Read Online Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tracy Chevalier
Tags: prose_classic
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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
“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
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