I know that you want to lead men out of the labyrinths of superstition and chance, that you want to give them certain, clear knowledge, which according to you is the only defense against fear and anxiety. But will it really bring us relief if we substitute the word necessity for the word Providence?
Most likely you will reproach me that our art does not solve any of the enigmas of nature. Our task is not to solve enigmas, but to be aware of them, to bow our heads before them and also to prepare the eyes for never-ending delight and wonder. If you absolutely require discoveries, however, I will tell you that I am proud to have succeeded in combining a certain particularly intensive cobalt with a luminous, lemonlike yellow, as well as recording the reflection of southern light that strikes through thick glass onto a gray wall.
The tools we use are indeed primitive: a stick with a bunch of bristles attached to the end, a rectangular board, pigments and oils. These have not changed for centuries, like the human body and nature. If I understand my task, it is to reconcile man with surrounding reality. This is why I and my guild brothers repeat an infinite number of times the sky and clouds, the portraits of men and cities, all these odds and ends of the cosmos, because only there do we feel safe and happy.
Our paths part. I know I will not convince you, and that you will not abandon polishing lenses or erecting your Tower of Babel. But allow us as well to continue our archaic procedure, to tell the world words of reconciliation and to speak of joy from recovered harmony, of the eternal desire for reciprocated love.
EPILOGUE
CORNELIS TROOST, TEXTILE merchant and unknown hero of history, is dying.
It is not true our entire life appears in front of our eyes before death. That great recapitulation of existence is an invention of the poets. In fact we sink into chaos. Within Cornelis Troost1 there is a confusion of days and nights, he does not distinguish Monday from Sunday, he confuses three in the afternoon with four in the morning; when he is alert he waits, listening to his own breathing and his heart. He asks for a clock to be put on a table in front of his bed, as if hoping he will experience the grace of cosmic order. But what is nine o’clock if it does not mean sitting at the desk in the office, the noon hour without the stock exchange, four o’clock from which dinner is taken away, six o’clock without coffee and a pipe, eight o’clock deprived of all meaning because they have removed the table, supper, family, and friends. O holy ritual of everydayness, without you time is empty like a falsified inventory that corresponds to no real objects.
The angels of death keep vigil at his bed. Soon the naked soul of Cornelis Troost will stand before the Highest Judge to account for his deeds. We who know little about divine matters are interested in a human, unimportant question: Was he happy?
Friendly fate led him by the hand that memorable April day when half a century earlier he wandered through huge, noisy Amsterdam, clutching a letter that recommended him to a relative who was a shoemaker. It contained a request to kindly accept the boy and teach him the profession. That letter, conceived by a teacher in the country, had only one drawback: there was no address.
Then, as it happens only in fairy tales, a handsome man dressed in black appeared before the lost boy: Baltazar Jong, a textile merchant who without asking many questions took him to his house, gave him a bed in the attic, and entrusted him with the responsible function of message boy. Thus without effort or merits Cornelis passed from the purgatory of twine and lasts—which seemed to be his destiny—to the heaven of silks and laces. Such was the beginning of a stunning career, as it is only a natural course of events and not a career when the son of a mayor becomes mayor and the son of an admiral becomes an admiral.
Cornelis Troost commendably passed all the steps of the merchants’ profession. He was a conscientious and zealous apprentice, scribe, warehouseman, accountant, salesman favored by the ladies because of his constantly pink cheeks, finally a kind of personal secretary of Jong. Then he changed his quarters from the attic, which meant he was now treated as a member of the family, not numerous but honest and consisting of the master, the lady of the house, and a daughter.
At about this time he performed an unusual deed: carrying an important, confidential message, he skated the distance from Amsterdam to Leyden in less than an hour along frozen canals. (Ungrateful human memory has not recorded this fact as it deserved.) Mr. Jong took care to put a healthy soul in the healthy body of his pupil. He sent him to dancing lessons, taught him the flute and a few Latin proverbs. The one Cornelis liked most was Hic Rhodus, hic salta, and he would insert it in his conversations with important persons only too often, sometimes even without much sense.
