Part 4 (2/2)

”Yes, I have, and so has Aletta. But wouldn't you prefer to look at my father's painting first?”

”No. I'm concentrating on yours now.” He shot a smiling, half-teasing glance at her. ”Never distract an art dealer who's showing interest in your work. You'd better learn that lesson now.”

She laughed and went to a stack of paintings propped against the wall. Due to the necessary economy of linen canvas, all were small and she and her sister frequently painted over earlier work. She took four of Aletta's pictures to him first, never supposing it was hers alone that he wished to see this time. He looked at each one, was struck again by the quality of the work and gave some helpful criticism to be pa.s.sed on to her sister. Then she showed him three of her own.

He studied each in turn, taking his time. The first was of Griet in the courtyard, hanging up newly laundered sheets. The little picture throbbed with life and movement, making it possible to believe one heard the flapping of the damp, billowing linen. Then came a landscape with windmills, depicted on a warm day when a vaporous mist, sparkled through with suns.h.i.+ne, lay gently over water and fields. The third painting was of Maria at her lace making, her gnarled hands given a strange beauty at their delicate work. Dealing in the art world had made him cynical and blase over the years, but he was pleased to discover he could still experience a sense of excitement at the promise of a new and dazzling talent, such as he saw in this girl's work.

”I see that in each of these you have a flower,” he commented without showing expression. ”There are wind-tossed tulips in the courtyard, a single wild iris showing in the landscape's ca.n.a.l bank and Maria's lace has a pattern of lilies.”

”You're very observant,” she said with a smile. ”I admit I like to include flowers at any opportunity. When the day comes for me to sign my work for all the world to see, I shall include one in my signature.”

”Ah! As was done by the ill.u.s.trators of ma.n.u.scripts in past centuries. Keep to your notion. I like it.” He knew the presence of a flower would not sell a picture in itself, but it would catch the eye and be remembered when seen again. It might even make a direct appeal to a prospective buyer and in his business that could weigh the balance in a sale. He had no doubt at all that if Francesca's talent was nurtured and brought to fruition she had it in her to rise to immeasurable heights in her work. ”Do you wish to concentrate on being a flower painter?”

”No. I will say that my eye ranges much further than that.”

”It's as well.” He had not taken his concentrated gaze from her still life that he held. Now he looked up with a quizzical smile. ”Had you kept to a rose in your paintings I would have suspected you had love on your mind.”

Her eyes danced. Pure love between a man and a woman was symbolized in a picture by a rose held or pleasingly arranged, whereas a fallen one on the ground depicted either the pain of love or unchaste love, according to the subject of the painting. The rosebuds in her still life could be interpreted as the dawning of romantic love, but that had not been intended, although there was much that was symbolic in the picture. The nautilus represented wealth, exotic sh.e.l.ls of all kinds being costly, while the fan was a symbol of extravagance. The hourgla.s.s warned of the pa.s.sing of time and the foolishness of piling up riches on earth, while the pewter plate, poised precariously, told how easily life could be cut off. The grapes and the wine symbolized Holy Communion and Christ with the hope of resurrection. An artist's choice of this vanitas, as it was called, was wide, with many more components that everyone recognized. Often a painting was not what it appeared to be at first impression, but either ill.u.s.trated a proverb or was in the popular theme that Francesca and Aletta had used to make the observer contemplate his or her moral frailty, the swift pa.s.sing of the years and the worthlessness of the sheer pursuit of pleasure.

”You can be sure,” Francesca said, carefully returning her paintings to where they had been stacked against the wall, ”that love is the last thing on my mind at the present time.”

The little joke had been enjoyed by them both. Willem replaced her still life on the easel, noting again how much careful thought had gone into the selection of each item in the vanitas. ”Now I'll take a look at your father's version of you as Flora.”

He strolled over to it. She drew near and watched him anxiously as he stood looking without expression at the painting for what seemed an interminably long time. At last she was unable to bear his silence any longer.

”What do you think?”

”I'll speak frankly,” he replied meditatively, still studying the portrait. ”I had not thought to see a painting as superb as this from Hendrick's brush today. It's one of his best! I'm full of praise. A morning's work on it, did you say?”

”That's what he told me.”

”Then try to keep him to that.” Some artists would go on adding touches forever if they could, never wholly satisfied. His immense pleasure in the painting was tinged by disappointment that, as with the painting of Anna, it did not reach the heights of greatness that it might have. Yet he continued to hope that would come about. Some artists painted better than ever in old age, but it had to be remembered Hendrick was unpredictable in all things. At least this picture would attract eager buyers. The sheer beauty of the girl's expressive face would set it in high demand and her armful of flowers, held as if she was about to s.h.i.+eld herself from the viewer's gaze, added both sensual mystery and charm. ”This painting will fetch a good price.”

Francesca clasped her hands together eagerly. ”Four hundred florins?” she queried hopefully, daring to add a hundred more than the figure Hendrick would have in mind.

Willem did not look taken aback as she had feared. ”If I should have the right buyer I would expect to double that figure and more.”

Neither of them had heard Hendrick in his soft house shoes come through the studio door, which had been left ajar. His voice thundered out, reverberating against the walls. ”What if I should decide not to sell?”

They turned to face him. Francesca straightened her shoulders and refused to back away before his furious expression. ”Direct your anger at me, Father. I invited our guest in here.”

”I need nothing from him!” With a theatrical gesture Hendrick pulled his purse from his pocket, jerked the thong free and threw it to the floor. A shower of guilders sprang from it and rolled in all directions. In the silence that followed, Willem put out his foot and prodded a spinning coin to a standstill.

”So you've had a change of fortune on two fronts, Hendrick,” he remarked calmly. ”You've painted a splendid Flora and in addition the cards and the dice have favored you. My felicitations on both. You must be a very happy man.”

