ÉLISEZ LE MEILLEUR ROMAN ET LA MEILLEURE NOUVELLE DU MOIS (JUILLET 2007)

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Auteur: YYY (ZZZ)

“Faith -  A probable love story”
by/par/door   Donald P.H. Eaton  (USA)


Copyright © 2007 by Donald P.H. Eaton

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without the written permission of the author.



               Faith



                                Chapter One

                                                   1667   


         [Sun. Oct. 23]
                           
        IT MUST HAVE BEEN the sound of the night-guard walking along the street in front of his window that woke him. It was not the usual muffled laughter of the men as they returned to their barracks or the clack of their rattle that signaled each new half hour. It was too cold for that. It was coughing and muttered curses that he heard, and quick footsteps hurrying to get back to the warmth of the guardroom.
        He felt that same cold on his face, like a mask, and for a moment he believed that he could actually see his own breath, but it was too dark for that. Perhaps, he thought, he just felt it.
        His eyes adjusted to the dim, almost lightless room. There was no moon this night and the only illumination came from the pale starlight through the un-shuttered upper windows. The warmth of the body nestled next to him under the thick covers should have been a comfort, but his mind was restless and he was worried. He rolled over and could see the dim outline of his wife’s sleeping face. She always slept soundly, although he did not. In this featureless light, he could see how beautiful she remained even after bearing nine children. He could not see the blush on her cheeks that he had often painted, but he could make out their soft roundness, and her eyelids, closed and smooth as shells as she slept. Her body, wrapped as it was in sleeping gowns, was still so warm next to him that he did not want to move. How had she put up with all this? With the disappointments? With the worries? With the debts? With him? And, as she lay there, he could see that slight smile he remembered from the day when they met as children.
        But there was another body between them, his new-born daughter, Digna, her grandmother’s namesake, and unlike the radiant warmth that came from his wife, the little baby was hot and this is what worried him. The child had developed a fever that morning and refused to take her mother’s milk. All day she lay still, swaddled as was the custom, not even crying. He knew what it was to lose a child. Little Cornelia, learning to walk one moment and dead that night, not even one year old. No one knew why Cornelia died, but the ‘why’ was not important and the hollowness and the ache of the loss never left him. If little Digna--but he refused to continue the thought. The fever will break, Doctor Vos had assured him, and the girl should by fine by morning. He wanted to believe the doctor and, even though he was not a religious man, he said a true prayer that evening for the recovery of the child.
        In the dark, he slowly raised his thin hand to touch the child’s face. He felt the heat with the back of his fingers while the icy air of the room brushed his palm.
 “You will be fine, meisje,” he whispered in a voice too soft to really be heard. “You will be fine.”
        He slipped from his side of the bed onto the chilled wooden floor and now he really could see his breath! Winters had always been cold for as long as he could remember, but never this cold and it was still only October. He thought about that for a moment as he silently slid the chamber pot from under the bed. “October--” He had forgotten until that moment that today was his birthday. He was thirty-five. Usually there would be a little party, good meat, good cheese, good wine, small gifts and ribbons. Friends would come by and there would be music and singing for the grown-ups and games for the children, some Bible reading and praying, but not too much. Today, however, with the baby so sick, he expected very little and that did not bother him. His only ‘birthday wish’ was for the little girl. When she was better, then there would be time to celebrate one way or another.
        He covered the chamber pot and slid it quietly back under the bed. Then he walked to the wardrobe, having to feel his way in the dark. He quickly threw off his sleeping cap and robe and opened the heavy oak door. He never had many clothes, but that was of little concern to him. He wore almost the same clothing every day in winter, as did most of the men in town, except for the richest. He slipped on a second pair of socks over the ones he slept in, then pulled up his heavy trousers and fastened them with a broad leather belt around his thin waist. Perhaps he ate less than he should, but there were many hungry mouths in the household and, lately, he never seemed very hungry. His wife worried about this, but, he thought, there are more important worries--enough for both of them.
        A cotton shirt, a woolen shirt, a tunic, another tunic, a coat and finally his heaviest leather shoes. His hat would be downstairs, and, for now, he had no gloves. The clothes were all ice cold, having soaked it up all night after the meager peat fire in the grate had burned itself out. They offered little comfort, even in their bulkiness, against the chill.
        His eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness and he turned to look toward the bed and the sleeping ‘mother and child’. All he could see was a high dim lump of dark color. It had been so cold when they went to bed that Catharina had thrown a table rug over the usual thick comforter to help keep the chill away from her and the baby. He didn’t have to ‘see’ the table rug to make it out. He new it by heart because he had painted it more than once and had studied and rendered every knot. Silently, even though booted, he made for the bedroom door.
       
        He slipped into the dark front room on the ground floor of his mother-in-law’s large house. Ten rooms-- enough for her, her two maids, Catharina and himself and their eight children. Maria’s room was upstairs behind the room he used as a studio. The children were tucked away in various other places throughout the house, some in sleeping closets, others on mats on the floor, two even in the back kitchen. The fact that he and his family were living under his mother-in-law’s roof used to bother him, but they had been here for some years now, and he had grown used to it. Catharina’s mother, a strict and practicing Catholic, no longer hated him and the fact that she had come to appreciate his work, had settled in long ago. She had even ‘secured’ several of his paintings against cash advances on his and his family’s behalf. This is how things are, he conceded, and how they will probably remain.
        As he stepped into the room, as quietly as he could, he could see vague forms on the walls to either side--framed paintings, not all by him or other Delft artists, but a fair spectrum of art at that time. Maria was a connoisseur and collector, wealthy enough to afford the high prices fine art from well-known artists demanded. What he had once considered charity was now, in his mind, patronage. Believing that this was so was almost the only way he could accept her generosity. Almost, because he knew full well that were he not married to her daughter, with a slew of lovable grandchildren, things would be quite different.
                                                               
        Across the room and to the right was a hallway that ran the full length of the ground floor. From the doorway at the far end of this hall, he could see a dull light and hear a low clatter. The hallway went past the inner kitchen, where little cooking was done because it was the center for entertaining guests and was always kept spotless, so that all of Maria’s treasures could be displayed--china, silver, glassware from Spain, all tidily arranged and presented. Down this hallway was a little room where his daughters, at least some of them, slept and then beyond that, it ran to the back kitchen, passing the Great Hall which had no door on this side. It was from the back kitchen that the light and noise were coming. Maria’s maid, Miriam, was surely there at this early hour preparing coals and peat for the foot-stoves which were used throughout the house in winter, as well as warming milk to mix with stale bread for the children’s breakfast. He did not want her to hear him leaving the house. She already thought he was odd, if not actually crazy, and to hear him go out into the freezing cold night would only put the cap on it. He did his best to exit silently.

        Once outside, on the stoop, he gasped at the cold. He could feel his own billowing breath freeze in the icy air and was afraid to take even a deeper breath for fear that his lungs might freeze. He huddled his arms around his chest and tucked his bare hands under his armpits, but it did little good to keep off the chill.
“Hmmph! October!” he muttered to himself. In front of him was the Oude Langendijk street and narrow canal beyond it. The canal had never frozen over in October, as far as he knew, but now it was as solid as the street before it. Just across the canal was the great Town Square of Delft, silent as William of Orange’s tomb in the New Church, just ahead and to his right. Except for the edge of just one other house, he could see across the Square to the Mechelen, an inn, one of the busiest in Delft, which was his boyhood home. His father was

dead but his mother, Digna, still ran the establishment as best she could by herself.
        It was at the Mechelen that he had his first studio and now, with the grace of his mother, still maintained. Maria had provided a front room for him on the second floor of her house, which was in a way a great sacrifice of space given all the bodies dwelling there, and it is where he had done most of his painting over the last ten years. But it was noisy and distracting to work right on the bustling Square, and dangerous, with so many little hands eager to get into his colorful pots of expensive pigments.

The studio at Mechelen was at the back, facing mostly north, and looked over a small canal and the little street that ran along it. It was on this street, further down at another inn, where he was born and spent his earliest years. It was also the street of his guild, The Guild of Saint Luke.


        He stepped off the stoop and crossed the narrow roadway to a bridge over the canal. Halfway across, he paused for a moment and looked down at the ice on the surface. For some reason it was clear and reflective, not white-waxy the way it had been in other winters. He studied how, even without a moon, the ice seamed to gleam and shine in a curious way. He wondered if he might be able to see the stars reflected in it, but, after several seconds of observation, he realized he could not and moved on.

        He came into the Square on his birthday morning, alone and solitary, the coldest and clearest night he had ever known. He stopped again to take it in. He saw the narrow doors of the New Church, where he had been christened thirty-five years ago and where his father and little Cornelia were now buried. Damn! Why did he have to think about that again? Although he knew that even though he had passed that spot a thousand times or more, the thought and memory of that little girl was always with him, sometimes deeper and more surely felt than others, but always, always with him.
        He took a few steps forward and then stopped again, this time to look at the sky. He was always stopping and looking. This was his nature. Perhaps he had learned it from his teachers when he was an apprentice or, perhaps, it was just part of how he related to the world and images and visions around him. He didn’t know. He no longer thought about such things. But there it was--the   sky!--black, yet in some way, transparent in the freezing night. Stars, millions of them, crowded each other to be noticed, some so small they only shone in their groupings, others, bright as gems on velvet, brighter even than that. He looked back at his house. There, standing just over his roof was one star so bright on this moonless night, that it stood singular of all the rest--Sirius, the dog star. He stared at it and its great companion, Orion. He looked closely at the ‘sword’, hanging loosely from the hunter’s belt, and remembered that warm April night years ago when his friend, Huygens, had taken him out into the Square with a telescope to look at just one little star at the tip of its scabbard. But it wasn’t a star at all.  It was a galaxy!--Thousands, millions of stars swirling around each other, clearly to be seen with this new ‘eye’. Only God knew how many and how far away. Huygens had told him that there surely was life out there, up in that very sky. He wondered if it could be true. It was simply amazing. 
          It must be around four thirty in the morning, he thought. The night guard usually passed his house just before four o’clock when their duties ended and they headed back to the mustering hall. In the summer, when this is shortly before dawn, their laughter and rowdiness often woke him and everybody else, but this was a good thing as it signaled the start of a new day. Soon the milk carts would be arriving from the countryside and the bakers would be loading their ovens and kitchen maids would be setting out simple breakfasts. But in the winter, the milk carts came later, the farmers worried that their goods would freeze if submitted to the cold for too long a time. And on this night, no milk carts could be heard clattering into the Town Square. It was too cold to linger long here. His gloveless hands started to ache and he felt rime forming on his nostrils. He had to move on.

        When he reached the inn, he did not enter through one of the two front doors that were certainly barred at this hour, but went down a small alley to the right of the building. This alley led to a narrow bridge that crossed the canal and ended at the little street called Voldersgracht after the canal. At the end of the alley and just over the bridge, he could make out the façade of the Guild of Saint Luke, which had moved into the renovated quarters several years before. He stopped and fumbled in his coat pocket with his chilled fingers for the ring of keys he always carried with him. Climbing the three small steps, he unlocked the door and quickly, quietly slipped inside.
        The blast of warm air nearly knocked him over. Although it was still as dark as the outside, the hallway was warm, blessedly warm. He rubbed his hands together, chafing them for more heat. ‘October! Ha!’
        Of course the inn was still silent, his mother and her patrons all snuggled in warm beds in warm rooms, looking forward to warm breakfasts hours from now. He took off his coat and hung it on a peg next to the door. He did not want to wake anybody at this early hour, especially on a Sunday. Silently, he walked to the small, semi-spiral staircase that led upstairs from this part of the building. The risers were narrow and steep, barely the width of a grown man’s shoe and the third stair creaked with a clack so loud he thought he would rouse the entire establishment.
He reached the landing, still holding the ring of keys, and came to a door he could only locate by sliding his hands along the wall until he came to it. Again, fumbling in the dark, he found the correct key, but it was hard to find the key hole at first. When he did, a twist and a click and the door opened. Slowly, he entered the room, gripping and twisting the knob so that when the door actually did shut, it would not make a loud clap.

This room was still quite dark but had substantially more light than his own bedroom, due to the large, un-shuttered windows across the far side. Instead of inky blackness, he could make out dim forms, backlit by the ambient starlight from outside.
To the right, on the side wall, was a barely defined rectangle, slightly brighter than the surface behind it--a large map. Ahead of him, just in front of the right-most window, was a heavy, ball-footed table, over which was partially draped an indiscriminate scarf-like cloth. Several other forms of things stood or lay on the tabletop, but they were impossible to discern in this lack of light. In front of this table was the dim outline of a stool and easel, with something dark and flat poised halfway up. He could make out the shape of a heavy curtain hanging from the roof beams by the middle window, but this was only a shadow now in the ambient light. On the left side of the room, all was darkness. The window there was completely lost to a drape, running wall-to-wall and so black that everything behind it was invisible. He stepped into this room, not testing, not shuffling slowly, but with complete confidence in spite of the darkness. He knew, without doubt, what each shape and form and shadow was in reality and, to the hair, where it was.
        This was his studio and he had it memorized.
                               
        He walked across the room to a small, three-legged table below the central window. On it was a thin yellow candle, a brass tinderbox and a leather cylinder of broom-straw tapers. He hated using any kind of false illumination in this room, especially tallow candles, fearing that their soot, frail though it might be, could in some way effect the quality of his materials. Still, on these dark mornings, with the pigments and oils safely put away, he needed at least some light. Not to paint by, of course, but to think.
        He removed one of the taper straws and set it on the table. Then he opened the tinder box, took out the striker and hit it against the flint, causing a bright spark to ignite the cotton in the brass tube. There was a wisp of smoke and then a tiny, incandescent orange glow on the cotton bed. He brought the tube close to his mouth and blew gently on it until a pale flame hovered over the surface. He took the straw and put it into this flame.
        The straw started to burn with real light and, for the first time that morning, some details of the area immediately around him could be made out. He lit the candle and there was even more light, not much, but to his eyes already accustomed to the dark, the golden, flickering aura set off the meager objects nearby into an array of shadow, form and highlight.
It occurred to him, as he put the tinder box away, that he had never painted candle light. He wondered if he could if he wanted to, like Dou who had made a fortune at it, but in the end, it did not matter. He loved daylight and how it played on cloth, skin and plaster walls, spilled on tiled floors or cast shadows in dark corners. That was the world he knew and the one in which he was most comfortable.
         He carefully slid the work table to the center of the room next to a stool in front of the black curtain hanging across the rafters. This was not the stool in front of the easel he had seen when he first entered. That was part of the picture he was painting and could not be moved, but this stool was of exactly the same height and this was the stool he used when he painted. 
He sat, almost shivering from the cold as it soaked through his clothing, and took in the scene at the front of the room, making certain that everything was as it should be. Of course, it was, but he did this out of habit. The light from the candle fell off quickly as it reached the far wall, but he knew everything here so well, he might have been studying it in full daylight.
        The large map on the wall in front of him, on loan from a dealer in such things and fellow Guild member, was nearly black, but he knew every crack, wrinkle and fold, for he had already painted this part that spring. It was exacting and often tedious work, but he did not need a model and he required none of the expensive pigments he would use elsewhere. It frustrated him that he often had to adjust his work to suit what he could afford at the time. But this map of The United Netherlands was finished completely. He would add the other elements, the hardest elements, including a costumed figure, over it later this spring when the light lasted longer.
There was also the dark form of a simple chair against the wall just under the lower corner of the map. It rested on four tiny dots he had painted on the floor tiles to mark its position should it ever be moved accidentally. He did this for all objects once they had been placed to his liking and the actual painting begun. Nothing must be moved unless he moved it and re-marked it. Nothing! Ever!

        On the windowed wall to his left was the wooden table with various carefully chosen objects. This draw-leaf table, although a genuine antique, had come from the back kitchen of the inn and he knew that his mother wanted it returned. She never mentioned it directly to him, but she often commented how she could certainly use another table downstairs when the inn got busy in the summer time. This table was not pushed up against the back wall. Rather, it was moved a small distance toward where he was sitting now, so that there would be room for the model to stand between it and the left side of the map. This was an important position for the table, its edge defining his vanishing point where the viewer’s eye would first be drawn. Everything else was arranged around this mystical and invisible point and he had marked it on his canvas with a pin.
        Only the outlines of the objects on the table could be made out, mostly varying degrees of shadows. A thick, leather-bound volume with straps, borrowed from his mother-in-law, stood upright on a corner. A plaster cast in the form of a death mask, but larger, lay face-up, while the oblong pages of an open emblem book, a gift from his wife, extended themselves over the edge. There was also a single sheet of paper, a handwritten copy of a new poem, composed in his honor by a local publisher. Only he would know what was written on that scrap, and that thought had pleased him when he first set it and marked its position on the tabletop.

Two drape cloths from his dead father’s workshop, scrunched on top then falling over the near side, were now only vague shapes in the darkness, but, at the point where the lighter cloth skirted off and over the table, he could discern a glimmer of gold highlight in the crease, even in this candlelight.
        In the center of the floor was an easel, one he had used often, but now it served as another key element in his painting. On it was a blank canvas. The light brown ground had already been applied and it reflected the candlelight rather well. Still, it was bare and in fact he planned not to paint anything on it at all, at least for now. In front of this barren easel was a stubby stool similar to the one on which he was sitting. When the time came, he would paint a man on that stool, face to the canvas, back to the viewer, and he would be that man. This was part of the puzzle he came here to work out on the frozen night of his birthday. How would he do it? How would he pull it off? He knew already what he would wear, the same Spanish slash-coat he wore years ago when he had painted a picture of himself with his wife, his good friend Captain Melling from the Guard and Janne, his mother’s barmaid. It was a bawdy work and Maria Thins hated it.       
As his eyes grew even more accustomed to the weak light, he noticed seven bright glints, up high and in front of the map. Here the candle flame was playing against the polished brass surface of an antique chandelier which he had hung from the rafters, its seven candle-less arms splayed beneath the outstretched wings of a two-headed eagle. This item had been the most difficult of all for him to secure, but it was crucial to the painting he was making. He had borrowed it from his wealthy friend and patron, Pieter van Ruijven, who had been loathe to give it up for so long a time as required, but finally agreed, if only for two months. Now, looking at the fire glints on its smooth and polished surfaces, he recalled how quickly he had worked on it to get it done on time and that was no easy task. When the day had come to return it, he invited van Ruijven to his studio to see his rendering. This was something he had almost never done, to show someone, anyone, except his two daughters, Maria and Elisabeth, his wife, and his apprentice, a work in progress. While other artists opened their studios to almost all comers, even allowing visitors to ‘watch them paint’, he worked in near secrecy. He had reasons for that, but this time he had invited van Ruijven in the hope that his wealthy patron would allow him to keep the thing until the painting was finished, without his having to beg  for it.
        He hated the idea of an incomplete scene as he painted. Certainly he had had to accommodate his models, who simply could not stand around hour after hour, day after day--month after month, while he diligently worked on a particular highlight on a piece of pottery, or the individual knots in a certain table rug. But this was different. Of course he could get by now without it, but it irked him and would constantly be a source of annoyance. He had prepared his best arguments for van Ruijven, but they were not necessary. When the man saw the unfinished painting, he was dazzled by what had been completed and simply  said: “Amazing! By the way, if you need to keep the chandelier until you have finished, by all means, it is yours.” That was that, and the artist simply said, “Thank you.”

        There were other things in the room which were, or would be, part of the finished picture--A heavy drapery on the left, pulled back in a rather theatrical way to reveal the entire scene--Another chair just in front of it, matching the one at the far end of the room--but these were of little concern to him just now.
        He looked to his right and there, just in front of him at less than an arm’s length, was another easel--the real easel, and another painting--the real painting, covered by a soft grey cloth so that in this light, or any other light, it revealed nothing. He looked at the opaque, flat surface. He knew exactly what was under it. There was no reason for him to lift that cover. Looking back at the scene, he tried to determine just what work he would be able to do when the sun was full and the room flooded with its cool northern light. He had to estimate which pigments would have to be ground that morning and exactly how much. This was critical because he could not afford either to waste paint if it got too dark before he finished, or waste time if there were still light but he had not made enough material to complete his day’s work. This never worried him, though. It was a task he had mastered in his days as a young apprentice and he never got it wrong.
        He was tired. The warmth he had felt when he first entered the inn was only relative to the cold outside. Soon, he would have to make a fire in the grate to warm and thin the oils he would use for this day’s work. How long had he been here? An hour? Ten minutes? He had no idea. Had he worked out the day’s painting? Not yet. Did he solve the problem of putting himself in the painting? Not really. When would it start to get light? He didn’t know. But none of these was, in reality, the reason he had come here this very early morning and he knew that. He had come here to be alone.






                                                                            Chapter Two

                                                              1642
       
        [Sat. Oct. 8] 

        THE LITTLE BIRD lay on its side flapping one wing in an effort to regain itself. The other wing did not move at all.
        “What’s wrong with it?” the little boy asked. The young girl, kneeling next to him, their faces so close as almost to touch, looked down carefully at the bird.
        “I think its wing is broken. See? He can’t move it.”
        “Will he die?”
        “I don’t know.”
        The bird was lying on a pale, sand-colored paving tile under a bench attached to the whitewashed side of the oldest house on the street, the only one spared from the Great Fire of nearly one hundred years before. October had been cold and wet, the heavy sky for days stretched low over the city. Trees, still clinging to the very last of their colors, spread dark, spindly branches from their tops, while patchworks of red, yellow and orange lay where their trunks came up through the carefully shaped paving stones.
The two children studied the wounded bird a little longer. 
        “What should we do?” the boy asked. The girl thought about this for a moment and then looked at him without any clear answer. “If we leave it, I’m sure it will die.”
Tentatively, she reached down and touched the bird’s breast, petting it with her thin finger. The bird relaxed, it seemed, but most likely from exhaustion more than anything else.
        “There is a small cage in our loft. I saw it when we moved in,” she said. “Perhaps I can take the bird home and nurse it until it gets well.”
        “How? What will you do?”
        She hadn’t thought about this yet, but the answer came quickly.
        “Well, I’ll make a bed for it and give it milk.”
        They continued to kneel there, pondering, when the boy heard his name called out from across the canal behind them.
        “Joannis--“
        He turned, looking over the narrow street and the dark canal, to the back of a large brick building that ran all the way down and into the water. Standing in a window on the second floor, was his mother, who called again.
        “Joannis--”
         It was not a great distance, and she did not have to shout once she knew he had seen her.
        “Yes, Moeka, just one minute more.”
        “You come now, Joannis. Mirthe is putting supper on the table.”
        “Yes,  Moeka. I’m coming.”
        Satisfied that her son would obey her, Digna Vermeer stepped back and closed the leaded glass window.
        “I’ve got to go.”
        The girl nodded, understanding. Then she reached down and cupped the little finch in both her hands, feeling its warmth and the fluttering of its tiny heart. As they stood up, she held it so close to her brown doublet, that it was no longer visible.
        “Can I see you tomorrow?” he asked hastily because he did not want to keep his mother waiting.
        “It’s Sunday. I’m not supposed to leave the house on Sunday.”
        “How will I find out about our bird, then?”
        He had already started to move away as she stood there without an answer. He turned over his shoulder.
        “You can sneak. Just for a few minutes,” he called out, still hurrying to the cobbled bridge that crossed the canal and led to the alley on the side of his house. “I always play with the boys in the Square after church services. That would be a good time.”
        She just looked at him, not knowing how to reply, as he continued away from her. He turned one more time and looked at her standing there. The little street was quiet. Vrouw Kortekaas sat sewing in the tall open doorway of the thin brick building that was now a shelter for elderly women. Vrouw van Houte hunched over a barrel of rainwater in the narrow alleyway next to the house, washing rags. Otherwise, the street was still, save for the flutter of last leaves caught in the light breeze.
        “I’ll see you tomorrow, Catharina--On the Square in front of the church!” She looked and nodded as he disappeared into the alley which ran past his house and into the Great Square of Delft.
        She had only known this boy one day and already she had tacitly agreed to ‘commit a sin’ for him. It troubled her, especially since she was only eleven. But she did want to see him tomorrow and tell him of the bird’s fate.       

        The Great Square was a busy place on Saturday midday, a broad stone plaza with the block-like Town Hall at one end and the towering New Church at the other. Edge-to-edge houses with various shops, crafts and services on their ground floors, lined both sides and every door was open to welcome the afternoon’s patrons. Kitchen maids had completed their daily shopping rounds by this time, but numerous vendors’ stalls, their owners loudly hawking their goods and ‘special’ prices, were scattered here and there throughout the Square for the benefit of local strollers and the diverse travelers who made their way through the prosperous town. 
         Joannis was running now. He did not want to be late, especially if his father was already at the table. He had to dodge a handcart puller as he turned the corner, which slowed him up a bit, and got him cursed a bit more, but he quickly regained his footing and only stopped when he reached the open front door of the inn.
        His house, the Mechelen, was the largest inn on the Great Square and the most prosperous, catering as it did to the varied and colorful patrons a town like Delft tended to draw to it--politicos, soldiers and guards, merchants, locals and foreigners, and above all, artists. Vermeer knew some of their names and had seen some of their paintings in his father’s gallery. Even now, he could tell which ones were already famous and which ones pretended to be, but he was always too busy with his chores to talk with them and, besides, he was just a boy. It would not have been proper.

        The tavern was a large room at the front of his ‘house’, which his father had bought just the year before. The light, coming in through the two narrow doors that faced the Square, and a clearstory of small windows that ran wall to wall above them, fell off quickly towards the back of the room, which reeked of tobacco smoke and stale beer, but Joannis was so accustomed to that atmosphere, having been born in another tavern inn not far away, that he never noticed. Nor did he pay any attention to the twenty or so patrons.
        Almost all of the people in the room were men except the occasional mistress or lover and Janne, the tavern maid. Even in the early afternoon, the place was a subdued riot of drinking and smoking, bread, meat and cheese eating, card playing, dice rolling, arguing and laughing. Wandering dogs, at least three of them in the front room itself, sniffed and begged wherever they wanted. But this was the town and the Mechelen was certainly not as rowdy as other inns Joannis had seen in the countryside when traveling with his father, where people actually bathed naked together, men and women, in some back room. None of this played to the boy as he hurried to get to the supper table on time.
        Navigating through the pitcher and stein laden tables, Joannis crossed the tavern to a wide doorway on the right side of the rear wall. A kaffa-cloth drape hung on a rod at the top of it, but this was pulled back, revealing another large room beyond. The boy hurried in, but stopped short. This was the Great Hall, in normal homes, the center of formal entertaining, but here at the Mechelen, a euphemism at best. Joannis stopped when he saw just in front of him, his father, Reynier. At least, the boy thought, he wouldn’t be late for dinner since ‘being late’ only meant getting to the table after his father was already there, an offense punishable by the deprivation of sweets and two hours of extra Latin study.
        Reynier, still handsome at fifty-one years, with long reddish hair already graying at the temples, was standing with another man, well-dressed and properly groomed. Joannis recognized him as the owner of a printing shop just up the street and often played with his son, Jacob. The elder Vermeer was holding an ebony-framed painting in his hands, apparently extolling its virtues to the would-be buyer.     

        In addition to being an innkeeper, Reynier was also both an art dealer and cloth designer and this room served as his gallery and workshop. The space was cluttered with paintings on easels, hanging on the walls or sitting on the floor in irregular stacks. The right side of the room was devoted to his kaffa-cloth work. A broad table was strewn with, sketches, notes, patterns, tools, and spools of thread. Pieces of carpet and fabric of all designs--yarns, satins and silks--lay scattered on the floor and a cabinet filled with covered pots of colorful dyes and pigments stood in a corner by the single window. Still, there was space in the room for two or three tables, added when needed, for spillover patrons from the tavern on holidays and festivals.
        Reynier did not notice Joannis standing there until the boy politely spoke to him.
         “Father.”
        Reynier looked away from the painting and his customer for just a second and acknowledged the youngster with a smile and a nod. That was it, then back to business.
        Joannis felt free to continue on to the inner kitchen where supper would be served and as he passed, he heard his father saying, “Yes, Abraham, now he’s not so famous, but just look at that brush work! In a few           years--”

                                          
        The kitchen Joannis entered was not as large as the Great Hall, but almost equally as cluttered, not with artworks, although there were several fine paintings on its walls, their own paintings that were not to be put up for sale. Rather, the clutter came from the elements of their everyday life: A solid table, set out for supper, pots, pans, chests and chairs. A cooking fire burned in the large hearth at the rear on the room and Mirthe, the young cooking maid, struggled with an iron pot hanging from a ratcheted chain above the low flames, the steam coming from it filling the room with the wonderful aromas of stewed meat and spice. His sister, Gertruy, twenty-two and all grown up now, was standing by her place at the table, while Digna was returning from a sideboard with an earthenware pitcher so heavy she needed both hands to carry it.
        Joannis took off his broad-brimmed floppy hat and hung it on a peg by the door. Then he walked over and stood by his own place at the table, across from his sister. Gertruy looked at him and nodded politely. He nodded back, politely as well. When Digna saw the boy standing properly behind his chair, she asked, all the while still fussing with things that had to be fetched or moved,
        “Did you see your father? Is he still out there with Mister Dissius?”
        “Yes. I passed them as I came in.”
        “Hmmph!” she said quietly to herself. Then, looking about, “Gertje, where is the Bible? It doesn’t   seem--”
        “I’ll get it, Mother. I know right where it is. I was reading it last night.”
        “Really,” Digna said, surprised that Gertruy would be so interested in the scriptures at this stage of her life. Digna had always wanted to learn how to read, but had never been given the opportunity or the time. Still, she got along fine as she was and she was happy about that.                          
        Gertruy was just coming back to the table when Reynier entered, somewhat of a smug smile on his face. No one said anything as he went to his place at the head of the table and Gertruy handed him the old battered book.
All stood there in silence for a moment, waiting for Reynier to begin as he took the book and opened it up at random. It did not matter where he opened it because he could not read either, although he could write a little and sign his name. In his childhood he had memorized a large number of verses and at supper would choose whichever one came to mind at the time. They all bowed their heads as he started to ‘read’:

        “And He humbled you and let you go hungry and fed
you the manna which you had never known, nor had
your fathers ever known, so that He might make you know
that man does not live by bread alone, but that man lives
by everything proceeding from Jevovah’s mouth.”

        “Amen.”
        “Amen.”

        Then they held hands across the table, heads still bowed.
        “Thank you, Lord, for these our blessings,” he said.
        “Amen.”
        “Amen.”

        Reynier lifted his head and smiled at Digna, which was the signal for the children to sit and the food to be served.
        The boy’s family was not as formal as most others in the town, or in the whole country for that matter. They were good Protestants, but not to a fault, and they enjoyed each other’s company, particularly on long winter nights when they would sit by the fire after supper and sing, play music or tell stories. Joannis had become exceptional at the guitar for a boy his age and Gertruy had a lovely voice.
        Mirthe spooned some of the hutspot onto a large plate to go on the table, the rest surely to find its way out into the tavern a little later. Platters of gingerbread and fine butter were set down, as well as another stew of just vegetables. There was no order to the serving, each bowl filled with whatever was closest.
        “Well, Papa, did you sell it?” Digna asked as all waited for Papa to take the first taste so that they could start.
        “Yes,” he replied laconically, “Yes, I did.”
        “And did you get a good price?”
        “Fair enough, I suppose.”
        Of course, he did not say immediately just how much, as he enjoyed teasing his wife and knew she would ask anyway.
        “How much?”
        “Seven guilders.”
        “But I thought you were asking ten.”
        “I did ask ten. And he offered four. So, I gave him some jeniver--I had a little sip too, and--” he cocked his head, “we finally agreed on seven. That was it.” He smiled a bit as he leaned closer to her and confided, “But, what you don’t know is that I only paid two for it! Not a bad day’s work, I might say.”
Digna did not want to show it, but she was impressed. Reynier had always been a good businessman and a hard worker. He was a good husband.

        It was not a quiet supper. Small talk was made at the table, which was considered improper in many other stricter households where children of Joannis’ age had to eat silently while standing. Janne came in and out, bringing plates of stew and dishes of cheese to the main room, while Mirthe bustled about helping as best she could because this was the tavern’s busiest hour.
Gertruy, sitting bolt upright, seemed somewhat above it all as she carefully ate like a ‘proper’ lady, while Joannis just picked at his food, keeping unusually reticent. The family was not even distracted when, from the tavern, came the lusty voices of an ersatz male choir engaged in the latest version of a song about an abbot and the blacksmith’s daughter.
        At one point, Digna looked over at her son and admonished him.
“Joannis, you’re not eating. Drink your beer if you want to grow tall like your sister.” He nodded and took a sip. All in all, it was a typical Saturday midday supper.                                             
        Towards the middle of the meal, when the stew dishes had been cleared and the gingerbread was being slathered with butter, Digna looked over to Joannis.
        “Who was that little girl you were with outside?”
Joannis didn’t feel guilty, but he knew he had to be a bit careful here.
        “She’s new. I met her in the Square this morning.” He purposely took a bite of gingerbread, hoping he would not have to elaborate, but he knew better.
        “It’s not proper, Joannis, for a boy your age to just ‘meet’ a girl in the Square and then strike up with her.”
        “Oh, it’s alright, Moeka. She’s very nice and she doesn’t have a father. She didn’t know anybody, so I--”
        “No father?” Papa chimed in. “How does her mother get by?”
        “Well, actually, I think she’s rich. They moved into that long house on the Oude Lagendijke. The one that faces the Square on the other side of the church.”
        His mother’s eyebrow arched at this and she decided to go a little deeper.
        “Do you mean the one by the Jesuit church house? That house?”
        “Yes, Mother, I think so. But I’m not certain,” he hastily added, even though he was quite certain.
        “Then she’s a Catholic?” Digna asked, not shocked as much  as wary.
        “I don’t know about that.”
        “Well, they’re all Catholics over there, so she must be.” Papa added as a matter of fact more than anything else.
        “Joannis, you shouldn’t be playing with strange girls, especially if they are Catholic. People will talk about that.” He was confused by this, although he had actually anticipated it coming at this point since it had already been brought up.
        “But, we have many Catholic friends, Moeka, Master Rietwijk, the van Zoon’s, the--” Digna reached out and put her hand on top of his.
        “It’s not about being Catholic, or Protestant. It’s about being young. You have enough problems already. Growing up in taverns--”
Papa shot her a look at this, and she hastily went on. “Not that there is anything wrong about that. It’s just different.”
        Papa accepted this, but Gertruy made a face, the kind of face that only a young woman of her age could make as if to say: ‘Do we really have to go on about this?’
        Joannis knew he shouldn’t press his mother further on this matter, and she knew she shouldn’t press him. She had made her point, and that was that. So it seemed.

               
        [Sun. Oct. 9]
 
        The nave of the New Church gleamed. The morning light, coming through the windows and clearstory of its eastern side, cast bright patterns on the white painted walls and tall pillars where it struck them unimpeded. The stained glass windows at the rear of the church glowed with rich colors that spilled onto the floor behind the marble tomb of William of Orange. Several hundred  people--men in dark capes and broad-brimmed hats, soldiers in their red tunics, high jackboots and dangling swords, mothers in dark dresses with starched white coifs covering their heads, children, babies and even dogs--gathered around the elevated pulpit as the predicant completed his morning sermon. Most stood as they listened carefully to the morally instructive words, the few seats and benches being reserved for nursing mothers or the elderly.
 Many of the Protestant families in Vermeer’s neighborhood were there, as they were every Sunday, the church being as much a social experience as it was a spiritual one. As Joannis stood with his parents and sister through the Bible readings and long-winded sermon, only one thought ran through his mind, and it was not about his eventual redemption. He wondered if Catharina really dared to meet him in the Square later that morning. After all, he recalled, she never said she would.
        When it was all finally over and the worshipers started filing out, Joannis rushed to join his friends, boys of families that he went to school with and played with every day, who had gathered at the front of the church while their parents chatted and gossiped. After a while, these boys rejoined their own families for the short walks to their respective houses, a quick change of clothes, since their ‘Sunday’ clothes were special and not to be played in, and then back out to the Square to play for the rest of the afternoon.                            
        After Joannis had changed and hurried back, he found some of the boys playing tag, while others were just sitting and hanging about. He immediately found Aelbert and Jacob and joined them as they chased each other around the open plaza, all the while looking just past the front of the church to the narrow house across the Oude Langendijk canal where he knew Catharina lived. But she did not come out.
        By the time the clock on the blocky tower of the town hall at the far end of the Square read three-ten, some of the boys had already started to leave for their homes and Sunday supper. But they lived further away than Joannis did and he knew that he still had a little time left before he, too, had to go.
        Then, there she was, emerging from the front door of her narrow house! He watched the girl as she stopped, looked around, looked back and then closed the door behind her. When she finally saw him in the Square playing with his friends, she wasn’t sure what to do, but she didn’t have much time, so she took a step forward, off the stoop and onto the narrow street. She crossed over the bridge that spanned the canal in front of her house and stopped just at the edge of the Square. She carried a handkerchief wrapped into a small bundle and looked uneasy as she stood there watching the boys.
        Joannis did not rush over to meet her, even though that was what he wanted to do. Instead, he turned his attention back to the game he was playing, but only for a moment. When he was sure that his friends were so engaged in their play that they would not notice, he slipped away and took several steps in Catharina’s direction, then stopped. He tried to signal her to meet him on the far side of the church, away from her house and away from the boys. At first, she didn’t understand, but then it became clear to her and she nodded. He ran off, along the front of the church and down the side away from her house as if he had to pee. The boys never noticed.
        Catharina went the opposite way, to her right along the street and across another small bridge that brought her to the same side but from around the back of the church. Each saw the other and then looked around. They were, if not strictly ‘alone’, at least away from the boys and her mother’s house.
        Catharina walked slowly and then stopped by a tree that stood in the center of a small patch of lawn at the back of the church. Joannis trotted up to where she was, but didn’t say anything when he reached her. He could see that she was clutching a small bundle tightly to her bodice and appeared quite nervous as she looked around one last time before speaking to him.
        “I can’t stay. Mother has gone to Gouda, but our maid is supposed to be watching over me and my sister. She’s just as strict.”  Joannis nodded and watched her as she looked down at the bundle folded in her arms.
        “The bird died,” Catharina said softly.
        “How?”
        “I don’t know. I tried to feed it milk and bread last night, but it wouldn’t eat. When I got up this morning, I went to it first thing to see if it got better, but it was lying on the bottom of the cage all stiff and its eyes were closed.”
        “Did you touch it?
        “No. I didn’t want to touch it. I could tell it was dead.”
        “Can I see it?”
        She nodded and handed the bundle to him. He set it on the ground and they both knelt there as he unwrapped the cloth from around the cage. Catharina had made a ‘bed’ for it out of scraps, and the bird lay on this, its eye closed and its skinny legs jutting straight out. There were still some bits of bread crust near its head. The two children studied it silently for a moment before Joannis spoke.
        “Perhaps we should bury it.”
        “Where?” she asked in a surprised way. He hadn’t thought about it yet, but it came to him.
        “Here, by this tree. It’s church ground and we could say a prayer.” Catharina considered this for a moment and then shook her head.
        “We can’t do that.”
        “Why not?
        “It’s Sunday and this church is not a Catholic church. I think it would be a sin.”
Not knowing that much about such things at his age, and wondering why this particular bird might be ‘Catholic’, Joannis just shrugged his shoulders.
        “So, what should we do?” he asked.
        “Can you take it? Perhaps we can bury it somewhere else later, or--” she paused, “you can just do it. I don’t want my mother to find it. I have to go now.”
        The clear sky of the morning had clouded over and the first few drops of light rain were starting to fall. Joannis knew there wasn’t much time for this, one way or the other. He, too, had to start heading home. Catharina did not wait for his answer. She got up and looked at him as she turned to walk away, leaving him and the dead bird still on the ground by the tree. He scooped up the cage and shawl and stood with them in his hands, perplexed. Her back was now to him as she hurried off the way she had come.
        “Catharina! Tomorrow! Meet me here at five o’clock and we’ll do it then. I’ll think of some place.” She stopped and looked back at him.
        “Alright. I’ll try to be here. And you’ll meet me?”
        “Yes. I promise.”
        She gave him a little reassuring smile, turned again and started running for her house.

                                       
        [Sun. Oct. 9]
 
        Sunday was usually a quiet day at the Mechelen, especially when the weather was poor. The light rain of the afternoon had turned into a steady downpour and the streets were deserted well before sunset. During supper, Joannis had an idea. When the meal was over and he had been excused, he went into the Great Hall and took some plain paper, two pencils, one black and one brown, and a small stub of yellow chalk from his father’s desktop.

        Upstairs, in the very top of the inn, was an attic loft with two windows that overlooked the canal. This was his ‘secret’ place. Much of the space, which spanned the entire building, was crowded with barrels, trunks, chests and chairs, everything not needed for immediate daily life and yet still too good to throw away. Although the windows were small, one corner of the room was always flooded with a beautiful northern light, and it was here that Joannis had cleared an area for himself.  He had set up a table and chair where he could draw and also keep his ‘private’ things, the kinds of treasures a boy his age always seemed to have. But today, on this rainy autumn afternoon, the light was cool and grey, yet still plentiful.
        Joannis Vermeer had always been good at drawing, especially for a boy of his age, and his father encouraged this by paying his friend, Cornelis Rietwijk, an artist who lived across the canal, to provide lessons for him.
         Joannis sat at his desk by the window. On it were the pieces of paper, the chalk and pencils, a jackknife to sharpen them and the cage with the dead goldfinch. He lifted the little gate of the cage and reached in to take the bird out. He had never touched anything that was dead like that before, and he was tentative about it. Certainly, he had seen carcasses in the cattle market on the other side of the church, and he had touched them too, but this was different. All the dead things he had ever seen in the market looked dead, but this little bird might just as well be sleeping and Joannis was surprised that when he actually did put his finger on it, it was cold.
        He took the bird out and set the cage to one side. Then he put the bird down on one of the pieces of paper so that he could see it more clearly against the lighter background. He stared at it, studying it. Its back was a buff brown, but its breast went from a lighter brown near the throat to a pale grey towards the legs, which resembled nothing more that broom straws. Although the belly was plain, the rest of its breast was mottled in both tones of grey and umber, darker by a little than the fine feathers beneath. Its head was round and of the same dun color as its back. Its beak was small, sharply pointed and of a weak, golden color. The little bird’s closed eye was shaped like a lemon pip with dot-like bumps around the top and bottom and its wings, both folded now against its chest, were like miniature knife blades, black at the shoulder cutting to white along the bottom edge.
        After some time of this, Joannis slid the paper, with the bird still on it, to the back edge of the table and then looked around for something. He spotted, among the other things on his desk, a small wooden box. He moved it to the paper and tried to prop the dead bird up so that it might look more ‘natural’. This was not all that easy as the bird kept falling over, but finally, there it was, the bird upright, leaning against the box just the way he had wanted it! He decided to sketch it as if it were still alive, its eye open and shining and its claws wrapped around a branch that he would ‘invent’.
        Joannis took the black pencil and started to draw.
                                               
        [Mon. Oct. 10]

        Monday found a clear yet cool October afternoon. Joannis was home from school, which was held in a large neighboring house and where he studied reading, spelling, Latin and Religious Matters. He was not the best student among the other six boys, nor was he the worst. Now that school was over and he had eaten, it was time for him to go to the home of his drawing teacher, Master Cornelis Rietwijk, who lived on the little street behind the inn in a house just to the left of the old Cloth and Serge Makers’ Hall, now a home for elderly women. Joannis looked forward to his weekly visits with Rietwijk, especially today. He said good-bye to his mother and, as he bounded out the side door, down the alley and over the bridge, he was carrying a tube of rolled up papers and a small handkerchief pouch all in one hand.

        Rietwijk’s house was wider than most others on the street and much of the front was covered with grape vines, the small withered fruit hanging in small clusters, mostly hidden by the dying leaves.
        Joannis knocked softly with his knuckles on the dark green door rather than use the brass knocker, which was considered rude. After a moment or two, the door was opened by Master Rietwijk, who was clearly happy to see him.
        ”Joannis!  Just on time,” he said with a smile as he quickly showed the boy inside. Although the same age as Reynier, Rietwijk appeared to be much older, perhaps due to his pure white hair, wrinkled complexion and bulbous nose. For all the world, he reminded Joannis of the drawings he had seen of Sint Niklaas.
        The front door opened to a narrow hallway with a room on either side. Joannis knew exactly where to go and followed Rietwijk into the large sunny room on the left. This was the ‘studio’, a room in almost complete disarray. Things--painting things, drawing things, busts, sculpted figures, clothes and food plates, some still bearing parts of their previous meal--occupied every flat surface. Because the room faced south, the afternoon sun poured into it. Rietwijk cleared off a tabletop by one of the windows, strewing whatever was on it onto the floor, pulled up a chair, sat down and beamed at the boy.
        “You may remove your hat, Vermeer.” He said this, as it had become a kind of ritual between the two of them and Joannis complied. “Just put it over there, but not on the bed.” Again, Joannis did as he was instructed, and as he had done a number of times in the past, tossing the floppy hat onto an already laden chair not far away.
        Rietwijk took a small, rounded case from his pocket and removed a pair of folded reading glasses. He spread them open and stuck them on the bridge of his nose. Somehow, they managed to stay there. Then, looking straight at Joannis, the ‘Master’ began the lesson.
        “So, have you anything worthwhile for me today?”
        Joannis was completely comfortable with this old man, but he tried to assume an air of deference as he replied.
        “Yes, Meester. I hope so.”
        “Hope, Vermeer, is an expensive commodity--Thucydides. Let us see.”
        With that, Joannis put his little handkerchief bundle on the table and then unrolled the two pieces of paper in his hand. The sunlight shone directly on the pages making them almost too bright to make out, but in fact this aided the ‘Master’s’ feeble eyesight and he looked at them, then took them up to study them even closer.
        “Hmm. A bird.”
        “Yes, Meester.”
        “And what kind of bird do you take this to be?”
        “I’m not sure.”
        “‘Not sure?’ Or is it that you just don’t know?”
        “I don’t know what kind of bird it is, Meester.”
     This exchange was not in the least confrontational. It was simply Rietwijk’s method. Rather then stammer or make something up out of his head, Joannis had learned to answer the questions in the most straightforward way possible.
        “Shall I tell you what kind of bird it is? Shall I do that?”
        “It would be most kind of you, Meester.”
        “Yes. Yes it would, assuming I could determine it from these crude drawings of yours.” The word ‘crude’ did sting a bit, but Joannis never showed it. “Well, it seems to be a finch, a goldfinch and a female at that. The males are all brightly colored, gold colored in fact and hence the name. There are several varieties in this part of the country. Do you believe that I am correct in this?”
        “Yes, Meester.  I believe what you have just told me.”
        “Well, in the future, do not be so quick to believe what others ‘tell’ you. You have to find out and learn on your own. However, in this case, your pictures seem to be of a female goldfinch, as I have said.”
        “Yes. Thank you.” There was a slight pause as the teacher brought one of the drawings even closer to his eyes to study it more deeply.
        “Meester?”
        Rietwijk looked up at the boy.
        “Yes?”
        “I brought it with me. Here in this handkerchief.” Joannis reached across the table and grabbed the little bundle. Rietwijk watched as the boy undid the loose knot exposing the dead bird to the sunlight on the desk.
The teacher looked away from the sketch he was holding and down to the corpse lying stiff on the blue handkerchief. His eyes lit up.
        “Ah! You have brought your model with you, eh, Vermeer?  This is very significant.” He put the sketch back on the table, took up the bird an lay it next to its own drawn image on the paper, looked at them together then mused, “What is the first thing you notice here?”
        “That my drawing looks like the bird.” This was cocky and they both knew it, however true it might have been.
        “Does it? Well, it looks to me as if your drawing shows a living bird. Your model here is quite dead. Was that your plan?  To make it look alive?”
        “Yes, Meester Rietwijk. I wanted it to look alive.”
        “So you decided to change the reality of what you saw to something you imagined. That was your plan. Is that correct?”
        Vermeer wondered if he had done something wrong by sketching the bird as if it were alive and felt a little lump form in his throat.
        “Yes. I wanted to draw a living bird.”
        Rietwijk looked at the boy sternly, but a little twinkle in his eye gave him away.       
         “Good for you, Joannis! When you draw or paint, you are in control. You may alter the reality of what you see--within limits, of course--even raise the living from the dead, as you have done here, but, whatever you choose to do, you must always have a strict plan for it and follow that plan to the end. Otherwise, your work will be chaos, and we wouldn’t want that now, would we.”
        “No, Meester Rietwijk.”
        “Of course not. Now, let’s move on.”
        Joannis learned something here and could see why his father was paying good money, not much, granted, but still money, for these weekly lessons. Joannis listened as his teacher went on, quizzing, probing, drawing out answers, each going deeper and deeper into what drawing was all about. It was not Rietwijk’s way to let the boy know how deeply impressed he was by young Vermeer’s skill in drawing. The old man had instructed many hopeful boys in the past, but none had ever displayed the raw talent for line and color that he found in Vermeer’s sketches.  He saw a great future for Vermeer and was happy to play a small part in it. Still, it would not do to let the lad get too high of an opinion of himself, so Rietwijk simply led him along, knowing that Joannis would take away more than he had been given.
        “Let’s start with the model. What do you see?”
       