Mr. Jong was a man of broad horizons, educated and subtle. He had collected a sizable library. The classics stood in the first rows, while shamefully hidden behind them were passionate accounts of faraway voyages that were to push his grandson to the stormy life of an adventurer. He bought paintings, and was interested in astronomy. In the evening he strummed a guitar and read Latin poets; he preferred, however, his native Vondel. He systematically enlarged his collection of minerals. Above all he adored Livy, oysters, Italian opera, and light Rhine wines. His sudden death plunged his family and friends in genuine sadness. He died as stylishly as he lived—at a full table, as he was lifting a sponge cake dipped in wine to his mouth.
Without waiting for tears to dry, Cornelis Troost asked for the hand of the daughter of his deceased master, Anna. He was not moved by a mercenary motive, at least he did not think so, although at the same time he realized he had entered his adopted family not by the front door but by the attic. At this moment he felt as noble as Perseus, who frees Andromeda chained to the rock of an orphan’s mourning.
His proposal was accepted (who could better lead the business of the firm?) and the wedding was arranged quickly (the malicious said too quickly). It was not too ostentatious, as circumstances did not allow it, but the tables bent under the food and beverages. Because of an excessive number of toasts washed down with wine, grain spirits, rum, and beer, Cornelis spent the wedding night in a state of complete unconsciousness.
A year after the wedding an only son was born, given the name of Jan at baptism.
The firm (it carried now the name “Jong, Troost and Son”) was doing excellent business, thanks not only to favorable conditions but above all to Troost’s talents and his unusual merchant’s intuition. Born a peasant, he knew his countrymen were conservative to the marrow of their bones. One would think the owner of a large textile store would be interested in fashion. Troost simply ignored it, considering it a nuisance, like a runny nose that from time to time bothers an organism full of healthy habits and tastes. If he paid attention to the “latest rages” of fashion, it was only in the domain of accessories: ribbons, shoulder straps, buckles, and eventually feathers. He firmly believed that true elegance does not demand a broken line or richness of colors but is satisfied with the calm, simple line of a cut, as well as noble black, purple, and white. He was also, if one may say so, an ardent patriot of native industry. He was convinced—and persuaded his clients—that the best wool comes from Leyden, the cotton from Haarlem has no competition, Amsterdam’s silk fabrics are truly without equal, and there are no better velvets on earth than those from Utrecht.
Cornelis Troost, owner of the firm “Jong, Troost and Son,” worked untiringly six days a week, but he devoted Sundays and holidays entirely to his family. From early spring until late fall, after hearing a service the Troosts would set out on faraway excursions to the Three Oaks, the dunes, or to an inn, De Zwaan, situated in a picturesque and secluded spot. Here is a picture: Cornelis marches in front (always some hundred feet ahead, as if bursting with the memory of his old skating exploits), silent Anna is walking with small steps behind him. The servant with a basket of monstrous dimensions full of victuals, and small noisy Jan, riding a cart harnessed to a goat, close the procession. Both parents spoiled their only child beyond all imagination. A rest. Lunch in the shade of old elms: cream, wild strawb
erries, cherries, rye bread, butter, cheese, wine, and cake.
In the early afternoon the family would come to the inn De Zwaan, famous for its excellent cuisine and situated near a major road crossing. Gallows stood there; one could tactfully go around them by choosing a path through the meadows. Inside the inn it was always crowded and noisy. Heavy odors of tobacco, lamb fat, and beer wafted in the air. Cornelis Troost usually ordered hutspot—one could not find a better one in all the United Provinces—a salmon in green sauce, incomparable crepes, and candied chestnuts (he would put them thoughtfully in his pocket, fearing a sudden attack of hunger on the way back). Washed down with a double beer from Delft, all this put body and soul in a state of satiated melancholy.
The return would take place slowly, in reverse order: Jan rode in front, next to him the servant freed from her burden, behind them Anna fearfully looking back, and at the end Cornelis, who would frequently stop. As if suddenly struck by the beauty of existence and the loveliness of nature, he craned his neck and greeted the passing clouds with loud singing not completely concordant with principles of harmony:
Good evening, good evening,
my dear Joosje
or:
Lush oaklands, lovely crags
Noble witnesses of my pleasures
If now or several years later Cornelis Troost was asked whether he was happy, he would not have known what to answer. Happy people, just as people who are healthy, do not ponder about their own condition.
