Fleurs du Mal Magazine
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Willem Bilderdijk
(1756-1831)
Aan mijns Broeders
jonggeboren Zoontjen
By uw’ aankomst in dit leven
U geen’ welkomgroet te geven,
Ware ongâlijk, kleine bloed!
’t Waar, in weinige oogenblikken
U van ’t leven af te schrikken,
Dat gy toch wel ingaan moet.
Ja, mijn goêlijk, aartig knaapjen,
Zie eens uit uw kalverslaapjen,
Zie eens in de wareld op!
Ja, WY MOETEN, zonder vragen. —
’t Moge ons lusten of mishagen,
Pof, daar zijn wy, kleien pop!
Dan aan ’t schreeuwen, dan aan ’t huilen!
Maar helaas! daar baat geen rpuilen.
Och, er vaart geen schuit weêrom.
Blijven moet ge, teder lammetjen,
En uw troost bestaat in ’t prammetjen;
Dat is al uw eigendom.
Nu, dan schijnt u wel te smaken;
En het moog u recht vermaken!
’k Wensch het u, mijn beste maat!
En wat verder mag gebeuren,
Spelen, dartlen, lachen, treuren,
Dat zal loopen zoo het gaat.
Wees dan welkom! leef te vreden,
En stap eens met mannentreden
Door dat ruw en hobblig pad,
Dat wy menschen leven noemen,
Rijk aan dorens, schaarsch aan bloemen,
’t Geen ik reeds ten einde trad.
Mooglijk, en ik wil het hopen,
Vindt ge ’t zoeter door te loopen
Dan het my gevallen is.
’k Moest het onder zware buien,
Bukkend, kreupel, overkruien;
Gy, doorspring het, blij en frisch!
Moogt gy al die hagelvlagen
Van des aardrijks Winterdagen
Weêr in Lent’ verwisseld zien,
En een streelend zonneschijnen
’t Reetjen van uw wieggordijnen
Reeds een schemerlachjen biên!
Moogt gy rozen zien ontsluiken,
Waar ik niet dan distelstruiken,
Vruchten, waar ik eikels vond!
Frissche bron, waar ik moerassen!
En de last niet zwaarder wassen,
Dan gy vrolijk dragen kondt!
Drukt zy nogtans op uw schouders;
Denkt dan, knaapjen, aan die ouders,
Welker bloed u oorsprong gaf :
Voel dat bloed uw hart doorzweven :
Wacht het onheil zonder beven;
Wend het door geen laagheên af!
’t Wensch u goud noch viezevazen
Die een oogwenk weg kan blazen;
’t Wensch u toeverzicht op God!
Schatten, die de ziel verrijken,
In geen sterfuur van ons wijken,
Onontroosbaar zijn door ’t lot!
Nimmer zie ik, minlijk wichtjen,
’t Blosjen op uw aangezichtjen
Andwoord geven op uw’ groet :
Maar zoo ooit in rijper jaren
’s Warelds leed u mocht bezwaren,
Schep dan uit mijn voorbeeld moed!
Dan, wat stelle ik my ten voorbeeld?
Nimmer hebb’ u ’t lot veroordeeld
Tot het geen het my beschoor!
Echter zoo van de oude jammeren
Weêr een schemer op mocht dammeren,
Stel uw afkomst niet te loor!
Zie dan in uws Vaders Wapen
D’afgrond schuimen, buldren, gapen,
Maar de Rots onwrikbaar staan.
Zeg dan : « Liever van de golven,
» Zoo het zijn moet, overdolven,
» Dan onedel om te slaan ! »
Sprokkelmaand, 1808.
In een zwaar toeval van ziekte.
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Willem Bilderdijk gedichten
k e m p i s p o e t r y m a g a z i n e
More in: Bilderdijk, Willem
Friederike Kempner
(1836-1904)
Gegen die Vivisektion
Ein unbekanntes Band der Seelen kettet
Den Menschen an das arme Tier,
Das Tier hat seinen Willen – ergo Seele –
Wenn auch ‘ne kleinere als wir.
Ein Mensch, mißbrauchend die Gewalt und Stärke,
Ein lebend Herz zerreißend – wie?
Wer gleicht denn hier dem wilden Tiere,
Ist es der Mensch, ist es das Vieh?
Friederike Kempner poetry
kempis poetry magazine
More in: Archive K-L
Joseph Conrad
(1857-1924)
A Desperate Tale
An Anarchist
That year I spent the best two months of the dry season on one of
the estates–in fact, on the principal cattle estate–of a famous
meat-extract manufacturing company.
B.O.S. Bos. You have seen the three magic letters on the advertisement
pages of magazines and newspapers, in the windows of provision
merchants, and on calendars for next year you receive by post in the
month of November. They scatter pamphlets also, written in a sickly
enthusiastic style and in several languages, giving statistics of
slaughter and bloodshed enough to make a Turk turn faint. The “art”
illustrating that “literature” represents in vivid and shining colours
a large and enraged black bull stamping upon a yellow snake writhing
in emerald-green grass, with a cobalt-blue sky for a background. It
is atrocious and it is an allegory. The snake symbolizes disease,
weakness–perhaps mere hunger, which last is the chronic disease of the
majority of mankind. Of course everybody knows the B. O. S. Ltd., with
its unrivalled products: Vinobos, Jellybos, and the latest unequalled
perfection, Tribos, whose nourishment is offered to you not only highly
concentrated, but already half digested. Such apparently is the love
that Limited Company bears to its fellowmen–even as the love of the
father and mother penguin for their hungry fledglings.
Of course the capital of a country must be productively employed. I
have nothing to say against the company. But being myself animated by
feelings of affection towards my fellow-men, I am saddened by the
modern system of advertising. Whatever evidence it offers of enterprise,
ingenuity, impudence, and resource in certain individuals, it proves to
my mind the wide prevalence of that form of mental degradation which is
called gullibility.
In various parts of the civilized and uncivilized world I have had to
swallow B. O. S. with more or less benefit to myself, though without
great pleasure. Prepared with hot water and abundantly peppered to bring
out the taste, this extract is not really unpalatable. But I have never
swallowed its advertisements. Perhaps they have not gone far enough. As
far as I can remember they make no promise of everlasting youth to the
users of B. O. S., nor yet have they claimed the power of raising the
dead for their estimable products. Why this austere reserve, I wonder?
But I don’t think they would have had me even on these terms. Whatever
form of mental degradation I may (being but human) be suffering from, it
is not the popular form. I am not gullible.
I have been at some pains to bring out distinctly this statement about
myself in view of the story which follows. I have checked the facts as
far as possible. I have turned up the files of French newspapers, and I
have also talked with the officer who commands the military guard on
the Ile Royale, when in the course of my travels I reached Cayenne. I
believe the story to be in the main true. It is the sort of story that
no man, I think, would ever invent about himself, for it is neither
grandiose nor flattering, nor yet funny enough to gratify a perverted
vanity.
It concerns the engineer of the steam-launch belonging to the Maranon
cattle estate of the B. O. S. Co., Ltd. This estate is also an
island–an island as big as a small province, lying in the estuary of a
great South American river. It is wild and not beautiful, but the grass
growing on its low plains seems to possess exceptionally nourishing
and flavouring qualities. It resounds with the lowing of innumerable
herds–a deep and distressing sound under the open sky, rising like
a monstrous protest of prisoners condemned to death. On the mainland,
across twenty miles of discoloured muddy water, there stands a city
whose name, let us say, is Horta.
But the most interesting characteristic of this island (which seems like
a sort of penal settlement for condemned cattle) consists in its being
the only known habitat of an extremely rare and gorgeous butterfly.
The species is even more rare than it is beautiful, which is not saying
little. I have already alluded to my travels. I travelled at that time,
but strictly for myself and with a moderation unknown in our days of
round-the-world tickets. I even travelled with a purpose. As a matter of
fact, I am–“Ha, ha, ha!–a desperate butterfly-slayer. Ha, ha, ha!”
This was the tone in which Mr. Harry Gee, the manager of the cattle
station, alluded to my pursuits. He seemed to consider me the greatest
absurdity in the world. On the other hand, the B. O. S. Co., Ltd.,
represented to him the acme of the nineteenth century’s achievement. I
believe that he slept in his leggings and spurs. His days he spent in
the saddle flying over the plains, followed by a train of half-wild
horsemen, who called him Don Enrique, and who had no definite idea of
the B. O. S. Co., Ltd., which paid their wages. He was an excellent
manager, but I don’t see why, when we met at meals, he should have
thumped me on the back, with loud, derisive inquiries: “How’s the deadly
sport to-day? Butterflies going strong? Ha, ha, ha!”–especially as he
charged me two dollars per diem for the hospitality of the B. O. S. Co.,
Ltd., (capital L1,500,000, fully paid up), in whose balance-sheet for
that year those monies are no doubt included. “I don’t think I can
make it anything less in justice to my company,” he had remarked, with
extreme gravity, when I was arranging with him the terms of my stay on
the island.
His chaff would have been harmless enough if intimacy of intercourse
in the absence of all friendly feeling were not a thing detestable in
itself. Moreover, his facetiousness was not very amusing. It consisted
in the wearisome repetition of descriptive phrases applied to people
with a burst of laughter. “Desperate butterfly-slayer. Ha, ha, ha!” was
one sample of his peculiar wit which he himself enjoyed so much. And in
the same vein of exquisite humour he called my attention to the engineer
of the steam-launch, one day, as we strolled on the path by the side of
the creek.
The man’s head and shoulders emerged above the deck, over which were
scattered various tools of his trade and a few pieces of machinery. He
was doing some repairs to the engines. At the sound of our footsteps
he raised anxiously a grimy face with a pointed chin and a tiny fair
moustache. What could be seen of his delicate features under the black
smudges appeared to me wasted and livid in the greenish shade of the
enormous tree spreading its foliage over the launch moored close to the
bank.
To my great surprise, Harry Gee addressed him as “Crocodile,” in
that half-jeering, half-bullying tone which is characteristic of
self-satisfaction in his delectable kind:
“How does the work get on, Crocodile?”
I should have said before that the amiable Harry had picked up French
of a sort somewhere–in some colony or other–and that he pronounced
it with a disagreeable forced precision as though he meant to guy the
language. The man in the launch answered him quickly in a pleasant
voice. His eyes had a liquid softness and his teeth flashed dazzlingly
white between his thin, drooping lips. The manager turned to me, very
cheerful and loud, explaining:
“I call him Crocodile because he lives half in, half out of the creek.
