thought of what he was about to tell. 'He thought this country was just too small for the two of us, so he ran away.'
'Ran away?'
'Well, wouldn't you if you had to compete with me?'
The historian looked at the old man who seemed to be full of his own pretentious importance.
'Where did the go?'
'The fool went to London to work for the English Royal Court. Then finally came to his senses years later when he moved to Antwerp. We never really got together again, a great pity?'
Rembrandt faded into a daydream. The historian remembered reading something about this back in his study years but could not remember the exact details.
'Ehm, sorry. Yes a pity. You see at first it was a joke, a game. No other artist in Leiden could better us. Remember, we were only boys at the time. Together he was not the best, I was not the best. WE were the best. As twin brothers controlling one brush, knowing precisely where every drop of colour had to be placed without asking the other. We could have taken on the world and demanded any price.' He sighed deeply. 'It was a pity we didn't stay together, but then I can imagine it would have been the greatest folly the world had ever seen. No better than a circus act. Two of the most creative clowns in the country. We had to go our own ways. So, he went to London, and with the blessing of my mother and father I packed my bags moved to Amsterdam. I was going to fulfil my dreams and sell my paintings to the highest bidder.
'Did you sell the paintings yourself?'
'No no no not at all. When you achieve such a status there are other experts, more skilled than I in that profession. Hendrik Uylenburgh sold my paintings.'
'I didn't realise you used someone else to sell your paintings.'
'Ha, a luxury I admit. I wanted to paint, not spend my time talking to nobility bargaining the highest price. Uylenburgh was one of the most important art dealers in the city.'
'Did he work for other artists?'
'Yes, but without me he was nothing. When I was still in Leiden he came to me looking for support. He was also an artist but wanted to try his hand at something new. A dealer in paintings.' He stopped to take another swig of drink. 'Uylenburgh was not an accomplished artist, yet he was educated. His father was cabinetmaker to the King of Poland. He was also very clever but had two flaws, two incredible hungers. Money and fame. On that combination I loaned him the sum of one thousand guilders. He set up business in the Breestraat in Amsterdam and that's where I moved to and lived for two years after I left Leiden.'
'So you supported him in Amsterdam.'
'At first, but not long after he supported me as you put it. I was also financially supported by Wtenbogaert and Scriverius which left me free to concentrate on works that took longer to create, and in doing so preventing me from going hungry.'
'If you are selling so well why did you need these backers? What was the asking price for your paintings?'
'About five hundred guilders.'
'You could easily live from that amount in the 1640s. That was enough to support a man for more than a year.'
'Yes but you're forgetting one thing. Hendrik Uylenburgh's pockets also needed to be filled. You see, I lived off him to sell my works and bring in the commissions. He lived off me in order, as I had learned later, to setup his own academy in the city. We were all leeches sucking each other's blood out of our shameless lives.'
'You sound as if you didn't like Uylenburgh.'
'It was not a question of liking. He was doing his best to promote his name as I was mine. That partnership lasted for eleven or twelve years. After that, I believe in sixteen thirty-four, things became more difficult.'
The artist was now getting specific, the historian thought. He had a strange feeling the whole act was going too far. He reached behind his back and felt the manuscript in his satchel.
'Why?' He finally asked.
'I don't really know. I had painted the portrait of probably every noble man in the city. Possibly I just ran out of noblemen. Commissions dried up. Uylenburgh did his best to bring in more work, even I took to the streets to sell my own work but nothing aided my plight. It is possible that family ties put a strain on the relationship to Uylenburgh.'
'Family? Uylenburgh was family?'
'Not to me, Saskia. She was his first cousin, his favourite, and I met her in his house.'
'Okay, I understand.'
'You see a year previous I married her. My Saskia had a mind of her own, you didn't argue with her. She was only twenty-two at the time, yet her mind, along with her tong was razor-sharp. I never met a girl like her. She knew Uylenburgh better then I.' Rembrandt stopped drawing and turned to the historian. 'How is your work coming along?'
The historian took a short step back to view his work - he was pleased with the progress.
