Rembrandt's Mirror (13 page)

Self-Portrait by a Window

Things, it seemed to me, had returned to what was normal for Rembrandt's household. Even their nightly copulations were made un-noteworthy by virtue of their repetition. I was glad I'd helped him that night. It had been my Christian duty of course, but there was also no denying that without him I would soon be out of work and lodgings.

In the morning, when I passed through the entrance hall, I noticed the five faces of him staring down at me. They were so cunningly painted that their eyes followed me wherever I went. I stopped to take a closer look. They were five portraits of him, unmistakable even amongst all the histories, still lifes and tronies, which covered almost every inch of wall space.

I stayed with the one I'd grown to like best. He looked to be in his late twenties, and was dressed in an embroidered velvet cape over a gorget and also wore a gold chain with a medallion. His black beret was adorned with two enormous ostrich feathers, one bright white and upright at the front, and the other ochre at a jaunty angle. This
strange and elaborate attire added to the picture's charm, but what I liked the most was his expression. Unlike the eyes in the other portraits, which gazed out directly at the viewer, these eyes were not only obscured by the shadow of the beret, they also refused to meet my gaze. They were raised and unfocused as if indulging in a flight of fancy or pondering something of great importance.

‘You like that one, do you?'

I spun around, startled, and there stood Samuel, frowning. ‘It looks nothing like him. It's no wonder it hasn't sold in all these years.'

I did not want to hear any more disparaging comments, so I asked, ‘Which one do you like best?'

He looked around, studying each of them. ‘Pah,' he said, ‘I don't like any of these. Wait a minute.'

He ran off and returned with a print.

‘There, this one is good.'

The etching showed Rembrandt in his working clothes seated by a window – burin poised over the plate – his face full of concentration. Looking at it, I felt myself to be in the mirror's place, with Rembrandt's eyes looking at me intently. No wonder Samuel liked it: his master at work. And it was clever too, the painter seemingly looking intently at the viewer when he was actually looking at himself in the mirror.

‘But why so many?' I said.

‘They sell like hot chestnuts.'

‘Really?'

‘Art lovers just adore them. They like to show them off to their
friends. It's largely Rembrandt's doing. He's managed not only to make a
name
for himself but he's made a
face
for himself too.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘He's distributed many hundreds of portrait prints. So anyone who's got money and inclination to spend it on art knows what he looks like. And when art lovers see a painting
by
him that is also a portrait
of
him they feel they've got their money's worth.'

‘Everything always comes down to commerce.'

Samuel smiled cryptically. ‘Nothing can persuade him to paint what he has no interest in.'

I regarded the paintings again. Each of them was distinctive, with Rembrandt sporting different clothes, expressions and poses. And I'd seen different clients quickly warm to – nay, become entranced with – a particular portrait and dismiss all the rest, as if they believed they'd chosen the one true likeness.

My eyes chanced across my reflection in the mirror that hung by the entrance door. A demure-looking young woman, in a black dress with a starched white cap that did not sit straight on her head. And suddenly I doubted that the truth about Rembrandt could be found in any of them, or even in a mirror. I regarded myself. Samuel went to stand behind me. Our eyes met in the mirror glass.

‘I wonder what he sees when he looks at himself,' I said.

I felt Samuel's hands on my shoulders as he put his head next to mine, scrutinizing my face in the mirror.

‘Just look,' he said. ‘Focus on what's in the mirror. There's the cap, with that bit of stitching coming loose. The eyebrows, the
colour of the skin and lips and your eyes. Where do you see those things?'

I had an urge to elbow him, for such a silly question. ‘Well, in the mirror of course!'

He squeezed my shoulders and I could feel his breath on my cheek. ‘But what is right
here
?'

I knew my face was here, but it did not feel like that, more like a window without glass. As if I did not possess a face at all, but that I was made of looking. It frightened me. I turned around to face him. His face was very close. So close, I could even see the bristles of his beard, the hairs of his dark eyelashes. I nearly touched his face, for in its solid physicality it was a marvel compared to the transparent peep-holes of my eyes.

His eyes were bright as he looked at me and said, ‘Freedom resides in the looking, not in what you're looking at.'