            
        [Mon. Oct. 10]   

        Catharina knew it must be close to five o’clock because she could hear the Market Square growing quieter and when she looked out her front window, she could see the various vendors and tradesmen starting to pull out. Her mother was still away in Gouda but was scheduled to return that evening. Tanneke Everpoel, her mother’s maid, walked past her with a basket of clean linens and started up the stairs to the main bedroom where her mother, Maria, slept. Catharina’s was a large house of ten rooms on three floors. Like most other houses that faced the Square, it was long and very narrow and more than ample for her and her mother, Tanneke and Miriam, the kitchen maid. Tanneke paid no attention to Catharina as she climbed the steps and the young girl knew that she would be working up there for at least an hour because Maria was very particular about the linens and how they were folded and put away.
        Catharina liked Tanneke, yet feared her just a little even though she was still just sixteen. She had also come from a strict Catholic family, but had a soft side to her as well. Catharina considered Tanneke her friend, but knew she could not take that for granted, especially where her mother was involved. She also knew that if she were to meet Joannis by the church as planned, she had to go now. Of course she had not been given permission, but she had gone off on her own once or twice before and gotten away with it, such as yesterday when she brought the bird to Joannis, or the week before when she first met him on the Square.
        Catharina stood by the door, her hand on the latch, took a deep breath, and slipped out. The clock on the tower of the town hall showed four forty-five, and this clock was very carefully regulated. She retraced her steps from the day before until she came to the spot on the far side of the New Church where Joannis had promised to meet her. Off toward the Square she could see some of the boys playing as usual, but she could not tell if Joannis were with them. She walked forward, as far as the front of the church, hoping to see him coming across to meet her, but when she was convinced that he was not there with the others, her heart sank and she turned to go back to the tree to wait there for him as long as she dared.

                                            
        [Mon. Oct. 10]

        “So, Vermeer, what have you learned today?”
        “Well, Meester, I learned that the artist should capture--no!--must capture whatever he is portraying in a complete and thorough manner with no detail too small to be ignored, or done in a shoddy way.” He stopped. It was hard for a boy of his age to express such complicated thoughts, let alone grasp them, but his teacher, with a raised eyebrow, compelled him to go on.
        “That the artist must always have a plan and see his image clearly in his mind before he ever takes up a pencil or a brush.  And, that the artist may change what he sees, but still must be faithful to the laws of nature and mathematics in his work.”
        Joannis stood there silent then as Rietwijk looked at him closely. Of course he was not the boy’s ‘real’ Master. That would be someone else years from now when the lad was ready to start his long apprenticeship, and Rietwijk would probably still be teaching other children to draw little pictures. These were penny lessons, but his faith in Vermeer’s talent outweighed the small fee he charged for his services and he was more than satisfied by his student’s progress.
        “Excellent, Vermeer. You have done well today.”
        “Thank you, Meester Rietwijk. I will try harder next time.”  Joannis reached into his pocket and pulled out a small coin, a stuiver, and handed it to the teacher, who did not hesitate to take it. Then Joannis started gathering his things from the table, the drawings, the handkerchief and the bird.

        At that moment, it hit him like a pail of iced water!

                                            
        [Mon. Oct. 10]

        The town clock chimed five-thirty. Catharina paced, looked toward the Square and then back to the street that led to her house, then back to the Square again. All the boys had gone and it was quiet, but she waited as long as she dared. She knew he would come. He had promised.

        Joannis exited Rietwijk’s as quickly and politely as possible, even declining the usual offer of cake and beer. Once out the door, he flew down the street and over the bridge, his feet banging against the bricks and paving stones so loud you could hear them. As he ran, the two rolled drawings slipped from his hand, but he did not stop to pick them up and they scattered in the light breeze.
        He burst into the emptying Town Square and sped straight down the narrow street that ran along the side of the immense church, not yet able to see the little lawn and tree at the back were Catharina would be waiting for him. He kept on, closing the short distance as he ran through the row of low arches that penetrated the brick buttresses, until he entered the small, grassy corner and could see clearly that she was not there. Was he too late? Or, more likely, was she unable to get out of her house to meet him? At least that thought made him feel a little better. He still had the handkerchief with the bird and he looked at it, wondering what to do now. He decided to walk around the back of the church to the Oude Langendijk street and look across the canal to the far corner where he knew her house was.
        When he made the turn, his heart froze!
        There, in front of the house, was Catharina. A tall, slender woman, dressed all in dark grey except for a brilliant white-starched bonnet, stood in the open doorway, arms folded, glaring at her!

                                                    Chapter Three

                                                      1649

        [Sat. Apr. 10]   

        “GODDAMMIT! VERMEER. Where’s my hat?”
        “I believe it’s in the kitchen where you left it this morning, Sir.”
        “Well, go get it. I have to be at the Guild in twenty minutes and you know I’ll hear about it if I’m late!”
        Vermeer was already halfway back with the hat by the time the man had finished speaking.
        “Here you are, Sir.”
        “Fine. Fine.” Bramer started out the door, but turned back to his young apprentice. “And tell Katrien to get me some of that old cheese from Beemster when she goes to market.”
        “But, she’s already gone, Sir, and you told her just an hour ago.”
        “Well, when she gets back, check.” He fiddled with the buttons on his waistcoat and adjusted his hat. “She never listens to me, but, for some strange reason, she always seems to pay attention to you. So check!”
        “Yessir!”
        Leonaert Bramer was out the door and onto the front step, but he turned to Vermeer once again before heading off for his appointment at the Guild of Saint Luke.
“And, if she hasn’t gotten it, send her back!”
        “I’ll do that, Sir. I’ll make certain.”
        Vermeer was in the second year of his long apprenticeship before he could enter that guild as an artist. Until then, he could not own any of the artwork he produced, nor could he even sign his name to it. Furthermore, he was required to follow a strict curriculum, graduating, step by step, from stretching canvases and grinding pigments to the day, after six long years, when he could present his own ‘Masterpiece’ painting to the Guild, pay his dues and be admitted as a peer. In addition to those elements of instruction, he had to do menial work around the house and, in general, see to his ‘Master’s’ personal needs when and as requested. For this, the privilege of studying under one of Delft’s most respected artists, especially among the members of the ruling House of Orange, his father, Reynier, had agreed to pay an annual sum of twenty-five guilders, a bargain rate because, not only were he Bramer very close friends, as well as fellow Guild members, Leonaert Bramer was godfather to Joannis Vermeer.
                                          
        Vermeer found his apprenticeship to be a good opportunity to move out of the Mechelen nest and be, more or less, on his own. Bramer was providing him with an attic room in his house on Pieters Straat, as well as two meals a day. The room, itself, was a shambles, dark, dusty and crowded and the ‘food’ consisted only of brown bread, butter, cheese and beer. The young apprentice could hardly complain, even though he had lost some weight, so much so, that whenever he returned to Mechelen for an occasional Sunday supper, Digna would just look at him, shake her head and ladle more stew into his bowl. Joannis Vermeer was happier now than he had ever been.
        At seventeen, Joannis was not overly tall, but lean and well built. The bright red hair of his youth, from his father’s side, had straightened and darkened to a rich auburn that he kept cut just below his coat collar. His face had thinned out as well and was starting to take on the more defined, angular look of young manhood. From his mother’s side, he had inherited a twinkle to his eyes and, even at this young age, he had developed little lines in the corners, which served to make him look a bit more mature than his years would have normally allowed. His smile was broad and easy and he had remarkably good teeth. He was a handsome man and young ladies, especially Katrien, Bramer’s housemaid, noticed and appreciated it.
        Vermeer knew that Bramer would be gone for several hours and that during that time he had a great deal to do. Not just the meager chores of straightening up the studio, which Katrien was never allowed to do, and preparing the mocha-colored ground for a newly stretched canvas, he also had to finish his current assignment. This was to complete an ink and wash sketch of a plaster bust of Homer, now sitting on his worktable staring at him. He knew he had to move quickly on this because he would lose the light around six o’clock, it being springtime, and he had to present it to Bramer in the morning. His Master was an expert at this style of drawing and had, in fact, become rather famous for it, not just in this country, but in France and Italy as well. For Bramer this was serious work and Vermeer knew it.
        Despite this morning’s bluster, Leonaert Bramer was a man whose innate kindness and warmth only matched his wildly varied talents. Not only was he a master painter and sketch artist, but he was the only one in Delft who had mastered the art of fresco painting, having lived in Italy for some time. Vermeer recalled that Bramer had promised to take him there, at his own expense, if the young apprentice showed adequate promise, and he vowed to himself that he would not fail in this. Joannis had never traveled much. Of course, he had been to Den Haag and Utrecht and Leiden with his father, and once even to Amsterdam, but Italy! No young hopeful could ask for more.

                                       
        [Sun. Apr. 11]

        Catharina Bolnes was at Sunday church service with her mother, Maria, who had dissolved her marriage to her abusive husband seven years prior and had retaken her maiden name of Thins. Catharina and her mother went to church service nearly every day. Since the Catholics could not practice their religion openly, although the fact that one was a Catholic in Delft was easily and liberally tolerated, services were held in ‘secret’ church houses. This one, belonging to the Society of Jesus, was directly next to the house where Catharina and her mother lived.
        The service was brief, consisting of the basic elements of the Daily Missal, which included communion. There was no singing, but a table organ provided music after the final invocation and it was all rather straightforward. Maria was close friends with the head priest, Father van der Ven, and often had him over to her house at teatime. She enjoyed these visits for a number of reasons, and so too did Catharina who always helped Tanneke with the service and then stayed for the ‘chatting’. It was hard for Maria with just her daughter and her two housemaids in such a big house with no man around to shoulder some of the burden. The tea-chats helped take her mind off the darker things in her life.
        The talk was rarely about religion, but rather the news of the day, who was new in the neighborhood and who had left, who had been sick or died, even the war with Spain and its effects on the economy, seeing that it might be over soon and the hope that things would certainly improve. Maria had a keen sense for finances, almost a genius for it, and she had contributed much of her own inherited fortune to the church. Father van der Ven was therefore always attentive to her on these matters.
        Catharina would usually remain politely quiet when these topics were discussed because she new little about the war and even less about the money market. However, every so often, the conversation turned to art, and here Catharina’s interest would be aroused and she would feel confident enough, even for a girl of eighteen, to offer an opinion or two. She had honestly inherited from her mother, who was a connoisseur and a collector, this love for art appreciation. Even though she could not draw well or paint, because such practices were discouraged for women, she would spend hour after hour in her mother’s halls and rooms studying the paintings Maria had acquired over the years. Catharina was happy to discuss these with her mother and her guest, and they seemed at least receptive to her opinions.         

        The service over, Maria, Catharina and the other parishioners filed out onto the Oude Langendijk street. There they all chatted a bit, then went to their respective homes, the women to prepare the Sunday meal for their families. Since Miriam did all the cooking in Maria’s house, there was still some time for Maria and her daughter to enjoy the fresh spring morning. Maria was now fifty-six years old and the stresses of her life were starting to affect her more and more as the days went on. As they started up the street, Maria grabbed Catharina’s hand and winced ever so slightly.
        “Mother, are you alright?”
        “It’s just my back again. I’ve been getting these spasms lately. Just     old age.”
        Catharina was concerned as her mother straightened up and rolled her shoulders back, stretching the tense muscles.
        “I’ll put you to bed and send Tanneke for the doctor.”
Maria scoffed, a genuine smile on her face.
        “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s nothing important. In fact, it’s gone now. I find that walking seems to help loosen it up. Shall we do that? Take a walk? Perhaps just to Old Delft and the church?”
        “But, are you certain you--”
        “Catharina, a little walk will do us good.”
        “But just up to the Old Church and back. No further.”
        “Agreed.”
        They crossed the narrow bridge over the canal and entered the broad market square in front of the New Church. Maria seemed to be doing much better, walking normally now and enjoying the fine air.
        “Does it still hurt?”
        “No. It comes and goes, but it’s fine now.” Catharina nodded and they continued towards the houses on the far side of the Square and the street that would lead them up to the area known as Old Delft, with its beautiful houses and tree lined canal, a fine walk on such a spring morning.

                                            
        [Sun. Apr. 11]

        Joannis had just finished drying some brushes that had been soaking in thinner over night, when Bramer came down the stairs and into the studio. The apprentice stood up, erect, shoulders back, and looked directly at the man before greeting him.         
        “Good morning, Sir.”
        “Morning, Vermeer.” Bramer walked over to the window to check the weather outside. He was rumpled and still half-asleep, his wide frame draped in his loose nightgown. He had always been a ‘physical’ man, a man of action, although now he had put on a little more around the middle than he would like to admit. Also, his hair had disappeared from the very back of his head, leaving a grey, halo-like fringe around the rest, giving him the appearance of some dishelved Franciscan monk who had lost his cassock. Still, at fifty-three years, with his beefy arms and thick neck, he seemed every inch a man to be reckoned with if it ever came down to that, and apparently, on more than one occasion when he was living in Italy, it had.
        Although Bramer was a renowned artist, he had also been a military man, and in fact, still retained his connections and served in the guard from time to time. He did not enjoy at all the Meester business. He said it made him feel like a slaveholder. Instead, he preferred the crisp and direct way that soldiers talk when out on the parade ground, and he made Vermeer keenly aware of that from the very beginning. He also did not like the ‘Master - Apprentice’ protocol. He would much rather be looser and involved with his charges, which suited his personal nature to a much better degree. However, the protocol, the formality imposed on both student and teacher, the deference of one and the superiority of the other, had been proven by time and experience to be effective in creating the proper attitudes as well as skills of the acolyte and must be strictly followed.  Any moron could learn to paint a picture, or a house for that matter, the Guild made no particular distinction in its records between the two. But art, Bramer thought and believed, started in the soul and it was the mind that connected it to the hand.       
        “I feel like shit!” Bramer had been out drinking that evening and it did not sit well with him at all this morning.
        “What can I get you, Sir?”
        “A new head if you’ve got one.” Bramer sucked himself up a bit and turned back to Vermeer. “So, off to the Mechelen today?”
        Usually Joannis had too much to do, even on Sundays, to get away and have a meal with his family, but today he was almost caught up and thought he would ask permission. He did not have to.
        “Yes, Sir. If I may.”   
        “Yes. Yes. Go to Mechelen and put some meat on those bones. And don’t come back until tomorrow. I don’t need you today.”
        “Thank you, Sir.”
        “And be sure to give my regards to your father. You can tell him I said you are doing an ‘adequate’ job and that his money has not been completely wasted.”
        “Yes, Sir. I’ll tell him that.”
        “Go on--while the weather’s still good.”
        “Thank you.”
        With that, Joannis grabbed his hat, now a floppy artist’s tam, and was out the door. Bramer watched the apprentice go, then turned and went over to a cabinet where he kept Vermeer’s sketching assignments. He took them out of the thin drawer and slowly leafed through them. Most were copies of sketches from Bramer’s own work or that of other artists, including two by Rembrandt and were all well executed. However, scattered among the pages, were several of Vermeer’s own creation. These were of various objects arranged on tabletops according to the apprentice’s own design. Bramer separated these out and looked at them very carefully. In some, Vermeer had minimized detail in favor of shading and highlight. In others, he had altered the size, shape or even perspective of the subject to arrive at what he thought would be a more harmonious composition. Bramer did not always agree with his student’s choices, particularly the boy’s tendency to draw everything from a ‘head-on’ point of view, but the old man had to admit to himself that there was something in each drawing that was unique and challenging. Whether or not this was a good thing, Bramer had yet to decide.

                                            
        [Sun. Apr. 11]

        Pieters Straat was on the opposite side of the Square from the Mechelen and several streets away to the east. Vermeer usually took the most direct route which brought him up along the Brabant canal to Oude Langendijk, over a bridge and out to the center of the Great Square, no more than ten minutes at a leisurely pace. He was eager to get home for the day because he knew he could count on a good meal and sleep on the small bed up in his attic room, which Digna always kept ready for him. Yet, he was also apprehensive. He would have to ask his father for a small ‘advance’ to his meager stipend in order to get through, with even the barest of amenities, for the rest of the month and he hated to do that.
        It wasn’t that Reynier didn’t have the money. Although certainly not rich by Delft standards--he had accrued a number of debts and still had a hefty mortgage on the inn--the Vermeers were comfortable. But it went beyond that. It was a matter of his father’s philosophy, which Digna also supported completely. Reynier believed that once a young man left his family’s roof, he was responsible for making his own way, or at least most of it. It was part of proving himself and earning respect from his parents, his peers and the community at large. Many other young apprentices, working the same long hours year after year, had done this and Reynier knew it well. So did Joannis. However, the boy never did have much of a sense for money, perhaps because he was the only son in a small loving family and consequently became a little bit spoiled. He never thought about it this way because he was still quite young and had not been that long out his parents’ house. Now he was imagining what he would say to his father and what the look on his father’s face might say back to him.

        It was the hat that had gotten him into this situation, and no words were going to get him out of it. When he saw that hat on the vendor’s cart two weeks ago, he knew he had to have it. It was big, a tam made of rich, black velour that soaked up most of the sunlight that fell on it, but left a little to glisten at the ends of the short strands. It was not a practical hat and he knew that the rain might ruin it if it ever got wet. But this hat said ‘Artist’ to all who saw it. As an apprentice, he received little or no recognition for his efforts. That would have to come later when he had matriculated. But with this hat he could show people, if not who he was, than at least what he was and that would be enough for now. When he bought it, he feared the Bramer might think it pretentious and forbid him to wear it, but the fact is Bramer never even noticed, or appeared not to notice, and said nothing at all about it. Still, he had just received his monthly stipend from his father and had stuivers in his purse. The consequences of spending so much, even for something of this quality, eluded him and now he would have to answer for it.

                                               
        [Sun. Apr. 11]
 
        The late morning grew into early afternoon and it was time for Maria and Catharina to start back for their house. Midday supper would be ready and Maria did not want to be late for it. They had spent a quiet half hour sitting on a banquette by the tree-lined street across from the Old Church. Its tower had shifted dangerously some time in the middle ages, but here it still stood and only God knew when it would fall over. When Catharina was little and came here with her mother, she was always afraid it might fall down right on top of her, and even now, she was reluctant to walk too closely to it. Perhaps her mother saw it as a sort of allegory to age: ‘Still standing after all these years’, but only she could know that for certain.       
                                            
        As Joannis entered the Square and started crossing over to the inn, he did not notice the two women walking in his direction, mixed as they were among the other Sunday strollers, but Catharina saw him instantly and it was as if a bolt had shot through her! She and her mother were walking straight at him. Of course, over the years they had seen one another in the Square or elsewhere in the neighborhood. Delft was a small town and their houses were not more than fifty or sixty paces apart across the open plaza. But from that day, when he failed to meet her by the church and she had been forced to say one hundred Hail Mary’s while kneeling on the stone floor of the milk kitchen, they never spoke or even acknowledged each other. Still, they always noticed when those brief moments happened and neither one ever forgot that horrible afternoon.
        After he had moved away to Pieters Straat, they had never seen each other again. Now, here he was, coming right at her, and here she was with her mother! She dared not acknowledge him in any way. She knew her mother could read her like the Bible and would notice instantly. There would be questions later and she had promised herself never again to try to deceive her.
        Even as she struggled with herself about this, Catharina could not help but notice how the boy had changed over the last two years. He had grown tall and more man-like. His long auburn hair caught the afternoon sunlight and there was that hat.
He had never told her back then about his drawing lessons or his ambitions. They were only little children after all.  However, she wondered if he had become some sort of ‘artist’ or perhaps an apprentice. She didn’t think any mere apprentice, though, would dare to wear such a hat.
        No more than twenty paces away now and Vermeer saw her. He could not help but stare straight into her face and his mind whirled for just a second. Of course, he recognized the tall slender lady walking casually at her side, for the moment distracted by something off in the distance. She was the one he had seen in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. She had to be Catharina’s mother.
        Joannis also knew that it would be a poorly advised thing if he were to so much as tip his hat and nod at her as they passed as social custom would have ordinarily demanded.  Nevertheless, he could not take his eyes off her face and he knew he had to fight and overcome that.
        Catharina had also changed. She was eighteen now, almost old enough to think about getting married. Her face was oval and her chin was a bit small for it. And, yes, maybe her nose was a little too long, but the overall effect, for Joannis, had a sort of inscaped magic to it. For only one second their eyes met, and then each quickly looked away as casually and innocently as possible. In that brief second Vermeer memorized those dark eyes, the shell-like quality of the lids as she closed them to look away as demurely as she was able, and the fine nearly brow-less ridges above them. He was certain he could even see the glint of highlight cast by the clear sun upon the hazel edges of her pupils. Then they passed and she was gone. Neither one dared to look back at the other, each choosing to focus as intently as possible on the doors of their respective houses.
        Maria looked over to her just at that moment and noted the blush that had come to her daughter’s cheeks.
     “Are you alright, Catharina?”
        The girl’s heart stopped. She was sure it had, but only long enough for a petty sigh and long enough for her to recover.   
“Yes, Mother. I’m quite fine,” she answered with a forced smile.
        Maria gazed at her for moment, just slightly too long to be unprovoked, then she looked back over her shoulder at the young man in a big black hat walking calmly for the Mechelen inn.








































                                                    Chapter Four   

                                                           1651

        [Aug.] 

        THE CANAL TRIP had been cold and rain driven. The sea voyage was tempestuous, especially for those who had never been on a sailing ship in their lives. The trip by horse cart was dry, dusty and hard on the ass. But finally, all these ‘horrors’ were only mere inconveniences when Vermeer looked ahead and, from the top of a low hill, saw the sprawling city of Rome.
        This was the fourth year of his apprenticeship and Bramer had kept his word. The visit would not be a long one or a particularly happy one for Vermeer’s teacher. His good friend, Rubio Castore, a successful merchant and art dealer, had become seriously ill and was on the verge of death when Bramer got the letter informing him of this. Preparations for the trip were hasty, to say the least. Bramer at first had planned on going alone, and Joannis said nothing about his previous promise to him. But the artist was truthful to his word and felt that Joannis had earned, through his work and diligence, the right to go along. Indeed, Vermeer was becoming somewhat of a problem for him. He wondered if there was that much more he could teach him. Vermeer had mastered drawing, not only copying sketch after sketch as they had been given to him until he could produce flawless reproductions, but doing his own renderings of figures and objects which went far beyond the usual talents of an apprentice his age. Now Bramer was even allowing the young man to finish details and add secondary elements to his own work, earlier in his apprenticeship than usual. Here, Vermeer’s hand had not yet ‘steadied’, but it was obvious that that was only a matter of time. Perhaps there was one last lesson the master could still teach the student and Italy was the place to do it. Then what?
                                            
        Castore lived in a small but elegant villa on the side of the Esquiline hill facing the city. This was where the poet Virgil had lived in the time of Julius Caesar and where Nero had built his extravagant Golden House, now completely lost to the stones, ruins and city above it. The site was dominated by the enormous ovate wall of the Flavian Amphitheater, constructed by Vaspasian where Nero’s artificial lake had once been.
        When Bramer and Vermeer reached the villa, winding up some streets so narrow as to make those of Delft look like avenues, they were sadly informed by the art dealer’s nephew, Guilio, that the man had already died and had been buried in the family tomb. Guilio would make arrangements for them to visit, as it was not on the villa grounds itself, but in a place closer to the Via Appia. In the meantime, Bramer and his pupil were welcome to stay at the villa for as long as they might like. Bramer remembered this nephew as a young boy playing in the orchard to the side of the house. He did not know if Guilio remembered him, but graciously accepted the offer as it had been graciously given.
                                            
        The warm days of late summer in Rome went by quickly for Vermeer, and with little else to do, save pay their respects at the tomb of Castore and visit two or three old friends, it was Bramer’s plan to take his apprentice out into the bustling streets and explore the city--not just the great monuments to artistic genius, where they would spend many hours--but to browse the small galleries and street stalls the artist had known as a young man and had been the source of much of the inspiration for his later work. It was at one of these stalls near the ruins of the old Forum that Vermeer was amazed when Bramer, after much haggling, paid a tidy sum of money for a book of etchings of numerous street vendors by an artist named Carracci. Bramer seemed unusually delighted as they walked away from the stall, the vendor still counting the gold coins in his opened hand.
        “I saw this book the last time I was here. It had just been published,” Bramer said as he carefully rolled the folio and put it loosely under his arm.
        “When was that, Sir? Your last visit?”
        A smile came to Bramer’s face as he thought back to that time.
        “Five year ago, I think. Yes. That was when I was last here.”  Then Bramer added, as if it were an inconsequential afterthought, “The pope gave me a gold medal on a chain for my work.”
        Vermeer’s eyes widened at this amazing unknown fact about his teacher.
        “Remind me when we get back to show it to you. Now, just over there is the Forum where Julius Caesar was murdered--” 
 
Bramer took every opportunity to educate and enrich his young charge and Vermeer was dazzled at every step. He had seen the few Italian paintings that Bramer had brought back with him and hung in his house, and he had seen only a few more in Amsterdam on another trip he had taken with his father. Here, in Rome, was the heart of it--the vibrant palettes, complex compositions and perspectives that challenged the eye with their astounding reality. 
On another day, Bramer explained in detail the works and methods of Michelangelo as they both stood under the magnificent ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
        “This, Vermeer. This!” He raised his hand upward and Vermeer’s eyes followed. “Pigment in wet plaster! Too wet, and it runs down spoiling everything below it. Too dry and it falls off, accomplishing nothing. Believe me, that would happen often enough if the artist had not carefully planned his day’s work--on his back!--on a scaffold, paint and plaster dripping into his very eyes!”
        Vermeer’s sensibilities were struck to the core as he thought about his own small apprentice drawings and watercolors. Here he was, standing below a monumental work of genius and endurance, next to the only man in all the United Provinces who had mastered this technique and still practiced it, and this man was his teacher!

        That was not all Bramer took him to see during those sunny days. There was another world here, an ancient one. No plaster busts or gypsum torsos. Here he saw the very ones from which all others had been struck. The human form, perfectly articulated in marble, some so lifelike, every sinew and vessel seemed to pulsate through the surface of the smooth, stony flesh. Bramer had succeeded in his plan to inspire his talented apprentice, although not completely. Vermeer, not yet eighteen, realized he still had much to learn.
                                        
        They were scheduled to return to Delft the next day. Bramer thanked Guilio for all he had done and again commiserated with him on the death of his uncle. Bramer’s Italian was flawless. Joannis was able to understand quite a good deal of the conversation because he had been well taught in Latin, church Latin, of course, not the eloquent tongue of his ‘neighbor’, Virgilius, here on the Esquiline, but he found Italian similar enough to what he knew. In fact, he was surprised when he realized that he could almost read written Italian plain.
        On this final full day, Bramer had one more place to take his apprentice. The carriage Guilio had arranged for them arrived just after dawn. The trip was not long, but it would take time to wind through the bustling narrow streets of The City. During the bumpy ride, even though this was a much finer carriage than the cart they had hired when they first arrived, Vermeer sat silent.
        He did not want to leave Rome. He did not want to go back to the cold, damp ‘town’ of Delft, with all of its protocols and formalities and dreariness. Here, people were alive. They shouted and argued all the time over the smallest thing, and they seemed to love doing it. They ate all day long, no sliced bread, and salty cheese for breakfast and the evening meal as Vermeer had learned to do. No hutspot and plum custards. Here the food was rich and satisfying. They drank wine, clear and fresh on the palate, not cup after cup of warm bitter beer. Here, Vermeer was surrounded by art, two thousand years of it. One lived in it, walked by it, made love under it. It was not just pretty little pictures hung on dreary walls by dour merchants and bankers in hallways so dark that sometimes the owner had to explain to the viewer just exactly what it was that he was looking at and why so much money had been spent for it. Here art was life, history and environment and it astounded him how much of it was devoted to the greater glory of God.
        Of course, he knew this, but as old Rietwijk had taught him, there was a vast difference between knowing and knowing.  Bramer had encouraged him, ordered him actually, to focus his attention on religious subjects as he moved closer and closer to the days when he would be allowed to ‘paint’ for real.
        “I know people say that the Protestants have destroyed the market for Religious works. That all these new millionaires want portraits of their ugly daughters, nice landscapes with bony cows and pictures of country folk picking their asses, not severed heads of Goliaths and bleeding martyrs. But, I’ll tell you something, Vermeer, there is a lot to be said for serving the Lord, if even just a little, so don’t just throw that out the window with the piss-pot. Learn to do everything! Do this while you are still young and wet. Later on, when you’re old like me, you can do whatever in hell you want, especially if you have a few guilders stashed aside.”

        Today, though, Bramer had planned something of a different nature, a private visit arranged for them by Bramer’s Vatican contacts, and when the carriage pulled up once again to the Vatican, only this time to a different gate, a boy in a sort of theatrical costume stood by to open the carriage door. Vermeer stepped out and took it in, but not for long. Soon, two men emerged dressed in fine but antique clothing. They said something to Bramer and he nodded, then he gestured to Vermeer to follow as the two attendants led on through the open doors and into a Grand Hall. They did not slow their pace as they moved on through the building, room after room, until they finally came to a set of closed doors. Each man, then, took one of the door knobs, twisted it and with great precision swung his door fully open. As Bremer led Vermeer into the bright room beyond, each attendant assumed a formal stance, back against the wall, rather like a pair of candlesticks.
        The walls and ceiling of this large room were covered by painting, two full walls, the two others penetrated by doors.  There were other panels and lunettes, each as richly decorated and each with its own theme. Bramer had shown Vermeer the Sistine Chapel, and the apprentice was fully taken by the mastery of Michelangelo’s enormous work. This room, though, was somehow more private, the figures more human and lifelike than those of the great ceiling.
        Vermeer looked around as Bramer spoke softly to him.
        “These are the apartments of Pope Julius the Second. This room, the one you are in, is the ‘study’ where his papal tribunal used to meet. Julius was a great lover of art and a great patron as well. He was the one who compelled Michelangelo, against his will, I might add, to decorate the ceiling of the chapel you saw the other day.”
        Vermeer still did not know why his teacher had brought him here. Bramer, apparently, had read his mind.
        “So, you ask, why did I bring you here? Well, Julius was rather unconventional and he entrusted this work, as well as two other rooms beyond, to the hand of a young artist who was scarcely known at all in Roman art circles. Do you know who it was? What his name was?”
        Vermeer knew little if anything at this time about the history of his own craft. His days were full enough as it was with grinding pigment, stretching canvas and sketching simple scenes. How was he to know?
        “No, Sir. I don’t.”
        “Well, his name was Raphaello Sanzi and he came from a small town called Urbino. He simply called himself, Raphael.  Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”
        It may have been the way in which Bramer said it, but for the first time in four years, this comment got to the young apprentice.
        “Of, course, I’ve heard of him. I’m not stupid.” Instantly he bit his lip, realizing how badly he had broken the protocol, and he waited for Bramer’s harsh response. In that flash, he even thought Bramer might strike him, and the teacher would be justified in doing just that, even here in the house of a pope!
        But the older man never flinched.
        “Certainly you’re not. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here with me now, would you?”
        Vermeer was abashed.
        “I’m so sorry, Sir. It will never happen again, I promise you.”
        “Well, I’m not so sure about that, Vermeer. Perhaps the Italian life is starting to rub off on you, and who knows whether that is a good thing or not? Now, back to Raphael. You may have seen one or two copies of his work on a wall somewhere in Delft, but a copy is just that, and no secondhand painter can breathe in the life that came from the originator. This, before you, is by the hand of the master, himself.
        “Yes, Sir.”
        “And what do you think of it?”
        Joannis fumbled words. He hadn’t really had any time to absorb any of it. He answered plainly, as Rietwijk had taught him years before.
        “It strikes me as brilliant, but--well, I confess, I don’t understand very much of it.”
        “Good for you. In time, this morning, I will try to explain as much of it as I can.” Bramer put his hand on Vermeer’s back and directed him closer to one of the frescoed walls. There was a long moment as they stood there, alone in the room, regarding it.
        “This one, this wall, is called the School of Athens. Now, close your eyes and step backwards. Don’t worry. I’ll guide you.”
Vermeer did as he was told and moved, like a blind man, back from    the wall.
        “Now, when I tell you, open your eyes--no more than a few seconds--then close them again. Are you ready?”
        “Yes.”
        “Then, do it.”
        Blackness, then a brief flash of color and form--a multitude of men in colorful, ancient clothing, a set of arches receding to a blue sky, sculptures in elevated niches, all framed head-on in perfect symmetry--then blackness again as Vermeer followed Bramer’s instructions and re-closed his eyes.
        “Excellent. Now turn around away from the painting and open your eyes.”  Vermeer unquestioningly did this too. Bramer moved in front of him and smiled.
        “So, Vermeer, tell me what you just saw. Not what you remember of it from when you first entered this room. Tell me what you just saw now.”
        This was difficult because Joannis had already been looking at this painting for several moments. It was hard to pull the memories one from the other.
        “Don’t think about it, Joannis. You’ll get confused. Tell me the very first thing you just saw.”     
        Vermeer knew that this must be a turning point in his apprenticeship because it was the very first time in four long years that his teacher had called him by his Christian name. He did not hesitate.
        “Two men.”
        “And what are they doing?”
        “They are standing on some marble steps, talking.”
        As Bramer faced Vermeer, he could see the full painting over his shoulder.
        “What else?”
        It flashed in Vermeer’s mind how much this was like one of Rietwijk’s old lessons. Bramer had never taught him this way before.
        “A great arch in the foreground, and the men, along with many others, are standing in a building with vaulted, coffered ceilings and I could see the sky beyond them.”
        “How many other men are there? Where they are?”
        “I’m not sure, but quite a few.”
        “Twenty, maybe? Possibly thirty?”
        “At least thirty. I think even more.”
        “And yet, among all these bodies, the first thing you saw was the two! Why do you suppose that is?”
        The answer came instantly.
        “I saw them first because that was the artist’s--that was Raphael’s plan.”
        “Exactly! Turn around and look at it now.”
        Vermeer did as he was told.
        “The artist must always establish some ‘point’ to which he wants the viewer’s eye drawn instantly. After that, everything else is designed around it, not just in great works like the one before you now, but even in the smallest of drawings. Before you ever pick up a brush or a pencil, you must ask yourself, ‘What do I want to say?’ Yes, Joannis, ‘Say’. All art is nothing more than wordless speech, a sort of silent poem, if you like, and the artist is the poet. Once you have answered the question, make your plan, decide what is of most importance, then set your ‘point’. After that, well, it’s all up to you.”
        Vermeer drank in the fresco as Bramer told him more and more about it. He could not help but be taken by the colors, the same palette he had seen in Michelangelo’s Sistine ceiling, deep reds and blues rarely found in artists of Delft or elsewhere in the Netherlands. The lesson went on for another two hours, Bramer carefully pointing out the elements of design, color, composition, perspective, allegory, the ‘Ideal’ vision of the young painter. Nor did he fail to explain the fresco’s historical and religious context, its humanist elements, its characters from literature, art, philosophy, mathematics and mythology. Bramer pointed out how the harmonic ratios of Pythagoras were not merely defined in this staggering work, but actually utilized in the very composition of it. In a way, it was too much for Vermeer to grasp fully all at one time. He understood his teacher’s words, and he knew what Bramer was teaching him through both question and statement. But he also knew that, as yet, he did not know. That would come later.
        It was time for them to start thinking about returning to the villa and rest for tomorrow’s long journey which would take them back to Delft and another world. But Bramer hadn’t quite finished.
        “How old are you now, Joannis?”
        “Nineteen in October, Sir.” Bramer smiled at this.
        “Almost nineteen--” Was it that long ago that he had held this boy in his arms as a newborn baby at his christening in the New Church? Bramer wondered.
        “When Raphael started these frescos, he was twenty-seven--Just eight years older than you. That’s not a long time, but then he didn’t have that much. He was only thirty-seven when he died, but how would he know that? How can any man know how much time he has left?”
        As Vermeer absorbed this weighty thought, Bramer pointed back to the picture.
        “That’s him, there on the side. He put himself in the picture, there on the right.” Vermeer found the slight, almost feminine face tucked at the edge of the painting, almost as if the artist had desired to be there, but not noticed. “And that man there, Heraclitus, with the dark hair, so strongly placed in the perspective, that’s Michelangelo. He was here at the same time painting his ceiling, but he also stood in this very room watching the quiet young artist at work. That other figure, Plato, on the top of the stair, that is Leonardo da Vinci. You, Mister Apprentice, are standing on the ground once trod by giants! The rest of us are mere amateurs in comparison, but--” Bramer added as he looked directly at Vermeer, “there is nothing in God’s world to keep any one of us from aspiring to their greatness.”
        Vermeer could not help but look down at the marble floor beneath his dusty and dirty shoes.
        As they turned to leave, Vermeer had one final question for his mentor.
        “Raphael? I trust he was also once an apprentice?” A man’s true interests rarely stray too far from home.
        “Yes, he was. It was the practice then as it is now.”
        “Did he study here in Rome?”
        “No, Florence.” Bramer looked at Vermeer. “Joannis, how I wish I had the time to take you there. The things you would see and learn. But--Well, perhaps some other day.”
        In the course of just a few hours time, Vermeer had learned more about his teacher than he had in the four years he had spent working under him, not just his skills, which he saw every day, but his passion for the power of art. Vermeer’s desire to be an artist was greater now than it ever had been. He had been inspired! And it

was Bramer who had brought this about. The lessons he learned here were lessons he vowed never to forget. He looked back at the painting and focused on the small, plain face of the artist himself.

        “And, can you tell me who his teacher was?”
        Bramer took a breath before answering.
        “Actually, he had two. You just saw them, Michelangelo and Da Vinci. They were his teachers.”
                                            
        Vermeer was as silent on the way back to the villa as he had been on the way from it. Bramer, too, was subdued, wondering if his ‘lesson’ had any effect on his student and believing that it did. Over the past four years, he had learned that Vermeer possessed exceptional talent and extraordinary visual memory. It is not a good thing for a teacher to allow his student to become too aware of this, though. When that happens, the student often starts to become independent and may strike off too early on his own. Now Bramer felt that he had gone nearly as far as he could with Vermeer. Soon the boy would start having his own ideas and, in time, would develop his own philosophy. Still, as the cluttered streets and colorfully costumed citizens of The City moved past the window of his carriage, Bramer felt a deep sense of incompleteness. There was so much more he wanted Joannis to see and experience. He wanted to pull paintings from countless walls and hold them at arm’s length in front of Vermeer’s face to look at and experience. He could see it in his mind…’Look!’…he imagined himself shouting…’This is Caravaggio! This, Velàzquez! This, de la Tour!...Look at them, Joannis. Learn from them!’ But Bramer was not really a theorist. He was a painter from Delft who had been influenced, perhaps overly so, by his earlier days in Italy and France. With his own eyes he had seen such works and marveled at them, taking to heart, as best he could, the lessons of these truly Great Masters, and applying them to his own artistic sensitivity and development.. But Bramer had been a ‘man of the world’. Vermeer, on the other hand, was Dutch, through and through. Bramer felt that it would be wrong to force too much of his own style and temperament on the fledgling artist, even if he could. Soon the boy would have to move on and find his own vision. It was the only way.
        Vermeer was also deep in his own thoughts and they were, in away, similar to Bramer’s. At least, he no longer regretted having to go back to Delft and Bramer’s studio. He felt, for the first time, that he might actually accomplish something in his art. He knew that Delft was a city filled with young men his age serving their own apprenticeships. Sometimes, when he had encountered one or two of them, perhaps over a beer in some tavern, he would listen to their stories and hear the same complaints again and again. Occasionally he would chime in with his own, but now things had changed. He knew he could ignore all that. He had work, serious work, to do and he could not wait to get started. It nagged at him that Raphael had achieved so much so young. Bramer’s little seed, planted not so subtly, was already starting to bear fruit.
                                            
        As the carriage reached the bottom of the Esquiline Hill, it passed a small plaza overlooking the Coliseum. People were out enjoying the fine Roman weather, strolling, sitting or just taking in the vista. In one corner of this plaza, toward the side facing the city, Vermeer saw something that looked like a small, Gypsy’s tent, only black. Projecting from the top of it was what appeared to be a metal object resembling, for want of anything else better, a cooking pot. A few people had gathered around this strange assembly of cloth and metal and he saw a man emerge from a slit on his side of it and a woman subsequently enter. They were quite animated and smiling.
        He turned to Bramer and tried to direct his attention to it as they passed.
        “Sir? What is that thing?”
        “What thing?”
        “There, where those people are gathered. That small tent.”
        Bramer turned to look in the direction that Vermeer had indicated. The carriage was moving forward along the bumpy road, but Bramer managed to catch a glimpse of it out the corner of his eye before they had fully passed it.
        “Oh, that? Just a petty amusement. It’s what is called a camera obscura.” He did not elaborate further, but turned his attention back to the road ahead. Vermeer could still see it from his side of the carriage. He knew from his Latin that the words literally meant dark chamber, but he had no idea at all what it was for. He wanted to ask Bramer more about it, but could tell that the man, at this moment, preferred to continue in his own thoughts. He could ask him about it later, if he remembered. Perhaps it was some kind of puppet or magic show. At any rate, it was not important.

[Mon. Nov. 11]

        “No, Miss Catharina. I will not do it!” There was no mistaking the finality in her tone. Tanneke turned away from the girl, folded her arms across her stomach and stared blankly at the colored panes of the window in front       of her.
        Catharina was sitting at the table she used as a desk. She had written a letter and folded it into neat quarters.
        “Please take it, Tanneke. Please,” she nearly begged, as she offered it in Tanneke’s direction.
        The maid turned back to her but did not reach out for the letter.
        “Do you have any idea what you are doing? This is in complete defiance of your mother’s will and I shall not be a part of it.”
        Catharina’s pleading tone turned sharper as she spoke back.
        “How do you know my mother’s will? Has she spoken--”
        Tanneke did not let her finish.
        “I know your mother and I know you! She doesn’t have to tell me what I can see with my own eyes. And I will not help you turn her world, and your own, upside-down by this foolishness.”
        The letter still hovered in Catharina’s hand between the two of them.
        “If you do not take it, then I will pay some boy from the street.”
        This was not intended as a threat, nor did Tanneke take it as such. She turned and took a step closer to the girl so that now she was squarely in front of her. She leaned forward a little and spoke sincerely and quietly.
        “Trintje, listen to me. You’re twenty-one years old now and it’s time for
you to find a real husband, one that can provide for you and make you happy, not some apprentice you hardly even know.”
        A thousand words went through Catharina’s mind in response to this, but she held them all as Tanneke went on.
        “There is no future in this. No good. And you know as well as I do, your mother would never approve, and without her approval--”
        “Tanneke,” Catharina interrupted, “Have you ever been in love? With a man?”
        “This is not about me, Catharina, and what can you know about ‘love’? You’re a girl who’s been sheltered and protected by her mother, perhaps too much, so how can you know about such a thing?”
        “Then who shall teach me? Maartins? Or some other self-centered merchant’s son from the church? Surely, you’ve loved someone, Tanneke. Surely you can understand the feelings I’m having.”
        “Lust is not love. Believe me. I love only God and that love has sustained me all my life.” The maid paused for a second as dark thoughts crossed her mind and were reflected in her face. Thoughts she chose not to share.
        Catharina put the letter back down on the desk.
        “I will not ask you to take this letter to him, Tanneke. But I will send it to him and whatever God chooses to come from it will come.” She turned her gaze away from the woman in the plain brown dress standing so closely by her and stared at the window and its stained glass figure of Temperantia with her reins and balance. Catharina’s mind, though weighed by a dull sadness, was resolute. She had made her argument to God that night in the church and she vowed she would follow through on it. A shadow from her side caught her eye and she turned to look. It was Tanneke’s hand, reaching out.

                                            
        [Mon. Nov. 11]

        The Madonna was now on its easel back upstairs in Vermeer’s loft. Bramer had told him to sign it and that is what he intended to do. But what did his signing it really mean? The Guild of Saint Luke had very strict rules which their board rigorously enforced for the protection of its members. This painting, his own Madonna, now belonged to Bramer and no apprentice was ever allowed to sign his own work until his membership was finalized and entered into the Guild register. Was his apprenticeship over, even if incomplete? Would he have to sit out his last year doing nothing but grinding paint until the time came for him to present himself to the Guild board? Or would he be sent back to the Mechelen to help his mother and, perhaps later, be admitted to the Guild as a ‘mere’ art dealer, selling off his father’s dusty stock? How would he ever by able to make money, real money, the way many of the artists he knew or had met had done? How would he ever support a family? How--?
        He felt his heart racing with worry and nervousness and knew he had to calm it down. He stared at the Madonna and focused on where he should put his signature and, somewhat to his surprise, this was not an easy decision to make. Through all his years he must have seen over a thousand paintings and never once did he notice how or where or even ‘if’ the artist had added one. He knew he had to consider this carefully. His own trepidation at putting has name on this picture made him decide on restraint. The signature would be small and of a color only slightly darker than the area to which he would add it. But where on the Madonna? In the very lowest left-hand corner he had painted a weathered stone step, only part of which could be seen. Above this, and rising all along that side was deep, dark greenery. Here, he decided, just above this step in the vague and shadowy leaves, is where it would go.
        He went to his desk and looked at the papers upon which he had practiced various forms of his name. He had thought ‘Joannis Vermeer’ was too long, and besides, that was just a name, no better than those found on legal documents. He wanted something more graphic but still identified him as the schilder, something that people would identify with him alone. He sifted through the variations he had already drawn that late afternoon when Katrien called up to him about Bramer’s having returned. He considered a single monogram, but felt that, at this early stage of his career, he might need something somewhat stronger. In spite of his fretting, he caught himself in a little laugh. “What career?” he had to ask himself. Still, a decision had to be made and he made it: J Meer, with the left leg of the ‘M’ incorporating a small ‘v’. He would paint it with a small brush using a dark grey-green.

