Blind him!
Fornicator!
Gouge out his eyes!
Dauber!
Scratch out his eyes!
Ah! I can't see!
I can't see!
Fuck!
Where's the light?
I'm blind. I'm blind!
I'm blind!
My eyes...
My eyes!
Open your eyes, you fool!
Stop fooling!
Stop your shouting! - Who is shouting?!
A blind man shouting! A blind man shouting!
Who will listen to a blind man shouting?!
Blinded.
Darkness.
Miles...
and miles...
Fuck. And miles...
of... painted darkness.
Lit by spasms of light.
If you're lucky.
Open your eyes, you fool!
Miles and miles...
and miles...
of painted darkness.
Emptiness.
Silence.
Are you all right?
Was that only a nightmare?
Have I-I-I... Have I woken up?
I've been seeing the night. I was watching the night.
I was looking...
into Darkness.
Darkness without ending. I was watching Darkness.
I was...
watching... the night.
I was nightwatching.
You were only dreaming.
I am blind. Do I at least look blind?
You were having a nightmare.
Can I, in fact, see...
you, Hendrickje?
Red-blooded Hendrickje?
You see, I know... I know your blood is red.
Do I remember - your eyes are blue?
I suspect your piss is yellow! - Be quiet.
Let me get you something to drink.
How would you describe...
colour?
If you were blind?
Hendrickje...
describe the colour red to...
to a blind man.
You just did.
It's the colour of blood. - Red is thick to touch.
If you could not tell what it was by its colour,
you could tell what it was by its touch.
Red is touchable.
And it's warm.
And when it grows cold, it crusts over.
What is yellow?
The sun?
Yellow smells.
It's... it's the smelling colour!
Yellow is thinner than red. It's more transparent.
Yellow moves.
Red is static and becomes solid.
Yellow always moves.
Yellow could be...
a liquid.
New beer.
Urine.
Piss.
It doesn't smell so bad to begin with.
Then it smells ugly.
Get dressed. We're all waiting for you.
Ineke's pregnant.
Again?
You have milk in your beard.
Why again? I haven't got a proper beard.
Because Claus is insatiable.
Then you should grow a beard.
Successful men wear beards. - Sanza,
pick up your doll. - I want to be insatiable...
and wealthy.
Then grow a proper beard.
You are insatiable.
You could be wealthier.
- Hendrickje, stop singing. - Oh, no. Let her sing.
It's good for the baby.
- How would you know?
- Hendrickje, you're dripping all over the floor.
And what else is good for my baby?
Milk.
Gallons of fresh milk, from a Friesian wet-nurse.
Well, if Saskia's not breastfeeding,
we shall have to have Hendrickje breastfeeding.
Rembrandt, don't be vulgar.
Poor girl isn't a woman yet.
Besides, I shall have enough milk to make cheese.
Saskia, don't be vulgar.
There are students present.
Students are here to learn and earn us money.
- You mustn't feed him yourself. - Of course
I'm going to feed him myself. Geertje, you're old-fashioned.
We are living in the 17th century.
Women in the 17th century are allowed to smoke, write,
correspond with Descartes, wear spectacles,
insult the pope, and breast-feed babies.
If you can find a man to pay for the first and poke you up
for the last. - Geertje, that's enough.
Geertje's not old-fashioned. She wears breeches
between her legs and garters below her knees.
And how do you know that, Hendrickje Stoffels?
Because she's a very observant girl.
Saskia, what have you got there?
My accounts...
"Contemporary women are permitted to smoke, write...
Correspond with Descartes,
wear spectacles, insult the pope,
and breast-feed babies."
And conduct business with men of substance.
- Oh, I'm a man of substance. - Mm. Visscher has a list.
He has 12 officers interested.
No, I'm not going to do it.
Yes, you are. At 60 guilders each.
No, I'm not. Anyway, that's too low a price.
Yes, you are,
and it's 720 guilders.
I'm not. I'm busy.
"Ecce Homo" till May.
"Washing of the Hands" till June.
"Saint Veronica" by August.
You have such devoted supporters.
And then print editions of the same.
With golden angels. I need to find a golden angel.
You are modelling Magdalene.
There was no record of her being pregnant.
Perhaps Hendrickje can be an angel?
- Are you pregnant, Hendrickje? - Angels should be innocent.
What, even in the 17th century?
But I am innocent.
Painting soldiers will make me blind.
Blind and fingerless.
Both my father and my brother had their fingers blown off
by the Dutch artillery -
and not by being shot at, but by shooting at!
Rembrandt.
And painting repetitious rows of smiling part-time soldiers
is boring
and certainly bad for the eyes.
Not one of them's ever fired a musket in anger,
though all of them claim to have pulled
the King of Spain's fucking beard!
Here's our captain, Piers Hasselburg,
and our lieutenant, Jean Egremont.
Van Rijn.
They tell me your father was a miller.
Well, so was mine.
We are people of the wind.
That is always blowing in contrary directions.
Taking good advantage, I am sure,
- of where we sail. - How we sail.
And making sure we can sail back.
With profitable returns.
I thank you, sir.
Do not mention it, Madame.
I am a soldier, but my father is - was -
a flower merchant in Paris.