Amphibious–see? There’s nothing else amphibious living on the island
except crocodiles; so he must belong to the species–eh? But in reality
he’s nothing less than un citoyen anarchiste de Barcelone.”
“A citizen anarchist from Barcelona?” I repeated, stupidly, looking down
at the man. He had turned to his work in the engine-well of the launch
and presented his bowed back to us. In that attitude I heard him
protest, very audibly:
“I do not even know Spanish.”
“Hey? What? You dare to deny you come from over there?” the accomplished
manager was down on him truculently.
At this the man straightened himself up, dropping a spanner he had been
using, and faced us; but he trembled in all his limbs.
“I deny nothing, nothing, nothing!” he said, excitedly.
He picked up the spanner and went to work again without paying any
further attention to us. After looking at him for a minute or so, we
went away.
“Is he really an anarchist?” I asked, when out of ear-shot.
“I don’t care a hang what he is,” answered the humorous official of the
B. O. S. Co. “I gave him the name because it suited me to label him in
that way, It’s good for the company.”
“For the company!” I exclaimed, stopping short.
“Aha!” he triumphed, tilting up his hairless pug face and straddling his
thin, long legs. “That surprises you. I am bound to do my best for my
company. They have enormous expenses. Why–our agent in Horta tells me
they spend fifty thousand pounds every year in advertising all over the
world! One can’t be too economical in working the show. Well, just you
listen. When I took charge here the estate had no steam-launch. I asked
for one, and kept on asking by every mail till I got it; but the man
they sent out with it chucked his job at the end of two months, leaving
the launch moored at the pontoon in Horta. Got a better screw at a
sawmill up the river–blast him! And ever since it has been the same
thing. Any Scotch or Yankee vagabond that likes to call himself a
mechanic out here gets eighteen pounds a month, and the next you know
he’s cleared out, after smashing something as likely as not. I give you
my word that some of the objects I’ve had for engine-drivers couldn’t
tell the boiler from the funnel. But this fellow understands his trade,
and I don’t mean him to clear out. See?”
And he struck me lightly on the chest for emphasis. Disregarding his
peculiarities of manner, I wanted to know what all this had to do with
the man being an anarchist.
“Come!” jeered the manager. “If you saw suddenly a barefooted, unkempt
chap slinking amongst the bushes on the sea face of the island, and at
the same time observed less than a mile from the beach, a small schooner
full of niggers hauling off in a hurry, you wouldn’t think the man fell
there from the sky, would you? And it could be nothing else but either
that or Cayenne. I’ve got my wits about me. Directly I sighted this
queer game I said to myself–‘Escaped Convict.’ I was as certain of
it as I am of seeing you standing here this minute. So I spurred on
straight at him. He stood his ground for a bit on a sand hillock crying
out: ‘Monsieur! Monsieur! Arretez!’ then at the last moment broke and
ran for life. Says I to myself, ‘I’ll tame you before I’m done with
you.’ So without a single word I kept on, heading him off here and
there. I rounded him up towards the shore, and at last I had him
corralled on a spit, his heels in the water and nothing but sea and sky
at his back, with my horse pawing the sand and shaking his head within a
yard of him.
“He folded his arms on his breast then and stuck his chin up in a
sort of desperate way; but I wasn’t to be impressed by the beggar’s
posturing.
“Says I, ‘You’re a runaway convict.’
“When he heard French, his chin went down and his face changed.
“‘I deny nothing,’ says he, panting yet, for I had kept him skipping
about in front of my horse pretty smartly. I asked him what he was doing
there. He had got his breath by then, and explained that he had meant to
make his way to a farm which he understood (from the schooner’s people,
I suppose) was to be found in the neighbourhood. At that I laughed
aloud and he got uneasy. Had he been deceived? Was there no farm within
walking distance?
“I laughed more and more. He was on foot, and of course the first bunch
of cattle he came across would have stamped him to rags under their
hoofs. A dismounted man caught on the feeding-grounds hasn’t got the
ghost of a chance.
“‘My coming upon you like this has certainly saved your life,’ I
said. He remarked that perhaps it was so; but that for his part he had
imagined I had wanted to kill him under the hoofs of my horse. I assured
him that nothing would have been easier had I meant it. And then we came
to a sort of dead stop. For the life of me I didn’t know what to do with
this convict, unless I chucked him into the sea. It occurred to me to
ask him what he had been transported for. He hung his head.
“‘What is it?’ says I. ‘Theft, murder, rape, or what?’ I wanted to hear
what he would have to say for himself, though of course I expected it
would be some sort of lie. But all he said was–
“‘Make it what you like. I deny nothing. It is no good denying
anything.’
“I looked him over carefully and a thought struck me.
“‘They’ve got anarchists there, too,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you’re one of
them.’
“‘I deny nothing whatever, monsieur,’ he repeats.
“This answer made me think that perhaps he was not an anarchist. I
believe those damned lunatics are rather proud of themselves. If he had
been one, he would have probably confessed straight out.
“‘What were you before you became a convict?’
“‘Ouvrier,’ he says. ‘And a good workman, too.’
“At that I began to think he must be an anarchist, after all. That’s the
class they come mostly from, isn’t it? I hate the cowardly bomb-throwing
brutes. I almost made up my mind to turn my horse short round and leave
him to starve or drown where he was, whichever he liked best. As to
crossing the island to bother me again, the cattle would see to that. I
don’t know what induced me to ask–
“‘What sort of workman?’
“I didn’t care a hang whether he answered me or not. But when he said
at once, ‘Mecanicien, monsieur,’ I nearly jumped out of the saddle with
excitement. The launch had been lying disabled and idle in the creek for
three weeks. My duty to the company was clear. He noticed my start,
too, and there we were for a minute or so staring at each other as if
bewitched.
“‘Get up on my horse behind me,’ I told him. ‘You shall put my
steam-launch to rights.'”
These are the words in which the worthy manager of the Maranon estate
related to me the coming of the supposed anarchist. He meant to keep
him–out of a sense of duty to the company–and the name he had given
him would prevent the fellow from obtaining employment anywhere in
Horta. The vaqueros of the estate, when they went on leave, spread it
all over the town. They did not know what an anarchist was, nor yet what
Barcelona meant. They called him Anarchisto de Barcelona, as if it were
his Christian name and surname. But the people in town had been reading
in their papers about the anarchists in Europe and were very much
impressed. Over the jocular addition of “de Barcelona” Mr. Harry
Gee chuckled with immense satisfaction. “That breed is particularly
murderous, isn’t it? It makes the sawmills crowd still more afraid of
having anything to do with him–see?” he exulted, candidly. “I hold him
by that name better than if I had him chained up by the leg to the deck
of the steam-launch.
“And mark,” he added, after a pause, “he does not deny it. I am not
wronging him in any way. He is a convict of some sort, anyhow.”
“But I suppose you pay him some wages, don’t you?” I asked.
“Wages! What does he want with money here? He gets his food from
my kitchen and his clothing from the store. Of course I’ll give him
something at the end of the year, but you don’t think I’d employ a
convict and give him the same money I would give an honest man? I am
looking after the interests of my company first and last.”
I admitted that, for a company spending fifty thousand pounds every
year in advertising, the strictest economy was obviously necessary. The
manager of the Maranon Estancia grunted approvingly.
“And I’ll tell you what,” he continued: “if I were certain he’s an
anarchist and he had the cheek to ask me for money, I would give him
the toe of my boot. However, let him have the benefit of the doubt. I
am perfectly willing to take it that he has done nothing worse than
to stick a knife into somebody–with extenuating circumstances–French
fashion, don’t you know. But that subversive sanguinary rot of doing
away with all law and order in the world makes my blood boil. It’s
simply cutting the ground from under the feet of every decent,
respectable, hard-working person. I tell you that the consciences of
people who have them, like you or I, must be protected in some way; or
else the first low scoundrel that came along would in every respect be
just as good as myself. Wouldn’t he, now? And that’s absurd!”
He glared at me. I nodded slightly and murmured that doubtless there was
much subtle truth in his view.
The principal truth discoverable in the views of Paul the engineer was
that a little thing may bring about the undoing of a man.
“_Il ne faut pas beaucoup pour perdre un homme_,” he said to me,
thoughtfully, one evening.
I report this reflection in French, since the man was of Paris, not of
Barcelona at all. At the Maranon he lived apart from the station, in
a small shed with a metal roof and straw walls, which he called
mon atelier. He had a work-bench there. They had given him several
horse-blankets and a saddle–not that he ever had occasion to ride, but
because no other bedding was used by the working-hands, who were all
vaqueros–cattlemen. And on this horseman’s gear, like a son of the
plains, he used to sleep amongst the tools of his trade, in a litter
of rusty scrap-iron, with a portable forge at his head, under the
work-bench sustaining his grimy mosquito-net.
Now and then I would bring him a few candle ends saved from the scant
supply of the manager’s house. He was very thankful for these. He did
not like to lie awake in the dark, he confessed. He complained that
sleep fled from him. “Le sommeil me fuit,” he declared, with his
habitual air of subdued stoicism, which made him sympathetic and
touching. I made it clear to him that I did not attach undue importance
to the fact of his having been a convict.
Thus it came about that one evening he was led to talk about himself.
As one of the bits of candle on the edge of the bench burned down to the
end, he hastened to light another.
He had done his military service in a provincial garrison and returned
to Paris to follow his trade. It was a well-paid one. He told me with
some pride that in a short time he was earning no less than ten francs a
day. He was thinking of setting up for himself by and by and of getting
married.
Here he sighed deeply and paused. Then with a return to his stoical
note:
“It seems I did not know enough about myself.”
On his twenty-fifth birthday two of his friends in the repairing shop
where he worked proposed to stand him a dinner. He was immensely touched
by this attention.
“I was a steady man,” he remarked, “but I am not less sociable than any
other body.”
The entertainment came off in a little cafe on the Boulevard de la
Chapelle. At dinner they drank some special wine. It was excellent.
Everything was excellent; and the world–in his own words–seemed a very
good place to live in. He had good prospects, some little money laid by,
and the affection of two excellent friends. He offered to pay for all
the drinks after dinner, which was only proper on his part.
They drank more wine; they drank liqueurs, cognac, beer, then more
liqueurs and more cognac. Two strangers sitting at the next table looked
at him, he said, with so much friendliness, that he invited them to join
the party.
He had never drunk so much in his life. His elation was extreme, and so
pleasurable that whenever it flagged he hastened to order more drinks.