                                                

        Perhaps it was just the chill in the room or perhaps it was something else, but his hand trembled as he applied the first stroke and then, ten strokes later, it was done. He stepped back and looked. He saw it all, and was taken by the feeling that somehow he had just sealed his fate.
        When Vermeer came down the stairs from his studio he was carrying the signed painting to put it in the gallery room as requested. He turned the corner into the hallway which led past Bramer’s studio to the front door and he stopped short. There, in front of him, stood a boy of about thirteen years holding a small wooden chest. The boy was as surprised to see Vermeer as Vermeer was to see him. Beyond the boy, the door stood open to the street where Joannis could see a handcart parked by the front steps. They both stood looking at each other for a second as voices came from the room down the hall. Vermeer spoke first.
        “May I help you?”
        “Are you Vermeer?” the boy asked cheerfully.
        “I am Joannis Vermeer,” he answered cautiously as the boy beamed. “And who are you?”
        “I am Pieter Bok, Painter, and I was told by Master Bramer to bring this chest and the other one, out there in the cart, upstairs to the attic. Could you please tell me the way.”
        Now, this was extraordinary for several reasons. First, this ‘child’ had introduced himself as schilder, and even though an apprentice could technically append that distinction to his name, it was considered bad form and done only, if ever, in the signing of documents as a way to distinguish one ‘Pieter Bok’ from another. Another thing was that young master Bok had been sent, with his chest, up to the attic. But the ‘attic’ was Vermeer’s own room, his studio and his private space. Vermeer was too stricken to give the lad directions and just stood there.
        “Is it this way and then stairs on the left? That’s what the young lady said.” ‘Katrien had told him where to go?’ Somehow, Vermeer felt betrayed by this.
        Pieter Bok never gave up his smile.
        “You must be busy. Don’t worry. I’ll find it,” he said as he pushed past Vermeer and disappeared around the corner to the stairway.
        Vermeer walked to the studio and stopped in the doorway, still carrying the Madonna. In the room itself he saw Bramer and another man dressed in the manner of a middle class artisan of some sort, much the way his own father used to dress. Bramer spotted him in the doorway and waved him in.
        “Vermeer, this is Jasper Bok, master framemaker. He’s come from his shop on Oosteinde with his son, Pieter, whom, I take it, you have just met.”
        “Good day, Mister Vermeer. Let me say I am sorry about the passing of your father. I knew him, although not very well, but I know he was a fine man and will be sorely missed.”
        “Er--Thank you, Master Bok,” Vermeer stammered, which was the   best he could do at the time under such sudden and confusing circumstances.
        Vermeer did not look down his nose at framemakers. They were members of the Guild, held in high regard and deserving of the term ‘Master’. The fact that his own sister had married one, an illiterate one, did not work against his positive feeling about the trade. A good framemaker, especially one working in ebony or gilt, could make as much money as a good painter. Still, it was considered more of a trade than an art form, a fact underlined by Bramer’s use of the word ‘shop’ rather than ‘studio’. For Bok’s son to refer to himself as ‘painter’, though, indicated ambition in the boy, if not downright conceit.
        Bramer knew he had to add more to explain this turn of events to Vermeer.   
        “I have decided to take on another apprentice, Joannis and he shall stay upstairs with you.”
        “He’s not bringing very much with him, Mister Vermeer,” the elder Bok chimed in, as if to make things easier. “And he won’t be moving in proper for a couple of weeks I’m told.”
        “That is correct,” said Bramer. “I am certain you will find room upstairs for his things until then.”       
        Vermeer knew that the worst thing he could do would be to start his initial response with the word ‘But.’ All he could say, all he was allowed to say was,
        “Yes, Master Bramer.”
        Vermeer was devastated. Not only had he lost his privacy, he also lost his status as Bramer’s apprentice. It was not unusual for a master painter to have more than one apprentice, in fact, it was quite normal, but Vermeer had grown comfortable in his private relationship with Bramer and disliked the thought of having to give up that privileged position. Now, if the artist kept him on, and he still had doubts about that, he would be known as, or at least think of himself as, one of Bramer’s apprentices. This thought hurt him deeply.
        As Vermeer stood there, his life falling apart, the younger Bok passed by the doorway, turning to offer them all a great smile and went out to fetch his other chest from the cart. At least, Vermeer thought, Bramer hadn’t told him to go out and get it for him.
        “Master Bramer has been telling me many nice things about you, Mister Vermeer. He says you’ve done rather well in your time with him.”
        What did that mean? ‘Rather well?’ ‘In your time here with him.” Were his hours to be counted now? Was he being replaced by some child who thought of himself as an artist? Vermeer set the Madonna down on the floor, waiting for the next boot to fall. And it did.
        “I understand you are going to Amsterdam--a fine city. A little too busy for my tastes, but--”, Bok said, when Bramer hastily interjected.
        “Mister Vermeer and I have not quite finalized our plans yet, but suffice it to say, when we do, you will be notified and your son will then be able to take up residence in the studio.”
        To Vermeer that sounded like a reprieve, at least a temporary one. And Amsterdam? What was that about? Bramer turned to him.
        “Thank you, Mister Vermeer. Master Bok and I would like to discuss the terms of his son’s future engagement. If you would be so kind.”
        “Yes, sir,” Vermeer said obediently and quietly stepped out of the room, nearly knocking the lesser Bok over as he re-entered with his box.

                                            
        [Mon. Nov. 11]

        Catharina fretted up in her room, not about Tanneke, or her mother even, but about Joannis. What would his reaction to her letter be? For all  she knew, he was a man with lots of girls dangling from his waistcoat and he might even think of her as some fawning creature vying for his time and attention. It crossed her mind that she did make a mistake by sending the letter and now would be the complete fool in his eyes. But it was too late.

        On Monday afternoons, Maria always went to the orphanage sponsored by the Jesuits to meet with some of the other Catholic ladies and tend to the needy children. Obviously, Tanneke had waited for Maria to leave before she went on her unhappy errand. Only moments before, Catharina had heard the click of the front door closing and looked out her window to see Tanneke, wrapped against the chill, disappear around the corner and up the Molenstraat on her way to Bramer’s with the letter.
        Catharina had not bothered to seal the letter, knowing that Tanneke would never violate her trust by prying. Its content was simple and direct. She pointed out that tomorrow, Tuesday, Maria had planned another trip to Gouda to once again see her sister and would be gone until the next day.
        In the letter, Catharina suggested that if Vermeer wanted to see her they could meet at the small garden where he had drawn her picture. She would be there at two o’clock. If he could not, or would not come, then she wished him well in his life and career and, for some reason, added that she would pray for him. Now that letter was on its way and could not be taken back. ‘Alea iacta est.’, she thought, harkening back to her days of Latin studies. ‘Alea iacta est.’ The die is cast.

                                            
        [Mon. Nov. 11]

        Vermeer cooled his heels up in his room, pacing and dodging the two boxes that the lesser Bok had decided to plant in the middle of his floor. He had to wait until the ‘painter’ and his father left and then he would go down and confront Bramer. He wanted answers and he would not be satisfied until he got them.
        But then he heard Katrien’s voice calling him from the stairs.
        “Joannis, Bramer would like to see you.”
        How many times had he heard those very words? But this time there was a greater gravity to them and he was anxious to comply.
        When Vermeer came down the stairs, he found Bramer in the hallway dressed to go outside.
        “There you are. Get your coat and come with me.”
        “Sir?”
        Bramer shot him a look that said, ‘Just do it.’
        “Yes, Sir.”
        If Vermeer’s initial resolved had faded a bit in the presence of his mentor, he still vowed to himself that he would not let this day end without the answers he was looking for. He would not spend another night tossing and fretting an unknown fate. Whatever it might be, he was ready for it and just wanted to get on.
        Vermeer got his coat and his big hat, which by now had become a regular feature of his, and followed Bramer out into the crisp November air. The chill of the earlier morning had given way to a brisk late autumn freshness. The few trees that lined the street had by now lost all their leaves and any flowerbeds to be seen had been covered with straw of just left bare. Bramer turned left on Pieters Straat and headed towards the Brabantse Turfmarkt canal with Vermeer, as was his custom, walking behind him. But they did not go very far. At the end of the street, where it meets the canal, there was a fairly broad avenue running along the waterway. In the summer, vendors would bring their goods here and set up little stalls and markets all along the way. Now that winter was approaching, the street was quiet, except for the usual foot traffic heading to and from the Great Square.
        An old building on the corner held a tavern called the Two Anchors. Delft was filled with such places and no neighborhood could exist without one in short walking distance, or in some cases ‘crawling’ distance from any given home. The Two Anchors was beer place, not like the Mechelen, which catered to travelers, foreigners and artists. It was dark and smelly, smoky and loud. There were women here, too--tavern women, some heavy and buxom with their bosoms falling out of their bodices, older ‘girls’ with no families and nowhere else to go and prostitutes who could arrange a room upstairs for the same price as a pot of beer. Bramer loved this place and spent many hours sketching here or just drinking with the locals. Vermeer, also, had come here from time to time when he could afford it, but this was the first time he had ever been here with Bramer.
        Bramer led Vermeer through the room. Everybody knew Bramer here and he knew most of them so there were the usual greetings, shoulder tappings and noddings as Bramer took Vermeer to a small table in the quietest corner he could find.
        “Sit down, Joannis.”
        Vermeer pulled up a stool and sat down across from Bramer who immediately took out his pipe, pouch and tinderbox. Vermeer said nothing yet as he watched the man fill and tamp the shag into the bowl, strike a spark to light the taper and then take two or three short puffs to get it going. After that, a thick blue-gray cloud of aromatic pipe smoke veiled Bramer’s face and then dissipated above his head.
        “You know, Vermeer, I’ve never seen you smoke. Have you ever     tried it?”
        “Yes, Sir, but I didn’t care much for it.”
        “Well, it’s a very relaxing habit. I find it steadies the nerves and induces calmness. It also helps me think. You should try it again.”
        “Yes, Sir. I will.”
        By then one of the tavern maids had made her way to their table waiting for their order. She was haggard and worn out from all the work she must have to do all day, but she still found a genuine smile for Bramer and his companion.
        “Sir?” she asked.
        “Two pots of Parrot, please,” and he reached into his pocket purse and plunked four stuivers into          her hand.

        “I went to see your mother this morning.” Bramer said rather casually, but getting Vermeer’s immediate attention.
        “Is she--?”
        “She’s quite well. I told her that it was my fault that you hadn’t been able to visit her lately. That I’ve kept you quite busy at your work, but that you would visit her soon.”
        “Thank you, Sir.”
        Vermeer was deeply appreciative that Bramer had taken the blame for his own negligence, but the fact was that what Bramer had told her was for the most part the truth.
        “She’s hired a man named Oosterman to help her with the heavy work. I met him and he seems fine.”
        The two pots of beer came and Bramer poured Vermeer a full cup and then one for himself as he        went on.
        “I also talked to her about the coming year and your apprenticeship. She didn’t think she would have the money to pay for it under the terms I agreed to with your father.”
        Vermeer swallowed hard as he heard this. He felt he knew where it was going. Bramer took another drink and went on.
        “I told her not to worry about that.” Bramer drew the last of his pipe and, tapping the dottle out onto the floor, put it down on the table. This little act gave them both a moment to think and Vermeer waited patiently for Bramer to go on. Without explaining his last comment, Bramer changed the subject, or at least seemed to.
        “What did you think about that Bok boy?”
        Vermeer was taken aback by this shift in ideas and had no way really to answer this.
        “I can’t say. He seemed--young.”
        Bramer smiled at this.
        “You were young when you started, Joannis, and look at you now. You’ve come a long way in the past five years.”
        “Sir?” Vermeer knew he had to ask this now. “Am I to be finished? Is my apprenticeship with you over?”
        Bramer thought very carefully about how to reply to this question. Then he answered directly and honestly.
        “I don’t know.” He saw the cloud fall over Vermeer’s face and could almost feel the chill that must have shot into his heart. Bramer needed to make things as clear and as quickly as he could.
        “Joannis, I paint history pictures. That and soldiers. Obviously, I’m good enough at it to have gained a fair reputation in this city and I’ve made a comfortable living from it. I did my best to teach you what I know, at least the technical parts of it, and you’ve been quick to learn. Now, at twenty years, you know more about pigments, paints, colors and glazes than I ever did at your age. You have mastered that part of it and there is nothing left for me to show you. I taught you what I know about composition and perspective, and I thought that I was teaching you how to draw, but I realized, before we went to Italy, that you already ‘knew’ how to draw, that you have an intuitive kind of genius for it.”
        Bramer finished his beer and ordered with his fingers two more pots.
        “Raphael was considered the finest draftsman of his age, or any other for that matter, but that’s not why I wanted you to see his work. I wanted you to stand in his footsteps and realize that the power of ‘art’ goes far beyond paint on canvas or plaster on a wall. I wanted you to be inspired and I believe you were. As far as I was concerned, that would be my last lesson for you, the last one you needed. So, when we got back, I was in a quandary as to what to do with you. Well, over a year dragged on and not much was gained.” Bramer leaned closer and put his hand on Vermeer’s arm. “Joannis, the truth was, I had nothing more to teach you and that was very difficult for me to accept. That is why I finally decided to tell you to paint a picture. I wanted to see just how far you could go with what you had, technical skill, sensitivity, whatever. I wanted to see just what you         could do.”
        The beer was very strong and was starting to have its effect on Bramer as the other two pots arrived. He poured them each another cup.
        “I wanted to look at it. Pull it apart. See where the flaws were and then I would know what more I could do for you. Well, I saw it.”
        “You never told me what you thought.”
        “Ha! What did you want me to say? That it was perfect?  Well, it is not perfect. No painting is ever perfect. But it was--how shall I say it?--It was more than I expected. In your first painting I saw the birth of genuine artistic sensitivity, something most of us have to struggle for years to achieve, if ever.”
        Bramer looked at Joannis across from him and felt he had made his point and explained, in some way, his recent moodiness. He took his hand away, sat back and moved on to other things.
        “I’m not happy with your choice of models, and that could be a problem later on. And --” he interjected loudly, “And, there’s still that matter of the Guild, isn’t there. I’ve been on the board, I’ve been headman and I know where they are flexible and where they are not. Six years, six guilders, bang! and you’re in. Here in Delft you don’t even have to present a ‘Master Work’, just prove your proficiency, have your mentor stand for you, pay your dues and that’s it. Well, in your case that’s not it. I spoke with the board about you and they are not willing to waive the last year of your apprenticeship. They feel it would look like favoritism given my position with them and the recent death of your father.”
        Vermeer listened now as intently as any man could.
        “However, they did agree to the possibility of your spending your last year with another teacher. And remember, I said ‘possibility’ here. They would have to approve the choice.”
        “Did you have any thoughts about that? About who--?” Vermeer asked as cautiously as he could, but he couldn’t help notice that Bramer was quite well into his second pot of Parrot and had taken on a rather ‘conversational’ attitude.
        “Oh, yes. Yes I did, but, well, two things. At first, I thought about two painters I know who are reputed for their religious and historical works and who might be persuaded to take on a new apprentice for a year, Quellinus and van Loo. The problem is they’re both in Amsterdam.”
        “Is that why we’re going to Amsterdam?”
        “Oh, that? No. I have some business up there, and thought I should bring you along. At least you might meet them. But, I haven’t finished and we’ll get to that in a minute.”
        “Sorry, Sir,” Vermeer reverted.


        “Anyway, the problem with Amsterdam is the money. Either one of them would certainly charge a fee of at least fifty guilders, and that’s just for the instruction. Add on to that lodging, food and materials and I just can’t see how your mother could afford it.”
        Bramer decided to start a second pipe and took his time doing it, leaving Vermeer hanging once again. When the smoke had cleared, he went on.
        “The other problem, if the money part weren’t enough, is that the Guild insists that any new teacher you have must be a member of Delft Guild and living in the city.”
        Vermeer was surprised by this. It was not unusual for an apprentice to change teachers, with the Guild’s permission, of course, but he wondered about this last requirement.
        “May I ask why that is?”
        “To keep you here! If you haven’t noticed, Vermeer, the golden days are waning and more than one artist is leaving the city for richer turf. Once they get a taste for Amsterdam or Utrecht or even Antwerp, God forbid, you can’t get them back, at least not until they’re old and return here to die.”
        Bramer took another heavy drink from his cup and urged Vermeer to do the same, which he did.
        “In any event, I’ve had some thoughts about this and there is one man who might take you on. I’ll take you to meet him when we get back from Amsterdam.”
        “May I ask who he is?”
        Bramer drew deeply on his pipe again and took another swig  of beer.
        “He’s fairly new to Delft and only joined the Guild last month. That’s when I met him, when we approved his work. He brought several remarkable pictures and the entire board was impressed. It didn’t hurt either that he was apprenticed to Rembrandt in Amsterdam. When we get back, as I said, I’ll take you to meet him. I think you two might get along. His name is Fabritius, Carel Fabritius.”





































                                            Chapter Nine

                                                       1652


        [Mon. Nov. 11] 

        IT WAS ALREADY QUITE DARK when Bramer and Vermeer got back to the studio. Katrien had set out some bread and cheese for Bramer’s supper and was just finishing stoking the fire in the grate when they came in. For the first time in over a month Vermeer seemed in a good mood. His talk with Bramer had gone well, although there were still a number of things to be settled. At least now he knew where he stood with the man and that was a great relief for each of them. Bramer had also explained more about the Amsterdam trip. The City Council of that city would start decoration of their chamber in the springtime and one of the councilmen,  Burgher Garret van Duijst, thought it might be fitting to have a large fresco created for the main wall, naturally depicting himself and the other councilmen, dressed as soldiers, as its theme. Bramer was the first, if not the only, choice for the undertaking and was requested to travel there to inspect the wall and discuss the project and its costs. Bramer’s heart was in his fresco work, a skill he had little opportunity to practice in Delft and he was excited about the plan.
        Katrien had finished her day’s work and was getting her cloak to go home, but she hung back just a little until she could get a private moment with Vermeer. She stopped him on the stairs as he started up to his loft.
        “I gather things went well.”
        Vermeer smiled.
        “It might have been worse.”
        “Well, good for you. By the way, while you were out, this came for you,” and she reached under her cloak and pulled a letter from the waistband of her skirt.
        “Madam Thins’ maid brought it, but I’ll wager it’s not from Madam Thins,” she said with a little twinkle as she handed it to Vermeer. “At first, when she found out you weren’t here, she didn’t want to give it to me, but I told her, one maid to another, that if her mistress sends a letter, then it is the maid’s responsibility to see that it is delivered promptly and that she could trust me to carry out my part of it. After all, apprentice, who knows what important information such a letter might contain?”
        Vermeer looked down at the letter in his hand. There was no name on it, just the unsealed folded paper. He wondered if Katrien had read it.
        “Well, I have to go, Joannis. Have a pleasant evening.” She breezed by him on her way to the side door.
                                            
        In his studio, Vermeer lit the candle on his desk and sat down with the letter. He was afraid to open it at first, fearing that Catharina had written that she did not want to see him again. He wondered what he would do then. He took a breath and unfolded the letter. In the candlelight, the writing showed dark against the lighter background of the paper. The message was brief and not what he had expected.

                   My mother will travel to Gouda
                   tomorrow morning and will not
                   return until Thursday afternoon.
                   If you wish to meet me, I will be in
                   the garden where you drew my
                   picture at two o’clock. If you choose
                   not to come, then I wish you God
                   speed in all you do and I will keep
                   you in my prayers.

                                                      C.

        Vermeer knew that he would be there. Nothing would hold him from that. He would worry about Bramer and his chores later, but for now his only thought was of meeting Catharina in that quiet, little garden where they had kissed.
        That night, for the first time in a long time, Vermeer fell to sleep easily and all through the night. If he had had dreams, he would not remember them. But he must have had dreams.       

Chapter Thirteen

                                                     1652

        [Sat. Nov. 23]

        OUTSIDE, THE WEATHER had turned foul again. This time frigid wet sleet fell on the town making all forms of civic intercourse difficult at best. The temperature was just at the freezing point so that, once the sleet fell, it transformed itself into a frosting of grey brittle ice which would grow thicker as the day moved into evening.
        The roof of Cornelia’s house was glazed, but inside, the fire in the large grate, more substantial and less frugal than usual, transformed the main kitchen into a haven of warmth and gentle light. Maria and Cornelia sat and listened as Catharina played a melancholy chaconne in e-minor on the clavier. Her touch was light and she carried her own personal feeling into the music. It was an old melody she had learned as a younger girl and, even though she did not know who first wrote it, or where it had come from, it had a sort of melancholy sadness that often matched her own feelings.
        Marta and Tanneke were in the cooking kitchen catching up on old times and bringing back memories, fond or unpleasant, humorous or tearful, loving or bitter, when they heard a knock on the door.
        “Who can that be on a day like this?” Marta asked as she rose to go and answer it. In the main room, Cornelia had also heard the knock and wondered, as Catharina kept on playing.
        Marta reached the front door and cracked it open so as not to let the precious heat out or the freezing chill inside. When she did, she saw a familiar face, and not a welcome one.
        “Good afternoon, Marta,” he said as Cornelia’s maid stood there staring at him. “Are you going to ask me in or shall I just stand out here and freeze my balls off?”
        Without a word, Marta opened the door and let the ice-covered man inside, slamming it loudly behind him as if to make a point.
        Willem Bolnes was Maria’s son and Catharina’s older brother by six years. He was tall and lean with lines around his gaunt face and deep-set eyes. His cheeks were sunken so that his face had a skull-like appearance overall, but he was handsome in a certain way that soldiers--or highwaymen--are handsome. He handed Marta his soaking cape and took off his wide hat to reveal a nearly bald head, blue stubble where his hair ought to have been.
        “I understand that my mother and sister have come to visit. Is that true, Marta?”
        “They are here, yes,” she replied with a grudging edge to her voice.
        “Good. I’ll show myself in, then,” he said with arrogance as he pushed himself by her and entered the doorway to the fire-lit room beyond. Maria and Cornelia saw him instantly and stiffened as he stood there. Catharina, her back to the doorway ‘felt’ his presence and the music stopped as she turned.
        Willem looked directly at Maria as he spoke.
        “Mother! I heard that you and Sister Catharina have come to visit Aunt Cornelia and I thought that I would spare you both the long walk across town in such weather to visit me and father.”
        “Willem,” Maria said cautiously. Catharina said nothing, knowing that even though they were deepest blood related, this was, is, the brute that joined with her father on more than one occasion to strike, drag or molest every woman in this room, including Marta.
        “You all look so well. The ‘clean’ Delft air must do wonders for the health.” He stepped into the room without invitation and helped himself to one of the sweet cakes on the table. Then he turned to Catharina.
        “Aren’t you the lovely one, sister? Have you snagged yourself some wealthy brewer’s boy, or will it be the convent after all?”
        “Don’t you dare insult your sister like that!” Maria said defiantly as she rose to face him. “I won’t       have it!”
        Catharina, as ever, was still fearful of her brother and she knew first hand that his bullying was more than just words. He had the potential for violence right here in this room.
        “Willem Bolnes, you are not welcome in this house!” Cornelia said having replaced her fear of the brute with justified and deep-seated anger.
        Willem looked at his aunt in ‘shock’ and then back at Maria.
        “Mother. Did you hear how Aunt Cornelia just spoke to me?  Surely, you won’t stand for that. I am, after all, your son. Even God says you must love me as he loved Jesus.”
        “How dare you blaspheme in this house?” Cornelia, now almost shaking with rage, growled at him, but Maria would have her say in this, as well.

        “Willem,” she said, her voice low, slow and measured, “If you had been a son to me, then I would have been mother to you, just as the God you mock intended. But your father poisoned you against us and, even now, your only desire is to torment us.”
        She stepped up closer to him, fearlessly as he stood there smirking.
        “I have prayed to God, Willem, night after night, that he might redeem you, change you, rescue you. But I know now he will not. Now I can only pray for your soul and His mercy upon it.”
        Willem turned to Marta who was also standing resolute.
        “Marta, perhaps you should put another log on Aunt Cornelia’s fire. It seems to be getting a bit chilly      in here.”
        “Get out, Willem!” Cornelia said again. “Leave now!”
        Willem raised an eyebrow and cocked his head as he looked over to Catharina.
        “Well, little sister, I think it’s time for me to take my leave, even though I just arrived. I only hope that our mother has loved you better than she ever loved me.”
        “My mother has spent her whole life loving me and protecting me and trying to love you,” Catharina found the courage to say.  “At least I have not turned on her.”
        Willem gave her a sickening and sweet smile.
        “Not yet,” was all he said. Then he turned and walked away, into the hall and to the door, then out into the freezing rain once again.

        [Sat. Nov. 23]

        Vermeer’s Madonna was propped against a box on his table and next to it was the painting that so disturbed him from downstairs. It had been neither signed nor dated, but on the back of the canvas, Vermeer found a yellow scrap of paper that had been attached with a bit of wax. The writing was difficult for him to read, but in the end he had worked out the words:

                                                     da Riposo  1645

        This artist was completely unknown to him. Looking at the two paintings side by side, he could see that there were many differences, some major, some less so, but it was still distressing to him that in some way he had mentally appropriated this image and had adopted it as his own.
        Now, as the town bell chimed nine o’clock, Vermeer sat staring at himself in the mirror. The one that was already in the room was too small, he decided, so he had to borrow a larger one from downstairs. With this, he could see himself from the top of his head to his waist. He studied his own face, not from vanity, but from a painter’s point of view.
        He had already made some decisions about this ‘portrait’ so that he could purchase the correct pigments and oils in the proper amounts since cost was a consideration. He had taken Spoors to a small pharmacy off the Main Square, just behind the New Church. As well as selling tinctures and herbal medicines, this shop catered to the various artists who still lived in the neighborhood and the owner, Mister de Cocq, had been friends with his father, so Vermeer knew he would be charged fair prices, if not better.
        His first decision was to keep his portrait more or less monochromatic, relying on greys and earth tones. For this he bought charcoal black and umber. These he could also use for the ground, drawing and underpainting. He would sit in front of the whitewashed wall by the window at the end of his room and use light and shadow to separate his body from it in space. Lead white would be needed, along with the black and umber, and some blue smalt to tone down the grainy white of the lead-based pigment. It would have been easier for him to use a dark, neutral background, but he had been looking at the wall and wondering about how to paint it since he moved into his ‘studio’. He decided to try it.
        For the flesh tones, he chose yellow ocher, which would be worked in with more lead white. The only additional color he felt he needed was madder lake. He would use this rose-colored pigment to warm the flesh tones, but, more importantly, he felt he required it to depict his auburn hair.
        Six pigments. That was all he needed. He also purchased two kinds of oil, a pure linseed for binding the pigments and thicker ‘stand’ oil for glazing. A flat marble stone and a hand muller to grind the pigments and a spatula to transfer them to his palette completed his list. Brushes and all the rest he had gotten from Bramer. These basic materials had cost him more than he wanted to spend, but he knew that he purchased only what he needed. Five years of grinding paint for Bramer had made him an expert in this part of the process.
        Spoors helped him bring the supplies back to the inn, and of course, Spoors got to carry the heavy marble and stone muller. These were placed in his room and Spoors gratefully took his leave.
        That was yesterday. Now Vermeer knew he had to get to work in order to meet the deadline Fabritius had set for him, but he didn’t quite know yet where to begin. He started by arranging his easel and the mirror opposite the wall with the window on is right. He had had to run downstairs several times to scavenge things from his father’s workshop in order to get the mirror at just the correct height and angle and was finally satisfied when it was tied with string to the back of a chair on top of a low chest.
        He realized he was still wearing his sleeping coat. That would never do, so he got up and thought about what he should wear for the portrait. He had few options and so decided on a white cotton tunic with a lace collar under his brown leather jacket. This would have to suffice and it also worked out well for his palette. His next decision involved his hat. He wondered if he should wear it or not. The problem with the hat was that it was deep black and made of velour which soaked up almost all of the light falling on it. It would be difficult to paint and keep from going dull--No hat.
        He studied his hair. It was over his shoulders with no part and its relaxed curls appeared to him as ‘stringy’ since he rarely washed it. Should he go down to the laundry kitchen and wash it now?--No. The red of his youth had turned to a deep auburn, flecked with small golden highlights, even in this grey light. Vermeer wondered if he would need to get some lead-tin yellow pigment for these, but decided to wait and see if he could manage with what he already had.
        Finally, he noticed that he hadn’t shaved in several days and had a thin stubble on his cheeks and chin. Did he want to portray that? No. He would shave before beginning.
        So, there he sat in his tunic and jacket with his hair over his shoulders and his palette and brushes, which he wanted to include, in his left hand, his painting brush in his right.  This would be his portrait. Then, of course, the revelation came. The image he was considering was reversed! The palette was in the wrong hand!
        His first thought was to lose it and the brushes. Since faces were symmetrical, it wouldn’t matter if left were right or vice versa. No one would know or even notice. But, Fabritius would know instantly, and that would not be a good thing for his first assignment from the man who had learned from Rembrandt, who did self-portraits by the bucketful. Had Rembrandt used a mirror? He had no idea since he had only seen one or two of the famous portraits. What about the other self-portraits he had seen, ones where the artist was holding his palette and brushes in the proper hand? How did they do it? He knew he could ask Fabritius about this, but felt that might only reveal him to be the ‘amateur’ he was striving not to be. He would have to solve this problem on his own. That was all there was to it.
        Vermeer pondered this for a while, weighing and rejecting various schemes and he started to fret. This was using up the time he had set aside for grinding and applying the pale grey-brown ground to the sized canvas. Then, eureka! The solution came to him.
        He tacked a sheet of white paper to the canvas seated on the easel.  Taking a stick of drawing charcoal, he quickly sketched what he saw in the mirror just as he saw it and of the same size as his intended painting. He worked quickly, knowing that this was really just an experiment, but added as much detail as necessary. Then, with the side of the crayon, he filled in the basic shadow patterns for his face, his clothing and the wall behind him. When he was done, he had an accurate representation which would be suitable for underpainting on the actual canvas.
        He removed the paper from the canvas and looked at it. Then he reversed the paper held it in front of the mirror, close enough so that the size of the drawn image was only slightly smaller than the size of his own reflection.
        Yes! There it was! His image, extremely faint, but clear enough to be useful, complete with details and shadow qualities where they should be, and no longer reversed! His palette and brushes were now in the proper hand!
        Vermeer spent the rest of the morning making a detailed ink-wash drawing in the same manner, but somewhat larger. This would be the one he would actually use to execute his ‘inventing’ on the grounded canvas, and so he took great care with it, particularly the shadows. Bramer had taught him that shadows more than color define form and he had applied this lesson to his Madonna.

        By the time he had finished the ink-wash sketch and jury-rigged another system of chair, string and box to place it in exactly the proper position, so that the ‘reversed’ image now appeared as correct in the mirror, the light was already beginning to fade. When he had finished cleaning up, he took a moment to stand back and examine his bizarre ‘set-up’. He shook his head as he tried to imagine Rembrandt painting away in his great, Amsterdam studio using a similar arrangement. It almost made him laugh. He realized that he would have to rethink his timeline, but now he knew what he had to do and how he would have to do it.

                                            
        [Sun. Nov. 24]
 
        The trip back to Delft was smooth and quiet. A thin, fresh snow had fallen overnight, covering the day’s hard packed ice with a soft blanket that cushioned the iron-rimmed wheels of the carriage. This time, when Maria, Catharina and Tanneke boarded, they found that there were two other travelers to share their journey. These were soldiers with scarlet capes and great, black hats with cock feathers on the right side. Their swords were still attached to their broad sashes and both men instantly fell asleep once the carriage started to move.
        As for the three women, they were all tired and subdued. Not one of them had slept well that night, each for her own reasons. Certainly, the uninvited visit of Willem had had a negative and distressing effect on them, but they were content to keep their thoughts to themselves.
        Once Willem had gone, there had been an effort to get back to normalcy in the warm kitchen. Catharina was requested to continue playing on the clavier, this time sprightly tunes, which she did for a while. A supper was served, but taken mostly in silence and then all retired for an early evening. Parting kisses were given to Cornelia since she would most likely still be asleep at the early hour of their departure. Not once, after that front door had closed on him, was the name ‘Willem’ spoken in Cornelia’s house.
        As the sky brightened and the carriage moved steadily along, Catharina’s mind ran over, again and again, her last words to Willem and his last words to her.
                ‘At least I have not turned on her!’
                ‘Not yet.’
        How could Willem have known that these two words, said only to taunt her, would cut so deeply into her heart? A choice would still have to be made between her love for Vermeer and her love for her mother. Catharina thought she had already made it, but now, she was not so certain.


        [Sun. Nov. 24]

        Vermeer was up before first light and, as soon as this light allowed, he mixed the pigments--carbon black, lead white and umber--with linseed oil to make the grey-brown ground layer. He had been taught by Bramer that several coats of ground were most often used, each being allowed to dry before the next was added. Vermeer would have to settle for as many as time allowed.
        By the window, where the light was better, Vermeer took his palette with the grey-brown paint on it and started to apply it to the canvas with his knife. He worked quickly and accurately to insure as even a layer as possible. The color of this ground layer was important because he planned to let much of it show through when he painted the whitewashed wall.
        When the entire surface of the canvas was coated, dried and sanded with a pumice stone, Vermeer looked at it critically in the late morning light. He might have time to add one  more layer before nightfall, but he doubted it.
        Tomorrow he would start by using a very thin brown paint wash and a fine sable brush to draw the image, now corrected as seen in the mirror, on the actual canvas. He would do this as accurately as possible and make any required changes as he went along. Since this initial drawing would be completely covered by the paint later applied over it, he knew that any adjustments to be made had to be done at this point.
        Once this initial drawing was satisfactory, he would add a little more pigment into the mix, but still keeping it rather thin, and begin the underpainting. Here he would first fill in the larger areas to be colored or glazed later, his jacket and his hair. He would then establish the pattern of shading and shadows for the entire work, especially the shadows, as they would fall on the wall behind him.
        Vermeer had decided to work from back to front, starting with the wall which he thought would be the most difficult to capture in a realistic way. The brightness and tone of this wall would be difficult to determine in advance, but, once completed, would affect every other color value and shadow value in the picture and so it had to be painted first and he had devised a plan for it. But, he reminded himself, that part of it was still two days away. If he could complete the sketch and the underpainting by tomorrow, when the light allowed, he would be on schedule.
        As Vermeer finished up with the grounding and was cleaning his brushes and palette, he heard the tower clock strike twelve noon. He had to hurry in order to make it to Bramer’s by one o’clock and wondered who it was that Bramer wanted him to meet. He would know in an hour’s time.

                                            
        [Sun. Nov. 24]

        Maria Thins was tired and her back was aching. Since the two soldiers had departed the wagon at an earlier stop and she, with Catharina and Tanneke, were now the only ones on the coach, she was able to persuade the driver, with the help of three stuivers, to let them off in the Square by the bridge in front of her house. Miriam had come out and was helping the three ladies with their traveling boxes as Tanneke assisted Maria and Catharina from the coach.            
        It was just at that time that Vermeer was coming up the little alley by the side of the inn and into the Square on his way to his appointment with Bramer. As instructed, he carried his Madonna with him, wrapped in a cloth, but he also had the Riposo painting. He felt he should show this to Bramer and get

his thoughts about it and how it might have come about. Certainly, there was no shame in one artist copying another’s work. Not only was that part of the regular tasks given to senior apprentices, it was often commonly done for the commercial market. But Vermeer knew he had not copied this painting, at least in the normal sense of the word.
        It was Vermeer’s habit to look over to Catharina’s house every time he was in the Square. This time, he stopped short. He saw Maria Thins enter the house with Miriam while Catharina and Tanneke were still outside gathering their things as the carriage moved slowly away.
        He wanted to call out to her, to run over to her, but he knew he could do neither, so he just stood there, hoping that Catharina had developed the same habit of looking across the Square to his house.
        She had, and she saw him. Even at that distance, their eyes locked and both remained, for an instant, transfixed. Tanneke had the last traveling box and was waiting for Catharina to enter the house before her. Catharina did not want her to notice Vermeer or her looking at him, so she quickly broke off her gaze and turned to go inside, but not before giving a quick glance over to the church.
        Vermeer also looked away and turned to walk in another direction, but he understood her meaning and would look for her letter later that day. As Catharina entered her house, eyes straight forward, Tanneke turned to close the door behind them. She saw Vermeer with his black hat walking away. She would keep her earlier promise to Catharina and not let her feelings be reflected in her behavior, but her heart sank a little more deeply all the same.

                                            
        [Sun. Nov. 24] 

        It was just before one o’clock when Vermeer reached Bramer’s house on Pieters Straat. As he instinctively headed for the side door, which was the one he had always used as an apprentice unless accompanied by his ‘Master’, he stopped and returned to the front. Stepping up, he knocked on the door just as any other proper visitor would. After a brief moment, the door came open and there was Katrien, beaming with a great smile.
        “May I help you?” she asked playfully.
        “I have an appointment with Bramer,” he replied in a rather neutral tone, not wanting to play back to her. There had been many things running through his mind as he walked over to this house, Catharina, his assignment from Fabritius, his Madonna and the Riposo copy, not to mention the reason for his being called here.
        “I know,” Katrien responded, not being put off by his demeanor. “He’s just inside, in his gallery. He’s waiting for you. Shall I show you where to go?” But his look to her said it all and she stepped aside to let          him enter.
        He slipped off his overshoes and hung his winter cape on its old hook, then he went to find his former teacher.

        Vermeer went into the studio and then to the doorway of the gallery where his Madonna had once hung. He saw Bramer talking with a very distinguished young man, excellently dressed and obviously from the wealthier levels of Delft society. Bramer looked up and noticed him.
        “Ah, Vermeer. I am so glad you could come this afternoon.” Joannis wondered why Bramer was addressing him as if he were a real person and not still an apprentice. He only had time to nod before Bramer spoke again.
        “Please come in. I would like to introduce you to a friend of mine. I’ve told him a great deal about you and he said to me that one day he would like to meet you. So, today is that day.”
        The gentleman looked over at Vermeer and smiled a genuine smile as he waited for Bramer to complete the introduction, as protocol required in his obviously upper class circles.
        “Mister Joannis Vermeer, I would like to introduce you to my friend, and occasional client, Mister Pieter Claeszoon van Ruijven. Mister van Ruijven, Joannis Vermeer, who was once my apprentice but has now joined the studio of Master Carel Fabritius.” There was a rather formal bow from van Ruijven, to which Vermeer awkwardly responded.
        “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir.”
        “I am honored, Mister van Ruijven.”
        Vermeer was conscious of three things. First, his shabby clothing compared to van Ruijven’s. He had felt this way before when he was in Amsterdam and later at Carel’s studio when he was in the presence of Doctor Vallensis, even though the man never cast an eye in his direction. He would have to spend some of his money on new clothing. The second thought was that he was standing awkwardly with two paintings in his hands insuring that any ‘polite’ gesture he might care to make would look, at best, comical. Finally, through all the initial formality, van Ruijven himself. He saw a tall thin man and, as he had already noted, not that much older than himself, or so it seemed. The man had a pleasant and open expression and this formality seemed an honest part of his upbringing rather than an affectation.
        “Mister van Ruijven has come here today to look at some paintings.”
        “Yes. I have a small house on the Voorstraat, but I am engaged to be married this summer and have bought a slightly larger one nearby for my   bride-to-be.”
        “Congratulations, Mister van Ruijven,” Vermeer offered. He could only imagine what a man dressed in such fine clothing and with such a patrician demeanor could mean by ‘small’.
        “You see, Joannis, Mister van Ruijven is quite the collector and connoisseur of fine art, particularly that of Delft. He contacted me because--well, Pieter, why don’t you tell him.”
        “Thank you, Leonaert. Most happy to.”
        Vermeer was pleased that this had now come down to at least a first name basis, as he was not all that comfortable with the language of the upper classes.
        “My fiancée, Miss Maria de Knuijt, is also an appreciator of fine art works, especially those of a religious nature, although my tastes run in a rather different direction. Be that as it may, I am in the market for something of very high quality that might suffice as a wedding present from myself to my intended. I know that Leonaert has done such works and so I took the liberty of contacting him through the postal service. He was kind enough to write back and inform me that, at this time, he had nothing suitable for me in his present body of work, however, he did add that there might be one painting of interest and invited me here to look at it. So, here I am.”
        ‘Could he be referring to his own Madonna?’ Vermeer wondered. ‘Certainly not.’ he concluded.
        “He mentioned you in connection with it.”
        Vermeer was flustered and had no idea what to say as his grip grew tighter on the paintings in his hands.
        “I believe Pieter is referring to the painting you are holding. Would you be so kind as to show it to us? I’ve set up an easel over here.” Bramer gestured to an empty easel by the side window of his gallery.
        Vermeer’s heart started pounding and he got that sick feeling in the bottom of his stomach that seemed to tell him that he was, or was soon going to be, in trouble. It was as if he were about to be caught cheating in some way, which, in itself, was bad enough, but in front of a man who obviously held a great deal of influence in the Delft art world and whose word could probably make or destroy a painter’s future forever. He knew it would not serve him to make excuses or even an explanation. He would have to deal with this in an honest and forthright way and let whatever would happen, happen.
        “Gentlemen.” He stepped over to the easel with the two paintings. “This is the Madonna I painted for Mister Bramer earlier this month.” He uncovered it and set it on the easel. Van Ruijven looked at it and then came closer to inspect it in detail. At first his face gave away nothing, but as Vermeer noted a slight smile and his head bobbing in a positive way, he felt van Ruijven had approved. Finally, the collector stepped back and, not taking his eyes from the painting, addressed Vermeer.
        “It is a remarkable piece of work. Leonaert was quite correct in has appraisal to me.” Van Ruijven folded one arm across his chest and stroked his chin with the other as he dug deeper into the details. It was quite evident that this was a man who knew art.
        “Such a beautiful face. I’ve never seen the virgin depicted in such a loving way, perhaps Da Vinci, but none other.”
        This was a serious compliment, but how could Vermeer stop himself from thinking that this was the face of his lover and she was no longer a virgin? Still, his problem remained and now was the time to face it.
        “Thank you, Mister van Ruijven, but I have another painting I think you should see as well.”
        Bramer shot Vermeer a look wondering what this could be all about, but it did not take long for Vermeer’s meaning to be revealed. He removed the covering from the Riposo painting and set it next to his Madonna. Both Bramer and van Ruijven were taken aback by this and looked at each other and then to Vermeer.
        “I found this in a stack of paintings on the floor of my father’s gallery two days ago. It’s by an artist called Riposo, but I’ve never heard of him.”
        “Felice Ficherelli,” Bramer said. “They called him ‘Riposo’. I’ve seen some of his work when I was in Florence. You might at least have chosen a more accomplished artist to emulate,” he said with just a touch of vitriol, still not knowing what to make of all this.
        “Just one moment, Leonaert,” van Ruijven interjected and then turned to face Joannis. “You say you discovered this ‘Riposo’ painting only two days ago, is that correct?
        “Yes.”
        “And you had completed your Madonna when?”
        “Two weeks ago.”
        “That is about when you wrote to me, wasn’t it, Leonaert, just after you saw Vermeer’s painting?”
        “Yes, Pieter, but--”
        “Well. Look at the both of them side by side. It is obvious that Vermeer’s work was strongly influenced by the Riposo, but is certainly no copy. And, I might add, it is vastly superior to what we have here.” Vermeer was wondering if van Ruijven might be a lawyer. Then the gentleman turned his attention back to Joannis.
        “I am curious, Joannis. How do you think this might have happened?”   
        “My father was an art dealer in addition to running the inn. He had a small gallery there and there were always paintings on the walls, coming and going, sold and bought. I lived in that inn for five years before I moved here with Leonaert. I must have seen it, but not seen it, if you know what I mean.” This was the ‘explanation’ he had promised himself not to give, but there it was anyway.
        “Leonaert, what do you think about this? You are an artist. Has anything like that ever happened to you?”
        Bramer, who derived part of his regular income from copying pictures, thought about this carefully before answering.
        “To some degree, yes. I suppose it has.”
        “Of course it has. I am no artist, Joannis. I am just a beer maker’s son, but, if I may say, I do know a little about the art market here and I personally know most of the good painters in and around Delft. Isn’t that so, Leonaert?”
        Bramer even smiled at this to Vermeer’s great relief.
        “Yes, Pieter. That is so.”
        “And I will tell you, these days it is getting harder and harder to tell a de Hooch from a ter Borch. Sometimes I think they can’t even tell.” Van Ruijven laughed at his own small joke and then broke off the thought for a moment. “By the way, Leonaert, has Vermeer met them yet, de Hooch and ter Borch?”
        “No, neither has ever come by.”
        “Well, you should see that he does. I like to encourage young artists. In any event, all that being said, I am quite interested in this painting. Now, I understand that there is a slight ‘problem’ in my acquiring it.”
        Both Bramer and Vermeer were well aware of this problem, but Bramer had already thought it through.
        “Vermeer will not be allowed to enter the Guild of Saint Luke for another year,” Bramer said as van Ruijven listened carefully. “Therefore I am the owner of this painting and it is mine to sell.”
        “Good. I am certain we can work out some type of arrangement whereby I purchase the painting from you and you loan the money to Vermeer and then consider the loan paid back when he matriculates and his free to sell his work. I can have my brother, Jan, draw up the papers.” Then a thought came to van Ruijven and he turned to Vermeer. “I am so sorry, Joannis. I should not be discussing these crass matters in front of you.  It is very rude of me.”
        “Not at all, Pieter. I find it fascinating,” Vermeer said honestly and feeling free enough to call this gentleman by his first name.
        “Well, that’s that. Now all we have to--”
        “Not quite,” Bramer interjected and he moved his hand over the Madonna and let his finger stop at the weathered step in the lower, left-hand corner. There, in the greenery above it, small, but plain to see, was Vermeer’s signature.
        “I told him to sign this picture.” Vermeer knew, and van Ruijven most likely knew, that this was in violation of the Guild’s basic rules of apprenticeship.
        “I see, Leonaert,” van Ruijven said, musing. “And why did you do that?” Vermeer had also wondered about this but had never found the courage or the opportunity to ask and was eager to hear Bramer’s response.
        “When I saw this painting, I knew it was--” Bramer searched his mind for the words, “--it would be significant. Not just because it would be his first painting, and the Lord only knows what is to follow after it, but because it had to be his painting. Not later on, but then, at that moment.”
        Vermeer’s head spun at these words. He could not believe what he was hearing.
        “And if he happened to die before his last year was completed, the world would never accept this as something from the hand of an apprentice.”
        There was a silent gap in the conversation as Vermeer pondered this grim reasoning. Van Ruijven, however, was considering another aspect of Bramer’s justification. Even though he had inherited his enormous wealth and now had no reason to ‘work’ for a living, van Ruijven was still an astute art collector and was well aware that the artist’s signature on a painting increased its market value considerably, perhaps Bramer’s true objective.
        “I quite understand, Leonaert, and I can see your reasoning. Obviously, you had no intention of selling this painting before its time had come. But, you know, there still might be a way to work this all out.”
        Vermeer’s mind had shut off. He could hear Bramer and van Ruijven talking about the Guild and steps that could be taken and van Ruijven’s wedding in August, but, to Vermeer, they were talking about someone else in some other country. He could not, in his heart of hearts, believe that his Madonna was everything they were saying about it. He wondered if Fabritius had had the same reaction. He recalled Fabritius saying it was well-executed but, what were his words, it had a deeper quality to it. Was he referring to the same thing? Vermeer knew that he, himself, loved the painting, but that was not only because he had created it, but that it was a painting of Catharina! He lost himself in this thought.
        “So, Joannis, will that be adequate for you?” he heard van Ruijven ask.
        “I’m sorry. What?”
        “The arrangement. Bramer will hold the painting for me until August when I will take delivery before my wedding. I will hold it incognito in my private gallery until you have entered the Guild, and my brother will draw up papers reflecting the sale as of that date, at which time I will be able to display it as I like.”
        Vermeer was still in a bit of a fog, but it seemed to him that if Bramer and van Ruijven had come to an agreement, it must certainly be acceptable to him.
        “Yes. Of course.”
        “Good. Then I shall pay to Bramer the fee he proposed and he will advance that money to your account, which I understand he is holding for you. That is, of course, if the sum is acceptable to you. When you enter the Guild, your debt to him for this painting will be considered paid in full, although nothing in the final sales contract will reflect that. I know it is a bit dodgy, but I suspect all parties will be satisfied. What do you say? Do you agree to the terms and the fee?”
        Vermeer never heard how much van Ruijven was offering for the Madonna, and he did not know how to get him to repeat the sum without his appearing to be a complete idiot.       
        “Yes, Pieter. I am certain that will be fine.”
        “Good! Excellent!” Bramer said and called for Katrien to bring in some beer to celebrate the occasion.
        Vermeer had to excuse himself for a moment.
        “I am sorry, Gentlemen, but I must piss.”
        “By all means,” Bramer said in a jovial way. He was elated. His entire plan for Vermeer had worked out perfectly! The trip to Italy, with his emphasis on Raphael, the assignment and its successful completion, the signature and Fabritius, all just as he had imagined.
        “Katrien! Where’s that beer?”
        “I’m getting it now, Master Bramer,” she called from the kitchen.
        As Vermeer went to go outside to relieve himself, he passed Katrien who was putting the beer pitcher and glasses on a tray.
        “Well, apprentice, good for you. Perhaps you will buy me a new cape with all that money.”
        “Were you listening?” he asked, knowing that she was always ‘listening’.
        “Maybe just a little as I walked back and forth doing my household duties.”
        This was Vermeer’s chance.
        “And do you think I settled for a fair price?”
        “Well, apprentice, if you think one hundred guilders for a first painting is fair, then I would say so,” she answered with a smile as she walked past Vermeer and into the gallery with the beer.
       
