life is if you’re a perfectionist. Making art is a process with ups and downs.’
I think carefully, weighing my words. ‘In the village I come from, there was a girl who really liked painting too. Everyone said she had talent. Lots of talent. But unfortunately it did her no good.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because there was work to do on the farm. When she had time, she painted with beetroot juice on wooden panels she’d sanded smooth. She thought about painting all the time. She looked at the world in paint, as she once put it. The sun that shone on the meadows and ditches, the farm amid all that green, even the milk churns in the farmyard – she saw a still life in everything. But there was no time or material to paint it.’
Brigitta dries her eyes on her sleeve. ‘What happened to her?’
‘She got married and then she had even less time.’
We look at each other.
‘I know what you’re trying to say, Catrin. I realise how lucky I am to come from a rich family and have a husband who doesn’t mind me sitting in my studio all day. But painting is more than a hobby for me. The fact that I don’t have to earn a living doing it doesn’t mean I should lower my standards. Have you heard of Rembrandt van Rijn? We have a couple of his canvases in the house. Artworks admired by everyone, but he himself was critical when he saw them again. A true artist is never satisfied with his own work.’
‘That’s true, madam. And we can’t all be Rembrandt van Rijn. I think we should be satisfied with the talent we’ve been given and take pleasure in it.’
Brigitta says nothing and stares out through the leaded windows.
‘What I mean is that you should paint for yourself, madam. For the pleasure it gives you, even if it means setting your standards slightly lower.’
Brigitta turns slowly to face me. For a moment I’m afraid I’ve gone too far. She holds my gaze for a few seconds then stands up.
‘If you’ll tidy up my studio, Catrin, I’ll take a turn in the garden. I need to think.’
I nod and stoop to gather the paint pots up off the floor. Brigitta leaves the room with rustling skirts and a pleasant silence falls. I open the top part of the window to let in some fresh air and get to work. Once everything is tidy, I clean the brushes. I stroke the soft hairs with my fingertips. What would it be like to dip such a beautiful paintbrush into some paint and put it to a canvas? No doubt very different from my homemade brushes made from pigs’ bristles. I carefully pat them dry and lay them neatly next to each other on the table.
During the day everything is fine. I get up at daybreak to start my chores and don’t go to bed until late in the evening. The work distracts me from the thoughts I don’t want to have and the silence I don’t want to hear. But everything that allows itself to be pushed into the background during the day returns at night, and it’s even stronger for having been repressed. Regardless how cold the nights get, I always leave the doors of my box bed open. When I close them I feel as though I’ve been buried alive. Often I jerk awake from a nightmare, thrashing around, struggling to breathe. When that happens, I leap out of bed and go to stand at the window to cool off and calm down. The deep blue of the night always has a calming effect on me. At home I used to sit at the window and gaze at the stars when I couldn’t sleep, wondering what was up there. Heaven? What do you have to do to get in? And how easily do you go to hell?
Back then, I didn’t concern myself with questions like that. Now, they keep me awake for hours.
‘Have you settled in here a bit now?’ Adriaan van Nulandt has summoned me to his office and is looking at me from behind his desk.
‘Yes, sir. Greta has been a great help.’
‘Good. And your mistress?’
‘Oh yes. She is most kind.’
‘Kind.’ Adriaan stares out the window onto Keizersgracht, absorbed in thought. ‘Yes, she is. But not always. Not to herself, at any rate.’
‘She’s rather harsh on herself when it comes to her painting.’
Adriaan sighs. ‘She shouldn’t take it so seriously. I mean, it’s a wonderful pastime and I would happily fill the house with her work, but that isn’t enough for her. She wants praise in artistic circles and to sell her work. But if she keeps on destroying her paintings, that’s not going to happen.’
‘May I ask what kind of medicine your wife takes?’
‘Laudanum. It’s a spiced wine containing opium. Opium eases the pain, soothes the nerves and stimulates creativity. Maybe too much; all she does is paint.’
‘In Alkmaar one woman was allowed to join the Guild of Saint Lucas. She was given training and now works as a master painter in her own studio.’
Adriaan pulls at his goatee and leans back. ‘I know what you’re driving at, but there is no way my wife can start an apprenticeship as a master painter.’
‘That’s not what I meant, sir. I just meant to say that nowadays painting is becoming more than a hobby for women. I was wondering …’ I hesitate.
‘What were you wondering? Speak your mind, I have no objection.’
‘She could take lessons to improve her technique. There are many great painters in Amsterdam who could help her get better. I think then she wouldn’t need those draughts any more.’
A pause follows and I wonder whether I’ve been too free with my opinions. But Adriaan’s expression is more thoughtful than annoyed and eventually he says, ‘I shall have to think about it.’
The day passes with all manner of small chores. I’m scrubbing a kettle when Brigitta comes into the kitchen.
‘I’m hungry, is there any cheese?’ she asks.
‘Of course, madam. Should I cut a piece for you?’
‘No need, I’ll do it myself.’ Brigitta picks up the pewter plate the cheese is kept on. She cuts a slice, pops it straight into her mouth and looks around. ‘It’s clean in here. Much cleaner than before.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re a good housekeeper, Catrin. We’re very happy with you.’ She walks to the window that overlooks the garden and stands with her back to me, gazing out. ‘Where are you from originally?’
‘De Rijp, madam.’
‘That’s quite a distance away. Why did you come to Amsterdam?’
‘My husband died two months ago, madam.’
Brigitta turns around. ‘How dreadful. But surely that’s no reason to leave your village?’
‘I wanted to leave. I’ve always wanted to live in the city.’
‘I can imagine.’ She looks
