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Joris Iven |
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THE TESTAMENT OF PIETER BLADELIN
I have no children. I administer an accumulation that is empty. Castles, courts, parcels of polderland. I was strict with myself, even stricter with my wife and servants. Cooks, clerks, gatekeepers, barbers. What can a man accomplish on his own? His life is order, control and frugality. Ostentation on well-defined occasions. I counted in pounds, groats and ducats, in measured land. Made out bills of exchange, demanded securities, revoked proxies. I went clad in red velvet trimmed with sable, wearing the chain of the Golden Fleece. I did not build a house, I founded a city. A citadel, a church, an infirmary. Another waterway, a winning-place down to the sea, a market, a harbour. A man yearns only for eternity. He happily includes a sin. I used to call Van der Weyden simply Rogier. And De Brune Pieter. I was treasurer. I knelt before the Child in Middelburg. I learnt humility from a triptych. And I humbled myself just as fully before a sculpture. But I constantly stood close to the Virgin. My God, she still radiated dignity. She bestowed on me more than Marguerite ever gave. But I only sinned with retables, with wood or canvases. I was not unchaste. And listen: if I now must part, I will gladly kneel once more. Death is more temporary than life was.
· Essays · Toneel |