The Golden Tulip Read online

  Hendrick said grace and all sat down. Since the day of Anna’s going an uneasy silence had prevailed at mealtimes. Cheerful chatter was a thing of the past. Now and again there was a request for something to be passed along the table and Maria would make a comment about the weather, but that was all. Hendrick did not look at anyone, but sat in his cocoon of grief, eating automatically whatever he had on his plate. Normally he was a hearty eater who enjoyed his food, but now if something he wanted was not within reach he could not be bothered to ask for it.

  This morning Francesca could sense that the new move of her taking Anna’s chair had upset everyone, even Hendrick, although it had been done by his wish. The tension was building and she steeled herself for the moment when someone’s tears would break forth. She hoped they would not be her own. Until now, in order to give some succor to her sisters and Maria, she had shed her own floods of racking tears in the privacy of her room and kept a brave face otherwise.

  The sudden loud sob came from an unexpected quarter. It was Griet who covered her face with her apron and fled from the kitchen. Hendrick did not look up from his plate. Then Sybylla exploded into hysterical tears, picking up her cup like a baby and smashing it down on her plate, spilling milk everywhere.

  “I don’t want Mama to be dead any longer!” It was the heart cry of the bereaved when after an initial state of numbing shock the empty gap begins to yawn. As Francesca sprang up to go to her, Sybylla added deliberately to her misdeed by picking up the basket of bread and throwing it across the room. But the attention she had expected from her father was not forthcoming. Instead of flying into a rage, he simply pushed back his chair and left the table to shut himself away in the family parlor, which he seemed to be making his place of retreat.

  It was the first of many such scenes with Sybylla. She would throw tantrums and lie on the floor kicking her heels at the slightest provocation. Maria, finding her former means of discipline no longer worked on the child, called on Francesca to deal with her every time. Aletta, who had been closest to Anna, became deeply attached to Francesca and they would sit talking together as they never had before. First of all, it was about Anna and their memories of her, finding at last that they could laugh about funny things that had happened, which made her come more alive for them than remembrances of a more serious kind. Later they began to confide hopes and dreams.

  They went together into the studio to look at the life-size portrait of Anna there. The studio had not been used for some time, because Hendrick had not been near it, and the half-finished painting of a mythical scene on the easel was as it had been on the day of Anna’s death. The two sisters stood side by side to look up at Anna, whose twinkling eyes always looked right into the eyes of the viewer from any direction. Her laughing face framed by the banner of her hair, the flowing movement of her gown and the glimpse of one foot in its pink satin shoe showing beneath the hem, conveyed her whole warm presence to them.

  “Let’s set up our easels and start painting in this corner of the studio with Mama’s portrait on the wall,” Francesca suggested.

  Aletta agreed eagerly. Nobody had encouraged them more in their art than Anna. This first step in beginning to paint again was like doing something for her.

  Among Francesca’s new domestic duties was the keeping of the household accounts. She had been well taught in all domestic matters and running the house was not causing her any headaches. On the rare occasions when she sought Hendrick’s advice, he would always give her the same reply.

  “Do as your mother would have done.”

  That was well enough, but when it came to settling bills and there were only a few stivers left in the housekeeping box she felt the time had come to get her father to work again. For six weeks he had spent his time shut away in the family parlor, where he drank by himself at all hours of the day, or else he went out to the taverns and idled his time away there. She spoke of the matter to Willem de Hartog, her father’s art dealer, when she called on him one day, a leather folder of Hendrick’s etchings under her arm.

  To reach de Hartog’s residence she had to cross Dam Square, which was the heart of this fan-shaped city of bridges that lived on and with water. Anna had always liked to buy vegetables and fish from the market stalls here, saying the produce was always fresh, and there was so much to see whatever the season of the year. There was a busy scene on any weekday, for here trading took place on several levels. City affairs were conducted at the Town Hall, which was a grand building ornamented with pilasters and cornices with great pedimental sculptures of sea gods. Cargoes from the ships dropping anchor by the Dam were dealt with at the weighhouse. The whole square and the streets leading to it thronged with people, wagons, coaches and handcarts. Peddlers bawled their wares, dogs barked and she kept out of the path of some drunken seamen who came reeling out of the tavern, singing raucously. Francesca paused to watch a team of tumblers in yellow-and-pink costumes performing to the music of a flute and a drum, which blended discordantly with the shrill notes of a trumpet being blown by a quack doctor’s assistant to gain the attention of passersby.

  It was far quieter when she thumped the silver knocker of Willem de Hartog’s house. A maidservant admitted her, invited her to sit and then went to fetch the art dealer. The main ground-floor rooms of his house made up his gallery and in the reception hall where she sat there were many paintings set off by the walls of gilt leather.

  Willem came to her at once. He was a tall, thin and dignified man with brindled gray hair, his lean face trimmed with a mustache. He had attended her mother’s funeral and had not seen her since, which was why he greeted her with a kiss on the hand and the cheek.

