Tulip Fever (26 page)

“It is no place for a husband. If you want to be of use, fetch us some more hot water.” He hurries upstairs.

“Maria!” shouts Cornelis. There is no reply. Where
is
the girl?

A scream issues from the bedchamber. Cornelis’s blood freezes. If only he could comfort his wife. He knows that it is no place for a husband, but it tears at his heart.

In the kitchen he pumps water into the pot. His hands are trembling. He must trust this doctor but why, oh, why, did Sophia insist on his services rather than those of Doctor Brusch? There is something odd about Doctor Sorgh— that lisping voice, those fluttering gestures. And the man has red hair, always a sign of doubtful integrity.

Cornelis puts the water pot on the stove and stokes up the fire. He seldom comes into the kitchen; this domain belongs to Sophia and her maid. Cornelis gazes at her copper pans hanging on the wall. Inside the glass-fronted treasury he glimpses trenchers and sauceboats, familiar to him from a thousand companionable meals. How neat is her little kingdom where, aided by her maidservant, she prepares his food with wifely devotion! On the table is a covered dish. He lifts the lid. Headless sprats lie there. They look pitiful—bodies one side, heads in a pile. The triangle heads stare at him with their glazed, baleful eyes.

44

Jan

Put a curb on thy desires if thou wouldst not fall into some disorder.

—ARISTOTLE

Darkness has fallen. Rain lashes at the window. It has been seven hours now and still no word. Jan does not expect a message for some time yet, but he can almost feel the people in this city who wait, poised to go into action. Maria’s labor has lit a touch paper.

Seven hours! How time drags, but labors can take double this time. Triple. His mother told him that he took two days to struggle into this world and in doing so nearly killed her. He longs to go to the house in the Herengracht, to see if everything is going according to plan. Without seeing for himself he can scarcely believe that it is happening. His earlier anxiety has been replaced by a sense of unreality.

His studio, too, looks unfamiliar. He has packed up in readiness to leave. His paintings, wrapped in sacking, are stacked along the wall ready to be delivered to Hendrick Uylenburgh, the dealer, who will sell them and forward the money. Jan is only keeping his drawing books and his paintings of Sophia. They are packed into his trunk, ready for the voyage. Also in the trunk are his own clothes and two of Sophia’s dresses, smuggled out of the house.

In two days he and Sophia will be gone. Maria’s timing is perfect. Tomorrow he will discharge his debts; on the fifteenth, at dawn, they will set sail. It has all been successful so far—all but the final gamble upon which it hinges.

Jan cuts a slice of cheese, splits open a roll and eats. He is alone. Jacob left a week earlier, still rigid with fury, slamming the door behind him. Nowadays Gerrit only pops in occasionally. He has been phlegmatic about Jan’s departure. He has always helped out at the local tavern heaving barrels, and he is now in his bumbling way working there full-time. Jan is fond of his servant, who has been loyal to him, in his manner. When he gets his hands on the money, before he sails, he will pay Gerrit off handsomely.

Lightning flashes. Jan jumps. Thunder crackles, with a sound like tearing cloth. Above him, the heavens are splitting open.

45

Cornelis

The end makes all equal.

—JACOB CATS, Moral Emblems, 1632

It is late at night. Outside, the storm rages. Cornelis sits hunched beside the fire, drinking brandy. The cries upstairs ceased some minutes ago. Now there is a deathly silence.

He cannot move. He has been told to wait here. Although he has put on his dressing gown he is still shivering. It is cold outside and the fire gives off little heat in this great room. He wants to suffer, however, in his own small way.

Then he hears a cry upstairs. Faint, but unmistakable.

He hears the cry again—a thin wail, like a kitten. Joy floods through him. He drops to his knees and clasps his hands together.
Oh, my Lord, I offer up my heartfelt thanks for
Thou hast heeded my prayers
. . .

He stops. Footsteps are descending the stairs.

