THE GIRL WITH A WATER PITCHER 

by Willow

Note:  This story was inspired by a Vermeer painting entitled Young Woman With a Water Pitcher.  It was written as a sequal to a novel called, Girl With a Pearl Earring.  Some of the characters in the two stories are the same.

My first impression of the house was a light and airy two story building right on the canal. It was a brick house with green shutters and a bench out front, exactly like all the other houses on our street.
The sun shone from behind a cloud, and I nervously pulled my cloak tighter around me. It was a warm summer day but I was wearing a hooded cloak anyway. I always wore it when I was outside. I had to. I had porphyria, a strange disease where I couldn’t expose my skin to the sun. If I did, I would break out in warts and get really sick. I was diagnosed when I was four. I am now thirteen. I had grown used to wearing a cloak all the time by now.
The cart rattled up to the front door.
“Mother,” Margret said haughtily as she looked at the house, “ I will not live here and I will not be related to anyone who will. It’s so ugly.”
“Margret,” Mama snapped. She had been really irritable since becoming pregnant. “This is our new house. You will live here with the rest of your family and you will like it.”
Margret was my elegant older sister. Papa liked to say she was too grand for our family. In public she barely acknowledged us.
Little Laura  jumped out of the cart with a whoop, ran to the nearest tree and climbed up like a monkey. Papa warned her to come down. She might rip her dress.
I looked across the canal and saw a boy, wrapped in rags, huddled in between two houses, peering out at me. Our eyes locked and he slipped away.
The inside of the new house was quite a contrast to the outside. It was bright and shiny, a newly polished candlestick. I strayed into a side room. It was sparkling clean, like the rest of the house. Someone must have cleaned recently.
Margret came in, her face strangely serene.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Louisa?” she asked, smoothing her dress.
“A few minutes ago you were complaining that you didn’t want to live here,” I replied.
“That was  because the outside looks like a pigpen.” She shot a glance at me.
“Oh, what do you want?” I sighed and rolled my eyes.
“Mother wants you.” She turned and stormed out of the room.
When I found Mama, she was already arranging things in her room.
“Oh, dear?” she called to Papa. “Don’t bring my rocking chair up. I want it in the parlor instead!” The response was a grunt as Papa turned around and walked back down the stairs, the rocker cradled in his arms.
Mama turned to me. “Louisa, dear, take off your cloak, for goodness sake. It’s shady enough in the house. You had better go choose your room before Margret and Laura make their decisions.” She then turned back to fixing up her room.
I walked down the hall and entered an empty room. The minute I walked in, I knew it was mine. On one side, facing the canal, there was a bay window with a window seat. There was another window facing the side yard and the house next door. I stared at this window. It was beautiful, I thought. There was a circle in the middle with little squares around it. The glass was tinted blue. I went to sit on the window seat and looked out. Four girls were playing hopscotch on the walk in front of a house directly across the canal from my room.
One of them looked up at my window, smiled and waved. I waved back. She sure wasn’t shy.


“Well then, where did you say you were from?”
The girls I had seen across the canal turned out to be daughters of the well-known painter, Johannes Vermeer. They had come with their father to greet us and wish us a good life here. When I was asked to go get some more wine for our guests, the girl who had waved to me a few days ago asked to come with me. In the kitchen we had turned to talk. Her name was Lisbeth.
“We moved here from Leiden,” I answered. There was an awkward silence.
“I was born here,” Lisbeth offered. Another silence, then suddenly her face brightened. “Do you want to come over to my house tomorrow and play hopscotch?”
I smiled. “After lunch?” I asked. She nodded.


