Girl Reading (11 page)

It is his turn to be patted on the head . . .

This child is difficult. He has long spells of moodiness and bad behavior. When he is not having tantrums he is often serious and solitary. He has emulated his mother’s dislike of Esther, is unafraid of showing it. Teasing, derision, spitefulness are his ways. Not neediness, not the offering of affection—it is atypical and uncomfortable.

Esther disentangles herself from his embrace. She would like to get away from him but he is disheveled from his rough game, has mud on his knees, broken skin on his knuckles; his clothes are askew. And after all he is just a boy. She tends to the marks, brushes them off, dabs them with a hanky, straightens his collar and his garments in a matronly manner. She will not show him fear. She will not behave as if she has done anything wrong.

Something else he never does: he never signs to Esther but always makes her read his lips. The only member of the family willing and able to converse fluently in her language is Young Pieter.

But Lucas is signing a sentence now, deliberately and correctly. I . . . want . . . to . . . lie . . . on . . . top . . . of . . . you.

Lucas has seen the private activities of his father, watched with fascination and revulsion from inside a closet and through a keyhole. It is the secret adults keep from children.

He waits.

For a moment, nothing. And with a flourish, abruptly, suddenly, making Lucas flinch at her speed, Esther turns on her heel and marches back inside.

Lucas is left alone again. He does not smile. He does not sneer. Of course he does not cry either.

He has a coin in his purse—one single coin. He does not yet know its full buying power but is certain he can spend it only once. The question is where to spend it, and on what? Where will it bring the most personal benefit? Or where will it cause the most damage?

It is sure to make her sister envious. In the lesser reception room, Jurina composes letters sitting upright at the desk, working with a quill pen. The bulge of pregnancy shows beneath her gown.

Her veracity has been tested of late. She has described in loving detail the accomplishment of Elinga’s most recent still lifes . . . and omitted that his productivity has become erratic, the gaps between completed works wider. She has gushed about expectations for the new baby’s health and possible names . . . but failed to mention the acute financial pressure an extra child will bring. Meditations on the exquisiteness of tasteful Delftware purchases have been replaced with inane chatter about coughs and colds. She has written herself into a corner. By naming their important guests, she will draw attention to the length of time since the last sale of a painting. Tricky. But, oh, Jurina wants to tell the witch about it, she will hate it!

Restraint, Jurina. Dignity. Best to stick to women’s matters.

The baby has been moving and I wonder which sex it will be. It would be nice for Allart to have a brother near his own age to play with. And I think it might be good for Lucas to have two brothers.

She intends to write that another daughter would be an equally welcome addition when she realizes her error. Not too late to save it—
it might be good for Lucas to have two brothers, to look up to him.

There.

Allart is a bright and perfectly adorable child. If I can produce another little boy to match him, it would be an achievement indeed.
Too much, even if it is true. Her sister will find a snide remark to make about it, unfavorably comparing Jurina’s modest brood to her own unruly flock.

(I know you agree that hyperbole is a mother’s prerogative!) & a girl would be a welcome addition, so I find I do not mind.

The lady stretches in her chair, her back aching, perspires from the discomfort, massages it to bring some relief. Jurina could never have believed she would grow sick of pregnancy this quickly—how has her sister endured it eight times?

Carrying this child gives me more pleasure day by day. I shall be almost sorry when he finally arrives in the world and I shall have to return to my former self. By the way, please thank my brother-in-law again for the reference he wrote. My stepson and I are extremely grateful and will let you know of any developments.