The midwife comes into the room. She is a massive, square woman, built like a barn door. In her arms she carries a bundle. Cornelis rises to his feet.

“Sir,” she says. “You are delivered of a fine baby girl.”

The bundle stirs. He sees black, damp hair. He is about to speak when something stops him. It is something in the midwife’s big, perspiring face.

“I offer my condolences, sir,” she says. “We could not save your wife.”

UPSTAIRS DOCTOR SORGH restrains him at the doorway. “Just for a moment—you may just see her for a moment. Please don’t touch her. There is a danger of contagion spreading.”

“Contagion?”

The doctor pauses. “I have reason to suspect that your wife was suffering from an infectious fever.”

“The plague?” Cornelis looks at him stupidly. He must be still sleeping. He urges himself to wake up.

Cornelis puts his hands on the doctor’s shoulders and moves him aside like a chair. He steps into the bedchamber. It is stifling hot. A bitter smell fills his nostrils, and something sickly, like violets.

Sophia’s face is covered with a sheet. The doctor pulls it down, just for a moment. Sophia’s face is revealed. It is pale, peaceful, and bedewed with sweat.

“We did all we could,” says Doctor Sorgh. “She is at peace now, with the Lord.”

Cornelis bends toward his wife’s face. The physician grabs his arm and pulls him back.

“Let me kiss her!”

“No, sir.” The doctor’s grip hurts his arm. “You must arrange for this room to be fumigated and for the bedding to be burned. Necessary precautions, I am afraid . . . the fluids, the blood . . .”

The room looks strangely blind. The doctor has turned the pictures to face the wall. It is the usual custom, but now it seems like a bizarre game. Cornelis gazes numbly at his wife. It is all a game. She is just pretending. In a moment she will open her eyes and sit up.
It is all over, my dearest.
Look! We have a beautiful daughter
.

The doctor ushers him out of the room. The corrupt, sweet smell clogs Cornelis’s nostrils. He looks at his wife for the last time, her long humped shape under the sheet. Being drawn up over her head, it has exposed her feet. They look ludicrously naked. If he waits, she will wriggle her toes. She does not care to sleep like this; she likes to curl up, her knees under her chin.

The doctor shuts the door and accompanies him downstairs. Cornelis thinks: I cannot leave her there; she is so alone.

They sit down beside the fire. The physician is speaking but Cornelis cannot reply; his throat has closed.
It cannot be
true
.

“I blame the foul waters of our city,” says the doctor. “Do you know how many deaths by fever have occurred this autumn?”

Cornelis does not know. He does not care.

“Had she shown any signs of sickness?”

Cornelis tries to think, but the process is too laborious. He wishes this man would stop talking.

“Had she recently been complaining of headaches?”

His wife has been snuffed out like a candle.

“Sir?”

“This last week—yes,” replies Cornelis. “She has twice taken to her bed with a headache.”

“The fever attacks the brain. Did she demonstrate any other unusual behavior?”

Cornelis remains silent. Sophia has, of course, been acting oddly. Not wanting to be touched. Jumpy if he even approached her.

“One of the symptoms is tender skin,” says the doctor. “Burning, as if it is on fire.”

“You have been looking after her, all these months,” blurts out Cornelis. “Why didn’t you tell me there was a danger?”

“Your agitation is understandable, sir, but I did not suspect she would succumb to this particular contagion. I simply found, in my first examination, that she was of a frail and vulnerable constitution. Any excitation might have triggered an inflammation of the womb, which would then spread through the blood to the brain.” He coughs. “That was why I suggested . . . er, marital abstinence.”

He pauses. Cornelis looks at the doctor’s white fingers. Why could they not have saved her?

“The body—”

“How dare you call her that!”

“I’m sorry. Your wife—she cannot stay here. I will arrange for her remains to be removed from the house immediately, to await burial.” Doctor Sorgh laces his fingers together. “This is a terrible loss for you, I know. But you will be glad to know that your baby daughter is not affected. She is in fine health.”