their way down the narrow cobbled street next to the canal with Rembrandt laughing and singing.
Arriving at the house, the artist cautiously turned the handle and opened the door slowly. He peered into the room like a thief - rattled a tin bucket next to the door, then listened. Nothing.
'Come, it is safe.'
He said as he pulled the historian through the door and into the room.
'Why wouldn't it be safe. Who could possibly be here?'
'Shhh, the cook. I failed to write her a note, and she is very strict about that'.
'Has she also modelled for you?'
'A woman as her would not have the patience or tolerance to pose. Besides she has one of those faces only a mother could love. I do not believe such a portrait, even one painted by me could possibly be admired by a living soul.'
'Except her mother perhaps.'
'And she is long in her grave, so there would be no takers.'
Rembrandt scratched his head, as if trying to remember something. 'There was something, but I seem to have forgot.
'You said you had something to show me.'
'Oh yes, how could I forget.'
The historian looked around the room at the paintings covering the walls. 'Which one?'
'Aha, you can't yet see it.' He pointed to the far corner of the room where the historian first entered. 'I want you to go over there and take hold of the rope attached to the wall.'
Carefully making his way across the floor he finally saw the rope in the dark corner - followed it from its frayed ends up to a pulley on the ceiling - then cut across to a second pulley on the opposite wall, then back towards the floor where it was so dark it was not possible to make out where it ended.
'Take hold of the rope.'
Hesitating, he grabbed the rope with both hands. 'And now what.'
Rembrandt took hold of a second rope. 'When I give you the word you pull on the rope with me.'
The historian pulled up the slack.
'Are you ready?'
'Ehm, yes I'm ready.'
'PULL.'
As they pull on the rope in unison, a large canvas, the length of the chamber, rose from its rolled up position on the floor on the far side of the room.
'STOP.' Rembrandt bellowed when it reached the top of the ceiling. 'Behind you is a double hook - fasten your rope.'
After making it quick knot - the historian turned to gaze in awe at the immense painting before him. He mumbled the name, fearful to say it out loud.
'This is one of the most difficult paintings I have ever made. This is what I call the Night Watch. Some people told me my ambition exceeded me when I set out to paint this, some even said it could not be done, but I proved them wrong.'
'Was that why you painted it?'
Rembrandt pondered the answer. 'Yes, and no. It was a commission but at the same time it was also a challenge. I was tired of the usual portraits. I wanted to create something that had purpose, flair and movement. So when I received the commission I jumped at the chance of breaking away from the old style.'
'What is it actually depicting?'
'In the city of Amsterdam there are eight major militias, a military power appointed by the King that are given the task of protecting the city against unwanted intruders. Each of these militias are led by men of nobility and wealth. One of these was Frans Banning Cocq, who was then captain and later became mayor of the city.' Rembrandt points to the figure on the painting. 'Here Cocq is ordering his Lieutenant Willem van Ruytenburgh to prepare his men to march out from the Haarlemer port early that evening.'
'Why is it called the night watch?'
'Are you stupid or something? Because that is what they are. This particular militia is the watch for that evening. Each figure illustrating the role of his participation. Perhaps slightly exaggerated in some parts but it contains everything the composition should have.'
'What did your fellow artists say when you painted it?'
'Bah, the fools. I was accused of excess and originality. They said that it was too much according to my own wishes. I should have concentrated on the individual portraits. I think they were jealous.'
'What did the people you depict themselves think about the painting?'
'All the sitters, eighteen of them paid me to be included in the painting. And all are placed according to the sum of money they could afford. Except the drummer, I included him for free. But they all were more than pleased, even to this day twenty-six years after finishing the painting I have yet to hear one word of criticism from those who took part. It is truly one of my greatest works.'
'It is. I believe you finished it in sixteen forty-two when Saskia died.'
'That is true.'
'You were alone then.'
'Not at all. I had Titus who was then one-year-old and I had Geertge Dircx who used to look after him.'
'So she became his second mother.'
