Rembrandt's Mirror (29 page)

The Anatomy Lesson of Dr Nicolaes Tulp

He'd first met Dr Tulp over thirty years ago when he painted his anatomy lesson, but he remembered it clearly. The doctor had been in his late thirties and he in his mid twenties. After months of waiting Tulp had sent word that an executed murderer's body had finally become available. As he made his way to his home, he thought back to the occasion, and it had been an occasion! He'd never been inside the Waag before. It was a bulwark of a building as befitted a former city gate built two centuries ago. He had to make his way all around to find the entrance because each of the four guild rooms was accessed through one of the round towers. When he finally got to the surgeons' room on the first floor, he was pleased that it had large windows which cast an even light. There were about two dozen men, mostly dressed in black, milling around the pallid body on the table. The small room was replete with noisy chatter. They pointed at and even poked the corpse – curious as boys.

Tulp clapped his hands and his students and colleagues arranged themselves off to one side to allow him to commence his lesson. The
doctor picked up his scalpel and without hesitation cut into the skin along the length of the forearm. Rembrandt half expected the dead man to cry out in pain. He also expected blood to spurt out, but of course it didn't. His heart was for ever idle now. Tulp started to peel back the skin with his fingers and the scalpel, revealing a layer of fatty tissue and Rembrandt had to look away as a sick feeling rapidly gathered in his stomach. So he studied the men, none of whom seemed to be affected by the butchering. But it was not butchering, for when he looked again, he could appreciate that Tulp had shaved away layers of tissue with the most delicate and precise motions of his scalpel, like a sculptor working on human flesh. After a while he had laid bare the mechanism that animates the hand, the flexing tendons and ligaments. They had been picked perfectly clean, yellow strands against the red meat of the hand. Tulp used his pincers to grab at tendons on the back of the hand and pull at them as if they were the strings of a marionette. Rembrandt was not sure what came first – the dead man's fingers straightening or the collective gasp of the audience.

This was the moment to depict. He sketched the dissected arm as fast as he could. This sitter would not return for another session.

The painting had made his reputation and Tulp had been extremely pleased with the work. But that was a long time ago, and the doctor must now be near seventy and he would know of Rembrandt's dishonourable bankruptcy. He did not rate his chances of wringing much help out of him.

The manservant showed him straight into Tulp's study, a surprise given how cautious everyone had become. The room was dominated by a huge oak desk that looked seaworthy enough to sail to the Americas. The walls were hung with detailed anatomical drawings. One of them showed a valve that operated at the junction of the small and large intestines. He remembered hearing about it. Tulp's valve it was called, for he had discovered it.

‘Rembrandt, it is good to see you,' said Tulp, walking in with the stride of a busy and important man. ‘Are you well? What is your business?'

He'd often seen Tulp from a distance at public gatherings with his snow-white hair but now that he was shaking his hand, he felt the full force of the man; sprightly and as sturdy as his desk.

‘My wife is taken ill and I am in desperate need of a good physician. Jan Six sent me here and kindly wrote this letter.'

Tulp perused it. ‘A letter of introduction was not necessary – we know each other, don't we? Of course I'll try to help. Do you suspect it is the plague?'

‘She's got a fever, dizziness and sometimes vomiting and headaches.'

Tulp nodded. ‘It is very difficult to summon a good doctor at this time – most are in the country tending to the wealthy.'

‘How come you haven't fled?'

‘At my age you either fret all the time or not at all. I've chosen the latter.'

Rembrandt had a feeling he was about to find out if this was really true.

Tulp walked to the window, looked out and then turned back to him. ‘You know it's strange, but I think your painting did a great deal for my rise in the profession. People started treating me as if I was important.'

Rembrandt laughed. ‘If that's how you were regarded, then you earned it.'

Tulp smiled. ‘Perhaps, but regard and reputation depend on people's memories and memory is a fickle entity. Your picture did the trick of making me and my work unforgettable.'

Tulp felt indebted to him, good.

The physician stood scratching his chin. ‘But I am sorry, Rembrandt, I cannot think of anyone.'