Unusually, Jurina would like to write further about Young Pieter: that she thinks he may have left home by the time the new baby arrives; that without him Esther’s employment will be untenable. She inhales a big breath at the prospect. Inside her womb her next child kicks. Despite herself, she continues—

It turns out Young Pieter is not as obtuse as he appears. He came back from a market a week ago with a stuffed lizard. Quite the ugliest and strangest object you ever saw. & said we should make a gift of it to Rembrandt van Rijn
—no need to put “the painter,” Rembrandt is a
rare enough name—
because the old bankrupt had to sell his collection of artifacts. He (Young Pieter) said Rembrandt still has valuable contacts in Amsterdam and at the Guild, and if Pieter Janssens gave him this thing as a present, he would make some introductions with a view to arranging a sale or a commission. Here then is the surprising news. Not only did Rembrandt accept the gift eagerly, he & the prestigious art dealer Johannes de Renialme are coming to a viewing appointment at our home today. Who would have thought my stepson to have an aptitude for business and influencing people? Pieter Janssens insists that I be there, that he cannot do it without me.

Jurina rereads it, visualizes her sister seething. So what if she guesses there has been a drought? It will be worth it.
Suffice to say, I find the whole thing an ordeal and would prefer a quiet afternoon with the children. How lucky you are not to have these burdens, and only the house and family to be concerned with.

Esther enters, and Jurina is compelled to turn the letter over. She has brought a bowl of fruit and a cushion. The maid has noticed how her mistress neglects to eat and drink for several hours at a stretch when she is anxious; the meeting with the art dealer is clearly playing on her mind. The dish and a sharp knife are set down, and Jurina alters her posture so the cushion can be placed at her back. These kindnesses are infuriating.

Allart appears, rosy and dimpled, staggers into the room; Lucas lurks at a distance. Allart wants to be on Mother’s lap so she lifts him up. Beloved Allart, darling prince; she kisses his temple.

Lucas, are you idle because you have finished all your lessons?

Lucas does not confirm or deny it but withdraws from his mother’s sight.

Then she gives Allart back to Esther; the child whimpers as he is led out of the room.

Jurina attempts to pick up where she left off but the flow has deserted her. Instead, she takes a pear, quarters it, eats it.

The mistress of the house has considered the matter in detail and her logic is infallible. She will argue it has become too much for her to cope with, that a lady of her status with four children requires a certain standard of help. And, she will say to her husband, if our situation means we can afford only one maid, then we must make a decision. Society has expectations for the wife and children of Pieter Janssens Elinga. Jurina’s parents have expectations.

Jurina does not hate Young Pieter or Esther; that would be rather strong. It is more that they are anomalous in the life to which she aspires. Pieter is to join the East India Company, the VOC, like many of his class—they are not all bumpkins and street rats. Esther? Esther? Esther will have to accept what is what and find a new position. Nothing unusual about that. The girl has benefited from long service, twice and three times longer than normal. The obligation did diminish. Eventually. The maid can take no credit for the smooth pregnancies and faultless labors that followed Lucas, not one miscarried or stillborn. Jurina has grown hard-hearted about this, waited ten years, occasionally demeaned herself by resorting to petty tactics. The maid will be gone and a different, carefully chosen servant appointed instead. No more reprieves. No more dewy-eyed willows. And no more panting bitches. This time it shall be done properly.

She thinks of another topic to put in her letter. Her sister can be relied upon to relish complaints about the help.
Another flunky has left us. (A relief but obviously the Old Irritation persists.) I should like a mature maidservant to replace her, one with years of experience. Lots of years. I want her when my new son is born or soonest after to give me the support I need ~ what do you think, a single solution to two problems? I know you know what I mean.

Jurina turns a blind eye, for her husband’s and children’s sakes. It grieves her, yes, but if it is not flaunted, if she is not humiliated—

Her pen nib hovers over the page. Were Elinga to turn his
attentions to Esther for a short while, were Jurina to have evidence of it, however flimsy, then she could send the packhorse away immediately. She cannot confide this thought, though her sister would certainly have sympathy for it.

I have realized I do not know where the Irritation attends church. Not ours. I mention this because Lucas says It regularly visits the Jewish quarter these days. But we would know if It was a Jewess by now! Such a thing could not stay hidden for all these years! (Where does Lucas get his information from? If he is making up lies, it would not be the first time.) No, I am not worried about that. However, I have grown concerned that we could be inadvertently harboring a Catholic. This is much more plausible. If I discovered that It goes to a clandestine church of the old faith ~ in your opinion would that be legitimate grounds for dismissal? Do write back and advise; you are good at these knots.