“It seemed to me,” he said, in his quiet tone and looking on the ground
in the gloomy shed full of shadows, “that I was on the point of just
attaining a great and wonderful felicity. Another drink, I felt, would
do it. The others were holding out well with me, glass for glass.”
But an extraordinary thing happened. At something the strangers said his
elation fell. Gloomy ideas–des idees noires–rushed into his head. All
the world outside the cafe; appeared to him as a dismal evil place where
a multitude of poor wretches had to work and slave to the sole end
that a few individuals should ride in carriages and live riotously in
palaces. He became ashamed of his happiness. The pity of mankind’s cruel
lot wrung his heart. In a voice choked with sorrow he tried to express
these sentiments. He thinks he wept and swore in turns.
The two new acquaintances hastened to applaud his humane indignation.
Yes. The amount of injustice in the world was indeed scandalous. There
was only one way of dealing with the rotten state of society. Demolish
the whole sacree boutique. Blow up the whole iniquitous show.
Their heads hovered over the table. They whispered to him eloquently; I
don’t think they quite expected the result. He was extremely drunk–mad
drunk. With a howl of rage he leaped suddenly upon the table. Kicking
over the bottles and glasses, he yelled: “Vive l’anarchie! Death to the
capitalists!” He yelled this again and again. All round him broken glass
was falling, chairs were being swung in the air, people were taking each
other by the throat. The police dashed in. He hit, bit, scratched and
struggled, till something crashed down upon his head. . . .
He came to himself in a police cell, locked up on a charge of assault,
seditious cries, and anarchist propaganda.
He looked at me fixedly with his liquid, shining eyes, that seemed very
big in the dim light.
“That was bad. But even then I might have got off somehow, perhaps,” he
said, slowly.
I doubt it. But whatever chance he had was done away with by a young
socialist lawyer who volunteered to undertake his defence. In vain he
assured him that he was no anarchist; that he was a quiet, respectable
mechanic, only too anxious to work ten hours per day at his trade. He
was represented at the trial as the victim of society and his drunken
shoutings as the expression of infinite suffering. The young lawyer had
his way to make, and this case was just what he wanted for a start. The
speech for the defence was pronounced magnificent.
The poor fellow paused, swallowed, and brought out the statement:
“I got the maximum penalty applicable to a first offence.”
I made an appropriate murmur. He hung his head and folded his arms.
“When they let me out of prison,” he began, gently, “I made tracks, of
course, for my old workshop. My patron had a particular liking for me
before; but when he saw me he turned green with fright and showed me the
door with a shaking hand.”
While he stood in the street, uneasy and disconcerted, he was accosted
by a middle-aged man who introduced himself as an engineer’s fitter,
too. “I know who you are,” he said. “I have attended your trial. You are
a good comrade and your ideas are sound. But the devil of it is that you
won’t be able to get work anywhere now. These bourgeois’ll conspire to
starve you. That’s their way. Expect no mercy from the rich.”
To be spoken to so kindly in the street had comforted him very much. His
seemed to be the sort of nature needing support and sympathy. The idea
of not being able to find work had knocked him over completely. If his
patron, who knew him so well for a quiet, orderly, competent workman,
would have nothing to do with him now–then surely nobody else would.
That was clear. The police, keeping their eye on him, would hasten to
warn every employer inclined to give him a chance. He felt suddenly very
helpless, alarmed and idle; and he followed the middle-aged man to the
estaminet round the corner where he met some other good companions. They
assured him that he would not be allowed to starve, work or no work.
They had drinks all round to the discomfiture of all employers of labour
and to the destruction of society.
He sat biting his lower lip.
“That is, monsieur, how I became a compagnon,” he said. The hand he
passed over his forehead was trembling. “All the same, there’s something
wrong in a world where a man can get lost for a glass more or less.”
He never looked up, though I could see he was getting excited under his
dejection. He slapped the bench with his open palm.
“No!” he cried. “It was an impossible existence! Watched by the police,
watched by the comrades, I did not belong to myself any more! Why, I
could not even go to draw a few francs from my savings-bank without a
comrade hanging about the door to see that I didn’t bolt! And most of
them were neither more nor less than housebreakers. The intelligent, I
mean. They robbed the rich; they were only getting back their own, they
said. When I had had some drink I believed them. There were also the
fools and the mad. Des exaltes–quoi! When I was drunk I loved them.
When I got more drink I was angry with the world. That was the best
time. I found refuge from misery in rage. But one can’t be always
drunk–n’est-ce pas, monsieur? And when I was sober I was afraid to
break away. They would have stuck me like a pig.”
He folded his arms again and raised his sharp chin with a bitter smile.
“By and by they told me it was time to go to work. The work was to rob
a bank. Afterwards a bomb would be thrown to wreck the place. My
beginner’s part would be to keep watch in a street at the back and to
take care of a black bag with the bomb inside till it was wanted. After
the meeting at which the affair was arranged a trusty comrade did not
leave me an inch. I had not dared to protest; I was afraid of being
done away with quietly in that room; only, as we were walking together I
wondered whether it would not be better for me to throw myself suddenly
into the Seine. But while I was turning it over in my mind we had
crossed the bridge, and afterwards I had not the opportunity.”
In the light of the candle end, with his sharp features, fluffy little
moustache, and oval face, he looked at times delicately and gaily young,
and then appeared quite old, decrepit, full of sorrow, pressing his
folded arms to his breast.
As he remained silent I felt bound to ask:
“Well! And how did it end?”
“Deportation to Cayenne,” he answered.
He seemed to think that somebody had given the plot away. As he was
keeping watch in the back street, bag in hand, he was set upon by the
police. “These imbeciles,” had knocked him down without noticing what he
had in his hand. He wondered how the bomb failed to explode as he fell.
But it didn’t explode.
“I tried to tell my story in court,” he continued. “The president was
amused. There were in the audience some idiots who laughed.”
I expressed the hope that some of his companions had been caught, too.
He shuddered slightly before he told me that there were two–Simon,
called also Biscuit, the middle-aged fitter who spoke to him in the
street, and a fellow of the name of Mafile, one of the sympathetic
strangers who had applauded his sentiments and consoled his humanitarian
sorrows when he got drunk in the cafe.
“Yes,” he went on, with an effort, “I had the advantage of their company
over there on St. Joseph’s Island, amongst some eighty or ninety other
convicts. We were all classed as dangerous.”
St. Joseph’s Island is the prettiest of the Iles de Salut. It is
rocky and green, with shallow ravines, bushes, thickets, groves of
mango-trees, and many feathery palms. Six warders armed with revolvers
and carbines are in charge of the convicts kept there.
An eight-oared galley keeps up the communication in the daytime, across
a channel a quarter of a mile wide, with the Ile Royale, where there is
a military post. She makes the first trip at six in the morning. At four
in the afternoon her service is over, and she is then hauled up into
a little dock on the Ile Royale and a sentry put over her and a few
smaller boats. From that time till next morning the island of St. Joseph
remains cut off from the rest of the world, with the warders patrolling
in turn the path from the warders’ house to the convict huts, and a
multitude of sharks patrolling the waters all round.
Under these circumstances the convicts planned a mutiny. Such a thing
had never been known in the penitentiary’s history before. But their
plan was not without some possibility of success. The warders were to be
taken by surprise and murdered during the night. Their arms would
enable the convicts to shoot down the people in the galley as she came
alongside in the morning. The galley once in their possession, other
boats were to be captured, and the whole company was to row away up the
coast.
At dusk the two warders on duty mustered the convicts as usual. Then
they proceeded to inspect the huts to ascertain that everything was
in order. In the second they entered they were set upon and absolutely
smothered under the numbers of their assailants. The twilight faded
rapidly. It was a new moon; and a heavy black squall gathering over
the coast increased the profound darkness of the night. The convicts
assembled in the open space, deliberating upon the next step to be
taken, argued amongst themselves in low voices.
“You took part in all this?” I asked.
“No. I knew what was going to be done, of course. But why should I
kill these warders? I had nothing against them. But I was afraid of the
others. Whatever happened, I could not escape from them. I sat alone
on the stump of a tree with my head in my hands, sick at heart at the
thought of a freedom that could be nothing but a mockery to me. Suddenly
I was startled to perceive the shape of a man on the path near by. He
stood perfectly still, then his form became effaced in the night. It
must have been the chief warder coming to see what had become of his
two men. No one noticed him. The convicts kept on quarrelling over
their plans. The leaders could not get themselves obeyed. The fierce
whispering of that dark mass of men was very horrible.
“At last they divided into two parties and moved off. When they had
passed me I rose, weary and hopeless. The path to the warders’ house was
dark and silent, but on each side the bushes rustled slightly. Presently
I saw a faint thread of light before me. The chief warder, followed by
his three men, was approaching cautiously. But he had failed to close
his dark lantern properly. The convicts had seen that faint gleam, too.
There was an awful savage yell, a turmoil on the dark path, shots fired,
blows, groans: and with the sound of smashed bushes, the shouts of the
pursuers and the screams of the pursued, the man-hunt, the warder-hunt,
passed by me into the interior of the island. I was alone. And I assure
you, monsieur, I was indifferent to everything. After standing still
for a while, I walked on along the path till I kicked something hard. I
stooped and picked up a warder’s revolver. I felt with my fingers
that it was loaded in five chambers. In the gusts of wind I heard the
convicts calling to each other far away, and then a roll of thunder
would cover the soughing and rustling of the trees. Suddenly, a big
light ran across my path very low along the ground. And it showed a
woman’s skirt with the edge of an apron.
“I knew that the person who carried it must be the wife of the head
warder. They had forgotten all about her, it seems. A shot rang out in
the interior of the island, and she cried out to herself as she ran. She
passed on. I followed, and presently I saw her again. She was pulling
at the cord of the big bell which hangs at the end of the landing-pier,
with one hand, and with the other she was swinging the heavy lantern to
and fro. This is the agreed signal for the Ile Royale should assistance
be required at night. The wind carried the sound away from our island
and the light she swung was hidden on the shore side by the few trees
that grow near the warders’ house.
“I came up quite close to her from behind. She went on without stopping,
without looking aside, as though she had been all alone on the island.