But now, when Amsterdam is not besieged by Spaniards,
my business interests, Madame,
are flowers.
Miller,
flower-merchant, soldier.
You see how the Republic goes downhill?
But now, we have an opportunity.
An excuse for a grand celebratory group portrait.
This time, on the occasion of the arrival in Amsterdam
of Mary Stuart, daughter of the King of England.
When monarchies are in trouble,
they send their females begging.
The King of England is in serious trouble
of losing his throne to his parliament.
His daughter is here in Amsterdam
trying to arrange loans.
And to pawn the Royal English jewels.
Oh, sounds desperate.
No, no. She understands, and we understand,
that there are many here in Amsterdam
who will, as likely as not, help her out,
with considerable profit to themselves, of course.
- Ourselves. - And you?
How will that help you out?
I am looking for a place in the King of England's household
as a musician and a composer.
My cousin, Ruben's protege, van Dyck, is at Westminster.
Then the king had better win.
So you are to be the standard-bearer,
the carrier of the flag of Amsterdam.
Your ambition does not sound to be so very patriotic.
Patriotism is a currency of fluctuating value
in the marketplace.
The Dutch abroad are not the Dutch at home.
You could go to England.
You must know the King of England owns a portrait of your mother.
My son, Carl.
His mother collects your paintings.
My son collects your prints.
My mother bought the "Stoning of Saint Stephen"
that you painted in Leiden.
Uli!
I hear I'm charging 80 a full-length now?
Would that be to give yourself a useful profit?
Come on, Rembrandt, be more gracious.
I recommended you.
I am an honest businessman,
even in my dishonesty.
If I benefit - and it's for me to say how
and for you to find out - you could benefit too.
Push up your price.
Inclusive or exclusive of your fee?
Well, I obviously don't expect extras from you.
Those days are over, I think.
I feel, I know, I'm sure...
Cousin, you promised me a man of talent,
and as you can see,
I now have him.
He lives in my kitchen.
With servants from Leeuwarden all around him.
I have his replica in my belly.
Saskia!
And you promised after you trapped him with my smile
and my body as bait... - Saskia, Saskia...
...that I would think of you,
and I was certainly to think of myself.
Rembrandt therefore left you, through me,
on your recommendation.
You benefited...
from this little provincial
for eight profitable years.
Time enough to make a little fortune.
Now it's my turn...
to make a little fortune,
for my son.
And I believe you still owe us money.
- Saskia. - Rembrandt,
allow me to introduce Rombout Kemp,
our sergeant.
You may know him as the Keeper of the Resselwart Orphanage.
Van Rijn.
We are neighbours in the Breestraat.
How about making a contribution to the orphanage?
We have many new children, orphaned by the Spanish wars.
Then I think they must all be touching 30.
The governing body is now six.
Perhaps as a neighbour you might like to join us,
a man of means doing charitable works,
and we may need a group portrait soon
to remind us of our responsibilities.
Perhaps we could remind you of your responsibilities.
I, Rembrandt, will be your commanding officer.
Are you ready, Mr. Painter?
Then aim...
...fire!
- Rembrandt!
- Oh, what's happening? - Oh, she's fainted!
Fetch some water!
Can you hear me?!
Saskia! Saskia!
Never again! Saskia!
Look at this.
Bloody burghers.
Gawking and smiling.
Poncing and posing.
I can do better than that.
There's Benjamin.
He had a most desirable wife.
Dimples and curls everywhere.
He couldn't sit still. He had a bladder complaint.
We had to keep the chamber pot by his chair.
They all look so stiff.
They all look like conspirators.
Or worse - thieves, pickpockets.
Child-molesters, murderers...
His head's too big.
Well, maybe the painter wanted you to say that.
He didn't like him or approve of his character,
so he made him absurd.
Not enough to spoil his own reputation,
of course, but certainly enough
to spoil his. Legitimate painter's armoury.
Flatter, praise, insult, abuse, accuse.
Accuse?
Are you going to do the same?
I might. It depends.
On what?
The price, the state of our friendship,
the angle of the light,
the smell of his armpits,
the beauty of his wife,
whether I've eaten or drunk, whether, indeed, I am drunk,
does he know Titian,
has he been to Cadiz, does he have big feet?
Context, context, context.
God,
I'd like to watch you do those things.
I really think you ought to do it.
You do?
Well, the boy says I should do it.
Then I'll do it!
No, I won't. At least, not for nothing.
I want 100 guilders for a full-length, half the money up front.
Now, how much did van der Helst get for this one?
2, 3, 6, 7, 8... full-lengths at 100.
2, 3, 6, 7... half-lengths at 50.
2, 4, 6, 8... nine heads-and-shoulders at 25.
Which is 1,375.
Not bad.
Well, he should've subtracted 100 for that stale duck,
50 for the vulgar drinking-horn and 25
for that dried-up vegetation. - Hello!
Looks like they're making certain
that you don't have a choice, Rembrandt.
Ah, they've already reserved you a space,
Rembrandt.
You have been named.
I want to draw everyone beforehand.
That's essential.
And I'm not doing long rows of pompous faces,
but anyway, I have other things to do first,
and I want nine months.
Human gestation period.
