He got out of bed, knelt beside it and said his prayers, in which he apologized sincerely for the waste of his American hotel. Then he opened his eyes and put this penitential mood aside. There was no retreating now, if he was to keep his wife and children in the luxury that was their natural atmosphere. The damned thing had cost more than ten million dollars already. It would probably cost another two million to finish, and then there would be staff salaries and interest to pay.… There was, perhaps, a further $500,000 to be borrowed from the Knickerbocker once his current credit was exhausted. This would be nowhere near enough.
Maarten had never had his collection valued, but it seemed to him that it would be wise to do so now, discreetly. He was too proud to introduce economies at Herengracht 605 and though he could postpone the building of his country place for another year, this would not release sufficient sums to cover his obligations. He had a great deal of furniture, far more than he needed, and he knew there were men across Europe who would pay high and confidential prices for the jewels of his collection. He needed someone he could trust to catalog and record them.
After his bath he rang for Mr. Blok and told him to ask Mr. Barol to wait on him at ten o’clock.
Piet Barol had already sketched several dozen objects in the house and chosen the finest pieces; and this was to Maarten Vermeulen-Sickerts a triumphant affirmation of his faith in the lad. As Piet showed him his drawings it seemed miraculous to Maarten that he should have anticipated his need, and fulfilled it in advance, without knowing anything of his difficulties.
Maarten’s preoccupation with his own salvation had left him alert to the ways in which God communicates with Man, and he read great significance in what Piet had done. It was vital no one should suspect him of valuing his treasures with an eye to raising money on them. His credit depended on the confidence of the public, which would be fatally undermined by the leaking of such news. Now there would be no need to hire a photographer whose loose talk might spoil everything. Turning the pages of Piet’s sketchbook he could have kissed him. His execution was as precise as anything a machine might achieve, but so much more refined.
As he accepted the book to look over later, the memory of his son’s behavior the night before recurred to him and seemed to complicate the message God had sent. “It is useful to me to have this little inventory,” he went on, more briskly, “and I should be glad if you would devote some time each day to continuing it. However”—he grew sterner—“I have a serious matter to discuss with you. Please sit down.”
To a conscience as tender as Piet Barol’s, this was a disturbing instruction. The life he would return to if he lost this man’s favor became vivid again, as it had not been in months. The shivering indignities of an outside toilet, his father’s joyless gloom, the cold winter nights, the tepid entertainments of the university clerks, their petty hatreds and intrigues rose up and seemed to choke him.
“I am extremely distressed to discover that my son is no better,” said Maarten. “We have greatly enjoyed having you in the house, but there has been no improvement in Egbert, and there must be improvement.”
Maarten intended to sound peremptory, but Piet heard the hopelessness in his voice. He looked at his face. It was plain that his employer had no idea of his true transgression. He began to float with relief, but at the same time he wished that Maarten was not Jacobina’s husband—because he longed to treat him worthily. It was no use pretending he would never touch his wife again. He had tried too many times to stop and never once succeeded. Here was an opportunity to atone for his repeated betrayals in another way.
“I will save Egbert for you, sir,” he said fervently. “I know I can, and I will.”
Piet Barol had never yet turned on Egbert Vermeulen-Sickerts the totality of attention he had so far devoted to every other member of his family. As he left Maarten’s office he felt exhilarated by the challenge of getting to the bottom of his mysteries. Piet had great faith in his ability to make people love him. He was not daunted by the layers of calcified sediment that separated Egbert’s humanity from the world beyond it.
Maarten had given him a green velvet box and asked him to sketch its contents; had told him, moreover, that he might ask to see anything in the house, whenever he had the inclination, so long as he undertook to draw it. To have the dread of the morning resolved so happily was wonderful. He passed beneath the statues of Paris, Aphrodite and Athena, taking the stairs two at a time and whistling. It was clear now that Jacobina would never confess. He was pleased that her reunion with her husband had not turned her into an hysterical penitent.
