Girl with a Pearl Earring, The Page 6

  He stood up at last and pulled the robe from his head, his hair ruffled. “There, Griet, it is ready. Now you look.” He stepped away from the box and gestured me towards it. I stood rooted to my place.

  “Sir—”

  “Place the robe over your head as I did. Then the image will be stronger. And look at it from this angle so it will not be upside down.”

  I did not know what to do. The thought of me covered with his robe, unable to see, and him looking at me all the while, made me feel faint.

  But he was my master. I was meant to do as he said.

  I pressed my lips together, then stepped up to the box, to the end where the lid had been lifted. I bent over and looked in at the square of milky glass fixed inside. There was a faint drawing of something on it.

  He draped his robe gently over my head so that it blocked out all light. It was still warm from him, and smelled of the way brick feels when it has been baked by the sun. I placed my hands on the table to steady myself and closed my eyes for a moment. I felt as if I had drunk my evening beer too quickly.

  “What do you see?” I heard him say.

  I opened my eyes and saw the painting, without the woman in it.

  “Oh!” I stood up so suddenly that the robe dropped from my head to the floor. I stepped back from the box, treading on the cloth.

  I moved my foot. “I’m sorry, sir. I will wash the robe this morning.”

  “Never mind about the robe, Griet. What did you see?”

  I swallowed. I was terribly confused, and a little frightened. What was in the box was a trick of the devil, or something Catholic I did not understand. “I saw the painting, sir. Except that the woman wasn’t in it, and it was smaller. And things were—switched around.”

  “Yes, the image is projected upside down, and left and right are reversed. There are mirrors that can fix that.”

  I did not understand what he was saying.

  “But—”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t understand, sir. How did it get there?”

  He picked up the robe and brushed it off. He was smiling. When he smiled his face was like an open window.

  “Do you see this?” He pointed to the round object at the end of the smaller box. “This is called a lens. It is made of a piece of glass cut in a certain way. When light from that scene”—he pointed to the corner—“goes through it and into the box it projects the image so that we can see it here.” He tapped the cloudy glass.

  I was staring at him so hard, trying to understand, that my eyes began to water.

  “What is an image, sir? It is not a word I know.”

  Something changed in his face, as if he had been looking over my shoulder but now was looking at me. “It is a picture, like a painting.”

  I nodded. More than anything I wanted him to think I could follow what he said.

  “Your eyes are very wide,” he said then.

  I blushed. “So I have been told, sir.”

  “Do you want to look again?”

  I did not, but I knew I could not say so. I thought for a moment. “I will look again, sir, but only if I am left alone.”

  He looked surprised, then amused. “All right,” he said. He handed me his robe. “I’ll return in a few minutes, and tap on the door before I enter.”

  He left, closing the door behind him. I grasped his robe, my hands shaking.

  For a moment I thought of simply pretending to look, and saying that I had. But he would know I was lying.

  And I was curious. It became easier to consider it without him watching me. I took a deep breath and gazed down into the box. I could see on the glass a faint trace of the scene in the corner. As I brought the robe over my head the image, as he called it, became clearer and clearer—the table, the chairs, the yellow curtain in the corner, the back wall with the map hanging on it, the ceramic pot gleaming on the table, the pewter basin, the powder-brush, the letter. They were all there, assembled before my eyes on a flat surface, a painting that was not a painting. I cautiously touched the glass—it was smooth and cold, with no traces of paint on it. I removed the robe and the image went faint again, though it was still there. I put the robe over me once more, closing out the light, and watched the jeweled colors appear again. They seemed to be even brighter and more colorful on the glass than they were in the corner.

  It became as hard to stop looking into the box as it had been to take my eyes from the painting of the woman with the pearl necklace the first time I’d seen it. When I heard the tap on the door I just had time to straighten up and let the robe drop to my shoulders before he walked in.

  “Have you looked again, Griet? Have you looked properly?”

  “I have looked, sir, but I am not at all sure of what I have seen.” I smoothed my cap.

  “It is surprising, isn’t it? I was as amazed as you the first time my friend showed it to me.”

  “But why do you look at it, sir, when you can look at your own painting?”

  “You do not understand.” He tapped the box. “This is a tool. I use it to help me see, so that I am able to make the painting.”

  “But—you use your eyes to see.”

  “True, but my eyes do not always see everything.”

  My eyes darted to the corner, as if they would discover something unexpected that had been hidden from me before, behind the powder-brush, emerging from the shadows of the blue cloth.

  “Tell me, Griet,” he continued, “do you think I simply paint what is there in that corner?”

  I glanced at the painting, unable to answer. I felt as if I were being tricked. Whatever I answered would be wrong.

  “The camera obscura helps me to see in a different way,” he explained. “To see more of what is there.”

  When he saw the baffled expression on my face he must have regretted saying so much to someone like me. He turned and snapped the box shut. I slipped off his robe and held it out to him.

  “Sir—”

  “Thank you, Griet,” he said as he took it from me. “Have you finished with the cleaning here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You may go, then.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I quickly gathered my cleaning things and left, the door clicking shut behind me.

