Supper.
'I tried to paint Him but he refused to talk to me. Then I went to HIS domain, HIS church and I tried to get an answer to my request. Why did you let my Titus die, but he refused to answer. Silence. He greeted me with silence.'
He flung the canvas to one side and went back to his stool. 'Before Titus Saskia had given birth to three children. Three times they all died not long after birth. As usual we blamed the plague which cost the lives of many families. When I buried my wife, his mother, I again blamed the plague. It is now more than twenty years after her death I have nothing else to blame except? '
Rembrandt turned and glared at the painting of Jesus on the Cross. The anger on his face was intense.
The historian lowered his head. 'I understand,' he said in a near whisper. He felt as if he was actually living moment as if it was real and incredibly heart-breaking.
Rembrandt slumped onto his chair, defeated. 'Why did you take a young boy who married a sweet young girl,' he shook his head in disbelief, 'and would never get to see his new baby?'
'What did he die of?'
'I'm an artist not a doctor.' The artist snapped. 'How do I know what ailed him. How would I know what ails any of us. Since the outbreak of pest we've been dying of illnesses no man can name.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Ach,' he moaned. The old man shook his head. 'Don't be sorry, it's not your fault.' He turned to the historian with a menacing stare and raised an accusing finger. 'Are you sick?'
'Eh? no I'm not sick.' The historian put his hand to his throat at the thought he might have picked up something since he entered the room.'
'Good. I don't have to bury you as well.' He laughed heartily, slapping his thigh, 'You thought you had taken your last breath, didn't you. Yes, I could see the look of fear on your face.' The artist headed toward a tall cupboard in the corner.
The historian turned his attention to the paintings as Rembrandt grabbed a small globular bottle with a long neck - and blew off a layer of dust coating the glass.
'This has been fermenting for quite a while,' he chuckled. 'It should bring a little cheer back to your visit.'
'You don't have to worry about me, I'm all right.'
Rembrandt tried to read the label on the bottle. 'My eyes are older than my mind it seems. Or is it these letters are too small.' He uncorked the bottle - then sniffed the contents and coughed. 'I've no idea what it is but I believe it has enough strength to keep you smiling for many moons.'
The historian took the bottle - sniffed it - and immediately turned away in disgust.
Rembrandt laughed. 'Oh please, it is not that bad. Probably made by one of the hidden distilleries near the harbour. It's drinkable, you can be sure of that.' He held up the bottle to a shard of light - trying to see how much there was left, then poured the contents into two earthenware jugs.
'Only one of the few illegal pleasures a man has left at a decent price.' He measured equal amounts. 'These days, you can't buy anything, sell anything or do anything without some fool claiming to be a collector of taxes increasing the price threefold.'
He raised his finger to the historian. 'Things are getting out of hand in this country. You just wait.'
'Maybe, I wouldn't know.'
Rembrandt studied the historian's clothes, walked around him, eyeing him from top to bottom.
'What do you do for a living. By the look of your dress you are either a traveller or somewhat creative. Difficult to tell in someone so young. Maybe you are an artist like me. Do you paint?'
'Me? I have had lessons.'
A belly laugh echoed around the room. 'Had lessons? HAD? Have you stopped? Are you ill? Did you die? Did some female steal your wits?' The old man laughed heartily. 'I am now in my sixty-second year and I am still taking lessons. I admit I did not have a scholar to correct or guide me with the noble art of putting brush to canvas. Forever a black mark in my schooling, one that will follow me until the ends of time. I teach myself. I am my best teacher because I learn from everything I have put to canvas in the past. Even through family burdens that have been thrust upon me I still have only one discipline and that is to paint.'
From the dark depths in the corner of the room he pulled out a student easel then hastily placed it in front of his guest.
'Let me see what you have learned. It is very interesting for me to study the work of other masters' students. Students of Lievens I could see from three hundred paces. I can even spot his mistakes in the work he has handed down to them, what do you think of that?'
'Impressive.'