If it takes that long to make a baby,
it will certainly take that long to make a painted army.
It doesn't take that long to make a baby.
Ten seconds, at the most. - For you, maybe,
but for me, with the right dimples and curls,
five seconds.
This is me with Saskia.
Saskia van Uylenburgh.
Hendrick Uylenburgh's cousin.
Now, Hendrick was my dealer and patron for eight years.
How was she?
Well, she was my dealer's cousin,
and the three of us knew what we were doing.
A business proposition.
Keep it in the family, so to speak.
A dynastic marriage.
Twenty when I met her. I was... 25.
I admit that I was, at first,
not so much taken with her.
A little insipid, I thought.
And she was also hoity-toity.
An accent.
At least from where I stood.
She smirked a great deal.
She kept eating almonds,
which she hid in a pocket somewhere.
Maybe in her underwear,
close to her skin.
And...
and perhaps that excited me a little.
Out of her armpit...
into her mouth.
We met for the first time in a church.
The Old Church, Amsterdam.
You don't normally think of armpits in a church.
Her first question she ever asked me
was how the mills were turning in Leiden.
So how do the mills turn in Leiden?
Cheeky cow.
I said, "Well enough.
As well as they turn in Friesland.
The wind blows in Leiden
as much as it does in Leeuwarden,
or, for that matter, out of any miller's arse,"
and she smirked again.
So I could see it was going to be possible
to share a dirty joke with her.
God, she had big feet.
And, I must admit,
the most delightful,tight little arse.
We married,
and it worked.
We rousted about.
Did she love me?
I don't know.
Did I love her?
I don't know.
She was more like a relative I had known all my life.
Perhaps even like a... sister,
but legitimate in bed, so to speak.
How do babies grow in your family?
- Like tulips. - Let's make a baby.
- Very well. - Very well?
What's that mean? - No more than it says.
Get Geertje!
- Let me look! - No, you don't want to look!
Geertje?!
- Let me draw you. - No.
- Then let me stay. - You must go!
This is a private time. No drawing or painting!
Now, what the hell am I,
just an excuse for a bloody drawing?!
How can it be a private time?! It's our child! We made it!
I and my stretched and bloodied private parts
are not just an excuse for another bloody painting...
There are chalk marks all over the sheet!
that ends up in a dealer's window
for the whole world to see!
My body reproduced in a thousand prints
seen all over Holland! - Holland?
How dare you! You mean Europe?
Oh, fuck you and your painting!
You are not needed. Take you stuff and get out!
- Yes, yes! - Get out!
I think we married to make babies,
and to make a fortune for her cousin -
and for her, and for me.
We did?
We certainly needed to make some money.
Good at keeping the books.
She was very good with figures.
Geertje, please. Look after her, will you?
Bastard! Get out! You smelly little runt!
Take my hand!
- Out! - I pay you!!
We really needed to make some money.
And creating a nice, snug,
and very Dutch comfortable business.
She was a great companion.
Oh, fuck.
Fuck. Fuck!
I cannot lose her,
and I'm not going to go down and fucking pray.
There's no goddamn superstitious angels,
no visitations!
This sort of goddamn thing is happening all over Amsterdam
at this moment.
God.
What... what are you doing?
You're not going to jump, are you?
No.
I'm an angel.
Least they say so,
when I dance for them
in my angel's costume.
Angel's costume?
Like when I was born.
No clothes on.
Only I'm nine now.
Well...
nine going on 10.
Perhaps 11.
I could be 12.
Maybe even older.
Horatio says that's what excites them.
Am I a woman or am I still a girl?
What do you think?
I don't think I'm a woman yet anyway.
Least, I haven't bled yet.
They say that as soon as you bleed,
you become a woman.
You are no longer a child and you can go with men.
Sometimes,
they become impatient,
and they cut you to make you bleed.
I'm nearly as old as my mother was when she died.
She jumped off the roof of the Westerkerk.
What was she doing up there?
Watching the night, I expect. Like you.
They will tell you that babies are made up there,
the stars in the sky,
but it's not true.
Fathers make the babies.
They are out there,
doing it,
between their legs.
In the streets.
In the Kerkendam
and the Kloosterstraat and the Doelenplein.
And then the mothers bring them to the house downstairs.
I live downstairs.
It's not so bad really.
Most of the babies die and go to heaven.
Least, I think they go to heaven.
So it's less a burden than you think.
Take my handl
Think about it.
Oh, I will.
Why are your hands red?
It looks like blood.
Oh, no, it's, um, chalk. I've been drawing.
What are you looking at?
The night.
I was watching the night.
I see churches and...
Over there,
in that church,
is where your wife will be buried.
Really? How do you know that?
And over there, in that church,
is where you will be buried.
She stays there,
and you get to disappear.
Really?
Yes.
Are you an Angel of Death?
No. I'm an Angel of Birth.
Kemp says.
Birth? Really?
Rombout Kemp?
I bring babies.
Whose babies?
I can bring you a baby if you want.
You can?
How's that?
How much will you give me?
That depends.
Girl or boy?
Bring me a boy.
Kemp will be pleased.
He charges more for a boy.
What will you call him,
because as yet these babies don't have names,
and it's important for baptism.
