Rembrandt's Confession

REMBRANDT'S CONFESSION

  By

  Brian Christopher

  Copyright 2015 Brian Christopher

  What does a historian do if he does not teach in a university or school, publish books or appear on TV and become a media celebrity. Hans Benting is one of those historians who does the leg work, the graft - spending weeks, months and sometimes years crawling through ancient manuscripts and books to satisfy his own curiosity. When the research is complete he passes it on to the academic world. That pays the bills, leaving him free to come and go as he pleases - and let him carry out his work in relative peace and obscurity.

  In the middle of June 2003 Hans received a call from a fellow Italian historian Dr Giorgio Bola telling him they had found forty-three ancient manuscripts during the renovation of an old building not more than a kilometre from the Vatican. They were thought to be part of a private collection - all in Latin, except for one they believed to be written in medieval Dutch. How it found its way there no one knew - but since they turned out to be non-descript translations of known Bible's they expected this to be the same - although none of their scholars could translate it - hence they called Hans Benting.

  There was no budget for a flight to Rome with a nice hotel, so it was sent as a package to his small apartment in The Hague by UPS.

  He was surprised when it arrived in the thinnest, cheapest brown paper available with criss-cross twine keeping it all together. Obviously the Italians were eager to get rid of it - to them it was of no importance.

  In his small living room at the front of the apartment, he cut the twine and removed the packaging. Immediately he could see why they had little interest. The leather binding front and back was thicker than the actual contents itself. Only fifteen pages of parchment - highly unusual because of the expense of the binding, so maybe that was a problem.

  Opening the manuscript he studied the centre pages to see if any had been ripped out - or stealthily removed. On close inspection the stitching was tight and intact, with no loose pages or evidence of tampering - it was all original.

  Later that morning and enjoying a Nespresso he decided to tackle the contents. Sitting down at his long dark oak work / dining table he opened the front page and focused on the ancient text. The manuscript was indeed Dutch - probably about fifteenth or sixteenth century. It gave an account of the Begijnhof - an enclave in the middle of Amsterdam which began as a female religious community helping the sick in the fourteenth century. Hans knew it well, it was still in existence, only now it was an enclosed area with living space for unmarried women and open to the public from eight o'clock in the morning until five in the evening. The manuscript seemed to concentrate on telling more about the grounds in and around the Begijnhof and the Saint Lucien monastery next to it - which later became an orphanage. What struck him the most was the mention of a house, a house of 'Lost Souls'.

  Hans thought he knew everything about the buildings in the Begijnhof and the Saint Lucien monastery - which was now the Museum of Amsterdam, but a house of 'Lost Souls?

  That he had never heard of.

  At the back of the last page was a roughly drawn map - looking similar to what it was now, little had changed in the layout of the buildings - except for an extra passage between the two. As far as he knew, that did not exist today.

  The manuscript was worth at least a few thousand euros if he sold it on, but first he had to research it further, translate the entire text into modern Dutch and check out the map.

  ~~~~

  The following morning he decided to take the train to Amsterdam and see if the passages mentioned were still there or ever existed.

  From central station it was only a twenty minute walk to the Begijnhof. An oasis of peace and quiet in the middle of the bustling shopping streets in the old heart of the city could be entered through an equally age old passage from the Spui. The grounds, with manicured lawns and sculpture in the centre, were surrounded by private houses, those he could not freely enter. Standing in the courtyard, he studied the houses in front where the passage could have been but nothing was obvious. He was wasting time, he thought, he had to see it from the other side where the museum now stood.

  Much of the Amsterdam Museum - formally the Saint Lucien monastery and later orphanage next to it remained unchanged for hundreds of years. Once inside he went straight to the city guard gallery - a covered walkway leading from the museum towards the Begijnhof on the other side. He took the manuscript out of the leather satchel he always had hanging from his shoulder and checked the map. He was frustrated by the fact it was only a general view with no exact details, but he knew what he was looking for and it should be somewhere nearby.

  At the bottom of the walkway he turned left into a darker less well-kept corridor - here the public area ended. Badly lit and little used - he carried on deeper into the passage. At the end he came to a large oak door on the right with a large bronze knocker moulded into the shape of an ancient bearded man. Was it a reconstruction?

  Feeling the ancient wood and studying the patina on the metal face this could only be the real deal.

  Should he knock?

  Was it locked, as most obscure doors in a Museum would be? He turned the handle - the click and rumble of the ancient lock resonated through the door. Opening slowly inwards it revealed an ancient hall. Directly in front a large stairs with imposing portraits covered the wall all the way up to the top. Stepping in, the door closed gently behind him. He checked the map once again and turned to orientate himself in the direction of where he thought he should be standing. He found himself firmly focused on the stairs ahead.

  Taking his time he carefully made his way past the portraits and up the stairway which curved around to a landing in the centre of the house. Corridors left and right were deeper than he could have imagined for the size of the museum. How was this possible, he thought. Doors either side were not as elaborate as the main entrance but equally impressive and equally ancient. The first door to the left, with its round cast iron black door handle, seemed the obvious choice.

  He turned the handle and pushed gently on the door. A rush of air swept past him, smelling stale and muff and also had a strong sense of linseed oil. The room was dark except for slight beams of light shining through four small square windows located high on the wall to the right. He could see an ornate plaster ceiling with large floral rings - four panels with carved roses and cherubs embodied into the centre. As his eyes adjusted to the dark light, he could just make out a floor strewn with canvases and drawings while the walls were covered from top to bottom in large and small unframed paintings.