I don't know what came over me but I stood on tiptoe, put my hands on his shoulders and kissed his cheek. And then immediately regretted it because I didn't want him to think I meant anything amorous by it.

He stroked his hand down my arm, giving me yet further cause for worry. Then he held my hand between both of his, studying my face. I looked away.

He said, ‘You don't want to come out with me again, do you?'

I stared at him surprised, relieved and, of course, embarrassed. ‘Um, how did you know?'

He let go of my hand. ‘I had a feeling.' Then he shrugged his shoulders and pointed at his cheek. ‘Maybe it was that kiss just now. Urgh, so friendly.' He gave a shiver of disgust, making me laugh. Then he added, ‘An improvement, though, on getting a letter like those chaps in Bredevoort.'

I embraced him with both arms.

‘And now this!' he protested. ‘You're a nightmare!'

Jan Six with a Dog, Standing by an Open Window

In the afternoon Geertje and I delivered beer to the studio; Six and Samuel were there. Six was resting with one elbow against the windowsill, dressed in dove-grey breeches and a matching jacket, finished off by white stockings and golden garter bands. At his feet was a well-behaved greyhound sitting on its haunches. Six always was better dressed than even the richest burghers. The dog was of a similar grey to Six's clothes – he had probably chosen the dog to match.

I offered mugs of beer to everyone; Six declined as he was posing. Rembrandt did not look at me when he took his mug off the tray, but Samuel gave me a warm smile and then settled back into a chair in the corner of the studio. I'd never known him sit idle like this, watching his master work.

Rembrandt was in his chair, legs casually crossed, paper and wooden tablet on his thigh. ‘Get the hound to put its front paws on your leg.'

‘But that's the very thing I've had him trained not to do,' said Six.

‘Indulge me.'

Six called to the dog, which pressed its ears to its head and eyed its master nervously.

‘It's all right, Rupert, come on, here boy, here!'

Rupert placed his front paws on Six's thigh, wagging his tail in delight. A moment later he was down on all fours again. I looked over Rembrandt's shoulder. He was still sketching what had just happened. It took him only a dozen or so strokes of the pen to capture the hound rearing up. Then he gave the drawing to me to pass to Six.

Six looked at it. ‘No, you're overdoing it; there is too much going on. The dog, the leg, the ornate stuff beneath the window. Above all, the leaping dog destroys the very poise and stillness we're trying to create.'

He handed it to me to take back to Rembrandt. Geertje was standing in a corner with her hands on her hips.

‘You are right,' said Rembrandt, and then to me, ‘Take that chair and put it where the dog was.'

Then he addressed Six. ‘There's another change we need to make; turn a little more, so that your back is to the window.'

Six smiled, clearly pleased to be rid of the dog. He turned as if he was a dancer, on tiptoes and all, and cooed, ‘We've not done it like
this
before.'

Geertje glanced at me, rolling her eyes. Six was such a peacock.

Rembrandt ignored him. ‘I want the light to come at you from behind.'

‘Oh, that
is
different.'

Geertje sniggered and Six looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

‘Turn your head sideways a little so the light grazes your cheek and put one foot in front of the other. Yes, that's it, lovely as a windmill.'

Six laughed. ‘High praise, but my face is entirely in shadow. We cannot have that, can we?'

‘Do not be fearful; we'll make you sparkle yet. Here. Hold this pamphlet in your hands. It's a stand-in for your manuscript. The paper will reflect the light on to your face. You'll feel it.'

‘Ah, it pays to be
done
by a master,' said Six, looking at Geertje as she placed the beer mug within his reach. His eyes fastened on the expensive bracelet and ring she was wearing. I too had noticed these. She must have put them on only this morning. How could she have come by such riches?

‘Look at you, Geertje,' Six said. ‘Have you got yourself a well-heeled admirer?' Then he patted her behind and quickly resumed his stance. She turned red – from anger, not embarrassment. She looked at Rembrandt, but he was intently studying his drawing, the corners of his mouth twitching despite his best efforts not to smile.

She held up the mug of beer in front of his face. Oh no, I thought, she'll slosh it in his face. Why did Rembrandt not do something?

Six spoke while managing to keep his head perfectly still. ‘Be a good girl and put it on the table for me. I'm not allowed to move just now.'