In the hall he encountered Mr. Blok and asked him breezily to fetch from the cabinet in the ballroom an object of such price he had never dared examine it: a jewel box, covered in golden vines and studded with pearls, that had been made for Catherine de Médicis.
“That would require Mr. Vermeulen-Sickerts’ express permission.”
“By all means seek it.” Piet waited in the hall while the butler went upstairs. When he returned, Piet placed the jewel box on top of the green velvet case and went into the house next door, feeling full of the joys of life.
This mood was broken abruptly by the music coming from the schoolroom—a sad, lost music, in no discernible key.
At his Bösendorfer, Egbert was engaged in a negotiation of the utmost delicacy over his handling of the red fire engine the evening before. He had risen at 4:00 a.m. and lain submerged to his ears in iced water as the sky lightened. Faced with a keyboard of black and white, he sometimes found he could communicate with his tyrants more subtly than words alone permitted. He had abased himself and asked their forgiveness. This had been withheld. He had begged for it and been told that toying with primary colors was an offense that merited prolonged punishment.
By the time Piet Barol entered his aunt’s house, Egbert was close to tears; and when his tutor opened the schoolroom door the Shadowers rebuked him for allowing their conference to be overheard. He broke at once into a frenetic rendition of the C Minor Prelude, taking care to play each note with identical force. The music’s repeating patterns blocked his bid for freedom at every turn, and Bach’s sly insinuation of a major note at the very end compelled him to begin again, and again, as Piet took a seat at the table and opened the velvet case.
Maarten had asked him to draw it because, of all his possessions, he cared for it the least. The box contained a set of Dresden figurines that had been childhood playthings of Catherine the Great, when she was plain little Sophia of Anhalt-Zerbst. The pirouetting maidens and courting couples did not please Piet Barol, but he set them in a line and began to draw, waiting for Egbert to stop.
Egbert did not stop. With each repetition of the prelude his shackles tightened, until he understood that his punishment was to be humiliated in front of his tutor. The impossibility of stopping made tears well in his pale blue eyes and spill down his cheeks, where they joined rivulets of sweat.
The day was turning into a scorcher. Piet had completed the figurines and was beginning the jewel box when exhaustion finally brought an end to his pupil’s exertions. Egbert considered running from the room but lacked the energy even for that. Instead he slumped forward over the piano, wishing for oblivion.
Piet went to him. Egbert was prepared for anger and further punishment. To be met with kindness undid him and when Piet embraced him he burst into wrenching sobs. He cried and cried as his tutor carried him tenderly to the sofa, and when he was finished Piet asked in his gentlest voice the question he had been pondering all morning.
“Dear Egbert,” he said. “Is music the solution or the problem?”
Six hours later, Hilde Wilken knocked on Egbert’s door. When there was no answer, she opened it and went in and put the tray she was carrying on the writing desk. Egbert was fast asleep, his cheeks aflame. She looked at him nervously.
Hilde had a brother of her own, a year younger than Egbert, and at first she had looked forward to working in a house lived in by a ten-
year-old boy. But Egbert Vermeulen-Sickerts frightened her. The music he made was so incomprehensible. He was so small and slender, and yet his hands were quite as large as a fifteen-year-old’s, with long thin fingers that made her think of amphibians. He did not seem quite human. She gathered her courage and touched his arm. It was as cold as a corpse’s. “M-Master Egbert,” she whispered. He did not stir. She sat down in the comfortable armchair at the foot of his bed. She had spent all afternoon tidying his sisters’ closets and worrying that no man would ever love her, and welcomed a moment to rest. She leaned back into the cushions, wondering if perhaps he had died. Death was no respecter of classes. It would serve this family right, she thought, thinking of the sharpness with which Louisa had just criticized her folding of a cashmere cloak. As if one was born knowing that cloaks must be hung, not folded! A cold violence settled on her, in which pain at the way Didier now smiled only at Piet Barol mingled with a hatred of her employer’s daughters and effervesced into one bitter tear.
