transformation wakes an almost physical pain. If I had looked like this, would Laurent have walked away as easily as he did?
Laurent was an itinerant artist: Holland is full of them these days. They say it is the easiest country to make a living in, if you have a little skill withpaint and brush. After the war with Spain finally came to an end and trade flourished, every Dutch merchant suddenly wanted to show off his wealth, to surround himself not only with the beautiful, real objects that bolstered his faith in the new reality, but with representations of those objects too. Depictions of flowers and fruits, town scenes, portraits: a house was not a home unless its walls boasted a dozen framed images of the world inside and out. Holland hung its soul from a hook for all to see. Laurent had tried to make a living as a painter in his native France, but the French are snobs about such things and Laurent had made no name for himself. Although he had some skill, he was by no means an outstanding draughtsman; but in The Hague he made a good living. He was handsome; that was one reason why. Merchantsâ wives and daughters encouraged his attentions. Black hair, dark eyes, sculpted bones: he was as unlike the broad, blond, ruddy-complexioned men of the town as could be. I never considered myself a romantic ninny whose head could be turned by a striking face or a flowery compliment, but when I met Laurent it was as if my heart had plunged off a cliff and the rest of me had followed an instant later.
He came to the door, seeking a commission: seeing a solidly built, well-presented merchantâs house he no doubt expected a solidly built, well-presented merchant to open the door to him, but when I explained the lack I saw his face fall before he recovered himself and started to make his apologies. It was that moment of perceived disappointment that was my downfall: for in that moment I fell in love. A perverse decision, indeed: to yearn after something you can never have. He had clearly shown me in that unguarded moment his true estimation of me: that I was neither rich enough nor lovely enough to interest him as either subject or object of his skills.
Although we had acres of empty wall on which to display a painting, the last thing we could afford was a commission. But I commissioned him anyway. Judith overheard our conversation. She was right behind me when I turned back into the house after standing there watching the Frenchman loping away down the street with a swagger that made my insides flutter.
âWe canât afford it,â she said. âYou know we canât.â
I was her employer and she just a servant, but when you bake breadtogether at sun-up each morning, these inequalities rather get knuckled in with the dough. I was used to her speaking her mind and rarely rebuked her for it.
âHeâs dangerous,â she went on. âYou can see it in the way he walks. Go after him: tell him youâve changed your mind.â
I knew she was right, but I made her be quiet: having an external conscience is never a comfortable thing.
He came the next day, and the next and the next for three whole blissful weeks, and I sat on a chair in the kitchen garden for him. âThe light will be better there for you,â I said; meaning, thereâs not a stick of furniture in the house, and you will guess my motives.
He set up his easel amongst the bean-poles and trod on my seedlings, but I never complained. It was intoxicating, having my portrait painted. He was used to dealing with uneasy subjects and had a way of flattering that made me go limp and complaisant. Being inexperienced, I took each compliment at face value. I hugged them to me (in place of him) in my narrow bed each night: to have such a handsome man examining my face minutely, even though I was paying him for the privilege, was a heady experience for an unmarried 24-year-old who had never considered herself worth looking at. Each touch of
Laurent was an itinerant artist: Holland is full of them these days. They say it is the easiest country to make a living in, if you have a little skill withpaint and brush. After the war with Spain finally came to an end and trade flourished, every Dutch merchant suddenly wanted to show off his wealth, to surround himself not only with the beautiful, real objects that bolstered his faith in the new reality, but with representations of those objects too. Depictions of flowers and fruits, town scenes, portraits: a house was not a home unless its walls boasted a dozen framed images of the world inside and out. Holland hung its soul from a hook for all to see. Laurent had tried to make a living as a painter in his native France, but the French are snobs about such things and Laurent had made no name for himself. Although he had some skill, he was by no means an outstanding draughtsman; but in The Hague he made a good living. He was handsome; that was one reason why. Merchantsâ wives and daughters encouraged his attentions. Black hair, dark eyes, sculpted bones: he was as unlike the broad, blond, ruddy-complexioned men of the town as could be. I never considered myself a romantic ninny whose head could be turned by a striking face or a flowery compliment, but when I met Laurent it was as if my heart had plunged off a cliff and the rest of me had followed an instant later.
He came to the door, seeking a commission: seeing a solidly built, well-presented merchantâs house he no doubt expected a solidly built, well-presented merchant to open the door to him, but when I explained the lack I saw his face fall before he recovered himself and started to make his apologies. It was that moment of perceived disappointment that was my downfall: for in that moment I fell in love. A perverse decision, indeed: to yearn after something you can never have. He had clearly shown me in that unguarded moment his true estimation of me: that I was neither rich enough nor lovely enough to interest him as either subject or object of his skills.
Although we had acres of empty wall on which to display a painting, the last thing we could afford was a commission. But I commissioned him anyway. Judith overheard our conversation. She was right behind me when I turned back into the house after standing there watching the Frenchman loping away down the street with a swagger that made my insides flutter.
âWe canât afford it,â she said. âYou know we canât.â
I was her employer and she just a servant, but when you bake breadtogether at sun-up each morning, these inequalities rather get knuckled in with the dough. I was used to her speaking her mind and rarely rebuked her for it.
âHeâs dangerous,â she went on. âYou can see it in the way he walks. Go after him: tell him youâve changed your mind.â
I knew she was right, but I made her be quiet: having an external conscience is never a comfortable thing.
He came the next day, and the next and the next for three whole blissful weeks, and I sat on a chair in the kitchen garden for him. âThe light will be better there for you,â I said; meaning, thereâs not a stick of furniture in the house, and you will guess my motives.
He set up his easel amongst the bean-poles and trod on my seedlings, but I never complained. It was intoxicating, having my portrait painted. He was used to dealing with uneasy subjects and had a way of flattering that made me go limp and complaisant. Being inexperienced, I took each compliment at face value. I hugged them to me (in place of him) in my narrow bed each night: to have such a handsome man examining my face minutely, even though I was paying him for the privilege, was a heady experience for an unmarried 24-year-old who had never considered herself worth looking at. Each touch of
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