Tracy Chevalier 3-Book Collection: Girl With a Pearl Earring, Remarkable Creatures, Falling Angels. Tracy Chevalier
Church bell struck twice.
‘Now turn your head very slowly towards me. No, not your shoulders. Keep your body turned towards the window. Move only your head. Slow, slow. Stop. A little more, so that — stop. Now sit still.’
I sat still.
At first I could not meet his eyes. When I did it was like sitting close to a fire that suddenly blazes up. Instead I studied his firm chin, his thin lips.
‘Griet, you are not looking at me.’
I forced my gaze up to his eyes. Again I felt as if I were burning, but I endured it — he wanted me to.
Soon it became easier to keep my eyes on his. He looked at me as if he were not seeing me, but someone else, or something else — as if he were looking at a painting.
He is looking at the light that falls on my face, I thought, not at my face itself. That is the difference.
It was almost as if I were not there. Once I felt this I was able to relax a little. As he was not seeing me, I did not see him. My mind began to wander — over the jugged hare we had eaten for dinner, the lace collar Lisbeth had given me, a story Pieter the son had told me the day before. After that I thought of nothing. Twice he got up to change the position of one of the shutters. He went to his cupboard several times to choose different brushes and colours. I viewed his movements as if I were standing in the street, looking in through the window.
The church bell struck three times. I blinked. I had not felt so much time pass. It was as if I had fallen under a spell.
I looked at him — his eyes were with me now. He was looking at me. As we gazed at each other a ripple of heat passed through my body. I kept my eyes on his, though, until at last he looked away and cleared his throat.
‘That will be all, Griet. There is some bone for you to grind upstairs.’
I nodded and slipped from the room, my heart pounding. He was painting me.
‘Pull your cap back from your face,’ he said one day.
‘Back from my face, sir?’ I repeated dumbly, and regretted it. He preferred me not to speak, but to do as he said. If I did speak, I should say something worth the words.
He did not answer. I pulled the side of my cap that was closest to him back from my cheek. The starched tip grazed my neck.
‘More,’ he said. ‘I want to see the line of your cheek.’
I hesitated, then pulled it back further. His eyes moved down my cheek.
‘Show me your ear.’
I did not want to. I had no choice.
I felt under the cap to make sure no hair was loose, tucking a few strands behind my ear. Then I pulled it back to reveal the lower part of my ear.
The look on his face was like a sigh, though he did not make a sound. I caught a noise in my own throat and pushed it down so that it would not escape.
‘Your cap,’ he said. ‘Take it off.’
‘No, sir.’
‘No?’
‘Please do not ask me to, sir.’ I let the cloth of the cap drop so that my ear and cheek were covered again. I looked at the floor, the grey and white tiles extending away from me, clean and straight.
‘You do not want to bare your head?’
‘No.’
‘Yet you do not want to be painted as a maid, with your mop and your cap, nor as a lady, with satin and fur and dressed hair.’
I did not answer. I could not show him my hair. I was not the sort of girl who left her head bare.
He shifted in his chair, then got up. I heard him go into the storeroom. When he returned, his arms were full of cloth, which he dropped in my lap.
‘Well, Griet, see what you can do with this. Find something here to wrap your head in, so that you are neither a lady nor a maid.’ I could not tell if he was angry or amused. He left the room, shutting the door behind him.
I sorted through the cloth. There were three caps, all too fine for me, and too small to cover my head fully. There were pieces of cloth, left over from dresses and jackets Catharina had made, in yellows and browns, blues and greys.
I did not know what to do. I looked around as if I would find an answer in the studio. My eyes fell on the painting of The Procuress — the young woman's head was bare, her hair held back with ribbons, but the old woman wore a piece of cloth wrapped around her head, crisscrossing in and out of itself. Perhaps that is what he wants, I thought. Perhaps that is what women who are neither ladies nor maids nor the other do with their hair.
I chose a piece of brown cloth and took it into the storeroom, where there was a mirror. I removed my cap and wound the cloth around my head as best I could, checking the painting to try to imitate the old woman's. I looked very peculiar.
I should let him paint me with a mop, I thought. Pride has made me vain.
When he returned and saw what I had done, he laughed. I had not heard him laugh often — sometimes with the children, once with van Leeuwenhoek. I frowned. I did not like being laughed at.
‘I have only done what you asked, sir,’ I muttered.
He stopped chuckling. ‘You're right, Griet. I'm sorry. And your face, now that I can see more of it, it is —’ He stopped, never finishing his sentence. I always wondered what he would have said.
He turned to the pile of cloth I had left on my chair. ‘Why did you choose brown,’ he asked, ‘when there are other colours?’
I did not want to speak of maids and ladies again. I did not want to remind him that blues and yellows were ladies' colours. ‘Brown is the colour I usually wear,’ I said simply.
He seemed to guess what I was thinking. ‘Tanneke wore blue and yellow when I painted her some years ago,’ he countered.
‘I am not Tanneke, sir.’
‘No, that you certainly are not.’ He pulled out a long, narrow band of blue cloth. ‘None the less, I want you to try this.’
I studied it. ‘That is not enough cloth to cover my head.’
‘Use this as well, then.’ He picked up a piece of yellow cloth that had a border of the same blue and held it out to me.
Reluctantly I took the two pieces of cloth back to the storeroom and tried again in front of the mirror. I tied the blue cloth over my forehead, with the yellow piece wound round and round, covering the crown of my head. I tucked the end into a fold at the side of my head, adjusted folds here and there, smoothed the blue cloth round my head, and stepped back into the studio.
He was looking at a book and did not notice as I slipped into my chair. I arranged myself as I had been sitting before. As I turned my head to look over my left shoulder, he glanced up. At the same time the end of the yellow cloth came loose and fell over my shoulder.
‘Oh,’ I breathed, afraid that the cloth would fall from my head and reveal all my hair. But it held — only the end of the yellow cloth dangled free. My hair remained hidden.
‘Yes,’ he said then. ‘That is it, Griet. Yes.’
He would not let me see the painting. He set it on a second easel, angled away from the door, and told me not to look at it. I promised not to, but some nights I lay in bed and thought about wrapping my blanket around me and stealing downstairs to see it. He would never know.
But he would guess. I did not think I could sit with him looking at me day after day without guessing that I had looked at the painting. I could not hide things from him. I did not want to.
I was reluctant, too, to discover how it was that he saw me. It was better to leave that a mystery.
The colours he asked me to