I kept myself to myself as much as I could. I was, if I remember correctly, researching a particularly interesting aspect of Aristotelian eudaimonia. One day I must finish writing it up, but the project is hampered by Van der Meer’s inability to spell some of the long words that I dictate to him.
At the point that this story begins, I had just returned from a secret assignation with Albrecht’s wife Mechtild. There was no vulgar purpose in this; Mechtild was robustly constructed and not comely in the conventional sense, but she had an angel’s touch with pastry that delighted the soul, and for some reason she felt the need to mother me, frequently expressing concern that I might be losing weight. I was, but so was everyone who ate her husband’s burnt offerings and had any sense of taste. Until I met Albrecht, I did not know that it was possible to burn soup.
So it was that from time to time Mechtild would whisper to me as she served at the refectory tables, intimating that if I came to the kitchen door at some appointed hour there might be an egg custard or cheese pie for me. It was for this reason that I ascended the stairs to my chamber with such a pie concealed in my sleeve and had just stowed it in my chest with a view to an evening treat when there was a knock at my door. When I opened it, the bedellus was standing there.
The bedellus is a species of superior janitor who carries the mace at ceremonial occasions and runs errands for the Rector. His current duty was to request my presence in the Rector’s chamber at my earliest possible convenience. When I prevaricated, it was made clear that my earliest possible convenience meant at once, whatever I was doing, so I meekly followed him, mentally retracing my actions for anything dishonourable. Had someone seen me accepting the pie and informed on me? Whilst trivial in itself, it was just the sort of thing that got staff dismissed, particularly since the tribunal would all be jealous if they knew I was receiving a private supply of pastry from Mechtild; and it is in the nature of weak leaders to punish those of lower standing and leave the superiors to flaunt their lack of respect.
We walked together to the Rector’s room, where the bedellus knocked and opened the door for me upon hearing the summons to enter. He stood in the doorway, making it extremely difficult to squeeze past, rather in the manner of a doorman expecting a tip, but at length I was able to gain entry and stood respectfully in front of the Rector’s desk.
‘Ah, Mercurius, thank you for coming so promptly.’
It seemed inappropriate to point out that his titan had required it, especially since he was still standing in the doorway. Perhaps his fat head was wedged there.
The previous Rector had been a small man, but neat and spry. This one was pasty-faced and lean. The old Rector had worn a skullcap over closely cropped grey hair; his successor had such a head of hair that opinion was divided as to whether it was a wig or not.
The Rector rummaged around his desk and produced a letter which he held with the ends of his fingers in the manner of one who has found a caterpillar in his salad. ‘The Stadhouder has written to you,’ he said, indicating the impression in the red wax seal in case I should suppose that he had opened it already. Coccius was a noted anti-monarchist, though quick to explain that he was unconcerned about the title that a man might have, but objected to autocracy of any kind. None of us had ever worked out where he stood on the issue of the De Witts, the brothers who had kept William of Orange from the Stadhoudership until a mob rose up and eviscerated them. The spontaneity of this action was doubtful given that everyone in The Hague knew it was planned except, apparently, their guards.
I thanked him and asked his permission to open it in his presence. This being given, I read quickly, and my heart sank. To be honest, it had started sinking when I saw the seal, because I could think of no circumstances in which the Stadhouder would write to me that did not fall under the heading of unwelcome tidings.
‘The Stadhouder wishes me to attend upon him at The Hague as soon as you give me leave,’ I announced. This was untrue, because the Rector’s consent was not sought in the letter, but it seemed politic to suggest that it was.
Coccius rubbed his cheek. ‘One must suppose that the Stadhouder would not send for you except in some great national cause, so we must not stand in your way. Please arrange for others to attend to your duties for the duration of your trip.’
I thanked him and made to leave.
‘In the circumstances, I do not propose to adjust your salary.’
It had never occurred to me that he would, but why did he need to say so?
As a mark of respect, we usually left the Rector’s presence backwards, bowing in the doorway and reversing out into the passageway. I had never quite mastered this action, and my rear end bore several indentations caused by the Rector’s door handle. On this occasion I was spared the door handle and enjoyed the immense pleasure of hearing a sharp intake of breath from the bedellus as my rump smacked into his groin.
CHAPTER TWO
There is a barge from Leiden to The Hague, but in good weather it is as quick to walk. On the morning when I set out the weather was fine and dry, but within a couple of hours it had changed for the worse, and by the time I arrived at The Hague I was wet through.
The guards at the Binnenhof did not recognise me — there was, I suppose, no reason why they should — but the letter from the Stadhouder gained me entry, and I was invited to stand near a fire and dry off in one of the upstairs chambers. The Stadhouder suffered from asthma and was affected by cold air, so he kept fires blazing, to the discomfort of some of us.
In the circumstances I was not displeased to have to wait a while, and this was reinforced by the ready provision of wine and ham to restore me after the journey. Bouwman, the Stadhouder’s personal secretary, whom I had met before, came to greet me and apologise for the delay. It seemed that William III was in conference with one of his ambassadors who had been recalled for some discussions. I suppose my four hour walk paled by comparison with his journey, so I contented myself with eating, drinking and enjoying the paintings that surrounded me, any one of which would probably have cost my whole year’s earnings; except, of course, that William probably had not paid for many of them since their artists, members of a peculiarly sycophantic profession, may well have given them gratis in the hope that visitors to these large buildings would admire them and offer further valuable commissions.
This was a hard time for painters in our country. The heady prices that had preceded the French invasion had evaporated, and even as fine a master as Vermeer had died penniless. In fact, he owed his baker for a couple of years’ bread, which just shows which is the more lucrative profession; and in hard times you can eat the bread you have made, but you cannot easily chew a painting.
It is just possible that after a long walk, two or three glasses of fine claret and a rest by a warm fire, I may have nodded off. In any event, I felt someone shaking my shoulder and jerked upright to see the Stadhouder walking towards me. He seemed amused rather than cross at my failure to bow, which I dashed to put right, and greeted me like an old friend. I had worked for him before, but I would not have presumed to call him an intimate acquaintance, although it seemed that he had remembered me.
‘Master Mercurius! Are you well?’ he asked. William was a small man, and his asthma had left him with a deformed chest rather like a pigeon, but he demonstrated his vigour by quick movement and a louder voice than was strictly necessary.