***In The Time Of The Dutch Masters…Take Four

 

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

…she was sick, sick unto death of being pawed at by every beer- swilling or wine-gulping burgomeister with a lazy free hand, and with nothing but lustful thoughts, some spoken out in company, about their various abilities to bed her, and left unspoken, leave her after they had had their way with her. She, Magda, swore, not Christian high Calvinist pre-determined fate parceling out the elect swore not in 17^th century pious Dutch lands filled with superficial horror when such cursed crudities left some maiden’s mouth, even an ex-milk maid from the country, but more of a female curse under her breath that the next burgher, high heaven civic leader or earnest military dragoon or not, who touched her ever so slightly was going to get his, well, get his.  

That “get his” would best be left to the imagination but it had to do with certain well-placed kicks to a man’s sensitive groin areas, a tactic understandable since Eve’s day, maybe before, to take their misplaced ardor out of a man’s sails.  Anna, one of her fellow serving girls, the oldest in service and so something of an assistant and thus spared the continual harassment of the drink servers, more used to the rough usage of the Guildhall guardians and rumored to have been bedded by more than one of those ancient burghers even though she was on the long side of twenty-five, laughed a wry laugh when Magda confided her oath to her. Laughed and wisdom warned her that she should rather gently grab what she could from these old goats if she planned to make any fortune in this wicked old world. After that admonition Magda stopped mentioning her woes to Anna (although she did not stop her eternal damnation oaths and planned pay-back scenarios, under her breath).   

She had had no idea once she came in from the countryside, from farm country, to Amsterdam to seek her fortune that serving old men, old revered civic leaders (old to her fifteen-year old eyes) rumored to be beset at home by dour squat old wives and broods of unseen children at table in the Guildhall was going to be a test of mortal strength. Sure she had let Jan grab her a few times up in her family’s hayloft back home in Rik after the dancing was over and she/they had had perhaps too many lagers (as she reddened at the thought). But that was pretty Jan full of youthful ardor (and with very quick, gentle and subtle hands that would shame these old burghers) and, well, good-looking too, so good-looking she felt she had to submit to his advances since her sisters, Eline and Anka, confessed to her one night that they would not mind seeing how quick his hands were if they had the chance.  So Magda maybe let Jan take a few more liberties than the elders would have approved of (if they had known or been consulted neither of which happened as she thought better of the idea with her, and his, straight-laced high Dutch Calvinist families spying on them constantly).  But then too she and Jan had been practically betrothed and their two families had planned that marriage proposition well before they had gotten their grabbing habits.

Once that planned betrothal was set Magda had left the family farm to come to Amsterdam to make some money so that she and Jan could be married as quickly as possible and start their own farm and family. Jan had come too and was apprenticed to a blacksmith on the other side of town to learn a trade that would help them survive those long cold Atlantic winds forced winter nights. She had been offered the serving girl position through her cousin Rueben who catered to the civic leaders at the Guildhall. This franchise, had become increasingly lucrative as every civic leader, merchant, and even night-watch commander had taken up the habit now that they were the “elect” of banqueting at the drop of a hat. So being a serving girl at the Guildhall was considered a plum by all, all who did not know what was fully expected from such a position.

Magda, truth be told, had not been above a little coquetry when they had made the rounds of the town’s taverns in order to make Jan a little jealous and make him work harder to get that farm but these old coots were a different matter. Especially the group of four that were always seated at the far end of the Guildhall and who set themselves up with the best linens and silverware like they were so high and mighty (which on earth they were) sneaking their little pinchings when Rueben was busy watching over the preparations for the next course or Anna and another serving girl, Matilde, were clearing the last course’s set of dishes and setting up the next set for these fatted cows.

Once the wine and beer started flowing one burgher was just as bad as the next. The banker, Hans as he insisted she call him while in thrall to his “democratic” spirits, usually on about his fifth glass, talking about how his (dour) wife was feeling poorly and wouldn’t he be just within his rights to be with some little wench who could appreciate his ardor. Looking, no, leering directly at her. The merchant-general, Daan van der Helst, all serious talk with the men, discoursing on the latest trade figures from his ships just in from the Indies, until she came into the room and he then stopped, waving her to his side where he would try to twist one of her breasts right in front of the others who egged him on at times. The sanctimonious faker. She knew that the good merchant-general had a rosy-cheeked daughter, Sonja (knew from a distance anyway since genteel womenfolk did not enter the hall), her own age who would be appalled by her father’s behavior if she knew. Magda had threatened (well, not so much threatened as warned) him after the first time but he had laughed it off. Moreover Reuben had told her to keep quiet for the sake of the franchise and possible family shame.     

Then there was the night-watch commander, Neils, and his insatiable hunger for oysters through all the courses he said in order to enhance his manliness (according to the folk wisdom of the day).  What a laugh since by the end of the night he would be floor-bound snoring to high heaven too drunk to do any manly deeds. And lastly that red-headed one, that damn red-headed one, Willem Vert, the magistrate, always pointing one stubby single finger to make some obscure legal point and always swishing his sword “by mistake” so he said when she came by tapping her on her ass with it and then making suggestive cooing sounds when he tried to “apologize” but using his hands to pat her ass. Jesus.

[Magda had had to laugh when a few weeks previous to this banquet this quartet had sat for a group portrait by the up and coming master artist, Govert Flinck, whom they had commissioned to paint them in their civic solemnity. Those collective portraits were all the rage among the civic leaders of the town ever since the famous Rembrandt had started the fashion a few years before she arrived in the city. This Flinck had been a student of his and was sought after by all who could afford his now steep fees. She had to admit that Flinck was good, good enough to turn those lecherous old men into solid citizens discoursing on the events of the day and having an air of “making and doing” in the world.

Flinck had been able to capture their fine clothing, the latest black austere velvets and white linens from London, the well-starched collars, the hats tilted just so indicating a status that permitted hats indoors (unlike the lesser mortals hat-less indoors and required to give hat-service doffs seemingly to every male passer-by outside). Also the well-turned ribbon-bedecked leather shoes setting them apart from the wooden shoe plebian crowd. Naturally he captured the fine banqueting linens and the import of the austere plain functional hall. As natural as well, as if to mock this gentry in his own way, Flinck painted the discarded oyster shells waiting for some wayward servant girl to come by and attempt to pick them up. But mainly it was his ability to capture that solemn “grandeur” of their discourse to the world that made his steep fees worth it all to them. If that candid world only knew what happened when Govert put down his brushes.]    

Just then Reuben called her to bring in another fistful of mugs for the gentlemen (he had a nicely snide way of saying that under his breathe -“bring the buffoons theirs”) and as she prepared herself for the next battle to avoid being pricked and prodded she thought that if she filled her mind with thoughts about Jan, about his quick gentle hands and that illicit hayloft, she might get through that miserable night …