Stefan, it is agony for me to write of these things, but I do it I think not only for our voluminous records, but because the night is so still here in Montcleve, though it is not yet even midnight, and I am so sick at heart. I wish to look at the wounds I cannot heal. But you do not have to accept my pledges as to the woman’s beauty, you have yourself seen her likeness; as I have said before.
On to Amsterdam we went, she and I, posing now as the rich Dutch brother and sister, for all anyone might know; and as I had hoped and dreamed, our city waked her from her torpor, with its pretty tree-lined canals and all the handsome boats and the fine four and five-story houses which she did inspect with a new vigor.
And coming upon the grand Motherhouse, with the canal at its feet, and seeing that it was “my home,” and was to be hers, she could not conceal her wonder. For what had this child seen of the world but a miserable sheep- farming village and the dirty inns in which we’d lodged; so you can quite understand how it was when she saw a proper bedstead, in a clean Dutch bedroom. She spoke not a single word, but the bit of a smile on her lips spoke volumes.
I went directly to my superiors, to Roemer Franz and Petrus Lancaster, both of whom you fondly remember, and confessed all that I had done.
I broke down in tears and said the child was alone and so I had taken her, and I had no other excuse for spending so much money, except that I did it; and to my astonishment, they forgave me, but they also laughed because they knew my innermost secrets.
And Roemer said: “Petyr, you have done such penance between here and Scotland that surely you deserve an increase in your allowance, and perhaps a better room within the house.”
More laughter greeted these words. I had to smile to myself, for I was drenched in fantasies of Deborah’s beauty even then, but soon the good spirits had left me and I was again in pain.
Deborah would answer no questions put to her. But when the wife of Roemer, who lived with us all her life, went to Deborah and put the needle and the embroidery in her hands, Deborah did, with some skill, begin to sew.
By the end of week, Roemer’s wife and the other wives had taught her through example to make lace, and she was hard at work at it by the hour, acknowledging nothing said to her, but staring at those around her whenever she looked up and then returning to her work without a word.
To the female members, those who were not wives, but were scholars and had powers of their own, she seemed to possess an obvious aversion. To me she would say nothing, but she had stopped giving me hateful glances, and when I asked her to walk out with me, she accepted and was soon dazzled by the city, and allowed me to buy her a drink in the tavern, though the spectacle of respectable women drinking and eating there seemed to amaze her, as it amazes other foreigners who have traveled far more widely than she.
All the while I described our city to her, I told of its history and its tolerance, of how Jews had come here to escape persecution in Spain, and how Catholics even lived here in peace among the Protestants, and there were no more executions for such things as witchcraft here, and I took her to see the printers and the booksellers. And to the house of Rembrandt van Rijn we went for a brief visit, as he was always so very pleasant to visit, and there were always pupils about.
His beloved Hendrickje, of whom I was always fond, had been gone two years, but Titus, his son, was still living, and with him. And I for one preferred the paintings which he did at this time of his life, for their curious melancholy, to those he did earlier when he was all the fashion. We drank a glass of wine with the young painters who were always gathered there to study with the master and this is when Rembrandt first caught sight of Deborah, though it was later that he painted her.
All the while, my intention was to amuse her, and divert her out of her hellish thoughts, and show to her the wide world of which she could now be a part.
She kept her silence, but I could see that the painters delighted her, and the portraits of Rembrandt in particular drew her, and so did this kindly and genial man himself. We went on to other studios and spoke to other artists-to see Emmanuel de Witte and others who were then painting in our city, some friends of ours then as they are today. And she appeared to warm to this, and to come alive as it were, her face at moments most gentle and sweet.
But it was when we passed the shops of the jewelers that she begged me with a light touch of her white fingers on my arm to stop. White fingers. I write this because I remember it so well-her delicate hand shining like a lady’s hand as she touched me, and the weak desire for her I felt at this touch.
She showed a great fascination with those who were cutting and polishing diamonds and with the comings and goings of the merchants and the rich patrons who had come from all over Europe, nay the world, to buy their fine jewels. I wished that I had the money to buy something pretty for her, and of course the merchants being much taken with her beauty, and her fine clothes-for Roemer’s wife had turned her out beautifully-began to play to her, and ask would she like to see their wares.
A fine Brazilian emerald set in gold was being shown to a rich Englishman, and this caught her eye. When the Englishman forswore it on account of the expense, she sat down at the table to look at it, as if she could well purchase it or I might for her, and it seemed she fell into a spell staring at this rectangular gem, fixed in its filigree of old gold. And then in English, she asked the price of it, and did not bat an eye when told.
I assured the merchant we would take it under consideration most deeply, as obviously the lady wanted it, and with a smile, I helped her to the street. Then I fell into sadness that I could not buy it for her.
And as we walked along the quay together back to the house, she said to me, “Do not be sad. For who expects such things of you?” and for the very first time she smiled at me, and pressed my hand. My heart leapt at this, but she lapsed again into her coldness and her silence and would say nothing more.
I confessed all this to Roemer, who advised me that we had not taken vows of chastity but that I was behaving most honorably, which was as he expected, and that I should study my English books now, as my writing in English was still dreadful, and thereby occupy my mind.
On the seventh day of Deborah’s time in the Motherhouse, one of our members of whom you have heard and studied much, though she is dead these many years, came home from Haarlem where she had been visiting her brother, a rather ordinary sort of man. But she was no ordinary woman, and it is of the great witch, Geertruid van Stolk, that I speak. She was at that time the most powerful of all our members, be they men or women; and at once the story of Deborah was told to her, and she was asked to speak to the child and see if she could read Deborah’s thoughts.
“She will not tell us whether she can read or write,” said Roemer, “in fact, she will tell us nothing, and we cannot divine what she reads from our minds or of our intentions, and we do not know how to proceed. We feel in our hearts that she has powers, but we are not sure of it; she has locked her mind to us.”
At once Geertruid went to her, but Deborah, on merely hearing this woman approach, rose from her stool, overturning it, and threw down her sewing and backed up against the wall. There she stared at Geertruid with a look of pure hatred on her face, and then sought to get out of the room, clawing at the walls as if to go through them, and at last finding the door and rushing down the passage towards the street.
Roemer and I restrained her, begging her to be calm, and telling her that no one meant to hurt her, and at last Roemer said, “We must break the silence of this child.” Meantime Geertruid gave to me a note, hastily scratched on paper, which said in Latin, “The child is a powerful witch,” and this I passed on to Roemer without a word.
We implored Deborah to come with us into Roemer’s study, a large and commodious room as you well know as you inherited it, but in his time it was filled with clocks, for he loved them, and these have since been distributed about the house.
Roemer always kept the windows over the canal open, and all the healthy noises of the city flowed, it seemed, into this room. It had about it a cheerful aspect. And as he brought Deborah now into the sunlight, and bid her sit down and calm herself, she seemed quieted and comforted, and then sat back and with a weary, pained manner looked up into his eyes.
Pained. I saw such pain in this instant as to nearly bring the tears to my own eyes. For the mask of blankness had utterly melted, and her very lips were trembling, and she said in English:
“Who are you men and women here? What in the name of God do you want with me!”
“Deborah,” he said, speaking soothingly to her. “Listen to my words, child, and I shall tell you plainly. All this while we have sought to know how much you could understand.”
“And what is there,” she demanded hatefully, “that I should understand!” It seemed a woman’s vibrant voice
