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'Van Ruijven,' my father interrupted. 'Yes, van Ruijven. All that can be seen of him is his back, his hair, and one hand on the neck of a lute.' 'He plays the lute badly,' my father added eagerly. 'Very badly. That's why his back is to us – so we won't see that he can't even hold his lute properly.' My father chuckled, his good mood restored. He was always pleased to hear that a rich man could be a poor musician. It was not always so easy to bring him back into good humour. Sundays had become so uncomfortable with my parents that I began to welcome those times when Pieter the son ate with us. He must have noted the troubled looks my mother gave me, my father's querulous comments, the awkward silences so unexpected between parent and child. He never said anything about them, never winced or stared or became tongue-tied himself. Instead he gently teased my father, flattered my mother, smiled at me. Pieter did not ask why I smelled of linseed oil. He did not seem to worry about what I might be hiding. He had decided to trust me.
He was a good man. I could not help it, though – I always looked to see if there was blood under his fingernails. He should soak them in salted water, I thought. One day I will tell him so. He was a good man, but he was becoming impatient. He did not say so, but sometimes on Sundays in the alley off the Rietveld Canal, I could feel the impatience in his hands. He would grip my thighs harder than he needed, press his palm into my back so that I was glued to his groin and would know its bulge, even under many layers of cloth. It was so cold that we did not touch each other's skin – only the bumps and textures of wool, the rough outlines of our limbs. Pieter's touch did not always repel me. Sometimes, if I looked over his shoulder at the sky, and found the colours besides white in a cloud, or thought of grinding lead white or massicot, my breasts and belly tingled, and I pressed against him. He was always pleased when I responded. He did not notice that I avoided looking at his face and hands.
That Sunday of the linseed oil, when my father and mother looked so puzzled and unhappy, Pieter led me to the alley later. There he began squeezing my breasts and pulling at their nipples through the cloth of my dress. Then he stopped suddenly, gave me a sly look, and ran his hands over my shoulders and up my neck. Before I could stop him his hands were up under my cap and tangled in my hair. I held my cap down with both hands. 'No!' Pieter smiled at me, his eyes glazed as if he had looked too long at the sun. He had managed to pull loose a strand of my hair, and tugged it now with his fingers. 'Some day soon, Griet, I will see all of this. You will not always be a secret to me.' He let a hand drop to the lower curve of my belly and pushed against me. 'You will be eighteen next month. I'll speak to your father then.' I stepped back from him – I felt as if I were in a hot, dark room and could not breathe. 'I am still so young. Too young for that.' Pieter shrugged. 'Not everyone waits until they're older. And your family needs me.' It was the first time he had referred to my parents' poverty, and their dependence on him – their dependence which became my dependence as well. Because of it they were content to take the gifts of meat and have me stand in an alley with him on a Sunday.
I frowned. I did not like being reminded of his power over us. Pieter sensed that he should not have said anything. To make amends he tucked the strand of hair back under my cap, then touched my cheek. 'I'll make you happy, Griet,' he said. 'I will.' After he left I walked along the canal, despite the cold. The ice had been broken so that boats could get through, but a thin layer had formed again on the surface. When we were children Frans and Agnes and I would throw stones to shatter the thin ice until every sliver had disappeared under water. It seemed a long time ago. A month before he had asked me to come up to the studio. 'I will be in the attic,' I announced to the room that afternoon. Tanneke did not look up from her sewing. 'Put some more wood on the fire before you go,' she ordered. The girls were working on their lace, overseen by Maertge and Maria Thins. Lisbeth had patience and nimble fingers, and produced good work, but Aleydis was still too young to manage the delicate weaving, and Cornelia too impatient. The cat sat at Cornelia's feet by the fire, and occasionally the girl reached down and dangled a bit of thread for the creature to paw at. Eventually, she probably hoped, the cat would tear its claws through her work and ruin it.
After feeding the fire I stepped around Johannes, who was playing with a top on the cold kitchen tiles. As I left he spun it wildly, and it hopped straight into the fire. He began to cry while Cornelia shrieked with laughter and Maertge tried to haul the toy from the flames with a pair of tongs. 'Hush, you'll wake Catharina and Franciscus,' Maria Thins warned the children. They did not hear her. I crept out, relieved to escape the noise, no matter how cold it would be in the studio. The studio door was shut. As I approached it I pressed my lips together, smoothed my eyebrows, and ran my fingers down the sides of my cheeks to my chin, as if I were testing an apple to see if it was firm. I hesitated in front of the heavy wooden door, then knocked softly. There was no answer, though I knew he must be there – he was expecting me. It was the first day of the new year. He had painted the ground layer of my painting almost a month before, but nothing since – no reddish marks to indicate the shapes, no false colours, no overlaid colours, no highlights. The canvas was a blank yellowish white. I saw it every morning as I cleaned.
I knocked louder. When the door opened he was frowning, his eyes not catching mine. 'Don't knock, Griet, just come in quietly,' he said, turning away and going back to the easel, where the blank canvas sat waiting for its colours. I closed the door softly behind me, blotting out the noise of the children downstairs, and stepped to the middle of the room. Now that the moment had come at last I was surprisingly calm. 'You wanted me, sir.' 'Yes. Stand over there.' He gestured to the corner where he had painted the other women. The table he was using for the concert painting was set there, but he had cleared away the musical instruments. He handed me a letter. 'Read that,' he said. I unfolded the sheet of paper and bowed my head over it, worried that he would discover I was only pretending to read an unfamiliar hand. Nothing was written on the paper. I looked up to tell him so, but stopped. With him it was often better to say nothing. I bowed my head again over the letter. 'Try this instead,' he suggested, handing me a book. It was bound in worn leather and the spine was broken in several places. I opened it at random and studied a page. I did not recognise any of the words.
He had me sit with the book, then stand holding it while looking at him. He took away the book, handed me the white jug with the pewter top and had me pretend to pour a glass of wine. He asked me to stand and simply look out the window. All the while he seemed perplexed, as if someone had told him a story and he couldn't recall the ending. 'It is the clothes,' he murmured. 'That is the problem.' I understood. He was having me do things a lady would do, but I was wearing a maid's clothes. I thought of the yellow mantle and the yellow and black bodice, and wondered which he would ask me to wear. Instead of being excited by the idea, though, I felt uneasy. It was not just that it would be impossible to hide from Catharina that I was wearing her clothes. I did not feel right holding books and letters, pouring myself wine, doing things I never did. As much as I wanted to feel the soft fur of the mantle around my neck, it was not what I normally wore. 'Sir,' I spoke finally, 'perhaps you should have me do other things. Things that a maid does.'
'What does a maid do?' he asked softly, folding his arms and raising his eyebrows. I had to wait a moment before I could answer – my jaw was trembling. I thought of Pieter and me in the alley and swallowed. 'Sewing,' I replied. 'Mopping and sweeping. Carrying water. Washing sheets. Cutting bread. Polishing window panes.' 'You would like me to paint you with your mop?' 'It's not for me to say, sir. It is not my painting.' He frowned. 'No, it is not yours.' He sounded as if he were speaking to himself. 'I do not want you to paint me with my mop.' I said it without knowing that I would. 'No. No, you're right, Griet. I would not paint you with a mop in your hand.' 'But I cannot wear your wife's clothes.' There was a long silence. 'No, I expect not,' he said. 'But I will not paint you as a maid.' 'What, then, sir?' 'I will paint you as I first saw you, Griet. Just you.' He set a chair near his easel, facing the middle window, and I sat down. I knew it was to be my place. He was going to find the pose he had put me in a month before, when he had decided to paint me.
'Look out the window,' he said. I looked out at the grey winter day and, remembering when I stood in for the baker's daughter, tried not to see anything but to let my thoughts become quiet. It was hard because I was thinking of him, and of me sitting in front of him. The New Church bell struck twice. 'Now turn your head very slowly towards me. No, not your shoulders. Keep your body turned towards the window. Move only your head. Slow, slow. Stop. A little more, so that – stop. Now sit still.' I sat still. At first I could not meet his eyes. When I did it was like sitting close to a fire that suddenly blazes up. Instead I studied his firm chin, his thin lips. 'Griet, you are not looking at me.' I forced my gaze up to his eyes. Again I felt as if I were burning, but I endured it – he wanted me to. Soon it became easier to keep my eyes on his. He looked at me as if he were not seeing me, but someone else, or something else – as if he were looking at a painting. He is looking at the light that falls on my face, I thought, not at my face itself. That is the difference.
It was almost as if I were not there. Once I felt this I was able to relax a little. As he was not seeing me, I did not see him. My mind began to wander – over the jugged hare we had eaten for dinner, the lace collar Lisbeth had given me, a story Pieter the son had told me the day before. After that I thought of nothing. Twice he got up to change the position of one of the shutters. He went to his cupboard several times to choose different brushes and colours. I viewed his movements as if I were standing in the street, looking in through the window. The church bell struck three times. I blinked. I had not felt so much time pass. It was as if I had fallen under a spell. I looked at him – his eyes were with me now. He was looking at me. As we gazed at each other a ripple of heat passed through my body. I kept my eyes on his, though, until at last he looked away and cleared his throat. 'That will be all, Griet. There is some bone for you to grind upstairs.' I nodded and slipped from the room, my heart pounding. He was painting me.
'Pull your cap back from your face,' he said one day. 'Back from my face, sir?' I repeated dumbly, and regretted it. He preferred me not to speak, but to do as he said. If I did speak, I should say something worth the words. He did not answer. I pulled the side of my cap that was closest to him back from my cheek. The starched tip grazed my neck. 'More,' he said. 'I want to see the line of your cheek.' I hesitated, then pulled it back further. His eyes moved down my cheek. 'Show me your ear.' I did not want to. I had no choice. I felt under the cap to make sure no hair was loose, tucking a few strands behind my ear. Then I pulled it back to reveal the lower part of my ear. The look on his face was like a sigh, though he did not make a sound. I caught a noise in my own throat and pushed it down so that it would not escape. 'Your cap,' he said. 'Take it off.' 'No, sir.' 'No?' 'Please do not ask me to, sir.' I let the cloth of the cap drop so that my ear and cheek were covered again. I looked at the floor, the grey and white tiles extending away from me, clean and straight.
'You do not want to bare your head?' 'No.' 'Yet you do not want to be painted as a maid, with your mop and your cap, nor as a lady, with satin and fur and dressed hair.' I did not answer. I could not show him my hair. I was not the sort of girl who left her head bare. He shifted in his chair, then got up. I heard him go into the storeroom. When he returned, his arms were full of cloth, which he dropped in my lap. 'Well, Griet, see what you can do with this. Find something here to wrap your head in, so that you are neither a lady nor a maid.' I could not tell if he was angry or amused. He left the room, shutting the door behind him. I sorted through the cloth. There were three caps, all too fine for me, and too small to cover my head fully. There were pieces of cloth, left over from dresses and jackets Catharina had made, in yellows and browns, blues and greys. I did not know what to do. I looked around as if I would find an answer in the studio. My eyes fell on the painting of _The Procuress_ – the young woman's head was bare, her hair held back with ribbons, but the old woman wore a piece of cloth wrapped around her head, crisscrossing in and out of itself. Perhaps that is what he wants, I thought. Perhaps that is what women who are neither ladies nor maids nor the other do with their hair.
I chose a piece of brown cloth and took it into the storeroom, where there was a mirror. I removed my cap and wound the cloth around my head as best I could, checking the painting to try to imitate the old woman's. I looked very peculiar. I _should_ let him paint me with a mop, I thought. Pride has made me vain. When he returned and saw what I had done, he laughed. I had not heard him laugh often – sometimes with the children, once with van Leeuwenhoek. I frowned. I did not like being laughed at. 'I have only done what you asked, sir,' I muttered. He stopped chuckling. 'You're right, Griet. I'm sorry. And your face, now that I can see more of it, it is—' He stopped, never finishing his sentence. I always wondered what he would have said. He turned to the pile of cloth I had left on my chair. 'Why did you choose brown,' he asked, 'when there are other colours?' I did not want to speak of maids and ladies again. I did not want to remind him that blues and yellows were ladies' colours. 'Brown is the colour I usually wear,' I said simply.