Well, I had thought of Titus.
All right,
but you must look after him very carefully.
Babies need to be provided for, for life. Always.
What happens if you lose your eyes,
become blind. What then?
Did you say Rombout Kemp?
Yes, I did.
He's my father.
Thank you. Ladies...
Ladies, please, please.
Thank you so much, but leave us now.
Thank you. - Let us change the sheets.
- No, no! Leave them! It's blood, chalk. It's us.
Geertje.
And thank you.
We're parents now.
At last, we can be trusted to be alone together.
Hold that.
Hold that Roman gesture for a moment!
Surely we're going to wake up the baby!
It's meant to be a Nativity in Bethlehem, isn't it?!
Matthias, I'll decide, thank you very much, what the scene is.
It could be "The Visit of the Three Kings."
The baby's name this time is Titus.
That's not a Jewish name. It's Roman.
Pompey?
Caesar?
Anthony? Augustus?
That's not bad.
Just hold that one more minute.
The queen.
I am the queen.
Is this wise?
I've given her something to drink. She's a little bit tipsy.
Aren't you being fucking irresponsible?
Like you, she's celebrating. Let her be.
She's just out of childbirth, the baby's sick,
and you're making them both fucking drunk!
Rembrandt, I came to see what you were doing,
but it's all so noisy in here.
Careful, he's just been fed.
You'll make him sick.
Hasselburg.
Meet...
Titus van Rijn.
Painter's son.
Carl, here, hold him.
Come on, he won't bite.
Or shit on your hands.
But he might throw up on your shoulder.
Ah... There.
There he is.
Look at this lot.
Tramps, beggars, Amsterdam riff-raff!
Never could be Romans. - Romans?
Is that what we're meant to be? - I thought we were in Bethlehem.
There were Romans in Bethlehem?
There were Romans everywhere. Just like now.
I'm not playing a Roman Catholic!
You never said we were Roman Catholics!
No one would mistake you for a Roman, or a Catholic.
You're too raggedy-arsed. - Soldiers are soldiers everywhere.
Make them the Dutch Militia, you will have your crowd.
Wave a few banners. Swing a few pikes.
Let the Romans become the Amsterdam Musketeers.
All right, you pathetic rabble, take a break.
Come on, take them to the kitchen for a beer.
Carl, give me back my son,
and take your father into the house,
show him my armour.
I could equip a regiment for him.
Yes! Couldn't I?
Couldn't I?
Ah, so beautiful.
I don't want to do this thing. - Are you so sure?
You prepare a Nativity to celebrate your son,
and you fill it with soldiers.
I think you're halfway to accepting the commission.
And there's no women. There has to be some women
in this painting. Maybe you could be in it.
Oh, no, thank you. All happy roistering,
bad breath, bad jokes, buttock pinching.
Buttock pinching? So who's up to buttock-pinching, then?
Stop it!
No, don't put your hand there.
I'm still bleeding.
Women always bleed after childbirth.
That's normal. - Up to a point.
We have gone beyond that point. - It's two months.
You should be on the mend by now.
What's happened to our love life? - Stop it.
Where's those rosy cheeks?
That kissable backside.
I'm fed up masturbating into a paint-rag.
Well, find yourself a whore, then!
I'm a leaky vessel.
My womb has never returned to where it should've been.
Let me be the judge.
Look what you've done! Get Geertje!
Stop thinking about your prick and get Geertje!
- Sorry. - Saskia? I'm here!
What are you doing on the floor?
You fool! Get out!
Fuck this painting!
Bloody hell!
What are you doing up here?
I'm sorry.
I can only find you a girl baby.
Look.
For Christ's sake, mind you don't fall.
This one's really pretty, don't you think?
I once had two daughters.
Both called Cornelia.
But they died.
I expect they're in Heaven.
Maybe these will be soon.
Only half of girl babies survive,
and only one quarter of boy babies.
My sister and I do our best,
but since we are not fully women yet,
we can't feed them at the breast. That's what they really want.
So since they don't have proper mothers,
they tend to die.
- Where did you get them from? - Downstairs.
Where downstairs? I live downstairs.
In the basement. - Next door, really.
Well, three houses next door,
but the roofs are connected.
My sister normally helps me.
She looks after the boy babies,
and I look after the girl babies.
There's Horatio too, and Dirk, our friends.
They don't look after babies.
They want to be soldiers.
Horatio's certain to be a soldier.
He's learning to fire a musket.
My sister, Marita, is really in love with him.
She often kisses him,
and other things.
You must come downstairs to my house,
and I'll draw you and your sister.
No, I can't do that.
I'm to stay away from men.
Unless they are approved of by my father.
Men are supposed to be dangerous.
Especially at night.
"Oh, foul day!
Oh, desperate deed!
I will bestow on thee
the reward of thy treachery.
Thou wanton!
Blacker than the vilest pit of Hell!
Thinks thou self an innocent?
Thinks thou self chaste?!
I had rather proved thee
what I know thou art.
A whore!"
Witness thus
the reward of dishonour.
I need them. I need them out here.
I need them looking towards me.
I'm the painter of this painting,
I need them here! - Everyone, turn this way.