The next day, I pulled on my cloak and crossed the bridge to the other side of the canal. As I approached their house, a girl a few years older than I came out with a shopping basket. She had on a starched, white cap that hung down in two points on either side of her face, like mine. She was leading two younger children along with her. She saw me and smiled.
“Are you Louisa?” she asked me. I nodded. “Lisbeth would do nothing but talk about you. My name is Griet.” She gave me one last gleaming smile and walked off.
I went up and knocked on the door. A minute later it opened and a young woman appeared, dressed in clothes very similar to Griet’s. I told her my errand and she showed me in. Stepping through the doorway, I gazed in awe. Paintings, everywhere. From still lifes to pictures of the Virgin Mary. The woman left me alone in the front hall and went into a side room. As soon as she left, I began to wander around, looking at the different paintings. Before I knew it, I had walked around the entire room. My eyes rested on a painting of a girl looking over her shoulder, as if staring at something that wasn’t really there. The girl had on a blue and yellow head cloth and a pearl earring in her ear. The factor that caught my eye was that this girl in the painting looked strangely like the one I had just seen, Griet.
The house was so silent, like a tomb. I shivered. How could such a lively girl like Lisbeth live in such a dismal place?
It felt like years, but was probably only a matter of minutes, when the maid and an older woman came out of the side room. They both stared at me, and the maid pointed.
“Thank you, Tanneke,” the woman said. “You may finish in the kitchen.” Tanneke lowered her head and walked out. The older woman turned to me. Her face was wrinkled, but not old-looking. Her hair hung in wisps about her face, partly tied back in a plan headdress. She looked immortal.
“Louisa, girl.” I looked up at her. “Lisbeth isn’t here right now. She’s out with her father, but Catharina is, so I suggest you leave.
“Who are you?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking.
She raised her eyebrows and looked down at me.
“Blunt, aren’t you, girl?” I wanted the floor to swallow me up. “I’m Maria Thins, Catharina’s mother.”
“Oh,” I winced at my boldness. “Lisbeth told me she would be here.”
Maria Thins sighed and sank into a chair. I followed her example.
“Catharina,” she glanced towards her daughter’s bedroom door, “is very picky about her children’s friends.” She paused and looked pointedly at me, as if to see if what she had said was offending. I stared right back at her. “She wants them to be happy.”
The realization of her words finally sank in.
“But Lisbeth invited me over. She is happy!” I argued. Maria Thins just shook her head at the floor. Just then the door opened and in walked Vermeer. He gazed at me for a minute and then turned and went up to his studio. I looked at my hands. They were shaking.
“Louisa!” I jumped. Lisbeth ran in the door. I went over to her. “Sorry I was out. How long have you been here?”
“Oh,” I thought about it, “maybe half an hour.”
“I’m so sorry! But Papa was going to the Guild and I simply love it there.” Her face was flushed like roses. As I looked at her, I thought she was beautiful, with her light brown, wavy hair, bright, greyish eyes and flushed cheeks. She looked so happy. I wanted to laugh in her grandmother’s face. “Let’s go play hopscotch.”
“Let’s not.” We spun around. Catharina was bristling with anger, her golden hair glowing. She towered above us, glaring. “What,” she spoke each word with intense meaning, “are you doing here?”
I shook to my bones. “Waiting for Lisbeth to get back, Ma’am.”
“Why didn’t you speak to me about waiting?”
I looked to Maria Thins for help, but she was slowly leaving the room. “The maid announced me to Maria Thins.”
“Ignorant girl. Self-centered, Protestant girl,” she muttered under her breath.
“Mama!” Lisbeth cried. “How dare you speak to her like that! Don’t you think I should be able to choose my own friends by now? Isn’t thirteen old enough?”
“No, not when I disapprove of them.”
“Well then, if you disapprove of her, be thankful she’s not going to be your friend!” Lisbeth then grabbed my arm and I ran after her out of the house.


