Afternoon Delight!

It's a few minutes before four o'-clock as I turn into the Langestraat and work my way down looking for number 19. The sun has already set and the light is fading, there are lights in most of the windows and it has been snowing lightly since three o'clock. For warmth I have my hands buried in a thick fur muff under the folds of my cloak.

The Sweelinck house is just one in a street of tall, three and four-storey houses with wonderfully variegated gables, and the door, which opens directly into the downstairs conversatiekamer, is opened to me by a maid in plain brown dress, spotless white apron and cap carrying a small candle. She confers briefly with the occupants of the conversatiekamer before showing me inside where a beautifully decorated virginals stands close to the window taking advantage of the fading light, and three small candle lamps illuminate the rest of the room. On the opposite side of the window his mother, Elska Jansdochter Sweelinck is writing what I assume is a letter, and quite prominently placed on the wall is a largish print of King David playing the harp.

Jan seats himself with his back to the keyboard and asks me how he may be of service?

A bald question like that is a little like being at the site of a bomb going off! There are so many things I would like to ask, but the key to my mission is to collect and disseminate music which is in danger of being overlooked in favor of the new and gaudy. But to this, I make no overt reference. Instead, I explain that, as a working woman I cannot afford to pay him for regular lessons, but would be very grateful if he would let me observe his playing of a few pieces, and perhaps assess my own playing?

He looks thoughtful for a minute before suggesting that I seat myself and play something for him to observe me!

Shuffling through the manuscripts on the music stand he picks out an easy dance and gestures for me to start. I could hardly be more nervous if I was facing the Duke of Alva himself!

It is difficult to concentrate on reading the unfamiliar mensural notation and not surprisingly, I stumble repeatedly. But Jan surprises me when, at the end of the piece, he asks me to stand once more, and observe how he plays it.

The first thing I notice is that he is using the index, middle, and ring fingers of his right hand, only dabbing occasionally with his thumb or pinkie to ornament the line. And looking round at me with a grin, he even imitates one of my stumbles!

It is quite clear, even before he comments on my clumsy fingering, that I should either seek a good tutor, or consider learning to play a different instrument.

I am quite taken aback by the astonishing hospitality of the family when I am invited to join them for dinner, since the hour is approaching. For a middle-class family like themselves to consider entertaining a grauw servant like myself requires the abnegation of social boundaries but in the conversation that accompanies the meal they make it clear that my cover story is failing and they are well-aware that I am not an uneducated peasant! In the course of the meal, which compared to my fare of the last few days is nothing less than a feast, I have opportunity to learn more in depth about the occupation of the Netherlands, and Jan's musical skills, inherited from, and carefully nurtured by his late father, the previous organist at the Oude Kerk.

In a final desperate attempt to avoid questions that would expose me, I have hinted very broadly that I am gathering intelligence (true enough), though whether for Prince William, or another friendly power (or even for the Duke of Alva) I have tried not to suggest. Taking my leave, and thanking them for their generous hospitality, it is very definitely time for me to leave!

To learn more about Amsterdam in the 16th century I encourage you to visit the following sites:

How to play the virginals like Jan Sweelinck

Domestic life in 16th century Holland

A history of Dutch cuisine

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In the House of the Lord

I am indebted to Marten van Delft for the suggestion (which is so obvious, I'm ashamed I didn't think of it myself) that I should ask Pieter Coningh, the kerkmeester of the Sint Nicolaas Kerk if he might know where I could meet Jan Sweelinck.

In my free afternoon, I make my way to the Kerk through the icy streets. The Kerk is every bit as huge and draughty as I expected but in the nave there are at least a few small braziers spaced out, where folk can warm themselves for a while. The whitewashed walls give the place a serene, and airy feel and the voices of visitors, mostly transacting business of one kind or another, echo from the vaults overhead. The Kerk still shows the traces of iconoclastic damage by zealous Calvinist believers fifteen years ago (although I can hardly blame them for their anger, considering the atrocities committed against their countrymen). I can't help wondering if Jan Pieterszoon shares the strong feelings of so many of his compatriots against catholicism. Being born at the time when the Spanish hold over the Netherlands was decisively broken, I expect he has no memories of events at the time, but his attitude has probably been colored by the recollections of his parents and older friends. If all goes well, in a few minutes I may be able to put the question to him in person.

