Read Online Girl in Hyacinth Blue by Susan Vreeland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Vreeland
Tags: Suspense
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the city.
We did so, with the curtains down. So steamy it was in that close, rumbling box—it was July—that I couldn't bear it. My fichu was stuck to the damp back of my neck and in the front to my allurement mounds as well. I had no choice but to remove it. In the dim light I discovered as I looked down and sideways—coquettish still, I hoped—that on his waistcoat an entire landscape was worked in petit point. When I took the liberty to run my hand across the stitching, he covered my hand with his, pressing it to him, a sure sign that he had agreed to assemble a quartet. I could breathe!
"Haydn is de rigueur," he said, "but might I suggest as well the Mozart Quartet in C Major? It's called 'The Dissonant.' Does that frighten you?"
"On the contrary, it sounds thrilling."
"It begins with a pulsing bass note, like the heartbeat of a man expectant of fulfillment, and then swells to fullness as the higher voices join."
"Does it . . . does it reach crescendo?"
"With sublime consummation."
"Then we shall have it."
The next week he sent word by messenger that he had secured the other members of the quartet, and a few days later I called upon him again to dis cuss the guest list and finalize the evening's musical program, which we did while taking a walk around the feather-flecked Vijver to view the swans.
"It's always politic," I said, "to have some Patri ots in attendance, so I have invited the families of Leopold van Limburg Stirum, Gijsbert Karel van Hogendorp, and Adam van der Duyn.
"Did you know that swans mate for life?" he asked. "What do you think about that?"
"Foolish. See how tiny their heads are?"
The evening of the chamber concert, I wore silk faille, the color of a hyacinth, like the girl's smock in the painting, not too showy, but certainly notice able. In a last-minute inspiration, I had sent our houseman all over the city looking for hyacinths to dress the grand salon. The scent would be intoxi cating. While waiting for his return, I paced the rooms, moist under my arms and breasts. I bathed again, pouring cool water over my neck to calm me, and listened to the sounds of the house—Ger ard humming in his dressing gown, off-key but happily; staccato steps on the marble floor, chairs being arranged in the salon, hushed voices urging, "No, no, Madame said you're to put it there," and "Madame said we must not light the oil lamps in the drawing room, and the petite salle must be kept dim." It would be ever so lovely, everywhere one looked, those plucky columns of sweetness in all shades of blue standing stiffly up like, like . . . yes, well, this would be a night, I told myself, when ladies sheathed in spangled moonlight would feed on blossoms drenched with honey.
When the houseman finally did return, I saw at once that it was too late in the summer. "No hy acinths, madame. Dreadful sorry. I went to every flower shop I know." He held forward one bedrag gled bloom, embarrassingly past its prime. To avoid comparison, I thought it wise not to exhibit it.
The grand salon glowed golden with fresh ta pers in the sconces. Pastel guests skimmed across black and white floor tiles polished so that the whole surface seemed coated with glass. Across tin kling laughter, Gerard bent gallantly to kiss the hand of that Orange woman, Agatha of the prepos terous headdresses, who was, no doubt, sewn into her gown. I searched the depths of my heart for the graciousness to greet that woman kindly, but a feather bird nested in organdy on her cabriolet bonnet fell forward at each nod of her head so that it appeared to be pecking for food. I didn't trust myself.
Suddenly there he was!
He wore a sleek tailcoat with a pattern of seagreen scales. When he turned to greet Gerard, I could see the tails tapered into points like the tail of a cod. From the back, he looked, mon Dieu! he looked like—a fish, a veritable fish! I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. He began to make his way toward me when he was intercepted by the
We did so, with the curtains down. So steamy it was in that close, rumbling box—it was July—that I couldn't bear it. My fichu was stuck to the damp back of my neck and in the front to my allurement mounds as well. I had no choice but to remove it. In the dim light I discovered as I looked down and sideways—coquettish still, I hoped—that on his waistcoat an entire landscape was worked in petit point. When I took the liberty to run my hand across the stitching, he covered my hand with his, pressing it to him, a sure sign that he had agreed to assemble a quartet. I could breathe!
"Haydn is de rigueur," he said, "but might I suggest as well the Mozart Quartet in C Major? It's called 'The Dissonant.' Does that frighten you?"
"On the contrary, it sounds thrilling."
"It begins with a pulsing bass note, like the heartbeat of a man expectant of fulfillment, and then swells to fullness as the higher voices join."
"Does it . . . does it reach crescendo?"
"With sublime consummation."
"Then we shall have it."
The next week he sent word by messenger that he had secured the other members of the quartet, and a few days later I called upon him again to dis cuss the guest list and finalize the evening's musical program, which we did while taking a walk around the feather-flecked Vijver to view the swans.
"It's always politic," I said, "to have some Patri ots in attendance, so I have invited the families of Leopold van Limburg Stirum, Gijsbert Karel van Hogendorp, and Adam van der Duyn.
"Did you know that swans mate for life?" he asked. "What do you think about that?"
"Foolish. See how tiny their heads are?"
The evening of the chamber concert, I wore silk faille, the color of a hyacinth, like the girl's smock in the painting, not too showy, but certainly notice able. In a last-minute inspiration, I had sent our houseman all over the city looking for hyacinths to dress the grand salon. The scent would be intoxi cating. While waiting for his return, I paced the rooms, moist under my arms and breasts. I bathed again, pouring cool water over my neck to calm me, and listened to the sounds of the house—Ger ard humming in his dressing gown, off-key but happily; staccato steps on the marble floor, chairs being arranged in the salon, hushed voices urging, "No, no, Madame said you're to put it there," and "Madame said we must not light the oil lamps in the drawing room, and the petite salle must be kept dim." It would be ever so lovely, everywhere one looked, those plucky columns of sweetness in all shades of blue standing stiffly up like, like . . . yes, well, this would be a night, I told myself, when ladies sheathed in spangled moonlight would feed on blossoms drenched with honey.
When the houseman finally did return, I saw at once that it was too late in the summer. "No hy acinths, madame. Dreadful sorry. I went to every flower shop I know." He held forward one bedrag gled bloom, embarrassingly past its prime. To avoid comparison, I thought it wise not to exhibit it.
The grand salon glowed golden with fresh ta pers in the sconces. Pastel guests skimmed across black and white floor tiles polished so that the whole surface seemed coated with glass. Across tin kling laughter, Gerard bent gallantly to kiss the hand of that Orange woman, Agatha of the prepos terous headdresses, who was, no doubt, sewn into her gown. I searched the depths of my heart for the graciousness to greet that woman kindly, but a feather bird nested in organdy on her cabriolet bonnet fell forward at each nod of her head so that it appeared to be pecking for food. I didn't trust myself.
Suddenly there he was!
He wore a sleek tailcoat with a pattern of seagreen scales. When he turned to greet Gerard, I could see the tails tapered into points like the tail of a cod. From the back, he looked, mon Dieu! he looked like—a fish, a veritable fish! I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. He began to make his way toward me when he was intercepted by the
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