Francesca passed a peaceful day in the studio. Jan was also there for the morning and she was not surprised to learn that he spent nine or ten months over each of his paintings, for his brushwork was meticulous, deep thought behind every stroke. He had some business that took him away from the house in the afternoon, but she had enough of the market square on her canvas for his helpful words to have had effect. She found herself using small angular touches such as he had shown her, and took note of his warning that if she should create the foliage of the trees by placing blue on yellow, which he favored in his work, she should remember that with time the blue would predominate and allow for that.
As on the previous evening, Clara was waiting for her and the little woman’s question was the same. “What have you accomplished today, Francesca?”
It was clear that a pattern had been set, but Francesca answered her tolerantly, aware of feeling much more relaxed than she did after a similar day’s work in her father’s studio. The reason dawned on her. At home there were so many interruptions. Maria or Griet frequently sought her advice on some domestic issue, or she would have to stop work herself to go to the market, receive a visitor or make some obligatory call on a neighbor. Here she was completely free to concentrate on her work with nothing else to think about. It could have been like that to a degree when she was painting in Ludolf’s house, except that there were distracting influences of another kind. Foremost had been the strain that his presence put on her, almost as if it had been a tiger instead of a man she was painting, never quite sure when danger might spring on her. There were also those bewildering emotions over Pieter that had troubled her before everything had been settled as friendship between them. She would never want to go to Ludolf’s house again now that Amalia was gone. Pieter was due to start the landscaping of the garden there this week, but, as he had told her on the way to the stage wagon that last morning, the beautiful little bower he had planned for that sweet-natured invalid was no longer to be included. At least it was possible to be certain that Sybylla’s bright company and her playing of the viol had brought Amalia much pleasure and comfort in her last days.
Clara led the way into the Wolff house. Francesca, following after her, saw Geetruyd standing in the hall to await them—with one hand behind her back as if she was hiding something from view.
“Good evening to you, Francesca,” the widow greeted her. “We have something to discuss.”
Out of the corner of her eye Francesca saw Clara scuttle away. It could only mean some new trouble ahead. “What could that be?” she queried coolly.
“This!” Dramatically Geetruyd brought forward her hand from behind her back and waved to and fro a letter with Francesca’s own handwriting on it. It was the one to Pieter that had been dispatched by Elizabeth only that morning.
“Where did you get that?” Francesca demanded furiously.
“It was sent to me from the postal office by the official in charge. I told you I was not without influence in this town. It is not the first time he has been alerted by me to intercept forbidden correspondence, and I had warned him that you were likely to bribe Vermeer’s servant or one of his children to send a letter secretly on your behalf.”
“How dare you interfere with my private correspondence!” Francesca was trembling in her fury and she held out her hand for the letter.
“It has not been read.” Geetruyd held up the letter and turned it about almost with the air of a conjurer to show that the seal had not been broken. Then deliberately she tore it into several pieces. “I shall see that this evidence of your disobedience is burnt. Mark this as a last warning, because you know what will happen if you attempt to disobey me again.”
Francesca went with dignity to the stairs, her head high, but torn by wrath and frustration within. How was she ever to endure such close surveillance? It was imprisonment! She felt she could not breathe. If only there were a flower garden to the house where at least she could escape its four walls. Then she thought of Catharina’s mother, Vrouw Thin, who had a garden and lived nearby. Perhaps after she had met Vrouw Thin she might be allowed to sit there sometimes to draw the blossoms and the trees. This small ray of hope, linked as it was to the chance of some liberty, helped her to bear up under Geetruyd’s new act of tyranny.
When an opportunity arose during the next day Francesca told Catharina what had happened to the letter. Catharina advised her to write it again here in the Mechelin and Jan would post it when he visited some other town, but Francesca declined the kindly intended offer.
“I don’t want to cause any bone of contention between you and Geetruyd. As you know, she is a dangerous woman. I must be patient and await a chance of my own to send a letter to Pieter. I feel it will not be long before Willem de Hartog comes to Delft again and he would take letters for me.” She then broached the subject as to whether Vrouw Thin might allow her to visit now and again, explaining the reason why.
