Free Tulip Fever by Deborah Moggach Page B

chemise. It is dark up here. Gasping for breath I bang against the doorpost, steady myself and blunder into the bedchamber.
    Downstairs I hear Cornelis lock the front door. I stand there, frozen with fear, my lover’s seed sliding down my thigh. Blinded by sin, I feel for the bedpost.
    I make it just in time. I hear my husband’s step. Candlelight flickers on the wall as he ascends the stairs. And by the time he comes in I am under the covers, curled up, my arms around my knees.

22

    Willem
The foam of water shows itself to be of lesser whiteness the fur ther down it is from the surface of the water, and this is proved [because] . . . the natural colour of something submerged will be the more transformed into the green colour of the water to the extent that the thing submerged has a greater quantity of water above it.
    —LEONARDO DA VINCI, Notebooks
    For a moment Willem does not struggle. He surrenders himself to the water. He watches himself drowning; his soul has already detached itself. Memories swim up—his mother’s face, with its whiskery mole; his sister sniggering, and pressing her hand to her mouth. . . . He knows he is dying and he welcomes extinction, for do we not bloom sweetly, for just a season, and then perish? Wherever he goes God is there, ready to take him into His arms.
    Willem sinks, a piece of flotsam thrown out by this city, he and the dead dogs and meat bones. He drifts down, he and the contents of the nightpots of a hundred and twenty thousand men and women.
    Unlike most of the city’s inhabitants, however, Willem can swim. Why he wants to live when everything—his bride, his hopes, his fortune—has been stolen from him, why his rude instinct for survival fights against his desire for oblivion—he has no time to answer, for he is battling his way to the surface and now he splashes and flails, gasping for breath. He swims to the side and claws at the slimy wall. The water slops him bumpingly against the brickwork. He gropes his way along it until he fumbles against a mooring ring. He clings to it, coughing up the water from his lungs. And finally he hoists himself out—how heavy he weighs: the deadweight of a mortal after all. He lies in the street, sodden.

    THE NEXT MORNING, battered, bruised and with nothing to live for, Willem packs his bags and makes his way down to the docks. Here he enlists in the navy, and within a few days his ship has set sail to fight the Spanish, the last fightable foe left to him and a more patriotic focus for his rage.

23

    Jan
Take linseed and dry it in a pan, without water, on the fire. Put it in a mortar and pound it to a fine powder; then replacing it in the pan and pouring a little water on it, make it quite hot. Afterwards wrap it in a piece of new linen; place it in a press used for extracting the oil of olives, of walnuts, and express this in the same manner. With this oil grind minium or vermilion, or any other colour you wish, on a stone slab . . . prepare tints for faces and draperies . . . distinguishing, according to your fancy, animals, birds, or foliage with their proper colours.
    —THEOPHILUS, 11TH CENTURY
    Jan is feeling guilty about the boy. He has been too distracted to give him much attention. Jacob has been grinding pigments for him and cleaning brushes—humble jobs; otherwise he has only had a few drawing lessons. The boy has talent; he draws with greater skill than Jan possessed at his age and he is keen to learn. Jacob is less moody than Jan too; less tempestuous. Jan cannot picture him falling catastrophically in love with one of his sitters. One day he will make a good living as a competent, workmanlike painter. Not great, maybe, but who says Jan will be great? Not Mattheus. You have to be courageous, my friend, and unafraid of pain .
    So Jan sets his pupil down in front of the double portrait and tells him to finish painting Cornelis—the hands, the spindly, old-man’s shins. Jan cannot bring himself to paint the legs that have