- That's good, but take it down, please,
because that's going to be way out of the frame.
- That's Jorisz. - Oh, fuck, Jorisz. Never mind.
Listen. That's good, Pieter. I can see Simon.
Jorisz, will you please find the light?!
Get them to put their hands together,
as though in prayer. - Are you sure, Kemp?
This is meant to be a tableau full of martial spirit.
Is it an accident the fair-haired ones are grouped on the left?
Well, they can be your little angels, Kemp.
My God! They don't look
like little angels. - Expert on angels, Kemp?
Because they can come in all shapes, sizes and ages.
They needn't all be girls, either.
Jan is a blacksmith.
Joseph shovels shit,
when he's not in the guardhouse,
or lounging around on our doorstep.
Jacob is a vagrant of no fixed address.
Emmett is... What is Emmett?
Uh, Emmett has been Sophocles and Nebuchadnezzar,
if that helps.
And, and... who else he been?
Potiphar the... Potiphar the what's it called?
- Cuckold. - Cuckold. Thank you.
Potiphar was no cuckold.
Oh, excuse me, he certainly was!
I have spoken to a rabbi,
who told me that Potiphar slept with young men
in order to avoid the temptation
of his wife trying to screw Joseph.
- Jewish sophistry. - Sophis... Really?
They got a down payment on sophistry?
What about Reformists' sophistry?
What about Mary being a virgin as a result
of a translation error from the Hebrew?
Come on, Kemp, keep up, love.
Now, hands together, please, clasped in prayer.
"Our Father who art in Heaven..."
Jan, please, forgotten how to pray?
Thank you.
There's bound to be trouble with the liturgy.
What are we praying for? Rain?
- A visit from the Holy Ghost. - Thank you.
- Permission to shit? - Let's try a Frans Hals.
No, no, but isn't that plagiarism?
No. He stole it from Veronese.
Well, Frans, tables, chairs. Geertje, Hans!
Come on! Things for the table!
I'm not paying 100 guilders to be in a rout.
Oh, come now. See it as good poor-box money.
You can take the leftovers back to the orphanage.
We'll give you a bag.
Take the bread back to your little angels,
your daughters.
I have no daughters.
Jorisz, will you please
stop looking so fucking miserable.
- My dog died. - Oh, sorry, but get a new one.
Like this one who's always trying to screw Jamie's bitch.
Oh, yes, that filthy whore of a species is always on his,
aren't you Woolfi, you dirty dog!
I think we should memorialize his efforts, actually,
but be careful, Jorisz, 'cause he's a biter!
He'll have your prick or your ass, one of the two.
- Mind the glassesl - All right! All right! Ha! Ha!
Everyone ready?
What this needs is Carl.
Carl, put Hendrickje on your lap,
but no fumbling.
She's far too young and far too respectable.
- I'm almost a woman. - He's almost a man;
that's what I am worried about.
We're out to salute
the daughter of the King of England,
who's married to the King of Holland!
He's not a king, goddammit!
As near as - goddammit!
- I'm a Republican! - So you are.
- When you're drunk. - Sit down, Jorisz. Finish your beer.
I am not posing for a picture supporting monarchy.
I hate the House of Orange. - So do we all.
- It's a horrible colour, for a start!
Oldenbarnevelt forever!
- Can I sing? - Sing away, canary.
Kemp, come back! They're singing your song!
Oh, Geertje, I'd like to see you singing!
Get your hands off me, you dirty bastard!
Don't worry, you'll get paid!
You always do! - Shut up!
Goddammit. I'll do it. Stop your sulking.
I'm not sulking. And do what?
The goddamned painting of the militia
pretending to be mighty soldiers.
Oh, that.
What? What do you mean, "Oh, that?"
I thought that was what you wanted!
Goddammit! It was your idea.
You put me up to this! - Did I?
And I know I'll live to regret it.
Then don't do it.
Simply don't do it. It doesn't matter.
Well, now you're being petulant.
You've lost the commission anyway.
You've apparently upset Rombout Kemp.
Uli's acting very nervous lately,
and he's drinking a lot with the Banning Cocqs.
Do you know 100 guilders is not so much.
You could get at least 120 a throw,
painting 20 of them.
Then we can fix the foundations so the house doesn't fall over.
Oh, God! It won't fall over, for Christ's sake.
It would take care of Titus for some time to come.
You know Uli even said you shouldn't do the militia.
Why ever not? He used to be so keen.
He keeps on saying
you ought to talk to the man in the red cloak,
and then decide. - Who's the man
in the red cloak? Uli is getting cold feet.
He's losing his nose for a bargain.
I don't think so.
Something serious is worrying him.
What did you mean, "Take care of Titus?"
It's certain that I'm on the way out.
No. No, you're not.
Come on, get up! Out of this bed at once!
Let me kiss your belly, that'll rouse you.
Oh, for God's sake, don't start that again!
I'll end up on the floor, and the floor's cold.
For Jesus's sake, if the floor's cold, I'll buy you a fucking carpet.
I'm in disgrace.
Why?
For attempting to make love to my wife?
Were you hoping to make a baby?
Not necessarily.
It is strange, isn't it,
how it all happens?
- Is it? - I've watched it happen.
