Tracy Chevalier 3-Book Collection: Girl With a Pearl Earring, Remarkable Creatures, Falling Angels. Tracy Chevalier

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СКАЧАТЬ Griet,’ he called.

      I climbed down the ladder. When I entered the studio van Leeuwenhoek gazed at me in astonishment. He had very clear brown eyes, with large lids that made him look sleepy. He was far from sleepy, though, but alert and puzzled, his mouth drawn in tightly at the corners. Despite his surprise at seeing me, he had a kindly look about him, and when he recovered he even bowed.

      No gentleman had ever bowed to me before. I could not stop myself — I smiled.

      Van Leeuwenhoek laughed. ‘What were you doing up there, my dear?’

      ‘Grinding colours, sir.’

      He turned to my master. ‘An assistant! What other surprises do you have for me! Next you'll be teaching her to paint your women for you.’

      My master was not amused. ‘Griet,’ he said, ‘sit as you saw van Ruijven's wife do the other day.’

      I stepped nervously to the chair and sat, leaning forward as she had done.

      ‘Take up the quill.’

      I picked it up, my hand trembling and making the feather shake, and placed my hands as I had remembered hers. I prayed he would not ask me to write something, as he had van Ruijven's wife. My father had taught me to write my name, but little else. At least I knew how to hold the quill. I glanced at the sheets on the table and wondered what van Ruijven's wife had written on them. I could read a little, from familiar things like my prayer book, but not a lady's hand.

      ‘Look at me.’

      I looked at him. I tried to be van Ruijven's wife.

      He cleared his throat. ‘She will be wearing the yellow mantle,’ he said to van Leeuwenhoek, who nodded.

      My master stood, and they set up the camera obscura so that it pointed at me. Then they took turns looking. When they were bent over the box with the black robe over their heads, it became easier for me to sit and think of nothing, as I knew he wanted me to.

      He had van Leeuwenhoek move the painting on the back wall several times before he was satisfied with its position, then open and shut shutters while he kept his head under the robe. At last he seemed satisfied. He stood up and folded the robe over the back of the chair, then stepped over to the desk, picked up a piece of paper, and handed it to van Leeuwenhoek. They began discussing its contents — Guild business he wanted advice about. They talked for a long time.

      Van Leeuwenhoek glanced up. ‘For the mercy of God, man, let the girl get back to her work.’

      My master looked at me as if surprised that I was still sitting at the table, quill in hand. ‘Griet, you may go.’

      As I left I thought I saw a look of pity cross van Leeuwenhoek's face.

      He left the camera set up in the studio for some days. I was able to look through it several times on my own, lingering on the objects on the table. Something about the scene he was to paint bothered me. It was like looking at a painting that has been hung crookedly. I wanted to change something, but I did not know what. The box gave me no answers.

      One day van Ruijven's wife came again and he looked at her for a long time in the camera. I was passing through the studio while his head was covered, and walked as quietly as I could so I would not disturb them. I stood behind him for a moment to look at the setting with her in it. She must have seen me but gave no sign, continuing to gaze straight at him with her dark eyes.

      It came to me then that the scene was too neat. Although I valued tidiness over most things, I knew from his other paintings that there should be some disorder on the table, something to snag the eye. I pondered each object — the jewellery box, the blue table-rug, the pearls, the letter, the inkwell — and decided what I would change. I returned quietly to the attic, surprised by my bold thoughts.

      Once it was clear to me what he should do to the scene, I waited for him to make the change.

      He did not move anything on the table. He adjusted the shutters slightly, the tilt of her head, the angle of her quill. But he did not change what I had expected him to.

      I thought about it while I was wringing out sheets, while I was turning the spit for Tanneke, while I was wiping the kitchen tiles, while I was rinsing colours. While I lay in bed at night I thought about it. Sometimes I got up to look again. No, I was not mistaken.

      He returned the camera to van Leeuwenhoek.

      Whenever I looked at the scene my chest grew tight, as if something were pressing on it.

      He set a canvas on the easel and painted a coat of lead white and chalk mixed with a bit of burnt sienna and yellow ochre.

      My chest grew tighter, waiting for him.

      He sketched lightly in reddish brown the outline of the woman and of each object.

      When he began to paint great blocks of false colours, I thought my chest would burst like a sack that has been filled with too much flour.

      As I lay in bed one night I decided I would have to make the change myself.

      The next morning I cleaned, setting the jewellery box back carefully, relining the pearls, replacing the letter, polishing and replacing the inkwell. I took a deep breath to ease the pressure in my chest. Then in one quick movement I pulled the front part of the blue cloth on to the table so that it flowed out of the dark shadows under the table and up in a slant on to the table in front of the jewellery box. I made a few adjustments to the lines of the folds, then stepped back. It echoed the shape of van Ruijven's wife's arm as she rested it on the table.

      Yes, I thought, and pressed my lips together. He may send me away for changing it, but it is better now.

      That afternoon I did not go up to the attic, although there was plenty of work for me there. I sat outside on the bench with Tanneke and mended shirts. He had not gone to his studio that morning, but to the Guild, and had dined at van Leeuwenhoek's. He had not yet seen the change.

      I waited anxiously on the bench. Even Tanneke, who tried to ignore me these days, noted my mood. ‘What's the matter with you, girl?’ she asked. She had taken to calling me girl like her mistress. ‘You're acting like a chicken that knows it's for the slaughter.’

      ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Tell me about what happened when Catharina's brother came here last. I heard about it at the market. They still mention you,’ I added, hoping to distract and flatter her, and to cover up how clumsily I moved away from her question.

      For a moment Tanneke sat up straighter, until she remembered who was asking. ‘That's not your business,’ she snapped. ‘That's family business, not for the likes of you.’

      A few months before she would have delighted in telling a story that set her in the best light. But it was me who was asking, and I was not to be trusted or humoured or favoured with her words, though it must have pained her to pass up the chance to boast.

      Then I saw him — he was walking towards us up the Oude Langendijck, his hat tilted to shield his face from the spring sunlight, his dark cloak pushed back from his shoulders. As he drew up to us I could not look at him.

      ‘Afternoon, sir,’ Tanneke sang out in a completely different tone.

      ‘Hello, СКАЧАТЬ