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 14

For most of the morning we work side by side in comfortable silence. After a while, Brigitta puts a canvas on the easel and wanders around the studio in search of objects to paint.

‘I don’t want flowers,’ she says. ‘Nicholas wants me to paint a single object with as little colour as possible.’

‘You could take one of those beautiful vases from the dresser.’

Brigitta considers this and nods. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. Fetch one, will you?’

I wipe my hands on my apron. In the kitchen I wash them thoroughly with soap and go to the living room. I pick up the vase with care and walk with it to the studio.

‘Put it down there.’ Brigitta nods towards a side table across from her easel. ‘Don’t drop it.’

Delicately, I place the vase on the little table. ‘Hard to believe it’s come all the way from China. I don’t even know where that is.’

‘There’s a map of the world on the wall in the living room, have a look at it some time. It really is ludicrously far away. It would take a ship at least six months to get there.’

The vase is stable and I take a step back. ‘How much is something like that worth, madam?’

‘That? I think about a hundred guilders. The two big ones next to the hearth in the parlour, easily double that.’ Brigitta laughs. ‘If my husband saw you walking around with them he’d have a fit.’

I return to my post behind the work bench and carry on grinding blue pigment. It’s not a difficult task, but I’m worried about the shopping that still needs to be done today. Greta will struggle to carry everything on her own.

My gaze wanders to Brigitta, who is holding on to the edge of the table. ‘Anything the matter, madam?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t feel very well.’

‘What’s wrong?’ I stare at her in concern.

Brigitta never has much colour in her cheeks but now she’s deathly white and there are dark circles under her eyes. Suddenly she wobbles and I rush around the table to her side.

‘Are you all right, madam?’

‘Everything’s fine, I’m a little dizzy, that’s all.’

‘Perhaps you were bent over for too long.’

‘Yes, perhaps.’ Brigitta sinks onto a chair and groans.

I squat down beside her, take in her pale face and feel her forehead. ‘You’ve got a fever! Madam, you’re ill.’

‘No, no, I’m fine. It’s nothing …’ Brigitta groans again and looks to me for help. ‘You’re right, I don’t feel well at all.’

‘You have to go to bed. I’ll help you.’

‘No, that’s impossible. That painting needs finishing. Nicholas is coming today and he’ll want to see whether I’ve made use of chiaroscuro, and …’

‘You can’t have your lesson if you’re sick. I’ll tell Mister Maes it’s cancelled.’ Fully resolved, I lead a weakly protesting Brigitta to the living room, to the box bed. Once there she gives up all resistance. She trembles as she lets me help her out of her clothes and into bed.

‘I’m cold,’ she whispers.

‘I’ll light the fire and fill the warming pans. Do you want an extra blanket?’ I leave the room and hurry to the kitchen. ‘Greta, the mistress is ill. Fill the warming pans with hot coals and fetch a blanket.’

As Greta walks away I pour a flagon of watered beer, walk with it to the living room and set it on the table next to the bed. I touch Brigitta’s forehead again and am shocked to feel how warm she is. Even so, her teeth are chattering and she’s pulled the blanket right up.

‘I’ve put something to drink next to your bed. If you need me, just say so, I’ll stay close by. Try to sleep a little.’ I grab a chair, set it beside the box bed and sit down.

After a while Brigitta’s breathing becomes more regular and when I’m certain that she’s asleep I get up. I beckon to Greta, who is peeping around the door frame into the room, and tell her in a low voice, ‘I wanted to go to the market with you today but someone needs to stay with the mistress. Go on your own and get them to deliver anything you can’t carry. Come on, let’s see what we need.’

‘I have to clean upstairs.’

‘That can wait. No one but us will see that it’s dirty anyway. I’d like you to call at the doctor’s and ask whether he can come to see the mistress. That fever worries me.’

‘She’ll not have anything serious, though, will she? Or anything catching?’

‘I don’t think so. She hasn’t taken very good care of herself, that’s all. We’re going to make sure that changes from now on.’

‘And that draught, what’s it called again?’

‘Laudanum. I’m glad you brought it up, we’ve nearly run out. Go to the apothecary’s on Rokin and pick up a jug. And I know it’s a long way, but you need to go to Mister Maes as well and tell him the mistress’s painting lesson is cancelled.’