The men come to the orphanage,
and some of the older girls -
Judith, she's about 13 -
are taken to the bedroom overlooking the garden
and they stay there for an hour or so.
I have stood in the gallery and watched.
There is some laughter, it's true,
but mostly, it's all done very quietly,
and then there are tears.
But Judith often comes back with some flowers,
or a new ribbon,
and once, she was given a Passover cake,
which she shared with me.
And once...
my father gave her a silver coin.
Your father? Kemp?
Oh, yes. Don't worry.
He took off his white collar at the door.
I don't think Judith knows he's my father.
She just thinks of him
as an old grandfather from Haarlem.
You're supposed to be an angel
and not know about such things.
What is that bruise on your face?
I said I wasn't going to do what Judith's doing
for at least another year,
not until I start being a woman, that is.
Otherwise, you end up like my sister.
She had an accident with a pot of scalding water.
She will never be beautiful again.
This rain never stops.
Geertje's at Titia's with Titus.
Probably not.
She'd have left Titus with Titia
and gone to the guardhouse round the corner,
more likely with Jorisz.
She'll come back smelling of tobacco
and other unmentionables.
Hendrickje's gone home to buy linen.
I gave her 10 guilders.
Carl and Gerard are at the theatre.
They want to paint actors.
Isn't that what you do?
Annette and Femke are fetching milk.
Christina and Kirde are sewing at Katia's.
Pieter is reading to his mother in Praed Street.
Susanna is praying no doubt at St. Swithin's,
and Caspar and Jan are fishing.
In the rain?
Their mother will kill me if they catch another cold.
Balthasar, well,
he has gone to the cemetery
to whisper to his father's corpse.
And David?
David? Well, you know David.
He's probably asleep somewhere, in a barn with a horse.
We...
...we are alone.
In this big house,
with far too many servants.
Rich.
Fat.
Tired.
Happy?
Not so happy.
You're ill,
and I am...
miserable that you're ill.
What will you do if I die?
You're not going to die.
- What will you do when I die? - I could die before you.
Then where would we be?
I'd have to sell this house.
Say goodbye to paintings and pictures.
Move back to Leeuwarden with Titus.
How about "The Militia"? - Oh, let's not talk about it.
Hell! I confess I'm beginning to warm to it.
You were right.
What's keeping me interested is all the invented conspiracies.
Maybe the conspiracies are not so invented.
Well, Kemp ought to be castrated,
that hypocritical, lecherous old wolf.
Apparently, he's using the orphanage
as a child brothel.
Engelen should be booted out of the Kirchmarsal.
He's buying houses in the Jordaan,
and then burning them down to claim the insurance.
Visscher...
has gone into tobacco after saying he wouldn't,
and forcing down the price, and...
there's a new thing.
Borst says...
that I am giving away...
military secrets.
Apparently, I'm not supposed to show the enemy
how to load and fire the new muskets.
So I'm painting the muskets upside down...
...to confuse!
Because it will.
It will confuse the Spanish in Madrid.
Oh, yes, and, and...
and Valladolid and Santiago de Compostella.
You see now what a patriot I am.
Someone back from somewhere.
Tell them to close the windows in the balcony,
or the dye will run on the new curtains.
They've shot Hasselburg!
Someone's shot Hasselburg!
In the eye!
Th-they shot him through the right eye!
Into his brain!
He's dead!
Hasselburg was killed with a bullet in the eye.
Blinded.
A painter would sympathize with such a death.
So would Samson.
He was blinded in two eyes,
but he brought down the temple.
He had great strength.
There might be equivalent great strength in seeing.
You could bring down the Temple.
Temple. What Temple?
- Samson was a witness. - Before he was blinded.
- You could be a witness, too. - Witness?
I think I might introduce you to the mourners.
This is Carl,
Hasselburg's son.
Well, indeed, we have...
more than a little passing acquaintance.
Don't we, Carl?
Carl is very fond of my favourite servant,
Hendrickje.
Sir, in your great grief,
I offer you condolences from myself and my family.
Thank you, Rembrandt.
- And how is Hendrickje? - She is very well,
and at present, kissing babies.
Where is Egremont?
Where Hasselburg was, Egremont was also,
and I understand Egremont will now be captain?
- Egremont is gone. - Gone?
- This is Hasselburg's successor,
Captain Frans Banning Cocq,
Lord of Purmerend and Ilpendam.
May I, Captain, introduce the painter
who will shortly be memorializing us all?
Oh, sir, a pleasure.
Sadness to meet on such an occasion,
and I trust you have not started your painting,
and therefore not obliged to make any irritating changes?
Maybe since the subjects have changed,
we should change the painter?
Do you think so, Willem?
How would it have been if you'd been obliged
to paint the portrait of a one-eyed captain of the militia,
lying on his back in a coffin
dressed like a grandmother in bed?
And this is Banning Cocq's brother-in-law,
and this is Banning Cocq's nephew.
I have never met a painter before.
I have been told that a painter's hands
are always stained with the materials of his trade.
As you see, Clement,
Rembrandt has the hands
of a gentleman.
Are you a gentleman, sir? - If I am not,
then I can paint any man to look like a gentleman.
