R. v. R. - The Life & Times of Rembrandt van Rijn [antikvár]

Foreword EXPLAINING HOW I CAME TO WRITE THIS BOOK Amsterdam, October gth, 1669 In the house called De Houttuyn W= buried him yesterday and I shall never forget that terrible morning. The rain, which had been pouring down ever since the beginning of the month, had ceased. A cold and gloomy fog had thrown a dark and chilling pall over the whole city. The empty streets seemed filled with a vague sense of futile uselessness. The small group of mourners stood silendy by the side of the church-door, waiting for the coffin to arrive. Last Friday, a few hours before he died and during a moment of semiconsciousness, he had whispered to me that he wanted to rest next to Saskia. He must have forgotten that he had sold her grave long ago, when Hendrickje passed away and when he was caught without a penny and had been forced to sell the family lot in the Old Church to buy a grave for his second wife. I promised him that I would do my best, but of course the thing was out of the question. I am glad I told him this lie, for he went to his last sleep fully convinced that soon all would be well and that his dust would mingle with that of the woman he had loved in the days of his youth. And then three days ago Magdalena van Loo called. I had never cared for her, I had found her mean and jealous and apt to whine, but I had tried to like her on account of her father-in-law and of the poor boy she had married. She told me a long rambling story about some gold pieces which apparently had belonged to Cornelia and to her. Over and over again she repeated the same sentences: "I am sure father took some of that money before he died. And now what shall we do ? We can't even buy milk for the baby. I am sure father took it," and so on and so forth. Then followed a long and circumstantial account of her being sick and being unable to nurse the baby herself. I tried to reassure her. The money undoubtedly would be found. Had she looked for it carefully? No, she had not, but she felt convinced that the old man had appropriated some of it. For weeks and weeks he had sold nothing. He had just sat and stared or he had scratched meaningless lines on the back of some old copper plates. He had been without a cent when Titus died, for uncle Uylenburgh had paid for the funeral. That she knew for a fact. All the same, the old man had been able to buy himself food and drink, especially