  I thought about what he had said, about how the box helped him to see more. Although I did not understand why, I knew he was right because I could see it in his painting of the woman, and also what I remembered of the painting of Delft. He saw things in a way that others did not, so that a city I had lived in all my life seemed a different place, so that a woman became beautiful with the light on her face.

  The day after I looked in the box I went to the studio and it was gone. The easel was back in its place. I glanced at the painting. Previously I had found only tiny changes in it. Now there was one easily seen—the map hanging on the wall behind the woman had been removed from both the painting and the scene itself. The wall was now bare. The painting looked the better for it—simpler, the lines of the woman clearer now against the brownish-white background of the wall. But the change upset me—it was so sudden. I would not have expected it of him.

  I felt uneasy after I left the studio, and as I walked to the Meat Hall I did not look about me as I usually did. Though I waved hello to the old butcher I did not stop, even when he called out to me.

  Pieter the son was minding the stall alone. I had seen him a few times since that first day, but always in the presence of his father, standing in the background while Pieter the father took charge. Now he said, “Hello, Griet. I’ve wondered when you would come.”

  I thought that a silly thing to say, as I had been buying meat at the same time each day.

  His eyes did not meet mine.

  I decided not to remark on his words. “Three pounds of stewing beef, please. And do you have more of those sausages your father sold me the other day? The girls liked them.”

  “There are none left, I’m afraid.”

  A woman came
to stand behind me, waiting her turn. Pieter the son glanced at her. “Can you wait for a moment?” he said to me in a low voice.

  “Wait?”

  “I want to ask you something.”

  I stood aside so that he could serve the woman. I did not like doing so when I was feeling so unsettled, but I had little choice.

  When he was done and we were alone again he asked, “Where does your family live?”

  “The Oude Langendijck, at Papists’ Corner.”

  “No, no, your family.”

  I flushed at my mistake. “Off the Rietveld Canal, not far from the Koe Gate. Why do you ask?”

  His eyes fully met mine at last. “There have been reports of the plague in that quarter.”

  I took a step back, my eyes widening. “Has a quarantine been set?”

  “Not yet. They expect to today.”

  Afterwards I realized he must have been asking others about me. If he hadn’t already known where my family lived, he would never have known to tell me about the plague.

  I do not remember getting back from there. Pieter the son must have placed the meat in my pail but all I knew was that I arrived at the house, dropped the pail at Tanneke’s feet and said, “I must see the mistress.”

  Tanneke rummaged through the pail. “No sausages, and nothing to take their place! What’s the matter with you? Go straight back to the Meat Hall.”

  “I must see the mistress,” I repeated.

  “What is it?” Tanneke grew suspicious. “Have you done something wrong?”

  “My family may be quarantined. I must go to them.”

  “Oh.” Tanneke shifted uncertainly. “I wouldn’t know about that. You’ll have to ask. She’s in with my mistress.”

  Catharina and Maria Thins were in the Crucifixion room. Maria Thins was smoking her pipe. They stopped talking when I entered.

  “What is it, girl?” Maria Thins grunted.

  “Please, madam,” I addressed Catharina, “I have heard that my family’s street may be quarantined. I would like to go and see them.”

  “What, and bring the plague back with you?” she snapped. “Certainly not. Are you mad?”

  I looked at Maria Thins, which made Catharina angrier. “I have said no,” she announced. “It is I who decide what you can and cannot do. Have you forgotten that?”

  “No, madam.” I lowered my eyes.

  “You won’t be going home Sundays until it’s safe. Now go, we have things to discuss without you hanging about.”

  I took the washing to the courtyard and sat outside with my back to the door so that I would not have to see anyone. I wept as I scrubbed one of Maertge’s dresses. When I smelled Maria Thins’ pipe I wiped my eyes but did not turn round.

  “Don’t be silly, girl,” Maria Thins said quietly to my back. “You can’t do anything for them and you have to save yourself. You’re a clever girl, you can work that out.”

  I did not answer. After a while I could no longer smell her pipe.

  The next morning he came in while I was sweeping the studio.

  “Griet, I am sorry to hear of your family’s misfortune,” he said.

  I looked up from my broom. There was kindness in his eyes, and I felt I could ask him. “Will you tell me, sir, if the quarantine has been set?”

  “It was, yesterday morning.”

  “Thank you for telling me, sir.”

  He nodded, and was about to leave when I said, “May I ask you something else, sir? About the painting.”

  He stopped in the doorway. “What is it?”

  “When you looked in the box, did it tell you to remove the map from the painting?”

  “Yes, it did.” His face became intent like a stork’s when it sees a fish it can catch. “Does it please you that the map is gone?”

  “It is a better painting now.” I did not think I would have dared to say such a thing at another time, but the danger to my family had made me reckless.

  His smile made me grip my broom tightly.