Indeed, such is the nature of painting
that I can paint even a prick like you
to look like a gentleman,
and as such, any man to look like a painter.
If you want to be a military man, you have to sweat a little!
It's not all drinking and costume and whoring.
Now, here look,
if you want to get in to be in a military...
Sit still.
Hold this.
You must not look at Marita's face.
If you do, she will run away and hide.
She did that last week and we found her up a chimney.
What happened to her face?
Straighten your arm.
Kemp did it.
Rombout Kemp?
He caught her...
with her dress above her head with Horatio,
who had his thingy between her legs.
He said that she was very, very wicked.
So he threw the pot of scalding water in her face,
to stop her being a temptation, he said.
My God! That's terrible.
How old is Horatio?
He's 13.
He's going to be a soldier.
He can fire a musket,
though he doesn't know really how to.
And he loves me.
We are going to run away together.
To New Amsterdam.
Manhattan Island.
In America.
Rembrandt is asking us to be stand-ins
to a collection of rich merchants' sons
playing at soldiers!
When have they ever fired a shot in anger?
When are they ever likely to fire a shot in anger?
Bought commissions, bought titles,
and bought uniforms.
They ought to be shot, all of them.
Maybe that's what they have started doing already.
Hasselburg is dead.
I used to trade bulbs from Turkey.
That's how I started,
but the bottom fell out.
Now it's carnations
from Alexandria.
Just as versatile as tulips.
Just as colourful.
Just as variegated.
Just as decorative.
And they smell.
Tulips never smelt.
Except when they went bad, but it's not the same.
The market's all right, but not brilliant.
You could buy them off me, if you like.
I'll give you...
a goodish price.
Where the hell have you been?
Hey! Look at that!
What do you think? Huh?
Do you think I look and feel like a flower-seller?
From Paree?
A Huguenot escaping from the pogroms?
Like Descartes hiding
from being a French soldier,
living incognito in Amsterdam,
learning to be Dutch -
double Dutch, even!
Trying very hard indeed to assimilate,
like all foreigners. What do you think?
I think you're a fake, Bloemfelt.
I saw you at the theatre the other evening,
and not in the audience, on the stage.
You're an actor.
And I know your moustache to be fake, too.
And this, of course, is not your house, is it?
I mean, this is Egremont's house.
Till he gets back.
I'm looking after it for him.
All is not as it seems,
is it, Bloemfelt?
I mean, shall I paint you
as the flower merchant Bloemfelt?
As the actor Bloemfelt?
As the pretend soldier Bloemfelt?
Or as Lieutenant Egremont?
I should do as you normally do, Rembrandt.
Your paintings are always full of actors
posing and stalking about.
And like all actors,
you're always peering in a mirror
to see how you look.
All the world's a stage, Rembrandt?
You're going to put us all on a stage in your painting?
Oh, it's wonderful.
You did it at last.
Oh, you do listen.
Thank you! Let me kiss you.
Where did you get it?
I walked to Jaffa,
I got a camel to Jerusalem,
I climbed Mount Ararat.
Yes, I sailed the whole Sea of Galilee.
Where did you get it, really?
No, that would be telling.
Oh, look it's beautiful!
Oh, I want to be buried in it!
What? Tatty and moth-eaten by then.
Pieter sold it to me. He says it's from Cadiz.
- Where's Cadiz? - I dunno.
Fetch the globe! Where is Cadiz?
Come on! You must all sit on my magic carpet.
Well, with all of us on it, it won't fly away.
Come on, bring your wine.
Sit here and here. Balance it and stop it tipping.
- Rembrandt, hurry up. - All right, all right.
If you don't sit down, we'll fly away,
and you'll be left behind! - I'm checking the filth.
- Up you get. - Oh, me coccyx.
So where is Cadiz?
Well, I have to say, it's in the Keizersgracht.
What?
- In Amsterdam? - Well, I said to Pieter
to get me a Turkish carpet for you,
and he knew that Banning Cocq's father
lived for several years in Alexandria and Jaffa,
and he had a collection. So we did a deal.
"Pontius Pilate Washing His Hands"
for the Dutch Turkish carpet,
courtesy of the Cocqs.
There was surely a hidden meaning there.
I would say so!
That family is full of secrets and conspiracies.
Titia, how do you know that?
The biggest public secret
is that Captain Frans Banning Cocq,
Lord of Whatever,
is hopelessly in love with Willem van Ruytenburch,
Lord of Whatever.
Oh! What? That little runt? Fuck!
- Titia!
How on earth do you know that? - Has our little Willem
got his promotion, then?
Apparently his father was somewhat peculiar
in that direction as well.
Too many years going native in Arabia,
where he shared certain favours with a bailiff.
- Or a "caliph." - A caliph, like you!
- Well, I don't care.
I like this carpet very much. - Good, good.
So does Titus. He just sicked up on it.
Oh, Titus!
Well, that's it, christened then. We can't turn it back now.
If Titus thinks it warrants his vomited breakfast,
then that's it. Settled.
Yes, the English say
the Dutch...
are getting taller all the time.
That seems not to be the case, though,
with little Willem. Do you think?
Little?
You think Willem is little?
Do we look so different together?
Well, maybe if...