Rembrandt searched through an accumulation of compositions on the floor looking for a blank canvas. 'The little fool's never learn to create their own masterpieces. Instead they copy exact styles of their masters, and like I said?' He shook a paintbrush in the face of the historian. '? they copy their mistakes.'
This was true, the historian knew. Although he was not an art historian it was a known phenomenon within the art world. Again he thought he should break off this absurd conversation and ask about the project, but he was having too much fun. 'Your students copied your style.'
'True, yes without a doubt. But it's a sign of the times. They don't wish to work any other way. They believe by copying great masters such as myself they too will gain the reputation and distinction I achieved.' He grabbed the historian's left-hand. 'Here, take these.'
He placed a brush and palate in his hand. 'Now,' he said, and took a step back, 'show me what your master has taught you. Let me see if I can guess who it is.'
'Actually I'm not an artist.'
'You said had lessons haven't you?'
'Yes.'
'Then show me.'
Rembrandt walked away and took his finished painting from the easel and replaced it with a small blank canvas.
'What will be your subject matter?'
'I don't know yet,' the historian replied as he put his first dab of oil to canvas.
The artist turned and stared at him straight in the face. 'What do you mean you don't know yet. An artist should always have the vision already painted in his mind before he can set anything to canvas.
'But surely you can build up from the colours as they grow when you begin to paint.'
Rembrandt was surprised. 'Possibly, I've never thought about it like that. You see, I'm still learning. Like I said, it's a process that never ends. You have to search for the texture, the colour, the light, and after you found it you have to search a thousand of ways to exploit them.'
'I've never looked at it like that before.'
'And you will never look at it in another way from now on. Now PAINT.'
After about ten minutes the historian wanted to ask a question, but the thought of who he was actually talking to bothered him more. Once again he looked around for cameras or something that would give the game away, and once again there was nothing obvious to be seen. He decided to ignore everything and continue to play along. 'You never went back to Leiden after you moved to Amsterdam. Why was that?'
'An easy question to answer,' he replied as he took a mouthful of the drink, then coughed. 'Long before I reached my manhood I could equal any master in the great city. There was no challenge, and many still saw me as the Millers boy. Don't get me wrong, my parents were very proud of me and although they owned half a mill I always felt it played against me?'
He took another swig of drink and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. 'No that's not true. I always felt I could take on the more important masters in Amsterdam. Keyser, Pickenoy, Santvoort to mention but a few. They ruled Amsterdam for what seemed like an eternity. It was time to show them something new. Let them wake up to a new rival and a better artist.
'Jan Lievens, he also came from Leiden in your time?'
'Ahhh Jan Lievens, the sound of that name warms me like no other. Jan was never my rival, not at all. He was one year my junior.' He turned directly to the historian. 'Did you know when I was thirteen and still in Latin School little Lievens aged twelve had already set himse
lf up as an independent artist in the city. An amazing talent. Years later his old master brought us together. We toured the streets with our works of art,' he said proudly, then sat back in his stool and took another swig of drink. 'Pretending to be brothers and amaze noblemen into thinking we were gifted from heaven. At one time we couldn't even tell our own paintings apart. We were not good, no no, we were brilliant,' he roared. His booming voice echoed around the room. 'And we had the greatest fun in knowing that.'
He suddenly stopped talking, as if meditating on the thought.
'There was actually a difference, and one I was constantly aware of, and I believe deep down he too.'
'What was that?'
'I knew I had to be the best there ever lived, and I suppose he believed he had to be exactly the same. After a number of years of fooling around with the aristocracy and bettering my craft I decided to take on Amsterdam. Like I said, the old masters were still there but there was room for new colours, new talent and a happy young man's smile.' He pulls a mocking smiling face.
'Did they like that boy's smile?'
'Like it? Ha, the aristocracy of Amsterdam loved it. But most of all they loved my paintings. In my first year I received more commissions then my entire career beforehand. In the second year I received even more than the first year. The great young Rembrandt at the age of twenty-two was the most loved, the most sought-after artist ever to walk the cobbled streets of Amsterdam.'
'And what happened to Jan Lievens?'
The old artist chuckled at the