The Silent Sin E-Book

Anja Sicking

• Herausgeber: Marion Boyars
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2006

Beschreibung

A young woman is employed by a maid by a music publisher in Amsterdam, in the eighteenth century. She is confronted with his homosexuality and the penalties that follow on discovery.

Leseprobe

The Silent Sin

by Anja Sicking

Translated from the Dutch by David Colmer

MARION BOYARSLondon • New York

Contents

Title PageIIIIIIIVVVIVIIVIIIIXXXIXIIXIIIXIVXVXVIXVIIXVIIIXIXXXAbout the AuthorCopyright

I

Looking back, I would have done better to reject the position as a maid at Monsieur de Malapert’s. Events would have run a different course, a more favourable one most likely, and I would not have ended up living here, in this tiny attic, which smells like a wardrobe full of the forgotten clothes of a woman who has long since gone to meet her maker.

The roof slopes down on both sides and the middle of the room is the only place I can stand without bumping my head on the panels and dirtying my cap. The wood is always thick with dust. It’s not that I am a sloven, slut or slattern, or whatever people call those characters. On the contrary. I detest women like that. I sincerely believe that cleanliness is next to godliness. But no matter how often I run a rag over the wood, the dust is back in no time, along with the bugs.

It is raining and instead of immediately sorting out the letters, half-filled diaries and other documents that remind me of Monsieur de Malapert, I start by moving my things from the right side of the room to the left to save them from getting wet. The roof leaks a little. I move around as silently as possible to avoid complaints from the people downstairs, who were kind enough to take me in all those years ago. Sorting out the papers I keep in the blanket chest is a big job that will take me a while to finish, especially as I intend to write down our story at the same time, Monsieur de Malapert’s and mine, in the hope that doing so will finally lay it all to rest and free me to live the rest of my life without being pursued by phantasms and pangs of guilt.

At the time his offer seemed so attractive that I leapt at the chance. I met him in May 1729, almost twelve years ago now, although it doesn’t feel like it. Hardly a day goes by without my thinking of that first meeting. Nothing worth mention has happened in my life since leaving his house. I had good reason to accept his offer and there was nothing rash about my decision to do so. Unlike some people, I seldom allowed myself to get carried away by whims, passions or infatuations. I am a level-headed woman, and for me the facts always come first. Now that I am writing it all down, I will try to bear that in mind. I still can’t talk about what happened.

Monsieur de Malapert’s house was in a good neighbourhood and, as it was fairly small, I imagined that it would be easy to keep clean. His housekeeper, an older woman, had been in service with his parents and I took her ongoing employment by the same family as a good sign. So many masters frustrate their staff by demanding that a maid maintain a large home in a spotless condition all by herself, and then, when the task proves beyond her, by complaining daily about the dust they find here or there. I hoped that, together with the housekeeper, I would be able to fulfil my task in Monsieur de Malapert’s house to his satisfaction. He promised that I would get off early on Wednesday afternoon and Saturday evening and offered me a decent wage. But even more tempting was the prospect of a room of my own. As a maid, what more could I ask? Because, at that moment, I was no more than a maid. The old Anna, the Anna from before the fire, would not have settled for so little.

I should admit that I had little choice. Let go through no fault of my own, I needed work urgently. Upon hearing the news of the dishonourable behaviour of my sister Suzanne, my great aunt, who had kept me in service since the death of my parents, demanded that I leave Leidschendam at the first opportunity. Only then would she give me a letter testifying to my honesty and good morals. My great aunt had married above herself and was scared of losing the status she had gone to such lengths to acquire, although she did not say so in so many words.

I remember that when she asked me to find somewhere else to stay we were standing in the kitchen next to the cupboard full of the pewter plates and earthenware dishes I had washed and dried so often. After asking me to return my apron, she exclaimed somewhat emotionally that I mustn’t think she didn’t wish me well. No. She had always been very satisfied with me. I did the work of two and it had only been thanks to me that she hadn’t turned my sister out much sooner. She assumed that I understood why neither Suzanne nor I could stay after what had happened. Nothing was as important as safeguarding one’s good name. Suzanne should have thought of me when she went with Mr Kerckrinck. Surely she knew how easy it is for people to get two sisters mixed up?

There was a look of desperation in my great aunt’s eyes, as if she were trying to appeal to my better nature. She asked me whether I realised how difficult a decision this was for her. I didn’t say a word. Perhaps she had forgotten for the moment that, apart from Suzanne, she and her husband were the only relatives I had left in the world and that I, like her, was the daughter of a textile merchant. It was true that my father had only been a middleman whose business had not flourished as much as her father’s, but we too had kept a maid. She should have known that it had not been easy for someone with my prospects to accept being obliged to go into service after my parents’ death, even with family. She knew how much care my parents had lavished on my education, every day anew. I was the one who had reason to despair, but she persisted. She made no attempt to hide her disappointment at Suzanne’s ungrateful behaviour. She had taken us under her wing when we lost our parental home, but from the first day in her house she had made us work hard. I hadn’t complained. What could I expect from such a distant relative? If my mother had had a sister she would probably have been warmer and more generous than my great aunt, who was always anxious that Suzanne and I might cost her money. She stood there holding my apron. I remained silent. Finally she folded the apron and put it away.

