Читать книгу Midnight Blue: A gripping historical novel about the birth of Delft pottery, set in the Dutch Golden Age - Литагент HarperCollins USD, F. M. L. Thompson - Страница 12

Over the next few days we have only brief moments of contact. Though we must restrict ourselves to the occasional wink, a fleeting touch, or a couple of whispered words, it’s enough. No matter how attracted I feel to Matthias, my job is more important. And whatever he says, I’m not so naive as to believe a man of such high standing could ever have a serious interest in me. I’m too often confronted with the effects of his charm on other women to believe that. Even Greta is smitten with him. What is it about that man? Is it the genuine interest on his face when he looks at you and listens to you, his sunny disposition, his handsome face? He knows he’s attractive. I see it in the way he preens in front of the mirror and the elegant grey and light brown suits he favours over the old-fashioned black ones most Amsterdam businessmen wear. Perhaps it’s a legacy of his travels in Italy. No ruff for him but rather a fine lace collar that covers only the shoulders; no tall, black hat but a smart little one, complete with a feather.

‘He doesn’t need to take any more interest in his appearance than he already does,’ says Brigitta from behind her easel. ‘If Adriaan dressed like that, it would seem odd. But it suits Matthias.’

I’ve prepared the midday meal and set the table in the studio. As I pour a cup of milk, there’s a note in Brigitta’s voice that makes me look up.

‘Master Matthias is very modern. All the women look at him,’ I say.

‘Yes. I’m curious to see who will finally manage to snag him.’

‘Doesn’t the master plan to marry?’

Brigitta bursts out laughing. ‘Oh no, why should he? He enjoys his freedom. Can you picture Matthias living a regular life?’

‘Not really, madam.’

‘Me neither. And that is precisely why I married his brother and not him.’

I hold my breath, shocked. ‘Did Master Matthias want to marry you?’

‘He never formally proposed, but it was clear enough. Have you seen the way he looks at me? He’s never been able to accept the fact that I chose Adriaan.’

I look down at her with the milk jug clutched to my chest. ‘What does your husband think of that?’

Brigitta shrugs, unconcerned. ‘No idea. It annoys him, I think. But I married him, so he has no need to worry. He’s a good man and I care for him a great deal. Have you heard what he’s arranged for me?’

I shake my head.

‘I’m to have painting lessons! From Nicholas Maes, one of Rembrandt van Rijn’s apprentices.’

‘How wonderful, madam!’

Brigitta glances up at me. ‘Yes,’ she says after a pause. ‘It seems Rembrandt has heard about my talent and made enquiries. He has no time to give me lessons himself, but he very much wants me to progress. That’s why he has recommended one of his best apprentices. Adriaan and I are going along to visit him at his studio this afternoon.’

‘Are you having your lessons there?’

‘Of course not, Catrin. We’re going to buy a painting from him. Nicholas will come here twice a week, to my studio. It wouldn’t be appropriate for the two of us to be alone, so you will have to sit in. Bring some of your mending, if you’re afraid you’ll be bored.’ Brigitta looks up at me and I hastily adopt the appropriate expression.

‘I’ll be fine, madam.’

I’m going to meet an apprentice to Rembrandt van Rijn! Rembrandt, the greatest painter of the age, the name known by everyone with an interest in painting. Perhaps I’ll even get to meet him. And whatever happens, I’m definitely going to meet Nicholas Maes. I’ve never heard of him, but if he’s a student of the master, he must be good.

‘You look happy,’ says Matthias.

I break off from hanging the washing and turn to him. ‘I’m going to meet one of Rembrandt van Rijn’s apprentices!’

Matthias is smoking and takes his pipe out of his mouth. ‘Do you know him?’

‘The apprentice? No. But I do know of Rembrandt. I’ve heard a lot about him.’

‘I thought he was only well known in Amsterdam. So you’ll like being there while Brigitta has her lessons?’

‘Oh, very much. Back home in De Rijp, I did a bit of painting myself.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. But not on canvas. I decorated furniture and plates.’

Matthias laughs. ‘Well, that is rather different.’ He sticks his pipe back in his mouth and puffs on it. ‘Adriaan is going to buy a painting from Van Rijn this afternoon. Would you like to come along to the studio?’

I stare at him in surprise. ‘Am I allowed?’

‘I’ll tell them they can’t possibly go visiting without taking a present, and you should go with them to carry it.’

Adriaan has no objections to my accompanying him and Brigitta. According to him, everyone should have an opportunity to meet the greatest artist of the age, even servants. ‘But do try to remain inconspicuous,’ he says.