  I was not able to work well then. I was worried about my family, not about how clean I could get the floors or how white the sheets. No one may have remarked on my good housekeeping before, but everyone noticed how careless I was now. Lisbeth complained of a spotted apron. Tanneke grumbled that my sweeping caused dust to settle on the dishes. Catharina shouted at me several times—for forgetting to iron the sleeves of her chemise, for buying cod when I was meant to get herring, for letting the fire go out.

  Maria Thins muttered, “Steady yourself, girl,” as she passed me in the hallway.

  Only in the studio was I able to clean as I had before, maintaining the precision he needed.

  I did not know what to do that first Sunday I was not allowed to go home. I could not go to our church either, as it was in the quarantined area as well. I did not want to remain at the house, though—whatever Catholics did on Sundays, I did not want to be among them.

  They left together to go to the Jesuit church around the corner in the Molenpoort, the girls wearing good dresses, even Tanneke changed into a yellowish brown wool dress, and carrying Johannes. Catharina walked slowly, holding on to her husband’s arm. Maria Thins locked the door behind her. I stood on the tiles in front of the house as they disappeared and considered what to do. The bells in the New Church tower in front of me began to sound the hour.

  I was baptized there, I thought. Surely they will allow me inside for the service.

  I crept into the vast place, feeling like a mouse hiding in a rich man’s house. It was cool and dim inside, the smooth round pillars reaching up, the ceiling so high above me it could almost be the sky. Behind the minister’s altar was the grand marble tomb of William of Orange.

  I saw no one I knew, only people dressed in sober clothes much finer in their cloth and cut than any I would ever wear. I hid behind a pillar for the service, which I could hardly listen to, I was so nervous that someone would come along and ask me what I was doing there. At the end of the service I slipped out quickly before anyone approached me. I walked round the church and looked across the canal at the house. The door was still shut and locked. Catholic services must last longer than ours, I thought.

  I walked as far as I could towards my family’s house, stopping only where a barrier manned by a soldier blocked the way. The streets looked very quiet beyond it.

  “How is it,” I asked the soldier, “back there?”

  He shrugged and did not reply. He looked hot in his cloak and hat, for though the sun was not out the air was warm and close.

  “Is there a list? Of those who have died?” I could barely say the words.

  “Not yet.”

  I was not surprised—the lists were always delayed, and usually incomplete. Word of mouth was often more accurate. “Do you know—have you heard if Jan the tiler—”

  “I know nothing of anyone in there. You’ll have to wait.” The soldier turned away as others approached him with similar queries.

  I tried to speak to another soldier on a barrier at a different street. Though friendlier, he too could tell me nothing about my family. “I could ask around, but not for nothing,” he added, smiling and looking me up and down so I would know he didn’t mean money.

  “Shame on you,” I snapped, “for seeking to take advantage of those in misery.”

  But he did not seem ashamed. I had forgotten that soldiers think of just one thing when they see a young woman.

  When I got back to the Oude Langendijck I was relieved to find the house open. I slipped inside and spent the afternoon hiding in the courtyard with my prayer book. In the evening I crept into bed without eating, telling Tanneke my stomach hurt.

  At the butcher’s Pieter the son pulled me to one side while his father was busy with someone else. “Have you had news of your family?”

  I shook my head. “No one could tell me anything.” I did not meet his gaze. His concern made me feel as if I had just stepped off a boat and the ground was wobbling under my feet.

  “I wil
l find out for you,” Pieter stated. From his tone it was clear that I was not to argue with him.

  “Thank you,” I said after a long pause. I wondered what I would do if he did find out something. He was not demanding anything the way the soldier had, but I would be obliged to him. I did not want to be obliged to anyone.

  “It may take a few days,” Pieter murmured before he turned to hand his father a cow’s liver. He wiped his hands on his apron. I nodded, my eyes on his hands. The creases between his nails and his fingers were filled with blood.

  I expect I will have to get used to that sight, I thought.

  I began to look forward to my daily errand even more than to cleaning the studio. I dreaded it too, though, especially the moment Pieter the son looked up from his work and saw me, and I searched his eyes for clues. I wanted to know, yet as long as I didn’t, it was possible to hope.

  Several days passed when I bought meat from him, or passed by his stall after I had bought fish, and he simply shook his head. Then one day he looked up and looked away, and I knew what he would say. I just did not know who.

  I had to wait until he finished with several customers. I felt so sick I wanted to sit down, but the floor was speckled with blood.

  At last Pieter the son took off his apron and came over. “It is your sister, Agnes,” he said softly. “She is very ill.”

  “And my parents?”

  “They stay well, so far.”

  I did not ask what risk he had gone to in order to find out for me. “Thank you, Pieter,” I whispered. It was the first time I had spoken his name.

  I looked into his eyes and saw kindness there. I also saw what I had feared—expectation.

  On Sunday I decided to visit my brother. I did not know how much he knew of the quarantine or of Agnes. I left the house early and walked to his factory, which was outside the city walls not far from the Rotterdam Gate. Frans was still asleep when I arrived. The woman who answered at the gate laughed when I asked for him. “He’ll be asleep for hours yet,” she said. “They sleep all day on Sundays, the apprentices. It’s their day off.”