My first thought was that I was being mugged, or at best accosted. As I’ve already noted, I’m still quite highly strung when I’m out and about. And I suspect that as I shuffled down the High Street in Holt this afternoon I was miles away, lost in my own grey world, turning over some dismal thought or other, when I became increasingly conscious of someone creeping towards me, and threatening to impose themselves into my little bubble of misery. And a young person at that – which pretty much guarantees a mugging – someone who came scuttling up to me and grabbed me by the arm.
Well, ‘grabbed’ may be overstating it somewhat. But physical contact was definitely made. And being handled by strangers has always put my back up. So I must have recoiled. Then the anonymous youth was saying, ‘Excuse me,’ and apologising, as he could clearly see that he’d scared me half to death.
To be fair, the whole thing could have been resolved a good deal sooner if only his pronunciation hadn’t been so poor. So that when he said ‘Holbein’ it had rhymed with ‘Woodbine’, as it is meant to, rather than ‘runner bean’ which was the way that it came out.
‘Your Holbein book,’ he said. ‘I think I found it.’
And now I recognised him as the young man who’d been behind the counter at the second-hand bookshop on my second visit. The one I’d rather unkindly likened to Kafka or Dostoevsky, and who, to my shame, turns out to be a very considerate individual. And when, at last, I’d worked out who he was and begun to grasp what it was he was talking about, he was already explaining how he’d mentioned the fact that I was looking for the book to Carol – who is most likely the woman I know as Jenny – and how it turned out that she’d had a look at it herself, after seeing me poring over it, and left it behind the counter.
‘I’ve been keeping an eye out for you,’ he told me, as he led me across the road to the shop, which, in itself, is just about enough to get any widow welling up. The idea, in fact, that anyone at all might be keeping an eye out for you.
Well, I’m assuming he must have been able to see that I was in a bit of a state because when we reached the shop he even offered to make me a cup of tea. But I declined – paid for the book, thanked him and got back out of there as quickly as possible. Primarily out of embarrassment, but also because now that I finally had the book in my hands again and what with him being so kind to me I didn’t want to burst into tears right there in the shop.
I got as far as the car park before stopping and flipping through the book’s pages. It really is an unexceptional edition. And one, apparently, which used to reside on the shelves of the library of Norwich Art College. All four corners are bent and battered. Oh, those rough and scruffy undergraduates! The plain brown cover is partially bleached from sunlight. But the actual plates are close to perfect. And the paintings themselves are … well, they’re simply exquisite.
I waited till I got back home before having a proper look at it. I pushed the boat out and put the kettle on. And since I’m in a mood of contrition, I feel I owe a word or two’s apology to the two gentlemen in The Ambassadors. The chap on the left does indeed look rather bulky, but that’s probably as much to do with all the furs and so forth slung around him as his actual girth. The chap on the right also has a powerful presence, but this is mainly due to the decidedly jazzy design of his dressing gown.
The woman with the bonnet is not quite as inundated as I’d imagined. A single thrush stands to attention over one shoulder and there’s the odd sprig of greenery here and there. But close scrutiny reveals that the squirrel in her lap actually has a tiny chain around its neck, so it’s not as if the creature had been magnetically drawn towards her from the wilderness.
But the revelation is Christina of Denmark. The weird thing is that I’m actually familiar with this painting. I’ve stood before it on several occasions, but never properly appreciated what a wonderful piece of work it is. The girl’s white face peers out from the top of a heap of deep black velvet. Her hands, neatly crossed over a pair of cream gloves, are the only other source of light. But it’s her steady gaze which holds you. Once she’s caught your eye there’s no letting go.
I’d flipped through the whole book and come back to her two or three times before I checked the text for any info. And it was only then that I learnt that she was dressed in black as she was in mourning – that she was a young widow – and that Holbein had been shipped out to Brussels to paint her as yet another prospective bride for Henry VIII.
Well, aside from the fact that the poor little thing looks barely old enough to have seen off a first husband, let alone be contemplating the perils of having big, bad Henry as her second, the beautiful creature is a widow! And so I’m bound to wonder if that’s the reason I’ve been so desperate to get my hands on the book. I mean, when I picked it up last week did I unconsciously register her mourning clothes? I don’t believe so. I don’t think it ever crossed my mind.
And then suddenly I’m crying. A proper little outburst, the kind which I’ve not had in quite a while. The poor sweet thing. Married at the age of eleven. Widowed at the age of thirteen. And still only sixteen, by my calculations, when Holbein came a-calling, on the orders of Henry VIII.
In fact, she was widowed a second time by the age of twenty-three. To be honest, I’m not quite sure why I should be getting myself so upset about a girl who lived the best part of five hundred years ago. Not least because, according to the book, she had a good forty-five years of independence, as the Regent of Lorraine. Whatever that entailed. I suppose it’s the idea of her being married off at such a tender age, and to such old duffers. And having to drag all that black velvet around behind her and play at being the widow for so many years. That really does upset me. Although I can’t help but feel that my pity for her is somehow wrapped up in some sort of pity for myself.
Anyway, once I got a grip and made myself a cup of coffee, and had another skim through my precious book, I began to appreciate that it’s not just the eyes of my poor child-widow that move me. Despite all the props and pomp and finery – and Holbein’s undoubted genius – it’s the eyes of all his subjects that draw you in. They’re all so sad. And so solemn. All except for dear Christina. Who is simply serene.