Tulip Fever (3 page)

Sophia

The ripe pear falls ready to the hand.

—JACOB CATS, Moral Emblems, 1632

“My hand should be here, on my hip?” Cornelis half turns toward the painter. His chest is thrust out and his other hand grasps his cane. He wears his brocade coat and black stovepipe hat; he has combed his beard and waxed his mustache into points. Today he wears a ruff—deep and snowy white. It detaches his head from his body, as if it is being served on a platter. He is trying to conceal his excitement.

“You know the proverb,
you cannot dam a stream, for the
water gushes forth elsewhere
? Though we have whitewashed our churches, banning holy images from within them—” He inclines his head in my direction. “Here I must beg my wife’s pardon, for she is a Catholic—though our Reformed church has withdrawn its patronage from painters, their talent has bubbled up elsewhere and we are the beneficiaries, for they paint our daily life with a luminosity and loving attention to detail that—without being blasphemous—can border on the transcendental.”

The painter catches my eye. He raises his eyebrows and smiles. How dare he! I look away.

“Madam, please keep your head still,” he says.

We are being painted in my husband’s library. The curtain is pulled back; sunlight streams into the room. It shines onto his cabinet of curiosities—fossils, figurines, a nautilus shell mounted on a silver plinth. The table, draped with a Turkey rug, carries a globe of the world, a pair of scales and a human skull. The globe represents my husband’s trade, for he is a merchant. He owns a warehouse in the harbor; he imports grain from the Baltic and rare spices from the Orient. He sends shiploads of textiles to countries that are way beyond my small horizon. He is proud to display his wealth but also, like a good Calvinist, humbled by the transience of earthly riches—hence the scales, for the weighing of our sins on the Day of Judgment; hence the skull.
Vanity,
vanity, all is vanity
. He wanted to rest his hand on the skull, but the painter has rearranged him.

Cornelis is talking. In the corner of my eye I see his beard moving up and down, like a yellow furry animal, on his ruff. I urge him silently to stop. “I am fortunate that, through my endeavors, I have reached a position of means and rank.” He clears his throat. “I am most fortunate, however, in possessing a jewel beside which rubies lose their luster—I mean my dear Sophia. For a man’s greatest joy and comfort is a happy home, where he can close the door after his day’s labors and find peace and solace beside the fireplace, enjoying the loving attentions of a blessed wife.”

A muffled snicker. The painter stifles his mirth. Behind his easel he is looking at me again; I can feel his eyes, though my own are fixed on the wall. I hate him.

Worse is to come. “My only sadness is that, as yet, we have not heard the patter of tiny feet, but that, I hope, will be rectified.” My husband chuckles. “For though my leaves may be sere, the sap still rises.”

No! How could he say this? The painter catches my eye again. He grins—white teeth. He looks me up and down, disrobing me. My dress vanishes and I stand in front of him, naked.

I want to die. My whole body is blushing. Why are we doing this? How could Cornelis talk this way? It is his excitement at having his portrait painted—but how could he make us such fools?

Behind his easel the painter is watching me. His blue eyes bore into my soul. He is a small, wiry man with wild black hair. His head is cocked to one side. I stare back at him coolly. Then I realize—he is not looking at
me
. He is looking at an arrangement to be painted. He wipes his brush on a rag and frowns. I am just an object—brown hair, white lace collar and blue, shot-silk dress.

This irritates me. I am not a joint of mutton! My heart thumps; I feel dizzy and confused. What is the matter with me?

“How long is this going to take?” I ask coldly.

“You’re already tired?” The painter steps up to me and gives me a handkerchief. “Are you unwell?”

“I’m perfectly well.”

“You’ve been sniffing all morning.”

“It’s just a chill. I caught it from my maid.” I won’t use his handkerchief. I pull out my own and dab at my nose. He moves close to me; I can smell linseed oil and tobacco.

“You’re not happy, are you?” he asks.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean—you’re not happy, standing.” He pulls up a chair. “Sit here. If I move this . . . and this . . .” He shifts the table. He moves quickly, rearranging the furniture. He puts the globe to one side and stands back, inspecting it. He works with utter concentration. His brown jerkin is streaked with paint.

And then he is squatting in front of me. He tweaks the hem of my dress, revealing the toe of my slipper. He pulls off his beret and scratches his head. I look down at his curls. He sits back on his haunches, looks at my foot and then reaches forth and cradles it in his hand. He moves it a little to the right and, placing it on the foot warmer, adjusts the folds of my skirt. “A woman like you deserves to be happy,” he murmurs.

