Tulip Fever Read online

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 “Here I must beg my wife’s pardon, for she is a Catholic—though our Reformed church has withdrawn its patronage from painters, their talent has bubbled up elsewhere and we are the beneficiaries, for they paint our daily life with a luminosity and loving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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I’m perfectly well.”

  “You’ve been sniffing all morning.”

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

  “You’re not happy, are you?” he asks.

  “What do you mean, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

  4

  Maria

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

  —J. H. KRUL, 1644

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

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

  “I love him to death.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Why are you doing that?” asks Sophia.

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

  “What omen?”

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

  5

  Cornelis

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

  —LEONARDO DA VINCI, Notebooks

  “Fish again?” Cornelis looks at the plate. “All this week we have eaten fish. Last week too, if I remember rightly. Soon we will be sprouting fins.” He chuckles at his own joke. “Much of our country once lay underwater—are you returning us to that element?”

  “Sir,” says the maid, “I thought you liked fish. This is bream, your favorite.” She indicates Sophia. “She’s prepared it with prunes, the way you prefer it.”

  He turns to his wife. “How about a nice piece of pork? Visit the butcher tomorrow, my love, before we are all transformed into the scaly denizens of the deep.”

  Maria snorts—with laughter or contempt, he cannot tell—and goes back to the kitchen. The impertinence! Since Karel, the manservant, left, standards have been slipping; Cornelis must talk to his wife about it.

  Sophia does not eat. She looks at her wineglass and says: “I don’t want that painter back in the house.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I don’t want him here. I don’t want us to have our portrait painted.”

  He stares at her. “But why not?”

  “Please!”

  “But why?”

  “It’s dangerous,” she says.

  “Dangerous?”

  She pauses. “We are just—pandering to our own vanity.”

  “So what are you pandering to, my love, when the dressmaker visits?”

  “That’s not the same—”

  “How many hours do you spend on fittings, twisting this way and that in front of the mirror?” He leans across the table and strokes her wrist. “I am glad you do, my sweetheart, for it fills my old heart with joy to see your beauty. That is the reason I want to preserve that bloom on canvas—do you understand?”

  She fiddles with the hem of the tablecloth. “It’s too expensive. Eighty florins!”

  “Cannot I spend my money how I choose?”

  “Eighty florins is many months’ wages for—say—a carpenter. . . .” She falters. “A sailor.”

  “Why is this suddenly a concern of yours?”

  There is another silence. Then she says: “I don’t like him.”

  “He seems a pleasant enough fellow.”

  She looks up, her face pink. “I don’t like him—he’s impudent.”

  “If you truly dislike the man—why, I’ll pay him off and find another.” Cornelis wants to please her. “There’s Nicholaes Eliasz or Thomas de Keyser. They have many commissions; we might have to bear with a delay. I could even approach Rembrandt van Rijn, though the prices he charges might stretch even my means.” He smiles at her. “Anything to make you happy, my dearest heart.”

  Relieved, he eats. So that was all it was. Women are strange creatures with such funny little ways. How tricky they are, compared with men. They are like a puzzle box— you have to twist a dial here, turn a key there, and only then will you unlock their secrets.

  Cornelis loves his wife to distraction. Sometimes, caught in the candlelight, her beauty stops his heart. She is his hope, his joy, the spring in his step. She is a miracle, for she has brought him back to life when he had given up hope. She rescued him, just as he himself, in another way entirely, rescued her.

  After dinner Cornelis puts another slab of peat on the fire, sits down and lights his pipe. A man’s greatest comfort is a happy home, where he can enjoy the attentions of a loving wife. Sophia, however, is absent. Her footsteps creak across the ceiling. Then there is silence. She said she had a headache and retired early. Usually she sits with him and sews; sometimes they play cards together. Tonight she has been restless, as jumpy as a mare sensing a thunderstorm. That outburst about the painter was most uncharacteristic.

  Cornelis worries that she is falling ill; she looked pale this evening. Maybe she is missing her family. She has few friends here in Amsterdam, and the wives of his own acquaintances are a great deal older than she is. She does not go out enough; she does not enjoy herself. When they were first betrothed Sophia was a lively, happy girl, but over the months she has grown more withdrawn. Maybe it is caused by the responsibilities of running this household—they must employ another servant. Perhaps his wife feels trapped in this house, like the goldfinch he kept in a cage when he was a boy.

