Tracy Chevalier 3-Book Collection: Girl With a Pearl Earring, Remarkable Creatures, Falling Angels. Tracy ChevalierЧитать онлайн книгу.
time I caught you doing things maids are meant to do. Next you'll be stealing silver spoons.’
I flinched. It was a harsh thing to say, especially after all the trouble with Cornelia and the combs. I had no choice, though — I owed Maria Thins a great deal. She must be allowed her cruel words.
‘But you're right, van Ruijven's mouth is looser than a whore's purse,’ she continued. ‘I will speak to him again.’
Saying something to him, however, was of little use — it seemed to spur him on even more to make suggestions to Catharina. Maria Thins took to being in the room with her daughter when he visited so that she could try to rein in his tongue.
I did not know what Catharina would do when she discovered the painting of me. And she would, one day — if not in the house, then at van Ruijven's, where she would be dining and look up and see me staring at her from a wall.
He did not work on the painting of me every day. He had the concert to paint as well, with or without van Ruijven and his women. He painted around them when they were not there, or asked me to take the place of one of the women — the girl sitting at the harpsichord, the woman standing next to it singing from a sheet of paper. I did not wear their clothes. He simply wanted a body there. Sometimes the two women came without van Ruijven, and that was when he worked best. Van Ruijven himself was a difficult model. I could hear him when I was working in the attic. He could not sit still, and wanted to talk and play his lute. My master was patient with him, as he would be with a child, but sometimes I could hear a tone creep into his voice and knew that he would go out that night to the tavern, returning with eyes like glittering spoons.
I sat for him for the other painting three or four times a week, for an hour or two each time. It was the part of the week I liked best, with his eyes on only me for those hours. I did not mind that it was not an easy pose to hold, that looking sideways for long periods of time gave me headaches. I did not mind when sometimes he had me move my head again and again so that the yellow cloth swung around, so that he could paint me looking as if I had just turned to face him. I did whatever he asked of me.
He was not happy, though. February passed and March arrived, with its days of ice and sun, and he was not happy. He had been working on the painting for almost two months, and though I had not seen it, I thought it must be close to done. He was no longer having me mix quantities of colour for it, but used tiny amounts and made few movements with his brushes as I sat. I had thought I understood how he wanted me to be, but now I was not sure. Sometimes he simply sat and looked at me as if he were waiting for me to do something. Then he was not like a painter, but like a man, and it was hard to look at him.
One day he announced suddenly, as I was sitting in my chair, ‘This will satisfy van Ruijven, but not me.’
I did not know what to say. I could not help him if I had not seen the painting. ‘May I look at the painting, sir?’
He gazed at me curiously.
‘Perhaps I can help,’ I added, then wished I had not. I was afraid I had become too bold.
‘All right,’ he said after a moment.
I got up and stood behind him. He did not turn round, but sat very still. I could hear him breathing slowly and steadily.
The painting was like none of his others. It was just of me, of my head and shoulders, with no tables or curtains, no windows or powderbrushes to soften and distract. He had painted me with my eyes wide, the light falling across my face but the left side of me in shadow. I was wearing blue and yellow and brown. The cloth wound round my head made me look not like myself, but like Griet from another town, even from another country altogether. The background was black, making me appear very much alone, although I was clearly looking at someone. I seemed to be waiting for something I did not think would ever happen.
He was right — the painting might satisfy van Ruijven, but something was missing from it.
I knew before he did. When I saw what was needed — that point of brightness he had used to catch the eye in other paintings — I shivered. This will be the end, I thought.
I was right.
This time I did not try to help him as I had with the painting of van Ruijven's wife writing a letter. I did not creep into the studio and change things — reposition the chair I sat in or open the shutters wider. I did not wrap the blue and yellow cloth differently or hide the top of my chemise. I did not bite my lips to make them redder, or suck in my cheeks. I did not set out colours I thought he might use.
I simply sat for him, and ground and washed the colours he asked for.
He would find it for himself anyway.
It took longer than I had expected. I sat for him twice more before he discovered what was missing. Each time I sat he painted with a dissatisfied look on his face, and dismissed me early.
I waited.
Catharina herself gave him the answer. One afternoon Maertge and I were polishing shoes in the washing kitchen while the other girls had gathered in the great hall to watch their mother dress for a birth feast. I heard Aleydis and Lisbeth squeal, and knew Catharina had brought out her pearls, which the girls loved.
Then I heard his tread in the hallway, silence, then low voices. After a moment he called out, ‘Griet, bring my wife a glass of wine.’
I set the white jug and two glasses on a tray, in case he chose to join her, and took them to the great hall. As I entered I bumped against Cornelia, who had been standing in the doorway. I managed to catch the jug, and the glasses clattered against my chest without breaking. Cornelia smirked and stepped out of my way.
Catharina was sitting at the table with her powderbrush and jar, her combs and jewellery box. She was wearing her pearls and her green silk dress, altered to cover her belly. I placed a glass near her and poured.
‘Would you like some wine too, sir?’ I asked, glancing up. He was leaning against the cupboard that surrounded the bed, pressed against the silk curtains, which I noticed for the first time were made of the same cloth as Catharina's dress. He looked back and forth between Catharina and me. On his face was his painter's look.
‘Silly girl, you've spilled wine on me!’ Catharina pushed away from the table and brushed at her belly with her hand. A few drops of red had splashed there.
‘I'm sorry, madam. I'll get a damp cloth to sponge it.’
‘Oh, never mind. I can't bear to have you fussing about me. Just go.’
I stole a look at him as I picked up the tray. His eyes were fixed on his wife's pearl earring. As she turned her head to brush more powder on her face the earring swung back and forth, caught in the light from the front windows. It made us all look at her face, and reflected light as her eyes did.
‘I must go upstairs for a moment,’ he said to Catharina. ‘I won't be long.’
That is it, then, I thought. He has his answer.
When he asked me to come to the studio the next afternoon, I did not feel excited as I usually did when I knew I was to sit for him. For the first time I dreaded it. That morning the clothes I washed felt particularly heavy and sodden, and my hands not strong enough to wring them well. I moved slowly between the kitchen and the courtyard, and sat down to rest more than once. Maria Thins caught me sitting when she came in for a copper pancake pan. ‘What's the matter, girl? Are you ill?’ she asked.
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