O wonderful clock measuring weekdays and holidays! It is true that Cornelis Troost never stood in the blinding glare of great historical events. But could one say that in the drama of the world he played a secondary role? He met his fate of textile merchant as others meet their roles of warriors, heretics, or statesmen. He rubbed against history only once, fleetingly, as in a dance—it happened during the visit of a foreign monarch.
At that time Troost was an elder of the guild, and he went to the town hall for the welcoming ceremony wearing an orange sash, yellow ribbons below his knees and at his shoulders. He wore a fanciful hat decorated with black ostrich feathers that with every breath of wind almost took flight. From the depths of his heart he hated these clothes, pompous as costumes of opera singers, but he did not regret this masquerade, because he saw the monarch face-to-face—that is, from a human perspective. Later he repeated an endless number of times: “I saw him quite close, and you know he is pale, fat, small, about half a head shorter than me.” He was bursting with great republican pride.
After the reception there was a procession in honor of the monarch, combined with shooting into the innocent sky. For the second time Troost had an occasion to try out his beautiful Florentine rifle. The first time it happened in his own garden when he fired at an owl suspected of disturbing the peace at night. The stock of the rifle was decorated with an engraving of “The Judgment of Paris” against a background of a vast mountainous landscape. Cornelis valued this part of the weapon most, considering the metal pipe a superfluous addition.
After these historical events life continued to roll in its ordinary groove. Business went splendidly, but Jan gave his parents constant troubles and worries: he did not study, ran away from home, and preferred the company of total scoundrels. The prodigal son always returned to the bosom of the family, however, where a biblical scene took place, full of tears, repentance, and forgiveness. It seemed that in the end matters would settle down favorably for everyone. Only, Anna was getting weak, and so it was decided to accept a third servant; among many candidates a young Frisian peasant by the name of Judith was selected.
Her beauty was not dazzling, but it awoke in the soul of the master of the house hazy, sweet memories of distant childhood. He liked her very much, and gave her ribbons and barrettes matching her red, fluffy hair, asking her not to tell anyone about it. He persuaded his wife to permit Judith to help him in the store in the evening. It might have happened two or three times that they stayed alone and locked the door with a key. But the bad tongues of the neighbors gossiped about the scandal. Anna suffered ostentatiously but in silence.
Cornelis started to go more often to the barber. He played the flute for hours. He became talkative, loud, and excessively gay. One day he confided to Anna that he wanted to order a portrait. A painter was recommended who lived on the Rozengracht. He was, or else had been, a fashionable portrait painter and was also known for his religious scenes. Festively dressed, Cornelis went to him: the name escaped his memory, but passersby showed him the house. The painter received him not too politely. He had closely set, piercing eyes, and the thick hands of a butcher. He was dressed in a long, stained apron and had a strange turban on his head. All of this would have been bearable, but the price for the portrait that this boor gave him—300 florins—confused Cornelis (he immediately calculated it against yards of good woolen fabric). An embarrassing silence followed.
At last the painter declared that he could portray Cornelis as a Pharisee, and then the price would be considerably lower. At this point it was the hurt pride of the textile merchant that took over. He wanted to be represented as he was, at the peak of success, in a gentle glow of happiness but without unnecessary symbols and decorations, with his own large head surrounded by luxuriant hair, his keen eyes looking into the future with confidence, a thick nose, the mouth of a gourmet, and also strong hands, resting near the frame of the painting, in which one could entrust not only the business matters of the firm “Jong, Troost and Son” but also the fate of the city (at the time, Cornelis dreamt of being mayor). It is not surprising that the contract for the painting was never signed. Later, someone gave him the name of another famous portrait painter from Haarlem; but he did not contact him, because his mind was preoccupied with serious problems and worries.