Rembrandt held his eyes. Tulp must have something.

‘Well, there's me,' said Tulp. ‘I'm a doctor, of course.'

‘You are most kind,' said Rembrandt.

Tulp waved his hand to silence him. ‘I'm fed up with being holed up in here anyway. Let's go.'

Back at the house, Tulp's demeanour changed. Gone was the commanding voice. He was more like a grandfather seeing his favourite grandchild. He pulled a footstool right next to the bed and said softly, ‘How are you feeling, my dear?'

‘The worst is the pain in my head and legs,' she answered.

He nodded understanding. ‘Shall we have a look at you?
Rembrandt, can you lend a hand?'

Rembrandt only gently pulled up the shift but even that slight movement caused her to cry out in pain. There were red splotches all over her body.

Tulp said, ‘I'm sorry, I'm going to have to prod around a bit.'

He felt in her armpits and groin. ‘I cannot feel any swelling. Here, Rembrandt, you have a try so you know how to check over the coming days.'

Rembrandt put his hand where Tulp's was and then Tulp put his fingers on Rembrandt's. ‘You press down a little to see if you can feel anything hard.'

After she was covered up again she said, ‘Is it the distemper, Dr Tulp?'

He looked at her as if to get her measure. ‘When I'm asked a direct question I must give a direct answer.'

She nodded.

‘Sometimes it helps to know your enemy so you can focus your resolve. I fear it is the distemper. All the signs point to it: the vomiting, headache and most of all the rubescent areas. There are many rumours about the plague, making it seem more terrible than it is. It is a serious disease but it is also a disease that a great many survive. You are not too old or too young – you can get through it.'

Rembrandt saw him to the door and tried to pay him with Six's silver coin but Tulp refused. ‘You'll have more need of it than I.'

He gave him a long list of instructions, herbal brews and poultices.

‘But none of this is a cure; it only makes the symptoms more bearable. I'm afraid it is very much a matter of chance and good care who survives. You should look out for further signs which will alert you if the end is coming. Those who have soft and puffy white swellings, rather than red ones, especially if they appear suddenly, very rarely live. Some never get any swellings at all, the disease overtakes them so quickly. Also if tokens appear, little hard spots like flea bites, this is a sign that death is near.'

Rembrandt nodded, wondering what the point was of telling him all this. Perhaps if the time were to come, it would be better not to know.

‘You must now mark your house.'

Tulp made to leave but Rembrandt held him back by the arm.

Again their eyes met. ‘What do you think?' said Rembrandt.

‘She may well live.'

‘How long, if she doesn't?'

‘Between three and five days,' said Tulp. ‘If she's still here after seven it's a good sign.

‘Thank you.'

Tulp was standing by the door. He dipped into his bag and produced a small bottle with a yellow-brown liquid.

‘Have you heard of laudanum?' he said.

‘Yes.'

He handed it to him. ‘The pain can be very bad, so bad that some are killed because their heart gives out or they are driven to lunacy. But you must not tell her this as it will only frighten her. If the pain is unbearable, put three drops of this on to her tongue, but use it sparingly for too much of it will cause a delirium and difficulty breathing. No more than twelve drops per day, with at least a three-hour gap between doses. It's an opium tincture but not all laudanum is the same. Most of it is little more than a cough suppressant. But this works. I've tried it. It's a powerful analgesic. I had it shipped from England, before the quarantine, for my own use.'

Rembrandt thanked him as profusely as he could.

After Tulp had gone he held the bottle tightly, the most valuable possession he'd ever owned.

He went up to the studio, and poured chalk, some lead white and linseed oil on to the mixing block. He used a spatula to fold it all together and then scraped the thick paint on to an old palette. He picked out one of his students' brushes, then he went back downstairs and out of the front door. He could not help looking up and down the street, like a furtive criminal. There wasn't a soul in sight. Not that it made any difference whether he was observed or not. The letter he was about to paint would bring a whole string of consequences on their heads: no more callers to the house, no business, no money and eventually no food. He loaded the brush with paint. It took only a few seconds. He stood back. His ‘P' gleamed whiter than
all the others. Of course, they had not gone to the trouble of using proper pigment. He shrugged his shoulders.

