In between sentences, I hummed a tune under my breath. “I learned to place everything at hand. The work that used to take me all day, now leaves me several free hours in the evening.”

“Dare we hope you spend it resting?” Jan asked.

“I’ll have you know that I read Utamaro by Edmond de Goncourt.” I enjoyed the biography thoroughly. “Theo had a small collection of prints. Vincent copied them to learn different techniques.”

“The greatest Japanese artist next to Hokusai,” Jan conceded.

“I also read a new book by Oscar Browning, Life of George Eliot.” Who’d actually been a woman, Mary Ann Evans. But while reading about the brilliant translator, poet, journalist, and novelist fed my soul, I had a need for intellectual work of my own.

I grabbed my treasure box from the top of the cupboard. “I’m still organizing Vincent’s letters, but I’ve begun to translate too.” I showed Jan the previous night’s work. “A brand-new venture.”

He scanned the first page and handed it along to Max, who was holding out his hand.

“For whom?” Max asked.

“An opportunity brought my way by one of Theo’s uncles, translating short stories from the French into Dutch. He has connections at De Kroniek. I already mailed my first batch.”

“Didn’t you say you taught English at Utrecht once? You should translate from English.” Max looked up from the page. “A friend sent me the summer issues of The Strand Magazine. I am enjoying a curious story about a fellow by the name of Sherlock Holmes, penned by Arthur Conan Doyle. Not a literary masterpiece, by any standard, but amusing in its own way.”

“I shall happily translate anything De Kroniek asks me to translate.”

Max passed my translation to Antoon. “Very well executed.”

While Jozef and Frederik quietly read over Antoon’s shoulder, Piet, a struggling writer, pulled a small book from his pocket.

“Look what I’ve brought back from England.” He brandished the volume with unbridled enthusiasm. “H Ford Hueffer’s The Shifting of the Fire.” And then he lurched into such vigorous praise that his cheeks flushed pink. And he went on about it at length.

My eyes glazed over. “I quite enjoy the Scottish authoress Mrs. Oliphant.”

“Oh, sentimental drivel.” The consensus from the men.

“She turns out books like a butter churn.” Piet dismissed her. “How many novels has she now? Eighty? A hundred?”

“Her husband was an artist.”

At this, the artists in the room paid closer attention.

“Oliphant?” Seb squinted, trying to place the name. My translation was with him by then, and he handed the pages back with an approving nod.