I sat on the edge of my bed, looking out of my tinted window, thinking of the past few weeks. Lisbeth had gotten a beating that day she yelled at her mother. She never spoke of it, but I found out from her older sister, Maertge.
Lisbeth’s  mother had forbidden us to play together, but during our visits to the market we had found time to slip away and talk to each other. Also, when Catharina wasn’t home, Lisbeth was allowed, by Maria Thins, to come to my house. One week, when Catharina was heavy with child, she didn’t go out at all, so I met Lisbeth and her father at the Guild the day they went.
The baby had been born later that week. They named him Franciscus.
One morning, my mother had come up to my room, only to find me crying on my bed. She asked me what was wrong and I confided in her. I told her everything. We had a long discussion about the differences between Catholic religion and the Protestant one. She said that some people held hatred towards one religion. When I asked her why, she answered that she didn’t know. She had then kissed my forehead and we had gone down to breakfast.
“Louisa!” I jumped up, snapped out of my stupor. I heard my name again and ran to my tinted window. Lisbeth was sitting, partly hidden fom view in a clump of bushes. “ Come down,” she half whispered.
“ My cloak, I need my cloak.”
“Hurry up. I need to show you something!”
I grabbed my cloak and raced down the steps. I walked over to her hiding place and ducked into the bush. Lisbeth’s face was glowing with excitement. She took my hand and we ran all the way to the market.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
She winked at me. “ You’ll see.”
She led me around a corner and up to someone’s steps. We knocked and a woman answered the door.
“Yes?” She inquired.
“ I’m here to see the, well, items I came to see earllier, Ma’am,” Lisbeth flashed a smile at her. I glanced over at Lisbeth, then back at the woman’s face.
“Who...? Oh yes, I remember, Miss Lisbeth.” She then showed us into the parlor and pointed to a corner.
“Happy birthday, Louisa!” Lisbeth cried.
“Oh!” With all the things going on I had completely forgotten about my fourteenth birthday. “Puppies!”
“Any one you like,” Lisbeth replied. I gave her a giant hug, then ran over to the puppies. We spent over an hour deciding which one to take. Eventually, we emerged from the house carrying a speckled brown puppy in our arms. We were singing and laughing when we turned a corner and bumped into Catharina.
“Mama?” Lisbeth gasped. “I thought you were taking care of Franciscus now the nurse is sick!”
“No,” Catharina countered. “Tanneke is. May I ask what you are doing with her?” She gestured towards me. I thought she was controlling herself wonderfully.
“I...I missed her.” Lisbeth sure did think fast.
“You won’t any more,” said Catharina, smiling at her daughter. “Go home!” she scolded me. Then, she steered Lisbeth off through the crowd. Crying, I ran all the way home.


The next day, I stood stock still, looking out my tinted window, lost in thought. Laura had made me play a game with her. I had to stand at my window and try to pour water from a water pitcher into a glass she held on the ground below. I missed the glass most of the time. Mama had called her, dripping wet, into the house,  but I still stood at the window, gazing out at the warm August afternoon. I heard footsteps and Laura’s voice on the stairs, but did not turn. Only when my door creaked open did I glance over at it. So startled was I to see my visitor that I jerked my hand away from the jug and knocked it over. Quickly, I knelt down to pick it up and control my breathing.
“Louisa?” Laura whispered.
“Hold on!” I snapped. On my way back up from the floor, I banged my head on the table.
“Ow!” Laura said for me. Then, “This is Lisbeth’s father, Vermeer, here to see you.” She then walked out of the room.
I smiled and gestured towards a chair by the table, while I primly sat on the edge of my bed and cleared my throat.
“Yes, sir? Can I help you?” I winced. I sounded like a merchant.
“Louisa,” he sighed. “My wife, Maria Thins and I have been talking, and we have come to the conclusion that you and Lisbeth are not to see each other again.” I wanted to smile, knowing clever Lisbeth would come up with a solution to how we would meet, but somehow the solemnity in the air pushed my smile to a frown. “Not even behind Catharina’s back,” he added, gazing steadily at me. “I will not permit you to meet at the Guild, or when my wife is out. I have been forbidden to do this.” For a second, I thought I saw a look of childish sadness cross his face, but it was  gone so quickly I was sure I had just imagined it. He then looked up at me.
“Do you understand, Louisa?”
My nod was my answer. “The one thing I don’t understand, though, is why we can’t play together, sir. I mean, just because of our different religions, it doesn’t make sense.”
He just shook his head.
“Would you let us play if it wasn’t for Catharina?”
When I said this his face clouded over and he jumped up out of his seat. “I should not have even explained all of this to you, but so much did I want you to understand...”
Just then Laura called me from the ground below and I went over to my tinted window.
“Pour!” she commanded. I took hold of the pitcher and opened my window. Vermeer cleared his throat. I looked guiltily back at him. He seemed to know I had gone simply to end the discussion. I told Laura I couldn’t play, and started to close the window.
“Wait! Stay there!” I stood frozen like a statue. My heart was pounding. Why did he say that? What did I do? I closed my eyes and sensed Vermeer walking around me. Then, I turned and looked at him.
“You know, Lisbeth’s birthday is coming up?” He was calm now.
“Yes, sir. She’ll be fourteen, like me.”
“She might want something to remember you by...maybe, a painting?”
“I have no paintings to give her.”
“No, but you will. I will make one for you. Tomorrow I will come back and begin to paint.”
“Paint what?” I asked.
“You. In that pose.”
“Sir! Oh no, I would be a terrible model. You see, I have porphyria. I couldn’t stand in the sun for that long, only for about five minutes at a time.”
“Then, you shall stand for five minutes at a time. And while you sit, I will block out the colors.” Reluctantly, I agreed.