Well, if you...
dress him in yellow and white -
with a tallish hat and perhaps a feather,
and I'm dressed darkish, maybe in black, like this,
that would compensate a little, don't you think?
But I mean we don't want to look like a bride and groom,
now, do we?
You're hearing me, Rembrandt?
Oh, you're making all your negatives sound to me like positives.
I think I'm hearing you very well.
Oh, good, that's very good.
So perhaps you might be the excellent man for the job.
But
there is my brother-in-law,
Andries de Graeff, to remember.
That business of the returned painting
wasn't very good, was it, Rembrandt?
We understood he...
We understood he threw the glove at you, so to speak.
A challenge,
so to speak?
You know, he tends to be touchy and tetchy, I suppose.
Well, it's not too late for you to change your mind,
and I would hate to have to sue you for non-payment,
like your brother-in-law,
who you must know lost his case.
Ah! So who's making a challenge now?
Well, you know,
Andries warned me all about you, you know,
putting special meanings in your paintings.
I mean, what he was asking for was honesty.
You interpreted the honesty for drunkenness.
Is that right?
Rembrandt?
And since he's my brother-in-law,
and very, very wealthy...
...I understand several of us paid you already?
Isn't that right?
he red sash, I think, and the black suit.
Let's see? Good.
And I think we'll have a gesture,
a gesture like a Roman officer.
Not Greek.
And the...
That's it.
Flat-soled shoes,
this, I think.
Oh, and "The Man in Black."
And you've...
you've picked up the glove, so to speak,
for your brother-in-law?
- Yeah. Yeah, I think so.
I think so...
Yes.
Well, as long as you make Willem look very grand, eh?
He'll be pleased. As of course shall I.
We shall, I'm sure, Willem and I,
look very splendid together. Very splendid.
Look what we found for you.
She's a present.
A beauty. An exotic.
Her name is Ispidie, from the Gold Coast,
and she hasn't caught pneumonia or influenza yet,
but I'm certain she surely will, eventually,
and then she'll die.
They just don't survive very long.
You can take her and then draw her,
or whatever you do.
What do you do?
You're so wealthy now.
You could probably buy her entire tribe.
Though if she's only got six months to live,
it might not be a good idea.
I'm sure painting alone
never made you so filthy rich.
Tell us what you really do to make all this cash.
Are you a sort of pimp, Rembrandt?
I have known some pimps here and there,
some of them were quite well off,
but I would never say they were rich.
Really rich.
See, the problem with pimps
is that they don't live so long either.
They die of the pox or the knife of a jealous lover,
or with their eyes scratched out.
Are you a ship speculator?
For I am told you are lousy with money.
When people owe me money, I'm ruthless.
I just can't stand debtors.
If you can't play the game like the rest of us, then out.
I understand the money side of things
is more in your wife's line. - We gave her 50 each.
I suppose that's half of it now.
Or has it gone up again?
I need a good position in that painting.
No Holland corners,
and if I don't look like I would like to look like...
then 50 is all you're getting.
I hear that Wormsmark...
It's Wormsdyke.
...has included you
in his deal with the Sunflower.
And I understand...
that that is Egremont's ship.
Do you know where he is?
- Egremont?
Good Lord, no! He's finished.
He's disgraced himself. He'll probably stay abroad.
Probably somewhere where they speak French.
Madeira. Tunisia.
She speaks French.
Don't you, darling?
She may be black,
but she's very, very talented.
Remember, Rembrandt, six months at the latest.
Then you have to pay for the coffin.
And the Calvin crowd,
they don't really like blacks in their cemeteries.
Do they, Ispidie?
Look...
I paid 20 guilders for these.
I need to wear them!
My wife will complain if I don't
and my life won't be worth living.
- Now... - I wore this at the Queen's visit!
If I put you in this stuff,
you're going to have to lose the beard,
because they want clean-shaven.
I could give you a dog to carry. - What the hell for?!
I don't like dogs, and they don't like me!
They bite me.
I insist we wear these.
I'm paying, for God's sake!
This - wrong colour.
Too dull and no shine.
If they're good enough for the Queen of France,
they're good enough for me,
and should be good enough for you!
Look, if you wear this stuff,
then I'm going to put you in the shadows,
otherwise you'll look like a catamite in a kardomah.
Next one? - Well, what the hell is that?
-Well, the first's a bum-boy, and the second I'm not sure.
I got it from Wormscheldt. - It's Wormskerck!
There... Now, this...
How's Egremont doing?
Disgraced. - Oh?
- Why do you want to know?
He disappeared.
Disappeared? What? He was so loud a man,
I doubt he could disappear so... easily.
Disgraced, drunk in charge of firing.
He drank too much.
He's got relatives in Virginia.
Maybe he's gone there.
He was the one that ordered the shot
that killed Hasselburg.
Now that, to me,
does not at all sound likely.
Fire!
Clear!
Ferdinand. Ready?
Fire!
Clear.
Gerard. Ready?
Fire!
Clear.
You've forgotten the order to aim.
Who's doing the aiming?
Well, surely the shooter aims his own musket?
- You would've thought so. - Not without a musket stand.
All right.
Well, let's try it again. Uh, now, Hendrickje!