He seemed to guess what I was thinking. 'Tanneke wore blue and yellow when I painted her some years ago,' he countered. 'I am not Tanneke, sir.' 'No, that you certainly are not.' He pulled out a long, narrow band of blue cloth. 'None the less, I want you to try this.' I studied it. 'That is not enough cloth to cover my head.' 'Use this as well, then.' He picked up a piece of yellow cloth that had a border of the same blue and held it out to me. Reluctantly I took the two pieces of cloth back to the storeroom and tried again in front of the mirror. I tied the blue cloth over my forehead, with the yellow piece wound round and round, covering the crown of my head. I tucked the end into a fold at the side of my head, adjusted folds here and there, smoothed the blue cloth round my head, and stepped back into the studio. He was looking at a book and did not notice as I slipped into my chair. I arranged myself as I had been sitting before. As I turned my head to look over my left shoulder, he glanced up. At the same time the end of the yellow cloth came loose and fell over my shoulder.
'Oh,' I breathed, afraid that the cloth would fall from my head and reveal all my hair. But it held – only the end of the yellow cloth dangled free. My hair remained hidden. 'Yes,' he said then. 'That is it, Griet. Yes.' He would not let me see the painting. He set it on a second easel, angled away from the door, and told me not to look at it. I promised not to, but some nights I lay in bed and thought about wrapping my blanket around me and stealing downstairs to see it. He would never know. But he would guess. I did not think I could sit with him looking at me day after day without guessing that I had looked at the painting. I could not hide things from him. I did not want to. I was reluctant, too, to discover how it was that he saw me. It was better to leave that a mystery. The colours he asked me to mix gave no clues as to what he was doing. Black, ochre, lead white, lead-tin yellow, ultramarine, red lake – they were all colours I had worked with before, and they could as easily have been used for the concert painting.
It was unusual for him to work on two paintings at once. Although he did not like switching back and forth between the two, it did make it easier to hide from others that he was painting me. A few people knew. Van Ruijven knew – I was sure it was at his request that my master was making the painting. My master must have agreed to paint me alone so that he would not have to paint me with van Ruijven. Van Ruijven would own the painting of me. I was not pleased by this thought. Nor, I believed, was my master. Maria Thins knew about the painting as well. It was she who probably made the arrangement with van Ruijven. And besides, she could still go in and out of the studio as she liked, and could look at the painting, as I was not allowed to. Sometimes she looked at me sideways with a curious expression she could not hide. I suspected Cornelia knew about the painting. I caught her one day where she should not be, on the stairs leading to the studio. She would not say why she was there when I asked her, and I let her go rather than bring her to Maria Thins or Catharina. I did not dare stir things up, not while he was painting me.
Van Leeuwenhoek knew about the painting. One day he brought his camera obscura and set it up so they could look at me. He did not seem surprised to see me sitting in my chair – my master must have warned him. He did glance at my unusual head cloth, but did not comment. They took turns using the camera. I had learned to sit without moving or thinking, and without being distracted by his gaze. It was harder, though, with the black box pointed at me. With no eyes, no face, no body turned towards me, only a box and a black robe covering a humped back, I became uneasy. I could no longer be sure of how they were looking at me. I could not deny, however, that it was exciting to be studied so intently by two gentlemen, even if I could not see their faces. My master left the room to find a soft cloth to polish the lens. Van Leeuwenhoek waited until his tread could be heard on the stairs, then said softly, 'You watch out for yourself, my dear.' 'What do you mean, sir?' 'You must know that he's painting you to satisfy van Ruijven. Van Ruijven's interest in you has made your master protective of you.'
I nodded, secretly pleased to hear what I had suspected. 'Do not get caught in their battle. You could be hurt.' I was still holding the position I had assumed for the painting. Now my shoulders twitched of their own accord, as if I were shaking off a shawl. 'I do not think he would ever hurt me, sir.' 'Tell me, my dear, how much do you know of men?' I blushed deeply and turned my head away. I was thinking of being in the alley with Pieter the son. 'You see, competition makes men possessive. He is interested in you in part because van Ruijven is.' I did not answer. 'He is an exceptional man,' van Leeuwenhoek continued. 'His eyes are worth a room full of gold. But sometimes he sees the world only as he wants it to be, not as it is. He does not understand the consequences for others of his point of view. He thinks only of himself and his work, not of you. You must take care then—' He stopped. My master's footsteps were on the stairs. 'Take care to do what, sir?' I whispered. 'Take care to remain yourself.'
I lifted my chin to him. 'To remain a maid, sir?' 'That is not what I mean. The women in his paintings – he traps them in his world. You can get lost there.' My master came into the room. 'Griet, you have moved,' he said. 'I am sorry, sir.' I took up my position once more. Catharina was six months pregnant when he began the painting of me. She was large already, and moved slowly, leaning against walls, grabbing the backs of chairs, sinking heavily into one with a sigh. I was surprised by how hard she made carrying a child seem, given that she had done so several times already. Although she did not complain aloud, once she was big she made every movement seem like a punishment she was being forced to bear. I had not noticed this when she was carrying Franciscus, when I was new to the house and could barely see beyond the pile of laundry waiting for me each morning. As she grew heavier Catharina became more and more absorbed in herself. She still looked after the children, with Maertge's help. She still concerned herself with the housekeeping, and gave Tanneke and me orders. She still shopped for the house with Maria Thins. But part of her was elsewhere, with the baby inside. Her harsh manner was rare now, and less deliberate. She slowed down, and though she was clumsy she broke fewer things.
I worried about her discovering the painting of me. Luckily the stairs to the studio were becoming awkward for her to climb, so that she was unlikely to fling open the studio door and discover me in my chair, him at his easel. And because it was winter she preferred to sit by the fire with the children and Tanneke and Maria Thins, or doze under a mound of blankets and furs. The real danger was that she would find out from van Ruijven. Of the people who knew of the painting, he was the worst at keeping a secret. He came to the house regularly to sit for the concert painting. Maria Thins no longer sent me on errands or told me to make myself scarce when he came. It would have been impractical – there were only so many errands I could run. And she must have thought he would be satisfied with the promise of a painting, and would leave me alone. He did not. Sometimes he sought me out, while I was washing or ironing clothes in the washing kitchen, or working with Tanneke in the cooking kitchen. It was not so bad when others were around – when Maertge was with me, or Tanneke, or even Aleydis, he simply called out, 'Hello, my girl,' in his honeyed voice and left me in peace. If I was alone, however, as I often was in the courtyard, hanging up laundry so it could catch a few minutes of pale winter sunlight, he would step into the enclosed space, and behind a sheet I had just hung, or one of my master's shirts, he would touch me. I pushed him away as politely as a maid can a gentleman. None the less he managed to become familiar with the shape of my breasts and thighs under my clothes. He said things to me that I tried to forget, words I would never repeat to anyone else.
Van Ruijven always visited Catharina for a few minutes after sitting in the studio, his daughter and sister waiting patiently for him to finish gossiping and flirting. Although Maria Thins had told him not to say anything to Catharina about the painting, he was not a man to keep secrets quietly. He was very pleased that he was to have the painting of me, and he sometimes dropped hints about it to Catharina. One day as I was mopping the hallway I overheard him say to her, 'Who would you have your husband paint, if he could paint anyone in the world?' 'Oh, I don't think about such things,' she laughed in reply. 'He paints what he paints.' 'I don't know about that.' Van Ruijven worked so hard to sound sly that even Catharina could not miss the hint. 'What do you mean?' she demanded. 'Nothing, nothing. But you should ask him for a painting. He might not say no. He could paint one of the children – Maertge, perhaps. Or your own lovely self.' Catharina was silent. From the way van Ruijven quickly changed the subject he must have realised he had said something that upset her.
Another time when she asked if he enjoyed sitting for the painting he replied, 'Not as much as I would if I had a pretty girl to sit with me. But soon enough I'll have her anyway, and that will have to do, for now.' Catharina let this remark pass, as she would not have done a few months before. But then, perhaps it did not sound so suspicious to her since she knew nothing of the painting. I was horrified, though, and repeated his words to Maria Thins. 'Have you been listening behind doors, girl?' the old woman asked. 'I—' I could not deny it. Maria Thins smiled sourly. 'It's about time I caught you doing things maids are meant to do. Next you'll be stealing silver spoons.' I flinched. It was a harsh thing to say, especially after all the trouble with Cornelia and the combs. I had no choice, though – I owed Maria Thins a great deal. She must be allowed her cruel words. 'But you're right, van Ruijven's mouth is looser than a whore's purse,' she continued. 'I will speak to him again.' Saying something to him, however, was of little use – it seemed to spur him on even more to make suggestions to Catharina. Maria Thins took to being in the room with her daughter when he visited so that she could try to rein in his tongue.
I did not know what Catharina would do when she discovered the painting of me. And she would, one day – if not in the house, then at van Ruijven's, where she would be dining and look up and see me staring at her from a wall. He did not work on the painting of me every day. He had the concert to paint as well, with or without van Ruijven and his women. He painted around them when they were not there, or asked me to take the place of one of the women – the girl sitting at the harpsichord, the woman standing next to it singing from a sheet of paper. I did not wear their clothes. He simply wanted a body there. Sometimes the two women came without van Ruijven, and that was when he worked best. Van Ruijven himself was a difficult model. I could hear him when I was working in the attic. He could not sit still, and wanted to talk and play his lute. My master was patient with him, as he would be with a child, but sometimes I could hear a tone creep into his voice and knew that he would go out that night to the tavern, returning with eyes like glittering spoons.
I sat for him for the other painting three or four times a week, for an hour or two each time. It was the part of the week I liked best, with his eyes on only me for those hours. I did not mind that it was not an easy pose to hold, that looking sideways for long periods of time gave me headaches. I did not mind when sometimes he had me move my head again and again so that the yellow cloth swung around, so that he could paint me looking as if I had just turned to face him. I did whatever he asked of me. He was not happy, though. February passed and March arrived, with its days of ice and sun, and he was not happy. He had been working on the painting for almost two months, and though I had not seen it, I thought it must be close to done. He was no longer having me mix quantities of colour for it, but used tiny amounts and made few movements with his brushes as I sat. I had thought I understood how he wanted me to be, but now I was not sure. Sometimes he simply sat and looked at me as if he were waiting for me to do something. Then he was not like a painter, but like a man, and it was hard to look at him.
One day he announced suddenly, as I was sitting in my chair, 'This will satisfy van Ruijven, but not me.' I did not know what to say. I could not help him if I had not seen the painting. 'May I look at the painting, sir?' He gazed at me curiously. 'Perhaps I can help,' I added, then wished I had not. I was afraid I had become too bold. 'All right,' he said after a moment. I got up and stood behind him. He did not turn round, but sat very still. I could hear him breathing slowly and steadily. The painting was like none of his others. It was just of me, of my head and shoulders, with no tables or curtains, no windows or powderbrushes to soften and distract. He had painted me with my eyes wide, the light falling across my face but the left side of me in shadow. I was wearing blue and yellow and brown. The cloth wound round my head made me look not like myself, but like Griet from another town, even from another country altogether. The background was black, making me appear very much alone, although I was clearly looking at someone. I seemed to be waiting for something I did not think would ever happen.
He was right – the painting might satisfy van Ruijven, but something was missing from it. I knew before he did. When I saw what was needed – that point of brightness he had used to catch the eye in other paintings – I shivered. This will be the end, I thought. I was right. This time I did not try to help him as I had with the painting of van Ruijven's wife writing a letter. I did not creep into the studio and change things – reposition the chair I sat in or open the shutters wider. I did not wrap the blue and yellow cloth differently or hide the top of my chemise. I did not bite my lips to make them redder, or suck in my cheeks. I did not set out colours I thought he might use. I simply sat for him, and ground and washed the colours he asked for. He would find it for himself anyway. It took longer than I had expected. I sat for him twice more before he discovered what was missing. Each time I sat he painted with a dissatisfied look on his face, and dismissed me early. I waited. Catharina herself gave him the answer. One afternoon Maertge and I were polishing shoes in the washing kitchen while the other girls had gathered in the great hall to watch their mother dress for a birth feast. I heard Aleydis and Lisbeth squeal, and knew Catharina had brought out her pearls, which the girls loved.