When the two gentlemen are welcomed by the host and hostess, their presence fills the entire house. Johannes de Renialme is the more loquacious, a tall, serious man with a crisp white collar, his clothes and broad hat expensively dyed black. Rembrandt is dressed hardly better than an innkeeper, gray locks and sprouts of whiskers, jowly and paunchy; he says little and has a grumpy expression. Yet Jurina knows a fraternity when it arrives in her home. They shake Elinga by the hand, pay him respect as almost an equal, compliment him on his tasteful decor, his elegant wife—expecting a fourth, are you? Jurina is prim by nature but loves to be admired for her voluptuous belly. Esther is instructed to fetch the good wine.

De Renialme surprises the party by accurately describing a domestic genre painting of Elinga’s, which he saw in a client’s home, of a maid sweeping. It was very pleasing. Have you got any more of those?

Not at the present time.

Elinga explains he has been concentrating on the medium of
the vanitas still life recently—and the distinguished men are shown to the main room, where the paintings are hanging. There are two, displayed as pendants though conceived separately. Expertly done, remarkable, the objects look real enough to hold. One shows a perfectly formed wineglass half-filled, arranged with lemons in stages of decay upon a silver platter (even the reflections are perfect,
perfect
). The second is of a jug and some smoking materials. A pipe lies waiting to be picked up, the coal gutters in a cracked pot, and the tobacco has been carelessly abandoned by the absent smoker.

Elinga asks the art dealer, How do you find them?

Maudlin.

Thrown, the painter starts to justify his choices. The fruit is bitter and disintegrates before our eyes; the smoke vanishes into the very air, as do we ourselves suffer and are ephemeral beings, mortals on the cusp of death.

Yes, yes, but will people like it? Do they wish to look at moldy lemons every day while they are having their breakfast? (De Renialme has grown insensitive to artists.)

Rembrandt tries to defuse the situation by praising Elinga’s skill and observation, but this irks his colleague further.

If you like them, Rembrandt, why don’t you sell them in your own gallery, hmm? No, I thought not—and if this is how you repay a good turn, I shall remember it. Elinga, have you tried offering them to the Lottery? They might take them for runner-up prizes.

Jurina turns defensive. Are they not good? Since when did
liefhebbers,
rich and knowledgeable connoisseurs, cease to appreciate superb Dutch painting?

The dealer explains the connoisseurs are as potty for fine art as ever they were, but there are phases, cycles, you might say—

Fashions? The same as for hairstyles and dresses? For paintings? It is news to her. She thought fine art was timeless.

So it is, madam;
prices
of art, on the other hand, are a different animal and can fluctuate dramatically.

This is a blow to Elinga and his wife.

But Johannes de Renialme has not quite finished. His rudeness softens. One or two people come to mind who might be interested in your work, and a handful more will find the investment potential appealing. I think I can find someone to purchase your canvases, though if you take my advice and hold on to them, their value will appreciate.

The couple have discussed this beforehand. We cannot wait. We will accept reasonable offers.

Then—it is agreed, the arrangements follow, the tension dissipates. And, on time, the maid brings in a tray of wine and goblets, sets it down, pours. Johannes de Renialme notices her.

Are you sure you cannot muster the enthusiasm for some genre interiors, Elinga? Plenty of Amsterdam art dealers would have no problem whatsoever selling those. Pretty girls taking music lessons, pretty girls mopping floors, pretty girls cuddling pups—demand is ludicrously high. (He mentions some prices, depending on size and quality, of course.) Based on what I have seen, Elinga, yours are rather good.

Esther offers drinks to De Renialme and then to Rembrandt, then her mistress and master.

Would you sit for your master, for example?

The dealer directs the question to the back of Esther’s head.

She cannot hear you, Elinga explains, and signals to the maid that one of their visitors addressed her.

Jurina bristles. Do not embarrass the girl.