  “What a pleasure to see you, Francesca! How is your father? Are you managing well?” He led her into another room where there were more works of art on the walls and they sat down at opposite sides of a narrow table on which she placed the leather folder of etchings. When he asked after Janetje she told him how deeply distressed her aunt had been to receive the news of Anna’s death. “Her reply to my letter was so sad. She and my mother had always been close.” Francesca talked easily with him, for he had been her father’s friend and agent since before she was born. He had recently married a third wife, although his children by both previous marriages were grown up and wed themselves with no need of a mother. This was often the reason why a widower went speedily into a new marriage as soon as was decently possible. She did not think her father would take such a step.

  “So you see,” she said in conclusion after they had talked awhile, “I feel I must get Father back to work in the studio, even if I have to use desperate measures. Not just because we’ve run out of money, but because he needs to work now more than ever. None of us will ever get over losing Mama.” Her voice faltered, but she swallowed and carried on. “But she would have wanted us all to continue as if she were still in the house, which, in a way, she is with that wonderful portrait of her in the studio.”

  “I agree. Would you like me to talk to Hendrick?”

  She shook her head. “That’s most kind, but you know how easily he takes offense and I wouldn’t want him to fall out with you after all these years.”

  Willem smiled. “I think I’ve broad enough shoulders to take whatever Hendrick should aim, knowing him as well as I do. However, I’ll leave it to you to see what can be done, but if all else fails, do get in touch with me at once.”

  She thanked him and then opened the folder of etchings, explaining that she had gathered them from various drawers in the studio and hoped he would be able to sell them. He looked through them all. Most were of Amsterdam, but there were a few others of boats and barges on the canals by windmills in the countryside. He guessed that Hendrick had been dissatisfied with each one for some reason or another, which was why he had never seen any of them before, but that had nothing to do with the matter now. Hendrick’s daughter needed money for bread on the table and he would give her an advance on them to the full value of what he expected to get.
This was a time when he would forfeit his commission, as he had done on two or three previous occasions when her father had been in desperate straits, not that Hendrick had ever known. His enormous pride was as touchy as his temper.

  On the way home again Francesca shopped carefully. She practiced all the economies she had been taught for difficult times. When she had deposited her purchases in the kitchen she went to Hendrick, who sat with a glass of grape brandy in his hand.

  “Father,” she said, steeling herself. “I took some of your etchings to Willem today.”

  He looked at her, bleary-eyed. “Did he take them? Good.”

  “There aren’t any more. If you don’t start painting again soon I’ll have to take something else to sell. I could start with one of the smaller portraits of Mama that are hanging in this room. Later it may have to be the studio one.”

  He leapt out of his chair, hurling the glass and its contents into the fireplace, creating a roar of flame, and with his face a crimson mask of fury he swung up his hand to strike her. She faced him squarely, waiting for the blow to fall and did not flinch. His hand shook as he checked his action and then he let his arm drop to his side. He had never struck any one of his children and he realized painfully why she had goaded him as she had done. Reaching out, he drew her gently to him, cupping her head against his chest. His voice rumbled under her ear.

  “I think I’ll go along to the studio now and do some more work on that painting of Andromeda.”

  Francesca closed her eyes in thankfulness. Nothing was completely solved yet, but a beginning had been made.

  HENDRICK WAS NEVER to work again as regularly as he had when Anna was alive. His commitment as an artist had not diminished, but at times when a painting was almost finished he would break off and be away for several days at his own pleasures. It was as if he felt himself entitled to a reward for a spate of dedication to work in spite of his bereavement. This always infuriated Willem, waiting to sell the work, and exasperated Francesca, who continued to struggle to make ends meet, for nothing had changed in that respect.

  Like her mother before her, she had become expert in juggling the creditors. When she received money for the housekeeping she would pay one tradesman in full and allow just enough to the rest to take the edge off their tempers. None of them had anything against her personally, any more than at Anna before her, for it was Hendrick they blamed for everything. Since they frequented the same taverns, their resentment would surge at the sight of him deep in his cups or flashing his money for any kind of wager when their account books had mounting figures of what he owed.

  It was not only his new and erratic pattern of work that drastically reduced the tuition he gave his daughters. He had simply lost interest in teaching them. His resentment against giving instruction had come to the fore again now that Anna was no longer there to be pleased with their progress. It became obvious to the girls that their mother’s generous praise for his efforts had been mainly instrumental in the close guidance he had given them in the past. Sybylla was overjoyed to be free of the studio. Her tantrums had subsided with the passing of time, but she waged a constant battle with Maria, who was determined to make her as competent at domestic chores as her sisters. Her exultation at leaving school on her twelfth birthday was dampened by the discovery of how many more hours a day she would have to spend mending and polishing and baking. On the day she had to scrub the stoop and pavement outside the house, normally Griet’s task, she made a vow to herself, grumbling aloud to the soapsuds.

  “I’m never going to do any of these chores when I’m married. Neither shall I be poor! Somehow I must find a rich husband quickly. Then I’ll get away from Maria and have everything I want!”