“Master Egbert!” she said, leaning forward and shaking his arm more vigorously, thinking how unjust it was that she, a fully grown woman, should call a ten-year-old imbecile “master.”
Egbert opened his eyes.
Hilde stood hurriedly and curtsied. “I have brought your supper.”
Egbert blinked, and the mortifying events of the afternoon returned with full force. “Thank you, Hilde.” He copied his mother’s cold formality. “Is everyone in to dinner?”
“Your sisters are out, I believe.”
This meant that Piet Barol would be eating alone with his parents and might tell them what had happened. The look on Egbert’s face prompted sympathy in Hilde, who was not as stony hearted as the Vermeulen-Sickertses often made her feel. “I’ll bring you some jelly later,” she said, and left him.
The next morning, Egbert found the courage to ask if his parents had been told about his crying. They had not, because Piet knew that nothing would be accomplished without the boy’s trust and had not betrayed it. They spent a pleasant morning discussing the causes of the French Revolution, but there was no repeat of the previous day’s intimacy. The Shadowers demanded privacy and Egbert was too ashamed of his subjection to them to violate it. So when Piet asked again whether music was the solution or the problem, he turned on him the stubborn blankness that had defeated his other tutors and merely said he did not know.
Piet was wise enough not to show his exasperation, but as the hot summer weeks melted into one another it began to rise. Saving Egbert was the reparation his self-respect demanded, and each encounter with Jacobina heightened the urgency of making amends to her husband. He told the boy about his own mother’s death, hoping that a confidence from him might inspire one in return. It did not. He complained of his father to show that he, too, had his troubles. But Egbert showed no curiosity about his private affairs. Piet Barol was not accustomed to encountering such implacable resistance, and it annoyed him. In their bathroom late at night, Didier Loubat mocked his efforts and told him that nothing, save the loss of his father’s fortune, would ever save such a helpless brat. “No one’s fixed him before, so they won’t fire you” was his analysis. “Stay as long as you can put up with it, save the money for a new life, then let him drive someone else to lunacy.”
But Piet did not intend to be vanquished; and one Saturday afternoon, coming across a handsomely bound edition of the Chopin ballades at a shop on the Kalverstraat, he bought it and went home whistling. He was up early the next morning and entered the house next door only a moment after Egbert had completed his crossing of the entrance hall floor. The boy was playing a martinet fugue and its claustrophobic precision convinced him he had found a tonic. Manic bouts of Bach were clearly doing Egbert no good; perhaps Romantic music would inspire some expression of inner feeling.
“I have a present for you,” he said warmly, after the fugue’s seventh rendition.
Egbert accepted the volume with a mumbled word of thanks; but when Piet suggested he play something from it the boy shook his head, left the piano, and opened his French dictionary.
Piet controlled his irritation with difficulty. He did not know that Egbert’s masters insisted on white and black notes being played with equal weight, for precisely quantified periods, and that Chopin’s time permissiveness, his infinite gradations of shade and meaning, were impossible; dangerous even to imagine.
He went to the piano himself and played haltingly through the first page of a ballade, hoping that his errors would tempt the boy to show him he could do better. They did not. Egbert remained at the table, apparently immersed in his dictionary; in fact in thrall to powerful and conflicting impulses he could not resolve. He had no friends, and no one outside his immediate family had ever bought him a gift. He yearned to show gratitude and seize the opportunity Piet offered, but fear of reprisals restrained him.
“Come and play this. It’s too difficult for me,” said Piet at last.
“No thanks,” murmured Egbert, with maddening insouciance.
The following Sunday, the 11th of August, was Piet’s day off. He did not even consider going to Leiden to visit his father but slept late and went downstairs to find Jacobina in her apple-green dress. She explained that she had missed church on account of a headache and asked whether he might perform a small service for her before the household returned. An hour later, they came back together from the house next door and parted with careful formality. Jacobina went upstairs to bathe, but Piet rarely had the house so completely to himself and did not wish to waste the opportunity. There were still three rooms, besides the maids’ quarters, that he had not seen; and unsatisfied sensual desire made him foolhardy.
