love to look out on your rows of potatoes, love the big, bare flatness of buckwheat, buckwheat, buckwheat, but I didn't come here for that. I came here because of you, and if we can get along without selling it . . . I'll sell the spice chest. Or we can borrow from Father. The fields will be drained soon. Already at Woldijk you can see sedges coming up through the water."
They lay a long time in the darkness before he asked, "How much were you offered?"
It was a long time again while she listened for noises from the children. In spite of the quiet, she whispered, "Twenty-five guilders."
He blew air out between his teeth that cooled the back of her neck. She held her breath and didn't move while the enormity of that sum became truth to him. As much as she tried to contain herself, she turned her face into the pillow and cried.
"I would have sold it if I thought that was a fair price."
"Fair? What do we know about such things?"
"I didn't sell it because another woman told me it was worth eighty. In Amsterdam. So you'd best not be treating the painting that way," she said, "hanging your muddy coat in front of it."
"Eighty!" he whispered. After a long, still mo ment, she felt him get out of bed and heard the sound of him dropping his reefer onto the bare floor.
She had, for the first time in their marriage, a lightness, a sense of power in being right. She pressed further. "As I said, Jantje is not the child of some lawless wench, or even the son of a farmer." She heard the bite in the last word and knew he did too. She turned her back to him and they were both very still until she fell into a sound and peace ful sleep.
In the morning, in those few moments of halfsleep before she moved but when she heard Katrina stirring for her milking, she felt Stijn's arm laid across her lovingly. She lay still to feel the reality of his tenderness, and after a time, she slipped her hand in his.
Work on the sea dikes was completed before they'd expected, and so now all the drainage mills were turning. Stijn worked on the Damsterdiep Dike now, and as the team of men worked their way inland, his spirits brightened. She even saw him tickle Jantje's belly once, and he called him "Jantje" instead of "the baby." Jantje was gurgling baby sounds now. She wasn't sure if she should teach him "Mama" and "Papa," so she was working on "cow" and "water."
If only, for one moment, Stijn could feel as she did, if they could be together in the task God as signed them, if he could look at Jantje as he looked at Piet and Marta and know the power of God's intention, then maybe he'd trust enough to let her keep the painting. But of this, there was no indication. The question of the painting hung in the air of their little upper room, and every day she put less and less salt pork in the stew and then fewer and fewer carrots and haricot beans bought from the vegetable seller who occasionally ven tured out to flooded villages in a punt. Eventually the stew became potato broth, day after day, and Saskia thought for sure he'd tell her to sell the painting.
Spring came in small evidences—only a tender ness in the air and some grasses poking the water's surface. Inland, just outside the Woldijk, the land was wet but not flooded, and they were spreading refuse from the city to reconstitute the soil. Farm ers there might get their crop of sugar beets after all, but Stijn just sat brooding by the window, look ing out at his wet fields. With every week, Saskia pointed out a few more branches of trees emerging and another plank of the barn.
Conscription duties lessened so the Water Board permitted each landowner one day free of dike work each week. There was little Stijn could do on the farm, so he said he'd take them on an outing in the skiff.
"And can we go to Woldijk and have races on the dike road?" Piet asked.
"Yes, and maybe even to Groningen."
"And see our horse?" Marta added.
"Of course."
It would be a holiday. Stijn hadn't acted this lighthearted
They lay a long time in the darkness before he asked, "How much were you offered?"
It was a long time again while she listened for noises from the children. In spite of the quiet, she whispered, "Twenty-five guilders."
He blew air out between his teeth that cooled the back of her neck. She held her breath and didn't move while the enormity of that sum became truth to him. As much as she tried to contain herself, she turned her face into the pillow and cried.
"I would have sold it if I thought that was a fair price."
"Fair? What do we know about such things?"
"I didn't sell it because another woman told me it was worth eighty. In Amsterdam. So you'd best not be treating the painting that way," she said, "hanging your muddy coat in front of it."
"Eighty!" he whispered. After a long, still mo ment, she felt him get out of bed and heard the sound of him dropping his reefer onto the bare floor.
She had, for the first time in their marriage, a lightness, a sense of power in being right. She pressed further. "As I said, Jantje is not the child of some lawless wench, or even the son of a farmer." She heard the bite in the last word and knew he did too. She turned her back to him and they were both very still until she fell into a sound and peace ful sleep.
In the morning, in those few moments of halfsleep before she moved but when she heard Katrina stirring for her milking, she felt Stijn's arm laid across her lovingly. She lay still to feel the reality of his tenderness, and after a time, she slipped her hand in his.
Work on the sea dikes was completed before they'd expected, and so now all the drainage mills were turning. Stijn worked on the Damsterdiep Dike now, and as the team of men worked their way inland, his spirits brightened. She even saw him tickle Jantje's belly once, and he called him "Jantje" instead of "the baby." Jantje was gurgling baby sounds now. She wasn't sure if she should teach him "Mama" and "Papa," so she was working on "cow" and "water."
If only, for one moment, Stijn could feel as she did, if they could be together in the task God as signed them, if he could look at Jantje as he looked at Piet and Marta and know the power of God's intention, then maybe he'd trust enough to let her keep the painting. But of this, there was no indication. The question of the painting hung in the air of their little upper room, and every day she put less and less salt pork in the stew and then fewer and fewer carrots and haricot beans bought from the vegetable seller who occasionally ven tured out to flooded villages in a punt. Eventually the stew became potato broth, day after day, and Saskia thought for sure he'd tell her to sell the painting.
Spring came in small evidences—only a tender ness in the air and some grasses poking the water's surface. Inland, just outside the Woldijk, the land was wet but not flooded, and they were spreading refuse from the city to reconstitute the soil. Farm ers there might get their crop of sugar beets after all, but Stijn just sat brooding by the window, look ing out at his wet fields. With every week, Saskia pointed out a few more branches of trees emerging and another plank of the barn.
Conscription duties lessened so the Water Board permitted each landowner one day free of dike work each week. There was little Stijn could do on the farm, so he said he'd take them on an outing in the skiff.
"And can we go to Woldijk and have races on the dike road?" Piet asked.
"Yes, and maybe even to Groningen."
"And see our horse?" Marta added.
"Of course."
It would be a holiday. Stijn hadn't acted this lighthearted
Similar Books
