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"Look out the window."
I looked out. It was a breezy day, with clouds disappearing behind the New Church tower.
"What color are those clouds?"
"Why, white, sir."
He raised his eyebrows slightly. "Are they?"
I glanced at them. "And grey. Perhaps it will snow."
"Come, Griet, you can do better than that. Think of your vegetables."
"My vegetables, sir?"
He moved his head slightly. I was annoying him again. My jaw tightened.
"Think of how you separated the whites. Your turnips and your onions — are they the same white?"
Suddenly I understood. "No. The turnip has green in it, the onion yellow."
"Exactly. Now, what colors do you see in the clouds?"
"There is some blue in them," I said after studying them for a few minutes. "And — yellow as well. And there is some green!" I became so excited I actually pointed. I had been looking at clouds all my life, but I felt as if I saw them for the first time at that moment.
He smiled. "You will find there is little pure white in clouds, yet people say they are white. Now do you understand why I do not need the blue yet?"
"Yes, sir." I did not really understand, but did not want to admit it. I felt I almost knew.
When at last he began to add colors on top of the false colors, I saw what he meant. He painted a light blue over the girl's skirt, and it became a blue through which bits of black could be seen, darker in the shadow of the table, lighter closer to the window. To the wall areas he added yellow ocher, through which some of the grey showed. It became a bright but not a white wall. When the light shone on the wall, I discovered, it was not white, but many colors.
The pitcher and basin were the most complicated — they became yellow, and brown, and green, and blue. They reflected the pattern of the rug, the girl's bodice, the blue cloth draped over the chair — everything but their true silver color. And yet they looked as they should, like a pitcher and a basin.




"Take care to do what, sir?" I whispered.
"Take care to remain yourself."
I lifted my chin to him. "To remain a maid, sir?"
"That is not what I mean. The women in his paintings — he traps them in his world. You can get lost there."