then in a heap, then in a line again. He asked her to stand, to sit, then to sit back, then to sit forward.
I thought he had forgotten that I was watching from the corner until he said, “Griet, get me Catharina’s powder-brush.”
He had her hold the brush up to her face, lay it on the table with her hand still grasping it, leave it to one side. He handed it to me. “Take it back.”
When I returned he had given her a quill and paper. She sat in the chair, leaning forward, and wrote, an inkwell at her right. He opened a pair of the upper shutters and closed the bottom pair. The room became darker but the light shone on her high round forehead, on her arm resting on the table, on the sleeve of the yellow mantle.
“Move your left hand forward slightly,” he said. “There.”
She wrote.
“Look at me,” he said.
She looked at him.
He got a map from the storeroom and hung it on the wall behind her. He took it down again. He tried a small landscape, a painting of a ship, the bare wall. Then he disappeared downstairs.
While he was gone I watched van Ruijven’s wife closely. It was perhaps rude of me, but I wanted to see what she would do. She did not move. She seemed to settle into the pose more completely. By the time he returned, with a still life of musical instruments, she looked as if she had always been sitting at the table, writing her letter. I had heard he painted her once before the previous necklace painting, playing a lute. She must have learned by now what he wanted from a model. Perhaps she simply was what he wanted.
He hung the painting behind her, then sat down again to study her. As they gazed at each other I felt as if I were not there. I wanted to leave, to go back to my colors, but I did not dare disturb the moment.
“The next time you come, wear white ribbons in your hair instead of pink, and a yellow ribbon where you tie your hair at the back.”
She nodded so slightly that her head hardly moved.
“You may sit back.”
As he released her, I felt free to go.
The next day he pulled up another chair to the table. The day after that he brought up Catharina’s jewelry box and set it on the table. Its drawers were studded with pearls around the keyholes.
Van Leeuwenhoek arrived with his camera obscura while I was working in the attic. “You will have to get one of your own some day,” I heard him say in his deep voice. “Though I admit it gives me the opportunity to see what you’re painting. Where is the model?”
“She could not come.”
“That is a problem.”
“No. Griet,” he called.
I climbed down the ladder. When I entered the studio van Leeuwenhoek gazed at me in astonishment. He had very clear brown eyes, with large lids that made him look sleepy. He was far from sleepy, though, but alert and puzzled, his mouth drawn in tightly at the corners. Despite his surprise at seeing me, he had a kindly look about him, and when he recovered he even bowed.
No gentleman had ever bowed to me before. I could not stop myself—I smiled.
Van Leeuwenhoek laughed. “What were you doing up there, my dear?”
“Grinding colors, sir.”
He turned to my master. “An assistant! What other surprises do you have for me? Next you’ll be teaching her to paint your women for you.”
My master was not amused. “Griet,” he said, “sit as you saw van Ruijven’s wife do the other day.”
I stepped nervously to the chair and sat, leaning forward as she had done.
“Take up the quill.”
I picked it up, my hand trembling and making the feather shake, and placed my hands as I had remembered hers. I prayed he would not ask me to write something, as he had van Ruijven’s wife. My father had taught me to write my name, but little else. At least I knew how to hold the quill. I glanced at the sheets on the table and wondered what van Ruijven’s wife had written on them. I could read a little, from familiar things like my prayer book, but not a lady’s hand.
“Look at me.”
I looked at him. I tried to be van Ruijven’s wife.
He cleared his throat. “She will be wearing the yellow mantle,” he said to van Leeuwenhoek, who nodded.
My master stood, and they set up the camera obscura so that it pointed at me. Then they took turns looking. When they were bent over the box with the black robe over their heads, it became easier for me to sit and think of nothing, as I knew he wanted me to.
He had van Leeuwenhoek move the painting on the back wall several times before he was satisfied with its position, then open and shut shutters while he kept his head under the robe. At last he seemed satisfied. He stood up and folded the robe over the back of the chair, then stepped over to the desk, picked up a piece of paper, and handed it to van Leeuwenhoek. They began discussing its contents—Guild business he wanted advice about. They talked for a long time.
Van Leeuwenhoek glanced up. “For the mercy of God, man, let the girl get back to her work.”
My master looked at me as if surprised that I was still sitting at the table, quill in hand. “Griet, you may go.”
As I left I thought I saw a look of pity cross van Leeuwenhoek’s face.
He left the camera set up in the studio for some days. I was able to look through it several times on my own, lingering on the objects on the table. Something about the scene he was to paint bothered me. It was like looking at a painting that has been hung crookedly. I wanted to change something, but I did not know what. The box gave me no answers.
One day van Ruijven’s wife came again and he looked at her for a long time in the camera. I was passing through the studio while his head was covered, and walked as quietly as I could so I would not disturb them. I stood behind him for a moment to look at the setting with her in it. She must have seen me but gave no sign, continuing to gaze straight at him with her dark eyes.
It came to me then that the scene was too neat. Although I valued tidiness over most things, I knew from his other paintings that there should be some disorder on the table, something to snag the eye. I pondered each object—the jewelry box, the blue table rug, the pearls, the letter, the inkwell—and decided what I would change. I returned quietly to the attic, surprised by my bold thoughts.
Once it was clear to me what he should do to the scene, I waited for him to make the change.
He did not move anything on the table. He adjusted the shutters slightly, the tilt of her head, the angle of her quill. But he did not change what I had expected him to.
I thought about it while I was wringing out sheets, while I was turning the spit for Tanneke, while I was wiping the kitchen tiles, while I was rinsing colors. While I lay in bed at night I thought about it. Sometimes I got up to look again. No, I was not mistaken.
He returned the camera to van Leeuwenhoek.
Whenever I looked at the scene my chest grew tight as if something were pressing on it.
He set a canvas on the easel and painted a coat of lead white and chalk mixed with a bit of burnt sienna and yellow ocher.
My chest grew tighter, waiting for him.
He sketched lightly in reddish brown the outline of the woman and of each object.
When he began to paint great blocks of false colors, I thought my chest would burst like a sack that has been filled with too much flour.
As I lay in bed one night I decided I would have to make the change myself.
The next morning I cleaned, setting the jewelry box back carefully, relining the pearls, replacing the letter, polishing and replacing the inkwell. I took a deep breath to ease the pressure in my chest. Then in one quick
