Read Online 1636: Seas of Fortune by Iver P. Cooper - Free Book Online
Authors: Iver P. Cooper
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man? Catarina has extravagant tastes, doesn’t she realize he is just a scholar, not a wealthy merchant like her father? Why am I lingering in Grantville, when I should be home in Leiden, seeing to the cataloging and description of all the seeds I have sent him? And planting them. The gardener quit and so he must do it himself.”
“Poor baby.”
Grantville, Fall 1632
Maria was standing in front of an easel, a canvas in front of her. On it was a half-finished rendition of one of the “Painted Ladies” of Grantville. This one had a covered porch, a turret, and an attic with a rayed window. It was colored blue and green, and a tall sugar maple, the official tree of West Virginia, stood beside it. At least in Maria’s painting. Maria had exercised artistic license and moved the tree to stand beside her favorite Victorian. The tree itself was a brilliant mass of scarlet, its leaves having already turned.
“Hi, Maria. What are you drawing?”
“This is—” Her voice faltered. Looking up, she realized that she didn’t recognize the woman addressing her. She was an elderly up-timer, dressed conservatively, but without any concessions to down-time practice.
“You don’t know me, but I am one of Lolly’s colleagues, Elva Dreeson. I teach art at the middle school.” She offered her hand; Maria took it.
Maria smiled apologetically. “I am sorry, she introduced me to so many people, so quickly, when I first came to stay with her.”
“Actually, you didn’t meet me at that time. I heard about your visit, but I was out sick that day. Another of our colleagues pointed you out to me, when you and Lolly were out paddling in the Great Buffalo Canoe Race. And when I heard that you were an artist, I resolved to look you up. So here I am. Belatedly.”
“Well, I’m not really an artist.”
“Oh? That looks like art to me.” She pointed at Maria’s canvas.
“I mean, I’m not a professional artist. For a woman to be a master in the painters’ guild, she pretty much has to be born to it. Like Artemisia Gentileschi. Or Giovanna Garzoni.”
“And you weren’t?”
“Why, no. My late father, Aelius Everhardus Vorstius, was a great scholar. At the University of Leiden, he was Professor Extaordinarius in Natural Philosophy, Professor of Medicine, and Curator of the Botanical Gardens.”
“So how did you learn to paint?”
“I attended an academy. They cater to amateurs, especially high-born women who see it as an elegant pastime, like playing the harpsichord.”
“And is that how you see it, as a hobby?”
“While I find it relaxing, it isn’t just a hobby. When I was young, it was a way to help my father. I could draw specimens that had been loaned to us for study. And my brother, who is the present curator, has written a Catalogus plantarum , a description of our entire collection, and I illustrated it.”
“You know, I have a book you might like to read. It’s about women artists throughout history.”
“That sounds fascinating. But I don’t know when I am going to find the time. I need to finish my paintings of the West Virginia trees before they all lose their leaves. I have to complete my thirty hours of volunteer work to get my Master Gardener’s certificate. And I have so much homework for Lori Fleming’s biology class. And the geology class Lolly roped me into.”
“Tell you what. I’ll give it to Lolly just before winter break. You’ll have some time to spare then.”
* * *
Maria bent down to study a wildflower by the side of Route 250, near the high school. Phil Jenkins came up behind her, and watched her for a few moments. Finally, he coughed. “I hear you’ve been looking at people’s houseplants.”
She looked up, and gave him a smile. “Yes, that’s right. I am making drawings of them, and sending seeds and cuttings to Adolph.”
“Who’s Adolph?” he asked sharply.
“My brother.”
“Oh. . . . You know, lots of people here in Grantville have houseplants, but I
“Poor baby.”
Grantville, Fall 1632
Maria was standing in front of an easel, a canvas in front of her. On it was a half-finished rendition of one of the “Painted Ladies” of Grantville. This one had a covered porch, a turret, and an attic with a rayed window. It was colored blue and green, and a tall sugar maple, the official tree of West Virginia, stood beside it. At least in Maria’s painting. Maria had exercised artistic license and moved the tree to stand beside her favorite Victorian. The tree itself was a brilliant mass of scarlet, its leaves having already turned.
“Hi, Maria. What are you drawing?”
“This is—” Her voice faltered. Looking up, she realized that she didn’t recognize the woman addressing her. She was an elderly up-timer, dressed conservatively, but without any concessions to down-time practice.
“You don’t know me, but I am one of Lolly’s colleagues, Elva Dreeson. I teach art at the middle school.” She offered her hand; Maria took it.
Maria smiled apologetically. “I am sorry, she introduced me to so many people, so quickly, when I first came to stay with her.”
“Actually, you didn’t meet me at that time. I heard about your visit, but I was out sick that day. Another of our colleagues pointed you out to me, when you and Lolly were out paddling in the Great Buffalo Canoe Race. And when I heard that you were an artist, I resolved to look you up. So here I am. Belatedly.”
“Well, I’m not really an artist.”
“Oh? That looks like art to me.” She pointed at Maria’s canvas.
“I mean, I’m not a professional artist. For a woman to be a master in the painters’ guild, she pretty much has to be born to it. Like Artemisia Gentileschi. Or Giovanna Garzoni.”
“And you weren’t?”
“Why, no. My late father, Aelius Everhardus Vorstius, was a great scholar. At the University of Leiden, he was Professor Extaordinarius in Natural Philosophy, Professor of Medicine, and Curator of the Botanical Gardens.”
“So how did you learn to paint?”
“I attended an academy. They cater to amateurs, especially high-born women who see it as an elegant pastime, like playing the harpsichord.”
“And is that how you see it, as a hobby?”
“While I find it relaxing, it isn’t just a hobby. When I was young, it was a way to help my father. I could draw specimens that had been loaned to us for study. And my brother, who is the present curator, has written a Catalogus plantarum , a description of our entire collection, and I illustrated it.”
“You know, I have a book you might like to read. It’s about women artists throughout history.”
“That sounds fascinating. But I don’t know when I am going to find the time. I need to finish my paintings of the West Virginia trees before they all lose their leaves. I have to complete my thirty hours of volunteer work to get my Master Gardener’s certificate. And I have so much homework for Lori Fleming’s biology class. And the geology class Lolly roped me into.”
“Tell you what. I’ll give it to Lolly just before winter break. You’ll have some time to spare then.”
* * *
Maria bent down to study a wildflower by the side of Route 250, near the high school. Phil Jenkins came up behind her, and watched her for a few moments. Finally, he coughed. “I hear you’ve been looking at people’s houseplants.”
She looked up, and gave him a smile. “Yes, that’s right. I am making drawings of them, and sending seeds and cuttings to Adolph.”
“Who’s Adolph?” he asked sharply.
“My brother.”
“Oh. . . . You know, lots of people here in Grantville have houseplants, but I
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