Free Tale of Elske by Jan Vermeer Page A

smooth and flat upon it. “What do you call this?” she asked and “A book,” he answered. “Can you read it?”
    Elske studied the letters, making the sounds in her head, until she remembered them well enough to read him the tale of the eagle who was shot with an arrow fletched with his own feathers, a story Tamara, too, had known. When she was done, he returned the book to the shelf and said, “I’ve kept visitors waiting. Odile will take you to my daughters.” He went to the door and opened it, that she might leave him. Following her out of the room, he reached out his hand to greet a cloaked man, who was just then crossing the hall in loud boots. “May we be well met,” Var Jerrol said to this guest, and to the manservant he said, “Bring us hot drinks,” and Elske was forgotten.
    She went back into the cook room where Odile asked what she was to be paid for her labors and when Elske said she did not know, promised to settle it with the Var. “It’s hard to put a price on the kind of work you’ll be doing for him,” she said. “And he’ll work you without recompense if you let him.” Then, “I don’t know where you come from, to know so little of the world,” Odile added, and laughed. She led Elske up two sets of stairs, to knock on a wooden door and open it without waiting for an answer.
    This was a large room, where the serving girl who had awakened Elske sat sewing and two little girls, of one and two winters, whispered together on a bed. There was a cradle set near the warmth of a tile stove. Windows let in sunlight, and there were two beds with small chests at their feet, as well as a round table at the center of the room, with four chairs around it. When Odile led Elske in, the sleeping baby was the only one who didn’t stare solemnly.
    â€œHere’s the new nursemaid,” Odile announced. “Elske. And that means you”—she jabbed the girl with a finger—“will be back in the cook room—where I have need of you, what with the Courting Winter, and the master’s meals, and the Varinne’s dainty stomach. Your soft days are finished and I don’t want to hear any snuffling on that account.” The girl rose from her seat.
    Odile spoke to the little girls with more courtesy, and in a gentler voice. “Our oldest—she’s two. Can you give a curtsey, Mariel?” The child shook her head, No, and sucked on a finger. “And this is Miguette,” Odile said, as the younger, just steady on her own legs, took her sister’s hand and bobbed downwards. “The baby is Magan. The sewing is an old cloak of Mariel’s we’re taking up. You can sew, can’t you?”
    â€œMine,” Miguette said, pointing to the cloak.
    â€œLittle girls can’t get sick,” Mariel said. “Poor Maman is sick,” she told Elske.
    Odile and the serving girl left Elske with the two little girls and the sleeping baby. Without a word, Elske sat on the low seat beside the cradle, took up the cloak and continued the hem where it had been left off. She knew the sisters were watching her from the bed where they sat, each with a doll in her hands. When the baby woke, Elske could ask Mariel where the clean cloths were, and where the baby’s soiled cloths were kept, and so they would grow comfortable with one another.
    By the time bowls of fish soup were brought up for them, and chunks of bread, with honey to pour on them, the little girls had grown comfortable with this stranger. Elske noticed this, and noticed, too, that her spirits rose to have little children in her care, and for companions.

    THE LONGEST NIGHT ARRIVED AND passed by without Elske having time to do more than silently wish Idelle well. Not only were Var Jerrol’s daughters in her care, but also Elske could be summoned to the cook room to assist Odile; for the cook was kept busy, as the Councillors