The Painter's Apprentice Read Free Page B

child I always had a stick of charcoal and a sketchbook in my hand.’
    ‘I did too! But my father never understood why drawing interested me so.’
    ‘Neither did mine. I was fortunate to have Johannes to encourage me. After he arrived here I used to creep into the studio
     and watch him at work. Seeing one of his paintings grow from a simple outline to something that appeared very real and beautiful
     seemed like magic to me. I became consumed with the desire to learn how he made it happen. One morning when I thought he was
     still abed, he caught me mixing up some of his pigments and applying them to one of my sketches.’
    ‘And so he began to teach you?’
    Beth laughed and shook her head. ‘I dropped the palette in fright when I heard his roar of fury and I’ve never had such a
     scolding before or since! Then he picked up my sketch and looked at it. He didn’t say a word about it but made me clear up
     the mess and set me to grinding pigments for him. After a month of this he showed me how to look at a still life; to see how
     the colours changed with the light and how the shadows fell. Eventually he let me sit beside him and draw my own still life.
     I learned never to disturb him with idle chatter and, in time, a whole new way of looking at the world.’ She dropped her intent
     gaze from Noah’s face and her cheeks flushed. ‘But most of all, Johannes made me feel as if what I was doing wasimportant. As if I was unique and special and my developing talent really mattered. Can you understand that?’
    ‘It’s true,’ said Noah thoughtfully, ‘that if you feel passion for something it alters your perspective. I cannot look at
     any building without seeing what I can learn from it or how I could improve upon it and enrich the lives of those who will
     live in it.’ He smiled at her. ‘We are alike in our passion, I think.’
    They set off along the gallery again.
    ‘Johannes is working hard on a seascape now,’ said Beth, ‘and I’m hoping he’ll make good progress before he becomes unwell
     again.’
    ‘Unwell?’
    ‘Perhaps I didn’t say? Johannes is one of our long-term guests.’
    ‘A guest?’ Noah caught hold of her arm. ‘You mean he …’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘But is it safe for you to spend so much time with him?’
    ‘Johannes never hurts anyone but himself. Sometimes he becomes very sad and self-critical. I have known him to weep for days
     and once he dragged all his paintings outside and set fire to them.’
    ‘What a terrible waste!’
    ‘Father says his humours are out of balance,’ said Beth. ‘But I blame the Catholics.’
    Noah smiled. ‘The Catholics are blamed for a lot of things here in England. What did they do to Johannes that was so terrible?’
    ‘It’s not amusing, Noah! Nine years ago the French murdered his brothers in the Battle of Cassel. They killed more than
eight thousand
of the Dutch and Johannes has never forgiven himself for being the only one of his brothers to survive.’
    Noah looked grave. ‘I can see how a man might be stricken with guilt, even though it wasn’t his fault.’
    ‘And then, to make it all worse, a French soldier ravished his wife.’ Beth sighed, remembering all the times Johannes had
     broken down as he relived those terrible events. ‘Later, Annelies and thebabe she carried both died of her injuries. He hates the French, and therefore all Catholics, with a passion.’ She lifted
     her chin and clenched her fists. ‘And so do I, for what they did to him.’
    ‘But your Johannes seems well now?’
    ‘Yes, he is.’
    Downstairs, the kitchen was busy. On either side of a cauldron, sizzling on the fire, sat a black woman with her hair tied
     up in a colourful turban and a stout, elderly maid, each plucking a chicken. A large tabby cat patted at the cloud of feathers
     drifting to the floor. Peg, her fair hair already escaping from her cap, was making pastry at the table and her daughter,
     Sara, a pretty girl with skin neither as