Then I heard his tread in the hallway, silence, then low voices. After a moment he called out, 'Griet, bring my wife a glass of wine.' I set the white jug and two glasses on a tray, in case he chose to join her, and took them to the great hall. As I entered I bumped against Cornelia, who had been standing in the doorway. I managed to catch the jug, and the glasses clattered against my chest without breaking. Cornelia smirked and stepped out of my way. Catharina was sitting at the table with her powderbrush and jar, her combs and jewellery box. She was wearing her pearls and her green silk dress, altered to cover her belly. I placed a glass near her and poured. 'Would you like some wine too, sir?' I asked, glancing up. He was leaning against the cupboard that surrounded the bed, pressed against the silk curtains, which I noticed for the first time were made of the same cloth as Catharina's dress. He looked back and forth between Catharina and me. On his face was his painter's look. 'Silly girl, you've spilled wine on me!' Catharina pushed away from the table and brushed at her belly with her hand. A few drops of red had splashed there.
'I'm sorry, madam. I'll get a damp cloth to sponge it.' 'Oh, never mind. I can't bear to have you fussing about me. Just go.' I stole a look at him as I picked up the tray. His eyes were fixed on his wife's pearl earring. As she turned her head to brush more powder on her face the earring swung back and forth, caught in the light from the front windows. It made us all look at her face, and reflected light as her eyes did. 'I must go upstairs for a moment,' he said to Catharina. 'I won't be long.' That is it, then, I thought. He has his answer. When he asked me to come to the studio the next afternoon, I did not feel excited as I usually did when I knew I was to sit for him. For the first time I dreaded it. That morning the clothes I washed felt particularly heavy and sodden, and my hands not strong enough to wring them well. I moved slowly between the kitchen and the courtyard, and sat down to rest more than once. Maria Thins caught me sitting when she came in for a copper pancake pan. 'What's the matter, girl? Are you ill?' she asked.
I jumped up. 'No, madam. Just a little tired.' 'Tired, eh? That's no way for a maid to be, especially not in the morning.' She looked as if she did not believe me. I plunged my hands into the cooling water and pulled out one of Catharina's chemises. 'Are there any errands you would like me to run this afternoon, madam?' 'Errands? This afternoon? I don't think so. That's a funny thing to ask if you're feeling tired.' She narrowed her eyes. 'You aren't in trouble, are you, girl? Van Ruijven didn't catch you alone, did he?' 'No, madam.' In fact he had, just two days before, but I had managed to pull away from him. 'Has someone discovered you upstairs?' Maria Thins asked in a low voice, jerking her head up to indicate the studio. 'No, madam.' For a moment I was tempted to tell her about the earring. Instead I said, 'I ate something that did not agree with me, that is all.' Maria Thins shrugged and turned away. She still did not believe me, but had decided it did not matter. That afternoon I plodded up the stairs, and paused before the studio door. This would not be like other times when I sat for him. He was going to ask me for something, and I was beholden to him.
I pushed open the door. He sat at his easel, studying the tip of one of his brushes. When he looked up at me I saw something I had never before seen in his face. He was nervous. That was what gave me the courage to say what I said. I went to stand by my chair and placed my hand on one of the lion heads. 'Sir,' I began, gripping the hard, cool carving, 'I cannot do it.' 'Do what, Griet?' He was genuinely surprised. 'What you are going to ask me to do. I cannot wear it. Maids do not wear pearls.' He stared at me for a long moment, then shook his head a few times. 'How unexpected you are. You always surprise me.' I ran my fingers around the lion's nose and mouth and up its muzzle to its mane, smooth and knobbled. His eyes followed my fingers. 'You know,' he murmured, 'that the painting needs it, the light that the pearl reflects. It won't be complete otherwise.' I did know. I had not looked at the painting long – it was too strange seeing myself – but I had known immediately that it needed the pearl earring. Without it there were only my eyes, my mouth, the band of my chemise, the dark space behind my ear, all separate. The earring would bring them together. It would complete the painting.
It would also put me on the street. I knew that he would not borrow an earring from van Ruijven or van Leeuwenhoek or anyone else. He had seen Catharina's pearl and that was what he would make me wear. He used what he wanted for his paintings, without considering the result. It was as van Leeuwenhoek had warned me. When Catharina saw her earring in the painting she would explode. I should have begged him not to ruin me. 'You are painting it for van Ruijven,' I argued instead, 'not for yourself. Does it matter so much? You said yourself that he would be satisfied with it.' His face hardened and I knew I had said the wrong thing. 'I would never stop working on a painting if I knew it was not complete, no matter who was to get it,' he muttered. 'That is not how I work.' 'No, sir.' I swallowed and gazed at the tiled floor. Stupid girl, I thought, my jaw tightening. 'Go and prepare yourself.' Bowing my head, I hurried to the storeroom where I kept the blue and yellow cloths. I had never felt his disapproval so strongly. I did not think I could bear it. I removed my cap and, feeling the ribbon that tied up my hair was coming undone, I pulled it off. I was reaching back to gather up my hair again when I heard one of the loose floor tiles in the studio clink. I froze. He had never come into the storeroom while I was changing. He had never asked that of me.
I turned round, my hands still in my hair. He stood on the threshold, gazing at me. I lowered my hands. My hair fell in waves over my shoulders, brown like fields in the autumn. No one ever saw it but me. 'Your hair,' he said. He was no longer angry. At last he let me go with his eyes. Now that he had seen my hair, now that he had seen me revealed, I no longer felt I had something precious to hide and keep to myself. I could be freer, if not with him, then with someone else. It no longer mattered what I did and did not do. That evening I slipped from the house and found Pieter the son at one of the taverns where the butchers drank, near the Meat Hall. Ignoring the whistles and remarks, I went up to him and asked him to come with me. He set down his beer, his eyes wide, and followed me outside, where I took his hand and led him to a nearby alley. There I pulled up my skirt and let him do as he liked. Clasping my hands around his neck, I held on while he found his way into me and began to push rhythmically. He gave me pain, but when I remembered my hair loose around my shoulders in the studio, I felt something like pleasure too.
Afterwards, back at Papists' Corner, I washed myself with vinegar. When I next looked at the painting he had added a wisp of hair peeking out from the blue cloth above my left eye. The next time I sat for him he did not mention the earring. He did not hand it to me, as I had feared, or change how I sat, or stop painting. He did not come into the storeroom again to see my hair either. He sat for a long time, mixing colours on his palette with his palette knife. There was red and ochre there, but the paint he was mixing was mostly white, to which he added daubs of black, working them together slowly and carefully, the silver diamond of the knife flashing in the grey paint. 'Sir?' I began. He looked up at me, his knife stilled. 'I have seen you paint sometimes without the model being here. Could you not paint the earring without me wearing it?' The palette knife remained still. 'You would like me to imagine you wearing the pearl, and paint what I imagine?' 'Yes, sir.' He looked down at the paint, the palette knife moving again. I think he smiled a little. 'I want to see you wear the earring.'
'But you know what will happen then, sir.' 'I know the painting will be complete.' You will ruin me, I thought. Again I could not bring myself to say it. 'What will your wife say when she sees the finished painting?' I asked instead, as boldly as I dared. 'She will not see it. I will give it directly to van Ruijven.' It was the first time he had admitted he was painting me secretly, that Catharina would disapprove. 'You need only wear it once,' he added, as if to placate me. 'The next time I paint you I will bring it. Next week. Catharina will not miss it for an afternoon.' 'But, sir,' I said, 'my ear is not pierced.' He frowned slightly. 'Well, then, you will need to take care of that.' This was clearly a woman's detail, not something he felt he need concern himself with. He tapped the knife and wiped it with a rag. 'Now, let us begin. Chin down a bit.' He gazed at me. 'Lick your lips, Griet.' I licked my lips. 'Leave your mouth open.' I was so surprised by this request that my mouth remained open of its own will. I blinked back tears. Virtuous women did not open their mouths in paintings.
It was as if he had been in the alley with Pieter and me. You have ruined me, I thought. I licked my lips again. 'Good,' he said. I did not want to do it to myself. I was not afraid of pain, but I did not want to take a needle to my own ear. If I could have chosen someone to do it for me, it would have been my mother. But she would never have understood, nor agreed to it without knowing why. And if she had been told why, she would have been horrified. I could not ask Tanneke, or Maertge. I considered asking Maria Thins. She may not yet have known about the earring, but she would find out soon enough. I could not bring myself to ask her, though, to have her take part in my humiliation. The only person who might do it and understand was Frans. I slipped out the next afternoon, carrying a needlecase Maria Thins had given me. The woman with the sour face at the factory gate smirked when I asked to see him. 'He's long gone and good riddance,' she answered, relishing the words. 'Gone? Gone where?' The woman shrugged. 'Towards Rotterdam, they say. And then, who knows? Perhaps he'll make his fortune on the seas, if he doesn't die between the legs of some Rotterdam whore.' These last bitter words made me look at her more closely. She was with child.
Cornelia had not known when she broke the tile of Frans and me that she would come to be right – that he would split from me and from the family. Will I ever see him again? I thought. And what will our parents say? I felt more alone than ever. The next day I stopped at the apothecary's on my way back from the fish stalls. The apothecary knew me now, even greeting me by name. 'And what is it that he wants today?' he asked. 'Canvas? Vermilion? Ochre? Linseed oil?' 'He does not need anything,' I answered nervously. 'Nor my mistress. I have come—' For a moment I considered asking him to pierce my ear. He seemed a discreet man, who might do it without telling anyone or demanding to know why. I could not ask a stranger such a thing. 'I need something to numb the skin,' I said. 'Numb the skin?' 'Yes. As ice does.' 'Why do you want to numb the skin?' I shrugged and did not answer, studying the bottles on the shelves behind him. 'Clove oil,' he said at last with a sigh. He reached behind him for a flask. 'Rub a little on the spot and leave it for a few minutes. It doesn't last long, though.'
'I would like some, please.' 'And who is to pay for this? Your master? It is very dear, you know. It comes from far away.' In his voice was a mixture of disapproval and curiosity. 'I will pay. I only want a little.' I removed a pouch from my apron and counted the precious stuivers on to the table. A tiny bottle of it cost me two days' wages. I had borrowed some money from Tanneke, promising to repay her when I was paid on Sunday. When I handed over my reduced wages to my mother that Sunday I told her I had broken a hand mirror and had to pay for it. 'It will cost more than two days' wages to replace that,' she scolded. 'What were you doing, looking at yourself in a mirror? How careless.' 'Yes,' I agreed. 'I have been very careless.' I waited until late, when I was sure everyone in the house was asleep. Although usually no one came up to the studio after it was locked for the night, I was still fearful of someone catching me, with my needle and mirror and clove oil. I stood by the locked studio door, listening. I could hear Catharina pacing up and down the hallway below. She was having a hard time sleeping now – her body had become too cumbersome to find a position she could lie in comfortably. Then I heard a child's voice, a girl's, trying to speak low but unable to hide its bright ring. Cornelia was with her mother. I could not hear what they said, and because I was locked into the studio, I could not creep to the top of the stairs to listen more closely.
