Tulip Fever by Deborah Moggach Read Free Book Online Page B

am damp from love. Only an hour—I can only stay an hour . What an hour that was. If I have no other, I shall remember it all my life.
    I cross the Wester-Markt, my head down, and cut through a side street. I hurry like a criminal escaping from the scene of my wickedness. The lower parts of the houses here are whitewashed—paint roughly splashed around their doors and windows. If only I, in such a way, could conceal my blemishes.
    “Sophia, my dear! Fancy seeing you here.”
    I stagger back; we nearly collided.
    “Are you walking this way? What a charming dress; you must tell me where you purchased the material.”
    It is Mrs. Mijtins, our lawyer’s wife. She hurries along beside me.
    “You must tell me your secret.”
    “What do you mean?” I ask sharply.
    “You’ve been keeping it so well hidden. You promised to tell me but you never did.”
    “Tell you what?”
    “The name of your dressmaker, of course. Remember, when you came to our musical evening? Mine is utterly incompetent; she came recommended by Mrs. Overvalt but she hardly knows how to turn a hem. And the wretched girl always seems to have a running cold. My, you do look well! Burgundy suits you— such a pretty fabric—it brings out the color in your cheeks. If only my daughters had your looks—slow down, dear. Oh, those young legs! I can hardly keep up with you.”

16

    Jan
The draperies that clothe figures must show that they are inhabited by these figures, enveloping them neatly to show the posture and motion of such figures, and avoiding the confusion of many folds, especially over the prominent parts, so that these may be evident.
    —LEONARDO DA VINCI, Notebooks
    Painting is an act of possession. All objects, however humble, are gazed upon with the same focused sensuality. Animal, vegetable or mineral, they are all equal; the curve of an earthenware jug is as lovingly painted as a woman’s breast. An artist’s passion is truly dispassionate.
    Now, however, it is different, for he has possessed her. This is the third and final sitting; after today he will take the canvas home and complete it in his studio. Now Jan has touched the body beneath the dress, now he has held Sophia naked in his arms, he is paralyzed. This demure, seated wife is his sweetheart. She is no longer an arrangement of cobalt-blue dress, fur-trimmed jacket and pale skin tones. His composition has been disordered by love.
    Sophia is radiant; she blazes. Surely her husband can sense it, next to him? Cornelis may be a pedantic old fool, but how could he not feel the charge in the room?
    These questions are distracting. Jan realizes that he has been standing, brush in hand, for minutes on end. Cornelis must notice. The apparitions on Jan’s canvas, gaining ghostly shape—these figments of his imagination that bear a passing resemblance to real people—they look rebuffed, as if he has betrayed them too. His brush strokes Sophia into being, but in the painting she will be locked forever into wifeliness, a woman sitting obediently beside her husband.
    That is his excuse, that he has lost her. Jan fears, however, that he cannot paint the truth of her; it is beyond his powers. He blames the convention in which he is trapped, but if he were a great painter she would come alive and radiate love to everyone who will gaze at her on the canvas. They will understand that she is capable of passion. He must convey that or he has failed.
    As he paints he hears her voice. I loved you from the first moment I saw you .
    How surprising she was! He thought that she would swoon from guilt and remorse.
    It’s too late for that now. I wanted to come. I want to be here. Nothing matters, only this .
    When they climbed into his bed he was so overcome that at first he had failed her. What—I’ve ruined myself for nothing? she had whispered, laughing.
    I can’t believe that you’re here , he had replied.
    She had taken his hand. I’m just a woman—here, feel . . . just flesh and blood .
    The