                                    
        [Sun. Nov. 24]

        It was now after dark and Vermeer was walking back to the Mechelen with a lantern Bramer had loaned him. It was a clear but bitter cold night and his hands were freezing as he carried the two paintings. After van Ruijven had left, he had asked Bramer if he could ‘borrow’ his Madonna until the next time they were to meet and Bramer allowed it, although he did not know why Vermeer requested it. The reason was simple. It was the face of Catharina and Vermeer wanted it in his room while he worked on his self-portrait for Fabritius. It would be his ‘muse’ in a way, and he knew that being able to see her face while he painted his own would be an inspiration for him.
        He reached the Town Square and headed straight for the church. Even though the clock had not yet chimed seven, this part of the city was nearly deserted. Families would be warm inside their homes having their evening meals or playing games or singing silly songs as they usually did on Sunday nights. Foot-warmers would be smoldering under heavy skirts or thick lap blankets. By now, even the dogs would have found their resting places out of the cold for   the night.
        There was no moon, but Jupiter hung low and bright as it set in the southwest and the darkness of the town was only broken by the silvery arch of light cast by his lantern and the gold patches of fire lit upstairs windows.
        The empty church glowed eerily as Vermeer walked through it towards the tomb of William and the place where Catharina’s letter would be hidden. He saw the folded paper where he expected it and took it out of

its narrow space. Moving to a dark corner of the church, Vermeer set the lantern down on a bench and then opened the letter to read it in the dim light.

                J.v.M.
                       I have missed you so much these
                past few days. I doubt Mother will go to
the orphanage tomorrow as the trip was very
                stressful for her and she may have to spend
                the day in bed to recover. What can I do?
                How can I see you? I will look here tomorrow
                morning at market time for your word. Know
                that I will dream of you tonight and continue to
                count the hours.

                                                    You are my love
                                                           as I hope I am
                                                                   yours.
                                                                    C.

        Vermeer’s hand trembled from the cold as he held the letter. He had brought pencil and paper with him to write back, but now, he did not know what to say. How could he see her tomorrow anyway?  He had his portrait to do and losing even a few hours of daylight would be a disaster to his tight schedule. It would also be too risky to try and see her again at her house no matter how much he wanted to. Besides, he needed to rest. The events of this day had drained him and he knew his painting would drain him further. Still, he ached to see her and he sat there, shivering by his lamp as he tried to think of a way.

                                            
        [Mon. Nov. 25]

        Catharina was out doing the marketing with Miriam and, as usual, it was a quiet trip. She had been right about her mother’s health. Maria’s achiness was the first sign of a cold and today she would stay in bed and rest. Miriam would be making a soup of chicken and root vegetables and Tanneke would keep Maria dosed with large quantities of herbal tea.
        Catharina felt she had to stay in the house to be there if her mother called for her, even if just to keep her company. Maria had suffered from bouts of illness as a young woman, a fact that failed to keep her husband from abusing her even then, but otherwise she displayed a strong constitution. Now she was almost sixty, old enough to be her daughter’s grandmother, and she had to be more careful. The frequent trips to Gouda to visit Cornelia always took their toll on her, this last trip in particular.
        Still, when the two women returned from the markets, Catharina told Miriam to go on and that she would be home in just a few minutes. She offered no explanation and, of course, Miriam expected none.
        “Yes, Mum,” was all she said before crossing the little bridge to the house.
        Catharina went directly inside the church and found Vermeer’s letter waiting for her in the secret place. This time she opened it and read it where she stood.

                C.
                          I must see you and talk with you.
                Come to the Mechelen this afternoon when
                you can and ask for me. I will be in my
                studio.

                                                         JvM

        This note distressed her, but what could she have expected?  She saw no way to be with him now, in a physical way, at least not soon. Yet, by doing what he asked, she would be able to see him, to touch him and talk with him and she understood that sometimes that would have to be enough for her. But, she wondered, how would she find the courage to do it? For a young woman of her upbringing to boldly walk into a tavern and tell the mistress that she wanted to know where her son’s room was so she could go see him was, at best, outrageous and Catharina did not think she could do it. She decided to leave him another letter and hope for a better plan, although she had no idea what that could be.
                                                    
        Back in her house, Catharina went up to her mother’s room and found Maria sitting up in her bed sewing.
        “How are you feeling, Mother?”
        Maria smiled and asked her daughter to come in and sit with her for a little while.
        “Tanneke thinks I should send for the Doctor, but she always says that at the first sniffle. Some rest and some chicken soup and I should be much better in the morning.”
        “Mother, you mustn’t rush yourself.”
        “Don’t worry, Trijntje. It’s just a cold. So, tell me, how was the market?”
        They made simple conversation for a few minutes and then, as Tanneke came in with some tea, Catharina got up to go.
        “I’ll come back later, Mother, to see how you are doing.”
        “Thank you, Trijntje, but I’m fine. I’ll have some of this nice tea and then take a nap.” She sneezed and wiped her nose with her handkerchief. “You better go before you catch it from me.” Catharina knew she no longer had to worry about her mother and she quietly slipped out the door.


                                            
        [Mon. Nov. 25]
 
        Vermeer rose early as usual. He had sanded the ground on his canvas to a perfect smoothness and had determined that the single coat would be adequate. Now, as soon as the light allowed, and fortunately it was a clear morning, he began the ‘invention’ or sketching of his face. He mixed the same three pigments, carbon black, lead white and umber with linseed oil until it formed a loose slurry, but thick enough to adhere to the canvas without running. He loaded his palette and, holding a fine sable brush, sat in the proper position.
        Vermeer stared intently at the sketched image in the mirror for over a minute and then closed his eyes. When he opened them again he could ‘see’ the drawing transposed to his canvas and then made his first quick stokes to capture as much of it as he could before it faded.
        He checked his drawing with the appropriate lines in the mirror and was satisfied. Then he repeated the process until he had enough of the accurate form painted on his canvas to continue by analyzing relationships. In the mirror, for example, a line would come from half a thumb’s length below the center of the forehead, until it was even with the right corner of the right eye. Using that relationship now, he could accurately draw the line in the proper position. This part of it Vermeer found very easy and was able to complete a detailed sketch within three hours, a bit quicker than he had planned.
        When he was finished, he took a long look and asked himself if there was anything left to do. The praises he had received from van Ruijven added an extra burden to his efforts. This little assignment could not be any less than his Madonna, nor would he would allow himself to settle for anything other than his true best.
        Yes--He found little details here and there that he had overlooked and so added them. He found several lines which were not perfectly exact so he corrected them. Finally, the point came where he was satisfied with what he had done and now he could start the underpainting.
        As he mixed a bit more umber into the slurry, he looked at his Madonna, propped up on a nearby table, and thought of Catharina, hoping that she would come--but not just now.
        Then, thinning with a bit more oil, Vermeer started to fill in the cartoon with a nearly transparent wash of brown. First the jacket. He painted over where the darkest shadows in the folds would be. This he did quickly. He waited a bit for the wash to dry, and then he went to the next level of shading, painting over what he had already done and broadening it out a little. The deep shadows in the folds grew darker with the second coat. He repeated the process, each layer growing darker as it was over painted. The process was completed when he left the lightest areas unpainted, so that the ground would show through, establishing the brightest part of each fold. This technique he had learned in Bramer’s studio doing ink-wash drawing after ink-wash drawing, although in a more simplified way. Silently he thanked is mentor for all that effort on his behalf.
         Now he would add a bit of madder lake to the slurry and start on the hair.
                                            
        [Mon. Nov. 25]

        When the town clock struck twelve thirty in the afternoon, Catharina left her room to check on her mother. As she turned the corner in the hall, Tanneke was just coming out the door. She held her index finger up to her lips as a signal to be quiet.
        “She’s just gone to sleep,” Tanneke whispered. Catharina nodded and padded back to her room. Closing the door behind her, she walked over to the window and regarded her old friend, Temperantia, frozen in the cut glass. She undid the latch and pulled the window open. The cold air rushed past her as she looked across the Square at the Mechelen and thought about Vermeer inside that building at this very moment waiting for her. Catharina looked down at the letter she had written, neatly folded on her desk, and then back at the inn one last time before closing the window. It was at that moment that she decided she had to do it. She would go to him as he had asked her to.
        She put on her winter bonnet and then went downstairs for her cloak. From the kitchen down the hall, she could hear Tanneke talking to Miriam about the day’s chores, but this time, Catharina decided, she would not sneak away like some chastened schoolgirl and she called softly,
        “Tanneke.”       
        “Yes, Miss Catharina. I’m coming.”
        Tanneke entered the hallway to find Catharina dressed for the outside.
        “I’m going out for a bit, while Mother is sleeping. I shouldn’t be         too long.”
        She gave no explanation and Tanneke asked for none.
        “Yes, Miss Catharina.”
        “If Mother wakes and asks for me, tell her I will be back soon.” She did not know what she would say to Maria if that did happen, but she hoped for    the best.
        “Very well,” Tanneke replied with an obedient nod.
        “Thank you,” Catharina said a bit too formally and instantly corrected it. “Thank you, Tanneke. I really won’t be that long.”
        “I understand.”
        Without looking back, Catharina opened the door and stepped out into the narrow street.       

        As Catharina walked resolutely the short distance across the Square to the inn, she looked straight ahead, but still held one hand in the other as if to provide some sort of mystic protection. The Square was filled with people as usual at this time of day, and she noted that a knot of them had gathered to watch the scaffold being erected once again. This must be for some particularly wicked person, she thought. Usually the hangings were done at the scaffolds by each of the city gates, which were never taken down. She had no inclination to come back out here at dawn to watch.
        A few steps further and she was at the Mechelen. She stopped at the door almost expecting to find some sort of orgy going on inside, as she had heard about taverns and these sorts of places, but had never actually been in one. Catharina steeled herself, opened the door and stepped inside to the hazy atmosphere of tobacco and stale beer. For an instant, she wanted to hold her nose to block out the unfamiliar stench, but naturally thought better about it and continued forward.
        She was surprised to see about ten people, all men, sitting quietly. Some were smoking long pipes, some were playing cards or dice, some were eating or feeding scraps to dogs and all were drinking, but the entire tone of the room was subdued. She saw a heavyset woman pouring a pitcher of beer into the glasses of two patrons and decided to ask her about Joannis. The woman, Janne, was walking over to the kegs to get more beer for the pitcher as Catharina came up  to her.
        “Excuse me, but, I’m here to call on Mister Joannis Vermeer. Would you be so kind as to direct me        to him?”
        Janne looked at her as if she had just fallen from the moon.
        “Mister Vermeer? Who’s askin’ for ’im?” She had the strong accent of the northern provinces which she had never lost, even after all her years in Delft.
        “I am Miss Bolnes,” Catharina replied, a bit too haughtily.
        “Indeed. And what are you to Master Vermeer?”
        “I am his--friend.”
        “Friend, is it? Well, he’s upstairs in his room, I reckon, though I don’t keep track of his comin’s or goin’s. Have you spoken to his mum?”
        “No, in fact I haven’t. Do I need to?”
        “It don’t matter to me. If you want ‘im, just go through that room and up the stairs,” and Janne gestured to the gallery.
        “Thank you so much,” she said, surprised at her own lofty tone of voice. Then she turned to find her way.     

        Vermeer was in his room just starting the underpainting of his hair. The curls were long and loose and each wave had to be worked out in an individual way, with a dark shadow on the underside, progressing to highlight at the top. The same applied to the troughs that connected them. This would be a complicated process and might take him more than today to finish. Although this was the same technique he had used on his Madonna’s hair, he wondered if it was really necessary. Perhaps, he thought, he could accomplish the same result by implying the shadows now, and then develop them in the painting process.

        He heard the town clock strike one and looked over at the window on his right. Vermeer estimated that he had, at best, three more hours of working light. He thought about Bramer at his easel in the summer, often working for twelve or thirteen hours, with still a little light to spare. Now, at the end of November, Vermeer realized that he would be lucky to have seven hours on any given day, and that only if the sky were clear!
        As he dipped his brush into the thin mixture of paint of his palette, slightly redder now since he had added the madder lake, there was a quiet knocking at his door.
        “What!” he snapped, unhappy to have his concentration disturbed.
        “It’s me, Joannis, Catharina. You wrote me to come here,” came the voice on the other side.
        “Just a minute,” he responded as he quickly put down his brush and palette and stood up.
        Catharina could not understand why he was keeping her waiting outside in the hallway of the inn, but he had his reason. He bolted over to the table where his Madonna had been placed and quickly threw its cover over it. Then he made for the door, nearly slipping on the tiled floor as he went. He grabbed the latch and flung the door open.
        There she was! She seemed more beautiful than he had ever seen her before. They looked at each other for only an instant and then pulled themselves together into a strong and powerful embrace. Each mouth found the other and they kissed deeply until they had to separate just far enough to breathe and look at each other.
        Vermeer, with his arm around her back, drew her into his room and closed the door behind her. Vermeer knew that it would be impossible for them to make love here and now as he bent to reach under her skirt and feel the warmth and softness of her upper thighs.
        Catharina knew that it would be impossible for them to make love here and now as her hands reached out to undo the drawstring of his trousers.
        Neither one said a word or protested as each pulled the other to the black and white tiles of his floor. There was no gentle caressing or teasing this time. It would have been a comical picture if either one of them had had the ability to step out of the body and watch, but all their thoughts were now inward as they joined, one into the other.
        The passion was completed quickly, but fully for both and, as Vermeer raised his head to smile at her, there came a sound out in the hallway. In a panic they flew up off of the floor and tried to arrange themselves as properly as possible as a knock came to the door. There was nowhere for Catharina to hide so she just stood there, her eyes wide as she struggled with her bonnet, which was now mostly sideways.
        “What is it?” Vermeer asked, knowing that he had to respond since all in the household knew he would be up here.
        “Mister Vermeer, your mother would like to know if you will be joining her for supper this afternoon. They’re setting the places now.”
        A flood of relief came over Joannis at the sound of young Piet’s voice and the simplicity of his question.
        “Thank you, Piet, but please tell her I am working on my painting and will not have the time.”
        “Shall I bring something up, then?
        “No. I’ll come down when I’m finished, but it’s better if I’m not disturbed for the time being. I’m--I’m quite busy at the moment.” Vermeer had to put his finger on Catharina’s lips to keep her from giggling.
        “Very good, Mister Vermeer. I’ll tell your mother.”
        “Thank you, Piet,” and as they heard his footsteps going down the stairs, they both broke out laughing.
        “That was Piet, the helper-boy,” Vermeer told Catharina as he hitched up his pants. And then he looked at her.
        “I’ve missed you so much, Joannis,” she said quietly now.
        “I’ve missed you and I’ve thought about you every day. I have so much to tell you. But first, come with me.” He took her hand and led her over to the table by the window and the covered painting. On the way, she noticed the strange assembly of easel, drawing, and mirror. She lit up seeing the sketch of him facing the mirror.
        “That’s you!”
        “Yes it is, and I’ll tell you all about that too, but first I have something to show you. Do you remember our first day in the garden when I sketched you? I told you I accidentally drew the Madonna with your face and I needed to refine it. Well, I thought you might like to see it.”
        He lifted up the cloth covering and when Catharina saw the picture, she gasped, putting her hand to her mouth. It was her face indeed and she was the Madonna holding the Christ child! A series of emotions and thoughts went through her as she took in the image in front of her.
        “What do you think?”
        It was difficult for her to finds any words to answer him clearly. She had never seen herself depicted in a painting before. Maria had portraits of some of her family decorating her walls, but had never had any done of herself or her daughter. It was unsettling, in a way, to see her own face so clearly rendered. There was also something blasphemous about it, as if she were pretending to be the Virgin, especially now, as she could still feel

the warm moistness at the top of her thighs. All that aside, it was beautiful in an indescribable and appealing way, and it was created by the hand of her lover. Vermeer still waited for her answer.
        “Joannis. It--it’s so beautiful. But--”A dark thought came over her and it was the same thought he had had weeks ago. “That’s my face. People will know if they see it.” Now Vermeer had a safe answer for her.
        “You needn’t worry, Catharina. It’s been sold to a private collector.”
        He explained the arrangement Bramer had made on his behalf with van Ruijven and he felt a bit immodest when he related to Catharina what they had said about it, but she was not surprised as she looked at the painting more objectively now.

        They talked about it for a while longer and she gave him a hug and told him that she was proud of him. Then she turned her attention to his self-portrait.
        “Oh, that. It’s my assignment from Fabritius. I have to have it finished and dried by Monday.”
        Catharina hurried over to his easel to look at the sketch and the partially underpainted canvas. He started to explain the mirror, and the problem he was using it to solve, but she interrupted him.
        “Is that the way you are going to look? In your finished painting?” she asked and Vermeer got the impression that she did not fully approve.
        “Yes. Why?”
        “Well, it’s just that you look so--I don’t know-- stiff, I guess. I’ve never seen you look like that.”
        Vermeer looked at the expression he had sketched for himself and saw nothing wrong with it. He thought it made him look ‘serious’, but he wondered about her thinking and so he asked her.
        “How should it look--I look?”
        “I’m sorry, Joannis. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
        “No, you haven’t. I’d like to hear what you have to say.”       
        “When I think of you and imagine your face, I see that wonderful and playful smile of yours. That’s the image I have of you. This one is just--” she paused as she sought the correct word, “--different.”
        He thought about this and the simple fact was that she was correct. All the while he was designing the picture, he had been too caught up in the technical aspects of it and had never once given consideration the deeper elements, the ones that had worked so well for his Madonna. He knew that a portrait had to reveal something about the sitter, something that went deeper than the paint, in order to succeed. This picture, as he had drawn it, said nothing about him or how he saw himself.
        “I’ll change it,” he said to her.
        “No. I didn’t mean that,” she added hastily as if she had hurt his feelings. “Please, don’t--”
        “Catharina, you’re right. This picture doesn’t work, but I can fix it.”
Then he looked at her and fell more deeply in love with her at that very moment. “I will fix it, and you will like it better.”
                                                    
        They were still talking when the town clock rang three. She had told him about her trip to Gouda, but had little to offer since she chose not to mention either Mister Maas or the incident with her brother and how it had affected her mother’s health. He told her more about Fabritius and his strange yet exciting studio. Now they knew it was time for her to go. They agreed that they would look for each other every day when the clock struck one, she from her window, he from the Square by the church. They would continue to exchange letters at the tomb and would work out the next time and place that they could be together.
        They kissed once more and then Vermeer quietly took Catharina down the back stairs to the door that led to the alley. He walked as far as the corner of the church with her and then stopped as she continued on, over the little bridge to her house.
        As soon as she was out of his view, Vermeer bolted back to his room at the Mechelen. He looked briefly at his portrait and then grabbed his hat and ran back out his door and down to the kitchen where he found Digna eating her supper alone at the table. She looked up, happy to see him.
        “Joannis. You’ve come to join me. I’ll tell Mirthe to--”
        “I’m sorry, Mother, but I’m on my way out. I should be back within an hour, but I just wanted to let    you know.”
        “Where could you be going in such a hurry at this--?”
        But he was already gone.
                                            
        Vermeer ran all the way to the Doelenstraat and arrived at the studio of Fabritius completely out of breath. It was Agatha who opened the door, showing her surprise to see him.
        “Joannis!  What brings you here today?”
        “I need to see Carel, Agatha. Is he here?”
        “He’s just inside. Please come in. You know the way.”
        “Thank you.”
        He entered and stopped. He had not taken the time to slip on his overshoes before he had left the inn and did not want to track the mud from his feet, so he removed his shoes and started for the studio in his stockings, but, as he began to walk, a cat jumped out of some hidden place and started to play under his feet. Agatha laughed.
        “Just ignore her and she’ll go away, unless she really likes you.”
        Vermeer nodded and tried to move the little way down the hall to the studio door without stepping on Zicht, but its was a little difficult. Agatha preceded him to the studio doorway and announced his arrival.
        “Carel, Joannis Vermeer has come to see you.”
        “Good,” Fabritius said. “Tell him to come in.”
        Vermeer entered and found Fabritius sitting with another man of about his own age or even younger whose head of thick red hair framed his somewhat pale and slightly feminine face. They obviously had been chatting and were now sitting back enjoying their pipes.
        “Vermeer!”
        “I am sorry, Carel, I didn’t want to interrupt.”
        “Not at all. Now that you’re here, I’d like to introduce you a friend of mine. This is Cornelis Bisschop from Dordrecht. He’s also a painter, and a very good one, I might add, on his way up to Amsterdam for some reason or another.”
        Bisschop did not stand, but nodded at Vermeer as each checked the other out. Bisschop looked to be about eighteen, well-dressed and relaxed. He drew on a long pipe, holding the smoke in his mouth as if to savor it before letting it escape in a thin blue cloud from his delicate lips. The strange aroma of the tobacco was not what Vermeer had come to know, being more pungent with a spiced edge to it. But more than that, Vermeer was surprised that Fabritius had called this ‘boy’ a painter. In Delft, as elsewhere, this was not just a mere description of what a person did, it was a title, and one that had to be earned.
        “Would you care to join us in a pipe? It’s a rather special blend from Java that Cornelis has been kind enough to bring with him.” Fabritius looked over to Bisschop, who seemed in a rather removed state, and smiled knowingly. “It’s very relaxing.”
        “No, thank you, Carel, but I don’t have much time. Please don’t think me rude.”
        “Not at all. So, what brings you here this afternoon?”
        Vermeer did not want to equivocate.
        “I came to ask for a little more time.”
        Fabritius did not seem to understand.
        “Time for what?”
        “My self-portrait. It’s due Friday, but I’d like an extra day.”
        Fabritius looked over to Bisschop and smiled.
        “Vermeer is my new apprentice. One year to go. Then, I suppose he’ll become my successor,” he joked. “I only hope it’s not too soon.” He turned back to Vermeer.
        “It’s due Friday?” Vermeer was shocked that Fabritius had forgotten.
        “Yes, Carel. That’s what you said.”
        “Well, tell me. Why do you want more time?”
        “It’s just that--er--something came up back at the inn.”
        He had to bite his own lip once those words slipped out of his mouth.
        “I see. One more day? Saturday? No, that’s not good for me.  I have company coming from Deventer.”
        Vermeer’s heart started to sink, but Fabritius quickly saved it from the bottom.
        “No. Monday is better for me. Can you have it done by Monday?”
        “Yes.”
        “Good. Nine o’clock then on Monday. Come. Have a smoke with us. It will relax you. As I said, it‘s not our usual tobacco.”
        “I’m sorry, Carel, but I have to get back before it gets dark.”
        “Very well then. I’ll see you on Monday.” Fabritius turned to young Bisschop. “When do you get back from Amsterdam?”
        “Two weeks, I think.”
        Vermeer noted that Bisschop’s voice was rather high in pitch, especially when compared to that of Fabritius, which was deep and under-spoken.
        “So, Joannis, when Cornelis here gets back from Amsterdam, let’s get together. We’ll consider it part of your ‘apprenticeship’ and we can chat. I’m certain that the two of you have much in common.”
        “I’d like that, Carel. Very much. So, Monday then?”
        “Monday.”
        “Thank you. I’ll see you then.”
        “With the painting.”
        “With the painting.”
        Vermeer nodded to Bisschop and then took his leave, awkwardly tripping around Zicht, who was standing guard at the door.
                                            
        Vermeer ran all the way back to the Mechelen and up to his room. There was still enough light left for him to sit at his easel and reconsider his portrait to determine the changes he would make. Once that was done, he would have to analyze the time required to make them.
        First, the expression. He tried various ‘looks’ in the mirror and realized how difficult it was to effect a genuine smile without looking either dazed or stupid. Finally, he found an expression that would work and would not involve his having to portray his teeth, which would take too much time to execute.
        Next, he recanted his decision about the hat, realizing that the time required to work out the blacks and highlights would be far less than that needed to render his hair in an accurate fashion. As he ran downstairs to fetch his hat from its peg, he heard Digna’s voice.
        “Joannis, are you coming to eat? You need to eat something or you’ll get sick.”
        “Not just yet, Mother. Have Mirthe keep it warm for me.”

        He was back up the stairs and seated at the easel. He tried on the hat in various positions, but finally decided on the way he usually wore it, cocked back toward his right shoulder.
        There was one more change he decided to make. The palette and the brushes he had originally planned were now, to his mind, too pretentious, but he still wanted to show his left hand. What could he be holding? He thought about Fabritius, who would be judging this, and decided to cater to him. It would be a beer glass. There were dimpled amber ones downstairs in the kitchen, so he ran back down to get one of those.
        “Joannis!” Digna said in a rather perplexed way, “What are you doing?”
        “Just working, Mother,” he said, as he sped by her and back up the stairs.
        There was just enough daylight left for him to re-pose for the picture and assess it. Yes. Catharina had been quite correct. This would be far better.
        He realized that he was hungry and decided to go back downstairs and spend some time with his mother now that the light had gone. Later, by candlelight, he could sit at his desk and work out the best way to make the changes he had decided upon and revise his timeline.
        All in all, it had been quite a day for him, but he felt satisfied with his progress and would go to bed early so that he might spend a few moments remembering having been with Catharina before going to sleep.



























                                          Chapter Fourteen

                                                         1652

        [Fri. Nov. 29]   
 
        THE REST OF THE WEEK had gone by quietly for Catharina. Of course, there was mass every day with her mother, who had recovered substantially from her cold, and there were many chores to be done around the large house. Since the weather had been much warmer and fair, sheets were washed and dried, quilts and bedding were aired, peat delivered and stacked. Each of the women took an active part in this. Despite her position of Mistress of the House, Maria enjoyed helping with the chores.
        Earlier in the month, Maria had arranged for a large pig to be slaughtered, quartered, salted and smoked. She preferred to have the butcher do this at his shop rather than in her own home, which was the usual way, since there was no ‘Man of the House’ there to help. The meat was delivered on Tuesday and Maria had Miriam hang part of it in a small cool corner of the back kitchen, which opened out to the yard. The remainder of the meat was sent over to the Jesuit church in exchange for smoked, salted and fresh beef which the priests had earlier purchased. From this, Miriam would make her famous Brunssum Stew with onions, apples, cloves, bay and vinegar. This was Catharina’s favorite dish, as well as her mother’s and when it was served, both Tanneke and Miriam would be invited to join them at the table.
        Still, in spite of all that had to be done, Catharina always found a way to be at her window when the town clock struck one. She would open it to see Joannis standing by the church looking in her direction. She found it quite sad that they just couldn’t be together as they wanted, but she knew there would be time for that.
        They wrote to each other every day, hiding and finding the letters when they could, but no plan had yet been made for them to meet. Joannis wrote to her saying that next week, when he had finished his painting, he would work out a way for this to happen. She wrote back that she would hold him to his promise, no matter what.
                                                    
        On Friday morning, Maria had decided to spend the day at the orphanage to make up for the one she had missed. This being the case, Tanneke left the house to spend a few hours visiting an ill friend of hers who worked for a family nearby on the Burgwal, leaving only Miriam in the house with Catharina.
        At around ten o’clock, there was a knock on the door. Catharina was just coming downstairs with a basket of laundry to be washed as Miriam walked past her to open it.
        “Good morning, Miriam. Is Catharina in?”
        It was Liesje and Magda who had come for a surprise visit. Catharina was delighted to see them and Miriam showed them quickly in. The girls chattered as they removed their overshoes and cloaks and then followed Catharina into the warm inner kitchen. Miriam was sent off to make tea and find some cakes.
        “We were just out shopping yesterday and we found something we thought you might like,” Liesje said.
        “Actually, it’s something you might ‘need’,” Magda added as she referred to the small, scarf-wrapped package she was holding.
        “Consider it an early present for Sint Niklaas’ Eve.”
        She handed the ‘present’ to Catharina and then looked furtively around.
        “Is your mother nearby?”
        “No. She’s gone to the orphanage for the day. Why?”
        The girls giggled, but did not answer.
        “Just open it.”
        By now, they were seated at the table close to the fireplace. Catharina was like a small girl on her birthday as she toyed with the knot holding the scarf closed. When she finally opened it, there was another scarf wrapped around what felt to her like a wooden box. On top of this second scarf was a folded piece of paper.
        “Read it,” Magda said. “Liesje wrote it.”
        Catharina looked at the two girls, who were still giggling, and then down at the pretty lavender stationery in her hand. Cautiously she opened it and began to read silently to herself.

                        I’ll be your friend
                        For many years
                         And help you through
                        The night.
                        I’ll take away
                        Your darkest fears

                        And keep you safe and
                        Light.

        Catharina was more puzzled now than before. It was a traditional Christmas riddle, but she had no idea how to solve it.
        “What does it mean?”
        “Open it. You’ll find out.”
        Catharina undid the second scarf to reveal a fine, wooden box with a hinged cover. She looked at both girls before raising the top and then peered inside. She was shocked by what she saw.
        It was a carved, wooded cylinder, rounded on one end and bulbous on the other. It seemed to be hollow with a thin rod pushed all the way into it. Catharina gazed at it in amazement.
        “Go ahead. Take it out,” Liesje urged.
        “I--I can’t.”
        “Why not? No one’s around.”
        They both gave her a ‘look’, so she tentatively reached into the box and removed the carved phallus.
        “It’s made of oak,” Magda felt she needed to add.
        Catharina held the thing with only her thumb and one finger, afraid to take it fully in her hand. The two sisters were delighted.
        “Do you know what it is? What it’s used for?” Liesje asked.
        “I can guess,” responded Catharina in complete disbelief and thankful that both her mother and Tanneke were gone from the house.
        “Well, it’s not just that. It’s ‘protection’. See the little rod? When you pull on that, it becomes a kind of ‘pump’. You can pump things out and you can pump things in.”
        Catharina’s initial shock was turning into genuine curiosity as she examined the object more closely.
        “What to do mean, ‘pump things in’?”
        “You can get things from the apothecary that you can use to keep from getting pregnant. I can make you a list, if you like,” Liesje explained.
        “Or, you can use it just afterwards, the other way,” Magda again offered in addition. “They’re very common. I’m certain you’ve seen them in the shops.” She had.
        Catharina raised an eyebrow as she looked over to Liesje smiling   at her.
        “And just why do you think I need one of these?”
        “Catharina, you’re twenty-one years old and you have a fiancé. Why wouldn’t you need one? The worst thing that can happen to girls like us is to get pregnant before we get married. You know the horrible  shame  that brings to the family. It’s much better to protect yourself--unless you want to just not     ‘do it’.”
        This was no longer a matter to joke about and Catharina, knowing her own recent passions, realized that her friends were correct.       
        “Besides, you can use it after you get married so you don’t end up with fifteen children running around the house,” Magda joked.
        At that point, Miriam came into the room with the teacakes.  She set them down on the table without even casting a glance at the object Catharina was now holding in her full hand. Liesje felt playful and asked,
        “Miriam? Do you know what that is that Miss Bolnes is holding?”
        Catharina was appalled at his embarrassing remark, but before she could protest on her maid’s behalf, Miriam looked and then answered.
        “It’s a dildo, Miss.”
        “Miriam! How do you know about--this?” Catharina asked as she was holding it out as if to display it in some forceful way.
        “Doctor Vos told me to get one to relieve my hysteria. Will that be all, Mum?” and, since there was no immediate answer, she nodded and then left the room. As soon as she was gone, all three girls nearly collapsed on to the floor in laughter.
                                            
        Vermeer’s week was occupied almost solely with his painting. He had written out his timeline and knew he had to adhere to it. On Tuesday, he had corrected the underpainting to reflect his new composition. Perspective was not an issue, as it had been in the Madonna, but the composition was designed to put the observer’s viewpoint at the top of a triangle formed by his body. The glass in his left hand would ‘balance’ the painting, but the first thing observed would be his eyes. He was able to finish this to his satisfaction just as the light started to fail. As he cleaned his brushes in turpentine, which he had gotten from downstairs, he planned his next day’s work--the wall.

Chapter Nineteen       

                                                                    1652

        [Tue. Dec. 10]   
 
        THE BLIZZARD STRUCK just after midnight. The wind howled and swirled the snow into fierce vortices that would have tormented any person foolish enough to be outside. The evening fluff-flakes had turned into bitter sharp crystals, dry as sand, that skittered over the softer blanket already laid down. By dawn, it was over and the sun rose into a clear and cloudless sky to reveal the silent white city below.
        But Delft did not stay quiet for long. The wagons and carts carrying butter and fresh milk still found their way to the merchants’ stalls on and around the Square. Shop doors opened as snow was shoveled away, baker boys blew their horns and the cattle still bellowed in the beeste markt as they waited to be bartered or killed.   
        Vermeer was standing at the rear of the church where the Vrowersdijk canal met the Oude Langendijk. From here he could see Catharina’s door without being easily noticed and, as he waited, it occurred to him that this was the very place he stood as a boy when her saw Maria, grim with arms folded across her stomach, confront her young daughter. In spite of the cold and the snow, his mind relived that exact October moment and his heart relived the feeling of guilt he felt for having caused that little scene.
        Around him, other doors were opening as the maids and mistresses with their market pails braved the cold to go about their normal morning’s shopping. It was only when Maria’s door opened and Catharina came out, followed by Miriam, that he snapped back to the present. He noticed Catharina look around as the two women slogged to the footbridge that crossed the narrow canal.
        Vermeer turned and quickly moved to intercept them when they reached the front of the church. His timing was perfect.
        “Why, Miss Bolnes! What a pleasure to see you,” he said as he reached them, walking as causally through the snow as humanly possible.
        “Mister Vermeer! What a pleasant surprise. What brings you out this chilly morning?”
        He had not actually anticipated a question here, but he thought fast.
        “I am working on a new painting,” he improvised, “and I am off to buy  --painting things.”
        Of course, all this was for Miriam’s benefit and was completely wasted as she stood there, saying nothing but knowing everything.
        “You know,” Catharina said in an off-the-cuff way, “my mother has a birthday coming up in the spring and I was thinking of giving her a small portrait of myself to put along side the others of our family. Would you be interested in such a small commission--when you’ve finished what you are presently doing, of course?”
        Vermeer found himself in the middle of Catharina’s one act play and had to go along with it as best       he could.
        “I would be delighted, Miss Bolnes. You will make a most fitting subject.”
        “Perhaps we should talk about it, then--when you are not too busy,” she decided to add for his benefit.
        “I believe I have some time at the moment, if that might satisfy you,” he replied for hers.
        Here, behind their backs, Miriam actually rolled her eyes and was almost caught as Catharina turned      to her.
        “Miriam, Mister Vermeer and I have something to talk about, so please go do the shopping and meet me here in exactly one hour.”
        Miriam knew that she would be finished well before then and would have to wait somewhere out in the cold, but those were the orders from her mistress and they were to be obeyed without question. Besides, the reticent kitchen maid liked Vermeer and thought him a good choice for Catharina.
        “Yes, Mum. One hour.”
        Joannis and Catharina watched as the dutiful servant plodded through the snow on her way to the baker’s shop or some other such place. When they were finally alone, as alone as two people can be in a square that was rapidly filling with townsfolk, their eyes met and their desire to grasp each other in a deep embrace was almost overpowering, but all Vermeer could do was take Catharina’s gloved hands into his as she offered them.
        “I am so sorry, Joannis.”
        “No, Catharina. It was my fault.”
        This would have gone on, but the church bells began to toll and a long, dark funeral procession could be seen entering the Square near the Town Hall, marching as solemnly as possible through the snow, directly towards them.

        “We can’t talk here,” Vermeer said as he watched the sad parade move closer.
        “Where, then? It’s too cold outside.”
        He thought for a moment, still holding one of her hands and then started to lead her off, back around    the church.
        “I have an idea.”
        “Where?”
        “Trust me.”
        He brought her around past where he had been standing while he waited for her, then across the small bridge which crossed the Vrowersdijk to her own street, but further down. She followed silently, wondering where he was leading her.
        They rounded the rear of the church and Catharina hesitated for a second as Vermeer led her in the direction of her own house not that much further up the street.
        “Joannis!”
        “Don’t worry. We’re almost there.”
        “Where?”
        “Trust me,” and he continued leading her along.
        They passed the music stall of Mister Mesritz, where Fabritius had painted his miniature diorama, and stopped at the building just next to it.
        “Here. Come on.”
        Catharina was surprised at his choice and immediately protested, although still holding his hand.
        “I can’t go in there, Joannis. It’s a tavern!”
        Indeed it was, the Swan, to be precise, the top half of its front door now partially opened to beckon in the early patrons while still keeping out most of the cold.
        “It’s fine, Catharina. I know the woman who owns it and I’m certain none of your mother’s friends will be inside. Besides, it’s close and it will be warm.”
        Catharina still had her doubts, but followed as Vermeer opened the bottom part of the door which jingled a little bell attached to the inner frame and led her inside.
        The Swan was smaller than the tavern at the Mechelen and far less well-appointed, being simply a drinking place and not attached to an inn where more up-scale patrons might be found. Still, it had the characteristic reek of stale beer and old pipe smoke, which Vermeer did not notice but made Catharina wrinkle her nose. The place was empty except for one old soul, sitting in a corner brooding over his pot of morning beer. As Vermeer started to lead Catharina to a table in the opposite corner, close to the fire that was just coming up in the grate, a heavyset matron, wearing a spotless white apron and coif, came from the back room, summoned to her new customers by the bell on the door. She stopped when she saw Catharina because such fine ladies never entered a place of this nature, and assumed that the couple must be here on some other sort of business.
        “Good morning. May I help you?”
        Catharina shot a quick look at Joannis, thinking, ‘I thought you said you knew her.’
        “Good morning, Vrouw Griffets. It’s me. Vermeer, Joannis Vermeer.”
        The woman threw her hands up to her mouth in mild surprise.
        “Joannis! God in heaven, how you’ve grown! You were just a boy the last time I saw you, now look at you!” She came up to him and gave him the three kisses, then stood back as she took in Catharina, standing next to him, trying to smile.
        “And who might this elegant lady be?” she asked without hesitation.
        “This is my--” he started to say ‘friend’, but checked himself instantly, “--my fiancée, Miss Catharina Bolnes.”
        The word had an effect on each of the ladies, Catharina delighted and Vrouw Griffets pleased that the little boy had done so well for himself. She was bold enough to give Catharina the three kisses as well, which the girl graciously returned. Then, the matron stood back and a serious look crossed her face for an instant.
        “I was so sorry to hear about your father, rest his soul.  He was a very good man and I am certain he has found his reward in heaven.”
        “Thank you, Vrouw Griffets. That is very kind of you to say.”
        That being done with, she reanimated herself as she stood back a little to take them     both in.
        “Tell me, Joannis, what brings you here this morning?”
        “Well, Miss Bolnes and I have some business to discuss.”
        “Business?” There was nothing shy about this woman and Catharina liked that in her.
        “Yes. I’ve become a painter and--”
        “Your father always wanted you to be a painter,” she interrupted. “He must be very proud of you as he sits with God.”

        “Thank you. I trust that I have not disappointed him. However, I have recently been commissioned by Miss Bolnes to paint a portrait of her,” Catharina forced a bigger smile at this, “and we wanted to discuss the details, but it is so cold outside that, I thought--”
        “You would like a quiet place to talk,” Vrouw Griffets picked up instantly, not believing a word of Vermeer’s ‘portrait’ story. “Well, this tavern is not a suitable place for a lady such as your intended. It would be wrong for me to allow that.”
        Vermeer’s heart sank at these words, but the kind tavern keeper  went on.
        “However, there is a very nice room just behind the cooking kitchen which you could use, if that would suit you.”
        “That is too kind, Vrouw--”
        “Don’t be ridiculous! I used to be a young girl once. I know about these things.” Catharina could feel herself starting to blush as the lady smiled, lifted one eyebrow and then turned to lead them to a small hallway and the little room beyond. Vrouw Griffets opened a door to reveal a very comfortable room with walls hung with paintings of good quality as a peat fire blazed in the fireplace.
        “This is my private ‘study’. I like to read the Bible here in the evenings or do my needlepoint.”
        Both Catharina and Vermeer were impressed by this literate and refined barkeeper.
        “But I don’t use it much during the day when the tavern gets so busy. Please feel free to stay as long as you like to discuss your art project. I’ll bring you some mulled wine and then leave the two of you alone until you’re done.”
        Her kind intent was quite clear and was richly appreciated. As soon as Vrouw Griffets had gone, closing the door behind her, Vermeer and Catharina embraced the way they had wanted earlier in the Square. Their wordless kisses were deep and strong and they did not stop until there was a rap on the door and their hostess returned with the wine.
        “There you are,” she said as she placed a beautiful silver tray with a pitcher and two wine cups made of fine Delft chinaware, on the table behind them. “That should help take the chill off. If you need anything else, I’ll be in front.”
        “Thank you, Vrouw Griffets, you have been too kind,” Catharina said, not wanting to seem like some mere artifact attached to the man beside her.
        “Not at all, my dear,” and she silently latched the door behind her as   she left.
        “Well, quite a woman,” Catharina offered.
        “I had no idea.” Each knew that they could not spend their short time together kissing, and although each wanted to be passionately with the other, they were also aware that that was out of the question.
        “I only have an hour, less now, Joannis, and there is something very important that I must discuss       with you.”
        He nodded as he poured two cups of the hot wine and offered one to her.
        “To us!” he said as he raised his glass to her.
        “To us!” she responded as they each sipped the warm liquid that heated their insides all the way to their stomachs.
        Vermeer sat down and waited for Catharina to do the same.  In spite of herself, Catharina thought that Captain Maas would have waited until she sat, perhaps even helping her with her chair. Nevertheless, she sat in the chair next to him and put her hand on top of his.
        “Joannis, yesterday I spoke with our priest. All of this--us--has been churning around inside of me so much that I just had to talk to someone about it, someone I felt I could trust.”
        Vermeer was not quite so certain about this, but listened patiently as she went on.
        “He gave me some very good advice.”
        “You told this priest everything?”
        “Yes.”
        Hmmmm.
        “He knows my mother very well and could see the problems you and I were facing--are facing. He said that what we had done, our ‘being together’, was not a sin.”
        “I never thought it was.”
        “Well, I--in any event--he understood the complications we face before we can be married.
        “You mean your mother.”
        “Yes.”
        “So, what did this priest tell you?”
        “He said that you could win her over by proving to her your potential and success as an artist.”
        Vermeer did not like the sound of this, but realized that he had no better solution to offer, so he went along with it as it was offered.
        “How do I do that?”

        “Joannis, you are a great painter and will be very successful. I have no doubt of it and neither will my mother when she sees your work and learns that you have already sold a painting for one hundred guilders. She has a fine eye for art, as you already know, and has even patronized young artists like Maria Oosterwijk, the girl who sells flower paintings in the Square.”
        It is indeed a small town, Vermeer thought to himself.
        “You can do it, Joannis. I know you can persuade her of your talent and bright future.”
        “But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there, Catharina?”
        She took a deep breath and squeezed his hand tighter.
        “Yes there is.” She looked deeply into his eyes, almost pleading with her own, before going on with the most difficult part.
        “Father van der Ven, my priest, said that in order for us to be happy together, we must have my mother’s full blessing. It would hurt her too much if I just ran off with you. It might even kill her.”
        “Did the priest say that?”
        “No. But it’s what I feel and I can’t weigh my love for her against my love for you and find any way to choose one over the other. I just can’t do it.”
        “So, what is the solution? I love you, Catharina, and can’t imagine my life without you. One day or another you will have to choose and I thought you had already done that.”
        “And I have, Joannis. I have chosen you. But as long as there is still another way, I think you should know about it.”
        Vermeer was confused. He could understand Catharina’s deep inner conflict, but had no idea where she was trying to lead him hoping to resolve it.
        “And what is that, Catharina?”
        “That you convert to Catholicism.”
        There! She said it! She was terrified of how he might react to it, but Vermeer’s face showed nothing.
        “Pardon me?” he said as if he hadn’t understood, although he had and for some reason needed to hear the words again.
        “Father van der Ven said that if you could convert to Catholicism, then my mother could have no real objections and would welcome you and our future children.”
        This was a great deal for Vermeer to take in all at once, let alone agree to. Of course, he had thought about his ability to provide for a family in the future, but only in a vague and general way. The thought of little Vermeers running around, little Catholic Vermeers, had never been concrete in his mind. However, he did not find himself completely opposed to the notion of conversion. If the crown of France was worth the price of a mass, as they said, why not the hand of the woman he so deeply loved?
        Vermeer weighed all this as Catharina patiently watched him, seeking in his features some way to gauge his reaction.  There were other considerations.
        “What about my mother?” Vermeer asked.
        “Father van der Ven said she must be told and, in all fairness, also agree.”
        Vermeer had no idea how Digna would react to any of this. Of course she would think that he was too young to be married, especially since he was still an apprentice, had no place to put a family, and no way to support them even if it were just a wife. As far as changing his religion would be concerned, he did not think that his mother would ‘embrace’ the idea very easily. He knew she believed, as his father had, that there were vast differences between Protestants and Catholics and strong reasons for those differences.
        Catharina could see the troubled look in his face and raised her hand to touch his cheek.
        “Joannis, don’t answer me now. It would not be fair of me to ask that. But, please think about what     I’ve said.”
        Where to go? What to do? What to say? He had not been prepared for this conversation and now it exhausted him, even though he could see the glimmer of merit I it.
        “Of course I will think about it, Catharina,” he said gently and earnestly to her. “But I need time.”
        “When you are ready, I will be here for you and I will stand by you every step. You have my word.”
        They both heard the town clock chime ten and knew that they had to part once again, he to his moving with Spoors, which would be quite difficult in the snow, and then to his session with Fabritius, which may turn out to be as unpleasant as yesterday’s experience and she to her meeting with the probably well-chilled Miriam and the false face she would have to put on for the rest of the morning.
        They stood and embraced one last time before leaving the wonderfully warm little room in the back of this working-class tavern.
        “You know I have to deal with Fabritius now.”
        “Yes. I understand that, Joannis, and am sorry about yesterday.”

        “I don’t know when I can see you again and when we can talk about this some more, but I want you to know that I have listened carefully to what you told me and will consider everything you have said.”
        For Catharina this was enough. Her hopes were higher now than they ever had been and she trusted Vermeer to do as he had just promised. She could ask no more of him than that.
        “I love you, Catharina.”
        “I love you, Joannis, and I know, with everything alive in me, that we will solve this and be together. I have complete faith that that will happen and you must too.”
       
        [Tue. Dec. 10]

        When Vermeer reached to alley by the side of the Mechelen, Spoors, freezing and exhausted, was already there with the handcart.
        “Have you been waiting long?” he asked the boy.
        “Yes, Sir. I left early because of the snow,” Spoors replied, shivering in his thin clothing.
        “Well, come inside and get warm first.” As Vermeer opened the door to the building, he turned to ask the helper a question.
        “How is Fabritius today?”
        “What do you mean, Sir?”
        “His mood.”
        “I don’t know. When I left, he was in his studio drawing.  Madam Agatha said I was not to disturb him, so I did not.”
        This did not help Vermeer all that much. He was dreading the meeting with the volatile artist and would have liked a better idea of what he might expect when he got there.
        “Well, come inside. I’ll get my things and you sit downstairs by the fire.”
        “But I’ve come to help you, Sir. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get this over with.”       
        Vermeer smiled, remembering his own early days when he had been required to perform all sorts of unpleasant tasks for Bramer.
        “Of course. Let’s get to it, then,” and he led the boy into the hall and up the stairs to his room.
        The trip back to Doelenstraat was not all that difficult, even with the handcart. They chose the most traveled path where the snow had already been tamped down by the regular morning foot traffic and as they walked, both pulling the lightly loaded cart, Vermeer had two things on his mind. The first was how he would behave with Fabritius. He decided that, no matter what his mentor said or did, short of striking him, he would not react emotionally to it. He felt prepared to perform his drawing task, at least as far as he could take it and was ready for another long, cold afternoon at the window, although he was not certain how to handle the new snow. Not to worry, he thought. There was still a great deal of detail in the un-blanketed walls of the houses that he had yet to absorb.
        His second thought, of course, was about his meeting with Catharina. He did not have the time now, nor was he inclined, to weigh all of the implications of what she had told him and what she had suggested. Rather, he was thinking about her last words to him, ‘I have complete faith that that will happen, and you must too’. These repeated themselves in his mind over and over, as he plodded through the snow. ‘I have complete faith.’ ‘You must, too.’ But, as they neared the studio, the mental sound of Catharina’s voice transmuted itself into that of Fabritius’.
        ‘Faith! That is what I will teach you. Faith in painting--Faith in nature--Faith in yourself.’
        Spoors led Vermeer past the front door and to another one on the side of the house.
        “We should use this door, Sir.”
        Vermeer wondered what he meant by this. Was this a directive from Fabritius that his ‘apprentice’ should not enter the master’s house by the front door, but always through the scullery the way servants are required to do unless accompanied by their employer?
        “It will be easier to get your easel upstairs through the kitchen,” Spoors offered in explanation, although not completely putting Vermeer’s mind at ease about it. “I’ll take everything up. You should go see the Master.”
        “Thank you Spoors. You’ve been very helpful.”
        “It was what I was told to do, Sir,” the lad replied rather than simply saying ‘You’re welcome.’
        “Yes,” Vermeer muttered and then made his way through the kitchen to Carel’s drawing studio, bracing himself with each step.
        He looked in the door to see Fabritius, hair stringy and ragged, at his table drawing with pen and ink. There were sketches everywhere around him, even on the floor by his chair and a beer pot close to his right hand. Apparently, he was not aware that Vermeer had arrived.
        “Excuse me, Carel, but I’m here. Spoors is bringing my things upstairs.”

