Why does magdalena go to the art auction

Vreeland's feelings about research are that Nonfiction contains only provable facts. The term that names the part of a plot that resolves the main conflict is A political speech.

A newspaper article. A short story. A biography. In a nonfiction work, tone is. Quizzes you may like. Raymond's Run. Luns, Johan Q. The subjects of the paintings in the Dissius home are not specified in the inventory. Eenige opmerkingen naar aanleiding van de nieuwste studies over den Delftschen Vermeer," Oud-Holland 59, , 65 ff. Diana and her Companions c. Een Juffrouw di goud weegt, in een kasje J. A young lady weighing gold, in a box, by J. Een Meyd di Melk uytgiet, uytnemende goet van dito.

A maid pouring out milk, extremely well done, by ditto. Portrait van Vermeer in een kamer met verscheyde bywerk ongemeen fraai van hem geschildert. The portrait of Vermeer in a room with various accessories, uncommonly beautiful painted by him. Een speelende Juffrow op een Guiteer, heel goet van den zelve. A young lady playing a guitar, very good by the same.

Daer een Seigneur zyn handen wast, in een doorsiende Kamer, met beelden, konstig en raer van dito. In which a gentleman is washing his hands in a perspectival room with figures, artful and rare, by ditto. Een speelende Juffrouw of the Clevicimbael in een Kamer, met een toeluisterend Monsieur door den zelven. A young lady playing the clavicen in a room, with a listening gentleman, by the same.

Een Juffrouw die door een Meyd een brief gebragt word, van dito. A young lady who is being brought a letter by a maid, by ditto. Een dronke slapende Meyd aen een Tafel, van den zelven. A drunken sleeping maid at a table, by the same. Een vrolyk geselschap in een Kamer, kragtig en goet van dito. A gay company in a room, vigorous and good, by ditto. Een Musiceerende Monsr. A gentleman and a young lady making music in a room, by the same. Een Soldaet met een laggent Meysje, zeer fraie van dito.

A soldier with a laughing girl, very beautiful, by ditto. Each one was slightly different in its pale transparent color—ivory, parchment, the lightest of wines and the palest of tulips. It would disturb him. Outside the window the market chattered with the selling of apples and lard and brooms and wooden buckets.

She liked the cheese porters in their flat-brimmed red hats and stark white clothes. Their curved yellow carrying platforms stacked neatly with cheese rounds were suspended on ropes between pairs of them, casting brown shadows on the paving stones. Two platforms diagonally placed in the midground between their carriers would make a nice composition with the repeated shapes of those bulging cheese rounds.

The carillon 9 from Nieuwe Kerk ringing out the hour sounded something profound in her chest. All of it is ordinary to everyone but me, she thought.

All that month she did not speak, the occasion too momentous to dislodge it with words. When she looked out the corner of her eye at him, she could not tell what she meant to him. Slowly, she came to understand that he looked at her with the same interest he gave to the glass of milk.

She knew her jaws protruded and her watery, pale eyes were too widely set. She had a mole on her forehead that she always tried to hide by tugging at her cap. What if no one would want the painting? What then? It was never her, she cried to herself, only something surrounding her that she did not make or even contribute to knowingly. Another wish that never would come true, she saw then, even if she lived forever, was that he, that someone, would look at her not as an artistic study, but with love.

If two people love the same thing, she reasoned, then they must love each other, at least a little, even if they never say it. Nevertheless, because he painted with such studied concentration, and because she held him in awe, she practiced looking calm for him as she looked out the window, but when she saw the canvas, what she intended as calm looked more like wistfulness. He saw it, but passed over it for another. Disgrace seared her so that she could not speak that night.

The painting hung without a frame in the outer kitchen where the younger children slept. Eventually the family had to give up their lodgings at Mechelen on the square, and take smaller rooms with Grandmother Maria on the Oude Langendijck. He rarely painted, the rooms were so cramped and dark, the younger children boisterous, and a few years later, he died.

When she washed him in his bed that last time, his fingers already cold, she had a thought, the shame of which prevented her from uttering: It would make a fine painting, a memorial, the daughter with towel and blue-figured washing bowl at bedside, her hand covering his, the wife exhausted on the Spanish chair clutching a crucifix, the father-husband, eyes glazed, looking to another landscape.

While he painted everyone else, no one was there to paint him, to make him remembered. She yearned to do it, but the task was too fearsome. She lacked the skill, and the one to teach her had never offered. Even though she asked for them, Mother sold his paints and brushes to the Guild of St.

It helped to pay a debt. When Mother became sick with worry, Magdalena had the idea to take the painting to Hendrick van Buyten, the baker, because she knew he liked her. He smiled at her and gave her a bun. Within a year, she married a saddlemaker named Nicolaes, the first man to notice her, a hard worker whose pores smelled of leather and grease, who taught her a pleasure not of the eyes, but, she soon realized, a man utterly without imagination.

In , just after their only living child, Magritte, damp with fever, stopped breathing in her arms, Magdalena read in the Amsterdamsche Courant of a public auction of one hundred thirty-four paintings by various artists. She thought of Hendrick. Hers might be there. InternalThroughout the story, Magdalena has a conflict with herself. As she grows up, she wants to ask her father to teach her how to paint put she never has the courage to do it.

Also, she wants to have a relationship with her father, but all he cares about is his work. After her father dies, she regrets not asking him and realizes that she will never be able to have a relationship with him.

Catharina is Magdalena's mother. She takes care of the house while caring for all of her children. In the story, Magdalena wants to paint just like her father, but her parents don't want her to.

She always does her chores and then goes into the town to look at the scenery. She loves her father, but she doesn't spend enough time with him to form a relationship.