Maria Thins was also moving about in her rooms next to the storeroom. It was a restless house, and it made me restless too. I made myself sit in my lion-head chair to wait. I was not sleepy. I had never felt so awake. Finally Catharina and Cornelia went back to bed, and Maria Thins stopped rustling next door. As the house grew still, I remained in my chair. It was easier to sit there than do what I had to do. When I could not delay any longer, I got up and first peeked at the painting. All I could really see now was the great hole where the earring should go, which I would have to fill. I took up my candle, found the mirror in the storeroom, and climbed to the attic. I propped the mirror against the wall on the grinding table and set the candle next to it. I got out my needlecase and, choosing the thinnest needle, set the tip in the flame of the candle. Then I opened the bottle of clove oil, expecting it to smell foul, of mould or rotting leaves, as remedies often do. Instead it was sweet and strange, like honeycakes left out in the sun. It was from far away, from places Frans might get to on his ships. I shook a few drops on to a rag, and swabbed my left earlobe. The apothecary was right – when I touched the lobe a few minutes later it felt as if I had been out in the cold without wrapping a shawl around my ears.
I took the needle out of the flame and let the glowing red tip change to dull orange and then to black. When I leaned towards the mirror I gazed at myself for a moment. My eyes were full of liquid in the candlelight, glittering with fear. Do this quickly, I thought. It will not help to delay. I pulled the earlobe taut and in one movement pushed the needle through my flesh. Just before I fainted I thought, I have always wanted to wear pearls. Every night I swabbed my ear and pushed a slightly larger needle through the hole to keep it open. It did not hurt too much until the lobe became infected and began to swell. Then no matter how much clove oil I dabbed on the ear, my eyes streamed with tears when I drove the needle through. I did not know how I would manage to wear the earring without fainting again. I was grateful that I wore my cap over my ears so that no one saw the swollen red lobe. It throbbed as I bent over the steaming laundry, as I ground colours, as I sat in church with Pieter and my parents.
It throbbed when van Ruijven caught me hanging up sheets in the courtyard one morning and tried to pull my chemise down over my shoulders and expose my bosom. 'You shouldn't fight me, my girl,' he murmured as I backed away from him. 'You'll enjoy it more if you don't fight. And you know, I will have you anyway when I get that painting.' He pushed me against the wall and lowered his lips to my chest, pulling at my breasts to free them from the dress. 'Tanneke!' I called desperately, hoping in vain that she had returned early from an errand to the baker's. 'What are you doing?' Cornelia was watching us from the doorway. I had never expected to be glad to see her. Van Ruijven raised his head and stepped back. 'We're playing a game, dear girl,' he replied, smiling. 'Just a little game. You'll play it too when you're older.' He straightened his cloak and stepped past her into the house. I could not meet Cornelia's eye. I tucked in my chemise and smoothed my dress with shaking hands. When finally I looked up she was gone.
The morning of my eighteenth birthday I got up and cleaned the studio as usual. The concert painting was done – in a few days van Ruijven would come to view it and take it away. Although I did not need to now, I still cleaned the studio scene carefully, dusting the harpsichord, the violin, the bass viol, brushing the table-rug with a damp cloth, polishing the chairs, mopping the grey and white floor tiles. I did not like the painting as much as his others. Although it was meant to be more valuable with three figures in it, I preferred the pictures he had painted of women alone – they were purer, less complicated. I found I did not want to look at the concert for long, or try to understand what the people in it were thinking. I wondered what he would paint next. Downstairs I set water on the fire to heat and asked Tanneke what she wanted from the butcher. She was sweeping the steps and tiles in front of the house. 'A rack of beef,' she replied, leaning against her broom. 'Why not have something nice?' She rubbed her lower back and groaned. 'It may take my mind off my aches.'
'Is it your back again?' I tried to sound sympathetic, but Tanneke's back always hurt. A maid's back would always hurt. That was a maid's life. Maertge came with me to the Meat Hall, and I was glad of it – since that night in the alley I was embarrassed to be alone with Pieter the son. I was not sure how he would treat me. If I was with Maertge, however, he would have to be careful of what he said or did. Pieter the son was not there – only his father, who grinned at me. 'Ah, the birthday maid!' he cried. 'An important day for you.' Maertge looked at me in surprise. I had not mentioned my birthday to the family – there was no reason to. 'There's nothing important about it,' I snapped. 'That's not what my son said. He's off now, on an errand. Someone to see.' Pieter the father winked at me. My blood chilled. He was saying something without saying it, something I was meant to understand. 'Your finest rack of beef,' I ordered, deciding to ignore him. 'In celebration, then?' Pieter the father never let things drop, but pushed them as far as he could.
I did not reply. I simply waited until he served me, then put the beef in my pail and turned away. 'Is it really your birthday, Griet?' Maertge whispered as we left the Meat Hall. 'Yes.' 'How old are you?' 'Eighteen.' 'Why is eighteen so important?' 'It's not. You mustn't listen to what he says – he's a silly man.' Maertge didn't look convinced. Nor was I. His words had tugged at something in my mind. I worked all morning rinsing and boiling laundry. My mind turned to many things while I sat over the tub of steaming water. I wondered where Frans was, and if my parents had heard yet that he had left Delft. I wondered what Pieter the father had meant earlier, and where Pieter the son was. I thought of the night in the alley. I thought of the painting of me, and wondered when it would be done and what would happen to me then. All the while my ear throbbed, stabbing with pain whenever I moved my head. It was Maria Thins who came to get me. 'Leave your washing, girl,' I heard her say behind me. 'He wants you upstairs.' She was standing in the doorway, shaking something in her hand.
I got up in confusion. 'Now, madam?' 'Yes, now. Don't be coy with me, girl. You know why. Catharina has gone out this morning, and she doesn't do that much these days now her time is closer. Hold out your hand.' I dried a hand on my apron and held it out. Maria Thins dropped a pair of pearl earrings into my palm. 'Take them up with you now. Quickly.' I could not move. I was holding two pearls the size of hazelnuts, shaped like drops of water. They were silvery grey, even in the sunlight, except for a dot of fierce white light. I had touched pearls before, when I brought them upstairs for van Ruijven's wife and tied them round her neck or laid them on the table. But I had never held them for myself before. 'Go on, girl,' Maria Thins growled impatiently. 'Catharina may come back sooner than she said.' I stumbled into the hallway, leaving the laundry unwrung. I climbed the stairs in full view of Tanneke, who was bringing in water from the canal, and Aleydis and Cornelia, who were rolling marbles in the hallway. They all looked up at me.
'Where are you going?' Aleydis asked, her grey eyes bright with interest. 'To the attic,' I replied softly. 'Can we come with you?' Cornelia said in a taunting voice. 'No.' 'Girls, you're blocking my way.' Tanneke pushed past them, her face dark. The studio door was ajar. I stepped inside, pressing my lips together, my stomach twisting. I closed the door behind me. He was waiting for me. I held my hand out to him and dropped the earrings into his palm. He smiled at me. 'Go and wrap up your hair.' I changed in the storeroom. He did not come to look at my hair. As I returned I glanced at _The Procuress_ on the wall. The man was smiling at the young woman as if he were squeezing pears in the market to see if they were ripe. I shivered. He was holding up an earring by its wire. It caught the light from the window, capturing it in a tiny panel of bright white. 'Here you are, Griet.' He held out the pearl to me. 'Griet! Griet! Someone is here to see you!' Maertge called from the bottom of the stairs. I stepped to the window. He came to my side and we looked out.
Pieter the son was standing in the street below, arms crossed. He glanced up and saw us standing together at the window. 'Come down, Griet,' he called. 'I want to speak to you.' He looked as if he would never move from his spot. I stepped back from the window. 'I'm sorry, sir,' I said in a low voice. 'I won't be long.' I hurried to the storeroom, pulled off the head cloths and changed into my cap. He was still standing at the window, his back to me, as I passed through the studio. The girls were sitting in a row on the bench, staring openly at Pieter, who stared back at them. 'Let's go around the corner,' I whispered, moving towards the Molenpoort. Pieter did not follow, but continued to stand with his arms crossed. 'What were you wearing up there?' he asked. 'On your head.' I stopped and turned back. 'My cap.' 'No, it was blue and yellow.' Five sets of eyes watched us – the girls on the bench, him at the window. Then Tanneke appeared in the doorway, and that made six. 'Please, Pieter,' I hissed. 'Let's go along a little way.'
'What I have to say can be said in front of anyone. I have nothing to hide.' He tossed his head, his blond curls falling around his ears. I could see he would not be silenced. He would say what I dreaded he would say in front of them all. Pieter did not raise his voice, but we all heard his words. 'I've spoken to your father this morning, and he has agreed that we may marry now you are eighteen. You can leave here and come to me. Today.' I felt my face go hot, whether from anger or shame I was not sure. Everyone was waiting for me to speak. I drew in a deep breath. 'This is not the place to talk about such things,' I replied severely. 'Not in the street like this. You were wrong to come here.' I did not wait for his response, though as I turned to go back inside he looked stricken. 'Griet!' he cried. I pushed past Tanneke, who spoke so softly that I was not sure I heard her right. 'Whore.' I ran up the stairs to the studio. He was still standing at the window as I shut the door. 'I am sorry, sir,' I said. 'I'll just change my cap.'
He did not turn round. 'He is still there,' he said. When I returned, I crossed to the window, though I did not stand too close in case Pieter could see me again with my head wrapped in blue and yellow. My master was not looking down at the street any longer, but at the New Church tower. I peeked – Pieter was gone. I took my place in the lion-head chair and waited. When he turned at last to face me, his eyes were masked. More than ever, I did not know what he was thinking. 'So you will leave us,' he said. 'Oh, sir, I do not know. Do not pay attention to words said in the street like that.' 'Will you marry him?' 'Please do not ask me about him.' 'No, perhaps I should not. Now, let us begin again.' He reached around to the cupboard behind him, picked up an earring, and held it out to me. 'I want you to do it.' I had not thought I could ever be so bold. Nor had he. He raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to speak, but did not say anything. He stepped up to my chair. My jaw tightened but I managed to hold my head steady. He reached over and gently touched my earlobe.
I gasped as if I had been holding my breath under water. He rubbed the swollen lobe between his thumb and finger, then pulled it taut. With his other hand he inserted the earring wire in the hole and pushed it through. A pain like fire jolted through me and brought tears to my eyes. He did not remove his hand. His fingers brushed against my neck and along my jaw. He traced the side of my face up to my cheek, then blotted the tears that spilled from my eyes with his thumb. He ran his thumb over my lower lip. I licked it and tasted salt. I closed my eyes then and he removed his fingers. When I opened them again he had gone back to his easel and taken up his palette. I sat in my chair and gazed at him over my shoulder. My ear was burning, the weight of the pearl pulling at the lobe. I could not think of anything but his fingers on my neck, his thumb on my lips. He looked at me but did not begin to paint. I wondered what he was thinking. Finally he reached behind him again. 'You must wear the other one as well,' he declared, picking up the second earring and holding it out to me.
For a moment I could not speak. I wanted him to think of me, not of the painting. 'Why?' I finally answered. 'It can't be seen in the painting.' 'You must wear both,' he insisted. 'It is a farce to wear only one.' 'But – my other ear is not pierced,' I faltered. 'Then you must tend to it.' He continued to hold it out. I reached over and took it. I did it for him. I got out my needle and clove oil and pierced my other ear. I did not cry, or faint, or make a sound. Then I sat all morning and he painted the earring he could see, and I felt, stinging like fire in my other ear, the pearl he could not see. The clothes soaking in the kitchen went cold, the water grey. Tanneke clattered in the kitchen, the girls shouted outside, and we behind our closed door sat and looked at each other. And he painted. When at last he set down his brush and palette, I did not change position, though my eyes ached from looking sideways. I did not want to move. 'It is done,' he said, his voice muffled. He turned away and began wiping his palette knife with a rag. I gazed at the knife – it had white paint on it.
'Take off the earrings and give them back to Maria Thins when you go down,' he added. I began to cry silently. Without looking at him, I got up and went into the storeroom, where I removed the blue and yellow cloth from my head. I waited for a moment, my hair out over my shoulders, but he did not come. Now that the painting was finished he no longer wanted me. I looked at myself in the little mirror, and then I removed the earrings. Both holes in my lobes were bleeding. I blotted them with a bit of cloth, then tied up my hair and covered it and my ears with my cap, leaving the tips to dangle below my chin. When I came out again he was gone. He had left the studio door open for me. For a moment I thought about looking at the painting to see what he had done, to see it finished, the earring in place. I decided to wait until night, when I could study it without worrying that someone might come in. I crossed the studio and shut the door behind me. I always regretted that decision. I never got to have a proper look at the finished painting.
