Annie Proulx - Barkskins

“There,” said Cornelia. “You see my father. It is true we no longer have the great painters of the last century, but Cornelis Ploos van Amstel is a fine portrait painter. I shall send a message to him at once.”

The next morning the painter arrived, a long-bodied chap with an arrogant expression on his florid face. He enjoyed coffee and cakes, heard Cornelia’s plan to have the portrait of Piet Roos included in the work. Ploos van Amstel sauntered around the room looking at the chairs, selected the two largest, heavily carved and gilded, ordered the servants to set them side by side in front of a faded tapestry. He put the portrait of Piet Roos in one and Cornelia in the other. Of Charles Duquet there was nothing except Outger and Doortje. His life had come and gone, and even here among the people he had imagined as a family he was forgotten.

Ploos van Amstel placed them around Cornelia and asked them to do something with their hands. Doortje folded hers primly. Bernard took out a little pocketknife and began to pare his nails. George Pickering Duke had spent the morning trolling the book stalls and had come back with a prize, an old quarto edition of Willem Bontekoe’s Gedenkwaardige Beschrijving Van de Achtjarige en zeer Avontuurlyke Rise Niewe Hoorne, and he held it in his hands opened to a woodcut of an exploding ship, pieces of human anatomy flung into the sky. Jan and Nicolaus folded their arms across their chests. Outger threw himself at Cornelia’s feet as though beseeching her for something. Two mornings dragged by. Then Ploos van Amstel took himself, his canvas, charcoal pencils and easel away to begin the painting, for, he said, the sketches were done.

• • •

It was happy news for everyone except Cornelia when, after a week, Outger left for Leiden with a trunk of papers. Nicolaus had many meetings with businessmen, even the eelgrass cousin. One morning he told Bernard that there were splendid opportunities just waiting to be picked up. They were sitting in a little smoking room. Nicolaus had sheets of paper under his hand, papers that described business ventures he found tempting. One by one Bernard dismissed them. He told Nicolaus it was better exercise to worry about their own market. For two decades Duke & Sons had supplied heavy timbers for the dikes, but in recent years the destructive Teredo navalis had come to Holland in bottom-gnawed cargo ships and attacked the dikes. The dike builders were now importing stone. Duke & Sons had lost several municipal contracts. And unless shipbuilding picked up in Boston they would suffer more losses. Nicolaus continued to describe bargain investments. It was good, thought Bernard, that they would soon leave.

At the end of a month Bernard was ready to go. He was concerned about Jan, who spent too much time wandering around in polders and along dikes staring at the sky. He had looked at small houses in the company of purchase agents. And Bernard saw him go into a shop specializing in pigments and canvas. What was the fellow thinking? He followed Jan on one of his daily rambles.

“Jan,” he called. “Have a cup of warmth with me.” He guided him to a coffee shop. They sat near a window.

He spoke kindly; he understood how affected Jan had been by their return, but what else drew him? They had to think of going home. Soon.

“Brother,” said Jan. “This may sound strange to you but I have always longed to be a painter. And here is the place I wish to paint.” He pointed upward. “The clouds.”

“Clouds? Jan, you are a mature man, you are — you are old ! You cannot abandon the company and take up painting. Duke and Sons needs your services.”

“Bernard, I must try. Let me stay on for another six months to see if I can paint. I have so many pictures in my head. Brother, have you not ever wanted to do something that was — how can I say it — out of the ordinary?”

Bernard laughed bitterly. “Oh God, I have. I entirely understand the feeling.” He went quiet while Jan drank his mixture of hot sweetened chocolate and coffee. When his cup was empty Bernard sighed.

“So do that, stay here and paint clouds for six months. But give me your word that you will return at the end of that time.”

“I will,” said Jan. “I’ll bring you my best painting.”

“That is what I need, Jan, more than anything — a painting of Dutch clouds. But take care not to get windmills in your mind.”

“I will leave that to Outger,” said Jan.

They both smiled tightly. Bernard was ready to embark, his passage already arranged. He had only one or two last things to do; he had ordered a pair of bucket-top boots from a boot maker reputed to be an artist with leather and they must be ready. They would look well with his wraprascal coachman’s cloak. He stopped first at a lace maker’s shop and selected a present for Birgit, a needlepoint flounce, point de France, in something the shopkeeper called the candélabre pattern. His boots were not quite ready and the leather artist asked him to come back in two hours; only a few nails had yet to go into the soles. He waited.

• • •

The boots were ready, black and gleaming, lacking only a pair of silver spurs. Impatient to wear them Bernard put them on in the shop and walked back to old Piet Roos’s house. After some minutes he felt a painful sharp object digging into his left foot. As he could hardly take the boot off in the street, he went back to the boot maker’s shop, favoring his foot to avoid driving the sharp object further into his flesh.

The boot maker was surprised. “What, sir, back so soon? Not to your liking?”

“There is something sharp in this one,” said Bernard, sitting in the customer’s chair and tugging at the boot. There was blood on his stocking. He didn’t bother to look inside, but tossed the thing at the boot maker, who caught it deftly and plunged his hand into it.

“Ah,” he said. “A nail went awry. Haste made waste, ha-ha. I’ll have it right in a moment.” With pincers he drew the nail, threw it into a bin and set another with a few sharp taps of his hammer, plunged his hand in again and felt around vigorously. “There you are, quite sound. I am sorry for the nail.” He gave Bernard an oiled chamois cloth as a make-peace gift. Bernard pulled the boot back on and tested it. He left, heels ringing on the floor.

As he came through the door of the old Piet Roos house the servant girl was there. She curtsied and said, “Mevrouw wishes you to join her and the others in the library.” He expected Cornelia had arranged some sort of farewell party and was not surprised to see Doortje, Nicolaus, Jan, Piet and George Pickering Duke when he came into the library. On a side table there was a steaming coffeepot and cups.

“I have asked you all to be here,” said Cornelia, “because I have had a letter from Outger this past hour. He encloses a private envelope for Bernard. In the letter to me he says that he has been invited to join the Leiden faculty. He will send for his possessions once he has found a furnished and well-staffed house.” She passed the other envelope to Bernard, who opened it and drew out a single sheet.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh God damn his eyes — forgive my language, Mother. I must read this aloud since it is of importance to all of us.

Dear Almost-Brothers. This is to notify you that I will not be returning to the Colonies nor the House on Penobscot Bay. But do not think you can have the Large Table. It, and all the other Contents of the House, are now the Property of my Daughter, Beatrix Duquet. Her Mother was a Passamaquoddy Indian, a kind and gentle Woman who helped Me with My studies of Indian ways and beliefs. She died and I had the charge of my Daughter who has benefited from a Good Education. From Me. She is in Residence at My House on Penobscot Bay as I write this. I have told her all that I am telling you. Perhaps she will eventually join me in Leiden. I will endeavor to return occasionally in order to pay Her a visit. On such Trips I will not stop in Boston. Yours, quite sincerely, Outger Duquet.”