        Fabritius turned, his face animated and alive in contrast to the leaden and sinister look he wore just the day before.
        “Vermeer! Good. Come on in.” His tone was almost cheerful.  “How was the walk?”
        “Not so bad. Spoors was very helpful.”
        “Yes, he’s a fine boy, if only he wanted to be a painter. I’m thinking about teaching him to grind paint, did he tell you that?”
        “No, he doesn’t talk all that much.”
        “Quite true. Perhaps it’s a virtue.”
        Fabritius stood up to stretch his back and neck, then picked up the beer pot and filled an empty glass from a nearby shelf. Moving closer to Vermeer, he offered it and Joannis took it while Fabritius retrieved          his own.
        “Salut!”
        “Salut!”
        The beer tasted good to Joannis, the warm malt cleansing his mouth and throat that had become dry during the walk.
        “How did everything go with your young lady this morning?” Fabritius asked to Vermeer’s evident surprise. His tone was sincere, with no hint of sarcasm at all. “She seemed rather upset yesterday.”
        ‘How, on God’s good earth, could Fabritius talk about the events of that horrible day in such a casual way?’ Vermeer wondered as the took another, larger swig of his beer.
        “It’s quite complicated, but it was important that we talked this morning.” It was more than he wanted to say about this and he wondered if he might be offering it as a justification for his lateness, which was one thing he definitely did not want to do. But Fabritius responded in a friendly manner, taking nothing more from it, it seemed, than what he had just been given.

        “I understand how it is with beautiful women. It’s never easy. Believe me, I know,” and he gave Vermeer one of his great smiles, eyes twinkling even in this light.
        Vermeer finally felt relaxed, but was still amazed by the man’s transformation from one day to another. He recalled a distant uncle on his father’s side of the family, Uncle Jan, the baker, who often came to the Mechelen to visit Reynier. Vermeer’s father had told him, and he had seen it himself as a boy, that Uncle Jan was ‘like the wind--warm, calm and gentle one moment, then cold, wild and violent the next, all without explanation’. Joannis wondered if it might not be some sort of malady that certain people suffered, but soon put the thought aside as Fabritius gestured for him to come to the worktable.
        “Come. Take a look at these.” He spread out the various sketches that he had been working on from the day before when Vermeer had come down to ask for permission to be late. Now it was a different day and a different man he was facing.   
        “Ordinarily I don’t show my preliminary work to anyone except for Agatha, but I want you to see these.”
        Vermeer came closer and looked at the well-executed drawings, all variations on the same subject, a man in biblical clothing warmly embracing a boy, while another boy watches unhappily from behind a pillar. Vermeer recognized the theme instantly.
        “The Prodigal Son,” Vermeer said as he looked at the sketches.
        “No, not the Prodigal Son,” Fabritius asserted. “The Allegory of the Prodigal Son. That’s what it will be when I paint it.”
        ‘Yes? So?’, Joannis wondered to himself and Fabritius caught the quizzical look on Vermeer‘s face.
        “You don’t understand. By making a painting an allegory, you increase its value considerably.”
        “Value?”
        “Monetary, Vermeer, not just ‘artistic’. Mind you, it still has to be a good painting and everything in it must work to my satisfaction, but by calling it an allegory, I can add twenty guilders to the price and no one will care.”
         Vermeer knew quite well what allegories were. Every art student studied how other masters had used them, but he had always thought these ‘moral’ or ‘religious’ elements were generated by the artist’s true temperament. Fabritius was making them sound like things out of some sort of game.
        “So, you just call it an allegory?”
        “Of course not. You have to think of things that people will recognize as having deeper meaning and then incorporate them into the composition, so that the owner can contemplate their moral meaning in private or explain them to some privileged viewer and demonstrate how cultured he is. Look, I’ll show you.”
        Fabritius took up his latest draft and showed it closely to Vermeer, tracing certain elements in it with his ink-stained finger.


        “See? The lute here in the corner? First, it strengthens the composition and leads the eye up to the father and son, but it also represents ‘love’ to most people’s minds. I put the lyre next to it to show ‘harmony’. Do you see what I’m saying?”
        “Yes.”
        “Then, look, down here--three small coins on the paving stones. Somebody, most likely the father, ‘lost’ these coins, but we can see from his gaze that he will soon find them again--and three!--That’s the trinity, representing this all as a work of God. The client I hope to sell this to is a Catholic, by the way, so this will not go unnoticed.” Fabritius went on a little more, indicating one symbol after another: The open window-- Hope or Choice, whichever you prefer. The empty basket--Work completed or Loneliness. The small snake by the second son’s foot--Speaks for itself.
        “What about the dog down here in the corner?” Vermeer asked, his interest in the process now piqued.
        “Well, that’s another symbol, of course--faithfulness--but basically I need a dark value in the corner to balance the composition. I may change it to a box or something like that in the painting, but for now, it’s just       a dog.”
        There was a certain frivolous tone to all this, but, Vermeer realized, this was the process that every artist had to go through when composing his work. Bramer certainly did it to a great extent, but never discussed it with him when he was an apprentice in that studio. At least Fabritius was open and instructive about it and this type of knowledge would become an important part of his training throughout the next year. It also became clear that Carel’s ‘mood’ improved when he had a project to work on. Agatha had mentioned this to him, saying that the ‘bleaks’ came when her husband was idle. Now Vermeer could see it for himself.
        Finally, the impromptu lesson was over and Fabritius turned his attention to Vermeer’s assignment.
        “So, Joannis, are you ready to draw for me?”
        “Yes.” Vermeer had the urge to explain that he had mastered only a small part of the scene, but decided to let his work speak for itself. “Yes, I am.”
        “Good. You’ll find paper over on that table and pencils or ink, whichever you prefer, but you should draw down here where it’s warmer. You can just clear a space.” Vermeer removed his casaque and hung it on the back of his chair. Then he sat down and began to draw.
                                              
        Three hours passed as both men sat sketching at their tables. Finally, Vermeer stood up and said that he had finished. Fabritius put his pen down and looked over to Joannis, holding the drawing in his hands.
        “Good. Get your coat back on. We’ll go upstairs and take a look.”
        Vermeer did as he was told while Fabritius waited, content to stay in his thin, cotton chemise. They went up into the room where Spoors had neatly deposited Vermeer’s belongings. Carel went directly to the window, throwing it open to allow in an icy blast of wind so strong it rustled the edges of his hair. He took a deep breath and seemed to relish the freshness of it.
        He took the drawing from Vermeer’s hand.
        “If I’m not mistaken, you were sitting here,” he indicated the chair which had not been moved, “and the windows were adjusted like so--” He moved them to exactly the same positions they were in when Joannis was studying the scene. This impressed Vermeer since he believed that his
mentor had paid little attention to any of this during the brief periods when he had come up with Catharina or brought him food.
        Fabritius sat on the chair and slouched a bit to compensate for the difference between his height and that of Vermeer, who was a little shorter.
        Vermeer stood, not nervous now, but openly curious as to how his teacher would react. He could imagine Carel standing in a studio while Rembrandt repeated the same process. Everything comes from somewhere, he thought.
        Fabritius looked first out the window, studying the scene for some time before looking at Vermeer’s rendering of it. Joannis detected no disappointment from him as Carel looked back and forth from the ‘reality’ outside to the unfinished drawing of it. He wondered if Carel was using the same system, the windowpanes, to judge the correctness of the relationships, as Fabritius compared one scene to the other.
        Finally, Fabritius stood up and, without a word, turned to Joannis and handed his drawing back to him. Vermeer’s heart then started to beat a little faster as he waited for his mentor’s opinion.
        “You moved the convent tower to the left,” Fabritius said without any emotion. “Why?”
        It was true and Vermeer had expected the question.
        “I felt it worked better that way. It was too close to the other tower and seemed to struggle with it in the composition.”
        ‘The assignment was to memorize the scene’ Vermeer could hear Fabritius saying in his mind, ‘not compose a new one’.
        “Excellent choice. I would have done the same.”
        Vermeer realized that he had been holding his breath only when he let it out at these words.
        “A fine job, Joannis, given the time you had to work on it, although you did work on it last night. True?”
        “Yes.” He remembered what Rietwijk had taught him as a boy: Simple, direct responses that answered the question asked and nothing more.
        “That’s fine, although next time I’d like you to bring me your first rendering, if you still have it. It will help me determine how well your mind works, how deeply you retain images. Will you do that?”
        “Yes, of course.”
        Fabritius walked over, closed the windows, and then shuttered them.
        “I don’t see much point in keeping you up here all day freezing your ass off. You’ve proven to me that you can do it. That’s all I need to know.”
        Vermeer was more than pleased at Carel’s assessment.
        “So, what should I do now?”
        Fabritius thought for a moment before answering.
        “Take the time and set up your little studio here. That shouldn’t take too long, but make certain everything is ready. Tomorrow I want you to start painting what you’ve drawn.”
        This was blessed music to Vermeer’s heart.
        “Thank you, Carel.”
        “I expect a great deal from you, Vermeer. Please do not forget that my reputation is also related to your progress. I may not always be easy on you. Now, can you make a good painting out of those little old houses? Can you find the reality in them?”
        “Yes. Yes, I can.”
        “Then set to it. I have a wooden panel you can have, but you’ll have to supply the rest. If there is anything else you need to get, you can spend the rest of the afternoon doing so. Otherwise, just let yourself out when you’ve finished, and I will see you in the morning.”
        Fabritius turned and, without another word or glance, left Vermeer standing alone in the small room, somehow now much warmer than it had been just the day before.       

Chapter Twenty

                                                            1652

        [Sat. Dec. 14] 
 
        THE WEATHER over the last few days had become magically warm, with cloudless skies and melting breezes. The sun, still a small gold ball lowering in the south as it neared the solstice, shared its warmth with those below. Craftsmen worked without their jerkins covering them, shop doors were kept open and the streets were once again crowded with townsfolk going about their usual chores. The larger canals were now fully open and active, the small workboats coming and going as usual. Every Delftsman took advantage of the kindly break in the weather, well aware that this was only a lull and that three more long months of freezing cold and discomfort lay ahead.
        Vermeer worked regularly on his painting, happy that, except for the open field in the distance, his scene was mostly clear of snow. He had gotten the pigments he needed the day Fabritius had set him to it, using the last of the money he had held aside from his shopping spree as well as the voucher from his sister. Even then, he was two guilders short. Mister de Cocq, who owned the apothecary shop where Vermeer had bought his first set of pigments, was willing to open an account for him in his own name, against which he could charge his supplies as he needed. This was gratifying for Vermeer, since it indicated to him that he was starting to be regarded as a working artist, at least in some pockets of the community, and that by putting some of his expenses ‘on account’, he would have a little left over until he received his next stipend from Bramer. However, he also realized that he had established a personal debt that he was legally bound to pay or have others pay for him in the event that he could not, and this thought troubled him.                                            
         Back in his ‘Fabritius studio’, Vermeer was well under way while Carel had started his own painting downstairs. It was a wonderful week for him, both artists working, chatting hastily over bread, cheese and beer at midday, then back to work before the ever diminishing light faded into flat greys and then to dark. There was none of Carel’s moodiness and, more than once, he had called Vermeer down to get his thoughts on his ‘Allegory’.
        Vermeer, when he could take the time, enjoyed watching Fabritius work and found him a man who truly loved the process of painting. This time Carel had chosen not to be bold in his approach, although at first he considered executing the entire work in pure paint, impasto, wet into wet, blending the colors as he went along. Instead, it would be the normal approach with the building up of thin colors over a detailed underpainting, just as Vermeer had done in his two pictures. Of course, Fabritius told him, there would be ‘touches’--the three coins, the wicker of the empty basket--but for the most part, he was striving to please his intended client with whom he had already spoken to the point of securing the commission and negotiating a small advance in the process.
        “When this is done,” Fabritius had told Vermeer one morning, “and the money is in my purse, then, Joannis, I will paint something for myself, something real. It’s been a while and my mind is growing restless.”
        Vermeer was coming to see more clearly each day the lesson he had learned from Bramer, but in his own way. Personal art, the exploration of light, form, perspective and invention, was a leisure activity for those with the talent and the means to afford it. Delft, he was learning from Fabritius, was a city of talented hacks pandering to a self-centered and easily pleased clientele that could afford such indulgences. Even the farmers wanted pictures these days. Why not give them what they wanted? ‘Beauty won’t feed your babies, Joannis,’ he recalled Carel telling him, ‘and truth won’t pay the doctor’s bills.’ These were sobering and important thoughts, and Vermeer believed he was taking them to heart.
                                                     
        As Fabritius worked on his ‘traditional’ Prodigal, upstairs Vermeer was taking a different approach. Once he had perfectly applied the pale blue-grey ground to his panel, he marked the central point with a pin, stuck right into the board. From this point he would draw, in chalk, a straight line to establish his horizontal. Then he would draw the entire scene, but only sketching in the basic relationships. The underpainting would be lead-white for the sky and then grey applied to build up the shadows of the dark clouds and coarsely ground white lead for the two houses on the left, giving them a rougher texture over which he would paint the bricks, incising the minute mortar lines between them. The rest would be all paint on the grounded wood, thin and layered or thick impasto, as each element required. However, the first thing he would set himself to actually painting would be that complex sky he had first observed. This would determine the tone for everything that fell beneath it.
        He never forgot what Fabritius had told him about painting the reality of the scene and not just a picture of some old houses. To do this, Vermeer would take time each day to watch the people as they left or entered these buildings and noted how they were dressed and what they might be doing--A woman and her maid leaving for market or returning with fresh bread and vegetables in the shopping bucket--A father heading off to start his day‘s work in some shop--A grandmother sweeping the sidewalk in front of her house. He even stayed one night, well after dark, to study their windows, lit by lamp and firelight and think about the people inside. He would never have to paint this, of course, but knowing it and feeling it gave him a greater sensitivity to what these brick buildings were and why they were there. This was what he wanted to paint, the essence of the quiet scene caught in a single, ordinary moment. This was the reality that Fabritius had asked for and Vermeer had the faith in his own skill to achieve it.
                                            
        Vermeer was pleased that both his work and his master had allowed him to go back to the Mechelen each evening. Before returning to the inn, he would stop at the church and find the letter that Catharina always left for him in their place behind the tomb. He would wait until he got back to his room to read it, but would leave the one he had written for her the night before or at the end of his day at Carel’s.
        None of these letters discussed the serious issues they had talked about earlier in the week. Rather, they were simply ‘love letters’, the kind sent back and forth between couples that could not be together. He would write to her about his painting, Fabritius, the talks they had and some of the things he thought he was learning. Catharina usually had less to offer, her life having settled into the dull winter routine of her house, aunt and mother. There was a visit from Liesje and Magda for tea, but she did not relate the things they talked about when they were left alone by themselves. In the end, they both reaffirmed their love for one another and the strong and growing desire to be together when time and opportunity would allow.

                                            
        [Sat. Dec. 14]

        Catharina sat at her table while Tanneke finished styling her hair for the day. She had pulled it straight back off the girl’s forehead and turned it into a broad, flat bun at the back, set off by plaited braids, while tendrils of natural curls hung from each temple down to her shoulders and covered the fronts of her ears. It was an attractive style, yet still quite proper for a young woman of her age and position, and would not need to be covered by a coif or bonnet unless Catharina decided to set about housework or go outside.
        As Tanneke finished and turned to leave, Catharina stood up and seemed rather excited.
        “Can you keep a secret?” Catharina asked innocently, forgetting that her maid had been holding the biggest ‘secret’ of all for some time. Tanneke, not knowing what might be coming this time, answered as simply as she could.
        “Yes, Catharina. I can keep a secret.”
        “Good.”
        Catharina went over to her wardrobe and on tippy-toe reached in the back to take out the box Joannis had given her. She brought this over to Tanneke and handed it to her.
        “Open it.”
        Tanneke, having to go along with this, did as she was told, to reveal the two overly large faux pearl earrings.
        “Joannis gave them to me.”
        “They’re rather--odd--don’t you think?” Tanneke could not help but saying, but this did not deflate Catharina in the least.
        “Yes! And I love them. I’ve never seen anything like them before. See? They’re different colors.”
        “Yes, I see that. They’re lovely,” Tanneke lied.
        “I’m going to ask Miriam to pierce my ears so I can wear them.”
        “That may not please your mother.”
        “She will never know, but I can wear them when I’m with Joannis.”
        “Hmmmm.”
        Catharina took the box back but could not resist holding the grey one up to her ear to inspect it in         her mirror.
        “Now, don’t go making me unhappy today, Tanneke. I won’t have it,” she said with a slight smile as she put the earring back in its box.
        “And what is it, if I may ask, that makes you so happy?”  Tanneke had noticed the positive change in Catharina’s attitude recently and wondered if it had anything to do with Captain Maas. It didn’t.
        Catharina gave a little sigh as she started to explain.
        “You remember when Liesje and Magda were here the other day? Well, we were talking and Liesje said that she never got to see Laurens very much, even though they are officially engaged. He works with his father down at the port all day and at night she’s not allowed to leave the house.”
        “This makes you happy?”

        “No--well--in a way. I started to think about it and realized that my situation, not being able to be with Joannis as much as I want, isn’t that unusual for a woman my age. He has his work, and I have my duties here in the house and with Mother.”
        Tanneke found this explanation rather tedious and self-centered. Catharina had heavier issues to weigh, but it was not the maid’s place to chasten the mistress and so she endured it, grateful, at least, that something had improved Catharina’s disposition.
        Catharina watched Tanneke and broke off her thought with a new and more serious one.
        “You never ask about Joannis and me.”
        Tanneke was slightly taken aback by this.
        “It’s not my place to do so. If there is something you would like me to know, I am certain you will tell me.”
        “I want you to know everything. You’re my friend.”
        “Catharina, I am your friend, but I don’t want to know everything. I’ve given you my best advice and I’m afraid there’s little more that I can offer.”
        “But if I can’t talk to you, Tanneke, who can I talk to?  The girls only want to hear about the naughty things, otherwise, they’re only interested in themselves.”
Catharina’s frustration was evident, in spite of her improved point of view, and understandable. Tanneke softened, as she brushed a stray wisp of hair from Catharina’s forehead. She understood well that this was a house of three isolated women, each with her own set of secrets, fears and frustrations, little more than a well-appointed convent with its endless routine of duties, prayers, small talk and silence. Catharina, at least, was struggling to break free and it was
                                                                                                                      her obligation to provide whatever comfort she could for her mistress and her friend.
        “Did you talk with the priest?” Tanneke asked sincerely.
        “Yes.”
        “And what did he tell you?”

                                            
        [Sat. Dec. 14]

        Vermeer did not find the houses in his scene very interesting. The Great Fire of over a hundred years ago had destroyed most of the city except for the northeast corner and a few lucky dwellings, such as the one across the canal from the Mechelen, where he and Catharina played as children. These ‘newer’ houses had fronts of regular and uniform brickwork and were designed with a greater sense of symmetry than their predecessors. Still, this is what had been assigned to him, and he was determined to make more of it than just a ‘pretty picture’. His first task was to work out the composition and he spent his first day doing just that.
        From his vantage point, he could see three of the houses on the street. The one on the left--three stories and clad in cocoa-brown brick with its lower section whitewashed--was only half visible, being cut off through the center of its tall, blue door. Vermeer decided to move this edge out just a little, revealing the full door and half of the large window next to it.
        Then there was the house directly in front of him, abutted against its neighbor to the right as he looked at it. This was of dark red brick and appeared to be of an earlier design, its brickwork irregular and in places built-over or patched with veins of white mortar. It was only two stories and a low attic, with its own small window just under the peak of the eaves. This dwelling was very narrow, with the large shuttered window to the left, the one that he had used to measure his relationships, flanked by a tall wooden door of deep black with a single brass doorknob. It was in the center top of this window that Vermeer stuck his pin, placing the focal point and his horizon line in the lower part of the picture. This, he knew, was not completely accurate, but necessary to allow for the abundance of sky he desired.
        The third house in his composition was set off from the other two by a wide path of packed earth that led to the small, snow covered area that must serve as a garden for the families that lived around it. At the back of this field, Vermeer could see a high wall of what appeared to be black brick or stone. He decided that, when the time came, he would have to walk out to it and determine the details of its construction even though these would be rendered in a suggestive way. The long row of buildings beyond this wall was rather far off and vague, separated by the low, and not visible, field. These, again, would only be suggested, Vermeer thought, except for some of the higher ones, whose roofs caught the sunlight with unusual brightness in the late afternoon. He would move the small tower of the old convent, which Fabritius had told him was now being used by the state militia for the storage of weapons and ordnance, to the left and make it a bit taller, as he had in the sketch he had first presented to Carel.

        For the third building, Vermeer would show only its side made of regular grey bricks, a double window with blue shutters in a white frame and a narrow brown wooden door. He would have to adjust the angle of its roofline slightly downward from its true perspective to lessen its strength at the side of his panel and help balance the rest of the composition, a thing easily accomplished.
                                            
        As the week wore on, Vermeer finished the chalk sketch and adjusted the relationships of the various elements until they were to his satisfaction. The underpainting for the clouds and buildings had been accomplished and the sky finished. Now he would work from front-to-back, starting with the central building and finishing with the distant rooftops and towers.
        He had loaded his palette with only the colors needed for the brick and set to work with a narrow brush. By midafternoon, he had finished only the first few scores of brick under the window, his hands aching as he gripped his fine brush tighter and tighter as the day wore on. He attempted to paint the bricks individually at first, until he completed a full row, allowing the granules in the coarsely ground lead white to add texture to each surface. Then, using the tip of a small knife, he incised straight lines to reveal the white underpaint where the mortar would be, but the result was unsatisfactory. The knife tended to cut down to the grounded layer, or even the wooden panel itself, and the unusual angle at which the blade had to be held hurt his hand even more. He would have to come up with a better way.
        Vermeer had never painted anything like this before, of course, nor had he been instructed in ‘brick painting’ technique by Bramer, and the process started to frustrate him. Vermeer put down his brush and rubbed his knuckles to relieve some of the tension that had caused his prolonged cramping, which the cold air from the open window did not help. He sat back in his chair to think.
        In his career as an apprentice, he had done hundreds of sketches, copies, live paint work on a few of Bramer’s own pictures, his Madonna and his self-portrait. The problems he had faced and solved had mostly to do with color, light and shadow. Now he was dealing with structure, detail and strict composition as well, and the number of decisions he had to make astounded him. It would not be enough just to duplicate the view out Carel’s window. That was reality, but, Vermeer decided, reality was not always perfect. Things had to be moved, widened or narrowed. Colors had to be modified, or even replaced, to serve the overall picture in a way that lent an even ‘greater’ reality to the scene, one not of the eye, but of the emotions. Perhaps, he thought, this was what Fabritius was talking about when he stressed ‘faith in reality’, this deeper level, seen only by the artist and then executed through his skill for others to perceive through his efforts.

        For a moment, Vermeer forgot about the onerous brickwork, which he knew he would be able to solve eventually, and thought instead about the scene. What had he noticed as he had watched the people who actually lived in those houses come and go? Which instant in time would he capture to give the picture meaning beyond its commonplace architecture and setting? He realized that he had to solve this first, before going much further, and found it a harder challenge than he had imagined. He could search his memory for something he had seen during the days he gazed out the window and took in the view, or he could ‘invent’ something, using elements from his own past experience or imagination, to create a scene that never actually occurred in the reality of that street, but might have.
        Still pondering these things, Vermeer vaguely heard the town bells chime two o’clock, signaling about two good hours of light left for his working day. He re-addressed himself to the brickwork problem and set the rest aside to think about in the evening when the light was not a consideration.
        A thought came to him. Instead of his fine sable brush, Vermeer took up a larger brush with a flat tip and examined it closely before looking back out the window. He tried to imagine the colors and rough texture of the entire surface, while ignoring the mortar lines completely. Taking this broader brush, he loaded its tip with red ocher and began to fill in the space between the outside lines of his chalk sketch, thick enough to color, but thin enough to retain the texture of the rough ground layer underneath. The mortar lines and details, he would add later.

                                            
        [Sat. Dec. 14]

        “Ooouch!” Catharina gasped, as the cold thin needle pierced her left earlobe.
        “You’d better hurry, Miriam. Maria and Cornelia will be back any minute,” Tanneke warned.
        “It takes time for the ice to work,” Miriam laconically replied, as she shifted her attention to Catharina’s other ear.
        “Hold the ice on that one. I’ll put the pin in this one.”
Maria never wore jewelry of any sort other than the ring she wore when she was with her ‘former’ husband. However, Maria possessed a box of fine necklaces, pearls, earrings and other such items that had come down to her through family lines. Miriam had found in the treasure chest two small loop earrings of pure gold. These Catharina would need to wear secretly until the holes in her lobes had completely healed. As Catharina chilled her second ear with a piece of ice brought in from the laundry yard, Miriam skillfully opened the little ring and inserted it through the first hole, wiping away the miniscule drop of blood that had seeped out. Tanneke watched, fretting as she was, about the return of the older ladies. Catharina winced.
        “There,” Miriam said, satisfied. “Next.” She looked at Catharina, whose nod indicated that she was prepared to undergo the ordeal one more time.
        Miriam shifted to the other side and picked up the piece of cut turnip that she then placed behind Catharina’s ear, just touching the back of the earlobe. Picking up the needle again, she struck with out warning. Through the skin. Through the flesh and deep into the turnip backing--Then a little wiggle around to insure the wideness of the channel--Then out. A quick wipe, and the other gold loop was locked in place. Catharina’s eyes started to water, but she had little time to indulge herself. Maria and Cornelia, along with Marta, had returned and could be heard downstairs as they entered.
        “Quick, put on your coif. Miriam, take this box back to Madam Maria’s room before she misses it and go down to the kitchen the back way.”
        Tanneke helped Catharina with her coif and tied it under her chin as they heard Maria’s voice calling up the stairs.
        “Tanneke? Are you up there?”
        “Yes, Mum. I’ll be right down,” she called back as she assured herself that Catharina’s eyes were dry and that there was no blood on her clean linen collar.
        “So? Is it worth it?”
        “I think so. How long will it take to heal?”
        “How would I know? You’ll have to ask Miriam that-- later.”
        Tanneke turned and headed downstairs with Catharina close behind.
        Maria and Cornelia had already gotten out of their capes and overshoes and were in the cooking kitchen, where Miriam was miraculously pouring hot water into the teapot.
        “You called for me, Mum?”
        “Ah, Tanneke. Yes. I was looking for Catharina, but I see you’ve brought her with you.” She turned to her daughter who was smiling in a rather weak fashion.
        “Sit down and have some tea with us, Catharina. I have some news     for you.”
        Catharina did as she was told, and another cup was brought for her as Maria and Cornelia crossed themselves before sipping their tea.
        “We’ve just come from the carriage station. Aunt Cornelia is returning to Gouda on Monday morning and we are going with her.”
        “Won’t that be nice?” Cornelia beamed as she sipped her tea.
        ‘No, Auntie, it won’t be nice’, Catharina thought to herself, trying to devise some way out of it, but realizing that there was no excuse she could offer that would be at all plausible.
        “Yes, Aunt Cornelia. Are you certain about the weather?”
        “Who can tell about that in this country, Dear? But I can’t stay here forever.”
        “We will only be there for a week or so,” Maria added. “I want to be back to make certain the house is clean for the New Year. Tanneke will help you pack tomorrow.”
        For Catharina this was terrible news as it meant that she would have no way to see Joannis, or even exchange letters with him, until after the holiday. Somehow, she would have to get word to him tonight or tomorrow. Somehow, she would have to arrange to meet him, even if just for a few moments before she was gone for such a long time. Tanneke would have to help her, but how, with her aunt and Marta in the house, between now and then? Tomorrow was Sunday so there would be no shopping trips. They would all go to church together and then be back to eat, pray and pack before getting up once again before dawn to catch the carriage at the Waag. How could she do it? Her ears started to hurt.
        “I only hope Willem--” Cornelia started, but was interrupted by a knock on the front door. Tanneke went to see who it was while the other women sat and waited. Almost instantly, she was back in the room with a letter in her hand.
        “This came by personal currier, Madam. It’s for you.” She handed it to Maria, who took it and examined it closely. It was folded paper of excellent quality and the hard, red wax that sealed the seam in the back bore the crest of a family she recognized, making one eyebrow raise slightly before she slipped her thin finger under it to release it. It was a shield, divided horizontally across the center, the upper portion bearing three stars, while a lion, its body fully extended and facing left, commanded the lower part. Atop the shield was a helmet of medieval design, the plumes of its crest feathering down on either side. It was the seal of the House of Maas.


        Maria read slowly and silently to herself, her face giving nothing away. Looking up when she had finished, she handed the letter to Catharina, who took it with a puzzled look on her face. The script was clear and manly.

                My Dear Madam Thins,

I am writing this day to request the presence  of  your daughter,
 Catharina, at a minor social function  my aunt  will be hosting this coming
 Tuesday. Of course, if you have no objection, I shall extend the invitation
 personally tomorrow after church services have been completed.
I have instructed my currier to attend your reply which, I hope,
will be of a positive nature. If such  is the case, I look forward
 to seeing both you and your daughter in the early afternoon tomorrow.
 I trust I have not been too bold nor given  offence regarding this matter.

                                                                                        My sincerest regards, 
                                               Mister Kees Maas   V.O.C.

        Catharina’s mind spun circles at this new state of affairs, although she did notice a cloud come over her mother, who was also weighing the plusses and minuses of the situation. Catharina waited for Maria to speak first.
        “Well, this is all very nice, Catharina, but I’m afraid you will have to tell Mister Maas that you will be out of town with your family.”
        ‘Not so quickly, Mother’, Catharina thought to herself, this could be her magic opportunity to avoid the trip to Gouda and her separation from Joannis.
        “Yes, Mother. It is a pity, though.”
        “And why is that?”
        “Because I don’t have much chance to socialize these days, especially now that it is winter. However, I’m certain Captain Maas will understand and might even extend a future invitation, perhaps come springtime.”
        This got Maria’s wheels spinning now.
        “I understand, but I would feel terrible leaving you here by yourself for such a long time.”
        Mother was fishing and daughter was ready to take the line.
        “I would be fine, Mother. I have plenty to do and could perhaps spend some extra time with Liesje, helping her prepare for her wedding.” Catharina expressly decided to inject this general concept into the conversation, as if it might have been lost on her mother and aunt.
        “She’s a grown woman now, Maria,” Aunt Cornelia graciously added. “If she’s not afraid to be by herself, then why not let her stay?”
        ‘Thank you--Thank you--Thank you, Aunt Cornelia.’
        “Well, Miriam will be here to watch over things. Still--”
        They all awaited Maria’s next words.
        “Tanneke, please bring me a pen and some paper.”
        “Yes, Ma’am,” and off she went to fetch the writing tools.
        “I suppose it will be alright. Captain Maas is an honorable man and I am certain that the people you might meet at his social function will be of the right sort, but, we will have to ask him about that tomorrow when he comes.”
        “Of course, Mother.”
        Tanneke returned very quickly and Maria drafted her response to be delivered to the waiting currier of Mister Maas, while Cornelia and Catharina cheerfully sipped at their tea.

                                            
        [Sat. Dec. 14] 

        There was still enough light to see, but not enough to paint by, as Vermeer stood back from his picture to inspect his work with satisfaction. He had completed the façade of the house with the dark red paint, applied thick enough to cover the white ground, but thin enough for the texture of the lead granules to come through. He had worked quickly and roughly, giving him the time to apply a thin undercoating of umber where the shadows would fall beneath the eaves and along the bottom of the house, where traffic and weather had a greater effect on the brickwork.

        His plan for the next day was simple. He would go to church with his mother and perhaps his sister and then come to the studio to overpaint these shadow areas with more of the red, only much thinner, gaining a natural effect. He would then outline the frame of the door and the casements of the windows, which were now just irregular rectangles of white underpainting.
        All this had to dry completely before he started on the next task, the mortar lines of the brick scores that he had studied up close earlier in the week. He would duplicate the pattern precisely in his painting--a score of bricks laid lengthwise, probably two deep, topped by another score of bricks on end, interspaced, where needed, by quarter bricks, which seemed to follow no regular pattern. This was repeated from bottom to top for the entire structure, the only exceptions being a shelf which protruded to separate the upper floor from the lower, and an arch set over the bottom window. All this, though, would have to wait for Monday when he would have a full day of working light, but he was happy now and eager to get to it.
         Vermeer’s only regret was that there was still no concrete plan for him to meet with Catharina while her aunt was in town. Even while absorbed in his work as deeply as he was, her image would drift into his mind from time to time, a warm, almost nostalgic sense that lovers feel when not together and, in some way that he could not understand, serving as his inspiration.
        Vermeer started to clean his brushes, carefully dipping them in used turpentine to loosen the dried pieces of pigment, then wiping them from ferrule to tip with a clean cloth, repeating the process with fresh solvent. When he had finished this, he gathered them into a bundle, tied together with a strip of rag. He placed this on his worktable so that the ends of their handles rested on the surface while their tips extended over his stained, tin    oil box.
        He had not spoken very much with Fabritius during the day and now,   as he started to clean his palette, he could hear laughter coming from downstairs. Fabritius always seemed to have visitors, mostly friends and other artists, but he enjoyed the company or craftsmen and common workmen as well and, when Carel had the money, there was plenty of beer for all. As Vermeer wondered whom he might meet this time, once he had finished his cleaning and went downstairs to head back to the Mechelen, he was roused by Carel’s voice booming from the lower hallway.
        “Vermeer! You have a visitor.”
        His only thought was that it must be Catharina as he heard footsteps ascend the stairs to his doorway. He was wrong.
        “Good afternoon, Sir. I trust you are well.” Maria van Oosterwijk, formerly know as ‘Chloris’, was standing there with a big smile and two cups of beer. “Carel said you were working up here and wouldn’t mind if I came up to take a peek.”
        Aside from the initial surprise of this attractive woman in his doorway, Vermeer was not sure how he felt about this, showing a work in progress to another person, let alone an ‘amateur’ painter. Still, there was nothing to do about it now, so he smiled, all his teeth in play, as he welcomed her.
        “Miss Chloris. This is--” She did not wait for him to finish as she walked right into the room, noticing the open window and the chilly air.
        “Brrr. It’s cold in here.”
        “The window, I--”
        “I brought you a present from downstairs,” she said as she handed him the beer. “So, what are you working on? Carel said it was a view of the street.”
        Vermeer took a quick drink as he followed her over to his easel where she stopped to examine the painted panel and the scene outside.
        “It’s an assignment.”
        “I see. Why the white underpainting here?” she asked as she waved her hand casually in front of the central house, almost brushing the wet paint with her fingertips. Vermeer tried to put himself between her and his painting in an attempt to protect it if he had to.
        “I was going to use a knife to incise the mortar lines, but --”
        “I would think you might have trouble with that.”
        “Well, I did, so I decided I would have to paint--”
        “Yes I think that’s the best approach and it should work out just fine, if your hand is steady enough to paint all those little thin lines.”
        She was starting to perturb him, first by not letting him finish any of his sentences, and second by the fact that, to his knowledge, she was just a girl painter obviously attaching herself to Fabritius’ rising star.
        “I assure you, my hand is quite steady.”
        “I would wager it is,” she returned with a salacious little grin. She turned her attention back to his painting.


        “The snow?”
        “I’ll get rid of it. This will be a summer scene with green grass in that little field.”
        “That’s good. You know, an artist can paint portraits and landscapes, historical scenes and whatnot, and nobody cares, but paint just one scene with snow in it and that’s what you become: ‘Oh, Vermeer? The winter painter!’ I wonder why that is.”
        “I really hadn’t thought about it.”
        “It’s true, none the less”
        “If you say so.”
        Oosterwijk gave a little, indifferent shrug at this, then moved on to her further evaluation of the ‘apprentice’s’ work.
        “You have a lot of sky here. Don’t you think it might overpower your little houses?”
        “I would have preferred even more,” Vermeer replied, not telling the truth, but trying to make a point. It seemed she was attempting to intimidate him and he would not let that happen.
        “Hmmm. Interesting choice. Now that I look at it, though, perhaps you might have something there. It is very well executed.”
        “Miss Oosterwijk--Chloris--”
        “Maria.”
        “Maria. I appreciate your thoughts on this, but it is growing late and I still have my cleaning to finish and my preparations for--”
        Maria looked at him and stopped him with a soft, sweet smile.
        “Joannis, please excuse me. Perhaps I seem a little outspoken, but understand that it’s not easy for a woman artist in this town. Not impossible, but not easy. At least I can sell my paintings, while men like you have to wait years to be blessed by your sacred Guild.”
        ‘Did she just say she was selling her paintings? Is that what she meant?’
        “Besides,” she went on, “I just get enthusiastic when I see a new and talented artist at work.”
        ‘Talented? Where did she get that?’
        “I hope you won’t hold those things against me.”
        Vermeer thought for a moment, wondering about the sincerity of her words, but decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.
        “Of course not, Maria. I appreciate your comments.”
        Now he had to question his own sincerity.
        Maria looked at the painting again and once more out the window as the lamps inside the houses were just being lit to reveal rooms with carpets, tables and chairs that were hidden during the day.
        “Carel said you have a special ability.”
        ‘He did? I do?’ he thought, stammering in his own mind.
        “And what might that be?”
        “He wouldn’t tell me. He said you would have to find that out for yourself.”
        ‘Hmmm. That again.’
        “Well, he’s very kind and--”
        “He’s not always kind, Joannis,” she responded in earnest, touching his arm with her long thin fingers. “He can be mean-spirited, almost violent at times, and you can never see it coming.”
         Vermeer, of course, had seen this side of him, but chose not to mention it. Still, he could see in Maria’s eyes her concern for her friend. He could also see that her eyes were a remarkable shade of grey, which seemed to grow brighter as the afternoon light continued to fade and that she had a habit of tipping her head down slightly and raising those eyes as she looked at him, almost the way a child would. It was very appealing. He also noted that she wore no bonnet or coif, her hair, instead, free and hanging in shiny loose ringlets that framed her face. Changing her mood once again, Maria took her hand away from Vermeer’s arm, but not before sliding it the full length of his sleeve until it brushed his bare hand.
        “You’re right. I shouldn’t keep you. I am certain there will be other times to talk about your work. I’ll be on my way.”
        Instantly, she turned and moved quickly towards the hallway, but stopping one last time with a final thought for the artist.
        “By the way, that big black door--paint it open, so we can be invited inside--but I’m sure you’ve already planned on that.”
        She smiled and slipped out as he stood there next to his easel realizing the simple fact that he hadn’t planned on that, but that she was right. He would paint the door open.


                                            
        [Sat. Dec. 14]

        The sun had already fallen behind the rooftops as Vermeer crossed the little bridge that spanned the Verwersdijk canal. He stopped here for a moment to fill his lungs with the cold, crisp air and clear his head after such an intense day. The solstice was only one week away and he looked forward to the lengthening days of the coming new year. As he stood there, he took in the colors of the sky, perfectly gradated from almost black above him and to the east, to the clear dark blue of ultramarine pigment in its raw state to the west, where the sun had already vanished. A small pinprick of light in this otherwise clear and perfect sky caught his eye--Jupiter-- chasing the sun god beyond the city to the other side of the world. He thought about how he would love to paint that sky, that very moment in time, with nothing on the canvas but the dim skyline across the bottom edge and all the rest blue in perfect transition to black. Perhaps some other time, he concluded, and then continued on through the less ideal world of slushy gutters, workshops just closing their doors for the day and tradesmen headed for home or the nearest tavern.
                                       
        Vermeer reached the Town Square just as people were lighting their nightly lanterns to walk about the streets after dark. He entered the New Church and found it as cold as the graves beneath its floor, as he went behind William’s tomb, while a few others, worshipers and vagrants, milled about in the last few moments of twilight. The thin slit of pale paper was exactly where he had expected it to be and he slipped it under his casaque as he turned to head back to the warmth of his room at the inn.

        Joannis spent a quiet half of an hour with his mother over their usual light supper, appreciating her interest in his day, and his work in general. As he sat with her, he started to see her in a new light, one of warmth and love that never had developed fully until recently, when he became aware of the sacrifices she was silently making on his behalf. It wasn’t just the money, although he was aware that she had to count every stuiver, what with the mortgage and the vendors who kept the inn supplied with food and drink. It was also the fact that she had freely allowed him to live under her roof and put no burden on him whatsoever as far as the inn’s daily routines were concerned. Not once had she asked him to help, or even accepted his earnest offers to do so, at times when the tavern was so busy that Janne threatened to quit with Mirthe close behind her.

        When the simple meal was over and things had settled for the evening, Joannis stood up and embraced Digna where she sat, somewhat to her surprise. He knew that soon he would have to come to her in a different light and tell her about Catharina and their plans. He dreaded that day as much as Catharina must with regards to Maria. Still, that would be another day and Vermeer tried to put it out of his mind as he gently kissed his mother’s warm, soft cheek.
                                                    
        Catharina’s letter was simple and direct.

                At last I have the greatest news to share
             with you. Mother, Aunt Cornelia, Tanneke and Marta
             will be traveling to Gouda on Monday morning,
                  leaving me--us--to be alone for one entire week at
                  least. I must stay for some minor social engagement
    on Tuesday, which my mother expects me to attend.
    After that, all my time is my own, and yours and ours.
    I understand your work and the time you need
    to accomplish it and will not in any way interfere,
                 but I’ve yet to hear of an artist who could paint in the dark
                 of a winter’s night, especially when there are so many
                 other ways to occupy the time.
                The side door to our ‘little kitchen’ will be
            unlocked and Miriam will have been sent home on
            Monday after the watch has completed its first round.
            I cannot wait to hold you and be with you after so
            long an absence. I would say more here, but I would
            rather share my feelings personally when we are
            together. Until that moment, and the moments
            thereafter, I leave you with my love.

                                                            C.
                                            


        [Sun. Dec. 15]

                        Cor Jesu sacratissimum,
                                Miserere nobis.
                        Cor Jesu sacratissimum,
                                Miserere nobis.
                        Cor Jesu sacratissimum,
                                Miserere nobis.

        As Father van der Ven gave his final blessing with the full congregation responding, Mister Heijndrick van den Velden, a pillar of the Jesuit church, touched the keys of the small table organ at the side of the room, while an acolyte worked the bellows off to its side. The reedy strains of Come Holy Ghost filled the room and were just loud enough to be heard outside by any passing bailiff who happily ignored the illegality of such Catholic services, knowing that in a few day’s time the priests would offer their ‘complements’ and cheerfully pay the fine for such an infraction of the law.
        The congregation stood as the priest and two of his altar boys solemnly proceeded down the narrow aisle between the rows of straight chairs, set just far enough apart to allow for kneeling when required, and exited the hall through its widened doors.
        Row by row of worshippers then filed out in an orderly fashion, only stopping to genuflect and make the sign of the cross as the lovely music continued to play on.
        Catharina was relieved as she stood between her mother and her aunt waiting their turn to step into the exiting queue. She had worried that Father van der Ven, privy as he was to her deepest secret, might give her a ‘knowing’ look or something of the sort, but he did not and now, with the service over, it was time to return to the house and await the visit of Captain Maas.
                                            
        None of the ladies in the household knew when Captain Maas would arrive, as his letter to Maria indicated that it would be in the early afternoon after church. While most Catholics in Delft worshipped at makeshift altars in kitchens or even barns, there were only two ‘hidden’ churches in Delft, the one next to Maria’s house and the other, which was not affiliated with the Jesuits, attached to a beguinage near the canal in Old Delft and close to the Boter Brug, where Maas was staying with his uncle and aunt. Naturally, it was from this church that Kees would be coming.
        Maria had decided to forgo the main meal of the day so that the house would be tidy and not littered with dirty dishes and the odors of stew and vegetables. The women had each tacitly elected to stay in their ‘church’ clothing, although for Maria and Cornelia this was little more than a variation on the austere dark dresses and black, widow’s peaked skull caps they habitually wore. Tanneke had made certain that morning when she helped Catharina do her hair that the tendrils that fell from her temples would cover her newly pierced earlobes.
        “Whatever you do,” she cautioned, “don’t move your head around.”
        Now Catharina was moving in such an odd way as she helped set out the tea service that Aunt Cornelia had to ask her if there was something wrong with her neck, to which Catharina quickly replied that it was just a little ‘stiffness’, perhaps due to the cold air from outside. Apparently, this was accepted as nothing more was said about it, except to suggest that she apply a warmed towel if the problem persisted.


                                            
        [Sun. Dec. 15]

        As the town bell struck one o’clock, the expected knock was heard at the door and Tanneke went to answer it, revealing Captain Maas, a vision, dressed in black--doublet, jacket, pants, hose, shoes, cape and broad hat, his neck and wrists set off by the purest white linen trimmed in lace. The only color Tanneke could see was that of his eyes, their blue matching the sky behind his shoulders.
        “Good day. I’ve come to call on Madam Thins,” he said politely and properly, in spite of their long acquaintance.
        “She is expecting you inside, Captain Maas. Please come in.”



        He entered and she took his cape, hat and walking stick before leading him to the Great Hall where the others were eagerly awaiting his arrival. A rich fire burned in the lofty fireplace, as each woman tried to remain as casual as possible. Maria and Cornelia sat sewing, while Catharina stood at the virginal, thumbing through a book of sheet music as if she were about to play as soon as she selected the proper piece for the occasion.
        “Madam Thins,” Tanneke announced, “you have a visitor.”
        “Why Captain Maas. How kind of you to visit us today.”
        “Thank you for allowing me to do so.”
        “Please step in and join us. I believe tea and some light refreshment will be served shortly. Catharina?” Maria said, indicating that she should leave her intended music and join them at the table.
        “You are too kind, Madam.”
        Maas entered and there was more small talk of this nature while Tanneke and Miriam worked dutifully to make Maria’s guest comfortable.
        They recounted the delights of their previous meeting and the foul weather that followed it and how nice the weather was now, but how it could not last long. Then, after a polite interval had elapsed, Aunt Cornelia stood up and excused herself, feigning the need for a midday nap, leaving Maas alone with Maria and Catharina to get down to business.
        “The reason for my visit is simple,” Maas said in a forthright way. “Catharina, as your mother may have told you, my aunt is hosting a small entertainment at her house on the day after tomorrow. It is intended for the younger people of her neighborhood to ‘cast off the pall of winter’ as she puts it.  She says that there will be music, treats and games of one sort or another and my presence is required by default, as it were.”
        Catharina wondered what he meant by ‘younger people’.
        “Then,” she asked, “this will be a party for children?”
        “Well, if by that you mean ‘children’ of around your age, yes. In fact,    I believe some of your acquaintances from Old Delft might be there, at least that’s what Aunt Juliana seemed to imply, although I have no idea whom that might be.”
        ‘The Girls!’ Catharina thought quickly, Liesje, Magda and perhaps a few of the others from her little social circle. If it had not been obvious before, it was quite clear now, a get-together for the elite of young ‘marriageables’ and certainly all of the Catholic faith.
        “In any event, the pleasure of your company would be richly appreciated by both my aunt and myself,” Captain Maas offered, no more than that, but it was enough. Catharina recognized it as the next step on the path from ‘May I call on you?” to ‘Volo’ at the wedding ceremony that Maria so clearly was praying for.
        “That would be very nice for you, Catharina, to see your friends and perhaps make some new ones.”
        ‘Very nice indeed, Moeka,’ Catharina thought, reading her mother’s mind as clearly as if it had been printed on her forehead.
        “I am very honored and would be happy to accept your kind invitation, Captain Maas--with Mother’s permission, of course,” she added for good measure.
        “Catharina, please call me Kees. Nobody calls me ‘Captain’ any more, no offense, Madam Thins.”
        They all smiled at this, slipping back to the less formal comfort they had shared just the week before.
        “Good. You don’t know what a relief it will be for me to have you there to talk to. I’m afraid I’m not very good at these sorts of things. I just can’t imagine myself playing flick-fingers or hunt-the-slipper, although I wouldn’t object to a few goods hands of faro or piquet. But I’m certain Juliana has not included card playing in her programme.”
        Another little titter from Maria caught Catharina’s attention. On the surface, this was all very well and amusing, but underneath, Catharina could see that the more her mother was taken by this nearly ‘perfect’ man, the harder it would be when the time came to tell her about Joannis and their plans. Still, Kees Maas and his aunt’s party were her only salvation if she wanted to stay in Delft to be with Joannis. In an odd way, she viewed this as a sort of sacrifice to be made for a greater good, and in that light, she continued to mount a gracious and appreciative façade, not that she minded the company of the man sitting across from her all that much.
        “We will have to try blind-man’s buff, though, if it comes up,” she said with her own little laugh, thinking back to their childhood in Gouda, but instantly her mind froze at the word ‘we’ which was even another step on that path she had no intention of following.
        “Ah, yes. I recall. I stuck the pin in Tanneke, if I’m not mistaken,” he laughed and looked over at the maid who was just a girl of sixteen then, but clearly still remembered. “Don’t worry, Catharina. It won’t be that bad. We’ll make the best of it.”
        Tea was being poured and sweet spiced almond cakes set onto the table, as Catharina looked at Kees and reassured him, as if that might be necessary.
        “I’m certain we will all have a good time, Kees.” Then the maids stepped back as Maria, Catharina and Maas bowed their heads, blessed themselves and offered their own silent little prayers. Unfortunately, God, with all His infinite power, would not be able to accommodate each of them.