Catharina arrived back only a few minutes after I had handed the earrings to Maria Thins, who immediately replaced them in the jewellery box. I hurried to the cooking kitchen to help Tanneke with dinner. She would not look at me straight, but gave me sideways glances, occasionally shaking her head. He was not at dinner – he had gone out. After we had cleared up I went back to the courtyard to finish rinsing the laundry. I had to haul in new water and reheat it. While I worked Catharina slept in the great hall. Maria Thins smoked and wrote letters in the Crucifixion room. Tanneke sat in the front doorway and sewed. Maertge perched on the bench and made lace. Next to her Aleydis and Lisbeth sorted their shell collection. I did not see Cornelia. I was hanging up an apron when I heard Maria Thins say, 'Where are you going?' It was the tone of her voice rather than what she said that made me pause in my work. She sounded anxious. I crept inside and along the hallway. Maria Thins was at the foot of the stairs, gazing up. Tanneke had come to stand in the front doorway, as she had earlier that day, but facing in and following the look of her mistress. I heard the stairs creak, and the sound of heavy breathing. Catharina was pulling herself up the stairs.
In that moment I knew what was going to happen – to her, to him, to me. Cornelia is there, I thought. She is leading her mother to the painting. I could have cut short the misery of waiting. I could have left then, walked out the door with the laundry not done, and not looked back. But I could not move. I stood frozen, as Maria Thins stood frozen at the bottom of the stairs. She too knew what would happen, and she could not stop it. I sank to the floor. Maria Thins saw me but did not speak. She continued to gaze up uncertainly. Then the noise on the stairs stopped and we heard Catharina's heavy tread over to the studio door. Maria Thins darted up the stairs. I remained on my knees, too weary to rise. Tanneke stood blocking the light from the front door. She watched me, her arms crossed, her face expressionless. Soon after there was a shout of rage, then raised voices which were quickly lowered. Cornelia came down the stairs. 'Mama wants Papa to come home,' she announced to Tanneke. Tanneke stepped backwards outside and turned towards the bench. 'Maertge, go and find your father at the Guild,' she ordered. 'Quickly. Tell him it's important.'
Cornelia look around. When she saw me her face lit up. I got up from my knees and walked stiffly back to the courtyard. There was nothing I could do but hang up laundry and wait. When he returned I thought for a moment that he might come and find me in the courtyard, hidden among the hanging sheets. He did not – I heard him on the stairs, then nothing. I leaned against the warm brick wall and gazed up. It was a bright, cloudless day, the sky a mocking blue. It was the kind of day when children ran up and down the streets and shouted, when couples walked out through the town gates, past the windmills and along the canals, when old women sat in the sun and closed their eyes. My father was probably sitting on the bench in front of his house, his face turned towards the warmth. Tomorrow might be bitterly cold, but today it was spring. They sent Cornelia to get me. When she appeared between the hanging clothes and looked down at me with a cruel smirk on her face, I wanted to slap her as I had that first day I had come to work at the house. I did not, though – I simply sat, hands in my lap, shoulders slumped, and watched her show off her glee. The sun caught glints of gold – traces of her mother – in her red hair.
'You are wanted upstairs,' she said in a formal voice. 'They want to see you.' She turned and skipped back into the house. I leaned over and brushed a bit of dust from my shoe. Then I stood, straightened my skirt, smoothed my apron, pulled the tips of my cap tight, and checked for loose strands of hair. I licked my lips and pressed them together, took a deep breath and followed Cornelia. Catharina had been crying – her nose was red, her eyes puffy. She was sitting in the chair he normally pulled up to his easel – it had been pushed towards the wall and the cupboard that held his brushes and palette knife. When I appeared she heaved herself up so that she was standing, tall and broad. Although she glared at me, she did not speak. She squeezed her arms over her belly and winced. Maria Thins was standing next to the easel, looking sober but also impatient, as if she had other, more important things to attend to. He stood next to his wife, his face without expression, hands at his sides, eyes on the painting. He was waiting for someone, for Catharina, or Maria Thins, or me, to begin.
I came to stand just inside the door. Cornelia hovered behind me. I could not see the painting from where I stood. It was Maria Thins who finally spoke. 'Well, girl, my daughter wants to know how you came to be wearing her earrings.' She said it as if she did not expect me to answer. I studied her old face. She was not going to admit to helping me get the earrings. Nor would he, I knew. I did not know what to say. So I did not say anything. 'Did you steal the key to my jewellery box and take my earrings?' Catharina spoke as if she were trying to convince herself of what she said. Her voice was shaky. 'No, madam.' Although I knew it would be easier for everyone if I said I had stolen them, I could not lie about myself. 'Don't lie to me. Maids steal all the time. You took my earrings!' 'Are they missing now, madam?' For a moment Catharina looked confused, as much by my asking a question as by the question itself. She had obviously not checked her jewellery box since seeing the painting. She had no idea if the earrings were gone or not. But she did not like me asking the questions. 'Quiet, thief. They'll throw you in prison,' she hissed, 'and you won't see sunlight for years.' She winced again. Something was wrong with her.
'But, madam—' 'Catharina, you must not get yourself into a state,' he interrupted me. 'Van Ruijven will take the painting away as soon as it is dry and you can put it from your mind.' He did not want me to speak either. It seemed no one did. I wondered why they had asked me upstairs at all when they were so afraid of what I might say. I might say, 'What about the way he looked at me for so many hours while he painted this painting?' I might say, 'What about your mother and your husband, who have gone behind your back and deceived you?' Or I might simply say, 'Your husband touched me, here, in this room.' They did not know what I might say. Catharina was no fool. She knew the real matter was not the earrings. She wanted them to be, she tried to make them be so, but she could not help herself. She turned to her husband. 'Why,' she asked, 'have you never painted me?' As they gazed at each other it struck me that she was taller than he, and, in a way, more solid. 'You and the children are not a part of this world,' he said. 'You are not meant to be.'
'And she is?' Catharina cried shrilly, jerking her head at me. He did not answer. I wished that Maria Thins and Cornelia and I were in the kitchen or the Crucifixion room, or out in the market. It was an affair for a man and his wife to discuss alone. 'And with _my_ earrings?' Again he was silent, which stirred Catharina even more than his words had. She began to shake her head so that her blonde curls bounced around her ears. 'I will not have this in my own house,' she declared. 'I will not have it!' She looked around wildly. When her eyes fell on the palette knife a shiver ran through me. I took a step forward at the same time as she moved to the cupboard and grabbed the knife. I stopped, unsure of what she would do next. He knew, though. He knew his own wife. He moved with Catharina as she stepped up to the painting. She was quick but he was quicker – he caught her by the wrist as she plunged the diamond blade of the knife towards the painting. He stopped it just before the blade touched my eye. From where I stood I could see the wide eye, a flicker of earring he had just added, and the winking of the blade as it hovered before the painting. Catharina struggled but he held her wrist firmly, waiting for her to drop the knife. Suddenly she groaned. Flinging the knife away, she clutched her belly. The knife skidded across the tiles to my feet, then spun and spun, slower and slower, as we all stared at it. It came to a stop with the blade pointed at me.
I was meant to pick it up. That was what maids were meant to do – pick up their master's and mistress' things and put them back in their place. I looked up and met his eye, holding his grey gaze for a long moment. I knew it was for the last time. I did not look at anyone else. In his eyes I thought I could see regret. I did not pick up the knife. I turned and walked from the room, down the stairs and through the doorway, pushing aside Tanneke. When I reached the street I did not look back at the children I knew must be sitting on the bench, nor at Tanneke, who would be frowning because I had pushed her, nor up at the windows, where he might be standing. I got to the street and I began to run. I ran down the Oude Langendijck and across the bridge into Market Square. Only thieves and children run. I reached the centre of the square and stopped in the circle of tiles with the eight-pointed star in the middle. Each point indicated a direction I could take. I could go back to my parents. I could find Pieter at the Meat Hall and agree to marry him.
I could go to van Ruijven's house – he would take me in with a smile. I could go to van Leeuwenhoek and ask him to take pity on me. I could go to Rotterdam and search for Frans. I could go off on my own somewhere far away. I could go back to Papists' Corner. I could go into the New Church and pray to God for guidance. I stood in the circle, turning round and round as I thought. When I made my choice, the choice I knew I had to make, I set my feet carefully along the edge of the point and went the way it told me, walking steadily. When I looked up and saw her I almost dropped my knife. I had not set eyes on her in ten years. She looked almost the same, though she had grown a little broader, and as well as the old pockmarks, her face now carried scars up one side – Maertge, who still came to see me from time to time, had told me of the accident, the mutton joint that spat hot oil. She had never been good at roasting meat. She was standing far enough away that it was not clear she had indeed come to see me. I knew, though, that this could be no chance. For ten years she had managed to avoid me in what was not a big town. I had not once run into her in the market or the Meat Hall, or along any of the main canals. But then, I did not walk along the Oude Langendijck.
She approached the stall reluctantly. I set down my knife and wiped my bloody hands on my apron. 'Hello, Tanneke,' I said calmly, as if I had seen her only a few days before. 'How have you been keeping?' 'Mistress wants to see you,' Tanneke said bluntly, frowning. 'You're to come to the house this afternoon.' It had been many years since someone had ordered me about in that tone. Customers asked for things, but that was different. I could refuse them if I didn't like what I heard. 'How is Maria Thins?' I asked, trying to remain polite. 'And how is Catharina?' 'As well as can be expected, given what's happened.' 'I expect they will manage.' 'My mistress has had to sell some property, but she's being clever with the arrangements. The children will be all right.' As in the past, Tanneke could not resist praising Maria Thins to anyone who would listen, even if it meant being too eager with details. Two women had come up and were standing behind Tanneke, waiting to be served. Part of me wished they were not there so that I could ask her more questions, lead her to give away other details, to tell me much more about so many things. But another part of me – the sensible part that I had held to now for many years – did not want to have anything to do with her. I did not want to hear.
The women shifted from side to side as Tanneke stood solidly in front of the stall, still frowning but with a softer face. She pondered the cuts of meat laid out before her. 'Would you like to buy something?' I asked. My question snapped her out of her stupor. 'No,' she muttered. They bought their meat now from a stall at the far end of the Meat Hall. As soon as I began working alongside Pieter they had switched butchers – so abruptly that they did not even pay their bill. They still owed us fifteen guilders. Pieter never asked them for it. 'It's the price I have paid for you,' he sometimes teased. 'Now I know what a maid is worth.' I did not laugh when he said this. I felt a tiny hand tugging at my dress and looked down. Little Frans had found me and was clinging to my skirt. I touched the top of his head, full of blond curls like his father's. 'There you are,' I said. 'Where's Jan and your grandmother?' He was too young to be able to tell me, but I then saw my mother and elder son coming through the stalls towards me.
Tanneke looked back and forth between my sons and her face hardened. She darted a look at me full of blame, but she did not say what she was thinking. She stepped back, treading on the foot of the woman directly behind her. 'Mind you come this afternoon,' she said, then turned away before I could reply. They had eleven children now – Maertge and market gossip had kept count for me. Yet Catharina had lost the baby she delivered that day of the painting and the palette knife. She gave birth in the studio itself – she could not get down the stairs to her own bed. The baby had come a month early and was small and sickly. It died not long after its birth feast. I knew that Tanneke blamed me for the death. Sometimes I pictured his studio with Catharina's blood on the floor and wondered how he was able still to work there. Jan ran to his little brother and pulled him into a corner, where they began to kick a bone back and forth between them. 'Who was that?' my mother asked. She had never seen Tanneke.