Now that I'm here, Meester Coningh seems to be almost as difficult to catch as Jan Sweelinck; the church is a large building, and I worry that when I go east, he could be going west. An older man in a broad felt hat suggests I wait beside the brazier while he goes in search, and a few minutes later Meester Coningh comes hurrying up, taking a few minutes to warm his own hands. It's a good thing I picked today to come in search, Jan Sweelinck will be giving a short performance in perhaps fifteen minutes. With that information, I gratefully accept a small stool and make myself comfortable to wait.

In the next fifteen minutes, quite a crowd assembles in the nave of the church, mostly men, and mostly fairly well-to-do judging by their apparel, and many of them bring either stools or small folding chairs with them. Could this be the reason stoutly padded clothing is so much in vogue? the chairs and stools are un-cushioned, they wear their cushions!

It must be twenty minutes since the recital ended, and from my watch-post lurking beside a pillar near the west end of the kerk I approach the gangly pink-faced boy who comes down from the stairway beneath the tower with a leathern document wallet in one hand to be met by a girl in a dark brown dress, of more-or-less the same age.

"Heb ik het genoegen van het aanpakken van Meester Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck?"

The girl (girlfriend? sister?) who has taken his arm smiles proudly at him as he confirms that he is indeed the young man I am looking for, but if I will excuse him, he is required to attend lessons with his tutor, at the expense of the city burghers. Perhaps I would come to number 19 on the Langestraat this afternoon, about four-o'clock? and there he will be honored to introduce me to his family and answer my questions.

I haven't long left the Kerk when I am approached by a rather agressive woman, her face reddened with windburn, who demands alms of me. It does me no harm to give her a few silver schellingen and, concerned for her continued existence, I ask where she shelters. Perhaps because I try to show a measure of compassion her attitude towards me changes a little and she opens up.

"When I have a penning I go to the Gasthuis down past the 'house on the three canals' at night but if I have any money I have to hide it, or they take it all. Sometimes one of the taverns will let me sleep on the floor in return for sweeping."

It seems that, until the Calvinist influence spread to the Netherlands, such unfortunate souls were able to obtain a measure of assistance from the church, being allowed to shelter in the building, and receive whatever victuals might be donated from day to day. But now, charity takes a different tone, and emphasises the importance of working for one's daily bread.

References

Please take a moment to visit this page which has many fine illustrations as well as a condensed guide to the Oude Kerk.

For a more detailed history of the Kerk, this is a good page to visit.

This page, describing the commerce of the Dutch Indies, has some examples of currency.

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Live Free or Die!

De eerste dach von April
Verloor Duc d'Alva zynen Bril

The first day of April
the Duke of Alva lost his spectacles!

When I set out to explore the highways and byways of time, I had no idea that tending bar would become such an integral part of my occupation. I knew a little astronomy, a little herbal medicine, a few odds and ends picked up from observing craftsmen at work, but next-to-nothing about how to flirt safely with carters and sailors, and how to manage a drunk. Well, little by little I'm filling in the gaps in my knowledge.

Having failed to locate Jan Sweelinck so far, it became necessary for me to find some short-term employment that would allow me enough leeway to continue my investigation; some free time is good, and plenty of interaction with Joe Public is vital.

Which explains why I am carrying pots of ale, the occasional mead (but we don't get much call for it these days) and making spiced wine in the kitchen here at the Neptunus inn. And this is where I was fortunate enough to engage Marten van Delft in conversation. Or rather, he snagged me as I was passing. He wasn't drunk, a little tipsy perhaps, and while he made a half-hearted pass at me, he wasn't serious about getting laid either. He just wanted someone to talk to.

