Short Story: Letter from Delft, 1674 [Laurie Fendrich]

The following letter was recently found by construction workers rebuilding the foundation of an old house in Trier. It has been translated from the Dutch by Laurie Fendrich, whose command of Dutch is, well, elementary.

Maandag, January 20, 1674

Beste Anneke,

Your letter arrived yesterday. Alas, Trier might as well be the other side of the world from Delft, as it took more than four months to get here. I was most distressed to learn from you about the vicious French invasion of your city. Anneke, we in Holland know that all too well.

Since the disastrous Rampjaar* of two years ago, everyone remains frightened about the economy and our political future. What we once were no longer exists. Although my dear Father continues to make a profit from selling his paintings of ships along Vlamingstraat (between you and me, all ship paintings look alike), his income is now so meagre we are able to maintain only a single, small fire in one room of the house. I pray my dear Father will be forgiven for improvidently purchasing a complete bed and several hogsheads of wine just before the Rampjaar occurred. Truly, he is a good man and had no idea these terrible events would befall Holland. 

Yes, since you asked, I still cling to my easel in dear Father’s studio, and I continue to paint my own pictures. But dear Anneke, this will not last. With so many younger siblings to care for, I have become a burden. Two months ago, even though I am but recently turned sixteenyears old, my parents arranged for me to be married to an older man whom I’ve met but four times. He seems tolerable. My dear Mother wants me to stop painting immediately, reminding me daily that any woman who paints pictures will never please a husband. Father is less harsh, but though he praises me for my talent and hard work in helping him in his studio, he repeatedly tells me that no honest woman paints and sells pictures. 

Seeing how very sad I became after the betrothal was settled, my dear Father relieved me for the day from my task of grinding his pigments so I could visit my friend Maria Leeuwenhoek, whose home is only a few streets away. Maria’s Father, Meneer Antonie Leeuwenhoek, is a merchant of tapestries, as well as an inventor of lenses whose purpose I do not fully understand. When Maria and I were children, he showed us how a shimmering glass pearl measures the depth of cloth weavings. I wanted to hold it, but he wouldn’t permit me to do so. 

In any event, at the end of my visit with Maria, her father asked me to accompany her on an errand to deliver a small package, containing what I do not know, directly into the hands of Meneer Johannes van der Meer. This painter has many admirers here in Delft as well as outside of Holland. My dear Father and Meneer Johannes van der Meer are acquainted because they are both members in the St. Luke’s Guild. This artist is said to have developed a particularly excellent skill with paint that permits him to create light. I have always wanted to learn to paint better than my dear Father, so I was eager to accompany Maria and perhaps catch a glimpse of one of the artist’s paintings.

After the maid guided us into the foyer, she indicated a low bench for us to sit while waiting until the artist came downstairs from his studio. We shivered in the cold room while watching several small children, most of them dressed in an unkempt fashion, run about. Maria grew impatient and suggested we climb the steps to his studio and knock on his door. We did just that, and when no one answered, we stepped inside. 

The room was sparsely furnished, and a late afternoon winter light streamed in through the windows facing the canal. A cat was curled up and asleep on one of the worktables. Although there were paintings leaning against the wall of the room, the easel was empty. Suddenly, Meneer Johannes van der Meer himself emerged from behind a curtain hanging over an entry into a small corner closet. He seemed preoccupied until he noticed us, whereupon he grew agitated and asked who had let us enter his studio. Maria held out the package and said it was from her father, but he waved her away and shouted, “Ga Weg! Ga Weg!” Anneke, I tell you we were both quite frightened, for we knew we had no business being in that room. As we backed out of the room, Maria quickly placed the package on one of the tables near the door. Then we shut the door behind and raced down the steps and out the front door.

I arrived home shaken to the core. What a bitter thing to be born a woman. Whatever talent I have as a painter will die within me the moment I am married. 

Anneke, my dear Father has told me that the effects of the Rampjaar may endure for at least four years, and perhaps even longer. It seems the Holland we have always known is gone, and our future will be less free. Perhaps, despite all this, I can persuade my husband to permit me to go on painting, at least until I am a mother.

Liefde in Christus, 

Lysbeth Jakobsen

*The “Rampjaar, or “Disaster Year,” occurring in 1672, refers to the year that followed the invasion of the independent and wealthy Dutch Republic by monarchical France and its English and German allies. Simultaneously, there were natural disasters in Holland, such as windstorms and flooding. Although the French retreated in 1674, and the stresses of the economic dislocation and political upheaval caused by the invasion abated, there were long-term psychological repercussions that affected the future of Holland. Most historians consider the Rampjaar as marking the end of the Dutch Golden Age.  

About the author: Laurie Fendrich is a Professor Emerita of Fine Arts at Hofstra University and a Guggenheim-award-winning painter who writes both art criticism and fiction. She is a member of the organization American Abstract Artists and is represented by Louis Stern Fine Arts, in Los Angeles, CA.