                                            
        [Sun. Dec. 15]

        The service in the New Church, where Joannis went with his mother, sister and her husband, was held later than that of the Catholics just across the canal. There was no kneeling and no organ music, just words. The bible was read by the local predicant associated with the church, who then climbed up into the lofty pulpit for all assembled below to see and from where he announced the latest items of interest relating to the townsfolk--births, deaths, scheduled executions, the arrivals or departures of various sailing vessels from the port.   Of special interest to all of the parishioners this morning was the news related to Lieutenant-Admiral Tromp’s decisive victory over the British just the week before, opening the Channel to Dutch trade ships while blockading the English fleet in their own ports. That being dispensed with, the predicant began his sermon which, depending on his state of mind or moral disposition at the time, could go on for hours, in spite of the sand clock flowing on a shelf by his side. Fortunately, for Vermeer, who was anxious to get back to Doelenstraat, this Sunday’s sermon was shorter and less bombastic than others he could recall, although the content had no effect on him at all.
        As the worshippers started to leave the church through its single narrow doorway, the Vermeers moved across the crowd to the open area on the north side of the nave and stopped at the newly engraved floor stone that marked Reynier’s resting place. They paused here for a few moments in silence and the thin tears that he noted in his mother’s eyes reminded him that it had only been two months since his father’s passing. ‘Two months,’ he thought, and how much had happened to his life in that brief span of time! He found it difficult to comprehend, let alone believe.

                                            
        [Sun. Dec. 15]

        When Vermeer reached Carel’s house, he let himself in by the side door without knocking, only to find Spoors alone in the studio, standing at the granite slab with a mulling stone in his hand grinding oil into various pigments.
        “Good afternoon, Mister Vermeer,” the boy said as he worked away with the stone. “Master Fabritius and Miss Agatha have gone for the day to visit her sister in the asylum and will not return until evening.”
        This was fine with Joannis, but he wondered about Spoor’s little activity.
        “Spoors? What exactly are you doing?”
        “I’m grinding paint, Sir. Master Fabritius said he would teach me.”
        It was clear to Vermeer’s expert eye that the lad did not have the slightest inkling as to what he was actually undertaking. Oil was dripping off the stone and colors were running together in a great, mottled mess on the slab.
        “Did Master Fabritius ask you to do this for him?”
        “No, Sir. It’s a surprise. I’m practicing.”
        “I see. Do you realize just how valuable, how expensive, those pigments on your stone are?”
        Spoors thought for a moment before answering.
        “No, Sir. Not exactly.”
        “Well, they are. Some as much as sixty guilders for a single small bladder or bottle full, like that blue one over there which, mercifully, you haven’t touched.”
        “Sixty guilders!” the boy said in shock as his stomach began to feel as green as the paint on his grinding stone.
        Vermeer took in the disaster and was relieved that Spoors had not used very much of the pricier or hard to obtain colors.
        “Look, take my advice. Clean this all up and put everything back just as you found it before your master returns. Will you do that?”
        “Yessssss, Sir!”
        “And only grind paint when your master tells you and exactly how he shows you.”
        “Yes, Sir,” Spoors responded on the verge of tears.
        “And some other time, if you want to learn more about it, come to me and perhaps I can show you a thing or two--with your master’s permission, of course.”
        “You would help me, then?”
        “If my time allows, yes. but I thought you didn’t want to be a painter.”
        “Well, still not so much--but Master Fabritius said that when you’re gone, he’ll need a real apprentice to help him. It might as well be me.”

        ‘So,’ Vermeer thought, ‘if Fabritius didn’t view him as a real apprentice, what was he then? At best, a colleague. At worst, a charity case!’ It was a sobering thought, either way.
“Well, get busy cleaning all this up.” Vermeer turned to head up his room to finish the small amount of work he had planned for the day, but Spoors stopped him with a final question.
        “Mister Vermeer?  Are you good at it? Grinding paint?”
        Vermeer had to smile at this simple yet honest question from the boy who really wanted to be a potter.
        “The best, Spoors. The best in Delft.” As Vermeer started up the stairs, he heard Spoors’ voice call out to him once more from the studio, only this time it was not a question.
        “There’s a package, Sir. Another boy brought it this morning. I put it on your table.”
        ‘What could that be?’ Vermeer wondered, certainly not expecting anything here.
        “Thank you Spoors. Now do a good job before Carel gets back.”
        “Yes Sir. Not to worry.”

        Vermeer removed his cloak and hat and hung them on their peg, which he had put up by his door, but before opening the window and resetting the casements to their exactly marked positions, he saw the long, narrow package on his table. He took it up and examined it. It was the length of his forearm and as wide as his wrist, wrapped in simple brown paper tied with a piece of string made of alternating cables of natural and light blue hemp, twisted in the Flemish style, and secured by a common bowknot.
        He carefully undid the knot and unfolded the wrapper to reveal a beautiful box made of highly polished walnut, its corners protected by shining, brass caps secured by tiny brads of the same metal. The hinges on the backside were hidden by the closed cover that was fastened in the front by a delicate hasp, locked by a peg which appeared to be made of ivory and attached to the cover by a fine chain no thicker than three hairs wound together. He had to rub his fingers over the smooth surface before opening it to appreciate the quality of its finish, which, to his own trained hand, was flawless.
        ‘Who could have sent this?’
         Gingerly pulling the peg and raising the hasp, Vermeer lifted the lid to reveal a dark plush lining, upon which lay three prefect paintbrushes and what appeared to be a note beneath them.
        Vermeer took the first brush up and held it delicately, almost as if he were afraid to spoil the glossy finish of the ash handle with his own fingertips. It was long and perfectly balanced, exactly at the place where his fingers would grasp it to give him the greatest control. The handle bellied just a little above the ferrule, which he took to be nickel-plated brass or even copper and was seamless, indicating that it must have been handcrafted in some exquisite workshop. But it was the bristle work that most got his attention as he held the brush up higher and closer in the window light. The bristles were fine red hairs, darkening as they ran down in unison to form a tiny black tip, one of the finest in size that he had ever seen and yet, when he tried it with his finger, it was of just the perfect resistance to hold a line without bending over. He knew that such a brush could not have been made in Delft and that the sable hairs that composed it only came from some far away country he knew nothing about. He carefully set the brush down and took up another one of matching construction and quality, only the tip on this one was impossibly finer than that of the first, and the third brush, finer still, yet with the same exacting characteristics of its kin.
        Vermeer put the brushes together on his table so that their tips hung just over the edge and took out the simple piece of paper, folded once and unsealed. He opened it to read a message of very few words:

                I thought you might be able to use
                these on your bricks.
                                Maria van Oosterwijk
                                (Art amateur)

        Vermeer shook his head a little, as he read the words several times over. He was amazed that she could afford to give away such a treasure to someone she hardly knew, but perhaps there was some reason behind it that he would learn about at some later time and, yes, he would be able to use them on his ‘bricks’, that is if he dared to touch those delicate sable hairs to the thin, grey paint he would apply to his palette.

Chapter Twenty-Two   
                                                                                         
                                                                 1652   

        [Tue. Dec. 17] 

        THEY NESTLED LIKE THIS until the bright light of the risen sun and the sounds of the traffic in the Great Square roused Vermeer. He kissed Catharina’s cheek as he slipped out of bed and went downstairs to relight the fire in the grate of the cooking kitchen. She had told him about her soup-making efforts and he did not want to disappoint her by not enjoying a properly warmed sample.
        When all this had been done, Joannis went back to the room where Catharina was still softly asleep. Sliding in next to her once again, he gently caressed her awake with touches and kisses until, with a languorous smile, she was eager to receive him once again. Catharina was surprised by the degree of passion and desire that had awakened inside her. When the love-making was over and both were physically spent, as she lay on his outstretched arm, she wondered about this. ‘How could such a beautiful thing between two people who loved each other ever be thought of as ‘evil’ or a ‘sin’?’ Each time they made love, even from the very first, she felt joined and united in a way that was almost impossible to describe. She sensed a completion that she had never known existed in a human being. She felt a moment when their hearts were truly combined into one and she felt that this was truly God’s design. Perhaps there was a higher ‘love’, the kind of feeling held by Tanneke and her mother, for God himself, but she had not yet come to know that. She closed her eyes and nestled tighter, feeling the strength of his bare arm against her cheek. She felt assured and protected. She softly ran her fingers over his chest and knew that he would always be there for her. Slowly, so slowly, her serenity gave way to sleep and perhaps dreams that she might not remember but would always feel.
                                            
        The spoon stood straight up for a second then slowly tilted until it finally collapsed on the edge of Vermeer’s bowl.
        “Perhaps you should give it lessons,” Catharina offered in a knowing way that had never before been part of her personality.
        “Catharina! That’s terrible!” Joannis replied in feigned shock, obviously getting her little joke.
        They were both dressed now, she still in her sleeping clothing and Vermeer for the street. They ate the soup, which was very good, and drank beer, knowing that soon he would have to leave for Carel’s house and his ‘work’. Somehow, this pleased Catharina, adding as it did a sense of normal domesticity that she had so far only imagined. In her mind, she saw many more mornings just like this one. There had been no talk of their ‘future’ and she was content with that. ‘Why discuss it,’ she thought in her naivety of the moment, ‘when I can see it so clearly now?’
        Vermeer was the first to notice the clamor outside the house where masses of voices could be heard as well as the sound of unusually heavy carriage traffic.
        “What can that be about?”
        “I don’t know,” Catharina said as she stood and took Joannis by the hand to the front room to look out the window. There, in the Square, a large crowd of people was gathering, merchants and gentry, some on foot, a few others in carriages, women and their servants and even their children. Finally, Vermeer remembered.
        “It’s a hanging.”
        The predicant had mentioned it during the church service, but Joannis had paid scant attention at the time since public hangings were not all that unusual, the scaffold often being left standing for weeks on end as it had been this time.
        “But, why so many people?” Catharina asked as Vermeer tried to remember what the predicant had said.
        “I think it’s a forger.”
        This was different because a higher class of people would turn out to see a member of the bourgeoisie get his due. Thieves, murderers and highwaymen were one thing and generally drew little interest, especially in the winter when it was too cold for the public to enjoy the spectacle of kicking feet at the end of a rigid rope. But forgers and counterfeiters were special cases and their crimes were an affront to the burgeoning consortia and the commercial ethos of the United Republics as a whole. Vermeer remembered that his own grandfather, Digna’s father, barely escaped the executioner’s blade for a similar crime, although this did not concern Vermeer as much as the gathering crowd.
        “I’d better go.” It would be too easy to run into someone he knew and Catharina quickly appreciated    that fact.



        “Come then,” she said taking his hand to lead him to the back door of the washing kitchen.
        “Will I see you tonight?” she asked as they exchanged last kisses and embraces.
        “Yes. I’ll come the same time.”
        She smiled and then opened the door for him.
        “Tonight.” They actually kissed ‘good-bye’.
        He turned as he crossed the little yard to the door in the wall and smiled.
        “Tonight.”

                                            
        [Tue. Dec. 17]

        The narrow streets around the Square were getting congested with people and carriages as all hurried to find the best available viewing places. Muffled drums beat out a somber tattoo as the prisoner’s cart could be seen turning the corner behind the church to the bridge at the end of Oude Langendijk and into the Square itself. A cheer went up from the crowd as the hapless felon could be seen standing in the cart, shivering in the cold with nothing more than his chemise, trousers, hose and shiny shoes to protect him. All traffic stopped as the horse drawn tumbrel lumbered along, surrounded by mounted officers and officials, as well as the eager crowd that had followed it from the dungeon of the Oostpoort gate where he had been housed and most likely tortured. This was great fun, especially for the children who had been allowed to miss school for the occasion.
        The foot traffic on the Oude Langendijk came to a complete stop as people waited for the tumbrel and its entourage to cross the intersection at the head if the narrow street. There was only one carriage here, but it could not move as its driver tried to calm the snorting horse.
        “What is it, Hendrick? Why are all these people here?” Juliana asked, her personal maid, Heleen, seated by her side on the leather seat, both wrapped in lap blankets.
        “It’s a hangin’, Mum. The wagon with the victim’s just crossin’ now.”
        This did not please Juliana at all. She had come here this morning to buy books from Madam Huybrechts’ shop, not to witness something a vulgar as a public execution. Now she was stopped nearly in front of the house of Maria Thins, waiting for the crowd to clear enough for Hendrick to move the horse along down the street.
        “How long will it be?” she asked in a tone as icy as the morning’s air.
        “Not long, Mum. It’s startin’ to clear now.”
        “Well, carry on as soon as you can. I have much to do today.”
        “Yes, Mum.”
        As Juliana sat there wondering why this had happened to her on the day of her ‘small entertainment’, something to her right caught her ever vigilant eye. Looking down the Molenstraat and the side of Maria’s house, she saw the small door of the wall open and a man slip out, mingling directly with the thinning crowd still heading for the Town Square. At first this caused her great concern, knowing as she did from her nephew, that Maria had gone to Gouda for the week leaving her daughter alone with the kitchen maid. Perhaps, she thought, she should send Kees over to look into it and insure that nothing bad had happened to the girl. But the more Juliana thought about it, the clearer it became, and this did not bode well for her nephew’s prospects.
        As the wheels of her carriage started to turn, so did the wheels of Juliana’s mind. Something had to be done about this and she knew exactly what it was to be.

                                            
        [Tue. Dec. 17]

        Vermeer had no reason to notice the carriage as he crossed in front of it to the relative safety of the Mechelen where he stopped to watch the proceedings in the Square. He was no enthusiast of public executions, nor was he opposed to them, having been brought up to respect the rule of law, in spite of his grandfather’s unfortunate prior involvement on the other side of the coin, as it were. And of course, there was the morbid fascination of watching a living man instantly die at the hands of others.
        The tumbrel rolled up to the scaffold where the hooded executioner stood along with the predicant from Vermeer’s own church and two other town officials. The mounted officers formed a half-circle around the front of the scaffold as the drums took up an even more ominous beat and the trembling prisoner was escorted up the steps to the platform by two soldiers in crimson coats. There, once squarely on the proper spot, the executioner slipped the noose over his head, insuring good placement, and the predicant read from the Bible. Then all stepped back except for the executioner who had both hands on the trip lever, which would drop the door beneath the felon’s shiny shoes. The drums stopped. The executioner looked at the officials, one of whom gave the nod and the trap door was sprung, sending the miscreant directly to his most certain punishment in the fires of hell.
        A ‘very good’ hanging was when both of the victim’s shoes fell off as he dangled, kicking at the air. A ‘good’ hanging required only one shoe, but either one brought a hearty cheer from the crowd. This morning’s work was just a ‘hanging’, Vermeer decided, as the crowd remained relatively subdued until the kicking had stopped. Still, justice had been served and a stern warning sent out to any of those who might dare to perform such an egregious act against the ‘establishment’ in the future.
        Vermeer lost himself in the crowd as the people dispersed to return to their shops or offices or homes or temporary little studios where they might spend the rest of the day painting miniature bricks.

                                            
        [Tue. Dec. 17] xxx

        The houseboy had the letter at the Waag just before noon when the last wagon-coach to Gouda would leave. The wagon master had it carefully placed in the bag, which would be picked up by the postal agent in that city and assigned for delivery. If there was not much mail on the day, the letter would be in the recipient’s hand before five o’clock that afternoon, the delivery boy charging a somewhat substantial fee for his services, especially if it had to be delivered after dark.
        The road was clear and the bag nearly empty, so it was almost assured that Maria would receive the letter from Juliana, who had no trouble getting Cornelia’s address from the bookseller, before the day was over.
                    

        [Tue. Dec. 17]

        Vermeer’s morning was uneventful as he worked completing the brickwork on the first house and outlining the frames for the door and windows, which he decided to underpaint with azurite and yellow and then glaze with a thin layer of ultra-marine blue to give them the greenish tint he had observed.  After that, he would use the finest of his new sable brushes to paint in the hair-thin mullions which separated the numerous panes.
        Fabritius worked quietly alone downstairs and both artists were glad that this was a day without visitors. It appeared the weather was about to turn once again, not for the better, and each working hour took on a greater value.
        Those hours flew by as the work filled each one. Vermeer had to pause from time to time as he relived moments from his night with Catharina, the musky scent of her body still lingering around him, combining with and adding to the special smell of fresh pigment ground in pure oil.

                                            
        [Tue. Dec. 17]

         Miriam, as instructed, returned promptly at noon to find Catharina upstairs in her room preparing herself for Madam van der Poort’s social gathering. She was still in her sleeping costume as she sat in front of her mirror trying to arrange her hair, which had become an unkempt mess throughout the course of the previous evening. She had not counted on how difficult this would be without Tanneke’s daily assistance, but was making the best of it as Miriam came to her open door.
        “Good day, Mum.”
        “Miriam! Please come in. Perhaps you can help me with this,” she said as she tried to attach a braided plait around the back of the irregular bun she had already produced.
        “Yes, Mum.”
        Miriam came in and set a small leather pouch on the table.
        “What’s that?”
        “From the apothecary. I’ll have to show you.”
        “Well, let’s do this first and then you can do that.”
        “Very good, Mum.”
        Catharina was surprised at how skillful her kitchen maid’s thick fingers were as they reshaped the bun and pinned the braids to their proper places. The result was as satisfactory as any Tanneke could have accomplished in the same amount of time.
        “Will this be adequate, Mum?” Miriam asked having finished her work.
        “Oh, yes. It’s very good. Thank you.”
        “Mum.”
        “I have an hour to dress before the carriage comes for me, so I haven‘t much time.”

        “As you wish,” Miriam answered, casting her eyes to the pouch so that Catharina might notice it, which she did.
        “So, what did you get from the apothecary?”
        Miriam went over to the sack, but before opening it and removing its contents, said simply,
        “Would you please get your dildo.”
        Catharina had hidden the wooden object on the top shelf of her wardrobe and had completely forgotten about it. She felt embarrassed as she stood and went over to fetch it and bring it back to place in Miriam’s outstretched hand. Her eyes widened as Miriam unscrewed the part that resembled a scrotum and removed it and the piston that ran through it and into the shaft itself. These she set on the table and then took three large, stoppered bottles and a small tin funnel from the pouch and set them next to the unassembled syringe. She handed the first bottle to Catharina, who took it as if she had just been offered a cup of hemlock. The liquid inside was dark brown and viscous. The label on the front simply read: Neem Oil.
        “What is this?” Catharina asked, sloshing the thick substance against the side of the glass.
        “Oil, Mum.” She took the bottle back from Catharina and uncorked it. “You should smell it to see if it suits you.” Catharina wondered what she meant by that, but took a whiff anyway as Miriam held it under her nose. The scent was strong and musky, resembling garlic and the dried legumes Maria occasionally bought called goobers. It was not all that unpleasant.
        “What do I do with it? Drink it?”
        “No, Mum.” Miriam re-corked the bottle and then took up the wooden shaft and funnel.
        “It goes in here. Just pour it in.” She pantomimed the process of filling the shaft with the oil using the funnel. Then she inserted the tip of the piston and re-screwed the scrotum to form a single object once again.
        Catharina watched in amazement, unable to believe that she would actually have to do this at some time.
        “When it’s ready, like this, you put it in your schede and push the pump.”
        Catharina put her hand to her mouth as she heard the rather crude word and tried to envision this.
        “Do it before or after you fornicate, but it can wait until morning if that’s better for you. It should be a little on the cold side so it stays thick.”
        “Miriam! How do you know about this?” It was an indelicate question, but Catharina just had to ask it.
        “My sister, Theresia. She’s a midwife in Rijswijk.”
        That explained it, to some degree, but Catharina had to wonder how much of this knowledge came from the kitchen maid’s own experience. This question, though, was too delicate to ask.
        “I see,” she said as Miriam handed her back the syringe to examine in this new light.
        “When you’re not fornicating, you can use it by yourself without the oil, to--”
        Catharina felt she had to cut her off here, as this was somewhat too personal in nature, but she had to marvel at the maid’s casual attitude all the same.
        “I think I know. Thank you.”
        “Very good, Mum.”
        Next Miriam handed Catharina one of the other bottles, neatly labeled in Latin: Daucus Carota. It was filled with tiny black seeds.
        “Wild carrot seeds, Mum. You can just chew them and then drink some beer or wine to wash them down.”
        “What do they do?”
        “Same thing. Keep you from getting pregnant.”
        “And, when do I do this--chewing?”
        “In the morning, Mum, after you fornicate.”
        Catharina wondered if Miriam had started to consider her as some kind of slattern with the continued use of the word ‘fornicate’, as if it were something she did casually every day. But the fact was, this was what she had been doing and planned to do more of, call it whatever one cared to. Miriam was giving her sound advice in her own clear way and Catharina knew that it was to her own benefit to listen carefully.
        “How much?”
        “A spoon. If you don’t like the taste, you can grind it and mix it with the beer, but that’s more work.”
        “I see. And this last bottle?”
        Miriam handed it to her.
        “Just dried rue leaves. Make a tea and drink two or three cups afterwards.”
        “Miriam, you have been very helpful in all this. I appreciate it. Naturally, this is just between the two     of us.”
        Catharina realized instantly that this last thought was unnecessary as Miriam looked away from her and down to her shoes.
        “Yes, Mum.”

        “You’re a good friend, Miriam, and I do appreciate it,” she said, trying to take it back. “And, I’m sorry. I trust you and always have.”
        “Thank you, Mum. Will that be all now?”
        “Yes--No! Would you like to help me get dressed?”
        Miriam was a kitchen maid, not a chamber maid, and dressing elegant young ladies was not part of her normal routine, but she took the invitation as it was offered, always looking for ways to improve her position without seeming ambitious or cloying.
        “If you wish.”
        “Good!” Catharina said enthusiastically. “Help me choose a dress.” As Catharina started for her wardrobe, Miriam stopped her.

        “Mum?” she said as she looked over to the objects on the table, Catharina following her gaze.
        “Yes--Right--”
        “Shall I help you?”
        “No! No, thank you. I’ll--perhaps you could come back in a few moments.”
        “Very good, Mum.” With that, the well-versed kitchen maid discreetly left the room.

                                            
        [Tue. Dec. 17]

        Catharina was dressed and ready when the low-slung barouche with its single horse and driver stopped in front of her house. Juliana’s houseboy, now dressed in finery, had trotted the short distance alongside of the coach, not permitted to ride inside. When Catharina opened the door at his knocking, the lad was surprised not to see a housemaid.
        “I’ve come from Madam van der Poort’s to acquire Miss Bolnes,” he said, not certain to whom he was speaking.
        “I am she, and I shall be ready presently.”
        “Yes, Ma’am.”
        Catharina ducked back inside where Miriam was waiting to help her with her cape and coif. The weather was indeed turning now, the sky growing greyer and a light wind rising from the west.
        “How do I look?”
        “Very fine, Mum.”
        “Don’t forget.”
        “No, Mum. I shall leave before sunset and return again at noontime.”
        “Thank you, Miriam.”
        “Mum.”
        Catharina stepped out as Miriam closed the door behind her. The houseboy helped her into the low open coach and, when she was completely seated, nodded to Hendrick, who gave the horse a snap, moving the carriage forward down the street to make the turn back into the Square as the lad trotted once again alongside.
        They reached the large house on the Boter Brug in just a few minutes time and, as Catharina stepped out of the rig, Heleen, Juliana’s housemaid, opened the door to greet her with a curtsy.

                                              
        [Tue. Dec. 17]

        The Boter Brug was actually a canal, covered over by a rather wide street just behind the Town Hall. The houses here were larger than most in the town and private homes were interspaced with buildings that served as offices for various commercial enterprises.
        The house of Juliana van der Poort and her husband, Doctor Constantijn van der Poort, was no exception. Three stories of regular brickwork, topped by a broad, red tiled roof, it fronted a small plaza on the bridge itself. Catharina had passed it many times in her life, but had no idea that one day she would be an honored guest in such a dwelling. As she walked up the smooth stone steps to the front door, where Heleen awaited her, she could hear laughter coming from inside. The houseboy slid up past her to announce her arrival.
        “Miss Catharina Bolnes to see Doctor and Madam van der Poort.”
        Heleen, with a genteel little bow, stepped aside so that Catharina could enter the large hallway. Its walls, paneled in tooled leather, were hung with family portraits and large seascapes, while a complex chandelier, hanging from the high ceiling, illuminated the entire room. This level of formality was highly uncommon in such a small town as Delft, and Catharina was not accustomed to it although her upbringing had been fine enough to give her full confidence as she set foot on the polished marble of the floor tiles.
        As the door silently closed behind her, and Heleen helped her with her best blue cape, Catharina untied her coif as a signal that this, too, should remain behind since that was not always the case on a first visit. Juliana emerged from a room towards the rear of the hall with the usual forced smile on her face.
        “Miss Bolnes. How kind of you to join us this afternoon,” she gushed as she offered the three kisses formality required.
        “It is so kind of you to have me.”
        Catharina was surprised that Madam van der Poort was dressed in the same type of severe black jumper with the tight, widow’s peak skullcap that she had worn before when she had come to visit. The only difference was in the quality of the trim of her collar and cuffs, which were broadly edged in the finest lacework Catharina had ever seen, and certainly of Flemish origin. She had expected something rather more ‘festive’, but this world, being somewhat new to her, accepted it for what it was.
        “Some of our guests have already arrived, as you can doubtless tell from the clamor down the hall. Please join us.”
        Catharina followed Juliana to a large, open room with a blazing fire in a grate, high enough for a grown man to stand upright. There were about ten or twelve people there, men and women of about her age or a little older, all dressed in their finest and most colorful clothing, especially the men, and all chatting and enjoying themselves. As Catharina entered, she was surprised by a great shout from the side of the room.
        “Trijntje!”
        “Trijntje!”
        It was Liesje and Magda, who instantly came running up to hug her as all the rest of the people looked up to watch the impromptu show.
        “It is so good to see you!” 
        They babbled as they fluttered around her, admiring her dress and whatnot, almost petting her as she stood there, slightly embarrassed, when out of the corner of her eye she spotted Kees Maas, elegant in black as usual, standing by himself in a corner of the room. He nodded his head, smiling broadly at her friends’ doting and lifted his glass in her direction. She smiled back, somewhat helpless at the moment.
        “I have a secret to tell you,” Liesje said, as she got closer to whisper in her ear. “Laurens and I-- Catharina!  You’ve had your ears pierced!” This was loud enough for everyone else in the room to hear, including Juliana, who surely would be as disapproving as her own mother would be if she found out.
        “Shhhh! Liesje!” she said in a chiding tone, but Liesje did not seem to mind.
        “Oh, oh, oh. You’re finally growing up.”
        “Allow me to introduce you to our guests, Miss Bolnes,” Juliana interrupted in no uncertain way as the girls backed off leaving Catharina standing there like a slave at auction.
        The men who were seated stood as Catharina stepped into the room. She recognized two of them from her church, a tall young man with pimples and a much shorter fat one with bad teeth. Each of these gentlemen was dressed in overly ornate clothing, which had become the rage of the time, and each smiled fulsomely at her as she stood there, compelling her to smile back in their direction. Then, as she looked around the room, she recognized one other girl, Roos, from her regular circle, but not as close a friend as Liesje and her sister.
        “Ladies and gentlemen,” Juliana announced in a quiet but effective way, “Miss Catharina Bolnes.” Then, to Catharina standing beside her, “Catharina, I see you already are acquainted with some of our guests. Please feel free to make yourself comfortable in our home and make the acquaintance of the others.”
        “Thank you, Madam van der Poort. I shall do that.”
        “We’ll take care of her, Madam,” Liesje said as she grabbed Catharina’s hand and led her over to the other girls who were seated mostly together on a bench and a couple of stiff chairs. Catharina cast a quick glance in Kees’ direction and noted that he was taking in the scene with apparent glee. ‘He’s just waiting,’ she thought, ‘for his time to come,’ which, she knew, most certainly would.

                                            
        [Tue. Dec. 17]

        At exactly five minutes past four o’clock, the wagon coach from Delft pulled in front of the Waag in Gouda, discharging its passengers before nightfall and turning over the mail pouch to the agent, actually a young boy, who ran the bag to the postal office just next to the weighing station. Here a clerk quickly sorted through the letters. Those with stamps bearing the seal of the sender’s city, he would file for either pick up or delivery at a later time. The others, marked by the sender with the phrase, ‘Messenger will pay’, were logged in a ledger and then given to one or two other boys to deliver that same evening, Gouda being a small town like Delft.
        It was just before six o’clock, the unseen sun having just set behind the thickening clouds, that a knocking was heard at Cornelia’s front door.

        “I wonder who that could be?” she said as they were finishing their early supper.
        “I’ll see, Ma’am,” Marta responded from the kitchen, as she wiped her hands on her apron and trundled down the hall to answer it.

                                            
        [Tue. Dec. 17]

         The social ‘diversion’ had been well choreographed by Madam van der Poort. Wine and a hot punch made from dried apples and cinnamon were served, but the wine was of the sweet variety from Germany that could only be consumed in small quantities. The hostess had nothing against wine, in fact it was the only thing she drank other than tea, but she felt that the young people, if allowed too much, might turn raucous and somewhat out of control. One could only imagine. There were little cakes of numerous varieties and, of course, fine chocolates from Flanders, which she considered of higher quality than those produced in her own country.
        After an adequate time had been allowed for chatting and ‘meeting’, the musical portion of her little production took place. Any person who possessed a special talent was required to display it and the proper instruments were at hand including an exquisite muselar virginal, built by Hans Ruckers in Antwerp.
         Several of the girls played standing at the keyboard, but Catharina’s performance was considered as ‘best’ by all, to the chagrin of those who had come before her and the delight of Kees Maas, who stood close to her in rapt appreciation. She had deliberately chosen a fairly new work called Buffoons, which was a lively tune based on a sword dance, thinking this might appeal especially to the military side of ‘Captain’ Maas’ character. She had not been mistaken.
        Those who were not so well versed in instrumentation, although every person in the room could play something, were required to sing, either a cappella, accompanied or in a group. Kees chose to join the other young men in a rather bawdy ditty sung to the solemn tune of a Calvinist hymn. This, of course, delighted all present with the exception of Aunt Juliana who found such things quite inappropriate. Catharina was delighted by the performance and especially Kees’ rich baritone which stood out above the rest, particularly in the earthier sections.
        All that having been done, it was time for the games to begin. After the requisite round of blind-man’s-buff, Kees stood by Catharina as the group assembled for some new endeavor, equally as silly for people of their age.
        “If you think you’ve had quite enough of this, perhaps you might allow me to show you my uncle’s gallery.”
        “You don’t want to stay for find-the-slipper?”
        “Only if you do.”
        Catharina smiled at him, appreciating his easy manner.
        “As long as we’re back for pick-up-sticks.”
        “I promise.”
He stepped aside and gestured for her to precede into another room.
        “Constantijn, my uncle, is quite a collector,” he said as they left the room, followed closely by Juliana’s approving gaze.
        “Where is your uncle, if I may ask?”
        “He was called to see a patient. I hope he gets back before all this is over. I know you’ll like him.”
        ‘If he’s anything like your aunt--’ she thought to herself and it seemed as if Kees had read her mind.
        “He not a thing like Juliana. He came from one of those old ‘noble’ families, you know, lots of titles but little money, so he had to make his own way, until he met Juliana, that is. Her family--our family--had money but no status. His family, well, I think it speaks for itself.”
        Catharina appreciated his candor, not yet knowing where he fit into all this.
        They crossed through one large room and into another which housed the gallery of Doctor van der Poort. The room was on the north end of the house and its three large, un-shuttered windows allowed the cool afternoon light to spill in, making soft patterns on the deep red carpet that covered most of the polished marble floor. The room, itself, was nearly empty of furniture except for a heavy carved table in the center, covered with what appeared to be an antique tapestry, while two straight-backed chairs flanked another lofty fireplace. But it was the walls that first caught Catharina’s attention. They were completely paneled in a deep, dark wood with a lustrous sheen of a kind she had never seen before in a house or anywhere else, for that matter.
        On these walls hung perhaps twenty-five elegantly framed paintings of varying sizes, many by artists whose work she recognized, some from Delft, but not all. Metsu, Aelst, Dou, ter Borch, Rembrandt were properly represented, but there were other paintings as well, rich in the reds and blues of Italian palettes, some quite old, centuries perhaps. One in particular caught her eye and Kees noticed this. It was a simple portrait of a boy’s face
 
with a somewhat sullen, if not pleading expression, the highlights of his skin fading off into dark black shadow. Catharina stepped up to look at in more closely.
        “I cannot tell you who painted each one, although I am familiar with quite a few. The one of the boy there, that is also one of my favorites. It’s by an Italian named Mirisi. My uncle told me that he died when he was in his thirty’s. An amazing picture, isn’t it? I’ve always felt it shows that boy’s inner soul and how can anyone ever paint that on a canvas?”
        Catharina found Kees’ perception of it to match her own, as she took in the deep, lifelike eyes as if the living boy had just looked away from her. Her mind flew to Vermeer and she wanted to say something about him, but knew she could not.
        “Perhaps artists have some sort of inner vision that the rest of us lack,” she said.
        “No doubt,” Kees responded. “But ‘vision’ is a gift from God. To be able to express it for others to recognize, that’s genius.” He had made a fine point, this ‘killer of pirates’, and she felt she could go on for hours discussing this with him. It made her wonder, though, why hadn’t she discussed art this way with Joannis? This was certainly her fault because she saw him to be just the type of ‘genius’ Kees was referring to. Somehow, Catharina felt she knew more about Kees than she did her own lover and this thought pulled her up short. Realizing that she had to break this off, for more than one reason, she stepped back from the portrait and took a casual look around the room, admiring the various works that hung about her.
        “Your uncle has a fine collection. He must know a great deal about art”
        Perhaps Kees had expected more from her at this point, but gallant as always, he smiled with a simple,
        “If you mean ‘signatures’ and each painting’s value to the stuiver, then yes. However, I shall tell him you thought so.”
        “Perhaps we should get back to the party before we are missed too much.”
        Kees turned to face her directly.
        “Catharina, I want you to know that I wish to continue to see you.” He was not a man to waste words.
        “Kees,” she nearly stammered, although she had known full well that this moment was certain to come. “That’s very kind of you.” If she added the ‘but--’ it would immediately tell him that either she did not care for him, which clearly was not the case, or that she already had a lover. Still, almost any other response would certainly seem to be leading him on, which she felt would be unfair. Taking a note from his directness, Catharina squared herself before answering.
        “I am already being courted, Kees. I’m sorry. It is a secret I have not even shared with my mother.”
        Maas took it very well, it seemed, as he smiled at her in an understanding sort of way.
        “Then he is a very fortunate man.”
        Catharina blushed as she looked away, not knowing what to say next.
        “And I assure you, your secret is safe with me.”
        She looked back at the handsome soldier and put her hand on his sleeve.
        “Thank you, Kees.” There was no need for further explanation or hollow words of promise. Leaving her hand on his extended arm, Kees Maas led Catharina back toward the party and the inane gaiety of the cavorting guests, but before leaving the room, he stopped and turned to her one more time.
        “Mahogany,” he said in a soft voice.
        Catharina looked at him, never having heard the word before.
        “The walls. I saw you notice them when you stepped in,” he said, seeming to have read her mind       once again.
        “It’s from the West Indies. It’s very difficult to obtain.”
        “It’s very beautiful, Kees.”
        He turned to lead her back to the party.
        “Why is it, Catharina, that the most beautiful things are always the most difficult to acquire?”
        She had no answer for this, nor was she certain of his meaning in asking the question.
        It was true that Kees Maas was a gentleman and an honorable man, but he was also a disciplined leader of armed forces and person whose star was now rising in the most competitive company on the face of the earth. It was obvious to all who knew him that he was not the type of man to give up easily.

                                            
        [Tue. Dec. 17]

        Marta returned carrying a letter, a fretful and puzzled look on her face.
        “This just came for Madam Thins,” she said holding out the folded and sealed piece of paper. Maria was equally as puzzled as she reached out and took it from the  maid. She studied the address carefully as her sister watched. It was very fine stationary, probably of French origin, and addressed to her in care of her sister. The postmaster’s note, scribbled at the bottom, indicated that it had been sent that same day.
        “What is it?” Cornelia asked, but before answering, Maria turned it over to reveal not just the usual paraffin seal of common mail, but the blood red crest of the Maas family. A look of near panic came over her as she thought that something terrible might have happened to Catharina in her absence and this was news of it. She slipped her finger, breaking the seal, and nearly tore the paper apart opening it. Her hands trembled slightly as she read the words silently to herself.
        “What is it, Maria? Is Catharina alright?” But Maria did not answer. She braced herself against the side of the table and handed the letter to Cornelia. In spite of her weakening eyesight, Cornelia was able to make out the clear and elegant script:

        My Dear Madam Thins,

                Please excuse this intrusion on your visit to
         your sister, but something has happened that I feel
 I must bring to your attention. This very morning,        
 while my carriage was most inconveniently stopped
 close to your house, I happened to notice a man of
 unknown character exiting  the side door on the
 Molenstraat. Naturally, this brought me great concern,
 knowing, as I did from my nephew, that you had
 traveled from Delft leaving your daughter in the
 charge of the kitchen maid.
At first I believed it might be a thief or some
             other such nefarious individual who may have caused
             harm to your daughter. However, his actions were slow
             and deliberate and he appeared to be modestly dressed
             and confident in his bearing. My suspicion is that the man
was some scoundrel who may be having his way with your
kitchen maid. What other explanation could there be?
It is not my intention to unsettle you, nor is it my
 business to inject myself into your personal affairs. However,
 I feel it is only prudent to bring this to your attention at the
             earliest possible moment, seeing as it might have some effect
on your daughter’s well-being.
If Catharina is not promptly here at my house at the
appointed time today, I shall instantly send someone to look in
on her. If anything at all is amiss, I shall personally send a rider
             to Gouda to inform you by this evening. If you hear nothing
else from me regarding this matter, then you may know that
your daughter is in good stead, and need trouble yourself no
further regarding it.

                                I trust all else is well with you
             and I remain,

                                           Yours most cordially,

                                           Juliana van der Poort née Maas

        Cornelia looked away from the letter and up to her sister.
        “Whatever could this be, Maria?”
        But instead of answering, Maria called into the kitchen where she could clearly see Tanneke busying herself with some minor chore.
        “Tanneke!”
        “Yes, Ma’am,” she answered as she came forward to see what her mistress might need from her.
        “Tanneke, we are returning to Delft tomorrow.”
        “Maria?” Cornelia gasped in surprise.
        “Ma’am?” Tanneke asked, understanding the meaning but not the intent.
        “Go to the station first thing and book passage on the earliest coach back.”
        This caused Tanneke great concern, but, even here, it was not her place to ask why.
        “Maria,” Cornelia asked, “do you think that is necessary? No one has come from Delft, so certainly Catharina must be fine.”
        Maria took the letter back from her sister and carefully refolded it, a grave look on her face as she did so.
        “I understand your concern, but you can deal with Miriam later,” Cornelia said, trying to dissuade        her sister.
        Maria turned away, her face as set as stone.
        “It’s not Miriam.”

                                            
        [Tue. Dec. 17]

        Outside the elegant house on the Boter Brug, a light mist was just starting to form as the sky darkened. Inside, the party was starting to wind down and some of the guests who lived further away had already left. Juliana was satisfied with her efforts. Several new ‘pairings’ seemed to have formed, but, more important, her nephew had been successful in luring Catharina away for a private moment. She tried to imagine what effect her letter would have on Maria and what the result might be, although she had a very good idea.
        Catharina had already said good-bye to Juliana, who lingered inside with her remaining guests, and was now in the hallway as Heleen helped her on with the cape and coif. Kees came from the other room to see her out.
        “Please thank your aunt again for having me. I had a wonderful time.”
        “The pleasure was ours, I assure you.”
        She paused a moment as Heleen opened the door to reveal the waiting carriage.
        “And, thank you, Kees,” she said kindly, knowing that he would understand her meaning. He just    smiled warmly.
        “I’ll see you to your coach.”
        They stepped outside into the mist as Heleen closed the door behind them. Kees offered his arm, which Catharina took as he escorted her down the steps and to the curb where the houseboy, now wearing a woolen mantel, stood waiting to assist her.
        “I loved your uncle’s collection,” she said making a last bit of neutral conversation before mounting the rig. “I’m only sorry that I didn’t get to--”
        “Catharina,” Kees interrupted, “I understand your situation and am fully respectful of it. But I must know. Is it your intention that we never see each other again as friends?”
        This question took Catharina completely by surprise, but what did she really expect? It was a fair question from a man who did not seem to care much for ambiguity. It deserved a fair answer. Only ‘Yes’ or ‘No’. Nothing in between would suffice.
        “No,” she replied. “I enjoy your company a great deal and look forward to,” she searched for words, “our next ‘social’ encounter.”
        Kees did not reply to this, but his smile, as he took her elbow to help her into the coach, caused Catharina to feel that she might not have closed that door quite firmly enough.
        “Until we see each other,” Kees said as Hendrick snapped the reins-- those same few words that usually meant so little as people parted.
        “Until we see each other,” she said as the carriage started on its way to take her down the street past the Town Hall, across the Great Square, then over the bridge and up to the door of her own house where Vermeer would be meeting her in just a few hours time.

                                            
        [Tue. Dec. 17]

        When Vermeer reached Catharina’s house after the watch had past, a light rain was falling, unusual for this late in the year, he thought. Catharina was there in the inner doorway to greet him, but she was dressed in her normal day clothing in spite of the hour. She was also wearing the earrings he had given her and which he noticed as he kissed her neck. However, instead of leading him upstairs to her bedroom, she took him by the hand to the cooking kitchen where a nice fire burned in the grate and a light supper of expensive white bread, butter, cheese and a flask of Maria’s finest red wine had been laid out, the crystal glasses shimmering in the light of a single candle. Without letting him talk, she took his wet casaque and hat and hung them by the fire to dry. Vermeer sat at the table as she had instructed. Then she sat to join him, her earrings catching and magnifying the light of the flickering flame. She poured wine for each of them, then bowed her head and made the sign of the cross as he watched her, completely befuddled by this little scene of domestic tranquility.


        Catharina looked up and noticed that Joannis had bowed his head, but not blessed himself as she          had done.
        “Here. I’ll show you,” she said as she raised her right hand and gestured for him to do the same. “Put your thumb and first two fingers together--like this. That represents the trinity.” Vermeer, his hands still blemished by dabs of dried paint did as he was told.
        “Now touch them to your forehead. That’s the Holy Father.” He did so, following her every lead. “Next, the heart. That’s the Son, Jesus.”
        “Jesus.”
        “Yes. Then the left shoulder, then the right. That’s the Holy Spirit. All together, it represents the cross upon which Jesus died.” Vermeer made all the moves, indulging her in this first lesson of religious instruction. Of course he knew that Catholics always made the sign of the cross at certain times, but he enjoyed watching her presentation.
        “Am I Catholic, yet?” he asked, completing the minor ritual.
        “Joannis! Don’t blaspheme!”
        “Sorry.”
        Catharina accepted this and waited for him to say the ‘prayer’ before eating, but he just looked at her, still a little confused.
        “We Catholics always say a prayer before we break bread. I’m certain the Calvinists have such a similar tradition.”
        “Yes, yes we do.” Vermeer bowed his head again and closed his eyes as he spoke.

                     “Dear father in heaven, we thank
                  Thee for Thy bounty and pray You
                            grant us all a happy home.
                                                                     Amen.”

        Brilliant! she thought, even though it appeared that he had just made it up on the spot.
        “Amen.”
        That being accomplished to her satisfaction, Catharina waited for Vermeer to lift his glass, as befit the ‘Man’ at the table, which he did. It was never proper to make a toast to oneself, and a simple ‘Salut!’ seemed out of place, so he fell back on his old standard with Fabritius.
        “To Art!”
        He could not have been more perfect, Catharina thought as she smiled, her eyes widening slightly.
        “To Art!”
        They both sipped the deep red wine, dry and with an aftertaste of oak and apples which both found quite pleasant.
        “Excellent wine, Catharina,” Vermeer said sincerely as he felt its warmth enter his body.
        “From Spain. Mother got a cask just after the Treaty, but she rarely serves it.’
        “Well, I am honored.”
        Catharina was starting to enjoy her fantasy-come-to-life here in her kitchen with the man she loved, but in truth knew so little about. ‘Fornication’, as Miriam called it, was not the only part of the existence she hoped to share with the man--the artist--the ‘genius’--sitting across from her.
        She took up a large knife and quickly cut a shallow cross in the round loaf of bread before slicing it for Joannis. Then she cut into the small wheel of cheese and passed this to him as well, along with the pot of butter.
        “Please try the cheese.”
        Vermeer looked at her, wondering how long her little game would go on, but was happy to play along, at least for a little while longer. He tasted the cheese.
        “Mmmmm.  This is very good cheese.”
        “Yes. I asked Miriam to get it yesterday, but we didn’t get to try it last night, if you recall.”
        Indeed, he did.
        “It’s from Midden Beemster. Isn’t that where you new teacher is from? Didn’t you tell me that?”
        Vermeer started to fret. How could he break her out of this little bit of theater she seemed intent on performing? he wondered. Where was this leading? And why?
        “Yes. Fabritius is from that town.”
        “And how is your work going? With Fabritius?”
        “Fine, I suppose.”
        “Are you still freezing by that open window upstairs?”
        “Chilled to the bone. But, now I’m at a point where I can do a great deal of it without actually having to look outside, so that’s better.”
        “Are you satisfied with what you have accomplished so far?”
        “Yes. It will be a good painting when it’s finished.”
        “A ‘good’ painting?”
        “Well,” he shrugged, “there’s only so much you can do.”
        “So, you would be happy with a ‘good’ painting?”
        Now Vermeer had reached his limit. He grew tired with her chit-chatty tone and felt she was challenging him on his efforts.
        “Catharina, are you asking me why I don’t think it will be a ‘great’ painting?”
        “No, Joannis. Of course not.”
        “Well, you are,” Vermeer contradicted. “And if you really want to know, I’ll tell you.” This was no longer dinner table conversation. “A great painting has to come from the heart. Everything in it has to come from inside the artist, a part of him that he needs to express, something deeper than smears of paint on a canvas or a board! What I’m doing is an assignment, just like some sort of schoolboy, and I’m learning a great deal every day, not just from Fabritius, but from myself. That’s the value of it, not some boring houses on a muddy street!”
        Catharina was taken by his sudden display of intensity, but not displeased by it. This was what she had been aiming for, whether she knew it or not and most likely, she did.
        “I didn’t choose it, Catharina. He told me to paint it and that’s what I’m doing. But I’ll tell you one other thing. When I’m done with it, it will be the best damn picture of boring houses anyone in this town has ever seen!” and he set his glass down somewhat harder than one might expect.
        Vermeer was completely surprised by her genuine laughter when he finished his rant and it made him furious, that is, until the infection set in and he started laughing as well. They both laughed so hard tears came to their eyes.
        “I love you, Joannis Vermeer. And I have all the faith in the world in you,” she said as she finally caught her breath.
        “I love you, too, Catharina and I’m sorry if I got a bit--”
        “No, don’t be sorry. You are right. I love that in you.”
        He let this sink in before taking another drink of his wine. The charade had ended and they finished the meal in happy conversation of a general nature. She told him a little about the social function at Juliana’s house and how silly she had found it, but there were parts she decided to keep to herself. He talked about his bricks and the lady who thought he was insane, but he did not mention Maria van Oosterwijk or the brushes she had given him. Then, as they left the table and Catharina put the fire-bell over the smoldering peat in the fireplace, she took his hand to lead him upstairs to her room, stopping for one last question.
        “Joannis, if it were up to you now, what would you paint?  Do you know?”
        He had hated this question the other times he had been asked it because he had no good answer, but now, with her hand in his as she carried the flickering candle in the dim hallway, her face glowing in the warm light, Vermeer had no hesitation.
        “You.”
                                            

        [Wed. Dec. 18]

        The clatatatat of the watchman’s rattle woke Vermeer as the town clock chimed four. It had been decided as they went to bed that he would leave before sunrise this time to avoid the chance of being seen. It also gave him to opportunity to slip over to his room in the Mechelen to catch a few more hours of rest, which he sorely needed, before returning to the studio.
        Catharina was still asleep on his outstretched arm as he gently kissed and roused her.
        “I’ll have to be going soon.”
        “Nnnnnn. Stay longer,” she said, still half in slumber. “You don’t have to go yet.” But he knew he did.
        The room was freezing cold as Vermeer got out from the warm covers and warmer body of his lover to reignite the glowing embers in the grate.
        “Come back,” she pleaded as she extended her hand to him.  “It’s too cold.”
        “Just for a little while, but then I have to go.”
        He climbed back into the warmth and she drew him nearer to her, kissing his neck and cheek. Little by little, they found renewed energy as they sweated, naked and hot under the blankets and quilts of the otherwise freezing room until they finally both collapsed, completely spent.
        They lay there for moments not saying a word, nor having to, lost in a dreamlike state of satisfaction and exhaustion. Finally, Catharina stroked Vermeer’s cheek as she nestled in closer to his body.