From the adjacent bedroom she could probably hear him cleaning the palette, brush and mixing block; he'd have to go back before too long. Surely she would live. Unlike him, she was still in the midst of life and strong. The notion of her dying within three to five days was absurd. When he reached the door, he put his hand on the latch – maybe not quite yet. He sat back down on a chair in the studio, to collect himself. He thought of the many who had fled the plague; children had left parents behind, husbands their wives, and gone as far as England. It was all down to him now. Why hadn't he asked Tulp for another nurse?

It was time to get up and go back in, but something kept him in the chair. He commanded his legs to walk through the door. He couldn't fail her, as he'd failed Saskia.

She lay curled up, clutching her middle.

‘What took you so long?' she said.

‘Just thanking Tulp,' he lied. ‘He's been very kind.'

‘Now we know for sure it is the plague,' she said between gasps, ‘you must take me to the plague house. It's for the best.'

‘Don't be stupid, Rika.'

She tried to say something but was prevented by a cramp. She pointed at the bucket. He fetched it and held her as she vomited. He could feel every convulsion, draining her of strength. The retching did not stop for a long time, in the end bringing up nothing but bile.
When it was finally over he gave her a drink to rinse her mouth. She spat all of it back out.

She sank back on to the pillow, catching her breath. He wiped her face and saw that around her eyes a network of purple lines had sprung up; burst capillaries from the retching.

‘Don't you want to drink?' he asked.

‘No, I'll just be sick again.'

Her lips and skin were dry. She needed to drink. ‘Are you not thirsty?' he tried.

‘I told you. It's not worth the effort.'

Nothing more was said. He was grateful when she drifted off, whether into sleep or a swoon he could not tell.

He went down to the kitchen and there were Titus and Cornelia sitting at the table. Cornelia jumped up. ‘Pappie!'

She came running towards him. He put out his hand as if to stop her but thankfully Titus had already caught her around the waist and now was holding on to her because she continued to struggle.

‘I'm so sorry, my sweet,' said Rembrandt. ‘Pappie would love to hold and kiss you but we have to be careful not to make you ill.'

She started crying, still pushing with her arms against Titus's chest. Rembrandt felt himself on the point of breaking, so he stepped into the corridor, closing the door, but still he had to listen to Titus trying to calm Cornelia as she sobbed angrily. He stood with his back against the wall and then slid down to sit on the floor and buried his face in his hands. He made sure not to produce any sounds as despair overtook him.

After a while Cornelia fell silent. Titus opened the door and Rembrandt looked up at him, realizing as if for the first time that his son was a grown man.

‘She's gone to sleep,' said Titus.

Rembrandt nodded.

Titus held out his hand to help him up but then remembered and withdrew his arm. Rembrandt pushed himself up, holding on to the wall. His legs had gone to sleep; he felt like an old man wobbling back into the kitchen. On the bed by the fire lay Cornelia, sleeping. He walked over. Her face was still wet with tears. He sat down at the table. Titus put beer in front of him.

‘Some bread and cheese?'

Rembrandt nodded.

For a while he ate in silence.

‘If there's anything that needs fetching just write it down for me. Or anything else I can do.'

Rembrandt nodded.

‘How is she?' said Titus.

‘In pain, cramps, vomiting,' said Rembrandt, looking again at his grown-up son. The fact of which, for some reason, made him feel even more helpless.

When he'd finished eating he wanted nothing more than to sit with Titus, to talk about the relative merits of nut over linseed oil or where the best herring could be bought, but he took himself off to the makeshift bed in the corridor. He must sleep now so he could be of use to her.

*

Titus must have roused him not long after. Hendrickje was screaming, his son said. Rembrandt found her doubled over. He felt panic. He was so ill-equipped, so lacking in experience. How much pain was considered bearable? When should he give the laudanum? Tulp had said to hold off for as long as possible as there was a limited amount and whether she lived or died, it had to last a few days. But how was he supposed to know how many? He resolved to wait.