She plonked it on the table, spilling some of it.

‘Thank you. That will be all.'

Geertje replied with a dismissive grunt and swept out of the studio as if she had a train and entourage. I lingered, not wanting to follow her just yet.

Six said, ‘She needs reminding who is master and who servant. And you can't have her flouncing around in Saskia's gems.'

‘I know,' said Rembrandt. ‘I've taken care of it.'

Six laughed. ‘By my arse, you have.' Then he paused and added, ‘But why this deference, my man? Show her the door if she's a nuisance.'

Rembrandt glanced at me, loitering at the open door. I took the hint and left.

As soon as I walked into the kitchen, Geertje handed me a plucked chicken.

‘Needs skinning,' she said, prodding the fire back into life under the roast. ‘Who does that prancer think he is? And the master himself sits in his chair smirking like a six-year-old.' Then she said loudly, ‘Do I look like someone who will put up with insults?'

I shook my head dutifully.

‘He's given me these,' she said, pointing at the necklace and ring, ‘for my good service and because we are . . .'

I kept quiet.

‘Living like man and wife.'

I did not want to hear any more, but once Geertje had started she could not stop. ‘First he gives them to me and then, a few days later, he says they are a loan. They really belong to Titus. I have to
change my will so Titus gets them after I die.
Yes Master
, I say. Not like I have a choice.
You can still think of them as yours while you are alive
, he says.
While I am alive
– what is that supposed to mean?' She looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders and continued to tug at the skin of the chicken. She held up the bracelet and looked at it with alternating expressions of triumph and doubt.

‘Six had no right, and Rembrandt should have put an end to it. What sort of man lets his woman be mocked like that?' She took the chicken carcass out of my hands and with one swift movement stripped it of its skin. Then she handed it back to me.

After Six had left, I went up to the studio to collect empty mugs and to tidy up. Samuel was still there, cleaning brushes. I noticed the open satchel by the door, bulging with his work clothes. He got to his feet and said, ‘I've decided to leave.'

‘Leave?'

‘Yes. Leave Amsterdam.'

‘Why?'

‘Don't look so dismayed. It's nothing bad and anyway, it's time I set up my own workshop in Dordrecht.'

‘I see,' I said, wondering if it was because I'd rebuffed him. ‘I wish you much success with your travels and your workshop.'

He thanked me formally.

Then he picked up a rolled-up piece of paper from the table. ‘I made this for you.'

He handed it to me. I unrolled it, shaken by the gift and the news.
It was a very fine drawing. A beautiful woman was holding up a balance scale with two pans suspended from the central beam. One pan contained a sphere with a map drawn on it and the other pan was completely empty. Samuel pointed at the sphere and said, ‘That's the world that we can see.'

‘And the other side?'

He smiled, leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, ‘That's where what truly matters dwells.'

It was intriguing but I was too troubled to converse about what dwelled where. So I asked, ‘So why leave now?'

‘Ah, still not too fond of mysteries?'

‘No.'

He smiled. ‘They are coming back.'

‘Who?'

‘His powers.'

‘Oh.' I still did not share his view that Rembrandt had somehow been lacking in ability since Saskia's death. My pancake batter did not turn out perfect every time either, especially when I tried out a new recipe.

‘I found a drawing,' he said, pointing at a piece of paper on the desk. ‘I don't know where he made it or whom it depicts and it only consists of a few lines but it's perfect – a masterpiece.'

I went to look and as I approached I could see broad sweeps of ink.

‘The freedom in the strokes . . .' said Samuel. ‘It's as close to something alive as a work of art can get.'

I saw that the drawing was of me. The face could not be recognized, it was too broadly drawn, but I knew it by the pose. I was on my side, my body loosely curled up, as I had been on the night he'd stood by my bed. And there was my black hair in broad swathes of ink. He must have made the drawing from memory after seeing me and yet it was so faithful to how I'd lain.

Samuel and I both stood contemplating the drawing and then he looked at me and then back again at the drawing. ‘It's you!'

Long seconds passed. As he continued to look at the drawing I watched his face; first it expressed vulnerability, then regret, then love, then joy and then sadness.

It was as if the drawing exposed far more than the fact that he had drawn me. I had an impulse to deny it was me.