        “I was having the strangest dream,” she said. He could barely make out her features in the growing light of the rekindled peat bricks. “I was in Africa, at least I think it was Africa because I remember these strange animals. It was very beautiful and quiet.”
        “Was I there?”
        “No. There was this boy. I was with a boy and he looked so sad, I thought he was going to cry, so I held him to try to comfort him. When I woke up, I was holding you.”
        Gypsies always said that dreams hold hidden meanings that only they could decipher. Some dreams, it was thought, taught the dreamer about the past, others about the future, but this did not seem to Catharina to be one of those dreams.
        “It was so clear, Joannis. I can still see his face and his sad, dark eyes.” Catharina was fully awake now and trying to recall more of her dream for him and for herself. “But do you know what?”
        “What?”
        “I know who that boy was.”
        “Tell me.”
        She sat up and wrapped the quilt around her shoulders, caught in the memory and the moment.
        “When I was at Juliana’s house, I saw a painting in her husband’s gallery. It was that boy in the painting who was in my dream.”
        “Really? Do you remember who painted it?”
        She did, but decided to be a little careful in how she told it.
        “Someone said it was by an Italian painter. His name was Mirisi and he died when he was very young.”
        Vermeer had quite enough of stories about young painters who ‘went their way’ at an early age. He found it a depressing thought, but that had little to do with what she was trying to tell him.
        “Do you know his work?” she asked.
        “Mirisi?” He thought about it. “I don’t think so.”
        “It was extraordinary, Joannis. Just his face and bare chest. His pale skin seemed to fade right into the shadows behind him until everything was completely black, but it was so lifelike, so human. That was the boy in my dream.”
        Once she had described it, the origin became clear to him. He had seen such paintings when he was in Italy, with the qualities she had just recounted, but before he could tell her, she put both of her hands on his cheeks, framing his face and keeping it close to hers.
        “Someday, perhaps you’ll paint a picture like that. Would you do that?”
        “If you wanted me to. If I could feel it the way you do.”
        She smiled and lightly kissed his lips before snuggling deeper into      his chest.
        “I think I know who the artist might have been?”
        “Mirisi.”
        “Well, that might be his name, but not what they called him when I saw pictures like that in Italy.”
        “Do you remember what they called him?”
        “Yes. After the place where he was born, like many of the other Italians --I think it was Caravaggio.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

                                                           1652       

        [Wed. Dec. 18]   

        THE WEATHER HAD TURNED rotten during the night. A cold, icy sleet that did not fall from the sky, hovered suspended, permeating everything it touched. By the time Vermeer reached Carel’s house, he was soaked as he let himself in through the side door. Agatha, working in the cooking kitchen, saw him and immediately came over.
        “Good morning,” Vermeer said as he started to remove his hat and casaque.
        “Good morning, Joannis.”  He could tell from her expression, usually cheerful and light, but not this time, that something was wrong and waited for her to tell him.
        “It’s not a good day for him today,” was all that she said as she helped him out of his wet clothing.
        “Did something happen?”
        “No. Nothing in particular,” she hesitated. “Some days he just gets ‘that way’. It’s probably better if you just go up to your room and work quietly.”
        Usually, when Vermeer arrived in the morning, he would find Fabritius at his easel and well into his work. They would chat and perhaps share a pot of hot beer before Joannis got started. But today, as Vermeer passed the doorway to the workroom, he could see the shutters closed, casting the room into half-light, barely illuminating the Prodigal, still covered on its stand.
        Upstairs, Vermeer contemplated his day’s work. The brickwork was done except for the numerous details he would add at some later time, and the three windows had been underpainted in pale yellow, which he had to ‘borrow’ from Fabritius, mixed with blue. Today he would add a thin glaze of the precious ultramarine blue to give an overall realistic greenish cast to the glass panes and, while that was drying, work on the shutters. Those of the single lower window were of rough wood, painted green and closed tight, while those of the two smaller windows on the second floor were brown and opened against the finished brick. These would be done in layers of impasto, wet into wet, to achieve their natural texture. The mullions would be more painstaking and far less forgiving than the grey lines of mortar that he had already mastered. Still, he was relieved that all this could be done from sketches he had made and would allow him to work, for the most part, with his window closed.

        As a young apprentice, Vermeer had learned from Bramer that few artists actually painted outdoors from nature or the actual scene. It was too difficult and too dangerous. It was a chore to carry the easel, stool, palette, paint box, oils, rags, and brushes to any given location, not to mention the canvas itself, which could easily get damaged or dirty in the process. And, in the summer, there were bugs that liked to stick themselves into the wet paint. Also, the conditions outside were constantly changing, not just from day to day, but hour to hour. A sudden cloudburst could ruin a month’s hard work.
        Bramer had taught Vermeer how to make the sketches and notes he would need to capture the elements of a scene outside and then allow him to work on it later in the studio under more controlled conditions. A sketchbook, charcoal stick, pencils and colored chalk were all that was needed. Vermeer had amassed many of these sketchbooks during his years of apprenticeship and now they were all saved together in a wooden box in the attic of the Mechelen. He thought someday he might sit and show them to his grandchildren on rainy days just like this one.
        Having warmed his hands by the small fire that Spoors had laid out for him, Vermeer went to his box of pigments, most of which were kept in bladders tied with string at the top. His rarest ones were kept in small, tightly stoppered bottles, and it was one of these that he carefully extracted, the ultramarine blue, of which he had very little due to its very high cost. From a shelf, he took another bottle, this one of pure linseed oil, triply refined in the winter by freezing with water then pouring off the clarified oil numerous times. This was also an expensive item, but essential for the clarity of the glaze that Vermeer wanted. Some gum turpentine and Dammar varnish finished the mix.
        Vermeer brought these precious materials over to his marble grinding stone. He poured just a tiny amount of pigment onto his slab and then added a few drops of the oil. Taking the mulling stone, he ground these together, adding more oil as needed until his glaze was completed to his satisfaction. With his thinnest knife, he transferred this honey-thick mixture onto his cleaned palette and went to his stool, keeping the oils close at hand. He chose a narrow badger-hair brush with a flat tip of fine bristles that would leave no marks. He studied this closely, then wiped it with a clean piece of linen to insure any dust that might have settled on it was removed. Taking his maulstick in his left hand as he sat in front of the easel, he dipped the brush tip into the glaze. With his


hand steadied and in the proper position, Vermeer deftly started to apply a nearly invisible coat of glaze to the first window. His day had begun.

                                            
        [Wed. Dec. 18]

        The noon carriage from Gouda to Delft was loading its few passengers, Maria and Tanneke among them, both wrapped as tightly as possible against the chill. Maria’s face was a grim mask as she climbed on board, as Tanneke followed silently behind her. Neither Cornelia nor Marta had come out on this miserable morning to see them off The sleet had glazed the streets with a thin and dangerous sheet of ice, and people slipped and fell as they tried to walk from place to place. The carriage master knew that the horses would have trouble with their footing in town, but felt that the dirt roads would be easier for them to handle once they reached the city limits, and so, just as the town bell struck twelve, the driver snapped the reins and the team moved out at a very slow pace.
        Tanneke sat on the end of the side bank to protect Maria as much as possible from the icy drops that still swirled in at the edge of the canvas cover closest to the driver. Maria’s expression did not change as the carriage clattered along the narrow streets to the town gate. Once through, where the road entered the flat, open fields of the countryside, a freezing blast, unimpeded by walls and houses, shook the wagon to its springs, and everyone inside shuddered, except for Maria, whose look was colder than anything that could beset them from outside.

                                            
        [Wed. Dec. 18] 

        Catharina slept until the town clock rang nine. She opened her eyes and spent a moment or two thinking about the evening, and the night, which had ended not that long ago. She rolled over on her side and could still feel Vermeer’s warmth on her body, which brought a dreamy smile to her face before she closed her eyes and slept again.
                                              
        Catharina was dressed and sitting by the fire sewing when she heard the door to the laundry kitchen open and then close. She knew it had to be Miriam and so decided to greet her, having developed a new fondness and respect for the sturdy kitchen maid, but when she got to the kitchen door, Catharina was shocked by what she saw. There was Miriam, soaked to the skin, her thin hood coated with ice!
        “Miriam!”
        The girl never looked up as she set her market basket down on the table before starting to remove her sodden outer clothing.
        “Good day, Mum,” she said as if she had just walked in from a sultry afternoon, “I did the marketing on the way.”
        Catharina had given no thought to her maid’s long walk from where she lived across the Oosteinde canal in the northeast corner of the town. The fact that she had stopped to do the marketing on the way made Catharina feel even more guilty.
        “Miriam, you’re soaked? Is that ice on your bonnet?”
        “I don’t know, Mum. Maybe just sleet.”
        “Well, get over here and let me help you out of those wet clothes before you get sick.” Catharina started over to her, but Miriam stopped her.
        “No, Mum. I’ll do it. I’ll be fine,” she said as she shook the ice from her bonnet and removed her dripping cloak. She hung these on a peg next to the small re-kindled fire in the grate.
        “I’ll go fetch some peat and then I’ll start my chores.”
        Catharina’s heart went out to this girl, only two years younger than herself, especially when she could see that Miriam’s tunic, bodice and skirt were also soaked through.
        “No, Miriam,” Catharina asserted. “You will not do that. You will come with me and sit by the fire until you are dry.”
        “I don’t think I can do that,” she said, still not looking at Catharina.
        “Why not?”
        “It--it wouldn’t be proper.”
        “Damn ‘proper’! You are wet to your skin. Now, go in there and stand by the fire. I’ll get you a            dry towel.”
        “But--”
        “Miriam, I insist!”
        There was little the maid could do but obey no matter how deeply it cut against her training and sense of propriety.
        “Yes, Mum.”
        Moments later Catharina came back into the warm cooking kitchen with a clean cotton towel to find Miriam standing rigidly by the fire, just as she had been ordered, a small puddle having formed on the clay tiles beneath her wet shoes. Catharina shook her head.
        “Miriam. What am I to do with you?” she asked in a tone generally reserved for a mother speaking to   her child.
        “I’m fine, Mum. I should get to work.”
        “Stay where you are. I’ll be right back,” she said as she quickly left    the room.
        Miriam was so discomfited by Catharina’s attention that she could almost taste it. Still, with Maria away, this woman was now her mistress who had to be obeyed. The fire did feel good as she used the soft, clean towel to dry her hair, but her heart started to pound as she imagined what would happen if Maria ever found out about this. Her job in this household was all she had and her family would suffer if she lost it and the small income that came with it.
         Catharina was back with another towel and a heavy pile of clothing, hand-me-downs that were to be donated to charity.
        “Here. Put these on and hang your own things up until they’re dry.”
        Miriam was shocked at the thought and refused to take them, so Catharina decided on a new tack. She put the clothing on the tabletop, and then stood squarely in front of the maid with her hands on her hips, her expression now set.
        “While my mother is away, I am the mistress of this house. I will not have my maid slopping around here like some sort of flounder. Put these clothes on and make yourself presentable, do you understand?”
        Both women knew that this assertive tone was equally artificial and insincere, but to Miriam, the words were the words and she would have to obey them.
        “Yes, Mum.”
        She looked down and started to unlace her brown, woolen bodice. Catharina had not anticipated that Miriam’s changeover would happen right in front of her eyes, but, now that she was ‘mistress’, she had to stay to see that her orders were carried out.
        Miriam put the garment on the floor, and then stepped out of her worn and tattered petticoat, which she was embarrassed to let Catharina see because of its ragged condition. What choice did she have, though, as she lay this on top of the first piece of wet clothing?
        Catharina discovered herself staring at Miriam as she did this, for no other reason than simple fascination that such an event was happening here in her own house. She decided that it would be prudent to turn away and busy herself with some chore or other as the maid continued to disrobe, but she had a difficult time finding anything to do here that made sense.
        “I’ll make you some tea.” At least that would keep her a little busy.
        “No, Mum. If you please. I don’t drink tea,” Miriam said flustered.
        “Why not?  Don’t you like tea?”
        “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had it.”
        Of course, Catharina realized, the maid had never had tea, being a drink of some expense and therefore reserved for the more privileged classes.
        “Well, you just go on with what you are doing and I’ll make you some to try.”
        “But--” Catharina shot her a look. “Yes, Mum.”
        Miriam slipped off her shoes and bent to roll down her plain cotton hose to stack onto the growing pile. Then she grabbed the low hem of her chemise and, with one swift motion, raised it over her head and off her body to reveal her fully naked form.
        In Miriam’s world of small crowded houses and rather large, extended families, nakedness was never even thought about from the cradle to the death bed, but to Catharina, who had never seen another woman this way, not even her mother, this image, which she caught out of the corner of her eye, held the same type of fascination as a public execution. A ‘delicate’ person did not want to watch, but found it hard not to.
        Catharina was surprised as Miriam started to towel herself in front of the fire. She was not ‘fattish’, as she had always thought, but full and firm. Her waist was not narrow, but came straight down to her hips, while her stomach remained flat and her legs were longer and thinner than Catharina ever imagined, not that she ever did imagine that.
        When she dared to look, she was also surprised to discover that Miriam’s hair, always covered by her maid’s bonnet as she worked about the house, was in fact fiery red and came down well past her broad, sturdy shoulders. As Miriam raised her arms to continue wiping her hair, Catharina could see that her breasts were much larger than her own, but firm with perfectly round nipples that were pale pink in color.
        Miriam never looked up once as Catharina clattered the teacup and rattled the pot just a little, trying not to let her ogling be noticed. Still undressed, Miriam looked through the pile of clothing Catharina had brought down for her, but before putting anything on, she swirled her hair from over one shoulder and twisted it into a loose bun which she fastened with the long wooden pin that had originally been holding it. Then she lifted up the cotton chemise from the top of the pile and examined it for a second before throwing it over her head, covering her body to her ankles, much to Catharina’s relief. Still without looking up, Miriam pulled on the pale blue stockings that were next in the pile, and tied each one just below the knee. There was a full skirt of dark red wool that she stepped into and tied at the back. This was followed by a coarse, lemon-brown work shirt and a heavy, blue apron. Finally came a soft linen coif that she carefully placed over her still damp hair, covering it so that only her face and forehead remained visible. An old pair of house shoes completed the ensemble.
        “Are you finished dressing yet?” Catharina asked, as if she hadn’t been paying any attention at all.
        “Yes, Mum.”
        Catharina looked at her and noted the transformation. Miriam’s was not a ‘beautiful’ face in the way the Liesje’s or Magda’s was beautiful. Her forehead was wide and her cheeks were full, which probably gave her that ‘fattish’ look, Catharina thought, but here eyes were warm when they weren’t cast down in their usual mode of subservience, her nose was thin and he mouth had a pleasant shape, although Catharina had never seen her smile.
        “I should get to work now,” she said as she started to gather her wet clothes to bring to the laundry kitchen to dry once she had made a fire.
        “Wait, Miriam. We’re going to have tea.”
        “Mum. If you don’t mind,” Miriam said deferentially, “I would prefer to set about my chores.”
         It occurred to Catharina how little she knew about this young woman who had been living under the same roof with her for years. She realized that she had regarded Miriam as little more than a quiet, working piece of living furniture that was always there when needed, but not noticed at any other time. Catharina’s fantasy now was to sit with the maid and drink tea while she drew out all the details of the woman’s life, loves and hopes for the future. But, of course, this was not going to happen and Catharina sadly acknowledged it. She had put the girl through enough already in trying to help her. Now it was time to just let her go back to the world she knew and where she felt most comfortable.
        “No, Miriam. I don’t mind.”
        “Thank you, Mum,” she said, still too shy to look directly at her mistress as she started out of the room. “I’ll try to keep these fine clothes clean.”

                                            
        [Wed. Dec. 18]

        The journey from Gouda to the inn at the Rotte Meeren, where they were scheduled to stop and refresh themselves, was long and miserable, the horses having to pick their way over the small, ice-covered rocks that littered the road while wind and sleet buffeted the lumbering coach. At one point, the driver turned to his charges to announce that he thought it might be better to forget the relative comforts of the inn and proceed straight to Delft, but the rebellion that resulted was beyond his control. He was forced to accede to the unified insistence of the passengers who sorely needed to be warmed, fed and otherwise ‘refreshed’.
        It was past three o’clock when the carriage pulled up in front of the small building and the driver announced:
        “Fifteen minutes! No longer!” fearing that too much of a delay would keep him on the road well past dark, never a good thing, especially in weather like this. However, he was well aware that these people did not necessarily share his concerns at the moment and would take all the time necessary to have their drinks, their bread, their mild cheese and their time in the privy. That being the case, he tied off the horses and followed them inside.

                                            
        [Wed. Dec. 18]

        Miriam, dressed now in her own dried clothes, was just finishing her kitchen chores before leaving at her mistress’ instruction. Catharina came into the room as the maid was setting out food on the table for the ‘night visitor’.
        “Cold sausage, Mum, with mustard, dark bread, cheese,” was all        she said.
        It was still light out and, mercifully, the sleet had stopped, at least for a while.
        “Thank you, Miriam. Are you certain you don’t want to stay tonight?” Catharina asked, knowing that she at least had to offer.

        “Thank you, Mum, but no.”
        “Well, the weather’s a little better now. I don’t think you’ll get so soaked on your way back.”
        “No, Mum. Noon again?”
        Catharina thought for a second before answering. Joannis would again be leaving before dawn so there was not point in delaying the girl’s arrival, putting her behind in her day’s work which was tied to a strict and long established routine.
        “No. Come at eight. Perhaps I’ll go to the market with you.”
        This did not sit all that well with Miriam who feared Catharina’s apparent desire to forge closer bonds with her. She knew she was an illiterate girl whose origins placed here somewhere just above peasant and had no business carrying on with a young woman she considered to be a privileged aristocrat. Not only did she fear Maria, whom she knew would not stand for such behavior from her kitchen maid, she also feared her father who would surely beat her if she were to lose her position in the Thins’ house.
        “Yes, Mum. If you wish.”

                                            

        [Wed. Dec. 18]

        At four thirty, the wagon coach was nearing the sharp left turn onto the Oostweg road, which would lead them directly to Delft, still at least two long hours away. If the sleet had stopped, the wind had not, and now, over the flat broad fields where, in summer, thousands of blazing tulips grew, ice devils whipped along and gusts shook the entire wagon. The driver had to work hard to keep the team on line, the road now almost a complete sheet of rubbly ice.
        As the horses struggled with the turn in the road, a strong blast caught the wagon and pushed it sideways, catching the front wheel on the back of a flat rock. The wagon’s forward motion pulled it up onto the top of this boulder and then the slick surface caused it to slide off abruptly, hitting the ground with a great impact, everything then coming to an abrupt stop. The passengers were completely jarred, one or two actually biting their own tongues at the sudden jolt.
        “What was that!”
        “What’s happening!”
        “Why have we stopped!”
        The driver, who knew exactly what had happened, did not bother to take the time to answer their questions. Rather, he calmed the horses, then tied the reins to the rail and stepped down to inspect the damage as the loose ground ice swirled around him in the unchallenged wind.
        The carriage was now at a slight downward angle in the front, and the wheel was in pieces, three of its spokes having snapped, while others had been pulled from their seats in the round felloes that made up the wheel proper. This was not a good situation and the driver had to think before informing the passengers of the disaster that had just befallen them.
        Certainly, there was no way to repair this wheel, nor was there any spare. It would be dark in less than two hours time and the driver knew that the closest town, Zoetermeer, was an hour’s walk to the north. It would be foolish and dangerous to have the travelers attempt the walk in this wind with night about to fall. And, even if they did, there would be no place from them to stay in the town which was little more that two combined villages on a dried up lake. There was only one thing to do, and the driver cursed as he looked back into the wagon to tell them.
        “The fuckin’ wheel’s snapped and there ain’t no way to fix it here. I’m goin’ ta haf’ ta walk to bloody Zoetermeer and find us a new one!”
        “But, what about us?”
        “What are we supposed to do!”
        “Should we come with you?”
        “You all stay here and huddle up until I get back. I’ll fetch another wheel and some men to go with it, and we’ll fix ’er up, that’s for fuckin’ sure!”
        “How long?”
        “When will you get back?”
        “When will we get to Delft?”
        “Aaargh! Just pipe down, the lot o’ ya. I’ll be back when I’m back and we’ll be in Delft when we get there!”
        This was a terrible situation and everyone in that freezing box knew it, but the driver was right and there was nothing else for them to do out here in the open countryside.
        The men grumbled and cursed and some of the women started to pray. Maria just closed her eyes.

                                            
        [Wed. Dec. 18]

        Vermeer was satisfied with his day’s work and left enough time, after he had cleaned up, to make a fresh ink sketch of his scene to take back with him to the Mechelen. He intended to spend the evening, as he waited to go to Catharina’s, planning what sort of figures he would add to the painting and where he might place them. He was also thinking about what Fabritius had told him about the value of allegorical elements and he wondered how he might be able to handle these.
        For the figures, he had decided on only three: A mother chiding her little daughter in front of the big house on the left. This he had actually seen, and he wanted to catch the moment just before the little girl started to cry and run inside. The third figure would be of a roughly dressed man coming in from the field on the right, pushing a barrow of vegetables. This he had only imagined. Perhaps it was the father of the little girl, Vermeer thought. Why not?
        He found the allegories more difficult. The open door in the central house, courtesy of Miss van Oosterwijk, would symbolize opportunity and promise as well as domestic security. That sounded reasonable to him. The barrow of vegetables would also represent something, as well as the open green field, although he was not exactly certain what these might mean. He decided not to ‘define’ these things to himself but wait until others regarded his work and told him what they ‘truly’ meant, with which he would heartily agree with a knowing wink to the perspicacity of the viewer, another lesson he had learned from his silent mentor.
        He had not seen Fabritius all that day, but once heard some muffled shouts, apparently aimed at the hapless Spoors, and then the front door slam shut. This lack of contact had suited Vermeer whose work on the mullions was exacting and painstaking. It would be very difficult for him to correct even the slightest slip of the brush on the already glazed surface of the windows.
        Whenever he had to stop to re-clean his bristles or rest his aching hand, his mind would return to what he had told Catharina the night before and how he felt about this work in progress. Yes, it was an uninspired scene and, yes, he was determined to make the best of it, but it also occurred to him that this was an opportunity to try new things, new techniques he had been thinking about, new ways to blend colors and glazes, new methods of brushwork, and these thoughts helped settle his mind.       

                            
        [Wed. Dec. 18]

        The group was shivering, even huddled as they were, lit only by the light of a single lantern. No one had any idea how long the driver had been gone or even what time it might be. But it was dark now. The sky had cleared completely, exposing myriads of stars as Orion was just rising in the east, Sirius, the Dog Star, not yet visible to nip at his heels. It was the sound of distant voices, carried easily in the cold, still air, that first got the travelers’ attention. A man, seated across from Maria, stood up and peered outside past the canvas of the wagon’s canopy.
        “What is it?”
        “What do you see?”
        “Is he back?”
        “Lanterns,” he answered, not turning around, “up the road.”
        One or two others came forward to look for themselves, crowding together at the driver’s bench.
        “I hope it’s not brigands!” one of them said to the utter dismay of the rest still packed together inside.
        In the clear, dim starshine, one could make out the light of several lanterns which, as they got closer, revealed a large wide cart, drawn by a draft horse of great size, and two separate riders, also with lanterns, trotting along in front of it to light the way. Billows of frozen breath, made yellow in the lamplight, came from the horses’ nostrils and the clop-clop, clop-clop could be heard as they drew ever nearer the stricken stagecoach.
        “It’s them!” 
        “They’re here!”
        “Praise God!”
        “It’s about time!”
        These and other such things were said as the small parade came clearly into view. The cart held four men plus the driver and was filled with wood for cribbing, two sturdy poles for levering, rope, tools, a pot of animal grease with rags, a wheel standing upright and, most importantly, but still unknown to the victims of the accident, a small keg of local brandy.
        This was farm country and these were sturdy men from the village and around it who had no hesitation in helping a distressed countryman at the expense of their own time and meager resources. Besides, for them this was a pleasant diversion from the dullness of a December evening. Although each of them feared the deep winter to come and the suffering it would later bring,        to them this was just a ‘cool’ night, not worth chasing the chickens in early.
        “Hullo!” cried the driver as the cart reached the stricken stagecoach.
        “Hullo!” cried the man who had first stood up.
        “Get them folks out of that rig, and we’ll have ‘er fixed up in no time!”
        The man turned and passed on the instruction to the rest of the passengers, none of whom seemed to want to move. It was Maria who stood first, carefully grasping the iron hoop of the canopy, as Tanneke hurried to help her dismount. This embarrassed the rest of them enough to set the whole group in motion, grumbling as they did.       
        The gaggle stood shivering on the roadside, passing the brandy around in the only cup the farmers had brought with them, as the men, some in just their jerkins and shirtsleeves, set to work.        
        The cribbing was laid down in the proper place and then the broken wheel was loosened, the iron peg that held it to the axel was banged out with a hand maul and carefully pocketed so as not to be lost in the darkness. The levers were angled over the cribs to the center of the head-block and, as downward pressure was applied by two of the men, the third stood ready to pull the broken wheel while the fourth held the pot of grease and a chamois rag, ready to re-pack the axel cap. The wagon rose easily until it was high enough for the pulling, the greasing and the replacing, which were all swiftly accomplished. The axel key was re-inserted and driven home with another bash of the maul, and it was all over.
        The coach driver stood by his horses, holding their reins and, when one of the farmers gave him the word, “Take ’er on,” he slowly lead the team forward and back to the center of the road to the cheers of the passengers and the hearty laughs of the farm folk who had accomplished the ‘miracle’.
        As for the two riders, it had been decided that one would immediately ride for Delft to alert the town watch of the accident and delay, but that no one had been harmed or injured. This news would be cried out by the watchmen as they made their rounds and would quickly spread to any who needed to know about it. The other rider would stay with the coach, riding ahead to help light the road all the way to the city. No money would be asked for these services, nor would any be taken if offered. The transport company would pay for the new wheel at some later time, but even this was never brought up as these happy farmers joined the re-boarding passengers in one last round of brandy, or ‘fire wine’ as they called it, before the coach lumbered off on the last leg of its journey.
        It was now just before eight o’clock in the evening. Had this been summertime, few would have cared much, there still being almost two hours of daylight left to enjoy before the warm breezes of night set in. But this was not summertime and the winter had turned that pleasant world upside down, and now these people cared very much.
        The new wheel was slightly smaller than its predecessor, forcing the driver to constantly rein the team to the right to stay in the center of the road. Ordinarily, from this point, Delft would be reached in less than two hours, but at this impaired rate, the driver felt he would be fortunate if he arrived before eleven o’clock and the passengers were not happy at all when he informed them of this unpleasant fact.
        Through it all, Maria Thins never uttered a single word, and except on those few occasions when she dozed for a few moments, never altered her fixed expression. Tanneke was not eager to get home.



















                                                 Chapter Twenty-Four

                                                             1652

        [Wed. Dec. 18] 

        DINNER AT CATHARINA’S HOUSE that evening was a quiet affair. The sausage and mustard, which Catharina wisely served with beer, were perfect and suited Vermeer’s needs, although he started to wonder if these little domestic tableaux were what he should think about expecting for their future together, that is, at least until two or three little Vermeers changed the picture.   It was not that he objected to this bourgeois way of life, but somehow he felt that there was something ‘strained’ about it. Of course, things would be different when they had their own house and no pressure from neighbors who might notice the wrong thing at the wrong time.
        Catharina asked about his work and the truth was he had very little to say regarding it. How much can you say about mullions? he wondered. Then she told him about her day with Miriam, omitting the voyeuristic bits.
        “Do you realize, I’ve lived with this girl for years and know nothing at all about her?”
        “Well, why don’t you talk to her? Ask her things,” he said, just finishing a mouthful of good cheese.
        “I wanted to, but, she won’t talk about it.”
        “Then, that’s just her way and you should leave it at that.”
        “I suppose you’re right.”
        Eventually they would have to talk about Maria, Digna, his conversion and all the rest of it, but Catharina kept putting it off and he never pressed her. Things now were too calm, too quiet, to disrupt with the cold reality of their situation which, if anything, had only grown more complicated. Catharina was living her fantasy, and Vermeer was doing nothing to impede it.
        Soon it was time to cap the peat logs and take the candle upstairs to the bedroom, which Catharina now thought of in her mind as ‘their’ room.  A fire had already been made and a single candle lit as she took Joannis to ‘their’ bed.
        There was nothing about their lovemaking that was routine. They were both young and, for the most part, inexperienced, so everything was new and Nature, herself, showed them the way to explore it all. It was a strange paradox, relief from the day’s exhaustion which created its own, more pleasant exhaustion, until sleep gave them pause to refresh and then begin it all again.


        [Wed. Dec. 18]

        Catharina was the first to wake at the voices she heard coming up the stairs and toward her room.         It was just past eleven thirty when the coach pulled up in front of the house on Oude Langendijk. Both Maria and Tanneke were clearly exhausted as they dismounted and the driver fetched them their traveling boxes. Maria’s skin had gone quite pale during the horrendous journey from Gouda, and her step was uncertain as she mounted the low stairs. Tanneke unlocked the door and helped Maria with her things as they entered the dark hallway.
        “I’ll make a fire in your room,” Tanneke said as she helped Maria out of her frosty over-clothing.
        “No, thank you. It won’t be necessary.”
        “It will be necessary, unless you want to die from the cold.”
        Maria just accepted this without any further comment. She was not just physically exhausted, but mentally and spiritually drained as well. She would have to confront her daughter tonight if she was to have any peace, and she dreaded it as she started up the stairs followed by Tanneke, who knew what Maria was thinking and how correct she was about it.
        Maria said nothing as she entered the upstairs hallway and walked straight to Catharina’s closed door.
        “Perhaps you should wait until the morning. You need your rest.” Maria paid no attention to the admonition and knocked hard before grasping the knob to enter.
        “Catharina!”
        Vermeer’s heart pounded so hard and fast when he heard Maria’s voice at the door that he was certain it would explode. Catharina, who had just woken up, sat bolt upright, clutching her quilt to cover her naked chest.
        Maria stepped into the room as was surprised to see a single candle still burning on the table near the bed where the curtain had been pulled across, concealing its occupants.
        “Catharina. I must talk with you,” she said in a tone that left no doubt as to her mood. She reached for the curtain and slid it open to reveal both Vermeer and her daughter sitting against the sweaty pillows, eyes wide in fear and shock.
        The sight made Maria step back and throw her hand to her chest, her only sound being a sickening gasp, which Tanneke heard from the hall. The maid ran in to see Maria staggering backwards, her face now totally white, but from where she was, she could not see into the bed and the two people in it. Tanneke hurried to catch Maria before she actually collapsed backwards and it was then that she could see the stricken couple. A surge of white-hot hatred and disgust shot through the maid’s very being as she glared at Catharina while she struggled to keep Maria on her feet.
        “Take me to my room,” Maria barely croaked. As Tanneke started to lead, almost ‘carry’ Maria away, she turned to Catharina and literally snarled,
        “Get him out of here!”
        Catharina was speechless as she watched Tanneke help her mother from the room and jumped when the door slammed shut behind them.
        Instantly Catharina started to sob.
        “It’s all my fault! I shouldn’t have done it! I shouldn’t have had you here!”
        “Catharina--” Joannis, tried to speak, but she cut him off.
        “Go, Joannis! Leave now! I have to talk to my mother.”
        “I think I should--”
        Vermeer wanted to be a man about this horrible thing that had just happened, offering to stand by her as Catharina faced her mother, but the girl, faced soaked in tears and barely able to breathe through her sobs, would have none of it.
        “Go away, Joannis. Please! Just go.”
        He knew there was no point in trying to do anything else, let alone asking her when they might meet again. He tried to brush the tears from her eyes, but she pushed his hand away as if he had done something wrong.
        “Please, Joannis! Go!”
        So, sick in his stomach and skulking like a fresh-whipped hound, Vermeer drew on his clothing and stood by the bed to look at Catharina one last time before leaving. The pistol had been loaded when they first kissed in the garden, the hammer cocked when they first slept together, the pan primed when he came secretly to her house and now the trigger had been pulled and the shot fired. Where the deadly ball would finally end, and at what toll of human suffering, remained to be determined.
                                                
        Tanneke had managed to get Maria out of her clothing and into her own bed. Then, while Maria lay there, not moving, not saying anything, just staring at the canopy above her head, Tanneke lit a candle and used it to ignite the kindling and peat that had already been set out in the grate. She went back to Maria and took her icy hand into both of her own.
        “I’ll make some tea and then get the doctor.”
        Maria turned her head to her and looked into Tanneke’s dark and troubled eyes.
        “No, Tanneke,” she said quietly. “Please. If I may just be alone.”
        “Maria, let me get Doctor Vos.”
        “No. It’s not a doctor I need now.” Maria squeezed Tanneke’s hand tighter and then, with surprising strength, pulled her closer.
        “Help me to my knees.”
        “Maria! You--” but Maria squeezed her hand so tightly, the bones ached.
        “I need to pray.”
        “Very well,” Tanneke sighed, more a thought than an utterance.
        Tanneke understood this compulsion completely and it was exactly what she had planned to do when she reached the privacy of her own room, but for a far different reason. If Maria needed to pray to God for ‘understanding’ and strength, she, herself, had to beg the same God’s forgiveness for allowing all this to happen. She would hold no punishment, no penance too great for the horrible sin she had committed.
        Carefully, Tanneke lifted Maria from the bed and helped her to her knees on the hard cold floor by its edge. As Maria crossed herself and bowed her head, Tanneke wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and watched her for a moment, sharing her pain as the flames in the grate grew ever brighter. Then, Tanneke stepped back and silently left the room.
        As she entered the hallway, she saw Catharina staggering from her room, her hair a nest, her robe loosely thrown over her nakedness, her eyes wet from crying as she came closer.
        “I need to see my mother,” the girl sobbed as she tried to enter Maria’s room, but Tanneke blocked the way with her own body. The urge that went through her was more powerful and immediate than any she had ever known since she had been abused as a little girl in the convent, but she suppressed the impulse to lash out and slap Catharina across the face although, at that moment, every part of her wanted to do so.

        “I think you’ve seen enough,” she said, without even un-clinching her teeth. “Stay away from her.”
        As Catharina sunk to her knees, Tanneke pushed by her and into the door of her own room.
        “Oh, God! Oh, God! Please, God! Please, forgive me!” Catharina sobbed over and over again until her breath was gone and her will to live not far behind.

                                              
        [Wed. Dec. 18]

        The iciness of the night made Vermeer’s stomach knot into a ball of nausea and pain as he slipped out the door in the courtyard wall and into the street. A wave, green as bile, swept over him as he hurried to the edge of the canal and knelt down with both hands on the frosted stone of the quay to vomit into the dark water, again and again and again, until there was nothing left, but the spasms kept on, making his guts ache as they contracted.
        Getting to his feet when it finally was over, Vermeer wiped his mouth on his sleeve and walked across the bridge to the alley on the side of the Mechelen. The lamps still burned in the hallway window indicating to him that Digna had not yet gone to bed, and the last thing he wanted to do was to encounter her in this condition and under these circumstances. He did not know what to do. He hugged himself to try to keep in some warmth against the frigid air, but it did little good. He paced the alley trying to keep his feet from freezing, but they started to ache anyway. Finally, he decided that he would go to the church and wait inside. Why, exactly, he decided this, he was not sure.
        The three-quarter moon was rising in the east to the side of the church’s spire, with Saturn leading it upward as Vermeer entered the silent nave of the church. He walked slowly towards the tomb of William where, this time, no letter would be waiting for him. The low moonlight coming through the colored windows of the apse cast eerie patterns on the floor at Vermeer’s feet, but he was not thinking about color or light now. He had never been in ‘trouble’ before in his life. Perhaps as a child, of course, but never as a grown man and the ominous feeling it brought to him racked his mind and his inner body. He wished it would just go away so that he could return to his normal way of being, but he knew it would not and why should it?  Eventually this day would have come. Both he and Catharina knew it and both had avoided it. Now it had arrived with full fury and he was not prepared.
        He sat on an icy bench and put his head in his hands as he tried to determine the consequences of what had just happened and the future results that would be the fruit of it.
        What would Maria do? he wondered. Would she beat her daughter for such a blatant and humiliating act of selfishness? Would she throw her out into the street to fend for herself, or, perhaps worse, keep her there in perpetual isolation? Perhaps she would have her enter a convent. Maria could not force her to do this of course, but she might pressure her with guilt until her daughter gave in. All of these were terrible payment for what had happened, and Vermeer fretted over each one of them.
        Another question arose in his mind, one even more terrifying in its implications. What would Catharina do? Promise never to see him again as her atonement? Accept a life of stony and silent spinsterhood? Or might she run out into the street and across the Square to the Mechelen where he would be waiting for her? If she did that, then what would they do? The questions were endless and he went through every one of them as his body shivered in the cold and his stomach churned, making him want to vomit once again.
        There was his mother to think about, and Fabritius! This would certainly distress Digna, who could not necessarily be counted upon to rally to his side, and his ‘work’ as a mere apprentice would surely suffer from the turmoil any of these conclusions would bring about. Vermeer saw no way out.
        He stayed in the church until he could no longer stand the cold. He heard the town clock’s single chime and realized that the night watch would soon be coming by again on their way to begin that round of their patrol. It would not do to have them find him here like this with no lantern and frozen vomit on his clothing. He would have to tell them where he lived and, most likely, they would escort him the short distance to the inn with their usual clatter, arousing everyone inside including his mother.
        When Vermeer stood up, his knees ached and his head dizzied, making his first few steps to the open door painful and unsteady, but he slipped out just in time to see the little lanterns shining in the distance near the Town Hall. As fast as he could, he went back to the alley where now all was in darkness. His hands fumbled to find his key as he heard the watchmen draw nearer. The key was in the slot as they reached the front of the inn and the door swung closed behind him as they passed the alleyway.
        Safely in his room, Vermeer lit a candle and then made a small fire in the grate, needing its warmth more than he could ever recall. He put his sleeping clothes on the tiles next to the burning peat bricks so that they might soak up some of the warmth before he changed into them. He knew he would not sleep well, if at all, and in the morning he would have to face his mother.


        After some time, when the room was warmer and the chill had left his bones, Vermeer lay on his bed with his arms straight by his side, his eyes staring into the darkness above him. He wanted to ask God, in whom he certainly believed, Catholic or not, to help him, but he knew neither what to ask nor how, so he tried to empty his mind of all thoughts and fears, but in the end, he could not.

[Wed. Dec. 18]

        Maria knelt by the side of her bed, her fingers endlessly pressing the beads of her rosary which she always kept under her pillow.

                Hail Mary, full of grace
                Our Lord is with thee.
                Blessed art thou among women
                and blessed is the fruit of thy womb,
                Jesus.
                Holy Mary, Mother of God,
                pray for us sinners,
                now and at the hour of our death.
                Amen

        She repeated the words mindlessly, bead after bead slipping through her shaking fingers, driving all other thoughts and feelings deeper into her soul but out of her brain.

                 Hail Mary, full of grace--                                    


        [Wed. Dec. 18]

        Tanneke also prayed alone in her room, but hers were not the words of a prayer that every Catholic child knew by heart. Tanneke used her own voice to talk to God and beg him for forgiveness and guidance. She had betrayed Maria, who had given her everything without question, and she had been betrayed by Catharina, to whom she had given the best she could. Had she stood up to Catharina in the beginning and pointed out the foolishness and hopelessness of her intended actions, perhaps this might not have happened, but she had relented in sympathy for the cloistered young girl, and this was the inevitable result.
        Tanneke also prayed for Maria’s health. Maria was now sixty, an age when many of her friends and family were already resting under some church floor, and the harrowing journey from Gouda certainly had taken its own toll on the woman kneeling on the cold floor of the room down the hall. This too, Tanneke felt, was her fault. Perhaps she could forgive Catharina in time with God’s help, but if anything grave befell Maria, Tanneke knew she would have to atone the rest of her life in a convent. There was no question about that, and if that were to be her fate, then she would endure it and God’s will would be served.
                                            

        [Wed. Dec. 18]

        Catharina had made her way back to her own room and the sight of her bed and its covers, still warm and disheveled by love making, revulsed her. She went to her table in front of the window she had studied so often and wondered why she had not heeded Temperantia’s lesson--The balance for judgment and the reins for restraint. She cried at the thought of her mother and actually feared that she might die from this shock. Hadn’t Father van der Ven warned her not to let this happen? She saw in her mind Tanneke’s withering look as she brushed by in the hallway and she thought about Joannis. She wondered if her selfish love for him was worth all this anguish. Perhaps she should go to Maria and honestly disavow Vermeer, promising to pursue her relationship with Kees Maas, insuring her lots of little Catholic grandchildren all dressed in the finest clothes and sitting playfully on her lap. But, of course, that was not an answer. There were no answers, and the tears came once again to her eyes.



                                            
        [Wed. Dec. 18]

        The night watch had come and gone as the small city lay frozen and dark under a dome punctuated by a million pinpricks of starlight with the wax-like moon high at the zenith. Virgo was rising in the east with Venus just behind her, still hiding in the scales of Libra, who would not fully emerge until dawn. But at the virgin’s feet rose another, more ominous set of stars that the ancients called Serpens Caput, the head of the snake.
        None of the four individuals, alone in four dark rooms, all so close together, knew of the prophetic parade above their frosted roof tiles, nor would any of them have understood it. The stars were the creations of the God to whom each was praying and were where he had placed them in the beginning, rising and setting according to His design. What they would actually come to mean was a different matter.

Chapter Twenty-Five

                                                             1652

        [Thu. Dec. 19] 

        WHEN TANNEKE ENTERED the cooking kitchen just after dawn, she found Maria bending to light the morning fire.
        “Maria!” she gasped, “What are you doing! You should be in bed.”
        “Somebody has to tend to this house.”
        “Where’s Miriam?” Tanneke asked, looking around as if she might actually see her.
        “Most likely at home in her own bed.”
        Of course Tanneke grasped the implication of this, realizing that Catharina must have sent her away so that she could be alone with Vermeer and this realization rankled her even more.
        “Here, let me finish that. Go upstairs and go to bed. And, please, stay there until I get back with the doctor.”
        Maria, her back still to the maid as she poked the kindling, said calmly,
        “I don’t need a doctor.” Then she turned to face her troubled companion, “I need a priest.”

        Maria Thins was no stranger to betrayal and pains of the heart. She had married old, by any standards, at twenty-nine, and not many years into the marriage the abuse began. Her husband, Reynier Bolnes, took to beating and railing at her, once with a pot, so heavily that, bruised and bleeding, she could barely walk. He had chased her with a knife, threatening to kill her with every step and once, when Maria was ill in bed, Bolnes, in another fit, pulled her out by the hair and dragged her naked across the floor, calling her a ‘swine’.
        There was more, perhaps the worst being when Maria was in the last stages of her pregnancy with Catharina’s sister and Bolnes took to beating her one night with a heavy stick. It was only the intercession of the maid that Bolnes stopped, but not before trying to attack the servant for her meddling in his personal affairs. Later, for some reason, this maid denied it all in court, blaming Maria for the trouble.
        Most of these events, and the many others that followed, had been witnessed at one time or another by Cornelia, little Catharina and Tanneke herself, and these were the thoughts and bitter memories that went through the maid’s mind as she watched her frail mistress tending the fire. Tanneke had thought that all this was over when Maria separated from Bolnes to move here to Delft eleven years ago, but now a new round of grief, perhaps more painful then the beatings of the past, seemed to be in store.
        “Lay out my clothes, please,” Maria said to Tanneke, still standing behind her. “I am going to see Father van der Ven.”
        “But--”
         She reconsidered, knowing that protesting would serve no purpose and fetching the doctor to explain what had happened would only expand Maria’s circle of shame.
        “Yes, Ma’am.”

                                            
        [Thu. Dec. 19]

        Catharina had dressed and done her toilet without Tanneke’s usual assistance, which, of course, she had not expected. She was worried about her mother’s well-being and knew she had to look in on her as soon as possible and as soon as she dared, but when she entered the hallway, she heard her mother’s voice and Tanneke’s downstairs in the cooking kitchen, although she could not hear what they were saying. On the one hand, this reassured her as to her mother’s immediate condition, but it also gave her pause. She did not want to encounter them both together. She had decided that she would have to deal with each person separately, first her mother, then Tanneke and then Joannis, with no plan set for any of these painful meetings to come. She, herself, would have to suffer the consequences and make the final decisions that would affect her fate and, after a full night of prayer and anguish, this was all that she had come to. She slipped back into her room and sat to wait, her mind finally devoid of all feeling.





                                            
        [Thu. Dec. 19]
 
        “You did what?” Digna said in complete shock when Joannis, who had cornered her alone in the laundry room of the Mechelen, told her straight out everything that had happened, at least almost everything. He told her about his love for Catharina and their affair. He told her that they had slept together and that they had been caught in the middle of the night by her mother. Joannis wanted to see how Digna took this before adding the rest about being ‘engaged’ and his potential conversion to Catholicism.
        “In bed! Under that poor woman’s own roof! Joannis, how could you have done such a thing!”
        The answer was obvious, but unsatisfying just the same.
        “I love her, Mother, and she loves me.”
        “You’re hardly more than a boy, Joannis. What can you know about that kind of love?”
        He felt he did know, but this was not the kind of question that really wanted an answer.
        “Look,” she said as she squared herself to face him directly, “you are a man of twenty years and it is time for you to be interested in pretty girls. There is nothing wrong in that. It’s natural. Even ‘sleeping together’ is natural, but only when you are truly engaged and the announcements have been published. But I don’t see a ring on your finger, nor have I been asked to endorse such an announcement.” At least, Vermeer thought, she hasn’t collapsed on the floor about this as she went on.
        “What bothers me is how you could be so inconsiderate, so stupid, to do it in a place where, sooner or later, you would be caught!”
        “We are engaged, Mother,” Vermeer stated in a sheepish sort of way.
        “What! Engaged! Joannis, you are barely twenty, four years from legal age and far too young for a man to be married, let alone someone  who--”
        “--is only an apprentice. Has no future until he makes one for himself after entering the Guild. Has no place to bring a wife and no money to provide for her. Yes, Mother. I know all that.”
        He had taken the words, almost one for one, from her mouth, but he had not made her point.
        “So, how, in God’s good world, could you ask this girl to marry you if, in fact, you know all that, as you seem to say?”
        “We are in love.”
        Digna had to scoff at this.
        “‘Love’, yes, I see, if love is only what happens in the park or between the sheets, then perhaps you know something about it. But love is much more than that. It is pain and sacrifice, giving up your own desires for the sake of the person you ‘love’. And it is a sense of terrible loss when that person can no longer be with you.”
        Of course, she was referring to own feelings for his dead father, whether she meant to or not.
        “But, I feel those things for her.”
        “Foolishness! How long have you known this girl?”
        Vermeer thought and found it hard to believe his own answer.
        “Two months.”
        “Ah!  Two months and you know all about it!  It seems to me, Joannis, that if you truly loved this girl, you might have waited until you had at least finished your apprenticeship before getting so deeply involved and committed. You might have waited for her sake.”
        Another thought swept through Digna’s mind.
        “I hope she’s not pregnant. Then you really would be ruined, given what little I know about her family.”
        This was sobering.
        “She’s not,” he said actually having no idea about it. “She has--things--she uses. She showed me.”
        “Stop! I don’t want to hear about that!”
        “I’m sorry, but just what do you know about her family?”
        He certainly had never told her anything about that delicate and complicated topic, except when he was a boy of ten, and there was no way his mother would recall that.
        “Joannis, go look out the door. You will see her house. This is a very small city. I might be an illiterate innkeeper from Antwerp, but I am no fool, and how many people do you think walk in and out of the tavern doors with gossip to spread? I know that she lives alone with her mother and maid across the Square in the papenhoek with the other Catholics. I can imagine what’s going through her mind right now,  poor woman! And that’s another thing. The girl is Catholic! They will never accept someone like you into their circle. Never!”
        This was the time to let fly the last arrow.
        “I--I have considered--” He paused before actually saying the word, “--converting.”
        This, beyond all the rest that could be attributed to the follies and passion of youth, shook Digna, so much so, that she had to sit down at the laundry table and compose herself before going on.