'Not bad. Everything is coming along just fine.' The historian continued with his painting. 'So you decided to break your connection with Uylenburgh?
'Yes, he was not selling my paintings and people were telling me he was past his prime.'
'Maybe they were just rumours?'
'Rumours indeed. We all live in a world of rumours and hearsay. The waggle of tongues around us can make or break our lives. They can be true or untrue and wind their way into a person's life cutting them down as quickly and effectively as any illness. In this case the rumours as you call them could be seen as the truth. My work was very popular at that time. Dear Saskia mentioned I could sell the work myself?'
'? Cutting out the middleman.'
Rembrandt looked at him with a puzzled face, as if uncertain of the context. 'Something like that, I think. She even helped me herself in the selling, but there were very few takers.'
Rembrandt turned to a self-portrait with Saskia hanging on the wall. 'I painted her many times although this is the only one of the two of us together. It might sound strange, but this I could never sell. I've always kept it for myself. Yet when I think about it the commission's decreased substantially from the day I painted it. Strange.'
'Are you superstitious man?'
'Ha, me superstitious? I don't believe I am.'
'Religious?'
'That is a question that has been put to me by many people. Difficult to say. I have to admit I have made many religious paintings although I was not brought up in the church.'
'Were your parents not religious?'
The historian knew that in the sixteenth century religion had a grip on people like no other. The fear of God was not to be taken lightly.
'My father belonged to the Dutch reformed Church and my mother was a good Catholic. You could say I was lucky to view religion from both worlds, but I was always on the outside looking in, I do not believe I could survive the turmoil of being caught up in the religion and looking out. My paintings would suffer and would have been far less stimulating to the mind. I was not under the spell of a religion.'
'Then why paint so many religious paintings if you are not a religious man?'
'Aah, very good. A question no man has ever asked me before. The reason is the greatness of the Bible itself,' he said, excitedly. 'The birth of Christ, the sacrifice of Isaac, the Resurrection. Wonderful stories to put to canvas. My imagination can run wild. When I was painting the portrait of Jan Six that was exactly who he was. Jan Six. I could not let my imagination dream up something contrary to the man in front of my own eyes. Impossible, impossible. But the stories depicted in the Bible generate enough succulent fodder to an artist who has a hungry mind for a subject.'
Rembrandt left his stool. 'May I look at your progress.'
The historian looked at his canvas and was pleased at the progress. 'It's coming along all right. I am using the style of one of the more modern painters you probably know.'
'May I look?'
'Of course but it's not finished yet.'
'Not important. Let me see, I'm getting impatient.'
He strode over to the historian who stepped back to give him a clear view of his fresh work.
Rembrand
t looked at first shocked, then surprised. He put his hand to his mouth as if trying to hold back something he wanted to say - then burst into laughter. He revolved away from the painting then turned back for a second glance - then roared once again with laughter. The historian felt deeply embarrassed.
'Where did you learn to paint like that?'
'In school when I was a teenager but it's not my profession. What's wrong with it?'
'I have young students of five years of age who could do better than that.'
'This happens to copy a style of one of the greatest artists of our time.'
Rembrandt tried to keep himself from laughing, without success.
'Hahaha, what is his name?'
'Picasso.'
'Never heard of him. Where does he come from?'
'Spain.'
Rembrandt bellowed with laughter once again, then shouted with a thunderous voice. 'Well that explains it. All that Spanish sun, makes them go mad. Your Picasso must be one of the craziest people ever to pick up a paintbrush. If I was you I'd quickly look for another master.'
The historian was at a loss for words - he went over to Rembrandt's easel.
'Do you mind if I take a look?'
'Go ahead my friend, and I won't be offended if you laugh as heartily as I.'
The historian gazed at the drawn outline Rembrandt had been working on, and was surprised to see a drawing of himself. Although it was a quick sketch it was perfect in every detail. The man was a better artist than actor for sure.
'What do you think?'
'Well I?' The historian was at a loss for words.
Rembrandt stared at the drawing and shook his head disapprovingly.
'You are right. It is useless. I must be getting old or something.'
