Nightwatching Page #13

we know that,

but you encouraged them,

and that was to be certain

that we all knew

that we were at the theatre,

and at the theatre,

all things are possible.

Even dying of love.

If you think about it

for one minute,

the tradition of militia paintings

that you so carefully broke

was a true and honest tradition,

where the participants can say,

"Look, we are being painted.

Look, we understand

that we are being watched,

and we're looking

straight at you,

into your eyes, at you,

to prove it.

We are not real,

we are in a painting."

That's what they understood,

and that is what they wanted.

You have spoilt all that

for them, Rembrandt.

You have tried to pretend

that these are real people.

They didn't want that,

didn't want it at all.

In your painting,

they hustle and bustle about

doing real things -

loading muskets,

giving commands,

drum, run and bark -

when all they wanted

was to stand still

and be looked at.

"Here is me, here I am

in my splendid uniform

as an important member

of this important club.

I look at you, you look at me.

I'm watching you

and you're watching me."

But you have pretended

that the people in your painting

are not being watched.

Which is the definition

of an actor?

An actor is a person

who has been trained to pretend

he is not being watched.

So all the people in your paintings

are all actors,

not real people at all.

Yet you have got them

to do things which are real.

Except, of course -

because you knew

what you were doing -

of your little portrait of yourself.

You knew

you were being watched,

and you look at us,

within the old tradition

of these sort of paintings,

with admirable

self-consciousness.

You're giving yourself

an old-fashioned position

and responsibility

in a new-fashioned painting

which tries to deny that

position and responsibility.

(indistinct chatter)

Your painting, Rembrandt,

is a pretence,

a fakery, a cheat,

a dishonesty,

full of impossible contradictions,

unworthy of a truly intelligent man.

They, of course, knew

that they were being painted,

and you knew

that they were being painted,

but what do you acknowledge?

Neither.

Why pretend?

Apart from all the other infelicities

that demonstrate

you did not fulfill the task

asked of you,

your painting, Rembrandt,

is dishonest.

So much so,

that this is not a painting at all.

By its very nature,

it denies being a painting.

It is a work...

of the theatre!

- He's still around.

He's still among us.

He will never just go away.

He survives everything

we can throw at him.

- We should make it our business

that he never survives

anything, anywhere, anymore.

- You could separate him

from his friends.

You could use Marita

as an encouragement.

Persuade him to drink.

Get him to walk home

on his own.

- We have heard that yesterday,

the King of England

officially declared war

on his parliament.

The English are in a civil war,

and we are certainly rich men.

(shouting)

...witnesses!

- Blind him!

- Scratch out his eyes!

(music)

(bells tolling)

- Some in the future might argue

that Rembrandt had had his day,

and that new fashions

in painting had arrived.

Gayer, more expensive,

easier, relevant,

more into luxury and splendour

of a well-satisfied little republic.

- To the king!

- And that Rembrandt

had been spiteful and critical,

and cynical and over-inventive

in a melodramatic,

conspiratorial tradition.

He had learned at the theatre

that really was foreign

to the Dutch.

It could have been more

English, so to speak,

a tradition of spite

and conspiracy,

and secrecy and cruelty

and revenge.

- I can't see!

Where's the light?!

I'm blind!

I am blinded!

Open your eyes, you fool!

(moaning)

Ah!

Ah... Ah...

Painted...

darkness.

Miles and miles and miles...

(laughing insanely)

...of painted darkness.

Lit by spasms...

of light.

If you're lucky.

(staccato laugh)

Silence. Amen.

- Amen?

- Ah!

- Are you all right?

- Hendrickje?

Have I woken up?

Was that a nightmare?

Oh, God.

I've been seeing the night.

I was watching the night.

I was looking into darkness.

I was... I was nightwatching!

- What happened?

- Ah!

I met two men on a horse

that galloped towards me.

Ow!!!

Galloped towards me...

- Turn your head.

Into the light.

Let me look again.

- What light?!

They knocked me down,

they knocked me over. Ah! Ah...

They kicked me,

they poked me in the eyes!

They stripped me,

they beat me,

they beat the f***ing colour

out of me!

- You're all right.

And you're drunk.

- No, I'm not!

No, I'm not.

It's still dark.

It's still dark.

Night...

Is this a nightmare?

I've been watching the night!

I was seeing... the night!

Now, Hendrickje, Hendrickje,

Hendrickje, now, now, now,

now that I'm perpetually

nightwatching,

don't you dare die on me!

- Look at me.

(crying)

Look at me.

I am alive enough,

and there's life in my belly.

(moaning loudly)

(gulping)

Stop shouting.

Where is the darkness in it

for me? Hmm?

Where's the darkness

in it for us?

- The Banning-Cocq

conspirators knew

that they were

correctly indicted,

and to hide their guilt,

they revengefully embarked

on a campaign

to gradually destroy

Rembrandt's wealth,

reputation and good fortune,

to persuade the world

that Rembrandt's

celebrated group portrait

of the Amsterdam Militia

wasjust an innocent painting

of exuberant soldiers

rallying for musket practice.

Rembrandt...

intelligent and perceptive man

that he is...

...though a miller's son,

converted to uneasy bourgeois,

still stocking up his money

like a peasant,

and trying to make friends

in high places like a parvenu,

still sleeping with his servants

because he could not sleep

with the women

he aspired to be equal to.

He knew otherwise.

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