Suited me fine! I recognized him as the boatman who had fitted his boat with wheels for the frost fair, and as it turned out, he had quite an illustrious career behind him as one of the notorious Watergeuzen, serving with the crew known as the Lost Child of Leyden. He recounts proudly the names of other crews as well, with names like the Great Thirst of Gorkum, The Cleaver of Alkmaar, and the Every Neck Forfeit, each of their names a reproach against Spanish atrocities.

He tells me the crews were a rag-tag mixture of disenchanted Spaniards, Frenchmen, English, Germans and Dutch, mostly mercenary buccaneer types happy to accept the nominal leadership of Prince William of Orange. It seems Prince William had issued very particular orders regarding ships sailing under his marque, but once at sea, the captains more-or-less made their own rules.

Every ship was to

• carry a priest.
• observe the Articles of War
• be commanded by a Dutch native
• accept neither soldiers or sailors unless they were men of a good reputation and respectable family.

Like all sailors, he can spin a good yarn, and at first I was disinclined to believe his story of the fleet led by Simon de Rijck blown off-course and forced to seek shelter in the harbor of Brijl where the ships' crews, impossibly outnumbered, surprised the Spanish garrison and recaptured the port. But I found out later, his tale wasn't embroidered all that much. Having misjudged the situation, the garrison force had been ordered to reinforce Utrecht.

The town gates had been locked and the militia turned out to man the walls while the town magistrates convened in the town hall. Captain Cornelis Roobol took a party of sailors and a length of mast timber and under fire from the ramparts of the wall, had his men lay tarred brushwood against the gates. Using black powder charges and fire to weaken the gates, the men finally managed to break the gates open using the battering ram and found the town largely deserted to the militia by the citizens who feared both the wrath of the Sea Beggars and the Spanish occupying forces.

It was at this point that I interrupted Marten to ask him if he could teach me any of the sailors' songs. He knit his brows in thought for a few moments, blushed slightly and grinned, then taught me the following, which I doubt very much was regularly sung by the sailors (although You Know What Sailors Are!)

References

For anyone who wants to learn more about the Sea Beggars, or to get a better picture of piracy in the sixteenth century, I recommend this book, available online from Google Books or as a PDF for download to read at leisure.

I recommend also, this Gallery of Captains of the Sea Beggars

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Water like a stone

This report has taken more effort than usual to type up. It wasn't a particularly troublesome excursion, but I had to think very carefully about wording, and how to describe the activities which I engaged in, knowing that it would be read by Madam Director.

My intention was to skip backwards (yes, I know, a skip that involves harnessing a measurable percentage of solar energy and beating seven bells out of Newtonian physics) to Amsterdam in 1581 in the hope of meeting a young (15-year-old) and very promising Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck. However, I gave almost no thought to the season in which I would be arriving: an icy February. So of course, not only are the city streets icy, and rooves limned with icicles glittering in the sunlight, but a frost fair is in progress!

My first priority, since for this trip I am not in drag, is to obtain a warm cloak and some woollen stockings, and I should really be conscientious and make my way to the Oude Kerke to begin my investigation, but there are more interesting things happening closer at hand.

On the Amstel there are people skating,there are booths set up selling mulled wine (my personal favorite is a variation called Bischopswijn), hot pies, roast meats, freshly baked buns, a couple of shoemenders offering to repair damaged skates, and various rides and games. I had to chuckle when I saw that some enterprising boatman had attached wheels to the hull of his boat and had a team of boys (relations I assume) towing the vehicle around on the ice.

And all of this had the effect of diverting me from my goal of finding Jan Sweelinck. However, the excursion wasn't completely fruitless, as I spent several hours in the evening getting some of the chill out of my bones beside the fireplace in one of the city's many taverns, and got to know for the first time, an instrument which is really very common, which makes it surprising that I hadn't met it before: the rommelpot.

The best way I can think of to describe the sound it makes is a grunting pig, and while it can be used as a percussion substitute, if interjected at the right moment in the right song, the effect reduces me to helpless giggling. With a couple of enthusiastic viollists, a rommelpot, and lute making up the band it doesn't take much to get feet tapping and I'm happy that I'm not the only one who feels like jigging for a bit.

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