"Chevalier, Tracy - Girl with a Pearl Earring" - читать интересную книгу автора (Chevalier Tracy)

"It's punishment," he said in a low voice.
"Why? Punishment for what?"
Frans did not answer.
"Frans, you must tell me or I'll tell our parents you're in trouble."
"I'm not in trouble," he said quickly. "I made the owner angry, is all."
"How?"
"I did something his wife didn't like."
"What did you do?"
Frans hesitated. "It was she who started it," he said softly. "She showed her interest, you see. But when I showed mine she told her husband. He didn't throw me out because he's a friend of Father's. So I'm on the kiln until his humor improves."
"Frans! How could you be so stupid? You know she's not for the likes of you. To endanger your place here for something like that?"
"You don't understand what it's like," Frans muttered. "Working here, it's exhausting, it's boring. It was something to think about, that's all. You have no right to judge, you with your butcher that you'll marry and have a fine life with. Easy for you to say what my life should be like when all I can see are endless tiles and long days. Why shouldn't I admire a pretty face when I see one?"
I wanted to protest, to tell him that I understood. At night I sometimes dreamed of piles of laundry that never got smaller no matter how much I scrubbed and boiled and ironed.
"Was she the woman at the gate?" I asked instead.
Frans shrugged and drank more beer. I pictured her sour expression and wondered how such a face could ever tempt him.
"Why are you here, anyway?" he asked. "Shouldn't you be at Papists' Corner?"
I had prepared an excuse for why I had come, that an errand had taken me to that part of Delft. But I felt so sorry for my brother that I found myself telling him about van Ruijven and the painting. It was a relief to confide in him.
He listened carefully. When I finished he declared, "You see, we're not so different, with the attentions we've had from those above us."
"But I haven't responded to van Ruijven, and have no intention to."
"I didn't mean van Ruijven," Frans said, his look suddenly sly. "No, not him. I meant your master."
"What about my master?" I cried.
Frans smiled. "Now, Griet, don't work yourself into a state."
"Stop that! What are you suggesting? He has never — "
"He doesn't have to. It's clear from your face. You want him. You can hide it from our parents and your butcher man, but you can't hide it from me. I know you better than that."
He did. He did know me better.
I opened my mouth but no words came out.
Although it was December, and cold, I walked so fast and fretted so much over Frans that I got back to Papists' Corner long before I should have. I grew hot and began to loosen my shawls to cool my face. As I was walking up the Oude Langendijck I saw van Ruijven and my master coming toward me. I bowed my head and crossed over so that I would pass by my master's side rather than van Ruijven's but the crossing only drew van Ruijven's attention to me. He stopped, forcing my master to halt with him.
"You — the wide-eyed maid," he called, turning towards me. "They told me you were out. I think you've been avoiding me. What's your name, my girl?"
"Griet, sir." I kept my eyes fixed on my master's shoes. They were shiny and black — Maertge had polished them under my guidance earlier that day.
"Well, Griet, have you been avoiding me?"
"Oh no, sir. I've been on errands." I held up a pail of things I had been to get for Maria Thins before I visited Frans.
"I hope I will see more of you, then."
"Yes, sir." Two women were standing behind the men. I peeked at their faces and guessed they were the daughter and sister who were sitting for the painting. The daughter was staring at me.
"You have not forgotten your promise, I hope," van Ruijven said to my master.
My master jerked his head like a puppet. "No," he replied after a moment.
"Good, I expect you'll want to make a start on that before you ask us to come again." Van Ruijven's smile made me shiver.
There was a long silence. I glanced at my master. He was struggling to maintain a calm expression, but I knew he was angry.
"Yes," he said at last, his eyes on the house opposite. He did not look at me.
I did not understand that conversation in the street, but I knew it was to do with me. The next day I discovered how.
In the morning he asked me to come up in the afternoon. I assumed he wanted me to work with the colors, that he was starting the concert painting. When I got to the studio he was not there. I went straight to the attic. The grinding table was clear—nothing had been laid out for me. I climbed back down the ladder, feeling foolish.
He had come in and was standing in the studio, looking out a window.
"Take a seat, please, Griet," he said, his back to me.
I sat in the chair by the harpsichord. I did not touch it—I had never touched an instrument except to clean it. As I waited I studied the paintings he had hung on the back wall that would form part of the concert painting. There was a landscape on the left, and on the right a picture of three people—a woman playing a lute, wearing a dress that revealed much of her bosom, a gentleman with his arm around her, and an old woman. The man was buying the young woman's favors, the old woman reaching to take the coin he held out. Maria Thins owned the painting and had told me it was called The Procuress.
"Not that chair." He had turned from the window. "That is where van Ruijven's daughter sits."
Where I would have sat, I thought, if I were to be in the painting.
He got another of the lion-head chairs and set it close to his easel but sideways so it faced the window. "Sit here."
"What do you want, sir?" I asked, sitting. I was puzzled—we never sat together. I shivered, although I was not cold.
"Don't talk." He opened a shutter so that the light fell directly on my face. "Look out the window." He sat down in his chair by the easel.
I gazed at the New Church tower and swallowed. I could feel my jaw tightening and my eyes widening.
"Now look at me."
I turned my head and looked at him over my left shoulder.