To the shock and dismay of the historian he grabbed the parchment from the easel, crumpled it it up then threw it into the corner amongst other disregarded parchments.
Rembrandt went to an adjoining cooking area behind a curtain, and returned with a couple of apples and pears. He placed them on a table, then stood back to view them.
'Tell me. What do you see?'
'Ehm, two apples and three pairs.'
'What else?'
The historian was confused. He tried once again to explain what he was looking at. 'The apples are laid out next to one another while the pairs are grouped.'
'What else do you see?'
He scratched his head. 'The colours of the apples are yellow and red. The pairs are green with dark brown spots covering one side. They're beginning to rot.'
'And what more?'
He tried to concentrate on what he saw, then shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. 'I'm sorry, I can't see anything else then what I have already said.'
'Yes. Exactly.' Rembrandt said, reminding the historian of an old schoolmaster. 'That is why I do not paint these forms. Dead. No soul. Lifeless, and that has absolutely no interest to me.'
'In the anatomy lesson of Professor Tulp the subject was dead.'
Rembrandt points to that exact painting hanging on the dark wall and barely visible next to where the historian entered the room.
'You can't see it so good from here. Wait, I have something. He grabbed a polished silverware plate then reflected the light shining through the windows. The painting lit up. 'Look, the subject is of course long dead, but notice the students around Tulp. They are interested, they are asking questions. They live, and therefore my painting lives.'
He put the silver tray to one side. 'Are you hungry?' Rembrandt asked.
'A little.'
'Agreed. I'm starving and since I have a guest I have no intention of waiting on the cook. We will go out to get some nourishment.'
'I'm afraid I don't have much cash with me.'
Rembrandt smiled. 'Don't worry. You're not going to believe this but my credit is still good,' he grabbed an old and decrepit cloak and guided the historian toward a second door in the back of the room.
'Come, follow me,' he kicked the door open.
The noise and scene of the street overwhelmed the historian. His mouth fell open in shock. 'Jesus Christ,' he muttered. The historian gazed at the streets of Amsterdam of sixteen sixty-eight.
They stepped out into a narrow side street bustling with people pulling carts, carrying sacks of grain, transporting chickens in wooden boxes - he could not believe his eyes.
Before he could fathom the scene - Rembrandt was out the door and disappeared to the right. He rushed after him - and had difficulty in keeping up the pace as the old artist swiftly moved through the crowd. At the end of the street he turned left onto a cobblestone street next to the canal on the Keyzersgracht.
Rembrandt pointed to the grand houses they strolled past. 'In this street live some of the most influential people of Amsterdam. Nearly everyone has a portrait of himself mounted in their drawing room, most of them painted by me.'
They came to a bridge. 'The next street adjoining this one is the Herengracht. Most nobles on that street also have their portraits painted by me. In fact, no matter which way you look, left or right hundreds of men of power in high positions stare dreamingly at their never ageing reproduction of themselves.' He leaned close to the historian and whispered in his ear. 'Or their wives, who have long withered into old prunes.'
'Yet you didn't remain at the top.'
'Indeed. In those early years I was the most respected artist to roam these streets. Amsterdam can have a strange effect on people. Within ten years, between sixteen thirty and sixteen forty the city had grown tremendously, gaining twenty thousand extra souls. Yet all those extra creatures entering the city did not create much work. Later I was shunned by many,' he said sourly.
'Who did the work go to?'
'To imbeciles,' he groaned as he poked him in the arm. 'Those who probably studied under your master Picasso.'
They stopped before an ancient crowded Inn with twisted window frames and buckled walls. Inside men sat around tables sharing conversation or bargaining - trying to strike a deal for the price of their commerce. The air was rich with the smell of pipe tobacco and alcohol. Rembrandt entered with arms wide, and shouted at the top of his voice.
'Mathijs, set two places. One for myself and my friend here who needs a little fattening. Is my credit good?'
Mathijs the barman and shouted back for all to hear. 'Are you going to die this week?'
'No intention.' Rembrandt replied in merriment.
'Then your credit is good.'