  Cornelis knocks out his pipe and gets to his feet. His joints ache; his back hurts. It has been a long winter. He feels the weight of the fog outside, weighing down on the city like the lid of a hutspot cauldron. He feels his age.

  He locks up. He blows out the candles, all except one, which he carries upstairs. The smell of cooked fish still lingers in the house. Yesterday a whale was washed up on the beach at Beverwijk. It was a huge creature, the largest ever measured in that area. The local people were thrown into turmoil. It was an unnatural omen, a portent of disaster—a monster vomited up by the ocean to punish them for their sins.

  Cornelis is aware that this is simpleminded. He knows this from his own experience. Tragedy does not take its cue from nature’s eruptions; it strikes at random. No shattering mirror caused the death of his first dear wife, Hendrijke, when she was barely forty. No conjunction of the stars caused his two babies to die in infancy.

  For Cornelis has already lost one family. Like all the bereaved, he knows that the world is senseless. They know this in their hearts, even though they tell others, and themselves, that it is God’s will. He performs his pious duty. Each night he reads to Sophia from the Bible; they bow their heads in prayer. On Sunday he visits his church and she attends a secret Mass, for her religion is tolerated as long as it is celebrated in private. He feels, however, that he is mouthing the words like a fish. His world offers no vocabulary for doubt. He has not admitted it in so many words to himself. All he knows is that loss has weakened rather than reinforced his faith, and the only sure thing to which he can cling lies here in his featherbed.

  Cornelis enters the bedchamber. Sophia is kneeling in prayer. This surprises him; he thought she was already in bed. She must have been praying for some time. When she sees him she starts. She crosses herself and climbs up into the bed, where she lies staring at the ceiling. From the beam hangs her paper bridal coronet, dusty now, like a wasps’ nest.

  Deep in the bed she sighs and shifts. She exhales the fragrance of youth. Desire warms his old bones; it spreads through his cold, sluggish bloodstream. He undresses, empties his bladder into the chamber pot and pulls on his nightshirt. This bed is his life raft; each night her firm young arms save him from drowning.

  Sophia lies curled up, her head buried in the pillows. She is pretending to sleep. He blows out the candle and climbs into bed. He pulls up her shift and cups her small breast in his hand. He kneads the nipple. “My dear wife,�
� he whispers. He guides her hand down to his shrunken member. “My little soldier’s dozy tonight. Time to report for duty.”

  Her fingers are clenched. He uncurls them and places them around his flesh; he moves her hand up and down. “Time for battle . . .” His member stiffens; his breathing grows hoarse. “Stand to attention, sir,” he mutters; it is a little joke he shares with his wife. Opening her legs, he eases himself into position. She shudders, briefly, as he pushes himself in. Burying his face in her hair, he cups her buttocks in his hands and presses her against him as the bedsprings creak rhythmically. His breathing quickens as he slides in and out.

  Minutes pass. As he grows older it takes longer to spill his seed. When he is flagging he remembers an incident from his past; its wickedness never fails to inflame him. He is a boy back in Antwerp and the family maidservant, Grietje, comes to say good night. Suddenly she lifts her skirts and puts his hand between her legs. He feels wiry hair and damp lips. She moves his fingers; the lips slide together like thick slices of beef. She pushes his finger against what feels like a marble, hidden in the slippery folds of her flesh; she makes him rub it . . . up and down, harder and harder. . . . Suddenly her thighs clamp together, trapping his hand. She groans. Then she pulls out his hand, laughs, slaps his face and leaves.

  At the time he was frightened. Terrified, in fact. Disgusted and ashamed. He was only ten years old. His damp fingers smelled of brine and a faint aroma of rotting melons. Remembering it, however, works its magic. He trembles at his own wickedness—ah, but it excites him too. “It’s coming . . . it’s coming . . . fire the cannons!” he whispers and suddenly he is pumping his seed inside her. He grips her flesh in a final spasm; his thin shanks shiver. And then he collapses, spent, his old heart hammering against his ribs. “Praise be to God,” he pants.

  Sophia lies beneath him without stirring. She seems to be speaking. He can hear her voice but not the words; his heart is pounding in his ears.

  “What did you say, my love?”