I hadn’t seen my sister since the morning of the day she was caught with Mr Kerckrinck. She was wandering around somewhere: alone, without possessions, money or a reference. I had received a grubby note from her, passed on by a girl I had never seen before who introduced herself as a friend of Suzanne’s.

I still have that scrap of paper. Suzanne gave me a temporary address where I could reach her and advised me to try to stay in Leidschendam, no matter what our great aunt might say: a lot of people in the town knew me and it would be easier for me to find a new position there than elsewhere, with much less risk of ending up with people who might try to exploit me. You, after all, have done nothing wrong. Neither have I. She had dug the last three words deep into the page.

I’ll explain it all when we see each other again. Don’t be afraid to go to other people for help. They will understand. Mr Kerckrinck does not have a good reputation. What’s more, it will be easy for me to find you if you stay in Leidschendam. We’ll be able to help each other if one of us gets into trouble financially. We only have each other now.

Though I realised even then that I would miss Suzanne if I left Leidschendam, it did not seem sensible to take the advice of my much younger sister; that would have been like buying stocks on the recommendation of a speculator who has just lost all his money. She didn’t know what kind of rumours had been circulating since her departure. I preferred to either follow the example of people who had prospered in life or go my own way. I was an adult after all, and not even that young. I was twenty-nine years old; it was a number that sometimes shocked me. I had lived with my great aunt for ten years and was running out of time in which to find a good husband. Most women my age were long since married. I decided to go to Amsterdam, I would be sure to find a position there.

I would give dearly to once again experience the blissful expectation I felt during the canal boat journey from Leidschendam to Amsterdam. I was in an exuberant mood and my hopes were high, although I was also somewhat frightened about travelling alone for the first time in my life. The skipper promised to save a place for me below, as a deckhouse ticket was beyond my means. I was about to climb down the steps when I saw that the hold was full of peddlers, foreigners and all kinds of badly dressed persons, who stared at me inquisitively. I quickly patted my pockets as if I had forgotten something, turned around and stayed on deck.

The boat was hitched to an old mare that ambled down the towpath. While I watched my birthplace slowly disappear from view, the wind blew my clothes tight against my body. We glided through the water as if weightless. The small barges we encountered along the way – laden with peat or baskets of fruit, vegetables or other wares – moved over to let us go by. The steeple of the church I had attended with my family for so many years remained visible the longest. I regretted leaving Leidschendam in such an ignominious way. But wasn’t it more important to look ahead? At the banks with their spring flowers or the birds nesting in the meadows? At the farms and the gently turning windmills?

The skipper blew a horn for a bridge to be raised. I was feeling the chill and went down into the hold after all. The wooden benches around the table were taken and the only free seat was next to a group of raucous men: uncouth fellows, who weren’t even able to hit the spittoon with any consistency. I had no option but to sit down beside them. One looked at me and said something in a foreign language with a smirk on his face. I was sensible enough to ignore his comment. If Suzanne had been with me, she would have smiled, but that was what had got her into such serious difficulties. I kept my eyes fixed on one of the air vents. I did not belong here – I should have been sitting at the front of the deckhouse with the rest of my family – and I prayed that I would not descend even further in the world.

Opposite me a woman was sitting with a little boy on her lap who kept trying to grab everything within his reach. I estimated her to be some ten years my senior, but I could have been mistaken – she might have been just five years older. It is terrible how women who have borne a child look so much older than those who are still looking forward to that happy event. I decided to try to sit next to her after changing boats. People would think we were travelling together, that would be safer for her as well.

In my memory the trip has become a jumble of changing stations, shouting porters, swinging doors, cold draughts, smoked eels, spat out herringbones, loud chatter and constantly changing passengers. At first I took it all in, but after a while I grew so preoccupied with thoughts of the future that events around me faded into the background. I remember leaning back on the wooden bench and fantasising about the people I would get to know in Amsterdam. The new friends I would make. Perhaps one of them would introduce me to a man who suited me. A gentle character with an adventurous streak, but free of recklessness, someone who would take me out walking on Sundays and understand me without my having to go to great lengths to explain myself, while at the same time making me feel like I had more than ever to tell. This unfortunately was something I had never had the privilege of experiencing, although I had heard people talk about it.