For the next few weeks, Vermeer came to our house each day to paint me. Each day  after he left, I would sit and look at the painting. It was fascinating to see a painting from the very beginning.
First he sketched what he saw, then blocked out the objects with “fake colors”. I found out “fake colors” are not the actual color the object, but colors used just to mark the spot where the object is supposed to be. Then, when the correct color is added, the “fake color” seems to give it a smoother look.
Some days, it didn’t seem like he changed anything at all.
After four weeks the painting was complete.
The last time I saw the painting, I looked for detail. I noted how precise his lines on my tinted window and pitcher were. How wonderful the rays of light, falling across my face, made the painting look. When it dried, I turned it over, and wrote a message to Lisbeth on he back. In shaky handwriting my message read thus:




Lisbeth deer,
Im so sory we were forbidden to see each other. If I cud change my riligion I wood. I miss you teribly, so I give you this to remember me by. I have the puppy to remember you. Happy birthday!
                              Your true friend,                                                   Louisa
When I was done, Vermeer looked at my writing and smiled. He took his leave of me and my family, and went home with the painting.
The next morning, I awoke to the sound of a nearby bird. I rolled over, and saw a pigeon sitting on my window sill. I got up, opened my window, and it flew right in. I noticed a letter tied to its leg. I reached over and took the letter. It was from Lisbeth. In it, she thanked me for posing for such a long time just for her, and said whenever she looks at the painting she will think of me. The letter also included that she missed me terribly as well. It was simple, and her writing was barely legible, but it touched one of the deepest recesses of my heart.


After ten years she was barely recognizable. Her brown hair had turned a blondish color, and was cut to her shoulders. Her cheeks were less rosy, and she was much taller. It was her grey eyes that gave her away  as she stood on my doorstep.
“Lisbeth?”
“Louisa!” She jumped up to me and nearly smothered me with her hug. “Oh Louisa, I missed you so! And look at you! An elegant new house, a husband, and ...”
“Mama? I’m hungry, and William won’t get me food.”
“Marie,” I replied, “Can’t you see I’m talking? I’ll get you something when I’m done.”
“... Children!” Lisbeth continued. “You have children, too!”
“Who are you?” Marie asked in her three-year-old voice, looking suspiciously at Lisbeth.
“She is my old friend,” I answered. “Marie, this is Lisbeth. Lisbeth, this is my daughter, Marie.”
“She’s blunt, just like her mother,” Lisbeth teased.
“Exact  replica,” I laughed. “Won’t you come in?”
When my husband, Jan, came home, we had dinner, and Lisbeth stayed to chat until a cart rattled up to the house. When I opened the door, an unfamiliar man was standing there.
“Oh, Louisa,” Lisbeth said. “This is my husband, Johnathan. Johnathan, this is my old friend, Louisa.”
“Mama!” A small voice called from the cart.
“Oh yes,” Lisbeth added. “That’s my daughter, Mary.” Mary looked up at me, smiled, and waved. I waved back.  She sure wasn’t shy!

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