        “Have you lost your mind, Joannis? Should I have you sent to one of the homes for people who cannot think straight? Convert? What in the world could you possibly mean by that?”
        “To become Catholic. Could that be so bad?”
        Now he had really gone beyond her.
        “Of course it’s that bad! Don’t you have enough troubles?  You were raised as a good, God fearing Calvinist, just like most of the people in the town.”
        “But, it’s the same God,” Vermeer protested, knowing that he was entering an area he was totally unprepared to travel.
        “What? Those people think differently from us, pray differently. They stick together because they have to. Besides, how would you do it? I am certain that you would need my permission, which I will not give, and don’t you think God knows what is in your heart and what your true intentions might be?  Saying a few prayers in Latin and burning some incense will not make you a Catholic any more that putting a feathered hat on a donkey will make him a burgher! It is out of the question, and I will hear no more of that!”
        Vermeer was chastened. Everything his mother had said was clear and true and he just had to sit there as the weight of it all settled once again on his shoulders. But, Digna was his mother and it was her duty to try to guide and help her hapless little boy.
        “So, now what?”
        “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I suppose I will just have to wait until I hear from Catharina and--” He was afraid to fill in the rest of the thought.
        “If her mother loves her, I am certain she will do the right thing, as any mother would, but I warn you, Joannis, it might be at your expense. That is, if the girl obeys her. What do you think Catharina might do?” Vermeer just shook his head. “I suppose we will find out soon enough, then.”
        Digna stood out of her chair to get back to her duties required by the inn, and knowing there was nothing more to be said about this, at least just now. She crossed in back of her son and put her hands on his shoulders as she stood behind him.
        “I love you, Joannis. You and your sister are all that is dear to me, and I would willingly give up my life for either one of you. I want you to know that.” She kissed him on the side of his cheek as he placed one of his hands on top     of hers.
        “I do know that, Mother. I will work this out.”
        “Put your faith in God, and find the strength he will surely ask of you in the days to come.”
        As Digna stepped away to take some clean dishes from the sideboard, Vermeer had one final question  for her.
        “Mother?”
        She turned to listen to him.
        “How old were you when you married father?”
        A chill ran through Digna’s body at this, but not a bad one as she thought back to answer her son. She wanted not to answer the question, to dismiss it, but he was making a point, and she had to address it honestly. She said simply,
        “Nineteen.”

                                            
        [Thu. Dec. 19]
 
        Father van der Ven had graciously agreed to see Maria in his private study, a small room with little more than a table and two chairs. He stood to receive her as an acolyte opened the door to let her in.
        “Greetings in the name of Christ,” the priest said.
        “Thank you very much, Father. I have come to ask you about a personal matter, otherwise I do not wish to trouble you.”
        The priest’s manner quickly changed to that of a family friend.
        “Of course, Maria. Please sit down.” He noticed that the woman was slightly unsteady on her feet as he helped her with her chair. “Are you well? You look rather pale.”
        “My physical health is not the problem, Father.”
        It seemed to the priest that he knew exactly what had prompted this visit, judging from the doleful look on Maria’s face and the memory of her daughter‘s recent ‘confession’.
        “Then, if it is ‘spiritual’, perhaps I can help you. Tell me, Maria. What is troubling you?”
        Maria looked at her hands in her lap, not noticing how tightly one was clutching the other.
        “I believed I have sinned in my failure to meet my obligations to my daughter.”
        Van der Ven knew that it would take some time to draw everything out, but he was a patient man and genuinely concerned for her well-being.
        “How so?”
        “Not long ago, perhaps two months ago, I discovered that Catharina was keeping company with the Vermeer boy whose mother runs the inn across the Square.
        “The Mechelen.”
        “Yes. In any event, I did not think that he was the right sort of man she should be seeing.”
        “And why is that, if I may ask?”   
        “His family are innkeepers, and in truth, Father, I see nothing wrong with that. They seem to be honest and decent people.”
        “I believe that the father died recently.”
        “Yes, in October. I knew him slightly because he also sold paintings and had a rather good eye.”
        “For an innkeeper.”   
        “No, he was also a member of Saint Luke’s as a kaffa worker, and a good one I am told.” Vermeer’s family was not what Maria had come here to talk about, but she knew she had to answer the priest’s questions if he were to help her.
        “Go on.”
        “This boy, Joannis Vermeer, is a painting apprentice with at least another year’s study. He has no money of his own, as far as I know, and I have no idea where he lives now.”
        “Have you asked your daughter?”
        “I find no point in that, Father, because I forbade her ever to see him again.”
        “And why was that? Did they do something wrong together?”
        “Not to my knowledge, although I had suspicions which were blatantly confirmed last night.”
        “I see.”
        Maria looked back at her hands as she tried to put the situation in a broader perspective for the priest while scraping that terrible image from her mind.
        “Father, they can have no future together and I do not wish to see my only living daughter waste her life and her emotions on someone like this boy--”
        “--When there are other, better prospects at hand,” the priest finished for her, not using the exact words Maria might have chosen, but close enough.
        “At least Catholic prospects, Father. I want only the best for Catharina and my grandchildren, not some life washing out beer pots while little, heathen ragamuffins run around in tatters.”
        This was it, van der Ven instantly realized. Although Catharina was at the center of it all, it was Maria’s legacy and the comfort she expected from her daughter’s fine, well-dressed, Catholic children that was at the heart of it. He was well aware of Maria’s horrible history, so he could not fault her in this, but he felt he had to make her derive this for herself, and that would be no easy matter. Then again, he had also heard this story from Catharina’s side and was aware of the potential for Vermeer’s conversion, not that that would solve everything, but the priest did not feel this was the time to share that knowledge with the troubled woman sitting across from him, and so he continued with the ‘interview’.
        “What happened last night?”
        Maria choked a little and had to wipe her mouth with her handkerchief before answering.
        “I was in Gouda and received a letter stating that some ‘man’ had been seen leaving my house early that morning. The letter implied that our kitchen maid might be--entertaining.”
        “Miriam?” the priest said, fazed by the absurdity of the thought.
        “That’s what the letter suggested.”
        “Who would send you such a letter?”
        Maria did not want to go into the details of the Maas-van der Poort connection, so she replied in as neutral manner as she could summon.
        “A woman of recent acquaintance.”
        “But, you didn’t think Miriam was--”
        “Of course not. I knew it had to be Catharina. So Tanneke and I returned on yesterday’s coach. But we were delayed and when we finally got home, I--” This part was hard for Maria. “I found my daughter in her bed with this--this--”
        “Vermeer.”
        “Yes. Vermeer!”
        “What did you say to Catharina, Maria, if I may ask?”
        “Nothing. I was in shock. Tanneke had to carry me to my room where I prayed all night.”
        “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you certain you are well? You look so pale.”
        “I will be. I am well enough.”


        Maria was struggling through this and the priest was not making it any easier for her. She did not know what she had expected from him, but his questions to her seemed cold and analytical, which did not suit her distressed and penitent state of mind. Still, she was here at her own request and she had to go on.
        “Father, I have sinned,” she said, trying to bring them both back to that aspect of it. “I have sinned in my neglect as a mother.”
        Father van der Ven looked deeply into her eyes.
        “Maria, neglect is not necessarily a sin. To be of a cardinal nature the sin has to be a willful offense against God. I cannot believe you willfully neglected your daughter or your duties to her. Did you?”
        Now Maria was becoming upset with the priest. Of course she did not willfully neglect Catharina, she thought, but if not, then why was she here? The fact was that this was not a confession. It was a plea for guidance from a person she respected, possibly the only outside person she could talk to about this. At that point, she broke down and started to cry.
        There was little the van der Ven could do to help her. He was a family friend, but as a priest, he could not go to her and offer his shoulder, although his heart genuinely went out to her in her profound unhappiness.
        “Maria,” he said gently, “I can see how hard this has been for you.”
        “What can I do, Father?” she asked as she sobbed into her handkerchief. “What can I do to bring my daughter to her senses?”
        “What do you want to do, Maria? Do you want to punish her? Forgive her?”
        “I want to enlighten her and make her see the foolishness and hurtfulness of her actions.”
        “How will you do that?”
        “Stop! Stop asking me these questions, Father!” Maria snapped, even through her tears. “I don’t want you to ask me.  I need you to tell me!”
        The priest took a deep breath before going on.
        “I can tell you what I think and what I think you should do about it, but that would be meaningless if the true answers don’t come from inside yourself. If I don’t ask these questions, then you will have to ask them.”
        Maria tried to collect herself a little, truly sorry for her outburst and, of course, the priest was right about this, as hard as it was to admit. Her sobbing stopped and she had dried the tears from her face. She was drained with nothing left to ask or say, and Van der Ven, seeing this, felt he had to offer her something in the way of guidance.
        “Then talk to her, Maria. Tell her what you expect of her, but be very careful. If you close all the doors to her desires for happiness, then you may discover her on the other side of them. Remember, your daughter is a sensitive and intelligent young woman. I imagine she feels as grieved by this as you do, perhaps more because she may see herself as the cause of it, not you.”
        Maria heard the priest’s words. The thought that Catharina might actually leave her house sent ice through her veins as she had a vision of her daughter storming out with the door slamming behind her, but it was the second vision she had in that instant, as the priest sat silent, which terrified her even more. Maria saw herself entering from somewhere to find Catharina’s room unoccupied and her things gone, leaving only an empty world she would be forced to inhabit until the day she died.
        “Thank you, Father,” she said as she got to her feet, nothing resolved.
        “Maria--” van der Ven started to say, but she stopped him with a raised hand. She wanted to hear no more now. The priest got up to help her steady herself as she turned to him with one last request.
        “Father, may I go into the church for a while?”
        “Of course, Maria. I’ll--” he said as he started to walk with her, but she stopped him once more.
        “Thank you. I can find my own way.”

                                            
        [Thu. Dec. 19]

        Catharina sat despondent at her table as she tried to write a letter to Vermeer, but the crumpled sheets of paper around the legs of her chair proved what a difficult, if not impossible task this was. What could she say? She had no idea, but she scribbled his name repeatedly, hoping words would come. It was the knocking on her door that roused her from this inane effort, and she stiffened when she heard Tanneke’s voice from the other side.
        “Catharina, I’ve brought you some food. May I come in?”
        She could not answer at first and just sat there numbly as the maid knocked a second time.
        “Catharina, please, open the door.”
        She rose slowly, like one called to the top of the scaffold, dreading the inevitable fate that waited under the hanging noose.
        She opened the door to see Tanneke standing with a small tray in her hands.
        “Miriam made some soup.”
        Catharina simply stepped aside to let Tanneke enter, unable to gauge her mood and frightened by what she might say once she had set the simple meal down on the table by the window.       
        “How is she--my mother?”
        “I don’t honestly know. She was up before me this morning and now she’s gone to talk to Father van der Ven. I want the doctor to see her, but she refuses.”
        It brought Catharina some relief to know that her mother’s health had not worsened during the night, but, still, this was scant comfort and only part     of it.
        “Do you hate me now, Tanneke?” she finally asked.
        Tanneke looked away from Catharina and out the window
at the church beyond the colored glass panes. Her voice was soft and directed almost inwardly as she replied.
        “Last night I prayed.” The words she wanted were difficult for her to find. “I prayed for your mother and her health. Then I prayed for you.”
        “For my soul?” Catharina asked, knowing that she had sinned in Tanneke’s eyes, but the maid simply shook her head as she stood with her arms folded across her waist.
        “No. For your happiness.”
        Catharina’s body felt cold and she trembled a little as Tanneke turned to face her. There was no anger or reproach in her look as she quietly went on.
        “We both knew this day would come, one way or another, and, in a way, I’m glad that’s it’s finally here. What you did was terrible, Catharina, but God showed me that it was the act of an impatient girl, frustrated with her life.”
        Catharina slumped down in the chair and put her face in her hands, pressing against her eyes with her fingers until all she could see was swirling blackness. Tanneke came quietly up and knelt by the chair, putting her hands gently on the girl’s skirt.
        “I don’t hate you, Trijntje, you know that. Your mother has given you everything she could to bring you a happy life, but she has asked a high price from you to pay for it.” Tanneke wanted to say more, but knew that whatever she might add would bring little or no comfort to the desolate girl whom she loved as dearly as if they were sisters. “I have to go back downstairs to be there when you mother returns,” she said softly. Catharina just nodded, her face still in her hands as Tanneke stood and then moved away, leaving her alone once again.

                                            
        [Thu. Dec. 19]

        Vermeer walked. He had no idea where he was going, but he thought the chill air of the morning in some way might help him clear his mind. There would be no Fabritius today, no painting, no bricks. For a while, he wondered if he would ever even go back, although, of course, he knew he would.
        He walked along the Square towards the Town Hall, this time not daring to look over to Maria’s house as he left the Mechelen. Moving past the blockish building and along the Boter Brug, Vermeer passed an elegant house, stately in red brick, not knowing that it was the home of his ‘patron’, Pieter van Ruijven, but that would have meant little to him now, even if he had known, while just ahead of him stood the great house of the van der Poort’s. He stopped for a moment thinking about Catharina and how, she had told him, only two days ago she had stood on those very steps that led up to the wide front door. In his mind he could see her there and hear her voice as she announced herself to some liveried servant. When the vision faded, Vermeer shrugged his shoulders and moved on.
        He turned at the canal toward the Old Church with its leaning tower, grey against a greyer sky in the sharp wind that was freshening from the sea far off to the west. Even though the cold braced him, his mind was still swirling as he walked along the Old Delft canal, past the brown brick walls of the Prinsenhof where William of Orange had lived and where he had been shot to death inside. Vermeer still had no destination, at least in his conscious mind, but felt he had to keep walking in spite of the cold. He turned again and walked past the well-kept houses of the Bagijnestraat, which led to the great Schie canal that circled the city and as he got nearer to the city wall he heard a deep and constant thumping sound that grew louder with each step, almost like a heartbeat in its rhythmic regularity.  It was a sound known and loved by every child in the nation, whether in the city or the open countryside, but here it was doubled--SWUP-swup--SWUP-swup--SWUP-Swup--and Vermeer saw, as he reached the end of the street, the two lofty post mills, one directly in front of where he stood, the other not far to its side. Their vanes, stretched in worn brown canvas, spun steadily, as the whole mill had been turned on its narrow pivot to face the oncoming breeze.
        It was when he noticed these old wooden mills, built directly into the town walls, that he realized exactly where he was and where his feet had mindlessly taken him. He turned down a little alleyway and there, in an ancient brick wall, was the small doorway to the ‘secret’ garden, but now it was cleaned and freshly painted. He tried the latch, but the door was clearly bolted from the inside and would not budge. Stepping back as far as he could, Vermeer could just make out over the edge of the wall the top of the window to the room where he and Catharina had made love, even that, not quite so long ago. His heart ached, not just in the poetic sense, but literally, as his lungs constricted around it struggling to warm the icy air that entered his body. His feet hurt and he noticed that his bare hands were turning red. He had to keep moving.
                                 
        He turned the corner to the narrow street that ran along the front of that house and there he saw that the door and shutters had been refurbished and that the building was now occupied. Ahead of him, a young woman, accompanied by her maid carrying a market basket filled with bread, hurried up the street and right to the front door of that house, both entering as fast as they could to escape the chill. He did not see her well, but gathered that she must be the new mistress of the house as she waited, somewhat impatiently, for her maid to unlock and open the door. She was pretty and could not have been much older than Catharina. For a moment, as long as he could stand the cold, Vermeer stood and imagined this woman’s life inside where warm fires would have been set out, a hot meal prepared and a well-to-do husband would be returning from his lucrative labors. Later, the thought went on in his mind, they would make love in there, not in the scruffy attic bed where he had slept with Catharina, but on a soft mattress between crisp linen sheets that the maid had ironed smooth with a hot stone. Part of him envied that way of life, the quiet moments that Catharina had tried so hard to provide for him with her warm suppers and talk about the day’s work. He wondered, as he made his way back to the Mechelen, if anything like that would ever be in store for the two of them, the quiet serenity of a domestic life that he, himself, had never known in the hectic taverns and inns where he grown up. But more deeply, he wondered if he would ever see her again.                    


        [Thu. Dec. 19]

        Catharina dozed, fully clothed, on top of her bed, afraid to slip under the sheets, still-soiled by their lovemaking, when she was roused by Tanneke’s voice coming from foot of the steps that led to the hallway outside her room.
        “Catharina! Come quickly! It’s your mother.”
        As she got up in near panic at what might be happening, she heard other voices on the stairway moving toward her.
        “Bring her to her room. Miriam and I will put her in her bed clothes and please send one of your boys to get Doctor Vos.”
        Catharina was shocked to see Tanneke bolting up the stairs ahead of Father van der Ven and two of his acolytes, who were carrying Maria’s limp body in their arms with Miriam just behind.”

        “Mother!” Catharina gasped as the group moved past her doorway. “Tanneke! What’s happened?”
        “The priest found your mother slumped on the floor of the church. They just brought her here. Please, come help.”
        But Catharina was frozen where she stood.
        “Is--is she--”
        Tanneke did not stop as she answered the unfinished question.
        “She’s breathing. We’ll know more when the doctor gets here. Now, come! Help us get her out of these clothes and into her bed.”
        At that, Catharina snapped to and helped the two maids take her mother from the acolytes and into her own room.
        “I’ll wait downstairs until the doctor comes,” the priest offered and then turned to one of his young assistants. “Moses, you go back to the church. I’ll let you know if anything else needs to be done.”
        “Yes, Father.”
        The second acolyte had already disappeared on his way to the house of Doctor Vos.
        Inside Maria’s bedroom, the three women stripped off her stiff clothing and skullcap bonnet, quickly dressing her in a soft flannel chemise and warm sleeping coat. Her skin had gone completely white and her breathing, although regular, was worryingly shallow. The women moved and worked silently until Maria was tucked in and her hair loosened. Then Catharina completely broke down and fell folded into Tanneke’s strong arms as Miriam tended to making a fire in the grate.
        “There, there, Trijntje. The doctor will be here soon and everything will be fine,” she said, not knowing how true that might be, but trying to comfort all the same. “There, there. Go back to your room and--”
        Catharina pushed herself away and gathered all of the strength still in her body.
        “I’m going to stay here by my mother. I’m not going to leave.”

        She turned and dropped to her knees by Maria’s bedside, made the sign of the cross, then folded her hands and bowed her head to pray.

                                            
        [Thu. Dec. 19]

        When Doctor Vos emerged from Maria’s room both Catharina and Tanneke were in the hallway waiting for him. It had taken the acolyte nearly an hour to locate him at the house of another patient the doctor was attending, but he came straightway when he heard about Maria’s collapse and grave condition.
        When the doctor first got there and was examining Maria, Tanneke told him about the harrowing trip back from Gouda just that night, while Catharina, who knew nothing about that part of it, listened in shock at her mother’s ordeal. She had regained her composure and stood bravely waiting for Tanneke to go on about the rest of what happened, but the maid said nothing of it. Catharina wondered if she should find the courage to speak up and confess her part in this, but before she had the chance, the doctor turned to them and asked them to wait outside while he completed his examination, feeling that it would serve no good for them to witness Maria’s enfeebled condition in detail.
        Now, with the two women standing fretfully in front of him, Doctor Vos felt he could render his diagnosis and Maria’s hopes for recovery.
        “Catharina, your mother is suffering from total exhaustion. The trip back from Gouda, as Tanneke has described it, would have been taxing on any woman, let alone one of your mother’s age and, in fact, I have known such cases where such things proved fatal. However, her heartbeat is strong and her skin is getting back some of its natural color.”
        It was fortunate that Doctor Vos was one of the few physicians in the country that acknowledged and accepted the fact that the heart actually pumped the blood through the veins and arteries of the body, thereby affecting the color of the skin. Still, there was more to Maria’s condition and he went on.
        “Her eyes are clear and her mouth is clean and moist. Her urine from last night was also clear and neither too sweet not too salty. She has no fever.”
        “Did she wake up while you were examining her?” Tanneke asked.
        “She stirred a little and opened her eyes, but only just for a moment before going back to sleep. She seems to be resting comfortably now.”
        “What--How--how will she be, Doctor?” Catharina asked, dreading some horrible answer in spite of the doctor’s positive diagnosis.
        “Catharina, your mother needs rest, warmth, and rich food as soon as she can take it and calm. Given these things, and the overall positive state of her constitution, I believe that she should recover after a few days. But,” he cautioned, “her condition is still very delicate and if further damage has been done that I am not able to detect at the moment, additional treatment may be required. Watch her. Avoid any shocks to her system. If she gets dizzy or faints, if she develops headaches or other pains, if she has difficulty with her toilet, send for me and I will reexamine her to see what needs to be done. Otherwise, do as I have instructed. Do you understand?”
        “Yes, Doctor,” Tanneke said.
        “I will send my maid over later with some dried nettle leaves. Have Miriam brew these into a tea to be given at least three times a day.”
        “Thank you, Doctor. Catharina and I will see that your instructions are carried out.”
        “Good. Let her sleep, but someone should stay with her until she awakes.”
        “I’ll do that,” Catharina said softly.
        “Then go. Tanneke will see me out and I will come back in two days, unless you send for me            before then.”
        “Thank you, Doctor.”
        As Tanneke moved to accompany the doctor to the front door, she exchanged looks with Catharina. Tanneke’s was one of abject empathy and concern, while Catharina’s, before she turned to enter her mother’s room, was one of consummate guilt.

                                                                    
        [Thu. Dec. 19]

        Vermeer had reached the Town Hall just as its clock bells rang out nine times, so near to him and so loud that it made his ears ache. He stopped and wondered what he would do once he got back to the Mechelen and his room. The answer was--nothing.  What would be the point of it, sitting blankly in his room as the day wore on? He decided he would go to Carel’s house and work on his painting, hoping, at least, to occupy his mind and take his thoughts away from Catharina, if that might even be possible.
        When he entered the house, Vermeer found Fabritius in the cooking kitchen slicing bread and cheese for his morning meal. Joannis was afraid that his mentor might be critical of his lateness, but in fact, Fabritius was in an excellent mood.
        “Good morning, Jan.”
        “Good morning, Carel.”
        Fabritius slid a plate in Vermeer’s direction and poured a second cup of warm beer for his student, who was removing his outer clothing to hang on the hook by the fireplace that blazed with an unusually large fire. Joannis knew that Carel often had to keep track of every penny and peat, although not all that expensive, was still something not to be wasted in such a frugal home. Something must have happened, Vermeer thought, something positive.
        When Vermeer’s plate was filled, Fabritius sat down with him and they both bowed their heads to say a silent grace before eating.
        Carel looked at him closely.
        “Are you ill, Jan? Your skin has an odd color to it. More ‘green earth’ than umber, I would say.”
        “I--Well, last night--a little--”
        Vermeer could see from Carel’s smug and knowing expression that he must be thinking his student was suffering from the effects of too much drink the night before.
        “Don’t worry. The beer and bread will straighten you out,” Carel said as if to confirm Vermeer’s suspicion. “Besides, I have some good news that might cheer you up.”
        Vermeer wasn’t hungry although he knew he should try to eat, but his mouth was so dry, the dark brown bread wadded up in it and had to be washed down with the beer. He also knew that he should try to focus on Carel’s good news, not wanting to deflate his high spirits so early in the morning, so, once he had swallowed the doughy mass and could talk, he asked Fabritius to tell him.
        “You remember Doctor Vallensis?”
        “Yes, of course.”
        “Well, he sent me a note asking me to come to his house, but it didn’t say what for, so I went there yesterday. It’s a big place on the canal next to the Old Church. He’d hung the picture I did of him in the front room so that everyone could see it as soon as they came in. Apparently he’s ‘fond’ of it and wants me to do a matching one of his wife.”
        “Congratulations,” Vermeer offered with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
        “Thank you, but I told him I was in the middle of another major painting and when that was finished I’d be happy to have her sit for me, perhaps in the springtime. However, Vallensis wanted it sooner than that and offered me a ‘bonus’ and a healthy advance if I would suspend my present project and get right on it.”
        Fabritius stopped to eat a little and take a large swig of beer, letting his story play out a bit for Vermeer’s benefit.
        “So, are you going to do it?”
        “I told him I would.”
        “And what about your Prodigal?”
        “The old man will just have to wait a little bit longer for his brat to come home, that’s all. Besides, the client I‘ve promised it to doesn’t seem to be in that much of a hurry for it.”
        Vermeer pushed his chair away from the table and stood to go upstairs.
        “Well, congratulations once again, Carel. I think I should go up now and get to work.”
        As Vermeer started to leave, Fabritius stopped him for a second.
        “Jan, are you certain you’re alright? You look like shit.”
        “I’m fine--really. I just have a lot to do today.”
        Vermeer started away, but when he reached the doorway, Carel stopped him once again.
        “It’s your ‘girl’, isn’t it?”
        Joannis turned and looked at the strange and moody man still seated at the table with bread in his hands. He wanted to come back in, sit down and tell Fabritius, tell someone, about what had happened and perhaps relieve himself of it to some degree, but he knew he could not do that just yet.
        “No. It’s not about her,” he lied and then left quietly as Fabritius chewed on his bread.

                                            
        [Thu. Dec. 19]

        It was just before noon when Maria stirred and first opened her eyes as Catharina sat in a chair next to her bed silently reading her Bible. The verse she was reading from the Psalms matched her inner feelings and she marked it with her finger as she turned to look at her mother’s face:


                Search me, O God, and know my heart.
                Try me and know my thoughts
                And see if there be any wicked way in me--

        Maria’s face gave away nothing. It was a mask with eyes, cheeks and mouth carved into it, revealing only its familiar form but nothing underneath. Catharina put down her book and took her mother’s hand into hers. They stared at each other for a long, silent moment.
        “Mother, can you hear me?” Catharina asked softly.
        “Yes.”
        “The doctor was here. Do you remember that?”
        “No.”
        “He said you are exhausted, but will recover soon if you rest.”
        Maria said nothing, never moving her blank gaze from her daughter’s eyes.
        “He sent some dried nettles over for you to take. I’ll go have Miriam make you some tea with it.”
        She started to rise, but Maria squeezed her hand, not letting her up.
        “Why, Catharina? Why?” her voice weak, as her breathing grew heavier. “How could you do this to yourself? To us?”
        “Mother, I--” but there were no words because Catharina had no actual answer that made sense anymore. “I have prayed to God for forgiveness and I will ask the same of you, but you must get better now. You need to rest.”
        Maria closed her eyes and turned her head away, letting go of her daughter’s hand, which gave Catharina a feeling of rejection and abandonment. It was tragic in the truest sense of the word. Catharina was a victim of her own doing, even after having been warned and even though she, herself, could foresee the inevitable result, embodied there before her in her mother’s frail form and assaulted spirit. It was a burden, Catharina felt, impossible to bear and equally impossible to cast off. From this moment onward, she knew that her life would never again be the same, no matter what action she might take, no matter what she might say, no matter how she might try to atone. The bell had been rung and there could be no un-ringing of it.
        “I’ll get you that tea, Mother,” she said, mostly to the air around her and then left the room, silently closing the door behind her.

                                            
        [Thu. Dec. 19]

        Vermeer’s palette held only three ground pigments--lead white, into which he would blend small but equal quantities of red ocher and smalt to produce a muted grey for the mullions he had yet to complete. As Vermeer put the tip of his finest brush into the mixture, he felt his hand tremble, not a great deal, but enough to affect this necessarily precise work. Afraid to go directly to the window, he found an unpainted part of the panel and drew out a thin, straight line.
        To other eyes, this might have been thin enough and straight enough, but to Vermeer, it was nowhere near satisfactory. He tried again and again, but each time with the same unacceptable results. He knew that if he made the slightest error on that window, which had already been painted and glazed, the result would be a disaster requiring him to over-paint the entire area and re-glaze the surface, dulling the original effect. In a fit of frustration, Vermeer threw his palette and maulstick onto the floor, but was mindful enough not to damage his precious brush, which he laid carefully on the easel rack.
        “Shit!”
        He sat there, despondent, and stared at what he had painted so far. What had pleased him before looked like crap to him now. The bricks were done and they were fine, but that was all, just ‘fine’. The overall effect was adequate, but that was all, just ‘adequate’. His eye caught the brush where he had placed it and he thought about Maria van Oosterwijk and her painting that Fabritius had showed him. Would she, the ‘art amateur’, accept something this crudely done? he wondered. He doubted it. Neither would he.
         Vermeer decided that when he regained control of himself, if he ever did, he would finish the mullions and then rework the bricks, one by one, painting in each pit, each blemish, each crack, until they were all perfectly rendered. That was all there was to it, but none of that could be done today.   The light would be gone soon on this brief December afternoon, and besides,  his heart was just not into it.
        As Vermeer stooped to clean up the paint on the floor where his palette had landed, he heard raucous laughter coming from downstairs. He was in no mood now for Fabritius or any guest he might be entertaining at the moment, but he had hung up his casaque on the hook by the kitchen fireplace and so could not slip out unnoticed, as he wanted to do.
        There, in this cold room, on his knees like some penitent, Vermeer realized that he had never been more miserable in his life. All his energy and enthusiasm had either drained from him or sunk to some dark pit in his stomach where it sat like the dregs of green paint at the bottom of a cleaning oil jar. He wondered if he should just stay in the room and spend the night, hiding from Fabritius and whoever his guest might be, but the thought was soon dispelled by a knock on his door.
        “Mister Vermeer, Master Fabritius would like to see you downstairs,” Spoors said from the other side. ‘Damn!’ There was no way out of it, no way to stay hidden or escape unseen. However bad he felt before, he felt even worse now.
        “Tell him I’m cleaning up and then will come down.”
        “Yes, Sir. I’ll tell him.”
        Vermeer got off his knees and finished putting his painting things carefully away while hoping that, somehow, tomorrow would be a better day. At the moment, though, he doubted it.                                            
        [Thu. Dec. 19]
 
        Maria was silent as she sat in her bed with her back propped against the pillows while Tanneke gave her nettle tea, feeding it to her with a spoon the way one would feed a baby.
        “Now, you have to finish all of it.”
        Maria took the bitter tea as offered, but just stared at the space beyond the foot of her bed. Tanneke could see that Maria’s mind was active and that she was fully alert, in spite of her reticence. Maria was thinking, her eyes twitching a little, this way and that, then narrowing as a thought deepened in her brain.
        Tanneke finished feeding Maria the tea and set the cup and spoon down on the bedside table as she   stood up.
        “That should make you feel better,” Tanneke said as Maria still refused to look at her. “Miriam has made some food for you. I’ll bring it up. You have to eat.”
        It was then that Maria turned her head in the maid’s direction.
        “Tell Catharina I want to see her.”
        This did not sit well with Tanneke. She knew that whatever might come out of that conversation would be emotionally trying for each of them and that neither one had the strength at the moment to handle it.
        “Maria, perhaps you should wait until you’ve gotten a little stronger.”
        “Waiting won’t solve anything, Tanneke. Tell Catharina I would like to see her now.” Her tone was measured and even and left Tanneke little room for argument.
        “Yes, Ma’am. I’ll get her for you.”

                                            
        [Thu. Dec. 19]

        The laughing grew even louder as Vermeer came down the stairs on his way to Carel’s studio. When he recognized the ‘other’ voice, though, his spirits actually picked up a little and when he entered the room, Gerrit ter Borch stood up from his chair to welcome him.
        “Ah! Joannis Vermeer, the ‘house’ painter! How have you been these past few weeks? Has Carel taken his lash to you yet?”
        Vermeer had to smile at the sight of the huge, round man with his scraggly mustache and goatee.
        “Perhaps, just a little” Joannis answered, casting a look in Carel’s direction. Fabritius raised an eyebrow and then smiled before calling out.
        “Well, don’t just sand there, Jan. Come in and sit down with us. Get your pipe. Spoors!”
        “More beer, Sir. I know. I’m getting it now,” came the boy’s voice from somewhere in the kitchen.
        “And cheese! Not that Gouda crap that Agatha always buys. Beemster cheese, the old stuff with the mold on it!”
        “Yes, Sir. Old moldy cheese.”
        Fabritius was already a little drunk by this time of the day, probably because he felt no pressure to work on his painting now with Vallensis’ advance in his purse.
        “And what’s wrong with that Gouda ‘crap’, if I might ask?” Agatha inquired as she entered from another room carrying a plate of cold sausages and mustard, which he placed on a table between the two men. Vermeer pulled up a chair for himself after getting his personalized pipe.
        “It has no taste. It has no soul to it,” Fabritius answered as she moved behind him and put her hands on his shoulders.
        “So, Vermeer, how is your painting going?  Carel told me about your project.”

        This was no time for Joannis to vent the deep frustrations he was feeling just moments ago, not here with these two men in such good spirits.
        “Very well. I’ve learned a great deal about painting bricks.”
        “What have you learned?” ter Borch asked in a serious way, as Carel sat back with his pipe to listen.
        “Basically, that they’re a pain in the arse!” Vermeer found himself answering to the surprise and then laughter of the two men and Agatha.
        “That may be true, Vermeer,” ter Borch replied, “but Art resides in such details, no matter how tedious the process may be. Try painting a satin skirt and you’ll know what I mean.”
        Spoors entered with a fresh pot of beer and a cup that he had poured for Vermeer. As soon as he had taken it, ter Borch lifted his own, followed by Carel and Agatha, who also seemed in a fine mood this chilly afternoon.
        “To Art!” Gerrit bellowed dramatically.
        “To Art!” and they all drank deeply.
        Vermeer lit his pipe as Fabritius continued his previous conversation with his friend.
        “So, you’re going back to Deventer?”
        “Yes. This is no place for a man like me to spend the winter. I’ll come back in the spring, though, sell the house and buy a bigger one.”
        “I take it van der Poel found you a place, then?” Vermeer interrupted, the strong doppelbier starting to warm his insides.
        “Yes, but it’s a tiny old place on the Vlaminstraat canal with a front room hardly big enough for a shithouse, let alone a proper studio. Still, I got it for nine hundred and can sell it next year for a good profit.”
        “A man of your caliber should have one of those big mansions over on the Boter Brug or by the Prinsenhoff.” Fabritius interjected.
        “That would be nice, wouldn’t it! A great house for a great man!” ter Borch responded for his own benefit.
        “At least a big house for a big man,” Fabritius chided and all were amused by his joke, including Vermeer.
        As the conversation went on, Agatha caught Spoors as he was passing through on one mission or another.
        “Mathys, please set out the table over there so these men can have a proper supper by the fire.”
        “Yes, Ma’am.”
        As the boy fetched the folding table from the corner, Vermeer noted what good care Agatha took of her husband, always at hand but never intruding herself in public. He knew from other times, when there were no visitors, how much Carel relied on her, not just for her fine attention to his needs, but for her mind and artistic opinions. He had seen on several occasions as he passed by the studio door, Fabritius with Agatha, discussing his work as it progressed and it was clear that the rising artist respected and equally required her honest thoughts and comments. These recollections brought his mind back to Catharina and the quiet suppers she had prepared for him, even just last night, but this time Vermeer’s heart didn’t sink into that inky despair of just an hour ago. This time he felt a more positive emotion and one he trusted might maintain him--Faith. ‘Why?” he wondered, as the voices in the room around him started to mute themselves as his own thoughts took over. Why was he giving up so easily because of one inevitable incident? How could he think he might never see Catharina again? That was ridiculous! Hadn’t he promised her to make that happen? Yes! And his faith in that future, their future, would lead him to the strength he would need to fulfill it.
        “What do you think, Jan?” he heard Carel’s voice ask, snapping his reality back to the present of the warm room, its windows already starting to darken in the late afternoon light.
        “Pardon me?”
        “Beemster or Edam? Which makes the better cheese?”
        “Er, Beemster, of course,” he had the presence to answer quickly enough so as not to draw attention to his brief mental absence.
        “See, Gerrit. I told you. Beemster it is!”
        “That may be, Carel,” ter Borch responded, “but the cows in Edam are much prettier than the sad cases you have where you come from. If fact, I might even go there this summer and paint a picture of one.”
        “Well, Gerrit, you do that,” Fabritius said as he drained his cup and poured another. “And I am certain it will be regarded as some of your finest work. Just don’t let Potter catch you at it. He takes his cows very seriously!”
        Fabritius raised his cup once again.
        “To pretty cows!”
        “To pretty cows!”

                                            
        [Thu. Dec.19]

        Maria Thins’ mind had been clear for some time now as she lay, propped against the spotless linen of her pillows waiting for her daughter to enter. She had weighed carefully the words, questions, of Father van der Ven,

“What do you want to do, Maria? Do you want to punish her? Forgive her?”, but the answers were hard in coming. How could she punish her? Catharina was twenty-one years old and could do as she chose. Even the priest had pointed out this obvious fact to her. But, in spite of her age, Maria thought, her daughter was still very much a child, having been sheltered and protected over the last ten years from the harsher realities of the life they had been forced to share with Reynier and Willem. A woman of Catharina’s age might be capable of making sound decisions and controlling her own life, but Catharina was not yet such a woman. She could not be trusted to find her own way and needed firm guidance. This was Maria’s obligation and, if she had failed in it before, she would not fail in it again.
        As for ‘forgiveness’, that could only come when her daughter chose a proper path for her future. One might forgive a sin of the flesh in a girl her age, but Maria knew that so many others had waited until the wedding bed, and that, coupled with deceit and disobedience, was a bitter potion for any mother to swallow. No!  stern measures were required before any forgiveness could be considered and Maria was prepared to lay them out. 
        The knock came followed by Catharina’s voice.
        “Mother?”
        “Enter,” Maria answered weakly. Although much of her strength had come back to her, it did not seem to thwart her purpose if she gave herself now to whatever frailness still remained.
        Catharina stepped into the dim room, the shutters having been completely closed and the curtains drawn fully together to keep out the chill.
        “Mother,” Catharina said as she neared the bed.
        “Sit here by me.”
        Catharina obeyed and went to the chair near the small table and close to her mother’s propped up body.
        As she sat, her heart pounding, Catharina took in her mother’s face and form. Maria’s head was uncovered, her hair straight and down to the shoulders of her sleeping gown. It had been years since Catharina had seen her mother with no coif or skullcap covering her head and the image was disturbing. The strands were, for the most part, white but with long lines of grey and even black running from the part in the center of her scalp, giving her an almost theatrical hag-like appearance. Maria’s skin was ashen and powdery. Deep wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, which had always been there, seemed deeper now and her mother’s lips were thin lines with no color. Her blue eyes were watery and devoid of any warmth at all. This, added to what Catharina knew would be coming, made the girl’s dread of the moment all the more profound.
        Maria took a deep breath as she looked into her daughter’s eyes.
        “We cannot go on this way, Catharina.”
        “Mother, I have--” but Maria stopped her with a wave of her thin hand.
        ”I have thought about it and have come to certain conclusions.”
        Catharina sat on the edge of her straight-backed chair as her mother              started to speak to her. At first, she looked directly into the woman’s eyes, but soon turned her head downward to stare blindly at her clinched, clasped hands. Catharina knew that, whatever Maria had decided, she would have to agree to it because she felt that it was her actions and her rashness that nearly brought about her mother’s death. When she weighed her love for Joannis against her mother’s very life, there was no question in her mind which way the scale would dip. The old lady went on.
        “We cannot live together under this roof with things as they are. You are an adult woman under the law. I understand that and its implications. However, whatever small fortune I might have is the legacy for you and your children. If you decide to run out the door for the sake of some twenty year old boy, then all of that will be deprived from you. You will have no money from me and I doubt that this boy will be able to provide much for you in the future.”
        It was an argument Catharina did not expect.
        “Think about that, Catharina. When your children are in tatters, who will provide clothing for them? When your children are hungry, who will pay for their food? When your children are sick, who will buy the medicine they need? This boy? I do not think so. You might believe he has a brilliant future as an artist, but the canals of this country are filled with the bodies of such ‘hopefuls’ and I do not want that for you. I do not want you to come begging to me each time there is a new need, and, without an established career, there will always be ‘new needs’.
        Catharina said nothing as her mother went on in this terrible way.
        “There is only one solution that I can see. First, you must never see this man again. Never.”

        This went through Catharina’s heart like boiling oil and her breath grew short and hard to control. She knew that these very words would be coming, but to actually hear them plunged whatever was left inside of her into complete despair.
        “He is not the man for you and you must come to see that, no matter how you think you might feel about this boy you have only known for two months. I do not think that--”
        “Mother, stop!” Catharina shouted as she started to break down. “Stop! Just tell me what you want me   to do!”
        The girl’s raw emotion had little effect on Maria, unable to empathize with her daughter in any way. She went on to answer the question in a very hard and clear manner.
        “You will write him a letter and tell him this. I will arrange to have it delivered this afternoon to wherever he might be. I am certain you know where.”
        “No,” she sobbed weakly, “I can’t--” But Maria did not let her finish.
        “You will instruct him never to contact you or seek you out. That these are not only my wishes, but    your own.”
        “No, Mother! It’s not true. He will never believe me.”
        “It doesn’t matter to me whether he believes you or not. You will write the letter according to               my instructions.”
        Catharina was lost. She knew she would either have to do that, or just leave and run to him at the risk of completely destroying her mother’s health if not her very life.
        “You will write the letter and I will read it before it is sent.”
        Catharina gave herself over to the inevitable reality of what she had to do, but begged to be excused from this last demand.
        “Please, Mother,” she said through her sobbing, “I will write the letter, but, please, let it be between me and him, please!”
        Maria weighed this for a moment.
        “Use your own words, then, but I want the meaning to be perfectly clear to him as I have stated it, nothing more, and you must promise me that before God if I am to allow it.”
        It was a small victory, if that word could be applied, and Catharina was at least grateful for that.
        “Yes, Mother. Before God, I promise.”
        Maria settled back on her pillows, her strength fading again while Catharina wondered if that could be all, but she doubted it. She was correct in her doubt.
        “If the weather allows, tomorrow you will travel to Gouda to stay with your aunt. I will send Miriam with you for the trip and Magda will take care of you once you are there.”
        Catharina looked at her mother in shock. Is she to be exiled to Gouda?
        “Mother! No! I promise you. I--”
        “This town is too small, Catharina, and temptations will be too strong. You must go to Gouda and stay there until I join you in the springtime. You can rebuild your life there and come back to your senses.”
        Catharina’s self-pity started at this point to turn into anger because she could see now her mother’s scheme through it all. No one knew what had happened last night except perhaps the priest, who could be relied on to keep silent about it. Even Doctor Vos had not been told. So, as it stood now, there would be no scandal to hide. Her going to Gouda would not be looked upon with any suspicion by Maria’s circle And, although Maria hadn’t mentioned it yet, there would be in Gouda a fresh batch of ‘prospects’--suitable, Catholic prospects--that Cornelia would certainly be encouraged to bring around for her benefit. Catharina’s muscles tensed as the bitter feeling inside her grew. Her jaw tightened and her teeth clinched so tightly, she could feel blood on the inside of her lip as she unconsciously bit into her own flesh.
        “And in the springtime?” Catharina asked, her tone deeper now and more measured, as she looked at the wrecked woman on the bed, who turned her face away.
        “Then we shall see how things are. I may very well sell this house and return there to live,” she said in an almost casual, weary way. This last thought was surely the final nail and Catharina took it for the threat it was meant to be. In these few moments, Catharina’s emotions were swept from pity to near hatred for her mother. Perhaps, she thought, she should just stand up and walk out the door forever, leaving her mother to whatever fate God might have in store for her, but she knew in her heart that that was not a real possibility. She had sworn before God to obey Maria’s wishes and she was bound under the pain of mortal sin to do just that.
        There was a long, resigned silence as each woman pondered the consequences of what had just taken place. Maria was clearly exhausted, her skin whiter than it was when her daughter first entered, and Catharina was shaken to her core like some person who had just lost everything, her lover, her family, her home, in some terrible disaster brought on by the ‘loving’ hand of God.
        “Is that all?”

        Maria closed her eyes and just nodded her head.
        “Then please excuse me, Mother. I have things to do.”


[Thu. Dec. 19]
                                            
        “Gerrit,” Fabritius said, slurring his words somewhat, “I cannot believe you intend to marry your own aunt! Isn’t that illegal?”
        Ter Borch gave a grunt at this before answering.
        “The fact that Geertruyt is my aunt is only a technicality. I am certain the magistrates will give their permission to the union.”
        Fabritius took in the enormously round form of the man sitting across from him.
        “Well, you should be careful, Gerrit. Too much more stamppot stew and you won’t be able to consummate the nuptial.”
        “Carel! What a terrible thing to say!” Agatha said sincerely as she stood by the fire behind her husband, but ter Borch took it quite in stride.
        “I assure you, Master Fabritius, I have detected no problem in that area to date,” he said, pausing to take another full swig of beer, “and I anticipate none in the future.”
        “So, does that mean your ‘children’ would also be your ‘cousins’?”
        At this, they all laughed heartily, even Vermeer, who had decided that it was time for him to take his leave before it got too late. As he stood up to make his good-byes, Fabritius protested.
        “Very well, Jan, if you don’t want to stay here with us men and perhaps learn something.”
        Vermeer smiled at this as he moved to get his hat and casaque.
        “I believe I have already learned too much this evening. Thank you again for the beer, and congratulations, Master ter Borch, on your engagement.”
        Carel and Gerrit raised their cups to him as he moved to the door, followed by Agatha.
        “I shall be here in the morning, as usual.”
        “Fine, Jan,” Carel said as Joannis stepped into the hallway. “Just don’t make any noise when you      come in!”
        “I understand. Good night, gentlemen.”
        Vermeer understood also, as Agatha saw him to the door, that his mood had been elevated by the warmth, the beer and the camaraderie. But even now, as he started to leave, his heart began to sink again. As Agatha reached for the door latch, Vermeer turned to her. There was something on his mind, a little thing, but he wanted to ask about it.
        “Agatha? Whenever we talk, Carel always calls me ‘Jan’.”
        Agatha’s smile faded from her face.
        “Does that bother you?”
        “No. It’s just that nobody ever calls me that--except for Carel.”
        Agatha reached out to adjust Vermeer’s collar as she answered in a low voice.
        “You know his wife and twin children died all in one year.”
        Vermeer was surprised by this serious turn in the conversation.
        “Yes, both Bramer and ter Borch told me about that.”
        “Well, it probably has nothing to do with what you just asked me, but his little girl was named after her mother, Aeltje. The little boy was named Jan.”
        Vermeer took this in, pondering the implications, if indeed, there were any.
        “As I said, it probably has nothing to do with it.”
        Agatha handed him a lantern as she opened the door. The freezing air sped in, sending a chill through each of them.
        “It’s terrible out there. Be careful on your way home.”
        “I will, Agatha. Thank you.”
        Vermeer hurried to let Agatha close the door as quickly as possible behind him. Ahead of him to the north, just over the row of houses he was painting, he could see the Great Bear climbing into the nearly black sky, but the cold wasted no time in cutting through his clothing and into his bones.