The first time we changed boats I stayed close to the woman with the child and secured a seat near hers. That gave me hope: if I learnt everything this quickly, my prospects could only be favourable, despite the difficult circumstances in which I found myself.

During subsequent changes I again made sure to stick close to her. She hardly spoke during the journey, only saying a word now and then and playing with her son, hugging him tight, caressing him and kissing his soft cheeks. I could hardly keep my eyes off them and needed to exert myself not to give in to instinct by suddenly smothering the child with kisses of my own as well.

We passed Halfweg, the last town I knew by name before Amsterdam. I closed my eyes once more.

Suddenly the canal boat rocked violently and water splashed up against the sides. Although I was anxious to see what was happening, I didn’t dare stand to look out of one of the air vents. I gripped the bench with both hands. My fear amused the woman next to me, who reassured me by telling me that large ships were sailing past. I was embarrassed at having to turn to her for an explanation. The stench of the water penetrated the hold and made it impossible for me to relax back into daydreams. I estimated that I had been travelling for almost nine hours; Amsterdam could not be much further.

It was only when the canal boat had almost stopped rocking that I stood up to look outside. Rising up behind a row of trees, I saw tall masts, higher than any I had seen before. The woman put a bonnet on the head of her child. ‘The lumberyards. Close to home, huh, Jochem?’ Passengers began buttoning coats, some were already on their feet. My back hurt from sitting on the bench. A burly man on the bottom step pushed the doors open. Hunched down, I followed the others out of the low hold.

My first impression of Amsterdam is still clear in my mind. I was impressed by the high quays and tall houses, and by the many church steeples sticking up above the rest. On shore there was a tremendous bustle with all kinds of people hurrying by: porters, black-suited gentlemen, office clerks, sailors, maids carrying baskets, foreigners in coloured robes and women in finery. Nowadays I wouldn’t give any of them a second glance, but back then my eyes were popping.

The skipper gave me a hand to help me disembark. I searched through the laced pockets under my skirts for the piece of paper my great aunt had given me with the address of an acquaintance of hers who might have been able to provide me with temporary accommodation, but at first I couldn’t find it. Afraid as I was of thieves, I had buried it deep, along with my money. The quay was already filling with people seeking passage and the woman with the little boy was leaving on her husband’s arm. The skipper waved me along.

I slipped into the crowd and let myself be carried along by the flow, not knowing where I was or which direction I should take, and still trying to find the piece of paper. My legs were stiff from sitting motionless for so long. It smelt different here than it did in Leidschendam, less fresh. Some streets were terribly busy and a couple of times I had to jump out of the way of a sledge or barrow.

After finding the piece of paper, I asked a passer-by if she knew the way to the North Church; my great aunt’s acquaintance apparently lived a couple of streets behind it. The woman told me how to get there, but I only remembered half of what she’d said. On the way, I had to ask twice more but forgot the answer each time because I was so caught up in all I saw: stalls with all kinds of unknown delicacies; wide bridges with peddlers selling books, tobacco boxes and other wares; musicians singing in foreign tongues; crowded coffee houses and a remarkable number of apothecaries. I finally reached the neighbourhood around the North Church, but the house of my great aunt’s acquaintance had burnt down: only the brick walls to the left and right were still standing.

I wandered around for at least two more hours in search of appropriate accommodation, eventually emerging on a vast square. It must have been the Dam I had heard so much about, and the immense building on one side of it must have been the town hall. It wasn’t possible to look in through the many high windows, and I was overcome by an unpleasant sense of being watched by an invisible, higher authority.

Twilight was setting in. I needed to hurry. People were already lighting candles inside some of the houses and there were less pedestrians out on the streets. I could only just make out the rubbish floating in the canals. I thought I saw a dead dog lying on a piece of wood, but it could have been a bundle of wet rags. A boy squeezed barrow and all down a narrow alley and a raggedy man slipped by with a few dead rats dangling from his belt. There were lodgings on offer down some of the alleys but I didn’t dare to venture alone into one of those dark passageways where I could be so easily cornered, and asked the price of a bed at a few more salubrious establishments instead. They were all much too expensive. At that rate my money would be gone in a flash and I had no way of knowing how long it would take me to find a suitable position. I wandered on until I saw another boarding house in an alley that was cleaner and wider than most. A maid was standing in the doorway; she was holding a candle and seemed to be waiting for someone. Night had almost fallen and I decided to risk it. I strode quickly between the looming houses.

The maid showed me a room that was almost entirely filled with a big, sagging bed. The bed was unmade; on one side the sheets had been pulled right out, as if a wild animal had slept there. Abandoned on the chair next to the bed was a piece of bread with a bite out of it; a petticoat lay on the floor. My impulse was to turn on my heel, but I hesitated when the maid told me the price; if it proved difficult to find a good position quickly, I could afford to stay here for a long time.