Catharina immediately gave her approval to the idea. “Nothing would please my mother more than to have a fellow flower enthusiast appreciating her garden. It is not right that you should have to spend summer evenings cooped up with Vrouw Wolff. Leave everything to me.”
When Clara called for Francesca at the usual time, she flew into a panic at hearing that her charge had finished work early and had gone home with Vrouw Thin to the house on Oude Langendijk. She set off for the address, almost running, but before she reached it she met Catharina, who took her by the arm and turned her around to retrace her steps, walking with her.
“I’ve introduced Francesca and my mother to each other,” Catharina explained. “When they have finished inspecting and discussing every bloom in the garden, Francesca is going to dine there.”
“So late! When am I to fetch her?”
“There’s no need. She will come home in my mother’s sedan chair borne by two of the most reliable bearers in Delft. Neither you nor Vrouw Wolff have any cause to worry.”
At Vrouw Thin’s house Francesca spent another hour with her new acquaintance in the lovely formal garden with its neat parterres and straight paths, its sundial and shady mature trees. She and Catharina’s mother were now choosing which blooms should be the ones to start her off on a flower painting, which she had decided she would paint stage by stage as other flowers came into bloom, just as she had thought of doing at home in Amsterdam before she knew she was to go to Delft. It would be in addition to the painting she had begun of the market square and any others that might follow. They had agreed that morning picking was essential and that Francesca would come for the first of the flowers on her way to work one morning when the canvas was prepared and she was ready to begin this new venture.
“It’s a pity the tulips are over,” Vrouw Thin said regretfully. She was diminutive and full-bosomed, friendly in face and manner, handsomely gowned in dark green satin. Her eyes were round and blue with thin little eyebrows of a shape that made her appear permanently surprised by all she saw, which would not be the case, for she was a worldly woman. “I would have let you pick the choicest of them all.”
“But remember, this flower painting will be a year on canvas,” Francesca said smilingly. “I’ll add the tulips when spring comes again.”
“Splendid! Of course you will!”
When Francesca arrived back at Vrouw Wolff’s house in the sedan chair Geetruyd was surprisingly amiable about the unexpected outing. The reason was soon revealed, if unwittingly.
“Vrouw Thin is most generous to the fund for maintaining the almshouses of which I am a regentess,” Geetruyd said smugly. “I and my committee invite her to meet the inmates once a year. You have my permission to visit her whenever she is gracious enough to ask you to her home.”
Francesca breathed an inward sigh of relief that there was to be no opposition. She had been given an open invitation by Vrouw Thin to go to the garden whenever she wished.
A
S THE WEEKS
went by, the Delft jug, which had been given a permanent place on a table in Jan’s studio, was to hold a succession of choice flowers morning-picked from the Thin garden. As peonies gave way to clematis and then to roses and gillyflowers, Francesca’s first impression that Jan was the best master possible for her had been more than confirmed. He was the type of teacher who could fling doors wide to a new vision and understanding, able to make more penetrating that precious inner eye. In a few words, or with the demonstration of a brushstroke, he could give the exact knowledge she needed.
Unlike her father, who could never have followed such methodical ways, Jan planned every detail of a painting in advance. For as long as anyone knew, artists had used gadgetry to help them in their craft, not all as free-painting as Frans Hals and Hendrick, and the camera obscura had been employed for over a hundred years. Jan introduced Francesca into the use of it, as Hendrick never had. The principle of the device was that a lens, inserted in a box, would reflect in reverse into a darkened area whatever the artist had set up to paint in the light. A canvas or a piece of paper was pinned to the wall to hold the image while the artist drew around the shapes reflected. When the drawing was put the right way again, the artist had his subject matter ready for painting.
Jan had enlarged on the idea. With the aid of screens and a lid he could erect a large box against a wall into which he could step into complete darkness. A fine lens, locally made in Delft, where the fashioning of high-quality lenses was fast becoming an industry, gave a perfect reflection in full color of the subject matter he intended to paint, a great improvement on the smaller boxes, and she admired his ingenuity. It was not that Jan or any other artist could not have drawn the subject matter of a painting in free hand, but the camera obscura saved time while shadows, forms and architectural detail were captured with perfect accuracy. Francesca found Jan’s version most helpful at times, although—like her master—she did not use it for every work.
