"Baker, Kage - Standing in His Light" - читать интересную книгу автора (Baker Kage)

Standing in His Light
by Kage Baker


The country was so flat its inhabitants had four different words for horizon. Its sunlight was watery, full of tumbling clouds. Canals cut across a vast wet chaos of tidal mud, connecting tidy red-brick towns with straight streets, secure and well-ordered behind walls. The houses were all alike behind their stepped facades, high windows set in pairs letting through pale light on rooms scrubbed and spotless. The people who lived in the rooms were industrious, pious, and preoccupied with money.

A fantasist might decide that they were therefore dull, smug and inherently unromantic, the sort of people among whom the Hero might be born, but against whom he would certainly rebel, and from whom he would ultimately escape to follow his dreams.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. The people who lived in the houses above the placid mud flats had fought like demons against their oppressors, and were now in the midst of a philosophical and artistic flowering of such magnificence that their names would be written in gold in all the arts.

Still, they had to make a living. And making a living is a hard, dirty and desperate business.




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THE INN, 1659

The weaver's son and the draper's son sat at a small table. They had been passing back and forth a pipe of tobacco slightly adulterated with hemp, and, now that it was smoked out, were attempting to keep the buzz going with two pots of beer. It wasn't proving successful. The weaver's son, thin and threadbare, was nervously eyeing his guest and trying to summon the courage to make a business proposition. The draper's son, reasonably well-fed and dressed, seemed in a complacent mood.

"So you learned a thing or two about lenses in Amsterdam, eh?" said the weaver's son.

"I'd have gone blind if I hadn't," replied the draper's son, belching gently. "Counting threads on brocade? You can't do it without a magnifying glass."

"I had this idea," said the weaver's son. "Involving lenses, see. Have you looked at de Hooch's paintings lately? He's using a camera obscura for his interiors. They're the greatest thingЧ"

"You know my Latin's no good," said the draper's son. "What's a camera obscura, anyway?"

"All the words mean is dark room," explained the weaver's son. "It's a trick device, a box with two lenses and a focusing tube. The Italians invented it. Solves all problems of perspective drawing! You don't have to do any math, no calculations to get correct angles of view. It captures an image and throws a little picture of it on your canvas, and all you have to do is trace over it. It's like magic!"

"And you want me to loan you the money for one?" asked the draper's son, looking severe.

"No! I just thought, er, if you knew about lenses, you might want to help me make one," said the weaver's son, flushing. "And then I'd cut you in for a share of the paintings I sell afterward."

"But your stuff doesn't sell," said the draper's son.

"But it would sell, if I had a camera obscura! See, that's my problem, getting perspective right," argued the weaver's son. "That was the problem with my Procuress. I'm no good with math."

"That's certainly true."

"But the device would solve all that. I've got a whole new line of work planned: no more Bible scenes. I'm going to do ladies and soldiers in rooms, like de Hooch and Metsu are doing. The emblem stuff with hidden meanings, that people can puzzle over. That's what everyone wants, and it's selling like crazy now," said the weaver's son.

The draper's son sighed and drained his beer.

"Look, Jan," he said. "Your father died broke. He made good silk cloth, he ran a pretty decent inn; if he'd stayed out of the art business he'd have done all right for himself. Our fathers were friends, so I'm giving you advice for nothing: you won't make a living by painting. I know it's what you've always wanted to do, and I'm not saying you're not goodЧbut the others are better, and there are a lot of them. And you're not very original, you know."

The weaver's son scowled. He was on the point of telling the draper's son to go to Hell when a shadow fell across their table.