever looks at your drawing will also miss out on knowing her, but not only her – he will miss out on knowing life itself and he will feel cheated. Worst of all, he won’t part with a stuiver for your work.’

  They all laughed, but he continued with great sincerity. ‘This poor, battered body is your gateway to the invisible. You can make it manifest in your drawing, but you must use your eyes as if your very life depended on you knowing her body a hundred times better than you know your own.’

  They had all stopped drawing and were staring mesmerized at the woman’s body. Then Rembrandt added, ‘Once you know every single line on her body by heart and can draw her blind, then the invisible part of her will be revealed to you. Her true beauty. Then you will be able to draw her perfectly, using only a handful of strokes with your pencil. B
ut until then you need to lovingly draw each and every wrinkle.’

  I left the room quietly as they settled back down to work. What had he meant by her true beauty? If even the ugliest of the street-walkers possessed it, did Geertje possess it? Did I possess it? The invisible, a lovely word, so full of promise.

  I went down to the kitchen and started peeling apples. The redness of the peel, the wormholes, the frayed edges where my knife had cut – all of it exquisite. Instead of placing all the pieces in the pot to be conserved for the winter, I started devouring them immediately.

  After about an hour or so I heard the pupils leave. I couldn’t eat any more apples, so some were at last finding their way into the bowl. Samuel came in and sat down at the table, helping himself to a few chunks. He had replaced his tabard with a white shirt with a simple collar and a black jacket which was almost threadbare at the elbows.

  ‘Are you feeling a little more at home yet? I know it’s only been a few days.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘thank you.’ Awkwardness was creeping up on me. What if he liked me? He was probably just passing the time of day.

  ‘How long have you been with the master?’ I asked.

  ‘For a few years,’ he replied.

  ‘Will you stay on until your training is complete?’

  ‘I’m more of an assistant now.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ I said, mortified by the mere possibility of offence. I sought safety in further questions. ‘What were you doing on the day that I arrived?’

  He looked confused.

  ‘You know the table, the broken bread, like theatre,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, the Supper at Emmaus.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘When I walked in, you were all like statues.’

  I thought he’d smile but he looked at the wall the way people did when they did not want to talk about something. Then he picked up a long strand of apple peel, leaned back in his chair and started arranging it with his hands as if he wanted to turn it into a whole apple again.

  ‘At times he likes us to take on parts like actors so we come to the Bible in our own way rather than copy the ideas of others.’