This is a piece that I wrote last year for my English Studies TQA3 class. It is written from Johannes Vermeer's perspective.
Imaginative Response
10B26104
"Griet, you are not looking at me." (Page 190)
She startled, swinging her face around to look at me, her lips parted in a gasp and gazing at me with those eyes. Those wide eyes that have drawn me in and captured my heart. In them I can see her innocence but strangely enough, wisdom unaccompanied by intelligence. As she gazes upon me I feel complete.
She is the only one to have ever understood me. She understands the things in my paintings that many others couldn't even begin to fathom. She thinks much like I do, in the same mind frame in many ways and yet she has taught me so much. Her eye for detail is exquisite and her mind magnificent despite her being uneducated. The way she carries herself is confident and demanding yet beneath that starched white cap and plain maidens clothes I can see a simple beauty, an innocent beauty, which radiates from within. From the curve of her cheek to the gentle slope of her nose she is in every way perfect. It is almost as if one of my dreams has come to life and here she sits before me.
She clenches her hands, crumpling the heavy material of her skirts and petticoats before releasing them and smoothing them down once again. She is unsettled under my unwavering stare but I cannot drag my attention away from her. She has me completely enamoured. Entrapped. She has no idea what her mere presence does to me. Her innocence, her eyes, her mind, her attention. I crave her like I have craved no other. Not even Catharina.
Catharina. My wife.
My Lord, am I such a poor husband that I had forgotten my wife in the excitement of spending time with my Griet? My wife, who has stood unwaveringly by my side and has done nothing less than love me from the day we married. The woman who has bore me five beautiful children and is once again bearing a swollen stomach, a sure sign that she will soon be birthing another.
And despite this, she pales in comparison to Griet. My Griet.
Lately, I have found myself wondering what my future would entitle if I were to chose Griet for my lover, or perhaps one day, my wife. Where would we live? We couldn't possibly reside in the same house as my mother and Catharina. Could we possibly afford purchasing a new home? No, I do not believe we could. My paintings may supply me with an income large enough to live comfortably off of for six months but if I make to decision to initiate a relationship with her I also risk the chance of loosing my clients. Van Ruijven in particular. I do not believe that he would be particularly happy if I were to take the subject of his own attentions. He, unlike myself, is very wealthy and without his frequent commission requests I would be living like a pauper. I would never be able to support my family. With his influence amongst the social circles I may never be able to sell my artworks again. Perhaps if I limited myself and sold my paintings at the market place without waiting for commissions I would still make an income. But it takes far too long to produce a single piece. And Griet, she could not afford more than the basic necessities of life as a maid. Particularly because it is I that pays her daily wages.
Griet. A maid. I had almost forgotten. How could I have possibly forgotten? This will be the hardest hurdle we would have to overcome should we ever be together. The neighbours wouldn't approve, neither would my mother for that matter. Johannes Vermeer running away with a lowly maid. Would our relationship hold strong despite the stigma that surrounds maids? If only she had gotten a job of a higher status, then we would have nothing to worry about. Then I suppose, if she has never come to serve for my wife then I never would be debating this. I wouldn't be going through all this confusion. Life would just be as it always was supposed to be. Simple.
Life would never be simple with Griet. With Griet, I would never be accepted. We would never be accepted. Why should this be so difficult just for us? There are plenty of men around town that have left their wives for other women. It is common to hear among the gossiping wives that one of their husbands has run off with their cousin or even the local butcher's daughter.
But committing adultery with a maid? It is unheard of!
We would be shunned by society. Avoided like the plague. The more I think the more I am starting to believe that perhaps it would be more beneficial for us to go our own ways. Could I honestly leave my loving wife and family for a mere girl of sixteen? A mere girl of sixteen. It would never work; she is barely more than a child, hardly older than my own daughter. So young, so innocent.
Even if we did strike a relationship between the two of us, would it last? Would I, a man old enough to be her father, be able to win her affections in return? I have seen the way that she acts around other men; her head bowed low and never making direct eye contact. I saw her reactions to Van Ruijven's attentions. That day, out in the yard when he tried to touch her, I could see nothing but fear and discomfort in her eyes yet she ducked her head once again and allowed it. Too submissive to say anything about it. Even the first day she arrived, I watched her from the studio window as she reluctantly called upon the assistance of a young man to fish her pot from the river. She allowed him to hold her hand yet found it in her to step back when her tried to steal a kiss. I have yet to see her go down to the river again while the man was making his trips back and forth from the markets.
She would never let me close enough. Why would she ever want me, her employer? Oh so many questions! So many uncertainties! The only question I need the answer to is;
Is she worth it?
1676
There she is just as I remember her. Not a day has gone by that I hadn't imagined what my life would have been like if I had chosen her over my wife.
Once again she sits before me looking over her shoulder. Her hair is swept up in her blue and yellow cloths and the pearl drop earring hangs delicately from her lobe glinting as it reflects the light. Her lips shine as they part in a gasp as she once again gazes at me with those wide innocent eyes.
Ten years it has been and nothing has changed, she looks the same now as she did ten years ago when she first sat before me. But now, I have only a painting, hung before my bed. I feel as if I could almost reach out and touch the curve of her cheek, feel the soft skin beneath my fingertips. But I don't. If I did I know that it would shatter the illusion of her presence.
Lying here alone, I wish not for the first time, but for the last, that I had never let her go.
References:
Chevalier, Tracy. Girl with the pearl earring. New York: Plume, 1999. Print.