I do not like to think back on that boarding house, although I realise that I would never have met Monsieur de Malapert if I had not been staying there. And what could I expect for so little money? The faces of the other guests have grown hazy in my memory, thank goodness. There was an actor, a travelling quack, a third-rate painter and a few girls whose source of income was unclear to me. In short, the kind of people I had never had anything to do with before, whose company made me feel anything but at home. The only face I have been unable to forget is the round face of Brigitte, the woman from Bruges who was my new bedfellow. She was everything I was desperate not to become. From my first day at the boarding house, she constantly sought out my company, forcing me to spend not just the nights but also the evenings and the early mornings with her. The rest of the time I was out looking for work. My annoyance at the coarse manners of the other guests only amused her, and she smirked when a saucy remark at the dinner table made me blush. ‘Goodness, dear,’ she said, ‘you’re so delicate. Here, get a mouthful of this into you.’ I refused. I had disliked the taste of gin since childhood. Men looked at her with a mixture of interest and revulsion. Her clothes were unable to conceal her very womanly curves and that didn’t seem to bother her. A former corset-maker, who always carried a bottle of brandy under his jacket and slept in the room above ours with three other men, followed her with his eyes every time she went by. In a drunken fit he once remarked that some parts of her anatomy offered but little resistance to gravity.

In the evenings I lay next to her in our room, at least, when she didn’t have an appointment with someone or other. The first time she took off her cap in my presence I saw that the hair on the back of her head was matted together. Day and night she wore the same grey shift. The smell she gave off reminded me of week-old onion soup that had just been put on the fire to reheat. I breathed through my mouth and tried not to think of the part of her body where the smell presumably originated. She spoke constantly about a husband she had unfortunately lost touch with. Once I enquired politely when she had last seen him, but she ignored my question. She seldom reacted to things I said, preferring to do all the talking herself. Over and over she repeated that nothing she had gone through had been her own fault: it could have happened to anyone. When I agreed, without actually having the slightest idea what she was talking about, she laid her hand on mine as if we were bosom friends. I was exhausted and tried to stop her verbal flood by not asking any more questions, but she was imperturbable and gabbled on in a loud voice, as if I were in another room instead of lying right next to her. I made a second attempt to silence her, this time with a drawn-out yawn, but that too failed to achieve the desired result. Finally I tried taking over the conversation, and this proved unexpectedly effective. Her breathing grew heavier as I spoke and when she started snoring I was able to turn my back on her without being impolite.

On rare occasions well-mannered guests arrived at the boarding house, people like me who had come into difficulties through no fault of their own. My roommate buttonholed all new guests, including the man with the French accent who expressed himself in a more civilised fashion than the rest. His coat was worn, but it was plain from the cut that it had once cost a pretty penny. Clamped under his arm was a violin.

I listened without speaking, but eventually he turned to me and asked where my journey was taking me. He had evidently realised at first glance that I would not be staying for a long time in lodgings like these. He too would no doubt leave shortly. Without going into detail, I told him about my circumstances. He listened carefully, only saying a few words now and then to show that he understood what I was talking about. After I finished, he asked a few questions and then mentioned a position as a maid that had become available at the home of one of his friends, the music dealer De Malapert. Monsieur de Malapert published music, sold instruments, gave music lessons at home and was the regular harpsichordist of the theatre orchestra. He had taken over the family music shop two years ago, after the sudden death of his father. His mother had followed soon after, ‘But don’t mention that.’ I asked about the other staff. The violinist told me that De Malapert’s housekeeper was old and poorly. His maid was much younger, but there was some reason why she couldn’t stay with him, I might hear why later. For the rest, the household was made up of his sister, who spent a lot of time in France, and his assistant. The violinist had been to the music shop just the day before because he hoped to publish a sonata. He would be going there again sometime soon and offered to put in a good word for me. At this stage Brigitte interrupted our conversation. The violinist looked annoyed at first, but soon smiled – I think he found her lack of breeding amusing – and listened politely to what she had to say.

I stayed close to the two of them without saying much more. Going to work for a music publisher would be a fine opportunity. I would be back in circles where I could meet people of good stock. It was true that they would get to know me as a maid, but it was not inconceivable that one of them might show some interest. That would allow me to cautiously broach the subject of what had happened to me. It would no doubt take time for me to gain the trust of the new people around me, but if I stayed patient and did my utmost, I would surely have a chance to gain access to people of the class I was born into. I could not possibly start by telling them about Suzanne’s lapse. No matter how I presented events, that could only reflect badly on me as well.

Two days later I received a short letter from the violinist telling me when and where I could meet Monsieur de Malapert. He had taken the liberty of arranging an appointment for me.

II