A brave woman, monsieur. I put the revolver inside the breast of my blue
blouse and waited. A flash of lightning and a clap of thunder destroyed
both the sound and the light of the signal for an instant, but she never
faltered, pulling at the cord and swinging the lantern as regularly as a
machine. She was a comely woman of thirty–no more. I thought to myself,
‘All that’s no good on a night like this.’ And I made up my mind that
if a body of my fellow-convicts came down to the pier–which was sure to
happen soon–I would shoot her through the head before I shot myself. I
knew the ‘comrades’ well. This idea of mine gave me quite an interest
in life, monsieur; and at once, instead of remaining stupidly exposed on
the pier, I retreated a little way and crouched behind a bush. I did not
intend to let myself be pounced upon unawares and be prevented perhaps
from rendering a supreme service to at least one human creature before I
died myself.
“But we must believe the signal was seen, for the galley from Ile Royale
came over in an astonishingly short time. The woman kept right on till
the light of her lantern flashed upon the officer in command and the
bayonets of the soldiers in the boat. Then she sat down and began to
cry.
“She didn’t need me any more. I did not budge. Some soldiers were only
in their shirt-sleeves, others without boots, just as the call to arms
had found them. They passed by my bush at the double. The galley had
been sent away for more; and the woman sat all alone crying at the end
of the pier, with the lantern standing on the ground near her.
“Then suddenly I saw in the light at the end of the pier the red
pantaloons of two more men. I was overcome with astonishment. They,
too, started off at a run. Their tunics flapped unbuttoned and they were
bare-headed. One of them panted out to the other, ‘Straight on, straight
on!’
“Where on earth did they spring from, I wondered. Slowly I walked down
the short pier. I saw the woman’s form shaken by sobs and heard her
moaning more and more distinctly, ‘Oh, my man! my poor man! my poor
man!’ I stole on quietly. She could neither hear nor see anything. She
had thrown her apron over her head and was rocking herself to and fro in
her grief. But I remarked a small boat fastened to the end of the pier.
“Those two men–they looked like sous-officiers–must have come in it,
after being too late, I suppose, for the galley. It is incredible that
they should have thus broken the regulations from a sense of duty. And
it was a stupid thing to do. I could not believe my eyes in the very
moment I was stepping into that boat.
“I pulled along the shore slowly. A black cloud hung over the Iles de
Salut. I heard firing, shouts. Another hunt had begun–the convict-hunt.
The oars were too long to pull comfortably. I managed them with
difficulty, though the boat herself was light. But when I got round to
the other side of the island the squall broke in rain and wind. I was
unable to make head against it. I let the boat drift ashore and secured
her.
“I knew the spot. There was a tumbledown old hovel standing near the
water. Cowering in there I heard through the noises of the wind and the
falling downpour some people tearing through the bushes. They came out
on the strand. Soldiers perhaps. A flash of lightning threw everything
near me into violent relief. Two convicts!
“And directly an amazed voice exclaimed. ‘It’s a miracle!’ It was the
voice of Simon, otherwise Biscuit.
“And another voice growled, ‘What’s a miracle?’
“‘Why, there’s a boat lying here!’
“‘You must be mad, Simon! But there is, after all. . . . A boat.’
“They seemed awed into complete silence. The other man was Mafile. He
spoke again, cautiously.
“‘It is fastened up. There must be somebody here.’
“I spoke to them from within the hovel: ‘I am here.’
“They came in then, and soon gave me to understand that the boat was
theirs, not mine. ‘There are two of us,’ said Mafile, ‘against you
alone.’
“I got out into the open to keep clear of them for fear of getting a
treacherous blow on the head. I could have shot them both where they
stood. But I said nothing. I kept down the laughter rising in my throat.
I made myself very humble and begged to be allowed to go. They consulted
in low tones about my fate, while with my hand on the revolver in the
bosom of my blouse I had their lives in my power. I let them live. I
meant them to pull that boat. I represented to them with abject humility
that I understood the management of a boat, and that, being three to
pull, we could get a rest in turns. That decided them at last. It was
time. A little more and I would have gone into screaming fits at the
drollness of it.”
At this point his excitement broke out. He jumped off the bench and
gesticulated. The great shadows of his arms darting over roof and walls
made the shed appear too small to contain his agitation.
“I deny nothing,” he burst out. “I was elated, monsieur. I tasted a
sort of felicity. But I kept very quiet. I took my turns at pulling
all through the night. We made for the open sea, putting our trust in
a passing ship. It was a foolhardy action. I persuaded them to it. When
the sun rose the immensity of water was calm, and the Iles de Salut
appeared only like dark specks from the top of each swell. I was
steering then. Mafile, who was pulling bow, let out an oath and said,
‘We must rest.’
“The time to laugh had come at last. And I took my fill of it, I can
tell you. I held my sides and rolled in my seat, they had such startled
faces. ‘What’s got into him, the animal?’ cries Mafile.
“And Simon, who was nearest to me, says over his shoulder to him, ‘Devil
take me if I don’t think he’s gone mad!’
“Then I produced the revolver. Aha! In a moment they both got the
stoniest eyes you can imagine. Ha, ha! They were frightened. But
they pulled. Oh, yes, they pulled all day, sometimes looking wild and
sometimes looking faint. I lost nothing of it because I had to keep my
eyes on them all the time, or else–crack!–they would have been on top
of me in a second. I rested my revolver hand on my knee all ready and
steered with the other. Their faces began to blister. Sky and sea
seemed on fire round us and the sea steamed in the sun. The boat made a
sizzling sound as she went through the water. Sometimes Mafile foamed
at the mouth and sometimes he groaned. But he pulled. He dared not stop.
His eyes became blood-shot all over, and he had bitten his lower lip to
pieces. Simon was as hoarse as a crow.
“‘Comrade–‘ he begins.
“‘There are no comrades here. I am your patron.’
“‘Patron, then,’ he says, ‘in the name of humanity let us rest.’
“I let them. There was a little rainwater washing about the bottom of
the boat. I permitted them to snatch some of it in the hollow of their
palms. But as I gave the command, ‘En route!’ I caught them exchanging
significant glances. They thought I would have to go to sleep sometime!
Aha! But I did not want to go to sleep. I was more awake than ever. It
is they who went to sleep as they pulled, tumbling off the thwarts head
over heels suddenly, one after another. I let them lie. All the stars
were out. It was a quiet world. The sun rose. Another day. Allez! En
route!
“They pulled badly. Their eyes rolled about and their tongues hung out.
In the middle of the forenoon Mafile croaks out: ‘Let us make a rush at
him, Simon. I would just as soon be shot at once as to die of thirst,
hunger, and fatigue at the oar.’
“But while he spoke he pulled; and Simon kept on pulling too. It made
me smile. Ah! They loved their life these two, in this evil world of
theirs, just as I used to love my life, too, before they spoiled it for
me with their phrases. I let them go on to the point of exhaustion, and
only then I pointed at the sails of a ship on the horizon.
“Aha! You should have seen them revive and buckle to their work! For
I kept them at it to pull right across that ship’s path. They were
changed. The sort of pity I had felt for them left me. They looked
more like themselves every minute. They looked at me with the glances I
remembered so well. They were happy. They smiled.
“‘Well,’ says Simon, ‘the energy of that youngster has saved our lives.
If he hadn’t made us, we could never have pulled so far out into the
track of ships. Comrade, I forgive you. I admire you.’
“And Mafile growls from forward: ‘We owe you a famous debt of gratitude,
comrade. You are cut out for a chief.’
“Comrade! Monsieur! Ah, what a good word! And they, such men as these
two, had made it accursed. I looked at them. I remembered their lies,
their promises, their menaces, and all my days of misery. Why could they
not have left me alone after I came out of prison? I looked at them and
thought that while they lived I could never be free. Never. Neither I
nor others like me with warm hearts and weak heads. For I know I have
not a strong head, monsieur. A black rage came upon me–the rage of
extreme intoxication–but not against the injustice of society. Oh, no!
“‘I must be free!’ I cried, furiously.
“‘Vive la liberte!” yells that ruffian Mafile. ‘Mort aux bourgeois who
send us to Cayenne! They shall soon know that we are free.’
“The sky, the sea, the whole horizon, seemed to turn red, blood red all
round the boat. My temples were beating so loud that I wondered they
did not hear. How is it that they did not? How is it they did not
understand?
“I heard Simon ask, ‘Have we not pulled far enough out now?’
“‘Yes. Far enough,’ I said. I was sorry for him; it was the other I
hated. He hauled in his oar with a loud sigh, and as he was raising his
hand to wipe his forehead with the air of a man who has done his work,
I pulled the trigger of my revolver and shot him like this off the knee,
right through the heart.
“He tumbled down, with his head hanging over the side of the boat. I did
not give him a second glance. The other cried out piercingly. Only one
shriek of horror. Then all was still.
“He slipped off the thwart on to his knees and raised his clasped hands
before his face in an attitude of supplication. ‘Mercy,’ he whispered,
faintly. ‘Mercy for me!–comrade.’
“‘Ah, comrade,’ I said, in a low tone. ‘Yes, comrade, of course. Well,
then, shout Vive l’anarchie.’
“He flung up his arms, his face up to the sky and his mouth wide open in
a great yell of despair. ‘Vive l’anarchie! Vive–‘
“He collapsed all in a heap, with a bullet through his head.
“I flung them both overboard. I threw away the revolver, too. Then I sat
down quietly. I was free at last! At last. I did not even look towards
the ship; I did not care; indeed, I think I must have gone to sleep,
because all of a sudden there were shouts and I found the ship almost
on top of me. They hauled me on board and secured the boat astern. They
were all blacks, except the captain, who was a mulatto. He alone knew a
few words of French. I could not find out where they were going nor who
they were. They gave me something to eat every day; but I did not like
the way they used to discuss me in their language. Perhaps they were
deliberating about throwing me overboard in order to keep possession of
the boat. How do I know? As we were passing this island I asked whether
it was inhabited. I understood from the mulatto that there was a house
on it. A farm, I fancied, they meant. So I asked them to put me ashore
on the beach and keep the boat for their trouble. This, I imagine, was
just what they wanted. The rest you know.”
After pronouncing these words he lost suddenly all control over himself.
He paced to and fro rapidly, till at last he broke into a run; his arms
went like a windmill and his ejaculations became very much like raving.
The burden of them was that he “denied nothing, nothing!” I could only
let him go on, and sat out of his way, repeating, “Calmez vous, calmez
vous,” at intervals, till his agitation exhausted itself.
I must confess, too, that I remained there long after he had crawled
under his mosquito-net. He had entreated me not to leave him; so, as
one sits up with a nervous child, I sat up with him–in the name of
humanity–till he fell asleep.
On the whole, my idea is that he was much more of an anarchist than he
confessed to me or to himself; and that, the special features of his
case apart, he was very much like many other anarchists. Warm heart and
weak head–that is the word of the riddle; and it is a fact that the
bitterest contradictions and the deadliest conflicts of the world are
carried on in every individual breast capable of feeling and passion.
