Girl With a Pearl Earring. Tracy Chevalier
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any of her questions until I had hugged my mother and greeted my father. Although it was not very much, I felt proud to hand over to my mother the few coins in my hand. This was, after all, why I was working.
My father came to sit outside with us and hear about my new life. I gave my hands to him to guide him over the front stoop. As he sat down on the bench he rubbed my palms with his thumb. ‘Your hands are chapped,’ he said. ‘So rough and worn. Already you have the scars of hard work.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I answered lightly. ‘There was so much laundry waiting for me because they didn’t have enough help before. It will get easier soon.’
My mother studied my hands. ‘I’ll soak some mallow in oil,’ she said. ‘That will keep your hands soft. Agnes and I will go into the country to pick some.’
‘Tell us!’ Agnes cried. ‘Tell us about them.’
I told them. Only a few things I didn’t mention – how tired I was at night; how the Crucifixion scene hung at the foot of my bed; how I had slapped Cornelia; how Maertge and Agnes were the same age. Otherwise I told them everything.
I passed on the message from our butcher to my mother. ‘That is kind of him,’ she said, ‘but he knows we have no money for meat and will not take such charity.’
‘I don’t think he meant it as charity,’ I explained. ‘I think he meant it out of friendship.’
She did not answer, but I knew she would not go back to the butcher.
When I mentioned the new butchers, Pieter the father and son, she raised her eyebrows but said nothing.
Afterwards we went to services at our church, where I was surrounded by familiar faces and familiar words. Sitting between Agnes and my mother, I felt my back relaxing into the pew, and my face softening from the mask I had worn all week. I thought I might cry.
Mother and Agnes would not let me help them with dinner when we came back home. I sat with my father on the bench in the sun. He held his face up to the warmth and kept his head cocked that way all the time we talked.
‘Now, Griet,’ he said, ‘tell me about your new master. You hardly said a word about him.’
‘I haven’t seen much of him,’ I was able to reply truthfully. ‘He is either in his studio, where no one is to disturb him, or he is out.’
‘Taking care of Guild business, I expect. But you have been in his studio – you told us about the cleaning and the measurements, but nothing about the painting he is working on. Describe it to me.’
‘I don’t know if I can in such a way that you will be able to see it.’
‘Try. I have little to think of now except for memories. It will give me pleasure to imagine a painting by a master, even if my mind creates only a poor imitation.’
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