Jan was away from home more than Francesca had anticipated, but since art dealing was his principal means of livelihood it took priority over his painting. She asked him once why he did not paint more himself and make dealing in other people’s work a sideline.
“As you’ve seen for yourself,” he replied, “I am a slow painter. Even if I were not, my work has no appeal outside Delft. I’ve no idea why that should be, but I’m not complaining, because everything I paint finds an immediate buyer within the town itself. My neighbor Heer van Buyten, a master baker, has purchased some of my works. The book printer Jacob Abrahansz Dissius is also a keen collector of my paintings and has twenty. There are others locally who will buy whenever one becomes available. The prices I receive are far higher than I could expect to obtain in places where I’m not known, although I do have a good patron in Antwerp. I never sell my own paintings to de Hartog because he could only raise a few guilders for anything of mine in Amsterdam.”
She knew that on the very day Jan had declared
The Love Letter
finished it had been snapped up by Heer Dissius. She wondered if the fact that Jan painted so little and had such ready purchasers was a double handicap to his work reaching a wider field and surely the general acknowledgment that it deserved. It would be interesting to talk this over with Willem when he should come, but that had not happened as yet.
At the present time Jan was making preliminary drawings of Catharina in various poses for another painting with a letter theme. When she saw him crumple up and throw away those that did not please him, she asked if she might have the next that would otherwise be cast out. He agreed, saying she could have her pick of them. She chose three of these exquisite drawings and at her request he signed them for her, his signature consisting of “Meer” with a vertical dash above, one of several variations of it that she had seen on his other work.
These three drawings were the first works of art to be displayed on the walls of her bedchamber. They were a distance away from her own drawing of Pieter, which was propped on her table and tucked away in a drawer when she was absent. She could never be sure that Geetruyd would not destroy it if she should see it and guess whose likeness it was.
Daily she yearned for a letter from home. She knew there was no chance of hearing from Pieter after the brusque message she had been forced to write to him. If she had known then that the second letter was not going to reach him she would have written more fully the first time. Yet this was easy to feel with hindsight and she reminded herself that she had been almost too distressed to think properly that first terrible evening.
Her daily routine had settled to light and shade, the bright hours being those she spent at the Mechelin Huis and the clouded ones those passed under Geetruyd’s roof. Often when her day’s work in the studio was at an end she would stay on to dine with the Vermeers, a concession that Catharina had won on her behalf from Geetruyd. Then she would help put the younger children to bed, enjoy a card game with the older girls and sometimes play the virginal when dinner was over. It had not surprised her that music should be appreciated in this house as much as art, for there were few homes where families did not encourage singing and playing of musical instruments. Jan always escorted her home, Catharina often coming as well when the evening was fine and she felt in need of a walk. It was usual at these times for a long detour to be made in order that Francesca could have interesting and historic features of the town pointed out to her. She had been for walks with Geetruyd and Clara and went to church with them every Sunday, but their company lay heavily upon her and it was not the same as being with the Vermeers.
Francesca was overjoyed one evening to see that there was a letter for her in the silver bowl. It was from Aletta and had been delivered by hand. A wave of homesickness swept over her and as soon as she was on her own she brushed a hand across her eyes before the swim of tears subsided to allow her to read. As she had hoped, it was full of family news. Hendrick’s knuckles were much improved and the mobility of his fingers had fully returned. Maria boasted that the cure was her doing, but not in his hearing in case he became contrary and refused to drink her decoction of herbs another time should the need arise. He insisted that extra work had done the trick. Two commissions had come in for history paintings and Ludolf had bought through Willem the painting of the tax collector, although at a moderate price. The best of the good news was that Hendrick was not gambling. He met his drinking companions in the taverns most evenings, but frequently came home sober. As a result there were no tradesmen hammering on the door for money, and life was comparatively peaceful.