From personal inquiry I can vouch that the story of the convict mutiny
was in every particular as stated by him.
When I got back to Horta from Cayenne and saw the “Anarchist” again, he
did not look well. He was more worn, still more frail, and very livid
indeed under the grimy smudges of his calling. Evidently the meat of the
company’s main herd (in its unconcentrated form) did not agree with him
at all.
It was on the pontoon in Horta that we met; and I tried to induce him to
leave the launch moored where she was and follow me to Europe there and
then. It would have been delightful to think of the excellent manager’s
surprise and disgust at the poor fellow’s escape. But he refused with
unconquerable obstinacy.
“Surely you don’t mean to live always here!” I cried. He shook his head.
“I shall die here,” he said. Then added moodily, “Away from them.”
Sometimes I think of him lying open-eyed on his horseman’s gear in the
low shed full of tools and scraps of iron–the anarchist slave of the
Maranon estate, waiting with resignation for that sleep which “fled”
from him, as he used to say, in such an unaccountable manner.
Joseph Conrad: An Anarchist
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive C-D, Conrad, Joseph, Joseph Conrad
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Frederik van Eeden
(1860-1932)
Avond in de Stad
De groote stem der stad verstomt
en de nachtwind die in mijn venster komt
brengt een vaag en wonderlijk suizen
als zuchten der slapende huizen.
Mijn lamp brandt stil en suizelt zacht
en peinst zijn gepeinzen den langen nacht.
Ik staar in het heldere branden,
mijn katje speelt met mijn handen.
Hoe waren de dagen die verre zijn
toen mijn haart ontwaakte in den zonneschijn?
toen de geuren mij wekten der linde?
toen de kelken knikten der winde?
Waar heb ik de roze het eerst gegroet,
de bleeke, die groeit aan der duinen voet?
Mijn katje speelt in de schaduwwen
der gordijnen, met ritslende klauwen.
Zie, bloemen en gras op mijn kleed, mijn boek,
een meidoorn bloeit in den kamer-hoek,
zie, bleekroode rozen omringen
mij rings, en dichte seringen…
Maar een schaduw valt en alle wijkt. —
Op de vensterbank zit mijn katje en kijkt
in de donkere diepte neder,
zijn staart slingert heen en weder.
Nu komen van over de zwarte stad,
nu stijgen op uit het wiegelend nat
van de kille, duistere grachten,
de kille, zwarte gedachten.
Ze zweven zwijgend door ‘t venster heen,
op iedere schouder zet zich één,
op mijnhoofd, mijn borst en mijn brauwen,
ze drukken met klemmend benauwen.
En dof hoort mijn oor het vaag gerucht
der nachtwind die weeklagend zucht,
de angstige droomen deer huizen.
Mijn lamp blijft peinzend suizen.
Frederik van Eeden gedicht
kempis poetry magazine
More in: Archive E-F
.jpg)
Edgar Allan Poe
(1809-1849)
The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar
Of course I shall not pretend to consider it any matter for wonder, that the extraordinary case of M. Valdemar has excited discussion. It would have been a miracle had it not-especially under the circumstances. Through the desire of all parties concerned, to keep the affair from the public, at least for the present, or until we had farther opportunities for investigation — through our endeavors to effect this — a garbled or exaggerated account made its way into society, and became the source of many unpleasant misrepresentations, and, very naturally, of a great deal of disbelief.
It is now rendered necessary that I give the facts — as far as I comprehend them myself. They are, succinctly, these:
My attention, for the last three years, had been repeatedly drawn to the subject of Mesmerism; and, about nine months ago it occurred to me, quite suddenly, that in the series of experiments made hitherto, there had been a very remarkable and most unaccountable omission: — no person had as yet been mesmerized in articulo mortis. It remained to be seen, first, whether, in such condition, there existed in the patient any susceptibility to the magnetic influence; secondly, whether, if any existed, it was impaired or increased by the condition; thirdly, to what extent, or for how long a period, the encroachments of Death might be arrested by the process. There were other points to be ascertained, but these most excited my curiosity — the last in especial, from the immensely important character of its consequences.
In looking around me for some subject by whose means I might test these particulars, I was brought to think of my friend, M. Ernest Valdemar, the well-known compiler of the “Bibliotheca Forensica,” and author (under the nom de plume of Issachar Marx) of the Polish versions of “Wallenstein” and “Gargantua.” M. Valdemar, who has resided principally at Harlaem, N.Y., since the year 1839, is (or was) particularly noticeable for the extreme spareness of his person — his lower limbs much resembling those of John Randolph; and, also, for the whiteness of his whiskers, in violent contrast to the blackness of his hair — the latter, in consequence, being very generally mistaken for a wig. His temperament was markedly nervous, and rendered him a good subject for mesmeric experiment. On two or three occasions I had put him to sleep with little difficulty, but was disappointed in other results which his peculiar constitution had naturally led me to anticipate. His will was at no period positively, or thoroughly, under my control, and in regard to clairvoyance, I could accomplish with him nothing to be relied upon. I always attributed my failure at these points to the disordered state of his health. For some months previous to my becoming acquainted with him, his physicians had declared him in a confirmed phthisis. It was his custom, indeed, to speak calmly of his approaching dissolution, as of a matter neither to be avoided nor regretted.
When the ideas to which I have alluded first occurred to me, it was of course very natural that I should think of M. Valdemar. I knew the steady philosophy of the man too well to apprehend any scruples from him; and he had no relatives in America who would be likely to interfere. I spoke to him frankly upon the subject; and, to my surprise, his interest seemed vividly excited. I say to my surprise, for, although he had always yielded his person freely to my experiments, he had never before given me any tokens of sympathy with what I did. His disease was if that character which would admit of exact calculation in respect to the epoch of its termination in death; and it was finally arranged between us that he would send for me about twenty-four hours before the period announced by his physicians as that of his decease.
It is now rather more than seven months since I received, from M. Valdemar himself, the subjoined note:
My DEAR P — ,
You may as well come now. D — and F — are agreed that I cannot hold out beyond to-morrow midnight; and I think they have hit the time very nearly.
VALDEMAR
I received this note within half an hour after it was written, and in fifteen minutes more I was in the dying man’s chamber. I had not seen him for ten days, and was appalled by the fearful alteration which the brief interval had wrought in him. His face wore a leaden hue; the eyes were utterly lustreless; and the emaciation was so extreme that the skin had been broken through by the cheek-bones. His expectoration was excessive. The pulse was barely perceptible. He retained, nevertheless, in a very remarkable manner, both his mental power and a certain degree of physical strength. He spoke with distinctness — took some palliative medicines without aid — and, when I entered the room, was occupied in penciling memoranda in a pocket-book. He was propped up in the bed by pillows. Doctors D — and F — were in attendance.
After pressing Valdemar’s hand, I took these gentlemen aside, and obtained from them a minute account of the patient’s condition. The left lung had been for eighteen months in a semi-osseous or cartilaginous state, and was, of course, entirely useless for all purposes of vitality. The right, in its upper portion, was also partially, if not thoroughly, ossified, while the lower region was merely a mass of purulent tubercles, running one into another. Several extensive perforations existed; and, at one point, permanent adhesion to the ribs had taken place. These appearances in the right lobe were of comparatively recent date. The ossification had proceeded with very unusual rapidity; no sign of it had discovered a month before, and the adhesion had only been observed during the three previous days. Independently of the phthisis, the patient was suspected of aneurism of the aorta; but on this point the osseous symptoms rendered an exact diagnosis impossible. It was the opinion of both physicians that M. Valdemar would die about midnight on the morrow (Sunday). It was then seven o’clock on Saturday evening.
On quitting the invalid’s bed-side to hold conversation with myself, Doctors D — and F — had bidden him a final farewell. It had not been their intention to return; but, at my request, they agreed to look in upon the patient about ten the next night.
When they had gone, I spoke freely with M. Valdemar on the subject of his approaching dissolution, as well as, more particularly, of the experiment proposed. He still professed himself quite willing and even anxious to have it made, and urged me to commence it at once. A male and a female nurse were in attendance; but I did not feel myself altogether at liberty to engage in a task of this character with no more reliable witnesses than these people, in case of sudden accident, might prove. I therefore postponed operations until about eight the next night, when the arrival of a medical student with whom I had some acquaintance, (Mr. Theodore L — l,) relieved me from farther embarrassment. It had been my design, originally, to wait for the physicians; but I was induced to proceed, first, by the urgent entreaties of M. Valdemar, and secondly, by my conviction that I had not a moment to lose, as he was evidently sinking fast.
Mr. L — l was so kind as to accede to my desire that he would take notes of all that occurred, and it is from his memoranda that what I now have to relate is, for the most part, either condensed or copied verbatim.
It wanted about five minutes of eight when, taking the patient’s hand, I begged him to state, as distinctly as he could, to Mr. L — l, whether he (M. Valdemar) was entirely willing that I should make the experiment of mesmerizing him in his then condition.
He replied feebly, yet quite audibly, “Yes, I wish to be “I fear you have mesmerized” — adding immediately afterwards, deferred it too long.”
While he spoke thus, I commenced the passes which I had already found most effectual in subduing him. He was evidently influenced with the first lateral stroke of my hand across his forehead; but although I exerted all my powers, no farther perceptible effect was induced until some minutes after ten o’clock, when Doctors D — and F — called, according to appointment. I explained to them, in a few words, what I designed, and as they opposed no objection, saying that the patient was already in the death agony, I proceeded without hesitation — exchanging, however, the lateral passes for downward ones, and directing my gaze entirely into the right eye of the sufferer.
By this time his pulse was imperceptible and his breathing was stertorous, and at intervals of half a minute.
This condition was nearly unaltered for a quarter of an hour. At the expiration of this period, however, a natural although a very deep sigh escaped the bosom of the dying man, and the stertorous breathing ceased — that is to say, its stertorousness was no longer apparent; the intervals were undiminished. The patient’s extremities were of an icy coldness.
At five minutes before eleven I perceived unequivocal signs of the mesmeric influence. The glassy roll of the eye was changed for that expression of uneasy inward examination which is never seen except in cases of sleep-waking, and which it is quite impossible to mistake. With a few rapid lateral passes I made the lids quiver, as in incipient sleep, and with a few more I closed them altogether. I was not satisfied, however, with this, but continued the manipulations vigorously, and with the fullest exertion of the will, until I had completely stiffened the limbs of the slumberer, after placing them in a seemingly easy position. The legs were at full length; the arms were nearly so, and reposed on the bed at a moderate distance from the loin. The head was very slightly elevated.