He checked the kitchen to make sure the other servants had gone to church. They had. It was only 10:30. No one would be back for at least another three-quarters of an hour. He stood beside the icebox, weighing the risks, then climbed the stairs to the second floor and opened Constance’s bedroom door.
Hilde Wilken’s devotions had prevented her from ordering the chaos Constance wreaked daily upon her possessions. The girls had been at a dance the evening before, and Constance’s dress of pink gauze stitched with silver was lying on the floor where she had stepped out of it. The dressing table was cluttered with combs and brushes and pots of rouge (Constance overruled her sister’s objections to maquillage) and the air was laden with the scent of lily of the valley. Two other dresses, discarded in favor of the pink, were thrown carelessly over a chair. Piet touched one, wondering what it cost, and opened a closet to find rows and rows of shoes, many more than he had ever seen her wear.
In the corner by the window was a desk strewn with invitations. He opened a drawer, discovered a bundle of letters tied with silk ribbon, untied it and read a passionate epistle from a recent suitor whose adoration stretched to fifteen pages. The young man’s sentimentality made Piet smile and remember with pride his own deft handling of Constance. He read a second gushing letter, retied the bundle and returned it. He wanted desperately to see Louisa’s room, over which he had eavesdropped so often; but though the temptation was powerful, it also frightened him, because he was still slightly scared of her.
He went boldly to a small paneled door and opened it. He was right: it led directly to Louisa’s room, which stretched beyond him like a space glimpsed through a looking glass. It was quite unlike Constance’s. There were no pinks, no flowers, no messy piles of clothes. The walls were a pale gray, the bed simple and restrained, with no draperies. The furniture had been made in France in the severe style of the Directory.
He stepped across the threshold. So this was where the girls discussed him. At one end of the room a pair of French windows gave onto the balcony, which overlooked the garden. There were no letters on the desk, or in either of the drawers he opened; no clutter of pillboxes and scent vials on the dressing table. He took a step toward the wardrobe, intent on examining its treasures. But as he moved a shadow loomed beyond the window, dark against the day’s bright lig
ht, and before he could hide or retreat the glass door opened and Louisa Vermeulen-Sickerts came in.
The catastrophe was so sudden he marveled later at how deftly he managed it. “I thought you’d missed church,” he said happily. “I’ve been calling for you. I’m desperate for a game of trictrac. Will you join me?”
“In a moment, Mr. Barol.” Louisa went to her desk, with no trace of annoyance. “I’m just about to smoke a cigarette. Don’t tell Papa, will you?” She was wearing jodhpurs and a riding habit that showed off her lean, athletic body.
“I’m an expert keeper of secrets.”
“I’m sure of that.” Louisa took an enameled cigarette case and a box of matches out of a drawer.
Piet lit the cigarette for her. “Do you like to ride?” He had the idea of introducing a compliment.
“Not as much as Mummy and Constance, but I do. Do you?”
“I adore it.”
It was an unwise boast. Piet regretted it the instant he had made it, because there was something dangerous in the way Louisa said: “In that case, we should all go riding one day.” But he hid his nerves and chatted amiably while she smoked, and then they both went down to the summerhouse and played trictrac until lunch.
In their bathroom later that night, when Piet sought counsel over the incident, Didier said: “You’ll have to miss the workers’ fête next week. Pity. The maids are willing and the food’s good. But they keep their horses out there and they’re monsters. Say you’re ill.”
Piet had never ridden a horse in his life but had no intention of passing up the opportunity to inspect Willemshoven or to enjoy the annual fête champêtre Maarten put on for his Dutch workers. He thought of the docile horses owned by the farmers of Leiden. It could not be so very hard to manage on one of them. “I’ll be all right,” he said.
On the floor below, Constance was saying, “Of course he can ride. I thought you liked him now.”
History of a Pleasure Seeker Page 10