He steps back behind his easel. He says he will visit for three sittings and complete the canvas in his studio. My husband is talking now, telling him about a man he knows, a friend of the Burgomaster, who lost a ship at sea and with it a great fortune, sunk by the Spanish. Cornelis’s voice echoes, far away. I sit there. My breasts press against the cotton of my chemise; my thighs burn under my petticoat. I am conscious of my throat, my earlobes, my pulsing blood. My body is throbbing but this is because I have a fever. This is why I am aching, why I am both heavy and featherlight.

The painter works. His eyes flick to me and back to his canvas. As he paints I feel his brush stroking my skin. . . .

I am in bed with my sisters. I keep my eyes squeezed shut because I know he’s sitting there, watching me. His red tongue flicks over his teeth. If I open my eyes the wolf will be there, sitting on his haunches beside my bed. My heart squeezes. I mutter my rosary . . .
Holy Mary, Mother
of God
. . . I can feel his hot, meaty breath on my face. My hands cup my budding breasts. I mutter faster, willing him to move closer.

4

Maria

My duty requires me to work but Love will not allow me any rest. I do not feel like doing anything; My thoughts are nourished by Love, Love nourishes my thoughts, And when I fight it, I am powerless. Everything I do is against my will and desire Because you, o restless Love, hold me in your Power!

—J. H. KRUL, 1644

^“
I love him. When he touches me I get these shivers all over my body. When he looks at me it turns my insides to jelly.” Maria leans against the linen cupboard, her eyes closed. “I’m so happy I’m going to burst. Oh, madam, I’ll love him forever and ever and we’re going to have six children because I ate an apple this morning, the same time as I was thinking about him, and when I spat out the pips there were six of them.”

Maria clasps the sheet to her breasts. She did not mean to confess it but the words surged up. She has nobody to tell except her mistress; she is her only confidante, for Maria knows nobody in Amsterdam except trades people and her darling sweetheart, her doleful, fond, funny Willem with his fishy fingers.

“I love him to death.”

Sophia does not reply. She takes the sheets from Maria’s arms and loads them into the cupboard. The cat rubs himself against Sophia’s legs. Getting no reaction, he stalks stiff-legged to Maria and rubs himself against hers. He moves from one woman to the other, seeking a response, but they are far away in their own dreams.

Both women sneeze at the same time. Maria laughs at this, but Sophia seems not to notice. This annoys the maid, who had expected some eager questions from her mistress.
Who is he? When did you meet him? Are his intentions honorable?
(Yes.)

Outside, the light is fading. Sophia closes the cupboard door and leans against it. She looks like a doll, propped up. She wears the blue silk dress she wore this morning, for the sitting, but she has now hung her gold crucifix around her neck. She looks pale; this is no doubt because she is feeling unwell although she refuses to go to bed. Maria thinks she is very pretty, in a refined sort of way. Beside her, Maria feels like a lump of dough. Today her mistress resembles a piece of china that might break.

Maria is not a curious woman and her happiness has made her self-absorbed. She knows little about her mistress except that they are of the same age—twenty-four—and that Sophia’s father, who worked as a printer in Utrecht, died young, leaving heavy debts and several daughters. That is why Sophia was married off to a rich man. Maria thinks that Cornelis is an old bore, but she is a practical woman. One has to survive and there is always a price to pay for this. Theirs is a trading nation, the most spectacularly successful the world has ever seen, and a transaction has been made between her mistress and her master. Youth has been traded for wealth; fertility (possible fertility) has been exchanged for a life free from the terrors of starvation. To Maria it seems a sensible arrangement, for though she is dreamy and superstitious she is a peasant at heart and has her feet planted firmly on the ground.

Still, she is irritated. She has opened up her heart and for what? Silence. Carrying an armful of sheets, she stomps into the bedchamber. Her mistress follows her in to help make up the bed—they often work together. On the oak chest three candles are burning. Maria dumps the sheets on the bed and blows one out.

“Why are you doing that?” asks Sophia.

Maria shivers. “Three candles are a bad omen.”

“What omen?”

“Death,” she replies shortly. “Don’t you know?”

5

Cornelis

Of the Poses of Women and Girls: In women and girls there must be no actions where the legs are raised or too far apart, because that would indicate boldness and a general lack of shame, while legs closed together indicate the fear of disgrace.