When I had accomplished this, it was fully midnight, and I requested the gentlemen present to examine M. Valdemar’s condition. After a few experiments, they admitted him to be an unusually perfect state of mesmeric trance. The curiosity of both the physicians was greatly excited. Dr. D — resolved at once to remain with the patient all night, while Dr. F — took leave with a promise to return at daybreak. Mr. L — l and the nurses remained.
We left M. Valdemar entirely undisturbed until about three o’clock in the morning, when I approached him and found him in precisely the same condition as when Dr. F — went away — that is to say, he lay in the same position; the pulse was imperceptible; the breathing was gentle (scarcely noticeable, unless through the application of a mirror to the lips); the eyes were closed naturally; and the limbs were as rigid and as cold as marble. Still, the general appearance was certainly not that of death.
As I approached M. Valdemar I made a kind of half effort to influence his right arm into pursuit of my own, as I passed the latter gently to and fro above his person. In such experiments with this patient had never perfectly succeeded before, and assuredly I had little thought of succeeding now; but to my astonishment, his arm very readily, although feebly, followed every direction I assigned it with mine. I determined to hazard a few words of conversation.
“M. Valdemar,” I said, “are you asleep?” He made no answer, but I perceived a tremor about the lips, and was thus induced to repeat the question, again and again. At its third repetition, his whole frame was agitated by a very slight shivering; the eyelids unclosed themselves so far as to display a white line of the ball; the lips moved sluggishly, and from between them, in a barely audible whisper, issued the words:
“Yes; — asleep now. Do not wake me! — let me die so!”
I here felt the limbs and found them as rigid as ever. The right arm, as before, obeyed the direction of my hand. I questioned the sleep-waker again:
“Do you still feel pain in the breast, M. Valdemar?”
The answer now was immediate, but even less audible than before: “No pain — I am dying.”
I did not think it advisable to disturb him farther just then, and nothing more was said or done until the arrival of Dr. F — , who came a little before sunrise, and expressed unbounded astonishment at finding the patient still alive. After feeling the pulse and applying a mirror to the lips, he requested me to speak to the sleep-waker again. I did so, saying:
“M. Valdemar, do you still sleep?”
As before, some minutes elapsed ere a reply was made; and during the interval the dying man seemed to be collecting his energies to speak. At my fourth repetition of the question, he said very faintly, almost inaudibly:
“Yes; still asleep — dying.”
It was now the opinion, or rather the wish, of the physicians, that M. Valdemar should be suffered to remain undisturbed in his present apparently tranquil condition, until death should supervene — and this, it was generally agreed, must now take place within a few minutes. I concluded, however, to speak to him once more, and merely repeated my previous question.
While I spoke, there came a marked change over the countenance of the sleep-waker. The eyes rolled themselves slowly open, the pupils disappearing upwardly; the skin generally assumed a cadaverous hue, resembling not so much parchment as white paper; and the circular hectic spots which, hitherto, had been strongly defined in the centre of each cheek, went out at once. I use this expression, because the suddenness of their departure put me in mind of nothing so much as the extinguishment of a candle by a puff of the breath. The upper lip, at the same time, writhed itself away from the teeth, which it had previously covered completely; while the lower jaw fell with an audible jerk, leaving the mouth widely extended, and disclosing in full view the swollen and blackened tongue. I presume that no member of the party then present had been unaccustomed to death-bed horrors; but so hideous beyond conception was the appearance of M. Valdemar at this moment, that there was a general shrinking back from the region of the bed.
I now feel that I have reached a point of this narrative at which every reader will be startled into positive disbelief. It is my business, however, simply to proceed.
There was no longer the faintest sign of vitality in M. Valdemar; and concluding him to be dead, we were consigning him to the charge of the nurses, when a strong vibratory motion was observable in the tongue. This continued for perhaps a minute. At the expiration of this period, there issued from the distended and motionless jaws a voice — such as it would be madness in me to attempt describing. There are, indeed, two or three epithets which might be considered as applicable to it in part; I might say, for example, that the sound was harsh, and broken and hollow; but the hideous whole is indescribable, for the simple reason that no similar sounds have ever jarred upon the ear of humanity. There were two particulars, nevertheless, which I thought then, and still think, might fairly be stated as characteristic of the intonation — as well adapted to convey some idea of its unearthly peculiarity. In the first place, the voice seemed to reach our ears — at least mine — from a vast distance, or from some deep cavern within the earth. In the second place, it impressed me (I fear, indeed, that it will be impossible to make myself comprehended) as gelatinous or glutinous matters impress the sense of touch.
I have spoken both of “sound” and of “voice.” I mean to say that the sound was one of distinct — of even wonderfully, thrillingly distinct — syllabification. M. Valdemar spoke — obviously in reply to the question I had propounded to him a few minutes before. I had asked him, it will be remembered, if he still slept. He now said:
“Yes; — no; — I have been sleeping — and now — now — I am dead.
No person present even affected to deny, or attempted to repress, the unutterable, shuddering horror which these few words, thus uttered, were so well calculated to convey. Mr. L — l (the student) swooned. The nurses immediately left the chamber, and could not be induced to return. My own impressions I would not pretend to render intelligible to the reader. For nearly an hour, we busied ourselves, silently — without the utterance of a word — in endeavors to revive Mr. L — l. When he came to himself, we addressed ourselves again to an investigation of M. Valdemar’s condition.
It remained in all respects as I have last described it, with the exception that the mirror no longer afforded evidence of respiration. An attempt to draw blood from the arm failed. I should mention, too, that this limb was no farther subject to my will. I endeavored in vain to make it follow the direction of my hand. The only real indication, indeed, of the mesmeric influence, was now found in the vibratory movement of the tongue, whenever I addressed M. Valdemar a question. He seemed to be making an effort to reply, but had no longer sufficient volition. To queries put to him by any other person than myself he seemed utterly insensible — although I endeavored to place each member of the company in mesmeric rapport with him. I believe that I have now related all that is necessary to an understanding of the sleep-waker’s state at this epoch. Other nurses were procured; and at ten o’clock I left the house in company with the two physicians and Mr. L — l.
In the afternoon we all called again to see the patient. His condition remained precisely the same. We had now some discussion as to the propriety and feasibility of awakening him; but we had little difficulty in agreeing that no good purpose would be served by so doing. It was evident that, so far, death (or what is usually termed death) had been arrested by the mesmeric process. It seemed clear to us all that to awaken M. Valdemar would be merely to insure his instant, or at least his speedy dissolution.
From this period until the close of last week — an interval of nearly seven months — we continued to make daily calls at M. Valdemar’s house, accompanied, now and then, by medical and other friends. All this time the sleeper-waker remained exactly as I have last described him. The nurses’ attentions were continual.
It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the experiment of awakening or attempting to awaken him; and it is the (perhaps) unfortunate result of this latter experiment which has given rise to so much discussion in private circles — to so much of what I cannot help thinking unwarranted popular feeling.
For the purpose of relieving M. Valdemar from the mesmeric trance, I made use of the customary passes. These, for a time, were unsuccessful. The first indication of revival was afforded by a partial descent of the iris. It was observed, as especially remarkable, that this lowering of the pupil was accompanied by the profuse out-flowing of a yellowish ichor (from beneath the lids) of a pungent and highly offensive odor.
It was now suggested that I should attempt to influence the patient’s arm, as heretofore. I made the attempt and failed. Dr. F — then intimated a desire to have me put a question. I did so, as follows:
“M. Valdemar, can you explain to us what are your feelings or wishes now?”
There was an instant return of the hectic circles on the cheeks; the tongue quivered, or rather rolled violently in the mouth (although the jaws and lips remained rigid as before;) and at length the same hideous voice which I have already described, broke forth:
“For God’s sake! — quick! — quick! — put me to sleep — or, quick! — waken me! — quick! — I say to you that I am dead!”
I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided what to do. At first I made an endeavor to re-compose the patient; but, failing in this through total abeyance of the will, I retraced my steps and as earnestly struggled to awaken him. In this attempt I soon saw that I should be successful — or at least I soon fancied that my success would be complete — and I am sure that all in the room were prepared to see the patient awaken.
For what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that any human being could have been prepared.
As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of “dead! dead!” absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once — within the space of a single minute, or even less, shrunk — crumbled — absolutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of loathsome — of detestable putridity.
Edgar Allan Poe: The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar
kempis poetry magazine
More in: Archive O-P, Edgar Allan Poe, Poe, Edgar Allan
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Eugene Marais
(1871-1936)
D i e p R i v i e r
Vertaling van die lied van Juanita Perreira
O, Diep Rivier, O Donker Stroom,
Hoe lank het ek gewag, hoe lank gedroom,
Die lem van liefde wroegend in my hart?
– In jou omhelsing eindig al my smart;
Blus uit, O Diep Rivier, die vlam van haat; –
Die groot verlange wat my nooit verlaat.
Ek sien van ver die glans van staal en goud,
Ek hoor die sag gedruis van waters diep en koud;
Ek hoor jou stem as fluistering in ’n droom,
Kom snel, O Diep Rivier, O Donker Stroom.
Eugene Marais poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive M-N, Eugène Marais, Marais, Eugène
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
(1772-1834)
The Mad Mother
Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair,
Her eye-brows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the main.
She has a baby on her arm,
Or else she were alone;
And underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the green-wood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among;
And it was in the English tongue.
"Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing:
Then, lovely baby, do not fear!
I pray thee have no fear of me,
But, safe as in a cradle, here
My lovely baby! thou shalt be,
To thee I know too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe.
A fire was once within my brain;
And in my head a dull, dull pain;
And fiendish faces one, two, three,
Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me.
But then there came a sight of joy;
It came at once to do me good;
I waked, and saw my little boy,
My little boy of flesh and blood;
Oh joy for me that sight to see!
For he was here, and only he.
Suck, little babe, oh suck again!
It cools my blood; it cools my brain;
Thy lips I feel them, baby! they
Draw from my heart the pain away.
Oh! press me with thy little hand;
It loosens something at my chest;
About that tight and deadly band
I feel thy little fingers press’d.
The breeze I see is in the tree;
It comes to cool my babe and me.
Oh! love me, love me, little boy!
