I Am Rembrandts Daughter

I Am Rembrandt's Daughter

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The short answer? Rembrandt van Rijn had one lawful wife: Saskia van Uylenburgh. They had only one child who survived childhood: Titus van Rijn. His posthumously born daughter Titia married, but apparently did not have any children. Titus, by Rembrandt Harmensz. Credits: Wikimedia Commons Public Domain. With his mistress Hendrickje Stoffels, Rembrandt had a daughter Cornelia, out of wedlock. Cornelia van Rijn married and had two children, both of whom died young.

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So although Rembrandt had children and grandchildren, he apparently did not have any great-grandchildren. This means he does not have any living descendants today. Yvette Hoitink is a professional genealogist in the Netherlands.

She has been doing genealogy for almost 25 years. Her expertise is helping people from across the world find their ancestors in the Netherlands. Read about Yvette's professional genealogy services. Yvette, I am very impressed by your r e search and wonder if you can fill in a name for me connected with Hendrickje Stoffels. Apparently she and Rembrandt visited Bredevoort in for the christening of the child of her friend, Lysbeth.

I would be most interested.

Kath Hastings, Brisbane, Australia. There are swords and pole axes all in a jumble and a straw mannequin with its hand twisted into a wave. My favorite items are the four jars each containing its own flayed human arm.

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And Titus asks why I never have any of the neighborhood girls over for a visit. Vader glances at me. He always carries his voice low in his throat, as if his words have to fight him before he will let them out. Where is Titus? I go over and jab at the remains of the peat sod smoldering in the fireplace.

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If Vader takes the hint, he does not show it. His voice thunders up from deep in his barrel of a chest. Tell me how this looks. The oily smell of his paint makes my head hurt though I should be used to it. Paint stink has filled my nose since I lay in my hand-me-down cradle. Now Vader dabs more paint on a canvas already shingled with thousands of little slabs of it.

No smooth, glossy surfaces for my vader, though even I, an ignorant girl, know that rough painting, with every brushstroke showing, is unsellable.

I laugh. What does Vader know about happy families? He was old when I was born, though my mother was twenty-eight. What is the jest?

Ask Yvette – Am I related to Rembrandt van Rijn?

Tijger fights to get down. I set him on the floor. Who were your models? Doves scuttle to one side of the ledge as I look through the thick panes against which thorny naked rose vines rattle. A deep bong rocks the sill on which I lean, giving me a start. It is the death bells of the West Church, at the end of our canal. How does one get over a time such as that? In the final year of the pestilence, twenty thousand people died, one for every ten in the city. The death bells had sounded day and night.

Funeral processions lined up at the churchyard gates, waiting their turn to bury the victims from the families able to scrape together the guilders for a funeral and the gravedigger. The other choice was to toss a body into the pit behind the Plague Hospital and sprinkle it with quicklime. No street in the city had been without a house whose occupants were locked behind a door marked with a hastily painted P for pest , and our street—our house—had been no different.

Now, on the other side of our bare patch of courtyard, two of the van Roop girls jump ropes outside their back door.

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Their family is new-come to the neighborhood. The family who had lived there before them, the Bickers, had all been taken by the sickness and no one would rent the house for years. Now the van Roop moeder, her bundled baby on her hip, pulls wash off the clothesline strung across the back of the house.

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All of a sudden I know who Vader is painting. I fight off a wave of pride for having guessed correctly. Cleverness buys no bread. But at least now it makes sense. For weeks I had noticed Vader staring out the back window of his studio when I had brought him his tray for dinner. When I told Titus about it some days ago at breakfast, he merely dunked his bread in his watery ale and said, So?

I am Rembrandt's Daughter

Maybe, Titus said around a mouthful of bread. Only Titus, with his smooth dark brows, dimpled chin, and finely cut lips, can manage to look handsome while loading his cheeks with half a loaf. Perhaps it is the way his coppery hair curls to his shoulders. My hair is a darker red-brown, with waves given to frizz when it rains. It is obvious we have different mothers. My own chunk of bread crumbled into my ale. I fished the soggy bit from the bottom of my mug.

How can you be so calm? Hope rose in me like a soap bubble. Have you had luck with the prints? Titus had been making the rounds of dealers lately with some prints Vader had made several years ago. If only we could get him to stop his crazy painting and make more of them. With the prints? Titus said as he sliced another piece of cheese.

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