Hendrick, mollified by the praise, stuck his thumbs into his belt and swaggered forward, highly pleased with himself, but still aggrieved that his showing of the painting had been forestalled. He was sober, but his color had a purplish tinge and his eyes were bloodshot and tired from lack of sleep. ”The stakes last night were the highest I've known and I didn't stop winning. I cleared my gambling debts and all the way home I've been ladling money out to greedy tradesmen in settlement of bills. Now I owe not a stiver to any man. What's more,” he added boastfully, ”there's enough over to keep my family and myself in meat twice a day for months to come.” He was taking immense satisfaction in having the upper hand over Willem. ”So you see, I'm in a position to keep the painting.”

”Indeed you are,” Willem agreed mildly and then stemmed any further discussion by bowing his head to Francesca. ”My business being at an end here for the day, I should like to avail myself of that gla.s.s of wine you offered me.”

”Yes, of course.” She looked inquiringly at Hendrick. ”You'll join us, Father, won't you?”

”What? Yes.” Hendrick felt uneasily that he had been manipulated in some way and sought to a.s.sert himself. ”I'm not a fellow unable to forgive an error of judgment. You were both at fault, but I'll overlook it this time.”

”That's most generous of you.” Willem's voice held a dry note that Hendrick missed but which was not lost on Francesca. She went ahead of the two men to pour the wine.

After Willem's departure she returned to the studio and picked up all the money, putting it into one of her father's spare leather purses. When she handed it to him he thanked her cheerfully as if nothing amiss had occurred, all his ill temper completely forgotten.

He finished the painting that same afternoon. Perhaps he realized he would be at a permanent disadvantage with Willem if he failed to do as was wished of him this time. He knew his old friend could not wait to get his hands on the painting. They could judge each other well enough in that respect, just as Willem would have known he had every intention of selling, no matter what he had said in anger. When finally he put his brushes away at the hour of four o'clock, Francesca sprang from the rostrum to hug him exuberantly.

”You've done well, Father! This evening we are to have a special dinner to celebrate the completion of The G.o.ddess of Spring.”

He grinned. ”What is it to be?”

”Your favorite dis.h.!.+ No other!”

”What a treat!” He could not spoil her pleasure by telling her that only the evening before he had dined on that same deliciously spicy concoction of capon and sausages cooked with several good meats and vegetables in wine, all served garnished with boiled chestnuts. He had sat down to it at her table. With her big soft body and welcoming arms, she was the only one able to a.s.suage in any way the loneliness that gnawed at him in his darker moments. It was in the house of a woman named Margretha that his luck had turned at the cards, although it had worried her when he had settled to those high stakes.

”Sybylla has also been busy making a special pudding with eggs and cream,” Francesca told him happily as she helped him off with his linen smock. Then, instead of hanging it on its wooden peg, she was overcome by what she had to say to him and unknowingly clutched the smock to her. The intense appeal in her face prepared him for what she was about to request.

”Don't take such dangerous risks with the cards again,” she implored. ”Because if they had gone against you yesterday it could have meant ruin. I know how you miss Mama and need a social life with people other than family. But you have the taverns where artists gather, the skittle alleys, the homes of friends who invite you to table, the art auctions you like to attend and a host of other diversions from watching the sailing races in summer to the ice sports in winter.” She threw aside the smock and caught up his hand to press it to her cheek in an almost childlike plea. ”I'm not asking you to give up cards altogether, but please play only with those who can afford to lose no more than you.”

She looked exactly like her mother across the eyes at that moment, almost as if Anna had chosen to endorse their daughter's urging that he should turn over a new leaf. He was deeply moved. Whenever he listened to his sluggish conscience he did avoid tables with fierce stakes, but there were times when the siren call that gamblers hear in an inner ear promised a winning streak and was impossible to resist, no matter that it sometimes proved false. ”I'll be more careful in future,” he promised, swayed by the moment. It had brought a note to his voice that rang true.

Francesca drew back with her face bright with hope. ”I believe you!”

Again he saw Anna in the girl's eyes and he s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably. Such expectations were a burden on him, but he should do something about them. Exactly what, he did not know, for he was aware of his own weaknesses, his good intentions having fallen by the wayside so often, but he should take some action now while the mood was still with him. He knew Anna wished it.

On sudden impulse he pulled the purse of silver from his belt again and thrust it into Francesca's hands. ”Take this into your charge. Keep it in a safe place and spend it on household needs. I want no part of it.”

It was a moment or two before she found her voice. ”I shall use it wisely,” she vowed emotionally, thinking thankfully that there would be no more bills mounting up and she could go shopping for weeks to come without facing the ire of honest tradesmen who had not been paid.

”I know you will.” He was smiling at her.

An answering smile curled the corners of her mouth and her eyes twinkled. ”But don't expect meat twice a day.”

He guffawed. It was, and had been, a joke in every respect, for few people in Holland ate meat more than once a week, because, apart from this time of year when animals were slaughtered before the winter, there was little fresh meat to be had. Fish, morning-caught from the sea, was cheap and in abundance, as were vegetables, preferable in any case to salted meat, and there was no country anywhere that had a better choice of good cheeses.

”Just let me have a plate of fried herrings once a week and I'll make no complaint,” he teased.

”You shall have them,” she promised merrily. ”I'll go and put this money away now. After I've changed and put on an ap.r.o.n I'll come back and clean your brushes.”

As soon as she had gone from the studio he looked at his hands and eased his painful fingers. The knuckles had ached so much during the afternoon that once he had dropped his brush. Fortunately Francesca had not suspected the reason or else she would not have caught his hand in hers as she did. He had almost winced.

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