He looked at me and said, ‘He's not conventional you know, not in any way. Look after yourself.'

A warning? ‘What do you mean?' I asked.

‘I mean, I would not trust him as a man.'

And this from Samuel, who'd never said a bad word about his master. But before I could question him further, he kissed my forehead and was out of the door.

I knew things would not be the same without him. He'd kept us all in balance.

You would think that having been made a gift of a drawing I would have sat contemplating it, but instead that evening I lay in my bed still thinking about the other drawing. I wanted to see it again so I
lit the candle and made my way up to the studio, as quietly as the creaking stairs allowed and past his room where all was quiet for once.

I entered the studio, which was cast in starlight, and placed my candle by the drawing. It was composed of only a few flowing lines, each capturing perfectly a fold in the blanket. The folds themselves combined to give a sense of the body beneath; its profound repose suggested a serenity I did not know I possessed. Each line had been drawn with a dizzying combination of delicacy and speed. I could not help feeling that the brush had cherished the subject, had enfolded it like the blanket did the sleeper. I stood cradling the paper in my hands for a long while.

I did not consider it a flaw that the artist had failed to register that not only had I been wide awake but terrified. Instead I revelled in the picture's beauty and chose to believe that his eyes had perceived some
greater
truth about me.

I gently returned it to the desk and descended the stairs. My candle was almost burned down, illuminating only the next one or two uneven steps.

When I reached the peep-hole into his room I could not resist having a look. His room was also steeped in starlight. It was peaceful. I continued down and reached his door. How easy Geertje found it to lift that latch. The candle spluttered. I did not want to be stranded without light so I hurried back to my room.

As sleep claimed me, I imbued the soft weight of the blanket with the touch of his gaze; lines applied by his hand brushed on to my leg, my hip, my arm and neck. Had I given birth to them or they to me?

The lull of sleep was not to last for long. The loud creaks told me that Geertje was on her way to his room. Oh, not tonight, I thought, something would die in me to hear them at their game. But I got up, driven by the need to know how they would be with one another. I took a glass with me, so that I could press it against the wall to listen.

Geertje had placed her candle on a small console table. She stood in front of Rembrandt's bed and was in the process of taking off her nightshift. I assumed from her artless movements that he was asleep. Why did she have to disturb him every night? She removed every last item of clothing. Everything except for the ring that sparkled on her finger.

For a moment she stood, pondering what to do. Then she walked to the window, looking at her own reflection and smiled. She is more happy naked than dressed, I thought. And how she moves, as if she was royalty. I'd always thought of her as ugly, but not anymore.

She finally disappeared into the box bed. I put my glass to the wall and heard him groan and say, ‘Get off, leave me to slumber.'

Geertje was back in sight in front of the bed, now trying to look coquettish, running her fingers through her hair like a young girl at a fair. All this while she was naked as an eel. I was alternating between looking and listening with the glass.

His voice complained, ‘Go to your bed – the bull cannot tend to his cow tonight. He can only think of the pasture of his dreams.' And then, ‘Let a man have his rest!'

She put her hands on her hips for a moment, pondering her next move. Then she disappeared into his bed and immediately there were shuffling sounds and then something emerged from the bed: his feet with their soles pointing at the ceiling, followed by his legs. It was a strange sight, as if his legs and feet were levitating. Next came his behind, clearly visible as his nightshirt had ridden up. I wanted to look away but it was too late. His white buttocks gleamed much like the ring had done.

Now his feet were grappling for a foothold against the floorboards but an invisible force was still holding on to his right arm and shirt from inside the bed. So he employed his left arm to advance ownership over his nightshirt, but to no avail; the tug of war over the shirt continued with neither party gaining more than an inch or two until he finally found a foothold and dragged not only his shirt but also Geertje out of the bed.

She landed with a thump and a vexed screech on the floor and let go of him. The shirt was almost entirely over his head, depriving him of sight and the mobility of his arms, but his modesty was preserved by the shadows. He took the opportunity to arrange the garment somewhat more traditionally about his body. Geertje had no such concerns. She stood stark naked, howling like a fury, ‘It is her. You want
her
!'

He mouthed something like, ‘What?'

She screamed, ‘That sly, half-faced innocent!'