That afternoon we drive up Keizersgracht in a hired coach, turning onto Bree Street where Van Rijn lives and works. The studio is on the western side of the city, which I’ve never visited. I’ve not seen much of Amsterdam yet; my life plays out in the immediate vicinity of the house I work in. Perhaps because of this I enjoy the trip all the more: the chaos of horses, coaches and pedestrians. At the end of Keizersgracht we come to the place where they’re digging a new canal ring. Diggers and carpenters are busy laying a foundation in the muddy bottom. Windmills are used to pump out the water and workmen are busily cutting the wood and stone to build up the banks in places where the foundation has been laid. The work is arousing no end of curiosity.

‘It would have been quicker to walk,’ says Brigitta when we eventually turn away from the building works and are able to carry on.

‘I don’t think so, it’s a bit too far for that. Too far for you in your dainty silk slippers, in any case. And you’d have had to throw them away afterwards,’ says her husband.

It’s true that the streets are filthy now that we’ve left the chic new canal district. The fish market on the Dam has just closed for the day, and heads and scales stick to the wheels of the cart. The horse pushes its way on to Dam Street, where you can barely make your way through the stalls full of goods. At the end of Old Doelen Street we turn right and not long after that the coach rattles its way onto Bree Street.

‘We’re here.’ Adriaan climbs out and offers his wife a hand down.

I get out too, the jug of wine we’ve brought as a gift clutched to my chest. I gaze up in wonder. The building we’ve come to is magnificent, with a gable covered in red and green tiles.

The servant opens the door and shows us into a black-and-white-tiled hall with several doors. She leads the way up the stairs to the second floor. The workshop windows open out onto the street. It is a large, light room where five apprentices are at work. The artist himself is standing at his easel and doesn’t look up for a second. It’s only when his servant coughs that he puts down his paintbrush.

‘Mister Van Rijn, Mistress Van Nulandt.’ Rembrandt van Rijn turns, wipes his paint-covered hand on his shirt and makes a half bow.

‘It’s so nice to meet you,’ says Brigitta, blushing.

Van Rijn smiles faintly and a silence falls. Just as it’s getting awkward, Adriaan points to the canvas on the easel. ‘I see you are busy.’

‘I’m always busy, Mister Van Nulandt. Always. This is a commission. It has to be ready in four weeks’ time.’ Van Rijn glances at the canvas with a look that suggests he’d rather carry on painting.

‘We shan’t keep you long.’ Adriaan waves me over from where I’m standing by the door. I give Adriaan the jug of wine and he presents it to Van Rijn with a bow.

An exchange of pleasantries follows, but I pay no attention to what’s being said. I only have eyes for the painting Rembrandt is working on. A young woman looks up out of the canvas with such lifelike eyes it seems she can really see me. How is it possible for someone to paint something so realistic? It’s unbelievable.

Van Rijn obviously notices my fascination because he turns to me and asks, ‘Do you like it?’

I’m struck dumb for a second by this direct question but I recover quickly. ‘The woman is looking straight into my soul, as if she knows me. It’s almost unnerving,’ I say, full of awe. ‘And the way the light falls, and the colours! It is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’

A smile spreads over Rembrandt’s face. ‘Do you like art?’

I nod fervently before noticing my employers’ faces.

I hastily shuffle backwards. As Adriaan and Brigitta take over the conversation, I wander around the messy studio, watching as the apprentices grind pigment, wash brushes, or sit and paint. Then I stand for a long time in front of the paintings by the master himself, which are dotted about the studio.

Much too soon, Adriaan and Brigitta are making their farewells. I’m the last to leave the studio and turn back for a final look. Van Rijn is smiling at me and I smile back.

‘Really!’ says Brigitta once we’re back in the coach, ‘I expected more than that. What a surly man. He didn’t even offer us a drink.’

‘I got the impression we were disturbing him. He was busy,’ says Adriaan.

‘So what? We’ve commissioned a painting, he should have made more time for us.’

Brigitta turns to me. ‘What did you think of him? He was rude, wasn’t he?’

‘He should have offered you something to drink, madam. On the other hand, when you’re busy painting you don’t like being disturbed either.’

Brigitta looks thoughtful. ‘There is that. True artists can’t bring themselves to waste time with chitchat. But he had no cause to be so surly. I don’t know whether I like Mister Van Rijn.’

As I stare out at the hustle and bustle on the street, I can still feel the warmth of Rembrandt’s smile.