Greta casts a happy glance at the glorious weather outside, puts on her shawl and grabs a basket. The front door closes behind her and I look around. What should I do now? Greta has taken a lot of work off my hands by doing the shopping on her own and now that I don’t need to mix any paint I have some spare time. That makes me think of the layer of paint covering the table and floor of the studio.

A few minutes later I’m marching through the hall with a bucket of suds. In the studio I pause to inspect the painting Brigitta just started. She has outlined the contours of the vase and its decoration in pencil and part of the sketch is already filled in with paint.

As I scrub the floor around the table, my eye keeps being drawn to the canvas on the easel. Something is wrong with the placement of the light. I can’t say for certain what it is, but it’s not right. I study the painting closely. The blue is too dark, Brigitta should have used a lighter shade on the side. And she should have left the lightest bits white. Nicholas explained that the other day.

I take a couple of steps towards the easel and examine the brushstrokes close up. Maybe if Brigitta scratches off some of the blue and paints over the top she can still save the picture, even though it would be easier to start again and use the white of the canvas. I would have gone about the whole thing completely differently.

Sunlight falls in through the leaded windows and warms my fidgeting fingers. I could have a go. Not a complete picture, I don’t have time for that. Just a section. Just to know how it feels to paint with a real brush and a real canvas. I could use that little one Brigitta never chooses because she prefers to work on something bigger. I’d have to buy a new canvas later to replace it, but now that Brigitta is sick she’s not so likely to notice anything is missing.

Even as my head is screaming that I shouldn’t be so stupid, my hands are already busy. They grab Brigitta’s painting and set it against the wall, pick out a smaller canvas and place it on the easel. I’m trembling a little but I can’t bring myself to reverse my decision. Everything in me is longing to let a paintbrush glide across the linen. First I make a sketch. I make hair-fine lines with a piece of charcoal. The vase is soon on the canvas, but the figures on it are a little more complicated. In the end, I only draw the most important bits and miss some of the details.

I choose a paintbrush with care. My first brushstrokes are somewhat tentative but I soon gain confidence. What a difference, to be painting on canvas. Earthenware is porous and sucks up the paint, linen is much finer. And the brush! It caresses the canvas, as if it has a mind of its own. By changing the firmness of the brush stroke and the amount of water added to the paint, I make different shades of blue, creating the same light, whimsical effect as on the vase. The people and animals come to life with every stroke.

Absorbed, I keep on working and forget the time. It’s only when there’s a knock at the door that I finally look up. It can’t be Greta; the household staff use the servants’ entrance. I hurriedly put down the brush, make sure there’s no paint on my hands and walk into the hall. I open the door and find myself face to face with an older gentleman dressed in a black suit. He’s wearing a hat and a ruff.

‘I’m Doctor Geelvinck,’ he says. ‘I understand Mistress Van Nulandt is unwell.’

‘It’s good of you to come so quickly. I’ll show you to her.’ I close the door behind us and lead the way to the living room.

Brigitta wakes up when she hears our footsteps. ‘Catrin?’ she says hoarsely.

‘I’m here. And the doctor is with me.’

‘Good day, Mistress Van Nulandt, what seems to be the trouble?’ Geelvinck goes over to the bed and peers down at Brigitta.

She tries to sit up but falls back onto her pillows. ‘I’m dizzy and I have a headache.’

As the doctor examines Brigitta, I stand by with my arms folded. It would be unthinkable for me to leave the mistress alone with a man, even the doctor.

After Geelvinck has felt her forehead, looked at her tongue and asked her some questions, he leaves the room so Brigitta can use the chamber pot. When he comes back, he pours the urine into a glass beaker, holds it up to the light, scrutinises the liquid and sniffs it briefly.

‘Nothing serious,’ he says after a while. ‘The colour and smell is normal. I suspect you have exhausted yourself again, Mistress Van Nulandt. You work too hard and don’t spend enough time outdoors. It isn’t healthy to be amidst paint and turpentine fumes all day.’ He turns to me. ‘Make sure she rests and have her walk in the garden as soon as the fever has subsided.’ He bids farewell to Brigitta and allows me to lead him back into the hall.

‘Should I give her that draught, the laudanum?’ I ask.

‘Yes, of course. It relieves tension and settles the nerves. There are healing substances in it, as in opium. It even helps against the plague. I take it during every epidemic.’ Geelvinck glances into the studio through the wide open door. At first he only looks in absently, as if by chance, but then his eyes fill with interest. ‘Was she working on that canvas? That is a beautiful piece of work. A truly beautiful piece of work.’