Free Rembrandt's Mirror by Kim Devereux Page B

mine. It was filled with a kind of concern. He took the sketchbook out of his satchel and placed it on my lap. It was heavy on my knees. He opened it at the page of the drawing he’d just made.
    I did not want to see. I already knew that his art could take the essence of a subject and turn it into a vision so potent that reality itself paled in comparison; still I looked. The drawing showed the woman and the gibbet. Her body was gathered to the vertical post by four or five ropes. One under her arms, the others further down her body, holding her and her skirts tight to the post, to prevent any indecent exposure. There was the axe, dangling in the wind to the side of her head. The murder weapon, like her, put on display to discourage others. I kept looking at the lines of his pen – her arms hung limp, so helpless. Her feet so unsupported by the ground, sofar beneath her. Her face at such repose, young and unmarked by life. And my heart cried out, for even in the sleep of death she looked tired. She did not look like a murderess but like someone to be pitied.
    His brush had pitied her; her head drawn bare, exposed to the elements, even though I could see, when I looked up, that her head was covered with a cap. Still, there was more truth in his depiction.
    There she was as helpless as a babe even now, even in death. I felt tears on my cheeks and looked up at the man who had made the drawing. His eyes were dark and serious. I thought him unmoved but then I saw something else: the same thing that had leapt at me from the drawing. Whether it was compassion for me, for Elsje, or for all men, I did not know.
    I looked out again at the landscape. Amsterdam lay stretched out before us on the other side of the river. I thought of all the suffering and toil unfolding at this very moment. Was there a compassion vast enough to hold it all? I was no longer certain it was absent, all because of a drawing.
    He touched my arm and said, ‘It’s time we went home.’
    â€˜Yes,’ I answered, ‘please.’
    He took the book gently from my lap and offered me his hand to help me up. It felt soft except for where his skin was calloused from holding the brush. We walked on in silence. I felt unsure about the propriety of walking next to him. But I allowed myself to be borne along by whatever river I had entered.
    When we got to the shores of the IJ, he approached one of the smaller ferry boats. He helped me in and I sat on the middle seat. Heseated himself behind me. As we set out across the river I noticed strange patterns of ripples. In some places they were like a web of tiny hairs being dragged across the water; in others they were proper little waves. I wondered at the cause. Was it the wind or some deeper current, dragging at the surface from below? His body shielded me from the wind. Every now and then I caught the smell of oil paint, which still clung to him though he was wearing his outside garb. Mixed in with this I smelled something unique of him. I closed my eyes, the boat rocked gently, the wind tousled my hair and the strange aroma gathered me in its embrace.
    I wanted to name the feeling that held me like a charm. Ah, it must be what’s called happiness. I tried out the word with silent lips: ‘I am happy . . . ha-ppy.’
    I sucked on it, a comfit of unfamiliar but captivating flavour. The boat rocked and rocked and I settled into the motion. I felt safe. How swiftly happiness had done its work.
    It was afternoon by the time we got back to the house. Thankfully no one had seen us arrive together. Rembrandt made for the stairs without a word and I returned to my quarters in the kitchen. Geertje was there and I could see that she had her hands full with washing up, preparing food and keeping Titus occupied shelling peas. A task so brazenly productive would not keep him in good cheer for long. So I helped.
    *
    It was well past the stroke of ten when I finally crept into my bed. My limbs felt