Everybody in the Inn laughed. At the rear they found an empty table and quickly two places are laid out with mugs of beer, bread and rough cuts of roasted meat.
The historian picked up the meat and smelled it.
'Don't worry. The meat here is safe to eat, although I cannot guarantee that in all of Amsterdam. The bread is the best there is because the flour comes from my father's old mill in Leiden. Come, eat up.'
Without hesitancy Rembrandt bit into the meat as if it was his last. The historian watched on in amazement.
All efforts of understanding and comprehension of the situation were washed away and replaced with wonderment and exhilaration. Maybe he was at home and in a dream he thought, but it all seemed so real and astounding.
'Did you ever work in the mill?'
'Sometimes, when I was young,' he replied with a full mouth. 'But to my everlasting joy my father saw I had other talents and sent me to Latin School when I was still a boy.
'Did you know then you wanted to be an artist?'
'After I got reprimanded for filling my study books with portraits of students and teachers my father was quick to act. He believed in nurturing talent, and that talent should be my destiny. My brothers never had a problem in what they wanted to be, Millers. Father graciously helped them achieve their goal. He knew I had other talents. At first he thought me to be a scholar, that is why he put me into a Latin School. I was saved by my jesting.'
'You liked your father.'
'I did. He was a
kind good man, although he never said much about my work.'
'Did you ever paint him?'
'I did once, although he was already blind at a time. I felt uneasy working on it, probably because he would never see the painting. After he died I often thought of him. Maybe in honour of him I placed many blind men in my paintings. My mother was different. She admired my work. I drew her many times.'
'Is that where you learned your skill?'
'I always enjoyed making quick sketches. Especially after dinner when everybody was just sitting around, or knitting, like Saskia's sister Titia. She loved me drawing her.'
'You named your son Titus after her, didn't you?'
'Yes I did. A real favourite, everybody loved our Titia. She used to visit us regularly. Titus was also a great object of study. He grew up with me painting so he was never bothered whenever I sat across from him as he was doing his studies or playing around.'
'What did you do when you ran out of commissions for portraits?'
'I painted landscapes, but only around Amsterdam. To give them a little flair I used many biblical stories to depict a painting. But somehow they didn't seem to sell as well as the portraits. I remember someone willing to pay me ten guilders for a work. Can you imagine? I was deeply ashamed.'
'Maybe it had to do with your feeling about apples and pears. They don't live enough for you, making it difficult to express emotion in the landscape.'
Rembrandt looked at the historian in surprise. 'You are a wondrous fellow aren't you?' He picked up another piece of meat and buried his teeth into it, then shook it at the historian. 'It's an interesting deduction. But I don't think you are right. There is no one to pay for the vanity in a landscape - but self-admiration, arrogance and a mountain of swank and self-importance in a person will want them to dig deep into their pockets. To see themselves hanging above the fireplace for all family and guests to admire is the ultimate stamp of their greatness. Do they believe it will make them immortal? If that is the case then I shall live for hundreds of years with the amount of portraits I have made of myself.'
Rembrandt carried on chewing the meat then noticed Mathijs leaning over the bar to the left listening to their conversation. 'A tourist,' Rembrandt said, pointing to the historian. 'Wants to know everything about the master.'
Mathijs laughed, 'there is only one,' he turned away to serve another customer.
An old man at a table next to Rembrandt removed a dirty old pipe from his mouth then spit into a spittoon on the floor. 'Only one? Hah, one fraud, one deceiver, one fool of a jackass who thinks he's the best.'
Rembrandt turned to look at the old man.
'Remember me?'
Rembrandt squinted his eyes - like that of an artist studying a difficult curve. He scratched his unkempt beard, pulled a serious face then nodded in recognition. Slowly he drew up his finger and shook it at the old man - then turned to the historian. 'This man is a thief. Someone who would steal the rings from your mother's hand while she lay in her grave.'
The old man remained quiet - staring at Rembrandt without moving an eyelid.
'Some people may call him an artist but I call him a liar and a THIEF.' Rembrandt shouted at the top of his voice. Heads turned toward the two old men - the Inn went silent.
The historian felt scared - he looked around