Tulip Fever Read Free

rearranged him.
    Cornelis is talking. In the corner of my eye I see his beard moving up and down, like a yellow furry animal, on his ruff. I urge him silently to stop. “I am fortunate that, through my endeavors, I have reached a position of means and rank.” He clears his throat. “I am most fortunate, however, in possessing a jewel beside which rubies lose their luster—I mean my dear Sophia. For a man’s greatest joy and comfort is a happy home, where he can close the door after his day’s labors and find peace and solace beside the fireplace, enjoying the loving attentions of a blessed wife.”
    A muffled snicker. The painter stifles his mirth. Behind his easel he is looking at me again; I can feel his eyes, though my own are fixed on the wall. I hate him.
    Worse is to come. “My only sadness is that, as yet, we have not heard the patter of tiny feet, but that, I hope, will be rectified.” My husband chuckles. “For though my leaves may be sere, the sap still rises.”
    No! How could he say this? The painter catches my eye again. He grins—white teeth. He looks me up and down, disrobing me. My dress vanishes and I stand in front of him, naked.
    I want to die. My whole body is blushing. Why are we doing this? How could Cornelis talk this way? It is his excitement at having his portrait painted—but how could he make us such fools?
    Behind his easel the painter is watching me. His blue eyes bore into my soul. He is a small, wiry man with wild black hair. His head is cocked to one side. I stare back at him coolly. Then I realize—he is not looking at me . He is looking at an arrangement to be painted. He wipes his brush on a rag and frowns. I am just an object—brown hair, white lace collar and blue, shot-silk dress.
    This irritates me. I am not a joint of mutton! My heart thumps; I feel dizzy and confused. What is the matter with me?
    “How long is this going to take?” I ask coldly.
    “You’re already tired?” The painter steps up to me and gives me a handkerchief. “Are you unwell?”
    “I’m perfectly well.”
    “You’ve been sniffing all morning.”
    “It’s just a chill. I caught it from my maid.” I won’t use his handkerchief. I pull out my own and dab at my nose. He moves close to me; I can smell linseed oil and tobacco.
    “You’re not happy, are you?” he asks.
    “What do you mean, sir?”
    “I mean—you’re not happy, standing.” He pulls up a chair. “Sit here. If I move this . . . and this . . .” He shifts the table. He moves quickly, rearranging the furniture. He puts the globe to one side and stands back, inspecting it. He works with utter concentration. His brown jerkin is streaked with paint.
    And then he is squatting in front of me. He tweaks the hem of my dress, revealing the toe of my slipper. He pulls off his beret and scratches his head. I look down at his curls. He sits back on his haunches, looks at my foot and then reaches forth and cradles it in his hand. He moves it a little to the right and, placing it on the foot warmer, adjusts the folds of my skirt. “A woman like you deserves to be happy,” he murmurs.
    He steps back behind his easel. He says he will visit for three sittings and complete the canvas in his studio. My husband is talking now, telling him about a man he knows, a friend of the Burgomaster, who lost a ship at sea and with it a great fortune, sunk by the Spanish. Cornelis’s voice echoes, far away. I sit there. My breasts press against the cotton of my chemise; my thighs burn under my petticoat. I am conscious of my throat, my earlobes, my pulsing blood. My body is throbbing but this is because I have a fever. This is why I am aching, why I am both heavy and featherlight.
    The painter works. His eyes flick to me and back to his canvas. As he paints I feel his brush stroking my skin. . . .
    I am in bed with my sisters. I keep my eyes squeezed shut because I know he’s sitting there, watching me. His red tongue flicks over his teeth. If I open