One never knows when or from where a storm will come that shakes the foundations of a house (and it seemed to be eternal), and in the sudden flash of lightning show the emptiness of plans arduously put together during an entire life. Jan, the only son, the hope and future heir of the firm, ran away from home for good. He left a letter that he had found a job on a ship, and even gave its name. But they quickly discovered there was no such ship. Thus, only the grim supposition remained that the boy—in fact, already a man—had joined the pirates, those scoundrels who throw the Bible, rosary, and logbook overboard and finish a life of crime in dungeons or on the gallows.
For the first time Troost felt wronged, helpless, and humiliated. Anna suffered also, but quietly, in the depths of her impenetrable maternal being. On the other hand, the extensive suffering of Cornelis encompassed many different spheres of his soul: he was frightened by the unexpected blow of fortune that had been well-disposed until now but suddenly revealed its true, sneering face. He felt stripped of his good name and merits. A cruel sentence constantly returned in his thoughts: “I am now just a father of a criminal.” He lost faith in the only human immortality expressed in the hope that the name Troost—surrounded by human respect and trust—would be repeated forever in the guild of textile merchants.
What is more, the affair with Judith (according to Cornelis, there was no affair) was becoming more and more notorious. Indeed, after closing the shop he stayed longer and longer with her, ample cause for gossip. Acquaintances answered his greetings with a wink and an impish smile that probably meant, “Well well, we did not know you were such a brave boy.” On the other hand, during church service his neighbors in the pew preferred to stand on the stone floor, to let him know the void surrounding him expressed severe rebuke. For the good of the firm, therefore, he decided to let the girl go. He accompanied her to the square from which carriages left in the direction of Hoorn; he hugged her in a fatherly way, pressing into her hand fourteen florins and eight stivers.
She disappeared in the crowd. He did not know whether she entered the carriage. If she went to the tavern on the other side of the street, At the Black Cock, which had the worst reputation (sailors hungry for cheap love knew it well), her fate was
sealed. This thought, and especially the lustful images associated with her, haunted him for years.
He worked with his old energy, but without the enthusiasm that gives wings to all enterprises. Sometimes he refused to buy large shipments of merchandise even on advantageous terms, saying: “I leave it to the young; now I make the rounds of my estate and check walls, locks, and chains.” The business, however, went no worse than before.
In the spring, Anna died.
Now he was alone. He thought for some time that he should crown the memory of himself and Anna with stone. It was to be a bas-relief built into the wall of the Nieuwe Kerk representing the couple holding each other’s hands, with a quotation from the Bible underneath: “Thus I repent and do penance in dust and ashes.” But the common sense of Cornelis, which never abandoned him even when he approached spheres not subject to reason (rarely, it is true), suggested that he who truly humbles himself before the Lord does not erect marble monuments to himself. He pushed the temptation aside. “A simple plaque on the floor of the church will be enough,” he said, surprised at his own modesty.
A new idea liberated unsuspected reserves of initiative, inventiveness, and enthusiasm. He managed to convince his exceedingly economical guild brothers (for years he had been dean of the guild) that it was necessary to build an orphanage. The spirit of a young entrepreneur entered Cornelis, more, an apostle of a cause. He tried to be everywhere at once: he organized collections, banquets, and lotteries to add to the funds of the enterprise, he approved plans, supervised the progress of construction, conferred for hours with masons and carpenters about every detail. He liked to stroll in the courtyard of the future orphanage and draw with his cane against the sky the still nonexistent walls and windows, floors, moldings, and steep roof.
He spent evenings at home “in the yellow room” whose windows gave onto the garden. An armchair upholstered with red cordovan stood there in which Mr. Jong (how many years ago it was) read his Latin poets half aloud. It was the most venerable piece of furniture in the household, like a flagship commanding a flotilla of beds, tables, benches, chairs, abysmal wardrobes, and cupboards. Cornelis would take a few books from the library at random and sink into that armchair, leafing through the last number of the Dutch Mercury, in which there was always so much interesting news about floods, court intrigues, the exchange, miracles, and crimes. He did not read much; he listened to the hubbub of the street and murmurs in the house. A strong smell came from the garden of narcissus, wild roses, and saffron.
The Collected Prose Page 39