'A customer,' I replied. I often shielded her from things I knew would disturb her. Since my father's death she had become skittish as a wild dog about the new, the different, the changed. 'She didn't buy anything,' my mother remarked. 'No. We didn't have what she wanted.' I turned to wait on the next customer before my mother could ask more questions. Pieter and his father appeared, carrying a side of beef between them. They flung it on to the table behind the stall and took up their knives. Jan and little Frans left their bone and ran over to watch. My mother stepped back – she had never grown used to the sight of so much meat. 'I'll be getting along,' she said, picking up her shopping pail. 'Can you watch the boys this afternoon? I have some errands to run.' 'Where are you going?' I raised my eyebrows. I had complained before to my mother that she asked too many questions. She had grown old and suspicious when there was usually nothing to be suspicious of. Now, though, when there was something to hide from her, I found myself strangely calm. I did not answer her question.
It was easier with Pieter. He simply glanced up at me from his work. I nodded at him. He had decided long ago not to ask questions, even though he knew I had thoughts sometimes that I did not speak of. When he removed my cap on our wedding night and saw the holes in my ears he did not ask. The holes were long healed now. All that was left of them were tiny buds of hard flesh I could feel only if I pressed the lobes hard between my fingers. It had been two months since I had heard the news. For two months now I could walk around Delft without wondering if I would see him. Over the years I had occasionally spotted him in the distance, on his way to or from the Guild, or near his mother's inn, or going to van Leeuwenhoek's house, which was not far from the Meat Hall. I never went near him, and I was not sure if he ever saw me. He strode along the streets or across the square with his eyes fixed on a distant point – not rudely or deliberately, but as if he were in a different world. At first it was very hard for me. When I saw him I froze wherever I was, my chest tightened, and I could not get my breath. I had to hide my response from Pieter the father and son, from my mother, from the curious market gossips.
For a long time I thought I might still matter to him. After a while, though, I admitted to myself that he had always cared more for the painting of me than for me. It grew easier to accept this when Jan was born. My son made me turn inward to my family, as I had done when I was a child, before I became a maid. I was so busy with him that I did not have time to look out and around me. With a baby in my arms I stopped walking round the eight-pointed star in the square and wondering what was at the end of each of its points. When I saw my old master across the square my heart no longer squeezed itself like a fist. I no longer thought of pearls and fur, nor longed to see one of his paintings. Sometimes on the streets I ran into the others – Catharina, the children, Maria Thins. Catharina and I turned our faces from each other. It was easier that way. Cornelia looked through me with disappointed eyes. I think she had hoped to destroy me completely. Lisbeth was kept busy looking after the boys, who were too young to remember me. And Aleydis was like her father – her grey eyes looked about her without settling on anything near to her. After a time there were other children I did not know, or knew only by their father's eyes or their mother's hair.
Of all of them, only Maria Thins and Maertge acknowledged me, Maria Thins nodding briefly when she saw me, Maertge sneaking away to the Meat Hall to speak with me. It was Maertge who brought me my things from the house – the broken tile, my prayer book, my collars and caps. It was Maertge who told me over the years of his mother's death and of how he had to take over the running of her inn, of their growing debt, of Tanneke's accident with the oil. It was Maertge who announced gleefully one day, 'Papa has been painting me in the manner in which he painted you. Just me, looking over my shoulder. They are the only paintings he has done like that, you know.' Not exactly in the manner, I thought. Not exactly. I was surprised, though, that she knew of the painting. I wondered if she had seen it. I had to be careful with her. For a long time she was but a girl, and I did not feel it right to ask too much about her family. I had to wait patiently for her to pass me tidbits of news. By the time she was old enough to be more frank with me, I was not so interested in her family now that I had my own.
Pieter tolerated her visits but I knew she made him uneasy. He was relieved when Maertge married a silk merchant's son and began to see less of me, and bought her meat from another butcher. Now after ten years I was being called back to the house I had run from so abruptly. Two months before, I had been slicing tongue at the stall when I heard a woman waiting her turn say to another, 'Yes, to think of dying and leaving eleven children and the widow in such debt.' I looked up and the knife cut deep into my palm. I did not feel the pain of it until I had asked, 'Who are you speaking of?' and the woman replied. 'The painter Vermeer is dead.' I scrubbed my fingernails especially hard when I finished at the stall. I had long ago given up always scrubbing them thoroughly, much to Pieter the father's amusement. 'You see, you've grown used to stained fingers as you got used to the flies,' he liked to say. 'Now you know the world a little better you can see there's no reason always to keep your hands clean. They just get dirty again. Cleanliness is not as important as you thought back when you were a maid, eh?' Sometimes, though, I crushed lavender and hid it under my chemise to mask the smell of meat that seemed to hang about me even when I was far from the Meat Hall.
There were many things I'd had to get used to. I changed into another dress, a clean apron, and a newly starched cap. I still wore my cap in the same way, and I probably looked much as I had the day I first set out to work as a maid. Only now my eyes were not so wide and innocent. Although it was February, it was not bitterly cold. Many people were out in Market Square – our customers, our neighbours, people who knew us and would note my first step on to the Oude Langendijck in ten years. I would have to tell Pieter eventually that I had gone there. I did not know yet if I would need to lie to him about why. I crossed the square, then the bridge leading from it over the canal to the Oude Langendijck. I did not hesitate, for I did not want to bring more attention to myself. I turned briskly and walked up the street. It was not far – in half a minute I was at the house – but it felt long to me, as if I were travelling to a strange city I had not visited for many years. Because it was a mild day, the door was open and there were children sitting on the bench – four of them; two boys and two girls, lined up as their older sisters had been ten years before when I first arrived. The eldest was blowing bubbles, as Maertge had, though he laid down his pipe the moment he saw me. He looked to be ten or eleven years old. After a moment I realised he must be Franciscus, though I did not see much of the baby in him that I had known. But then, I had not thought much of babies when I was young. The others I did not recognise, except for seeing them occasionally in town with the older girls. They all stared at me.
I addressed myself to Franciscus. 'Please tell your grandmother that Griet is here to see her.' Franciscus turned to the older of the two girls. 'Beatrix, go and find Maria Thins.' The girl jumped up obediently and went inside. I thought of Maertge and Cornelia's scramble to announce me so long ago and smiled to myself. The children continued to stare at me. 'I know who you are,' Franciscus declared. 'I doubt you can remember me, Franciscus. You were but a baby when I knew you.' He ignored my remark – he was following his own thought. 'You're the lady in the painting.' I started, and Franciscus smiled in triumph. 'Yes, you are, though in the painting you're not wearing a cap, but a fancy blue and yellow head cloth.' 'Where is this painting?' He seemed surprised that I should ask. 'With van Ruijven's daughter, of course. He died last year, you know.' I had heard this news at the Meat Hall with secret relief. Van Ruijven had never sought me out once I'd left, but I had always feared that he would appear again one day with his oily smile and groping hands.
'How did you see the painting if it is at van Ruijven's?' 'Papa asked to have the painting on a short loan,' Franciscus explained. 'The day after Papa died Mama sent it back to van Ruijven's daughter.' I rearranged my mantle with shaking hands. 'He wanted to see the painting again?' I managed to say in a small voice. 'Yes, girl.' Maria Thins had come to stand in the doorway. 'It didn't help matters here, I can tell you. But by that time he was in such a state that we didn't dare say no, not even Catharina.' She looked exactly the same – she would never age. One day she would simply go to sleep and not wake up. I nodded to her. 'I'm sorry for your loss and your troubles, madam.' 'Yes, well, life is a folly. If you live long enough, nothing is surprising.' I did not know how to respond to such words, so I simply said what I knew to be true. 'You wanted to see me, madam.' 'No, it's Catharina who is to see you.' 'Catharina?' I could not keep the surprise from my voice. Maria Thins smiled sourly. 'You never did learn to keep your thoughts to yourself, did you, girl? Never mind, I expect you get by well enough with your butcher, if he doesn't ask too much of you.'
I opened my mouth to speak, then shut it. 'That's right. You're learning. Now, Catharina and van Leeuwenhoek are in the great hall. He is the executor of the will, you see.' I did not see. I wanted to ask her what she meant, and why van Leeuwenhoek was there, but I did not dare. 'Yes, madam,' I said simply. Maria Thins chuckled briefly. 'The most trouble we've ever had with a maid,' she muttered, shaking her head before disappearing inside. I stepped into the front hallway. There were still paintings hanging everywhere on the walls, some I recognised, others I did not. I half expected to see myself among the still lifes and seascapes, but of course I was not there. I glanced at the stairs leading up to his studio and stopped, my chest tightening. To stand in the house again, his room above me, was more than I thought I could bear, even though I knew he was not there. For so many years I had not let myself think of the hours I spent grinding colours at his side, sitting in the light of the windows, watching him look at me. For the first time in two months I became fully aware that he was dead. He was dead and he would paint no more paintings. There were so few – I had heard that he never did paint faster, as Maria Thins and Catharina had wanted him to.
It was only when a girl poked her head out from the Crucifixion room that I forced myself to take a deep breath and walk down the hallway towards her. Cornelia was now about the age I had been when I first became a maid. Her red hair had darkened over the ten years and was simply dressed, without ribbons or braids. She had grown less menacing to me over time. In fact I almost pitied her – her face was twisted by a cunning that gave a girl her age an ugly look. I wondered what would happen to her, what would happen to them all. Despite Tanneke's confidence in her mistress' ability to arrange things, it was a big family, with a big debt. I had heard in the market that they had not paid their bill to the baker in three years, and after my master's death the baker had taken pity on Catharina and accepted a painting to settle the debt. For a brief moment I wondered if Catharina was going to give me a painting too, to settle her debt with Pieter. Cornelia pulled her head back into the room and I stepped into the great hall. It had not changed much since I had worked there. The bed still had its green silk curtains, now faded. The ivory-inlaid cupboard was there, and the table and Spanish leather chairs, and the paintings of his family and hers. Everything appeared older, dustier, more battered. The red and brown floor tiles were cracked or missing in places.
Van Leeuwenhoek was standing with his back to the door, his hands clasped behind him, studying a painting of soldiers drinking in a tavern. He turned around and bowed to me, still the kind gentleman. Catharina was seated at the table. She was not wearing black as I had expected. I did not know if she meant to taunt me, but she wore the yellow mantle trimmed with ermine. It too had a faded look about it, as if it had been worn too many times. There were badly repaired rents in the sleeves, and the fur had been eaten away in places by moths. None the less, she was playing her part as the elegant lady of the house. She had dressed her hair carefully and was wearing powder and her pearl necklace. She was not wearing the earrings. Her face did not match her elegance. No amount of powder could mask her rigid anger, her reluctance, her fear. She did not want to meet with me, but she had to. 'Madam, you wished to see me.' I thought it best to address myself to her, though I looked at van Leeuwenhoek as I spoke.
'Yes.' Catharina did not gesture to a chair, as she would have to another lady. She let me stand. There was an awkward silence as she sat and I stood, waiting for her to begin. She was clearly struggling to speak. Van Leeuwenhoek shifted from one foot to the other. I did not try to help her. There seemed to be no way that I could. I watched her hands shuffle some papers on the table, run along the edges of the jewellery box at her elbow, pick up the powderbrush and set it down again. She wiped her hands on a white cloth. 'You know that my husband died two months ago?' she began at last. 'I had heard, madam, yes. I was very sorry to hear of it. May God keep him.' Catharina did not seem to take in my feeble words. Her mind was elsewhere. She picked up the brush again and ran her fingers through its bristles. 'It was the war with France, you see, that brought us to this state. Not even van Ruijven wanted to buy paintings then. And my mother had problems collecting her rents. And he had to take over the mortgage on his mother's inn. So it is no wonder things grew so difficult.'
