Girl in Hyacinth Blue Read online

  Girl in Hyacinth Blue

  Susan Vreeland

  Copyright

  Girl in Hyacinth Blue

  Copyright © 1999 by Susan Vreeland

  Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2012 by RosettaBooks, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Jacket image by Jonathan Janson © Hallmark Hall of Fame. All rights reserved. Used by permission of Hallmark Hall of Fame.

  The DVD of Brush with Fate is available exclusively at Hallmark Gold Crown stores.

  Electronic edition published 2012 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.

  ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795323546

  For

  Scott Godfrey, D.O.,

  and

  Peter Falk, M.D.

  Acknowledgment

  “A Night Different From All Other Nights,” was originally published in The Missouri Review, and “Magdalena Looking” first appeared in Confrontation.

  The author wishes to thank Barbara Braun, Greg Michalson, C. Jerry Hannah, and the Asilomar Writers Consortium.

  Thou still unravished bride of quietness

  Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time…

  Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought

  As doth eternity.

  John Keats

  Contents

  Love Enough

  A Night Different From All Other Nights

  Adagia

  Hyacinth Blues

  Morningshine

  From The Personal Papers of Adriaan Kuypers

  Still Life

  Magdalena Looking

  Love Enough

  Cornelius Engelbrecht invented himself. Let me emphasize, straight away, that he isn’t what I would call a friend, but I know him enough to say that he did purposely design himself: single, modest dresser in receding colors, mathematics teacher, sponsor of the chess club, mild mannered acquaintance to all rather than a friend to any, a person anxious to become invisible. However, that exterior blandness masked a burning center, and for some reason that became clear to me only later, Cornelius Engelbrecht revealed to me the secret obsession that lay beneath his orderly, controlled design.

  It was after Dean Merrill’s funeral that I began to see Cornelius’s unmasked heart. We’d all felt the shock of Merrill’s sudden death, a loss that thrust us into a temporary intimacy uncommon in the faculty lunchroom of our small private boys’ academy, but it wasn’t shock or Cornelius’s head start in drinking that snowy afternoon in Penn’s Den where we’d gone after the funeral that made him forsake his strategy of obscurity. Someone at the table remarked about Merrill’s cryptic last words, “love enough,” words that now sting me as much as any indictment of my complicity or encouragement, but they didn’t then. We began talking of last words of famous people and of our dead relatives, and Cornelius dipped his head and fastened his gaze on his dark beer. I only noticed because chance had placed us next to each other at the table.

  He spoke to his beer rather than to any of us. “‘An eye like a blue pearl,’ was what my father said. And then he died. During a winter’s first snowfall, just like this.”

  Cornelius had a face I’d always associated with Piero della Francesca’s portrait of the Duke of Urbino. It was the shape of his nose, narrow but extremely high-bridged, providing a bench for glasses he did not wear. He seemed a man distracted by a mystery or preoccupied by an intellectual or moral dilemma so consuming that it made him feel superior, above those of us whose concerns were tires for the car or a child’s flu. Whenever our talk moved toward the mundane, he became distant, as though he were mulling over something far more weighty, which made his cool smiles patronizing.

  “Eye like a blue pearl? What’s that mean?” I asked.

  He studied my face as if measuring me against some private criteria. “I can’t explain it, Richard, but I might show you.”

  In fact, he insisted that I come to his home that evening, which was entirely out of character. I’d never seen him insist on anything. It would call attention to himself. I think Merrill’s “love enough” had somehow stirred him, or else he thought it might stir me. As I say, why he picked me I couldn’t tell, unless it was simply that I was the only artist or art teacher he knew.

  He took me down a hallway into a spacious study piled with books, the door curiously locked even though he lived alone. Closed off, the room was chilly so he lit a fire. “I don’t usually have guests,” he explained, and directed me to sit in the one easy chair, plum-colored leather, high-backed and expensive, next to the fireplace and opposite a painting. A most extraordinary painting in which a young girl wearing a short blue smock over a rust-colored skirt sat in profile at a table by an open window.

  “My God,” I said. It must have been what he’d wanted to hear, for it unleashed a string of directives, delivered at high pitch.

  “Look. Look at her eye. Like a pearl. Pearls were favorite items of Vermeer. The longing in her expression. And look at that Delft light spilling onto her forehead from the window.” He took out his handkerchief and, careful not to touch the painting, wiped the frame, though I saw no dust at all. “See here,” he said, “the grace of her hand, idle, palm up. How he consecrated a single moment in that hand. But more than that—”

  “Remarkable,” I said. “Certainly done in the style of Vermeer. A beguiling imitation.”

  Cornelius placed his hands on the arm of the chair and leaned toward me until I felt his breath on my forehead. “It is a Vermeer,” he whispered.

  I sputtered at the thought, the absurdity, his belief. “There were many done in the style of Vermeer, and of Rembrandt. School of Rubens, and the like. The art world is full of copyists.”

  “It is a Vermeer,” he said again. The solemnity of his tone drew my eyes from the painting to him. He appeared to be biting the inside of his cheek. “You don’t think so?” he asked, his hand going up to cover his heart.