'She loved him like a mother, and at the same time I fell in love with her. She even left little Titus everything in her will after she had taken sick six years later. We all thought she was going to die at the time.'
There was a silence, the old artist was lost in thought. Then he said, bitterly. 'She left me nothing.'
'What did you do.'
'I was getting tired of her moaning and nagging me to marry her. Saskia had been my wife. When she died I refused to be legally bonded to another. About that time I met Hendrijckje, and I decided I want to be with her instead. But Geertge was not planning on dying at all, all of her plans were set on marrying me.'
'And you were not prepared for that.'
'Never.'
'What happened?'
'The stupid woman brought me to court claiming I had promised to marry her. She even claimed half my property.'
'Oh.' The historian knew Rembrandt's life was difficult in his later years but could not remember the exact details.
'Did she get half?'
'No, she did not. We came to an agreement outside of the court. I agreed to pay her one hundred and sixty guilders immediately, and then sixty guilders a year for the rest of her life.'
'Did you?'
Looking guilty, he shook his head. 'It was not as easy as that. I don't think I had the money at the time.'
'So she protested.'
Rembrandt nodded in agreement. 'She ordered me back to court.'
'Did you go?'
'No I did not.'
'And then?'
'They brought another court order.'
'Did you go then?'
'I had to.' He chuckled, and walked to the middle of the room. 'It reminded me of one of Vondel's plays. A stage were actors had their part and played their role.'
Rembrandt raised both arms, then turned to the figures on the Night Watch painting as if they were his audience. 'The plaintiff states that the accused made a verbal agreement to be betrothed, and had given her a ring. She also claims that the accused had slept more than once with her and made promises on these occasions to marry and maintain her for the rest of her life.'
Rembrandt took a step to the side then turned, playing the defence. 'The accused denies such intentions of marriage, yet does not deny or admit his nightly adventures with the plaintiff. Moreover, the plaintiff should come with proof as to such.'
Rembrandt laughed loud at the comedy of it all.
'So you won the case.'
'Not entirely, but the judge agreed to the terms myself and my lawyer laid out. She had asked for half of all my worldly possessions. Eventually I agreed to pay her two hundred guilders a year and nothing more.'
'That was a lot of money.'
'It was, but I was not prepared to let her rob me of my money,' he lowered his voice. 'I had a plan. The woman had arranged for her brother Pieter and her nephew to collect the money. Believe me, that was the biggest mistake she ever made.'
'Why?'
'He was also in need of money, even more than she, so we worked out a deal.'
'What sort of deal.'
'I got her brother to bribe our neighbours to spread all sorts of stories about mischievous business and illicit dealings. For a little extra we also obtained signed statements about Geertge's monstrous behaviour, then presented them to the Lord Mayor.'
'Did she know about this?'
The historian realised immediately it was a stupid question.
'But you should have heard her scream when the charges were read out to her. It was sufficient evidence to have her locked up for a period of ten years.'
'Ten years? That's despicable.'
'Not at all. What was worse was the cost of this action amounted to 140 guilders, which of course I reimbursed to Pieter Dircx. That was tragic.'
The historian shook his head in disgust.
'But some good did come out of it,' Rembrandt continued.
'What good could come out of this?'
'Her brother claimed all the possessions of his sister, including some gold rings, jewellery, gold and silver coins, then sold them for a handsome profit.'
'So together you robbed her of all her processions.'
'It was all legal, and proper. Ask the judge. Her brother profited from his action, not me.'
'But in order not to pay her you had locked up.'
'Her brother had her locked up.'
'It was your plan. You came up with the idea.'
'What does it matter who's plan it was. I was rid of that vulture and that was the only thing that counted.'
The historian wanted to say something - but decided not to. An uneasy silence developed between them, finally Rembrandt said. 'Besides, after five years she managed to get out with the help of some friends of hers.'
'And then what happened.'
'She tried to claim her alimony for a second time, or was it a third, I've lost count'.
'She took you to court once again?'
'Yes, but before the court pronounced its decision she died.' He smiled in triumph. 'A