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Authors: Lynn Cullen
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the dab of red paint with some white. “It is a beautiful painting, Cornelia.”
“Beautiful! How would you like to have your moeder painted in her shift?”
“It would make a terrible picture,” he says simply. “My moeder was not handsome.”
“That’s an uncharitable thing to say.”
“I state the truth. It has nothing to do with my moeder’s worth as a person. She was not especially beautiful on the outside, but her kindness shone from within. I cannot count how many neighbors she nursed during the last visitation of the plague, without hesitation or complaint. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe she would be a good subject for a portrait, though …”
I reopen the window and stick my head into the chilly air. “Lucky you,” I say, concentrating on the moeder duck floating by with her ducklings, on the peeling blue paint of the boat moored on the canal, on the pale buds on the linden branches hanging over the black water—anything to shut out the memory pushing at the edge of my mind. “With such a perfect life at home, I’m surprised you ever left Dordrecht.”
There is sadness in Neel’s brown eyes when I pull back into the room, but he says nothing further, making me feel like even more of a beast.
“Here.” I slam the window shut and twist myself into the position I had held earlier, then make a bored face. “Is this how you wished me to stand? Let’s just get this done.”
“Hardly conducive to one’s muse,” Neel murmurs with a frown, but he gets up from his stool. He is painting in silence when a knock sounds at the door.
My heart leaps into my throat. The peat merchant has come to cut off our credit. Or perhaps it is that terrible man whose hair, face, and clothes are as oily as if they’d been stewed in butter—the bill collector—and Neel is standing right here. I shall not answer.
But what if the bill collector starts yelling, like last time? Housewives up and down the street came out to stare. Boaters paused on the canal. Everyone was poised for the show, and Vader granted them one, by opening the window and heaving out a maggoty cabbage. The Oily One had no trouble collecting witnesses when he made his report to the constable. Cost us five guilders in fines.
The knocking comes again.
Neel pulls back from the canvas. “I can wait, Cornelia.”
He wipes his brush as I go to the tiny entrance hall and open the door.
Titus jumps at me. “Boo!”
“You horrible brat!” I swat at him. “Why did you do that?” I leave him laughing. “I was modeling,” I call over my shoulder. “Why have you been gone so long?”
He nods to Neel, then grins at me. “Some artist’s model you are, Cornelia, keeping your clothes on.”
Neel’s face hardens. “That is not funny, Titus.”
“Sorry, old man, it was just a stupid jest.” Titus raises his brows at me as if to get my support, but I cannot smile. His remark has wounded me deeply.
Titus laughs uneasily. “Worry Bird, you know I was joking. I’m sorry, it was crude of me.”
I fight off the sick feeling in my stomach. Why am I taking this jest so hard? “It doesn’t matter.”
Neel watches me with concern, making me feel even more unsettled, as Titus leans against the printing press and looks up at the ceiling. “Where is Vader?”
“Guess,” I say stoutly, glad to be on to another subject.
“I heard he took a painting to Gerrit van Uylenburgh the other day.”
“How did you know?” I glance at Neel. It would not do for him to know what a failure that excursion was.
Titus pushes on one of the wooden arms of the press’s crank, causing the printing cylinder to slowly turn. “Gerrit Hendrickszoon came to dinner yesterday,” he says, using van Uylenburgh’s familiar name as if they had been cronies since the cradle. “He said he has a potential buyer.”
“He does?” I remember Neel’s presence and even out the tone of my voice. “Oh, well, I guess I am a little surprised. Van Uylenburgh did not see the
“Beautiful! How would you like to have your moeder painted in her shift?”
“It would make a terrible picture,” he says simply. “My moeder was not handsome.”
“That’s an uncharitable thing to say.”
“I state the truth. It has nothing to do with my moeder’s worth as a person. She was not especially beautiful on the outside, but her kindness shone from within. I cannot count how many neighbors she nursed during the last visitation of the plague, without hesitation or complaint. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe she would be a good subject for a portrait, though …”
I reopen the window and stick my head into the chilly air. “Lucky you,” I say, concentrating on the moeder duck floating by with her ducklings, on the peeling blue paint of the boat moored on the canal, on the pale buds on the linden branches hanging over the black water—anything to shut out the memory pushing at the edge of my mind. “With such a perfect life at home, I’m surprised you ever left Dordrecht.”
There is sadness in Neel’s brown eyes when I pull back into the room, but he says nothing further, making me feel like even more of a beast.
“Here.” I slam the window shut and twist myself into the position I had held earlier, then make a bored face. “Is this how you wished me to stand? Let’s just get this done.”
“Hardly conducive to one’s muse,” Neel murmurs with a frown, but he gets up from his stool. He is painting in silence when a knock sounds at the door.
My heart leaps into my throat. The peat merchant has come to cut off our credit. Or perhaps it is that terrible man whose hair, face, and clothes are as oily as if they’d been stewed in butter—the bill collector—and Neel is standing right here. I shall not answer.
But what if the bill collector starts yelling, like last time? Housewives up and down the street came out to stare. Boaters paused on the canal. Everyone was poised for the show, and Vader granted them one, by opening the window and heaving out a maggoty cabbage. The Oily One had no trouble collecting witnesses when he made his report to the constable. Cost us five guilders in fines.
The knocking comes again.
Neel pulls back from the canvas. “I can wait, Cornelia.”
He wipes his brush as I go to the tiny entrance hall and open the door.
Titus jumps at me. “Boo!”
“You horrible brat!” I swat at him. “Why did you do that?” I leave him laughing. “I was modeling,” I call over my shoulder. “Why have you been gone so long?”
He nods to Neel, then grins at me. “Some artist’s model you are, Cornelia, keeping your clothes on.”
Neel’s face hardens. “That is not funny, Titus.”
“Sorry, old man, it was just a stupid jest.” Titus raises his brows at me as if to get my support, but I cannot smile. His remark has wounded me deeply.
Titus laughs uneasily. “Worry Bird, you know I was joking. I’m sorry, it was crude of me.”
I fight off the sick feeling in my stomach. Why am I taking this jest so hard? “It doesn’t matter.”
Neel watches me with concern, making me feel even more unsettled, as Titus leans against the printing press and looks up at the ceiling. “Where is Vader?”
“Guess,” I say stoutly, glad to be on to another subject.
“I heard he took a painting to Gerrit van Uylenburgh the other day.”
“How did you know?” I glance at Neel. It would not do for him to know what a failure that excursion was.
Titus pushes on one of the wooden arms of the press’s crank, causing the printing cylinder to slowly turn. “Gerrit Hendrickszoon came to dinner yesterday,” he says, using van Uylenburgh’s familiar name as if they had been cronies since the cradle. “He said he has a potential buyer.”
“He does?” I remember Neel’s presence and even out the tone of my voice. “Oh, well, I guess I am a little surprised. Van Uylenburgh did not see the
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