Rembrandt's Mirror Read Online Free PDF Page A

remember?’
    Samuel feels something, yes, he is subject to an inner flow, no apoplexy of feeling for him ; he is here because of what he feels. How rough the fingers gripping his hand are. He has not noticed this before. Suddenly the window rattles from a draft. The candle splutters and dies. They are in total darkness. Like bitumen, thinks Samuel.
    Rembrandt lets go of his hand and Samuel feels a rising panic. He’s lost all sense of where he is, or the door, the candle or Rembrandt. It is childish but he’s always been afraid of the dark. He can’t help reaching out with his hand, feeling for something to orientate himself. He chances upon Rembrandt’s arm and holds on to it.
    Rembrandt whispers as if telling him a secret, ‘We were kin. I was as used to her as to having arms and legs. Of course, it’s possible to lose a limb and get on with some kind of life . . . but Samuel, I did not lose her.’ He pauses. ‘I cut her off.’
    Samuel wants to shake him – what nonsense. He feelsRembrandt’s hand on his upper arm, like a bridge between them, a conduit. ‘I saw that she did not have many days left, so miserable coward that I was I put a gap between us, to make it bearable for myself. Do you hear, Samuel, not for her, but for me .’ Now Rembrandt’s grip loosens to almost nothing. ‘I should have waited till after she was gone but I left her, long before she went.’
    Samuel understands. He too is frightened. He too has thought of leaving rather than watching his master disintegrate. If only he could put his master’s soul at rest about these sins that aren’t sins at all.
    Samuel listens out into the silent darkness for a long time. He places his other hand also on Rembrandt’s sleeve, first softly, then holding on to the arm with both his hands as if to return him to this world and keep him here.
    Rembrandt’s fingers are gripping Samuel’s elbow. ‘Why does God teach me to love, then strip me bare, leaving me with nothing?’
    Then Rembrandt lets go but Samuel doesn’t. He traces the sleeve down to the rough-skinned hand and takes it in both of his. He wants to pour all his own strength into this hand, which is meant to paint. He is glad the dark conceals the moisture in his eyes. Rembrandt sighs and pulls his hand away. He must be trying to lie down, so Samuel helps him and arranges the blanket over him as best he can in the dark. ‘I’ll go and fetch some light,’ he says.
    To his surprise, he finds the door easily despite the dark. He hastens up to the studio which has a stove with some embers in it. What a struggle it is to love and yet how easy, thinks Samuel. He putsa candle to them and the wick bursts into flame at the first touch.
    He carries the light back to Rembrandt’s room and puts it by his bed. His master has already fallen asleep. What a blessing it is to see him look peaceful.

    Geertje can’t do anything quietly, thinks Rembrandt. If it wasn’t for her I’d still be asleep. Can’t she lift the chairs instead of dragging them across the stone floor?
    It is impossible to produce an etching that depicts impenetrable darkness . Who said that? If he is quick he might not see anyone. How ridiculous to be afraid of encountering another person in his own house.
    He reaches the print room unnoticed. Now he’s safe. They know better than to disturb him when he is working. He locks the door, turning the key as many times as it will go.
    He steps towards the container where the lumps of soft ground are usually kept. Hoping that his assistants have maintained a supply of the right consistency. He picks up and sniffs up one of the pieces which are a boiled-down mixture of asphalt, resin and wax. His nose is pleasantly assaulted by the heady smell of asphalt. He inhales the invigorating fumes before wrapping it in gauze and lighting a fire in the chafing dish to heat up the