  DURING THE NEXT two years Sybylla kept a keen lookout every time she went to the Korvers’ home. They were the only well-to-do people she knew and really rich men came to their house. When she was fifteen and her mirror showed her a pretty, dimpled face with sparkling mischievous eyes and a bosom of which she was proud, she thought she had found what she was looking for in Jacob Korver. He had come home from serving his apprenticeship and she had grown up in his absence. They looked at each other with new eyes. With his dark good looks and a future destined to be even more prosperous than that of his father, he filled her every requirement.

  From him she received her first kiss. They were alone in the garden, hidden from the sight of the house. She melted toward him and was awakened to the first taste of the delights to be found in a man’s arms, his lips warm and eager on hers.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, his face tender and adoring. He was totally infatuated with her.

  “Kiss me again,” she demanded shamelessly. It was even more thrilling the second time, for he placed his hand over her breast. They were breathless with delight and with each other.

  “We shall be betrothed!” he declared recklessly.

  But it was not to be. Heer Korver invited Hendrick for a glass of wine and they agreed amicably that a match between a Jewish boy and a girl brought up in the Dutch Reformed Church would not be suitable. They finished the bottle between them and parted in the same good neighborliness as before. Jacob was sent off to learn about buying diamonds in foreign lands and Sybylla found herself back where she had started with a wedding ring as far away as ever.

  Chapter 3

  FRANCESCA HAD MANY TEMPESTUOUS SCENES TO SETTLE WITH Sybylla over Jacob and there was no peace for anyone. Hendrick kept out of the way as much as possible, either leaving the house when trouble erupted or locking himself in the studio. Then, almost overnight, Sybylla accepted the situation. Nobody was more relieved than Francesca, for her painting had been severely disrupted, it being impossible to concentrate with such turmoil in the house. Looking in the mirror on the day she heard her younger sister laughing again, she wondered that she did not look thrice her age of seventeen years.

  She was unaware of the extent to which her face had taken on an unusual and striking beauty, for she saw no symmetry in her features such as she admired in others and she was dismissive of compliments. Yet there was a haunting, fascinating quality to her expressive visage that Hendrick had long recognized in his paintings of her, and which was further enhanced by her lustrous green eyes, the upper lids weighed down by thick lashes. Her nose was narrow with delicately flaring nostrils and her neck was long, giving her a swanlike poise. Her cheekbones were wide, as was her mouth, but her lips were curved and her complexion was smooth as creamy silk.

  She enjoyed men’s company and, had she allowed it, could have been like any girl in becoming attracted to one or another handsome smile. It was not always easy to turn away, although by now the boys she had known since childhood had given up pursuing her, the older ones betrothed or wed elsewhere. The decision she had made long ago to be an artist had not changed and marriage was something she did not intend to contemplate for years to come, if ever.

  The letter from Janetje was delivered one morning shortly before Francesca was to pose in another of many sittings for Hendrick, who was painting her as Flora, the goddess of spring. With about ten minutes to spare, she darted upstairs to her bedchamber, where she could read it on her own before sharing it with the rest of the family. Her hair, loosened in readiness for the sitting, hung in waves down her back and swirled out as she settled herself on the cushioned window seat, the sunshine through the panes making a red-gold aura of its coppery luxuriance. The fond link between her aunt and her had continued unbroken through their correspondence, Francesca writing to her much as she might have done to her own mother.

  As usual, Janetje’s letter was full of family affairs, from the progress her sons were making with their education to the banquet she and Giovanni gave to celebrate their seventh wedding anniversary. She expressed her intense eagerness for news from Holland, not having heard for several months, and Francesca hoped that by now the letter she had dispatched quite a while ago would have arrived. Any letter from her aunt that came at this time of year never
failed to have a strong undertone of homesickness. It was clear that Janetje’s thoughts always began to turn to the forthcoming Dutch Feast of St. Nicholaes, a family occasion that she had enjoyed both as a child and as an adult, and she never forgot to send a gift to each of her three nieces for the sixth day of December. This year of 1669 three pairs of scented leather gloves would be coming.

  Francesca lowered the letter to her lap and began to fold it up again, her thoughts full of her aunt. It was pleasant to have read the letter by herself, here in her own room with its simple furnishings and the four-poster with the plain blue drapes. Nobody intruded on her when it was known she wanted to be alone. Her sisters still shared a room, although there were enough bedchambers for them to have had one each, but Aletta still had nightmares if she slept alone and Sybylla liked her company.

  “Francesca!” Hendrick’s voice boomed up the three flights like a distant roll of thunder.

  “I’m coming!” she called back, not at all sure whether he would have heard her. She tucked the letter into her sash to take it to him, for she was already in robes from one of the atelier chests that she was to wear for the painting. Picking up a chaplet of silk flowers, she sprang up to cross to the mirror in a swish of heavy green satin, her sleeves of soft and flowing silk gauze cut so full they almost draped to her hems, the wristbands encrusted with embroidery, as was her low-cut bodice. She put the chaplet on her head. In her lobes were large azure earbobs from the chest of trinkets and a necklace from the same source encircled her neck. After giving a final touch to her hair, she gathered up her skirts and hastened to descend the stairs.