The Miniaturist(33)
‘We must take our seats,’ Otto says. ‘There’s room in the choir.’ He looks marooned among the barely whispered commentaries that accompany his every move.
Pastor Pellicorne goes up to the pulpit. He is tall, over fifty, clean-shaven, his grey hair short and neat, his collar wide and sparkling white. His appearance suggests he has an attentive set of servants.
Pellicorne does not bother with introductions. ‘Foul practices!’ he booms over the dogs and children, the scuffling feet and mewling of the gulls outside. A silence falls, all eyes on him but those of Otto, who bows his head, focused on the knot of his intertwined hands. Nella looks over at Agnes, whose face is turned upwards to the pastor like a mesmerized child. She is so odd, Nella thinks. One minute so glib and haughty, the next so infantile and striving to impress.
‘There are many closed doors in our city through which we cannot see,’ Pellicorne continues, hard and unrelenting. ‘But do not think you can hide your sin from God.’ His tapering fingers grip the edge of the pulpit. ‘He will find you out,’ Pellicorne calls across their heads. ‘There is nothing hidden that will not be revealed. His angels will look through the windows and keyholes of your heart, and He will hold you to your acts. Our city was built on a bog, our land has suffered God’s wrath before. We triumphed, we turned the water to our side. But do not rest easy now – it was prudence and neighbourliness that helped us triumph.’
‘Yes,’ calls a man in the crowd. A baby begins to wail. Dhana whimpers and tries to get under Nella’s skirts.
‘If the reins of our shame are not held tight,’ says Pellicorne, ‘we all will return to the sea. Be upright for the city! Look into your hearts and think how you have sinned against your neighbour, or how your neighbour is a sinner!’
He pauses for effect, breathless in his righteousness. Nella imagines the congregation pulling open their ribs, staring into the beating mess of their sinful hearts, peering into everyone else’s before slamming their bodies shut. In the corner of the church, a starling beats its wings. Somebody should let it out, she thinks.
‘They’re always getting trapped,’ Cornelia whispers.
‘Let us not allow his fury to harm us again.’ There are several grunts of assent from the congregation, and by now, Pellicorne’s voice is slightly quavering with emotion. ‘It is greed. Greed is the canker we must cut out – greed is the tree and money the deeplying root!’
‘It also paid for your nice collar,’ Cornelia mutters. Nella feels breathless with trying not to giggle. She risks a glance at Frans Meermans. Whilst his wife’s attention is drawn to the pulpit, he is watching the Brandts.
‘We must not fool ourselves that we have harnessed the power of the seas,’ Pellicorne modulates his voice to an insistent, lulling hum before sticking in the knife. ‘Yes, the bounty of Mammon has come to us – but one day it will drown us all. And where will you be on that fateful day? Where? Up to your elbows in sugared sweets and fat chicken pies? Swamped in your silks and strings of diamonds?’
Cornelia sighs. ‘If only,’ she murmurs, ‘if only.’
‘Take care, take care,’ warns Pellicorne. ‘This city thrives! Its money gives you wings to soar. But it is a yoke on your shoulders and you would do well to take note of the bruise around your neck.’
Marin has screwed her eyes tight as if she’s going to cry. Nella hopes it is merely a sort of spiritual bliss, an abandonment to the power of Pellicorne’s holy warning words. Meermans is still staring. Marin opens her eyes and notices this; her knuckles tighten on her psalter. She shifts in her seat, misery writ across her waxen face. Nella’s throat feels dry but she dares not cough. Pellicorne is reaching his climax and the bodies of the congregation draw together, solidifying, alert.
‘Adulterers. Money-men. Sodomites. Thieves,’ the pastor cries. ‘Beware them all, look for them! Tell your neighbour if the cloud of danger is approaching. Let not evil pass your doorstep, for once the canker comes it will be hard to take away. The very ground beneath us will break apart, God’s fury will seep into the land.’
‘Yes,’ says the man in the crowd again. ‘Yes!’
Dhana barks with increasing agitation. ‘Shut up,’ Cornelia whispers.
‘What can you do to make it go away?’ booms Pellicorne, back to his full volume, arms aloft like Christ himself. ‘Love. Love your children, for they are the seeds that will make this city bloom! Husbands, love your wives, and women, be obedient, for all that is holy and good. Keep your houses clean, and your souls will follow suit!’
He is finished. There are sighs of release, sounds of agreement, an awakening and stretching of legs. Nella is beginning to feel lightheaded. The light is shining on the grave-slabs. Be obedient. Husbands, love your wives. You are sunlight through a window, which I stand in, warmed. My darling. The baby wails again and Nella and Marin look up together as its mother unsuccessfully tries to hush it, absenting herself from the congregation and slipping out through the side-door of the church.
Nella follows Marin’s gaze, both staring enviously at the brief square of golden sunlight afforded by the mother’s exit. In this intense new world of Amsterdam, in this cold city church, one hour of worship feels like a year.
That night in Nella’s room, the moon illuminates her cabinet in patches. The tock of the pendulum clock beats the air like a muffled pulse, seeming to grow louder in her ears. She thinks of the woman in the church, observing her in silence.