  “It’s just that there are so few.” I hated to disillusion the man.

  “Yes, surely, very few. Very few. He did at the most forty canvases. And only a matter of thirty to thirty-five are located. Welk een schat! En waar is dat alles gebleven?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Just the lament of some Dutch art historian. Where has such a treasure gone, or some such thing.” He turned to pour us both a brandy. “So why could this not be? It’s his same window opening inward at the left that he used so often, the same splash of pale yellow light. Take a look at the figures in the tapestry on the table. Same as in nine other paintings. Same Spanish chair with lion’s head finials that he used in eleven canvases, same brass studs in the leather. Same black and white tiles placed diagonally on the floor.”

  “Subject matter alone does not prove authenticity.”

  “Granted, but I take you to be a man of keen observation. You are an artist, Richard. Surely you can see that the floor suffers the same distortion of tiles he had in his earlier work, for example, The Music Lesson, roughly dated 1662 to ’64, or Girl with the Wineglass, 1660.”

  I never would have guessed he knew all this. He reeled it off like a textbook. Well, so could I. “That can likewise prove it was done by an inferior imitator, or by Van Mieris, or de Hooch. They all did tile floors. Holland was paved with tile.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. Even George III thought The Music Lesson was a Van Mieris when he bought it, but even a king can’t make it so. It’s a Vermeer.” He whispered the name.

  I hardly knew what to say. It was too implausible.


  He cleared off books and papers from the corner of his large oak desk, propped himself there and leaned toward me. “I can see you still doubt. Study, if you will, the varying depths of field. Take a look at the sewing basket placed forward on the table, as he often did, by the way, almost as an obstruction between the viewer and the figure. Its weave is diffused, slightly out of focus, yet the girl’s face is sharply in focus. Look at the lace edge of her cap. Absolutely precise to a pinprick right there at her temple. And now look at the glass of milk. Soft-edged, and the map on the wall only a suggestion. Agreed?”

  I nodded, more out of regard for his urgency than in accord.

  “Well, then, he did the same in The Lacemaker, 1669. Which leads me to surmise this was done between 1665 and 1668.”

  I felt his eyes boring into me as I examined the painting. “You’ve amassed a great deal of information. Is there a signature?”

  “No, no signature. But that was not unusual. He often failed to sign his work. Besides, he had at least seven styles of signature. For Vermeer, signatures are not definite evidence. Technique is. Look at the direction of the brush’s stroke, those tiny grooves of the brush hairs. They have their lighted and their shaded side. Look elsewhere. You’ll find overlapping layers of paint no thicker than silk thread that give a minute difference in shade. That’s what makes it a Vermeer.”

  I walked toward the painting, took off my glasses to see that close, and it was as he had said. If I moved my head to the right or left, certain brush strokes subtly changed their tint. How difficult it was to achieve that. In other places the surface was so smooth the color must have floated onto the canvas. I suddenly found myself breathing fast. “Haven’t you had it appraised? I know an art history professor who could come and have a look.”

  “No, no. I prefer it not be known. Security risks. I just wanted you to see it, because you can appreciate it. Don’t tell a soul, Richard.”

  “But if it were validated by authorities… why, the value would be astronomical. A newly discovered Vermeer—it would rock the art world.”

  “I don’t want to rock the art world.” The blood vessel in his temple pulsated, whether out of conviction of the painting’s authenticity or something else, I didn’t know.

  “Forgive my indelicacy, but how did you obtain it?”

  He fixed on me a stony look. “My father, who always had a quick eye for fine art, picked it up, let us say, at an advantageous moment.”

  “An estate sale or an auction? Then there’d be papers.”

  “No. No Vermeer has been auctioned since World War I. Let’s just say it was privately obtained. By my father, who gave it to me when he died.” The line of his jaw hardened. “So there are no records, if that’s what you’re thinking. And no bill of sale.” His voice had a queer defiance.

  “The provenance?”

  “There are several possibilities. Most of Vermeer’s work passed through the hands of one Pieter Claesz van Ruijven, son of a wealthy Delft brewer. I believe this one did not. When Vermeer died, he left his wife with eleven children and a drawerful of debts. Five hundred guilders for groceries. Another sum for woolens for which the merchant Jannetje Stevens seized twenty-six paintings. Later they were negotiated back to the widow, but only twenty one of them were auctioned in the settling of his estate. Who got the other five? Artists or dealers in the Guild of St. Luke? Neighbors? Family? This could be one. And of those twenty-one, only sixteen have been identified. Where did the others go? A possibility there too. Also, a baker, Hendrick van Buyten, held two as collateral against a bread bill of 617 guilders. Some think van Buyten had even obtained a couple others earlier.”

  I had to be careful not to be taken in. Just because Cornelius knew facts about Vermeer didn’t make his painting one.

  “Later, it could have been sold as a de Hooch, whose work was more marketable at the time. Or it could have been thrown in as extra puyk, a giveaway item in the sale of a collection of de Hooches or Van der Werffs, or it could have been in the estate sale of Pieter Tjammens in Groningen.”

  He was beyond me now. What sort of person knew that kind of detail?