Thou art thy mother’s only joy;
And do not dread the waves below,
When o’er the sea-rock’s edge we go;
The high crag cannot work me harm,
Nor leaping torrents when they howl;
The babe I carry on my arm,
He saves for me my precious soul;
Then happy lie, for blest am I;
Without me my sweet babe would die.
Then do not fear, my boy! for thee
Bold as a lion I will be;
And I will always be thy guide,
Through hollow snows and rivers wide.
I’ll build an Indian bower; I know
The leaves that make the softest bed:
And if from me thou wilt not go,
But still be true ’till I am dead,
My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing,
As merry as the birds in spring.
Thy father cares not for my breast,
‘Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest:
‘Tis all thine own! and if its hue
Be changed, that was so fair to view,
‘Tis fair enough for thee, my dove!
My beauty, little child, is flown;
But thou wilt live with me in love,
And what if my poor cheek be brown?
‘Tis well for me; thou canst not see
How pale and wan it else would be.
Dread not their taunts, my little life!
I am thy father’s wedded wife;
And underneath the spreading tree
We two will live in honesty.
If his sweet boy he could forsake,
With me he never would have stay’d:
From him no harm my babe can take,
But he, poor man! is wretched made,
And every day we two will pray
For him that’s gone and far away.
I’ll teach my boy the sweetest things;
I’ll teach him how the owlet sings.
My little babe! thy lips are still,
And thou hast almost suck’d thy fill.
–Where art thou gone my own dear child?
What wicked looks are those I see?
Alas! alas! that look so wild,
It never, never came from me:
If thou art mad, my pretty lad,
Then I must be for ever sad.
Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!
For I thy own dear mother am.
My love for thee has well been tried:
I’ve sought thy father far and wide.
I know the poisons of the shade,
I know the earth-nuts fit for food;
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid;
We’ll find thy father in the wood.
Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!
And there, my babe; we’ll live for aye.
S.T. Coleridge: The Mad Mother
kempis poetry magazine
More in: Coleridge, Samuel Taylor
A.C.W. Staring
(1767-1840)
De Doodendans
Een Sprookje
‘t Sloeg twalef. Als de volle dag
Scheen de onbewolkte maan;
En huivrend zat de Torenwacht
En staarde een Wonder aan:
De Kerkhof roert zich; graf bij graf,
Wier diep zich openspert:
‘t Is uitgaansnacht voor elken Doo,
Die tot geraamte werd.
Zij springen van hun leger op,
En zijn, met rasschen loop,
Weldra, nabij het Kerkgebouw,
Vergaard tot èènen hoop.
‘t Gezelschap buigt, en nijgt, en steekt
De holle hoofden saam’;
En maakt gebaar, of ‘t krijg of vree
In overlegging naam’.
‘t Bleek ligter zorg! Bij paren geeft
De troep elkaar de hand,
En neemt, ten afgesproken Dans,
In dubble rij zijn stand.
Geen speelman wordt er bijgehaald,
Als ‘t op een walsen gaat:
Het beengeklepper rept zich luid:
Elk slaat zich zelv’ de maat.
Zoo zwiert men lustig om de Kerk;
Dan uit, dan in ‘t gezigt;
Men scharrelt langs een graf – en ziet!
Iets flonkrends kwam aan ‘t licht.
"Wat blijft daar tintlen op den grond?
Een glans als diamant! –
Werd Sibyl, voor twintig jaar,
Begraven naar dien kant?
Wie weet! misschien nam de IJdeltuit
Wat Pronks mee in de Kist? –
Die Buit was altoos halens waard,
Indien men ‘t zeker wist!
Doch waarom twijflen? ‘k Loop er heen?
Dan blijkt het iet of niet.
Staat weer de kerkmuur tusschen ons,
Geen spooksel dat mij ziet." –
En als de Dans weer kwam en zwond,
Doorvliegt, met diefschen haast
De Wacht, die ‘t sprak, de smalle ruimt’ –
En heeft den Pronk genaast:
Sibylles Boot! Hij raadde juist. –
Hoe brand nu onze Man,
Dat hij ze, als ‘t Bal gesloten wordt,
In rust begluren kan!
Zijn wensch, naar ‘t schijnt, wordt dra verhoord:
Het Dansfeest liep ten end;
De Dansers keeren tot hun Graf,
Na ‘t afscheidskompliment.
Doch Vrouw Sibyl toont kwade luim,
Terwijl ze om ‘t hare dwaalt,
En Boot, noch boots gelijk ontdekt,
Hoe zeer ‘t aan licht niet faalt.
In ‘t eind, haar stompneus rook de lont:
"Den Dief zal regt geschien!"
Zij laat hem, dreigend, van omlaag,
Haar knekelvuisten zien –
En naar de kerkdeur stormt zij heen!
Maar met dat koopren Kruis,
Ten sleutelplaat op ‘t hout gehecht,
Wat ‘t voor geen spook hier pluis!
Dies wendt ze ‘t naar den torenvoet;
En – luttel klimmenstijd –
Droog zit ze! daar zij, halverhoogt’,
Op de omgangsleuning rijdt.
Thans wierp, in stervensangst, de Wacht
Zijn roof van boven neer:
Vergeefs! een muurbloem ving dien op;
En ‘t Spooksel kloutert weer:
‘t Zag, van omlaag, door ‘t ruig belet,
Den val der Halsboot niet;
En nu ook, van ter zij’, geen glans
Die wat er schuilt verried.
Zoo streeft Sibyl ‘t juweel voorbij –
Steeds onvermoeibaar vlug:
Zij klimt, gelijk de spanrups klimt,
Met hoogen bogchelrug:
Zij haakt (om ‘t lijstwerk buigend) zich
Aan al wat uitsteekt vast;
Tot dat zij ‘t raam van ‘s Wachters cel
Met dorre hand betast.
Ras volgt het hoofd! – De mond gaapt wijd!
Het ledig ooghol vlamt!
En roerloos zijgt de Wachter neer:
De schrik heeft hem verlamd.
Nu komt de lange kranenhals,
Waar ‘t kale hoofd mee bukt –
De beenderknie, waarmee ‘t Gespens
Den vensterdorpel drukt; –
Twee armen strekken, ‘t welfsel in,
Zich naar den Roover uit;
Terwijl de vleermuis luider piept;
Terwijl de lijk-uil fluit; –
Tien spitse Vingers naadren; – Dààr
Valt – bom! de klokslag èèn!
De Spooken-Viertijd is voorbij,
En Vrouw Sibyl verdween.
A.C.W. Staring gedicht
kempis poetry magazine
More in: Archive S-T
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M u l t a t u l i
(Eduard Douwes Dekker, 1820-1887)
Mooie meissies, mooie blomme
Mooie meissies, mooie blomme,
Van een mooi meissie ben ik gekomme,
En een mooi meissie is m´n hartedief,
Daarom heb ik alle mooie meissies lief!
Kon ik alle mooie meissies krijge…
Ik zou ze-n-an ´n touwetje rijge,
Ik zou ze kuipen in een vat …
Och, als ik alle mooie meissies had!
Als ik dood ben, zullen ze mij begrave…
Ze zullen mij naar ´t kerrikhof toe drage.
Ze zullen schrijven op m´n graf:
´Hier ligt de jonkman die alle mooie meissies liefhad!´
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Multatuli gedichten
kempis poetry magazine
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Dante Gabriel Rossetti
(1828-1882)
Autumn Song
Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the heart feels a languid grief
Laid on it for a covering,
And how sleep seems a goodly thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?
And how the swift beat of the brain
Falters because it is in vain,
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf
Knowest thou not? and how the chief
Of joys seems–not to suffer pain?
Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the soul feels like a dried sheaf
Bound up at length for harvesting,
And how death seems a comely thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?
Ton van Kempen photos: Autumn 3
D.G. Rossetti poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: *The Pre-Raphaelites Archive, 4SEASONS#Autumn, Archive Q-R, Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, Ton van Kempen Photos
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P. A. d e G é n e s t e t
(1829 – 1861)
Het haantje van den toren
Fiat voluntas
November ’t laatst, maar even toch,
door storm en sneeuwjacht heen,
Was ze uitgewipt naar Moeders huis
met overhaaste schreeën.
Men knorde op ’t onvoorzichtig kind;
zij – kuchte, met een lach….
Doch ’s avonds van dat wit gelaat
ontroerde wie haar zag.
En sedert ving haar lijden aan;
de kiem der wrede kwaal,
„Die langzaam moordt, als sluipend gif,
en wis, als ’t grievend staal,”
Schoot wortlen in heur jonge borst….
Een blijde lentegaard….
En de arme kunst zocht weer naar ’t kruid,
dat nergens wast op aard.
Het einde was beslist; doch zij
verdroeg haar kruis, als meest
Haar kruisgenooten, ’t hart vol hoop,
met plannenrijken geest.
Zij leed, met lieve lijdzaamheid,
ook waar van week tot week,
Trots korte vleugjes van herstel,
haar teedre kracht bezweek.
Toch, dat eentonig leventje,
met zorg bewaakt, verdeeld, –
Was ze niet moe als nichtje een uur
had aan haar zij gespeeld? –
Dat dobbren tusschen hope en vrees,
die voorgeschreven rust,
’t Was wel een kruis, een bitter kruis,
voor lieve „Levenslust”!
Ach Levenslust!…. in beter tijd,
Zoo schertsend, noemden haar
De vrienden van haar schoone jeugd,
een teedre vriendenschaar,
Die zij, een zonnetje in haar huis
en feest van ’t huislijk feest,
Bezielde door haar lieflijkheid
en rijken dartlen geest.
Want levenslustig was haar aard,
zij lachte nimmer moe,
De jonge vrouw, vol kinderzin,
het lieve leven toe.
Geen zorg boog licht dat hoofdje neer;
en niets, een rozeknop,
Een zonnestraal, een lief gelaat
wond haar jong hartje op.
Daar geurden rozen in haar ziel,
een nachtegalenkoor
Sloeg in haar reine borst, en sloeg –
temet eens vroolijk door!
Zij kon vertellen als een fee,
vol dartle fantazij,
En op haar lippen zweefde graag
de schalke plagerij.
Toch was ze ook ernstig ja en vroom –
doch somber was zij nooit!
Haar ernst was in geen rimpel, neen,
Maar in een lach geplooid.
Dat vroolijk hartje was ook diep,
doch in zijn diepte scheen
Een licht van Liefde en Hoop! dus wierp
het stralen om zich heen.
Zij bloeide in de eerste huwlijksjeugd
als ’t bloempje in mooi–weer;
Zij tooide met haar blijden zin
haar leven en verkeer;
Zij schiep een wereldje om zich heen,
vol geest en vol geluk,
Waarin haar geestje zich bewoog,
gezellig, vroolijk, druk.