The last thing I had expected from Catharina was an explanation of why they ran into debt. Fifteen guilders after all this time is not so very much, I wanted to say. Pieter has let it go. Think no more of it. But I dared not interrupt her. 'And then there were the children. Do you know how much bread eleven children eat?' She looked up at me briefly, then back down at the powderbrush. One painting's worth over three years, I answered silently. One very fine painting, to a sympathetic baker. I heard the click of a tile in the hallway, and the rustle of a dress being stilled by a hand. Cornelia, I thought, still spying. She too is taking her place in the drama. I waited, holding back the questions I wanted to ask. Van Leeuwenhoek finally spoke. 'Griet, when a will has been drawn up,' he began in his deep voice, 'an inventory of the family's possessions must be taken to establish the assets while considering the debts. However, there are private matters that Catharina would like to attend to before this is done.' He glanced at Catharina. She continued to play with the powderbrush.
They do not like each other still, I thought. They would not even be in the same room together if they could help it. Van Leeuwenhoek picked up a piece of paper from the table. 'He wrote this letter to me ten days before he died,' he said to me. He turned to Catharina. 'You must do this,' he ordered, 'for they are yours to give, not his or mine. As executor of his will I should not even be here to witness this, but he was my friend, and I would like to see his wish granted.' Catharina snatched the paper from his hand. 'My husband was not a sick man, you know,' she addressed herself to me. 'He was not really ill until a day or two before his death. It was the strain of the debt that drove him into a frenzy.' I could not imagine my master in a frenzy. Catharina looked down at the letter, glanced at van Leeuwenhoek, then opened her jewellery box. 'He asked that you have these.' She picked out the earrings and after a moment's hesitation laid them on the table. I felt faint and closed my eyes, touching the back of the chair lightly with my fingers to steady myself.
'I have not worn them again,' Catharina declared in a bitter tone. 'I could not.' I opened my eyes. 'I cannot take your earrings, madam.' 'Why not? You took them once before. And besides, it's not for you to decide. He has decided for you, and for me. They are yours now, so take them.' I hesitated, then reached over and picked them up. They were cool and smooth to the touch, as I had remembered them, and in their grey and white curve a world was reflected. I took them. 'Now go,' Catharina ordered in a voice muffled with hidden tears. 'I have done what he asked. I will do no more.' She stood up, crumpled the paper and threw it on the fire. She watched it flare up, her back to me. I felt truly sorry for her. Although she could not see it, I nodded to her respectfully, and then to van Leeuwenhoek, who smiled at me. 'Take care to remain yourself,' he had warned me so long ago. I wondered if I had done so. It was not always easy to know. I slipped across the floor, clutching my earrings, my feet making loose tiles clink together. I closed the door softly behind me.
Cornelia was standing out in the hallway. The brown dress she wore had been repaired in several places and was not as clean as it could be. As I brushed past her she said in a low, eager voice, 'You could give them to me.' Her greedy eyes were laughing. I reached over and slapped her. When I got back to Market Square I stopped by the star in the centre and looked down at the pearls in my hand. I could not keep them. What would I do with them? I could not tell Pieter how I came to have them – it would mean explaining everything that had happened so long ago. I could not wear the earrings anyway – a butcher's wife did not wear such things, no more than a maid did. I walked around the star several times. Then I set out for a place I had heard of but never been to, tucked away in a back street behind the New Church. I would not have visited such a place ten years before. The man's trade was keeping secrets. I knew that he would ask me no questions, nor tell anyone that I had gone to him. After seeing so many goods come and go, he was no longer curious about the stories behind them. He held the earrings up to the light, bit them, took them outside to squint at them.
'Twenty guilders,' he said. I nodded, took the coins he held out, and left without looking back. There were five extra guilders I would not be able to explain. I separated five coins from the others and held them tight in my fist. I would hide them somewhere that Pieter and my sons would not look, some unexpected place that only I knew of. I would never spend them. Pieter would be pleased with the rest of the coins, the debt now settled. I would not have cost him anything. A maid came free. Coming 2019 A Single Thread the stunning new novel from Tracy Chevalier Acknowledgements One of the most helpful and readable sources on seventeenth-century Holland is Simon Schama's _The Embarrassment of Riches: An Interpretation of Dutch Culture in the Golden Age_ (1987). What little is known about Vermeer's life and family has been thoroughly documented by John Montias in _Vermeer and His Milieu_ (1989). The catalogue for the 1996 Vermeer exhibition has beautiful reproductions and clear analyses of the paintings.
I would like to thank Philip Steadman, Nicola Costaras, Humphrey Ocean and Joanna Woodall for talking with me about various aspects of Vermeer's work. Mick Bartram, Ora Dresner, Nina Killham, Dale Reynolds, and Robert and Angela Royston all made helpful and supportive comments about the manuscript in progress. Thanks, finally, to my agent Jonny Geller and my editor Susan Watt for doing what they do so well. About the Author Tracy Chevalier is the author of eight novels, including _The Last Runaway_ , _Remarkable Creatures_ and _Girl with a Pearl Earring_ , an international bestseller that has sold over five million copies and won the Barnes and Noble Discover Award. Born in Washington DC, in 1984 she moved to London, where she lives with her husband and son. www.tchevalier.com Twitter @Tracy_Chevalier Facebook /tracychevalierwriter ALSO BY TRACY CHEVALIER _The Virgin Blue_ _Falling Angels_ _The Lady and the Unicorn_ _Burning Bright_ _Remarkable Creatures_ _The Last Runaway_ _At the Edge of the Orchard_
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Gun Trader's Guide,Thirty- - Edited by Robert A. Sadowski IndexIntroduction Welcome to the 39th edition of Gun Traders Guide (GTG). Each year we include updated firearm listings and values so you can make informed decisions about buying or selling. Worth noting in this edition are expanded listings and values on popular models, including Single Action Army revolvers, 1911-style pistols, and AR-15-style rifles. Within the past decade, perhaps even longer, these types of firearms have skyrocketed in popularity with shooters. Cowboy Action Shooting has seen a variety of late nineteenth century firearms being reproduced using modern steels and production methods. These old-time six shooters are sold by many different US importers, but most of these firearms come from a few manufacturers in Italy. Likewise are 1911-style pistols. These pistols are manufactured abroad and imported into the United States as well as made by many domestic manufacturers like Smith & Wesson, SIG, Ruger, and, of course, Colt as well as many others. Manufacturers in the Philippines and Brazil—Armscor and Taurus, respectively—are two of the larger makers of the 1911 pistol, and though many 1911s look the same, the value can range wildly depending on the manufacturer. The AR-15 has a similar situation. The problem with AR-15s is they all pretty much look the same, but if you are an AR-15 user, there is a big difference between a high end, middle of the road, and low-end AR-15. We've expanded our listings to include a broader spectrum of AR-15 manufacturers, including Bushmaster, Stag Arms, DMPS, Armalite, Colt, Daniel Defense, and others. We've also expanded our listings for AK-47-style rifles. These rifles have also seen a surge in popularity, and there are a variety of models with values that also span the value spectrum from those rebuilt here in the United States from demilitarized parts kits to new guns manufactured domestically and those imported. Lastly, there has been an influx in firearms made in Turkey, especially shotguns of all action types, that offer value-priced performance. Since we are seeing more of these shotguns make their way to the used gun market, we have also expanded these listings and values to indicate distributors and brands have imported guns made in Turkey. GTG has been the standard reference for collectors, curators, dealers, shooters, hunters, and gun enthusiasts. GTG is the definitive source for making informed decisions on selling and purchasing used firearms. There is a reason why over 2 million copies have been sold. We at GTG take buying and selling firearms as serious business. Whether you are buying a used gun for duck hunting, trading in your old concealed carry pistol for something better, or trying to figure out the value of a wall hanger.
CURRENT AND UP-TO-DATE GTG offers detailed firearms specifications as well as photographs so you can be confident when identifying a firearm and its value. GTG is revised annually to ensure information is both current and detailed. In the past fifty years, GTG has grown to over six hundred pages and more than six thousand standard firearms and their variations, evolving into one of the most complete catalogs of modern smokeless-powder rifles, shotguns, and handguns manufactured from the late 19th century, through the 20th century, to the 21st century. Every effort is made to ensure the information is current and up-to-date. Not every gun ever manufactured can be listed in a catalog of this size, but every effort has been made to include the makes and models that are most popular with collectors. Please note GTG does not include antique or recently manufactured blackpowder firearms. EASY-TO-USE FORMAT GTG 's reference guide format is simple and straightforward. Three tabbed sections—handguns, rifles, and shotguns—make it fast and easy to find the model in question. Entries are alphabetized by manufacturer and model with specifications that include:
• Manufacturer • Model Name • Model Number • Caliber or Gauge • Barrel Length • Overall Length • Weight • Distinguishing features • Variations of different models • Dates of manufacture (when they can be accurately determined) • Date of discontinuation (if applicable) • Current value for condition • Photos (or illustrations) ACCURATE FIREARM VALUES Values shown are based on national averages obtained by conferring with knowledgeable gun dealers, traders, collectors, online auction sites, and auctioneers around the country, not by applying an arbitrary mathematical formula that could produce unrealistic figures. The listed values accurately reflect the nationwide average at the time of publication and are updated annually. Keep in mind that the stated values are averages based on a wide spectrum of variables. No price given in any such catalog should be considered the one and only value for a particular firearm. Value is ultimately determined by the buyer and seller. Supply and demand also dictate price.
In the case of rare or one-of-a-kind items, such as the Winchester Model 1873 One of One Thousand rifle or the Parker AA1 Special shotgun in 28 gauge, where little trading takes place, active gun collectors were consulted to obtain current market values. In researching data, some manufacturers' records were unavailable and at times information was unobtainable. Some early firearms manufacturers' production records have been destroyed in fires, lost, or were simply not maintained accurately. These circumstances resulted in some minor deviations in the presentation format of certain model listings. For example, production dates may not be listed when manufacturing records are unclear or unavailable. As an alternative, approximate dates of manufacture may be listed to reflect the availability of guns from a manufacturer or distributor. These figures may represent disposition dates indicating when that particular model was shipped to a distributor or importer. Frequently, and especially with foreign manufacturers, production records are unavailable. Therefore, availability information is often based on importation records that reflect domestic distribution only.
This is meant to explain the procedure and policy used regarding these published dates and to establish the distinction between production dates, which are based on manufacturers' records, and availability dates, which are based on distribution records in the absence of recorded production data. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The publisher wishes to express special thanks to the many collectors, dealers, manufacturers, shooting editors, firearm companies and distributors' public relations and production personnel, research personnel, and other industry professionals who provide us with updates throughout the year. We are especially grateful for their assistance and cooperation. Special thanks to James D. Julia Auctioneers, Fairfield, Maine, (www.jamesdjulia.com) and Rock Island Auctions (www.rockislandauction.com) for the use of photos. Finally, GTG thanks those who email us with comments, suggestions, and queries about firearms. We appreciate and value your input. Send comments, queries, or suggestions to:
[email protected] Collector Notes: Old Guns and Old Dogs I was ruined at a young age as many bird hunters are. There came a time when Dad handed me an odd-looking shotgun. The Browning Sweet Sixteen had a humpback receiver. At the time, the really odd thing about the Browning—other than its look and recoil action—was that it was chambered in 16 gauge. In my mind there were only 12s and 20s. I soon found out the old adage was true: "Carries like a 20-gauge, hits like a 12." Dad had used it to hunt quail, partridge, and pheasant. He killed a buck at 96 yards with the Sweet Sixteen in upstate New York. I used that Browning so much that Dad teased me: "The barrel is going to peel back like a banana if you shoot that 16 again." Of course, it never did. The stock had been cut down so it was easier to shoulder while wearing a heavy wool hunting coat. The gold plate is worn from the trigger and the front bead filed down to be more of a front sight. Some of the wood forend is oil-soaked. It was manufactured in Belgium between 1940 and 1947, and that excites Browning collectors. If I was to sell it, due to its condition I might get $600. I wouldn't part with that old Browning for any thing. Ruined at an early age. A Browning Sweet Sixteen will do that.