  “Documents report only ‘an auction of curious paintings by important masters such as J. van der Meer that had been kept far away from the capital.’ There are plenty of possibilities.”

  All this spilled out of him in a flood. A math teacher! Unbelievable.

  But the question of how Cornelius’s father obtained the painting, he deftly avoided. I did not know him well enough to press further without being pushy. Not knowing this which he so carefully kept private, I could not believe it to be genuine. I finished the brandy and extricated myself, politely enough, thinking, so what if it isn’t a Vermeer? The painting’s exquisite. Let the fellow enjoy it.

  His father. Presumably the same name. Engelbrecht. German.

  Why was it so vital that I concur? Some great thing must be hanging in the balance.

  I drove home, trying to put it all out of my mind, yet the face of the girl remained.

  Merrill’s funeral the day before had made Cornelius thoughtful. Not of Merrill particularly. Of the unpredictableness of one’s end, and what remains unpardoned. And of his father. Snow had blanketed his father’s coffin too—specks at first, then connecting, then piling up until the coffin became a white puffy loaf. That jowl-faced minister saying, “One must take notice of the measure of a man” was the only thing said during Merrill’s service that he remembered.

  Cornelius had to admit on his father’s behalf that Otto Engelbrecht was a dutiful father, often stern and then suddenly tender during Cornelius’s childhood in Duisburg, near the Dutch border. On this lonely Sunday afternoon with snow still falling gently, Cornelius, reading in his big leather chair, looked up from the page and tried to recall his earliest memory of his father. It may have been his father giving him the little wooden windmill brought back from Holland. It had painted blue blades that turned and a little red door with one hinge missing that opened to reveal a tiny wooden family inside.

  He remembered how his father had spent Sunday afternoons with him, the only child—took him to the Düsseldorf Zoo, gave him trumpet lessons himself, pulled him in a sled through the neighborhood, and when Cornelius suffered from the cold, how his father enfolded Cornelius’s small hand in his and drew it into his pocket. He taught him chess strategies and made him memorize them, explained in a Dutch museum the reason for Van Gogh’s tortured skies, the genius of Rembrandt’s faces, and when they moved to America, a result of his father’s credo to seize advantageous moments, he took him to see the Yankees in Yankee Stadium. These facts Cornelius saw now as only the good intentions of a patched-up life.

  Later, in Philadelphia, he was embarrassed by his father’s hovering nervousness whenever he brought home a school friend, and understood only vaguely his father’s dark command, “If they ask, tell them we are Swiss, and don’t say another word.” By the time he brought home friends from college, his father had moved the painting into the study and installed a lock, secreting it with a niggard’s glee. His father’s self-satisfied posture whenever he looked at the painting—hands clasped behind his back, rocking on his toes, then heels—became, for a time, a source of nausea to him.

  After his mother died, his father, retired and restless, took over tending her garden. Cornelius remembered now the ardent slope of his shoulders as he stooped to eradicate any deviant weed sprouting between rows of cauliflower and cabbage. Did he have to be so relentless? Couldn’t he just let one grow, and say I don’t know how it slipped through? Joyfully he planted, watered, gave away grocery sacks of vegetables to neighbors.

  “Such wonderful tomatoes,” one woman marveled.

  “You can’t get a decent tomato in the supermarket these days.” Smiling, he heaped more in her sack.

  “We had a victory garden like this during the war,” she said, and Cornelius saw him flinch.

  Was that his father’s Luger, grown huge in his mind, cracking dow
n on a woman’s hand reaching for a bun as she was hurried from her kitchen?

  The line between memory and imagination was muddled by years of intense rumination, of horrified reading, one book after another devoured with carnivorous urgency—histories, personal accounts, diaries, documents, war novels—and Cornelius could not be sure now what parts he’d read, what parts he’d overheard his father, Lieutenant Otto Engelbrecht, telling Uncle Friederich about the Raid of the Two Thousand, what became known to academics as Black Thursday, August 6, 1942.

  From dark to midnight, they dragged them out of their houses, the raid ordered, historians said, because too few Jews called-up for deportation were reporting at the station, and the train to Westerbork had to be filled. By mid-August they moved to South Amsterdam, a more prosperous area. In September, they were still at it, carting them off to Zentralstelle on van Scheltema Square.

  Just like the assembly line at the Duisburg plant. From somewhere, his father’s voice.

  The rest was a tangle of the printed and the spoken word, enlarged by the workings of his imagination. He played in his mind again the Duisburg memory of creeping back downstairs after bedtime and overhearing his father telling Uncle Friederich the story he, a ten-year-old, didn’t understand then. This time he staged it as though his father, after too much Scotch, and bloated by a checkmate following too many losses to Friederich, told his brother when in family circles it was still safe to speak, “You’ve got to see opportunities and seize them on the spot. That’s how it’s done. Or, if a quick move isn’t expedient, make a plan. Like that painting. When my aide spotted a silver tea set in some Jew’s dining room, he made a move to bag it. Wrong time. I had to stop him. Property of the Führer.”

  Cornelius had read of that, the Puls van following the raids the next day, street by street, to cart away ownerless Jewish possessions for the Hausraterfassung, the Department for the Appropriation of Household Effects.