Hoe deelde ze aller lief en leed!
Haar handdruk was een troost,
Haal zilvren stem een feestgezang!
haar vriendschap, onverpoosd,
Was hier en daar en overal,
waar voor die gulle ziel
Een jarig kind te omhelzen, of –
een traan te drogen viel.
Want zij liep uit vast iedren dag:
zij stak door weer en wind,
Het zorgloos neusjen in de lucht
dat onvoorzichtig kind.
En plaagden haar de vrienden soms
om haar uithuizige’ aard,
Dan zuchtte zij: het blijft ook nog
zoo eenzaam aan mijn haard!
Doch waar zij kwam, zij deed u goed,
zij sleepte u, kozend mee;
Zij spreidde lichtjes om zich heen
van vroolijkheid en vree;
Zij tierde en bloeide: een schoone bloem
in ’s levens lentehof….
Totdat op eens de Noordewind
haar ranken stengel trof!
Nu denk u dartle Levenslust
gevangen in haar kluis,
Van week tot week, van maand tot maand,
en weeg haar bitter kruis!
Men hield haar stil, men hield haar klein,
lang praten leek haar niet,
En menigeen klopte aan haar deur,
dien men niet binnenliet.
Weleer, hoe vlood de winter om,
dien ons haar frissche lach,
De lente der gezelligheid,
zoo vaak te prijzen plag;
Nu, ’t was haar drukste feest wanneer
haar kleene naamgenoot,
Van tijd tot tijd, een mooien dag,
mocht spelen aan haar schoot.
Haar woning was niet vroolijk ook:
door kleine vensterruit
Zag ’t ruim, maar somber ziekvertrek
op ’t stille kerkplein uit.
Slechts was daar Zondags wat te zien,
en dikwijls vraagde zij:
„Och wandel soms een stapjen óm
en ga dan hier voorbij!”
En wie het deed, die werd beloond
met d’allerliefsten knik;
Zij stond een schreê van ’t venster af
en volgde u met haar blik
Zoover zij kon! maar somtijds ook
dan zocht men, dagen lang,
Vergeefs de lieve schim voor ’t raam…
en menig hart sloeg bang.
Doch straks weer zat ze op de oude plaats
en gluurde door de ruit.
Het ging met haar al op en neer
en langzaam achteruit,
November was ’t de laatste maal
dat zij haar kluis verliet;
Het werd al Maart, het werd April,
en beter werd zij niet.
Zij voelde ’t wel, zij vreesde ’t wel,
doch vleide zich nog meer –
Den Hoop voor de arme kranken voedt
een liefde wreed en teer –
En was maar eens de Mei in ’t land
en gure April voorbij,
Dan werd ze ook beter, sprak haar wensch,
en dat geloofde zij.
„Ik sterf hier in mijn duf vertrek;
naar lucht en lentegloed.”
Dus dacht zij, stil of luid, „ziedaar
wat mij genezen moet!
Ze weten ’t niet, ze weten ’t niet,
met al hun medicijn,
God heeft de beste: bloemengeur
en warme zonneschijn!”
„Naar Buiten wil ik, de eerste week,
de tweede week van Mei,
Liefst naar mijn duinen, zoo het mag;
daar ademde ik zoo vrij,
Daar was ik iedren zomer toch
altijd zoo heel gezond;
Ok ’k zal genezen in die lucht
en op dien dierbren grond.”
„Ben ik maar eenmaal daar, gewis
dan sterk ik langzaam aan,
’t Zal met een steuntje dag aan dag
een eindje verder gaan;
En ben ik moe, dan ruste ik uit
aan onzer heuvlen voet….
’t Is ook versterkend, ’t lekkre zand,
gestoofd door zonnegloed….”
En al haar dierbren, om de beurt,
herhaalden trouw en teer:
„Gij moet naar Buiten! zeker, daar
vindt ge al uw krachten weer.
En was het nu maar warm en zacht,
licht deed een toertje u goed,
In maklijk open rijtuig, kind!
geduld maar! en houd moed!”
Een open rijtuig! en het oog
der zwakke glom van vreugd
Bij deez’ gedachte, die altijd
haar zinnen had verheugd.
„Een open rijtuig!” riep zij uit….
„En lucht en lentegeur….
Hoor, ’k ben genezen, Moederlief,
als ’t stilhoudt voor mijn deur.”
En Meimaand kwam! en met haar, zie,
een vleugje van herstel;
Vals zonnetje in een droeve lucht;
doch zij: „ik wist het wel,
Gods lente brengt me al redding aan;
zoo nu de zon maar scheen,
’k Geloof – ik liep mijn kerker uit
zoo luchtig als voorheen!”
Doch onze Noordsche Mei, helaas,
is arm aan zonneschijn,
Hij kan zoo koud, zoo droef, zoo guur,
hij kan November zijn.
En zoo was ’t nu: de Noordewind
blies langs de kale gracht,
En dicht bij Pinkster werd nog steeds
„de lieve Lent” verwacht.
Dat griefde haar: dat deed haar pijn;
die borst, van hoop vervuld,
Nu dat haar zoetste hope loog,
verging van ongeduld.
Mistroostig werd zij voor het eerst,
en, meer dan vroeger ooit,
Verveelde ’t somber uitzicht haar,
met boom noch mensch getooid.
Toch iedren morgen, dag aan dag,
Was ’t nu haar eerste werk,
Te staren over ’t plein en dan –
naar ’t Haantje van de kerk,
Met vragend, mijmrend, nieuwsgierig’ oog,
een spiegel van dat hart,
Vol scherts en weemoed tegelijk,
en spelend met zijn smart.
Want hunkren naar de lucht
was ’t antwoord keer aan keer:
„De wind is Noord, de wind blijft Noord,
’t is guur, ’t is nog geen weer:
Kijk lieve, als ’t Haantje van de kerk
zich zóó – naar óns – draait,
Dan ruischt het koeltje dat u zacht
als balsem tegenwaait.”
Zoo werd gezegd, gevleid, getroost….
en iedren morgen stond
Zij nu voor ’t raam en tuurde en keek,
een lachjen om den mond,
Een traan in ’t oog; zij schudde straks
haar kopje, reis op reis,
En dacht en sprak dan bij zich–zelf
in vreemd en droef gepeis:
„Ach, ’t is weer de oude boodschap, ja,
en ’t Haantje zegt: blijf thuis,
En weer een kouden, langen dag
verkwijne ik, in mijn kluis.
Hoe anders was het vorig jaar
hoe zorgloos liep ik uit….
Ik was toch recht gelukkig tóen;
ik wist van Noord noch Zuid.”
„Neen ’k schonk U vroeger nooit een blik,
ik liep door weer en wind!
Zeg, hoofdig Haantje, wreekt ge u thans
op ’t onvoorzichtig kind?
En houdt ge u dan maar doof, steeds doof,
voor al mijn geestigheên….
Als –” volgde er bitter, na een poos –
„als – God voor mijn gebeên!”
En weemoed overstelpte haar,
zij wrong in diepe smart
De bleeke, lange handen saam,
met angstig jagend hart,
Tot ze eindlijk schreien kon en riep:
„Te leven is toch zoet!
Neen, vrienden, arme Levenslust
heeft nog geen stervensmoed….”
Doch straks verhief zij ’t hoofdje weer
en ’t leliewit gelaat:
„Ik meen dat zulk een droeve bui
mij gans niet vriendlijk staat.”
Zoo dacht ze en sloeg het kalmer oog
weer naar den torentop,
En dreigend met den vinger was ’t:
„Pas morgen beter op!”
Maar morgen, acht, ’t was de eigen strijd
in ’t somber ziekvertrek;
Zij voerde met haar torenspits
een dagelijks gesprek;
Zij schonk haar nu wel menig blik
en menig vleiend woord,
Maar ’t baatte niet: heur onheilsboô
wees onverbidlijk: Noord!
Maar morgen stond ze weer en dacht:
„de dagen gaan voorbij
En lijken op elkaêr – het wordt
geen zomer meer voor mij….
Genezing wachtte ik van de lucht,
de buitenlucht alleen –
Maar ’t haantje wijst naar Buiten niet,
het wijst naar Boven heen!
’k Wou toch alleen zoo graag dat God,
eer Hij mij tot zich nam,
Nog eens een zoeler luchtje gaf
voor zijn geschoren lam;
’k Wou nog zoo graag het groen eens zien,
den blijden zonneschijn –
En dan, zoo ’t warmer was, wellicht
zou ik ook beter zijn….
„O gij, die Liefde en Almacht zijt,
Gij, als mijn Bijbelt leert,
Die met een wenken van Uw hand
en wolk en wind regeert!
Zoo toch Uw hand, o Heer, voor mij,
dat Haantje eens keeren wou
Naar ’t Zuiden heen, Gij kunt het toch!
hoe ik U danken zou….”
Wat omging in haar ziel?…. Zij stond
en staarde, als wachtte ze af,
Of ook haar bede werd verhoord
en God een teeken gaf!
Ze ontwaakte op eens: ze ontroerde zelf
van ’t spel der fantazie;
Keek naar de lucht, keek naar de kerk,
en zei: „Uw wil geschiê.”
Des andren daags maar even wierp
ze een blik naar buiten toe,
Hal zegevierend, kalm, beslist,
half strijdens–, hopens–moe,
En toen – niet meer! Zelfs dagen lang
ging nu ’t gordijn niet op –
Intusschen wachtte op zonneschijn
nog steeds de rozeknop.
Maar eindlijk op een Junidag,
vol zomerglans en geur,
Daar rolde een open rijtuig aan,
dat stilhield voor haar deur….
En zij? Ze was genezen ook,
de lieve levenslust!
Zij ging…. haar bracht een zwarte koets
naar Buiten in de rust.
Een jonge man, geknakt van rouw,
een kleine vriendenschaar,
Volgde – en hun ziele volgde mee! –
de aandoenlijke baar;
Naar ’t Haantje van den toren keer,
met droeven glimlach, één:
’t Blonk in de blauw lucht en wees –
naar ’t zoele Zuiden heen.
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P.A. de Génestet gedichten
k e m p i s p o e t r y m a g a z i n e
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William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
38
How can my muse want subject to invent
While thou dost breathe that pour’st into my verse,
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent,
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O give thy self the thanks if aught in me,
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight,
For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thy self dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate,
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
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kempis poetry magazine
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