Just as priceless as certain shotguns are to bird hunters is our relationship with dogs. You could say I was double ruined at an early age. There has been Ashes, Trapper, Jenny, Yippy, Yovel, Mike, and others. A lot of dogs over the years and recently a new pup. A German Shorthaired Pointer named Cooper. Young and still growing into his ears and paws, Cooper needed a companion. That was Bella. She was our first recuse. Editor's prized Belgian-made Browning Sweet Sixteen shotgun. Bella, like Cooper, was a German Shorthaired Pointer whose owner had given up on her. She was being sent to a shelter where dogs' subscriptions are canceled on a regular schedule. The hunt club pals of Bella's owner did not want her. I suspected she was gun shy, but that was okay, since Cooper was a hunting machine. Bella needed care and a home. Her head was mink soft and the color of chocolate. Her body was liver and ticked with white. One spot was shaped like a heart. Bella completely disrupted our family. She insisted on being the head of the pack. She was defensive, cautious and lashed out with barks. Never a bite. She had not been treated with kindness. Bella came around quickly, and still insisted she was in charge. Her first hunt with me was in early October. Her new brass bell tinged with a high pitch. The area we hunted had recently "been through." In several spots were empty shells and pheasant feathers. I didn't expect many birds and not much from Bella. The bell went silent. Bella was locked on point. The bluish-green head of a rooster pheasant glistened, then the bird flushed, but not in the air. Bella looked back with an expression on her face: "You do know you are suppose to shoot them." She broke point and grabbed the rooster. The bird's tail feathers were shot off. A previous hunter fired too far behind and didn't pull through the shot. Soon Bella and Cooper were hunting together. They honored each other's point and became a team. They ruined me.
A few years ago, I retired Bella from hunting. Her knees were shot, but her nose was always working. We learned to be satisfied with short walks in the woods or on the beach. She loved the beach yipping like a pup as soon as her paws touched the sand. Bella is with Saint Francis now, and I wouldn't trade any of it. Some old guns and old dogs are like that. Bella on point during a late November hunt in New England.How to Use GTG Are you planning on buying or selling a used rifle, shotgun, or handgun? Perhaps you just want to establish the value of a favorite rifle, shotgun, or handgun in your collection. No matter what your interest in collectible modern, smokless-powder firearms, today's enthusiast inevitably turns to the Gun Trader's Guide (GTG) to determine specifications, date of manufacture, and the average value (in the United States) of a specific modern firearm. Opening the book, the collector asks him- or herself the first obvious question: "How much is my used gun worth?" Values contained in this book should be considered retail; that is, the average price a collector anywhere in the United States may expect to pay for a firearm in similar condition. Don't leap to the conclusion that your firearm will bring top dollar! There is no right or wrong price for any collectible firearm. The listings shown here are based on national averages and may be higher or lower depending on where you live and the strength of the market in your area. There is a market for everything from folk art to Star Wars action figures, but the range of values can be extreme and only items in perfect condition will bring top dollar.
Many variables must be considered when buying or selling a used gun. Scarcity, demand, geographic location, and the buyer's position. The condition of the gun ultimately governs the selling price. Sentiment often shades the value of a particular gun in the seller's mind, but the market value of Grandpa's old .30-30 cannot be logically cataloged nor effectively marketed—except possibly to someone else in the family! GRANDPA'S DEER GUN To illustrate how the price of a particular gun may fluctuate, let us consider the popular Winchester Model 94 (it was discontinued in 2006, after 110 years of continuous production, then reintroduced in 2010) and see what its value might be. The Model 1894 (or Model 94) is a lever-action, solid-frame repeater. Round or octagon barrels of twenty-six inches were standard when the rifle was first introduced in 1894. However, half-octagon barrels were offered for a slight increase in price. Various magazine lengths were also available. Fancy grade versions in all calibers were available featuring a checkered walnut pistol grip stock and forearm.
In addition, Winchester produced this model in a carbine style with a saddle ring on the left side of the receiver. The carbine had a twenty inch round barrel and a full or half magazine. Some carbines were supplied with standard-grade barrels while others were made of nickel steel. Trapper models were also available with shorter fourteen-, sixteen-, or eighteen-inch barrels. In later years, the Rifle and Trapper models were discontinued, and only the carbine remained. Eventually, the saddle ring was eliminated from this model and the carbine butt stock was replaced with a shotgun-type butt stock and shortened forend. Many firearms are inherited from avid hunters or shooters. Since such firearms were used, they will not have as high a value as firearms in new or mint condition. After World War II, the finish on Winchester Model 94 carbines changed to strictly hot caustic bluing; thus, prewar models usually demand a premium over postwar models. In 1964 (a turning point for many American firearms manufacturers), beginning with serial number 2,700,000, the action on the Winchester Model 94 was redesigned for easier manufacture. Many collectors and firearms enthusiasts considered this and other design changes to be inferior to former models. Therefore, the term pre-'64 has become the watchword for collectors when it comes to setting values on Winchester-made firearms. This will likely be the case in the future, as the now-discontinued models 70, 94, and 1300 Winchester reach the collectible market.
Whether this evaluation is correct or not is unimportant. The justification for an immediate increase in the value of pre-'64 models was that they were no longer available. This diminished availability placed them in the scarce class, making them more desirable to collectors. Shortly after the 1964 transition, Winchester began producing Model 94 commemorative models in great numbers, which added confusion to the concept of limited production. Increased availability adversely affected the annual appreciation and price stability of these commemorative models. The negative response generated by this marketing practice was increased when Winchester was sold in the 1980s. The name of this long-established American firearms manufacturer was changed to U.S. Repeating Arms Company, which manufactured the Model 94 in standard, carbine, and big-bore models until 2006. Later, the Angle-Eject model was introduced, a design change that allowed for the mounting of scope sights directly above the action. Currently the Model 94 in various configurations are in production in Japan; originals were built in New Haven, Connecticut.
With the above facts in mind, let's explore GTG to establish the approximate value of your particular Model 94. We will assume that you recently inherited the rifle, which has "Winchester Model 94" inscribed on the barrel. Turn to the "Rifle" section of the book and look under "Winchester." The index at the back of the book is another way to locate your rifle. The listings in the GTG are arranged within each manufacturer's entry, first by model numbers in consecutive order followed by model names in alphabetical order. At first glance, you see that there are two model designations that may apply: the original designation (Model 1894) or the revised, shorter designation (Model 94). Which of these designations applies to your recently acquired Winchester? The next step in the process is to try to match the appearance of your model with an illustration in the book. The photos may all look alike at first glance, but close evaluation and careful attention to detail will enable you to eliminate models that are not applicable. Further examination of your gun might reveal a curved or crescent-shaped butt plate. By careful observation of your gun's characteristics and close visual comparison of the photographic examples, you may logically conclude that your gun is the Winchester Model 94 Lever-Action Carbine. (Please note that the guns shown in the GTG are not always shown in proportion to one another; that is, a carbine barrel might not appear to be shorter than a rifle barrel.)
You have now tentatively determined your model, but to be sure, you should read through the specifications for that model and establish that the barrel on the pictured rifle is twenty-six inches long and round, octagonal, or half-octagonal. Winchester Model 94 Lever Action Saddle Ring Carbine with 20-inch round barrel, walnut stock, chambered in .32 W.S. (Winchester Special), and manufactured in 1927. This example rates GOOD (Gd). Courtesy of Rock Island Auctions. Upon measuring you find that the barrel on your rifle is approximately twenty inches, and it is round. Additionally, your rifle is marked .32 W.S. The caliber offerings listed in the specifications include .32 W.S., so you are further convinced that this is your gun. You may read on to determine that this rifle was manufactured from 1894 to 1937. After that date, only the shorter-barreled carbine was offered by Winchester, and then only in .25-35, .30-30, and .38-55. At this point, you know you have a Winchester Model 94 manufactured before World War II. You read the value and take the rifle to your dealer to initiate a sale.
Here is a look at some of the trades you may encounter for Grandpa's deer rifle: WHAT TO EXPECT Since the rifle rates Gd, this means there are/may be some minor replacement parts, the metal is smoothly rusted or lightly pitted in places, and the stock is lightly scratched, bruised or minor cracks repaired. It is also in good working order. However, keep in mind that the dealer is in business to make a profit. If he pays you the full value of the gun, he will have to charge more than this when he sells it to make a reasonable profit. Therefore, expect a reputable dealer to offer you less than the published value for the gun in its present condition. The exact amount will vary for a variety of reasons. For example, if the dealer already has a dozen or so of the same model on his shelf and they do not sell well, his offer will be considerably lower. On the other hand, if the dealer does not have any of this model in stock and knows several collectors who want it, chances are his offer will be considerably higher.
Maybe you think refinishing the rifle will increase the value. Even when a collectible firearm has been expertly refinished to excellent condition, it is no longer original, and a rule of thumb is to deduct 50 percent from the value listed in this book. If the job is poorly done, deduct 80 percent or more. TOP-DOLLAR OPTIONS One alternative for getting top dollar for your gun is to go online and list it with one of several online gun auction websites, and sell the firearm directly to a private collector. Many collectors have a special interest in certain models, manufacturers, or product lines and will happily pay full price and sometimes more for a hard-to-find piece. However, this approach may prove time-consuming, frustrating, and expensive. Online auction websites charge fees, and you have to package and ship the firearm to your buyer's FFL dealer. In addition, there may be federal and local restrictions on the sale of firearms in your area, so be sure to check with the local police chief or sheriff before you proceed with a private sale.
STANDARDS OF CONDITION The condition of a firearm is an important factor in determining its value. In some rare and unusual models, a variation in condition from excellent to very good can mean a value difference of 50 percent or more. Therefore, you must be able to determine the gun's condition before you can accurately evaluate the value of the firearm. Several sets of value standards have been used in gun trading, but the National Rifle Association Standards of Condition of Modern Firearms is the most popular, with the condition established as a percentage of original finish remaining on the wood and metal of the firearm. Here's a look at how these standards are applied: EXCELLENT For the purpose of assigning comparative values as a basis for trading, firearms listed in this book are assumed to be in excellent (Ex) condition if they have 95 percent or more remaining original finish, no noticeable marring of wood or metal, and the bore has no pits or rust. To the novice, this translates to meaning a practically new gun, almost as though it had just been removed from its shipping box. The trained eye, however, will see the difference between new in the box (NiB) or mint condition and merely excellent.
VERY GOOD Any other defects, no matter how minor, diminish the value. For example, if more than 5 percent of the original finish is gone and there are minor surface dents or scratches, regardless of how small, the gun is no longer in excellent condition. Instead, it is considered to be in very good condition, provided the gun is in perfect working order. Despite the minor defects, the gun will still look relatively new to the untrained buyer. GOOD If the gun is in perfect working condition and functions properly but has minor wear on working surfaces (perhaps some deep scratches on the wood or metal), the gun is considered to be in good (Gd) condition, one grade below very good according to NRA standards. Again, the price shown in this book for that particular firearm must be reduced to reflect its true value. The two remaining NRA conditions fall under the headings of fair and poor. These guns normally have little value unless they are of historical importance or an aficionado simply must have them to complete his collection. The value of such guns is then determined by the price the buyer is willing to pay.
In any case, do not sell any gun until you have researched its history and value. Many plain-looking guns have sold for thousands of dollars for a variety of reasons. Many an innocent widow has given away her deceased husband's guns without knowing that they were of extremely high value. Avoid buyers who are in a hurry to make a purchase or who quickly offer what seems to be more money than the gun is worth. Not every gun is priceless, but many of them are nearly so! GTG offers multiplication factors to use for firearms in other than excellent condition. These factors are listed below. Be aware that the figures given are simply another rough means of establishing value. For guns in other-than-excellent condition, multiply the price shown in this book for the model in question by the following factors: Multiplication Factors: Condition X \| Factor ---\|--- Mint or New (NiB) \| 1.25 Excellent (Ex) \| 1.00 Very Good (VG) \| .85 Good (Gd) \| .68 Fair \| .45 Poor \| .15 UNIQUE SERIAL NUMBERS