Nightwatching

(suspenseful cello music)

(slow cello music)

(mob shouting)

(man grunting)

(shouting)

- Blind him!

- Fornicator!

- Gouge out his eyes!

- Dauber!

- Scratch out his eyes!

(indistinct comments)

(crowd shouting)

(dog barking)

- Ah! I can't see!

I can't see!

F***!

Where's the light?

I'm blind. I'm blind!

I'm blind! Oh!

My eyes...

My eyes!

Open your eyes, you fool!

- Stop fooling!

(panting)

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...

F***. 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.

(baby crying)

Emptiness.

Silence.

- Are you all right?

- Oh!

Oh! Oh, God!

(whimpering)

Was that only a nightmare?

Have l-l-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? Hmm?

Red-blooded Hendrickje?

Ah?

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?

Hmm?

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.

(urinating)

Then it smells ugly.

- Get dressed.

We're all waiting for you.

(woman singing)

Ineke's pregnant.

- Again?

(laughter)

- 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.

(woman still singing)

- Then grow a proper beard.

- You are insatiable.

You could be wealthier.

(singing)

- 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.

(laughter)

Poor girl isn't a woman yet.

Besides, I shall have

enough milk to make cheese.

(Rembrandt laughing)

- 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...

(all):
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.

- Oh...

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.

Ah-hah.

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 l-l-I am innocent.

(gunshots)

(cows lowing)

- 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 f***ing 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.

(chuckling)

- Oh!

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.

- Mm... Miller,

flower-merchant, soldier.

You see

how the Republic goes downhill?

(laughter)

- 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 Dyk, is at Westminster.

- Then the king had better win.

Hmm?

- So you are to be

the standard-bearer,

the carrier of the flag of Amsterdam.

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