The Miniaturist(48)
‘Nothing. Pieces I’ve ordered for my cabinet,’ she says.
‘Pieces?’
‘You may go.’
Once Cornelia has left with one last glance over her shoulder, Nella tips out the package on her bed. Nothing prepares her for what she sees.
Eight dolls are laid out on a strip of blue velvet. So lifelike, so delicate; they are items of such humanly unreachable perfection. Nella feels like a giant, picking one up as if it might break. Johannes lies in her palm, a cloak of dark indigo slung over his broad shoulders, one hand balled into a fist. The other hand is open, palm offered and welcoming. His hair is longer than Nella has seen it, reaching just below his shoulders. Dark-eyed, the shadows on his face make him look weaker than he is in real life. At his waist is a heavy bag of coin, nearly the length of his leg, and he is thinner. The bag burdens the joints in his hips, weighing him crookedly to one side.
The hair of Nella’s own doll escapes its cap, as in reality it is wont to do. Wearing a neat grey dress, her miniature stares straight up, a look of faint surprise across her frozen face. In one of her tiny hands is an empty birdcage, its door swinging open wide. Nella feels a strange sensation in her body, as if pins are pricking the inside of her skin.
In the doll’s other hand, is a minuscule note written in neat black capitals:
THINGS CAN CHANGE
Unable to look any longer at her miniature self, Nella moves on to Cornelia, marvelling at the maid’s blue eyes, which appraise her with a hint of merriment. Cornelia’s hand is raised to her face, and on closer inspection, it appears she has her finger to her lips.
Otto is next, his hair made from dyed lamb’s wool. Looking more agile than Johannes, he too is thinner than in real life. Nella touches his arms; his simple servant outfit belies the carved muscles underneath. Her fingers spring away. ‘Otto?’ she says out loud, feeling foolish when the doll does not reply.
Then comes Marin, her grey eyes fixed on some invisible horizon. It is undoubtedly her – the slim face, the solemn mouth holding a thought desperate to burst. Her clothing is accurately sombre; black velvet, a capacious plain lace collar. Mesmerized, Nella runs her fingers up Marin’s thin wrists, her slender arms, the high forehead and rigid neck. Remembering what Cornelia told her about the secret, softer lining of Marin’s sober clothes, Nella feels beneath the bodice. Her fingers light on a fine pelt of sable.
Good God, she thinks. What is happening here? For this is further than the miniaturist has ever gone. A little gold key, a rocking cradle, two dogs – these could all arguably constitute the pleasant aspects of life in a merchant’s house. But this – these dolls – are different. How does the miniaturist know what Marin wears against her skin, or that Peebo has flown away?
You thought you were a locked box inside a locked box, Nella tells herself. But the miniaturist sees you – she sees us. Tracing a shaking finger over Marin’s skirt (what looks like the best black wool on the market), Nella hides her sister-in-law’s doll in a far corner of the miniature salon, behind a chair where no one can see her.
Next out is a male figurine, slightly shorter than Johannes, wearing a big brimmed hat and a sword, dressed in the livery of the St George Militia. His face is large, and despite the reduced articulacy of his full-barrelled body, it is quite clearly Frans Meermans. Agnes follows, with her waspish waist and rings on her fingers made from tiny shards of coloured glass. Her face is narrower than Nella remembers it, but the familiar seed pearls are dotted in white on her black headband. A large crucifix hangs round her neck, and in one hand she holds a conical loaf of sugar, no longer than an ant.
The eighth and last doll falls from the velvet cloth, making Nella cry out. Picking him up from the floor, it is plain to see Jack Philips, his leather jacket and white shirt with spilled cuffs, his legs encased in a pair of leather boots. Hair wild, mouth a cherry red. Why would the miniaturist want to remind me of this awful boy? Nella wonders. Why must I have him in my house?
No answer comes from the dolls, who stare up at her, such powerful diminishments. Nella tries her best to look calmly at these characters, lying on their velvet cloth, made with care and observation. She places them one by one in dark corners in the miniature house.
Surely there is no malice in them? She tries very hard to convince herself – but this is something that seems to go beyond the normal, there is a commentary here she cannot place her finger on. It is more than plain mimicry.
There is one black cloth parcel left, smaller than the others. Nella barely dares to open it, but the impulse is too strong. When she unwraps the cloth she thinks she might be sick. Lying there is a miniature green bird, looking up at her with bright black eyes, his feathers real, purloined from a less fortunate creature. His tiny claws are made of wire and covered with wax, and can be manipulated to perch anywhere.
Her world is shrinking, and yet it feels more unwieldy than ever.
She whirls round – is the miniaturist here in the room, hiding under the bed? Nella crouches to look, pulling the curtains away from the wall in a quick sweep as if to catch her unawares, even looking behind the curtains on the cabinet. All she finds are empty spaces that mock her desire to believe. You’re Nella-in-the-Clouds, she reprimands herself – you with your fancies and your imagination running wild. You were supposed to leave that Assendelft girl behind.
Through the window, people are walking along the path. The Herengracht is busy today, for ice has prevented easy travel on the canal. The herring-seller is stamping her feet on the corner to keep warm, ladies and gentlemen walk with their servants, all wrapped against the bitter cold. A few glance up at Nella as they pass, faces turned like snowdrops towards the winter sky.